University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

[A Street in Florence. The funereal music dying away in the distance. Enter Zippa, straining her eyes to look after it.]
ZIPPA.
'Tis Angelo that follows close behind,
Laying his forehead almost on her bier!
His heart goes with her to the grave! Oh Heaven!
Will not Tortesa pluck out of his hand
The tassel of that pall?
(She hears a footstep.)
Stay, stay, he's here!

(Enter Tortesa, musing. Zippa stands aside.)
TORTESA.
I've learned to-day a lord may be a Jew,
I've learned to-day that grief may kill a lady;
Which touches me the most I cannot say,
For I could fight Falcone for my loss,
Or weep, with all my soul, for Isabella.

(Zippa touches him on the shoulder.)
ZIPPA.
How is't the Signor follows not his bride?

TORTESA.
I did—but with their melancholy step
I fell to musing, and so dropp'd behind—
But here's a sight I have not seen to-day!

(Takes her hand smilingly.)
ZIPPA.
What's that?

TORTESA.
A friendly face, my honest Zippa!
Art well? What errand brings thee forth?

ZIPPA.
None, Signor!
But passing by the funeral, I stopped,
Wondering to see the bridegroom lag behind,
And give his sacred station next the corse
To an obtrusive stranger.

TORTESA.
Which is he?

ZIPPA,
(points after Angelo.)
Look there!

TORTESA.
His face is buried in his cloak.
Who is't?

ZIPPA.
Not know him? Had I half the cause
That you have, to see through that mumming cloak,
The shadow of it would speak out his name!

TORTESA.
What mean you?

ZIPPA.
Angelo! What right has he
To weep in public at her funeral?

TORTESA.
The painter?

ZIPPA.
Ay—the peasant Angelo!
Was't not enough to dare to love her living,
But he must fling the insult of his tears
Betwixt her corse and you? Are you not mov'd?
Will you not go and pluck him from your place?

TORTESA.
No, Zippa! for my spirits are more apt
To grief than anger. I've in this half hour
Remember'd much I should have thought on sooner,—
For, had I known her heart was capable
Of breaking for the love of one so low,
I would have done as much to make her his
As I have done, in hate, to make her mine.
She lov'd him, Zippa! (Walks back in thought.)


ZIPPA,
(aside.)
Oh to find a way
To pluck that fatal beauty from his eyes!
'Tis twilight, and the lamp is lit above her,
And Angelo will watch the night out there,
Gazing with passionate worship on her face.
But no! he shall not!

TORTESA,
(advancing.)
Come! what busy thought
Vexes your brain now?

ZIPPA.
Were your pride as quick
As other men's to see an insult, Signor!
I had been spared the telling of my thought.

TORTESA.
You put it sharply!

ZIPPA.
Listen! you are willing
That there should follow, in your place of mourner,
A youth, who, by the passion of his grief
Shews to the world he's more bereaved than you!

TORTESA.
Humph! well!

ZIPPA.
Still follows he without rebuke;
And in the chapel where she lies to-night,
Her features bared to the funereal lamp,
He'll, like a mourning bridegroom, keep his vigil,
As if all Florence knew she was his own.

TORTESA.
Nay, nay! he may keep vigil if he will!
The door is never lock'd upon the dead
Till bell and mass consign them to the tomb;
And custom gives the privilege to all
To enter in and pray—and so may he.

ZIPPA.
Then learn a secret which I fain had spared
My lips the telling. Question me not how,
But I have chanced to learn, that Angelo,
To-night, will steal the body from its bier!

TORTESA.
To-night! What! Angelo! Nay, nay, good Zippa!
If he's enamoured of the corse, 'tis there—
And he may watch it till its shape decay,
And holy church will call it piety.
But he who steals from consecrated ground,
Dies, by the law of Florence. There's no end
To answer in't.

ZIPPA.
You know not Angelo!
You think not with what wild, delirious passion
A painter thirsts to tear the veil from beauty.
He painted Isabella as a maid,
Coy as a lily turning from the sun.
Now she is dead, and, like a star that flew
Flashing and hiding thro' some fleecy rack,
But suddenly sits still in cloudless heavens,
She slumbers fearless in his steadfast gaze,
Peerless and unforbidding. O, to him
She is no more your bride! A statue fairer
Than ever rose enchanted from the stone,
Lies in that dim-lit chapel, clad like life.
Are you too slow to take my meaning yet?
He cannot loose the silken boddice there!
He cannot, there, upon the marble breast
Shower the dark locks from the golden comb!

TORTESA.
Hold!

ZIPPA.
Are you mov'd? Has he no end to compass
In stealing her away from holy ground?
Will you not lock your bride up from his touch?

TORTESA.
No more! no more! I thought not of all this!
Perchance it is not true. But twilight falls,
And I will home to doff this bridal gear,
And, after, set a guard upon the corse.
We'll walk together. Come!

ZIPPA,
(aside.)
(He shall not see her!)

[Exeunt.