University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

[Angelo's Studio. A full-length picture, in a large frame, stands on the floor against an easel, placed nearly in the centre of the room. Two curtains are so arranged as to cover the picture when drawn together. Angelo stands in an imploring attitude near the picture, his pencil and pallette in his hands, appealing to Isabella, who is partly turned from him in an attitude of refusal. The back wall of the room such as to form a natural ground for a picture.]
ANGELO.
Hear me, sweet!

ISABELLA.
No, we'll keep a holiday,
And waste the hours in love and idleness.
You shall not paint to-day, dear Angelo!

ANGELO.
But listen!

ISABELLA.
Nay, I'm jealous of my picture;
For all you give to that is stol'n from me.
I like not half a look that turns away
Without an answer from the eyes it met!
I care not you should see my lips' bright color
Yet wait not for the breath that floats between!

ANGELO.
Wilt listen?

ISABELLA.
Listen? Yes! a thousand years!
But there's a pencil in those restless fingers,
Which you've a trick of touching to your lips—
And while you talk, my hand would do as well!
And if it's the same tale you told before
Of certain vigils you forgot to keep,
Look deep into my eyes till it is done—
For, like the children's Lady-in-the well,
I only hark because you're looking in!
Will you talk thus to me?

ANGELO.
Come night I will!
But close upon thy voice, sweet Isabella!
A boding whisper sinks into mine ear
Which tells of sudden parting! If 'tis false,—
We shall have still a lifetime for our love,
But if 'tis true, oh think that, in my picture,
Will lie the footprint of an angel gone!
Let me but make it clearer!

ISABELLA.
Now, by heaven!
I think thou lov'st the picture, and not me!
So different am I, that, did I think
To lose thee presently, by death or parting,
For thy least word, or look, or slightest motion—
Nay, for so little breath as makes a sigh,
I would not take, to have it pass untreasured,
The empire of a star!

(While she was uttering this reproach, Angelo has looked at her with delight, and touched his portrait with a few rapid strokes.)
ANGELO.
My picture's done!
(Throws his pencil to the ground.)
Break, oh enchanted pencil! thou wilt never
On earth, again, do miracle so fair!
Oh Isabella! as the dusky ore
Waits for the lightning's flash to turn to gold—
As the dull vapour waits for Hesperus,
Then falls in dew-drops and reflects a star—
So waited I that fire upon thy lips,
To make my master-piece complete in beauty!

ISABELLA.
This is ambition where I look'd for love;
The fancy flattering where the heart should murmur.
I think you have no heart!

ANGELO.
Your feet are on it!
The heart is ever lowly with the fortunes,
Tho' the proud mind sits level with a king!
I gave you long ago both heart and soul,
But only one has dared to speak to you!
Yet, if astonishment will cure the dumb,
Give it a kiss—

ISABELLA,
(smiling.)
Lo! Where it speaks at last!
(A loud knock is heard.)
Hark, Angelo!

(He flies to the window, and looks out.)
ANGELO.
Tortesa with a guard!
Alas! that warning voice! They've traced thee hither!
Lost! Lost!

ISABELLA,
(Hastily drawing the curtain, and disappearing behind it.)
No! no! defend thy picture only,
And all is well yet!

ANGELO.
Thee and it with life!
(Draws his sword, and stands before the curtain in an attitude of defiance. Enter Tortesa with officers and guard.)
What is your errand?

TORTESA.
I'm afraid, a sad one!
For, by your drawn sword and defying air,
Your conscious thought foretells it.

ANGELO.
Why,—a blow—
(You took one, Signor, when you last were here—
If you've forgot it, well!)—but, commonly,
The giver of a blow needs have his sword
Promptly in hand. You'll pardon me!

TORTESA.
I do!
For, if my fears are just, good Signor painter!
You've not a life to spare upon a quarrel!
In brief, the corse of a most noble lady
Was stol'n last night from holy sanctuary.
I have a warrant here to search your house;
And, should the body not be found therein,
I'm bid to see the picture of the lady—
Whereon, (pray mark me!) if I find a trace
Of charms fresh copied, more than may beseem
The modest beauty of a living maid,
I may arrest you on such evidence
For instant trial!

ANGELO.
Search my house and welcome!
But, for my picture, tho' a moment's glance
Upon its pure and hallowed loveliness
Would give the lie to your foul thought of me,
It is the unseen virgin of my brain!
And as th' inviolate person of a maid
Is sacred ev'n in presence of the law,
My picture is my own—to bare or cover!
Look on it at your peril!

TORTESA,
(to the guard.)
Take his sword.

(The guards attack and disarm him.)
ANGELO.
Coward and villain!

(Tortesa parts the curtains with his sword, and Angelo starts amazed to see Isabella, with her hands crossed on her breast, and her eyes fixed on the ground, standing motionless in the frame which had contained his picture. The tableau deceives Tortesa, who steps back to contemplate what he supposes to be the portrait of his bride.)
TORTESA.
Admirable work!
'Tis Isabella's self! Why, this is wondrous!
The brow, the lip, the countenance—how true!
I would have sworn that gloss upon the hair,
That shadow from the lash, were nature's own—
Impossible to copy! (Looks at it a moment in silence.)

Yet methinks
The color on the cheek is something faint!

ANGELO,
(hurriedly.)
Step this way farther!

TORTESA,
(changing his position.)
Ay—'tis better here!
The hand is not as white as Isabella's—
But painted to the life! If there's a feature
That I would touch again, the lip, to me,
Seems wanting in a certain scornfulness
Native to her! It scarcely marr'd her beauty.
Perhaps 'tis well slurr'd over in a picture!
Yet stay! I see it, now I look again!
How excellently well!
(Guards return from searching the house.)
What! found you nothing?

SOLDIER,
(holding up Isabella's veil.)
This bridal veil—no more.

ANGELO,
(despairingly.)
Oh! luckless star!

TORTESA.
Signor! you'll trust me when I say I'm sorry
With all my soul! This veil, I know it well—
Was o'er the face of that unhappy lady
When laid in sanctuary. You are silent!
Perhaps you scorn to satisfy me here!
I trust you can—in your extremity!
But I must bring you to the Duke! Lead on!

ANGELO.
An instant!

TORTESA,
(courteously).
At your pleasure!

ANGELO,
(to Isabella, as he passes close to her.)
I conjure you,
By all our love, stir not!

ISABELLA,
(still motionless.)
Farewell!

(Tortesa motions for Angelo to precede him with the guard, looks once more at the picture, and with a gesture expressive of admiration, follows. As the door closes, Isabella steps from the frame.)
ISABELLA.
I'll follow
Close on thy steps, beloved Angelo!
And find a way to bring thee home again!
My heart is light, and hope speaks cheerily!
And lo! bright augury!—a friar's hood
For my disguise! Was ever omen fairer!
Thanks! my propitious star!

(Envelopes herself in the hood, and goes out hastily.)