 | Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti |  |
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.
[Pasquali the poet's chamber. Fiametta mending his hose while he writes.]FIAMETTA.
Why dost thou never write verses upon me?
PASQUALI.
Didst thou ever hear of a cauliflower struck by lightning?
FIAMETTA.
If there were honesty in verses, thou wouldst sooner write of me than of Minerva thou talkst of. Did she ever mend thy hose for thee?
PASQUALI.
There is good reason to doubt if Minerva ever had hose on her leg.
There now! She can be no honest woman! I thought so when thou saidst she was most willing at night.
PASQUALI.
If thy ignorance were not endless, I would instruct thee in the meanings of poetry. But thou'lt call Jupiter a cow driver, till the thunderbolt thou takest for a bunch of twigs, strike thee dead for profanity. This once understand: Minerva is no woman, but wit; and when the poet speaks of unwilling Minerva, he talks of sluggish wit—that hath nothing to do with chastity.
FIAMETTA.
Are there two names for all things then, Master Pasquali?
PASQUALI.
Ay—nearly.
FIAMETTA.
What is the learned name for honest wife?
PASQUALI.
Spouse.
FIAMETTA.
When shall I be thy spouse then?
PASQUALI.
When thou canst make up thy mind to forego all hope of living in poetry.
Nay, if I am not to be put in verse, I may as well have a plain man for a husband.
PASQUALI.
If thou wouldst be put in verse, thou shalt have no husband at all.
FIAMETTA.
Now, wilt thou tell me why—in good common words, Master Pasquali?
PASQUALI.
Thus:—dost thou think Petrarch had e'er made Laura so famous if she had been honestly his wife?
FIAMETTA.
An she were thrifty, I think he might.
PASQUALI.
I tell thee no! His sonnets had then been as dull as the praises of the just. No man would remember them.
FIAMETTA.
Can no honest women be famous then?
PASQUALI.
Virtue disqualifies. There is no hope for her in poetry if she be not a sinner. Mention me the most famous woman in history.
FIAMETTA.
Helen of Troy, in the ballad, I think.
Wouldst thou be more virtuous than she?
FIAMETTA.
Nay—that were presumption.
PASQUALI.
Knowst thou why she is sung in an Iliad? I will tell thee: being the wife to Menelaus, she ran away with the prince of Troy.
FIAMETTA.
Then is it a shame to remember her.
PASQUALI.
So thou sayst in thy ignorance. Yet for that sin she hath been remembered near three thousand years. Look through all poetry, and thou'lt find it thrives upon making sinners memorable. To be famous, thou must sin. Wilt thou qualify?
[A rap at the door.]
PAGE.
Master Pasquali! Master Pasquali!
FIAMETTA.
Holy Virgin! it is my mistress's page. An' I be found here now, I were as qualified as Helen of Troy.
[She conceals herself. Enter the Page.]
PASQUALI.
How now, Master Giulio! Thou'rt impatient.
Hey! Pasquali! If thou hadst been a prince, I had not been kept longer at the door.
PASQUALI.
If thou wert of age to relish true philosophy, I could prove to thee that the poet were the better waited for of the two. But what is thy errand?
PAGE.
A song—I want a new song!
PASQUALI.
To what tune?
PAGE.
To a new tune on the old theme. Could I tell thee a secret without danger now! Hast thou ne'er a cat that will mew it out?
PASQUALI.
No! not even a wall that has ears. What is thy news?
PAGE.
My mistress Bianca hath lost all taste for my singing!
PASQUALI.
A pin's head might pay for that news.
PAGE.
But, good Pasquali, wilt thou not write me a new song?
Upon what theme?
PAGE.
Sforza—still Sforza! But it must be melancholy.
PASQUALI.
Why melancholy?
PAGE.
Did I not tell thee once in confidence that she loved him?
PASQUALI.
Ay—and I writ a song in his praise.
PAGE.
I now tell thee in confidence that she hath lost him; for she is to marry Lionel of Ferrara!
PASQUALI.
Here's news indeed.
PAGE.
It's the Duke's will, and my lady is grieved to the degree I tell thee. She'll have none of my music. Wilt thou write me the song?
PASQUALI.
Must it be mournful, say you?
PAGE.
Ay—as the jug-jug of her nightingale. She's full of tears. Wilt thou write it now? Shall I hold the ink while thou writest it?
Bless the boy's wits! Dost thou think songs are made like pancakes, by turning the hand over?
PAGE.
Why, is't not in thy head?
PASQUALI.
Ay—it is.
PAGE.
And how long will it take thee to write eight lines upon parchment?
PASQUALI.
Not long—if Minerva were willing.
PAGE.
Shall I have it by vespers then?
PASQUALI.
Ay—if thou wilt leave me presently.
PAGE.
Farewell then! Let it be melancholy, good Pasquali.
[Exit.
[Fiametta comes out.]
FIAMETTA.
Now must I hurry to my Mistress, ere that monkey-page gets to the palace.
PASQUALI.
Stands he well with her?
If he were her born child, she could not love him more. She fancies the puppy dog has an eye of her color, Good day, Master Pasquali!
PASQUALI.
Stay! will she marry this Lionel, think you?
FIAMETTA.
Can you know anything by tears?
PASQUALI.
Not so much by a woman's—but doth your lady weep?
FIAMETTA.
Ay—like an aqueduct!
PASQUALI.
Then it's more like she loves then hates him!
FIAMETTA.
Now, enlighten me that!
PASQUALI.
Thus:—a woman, if she be a lady (for clowns like thee, are of a constitution more dull and reasonable;)— a lady, I say, both usually in her composition, two spirits —one angelical, the other diabolical. Now, if you stir me up the devil, he will frown—but if you touch me the angel, he will weep! If your lady weep, therefore, it is more like this match hath waked the angel than stirr'd the devil—for I never saw woman yet, who, if her heart
FIAMETTA.
How can'st thou think such brave thoughts on what does not concern thee!
PASQUALI.
Does it concern me if I shall live for ever?
FIAMETTA.
Surely it doth!
PASQUALI.
By what shall I live then?
FIAMETTA.
By faith in the catechism, I think!
PASQUALI.
By poetry, I tell thee! And now digest this paradox! Tho' poetry be full of lies, it is unworthy to be called poetry if it be not true as prophecy!
FIAMETTA.
But how can that be true which is false?
PASQUALI.
I will show thee! Thy lady's page would have a song, now, full of lamentation for Sforza. In it, I should say, the heavens wept—(which would be a lie)—that the winds whispered mournfully his name, (which would be a lie,) and that life without him were but music out of tune, (which would be a consummate lie!) Yet if she loved
FIAMETTA.
'Tis like thy flatteries then! When thou sayst my cheek is like a peach, it is true, because it hath down upon it, and so hath a peach—yet it is false—because my cheek hath no stone it!
PASQUALI.
Let me taste the savour of that peach. Thou art wiser than I thought thee.
FIAMETTA.
I must go now.
PASQUALI.
Find me out if she love him! I would fain write no more verses on Sforza—whom I hate that he hath only a brute courage, and no taste for poesy. Now, Lionel's father was Petrarch's friend, and thy lady loving my verses, it were more convenient if she loved Lionel, who would love them too. Go thy ways now.
FIAMETTA.
Farewell, Master Pasquali!
PASQUALI.
Stay—there be rude men in this poor quarter, I will come with thee to the piazza. Come along, Mistress!
SCENE II.
[The Camp before Milan. The tent of Sforza at the side, and watchfires in the distance. Enter Sforza and Brunorio.]SFORZA.
Is the guard set?
BRUNORIO.
All set, my Lord!
SFORZA.
And blaze
The watch-fires where I ordered?
BRUNORIO.
Every one.
Hold you your purpose, Sir?
SFORZA.
To-night, at twelve,
I will set on! This fickle Duke of Milan
Has changed for the last time. Brunorio!
BRUNORIO.
You seem disturb'd, Sir.
SFORZA.
I would have to-night
The best blood up that ever rose for Sforza.
Are your spears resolute?
As yourself, my Lord!
SFORZA.
We'll sleep in Milan then. By heav'n I know not
Why I have waited on the changing pleasure
Of this old Duke so long.
BRUNORIO.
Twelve years ago
He promised you his daughter.
SFORZA.
Did he not?
And every year he has renew'd and broken
This promise of alliance.
BRUNORIO.
Can you hold
Milan against the Florentine, my Lord?
'Tis said the fair Bianca is betroth'd
To their ally Ferrara! They will join
Naples against you, and cry out “usurper!”
SFORZA.
Ay—I have thought on't. I'm the second Sforza!
The first hew'd wood! There lies enough to bar me,
Were I another Cæsar, from authority!
'Tis by this whip I have been driv'n so long—
'Tis by the bait of this old man's alliance
They've fool'd me, year by year, and still found means
With their curs'd policy, to put me off—
And, by the saints, they've reason. Could I point
The world to such a thread 'twixt me and Milan
As weaves a spider thro' the summer air,
I'd hang a crown upon it. Once possess'd
Of a fair seat in Lombardy, my spears
Would glisten in St. Mark's!
BRUNORIO.
And thence to Naples!
SFORZA.
Ay—with what speed we might! My brave lieutenant,
You echo my own thought!
[Enter a Sentinel.]
SENTINEL.
A flag of truce
By torch-light comes from Milan.
[Enter Sarpellione, in haste.]
SARPELLIONE.
Noble Sforza!
I've rudely used my privilege to seek you!
SFORZA.
By right of office you are ever welcome.
SARPELLIONE.
If I might speak to you a timely word
In haste and privacy?
Brunorio, leave us!
SARPELLIONE.
A flag of truce comes presently from Milan
With terms of peace. The Duke would give his daughter
To save his capital.
SFORZA.
The Duke does well!
SARPELLIONE.
You'll wed her then!
SFORZA.
If fairly offer'd me,
Free of all other terms, save peace between us,
I'll wed her freely.
SARPELLIONE.
Then I pray you pardon!
You're not the Sforza that should be the son
Of him who made the name!
SFORZA.
Bold words, ambassador!
But you are politic, and speak advisedly.
What bars my marriage with Duke Philip's daughter?
SARPELLIONE.
Brief—for this herald treads upon my heels—
Bianca was not born in wedlock!
Well!
SARPELLIONE.
She's been betrothed to other suitors—
SFORZA.
Well!
SARPELLIONE.
Is't well that you can ne'er thro' her inherit
The ducal crown? Is't well to have a wife
Who has made up her mind to other husbands—
Who has been sold to every paltry prince
'Twixt Sicily and Venice?
SFORZA.
Is that all?
SARPELLIONE.
No—nor the best of it. There lives a son,
By the same mother, to the Duke of Milan.
SFORZA,
(seizing him by the arm.)
Said you a son?
SARPELLIONE.
A son!—and—had I time—
SFORZA.
Without there! Pray the embassy from Milan
To grant me but a moment.
Is it sure?
SARPELLIONE.
Upon the honor of my royal master,
Who'll make it good.
SFORZA.
Have you authority
For what you say?
SARPELLIONE.
In court or camp, Alfonso
Will prove this story true. His mother fled,
As the world knows—in peril of her life—
To Naples.
SFORZA.
From the jealousy of the Duke—
I well remember.
SARPELLIONE.
Ere he could demand her
From young Alfonso, newly king, she died;
But in her throes brought prematurely forth
A son; whom, fearing for his life, she hid,
And rear'd him, ever like a Prince, till now.
SFORZA.
Some fourteen years.
Scarce that—but he is forward,
And feels his blood already.
SFORZA.
Say he does—
What make you out of it to change my purpose?
SARPELLIONE.
Seeing you cannot thrive by conquering Milan,
Which Milan's allies will pluck back from you
To put the prince upon his father's seat—
My royal master wishes you forewarned.
SFORZA.
He's kind—if that is all!
SARPELLIONE.
He'd make a friend
Of the best sword in Italy.
SFORZA.
What scheme
Lies under this?
SARPELLIONE.
No scheme—but your own glory!
Your star stoops to the south. Alfonso's army
Gathers at Capua to war on Florence!
(More earnestly.)
He'll add Ravenna to your marquisate
For but a thousand spears!
I'll take Ravenna
Without his leave! Admit the herald there!
No, Count! your policy has overshot!
The King Alfonso needs no spears of mine—
But he would have them farther off from Milan—
A blind mole would see that!
SARPELLIONE.
My Lord! My Lord!
SFORZA.
Hear me, Sarpellione! I have been
Too long the sport of your fine policy!
With promises of power and fair alliance
I've fought for every prince in Italy—
And against all, in turn; now leagued with Venice
To beat back Florence from the Brenta; now
With Florence against Milan; then with Milan
To drive the Tuscan home again, and all
For my own glory, by some politic reason.
I'll have a place—or I'll be in the track on't—
Where the poor honor that my hand may pluck
Shall be well garner'd. By Visconti's daughter
I'll set my foot in Milan. My poor laurels,
Such as they are, shall root there!—and, by heaven,
I'll find a way to make their branches flourish!
Call in the herald, there!
But Lionel,
Prince of Ferrara, whom Bianca loves—
SFORZA.
Glory has been my mistress many years
And will suffice me still. If it should chance
Bianca loves another, 'tis an evil
To wed with me, which I will recompense
With chainless freedom after. In my glory
She'll find a bright veil that will hide all errors,
Save from the heart that pardons her.
SARPELLIONE.
Farewell!
You'll hear o' the young Prince soon!
SFORZA.
I'll never wrong him—
If there be one!—Our stars will rise together!
There's room enough!
[Exit Sarpellione and enter Rossano.]
Fair welcome, brave Rossano.
I know your news.
ROSSANO.
The Duke sends greeting to you—
SFORZA.
And offers me his daughter—is't not so?
Seeing your preparations as I came
I marvel your anticipate so well!
SFORZA.
A bird i' th' air brings news, they say—but this
Came by a serpent. How's the spear-wound now,
You took for me at Pisa? Brave Rossano!
We'll break a lance once more in company—
It warms my blood to find myself again
O' the same side. Come out in the open air!
We'll talk more freely, as we used to do,
Over a watch-fire. Come out, old comrade!
[Exeunt Sforza and Rossano.
SCENE III.
[The apartment of Bianca. Fiametta embroidering, and the page thrumming his guitar.]PAGE.
I'd give my greyhound now—gold collar and silken leash—to know why the Duke sent for my lady.
FIAMETTA.
Would you, Master Curiosity?
Mistress Pert, I would—and thy acquaintance into the bargain.
FIAMETTA.
Better keep the goods you come honestly by. I would you knew as well how your mistress came by you.
PAGE.
I came to her from heaven—like her taste for my
music.
(Hums a tune.)
FIAMETTA.
Did you! do they make sacks in heaven?
PAGE.
There's a waiting woman's question for you! Why sacks?
FIAMETTA.
Because I think you came in one, like a present of a puppy-dog.
PAGE.
Silence, dull pin-woman! here comes my mistress!
[Takes off his cap as Bianca enters. She walks across the stage without heeding her attendants.]
BIANCA.
To marry Sforza!
My dream come true! my long, long cherish'd dream!
The star come out of heaven that I had worshipp'd!
And filled with rapture like a honey-bee
Dropp'd from the clouds at last! Am I awake?
Am I awake, dear Giulio!
PAGE.
(Half advancing to her.)
Noble Mistress!
BIANCA.
Thank God they speak to me! It is no dream!
It was this hand my father took to tell me—
It was with these lips that I tried to speak—
It was this heart that beat its giddy prison
As if th' exulting joy new-sprung within it
Would out and fill the world! [OMITTED]
[OMITTED] Wed him to-morrow!
So suddenly a wife! Will it seem modest,
With but twelve hours of giddy preparation
To come a bride to church? Will he remember
I was ten years ago affianced to him?
I have had time to think on't! Oh, I'll tell him—
When I dare speak I'll tell him—how I've lov'd him!
And day and night dream'd of him, and thro' all
The changing wars treasured the solemn troth
Broke by my father! If he listens kindly,
I'll tell him how I fed my eyes upon him
In Venice at his triumph—when he walk'd
Like a descended god beside the Doge,
Who thanked him for his victories, and the people,
Shouted out “Sforza! Live the gallant Sforza!”
I was a child then—but I felt my heart
Grow, in one hour, to woman!
PAGE.
Would it please you
To hear my new song, Lady?
BIANCA.
No, good Giulio!
My spirits are too troubled now for music.
Get thee to bed! Yet stay! hast heard the news?
PAGE.
Is't from the camp?
BIANCA.
Ay—Sforza's taken prisoner!
PAGE.
I'm vex'd for that!
BIANCA.
Why vex'd?
PAGE.
In four years more
I shall bear sword and lance. There'll be no Sforza
To kill when I'm a man! Who took him, Lady?
BIANCA.
A blind boy, scarcely bigger than yourself;
Not to perplex those winking eye-lids more,
The wars are done, and Sforza weds to morrow
Your happy mistress!
PAGE.
Sforza! We shall have
A bonfire then!
BIANCA.
Ay—twenty!
PAGE.
And you'll live
Here in the palace, and have masks and gambols
The year round, will you not?
BIANCA.
My pretty minion,
You know not yet what love is! Love's a miser,
That plucks his treasure from the prying world
And grudges e'en the eye of daylight on it!
Another's look is theft—another's touch
Robs it of all its value. Love conceives
No paradise but such as Eden was
With two hearts beating in it.
[Leaves the Page and walks thoughtfully away.]
Oh, I'll build
A home upon some green and flow'ry isle
In the lone lakes, where we will use our empire
The purple mountains and the glassy waters
Shall make a hush'd pavillion with the sky,
And we two in the midst will live alone,
Counting the hours by stars and waking birds,
And jealous but of sleep! To bed, dear Giulio!
And wake betimes.
PAGE.
Good night, my dearest Lady!
BIANCA.
To bed, Fiametta! I have busy thoughts,
That needs will keep me waking.
FIAMETTA.
Good night, Lady!
BIANCA.
Good night, good night! The moon has fellowship
For moods like mine! I'll forth upon the terrace,
And watch her while my heart beats warm and fast.
| Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti | |