 | Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti |  |
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!
| Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti | |