 | 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 SECOND.
SCENE I.
[The square of Milan. The front of the Cathedral on the right. People kneeling round the steps, and the organ heard within. Enter Pasquali and Fiametta in haste.]FIAMETTA.
Now, Master Pasquali! said I not we should be too late?
PASQUALI.
Truly, there seems no room!
FIAMETTA.
And I her first serving-woman! If it were my own wedding I should not grieve more to have miss'd it. You would keep scribbling, scribbling, and I knew it was past twelve.
PASQUALI.
Consider, Mistress Fiametta! I had no news of this marriage till the chimes began; and the epithalamium must be writ! I were shamed else, being the bard of Milan.
The what of Milan?
PASQUALI.
The bard, I say! Come aside, and thou shalt be consoled. I'll read thee my epithalamium.
FIAMETTA.
Is it something to ask money of the bridegroom?
PASQUALI.
Dost thou think I would beg?
FIAMETTA.
Nay—thou'rt very poor!
PASQUALI.
Look thee, Mistress Fiametta! that's a vulgar error thou hadst best be rid of. I, whom thou callest poor, am richer than the Duke.
FIAMETTA.
Now, if thou'rt not out of thy ten senses, the Virgin bless us.
PASQUALI.
I'll prove it even to thy dull apprehension. Answer me truly. How many meals eats the Duke in a day?
FIAMETTA.
Three, I think, if he be well.
So does Pasquali! How much covering has he?
FIAMETTA.
Nay—what keeps him warm.
PASQUALI.
So has Pasquali! How much money carries he on his person?
FIAMETTA.
None, I think. He is a Duke, and needs none.
PASQUALI.
Even so Pasquali! He is a Poet, and needs none. What good does him the gold in his treasury?
FIAMETTA.
He thinks of it.
PASQUALI.
So can Pasquali! What pleasure hath he in his soldiers?
FIAMETTA.
They keep him safe in his palace.
PASQUALI.
So they do Pasquali in his chamber. Thus far, thou'lt allow, my state is as good as his—and better—for I can think of his gold, and sleep safe by his soldiers, yet have no care of them.
I warrant he has troubled thoughts.
PASQUALI.
Thou sayst well. Answer me once more, and I'll prove to thee in what I am richer. Thou'st ne'er heard, I dare swear, of imagination?
FIAMETTA.
Is't a Pagan nation or a Christian?
PASQUALI.
Stay—I'll convey it to thee by a figure. What were the value of thy red stockings over black, if it were always night?
FIAMETTA.
None.
PASQUALI.
What were beauty, if it were always dark?
FIAMETTA.
The same as none.
PASQUALI.
What were green leaves better than brown—diamonds better than pebbles—gold better than brass—if it were always dark?
FIAMETTA.
No better, truly.
Then the shining of the sun, in a manner, dyes your stockings, creates beauty, makes gold and diamonds, and paints the leaves green?
FIAMETTA.
I think it doth.
PASQUALI.
Now mark! There be gems in the earth, qualities in the flowers, creatures in the air, the Duke ne'er dreams of. There be treasuries of gold and silver, temples and palaces of glorious work, rapturous music, and feasts the gods sit at—and all seen only by a sun, which, to the Duke, is black as Erebus.
FIAMETTA.
Lord! Lord! Where is it, Master Pasquali?
PASQUALI.
In my head!
(Fiametta discovers signs of fear.)
All these gems, treasuries, palaces, and fairy harmonies
I see by the imagination I spoke of. Am I not richer
now?
FIAMETTA,
(retreating from him.)
The Virgin help us! He thinks there's a sun in his head! I thought to have married him, but he's mad!
[She falls to weeping.
SFORZA.
What have we here—petitions?
BIANCA.
Nay, my Lord!
Pasquali's not a beggar. You shall read
Something inventive here! He's a clear fancy,
And sings your praises well. Good chamberlain!
Bring him with honour to the palace! Please you,
My Lord, wilt on?
PAGE,
(to Pasquali.)
You'll come to the feast now, wont you?
We'll sit together, and have songs and stories,
And keep the merriest end on't!
[As the procession passes off, Sarpellione plucks Pasquali by the sleeve and retains him.]
SARPELLIONE.
A fair bride, Sir!
PASQUALI.
What would you, noble Count?
SARPELLIONE.
The bridegroom, now,
The worth of such a jewel!
PASQUALI.
Haply so—
But we are staying from the marriage feast—
SARPELLIONE.
One word! (Pulls him aside.)
Have you ambition?
PASQUALI.
Like the wings
Upon a marble cherub—always spread,
But fastened to a body of such weight,
'Twill never rise till doomsday. I would drink
Sooner than talk of it!—Come on, my Lord!
SARPELLIONE.
Signor Pasquali—I have mark'd you oft
For a shrewd, rapid wit. As one who looks
Oft on the sun—there needs no tedious care
Lest the light break too suddenly upon you.
Is it not so?
PASQUALI.
Say on!
SARPELLIONE.
You know how Naples
Has over it a sky all poetry.
PASQUALI.
I know it well.
The radiant Giovanna
Cherish'd Bocaccio and Petrarch there,
And 'tis the quality of the air they breath'd—
Alphonso feels it!—Brief and to the point!
My royal master sends for you. He'd have
A galaxy around him!
PASQUALI.
Noble Count!
[Enter Page.]
PAGE.
I'm sent to bid you to the feast, sirs!
SARPELLIONE.
Go!
We'll follow straight.
[Exit Page.
This leaden-headed soldier
Slights you, I see—He took you for a beggar!
PASQUALI.
Humph! 'tis his wedding day, and I forgive him!
SARPELLIONE.
You're used to wrong, I know.
PASQUALI.
To-day, my Lord,
I'm bent upon a feast—wake not a devil
To mar my appetite!
One single word!
This brainless spear-head would be Duke of Milan.
PASQUALI.
What! while the Duke lives?
SARPELLIONE.
While the Duke's son lives,
For there is one—I'll prove it when you will—
And he will murder him to take his crown.
PASQUALI.
How know you that?
SARPELLIONE.
Alphonso, king of Naples,
Would have this usurpation and this murder
In time prevented.
PASQUALI.
How?
SARPELLIONE.
By Sforza's death.
There's no way else—but 'tis a dangerous theme
To talk on here—come out of the way a little,
And you shall have such reasons for the deed—
PASQUALI,
(flings him from him with contempt.)
What “deed!” Dost take me for a murderer?
Such as you offered me but now, that burns
Like fire upon my lips—I could be tortur'd
Thro' twenty deaths to leave a name behind me.
But nay, I prate—I'll turn not out to thee
The golden inside of a soul of honor—
(Leaving him.)
When next you want a hand for a bad deed,
Look to your equals—there are those beneath you
Who, from their darkling wells, see guiding stars
Far o'er your head, my Lord!
[Exit.
SARPELLIONE.
Such men as this
Do not betray e'en villains! I shall find
Another and a fitter. To the feast now!
And watch my time and means.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
[An ante-room, with a feast seen beyond. Enter Sforza and Rossano.]ROSSANO.
I've a new culverin
Invented here by the Duke's armorer;
Will you walk forth?
Most willingly. Within there!
My helmet!
[Enter Bianca.]
BIANCA.
Is there fresh alarm, my Lord?
You would not go abroad?
[She takes the helmet from the page as he brings it in.]
SFORZA.
A little way, sweet,
To look at some new arms.
BIANCA.
To-morrow, surely,
Will do as well. Here are some loving verses
Writ on your marriage!
ROSSANO.
I've the gonfalon
Your father gave me at the siege of Parma.
The rags wave yet!
SFORZA.
I'd rather see a thread on't
Than feast a hundred years!
BIANCA.
My Lord, wil't please you
You did not taste, grown on Vesuvius;
Pray you come in!
ROSSANO.
I've, in my tent, the sword
Your father pluck'd from a retreating soldier
To head the fight at Pisa. 'Tis well hack'd!
SFORZA.
I'll come, Rossano!
(To Bianca.)
Nay, sweet! by your leave
(Takes his helmet.)
We'll go abroad a little! You shall see us
Betimes at supper. Keep the revels toward!
We'll taste your wine anon. Come, brave Rossano!
[They go out. Bianca looks after them thoughtfully a few moments, and then walks back slowly to the banquetting room.]
SCENE III.
[The Ramparts at night. Enter Sforza and Rossano.]ROSSANO.
She's loving in her nature, and methought
Seem'd griev'd when you came forth!
I should have thought so,
But that I had some private information
She lov'd another!
ROSSANO.
You're perhaps abused!
SFORZA.
Nay—nay—how should she love me? I'm well on
To my meridian, see you!—a rough soldier—
Who never learn'd the courtly phrase of love.
And she—the simplest maiden in a cot,
Is not more tender-eyed, nor has a heart
Apter to know love's lesson ere 'tis time.
She's loved ere now, Rossano!
ROSSANO.
Haply so—
Yet be not rude too rashly.
SFORZA.
Rude! I'll make
This forced link that policy puts on her
Loose as a smoke-curl! She shall know no master,
And be no slave for me!
ROSSANO.
You'll not neglect her!
SFORZA.
The sun of woman's world is love, Rossano!
Trouble her sky, there rises oftentimes
A crescent moon of memory, whose light
Makes the dark pathway clear again. Bianca's
May have gone down for me! I'll be no cloud
To mar the moon as well.
ROSSANO.
Stand by—there comes
A footfall this way. (They stand aside.)
[Enter Pasquali, hiccupping, and talking to himself.]
PASQUALI.
That wine was grown on Vesuvius. That's the reason it makes such an eruption. If it breaks out o' the top o' my head now—as I think it will—for it gets hotter and hotter—I shall know if wit be in the brains or the belly.
ROSSANO,
(aside.)
Stay—my Lord! This is Pasquali, whose verses
Bianca sometimes sings to her lute. Ten to one now
but you may gather from his drunkenness if Bianca
loves another.
(Rossano comes forward.)
Good even,
Master Pasquali!
PASQUALI.
That's an every day phrase—this is holiday!
ROSSANO.
A merry good even then!
Ay—that's better! For we're all merry—except the bride. And that's the way of it.
ROSSANO.
What's the way of it?
PASQUALI.
See here! Who is it that never weeps at a funeral?
ROSSANO.
You shall tell me.
PASQUALI.
The dead man, that hath most cause.
ROSSANO.
And what hath that to do with a bridal?
PASQUALI.
A great deal. Of all people at a bridal, who should be most merry? Why, the bride! Now I have just left a bride that is sad enough for a funeral.
ROSSANO.
For what cause, think you?
PASQUALI.
There are some things which can have but one cause. There's but one cause for drunkenness, and there's but one for grief on a wedding-day.
And what's that?
PASQUALI.
Wine—causes drunkenness!
ROSSANO.
And what causes grief in a bride?
PASQUALI.
Want of love for the bridegroom.
ROSSANO.
How know you that, sir?
PASQUALI.
Listen to in-spi-ra-tion!
“When first young Lionel did catch mine eye,
“Sforza, the valiant, pass'd unheeded by!”
ROSSANO.
Villain! these are thine own lying verses!
PASQUALI,
(pulling out his sword.)
The figures of speech are lies of verse. But if thou
sayest it is a lie that Bianca loves Lionel best, thou liest
in prose, and so, come on!
(Attacks Rossano, and
Sforza comes forward, and strikes up their swords.)
SFORZA.
Get home, thou drunkard! Come away, Rossano.
He writes what's palatable, and but echoes
Sarpellione told me so before.
We'll to the field and our old mistress, glory.
Come on—we'll talk of battles and forget her.
[Exeunt.
PASQUALI.
Fighting's not my vocation; but I have an itching that way, and I'll after him. Halloo! Were there two men? I think there were two. The last man called me a drunkard! That's no offence! a poet may be a drunkard! But “villain!”—That's incompatible, and must be prick'd back. Halloo!
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
[Bianca's chamber at midnight. She sits on a couch in a white undress, and Sforza beside her in his armor.]BIANCA.
Dost think this ring a pretty one, my Lord!
SFORZA.
Ay, 'tis a pretty ring! I have one here
Marancio gave me—Giacomo Marancio.
The ring his wife sent—but you've heard the story?
I think I never heard it.
SFORZA.
She's a woman
The heart grows but to speak of. She was held
A hostage by the Milanese, (I pray you
Pardon the mention,) when twixt them and me
Marancio held a pass. Her life was threatened
If by his means I crossed the Adige. She—
(Brave heart! I warm to speak of her!) found means
To send to him this ring; wherein is writ
“He who loves most, loves honor best.” You'll see it
Here o' th' inside.
BIANCA.
Did you see this lady?
SFORZA.
I hazarded a battle three days after
With perilous odds, only to bring her off—
And would have sold my life for't.
BIANCA.
Did you see her?
SFORZA.
I gave her to Marancio when I took
The ring of him.
BIANCA.
My Lord! speak you so warmly
Of any other woman?
(rising and taking his helmet.)
Nay, I know not.
There are some qualities that women have
Which are less worthy, but which warm us more
Than speaking of their virtues. I remember
The fair Giovanna in her pride at Naples.
Gods! what a light enveloped her! She left
Little to shine in history—but her beauty
Was of that order that the universe
Seem'd govern'd by her motion. Men look'd on her
As if her next step would arrest the world;
And as the sea-bird seems to rule the wave
He rides so buoyantly, all things around her—
The glittering army, the spread gonfalon,
The pomp, the music, the bright sun in heaven—
Seem'd glorious by her leave.
BIANCA,
(rising and going to the window.)
There's emulation
Of such sweet? praise, my Lord! Did you not hear
The faint note of a nightingale?
SFORZA.
More like
A far heard clarion, methought! They change
The sentinels perchance. 'Tis time Rossano
Awaits me on the ramparts,
BIANCA.
Not to-night.
SFORZA.
For a brief hour, sweet! The old soldier loves
To gossip of the fields he's lost and won,
And I, no less, to listen. Get to bed!
I'll follow you anon.
[Exit Sforza.
BIANCA.
He does not love me!
I never dream'd of this! To be his bride
Was all the Heav'n I look'd for! Not to love me
When I have been ten years affianced to him!—
When I have liv'd for him—shut up my heart,
With every pulse and hope, for his use only—
Worshipp'd—oh God! idolatrously lov'd him!
[OMITTED]
Why has he sought to marry me? Why still
Renew the broken pledge my father made him?
Why, for ten years, with war and policy,
Strive for my poor alliance?
[OMITTED] He must love me,
Or I shall break my heart! I never had
One other hope in life! I never link'd
One thought, but to this chain! I have no blood—
No breath—no being—separate from Sforza!
Nothing has any other name! The sun
Shined like his smile—the lightning was his glory—
Stars writ his name—his breath hung on the flowers—
Music had no voice but to say I love him,
And life no future, but his love for me!
Whom does he love? Marancio's wife? He prais'd
Only her courage! Queen Giovanna's beauty?
'Tis dust these many years! There is no sign
He loves another; and report said ever
His Glory was his mistress. Can he love?
Shame on the doubt! T'was written in the ring
“He who loves most loves honor best”—and Sforza
Is made too like a god to lack a heart.
And so, I breathe again! To make him love me
Is all my life now! to pry through his nature,
And find his heart out. That's wrapt in his glory!
I'll feed his glory then! He praised Giovanna
That she was royal and magnificent—
Ay—that's well thought on, too! How should an eye,
Dazzled with war and warlike pomp like Sforza's,
Find pleasure in simplicity like mine!
(Looks at her dress.)
I'm a Duke's daughter, and I'll wear the look on't!
Unlock my jewels and my costly robes,
And while I keep his show-struck eye upon me,
Watch for a golden opportunity
To build up his renown!
The gentle world I've liv'd in! Farewell all
My visions of a world for two hearts only—
Sforza's and mine! If I outlive this change,
So brief and yet so violent within me,
I'll come back in my dreams, oh childish world!
If not—a broken heart blots out remembrance.
[Exit into her bridal chamber, which is seen beyond on opening the door.]
| Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti | |