University of Virginia Library

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.

FIAMETTA.

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.

PASQUALI.

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.

FIAMETTA.

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.

PASQUALI.

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.
[The cathedral is flung open, and the organ plays louder. The bridal procession comes out of church and passes across the stage. As they pass Pasquali, he offers his epithalamium to Sforza.]
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,
Should be a poet, like yourself, to know
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.

SARPELLIONE.
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!

SARPELLIONE.
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?
My Lord! I'm poor. I have a thirst for honors
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.