 | Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti |  |
1
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.
[A drawing-room in Tortesa's house.][Enter Tortesa, followed by Count Falcone.]
TORTESA.
Come in, Count.
FALCONE.
You're well lodged.
TORTESA.
The Duke waits for you
To get to horse. So, briefly, there's the deed!
You have your lands back, and your daughter's mine—
So ran the bargain!
FALCONE,
(coldly.)
She's betroth'd, sir, to you!
TORTESA.
Not a half hour since, and you hold the parchment!
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And I'm but promised!
FALCONE,
(aside.)
(What a slave is this,
To give my daughter to! My daughter! Psha!
I'll think but of my lands, my precious lands!)
Sir, the Duke sets forth—
TORTESA.
Use no ceremony!
Yet stay! A word! Our nuptials follow quick
On your return?
FALCONE.
That hour, if it so please you!
TORTESA.
And what's the bargain if her humor change?
FALCONE.
The lands are your's again—'tis understood so.
TORTESA.
Yet, still a word! You leave her with her maids.
I have a right in her by this betrothal.
Seal your door up till you come back again!
I'd have no foplings tampering with my wife!
None of your painted jackdaws from the court,
Sneering and pitying her! My lord Falcone!
Shall she be private?
3
(aside.)
(Patience! for my lands!)
You shall control my door, sir, and my daughter!
Farewell now!
[Exit Falcone.
TORTESA.
Oh, omnipotence of money!
Ha! ha! Why, there's the haughtiest nobleman
That walks in Florence. He!—whom I have bearded—
Checked—made conditions to—shut up his daughter—
And all with money! They should pull down churches
And worship it! Had I been poor, that man
Would see me rot ere give his hand to me.
I—as I stand here—dress'd thus—looking thus—
The same in all—save money in my purse—
He would have scorn'd to let me come so near
That I could breathe on him! Yet, that were little—
For pride sometimes outdoes humility;
And your great man will please to be familiar,
To show how he can stoop. But halt you there!
He has a jewel that you may not name!
His wife's above you! You're no company
For his most noble daughter! You are brave—
Tis nothing! comely—nothing! honorable—
You are a phœnix of all human virtues—
But, while your blood's mean, there's a frozen bar
Betwixt you and a lady, that will melt—
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But like a mist, with money!
[Enter a Servant.]
SERVANT.
Please you, sir!
A tradesman waits to see you!
TORTESA.
Let him in!
[Exit Servant.
What need have I of forty generations
To build my name up? I have bought with money
The fairest daughter of their haughtiest line!
Bought her! Falcone's daughter for so much!
No wooing in't! Ha! ha! I harp'd on that
Till my lord winced! “My bargain!” still “my bargain!”
Nought of my bride! Ha! ha! 'Twas excellent!
[Enter Tradesman.]
What's thy demand?
TRADESMAN.
Ten ducats, please your lordship!
TORTESA.
Out on “your lordship!” There are twelve for ten?
Does a lord pay like that? Learn some name sweeter
To my ears than “Your lordship!” I'm no lord!
Give me thy quittance! Now, begone! Who waits?
5
The Glover's daughter, please you, sir!
[Enter Zippa.]
TORTESA.
Come in,
My pretty neighbor! What! my bridal gloves!
Are they brought home?
ZIPPA.
The signor pays so well,
He's well served.
TORTESA.
Um! why, pertinently answered!
And yet, my pretty one, the words were sweeter
In any mouth than yours!
ZIPPA.
That's easy true!
TORTESA.
I would 'twere liking that had spurr'd your service—
Not money, Zippa, sweet! (She presents her parcel to him, with a meaning air.)
ZIPPA.
Your bridal gloves, sir!
TORTESA,
(aside.)
(What a fair shrew it is!) My gloves are paid for!
And will be thrown aside when worn a little.
6
What then, sir!
TORTESA.
Why, the bride is paid for, too!
And may be thrown aside, when worn a little!
ZIPPA.
You mock me now!
TORTESA.
You know Falcone's palace,
And lands, here, by Fiesolè? I bought them
For so much money of his creditors,
And gave them to him, in a plain, round bargain,
For his proud daughter! What think you of that?
ZIPPA.
What else but that you loved her!
TORTESA.
As I love
The thing I give my money for—no more!
ZIPPA.
You mean to love her?
TORTESA.
'Twas not in the bargain!
ZIPPA.
Why, what a monster do you make yourself!
Have you no heart?
7
A loving one, for you!
Nay, never frown! I marry this lord's daughter
To please a devil that inhabits me!
But there's an angel in me—not so strong—
And this last loves you!
ZIPPA.
Thanks for your weak ‘angel’!
I'd sooner 'twere the ‘devil’!
TORTESA.
Both were yours!
But for the burning fever that I have
To pluck at their proud blood.
ZIPPA.
Why, this poor lady
Cannot have harm'd you!
TORTESA.
Forty thousand times!
She's noble-born—there's one wrong in her cradle!
She's proud—why, that makes every pulse an insult—
Sixty a minute! She's profuse in smiles
On those who are, to me, as stars to glow-worms—
So I'm disparaged! I have pass'd her by,
Summer and winter, and she ne'er looked on me!
Her youth has been one tissue of contempt!
Her lovers, and her tutors, and her heart,
Taught her to scorn the low-born—that am I!
Would you have more?
8
Why, this is moon-struck madness.
TORTESA.
I'd have her mine, for all this—jewell'd, perfumed—
Just as they've worshipped her at court—my slave!
They've mewed her breath up in their silken beds—
Blanch'd her with baths—fed her on delicate food—
Guarded the unsunn'd dew upon her skin—
For some lord's pleasure! If I could not get her;
There's a contempt in that, would make my forehead
Hot in my grave!
ZIPPA,
(aside.)
(Now Heaven forbid my fingers
Should make your bridal gloves!) Forgive me, Signor!
I'll take these back, so please you! (Takes up the parcel again.)
TORTESA,
(not listening to her.)
But for this—
This devil at my heart, thou should'st have wedded
The richest commoner in Florence, Zippa!
Tell me thou wouldst!
ZIPPA,
(aside.)
(Stay! stay! A thought! If I
Could feign to love him, and so work on him
To put this match off, and at last to break it—
'Tis possible—and so befriend this lady,
9
Signor Tortesa!
TORTESA.
You've been dreaming now,
How you would brave it it in your lady-gear;
Was't not so?
ZIPPA.
No!
TORTESA.
What then?
ZIPPA.
I had a thought,
If I dare speak it.
TORTESA.
Nay, nay, speak it out!
ZIPPA.
I had forgot your riches, and I thought
How lost you were!
TORTESA.
How lost?
ZIPPA.
Your qualities,
Which far outweigh your treasure, thrown away
On one who does not love you!
TORTESA.
Thrown away?
10
Is it not so to have a gallant shape,
And no eye to be proud on't—to be full
Of all that makes men dangerous to women,
And marry where you're scorned?
TORTESA.
There's reason there!
ZIPPA.
You're wise in meaner riches! You have gold,
'Tis out at interest!—lands, palaces,
They bring in rent. The gifts of nature only,
Worth to you, Signor, more than all your gold,
Lie profitless and idle. Your fine stature—
TORTESA.
Why—so, so!
ZIPPA.
Speaking eyes—
TORTESA.
Ay—passable.
ZIPPA.
Your voice, uncommon musical—
TORTESA.
Nay, there,
I think you may be honest!
ZIPPA.
And your look,
11
(Aside)
(That last must choke him!)
TORTESA.
Youv'e a judgment, Zippa,
That makes me wonder at you! We are both
Above our breeding—I have often thought so—
And lov'd you—but to-day so more than ever,
That my revenge must have drunk up my life,
To still sweep over it. But when I think
Upon that proud lord and his scornful daughter—
I say not you're forgot—myself am lost—
And love and memory with me! I must go
And visit her! I'll see you to the door—
Come, Zippa, come!
ZIPPA,
(aside.)
(I, too, will visit her!
You're a brave Signor, but against two women
You'll find your wits all wanted!)
TORTESA.
Come away!
I must look on my bargain! my good bargain!
Ha! ha! my bargain!
[Exeunt.
12
SCENE II.
[The Painter's Studio. Angelo painting. Tomaso in the fore-ground, arranging a meagre repast.]TOMASO.
A thrice-pick'd bone, a stale crust, and—excellent water? Will you to breakfast, Master Angelo?
ANGELO.
Look on this touch, good Tomaso, if it be not life itself
—
(Draws him before his easel.)
Now, what think'st
thou?
TOMASO.
Um—fair! fair enough!
ANGELO.
No more?
TOMASO.
Till it mend my breakfast, I will never praise it! Fill
me up that outline, Master Angelo!
(Takes up the naked
bone.)
Color me that water; To what end dost thou
dabble there?
ANGELO.
I am weary of telling thee to what end. Have patience, Tomaso!
13
(coaxingly.)
Would'st thou but paint the goldsmith a sign, now, in good fair letters!
ANGELO.
Have I no genius for the art think'st thou?
TOMASO.
Thou! ha! ha!
ANGELO.
By thy laughing, thou would'st say no!
TOMASO.
Thou a genius! Look! Master Angelo! Have I not seen thee every day since thou wert no bigger than thy pencil?
ANGELO.
And if thou hast?
TOMASO.
Do I not know thee from crown to heel? Dost thou not come in at that door as I do?—sit down in that chair as I do?—eat, drink, and sleep, as I do? Dost thou not call me Tomaso, and I thee Angelo?
ANGELO.
Well!
TOMASO.
Then how canst thou have genius? Are there no marks! Would I clap thee on the back, and say good
14
ANGELO.
But think'st thou never of my works, Tomaso?
TOMASO.
Thy works! Do I not grind thy paints? Do I not see thee take up thy pallette, place thy foot thus, and dab here, dab there? I tell thee thou hast never done stroke yet, I could not take the same brush and do after thee. Thy works, truly!
ANGELO.
How think'st thou would Donatello paint, if he were here?
TOMASO.
Donatello? I will endeavour to show thee!
(Takes
the pallette and brush with a mysterious air.)
The picture
should be there! His pencil—
(throws down Angelo's
pencil and seizes a broom),
his pencil should be as
long as this broom! He should raise it thus—with his
eyes rolling thus—and with his body thrown back thus!
ANGELO.
What then?
TOMASO.
Then he should see something in the air—a sort of a
15
ANGELO.
Villain, my picture! Tomaso!
(Seizes his sword.)
With thy accursed broom thou hast spoiled a picture
Donatello could ne'er have painted! Say thy prayers,
for, by the Virgin!—
TOMASO.
—Murder! murder! help! Oh, my good master! my kind master!
ANGELO.
Wilt say thy prayers, or die a sinner? Quick! or thou'rt dead ere 'tis thought on!
TOMASO.
Help! help! mercy! oh mercy!
[Enter the Duke hastily, followed by Falcone and attendants.]
DUKE.
Who calls so loudly? What! drawn swords at mid-day!
Disarm him! Now, what mad-cap youth art thou? (To Angelo,)
To fright this peaceful artist from his toil?
Rise up, sir! (To Tomaso.)
16
(aside.)
(Could my luckless star have brought
The Duke here at no other time!)
DUKE,
(looking round on the pictures.)
Why, here's
Matter worth stumbling on! By Jove, a picture
Of admirable work! Look here, Falcone!
Dids't think there was a hand unknown in Florence
Could lay on color with a skill like this?
TOMASO,
(aside to Angelo.)
Did'st thou hear that?
(Duke and Falcone admire the pictures in dumb show.)
ANGELO,
(aside to Tomaso.)
(The pallette's on thy thumb—
Swear 'tis thy work!)
TOMASO.
Mine, master?
ANGELO.
Seest thou not
The shadow of my fault will fall upon it
While I stand here a culprit? The Duke loves thee
As one whom he has chanc'd to serve at need,
And kindness mends the light upon a picture,
I know that well!
FALCONE,
(to Tomaso.)
The Duke would know your name, Sir!
17
(as Angelo pulls him by the sleeve.)
Tom—Angelo, my lord!
DUKE,
(to Falcone.)
We've fallen here
Upon a treasure!
FALCONE.
'Twas a lucky chance
That led you in, my lord!
DUKE.
I blush to think
That I might ne'er have found such excellence
But for a chance cry, thus! Yet now 'tis found
I'll cherish it, believe me.
FALCONE.
'Tis a duty
Your Grace is never slow to.
DUKE.
I've a thought—
If you'll consent to it?
FALCONE.
Before 'tis spoken,
My gracious liege!
DUKE.
You know how well my Duchess
Loves your fair daughter. Not as maid of honor
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We grieve to lose her.
FALCONE.
My good lord!
DUKE.
Nay, nay—
She is betroth'd now, and you needs must wed her!
My thought was, to surprise my grieving duchess
With a resemblance of your daughter, done
By this rare hand, here. 'Tis a thought well found,
You'll say it is?
FALCONE,
(hesitating.)
Your Grace is bound away
On a brief journey. Wer't not best put off
Till our return?
DUKE,
(laughing.)
I see you fear to let
The sun shine on your rose-bud 'till she bloom
Fairly in wedlock. But this painter, see you,
Is an old man, of a poor, timid bearing,
And may be trusted to look close upon her.
Come, come! I'll have my way! Good Angelo,
(To Tomaso.)
A pen and ink! And you, my lord Falcone!
Write a brief missive to your gentle daughter
T' admit him privately.
19
I will, Duke.
[Writes.
ANGELO,
(aside.)
(Now
Shall I go back or forwards? If he writes
Admit this Angelo, why, I am he,
And that rare phœnix, hidden from the world,
Sits to my burning pencil. She's a beauty
Without a parallel, they say, in Florence.
Her picture'll be remembered! Let the Duke
Rend me with horses, it shall ne'er be said
I dared not pluck at Fortune!)
TOMASO,
(aside to Angelo.)
Signor!
ANGELO.
(Hush!
Betray me, and I'll kill thee!)
DUKE.
Angelo!
ANGELO,
(aside to Tomaso.)
Speak, or thou diest!
TOMASO,
(to the Duke.)
My lord!
DUKE.
Thou hast grown old
In the attainment of an excellence
20
Won only by the patient toil of years,
Is on your fair works yonder.
TOMASO,
(astonished.)
Those, my lord!
DUKE.
I shame I never saw them until now,
But here's a new beginning. Take this missive
From Count Falcone to his peerless daughter.
I'd have a picture of her for my palace.
Paint me her beauty as I know you can,
And as you do it well, my favour to you
Shall make up for the past.
TOMASO,
(as Angelo pulls his sleeve.)
Your Grace is kind!
DUKE.
For this rude youth, name you his punishment!
(Turns to Angelo.)
His sword was drawn upon an unarm'd man.
He shall be fined, or, as you please, imprisoned.
Speak!
TOMASO.
If your Grace would bid him pay—
DUKE.
What sum?
TOMASO.
Some twenty flasks of wine, my gracious liege,
21
I keep for love I bore to his dead father.
But all his faults are nothing to a thirst
That sucks my cellar dry!
DUKE.
He's well let off!
Write out a bond to pay of your first gains
The twenty flasks!
ANGELO.
Most willingly, my liege.
[Writes.
DUKE,
(to Tomaso.)
Are you content?
TOMASO.
Your Grace, I am!
DUKE.
Come then!
Once more to horse! Nay, nay, man, look not black!
Unless your daughter were a wine flask, trust me
There's no fear of the painter!
FALCONE.
So I think,
And you shall rule me. 'Tis the roughest shell
Hides the good pearl. Adieu, Sir! (to Tomaso.)
[Exeunt Duke and Falcone.
(Angelo seizes the missive from Tomaso, and strides up and down the stage, reading it exultingly. After
22
ANGELO.
Give the letter!
Oh, here is golden opportunity—
The ladder at my foot, the prize above,
And angels beckoning upwards. I will paint
A picture now, that in the eyes of men
Shall live like loving daylight. They shall cease
To praise it for the constant glory of it.
There's not a stone built in the palace wall
But shall let thro' the light of it, and Florence
Shall be a place of pilgrimage for ever
To see the work of low-born Angelo.
Oh that the world were made without a night,
That I could toil while in my fingers play
This dexterous lightning, wasted so in sleep.
I'll out, and muse how I shall paint this beauty,
So, wile the night away.
[Exit.
TOMASO,
(coming forward with his bond.)
Prejudice aside, that is a pleasant-looking piece of
paper!
(Holds it off, and regards it with a pleased
air.)
Your bond to pay, now, is an ill-visaged rascal—
you would know him across a church—nay—with the
wind fair, smell him a good league! But this has, in
some sort, a smile. It is not like other paper. It reads
mellifluously. Your name is in the right end of it for
23
“I, Tomaso, promise to pay”—stay! “I, Tomaso—I Tomaso promise to pay to Angelo my master twenty flasks of wine!” (Rubs his eyes, and turns the note over and over.)
There's a damnable twist in it that spoils all. “I Tomaso” why, that's I. And “I promise to pay”— Now, I promise no such thing! (Turns it upside down, and, after trying in vain to alter the reading, tears it in two.)
There are some men that cannot write ten words in their own language without a blunder. Out, filthy scraps. If the Glover's daughter have not compassion upon me, I die of thirst! I'll seek her out! A pest on ignorance!
(Pulls his hat sulkily over his eyes, and walks off.)
SCENE III.
[An Apartment in the Falcone Palace. Angelo discovered listening.]ANGELO.
Did I hear footsteps? (He listens.)
Fancy plays me tricks
In my impatience for this lovely wonder!
That window's to the north! The light falls cool.
24
How shall I do that? Is she proud or sweet?
Will she sit silent, or converse and smile?
Will she be vexed or pleased to have a stranger
Pry through her beauty for the soul that's in it?
Nay, then I heard a footstep—she is here!
(Enter Isabella, reading her father's missive.)
ISABELLA.
“The duke would have your picture for the duchess
Done by this rude man, Angelo! Receive him
With modest privacy, and let your kindness
Be measured by his merit, not his garb.”
ANGELO.
Fair lady!
ISABELLA.
Who speaks?
ANGELO.
Angelo!
ISABELLA.
You've come, sir,
To paint a dull face, trust me!
ANGELO,
(aside.)
(Beautiful,
Beyond all dreaming!)
ISABELLA.
I've no smiles to show you,
Not ev'n a mock one! Shall I sit?
25
No, lady!
I'll steal your beauty while you move, as well!
So you but breathe, the air still brings to me
That which outdoes all pencilling.
ISABELLA,
(walking apart.)
His voice
Is not a rude one. What a fate is mine,
When ev'n the chance words on a poor youth's tongue,
Contrasted with the voice which I should love,
Seems rich and musical!
ANGELO,
(to himself, as he draws.)
How like a swan,
Drooping his small head to a lily-cup,
She curves that neck of pliant ivory!
I'll paint her thus!
ISABELLA,
(aside.)
Forgetful where he is,
He thinks aloud. This is, perhaps, the rudeness
My father fear'd might anger me.
ANGELO.
What color
Can match the clear red of those glorious lips?
Say it were possible to trace the arches,
Shaped like the drawn bow of the god of love—
How tint them, after?
26
Still, he thinks not of me,
But murmurs to his picture. 'Twere sweet praise,
Were it a lover whispering it. I'll listen,
As I walk, still.
ANGELO.
They say, a cloudy veil
Hangs ever at the crystal-gate of heaven,
To bar the issue of its blinding glory.
So droop those silken lashes to an eye
Mortal could never paint!
ISABELLA.
There's flattery,
Would draw down angels!
ANGELO.
Now, what alchymy
Can mock the rose and lily of her cheek!
I must look closer on't! (Advancing.)
Fair lady, please you,
I'll venture to your side.
ISABELLA.
Sir!
ANGELO,
(examining her cheek).
There's a mixture
Of white and red here, that defeats my skill.
If you'll forgive me, I'll observe an instant,
27
Melt to each other!
ISABELLA,
(receding from him.)
You're too free, Sir!
ANGELO,
(with surprise.)
Madam!
ISABELLA,
(aside.)
And yet, I think not so. He must look on it,
To paint it well.
ANGELO.
Lady! the daylight's precious!
Pray you, turn to me! In my study, here,
I've tried to fancy how that ivory shoulder
Leads the white light off from your arching neck,
But cannot, for the envious sleeve that hides it.
Please you, displace it!
(Raises his hand to the sleeve.)
ISABELLA.
Sir, you are too bold!
ANGELO.
Pardon me, lady! Nature's masterpiece
Should be beyond your hiding, or my praise!
Were you less marvellous, I were too bold;
But there's a pure divinity in beauty,
Which the true eye of art looks on with reverence,
Though, like angels, it were all unclad!
You have no right to hide it!
28
How? No right?
ANGELO.
'Tis the religion of our art, fair madam!
That, by oft looking on the type divine
In which we first were moulded, men remember
The heav'n they're born to! You've an errand here,
To show how look the angels. But, as Vestals
Cherish the sacred fire, yet let the priest
Light his lamp at it for a thousand altars,
So is your beauty unassoiled, though I
Ravish a copy for the shut-out world!
ISABELLA,
(aside.)
Here is the wooing that should win a maid!
Bold, yet respectful—free yet full of honor!
I never saw a youth with gentler eyes;
I never heard a voice that pleas'd me more;
Let me look on him!
(Enter Tortesa, unperceived.)
ANGELO.
In a form like yours,
All parts are perfect, madam! yet, unseen,
Impossible to fancy. With your leave
I'll see your hand unglov'd.
ISABELLA,
(removing her glove)
I have no heart
To keep it from you, signor! There it is!
29
(taking it in his own.)
Oh God! how beautiful thy works may be!
Inimitably perfect! Let me look
Close on the tracery of these azure veins!
With what a delicate and fragile thread
They weave their subtle mesh beneath the skin,
And meet, all blushing, in these rosy nails!
How soft the texture of these tapering fingers!
How exquisite the wrist! How perfect all!
(Tortesa rushes forward.)
TORTESA.
Now have I heard enough! Why, what are you,
To palm the hand of my betrothed bride
With this licentious freedom?
(Angelo turns composedly to his work.)
And you, madam!
With a first troth scarce cold upon your lips—
Is this your chastity?
ISABELLA.
My father's roof
Is over me! I'm not your wife!
TORTESA.
Bought! paid for!
The wedding toward—have I no right in you?
Your father, at my wish, bade you be private;
Is this obedience?
30
Count Falcone's will,
Has, to his daughter, ever been a law;
This, in prosperity—and now, when chance
Frowns on his broken fortunes, I were dead
To love and pity, were not soul and body
Spent for his smallest need! I did consent
To wed his ruthless creditor for this!
I would have sprung into the sea, the grave,
As questionless and soon! My troth is yours!
But I'm not wedded yet, and till I am,
The hallow'd honour that protects a maid
Is round me, like a circle of bright fire!
A savage would not cross it—nor shall you!
I'm mistress of my presence. Leave me, sir!
TORTESA.
There's a possession of some lordly acres
Sold to Falcone for that lily hand!
The deed's delivered, and the hand 's my own!
I'll see that no man looks on't.
ISABELLA.
Shall a lady
Bid you begone twice?
TORTESA.
Twenty times, if't please you!
31
ISABELLA.
Does he not wear a sword? Is he a coward,
That he can hear this man heap insult on me,
And ne'er fall on him?
TORTESA.
Lady! to your chamber!
I have a touch to give this picture, here,
But want no model for't. Come, come.
(Offers to take her by the arm.)
ISABELLA.
Stand back!
Now, will he see this wretch lay hands on me,
And never speak? He cannot be a coward!
No, no, some other reason—not a coward!
I could not love a coward!
TORTESA.
If you will
Stay where you're better miss'd—'tis at your pleasure;
I'll hew your kisses from the saucy lips
Of this bold painter—look on't, if you will!
And first, to mar his picture!
(He strikes at the canvass, when Angelo suddenly draws, attacks and disarms him.)
32
Hold! What wouldst thou?
Fool! madman! dog! What wouldst thou with my picture?
Speak!—But thy life would not bring back a ray
Of precious daylight, and I cannot waste it!
Begone! begone!
(Throws Tortesa's sword from the window, and returns to his picture.)
I'll back to paradise!
'Twas this touch that he marr'd! So! fair again!
TORTESA,
(going out.)
I'll find you, sir, when I'm in cooler blood!
And, madam, you! or Count Falcone for you,
Shall rue this scorn!
[Exit.
ISABELLA,
(looking at Angelo.)
Lost in his work once more!
I shall be jealous of my very picture!
Yet one who can forget his passions so—
Peril his life, and, losing scarce a breath,
Turn to his high, ambitious toil again—
Must have a heart for whose belated waking
Queens might keep vigil!
33
Twilight falls, fair lady!
I must give o'er! Pray heaven, the downy wing
Of its most loving angel guard your beauty!
Good night!
(Goes out with a low reverence.)
ISABELLA.
Good night!
(She looks after him a moment, and then walks thoughtfully off the stage.)
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
| Two ways of dying for a husband. I. Dying to keep him, or Tortesa the usurer. II. Dying to lose him, or Bianca Visconti | |