 | [Poems by Payne in] John Howard Payne ... his life and writings |  |
SCENE FROM AN UNPUBLISHED PLAY.
Argument.
Early in life Bianca of Naples returned the love of the reckless and enthusiastic Hyppolito, but his father thought a wealthier wife might be found, and sent the youth abroad; at sea he was wrecked, but saved by pirates and detained a captive. Being supposed dead by his family and Bianca, she is at length prevailed on to listen to a new suitor. She weds a Spaniard by the name of Alvar, equally a devotee to her and to the fine arts, and who met her when he visited Italy on a tour of taste. Hyppolito, escaping, returns, and hears that his betrothed is lost to him. In madness he pursues her to her dwelling in Barcelona, and, being skilled in the pencil, obtains access to her husband by spreading his fame abroad as an Italian painter of eminence, hurrying through the city. Alvar has seen his sketches, and earnestly desires from him a portrait of Bianca. On a carnival night, when she is masked for the festivities, Hyppolito consents, as a special favor to Don Alvar, to spare an hour for a sitting. His object may be guessed. It is a delirious desire to disclose himself, and carry her away with him in the confusion of the masquerade. The scene here given describes the introduction of the imagined painter.
An apartment in Don Alvar's palace at Barcelona. Busts—statues—an easel— swing-glass—painting apparatus.
Don Alvar enters, leading Bianca, both sumptuously habited in masquerade dresses, Bianca as a Sultana. Hyppolito follows as a painter, completely disguised. He takes his colors and pencils from an attendant. While he arranges them and reconnoitres the room, Alvar and Bianca converse apart at the front.
Bianca.
(To Alvar aside.)
Who is this painter? Were't not well, my lord,
That he should come to-morrow, not to-night?
His look is strange. You must not leave me here—
I know not why—I feel a sudden dread—
His countenance is wild—What is his name?
Alvar.
And why so fanciful, my gentle love?
The Signor's name is Manso—known to all
As a most famous artist. He has come
To Barcelona but this morn; and flies
To-morrow—Heav'n knows where!— (to Hyppolito.)
Sir, is this place
The one that suits your art?—Sit here, Bianca,
(Aside to her.)
How your hand trembles! I'll stay with you, love!
(Preparing to paint.)
A little from the light—a little more!
(Aside.)
His glance is keen—those lights will show my face—
(He tries to sketch, and stops.)
Pray you, my lord, a little farther back—
The lights fall on your robe—or, take your place—
(—Your pardon, lord)—behind me till the sketch
Is made— (he tries, and flings down the pencil in vexation.)
Corpo di Giovo, wrong!—This crowd of lights—
(Pointing with a fretted gesture to the lamps on the table.)
Alv.
(To Cariola.)
Go—carry off those lamps—their varying blaze
Will mar the pencil. Benedetto!
Order the train to hold themselves prepared
To wait upon your lady to the fête.
[Benedetto and other servants go out, carrying the lamps, and leaving but one light beside the casel. Hyppolito paints.]
Hyp.
Please you, fair lady, cast your eyes above—
Ha! so—as if you gazed upon some star!
(Looking at her.)
Now press your hand—deeply—upon your heart
As if you vowed that heart's fidelity
And sealed it by your hopes of love in Heaven.
Alv.
A most romantic painter! But his art
Or finds men mad, or makes them so—That touch
(Looking at the picture.)
Is life—I see the master-hand! How fine
The power to fix the hue of beauty's cheek,
The sparkling of the diamond eye,—the look
That speaks without a tongue, yet speaks the soul
Quicker than tongue e'er uttered—Glorious art!
That, with the power of miracle, defies
The truth of time, the blight of worldly woe,
All earthly trouble! On its tablet smiles
Beauty unsullied; cheeks unwash'd by tears;
Lips that will ne'er grow pale with anxious sighs;
Youth, love, and loveliness, alike immortal!
(He looks at the picture.)
Magnificent! Divine!
The artist does you justice, my Bianca.
Bian.
My lord turn'd flatterer! Nay, I fear I'll shame
The Signor Manso's pencil.
Hyp.
'Tis but honor'd
Too highly in its subject.—Now look down—
—Heavens, what a rich possession!— (to her.)
But one smile—
(As in soliloquy.)
The arching of that brow—that dazzling eye—
That lip to which the budding of the rose
Were colorless and chill—Thou paragon!—
Bian.
(Aside, agitated at half overhearing him.)
What words are those? Some pressure on my soul
Tells me there's evil nigh! (Aside to Alvar.)
Alvar! My lord!
Stay by me.—Will the Signor soon be done?—
Alv.
Disturb him not, my love. He touches now
(Looking over the sketch.)
Bravo, Signor! A Titian were outdone
With that delicious coloring. That glow
Is worthy the Venetian.
Hyp.
I was his pupil—
An idle one—but worshipped at his feet
For some wild years, enamor'd of the fame,
The glory that he threw around his land!
But, when he died, I hated Venice—fled—
And wander'd, on a painter's pilgrimage,
To every shrine of loveliness.
Bian.
(Aside.)
He gazes on me strangely. If on earth
There's magic in a glance—delusion wild,
Or dangerous spell, 'tis in that fiery eye!
Would that his work were done!—
(To Alvar.)
How goes the hour, my lord? Your noble friend
Will think his banquet scorn'd by our delay.
Hyp.
(Gazing on her.)
One look—but one look, gentle lady, one
And all is finished—Pray you, draw aside
That tress which hangs upon your brow like braids
Of silk on ivory. (Aside.)
There's a living smile!
A glance that strikes the soul like sudden flame!
Alv.
(Gazing on the picture.)
It grows in light and beauty, as the sky
Before the rosy chariot the morn!—
—Signor, your task is finish'd for to-night,
And richly finish'd.
My lady well reminds me 'twill be late
Before we reach our kinsman's.— (To Bianca.)
Come, my love!
Bian.
(Aside.)
Thanks, all ye saints that guard the heart from ill!
Hyp.
One moment more. This must be done to-night,
Or may-be never. By to-morrow's dawn
I leave the walls of Barcelona.
Bian.
Nay, Alvar, come—'tis finish'd—lose no time—
(Urging him.)
We must not fail in courtesy.
Alv.
(Looking at the picture.)
'Tis beautiful!— (Then turning to Bianca.)
Yet still, how feebly art
Contends with nature, when that nature's thine!
He that can thaw the ice with pictured flame,
Or banish darkness by a painted sun,
Or fill the summer sky with painted gold,
Or shower the spring's sweet lap with painted buds,
He may portray the living witchery
Of woman in her beauty—but none else!
Hyp.
Fair lady, look again—
Alv.
Yes—rest awhile—
I will but go a moment, to command
That all be ready for our cavalcade.
Signor! the moment you sought is given—
I shall return— (to Bianca)
—as swift as thoughts of love!
[Exit Alvar.
Hyp.
(Looking after Alvar—aside.)
He's gone!—Now, love and vengeance!
(Starts up, throws off his disguise, and exclaims,)
Bianca!
Bian.
(Terrified and springing back.)
Hyppolito!—
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