University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Marquis di Tiburzzi's Castle. Enter the Marquis and Marchioness di Tiburzzi.
Marquis.
Why urge forever Marsio's rich estate?
Wealth is not sovereign. Should his money sprout,
And yield a thousand-fold, it could not change
Its master's nature. In the glare of gold
Unnumbered blemishes oft come to light,
That had been better hidden in beggar's rags.

Marchioness.
What faults has he?

Marq.
It matters not.

March.
Why not?

Marq.
If I dislike the man, the end is gained
Without a summing of antipathies.

March.
But should Costanza love him?

Marq.
Bless me, madam!
Am I an oracle? Your questions reach
Beyond my thinking.

March.
Stranger things have been.
The maids of Greece, for all their dainty tastes,
Gambolled with Satyrs. Men can never know
The shifting fancies of a woman's heart.
Some love the outer, some the inner man,
And some the garniture which fortune gives;
Some love to rule, others to be enslaved;
Some love for pity, some affect the bold;
Some on entreaty, others from sheer spite
And sturdy opposition, will consume
With three-fold fire. This slender bodkin's point
Is ample basis for a woman's love.

Marq.
Not for Costanza's. Do not wrong our daughter
With empty fables, nor impute to her
The melting weakness of all womankind.
If she should love—Poh! poh! I squander breath;
The thought is monstrous.

March.
Pray, what see you, sir,
In signore Marsio—think him what you may—
To banish him beyond the pale of love?
He is not handsome! Well, and what of that?
These girls have apes for playthings. Cannot talk?
She'll slit his tongue, and busy her for hours
With her new human magpie. Here 's a husband
To banish Maltese cats and singing-birds!
What if she love?

Marq.
Her love would sanctify
More vice than Marsio's little soul can hold.—
But this is idle.

March.
Now, what do you mean?
First, Marsio's blemishes; next, your dislikes;
Then, Marsio's vices, and his little soul!
Why do you hate him?

Marq.
Hate is not the word:
I would not choose him for my daughter's husband.
First, his mean birth.—

March.
Ho! pause we at his birth.
Did his low birth beget his character?
I hold you, sir, he is so nobly minded
That he will pick an empress for his dam,
If you give choice.

Marq.
Like still engenders like:
'T is nature's law. The rugged mountain horse
Breeds not the silk-skinned barb; the shaggy cur
Litters no fine-limbed greyhounds. It may take
Whole ages of ancestral blood, to crown
A long-drawn race with one true gentleman.
Think you his peddling stock can shape a mate
For her whose fathers, at great Cæsar's voice,
Out-flew the conquering eagles?

March.
There it is!
Cæsar and all his legions! We have stood
A hungry siege from him for many a day.
Would he had strangled at his birth,
With all his captains!

Marq.
Why this argument?
I have heard ten thousand, in my time, yet never
Knew one wry notion straightened by them all.
What would you?

March.
Why not ask me that before
The matter smothered in the argument?

Marq.
Speak; I attend you.

March.
Should Costanza's eyes
Have found some merit, unobserved by you,
In signore Marsio—should it so have wrought
Upon her woman's fancy as to gain,
In Cæsar's spite, that precious heart of hers—
Would you oppose her choice?

Marq.
Oppose her choice
Why, you amaze me. Have you seen good grounds
For such a question?

March.
I have seen enough.
I have observed kind looks from Marsio's eyes
By echoing blushes answered from her cheeks;
I have—Lord, Lord! what have I not observed?—
Sufficient to have bred a plague of love,
If love were catching.

Marq.
This is very strange.

March.
No; 't is as old as Adam. Maids will love,
And fathers will not see it. From these signs,
Knowing our daughter's happiness might hang
Upon your voice, I would forestall her grief,
By timely checks, ere love has grown a habit;
Or, should you wish, confirm her doubting heart
By your full sanction.

Marq.
Wonderful indeed!
She fancy Marsio! Had I been asked,
I'd said she shunned him.

March.
No unusual trick
Of love-sick girls.—But here Costanza comes.
Leave her to me—nay; if you question her,
You'll scorch her words in blushes.

Marq.
As you will.
You are wrong, believe me. She has ever borne
So plain a heart to me, so dutiful,
So zealous to fulfil my wish as never
To question of its justice—yet such acts
Performing not with the cold hand of duty,
But with the fiery eagerness of love—
That I shall feel some twinge of jealousy,
If she has ousted me from my fair seat,
Henceforth a stranger's, without common notice.
Question, but do not vex her. I would rather
Your keen suspicion had o'ershot its mark,
Than that my daughter should have wasted love
Upon this—this—

March.
Noble, thrice noble man;
Half deified by her subliming love!

Marq.
I have no heart for jesting.

[Exit.]
March.
Nor for acting:
Your feeble nature shifts the deed on me.

(Enter Costanza.)
Costanza.
Where went my father?

March.
To concoct some scheme
About a penny-worth of musty bread.
It takes more work, to live this starving way,
Than would be used in earning us a fortune.
But we are noble, very noble, daughter;
We have some centuries of rich, proud blood,
On which we live, and therefore need not labor.
We feed, like fleshy men, upon our fat,—
Self-eating cannibals.

Cos.
Fasting has its mirth,
Feasting its sorrow.

March.
Ay, ay; much the mirth
We see the death's head grinning.

Cos.
True, my mother;
Death has a whisper in the maddest mirth
Of us poor mortals.

March.
You are gloomy, child.

Cos.
No more than usual. 'T is a gloomy thing
To see a father, so deserving love,
Bowed with a load of vulgar, petty cares—
Too mean to tax the housewife of a hind—
That nip and pinch him into actual life,
Giving his aching mind no dreaming pause
'Twixt day and day.

March.
Of all disgusting things
Commend me to our old, familiar friend,
Proud poverty.

Cos.
Would I could lighten it!

March.
And so you can.

Cos.
I! how?

March.
I trow, my daughter,
You'll be no victim, no burnt-offering,
No chattel, traded for your father's peace:
No; let us starve, drown, hang—why, what care you?
You have a heart, forsooth, a virgin heart,
Not to be hung on matrimonial shambles!
In faith, you are right.

Cos.
What is your purpose, mother?

March.
There 's signore Marsio; do you fancy him?

Cos.
I never weighed my feelings for him.

March.
No?
But he loves you.

Cos.
For that I owe him thanks.

March.
Now—do you mark me?—should you marry him,
We are rich at once.

Cos.
That never crossed my mind.

March.
It has ours.

Cos.
“Ours”?

March.
Your father's and my own.

Cos.
My father spoke of this?

March.
Just ere he left.

Cos.
Does he desire me to wed Marsio?

March.
You know your father far too well for that.
He would not have you wed for his sake only;
Would not persuade you, press you, and so forth.
With such spasmodic eagerness, with such
A trembling lip, and clutching of the hands,
He says these things, that I, who know his ways,
With half a thought can fathom his desire.

Cos.
Which is?—

March.
That we should want no longer.

Cos.
How!
Wed Marsio?

March.
Not unless with your consent.
Well, would you try it? Tell your father, then,
You love rich Marsio, whose countless wealth
Can bribe his sorrow, ease his shaking mind,
And make his days lapse calmly to their end—
Marsio, whose golden finger puts to flight
Duns, bailiffs, tradesmen, all the brood of want,
And makes a jest of every former grief
To talk of in foul weather. Nay, my child;
Breathe not a word of this: say simply thus—
I love good Marsio; I would be his wife.
You'll see the issue.

Cos.
Signore Marsio stands
Far better with my father than I thought.
Doubtless there is some good in Marsio—
In Marsio—in Marsio—

March.
Well, well!
Why do you dwell upon his name?

Cos.
There seems
A strangeness in it, I ne'er marked before.

March.
You will attempt this little loving ruse?

Cos.
Mother, I dare not tamper with the love
My father bears me.

March.
Poh! 't is but a trial.
You need not marry Marsio, for all.

Cos.
This I will say: if to my father's mind
Marsio appear a proper husband for me,
And signore Marsio should incline to me,
I will accept him.

March.
Bravely spoken, child!
I know you do this for your father's sake;
And 't is a beautiful, most saint-like act,
On which the angels smile. May Heaven reward you!
Then, in Italy, marrying is one thing,
Loving is another.

Cos.
What did you say?

March.
You will find out ere long. But, hark, Costanza;
If you are resolute, let every action,
Which falls beneath your father's eyes, appear
Full of kind thoughts for signore Marsio.

Cos.
I feel but kindly towards him. O, my mother,
If he, or any man—a clown—a fool—
More hideous than the nightmare, crueller than
The ragged tooth of famine—

March.
Tut, tut! daughter,
Marsio is none of these.

Cos.
I hope not, madam.
Doubtless, I'll learn to love him very soon.
It seems to me, duty would tutor love,
At the first moment my poor father smiled.
Marsio must know the terms.

March.
What need of that?
When did love ever chaffer about terms?
I'll tell him, if 't will ease you.

Cos.
Let us go.
My father's word must sanction this high treason
Against the sweet dominion of god Love.—
You see I am merry, mother; am I not?

March.
Yes; very merry.

Cos.
As we go along,
Give me a catalogue of all our ills.
Tell o'er my father's sufferings; then rehearse
The royal qualities of Marsio's gold.
How do you think my father's face would look
With one bright smile upon it? Do you know,
'T is a long, dreary age since I beheld
What you might call a smile upon his face?
I need to hear these things. Think you this marriage
Would be no sin against my better nature?

March.
Heaven counsels filial love.

Cos.
Yes; you shall feast,
And wear gay clothes, and build our shattered house,
And brush the cobwebs from our ancestry,—
That seem to suffer like decay with us,—
And there shall be no name in Italy
Prouder than the Tiburzzi! Did you think,
When you first saw me lying in my cradle,
An impotent, cross bantling, that one day
Your poor Costanza could do all these things?
I know you did not—ha, ha! (Laughing.)
Woe is me!
Tears are close neighbors to such mirth as mine.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II

Another Apartment in the Castle. Enter Marsio.
Marsio.
If I know money—Heaven knows I should—
They must come to it. Needy, needy, say you?
I have known the needy murder for a ducat:
Lo! here are millions; and but for a name.
A very ancient, very noble name,
I grant; but somewhat damaged in the keeping.—
Easily patched, however, easily patched with gold.
Join Marsio's riches to Tiburzzi's name,
And who can stand against them? But the name,
Ungilt and naked, is an empty noise,
Which Marsio's gold—Marsio's hard, solid gold—
As well can purchase in the daily market
Where parents vend their marriageable wares.
Why should I doubt? There 's nothing like a heart
To chaffer for. I never bought a heart.
Men say I want one. Ha, ha! how they lie!
[Laughing.]
'T is a great rock on which all commerce wrecks.
There is no rival, no keen moneyed man,
To weigh his scrapings 'gainst my topmost bid;
So says the Marchioness—O, pardon me—
Our mother, I should say; though ne'ertheless
A marchioness for all that, Costanza dear.—
Conny, and Con, and Stanza, when you please me,
Besides a hundred other sweet, pet names,
To come up on occasion. Ha! our mother!
And all one splendor with a blaze of smiles!
(Enter the Marchioness.)
I guess your meaning

Marchioness.
Hist! the Marquis comes.
Show no surprise; one doubt may mar the whole.
Hear, ere you speak.

Mar.
I am all ears, no tongue.

(Enter the Marquis.)
Marquis.
Welcome, friend Marsio!

Mar.
“Friend Marsio!”
Well spoken, friend Tiburzzi! (Aside.)
Gracious sir,
Your proud addition to my humble name—

March.
Stoop not too low, or you may never rise.

[Apart to Marsio.]
Mar.
—My deeds shall ratify.

March.
Turned just in time.

[Aside.]
Marq.
Frankness is best—

Mar.
The coin of honesty!

March.
For Heaven's sake, peace! Art talking for a wager?

[Apart to Marsio.]
Marq.
Signore, it seems my daughter and yourself,
Unknown to me—and therein much I blame you—
Have leagued your hearts—

Mar.
What! she—

March.
O, silence, silence!

[Apart to Marsio.]
Marq.
You would excuse her, signore, with such reasons
As, to the partial wits of lovers, seem
Both law and right; on me they fall full coldly.
That love, which breeds such ecstasy in you,
To me is breach of trust. But let that pass.

Mar.
Against your word—

Marq.
Do not deceive yourself;
Hearts will make way against ten thousand words.

Mar.
Are you so wilful? Forward, then.

[Aside.]
March.
You see,
My lord but seeks our daughter's happiness.

Marq.
Yes; take her, sir. No foolish whim of mine
Shall stand 'twixt heart and heart.

Mar.
“'Twixt heart and heart!”
What does he mean? Well, I will swallow all.
[Aside.]
Your frank approval stifles my poor thanks.
Let me repay your frankness with its equal.
No man, who is your friend, has wanted eyes
To see how, day by day, that ancient wealth,
Which once so proudly propped your mighty name,
Has slipped beneath the thing it should support;
Till all the glories of this noble house
Seem tottering down to ruin and oblivion.—
Nay, do not chafe; I cannot choose but know it.

Marq.
“Know it, know it!” the very beggars know it,
And, with unbegging laughter, pass me by!
My name 's the jest of all this mocking land.—
The blind, dumb, deaf, conceive it! Idiots, jays,
Parrots, have wit to say, “Poor, poor Tiburzzi!”

Mar.
I would not ape them.

Marq.
O, 't is nothing new:
Heaven makes us feel our chastenings commonly.
Of all realities, the reallest thing—
Of all heart-sickening, spirit-killing things—
That can unnerve, unsex, and bring to naught
The proudest purposes of stubborn strength,
Making brawn Hercules a whining baby—
The very top and crown is poverty!
It feeds on hope, it glories in despair,
It saps the brave foundations of the will,
It turns our simple faith to blasphemy,
It gnaws its way into the very spirit,
And with a weary siege starves out the soul,
Sending to judgment that bright denizen
So changed in hue, so fallen from its estate,
That Heaven, in the poor, warped, and shivering thing,
Can scarcely recognize its handiwork!

Mar.
My purse shall aid you. Use it, without stint,
In common with me.

Marq.
Pshaw! I need it not.
I and my wants have grown such intimates
That 't would seem strange to part us. Prisoned men
Have wept at parting from their old, dull cells:
So custom, I doubt not, may reconcile
A father to an unconfiding child.
I can take naught of him.

[Aside. Walks apart.]
March.
Urge him no more:
His mind is troubled with an idle fancy
About Costanza's want of trust in him.
He has scarce patience, now, to speak with her:
But he will change, next moon.

[Apart to Marsio.]
Marq.
Pray treat her well,
Pray treat her well, good signore Marsio:
One sin makes not a sinner. She is worth it;—
Yes, yes, although she 'd not confide in me.
But then, you know, we fathers have no vows
Like you hot lovers; have no skill, to show
The depths and heights of customary feeling,
With high-spiced words. Love grows a gray-beard in us,
And lacks the prattle of the wingéd boy.
Pray treat her well.

Mar.
I'll have no other care.
A precious store ne'er wants a zealous ward.

Marq.
Let not that promise rust.

March.
Our daughter waits
Signore, go on before. What, what, so tardy!
Does your love use a herald?

Mar.
By your leave, then.

[Exit.]
March.
Stands it not as I said?

Marq.
Is she my daughter?

March.
If she is mine.

Marq.
That strain I cannot doubt:
There the blood cries.

March.
If it amuses you,
Pray rail away. There 's many an out-door saint
Blows off his wolfish humors at his wife,
And paces forth a lamb.

Marq.
Love Marsio?—No!
What, sell herself?—pah! pah! Come, let us in.
This shivering on the brink is worse than drowning.
I'll link these lovers. When the knot is tied,
The galling process of the action stops,
And I may rub my fretted hands at ease.
I'll not be tortured.—Marry, marry shall they;
And sooner than they think! Still waiting, madam?
Heavens! what a new Tiburzzi fortune sends!

[Exeunt]

SCENE III.

Another Apartment in the Castle. Enter Costanza and Filippia.
Filippia.
Would I wed Marsio? Would I wed the—

Costanza.
There!
Your common phrases have sufficient strength,
Without appealing to another world.

Fil.
Would I wed Marsio? (Laughing.)
Why, 't is something new
To hear you jesting, cousin! Would I wed
A man who ever thrusts his money forth
As his best quality?—a man who feels
No inward stir of man's nobility,
But, like the poor ass with his golden freight,
Is worth just what he carries? Then he has
A wicked, subtle, and consuming devil,
Pent in the corners of his red-rimmed eyes,
That 's always dodging, like a serpent's tongue,
Angry but fearful.

Cos.
What a character!

Fil.
'T is Marsio to an eye-lash.

Cos.
Your wild tongue
Ever outruns your stricter meaning, cousin.
I shall wed Marsio.

Fil.
What a woful sigh!
That is the tone Gonsalvo gave me, when,
Tearing his tattered ruff—worn for the nonce—
He cried, “I shall drink poison!” But he did not.

Cos.
But I will.

Fil.
Drink poison?

Cos.
No; wed Marsio.

Fil.
The poison in another shape.

Cos.
Fie! fie!
Are quibbling jests the best advice you give?

Fil.
'T was jest chase jest. You are not serious?

Cos.
Indeed I am.

Fil.
Then here 's a weeping matter.

Cos.
Marsio has made an offer for my hand,
Which I intend accepting.

Fil.
O, you shall not,
You shall not, by my faith!

Cos.
By mine I shall.

Fil.
I hate him, hate him!

Cos.
I 'm not jealous of you.

Fil.
Who 's jesting, now?

Cos.
You 've taught me your own tongue.

Fil.
I see through this. You marry that base wretch—
That sallow, spider-legged, bow-shouldered wretch—
That man of money—that great human purse—
That—that—

Cos.
Hie forward, forward, cousin dear!
I would not have you keep such humors to yourself;
They might breed inward danger.

Fil.
Out upon you!
Your father's wants have driven you to this end.
You should not dare—I say, you should not dare,
If famine wrestled with us throat to throat—
Offer the holiest portion of your nature
To this gold calf. 'T will have a grievous answer,
One day, Costanza; for 't is mortal sin
To strike at the dim instincts of the heart.
Why are you weeping? Cousin, dear Costanza,
The sun shines upon nothing that I love
As I love you. That 's generous; smile again.—
But, lo! the gentle lover! lo! sweet Marsio!
Dragging his fingers o'er the entrance wall
Like a belated school-boy!

Cos.
Cousin, cousin!

Fil.
He sees you—blushes! Ay: by my faith, blushes,
Through all his leathern skin, from ear to chin!
Come, that is cheering! Marsio can blush.

Cos.
Do leave, Filippia.

Fil.
I! I dare not leave.
Look to your trade, Costanza. Push him sharply.
He'll get the better of you. I'll be witness;
And if he slip one tittle, we will close
Upon him roundly. Tell him hearts are dear
This season; the supply of maiden hearts
Has dwindled down; he may have widows' cheaper;
Old maidens' for the asking. Money 's plenty,
And begs for usury. Nay, mark these things;
He'll trick you else. We must protect our interest.

Cos.
Have done! have done!
(Enter Marsio.)
Good welcome, sir!

Marsio.
I thank you.
A fair day, lady!

Fil.
Dare the knave say that,
With such a falling-weather face? Perhaps,
Some day, he'll find I 'm not invisible,—
The ill-bred cur! [Aside.]


Mar.
May we converse alone?

Fil.
Better and better! He has seen my ears;
I'll show my tongue, next.

[Aside. Seats herself apart.]
Cos.
Signore Marsio—

Mar.
Yes, lady, yes.—I have a mortal dread
Of girls and babies. [Aside.]


Cos.
You would speak with me?

Mar.
Ay; if I could. [Aside.]
Has not your mother—Pshaw!
I came to lay my fortune at your feet;
And I will hold it doubled fifty times,
If you bestow one smile upon the act.

Fil.
Prolific smile! [Aside.]


Cos.
Sir, if my simple smile—

Fil.
Or my compounded laughter, shout on shout.

[Aside.]
Cos.
This is deceit. [Aside.]


Mar.
O, horror, what a strait!
Never a word! Her silence will upset me.
Would she might fall to cursing!

[Aside.]
Fil.
Conny, dear,
A million, Conny; 't is well worth a million.

Mar.
What means yon lady?

Fil.
You shall see, anon.

[Aside.]
Cos.
'T would pose my cousin, signore Marsio,
To show a meaning in one half she says.

Mar.
Your servant, lady.

[Bowing.]
Fil.
Of the latest date.

[Curtseying.]
Mar.
Here 's my excuse.

[Pointing to Costanza.]
Fil.
A fair excuse, indeed:
I know no fairer, sir.

Mar.
I said not so:
You might teach schoolmen, if you knew yourself.

Fil.
Well done! We get on bravely.

[Aside.]
Mar.
Gentle lady,
Our business waits.

[To Costanza.]
Fil.
There the mart speaks again.

[Aside.]
Cos.
Has not my mother told you of the terms.
On which I listen to your suit?

Mar.
She has—
O, golden chance! here comes the Marchioness!
I'd have gone mad, ere long.

[Aside.]
(Enter the Marquis and Marchioness.)
Marquis.
Daughter, Costanza,
Do you love signore Marsio?

Cos.
I hope
To love him better, sir.

Marchioness.
Well said, well said!
Love 's but a baby, Hymen is a boy;
He grows apace in wedlock.—Well said, daughter!
This coyness is the privilege of maids:
Do not compel her to a public blush.

[Apart to the Marquis, who walks up the stage, gloomily.]
Cos.
How sad my father seems!

March.
'T is very natural;
He parts from you; but it is like the parting
Of a young twig, that, when it sunders, adds
A vigorous life to the old parent tree.
Think of that, daughter.

Cos.
But the twig will wither.—
So be it, though, if it revive the tree.

Marq.
You would wed signore Marsio?

Cos.
I will wed,
With your approval, signore Marsio.

Mar.
It irks me much that you must bare your heart;—
Both irks and pleases.

March.
Are these questions decent?

[Apart to the Marquis.]
Fil.
She changes words, and never answers straight.
She 's mad for misery. There 's something wrong.
If I but dared—I will— (Aside.)
My lord, my lord—

Marq.
She has declared it. Take her, signore, take her!
And may she never want the duteous love
A wife should show a husband! May she lean,
In an unbroken confidence, upon
The upright manhood she has found in you;
And may you never know what bitterness
Burns in the silent chambers of a heart
That loves, yet cannot trust! God bless you, child!—
Yea, give your husband all you held from me!

[Aside.]