University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

A Room in the Castle of the Marquis. Enter the Marquis and Marchioness di Tiburzzi.
Marchioness.
'T is the perversity of woman, sir,
A subtle fiend forever creeping in
Between a young maid and her interest.
Our girls are spoiled. The women of this age
Are infants from the crib down to the grave,—
Weak, mindless children, full of baby whims—
All smiles, all tears; but he is weather-wise
Who can predict their changing humors surely.
Ah! for the Roman matrons, the strong moulds
In whom the hero race was cast of yore!—
What, not bite at the Romans?—sad indeed!

[Aside.]
Marquis.
Our daughter's grief is deeper than a whim;
And now her gloom seems doubling. Oft of late
I have seen her slyly wiping tears away.
If I observe her—for I cannot help
The old love rising sometimes in my eyes—
At once she makes such frantic starts at mirth—
The dreary ghost of bygone merriment—
The dismal echo, when the sound has died—
The laughing lip, but not the laughing heart—
That I cannot but wonder at a state
So nigh to frenzy.

March.
She has lost your love.

Marq.
Can it be that? She shall have all my love;
Yes; I will double its best outward show.
I have been cruel. It may be that, indeed.—
But she has Marsio's love, for which she bartered,
Most wittingly, most calmly, my regard.
I can forgive her that, too. My old age
Is over-greedy, to presume her youth
Should cramp its action to my selfish bounds.
What arrogance! I had a father once,
And loved him dearly; but a little maid
Stole me and all my duty. Right, Costanza!—
She 's right, I say!

March.
I did not question it.

Marq.
I grant you, madam, natural love is pure,
Holy, and calm, and fixed unalterably;
Yet there is something in that other love,
With all its turbulence and fiery passion—
Its frenzies verging into bitterness—
Its sudden heats, and sudden shivering chills—
A mystery, and a far-fading feeling,
So wraps this fruitful union of two hearts,
That I can rather think its hidden start
To be from some great viewless source above,
Than from the many, obvious, natural springs
Which rise around us in our wonted paths.
What think you, wife?

March.
Sir, sir, I raise no question.
Two passions in yourself hold this debate.

Marq.
Two struggling passions cause Costanza's grief:
Her love for Marsio jars her love for me.

March.
You 're in a desperate way, sir, if you hope,
With the small pack of human faculties,
To hunt down girlish freaks.

Marq.
Freaks, madam, freaks!

March.
My plot works cross-grained. (Aside.)
Could you trust Costanza—
Ah! how he winces!— (Aside.)
You might condescend—
(Enter a Servant.)
Well?

Servant.
Signore Marsio.

[Exit.]
(Enter Marsio.)
Marq.
Fair day to you!

Marsio.
Thank you, my lord. Your daughter? where is she?

Marq.
Out in the Park.

Mar.
What business draws her there?

Marq.
Her love of nature.

Mar.
Nature!—Human nature?

Marq.
No; heaven's and earth's. Sunshine, and air, and flowers,
Have stronger charms, for the full pulse of youth,
Than the gray walls which chill age cowers in,
Through dread of sun-strokes, draughts, and sickening scents.

Mar.
Sunshine, and air, and flowers! Fine things, no doubt!
Is she oft out for sunshine, air, and flowers?

Marq.
Yes; every hour. I cannot keep her in.
She seems to draw some comfort from the breath
Of these bland May-days.

Mar.
The old man is frank.
[Aside.]
Have you much company?—I ask you this
Because I seek acquaintance with your friends.

Marq.
Friends! I have none.—How your thoughts skip about!—
Besides yourself, and my large family
Of well-known creditors, no one, save those
Whom it scarce shelters, comes beneath this roof.

Mar.
No one?

Marq.
No one.

Mar.
'T is sad.

Marq.
Custom has made
What troubled me at first, an easy loss.

Mar.
But, then, your Park has many charms,
Even for the dainty relish of your daughter,
And her fair cousin—I must not slip her:
But now I met her with a cavalier.

Marq.
How now! Filippia with a cavalier!
I am her guardian; but 't is news to me.—
Wife, wife, Filippia with a cavalier!

March.
Well, well, what harm? This is no nunnery:
She is full-aged. Her own sharp-cornered wit
Is her best guardian.

Marq.
I must look to this.

Mar.
'T is said—but with what truth I'll not avouch—
Your daughter has another cavalier.
These cousins hunt in couples.

Marq.
Fairly said!
You would excuse Filippia. Ha! ha! sir;
[Laughing.]
By the sly twinkle of your eye, I judge
You are the other cavalier.

Mar.
'Sdeath! no!
I have no taste for sunshine, air, and flowers;
'Ods blood! I hate them!

Marq.
You are strangely moved.

Mar.
Moved strangely, sir, by a most strange device.
'T were better, till I'm fairly bound, at least—
Until my honor cannot 'scape her pranks—
That she—Costanza, sir,—your daughter, sir,—
Showed more regard to common decency!

March.
What is all this?

Marq.
Our sweet son, Marsio,
Gives us an inkling of his filial love!

Mar.
Ne'er sneer at me, sir,—never sneer at me!

Marq.
I am talking to this lady.

March.
Pray be calm.
[Apart to Marsio.]
If signore Marsio has been well informed,
He has just cause to take offence.

Marq.
Gods! madam—

March.
Here comes Costanza: she can set us right.

Marq.
No; she can set you wrong,—can show how basely
You slander purity!

(Enter Costanza.)
March.
You have been walking?

Costanza.
Yes.—Good-day, signore Marsio!

March.
Alone?

Cos.
O, no! O, no! There was one little bird
Followed me strangely on, from tree to tree,
Measuring his lagging flight by my slow steps,
As if he sought to keep me company;
And when I paused a moment, he would hop,
In open view, upon the nearest spray,
And pour into my ears such moving notes—
So melancholy, yet so sweet withal—
That I scarce knew whether to stop and hear,
Or to pass on, and end his melody.

Mar.
Sunshine, and air, and flowers! and now a bird!—
Pish! do they take me for a fool? [Aside.]


March.
Costanza,
Had you no other company?

Cos.
None, mother.

Mar.
Bah! how she feathers us! I'll pluck your bird.
[Aside.]
Lady Costanza.

Cos.
Signore Marsio.

Mar.
I am a candid man—a little rough,
Perchance, sometimes, yet meaning honestly.
I never steal upon my enemy,
But march straight to him, pounding all my drums.

Marq.
Your enemy!

Cos.
Must I be rated one?

[Laughing.]
Mar.
I hope not, lady. But this busy world
Buzzed ugly sounds—unlike your pretty bird's—
Into my ears, as I walked hither.

Marq.
Well!
Would you out-stare each other?

Mar.
Bluntly, then:
'T is said—I hope without foundation, lady—
A bird is not the only company
Of your long walks and pauses in the Park.
One gossip winks, and swells his windy cheeks,
As I go by; then gluts his brother's ears
With a low, stealthy tale, told in fierce whispers,—
Of how you wander with a cavalier,
Pensive and silent, treading down the flowers,
That glitter so amid the dark-green grass,
As if you really cared not to blot out
God's handiwork. Another has a tale,
Fetched through a multitude of serving-men—
But all truth 's truth, he will go bail for that—
Of how this self-same cavalier was seen
Upon his knees to you—to you! At this
The whole fraternity smile forth a sigh,
And pity poor, dull Marsio. Lady mine,
I loathe man's pity! Is there aught in this?
Whom saw you yesterday?—the day before?
You do not answer.

Cos.
First, sir, by what right
Do you advance the question?

March.
Answer, child.
You are betrothed: he has a right from that.

Marq.
He has not, madam; nor will I permit
My daughter to be catechised.

Mar.
(Aside.)
Ho! ho!
I'll tame you shortly.

Cos.
Signore Marsio,
Do not misjudge me. Till my wedding-day,
My erring acts will fall on me alone.
When I do aught to peril my fair name—
Which, now, I hold you have no check upon—
I shall be first to show it, and absolve you
From all your obligations. Until then,
I am the proper guardian of my conduct.

Marq.
Well spoken, daughter!

March.
You maintain her folly.

Mar.
You'll not deny it?

March.
'T is but a word, love—
Nay, for your mother's sake.

Marq.
For my sake, peace!

Cos.
Neither will I deny it, nor affirm it.

Mar.
You dare not, dare not!

Cos.
Signore Marsio!—

Mar.
By heaven! I credit—

Cos.
Listen to me, sir.
Our marriage contract is not ratified;
Tear it, I beg you. I have no desire
To hold you to it, if you doubt my truth.

Marq.
Ay, ay! tear up the parchment.

Mar.
No, no, no!
What, would you bait me?—Look, Tiburzzi, look
The galled beast turn not on you! I have here—
No, no; I have at home, in safest hands—
That which shall beggar you. I hold your debts—
All that heaven left your miserable name—
Under my mercy! Yes, I bought them up
For half-price, sir—your credit has run low—
By the sweet saints, I'll use them!

March.
Patience, signore!

Mar.
I am all patience, when I am well used.

March.
You see our situation.

[Apart to the Marquis.]
Marq.
We are toiled,
Trammelled, betrayed, by this damned usurer!
The Duke shall hear me.

Mar.
Ah! the Duke, the Duke!
Above the Duke sits Justice, robed in law,
His mistress and the state's. Best pray to heaven:
They say its tardy mercy 's sure at last.

Marq.
Graceless blasphemer! Here to heaven I cry,—
The gray-haired father of this child, ensnared
By arts beneath the cunning of a thief,—
Against a heartless villain!

Cos.
O, be calm!
No harm shall touch you. Signore Marsio,
I will abide the contract.

Marq.
You shall not!
What, do you love him yet? You never did:
'T was feigned, to save me.

Cos.
As much as ever.

Marq.
My curses drag you down to his base level!—

Cos.
My father—O, my father! God forgive you;
You 've made my father mad! Come hither, sir.
Walk with me—help him, mother—with Costanza.
Nay, lean on me. Your little daughter, father,—
Only a child. Here is the same poor head
You used to bless so. I will tell you all:
I cannot here. That 's kind. Now come with me.
You should respect him, signore Marsio.
I hold you to the contract.

[Exit the Marquis, supported by Costanza and the Marchioness.]
Mar.
Well for you.—
The devil broil you all! O, yes, my lord,
Whisper your daughter, lower upon your wife;
I'll mate you yet, for all your starving pride;
Ay, and I'll find your lover, lady mine.
You have him, yes, you have him, to console
Your wretched wifehood. Should he see the day
Whereon I wed you—if he be not off,
Even at this moment, to the antipodes—
May I be wed and buried in one hour!
'Ods love! fool me—fool Marsio!—Ha! ha!

[Exit, laughing.]