 | Plays and Poems |  |
THE BETROTHAL: A PLAY
- Marquis di Tiburzzi, A decayed nobleman.
- Count Juranio, A wealthy nobleman.
- Salvatore, His kinsman.
- Marsio, A wealthy merchant.
- Pietro Rogo, His friend.
- Pulti, Servant to Marsio.
- Costanza, Daughter to the Marquis.
- Filippia, Her cousin.
- Marchioness di Tiburzzi, Mother to Costanza.
- A Priest, a Notary, Guests, Servants, &c.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
1
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
2
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:
3
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,
4
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,
5
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
6
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”?
7
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?
8
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,
9
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?
10
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.—
11
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.]
12
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!”
13
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.
14
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.
15
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.
16
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.
17
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!
18
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.]
19
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.
20
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.]
21
ACT II.
SCENE I.
The Park of the Marquis di Tiburzzi. Enter Juranio and Salvatore.Juranio.
Whose grounds are these?
Salvatore.
The Marquis di Tiburzzi's—
A sorry sequel to an ancient stock,
Whose wide dominion once outstretched our sight.
Alas! for him, poor man, malicious fortune
Threw all the choicest of her random smiles
Upon the wrong end of his famous race,
And now mocks him with what his fathers were.
Ju.
A pretty place! Some heritage of beauty
Yet harbors here. Mark how the clustered blossoms
Star the dark back-ground of yon shady wood.
Sal.
O! yes; but mark how jealous avarice
Has shorn the chiefest saplings to the root.
Ju.
Yet spared us every flower. Praise be to Heaven!
Their beauty is not marketable. See,
A living bower, a bower of growing vines,
All carpeted with last year's fallen leaves!
Sal.
A thrifty thought! The very dead are used.
That hint was stolen from Egypt, where they burn
Their spicy ancestors. 'T were a proud thing,
To sit down at a fire of Ptolemies,
With Cleopatra for a back-log.
Ju.
Ugh!
22
With your great sprawling jokes. The hand of taste,
Making best use of few materials,
Is here.
Sal.
The hand of woman.
Ju.
Worse and worse!
I'll fly you, shortly.
Sal.
'T would confess your devil,
To fly at holy names. Why do you shun
These dainty blossoms of humanity
With such stern care?—So ho! run, run for life!
There go two maids—two full-blown, dangerous maids—
Hide you, sir modesty!
Ju.
You know them maids?
Sal.
I take them so on credit.
Ju.
Save you, save you!
Good lady-broker, you will one day fail
From such long credits.
Sal.
See, they make this way.
Here comes the goddess of your living bower.
Ju.
Which one?
Sal.
The shorter.
Ju.
No; the taller one.
Sal.
How know you that?
Ju.
I trace her little fingers
In the soft curvings of each vine.
Sal.
Ho! ho!
(Laughing.)
Ju.
I'll bet my Arab—saddle, spurs, and all—
Against your empty laugh, those cunning girls
Are plotting to ensnare some luckless man:
I see such malice in your small one's eyes.
Sal.
Done!
23
Done!—Come hide.
Sal.
A mere excuse for running,
You arrant fly-frock!
Ju.
Here, behind the bower.
[They secrete themselves.]
(Enter Costanza and Filippia.)
Costanza.
Press me no more; my motives are my own.
You grant me judgment?
Filippia.
More than you grant me.
You have some cloudy fancy in your brain,
That needs but airing,—some weak, flimsy notion,
That common reason would dry up at once.
Cos.
You rate me poorly, cousin.
Fil.
There again!
You would be off. Stick to the text, Costanza.
Do you love Marsio?
Cos.
Would I wed him else?
Fil.
You dare not answer strictly.
Cos.
Why then ask?
Fil.
I know you do not. 'T is not in your nature
To fall so meanly. O! be warned in time.
The twin-born heart to whom you owe allegiance,
To whom, perforce, you must surrender love,
Will track you out at last. How fearful, then,
To perish piecemeal with a smothered passion,
Or—I will not repeat it: 't was a story
Old at the flood.
Cos.
Here I dare answer strictly.
If you will not allow me Marsio,
At least, I love no other.
Fil.
But you will—
24
Fall in a frenzy of outrageous love
With some stern, mulish creature, like yourself,
Who swears he'll wed the blackest blackamoor,
And will—that will he!—though the heavens should fall!
Tell me, Costanza,—tell me, darling cousin,—
What are your motives in this strange affair?
Cos.
Then will you cease your torments?
Fil.
Ay; and vow
To keep good counsel.
Cos.
Nor by word or deed
Again oppose my purpose?
Fil.
Yes, to that;
But 't is a bitter contract.
Cos.
Let us walk:
The story is a long one.
[They walk up the stage.]
Ju.
Salvatore,
This eavesdropping is scarcely honorable.
Sal.
What a fine moral sense! Just as you lose
The last faint whisper of their pretty talk,
Up starts indignant honor.
Ju.
Ah! her voice
Held honor spell-bound. Did you mark, with me,
How the low music trickled from her lips?
All heaven was listening to her, why not we?
Sal.
Which one set heaven agog?
Ju.
The taller one.
Sal.
The small one spoke the more.
Ju.
More, but less valued.
The other's phrases served to bind together,
As baser metal solders sovereign gold,
The broken links of her harmonious thoughts.
25
Zounds! are you mad?
Ju.
I know not what I am:
I am something I was not an hour ago.
Sal.
Unhappy idiot!
Ju.
See, see, she walks!
Sal.
A wonderful exploit!
Ju.
I must address her.
Sal.
Fellow, there are two. To my unbiassed eyes,
The smaller is the fairer. Let us leave,
As partial penance for our vulgar fault.
Will you not come?
Ju.
No; I must speak to her.
Sal.
That were ill-bred.
Ju.
I'll frame new codes of manners.
Fair lady, by your leave—
[Advancing to Costanza.]
Sal.
Nay, be not startled.
'T is but a simple kinsman of my own,
A poor brain-darkened lunatic; but harmless,
Quite harmless to a lady. Pray you know him;
The Count Juranio—once a wiser man.
[Juranio bows.]
Ju.
And here his cousin, signore Salvatore,
[Salvatore bows.]
A world-wide jester, a professed buffoon;
The globe 's his bauble, all mankind his mark;
Each word of his a jest, or meant for such.
A cunning ferret after doubtful phrases,
A subtle reasoner upon groundless proofs,
A deep inquirer into shallowness,
A dangerous friend, a harmless enemy;
His own best jest, oftener laughed at than with.
26
And you are safe.
Fil.
Two weighty characters!
Cos.
What mean you, gentlemen?—You should be such
By dress, if not by manners.
Ju.
We—I—I—
What would we, Salvatore?
Sal.
We would know
The way to town.
Fil.
Why, all the steeples stare
Above yon hill.
Sal.
Ah! yes.—True—true, indeed—
I see—What would we, Count Juranio?
There is an awful mystery here, which I
Would fain explain, if we might meet again.
[Apart to Filippia.]
Fil.
A mystery! How, meet me? I cannot tell
But I may often ramble hereabout.
[Apart to Salvatore.]
Sal.
Our ways are doubtful: odder things have been
Than two chance meetings.
[Apart to Filippia.]
Ju.
Has my tongue strayed off?
[Aside.]
Lady, from that small spring, the human heart,
Arise a thousand swelling impulses,
Each one a mystery to the sober brain:
'T were vain to ask why we do thus and thus,
Why crush that good intent, and rear this wrong,
While the poor reason, that would fain inquire,
Is impotent to rule. 'T was such an impulse
Drove me to what I did; which, being done,
27
Your gentlest censure.
Cos.
Sir, a fault confessed
Pardons itself one half. I will not grudge
A full forgiveness, if you ask it of me.
Ju.
I do, most humbly. It is not my wont
To sue for breach of manners.
Sal.
That I swear!
He was the flower of distant etiquette
To all things feminine.
Cos.
Nor are my manners
Of the sour, formal cast that freezes back
The generous feelings of o'erflowing nature,
And bars the way between our hearts and lips;
Nor—nor—Indeed I know not what I say—
I talk at random. Pray you, leave me, sir:
You trifle with me.
Ju.
Lady, are you just?
Cos.
O, heaven! I am not; neither to myself,
Nor those who own my duty. Say no more;
But leave me, leave me!
Ju.
I obey; how sadly!
May we not meet once more?
Cos.
No; never, never!
[Exit with Filippia.]
Sal.
Gods! we are all mad together!
Ju.
“Never, never!”
Sal.
You lost your Arab.
Ju.
Did I?—“Never, never!”
Sal.
Ay; but you did.
Ju.
'T is granted.—“Never, never!”
[Exit. Salvatore following him amazedly.]
28
SCENE II.
The House of Marsio. Enter Marsio.Marsio.
Where I had purposed to court, beg, and bribe—
To out-scheme Machiavelli, and so tug
Against the disadvantages of birth and rank,
That, by sheer strength and resolute force of will,
I hoped to barely conquer—they at once
Thrust the fair prize in my astonished arms,
Blow all my crafty net-works to the wind,
And half undo me with sheer wonderment.
They say she loves me.—Hum! I'll think of that:
It looks suspicious.—Nonsense, Marsio!
Hold up thy head! Did they not, upon 'Change,
Marvel at thy advancement? Ah! did not
That sneering beggar, Volio, who can boast
Some half-score drops of gentle blood—
Who never condescended—bless his stars!—
To speak with thee;—did not that ragged wretch—
Ha! ha! I watched him from behind a pillar,
Close, very close, as 't was rehearsed to him—
Did not even he turn blue with choking envy?
Swore 't was a lying scandal; but no less
Bowed his majestic forehead to his belt
When next we met? Lord bless us! and he spoke,
So sweetly spoke, in such a winning whisper,
Of the “dear Marquis,” of the “dear Marchioness;
Hoped the fair lady of my heart was well;
When would my marriage be?” And then he took
29
The devil claw him!
(Enter Pietro Rogo.)
How now, Master Rogo?
Rogo.
So! How now, Master Marsio? Men have said
Your grand betrothal has upset your brains:—
By heaven! I think so. “Master Rogo,” sooth!
Why, yesterday 't was “Good friend Pietro;”
And “Kinsman Pietro;” and “Pietro,
I have a secret for you!” Out upon you!
I thought to hear some folly, but your style
Out-fools conceit!
Mar.
I prithee be not rude;
Nor so presume on former fellowship—
Rogo.
Where are your wits?
Mar.
Cease your blunt manner, sir!
Rogo.
What?
Mar.
Cease, I say!
Rogo.
The world is full of marvels;
I myself can dream some stretch of wonder,
And they say poets, and such-like madmen, can,
By some shrewd knack, make that appear as truth
Which really is not; but roll all the poets,
All my wild dreams, all the earth's prodigies,
In one huge mass, and Marsio makes them tame.
Mar.
Good Master Rogo—
Rogo.
Pietro is my name.
No man shall master me.
Mar.
Pietro, then;
Since yesterday, as you observe, a change
Has come across me. Yesterday we met
30
To-day I represent the last great branch
Of the Tiburzzi; and as such expect
That due observance of my rank and person
Which it is but my duty to demand,
And is as much your duty to bestow.
Rogo.
You thrice-dyed fool! With the Tiburzzi's daughter,
Did you receive the blood of all the race?
Their gentle culture, their refined politeness,
Which wins, but never asks, a man's respect?
I tell you, Marsio, you have climbed a tower,
To make your shameless folly further seen.
Come, come, be ruled.
Mar.
Begone, sir! Leave my house!
I wear a sword.
Rogo.
A lucky thought, my lord,—
My bold Tiburzzi! By the devil's beard,
I'll try your lordship's hand at noble arts!
When we get through with this, we'll run a tilt.
Draw!
Mar.
Will you leave me?
Rogo.
Draw, my noble sir,
Or I will thresh your noble lordship's shins
With a good Milan blade. The devil take me,
If I endure your airs! I'll make a hole
To let discretion in you. Draw, you oaf!
[They fight. Rogo drives Marsio round the stage.]
Your lordship gives, gives to this vulgar man?—
That 's charitable!
[Marsio is disarmed.]
Now, sir, were it not
For the huge sin of surfeiting the devil,
With such a lump of folly, I would let
31
Nay, you 're not off yet. Promise me to be
My old, dear friend, Marsio of yesterday,
Or I will send that semblance of my friend,
Into whose body you have falsely crept,
To sup black Pluto!—Swear! or, on my life,
Your shrift is short!
Mar.
Come, come, friend Pietro.
Rogo.
You are improving. Swear it!
Mar.
Well, I swear.
Rogo.
Never to be a lord to me?
Mar.
No, never.
Rogo.
Ever to listen to my wholesome counsel,
Though it be rugged as the road to heaven;
And to receive it, if your candid judgment
Can bring no cause against it?
Mar.
Yes, and yes.
Take your cursed rapier from my throat!
Rogo.
'T was blessed
To your salvation, most ungrateful man.
Go up, old Milan: when you are sunned again,
May you be umpire in as good a cause!
Now of this marriage; is the rumor true?
Mar.
Ay; have you aught to say?
Rogo.
Against the fact,
Nothing.—Though, in this easy-jogging land,
Marriage seems quite superfluous to me:—
And the same cause which makes a single state
Endurable, should scare us from a wedding.
Well, let that go. You are a wealthy man,
And must have lineal heirs—either your own,
Or seeming so—undoubtedly, your wife's—
To squander your slow millions in a day.
32
Are the sour sneers of an old sapless miser
What you call counsel?
Rogo.
Patience, patience, friend.
Who is the maid?
Mar.
Had my heart rhetoric,
'T would answer in fit phrases.
Rogo.
Bless my soul!
He 's metamorphosed to a first-class lover!
You have a tongue, perchance?
Mar.
The fair Costanza—
Costanza di Tiburzzi is the name—
Rogo.
They doused her with at baptism. Fair, you say?
Mar.
Fair as—as—
Rogo.
What?
Mar.
As any thing you choose.
Her charms outsoar my fancy; fly your own:
Come, Pietro.
Rogo.
Ecstatic driveller! Fair?
I like not fair. The ugly ones are best:
They bear the patent of their chastity
In their brown skins, in their green, filmy eyes,
Their clawish hands, their broad, earth-flattening feet,
Their crooked ankles and their camel backs.
Without temptation, there can be no sin;
But where the fruit is jolly, and hangs out
As a ripe challenge to all passers by,
Heaven only knows who tastes, who handles it,
And who goes harmless past!
Mar.
Pietro Rogo,
Is there one subject under the mad moon
Too weak to found an argument upon?
33
Against all comers, that incontinence
Is but a wide benevolence; that murder—
Under the million given circumstances
With which your nimble wit shall hedge it in—
Is a humane achievement; theft, an instinct;
Cheating, a thrifty thoughtfulness of self;
And so forth, on through all the deadly sins.
Poh! poh! what stuff you talk!
Rogo.
Back to our subject.
Costanza di Tiburzzi should be daughter
To an old dwindled noble of that name:
Is it not so?
Mar.
It is.
Rogo.
They want your wealth.
Mar.
And they shall have it! Our long-shadowed name
Shall blaze, with a new light, through Italy.
Rogo.
O, ho! “our name!” My sword crawls in its scabbard.
Friend, you have not one generous aim in this;
Your own huge pride awakes this forward zeal:
But you'll learn wisdom through humility.
Mar.
How, raven, how?
Rogo.
A hundred little things
Shall make you gnaw your fingers to the quick.
You'll haply blunder at the first grand feast:
At which Lord So-and-so will titter, titter;
And Lady Somebody will simper, simper;
And sly Count Nobody, a noted wit,
Will wink and wink; while some bluff honest duke
Howls out his laughter. Then our father wriggles,
And stares straight through a six-foot granite wall;
34
About the price of spaniels to her neighbors;
Our bride hangs down her head—perchance a tear,
Like a full dew-drop, gathers on her cheek,
And drowns out its carnations.
Mar.
I will hire
The world's opinion till my manners mend.
Life is but one long lesson.
Rogo.
Ah! I fear
Your lesson will be paid for in rude coin.
Now hear me, Marsio; if you are horn-mad,
Wed some fresh country girl, some honest thing,
Too big a fool to be a lady sinner—
Too proud of you to think you aught but perfect—
Too ignorant to know your faults of breeding—
One every way inferior to yourself—
And I will chime in with your marriage-bell.
Mar.
You waste your wisdom, Pietro; I'll wed
No other than Costanza.
[Pulti sings within.]
Rogo.
Hark! here comes
Our merry gossip, Pulti. Let us ask
A fool's advice. Babies and naturals
Speak, sometimes, by a kind of inspiration.
Mar.
You will not condescend?—
Rogo.
'Sblood! he 's a man!
I have no princely notions, like your own,
To pull me from my fellows.
(Enter Pulti, singing.)
Pulti.
The devil wriggled,
The devil squealed,
The devil gave a shout;
35
Held on stoutly,
And put the fiend to rout.
Mar.
Stop your din!
That villain has one long, unending song
About a certain devil, who has seen
More sad adventures than the Golden Legend
Recounts of all its saints.
Pul.
Hem, hem, hem, hem!
Mar.
What do you hem at?
Pul.
I have seen in churches,
When the dull preacher would not hem himself,
The congregation would hem for him.
Rogo.
True.
What thinks your wisdom of your master's marriage?
Pul.
Lord! sir, I seldom think; it spoils my talking.
I scorn your thoughts; the stealthy, spectral things
Smell of the church-yard, and of heaven and hell—
And bygone happiness, and present pain—
And barren futures filled with new-made graves—
And baby-hopes nipped in our nursing arms—
Of all that 's dreary, and of naught that 's bright.
They are huge stoppers for a flowing mouth,
That still by strangling.
Rogo.
Have you naught to say?
Pul.
I'll race my tongue with any man's. I say,
My master will be wiser than he 's rich.
Rogo.
A goodly store of wisdom, that! How, boy?
Pul.
When he has gathered in his bursting brains
36
He'll have more thoughts than ducats.
Rogo.
Marsio, mark:
The knave 's a prophet. What is wedlock like?
Pul.
Much like sin's journey after happiness.
We start upon it with a merry heart,
Proceed upon it with a sober one,
And end—
Rogo.
Ah! yes; where end we?
Pul.
Not at all:
We stumble in our graves.
Rogo.
A gloomy thought.
Pul.
'T is not a thought. I lit upon the fact
By seeing, and not thinking. For your thinkers
Go stumbling headlong in with all the rest,
Thinking of all save death.
Rogo.
Sage doctor Pulti,
You shall teach me your doctrines.
Pul.
I will, sir,
In one short rule.—Keep your eyes ever open.
Mar.
Have you not done? For Pulti will reply
Till doomsday break. 'T is not his wonted mood;
He 's oftener gay than sad.
Pul.
'T is a sad thought—
Note, signore Rogo, thinking makes one sad—
To weigh two losses with a single gain.
Rogo.
Your wit outshoots me.
Pul.
With a feeble shaft.
I, by this marrying, must lose a master;
My poor, poor master—who may comfort him?—
Must lose a servant!—Such a servant, sir!—
So sober—when you keep his wine away;
So sweetly tempered—when you do not cross him;
37
So frugal—when you give him naught to spend;
So every way perfection—where you grow not
The carnal apple to assail his Adam.
I have lived on these conditions, many a day,
The best of slaves.
Rogo.
But where 's your single gain?
Pul.
Nay, 't is but half a one: master and man
Share it between them.—'T is an untried mistress—
A vast, dim, shadowy, uncertain fear,
That may be saint or devil.
Mar.
Pulti!—dog!
Saddle my horses!
Pul.
For the beggar's ride.
Mar.
Dare you presume so far upon my kindness,
You coarse-grained knave?
Pul.
Not I; I never trespass
On such unstable ground.
Rogo.
Where do you ride?
Mar.
Where should a lover ride?
Rogo.
O, pause at once.
All things cry out against this unmeet match:
Blood, rank, and breeding, fortune, friends, and tastes,
In rigid opposition stand between.
You cannot mould these opposites to one;
Force them together, and earth's primal chaos
Were harmony to their eternal jar.
Mar.
You could not move me, had you Tully's tongue;
Prop heaven with virgin gold, you could not buy me;
38
You could not daunt me!—To the horses, Pulti!
Pul.
I am going, sir.
[Sings.]
These horns were worn,
Ere you were born,
The grinning devil said;
Then take no care,
But proudly wear—
Ere you were born,
The grinning devil said;
Then take no care,
But proudly wear—
Mar.
You know this cudgel, sirrah?
Pul.
Thank you; we 've often met before. His name
Is oak; his mother was an acorn. See,
I know the family from end to end.
You need not introduce us, signore.
[Exit.]
Mar.
Rogo,
The aims of my existence have been few,
Yet, in the service of the thing I sought,
I have offered up my health, my life, my soul.
He must be rash, or confident, who stands
Between a zealot and his single mark.—
My horses, Pulti!—I have set my heart
Upon this marriage; let heaven frown or smile,
Till I am blasted into nothingness,
I will pursue it as if heaven were not!—
My horses, knave!
Pulti.
(Without.)
Here, sir. Ho! Lucifer.
Rogo.
I'll try to cross you for your own advantage,
If honest means may prosper.
Mar.
Well, push on!
Choose your own weapons, fight as you think fit;
But, Pietro Rogo, when we are at the tug—
When the blood boils, and timid conscience flies—
39
Is not distinguished from an enemy—
Then call for mercy to the prayer-stunned saints,
And hope an age of miracles may come,
But not to Marsio!—My horses wait.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III.
A Room in the Castle of the Marquis di Tiburzzi. Costanza and Filippia.Filippia.
Saw him before?
Costanza.
Yes;—only once before.
Fil.
But where, and how?
Cos.
Can you not call to mind
The day our duke was welcomed by the people?
Fil.
As well as yesterday.
Cos.
Indeed, indeed!
It seems a weary age since then, to me.
Among the nobles, who rode nigh the duke,
Was one who, in all noble qualities
Of port and majesty, rode there supreme:
Clad in black velvet, for his father's death;
Yet wearing a long plume of ostrich white,
As a fit emblem of the general joy.
Fil.
Lord! you know all about him!
Cos.
Yes—why—yes.—
Surely the people talked of him alone.
Fil.
I was beside you, yet I heard them not.
Well, well, go on.
Cos.
It chanced a beggar's child,
A pretty boy—one of those nimble imps
40
And under carriage-wheels—became entangled
In the unusual press; shrieked out for help;
Then, suddenly, was still for very fear.
The whole crowd held its breath, and one great heart
Beat through it all. Now there arose a cry:
Yet while the silly people did but scream,
Down from his charger leaped the cavalier,
Dashed in the throng, and, ere I cried God bless him,
The boy was laughing in his mother's arms!
Fil.
Now, I recall some little scene like that.
Cos.
'T was a great scene! The Duke stretched out his hand;
And, glorious in his dimmed and miry suit,
The hero mounted lightly on his horse.
Some nobles laughed, some sneered, some looked askance;
But all the people raised a mighty shout;
And the great sun, bursting a heavy cloud,
Shone round Juranio like a halo!
Fil.
Brave!
Yet, cousin, I saw not one half that you did.
I heard a child scream; heard some voices call;
Saw a man quickly leap down from his horse;
Heard a faint murmur; then the show went on.—
About the sun and halo I know nothing.
Cos.
'T was many a day ere I forgot the Count;
And when we met this morn, a sudden thrill
Of the old feeling stirred my memory,
And brought me back that moving scene again,—
Which much confused me.
41
Ah! “Which much confused you!”
Take my word, cousin, our heroic Count,
When he caught up the beggar's little boy,
Caught up a certain lady's heart, I wot of.—
But I approve it.
Cos.
What do you approve?
Fil.
The catching up of fair Costanza's heart.
Cos.
I beg you, cousin, not to break your jests
Upon so grave a subject. Had my mother
O'erheard your heedless nonsense, this would be
A stormy day for me.
Fil.
I have a secret—
Nay, a surmise, which I have made a secret—
That casts a fearful shadow.—
Cos.
I am listening.
Fil.
I fear to speak; knowing the steadfast love
You cherish towards your parents.
Cos.
Dear Filippia,
My marriage has perplexed you sadly. Speak;
For it must be your subject. I absolve you
From your hard promises. Come, come, give tongue;
Draw off your rancor to the very dregs:
Ill words, well-purposed, have no mischief in them.
Fil.
Has not your mother an o'er-anxious care
About this marriage?
Cos.
Is it not a duty
She owes my father?
Fil.
But your father looks
So sad and moody! Then he never speaks.
There 's something in his silence.
Cos.
It reveals
The wishes that lie nearest to his heart.
He fears his choice has swayed my inclination;
42
More from a sense of duty than from love:
So he withholds his counsel, leaving me
My own conclusion.
Fil.
Doubtless that might be.
I could unfold such things.—The saints forgive me!
Love, gratitude—owed, if not well repaid—
O, why do you cry out so loud against me?
She took me when a child, a helpless orphan—
When no one else would keep me—when my kin
Hawked me about, with a sour charity,
From one hand to another;—reared me so
That the most jealous eye could not detect
Wherein my training differed from her own,
Her own dear child, Costanza's; for whose sake—
But what affection pardons treachery?
Cos.
Filippia, darling, pray be plain!
Fil.
No, no;
I cannot, dare not. I have said too much.
Your mother's smile will be a long reproach
To me, who should deserve, above all others,
The never-ending smile she suns me in.
I have had thoughts, base, base, degrading thoughts,
But I will kill them, if I perish with them—
Which, but to speak, would make yon old Tiburzzi
Leap up and shudder in their frames; would shake
This ancient roof-tree on my wicked head,
And hide my shame in ruins! It were just.
Believe me not, Costanza; scorn my hints;
Cling to your mother—she is worth your love.
I, I—O, vile!—nay, do not pity me—
Am the most faithless of a high-souled race!
43
What mean you? Speak!—You do not love me. Speak!—
What is this mystery? Speak!
Fil.
No; never more.
We must all wreck together; I am dumb.
44
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The Park of the Marquis di Tiburzzi. Enter Juranio.Juranio.
Hail! once again, thou blooming vine-clad bower!
How long is it since the fair mistress' hand
Curled thy soft tendrils to this artful flow,
Moulding the straggling wildness of thy humors
Into such harmony? By your leave, rose.
[Plucks a rose.]
These crumpled features tell some dainty hand
Has pressed into the cramped and knotted bud,
To force its backward nature into flower.
Say, have you told her, treacherous confidant—
For you are full of whispering winds, that tell
To me, a late companion, many a tale
Of the gray East, where all your kindred speak
The lover's low, close language—have you told
How oft your leafy screen has covered me,
While she, the mistress of us both, swept by,
Sad, but majestic? Wherefore is she sad?
My tongue runs tripping, but my heart is lead.
O, Count Juranio, what a fool art thou,
To waste thy manhood on a maid who cares
No atom for thy countship! To lie hidden,
Hour after hour, upon the dank, rough ground,
Merely to catch the glimmer of a girl—
A girl who casts the pearl of her affection
45
By heaven, 't is villanous! And were it not—
So much her seeming gives report the lie—
That I believe this marriage forced upon her,
By the parental usage of our land,
I'd fly her as infectious. What, what! she
To prop a selfish dotard's crumbling house
With the untimely ruins of her youth!
To spin a few thin moments for his age
Out of her heart's blood! Suffer worse than death,
That one old man may crawl down to his grave
With a stuffed pocket! By the blessed saints,
Blood has no claim upon her! She is mad,
To nurse the childish folly of old age
To such portentous bigness! Ha! once more
Hide love and me, my sweet confederate!
[Goes behind the bower.]
(Enter Costanza.)
Costanza.
Fit season for my visit. It was morn
When first I met him; every leaf and flower
Looked up and opened to increasing day;
Nature spread wide her arms, in liberal joy,
Yielding her flushing bosom to the sun.
Even as a tardy flower, my heart unclosed
To revel in his presence; even as
Rejoicing nature, my whole quickening frame
Glowed into new existence. While the sun
Plunges in haste behind yon western clouds,
To course dun night around his broad domain,
The leaves and flowers may weep themselves to rest;
Nature may cross her placid arms in sleep,
And dream of morn beneath the merry stars;
But, ah! to me there is no tearful rest,
46
No star of comfort. In the middle heaven,
Yet veiled and ominous, burns my sun of love,
Never to set again.
Ju.
Hold your peace, winds!
Silence, ye fluttering leaves, that I may hear her!
[Aside.]
Cos.
Juranio—
Ju.
My name! [Aside.]
Cos.
Juranio,
'T is weak, 't is wicked, to maintain my grief
On thoughts of thee. For thought breeds love, and love
Redoubles grief, and grieving multiplies
Both thought and love, in an unending round.
O! had we met one little day before,
Ere fate could mock me with the double pain
Of what I am, of what I might have been!
I know thou lov'st me—
Ju.
(Advancing.)
Hadst thou been inspired,
Thy words could not be truer.
Cos.
Ha!—O, shame!
Juranio—Count Juranio!—
Ju.
Hear me, love!
Cos.
Begone, begone, sir!
Ju.
Hear me, dear Costanza!
[Kneels.]
Cos.
By what new license do you use that title?
Ju.
By the allowance of your lips.
(Pietro Rogo crosses the back of the scene, observing Costanza and Juranio, significantly.)
Cos.
How low,
How far beneath my honest scorn, you seem,
Poor Count Juranio! Will you not arise?—
47
To crown your treachery with my dishonor?
Ju.
A day of marvels! (Rises.)
But a minute since—
The words even now are echoing in my heart—
I heard you—if a man may credit sense—
I heard you, lady—
Cos.
Crop the guilty ears
That were abettors to their lord's disgrace!
Is it your custom, Count, to play the listener?
Our former meeting was in some such way
As this wherewith you honor me.
Ju.
Coquette!
Cos.
Signore!
Ju.
I heard enough to settle such a name
On all the seed of Eve.
Cos.
Redoubted cynic!
Where has your manhood fled, that you employ
Knowledge so basely found, so weakly used,
Upon a lady? What I may have said
In lavish fancy, granted truth compact,
Stands by the favor of your merit only:
After this paltry act—this poor attempt
To scare me to confession, by arraying
My private thoughts against my open words—
How rank you your own merit? Had you been
The generous man I one time held you for,
My thoughts had sunk, as rain-drops into sand,
To cool, but not to quicken. Leave me, sir!
Ju.
Costanza di Tiburzzi, ere I go,
Listen. I love you with a single heart.
I do confess much folly in the deeds
To which love drew me. Hidden by yon bower—
48
While infant leaves uncurled their tiny scrolls,
And, full-grown, basked them in the mellow sun—
While all creation was an active hymn
Of ceaseless labor to approving God—
I have stood idly, though the dear time sped,
Waiting to catch the faintest glimpse of you.
Then, happy with that treasure of my sense,
Have hied me home, to fill my waking thoughts
With growing fancies; or, through fleeting night,
Made my dreams golden with the memory
Of what had blessed my day. I cover nothing:
I have no skill nor wish to circumvent you.
You know the mystery of my presence here;
You know the secret of my love,—ah! yes,
You knew it ere I spoke it. You can lift,
By confirmation of your former words,
A sinking heart to rapture. Speak, O, speak!
My fate hangs on your mercy!
Cos.
Have you heard
No rumor of my marriage?
Ju.
Yes; a rumor,—
A baseless rumor.
Cos.
Ere another week,
That rumor and my fate will be but one.
Ju.
Is there no hope?
Cos.
I chose my portion, sir.
And must abide the issue.
Ju.
Dear Costanza,
Did you but know the energy, the power,
Which I might use to sway your destiny;
To foil a wretch—
Cos.
Hold! Do you counsel me
49
I know not by what weakness I have staid
To hear—Kind Heaven, some strength!
[Aside. Exit hastily.]
Ju.
Stay, lady, stay!—
What, shall I follow?—Gods! I'll drown this feeling!
Follow, forsooth, to glut her cruelty,
To make myself the plaything of a girl,—
I, Count Juranio, follow like a spaniel,
And on a cold scent too! Is this thing love?
I ween 't is more like hate—sound, manly hate.
Cold, cruel, heartless jilt! Yes, she was cold—
Cold, very cold. Love is not self-possessed.
But was she cruel? I cannot call her cruel.
I hope not heartless. Yet she loves me not.
Nay, she was very sparing of my feelings.
I broke upon her rudely—startled her;
At such a time too. Yet she loves me not.
Ah! yes; at such a time! while every word
Lightened the freight of her o'erburdened heart.
'T was rash in me—thoughtless: I should respect
Maiden reserve. She likes not sudden passion.
In faith, nor do I. Reason should confirm
Our hearts' emotions, ere we give them way.
Perhaps she loves me yet! I'll swear she does;
Or sovereign Love is but a gilded toy!
(Enter Salvatore.)
Salvatore.
Ho! there, Juranio!
Ju.
Signore Marsio—
Sal.
My name is Salvatore, please you.
Ju.
So!
50
Where love may drive me.
Sal.
Can you answer me?
Deaf man!—Juranio! Are you dumb too? Here,
Let us talk with our fingers.
Ju.
Salvatore,
I've met her, spoken with her!
Sal.
So have I.
Ju.
What said she?
Sal.
Little. In my breathing-times,
She edged a word in.
Ju.
What had you to say?
Sal.
O! nothing plainly; I've not come to that.
But, here and there, I tumbled in a hint,
Like love astray, which she may ponder on.
Ju.
You love her?
Sal.
Ay, sir; she is not preserved;
I was not poaching; she is open game.
Ju.
How did she take it?
Sal.
Kindly, very kindly.
Ju.
Villain!—traitor! [Seizes him.]
Sal.
Lord love the man! Let go!
Is she the only she within the realm?
I have another she, to whom your she
Is only cousin.
Ju.
Miserable jester!
Sal.
No; I am serious. O, thou dear Filippia,
Couldst thou but hear this shabby creature sneer
At us, and at love's majesty! Base, vile,
Soulless Juranio!
Ju.
On this very spot,
Hidden behind yon bower, I heard her own
Such feelings for me—ah! such rapturous feelings
51
Was rich at once, as if the heavens rained love!
Sal.
Heard whom?
Ju.
Costanza—why, Costanza, surely
Sal.
I pray you do not gall me, kinsman, thus.
I am rashly jealous, deadly quarrelsome;
I'll fight you for a feather.
Ju.
While the words
Still tingled in my ears, upon this spot,
This very spot,—see where her little feet
Have nestled in the grass,—I heard her say
She could not love me, never would be mine,
And, worse than all, would marry Marsio!
Sal.
Worms gnaw the fellow! All Filippia said
Was “Marsio, and Marsio,” and “Cousin,
Poor, poor Costanza!” And now you begin!
Think you the heathen means to wed them both?
What is this Marsio?
Ju.
A wealthy merchant,
Or usurer, or some such sorry thing,
Picked by the Marquis for his daughter's bed:
A slow, sure matrimonial poison, used
To fatten purses,—death to flesh and blood.
Sal.
I understand. We must be rid of him.
Ju.
But how?
Sal.
Quite simply— [Musing.]
Ju.
How?
Sal.
Why break my thoughts?
I quarrelled, fought him, was just burying him,
By an unfailing plan; but you destroyed it.
52
Pulti.
The devil looked down,
With a curse and a frown,
And to the young witch he said,
'Ods blood! I 'd far rather
Quell hell in hot weather,
Than govern one headstrong maid!
Ju.
Whence comes that devilish song?
Sal.
From yonder knave.
Come hither, nightingale.
Pulti.
You called me, signore?
Sal.
Ay, warbler, unperch. What is the news in hell?
Pul.
The devil has a surfeit of light fools,
And sends for solid food; I'll pass you by.
Sal.
Now, by his tongue, the bird 's a woodpecker.
Pul.
And rapping on your poll.
Sal.
His tongue 's a foil:
He foins and parries like a mountebank.
Whom do you serve?
Pul.
Myself most faithfully,
To answer strictly; but I give, sometimes,
To answer more at large, slack services
To signore Marsio.
Sal.
That name again!
How many Marsios are there?
Pul.
One at present.
He gets to breeding shortly; there'll be more
Ju.
Are you purveying for a cudgelling?
Pul.
Heaven knows. What means the gentleman?
53
Scarce nothing:
His thoughts are hardly fantasies just now.
How do you like your service?
Pul.
Why, so far
As one may thrive on musty wine, thin diet,
Most scanty wages—
Sal.
What a churlish wretch,
To treat so brave a fellow to such fare!
Pul.
Signore, you wrong him. I'm as well supplied
With work as bees are; I've more blows than Winter;
Oaths thick as stars; frowns bountiful as sunlight:
I am called up early, like an April violet;
Sent to bed tardily, like a waning moon;
I am railed and sneered at like Heaven's providence;
Outraged like modest nature—
Sal.
So! boy, so!
Is Marsio honest?
Pul.
Passably, so far;
But then, you know, the devil has a say,
Sooner or later, in the best of lives.
Sal.
Would you change masters?
Pul.
Ay, with Satan's dog.
But that is hopeless; wit 's uncurrent coin;
Men drop me sooner than they take me up.
Sal.
Serve me.
Pul.
I'm yours. Now, farewell, Marsio!
I'll leave my rags as keepsakes.
Sal.
Not so fast.
My service is peculiar; but its wages
Out-go your dreams. A fortnight I desire
You watch o'er Marsio, note his slightest act,
54
Let naught escape you. When the time is fair,
You'll run to me, and make a full report.
I have suspicions of this Marsio's truth,
From certain hints a shrewd-brained lady dropped;
And should I catch him— (Aside.)
Can we not agree?
Pul.
How! I play spy!
Sal.
Are you a Christian man?
Pul.
Yes; of the latest make.
Sal.
Then hearken, man!
If Marsio 's honest, you can say no ill;
If he is false, 't is nothing but plain duty
To fright his brother sinners with his sins.
Make him hell's scare-crow; for example, brother,
Is your best governor of coward man.
There is a pithy sermon, preached for you,
Upon the mote and beam text. After this
Short fortnight's service, life is all your own.
Pul.
I'll do it. But forgive me, if I think
Your promise better than your argument.
Sal.
The knave is apt. [Aside.]
Ju.
Kinsman, 't is treacherous
To set a spy upon your enemy:
You lower to his level.
Sal.
Well, sir saint,
E'en leave the schemer to his wicked schemes.
Wash your hands, Pilate! I can bear the sin.
Remember—What 's your name?
Pul.
Pulti, good master.
Sal.
Remember, Pulti.
Pul.
Ay, sir; have no doubts.
This wretch, this crooked beast, this Marsio,
Must be—What, what? I 'm working in the dark.
55
That saves the sin.
Pul.
I am not tender-minded.
I have the knack of talking sins to naught,
With your best casuists. Use your pleasure, master.
(Sings.)
I have the knack of talking sins to naught,
With your best casuists. Use your pleasure, master.
Quoth the fiend, I was born
On a Friday morn,
My fall out of heaven was Friday,
On a Friday the reign
From my kingdom was ta'en;—
The curse of the seven was Friday!
On a Friday morn,
My fall out of heaven was Friday,
On a Friday the reign
From my kingdom was ta'en;—
The curse of the seven was Friday!
To-day is Friday, sir.
Sal.
That 's the tune, bird!
Time wears, Juranio.
Ju.
Why, let it wear!
Would you clog time? Put wings upon his feet:
Each passing day 's a drop of precious balm
To wounded hearts. Alas! what empty talk!
Time will but add another, deeper pain,
The curse of memory; a dreary waste
Of blasted life, stretching from now to death!
Sal.
You and your love make up the universe!
Ju.
Then leave me to my world. I would not talk;
I wish no comfort, no companionship,
No mocking hope, no fruitless sympathy.
Sal.
Ugh! what a wintry heart! I hope yet.—Come!
[Exeunt.]
56
SCENE II.
The House of Marsio. Enter Marsio and Pietro Rogo.Marsio.
You saw her, said you? Do you know Costanza?
Rogo.
Do I know you?
Mar.
I cannot credit it.
Rogo.
You would not credit it.
Mar.
Upon his knees?
Rogo.
As fine a looking fellow as you'll meet.
A Court-gallant, a man of her own tribe,
A new Adonis, who strings women's hearts
On mournful osiers, like an angler's fish.
Trust me, a dangerous youth, with broad, white brows,
That buzz with sonnets, and such lady-traps,
Like two great bee-hives. There I saw him down,
Down on his knees.—'T would pose you, Marsio,
To spring your chalky joints.
Mar.
Pshaw! Pietro,
Your trick is barefaced.
Rogo.
Trick, trick!—How? pray how?
Mar.
You 'd make me jealous.
Rogo.
By the blessed Virgin,
I swear I spoke the truth!
Mar.
If it be so,
I'll crush Tiburzzi, daughter, wife, and all,
Into the dust! Look you, friend Pietro,
I hold these beggars in my open hand.
Here, here—I have been provident for slips—
This little parchment covers all their worth
57
And they shall pray for Purgatory. 'Sblood!
Trick me!—use me!—make me security
For a cracked daughter!
Rogo.
Who 's to blame but you?
Mar.
Enough of that. I'll watch her, Pietro—
Nay; are you serious?
Rogo.
On my soul, I am!
Mar.
I'll tax her with it. Will you not confront her?
Rogo.
That were base usage.
Mar.
Furies! what care I?
She 'd make a stale of me before we 're coupled!
Rogo.
Mend your own botching.
Mar.
Marry, that I will!
And yet I'll wed her, spite of her and you.
Rogo.
That frets me little.
Mar.
O! I know your drift!
You have bred a crooked notion in your brain,
That still keeps twisting. You would shape the end
Of the disastrous prophecy you made,
Merely to be called prophet. Look you, look you,
Martyrs are fashioned of such holy stuff!
Rogo.
Your rage defeats your judgment. I would guard,
Not govern you.
Mar.
Come, let us to the Park.
Perchance we'll meet these billing doves again:
And if we do, Tiburzzi's crazy house
Shall rattle in his ears as if doom's trump
Clamored against it! We will say no more.
I'll see her, Pietro.—A word ends all.
[Exeunt.]
58
SCENE III.
The Park of the Marquis. Enter Filippia and Salvatore.Salvator.
By Cupid's beard, I love you hugely, lady!
Filippia.
By that same oath, I doubt it strangely, signore!
Sal.
Try me by all love's ordeals; if I fail
In any point of doctrine, faith, or duty,
Protest me arrant.
Fil.
Fairly challenged, sir.
I have a test.
Sal.
O! name it, name a thousand!
Fil.
You are acquainted with my cousin's fate,
With her betrothal to one Marsio?
Sal.
Gods! I know nothing else!
Fil.
Fie! restive lover!
Sal.
Between Juranio and you, my knowledge,
My precious knowledge—scraped by hard degrees—
Bids fair to be ingulfed in that one fact.
Fil.
Be patient. Would you win?
Sal.
On any terms.
I might stand Marsio's name some ten times more;
Costanza's some two-score.—But do be brief;
My reason totters when you mention them.
Fil.
We'll drop their titles. If you foil this marriage,
My hand is yours; ay, and the largest piece
Of a most grateful heart.
(Enter, behind, Marsio and Pietro Rogo, observing them.)
Sal.
But should I fail?
59
Were mankind merged in one, and you that one,
I vow I would not—
Sal.
Hist! swear not; 't is wicked.
What if you broke your oath? 'T were perjury;
A deadly sin. I swear by saving rules,
That take the peril from a broken vow:
Let me do all the swearing.
Fil.
I am firm.
I err in asking this; but, having erred,
I'll have my wish to lull my conscience with.
Sal.
I merely sought to guard against mischance.
[Kneels.]
Here, on my knee, I swear—
(Marsio and Rogo advance.)
Marsio.
Hem!
Sal.
Zounds! who 's this?
[Starting up.]
Mar.
He is used to kneeling. This pair, Pietro,
And your old eyes, have cozened you.
Rogo.
No, no;
Yon doting couple, and the pair I saw,
Are no more like than geese and swans. This park
Must breed such creatures.
Fil.
Marsio himself!
Sal.
You fellow, there!—Sirrah!—you thieving clown,
I'll have you whipped for poaching!
Mar.
Sir!
Sal.
You trespass:
You are intruding upon private grounds.
Mar.
They should be private, if you often use them.
60
How, dog?
Mar.
Sir!
Sal.
Quite at your command, sir.—Draw!
Here is a pretty piece of level sod;
This lady is my second; there stands yours.
Draw, draw! [Draws.]
Fil.
Do not forget yourself!
[Apart to Salvatore.]
Sal.
Not I.
This were a speedy way to settle all.
[Apart to Filippia.]
I wait you, sir. [To Marsio.]
Mar.
I do not wish to kill you.
Put up your sword. I would advise you, friend,
To find as safe a scabbard for your tongue.
Rogo.
'Sblood! do you bear that Court-fly's impudence?
Hark you, sir; signore Marsio is my friend,
My next of kin; might I supply his place?
[Draws.]
Sal.
Most charmingly. One of the family
Is something toward. [To Filippia.]
Fil.
Have you no respect,
No feeling for a woman?
Mar.
Shame upon you!
I'll cut the first man down who makes a pass.
Put up, good Pietro. This cause is mine:
He is no friend who takes it off my hands.
Make no excuse. [To Salvatore.]
Sal.
O! never fear for me.
Mar.
I pardon you, unasked. The gentleman
Has the infirmity of wrath. Alas!
Heaven made him so, for mortals to forgive.
Sal.
We'll settle, one day.
61
Come, come, signore Firebrand;
I wish a valiant escort home.
Sal.
Dear lady,
Forgive my rudeness.
Fil.
No; I praise your zeal.
This bold beginning is a happy presage.
[Exit with Salvatore.]
Mar.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!—You would gull Marsio, ha?
[Laughing.]
Know you that man? 'T is signore Salvatore,
The foremost swordsman in all Italy.
Your life would last two passes, and no more,
Before his blade. When I crave suicide,
I'll take my quarrel up again. Go, Rogo.
Rogo.
'Sdeath! no: here I'll abide him.
Mar.
Mad as a March wind!
Is there no other way to tame wild bulls
Than butting at them with a pair of horns?
Meet him with his own weapons! Where 's revenge—
Where 's honor, satisfaction, and all that—
When you are wriggling half-way up a rapier,
Your heart pinned to your back? I have a way
To make his bilbo harmless as a rush;
I have an airy weapon that can stab,
Without a wound; yet make our satin signore
Grovel for life. I'm master of that blade,
And he is not: I'll use it, Pietro.
Rogo.
Keep to your own dark pathway, leave me mine—
Nay, sir; I will not go!
Mar.
Pish! headstrong man!
I am walking towards the Castle, I shall meet him,—
62
If you persist, I'll lead him round this place.
I say you shall not fight! 't would ruin me.
Now, dear friend Pietro.—
Rogo.
O! well, to please you.
The sun must rise to-morrow.
Mar.
Are you sure
These two were not the pair seen yester eve?
Rogo.
I swear it, by Saint Peter! She alone,
Lady Costanza—'sblood! I know her well—
Was the divinity; the worshipper
I never saw before. Within an hour
You shall know all about him.
Mar.
At my house
Meet me, anon. I'll bring her secret to you.
Lady Costanza has an open heart,
And I will tax it.
Rogo.
Do not trip yourself.
You have a dangerous ignorance of rank,
And the refinements of its ticklish honor.
I fear some blunder.
Mar.
'T is the quickest way;
I cannot sleep until the fact stand clear.
[Exit Rogo.]
As for our heady signore of the blade,
Let him look well to his economy;
To whom he credits, what he owes, what holds—
To what he eats, what drinks, what physic takes—
To how he sleeps, and how he goes abroad;
Let him beware dark nights, and crooked lanes—
Smooth billet-doux, and angry challenges;
For, by the wrath to come, a sudden death
Might lurk in any of them! Let him watch:
63
We must break quits ere long! Here lies my path.
[Exit.]
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.
64
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,
65
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.
66
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!
67
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—
68
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,
69
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!
70
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
71
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.]
72
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
The House of Marsio. Marsio and Pietro RogoMarsio.
Juranio—Count Juranio—who is he?
Rogo.
The people's darling, the nobility's
Envy and general pattern, the good Duke's
Prime favorite and most familiar friend.
You will encounter no one, high or low,
Who speaks not well of him.
Mar.
Rich?
Rogo.
Marvellously;
He beggars you.
Mar.
Hum! Handsome?
Rogo.
Love-sick girls,
In dreams, bedeck the object of their thoughts
With no such beauty as our mere calm sense
Must render him perforce.
Mar.
Pietro Rogo,
I am not handsome.
Rogo.
Ho! ho!—Why no, no!
[Laughing.]
Neither outside nor in.
Mar.
I do not see
The justice of it, Pietro. Why chance
Crowds this man's clay into Apollo's mould,
Yet scrapes the fair, plump flesh from my lank fingers,
From my gaunt, bony arms, from my crook'd legs—
Scoops out my narrow chest—from every part,
73
To pile it in one lump upon my back;
Making me hideous with the very stuff
She uses to create a paragon.
Why this should be, I say, amazes me,
And gravels reason. Well, to kick at fate
Is but a laming trick. My reptile form,
At least, contains the reptile's cunning. Now,
There is some justice there. Perhaps your Count,
For all his beauty, lacks the use of it.
Has this fair shape a mind?
Rogo.
We'll see anon.
The people give him out as full perfection.
What said your lady-love?
Mar.
Ah! there 's the doubt;
I cannot fathom her.
Rogo.
Nor ever will.
When you believe you touch the lowest depths
Of women's hearts, there 's something still beneath,
You wot not of.
Mar.
Tush! Pietro: I tell you
I hold my friend Tiburzzi in a leash,
To come and go as I may whistle him.
Rogo.
How bears he that?
Mar.
He struggled for a while;
But when I hinted what a time they pass
Who tug their lives out at a galley's oar,
Neither for gain nor pleasure; how to row
Even a shallop, without any aim,
Would be a sad thing; and described a hulk
As something bulkier than Costanza's shoe;
When, to all this, I hinted doubtful fears
74
He grew a rival for the meekest dove.
Rogo.
You are a villain, Marsio.
Mar.
I know it:
I'm what is called a villain by a world
That sees its huge face in my little glass.
'T is false! I am no villain. I am one
Who must achieve what my heart prompts me to,
Or be no more forever. I'm as well
As any man who works his purposes,
Despite his fears.
Rogo.
For all your interview,
You still are doubtful. Why not give her up?
I would far rather wed a Magdalen
Than a suspected woman. Doubts and fears
Make up full half the substance of our ills.
Mar.
I'll solve my doubts before the wedding day.
If she prove true, I gain a trusty wife;
If she do not—why, even as I said,
Tiburzzi rows a galley. I will have
My wife or my revenge. Gods! Pietro,
The girl looks chaste.
Rogo.
Looks chaste!—O, save us!—looks!
Yet that might cozen one. I often gaze
Upon a piece of ruined womanhood
With strange, blind feelings—a blank wonderment
That one so fair, so chaste, to outward show,
Must by the cautious intellect be held
As mere corruption. There 's a fearful jar
Betwixt the heart and brain upon this theme.
Mar.
I have an ordeal for her. It may be
That Count Juranio knelt and prayed to her,
75
With bootless zeal.
Rogo.
Yes; even that might be.
Mar.
You are lenient to-day.
Rogo.
Low-spirited,
Dyspeptic.
Mar.
Ah! Here is my little plan.
Tiburzzi dare refuse me nothing: I
Will bring together the enamored Count
And his fair idol;—yea, I will cast in
His friend, fierce signore Salvatore. Thus
His Countship shall have scope, unbounded room;
Tempted by love on one side, on the other
Urged up by valor. I will throw Costanza
And the sweet Count, ablaze 'twixt love and wrath,
Into incessant contact, while I watch
The play my puppets make.—Ha, Pietro?
Rogo.
Blast your dark plots! But reason splits on you;
You'll have your way.
Mar.
That will I. Come with me.
I'll take you to Tiburzzi's house. Perchance
He'll hold me better for my company.—
Ha, Pietro?
Rogo.
Ha, Marsio! Sneer, sneer!
I will not go.
Mar.
You fear Tiburzzi?
Rogo.
No!
Curse your Tiburzzi! Would you take me there,
As a set off to your own awkwardness?
Mar.
Ho! ho! well thought!
[Laughing.]
Rogo.
I'll meet you in the Park.
76
Against your own repose, is toward.
Mar.
Yes.
Rogo.
You'll rue your plotting. Crime has its degrees;
Wade in its shallows, and you drown at last.
Mar.
Lord, Pietro! what a good man you are!
[Laughing.]
Rogo.
I'll have the laugh upon you shortly, sir,
If I know aught of woman.
Mar.
That would be
A bitter laugh for old Tiburzzi. No;
It must end well. Costanza will prove true;
My test will school her virtue, not destroy it;
And Count Juranio—
Rogo.
Well, well, what of him?
I partly love the boy, men speak so fairly.
Mar.
Why, so do I. But he must feel his trespass;
Know what it is to woo a man's betrothed.
That were a moral lesson, fitly taught
For his soul's health. But lightly, Pietro—
I will but check him with a father's hand—
Quite lightly, Pietro. Ha, ha! poor boy,
[Laughing.]
He will not need correction more than once.
Come, come, to business! Love has played wild tricks
With my neglected balances, of late.
[Exeunt.]
77
SCENE II.
The House of Juranio. Enter Juranio and Salvatore.Salvatore.
Cheer up, Juranio! Do not hug your grief;
All that is lovable in you is wasting
Before its sickly drought. Remember, man,
You are supported by a deity.
The blind brat, Love, despite his want of eyes,
Will find you out a way to win at last.
Trust your own idol. Shame upon despair!
Juranio.
You talk, to cheer me, with a cheerless heart;
Between your words, your face is sad as mine.
Salves for a mortal wound, drugs for the dead,
Hopes for the hopeless!
Sal.
Every thought 's astray.
Why, all things are merely as we behold them,
Taking such qualities as we bestow.
One only looks at the bright side of things;
And he 's your gull, the prey of all mankind.
Another gloats upon the darker side,
Pleasing himself with self-inflicted pain;
And he 's your misanthrope. Another scans
Both bright and dark, with a calm, equal eye;
Lo! your philosopher. But then—now mark—
Comes up the happy soul who looks at nothing,
Yet turns whatever is to present pleasure;
Tastes Fiascone in thin Pavian wine;
Wallows in down upon a bed of straw;
Smells roses in a swine-yard; hears sweet tones
From the harsh, grating rasps of puffing smiths;
78
And change all nature to one merry hue,
Beneath the duskest sky of bare December.
Here 's your true liver, kinsman mine! A man
Who neither fools, nor frowns, nor calculates,
But dreams away this aching thing called life:
Make him your model. If your lady frown,
Why, look up one who smiles.
Ju.
Dear Salvatore,
'T is but a vain attempt to reason down
Our smallest feeling. The mind's snow may lie
A dreary winter on the torpid heart,
Yet never kill it. Slack the rigor once,
And, like a violet that leans its cheek
In mockery against some melting drift,
Up springs the heart, more fruitful for its rest.
(Enter Pulti, singing.)
Pulti.
So the devil was wroth
At the gentlemen both,
Though no one could fathom his matters;
And he dashed around hell,
Like a dog tailed with bell,
And tore all his dwelling to tatters!
Sal.
Well, Pulti, well?
Pul.
Signore, it is not well.
I am beaten to a cripple; I must leave;
I cannot stand your service longer.
Sal.
Why?
Pul.
Marsio is mad. Would you could see him now!
He foams and rages round his frighted house
79
Full of dire threats against some hapless foes;
And every time he passes me—O Lord!—
My humble manner seems to prick him so—
He takes compassion on his enemies,
And deals me half their vengeance. See me, sir!
I am basted like a piece of English beef:
I had just strength to crawl here, and no more.
Sal.
Who has enraged him?
Pul.
That I cannot tell.
Two gentlemen, I judge, by what I hear:
By what I feel, I judge these gentlemen
Must bear a striking likeness to myself.
Sal.
Can he suspect?
Ju.
What is there to suspect?
The length that I can enter in his thoughts
Would be a comfort to him. As for you,
Doubtless he has forgotten you ere met:
These merchants have no care for points of honor.
Sal.
But—
(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
Signore Marsio.
Sal.
What, what?
Pul.
The devil!
O, could I clamber to the frozen moon,
And cut away my ladder!
Ju.
How is this?
Sal.
What said you, sirrah?
Serv.
Signore Marsio waits.
Ju.
Admit him.
[Exit Servant.]
Pul.
O, I beg you, sir—
80
Here, Pulti,
Into this room.
Pul.
Avaunt! A priest, a priest!
[Exit.]
Sal.
What can this mean?
Ju.
Marsio will tell us that.
(Enter Marsio.)
Marsio.
Am I intrusive?
Ju.
O no; welcome, sir!
Mar.
A good-day to you, signore Salvatore!
We have met once before.
Sal.
Good-day to you!
He claims acquaintance on strange introductions.
[Aside.]
Mar.
You wonder at my coming, gentlemen.
I am but agent for my lord, the Marquis.
He honors my betrothal to his daughter
With a small feast to-night. We want but guests.
Knowing a sadly-broken intercourse
Had once existed 'twixt your name and his,
I volunteered to bear my lord's respects
And humble wishes to you. May we hope?
Sal.
Why, signore—
Ju.
We will come.
Sal.
How, Count?
Ju.
We'll come.
I rage with thirst; the sweet I cannot taste,
I'll drain the bitter to the very lees,
And she shall see it!
[Aside.]
Mar.
Further, gentlemen—
Though I am trenching on fair courtesy—
Could you not pass the day—'t is early yet—
With the good Marquis? So preparing you,
81
For more familiar greetings at the feast.
I push your kindness; but my lord's content,
And a desire for your unfrozen ease,
Is my sole object.
Ju.
Yes! by all the gods!
Mar.
Ha! why this energy? (Aside.)
You shame my thanks
By more than noble courtesy. Farewell!
Within an hour my horses will be round.
Ju.
Expect to meet us.
Mar.
Lo! the trap is set.
Look how you tread, my courtly innocents,
Or Herod's bloody day shall come again!
[Aside. Exit.]
Sal.
A strange request: I think him honest, though.
Ju.
I care not what he be.
Sal.
The saints protect us!
You 're roaring drunk with love and jealousy,
Blind and incapable.
Ju.
I'd reach the worst.
To be forever baited by my passions
Is more than I can bear. My hopes and fears
Tear me to pieces. I am man enough
To toss despair into the grave of love;
But these sweet tortures of insidious hope
Oppose no front to arméd fortitude.
Sal.
Now you talk sanely. When you come to blows—
To strangling passion, burying despair,
And setting up a commonwealth of reason—
82
Ho! for Tiburzzi!
(Reënter Pulti.)
Pulti.
Signore Salvatore,
[Sings.]
O! pray what said the devil,
With his cloven tongue of evil,
As he drew his hoof under his gown?
Why, to them he said sweetly,
Sweet gentlemen, I greet ye!
But he wished they might hang, starve, and drown.
Sal.
Whate'er he wished, he spoke us fairly, Pulti.
Pul.
I heard it all. Beware of Marsio!
You know him not, as I do. I suspect
You are the gentlemen who woke his wrath.
Ju.
Pish! how?
Pul.
Do we not often fall to hating
For the same cause we mostly fall to loving—
Simply, for none at all? Perhaps your cloak
Is of a hateful dye in Marsio's eyes;
You grow moustaches, but he loathes a beard;
Your dress is much too dandified; your hat
Worn too much on one side; your cheeks
Hint of the roses, and he scorns a rose;
Your hair is raven black,—“Out upon black!”
Says Marsio; “black hairs thatch empty heads.”
Here is enough to raise a riot, sirs,
And overturn a state. Why will you go?
I am sure he means you ill.
Sal.
Why think you so?
83
I cannot tell; I have no reason for it;
My mind jumped to that end.
Ju.
We waste time, kinsman.
Pul.
O! do not, do not go!
Ju.
Peace, sirrah, peace!
Pul.
I have more interest in you, gentlemen,
Than your best gold can buy. You are the first,
For many a weary day, who've made me feel
The simple worth and dignity of man.
I've hidden my heart under outrageous mirth—
O, heaven! how sad it beat there!—till my jests
Became a natural language. I have lived
To sneer, and to be beaten; all content
If my poor wit were sharper than the blows.
I love you for your kindness.—Hear me, sirs—
I'd rather see this fair world torn to shreds,
Than harm befall you.
Ju.
I respect your grief;
And were my life not centred in this thing,
Your single wish should sway me. Salvatore—
What, you hold off!
Sal.
You know for whom I do it.
Pul.
If Marsio escape my eyes to-day,
May I want eyes to see him on the morrow!
[Aside.]
Ju.
I'll go alone. You cannot balk me thus.
Were Marsio the devil Pulti sings,
I would confront him. Ere the night set in,
I shall be free; or—Down, ye maddening hopes!
O! were your whispers certain prophecy!
[Exeunt]
84
SCENE III.
A Room in the Castle of the Marquis. Enter Costanza and Filippia.Filippia.
After this treatment of your father, too?
Costanza.
Yes, yes. Each act which sinks him in my mind,
Binds me more closely to him. I but think
Of my poor father, feeble, heart-sick, dying,
With nothing but the mercy of this man
Between him and the galleys. Gracious heaven!
Marsio dared threaten him with even that,
While all the glory of the setting sun
Looked on him through the windows! Do men think
That this vast theatre of their wickedness—
With its brave lights of sun, and moon, and stars—
Its shifting scenes, from Spring around to Winter—
Its moving canopies of cloudy blue—
Is crowded with a spiritual audience,
Keeping mute watch upon our lightest acts?
Fil.
Ah me! I know not. Musing minds, like yours,
Ask questions without answers. Save my eyes!
Are these things phantoms?
(Enter Marsio, Juranio, and Salvatore.)
Marsio.
Good-day, ladies!—How!
Are we infringing on your privacy?
Pray, what disturbs you? Nay, we will withdraw.
Cos.
Stay, signore: you mistake us.
85
By your leave,
I bring two friends of mine, or rather guests—
Guests for the present, friends henceforth I hope—
To share our feast to-night. Receive them kindly;
For they deserve no less. Let me present,
Lady Costanza, Count Juranio.
Cos.
Sir, we have met before.—
Mar.
Ah! so indeed?
A chance acquaintance, doubtless. As my friend,
He asks a double share of your regard.
Mistress Filippia, signore Salvatore:
I pray you know him.
Fil.
Do not jeer at me!
You know we 've met before. I will not stand
To be a butt for your dull, headless jokes!
Mar.
Gently, my little lady, gently now!
Do I o'erstrain good breeding? Have you had
A formal introduction to my friend?
Salvatore.
'Sblood, signore Marsio—
Mar.
Banish all restraint.
Swear if you list, dear Salvatore, swear!
The ladies will forgive you, for my sake.
Hang on no ceremonious usages.
I beg you'll know each other. Laugh, dance, sing;
Open all avenues to fellowship;
For, by my hopes of wedded bliss, old Time
Shall make oblation of this day, at least,
To rouse the gods of genial jollity!
Where hide the old folk? Let us seek them.—What,
You laggards!—Forward, to the stretching Park!
Stone walls cramp action. Lead my lady forth,
Good Count Juranio. Why, you stand amazed;
Dismal as death! Cannot a man be gay,
86
I give you a safe escort, lady mine.
Now, Salvatore, buckle sweet Filippia
Under your strong right-arm. I'll follow you,
With nothing but my mirth for company.
Sal.
Can Marsio be mad?
[Apart to Filippia.]
Fil.
Heaven only knows!
My heart is fluttering at a fearful rate.
[Apart to Salvatore.]
[Exeunt Costanza and Juranio, Filippia and Salvatore.]
Mar.
So, well done, now! Lord! how they fall to talking!
My presence must have been a chill upon them.
Bless us! Filippia's all alive with speech;
Arms and hands going—how she brings them down!—
Clinching some sentence, through and through, with truth.
And now she darts her head and curving neck,
Like an affronted swan. Ha! quiet yet,
Costanza, pensive still! And your fine Count
Striding as at a funeral! Why is this?
Where 's your love-rhetoric? Heaven speed ye all!
The twigs you tread are limed. Join wits with me!
Who is the fooler now? who are the fooled?
[Exit.]
SCENE IV.
The Park. Enter Costanza and Juranio.Costanza.
Where are our friends?
Juranio.
They have deserted us.
87
Let us return to them.—Why came you here?
Ju.
To be a guest at your betrothal-feast.
Cos.
But was that kindly done?
Ju.
I cannot say:
One, more or less, can make small difference.
Cos.
Sir, you dissemble with me.
Ju.
Do I, lady?
Who taught the lesson?
Cos.
Is it manly in you
To seek so poor a victory over me?
Perchance, you thought to see my features pale,
My eyes swim blindly, and my limbs give way,
When you approached me first.—You did not, sir!
Perchance you think when, at the festival,
They toast my union with Marsio,
To see me falter, nay, to faint outright—
A crowning triumph for your vanity.—
You shall not, sir! O! Count Juranio,
This is unworthy a less man than you!
Ju.
As you behold it; but you wrong me much.
Why have you ever held me in contempt?
Why have you sought the motives of my acts
Among the lowest heaven allows the base?
Why have you turned my honest love aside
With irony? I never wronged you, lady,—
No, by my soul, neither in word nor thought!
I never wished to tempt you into ill,
With the bare modest offering of my love.
Why do you fly a gentleman's regard,
And fix you on this loveless Marsio?
Cos.
These are strange questions, Count Juranio.
After to-day, our paths lie far apart;
88
And I will answer.—Nay; my fate is fixed.
Ju.
You will not understand me: your ill thoughts
Stretch to futurity, and hint at things
Beyond my heart's conception. I would rather,
Far rather, know your holy chastity
Were pining in a dungeon—dying—dead—
Than clasp your blighted beauty in my arms,
With Helen's charms joined to it!
Cos.
Gentle sir,
You misconceive me. I would spare the pangs,
The fearful struggles, which our love—
Ju.
“Our love!”
Cos.
Ay, ay! I love you, love you, love you!
I tell it to you with a breaking heart:
I must speak once, though ruin follow it.
A little while, and this still agony
Shall vanish from existence; yes, the sod
Will rest as quietly above my grave
As o'er a yearling infant's.
Ju.
Happiness!
Costanza, dearest,—turn not from me now:
I am all yours. O! I have loved you long:
I'll spend my life in telling you how much.
Do not allow cold fancies to tread down
These buds of joyous promise. There is naught
Between us and the fulness of our hopes,
Save feeble Marsio.
Cos.
A giant!
Ju.
No;
A very pigmy. Dearest, do not shun me.
Cos.
I pray you, Count, remove your hands from me—
89
Away, sir, I am sacred!
Ju.
Spurned again!
Do you act thus to torture me? O! answer!
Is cruelty your practice, grief your sport?
You walk in mystery; every deed is blank
And purposeless to me.
Cos.
Forbear, forbear!
You should not taunt me thus. My destiny
Tramples on love, and overrules my life.
O! tempt me not!
Ju.
Explain, explain yourself.
I would not think unworthily of you.
Cos.
You know my father's poverty—
Ju.
Yes, yes;
And to enrich him—for his sake alone—
Am I not right?—you marry Marsio.
Cos.
Quite right. But my betrothal was performed
Ere—ere—
Ju.
You loved me. But what hinders now?
Cos.
My father's debts were large, strewn here and there,
The wide accumulation of old dues
Gathered for ages round our sinking house.
Marsio knew this, and bought the scattered claims
For a bare trifle; though the full amount
Would beggar a state's revenue to pay.
He held these debts—alas! that I can say it
Of one to whom I must be linked for life!—
Above my father's helpless head, and swore
Either to wed me, or to send my father—
Think of it, signore, an infirm old man,
90
Yes, to send him—chained, coupled, mixed with thieves—
Even to the galleys!
Ju.
The outrageous wretch!
I'll bury him in gold!
Cos.
Too late, too late!
Though you held all the Indies in your fee.
Upon the threat—from which no prayers could move him—
I promised Marsio, most solemnly,
To keep my marriage-plight.
Ju.
Alas! I mourn
More for your fate than for the loss of you.
(Enter, behind, Marsio and Pietro Rogo, observing them.)
Is there no way? Yes, yes; the Duke—
Cos.
The Duke!
The holy Pope, himself, is naught to me
Before my promise.
Ju.
Lady, do but think
Of the long life of weary misery
That lies before you.
Cos.
I have thought of that.
Will you attend the feast now?
Ju.
I am bound,
Almost by oath, to Marsio.
Cos.
Indeed!—
Ju.
After the feast—O heaven! have mercy on me!
I cannot, cannot yield you. Chance, nay, heaven
Has thrown me in your way to succor you.
I slighted women till the day we met:
91
In lavish wastefulness, upon your sex,
I have stored up to tender you alone.
Shall all be lost? Ah! lady—
[Kneels.]
Cos.
Count, be strong!
Life 's but an atom of eternity.
Ju.
But love makes life immortal.
Cos.
'T is in vain;
You must not strive to weaken my resolve.
Farewell!
Ju.
So be it, then. (Rising.)
Yet, ere you go,
Leave some remembrance—ay, that golden cross
Is a fit emblem of my martyred love.
Cos.
No, no; forget me. It were weakness, sir,
To pamper memory with a toy like this.
Yet when a thought of me will come to you,
Judge me not harshly—as of one who died,
Rich in rare gifts, bequeathing you no part—
But as a poor, poor friend, who, dying, left
All she possessed, her blessing.—May God bless you!
[Exit.]
Ju.
O! fate! what I have lost!
Rogo.
How think you now?
Marsio.
That Count Juranio is my best of friends.
He proved my wife the soul of constancy.
I'll love him from this day. Why, Pietro,
I do not see you laughing at me—ha!
Rogo.
Be quiet, man; my laugh may come at last.
Juranio will make a famous friend,
After your marriage. Just the youth, I think,
To show your lady to a masquerade—
To hand her shawl—to read her fiery poems—
92
Which you are slow at.—Ha! friend Marsio?
Mar.
Poor fellow! Pietro, I almost fear
The hapless youth will pine himself to death
Ere I am married—though I'll stir for him—
I fear so, Pietro. Why, look you now,
He has a dying face; so strangely pale!
Doubtless, there is some fatal sickness nigh,
Which this sad interview has hastened on.
Poor, crest-fallen lover! Let us speak to him.
[They advance.]
Ho! Count Juranio! What, you are alone!
Where has the lady gone I charged you with?
O! faithless guardian! On my honor, Count,
I'll never trust her to your care again.—
Would you, friend Pietro?
Ju.
She just departed.
Some duty called her to the castle.
Mar.
Ah!
Some duty past persuasion; or no doubt—
So high I value sweet Costanza's charms—
You 'd have detained her.—Ha! Count? Now, a youth,
Of your fair person, should have ample power
To hold a restive maiden.
Rogo.
How he rubs him!
[Aside.]
Ju.
I did not urge her stay.
Mar.
Indeed! Well, well,
You lack my feelings;—but I cannot hope
That all the world will look through lovers' eyes.
Here 's signore Salvatore, and alone!
Fair maids are in discredit. Save you, sir!
93
Salvatore.
A moment with my kinsman.
Mar.
Ask a thousand.
[Juranio and Salvatore talk apart.]
Rogo.
The devil take me, if you have a heart!
I would not worry these poor boys so much,
To sway the dukedom.
Mar.
Yes, I have a heart—
A heart which these poor boys would trample on,
Did I not wear a head to second it.
Even now they scheme to compass me.
See, the plot opens.
Sal.
Signore Marsio,
You are a merchant, traffic is your trade,
You look on all things under heaven as worth
Just so much money.—
Mar.
Mark you, Pietro,
Here 's the ideal merchant. Well said, signore;
A golden measure is a certain thing
To gauge the world with.
Sal.
Hold you anything
You have not measured with this golden rule?
Have you aught priceless?
Mar.
Nothing—let me think.
No; there is naught I know of.
Sal.
Frankly, then;
What is Costanza's value?
Mar.
Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
You are the maddest dog in Christendom!
Perchance, you are serious? Signore, if you are?—
Rogo.
Zounds! Marsio, you are a mean, tame fool,
To brook this insolence!
[Apart to Marsio.]
94
Bear with me, friend.
[Apart to Rogo.]
Sal.
My words were plain enough.
Mar.
Well—let me see—
I should receive—I put her low to you—
At least ten million ducats. I will give
A warranty for kindness, soundness, age;—
She has no tricks,—you may put trust in her.
Is this fair dealing, Pietro?
Rogo.
Pshaw! pshaw!
Sal.
You jest with me.
Mar.
Faith, I am serious.
Ten million are a serious thing. I wish
To fit some argosies. Ten million ducats!
Within a year I 'd nearly double them.
I want ten million.
Ju.
Take them, in heaven's name!
I still shall have my little villa left
Among the vineyards.
Mar.
But I want that villa.
Can you not throw it in?
Ju.
Most gladly, signore,
Yet be your debtor. I have arms to work.
Mar.
Now, should I wish a limb or so?—
Sal.
Take mine;
Leave my trunk bare. One limb of mine is worth
All yonder puny fellow's.
Mar.
Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
Could you unbowel earth of all its gold—
Cover the globe with vineyards, and sow villas
Thicker than sands upon the roaring beach,
Amid the vine-sticks—were mankind unlimbed,
The whole race at my mercy—these would make
No atom of the sum I hold her at!
'Sblood! will you flout me?
95
Well, well, I have lost.
Mar.
Ay, lost—How lost?
Sal.
Forgive the liberty.
I made a sportive wager with the Count,
That I could purchase anything you owned:
He named your lady.—As I live, Juranio,
You scarcely used me fairly.
Mar.
Ah! a jest.
Sal.
A jest that lifts a trader's character
Above my former thinking.
Mar.
Pietro,
If I should put this jesting home again,
They could not murmur?
Rogo.
No, forsooth.
Sal.
No, no;
'T is give and take.
Mar.
Why, signore Salvatore,
I half believed you meant it. Well done, faith!
How did you keep your countenance? 'T was rare!
Costanza must know this. So, merry men,
On, to the castle! Count Juranio,
You played well too. You must feel lively, Count,
With such a flood of spirits.
Sal.
Curse the brute!
He cuts Juranio with a two-edged sword.
[Aside.]
Mar.
Now forward, sirs! We must break even yet.
I'll plan some joke; but, when 't is working hard,
You must not flinch, if it be something rude.
Forward, mad boys! We are all jesters now:
For want of bells, we'll shake our empty heads!
[Exeunt, on one side, Marsio, Juranio, and Salvatore; on the other, Pietro Rogo.]
96
ACT V.
SCENE I.
The house of Marsio. Enter Marsio.Marsio.
Kneel to Costanza,—test her constancy!
There 's something in me mutinies at that:
But she shall have full vengeance. Kneel to her!
As if I were not. Have I fallen so low
That this fine gentleman, this courtly scum,
Scorns to regard me? Traffic for her, too!
As if I kept my lady on my shelves,
To wait a market. On my life, you'll find
My heart boils sometimes, and the reek is death
To such as stir it! She shall be revenged!
[Draws forth a vial.]
Now, trembling liquid, who, to look at thee—
At thy pale, sickly aspect—at thy bulk,
Cowering to nothing in thy crystal house—
Would think that thou couldst give so brave a fall
To his befeathered Countship? What, canst thou
Stiffen the strong steel sinews of yon man
Who wields the sword so featly? As I live,
I doubt thee, mainly! Come, one sturdy shake,
To rouse thy courage. Ha! my little fellow,
How thou dost caper! Thou hast spirit, yet.
But how to face thee with thy enemies?
'T would fix suspicion on me, to be seen
Hanging around their cups. Now, could I bribe
Some fool among the servants—but whom, but whom?
97
There 's Pulti—Pulti—
(Enter Pulti.)
Pulti.
At your elbow, sir,
Quoth sin unto the devil.
Mar.
Merry dog!
What brought you back?
Pul.
You left so hastily,
I thought I might be wanted.
Mar.
Faithful heart!
Here is a trifle for you. By my soul,
Your love deserves it richly, Pulti.
[Gives a purse.]
Pul.
Well,
It makes him so much poorer. [Aside.]
Mar.
Pulti—
Pul.
Signore.
Mar.
You love your master, Pulti?
Pul.
That I do!
I 'd swim through burning brimstone for my master—
Good signore Salvatore! [Aside.]
Mar.
Bravely said!
Now, had your master two unresting foes—
Dogging his footsteps—crossing his fair plans—
Marring his hopes—turning his sweetest cup,
Ere it were tasted, to cruel bitterness—
Pursuing him with most vindictive hate—
Ever hot-footed on his way of life,
Beating its quiet path to choking dust;
Until your heart-sick master—note me, Pulti—
Longed for the grave to hide him from their wrath;
What would you do, brave, noble fellow, ha?
Pul.
Cut them to slivers!
Mar.
Famous! Rashly bold,
98
You 'd take this vial, hidden in your sleeve—
Thus, Pulti, thus—and when the wine went round,
You 'd slyly drop five drops—no more nor less—
In each one's cup—ha! Pulti? And, next day,
This vast machine of earth would tumble on,
As if these dreadful bullies ne'er had been.—
Would you not, Pulti?
Pul.
Yes, indeed. I'll swear—
Tell me some fearful oath to swear it by.
Mar.
Poh! poh! These bugbear oaths are children's toys,
Mere scare-crow buckram, to the big-souled men
Who do such mighty deeds. But you would say—
All quietly, in silent, breathless words—
My master and myself are in one boat,
And sink or swim together.—Would you not?
Pul.
I would be cautious.
Mar.
Doubtless, my wise boy!
Prudence and courage make a powerful yoke
To tug along the world.
Pul.
I take you, sir—
As rats are taken.—O! I slander rats.
[Aside.]
Mar.
But will you do it?
Pul.
By this hand, I will.
Mar.
I love to shake an honest comrade's hand.
There 's more gold, Pulti—millions, millions, boy—
And you shall share it. You shall revel out
A prince's ransom; live a gentleman,
And kick work to the devil. Hey! my trump!
Pul.
Who are these enemies?
Mar.
You long to see
The villains drink each other's healths?
99
Ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
O! bless me, you are droll!
Mar.
These are our foes—
Yours, Pulti, and my own—that velvet Count,
That clothes-pin, modish Count Juranio,
And signore Salvatore, carte and tierce,
The ruffian, with his beaver on one side,
Who swaggers through the world, and pushes all
That do not please him in the kennel. 'Sblood!
'T were no great harm to cut such fools adrift;
'T would save some lace a sunning, and give steel
A holy rest.
Pul.
Lord! how you draw them, sir!
Those very men have troubled me a deal.
Give me some ratsbane.
Mar.
Just before the feast,
I'll slip it in your hand. Be faithful, Pulti;
There 's no such gold as mine.
Pul.
Have faith in me.
May heaven forsake me, when I leave my master!
Mar.
Bring out the horses. I must back again:
My absence will be noted.
Pul.
Bless you, bless you!—
I find it in my heart to bless you, sir,
That you employed no one but me for this.
[Exit.]
Mar.
The knave 's a God-send! Who had ever thought
That little, crooked Marsio could wake
So warm a feeling in the breast of man?
Why, what a cat's-paw for my dangerous nut
The ready villain is! I never deemed
The monstrous wretch was crammed so full of sin:
He poisons at a hint. Heaven save you, Count!
100
Heaven save you, too, bold signore Salvatore!
My dashing swordsman, we will break your guard.
Heaven save you both together, gentlemen!
I'll bow you to your graves to-morrow morn!
[Exit.]
SCENE II.
An Apartment in the Castle of the Marquis. Enter Salvatore and Pulti, meeting.Pulti.
Stand back! I'm Marsio's chief poisoner!
[Sings.]
Quoth the devil, I'll mix
Both the Acheron and Styx,
To brew them a deadly potation—
Both the Acheron and Styx,
To brew them a deadly potation—
Lord! I'm too gay to sing.
Salvatore.
Why, Pulti, Pulti!
Pul.
Unearthed, at last! The fox has broken ground,
And I am holding to his brush—ho! ho!
[Laughing.]
Saint Dunstan's tongs were mercy to this hand.
O! but I have him!
Sal.
Pulti, are you crazed?
Pul.
Half mad with joy. Here is his precious plot—
Sal.
Whose plot?
Pul.
Why, Marsio's. What other fiend
Could shape one like it? Had you seen me, sir,
Just playing with him, like a well-hooked fish;
I gave him all my line.
Sal.
Now for the plot.
101
Then tremble! Signore Marsio—Ho! ho!
[Laughing.]
The devil catch me! I must laugh it out.
Well, signore Marsio has hired me, me—
Me, me—his Pulti—do you understand?—
To poison you and Count Juranio.
Sal.
Ha!—Where, and how?
Pul.
O! at the feast to-night.
Sal.
In meat or wine?
Pul.
In wine. The merry ape
Would see you two pledging each other's healths;
Just for the joke's sake. Do you take it?
Sal.
Yes:
How the sky brightens after Marsio's thunder!
Bless his invention! I will match his coin.
Some paper, quickly.
Pul.
Here, sir.
[Showing paper, on a table.]
Sal.
Let me think.
Now, school of Padua, help thy dullest scholar
To mix a draught for Marsio. 'Ods blood!
I have not practised physic for so long,
That I scarce recollect the crooked things
Which stand for drachms and scruples.
Pul.
Never care
For scruples, only call the drachms to mind:
I long to dose him.
Sal.
Ah! I have it now:
It all comes back together. (Writes.)
Here we are;
Signed, Doctor Salvatore. Pulti, run—
Ask for the next apothecary—run!
Our time is short.
[Gives a paper.]
Pul.
Here is a full receipt
For all your poundings, master Marsio!
102
You'll throw the drug in Marsio's cup. Fly, fly!
But where 's his poison? You must get me that.
Pul.
As soon as Marsio puts it in my hands.
Sal.
Enough—away!
[Exit Pulti, singing.]
Quoth the man to the devil,
Thou spirit of evil,
Foul poison is brewed from fair peaches;
A curse on your vowings!
Your scrapings and bowings,
Like poison may lurk in fair speeches.
Thou spirit of evil,
Foul poison is brewed from fair peaches;
A curse on your vowings!
Your scrapings and bowings,
Like poison may lurk in fair speeches.
Sal.
Bright Cupid and dark Death
Join hands, in an unnatural fellowship,
Like morn and midnight at the northern pole;
But I can see a pathway, green with hope,
Beneath the twilight.
(Enter the Marquis di Tiburzzi.)
Marquis.
Can you spare a moment?
Sal.
Your question wrongs me: I would gladly spend
A lifetime in your service.
Marq.
I believe you:
Although men's tongues too oft outnoise their deeds,
And gain in clamor what they lose in aim.
When you approached me for my niece's hand,
I saw in you such manly qualities
As led me to receive you, not alone
As her best suitor, but as my best friend.
You are a man of action, I am not;
You are a man of hopeful vigor; cares
103
And age puts forth no more. Sir, I am old,
Feeble, and hopeless; I would have a friend.
Sal.
Confide in me.
Marq.
I need your confidence—
Not for myself; these gray hairs warn me oft
That I shall drop into my barren grave
Ere many seasons; but my daughter lives,
To blossom o'er my ruins, or to wither.
God only knows.
Sal.
To blossom, bear, and yield,
In holy sunshine!
Marq.
And you know her fate,—
Her vile betrothal to this Marsio?
Sal.
Did you not make it?
Marq.
No! they juggled me.
Her—Well, well, signore, I 'd not think of that.
Now, I would break the bond; but Marsio
Holds my ancestral debts, and threatens me
With whips and galleys. I could bear them all,
If that would free Costanza.
Sal.
Let me add
Another misery, then break the whole.
Your daughter loves Juranio.
Marq.
Gracious heaven!
Woe piles on woe! Had I a choice of men,
I would have picked him for her.
Sal.
Rightly too,
You would have picked the flower. Your simple word,
To follow, without flaw, what I design,
Shall free Costanza, wed her to the Count,
And ransom you.
104
You mock me.
Sal.
Mock you!
No, no; I'll show you what I rest upon.
Marq.
You seem a sober man.
Sal.
To Marsio
I am fate's deputy. Crime gives a hold
Which rivets the transgressor to an end,
So helpless, that an infant's careless hand
May pull a giant to his doom.
Marq.
Crime!
Sal.
Crime.
Marq.
Dear heaven, might this be true! I know him cruel—
Ay, guilty—but not within the scope of law.
Sal.
Have I no credit?
Marq.
Yes; I yield you all—
My faith, my honor. Guide me as you list:
You cannot worst my chance.
Sal.
Then hear my tale—
More fitted to draw blood than tears, my lord:
That scheming crawler, Marsio, has hired
A man, who loves Juranio and myself,
To poison us.
Marq.
O, horror! Has the wretch
Such depths in his dark soul?
Sal.
It so appears.
Marq.
I'll hurl him from my windows! Shall a roof
That hung so long 'twixt heaven and noble men,
Fence off God's justice?
Sal.
Softly, sir, I pray!
He must attempt the poisoning, or we lose
Our grasp upon him.
105
True. What cause can he
Set up to satisfy him with his crime?
Sal.
Against Juranio, 't is jealousy.
Marq.
I see. Your kinsman was the cavalier
Who met Costanza in the Park.
Sal.
No other:
And plead his suit most bravely, but in vain:
She made her love an offering for your life.
Marq.
Poor girl!
Sal.
Now, hear my mandates.
Marq.
But your plan—
What is your plan?
Sal.
It must unfold itself.
I have a shift for Marsio's every turn:
One lost, another wins.
Marq.
I am content.
'T is better with you; I have ever marred
Whate'er I touched. Lay your commands upon me.
Sal.
Provide a priest, and have such papers drawn,
As the law orders, to unite in wedlock
Costanza and Juranio. At the feast,
See you produce them when I call for them.
Marq.
It shall be done. O, signore Salvatore,
See you be well prepared upon your part.
I count my life as nothing; but my daughter,
My only daughter—Look you do not slip:
You might enrage, not foil, his villany;
And draw a double ruin on her head.
Sal.
Fear not; even now I hold such evidence
As makes the life of signore Marsio
Not worth a felon's claim. How Pulti tarries!
[Aside.]
You will pardon me, if I take leave, my lord?
106
Go, signore, go. Ask me to pardon you!
God shield you, sir! You shall have all the prayers
My age may mutter, 'twixt the coming night
And that far darker night, towards which my steps,
By slow degrees, are narrowing to their end.
Sal.
Cheer, cheer, my lord! The shadows fly from us;
Day treads upon the dusky heels of night!
Even now my herald hopes fly far above,
Shaking the morning from their shining wings!
Ho! laugh, laugh, and be merry.
Marq.
Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
Your hearty courage is infectious, sir!
[Exeunt severally.]
SCENE III.
Another Room in the Castle. Enter Costanza and Filippia.Filippia.
[Sings.]
Love-lorn Lucy
On a bank sat sighing,
Ah, well a day! ah, well a day!
My fickle love has flown away,
And left me here a-dying,
On a bank sat sighing,
Ah, well a day! ah, well a day!
My fickle love has flown away,
And left me here a-dying,
False, false pledges!
Why did I receive them?
Vows are but words, words are but air,
And air can blow both foul and fair:
Why did I believe them?
Why did I receive them?
Vows are but words, words are but air,
And air can blow both foul and fair:
Why did I believe them?
107
Ah! light-hearted,
Would thy scorn might slay me!
O! would thy wrongs might end my pain!
Or would that thou mightst come again,
And again betray me!
Would thy scorn might slay me!
O! would thy wrongs might end my pain!
Or would that thou mightst come again,
And again betray me!
There 's a light song to cheer you.
Costanza.
Woful cheer!
Fil.
Why, what' s the matter, cousin? How you droop!
Here 's a strange countenance for a festival!
Take my advice; follow your honest heart;
For those who oftenest trust their knavish heads
Are oftenest led by a fool's bauble. Run,
Run for dear life! Away, girl, Count and all!
I'll cover your retreat.
Cos.
This mockery
Is cruel and useless. How my doom draws on!
It seems to me as if the viewless hours
Have changed themselves to some substantial thing,
And I can hear them roaring by my ears,
Like a vast tide,—alas! alas! how swiftly!
Fil.
Did she but know how gayly nimble Time
Is floating on Love's shallop, she would kiss
The slandered gray-beard. I will tell her. No;
'T is Salvatore's secret. [Aside.]
Cos.
Cousin, cousin,
I cannot marry Marsio! Each step
That brings me nearer to him shows the man
More hideous; and, alas!—I tell you all—
Contrast makes Count Juranio appear
Almost a god to him.
Fil.
Why, so he is;
108
Marsio 's no man; Marsio 's an outcast imp,
Banished among us for such evil deeds
As set the fiends to staring!
Cos.
Misery!
Have you no word of comfort? I implore
Your kindlier feelings, and you meet my grief
With scoffs and jeers. Why do you not sustain
My tottering firmness? Has my lot become
Too low, too mean, for pity? Must I stand
By my own power? So be it, then; I'll stand,
Though my heart break within me!
Fil.
I must tell her.
(Enter Salvatore. Filippia and Salvatore talk apart.)
Salvatore.
Have you kept counsel?
Fil.
By the hardest, though.
Don't glare at me. I have obeyed you, tyrant.
Lord! if you frown so at the maid, the wife
Must feed her love on cudgels!
Sal.
Peace, peace, peace!
Your love shall have sound diet. It was well—
Look you, Filippia—it was well I came.
Fil.
'T is always well when Salvatore comes.
Sal.
Bah! you mad witch! I love you fearfully.
Fil.
And so you show it. I can never tell,
When you come nigh me, whether you intend
To cut my throat or kiss me.
Sal.
Instance this.
[Kisses her.]
Fil.
I know not yet.
Sal.
Till you are satisfied,
I'll smother you in kisses. [Kisses her.]
109
Ruffian, stop!
Look at my ruffle. O! had you rude men
To do our starching! Woo me by main strength!
Sal.
Out on your arts! Your wicked witchery
Makes me forget myself—your cousin too.
Fil.
She did not note you.
Sal.
I must speak with her.
[Advances to Costanza.]
Lady Costanza, dare you trust your honor
In my poor hands?
Cos.
Had I a fear of it,
There I should place it.
Fil.
Justly spoken, cousin!
Make him your fate. See what I gain by it,—
A crumpled ruffle, and a bleeding lip.
Sal.
Time presses; I must through at once.
[Aside.]
Fil.
Well, well!
Here 's better than yourself to whisper to.
Sal.
Lady Costanza, without argument,
Give me your word to do as I direct,
And I engage to scatter your worst fears,
And crown your brightest hopes with full success.
I hold your future in my happy hands:
My power is ample, and my purpose just.
For—mark this, lady—should I trench upon
Your nicest honor, by the act, I free you
From any compact.
Cos.
Signore Salvatore,
You mean this kindly, and I take it so,
But know it baseless.
Sal.
Only promise.
Fil.
Do!
110
'T is said that drowning beggars sometimes vow
Rich churches to the saint who'll spare their lives;
So I—passing my word upon your terms—
Promise, if you fulfil your marvellous pledge,
That which defies our voluntary power—
My dearest love.
Fil.
Poh! poh! Costanza, “love!”
O! what a doleful effort to be gay!
Pray, use some cooler term—the man is mine—
Say friendship, or affection, or the like:
I dread your rivalry.
Sal.
Filippia lays
Our serious feelings, as if they were devils.
Fil.
He takes her part! Now I am jealous, sir.
Come, lead her off from this sad theme.
[Apart to Salvatore.]
Sal.
Alas!
Here comes the theme itself.
(Enter Marsio and Juranio.)
Marsio.
Pray, look you, ladies;
Here is he that once was Count Juranio;
But, now, how fallen, how spent and spiritless!
I tried an hour to work a smile from him,
But lost my labor.
Fil.
What 's the trouble, Count?
Sal.
Are you a man? [Apart to Juranio.]
Juranio.
There is the misery,
That I am man; would I were more or less!
[Aside.]
Mar.
I even took him to your bower, Costanza;
Showed what a lurking-place for love it is;
111
Omitting nothing: but he never smiled.
Then I went through my plans of wedded bliss;
Told him how soon my marriage-day would come;
Invited him to see it.—On my faith,
Methinks I turned a prophet, for his sake—
Did I not, Count?—and in a vision saw
My stretching line of noble progeny.
I named them too—ha! ha! I named them for him!
[Laughing.]
Called one Juranio. Striving thus to cheer
His melancholy with my happiness:
But yet he never smiled. When he would speak,
'T was only “Marsio, O! were I you!”
And then he 'd blush, and catch his sentence up
With—“I 'd do so and so”—some petty thing,
Beneath my memory. Even now he talked,
So sweetly talked, of “Death, dear, pleasant death!
What a kind thing it is that weary men,
After the jading day of eager life,
Can lay them gently in their earthy beds,
And sleep their cares away!” So well he spoke,
That, for his eloquence, I nearly killed him,
Out of sheer pity.
Sal.
What a man is this!
But justice' arm is up. [Aside.]
(Filippia, Juranio, and Salvatore, talk apart.)
Mar.
(Apart to Costanza.)
They tell me, lady,
You were insulted in the Park, to-day,
By some presuming dunce's love.—Nay, nay;
112
As I would wish you.
Cos.
Ha! he knows it all:
I see such meaning in his face. I fear—
[Aside.]
A word, sir, with Juranio.
Mar.
With whom?
Cos.
With Count Juranio.
Mar.
Not a whisper. Lady,
We mostly add men's titles to their names.
(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
My lord awaits you, gentlemen.
Mar.
On, on!
The feast invites us. Count Juranio,
We'll drown your gloomy humors in our wine.
Come, gentlemen. To-night is lovers' eve—
Conduct your lady, signore Salvatore;
I too will use the time's sweet privilege:
Think me not rude, Count. By your leave, Costanza.
[Exit with Costanza.]
Sal.
You promise me?
Ju.
Ay; use me as you will:
I lack employment for myself.
Sal.
Go on.
Fil.
Without you, signore?
Sal.
Yes.—Make some excuse.
O! where is Pulti? Fate hangs on his steps!
[Exeunt on one side, Filippia and Juranio; on the other, Salvatore.]
113
SCENE IV.
An Ante-Room in the Castle. Enter Pulti.Pulti.
(Sings.)
With each grain of Heaven's goodness,
I will mix one of woodness,
And ten solid grains of pure evil;
Do whatever you can,
You must bolt all, my man,
Or starve, quoth to Adam the devil.
(Enter Salvatore.)
Salvatore.
Your fiendish ditty is a guide, at least.
Well met! Your news?
Pul.
I barely saved my time.
The guests are down, and I am sent to seek you.
Sal.
Is the cup drugged?
Pul.
I mixed the powders in,
And poured the wine around, ere I came off.
Sal.
Two powders?
Pul.
Two.
Sal.
Victoria! The one
Shall rack him shrewdly, with a piercing colic,
Until the opiate act; when he will fall,
Upon a sudden, in a torpid stupor,
Which will so balance between life and death,
That but a feather's weight might turn the beam,
And land him in eternity.
Pul.
It might?
114
I'll leap into the balance bodily.
Sal.
No, Pulti; I 've not closed with Marsio.
To-morrow I must buy the Marquis' debts,
On my own terms; death would upset my bargain.
Pul.
Here 's Marsio's poison.
[Gives the vial.]
Sal.
Precious, precious vial!
You hold the happiness of two dear hearts
Pent in your narrow compass!
Pul.
Is that all?
Methinks it comes to little, when 't is brought
Down to a liquid form. Had I believed
A lover's prophecies upon this point,
I 'd have been fool enough to build an ark,
Against a second deluge. What a close
To all your rhapsodies! Here 's a scant bath
For a foul fly!
Sal.
Enough to drown your wit.
Pul.
If that 's the substance of love's happiness,
Pray trust it to my handling. I will bear it,
As friars do rare relics, through the land,
To strengthen bachelors in their religion.
Sal.
Prodigious atheist!
Pul.
Holy maniac!
Now, which is better, a sound infidel,
Or a cracked devotee? Let Heaven decide.
Sal.
Back to your master, knave! his fellowship
Sorts with your feelings.
Pul.
'T is a doleful thing,
That our gay world can yield a healthy man
No company but lunatics or rogues:
The wise are villains, and the honest fools.
115
To find one modest flower in all the crop!
Sal.
I prophecy a cardinal's cap for you,
If you will preach thus in the market-place.
I must be off. O, Pulti, Pulti, Pulti,
If ever man loved man, I dote on you!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V.
The Great Hall of the Castle. A feast spread. At which are seated the Marquis and Marchioness di Tiburzzi, Marsio, Costanza, Filippia, Juranio, and other Guests. Servants in waiting. Enter Pulti, and stands behind Marsio. Then enter Salvatore, and seats himself.Marquis.
We wait you, signore.
Salvatore.
Pardon my delay:
My need was urgent.
Marsio.
I have kept the wine.
Our cups, o'erbrimming with the sunny juice,
Stand to attend you.
Sal.
'T was a needless pause.
I never taste the vintage. By your leave,
I'll use the grape, as nature gives it to us,
Thus, in the ripened fruit. For I hold wine
To be a most ingenious fraud of Satan's;
Who is so ready to change Heaven's best gifts
Into some tempting form of sin. 'T is true
A healthy apple cozened mother Eve;
But I have wondered at that barefaced trick
Upon the simple woman. Why did not
The guileful devil change it into cider,
116
Is of my way of thinking.
Juranio.
I! what, I!
Why, Salvatore, I would quaff a sea
Of the rich earthly Lethe, were our night
Stretched to a polar length.
Mar.
You hear him, sir:
The Count is wild for wassail. You will not
Refuse my lady's health? 'Sblood! should this dog
Lap water only? Pulti, is it done?
[Apart to Pulti.]
Pulti.
You'll find it so.—Ho! ho!—
[Laughing.]
Mar.
Hist! be discreet.
[Apart to Pulti.]
Sal.
I will not balk you, to be curious.
A toast, a toast!
Mar.
Rise, sirs. Our union!
[They drink.]
Sal.
Simple and pregnant. Cleopatra's pearl
Suffers discredit by your tasteful pledge.
I drank it, with good relish, to the dregs;
Ay, and forgot my enmity to wine,
In seeing with what gust you boused it down.
Mar.
You flatter me. Your kinsman holds his peace:
I hope I touched him.
Sal.
Him! Why, look you, now;
His cup is dry,—the very moisture gone:
Heavens! what a fiery thirst!
Costanza.
Your lover's spirits
Mount to a wondrous height. It makes one sad
To see a man so merry.
Filippia.
Wait a while,
And his high spirits shall fly off with you.
Cos.
You have a hopeful fancy: it must be
A sorry thing to mark its failures.
117
No;
I have fresh hopes to help the lame ones on.
They are like flowers that, dying, run to seed,
And multiply the race.—See, Marsio!
March.
What is the matter, signore?
Mar.
Nothing, nothing:
A passing pain.
Sal.
You drink too eagerly.
A sudden rush of wine into the frame
Shakes it with spasms sometimes.
Mar.
Are you a leech?
Physic yourself—'Sblood!
March.
Signore!—
Mar.
I am ill.
[They all rise.]
Sal.
Pray will you test my leechcraft?
Mar.
I feel faint.
Nay; I am stronger now. Come hither, Pulti.
What does this mean?
Pul.
I cannot tell.
Mar.
Those men,
Those devilish villains—Pulti, do you see them?—
Look well and merry. Ere this time, the snakes
Should have crawled homeward, with their venom in.
The poison but fulfils what nature skipt:
While I—Augh! Pulti—
[Apart to Pulti.]
Pul.
Let me see. (Runs to the table.)
O, Lord!
O! signore Marsio is poisoned! O!
The cups are changed. You drank the—
Mar.
Traitor, hold!
Or I will cut you to the belt!
March.
Good heaven!
Poisoned?
118
Is this your plot? You—
Sal.
Wait the issue.
[Apart to the Marquis.]
March.
Run, run—a doctor!
Mar.
Forty thousand doctors
Were forty thousand short.
Cos.
How feel you, signore?
Mar.
Out! smooth drab!—O!—O!
Sal.
You have sprung the trap,
But caught yourself for game.
Mar.
Who did this thing?
Sal.
I.
Mar.
Hear! he confesses it. Seize on them—
Juranio and that man—my murderers!
March.
Ay; seize them, seize them!
[The Guests draw.]
Sal.
Patience, gentlemen,
I make you no resistance. On my honor,
I will not try to fly.
Mar.
A poisoner's honor!
Mercy, what a pang! 'Sdeath! an officer—
Send for an officer! Quick, quick—break up—
I do denounce them both—we'll have no feast!
Sal.
Ay, but we will; a marriage, too.
Mar.
How, how?
Sal.
We'll use Juranio, when you are gone.
Mar.
Ah, dog! may your tongue rot!
Sal.
Before you, signore?
Mar.
Silence the miscreant! Are you men, to see—
O, heaven! these pains!
Ju.
What means this, Salvatore?
Sal.
Peace, my dear boy; the time is mine.
Mar.
You think—
119
You think, I say, when the grave swallows me,
To wed?—Ha! do ye? If the dead can rise—
And I will up! I'll haunt you till ye pray
To sleep beside me. I will crawl between
Your eager kisses with my wormy lips;
I'll eat with you; I'll drink—I'll drink again—
O, heaven! some water, water! I consume—
Till all my flesh has rotted from me. Gods!
Ha! ha! I'll make a merry guest! You wretch—
Now I feel easier—you Salvatore,
I'll fight with you, through all your odious days,
Until I drive you in your grave. O! curse you!
Do I look better? I may yet be well.
O! O! these searching cramps! Where do you go?
Come back, I say! I will not die alone!
I do denounce them—Pulti, Pulti too.
Seize them—seize all! Have pity on me, Heaven!
I will—I will!—The room is full of smoke.
Cut down the poisoners! I am not dead yet!
[Draws, rushes at Juranio, and falls.]
O! mercy, heaven! O! curse you—O!
[Faints.]
Sal.
Well done!
He shows his death-bed in perspective.
March.
Base,
Base man, to glory in your victim's death!
Sirs, apprehend him.
[The Guests advance.]
Sal.
Gently, gentlemen—
I use my cutlery with the best of you—
Marsio 's not dead. A simple opiate
Caused all this terror.
Fil.
'T is ill news, but true.
Find out some den to keep this monster in.
[Servants carry off Marsio.]
120
Wake from your apathy! You stand like marble.
Cos.
I never dreamed such horrors.
Ju.
What, not dead?
March.
O! joy, joy, joy!
Sal.
Call in your priest and notary.
Are they in waiting?
Marq.
As I promised you.
But I can scarcely see my way through this.
(Enter a Priest and a Notary.)
Sal.
I am your pilot: trust me.
Marq.
As you will.
Sal.
Now sign this paper, lady; and you, Count.
'T is hasty, not dishonorable. Keep faith.
Cos.
How, sir!
Ju.
But, Salvatore, Marsio lives.
Sal.
He lives a felon! And I roundly swear,
If you two people are not wed to-night,
I'll have him hung upon a moving gallows,
And wheel him after you around the world.
I'll have no trifling.
March.
Marsio a felon!
Sal.
He sought to poison Count Juranio,
And honored me by joining me with him.
Where are you, Pulti?
Pulti.
Here, sir. Room, room, room,
For Marsio's prime minister of drugs!
This vial, and my oath, might go some lengths
To speed his journey to a hotter world.
Advance my relique!
[Salvatore shows the vial.]
March.
O! the horrid viper!
What an escape poor, dear Costanza made!
121
You still hang back?
Cos.
My father still is bound.
Sal.
He is well cared for. Ere another day,
I pledge myself to buy your father's debts
At my own price. 'Sdeath! do you falter now?
My lord, your promise.
Marq.
I command you, daughter:
Obey my friend.
March.
Is Count Juranio rich?
[Apart to the Marquis.]
Marq.
Pshaw! madam.
Cos.
I obey—perhaps too kindly;
But the mere thought of your security
Sends my heart upward, like a loosened bird,
Dizzy with hope, and strength, and ecstasy;
For I am free again! (Turns to Salvatore.)
To you I owe
More than a common show of gratitude;
But, now, forgive me; my o'erflowing thoughts
Would drown the happy prospect of my speech,
By sheer abundance of their offerings.
To you, Juranio—
Ju.
Nay, dear Costanza,
Let my heart whisper what your words might be.
Sal.
Hide all your roses in your lover's breast.
Go talk it over, go—we'll never look—
Then come to us, and notary and priest
Shall knit you up.
Ju.
Dear kinsman—
Sal.
Silence, sir!
This place is nauseous with stale sentiment.
Mind your affairs; I 've business of my own.
Fair lady, have I won?
122
Yes, Salvatore.
[Giving her hand.]
Would it were worthier!
Sal.
Not for my sake, love:
You cannot add a morsel to content.
Marq.
Peace crown you all! I have such friends, at last,
As money could not buy—the gifts of heaven:
I thank it humbly. As for Marsio,
He'll wake to-morrow, and behold what gulfs
Crime opens 'twixt the richest criminal
And the frank brotherhood of honest men,
However poor,—gulfs that must yawn forever!
| Plays and Poems | |