University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A room in Orontio's house.
Rosalie and Blanche.
Blan.
Where is thy wit? Loose it upon thyself,
To whip this girlish humor out of thee.

Ros.
No more, sweet Blanche. Oh! would I'd been a milkmaid.

Blan.
Had then thy love been bounded to thy cows?
As milkmaid thou belike hadst soiled thy pail
With tear-drops from a wound more hopeless yet.
Love mocks at ranks and man-devised divisions.
Cupid delights to be a mischief-maker,
Levelling in a night the reverend bournes
That have for ages stood against encroachment.

Ros.
Henceforth I'll hate all princes.

Blan.
Save one, dear coz.

Ros.
And Naples with its balmy Circean air—
Would that Vesuvius 'neath a fiery flood
Had drowned its treacherous shores, ere I had known them.

Blan.
How quick time flies; or was't but yesterday
Thou chidst thy tongue for that it would not forge
Words warm enough to paint that Paradise,
Where thou hadst been reborn;—that was the phrase.

Ros.
Resolve me now, wise Blanche;—for thou art one
That lov'st to poise things in thy silent brain,
To find their axis, rather than to bark them
With trivial tongue;—resolve me, why it is,
That I, against my will, am robbed of will?
Why suddenly disseated from my throne
Of self-controlment, the most secret chambers
Of my high sovereign mind by stranger thoughts
Rudely invaded, their old furniture
Thrust into corners, while the invaders seize
Amazed authority; and captive I,
Having nor power nor wish to make obstruction—
As though I'd drunk some deep transforming drug—
Look wildly on in a strange passiveness.

Blan.
Thou hast drunk deeply of a subtle drug,
And art transformed with its swift-coursing juice.
But 'tis a transformation like to that,
When in a tardy spring th' impatient Sun,
Piercing the cold flanks of the clodded Earth
With his hot shafts, wakes her to procreant life,
To fill her brow with bloom, her lap with fruit;
Or when in a dark cave sudden is brandished
A flaming torch, by whose creative fire
New treasures are unbarred, now first beheld
By eyes staring in a pleased wilderment.
Thou art bewildered at the wealth of thought,
Unsealed by heat from thy new-lighted heart,
Which so illumes the mind's vast territory,
That things formless before, start into shape,
To maze thee with their boldness and their beauty;
And wishes, hitherto unuttered, rule
With an imperial sweetness of allurement,
That makes their tyranny a blessedness.
The present throbs so with a restless motion,
It is not big enough to hold thy life,
Which overruns into a new-born future,
That swells and stretches into solemn depths,
Crowding itself with costly images
Thou art indeed transformed, dear Rosalie;
Thou art not what thou wast a month ago;—
And wouldst not be; no, not for the whole world.

Ros.
No, that I would not; for I then should part
From my dear Blanche, who is no more herself,
And needs soft tending in her lunacy.
Why, coz, so many words thou never spok'st
In one long day as in this single breath.
Thine was the stillest tongue in Syracuse.
And words so fit and voluble. Good Blanche,
'Tis thou needst comforting: how can I cheer thee?

Blan.
By bringing me a note like that thou hadst.

Ros.
And wilt thou give like answer to it too?

Blan.
Nay, but the count is not a royal prince;
And if he were, I'm not so proud as thou.

Ros.
Happy in that: pride is the thorn of love.
Still happier, that thy love is not misjoined.—
The count, if banished, had no time to write.

Blan.
To lovers true, time never can be wanting,
To do love's duties.

Ros.
Dost thou doubt his truth?

Blan.
I'd sooner doubt myself. So far from that,
Because he does not write, I doubt he's banished.

Enter Barbara.
Barb.
Oh! mistresses, here's the new court-fool,
Francisco; the sauciest wag.

Ros.

I so like a clown. Bring him in, Barbara. [Exit Barbara.]
Blanche and I are just in the mood to hold parley with a fool.

Re-enter Barbara with Count Roger.
Welcome to Syracuse, Francisco. Thou canst but thrive here. Under our sun folly ripens faster than figs.

Rog.

I' faith, your ladyship, the crop looks promising.

Ros.

Tell me, Francisco, why young people are so fond of fools? I hope there's no sin in it.

Rog.

In you it is a twofold virtue; for the young like fools because only fools speak the truth; and young women like them, because, did they not, few of them would get husbands.

Ros.

When I get one, he shall pay you twenty ducats for that speech.

Rog.

May your ladyship be married to-morrow.

Ros.

That's not easy; masculine candidates for matrimony are ever scarce.

Rog.

So are fish on the top of the water: but, sink your hook well baited, and you are sure to have a bite.

Ros.

So, you would have husbands angled for.

Rog.

'Tis the modern fashion. But here at your court men have turned anglers, and use my fingers for hooks. This is to catch the Lady Rosalie. [Rosalie seizes the note and opens it.]
This for the Lady Blanche from Signor Osmond. [Blanche takes the note with indifference.]

Ros.

Francisco, this is for shallow water.

Rog.
[to Blanche.]

Will you bite at this, from Count Manfred of Palermo?

Blan.
That is a golden hook, without bait.
Which of the three dost thou like best?

Rog.
The Palerman gentleman.

Blan.
Wherefore?

Rog.
[Taking out the purse.]
He pays beat.

Blan.
Art thou so mercenary?

Rog.

I but allow its due weight to what is weighty. The universal measurer of values is gold. Does not God plant gold—do not men reap it—do not kings coin it—do not philosophers seek it—do not priests love it—do not women spend it? Shall a fool despise what all men and women prize?

Blan.

As thou thinkest the note is worth the gold thou hadst for it, by giving it back to thee thy wealth will be doubled. [Offering the note.]

Rog.

Nay, it is but blank paper unread by your ladyship. As the best soil bears no fruit till visited by the sun, this page is barren till it be warmed by light from your eyes.

Blan.

Lest it yield briers, I withhold the light.

Rog.

Then will you make yourself a party to a sin.

Blan.

How so?

Rog.

By making me commit that of lying. For on my bringing word, that I saw you read his note, the count promised me a purse of gold; and whoever in these times will not lie to compass a purse, had better get himself buried: he'll rot even if he stays above ground.

Ros.

Thou art, I fear, a hardened sinner, Francisco. What's the news at court to-day?

Blan.

Is the prince to marry the princess Matilda?

Ros.

Is Count Roger banished?

Rog.

I must back to the king.—But first I'll answer your

questions. [Gives them each a note, them exit quickly.]

Blan.
[After they have eagerly read the notes.]

Cousin, what thinkst thou of Francisco?

Ros.

How canst thou think of him at all?

Blan.

I can think of nothing else.

Ros.

And that note—from whom is it?

Blan.

From Francisco.

Ros.

His hand delivered it; but whose hand wrote it?

Blan.

Francisco's.

Ros.

Francisco, Francisco's! Dear Blanche, thou art beside thyself.

Blan.

Read. [Giving her the note.]

Ros.
[Reads.]

“I have thought it wise to make folly the servant to love. Judge of thy power over Roger by the depth of his transformation; and believe, that he who walks in a fool's cap to win thee, would rather lie in his shroud than lose thee.

“As I to you So is the prince to your cousin true. “Francisco.”

Blan.

Put an absolute faith in the last line; for you know, “only fools speak the truth.”

Ros.

Thou puttest faith in every line.

Blan.

That I did before I read them. Cousin, without faith, love could not be born; and once born, therein sprouts the grain wherefrom he feeds. So your majesty should set your royal mind at ease.

Ros.

My majesty will follow thy good council, wise Blanche.

—I have read of a lady, who from a rank not higher than mine was lifted to one of the mightiest thrones of the earth by her lover; and he, not, like Tancred, endowed with a rectitude and nobleness of nature that made his every act a precedent for the best, but, a polluted, perjured, bloodsmeared miscreant.

[Exeunt.