University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A Room in Roberto's House.
Enter Roberto and Ernesto.
Rob.
Till now, I had not prized thy thoughtful friendship
At its great value, dear Ernesto. Would,
That of the balm thou'st poured on my fresh wounds,
Some drops I could distil for thy long pain.

Ern.
Oh! had I seen my boy cold in his shroud,
Then could my thoughts have followed him to Heaven;
And there my agony at last had rested.
But now—Oh! monstrous state—my anguish lives
Because he lives; and dire imaginations
My sorrow feed with ghastly food, and keep it
Bleeding as fresh as on the day I lost him.
There's not a tyranny that brutish man
Upon his brother wreaks, but I have wept
As his sad portion. Now, a slave I see him,
Spit on by Moslem master; now, a menial;
And now, a task-worn serf in frozen Moscow;
Now, buffeted by storms and despot skippers;
Now, naked, wrecked upon a savage shore;
Now, racked in cell of hellish inquisition.
In vain I cry—he's dead, he rests in peace—
My heart will not believe it; but for ever
Out from the night of cold uncertainty
His image glares, a living, weeping spectre.
Pardon me, friend; grief can not but be selfish,
'Tis twenty years to-day since mine first seized
My wiseless heart, and left me less than childless.
No more, no more: I'll drive my sorrow out
With thoughts of others' joy. Here come your daughters.

Rob.
Be you embassador for this new treaty.

Enter Cecilia and Leonora.
Ern.
My dear Cecilia, I am here as spokesman
For my young friend Filippo—

Cec.
Pardon me,
Signor Ernesto; art thou sure thy words
Know how to speak Filippo's mind to th' full?

Ern.
Thy doubt himself shall answer: here he is.
Enter Filippo and Alonzo.
Filippo, with my tongue I was about
To throw you at Cecilia's feet.

Fil.
Signor,
I'm proud you think me worthy such a place.
First let me say what I have come to say.
Signor Ernesto, 'tis now twenty years
Since you in Venice lost your child.

Ern.
Ay—ay:—

Alon.
Signor Ernesto!

Ern.
Oh! on every day
Of all those years, my boy has died to me.

Fil.
I have a friend, worthy to be thy son,
Who, twenty years ago, was stolen by gypsies
In Venice, on a summer evening.

Ern.
Ha!
Where—where?—His name—his name.

Fil.
So deep his name
Is buried 'neath the doubling folds of years,
His memory, unassisted, can not reach it.

Ern.
Oh! heaven—what yearnings seize my heart.

Alon.
The name—
The name—

Ern.
Signor Alonzo:—Ubaldo.

Alon.
Father, father—I am thy Baldino.

Ern.
O God! 'twas so I called him. Round his neck—

Alon.
A chain; here 'tis.

[Snatches the chain from his neck
Ern.
My boy, my boy—my lost one:
Is't so? I do not sleep—thy mother's brow—
On thy left arm thou hadst a mother's mark—

Alon.
'Tis here—a heart. [Unbaring his arm.]


Ern.
Oh! day of joy. Filippo,
To thee we owe this unmatched happiness.

Fil.
You owe it to a virtue there is in me;
Namely, that I, unworthy in myself,
Have the good gift to value worth in others.
This drew me to Alonzo; and my life's
Most fruitful work has been my love for him.
Nay, but I take what not belongs to me;
For 'tis a love—which I by chance discovered—
Deeper than mine for him, that has unlocked
This mortal treasury of joy. This love 'twas
That made him, in despair, relate his story.
The puissant one who, all unconsciously,
Winning a heart as noble as her own,
Has loosed this long-pent flood of happiness—
Making one love reveal another—and thus,
Is the dear causer of a general bliss;
This ministering mistress of Love's purest fonts,
Is, the Lady Cecilia.

Alon.
My bold secret
Which one hour since, I had locked within my breast,
As the sweet nourishment of solitude,
My friend hath truly told, Lady Cecilia;
Speaking for me the venturous words, which I,
Now new-baptized in joy, myself had spoken.

Cec.
Signor Alonzo, one hour since, these words
Had been as grateful to my ear as now;
And if this sudden sunshine makes them flow,
Its rays are hardly to your father's heart
More gladsome than to mine.

Ern.
Peerless Cecilia!

Cec.
Dear father, wilt thou give thy daughter to
Thy old friend's son?

Rob.
Had I a hundred daughters,
I'd give them all to dear Ernesto's sons.

Cec.
Alonzo, thou hast not thy father's leave.

Alon.
Oh! blessed day, that brings me such a duty,
Lapping me in a sweet dependence. Father—

Ern.
If aught could make thee dearer to my soul,
It were to have thee mated thus.

Alon.
Filippo,
My bliss is incomplete, unyoked to thine.
Lady Leonora, thou canst complete it. Let
My tongue woo for my friend, as his for me.
He loves thee; and of all the men I've known
He is the easiest to love.

Fil.
Have pity on me,
Lady. From far-off Padua I have come,
Battling my way 'gainst stout adversities.
Once I 'scaped drowning by the maddened Po:
Twice was I hand to hand with wolf-eyed bandits.
All this, to fetch a wife from lettered Florence.
Let me not thence depart with empty arms.

Leon.
Signor Filippo, there's my hand. And if
To-morrow I like you and you like me
As well as now—we'll talk this matter over.

Fil.
Without listeners.

Alon.
So gilded is this hour
By heaven's smile, our spirits are aglow
With strangest bliss. Through paths, wayward and ignorant
Have we been driven blindfold on our good
By highest Will; whose open secret guidance
Above our daily walk doth ceaseless flash
Benignant light, which we see not; and shall
Then only see, when our unwholesome wills,—
By thought and knowledge purged—shall hourly be
To the orbit of the will divine upswung;
A consummation whereof joys like this
Are golden tokens and sure prophecies.