University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A thatched cottage, situate in a small garden on the lower ledge of a deep cataract.
A Fisherman and his Wife spreading their nets.
Schidoni sitting in the sun, dressing his wounds.
Schid.
Now I do miss th'affection of my mother.
Were she still living, she would bind these wounds;
And never ask me, if I frown'd, “how came they?”
She was all love, all innocence; and I— [The Fisherman and his Wife sit down near each other; and begin mending their nets.

These people, too, seem innocence; and yet,
I dare be sworn, 'tis all in seeming;—all!
This scene is what the silly world would call
Rural felicity. I make no doubt,
'Tis such felicity, as—the gods might envy!
That men should be such idiots as to marry,
Excites my wonder. Bernardine; come hither.
The air breathes autumn; are you cold? 'Tis winter.

Fisherman.

Cold, signor? no. I'm rather warm than otherwise. But I'm glad to see thee out again. When I took thee out of the water, brought thee home, and told my wife to take care of thee, I never thought thee could get up again. But thee have; and that sooner, I warrant, than if a doctor had netted thee.

Schid.

You are my saviour. Here: one, two, three, Nay, nay, three more gold sequins. Are you paid?

Fisherman.

I wants no payment, signor;—but I thank thee, nevertheless. Six gold sequins haven't been in my pocket for many a day. There—spawn in my pocket, and grow into fishes of gold:—there's good children.

Schid.
Hast ever travell'd from this straw-roof'd cot?

Fisherman.

Travell'd? no, signor; not much. But I goes once or twice every week to Naples, to sell the fish, I catch in my nets there.

Schid.
Set off, this instant, since you know the way.
At No. 10, Street Ferdinand, there lives
A person named Velutri;—give him this.
(Aside)
I must give reasons wherefore I return not.
Mind:—No. 10, Street Ferdinand. I've told him,
To give thee fifteen florins for this journey.

Fisherman.

I'll set off this moment, signor. I'll be back before thee can think I've been there. I'll just step in to get my best coat, and tell my fish-dried old woman where I be going.

Schid.
Never mind her. Set off this moment: Haste.

Fisherman.

God bless you, signor; I would not set off without telling my wife for all the world. The sequins would burn a hole in my pocket, and a large one too. They would, signor, as sure as old Dominic looks over Naples. Wife, coom hither; and get my best coat. Look here. Look thee here.

Wife.

O gemini me! where got you them? Gold, as I hope to be saved. Do you think I'll wear such a ragged old petticoat as this? no, let it go to the fishes.

(Throws it into the water.)
There—eat it up. Nay, now you are a good-tempered old man; the best-tempered old man, I ever saw in my life. Great coat? Ay to be sure. Come in, Bernardine. I'll get your coat, and brush it too, boy, into the bargain.

[Exeunt.
Schid.
If this is not all innocence,—what is?
Money's the touchstone. Yet, I must confess,
He saved me first; and did not wait to know,
Whether reward would visit him or not.
And yet, for what good purpose am I saved?
Lorenzo victor, I'm disgraced for ever.
I shall be hooted, ridiculed, despised.
I am a hasty, headstrong, blundering, fool;
The veriest fool and guillemot, that lives!

[Re-enter Fisherman: his Wife following.
Fisherman.

With the blessing of God, signor, I hopes to be home before twelve of the sun, to-morrow.

Schid.
With the blessing of whom?

Fisherman.

With the blessing of God, signor. We can do nothing good without his blessing.

Schid.
Do you think so?

Fisherman.

Think so, signor? why, I am sure of it. And they that do not think so, too, signor; why, they

may be very clever sort of people as far as I knows; they can conjure three fishes perhaps into four; but to tell you the truth, signor, I would not trust them from one end of my net to the other.

[Exit.
Schid.
Set off; despatch. Dame Margery, bring me hither
My sword and poniard. I must say, good morrow. [Exit Wife.

These wounds are painful; but I thank dame Fortune,
They are not mortal. Mortal is the body;
Mortal the mind. Yet monks,—sweet saints!—and bishops,
Old men, old women, hermits, and the—pope!
All would persuade us, wherefore all can tell,
—To fill their cellars, butteries, and store-rooms,—
That souls shall live in happiness or pain,
Till three times twenty shall make ninety-one.
That is, for ever. Some do,—ay!—believe it;
From education, ignorance, or fear.
Fear is their god. Fear nothing is my creed;
But to be thwarted in an intended deed. [Re-enter Fisherman's Wife.

Thank thee, dame Margery. Let me buckle on
This oft-tried sword. This dagger, too, (aside)
—all poison'd!
Had I but thought of thee, Lorenzo had
Paid a sure forfeit. Thanks, my honest dame.
Good day; I thank thee for thy kind assistance.

[Exit.
Wife.

Good day, signor; you're welcome; though I do not like thee. My husband saved thee; but he did not know thee: and if I may speak my mind, when nobody hears, I think it was a pity. He might as well have left thee to the fishes. No, no; not that; for if he had, we should never have had six gold sequins. (Calling)
Good day, signor;—good day! and may you fall in the water every day in the year. That is, if my Bernardine is there to pick you up.

[Exit into the cottage.