University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

A forest; on the west side, a fountain.
Time;—Twilight.
Enter Lavinia.
Lav.
These rocks and stones distract my labouring feet.
Which is my way to Venice, through this forest,
Deep, dark, and awful; echoing with a roar,
Like the loud tumults of the Caspian main,
Alas! I know not. Yon resounding cataract
Strikes me with dread: I dare proceed no farther.
Parch'd too with thirst! A fountain? Be my cup
The wrinkled hollow of my hand. How sweet!
Emblem—all eloquent—of the Christian's hope.
Oh what a sacred and enchanting walk,
In hope's sweet garden, does the pilgrim take;
When, as he winds along the sultry waste,
Girt with all horrors; where the serpent coils,
The adder hisses, and the lion prowls;
His soul seeks solace in the secret hope,
That every tear, he sheds upon his journey,
Flows to the fountain of eternal life!

Enter Lorenzo.
Lor.
Which way, she fled, seems magic. I have search'd
A thousand thickets and a thousand caves,
Amid these deep recesses; but can find
No traces of her footsteps. I'm bewilder'd;
And know not whither to direct my steps.
I met two stately stags amid the forest;
And heard two doves coo vespers with their young.

Lav.
Oh—my dear father—oh my dearest father!

Lor.
Whence are these sounds? By all the saints— (calls)
—Lavinia!

Lav.
Who? whence? a dream—a vision—my Lorenzo!

Lor.
Now am I blest beyond the reach of thought.
It is Lavinia; 'tis my own Lavinia!

Lav.
I have no power, Lorenzo—

Lor.
I have sought thee,
Till my lorn heart sunk spiritless. I fear'd,
When I had saved thee from Schidoni, that—

Lav.
You! was it you, who saved me from Schidoni?
Then you are wounded. Yes—I feel you are.
Where is the wound? Stay—let me bind it. Where?
Where is it?

Lor.
Thanks to Fortune, I have none.

Lav.
That is delightful; that is joy indeed.
But where's Schidoni?

Lor.
As we fought, we came
To the loose margin of a stream; when he,
All on a sudden, seized me round the waist,
And would have thrown me, headlong, in the water,
Had I not given fresh vigour to my arm,
And hurl'd him,—as a fisherman is wont
To hurl a dog, that will not take the water,—
Into the bosom of the stream. A man,
Standing agape to see the desperate struggle,
Plunged in to save him. Whether he still lives
Is yet beyond my knowledge: for the fear
Of losing thee gave feathers: and I flew,
Like a trained falcon, darting on his quarry,
In hopes of finding thee amid some copse,
Or secret thicket. Many a dingle, dell,
Valley, and glen, I traversed; and my hopes
Had almost yielded to despair; when here,
Fortune—so long mine enemy—at once
Imparadised my hopes.

Lav.
Lorenzo! words,
Yes, had I words to thank thee as I ought;
Yet were they dull and indigent. I wish,
Thou couldst but see my feelings; then my heart
Would plead, like angels, for my gratitude.

Lor.
Lovely Lavinia, thy sweet words would call
Angels to guard thee. But yon clouds,—behold;
Th'Aurora flashes, and portends a storm.
—Great is thy power, Omnipotent; and vast
The myriad wonders of thy matchless reign!—
No house, no lot, not e'en a woodman's hut,
Adorn these sterile solitudes with smoke,
Curling in peaceful volumes:—but not far,
There is a cavern, form'd of sea-green marble,
Like to those arch'd recesses, in which those
Enchanting nymphs are fabled to have lived,
Who warbled such insinuating strains,
That mariners, delighted and bewilder'd,
Dropt all their oars, forsook each sail and rudder,
Lean'd o'er their decks, and listen'd in such rapture,
That their ill-fated vessels have been drawn
Into the whirling centre of a vortex;
Thence to the bottom of the raging ocean.
Thither we'll tend:—yet no; within a valley,
Nested in mountains, hid from human eye,
Lie the vast fragments of an ancient ruin,
Which once contain'd a city in its bosom.
Thither—

Lav.
What sounds—?

Lor.
We must away.—Banditti!
Lean on this arm; no power shall force thee from me.

[Exeunt.
Enter Romano and Fracastro.
Rom.
Each movement brings us nearer to our foes.
(To those without)
Rest where ye are. (Aside)
Sweet Venice, Venice!—would,
Would, I had never left thy yellow waters!

Fra.
(Plays)

Rom.
Would mine had never! But no more; no more.
Music could once entrance my soul; but now,
Feeling no music in my heart, mine ear,
Tuneless and dull, denies its wonted office.
That air, once heard with joy unspeakable,
I hear as one, who listens to the sound
Of some dull curfew, that, in distant land,
Benumbs the night, and stuns the owl to silence.

Fra.
(aside.)
I'll play no more. The hour returns again;
And all his soul relapses into sadness.

Rom.
Hush'd are the wastes of Ethiopia; hush'd
The suffocating solitudes of Senegal;
Awfully hush'd the vast precincts of Nile.
But if the Hyads o'er the wilderness
Breathe on the midnight, and distil soft showers;
The condor, pelican, and ostrich, sip
The drops aerial, and the leopard laps.

Fra.
(aside.)
Awful it is to see him trace i' the sand,
Such forms and shapes. Alas! his soul's disorder'd.
Would I'd been born so much the mind's physician,
That, when in Greece, I had the skill to cull,
From off the mountains of the Cyclades,
That sacred plant, Nepenthe, which has power
To calm the tumults of a wounded spirit!
That med'cine now had lull'd his soul to peace.

Rom.
What late seem'd wrinkled with old age is now
Verdant and rife; and every palm-tree bends
With liquid crystal and depending gems.
So in the midnight of my grief, my soul
Wakes from its sterile palsy; when Francesca,
Rising serene in beauty to my thought,
Hallows the past, disarms th'horrific present,
Clothes hope in smiles, and whispers to my heart,
That justice, sternly virtuous, never dies,
Though oft her slumbers wear the mask of death.

Fra.
(rising.)
Why, then, build sepulchres and mausoleums,
In which to bury all thy hopes? 'Tis folly.

Rom.
(aside.)
What have I lived for?

Fra.
As I breathe,—no insult!

Rom.
What have I lived for? To be mock'd? contemn'd?
Nay, now, I'll answer this astounding question.
And when I have, do thou proclaim full loud,
If it is folly to receive a wrong,
And then complain, that justice is a sluggard.
Hither; come hither. (Aside)
I'll rehearse my story. Enter Officers.

Form ye in semicircle space, and listen.
My native town is Venice:—but my father,
Charm'd with the air of Naples, sojourn'd there,
With me, and others of our house, three months
In every year. Our ruin;—I anticipate!
The king,—King Ferdinand—gave a splendid banquet.
There I first saw,—I see her still!—Francesca;
Sitting, in regal splendour, by the side
Of her famed uncle, Ferdinand. She seem'd
Like one from heaven; delighting every eye.
Rich gems adorn'd her; but no gems could equal
The liquid lustre of those dark-blue eyes,
Which beam'd like Venus in the vernal heaven.
Such charms! Excuse me;—though these locks are grey,
'Tis not with age.—They open'd like the rose
Through the green fringes of its mossy woof;
Rising mid petals, that in valley hang
Their pensive heads; and from their snowy cells
Throw a rich fragrance o'er the evening air.

Fra.
(to Lepardo.)
Bleach'd are his locks;—cerulean all his soul!

Rom.
I loved her not as those do, who are lapt
In luxury, vanity, and indolence;
But as a man, who knows what sterling good
Springs ever verdant in a heart, where love
Rises and sets in purity and peace.
I saw and sigh'd in silent admiration,
Full many a day; and days with love, are ages.
This all men know, who know the force of love.
At length, one evening, I beheld her, sitting
In the king's bower, all silent and alone.
Trembling I stopt:—I knew not what to do!
I stopt! when on the pinions of the air,
Such streams of melody entranced my soul,
I could have listen'd till the doom of day;
Had I not heard, “my Julio, Julio, Julio!”
Drop from her lips;—half-smother'd with a sigh.
I stood awhile in breathless rapture: then
Stole to the bower, surprised her in her love,
Knelt at her feet, and begg'd an angel's pardon.

Fra.
Stand on this side, Lepardo. Thou'rt too eager.

Lep.
All are too eager: I correct myself.

Fra.
Stand all apart; nor crowd around him thus.

Rom.
Frowning she answer'd; would have fled; but I,
Arm'd with high rank, and heir to large possessions,
Press'd my lorn suit so earnestly, that she
Listen'd; then smiled; then gave me leave to woo;
Should the good king approve the generous choice.

Lep.
The king consented, I am certain.

Fra.
Hush!

Rom.
I sought the monarch. “A Venetian noble,
“Sprung from the noblest family in Rome,
“Claims rank with princes;” said the king. I woo'd;
The maid consented; and we married.

Fra.
Heaven—
Heaven—what a height for mortal man to fall from!

Rom.
I've stol'n an arrow,—a deep—piercing arrow—
From the wide quiver of revenge, depend on.
Six momentary years pass'd over us.
I should have told ye, that Schidoni, too,
Long had the captivating maiden loved.
She hated;—nay, she loathed him. At a banquet,
To which we bade king Ferdinand's royal court,
And to which he,—the viper! as king's chamberlain,
Was, by constraint, invited:—I deserved
A thousand deaths for such an invitation!
The banquet over, all retired to slumber.
Would it had lasted, till the death of time!
But sleep had scarcely visited these lids,
When,—such an agonizing shriek! On waking,
What was the scene my frenzied eyes beheld?
Francesca—
Oh the good gods!—am I alive to tell it?
Francesca, bleeding at my side; struck dead
With mine own dagger,—quivering in her side!
Peace,—peace; be silent: utter not one word. [Draws a circle round him with his sword.

Now, may I never from this circle move,
If I speak aught, but what the Gods might hear!
The' assassin fled in silence from my chamber;
Crept to his couch; thence issuing at the shrieks,
With which I raised the palace, he proclaim'd
Me the assassin:—jealousy of him!

Fra.
Was this Schidoni?

Rom.
Dost thou doubt it, sir?

Fra.
No man can doubt it.

Rom.
I'm a fool; an idiot,
A very stult. My left hand fain would doubt
What this, my right hand, doth.

[Bursts into tears.
Fra.
An agony like this—

Rom.
I meant no insult: by St. Mark, I meant none.
Nay, nay, forgive me:—I am sore all over!
All Naples rose! and though 'twas midnight, winter,
And rain descending in such torrents, that
It seem'd as if the last, loud, trump had sounded,
And the whole earth dissolving into nought;
Yet every street, lane, alley, terrace, court,
Garret and roof, resounded with the charge,
That I,—that I,—that I,—had stabb'd my wife,
And thrown the horrific crime upon Schidoni!

Fra.
Wretch—wretch;—a caitiff of iniquity.

Rom.
Those friends, who loved me, as they sometime swore,
More than themselves;—my well-dress'd, well-fed, friends,
All deck'd in rings, and diamond-hilted swords,
What did those friends amid my deep distress?
Forsake me like a pestilence. My servants,
Bless'd, and thrice bless'd, be every one of them!
My servants wept; and clothed themselves in mourning.
May the great Spirit give paradise to them all.

Fra.
What did the people in this trying hour?

Rom.
Throng round my palace like ten thousand hornets

Fra.
And did they seize upon thee, signor?

Rom.
Seize?
Oh my dear father—oh my sacred mother,—
That ye should live to see a night like that!
They throated me; and to the prison gates
Dragg'd me, loud hissing all the way, like serpents.
Children cried monster; women shriek'd shrill curses;
Men shouted death; and dogs were taught to howl,
Whene'er the word, Romano, cross'd their ears.
Schidoni pension'd witnesses. They swore;
Naples believed;—Romano was undone!
They would not hear one word in my defence.
They held me only as a denizen;
Rich, great, and noble;—therefore to be hated.
I was condemn'd unheard;—ruin'd; undone!
My wife, my daughter, fame, and fortune,—all—
In one short hour:—Too much for human strength!
My mind;—I'm ruin'd:—all, the world contains,
Could never recompense my soul. I'm shatter'd,
Beyond all power of medicine.

Fra.
No, no!

Rom.
Would I could think so. Yes, my mind is ruin'd.
They took my child;—I know not whither! Never
From that sad moment have I heard of her.
My mother—dumb-struck!—died in speechless horror.
My father saw me, like a felon, dragg'd
Through a loud, hissing, populace, to my prison.
Then sought the bloody death-bed chamber; where
—Th'horrific scene!—his raven hair turn'd grey;
Wild palsy seized his venerable frame;
Down sunk he on the clotted bed; and died,
In laughing madness, on Francesca's corse.
The good, the wise, the excellent old man!

[Hides his face in his robe.
Lep.
Save, or he falls!

Fra.
Such labyrinths of woe
Would bend the stoutest of mankind: Lean here.

Rom.
Not so: a monument of agony
Shall prove a pyramid of strength. (Hysterically.)
Whoo-loo!

Lep.
Well, as I live, I never heard aught like it!

Rom.
Amid these mountains once a hermit lived.
His food dry berries, and his drink the dews,
Distill'd from leaves of olives. He—; but stay;
My mind is wandering in the clouds:—my tale?
Where left I? I'm bewilder'd! where, where left I?
Schidoni pension'd witnesses, I say.
All, all, believed. Amid the senseless town,
One man alone, except my faithful servants,
One man alone was found with mind to doubt,
And heart to pity. He believed me wrong'd.
He was my gaoler, and a wonder. He—
I saved his brother, when a boy, from drowning.
Ah me—ye weep. I thank, I thank ye, brothers.

Fra.
We need not blush to shed a tear at this.

Rom.
He was, I say, a wonder:—he was grateful!
Applied the balm of comfort to my heart,
And ope'd his gates in secrecy. I fled!
The court sent messengers to Venice, Rome,
Milan, and all the states of Italy,
With threats against their senates, should they screen me.
In this extremity, for years I lived,
Amid these mountains, where the sun shines never,
Hopeless, nay desolate; agonized with wrong,
Accusing man, and almost doubting heaven.
At length, I heard my best and earliest friend
Is chos'n to fill the ducal chair of Venice.
Then I applied for succour and revenge.
This is my tale of injury. For this,
I've sworn eternal vengeance to Schidoni;
And for believing his enormous charge,
And hearing not one word in my defence,
Have I vow'd death to all the sons of Naples.

Fra.
And we'll assist thee in thy just revenge.

Rom.
My heart's all gratitude.

Fra.
Remember—one
Rich consolation thou hast still. Schidoni
Groans 'neath a mass of wickedness; while you—

Rom.
Ay:—if he felt his wickedness, his thoughts
Were far more terrible, than tongue could speak,
Or fancy picture. But he does not. He—?
The fiend exults in wickedness.

Fra.
He has
As many dark, and life-consuming sins,
As zebra stripes, or panting leopard spots.
His breath's a mildew, and his blood flows yellow.

Rom.
A living leprosy;—a pangolin,
Safe at all points: invulnerate! a vampire,
Which, while she sucks an Indian in the shade,
Fans him, unconscious, to his last, last, sleep.
I would, I were embalm'd amid the stars,
In rude Arcturus, or Cassiope,
Orion's girdle, or the northern wane!
—This night, we'll hold a banquet 'mid the ruins
Of that vast castle—but ye know not of it.
One rich autumnal morning, as I roved
Over these mountains, suddenly I came
To the cragg'd margin of a precipice.
My head turn'd giddy: yet I look'd below:
And there beheld, upon a promontory,
Screen'd from the fury of wild mountain-storms,
By woods, fantastic, towering up the glen,
In many a fold, a ruin'd castle: built,
No doubt, by some crusader: for the walls,
Sections, or elevations, rose, surcharg'd
With Saracenic ornaments. I stood,
Awhile admiring. Down, at length, I bounded
Like to an ibex. 'Twas a pile gigantic!
Shatter'd in fragments; dark, but magnificent.
Silence and solitude and secrecy
Reign'd there in holy brotherhood. No trace
Ev'n of a wandering shepherd! Nothing whisper'd
Aught of mankind, but as a monument.
Men seem to have shunn'd it, as a haunt of spirits;
Which, by the star-light, cheat their wandering steps,
And lure them on to misery and ruin.
Therefore it lies remote from human search,
As if amid the mountains of Imaus.
Until our messengers return, revenge demands
A secret refuge. Let us march: and there
Safety shall wait on silence and discretion.
Heard ye not thunder 'mid the distant mountains?

Fra.
Scarcely an hour glides over us, but we see
Deep torrents rushing from the clouds; huge oaks,
Whirling in eddies from the cliffs; and rocks,
All rent asunder, tumbling down t'the vale.

Rom.
It is indeed a wilderness, where Nature
Seems to be proud in trying of her strength.
But who moves yonder? By St. Mark—a youth,
Bearing a fine-form'd woman in his arms!

[Lorenzo, bearing Lavinia, is seen in the distance, climbing one of the precipices.
Fra.
He must move cautiously. The cliff impends
O'er a deep precipice; and one treacherous stone
May steep them, helpless, in the gulf below.

Rom.
Nine years have roll'd their melancholy round,
Since last I saw the figure of a woman.
How acts the vision on my shatter'd soul?
Like Venus, glittering in an azure heaven,
'Twixt two dark volumes, charged with angry tempests.
Hasten;—the wanderers! Bring them to us: follow:
Who knows what deed may wait upon the morrow?

[Exeunt.