ACT IV.
SCENE I.
CASTLE OF BERTINORO. Countess of Bertinoro, Marchesella, Paolucci, and Stamura.
Page.
My lady! here are two such men as never
Enter'd a palace-gate.
Countess.
Who are they?
Page.
One
Older than anything I ever saw,
Alive or dead; the other a stout youth,
Guiding him, and commanding all around
To stand aside, and give that elder way;
At first with gentle words, and then with stern.
Coarse their habiliments, their beards unshorn,
Yet they insist on entrance to my lady.
Countess.
Admit the elder, but exclude the other.
Wait.
[To Marchesella.
If the younger be his son, what little
Of service I may render to the father
Will scarce atone for keeping him apart.
[To the Page.
Go; bid them enter; both.
[Stamura, having led Paolucci in, retires.
Paolucci.
I come, O countess!
Imploring of your gentleness and pity,
To save from fire and sword, and, worse than either,
Worse, and more imminent, to save from famine
The few brave left, the many virtuous,
Virgins and mothers (save them!) in Ancona.
Countess.
Nay, fall not at my knee. Age must not that . .
Raise him, good Marchesella!
Paolucci.
You too, here,
Illustrious lord?
Marchesella.
What! and art thou still living,
Paolucci? faithful, hospitable soul!
We have not met since childhood . . mine, I mean.
Paolucci.
Smile not, my gentle lord! too gracious then,
Be now more gracious; not in looks or speech,
But in such deeds as you can best perform.
Friendship another time might plead for us;
Now bear we what our enemy would else
Seize from us, all the treasures of our city,
To throw them at your feet for instant aid.
Help, or we perish. Famine has begun . .
Begun? has almost ended . . with Ancona.
Countess.
Already? We have been too dilatory.
Marchesella.
I could not raise the money on my lands
Earlier; it now is come. I want not yours:
Place it for safety in this castle-keep,
If such our lady's pleasure.
Countess.
Until peace.
Marchesella.
My troops are on the march.
Countess.
And mine not yet?
Repose you, sir! they shall arrive with you,
Or sooner. Is that modest youth your son?
Paolucci.
Where is he? gone again?
Countess.
When you first enter'd.
Paolucci.
Some angel whisper'd your benign intent
Into his ear, else had he never left me.
My son? Who would not proudly call him so?
Soon shall you hear what mother bore the boy,
And where he dash'd the galleys, while that mother
Fired their pine towers, already wheel'd against
Our walls, and gave us time . . for what? to perish.
Marchesella.
No, by the saints above! not yet, not yet.
[Trumpet sounds.
Countess.
Merenda is announced. Sir, I entreat you
To lead me! Grant one favour more; and hint not
To our young friend that we have learnt his prowess.
[To a Page.
Conduct the noble youth who waits without.
SCENE II.
Countess, Marchesella, Paolucci, Stamura, at Table.
Countess
(to Stamura).
Sir, there are seasons when 'tis incivility
To ask a name; 'twould now be more uncivil
To hesitate.
Stamura.
Antonio is my name.
Countess.
Baptismal. Pray, the family?
Stamura.
Stamura;
But that my honour'd father gave in marriage
To her who wears it brighter day by day:
She calls me rather by the name he bore.
Countess.
It must be known and cherisht.
Stamura.
By the bravest
And most enduring in my native place;
It goes no farther: we are but just noble.
Countess.
He who could heed the tempest, and make serve
Unruly ocean, not for wealth, nor harm
To any but the spoiler, high above
That ocean, high above that tempest's wing,
He needs no turret to abut his name,
He needs no crescent to stream light on it,
Nor castellan, nor seneschal, nor herald.
Paolucci.
Ha! boy, those words make thy breast rise and fall,
Haply as much as did the waves. The town
Could ill repay thee; Beauty overpays.
Countess.
Talk what the young should hear; nor see the meed
Of glorious deeds in transitory tints,
Fainter or brighter.
Paolucci.
I was wrong.
Countess.
Not quite:
For beauty, in thy native town, young man,
May feel her worth in recompensing thine.
Stamura
(aside).
Alas! alas! she perishes! while here
We tarry.
Paolucci
(overhearing).
She? Who perishes?
Stamura.
The town.
Paolucci.
How the boy blushes at that noble praise!
Countess.
They blush at glory who deserve it most.
. . Blushes soon go: the dawn alone is red.
Stamura.
We know what duty, not what glory is.
The very best among us are not rich
Nor powerful.
Countess.
Are they anywhere?
Paolucci.
His deeds,
If glorious in themselves, require no glory.
Even this siege, those sufferings, who shall heed?
Countess.
He gives most light by being not too high.
Remember by what weapon fell the chief
Of Philistines. Did brazen chariots, driven
By giants, roll against him? From the brook,
Striking another such, another day,
A little pebble stretcht the enormous bulk
That would have fill'd it and have turn'd its course.
And in the great deliverers of mankind
Whom find ye? Those whom varlet pipers praise.
The greatest of them all, by all adored,
Did Babylon from brazen-belted gate,
Not humble straw-rooft Bethlehem, send forth?
We must not be too serious. Let us hear
How were the cables cut.
Paolucci.
I saw the shears
That clipt them. Father John, before he went,
Show'd me them, how they workt. He himself held
The double crescent of sharp steel, in form
Like that swart insect's which you shake from fruit
About the kernel. This enclaspt the cable;
And too long handles (a stout youth, at each
Extremity, pushing with all his strength
Right forward) sunder'd it. Then swiftly flew
One vessel to the shore; and then another:
And hardly had the youths or Father John
Time to take breath upon the upper wave,
When down they sank again and there swang round
Another prow, and dasht upon the mole.
Then many blithe Venetians fell transfixt
With arrows, many sprang into the sea
And cried for mercy. Upon deck appeared
The pope's own nephew, who ('tis said) had come
To arbitrate. He leapt into a boat
Which swam aside, most gorgeously array'd,
And this young man leapt after him and seized him.
He, when he saw a dagger at his throat,
Bade all his crew, four well-built men, surrender.
Stamura.
They could not have feared me: they saw our archers.
Countess.
And where is now your prisoner?
Stamura.
He desired
An audience of the consul.
Countess.
To what end?
Stamura.
I know not: I believe to court his daughter.
Countess.
Is the girl handsome? Is that question harder
Than what I askt before? Will he succeed?
Stamura.
Could he but save from famine our poor city,
And . . could he make her happy . .
Countess.
Pray go on.
It would delight you then to see him win her?
Stamura.
O that I had not saved him! or myself!
Countess.
She loves him then? And you hate foreigners.
I do believe you like the fair Erminia
Yourself.
Stamura.
She hates me. Who likes those that hate him?
Countess.
I never saw such hatred as you bear her:
If she bears you the like . .
Stamura.
She can do now
No worse than what she has done.
Countess.
Who knows that?
I am resolved to see.
Stamura.
O lady Countess!
How have I made an enemy of you?
Place me the lowest of your band, but never
Affront her with the mention of my name.
When the great work which you have undertaken
Is done, admit me in your castle-walls,
And never let me see our own again.
Countess.
I think I may accomplish what you wish;
But, recollect, I make no promises.
SCENE III.
OPEN SPACE NEAR THE BALISTA GATE IN ANCONA. The Lady Malaspina, her Infant, and a Soldier.
Soldier.
I am worn down with famine, and can live
But few hours more.
L. Malaspina.
I have no food.
Soldier.
Nor food
Could I now swallow. Bring me water, water!
L. Malaspina.
Alas! I can not. Strive to gain the fountain.
Soldier.
I have been nigh.
L. Malaspina.
And could not reach it?
Soldier.
Crowds
I might pierce through, but how thrust back their cries?
They madden'd me to flight ere half-way in.
Some upright . . no, none that . . but some unfallen,
Yet pressing down with their light weight the weaker.
The brows of some were bent down to their knees,
Others (the hair seized fast by those behind)
Lifted for the last time their eyes to heaven;
And there were waves of heads one moment's space
Seen, then unseen forever. Wails rose up
Half stifled underfoot, from children some,
And some from those who bore them.
L. Malaspina.
Mercy! mercy!
O blessed Virgin! thou wert mother too!
How didst thou suffer! how did He! Save, save
At least the infants, if all else must perish.
Soldier! brave soldier! dost thou weep? then hope.
Soldier.
I suffer'd for myself; deserve I mercy?
L. Malaspina.
He who speaks thus shall find it. Try to rise.
Soldier.
No: could I reach the fountain in my thirst,
I would not.
L. Malaspina.
Life is sweet.
Soldier.
To brides, to mothers.
L. Malaspina.
Alas! how soon may those names pass away!
I would support thee partly, wert thou willing,
But my babe sleeps.
Soldier.
Sleep, little one, sleep on!
I shall sleep too as soundly, by and by.
L. Malaspina.
Courage, one effort more.
Soldier.
And tread on children!
On children clinging to my knees for strength
To help them on, and with enough yet left
To pull me down, but others pull down them.
God! let me bear this thirst, but never more
Bear this sad sight! Tread on those tiny hands
Clasping the dust! See those dim eyes upturn'd,
Those rigid lips reproachless! Man may stir,
Woman may shake, my soul; but children, children!
O God! those are thine own! make haste to help them!
Happy that babe!
L. Malaspina.
Thou art humane.
Soldier.
'Tis said
That hunger is almost as bad as wealth
To make men selfish; but such feebleness
Comes over me, all things look dim around,
And life most dim, and least worth looking after.
L. Malaspina.
I pity thee. Day after day myself
Have lived on things unmeet for sustenance.
My milk is failing . . Rise . .
(To the Child)
My little one!
God will feed thee! Be sleep thy nourisher
Until his mercies strengthen me afresh!
Sink not: take heart: advance: Here, where from heaven
The Virgin-mother can alone behold us,
Draw some few drops.
[The tocsin sounds.
Soldier.
Ha! my ears boom thro' faintness.
What sounds?
L. Malaspina.
The bell.
Soldier.
Then they are at the gate . .
I can but thank you . . Give me force, O Heaven!
For this last fight! . . and keep from harm these twain!
Malaspina and Child alone.
L. Malaspina.
And still thou sleepest, my sweet babe! Is death
Like sleep? Ah, who then, who would fear to die?
How beautiful is all serenity!
Sleep, a child's sleep, O how far more serene,
And O, how far more beautiful than any!
Whether we breathe so gently or breathe not,
Slight is the difference. But the pangs, the rage
Of famine who can bear? . . unless to raise
Her child above it!
(Two Priests are passing.)
First Priest.
Who sits yonder? bent
O'er her dead babe? as many do within
Their houses!
Second Priest.
Surely, surely, it must be
She who, not many days ago, was praised
For beauty, purity, humility,
Above the noblest of Anconite dames.
First Priest.
The Lady Malaspina?
Second Priest.
But methinks
The babe is not dead yet.
First Priest.
Why think you so?
Second Priest.
Because she weeps not over it.
First Priest.
For that
I think it dead. It then could pierce no more
Her tender heart with its sad sobs and cries.
But let us hasten from the place to give
The dying their last bread, the only bread
Yet unconsumed, the blessed eucharist.
Even this little, now so many die,
May soon be wanting.
Second Priest.
God will never let
That greater woe befall us.
[The Priests go.
Malaspina.
Who runs hither?
[The Soldier falls before her.
Art thou come back? So! thou couldst run, O vile!
Soldier.
Lady! your gentleness kept life within me
Until four fell.
L. Malaspina.
Thyself unwounded?
Soldier.
No;
If arms alone can wound the soldier's breast,
They toucht me not this time; nor needed they;
Famine had done what your few words achieved.
L. Malaspina.
They were too harsh. Forgive me!
Soldier.
Not the last.
Those were not harsh! Enter my bosom, enter,
Kind pitying words! untie there life's hard knot,
And let it drop off easily! How blest!
I have not robb'd the child, nor shamed the mother!
[He dies.
L. Malaspina.
Poor soul! and the last voice he heard on earth
Was bitter blame, unmerited! And whose?
Mine, mine! Should they who suffer sting the sufferer?
O saints above! avenge not this misdeed!
What doth his hand hold out? A little crate,
With german letters round its inner rim . .
And . . full of wine! Yet did his lips burn white!
He tasted not what might have saved his life,
But brought it hither, to be scorn'd and die.
[Singers are heard in the same open space before an image.]
Singers! where are they? My sight swims; my strength
Fails me; I can not rise, nor turn to look;
But only I can pray, and never voice
Prays like the sad and silent heart its last.
Old Men.
The village of the laurel grove
Hath seen thee hovering high above,
Whether pure innocence was there,
Or helpless grief, or ardent prayer.
O Virgin! hither turn thy view,
For these are in Ancona too.
Not for ourselves implore we aid,
But thou art mother, thou art maid;
Behold these suppliants, and secure
Their humbled heads from touch impure!
Maidens.
Hear, maid and mother! hear our prayer!
Be brave and aged men thy care!
And, if they bleed, O may it be
In honour of thy Son and thee!
When innocence is wrong'd, we know
Thy bosom ever felt the blow.
Yes, pure One! there are tears above,
But tears of pity, tears of love,
And only from thine eyes they fall,
Those eyes that watch and weep for all.
[They prostrate themselves.
L. Malaspina.
How faintly sound those voices! altho' many;
At every stave they cease, and rest upon
That slender reed which only one can blow.
But she has heard them! Me too she has heard.
Heaviness, sleep comes over me, deep sleep:
Can it, so imperturbable, be death?
And do I for the last time place thy lip
Where it may yet draw life from me, my child!
Thou, who alone canst save him, thou wilt save.
[She dies: the child on her bosom still sleeping.
