University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Chamber in Durazzo's Palace.
Julia,
alone at a Table, putting up papers which she has been reading. She presses them passionately to her heart, kisses them, and speaks.
Dear, sad remembrances, my tears have stain'd you.
O, foolish drops, wash not away my treasure!
Unenvied, unobserv'd, and solitary,
Let me indulge this luxury of grief.
My Claudio's soul was pour'd out on these papers;
And every little word recalls him to me,
Lovely, belov'd, in beauty's manly bloom,
Protesting welcome vows, and breathing passion.

SCENE II.

To her Olympia.
[Julia.]
Return'd so speedily, my gentle friend?
Your cares are so preventive of my wishes,
I shall begin to expect beyond all bounds,
And grow presuming from too much indulgence.

OLYMPIA.
From Fulvia and her son I bring, my Julia,
A thousand kind endearments. Both together
With cordial acceptation heard your message,
And presently both mean to visit you.

JULIA.
Why does not pleasure kindle through my frame,
And mount up to my cheek, at such glad tidings?
The time has been, I should have glow'd at this,
Counting the impatient moments till her coming:—
But my repining heart deserves no blessings.

OLYMPIA.
To labour to forget, I know, is vain;
The fond endeavour toils against itself,
And deeper graves the idea 'twould efface;
Yet there are means—

JULIA.
Unprofitable all.
How have I dragg'd about this weary load,
Through every change of place and circumstance!
I mingled with the young, the gay, the happy;
Forcing a hollow smile at giddy joy,
While my pale heart sat mocking it within:
The arrow sticking here, from scene to scene
You led my sad insensibility,
The objects varying, but my soul the same.

OLYMPIA.
Too much, I fear, we try'd, and you endur'd
Our well-meant, unavailing services.

JULIA.
Could I forbear, I would not weep, Olympia;
Indeed I would not; for it pains my friends.
'Twas such a black, unapprehended horrour,
So sudden, and so dreadfully consummate,
I sometimes for a moment close my eyes,
And strive to think, I've had a hideous dream;
That, quite awake, 'twill vanish from my brain;
That, still he lives, and I again shall see him:
Ah, no! the short illusion is the dream;
Claudio, thy death the dire reality.

OLYMPIA.
The volume of his days too soon was clos'd;
But grace and honour had so fill'd the record,
Each page out-weigh'd a long life's history.

JULIA.
This was the hour, when my dear father came,
Trembling and pale, to falter out the tidings.
That instant, mighty ruler of our fates!
Had thy exterminating arm reach'd here,
These floods of bitter tears, this black despair,
Had not been number'd with the sins of Julia.

OLYMPIA.
Tame languid minds, whose course glides dully on,
Yield, as the stream to the sharp severing keel,
To close as quickly on each transient wound;
But woe's deep traces never leave thy breast.

JULIA.
Was I not mad, Olympia? I remember,
I felt the stab in Genoa.—When I wak'd,
The place, nor aught around me, were the same:
I saw the smooth Bisagnio, as I lay,
Rolling his quiet tide beneath my window;
It seem'd Elysium, and the peaceful shades
Where guiltless lovers are no more divided.

OLYMPIA.
But now, my friend, collect your fortitude;
Nor start, when you behold your Claudio's image
Recall'd to life, and blooming in Marcellus:
I know, he'll soon be here.

JULIA.
Why should I dread it?—
Disus'd even to the shadow of a joy,
My sickly apprehension plays the coward:
Yet I will see him.

OLYMPIA.
You turn pale, my Julia;
Shall I forbid his coming?

JULIA.
No. This weakness
Will pass away. A treacherous hectick wastes me:
I shall not suffer long.—Is he so like,
So very like his brother?

OLYMPIA.
Features, stature,
Almost the same. Somewhat a bolder air,
Yet gentle still; and (youthful as he is)
A little frown of discontented thought
Casts o'er his brow a momentary shade,
That seems not native to his generous aspect.

JULIA.
In such an aspect was my paradise.
But now pale lead lies on that mouldering face:
Whose beams shot rapture once to Julia's bosom.

OLYMPIA.
By nature fram'd for every genial bliss,
Turn, gently turn, from that cold retrospect!
And there is one—

JULIA.
I know whom you would name.

OLYMPIA.
Then smile, and name him for me.

JULIA.
No, I cannot;
I cannot smile, and name Mentevole:
But yet, I much respect him.

OLYMPIA.
Bare respect
For passion such as his!

JULIA.
Olympia, spare me;
In this alone I must seem obstinate.

OLYMPIA.
Alas, poor brother!

[aside.
JULIA.
Hark! my father comes;
Hold him a little moment in discourse;
I would not have him see I had been weeping.

[Julia retires a little.

SCENE III.

To Julia and Olympia, Durazzo.
DURAZZO.
I come, Olympia, to this chamber door,
To learn my destiny. As we inquire
From those who wake us, if the sun looks bright,
Or clouds obscure him, and then suit our garments
To meet the changeful temper of the sky,
So, by the colour of my daughter's health,
My mind is dress'd for gladness or dejection.

OLYMPIA.
I think, she mends. Her sorrow, that was silent,
Finds some relief in utterance. She approaches.

JULIA.
Your blessing, sir!

DURAZZO.
O, may it drop upon thee,
Refreshing as mild dews on vernal flowers,
To kill the canker that consumes thy fragrance!

JULIA.
My heart, my grateful heart, owns all your goodness;
And could my first devotion reach the sky,
Time and your honour'd days should end together.

DURAZZO.
Not too long life, pray not for curses on me!
Helpless, uncomely, loath'd, and burdensome,
I would not cling to the last hold of nature,
Nor lag without one social cord to aid me.
Surviving my companions of the voyage,
The world to me would seem a ruin'd vessel,
A worthless wreck, when mann'd alone by strangers.
Let my heart burst at once with some great feeling!
Let me go all together to my grave,
Not maim'd and piece-meal with infirmity!—
I have liv'd enough, could I but see thee happy.

JULIA.
That will not be.

DURAZZO.
I swear, it must, it shall be;
And come, I have a suit which you must grant me.

JULIA.
My dearest father!

[throwing her arms round him.
DURAZZO.
Change these mourning weeds:
For outward signs, though trifles in themselves,
When the mind's weak; and spirits delicate,
To fancy, in herself too powerful,
Lend their mute aid, and make her workings stronger.

JULIA.
This habit was best suited to my mood,
But shall no more offend you.

DURAZZO.
Fair Olympia,
I now must beg your aid. Your constant brother,
(Nor does proud Genoa boast a nobler youth,)
With adoration such as saints pay heaven,
Devotes his service here.

JULIA.
Ah sir, for pity!
I feel myself not worthy of his passion.
My soul is out of tune to flattery:
The fondest vows that ever lover sigh'd,
Might wring my eyes, but never warm my heart.

DURAZZO.
Nay, stop these tears; I'll urge this theme no more.
And see, an honour'd visitant approaches;
Receive her not in sorrow.

SCENE IV.

To them Fulvia; Marcellus behind. Julia and Fulvia embrace.
FULVIA.
Lovely Julia,
In this embrace I hop'd to have clasp'd a daughter;
To have call'd thee mine, by an endearing tie,
That yields alone to nature's closest bond:
But though that fleet delusive dream is vanish'd,
With pride I own thy native excellence.
These eager throbbings, while I hold thee thus,
Are stronger protestations how I prize thee,
Than all the lavish praise my tongue could utter.

JULIA.
Here let me grow for ever, none divide us!
Methinks, when these protecting arms enfold me,
Long-vanish'd peace seems to return once more,
And spread her dove-like wings again to shield me.

MARCELLUS.
They told me truth, I never saw such beauty.

[aside, looking at Julia.
FULVIA.
Vile slander, on my life, has wrong'd her virtue.—
[aside.
Have I not seem'd unkind, so many months
A stranger here, where ever-new delight
Sprung in our paths; where each returning morn,
Among the happy, found me happiest?
But O, I fear'd for thee, and for myself;
Our walks, these chambers, every senseless object,
By known relation to our common loss,
Had conjur'd up to our accustom'd sense
Sad visions of his looks, his gestures, words,
And multiplied the ideas we should banish.

JULIA.
I judg'd it not unkindness, for I know
Your generous nature feels for all who suffer.
And if to have been once supremely bless'd,
To have reach'd the height of every human wish,
Then sudden—but your swelling eyes reproach me.
You own'd him first, before his birth you lov'd him;
But O, this selfish grief forgets all titles.

FULVIA.
Yet join with me to bless that providence,
Which bending gracious to a parent's prayer,
'Midst all the perils of destructive war,
Preserv'd one pillar of my falling house.
Come near, my son; and in this fair perfection.
Behold, what, next to thee, the world contains
Most precious to thy mother.

[Marcellus, who has been behind with Durazzo, advances.
JULIA.
Saints and angels!
[starting.
Am I awake, or is this mockery?
O, I could gaze for ever on that face,
Nor wish to rouse me from the dear delusion.
Still let me know him only by my eyes!
O, do not speak, lest some unusual sound,
An alien to my ear, dissolve this vision,
And tell me thou but wear'st my Claudio's outside!

MARCELLUS.
If it commend me, Madam, to your favour,
I would not change it for the comliest form
That ever charm'd the eye with fair proportion.
But stop not at the exterior, search me deeply;
For proof, command me instant to your service;
Though peril walk with death in the achievement,
Swifter than falcons through the trackless air
My eager thoughts shall fly to your obedience.

JULIA.
Take heed, take heed, tempt not the dangerous shore;
Rocks, shelves, and quicksands lurk, I fear, around me;
And let one gallant vessel's shipwreck warn thee,—
Shun the same course, and find a happier fortune.

MARCELLUS.
I fear no shelves, no quicksands, but thy frown.
Aw'd and enraptur'd I behold such beauty;
And while I talk thus, wish to find some language
Fit for a being of a sphere above me.

[A Servant enters, and whispers Olympia.
OLYMPIA.
Julia, a word. Mentevole attends,
[to Julia aside.
And asks to be admitted.

JULIA.
Now? Not now;
Indeed I cannot see him. Quick, my Olympia,
Prevent his entrance. My poor fluttering heart,
(If suddenly that name is sounded to me,)
Beats, like a prison'd bird against its cage,
When some annoying hand is stretch'd to seize it.

DURAZZO.
Madam, this day which brings you back to us,
[to Fulvia.
We should make festival. Your presence here
Has wrought a miracle. I have not seen
A smile of joy enlighten that dear face,
Heaven knows how long, till you brought sunshine with you.

FULVIA.
I have upbraidings for my absence, here;
The cause, I'm sure, a false one. In atonement,
Let me observe her with a mother's care.
Invention shall be rack'd to find new means,
To lure her thoughts to sweet serenity.
She shall not see the frequent tears that wear
Their woeful channel down a parent's cheeks;
And to the brightest source of mortal comfort,
I will commend her, when I kneel to heaven.

DURAZZO.
May plumes of seraphs waft your pious prayers!
The tenderness of women has a charm,
Our rougher natures can attain but rudely.
Your voices are such dulcet instruments,
They steal the listening soul from its affliction,
To wind it gently in the soft enchantment.

FULVIA.
O, may that power be mine! Observe, my Julia,
My lord commits yon to my guardianship;
Do you confirm the trust?

JULIA.
An outcast's fortune
Might pitiless fall on me, could I fail
To bend with reverence for your dear protection.

FULVIA.
Come, let us hence; the air is mild abroad.
Julia, we must not sink, but strive to banish
That restless inbred foe to the afflicted,
Reflection, from our bosoms.

JULIA.
'Would, I could!
But death's long sleep alone can banish him.

[Exeunt all but Marcellus.
MARCELLUS.
My soul and all its faculties go with her:
[looking after Julia.
Grace, beauty, sweetness, all that captivates,
And holds us long in dear delicious bonds,
Indissoluble bonds, for time too strong,
For change, or casualty, are summ'd up there.
Divinity of love, absolute master,
From this white hour, to thy all-potent sway
Thus I submit me: hence, all idle thoughts,
I chase you forth. Full-plum'd ambition, glory,
Arms, and the war, farewel! Her brighter image
Claims all my bosom, and disdains a rival.

[Exit.

SCENE VI.

A Place before Durazzo's Palace.
Mentevole,
with a letter; and a Servant.
Convey this letter to the lady Fulvia;
Be muffled close, and cloak'd, that none may know you;
Speak not a word, but leave it, and return.
[Exit Servant.
Pride and suspicion, in her violent temper,
From this short scroll will work rare mischief for me;
One spark will set her passions in a blaze:
A hint to her is proof demonstrative.—
So,—I must bear this too; she will not see me,
Her health is delicate. But young Marcellus,
He fits a lady's chamber at all seasons;
Soft as Favonius,—and a cherub's cheek
Is not so smooth and rosy. Precious minion!
They think me sure a tame enduring slave,
A trampled clod: they shall not find me such.
The scanty drop which once was patience here,
Flames as it flows, and kindles all my nature
To its own element of fire within me.
Ha! he appears. Choke me not, indignation!
Prey inwards! down! while I dissemble calmness.

[Mentevole retires a little.

SCENE VII.

Marcellus
enters, looking back.
Ay, there's the attraction. Thou unconscious house,
Thy turrets should be cased with beaten gold;
For thou enshrin'st a goddess.—Can it be?
Not three years pass'd, regardless of her charms
Day after day I saw her, and forgot them.
Or does the beauty of the full-blown rose
Surpass the promise of the opening bud?
I sure lov'd Claudio well; no brother's bond
Was truer to a brother; yet self! self!
This sudden flower now springs up from his grave,
That in a brother lies a rival buried.

MENTEVOLE.
[advances.
My lord, well met. You then have seen this wonder.
Has fame exceeded, think you?

MARCELLUS.
How exceeded?

MENTEVOLE.
Spoke Julia fairer than your eyes confess her?

MARCELLUS.
All eyes, all hearts, with rapture must confess her.

MENTEVOLE.
Then I must think, you do not mean to pine
In silent adoration?

MARCELLUS.
What bless'd strain
Can touch that gentle bosom?

MENTEVOLE.
Take my counsel;
Devote thy soul to any thing but love;
Steep thy drench'd senses in the mad'ning bowl;
Heap gold, and hug the mammon for itself;
Set provinces on dice; o'er the pale lamp
Of sickly science waste thy vigorous youth;
Rush to the war, or cheer the deep-tongu'd hound;
Be thou the proverb'd slave of each, or all;
They shall not be so noxious to thy soul,
As dainty woman's love.

MARCELLUS.
If this be counsel,
It comes with such a harsh and boisterous breath,
I more discern the freedom, than the friendship.

MENTEVOLE.
Falsly our poets deck the barbarous god
With roseat hue, with infants' dimpling smiles,
With wanton curls, and wings of downy gold:—
He dips his darts in poisonous aconite;
The firy venom rankles in our veins,
Infuses rage, and murderous cruelty.

MARCELLUS.
The richest juice pour'd in a tainted jar,
Turns to a nauseous and unwholesome draught,
But we condemn the vessel, not the wine;
So gentle love, lodg'd in a savage breast,
May change his nature to a tyger's fierceness.

MENTEVOLE.
Away with vain disguise! Mark me, my lord,
I long have lov'd this lady with a passion,
Too quick and jealous, not to find a rival,
Too fierce to brook him. She receives my vows;
Her father favours them. Wealth, titles, honour,
My rank in the state, and many fair additions
(Surpass'd by none) keep buoyant my full hopes.
If yet your heart's untouch'd, I ask, entreat it,
(And strangers grant such common courtesies,)
Forbear your visits to her.

MARCELLUS.
Believe this;
Were there a fasting lion in my path,
I'd rather this good steel here by my side
Should grow one piece with the sheath, or in my grasp
Shrink to a bulrush, but to mock the wielder,
Than feed you with the smallest hope or promise
I meant not to fulfil.

MENTEVOLE.
Then we are foes.

MARCELLUS.
I'm sorry for't.

MENTEVOLE.
Deadly, irreconcilable.
Two eager racers starting for one goal,
Both cannot win, but shame must find the loser.
You step between me, and the light of heaven,
You strive to rob me of my life's best hope,
(For life without her were my curse, my burden,)
With cruel calmness you pluck out my heart;
Therefore, were the world's bounds more wide and large,
They could not hold us both.

MARCELLUS.
I little thought
To draw my sword against my brother's friend;
And here attest heaven, and my peaceful soul,
You drag this quarrel on me.

MENTEVOLE.
Yonder herd,
Who prying now would interrupt our purpose,
Will two hours hence be hous'd, to avoid the sun,
Then riding at his height; at home I'll wait you,
And lead you thence to a sequester'd spot,
Fit for the mortal issue of our meeting.

MARCELLUS.
Since you will have it so,—

MENTEVOLE.
The die is cast,
Have I the bulk, and sinewy strength of man,
But to sustain a heavier injury?
Let cowards shiver with a smother'd hate,
And fear the evil, valour might avert:
The brave man's sword secures his destiny.

[Exeunt severally.