University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Garden, behind Mentevole's house.
Mentevole
alone, on a garden seat, looking at a picture.
And must I be content with thee, poor shadow?
Yet she's less kind than this her counterfeit,
For this looks pleas'd, and seems to smile upon me.
O, what a form is here! her polish'd front,
Blue slender veins, winding their silken maze,
Through flesh of living snow. Young Hebe's hue,
Blushing ambrosial health. Her plenteous tresses,
Luxuriant beauty! Those bewitching eyes,
That shot their soft contagion to my soul;—
But where's their varied sweetness? Where the fire
To drive men wild with passion to their ruin?
Where are her gentle words? the dewy breath
Balming the new-blown roses 'tis exhaled through?
Thou envious happy lawn, hide those white orbs
That swell beneath thy folds! O power of beauty,
If thou canst sanctify—By heaven, my sister:—
[rises.
Up fair perdition!

[attempting hastily to put up the picture, he drops it on the ground.

SCENE II.

To him, Olympia.
[Mentevole.]
'Twas not well, Olympia,
To break thus on my privacy. My orders
Were strictly given that none should now have entrance.

OLYMPIA.
I would not be deny'd; and when you know
Why I am here, you will have cause to bless,
Not chide me for the intrusion.

MENTEVOLE.
Then be quick;
For other cares, and of more serious import,
Will presently demand me. Speak your purpose.

OLYMPIA.
My lips would give my purpose little grace,
When she, who sent me forward but to find you,
Can speak it for herself, I came with Julia.

MENTEVOLE.
With Julia? Do not mock me.

OLYMPIA.
Turn your eyes
To yonder cypress, see who there expects you.

MENTEVOLE.
By all my hopes of happiness 'tis she:
Like a descended angel there she stands.

OLYMPIA.
Herself indeed; then haste, conduct her hither.

[Mentevole rushes out.

SCENE III.

Olympia
sees, and takes up the picture.
Ay, as I thought, her picture. On this face
His eyes were fed, when my approach surpris'd him.
Thou fair consumer of his pining soul,
O, thou delicious poison, for a while,
Though he may grieve, let me withhold thee from him!
With what a blaze of wealth has he adorn'd it!
What gems are here! I'll leave it in her sight;
This silent proof should more commend his suit,
Than hot-breath'd vows, whose common vehemence
Their common violation quickly follows.

SCENE IV.

To Olympia, Mentevole, leading in Julia.
JULIA.
Well may you be surpris'd, nor can you question,
When you behold me here, how deep the interest
That urges me to seek you.

MENTEVOLE.
To behold you,
(Whate'er the cause) is such excess of bliss,
How, how shall I pour out my enraptur'd sense,
How thank this condescension?

JULIA.
Good my lord,
The anxious bosom, ill at ease like mine,
Partakes no raptures. Calmness and attention,
(If I deserve your thanks,) will better thank me.

MENTEVOLE.
Thou soul of all my passions! this fond breast
Is but the obedient instrument, whose chords,
As you think meet, sound high, or sink to silence.

JULIA.
I have heard of your late outrage to Marcellus.

MENTEVOLE.
Has he complain'd, and to a lady's ear?

JULIA.
Wrong not his well-tried courage. No; the attendants
Saw all your furious gestures, heard your challenge;
And, for prevention, to Olympia ran,
To alarm us of the danger.

OLYMPIA.
He's conceal'd,
And has been since your parting. That confirms it.

JULIA.
Waste not the precious minutes in denial.

MENTEVOLE.
Fool that I was! no kind concern for me,
The safety of Marcellus, made you seek me

JULIA.
And I avow the motive. Am I held,
Like those grim idols barbarous nations worship,
By cruel rites to be propitiated?
If love prevail not, dress'd in smiles and softness,
Array'd in blood will the fell monster charm me?
No; if you prize my peace, if you desire
I ever more should name Mentevole,
Or suffer him in thought, but with abhorrence,
Dismiss your causeless hate to Claudio's brother.

MENTEVOLE.
Let him dismiss his love to Claudio's mistress.

JULIA.
Your own, imaginary, light suggestion.

MENTEVOLE.
He boasts it, glories in it. Causeless hate!
Causeless, to hate the envenom'd thing that stings me?
Diseases curdle up his youthful blood,
And mar his specious outside!

JULIA.
Watchful angels,
Keep him in charge, and o'er his gallant head
Spread their protecting wings, to avert thy curses!

MENTEVOLE.
Ha! am I then—

OLYMPIA.
Is this your promis'd patience?

MENTEVOLE.
What can I do?

JULIA.
What reason bids you do.
Not to repent, but to commit a wrong,
Gives shame's true crimson to the ingenuous cheek.
Ask his indulgence, and confess your frenzy.

MENTEVOLE.
The boy may think I fear him.

JULIA.
No, not so.
What generous spirit is not slow to ascribe
Motives to others, which itself would scorn?
Are you alone too mighty to have err'd?
Rather suspect, your pride revolts to own it;
Acknowledge it, and then have cause for pride,
And rise exalted by humility.
Contrition is fair virtue's meek-ey'd sister;
Her drops can wash offence to fleecy white,
Turning our sins to gracious intercessors.
The wisest sometimes may do wrong from passion;
But conscious of that wrong, the ruffian only,
By brutal perseverance, twice does wrong:
Mean pride! false principle! true honour scorns them.

MENTEVOLE.
It goes against my nature's bent.

JULIA.
Indeed!
Then hear me, hear this solemn protestation:
If you persist, by that benevolent power,
Whose blessed beams avert from violence,
Whose law forbids it,—

MENTEVOLE.
O, enough; forbear
Yes, you shall be obey'd; I will put on
The meek demeanour of repenting rashness;
And to the foe I hate, thus bending, cry,
Forgive me, since you will it. Yet remember,
I thus degrade me in mine own esteem,
Only to rise in yours. Your liberal nature
Will give my free compliance its best gloss.
It shews your full dominion o'er my soul,
That joyfully prefers your least command,
Even to my honour, which I risk to obey you.

JULIA.
The act bespeaks itself. I must remember,
My peace, or misery, was in your power:
You chose the gentler part, and made me happy,

MENTEVOLE.
Transporting thought! behold, I fly to meet him.
The hour is come. Marcellus now expects me.
Farewel! my eyes, at variance with my tongue,
Still gaze, and cannot bear to lose thy beauties.

[Exit Mentevole.

SCENE V.

Julia, Olympia.
OLYMPIA.
Indeed he loves you.

JULIA.
'Would to heaven he did not!
It looks, methinks, like hard ingratitude,
To render aught for love, but equal love.
Esteem, the best affection I can offer,
Seems but a dull, unvalued counterpoise,
And pays the glowing ore with worthless lead.
Though all be little, to give all, is bounty.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

Enter, at an opposite side, Marcellus and Mentevole.
MARCELLUS.
Enough, my lord. This fair acknowledgment
Has rais'd your justice high in my esteem.
A soldier's honour can require no more;
And sure, tis better, thus to join our hands,
Than try their strength in rude hostility.

MENTEVOLE.
I was your brother's friend; and while he liv'd,
Though the same passion that still fires my soul,
Then fiercely burn'd for this enchanting Julia;
Yet, from respect for his precedent claim,
And to her choice avow'd, within my breast
I kept the painful secret. He so lov'd me,
The wound he could not heal, I would not shew:
Then sure, full equally, from you, Marcellus,
New to her charms, at least I may expect
A like declining.

MARCELLUS.
Good Mentevole,
Let's find some safer subject.

MENTEVOLE.
No, this only.
I cannot speak, or think, of aught but her:
She is my essence; feeds, wakes, sleeps, with me;
Is vital to me as the air I breathe.
But mark, I am compos'd; no violence
Lives in my thoughts, or shall disgrace my tongue.

MARCELLUS.
Then, lest I move your temper, let me leave you.

MENTEVOLE.
No, pr'ythee no, not thus unsatisfied.
I'll not contend, but her transcendent beauty,
Even at first sight, must strike the gazer's eye
With admiration, which might grow to love.
But is it possible, one interview,
(For you but once have seen her,) should so root
Her image in your soul, that all your bliss,
Or future misery, depends on her?

MARCELLES.
Regard not me, but reason for yourself.
If all your faithful vows, your length of courtship,
Her father's favour, and the nameless aids
Which time and opportunity have furnish'd,
Raise not your hopes above a rival's power;
Say, were it not more wise, and manly too,
To rouse, and shake off such a hard dominion?

MENTEVOLE.
How cold you talk? Good heaven! I might as well
Resolve to change my nature; bid my ear
See for my eye, or turn my blood to milk;
New-stamp my features, and new-mould my limbs;
Make this soft flesh, that yields to every print,
Impassive as thin air; waste time and thought
On any wild impossibility;
As be the thing I am, and cease to love her.

MARCELLUS.
Then take, my lord, your course, while I shall follow
The counsel which I offer. Once rejected,
No more to persecute, where most I love,
I shall retire, and mourn repulse in silence.

MENTEVOLE.
So then, my lord, my suit is persecution?

MARCELLUS.
I said it not; but since you will search further,
I've heard almost as much.

MENTEVOLE.
And who inform'd you?

MARCELLUS.
A lower tone, perhaps, may meet an answer.

MENTEVOLE.
I will be answered.

MARCELLUS.
Will!—hot man, farewell!

[going.
MENTEVOLE.
Come back. I'll answer for you. Your own pride;—

MARCELLUS.
Ha! have a care!

MENTEVOLE.
Your boyish vanity;
Your fond conceit of that imposing form;—

MARCELLUS.
I'll bear no more; this insolence and rudeness
Have rous'd my rage, and thus I answer thee.

[They fight. Mentevole is disarmed.
MENTEVOLE.
My life is yours. Strike home.

[shewing his breast.
MARCELLUS.
Take back your sword;
And when your peevish spleen next swells within you,
Let this deserv'd rebuke subdue your choler.
[Exit Marcellus.

SCENE VII.

Mentevole,
alone.
He triumphs every way, Vile baffled wretch!
Where shall I hide my ignominious head,
While love, remorse, and rage, at once o'erwhelm me.
[Exit Mentevole.

SCENE VIII.

A Chamber in Durazzo's Palace, with a toilet, &c.
Olympia, with a picture in her hand; Nerina attending.
OLYMPIA.
The danger's pass'd, and Julia smiles again.
My brother, thy divining was too true;
Her fears were not for thee. But now, to try
This new, this last expedient.—Good Nerina.
Observe this picture. This day, in his garden,
Mentevole, my enamour'd brother, dropp'd it.
It is the lovely likeness of thy lady.
I leave it here. Should it escape her view,
Find you some means to bring it to her notice.
If prodigality proclaim a passion,
The diadems of kings are here outluster'd.
And yet I fear—The mother of Marcellus:—
Her eye looks cold upon me. I'll not meet her.

[Olympia hangs the picture on the frame of Julia's dressing-glass, and exit. Nerina retires.

SCENE IX.

Fulvia,
with a paper.
What can this mean? They draw me here to insult me.
I ask for this disconsolate, this mourner,
And find her, where? Why, with a second lover,
With young Mentevole. Her panting bosom
Cannot expect his visit, but explores
His chambers secretly. O my poor son!
And could not all thy graces, all thy virtues,
One twelvemonth, keep a mistress faithful to thee?
The Indian pile, that, with the bridegroom dead,
In the same blaze consumes his life-warm bride,
Is wild romance to our Italian ladies.—
Who cheers our inconsolable in private?
Why, the kind sister of Mentevole.
Then rumour, which I slander'd, told me truth,
And this tells truth. Let me once more peruse it.
[reads.
If you respect the safety of Marcellus,
Prevent his visits to Durazzo's daughter.
A favour'd lover has her plighted faith,
Who will not brook a rival. Trust this warning.
And see, the fair dissimulation comes,
Again to sigh, to flatter,—and deceive me.

SCENE X.

To her, Julia.
JULIA.
Madam, forgive my anxiety: that paper,—
I hope it brought you no distressful tidings.
When your eye ran it o'er, your colour chang'd,
And a sad presage instant seiz'd my heart,
Fearful perhaps from weakness, more than reason.

FULVIA.
I thank you, no; the import is not new;
It tells me, what the world has long believ'd,
That women can dissemble, and are fickle.

JULIA.
But why choose you for the rude confidence?

FULVIA.
I fear, there was a reason.

JULIA.
Pardon me;
Perhaps I've been intrusive; for that brow
Seems to reprove me, for a wish to know,
What you think fit to hide.

FULVIA.
My interests, madam,
Must henceforth be confin'd to my own breast.
I have no sunshine there; and would not cloud
The cheerful prospect of your coming joys
With ill-tim'd sorrow.

JULIA.
Have I joys to come?—
To mix my grief with yours; dejected, lost,
To keep one object in my wounded mind;
To hold discourse with his ideal form;
To make my present state, my future hope,
Fears, wishes, prayers, all studies of my life,
But slaves to one afflicting memory;
These are my joys, and who shall envy them?

FULVIA.
Hateful hypocrisy! O ten times devil,
[aside.
When, to beguile, it wears an angel's outside!
[Turning from Julia, she sees the picture on the table.
Ha! can I trust my sight? What's this before me?

JULIA.
What's this, indeed?

FULVIA.
It curdles up my blood
The very same; I know these precious gems,
Bought with such cost: the east was ransack'd for them.
How came it here?

JULIA.
By all my tears and sorrows,
My murder'd Claudio, on the day we lost him,
Wore this around his neck.

FULVIA.
He did, he did.

JULIA.
He shew'd it to me; next his heart it hung
That fatal morning. By what means unknown,
What wond'rous magick I again behold it,
Confounds me with amazement.

NERINA.
[advancing.
Madam, hear me.
In part I can explain the mystery.
Olympia, but a little ere you enter'd,
Thus plac'd it on the table, bade me mark it,
And should it chance to escape my lady's eye,
Present it to her notice. In his garden,
This morn, (she added) Lord Mentevole,
Her brother, dropp'd it. But I know no further.

FULVIA.
Dropp'd by Mentevole! his sister said so?

NERINA.
Madam, she did.

FULVIA.
[to Julia.
Ha! did you hear that tale?

JULIA.
Eternal providence! 'twill then be found;
The hellish deed be traced to its dark source.
O true-divining instinct! now I know,
Why, at his sight, oppress'd with chilling horrour,
Cold tremors crept through all my shivering frame;
Why faithful nature, shrinking, felt the alarm,
As if some fatal deadly thing approach'd me.
Haste, madam, haste! that clue shall be our guide.
Yes, I shall live to see the black detection;
The secret villain's shame, blood shed for blood;
While Claudio's sainted spirit from above
Smiles to applaud, and urge the righteous justice.

FULVIA.
Can I bear this! Such zeal is worthy of you,
It quite transports you. But first answer me,
How did Mentevole possess this picture?

JULIA.
O, 'would I knew!—But let us fly this moment.—

FULVIA.
Did you not secretly, this morning, see him?
Answer me quick.

JULIA.
I did. Of that hereafter.

FULVIA.
Hold. When a lover has a lady's picture,
A favour'd lover too, though she should swear,
Swear deeply, till the host of heaven blush for her,
She's ignorant how he had it, O, to trust her,
Asks such a reach of blind credulity,
As turns belief to folly.

JULIA.
Your fierce looks,
This sudden anger, are so strange to me,
I stand like one just startled from a dream,
And cannot, dare not, think, I wake and hear you.

FULVIA.
Then let me rouse you from your lethargy.
The flimsy tissue of your artifice
Is all unravell'd. By no doubtful proofs
I am confirm'd,—your fondness for my son,
Your tender care of me, your tears, distractions,
Your mourning weeds, (which now, I see, are chang'd,)
Ay, and your high-wrought rhapsody this moment,
Were all a publick ostentatious sorrow,
Nought but an acted passion, a stage transport;
And I, the fool who pitied you, your scorn.
Do you now wake? Now do you understand me?

JULIA.
Too well, too well. The peal of dreadful thunder
Will sound till death in my astonish'd ears.
O, stab me to the heart, dash me to earth,
And trample my poor body in the dust;
Try every labour'd, cunning cruelty,
That rage, revenge, or malice, e'er devised,
Or was sustain'd by woman's constancy;
I'll bear it all,—I would not shed one tear;
Would bless you, think it mercy, to the pangs
Which wring my soul from every word you have utter'd.

FULVIA.
And may the fiend who visits guilt like thine,
If my reproaches fail, or the world's justice,
Supply a sharper scourge, and more afflict thee!

JULIA.
I thought the rigour of my fate accomplish'd
By Claudio's death; secure in one great woe,
Look'd forward with a smile to all the ills
Adversity's worst wrath could pour upon me:
But you, inhuman! you have found the way,
To wake such new, such unimagin'd horrours!—
If there be any power, whose melting eye
Sheds soft compassion on us, may that power
Hear, and receive my servent supplication;
Let me be mad, and lose this sense of anguish!

FULVIA.
What can'st thou hope from me, but rage and vengeance?

JULIA.
No, nothing else, I have deserv'd them from thee.

FULVIA.
I'll to the duke, the senate shall assemble.
When this dumb evidence appears before them,
With all that chance has now reveal'd against thee,
Think, when thou art summon'd to their dread tribunal,
Will that fair face of innocence and wonder,
This wringing of thy hands, a few false tears,
Shake their stern justice?

JULIA.
O, heaven pardon you!

FULVIA.
If you have prayers, reserve them for yourself,
Your state perhaps may need them.

JULIA.
[kneeling.
Turn, and hear me!

FULVIA.
Kneel not to me.

JULIA.
I kneel not for myself.
To thee I am as spotless from offence
As the soft sleep of cradled infancy.
But when your cruelty has broke my heart,
And sunk me unresenting to my grave,
If your mistaken rage gives way to reason,
(As sure it will,) in that calm, searching hour,
When you shall find how sorely you have wrong'd me,
Wrong'd her, who lov'd you with a child's affection,
Then censure not your rashness too severely;
Then try to reconcile your soul to peace,
And O, forgive yourself, as I forgive you.

SCENE XI.

To them, Durazzo.
DURAZZO.
How's this? my daughter kneeling, and in tears!
And anger glowing on the cheek of Fulvia!
Rise, Julia, rise.—Madam, that stern regard—

JULIA.
O, sir, you must not pity, nor approach me;
I dare not trust to nature or affection:
Your breast perhaps may turn to marble too.
Source of my life! dear even as thee, my father,
Your Julia lov'd her:—See these bitter tears;
With agonies like these am I requited.

DURAZZO.
A fury's brand must sure have fear'd the breast,
That could give thee a pang, my joy! my comfort!—
What have you done?

[to Fulvia.
FULVIA.
Do you behold this picture?
Claudio my son, the day the assassin stabb'd him,
Wore this detested bawble next his heart.
Mentevole, that weeping lady's lover,
This morning dropp'd it. Ask you, how he had it,
Let that light woman, and her minion, answer.

DURAZZO.
And is that scornful finger for my daughter?
Injurious as thou art—

JULIA.
For pity, hold!
I have enough of misery already,
Revil'd, upbraided, charg'd with monstrous guilt;
She knew not what she said,—indeed I hope so;
But let me here fall lifeless at her feet,
My heaving heart burst with its throbs before her,
Rather than hear your tongue cast back reproach,
To violate the reverence I still owe her.

DURAZZO.
Hear'st thou, inhuman?

FULVIA.
Yes, with scorn I hear her;
That syren's voice has lost the power to charm.
Why stay I here to breathe the infectious air?
May curses rest on these devoted walls,
Till livid lightning to the centre shake them!
[Exit Fulvia.

SCENE XII.

Durazzo, and Julia.
DURAZZO.
Heaven be our guard! What means she by that picture,
Mentevole, and thee?

JULIA.
I cannot speak it.
Pray, lead me hence.

DURAZZO.
Scarce have I power to aid thee.

JULIA.
O for a friendly draught of long oblivion,
To freeze up every feeling faculty!
Against calamity I strive in vain;
Since thus each distant gleam of flattering hope
Mocks with false light, or bursts in storms upon me.

[Exeunt.