University of Virginia Library

Duchess, Claudia, Melzi.
Duchess.
Now my good chamberlain, I prythee send
And tell the governor at six this evening
We will attend the council. Hark ye, Sir!
Keep the door close. Let no one enter here,
Soldier or statesman. 'Tis a day of truce;
For once the weary echoes sleep in peace
Unroused by the loud cannonry; I too
Would fain for once be quiet.
[Exit Melzi.
Claudia mine,
Sit down and talk to me, and comfort me,
My little faithful girl.

Claudia.
Ah! dearest lady!
I would I were a man to fight for thee,
And kill this terrible cousin!

Duchess.
Out upon thee!
Thou kill a man, my pretty ladybird,
My blossom of fourteen! I did not think
That thou hadst been so fond of fighting, Claudia;
I've seen thee quake and shiver and turn pale—
Ay, as myself—at many a bloody sight
And warlike sound this siege has forced upon us.

Claudia.
But if I were a man—and even now,
Poor coward as she is, for her dear mistress
Would Claudia die.

Duchess.
That were no kindly service
To thy poor loving mistress! Rather wish
That thou and I, remote from all this coil,
Two cottage maidens, on some pleasant hill
Dwelt peacefully. Claudia, should'st thou not like
To sit at evening, working in the porch,
Watching the sunset, whilst the vine-wreathed elms
Were richly gilded by his upward beams;
And thou would'st tell a hundred merry tales,
And I should sing sweet snatches of old songs,
The songs thou lov'st so well.

Claudia.
Oh! we should be
As blithe as two young birds!

Duchess.
Such joy may come;
But there will be much tumult and unrest
Before that blessed hour. Ah! woe is me
That ever I was born a princess, Claudia!

Claudia.
That ever the ambitious prince Lorenzo
Was born to claim your rightful crown!

Duchess.
To win!
Nay start not, Claudia; I have not a hope
Remaining. Here we are, shut up in Mantua,—
Mantua, which nought can save but speedy succour;—
And where to look for aid!—All my allies
Weak, wavering, treacherous, to my fortunate cousin
Inclining, as the sunflower to the sun;
My valiant general wounded and a prisoner:
And she, his wife, whose prompt and active spirit
Was well worth my whole council-board, she too
A voluntary captive.

Claudia.
The dear countess!
How much we miss her quick and cheerful look,
Her frank and pleasant speech! Yet she was right
To tend her husband's couch;—was she not right?

Duchess.
Oh! yes.

Claudia.
And she will soon be back. I dreamt
Last night that she was here, and the lord cardinal
Your wisest uncle, and another lord,
—But not a cardinal,—so noble-looking,
So lovely, yet so grand—and he and you—
I must not tell your highness what I dreamt,
But I will wager that the cardinal
Will speedily be here.

Duchess.
Now Heaven forefend!
That wise lord cardinal, as thou call'st him, girl,
He is my grief of griefs. I have a letter
Of that wise lord's inditing.
Enter Melzi.
How now, Sir!
Did we not say we would be private?

Melzi.
Madam,
The Countess D'Osma.

[Exit.
Enter Countess D'Osma and Orlando.
Duchess.
Laura! my own Laura!
Thou comest at a wish. Claudia and I
Were talking of thee.

Claudia.
Nay, I dreamt of her—

Countess.
And be it for good or evil, Claudia's dreams
Do still come true—say'st thou not so, my sweet one?
How the dear child clings to me! Let me pay
My love and duty here;—my royal mistress!
My dearest friend!

Duchess.
I ask not for my general;
To see thee here and smiling, is to know
That he is better.

Countess.
Better; but still weak.

Duchess.
And may we hope to see him? Will they hear
Of ransom? Claudia here would pawn her jewels,
And so would I, even to my very crown,
Could we so purchase that bold faithful friend,
Whose presence was protection.

Claudia.
That we would.
Shall I go fetch them?

Countess.
My sweet simpleton,
There is no need. I have not words to thank you,—
But the fair duchess will regain her servant,
Claudia her merry friend, without the loss
Of one the smallest of those seedling pearls
That fringe the royal mantle. He will soon
Be here. This young and valiant gentleman,
To whom he hath been an honor'd prisoner,
I a most cherish'd and most grateful guest,
Will tell you on what terms.

Duchess.
He brings with him
A welcome in your praises. Gentle Sir,
What are these terms? Your prince can scarcely ask
That which we should refuse. What must we give
For our great captain's freedom?

Orlando.
Gracious Madam,
I am commanded to deliver him
Without exchange or ransom. He is now
With a small escort at the city gate;
He would remain there—a most needless form—
Till I returned;—a vain and needless form,
But one, which well becomes the stainless honor
Of that bright ornament of chivalry
Count D'Osma.

Duchess.
Without ransom or exchange?

Orlando.
Without exchange or ransom—free as air.
The prince Lorenzo would not for those worlds
Which roll unnumbered in the midnight heaven,
By staking it 'gainst one of smaller note,
Degrade your general's old and noble name;
But he being free, I have a grace to crave
Of your free bounty. You have here, fair duchess,
A prisoner, whom my master fain would ransom
With aught that he—

Duchess.
Talk not of ransom, Sir!
Take him. I am too happy to repay
Some slender part of this amazing debt
Of courtesy and kindness to your prince.
I knew not we had any prisoner
Of note enough for ransom. Yesternight
Some soldiers were brought in; and a young boy
Dumb as they thought—

Orlando.
Deaf from his birth and mute.
That is the boy,—Lorenzo's favourite page.

Duchess.
His page! That poor mute boy Lorenzo's page,
The bold and fortunate soldier, who, men say,
Is rough as winds in March! What can he do
With such a helpless innocent?

Orlando.
As the winds
Of March do with the violet, lap it round,
And nurse it, with a rude protecting love,
Into a stronger beauty, and a more
Exceeding sweetness. Prince Lorenzo found,
Five years ago, this young and tender boy
Hanging, all drowned in dumb and innocent tears,
Over his dying mother, who implored
Protection for her child, with such a fond
And passionate earnestness, as might have moved
A heart of stone. He promised, and as yet
Hath kept his promise. This is the first time
Antonio and his master have been parted.
Right glad will either be to see the other;
Right grateful to the fair and royal dame
To whom they owe such joy.

Duchess.
My Claudia, send
To summon the mute page.—What is he like?

[Exit Claudia.
Orlando.
A lovely boy—fair, slender, delicate,
Almost as that young maid; with curling hair
Of such a brown as is the unsunned side
Of the ripe hazel nut; a ready smile
Instinct with meaning; a quick varying blush,
Which is his prettier speech; a large blue eye
Tenderly watching those whom best he loves,
And giving back their looks, as the clear lake
Reflects its shores.

Duchess.
To thee, too, he was dear?

Orlando.
Oh! very dear. So innocent, so helpless,
So made for love and pity! He was a sort
Of living gentleness, and gentle thoughts
Came with his presence. In the rough rude camp
That peaceful spirit seemed a type of peace,
As a small bit, no bigger than my hand,
Of the exquisite blue sky, looks out and smiles
From the dark stormy Heaven. For this we loved him.

Duchess.
For this you loved him,—that I well believe;
But surely, Sir, the bold ambitious soldier,
His warlike master, loved him not for this?

Orlando.
I cannot read men's hearts; but surely, Madam,
I think he did.

Duchess.
Can he love any thing?

Orlando.
He must be made of stubborn stuff indeed,
That did not give some kindness to that kind
Affectionate boy. The most unloving heart
That ever froze within a coat of mail
Must have loved him. His pretty flattery,
Unlike all other flatteries; his apt
And constant service; and the stronger tie
Of his entire dependence; his so fond
And firm reliance—speak, fair Countess D'Osma,
Did not Lorenzo love him?

Countess.
I am sure
He loved him, Sir; as fondly as yourself.

Enter Claudia.
Duchess.
Well, Claudia?

Claudia.
They have sent to seek him, Madam

Duchess.
How came he taken?

Orlando.
He's a painter born,
And, as we guess, caught by some lovelier scene,
Some bright effect of sunshine or of shade,
Ventured too near the walls. He is absorbed
In his delightful art; beauty to him
Is as a real goddess. Poor Antonio!
How richly will his short captivity
Be paid when he shall see—Did you not say
You had no picture? that she had refused?
Dear countess, I will beg for you the next
Hebe or Flora that Antonio paints,
And that will be her portrait.

Countess.
Fail me not.

Orlando.
Have I your highness' leave to seek the gates,
And bring Count D'Osma hither? I fear for him
This long exposure to the noon-day sun.
He will be better here. May I not say
'Tis your command? He must obey me then.

Duchess.
It is my wish. By that time young Antonio
Will be prepared to meet you. I would offer
An hostage for your safety, but I see
You doubt us not;—the generous and the brave,
They know not what doubt means.—One of my chamber,
Attend this gentleman!—You will return
In half an hour?

Orlando.
In a less space, fair duchess,
I trust to bring my captive to your feet.

Countess.
Now is your wager won?

Orlando.
Lost. I have lost
Two hearts.

[Exit.
Claudia.
Oh what a gallant gentleman!
How noble and how stately, yet how gentle!
What a fine frankness, mix'd with deep respect
And winning courtesy! What piercing eyes—
Such sudden laughter in them when he glanced
Up at the countess! What a gracious smile!
And then his voice—so sweet, so very kind,
As if he loved all that he talked about;—
Oh he's the very creature of my dream!

Countess.
Thy dream again! What was it, mistress mine?
Was he to wed thee?

Claudia.
Me! Oh no! Wed me!
No, no: not me. Cannot you guess? Wed me!

Duchess.
Peace, dearest prattler! Tell me, my own Laura,
The story of thy absence: tell me all,
All that befell thee in that hostile camp.
But first—What is he called?

Countess.
Who call'd?

Duchess.
The youth
That left us even now. Is he of rank?

Countess.
High born, not wealthy; of the younger branch
Of an illustrious house; a gallant soldier,
High in your cousin's councils and the love
Of his brave army, is our kind Orlando.

Claudia.
Orlando! What a pretty knightly name!

Duchess.
Claudia, be still. Now, countess, for thy tale.

Countess.
'Tis summ'd up in two words. In yonder camp,
Our hatred and our fear, nothing I found
But noble kindness; I have brought away
Nothing but gratitude. He is so great,
So good!

Duchess.
Orlando?

Countess.
Ay, and Prince Lorenzo.
You know what fear possess'd me when I sought
My husband, dead or living; in that fear,
Growing upon me even to senselessness,
I reach'd the camp, and fainted. I revived
To hear a well-known voice call upon Laura,
His own dear Laura, and I found myself
Supported on a kind and manly breast,
Beside my husband's couch.

Duchess.
Orlando's?

Countess.
Yes.
We were his prisoners,—no—his honor'd guests,
For so he loved to call us; and as guests
Beloved and honor'd we have dwelt with him
Even till this hour. Never was sympathy
So touching and so true. He shared my watch
Throughout the weary night, as soothingly
As mothers tend a sickly babe! he cheer'd
The painful day with reading and with converse,
And hopeful happy smiles. He and Antonio,
The sweet mute page, they were to me, Bianca,
Another dear Bianca and her Claudia.
Can I say more? Is not this gentleness
Rare in a soldier? Then the peaceful tastes
That dwelt so strangely in that warlike tent,
Flute and guitar, and books in many tongues,
And drawings above all, free, masterly,
Even as his dear Antonio's. Not a map
Or soldier's plan but on some vacant edge
Betray'd the artist's hand.

Claudia.
Oh what a man!

Countess.
Has my sweet duchess then no news for me?
Has she not letters from the cardinal?

Duchess.
Such as I blush to show thee. He would have me—
Me born a princess!—He would have me, Laura,
Me trained by thee in whitest modesty
And delicate reserve!—He would have me
Cast off all maiden pride, all womanly shame,
And seek, invite, and win, if win I may,
This young Lorenzo. I would sooner die.

Countess.
I would not have thee seek him, my Bianca,
And yet—

Duchess.
Yet what?

Countess.
I wish thou wast his wife.

Duchess.
His wife! That fierce rough man my enemy—
His wife!

Countess.
Thou art mistaken in him, dearest!—
Mantua must fall.

Duchess.
Why I can live unduchess'd.
Claudia and I were planning out to-day
A happy cottage life—

Countess.
Pooh! pooh!

Duchess.
Or thou
May'st give us shelter.

Countess.
Never doubt of that.

Duchess.
Yet it might injure thee with the new duke
(How strange that title sounds!) to harbour me.
No! a pale nun within some lowly cell,
I may defy life's changes. Thou wilt go
With me, my Claudia? Oh, I still must have
Something to love!—the strong necessity
Of woman's heart. Thou wilt go with me, dearest?

Claudia.
Ay, to the end of the world. But my own duchess
Will never be a nun. A happier fate
Is hers. She will find some one better worth
Her love than poor, poor Claudia—will she not?
A different love!

Duchess.
My little faithful girl,
We'll to a nunnery. Countess—I know not
Why I should ask the question—What was that
Signor Orlando gave thee as ye parted?

Countess.
A trifling toy.

Duchess.
Did I not hear him say—
I scarce could catch the words—What was the toy?

Countess.
A heart-shaped brooch of ruby, set with pearls.
See, here.

Claudia.
The pretty trinket! And he gave thee
This for a keep-sake?

Countess.
No. I won it of him
In a fair wager.

Claudia.
About what? Do tell!

Countess.
We two were talking gravely yesternight
Of beauty of complexion. He preferred
Corregio's bright-haired angels, fair as light,
Soft as a summer cloud. I love, you know,
The lovely brown; and much I talked of eyes
Shining through long dark lashes; clustering curls
As dark as they, adorning and contrasting
The ivory forehead; much of dimpled cheeks
Coloured like damask roses, and of lips
Like parted coral; till at last I wagered
That ere another sunset he should own
Himself my convert. He has lost his stake,
As ye perceive.

Duchess.
And Claudia's glossy hair
Is pale as undyed silk!

Claudia.
He's here again.

Enter Count D'Osma, supported by Orlando and Melzi.
Duchess.
My gallant general, my faithful friend,
Welcome!—How weak you are! Lie on this couch.
Yes, Claudia, that is right—shake up the cushions.
So! so! Lie down.

Count D'Osma.
My sweet and gentle mistress,
This graciousness—

Duchess.
Hush! hush! Go to him, Laura.
My Claudia, thy caresses overpower him.
How pale he is! how faint!—And I the cause
Of all this misery!—Melzi, come to me.

Claudia.
Alas! how much he suffers! Think you, Sir,
He will be well again?

Orlando.
Oh, doubt it not!
This painful languor springs from loss of blood;
From this his first exertion; most of all
From the deep joy to be again at home,
To meet his royal mistress, and to feel
Her touching tenderness.

Melzi.
The crown and keys?

Duchess.
Yes—yes.
[Exit Melzi.
Signor Orlando, we expect
The mute page instantly.

Orlando.
I can but bless
His absence, gracious lady.

Duchess.
Once again
Accept my thanks. Countess, I see we still
Must want our general; he is too weak
To venture forth to battle.

Count d'Osma.
Strong enough
To fight for you, die for you. But, alas!
The sacrifice were vain. There is no hope.
The strength of yonder army, and the skill
Of its brave leader, and the gathering numbers
Of bold allies that flock on every side;—
And we so few!—

Orlando.
I ought not to hear this.

Duchess.
Yes, most of all you ought. Signo Orlando,
You are a generous enemy,—a friend;—
I cannot call him less to whom I owe
Count d'Osma—and as friend or enemy
Hear me! I will no longer sacrifice
My faithful subjects in this wasting war.
My cousin, howsoe'er we have been trained
To hate each other, is a gallant prince,
Wise, valiant, fortunate, and fitter far
To reign in Mantua than I, a woman,
A timorous, friendless, most defenceless woman!
Re-enter Melzi, with the crown, which he gives to the Duchess, and goes out.
Bear thou to prince Lorenzo, to the Duke
Of Mantua, this crown, the honoured crown
Of our brave ancestors; no braver man
E'er wreathed his hard-won laurels with the gems
That star its golden circlet. With it bear
The city keys. Conjure him to forgive
My bold defenders; their fidelity
To me is the best pledge of loyalty
To their new master. Oh be they forgiven!
For me, I only ask to pass unharmed
As far as Naples.—Grieve not, my good Lord;
Claudia and I shall be as happy there
As two young linnets freshly let abroad
From a fine gilded cage.—Nay, take the crown.

Orlando.
Duchess!—

Duchess.
I am no duchess. To that title
I'll never answer more. Signor Orlando,
I am Bianca di Gonzaga now;
I prythee call me so;—and take this crown.

Orlando.
Not yet; not yet. Fair Countess, hast thou said
Lorenzo's message?

Countess.
No. My own Bianca,
Thou hast done rightly, wisely; but this prince,
This duke—no matter how, or when, or where—
Hath seen and loves thee, and will little prize
Thy crown without thyself.

Duchess.
It cannot be.

Countess.
'Tis so.

Duchess.
And if it were, could I love him
So long my foe, and now and evermore
A rude blunt soldier? I am no Hippolita,
To be conquered into love.

Countess.
Thou know'st him not.
Truly thou said'st that ye have both been trained
In hatred. He thought thee, my trembling fawn,
A youthful Amazon;—he's wiser now;—
And thou, when thou shalt know him, wilt confess
Thou too hast been mistaken. D'Osma, say,
Is not the prince most amiable?

Count d'Osma.
A hero.—

Duchess.
Why there it is! I hate the very sound—
A hero! A mere fighter! whose one virtue
Is o'ertopped by the lion. Pardon me,
My valiant friends; I do beseech you, pardon!
You may, for heroes though ye be, you still
Are something more. It chafes my very soul
To hear all manly qualities comprized
In that brute instinct, courage. If I wed,
It shall be one who joins to a bold spirit
A kind and tender heart; one who can love
All gentle things, books, music, nature, art;
One who—But I shall never wed! I pray you,
Good signor, take the crown. Where is this page?

Countess.
All that thou hast described is prince Lorenzo;—
Will not his friend plead for him?

Orlando.
On my knees
I do entreat his fair obdurate cousin
To hear him plead himself. Admit him once!

Duchess.
Thou too!—My Claudia, we will to a nunnery;—
Thou wilt go with me?

Claudia.
To the death. How strange
And sad this is! my dream was different.

Enter Melzi and Antonio.
Melzi.
Madam, the page.

Duchess.
We'll to a nunnery.

Claudia.
Look there, look there, dear duchess! see he kneels
Low at his master's feet!

Duchess.
We'll to a nunnery.

Claudia.
Nay, but look at him; he's so beautiful;—
He's risen now. And look! look! look! dear duchess!
The poor rejected crown,—look, he has placed it
Upon Orlando's head. How it becomes him!—
How like a prince he looks!—Like! 'Tis the prince!
The prince himself!

Countess.
Dear ardent girl, it is.

Orlando.
Canst thou forgive me, cousin? loveliest cousin,
And most beloved!—Say, canst thou pardon me?
There is thy crown, Bianca! Thou art still
The Duchess! None but thou shall reign in Mantua.
The sceptre is a bauble; my ambition
Soars higher; I would call the hand that sways it
My own, my very own. Speak, most beloved!
My lovely cousin, speak!

Duchess.
Is all this real?
Art thou Lorenzo? And dost thou indeed—?
Do not deceive me.

Orlando.
Never, sweet, again,
So help me love!

Claudia.
Now is not Claudia's dream
The very truth? You'll see the cardinal
Will come to bless their union. Look! the page,
The lovely page, how earnestly he gazes
On our more lovely duchess!—Look! he joins
Their hands;—and now he kneels to kiss those hands
United; and she blushes, and he smiles.
Heaven bless them both! So ends our weary siege.