Cosmo De' Medici An Historical Tragedy |
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| 4. | SCENE IV. |
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 | Cosmo De' Medici |  |
SCENE IV.
A Street.—Enter Chiostro and Macchietti.Mac.
I have primed a large palette for the occasion,
that would do St Etienne's heart good to look upon;
and I have got half a score of canvasses as tight as drums;
then, when the glorious feast is at its height—the censers
burning—the wine flowing—the noble garments
falling in redundant folds, just as happy accident disposeth
them—and the jewels raying forth from the
women's hair—I shall fix my shoulder behind a dark
Chiostro—shall I not get rare sketches?
Chi.
'Twill be an opportunity most favourable,
methinks.
Mac.
What is become of the young princes? Gone
a-hunting?—odd time to go a-hunting!—upon the eve of
such a festival?
Chi.
'Tis at the desire of the Duchess; and with the
Duke's approval. Their distance towards each other
never seems to have had any especial grounds, and 'tis
good time it should now cease for ever.
Mac.
So it is—so it is. Here come two of the seven
plagues of Egypt!
Chi.
Our wives, I opine?
Enter Berta and Christina, running.
Ber.
Oh, here they are—the old books and pictures—
our two liege night-caps!
Chi.
(aside.)
A liege night-cap! O, Learning! is
this the figure thou mak'st in thy wife's imagination?
Ber.
We so rejoice to ha' found you!
Chri.
We are so glad!
Mac.
(to Chris.)
I dread the bright quest and query
of thine eye!—dost want wherewith to buy some fresh
adornment for the outside of thy little head?
Chri.
Twenty ducats—no more.
Ber.
As for me, I want all things new!
Chi.
Spare these grey locks.
Ber.
Nay, that will I—quiet man!
Mac.
I must away to prepare!
(To Chris.)
Has't
been i' the painting-room?
Chri.
No, sir; oh no!
Mac.
Mass! you have!—I see half a fresh-painted
your drapery folds; and I, moreover, see my palette cast
on the ground, with its magic face downwards!
Ber.
Out on such a face!
Chri.
What a fuss it makes about its painting-place!
—would I had never entered! Marry! what a life has
been for me—sitting so oft stock-still, for the hands,
arms, legs, toes, busts and backs, of other women! An'
I had but known what it was to marry a painter!
Mac.
And I what 'twas to marry one who has no
love for the art!
Chri.
Help us!—is'nt one painter enough in the
family;—love you not enough for both of us, sir? I
want nine ducats?
Mac.
For what possible farcicality?
Chri.
For what did I marry you, think you, sir?—
Not to sit, lean, lie, or stand each day for the fingers,
toes, backs, legs, wings—
Mac.
Oh!
Chri.
Besides draperies!—Farcical, forsooth!—art
not always buying dingy old painted cobwebs, not worth
a candle, and at any price!—Sweet husband! lighten
thy heavy heart of these ducats.
Mac.
Well—I submit my purse-neck to thy execution.
Chri.
St Etienne smile on our fine arts!
Ber.
(to Chios.)
Most dear!
Chi.
(aside.)
This have I sometime expected.
Ber.
I would fain have fourteen of the same.
Chi.
Nay, I must not.
Ber.
Must not!—who saith it?—who, when your
own wife knoweth you must?
Chi.
(gravely.)
There's none so bold:—I would
there were.
Must not!—Do'st tell me this, when scarce two
days since, there was forced through the porch a square
stack of the mouldiest old tomes that ever thy rubbishmania
collected!
Chi.
(sighing.)
Mania for rubbish!
Ber.
Marry, and what else are they, I should like to
learn?
Chi.
Humph!—thereof I entertain some doubt: thou
wouldst not like to learn.
Ber.
Well, 'tis most true, I should not—'art ever so
right:—lend me fourteen ducats for a while?
Chi.
The omens are inauspicious.
Enter Luigi del Passato.
Ber.
Look you at this best-behaved gentleman—for
those who worship images—that ever entered your calm
house, and hear what he will say. Sir, could my husband
lend money to anybody so safely as to his wife?
Pass.
Of a truth not, lady: the safety is in flight.
Ber.
Hear you that conclusion?
Chi.
Socrates insinuateth the axiom that, among
women, no man can escape his destiny: I therefore
consent.
Ber.
'Art indeed a scholar now, to some purpose.
Christina! happy Festival!—see'st thou how this promise
outweighs thine? Why did'st not persist more
intemperately, sweet?
[Exit Macchietti hastily.
Chri.
Most sweet husband?—he's gone!
Pass.
It does not become a scholar to expend much
money for dresses.
Ber.
Eh!—out on these calm, cold-featured men;
you shall never know what they really think. Come
Christina!
[Exeunt Berta and Christina.
Poets often feign miseries, and eloquent writers
do commonly, for the sake of a climax in favour of the
cause they would enhance, insist upon various things as
the most destructive to man's happiness; but for a real,
practical, homefelt insurance of domestic disquiet and
misery, nothing in this world of many troubles is so
efficient as an unsympathising wife! Oh Learning! what
art thou to a yard of silk!
[Exit Chiostro.
Pass.
It is good for man to be alone.
[Exit.
| Cosmo De' Medici | |