 | Cosmo De' Medici |  |
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Outskirts of the Forest.—Enter Garcia.Gar.
Thro' the wild silence of this savage forest
I've wander'd with quick steps to shun the scene.
I'm on the outskirts now—where would I go?
Where'er I turn, Giovanni's dying form
Lies in my path—and in my tingling ears
Giovanni's dying words are still repeated!
Where would I fly—unless into the grave?
But wherefore?—for I know not how 'twas done.
He struck me—lung'd at me—we fought—he fell—
How was't he got his death-wound? Oh vain thought!
What can restore him—what can bring him back?
Nothing!—for he is dead—I left him dead—
And I must answer for it! Answer!—how?
What can I answer—save that we did fight,
And he is slain? There is no other answer.
But can I say this to my father?—no!
It is impossible!—or to his mother!
It is impossible!—Oh 'twould increase
Their agonies—dragg'd with a dripping harrow
To know his brother slew him! I am resolv'd!
They shall not know it: I myself will bear
All the sharp torment, weighing down life's balance
With inward-molten lead; and let my soul,
That in calm virtue's ether should be pois'd,
Sink all alone to premature dark hell—
But show no shadow of't in words or looks.
[Exit Garcia.
SCENE II.
A thicket in the Forest.—Cornelio, Dalmasso, and other Gentlemen, seated beneath a tree, regaling themselves.Cor.
There is no luxury equal to it! When you are
very tired and exceeding hungry, to rest those limbs
that have so faithfully borne your stomach about all day,
while the aforesaid stomach, as in duty bound, taketh
turn of exercise and servitude for the benefit of his indefatigable
members, there's no epicurean feast that gives
such pleasure, and no act of gratitude a greater satisfaction!
Dal.
A more lasting one is possible;—but come!
you hold fast the neck of the wine-flaggon while you talk,
and keep the venison under your fork. Push them this
way!
Cor.
I protest I was not conscious thereof!
Dal.
Like enough; but everybody else was.
1st Gent.
There's nothing equal to forest-cookery!
Besides, you can replenish your dish from the
next thicket. Which now, gentlemen, do ye think the
best; the game that runs, or the game that flies?
Dal.
That flies away, do you mean?
Cor.
No, no; but which?
2nd Gent.
Why, if you were very sharp set, that
game is best which you can first catch.
Cor.
Dalmasso, I'll meet thy question. I think that
game best which flies away: it leaves so much to the
imagination.
All.
Ha! ha! ha!—it does—it does!
Cor.
Dalmasso—here's more venison.
Dal.
Not a morsel—I hate the sight of it!
All.
Oh! oh!
Dal.
I'm an exhausted receiver.
Cor.
I think you must be, by this time.
Dal.
'Tis well I have escaped all vile conceits in the
shape of a retort; but hand me yon flask instead—I wish
to try an experiment with its neck.
1st Gent.
He's getting pleasant with his chemistry!
Dal.
A tri-unal content now fills my carbonic trunk:
an oxy-hydrogenico-azotic perfection!
Cor.
What jargon of science is this?
Dal.
Jargon to you, I make no doubt: ahem!
Cor.
What do you mean, sir?—explain your “hem!”
1st Gent.
Explain, sir!
2nd Gent.
Enlighten us!
Cor.
Expose your darkness! No response? He
blossoms inward, like the fig: its best beauty, both of
colour and taste, is the inside of the bottle.
Dal.
Go to! what know you of taste or colour?
Cor.
Thus much by negation: your wit hath no
more colour than the nails and knee-caps of a drowned
in white chalk on a ghost's forehead. If once in the
year it entertain a touch of colouring, 'tis green as a colt's
nether lip when the day-break fields are reeking. As to
thy taste—another wedge o' the pasty; thank you—
1st Gent.
Mass! how you do eat!
Cor.
As to your taste, 'tis my belief, were a dozen
Pharaoh-mummies chemically expressed in a stick of
Spanish liquorice, the very conceit of it would make
you glory in the suction!
Dal.
Oh, antithetical sublimation of humanity! Do
I sit here to be insulted by the pictures of thine own
squinting fantasy?
Cor.
No; you sit here to eat and drink, like the rest
of us.
Dal.
Do I, sir?
Cor.
Yes; and apparently by some great law.
Dal.
Ahem!—the day wears.
(Rising suddenly.)
Where can the Princes be?
All rise hastily.
Cor.
I'faith, they must be lost!
Dal.
What's best to do?
Cor.
You said that if with patience here we sat
They soon would find us!
Dal.
Did I say so? 'Twas you—
Surely 'twas you, sir,—you that first propos'd
Refreshment 'neath the tree! I'd fain have search'd
The forest thro', to find them!
Cor.
Pshaw! not you.
Dal.
Not I, sir? come, explain yourself!
[Lays his hand upon his sword.
These gentlemen know well that you do wrong me!
Cor.
What I have said, sir—
All.
Here's Prince Garcia!
[A pause of silence ensues.
Dal.
We do rejoice to see you here, my lord:
We search'd till quite exhausted.
Cor.
Quite worn out!
Where is my lord Giovanni—close at hand?
Gar.
(calmly).
Is he not here?
All.
No!—no!
Dal.
Where did you leave him?
Cor.
Where, my lord?
Gar.
I know not.
Think ye this forest, gentlemen, like a city,
That I can name its windings and dark walls,
Its gaps, high mounds, and green enclosures? Surely
Ye do but jest—he's hidden to alarm me?
Dal.
Where?—what is this!
Cor.
Indeed he is not here!
Gar.
Come, stand aside—
(He passes through, looking behind the group, as if in search.)
Well, if he be not with ye,
Take blame unto yourselves, so ill to 'tend him!
Ye knew him unaccustom'd to this place:
He hath seldom hunted here.
Dal.
What must we do?
Cor.
We lost you both together:
Where did you see him last?
Gar.
In the forest
I left him somewhere—there it was we parted.
(Aside.)
I can endure no longer.
(Abruptly.)
Fools that we are!
He is, ere this, in Florence!
All.
Right!—no doubt!
Cor.
I see 'tis so; and on his downy bed,
Half dress'd, yet needing rest before the dance,
Is sleeping soundly?
Gar.
(aside).
Oh! on the cold, hard earth
He sleeps—too soundly!
Cor.
Let us straight return!
All.
Agreed—away! let's haste!
[Exeunt, all but Dalmasso and a Huntsman.
Dal.
Stay you with me!
Ere night-fall we must search the forest depths
In the same track the ardent princes sped
When last we saw them; for I much do fear
Some accident:—I know not what to think!
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Portico in Florence. Enter a Professor and two Students.Prof.
I shall inform you of their several names,
And wherefore each is famous, as they pass.
Since ye're but late from Pisa, 'tis not likely
Your eyes should recognize them; tho' their works
May be companion'd by your memories.
1st Stu.
We greatly thank you, sir!
2nd Stu.
The festival
Will be adorn'd with heterogenous talents:
Will't not, Professor?
Prof.
Truly so: you will find
Artists, astronomers, mechanists, and scholars,
Critics, historians, chemists, and a shoal
Of poets and musicians.
1st Stu.
Shoals of poets!
Nay, after that the devil himself may come;
For 'twill be hot enough.
Prof.
I should have said,
Writers of songs and anniversary odes,
Sweet rhymes and levities to please the fair;
With real poets sprinkled 'midst the group.
1st Stu.
Shoals of musicians! Oh, what quiring glee!
Mountains of meat, and cataracts of wine!
2nd Stu.
Who are all these?
Prof.
A few are of some note.
A Group, in rich attire, pass across the back of the Stage.
Prof.
Those are Noblemen of the Court, and Cavaliers
of the Order of St Etienne. He, with the close
black beard, large hands, and something of lameness in
his gait, is Count Zelatore, who was originally a private
soldier, but received his title and estates for his great
valour and judgment in the Siennese wars. The
bending figure near him, with the large grey beard, is
Medicino, the famous old General. The three who walk
abreast, a little apart from the rest, are the Cardinals of
Florence.
A second Group pass across.
1st Stu.
Who is that tall, bird-like personage
strutting in front, with the rich jewel in his huge
dark, slashed doublet, and crimson mantle as bright as
an auto da fé?
Prof.
I do not know: methinks he ought to walk
last. That thin figure in the centre is Vasari, the
painter. His writings are of value, and have just been
published at the Duke's express direction. May Vasari
prove grateful! Beside him is his friend, the accomplished
Pietro Aretino, whom some few love, and many
hate. Near him, on the right, are Pontormo, Naldini,
Bronzino, and Schidone, all engaged on different works
for the Duke.
1st. Stu.
See, again, an extraordinary object, with
ruffles and rapier—what a rapier!—and no calves to his
legs! Is't the Ambassador from France?
Prof.
'Tis probable. I thought at first it was his
valet. Mark you that tall personage, of firm and
graceful carriage!—it is Guicciardini, the historian,
who proposed his Highness as Duke of Florence, when
the Council of Forty-eight were assembled. That figure
striding alone in fierce embroidery, with a certain air
of energy and defiance, is Benvenuto Cellini.
1st Stu.
Ay, sir; we have seen the rare Cellini
before.
2nd Stu.
You might know his walk a mile off.
'Tis exactly that of a gladiator who hath just killed
his man.
Enter a Musician.
1st Stu.
Learned sir! what fat, silver-headed, satin-coated
gentleman is this, who carries so much luggage
in front beneath his melon-blossom vest?
Prof.
It is Policarpo Guazzetto, the celebrated
he hath been in years.
Mus.
(running forward).
Ah! my lord Professor,
is it you?—your servant, Master Hautboy and Master
Triangle!
(To Professor)
Clever fellows, eh? Has't
seen Benvenuto Cellini pass by this way?
Prof.
He hath this moment passed.
Mus.
Ha!—then shall I overtake him briskly. All
this morning have I been with him, and left his house
but that I might dress, perfume, and render myself
more angelic than ordinary. He hath been singing
me an ode of his own composure for this brilliant
occasion, wherein he himself seemeth to be the Duke,
and the Duke his much-admiring friend. Still, very
good—I mean the music is good—of poetry I am no
judge; but his music is good—that is, for an amateur.
Every man should keep to his own profession. Bronzino
also sings well, and hath a good voice—for an
unformed voice. But every man should keep to his
own profession. I sat up with him half last night. He
knows no more about music than a rhinoceros.
Prof.
Was there nothing upon his easel which you
could admire?
Mus.
I' faith, there was! He had the head of an
old Cardinal, half done;—seemed quite a daub, and to
ha' cost him no manner of pains,—but at a little distance
there was the complete face of the man! Can't conceive,
for the life o' me, how it's done!
Prof.
Doubtless, a copy from Michael Angelo?
Mus.
Don't know in the least. 'Twas a stern, dark-bearded,
grand-looking old fellow. I could tell exactly
in what a fine sonorous voice he would sing the bass
to a mass. But I need waste no more time in speaking
henceforth make repletion one of the Cardinal Virtues!
[Exit Musician.
1st Stu.
Who is that, sir?—he who so gloomily
paces along by a different route from the rest, with
his eyes now fixed on the ground,—and now glancing askaunce,
with a ferocious expression round the mouth?
2nd Stu.
Murder and rapine are at work in both.
Prof.
(in an under tone).
Envy impelling him from
behind, and oblivion standing before him, contend for
his soul. It is Baccio Bandinelli.
1st Stu.
But lo! yon distant patriarch, robed and swathed
In massive folds, with beard of hewn-iron grey,
Who heavily moves!—his sombre body bowed
By labour and old time!
2nd Stu.
Slow falls his pace,
Measuring the earth, as for a giant's grave!
Prof.
'Tis Michael Angelo!
2nd Stu.
Thou mighty soul!
Heaven's temples claim the adornment of thine hand;
And space, new worlds!
A third Group pass across.
Prof.
Those gentlemen who are in advance of the
rest, are Giovanni Baptista, Cini, Baldini, Filipo
Nerli; all historians. He who follows, attired in such
splendour, is the poet Della Casa, Archbishop of Benevento;
and on his right walk Landi and Primerani,
the dramatists, followed close by Lasca, the novelist,
and Pietro Vettori, the critic and scholar. A little to
the left of Della Casa, engaged in earnest conversation
with the sculptors Ammanati and John of Bologna, is
and patriotic supporter of the republican Strozzi,
who, though previously opposed to the Duke, hath
recently been made his private librarian, in place of
Chiostro; albeit the republican sentiments of Varchi
remain unchanged.
Enter Macchietti and a Gentleman, disputing.
Mac.
I do assure you, sir, you are most thoroughly
misled about the matter! He is a genuine sculptor,
sir; an inspired sculptor—quite equal to Cellini, and
beyond Bandinelli—and Del Passato's judgment goes
with mine: Passato admires his excellence.
Gent.
I cannot discover it.
Mac.
Very likely.
Gent.
His figures have no more design in them than
an English chimney-pot.
Mac.
He is not happy in his figures; his excellence
—judge of a man by his excellence—is in his heads.
Look at his bust of the Prince Giovanni! It is exquisite!
The execution is masterly: not too highly
polished, but fleshy; the expression mild, sensitive,
thoughtful, rife with subtle passion, and to the life!
Gent.
I have not seen it.
Mac.
And if you had, sir?
Enter Chiostro, with Berta and Christina, richly attired.
Chris.
Dispute no more! there shall be nought but
smiles to-day.
Prof.
'Twas a high argument.
Chi.
Macchietti had reason therein.
Dispute no more! Take us away among ye,
most grave and circuitous scholars!
Mac.
Well—but I know I am right in this.
Chris.
'Tis the first time, then, sweet husband!
Thou should'st have an obelisk of wax set up i' the spot.
Ber.
With a wick in it, sir; that we might see to
read your exploit!
Mac.
Come—come!
[Exeunt; manent two Students.
1st Stu.
Dispute no more! Paint a smile i' the palm
of your hand, and box the ears of the world till the
amiable impression become universal.
2nd Stu.
Set up a candle to light your folly, while
your fame melts away!
1st Stu.
Analysis and synthesis, ye are nothing to a
tongue! Its point is as fine as the tooth of a mite, that
hath thirty positive bellies to one possible brain.
2nd Stu.
The cow that harangued Livy in choice
Latin, could not have more completely silenced philosophy
and art.
1st Stu.
Dispute no more!
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
Grand Hall of the Ducal Palace. Cosmo seated in the Ducal Chair; the Duchess near him. Nobles, Cavaliers, Ladies, Gentlemen, &c. &c., ranged on each side. Triumphal music.Cosmo.
Nobles, and cavaliers, and gentlemen!
Equally noble in your several virtues,
In the address, spontaneous and full-hearted,
Thus tender'd to ourselves; whereof a part
So large doth of far better right belong
To the high memories that crown this day!
Bear, then, in mind the glorious names of those
Who fell, when Marciano's victory
Laid broad foundation for our towering sway.
[Triumphal music.
'Tis our regret, at such a ripen'd season,
The Princes should not with their presence grace
This Anniversary, which, though so brief
In't's outward show, is one of Time's best harvests.
I doubt not hither they are spurring apace;
And ere the sweeping shade of man and steed
Be lost in widening night-fall, they'll appear,
And add their greeting to our own best welcome.
CHORUS.
By his stern hand and fate's decree,
Lest they, unnatural, should rebel,
And desolate heaven's majesty.
But that primæval king,
Deceiv'd, and dim-eyed, crush'd a stone
That form'd the basis of his throne—
And lost stars o'er him swing!
With him came forth the Age of Gold;
Kind deeds, and lovely arts, and creeds
Whose altars bore not aught that bleeds,
Thus did the father of great Jove
The earth with gifts divine improve,
Which gild the present day.
[The Duke descends from the Chair of State.
Cosmo.
Now to the banquet-hall! My noble friends!
Thus rich in Florence' beauty, little need
Have we of garish torches, dead at the core;
With such soft brightness burning from within,
And radiant to the foot—Who's this? with's spear,
And grey with dust!
Enter Dalmasso, hastily.
See you aright, sir?
Dal.
Duke!
Your Highness' private ear—
Cosmo.
Come, sir; be brief.
[They step aside.
Dal.
The Prince Giovanni—
Cosmo.
Wherefore stays he thus?
Giovanni and young Garcia should be here:
I'm anger'd at their stay—ha! what has happen'd,
That thus aghast you look?
Dal.
Giovanni's dead!
Cosmo.
Who?—dead?—who's dead?
Dal.
Giovanni—Prince Giovanni!
We've found his body in the forest.
Cosmo.
And dead?—utterly?—the last spark gone?
Dal.
Quite cold!
Cosmo.
Stand fast!—remain you here.
Duch.
(advancing).
We wait
Your Highness' pleasure.
Cosmo.
I shall join you anon.
Immediate audience claims. Duchess, lead on!
[Exeunt, all but Cosmo and Dalmasso.
Cosmo.
Repeat thine horrid news: or if't may be,
Correct and qualify—say he is dying,
But by a timely aid may yet be saved!
Tell me thou art not in thy proper mind,
But do not tell me that my son is dead!
Dal.
Would I were mad, or wild with wine, or dreaming!—
But 'tis too true!
Cosmo.
How should he die!—what dastards
Stood by to see the forest boar's fierce tusks
Root out his life?
Dal.
'Twas no fierce boar that did it,
Nor wolf—
Cosmo.
Aha! death's face grows darker! what, then, did it?
Dal.
We know not: in the forest's depths we found him.
His wild steed, bounding past us, help'd the search.
His blood had still some warmth—but he was dead.
Cosmo.
Art sure?
Dal.
Most sure: one huntsman only with me,
We could not thence remove him.
Cosmo.
Lies he there
E'en now?
Dal.
He does: the huntsman seated close,
With face as white. Near him this broken point,
As of a sword-blade—
Cosmo.
Whose is't?
Dal.
I know not;
But by his side we found his own.
Cosmo.
Unsheath'd?
Dal.
Unsheath'd and stain'd, as tho' he had fought.
No, no!
He hath been foully murder'd, and 'twas drawn
To cheat stern retribution—who has done it?
Where's Garcia—where was Garcia when 'twas done?
Dal.
The Princes parted from us when the chase
Was at a headlong height; when he rejoin'd us
He came alone, nor knew he aught of it—
As it did seem.
Cosmo.
Oh! I will find the truth,
Were't from the very stones! My passionate grief
Shall breed an inspiration and a power
Oracular—executive!
(After a pause)
Now, mark me fixedly:
When that the banquet doth confuse all thoughts
With dazzling vanities and high-wrought blood,
Hie thou away into the forest gloom,
With fit attendants, whom thou well can'st trust.
There, from grey dawn to dusk thy vigil keep:
Then, secretly return. As secretly
Bring thou my son's dead body with all care,
And forthwith place it in the anteroom
Of mine own private chamber! Go at once;
But let no syllable of these commands
By thee be breath'd, or those who shall attend thee;
Nor aught relating to this dark event.
Dal.
Your Highness' orders shall—
Cosmo.
Dost understand?
Dal.
I do, my liege.
Cosmo.
Go then, at once, I pray you.
Exit Dalmasso.
What's all this coil of state—ambitious hopes,
Wars, well-won honours, policies, designs,
Ponderings and weighings, aching sleepless nights,
To work out good results!—thus in a moment
Comes simple death, and all's at once dispers'd
Like straws before a sudden-open'd gate!
But what's ambition's wreck to this my loss?
And lamentation startles into horror
At something that's behind! I will know all,
Tho' half should crush me! Slaughter'd son! thy blood
Will rise up in a haze as wide as twilight—
Concentrate—form and lo! the mighty image
Shall, like the solemn voice of desert winds,
Pronounce thy murderer's name! I would evade
The appalling force of thoughts—but why evade?
Best meet them, for results they e'en must have
Which I should meet—and therefore, that I will!
Why comes not Garcia, choking with grief and haste?
He saw his brother last—he last was with him,
And must know somewhat of his death, or loss!
Why not? I fear to answer to myself!
[Exit Cosmo.
SCENE V.
A Corridor of the Palace. Music within.Enter Garcia.
Gar.
Oh what a hell of anguish is the sound
Of jocund music to despairing souls!
'Tis like malicious revelry of fiends
O'er some new comer, who in horror sits
Apart, clasping his chains, and looking upward
Why should I feel heaven lost? What have I done?
Murder'd a brother?—no—no! Yet, he's slain!
Slain by my sword! 'Twas I—'twas I that did it—
Unwittingly—such was my fatal chance,
Which e'en might have been his: would it had been!
CHORUS
, within.
Fill! fill the bossy Vulcan bowl,
Whose images of Saturn's reign
Start as they feel the Bacchic soul
Ecstatic thro' the metal's vein!
Fill, to the fresh Saturnian sway,
While the dead smile amidst their clay!
Gar.
Those sounds do seem commission'd to inflict
Racks on my heart and madness on my brain!
While merriment—the feast, song, dance—transpires,
My brother dead, lies in the forest cold,
At mercy of the wolves! Oh howling Night!
I hear thee, and yon hall of mirth doth echo
Thine awful voice, taunting my soul's confusion!
I'll to the forest!—when?—to-morrow's eve:
And these my fratricidal hands shall dig
His grave; these eyes, that saw him die, shall pour
Tears for his parents o'er him—and if prayers
From me can struggle into utterance,
Then prayers—who's this?—it is Ippolita!
I cannot meet her!—why, why was I born!
[Exit.
Enter Ippolita.
Ippo.
Giovanni shuns the banquet: 'tis his grief
At the sad words wherewith we parted last!
And sickens with the effort?—yet 'tis fix'd
That I must ne'er be his. But is it right
To sacrifice my love—his happiness—
To gratitude; the greater to the less,
In feeling's scale? Let me not think of this!
Enter Cosmo.
Cosmo.
Still Garcia comes not to explain? He has join'd
A group of dancers; but with such a look
As makes him seem most fearfully alone.
Horror sits in his hair!—as grief in mine.
Ippolita!—why art thou wandering, girl,
With wretched looks?
Ippo.
I have a weight—here—here!
I would your Highness knew the cause?
Cosmo.
I've cares
Enough to swell the sea;—yet, tell thy grief.
Ippo.
I have long desir'd to do so,
But could not gather courage first to make
The sacrifice that should accompany
A sad, brief story.
Cosmo.
I, perchance, have heard
Less hopeful narratives. By Dante's soul!
There are more dragons in the world than men;
More graves than hearts! Nay—do not tremble, child!
Come—freely speak: I've ta'en thy father's place?
Ippo.
Thou hast—thou hast!—hence greater cause for grief!
Cosmo.
How so?
Ippo.
I have abus'd your confidence
And love; but I will fix'd atonement make,
Far as may be.
I understand thee not.
Ippo.
I love the prince!—with painful pride, not shame,
I do confess myself as much belov'd.
Cosmo.
The Prince!
Ippo.
Forgive the offence—the prince Giovanni.
Cosmo
(aside).
Oh! what is here?
Ippo.
I know not how, my liege,
I stole into his bosom.
Cosmo.
Girl—no more!
Ippo.
(aside).
I fear'd—I had no hope—
Uphold me, fortitude! My lord, one word—
Cosmo.
Forbear, Ippolita!—or to the Duchess
Communicate the rest.
[Going.
Ippo.
Oh 'tis soon told.
When that I heard your Excellency design'd
Giovanni's hand for an Imperial bride,
I did relinquish my presumptuous claim;
Nor would I wish my poor deserts should mar
The brilliant fortunes of the man I love.
With all respect and filial reverence,
Giovanni will submit him to your wish.
Cosmo.
My child—no more! (aside)
This deepens all the wounds!
Ippo.
Let me unload my breast—let me unload it!
I have resolv'd I never will be his;
I have surrender'd all save inward feelings,
For which retention I do crave your pardon,
The more, my liege, since I confess them such—
So deep and potent—that were't not thus base
Ungratefully to outrage your adoption,
I would not lose him were he thrice a Prince,
And all earth's Potentates our love oppos'd!
But as it is—here ends my history!
Love's heroism is equal to all acts,
But seldom to forbearance. Noble girl!
Thou art well worthy—is there no comfort left?
Thy father in the wars preserved my life;
Had I not ta'en his place, ingratitude
In me had been most base—it was no fault
That thou did'st love my son.
Ippo.
I will withdraw,
Lest he return—I must not see him now.
[Exit, despairingly.
Cosmo.
But I must see him soon as he returns,
Outstretch'd beyond fair nature's symmetry,
And rigid in his blood!—his awful face
Scarce cognizable, e'en to me—Oh, Garcia!
Can this fell deed be thine?—if 'tis, then tremble!
| Cosmo De' Medici | |