 | The Count Arezzi |  |
SCENE VII.
A Walk near the Sea.Arezzi, Cimbelli, and Castro.
CIMBELLI.
We meet at sunset where we supped last night?
AREZZI.
I speak for one—not I.
CASTRO.
Nor I.
CIMBELLI.
How now—
This lover of the moonshine, let him go
And tune his lute—but you, a man of war!
What, was the wine too weak?
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Good wine, good supper,
And pleasant guests, Cimbelli.
CIMBELLI.
What would'st more?
CASTRO.
The spice alone which seasoned this good feast,
Was not so good.
CIMBELLI.
You do not like my friends?
Come speak it plainly.
CASTRO.
On my life, I do—
Them, and the things they like. There are in Rome
Who worship with the self same faith, and make
Their vows to Freedom too—but I came here
A stranger idly tired of home and ease,
No spy, no meddler—and would keep my head
To guide me back again. Now those we speak of
Set light by theirs—they talk about the state,
I will not say unwisely, but too freely.
AREZZI.
Both—sir—and you may add to both, untruly.
CIMBELLI.
Bah! you mistake them, Castro: they speak out
Like true and honest men. Cat's soup! too freely!
Why so? how speak these freedom-loving Romans?
CASTRO.
With strangers—not at all.
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What strangers? who?
Yourself and this Arezzi here? for one,
I told them what he is—a staunch staid man,
Honest, at least, and whether right or wrong,
No turn-about—who hates all sorts of changing,
Even to his shirt—whose reverend visage seems
Fashioned three thousand years, or more, ago—
The shell of some philosopher's stray soul
Gone to fill out a bear.
CASTRO.
This stands for me!
CIMBELLI.
Right, by Diana's brother—he it was
Who bade us know ourselves. The other too—
Ye amorous gales breathe softly where he strays,
And draw your odours from his sighs! Ye flowers
Yield to the purple languor of his cheeks
Suffused with tears! what can be known of him,
Creature so fine, impalpable as he—
A lunar rainbow's watergall in April—
They knew before.
AREZZI.
What did they know, Cimbelli?
CIMBELLI.
Why, that the duke—Heaven shield him! takes your love,
The prince your money—Cupid has your brains,
And I your company.
CASTRO.
Count, if this be true,
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May pass without Amen.
CIMBELLI.
'Tis done in mercy!
The grosser cares of wedlock, wealth, and eating,
So are removed. He lives a spiritual count,
Touched by no earthly sympathies—above
The thoughts of meat and drink, or coat and waistcoat.
What rich man married ever wrote a sonnet?
CASTRO.
Why true.
CIMBELLI.
And yet he murmurs! they who tell
His tale hereafter, will begin with words
To caution the ungrateful. It would make
Rare ballad-warning for rebellious youth,
Set to a sorrowful tune, well vouched at top
With rueful visage from some wood-wrought print,
And superscribed Arezzi.
CASTRO.
May I hear it?
AREZZI.
I care not—as you please—but take this with it—
Our earliest politicians hint abroad
That Punch grows old and sick—Naples, they fear,
May lose its oracle: now we would gain
The office by reversion for your friend:
He has some fruitful qualities, and lacks
Scarce one, but wit—well practise—sir—begin.
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Sit down then—shall I sing?—“Lo! this is he
“Whose parents dear are dolphins in the sea.
“They loved and they married, but the maid
“Had kinsmen hard of heart, and so she fled.
“They went far off by night—new names they got,
“No matter whence, and now, no matter what.
“At Pisa did they rest awhile, and there
“This babe was born—”
AREZZI.
His feet have slipt the stirrups—
What else?
CASTRO.
This spoils his rhyme.
AREZZI.
No matter now:
Better go on without—yet Heaven can tell
If I have ever thought my fate a jest,
Though I might scorn to weep at it.
CASTRO.
There is
With some mens' bitterness, a spirit like mirth,
And such, it seems, has yours. But I presume
A self-invited guest, and ill-advised
Have thrust me rashly on a stranger's patience:
Yet more in ignorance than want of shame,
And less through will, than chance.
AREZZI.
It is a tale
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That still we should be such. Well—now the poet—
Come, mount again, and forward.
CIMBELLI.
Tell the rest
Thyself!—the muse disdains thee for her theme,
And so thy name shall perish.
AREZZI.
Peace, then, parrot.
CASTRO.
Pray let him end this sing-song as he can.
AREZZI.
He could but tell you that it is my chance
To be an orphan twice. For those two lost,
Two more were found as kind—yet love in error
Is sometimes worse than hate. They should have matched
My thoughts and fortunes—but they laughed or winked at
What must be mourned for now—those dangerous fires
Easiest enkindled in the spirit of youth,
Whose oils and odours feed them half life through—
Or quenched at first, or never—pride, ambition,
With lonely thoughts, and wishes not impure,
But wild—
CIMBELLI.
Love, and Love's dæmon, Jealousy!
AREZZI.
These they held lightly then—and then at once
Turned round, saw nothing right, reproved that pride,
Put chains on that ambition, made home sad,
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And cast the shadow of their frowns between
The heart and its affections.
CIMBELLI.
This means courtship—
A timorous sort of paraphrase! and so
Sir Mouse must hide him while sir Monkey woos—
Yield to his betters there! The duke in love
May bid the count stand back—nay—not too far,
Not out of calling, neither. They will want
A brideman for the groom.
“What shall I do—give counsel, love, and say
“What I shall do! is it not time to die?
“Long have I tarried here, I know not why—
“And still deferr'd the thing from day to day—
“Lived on, if this be living.”
AREZZI.
I may not take
My sword and find a home elsewhere.
CIMBELLI.
Well, well—
Good night, go both to bed—he is untrue
Who says that tyrannous deeds are done by tyrants—
And so no supper!
CASTRO.
Stay man—for myself,
I care not where I go.
AREZZI.
Nor I, Cimbelli,
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CIMBELLI.
To the moon?
By old Astolfo's hippogriff and horn,
And your lost wits, I yield the guidance there—
You know the road the best. Arezzi's greatness,
His villas, servants, treasures, tenants, farms,
Wine, household stuff, books, statues, pictures, horses,
And wardrobe, save a silken suit of black,
His wife herself, and five of his own senses,
Are all up there.
[Exeunt.
| The Count Arezzi | |