University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—A Hall in the Palazzo Ceria, belonging to Count Montalba.
Anthony
(behind the Scenes.)
I told you now it was not me she called!—

Enter Anthony and Antonio.
Anto.
'Tis pity that our names are so alike—
'Tis too perplexing.

Antho.
Whew!—alike—why—yes—
Except that you've so Frenchified your own
You scarcely know it—which I'm not surprised at.
Why can't you leave good English names alone—
Without your onios and your aliases?
I would forgive your heresies and plots,
Your poisonings, robbings, stabbings all—but not
Your murdering thus the queen's sweet English; no!

Anto.
Murdering!—Nay, come, good Anthony—confess.

Antho.
Not I—'tis barefaced, bloody murder—'tis;—
I wish ye all well hang'd for't!—so! be cool—
Now don't stealetto me,—for I won't bear it!
I ne'er took up the trade o'knife-swallower yet!—

Anto.
(Aside)
More like a knife-grinder, with your harsh English.

Anth.
Well! hark ye, here, good Tony o! will you make
A kind of compact-bargain with me now?

Anto.
First tell me clearly what the bargain is—

Antho.
I warrant ye!—in English clear as crystal—
And no mistake:—thus then—suppose I now
Teach thee this most delectable of tongues—
White-satin—wax-work English!—for thou know'st
Thou dost pronounce it infamously ill;
Nay—most abominably. Thy return
Shall be, to let me—in thy private ear—
Abuse thy foreigneering country still—
Thy language and thy climate.

Anto.
Wherefore so?

Antho.
Indeed I must—I must some outlet find;
I must abuse them—soundly too—or burst;
I pray thee be my safety-valve—say, done!

Anto.
(laughing.)
Well!—done!—a bargain; for to own the truth,
Though sometimes you may try my patience hard,
'Tis most amusing your accounts to hear
Of all you meet and see.—But come—be just—
Own that the climate of the sweet, sweet south—

Antho.
Is fit for salamanders more than Christians!
Is it a bargain truly!

Anto.
Yes—agreed—

Antho.
Well, then I breathe more freely! 'tis a weight
Ta'en off my chest—but where shall I begin?
I'm sure I shall end never.—

Anto.
Nay! consent
To give me first one lesson in your tongue—
Methinks I yet can prove the Italian sounds
Are softer—piercing to the very heart,
With thrilling sweetness;—and for love, for love—
No language like the Italian on the earth—
Cara—carissima—oh—silvery words!

Antho.
I differ from you there outright—that's all!—
And think I can convince you—list to me.
When I was young, o'er head and ears in love,
'Twas thus I wooed my blooming angel—Scroggins!—
“Gie us a good gripe at thy fist, my gal—
Clap hands upon it—and go ask thy dad.—
Let's have no blushing and no blubbering nonsense:
Better for worse—wilt have me?”—Now, my friend,
That's what I call a language—meaning there,
And music too!—No tweedle-dum and deeing—
But tuneable and tender melody;
No drawling, dull caress-her-more's—i' faith
I think that scarce decorous—on my word:—
My speech was modest, mild, and innocent,—
Short—short and sweet,—aye, thrilling sweetness there,
That pierces to the heart, I grant you.

Anto.
Yes!
(aside)
And pierces both the ears too, better far
Than any jeweller!—(mine are smarting yet
Inside and out from tympanum to tip,
Breaks both the jaws besides this,—in the bargain!)

Antho.
I thought I should convince you; eh! thou own'st.

Anto.
(hastily)
Oh, any thing—I pray you'd not repeat.

Antho.
And then the name! a fine high-sounding name,
And very musical,—it rhymes so well;—
I turned a bit of verse off on the occasion.
Ahem!—ahem!—Attend to these soft lines:—
(Turning up his eyes)
Whoop! I'd bear many floggings
For black Sukey Scroggings.

Anto.
Black!—Was the lady one of colour, then?

Antho.
No! blockhead!—would you put black-ey'd at length,
And spoil the lovely, tender harmony?
But you Italians have no sentiment,
Nor flights of fancy and imagination.
Faugh! I'm quite sick at such gross want of taste!

Anto.
The maiden with the charming, lovely name,
(Which I would speak not for a Seignory!)
Say—was she won by thy seductive suit
And winning wiles of silvery poesy?

Antho.
Aye—was she!—We kept company four years,
And then (coughs)
ugh, ugh—ahem!—Why, then it chanced—
First she was carried off clandestinely
By a hard-trotting blade i' the horse-dragoons,
Who happened to be quartered near at hand—
Soon after—by a galloping consumption!

Anto.
Thus was she lost for thee! twice over lost—
Alack the day!—a heavy trial, sure!

Antho.
And between you and me, I do not doubt
She pined herself to death for love of me,
Sweet daffydowndilly of my dreams and hopes!—
Who have we here?—Oh! 'tis that skip-Jack page,
Who tries for ever to make game of me!

Enter Giachimo, with flowers, who goes to a small table in a corner and begins eating maccaroni.
Giach.
Good Signor Anthony—permit me thus—

Antho.
Once more I tell thee—never Signor me;
Nor Mounseer either—I'll not be insulted,
You maccaroni-masticating monkey—
Want you your jacket dusted, laced, and turned?

Giach.
Delicious maccaroni!—would you taste
Some of these strings—(to put you in good humour?—

Antho.
I'd sooner eat your livery shoulder-tags!
Strings, quotha—umph! strings cut from that good cord
That yet is destined to adorn thy neck,
Were quite as nourishing and better savoured.

Giach.
Well! you refuse my bounteous offer now,
Perchance you'll share that with me.

Antho.
How now, ape?
I'll write my answer on thy back, ere long,
In characters of good round cudgelling—
Where came those flowers you're grasping, spindle-shanks?

Giach.
From the Contessa di Castellenaria.

Antho.
Humph! Then I guess that thorns and snakes are 'midst them.

Giach.
Why so?—the Countess is a noble lady,
Indeed most excellent.

Antho.
Canst prove it, boy?

Giach.
Clearly! the proofs are in my pocket—there, (shows money)

Oh! a most generous lady—three times o'er.
Look, I can prove it to ye!—one—two—three— (counts money.)


Antho.
What has she oiled thy palm for—mountebank?
Mischief's abroad—and she makes thee her imp.
What wants this Countess Castle-in-the-area,
For ever coming here?—I wot no good.
Why what art paid for, child?—dost know not, chit?

Giach.
Paid for!—'tis but the bounteous overflow
Of the fair dame's munificence—but that!—

Antho.
The over-fiddlestick—I'll tell thee, then,
If thou'rt so blank an ignoramus, know,
Henceforth, thou'rt held the Lady Countess' spy—
Her eaves-dropper—reporter—mouth-piece—miscreant—
Thou must to crooked services be sworn!—
Become one art, one lie—one eye, one ear.

Giach.
Nay, suffer me, at least, to keep in the ark
Of my good person two of either kind!

Antho.
Thou meanest of the latter twain—'tis true
O'the former to thy precious making goes
Multiplied millions,—well! you understand—
You're sharp and shrewd enough, young infamy!
You must become all eyes—all ears—a lynx
To look, a hare to listen; add to these,
A mute, save to thy mistress; or as she
Should prompt thy whisperings—here and there, and hints
Enough to sow dark discords—wrong—mislead—

Giach.
Thou hast so well detailed in what consists
The office that thou speak'st of, Anthony!
'Tis evident thou'st ofttimes filled the same
With full and perfect credit to thyself,
And satisfaction too—to thy employers.

Antho.
Have at thee—buzzard—out on thee, baboon!—
Run for your life, young lily-liver, run;
For sudden death is hanging by a thread
O'er that most brainless skull.—Budge, budge—be off!

Giach.
Nay! Anthony—a little fun, that's all.
No harm meant.—

Antho.
Well! none done, then—let me see;
Where was I?—oh! at discord.

Giach.
Yes—you know
You are in general.

Antho.
Thou must, like a crab,
Walk sideling strangely—noiseless as a cat!—
Thou must be everywhere eternally—
Burrowing in corners—ambushed under couches—
Skulking in passages—through chinks of planks
Crannying—mild foretaste of the pillory—
And thrust up chimneys—sweet anticipation
Of loftier rising still—up the highest gibbet!

Gich.
Why—what hath soured thy temper's sweetness so?
'Tis almost irritable, friend!—to-day—
What makes thee hate the fair Venetian thus?—
What leads thee to suspect her?

Antho.
To say truth,
Nought but her looks—her manners—and her voice—
Add—her perpetual presence here unasked.

Anto.
How know'st thou that?—Her Excellency oft
Hath welcomed her.

Antho.
His Excellency don't.
Depend on it that he knows her well—of old.
For our sweet Countess, such a lambkin, she—
She'd run into the wolf's mouth—nor suspect.

Anto.
(aside.)
The old man's senses want no sharpening, troth;
They're ground—and good enough—for any game:
I must not leave him so to think of her:—
I fear for others—not for her.
(aloud)
Fie! shame!
How canst thou be so hard and so severe
On an aimable lady?

Antho.
There!—you, now!—
How you unenglished that good word, you wretch!
Say not aimable—it is a-mi-a-bul.

Anto.
A-mi-a-bel—

Antho.
Come—better—but not right.
A-mi-a-bul—bul—bul—

Anto.
Yes!—amiabul.—

Antho.
Right!—capital.—Now all the rest o' the day
I may console myself by launching forth
'Gainst your barbarious country. I am sure
I gave you valuable hints—indeed
A lesson worth two guineas, if a groat.
You know our bargain.—No wry faces now.
Stand to your colours—screw your courage up.
Dare you not face my taunts?—

Anto.
In sooth I dare!—
And parry them—or pay them back with usury.

Giach.
(starting.)
Was't the clock struck? I've idled here an hour—
Alas! forgotten too the flowers—they're spoilt!
The gentle Countess will be sore displeased—
Their beauty's faded—they are all but dead.

Antho.
So may the asps and adders be, I hope,
Which they conceal. (to Giac.)
So now up stairs, my gooseberry!

[Exit Giac.
Anto.
(anxiously.)
Art serious?—dost thou really think so?—say?
Be quick!—

Antho.
Think what!—that you're a gooseberry too!
Why really—

Anto.
No! No! No!

Antho.
Nay—Not so sure!

Anto.
Trash! think'st thou asps and adders are concealed?

Antho.
Go to, blunt-witted noodle;—no, not I;
'Twas but a trope—a figure—a fantastic—
But I can ill explain it—since that you—
You poor Italians, are so wanting—all
Dull, dull as ditchwater—and slow as snails
Of comprehension.—You have nothing light,
Refined, or airy in your mould and make.

Anto.
Compared with yours—you floating feather—

Antho.
Bed!
I find out and forestall your meaning. When
Will you do so for me?

Enter Francesca hurriedly.
Fran.
Antonio—quick.
His excellency calls you—he seems chafed;
He muttered wildly—hoarse and angry.—Run!
[Exit Antonio.
And Anthony—how came it thou didst not
Announce Prince Bellafiore?

Antho.
How do ye mean?

Fran.
He is above—ten minutes hath been there,
And the count met him unexpectedly
Just now—and seemed much vexed—and angered sore.

Antho.
Ho! then he got in at the garden side;
A cool hand for a young beginner—faith!—
Now, pretty Francy,—you may take your oath
There is a love-case in it!—Love ne'er deigns
Come in at open doors—if he can thrust
Himself through half-closed windows. We shall have
Our fair-haired Highland lassie soon, I guess—
Her highness—Principessa—Bell and Flowery,

Fran.
Ah! now I see it all—and they have met
At many a festa lately, I have heard;
At concerts too, and conversaziones.

Antho.
Done!—for a thousand then!—I dare be sworn
The settlements are making.

Fran.
'Twere good luck!—
Prince Guido seems a gallant cavalier,
Handsome, and gay, and noble:—it would be
A happy marriage!—At the least 'tis sure
He hath a very excellent moustache,
A lofty-minded-looking cloak besides—
And a most trust-worthy and priceless cane.

Antho.
Form these the whole sum of his worldly goods,
And total of his virtuous qualities?

Fran.
Oh, no! a pair of snow-white gloves, gilt spurs,
And ink-black love-locks, waving round his brow,
And such surpassingly-proportioned boots!—

Antho.
Ha! ha! a precious catalogue indeed
Of recommendatory charms and virtues;—
Also, of rich possessions.—I should trust
He hath more wealth than thou'st so aptly summed.

Fran.
Oh! these suffice for present purposes:
And then a prince!—why, what can man want more?

Antho.
Say woman, and I do believe my lass!—
Thou'rt about right!—So little satisfies
The sweet contented creatures!

Fran.
(seriously.)
I must hence!—
I am engaged in most important works,—
One for the Scotch signora; 'tis, to place
Around the corsage of her last new dress,
“A lovely silk!”—'tis shot and watered both.

Antho.
How! shoot and drown it too?—why! bless my heart!
What barbarous deeds of haberdashery's harshness!
What murder-mongering knaves must mercers be!
Then, to crown all—you doubtless cut it up!

Fran.
Assuredly!—'tis gored and slashed in style.
Well, 'tis to place around the front of this
(Be sure you keep the secret, Anthony;
'Tis to surprise them all with admiration.)

Antho.
(putting his finger to his nose,)
Mum as the grave!

Fran.
A trimming finely wrought
With lace and ribbons!—and the other is
To decorate an apron for myself:
The first—I think you will agree with me,
Is most momentous now!—Heavens! only think,
Should some stray end of ribbon—straggling, mar
The symmetry—the beauty of the whole,
Or a wrong pucker in the lace appear—
Crumpling the prince's new-blown leaves of love—
The bows and streamers, carelessly arranged,
Might come untwined, and with them loosen all
The golden ties of sympathy and soul!
(Sighs)
These—these, are dread responsibilities!

Antho.
And what of th' apron, little sorceress?—heigh!

Fran.
The apron, oh! (coquettishly,)
why, that may be perchance
Of consequence as well—but I scarce know—
However Paolo and Raphäel both,
And ev'n the grave Guiseppe have remarked,
That any one could see, from mine own dress,
My studies were completed with success
At Paris!—I must now devote myself
To my most arduous undertaking—so
Buon giorno!—Anthony!

Anth.
“Bone jaw! no!” there—
Why can't they say jaw-bone, like other Christians?
Break jaw, I think it is: and pray what means she?
Oh! no more jawing, doubtless, in plain English.
Well! 'tis the ourang-outangerst language, quite—
(Yawning,)
Aw—aw—aw.—Now business, business, straight! I must
Go hence and superintend the accounts at once!
Ahem!—with my interpreter—and—hem—
My private secretary, (that sounds well!)
Without them I should cut a sorry figure,
And my poor lord would pay a high one too!
I like my title—major duomo;—though
I never have discovered yet, nor heard
Whether I hold that high and noble rank
In the infantry or cavalry;—'tis strange!
And I like not to ask, lest I should show
My ignorance, and meet with mocking taunts—
That gibing page would plague me for my pains!

[Exit Anthony.