University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—The Gardens of the Countess di Castellanaria's Palace. The Countess enters slowly and thoughtfully, with a letter.
Giacinta.
The hours hang heavy on my heart to-day—
This love—this hate—this hate and love divide,
With terrible division, all my soul.
Both, in the intenseness of their earnestness,
Are as the awakening storms are to the sea,
To my unquiet spirit:—it is lashed
To agony by their conflicting powers!
What deed is to be done?—first Vengeance!—Come,
Fire all my thoughts;—arm all my energies!
I do devote myself to thine and thee!
When thou art compassed softer hopes may smile!—
Let me not dwell on these, lest they should melt
My soul with the Infinite of Tenderness!
Come, Vengeance, come, and seize mine every thought,
Mine every power—for I am pledged to thee!
Through seas of sins would wade to call thee mine.
Is't not most true, that when we first diverge
Into the paths of Wrong and ways of Doom!
We do unite ourselves with the unforgiven—
The fallen angels—dread and rebel host!—
And so re-kindling their extinguished War—
And rallying round the banners of their strife,
Marshalled in pomp of towering bravery, charge
'Gainst all the embattailed Hierarchies of Heaven!—
Thus are we made the champions of the undone—
The Imperial Chivalry of hell and death!
A horrible and ghastly thought!—but hence
Ye vain reflections!—I will royally
Do battle 'gainst the coward conscience now,
And plunge into the abyss of threatening fate!—
(After a pause.)
How hath the insidious love swept o'er my soul,
In sudden floods of feeling—as the deep!—
Whelming too many formed and fixed intents,
And laboured schemes:—I must with strenuous care
Recall my aims—repeat my efforts now.
So—that last letter!—I did think I knew
The superscription's characters—behold!
Yes! 'tis from one who in our enterprise
Hath set his heart and spirit!—A faint fear
That something hath ill-chanced, doth make me still
Delay thus the opening it. Pshaw!—folly this—
And childish superstition. (Reads)
So! All's well!
(Reads)
“One I can freely recommend to thee
Most conscientiously. . . . A heart on fire—
For liberty and full equality—
Distinguished in the late attempts!”—So—so.
“Of rank—and so—and so.—Misdoubt him not—
His name Alphonse De Tours.”—Well—all is well!
(Puts up the letter.)
Now do I marvel that my messenger
Is not returned—it is long past the hour!
Could I see Ludovic—I would straightway form
My plans—for present exigencies—then
Send to invite de Tours, and sound him—ha!
My messenger!

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
Your excellency gave
Command to me to leave your good despatch
Down by the old ruined shrine in the olive-wood,
Beneath the height where—

Gia.
Hush!—more chary be
Of words, I charge ye, sirrah;—at the least
Speak thou in voice less loud. Air's full of ears
As heaven of eyes!—

Mess.
Your pardon, lady!—While
I paused to lay the letter on the shrine,
He came—and straight perused it, and desired
I would convey his brief reply—as thus,—
He will attend your excellency here
This even, after sundown.

Gia.
It is well.
You may depart. Here—my good Raphael, stay;
First bend your fingers o'er this trifling gift— (gives money,)

The acknowledgment of your shrewd services.
Another time, though, race it with more speed—
You kept me waiting tediously.

Mess.
Indeed—
Most gracious madam!—rang my horse's heels
A merry measure to the inspiring tune
Of seven good leagues i' the hour:—i' faith I found
Most excellent relays, and spared not speed.

Gia.
'Tis good, you may retire, Sir.
[Exit Messenger.
'Tis not good.
It irks me he should come not till the even:
Were my plans ripened—all the parts prepared—
I might—but 'tis no matter;—this delay
May give me time more fully to mature
And mould—

Enter Servant.
So please you, gracious countess, waits
Prince Guido Bellafiore, with his friend—
The Count Monzano,—and requests to know
If now your excellency's leisure would
Permit their entrance?

Gia.
On the instant!—Yes!
[Exit Servant.
My heart's tempestuous throbbings make me faint.—
This is a strife where weakness doth too well,
Antagonizing all the array of power,
Conquer the loftiest in their mightiest mood!

Enter Prince Guido and Count Giulio.
Guido.
Fair countess—most beholden are we both
To you for this permission to approach
Your person at this rude and early hour.—
We craved admittance at unwonted time,
Since my friend Giulio hath some leagues to ride
To meet his sister—and must soon to horse:—
Thus we entreat your pardon and your grace.

Gia.
Most welcome are you.—You must pardon me
For thus receiving both without dull forms,
And tedious ceremonials, starched and stiff,
Here in my gardens!—

Giulio.
'Tis as it should be,
A rose 'midst roses—and a queen of flowers!
I have received communications, late,
From a tried friend of yours, which he requests
I should impart to you.—Am I permitted?

Gia.
(coldly.)
What are they, Sir?

Giu.
(piqued.)
Urgent and secret both.
Am I permitted?

Gia.
Nay, ask Guido's leave.

Guido.
Think not of me, I pray you.

Giulio.
'Twill be brief.

(They walk apart.)
Guido.
How beautiful!—how gloriously the smile
Breaks through the gloom that ofttimes seems to dwell
On those fine features.—Flora's fair—most fair:—
Yet do I almost fear myself, and doubt
My own high constancy, when all the spells
Of this dark, burning beauty, and rare pride
Of this consummate creature thrill my heart!
What quenchless fires are in that haughty eye!
What worlds of witchery melt around those lips—
Her dark hair, like some glorious banner floats,
Which 'twere a joy to follow to the death!
Her steps are victories! and her smiles are queens!
And all her looks are Empire!—As she moves,
So prodigal of loveliness she seems,
That the air is set ablaze with her proud brightness,
And all grows like her that surrounds her even!
Till Beauty is the World methinks!—She comes!

The Countess and Count Giulio approach.
Gia.
Alas! Alas!

Guido.
(agitatedly.)
I fear me thou hast heard
Dark evil tidings that disturb thee thus;—
Some sad mischanceful turn in thine affairs:—
If so, I pray thee to command me. Say—
Can I in any sort assistance lend?
Thou know'st I'm honoured by relationship,
And near relationship, with thee.

Gia.
Best thanks!—
'Tis nought mischanceful that concerns myself,
No evil tidings of a private nature!—
'Tis—nay, 'tis not!
(Pauses—then breaks forth abruptly and enthusiastically,)
Oh! Heavens! it will have way.
What can so pierce us to the heart of hearts,
Rack us in every thought that we can shape;
Crush us down—down unto the dust of death,
Multiply in us every faculty,
All capabilities of sufferance even,
Enlarge the field, the scope of life and fate,
Till that embraceth thousand thousands! all
Who ought to feel, though they may feel not—too,
Measure for measure, as we feel and madden!—
What can do thus but soul-deep sympathy
In all our country's sufferings?—aye! but that!
Till grows that royal sympathy sublimed
Into a god-like courage and resolve,
When once the fire of indignation bursts
Within the awakened bosom, full and free,
Like long pent-up volcanic flames let loose,
Till then 'tis the Unapproachable Despair.—
Say, that unanswered love may wound—wring—waste!—
Say, that cold disappointment of high hopes
May blast, may blight—that death of friends beloved
May sickly o'er the very hues of life—
What is't to that immensity of anguish,
Those immortalities of lengthening woe,
Those uttermost supremacies of grief,
Which seem to absorb our fates and feelings all—
All in our Country's! Then ten thousand times,
And thrice ten thousand thousand o'er and o'er,
We feel—a People's pangs become our own;
Our cares are grown colossal—and our soul
Breaks every bound, while present—future—past—
Are merged—make but one date in our wide doom,
Our most gigantic destiny!—The Past,
With all the heroic blazonry of deeds—
By our forefathers compassed, lights our soul
But with a desolate funereal glare,
So blended with the Present's deathlike gloom;
The Future too 'tis veiled with stern suspense,
What though the etherial Hope may strive to gild—
'Tis by our dark imaginings endued
With semblance still of the actual; so we live,
We feel and live—and only live to feel,
In our adored high father-land's deep fate,
All ages forward—and whole centuries back!—
We feel—we live—and do o'erflow ourselves!
Still with what strong concentered—yet encirling
Intenseness of existence in the Now!
'Tis they who love their country next to heaven—
'Tis they who see their country wronged and wracked—
'Tis they who feel their country's fate their own—
'Tis they who wear their country at their heart,
That would ten million times dare all earth's deaths
To give her freedom!—that one, only life,
That know what feeling can be made in man!
Aye! or in woman!—for the love that forms
Her being's whole makes her one melting heart,
That bleeds—that breaks in her wrong'd country's breast,
Yet in that melting, like the Alps' snows dissolved,
That bear all with them—thus 'twill fall to conquer!

Guido.
By heaven! she fires me till my soul's in flames!
My heart with agonizing ardour bounds.
Guilio, how stand'st thou, wrapt in dull repose!
Heard'st thou the impassioned call—the awakening cry—
The Heaven and Earth-electrifying tones?
Saw'st thou the visionary sunburst-light,
That made her eyes like fountains of starr'd fire?
Mark'dst thou her movements, that did monarchize
O'er all the soul, and swelled it mountains high,
Seeking at least to keep in sight her own?
The enthusiast passion, mounting more and more,
Seizes on her's, and lifts it o'er the stars.
Why! lady!—Victory couches at thy feet;
Thy looks are armaments—thy words are hosts!
Thy thoughts are all a pomp of marshalled war!
Thy will's a triumph—and thy wish a fate;
Thy heart one world of fiery chivalry;
Thy lowest whisper such a clarion's blast
As shall rock nations yet—and empires change;
And where thy shadow falls, may battle breathe,
And shouting conquest tower in laurelled state.
Lo! there was that in thy commanding tone
That might have roused the almighty Rome from ruin,
With all her conquerors to the rescue!—Lo!
There was a trumpet-tone of thrilling power,
To thunderstrike the Cæsars in their grave,
And bind the imperial champions to thy cause—
Trebly imperial made through thy proud soul,
That should inspire them with its own dread life.
With the ecstacy of admiration stunned,
Breathless with the all-o'erpow'ring torrent tide
Of stormy joy and fiery zeal, I stand!—
And pray thee further to unfold thy soul,
Pre-eminently glorious as it is!

Gia.
Alas! the lightning, from the spirit launched,
When clash its clouds—tempestuously a-stir—
Shines but with momentary splendours—frown
The glooms again, and shut those Storm-Suns out!—
'Tis not that hope is feebler, but that all
The deep responsibilities entailed
On those who would a work of such large Change,
Merging ten thousand holiest interests—speed,
Oppress, with soul-o'ershadowing thoughtfulness!
Oh! Italy! Our Italy!—Shalt thou
Ere rear again thy queen-like brow on high!—
Ah! not before thou hast endured worse woes,—
The stage of slaughter made and scene of strife.
But no! those noble woes may not be worse!
War, war, may kill the bodies of the brave;
But such a peace of slavery and oppression
Kills the whole Country's Soul, and makes Life—Death!
Mine own sweet Venice—be the first blow struck
To hack those chains that do disgrace thee now,
Launched like a royal argosy of price,
A Warrior-bark of glory, yet once more,
On the high billowing seas of liberty!
For now thou'rt on thy stagnant waters chained,
That thicken into slime about thee—thus—
Of all the bravery of their navies spoiled,
Lit by no beacons, by no banners blazed!—
Still on that solemn bed of waters laid,
Thou'rt like some beautiful and mighty corse,
Girt with old circumstance of stern decay,
Touched with pale funeral beauty, sad and deep.
Oh! but to send once more through those chilled veins
The lightning play of freedom's pulses! then
To bow to death unmurmuringly! nay, more,
With such a rapture as life never knew!—

Guido.
The proud amazement seals my senses still!
Where are we? Should not thousand thousand swords
Leap from their scabbards when thou speak'st of war?

Gia.
They will—yet, yet they will—the shuddering snows
Shall loosened fall, from all the awakening hills.
Aye! avalanche on avalanche shall roll,
When peals the trumpet-summons to this war!
Roll—roll, ensanguined and incarnadined,
In the heart's blood of heroes—founts of fire!—
That soon shall melt them, till the immingling sea—
In coloured overflow—make earth blood-red!
But that shall yet subside—nor leave a stain,
One blush of burning shame for all her wrongs!
And ever after, the bright hues of peace,
The whiteness of the unspotted liberty,
And all the sunshine of man's happiness
Shall bless her in the gazing eye of heaven!
And wilt thou join us, prince and cousin? say!

Guido.
Lead on!—all lesser lights obey the sun;—
The spirit stirs the frame e'en as it lists.

Gia.
I need not caution thee; no word, no breath!

Guido.
Lady! my voice is sheathed with my sheathed sword.

Gia.
Both shall be freed from their imprisonment;
Meanwhile 'twere best with Count Monzano straight
Thou shouldst confer.—So he shall lay before thee
The map of our design—and this proud web
Unravel for thy scrutiny, that yet
Shall toil the insulting tyranny, and tame!—

Guido.
Hath this been long designed?

Gia.
Not long—some months.—

Guido.
I have myself full oft revolved such things.
Who hath not, that hath soul and sense of feeling?
But the laid Train of mine unbreathed-of Thought
Paused for such spark as thy bright speech hath proved!
'Tis now one flame—and sways, and rocks, and gleams,
And shoots with burning, spiry rings to heaven.

Gia.
No longer cousin—be my brother now.
Our souls are one.

Guido.
Thy brother!—happiest he
Who dwells the nearest to thy noble heart!
Glorious enthusiast! thy soul dazzles mine!

Enter Servant with a note.
Servant.
Countess—the bearer will in brief return.

Gia.
'Tis well: inform me when he waits—retire!—
(To Giulio.)
'Tis from De Tours—and prays an interview!
May he be all our hopes are taught to look for!—

Guido.
Adieu, Giacinta! We shall meet again,
Ere long, again—and oftentimes, I trust.

Gia.
Aye! gallant Guido!—Giulio! yet a word.
He in one instant's space shall follow thee.
[Exit Guido.
I pray thee—caution him to lock his lips.
So rash—so young—I tremble! Every look
Beams a resplendent and unshrouded truth!—
Why, why so silent art thou, and so cold?—

Giulio.
Perchance thy heart can answer that for me.

Gia.
Nay!—jealous? didst thou swear not, o'er and oe'r,
Never to nourish that poor passion's venom.

Giulio.
Giacinta! there are times when man's all man,
That is—an abject worm—that writhes and feels,
Answering each torture with convulsive motion.

Gia.
Go to! thou'rt weak indeed! thou'lt rouse my scorn,
If some light fancy draws me to this youth.
I love thee not the less!—and so thou'rt sure
That no inconstancy can quite divide us!—

Giu.
'Tis most cold comfort!—

Gia.
(impatiently.)
Follow him!—He waits!—

Giu.
I go; and then proceed to meet my sister.
Therefore, farewell, Giacinta, till the morning.
[Exit Giulio.

Gia.
Up!—mine exultant rapture!—to the skies.
Up!—up!—with all thy joy! my life! and soul:
He loves me:—yes! I know it!—feel it!—hug
The deep, thrice-costly knowledge to my soul;
That kingly, kingliest knowledge! I am made
All one bright beatific Feeling now!—
My spirit burns—one gush of torrent-gladness—
A-blaze, with all the imperial consciousness!—
And thron'd on that most conquering thought of thoughts.—
He loves me!—Heaven and Earth! resound those words!
Become one mighty echo of my heart!—
My Guido! mine! oh! words too wild with bliss!
He loves me! yes, those fervid, dark-blue eyes
Proclaimed with every look the impassioned truth!—
Yet—yet I see him—with his death-black hair,
Dashed backwards from his proud, monarchic brow!—
Where sate enthroned the majesty of soul!
How beautiful those features! Heavens! how perfect!—
How sculpture-like in their transcendent grace!
Pale—the proud paleness of the enthusiast thought,—
And passion—passion—too, yet more profound!
Pale as the heaven—when whitening with its stars,
So is thy countenance with thoughts and dreams.

Enter Servant.
Servant.
Madam—the messenger your pleasure waits.

Gia.
Bid him assure his master, from myself,
His speedy presence will be welcome here.
[Exit Servant.
Ere many minutes have elapsed, methinks,
Will he arrive—this gallant young De Tours.
(looks at note.)
Yes!—in the piazza, close at hand, he dwells,
And will not tarry: when he leaves me, then
Must I address myself to business straight;
And after sundown comes—the Brigand's King—
The staunch black Ludovic, our firm—ally!
That sound may jar—but what are sounds but breath!—
First shounld I send dispatches, far and wide,
Reporting our proceedings and intents,
Detailing all to—the—conspirators!—
That word doth grate me strangely!—change it, then—
As our success will do—if we succeed!
Shame! shame! my heart, to nurse so poor a doubt.
We shall—we must succeed.—All smiles around,
But most th'indomitable heart within!
Then 'twill be conquerors!—patriots!—the armed deliverers—
The avenging heroes—saviours of their country;
While charioted in warrior-state, we roll
From triumph on to triumph—power to power—
Aye! sovereignty to sovereignty; for so
Shall we then reign i'the people's love and faith,
That jewelled tires of kings shall pave our paths!
And those who fall—for surely some must die—
Shall fall with trophies for their monuments—
No longer the conspirators—the martyrs!—
And those that live, and live to seize the prize,
Shall walk enlaurelled through triumphal ways.
No longer the conspirators—the champions!
For Circumstance—and Accident—and the Actual,
With all the Enthroned Omnipotencies sway,
That most command and most controul mankind!—
And lord it o'er the immortal, boundless soul.
Roll, roll, ye days—roll, hurrying to that hour
Which shall develope our august design!—
Then step by step shall I on high ascend,
Even to my wild ambition's cloud-capped peak;
For I would reign o'er this most royal land,
My then regenerate Italy!—And now
With loftier zeal soars up my longing thought—
The crown that I would challenge worlds to gain,
I covet most to lay at—Guido's feet!
Now pours the deluge of delight once more,
With such immeasureable o'erwhelming's power,
I scarce can bear the suffocating sense
Of mine unfathomable happiness!
So!—stings one thought to qualify it yet—
One forkéd fear—one jarring, jealous doubt.
Doth not his heart still lean to Flora—still
Wear her detested image in its core?
Nay! let me bind him so unto our cause—
So rouse his spirit—and so trance his soul,
That thus that cause and I together may
Depose each other feeling—hope—and aim—
And fill up all the avenues of soul!—
Let him be wedded unto both!—shall I
That glorious rival with distrust regard?
No!—but there build assurance, fixed and firm,
And found all confidence!—A footstep—ha!

Enter M. De Tours.
De Tours.
Lady! my homage and myself are laid—
Where worthier things are prostrate—at thy feet.

Gia.
With pleasure and with pride I welcome thee;
I welcome thee to our eternal Rome,
To the high court and congress of our cause!
Enough!—for hurryingly on the untripped heels
Of our design now execution treads!—
We must at once deep matters weigh, and probe—
And compliments, and ceremonials waive.

De Tours.
Right willingly—the papers I have brought,
This evening to thy hand shall be conveyed;
These will acquaint thee with the amount of aid
Cooperation—contributions—all
Thou mayst expect from certain quarters!—So!
This prospers!—Lady, I rejoice in truth,
And wish our bright auspicious day had dawned!—

Gia.
Ere long it will—to wrap all the earth in light.

De Tours.
I have borne part before in strifes like this,
And, pardon me, I own was half awearied—
But with fresh zest I enter on this cause:
The stage is different, if the play's the same;
And troth, it is a pleasant theatre—
This same bright, sunny Italy of yours—
And 'tis a novelty, besides, for those,
Who here are joined are young beginners all,
Tyros and novices!—'Twill be amusement
To watch their raw rehearsings;—as for us—
The twelve years' urchin's like a veteran now;
Each Polythecnic pupil might confront
The old Carthaginians' famed Tactician well—
Check-mate bold Hannibal—make Cæsar's self
Come—see—and slink back conquered—to re-write
His Commentaries—made the pupil's pupil!
There's nothing in our glorious France I swear,
New—strange—untried—or freshening to the soul,
I' the way of plots, broils, outbreaks, civil wars,
Rebellions,—revolutions,—regicides,—
Schisms,—seizures,—condemnations,—executions,—
Or private crime,—or public clamour left!—
This makes our home seem strangely tiresome—
(yawns)
Exceeding dull and most monotonous;
Our life's a very vegetation there!
Since novelty's the salt and seasoning still
Of every pleasant relaxation!—faith!—
That gives its charm to dangers—or to dress—
Three days of death for Freedom—or a dance!—

Gia.
Beware how in this light and reckless strain,
To my impassioned countrymen you speak—
The inflamed, impetuous, hot Italians. Strive
To cloak this playful and too trifling mood
In strong enthusiasm's colouring garb,
Else thou wilt shock their feelings, wound their pride,
And harm in lieu of helping us—beware!

De Tours.
Oh! trust me! I will stalk on glory's stilts,
And mouth it most grandiloquently well!
Without shows, helps, appearances, and names,
Glory would grin too like a skeleton,
And then the excursive fancy might take wing—
From honour's heights—unto the—hospital!
But truly, lovely countess, it needs not
I should assume a zeal I deeply feel:—
I am enthusiastic, though, perchance,
You scarce can reconcile this truth with all
That I have shown of recklessness and mirth.
You are deceived, then! We gay sons of France
Can snap our fingers ere we bind our wounds—
Catch at the red-hot cannon-balls that whizz
Around us, shattering hundreds in their path—
Dance o'er the gulph that yawns for our destruction—
Sing—and defy the world—or laugh and leave it.

Gia.
I doubt ye not, but such mixed character
Is so unlike the temper of this clime,
Thou yet must act a part—or wilt—I feel—.
If not, thou wilt bring ruin on us all!—
Now to the apartments in my palace, sir,
I pray thee, follow me;—if time permits,
There learn the measures we have taken late—
The methods we propose—the means we boast.
It wants, methinks, to sunset yet an hour.

De Tours.
In all things thou but speak—let me but serve.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—An Apartment, adorned with Statues, &c. in the Count Montalba's Palace.
EVA AND FLORA.
Eva.
Hath our young prince been lately here, I pray?
Yes! thou'rt so beautifully blushful!—yes!
I am entirely answered by those tints!
Methinks his presence is indeed thy sun—
It leaves so rosy-red a track behind—
Nay! never shake those glist'ning ringlets thus—
To veil thy bright confusion—brightlier through
Their golden shadowings burns that blush of fire!—
Come, come, be less deceitful!—and confess!—

Flora.
Nay, my sweet cousin, mock me not to-night—
I have a brooding sorrow at my heart.
And thou!—how is't that thou canst jest and smile?

Eva.
Because I am too wretched for aught else!
Did I give way 'twere more than I could bear—
Besides, I'm learning smiles to soothe and cheer him—
My poor Montalba!—No! I dare not dwell
On this dark theme:—in mercy talk to me!
Tell me of all that hath befallen! thou saidst
But now, a sorrow had o'erta'en thee—what?
Nought but the shadow of mine own—I trust!

Flora.
And that, my Eva, were enough to cross
My happiest fortune with a cloud of gloom.
But—in addition—I—no! he I mean—
That is—'twas she—

Eva.
Now let me spare thee all
The avowal of thy love! thou know'st I know it!

Flora.
Ev'n so! thou dost!—thence spring my sorrows then.
The worm is at my heart—the envenomed worm
That gnaws its way through all things!—jealousy!—

Eva.
Of whom?—

Flora.
Of her—that proud Giacinta!—

Eva.
Her?—

Flora.
None other! Yes! he hath been here, and the hour
He staid with me spake nothing but her praise—
Pride—torture—anger locked my lips—close—close—
But if they uttered not, my aspect did!—
He marked it not!—and still spoke but of her,
Coupling her name with sounding epithets—
Proud!—glorious!—generous!—Oh! I know not what;
But know I echoed each with smothered sighs
That broke my heart to heave—much more to check!—
Alas! sweet Eva!—thou didst bid me talk,
And of myself—but heartless doth it seem,
And coldly selfish, while thy heavier woe
Works in thy soul, and wakes distraction there.
How sunken is thine eye—thy cheek how changed—
A sleepless night of watchings was thy last?
How fared it with the count?

Eva.
He could not rest:
Starting from sleep whene'er sleep half o'ercame—
And uttering wild and dreadful things—as threats
'Gainst haunting fiends; implorings, sad and deep,
To unseen beings—strange, delirious things,
That seemed to me but raving—raving—all—
Oh! pitying Heaven support me!

Flora.
Hark!—'tis him.

Gia.
Him!—then the wretched hypocrite must feign,
Freeze back the tear, and coin the writhing smile.—
Once more, oh! pitying Heaven! support me!—

Enter Montalba.
Mont.
Gone!
Say! is he gone?—he haunts me day by day,
And multiplies that image in my dreams.
What!—are ye voiceless both?—Say is he gone?—

Flora.
Whom mean'st thou?—

Mont.
That avenging shape of wrath—
Clothed in the horrid beauty of that likeness.
(Checks himself.)
Nay!—I am wandering—many sleepless nights
Have fevered me to hot delirium's height—
I mean, is Guido gone?—

Flora.
An hour ago!—

Mont.
I breathe! It is too much—too much to bear
Within—without—so haunted with that form—
Oh! I were happiest of all men, if he
Were but removed for ever from these eyes!

Flora,
(aside to Eva.)
Can he be jealous of the youthful prince?
Can that be cause of all his wildness—say?—

[Exit Mont.
Eva.
Oh! no!—no!—no!—Would 'twere so! but thou know'st—
This had beginning ere Prince Guido came.

Flora.
Aye; but far worse and worse hath he become,
From the first moment that they met till now;
And thou wert ever gracious to the youth,
Thinking to please Montalba, and to prove
Thy sympathy with him, and kind respect,
For the most mournful memory of his love—
By such sweet courtesy and favour shown—
I trust—I trust 'twill prove but jealousy,
Which burns so fiercely in this fervid air—
Some slight distemperature, perchance, at first,
Which strange uneasy fancies—wearying cares—
Some trouble, some vexation's strife have caused—
(In private or in public matters—which,
Lest it should irk thee, he concealed from thee!)
Might have disturbed the mind's nice equipoise—
On this would jealousy engrafted grow
Quickly to horrid strength—thus sown by chance,
Even from light-scattered seed should spring apace!—
For where the soil hath loosened been—upturned
By aught of harassing suspense or doubt,
Rank weeds too well do thrive and swiftly sprout—

Eva.
I cannot hope it! No!—it is not that!

Enter Montalba again.
Mont.
Ha! he hath not returned; for that thank Heaven!—
Eva, did I inform thee I had heard
From my loved friend of boyhood's years?—that friend
I ever told thee 'twas my dearest wish
That thou shouldst meet—and value—as do I—
Brave Della Moria!—who hath entered late
A foreign service—and a bright career
Hath run already: he will be in Rome
This time to-morrow.

Flora.
(aside to Eva.)
He is calmed and changed.

Eva.
(aside to Flora.)
Yes! But 'twill never last!—
(To Count Mont.)
You told me not,
Beloved Enrico! But I do rejoice
To learn these tidings—and impatient feel
To show thy friend I love him—for thy sake.
Thou oft hast told me of the warmth—the depth
Of this true friendship—that he knows thy soul,
Which hoards no secrets from him—

Mont.
Would—oh! would—
How said I? he had fought!—Yes! he hath been
'Mid Battle's noble terrors and array!—
The wars—the wars—ah! there my pathway lies!
Give me that glorious occupation's joy!—
I would plunge deep into the shades of strife,
Pierce through the nodding, plumy forest's ranks,
Like to the crashing thunderbolt of heaven,
And riot in the luxury of a choice,
'Twixt many a rapid death!—Aye! war's hot field!—
Why! 'tis the very capital of Death!—
The spears, blood-gilt, his palace's proud pillars!—
The rustling banners his resplendent roofs—
The heaps of slain his monumental piles.
The Wars are in my Soul!—Oh! let me burst
These cold, enslaving bonds of peace, and rush,
Free as the cataract rushes, on and on;
And dash as that does—to destruction's depths!—
Here there yawns no abyss for those would fling
The vain world off—and leave life too behind them!
Ah! my own Eva! look thou not so sad!—
'Tis in my nature this most wild unrest,
And ever and anon disgust at life!—
Thou smil'st!—My sun of life smiles round thy lips
Though with the rosiest reddening of a setting!—
It cannot wholly set—while beams that smile!

[Exit.
Flora.
That smile! it fades with his departing steps,
Like some crushed flower, that withers leaf by leaf.

Eva.
(despondingly.)
I told you 'twould return on him ere long—
The unquiet fit—the fever—and the fire.

Flora.
And yet methought, though true, his words were wild,
There seemed no show, no startling signs nor marks
Of real derangement!—'tis not hopeless, sure—
Some brief hallucination this may prove,
That yet may pass and leave the horizon clear.
Hope on!—hope ever!—Nay! thou'rt weary quite:
Thy tottering limbs can scarce thy frame sustain—
Seek some refreshment of repose, I pray.

Eva.
Repose!—thou mock'st me!—

Flora.
For his sake—his sake—
If thou wert ill where then his nurse?—his friend?—
His comforter—

Eva.
His keeper!—there's the word!—
Curdle! my blood—my pulse! check, check thy play;
For this tops the uttermost of horror's worst!

Flora.
For his sake come—for his sake follow me—
Let these poor aching temples for awhile
Press the still pillow—for his sake—his sake!—

[She gently leads out Eva.

Scene III.

—A lower Apartment in Count Montalba's Palace.
ANTHONY, ANTONIO, AND GIACHIMO.
Antho.
'Tis an oppressive day—I scarce can breathe;
I' faith, the climate's very sultry now—
And our lord count is very strange, methinks.
'Tis hot unbearably, I vow and swear,
Inside and outside too o'the house—just now!—
Too hot to hold me, were't not for the sake
Of my sweet Lady Eva—gentlest lamb!
Heard you the thunder-storm this morning roll
O'er this old, ricketty, ruinous Rome, I warrant,
(This subterraneous, strange, amphibious place!—)
As though 'twould shake those few old bones—that seem'd
Quite out of joint enough before—to pieces!—
Your temples of Jew-Peter and the rest?
I am glad they had the decency to give
The Christian Peter a good thundering new one!—
Pheugh!—'tis so hot!—there is no breathing here!
I feel half strangled—stifled in my clothes.—

Giach.
(Walking round him and surveying him!)
I wonder not! poor Anthony! no doubt—
They feel uncomfortably strange to you!
Especially in this hot weather, now:—
'Twere better you took off your coat, methinks.

Antho.
You're about right! I vow I think so too! (takes off his coat.)


Giach.
Your waistcoat's doubtless sadly in your way—
Suppose too—you divest yourself of that—

Antho.
Well!—I have no objection—so here goes— (takes off his waistcoat.)

Why! you young hang-pup!—What art grinning for?
Did'st never see a stalwort man, like me,
A proper man of portly make and mould—
Take off his waistcoat on hot days before?—
Why! what art after?—Round and round you step
As in a mill—the tread-mill were your place,
I wish for your sake 'twere—with all my heart.

Giach.
And you my comrade!—Tony!—well and good!—
But Anthony, poor Anthony!—I feel—
Indeed I do, I feel for you!—Alas!—
How awkward must that chafing collar prove!

Antho.
You'd think the halter pleasanter, perhaps?—
Ha! ha! What we're brought up to—that you know!—

Giach.
Not I.—If you prefer it I would run
And fetch one that should suit you. Speak the word!
There may be one all ready made for you!

Antho.
Thou frontless impudence!—keep off!—keep off!

Giach.
Nay!—cool and comfortable—'twere be sure—
And economical!—'twould save all washing!
Now do, dear Anthony—do let me run!

Antho.
Brat!—Save all washing!—Save a murder!—Babe!—
Run—yes!—I'll run you through with this good cane!—
(Shakes a cane at him.)
Be off, or you're a double-dead baboon!
Tramp!—tramp!

Giach.
I feel such pity for your case!
Those cramping stockings!—those confining shoes!—
That shirt's vile bondage!—poor, poor Anthony!—

Antho.
If you can find, by rummaging within
That numskull, hoisted on your two lank shoulders—
One small groat's-worth of brain, and that can boast
One grain of meaning—give it me at once!—

Giach.
Poor Anthony!—We know you ne'er were used
To wear a thread or shred of clothes before!
But smeared with paint, ran wild in your old woods!
You ancient Britons!—

Antho.
Ancient Britons! Ho!
Am I an ancient Briton?—Mongrel!—I!
I am no ancient Briton!—grant me patience!—
Do I look like an ancient Briton?—fool!

Giach.
Oh, no! in truth, most young, and fresh, and green!
But want a leetle painting o'er afresh,—
Just a few brightening touches of the brush!
For here and there the paint's turned slightly rusty—
Just needs fresh varnishing, perhaps—or scouring!—

Antho.
Painting! I'll paint you sirrah—black and blue—
Good black and blue!—in stripes three inches broad:
What scouring?—I'll scour your thick skin, and scourge it,
Ape! Ancient Briton! heard man e'er the like?—

Giach.
(coaxingly,)
Come! Anthony!—you know—you know 'tis true!—
They wear no clothes in England!—and you know
Dear Anthony! your fingers are your forks!
Your tables are your knees—you keep no cooks!
You ante-diluvian Druids nothing eat
Save husks and acorns, and do dwell in dens;—
And once a year are roasted in brass bulls,
Which gives your name—John Bull. Come don't be shy—
Don't be ashamed of your own country, now!
Let's have it out, all friends together here!
Dear Anthony! good Anthony, take heart!

Antho.
(Running after him with his cane, trying to hit Giachimo, who nimbly avoids him; he has done thus during the latter part of Giachimo's speech,)
You scaramouch!—you scarecrow!—Why, you scrap!
You chuckling popinjay!—you chattering pie!
You ounce!—you patch!—you shred!—you thing!—you nothing!
You slippery eel!—you elf!—you eft!—you emmet!—
Anatomy!—abortion!—keep your distance,
Or you are condemned! killed! dead and buried! burnt!
Singed with quick lime, till nothing quick's left of you!
And nothing dead besides, you oaf!—you owl!—
And dug up, and dissected—limb by limb,
If those long spillikens be limbs indeed!
I'll scarify you! pulverize you!—Puppet!
Squeeze you to air and atoms!—stuff you, show you!—
Make you a bottle-imp—and seal you up!
Cork you so tight, you'll leave your skittish tricks!
Or flay you here alive, and sew your skin
Into a likely bag for backy snuff!—
That all the world may sneeze at you!—you shrimp!

Anto.
Now Anthony—come, come, be cool—be cool.—

Antho.
I wish I could in this hot furnace-clime.

Giach.
(To Antho.)
You would look grand now in a gilded frame,
New plastered o'er with coat of paint, I wot!
That coat of many colours fitting close.—
A fine old full-length painting all alive:
Not a rude villainous daub, smeared coarsely o'er.
Though I should doubt your native artists' taste;
Now, what is't called tit—tat—tat-tooing, heigh?—

Antho.
Won't I tat-too you, tag-rag!—Hop—tom-tit!
Or you are trounced and made mincemeat of!—How!—
You odd! you end! you farthing's-worth of frippery!
You dolt!—you dunce!—you chimpanzee-faced changeling!
Why, who hath filled that poor pin's head of yours
With such unconscionably trumpery trash?

Giach.
(gravely.)
Good father Anastasio!—learned is he;
Hath all your history at his fingers' ends!

Antho.
Would I could have him at my fingers' ends!—
Brass bulls and acorns!—Shall I go stark mad?—
(Mimicking him)
Good father Anastasio!—Good for what?
For pounding in a mortar, I'll be sworn.—
Well! one part of his name's appropriate too.

Anto.
What part?

Antho.
An ass.—You're one too—if you doubt it.
Druids and husks—good Lord! i' faith I'm husky,
Wasting my breath on such a raw racoon;
You will-o'-the-wisp, without one glimmering sparkle—
You Jack-a-dandy, with your toy-shop toggery.—

Anto.
Come Anthony—forgive this foolish child!—
And tell us, were you, after all, in time
To see the grand procession yester eve?
Saw you the carriages—the cardinals?—

Antho.
Not I!—'twas so insufferably hot,—
Like some sick superannuated snail,
Or tortoise with rheumatics pinched—I crawled!
And scarce could drag my melting limbs along;
But for musquitoes was your country made,—
And you're but men—and— (turns to Giach.)
monkeys by mistake.

Anto.
You saw not, then, the long and proud array?
The carriages of state—the cardinals?

Antho.
The carriages;—but not the cardinals:
(By far the best of it, I'm thinking—ha!)
These, having shot their rubbish, were returning,
And lumbered by—

Anto.
Their rubbish!—dare you speak
With such irreverent disrespect of men
So heaped with honours, and so grey with years?—

Antho.
Irreverent! well!—but cardinals are clay;—
And being worthy priests, too, would admire
The choice expression—since they surely preach
To all that flesh is grass, and man is dust—
And must despise their earthly part, no doubt.
Now do not interrupt—unmannered trick!
They lumbered by, and wanted greasing much:
Also new hanging:—nay, best give them up,
Perchance for firing—that's, the carriages!
They trundled past with all their gilded show,
With all their ponderous pomp and solemn state,
Since troth they creaked and rumbled awfully—
While their black steeds, fat, fat as butter all,
Reminded me a leetle of our breed
Of huge dray-horses!—had the cardinals
Indeed been in the coaches these had looked
For all the world like Meux and Co.'s turns out—
Since they're stout portly gentlemen—I heard,
And the round burly barrels filled with beer
Might claim the honour well to represent!

Anto.
Hast to our glorious Colosseum yet
Ere turned thy steps—that wonder of our Rome?—
If not, thou must some day, despite the heat,
Permit me to accompany thee there!—

Antho.
I have been to your Colosseum, troth!—
An 'twere called Cauliflower 'twere nigher truth!
Such a great round plum-pudding-looking place:
Save it hath no plums in't—nor nought so good!

Anto.
Pshaw—Surely you must now one point concede,
In England, you can boast not such a ruin!

Antho.
In England!—No!—No!—take your oath of that!
And fear not you will be forsworn!—you're right!—
In England no such ruins can we boast;
For rest assured, we should be most ashamed
To leave such littering rubbish straggling there—
A huge great heap of half-cemented stones;—
Gigantic nuisance!—blocking up the path,
And quite an eye-sore in the prospect too!—
In England, long ago, be very sure,
'Twould have been knocked to pieces—cleared away,
And carted off—with all the opened ground,
To let for building-leases—long—long since!
We are an orderly, decent people—we!
We are a notable nation!—with some taste.—
For yours!—but this I do not doubt—'tis not
So much your fault as your misfortune here;
You cannot well afford the expense 'twould be,
Removing all your gimcrack old remains—
Making a decent, habitable place
Of this rag-fair of odds and ends—this Rome!
In England!—why by this time you should see,
I' the place of that old tottering skeleton,
That mummy of a mountain of piled stones;
That heap of useless lumber,—half decayed;
That mouldering carcase of a Colly-see-um,
Some sweet, straight, little comfortable rows
Of snug, nice houses, speedily run up,
With lath and plaster—neatly white-washed o'er,
With Lilliputian gardens, well laid out—
With box and baize—that is—I mean with grass;—
By courtesy so called, though truth to say,
More like a remnant 'tis of well worn baize!—
Nebuchadnezzar would have starved there, sure!—
And on one side a Cupid and a rock,
On 'tother—a proportionate bower to match—
And all as spruce and pleasant, clean and neat,
As bricks and mortar, paint and wood can make it.

Anto.
(laughs.)
Ha! ha! ha!

Giac.
(laughs.)
Ha! ha! ha!

Antho.
What makes ye laugh?—
I do assure you I am serious quite—
For we shrewd Englishers like all reforms,
And know too how to make them—none so well.
(To Giach.)
Young Dunderhead—give o'er! would I could send
The upholsterer to your upper stories there, (points to his head,)

Which want complete new furnishing, I doubt!—
But Tony O! now, I will confess—of old
Your countrymen, to judge them by their dwellings,
Must have been proper men of portly size,
That house of theirs seemed built for Gog and Magog!—
Who have we here?
Enter two Mendicant Friars, with small boxes for charity in their hands.
What want these shaveling monks?

Anto.
They ask your charity—for they collect
Alms for the poor—gratuitously given.
We have no poor-law unions here in Rome!

Antho.
Heaven bless your pope and cardinals for that!
There you may boast—there, there you're happy!—yes,
Your beggars may be poor—but proud—since free!—
But poverty and prison too—think!—both!
One is enough of suffering, and too much—

Anto.
Alas! our poor are heavy sufferers oft,—
And like to starve e'en in the public streets!—

Antho.
Starve!—Starve!—but you know not the scantiest fare
On which our pauper-poor are kept alive;
Enough to feed their hunger, not themselves!—
And, oh! the famine of the feelings! torn,
In age and in decrepitude, from all
Whom they would live with to the last.

Anto.
But yet
The houseless poor of Rome by hundreds die.—
I have seen families of skeletons!—

Antho.
(interrupting.)
Then let them die—so they may die together!

First Monk.
Ah! Eccelenza!—

Antho.
Stop his gibberish—pray!—

Second Monk.
Oh! per i poveri!

Antho.
Old psalm-singing shark!
The poor, quoth he!—why deuce a bit—I guess—
Will they e'er see the colour of my coin,
That is, if I entrust it to their care.—
No! no! most worthy friars!—'tis vain! 'tis vain!
Commit no trespass here on button park!— (Laying his hand on his pocket.)

You look so plump—my partridges!—I doubt—
I doubt—the money all melts down your throats!—
Ye are indeed no pale anatomies—
Ye scarce can move for superincumbent flesh!
Your larder looks out from your pursed-up eyes,
That peer o'er two thick walls of solid fat!—
Flesh, fowl, and fish—but of the latter least!
Or I most hugely am mistaken.—No!—
A good half-handful I bestowed this morning,
On a poor beggar woman's seven starved brats.—

First Monk.
Ah! Carita!

Antho.
What! carry it her!—My friend!
Nay! not so fast—you are too obliging!—now,
With your good leave, I'd rather do it myself!
Though much beholden to your reverence, Sir.

Second Monk.
Oh!—Benedicite!

Antho.
What means the man?
Translate for me, good St. Antonio!—pray!

Anto.
Why!—'tis a blessing on thee!—

Antho.
Is it so?
I'll trouble you—my very worthy Sir,
Not to give me your blessing!—I mean, sell it—
(It costs too much; they never give it gratis!—)
(To Antonio.)
Now, in the twinkling of a bed-post, mark!—
How I will send these two impostors hence.—
This porpoise with a string of beads on's neck—
And that fat feather-bed in spectacles!
(To Monks.)
You speak a little English—friends!—I think?—

First Monk.
A vary little of the tong, signor,
But comprehend it when 'tis plainly spoke.

Antho.
I'll speak it plain enow!—I thought as much—
The cunning varlets! They have learnt our tongue
That they may cheat us, and delude us thus.—
Poor generous, innocent, munificent—
Soft-hearted, charitable Englishmen!
I have a proposition now to make,
Nay—two—the first, good monks!—but stay awhile.
You understand me—that I do decline
To make your reverences my almoners!
I like to give what I do give myself,
And not by proxy!—For yourselves, of course,
You nothing ask, nor need;—you're well to do
In this wild world, and want for nothing,—eh?
And certain, have no cause for saving, since
Through shaving, you've no hair apparent left.
Excuse this joke, ha! ha! You cannot take it!
Well! to proceed! Pray honour me to-night
By staying supper with me,—

Both the Monks together
Si! Si! Si!

Antho.
See! See!—Nay just hear first—(the hungry hounds!)—
This happens to be Friday.—Now I know
You keep to-day most strict and solemn fast!—
I would not lead you, for the world, astray!
And for your supper will with care provide,—
Just half a herring—half a one a-piece!
(Monks start back.)
Too much, you think!—perhaps indeed it may!—
Now I bethink me;—well, a quarter! say!
Lest you infringe your order's rules severe:
I would not prove your tempter!—heaven forfend!
And for the sake of your two precious souls,
I will myself the other half devour!—
A quarter of a herring each!—'twere best.
For my good share a separate board prepared,
May smoke with soup, and meat, stew, roast, and boiled;
Choice maccaroni—vermicelli too—
And other savoury and well-seasoned fare!
Nay!—stop!—what going?—'tis near supper-time!—
Come back!—you reverend worthies!—pray return;—
You can conclude your charitable walk
By pensive moonlight!—D'ye remember not—
Two propositions I'm prepared to make;—
The second I feel sure you both will hail
With joy unfeigned, (Monks come forward,)
but I must first unfold
Unto your sympathizing souls, a thing
Which doubly will delight you. I do feel
Strange visitings within me—conscience-qualms;
A leaning to your creed;—in short I own
Am half a convert now—and would become,
With your good help, a whole one.

First Monk.
Well! my son!

Antho.
I have heard much of scourgings, stripes, and blows—
And self-inflicted penances for sin;—
Fain would I see, with mine own eyes, such acts
Of piety performed! Behold my friends,
(Produces two thick old whips,)
A scourge a-piece. When you have swallowed down
Your bones of fish—for little else you'll find!—
You may begin your flagellations here;
Feed on them with what relish best you may,
'Twill aid digestion—wholesome labour, sure!
And lay on till the morning—if you will!
I will assist you when you're fagged—and flag,—
So show me how you mortify the flesh!—
Come!

Monks.
Buona Sera!

Antho.
Bony share, ah!—Yes,
It was a bony share I proffered you!—
And— (Monks go)
no use preaching more to empty benches!
And (turns to Giach.)
brains still emptier! Oh!—those fat old thieves!—
Pickpockets! swindlers!—but I served them out!—
They'll come no more to me—or if they do,
No more self-thrashings will I thus propose,
But with my own good hand administer!
Now, Tony O!—and you Jacky!—Come with me!—
'Tis supper-time indeed, (looks at watch,)
seven seconds past!
Those whining rascals have been cause that we
Shall lose seven seconds and one half of supper!

[Exeunt all.