University of Virginia Library

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.