University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—Servant's Apartment. Count Montalba's Palace.
GIACHIMO AND ANTHONY.
Giach.
List, Anthony—a lady proud and fair,
The Countess di Castellanaria sends
To ask news of your health, since she hath heard
This air of Rome doth disagree with you.
Fain would she these three golden pills prescribe,
Trusting they may most beneficial prove. (Offers him gold.)


Antho.
I'll roll thee quickly to one pill of paste,
And swallow thee, just silvered o'er with salt,
Thou Flibbertigibbert of a flying fish!
There's for your Countess Cast-steel—more like brass, tho',—
A fillip and a fig for her and you. (Chucks the money violently out of his hand.)

[Giachimo angrily puts his hand to his bosom.
Wouldst draw thy needle from its housewife case,
And run me through—the tip o' the little finger!
I'll drown thee then incontinently—yea,
I'll drown thee in—the drop of blood that's spilt!
Or grind thee into powder's airiest snuff,
And take thee 'twixt my thumb and finger—thus,
Without remorse, at one small pinch—of page!
Why dost thou stick for ever to my skirts?
Thou bur—thou barnacle—I'll shake thee off,
Though like a very minister of state,
Fastening to peck and perch, though stuck'st to me,
I will not be thy butt—thou barleycorn!
Out on thee, squeaking penny-trumpet!—out!
Thou sprat—thou spot—thou dot!—thou vile grimace!
Thou hornet-hobbledehoy—thou buzzing booby!—
Think'st thou thy countess shall corrupt me?—No!
Fly off—evaporate—hence—retreat—disperse!
Thou vast assemblage of absurdities—
Most riotous concourse of nonentities!—
Vanish!—avaunt!—I tell thee!—truce to all
Thy brazed audacities, or else, indeed,
I'll tickle thee o'the wrong side of thy heart,
And turn thee inside out.

Giach.
Old thunderer!—come,
If thou must grumble, growl in strain more civil.

Antho.
Not I!—my queer young quack, with your prescriptions;
Come—pick your poisonous pills up; on my soul,
I've nine good minds to ram them down your throat,
And try the power of your digestion thus!
There, pick them up—and take them back to her,
Your charming Countess Castle-in-the-air-there!
Take them to her, you carrier pigeon—you
Distributor of cards!—you poodle-comber!—
Or I will comb and card and pluck you soon!
Oh! that I were once more in mine own land!
Sick, sick am I of this outlandish desert!
By this time I should have forsworn my state
Of single blessedness—some goodly wife
And family around!—all jolly dogs!—

Enter Francisca.
Fran.
Why, how now, Anthony?—what ails thee, pray?
I ne'er yet heard thee speak in such grave tone—
What say'st thou of a wife and family?—

Antho.
That I do wish I dwelt among them now!—

Fran.
I knew not thou wert married!—

Antho.
No! nor I!
But I may wish I was!—

Fran.
(laughs.)
Oh—surely yes!
But, if a ready-made young family
You'd like to have—adopt some hundreds here,
Of houseless starvelings—'twere a worthy deed.

Antho.
I thank thee kindly—I'm unworthy of it.—

Fran.
And as for wife! why, our majestic Rome—
The widow of a world—for such she is—
Count her your stately, glorious, beauteous spouse.

Antho.
I'm no uxorious husband, then, I swear.
I wish she'd sue for separate maintenance!—
A widow, quotha!—faith—a jolly one—
But rather far advanced, methinks, in years.

Fran.
Now, Anthony!—you always chatter so,
You will not let me tell my lady's message.

Antho.
Come, that's a good one: you've been rattling on—

Fran.
'Tis quite impossible one little word
To squeeze in edgeways—such a tongue you have,—
Clack—clack—all day and night, the whole house rings
With your incessant gabbling.—It is strange
The men can never—never hold their tongues.
How I've been trying all this time, in vain,
To make you listen and attend to me.

Antho.
Now what's the message?

Fran.
There—you see—you see—
He will not let me speak a sentence—peace!
And hear your lady's strict commands:—she begs
You will not leave the house this afternoon.
The count is poorly—you must be at hand,
To hurry for the leech, if 'tis required.
And stay—mark—Anthony!—

Antho.
Mark Anthony!
Why, that's some old, great Roman's Latin name,
One of their ancient coves and codgers, sure!—
I'm grown so learned—an antiquarian quite!
What is't?—my pretty Cleopatra, eh!—
(Who was Mark Anthony?—her love I know—
And rather think, from what I can collect,
He was some famous fox-hunter of old.)—

Fran.
(tossing her head.)
Your Cleopatra!—Say not that again.
Marry come up!—a likely story that.
In the first place, good man, what made me yours!
And am I like that Amazonian mummy?—
That great gigantic thing, whose needle looks
For all the world, like some huge pillar-post!

Antho.
I cry you mercy!—I had understood
She was a pretty gypsey—like yourself!

Giach.
The proud triumvir lacked another world
To lose for thee, sweet Fancy!

Antho.
Try 'em, how much?—

Fran.
Well, Anthony, when you can pause, awhile,
Just to take breath, you everlasting jabberer,
Allow me to inform you further—thus
The countess doth desire, that when arrives
A friend from Florence, whom she now expects,
You should immediately acquaint herself,
And not my lord the count—that he is here.

Antho.
I will forthwith—and rather had, by far.
My lord the count is grown so fierce and strange
I nothing like so little as to meet him:
'Twas but the other day he called for me,
And bade me bring a glass of water:—well,
He said 'twas bad; on which I just remarked
It possibly was poisoned!—since such things,
I had been told, were common here in Rome!—
He started up, and thundered at me so,
To get me gone!—I staid for no more orders—
But tumbled over head and heels down here—
Curled up into a most compact close ball!—
As you might do (to Giach.)
my ourang-outang-hedgehog!
I think my lady will repent, ere long;—
I wish, with all my heart, we ne'er had met—
Nor married these Italians,—that I do!—

Giach.
I must begone—affairs important call!
The Countess di Castellanaria begged—

Antho.
What!—going to that lofty lady's house—
Your Countess Cast-her-on-the-harriers-there?

Fran.
What is thy business there?—acquaint us, pray!

Giach.
You know she hath the fairest, choicest flowers
That may be found at Rome in her vast gardens;
And she still tells me, in her gracious way,
To come and gather nosegays for my lady—
And the Signora Flora:—'tis most kind!

Antho.
For my part—I do think that I have seen
Your Countess Cast-her-well-in-the-area, cast
Some sheep's-eye stolen glances at our prince—
The noble Guido.—How is that, my mop-stick?

Giach.
And I well think the lady may perchance
Be deep in love, for I too oft have seen—

Fran.
(eagerly,)
What!—Giachimo?—

Antho.
What?—Jackanapes!—out with it!

Giach.
The countess looking most incessantly—
Intensely too, and with an anxious mien—
Sure proof she is outrageously in love—
At—her fair self—reflected in the glass!—

Antho.
How!—Noodle!—art thou making game of us?—
I'll tread thee out now like a twinkling spark!
I'll trample on thee for a long lank weed!

Giach.
I am most serious!—Ask Francesca now
If 'tis not true, that when a lady falls
In love, she doubly falls in vanity!—
For every feeling that she gives to him,
Her worshipped one! she keeps ten for herself,
And likes him in proportion as he yields
A woman's wealth—large crops of admiration!

Enter Antonio.
Anto.
Francesca! is my lady's health improved?

Antho.
My lady!—Why! I thought it was my Lord
Was suffering with the queerums!—how is this?

Fran.
Nay! both indeed are slightly indisposed.
My lady hath a sharp attack of nerves;
A terrible malady—I know it well!
(affectedly,)
I suffer tortures often from this cause—
And grow hysterically sensitive.—

Anto.
(aside.)
I like it not!—I cannot comprehend
What may have passed of late—but something hath.
Have dark suspicions haply got abroad?—
I have but one thing still to do;—but one,
And that is, to be silent—close as death!

Fran.
Well! Anthony!—I must not stay indeed!—
You have detained me here so very long
To listen to your never-ceasing prate—
You most incorrigible babbler!—now,
You know, I've said a thousand times, I must,
I must indeed not stay on idling here—
Attending to your garrulous gossip!—now
Release me, do—I must not stay, indeed—
So felicissima notte!—Anthony.
[Exit Francisca.

Antho.
Feller-cheese-is-more-knotty!—stuff and porridge!
It seems indeed a mighty knotty point!—
Dost feller me? it sounds unseemly, quite
Improper to a person of my station!
Come, my good Tony O!—now I really must—
(I can no longer bear this ignorance)—
Entreat of you to let me know my rank?

Anto.
Your rank? What mean ye?

Antho.
Why! I know I am
A major—major duomo! but I lack
This knowledge which I therefore seek from thee:—
Say in what regiment—abroad or here—
Do I my new commission hold—and if
'Tis in the cavalry or infantry?

Giach.
Oh! capital! delightful! ha! ha! ha!

Anto.
Ha! ha! a wondrous puzzling question 'tis.
Oh! in the cavalry, be very sure;
You'll have to mount your charger now ere long;
A stout one I should hope, for both your sakes.

Antho.
I am rejoiced 'tis in the cavalry!—
I like not walking much, especially
In this hot soddening clime—a horseback now
I shall feel active, airy, light, and pleasant!
I'll mount the breach!

Giach.
Beware! thou'lt break it down!—

Antho.
Your soldier is your true chameleon, he
Lives on the breath of glory and its smoke,—
A very palatable food—no doubt;—
Though sometimes hurtful to the constitution!
He wears her colours all—now pale to death
His heart's core rasped and riddled through with shot,
And now flushed deep with gory crimsoned stains,
Or blue with honourable scars, or swarthed
And smutchy with the dim dusk sulphurous clouds
Of fiery war!—Shall I be such chameleon?—

Giach.
A very corpulent chameleon, troth!—
You thrive on air!—

Antho.
And you on airs!—you ape!—
You're a nice article—you are:—begone
To your dear Countess Castor-oil-and-hartshorn-her!

Giach.
Good John roast Bull! I will evaporate thus!—
Exit Giachimo.

Anto.
And I must leave you Anthony as well;
I have commissions to fulfil to-day—
For my good Lord:—I haste to seek the priest—
His worthy grave confessor—kind Anselmo.

Antho.
And I may go and take my little nap:—
This clime is only fit for sloths, methinks,
Since 'tis impossible to do aught else
Than help each other to do—nothing here!

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

—An Apartment in Count Montalba's Palace.
Enter the Marchese Della Moria.
Della Moria.
Methought that I should here Prince Guido meet:
I have strange tidings for his private ear:
But the whole palace seems deserted quite!
No stir of steps—nor voices:—it is strange!
Strange too the change in poor Montalba's mien
And manner:—haggard-wild his countenance,—
His eye is hollow,—ashy is his cheek,—
Save where at times a burning fever-spot
Proclaims that all is war—wild war within!—
I understand it not—'tis mystery all!—
And with so lovely, so unmatched a bride,
Ne'er—ne'er yet saw these eyes a living form,
Or an ideal one of such heavenly beauty!—
Happy Montalba!—for he ought to be
The happiest of the blest! If I had drawn
So bright a lot, I were indeed so;—yes,—
Were I the husband of that peerless one
I should be more—pshaw!—folly!—it is vain,
To think of bright—impossibilities!—
That gentle, shrinking Eva—with a voice
So silvery in its softness, that it seems
Heard only by the charmed sense of the heart!—
Soh! here is Guido!
Enter Guido.
Prince!—a word with thee!
And instant!—it concerns thy safety much.

Guido.
And how?

Moria.
As I was passing yestereve,
Through a bye-street alone—I marked two men
Leaning beside an antique fountain—cloaked
Up to their chins, and wearing masks besides,
Engaged in earnest conversation close.—
They heard me not.—I caught thy whispered name,
And listened breathlessly!—though what I heard,
Was heard by broken snatches, leaving much
That had elucidated more their parley,
It was enough to wake alarm for thee!—
Thus ran what I could glean of their discourse:—
“The young Prince Bellafiore!—is't to night?”
This asked the one, the other answered him,
“No not to-night!”—“To-morrow then, I trust,”
Rejoined the former speaker—“May be so!”
Was the reply—then lower sank their tones—
Till presently some slight dispute arose,
And then they raised their voices:—one exclaimed,
“Thou hadst the moiety of the booty, then!—
The captain shared it with thee!—and thou knowst
Our last rich English family, 'twas thou
That hadst the sacking of their luggage all!—
'Tis now my turn, and I will claim my right:—
Whate'er about his person we may find,
When he is seized; 'tis mine by all our rules,
And by all laws of justice—and of honour!”
Then entered they into a long dispute—
Abuse—recriminations—threatenings—oaths—
Were wanting not; but I had heard enough,
And happily succeeded to elude
Their scrutiny, and wended on my way,
Resolved to seek thee in the morning; since
'Twas plain, that night at least, that all was safe!—
I counsel thee, prince!—for some time to come,
To move about most cautiously and armed!—
There must be some dark plot against thee hatched!
Some villany afoot!—Look to it well!—

Guido.
I thank thee for thy tidings and thy hints:
I will not go abroad without my arms!—
It is most strange!

Moria.
Reports of thy vast wealth
Have doubtless fired the rogues' cupidity;
But they are baffled—since thou'rt now prepared!—
Yet I would urge thee on thy guard to be:
There are some desperate wretches, who would pause—
Would stint at nothing, now abroad—'tis said,
Driven from the adjacent country—their old haunts—
By rigorous measures, routed—checked—dispersed—
Till found they refuge in the streets of Rome!
These in the city act their lawless deeds—
Even at our thresholds dare their ravages!
And there commit their depredations, yet
All undiscovered, on the citizens!—
This I believed not, I confess, till now;
But it should seem it hath some touch of truth.

Enter Eva.
Eva.
Guido, hast heard aught yet from Florence—say?
Forgive me, noble marquis—I marked not
That you were by!—Hast seen my lord to-day?

Moria.
Madam, not yet, I am but lately here.

Eva.
Methinks 'twere best you should not see him, then;
He hath been indisposed most grievously,
And passed a restless night. I urged repose:
He now lies stretched upon the couch within.

Moria.
'Twere better he should know not I am here.
(Aside,)
Heavens! what a most angelic aspect 'tis!—
New beauty seems to pass into her face
Each time the eyes do steal a look at her!—
Farewell! in the evening I will come again
And learn fresh tidings of thy husband's health.
[Exit Della Moria.

Eva.
Did I not well, dear Guido?—it were best
It should be known and thought he is unwell;
Lest, were he all too suddenly removed
From his own friends, and from society—
Suspicions, gathering soon, may be afloat;
And then—besides he is unwell indeed!
His hands burn fearfully—his temples throb!—

Guido.
Sweet lady! you have done all for the best
And bear up wondrously—but I could wish
Thou wouldst not wear thyself with watching thus;
Nought can be done till worthy Reggio comes.

Eva.
Ah! but each moment I expect him now.
My pulses toll as 'twere a funeral knell,
Yet far outrun the lazy, laggard chime—
Did I but count by them he should be here!—
Alas!—my speech, I doubt, fantastic grows;
From the complexion of his own, it takes
Its troubled colourings!—Wilt thou meet, my prince,
When first he comes, the good physician here?—
Didst thou inform him, in those hasty lines,
Of our most heavy fears—of all the dread—
The—the—

Guido.
The mournful features of this case—
I gave a rapid outline—but will more
Explain—expose, if thou shouldst deem it best—
I nothing said of that dark haunting thought,
That phantasy which makes his heart its prey.

Eva.
Oh! caution him to shroud, with watchful care
The dreadful truth, from my beloved lord.
We must assure Montalba he is come
By chance to Rome;—then let thy friend affect,
But from his looks, his illness to infer;
To judge from outward signs of the inward strife.

Guido.
This shall be done!—
Enter Flora.
My heart's bright sunbeam, haste
And shine away the shadows of our gloom.

Flora.
Ah! no!—too much I share it—not yet come?

Guido.
Not yet—but fear not, he will soon be here.
Flora! thou'rt pale and weary!—

Flora.
Tush!—I charge thee
Think not on me! look not on me! 'tis nought!
Think of her sufferings! look at her changed form!
My sorrow is but sympathy with hers!

Enter Servant.
Serv.
The Countess di Castellanaria waits.

Eva.
Without delay admit her.
[Exit Servant.
'Tis most kind
The tender interest that she takes in all
That thus concerns us!—she is kind indeed—
And most affectionately grateful I!—

Enter Giacinta.
Gia.
I am much grieved to hear this sharp suspense
Is still continued—that he is not come,
Our worthy Reggio!—It perhaps is well,
Since those who suffer in the dreadful way
That poor Montalba doth, are shrewdly quick
For ever to suspect—and to misdoubt.
Had his appearance followed quickly thus—
Hark there! I heard methinks a noise of wheels,
A tramp of horses—'tis most surely him!
Look to the countess!—Oh! she faints! she falls!

(They lead her to a seat, she starts up.)
Eva.
No! I must fail not!—to Montalba straight
Must I repair—preparing him to meet
His ancient friend!—and ye, Giacinta, Flora,
Hasten within!—'twere best that Guido should
First meet him—yet—how spins my tortured brain.
[Exeunt Giacinta and Flora.
Guido!—thou must come with me to my Lord,
Better wilt thou command thyself, and tell
The tidings of this new arrival too,
Than I can do—a tremour in my tone,
A change upon my cheek, and he might 'gin
To glean suspicions from my treacherous weakness,
Then canst thou here return to greet thy friend!

Guido.
With all thy wishes let me but comply!—

[Exeunt.
(As they are going the Doctor enters at opposite side, conducted by Anthony.)
Antho.
I will inform the gracious countess, sir,—
This way, I pray—that you now wait her pleasure.
[Exit Anthony.

Reggio.
And shall I meet indeed young Guido here?
I have but rarely seen him since that night—
That night of doom and death!—and dread and doubt!—
How I once loved him!—from his boyhood he
Was ever my delight!—a blessed child!—
And he was like a last-born babe to me!
His health being something delicate, requiring
Incessant watchfulness.—I daily saw him—
How he would fly, dear cherub, to mine arms!
And call me still his second father—so!
And I now shrink from him with loathing e'en!—
The hideousness of that most horrid doubt,
So nigh to certainty, doth frown between
And part us, and for ever!—yet so weak,
So very weak my melting heart was still,
I could not bear to breathe the scantiest hint—
The slightest murmur of my deadly knowledge!
Poor victim!—poor Bianca!—thou sleep'st well;
But had I breathed the history of thy death—
How would thy princely father—how would all,
To thee by ties of blood and nature bound,
Have bowed beneath the crushing weight of woe,
That scarce can find a consolation here—
The knowledge that one loved one died a victim!—
Another loved one lives—the criminal!—
Guido!—I hear that thou'rt approved of all—
High-hearted, noble, brave, free, frank, and proud,
Munificent and generous!—it may be!
But thou'rt a demon yet, if thou indeed
Art thy poor sister's black-soul'd murderer!
And this by startling facts I am assured!
Most certainly by poison 'twas she died!
Staggered by symptoms unaccountable,
I prayed the father's leave to ascertain
The immediate causes of her death deplored;
Urging my mind's sole satisfaction's plea,
As to what source that fatal illness owned,
Not hinting in the least I did suspect
She had been foully dealt with:—he agreed,
And placed beyond a doubt—was this dark fact—
She died by poison!—then whose murderous hand
Administered the death draught?—was the question:—
One and one only by her death could gain!—
That one was—who?—her brother!—he sole heir
To almost regal wealth, at once became
To state, place, power, and honours high and proud,
He—only gained by her untimely fall;
And Guilt and Guido seem too surely—one!
I feel 'tis so!—yet weak as childhood's self
My heart leans still too much to mercy's side!
How could I bear my boy!—my child!—my flower!
My darling and my nurseling of old years,
Should perish, and through my means on the scaffold,
Convicted too of so abhorred a crime?—
Oh! saints defend me!—it is he himself!

Enter Guido, who extends his hand to Reggio.
Guido.
My best old friend! what! not a hand to give
To your spoilt Guido?—nay! 'twere most unkind!
Come, (embraces him,)
I would chide thee soundly, had I time,
But we are met on grievous business here.
My brief communication, half expressed
The deep affliction under which our friend,
The Count Montalba, is sore labouring now.
The countess will herself detail to you
The painful and precise particulars.
Thus much she hath commissioned me to say,
First, that on no account you must disclose
To her afflicted lord the reason why
You bide at Rome; and secondly, she begs
That you will pledge yourself most solemnly
That no coercion, save where strictly needful,
Shall be attempted in this mournful case:
And yet another thing she doth entreat,
You will not hint at separating her
From her own rightful post—her husband's side!
Poor lady!—you must pity her sad state,
And show her all indulgence, kindness, aid,
And feeling's sympathy!—She suffers much.—

Reg.
I am the more induced to do so, since
I love her lord, and ever honoured him!

Guido.
(aside,)
His manner is much changed to me—so chilled!
So grave and distant!—but it hath been thus
When we have met—which hath but seldom chanced,
E'er since my dearest sister's death;—as though
He thought my inward feelings must be changed,
Because my prospects and position are.
(To Reggio,)
I need not recommend you to employ
Your deepest skill, for our dear patient's sake!
Nor warn you not to whisper one faint hint
Of his unhappiest, awful malady.

Reg.
Assuredly you need not!—all my heart
Is listed on the hapless sufferer's side!—

Guido.
Now will I seek the sorrowing countess—straight,
And lead her to this chamber.

Reg.
It is well!
[Exit Guido.
The same frank, open, fearless air and tone,
The aspect and the accost, and all the same:
He must be hardened past redemption, sure—
If he hath such a sin upon his soul,
And yet above it SUCH a face can wear;
'Tis inconceivable and terrible!
If he hath such a sin?—It must be so!
Were there not other circumstances joined,
In dark array, to point him out the man?
Did not the Countess di Castellanaria
Observe to me how evermore he watched
To give his sister each cool chrystal draught—
As though through brotherly affection's zeal,
(The countess, this conceiving as the cause?)
Not this alone—a thousand things appeared
To witness 'gainst him with the trumpet's tone!—
Yes!—Guilt!—black Guilt and Guido must be one!
Montalba!—poor Montalba!—thy sad state
Scarce claims my thoughts, so much on him they brood,
The assassin of his sister—and thy bride!

Enter Countess and Guido.
Guido.
The kind physician, who hath hastened here,
Obedient to your wishes and commands,
With sympathizing mournfulness awaits
Your orders, lady, and your will attends!

Eva.
I am most grateful to thy friend, that thus
He hath precipitated here his steps:
Beseech thee, Sir, one moment to attend
While I dispose of matters with the Prince.
Guido!—our kind Giacinta, knowing well
It is my earnest wish that Flora hence
Should be removed, while these most painful scenes
(Which I far better shall support alone)
Take place within the palace, hath proposed
That thou shalt her accompany ere long—
Escorting to Giacinta's home, where both
May well remain, till what time I shall send
To seek you there, when all is o'er, and tranquil,
And pray you to return to this abode!
Do not, I beg, dispute this point with me—
I am most fixed, most firm in this resolve.
Dear Flora still is slightly delicate—
Too sensitive to brave such fearful scenes.—
'Twere vain to strive to shake me—this besides,
I wish all hushed and silenced.—

Guido.
Yet, but think,
How wilt thou need affection's kind support,
And friendship's services, and prompt devotion—
At this sad crisis!—Oh! vouchsafe to hear!
Beseech thee be advised!—thou art too rash
To enter thus on such a trial sore,
Alone!

Eva.
My heart must be so ever, since
None—none can share its loss, or match its love:
The immeasurable misery that o'erpowers
My soul in its abandoned singleness—
Must make me henceforth evermore alone,
In one unbroken solitude of soul!—
No more! my prince, I am determined thus!
And without witnesses, save one, whose help
Can sole to him avail, thus sole to me,—
Thy worthy friend—will act my fearful part.

Guido.
Since it is thus 'twere vain to urge thee more—
It seems like cold desertion—harsh neglect!
But thou knows't 'tis not so!—and must I yield?

Eva.
Thou must!—kind Guido!—and full soon, I pray,
Conduct my gentle Flora from this house.

Guido.
I must obey thee, though I fear herself
Will much oppose—and much resist this plan.

Eva.
Convey my earnest wishes to her now!
[Exit Guido.
I do delay like one about to embark
On a tempestuous sea of billowy strife—
And yet pause timidly upon the shore
Of mine engulphing enterprise of grief!—
I pray thee, sir! be seated. (They sit down.)

Thou'rt aware
Of our most dire suspicions!—

Reg.
Madam!—yes!—
I fear it must be a soul-harrowing task
For thee to enlarge on all the symptoms shown
Of late by thy unhappy consort; yet
None could so well, I doubt, fulfil that task!

Eva.
I shrink not from it—or if I do shrink,
The sense of this mere selfishness of suffering
Will but the more uprouse me to o'ercome
That woman-weakness!—

Reg.
Have these symtoms been
More frequent lately and more marked and strong?

Eva.
They have long gradually been deepening on,
Even without intermission have increased,
At times his strong, insidious malady
Hath made precipitated progress—then
Less suddenly pressed foward, might appear
Brought haply to a slight but treacherous pause;
Yet 'twas not so!—or if it was—'twas but
A breathing moment, which appeared, alas!
To lend but new strength to the following phrenzy.

Reg.
Hath he displayed dislike unto thyself?
Impatience at thy kindnesses—disgust
At thy once much-loved presence?

Eva.
Oh! no! no!
Stay! in one instance—that I will relate
I' the course of our sad communing—oh! no!—
He ne'er hath showed dislike nor change towards me,
Save in the impatient sallies of the soul—
Which like chance-scattered arrows, here and there
Flew far and wide—none aimed at—striking all!—

Reg.
I understood thou hadst had to bear with much.

Eva.
Endurance hath made up my life of late!
But not from his unkindness—he hath ne'er
Been grievously unkind to me!—though oft
I' the hurry and the wildness of his soul,
The impetuosities and heat of thought,
He hath said things that have much racked my heart.
No matter!—they ne'er rankled there, at least!—

Reg.
(aside.)
The wounded dove thinks not of her own hurt,
Made strong through the unabated tenderness,—
Through the unextinguishably exquisite
And passionate affections that controul!—
Though 'twere immedicably deep—that wound—
She feels the blood that quickens round her heart—
Not that which gushes from it!— (to Eva,)
hath he seemed
To bear himself of late, despite all this,—
Still with his wonted health?

Eva.
Except the flush
Of fever—and the outwearying restlessness,
Which chases slumber from his throbbing temples;
Except for this—and yet his aspect shows
As there were corporal suffering too, so changed,
The last few days, especially, I fear!—
He hath become attenuated—pallid—
And changed in features as in countenance.

Reg.
Doth some prevailing phantasy appear
To be as the orbed moon of his mind's strong tides?—
Some one particular, especial theme
Goad him to fury on the slightest hint,
And draw forth all his latent heat of mind?

Eva.
Yes, a most fearful and distracting dream!—
A most intolerable imagining!
(Aside.
Why is't with a peculiar weight of woe
I do approach this portion of my tale?
Ah! 'tis because it stamps the fatal truth
Beyond my skill to doubt!—for I have sought,
With patience and with skill, to carve and shape
Some probability of sweet escape
From these o'erpowering horrors.)—Yes! he doth
Nurse a most dark delusion in his mind,
Which I will tell to thee anon; but first
I pray thee to assure me solemnly,
Distinctly, and with full, unwavering faith,
That whatsoe'er the upshot yet may be
Of his dread phrenzy, thou wilt never seek
To part me from my special place—his side!
There is my world!—though true that world's eclipsed,
Its darkest dust is worth the stars to me!—
There is my life!—though it be wrung with anguish;—
To breathe another air were not to be!—
Existence else were universal death!
Give me that pledge, that promise—I will be
Whate'er thou bid'st me in his presence still!—
Talk him to rest—or stay there, taciturn
As the cold grave:—that were a princely house,
Compared with what the maniac's cell must be!
Oh! heaven!—Oh! heaven!—and can I speak that word?
And can I think that thing and breathe and live?—
Give me the promise!—mould me as thou wilt—
I will but look and move as thou advisest.
I will e'en strive to feel—to rule my soul
And rushing heart—as thou dost counsel me!—
Despoil mine eye of all its tenderness,
If it should better suit to seem more stern!—
Deny me not!—I will not let thee speak,
Because I see what thy dark speech would be,
I interdict thine interdiction thus!—
I will not leave him—while I yet may live.
In fine, I tell thee that we must not part!
Refuse me not!—it were indeed in vain!

Reg.
Ev'n if thy lord's recovery should depend
On such a separation for awhile?—

Eta.
Thou staggerest me—for that most wished-for end
What would I not confront—what not endure
Of agony—of torture?—and believe
To leave him were to drain the deepest lees,
To plunge in the profoundest depths of both.—
Must I, indeed, then leave him?—lose myself—
That I but know through thoughts of love for him—
And duteous waiting on his every wish!—
Oh! worst, unprecedented doom of ruin!—
Say! must this be?—

Reg.
Nay! lady! I trust not!—
But cannot yield a positive reply
Till I have seen thy husband.—Pray unfold
What is this haunting phantasm of his thought,
Whose governing influence rules his transport's tide.

Eva.
A wild and phrenzied and most dire conception
He doth believe—my poor Montalba doth—
That he—thou knew'st the fair young maid, methinks,
The youthful Princess Bianca Bellafiore?—

Reg.
Ev'n from her earliest youth—to her last hour!

Eva.
And know'st she was betrothed to my dear lord,
And died ev'n while the marriage crowns were wreathing.

Reg.
None know as well as I do, all that hangs
To the most heavy history of her death!—

Eva.
My husband, with distempered rage insane,
He—that would harm not—the least living thing!—
Swore, with deep, solemn oaths, to me, of late,
And doubtless doth believe with his whole soul,
He murdered—poisoned her, his promised bride!

Reg.
(Starting from his seat.)
Ha!—ye!—Almighty heavens! hear that!—Is't so?—

Eva.
(rising,)
Alas! my heart dies—dies—within—me now.
Dost think from this his fierce disorder proved
Incurable?—But spare me! mercy! say but no!
Ah! mercy!—mercy! dos't thou all despair?
Lives there no hope?—no remedy?—no aid?—
Tell me—at once!—and kill me:—oh! but speak!

(Sinks down on her chair.)
Reg.
(agitatedly,)
Sweet lady!—peace!—I know not!—oh! be still!—
(My own brave Guido!)—nay—I nothing know—
I fear there are strange things!—(my high-souled boy!—)
Poor lady!—(he is innocent!)

Eva.
Great Heaven!
Thou wilt not answer me!—Is there yet hope?
Break me not thus on doubt's revolving wheel!—
Now hope—now fear—now firmness—now distrust!—

Reg.
Oh! lady!—ask me not!—(thou injured virtue!—
My guiltless, guiltless one!)—I must not stay.
'Tis most imperative, (aside.)
—I must absolve
This dreadful duty!—Not a moment—no!
I must not lose one moment, lest my soul,
Once more unsteeled, should into ruth relapse.
I dare not hesitate—away!—

Eva.
And what!—
How says't thou?—wouldst thou see him now at once?
Let me conduct thee then, (rising from her seat.)


Reg.
Not so—not so!
Methinks 'twere more advisable to wait—
On further thoughts, methinks it were more meet!
This sudden and precipitated journey—
Its hurry and disorder—make me most
Unfit to see my noble patient yet—
(Heavens! mine own Guido! cleared,—cleared—spotless! stainless!)—
Dear lady! I will wait on thee ere long—
I—I—in truth I will return full soon.
(My gallant boy!—but thou, Montabla!—thou!—)
[Exit Reggio.

Eva.
Small consolation doth he give me thus!
Where, where must I now bend my tearful gaze?
Oh! where must I for touch of comfort look?
He seems perplexed by all I have described,
And no opinion will pronounce.—Ah! me—
What noise was that?—I shake at every sound.
Some grisly, supernatural terror seems
To paralyze my senses—I must haste
To my most mournful post—must seek my lord,
And like a trembling sentinel, remain
A heavy watch to keep o'er his chance words
And looks and movements, and to ward off all
That might, perchance, jar harshly on his soul,
Already from its own fair course so warped.
Ah! he is here!

Enter Montalba.
Mont.
Down, down, ye deadliest thoughts!—
I will not scare her softness with your gloom.
Still, still how strange her 'haviour! when I breathed
My blood-defiled confession in her ear!—
Eva, mine own,—I pray thee lose no time
In penning some few lines, in duteous vein,
To my dear father:—he complains how oft
We do omit this duty—chief of late.
How cans't thou meet mine eye with such calm kindness?
How canst thou brook my voice—when—when—thou know'st—
How bear my presence?—nay—be still! wild conscience!—

Eva.
I will obey thee, and rejoin thee here
In some few minutes space.
[Exit Eva.

Mont.
How strange it is!—
Her sweetness and unaltered tenderness—
Her most unruffled gentleness and mien
Of melancholy—hushed serenity
Appear to rack with agonizing throes—
More than the wildest torrent of reproach—
The fiercest outbreak of aversion—horror,
Or ice of sternliest alienation could!—
How is't she shows not more abhorrence:—more—
She showeth none—at my unheard-of deed
Of giant-guilt!—Is't from indifference born
Of aught I do or have done—all her soul
Absorbed in thrilling interest for another.
This cannot be! for woman's natural sense,
The instinctive hate of crime, would teach her—must,
With loathing to recoil from such a fiend
As I have owned myself to be, to her!—
'Tis a refinement in this retribution—
A keen perfection in my punishment—
The injurious ingenuity of infliction—
The delicate and deadly finish given
To the dread chastisement of my black crime!—
That her unchanged affection—at the least—
That which appears so—should most minister
To my unuttered anguish of remorse.
'Tis like the Indian tortures—thus they wring—
Not with huge, stunning strokes—but long-drawn pangs;
Not crashing through the frame—the up-stirred flesh curdling
With piercing pincers 'stead of hacking hatchets.

Re-enter Eva.
Eva.
Enrico, I have done thy bidding.—Say,
Wilt thou, beloved, thyself subjoin a line?—

Mont.
Nay! my sweet scribe!—since business calls me hence.
I am about to found and to endow
A mighty monastery at Florence, straight—
And vast donations, largesses immense
Shall drain my coffers for that holy house,
Which I would make most prosperous and most affluent.
There orisons shall still be offered up—
For me and mine—thy innocence—my guilt;—
Though, but in general way, with all our house!
And yearly (it doth soothe my tortured soul
To dwell upon these thoughts!) shall be performed
A funeral service for the virgin dead!
The sacrificed—the martyr'd—she—the murdered!—
Aye—masses for her spirit—said and sung,
Shall be repeated there to the end of time!—
With prayers from all that grave community.—
Oh! may this something lighten of its load
My withered soul!—and in some slender sort
Even reconcile my mind and thoughts to grace!
Eva!—thou wilt not stay me, nor oppose
In this desire—my fortune's greater part,
To dedicate to this high duty thus!—

Eva.
I never will oppose thee, that thou know'st!

Mont.
If I so steeped in the infamy of crime,
Am not unworthy to pronounce such words—
Oh! hear me say, Heaven bless thee—bless—thee—bless!
(shuddering,)
It hisses into curses on my lips!—

Eva.
(gently,)
Oh, no! it falls like spring-dew on my soul!—

Mont.
Well!—well! Anselmo waits without for me:
I do remember me he waits without,
On these grave matters to confer at once:
I must not here detain him. Would, ah! would
This hallowed edifice erected were—
Erected, and endowed, and flourishing—
And those most solemn masses thrilling through
My listening soul!—the still small voice, half hushed,
That whispers ever to that soul o'er wrung—
“The deed!—the deed!—the hideous deed's despair!”—
Besides—oblations, alms I do propose
Widely through Rome and Florence to distribute!—
Anselmo waits—and I must hence—sweet wife!—

Eva.
Where shalt thou meet him?—good my Lord—I pray?

Mont.
In mine own chamber's quiet privacy.
[Exit Montalba.

Eva.
The leech delayeth tediously!—I feel
Like some lost wretch, that hath himself prepared
For the last pang of dying!—kneeling down
Beside the block, with the axe uplifted o'er him,
That will not fall—to crush—and to release him!
Yet seems each stir—each movement—as a death!—

Re-enter Reggio.
Reg.
Ha! lady!—thou'rt yet here!—I pray thee, say—
Hast thou the young Prince Guido lately seen?—

Eva.
(coldly.)
I have not—but unnecessary seems
His presence now:—I would thy thoughts were more
Directed to my suffering husband!

Reg.
Ah!
They are indeed! but fain would I awhile
With the Prince Guido have consulted, ere—
(aside.
Great gracious heaven!—must I first break this news,
These ghastly fatal tidings to her ear?
Courage! 'twere best to speak at once—at once!)
Unhappy lady!—tremble not;—be calm.

Eva.
Not tremble! and thyself thou art shivering like
A leaf o'th'shaken aspen!—and more white
Than the sad shroud, or sadder brow of death.
I see!—I see 'tis hopeless!—yes! thou art come
To blast mine ev'ry hope!—pronounce despair!—
Pronounce it—then!—and let me know the worst!

Reg.
Dear lady!—hist!—thy husband is not mad!

Eva.
(joyfully.)
Not mad!—what think'st thou 'tis some passing dream?
Some harmless aberration—faint and slight?
Oh, joy!—Methought I was to hear despair!

Reg.
(solemnly.)
Thou hast the worst to hear—the deadliest—worst!—
Prepare thyself!—alas!—I do repeat
Those withering words!—thy husband is not mad!
Himself hath not deceived—nor thee—nor me!
Weigh all their horrid meaning's hideousness—
Till thou shalt pray that he were mad indeed!
No dream!—no phrenzy!—no distemper—none!—
Oh!—I have stunned her into stone!—she stands
All hues of life struck from her aspect's stillness!
Nay, lady!—speak!—weep!—shriek!—but stand not thus!
As the image of amazed despair's Life-Death!

Eva.
(starting.)
What darest thou hint, old man?—what darest thou mean?—
Not mad!—I swear—that he is mad—HE IS!—
Away!—I'll say it!—shriek it to the world,
And tell it out to all!—he's raving mad!
Thou dar'st not doubt it!—look not so on me!
With that appalling pity!—he is mad!—
I stake my soul, and its eternal weal
On that stern truth for evermore!—do'st hear?—
I say to thee he's mad!—most hopelessly.
I say it, shout it—till my voice, grown hoarse,
Sounds like his muttered ravings! Since he's mad.
He is!—unsay thy horrid words of doom!
Swear it to me—thyself—himself—all—all!
Aye!—in the world's ear shout it!—he is mad!

Reg.
Would that he were!—I cannot hint such hope!

Eva.
Am I becoming so?—my brain is scorched!—
My heart is all in darkness!—who art thou?
Thou ruthless man, that whisperest to my soul
Perdition it had never dreamed before!
Swear he is mad with me!—ho! bear him off!
Chain him and scourge him!—stripes and echoing blows!
All that most haunted me with horrors, late—
The solitary cell—the bolts and bars—
The dungeon-den—the pallet heaped with straw,
Those howling wretches round—those shrieks—those groans—
Those sharp-hissed blasphemies—those threatenings fierce—
The gnashing teeth, the unspeculative eye,
The depth of all debasement and disgrace,
The lazar-house of lost humanity,
And the unimaginable outrages,
The abominations of barbarity,
The common spectacle in careless eyes,
The horrible parade of ruin there,—
A holiday amusement for the heartless!
These things crowd back on my tormented thought,
And seem beatitude to this which blasts me!
A vision that shuts out the heavens above,
Makes the sun blackness—checks the liberal air,
Till 'tis one choking thick stagnation! So—
A cell, but not the maniac's!—and a chain
But not the lunatic's!—a sharp, sure stroke—
But not the lacerations of the lash!—
Heavens! Heavens!—the world hath withered from my feet!

[Faints.
Reg.
Poor sufferer! why! 'tis better thus—what, ho!—
Within there!—haste!—haste!—help!—your lady's ill!—
Enter Francesca and Servants.
Look to the lady!—One of you at once
Conduct me to the presence of the count!
Bid the lieutenant and his guards await—
I will instruct them in their duty soon.—
Oh! heaviest day of unexampled gloom.

[Exit with a Servant.
Fran.
Ah! my poor lady!—yet look up! look up!
What dire event hath happened?—So! she moves!

Eva.
(starts up.)
They say he is not mad!—'tis they that rave!
They too are phrenzied—worse than he is!—no
They cannot that, for he is howling mad!
Raving and raging, horrible and awful!
Most hopelessly, irrevocably mad!
Dy'e hear it all, your master is distraught?
Remember, I have told ye—he is mad!
And must at once be dragged from hence—removed;
Dragged—ironed and pinioned—to the asylum;—yea!
There—to the asylum—midst the outrageous wretches
That howl their hearts away!—Speak—swear it!—swear!
All of ye swear he is most raging mad!—
Fatally!—furiously!—bear witness all!
Enter Giacinta.
Oh; my Giacinta!—thou wilt swear it—thou!
Thou know'st Montalba's mad incurably.

Gia.
'Tis thou hast told me so!—

Eva.
Thou dost not doubt it?—
That weak old man from Florence hath been here—
And having heard my history's long details,
With ghastly mockery, swears he doth not rave.—

Gia.
Thou didst not tell him all! thou didst withhold
That dire confession?

Eva.
Nothing!—nothing!—No!
That is the proof!—the confirmation!—that!—
He is mad, thou know'st it!—and I know it—mad!—

Gia.
Alas!—I fear not so!—beware how thou
Dost tell him thou didst think it!—be most sure
He never will believe it—never—never!
And I can bear not witness to thy tale.
(Aside,)
Now must I play a deep, deep part!—confess
To her I did suspect him, but believed,
From her assurance, he was now distraught—
And hoped and thought that Reggio had not made
The dark discovery of the atrocious deed;
And never would, unless she did disclose it!—
She must not to Montalba breathe my name.

Eva.
Dost thou desert me too, Giacinta? Thou?—
Art leagued against me? art suborned?—art sworn!
Who!—who will help me?—I will run through Rome,
Proclaiming to the general ear he's mad!
For he is so—if e'er man was so yet.

Gia.
How much I cautioned thee, and all in vain!
Myself suspected there had been foul play—
But hoped that Reggio was deceived, ne'er dreamed,
That thou wouldst tell it.—Think, oh! Eva! think!—
Think well what thou hast done! betrayed thy lord!
Condemned him to an ignominious death!—
(aside,)
Oh! full, deep, royal riches of revenge!—

Eva.
Death!—why what is it?—have men ever died?—
Then how doth life inhabit yet this heart?
'Tis plain that death hath abdicated nature!—

Enter Montalba followed by Reggio, Lieutenant, and Guards.
Mont.
to Eva.
Soh! thou art there! thou true and duteous wife!
'Twas very meet—I own,—and feel 'twas right—
Thy hand should give me to the deathman's gripe!
Thou, for whose sake I thus immersed my soul
In seas of sin—whose scarlet stains—

Eva.
Thou'rt mad!
Show them—my husband! thou art stark, stark mad!
The wild, clenched hands!—the gnashing teeth!—the eye,
Rolling in red-filmed phrenzy all—

Mont.
Peace! peace!—
Insult me not with this most foul pretence!—
And loathed parade of worst effrontery:—
Thou never thoughtst me mad!—vile feint! vain fetch!
To cloak the monstrous wrong of thy betrayal,
Though well imagined in its treacherous trickery:
Thou wouldst not have all the outraged world exclaim,
The wife betrayed the husband!—gave him up
To justice, and the headsman, and the scaffold!
The ingenious artifice I must admire,
But cannot hug the cloud—and be deceived!

Eva.
My husband!—Oh! my husband!—

Mont.
Right well played!
What! thou pretend'st to love me, Hypocrite!
So! art in love with murder!—it may be
Some dark attraction thou mayst see in all
This hideous circumstance of funeral horror,
Which thou wouldst trumpet thus to the echoing world!—
Or haply art in love with Death?—and think'st
Thou wilt look on me with more tenderness,
When the eye no longer can glance back to thine,—
The breath that bless'd thee ne'er again shall flutter—
The lip can never more sigh, love for love—
And the soul's shadow passes from its glass—
The countenance—as breath doth from the mirror!
As that last dying breath from the unstained chrystal!—
Strange amorous fancy this!—Think'st I believe it?
Aye! wring those hands! blood glues their palms together!
Thy husband's!—and the blood too that he shed
For thy sole sake—thou murd'ress of the murderer!—
And toss those arms, whose dark embrace was—death!—
Beat that black heart—far hollower than the grave,—
And tear thy hair—it should be writhing snakes—
And hissing serpents, beauteous Gorgon!—off!

Eva.
Burst—heart!—my husband!— (Falls on her knees before him.)


Mont.
Off! I tell thee, off!
When I am dying, through thy loving deed—
Then, vampire! come and suck my heart's-blood, then!—
Not now—thou scorpion-smiler! canst not wait?
Wait for the full feast of thy dark delight—
The fruits of thy fiend-execrated falsehood!—
(For e'en the very demons loathe thy deed,
And seem like white-stoled angels near thy soul,
Shutting their gates against thee with a curse!)
Wait! wait! I say!—if thou canst deign to pause
Till I am gone—and thou in Guido's arms!—
Aye! what!—thou dost not start!—thou knowst it's true—
That I am sacrificed to this, thy love;
Oh! deep concerted webs of wickedness!—
Oh! murderous weaver of these mingled meshes!—

Reg.
I swear thou wrong'st her!—

Mont.
Peace! accomplice! peace!
Thou wert her kind assistant in this work;
The web's well wrought; but 'tis so finely finished,
That, look! 'tis all transparent,—truth shines through it!
Oh, Eva! thou, the adored, and now the accursed!
False heart! foul mind! thou faithless, fatal thing!—

Eva.
Curse on! curse on!—I feared in my worst pangs,—
I feared thou wouldst forgive me!—that, Oh! that
I never could have borne!—Thy scorn!—thy hate!
Aye! thy injustice are so many mercies!
But thy forgiveness were the o'erflowing drop!—
No!—no!—thou'rt not unjust!—I merit all!
Kill me! Oh! kill me! soul and body kill!
My sin's the consummation of all crime,
All devilish instincts must have woke in me,
To urge me on to that most deadly error!—
Yes! yes! the fiends in their fierce flames abhor me!—
And shut their gates against my blacker soul!—
Say not—I knew not of it!—Nature's self
Should have some warning felt! Oh! dead, dumb sense!
Dumb, dead, and blind-bound spirit!—the earthquake comes,
But there are portents heralding its presence.—
This, my unconscious crime, frowns more colossal,
In deadly hideousness, in murderous mystery—
Than all the conscious—preconcerted crimes,
That man—confronting condemnation's worst—
E'er yet committed—or e'er yet conceived!—

[At this moment Guido rushes in, wounded slightly, and disordered, bearing Flora in his arms.
Guido.
My life!—my love!—my bride!—my own betrothed one!
Look up!—thou'rt safe!
(Sees the group before him—stops amazed.)
What means this strangest scene?
Montalba!—guards!—and Eva's very ghost—
So death-like ashy pale!—

Mont.
It means thus much!—
In these few words—the murderer of thy sister
Behold in me!

Guido.
(Staggering back.)
Heavens!

Mont.
In this woman's shape
The fiend that could betray him!—yet—ha!—hist
Who calledst thou thy love! thy bride! reply?
Who is thy bride?—thy love?—dost clasp her?

Guido.
Aye!
Oh! I am staggered!—sickening with this shock!
And must I take this horror to my soul;
Wert thou indeed then Bianca's murderer?

Mont.
Yes!—
And thine, poor Eva!—injured, outraged wife!—

Flora,
(starts up,)
What dreadful thing hath thrill'd upon my ear?—
What awful scene is opening on my vision?
Why, Eva! Eva!—is't then thus?—Oh, ruin!—

Reg.
to Guido.
And could I thee suspect, my noblest boy!

Guido.
Thou didst!—first now I thread thy conduct's maze!—

Reg.
(aside,)
My noble, faultless boy!—my guiltless, wronged one!

[Gia. pale and trembling is about silently to steal out, but is stopped by Guido.
Guido.
Nay!—pause!—Giacinta!—here thy presence seems
Required,—most urgently.—Strange things have chanced
Myself and Flora, near thy palace gardens,
Where thou hadst left us for some five brief minutes—
Beside a fountain, whose cool wave had tempted,
Were suddenly attacked by three masked men;
To whom I did oppose resistance fierce,—
Most fortunately with my arms provided,—
While Flora's piercing shrieks—there roughly seized
By these foul ruffians—happily were heard
By Della Moria—passing not far off;—
He flew to render his assistance!—soon
We mastered then, these miscreants:—two escaped—
The third, who seemed their leader, deeply hurt,
Lies bleeding on the pavement; (turns to Giacinta;)
and methinks,
If I not strangely erred—he stammered out
Thy name, when urged to own his motive—there!

[Gia. totters against a pillar for support.
Gia.
Such villains ever seek, in their foul deeds,
To implicate some high and noble name!

Guido.
Lieutenant!—two of thy good guard I ask,
To accompany my steps, and bear the burthen
Of the hurt ruffian to this house!

Lieut.
My prince!
These men will follow you—the rest and I,
Awaiting your return, move not from hence.—

[Guido and Two Guards Exeunt.
Gia.
(aside.)
Black ruin stares at me from ev'ry side!
But I am strong and dreadless to the last!

Mont.
My Eva! no, not mine, thy place is heaven!
And I am of the accursed.

Eva.
Hush! hush!—or curse me!
Not thy forgiveness, any thing but that!—
Strike me! Oh, strike me dead now at thy feet!
If such a miserable wretch CAN die!

Mont.
Thou angel of all love and purity,
Why didst not clear thyself when I accused
Thy spotless heart of being Guido's fee?

Eva.
I clear myself!—I pray heap curse on curse!
I could not bear thy pardon nor thy blessing!
Soh!—Soh!—the judge, the scaffold—and the grave!
The victim, where?—the monster-murd'ress—who?—

Mont.
Nay, Eva! thou hast been thus the unconscious cause,
The unwilling and the unwitting cause, beloved,
Of this catastrophe and gloomiest end
To all my sufferings!—wilt not smoothe nor soothe
My path—my perilous passage to the grave?

Eva.
Oh! most beloved one—wilt thou slay me now
With this thy pardon?

Mont.
Say such words no more—
For my last comfort say not such again!—
I charge thee by thy love—thy love for me!
Nor more reproach thyself—I cannot bear it!—
Thou bright, thou sovereign excellence of virtue!—
Thou dove of never-changing gentleness!—
Good angels guard thee for their own pure Band—
And endless blessings strew thy spotless paths,
And smile around thee everlastingly!—
Know'st thou, my Eva! 'tis in thy sole power
To make me go to my most shameful grave
With something almost kin to comfort yet:
Even earthly comfort;—wilt thou swear to me
Thou wilt accede to whatsoe'er I ask?

Eva.
How can I learn to oppose thee—did I ever?—
Needs it to swear?—Oh! Cruel!—needs it that?

Mont.
Remember, then, and disappoint me not,
When I call on thee—Eva! my beloved!—
For I will call on thee—and deeply claim
Thy blessed promise, Eva—mine adored.

Eva.
Oh! those sweet words, like keen-edged swords, they smite!—
Rain bitterness once more upon my head—
Oh! no!—thou bidd'st me bear thy dear forgiveness!—
And I will gird my soul to endure it thus.
But 'tis too torturingly delicious—still!—
And doth excruciate this unworthy heart
With too much love's and too much sorrow's pangs!—

Enter Guido and Della Moria, with the two Guards and the wounded Brigand, Ludovic, and Count Giulio Monzano.
Giu.
(to Gia.)
Woe! woe! Giacinta! I have heard the whole—
Thy spy, the page, hath told me all, alas!—
Haste!—fly with me ere 'tis too late—oh! come!—

Gia.
No—urge me not—for I feel rooted here!
Besides, they watch me—they suspect:—peace!—peace!—

Moria.
Alas!—Montalba!—is it thus with thee?

Mont.
Hast measured the awful mountain of my guilt?—
Hast fathomed the ebbless tides of my despair?—

Moria.
Guido hath told me all.—Heaven pardon thee!—
'Tis horrible!—'tis hideous!—but thou art human;
And human passions do begin where fiends
Leave off dismayed, and but look on amazed!—
And thou'rt about to expiate thy black crime!
Heaven's saints of grace have mercy on thy soul!

Giulio.
(to Gia.)
I do implore thee, fly!—nay! be advised!—

Gia.
But for the hope that all may yet be saved!—
Could the blow now be struck—the alarm but given—
Could I elude their watchful scrutiny! (turns to go with Giulio.)


Flora
(to Gia.)
Nay, stay, Giacinta—thou shalt not escape!—

Guido.
Reggio—I pray thee—bind this ruffian's hurt—
Staunch the wide wound— (to Guards)
—bring water—so!—'tis well.

Gia.
(to Giulio.)
Go thou!—thou'rt not suspected;—at the least—
Thou'rt implicated not in this assault.—
(Alas! this Ludovic hath all our papers!—)
Thou may'st steal hence, methinks, yet unobserved—
I fear no hope is left!—if all is lost,—
Fly to the frontiers—there remain concealed;—
Some chance,—some change may yet befriend—no more!—
No more!—if thou dost love me—hence! at once!—

[Exit Giulio.
Guido.
Now search the villain!—
[Giacinta steals round to where the Brigand is lying.
Hark! he strives to speak.

Ludo.
Signiors!—the countess—

[Giacinta springs at him, and grasps him by the throat.
Gia.
Speak not—or thou diest!
Ho! give them here!—the papers!—yield! or die!—

Ludo.
(struggling.)
Help! help!—unhand me!

Guido.
Do your duty, guards!—
Keep back the lady—search the prisoner—Soh!
Lieutenant, take these papers.

Ludo.
It was her—
The Countess di Castellanaria who
Commanded us to seize yourself, my prince!—
And the young maid, and bear ye to our dens,
Far in the mountains,—and to strike and slay,
If ye resisted—Ho! I choke,—I faint!
And—nay! I can no more.—Help! help!—I die!
The black blood gushes in such spouting streams!

Guido.
Giacinta!—but I sound thy sea of hate!
Hate,—born of treacherous and the unworthiest love!

Gia.
(turning from him to Ludo.)
Aye! choke and die!—thou recreant craven!—die!
Thou murder-mongering slave—thou miscreant Judas!
Ere from that foul, black blood spring serpent-broods,
To empoison earth with thy contagious life!—

Ludo.
Is't so? ungrateful and ungracious sorceress!—
Yet one word more—she heads these threatened feuds,
Whose dark details yon papers will unfold,
As I conjecture, though I ne'er have op'd them;
And since thou spurn'st me in my mortal hour,
Have at thee—thus—though I should die i'the deed!

[The Brigand raises himself on his elbow, then flings his poniard at her, which she escapes, and overcome with the exertion, he groans and dies.
Gia.
(aside,)
Death art so coy, so chary!—'twere ill-missed!—

Lieut.
This death's unfortunate—since it had been well
He had survived to give more evidence!—
Signors, these papers do contain, in full,
Particulars of a most villainous plot
And foul conspiracy—designed—hatched here—
Aimed 'gainst the Imperial Austrian Government!—
Most chiefly in Venetian Lombardy
With minor plots, and treasonous schemes combined.
The Countess di Castellanaria's name
Appears conspicuous at the head and front,
Throughout these revolutionary scrolls.
Thus in strict custody must she be placed,
Until such time as shall be further known
The pleasure of the Imperial Government;
Also of Tuscany—where likewise seems
Some outbreak contemplated—and besides
Must we advise straight with the authorities
O'the administration of the Sicilies—
For Naples doth appear inwoven with
These projects of rebellion.—Nay, no doubt,
On further searching through these documents,
Rome will be found to be not left untouched,
So widely branching seems this treasonous tree!
So thick the ramifications from this root!

Flora
(to Guido.)
Where is that youthful Frenchman?—doubtless he
Was in this plot engaged.

Guido.
But now I met him,
Posting with furious flying speed, from Rome,
Haply upon some secret mission sent.

Gia.
(to Mont. in a sombre tone.)
Hast thou no stone to throw at me?—'twere strange!—

Mont.
Fear not, Giacinta—I will ne'er betray thee!

Gia.
Thou hast done that enough already—wretch!
And driven me to despair's worst recklessness,
Goading me on to these stern deeds of ill!—
For through the treachery of thy loveless heart
My life and soul were made one angry gloom.—
I built this temple of ambition all,
From shattered ruins of the shrine of love!—

Mont.
Upbraid me not!—this scarce should be the hour
For vain recriminations and reproach!—

Gia.
All hours for that!—years—time—the eternity!—
Yes!—I'll upbraid thee as thy conscience should.

Mont.
And doth—could'st know my pangs thou wert content!

Enter De Tours and Della Moria, guarded by a Sergeant and several men.
Serg.
Lieutenant!—Seeing suddenly emerge
From out this house, (where we well knew your errand,)
With stealth and fluttered mien, a cloaked-up man,
Betraying doubt and anxious indecision
In every step and gesture, we thought good
To seize him straightforth, and convey to you!—
This youthful stranger too, it seems, let fall
Some words exciting wonder and suspicion,
Last night, among a throng of jovial friends;
And being lately seen to leave the city
In flying haste, was followed, seized, and searched,
And proved the bearer of seditious papers.

Lieut.
Good! reach the writings here.—

De Tours.
Unhand me, friends,
I wish not, on mine honour, to escape.
One day 'tis Sun—another day 'tis Storm:
The true French heart can bear and breast them both!

Gia.
Brave stranger!—Shame!—we are vanquished!—

De Tours.
Vanquished! No!—
'Tis not a French thought, nor a French word that!
We are thus the losers of this day's light lottery,
Baulked of our Hope by Circumstance and Chance,
The unspiritually o'erruling Deities—
Of all things and events—and—be it so!
I pray you, gentlemen! unhand me—see!
You have given a most ungraceful set and air
To this loose cloak.—You have no Artistic eye!—

Enter Antonio.
Anto.
Alas! my master! is't then thus indeed?
Is there no hope?—is't shown—that hideous truth?—

Mont.
My faithful, good Antonio, hast thou heard;—
Still shrink'st not from me shuddering?—

Anto.
Know, then, know!
Beloved master! that I knew it all—
But kept thy dreadful secret from thyself—
As all the world—I would not have thee dream
Thy guilt was bared before mine eyes.—Now, now
I have a solemn duty to perform—
And strictly will discharge it!—I denounce
And charge the Countess di Castellanaria—
As having been—aye! not the accomplice only—
In this dark deed of death—but more, yet more—
The originatress and promoter too
Of that dread crime!—lord count! I cannot save,
But I can show thy sin thus undesigned—
Thine unpremeditated crime, was more
From weakness and wild passion's impulse born,
Artful suggestion and temptation's goad,
Than hardihood of the evil-purposed mind!—
I pray ye all give ear to my dark tale.
Some days before the marriage of the count
With Bianca Bellafiore, was to be,
With circumstance of splendour, solemnized,
Passing by chance a door closed carelessly,
I heard the countess parleying with my lord.
It was a festa—all the household else
Were joining them in the out-door's revelry;—
I listened—riveted by what I heard:—
Thus spake the countess to my lord—“And what!
Hast ne'er heard of Venetian bracelets—nor
Of flower-wreathed bowls, with costly draughts within,—
A pearl than Cleopatra's gem more rich,
A pearl that Cleopatra ne'er possessed,—
(Not till the asp dived for't in her blue heart-veins!—)
Dissolved in the all-inestimable draught!
This—shall the reveller, and ere long, endow
With peace eternal and the sweetest sleep—
Suffering, shame, sorrow, ne'er shall harm him more!—
Exemption this shall bring from all the earth's woes,—
And purchase blessings—ev'n from enemies!—
All men's good words and praises—since all Men
Abuse the Living—but admire—the Dead!”

Guido.
Cold-hearted murderess—if not such in act,
In thought and in intent—Oh! horrible!—
(Aside.)
Was this the soul I thought athirst,—on fire,
For Freedom—glorious Freedom?—sevenfold shame,
Thus to disgrace with guilt's unsanctioned soul
The cause that Angels and the Archangels hail!

Anto.
The count abruptly turned and left her then,
Rendering not answer to these horrid words.
It chanced that at that crisis I was called
From Florence to Verona hastily,
Where mine ag'd mother on her death-bed lay;—
My thoughts were in her sufferings all absorbed.
When I returned to Florence I first heard
The affianced bride had suddenly been seized
By a most fearful illness—and had died!—
Then I bethought me of that ghastly speech,
But breathed to none these dire suspicions—none—
Lest my dear master haply might be wronged.
'Twas some time after, that, in deep discourse,
I marked the countess and my lord once more,
And felt resistlessly constrained to listen—
Deeming it touched on that sad mystery.
With vehement, sharp reproaches she assailed—
Upbraided him with keen and cutting taunts—
“Didst thou not ever show thy lack of love,
If to no other eyes—at least—to mine?
How wert thou wont to heave heart-breaking sighs,
Choosing me ever for thy confidanté!”
“Alas! Giacinta!—must I—must I wed?”
Could I interpret this into aught else
But hate of her through growing love for me?—
And now forsooth—thy horror—thy remorse—
Conscience and conscience—faugh!—that sickening prate! ”

Guido.
And I could think this creature starry bright?

Ant.
Then thus, my lord:—“But thou didst urge the deed—
Nay! laid the dread temptation in my way.
Showing the deathly poison that thou said'st
Thou ever borest about thee—lest some shock
Of sorrow should make life become a load
Intolerably heavy—haunted still
With some strange superstition of suspicions;
And when thou heard'st Bianca's gentlest steps,
Didst hurrying leave me with that mortal bane.—
There, there—at hand—to try me—tempt me—there!”
This I most solemnly attest—and charge
The Countess di Castellanaria thus.

Eva.
Oh! my Montalba! half thy guilt is gone.

Gia.
May the foul fiends yet double it and treble,
With wicked thoughts worse prompting thee—till death.—

De Tours.
Lady! look up! I nothing see, I own,
That doth condemn thee much, or criminate!—
The stars were wrong perchance, but thou wert right!
Extenuating Circumstances clear thee,—
In my sight clear thee utterly of guilt!
The charming young Bianca could not please
Her destined lord—his honour did oppose
All breach of faith—'twere best that she should die,—
Best for all parties;—for herself 'twas nought,—
She fell asleep in Beauty, Youth, and Hope;
Her life—one Rose! whose leaves—Love's precious blushes,
Fell in their fragrance—fell in all their freshness,
By thy hand shaken from the stalk at once,
Uncankered and unwithered—this was well!—
Then for the count a generous deed thou didst,
His life had else been sacrificed to sorrow;
He would have grown morose, austere, cold, formal,
Wrinkled before his time, and bent and yellow;
For discontent is evermore a foe
Both to the constitution and complexion.
Thyself, sweet lady, loved!—and felt of course
Constrained to do thyself such act of justice;
In short, the affair was unavoidable.
Full oft have I remarked—through life indeed—
That the most wicked acts have generally
The very worthiest motives;—did we thus
Sift to the bottom all our neighbours' deeds,
We should assuredly discover still
That crimes—so called—are almost always virtues;—
Murderers have mostly philanthropic motives;
Thefts are oft done with excellent intentions—
And so on through the catalogue of crime!
I doubt what some one said of madness late,
That 'twas the sane were shut up—the insane loose,
Would hold to the innocent and guilty too,—
That is, to the unaccused, and to the arraigned!—
The miscalled criminals are the ornaments
To human nature, and should leave their cells
To the occupation of the imagined virtuous!—

Lieut.
Bear the male prisoners hence! disarmed and handcuffed.

De Tours.
What! Sir!—allow me! I can suffer not
This vile indignity!—Farewell! Messieurs!—
My destiny's accomplished, that I feel.—
For Glory—Honour—Freedom—Fame—France—this!

[Shoots himself.
Gia.
Young fervent, fiery spirit!—art thou flown?—
Away!—the die is cast—the game is up!—
Well!—I have lost!—I stood the chance!—and stand—
This, the adverse issue!—as unshrinkingly!—
My heart's one adamant—my soul's all ice—
And this rich sweetness of revenge—at least
Flatters my lips in this black cup of death!—

Mont.
Shame!—shame!—Giacinta!—but thou rav'st. (To Della Moria.)
My friend!
I fain would speak some few last words with thee!

Gia.
The ashes of ruin are not bitter all,
Touched with the ambrosial taste of that revenge.
Stand up—thou tottering—faultering trembler!—there—
Thou death-struck Eva!—let me see thy face!—
So! it was thou that charmed him from my side—
And I have gently led thee by the hand;
Taught thee and trained thee to my purposes,
Till thou'st erected for thy much-loved lord—
Erected part by part—and piece by piece,
With skill and tender care and watchful zeal,
The scaffold of his shame-embittered death!
Nor wert thou happy in the officious work.
I revelled in thine agonies of soul,
When thou wert mourning o'er Montalba mad!
And could'st believe I thought the same as thee?—
Poor fool! much, much too easy prey—scarce worth
The trouble of this torturing;—yet I die
The happier that I leave thee wretched here!—
Though scarcely can I hate thee as I would!
Thou chill, insipid image—cut in clay!

Flora.
Such happiness outmeasures our vast woe
With withering throes of cankered bitterness!

Gia.
Great—glorious scheme!—and borne through gloriously!—
To make the adoring wife the unconscious means
Of bringing ruin, shame—and such a death—
And worse than such a death—a Memory slain—
On her lost husband's head!—

Eva.
Oh! murder me!—
As thou didst Bianca!—murder me!—stab home!—
But strike!—strike home!—strike heart-deep!—and at once!—

Mont.
(to Gia.)
Silence, Giacinta!—check thine impious tongue!
Lest Heaven should smite thee dead with angry thunder!

Gia.
Let heaven rain thunderbolts upon me!—see!
They fall not—Ho!— (snatches the poniard from the floor.)
I will forestall them thus!

[Stabs herself and dies.
Mont.
Delivered from a demon thus seems the earth!

Guido.
And can that life's tempestuousness lie hushed?—
Be mercy showered on her—she never showed!—

Mont.
(to Eva.)
My pitying angel of forgiveness!—now,
E'en now I claim thy solemn promise:—hear!
First know, I make compliance with my will—
Of my forgiveness the one great condition!

Eva.
Thou knowest compliance must anticipate
Thine every hinted wish!—

[Montalba takes her hand and joins it with Della Moria's.
Mont.
Thus—then!—not so!—
Nay! start not back, with that bewildered look
Of eloquent anguish!—Promise me, even now
Promise me thou wilt one day be his bride!
He doth comply—wilt thou resist and brave me?

Eva.
Oh! thou canst never mean it!—

Mont.
Solemnly!—
And wish it fervently!—Consent at once—
Consent to these espousals!—or once more
Will I withdraw my pardon—once more launch
My curse against thee.—Dearest! for my sake
I pray thee—do implore thee—by thy love!—
What!—shall I go to mine untimely grave—
My deep, dishonoured, foul and blood-stained grave,
With this most crushing thought upon my soul—
Both have I blighted, ruined, murdered both!—
Bianca and Eva!—both destroyed—undone—
Murdered the one i' the body—but yet worse—
The other in the soul—whose peace I wrecked—
Whose hopes I crushed—whose life I made all death!—

Eva.
(wildly.)
Alas! alas!—what heard I!—what is this?—
Dread altar for the espousals of the wretched—
Dark temple for the marriage-rites—THY grave—
Wreathe the poor victim for the sacrifice
With funeral fitness—

Mont.
Silence!—hear me out—
If thou hast e'er loved me thou'lt love him too!—
If thou dost love me now thou'lt try to love him;
If thou wilt love my memory—thou must love him!—
He is my very self of happier days!—
He is my nobler self—when innocence
Was white at my young soul, my nature seemed
Glassed in the clear, pure waters of his being!—
The chrystal there yet gleams in every wave,
My billowy soul heaves thrice incarnadined—
Give me the promise!—give it me at once!

Moria.
Nay, hush, my friend—'tis more than she can bear!

Mont.
Wilt thou not smoothe my passage to the grave?
Eva! I told thee still 'twas in thy power
To pour one drop of comfort in my cup!—
And thou refusest me!—then all my soul
Shall go remorseless to the abyss of ruin!—

Eva.
Talk not so wildly!—take my hand!—'tis thine,
Thine own!—do with it as thou wilt—but bless me!

Mont.
My heavenly Love! the sharpness of this death—
The bitterness of this abhorrent doom
I can smile from me now!—can wave away!—
Submit in silence, and in peace expire!—
My noble, noblest friend—yes! he is all
That yet should make thy final happiness!—
Aye; he is all, and more than all that makes
Nobility without its title!—still
He hath, with lineage high as his own heart—
All worldly circumstance of honour too—
All worldly gift, and grace, state, power and wealth!—

Eva.
Oh! speak not of this world—'tis all one waste!—

Mont.
Eva! If e'er thou lov'dst me—then, Oh! then
I charge thee love him! and in him love me!
He is my second loftier self!—I knew
I was inferior ever in the gifts
Of mind and intellect—but heart to heart
We felt—we fevered—in life's holier days—
For all things high and true and bright and pure!—
Love me an hundred fold yet more in him!
At least—give me this promise—I beseech,
That thou for my sake, sweet, wilt try to love—
Then still, for my sake, yield thy hand—as heart!—

Eva.
Alas! do with me what thou wilt—THINE OWN!

Mont.
Now I am happier than I e'er have been
Since that tremendous hour!—yet my poor father!—
Thou only!—but away with these vain thoughts—
Enough!—I will not now unman myself!
My happiness before was worst despair.
If e'er I dreamed of joy I felt 'twas false—
Myself and madness knew 'twas mockery all!—
And jarred it into misery; for remorse,
Fevering the o'erboiling fountains of the soul,
Makes the dread madness of the raging heart!—

Enter Anselmo, the Friar.
Anselmo.
Most true, my son! but raise thine eyes to Heaven!
Let madness of remorse become now changed
To grace of sweet repentance' healing power!
Thou hast ta'en steps thy peace with Heav'n to make;
Thou hast full lately with zeal's fervour made
Some reparation!—dedicating half
Of thy vast fortune to the Church's good!—
'Twas a most saintly, true munificence!—
Now without murmuring meet thy chastisement,
And go in penitence—to sleep in peace.—
Still at thy side, till thy last mortal hour,
Will I be found to administer, as due,
All consolations for thy suffering spirit!—
And, lo! in the offices of piety,
In the exercise of solemn duties thus—
E'en in thy dungeon thou shalt glimpse more joy
Than e'er thou triedst to think thine own, ere yet
This dread disclosure of thy crime was made,
And dead remorse grew waken'd, warm'd—raised—kindled,
By full confession, to a live repentance!—

Mont.
Father! thou'rt right!—my soul's dark gates unlocked—
I feel that all the Christian flows again!—
Crime cannot know a joy—nor snatch a hope!—
Nor feed on peace—nor lull itself in trust!—
Sin in triumphal pomp of glorying state,
Might unopposed and uncondemned, ascend
The Throne of the orb-throng'd Universes all,
And so be trebly tortured, since self-cursed!—
Eva!—yet mine one moment!—TO MY SOUL!

[She springs forward, and falls heavily at his feet.
Flora.
She faints!—she falls!—Oh! Saints in Heaven!—she! dies!—
The blood is flowing from her lips!—Woe!—woe!—
Some artery sure in the o'erwrung frame hath burst!

Mont.
Oh! God!—what dreadful change is this!—look up!
What!—blood!—I did not shed it!—I am crushed!—
Eva!—my Eva!—Mine!—Awake!—return!—
Mine all!—mine only!—MINE—for evermore!

Gui.
Thou lovely sufferer!—all thy pains are past!

Mont.
Return!—awake!—Oh, Eva!—nay!—so best!
Thee sorrow never more shall wring and wound!
Thy woes are past—all, all thy woes are o'er!
Guido! I thank thee for that thought—that thought!—
Eva in Heaven!—thou Sainted One and saved—
Thou Angel among Angels!—plead for me!—
Plead for the Sinner!—for the Mourner plead—
Thou—the Innocent—the Ill-fated One!—on Earth!
Thou more than Bless'd and Bright and Free—above!