University of Virginia Library

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.