University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—A Gallery with Verandah and Statues.
MONTALBA AND EVA.
Eva.
My most dear lord, hast given thy steed the rein,
In gallant galloping o'er the old Campagna?
The flush of exercise is on thy brow—
Seems in thy limbs its elasticity.
Hast thou been wildly racing at thy wont?

Mont.
Yes! I have galloped, galloped o'er the plain!
Would I could ride for ever on and on;
Ride as the storm rides in its restlessness,
Still forward—forward! Wherefore must we pause,
And put dull check on our delirious speed?

Eva.
Nay—my Enrico; were thy courser asked,
Soon would he snort his answer's argument.

Mont.
Oh! with the speed of winds, the haste of thought,
To move for ever—who loves sunny skies?
Give me the clouds in their impetuous chase!
They shot above my head, erewhile, with speed
That made my racing little rapid seem!
How panted I to be among them then!
My tempest-thoughts—a whirlwind of swift wings,—
Upbear my soul—yet not my self, on high;—
Nay, nor my soul!—save only where the rack
Drives o'er the scowling skies with flying scorn,
And shuts out all the sun! Would all things were
On-driven with such mad swiftness—that were joy!
Would, would our lives were on one lightning launched,
That ere the eye's undazzled, should be done!
Would that one hurrying hurricane could be
All that we know of fate!

Eva.
Bethink thee yet:
Wouldst have my love a lightning seen and lost?
Our happiness such hurricane of haste?
Wer't not a fatal fleetness, my beloved?

Mont.
Thy love, my matchless Eva! Never let
A thought of change, or check, e'er dare to light
Upon that sunniest summit of all truth!
For happiness—no hurricane perchance
More like to snow, that when it melts, i' the heart
Is gone. A truce to such fantastic talk.
Hast seen Giacinta—my sweet wife! of late?

Eva.
Methinks not lately.—Yes! we met yestere'en,
But for one instant—she had little time;
Some Festa's preparations much engaged
(If I remember rightly her excuse)
Her thoughts and moments—to thy taste avowed,
Love mine! her visit thus had surely been;—
'Twas but a lightning-glance—and she was gone!

Mont.
Why, Eva! thou art merry as the May!
And so thou shouldst be, with her best of bloom
On thine envermeiled check of loveliness!
Whose flowery hues that sunrise hair doth tint—
With added brightness still!—smile on!—smile on!

Eva.
And so I will, if smilingly thou'lt give
Thy joyous counsel—but the words thou say'st
Are much belied by thine o'erclouded brow!—
My smiles are stars, and shine from thine—their sun—
Be happy, thou—and all my life's one smile!

Mont.
Oh! no! my face is rather likened to
The dial of a Sun of Beauty—thine!
Whose changes make it shift its shadows still,
Though never may it wholly shake them off!—

Eva.
Never say thou so sad a word again!—
Oh! never say it with thine Eva near,
Beloved Montalba, in thy sunny youth,
While fortune rains o'er thee her best of wealth,
When all should sparkle round thee with the dews
Of Hope's glad morning—love's Aurora too—
And the fair dawn of thy high station's pride!—
What should—what can afflict thee?—'twere most strange:
On thy clear future not a shadow rests,
No thought of self-reproach can dim thy past.—

Mont.
This is a tedious theme—and were well changed.

Eva.
To change it then.—Hast thou not promised oft
To bear me to thy favourite, flowery Florence—
Lady of the Appenines and the Arno stream,
The enchantress—murmuring with her Tuscan tongue
Such spells of sweetness that her guests are made
For evermore her lovers and her slaves?—
Take me to Florence—to thy native place,
Therefore the loveliest spot on earth for me,
Even though 'twere disenchanted of all else
That gives it beauty!—Take me to thy home,
To thine aged father's presence—nor again
With vain and vague excuses cheat my hope.

Mont.
Yes, thou hast changed the theme indeed—full well:
'Tis from the ripple to the roar of storms—
From the faint mist to midnight's gulphs of gloom.

Eva.
I cannot understand thy darkling speech.

Mont.
I pray thee pardon me:—my speech is wild;
But a dear friend hath told me heavy tales
Of his deep sorrows.

Eva.
What dear friend, my lord?
'Tis surely one I know—for hast thou one
Thou wouldst allow a stranger to remain
To thine own little Eva?—Ah! I guess
'Tis the young Guido who hath lately come—

Mont.
Guido? how say'st thou—who?

Eva.
Hast thou not heard?
The young Prince Guido Bellafiore—he
(hesitatingly)
Whom thou didst know at Florence.

Mont.
(sharply.)
What of him?

Eva.
I said he had arrived at Rome—and came
Two hours ago to see thee:—thou wert far,
Racing it o'er the wild Campagna's plains!
Tell me—I knew it not before—is he
A cousin of Giacinta's?—

Mont.
Oh! you know,
You know he is her brother!—hush! no more.

Eva.
Nay, my Enrico—I beseech your pardon:
I asked is he Giacinta's cousin.

Mont.
(abruptly.)
Aye!—

Eva.
He seems a noble youth, of princeliest port,
And gallant bearing—frank and cordial—

Mont.
Aye—

Eva.
What means this iteration, with a tone
So sharp and sudden and so hollow-sounding?
My husband—thou art aweary—seek repose.
The noon is sultry—thou must take, indeed,
A short siesta to recruit thy strength.

Mont.
I will do so—and after this, wilt thou
Touch thy dear harp and sing to soothe me, say?—

Eva.
All—any thing—that thou canst wish or ask!

[Exeunt.