 | The Fool's Revenge |  |
Scene First.
—A Room in the House of Bertuccio, hung with tapestry; a coloured statue of the Madonna in a recess, with a small lamp burning before it; carved and coloured furniture; a carved cabinet and large carved coffer; in the centre, a window opening on the street, with a balcony; behind the tapestry, a secret door communicating with the street, L. 2 E.; a door, R. 2 E.; a lamp lighted; a lute and flowers; a missal on a stand before the statue; a recess concealed by the tapestry, L. 3 E.Torelli and Brigitta discovered, C.
Brig.
Hark, there's the quarter!—you must hence, fair signor.
Torelli.
But a few moments more of your sweet presence!
Brig.
Saint Ursula, she knows, 'tis not my will
That drives you hence; but if my master found
That I received a man into the house,
'Twere pity of my place, if not my life.
Torelli.
Your master is a churl, that would condemn
These maiden blooms to wither on the tree.
Brig.
Churl you may call him! why he'd have the house
A prison. If you heard the coil he keeps
Of bolts, and bars, and locks! Lord knows the twitter
I've been in all to-day about the key
I lost this morning—it unlocks the door
Of the turnpike stair that leads down to the street.
Torelli,
'Twas lucky I came by just when you dropt it.
Brig.
Dropt!—nay, signor, 'twas whipped off by some cut-purse,
That thought to filch my coin.
Torelli.
That's a shrewd guess!
He must have flung it from him where I found it,
Not knowing (bowing to her)
of what jewel it unlocked
The casket!
Brig.
How can I pay your pains that brought it back?
Torelli.
By ever and anon giving me leave
To come and sun myself in your chaste presence.
Brig.
Alas, sweet signor. (coquettishly)
22
(in the same tone)
Oh! divine Brigitta!
Brig.
But I must say farewell. Vespers are over;
My mistress will be waiting—she's so fearful.
Torelli.
As if her unripe beauties were in danger,
While your maturer loveliness can walk
The streets unguarded.
Brig.
Nay—I'm a poor, fond, thing; Lord knows the risk
I run to let you in.
Torelli.
I warrant now
You've some snug nook where, if your master came,
You could bestow me at a pinch.
Brig.
I know none,
Unless 'twere here, (lifting arras, L. 3 E.)
behind the arras, look!
Here's a hole too, whence you could peep to see
When the coast's clear!
Torelli.
(aside)
There's room enough for two.
(sternly)
Brigitta!
Brig.
Signor!
Torelli.
(with feigned suspicion)
How if this had served
For hiding others before me?
Brig.
I swear
By the eleven thousand virgins—
Torelli.
That's
Too many by ten thousand and ten hundred
And ninety-nine! Vouch but your virgin self,
And I am satisfied!
Brig.
(whimpering)
Alack! a-day!
To be suspected after all these years.
Torelli.
Pardon a lover's jealousy—this kiss
Shall wipe away the memory of my wrong.
(aside)
What will not loyalty drive a man to?
(kisses her)
There!
Brig.
(aside)
He has the sweetest lips!—And now begone
Sweet signor, if you love me.
Torelli.
If, Brigitta!
Banish me then to outer darkness straight!
Farewell, my full-blown rose—let others prize
The opening bud—the ripe, rich flower for me!
Brig.
Oh, the saints, how he talks! This way, sweet signor, (taking a key from her girdle)
23
Unlocks it. (unlocking secret door, L. 2 E.)
Torelli.
(taking another from his girdle, aside)
Else, why did I filch it from you—
And have this, it's twin brother, forged to-day!
Brig.
(getting the lamp)
I'll light you out, and lock the door behind you—
“Safe bind, safe find.”
Torelli.
Good night, sweet piece of woman,
I leave my heart in pledge. (aside)
Now for the Duke.
(Brigitta holds open the door and lights him down —then locks the door)
Brig.
He's gone—bless his sweet face! To think what risks
Men will run that are lovers—and indeed
Weak women too! Lord! if my master knew.
(getting on her mantle)
'Tis lucky San Costanza is hard by,—
I should be fearful else. Faenza's full
Of gallants—and who knows what might befall
A poor young woman like myself, with nought
Except her innocence to be her safeguard!
Exit Brigitta, R. 2 E.
(as soon as she has closed the door, the secret door, C. opens, and Torelli re-appears)
Torelli.
This way, my lord—the dragon has departed.
Enter Manfredi from the secret door, L. 2 E.
Man.
'Tis time—I was aweary of my watch!
Torelli.
You were alone, at least. Think of my lot,
That had to make love to a tough old spinster!
I would we had changed parts,—why, good, my lord,
I had to kiss her! Faugh! When shall I get
The garlic from my beard?—But here's the cage
That holds our bird! We must ensconce ourselves,
For they'll be here anon—vespers were over
Before we entered!
Man.
Thanks to your device
Of the forged key!—yet that was scarcely needed;
I've climbed more break-neck balconies than that
(pointing to window)
Without a silken ladder! (looking about)
So—a lute—
24
Than of a mistress!—Well, so much the better;
I long to see the girl! Is she as fair
As Serafino painted?
Torelli.
Faith, my lord,
She's fair enough to justify more sonnets
Than e'er fat Petrarch pumped out for his Laura.
She is a paragon of blushing girlhood,
Full of temptation to the finger-tips.
I marvel at myself, that e'er I yielded
This amorous enterprise, even to you—
But that my loyalty outbears my love.
Man.
I will requite your loyalty—fear not;
But where shall we bestow ourselves?
Torelli.
(lifting the arras from the recess)
In here;
The old crone showed it me but now,—there's cover
And peeping-place sufficient. Hark! they come!
Stand close, my lord.
They retire behind the arras.
Enter Fiordilisa and Brigitta, R. 2 E.
Brig.
And he was there to-night?
Fiord.
Oh yes! He offered me the holy water
As I passed in. I trembled so, Brigitta,
When our hands met, I fear he must have marked it,
But that he seemed almost as trembling, too,
As I was.
Brig.
He! a brazen popinjay,
I'll warrant me, for all his downcast looks!
I wonder how my master would endure
To hear of such audacious goings on!
Fiord.
That makes me sad. My father is so kind,
I cannot bear to have a secret from him.
Sometimes I feel as I would tell him all;
But then, I think, perhaps he would forbid me
From going out to church;—and, 'tis so dull
To be shut up here all the long bright day:
From morn till dark, to mark the busy stir
Under the window, and the happy voices
Of holiday-makers, that go out and in
Just as they please. Look at the birds, Brigitta!
Their wings are free, yet no harm comes to them;
25
Sometimes the trumpets, as the knights ride by,
And tramp of men-at-arms— (a lute sounds without)
—sometimes a lute.
Hark! 'tis his lute! I know the air—how sweet!
My good Brigitta, would there be much harm
If I touched mine—only a little touch,
To tell him I am listening?
Brig.
Holy saints,
Was e'er such boldness! I must have your lute
Locked up. These girls! these girls!—Bar them from Court,
And they'll find matter in church; keep them from speech,
And they'll make cat-gut do the work of tongue!
Better be charged to keep a cat from cream,
Than a girl from gallants!
Fiord.
Nay but, good Brigitta,
This gentleman is none.
Brig.
How do you know?
Fiord.
He never speaks to me—scarce looks—or if
He do, it is but to withdraw his gaze
As hastily as I do mine. I've seen him
Blush when our eyes met; not like yon rude man,
Who pressed upon me with such words and looks,
As made me red and hot,—you know the time—
When that kind lady, Countess Malatesta,
Scarce saved me from his boldness.
Brig.
Tilly-vally.
There are more ways of bird-catching than one;
He's the best fowler, who least scares his quarry.
But I must go and see the supper toward.
Your father will be here anon!
Exit Brigitta, R.
Fiord.
Dear father!
Would he were here, that I might rest my head
Upon his breast, and have his arms about me;
For then I feel there's something I may love,
And not be chidden for it. (lute sounds)
Hark! again—
If I durst answer!
How sad he must be out there in the dark,
26
(takes her lute, then puts it away)
No!
My father would be angry—sad enough
To have one joy I may not share with h;
Yet there can be no harm in listening—
I thought to-night he would have spoken to me,
But then Brigitta came—and he fell back!
I'm glad he did not speak—and yet I'm sorry—
I should so like to hear his voice—just once—
He comes in my dreams, now—but he never speaks—
I'm sure 'tis soft and sweet! (listening)
His lute is hushed.
What, if I touched mine, now that he is gone?
I must not look out of the casement!—Yes—
I'm sure he's gone! (takes her lute, and strikes a chord, L.)
Man.
(aside, lifting the arras)
She is worth ten Ginevras!
Torelli.
(holding him back)
Not yet!—
Man.
Unhand me—I will speak to her!
Bertuccio appears at the door, R. 2 3.
Torelli.
My Lord! It is Bertuccio! In—quick!
(Bertuccio stands for a moment fondly contemplating Fiordelisa—his dress is sober and his manner composed. He steps quietly forward)
Bert.
My own!
Fiord.
(turning suddenly, and flinging herself into his arms with a cry of joy)
My father!
Bert.
(embracing her tenderly)
Closer, closer yet!
Let me feel those soft arms about my neck,
This dear cheek on my heart! No—do not stir—
It does me so much good! I am so happy—
These minutes are worth years!
Fiord.
My own dear father!
Bert.
Let me look at thee, darling—why, thou growest
More and more beautiful! Thou'rt happy here?
Hast all that thou desirest—thy lute—thy flowers?
She loves her poor old father?—Blessings on thee—
I know thou dost—but tell me so.
Fiord.
I love you—
I love you very much! I am so happy
27
And go so soon? Why not stay always here?
Bert.
Why not! why not! Oh, if I could! To live
Where there's no mocking, and no being mocked—
No laughter, but what's innocent; no mirth
That leaves an after-bitterness like gall.
Fiord.
Now, you are sad! There's that black ugly cloud
Upon your brow—you promised, the last time,
It never should come when we were together.
You know when you're sad, I'm sad too.
Bert.
My bird!
I'm selfish even with thee—let dark thoughts come,
That thy sweet voice may chase them, as they say
The blessèd church-bells drive the demons off.
Fiord.
If I but knew the reason of your sadness,
Then I might comfort you; but I know nothing—
Not even your name.
Bert.
I'd have no name for thee,
But, “father.”
Fiord.
In the convent, at Ceséna,
Where I was rear'd, they used to call me orphan.
I thought I had no father, till you came,
And then they needed not to say I had one;
My own heart told me that.
Bert.
I often think
I had done well to have left thee there, in the peace
Of that still cloister. But it was too hard—
My empty heart so hungered for my child!—
For those dear eyes that look no scorn for me—
That voice that speaks respect and tenderness,
Even for me!—My dove—my lily-flower—
My only stay in life!—Oh, God! I thank thee
That thou hast left me this at least! (he weeps)
Fiord.
Dear father!
You're crying now—you must not cry—you must not—
I cannot bear to see you cry.
Bert.
Let be!—
'Twere better than to see me laugh.
Fiord.
But wherefore?
You say you are so happy here—and yet
You never come but to weep bitter tears.
28
Why are you sad? Oh, tell me—tell me all!
Bert.
I cannot. In this house I am thy father:
Out of it, what I am boots not to say;
Hated, perhaps—or envied—feared, I hope,
By many—scorned by more—and loved by none.
In this one innocent corner of the world
I would but be to thee a father—something
August, and sacred!
Fiord.
And you are so, father.
Bert.
I love thee with a love strong as the hate
I bear for all but thee. Come, sit beside me,
With thy pure hand in mine—and tell me still,
“I love you,” and “I love you”—only that.
Smile on me—so!—thy smile is passing sweet!
Thy mother used to smile so once—oh, God!
I cannot bear it. Do not smile—it wakes
Memories that tear my heart-strings. Do not look
So like thy mother, or I shall go mad!
Fiord.
Oh, tell me of my mother!
Bert.
(shuddering)
No, no, no!
Fiord.
She's dead?
Bert.
Yes.
Fiord.
You were with her when she died?
Bert.
No!—leave the dead alone—talk of thyself.—
Thy life here—Thou heed'st well my caution, girl—
Not to go out by day, nor show thyself
There, at the casement.
Fiord.
Yes: some day, I hope,
You will take me with you, but to see the town—
'Tis so hard to be shut up here, alone—
Bert.
Thou hast not stirred abroad? (suspiciously and eagerly)
Fiord.
Only to vespers—
You said I might do that with good Brigitta—
I never go forth, or come in alone.
Bert.
That's well. I grieve that thou should'st live so close.
But if thou knew'st what poison's in the air—
What evil walks the streets—How innocence
Is a temptation—beauty but a bait
For desperate desires:—no man, I hope,
Has spoken to thee?
29
Only one.
Bert.
(fiercely)
Ha! who?
Fordi.
I know not—'twas against my will.
Bert.
(eagerly)
You gave
No answer?
Fiord.
No—I fled
Bert.
(in the same tone)
He followed you?
Fiord.
A gracious lady gave me kind protection,
And bade her train guard me safe home—Oh, father,
If you had seen how good she was—how gently
She soothed my fears—for I was sore afraid—
I'm sure you'd love her.
Bert.
Did you learn her name!
Fiord.
I asked it, first, to set it in my prayers—
And then, that you might pray for her.
Bert.
Her name?— (aside)
I pray! (contemptuously)
Fiord.
The Countess Malatesta.
Bert.
(aside)
Count Malatesta's wife protect my child!
You have not seen her since?
Fiord.
No; though she urged me
So hard to come to her; and asked my name;
And who my parents were; and where I lived.
Bert.
You did not tell her?
Fiord.
Who my parents were?
How could I, when I must not know myself?
Bert.
Patience, my darling; trust thy father's love,
That there is reason for this mystery!
The time may come when we may live in peace,
And walk together free, under free heaven;
But that cannot be here—nor now!
Fiord.
Oh, when—
When shall that time arrive?
Bert.
(bitterly)
When what I live for
Has been achieved!
Fiord.
(timidly)
What you live for?
Bert.
(with sudden ferocity)
Revenge!
Fiord.
(averting her eyes with horror)
Oh, do not look so, father!
Bert.
Listen, girl,—
You asked me of your mother;—it is time
You should know why all questioning of her
30
Misshapen, as I am, there once was one,
Who, seeing me despised, mocked, lonely, poor—
Loved me—I think—most for my misery:
Thy mother, like thee—just so pure—so sweet.
I was a public notary in Ceséna:
Our life was humble—but so happy: thou
Wert in thy cradle then, and many a night
Thy mother and I sate hand in hand together,
Watching thine innocent smiles, and building up
Long plans of joy to come!
(his voice falters—he turns away)
Fiord.
Alas! she died!
Bert.
Died! There are deaths 'tis comfort to look back on:
Her's was not such a death. A devil came
Across our quiet life, and marked her beauty,
And lusted for her; and when she scorned his offers,
Because he was a noble—great and strong,
He bore her from my side—by force—and after
I never saw her more: they brought me news
That she was dead!
Fiord.
Ah me!
Bert.
And I was mad,
For years and years, and when my wits came back,—
If e'er they came,—they brought one haunting purpose,
That since has shaped my life—to have revenge!
Revenge upon her wronger and his order;
Revenge in kind; to quit him—wife for wife!
Fiord.
Father, 'tis not for me to question with you:
But think?—revenge belongeth not to man,
It is God's attribute—usurp it not!
Bert.
Preach abstinence to him that dies of hunger
Tell the poor wretch who perishes of thirst,
There's danger in the cup his fingers clutch;
But bid me not forswear revenge. No word!
Thou know'st, now, why I mew thee up so close:
Keep thee out of the streets; shut thee from eyes
And tongues of lawless men—for in these days
All men are lawless.—'Tis because I fear
To lose thee, as I lost thy mother.
Fiord.
Father,
I'll pray for her.
31
Do—and for me; good night!
Fiord.
Oh, not so soon—with all these sad dark thoughts,
These bitter memories. You need my love:
I'll touch my lute for you, and sing to it.
Music, you know, chases all evil angels.
Bert.
I must go: 'tis grave business calls me hence—
(aside)
'Tis time that I was at my post—My own,
Sleep in thine innocence. Good night! good night!
Fiord.
But let me see you to the outer door.
Bert.
Not a step further, then. God guard this place,
That here my flower may grow, safe from the blight
Of look, or word impure, a holy thing
Consecrate to thy service, and my love!
Exit Bertuccio and Fiordelisa, R.
Enter from behind the arras, Manfredi and Torelli.
Man.
His daughter! That so fair a branch should spring
From such a gnarled and misshapen stock!
Torelli.
But did you mark how he raved of revenge
Upon our order?
Man.
By the mass! I think
That Guido Malatesta is the man
That played him the shrewd trick he told the girl of.
'Twas at Ceséna, marked you—the time fits—
That's why he hounds me on after the countess.
What! Must I be the tool of his revenge?
I'll teach the scurril slave to strike at nobles!
Torelli.
Hark! what's that? (listening)
Man.
'Tis outside the window!
Torelli.
(listening)
Yes,
By Bacchus, some one climbs the balcony!
Man.
A gallant?
Torelli.
In, sir; see the play played out.
Man.
But I'll not be forestalled!
Torelli.
We've time enough.
(they retire to the recess)
Enter Aquila from the balcony.
Aquila.
Pardon, sweet saint, if I profane thy shrine,
I watched Bertuccio forth—he passed me close—
I feared he would have seen me. I have sworn
32
And to warn her, this means alone is left me.
Hark! 'tis her gracious step—she comes this way.
Enter Fiordelisa, she kneels before the statue of the Madonna.
Fiord.
Comfort of the afflicted—comfort him!
Turn his revengeful purpose to sumbission,
And grant that I may grow to take the place
My mother has left empty in his heart!
He's gone! And I had not the heart to speak
Of the young gentleman who follows me.
He asked if any spoke to me—I told
The truth—he never spoke to me.
(turning round and seeing Aquila)
(in great terror)
Who's there!
Brigitta! help!—
Aquila.
Silence! but have no fear—
I am not here to harm you—do not tremble.
I would die, lady, rather than offend you.
Fiord.
Oh, sir! how came you here?
Aquila.
I knew no way
But by the balcony. Desperate occasions
Dispense with ceremony. My respect
Is absolute. Fear not: I am not here
To say, “I love you,” nor to tell you how
For months your face has been my beacon star.
My passion never would have found a tongue,
It is too reverent; but your safety, lady,
I can be bold for that.
Fiord.
My safety!
Aquila.
Threatened
With desperate danger. Think you, one so fair
Could even pray in safety in Faenza?
You have been seen: your beauty hath been buzzed
In the Court's amorous ear: there is a project
To scale your balcony to-night.
Fiord.
Oh, father!
Aquila.
He cannot save you—what were his sole strength
Against the bravos that the duke commands,
For any deed of ill. My arm and sword
Are stronger than your father's—and are your's
33
I could die for you—but I could not save you.
Fiord.
What shall I do?
Aquila.
Have you no friends—protectors
To whom you might betake yourself?
Fiord.
Alas!
I am a stranger here.
Aquila.
Think—have you none?
Fiord.
Ha!—if the Countess Malatesta—
Aquila.
What?
You know her?
Fiord.
She once rescued me from insult
Of a rude man; and promised help whene'er
I chose to seek it.
Aquila.
She is good, and pure,
And powerful moreover.—That's the chief.
Go to her straight—you have no time to lose.
Midnight is fixed for their foul enterprise.
Fiord.
But how to find the house? And then the streets
Are dark and dangerous. I've but our servant,
Brigitta—
Aquila.
Not a word to her! She's false.
Can you trust me? I'll lead you to the countess.
Fiord.
(aside)
Were this a stratagem!
Aquila.
I see you doubt me.
I know you have good cause to doubt all men.
Oh, could I bare my heart, and shew you there
Your image set amongst its holiest thoughts,
Beside my mother's well-remembered face—
Could truth speak with the tongue, look from the eyes,
You would not doubt me! What can oaths avail?
He who could cheat you, would not fear to cheat
God, and his saints! Lady, it is the truth
That I have spoken! May heaven give you faith
To trust in me; but if not, I will stay,
And die in your defence.
Fiord.
Sir, I will trust you!
And heaven so deal with you, as you with me!—
Go with me to the Countess Malatesta—
I'll seek the shelter of her roof to-night.
To-morrow must bring counsel for the future.
34
Oh! bless you for this trust! Come—quick—but softly—
Put on your veil—fear not—I am your guard,
Your slave, your sentinel. I crave no guerdon—
Not even a look! Enough for me to save you.
Exit Fiordelisa and Dell'Aquila.
Man.
(breaking out from behind lhe arras, Torelli following him)
Why did you hold me back? Our project's marred.
This moonstruck poet bears away the prize,
And I am fooled.
Torelli.
Nay; trust my cooler brain.
I'll follow them to Malatesta's. Sure
He'll give her shelter?
Man.
In his lady's absence?
Torelli.
Even so. The old ruffian can be courteous
When there's a pretty face in question!
Man.
Let him!
I'll break his house, or any man's that dares
Set his locks in the way of my good pleasure!
Torelli.
Why not? 'Twill give a double pungency
To our revenge upon Bertuccio.
We only looked to keep the foul-mouthed knave
Out of the way, while we bore off his pearl;
But now we'll use him for the robbery.
He shall see us scale Malatesta's windows;
But she whom we bear thence, muffled and gagged,
Shall be the hunch-backed scoffer's pretty daughter!
Man.
A rare revenge! and so this brain-sick poet
And my curst jester may console each other.
Watch them to Malatesta's! I'll to our friends,
And find Bertuccio by San Stefano!
Exit by secret door, L. 2 E.
| The Fool's Revenge | |