 | Romiero |  |
SCENE III.
An antechamber. Enter Pietro and a domestic.Pie.
(speaking as he enters).
A blessing on thy simple head! impatient!
I have, good sooth! been wont to speak with him
As though he were my fellow. Much shrewd counsel
He hath received from me right pleasantly.
He looks not grave or proud when poor men speak;
At least I'm sure he was not so inclined
Before he married.
Enter Jerome behind him, and listens archly.
Ay, he knows mankind,
With all their knavish arts; ay, and he knows
I know them also. Bless the day! full often
He listen'd to me with a merry face:
Much shrewd discoursing we have had together.
Jer.
(advancing).
True, but such shrewd discoursing, as thou callst it,
Should only upon rainy days take place,
When idle folk, from field and sport debarr'd,
Are glad to while away the weary time
With aught to save the kicking of their heels.
Pie.
Will he not see me then?
Jer.
I said not so.
He'll see thee presently; but do not tease him
With a long-winded tale, choked up with saws;
He is not in the humour for it now.
It would, to say the least on't, be a present
More prized by him who gives than who receives it.
Pie.
Go to! I have no need of thee to school me:
I know as well as thou dost when to speak,
And when to hold my tongue.
Enter Romiero and Guzman, and the domestics withdraw.
Rom.
Good morrow, Pietro! thou wouldst speak with me.
Pie.
Yes, please your honour, I'm a simple man;—
That is to say, I am not school'd or learn'd
As many be, who set great store by it;
But yet I think I can, as well as others,
Scent mischief in its covert. Ah, good lack!
This is a wicked world.
Rom.
I know it well.
Thou'st told me so a thousand times, good Pietro.
What is the matter now? Rehearse it briefly,
And plainly too, my friend: enough of comment
Will follow after. Speak,—what is the matter?
Pie.
Ay, something is the matter, take my word for't.
For there be ill enough in this sad world,—
In court and cot, in city and in village.
Rom.
(interrupting him impatiently).
There is among your villagers, I hear,
A person much afflicted.
Pie.
We were all well, both young and old of us,
When I left home scarce half an hour since. No;
My story is of other matters; villagers
Are not therein concerned, unless it be
As hired emissaries: for, I trow,
No wealthy devil e'er lack'd poorer imp.
No rich man ever wants—
Rom.
A truce with proverbs!
What is it thou wouldst tell me?
Pie.
Marry, that mischief, in or near your castle,
Is hatching secretly.
Rom.
Why dost thou think so?
Pie.
A ghost was seen by some benighted fools,
As they report it, near the ancient chapel,
Where light pour'd through the trees, and strangely vanish'd
They know not how. I much suspect your ghosts.
'Tis said they're ominous of death; but weddings,
Or worse than weddings oft'ner follow after.
You have a rich and beauteous ward: Don Maurice
Is young, ambitious, and cunning:—No!
It is no ghastly spectre haunts your woods.
Rom.
Was it a female form those fools beheld?
Pie.
Yes, by Saint Jago! and it wore, they say,
Donna Zorada's air, who is, you know,
Not much unlike, in size and gait, to Beatrice.
Guz.
We know all this already, worthy Pietro;
Nought ill will follow it; be thou content.
Rom.
If Beatrice hath in the shades of night
Gone forth to meet her lover, she hath err'd
Beyond what we believed. (Calling loud.)
Ho! Jerome there!
Re-enter Jerome.
Thou wert the secret agent of Don Maurice;
In this thou'st sinn'd against thy master! Say,
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Did Donna Beatrice e'er, by night, steal forth
To meet him in the forest?
Jer.
No, good my lord; that I will answer truly;
She never did.
Rom.
Good Pietro tells a story
Of frighten'd villagers, who have, at night,
Seen wand'ring in the wood a female form.
Thou seem'st confused; thou, too, hast heard of this?
Jer.
Not heard of it, my lord.
Rom.
Then thou hast seen it.
Jer.
I must confess I saw a form, last night,
Glide hastily before me, through the wood:
The face I could not see.
Rom.
It was a woman?
Jer.
It was, my lord.
Rom.
Its stature tall or short?
Jer.
Neither, my lord.
Pie.
Did I not say it seem'd—
Guz.
(pulling Pietro back).
Hush, thou art wise, and shouldst not waste thy words.
Rom.
(to Jerome).
Did it resemble any female figure
Familiar to thine eye? Why dost thou hesitate?
Speak truth; speak freely; think not to deceive me:
Seem'd it a form familiar to thine eye?
Jer.
I was confused—I knew not. No, my lord,
It was no well-known form.
Rom.
Thy words are false!
[Walks perturbedly to and fro, then returning to them.
Why stand ye here to gaze upon me? Go!
Guz.
(to Pietro).
Retire, and do not speak to him again.
Save thee, good Pietro; and thou, too, Jerome.
[Exeunt Pietro and Jerome. (Going up to Romiero.)
Thou art bereft of reason. In the dark
A gliding form is seen, nor tall, nor short,
Nor having any mark by which to prove
It is, or is not any woman breathing;
And thou in thy diseased conceit hast shaped—
Rom.
Thou speakst in ignorance: I have good cause—
Cause which thou knowst not of. I'll tell thee more
When I have breath to speak.—
My dame, my wife, she whom I made my wife,
Hath secret myst'ries—hath a beldame nurse—
Hath one conceal'd to whom she sends—O shame!—
Outrageous, frontless shame! the very picture
Which I have gazed upon a thousand times,
Tears in my eyes, and blessings on my lips.
How little thought I once—vain, vain remembrance!
It is a thing most strange if she be honest.
Guz.
How strange?—that thou thyself shouldst be deceived
As many men have been, which is a marvel
Of daily note, amongst the sons of Adam?
Rom.
Deceived! be there witch-powder in mine eyes,
To make that seen which is not; in mine ears,
To make them hear false sounds? I've seen; I've heard:
I am deluded by no gossip's tale.—
O would I were! I loved—I worshipp'd her;
She was the thing that stirr'd within my soul,
Which had no other life. Despise me not;
For tears will force their way.—She was to me—
When I have power to speak, I'll tell thee all.
Guz.
Yes; pause awhile, my friend. Thou art too vehement.
Rom.
(lowering his voice).
Have they o'erheard me? Has it come to this,
That such as they should know my misery?
I will match wiles with wiles, and borrow of her
That damn'd hypocrisy. Come thou with me,
And give me counsel: thou thyself wilt own
It is no weak conceit disturbs me thus.
But stop, and stand aside.
[Stops on seeing nurse pass by a low window on the outside.
Guz.
What wouldst thou now?
Rom.
Here comes the beldame nurse of whom I spoke;
Returning from her mission, as I guess.
Stand thou aside whilst I engage with her,
And, with her own deceits, deceive the witch.
Do thou observe her visage as I speak.
Guz.
Nay; trust not to deceit; for at this moment
Thou hast not o'er thyself as much control
As would deceive the simplest soul on earth.
She will outwit thee; leave the task to me,
And do thou stand aside.—I hear her steps.
Enter Nurse, while Romiero goes behind the arras.
Ha! my good nurse; thou art a stirring person,
And one of service in this family,
If I mistake it not. How could fair damsels,
And dainty dames, and other tender souls,
Endure the thraldom of stern lords and masters,
Brothers, and jealous guardians, and the like,
Were it not for such useful friends as thou?
Nurse.
I know not what you mean by service, sir;
I serve my mistress honestly and fairly.
Guz.
And secretly, when it must needs be so.
Do I not know it well, and well approve
Thy wary vigilance? Take this broad piece; (giving gold)
A token of respect for all thy virtues.
Thou art, I know, the agent of Zorada
In all her secret charities: how fares it
With that poor invalid?
Nurse.
What invalid?
Guz.
To whom thou tookst that basket of fair fruit.
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I have some skill in med'cine.
Nurse.
I thank you, sir; I have some skill myself,
And that suffices. She will soon be well.
Guz.
It is a woman, then.—Look in my face:
Look at me steadfastly.—I know it is not.
It is a man; ay, and a man for whom
Thy lady hath some secret, dear regard.
And so, perhaps, hast thou: where is the harm?
Nurse.
And if there be, where is the harm of loving
Those near akin to us?
Guz.
Yes, fairly said! Who can find harm in that?
Nurse.
Whom should we love—I mean, whom should I love,
But mine own flesh and blood?
Guz.
Thy flesh and blood! lies flesh and blood of thine
So near us, and conceal'd?—A son, perhaps?
Nurse.
I have a son; but where he is conceal'd,
Or far, or near, I know not.
Guz.
Nay, nay, good nurse; think of next month's confession,
When lying must be paid for. Father Thomas
For a small penance will not let thee off.
[Here Romiero appears from behind the arras, with gestures of impatience, but draws back again.
Guz.
Knowst thou not where he is, this son of thine?
A handsome youth, no doubt.
Nurse.
As ever stepp'd upon the blessed earth.
When but an infant, he with fair Zorada
Play'd like a brother. Such a pretty pair!
And the sweet children loved each other dearly.
Would he were here! but where he is I know not.
Rom.
(bursting out upon her).
Vile wretch! thou liest; but thou shalt tell the truth.
I'll press the breath from out thy cursed body,
Unless thou tell me where thy son is hid.
Nurse.
My son, my lord!
Rom.
Ay, witch; I say thy son;
The ugliest hound the sun e'er looked upon.
Tell me, and instantly, if thou wouldst breathe
Another moment. Tell me instantly.
[Shaking her violently, while Guzman interposes, and Romiero, struggling with him, falls to the ground, and nurse escapes off the stage.
Guz.
(endeavouring to raise him).
I pray thee, pardon me, my noble friend!
When passion led thee to disgrace thyself,
This was an act of friendship.—Rise, Romiero.
Rom.
No; here upon the ground, my bed of agony,
I will remain. Sunk to this deep disgrace,
The centre of the earth were fitter for me
Than its fair surface, and the light of heaven.
Oh! this exceeds the worst imagination
That e'er found entrance to this madden'd brain!
That he—this hateful, vulgar, shapeless creature— Fy, fy.
Guz.
If thou canst harbour such a thought,
Thou art in verity beside thyself.
It is not possible that such a one
Could please Zorada, were she e'en unfaithful.
Rom.
(rising fiercely).
Not please her! every thing will please a woman
Who is bereft of virtue, gross, debased.
Yea, black deformity will be to her
A new and zestful object.
Enter Zorada behind him.
Guz.
(making her a sign to retire).
O lady! come not here.
Zor.
I heard Romiero loud; what is the matter?
Rom.
O nothing, madam; pray advance. O nothing!
Nothing that you should be surprised to hear.
That ladies can be fair and delicate,
And to the world's eye e'en as saints devout,
Yet all the while be coarse, debased, and stain'd
With passions that disgrace the vulgar kmd.
Zor.
Alas! what mean you?
Rom.
Thou'st played me false; thou art a worthless woman;
So base, so sunk, that those whose appellation
Brings blushes to the cheeks of honest women
Compared to thee are pure.—Off! do not speak!
It is a sick'ning sight to look upon thee,
Fair as thou art. Feign not to be surprised:
Begone, I say, I cannot for a moment
Say what I may not do.
[Taking his dagger from his side, and giving it to Guzman, who snatches it hastily from him.
Now thou art safe; but go, thou shameless creature
Guz.
Madam, I pray you go, for he is furious,
And would not listen to a saint from heaven.
[Exit Zorada, wringing her hands.
Come, leave this spot, Romiero; some few hours,
I am persuaded, will reveal this mystery.
Meantime, let me constrain thee as a friend;
Thou art not fit to speak or act with reason.
Rom.
Thinkst thou to bind and lead me like a maniac?
Guz.
Like what thou art: but here comes Beatrice.
Wouldst thou to her expose thy sorry state?
Enter Beatrice.
Rom.
To her or any one, what boot they now,
Fair seemings and fair words?
Bea.
Are you not well, my lord?
Rom.
No, damsel; well was banish'd from the world,
When woman came to it.
Bea.
Fy! say not so.
For if deprived of women, what were men?
Like leafless elms stripp'd of the clasping vine;
Like unrigg'd barks, of sail and pennant bare;
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Banish us all, and lay my life upon it,
You will right quickly send for us again.
Rom.
Ay, as for parrots, jays, and kirtled apes,
To make vain sport withal. It makes me sick
To think of what you seem and what you are.
Bea.
But say not all, because there are a few.
Guz.
Fair lady, hold no further parley now. (To Rom.)
And come with me, my friend.
[Exeunt Romiero and Guzman.
Bea.
(looking after him).
What strange tormenting fancy haunts him now?
She leads a life worse than an Eastern slave,
Who weds with such as he. Save me from that!
Enter Maurice by the window, having previously peeped in to see if she were alone.
Maur.
Dear Beatrice! to find thee thus alone—
Bea.
Good heaven preserve us! What has brought thee back?
Maur.
To see and hear thee, love, and yet again
To touch thy fair soft hand.
Bea.
An errand, truly,
To make thee track thy steps so many miles!
Maur.
An errand worth the toil e'en ten times told.
To see thy figure moving in thy veil,
Is worth a course of five good miles at least;
To see thy glowing face of welcome is,
At lowest reck'ning, worth ten score of leagues
By sea or land; and this soft thrilling pressure,—
O! 'tis worth all the leagues that gird the globe.
[Taking her hand.
Bea.
What idle words! how canst thou be so foolish?
I needs must chide thee for it, thoughtless boy!
Maur.
Chide me, indeed, who am two years thy elder,
And two good months to boot!—Such high pretension!
Have sixteen summers and a woman's robe
Made thee so very wise and consequential?
Bea.
(giving him two mock blows on his shoulder).
Take that, and that, for such discourteous words.
Maur.
(catching both her hands and kissing them separately).
Ay, marry will I, and right gladly too,
When this and this are added to the gift.
Bea.
Forbear such idle rapture, 'tis a folly:
So tell me truly what has brought thee back
To this disturb'd and miserable house.
Maur.
What, miserable still? Not yet convinced
That thou, and not Zorada, art the queen
Of my impassion'd heart?
Bea.
Of this, indeed,
He is convinced; but what doth it avail?
Some other fancy, yet I know not what,
Again possesses him. Therefore depart;
Quickly depart, nor linger longer here,
When thou hast told me wherefore thou art come.
Maur.
When some way off, it came into my head
That Don Romiero—the occasion past,
Which has excited him to favour us—
May be remiss, or may repent his promise.
I therefore quickly turned my horse's head,
Nor drew I bridle till within the forest
I found me once again, close to the postern.
Bea.
What wouldst thou do? for in his present state
Thou mayst not speak to him.
Maur.
But I would speak to Guzman; he has power
To keep Romiero steadfast in his promise.
I should have thought of this before I went,
And urged him earnestly that no remissness
With thy relations may retard our bliss.
Bea.
Are we not happy now? Is marriage bliss?
I fear to think of it.
Maur.
Why shouldst thou fear?
Shall I be jealous? O, my gentle Beatrice!
I never will believe thee false to me,
Until such proof as that heaven's sun is bright
Shall flash upon me, and the agony
Will be my death-blow and prevent upbraiding.
Bea.
And art thou, then, so tender in thy nature?
In truth it makes me weep to think thou art.
Maur.
Let me wipe off those tears, my gentle love.
Think hopefully and cheerfully, I pray thee.
I feel within my breast a strong assurance
Thou never wilt prove false, nor I suspicious.
Where may I find Don Guzman?
[Exeunt.
| Romiero | |