 | The Separation |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
A wild alley with a grove behind. Martial music heard without.Then enter Garcio with his soldiers on march, and Gonzalos.
Gar.
Halt, my brave comrades; here we'll rest awhile
Till sultry noon be past. Those spreading trees
Will give you shade. To Gonzalos.)
Seest thou Rovani coming?
Gon.
No, good my lord; but through the trees I see
Your castle's turrets brighten'd with the sun.
Look there! it is a fair, enliv'ning sight.
Gar.
turning away, after a hasty look).
I see, I see.—But wherefore stays Rovani! To soldiers.)
Go, choose, each as he lists, his spot of rest;
I'll keep me here.
[Gonzalos and the soldiers retire to the bottom of the stage, but still appear partially through the trees.
After musing some time.)
An infant's life!
What is an infant's life? the chilly blast,
That nips the blossom, o'er the cradle breathes,
And child and dam like blighted sweetness fade.
If this should be! O, dear, uncertain bliss!
Shame on his tardy steps!—Ha! here he comes!
Enter Rovani, while Garcio runs up to him eagerly.
They are alive? they're well? And thou hast seen them?
Rov.
Your lady and your son?
Gar.
impatiently).
Ay, ay!
Rov.
They're well.
Gar.
Thank heav'n, they are!—But yet thy words are slow:
Does she not follow thee? Waits she my coming?
Rov.
She surely does expect it.
Gar.
What voice, what looks are these? O speak more freely!
If there be merey in thee, speak more freely!
[Pauses and looks earnestly at him.
Something is wrong—I have nor wife nor child!
Rov.
They are both well: have I not spoken plain words?
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Plain words! yes, baldly plain; reserved and heartless.
Thou dost not use me like a fellow soldier,
In the same warfare worn.—What hast thou seen?
Thou sayst my lady's well: did she receive,
With a wife's joy, the news of my return?
Rov.
I am not skill'd to say; for dispositions
Of various hues are variously affected.
The news were sudden and unlook'd for: oft
The joy of such is clouded and disturb'd.
She did withdraw in secrecy to hide
Her strong emotions.
Gar.
She was strongly moved?
Rov.
I know not how it was. The servants, too,
Whisper'd together as I pass'd, and look'd
With a strange staring gravity upon me.
Dull clowns! who should have cast their caps in air
For joy of your return. Baldwin is dead;
And if for him they wear those sombre looks,
Good piteous souls they are. A courtly damsel,
Attending on the countess, did, forsooth!
Mistake my trumpet for the glad arrival
Of some gay visitor, who was expected;
Whose buxom train, no doubt, contains some youth
More grateful to her sight than war-worn knight,
Such as my paltry self.
Gar.
What visitor?
Rov.
That very martial lord,
The Marquis of Tortona, save his worth!
For he conducts his soldiers through these parts,
And makes a halt in this fair neighbourhood,
Some days or so, for needful recreation.
[A pause.
What! stay we here to ruminate upon it?
Will that avail?—Come, onward to the castle!
And, be our welcome there or cold or kind,
'Tis what heav'n sends us.
Gar.
Off; disturb me not!
Thy heart is light.
Rov.
No, Garcio; 'tis not light
If thine be heavy. I have told my tale
Too well I see it now—but foolishly:
Yet their cold looks provoked me.—Brood not on it:
There is one face, at least, within your walls
Will smile on you with sweet and guileless smiles:
A noble boy,—might call a monarch father,
Ay, by my faith! and do him honour, too.
Gar.
Does he lisp sounds already?—And so lovely?
I've found tears now, press'd being that I am!
Come then; I'll summon strength: whate'er betide,
Or good or ill, I'll meet it.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An apartment in the castle.Enter Countess and Sophera.
Countess.
He is within the gates; here will I stop,
Nor wander further: I'll receive him here. Listening.)
Heaven give me strength! his well known steps so near me!
Enter Garcio; he runs eagerly to embrace the Countess, who faints.
Gar.
So moved! Can this be joy?
[Sophera chafes her hands and temples, while Garcio gazes on her with keen observation: she recovers.
My gentle love,
Who wast my gentle love, come I upon thee
Like some unlook'd for,—some unwelcome thing?
Countess.
Is it thy voice, my Garcio, in mine cars
Sounding, as it was wont, the voice of love?
Gar.
How should it sound to thee? The wars have spared me:
The bullet and the sabre's stroke have err'd,
To spare this head, where thousands fell around me;
For I believed thy saintly prayers did mar
Their death-commission'd power. Yes; I believed it.
Countess.
And still believe it. Yes, my prayers were raised
Most fervently to heav'n: and I will bless it,
That thou art safe.
[Takes his hand in hers tenderly, and is about to press it to her breast, when a shuddering seizes her, and she lets it drop.
Gar.
What is the matter? Thou art strangely seized.
Does sudden illness chill thee?
Soph.
The countess, good my lord, is much o'ercome.
Her health is weak at present: agitation
Strongly affects her. But she'll soon recover.
Gar.
Thou answ'rest for her readily, young lady,
And wisely too.
Enter Rovani, followed by Nurse, carrying a sleeping infant.
Rov.
Come on, good nurse; thou needst not be ashamed
To show thy bantling, sleeping or awake.
A nobler, comelier, curly-pated urchin
Ne'er changed the face of stern and warlike sire
To tearful tenderness. Look here, my lord.
Gar.
turning eagerly round).
The child! my child!
[Lifting the mantle that covers it, and gazing on the infant.
Rov.
Ay, there are cheeks and lips like roses glowing;
And, see, half-open'd eyelids show within
The dewy azure of his sleeping eyes,
Like loopholes in a cloud. Awake, sweet imp!
Gar.
Nay, wake him not; his sleep is beautiful.
Let me support—Come to my stirring heart,
And here be cradled, thing of wondrous joy!
[Taking the child.
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I'd lodge thee. Mine thou art! yes, thou art mine!
Here is my treasured being: thou wilt love me.
[Laying his face close to the child's.
Bless'd softness! little hand and little cheek!
This is a touch so sweet! a blessed touch!
There is love in it; love that will not change!
[Bursting into tears, while the nurse takes the child again.
Countess
(aside, observing his emotion).
O heaven, he weeps!—the tears of strong affection!
Away, base doubts!
[Running to him, and clasping her arms round him.
Garcio, dear Garcio! husband of my heart,
And father of my boy! is there within thee
Such soft and strong affection? O, there is!
And with it every good and generous feeling.
Forgive me, O forgive me!
Gar.
How, my love?
How wakes this sudden burst of tenderness?
Dost thou at last feel for thy wretched husband
The love of other days?—I've thought of thee—
I've thought of this our meeting, but, alas!
Not so my fancy shaped it.
Countess.
O, forgive me!
My mind was weak and brooded on dark thoughts.
We'll cast them from us.—Yes, thy child, thy boy!
Look on him still: they say that in his face
There are some traits of thine. Observe his mouth;
That smile—
Gar.
Nay, that sweet smile I could not give him;
No, nor those lips. He much resembles thee.
Countess.
Thinkest thou so? Then haply thou perceiv'st
Another likeness some have sadly traced;
Dost thou perceive it?
Gar.
No: another likeness?
Countess.
In my sad lonely hours, I have imagined,
And sooth'd me with the pleasing, mournful thought,
He bears some faint resemblance to my brother,
My poor Ulrico.
[Garcio 's countenance becomes stern, and looking again steadfastly on the child, he turns away in silence.
It does not strike thee, then?
Gar.
(motioning the nurse to retire).
We shall disturb his slumbers.
Countess
(to him reproachfully).
Sent off without a kiss of kind endearment?
Gar.
We should disturb him.
[Looking after the child as he is carried off.
Countess.
Thine eye pursues him with a mournful look:
Thou fearst, perhaps, an early fate may snap
His thread of life, like his lamented uncle's.
Gar.
No; past and future are but shadowy visions;
Dark cumbrous things which we must cast aside
To make the present hour endurable.
Who waits without?—A cup of wine, I pray;
I'm tired and faint.
Countess.
Indeed, thou seemst unwell:
I fear thou bringst not back thy wonted health.
Gar.
I'm well,—I was in health, but this damp region,
I breath not in it but with breath suppress'd.
Thou knowst right well I never liked this place:
Why art thou here?
Countess.
It is necessity.
Gar.
I know: I know; but other homes there are;
We'll hence to-morrow.
Countess.
Ha! so soon, my lord?
Gar.
It must be so. I would retire awhile;
Where is my chamber?
Countess.
In the western tower.
Gar.
No; I'll remain—I will not yet retire.
[Pacing to and fro, and then returning to her.
I know not how it is; I'm fanciful;
I like a southern chamber. Countess in a faint voice, gazing fearfully upon him).
E'en as you will.
[Sophera, who has during the greater part of this scene retired to the bottom of the stage with Rovani, now comes forward.
Soph.
Please you, my lord, to go, I will conduct you
Where many fair apartments wait your choice.
Gar.
I thank thee, courteous maid.
[Exit Sophera, followed by Garcio; and the Countess, after a thoughtful pause, is about to break into strong exclamations, when, perceiving Rovani, she checks herself and goes out hastily.
Rov.
coming forward, and looking after her).
All is not well: that step, those looks, those gestures,
So quickly check'd when she perceived me near,
Betray too visibly a mind disturb'd
And far removed from joy. Garcio is come
Unwelcomely upon her. Yet that burst
Of what appear'd like tenderness and love
When he caress'd his child!—I cannot think
She has in act been false; though much I doubt.
Enter Gonzalos behind him.
Gon.
Ha! mutt'ring to thyself! what are thy thoughts?
Rov.
Faith! ill-condition'd, moody, foolish thoughts,
Such as lone men, whose heart no kind mate cheers,
Alone could harbour.—Heaven forgive me for it!
I think our lady here had been well pleased
If this, her valiant lord, had from the wars
Return'd more leisurely.—Her quondam lover,
The Marquis of Tortona, in the neighbourhood
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By them, in lofty phrase, ycleped war,
Has made a halt, and—
Gon.
Fie! thou canst not think
That she could turn her heart from valiant Garcio
To such a fool as he?
Rov.
Yet such strange things have happen'd.—
True, indeed,
So vile a change could not at once be made.
But let us now imagine some soft dame,
Whose valiant lord is absent, in her castle
Spending her dull lone days.
[Changing his voice, and speaking fantastically.
“Ha! who comes here?”—
“Good madam,” saith her waiting gentlewoman,
“A knight is at your gate.”—“He shall not enter:
It is a fool; go, bid him wend his way.”—
“And will you be so rude?”—“Ay, true indeed;
Then, for good courtesy, since it must be,
E'en bid him enter:—'tis a harmless fool.”—
“Good day, fair dame.”—“The same to you, Sir Knight.”—
“Might I presume—but how can words express it,
The sunshine of your beauty dazzles so!—
You will not chide me hence? What gentle goodness!
Dear, precious moments, but so swiftly gone!”—
Then whispers low the waiting gentlewoman,
“Madam, may he return another day?”—
“Well, well, he may, since thou wilt have it so.
It is in truth an amiable fool.”
Gon.
Fy, fy, Rovani! art thou not ashamed?
Who would believe, in hearing thee expatiate
On woman's weakness thus, that thou thyself
Art but a poor dependent on her favour
For all the bloom and sparkle of thy being—
A very daily beggar of her smiles!
Rov.
I, sayst thou? Where, in what nook of the earth,
Lives she for whom I sigh?
Gon.
Nay, rather ask in what nook of the earth
She liveth not. There's ne'er a moving thing,
That wears upon its form a woman's weed,
Be it or short or tall, or pale or buxom,
Or young or old, but thou dost roll thine eye,
And writhe thy body to fantastic shapes
Of affectation, to attract her notice.
Rov.
Nay, spare me, good Gonzalos! I, perhaps,
May, as I speak my jest or merry tale,
With restless eye keep peering to the side
Where beauty listens, too apparently;
But think not this attack on female constancy—
I mean this present individual push—
By any other motive has been prompted,
Than love and true regard for noble Garcio.
After the toils and dangers he has pass'd,
To see him thus received provokes me much.
Gon.
Hush! be more prudent; speak thy mind less freely.
Thy brain is ever full of idle fancies:
Come to the air, and cool thy fev'rish spleen.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Before the gate of the castle.Enter Ludovico, Gauvino, and some inferior domestics from the gate, while martial music is heard without.
Gau.
(to Ludovico, after looking off the stage).
'Tis as I guess'd; look, Mr. Seneschal!
They bear the ensigns of Tortona. See!
Their chief himself is marching in the van.
Lud.
And, by my fay! a warlike face he wears,
Lofty and grim.
Gau.
Ay; full of awful terrors
For quaking drum-boys and poor piping elves.
Lud.
Comes he to visit thus our valiant lord,
And show his warlike state? Heaven mend his wit!
Enter Tortona, with a few followers, in martial array.
Tor.
Be not alarm'd, good sirs: though thus in arms,
We at your lady's gate are harmless visitors,
Who humbly crave admittance.
[Ludovico, as seneschal, steps forward to receive him with courtesy, while Gauvino mutters to himself.
Gau.
Mighty man!
What bless'd forbearance! For our lady's sake,
He will not slay and eat us for a meal!
Tor.
to Ludovico).
Good Mr. Seneschal, inform thy lady
That I, Tortona's Marquis, and her slave,
Most humbly beg permission at her feet—
But here comes opportunity more tempting:
A gentler messenger.
Enter Sophera.
Gau.
aside to Ludovico).
Great condescending man! superb humility!
Tor.
to Sophera).
Fair lady! most becoming, as I guess,
The beauteous dame you serve; do me the favour
[Speaking in a lower voice, and leading her aside.
To tell the noble mistress of this castle
That one, devoted dearly to her service,
Who breathes the air in which she breathes, as gales
Wafted from Paradise, begs in her presence
With all devotion to present himself.
Soph.
in a loud voice).
The Marquis of Tortona, as I guess.
Tor.
The same; and let not in your peaceful halls
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Whate'er our power may be, forget it here.
Within her precincts, Mars himself would doff
His nodding helm, and bend in meek submission.
Soph.
True, valiant lord; the brave are ever gentle
In hall and bower. But think not warlike guise
Will so alarm us now: there are within
Whose nodding plumes, indeed, less downy are,
Whose well-hack'd armour wears a dimmer hue,
Who have already taught our timid eyes
To look more boldly on such awful things.
Tor.
How, those within? What meanst thou?
Soph.
Ha, my lord!
You come not then to wish the gentle countess
Joy of her lord's return.
Tor.
Is he return'd? It surely cannot be.
Soph.
He is, in truth. This morning he arrived
With many valiant soldiers from the wars,
Where they have seen rough service.
Tor.
That war so quickly ended?
Soph.
Yes, my lord,
And fortunately too. The Moors submit
To the victorious arms of noble Garcio;
Who, ere he left their coast, did for his prince
A happy peace conclude. Will it not please you
To enter, then, and bid him welcome home?
Tor.
I should indeed,—but 'twill intrude upon him.
He and his lady may, perhaps, desire
Some hours of privacy.—Oblige me, then,
And offer my respect—congratulation—
I do but ill express the joy I feel.
I will no longer trespass.
[Hurrying away, and then returning.
'Tis delicacy makes me thus in haste,
As thou wilt comprehend. Should time permit,
Though much I fear to-morrow's sun will light us
To other scenes, I will return and pay
To the most noble count all courtesy.
Fair maiden, fare thee well!
[Hurrying away, and returning again; then drawing her further aside and speaking softly in her ear.
The count, as I am told, dislikes this castle:
His stay, perhaps, may be of short duration?
Soph.
Belike it may.
Tor.
Though quitting this vicinity,
My station for a time will not be distant.
Couldst thou in such a case indite to me
A little note of favour? Taking her hand.)
Pretty hand!
A billet penn'd by thee must needs contain
Words of sweet import.—Fingers light and slender! Offering to put on a ring.)
Let this be favour'd.
Soph.
Nay, my lord, excuse me.
The pen these fingers use indites no billets
Of such sweet import as you fondly guess:
A housewife's recipe, or homely letter
Of kind inquiry to some absent friend,
Exhausts its power. Unskill'd to earn such gifts,
I may not wear them.—Yonder comes Rovani,
A noble soldier; stay and learn from him
The story of the war. Word-bound he is not:
He'll tell it willingly.
[Rovani, who has appeared at the gate, during the latter part of their discourse, observing them suspiciously, now comes forward.
Tor.
No, no! I am in haste, farewell, farewell!
[Exit with his followers.
Lud.
He goes, I trow, less grandly than he came.
Gau.
Such hasty steps, indeed, somewhat derange
The order of his high nobility.
Lud.
Yet, pompous as he is, I have been told
He is no coward.
Gau.
I suspect him much.
Lud.
But thou art wrong: although he doth assume
Those foolish airs of martial gallantry,
He is as brave as others.
Rov.
who has placed himself directly in front of Sophera, and has been looking for some time significantly in her face).
So, gentle maid, your martial visitor
Retreats right speedily. How fortunate,
To meet so opportunely at the gate
A prudent friend, to tell him what, perhaps,
May save his bones, although it damp his pleasure!
Nay, smile not: I commend thee in good earnest.
Thou art a prudent maid, endow'd with virtues
That suit thy station. This is ample praise.
Soph.
Ample; and spoken too with meaning tones.
What face is this thou wearst of sly significance?
Go to! thou dup'st thyself with too much shrewdness;
And canst not see what plainly lies before thee,
Because thou aimst at seeing more. I'll in,
And bear Tortona's greeting to my lord
And to his countess.
Rov.
Do; and give it all—
The message and its postscript: words of audience,
And those of gentle whisper following after.
Let nothing be forgotten.
Soph.
Nothing shall.
Good day, and heaven curtail thee of thy wits
To make thee wiser!
[Exit into the gate, and followed by Ludovico, &c. &c.
Rov.
alone).
Ay, ay! a very woman! pleased and flatter'd
With the stale flatt'ry of a practised coxcomb,
Though plainly sueing for another's favour.
A very, very woman!—As I guess'd,
Some secret intercourse hath been in train,
Although how far in blameful act advanced
I know not.—Now, 'tis cross'd and interrupted.
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What good have I in living free from wedlock,
If I for husband's honour thus take thought?
Better it were to wear the horns myself,
Knowing it not, than fret for other men.
[Exit.
| The Separation | |