University of Virginia Library

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.
Here, in the inmost core of beating life,
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
With his gay troops, bound for some petty fray
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.