 | The Separation |  |
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A chamber, with a great screen at the bottom of the stage, behind which part of a bed is seen, and voices heard as the curtain draws up, while Pietro and Gomez are discovered on the front, looking from a half-opened door, as if listening.Gomez.
What said he last? the word died on his tongue.
Pie.
So much the better.
Gomez.
Makes he confession? Hast thou listen'd long?
He ever wore, e'en in his days of health,
The scowling eye of an unquiet mind,
And some black deed disturbs his end. E'en so;
Thy face confirms it.
Pie.
We shall be discover'd.
[Exeunt, shutting the door softly, while Ludovico and Gauvino come forward from behind the screen.
Gau.
(looking earnestly at Ludovico, before he speaks).
What thinkst thou of it?
Lud.
It is very strange.
Gau.
'Tis but the fever'd ravings of disease:
Hast thou more serious thoughts?
Lud.
I would our good confessor were arrived,
Whate'er my thoughts may be.
Gau.
Ay; then I can divine them. To my judgment,
He speaks like one more forced to utterance
By agony of mind than the brain's sickness.
The circumstances of the horrid deed;
The wondrous fleetness of his gallant steed
Which bore Count Garcio through the forest paths—
Lud.
Cease, cease! I would the father were arrived.
Gau.
It was his fav'rite steed, and yet he ne'er
Made mention of its name or of its end,
But, when we praised its fleetness, frown'd in silence.
I've wonder'd oft at this, but thought no ill.
Lud.
Nor think it now. It is not credible,—
Making, as then he did, a lover's suit
To the fair Margaret, Ulrico's sister,—
That he should murder him.
Gau.
He was the heir of all Ulrico's lands.
Lud.
True; so he was.
Gau.
Ulrico loved him not, and oft opposed
His suit as most presumptuous. But for this,
Her brother's sudden end, the lovely maid
Had ne'er been Garcio's wife.
Lud.
All this is true; and yet, perhaps, those facts
Have on the mind of this poor dying wretch
Impress'd dark fancies, which the fever'd brain
Shapes into actual deed. Oh, it is horrible!
Canst thou believe one of his noble race
Could do a deed befitting ruffian hands,
And only such? Had he thus wickedly
Devised Ulrico's death, some hired assassin
Had done the bloody work, not his own hands.
Gau.
Well, but what thinkst thou of his strange aversion
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Although his countess oft hath urged him to it,
He hath not since his marriage here resided,—
Nay, hath not pass'd a night within these walls:
And, but that he is absent at the wars,
E'en though the recent earthquake has in ruins
His other castle laid, and forced us thence,
This mansion had remain'd untenanted.
Lud.
I would the ghostly father were arrived!
(Voice heard behind the screen.)
Blood will accuse:
—am I not cursed for this?
Lud.
He speaks again: I thought that for the while
He had been sunk into a state of stupor.
Go thou and watch by him, Gauvino; haste!
For steps approach, and none must be admitted.
[Gauvino retires behind the screen; and Ludovico, running to the door, meets Sophera, and endeavours to prevent her entering.
Thou mayst not come: he's still; he is asleep:
Thou canst not see him.
[Voice heard again.
Soph.
Asleep, sayst thou? do I not hear his voice?
Nay, let me pass; I will not be withheld.
My lady follows me with some good drug
To chafe his brow, poor wretch! and give him comfort.
Lud.
Return, and tell the countess to forbear:
She must not see him; foul unwholesome air
Has made the chambers noxious. Hie thee back,
And say she must not come.
Soph.
And dost thou think this will prevent her? Never,
E'en from the sick-bed of her meanest servant,
Hath she stood fearfully aloof, when comfort
Could be administer'd.
I've seen the pain-rack'd wretch smile in his pain
To see his lady's sweetly pitying face
Peep past his ragged curtain, like a gleam
Of kindly sunshine, bidding him good morrow.
And thinkst thou now, from this poor dying man,
The oldest faithful follower of her lord,
To keep her back with such a plea as this?
Lud.
Cease! urge no more. Return; she must not come:
The sick man is distorted-grown, and changed,
Fearful to look upon: a lady's gentleness
May not such sight abide.
Soph.
A poor excuse!
Hast thou forgotten when those wounded soldiers
Lay near our walls, after a bloody skirmish
Left on the field from which their comrades fled,
How she did stand with steady master'd pity,
'Midst horrid sights from which her women fled
With looks averted, till each bleeding wretch
Was bound and comforted? Distorted, sayst thou!
Who goes to chambers of discase and death
To look on pleasant sights?
(Voice again.)
I did not murder him.
Soph.
He spoke of murder!
[Ludovico pressing her back as she advances eagerly towards the screen, whilst Gauvino comes forward to assist him.
Lud.
Thou shalt as soon pass through my body, fool!
Such cursed obstinacy! art thou mad?
If thou regardst thy lady's peace of mind,
Fly, I conjure thee, and prevent her coming.
Enter Countess behind them.
Countess.
And why, good Ludovico?
Lud.
(who starts on seeing her).
Gracious heaven!
Countess.
Why lookst thou so aghast! Is Baldwin dead?
Lud.
He is; and therefore go not.
[She still endeavours to pass. No, no! he is not; be entreated, madam!
Countess.
What cause so strangely moves thee?
Lud.
A powerful cause, that must not be reveal'd.
O, be entreated then!
(Voice again.)
Ulrico's blood was shed by Garcio's hand,
Yet I must share the curse.
Lud.
Run to him quickly! wherefore didst thou leave him?
[Gauvino again retires as before.
Countess.
What words were those he utter'd?
Lud.
Words of despair and frenzy; heed them not,
But quit the chamber. O, for heaven's sake, go!
[Exeunt; Ludovico hurrying off the Countess and Sophera.
SCENE II.
A small ante-room or passage.Enter Pietro and Gomez by opposite sides.
Gomez.
Is the confessor with poor Baldwin still?
Pie.
He is; but, as I guess, will leave him presently;
I heard, just now, the chamber-door unlock'd.
I'll keep my station here, and see him pass.
Gomez.
And so will I. Ha! yonder, see, he
comes.
Pietro.
His head bends to the ground, and o'er his eyes
His hood is drawn: would I could see his face!
He is the cousin of our seneschal,—
I'll speak to him.
Enter a Friar, walking hastily across the stage.
Good father! give your blessing:
How is your penitent?
[Friar waves him off with his hand, and exil.
Gomez.
He motions with his hand and will not speak.
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In so much haste to go! this is not well.
[Shaking his head.
No, no! it hath a dark and rueful look.
Well; God be praised! these hands are free from blood.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The apartment of the Countess; she is discovered pacing to and fro with slow, thoughtful steps, then stops short, and stands in a musing posture some time before she speaks aloud.Countess.
'Tis often thus; so are we framed by nature.
How oft the fitful wind or sullen bell
Will utter to the ear distinctive words,
According with the fancy's wild conceptions!
So are the brains of sick and frenzied men
Stored with unreal and strange imaginations. (After a short pause.)
Am I become a maniac?
Oh! have words,
To which the firm conviction of my mind
So strongly stands opposed, the baleful power
To fix this misery on me? This is madness!
Enter Sophera behind.
Is't thou, Sophera?
Soph.
Yes, 'tis only I.
Countess.
Is every decent office of respect
Done to the corse?
Soph.
Yes, nought has been omitted.
Countess.
'Tis well; but what detains the good confessor?
I wish'd to see him.
Soph.
He stay'd but till his wretched penitent
Had breathed his last, and quickly left the castle.
Countess.
He is in haste, methinks; 'tis somewhat strange.
Why lookst thou on me with that fearful eye?
Thinkst thou the ravings of a frenzied mind
Have power to move me?
Soph.
I only thought—I fear'd—you wisely judge;
Why should they move you? Well, the dismal story
Of that most dismal murder, here committed
By hands unknown, might to a sickly brain
Such thoughts create of nothing.
Countess.
What sayst thou? here committed!
Soph.
Did not your hapless brother in this castle
Come to his end?
Countess.
Yes, but a natural end.
Soph.
So grant it were! it is not so reported.
Countess.
Ha! what is else reported?
Soph.
The peasants round all idle stories credit;
And say that in his castle, by his servants,
He was discover'd in the eastern tower
Murder'd. But, doubtless, 'tis a tale of falschood,
Since 'tis to thee unknown.
Countess
(sinking back into a chair).
It was to me unknown. (After a long pause.)
Dear, dear! the friend, the brother of my heart,
The playmate of my early, happy days,
Could such a fate be thine!
It makes me weep to think it possible,
Yet I believe it not.
Soph.
You tremble much.
Countess.
I'm cold and chill: 'tis weariness of body;
Do not regard it; I shall soon be better.
[Trumpet sounds without.
A trumpet! then some martial guest approaches.
O most unwelcome!
Soph.
'Tis Tortona's Marquis.
Countess.
He is not in these parts; it cannot be.
Soph.
He is upon his march with some gay troops
To join the army, and hath made a halt
Here in our nearest town to rest his men.
So said his servant, whom I found this morning
Lurking within the castle; and I guess
His warlike lord is come.
Countess.
I cannot see him.
Go thou; plead my excuse: I am unwell;
Say what thou wilt, but let me be excused.
Enter Rovani.
Rovani here!—O, how is this? My lord?
Rov.
He is not far behind. I am, fair lady,
The vanguard of his band; and, as I trust,
Bearing no dismal tidings.
Countess.
O no! they should, indeed, be joyful, if—
And, as in truth I trust—my lord is well!
Rov.
Yes; from the wars, unhurt and strong in health,
Garcio returns! where he has done the service
Of an undaunted powerful combatant,
To that of a right skilful leader join'd.
He is not one of your reserved chiefs,
Who, pointing with their dainty fingers, thus,
Say, “Go, my friends, attack yon frowning ranks.”
No, by my faith! with heavy scimitar
He closes to the bloody work himself,
And to the carnage of each grizly field
Brings his full tale of death.
Countess
(shrinking back).
Is he so ruthless, then?
Rov.
Ay, in the field.
But in your hall or bower, where ladies smile,
Who is more gentle? Thus it often is:
A lady feels not on her soldier's hand,
That softly presses her more gentle palm,
The deaths which it has dealt.
Soph.
I'm sure, were but thy rapier like thy tongue,
The count must have in thee an able second.
Rov.
I may not boast; but doth my circled finger
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Because this graven jewel was the gift
Of a great Moorish princess, whose rude foe
I slew before her eyes?
Soph.
Some angry puppy that with snarling mouth
Snapp'd at her robe or sandal'd heels, belike.
Rov.
Nay, by my faith! a foe in worth mine equal.
Soph.
That I will grant thee readily. But say,
How far behind thee is the noble count?
Countess.
Ay, is he near?
Rov.
Within a few short miles.
The war has ended sooner than we guess'd,
And we have made good speed.
Countess.
So near!
Rov.
How is it? This affects you strangely.
Countess.
Such unexpected news! I should be glad,
But gladness comes with pain. I will retire,
And for a moment strive to calm this tremor. To Sophera.)
Follow me not.
[Exit.
Rov.
(looking after her as she goes off).
I have, ere now, beheld the sudden news
Of a good lord's return from foreign lands
By wedded dame received; but so received,
Never till now. How's this? What is the matter?
How shall a simple bachelor, as I am,
Have thoughts of this bless'd state, if such as she
Cold and capricious prove?
Soph.
Blame her not hastily; she is depress'd:
Old Baldwin, whom his master left behind,
That faithful servant, died with us this morning.
Rov.
Alas, poor soul! and he is gone at last!
Well, we have brought you thirsty throats enow
To drink his fun'ral wassails. Ay, poor Baldwin!
A hardy knave thou wast in better days.
If I had known of this, heav'n rest his soul!
I had not sounded my approach so cheerly.
Soph.
To tell the truth, that martial sound deceived us.
We took you for Tortona's warlike lord,
Who, to refresh his passing troops, we hear,
Has made a halt:—I thought—
Rov.
Out with thy thought!
Why dost thou hesitate?—I will explain it.
I've brought you disappointment.
Soph.
You mistake me.
Rov.
Nay, pardon me; I linger here too long:
But,—ere I go,—how does the infant heir?
I must tell Garcio I have seen his boy,
Soph.
With pleasure I'll conduct thee. 'Tis an urchin
Provoking smiles of love from every face
That looks upon him, be it e'er so stern.
Rov.
How then will a fond father feel!—How oft—
How oft and fondly hath he talk'd of him!
Though but a little grasp of shapeless life,
With puling whine, just winking to the light,
As I remember well, when Garcio left him.
Soph.
Is Garcio, then, so tender?
Rov.
Dost thou doubt it?
The bear doth love his cub, bear though he be:
But Garcio is a man of strong affections.
Come, pray thee, lead.
[Exeunt.
| The Separation | |