University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—An Apartment in the Palace.
Enter Ferrardo and Florio.
Fer.
Another victory!

Florio.
So the rumour runs.

Fer.
Why Fortune plays the minion to him!—does
His wish not only, but anticipates it!
Chief after chief she thrusts aside, that he
May head the war; and, when he takes the lead,
Her moody favour, wavering before—
Alternate sun and cloud—shines fully forth
With strong and steady beam. Have many fallen?

Florio.
A host, 'tis said, on either side.

Fer.
No wound,
No hurt for him?

Florio.
'Tis so reported.

Fer.
So—

Florio.
Though twice he changed his charger—one disabled,
The second wounded, mortally!

Fer.
And he
As safe, as sitting in his ducal chair!
Why dangers, that are thorns to other men,
For him convert to flowers!

Florio.
The duchess still
Persists in her seclusion?

Fer.
There, again,
I'm baffled! Would she mingle with the court,
His home of peace might compass for me what
I vainly hope for from the field of war,—
The downfall of his rule! I know my cousin;
For thoughtless boyhood often shows the man
Which wary manhood hides. A sense he has,
That's sickly tender to the touch of shame.
I have seen him, at a slight imputed fault
Colour to flame—anon grow ashy pale—
The dew in drops upon his forehead starting,—
His tongue without its use—his mouth agape—
His universal frame, vacuity
Of action and of power,—and, anon,
The glare and din, and tossing of the tempest!
To wound his honour to the quick, would be
To sting his core of life!

Florio.
Thou couldst not hope
To wound it through his wife; whose love for him,
Gives, in his absence, all things to neglect!
Her bounding palfrey cannot woo her forth!
The palace vibrates with the dance, and still
She keeps her chamber, like a lone recluse.
Music, howe'er you try, can't tempt her from it,
She shuns its harmony as though 'twould jar!
She visits no one—no one she receives!
What chance of practising upon a wife,
Who for an only absent lord, observes
A sterner widowhood, than many hold
In honour of a dead one!—Why do you smile?

Fer.
To think, to what account a little art
Might turn a little swerving, in a case
Of self-denial, carried thus like hers
To the admired extreme! I would St. Pierre
Had kept his restless spirit more in check,
Paid to my will submission, as he used,
And not enlisted in my cousin's train,
But stopp'd in Mantua! My plans were laid,
Were sure, and long ere this had been matured,
But for his wilfulness.

Florio.
Of what avail
Had been his presence here?

Fer.
I should have found
A use for him! Ne'er knew I yet the ear
He could not keep a hold of, once he caught it.
That fellow, with his tongue, has won more hearts
Than any twenty men in Mantua,
With tongues, and forms, and faces! I had contrived
To throw him in her way!

Florio.
There were no chance—

Fer.
I know,—but I could make appearances
Supply the place of facts—especially
In her husband's absence—so that confidence,
Itself, would construe guilt where no guilt was!
So would I show her to the eyes of all,
That, though she were like snow itself, new fallen,
Men would believe her spotted!

Florio.
If 'twere true
That he it was who hither brought the news
Of this new victory—

Fer.
Saint Pierre?

Florio.
Saint Pierre.

Fer.
'Tis so reported?

Florio.
'Tis.

Fer.
Then, prove it true,
Before he is an hour in Mantua
He must be stripp'd of every ducat! Mind,
Of that must thou take care!
[Shouts.
What mean those shouts?

Florio.
They herald, doubtless, the approach of him
That's bearer of the news.

Fer.
Be it Saint Pierre,
The moment he alights away with him
To a house of play!—You are his master—Haste!
Your beckon he will answer readily,
As the game-bird his welcome challenger!

Florio.
I'll do my best.

[Goes out.
Fer.
So do.—The confessor?
[Looking out.
The cards come round to me! A score to one,
I hold the winning hand.—His reverence,
I have contrived to make at last my friend.
Your churchman dearly loves a convertite,
And he believes me his. A kindly man,
But, once confirm'd in error, positive;
And, from his calling, credulous to weakness,
Touching the proneness of the flesh to sin.
I have well examined him.
Enter Antonio.
Your blessing, father.

Ant.
Thou hast it, son.

Fer.
Whence come you now? No doubt
From the performance of some pious deed—
The shriving of some sin-oppresséd soul—
The soothing of some sorrow-stricken heart—
Or sweet relieving of some needy child
Of merciless adversity.

Ant.
No, my son,—
But from a trespasser that's, yet, unshriven;
A daughter who has swerved, and on whose soul
I had thought as soon to find the soil of sin
As tarnish upon new-refinéd gold!
A wife, who in the absence of her lord,
Lived like thy cousin's wife; with means to bless
Desires incontinent, a miracle
Of self-secluded, lonely chastity.

Fer.
He comes in the very vein! You spoke just now
Of my cousin's wife. There's news of my dear cousin,
And, with submission, I would recommend
Her grace to show herself, to-day. Methinks,
If only for her health, she keeps herself
Too much alone.

Ant.
So have I told her grace.

Fer.
Indeed! I marvel that she perseveres
In the face of your admonishment! More strict
Would she be thought, than you, a holy man,
Would counsel her to be? Forgive me, father,
If 'tis uncharitable in me, but
I never loved extremes! Your constant weather
Is still the moderate, father. Storms and calms
Are brief.

Ant.
You are right, my son.

Fer.
I had been pleased
Less had she shown her fondness for her lord.
Love, of its own fidelity assured,
Ne'er studies the display on't!

Ant.
Nay; she loves
Her lord.

Fer.
And yet 'tis the predicament
Of love to wane upon possession. Where
I note an over-acted guardedness,
I still infer a consciousness of weakness;
And look to find—and seldom look in vain—
Some sudden giving way! Besides, in passion,
Excess is sign of its decaying, rather
Than lasting. Thus the frantic widow, who
To-day would make her husband's grave her bed,
A few months hence, enjoys another bed
Beside another husband! Maids, new-wed,
Who gloried in their choices, and with reason,
Leave them for new ones, for no reason, but
Because they are new! By love of novelty
Is human happiness too oft ensnared.
Mere novelty!—the common tempting bait,
Which gives, too oft, a worth to worthless things;
Luring us to forsake the good we have
For something else, which, mostly, proves our bane!
I would not doubt my cousin's wife, but wish
She moved, like other honourable dames,
Secure in her own truth. The life she leads
Something too much, methinks, solicits note,
Not by design, but in appearance only.
Yet had she more confided in herself,
Lived like herself—appear'd among the court—
Courteous to all—particular to none,
Save those to whom, next to her lord, she owes
Her highest duty—my reliance on her
Were stronger! Is't uncharitable, father,
To say so?—speak, and frankly—Wherefore else
Put I my heart into your saintly hands?

Ant.
Nay, son—I think you speak in charity,
As one who blames through love. We'll see the duchess,
And jointly recommend to her a life
Of less severe restraint.

Fer.
I thank your reverence!
You know I owe her grace some small amends,
And trust me, father, gladly would I make them!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—Ante-Room to the Chamber of the Duchess— A Window overlooking the Street.
Enter Floribel.
Flo.
A merry life for twenty-one to lead,
And in a woman too! from morn till night
Mew'd in a lonely tower! Heigho! It is
My lady's will. I would she had been born
In Mantua, where wives their husbands love
In reason! Well!—We'll live in hope she'll learn
In time. I used to lead a dozen kinds
Of life, in a day!—Now, in a dozen days,
I lead but one! Ere breakfast, was a nun;
Then play'd the housewife; after that, to horse;
Then, dinner o'er, a Naiad on the lake,
Floating to music! Evening changed the scene
Again; and night brought on the closing scene,
With open casement, list'ning, by the moon,
The melting cadence of the serenade!
Now morning, evening, noon, and night are nought—
But morning, evening, noon, and night. No change
Save in their turns and names! What I get up,
I last throughout the day, and so lie down;
The solitary lady of the duchess!
And how I bear it! Wonderfully! Past
Belief! I'll do't no longer! If I do,
Then never was I born in Mantua.
[Shouts.
What's that?— [Looks out.]
—The city all astir!—A crowd
Before the palace—I will ope the casement:—
I feel as I could leap into the street!

[Opens casement.
Enter Mariana.
Mari.
What do you at the casement, Floribel?

Flo.
Look from it, madam.

Mari.
That I see. At what?

Flo.
At crowds of happy people, madam,—
Some standing, others walking, others running;
All doing what they list—like merry birds
At liberty.

Mari.
Come from the casement!—Shut it.

Flo.
Nay, rather you approach it, madam! Do!
And look from't too—There's news, and from your lord!
Look—There's the courier!

Mari.
[Approaching the window.]
Where?

Flo.
That cavalier,
Who tries to pass along, but cannot, so
The people press upon him.

Enter Ferrardo and Antonio.
Fer.
[Aside to Antonio.]
At the casement!

Mari.
Who is that cavalier?

Flo.
The courier, madam.

Mari.
I know—but who is he?
His family—His name? I cannot take
My eyes from his face! who is he? Can't you tell?
I have a strange desire to know his name!

Fer.
[Aside to Antonio.]
Father!

Flo.
I'll fly and learn it.

Mari.
Do, good girl!
And soon as you have learn'd, fly back again!

[Floribel goes out.
Fer.
[Aside to Antonio.]
I pray you mark, but speak not—
[Approaches the window on tiptoe, returns, and speaks to himself.
It is Saint Pierre!
Incredible! [To Antonio.]
It is the courier, father.
Of whom they were discoursing.

Mari.
I have lost him!
He has enter'd the palace—I should like again
To see him—I should like to speak to him!

Fer.
[Aside to Antonio.]
My life on't, she will hold a court to-day—
Accost her, father.

Ant.
Benedicite
Fair daughter.

Mari.
Father!—What, his grace!—I think,
Or I mistake, there's news from my dear lord?

Ant.
Madam, there is, and happy news.—Your lord
Has won another victory!

Fer.
All Mantua
Would have a heart of overflowing joy,
Would but your highness notify your will
To let it speak its happiness, and pay
Congratulations to you.—May I hope
You do not pause from doubt? Your confessor
Approves your highness somewhat should relax
Your life of close seclusion.

Mari.
[After a pause.]
Be it so.

Fer.
[Aside to Antonio.]
I told you, father—

[Floribel re-enters.
Flo.
Madam, he is call'd—

Fer.
St. Pierre—You mean the courier
That brought these happy tidings?

Mari.
Floribel,
I want your aid. My lord, and reverend father,
Soon as my toilet's made, I shall descend.

[Mariana and Floribel go out.
Ant.
What kind of man is this?

Fer.
A kind of devil,
That grasps you with his eye—as fascinate
Serpents, 'tis said, their prey.—A tongue to match,
In glosing speech, the master-fiend himself!
I'm troubled, father. Was the dame you spoke of
Indeed a pattern, like my cousin's wife,
Of saintly self-denial?

Ant.
Yes, my son.

Fer.
I grieve we urged her highness with her presence
To grace the court to-day. I tremble for her.
Come! Shall I tell thee something—No, I will not!
When you can lead the sea, you'll sound the depth
Of woman's art.—Would you believe it—No—
While there's a doubt, suspicion should be dumb.
Think'st thou I would have back'd her guardian's suit
But that I knew he had his reasons?—'Sdeath!
What am I doing?—Come, your reverence,
The man of proper charity condemns not,
Except upon enforcement. All is right!

[They go out.

SCENE III.

—A Room in the Palace.
Enter Florio and Cosmo.
Florio.
Where is the regent?

Cos.
With the confessor
In the chamber of the duchess. Nay, my lord,
He has quitted it, and is here.

Florio.
You may withdraw.

[Cosmo goes out on one side. Enter Ferrardo on the other.
Fer.
Well? where's St. Pierre?—I thought you were together!

Florio.
We were, but parted for a moment. Fortune,
In the task you set me, kindly has forestalléd me.
Halting to bait within some miles of this,
He met a friend, whose hand he scarce had shaken
Ere the ready dice were out. In brief, your grace,
He has enter'd Mantua ducatless!—Of my own counsel
I broke to him your need of his assistance,
Touching your cousin's wife—and promised him—
A pledge, I knew your highness will redeem—
Replenish'd coffers, would he undertake
To pleasure you.

Fer.
Will he do it?

Florio.
Sullenly,
But fully he consented—He is here.

Fer.
Retire a little.
[Count retires.
Enter St. Pierre.
Welcome, St. Pierre!—welcome my friend!—I'm glad
To see you.

St. P.
Would you take me for a knave?

Fer.
What mean you?

St. P.
Would you take me for a knave?

Fer.
No.

St. P.
No? Why then I'm fit to do your pleasure.
Come!—To my work!—When am I to begin?

Fer.
The matter?

St. P.
I have lived an honest life
These six months—Knavery is new to me!
I set about it feverishly.

Fer.
What!
Is't knavery to net a pretty woman?
They catch birds so.

St. P.
Pshaw!—I am past the time.

Fer.
Mind is the brightness of the body—lights it,
When years, its proper but less subtle fire
Begins to dim. Man, I could tell thee how
She conn'd thy visage from her casement; sent
Her confidante to learn thy name: seem'd lost
At losing thee! Win thou discourse with her,
And hold it when thou winn'st it.—'Twill content me
Thou make her but the object of remark.
Away! Go lean on yonder pedestal,
And watch thy opportunity to draw
Her notice towards thee—Thy obeisance does it;
Or anything most slight; her lord's success
Is plea that you accost her. She is new
To the court,—a stranger to its law of distance,
Which 'tis expedient thou infringe! Couldst master
Aught that's about her person—say a ring,
A brooch, a chain, in curiosity
Besought of her for near inspection, then
Mislaid or dropp'd—not to be found again,—
It were a thousand ducats in thy hand!
'Sdeath, man, hold up thy head, and look at Fortune,
That smiles on thee, and asks thee to embrace her!
What dost thou gaze at?

St. P.
Who is that?

Fer.
The duchess.

St. P.
Indeed, a lady of surpassing beauty!

Fer.
An irksome task, methinks, I've set you—Come!
About it!—To thy post!

St. P.
Surpassing fair!

[Goes out.
Fer.
[Looking after him.]
He has caught her eye already,—excellent!
He bows to her! Does she curtsey?—yes, i' faith!
And to the very ground! You're welcome, sir!
He speaks to her! How takes she his advances?
She entertains them! They pass on in converse!
Hold it but on, she's lost!
[Florio comes down.
Do you see?

Florio.
So soon!
I wish him fortune! As I loved her once,
I even loathe her now!

Fer.
Could you believe it?
He crosses her, and straight her eye is caught!
He speaks, and straight is master of her ear!
Solace for baffled hopes! From infancy
I loathed my cousin for his elder right,
And leap'd into his seat with lighter spring,
Than he, I thought, had miss'd it! He returns,
And I, with humbled brow, in sight of all
Descend, that he may mount! I'll pay him shame
For shame;—but he shall have't with interest!
Where is the confessor? I must to him.
Mix with the company, and point to them
The eye of questioning remark. With looks
Speak sentences!—More surely does not raise
One wave another wave, than marvel grows
On marvel.—Interjections have a world
Of argument! “Incredible!”—“Odd!”—“Strange!”
Will make a thousand hearers prick their ears,
And conjure wonders out of commonest things!
Then with commiseration you may do
A murder easily! “Alack!” “Alas!”
Use daggers that seem tears.—Away! Away!
For now or never is the golden hour!

[They go out.

SCENE IV.

—Another Room in the Palace.
Enter Mariana and St. Pierre.
Mari.
I thank you for the story of your travels:
You make me wish to see the world, of which
Such wonders you relate. I think you said,
You were but newly come to Mantua?
You must have been in Mantua before, then,
So many seem to know you?

St. P.
I have been
Before in Mantua.

Mari.
'Tis very strange,
But when I saw thee first, I felt as if
We were of old acquaintance! have we met
Before?

St. P.
No, lady.

Mari.
It is very strange,
You never were in Switzerland?

St. P.
Oh, yes!
It is my birth-place.

Mari.
Ay! so is it mine.
'Tis a dear country! never met we there?

St. P.
No.

Mari.
No? 'Tis odd! How many years is't, since
You were in Switzerland?

St. P.
Good fifteen years.

Mari.
So long! I was an infant then—No—No!
We have not met before—'Tis odd!—At least
You are my countryman!

[Holding out her hands to him.
[Visitors have been occasionally crossing the stage during this scene, observing Mariana and St. Pierre.
Enter in the background, Antonio and Ferrardo.
Fer.
Had I been told it,
I would not have believed it.

Mari.
Switzerland
Is a dear country! Switzerland!

St. P.
It is
The land of beauty, and of grandeur, lady,
Where looks the cottage out on a domain
The palace cannot boast of. Seas of lakes,
And hills of forests! crystal waves that rise
'Midst mountains all of snow, and mock the sun,
Returning him his flaming beams more thick
And radiant than he sent them.—Torrents, there,
Are bounding floods! and there the tempest roams
At large, in all the terrors of its glory!
And then our valleys! Ah, they are the homes
For hearts! Our cottages, our vineyards, orchards!—
Our pastures studded with the herd and fold!
Our native strains that melt us as we sing them!
A free—a gentle—simple—honest people!

Mari.
I see them, signor,—I'm in Switzerland!
I do not stand in Mantua!—Dear country!
Except in one thing, I'm not richer, signor,
Than when I was a child in Switzerland,
And mistress only of this little cross.

[Pressing the cross to her breast.
St. P.
[anxiously].
Your pardon, lady! Pray you let me see
That cross again!

Mari.
Right willingly.

Ant.
[Coming forward.]
Hence, signor!

Mari.
Father!

Ant.
I pray your grace retire—but first
Command that libertine from the apartment!

St. P.
[Sternly surveying alternately Antonio and Ferrardo.]
I go, your reverence, of mine own accord.

[Goes out, followed by Ferrardo.
Mari.
Father, what meant you by that word which turn'd
My very blood to ice?

Ant.
Behoves your highness
To keep your eye upon your husband's honour,
If not upon your own!

Mari.
How!

Ant.
Heaven alone
Can judge the heart.—Men must decide by actions,
And yours, to-night, to all have given offence.

Mari.
Offence!

Ant.
A woman hath in every state
Most need of circumspection;—most of all
When she becomes a wife!—She is a spring
Must not be doubted; if she is, no oath
That earth can utter will so purge the stream
That men will think it pure!

Mari.
Is this to me?

Ant.
Women who play the wanton—

Mari.
Father!

Ant.
Daughter!
That look and tone of high command become
Thy state indeed—

Mari.
No, father, not my state—
They become me!—State greater—higher far,
One who deserved that name I blush'd to hear—
And thou, a reverend man, shouldst blush to use—
Might fill! but though it were an empress's,
I would defy her in her breast to seat
The heart that's throned in mine! If 'tis a crime
To boast—Heaven pardon you—you have made me sin!

Ant.
Behoves us heed appearances?

Mari.
No, father,
Behoves us heed desires and thoughts, and let
Appearances be what they may be!—You
Shall never shape them so, that evil men
Will not their own construction put upon them.
Father, it was the precept of my father.

Ant.
He little knew the world.

Mari.
He knew what's better,
Heaven, and the smile of his own conscience!
What have I done?

Ant.
Given cause of scandal, daughter.

Mari.
How?

Ant.
By a preference, so mark'd, it drew
The eyes of all upon you.

Mari.
Evil eyes,
To see defect in frank and open deeds!
The gentleman appear'd mine old acquaintance—
That drew me towards him:—I discover'd now
He was my countryman—that makes allies
Of even foes that meet in foreign lands,
Then well may couple strangers!—He discoursed
Of my dear native country, till its peaks
Began, methought, to cleave the sky, as there
They stood before me!—I was happy—pleased
With him that made me so—With what a straw
You raise a conflagration!

Ant.
You forget
You are not now the commissary's ward,
But consort to the duke of Mantua.—
You're a changed woman.

Mari.
No, i' faith, the same!
My skin is not of other texture—This,
My hand, is just the hand I knew before!
If my glass tells the truth, the face and form
I have to-day, I had to-day last year!
My mind is not an inch the taller grown
Than mellowing time hath made it in his course!
And, for my heart—it beats not in my breast,
If in the ducal chair of Mantua,
'Tis not the same I had, when I did sit
On some wild turret of my native hills,
And burn with love and gratitude to Heaven
That made a land so fair, and me its daughter!

Ant.
Hear me!—You have wrong'd your lord!

Mari.
I have wrong'd my lord!
How have I wrong'd my lord?

Ant.
By entertaining
With mark'd and special preference, a man
Until to-day a perfect stranger to you.

Mari.
Go on!

Ant.
He is a libertine!

Mari.
Go on!

Ant.
A woman who has such a friend, has nought
To do with honest men!

Mari.
Go on!

Ant.
A wife
Has done with friends!—Her heart, had it the room
Of twenty hearts, her husband ought to fill,—
A friend that leaves not space for other friends,
Save such as nature's earliest warrant have
To house there!

Mari.
You are right in that! Go on.

Ant.
A court's a place where men have need to watch
Their acts and words not only, but their looks;
For prying eyes beset them round about,
That wait on aught but thoughts of charity.
What were thy words I know not; but thy acts
Have been the comment of the court to-day;
Of eyes that gaped with marvel—groups that stood
Gazing upon thee—leaning ears to lips,
Whose whispers, were their import known to thee,
Had stunn'd thee worse than thunder!

Mari.
So! Go on.

Ant.
What if they reach thy consort?

Mari.
What!

Ant.
Ay, What?

Mari.
He'll spurn them as he ought; as I do spurn them.
For shame! for shame! Me thou shouldst not arraign,
But rather those who basely question me!
Father, the heart of innocence is bold!
Tell me how comes your court to harbour one
Whom I should blush to speak to? If its pride
Be not the bearing that looks down on vice,
What right has it to hold its head so high?
Endure, at court, what, from our cottage door,
My father would have spurn'd!—If that's your court,
I'll be nor slave nor mistress of your court!
Father, no more! E'en from thy reverend lips
I will not hear what I've no right to list to!
What!—taint my lord with question of my truth!
Could he who proved my love on grounds so broad,
As I have given my lord; on grounds so mean
Descend to harbour question of my love—
Though broke my heart in the disseverment,
He were no longer lord or aught of mine!
Father, no more! I will not hear thee! Frown—
Heaven does not frown!—To Heaven I turn from thee.

[Goes out.
Ant.
This confidence offends me.—Swerving virtue
Endureth not rebuke! while that, that's steadfast,
With smiling patience suns the doubt away,
Wherewith mistrust would cloud it! 'Tis not right—
An eye so firm-resentful—speech so lofty—
Mariana enters unperceived, and kneels to him.
An air of such defiance—

Mari.
Father!

Ant.
Daughter!

Mari.
I am thy daughter! O my father, bless me!
Were I the best, I were not 'bove thy charity,
Were I the worst, I should not be beneath it!

Ant.
Thou hast my blessing.

Mari.
Ere I break my fast
To-morrow, father, I'll confess to thee,
And thou shalt know how little or how much
I merit what thou givest me! so, good night!

Ant.
Good night, fair daughter. Benedicite!

[They go out severally.