University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—A Street.
Enter Bartolo, Bernardo, Carlo, and others.
Bar.

Hush, signors! speak softly! 'Tis treason, and we
may be hanged for it.—So the matter stands! The young
duchess, I fear me, is an old sinner—and what a saint she
looked! Let no man marry a wife who looks like a saint.
Please Providence, mine shall be as ill-favoured as Satan!

Ber.

'Tis the way to make sure of a wife.

Bar.

It is, signor. Such is the value of beauty. Let any
man take his own case. Now myself, for instance—How
many a scrape should I have avoided, had I been born as ill-favoured
as some people! He is the happiest man, be
assured, whom no one has reason to envy.—Now, thou art a
happy man, Bernardo.

Ber.

I thank you, Signor Bartolo.

Car.

But when happened this?

Bar.

I told you it happened about half an hour ago.

Ber.

Prithee, signor, tell it us again?

Bar.

Well then, draw near; but remember you are sworn
to secrecy.

All.

We are, we are!

Bar.

You know I am fond of the news—though I have as
little curiosity as any man. Well, where can one get news if
not at the palace? So, to the palace I went this morning, as
I do every morning.—Few persons have constant admittance at
the palace, as I have, for they are people of discretion at the
palace, and suffer not rogues that come peeping and prying
—spies and blabbers—scoundrels of no trust or honesty—
but I have admittance to the palace, for they know me.

Ber.

Well!

Bar.

When I entered it, all was confusion! One running
this way, another that way. One whispering this person,
and every one with wonder in his looks! I warrant you I
did not look the figure of wonder too!

Car.

Go on, good Bartolo.

Bar.

Well: I happen to have a friend or two at the palace
—Lucky for me that I have so—There is no doing anything
there without a friend.—“Would that such a one was here,”
said I to myself; and scarce had I said it, when in runs the
very man I was thinking of.

Ber.

Excellent!

Bar.

Just in the nick of time, or I verily believe I should
have died of wonder. At the same time, every one knows I
am the least curious man in all Mantua. Well, in runs my
friend, just in the nick of time.—“The matter?” cried I.
“Treason,” whispered he, “but I dare not breathe it for my
life.”—“What is it?” said I; “I'll be as mute as the marble
under my feet.”—“You shall hear it,” cried he, “for you are
a lad of discretion, and have a guard upon your tongue.” You
see, signors, that I have a character at the palace!

Ber.

Go on, Bartolo.

Bar.

Well! as I told you before, the substance was this—
and nothing more nor less. Julian St. Pierre, who has lately
returned to the court, and for his wild practices would have
been dismissed from it many a year ago, but for the favour of
the duke Ferrardo,—this Julian St. Pierre, I say, was half an
hour ago discovered stealing from the ante-room that leads to
the duchess's chamber, and secured upon the spot.

Ber. and Carlo.

Go on!

Bar.

I have no more to tell you—You know as much as I
do.—But be discreet! A silent tongue betokens a wise head!
I cannot stay with you longer. I have some friends in the
next street to see; others in the street beyond!—more again,
in the street beyond that! I know not how many I have to
see! I have the whole city to see. Now be discreet!—
remember I got it as I give it, on promise of secrecy—Be
discreet!—discovered half an hour ago, stealing from the ante-room
that leads to the duchess's chamber!—Be discreet, I say
—A silent tongue, a wise head!—Be discreet—Be discreet!

[They go out severally.

SCENE II.

—Ante-Room, leading to the Duchess's Apartment.
Enter Mariana.
Mari.
Or I have had sweet dreams, whose fleeting forms
Have but the charm of their fair visit left;
Or by my couch hath some good angel watch'd,
And on my lapsed unconscious spirit breathed
The balmy fragrance of his heavenly presence;
So light my heart, as it were clad with wings
And floated in the sun! My lord—My lord!—
How is this? 'Tis strange! At thought of my dear lord,
My soaring heart hath dropp'd at once to earth.
It is the incidents of yesternight
The thought of him recalls!—I feel as though
I fear'd my lord!—Or is't the world I fear?
The world which yesternight I dared defy;
But now begin to think upon its snares,
And feel, as they beset me round, so thick,
I cannot step, but in their fatal mesh,
I'm straight entangled! Wherefore feel I thus?
My heart as heavy as, just now, 'twas light!
Enter Antonio.
My confessor! Here's comfort! Welcome, father.—
For mercy's sake what's this? I welcome thee,
And thou, to me, giv'st aught, but an all hail!
Why what's the matter?—Can I be awake?
Father, I need kind looks and words to-day,—
My heart is sick!—O earth, how sick! I look'd
For thee to bring me peace—Alack—Alack!
Why do your eyes of mercy turn to swords?
Only they pierce where feeling is more quick!
Father, be pitiful! 'Tis not the proud
And forward wife that braved thee, yesternight;
But thy repentant child that kneels to thee!

Ant.
Repentance is a grace—but it is one
That grows upon deformity—fair child
To an unsightly mother!—Nor, indeed,
Always a grace!—'Tis oftentimes—too oft—
The bootless terror of the stranded soul,
When ebbing passion leaves it all alone,
Upon the bleak and dreary shoal of sin!—
So is't of different kinds—Which kind is thine?

Mari.
Father!

Ant.
Thy lord!—Thy lord!

Mari.
What of my lord?

Ant.
Nay, rather answer thou, what of thy lord?
I know that he is duke of Mantua,
Noble and, fair, and good!—hath high allies!—
Heads the proud war, in wisdom, as in arms,
The foremost plume of the van!—and, crown of all,
I know he thinks himself, of every wish
Which heaves that breast of thine, the paramount,
The happy lord!

Mari.
He thinks himself—

Ant.
And presses
The 'larum-curtain'd couch of restless war,
In hopes to change it for that downy one
Whereon he left, as he imagined, safe,
His dearest honour, by thy side reposing,—
And little dreams that stain has reach'd it there!

Mari.
That stain has reach'd it there!

Ant.
You slept alone
Last night?

Mari.
I slept alone?—Yes, Father! Slept alone!
What idle words are these?—I slept alone?
I know I slept alone last night!—the night
Before!—the night preceding that!—alone?
How could I otherwise than sleep alone,
When my dear lord's away?

Ant.
Thou lookest—

Mari.
How?

Ant.
And speakest—

Mari.
How?—How do I look and speak?

Ant.
Like innocence.

Mari.
Doubt'st thou my innocence?

Ant.
They say,
Thou didst not sleep alone!

Mari.
Who say so?

Ant.
All
The palace.

Mari.
They!—I cannot speak the word,
Which indicates the acting of a part,
Unparallel'd in shame!

Ant.
Another part,
The which involves a tenfold deeper shame,
Men freely name, and lay to thy account!

Mari.
Art thou my friend?

Ant.
Hast thou not proved me so?

Mari.
I have! Forgive me that I question'd thee!
But when I know my heart's supreme content
In its own clearness—not as to act alone,
But wish; nor wish, alone, but thought of sin;
When I know this, and think of yesternight;
And, worse than yesternight, turns out to-day,
I 'gin to think the world is made of hate,
And doubt if thou—e'en thou!—art not my foe!
Oh, do not be my foe! indeed—indeed
The helpless maid that hung upon thy robe
To beg protection, and received it there;
Unchanged in all—save that she's now a wife,
And, as a wife, more bound than e'er to Heaven—
In strait more piteous than she knelt in then,
Clings, kneeling to it now! What's said of me?
And on what ground?—for not the robe I hold
Less conscious is of ground for foul report,
Than I am!

Ant.
Left thy chamber any one
This morning, whom thy honour should forbid
To cross its threshold?

Mari.
No!

Ant.
Art thou sure? 'Tis said
There did—The man was seen!

Mari.
The man?

Ant.
The man!
Departing from this ante-chamber!—this,
Which none except thy lord, myself, and those
Who wait upon thy person, may frequent.

Mari.
Who was the man?

Ant.
Seen in the very act
Of slinking from your door!

Mari.
Who was the man?

Ant.
The same that, last night, held thee in discourse!

Mari.
I am lost!

Ant.
You're lost?

Enter Ferrardo, Lorenzo, Cosmo, and others.
Fer.
Your highness, with your leave,
We'll pass into your chamber.

[Ferrardo and Lorenzo pass in, the others remain.
Ant.
You are lost!

Mari.
I'm lost—but I am innocent!

Fer.
[Returning with Lorenzo.]
My lords,
You know who owns this scarf?

Cos.
It is St. Pierre's!

Fer.
'Twas found beneath the couch—our advocate
Of state it was that saw it there. Are ye satisfied?

Cos.
We are, your grace; but would 'twere otherwise.

Ant.
Find earth where grows no weed, and you may find
A heart wherein no error grows. I thought
Thy heart without one—thought it was a garden
So thickly set with flowers, no weed had room
To shoot there! Who would sin, who knew how shame
Confounds the trespasser! I cannot stay,—
My tears be vouchers for me that I loved her,
And fain would doubt the lapse I must allow.

[Goes out.
Fer.
My worthy friends, follow the confessor.
I wish to speak in private with her highness.
[Lorenzo, Cosmo, and Lords, go out.
I am your friend!—You are accused of treason,—
The grounds against you are conclusive ones;
Your judges will be those who will not spare!
And soon and summary will be your trial;
The penalty of your offence is death!
You are now a prisoner—I pity you—
Would save you!—Will!—As soon as dusk sets in,
In a convenient spot without the town,
To which in secret you shall be convey'd,
I shall have horses waiting—
[Mariana shrieks and starts up from her knee, on which she had remained in a state of mental stupefaction.
Hush!

Mari.
For flight?

Fer.
For flight!—By dawn you shall be far away
From Mantua.

Mari.
At dusk?

Fer.
At dusk. As soon
As dusk begins to fall, expect me here,
And thou shalt have supply of gold enough
To pay the charges of thy journey—yea,
Maintain thee in abundance where thou wilt.

Mari.
I may depend upon thee?

Fer.
Fear me not.
Remember now—At dusk.

Mari.
I will!—At dusk.

[They go out severally.

SCENE III.

—Another Chamber in the Palace.
Enter Ferrardo.
Fer.
His heart is in my power as 'twere a thing,
Which in my hand I held and I could crush
With a grasp! Nor can it 'scape my power! her name—
That flower of woman's pride, which ta'en away,
From a bright paragon she turns a thing
For basest eyes to look askant upon—
Is blasted past the power of friend or lover
To bring it to its pristine hue again.
Now for St. Pierre—He also must, to-night,
Take leave of Mantua. [Unlocks door.]
Come forth, my friend!
Enter St. Pierre.
Dost thou not know me? What an air is this?
A king could not a loftier assume
At high offence! 'Twas thus with thee last night.
Nothing but moody looks, until the count
With much persuasion woo'd you to our feast.
I wonder'd at thee!

St. P.
Are we alone?

Fer.
How's this?

St. P.
Are we alone?—Where are the craven minions
That overpower'd me in the corridor,
And at thy bidding dragg'd me hither?

Fer.
Pshaw!
Art thou no wiser than to heed them? know'st not
'Twas done on my instruction—mine—thy friend's?

St. P.
Are we alone?

Fer.
We are alone.

St. P.
Art sure
That door is unattended? that no minions
Watch it without?

Fer.
I am.

St. P.
Wilt lock it?

Fer.
[Locking it and returning.]
There!

St. P.
[Springing upon him.]
Villain!

Fer.
What means this violence?

St. P.
You struck me!
When I contended with the recreants—
Who smite this moment what the one before
They fawn'd upon!—across their arms you struck,
And fell'd me with the blow!—Now take it back!

Fer.
Stop! you'll repent it if you strike!

St. P.
I tell thee,
I ne'er received a blow from mortal man
But 'twas return'd with interest!—One by one
I have parted—thanks to thee!—with all those virtues
Which wise and holy men inculcate! Not
One grace I now am master of, save one
That ever was my own! That single grace
Remains—the growth of nature—the true shoot
Abuse could not eradicate, and leave
The trunk and root alive!—that virtue—manhood!
Still lives, within my heart, disdain of threat,
Defiance of aggression, and revenge
For contumely.—Come!—You struck me!—Come!
I must have blow for blow!

Fer.
[Drawing his dagger.]
Let fall thy hand
Upon my person—lo, my dagger's free,
And I shall sheathe it in thy heart!

St. P.
I care not,
So I die quits with thee!

Fer.
I would not kill thee,
So don't advance thy hand! Nay, listen first,
And then, if thou wilt, strike me!—Strike!—abuse
Thy friend, who, when he struck thee, was thy friend
As much as he is now, or ever was;
Who struck thee, but that he might seem thy foe,
To hide how much, indeed, he was thy friend!
Nay, if the lack of quittance for a blow
Which but in show was one—for the intent
Establishes the act—must make us foes,
My dagger's up!—Now give a blow, indeed,
For one that seem'd but one.

St. P.
I take't, in thought,
And let thy person unprofanéd go!

Fer.
No animal, so wild, it will not tame,
Save man! Come, calm thyself!—Sit down!—As yet
Thou know'st not whether to caress thy friend
Or tear him! Shouldst thou tear him? Come, sit down.
There's not a man in Italy save thee
Would fret, and he the master, all at once,
Of good ten thousand ducats! Still a brow!
Odd's man, be merry!—Rub thy hands and laugh!
Thou art rich!—look there!

[Showing a casket.
St. P.
How came I yesternight
To sleep in the chamber of the duke? And why
This morning when I left the ante-room
Was I assaulted by thy minions?

Fer.
Pshaw!
Enough, thou slepst where thou didst sleep, next chamber
To the duke's wife, and thereby madest thy fortune.
For every ducat of the sum I named
Is thine—but render me one service more!

St. P.
Name it.

Fer.
Just write for me in boasting vein,
Confession thou didst pillow yesternight
There, where the honour of the duke forbids
That head save his should lie.
Why do you gaze? 'Tis easily done!

St. P.
It is.

Fer.
It takes but pen and ink, and here they are;
Make use of time! The hour that is not used
Is lost, and might have been the luckiest,
Converted to account. What ponder'st thou?

St. P.
The manner best to execute thy wish.
I'm hardly in the vein! 'Twould put me into't
Wouldst thou relate the means whereby I came
To lie in the duke's chamber?

Fer.
'Twould retard thee!

St. P.
No! It will rather help me. When I write,
Ofttimes I miss the thought, too much intent
On finding it,—looking at something else,
Lo, there it stands before me of itself!
How came I in the chamber of the duke?

Fer.
You supp'd, you may remember, with the count
And me?

St. P.
I do.

Fer.
'Twas plann'd between us.

St. P.
Well?

Fer.
And for our end we kept the revel up—
I mean the count and I—for, as I said
Before, thou wast not in the joyous vein,—
Till all the palace had retired to rest.

St. P.
My lord, may't please you stop—My thought has come.
[Writes.
A fair commencement! excellent! most fair!
You see how much you help me!—There!—Go on!
You revell'd till the palace was at rest—
What then?

Fer.
Why, then, finding thee jealous still
Of the kindly grape, we drugg'd your cup; and, when
The potion work'd, convey'd you in your sleep,—
To sound or stir, profound as that of death,—
Into the chamber of the duke—of the key
Of which I keep a duplicate—and there
We laid you in his bed.

St. P.
Break off again
[Writes.
While I go on!—You see, my lord, how great
A help you are to me! It comes as fast
As though I were inditing what your grace
Rehearses to me.—So!—Most excellent!
And now proceed again!

Fer.
Where left I off?

St. P.
How can I tell, intent on what's on hand,
I list to you; but 'tis abstractedly,
A man will sing and work; but more he heeds
His work than song!—And yet I think, your grace,
When you left off, was putting me—somewhere—
To bed—

Fer.
You're right!—in the duke's bed! Thou slepst there,
With a partition, only, 'twixt his wife
And thee—and that made frailer by a door,—
The lock of which I from its use absolved;
And casting, 'neath her highness' couch, thy scarf,
As proof of closer neighbourhood to her,
Withdrew to feast on foretaste of revenge.

St. P.
Enough!

Fer.
Enough?

St. P.
Tut, tut! I only meant
Your highness to break off, while I resume.
My thoughts flow on, again—Better and better!
Your grace,—a hundred ducats, I have done
Almost as soon as you— [Writes and stops, again.]
—Go on—What end
Proposed your highness to yourself by this?

Fer.
To blast her name, and in the death of that
Involve my cousin's life! Accordingly,
By my direction wert thou watch'd and seized,
And hither brought, as partner in a crime,
Whose penalty is death!—which thou shalt 'scape!—
'Scape with enrichéd life—so ne'er again
Thou show'st thy face in Mantua, and keep'st
Thy counsel.

St. P.
[Writing.]
Have you done?

Fer.
I have.

St. P.
And so
Have I. [Peruses the writing.]
A fair commencement! better far
Continuation! and the winding up
The fairest of the whole! Howe'er, of that
Your highness must be judge. [Hands the writing, but suddenly checks himself.]
'Sdeath! here's a word
I did not mean to write, for one I wanted!
I needs must take it out,—I pray your highness
Lend me a knife.

Fer.
I have not one.

St. P.
Well then
Your dagger—if the edge of it is sharp.

Fer.
There 'tis.

St. P.
And there is the confession, duke;
Sign it.

Fer.
Why this is my confession!

St. P.
Ay!
Indeed! your highness.

Fer.
Word for word.

St. P.
You'll own
I'm something of a clerk—I hardly hoped
It would have pleased your highness! My lord duke,
Sign the confession!

Fer.
Why?

St. P.
It pleases me.
If that contents thee not, I'm in thy power,
And I'd have thee in mine! Your highness sees
I'm frank with you.

Fer.
Can it be you, St. Pierre?

St. P.
No—It is you!—and not the peasant lad,
Whom fifteen years ago, in evil hour,
You chanced to cross upon his native hills,—
In whose quick eye you saw the subtle spirit
Which suited you, and tempted it; who took
Your hint, and follow'd you to Mantua
Without his father's knowledge—his old father!
Who, thinking that he had a prop in him
Man could not rob him of, and Heaven would spare;
Bless'd him one night, ere he laid down to sleep,
And waking in the morning found him gone!
[Ferrardo attempts to rise.
Move not, or I shall move!—You know me!

Fer.
Nay,
I'll keep my seat. St. Pierre, I train'd thee like
A cavalier!

St. P.
You did—You gave me masters,
And their instructions quickly I took up
As they could lay them down! I got the start
Of my contemporaries!—not a youth
Of whom could read, write, speak, command a weapon,
Or rule a horse, with me!—You gave me all—
All the equipments of a man of honour,—
But soon you found a use for me, and made
A slave, a profligate, and pander of me!
[Ferrardo about to rise.
I charge you keep your seat!

Fer.
You see I do!
St. Pierre, be reasonable!—you forget.
There are ten thousand ducats.

St. P.
Give me, duke,
The eyes that look'd upon my father's face!
The hands that help'd my father to his wish!
The feet that flew to do my father's will!
The heart that bounded at my father's voice!
And say that Mantua were built of ducats,
And I could be its duke at cost of these,
I would not give them for it! Mark me, duke!
I saw a new-made grave in Mantua,
And on the head-stone read my father's name:—
To seek me, doubtless, hither he had come—
To seek the child that had deserted him—
And died here, ere I knew it. Heaven, alone,
Can tell how far he stray'd in search of me!
Upon that grave I knelt an alter'd man;
And rising thence, I fled, nor had return'd,
But tyrant hunger drove me back again
To thee—to thee!—My body to relieve
At cost of my dear soul! I have done thy work,
Do mine! and sign me that confession straight.
I'm in thy power, and I'll have thee in mine!

Fer.
Art thou indeed in earnest?

St. P.
Look in my eyes.

Fer.
St. Pierre, perhaps I have underpaid thee?

St. P.
Sign!

Fer.
I'll double the amount!

St. P.
Come, sign!

Fer.
St. Pierre,
Will forty thousand ducats please thee?

St. P.
There's
The dial, and the sun is shining on it—
The shadow on the very point of twelve—
My case is desperate! Your signature
Of moment is most vital to my peace!
My eye is on the dial! Pass the shadow
The point of noon, the breadth of but a hair
As can my eye discern—and, that unsign'd,
The steel is in thy heart—I speak no more!

Fer.
Saint Pierre!—Not speak—Saint Pierre!

St. P.
Is it sign'd?

Fer.
[Writing hurriedly.]
It is.

St. P.
Your signet, as a proof that I'm at large.
Now take my station in that closet—No
Attempt at an alarm—In, in, I say!
Hold wind we'll make the port.
[Opens the chamber-door—seems to recognise some one without, makes a profound bow, as though to the duke.
I thank your highness!

[Goes out.