University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—A Street in Mantua.
Enter Leonardo Gonzaga and Lorenzo.
Leon.
So in my native city, thanks to Heaven,
Ten years and more elapsed, I stand again!
A boy it sent me forth, takes back a man.
Hail to it! 'Tis mine old acquaintance still,
In nothing strange—unalter'd! To a stone
The same I left it! Glad am I to see it—
None better loves its venerable face!

Lor.
I'm glad to see you smile.

Leon.
I do so, signor.
I am a boy again! The days come back
When smallest things made wealth of happiness
And ever were at hand! when I did watch
With panting heart the striking of the clock,
Which hardly sounded ere the book was shut.
Then for the race—the leap—the game—O, signor,
The vigour and endurance of such joy!
Is't e'er to come again?—and care so light,
That, looking back, I smile that thought it care,
And call it part of pleasure! I'm again
In Mantua!

Lor.
Then here we say farewell.

Leon.
Not so! Acquaintance, born and nurtured in
Adversity, is worth the cherishing!
'Tis provéd steel which one may trust one's life to.
You are a stranger here in Mantua.
Which I am native to. What brings you hither?
If 'tis a cause no scruple of just weight
Forbids thee to unfold, unbosom thee;
And, in return for what thou part'st with, take
The zeal and honour of a hearty friend,
And service too, to boot!—You pause from doubt
Either of my ability or faith.
If this, I'm sorry for't—If that, take heed!
You know not by the eye the practised limb
Where the inform'd and active sinew lies,
That's equal to the feat. What, silent still?
'Sdeath, man! a dwarf is not to be despised,
For he may have a giant for his friend,
And so be master of a giant's strength!
Come, come, have confidence!—'Tis the free rein
Which takes the willing courser o'er the leap
He'd miss, suppose you check'd him!

Lor.
There are men
Whose habits in abeyance hold their natures,
Which still remain themselves.—Your temperament
Is of the sanguine kind, and so is mine;
But lo, the difference! Thy frankness brooks
No pause—thy wish is scarce conceived, ere told—
As if men's hearts were open as their looks,
And trust were due to all! The law hath been
My study, signor; and, these three years past,
My practice too; and it hath taught me this:—
To doubt, with openness to be convinced,
Is to remain on this side danger, yet
No fraction lack of generosity,
Which it becomes a noble mind to cherish.

Leon.
And doubt you me?

Lor.
No, signor; but drew back,
When you, with instant promptness, made advance,
Where I, with all the heart to take the step,
Had still, I fear, been standing! You shall know
My errand hither. I am nephew—

Leon.
Stop
Till these pass on!

Enter Bartolo, Carlo, Bernardo, and others.
Carlo.
Will not the duke postpone the cause?

Bar.
I tell thee no.

Carlo.
And wherefore?

Bar.

What's that to thee?—Is not he the duke? Shall
such a piece of flesh and bone as thou art, question the duke?

Carlo.

Why not?

Bar.

Why not? Would any one believe he had been born
in Mantua? Now mark how I shall answer him! Dost thou
drink Burgundy?

Carlo.

No, but water.

Bar.

Then art thou, compared to the great duke, what
water is to Burgundy.

Carlo.

He is but flesh and blood.

Bar.

But what kind of flesh and blood? Answer me that!
Wouldst thou, that dinest upon garlic and coarse bread, and
washest them down with water, compare thyself to one who
sits down, every day of the week, to a table of three courses?
Thou art no more than a head of garlic to the duke!

Ber.

Say on, Bartolo! Well! The duke refuses to postpone
the cause; and what then?

Bar.

Why then the case must come on.

Ber.

And what will be the end on't?

Bar.

That knows the duke.

Carlo.

But what ought it to be?

Bar.

What the great duke wills.

Carlo.

Why so?

Bar.

Because that must be.

Ber.

She was a bold girl, when they forced her to the
church, to refuse to give her hand there, and claim the protection
of the curate.

Bar.

He was a bolder man to have anything to say to so
mettlesome a piece of stuff.

Carlo.

And to refuse a count!

Bar.

Her cause will not thrive the better for that; unless,
indeed, the duke be wroth with the count, for honourably
affecting a commissary's ward.

Leon.
[Aside.]

You seem intent on their discourse?

Lor.
[Aside.]

I am so.

Ber.

You saw her, Bartolo, did you not?

Bar.

Yes, I was passing by, when they were forcing her
into the church, and followed them in.

Carlo.

Is she as handsome as they say?

Bar.

Humph!—handsome?—Handsome is this, and handsome
is that. I could sooner tell the absence of beauty than
the presence of it. Now thou art not beautiful; but dress
thee like a duke, and it might change thee. Thou that art an
ugly craftsman, might become a beautiful duke. Notwithstanding
I think I dare pronounce her handsome—very handsome!
nay, I will go further, and confess that, were she a
countess, or duchess, I would call her the most beautiful
woman in Mantua.

Ber.

But why wishes the curate to have the cause postponed?

Bar.

To wait for a learned doctor of the law, for whom he
has sent to Rome, but who has not yet arrived, though hourly
looked for.

Carlo.

What! must one send for law to Rome?

Bar.

Yes, if one cannot find it in Mantua.

Carlo.

Cannot one find law in Mantua?

Bar.

Not if it be all bought up. There's not a legal man of
note whom the count has not retained; so was the curate
forced to send for his nephew to Rome—a man, it is reported,
of great learning, and of profound skill in his profession,
though hardly yet out of his nonage.

Leon.
[Aside.]

You colour, signor! 'Tis of you he speaks?

Carlo.

Fears he to come to Mantua, or what?

Bar.

'Tis thought the brigands have detained him—a plague
upon the rascals! A word in your ears, signors. You all
know that Bartolo is a loyal man?

All.

We do, Bartolo.

Bar.

Said I ever a word against the duke?

All.

No.

Bar.

You are right, signors; nor would I, though the duke
were to hang every honest man in Mantua; for is he not the
duke?—and is not Bartolo a loyal man! Now if I speak of
the duke's cousin, whom the brigands, they say, have killed,
speak I against the duke?

All.

No!

Bar.

Is't treason to say “a pity that he was killed?”

All.

No!

Bar.

Ah, signors, had he succeeded his father, he would
have made a proper duke. Is this saying anything against his
cousin that is the duke?

All.

No!

Bar.

I warrant me, no! Catch Bartolo talking treason!
Who says a word against the duke? he dies, as Bartolo is
a loyal man! But fare you well, signors. The trial comes on
at noon—and noon will soon be here.

Ber.

We go your way.

Bar.

Come on, then. Remember I said not a word against
the duke.

[Bartolo and others go out.
Leon.
Of you he spoke—was it not so?

Lor.
It was.

Leon.
You come to Mantua to plead the cause
Of this fair damsel. You were here before,
But that the brigands intercepted you,—
Your hurt, but my advantage, whose escape,
Long time their captive, you contrived. And now,
To prove my friendship more than wordy vaunting—
I have the power to serve you. Take me with you.
Your clerk, you said, opposing vain resistance,
The hot-brain'd robber slew. Suppose me him.
I have a smattering of his vocation,
A notion of the mystery of yours;
And I would hear, by their own lips recited,
This worthy priest and beauteous damsel's cause,
For reasons which—you smile?

Lor.
A thought just cross'd me.

Leon.
I know thy thought—'Tis wrong!—'Tis not the heat
Of youthful blood which prompts—You smile again?

Lor.
Your pardon.—If I did, you have to thank
The quickness of your apprehension.

Leon.
Mark me!—
I have loved my last—and that love was my first!
A passion like a seedling that did spring,
Whose germ the winds had set; of stem so fine,
And leaf so small, to inexperienced sight
It pass'd for nought,—until, with swelling trunk,
And spreading branches, bowing all around,
It stood a goodly tree! Are you content?
This was my sadness, signor, which the sight
Of my dear native city briefly banish'd!
Which thy misgiving hath brought back again;
And which will be the clothing of my heart,
While my heart calls this breast of mine its house.

Lor.
I pray you, pardon me!

Leon.
I pray you, peace!
Time presses.—Once again, have confidence,
And take me with you to your uncle's home.
More than you credit me, I may bestead you.
Wilt take my hand?

Lor.
I will!

Leon.
Have with you, then!

[They go out.

SCENE II.

—Antonio's House.
Enter Antonio and Pietro.
Ant.
What lacks it now of noon?

Piet.
An hour or more.

Ant.
No chance of his arrival!—This delay
Perplexes me! Is it neglect?—I thought
His answer would have been his presence here,
Prompt as my summons; yet he neither comes
Nor sends excuse. 'Tis very strange! She holds
The same sedate, collected carriage still?

Piet.
She does, and native seems it to the maid
As her fair brow, wherefrom it calmly looks,
As from its custom'd and assuréd seat—
A gentleness that smiles without a smile—
For 'tis the sweetness, not of cheek, or lip
Alone; but every feature—every act—
Delights the heart that's near her. Silence is
Her favourite mood, yet ne'er repels she converse,
While every theme hath one unvaried close—
A blessing on your reverence.

Ant.
Poor girl!
She owes me nought. Why do I serve my Master,
If not to do his bidding? Is it but
To hold the crook? Nay, but to use the crook!
To be, indeed, the shepherd of the flock—
Wakeful and watchful—pitiful and faithful—
My charitable life, and not my title,
The badge and warrant of my sacred calling!
She was afflicted, persecuted, and
I succour'd her!—I, standing at the altar!
Beneath my Master's roof! His livery,
Blazon'd, as ne'er was earthly king's, upon me!
What could I less?

Piet.
Fails he to come, for whom
Your reverence looks, to plead the damsel's cause;
Must it perforce go on?

Ant.
It must; and I
Myself will be her advocate, before
The haughty duke! For problems of deep law,
Will give him axioms of plain truth; and paint
Her thrilling grievance—to the life; with tears,
Which, Pity seeing, shall to every heart
That owns its influence, her cause commend,
And gather tears to aid them!

Enter Stephano.
Ste.
May it please you,
Two strangers, craving audience, wait below.

Ant.
Admit them! 'Tis my nephew! Worthy Pietro,
Have all in readiness, that we appear
Before the duke when cited.
[Pietro goes out.
Enter Leonardo Gonzaga and Lorenzo.
So, Lorenzo!

Lor.
Save you, my reverend uncle!

Ant.
Now a week
I've look'd for you—but waive we explanations.
Thou'rt come!—and to the business that has brought thee:—
I have possess'd thee of the damsel's cause
In all its bearings—Art prepared to plead it?

Lor.
I am, so please your reverence;—but, with us,
That evidence is best which is direct.
That the Count Florio seeks the damsel's hand,—
That wills her guardian she bestow it on him,—
That she resists her uncle and the count,—
I know; but not the cause of her dissent.
Children to guardians should obedience pay;
A match, so lofty, warrants some enforcement,
Which, not on slight grounds, should the maid resist.

Ant.
Ground know I none, save strong aversion.

Lor.
Pray you
Vouchsafe us conference with the maid herself.
Her deposition shall this gentleman
That's come with me—my trusty clerk—set down.

Ant.
I'll bring her to you;—but, I charge you, boy,
You keep in mind you are her advocate;
For she, indeed, of those rare things of earth,
Which of the debt that's due to it, rob Heaven,
That men set earth before it, is the rarest!
Then guard thee, nephew!—rather with thine ears
And tongue discourse with her, than with thine eyes,
Lest thou forget it was her cause, not she,
That summon'd thee to Mantua!

Lor.
Fear me not!

[Antonio goes out.
Leon.
A service of some danger, it should seem,
Your reverend uncle has engaged you in;
And, by his pardon, for your safety, uses
Means which your peril more enhance than lessen.
The soldier that is taught to fear his foe,
Is half o'ercome before he takes the field.

Lor.
Is't from your own misgivings you doubt me!

Leon.
No!—As I said before, my heart is safe—
Love-proof, with love!—which, if it be not, signor,
A passion that can only once be felt—
Hath but one object—lives and dies with us—
And, while it lives, remains itself, while all
Attachments else keep changing—it is nothing!
I used to laugh at love, and deem it fancy.
My heart would choose its mistress by mine eyes;
Whom scarce they found before I sought a new one.
I wooed not then the beauty of the soul—
The passing loveliness which lodgeth there—
A world beyond the charm of face or form!
I found it! When or where—for weal or woe—
It matters not! I found it!—wedded it!
Never to be divorced from that true love
Which taught me love, indeed!

Lor.
You wedded it?—
Then was your passion blest?

Leon.
No, Signor, no!
Question no further, prithee! Here's your uncle!

Enter Antonio and Mariana.
Ant.
Lo, nephew! here's the maid,
To answer for herself!

Lor.
[To Leonardo.]
She's fair, indeed!
Description ne'er could give her out the thing,
One only glance avows her!—Prithee, look!

Leon.
Show her to him who has not seen the fairest!
Remember, signor, Time's no gazer, but
A traveller, whose eye is on his road,
And feet in motion, ever! Noon's at hand!

Lor.
I thank you. Note my questions—her replies.
Your guardian—Is he your relation too?

Mari.
No.—Would he were! That stay had needs be strong,
Which failing, we've none other left, to cling to.

Leon.
Oh, music!—

Lor.
What's the matter?

Leon.
'Twas a bird!—
Whose throat, for sweetness, beggars all the grove!
Yea, of its rich and faméd minstrel makes
A poor and common chorister!

Lor.
Hear her!
You'll have no ear for any other bird:
Look at her, and you'll have no ear for her,
Your trancéd vision every other sense
Absorbing!—Gave you promise to the count?

Mari.
None!

Lor.
Nor encouragement?

Mari.
Such as aversion
Gives to the thing it loathes!

Lor.
Have you a vow
Or promise to another?—That were a plea
To justify rejection. You are silent.
And yet you speak—if blushes speak—and all
Confess they do. Come, come, I know you love!
Tell me, I pray, the story of your love!
That, thereon, I may found my proper plea
To show your opposition not a thing
Of fantasy, caprice, or frowardness;
But such as all men should commend you for.
Prove it the joint result of heart and reason,
Each other's act approving. Was't in Mantua
You met?

Mari.
No, signor, in my native land!

Lor.
And that is—

Mari.
Switzerland!

Lor.
His country too?

Mari.
No, signor, he belong'd to Mantua.

Lor.
That's right!—You are collected and direct
In your replies. I dare be sworn your passion
Was such a thing, as by its neighbourhood
Made even piety and virtue richer
Than e'er they were before. How grew it? Come,
Thou know'st thy heart! Look calmly into it,
And see how innocent a thing it is
Thou fear'st so much to show.—I wait your answer.
How grew your passion?

Mari.
As my stature grew,
Which rose without my noting it, until
They said I was a woman. I kept watch
Beside what seem'd his death-bed. From beneath
An avalanche my father rescued him,
The sole survivor of a company
Who wander'd through our mountains. A long time
His life was doubtful, signor, and he call'd
For help, whence help alone could come, which I,
Morning and night, invoked along with him.—
Thus 'gan our souls to mingle!

Lor.
I perceive.
You mingled souls until you mingled hearts?
You loved at last.—Was't not the sequel, maid?

Mari.
I loved indeed! If I but nursed a flower
Which, to the ground, the rain and wind had beaten,
That flower of all our garden was my pride!
What then was he to me, for whom I thought
To make a shroud; when, tending on him, still,
With hope, that, baffled still, still lost not heart,
I saw at last the ruddy dawn of health
Begin to mantle o'er his pallid form,
And glow—and glow—till forth at last it burst
Into confirméd, broad, and glorious day!

Lor.
You loved, and were beloved?

Mari.
To say I was,
Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouch'd,
What many an action testified—and yet—
What wanted confirmation of his tongue.
But if he loved—it brought him not content!
'Twas now abstraction—now a start—anon
A pacing to and fro—anon, a stillness,
As nought remain'd of life, save life itself,
And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct!
Then all again was action!—disinclined
To converse, save he held it with himself;
Which oft he did, in gloomy mood discoursing,
And ever and anon invoking Honour—
As some high contest there were pending, 'twixt
Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed.

Lor.
This spoke impediment! Or he was bound,
By promise, to another; or had friends
Whom it behoved him to consult, and doubted;
Or 'twixt you lay disparity, too wide
For love itself to leap.

Mari.
I saw a struggle,
But knew not what it was!—I wonder'd, still,
That what to me was all content, to him
Was all disturbance; but my turn arrived.
At length he talk'd of leaving us! At length,
He fix'd the parting day!—but kept it not—
How my heart bounded!—then I knew how low
It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank
When next he fix'd the day to go; and, then,
It sank, to bound no more! He went, indeed!

Lor.
To follow him, you came to Mantua?

Mari.
What could I do but follow him, with whom
My heart had gone; and, with it, everything—
Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood,
Lake, sky, and mountain—e'en my father, signor,—
Could I remain behind? That father found
His child was not at home; he loved me, signor,
And ask'd me, one day, whither we should go?
I said, “To Mantua.” I follow'd him
To Mantua!—to breathe the air he breathed,
To walk upon the ground he walk'd upon,
To look upon the things he look'd upon,
To look, perchance, on him! perchance to hear him,
To touch him!—never to be known to him,
Till he was told, perhaps, I died, his love.

Lor.
I pray you, signor, how do you get on?
I see you play the woman well as I!
And, sooth to say, the eye were stone itself,
From which her story could not call a tear!
How get you on? indite you word for word
As she delivers it? How's this!—The page
As blank as first you found it!—All our pains
Have gone to lose our time!

Leon.
I have a gift
Of memory, signor, which belongs to few.
What once I hear, stands as a written page
Before me; which, if question'd, I could read
Letter for letter.—You shall have anon
The proof of this. I have a friend or two
I fain would snatch a word with—That despatch'd,
I'll meet you at the duke's, and bring with me
The damsel's story, word for word set down,
And win your full content; or give you leave
To brand me an impostor, or aught else
A man should blush to pass for! Will you trust me?

Lor.
I will.

Leon.
You may, for you shall ne'er repent you.
I'll bring you aid you little count upon. [Aside.]


[Goes out.
Ant.
Nay, nephew, urge your friend to stay. A space
You have for brief refreshment; and, in sooth,
You want it, who, from travel just alighted,
Must needs to business go.

Lor.
Detain not him!
Some needful avocations call him hence.
I wait your pleasure, uncle.

Ant.
Daughter, come.
Some effort has it cost to tell your story,
But profit comes of it. Your cause is strong.
Your vows, which virtually are another's,
Heaven doth itself forbid you give the count!
Is't not so, nephew?

Lor.
There I'll found the plea,
Which to the conscience of the duke I'll put.
Knows he, whom, at his death—which I'm advised
Took place in Mantua—your father named
Your guardian—knows the commissary this,
Which thou hast now related?

Mari.
Not from me.
My father's death was sudden.—Long time since!
He and the commissary were mere acquaintance.
What pass'd between them, save the testament
Which left me ward unto the commissary,
I am a stranger to.

Lor.
Since you came hither
Him have you seen, for sake of whom you came?

Mari.
No!

Lor.
Nor hast clue direct, or indirect,
To find him out?

Mari.
No, signor.

Lor.
And how long
Have you sojourn'd in Mantua?

Mari.
Two years.

Lor.
And is your love the same?

Mari.
Am I the same?

Lor.
Such constancy should win a blessing.

Ant.
Yes!
And strange as 'tis, what seems to us affliction
Is oft the hand that helps us to our wish.
So may it fall with thee—if Heaven approves!

[They go out.