University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—A Mountain Pass. Etna in the distance.
Enter Procida and Fernando.
Pro.
Look up. What seest thou?

Fern.
Etna.

Pro.
Where stands Etna?

Fern.
In Sicily.

Pro.
Then this is Sicily,
Where Etna stands, and thou look'st up to it.
And yet, methinks, thou knowest not thou stand'st
In Sicily.

Fern.
I know it, well as thou!

Pro.
Deny it, then! Tell him, who says thou stand'st there,
He but insults thee! Rather say thou stand'st
In any other isle that spots the sea;
And give thy oath to it, though Etna there,
Before thee, should break silence at the lie,
And bellow forth—“'Tis Sicily thou stand'st in!”

Fern.
Beware! young blood is hot.

Pro.
Behoves it, then,
Beware it runs no peril from its heat.
Young blood is generous, too!—not always!—Then
Its heat is virtue bringing virtue forth,
As sun, the healthful plant, in stronger flower.
Its heat is as the thing it acts upon;
As summer in the garden genders fruit,
But in the swamp breeds poison. Know me, sir,
So far. I wear a sword! [Throws off his gown.]
Now of thy heat
Why should I stand in fear?

Fern.
Lest thou offend
Mine honour!

Pro.
Show it me, I'll not offend it;
Else I offend mine own! If I gainsay
The square, the plummet, or the level, what
Shall I gain credence for? I am a fool
Or knave. I either know not; or deny,
Yet know! But honour is the name as well
As thing, and with the thing not always goes,
But serves a spurious owner, as the stamp
Of gold at times is given to base coin.
The gambler that will load a die, will cut
Your throat, so you dare tell him on't—for honour!
The libertine who uses, for your shame,
Your hospitable trust—a felon, worse
Than he who filches purses with his sword—
Demands your blood, if you impugn his honour!
Whence, with a coward world, the bully Lust
Hath gracious entertainment at the hands
Which hold the custody of maidens' snow,
And never question'd matrons'. What do you say
To the honour of a traitor—false at once
To his liege lord and country?—taking part
With their arch, pitiless, contentless foes?
Shall such a man have honour? Ay, shall he so,
Hath he the bloodhound's quality to vouch
The barefaced lie a truth!

Fern.
Thou lovest danger!

Pro.
No, I love virtue, sir, and fear not danger.
Art thou Sicilian?

Fern.
Yes.

Pro.
Sicilian born?

Fern.
Yes.

Pro.
In the mountain island first drew breath?

Fern.
Yes.

Pro.
Art thou sure? Where saw'st thou first the sun,
To know him as thou recollectest?

Fern.
In
Messina.

Pro.
Knowest thou the history
Of this thy native land?—who was her king
When first thou mad'st acquaintance with the sun,
The blessed sun God gave thee leave to see
When he vouchsafed thee draw the breath of life
In Sicily?

Fern.
Why Manfred, then, was king.

Pro.
What came of him?

Fern.
He lost his crown.

Pro.
'Tis false!

Fern.
[Aside.]
What awes me in the presence of this man,
That while he chafes me thus, I thus forbear!

Pro.
Were one to take thy purse from thee by force,
Wouldst say that thou hadst lost it? Thou wouldst say
That thou wast robb'd of it! So Manfred was
Robb'd of his crown. Lost it! Who, say you now,
Is king of Sicily?

Fern.
Charles of Anjou.

Pro.
That's false
Again! Charles of Anjou is an usurper
And not a king!—not king of Sicily.
Manfred was slain in battle, was he not?

Fern.
He was.

Pro.
He was! He died as became a king
Defending his own crown against the robber
Who wrench'd it from his brow. You answer well!
You know your country's history! What next?
Who follow'd in the strife? Who struggled next
With the arch felon?—held his throat to him—
For it was nothing else, with powers so broken—
Ere he would tamely be a looker-on,
And see him wear the spoil?

Fern.
Conradine.

Pro.
Yes!
The chivalrous, the patriotic prince!
He took the cause up—but he lost the day.

Fern.
And, with the day, his life.

Pro.
How? Can't you tell?
Know you, so far, the tragedy, so well,
And do you halt at the catastrophe
Which brings the crowning horror of the whole?
The prince was taken captive—taken alive—
Whole! without scath! No wound, the matter, even,
Of a pin's scratch! Now, mark the freebooter
In Charles of Anjou—him thou namedst now
The king of Sicily. Mark, now, how blood
And plunder go together, like sworn friends.
Conradine was a captive. What had he done?
What Charles himself had done in such a case,
And had a right so to have done, were he
A saint and not a robber. Fought for the crown
Of his forefathers! What could Conradine
That Charles need fear? He was bound hand and foot.
He was as one that's bed-ridden!—that's struck
With a palsy! Charles had just as much to fear
From Conradine as from an infant in the cradle!
What did he to him?—He beheaded him!

Fern.
'Twas sacrilege!

Pro.
'Twas murder!—murder, sir!
Murder and sacrilege!—Conradine met the scaffold
In his own kingdom, like a host that's butcher'd
In his own house, by thieves! Now mark, young man,
How bruised, broken, lost in fortunes, still
The noble spirit to the last bears up
And towers above its fate. Beside the block,
Within the axe's glare, yet would not he
Give up his righteous cause; but from his hand
His gauntlet drew and flung into the space
'Twixt him and those who came to see him die.
“For Jesu' sake,” he cried, “who loves me there,
“Pick up my gage, and with it take the charge
“A dying man gives with his parting breath;
“That he present it to that kinsman of
“My house, who takes its rightful quarrel up,
“And whom with all my rights I here invest!”
I see the story somewhat touches thee.

Fern.
I never heard it told so true before.
Wast thou a stander-by?

Pro.
I was. What then?

Fern.
Didst thou pick up the gage?

Pro.
Wouldst thou have done it?

Fern.
I would!

Pro.
And wherefore?

Fern.
Out of pity for
That murder'd king.

Pro.
What!—Given thy private cares,
Hopes, havings, up, to consecrate thy life
To his most desperate cause?—his throne usurp'd!
His land o'errun! his people scatter'd, that
Together not so many hung as one
Might call a broken troop!—so seeming-lost
A cause, as that, at cost so dear, hadst thou
Embraced, and ta'en the gauntlet up?

Fern.
I had!

Pro.
[Taking a glove from his breast.]
There 'tis! There!—as I pluck'd it from the scaffold foot!
The look that martyr cast upon me then!
It shed more healing unction on my soul,
Than thought of thousand masses, at my death,
Could do, each chanted by as many lips,
And all of holy men. Now mark how Right,
Although, at setting out, a dwarf in thews,
By holding on, will gather sinew, till
It moves that giant Might! With seconding
Levies, munitions, allies, subsidies—
None other than this empty glove, I went
From Sicily; where now I stand again,
With monarchs and their kingdoms at my back,
The sworn abettors of the righteous hand,
Which fleshless, tendonless, reduced to bone,
Its holy cause thus clothes with life again,
And arms with retribution. That same hand
Once fill'd this glove, which now I hold to thee.
Take it!

Fern.
For what?

Pro.
To swear by it.

Fern.
The oath?

Pro.
Death to the Gaul, whoe'er he be, that now
Has footing in the land!—Death without pause
Of ruth—Eye, ear, be stone to voice or look
Of deprecation! Once your blade is out,
While there's a tyrant's heart to lend a sheath,
Ne'er to resume its own!

Fern.
An oath like that
I will not take.

Pro.
Thou wilt not? Thou'rt a traitor!

Fern.
Ha!

Pro.
Thou'rt a coward!

Fern.
[Drawing.]
Try if I fear death!

Pro.
Death is a little thing to brave or fear,
Except the thought of the after-reckoning,
The which to fear becomes, not shames a man.
'Tis but a plunge and over, ta'en as oft
By the feeble as the stout! Give me the man
That's bold in the right—too bold to do the wrong!
Not bold as that, thou art a traitor still
And coward!

Fern.
Draw!

Pro.
For what?—to pleasure thee?
To place myself on base equality
With one whom I look down upon?

Fern.
Or draw,
Or I shall spurn thee!

Pro.
Villain, to thy knee!

Fern.
My knee!

Pro.
What!—Fear'st thou degradation? How
Can he crouch lower than he does who kneels
To his own weaknesses, when Duty bids him
Stand up, and take the manly post, becomes him,
At the side of Virtue? Were thy mother—she
That bore thee in her womb—in fetters, how
Wouldst deal with those that put them on? Wouldst talk
And laugh with them—shake hands with them—embrace them?
“Thou wouldst not!” But I tell thee, slave, thou wouldst;
For what's thy country, be she not thy mother,
And like a mother loved by thee? Thou slave,
That seekest kindred with thy country's foes!
Hast thou a father?

Fern.
Draw!

Pro.
Hast thou a father?

Fern.
But with my sword's point will I answer thee!

Pro.
Hast thou a father, boy?

Fern.
Hast thou a hand?
Behoves that it be quick, and seek thy sword!
Thy life's in danger!

Pro.
Hast thou a father, still
I say to thee?

Fern.
Thy sword, or I'm upon thee!

Pro.
Then wilt thou have a murder on thy soul;
For from my stand I will not budge an inch,
Nor move, so far, my arm to touch my sword,
Until thou answer'st me. Hast thou a father?

Fern.
[Bursting into tears.]
No,—no! thou churlish, harsh, remorseless man—
That bait'st me with thy coarse and biting words,
As boors, abroad, let loose unmuzzled dogs
Upon a tether'd beast!—my arm withheld
By thy defencelessness, that hast defence,
At hand, but will not use it—Who art thou
To use me thus?—to do me shameful wrong
And then deny me means to right myself?
What have I done to thee to use my heart
As if its strings were thine to strain or rend!
Thou mak'st my veins hot with my boiling blood,
And not content, thou followest it up,
Mine eyes inflaming with my scalding tears,
Thou kindless, ruthless man! Hast thou a father?
I never knew one!

Pro.
[Aside.]
I thank Heaven!

Fern.
Thou hadst
A father—hadst a father's training—O
How blest the son that hath! O Providence,
What is there like a father to a son?
A father, quick in love, wakeful in care,
Tenacious of his trust, proof in experience,
Severe in honour, perfect in example,
Stamp'd with authority! Hadst such a father?
I knew no training, save what fostering
Gave me, in charity; and was bestow'd
Like bounty to a poor dependent; which
He might take or leave. Those who protected me
Were masters of my native land, not sons.
How could I learn the patriot's lofty lesson?
They told me Sicily had given me birth,
But then they taught me, also, I was son
To a contentless and ungracious mother.
And they were kind to me! What wouldst thou have
Of a young heart, but what you'd ask of wax—
To take the first impression given to it?
Except that, unlike wax, it is not quick
What once it takes to render up again.

Pro.
[Aside.]
O, my poor boy!

Fern.
If thou hadst such a father,
'Twas cruel, knowing that thou wast so rich,
To taunt me, where, knew'st not that I was poor,
Thou mightst at least suspect my poverty.
How had I loved my father! He had had
The whole of my heart! I would have given it him
As a book to write in it whate'er he would!
I never had gainsaid him—never run
Counter to him. I had copied him, as one
A statue of the rare and olden virtue,
In jealous, humble imitation.
I had lived to pleasure him. Before I had
Disgraced him, I had died!

Pro.
[Aside.]
My son! My son!

Fern.
Thou weep'st! Why?—Why?

Pro.
Thou wast made captive in
A storméd hold.

Fern.
I was.

Pro.
That hold belong'd
To John of Procida.

Fern.
It did.

Pro.
'Twas storm'd
And taken, in his absence.

Fern.
So 'tis said.

Pro.
That John of Procida had then a son
Just four years old.

Fern.
That age was mine, I have heard,
When first the Governor adopted me.

Pro.
There was no other child within the castle.

Fern.
Was there not?

Pro.
No!

Fern.
I must have been that child!

Pro.
Upon his right fore-arm he bore a mark.

Fern.
Yes; here!

Pro.
Yes; in the very place thou point'st to.

Fern.
I am the son of John of Procida!

Pro.
Thou art!—and I am John of Procida.

Fern.
[Falling on his knee.]
Father!

Pro.
My son! My boy! My child I left
At four years old and thought was dead!

Fern.
Thou own'st me?

Pro.
Own thee!—Ay!—Look at me and tell me, boy,
Dost thou not see thy father?

Fern.
Yes! Thy looks
Are words of love that call me, from thy feet,
Up to thy arms.

Pro.
Up to them, then!

Fern.
[Rising, and throwing himself into the arms of Procida.]
My father!

Pro.
O, my son!

Fern.
What shall I do?

Pro.
What mean you?

Fern.
What shall I do?
Give me the glove!

Pro.
My son!

Fern.
The gauntlet of
The martyr king!

Pro.
There!—Stop! Not now, my son:
I find thee quick in the affection
Thou owest me; and which, like a rich spring
Just struck, in ample volume bubbles high,
And runs a rapid stream! Not yet, my son;
I will not take advantage of the burst
To let it hurry thee along with it.
A sudden change and violent, is scarce
A lasting one. Thou mightst repent it. No;
I'll prove thee ere thou join'st the holy cause.
Thou to Messina shalt return once more,
Before thou see'st her free. My word was given.
Thou art a man. Men that uphold the name
Act, not from impulse, but reflection.
Declare thy meditated nuptials things
Thy duty to thy neighbour and thy God
Compels thee to abandon; then come back,
With every let removed, and take the oath;
And live the son of John of Procida.

Fern.
When I can say thy first behest is done,
I'll show myself to thee. Farewell!

[Goes out.
Pro.
Farewell!
How suddenly his visage brighten'd up,
At mention of returning to Messina.
What speed is there! Is't all on my account?
Now he is gone, my heart misgives me. What
Have I done! Why do we pray that we be spared
Temptation, but that 'tis a whirlpool, which,
Once we're within its vortex, draws us in,
Charybdis like, and sucks us down to ruin!
Should I call him back? I will! He is out
Of hearing! Should his love for her be strong?
I did not note if she was very fair.
But souls were never made for eyes to read,
And there lies woman's beauty! If she loves
Strongly—and O how strongly woman loves—
The force of two hearts must he struggle with!
I'll trust in Heaven! Alas! how many trust
In Heaven, and, all the while, betray themselves!
If he's my son!—I talk with fifty years
For counsellors! O, it was oversight,
Preposterous in a father! If I have found
My son to lose him—best I ne'er had found him.
Yet ere I lose him I will risk my life—
Risk all—except the sacred cause I'm pledged to.

[Goes out.