University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—Isoline's Chamber.
Enter Governor and Isoline.
Gov.
Thus, save the nature of the grievous wrong
Which on my conscience weighs—which, to repair
I to Fernando would have wedded thee,
Will wed thee still, comes he to claim thy hand—
Of all have I possess'd thee—who he is;
The mortal enmity his father bears me;
The public foe join'd to the private one;
His hatred of our race, love for his own;
Devotion to the dynasty, held sway
In Sicily, ere France supplanted it!
Hopes to make head again; efforts, intrigues
With foreign powers to raise up foes to France.
That he whose presence stopp'd the rites to-day,
May act in concert with the Procida,
Though past the scope of probability,
Lies within that of chance; for though Fernando
Knows not his parentage, yet accident
May have reveal'd the son to Procida.
View then these nuptials thus. If solemnized,
Joy not without regrets—if frustrated,
Regrets with yet their solaces.

Iso.
I will, sir.

Gov.
Do so; and so good night. Another word.
Set not thy heart on seeing him again;
He never may return. Or, say he should,
Expect him to depart and come no more.
You mark?

Iso.
I do, sir.

Gov.
Now good night again.

[Goes out.
Iso.
What, Marguerite!—Come hither, Marguerite.
Hast done it? [To Marguerite, who enters.]


Mar.
He is in the oratory.

Iso.
I thank the holy man. He will remain there?

Mar.
Ay, madam.

Iso.
He was ever good to me!
Fernando will return to-night—I know
He will. My heart assures me that he will,
And lovers' hearts a strange foreknowledge have,
Though read they not the stars. That's he! Go, look!
[Marguerite goes out.
O, that this hour were past! Alas, 'tis thus
We wish us ever nearer to our graves,
With fear of this, and with desire for that;
Flying from one thing, following another,
As rushing from the very thing itself
For which we pray, towards that we pray against!
Knew I the moment—ay, the very moment
I wedded him—I should be spouse to death;
Away with life! at once, he should be mine!

Enter Marguerite.
Mar.
'Tis not Fernando.

Iso.
Keep upon the watch.
[Marguerite goes out.
He shall be mine! Shall private enmities,
On others' parts, set bars 'twixt those that love?
Make of two hearts, grown one, two hearts again
Distinct and alienate? or rather—for,
Judging mine own Fernando's heart by mine,
That can't be done—untwine two lives, which love
Has drawn together till they grow like tendrils,
Knotted and interwreathed, that without bruising
You cannot part them—maybe killing them?
It should not be, and shall not! Now the chances?
No let can I divine to sway Fernando,
Except that father, yet he knows not of;
And whom, new found, new feelings welcoming,
Will, at the moment, large surrender make,
Haply at cost of love itself! What then?
Love that is steadfast brooks not sacrifice.
It may submit awhile; but, in the end,
It ever claims its own—the paramount
Of all affections! So, his love, at first
O'ercome, anon will vindicate itself.
Whereto no weak retreating, no false shame
On the part of mine, shall offer hindrance to me,
From giving 't all my help.

Enter Marguerite.
Mar.
I hear a step.

Iso.
Go see if it be his. [Marguerite goes out.]
Why should I blush
To claim my love's due right? Is love a thing
To blush for?—Love!—the choicest of all
The household pure affections, things of truth
And piety next what we owe to Heaven!
Love that makes friendship poor—that mocks enhancement—
Itself possession endless!—that's example
Of loyalty!—its master better served
Than monarchs on their thrones, his throne himself!
That more abounds in sunshine of content,
Than destiny, in clouds, to quench the light.
Whole in itself! Love, that is chastity
'Fore that of vestal perfectness!—the world
For choice, yet one with leave of Heaven selecting
And giving all beside to negligence!—
As the refiner the alloy, when once
He finds the extracted gold. He shall be mine!
The maid, that's not stanch stickler for her love,
Hath little on't to strive for. She may smile
Scornful good-bye, and turn upon her heel;
Forget and love again; or think she does—
For by the love I feel, she knows not love;
My love's a heap takes all my heart to hold,
As rich as large, and shan't be cast away!

Re-enter Marguerite.
Mar.
'Tis he!—I beckon'd him. He follows me.

Iso.
Take stand behind the hanging stealthily,
And there keep watch. And ever recollect
You are mine honour's sentinel, and bound
To let thine eye no parley hold with sleep,
So much as e'en a wink. As open as
Your eye, your ear; to note whate'er may pass,
And in thy memory to book it down,
And faithfully; for, on some syllable
May something hang, which in esteem I hold
Next to my soul's salvation! Quick! He comes.

[Marguerite hides.
Enter Fernando.
Iso.
[after a pause].
Fernando, art thou there?

Fern.
Ay, Isoline.

Iso.
Art thou indeed?

Fern.
I am.

Iso.
I note thee speak,
Yet can't believe thee there.

Fern.
Why?

Iso.
Why, Fernando!
If but the morning, noon, or afternoon,
Withdrew thee from me; when thou camest again,
Thine eyes would melt, thy breath grow scant, thy cheek
Turn pale and red; and I was ever met
Like new-found, wondrous treasure! Yesterday
It had been so.—What hath befallen to-day
To make it look so utterly unlike
Its happy fellow? Dost not joy, Fernando,
To see me?

Fern.
Joy!—Ay, as the mariner
To see the day, o'erta'en by storm at night,
But knows 'tis vain, his vessel foundering!

Iso.
Explain thy speech, my love.

Fern.
He was a friend
Who took me hence, a most dear friend, although
One that I wot not of until to-day,—
None other than a father, Isoline!

Iso.
Thou hast found a father?

Fern.
I have found a father!
And with that father I have held such converse
As hath transform'd me so—except my love—
I should not know myself; and being thus
Dissimilar to him this morning was
Thy bridegroom; from this night—that should have been
Our bridal-night—all days and nights to come
Am nothing to thee thou mayst name, except
A merchant sailor for his argosie,
That holds possession of the rock whereon
She struck and went to pieces!

Iso.
We must part!
Lovest thou me still, Fernando?

Fern.
Yes!

Iso.
As ever?

Fern.
As ever!

Iso.
Then, we do not part, my friend!

Fern.
Is't Isoline that speaks?

Iso.
Yes! Isoline!
The very maid thou know'st so call'd—a maid,
So chary of her virgin sanctity,
Thee, her betrothed—thee, her almost espoused,
She challenges to tell the moment, only,
She gave thee license, she would bar thee name,
Or blush to hear thee do so. Lo, the strait
She is in!—at such an hour—in such a place
To parley with thee, and the argument
Her grievance—thy default—default in love!
In love, Fernando!—thy default in that,
Wherein that she fell short was the reproach
Thou wont'st to urge against her, to the day
The very hour she gave thee slow consent
To lead her to the priest.

Fern.
Heaven witness!—

Iso.
Peace!
No words—save such as make reply to questions.
We part—why? Lies the reason at my door?
Am I to blame? Then fit we part! If not,
It is not fit! I have no right to suffer.
Suffer, Fernando!—Did you hear me?—Heavens!
The boon, with showers of tears and gusts of sighs
You won from me, I call it suffering,
To find you would not take! But I'm a woman,
Strong in the faculty your nobler sex
Advance large claims to, with most poor pretensions—
Once cleaving, cleaving still. We shall not part.
You think to leave me! Try! The cement, that
Becomes a portion of the things it joins,
So that as soon you tear themselves apart
As them from it, not more tenaciously
Keeps hold than I! Piecemeal they may disjoin us,
But perfect, never!

Fern.
Isoline!

Iso.
Fernando!
When I consented to become thy wife,
I gave myself to thee. A thousand rites
Not more had made me thine. I was thy wife
That very hour—that very minute! All
Ties of reserves, heeds, other interests,
That held my heart from thee I snapp'd at once,
And like a woman gave it thee, entire!
Whole and for ever!—ay, so gave it thee,
Were I and all my race in slavery,
And it, the ransom, which, on paying down,
The shackles would fall off—gall as they might,
They must remain. I could not take it back,
Not even if I would.

Fern.
Nay, Isoline!

Iso.
Nay, hear me out, Fernando. There is a ward
By nature set o'er the true woman's heart,
Undream'd of by thy sex, except the few
Of the true manhood, that contemplate them
With delicate regards. Without that ward
Woman is won and lost, and lost and won,
As oft we see; but, with it, won—lost never;
Though won unworthily—a contradiction,
Yet proof of her pure nature! which, it seems,
Falls to thy lot to test. You are, here, to take
The oath, I vow'd to take along with thee.

Fern.
I cannot take it.

Iso.
Cannot! You have a voice
And organs apt to frame it into speech,
Most pliant ones, as I can testify!

Fern.
I may not take it.

Iso.
May not! What are you?
What are you, sir! a ward, or a free man
Acting his part upon his own account—
Upon his own responsibility?

Fern.
I may not for thy sake.

Iso.
For my sake, sir!
The sand of the very hour you gave me leave
To look to myself, is running still!—not half,
Nor quarter out! For shame, to wrong me first,
And then to mock me!

Fern.
I must take an oath—

Iso.
When?—where?—to whom? No matter! You were bound
To me, before, to take an oath—and shall—
And judge me worthily as you're a man!
But that I have a title to thy hand—
But that 'tis mine, upon the warranty
Of Earth and Heaven, that heard thee say 'twas mine—
Brought it the wealth and power of all the thrones
That glitter on the earth, and I could have it
By only asking for it—ere I could speak
The word, I'd choke, blacken before thee, fall
A corpse at thy feet!

Fern.
Now let me speak! To wed thee
Is wedding thee to misery!

Iso.
Content;
I will wed misery.

Fern.
My Isoline,
Thou wouldst ally thee to a house, the foe
Of thee and all thy race!

Iso.
Unto that house
Will I ally myself.

Fern.
The consequences!

Iso.
Be they the worst, I am prepared for them.
I'll take them all on mine own head.

Fern.
The strife that's sure to come!—Man as I am, my soul
Sickens to think on't.

Iso.
Woman as I am,
I dare it to come on.

Fern.
Rivers of blood
Will flow!

Iso.
They are welcome, though my veins be breathed
To help the flood.—Redeem your promise, sir!

Fern.
O, Isoline! By this dear hand—

Iso.
Hold off!
In the relation wherein now we stand,
I will not suffer even touch from thee!
Nor shalt thou trifle with me—for to speak
Or act, save to the point, is only trifling.
Here—in the oratory—close at hand,—
Attends the holy man, whose offices
You craved, this morning, and, at my entreaty,
Though strangely summon'd, hardly would forego.
Follow me to him! Take my hand before him!
Plight with me troth for troth!—or here remain
Till night gives up her watch to day, and then,
Departing hence, to crown thy bounty, leave me
A spotless maiden with a blasted name!

Fern.
Thou couldst not dream of such perdition, and
To bring it on thyself!

Iso.
Men cannot dream
What desperate things a desperate woman dreams,
Until they see her act them!

Fern.
Desperate!

Iso.
Yes, desperate! Sweet patience! Men go mad
To lose their hoards of pelf, when hoards as rich
With industry may come in time again!
Yet they go mad—It happens every day!
Have not some slain themselves? Yet if a maid—
Who finds that she has nothing garner'd up
Where she believed she had a heart in store
For one she gave away—is desperate,
You marvel at her! Marvel!—when the mines
Of all the earth are poor as beggary
To make her rich again! Am I ashamed
To tell thee this?—No!—Save the love we pay
To Heaven, none purer, holier, than that
A virtuous woman feels for him she'd cleave
Through life to. Sisters part from sisters—brothers
From brothers—children from their parents—but
Such woman from the husband of her choice
Never!—Give me the troth you promised me.

Fern.
Never didst thou reflect that I was born
In Sicily?

Iso.
I know thou'rt a Sicilian.

Fern.
Didst ne'er reflect upon it?

Iso.
To what end
Should I reflect?

Fern.
To spurn me as a man
Devoid of honour!

Iso.
Who dares call thee so?

Fern.
He who dares speak the truth. Thou know'st—thou must—
The wrongs my country suffers!

Iso.
Yes: I know
She suffers wrongs. I have wept for them, Fernando.

Fern.
Have you?—Have you wept for them? I have heard them
Without a tear! Am I a man of honour?

Iso.
What good were it to weep?

Fern.
None—but to feel
As you could weep—and then, with manlier thought,
Let fiery revenge instead of pity
Start into your eye and look the wronger dead!—
That—that were good. It were becoming, too,
In one who owes his birth to Sicily.
I have not done so! O, I have play'd a part
Most mean and spiritless!—Have proffer'd smiles
Where it behoved me to hurl frowns!—exchanged
Kind speech for curses, and griped hands with men,
With whom, had I clash'd daggers, I had done
The proper thing! What must men think of me?
Is there a lip I know, which, did it speak
The heart of the owner, would not curl at me?
O, shame!—to be despised! regarded as
A thing, the man who understood himself
Would use his foot to!—to despise one's self!
That's it! The scorn of all the world beside
I could endure, had I my own respect;
But that is lost. No man can call me worse
Than I behold myself.

Iso.
Fernando—

Fern.
Nay!
Suffer me speak, for it relieves my heart!
And as you love me—which I know you do—
Do not gainsay me! I am a wretch more fit
To die than live!—and yet not fit to die!
For of all sins that on their heads men bear,
The heaviest, because the instrument
Of widest injury, are those which they
Commit against their country. I am fit
For nothing but a beacon, to point out
The rock whereon my honour suffer'd wreck,
That other men's may 'scape it.

Iso.
Was that rock
Thy love for me?

Fern.
Love?—Love?—What do I know
Of love? Where is the love I ought to bear
My country? Love?—It is a holy passion!
Generous!—exalted!—with integrity,
Lasting, as adamant!—He can know nothing
Of love like that who does not love his country!

Iso.
Lov'st thou not me?

Fern.
Old Angelo Martini!

Iso.
Lov'st thou not me?

Fern.
Angelo, my old master,
Who taught me how to guard a life, and take one,
Was murder'd yesterday, because he slew
A miscreant—the foulest in the list
Of Infamy's pernicious sons!—was hunted
Like a wild beast that's from a thicket sprung
By dogs, and chased for sport! I might have saved him,
And didn't!—Why?—Because my heart was rotten!
I owed him manly knowledge—kindness—love.
He loved me as his son. I suffer'd them
To hunt him!—worry him to death! I did.
Am I a man at all?

Iso.
Lovest thou not me?

Fern.
Ay, Isoline, as much
As such a wretch can love!—Love thee?—I do,
And holily—if holy thing can dwell
In most unhallow'd habitation. Love thee?
How dare I love thee? Temple as thou art
Of tenderness, of chastity, and truth;
Truth most ingenuous! Is it thy arms
I should aspire to?—Thine, my Isoline!
Whose foot ne'er spurn'd from thee a thing, so base,
As that which now, in utter misery,
I cast before it.

[Dashing himself upon the ground.
Iso.
Rise, Fernando, rise,
My lord—My love! What has afflicted thee
To this severe extremity? Fernando!
Thou scarest me! This passion hath no reason!
'Tis wantonness of frenzy!—Dost thou hear me?
If not thyself, dear love—consider me!
That's right!—that's kind!—Give me thy hand and rise.
I dream'd not this. Thank Heaven you're calmer! O
I thought I loved thee all that I could love,
But now I find my love, disdaining bounds,
Is endless and unfathomable. Now
I find I loved thee but a little, and
With that remain'd contented; never dreaming
How misery endears, and what a heap
Of love was yet to come in company
With thy affliction. What shall I do for thee!
I am thy bane—a blight—a canker to thee!
Shall I die?

[Plucks a dagger from his girdle.
Fern.
Hold!—Stop!—Nay, let my dagger go!

Iso.
You have griped hands, you said, with those with whom
You ought to have clash'd daggers, and 'twas done
For me!—Don't hurt me, dear Fernando! There!

[Lets go the dagger.
Fern.
Are you mad?

Iso.
No!—Calm as you are—you shall see.
[Goes to the door and throws it open.
The door is free!—The first, the last embrace!
And go!

Fern.
Part?—Never! Thou art in my arms!
Thou shalt not leave them but for the embrace,
Succeeds the knot, that makes us one for ever!
Come woe!—come death!—come every kind of bane!
Thou pattern of devotion! Thou true woman!
Thou ruby worth a mine, and fitly set!
Which is the way?—Where bides the holy man?
Is that the portal to the oratory?
What means thy cheek by dropping on my breast?
Does it say “Yes?”—Hold up, mine own dear love,
And come along. We'll kneel to Heaven to-night,
And trust to it for to-morrow.—Come, love, come.

[They go out.