University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—A Chamber in the Castle.
Enter Le Clerc and Francois.
Fran.
Is this a bridal feast, where all seem glad
Except the bride and bridegroom? Do you note
Their looks?

Le Clerc.
I do; and might I read thereby
Their hearts, I should infer them ill at ease.

Fran.
When were their nuptials solemnized?

Le Clerc.
Last night,
And very privately. You did not know—
You are but new arrived from Syracuse?

Fran.
Only in time to see the festival,
If I may call it so, in honour of them.

Le Clerc.
You know not then their nuptials were appointed
For yesterday—were on the very eve
Of taking place; nor what prevented them?

Fran.
No.

Le Clerc.
This way, then, and I shall tell you. Here
Are company might interrupt us. Come!

[They go out.
Enter Martel and Ambrose.
Mar.
Abstraction half so deep ne'er saw I yet
In one so high in favour with good fortune!
Excess of happiness, like that of grief,
Will palsy feeling, till the owner seems not
To know how hugely blest he is; but still
Some token shows the nature of the lapse;
Here, none. Within the table's breadth of him
I sat, and mark'd him. 'Twas not feasting, sir;
He seem'd as he were jealous of the viands,
Like one upon his guard 'gainst poison'd meats.
He did not eat, but taste; while, at his side,
His bride—whose eyes, purveyors never weary
Of catering for their lord, kept ranging still
The table over, to select for him
Whate'er was daintiest—with busy lips,
Like pages who their errands blushing tell,
Commended to him ever and anon
The well-selected cheer, but all in vain.

Amb.
I craved his leave to pledge him in a cup.
He took the cup; but straight its use forgetting,
Began to pore upon the rich contents:
Then, as a thing one does mechanically,
Raising it to his lip, without the due
And custom'd courtesy, he tasted it
And set it down again.

Mar.
Remark'd you not
How strainingly he fix'd upon the door
His eyes, whene'er it chanced to open, as
He look'd for one to enter, he had rather
Should keep away?

Amb.
That struck me very much,
And brought to mind the unwelcome visitor,
Whose errand stopp'd his nuptials yesterday.

Mar.
So was't with me. For him, or some one like him,
Be sure he look'd, with more of certainty
Than doubt.—The bride and bridegroom, and alone!
Let us withdraw, nor mar their privacy.

[They go out.
Enter Fernando and Isoline.
Fern.
You are right, my love; the grape is generous,
And, used in the wise proportion, cheers the heart.

Iso.
You are better!—are you not?

Fern.
Much!—very much!

Iso.
O, blessed union that of two makes one!
Could I, dear love, have bought the world just now
By paying down for it one hearty smile,
I must have lost the bargain, seeing thee
Without one! It was otherwise before!
How often have I smiled at that same want!
But, now, come o'er your looks the slightest cloud,
All light of mine is gone.—Fernando!—Love!
Is it not sweetest partnery?

Fern.
It is.

Iso.
It is, indeed, my love! Say as I do!
It is, indeed, most sweet!

Fern.
Indeed, it is.
Was't not the castle portal open'd now?
I know its ponderous sound! 'Tis shut again!
It was the portal!

Iso.
Whom look you for, dear love?
All your good spirits gone!

Fern.
No, Isoline;
Not all of them!—not half!—not any of them!
We'll spend the evening joyously, dear love!
Out-do the god of merriment himself;
And when he's out of laughter, lend him some,
And still, ourselves, hold on! Who's there?

Enter Eugene and Others.
Eug.
My lord,
We are passing to the ball-room.

Fern.
Pray pass on.
And keep the measure up!

Eug.
We shall, my lord.

[Going out with others.
Fern.
That's right; and so shall I!

Iso.
So do! dear love!
For me!—your Isoline!—your bride!—your wife!

Fern.
You are my wife!—The treasure of my heart
Is treasure of my arms! Who rich as I,
And says he is not happy? Then is he
Beyond the ministering of content,
And be despair his portion! I am not
A man like that.

Iso.
My love, this cheer makes sad.

Fern.
Makes sad?

Iso.
It is not of the kind, gives cheer.
It wants a quiet.

Fern.
Wants a quiet? Here
Lay on my brow this white and velvet hand
Thou gavest me yesterday.

Iso.
It burns, dear love;
And yet how pale it is!

Fern.
I have seen a man
In fever—and he burn'd, and yet was pale—
Pale as a corpse!

Iso.
Thou hast no fever?

Fern.
No.
The cup has pass'd too often to my lips—
Not much—only a time or two!—What proves
A spark to one, another finds a fire.
Don't heed it, dearest life!—O, what a hand!
What could be spared of it, or added to it?
Shape?—No! Hue?—No! Touch?—No! Does it breathe? It does!
The airs of heaven! I will inhale them nearer!

[Kissing her hand.
Iso.
You flatter, dearest lord!

Fern.
No, by my love!

Iso.
Yea, by your love, indeed, dear lord, you do!
You are a culprit, who for witness calls
The arch accomplice that would swear him off.

Fern.
By all— [Louis enters.]
Ha!—'Sdeath, you tread on tiptoe, sir,
You are at my elbow ere I think you there!

Louis.
Your pardon! I was musing, sir, and thus
Moved slow. 'Tis strange! but in the ball-room, now,
One cross'd me in a mask, and made me start,
By something in his carriage and his form
Resembling one I must have met before,
But where I cannot guess. Whoe'er it be,
A feeling of mistrust that cross'd my heart,
Assures me 'twas no friend.

Fern.
What? Seem'd he old
Or young?

Louis.
Men's figures do not tell their years
Well as their faces do; yet would I say,
Guessing, thereby, his progress on life's road,
He stands more near the end, than setting out.

Fern.
Commanding in his air?

Louis.
Very.

Fern.
His gait
Of most assured tread?

Louis.
Yea, as he spurn'd
The ground he walk'd on. He and I have met,
But when, or where, or upon what occasion,
I can't recall, nor till I do, can rest.
Farewell, and pardon me. 'Tis very strange!

[Goes out.
Iso.
[To Fernando, who is lost in thought.]
Dear husband, you conjecture something! What?

Fern.
Nothing!

Iso.
O, love, be honest!—It is best
Always.—If evil comes of it, at worst
We have been honest—That will comfort us.
Come!—I will show you, what I teach, I do.
I don't believe our union will be bless'd!
You start!—and you yourself assured me so,
And now I tell it you!—I don't believe it.
What then?—Do I repent our union? No!
My heart has had its wish—I am thy wife.
Knew I that I should die the very moment
The priest should bless us, and declare us one,
I had married thee and yielded up my spirit,
Thanking the gracious Heavens, most bountiful,
Which for that little moment made thee mine.
Then cheer thee, love; and be assured of this—
Were we to live the threescore years and ten,
And then to die, being what now we are,
We could not die more happy! Lose not now
With care for by-and-by, whate'er may come;
But leave't, with trust, to Heaven!

Fern.
I'll do thy will!
I'll be myself!—The ball-room!—Come, love, come!

SCENE II.

—A Ball-Room.
Fernando, Isoline, and Others discovered.—A Dance.
Fern.
Surely the lightsomest, most graceful form,
And act of merriment! I'd give the world
To have the mood of him who danced just now.
How he appear'd to poise him in the air,
As he could hang there at his will, by which
Alone he seem'd to come to earth again!
He did not spring, but fly from step to step!
With joints that had not freer play'd, methinks,
Were hinges made of air and theirs were such!
Yet could they plant themselves, I warrant me,
To meet a shock! These spirits are fine things,
Subtle as quicksilver; only they freeze
Sooner than water; one cold breath, and ice!

Iso.
Will you not dance?

Fern.
No.

Iso.
'Tis expected, love,
Upon your nuptial day.

Fern.
I would not dance.

Iso.
No more would I, dear love, to please myself;
But we must help the mirth that's made for us,
Else will it flag, and die. A feast, in this,
Is like a fray, wherein the side is lost
Whose leader is not foremost, cheering it.
For my sake only! I must bear the blame,
Seem you to lack content. They will believe
That you repent you of your bargain, love.
Would you like that?—What had you done a month
Ago, had I refused to dance with you?
How had you look'd as all the world were lost;
Urged me again—again; at every turn
Your voice yet more attuning to the tone
That melts; invoking me in the dear name
Of Pity and whate'er is kin to her.
I had heard, in these things, marriage turns the tables,
And she, that once was woo'd, must turn to woo,
But little dream'd to find it out so soon.

Fern.
Sweet love, we'll dance! Thy fair hand give to me,
And, with it, give thy pardon.

Iso.
There, Fernando.
A set!—A set!—The bride and bridegroom's set!
Partners!—Your fair friends, gentlemen—A set
To try the breath!—Ho, music there!—A strain
Of brilliant figure!

[Procida, in the dress of a cavalier, and masked, appears opposite to Fernando, who at once recognises him.
Mar.
Hear you, sirs? The bride
Commands the dance—Your very newest strain,
So 'tis the choicest, too. We are ready, madam,
So please you take your place.

Iso.
Fernando, what's
The matter?—Who is he you gaze upon?
Do you know him?

Fern.
Don't you recollect him?

Iso.
No—
Not in that mask. Who is he?

Fern.
Never mind!

Iso.
His presence troubles you! Whoe'er he is,
I'll have him straight removed.

Fern.
Not for the world!
He wants me!

Iso.
Let him wait till by-and-by!
I'll speak to him myself and pray him go,
And come some other time.

Fern.
Stay, Isoline!
I would not for a mine thou spokest to him!
I'll speak to him myself!

Iso.
Remember, love,
The dance is waiting.

Fern.
Were't a king that waited,
He must, until I spoke to him that's yonder!
Where can I take him to?—to be alone?

Iso.
The garden.

Fern.
Right! When we have made an end,
By the west door he can depart unseen.

Iso.
O, husband!

Fern.
Let me have my way in this,
For I must! Look, love! Not surer to thy wrist
Is knit thy hand than I am knit to thee!
They cannot sever us, but I must perish!
So now, no let, love, if you value me!

Iso.
Our friends, who look for us—

Fern.
He looks for me!
Women, they say, are at invention quick—
Prove it so now, and never more was need;
And be my sweet apologist.
[Crosses to Procida.
Say naught,
But follow me!

[Procida and Fernando disappear among the Company.
Iso.
Your pardon, friends, I pray you.
One, in some case of keenest urgency,
That needs my husband's presence, takes him hence.
Pray you proceed. I'll play the looker-on
Till he repairs his fault to you and me,
Taking his promised place. The music, there!

A Dance.
Louis.
[Entering hastily.]
Break off the dance!—an enemy is here!
Lady, I have recall'd the name of him
Whose presence struck me so unwelcomely—
A foe, the subtlest and most powerful
That France could find in Sicily! When, lately,
On mission from the king I was sojourning
At the court of Spain, came thither a Sicilian
With charges foul 'gainst France, and praying aid
To second some great blow, he said, the friends
Of Sicily meditated. That same man
Is he whose presence like an apparition
Just now oppress'd me, as I told you—his name
Is John di Procida! I have alarm'd
The guard; apprised your father of his danger,
And search is now on foot, which all must join.

[The Company at once disperse in various directions— occasionally passing to and fro in the back-ground.
Iso.
Ambrose!—Le Clerc! Sirs, you are men of honour.
You know me, too, a woman of that kin.
You'll do my bidding, whatsoe'er it is?

Amb. and Le Clerc.
Yes; by these tokens.

[Kissing the hilts of their swords.
Iso.
Good sirs, follow me!

[They go out.

SCENE III.

—The Garden of the Castle.
Enter Procida and Fernando.
Fern.
Now, sir, your will with me?

Pro.
That's right! I am glad
Thou darest not call me father! 'Tis a sign
Thou hast a sense of shame, and that's a virtue,
Although a poor one, fitter far to weep at
Than smile at. You have done your father's will?
You are ready for that oath?

Fern.
I'll not deny
My disobedience, sir.

Pro.
You'll not deny?
You can't!—You have married her! Yet, if my son,
Though in the one engagement thou hast fail'd,
Thou, yet, wilt keep the other.

Fern.
Take that oath?
I cannot now!

Pro.
You can!—You ought!—You shall!

Fern.
I am a man, sir!

Pro.
Ay? What kind of one?

Fern.
May be a weak one; yet I dare abide
The issue of my weakness, and I will.
Not breaking trust with those, it has misled
To knit their fates to mine.

Pro.
You call this manhood?
Ay, in a man not worth the name of one!
How darest thou prate of keeping trust to me,
With whom thou hast so vilely broken trust?
So lately, too! Thou promisedst yesterday
To bring me back my son to me! Where is he, sir?
Why must I come to seek him, and, instead,
Behold a recreant!

Fern.
Better, sir, we part,
Than hold discourse on terms unequal thus,
That I must bear, alone, and you inflict.

Pro.
No! We won't part! You come along with me!

Fern.
Never!

Pro.
As you're my son, I'll have it so!

Fern.
I'll not forsake the woman of my soul,
Who to my bosom hath herself surrender'd.
Come woe! Come shame! Come ruin! True to me,
I'll not forsake her! Yea, come death, I'll clasp her
Long as my breast can heave!

Pro.
You think this manhood
Again? Sir! 'tis not what a man dares do,
Nor what's expected from him by a man,
But what Heaven orders him to do,—'tis that
He should do. Heaven expects we keep its laws;
May we make league then with the foes of Heaven?
Or having made it, may we keep it? No!—
Else we shall forfeit heaven! This base alliance
Is even such a league. Break it!

Fern.
No!

Pro.
No?—
Listen, degenerate boy! I'll tell thee that,
In tearing which from me thou dost as bad
As though my breast thou shouldst rip open, and
Pluck out my heart alive! You never knew
A mother?

Fern.
I remember there was one
Upon whose breast I used to lie.

Pro.
'Twas she.
She had a mother's breast—the heart, within,
Becoming its fair lodge—adorning it
With all the sweet affections of her sex,
And holy virtues that keep watch for them!
Thou art like her! Dost thou mark? Thou art like her now;
And so, I saw thou wast, upon her lap;
A little baby looking up at her!
Thou wast her first child, and her only one!
Thou mayst believe she loved thee!

Fern.
Does she live?

Pro.
No; did she live, I were not now, perhaps,
Debating with thee. Thou hadst granted her
What thou deniest me. Wouldst thou behold her?
Look here! Was that a woman?

[Drawing a miniature from his breast.
Fern.
O, how fair!

Pro.
Was that a woman?

Fern.
Yes!

Pro.
No, boy! She was
An angel!

[Putting up the miniature.
Fern.
Let me look again!

[Procida holds it to Fernando, who takes it, and after looking at it, is about to kiss it.
Pro.
Forbear!
Thou shalt not kiss it! No, nor breathe upon it!
There is contact on thy lips, at thought of which,
Had she survived the ruin of my hold,
And now were living, that sweet face, thou seest
The limning of, had to the 'haviour turn'd
Of deadly loathing!—of black horror!—aught
That's removed farthest from that smile of Heaven!
Had any mock'd that face, what were he to thee?

Fern.
An enemy!

Pro.
Had any smitten it?

Fern.
I had lopp'd his hand off, and then smitten him
To the heart!

Pro.
Had any brought the blush upon it—
The burning blush which innocence endures,
Compell'd by him who does a deed so damn'd
That murder spurns it, will not bide with it?

Fern.
I had hack'd him limb from limb!—slain him by inches!

Pro.
Thou hadst!

Fern.
I had!

Pro.
Back to the castle, then;
To the room I brought thee from, the festal room,
Where for thy nuptials they keep holiday,
And when thou meet'st the master of the mirth,
The Governor—the father of thy wife—
Him thou art now a son to—tell him—mark me!
Tell him—that very—that identical man—
He was the miscreant, to thy mother did
That very shame!—then nerve thy filial arm,
And hack him limb by limb and inch by inch,
As though in every atom lay the heart
Of the accursed spoiler.—Go!—Do that,
And then come back; and kiss thy mother's face!

Fern.
I hear, and doubt I hear.

Pro.
Then list again,
And doubt no more. 'Twas during a brief truce.
He was my guest—a guest 's a sacred thing;
But, if he is, a host is sacred too.
Thy mother vied with me in ministering to him
The rites of hospitality—and what
Was the return?—Such love indulged for her,
As meditated bane of life to me!
He did not dare to breathe it—he but look'd it!
She saw what troubled her, and like a wife
Perfect in honour—of herself best guardian—
At once refused her presence on some plea
That warded chance of quarrel, while it balk'd
Licentiousness of opportunity.
This when the truce was ended, told she me.
Dost thou breathe thick?—I do, and must take breath,
For what's to come. You listen, do you not?
You look like stone!

Fern.
I know not what I am!

Pro.
Well!—War again.—Where was your father?—Where
Behoves a loyal subject be—in the ranks
Of the king when he takes the field.—You know we lost
The day. Palermo, Syracuse, Messina,
All bent the knee to the conqueror. Was I
His subject? No!—Was I a rebel to him?
No!—Why then should I be proscribed?

Fern.
Proscribed!

Pro.
I was so!—Keep thy wonder! What's behind
Will want it. Through the arts of that same man—
Of him that's now thy father through thy union
With his pernicious child—was thy own father
Proscribed. Have patience! His possessions cast
At the feet of a licentious soldiery
To scramble for and ravage.

Fern.
Infamy!

Pro.
I say again have patience. “Infamy!”
No, not at all—not worth a passing frown,
The deed 's to come. My castle yet remain'd;
That, the arch-spoiler to himself reserved
For plunder—for thy mother shelter'd there!
She was the quarry which this bird of prey
Had mark'd out for his pounce—which, when he saw
'Twas sure, he made!—swept down with ruthless wing,
When none was near to cleave him ere he struck,
Or scare him from his prey! Do you hear a shriek?

Fern.
Sir?

Pro.
Do you hear a shriek?

Fern.
No.

Pro.
Are you sure?

Fern.
I am; for never do I hear a shriek
But my heart leaps as through my breast 'twould burst
Its way! I cannot bear to hear a shriek!

Pro.
Thou heard'st thy mother's! as the ravisher
Waved o'er thy head his coward blade, through terror
At thy impending death, to win from her,
What, sooner than yield up, she had lost, herself,
A hundred thousand lives!—She swoon'd away!
My heart turns sick, and my brain reels! Thy arm!—
Away! thou worse than matricide—Thy touch
With a new horror strings my nerves anew!

Fern.
Why was this tale reserved?—not told before?

Pro.
Because I found thee apt, as I believed,
In taking up the hint of honour; nor
Admitted fear it could be thrown away.
Life's strong in me to tell the tale and live!
How she contrived escape, to tell it me,
It matters not—the last word cost her dear—
'Twas bought with her last breath.—You come with me?

Fern.
I am a dooméd man!—My lot, on earth,
Is cast in utter misery!—For me,
Not in the wide world blooms that blessed spot
I can find comfort in!

Pro.
Find Duty, boy;
And take thy chance for comfort!

Fern.
I can't leave her!
Do wrong to her, did ever good to me!
I took her for all chance, and through all chance
I'll cleave to her! In cloud I wedded her,
And thunder shall not scare me from her now!
No blame is hers.—I swear that she is good.
Loves holily as heartily. Is a gem
Of crystal truth—a mine of every ore
Of excellence—a paragon of worth,
Well as a paragon of loveliness!
Is she her father's hand or foot, that you
Or I should spurn her for her father's fault?
High Heaven framed her, as it frames us all,
Not of the temper of our parentage,
But of the attributes itself vouchsafes us.
Heaven framed her to be loved—if to be loved,
Then, cherish'd!—I have sworn to cherish her—
I'll keep my oath!—I will not give her up.

Pro.
Then, must I leave thee to thy fate!

Iso.
[Entering.]
Stop, sir!
You are John of Procida!

Pro.
I am.

Iso.
The foe
Of France; and, chiefly, of a son of hers
Who calls me child.

Pro.
I am the foe of France,
And chiefly foe of him thou speakest of.

Iso.
What madness brought thee hither?

Pro.
Madness?—Right!
Hope of reclaiming a degenerate son,
Spell-bound by love where it behoves him loathe!

Iso.
Your life's in jeopardy!—You are discover'd!
Come in there!—Gentlemen, you'll guard him safely,
And suffer none to question him or touch him;
Nor must you leave him till he is thoroughly
Beyond the reach of danger.

Pro.
Gracious powers!
Do you rebuke me?—is it thus you show it?

Iso.
You are my enemy—and yet my father!
Father to him—to me a dearer self!
I'll answer with my life, sir, for the safety
Of every hair of your head.

Pro.
Fernando!

Fern.
Sir?

Pro.
Come hither!—Lady, place your hand in mine.
These hands that met, till now, against my will,
Now, with my will, I join, and add thereto
My blessing!—May I, Heaven?—I ask too late!
'Tis done!—A promise, lady!

Iso.
It is given!

Pro.
See that it be fulfill'd. You will repair
To-night, ere at the zenith stops the moon,
There, westward of Messina, on the coast,
Where, when the waves and winds are boisterous,
The fishermen their little fleets embay,
And, in their snug huts nestling at their ease,
Smile and grow jocund at the storm without.
You know the place?

Iso.
I do—I will be there!

Pro.
And so will I—and you shall find a friend!

[They go out severally.