University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—Interior of the Ducal Palace.
Enter Frankendall, alone.
I've pull'd a business on my head, of which
My mind misgives me. Is it honourable
To play the eaves-dropper thus—and bait my nets
To catch stray scandals,—to rake even for truth
'Mid the court spy's base refuse? Did I doubt
As to the merits of mine occupation,
I need do so no longer. When a man
Devises mischief, 'tis the devil's device
To send fit instruments; and in the nick,
Here comes a vain, pert, waiting, court coquette,
As voluble as is her mistress' parrot—
As worthless, as unprincipled, as mischievous,
And scarce more secret. I have seen, of late,
She and that slippery smooth-tongued Jack o' the Duke's
Have some intelligence. Whether she cheat him,
Or he cheat her, 'tis equal; for I have
The key to both. She's here. I'll strain my humour
To keep the golden mean 'twixt jest and earnest.
Her female instinct, doubtless, hath inform'd her
That weightiest points are oftest hinted so.
Now for my cue.

Enter Fiametta.
Ah! is it you, Signora?
How does your beauty for this many a day?—
I've had a cruel interval to pine.

FIAMETTA.
Are you dull, Signor?

FRANKENDALL.
How should I be other,
Not seeing thee, Fiametta?

FIAMETTA.
Why, 'tis pity—
When thou didst see me, thou wast dull enough.

FRANKENDALL.
Marry, a worn-out suitor of the court,
Whose pains have brought him, as it oft falls out,
Fair words and disappointment, hath enough
To fill his brain with cobwebs. But for thee,
Why, thou hast kept my case so long in hand,
That time decides it for thee. Well, what help?
He who hath lived through twenty years of courtship,
May e'en survive the end on't—ay or no.

FIAMETTA.
If I had listen'd twenty years to thee,
Sweet captain, I might boast a well spent life.
Why, thou unblushing libertine—how long is't
Since thou first knew'st my name?

FRANKENDALL.
Nay, pardon me,
Sweet Fiametta; think'st thou I could mean
That thou wast young—some twenty years ago?
No, no; thou but fill'st up the odd three years,
The last and brightest. I was hurt before;
Now I am slain; and therefore am I dull.

FIAMETTA.
Thou art an insolent.

FRANKENDALL.
True, I am old.
There's Signor Sanzio, the Duke's silken officer,
Who speaks beneath his breath, and ever sits
Mum—with his hands across—demurely—thus;
He's good ten years my junior, at the least;
And none of those same roysterers—whom thou hatest.

FIAMETTA.
Sanzio, forsooth,—you shall not be my broker,
Depend upon't.

FRANKENDALL.
Nay, he hath all the secrets;
A marvellous commendation here at court;
And thou, as ladies sometimes do, may'st wed him
Merely for curiosity.

FIAMETTA.
I must
Be curious, indeed, ere I do that.

FRANKENDALL.
Why, get the secrets, then, without the man.
And if thou'lt take me, I'll accept of thee
And them for dower. I joke not—entre nous—
They were worth gold; and that more ways than one.
Nay, never look at me, for this is truth.—
But I stand trifling here. Sweet Fiametta,
When shall I see thee next?

FIAMETTA.
Whene'er I have
As much ill luck. Heaven grant it may be long!

FRANKENDALL.
Ah me! not long. I will go furbish up
My best behaviours, which are safe laid by
With my dad's wedding suit; ay, and I'll promise
To make love to thee but when thou desirest.
(Aside.)
—Methinks I may say that safely enough.
And now, what canst thou say?

FIAMETTA.
Why, get thee gone!
Thou'lt ne'er be wiser.

FRANKENDALL.
Not till I am married.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

—The Interior of the Ducal Palace.
Enter Ignatio.
Would that Giavanni were return'd!—Oh guilt!
What work thou makest here!—Methinks I feel
Like one who walks beneath an avalanche,
A whisper may bring down. How meanly sore
Are breasts like mine! A Prince! by Heaven, my soul
Lags on her journey, and doth droop the head,
Despised and mournful, like a sorry jade,
Gall'd to the quick with some unworthy burthen!—
I am worn with apprehension; and a flood
Of chill dismay rushes into my breast,
E'en if a mouse stir—yea, a portal's jar
Shocks to my inmost heart, that, like the aspen,
Trembles with scarce a breath. This keen suspense
Is past the bearing almost.
Oh! how happy
Could I not live in some despised nook;
Ay, starve. For grant this minute did not know
How to procure a morsel for the next,
'Twere but to be resolved—'twere but to die—
To sink upon the bosom that was ours,
O'ercome with no dishonourable sleep,
And lull'd by all that makes the good man rest—
The love of those we love, and innocence—
No more of these for me!—O power accursed,
And splendour! Would that I had never known ye!
Why do I think?—I am lost!—Were it not better
To drown a worthless life in floods of madness,
If hot intemperance gave a short relief,
And end it so; rather than thus crawl on
In torture and dishonour?—I am desperate—
Reckless. Who is there?—Ah, yes—it is Giovanni.
Enter Giovanni.
Welcome, my friend. Say, hast thou seen—

GIOVANNI.
My lord?
There are no listeners?

IGNATIO.
Listeners! no; how should there?

GIOVANNI.
Nay, I know not, my lord.

IGNATIO.
There are no listeners.
Now tell me, hast thou seen her? Speak!

GIOVANNI.
I have;
And did deliver what your highness charged me.

IGNATIO.
Thou did'st?—How look'd she?—Hast thou not been long?

GIOVANNI.
Not longer, my dear lord, than prudence warn'd.
As for her looks—what should I say?—Poor lady,
Her state is easier to conceive than paint;
For I must speak the truth—she look'd, my lord,
As well might be expected—comfortless.

IGNATIO.
Oh, tortures!—Oh, Giovanni!—This from thee?

GIOVANNI.
My noble lord, I never have deceived you,
And never shall. I am, in truth, your friend;
So please your highness let me.

IGNATIO.
I know't, I know't;
Go on.

GIOVANNI.
I said that she look'd comfortless,
And so she did; and yet, 'midst all her grief,
She did preserve, my lord, a gentle patience,
And bore her ills with so resign'd a soul,
In sooth I joy'd to see it; and to hear it,
Methinks, should comfort you.

IGNATIO.
Comfort!—It does,
My friend; it does indeed.

GIOVANNI.
She hath requested
To be sent hence o' the sudden; and I promised
It should be so.

IGNATIO.
Right—you did well. O' the sudden?
Doubtless 'tis for the best. O God! that I
Should ever live to say so! Bear with me;
I cannot but feel, Giovanni. Did she not—
Did she not mention—me?—Why dost thou pause?
Speak out; I can bear all.

GIOVANNI.
She did, my lord.

IGNATIO.
How?—Why?—What did she say?

GIOVANNI.
She hath forgiven you—
E'en from her inmost soul, I well believe—
What cannot woman's dotage find excuse for?
Nay, pardon me, my lord; I meant no sting.
And with a trembling, tearful hesitation,
She made me briefly the ambassador
Of one request.

IGNATIO.
Request!—It shall be done.
But what (oh, God!) could she request of me?
This meekness is more cutting to my soul
Than were her sharpest anger.

GIOVANNI.
Be composed;
You tremble, my dear lord. She did request
To see you ere she went. My lord, I do
Conjure you, be composed.

IGNATIO.
The sound has struck
A blow upon my heart. I'll go, though shame
Crush me to th'earth ere I can cross her threshold;
Or agony split my heart ere I can say,
“What would'st thou?”—ere my tongue can coldly ask,
“What begs Eulalia of Ignatio?”
Oh!—Base! base! base!

GIOVANNI.
My noble lord, indeed
This is not meet.

IGNATIO.
What is not meet, Giovanni?
I'll go; and yet—What would'st thou say, my friend?

GIOVANNI.
I say, my lord, that you must do your pleasure.

IGNATIO.
So cold, Giovanni? Say, what would'st thou counsel?
Is all thy warmth of friendship come to this,
It must be stirr'd so oft?

GIOVANNI.
Mistake me not,
Sweet Prince; nor wrong me. Mine shall bear a blast,
Ay, burn the better for't, which would puff out
Those flickering and inconstant Will o' the Wisps,
Call'd “Princes' friends,” sprung from the mud o' the court,
As these are from some fen. But what of that?
This point, my lord, 'tis fit you should decide.
One thing consider'd first; you must well know
There's many a brow here, in your father's court,
Whose smiles but wreathe its hate, e'en as the flower
May hold a poison. This same peaceful junction
Of states which seem'd to live for rivalship,
This clear and peaceful current of events,
Is not for those who fish in troubled waters;
And here, God wot, there are too many such!
At least 'tis whisper'd so. To such, 'twere sport
To turn the torch of Hymen to a brand.
We must beware of them.

IGNATIO.
They cannot make me
More wretched than I am. So far, I am proof.
But thou'rt a cynic, boding ill, Giovanni.
Think'st thou such natures common?

GIOVANNI.
Common? ay.
How should we see so many treasonous wonders;
Vows white as snow turn'd black; oaths deep as midnight,
Weighty as gold, yea, and more precious, held
As lightly as the common liar's trash?
Deep-hearted trusts, which should be like the rock,
Dispersed in vapour like the fog-built coasts
That mock the peopled top-mast?—Could this be
Were they not common?—Honesty's a gem—
Is't not so call'd?—Not less because 'tis rare.
Trust not mankind, my lord.

IGNATIO.
I have done with trusting,
Who cannot trust myself. Oh! would that never
There had been need! Oh! would that I had been
Born but the heir of some unheeded cot,
Whose little smoke could scarcely top the trees
That shelter'd it!—Would that I had, for now
I'm heart-sick—O, Giovanni! sick at heart,
E'en to the core. No matter; I perceive
E'en thou despisest me. Well, I will see her;
I will not have her think that she's despised.
Wilt thou attend me?

GIOVANNI.
Were the risk, my lord,
Ten times as great as 'tis, methinks your highness
Need not have ask'd me that.

IGNATIO.
I did not need;
For surely thou art true—so pardon me.
This night, thou know'st, there is another banquet;
We'll steal away i' the midst; 'twill not be noted;
For that I ne'er was given to revellings,
And still was delicate. Be thou provided;
Thou understand'st me; and let Sanzio
Look to the horses.

GIOVANNI.
Fear me not, my lord.

IGNATIO.
Forget not change of garb and masks. Now leave me.
Say not one word to sap my resolution;
And so comport thee at the feast to-night,
As best may blind suspicion. Fare thee well!
Yet one word more—Dost thou doubt Sanzio?
I think thou can'st not; for thou know'st that he
Was not court-bred; but from the fields, like thee.

GIOVANNI.
Poor stay for innocence! Yea, 'tis marvellous,
How hearts of softest stuff, transported hither,
Straight harden, and grow stoney, like the coral
Pluck'd from its native waters.

IGNATIO.
Giovanni,
There is no end of this! Unjust suspicion
Creates what it would shun.

GIOVANNI.
Nay, I am silent.
My lord, your servant ever.

[Exit.
IGNATIO.
No; my friend;
And much I need thee. For till time hath taught—
If, (as they say,) 'twill teach forgetfulness,
And the soul alter strangely, like the sky
Which still the gazer sees is not the same
As 'twas before; and yet he sees it change not:—
Until this be—if e'er it can, to me,—
Had I no breast where to repose my griefs,
Methinks I could not live, but blind oblivion
Or madness must enwrap me. Poor Eulalia!
Who shall share thine? Will thy unsullied soul
Not waste itself away, e'en like the diamond
That knows no baser mixture, with a fire
Pure as itself?
These thoughts are torture. Oh!
Teach me thy lesson, kind forgetfulness;
Though 'tis a hard one. Being what I am,
Tell me not, memory, of what I was,
Or what I might have been. These musings poison
My very rest. In days of happier hours
I well remember once of having dream'd
That I was born again, some shepherd's son,
In Tempe, or the islands of the blest,
Or 'neath some commonwealth by Plato built,
Living 'mid pleasant groves and sunny fields,
In pastoral innocent bliss. That dream last night
Came to my pillow; and besides itself,
Shew'd me, methought, the forms of smiling hours,
When it first hover'd o'er me. Oh, what pain
It was to wake to cursed remembrance; and
To feel hot—scalding tears start in mine eyes;
And shrink in guilt from her that rested by me;
And pray that I might sleep once more—my last—
Nor dream, nor wake, again.
I'm press'd to the earth.
Perchance the balmy air may yield some medicine—
I'll seek it.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

—The Interior of the Ducal Palace.
Enter Leonora, the Duke, Count Beltran, Sanzio, and Fiametta.
DUKE.
Well, Count, since duty is so obstinate,
And presses you away, I leave you to
A better oracle. Let her towards whom
That duty flows, e'en moderate its current.
The Princess must decide it.

BELTRAN.
Sir, your highness,
In every thing too good, shall pardon me;
For that I have a duty paramount
To what I owe even to your condescension.
My noble and all-gracious mistress may,
And can dispose of me, even with a breath,
As best may suit her will and dignity.

DUKE.
Why, then, most dutiful Lord Conservator,
You, and the Princess, and my boy Ignatio,
Shall argue it; but two to one, Lord Viceroy—
Your province has a longer carnival—
You'll go not hence these ten days. Save you, sir.
[Exit Duke.

BELTRAN.
Your highness's servant.—
(Aside.)
She looks haughtily.
No matter.—May it please your highness, madam,
To ratify now my departure hence?

LEONORA.
Methinks you're anxious, sir, to leave us; and
If so, we give good-morrow either way
To guests who come or go.

BELTRAN.
Pardon me, madam,
If my anxiety to discharge that trust
With which the Prince, your husband, and yourself,
Have honour'd me, shall make me seem too careless
Of aught besides that trust. I do beseech you,
Misconstrue me no further. In all things,
Without exception or reserve, I wait
Your highness' pleasure; and my zeal, if hasty,
Is tractable. I kiss your highness' hand,
Either to go or stay; so please you, madam.

LEONORA.
Why, stay, then, sir. I'll wager half your province
Against a ducat, it shall suffer nothing,
Though you, its ruler, shall be festive here
Some moons to come. Make yourself easy, Count;
Though, from your cloudy brow and backward tongue,
That be perhaps no easy task. To-night
We'll have you look more like a reveller.

BELTRAN.
(Aside.)
Perchance I may; and more than you expect.
—It shall go hard but I obey you, madam;
And if, henceforth, I feel anxiety,
(For there are times on which we cannot choose,)
It is but that such happiness may last.

LEONORA.
You're wondrous thoughtful, Count; this boding care
Is sudden in its growth, methinks.

BELTRAN.
True, madam,
It may, perhaps; but say it be, what then?
Say I've had proof, almost within the hour,
How few are what they seem; how many should be;
That not a sun that shines but smiles on falsehood;
That not a darkling nook but holds a traitor;
How wayward is the course of human fates,
E'en to the greatest; on what false foundations,
What treach'rous sand, what hollow buttresses,
The happiness e'en of princes is constructed,—
'Tis not less true for that.

LEONORA.
This moralizing
I understand not; nor, to say the truth,
Shall take much pains to try—'tis oddly timed.
If you're ambitious to turn preacher, Count,
Pray keep your sermon for the Mask to-night;
It must be useful one way or the other;
If not ta'en seriously, 'twill sure be laugh'd at;
So on both sides there's gain.

BELTRAN.
You are merry, madam;
Long may your highness be so!

LEONORA.
Thank you, Count;
The longer that you'll doff that ominous face,
And look like other people and yourself.

BELTRAN.
May others ne'er have cause to look like me.
I cry your highness mercy—I am merry,
Since you will have it so.

LEONORA.
Why, you do best,
And take my thanks; 'tis recompence enough,
Is it not, Count, for being as you should,
Without such bribery? Nay, bethink you, coz—
A soldier and a gallant look so grave!
Methought you'd surely seen a ghost last night,
And durst not keep your lodging. Now, believe me,
I'd almost ask'd you if your hair was grey;
Men planet-struck, they say, will oft be so.
Come, we must have none mope when we are smiling.—
Fiametta, know you where my lord is gone?

FIAMETTA.
To the terrace by the river's side, your highness,
With the Signor Giovanni, as I think.

LEONORA.
We'll join them there.

BELTRAN.
I shall attend your highness.

[Exeunt Leonora, Beltran, and Fiametta.
Sanzio
comes forward.
Ay, that way shines the sun of fortune now!
What would I give yond gallant were my patron?
For I grow cold in zeal, even as my service
Itself grows cold. I have done and known too much;
And how are such reguerdon'd? Are they not
Turn'd out o' the way politely—made to stuff
Some dirty crevice, call'd a distant Post,
Lest they should prate or crave; or else kick'd down,
As most men do the ladders which they climb by?—
I am a tool, whose use is past; nor would
The artist have me seen. I can mark well
That the grave Don, Giovanni, likes me not;
I note the deep suspicion of his eye,
Although his tongue keeps tune. If he have done
With me, I've done with him. He is fool,
Who, cogg'd by the smooth word called gratitude,
Which all men have i' their mouth, and few elsewhere,
Starts when convenience whispers in his ear
To put off his old master for a new.

[Exit.