University of Virginia Library

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.