University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—The Interior of the Ducal Palace.
Beltran and Frankendall.
Beltran
(comes forward.)
Now would'st thou hug me, Machiavel, beholding
How like a reckless reveller I look,
And cloak designs that yet may shake a state,
Beneath such guise as this. I am a reveller!
Shall I not laugh and quaff, as others do;
And sit beneath the shadow of my hopes,
Just budding into blossom? Shine on, Sun
Of Fortune; and no votary of thine
Shall more exult than I, to worship thee,
Or make thee more a goddess!
Frankendall,
Is it not time to go? Methinks the guests
Should, by the noise, be thronging to the palace.

FRANKENDALL.
My lord, the hubbub would declare as much.

BELTRAN
(walks to the window.)
The windows are all light; unnumber'd feet
Follow the flitting torches, as they gleam
Perpetual through the marble courts; loud voices
Of menials, haughtier than their haughty masters,
Mix with the bursts of music that peal forth
Whene'er a portal's oped; then both, anon,
Are drown'd amid the clash of prancing hoofs,
Indignant of the rein. Plume follows plume;
And escort follows escort. 'Tis a scene
Where many a heart beats high. But could they view
The inmost breasts of all this splendid throng;
The envies darker than the night; the discords
Waving their torches in conflicting rage;
The bitter griefs that yearn for solitude;
The hopes struck down; the gnashings of despair;
The treacheries; the jealousies; the fears;
'Twould make the rout that clamours here below
Seem peaceful as the barefoot hermit's haunt,
Compared with such a hell.
You are come at last.

Enter Pablo and Jacomo.
Is it not time we enter'd to the palace?

JACOMO.
The throng is at the height, my lord.

BELTRAN.
'Tis well;
I shall attend you instantly.—Hark, Frankendall;
One word before we go.
(Aside to Frankendall.)
I need not tell thee,
Suspicion is let loose; and 'tis my cue
To lead it where I would, but unobserved.
Hark thee, I have laid a train.
In this hot clime
Of Italy, thou know'st they are well skill'd,
(And crossing passions give them scope enough,)
In all the changes of love's minstrelsy.
Through the voluptuous wires of the guitar
They'll breathe a gale, more amorous and warm
Than those from whence th'immortal coursers sprung;
Ay, or more wing'd with jealousy than those
So fateful to th'Æolian shepherd swain,
Who woo'd with languid sighs th'inconstant air.
Now mark me, for there will be masks to-night;
Observe, and thou shalt see a stripling lad,
In the wild vestments of a Troubadour.
He must be brought—as well may come to pass—
To give some relish of his art. Eye well
Ignatio, when he sings; and if thou see'st,
Or any sign of dread, or of suspense,
Or notest confusion struggle in his cheek,
Cow'r in his eye, or falter on his tongue,
I say, improve the time; let it not 'scape
Devoid of observation, whence the most
I wish it were observed. Forget not this,
If thou would'st keep my favour and my love.
Now follow me. I know thou likest it not;
Nor do I say thou should'st. Had I but known
Two moons ere this, half of what now I know,
It had not been—no matter—What's to be,
Shall be. I tell thee, who, as we must, drinks
At troubled fountains, even perforce must take
The water with the sand.

FRANKENDALL.
My lord, I know
This is no time to argue; and my logic
Was ever lame. For you I would do much,
And this amongst the rest, come on't what will.

BELTRAN.
Fear not; I am resolved.
(Aloud.)
Come, gentlemen.

PABLO.
We wait your highness' pleasure.

BELTRAN.
Follow, then.
Hark you; is't not begun?

[A sound of Music
PABLO.
It is, my lord.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—A Banquetting Hall.
The Duke, Leonora, Ignatio, Giovanni, Beltran, Frankendall, Sanzio, Masks, Attentants, &c. &c.
DUKE.
Welcome all, gentlemen; welcome, cavaliers;
Pray ye, be merry. God forgive me now!
We old ones will have oversights sometimes;
Age even will have his way. I should have greeted
You first, ye fair ones, whose half-veil'd eyes
Seem brighter for their shadows, as the stars
Still sparkle keenest when the tawny night
Puts on her duskiest mask. Be merry too;
And we shall not be wanting.—Ah, gallants!
With all your glitter and your plumery,
Be sure ye have not left your hearts at home,
Or, what were worse, your wit. I warrant now
There are some here can bring a prude to smile,
Or whisper love into a soft one's ear.
There's sure a sonnetteer amongst us, gentlemen;
If so, we'll have a serenade.—What! none
To volunteer, amongst the Troubadours,
And tell a tale in echo to his lute,
Address'd to many, yet but meant for one?
Is it not so?
Well, well. My lord, Count Beltran,
Your arm; you shall with me amongst these beauties;
'Tis hard, now, if we cannot find some planet
That will adopt us as her satellites.

BELTRAN.
Amongst the Pleiades, the hardest is
To choose the brightest; but we'll e'en essay
The task, since 'tis your highness' pleasure.

IGNATIO.
(Aside to Giovanni.)
How
Likest thou Count Beltran's favour, Giovanni?
He is a most accomplish'd gentleman;
With what an air he strides amid the throng!
Mark, all instinctively give way, yet all
Press round him. Still, I know not how it is,
But there is something in his very smile
I cannot love. What think'st thou?

GIOVANNI.
This, my lord:
His smoothest looks are like the clearest ice,
Which but betrays the soonest.

IGNATIO.
Fie, Giovanni!
Thou speakest bitterly.

GIOVANNI.
Plainly—pardon me—
I love him not; and that's the simple truth:
Nor will I trust that lowering brow of his,
However smiling. Why, a child may see,
In spite of all his put on suavity,
The world within is, even now, at war
With that without.

IGNATIO.
My friend, thou'rt prejudiced.
If there be darker shadows in his face,
Thou know'st Count Beltran hath had many griefs.

GIOVANNI.
No more, perchance, than others may through him.
The ambitious man, believe't, is still a savage;
Adore him, if you will; coax him; admire him;
But trust him not.

IGNATIO.
Why, this is very harshness;
The world allows Count Beltran many virtues.

GIOVANNI.
Virtues, my lord, when wedded to ambition,
(For I deny not he hath many virtues,)
Are but as jewels, cast into the deep,
Which only lose themselves—not profiting that
On which they are bestow'd.

[Shout without.
IGNATIO.
What noise is that?

GIOVANNI.
The people's joy, dear Prince; their sympathy
With yours; not less sincere because perhaps
'Tis somewhat rudely shewn.

[Shouts again.
LEONORA.
Signor Giovanni!

IGNATIO.
Leonora speaks.

GIOVANNI.
Madam, your highness' pleasure.

LEONORA.
What means this rude and most obtrusive clamour,
Which even the palace stays not?

GIOVANNI.
Madam, 'tis
The overflowing transport of the people
To see yourself and Prince Ignatio happy.

LEONORA.
Take order that it trouble us no more.
Was there no place fit for these vile carousals
And vulgar greetings, but the Ducal Palace?

IGNATIO.
Nay, Leonora, bear with them for once.
Does it not pride you thus to see your festival
Graced by a people's love?

LEONORA.
My lord, your tutors
Perchance have taught you to esteem such things;
Mine have not; and I value them alike,
Whether they come or come not. I, at least,
Who scorn the merchandize, need not pay the price
Go, some of you, and quell this turbulence.

GIOVANNI.
Madam, it shall be done. 'Tis but for you
To be obey'd and gracious. To the Prince,
Your noble consort, there are superadded
Duties to dignity—a high repayment
Of happiness to those who joy in his.—
Sanzio, take measures that the people quit
The square before the palace.

[Exeunt Giovanni and Sanzio.
BELTRAN.
(Aside.)
Frankendall,
Heard'st thou that plumed plebeian's insolence?
Mark'd ye the ostrich? Think ye he'd digest
Cold iron?

JACOMO.
Shall we try, my lord?

BELTRAN.
Not now;
We'll maybe find a time.

DUKE.
Daughter, you're right;
The boy Ignatio has been still too easy;
He'll mend on't, when he knows them as I do.

[Shouts.
FRANKENDALL.
(Aside to a Mask.)
Fair lady, if this din would give me leave,
I'd haply whisper love.

FEMALE MASK.
Now you are out;
'Tis plain you reck not what love is, or else
You'd know his plainest language is the eyes.

FRANKENDALL.
By Jove! quick, madam, I am caught for once.
Well, I shall learn it fast enough of you.
But then we must not ogle through a mask!

FEMALE MASK.
Nay, hold. What if my features should unteach
All that mine eye hath taught you?

FRANKENDALL.
Never fear;
The eyes against the field for twenty ducats!

FEMALE MASK.
I see you are a gamester, even in love.

FRANKENDALL.
If I play fairly, where is the objection?
'Tis but a phrase—a foreign compliment—
Let that content you. If you'd question me—
In faith, I learn'd it of an English lord,
Who loved a horse course better than his mistress—
It serves to vary the French politesse.

FEMALE MASK.
A sweet variety!

FRANKENDALL.
Better than none.
One hates the jargon of “amour” and “cour.”
Ha! Master Troubadour, you're a-propos;
Sing me, for Heaven's sake, some mellifluous rhyme,
Can soften a hard heart.

BELTRAN.
If it be thine,
That transformation were miraculous;
I'd sooner look for lead to turn to gold.

MASK.
Love, Signors, seldom is as he appears;
And, when he seems the blindest, sees the best:
Yet fear not, lords—I am no satirist;
My simple ditty, if it please not, harms not.

Re-enter Giovanni.
FRANKENDALL.
(Aside.)
Go nearer to the Princess when you sing.

IGNATIO.
(Aside to Giovanni.)
What is the night? Is it not nigh the hour?

GIOVANNI.
Be calm, my lord; we are watch'd; start not; observed
Was what I would have said. The night is moody,
And the wind frets and moans in fitful gusts;
Hurrying the wrack, as to some rendezvous
Of storm, like squadrons ere the battle join.
'Twill be a dark night somewhere. All the better;
So that its rage stoop not directly here—
Sanzio is ready. (Aloud.)

What! is this a song?
Of mirth or mourning, gentle Troubadour?
Methinks you tune it passing cunningly.

MASK.
Even as the hearer relish it, good Signor—
Pray Heaven you do not think it out of tune?

BELTRAN.
Stand further there; you intercept the Duke.

MASK,
(sings.)
CANZONET.

BELTRAN.
For all your smooth preluding, Signor Minstrel,
This lay, with all its honey, bears a sting.
Good God, now, but your highness' hue is changed!

IGNATIO.
A faintness from the heat—I must retire
Some little space; 'twill by and by begone.

GIOVANNI.
I shall attend your highness.— (Aside.)
Sir, be calm;
Let not a casual, mere coincidence
Unnerve your manhood thus.

IGNATIO.
I am better. Gentlemen,
Take no heed of me. In a little space
I'll mix with you again.—I thank you, Signor,
Your lute shall be in tune when I return,
I hope.—Nay, gentle friends, no ceremony.

[Exeunt Ignatio and Giovanni.
BELTRAN.
(Aside to Frankendall.)
Do you mark that? Where is the Princess?

FRANKENDALL.
There;
In conversation with the Duke.

BELTRAN.
'Tis pity
She mark'd not his departure. Dost thou think
She did not? She shall be inform'd.

FRANKENDALL.
Stay, stay;
Here comes his grave-faced pandarship again.

BELTRAN.
He is making towards the Princess. O, tis well!
Let's hear the hypocrite's message.

FRANKENDALL.
I observed
Her countenance change, just as the Prince retired;
Methought the Duke did mark it.

GIOVANNI.
Madam, I
Come as a messenger from his highness, who
Hath even now retired some little space,
From slight indisposition.

LEONORA.
Ha! retired?
Indisposition?—On the instant shall I
Attend on him. So tell him, sir.

GIOVANNI.
Your highness
Shall pardon me. The Prince expressly begs
Not to alarm your highness; 'tis a slight
And not uncustomary discomposure;
Nothing of serious note;—some little rest,
Or some short breath of fresh air on the terrace,
Shall send him back to you. In the meantime,
He prays you to be cheerful, nor to suffer
One moment's inconvenience to your guests.

LEONORA.
(Aside.)
My woman's heart is swell'd almost to bursting.
It is too true. Rouse yourself, Leonora;
Nor stoop, nor pine one instant under wrong.
(Aloud.)
You need not fear, sir, lest my guests or I
Be discomposed.— (Aside.)
Yet stay, I still may wrong him;
Perhaps 'tis better I should go myself.

GIOVANNI.
Let me beseech your highness, be composed.

DUKE.
Fie! Leonora; this is womanish:
Fear not the boy; though he be delicate,
He yet hath something of his father in him;
He bends, but will not shiver. From a child
Hath he been subject to these paroxysms.—
Signor, go tell my boy Ignatio
That we must see him here, or e'er the dance
Shall be concluded—marry, late enough;
Meanwhile, he'll take his evening draught of air
On the Piazza, for the night is gusty:
So tell him that the Princess says, with me—
Shall he not, Principessa?

LEONORA.
Sir, 'tis fittest
Your highness should command; so tell him, sir.

[Exit Giovanni.
DUKE.
Now this is like the noble Leonora.
Who would have thought that the high-minded Princess
Would change her very colour and her tone,
Even like some love-sick youngling of fifteen,
Because her husband had a little qualm?
Well, well, I say no more—I say no more—
'Tis haply as it should be, after all.
Come, is't not time the ball was getting towards—
Your hand—Nay, nay—no ceremony.—Gallants,
Who shall refuse to follow my example?
Is there a hand in all this room so cold
To fright the gentle palm it would enclasp?
Come, Signors; come, Signoras; we shall try
If that your heels move glibly as your tongues.
Go bid the music strike i'th'other hall.—
Now for the lightest foot and lightest heart!

[Exeunt.
Beltran and Frankendall remain.
BELTRAN.
Hist!—Didst thou mark the Princess' brow, my friend?

FRANKENDALL.
I did; and never did I know her nature
So stirr'd. The blood, that rose and vanish'd, clouded
Her moveless features in such sort, I started;
And when it had retired, methough it left
Redoubled paleness on her marble brow.
Not for ten thousand ducats would I be
In some one's place!

BELTRAN.
No more; we are observed.
I join the dancers.

FRANKENDALL.
And I fall asleep,
Until the rattle of the dice-box rouse me,
Or the loud cup.

BELTRAN.
Thou art incorrigible!
[Exit Frankendall.
I follow thee.
There's something weighs upon me—
I know not what. E'en now, when I had oped
A casement, to drink in some breath of air,
To cool my feverish blood, methought the wind
Sigh'd heavily; and the dim and clouded arch
Did shew so desolate, that when I had turn'd me
To gaze upon the revelry within,
I felt how comfortless ambition is;
And almost thought it useless cruelty
To let in darkness upon human hearts.
That might have beat in blissful perfectness;
Or tinge my soul with dark hypocrisy,
For aught this world can give.
'Tis fantasy;
If all be hollow, I am right at last;
And selfishness may have a date as long
As virtue. I will in, and leave those thoughts.
Enter Sanzio hastily.
Ha!—quick—speak—is it seal'd?

SANZIO.
It is.

BELTRAN.
Begone then!
I'll think no more—for now it is too late.
[Exit Sanzio.
The voiceless night is pregnant with events;
To-morrow e'en may babble of them.

[Exit hastily.

SCENE III.

—Interior of a Villa on the Arno.
Enter Eulalia and Ignatio.
IGNATIO.
'Tis past—that pang is over; but, oh God!
Another, worse if possible, succeeds.
Eulalia, can I turn me from that eye,
More sweetly light than is the rising morn,
To follow shudd'ring after black-robed night,
And stalk with her to hell? There's madness in't.
Eulalia—shall we—shall we part, e'en thus?

EULALIA.
Compose yourself, my dear Ignatio;
How thy frame trembles!—Oh! how wan thou look'st!

IGNATIO.
I do not tremble. Shall we part, Eulalia?

EULALIA.
Oh! do not—dare not ask.

IGNATIO.
I dare do aught:
Speak but the word—give me a single look
That says, “we will not;” and we part no more.

EULALIA.
What dost thou mean?

IGNATIO.
There is one way, Eulalia;
Despair, e'en scorpion-like, is its own cure,
When 'tis ring'd round with fire, as we are now.
O! I could rest my head upon thy bosom,
And think the mingling of our parting breaths
More sweet than the first fearful kiss I gave thee,
Because 'twould be the last; and so doubt-free.

EULALIA.
Die?—and thy boy—speak; would'st thou murder him?
Thou may'st be mad; but be not savage too.

IGNATIO.
Oh! no, no, no! yes, I am mad. My brain
Burns, and mine eyes shed not a single tear;
Would I could weep like thee!
But thou weep'st not!
What pulls this coldness on thee? thou look'st pale;
There's ice upon thy lips, and in thy touch;
Yea, and thy brow, pure as the unsunn'd snow,
Is now as chill. Whence is this change? Speak! Yonder,
When thou did'st hang in agony o'er our boy,
I saw him shrink as thy fast scalding tears
Rain'd on his little face; and now thou stand'st
Unshaken, nor a tear comes to thine eye.
It is a horrid calmness. Speak, Eulalia,
If thou would'st not destroy me!

EULALIA.
Thee!—destroy!
Would I not die to blunt one single pang
Of all that tear thee? Oh! Ignatio,
I know not—since we parted from our boy,
(See how the name calls up a tear again,)
I either felt as if my heart had died,
Or that 'twas left with him. That struggle o'er,
I am resign'd—Sorrow were sinfulness.
Must I not breathe in some forgotten nook,
And, as I am forgotten—so, forget—
All, but that innocent, if he lives to know,
A helpless mother is his only help.
Say to thyself, Ignatio, “She is dead;”
And so I shall be, save unto the past.
And when, perchance, thy name, in after time,
Wafted on glory's breath, comes o'er mine ear,
It shall but stir me as the melody
Of his own land—left, never to return,
Breathes on the exile's heart; and I shall weep,
And waste the dew of unavailing tears
Upon the wither'd flow'rs of former joy.
Why dost thou gaze on me, with that sad look?
Is not this duty?

IGNATIO.
What it is, I know not;
But there's a fix'd and horrible calmness in't,
More dread, because it hath the hue of health,
Yet is not it.

EULALIA.
Whate'er it be, Ignatio,
Yet, let us be submissive to the will
Of Heaven. We've striven with fate too much already.
I have oft heard, that ere the common doom
Doth close the struggles of the labouring soul,
Will a strange calmness ofttimes creep upon it,
As though it were some foretaste of that rest,
The weary laden hope. If it be that,
Oh! I could die upon the hard, cold earth,
As smilingly even as the infant sleeps,
Unknowing what he leaves, or what he wakes to.
God will protect him.

IGNATIO.
Whom?

EULALIA.
Our boy, Ignatio;
He hath a father still; hath he not?

IGNATIO.
Cease!—
These melancholy tones, killingly sweet,
Go to my heart. I have an anguish here,
That grows each moment more like mortal. Oh!
Eulalia, thy still accents sound to me
E'en as the o'erstretch'd string, which, ere it breaks,
Vibrates the sweetest music.
Hark! 'tis past:
Our hour is past; 'tis midnight—dark indeed—
The effort must be made—I cannot speak—
But thou can'st think that which I dare not say.
Oh! grasp my hand; and if thou hast a tear
For me, then shed it now; for it must be
The last; and say once more, or e'er we part,
That thou forgivest me.

EULALIA.
Need I say so twice?
Think'st thou I could be unforgiving now?
Would love permit me in an hour like this?
Let this, and this, convince thee.

[Kisses his hand.
IGNATIO.
Humble not
Thyself, Eulalia, for 'tis agony;
Crush me not to the dust with self-reproach;
If I did crawl to thee and kiss thy feet,
It were more fit.

EULALIA.
No more—all's over now;
Thou goest—we must be brief—one look, but one,
Before thou leavest me—then pass at once,
'Tis the last, saddest, boon I ask of thee.
Say not farewell to me, but let me bid thee
Farewell. My woman's heart will have it so.
Speak not again—unclasp my hand—and now
(Oh, for one minute's strength, and then to die!)
Farewell!—God keep!—God bless my dear Ignatio!
[Exit Ignatio.
He is gone for ever. One—one moment more,
Return Ignatio. Lost Eulalia, what
Madness is this! Where is my resolution?
Oh! I must never hear that footstep more,
No, nor that voice, of which a single accent
Were as a drop of dew to the parch'd tongue
Of a thirst-dying wretch. I am friendless now;
A nameless wanderer; a cast-away
On the wide waters.

Enter Child.
CHILD.
Mother!

EULALIA.
Oh! no, no,
Ingrate I am; is there not still a voice
Speaks comfort; and upon this little breast
Still I can drop sweet tears, and see his eyes
Weep when he sees mine weep, he knows not why?
Thou callest for thy father, my poor boy,
And he will hear us. Thou shalt kneel with me,
And lift thy little hands in aid of mine;
And on thy supplicating innocence,
Join'd to thy mother's tears, Heaven may look down
Haply with peace and pardon. Come, my child!

[They retire, and the Scene closes.