 | The Italian Wife |  |
98
ACT V.
SCENE I.
—Interior of the Ducal Palace.Enter Giovanni
I am fill'd with dark misgivings. Even now
Methought the page I met avoided me;
And that the knave to whom I gave our horses,
Look'd strangely at me. Sanzio's absence is
Alarming. Has aught happen'd in the palace?
Or, as I fear, has treachery been abroad?
Whatever be th'event, my course is clear;
And so, as Heaven can witness, is my heart:
Why need he fear, whose rule is honesty?—
Count Beltran!
Enter Beltran.
BELTRAN.
Ha! Signor, you are well met.
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You're but a truant reveller, my lord,
To quit us at this hour.
BELTRAN.
Not I—not I:
I can partake my fill—no stinted one—
And go; but truly I have no pretence
To the high glory of those Cavalieros,
Who, having beat the rounds, will sit it out
Till morn. I ne'er shall be a true night-scourer
Like you, sweet Signor! I must sleep, i' faith.
GIOVANNI.
Night-scourer?—Count, I understand you not.
BELTRAN.
Or will not, Signor? cannot is as good;
For I can wait until your wisdom finds it.
Perchance the problem may be solved hereafter;
'Tis pity that the banquet's broken up.
GIOVANNI.
The banquet broken up?
BELTRAN.
Ay, sir; we lack'd
Your presence, and another's, whom I name not:
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At least it ought—Is that not your opinion?
Give you good even, Signor.
GIOVANNI.
Count, one word
Before you go. Your words I understand not,
Nor well your tone. I am no quarreller, sir;
But if you mean a sneer, I'll haply find
Fit comment for your text.
BELTRAN.
You are learned, Signor;
And might, methinks—so manifold a linguist—
Evolve a thing so simple.
GIOVANNI.
Sir, permit me
To say again, I am no quarreller—
Mark me—but yet no monk. If insult be
Your meaning, as I think, in such a case,
There's but one argument.
BELTRAN.
Ay?—Marry sir,
I'm curious to see it. Is it aught
Like that?
[Half drawing his Sword.
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FRANKENDALL.
My lord, I am sorry to see this.
You quarrel, Signor, in the Ducal Palace!
GIOVANNI.
I seek it not; but if a breach is sought,
I'll find both time and place.
BELTRAN.
As you please, Signor.
FRANKENDALL.
I earnestly beg conference with your highness.
GIOVANNI.
I'll be no bar. I'm at your highness' bidding.
BELTRAN.
Signor, your servant.
[Exit Giovanni.
Ceremonious Pandar!
What do'st thou want? Why did'st thou interrupt us?
What ghost hast thou seen now, thou look'st so grave on't?
FRANKENDALL.
My lord, my lord, pull not more troubles down;
They may rain fast enough upon our heads!
We are alone. I must be brief, or better
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Oh! I have heard a tale, my lord, which chills
My very tongue.
BELTRAN.
A tale?—What hast thou heard?
FRANKENDALL.
Would I could tell it in a word! for waste
Of time is murder now; at least it may be.
Just ere the feast was broken up, when you
Held conference with the Duke, the villain Sanzio
Buzz'd in mine ear, as still such reptiles do,
To curry worthless consequence, some tale
Of Prince Ignatio's secret. All the while
I heeded little, haply, being intent
On Leonora's bearing, and her eyes,
Which shot suspicion, mix'd with smother'd rage;
When suddenly a sound fell on my hearing,
Which fix'd me in attention, as if Gorgon
Had hiss'd me into stone.
The serpent told me
This poor unfortunate, then a girl, was brought
To Florence by a woman, her protectress—
Or else abducer—in mysterious manner,
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BELTRAN.
The sack of Modena!
FRANKENDALL.
'Twas so, my lord;
You start; but yet be patient to the end.
—Their ducats, of the which they had some store,
It seems, were spent soon by a paramour,
Who left the hag, and her supposed daughter,
To starve. In short, the old duenna died;
But ere she died, it seems, at divers times
Threw out dark intimations, that her charge
Was not that which she seem'd; and there she sprung
Pre-eminent in grace, in form, in lustre,
Like some stray seedling which the winds have wafted
Far from the garden of its parent flowers;
A solitary bud. How Prince Ignatio
Found this deserted and most exquisite gem,
It were too long to tell.
BELTRAN.
What was the name
Of this accursed hag?
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She was call'd Zetti;
So, at the least, she call'd herself. Her tongue
Spoke her a Piedmontese.
BELTRAN.
Where would'st thou lead me?
What horror's this, within whose sudden folds
Thou would'st entangle me?—Thou art my friend;
At least I think so; and thine honesty
Would not complot against me; howsoe'er,
Thou may'st have wish'd that, which is done, were not.
Thou said'st, “so, at the least, she call'd herself.”
Who calls her otherwise?—Were there any doubts?
FRANKENDALL.
There were, my noble lord; yea, more than doubts,
Or Sanzio lies. He says, that he discover'd
(For the smooth hypocrite, as he well knows how,
Did cant himself into her confidence,
And filch'd the secret in a careless hour,)
Her true name was Letitia.
BELTRAN.
What?
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Spinelli.
BELTRAN.
'Tis false! 'Tis most incredible—impossible;
Unless blind chance hath cast her film, and found
Eyesight o'th'sudden, and ta'en side against me!
There has been whispering.—Ay; some plotting knave
Has fashion'd and adapted this vile tale,
To scare off interference—To alarm
My feelings—I do see't. They are too late.
Thus do I spurn the lie. If there be traitors,
Woe to their heads.
FRANKENDALL.
My noble lord, you do
Your pleasure. I am not a whisperer;
Whether the knowledge come by craft or sorcery,
I am no traitor. Whence, then, could it come?
If your insinuations point at me,
Your highness shall permit me to say this,
That both mistrust and threats might well be spared.
I am no man either to feign or fear.
BELTRAN.
Thou art not, Frankendall; and I have wrong'd thee.
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Where is the Princess?
FRANKENDALL.
Ah! my lord; where is she?
The menials did confusedly deny her
To my inquiries; cold and short, but strange;
Fear and astonishment lock'd fast their lips;
They've found what stuff she's made of, e'en already:
Nor can I clue the villain Sanzio;
The Princess sent for him; he is not here.
Where'er he be, may apoplexy strike him,
Or swift paralysis wither him up,
And Heaven may still shew merciful!
BELTRAN.
What mean'st thou?
I charge thee, speak.
FRANKENDALL.
My lord, my noble lord,
Forgive my frankness; but you have unleash'd
Upon this trail—a tigress. Oh! beware
She tear not your own bosom.
BELTRAN.
It is rent
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I am struck down.
FRANKENDALL.
Oh! my dear lord, this business
Was not the work for you. Believe me, 'twas not.
Your highness is disorder'd. I conjure you,
Rally your spirits. Something must be done,
And quickly.
BELTRAN.
Lead me where, do what, thou wilt;
But do not blame me—do not gaze upon me—
I am not fit to meet an honest eye.
We yet may be in time to save her—whom?
I dare not trust my tongue to utter it—
Her I would fain have murder'd.
FRANKENDALL.
My dear lord,
All may be well yet.
BELTRAN.
Why, Heaven grant it may!
I shrink from seeing what I still must know.
Let us haste, Frankendall. O, fly, my friend.
[Exeunt.
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SCENE II.
—Interior of a Villa on the Arno.EULALIA
alone.
Sleep, thou too art unkind. 'Tis a dread lot
To watch and weep throughout these desolate hours.
Ignatio, even thou dost not know how sad,
How helpless, heartless, fearful, solitary,
Is she whom all the world forsakes! Thou hast
Still many a refuge—Glory—business—power—
But woman—thou who art so oft cast off
Like a forsaken toy—whose very weakness
Should more ensure thee aid—What hap is thine?
Thy bosom, whilst thou art at peace, is like
The water's tranquil surface, that reflects
With joy the heaven which smilingly hangs o'er it;
But, when the blast once ruffles it, is dark,
And shews no sunshine more.
When I o'erlook
These once loved tokens, they but seem to say,
They must be look'd upon, be loved, no longer;
As this which glitters vainly round my neck,
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But mocks my destitution.
Oh! how is't?
But all seems changed around me; e'en this chamber
Shews like a tomb; and the night blast that sighs
And plains amid the well-remember'd trees,
Speaks with a stranger's voice. I start, and gaze,
And fear I know not what, I know not why—
Even like a wretch toss'd in a fev'rish dream,
Who struggles to fill up a painful blank
With shapeless terrors—whose abortive visions
Are horrible nothings, void of aught defined,
Save preternatural dread and restless strife.
Mine eyes, which nature fain would close in sleep,
Are stretch'd wide ope, as if in expectation
Of some mysterious doom; and my blood burns
And chills by starts—Horror!—I will recline
Once more upon my couch, and pray that sleep
May rest one moment on my harass'd eyelids,
Though frighted fancy wildly paint the curtain
With terrors worse than waking. Watch me, Heaven.
[She sleeps.
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LEONORA.
She sleeps, poor wretch!
SANZIO.
She stirs—be swift—she wakes.
EULALIA.
I say she moves—she moves—Look at her eyes;
Though she be stone, she is not dead!—A knife!
Ah! blood—Ignatio—fly.
[Wakes.
Where am I? 'Tis
A dream! Ah! no; 'tis real—and they have come
To murder me!
LEONORA.
Silence!—Set down the cup,
And whatsoe'er thou hearest, for thy life
Stir not.—Begone!
[Exit Sanzio.
EULALIA.
Mercy!—What art thou?—Speak!
LEONORA.
That which I should not be for such as thou
To ask; but that which I shall not be long.
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For what comest thou? Seek'st thou my life?
LEONORA.
Thy life!
Poor reptile, think'st thou I should condescend
To come for that?—Thy worthless life? I come
To vindicate insulted dignity—
To teach the princely serpent who dares violate
The honour and the peace of Leonora,
He shall not do it with impunity.
No; what he measures shall be meted back
With interest tenfold. I come for revenge!
EULALIA.
On whom?
LEONORA.
On thy thin-blooded paramour
And thee.
EULALIA.
Alas! Ignatio, where art thou?
LEONORA.
What! darest thou call him, even to my face?
EULALIA.
I know it is as wrong in me to name him,
As thee to speak of him as thou hast done.
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I'll hear no more!—Down, insolent strumpet!—Die,
Worm, ere I trample on thee!
EULALIA.
Mercy! Mercy!
Thou art a woman!
LEONORA.
Ay, an injured one!
Drink, or I'll drag forth thine unlawful brat—
I've heard of him—and poniard him before
Thy very face!
EULALIA.
Oh, no, no, no; I'll die!
Spare but my child! Let but his mother's eyes
See him once more, or e'er they close, and use
Eulalia as thou wilt.
LEONORA.
No more—prepare!
EULALIA.
But while I breathe one single prayer for him,
And for myself!
LEONORA.
Dispatch; or else this moment
Shall be the last of both!
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Tigress!
[She drinks.
LEONORA.
'Tis done!
Now, Minion, when thy whining hypocrite
Returns to visit thee, methinks he'll find thee
Colder than wont.
[Exit Leonora.
EULALIA.
My child, my child—where art thou?
I cannot come to thee; my limbs have lost
Their ministrance already. The fell drug
Hath shared mine enemies' malice, and I feel
My moments must be few. Oh, for a little,
A little breath, and respite from this pain!
Grant, Heaven, he live to see a happier lot
Than his poor mother!—Shield, oh, shield my boy!
Forgive my murderer's trespass, and mine own!
I faint.
His voice!—his voice!—I cannot see him;
A cloud is on mine eyes; Ignatio—
Ignatio—I die—farewell, Ignatio!
[She dies.
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(without.)
Down, triple villain! Think'st thou blood like thine
Shall stain my conscience?—Down!
Enter Ignatio.
All-boding powers!
I am too late. Eulalia!—Death and hell
Have been beforehand with me! Oh! is't possible
Fate can have nipt the root, while yet the flower
Doth look so lovely?—All is over now!
Let me not curse; for curses, like the thunder,
Reverberate back again; and mine own weakness,
God knows, needs pardon. Yea, however difficult
It be to see this ruin, and refrain,
I will not—no, I will not imprecate
Those hottest judgments that must melt the hearts
Of stone that could do this. All that remains
Now, is to die; and let the after few,
Who, 'mid this turmoil, think it worth the while
To ask the end of poor Ignatio,
Spell out my story. There are precedents
Anew of tyrannous fates and broken hearts,
To help them through the breaks of this sad tale.
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Bid peace be to my ashes. My forebodings,
If they were sad, have had their uses too;
And when to-night the blast moan'd strangely by,
And the huge ghastly moon seem'd nearer earth
Than is her use, as if she were drawn down,
Seeing some horrible and loathsome deed,
It arm'd me for the worst. 'Tis come; nor do I
Shrink from my purpose. I can now look back
On what hath pass'd, as age can do o'er childhood;
And if some warmer drops, at Nature's bidding,
Fall at the retrospect, they come almost
Like pleasureable tears. I am resolute—
If this be death, oh! who would fear to die?
Too beautiful—being mortal—fare thee well!
Thy love, to me, was like some airy strain,
That lightly floats upon the quiet night—
Brief snatch of harmony, which the ear drinks up
More sweetly for the darkness that surrounds it.
'Tis gone! but its soft memory shall bring me
More soothingly into the silent sleep
That cures my sorrow—
Ay, my dagger's best—
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Poor victim! when thou left'st the horrid dregs
Of their superfluous malice, little thought'st thou
To whom thou didst bequeath them.
[He drinks.
It is past.
One kiss, before the felon poison steals
My breath away. Is it not innocent now?
Come, icy lips—Oh! pure as martyrdom,
And colder e'en than holiest charity,
And bless me, ere I die. Come, moveless hand,
And let me hold thee with my latest clasp;
And when mine eye fails, and my senses reel,
And the alarmed spirit scarcely hovers
Round its invaded seat—I'll think thou livest,
And die upon thy bosom, as I wish'd.
I sink e'en now; and a strange coldness runs
Through all my palsied limbs; strange noises rush
To my appalled ears; and the cold drops
Are trickling down my temples.
One pang more,
Eulalia, and I join thee, if Heaven wills.
I die—not yet—Voices? I hear them now;
If they be enemies, I yet have breath
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[He falls.
Giovanni!
'Tis over, my Giovanni!—Thou hast come
In time to see me die!
Enter Giovanni and the Duke.
My father! Oh!
While yet mine ear hath life to drink the sound,
Pardon!
DUKE.
Ay, ten times pardon; only live,
My boy! my wrong'd Ignatio!
IGNATIO.
'Tis too late;
Death is too potent for obedience
To aught excepting him. Thou weep'st, Giovanni,
And seem'st to look that this should not have been.
GIOVANNI.
My looks may not be, but my tears are true.
IGNATIO.
Look there; look there; and let that answer thee.
Philosophy hath no balm for broken hearts;
And when I kiss'd her pale and clay-cold lips,
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Raise me up,
That I may gaze upon them once again,
Before mine eyes be gone, for they wax dim.
Enter Beltran and Frankendall.
BELTRAN.
If her tongue spoke not, yet her eyes glared death—
I'll see the worst, although these bloody stains
Shew murder hath been here.
Ha! Is it death?
Look, Frankendall, for I dare look no more;
And tell me that this horror cannot be.
FRANKENDALL.
Be calm, my lord.
BELTRAN.
Calm! Look upon that brow,
Those marble lips and bloodless lineaments—
Oh, God! it is my mother's monument!
Yet, if 'twere she, would not my very gaze
Make the blood ooze from forth her innocent veins?
I'm desperate, and I will be satisfied.—
My friend, lift up that lock that lies upon
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Thou see'st; for worlds durst I not touch that brow.
Do'st thou see aught?
FRANKENDALL.
A scar, my noble lord—
A faint blue scar, as from some hap of childhood.
BELTRAN.
Where?
FRANKENDALL.
Here, my noble lord—Look not again;
You are much moved.
BELTRAN.
It is—it is my sister!
It chokes me—does it not? But I shall scarce
Speak it again. I should have died or e'er
I spoke the word—nor is it fit I live
A breath beyond it. She is dead; and I
Have murder'd her.
FRANKENDALL.
What would you do, my lord?
BELTRAN.
Mark you—He dies, who would have given his life
To lengthen hers one hour; and shall I live
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Stand off!
IGNATIO.
I hear the voice of pain, but not
Its import. Who is he talks of forgiveness?
If that he hath been enemy of mine—
For I have had too much of enmity—
I do forgive him.
BELTRAN.
Thou?—First hear me; then
If thou forgiv'st me, there is hope of Heaven.
I am thy rival, and thine enemy;
The secret underminer of thy peace;
The envious cloud that overcast thy morn,
And turn'd it into tears; the worm that pierced
The heart of the sweet blossom of thy love;
The blight that struck the harvest of thy hopes;
Thy traitor brother; thy Eulalia's murderer!
Now, if thou dar'st, forgive me!—Thou do'st well
To pause.
IGNATIO.
I do forgive thee—for revenge
Is not for me. One thing before I die—
Ere the strong poison hath expell'd my spirit,
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[Exit Giov.
I trouble you—but it will not be long.
Turn me a little, that mine eyes may see
What they would dwell on latest, till they close;
When I have pass'd, let those who must perform
The last most awful office to the dead,
Outstretch us, side by side.
Enter Giovanni, with the Boy.
My boy!—I faint—
Let me, before I'm dark, have strength to see
My father's hand upon my infant's head.
I die content. Bless him! oh, bless him! bless him!
[He dies.
DUKE.
Oh! lay him gently down—'tis over—I
Am childless now. Why dost thou kneel to me?
BELTRAN.
To know if haply penitent humbleness
May buy one drop of respite to my soul,
Before I go from hence, to seek some place
Where I might die, who cannot live with honour.
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Thy father was a brave and noble soldier;
And if thou diest like him, he could not wish thee
A better death. Judgment is not for us.
Fate hath been here at work, as well as thou;
And we must bow submissive.
Here, even here,
Yea, in the presence of that innocent victim,
And my dead son—whose souls, now reunited,
Hover above, and witness what I say—
Let it be comfort in thine agony,
To know I do remit thee. Rise, and go;
And Heaven have mercy on thee. But, oh! never
Be voice of thine heard by this ear again!
If I can pardon, I cannot forget.
Begone—before I turn mine eyes that way,
To the remembrance that I was a father!
[The Curtain drops.
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