 | The Italian Wife |  |
1
ACT I.
SCENE I.
—A Rampart.Enter Sanzio, Pablo, and Frankendall.
SANZIO.
This is my bound-stone, gentlemen. The soldier,
Despite his macaw's coat and peacock's plumes,
Must sometimes, as the gayest fowls will do,
Keep to his cage. Upon the eastern rampart,
If you go on—for there I've seen him walk—
Perchance you'll find Count Beltran.
FRANKENDALL.
Thank you, sir;
Your pains already have outgone our need;
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Though haply in this dancing time such matters
Are lightly overstepp'd.—Signor, how say you?
These feasts are excellent to fill up scars;
It is a thriving time—is't not? for soldiers,
Whose hour of pleasure's bought with twelvemonth's toil,
As dear as sweet, and not more sweet than scarce?—
This is a lusty service you are in,
And like to last.
SANZIO.
Signor, I wish it may.
FRANKENDALL.
Nay, pardon us, sir; there are no rivals here—
None of those gallants who will wish men joy
E'en in the hope of making cuckolds of them.
We blame you not; for we are old enough
To fare well, nor cry “roast-meat!”
SANZIO.
Sir!
PABLO.
Come, comrade,
We are no spies; and yet you're in the right.
“Hush!” is the primal virtue of a court,
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A man had better have a roving wife,
Than keep a gadding tongue.
SANZIO.
Signor, you're merry,
But not less wise—'Tis the best dog at court
Who runs the trail, yet never once gives mouth.
FRANKENDALL.
Well, sir, what we would say might be proclaim'd
At th'market cross. Florence, we say, is merry,
And long may't be so; and long live the Prince!
And may he still, to our high-blooded Princess,
Prove a most gentle husband!
SANZIO.
Gentle?—Ay,
That will he.—Signor, to be plain with you,
Long live the Prince say I!—It is my duty,
Both as a soldier and a citizen.
Yet if a man may pray for any change
In his liege lord, why Sanzio would make bold
To wish him more o' the first.
PABLO.
How say you?
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Sir,
My lord, Ignatio, is a prince, most noble—
A soul impregnate with all gentle qualities—
Clad in all learning that adorns a man—
Set off with every courtesy—(albeit,
I speak but as a soldier, and so take me)—
He is a man that to a tale of love
Will yield a sigh; that to a tale of pity
Hath ready tears in payment; and will listen,
Enraptured, to the lutanist nightingale
That charms, at eve, with many a moonlight cadence,
The fairy-haunted Arno. But he'll shrink
From a hand-stirring tale of war or strife,
As doth the maid whose mother never chid her
Beyond a cloudy look or ominous finger.—
Now these are worthies peace builds statues to,
But under whom our faulchions still are apt
To gather rust; ay, and our cloaks wax old
With goodly household wear the while; God wot,
No very tiptoe prospect for a soldier!
FRANKENDALL.
Pshaw!—Man, ne'er revel in these black forebodings.
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Blood, body, bones; ay, plumes and sword and all;
And then grace after meat!—Trust me, impossible!
Dooms-day is none so near. Pooh! cheer up, comrade;
Why, our high-spirited Princess,—to whom Heaven
Grant large increase of beauty, and of children,
All mettled like their mother,—shall find out
Rare wars for him; ne'er fear it.
SANZIO.
Truly, sir,
There's some hope that way.—Well, old tedious Time,
When the commencement is well nigh forgotten,
Shall haply condescend to tell the end,
As prosers wont to do.—Your pardon, gentlemen;
I'm signall'd.
FRANKENDALL.
Sir, good morrow. To the eastward
You say we'll find Count Beltran. Thank you, Signor.
'Tis time we met his highness.
[Exeunt.
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SCENE II.
—Another Part of the Rampart.Count Beltran
—alone.
I have oft dream'd that I o'ertrod this rampart;
But not in guise like this. The thought was idle,
Perhaps; and yet it was a thought, not dream;
For it would grow and struggle in my bosom,
As if 'twere pregnant with some life of truth,
Which time and fortune must one day bring forth
Into substantial consequence and effect.
No matter—'tis an idle retrospect.
I little thought, once, to have paced me here,
Giving a dull eye to the morning air,
And a parch'd lip, to dissipate those revels,
Where every mounting laugh and joyous shout
Lanced to my heart's core, like the feather'd shaft,
Deeper, for being plumed.
Well, well; we'll see.
I'll dice it out. Though the first cast be lost,
The game's not play'd. Play'd! no; am I not school'd
In that controuling pastime, which can wait
With steady eye the passage of the herd,
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Till 'tis the time to shoot?—I loved her not;
Or, say I did; how did I?—Not as fools do—
Not for a flower of some miraculous hue,
That must be ever fed with amorous sighs,
And water'd with fresh tears. None such for me;
But as a splendid guide, to hand me up
The glassy steep to fortune. As a lover,
She knows me not; or else, but knows me as
One who is haply proud enough to sue—
Too proud to be denied. My birth's obscured,
'Tis true; and yet part of her blood is mine.
The chaste star that o'erhung my sire's nativity,
Might blush when he was moulded—not the more
Averse for that. She still hath call'd me “Cousin;”
Then why not “Husband?”—How, now, gentlemen.
Enter Frankendall and Pablo.
FRANKENDALL.
Good morrow to your highness.
BELTRAN.
Gentlemen,
Good-morrow both. Why, Frankendall, how haps it
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And most unwonted seriousness?—Has Florence
Exhausted even thy store of sweet behaviours,
Which was, methought, exhaustless?
FRANKENDALL.
Faith, my lord,
I know not how it is. Yet, by your leave,
Your brow, methinks, keeps mine in countenance.
BELTRAN.
Perchance it may.—Well, I'll have no more revels—
No parchment cheeks, pursed brows, and eyes of lead.
By Heaven, a man had better be a scrivener
Than earn them thus in tedious junkettings!—
We'll tender our farewell in this night's feast,
And so set forth to-morrow. Pablo, you
Shall not forget.
PABLO.
Trust me, my lord.
BELTRAN.
Call all
My train together by the dawn of morning.
In the meantime, confer with Jacomo;
Let him mature that which I spoke about;
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What is't o'clock?
[Exit Pablo.
FRANKENDALL.
Upon the step of seven,
Unless the dial lies. We had been here
Some half an hour ago, but that we met
An officer of the Duke's, whose courtesy
Somewhat delay'd us. Faith, a sound, shrewd wit,
And one that hath the true divining rod,
That points which way gold lies—a marvellous touch
Of what we call the keen; but wise withal,
And by my troth, a thorough-bred court lurcher,
For all his honest outside—one that tracks
And mouths not. But I trench upon your highness.
BELTRAN.
Did I not ask thee what it was o'clock?
FRANKENDALL.
Some minutes short of seven.
BELTRAN.
I had forgotten.
Your pardon.
FRANKENDALL.
Nay, it is not needed yet;
Or, if it be, I shall be even with you,
10
Take what I say in the same strain 'tis meant,
And the board's clear enough,—I have observed,
Since we came here, to solder up this match
Between two metals, none o' the likeliest,
A weight upon your brow; and that I did
E'en now perceive it heavy, I made bold
To say your looks kept mine in countenance;
Which, if they wore some gravity, in sooth,
It was because I could not shut my eyes
And blink your heaviness. I have said, my lord—
But if there's aught that Frankendall can do—
BELTRAN.
I know't. Thou need'st not trumpet thy affection,
For thou art ill at that. I'll trust thee, Frankendall—
Why should I not? for thou hast been to me
An elder brother; nay, a very father.
And what is there to trust? thou'lt say't.
FRANKENDALL.
My lord,
This will I say—I am your friend. If all
Had said as little, and had done as much,
You had been saved some grief.
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Ay, my poor sister;
Well, she is dead.
FRANKENDALL.
Nay, nay; that follows not.
The hag who fled with her, 'mid the confusion
Of that fell night, had itch enough for gold,
But none for blood. Why, she saw ghosts, and durst not,
No, durst not, for a ducat, and that's much,
Have cross'd a churchyard at the gloomy hour,
E'en with a saint for convoy.
BELTRAN.
Frankendall,
Thou triflest. But take this with thee, my friend;
Thou hast the very cypher of my brow,
And truly read'st what's written. This same marriage
Which thou, I know not why, call'st ill assorted,
Sticks in my bosom, Frankendall.
FRANKENDALL.
Why, the vengeance!
Kept you this hid till now?
BELTRAN.
I never dream'd,
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Would wed his chalk-faced brother.
FRANKENDALL.
Had you only
Declared your love, we had found means to further't.
BELTRAN.
Love! thou mistak'st; thou mean'st to say ambition.
I'll ne'er pass muster in the sighing regiment.
But, if I did, the marble of that brow,
Though it outvie the stainless alabaster,
Were not the charm for me. I tell thee, Frankendall,
I have more sympathy with a pair of eyes
And a soft tongue—though seen and heard but once—
That pointed me my way, twelve hours ago,
Than aught Ignatio's blest with.
FRANKENDALL.
Why, my lord,
Methinks your fancy's ta'en a wayward fit.
Where was this wonder?
BELTRAN.
By the river's side,
Cross from the city, where the drooping thickets
Invade the stream, and many a laughing blossom
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Oped, and within there stood, retiringly,
Oh! such a shape, with such soft sunny locks,
Match'd with two heavenly eyes, which seem'd akin
E'en to the stars they rivall'd. In brief accents
She told me of my way; but never feet
Felt less alacrity than mine did then
To obey such sweet directress.
FRANKENDALL.
Nay, my lord,
Florence improves you. Stay another month,
And you shall warble canzonets and madrigals.
BELTRAN.
Thou jestest, Frankendall. Yet thine experience
Must know that there are looks, and tones, and features,
Will find their way through the most stubborn breast,
And print them on the heart, though it were iron,
Felt, and forgotten never.—Wherefore this,
Heaven only knows! But let us not mock, Frankendall,
Intents so free from any taint o' the earth—
So spiritual and pure from smack of grossness—
Because they're fancy-bred—Creations delicate
Of the clear soul, which roves where it will rove,
14
Baffling our proudest wisdoms. These are promptings
We cannot fathom, but we should not scorn.
FRANKENDALL.
I've done, my lord. This only let me say—
Go not to-morrow. Let these tangling fancies
Enmesh your purpose for a day or two;
So, at the least, they're profitable. In
The interim, pay your duty to the Princess;
There's policy in't. If this same lukewarm wedlock
Do not grow cold; and that upon the sudden,
Never trust bachelor more.
BELTRAN.
Thou talkest strangely.
I understand thee not.
FRANKENDALL.
Nor I, my lord;
So far, I have but hints, and vague ones; yet
There is a way to ripen them to facts.
BELTRAN.
Ay, now thou speak'st. Here, take this purse of ducats,
And by to-morrow morning—
15
No; no gold.
BELTRAN.
No gold?
FRANKENDALL.
No gold!—We start at filthy lucre.
Praiseworthy emulation, good my lord,
No more.—'Tis true, an honourable post
Sometimes brings gold, but how can we help that?
'Tis pity, for the world's censorious!
BELTRAN.
Begone! 'Tis time we hied us to the palace.
To-morrow I shall look to hear more news.
FRANKENDALL.
To-day, or I shall never be a prophet.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
—The Interior of a Villa on the Arno.Eulalia
—alone.
It is in vain. There is a string of woe,
Which, having once been touch'd, jars sadly on,
At discord with the rest; and to attempt
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The dissonance apparent—I'll not do't.
False Patience, thou but wil'st us on to bear,
But mak'st no pang the lighter.
Oh! my child,
Where shall we shelter us? We know no kindred,
Save him who casts us off; and if we did,
Would they not shut the door on us in scorn,
As to a loathsome beggar!
Break my heart!
Lost, lost, Eulalia!—Flow on, hopeless tears—
I have no minist'ring hand to wipe ye off;
No friend to counsel; no consoling crowds
To flock to tell me I have lost my husband.
Husband!—I had no husband,—Is he not
Another's?—False Ignatio! what a widow,
What a forsaken self-despairing wretch
Thou hast made of poor Eulalia!—Cruel, cruel!
Worlds had not bribed her to have shrunk from thee.
She would have died resolved, and spoke no word,
E'er she had breath'd an accent of the rite,
Or ta'en a morsel of the marriage feast,
That would have torn her from thee!
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Who call'st thyself so godlike. Oh! how can'st thou
Shew thee so base? How poor a stay has she
Who leans upon thy bosom for support!
And, yet, where can she lean, if not to thee?
The power that framed the ivy gave the oak;
But woman, who can nothing else than love,
With but false man to love—where shalt thou cling?
To Heaven? what else. And if, Ignatio,
Thou hast lost me e'en that refuge, say what pangs,
What writhings of the mind, what hot remorse,
What cold despair, what nighted destitution,
Were bad enough for thee? I'll think no more,
Perchance I wrong him; and I would not wrong him
Even for Heaven—however I be wrong'd.
—What do I say?—He look'd so pale and faulter'd,
And his knees trembled, and his cheek turn'd ashy,
As if the frighted blood had rush'd in terror
Back to the o'erlabour'd heart. Alas! alas!
How have I wrong'd him?—He is broken-hearted;
And yet must strive to smile, and hide the pain
That gnaws his life away. No kindly bosom
To trust his tale to—none to offer comfort—
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His lot doth fellow mine. Wretch that I am,
To add one pang to such a pile of grief!
Is it not harder still? Oh, misery!
To breathe in pain, and be denied to sigh,
To yearn, to weep; and dare not shed one tear.
Renounce me, O ye Heavens! if ever more
I do not pray you, bless my 'lorn Ignatio,
If you would bless Eulalia. These are footsteps—
There's some one comes. They shall not see me weep.
Let me be firm—firm.
[Exit.
Enter Giovanni.
Not here!—I am almost glad on't; for, poor lady,
Her grief's past help; and we still shun to see
The ill we cannot med'cine. What a gloom,
E'en to my eye, wraps these once pleasant walls;—
Well, poor Ignatio—I must do his bidding:
I will search further. She has been here lately;
Those books, and this unused negligence,
Whisper as much.
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Now rest you well, fair madam;
I would confer with you, so I intrude not.
EULALIA.
Intrude? No, no; pray use no ceremony;
I am not worth it now, and want it not.
Signor, your pleasure?
GIOVANNI.
If it grieve me, madam—
And credit me that it does inly wrench me—
Only to gaze on grief like that of yours,
How sad an office must it be to minister
Between that grief and its regretful cause?
I come with speech from my unhappy friend—
The Prince—Ignatio.
Pardon me, sweet lady,
But all that friendship, all that care can do,—
Why should I say it?—He is not a villain;
And if he have deceived, 'twas not in guile—
I'll answer for his heart. Nay, weep not; he
Would know in what your sorrow can be served.
Vouchsafe some answer, madam.
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I have none
To give—I am ashamed to weep—and tears
Are all the speech I have.
GIOVANNI.
Then let them fall;
Interpret but their meaning; and that wish
Shall be omnipotent with poor Ignatio.
EULALIA.
No; I'll not weep!—You are the Prince's friend;
Perhaps you may be mine; but that I know not:—
No matter; I am past the hurt or help
Of friends. This say to Prince Ignatio;
And this I say to you—,
I am aware
That there are acts must bear the pains of guilt,
And, what is worse, the shame, which yet are guiltless,
At least I would fain hope it, so please Heaven
In mercy to permit; for innocence
Is all the stay that's left me—I will bear them
Patiently. Sir, my heart shall break in silence,
If't please the Prince to send me from this place.
No pride for me—so I will tell the truth—
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But something either whispers what I am,
Or what I have been.
GIOVANNI.
It shall be done, lady.
Nay, at this hour is a retreat prepared,
But that, methought, yourself had been averse,
And wish'd to tarry here some space.
EULALIA.
Oh! sir,
Pardon me—grief is still fantastical,
And drags the coward heart a thousand ways.
I wish to quit this place; at least, I think
I wish it.
GIOVANNI.
Madam, even for that thought
It shall be done. Is there aught else?
EULALIA.
No, Signor,
Nought else; and yet there is—Oh! poor, mean heart,
How must I bribe thee to be resolute?
I cannot speak the word, and yet I must.
22
What is't disturbs you, madam? Is there aught
Further that you would speak?
EULALIA.
Oh! no, no, no;
Let me go hence, and leave me till that time.
GIOVANNI.
Nay, madam; but there is. Nor dare I leave you,
Nor can I—pardon me—until I know it!
EULALIA.
But who will pardon me when they shall know?
No matter; more a wretch I cannot be.
Sir, I—I would—I trust it is no harm,
And to indulge me were but charity,
To one that's fall'n so low. Hear my request,
Yet do not answer to it yea or no;
But tell Ignatio—Say that she who loved him,
And loves him still,—but in that kind she ought,—
Would see him fain once more; but only once,
Or ere she goes for ever.
Do not answer,
But tell Ignatio this; and if he frown,
23
Breathe no word further. I can turn my face,
And die in darkness, and most silently;
For I have learn'd the woman's hardest lesson,
To be forsaken, and yet not complain!—
I pray you pardon me.
[Exit Eulalia.
GIOVANNI.
Your bidding shall
Be done, sweet lady.—Thus we vainly pour
A little comfort on a raging grief,
To make it rage the more; even as the water
Doth an o'er-mastering fire. My task is over.
[Exit.
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