University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

—A Chamber in Lorenzo's House, the casement opening out on the grand canal.
Bianca and Maria.
Mar.
—Well then, my lady, since I may not talk
Of Signor Julian, as your lover, tell me,
How will you dress to-night? In spotless white?
Your heart's unspotted with the taint of love?
In green, perhaps? I think it should be green—
Green's jealousy—and you'll be jealous when
You see him gaily flirting with another,
Though you cry “pshaw; don't mention him, I pray!”
In yellow? did you say, in yellow? No,
That is forsaken, and I dare be sworn,
You never need wear that for him—no, no!
If nature can be true, he'll not be false.

Bia.
—Ah me!

Mar.
Why how you sigh, my lady! Pray
How will you dress?

Bia.
Did you speak me, Maria?

Mar.
—La! now, my lady! I've been talking here
This half hour, and you have not heard a word!
And sighing when you ought to practise smiles
Before your glass. Ah! now you are in love!

Bia.
—Maria, peace! you do assume too much—
It is not maidenly to speak of love.

Mar.
—But love will not be silenc'd like a child.

Bia.
—Yes, prudence ought to seal our lips, for love
Confess'd is love controlless.

Mar.
But a sigh
Convicts us, does it not? You said so once.
If so, you are in love, for now you sigh'd.

Bia.
Did I, Maria?

Mar.
Ay, my lady, heavily—
Oh, heavily! I wish you'd heard't—'twas shocking.

Bia.
—How, girl?

Mar.
Most sad and sorrowful, as if
Your heart were burning with some secret fire—
Just such a warmth as you might feel in love,
And that love for a troubadour like Julian,
Who sang the song praising Bianca's beauty.

Bia.
—Out, foolish girl! Come, I'll no more of this.
I waste the moments due to company.
Prepare my toilet. Let me have some flowers—
D'you mind, Maria? fresh, not gaudy flowers.

Mar.
—Heartsease, my lady?

Bia.
Get away, mad girl!
You will offend me.

Mar.
(Aside.
You will more offend
Yourself, by thus deceiving your ownself.
Good heav'n! if love, now, were the deadliest crime
In nature, it could not be fear'd and shunn'd
More than by those, whom nature formed for love.
Well—this may be the fashion, but the form
And favour do not please me, for all that.)

Bia.
—Maria!

Mar.
Yes, my lady—I am gone.

Exit.
Bianca goes to the casement, and opens it.
Bia.
—How tranquilly that sister moon looks down,
Nun-like, upon this wilderness of care—
This struggling, heartless, soulless world! Pale orb!—
That, in thy icy stillness, I have dream'd
To be the convent of those broken hearts
That die of love, upon this barren earth—
How gladly, though so young, could I lie down
Within thy arms, and whisper what I dare
Not tell th' unsympathizing crowd—I love!
I love? ay, and this lonely love is far
Too heavy for my solitary breast.
This very love, that, shared with him I love,
Would sit no heavier on the gladden'd heart
Than dew on flow'rs—than sunbeams on the skies.
Music heard from the canal.
Alas! Hark, there is music on the waters,
Breathing its melancholy to the air!
Perhaps the tones of lovers wafting high
To heav'n their earliest vows of constant love.
Why should I lack the privilege music hath?
Because this custom stamps me—Ah! I dare
Not think on't! if a woman asks for love!

Enter Mother.
Mo.
—Bianca, child!—did you not hear me call?

Bia.
—No, mother.

Mo.
Why, you have forgot our guests.
St. Mark hath chim'd the hour of invitation—
What make you here, by moonlight, in your chamber,
Loit'ring away the moments? Girl, of late
Your father and myself both notice how
You'r altered in demeanour—What means this?

Bia.
—Nothing.

Mo.
Nothing! nothing, Bianca?—shame!
I know there's something in it. Girls, like you,
Seldom forego their pastimes, and forget
The toilet and saloon for nothing. Now,
I hope you do not think yourself in love?

Bia.
—In love, my lady mother? In love with whom?

Mo.
—I seek to know with whom—for, look, Bianca,
Your father and myself, attentive to
Our interest, but having most at heart
Your welfare in the scheme, invite to-night
The Signor Barbarigo—who's a noble
Of condescending grace and lofty rank.
Bianca, the Lodoros have too long
Looked on, while poor pretenders, round about
Have ta'en patrician honors—'tis our turn
To loll upon the purple—you may be
The first called lady of our rising house.

Bia.
—I pray you, mother, tell me how you mean?

Mo.
—Barbarigo, girl, may fall in love with you!

Bia.
—I never saw him, and perhaps could not
Return his love—

Mo.
Return his love? pooh! pooh!
This is the squeamishness of your romance
And youth. Bianca, let these things, with you,
Be what they were with me, girl—toys, toys, toys!
Your father's state was lifted much o'er mine
By nature, yet I lifted myself up
To share his bed—I love him, as a lady
Of prudent virtue should esteem her lord:
What more?

Bia.
O, mother, I believe you do.
You are my mother—but, I'll ask you, if
You'd loved another, ere you saw my father,
Or fancied of another kind of love
Than his might prove, what would you then have done?

Mo.
—Strangled such peevish feelings, and secur'd
Myself respect and fortune, as I've done.

Bia.
—But is not self-respect before the world's
Esteem? O! I could never love myself,
If I should love one man and wed another.

Mo.
—O, ay! you're young and sickly, and, just now,
Would stake a cottage and a beggar's love
Against a palace and a coronet.
Come! leave these follies for each baby face,
And learn to be a woman. Start not, mind,
At ought you hear to-night; perhaps it dates
The rising of our star.

Bia.
(Aside.
Perhaps its fall!)

Mo.
Bianca!

Bia.
Madam?

Mo.
Why, girl, how you sigh!
You heard me, did you not?

Bia.
Yes.

Mo.
Recollect,
Your Mother's temper brooks no contradiction.
Come, do not be so timid. Ere yon moon
Re-fills the heavens with splendour, it shall gild
Thy palace walls, and light a score of maids
To tire thee as a princess for the feast.

Exit.
Bia.
—No, it shall silver o'er the marble tomb,
Where I would rather end my woes, and let
Death wed the roses on my cheek, than live
A life of blazon'd misery, and feel
Myself a harlot, even in riches' arms!
O God! how blind, how strangely, wilfully,
Insanely blind, are they whose duty 'tis
To guard the tenderness they madly crush!
Have they ne'er heard, or read of woman's love?
A timid thing that shrinks, if but the sun
Of rudeness gaze upon it, 'till arous'd
By cruelty and insult to new life—
And then you'd better stir the Syrian tiger
To leap upon your heart, than dare a woman
To bid defiance to your savage laws.
Ah me! I could have died, as dies a flow'r
For lack of rain, parched up, and gently bow'd
Into a timeless grave, beneath the heat
Of my own burning passions! But to be,
Besides, the creature of another's lust,
The implement of others' avarice—
The word of gain upon a father's lip—
The show-thing of a mother's vanity—
O God, forgive me! I will sooner fall
With every curse of earth upon my head!

Exit.