The Student of Padua A Domestic Tragedy. In Five Acts |
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| 2. | SCENE II. |
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 | The Student of Padua |  |
SCENE II.
—A hall in Lorenzo's house.Giacomo.
Well, here's a comfortable uproar for a neutral party!
what a pleasant thing to see every body fighting, and
nothing to do with the quarrel ourselves. Master curses
Julian—Julian curses his destinies, and mistress blames
them both. Now, I wonder who's right, and who's
wrong. Perhaps both, perhaps all. All right—all
wrong? Well, that's curious—but still it may be true.
Let me discuss the matter. I'm fond of discussion.
Master insists upon Julian not being a poet. Now, if
God made Julian a poet, master may make him a
cobler, but can't unmake him a poet—therefore master's
wrong, to insist upon what he can't do.
Coming sir! that's Julian's bell. Stop till I discuss
the subject, whether Julian's right or wrong. Well,
Julian won't obey his father—there, then, Julian's
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Julian's right.
Bell rings again.
Coming, sir, directly, just let me discuss this! Well
Julian's wrong, and Julian's right—and—let me see—
master's wrong, and master ayn't right. Why, then,
Julian's more right than master, so Julian's most right—
Enter Frederick St. Cyr.
Fred.
—And most right means very right—and very
right is quite right—ergo, Julian is quite right. Now,
you old dotard! why didn't you answer the bell, and
not detain a gentleman at the door, while you were
philosophising in the hall?
Gia.
—I fancied it was Julian's bell, sir, and intended
going, as soon as I had settled which I should serve—
father or son.
Fred.
—Why, the one that's right, to be sure.
Gia.
—That's very right, sir—but suppose he cannot
afford a servant, sir, and the other can—then, if I serve
this one, I'm all wrong.
Fred.
—Giacomo, thou art more correct than thy
correctness imagines. Every man adapts his philosophy
to his interest, and, so, each is the best philosopher
after all. We are all right, and we are all wrong.
Gia.
—Upon my word, Master Frederick, I half
believe what you say is true.
Fred.
—Truly, I thank you for your half belief, inasmuch
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corner of the next street, it's chance but you get your
head broke for a knave, and certain that you will be
wholly disbelieved for a liar and a fool.
Gia.
—But how is that, sir?
Fred.
—Because, you arrant blockhead! you must
take the world as it is, and not attempt to make it what
it should be—unless you wish to be stuck in the
pillory of every man's ridicule, and pelted with the
dirt of his abuse.
Lorenzo.
(Within.
Giacomo! Giacomo! Giacomo!)
Gia.
—Here's my master coming, sir.
Fred.
—Ay, so I hear.
Gia.
—O, sir, he's in a fury!
Fred.
—So am I.
Gia.
O, for God's sake, sir, begone!
Fred.
—For Peace's sake, you mean—she was a goddess.
Enter Lorenzo.
Ha! Lorenzo! pleasant day.
Lor.
—Sir, I'm not accustomed to this gross
Familiarity.
Fred.
True. Giacomo! a chair!
Giacomo places chairs.
Pray, sir, be seated.
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(Aside.
This in my own house!)
Fred.
—Be seated, signor. Nay, an you prefer
Standing, excuse me (sits down)
, I am rather weary.
We idlers seldom ruffle our sensations
By walking—streets are really horrible!
Lor.
—May I, sir, ask permission in this house,
Lately my own, to hear your business!
Fred.
—Lately your own!—you have parted with it then?
Lor.
—It seems so. But your business.
Fred.
O ay! Julian—
Julian your son, sir, he's a clever youth.
Lor.
—Indeed!
Fred.
Indeed, he is a promising youth.
Lor.
—Upon my word!
Fred.
Upon my word and honor!
But to the business. Pray, now, what d'you mean
To make of Julian?
Lor.
Make of Julian? sir!
Is this your special business, or mine?
Fred.
(Rising.)
'Tis yours Lorenzo! and to be more serious—
For I can set aside this levity
And reason like a man when necessary—
I here have forc'd myself on your attention,
To blame your unparental harshness with
My friend—my noble, generous, gifted friend!
You will not so belie your natural love
As punish an opinion with your anger?
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—And, may I ask, who constituted you
An umpire of your senior's conduct?
Fred.
Age,
That should lean on experience, like a crutch,
At times, too trusting in its strength, will tumble—
Eepecially in things that touch our happiness.
There, each by heaven is constituted judge,
And man may marr, but cannot mend the precepts
Ingrafted in our hearts from infancy.
Listen, sir! though you will not profit by
My warning, you shall hear it. Try your power!
Immure your son in pestilential cities.
Invent, contrive, adapt his energies
To purposes of base aggrandisement.
Torture his body, dispossess his mind
Of its affections, appetites, desires,
And natural love—and lead him in the chains
Of splendid slavery. Yet, after all,
O'er his disfranchised heart triumphant Nature,
Will vindicate her proud supremacy—
And, like an uncag'd eagle, to the clouds
And solitudes of poetry, his soul
Will rise victoriously, despite your wrath
And the denunciations of your curse!
Exit.
Enter Lorenzo's Wife.
Wife.
—What ails you, husband?
Lor.
Leave me!
Wife.
Are you ill?
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Begone!
Wife.
How have I merited this anger?
Lor.
—You've all colleag'd against my happiness.
You, and your disobedient son—and then
His worthless, heartless, good-for-nothing friend,
Dares to insult me to my very face.
Begone! I tell you!
Wife.
But, for mercy's sake!
Compel not Julian to this harsh adventure!
Recall your sentence—you will drive him mad.
Lor.
—I care not! not a straw! I'd rather see
Him perish at my feet, than disobey
My inclinations! Do you think I'll have
My children turn my masters?
Wife.
Ah! Lorenzo!
How we forget, in censuring our children,
The fooleries of our own younger days!
Lor.
—You advocate his disobedience?
Wife.
No!
But recollect we might as wisely order
The summer flowers to bloom, the trees to blossom,
As dictate to the nature of our hearts.
Lor.
—I care not! you may tell your hopeful son
To post to Padua, and fulfill my bidding—
Or leave my roof for ever!
Exit.
Wife.
Gracious God!
How passion can usurp our reason! Surely,
Surely, this is but momentary anger.
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All, all cry out upon such foul injustice!
Enter Julian.
O Julian! Julian!
Jul.
Mother! why these tears?
Wife.
—I wept for joy at thy nativity,
But little thought to weep for sorrow, now,
That ever thou wert born.
Jul.
Your blessing, mother!
I will remove this rheum from your eyes,
And cut the ulcer from my father's heart.
The world hath room enough for me—
Wife.
To starve in!
Jul.
—Starvation—death itself, in conscientious
Performance of the destiny assign'd us,
Is nobler than a splendid slavery
To the dominion of another's whims.
Wife.
—You little know the fearful obstacles
Life hath to combat.
Jul.
To the noble mind
Obstacles are, what fences, bars, and gates
Are to the generous temper'd hunter—trifles
To overleap—the trials of our power.
Wife.
—Youth's sanguine. In the morning of the heart's
Affections, hope is natural as sunshine
In the clear skies; but age is calculating—
Especially against our chance of fame,
And honor in the adventures of our skill.
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—I've friends.
Wife.
By name!
Jul.
You wrong them! I have given
My purse, my hand, my confidence to them.
Drunk, smiled, and laugh'd in comp'ny—shar'd their thoughts—
What fear, then, with such honourable men?
Wife.
—Honourable!
Jul.
Do you doubt them?
Wife.
Julian!
I would not dash a youth's affection with
The poison of suspicion; that will come,
With other passions that disgrace us—scorn,
Contempt, misanthropy—too soon!—alas!
Ere age hath blanched your brow, your heart will be
Old enough, God knows, in its hate of men.
Jul.
—These are the fears of your declining age.
Wife.
—No, Julian, it is our misfortune never
To have our foresight credited, until
The evils prophesied have been fulfill'd.
I cannot hope, that you, intoxicated
With the good fortune of your fancy, will
Regard my caution. Disappointment must
Effect more miracles in one short year,
To alter your opinion of the world,
Than would a lifetime spent in list'ning to
Another's counsel. Julian, take this purse—
Nay, sir, refuse it not! you cannot stir
A footstep in the world without it—No!
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When you have spent it, you become their slave.
Be rich, and you are honor'd every where—
Be poor, and you lose every man's good word.
Jul.
—Your blessing.
Wife.
Yet a word—be honorable.
A ruin'd honor is a broken glass,
That artfulness may patch together, but,
Once broken, men will never more entrust
Aught precious to its leaky custody.
Jul.
—Mother!
Wife.
Be patient, Julian! when you rest
Within the world's embraces, you'll forget
Your mother—
Jul.
Never!
Wife.
Yes, we soon forget
In pleasure's arms, the arms that cherished us.
The heart is like a running brook, where each
Succeeding current wipes the last away.
Jul.
—Come, mother!
Wife.
Well, I'll try to live, if but
To pray for you!
Jul.
You are too serious.
Wife.
Julian!
Believe me, that your mother's farewell words
Will oft recur in other years, when she
Who utters them hath pass'd away for ever!
If you despise these marks of her affection,
Regret will haunt your memory to the grave.
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—Here, on my knees, I swear to venerate
Your love, and to fulfill your maxims, mother!
Wife.
—Then, whatsoever destiny be thine—
Brilliant, or blackened—honor'd, or revil'd—
The memory of a virtuous life shall hallow
The bitterness and agony of death.
Men may revile 't—but on their mockery tread
With scorn, as you would trample on an adder!
For, to the spirit, virtue is what silver
Is to the mirror, robb'd of which, the glass
Reflects no more the presence of one charm.
I weary you.
Jul.
Who wearies of such counsel
Is undeserving of its benefits.
Wife.
—Then, fare thee well! I cannot, cannot say
For ever—but it will be so.
Jul.
Nay, nay!
Wife.
—My boy! my boy! O Julian! you will never,
In all that world of gaiety you seek,
Find one whose prayers ascend to heaven for thee
So fervently and truly as a mother's.
Exit.
Jul.
—Her kindness shakes the resolutions from
My heart, like blighted blossoms from a tree.
How strange! that gentleness should overcome
Determinations proof to violence!
But, when I think upon my sullen father—
The marble-hearted stoic, on the pedestal
Of his own pride, who'd rather see his child
A victim at the altar, than descend
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I feel a destiny invokes me hence!
Surely, if thieves, and rogues, and murderers
Can live and flourish, honesty can't starve.
And, yet, where villany so prospers, virtue
Hath little chance but to be rooted up.
If baseness, ignorance, hypocrisy
So thrive on earth, methinks it is no soil
For meritorious works to blossom in!
Enter Augustus.
Who enters here?
Aug.
Your patience! I have dar'd
To snap the pack-threads of good manners thus,
For weightier arguments must bind us here
A moment. To be very plain, you love
My sister—so some hours ago you pledg'd
Your honor—you solicited from me
A brother's influence—then, may I ask
What meant your most uncerimonious parting?
Jul.
—Love came to me, sir, most uncourteously—
And, when the mind is anxious, we forget
Our proper carriage to society.
Reflecting men forgive such errors.
Aug.
Julian,
I understand your love, but not your fears.
Jul.
—D'you know your father?
Aug.
Why this idle question?
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—Augustus, do you know your father properly?
Aug.
—Another man—and I should cut the string
Of bantering like this with sharper answer.
Jul.
—You have mistaken me. D'you know this man,
Your father, as you saw him in a glass?
He loves you—but he loves his interest more—
More, than that lily of his garden flowers,
Which he would madly pluck to plant upon
A noble's bonnet, where the gorgeous thing
Would droop and die—it is a tender flow'r!
Aug.
—I comprehend you—Barbarigo?
Jul.
Who
Will elevate the sister to his bed—
The father to his treasury—the son
To be the upper servant to his palace.
Aug.
You madden me! I see it all!—fool! fool!
Fools that we are, to talk of honor, while
Such villany surrounds us! Julian, now
I know my father, he shall deeply feel
The folly of adventuring his gains
Upon the prospect of his children's slavery.
Ha! ha! it will be excellent to laugh
Over the wreck of such a miser's dreams!
Come on! nay, stand not musing there, when all
My soul burns, like a war-horse for the fight.
Jul.
—Stop! you're enthusiastic—you are young!
Enthusiasm's the offspring of our youth—
Suspicion is the fruit of disappointment.
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In th' April skies of thy young fortunes, only
Affect me with incredulous disdain.
Aug.
—What has disturb'd you so?
Jul.
A trifle! only
My blood relations—on whose hearts, I deem'd
Heav'n grafted an eternal sympathy—
Have spurn'd my love, and proved my bitterest foes.
My father casts me on a world, that yawns
To eat our reputation up—and properly,
That charitable world, hath flung me back
Upon the poverty of my own self!
And now, with all my aspirations scorn'd,
My honor doubted, and my worth despised,
You smile, sir, do you? that I cannot dance
For joy, at every trifle of good luck?
Aug.
—O curse the tyrants!
Jul.
Ponder, sir! for all
The immortality of Cæsar would not
Hallow the damning crime of paricide!
Aug.
—But recollect the glories of their names,
Who, like the everlasting spheres, are doom'd
To shine eternally.
Jul.
I do, and think how many,
With unsung aspirations have gone down,
Unepitaph'd, into a beggar's grave!
Aug.
—Nor stirred by glory, nor by love?
Jul.
Love is
A holy word—if you have never felt
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Profane it not!
Aug.
What are your purposes?
Jul.
—I know not! ask the gods my destiny!
I think upon Bianca, and I cannot
Wed her fair blossoms to my wither'd fortunes!
I love her, but 'tis with a love so holy,
That I would not profane her happiness.
Aug.
—Then Barbarigo weds Bianca, and—
Jul.
—O agony! why visit misery
With your reflections on its wretchedness?
Aug.
—Enough, sir, I have done!—I court you not
To wed my sister—Nobles seek her hand,
And you—
Jul.
I know it all! and I, a beggar—
A beggar living on the world's opinion!—
Should not be over dainty.—Sir, you wrong
The scruples of an honorable man.
Aug.
—I only taunted you—your pardon, Julian.
Jul.
—The guiltless need no pardon.
Aug.
Will you see
My sister?
Jul.
I believe I must; but if
Aught evil from this night betide her years,
Eternity will never expiate
My deep remorse! I fear, I madly seek
A destiny, that wisely I should shun.
Exeunt.
| The Student of Padua | |