 | The Student of Padua |  |
1
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A Hall in Lorenzo's House.Enter Frederick St. Cyr and Giacomo, meeting.
Gia.
—Good morrow, Signor Frederick St. Cyr.
Fred.
—Ah ha! good Giacomo! How goes the world?
Gia.
—Roundwards.
Fred.
No, backwards. Come, is Julian home?
Gia.
—Yes, unexpectedly—
Fred.
I expected it.
Gia.
—You expected him? Why no one knew his coming;
He only knew't himself some hour ago.
Fred.
—Still, I expected it.
Gia.
Expected what?
Fred.
—That Julian, like a gust of wind, would come
And ruffle up your feathers ere you knew't.
Gia.
—Ay, signor, but his father scolds most terribly.
Fred.
—So does a housewife, when, on washing day,
It rains; but can she stay the elements?
Anger's the steam of petty minds, and must
Escape, or else there's danger that they burst.
Look you, my friend, your worthy master wishes
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A learned doctor. Now this youth is warn'd
Of nature to recoil from such a calling,
Just as the skin shrinks up from cold. How think you,
Having attain'd an age to judge and reason,
That he will 'bide the rebuke of his own conscience
Without demurring?—pooh, pooh! Does his father
Wish that his son were such an arrant fool?
Gia.
—In sooth, I am no reasoner on these things;
But Julian surely will not be a doctor.
Fred.
—Why should he? we're not fashion'd all alike
To fit the customs of society.
Lorenzo is a worthy goldbeater—
His mind contracted as a grain of metal:
His son's imagination as expansive
As the rich leaf spread o'er its widest surface.
One grows out of the other, differing as
The ocean from the river. Come—I'm preaching,
Julian was born a poet, and his father
May strangle, but he cannot change his nature.
Enter Lorenzo suddenly.
Lor.
—Good morrow, sir! You speak your feelings freely.
Fred.
—I am a kind of forager upon
Society, and make my manners fit
Me like my gloves and jerkin—easily.
Lor.
(Bowing.)
—And what procures my humble roof this honor?
3
—(Aside.
What an icicle politeness is!) Why, sir,
Hem! How is Julian, sir?
Lor.
O very well.
Fred.
—He makes some stay?
Lor.
Some six or seven hours.
My pleasure doth command him hence to-night.
Fred.
—So soon?
Lor.
Why not? I'll see no son of mine
Squandering another hour in idleness.
He's spent too many precious ones in Venice
With those, whose company hath profited
His purse, and time, and reputation, little.
Fred.
—(Aside.
Thus ever strikes the coward with a hint.)
Lor.
I much regret that business calls me from
The etiquette of entertaining you.
Fred.
—Good morning, signor!
Lor.
—(Aside.
Curse his insolence!)
Good morrow, sir. (Aside.
He'll surely now be gone.)
Fred.
—Good morrow, sir, and pleasant calculations
Over the counter. (Appears intensely looking at some pictures.)
Lor.
(Aside.
Heavens! he'll drive me mad!)
Good morning, signor!
Fred.
Why, signor, I thought you gone.
Not on 'Change yet? (Looking at a clock),
Past the hour! How's stock?
Consols? What news from India?
4
(Aside.
Cursed puppy!)
Fred.
—The war with Tunis, people say, hath raised
The gold dust. But such news is Greek to me.
Lor.
—So long as you have gold to spend.
Fred.
True! Clever!
Lor.
—(Aside.
Why the young monkey laughs at me.)
Fred.
Ha! ha!
Yes witty! Were I doge, I'd melt the crown
To coin dubloons. There's nothing, sir, like gold.
Lor.
—Young gentleman, I do not understand you!
Exit.
Fred.
—Oh yes, you do! ha! Giacomo! Why, fool!
What ghost hath crossed your wonder?
Gia.
Master Frederick,
He's foaming at the mouth with passion!
Fred.
Well—
Have you not seen the Adriatic foam
And calm again? An old man's anger is
Not quite so terrible.
Bell rings violently.
Gia.
Oh! coming, sir!
Coming, sir! coming, sir! (Going.)
Fred.
Giacomo!
Gia.
Sir, coming!
Exit.
Fred.
—By Jove! he lords it most magnanimously
Over his subject slaves, this worthy goldbeater!
Gad! if his wife, and son, and two domestics,
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What would the nation do an' he were Doge?
Well, heav'n compassionate a passionate man!
But where does Julian bury all his cares?—
I'll hunt the young recluse out. Julian, hey!
I'd rather range the desert than inhabit
This garnished solitude. Hey! Julian! Julian!
SCENE II.
—A Room in Lorenzo's House.Lorenzo and Julian.
Lor.
—Enough! Now, mark me, Julian! you remember
I brook no opposition from my children:
By heaven, I will not! I have rear'd you as
A chosen vessel to contain my hopes;
But if you thus leak out my good advice,
And waste my dear and cherish'd expectations,
You cease to be a child of mine for ever.
Jul.
—Your pardon, sir! I am unfitted for
This single occupation which your love
Provides me; but in all things else, I am
Your most obedient son. Pray hear my reason!
Lor.
—Reason! What reason is there in deriding
And tampering with a parent's wish, incurring
Thus censure and rebuke from all our neighbours?
Jul.
—The censure of the busy, who decide
On things they cannot comprehend, by me
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I cannot mould my fortunes to receive
The impress of each idle fool's opinion.
Lor.
—Young man, this arrogance that thus outbraves
The world's opinion, is an earnest of
An evil inclination.
Jul.
Nay! I know
Good men's approval is a great reward:
And, richly merited and fairly won,
Outshines the stars of all nobility!
To this I have aspired, and therefore scorn
All intermedlers, as I spurn the dirt.
Lor.
—You must submit to many things perforce,
Like all the world, against your vagrant taste.
Would you lie down i'the sun, and idly wait
'Till fortune come to you? Behold your old
Companions all! how they're dispersed to bring
The produce of their labours home at night
To Venice, here, their great and native hive!
Why would you be the only drone?
Jul.
The drone!
You do not, or you will not, understand me.
Lor.
—I know I've chosen you a rich profession.
D'you weigh its honors rightly?
Jul.
Ay, its crown
Of laurels would be weeds and thorns to me!
Worse—poison, that would eat into my brain
And launch me down a maniac to my tomb!
Lor.
—Have you no rev'rence for your teacher's words
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Lacking that, genius and good luck must fail
To grasp the topmost plumes of eminence—
These promise and predict success to you!
Jul.
—They judge like people who esteem the moon
And stars no bigger than they seem at distance.
Is't likely, they, who cannot plumb the source
From whence springs up the tide of what we do,
Can prophecy how high, how far, or wide
The stream of capability may flow?
O, sir! if we were speaking of a thing
Tangible, open, visible—my purse,
My dress, my manner—I should bow to years
And riper judgments; but of what pertains
To th'secret workings of another's mind,
Presumption's self should not pretend to speak.
Lor.
—Command then must assume the right to act!
Jul.
—No! do yourself not such a foul injustice;
Obey your reason, not your passion! O!
My father! If you knew how I revere
You with a child's affection, you would pause
E'er thus you snap the ties of my young love.
I must speak freely. I can brave your anger,
But not for all the wealth of Crœsus, will
I forge my honor to a paltry lie.
Lor.
—You're most grandiloquent in advocacy
Of this romantic beggary. It seems
A poet's rags have some peculiar charm.
You cannot both be idle and be rich.
8
—Poverty is an evil of the mind—
A terror of imagination only.
The poor in circumstance, are frequently
The wealthiest in the blessings of content—
And oh! content's a treasure of such price,
That only he can count its value, who
Possesses this inestimable gem.
Lor.
—You choose your destiny then, beggary,
And th'applause of empty-headed fashion!
You deem it wiser than t'accompany me
On the Rialto, where Lorenzo's son
Would see a thousand bonnets doff'd to him,
And ev'ry bonnet lin'd with gold and gems.
Jul.
—Yet, each is happy in his own degree,
The Arab and the senator of Venice.
There's many a heart beneath th'imperial star
Of empire, born to perish miserably;
While many a savage roams the wilderness,
With thoughts and feelings that would grace a throne!
The poet's worldly sacrifice is great,
His sorrows many, but his joys surpass
Their gloominess, eclipsing with the light
Of immortality the storms of life:
And th' recompense of self-approval is
A gorgeous sun-set for the eve of life!
Lor.
—Look at your dissipated, worthless friends,
Angelo, and St. Cyr.—what has the painting
Or poetry of one or other won
For them, but poverty, neglect, and scorn?
9
—With which, perchance, they're happier than arrayed
In all that wealth the meanest mind acquires.
But, let us grant these men unmeritorious.
The crime of one renders not others guilty.
Have we no wicked and dishonest senators?
Unthrifty merchants? lying lawyers? quacks?
And hypocritical, blaspheming priests?
There's imposition every where on earth!
Except against a calling for its followers;
And we must throw off all things old, and find
New occupations out for honest men.
Lor.
—Enough! such argument is useless, when
The resolution's taken. Well you know
I'll brook no opposition in my children.
You must obey, or be no son of mine!
Jul.
—But hear me, sir! I only ask your ear
For my most urgent argument.
Lor.
(Going.)
Peace, peace!
To night adjourn to Padua! There reflect
Whether obedience and a father's friendship,
Or disobedience and his enmity,
Be wiser choice.
Jul.
(Aside.
A father's enmity!)
For God's sake listen, sir!
Lor.
I will not listen!
A parent's duty is command—a child
Implicitly obeys, or from that hour
It disobeys, it is no child of mine.
Exit.
10
(Following.)
But father! sir! Nay, sir!
(Returning.)
O God of heav'n!
What most fantastic tricks are these for nature
To play upon us? Why, his anger hangs
A lie upon the affection of his blessing!
I used to think, that, with the very beast,
The bonds of blood were something more than cobwebs,
To perish at the touch of interest!
O shame upon humanity! that gold,
Opinion, selfishness, a gross desire,
Usurps the throne of our affections, and
Cancels the law heav'n wrote upon our hearts.
O, Venice, Venice! flaunting in thy robes
Of splendour and untold magnificence!
Look at thy image in this old man's avarice,
And blush to think thou hast exchang'd the impulse
Of virgin nature for a painted cheek,
And hollow breast of harlotry! O shame!
Shame on us all that cannot elevate
Our souls above the dust we tenant!—Shame!
Enter Giacomo.
Gia.
—Sir, sir, sir! Signor Julian,
Jul.
What mystery?
Gia.
—O, sir, here's Signor St. Cyr here i'the
garden. He has been waiting these two hours, and, God
knows, they were two hours too long for him; but all,
as he says, out of pure affection for you. But he's
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suppose he hadn't a care.
Jul.
—Out, garrulous old fool; what know you of his cares?
Gia.
—Oh, know, sir—of course I know nothing—only—
Jul.
—Speak to the point, and stand not mouthing there
Your borrowed wit.
Gia.
You stop my mouth—
Jul.
Peace, peace!
We must attend on our own exegencies,
Or leave our urgent wants untended—hence!
Exit.
Gia.
—Hoity toity! Why how choleric be all these
college squibs! Well, well, when their blood runs as
slowly as mine—some of 'em though will never live to
to try it, or they'd find their words would not slip off
the tongue-end quite so merrily. Old servants now
o'days are old fools. All old things are old humbugs,
and a basket bottom stuck on four bulrushes, is a better
seat than our grandfather's chair. Ah! we shall see
these changes of all the old coinage turn out some
brass farthings. But Julian's a good boy. As for
that St. Cyr, master says he's a bad soil to sow good
precepts on. I'm sure he's a moist climate, and yet as
little acquainted with water as a Venetian might be.
Julian calls me ass, when I tell him this. Well, there's
many an ass' head between short ears.
Ay, that's my master's ring. The very bells
12
if I dare, that he'll drive dear Julian to desperation,
and then what will become of us? Why the very cats
and dogs seem better pleas'd when Julian's at home.
I never heard a tongue that didn't wag in his praise,
except master's, and he thinks the best education for
a child is, to abuse and scold him from morning till
night.
Bell rings violently again.
Coming, sir!—Well, such passions as these bring their
own punishments, or I'm much mistaken.
Exit.
SCENE III.
—A garden behind Lorenzo's house.Julian and Frederick.
Fred.
—Come, come, you manufacture and invent your cares,
And fancied griefs are worse than actual woes;
What is opinion man, to you or me?
Jul.
—We all pretend to bid defiance to
The world's opinion, with patrician scorn—
Yet, Frederick, there's not one of us but would
Demean himself a prouder man, upborne
Upon the shoulders of its approbation.
Fred.
—Pshaw, man! opinion is the breath of fools!
If man must crouch beneath the yoke of man,
The creatures whom we should despise, become
13
Us slaves to Superstition's chariot wheel.
Opinion, pooh! it is the veriest trick
Of juggling knavery to over-reach
His neighbour's purse. For he, who dares be great,
Must smash this looking-glass of conscience, or
Be outstared by the ghosts of his own fears.
Jul.
—You estimate too lightly what we should
Revere—
Fred.
You fear what fortitude should spurn.
When Julias Cæsar bursts his marble shroud,
And thunders forth that Cæsar fear'd a world's
Opinion, more than as a slave's rebuke,
Then I'll fall down and worship—not 'till then!
Jul.
—Alas! my father will not hear me reason.
Fred.
—Sdeath! if a parent have the privilege
To stifle reason in his child, your mother
Might just as usefully bring idiots forth,
As creatures to be made such monsters of.
Jul.
—I might reproach, but should forgive a father.
Fred.
—Forgiveness for the gods! Men built of clay,
And modell'd strangely weak and helpless, with
A thousand passions, lawless as the winds,
May preach, but do they practise this forgiveness?
Jul.
—It is not what we do, but what we should do,
Men think of, when they judge us.
Fred.
O, the devil
Take all such thinkers! There was a time when I
Could thwart desire, repress my passions, wring
14
T'appease this Cerberus, opinion. But,
Julian, there is a period in our fortunes,
Beyond which we cannot strain our energies
To catch the smile of the still sneering world.
After that we exchange our love for hate,
Our suffering for revenge—our sympathy
For utter scorn of all abuse or praise.
Love fits a maiden's lips, as doth a glove
Her lily hand; but, on the armed breast,
Sheath'd in the mail, experience gives us, link
By link, from batt'ling with the world, it sits
As lightly as a feather on the helm.
Jul.
—Then we outlive the feelings which, like rainbows
Arch'd o'er the skies, redeem life's cloudy way?
Fred.
—No, there's ambition's light'ning glory left;
The thunder of revenge; the storm of hate;
A thousand godlike passions after all
Our worldly dreams have perish'd!
Jul.
Meteors to
Mislead us to our ruin.
Fred.
Who nobly dares
Is next to him who wins a glorious fame.
The carrion cannot fancy heavenly splendours
He has not courage to aspire to; but
The eagle, stricken from his lofty height,
Falls to the lowly earth an eagle still!
Jul.
—But, Frederick, they who soar, should plume their wings
15
Their struggling pinions with a people's curse.
Fred.
—A curse upon the people! Well, well, come,
Truce to such cares as blanch the cheek of youth.
Who gives his spring-time to the fears of autumn,
Deserves an early winter on his head.
You sup with us to-night? I'll seat you with
Some weather-beaten spirits that will laugh
Through the barr'd dungeon windows of their hopes,
As merrily as in the open day
Of fortune's sunshine.
Jul.
I am not of these.
The world's disapprobation withers up
The laughter on my lip, as tempests sear
The drooping leaf.
Fred.
O, we can spunge these schoolboy
Apprehensions from your slumbers. Come,
You sup with us to-night?
Jul.
In truth, I cannot.
Fred.
—That cannot be a truth. Pray, give't the lie.
Jul.
—I lie to-night upon the road to Padua.
Fred.
—Do so. Declare you go, and stay away.
Jul.
—Ay, but my going is a certainty.
Fred.
—Then certainly I would not go to night.
Jul.
—Sadly I must depart for Padua.
Fred.
—You shall depart in sadness when you go;
As sad as sorrow—but remain to-night.
Jul.
—It will not be.
Fred.
It may be if you will.
16
—I am most willing it should be so, if—
Enter Giacomo suddenly.
Gia.
—My mistress, sir, your mother, bids me say,
She has induc'd my master to consent,
That you postpone your travel till to-morrow,
And, as the Senator Lodoro holds
A masquerade to-night, she doth entreat
Your company—
Jul.
Enough! these varlets grow
Loquacious in their duties now-a-days,
The world is fashion'd to such vanity.
Fred.
—Julian, we number you our servant?
Jul.
No!
These revels please me not: my soul is strung
To such a pitch of fever'd hope and fear,
That every cup lights frenzy in my eye.
Excuse me, Frederick, I will not drink.
Fred.
—Drink!—You shall drink, and crown your cups with myrtle!
Jul.
—Why?
Fred.
Why, your fortune being desperate,
Your state is happiest.
Jul.
Prove it—
Fred.
Thus, I hold
Men's fortunes are the best, when grown so bad
They suffer by no earthly chance, but may
Be mended by whatever change betides.
Jul.
—God send him succour who is fallen so low!
17
—What god? Dan Cupid, sir?
Jul.
You trifle.
Fred.
Ay!
So do we all, only our vanity
Invests our favourite trifle with importance.
Well, well, I fret the magnanimity
Of thy yet virgin love—Adieu! To-night
We sup together in the tavern, where
The doors are open to all guests but care.
Exit.
Jul.
—What wretched creatures are we thus to waste
Existence in an abject slavery
To lust and passion, though we gild them with
The fashionable epithet of pleasure!
Ambition, gold, fanaticism, wine,
All visions of distemper'd minds, or longings
Of the diseas'd and heated body—yet,
We go, like martyrs, smiling to our doom!
Gods! Ye have made us wonderful, strange beings!
I half deride, and yet a destiny
Seems to impel me to the poet's lot—
Albeit, it is stamp'd with ignominy;
Instead of, as it should be, honourable
And manly daring for an honor'd rank.
Enter Giacomo.
Gia.
—My mistress waits for you.
Jul.
I come directly.
Exeunt.
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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.
19
—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.)
20
—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!
21
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?
22
—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.
23
(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
24
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.
| The Student of Padua | |