 | Antonia |  |
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ACT II.
SCENE I.
CARRAVAGIO.I cannot bend my thoughts upon my work,
Nor dare I note what fancy would suggest.
What can it be?—She has sustain'd a wrong,
Which dyes her face alternately with shame,
And bleaches with disgust. Alas! poor lady.
SCENE II.
Teresa and Carravagio.TERESA.
How! here again! Whom seek you, signor, here?
You were not wont to walk in this saloon?
CARRAVAGIO.
This morning, Ferdinando has affairs,
And I am otherwise not very well.
TERESA.
Not very well?
CARRAVAGIO.
Ay! Why should that surprise you?
TERESA.
You walk too much, good signor, in the night.
Night is the season for refreshing sleep,
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Have cares, or fears, or troubled thoughts, or love?
CARRAVAGIO.
You speak oracular. My art requires
That I should mark the various falling light;
And who can see the moon-beam, or the lamp,
Shed their true bright'ning, but when night prevails.
TERESA.
Cannot you be content with sun-shine hues?
They charm the eye with more variety.
CARRAVAGIO.
It is my taste,—my genius prompts me so.
TERESA.
Pray what is that? What is this genius, sir?
I hear of it, yet know not what it is.
CARRAVAGIO.
'Tis some peculiarity of mood,
Which makes the difference between mind and mind,
That figure, feature, colour, gait and air,
Make between man and man.—From sense it comes.
TERESA.
How may that be? We feel, taste, hear, and smell;
And saving accidents, see things alike?
CARRAVAGIO.
True! but the working is unknown to me.
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I understand: some have a keener relish
Of this or that, more than their neighbours have.
CARRAVAGIO.
'Tis so, I think. Some by the ear, are charm'd
With plaintive melodies, or cheerful sounds;
Some by the eye, with various forms and hues.
The senses are the portals of the mind;
And genius enters by the most frequented,
Or that which nature has constructed best.
TERESA.
Genius then makes, if I conceive aright,
By practice, or some liveliness of sense,
Men prone to find, and seize their means of pleasure;
And as you oft foregoe the midnight sleep,
To catch the shadows of the moony hour,
Or rise in company, as I have seen you,
Regardless of all decorous demeanour,
To bid a stranger beauty bend aslant;
Some other, by his different genius led,
Would seize on chance, nor fear he might offend.
CARRAVAGIO.
You're wond'rous metaphysical Teresa!—
But why so suddenly at odds in thought?
TERESA.
The moon, I think, went down at ten last night;
Nor were there any lights for you at two.—
How came you to be stirring at that hour?
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I! I Teresa? Wherefore ask you this?
Your lady chided me, and said I pry.
What has been done? What ill is thought of me?
TERESA.
It was at two that Ferdinando came.
CARRAVAGIO.
Well?
TERESA.
Saw you him not?
CARRAVAGIO.
At two last night, I?
I heard eleven strike when in my bed,
And slumb'ring soon, waked not before the dawn.
TERESA.
Was ever robb'ry more atrocious done?
CARRAVAGIO.
Robb'ry! am I suspected of a theft?
TERESA.
O no, no, no; it was not done by you.
Oh! my sweet lady to be plunder'd so!
How will her lov'd and loving lord deplore!
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SCENE III.
Carravagio and Ferdinando.CARRAVAGIO.
'Tis very strange! How could they doubt of me?
Why should a robb'ry crimson her with shame?
Ferdinando!—
FERDINANDO.
Sir! well?
CARRAVAGIO.
(I am distrest.)
FERDINANDO.
If you don't want me, sir, I may retire.
CARRAVAGIO.
Was it at two, that you came home last night?
FERDINANDO.
It was: Pray what is it to you? Am I
Bound to inform you of my coming home;
Or when, or how, I spend my master's time?
CARRAVAGIO.
Friend, be not insolent. Know, sullen knave,
That not thy master would so answer me.
FERDINANDO.
No: were he wise, he would not use his tongue.
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For this time I can pass thy insolence.—
There has been done a fatal deed last night.
FERDINANDO.
I know there has; and do you, sir, blame me?
CARRAVAGIO.
Art thou afraid I should, ill-manner'd cur?
But if in matter so juridical,
I could persuade the world of my skill,
There would not want sufficient evidence,
The forehead mark of guilt is set so plain.
FERDINANDO.
Shall I be ruin'd by your painting fancies?
What is there, sir, in this same pencil craft,
To make of me a villain or a saint,
But the devices of a plotting brain?
CARRAVAGIO.
Think'st thou, lewd epicure, thy sensual eye
Can the fine workings of the mind discern,
As they develope to the painter's sight;
Or that my art but ministers to pomp,
And has no influence in that holy process,
Which separates the pure celestial mind,
From such vile carnal dross, as rules in thee?
The painter's pencil, in expression true,
Conveys a moral like the poet's pen;
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Instruct the spirit and improve the heart,
Like eloquence, with all the shades of phraze,
Or poetry, embodied on the stage.
Go; fear my skill; and if thou can'st, atone;
For thou hast done that which I dread to think.—
A deed so dark, leads to a deadly sequel.
SCENE IV.
Teresa and Ferdinando.TERESA.
Stop! traitor, stop! or if there be a name
Of more perfidious villany expressive,
I'll call thee that, incarnated of Hell!
FERDINANDO.
What means the woman with this noisy riot!
TERESA.
Thou smooth unfathomable villany,
To vent the dev'lish venom of thy guile,
With such insidious plausibility
Against an honest and unworldly man!
FERDINANDO.
Think you, the painter then is innocent?
Think you that one so skill'd in trimming hues,
Is yet so little practiced in his craft
As not to make his visage for the time?—
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Ten years and more; and he is but a stranger:
In all that time, what ill know you of me;
What good of him?
TERESA.
I know that you have been
A flagrant master of my silly sex,
While he has but a mastership attain'd
In forms and shades: spare fruit of patient study.
FERDINANDO.
How should he know of what was done last night?
Answer me that. What spirit serves his ear,
To give advertisement of secret things?
Grant him the skill to spy into our thoughts;
'Tis but the present thought that rules the face;
Still as it shifts, a different guize succeeds;
How then should he know of an act that's past?
He could as well tell when you went to sleep
As know this secret, had he not been told.
Was he a witness, or a party, think you?
But what, Teresa, does the countess say?
TERESA.
She sits disconsolate, and only sighs,
Or starts, as 'twere, by sudden anguish stung;
And frantic flutt'ring, flies from room to room.
FERDINANDO.
When was't she told you what had pass'd?
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Told me!
She never told me.
FERDINANDO.
No! How knew you then?
TERESA.
I guess'd of something dismal by her grief,
And when you told me you were in the room.—
Why do you beat upon your brow so fiercely?
FERDINANDO.
Did she not send you to enquire?
TERESA.
Not she.
FERDINANDO.
Why stir you then so busily in it?
TERESA.
Think you that such a thing should chance, and I
Not seek to learn the truth and circumstance.
FERDINANDO.
We are, Teresa, but a pair of fools.
In all this, there may be but our conception.
Sift you herself—'tis meet she should be vext,—
That such as I broke in upon her sleep.
TERESA.
But how came you to think of Carravagio?
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I learnt from you what had, or may have, chanc'd,
And knowing his nocturnal rambles thought—
TERESA.
You turn my fancy, fellow, all awry;
I may be wrong, and yield to false conceits,
Or thou art but a deep and deeper knave.
SCENE V.
FERDINANDO.I have o'er-leap'd myself. Had I not told
This curious lynx of being in the room,
The countess still, perhaps, had nothing said.
Lo where she comes!—I'll stand apart and spy.
SCENE VI.
Antonia and Ferdinando.ANTONIA.
Let me no longer bend to this despair;
While I exhaust myself, with useless passion,
The secret Tarquin may escape secure.
Shame that restrains the speaking of my wrong,
Is, in this case, the minister of guilt.—
What though I may to cloister'd sorrow go,
Who will believe my chastity of mind,
If I depart and leave the spoiler free?—
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Which by the loathsome Belial is possess'd.
Why should I doubt? But still the fiend denies
And speaks as if he saw!—Peace, peace my heart;
'Tis done, 'tis done—nor sighs nor tears avail.
No sigh can turn the moment wafted by;
Nor tear obliviate the guilty stain.—
How my brain kindles when this wretch appears—
Ferdinando!—
FERDINANDO.
Madam!—
ANTONIA.
Hither; art there?
FERDINANDO.
(She overawes me!—what can ye intend?)
ANTONIA.
How dar'd you violate?—O God! O God!
And must I stoop to speak on such a theme?
What devil tempted you into my room?
No more prevarication; well you know
There was no other, but yourself, with me.
FERDINANDO.
You knew me then?
ANTONIA.
Say not, hell-fox, I knew.
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Softly, sweet lady, be a little wise,
No one may know if we are shrewd ourselves;
'Tis true you knew me not. But now—she's mad!
SCENE VII.
FERDINANDO.This flaming rage is female artifice.
Had I not told Teresa all was fafe—
Had I suppress'd that I was in the room,
And sent the mouser prying through the house,
All had gone well.—Curse on my cautious fear:
My rash precaution has betray'd the whole.
SCENE VIII.
Carravagio, Teresa, and Ferdinando.CARRAVAGIO.
Ha! Ferdinando! friend, art thou discover'd?
TERESA.
At length together I have found them both.—
Stay Ferdinando, for I come to speak,
And face to face bring out the dismal truth.
FERDINANDO.
Who gave you right?
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Who gave me right!
FERDINANDO.
Ay, who?
TERESA.
Shall deeds of such opprobrious act be done,
And no one dare to search how, or by whom!
CARRAVAGIO.
Humanity, thou firm complexion'd bronze,
Commissions her. Such misery and woe,
As wring the spirit of her hapless lady,
Dictate authority to all that's human.—
I met the countess flying as I came,
Her face distorted, and her fingers spread,
And all her figure shrunken, like one sick,
Seiz'd with the loathe of some detested drug.
FERDINANDO.
Good signor Carravagio hear my reason.—
This is a matter that involves us all;
Or you, who trespass on untimely hours;
Or wise Teresa here, who serves the countess;
Or I, whom accident brought home so late;
Must first sustain the charge of this great wrong.
It is not fit that we should meddle in't.—
We are not well in circumstances suited.
Each may some truth know in a different way,
And that which each of us apart suspects,
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Wait till the count return; then let us speak.
Teresa's fancy runs on midnight rape;
And you, sir, think, perchance, of robbery;
While I who found the door unbarr'd and entered.—
CARRAVAGIO.
Went you into your lady's room last night?
TERESA.
He did, he did, good signor Carravagio!
FERDINANDO.
Do I deny?—
CARRAVAGIO.
Horrible satyr! cease.
The midnight vision of thee in her chamber,
Had been enough to redden ruby-red,
The diamond purity of such a mind.
Oh! noble lady, virtuous in vain!
FERDINANDO.
Did I not say that he would turn on me?
TERESA.
If he be false, how shall the true be known?
If thou art true, what shape takes villany?
FERDINANDO.
Think you, or you Teresa, or your dame,
To daunt me down by this conspiracy?
It is not, sir, in nature credible,
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And love licentious where he dar'd not look.
Guard well yourself good signor Carravagio;
We know your practice at the midnight hour.
SCENE IX.
Carravagio and Teresa.CARRAVAGIO.
Let us, Teresa, summon up the house;
Send for the count, and, with some speedy justice,
Avenge this matchless sacrilegious sin.
TERESA.
As yet my lady, sir, has not complain'd:
'Tis true we have her tears and sorrow seen;
But still we know not well what has been done;—
She may be vex'd and yet not greatly rue.
CARRAVAGIO.
You do her wrong, you do her wrong, Teresa.
To such a lofty and majestic mind,
The very utt'rance of her direful taint,
Will be as when the soul forsakes the frame.
TERESA.
See where she comes!
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How solemn and august!
Like Juno stepping from the throne of Jove.
SCENE X.
Antonia, Carravagio, and Teresa.ANTONIA.
Good Carravagio, by your leave a moment,—
I would converse with her a little space.
I pray you, Carravagio, for the day
To take command of this ill-fated mansion.
Place special sentinels at all the gates:
Men you can trust. Look well I pray you, signor,
That no one fly; nor least of all that fiend—
See Carravagio, Ferdinando fly not.
And, if you will, send for the count my lord—
Good Carravagio it will be too late.
He will be here;—he will come soon enough!
CARRAVAGIO.
Alas! alas!
SCENE XI.
Antonia and Teresa.ANTONIA.
Why does he weep, Teresa?
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Sad fears and bodements hang on all our minds,
And wilder fancies overcome our thoughts,
Than the grim night-mare brings in troubl'd dreams.
ANTONIA.
Last night, Teresa, as I lay asleep,
Methought my noble lord, the Count Urbano,
The Count Urbano, my dear wedded lord,
Came in unheard, and softly sought my couch;
But when I woke before the dawn of day,
I was alone, and sinking back in sleep,
Dreamt that the devil had usurp'd my breast.
The fearful image startled me awake;
And, clearing swift the hazy drouze that still
Hung like a vapour on my faculties,
I had persuasion horrible of things
Which have infected me with desp'rate death.
TERESA.
Oh my dear lady!—Oh! alas! alas!
ANTONIA.
But still bright Hope rose like the hectic bloom,
That tints the cheek of a consuming fair;
And spite of conscious sense beguil'd my wish,
Till I had learnt who had profan'd my room.
Then like the flame that burst upon the sight
Of wretched Hecuba, when she unclos'd
Her window on the final night of Troy,
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And show'd the ruin and the sack atchiev'd.
TERESA.
Oh devilish serpent that could so invade
The hallow'd Eden of your wedded faith!
| Antonia | |