University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The High-road from Florence to Rome.
Enter Da Riva and Colonna, meeting.
Colonna.
Fulvio, immortal boy—poet—good fellow—
Punctual moreover, which is wonder's climax,—
How dost? and where hast been these eighteen months?
At grass, eh? fattening with thy Pegasus,
Like the most holy father!

Da Riva.
Dearest Cesare,
'Tis you, methinks, are the immortal boy,
Growing nor fat nor thin, but still the same;
Still the same bantering, glittering, blithe, good soul,
Pretending to give blows, to excuse thy blessings.

Colonna.
Nay, but the poet is the youth for ever,
Howe'er he grow; let him feign even a bit
Of a white top, like our old roaring boys,
Ætna and Vesuvius, with their sides of wine.
You know, Da Riva, for those hairs of thine
I ought to call thee father, if I could;
But then thine heart, and this warm hand to match,
Will never let me think thee, somehow or other,
A dozen years older than myself.

Da Riva.
Years older!
A pretty jest, 'faith, when our souls were twins,
And thou but the more light one, like an almond
Pack'd in one shell behind a plumper. Well,
How dost? and how does Florio and Filippo?
And is the Pope really and truly come
At last, and in his own most sacred person,
To see and glorify his native place?
Or hast thou shot before him, like a ray
Out of his orb?

Colonna.
Thy simile has it, 'faith:
Here is his ray, shining upon thyself,
As his ray should; and the good orb meanwhile,
Growing a little stout or so, reposes
Some nine miles off, and will be here next week,
Just by the time your speeches are all ready.

Da Riva.
And toilets?

Colonna.
Ay, and your extempore odes.
Well, well; you see we are insolent as ever,
All well and merry.—Not so, eh? in Florence?
How is Antonio? and pray, who was he,
That fellow yonder—there he goes—that left you
Just as I came, and went off bowing so,
With such a lavish courtesy and close eye?

Da Riva.
That lavish courtesy and that close eye
Will tell you how Antonio is. That fellow,
As you call him, is one of the most respectable men
In Florence. “Men,” do I say? one of the richest
And proudest nobles; of strict fame withal,
Yet courteous; bows to every one, pays every one—

Colonna.
Oh villain!

Da Riva.
Flatters every one; in short,
Is as celestial out of his own house,
As he is devil within it. (Whispering in his ear)
Ginevra's husband.

Colonna.
The devil it is! (Looking after him)
Methinks he casts a blackness
Around him as he walks, and blights the vineyards.
And all is true then, is it, which they tell me?
What, quite? Has he no plea? no provocation
From lover, or from wife?

Da Riva.
None that I know of,
Except her patience and the lover's merit.
Antonio's love, you know, is old as his,
Has been more tried, and, I believe, is spotless.

Colonna.
Dear Rondinelli!—Well, but has this husband
No taste of good in him at all? no corner
In his heart, for some small household grace to sneak in?

Da Riva.
Nay, what he has of grace in him is not sneaking.
In all, except a heart, and a black shade
Of superstition, he is man enough!
Has a bold blood, large brain, and liberal hand,
As far as the purse goes; albeit he likes
The going to be blown abroad with trumpets.
Nay, I won't swear he does not love his wife,
As well as a man of no sort of affection
Nor any domestic tenderness, can do so.

Colonna.
A mighty attaching gentleman, 'ifaith,
And quite uxorious.

Da Riva.
Why, thus it is.
He highly approves her virtues, talents, beauty;
Thinks her the sweetest woman in all Florence,
Partly, because she is,—partly, because
She is his own, and glorifies his choice;
And therefore he does her the honour of making her
The representative and epitome
Of all he values,—public reputation,
Private obedience, delighted fondness,
Grateful return for his unamiableness,
Love without bounds, in short, for his self-love:—
And as she finds it difficult, poor soul,
To pay such reasonable demands at sight,
With the whole treasure of her heart and smiles,
The gentleman takes pity on—himself!
Looks on himself as the most unresponded to
And unaccountably ill-used bad temper
In Tuscany; rages at every word
And look she gives another; and fills the house
With miseries, which, because they ease himself,
And his vile spleen, he thinks her bound to suffer;
And then finds malice in her very suffering!

Colonna.
And she, they tell me, suffers dangerously?

Da Riva.
'Tis thought she'll die of it. And yet, observe now:—
Such is poor human nature, at least such
Is poor human inhuman nature, in this man,
That if she were to die, I verily think
He'd weep, and sit at the receipt of pity,
And call upon the gods, and think he loved her!

Colonna.
Poor, dear, damn'd tyrant!—and where goes he now?

Da Riva.
To Florence, from his country-house; betwixt
Which place and town, what with his jealousy
Of the sweet soul, and love of mighty men,
He'll lead a devil of a life this fortnight;
Not knowing whether to let her share the holiday
For fear of them, and of Antonio;
Or whether, for worse fear, still of Antonio,
To keep her in the shades, love's natural haunt.

Colonna.
The town's the hiding-place. Be sure he'll take
Some musty lodging in the thick of the town,
To hide her in: perhaps within the sound
Of the shows, to vex her; and let her see what pleasures
She loses in not loving him.—Well, here am I,
A feather in the cap of the fair advent
Of his most pleasant Holiness Pope Leo,
Come to make holiday with my Tuscan friends,
And lay our loving heads together, to see
What can be done to help this gentle lady
For poor Antonio's sake, and for her own.

Da Riva.
Ay, and amidst those loving heads, are lovely ones.
What think you of the bright Olimpia,
And sweet Diana, her more thoughtful friend?—
You recollect them?

Colonna.
What! the divine widows,
That led that bevy of young married dames
At the baths of Pisa, and whom we used to call
Sunlight and Moonlight?

Da Riva.
The identical stars!
She of the crescent has a country-house,
Here in the neighbourhood, close by Agolanti's.
There are they both; and there Antonio is,
Waiting us two; and thence his friends the ladies,
Escorted by us two, will go to visit
Their friend Ginevra; partly, if they can,
To bring him better news of his saint's health;
Partly, for other reasons which you'll see.

Colonna.
Charming! And wherefore stand you looking then,
This way and that?

Da Riva.
Why, this way is our road;
And that way I was looking, to see how far
Our friend, the foe, was on his way to town.
I have never, you must know, been in his house;
And little thought he, when he saw us here,
What unexpected introduction, eh?
Was waiting us. I can't help thinking, somehow,
He'll hear of it, and come back.

Colonna.
For Heaven's sake, haste then.
What! loitering!—May the husband take the hindmost!

SCENE II.

A Room in the Villa Agolanti.
Enter Giulio and Fiordilisa, meeting.
Fiordilisa.
Alas! my lady is very angry, Giulio!

Giulio.
Angry? At what?

Fiordilisa.
At Signor Antonio's letter.
Oh, she says dreadful things. She says you and I
Will kill her; that we make her, or would make her,
Tell falsehoods to her husband, or bring down
His justice on our heads; and she forbids me,
However innocent you may call, or think it,
Bring letters any more. She bade me give it you
Back again—see—unopened.

Giulio.
'Tis a pity
That, too.

Fiordilisa.
Why, Giulio?

Giulio.
Oh, Signor Antonio
Read it me;—ay, he did—he's such a gentleman.
He said,—“See, Giulio, I would not have you wrong
Your mistress in a thought; nor give you an office
Might do yourself the thought of wrong, or harm.”
You know I told you what he wrote outside—
You recollect it—there it is—“Most harmless,—
I dare to add, most virtuous;” and there's more
Besides here, underneath. Did she read that?

Fiordilisa.
I know not. She read very quickly, at any rate;
Then held it off, as tho' it frighten'd her,
And gave it back. And she look'd angry too;
At least, she did not look as she is used,
But turn'd right so, and waived me to be gone—
I cannot bear to do the thing she likes not.

Giulio.
Nor I.

Fiordilisa.
Well—so I think. But hush—hush—hush! a step!
[Runs to the window.
And coming quickly!—'Tis the Signor—'Tis!
So soon come back too!—Strike up the guitar—
Strike up that song of Hope, my lady loves—
Quickly now—There's a good little Giulio.

[Exit.
Giulio.
Little! well,—come, for such an immense young gentlewoman
That's pretty well! She has fallen in love, I fear,
With some tall elderly person.—But the song.
Giulio. (Sings.)

Enter Agolanti.
Agolanti.
What frivolous ante-chamber tinkling now
Attunes the pulse to levity? puts folly
In mind of vice, as tho' the hint were needed?
(Listening.)
The door shuts, now the song's done. What was it?
What sang'st thou, boy?

Giulio.
A song of Hope, sir.

Agolanti.
Hope!
What hope!

Giulio.
I will repeat it, sir, so please you?
The words, not music.
[He repeats the words.
'Tis a song my lady
Is fond of.

Agolanti.
When she's troubled most? with sickness?

Giulio.
No, sir, I think when she's most cheerful.

Agolanti.
That
Paper within thy vest—Is that the words?
Give it me.

Giulio.
Nay, sir, it is none of mine.

Agolanti.
Give it me, boy.

Giulio.
I may not, sir.—I will not.

Agolanti.
Play not the lion's cub with me. That letter
Was given thee by Antonio Rondinelli.
He, and the profane wit, Fulvio da Riva,
Were seen this morning by the Baptistery,
Talking with thee. Give it me; or myself
Will take the answer to Antonio's house
In bloody characters.

Giulio
(aside).
'Tis a most sacred letter,
And ought to fell him, like a cuff o'the conscience.
Farewell, my place! Farewell, my lady sweet!
Giulio is gone.—There is the letter, sir;
Take it, (aside)
and be a devil choked with scripture.

Agolanti.
Unopen'd! come—thou meanest me well, Giulio?
Ah!—but—why didst thou loiter in thy message?
How came it that this fair epistle kiss'd not
The lady's fairer hands? for that's the style.

Giulio.
It did, sir.

Agolanti.
Did!

Giulio.
Yes, sir. My lady had it.
(Aside)
How like you that? You have not read the whole
On the outside. (Aside)
His very joy torments him.

Agolanti.
She read it not, like the good lady she is;
But yet you gave it her.

Giulio.
He read it me;
He did,—the noble Antonio read it me,
To save my youth, every way, from harm.

Agolanti
(aside).
Some vile double signification, addressed
To riper brains, must have secured the words.
The foresight was too gross, if not a coward's!
There has been, after all, I needs must own it,
A strange forbearance, for so hot a lover,
In this Antonio. It is now five years
Since first he sought Ginevra; nearly four,
Since still he loved her, tho' another's wife;
And—saving that his face is to be noted
Looking at hers wherever it appears,
At church, or the evening walk, or tournament,—
And that I've mark'd him drooping hereabouts,
Yet rather as some witless, lonely man,
Than one that shunn'd me,—my sharp household eyes
Have fix'd on no confusion of his making;
No blush; no haste; no tactics of the chamber;
No pertness of loud servant—not till now—
Till now;—but then this now may show all this
To have been but a more deep and quiet mastery
Of crime and devilish knowledge—too secure
To move uneasily,—and too high scornful
Of me, to give me even the grace of trouble.
And yet this seal unbroken, and these words—
[Reading.

“Most harmless;—I dare to add, most virtuous?”
And here again below;—

“I have written what I have written on the outside of
this letter, hoping that it may move you to believe the
possibility of its not being unworthy to meet the purest of
mortal eyes.”

Filthiest hypocrite! caught in his own bird-lime.

(Opens and reads the letter.)

“As you have opened neither my first letter nor my
second, written at intervals of six months each, from the
moment when my name was first again mentioned to you
since your marriage, I hardly dare hope that the words I
am now writing shall have the blessedness of being looked
upon, although they truly deserve it.

“Truly, for most piteously they deserve it. I am going
to reward (may I utter such a word?) your kindness, by the
greatest and most dreadful return I can make it. I will
write to you no more.

“But this promise is a thing so terrible to me, and so
unsupportable, except in the hope of its doing you some
good, that I have one reward to beg for myself; not as a
condition, but as a last and enduring charity.

“I no longer ask you to love me, however innocently, or
on the plea of its being some shadow of relief to you (in the
sweet thought of loving) from an unhappiness, of which all
the world speaks.

[Agolanti pauses, greatly moved.
Is it so then? and the world speaks of me,
And basely speaks! He has been talking then,
And acting too. But let me know this all.
[Reading.

“Neither yet will I beg you not to hate me; for so
gentle a heart cannot hate anybody; and you never were
unjust, except to yourself.

[Pauses a little again.

“But this I do beg; first, that you will take care of a
health, which heaven has given you no right to neglect,
whatever be your unhappiness; and which, under heaven,
is the best support of it;—and secondly, that when you
think of the friends of whom death has deprived you, or
may deprive, and whom it will give you joy to meet again
beyond the grave, you may not be unwilling to behold
among them the face of

“Antonio Rondinelli.

“Written with prayers and tears before the sacred image
of the Virgin.”

[Agolanti crosses himself, and pauses; then holds the letter apart, as if in disgust; and then again resumes his self-possession.
Giulio, I think since first I took thee from
The orphan college, now some three years back,
I have been no unkind master to thee, nor poor one;
Have stinted thee in nought fitting thy station,
Nor hurt thy growth and blooming?

Giulio.
Sir, you hired me
For certain duties, which, with kindly allowance
For faults of youth, I hope I have performed.
My life has been most happy; and my lady
Most bountiful to her poor songster.

[Sheds tears.
Agolanti.
Thou
Hast haply saved some little treasure then,
Against thy day of freedom?

Giulio.
Not a doit, sir.
What freedom should I think of, being free
From thought itself, and blithe as the blue day?

Agolanti.
Antonio Rondinelli is not rich.
His mother and he hide in proud poverty
From all but a few friends.

Giulio
(aside).
Noble Antonio!
He gave me a jewel, ere I knew him poor,
Worth twenty golden florins; and his cap
Starved for it many a month.

Agolanti.
New employers
Produce new duties, Giulio; to the hurt,
Sometimes, of old ones; and 'tis wise betimes
To see they vex and tangle not. These mixtures
Of services,—these new pure confidences
With masters not thine own,—these go-betweens
'Twixt virtue and virtue,—loves desiring not
Their own desires,—and such like angel-adulteries
(Heaven pardon me the word!)—suit me not, Giulio,
Nor a wise house. Therefore, before thine innocent
Lady (for such, with mutual love, I own her,
And scorn of this poor fop) learns dangerous pity
Of thy fair-seeming messages,—dangerous,
Not to her virtue, but her virtue's fame,—
This house thou leavest! Thou wouldst taste the pride
Of poverty, and will, and kinless freedom—
Do so! And when thou learn'st how friendship ends,
In treachery, and in thanklessness begun,
And the cold crust turns bitter and quarrelsome,
Blame not thou me; nor think those tears are payment
For guilt on thy side, and for love on mine!

Giulio
(aside).
Love! what a word from him! and to poor me,
Thus thrust upon the world, he knows not whither;
(Aloud).
Sir, you mistake my tears; but 'tis no matter.
Guilty or not, I cannot quit this house
With thoughts less kind than sorrow.—Sir, farewell.

[Exit.
Agolanti.
'Twas virtuously done, if not most falsely,
This seemingly celestial aversion
Of the very eyesight from unlawful words.
Or was it part of the system?—of the show,—
Which frets me daily with malign excess
Of undemanded patience? cold at best,
Resentful as the worst! Antonio,
I do suspect, she loves not; me, I know,
She hates; me, whom she should love; whom was bound
And sworn to love; for which contempt and wrong,
Fools, that love half a story and whole blame,
Begin to babble against the person wrong'd!
Times are there, when I feel inclined to sweep
The world away from me, and lead my own
Life to myself, unlook'd into with eyes
That know me not; but use, and sympathy
Even with those that wrong me, and the right
Of comely reputation, keep me still
Wearing a show of good with a grieved heart.

Enter a Servant.
Servant.
My lady, sir, hearing of your return
Home suddenly, and having visiters,
Entreats the honour of your presence.

Agolanti
(aside).
Now
To test this hateful gossip. “Suddenly;”—
Was that her word, or the knave's? No matter. (Aloud)
Visiters,—
Who are they?

Servant.
Lady Olimpia, and her friend
Lady Diana, with two gentlemen;
Strangers, I think, sir; one a Roman gentleman,
Come from his Holiness's court.

Agolanti.
The same,
Doubtless, I saw this morning; by which token
The other is the sneering amorist,
Da Riva. He, I thought, respected me;
But see—he knows these women, they Antonio—
Have I been hasty? or is—The black plague choke
All meddlers with—
To the Servant.
I will come speedily.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

Another Room in Agolanti's house. Ginevra, Olimpia, Diana, Colonna, and Da Riva, discovered sitting. Fiordilisa standing behind her lady's chair.
Olimpia.
Dearest Lady Ginevra, to remain
Shut up when all the world are at the windows,
Or otherwise owning the great common joy,
Is clearly impossible.—Observe now, pray:—
On Friday the Pope comes; Saturday, chapel
At the Annunziata;—Sunday, at Saint Lorenzo;
Monday, the chase; Tuesday, the race; Wednesday,
The tilts and drama; and on Thursday he goes.
So there's six lives for you; a life a day,
To make you well again, and merry, and careless.

Colonna.
Most vital arguments!

Ginevra.
Too vital, may-be.
Remember, Lady Olimpia, I have been ill;—
I am but getting better; and such draughts
Of pleasure and amazement, pour'd unceasing,
Might drown the little faculties of poor me.

Diana.
One day—could you not try one day, and then
Enjoy, or fear another, as it suited?

Olimpia.
Ay, one—one—one. Try but one day, and then
Trust me if one day would not give you strength
For pretty little two, and prettier three.

Da Riva.
And, madam, the first day is both the noblest
And the most gentle,—a flow of princely draperies
Through draperied streets; bringing us, it is true,
Emotion, but yet soothing it, and blessing
With sacred hand. Weakness itself is touch'd
At ceremonial sights like these, with sweet
And no unstrengthening tears, bathing humility
In heavenly reassurance. And, dear lady,
'Twill give a nature, so composed as yours
With Christian grace and willing cheerfulness,
A joy at once sacred, and earthly, and charming,
To see the face of the accomplish'd man
Whom Providence, most potent seen when mildest,
Has raised to be the prince of Christendom
In this our day, when wit is questioning faith,
And mild religion answers with his eyes
Of charity, the unanswerable conclusion.

Colonna.
Da Riva, I am to bring thy verse and thee
To his Beatitude's most knowing knowledge;
But do thou step before me, and speak thus,
And thou art made a cardinal.

Ginevra.
Is his Holiness
So very and so beautifully gracious
To eloquence and letters?

Colonna.
I'faith, madam,
Our blessed Father seems to be of opinion,
That whatsoever good or beauty exists
Must needs belong, like angels, to the church;
And as he finds them, where severer men
(Not the best judges of angels) might o'erlook them,
He makes us know them better; bids them come
Forth from the crowd, and show their winged wits,
And rise, and sit within his princely beams.

Olimpia.
Come;—you accord? you cannot resist reasons
Sweet as all these? and to say truth, there is
One gentle reason more, which must convince you.
We want your husband's windows, lady mine;—
They face the veriest heaven of all the streets
For seeing the procession; and how can we
Enter that paradise of a balcony
Without the house's angel? What would people
Say to the intruders, you not being there?

Ginevra.
Oh, nothing very unseasonable, be sure;
Nor what the lilies and roses in their cheeks,
And wit in their eyes, could not refute most happily.
Well, dear Diana, should my husband's judgment
Encourage me to think my health would bear it,
I would fain venture, but—I hear him coming.
At all events, the windows will be gladly
Fill'd with your pleasures; the report of which
Will afterwards make them mine.
[Enter Agolanti.
Sir, the ladies
Olimpia and Diana you know well;
Also a name honour'd by all, Da Riva;
Be pleased to know their friend, a courteous gentleman
From Rome, the Signor Cesare Colonna.

Agolanti.
He's welcome, for his friend's sake, and his own.
I trust our holy Father keeps his health, sir,
In this his gracious journey?

Colonna.
Sir, he holds him,
As his good habit is, in blest condition,
To the great joy of all that love good men
And sovereign church.

Agolanti.
You hold, sir, I perceive,
Some happy office near his sacred person?

Colonna.
One of the poor captains of his guard, sir;
Nor near enough to make the fortune proud,
Nor yet so far removed as not to share
Some grace of recognition.

Agolanti.
I may not envy you:
But I may be allow'd to think such fortune
As happy, as 'tis worthily bestow'd.
Pardon me; but this lady's delicate health
Will warrant some small trespass on your courtesies.
(To Ginevra.)
How fares it with my love these last three hours?

Ginevra.
(Cheerfully.)
Thanks—I do very well.

Olimpia.
I fear we have tired her
Somewhat, with our loud talk, Signor Francesco.

Ginevra.
No; 'tis like bright health come to talk with us:
Is it not? (To her husband.)


Agolanti.
(Aside.)
She knows I hate it.—Lady Olimpia
Brings ever a sprightly stirring to the spirit,
And her fair friend a balm. (Aside to Ginevra.)
What want they now,
This flaunter and this insipidity?

Ginevra.
(Aloud.)
Our neighbour and her friends bring a petition,
That it would please you to convenience them
With your fair windows for the coming spectacle;
Yourself, if well enough, doubling the grace
With your good company.

Agolanti.
(Aside.)
I thought as much.
At every turn my will is to be torn from me,
And at her soft suggestion. (Aloud.)
My windows
Cannot be better fill'd, than with such beauty,
And wit and modest eloquence.

Colonna.
(Aside to Da Riva.)
Is he sneering?
Or is his zeal, and fame for polite manners,
Proving itself, in spite of his own teeth?
Sharpening its edge upon this oily venom?

Da Riva.
Somewhat of both; he sneers, because he hates us;
And would not have it seen, because he fears us.
His will and vanity count on our obtuseness,
Just as it suits them. (Agolanti and the Ladies talk apart.)


Colonna.
Noticed you how pale
The unhappy lady turn'd, when the song ended,
And she bade shut the door?

Da Riva.
She's paler now.
Let's interrupt him.—Good Signor Francesco,
We thank you much; but windows, friends, and spectacle,
And, let us add, warranted by his love,
Husband and all, would miss the topmost flower
Of our delight, were this sweet lady absent;
And she has threaten'd us with the cruel chance,
Unless your better knowledge of her health
Think better, than herself, of its free right.

Agolanti.
Oh Sir, it were impossible to know
A lady better than she knows herself.
What say you, Madam? (To Ginevra.)


Ginevra.
The best thought of all,
Perhaps, were to await the time's arrival,
And see how I feel then.

Agolanti.
Truly, methinks,
A discreet judgment, and approved by all
Who set the lady's welfare above all,
As we in this room do.

Olimpia.
And every one
That knows her,—unless it be the devil himself.
Manners forgive my uttering his name
In such good company. Dearest Ginevra,
Come you with me. A word with you in private,
As we descend. And we'll request these gentlemen
To clear our way before us.

Colonna and Da Riva.
A fair day
To Signor Agolanti, and may fairer
Befall us this day week. (Going.)


Olimpia.
Yes, Signor mine,
Be sure you make your wife well by that day,
With some transcendent charmingness; or none
But envious wives, and horrible old men,
Will think you the good spouse you are, or let you
Have any peace.

Agolanti.
(Fiercely to his wife as she is going.)
What insolence is this,
And woman's plot? Be in the purple chamber
In twenty minutes. Do you hear me speak?
(He wrings her hand sharply, and she makes signs of obedience.)
A fair day to my courteous visitors,
And may they ever have the joy they bring.

[Exeunt.