University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Garden of Diana's Villa.
Enter Rondinelli, Colonna, and Da Riva.
Colonna.
I pray thee, Antonio, be comforted.

Rondinelli.
I am, I am; as far as friends can comfort me:
And they do comfort. How can I love love,
And not love all things lovely? sweet discourse,
And kindness, and dear friendships. But this suffering
Sweet saint,—the man, the household fiend, I mean—
Will kill her.

Colonna.
I tell thee, no. In the first place
Her health is really better. Is it not?

Da Riva.
Olimpia and Diana both have staked
Their credit on it. The man's a fool no doubt,
But she is wise.

Colonna.
Ay, is she; for lo! secondly,
She loves thee, Antonio.

Da Riva.
Yes; by that pure look
We told thee of, at mention of thy name,
She does;—it was as though her mind retreated
To some blest, serious thought, far off but possible;
Then ended with a sigh.

Colonna.
And blush'd withal.
(Aside.)
I did not see the blush, I must confess;
But being so virtuous, there must have been one,
And he'll be glad to hear of it. (Aloud.)
Well, seeing
She loves thee then, as thou must needs believe,
For all that modest earthquake of thine head,
Bethink thee what a life within a life
She has to retire into, sweet and secret,
For help from common temper such as his;
Help, none the worse, eh? for a small, small bit
Of stubbornness, such as the best gentle wives
Must have in self-defence. Now—

Rondinelli.
Fear me not.
Such blessed thoughts must needs give me some comfort;
And I shan't quarrel with the comfort's fashion.

Colonna.
Well then, you'll let me have my fashion out?
You'll let me speak after my old blithe mood,
Secure of my good meaning?

Rondinelli.
Ay, and thankfully.

Colonna.
Why then, sir, look; there are a hundred marriages
In Florence, and a hundred more to those,
And hundreds to those hundreds, bad as this;
As ill assorted, and as lover-hated;
(Always allowing for the nobler difference,
And therefore greater power to bear); and yet
They do not kill; partly, because of lovers;
Partly, of pride; partly, indifference;
Partly, of hate (a good stanch long-lived passion);
Partly, because all know the common case,
And custom's custom. There'll be a hundred couples
To-night, 'twixt Porta Pinti and San Gallo,
Cutting each other's hearts out with mild looks,
Upon the question, whether the Pope's mule
Will be in purple or scarlet;—yet not one
Will die of it; no, 'faith; nor were a death
To happen, would the survivors' eyes refuse
A tear to their old disputant and partner,
That kept life moving somehow.

Rondinelli.
By which logic
You would infer, to comfort me, that all
Marriages are unhappy.

Colonna.
Not unhappy,
Though not very happy.

Da Riva.
With exceptions?

Colonna.
Surely—for such good fellows as ourselves!

Da Riva.
And doubtless
A time will come—

Colonna.
Oh, ay; a time will come—
Poet and prophet—Redeunt Saturnia regna.
Now hear him on his favourite golden theme,
“A time will come;”—a time, eh? when all marriages
Shall be like some few dozen; exceptions, rules;
Every day, Sunday; and each man's pain in the head
A crowning satisfaction!

Da Riva.
No; but still
A time, when sense and reason shall have grown
As much more rife than now, and foolish thorns
As much less in request, as we, now living,
Surpass rude times and savage ancestors.
Improvement stopp'd not at the muddy cave,
Why at the rush-strewn chamber? The wild man's dream,
Or what he might have dreamt, when at his wildest,
Is, to the civilised man, his commonplace:
And what should time so reverence in ourselves,
As in his due good course, not still to alter?

Colonna.
Till chariots run some twenty miles an hour?

Da Riva.
Ay, thirty or forty.

Colonna.
Oh! oh! Without horses?
Say, without horses.

Da Riva.
Well, to oblige you,—yes.

Colonna.
And sailing-boats without a sail! Ah, ha!
Well, glory be to poetry and to poets!
Their cookery is no mincing! Ah! ha! ha!
[They both laugh.
They certainly, while they're about it, do
Cut and carve worlds out, with their golden swords,
To which poor Alexander's was a pumpkin.
What say you, Antonio?

Rondinelli.
My dear friends both,
What you were saying of the good future time
Made me but think too sadly of the present;
Pardon me—I should think more sadly far,
But for your loves and ever generous patience.
Yet let me take you back to our fair friends,
From whom my gusty griefs bore you away.
Nay, my good wish rewards me:—see, one comes.

Enter Olimpia.
Olimpia.
A certain Giulio, in a pretty grief
Though for himself alone, and not another,
Inquires for Signor Rondinelli.
[Antonio kisses her hand and exit.
'Twas lucky that I saw this Giulio first,
For he's a page of pages; a Spartan boy;—
Quite fix'd on telling his beloved Signor
Antonio all the truths which the said Signor
May now, or at any time in all futurity,
Insist on knowing. Poor fellow! he's turn'd away.

Da Riva.
For what?

Olimpia.
Come in,
And you shall hear. Your ices and sherbets
Await you; and your cheeks will need the cooling.

[Exeunt.