University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A Room in the House of Da Riva. Colonna, Olimpia, and Diana, discovered, the first looking out of a window. A funeral-bell is tolling at intervals.
Colonna.
By the moving of the crowd the funeral comes.
No;—yet I thought I heard the Choristers.

Diana.
You did. Hark now—
[A faint sound of Choristers.
And now like some sweet sigh
Of heaven and earth it pauses.—You look sadder,
Signor Colonna, than you thought you should,
Within this festal week.

Colonna.
'Faith, gentle lady,
I'd rather hear upon a winter's night,
A dozen trumpets of the enemy
Blow 'gainst my nestled cheek, than this poor weakness,
Which comes to pass us, standing idly thus,
Swallowing the lumpish sorrow in one's throat,
'Twixt rage and pity.

Olimpia.
I have noted oft,
That eyes, that have kept dry their cups of tears,
The moment they were touch'd by music's fingers,
Trembled, brimfull.

Diana.
It is the meeting, love,
Of beauty so divine, with earth so weak.
We swell within us with immortal thoughts,
And then take pity on the feeble riddle,
That lies thus cold, and thus rebuked in death.

[Choristers resume, and continue during the dialogue.
Colonna.
I heard as I came in, one who has seen her
Laid on the bier, say that she looks most heavenly.

Diana.
I saw her lately, as you'll see her now,
Lying but newly dead, her blind sweet looks
Border'd with lilies, which her pretty maiden,
'Twixt tears and kisses, put about her hair,
To show her spotless life, and that wrong man
Dared not forbid, for very piteous truth;
And as she lay thus, not more unresisting
Than all her life, I pitied even him,
To think, that let him weep, or ask her pardon
Never so much, she could not answer more.

Colonna.
They turn the corner now, and now they pass.
[The Choristers suddenly become loud, and are heard passing underneath the window. After they have passed, Colonna resumes.
Farewell, sweet soul! Death and thy patient life
Were so well match'd, I scarce can think thee alter'd.
Enter Da Riva.
How now, Da Riva? Found you not Antonio,
That thus you look amazed? What is't? No harm
To his poor self?

Da Riva.
None, none; to him, or any;
None that shall be; monstrous, and strange, and horrible,
As ignorance of the peril might have made it.

Colonna, Olimpia, and Diana.
To whom?

Da Riva.
Prepare to hear, and to endure,
A chance, the very hope of which is awful,
It raises up a vision with a look
So mixed of life and death.

Colonna, Olimpia, and Diana.
What is it?

Da Riva.
You,
Colonna, will to Antonio instantly,
To keep him ignorant till all be known:
You, my sweet friends, with me, to seek some nest
Of balm and comfort, close upon the spot,
Against a chance—Think me not mad, but hearken.

Diana.
He has murdered her! He thought to murder her,
And his hand failed.

Olimpia.
Poison! Oh Heavens!

Colonna.
Pray, calm them.

Da Riva.
Scarcely ten minutes had I left you here,
When Fiordilisa, paler than her mistress,
Found me with Giulio by Antonio's door.

Colonna.
You have not seen him then?

Da Riva.
Yes;—the poor maiden
Told us of an appearance she had noted
All night about the lips of the dear lady
Which made her call to mind stories, too true,
Of horrors in the dreadful pestilence,
Of hasty shrouds, sleeps found to have been sleeps only,
And gentle creatures grown so desperate,
That they had raised their hands against their lives
For waking to the sense of life itself.

Olimpia.
Where now they bear her!

Diana.
Not unknown.

Colonna.
Be tranquil,
Watch has been set?

Da Riva.
And will look close till morn.
Giulio, from time to time, 'twixt them and us,
Will fly with news; and meantime sweep we all
Each to our tasks, and bless the hope that sets them.
If true, oh think where but in sleep she lies:
If vain, she still will bless us from the skies.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Cemetery, with an open Vault in the back-ground, and a dim noise of revelry, as from some house in the neighbourhood.
Enter Giulio.
Giulio.
What devilishness, and outrage to the dead,
About whose homes the rudest-footed churl
Treads softly, e'en by day. The noble hearts
I serve, have been so generous, that these drunkards
Count it but as a folly worth their cheating,
And have shut up their promised vigilance
Within the roaring wine-house. (Noise again.)
Only one
Remains within the gate, who let me in,
Staring 'twixt sleep and glass-eyed sottishness.
Yet see—the vault has been left open, wide
As fear could wish. What, if!—Methinks the man
Look'd at me yonder;—yes, and is still looking;— (Noise again)

And now the noise allures him, and he turns.
Hark! Not a sound, but when the riot swells!
So still all else, that I can hear the grass
Whisper, as in lament, through its lorn hair.
I'll in, and look.—What if a hope almost
As dreadful, for the moment, as worst fear,
Show to my heart its selfish cowardice,
And I should see her, not still laid, but risen!
Sitting perhaps, with eyes encountering mine,
And muttering lips! I'll take thy burden, horror,
Upon me, for love's sake and gratitude's;
Oh will I, Heaven! e'en should my knees melt under me,
And every pore turn to a swoon of water.
[He enters the Vault, and returns.
Gone! Borne away? or of her own self gone?
Gone, without friend to help, or to pursue!
And whither? or with help itself how dreadful!
What hands for lilied innocence in the night!
Perhaps that very house—What ho, there!—you!
[The gate of the Cemetery is loudly shut.
He shuts the gate! he shuts, and is himself
Gone! and forbid it, Heaven, not for my sake,
But hers, but hers, left me, perhaps on purpose,
To call in vain, and 'gainst the bolts grow mad!
Pardon, sweet Heavens! I'll not be mad, for fear
Of madness, but be calm. What ho, there! Stay!
Come back, for Heaven's sweet sake, and ope the doors.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A Room in Agolanti's House in Florence. Agolanti discovered looking out of an open window, and then quitting it. Sound of lutes in the distance.
Agolanti.
That sound of homeward lutes, which I arose
Out of my restless bed, to feel companion'd with,
For some few passing moments, was the last
To-night in Florence. Not a footstep more
Touches the sleeping streets; that now seem witch'd
With the same fears that walk around me still,
Ready to greet me with unbearable eyes.
All air seems whispering of me; and things visible
Take meaning in their shapes, not safe to know.
Oh that a masculine and religious soul
Should be thus feeble! And why? what should I fear?
My name has worship still; and still will have it,
If honourable wealth and sacred friends
Can shield it from mad envy; and if I err'd
Sometimes as husband, she I loved err'd more,
With spirit so swelling as outstrain'd her life.
Oh, every man's infirmities, more or less,
Mix with his love; and they who in excess
Feel not all passions, felt not love like mine,
Nor knew what worlds, when my despair seem'd angriest,
I could have given for one, for but one look
Of sure and heartfelt pity in her eyes.
But she is gone; and for whate'er I did
Not well, I have humbled me to the god of power;
And given the shrine, near which her dust is laid,
New glorious beams of paintings and of gold,
Doubling its heaven to the white angelical tapers;
For which, they say, the sovereign Holiness
Himself will thank me. And yet,—thus, even thus,
I feel,—a shudderer at the very silence,
Which seems preparing me some angriness.
I'll close the window; and rouse Ippolito
To read to me in some religious book.
[Going towards the window, he stops and listens.
What was it? a step? a voice?

Ginevra
(is heard outside).
Agolanti!
Francesco Agolanti! husband!

Agolanti
(crossing himself and moving towards the window).
It draws me,
In horror, to look on it.—Oh God!—I see it!
There is—something there—standing in the moonlight.

Ginevra.
Come forth, and help me in—Oh help me in!

Agolanti.
It speaks! (very loudly.)
I cannot bear the dreadfulness!
The horror's in my throat, my hair, my brain!
Detestable thing! witch! mockery of the blessed!
Hide thee! Be nothing! Come heaven and earth betwixt us!
[He closes the shutters in a frenzy, and then rushes apart.
Oh God! a little life;—a little reason;—
Till I reach the arms of the living.—Ippolito!
Tonio! Giuseppe! Lights! Wake Father Angelo!

[He staggers out.

SCENE IV.

A retired corner in Florence, in front of Rondinelli's House, with Garden-wall and Trees. Rondinelli out of doors, musing.
Rondinelli.
A gentle night, clothed with the moon and silence.—
Blessed be God, who lets us see the stars;
Who puts no black and sightless gulf between
Those golden gazers out of immensity,
And mortal eyes, yearning with hope and love!—
She's now a blessed spirit beyond those lights,
With happy eternal cheek. And yet, methinks,
Serious as well as sweet is bliss in heaven,
And permits pity for those that are left mourning.
Gentle is greatest and habitual nature!
Gentle the starry space! gentle the air!
Gentle the softly ever-moving trees!
Gentle time past and future! both asleep,
While the quick present is loud by daylight only.
And gently I come to nature, to be worthy
Of comfort and of her, and mix myself
With the everlasting mildness in which she lives.—
Sweetest and best! my couch a widower seems,
Altho' it knew thee not; and I came forth
To join thee as I could; for thou and I
Are thus unhoused alike, and in no home.
The wide earth holds us both.

Ginevra enters, and halts apart, looking at him.
Ginevra.
Antonio!

Rondinelli.
Oh earth and heaven! What art thou?

Ginevra.
Fear not to look on me, Antonio!
I am Ginevra—buried, but not dead,
And have got forth and none will let me in.
Even my mother is frighten'd at my voice,
And I have wander'd to thy gentle doors.
Have pity on me, good Antonio,
And take me from the dreadful streets at night.

Rondinelli.
Oh Heaven! Oh all things terrible and beautiful!
Art thou not angel, showing me some dread sight
Of trial and reproof? Or art thou indeed
Still living, and may that hand be touch'd with mine?

[She has held out her hand to him.
Ginevra.
Clasp it, and help me towards thy door; for wonder
And fear, and that long deadly swoon, have made
Me too a terror to myself, and scarcely
I know how I stand thus.

Rondinelli
(moving slowly, but eagerly, and breathless towards her).
Infold us, air!
Infold us, night and time, if it be vision!
If not—if not—
[He touches her hand, and clasps her to his heart.
It is Genevra's self,
And in Antonio's arms!—She faints! Oh sweetest!
Oh cheek, whose tears have been with mine—She'll die!—
She'll die, and I shall have kill'd her!

Ginevra
(sliding down on her knees).
Strength has risen o'er me from the depths of weakness.
Oh Signor Rondinelli! Oh good Antonio,
Be all I think thee, and think not ill of me,
Nor let me pass thy threshold, having a fear
Of the world's speech, to stain a spotless misery.

Rondinelli.
Oh rise; and when I think that thou canst stand
Unhelp'd of these most glad but reverent arms,
Aloof will I wait from thee, as far apart
As now I closely grasp'd thee. I was mad,
And am, with joy, to find thee alive, and near me;
But, oh blest creature! Oh lady! Antonio's angel!
Say but the word—do—and I love thee so,
That after thou hast tasted food and wine,
Myself will bear thee to thy house, thy husband,
Laying a heav'n on his repentant heart.

Ginevra.
Never. The grave itself has been between us;
The hand of heaven has parted us, acknowledged
By his own driving me from his shrieking doors:
And none but thy door, and a convent's now,
To which thy honourable haste will guide me,
Shall open to me in this world again.
Shelter me till the morn. Thou hast a mother?

Rondinelli.
Blessed be Heav'n, I have;—a right good mother—
Gentle, and strong, and pious. She will be yours,
So long as our poor walls boast of inclosing you,
And instantly. You scarcely shall have set
Your foot in the house, but with religious joy,
She will arise, and take you to her bed,
And make a child of you, lady, till you sleep.

Ginevra.
Blessed be Heav'n indeed. I can walk strangely.

[Exeunt.