University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A Room in the House of Rondinelli, who enters.
Rondinelli.
Five blessed days, and not a soul but we
Knows what this house in its rich bosom holds.
The man whom dear Diana bribed to secrecy
For our sakes, is now secret for his own;
And here, our guest is taken for a kinswoman,
Fled from a wealthy but a hated suitor,
Out of no hatred, haply, to myself;
For which, as well as for her own sweet sake,
The servants love her, and will keep her close.
She holds my mother's hand, and loves her eyes;—
And yester evening she twice spake my name,
Meaning another's. Hence am I most proud,
Hence potent; hence, such bliss it is to love
With smallest thought of being loved again,
That though I know not how this heav'n on earth
Can change to one still heavenlier, nor less holy,
I am caught up, like saints in ecstacies,
Above the ground;—tread air;—see not the streets
Through which I pass, for swiftness of delight,
And hugging to my secret heart one bosom.
I live, as though the earth held but two faces,
And mine perpetually look'd on hers.
Enter Giulio.
How now, sweet Giulio? why so hush'd? our visitor
No longer sleeps by day.
(Giulio kisses his hand.)
And why this style
Of pretty reverence and zeal, as though
You came betwixt myself and some new trouble?

Giulio.
Nay, sir.

Rondinelli.
You smile, to reassure me. Well;
Yet you breathe hard, and have been flying hither,
Your pretty plumage beaten with the wind,
And look as haggard pale, as when you brought
The daybreak to us from that cage, and found
Safe-housed our bird of paradise. What is it?

Giulio.
I came, that Marco might not come. I thought,
Dear lord and master, Giulio's lips had best
Bring news of one whose face the servants know not,
Now in the hall, asking to speak with you.

Rondineli.
What face?—Who is it?

Giulio.
He saw me, and started;
And yet not angrily.

Rondinelli.
Who saw? No kinsman
Of my dear mother's guest?

Giulio.
No, sir; no kinsman.

Rondinelli.
No officer from the court, or clergy?

Giulio.
Neither.

Rondinelli.
Our mutual friends are all, this instant, with us,
Here, in the house. They, if they saw this man—
Say—would they know him?

Giulio.
Surely, sir; none better,
Or with less willingness;—though five short days
Have bow'd him down, as with a score of years;
His eye that was so proud, now seems but stretch'd
With secret haste and sore anxiety;
And what he speaks, he seems yet not to think of.

Rondinelli.
Come, let us speak his name, lest a mad chance
That 'tis not he, make me repent the cowardice.
'Tis he? the man?

Giulio.
The Signor Agolanti.

Rondinelli
(aside).
Life is struck black. Yet not so, sweetest face,
Not so. He shall not hurt a hair of thy head,
While the earth holds us.—Guess you what he knows?

Giulio.
All.

Rondinelli.
How?

Giulio.
I saw, coming from out his door,
The sexton's boy, his lowering front in smiles
For some triumphant craft; and not long afterwards
Came he, half staggering, shrouding with his cap
His haggard eyes. He bent his steps this way,
And I took wings before him, to give Marco
Speech for him should he come, and be his harbinger,
Sir, with yourself.

Rondinelli.
Best boy! my friend, and brother!
But, Giulio, say you not a word elsewhere.
You understand me?

Giulio.
Oh sir,—yes.

Rondinelli.
Bid Marco
Conduct him hither.

Giulio.
Geri and myself
May remain then? Not within hearing, sir,
But within call?

Rondinelli.
Good lad! but there's no need.
See you, that not another eye in the house
Behold him coming.—Let him be shown up.

[Exit Giulio; and after a while, enter Agolanti, looking round the room. They pause a little, and regard one another.
Agolanti.
You know why I am here?

Rondinelli.
I do.

Agolanti.
Five days—
(Aside)
Rouse thee, Agolanti. Never shook'st thou yet
At living face:—what quail'd thee, coming hither?
(To Rondinelli.)
Five days, and nothing told a husband?

Rondinelli.
Nothing!

Agolanti.
Nothing that he deem'd mortal.—But with whom
Am I thus speaking? With one honourable?
One who though lawless in his wish, was held
Scrupulous in action? of nice thought for others?

Rondinelli.
The angel who came hither, is angel still.

Agolanti.
Signor Rondinelli, respect this grief.
It respects thee, if thou art still the man
I thought thee once. A graver faith than most,
And love most loving, if its truth were known,
Did, from excess of both—But what is past,
Is past;—a gentleman is before me;—his foe,
Or one he deem'd such, at a disadvantage;
Illness, on all sides, gone;—I am here; am ready
To beg her pardon for that sore mistake,
Which for its very madness, friends, methinks,
Might haste to pardon;—and so take her home.

Rondinelli.
Your words are gentle, Signor Agolanti:—
I thank you; and would to Heav'n, what must be borne,
Were always borne so well. The thing you speak of,
Seems easy, but in truth is not so.

Agolanti.
How?

Rondinelli.
A bar has risen.

Agolanti.
A bar!

Rondinelli.
Which, to speak briefly,
Has render'd it not possible.

Agolanti.
Not possible!
(Aside.)
He said that she was “angel still.”— (To Rondinelli.)
She still
Is living?

Rondinelli.
Yes.

Agolanti.
And here?

Rondinelli.
She is so.

Agolanti.
Able
To move? recover'd?

Rondinelli.
She is still but weak,
Yet hourly gaining strength.

Agolanti.
What hinders then—
You do not speak. Tell me, what strange prevention,
What inconceivable “bar,” I think, you call'd it—

Rondinelli.
Signor Francesco, I shall distress you greatly;
And, for all sakes, as you will see too well,
Would to God any other man on earth
Had to make this disclosure.

Agolanti.
In God's name then,
What is it?

Rondinelli.
Her own consent would be required.

Agolanti.
Well?

Rondinelli.
And 'twould not be given.—She'll not return.

Agolanti.
Will not return!—How “not return?” She's well?
She's better—perhaps would wait some days—yes, yes—
Well, sir—when will she? I'll see her instantly,
And then we'll settle when. But you can tell me
At once.—Be pleased to say, sir, when you think
She'll come.

Rondinelli.
'Tis her own terrible word I speak, sir,
The night when she stood houseless at my door,
Dead to the past, alive to virtue only,
And honourable grief. She will return
Never.

Agolanti.
Never return! Ginevra Agolanti
Never return? not come to her own house?
Impossible!—Witchcraft has been here! Seduction!
Where is she? Let me see her—instantly, sir!
Would you part man and wife?

Rondinelli.
Alas! she holds them
Parted already, not by me.

Agolanti.
A wife
Has but one home, sir.

Rondinelli.
Sir, she thought so.

Agolanti.
Sir, fever and delirium would not have made
A friend unpardonable in my eyes
For having mis-beheld me.

Rondinelli.
Surely, sir:—
Yet I conceive there is a difference.
But I am not the judge.

Agolanti.
You are, sir;—I fear
You are;—I fear you have made yourself the judge, sir,
The criminal—the detainer. Why say nothing
Of her being here? Why let me find it out
From a gross boy, who has quarrell'd with his master,
And makes my shame his profit? Housed with thee too!

Rondinelli.
Nay, in the melancholy convent housed,
Soon as its doors, now hung with flowers for Rome,
Be open to admit the appeals of sorrow!

Agolanti.
Appeals of lies and crimes.—And so my wounds
Must be torn open afresh! hidden from none!
All eyes must stare upon me! I demand
To see my wife;—the lady Agolanti:—
She is detain'd here. Horrible light begins
To dawn; there has been dreadful mockery—
Conspiracy! Worse! You have dishonour'd her.

Rondinelli.
'Tis false.—Be calm. Let both be calm, nor startle
Feminine ears with words. Wait in this room,
Here, on the left, awhile;—I'll bring herself
To look upon thy speech, if it so please her;
If not, my mother, sir,—you have heard of her,—
From whom, so help me God, I never yet
Beheld her separate.

Agolanti.
I demand—

Rondinelli.
This way.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Another Room.
Enter Rondinelli; and to him, from the opposite side, Giulio with Fiordilisa, who kisses his hand.
Rondinelli.
Sweet Fiordilisa, you attend your mistress
Too closely. You grow pale.

Fiordilisa.
'Twas Giulio's paleness, sir,
Struck me with mine.

Rondinelli.
Fear not for him, or any one;
You see me pale, yet see me smiling too:
Now go, and with the like good flag advanced
Of comfort beyond trouble, tell your lady
I would entreat one word with her, alone.

Fiordilisa.
I'll think, sir, trouble cannot come to stay
Within so quiet and so bless'd a house;
And so I'll try to look.
[Exit Fiordilisa.

Rondinelli
(who has been writing something).
And now you, Giulio,
Go tell the friends who come to greet her rise
From the sick bed, what shade has follow'd them.
I fear, from some deep whispering on the stairs
I caught but now, as we were coming up,
They heard us wrangling. Say, all's quiet now—
They'll see me soon; and give this to my mother.
[Exit Giulio with the paper; and enter Ginevra
My mother would have been before me, lady,
To beg an audience for her son; but you,
Being still the final and sole arbitress
Of a new question, come with sudden face;
It might befit you also, for more reasons
Than I may speak, to be its first sole hearer.

Ginevra.
What is it?

Rondinelli.
Nothing that need bring those eyes
Out of the orbs of their sweet self-possession.
Your thoughts may stay within their heaven, and hear it.
'Twixt it and you, there is all heaven, and earth.

Ginevra.
My story is known, ere I have reach'd the convent?

Rondinelli.
Even so.

Ginevra.
And somebody has come to claim me?
From him?

Rondinelli.
Not from him.

Ginevra.
From the church then? No
The state?

Rondinelli.
I said not from him. He is shaken
Far more than you should be, being what you are,
And all hearts loving you.

Ginevra.
Himself!

Rondinelli.
Himself.—
His haughty neck yet stooping with that night,
Which smote his hairs half grey.

(She weeps.)
Ginevra
(aside).
Alas!—yet more
Alas, that I should say it.—Not loud then?
Not angry?

Rondinelli.
Only with your vows of refuge,
And those that stand betwixt his will and power;
Else humble; nay, in tears, and seeking pardon.
(Aside.)
She's wrung to the core!—With grief is't? and what grief?
Oh now, all riddles of the heart of love,
When 'twould at once be generous, yet most mean;
All truth, yet craft; a sacrifice, yet none;
Risk all in foppery of supposed desert,
And then be ready in anguish to cry out
At being believed, and thought the love it is,
Martyr beyond all fires, renouncing heaven
By very reason that none can so have earn'd it;—
Oh, if she pities him, and relents, and goes
Back to that house, let her yet weep for me!

Ginevra.
When I said “Never” to that word “return,”
He had not suffer'd thus; had not shown sorrow;
Was not bow'd down with a grey penitence.—
Sir—I would say, kind host—most kind of men—
My friend and my preserver—

Rondinelli.
Say no more,
So you think well of me.

Ginevra.
I could say on,
And twenty times as much, so you would think it
Best, some day hence.—Speak not.—

Rondinelli.
Yes, honour bids me;
Honour, above all doubts, even of poor self,
Whether to gain or lose;—bids me say bravely,
Be wise, while generous—Guard the best one's peace,
Whoe'er that is;—her peace—the rights of goodness
And vindication of the o'er-seeing heavens,
High above all wrong hearts,—his,—or mine own.

Ginevra.
Although you call me “best,” who am not so,
I'll write that last and noblest admonition
Within the strongest memory of my soul,
For all our sakes. The way to him.

Rondinelli.
One word.
My mother—she—will see you again sometimes
In your lot's bettering from its former state,
As surely it must, your friends now knowing all,
He sad for all.

Ginevra.
It is a help I look for.

Rondinelli.
Her son forgive him that at this last moment
He makes this first and only mention of him,
Since you vouchsafed to rest your troubles with us,—
His first—his last;—may he too, as a friend,
Hope—that a thought of him—a passing memory—
Will sometimes mix with hers?

Ginevra.
To think of her
Will be to think of both.

Rondinelli.
Oh gentlest creature,
If what I am about to say to thee
Offend thee in the least, count it such madness
As innocence may pity; and show no sign
Of thy displeasure. Be but mute; and sorrow
With as mute thanks shall resume common words.
But if, in thy late knowledge of Antonio,
Thou hast seen nought, that under happier omens
And with all righteous sanction, might have hinder'd thee
From piecing out his nature's imperfections
With thy sweet thoughts and hourly confidence,
Reach him, oh reach, but for one blissful moment,
And to make patience beautiful for ever,
Thy most true woman's hand.
[She turns aside, and holds out to him her hand.
My heart would drink it.
[He strains it with both hands against his bosom.
Do thy worst, memory, now.—We have known each other
For twenty years in this. Your tears embolden you
Even to look at me through their glittering veil,
And set me some sweet miserable task:—
I understand;—yes, we'll go quietly,
And you will let me keep this hand to the door?
We will walk thus. This little walk contains
A life!—Might you say one word to me at parting?

Ginevra.
Antonio!—may your noble heart be happy.
[She clasps her hands, and speaks with constant vehemence, looking towards the audience.
Alas! alas! Why was that one word utter'd
To bear down the last patience of my soul,
And make me cry aloud to Heaven and misery?
I am most miserable. I am a creature
That now, for fifteen years, from childhood upwards,
Till this hard moment, when the heavens forbid it,
Have known not what it was to shed a tear,
Which others met with theirs. Therefore mine eyes
Did learn to hush themselves, and young, grow dry.
For my poor father knew not how I loved him,
Nor mother neither; and my severe husband
Demanded love, not knowing lovingness.
And now I cry out, wishing to be right,
And being wrong; and by the side of me
Weeps the best heart, which ought not so to weep,
And duty's self seems to turn round upon me,
And mock me; by whose law nevertheless
Do I abide, and will I; so pray Heaven
To keep me in my wits, and teach me better.
Turn me aside, sweet saints, and let me go.

[While Rondinelli, who has fallen on his knee, is stretching his hands towards her, the voices of Agolanti, Colonna, and Da Riva, are heard in violent quarrel
Ginevra.
His voice! In anger too? Did you not say
That he was calm? Heart-stricken?

Rondinelli.
He seem'd so.

Ginevra.
Perhaps is so, and they mistake his sorrow.
There's mercy in it: for when danger comes,
Duty cries loudest. Ay, and here's the friend
Will not forsake me still, but bear me on,
Right where the trumpet of the angel calls.

[He speeds her out.

SCENE THE LAST.

Another Room in Rondinelli's House. Agolanti and Colonna, in loud dispute, with their Swords drawn, Da Riva interposing.
Agolanti.
I say—

Colonna.
What say you then?

Da Riva.
Well, let him speak.

Agolanti.
I say, that nothing upon earth, no insolence—

Colonna.
House-coward!

Da Riva.
Hush.

Agolanti.
Nor prudent friend—

Colonna.
Still, coward.

Agolanti.
Nor talk of law, nor threats of church itself,
Shall move my foot one jot from where I stand,
Till she whom law, church, heaven and earth join'd to me,
Shall join me again, and quit this infamous house.

Da Riva.
To be twice slain in thine?

Colonna.
And twice thrust forth,
If she return to fright thee?

Agolanti.
I've seen the page here;
Seen you; guess at your women; and shall know
What hideous trap has steep'd her soul in blushes,
If she come not.

Colonna
(going to attack him)
Blush in thy grave to say so.

Enter Rondinelli with Ginevra, followed by his Mother, Olimpia, Diana, Giulio, Fiordilisa, and Servants.
Rondinelli.
Forbear! an angel comes. Take her, and pray
Just Heaven to make her happy as thyself.

Colonna.
Antonio, thou art damn'd to think it. See—

Da Riva.
He shrinks from her again in very fear,
Which in his rage of vanity he'll avenge.

Agolanti.
I hear not what they say, my poor Ginevra,
Thinking of thee alone.—Come, bear thee up,
And bravely,—as thou dost. We'll leave this place—
This way—So—so—

Da Riva.
Antonio, will you let him?
Think of herself.—'Tis none of yours, this business,
But the whole earth's.

Rondinelli.
She will not have me stay him—
I dare not—My own house too—See, she goes with him.

Da Riva.
Call in the neighbours—

Colonna.
Do, there's a right soul—
Tell all.

Agolanti.
She's with me still! She's mine! Who stays us.

Olimpia and Diana.
Ginevra! sweetest friend!

Agolanti.
Who triumphs now? Who laughs? Who mocks at pandars,
Cowards, and shameless women?

Ginevra
(bursting away from him).
Loose me, and hearken.
Madness will crush my senses in, or speak:—
The fire of the heavenward sense of my wrongs crowns me;
The voice of the patience of a life cries out of me;
Every thing warns me. I will not return.
I claim the judgment of most holy church.
I'll not go back to that unsacred house,
Where heavenly ties restrain not hellish discord,
Loveless, remorseless, never to be taught.
I came to meet with pity, and find shame;
Tears, and find triumph; peace, and a loud sword.
The convent walls—Bear me to those—In secret,
If it may be; if not, as loudly as strife,—
Drawing a wholesome tempest through the streets;
And there, as close as bonded hands may cling,
I'll hide, and pray for ever, to my grave.—
Come you, and you, and you, and help me walk.

Agolanti.
Let her not stir. Nor dare to stir one soul,
Lest in the madness of my wrongs I smite ye.

Ginevra
(to Agolanti).
Look at me, and remember. Think how oft
I've seen as sharp a point turn'd on thyself
To fright me; how, upon a weaker breast;
And what a world of shames unmasculine
These woman's cheeks would have to burn in telling.—
The white wrath festers in his face, and then
He's devilish.

Rondinelli.
Will you let her fall? She swoons.

[He catches her in his arms.
Agolanti
(turning to kill him).
Where'er she goes, she shall not go there.

Colonna
(intercepting him with his own sword).
Dastard!
Strike at a man so pinion'd?

Agolanti.
Die then for him. (Strikes at Colonna.)


Diana and Olimpia.
Help! Help!

[The doors fly open, enter Giulio followed by Officer and Guard.
Giulio.
'Tis here! Part them, for mercy's sake.

Colonna.
Die thou. (He pierces him.)


Da Riva.
He's slain! What hast thou done?

Colonna.
The deed
Of his own will. One must have perish'd, sir (to Officer);

One, my dear friend (to Da Riva.)
Which was the corse to be?

Da Riva
(looking at it).
There's not a heart here, but will say, 'Twas he.

[Curtain falls.