University of Virginia Library

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.