University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

—A Hall in the Palace of Fazio.
Falsetto, Dandolo, Philario, and a Gentleman.
Falsetto.
Serve ye Lord Fazio?

Gentleman.
Aye, Sir, he honours me
With his commands.

Falsetto.
'Tis a brave gentleman!
Tell him Signior Falsetto, and Philario
The most renowned Improvisatore,
And Signior Dandolo, the court fashionist,
Present their duty to him.

Gentleman.
Aye, good sirs.
[Aside]
My master hath a Midas touch; these fellows
Will try if he hath ears like that great king.

[Exit.
Enter Fazio splendidly dressed.
Falsetto.
Most noble lord, most wonderful philosopher!
We come to thank thee, sir, that thou dost honour
Our Florence with the sunlight of your fame.
Thou that hast ravish'd nature of a secret
That maketh thee her very paragon:
She can but create gold, and so canst thou:
But she doth bury it in mire and mirk,
Within the unsunn'd bowels of the earth:
But thou dost set it on the face of the world,
Making it shame its old and sullen darkness.

Fazio.
Fair sir, this cataract of courtesy
O'erwhelms my weak and unhabituate ears.
If I may venture such uncivil ignorance,
Your quality.

Falsetto.
I, my good lord, am one
Have such keen eyesight for my neighbours' virtues,
And such a doting love for excellence,
That when I see a wise man, or a noble,
Or wealthy, as I ever hold it pity
Man should be blind to his own merits, words
Slide from my lips; and I do mirror him
In the clear glass of my poor eloquence.

Fazio.
In coarse and honest phraseology
A flatterer.

Falsetto.
Flatterer! Nay, the word's grown gross.
An apt discourser upon things of honour,
Professor of art panegyrical.
'Twere ill were I a hawk to see such bravery,
And not a thrush to sing of it. Wealth, Sir,
Wealth is the robe and outward garb of man,
The setting to the rarer jewelry,
The soul's unseen and inner qualities.
And then, my lord, philosophy! 'tis that,
The stamp and impress of our divine nature,
By which we know that we are Gods, and are so.
But wealth and wisdom in one spacious breast!
Who would not hymn so rare and rich a wedding?
Who would not serve within the gorgeous palace,
Glorified by such strange and admired inmates?

Fazio
(aside).
Now the poor honest Fazio had disdain'd
Such scurvy fellowship; howbeit, Lord Fazio
Must lacquey his new state with these base jackalls.
(To him.)
Fair sir, you'll honour me with your company.
(To Dandolo.)
May I make bold, sir, with your state and title?

Dandolo.
Oh, my lord, by the falling of your robe,
Your cloth of gold one whole hair's-breadth too low,
'Tis manifest you know not Signior Dandolo.

Fazio.
A pitiable lack of knowledge, sir.

Dandolo.
My lord, thou hast before thee in thy presence
The mirror of the court, the very calendar
That rules the swift revolving round of fashion;
Doth tell what hues do suit what height o' the sun;
When your spring pinks should banish from the court
Your sober winter browns; when July heat
Doth authorize the gay and flaunting yellows;—
The court thermometer, that doth command
Your three-piled velvet abdicate its state
For the airy sattins. Oh, my lord, you are too late,
At least three days, with your Venetian tissue.

Fazio.
I sorrow, sir, to merit your rebuke
On point so weighty.

Dandolo.
Aye, signior, I'm paramount
In all affairs of boot, and spur, and hose;
In matters of the robe and cap supreme;
In ruff disputes, my lord, there's no appeal
From my irrefragability.

Fazio.
Sweet sir,
I fear me, such despotic rule and sway
Over the persons of our citizens
Must be of danger to our state of Florence.

Dandolo.
Good sooth, my lord, I am a very tyrant.
Why, if a senator should presume to wear
A cloak of fur in June, I should indict him
Guilty of leze majesté against my kingship:
They call me, Dandolo, the King of Fashions—
The whole empire of dress is my dominion.
Why, if our Duke should wear an ill-grain'd colour
Against my positive enactment, though
His state might shield him from the palpable shame
Of a rebuke; yet, my good lord, opinion,
Public opinion, would hold Signior Dandolo
Merciful in his silence.

Fazio.
A Lycurgus.

Dandolo.
Good, my lord! dignity must be upheld
On the strong pillars of severity.
Your cap, my lord, a little to the north-east,
And your sword—thus, my lord—pointed out this way,
[Adjusting him.
In an equilateral triangle. Nay,
Nay, on my credit, my good lord, this hose
Is a fair woof. The ladies, sir, the ladies,
(For I foresee you'll be a ruling planet,)
Must not be taught any heretical fancies,
Fantastical infringements of my codes—
Your lordship must give place to Signior Dandolo
About their persons.

Fazio.
Gentle sir, the ladies
Must be too deeply, irresistibly yours.

Dandolo.
No, signior, no; I'm not one of the gallants,
That pine for a fair lip, or eye, or cheek,
Or that poetical treasure, a true heart.
But, my lord, a fair-order'd head-dress makes me
As love-sick as a dove at mating time:
A tasteful slipper is my soul's delight:
Oh, I adore a robe that drops and floats
As it were lighter than the air around it;
I dote upon a stomacher to distraction,
When the gay jewels, gracefully dispos'd,
Make it a zone of stars: and then a fan,
The elegant motion of a fan, is murder,
Positive murder to my poor weak senses.

Fazio
(turning to Philario).
But here's a third: the Improvisatore,
Gentle Philario, lurks, methinks, behind.

Philario.
Most noble lord! it were his loftiest boast
To wed your honours to his harp. To hymn
The finder of the philosophic stone,
The sovereign prince of alchymists; 'twould make
The cold verse-mechanist, the nice balancer
Of curious words and fair compacted phrases,
Burst to a liquid and melodious flow,
Rapturous and ravishing but in praise of thee!
But I, my lord, that have the fluent vein,
The rapid rush—

Fazio.
Fie, sir! O fie! 'tis fulsome.
Sir, there's a soil fit for that rank weed flattery
To trail its poisonous and obscene clusters:
A poet's soul should bear a richer fruitage—
The aconite grew not in Eden. Thou,
That thou, with lips tipt with the fire of heaven,
Th' excursive eye, that in its earth-wide range
Drinks in the grandeur and the loveliness,
That breathes along this high-wrought world of man;
That hast within thee apprehensions strong
Of all that's pure and passionless and heavenly—
That thou, a vapid and a mawkish parasite,
Should'st pipe to that witch Fortune's favourites!
'Tis coarse—'tis sickly—'tis as though the eagle
Should spread his sail-broad wings to flap a dunghill;
As though a pale and withering pestilence
Should ride the golden chariot of the sun;
As one should use the language of the gods
To chatter loose and ribald brothelry.

Philario.
My lord, I thank thee for that noble chiding—
Oh, my lord, 'tis the curse and brand of poesy,
That it must trim its fetterless free plumes
To the gross fancies of the humoursome age;
That it must stoop from its bold heights to court
Liquorish opinion, whose aye wavering breath
Is to it as the precious air of life.
Oh, in a capering, chambering, wanton land,
The lozel's song alone gains audience,
Fine loving ditties, sweet to sickliness;
The languishing and luscious touch alone,
Of all the full harp's ecstasies, can detain
The palled and pampered ear of Italy.
But, my lord, we have deeper mysteries
For the initiate—Hark!—it bursts!—it flows!
Song by Philario.

Scene II.

—The Public Walks of Florence.
Fazio, Falsetto, Dandolo, Philario.
Falsetto.
Yonder, my lord, is the lady Aldabella,
The star of admiration to all Florence.

Dandolo.
There, my lord, there is a fair drooping robe—
Would that I were a breath of wind to float it!

Fazio.
Gentlemen, by your leave I would salute her:
Ye'll meet me anon in the Piazza.
[Exeunt all but Fazio.
Now, lofty woman, we are equal now,
And I will front thee in thy pitch of pride.
Enter Aldabella. She speaks after a salutation on each side.
Oh thou and I, Sir, when we met of old,
Were not so distant, nor so chill. My lord—
I had forgot, my lord. You dawning seigniors
Are jealous of your state: you great philosophers
Walk not on earth; and we poor grovelling beings,
If we would win your eminent regards,
Must meet ye i' the air. Oh, it sits well
This scorn, it looks so grave and reverend.

Fazio.
Is scorn in Lady Aldabella's creed
So monstrous and heretical?

Aldabella.
Again,
Treason again, a most irreverent laugh,
A traitorous jest before so learn'd a sage:—
But I may joy in thy good fortune, Fazio.

Fazio.
In sooth, good fortune, if 'tis worth thy joy,
The haughty lady Aldabella's joy.

Aldabella.
Nay, an thou hadst not dash'd so careless off
My bounteous offering, I had said—

Fazio.
What, lady?

Aldabella.
Oh nought—mere sound—mere air—Thou'rt married, Fazio:
And is thy bride a jewel of the first water?
I know thou wilt say, aye; 'tis an old tale,
Thy fond lip-revel on a lady's beauties:
Methinks I'have heard thee descant upon loveliness,
Till the full ears were drunken with sweet sounds.
But never let me see her, Fazio; never.

Fazio.
And why not, lady? She is exquisite
Bashfully, humbly exquisite; yet Florence
May be as proud of her, as of the richest,
That fire her with the lustre of their state.
And why not, lady?

Aldabella.
Oh I know not why—
Oh your philosophy, 'tis ever curious;
Poor lady Nature must tell all, and clearly,
To its inquisitorship.—We'll not think on't:
It fell from me un'wares; words will start forth,
When the mind wanders.—Oh no, not because
She's merely lovely:—but we'll think no more on't.—
Didst hear the act?

Fazio.
Lady, what act?

Aldabella.
The act
Of the great Duke of Florence and his Senate,
Entitled against turtle doves in poesy.
Henceforth that useful bird is interdict,
As the mild emblem of true constancy.
There's a new word found; 'tis pure Tuscan too:
Fazio's to fill the blank up, if it chime;
If not, God help the rhymester.

Fazio
(apart).
With what an airy and a sparkling grace
The language glances from her silken lips!
Her once loved voice how exquisite it sounds,
E'en like a gentle music heard in childhood!

Aldabella.
Why yes, my lord, in these degenerate days
Constancy is so rare a virtue, angels
Come down to gaze on't: it makes the world proud.
Who would be one o' the many? Why, our Florence
Will blaze with the miracle. 'Tis true, 'tis true,
The odour of the rose grows faint and sickly,
And joys are finest by comparison.—
But what is that to the majestic pride
Of being the sole true phœnix?

Fazio.
Gentle lady,
Thou speak'st as if that smooth word constancy
Were harsh and brassy sounding in thy ears.

Aldabella.
No, no, signior; your good old-fangled virtues
Have gloss enough for me, had it been my lot
To be a miser's treasure: if his eyes
Ne'er open'd but on me, I ne'er had wept
At such a pleasant faithful avarice.

Fazio.
Lady, there was a time when I did dream
Of playing the miser to another treasure,
One not less precious than thy stately self.

Aldabella.
Oh yes, my lord, oh yes; the tale did run
That thou and I did love: so ran the tale.
That thou and I should have been wed—the tale
Ran so, my lord.—Oh memory, memory, memory!
It is a bitter pleasure, but 'tis pleasure.

Fazio.
A pleasure, lady!—why then cast me off
Like an indifferent weed?—with icy scorn
Why choke the blossom that but woo'd thy sunshine?

Aldabella.
Aye, what an easy robe is scorn to wear!
'Tis but to wrinkle up the level brow,
To arch the pliant eyelash, and freeze up
The passionless and placid orb within—
Castelli! oh Castelli!

Fazio.
Who was he, lady?

Aldabella.
One, my good lord, I loved most fondly, fatally.

Fazio.
Then thou didst love? love, Aldabella, truly,
Fervently, fondly?—But what's that to me?

Aldabella.
Oh yes, my lord, he was a noble gentleman;
Thou know'st him by his title, Condé d'Orsoa;
My nearest kinsman, my good uncle:—I,
Knowing our passionate and fanciful nature,
To his sage counsels fetter'd my wild will.
Proud was he of me, deem'd me a fit mate
For highest princes; and his honest flatteries
So pamper'd me, the fatal duteousness
So grew upon me—Fazio, dost thou think
My colour wither'd since we parted? Gleam
Mine eyes as they were wont?—Or doth the outside
Still wear a lying smooth indifference,
While the unseen heart is haggard wan with woe?

Fazio.
Is't possible? And didst thou love me, lady?
Though it be joy vain and unprofitable
As is the sunshine to a dead man's eyes,
Pleasureless from his impotence of pleasure;
Tell me and truly—

Aldabella.
My grave sir confessor,
On with thy hood and cowl.—So thou wouldst hear
Of pining days and discontented nights;
Aye me's and doleful airs to my sad lute.
Fazio, they suffer most who utter least.—
Heaven, what a babbling traitor is the tongue!—
Would not the air freeze up such sinful sound?—
Oh no, thou heard'st it not. Aye me! and thou,
I know, wilt surfeit the coarse common ear
With the proud Aldabella's fall.—Betray me not;
Be charier of her shame than Aldabella.
[Fazio falls on his knees to her.
My lord! my lord! 'tis public here—no more—
I'm staid for at my palace by the Arno.
Farewell, my lord, farewell!—Betray me not:—
But never let me see her, Fazio, never.

Fazio
(solus).
Love me!—to suffering love me!—why her love
Might draw a brazen statue from its pedestal,
And make its yellow veins leap up with life.
Fair Chastity, thou hast two juggling fiends
Caballing for thy jewel: one within,
And that's a mild and melting devil, Love;
Th' other without, and that's a fair rich gentleman,
Giraldi Fazio: they're knit in a league.
And thou, thou snowy and unsociable virtue,
May'st lose no less a votaress from thy nunnery
Than the most beautiful proud Aldabella.
Had I been honest, 'twere indeed to fall;
But now 'tis but a step down the declivity.
Bianca! but Bianca!—bear me up,
Bear me up, in the trammels of thy fondness
Bind thou my slippery soul. Wrong thee, Bianca?
Nay, nay, that's deep indeed; fathomless deep
In the black pit of infamy and sin:
I am not so weary yet of the upper air.
Wrong thee, Bianca? No, not for the earth;
Not for earth's brightest, not for Aldabella.

Scene III.

—Palace of Fazio.
Fazio and Bianca.
Fazio.
Dost thou love me, Bianca?

Bianca.
There's a question
For a philosopher!—Why, I've answer'd it
For two long years; and, oh, for many more,
It will not stick upon my lips to answer thee.

Fazio.
Thou'rt in the fashion, then. The court, Bianca,
The ladies of the court, find me a fair gentleman;
Aye, and a dangerous wit too, that smites smartly.

Bianca.
And thou believest it all!

Fazio.
Why, if the gallants,
The lordly and frank spirits of the time,
Troop around thee with gay rhymes on thy beauties,
Tinkling their smooth and amorous flatteries,
Shalt thou be then a solemn infidel?

Bianca.
I shall not heed them; my poor beauty needs
Only one flatterer.

Fazio.
Aye, but they'll press on thee,
And force their music into thy deaf ears.
Think ye, ye should be coy, and calm, and cold?

Bianca.
Oh, no!—I fear me a discourteous laugh
Might be their guerdon for their lavish lying.

Fazio.
But if one trip upon your lip, or wind
Your fingers in his hard hot hand, think ye
Ye could endure it?

Bianca.
Fazio, thou wrong'st me
With such dishonest questionings. My lord,
There's such an awe in virtue, it can make
The anger of a sleek smooth brow like mine
Strike the hot libertine to dust before me.
He'd dare to dally with a fire in his hand,
Kiss ragged briars with his unholy lips,
Ere with his rash assault attaint my honour.

Fazio.
But if ye see me by a noble lady,
Whispering as though she were my shrine, whereon
I lay my odorous incense, and her beauty
Grow riper, richer at my cherishing praise;
If she lean on me with a fond round arm,
If her eye drink the light from out mine eyes,
And if her lips drop sounds for my ear only;
Thou'lt arch thy moody brow, look at me gravely,
With a pale anger on thy silent cheek.
'Tis out of keeping, 'tis not the court fashion—
We must forego this clinging and the clasping;
Be cold, and strange, and courteous to each other;
And say, “How doth my lord?” “How slept my lady?”
As though we dwelt at opposite ends o' the city.

Bianca.
What hath distemper'd thee?—This is unnatural;
Thou could'st not talk thus in thy stedfast senses.
Fazio, thou hast seen Aldabella!—

Fazio.
Well,
She is no basilisk—there's no death in her eyes.

Bianca.
Aye, Fazio, but there is; and more than death—
A death beyond the grave—a death of sin—
A howling, hideous, and eternal death—
Death the flesh shrinks from.—No, thou must not see her!
Nay, I'm imperative—thou'rt mine, and shalt not.

Fazio.
Shalt not!—Dost think me a thick-blooded slave,
To say “Amen” unto thy positive “shalt not?”
The hand upon a dial, only to point
Just as your humorous ladyship choose to shine?

Bianca.
Fazio, thou settest a fever in my brain;
My very lips burn, Fazio, at the thought:
I had rather see thee in thy winding-sheet
Than that bad woman's arms; I had rather grave-worms
Were on thy lips than that bad woman's kisses.

Fazio.
Howbeit, there is no blistering in their taste:
There is no suffocation in those arms—
They are soft, and white, and supple.

Bianca.
Ah! take heed,
Take heed; we are passionate; our milk of love
Doth turn to wormwood, and that's bitter drinking.
The fondest are most phrenetic: where the fire
Burneth intensest, there the inmate pale
Doth dread the broad and beaconing conflagration.
If that ye cast us to the winds, the winds
Will give us their unruly restless nature;
We whirl and whirl; and where we settle, Fazio,
But he that ruleth the mad winds can know.
If ye do drive the love out of my soul,
That is its motion, being, and its life,
There'll be a conflict strange and horrible,
Among all fearful and ill-visaged fiends,
For the blank void; and their mad revel there
Will make me—oh, I know not what—hate thee!—
Oh, no!—I could not hate thee, Fazio:
Nay, nay, my Fazio, 'tis not come to that;
Mine arms, mine arms, shall say the next “shall not;”
I'll never startle more thy peevish ears,
But I'll speak to thee with my positive lips.

[Kissing and clinging to him.
Fazio.
Oh, what a wild and wayward child am I!—
Like the hungry fool, that in his moody fit
Dash'd from his lips his last delicious morsel.
I'll see her once, Bianca, and but once;
And then a rich and breathing tale I'll tell her
Of our full happiness. If she be angel,
'Twill be a gleam of Paradise to her,
And she'll smile at it one of those soft smiles,
That makes the air seem sunny, blithe, and balmy.
If she be devil—Nay, but that's too ugly;
The fancy doth rebel at it, and shrink
As from a serpent in a knot of flowers.
Devil and Aldabella!—Fie!—They sound
Like nightingales and screech-owls heard together.
What! must I still have tears to kiss away?—
I will return—Good night!—It is but once.
See, thou'st the taste o' my lips now at our parting;
And when we meet again, if they be tainted,
Thou shalt—oh no, thou shalt not, canst not hate me.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.

—Palace of Aldabella.
Aldabella.
My dainty bird doth hover round the lure,
And I must hood him with a skilful hand:
Rich and renown'd, he must be in my train,
Or Florence will turn rebel to my beauty.

Enter Clara, Fazio behind.
Aldabella
goes on.
Oh, Clara, have ye been to the Ursulines?
What says my cousin, the kind Lady Abbess?

Clara.
She says, my lady, that to-morrow noon
Noviciates are admitted; but she wonders,
My Lady Abbess wonders, and I too
Wonder, my lady, what can make ye fancy
Those damp and dingy cloisters. Oh, my lady!
They'll make ye cut off all this fine dark hair—
Why, all the signiors in the court would quarrel,
And cut each other's throats for a loose hair of it.

Aldabella.
Aye me! what heeds it where I linger out
The remnant of my dark and despised life?—
Clara, thou weariest me.

Clara.
Oh but, my lady,
I saw their dress: it was so coarse and hard-grain'd,
I'm sure 'twould fret your ladyship's soft skin
Like thorns and brambles; and besides, the make on't!—
A vine-dresser's wife at market looks more dainty.

Aldabella.
Then my tears will not stain it. Oh, 'tis rich enough
For lean and haggard sorrow. (Appearing to perceive Fazio, exit Clara.)
Oh, my lord!
You're timely come to take a long farewell.
Our convent gates are rude, and black, and close;
Our Ursuline veils of such a jealous woof,
There must be piercing in those curious eyes,
Would know if the skin beneath be swarth or snowy.

Fazio.
A convent for the brilliant Aldabella!
The mirror of all rival lovelinesses,
The harp to which all gay thoughts lightly dance,
Mew'd in the drowsy silence of a cloister!

Aldabella.
Oh, what regards it, if a blind man lie
On a green lawn or on a steamy moor!
What heeds it to the dead and wither'd heart,
Whose faculty of rapture is grown sere,
Hath lost distinction between foul and fair,
Whether it house in gorgeous palaces,
Or mid wan graves and haggard signs of care!
Oh, there's a grief, so with the threads of being
Revell'd and twined, it sickens every sense:
Then is the swinging and monotonous bell
Musical as the rich harp heard by moonlight;
Then are the limbs insensible if they rest
On the coarse pallet or the pulpy down.

Fazio.
What mean ye, lady?—thou bewilder'st me.
What grief so wanton and luxurious
Would choose the lady Aldabella's bosom
To pillow on?

Aldabella.
Oh, my lord, untold love—
Nay, Fazio, gaze not on me so; my tongue
Can scarcely move for the fire within my cheeks—
It cankereth, it consumeth, untold love.
But if it burst its secret prison house,
And venture on the broad and public air,
It leagueth with a busy fiend call'd Shame;
And they both dog their game, till misery
Fastens upon it with a viper's fang,
And rings its being with its venomous coil.

Fazio.
Misery and thee!—oh, 'tis unnatural!—
Oh, yoke thee to that thing of darkness, misery!—
That Ethiop, that grim Moor!—it were to couple
The dove and kite within one loving leash.
It must not be; nay, ye must be divorced.

Aldabella.
Ah no, my lord! we are too deeply pledg'd.
Dost thou remember our old poet's legend
Over Hell gates—“Hope comes not here?” Where hope
Comes not, is hell; and what have I to hope?

Fazio.
What hast to hope?—Thou'rt strangely beautiful—

Aldabella.
Would'st thou leave flattery thy last ravishing sound
Upon mine ears?—'Tis kind, 'tis fatally kind.

Fazio.
Oh, no! we must not part, we must not part.
I came to tell thee something: what, I know not.
I only know one word that should have been;
And that—Oh! if thy skin were seam'd with wrinkles,
If on thy cheek sate sallow hollowness,
If thy warm voice spake shrieking, harsh, and shrill;
But to that breathing form, those ripe round lips,
Like a full parted cherry, those dark eyes,
Rich in such dewy languors—I'll not say it—
Nay, nay, 'tis on me now!—Poison's at work!
Now listen to me, lady—We must love.

Aldabella.
Love!—Aye, my lord, as far as honesty.

Fazio.
Honesty!—'Tis a stale and musty phrase;
At least at court: and why should we be traitors
To the strong tyrant Custom?

Aldabella.
My lord Fazio—
Oh, said I my lord Fazio?—thou'lt betray me:
The bride—the wife—she that I mean—My lord,
I am nor splenetic nor envious;
But 'tis a name I dare not trust my lips with.

Fazio.
Bianca, oh Bianca is her name;
The mild Bianca, the soft fond Bianca.
Oh to that name, e'en in the Church of God,
I pledged a solemn faith.

Aldabella.
Within that Church
Barren and solitary my sad name
Shall sound, when the pale nun profess'd doth wed
That her cold bridegroom Solitude: and yet—
Her right—ere she had seen you, we had loved.

Fazio
(frantickly).
Why should we dash the goblet from our lips,
Because the dregs may have a smack of bitter?
Why should that pale and clinging consequence
Thrust itself ever 'twixt us and our joys?

Aldabella.
My lord, 'tis well our convent walls are high,
And our grates massy; else ye raging tigers
Might rush upon us simple maids unveil'd.

Fazio.
A veil! a veil! why Florence will be dark
At noonday: or thy beauty will fire up,
By the contagion of its own bright lustre,
The dull dead flax to so intense a brilliance,
'Twill look like one of those rich purple clouds
On the pavilion of the setting sun.

Aldabella.
My lord, I've a poor banquet here within;
Wilt please ye taste it?

Fazio.
Aye wine, wine! aye wine!
I'll drown thee, thou officious preacher, here!
(Clasping his forehead.)
Wine, wine!

[Exeunt.