 | Fazio |  |
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!
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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.
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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?
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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!
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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.
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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?
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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,
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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.
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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.
| Fazio | |