 | The Florentine Party |  |
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Pamphilus, Philostratus, Dioneus; Neiphila (as Queen), Pampinea, Fiametta, Emilia, Philamena, Elissa and Lauretta, entering as from behind the Wood.
NEIPHILA.
Come on, come on! A little further on,
And we shall reach a spot where we may pause.
It is a meadow full of the early spring:
Tall grass is there which dallies with the wind,
And never-ending odorous lemon-trees;
Wild flowers in blossom, and sweet citron buds,
And princely cedars; and the linden boughs
Make archèd walks for love to whisper in.
If you be tired, lie down, and you shall hear
A river, which doth kiss irregular banks,
Enchant your senses with a sleepy tune.
If not, and merry blood doth stir your veins,
The place hath still a fair and pleasant aspect:
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A fountain of white marble, o'er whose sides
Run stories, graven by some cunning hand,
Of pastoral life, and tipsy revelry.
There will we, 'midst delicious cates, and wines
Sparkling and amorous, and sweet instruments,
Sing gentle mischief as the sun goes down.
Quick! but a few steps more, 'round by this copse
Of olives and young chestnuts (to whose arms
The vines seem clinging, like so many brides)
And you will reach't. Ha, stay!—Look! here it is.
FIAMETTA.
Ha, ha! Ha, ha!—Look! how Philostratus
Buries his forehead in the fresh green grass.
PAMPHILUS.
Hail, vernal spot! We bear to thy embrace
Pleasures that ask for calm: Love, and Delight;
Harmonious pulses where no evil dwells;
Smiles without treachery; words all soft and true;
Music like morning, fresh and full of youth;
And all else that belongs to gentleness.
PHILOSTRATUS.
Come! Sit by me!
DIONEUS.
Sit!
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Sit all!
DIONEUS.
Thus; in a circle.
So, that is well. Now, where is Tindaro?
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Ho, Tindaro, our servant!
PHILOSTRATUS.
Laggard knave!
Here, fellow Tindaro! The queen doth call thee.
TINDARO
(entering).
‘Call?’ marry! Had she borne—
PHILOSTRATUS.
How? How, bold knave?
Dost dare affirm she cannot bear?
TINDARO.
Not I.
Not I, by Bacchus! She can bear, no doubt;
Is fruitful as a vineyard; that's past doubt.
But, signor, I have borne on these poor shoulders,
Two trunks—look, look!—crammed full of wines and dainties;
Two lutes; a viol; besides some ten—
DIONEUS.
Tush! Tush!
Where are the tables?
TINDARO.
On Corvino's back;
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And Grasso hath the music.
[Servants enter, laden.
DIONEUS.
Place all here.
Thus; in a circle. Now, awake the wines!
And spread these cloths upon the level ground,—
Ho! there: take heed! thou wilt unstring my lute.
Now, where's the viol di gamba? Place it here.
Now, get ye gone unto yon chestnut-tree,
And share your wine in honesty. Away!
[Servants exeunt.
NEIPHILA.
Here will we rest, with all our court about us.
PHILOSTRATUS.
Lauretta and Elissa, come this way.
DIONEUS.
Stay, Fiametta.
FIAMETTA.
With Pampinea?—Well.
PAMPHILUS.
Here let us rest, tender Emilia,
And on this grassy hillock crowned with flowers,
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Their fill, and drink the blue light from thine eyes;
Now let the thievish winds their sweet wealth steal
From the dark riches of thy hair. Look up!
DIONEUS.
Fair Fiametta, dost thou hear him talk?
FIAMETTA.
He sings, methinks. Or, is't his voice is sweet?
DIONEUS.
'Tis sugared o'er with flattery. Now, for me!
[Aside.
The nightingales which haunt about these woods
Grow hoarse, methinks.
FIAMETTA.
How so?
DIONEUS.
They lose their music
(Else say their skill) before your honied words.
Tush! what's a rose? I'll crush these gaudy leaves.
How coarse their crimson is beside thine own!
Had I but lilies, I would burn them strait,
As a white peace-offering to thee. Come! wilt love me?
PAMPINEA.
He is a mockbird, and but imitates
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Turn him to me, and leave him.
FIAMETTA.
No; not so.
He might afflict thy leisure with his groans.
And shouldst thou chance to love him—
PAMPINEA.
I? Ha, ha!
I hate him like a poison plant. Methinks
His very laugh is perilous.
FIAMETTA.
I will medicine't;
Not as men steal the poisonous juice from serpents.
I'll let him talk, till his last drop of danger
Be spent, and he is harmless. Look upon me!
What! wilt thou love me?
DIONEUS.
Ay; by foam-born Venus!
By all these clinging, creeping, curling vines!
By Love! I swear it. As the bee doth gather
Wealth from the rose's lip, I'll steal from thine.
NEIPHILA.
You sing too much in pairs. Break up! break up!
And in the place of tender falsehoods tell us—
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Ha, ha! Ha, ha!
NEIPHILA.
What's that which moves your mirth?
LAURETTA.
Ha, ha! ha, ha! It is an amorous story
Philostratus has read us, out of book.
NEIPHILA.
We live all here in honest fellowship.
He who is worth a jest or owns a song
Holds it in trust for this community.
DIONEUS.
Ay, no close purses, Sir; no hoards of words;
No merry tales: nor serious; no dull songs,
Learned of the cuckoo underneath a pine,
And buzzed in private to a crazed guitar.
All is our own. So, speak, Philostratus!
NEIPHILA.
Speak, without more ado.
PHILOSTRATUS.
I? By my soul,
I never tried to tell a tale till now.
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A maudlin story, why prepare your eyes;
We'll have salt tears enow. Once on a time—
FIAMETTA.
Out on thee. That's the schoolboy's stale beginning.
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I've heard it fifteen hundred times and more.
Beggars unfold such 'neath our valets' windows
At a penny apiece, and they account it dear.
PHILOSTRATUS.
I knew how it would be. So, come! I'll drink
A bumper of Greek wine and hold my peace.
LAURETTA.
What! vanquished by a man that wears slashed satin?
Tush! thou a soldier! Talk no more of love.
PHILOSTRATUS.
I'll tell it, by these teeth! Once on a time—
(Oh! you are still now); well, once on a time,
There lived a king—
DIONEUS.
Prodigious.
PHILOSTRATUS.
An old man,
Who wedded (somewhat rashly) a young wife.
DIONEUS.
I cannot hold my wonder.
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Peace, you parrot!
PHILOSTRATUS.
Well, Sirs; this wife being young, as I have said,
Loved one as young, a black-haired curly man,
Almost a Moor: some women love such men.
DIONEUS.
His name?—I see't. He squinted somewhat, thus;
A pleasant cast; Go on, and damn thyself!
PHILOSTRATUS.
She loved this curly fellow: he liked her:
The end was that they met. Each night tall Tormes
Stole to her chamber, when king Philip slept,
And lay upon his pillow. Some time Love
Hoodwinked our ancient king; but he, being prone
Unto suspicion, as most monarchs are,
Soon read in Helen's looks and Tormes' smile
That he was cuckold.
DIONEUS.
'Tis a filthy name.
PAMPHILUS.
'Tis so: but we must fix on bad and good
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Too much on words, and pass beside the deed.
PHILOSTRATUS.
Well, Sirs: Our king, being bred to tricks of state,
And burying anger in a sure revenge,
Watched, waited, and surprised the twain asleep.
Yet, being in darkness (lest his lamp might scare
That guilty pair away), he could but know
Two sleepers lay there: whether girl or man
Was but a guess. On this, to mark the one
Whose hair was coarser than the queen's, (the man,)
What does he, Sirs, but clips—look! shears the locks,
(Then worn in clusters) close into the crown.
This done, goes back and sleeps.
DIONEUS.
An easy fellow!
PHILOSTRATUS.
Well; Tormes 'wakes: and with a yawn—just thus—
Rubs his broad palm athwart his neck. Behold!
He starts: the curls are gone! The queen weeps showers;
Yet suddenly reviving (while her dull swain
Puzzleth in vain, o'er this, then that device)
Bids him haste back, and whispers in his ear.
He laughs, shouts, dons his clothes; and to the room
Where all his mates (equerries) lie in dreams,
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Bare as his own. Ha, ha! The morning comes,
And our great monarch hath a crop-eared levee!
He looks; one, two, three, all are shorn alike.
Scarce can he hold his wonder: Yet, (being wise,
And wishing not to spread his own disgrace)
Quoth he—‘Let him who did this act be dumb,
And do't no more!’—which said, all go their way.
Then, as the story goes, by slow degrees,
The king forgave his queen: this touched her heart;
And she requited him, at last, with love.
DIONEUS.
I do not like your story.
PHILOSTRATUS.
'Tis not mine;
But an old record of a woman's wit.
The moral—
DIONEUS.
We'll forgive't. Some other time,
A twelvemonth hence, when we have had our suppers,
We'll sleep upon't, while thou unravell'st it.
NEIPHILA.
Now, who drinks Aleatico?
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I—I—I—
NEIPHILA.
Here, ladies, here are grapes, (spread out your arms!)
Purple as evening; figs, and cakes, whose tops
Make dull the whiteness of our frosted Alps.
[They feast.
PHILOSTRATUS.
Bring here the foreign wines!
[To the Servants.
NEIPHILA.
Will none enrich
Our banquet with a song? O shame upon ye!
PHILOSTRATUS.
More wine! Bring foreign wines! Now, which shall't be?
[Sings.
Shall't be Claret, flushing,
Dark as rubies, red?
Or Burgundy, all blushing,
Like a bride in bed?
DIONEUS.
Let't be full, and rich, and bright,
Dazzling our eyes with liquid light.
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Then't shall be wild Champagne,
Which soars and falls again,
Crowning the drinker's brain
With dreams all night.
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Or Sherry? sparkling Sherry?
Which makes the drinker merry,
With its fine Borachio flavor?
DIONEUS.
Or Canary?
PHILAMENA.
No, that's old;
So is Sack, whose kiss doth savour
Of the wit that's past and told.
DIONEUS.
Let't be full, and rich, and bright,
Like a gem of liquid light.
PAMPHILUS.
Let it be, (if like a stone,)
Like the diamond alone,
Dazzling the night!
[During this song the tables are removed.
NEIPHILA.
And now, sweet sister, where is thy sad story?
For sad it must be, if thy mind doth speak
Its natural music, and no erring star
Bewitch thee to unhealthy merriment.
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I do not think with you: a merry story,
Methinks, is harmless as a tale that's sad.
Yet, speak, Emilia!
EMILIA.
Once,—in Florence, here,
In that part which looks toward the hills Pistoian,
There dwelt a lady. She was very fair,
Young, rich, a maiden, noble, tender, free.
DIONEUS.
O Jupiter!
PHILOSTRATUS.
O Vulcan, hammer me i' the head!
I'm budding.
DIONEUS.
What! i' the head? he must have horns.
Is he a goat? or—
PHILOSTRATUS.
Peace! my love's a budding,
Crimsoning, all blushes, like a three days' bride.
NEIPHILA.
Silence in court! Say on, Emilia.
Was she loved, this lady?
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By two noble youths:
Guidotto one, a high-born Cremonese,
And one a Pavian, Mutio Imola.
Both dwelt in-Florence, where this lady came
With old Certaldo, when those tedious wars
Which vexed the city slept, and men were free
To come from exile to their natural homes.
PHILOSTRATUS.
Call me her name! My head could never bear
These vague surmisings. ‘Lady’—was she tall?
Meek? fair? Give me her name, and strait I see her:
Else is she but a sound.
EMILIA.
'Twas Agatha.
And very fair she was, and very meek;
Tall too, and bent her as yon poplar bows
To the sweet music of the river airs:
And so it was she whispered.
PHILOSTRATUS.
What, in music!
EMILIA.
Ay, Sir; for what is music, if sweet words
Rising from tender fancies be not so?
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Not even the South-wind young, when first he comes
Wooing the lemon flowers, for whom he leaves
The coasts of Baiæ; not melodious springs,
Though heard i' the stillness of their native hills;
Not the rich viol, trump, cymbal, nor horn,
Guitar nor cittern, nor the pining flute,
Are half so sweet as tender human words.
PAMPHILUS.
Thou'rt right, dear lady. Pity speaks to grief
More sweetly than a band of instruments;
And a friend's welcome, or a smiling kiss,
Outflourishes the cornet's bridal note.
PHILOSTRATUS.
Go on, go on!
EMILIA.
These rival youths were friends;
Till Love, which should be free from all harsh thoughts,
Set hate between them. Then, rank jealous cares
Sprang up, and with them many a sharp device,
Plots, quarrels, serenades, wherein the sword
Outmatched the cittern. Each had potent friends:
One band the guardian sued, and one the maid;
But neither prospered. In the meantime, the youths
Tired of complaints, and fights which bred but blows,
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One bought the serving-woman's soul with gold,
While mischief won the man: Thus, each had help.
But, tedious 'twere to speak, from day to day,
Of feasts, and watchings; how the Pavian frowned
Like sullen thunder o'er his rival's hopes;
How with mad violence he traced his steps;
Forced ceaseless quarrel, and out-clamored all
The winds in anger. Even the lady's presence
(That altar before which Love loves to lie,
Defenceless, harmless, all his wrongs put off,)
Was sullied by the Pavian's contumely.
PAMPHILUS.
What did Guidotto?
EMILIA.
When his rival left
Certaldo's palace, he—whose gold had won
The lady's serving-maid to help his suit,
Stole, ushered by the lamping midnight moon,
Unto her garden, where, with learned strains,
He taught the echoes all to speak his love;
Complained not; smiled not; but with tremulous words,
And looks where sadness strove with humble hopes,
Adored the lady.
PHILOSTRATUS.
Ho! I see it all.
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These modest mournful gentlemen?
DIONEUS.
Hear! Hear him!
How he doth trumpet all his virtues!
NEIPHILA.
Hush!
Let's know the rest.
EMILIA.
'Twas as yon jester says.
Guidotto won the heart of Agatha.
NEIPHILA.
Ay; but the end?
EMILIA.
One night, the Pavian (warned
O' the guardian's absence) burst the palace doors,
And with a riotous crew, whose chief he was,
Stood 'fore the lady's eyes. Once more he told
His burning story; once more swore to die;
Vowed, menaced, sighed, implored, yet moved her not.
On this, grown desperate, with one arm clasped round
Her fainting figure, he bore her through the halls:—
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Ha, ha! Now where's the modest, moonlight lover?
The twanger of guitars, the—?
EMILIA.
Peace! He stood
Like flaming anger in the ravisher's path:
And drawing forth his sword, he bade him hail,
For he was come to save him.
PAMPHILUS.
What did the other?
EMILIA.
Rushed on his nobler rival; swore some oaths;
Frowned and denounced destruction. With sure hand
Guidotto warded, and returned his threats,
And for each blow repaid him with a wound,
At last, the Pavian fell.
PHILOSTRATUS.
The end? the end?
EMILIA.
The end was (would 'twere better) such as happens
In common tales. 'Twas shown by some strange marks,
Which chance, or nature, in her sport, had drawn
Beneath the lady's breast, marring its white,
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(All well confirmed) that Agatha was, in truth,
Own sister unto Mutio Imola.
PHILOSTRATUS.
And so Guidotto won, and there's an end?
EMILIA.
He wed indeed the gentle Florence lady.
But for the Pavian; he (who loved so well
'Midst all his anger) when he heard that tale,
Betook him to far lands or savage haunts.
Some said, he bled a martyr to his faith,
In Syrian countries; fighting 'neath the flag
Of Godfrey or the lion-hearted king:
Others that he had fled beyond the woods
Near to Camaldoli; fed on roots; and dwelt
Somewhere upon the unsheltered Apennine.
Certain it is, a hermit like to him
Was known thereafter. In the caves he lived,
Or tops of mountains; but when winds were loudest,
And the broad moon worked spells far out at sea,
He watched all night and day the lonely shores,
And saved from shipwreck many mariners.
At length—he died; and strangers buried him.
DIONEUS.
Had he no friends?
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In some lone cemet'ry,
Distant from towns (some wild wood-girded spot,
Ruined and full of graves, all very old,
Over whose scarce-seen mounds the pine-tree sheds
Her solemn fruit, as giving ‘dust to dust’)
He sleeps in quiet. Had he no friend? Oh! yes;
Pity which hates all noise; and Sorrow, like
The pale-eyed marble that guards virgin mould;
And widowed Silence, who will weep alone;
And all sad friends of Death, were friends to him!
NEIPHILA.
Is there no more?
EMILIA.
No more. My tale is told.
NEIPHILA.
Then let us seek the fresh green river-banks,
And rest awhile under yon plane-tree's shade.
Our fair Emilia there will touch her lute;
And with a song, where love shall sweeten wisdom,
Bid us take comfort. After such sad stories
What can be heard, save music?—Follow me!
[Exeunt.
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