University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene.—The same—A Room in Zenora's House.
Teresa.
And do you really love me?

Ilario.
Ay, dear child.

Teresa.
I have a strange thought.

Ilario.
Why, what is it, love?

Teresa.
I fancied—'twas but fancy—for a moment
You could not love me.

Ilario.
Why so?

Teresa.
Love, I said,
Soars heavenward like sweet incense ever, akin
To gratitude, and worship, and despair.
At least 'tis so I love thee.

Ilario.
Well, what then?

Teresa.
You could not then love me, being more than I.

Ilario.
My happiness is perfect. I have hoped
For love like this from when I first was man.

Teresa.
Are you so happy?

Ilario.
Yes.

Teresa.
Then you have stolen
My happiness and added to your own.
I am less happy than uneasy.

Ilario.
Wherefore?

Teresa.
Lest you should tire of me.

Ilario.
How should I tire?

Teresa.
I am so foolish, such a tedious child.

Ilario.
What, love? (Aside)
Why, now this conquest passes all.
I would my friends could see this lovely girl,
How she adores me. They would burst with envy,
And never more dare rival me again.—
That makes me like you more, sweet innocence.

Teresa.
How so?

Ilario.
Because you are not proud and vain
Like wittier women with a nimbler tongue.

Teresa.
Well, you have wit's full rations for us both.
Mine shall all go to help love thee enough.
The task, I fear me, will absorb it all,
Nay, prove too vast for all the powers I own,
Since, if I but half pay my debt of love,
Nor time nor strength will serve for aught beside;
I must be like a nun to prayer devote,
That has no thought for earth.

Ilario.
What! pray to me?

Teresa.
Ay, what saint better?

Ilario.
Why, your pretty self.

Teresa.
Nay, I must have a hero for my prayers.

Ilario.
Am I a hero?

Teresa.
Greatest ever lived
In my sight; and, I doubt not, in the world's,
If it saw truly.

Ilario.
Here is one at last
Who knows me, and who rates at my true worth!
Sweet girl, be thou the first to earn the praise
Of saying thus.

Teresa.
I shall lay claim to it
When none can doubt its truth.

Ilario
(aside).
Ah, were they here,
My rivals! Never was a man so loved.
To think it all is wasted and none sees it!—
Come, sweetest lady, let us go and talk
In the rose-arbour, of our two months' love.
Your zealous guardian ever seeks us out
And separates, upon some small pretext:
There we are safest,—curse his prying eyes!

[Exeunt.
Enter Guido and Nita.
Guido.

Come this way, fair lady. Not a soul about.
We may promenade in seclusion for an inconsiderable
interval.

Nita.

Tell me again, dearest; do you love me?

Guido.

I tell you in sincerity, you have melted a
heart never vanquished before. I have been gay and
heartless, less loving than loved: but now I succumb
to the humiliating flame. And you, I need not ask
if you love me?

Nita.

Of course I do.

Guido.

Of course. I never failed yet. All women
love me. But I hear footsteps approaching. Let us
retire.

[Exit Guido and Nita.
Enter Zenora and Raolfo.
Zenora.
Fear not, my son, but he will quickly go,
And plague you with his rivalry no more.

Raolfo.
But then,—Teresa?—

Zenora.
Son, you know not woman.
What should a girl do when her sweetheart flits
And proves a sorry jilt, forsaking her?
Break heart and die? Why, if she have a heart
Then she may break it, true; but having one,
Let her be called some other name than woman,
Being more devious from the ruts of nature
Than a hot-blooded fish, flesh-eating ox,
Or lion ravenous upon herbs and fruit.
What should she do, I say, but cast about
To find another and console her loss?

Raolfo.
So you would have me fill a widowed heart,
And crawl in as an afterthought, for lack
Of better.

Zenora.
No, my son, or yes. Choose you.
No, if your choice were fit, the chosen worthy.
But then I should not need advise, for such
Had taken or left you, and no change of will
In either case. But yes, if you would choose
A slight mean will to couple with your own,
For then 'twould be but fitting punishment.
In brief, I wish that that which is, abide;
That that which shall be, shall be; and that nature
Continue in her course now as of old.
I cannot pity you if you will thrust
Your hand into the mangling iron wheel
Men call necessity; nor need I praise
If you will use that wheel to turn your mill
And grind the corn of your felicity.
Choose you.

Raolfo.
My mother, 'tis to thee I owe
What sterner metal plates my heart with proof:
But sweet Teresa is not of the type
Whence nature copies vulgar womanhood.
I do not think that, having once loved him,
She would, e'en if I wished it, turn her love
On me.

Zenora.
Love blinds you. For this first of times
I see your judgment (winged by thought's rebound
From mighty tension of the strong bent mind
Upon its whizzing way, but lest that flight
Should overshoot the target, fletched with plume
Of steadying and retarding doubt) fly wide.
Why, you were wont to weigh with weights minute,
In scales that doubted the beam's trembling will,
That not a sandy granule 'scaped the test,
The gold and dross of all men's character;
And, if you erred, 'twas like a trafficker
Who buys the precious dust from swarthy hordes
Upon the burning Ethiopian coast:—
You reckoned less, than truth turned out, the gold
A cautious judge. But now you overshoot
The target, and the tree to which 'tis nailed,
And the whole wood, and your spent shaft comes down
A rod beyond. Indeed, I am amazed.

Raolfo.
Nay, mother, you but wrong my judgment, and
The lady. For the former, it is naught.
The other is a cruel thing.

Zenora.
Well, see.
And if she prove not but the shallowest heart
That ever gave love for a string of beads,
Nor bring some shame on you and all of us,
Then tell me (and you may then, as I marvel
That you should now, with an unblushing face
Or credulous) that this weak ill-governed girl
Is worth your fretting.

Raolfo.
Think not but of me.
A little think of her. If you believe
This gallant means an honourable suit,
Then you deceived me,—pardon, for I mean
But such deceit as from the self-deceived
Issues like plague into another's eyes,
Pure truth being purposed,—saying he would quit,
And leave the field to me. If you believe
He means not so, why, duty then speaks clear.
'Tis a hard task for me to say this thing,
Since it may seem 'twas for my profit.

Zenora.
Son,
What would you have me do?

Raolfo.
Mother, you know.

Zenora.
Bid him begone? You are silent. Well, what then?
Rouse strife betwixt our friendly families
All for this girl? Insult this gentleman
All to withhold temptation from the heart
Which else were tried by touchstone, so that you
Should take untested and believe it pure
What tested would have fallen? Am I then
To be the instrument to find my son
A wife unworthy and against my wish,
That, soaring higher, still finds no equal yet
For my son's merit or my count of it,
All that a stranger's path be made more smooth
Of stumbling-blocks that others have to pass
And do pass every day?

Raolfo.
Ah, talk not so,
Or for this first of times force me confess
You, you are cruel; you, my mother, you
Who have so—loved me.

Zenora.
Yes, and love you still,
And now am working for your good; but you
Repay my love with this ingratitude,
Which would that rather I had died that day
When, you first wailing met my gaze, than prove;
And let a stranger, one that loves you not,
And shows by biting now my hand that fed her,
In biting yours, that she for grateful care
Is well matched with you, and what manner wife,
How sweet, how thankful she will prove for love,
Be an impediment betwixt our wills;
And when I spurn it from my way, you turn
And curse me.

Raolfo.
Now my mother is unjust.
I never cursed you; no, nor never shall
Whate'er you do to me, and worse than this
You cannot do. Yet must I not forget,
In honouring you, my duties to this maid,
So brought up with me as she were my sister;
And if you will not warn her, or remove
The cause, then, hateful as my act may show
And gross, yet I must warn her.

Zenora.
'Twill come well.
The cast-off suitor, out of sheer goodwill,
Warns the deluded maiden of the villain,
His more accepted rival. 'Twill come well.
[Exit Zenora.

Enter Fausta.
Fausta.
Eavesdroppers, by the proverb, should not hear
Harm of their enemies, but of themselves;
But I have heard—

Raolfo.
Why, this is fortunate.
I sought my mother's help, but failing her
Would next have prayed for yours, but that the service
Could scarce be well explained by me to you.
But now that you know all, the task is easy.
Do this for me, dear cousin.

Fausta.
No, not I.
Your pattern of all virtue needs no help,
And least of all should come to me, your scorn.
Watch her and mark the issue: then applaud
Your wise choice and her constancy of soul.

Raolfo.
A noble woman now would put by hate
And jealousy, and fence with woman's love
Her weaker sister and sweet sympathy.

Fausta.
So think not I, and scorn such offices
Of maudlin pity. Let the weak go down.
It is the law with men. Why not with us?

Raolfo.
Why, then, I must e'en do the thing myself.

Fausta.
Do then, fair knight of dames, and earn her thanks.
And see, fate wills you show yourself a fool.
[Exit Fausta.

Enter Teresa.
Raolfo.
Welcome, dear friend, if you allow the name.
I was about to seek you.

Teresa.
Sir, I thank you,
But this is too much honour.

Raolfo.
Nay, dear friend,
The time is past for sneers and compliments,
Idle alike and born of idle tongues.
I would befriend you all that in me lies
In a great matter.

Teresa.
Well, speak on. I hear.

Raolfo.
Will you not help me say what I should say?

Teresa.
What! will you have me court myself for you?
This over-bashfulness is a new toy:
Time was you were not burdened with it, sir.

Raolfo.
Last time my task was clear, straightforward, open,
And every manful heart leaps forth to such.
Now it is otherwise.

Teresa.
Come you to me
With aught may not be uttered face to face,
With undrooped eyes and with unstammering lips?
A blush had suited, if a blush were yours,
The words you spake that time. You cannot now
Bring aught less acceptable. Speak, then.

Raolfo.
Friend,
I wooed you for myself. You said me nay.
'Twas well, for so you wished it: nought remained
For one not stinted of his proper pride.
But when I forced my heart renounce that joy,
I swore that who would reap it should be worthy:
I swore it. Shall this warning be enough?

Teresa.
No, sir, it shall not. You shall not insult
My youth with hints and warnings: but speak out
Whate'er you have in mind, in manful sort,
In clear words, not to be misunderstood.

Raolfo.
Well then, you love Ilario?

Teresa.
So you say.
But what of that?

Raolfo.
He is not worthy you.

Teresa.
Sir—

Raolfo.
Let that pass. I came not to accuse
Your choice.

Teresa.
You were best not. Ilario
Is twice the man you are.

Raolfo.
That may be.

Teresa.
Ay,
It is so. Turn your insults upon him,
And learn how he will brook them.

Raolfo.
Hear me out
In patience, for I came not to dispute
Or match my worth with worth of other men.
Ilario is your choice. That is your matter:
But this I will not suffer, not endure,
That he should make his sport of you and us.
My mother feared it: Fausta fears it: both
Refused, though I should kneel to them, to speak.
I then, howe'er it please you, must make bold
To warn you of your peril, ere too late.

Teresa.
Sir, you astound me! Words break down beneath
My answer. You outgrow all insolence.
You have no gentle blood. Say this to him,
And take his answer in your teeth.

Raolfo.
Teresa—

Teresa.
You hereby call him traitor; me impure!

Raolfo.
Not so. I call him traitor, but you pure.

Teresa.
Tell him as much.

Raolfo.
I have.

Teresa.
And he said—

Raolfo.
That
Which, for, howe'er I may despise the man,
I cannot deem him equal to a lie,
I do believe the truth—else had I struck him—
And would have still remain the truth, to which
I bade him pledge his honour, or depart.
He neither swore, and for the rest appealed
To her who took his part, my mother: then
I threatened him: and now I have warned you.
Both which, were you another, I had done
For duty's cause: how much more then for love?
I loved you once: I'll guard you, sweet, for ever.

Teresa.
I need no guardians, thank you, but my virtue
And true Ilario's sword.

Raolfo.
The event shall show.
But if you need, count on me to the death.
Meanwhile still hate me. Since love cannot be,
I do accept thy hate. I'll pay it back
With ever-constant love. 'Tis better thus.
I can endure hate, but indifference—no,
From any heart, and least of all from thine.
[Exit Raolfo.

Teresa.
How came they all so to suspect the truth?
We must be swift now, or we are betrayed.
To-night it must be. 'Tis not safe to wait.
I will on the instant seek Ilario,
And tell him this. He cannot wed with me,
I see it all too well, a poor mean maid,
Too far divorced in station and in birth
From her who should aspire to wear his love
As a proud bridal wreath. Yet, why for that
Need he neglect my wild-flower coronal,
Or I not stoop to be his own heart's bride?
Her he shall deck in silks, and me in praise:
To her give courtesy, to me the grace
Of undisguised and frank familiar love:
From her keep secrets, yield them up to me:
Share wealth with her, give me his whole great heart:
Keep her at court, me in some lowly cot.
All dedicate to love and liberty:
Pass tedious months with her, sweet days with me:
Quarrel with her, and make it up with me:
Forget her present, absent think of me.
This is my life, and I am well content.
[Exit Teresa.

Enter Livia and Basso.
Basso.

I tell you, torment me not. I am mad with
jealousy. That a mustachioed stick of a fellow, like
a bramble hung with sheep's wool, should undo me!

Livia.

Think not of her. If she prefer the rascal
to the roebuck, that is her taste.

Basso.

A little bit of a canting court barber: a
lackey that apes the manners of a fine gentleman

(as if every solid honest fellow that works with his
hands should not be above that!): a valet, with a
dancing-master thrown into the bargain, to make up
short weight!

Livia.

Yes, it is monstrous; but forget her.

Basso.

A lanky poplar-tree, with a tuft of leaves
on the top of it: a mop, with its shock head in curlpapers:
a skipping, sniggering, sniffling, shambling,
bowing and scraping master of ceremonies for the
kitchen! See the fellow smile, till you would think
the ends of his mouth would meet behind and his
head drop off! A pair of laths in a yard and a
half of cloth, a limp washed-out shred of unstarched
linen!

Livia.

Compose yourself, dear Basso. You are
getting black in the face. Consider your size, and
beware of the apoplexy, dear.

Basso.

Woman, what is it to you if I burst?

Livia.

Why, I shall lose half my husband.

Basso.

Your husband!

Livia.

Yes, did you not promise to wed me?

Basso.

No. There should be some equality in
these matters. A wife, look you, is the yoke-fellow of
her husband. Now, if we two were set to draw the
plough, which, think you, would draw the heavier?

A man should have a wife of his own weight, or as
many wives as he can balance in the scales.

Livia.

But Nita is no heavier than I.

Basso.

Love is a rogue of a merchant. He puts
lead in with his light goods, and passes them off on
the unwary.

Livia.

Could you not love me?

Basso.

Not while I have a chance of Nita: but I
think I could love any woman.

Livia.

If you marry me, sir, I will take care that
you get no chance of showing your love for any
woman.

Basso.

What! am I not big enough to share with
some others?

Livia.

No; I want all my husband to myself, even
if he does weigh twenty stone.

[Exit.
Basso.

Then you are not the one for me, Mistress
Flare-up.

[Exit Basso.

Enter Teresa and Ilario.
Ilario.
Then let us lose no time. But tell me, child,
Can you, exchanging home and peace for me,
Be happy in the barter?

Teresa.
Home—what home?
I have no home but on thy loving breast.

Ilario.
Be ready then against the time of night.
Then, e'er the hollow horns of the half-moon
Pour in the cup of heaven their watery wine,
Dispensing to the search a dangerous light,
We must go far. Procure you some disguise
To baffle keen detection. Wait for me
Under the terrace at the garden end,
Among the oleanders. Now farewell!
Yet stay! 'Twere best we should start separate ways.
Here's gold enough. I'll bid one wait for you
With horses, and appoint him where to meet me
Some miles upon the road. Nay, not a word.
Farewell! It must be so, or not at all.

[Exit Teresa.
Ilario.
I must not go with her, for that would bind
My life to hers before the world too closely,
And make men busy with my fair repute.
Were she a cottar's child, 'twere different now,—
But to remove her from this noble roof—
It cannot be: the thing would get abroad.
Then, too, a journey with her could but make
Harder to bring about or break to her
The severance inevitable at last.
But she must go, and quickly, or her shame
Will become manifest. I wonder now
If this she says be fact, and they divine
Somewhat already? Well, it may be so;
And I must put a bold face on the matter,
Though 'tis unfortunate. But no. It is
A trick of hers to hasten on my plan:
She hungered to flee hence, and fabled this
To compass freedom some days earlier.
If this be so, then all goes well. She flies.
They raise a dust. Who knows the cause? Not I.
What easier, then, than to wash hands of it
And never see her more? I hope 'tis so.