 | The Secret in Words |  |
115
ACT I.
—SCENE I.
THE DUCAL PARK AND GARDENS.A Chorus of Musicians enter, followed by FLORA and the other ladies in morning dresses, and after them FLERIDA, Duchess of Parma, holding the hand of ARNESTO. During the song, all the characters slowly cross the stage, and at its termination go out.
CHORUS OF MUSICIANS.
Ah! my heart, in love's sweet season,
Thou hast reason for thy pain,
Reason for the gentle treason
That has lured thee to love's chain;
But of what availeth reason,
Which for love itself is vain?
FLORA
sings.
After all thy various trials,
Doubtings, dangers, and denials,
Rest at length, poor weary heart;
Or if thou, for thy confusion,
Must indulge some new illusion,—
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Think not, with thy fond complaining,
Thou canst cure thy bosom's paining,
Change a bright eye's cold disdaining,
Calm thy heart and cool thy brain;
It were treason unto reason,
If love came but in love's season—
CHORUS.
Ah! but what availeth reason,
Which for love itself is vain?
Exeunt.
Enter HENRY, FREDERICK, and FABIO, as if following the Musicians.
FREDERICK.
Since to me you have confided,
How you hither came in secret
To behold the fair Flerida,
You may now enjoy that pleasure
Thus concealed.
HENRY.
How much, my Frederick,
Do I owe unto your friendship?
FREDERICK.
More I owe unto your favour,
Since you give me the great honour
Of your confidence.
HENRY.
Why, truly,
To none else would I have done so.
FREDERICK.
Say no more upon the subject
As this servant has no notion
Who you are.
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aside.
Though I endeavour
To find out who is this stranger,
With more mysteries about him
Than a rosary, and secrets
Greater than a priest, I find it
All in vain.
FREDERICK.
This park and garden,
Do they please you?
HENRY.
I can only
Say, that all the various fictions
I have read for my amusement,
To fill up a leisure moment,
Ne'er could give me an idea
Of a scene so fair—so beauteous
As this real one before me.
Groves like these ne'er blessed my vision,
Though before my fancy trembled,
Now the green woods of Diana,
Now the golden bowers of Venus.
FREDERICK.
So o'erwhelmed is fair Flerida
With a soft unceasing sadness,
Which from Heaven she doubtless suffers
For her infinite perfections,
That we all with one another
Strive with emulous endeavour
To remove or dissipate it.
'Tis for this, my lord, that often,
On these sunny, sweet May mornings,
She doth seek this peaceful region,
Where we make with songs and music
Simple sylvan feasts to greet her.
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'Tis surprising, with her beauty,
Youth, and wit, and rare endowments,
That this gloomy feeling ever
Should have gained such influence o'er her,
And that she, by birth the duchess
Of fair Parma, and whom Heaven
Dower'd with noblest gifts and blessings,
Was not shielded from the venom
Of this arrow from the quiver
Of unpitying time and fortune.
Is it possible that no one
Has yet found her cause of sorrow?
FREDERICK.
No one.
FABIO.
No one? How can you say so,
When I know it?
FREDERICK.
You?
FABIO.
No less.
FREDERICK.
Speak! why dally?
HENRY.
What do you wait for?
FABIO.
Tell me, can you keep a secret?
THE TWO.
Oh! yes! yes!
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Then, know her sorrow
Springs from. ...
FREDERICK.
Pause not.
HENRY.
Tell it quickly.
FABIO.
Being in love with your humble servant,
And (so much she dreads my scorn)
That she dares not speak her passion.
FREDERICK.
Hence! you fool.
HENRY.
Begone! you madman.
FABIO.
Well, now hear; if 'tis not that,—
'Tis something else.
The music is heard approaching.
HENRY.
Hark! now returning
Comes the troop in this direction.
FREDERICK.
Leave me now, for I am anxious
To rejoin them as they enter;
Partly that it is my duty,
Partly that my life will leave me
If I lose the chance of seeing
One I seek among these ladies.
HENRY.
I desire not to embarrass
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Hence, and quickly here returning,
Speak to her myself; for I,
Now that I have seen her beauty,
Long to try her mental culture:
By that stratagem we thought of
Yester night, and which consists in
My presenting my own letter,
As my own sent secretary,
I can speak to her, and thus
Learn, since I have come to see her,
If 'tis true, that fortune ever.
Loveth to assist the bold.
Exit.
FREDERICK.
In a notable dilemma
Am I placed, for if I tell
Who he is, I break the secret
Which was trusted to my heart
By the duke; and if I tell not,
Then I violate the duty
That I owe unto Flerida;
I, who am her trusted servant,
Vassal, kinsman, all combined:
What am I to do? But why—
Why deliberate about it?
Duty is a claim preceding
The confiding of a friend.
But, ah me! if I deprive me
Of the duke's regard, I lose
All the hopes I formed, his palace
Would become the safe asylum,
The sure shelter of my love;
When my Laura ...... Ah! why speak thus?
Back, dear sound, into my bosom;
Even to breathe her name aloud
Makes me fear that I offend her.
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Master, who may be this stranger,
Who, disguised, arrives by night-time,
And conceals himself by day?
FREDERICK.
He is a friend, to whom I'm under
Some obligations.
FABIO.
Was he then
Your valet once, you feel so grateful?
But why should I speak about it?
Be he who he may, he's welcome,
Very welcome, for at least
While he's here, we'll fare the better,
Eat and drink more for some days;
Bed and board then freely give him,
For the trouble is repaid
Amply by the pleasant bearing
Of a lively guest at table.
FREDERICK.
They are coming. Fabio, silence!
Enter FLERIDA and her attendants as before.
FLORA
sings.
If without being worthy of her
Thou dost dare to be the lover
Of Antandra, young and fair,
Suffer silently thine anguish,
For the cause whereby you languish
It were idle to declare;
Blame the star, whose fatal warning
Shone upon thy natal morning,
Not the maiden's gentle scorning,
Which her heart cannot restrain,—
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To protect thee from such treason.
CHORUS.
But of what availeth reason,
Which for love itself is vain?
FLERIDA.
Whose words are these?
FREDERICK.
Señora, they are mine.
FLERIDA.
I always note that in the songs they sing me,
And which they tell me have by you been written,
Your one unchanging plaint is ever love.
FREDERICK.
I am poor.
FLERIDA.
Of what importeth this to love?
FREDERICK.
To merit being loved, it much imports;
And thus you see, that I do not complain
Of feeling love's sweet bitter pain, Señora,
But that I do not merit being loved.
FLERIDA.
But canst thou, Frederick, love so base an object
That can be influenced by thoughts of gain?
FREDERICK.
It were a crime to charge her innocent heart
With such a thought.
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Whom do you blame?
FREDERICK.
Myself!
FLERIDA.
And why?
FREDERICK.
Because I dare not speak of love,
I do not say to her nor to her kindred,
But even to her very menial slaves;
Knowing the lover that has nought to give
Has little chance of gaining what he asks.
FLERIDA.
A lover who doth own himself to be
So helpless, can at least declare the name
Of her he loves. It surely cannot shock
The most extreme respect that he should speak it,
Who doth pronounce himself so badly used.
And so, good Frederick—loving but not meriting—
It doth appear most strange that no one yet
Has learned the name of her you love so well.
FREDERICK.
So guarded in my silence is my love,
That many times I have resolved, Señora,
Never to speak—lest in some thoughtless hour
My secret might escape me with my words:
So sacred is this hidden love I cherish,
That even the very air on which I live,
When it doth seek the prison of my breast,
I question whence it comes. For I have grown
Suspicious even of the breath of heaven,
Lest it should learn, and bear to other ears
The knowledge of my love, and my despair.
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Enough, enough, for you are very secret,
And very foolish in your secrecy;
But how then comes it, thus addressing me,
That you can speak with so much zeal and warmth
About your love, forgetting who I am?
FREDERICK.
Who is to blame for this offence, Señora?
You deigned to ask and I have but replied.
FLERIDA.
You, for you answered more than I did ask.
Arnesto!
ARNESTO.
Please your grace!
FLERIDA.
Be sure
To forward unto Frederick. ...
FREDERICK,
aside.
Ah! I die.
FLERIDA.
Two thousand ducats, as a gift from me,
That with them he may gain o'er the servants
Of his mistress; for I do not wish,
That, presuming on his cowardice,
He thus strangely should again address me,
Trembling so to think of one away,
And yet so daring in my very presence.
FLORA,
aside to Livia.
How changeable and fickle is her sadness!
LIVIA,
to her.
From one extreme she flies unto another.
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aside.
Alas! that I alone should know the cause
Of all this sorrow that the world can pierce not!
FREDERICK.
A thousand times I humbly kiss the earth
Whereon you tread, for there, believe me, lady,
By the brief contact of your beauteous feet
More flowers are born without the aid of time
Than April bears with all its labouring hours.
FABIO.
I will not kiss the earth whereon you tread,
Nor where you have trod, not I. I'm not so bold,
For that no more is earth, 'tis changed to Heaven;
It is enough for me to stoop and kiss
The ground that you intend to tread upon.
Which is the way, then? whither are you going?
For I would wish to kiss the ground before you.
Enter LISARDO.
LISARDO.
A gallant cavalier, my lady,
Who doth claim a near alliance
With the duke of Mantua, prayeth
That your grace will grant him leave
To present to you a letter.
FLERIDA.
Oh! how much the duke of Mantua
Wearies me with his addresses!
ARNESTO.
Why, my lady, if on every
Ground he is your proper suitor?
FLERIDA.
Then that reason is sufficient,—
For I do not wish to wed.
Say, he may approach, Lisardo.
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aside.
I shall not betray his secret,
Soon to need him as a friend.
Enter HENRY.
HENRY.
Dazzled, troubled, to thy feet
I, Señora, come:—a haven
May they be for my misfortunes.
Kneels.
FLERIDA.
From the earth arise.
HENRY.
The duke,
My good lord, presents this letter
Unto your grace's hands by me.
Gives it.
FLERIDA.
How is his highness?
HENRY.
I would say
Dead with love, if hope's elixir
Kept him not alive.
FLERIDA.
Whilst I
Read, remain not so.
Reads to herself.
HENRY,
arising and aside.
The pencil
Lied, that strove to paint her beauty,
Leaving many a charm unlimned.
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to Arnesto.
At length, my lord, the powers I waited
From my father have arrived.
ARNESTO.
I am glad they have come.
FLORA,
to Laura.
How graceful
Is this stranger's mien and bearing
Who has brought the letter, Laura;—
LAURA.
I have not even looked at him.
FLORA.
I am not surprised, your cousin
Being here, and you well knowing
How devotedly he loves you;
And that now your sire, Arnesto,
Speaks with him about your marriage.
It were like disdain or scorn
If you could regard another.
LAURA.
Not to him, do I, believe me,
Owe this thought or want of thought.
FREDERICK,
aside.
While the duchess still is reading,
Arnesto and Lisardo speaking,
Love instruct me to be bold.
And the letter?
[Aside, to Laura.
LAURA,
aside.
It is written.
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Thanks! but how can I receive it?
LAURA.
Have you not a glove?
FREDERICK.
I have.
LAURA.
Then with it. ...
FREDERICK.
I understand you.
ARNESTO,
to Lisardo.
All is very well.
LISARDO.
As ages
Will my love compute the moments,
Beauteous Laura, to my hope.
FLERIDA.
The duke informs me in this letter
How you, being his near kinsman,
It is needful, you, from Mantua
Should absent yourself some days,
Until he succeeds in making
An arrangement or conclusion,
Relative to some late trouble,—
Duel—challenge—some dilemma
Love it seems has placed you in.
HENRY.
True it is, my crime was love.
FLERIDA.
Protection, for his sake and yours,
Here I offer you in Parma,
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At my court from this day forth.
I shall, presently, an answer
Write unto the duke, and send it
To his grace.
HENRY.
May heaven, Señora,
Through eternal happy ages
Guard your life! and may we all,
Mantua's noble vassals, merit
To behold ourselves so happy
As ere long .....
FLERIDA.
No more: remember
That it is my strict injunction,
While you are my guest in Parma,
That you speak not on this subject
Until I may speak to thee.
HENRY.
You will see that I obey thee.
FLERIDA.
And that you, when you are writing
To the duke how I amuse me,
As no doubt you have instructions
So to do, from time to time—
All be seated, since the sun
In thick, dusky clouds enveloped,
Seems to peep with stealthy glances,
Rather than to beam bright day;—
Here, my ladies, take your places
At this side: and you, Arnesto,
Some quaint question now propose.
The ladies sit down at one side of Flerida, and the gentlemen remain standing at the other.
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Though my white hairs might excuse me
From a share in this sweet pastime;
Still, to gratify Señora,
Thee in aught, I put the question—
“What is love's most bitter pain?”
FLERIDA,
to Henry.
Sir, it is for you to answer.
HENRY.
I?
FLERIDA.
To thee, as guest and stranger,
We precedence grant.
HENRY.
In this
I obtain a double favour,
And that I may forfeit not
The advantages you give me,
I proclaim the pain I suffer:
That of loving where I'm scorned,
Is the greatest pain of love.
FLORA.
I believe its greatest anguish
Is the pang that rends my bosom,
That of scorning without loving.
LIVIA.
'Tis absence.
LISARDO.
Jealousy.
FREDERICK.
The feeling
Of loving without hope or cure.
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I think its greatest pain is loving
In gloomy suffering and silence,
Without the power of explanation.
LAURA.
And I, to love, and be beloved.
FLERIDA.
That's a somewhat novel reason:
'Twill be hard to prove, dear Laura,
That to love and be beloved
Is the greatest pain of loving.
LAURA.
I will prove it, notwithstanding.
ARNESTO.
Now let each one prove his meaning.
HENRY.
Since I made the first beginning,
'Tis for me to prove the anguish
Of being hated where we love.
FABIO,
aside.
Now we'll hear enough of nonsense.
The more the wit, the more the folly.
HENRY.
Love is a planet, shining far
With varying beam in heaven above,
And so the greatest pain of love
Is to love against one's star:
He who doth yoke him to the car
Of some proud beauty's scornful eyes,
Which glance upon him to despise,
Vainly by his star is warned.
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Struggles with opposing skies.
FLORA.
He who lifts his heart above
To some proud eye's scornful glowing,
Has at least the bliss of showing
That he suffers for his love,
Which may yet her pity move—
But that more unhappy one,
Who feeleth scorn, yet loveth none,
Suffers without any merit,
Neither can her heart inherit
Aught the other may have won.
LISARDO.
He who loves, and yet is hated,
She who hates, but cannot love,
Both a separate anguish prove,
Which in time may be abated
With the thought that they are fated
By the will of heaven above.
But the jealous pang we feel
When we happen to discover
From some dearer favoured lover,
What his eyes cannot conceal,
This nor soothing time can heal—
Nor thought of heaven's impartial plan,
Love is but the work of fate,
Destiny controlleth hate,
But jealousy is born of man!
LIVIA.
Many times the world has seen,
When the torch of love expires,
Jealousy relume its fires
Brighter than they once had been,
Love returns to glad the scene;
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But absence, which the wise man saith
Is the grave of love, may strive,
Vainly such a boon to give—
Absence is love's quickest death,
While jealousy doth make it live.
FREDERICK.
He who scorned still adores,
She who worshipped still doth scorn—
He whom jealousy's sharp thorn
Woundeth with its poisoned sores;
He who the absent maid deplores—
All live beneath hope's horoscope:
Time may bring them some relief,
But naught can cure the deadly grief
Of him who loveth without hope.
FLERIDA.
He who without hope doth grieve,
Can at least his state declare,
And by telling his despair
May some soothing calm receive;
But he whose heart is doomed to heave
In secret, shares a sadder lot,
To the anguish of not feeling
Hope, is added the concealing
Even that he feels it not.
LAURA.
He who loves, and is beloved,
Ever lives in hope and fear,
From the midst of pleasure near
Some fancied evil, far removed,
Wounds him like a hidden spear;
In his passion and his languor
He feels at once the double pain
Of him who loves, but meets disdain,
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As to jealousy, heaven knows,
He feels its added pang as well;
He cannot for a moment dwell
From his loved mistress, but the throes
Of absence in his bosom swell.
'Tis true, despair can find no scope
Whereon its trophy to erect;
But having nothing to expect,
He cannot feel the joy of hope;
If silence be a grief, 'tis his,
He cannot speak his bosom's bliss;
And thus he feels the pain of each
Who wanteth hope, or wanteth speech.
'Twould seem, indeed, a man like this
Is wholly out of misery's reach,
So much doth love his bosom bless—
But, in the midst of all his joy,
There comes the shadow of annoy,
Lest fate, perchance, may make it less;
And thus his breast contains each feeling
That our several lips have stated,
Of being loved, and being hated—
Both of speaking and concealing—
Jealousy and absence mated.
They all arise.
FLERIDA.
These are sophistries, my Laura,
With which you have sought to show
Merely wit, but which by reason
Are entirely unsustained.
LAURA.
That is true: for it were sad,
Love's supremest object being
To be loved in turn .....
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Your glove—
Laura drops her glove. Frederick raises it, and exchanges it for his own.
FREDERICK.
I shall raise it.
ARNESTO.
Stay, detain thee.
LISARDO.
I would hold it.
FREDERICK.
If I meant
To detain it, or to hold it,
I methinks could compass both;
But as I do not intend it,
There does not arise, Lisardo,
Any cause for a dispute;
And since reaching it more quickly
Was not merit but good fortune,
See, to Laura I return it.
Presents the glove to Laura.
Take it, lady, and I think
That my quickness is rewarded
More than amply, since I feel
That I serve, and not offend thee.
LISARDO.
Frederick, you have most discreetly
Drawn me from a grave position
Of embarrassment.
FLERIDA.
To me
You and he have both been wanting,
For it is unheard-of boldness,
In my presence, one should dare
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Trifle, the most casual trophy,
Dropp'd by any lady here;
And be grateful, that my anger
Is not shown more strongly now,
Than by speaking it:—O Heaven!
[Aside.
I to be the first of women
Silence ever yet has killed!
Exit with Livia and Flora.
ARNESTO.
Quite chagrined departs her highness,
Though I cannot see the cause;
Do not, Laura, for the present,
Seek her quarter of the court,
Rather let us seek our own one,
Since, to meet the varying phases
Of her changeful moods, I hold
My apartments in it, being
Governor of the state as well:
I desire not you should serve her
More than proud respect requires.
LAURA.
I in all things would obey thee;—
Much Flerida's sudden anger
[Aside.
Doth betray: O love! I pray thee
Make it not what I suspect!
As they go out, the gentlemen are about following. Arnesto returns alone.
ARNESTO.
Cavaliers, pray whither wend ye?
FREDERICK.
We would go to wait on you.
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No, you must not with me go;
You, especially, my nephew,
Must remain here.
[Exit.
LISARDO.
I obey thee,
To my sorrow I must own.
HENRY,
aside.
I, with heartfelt joy, obey him,
Since a human sunflower turning
Towards my planet I am drawn;
Frederick, I shall soon rejoin thee.
Exit in the direction Flerida has gone.
LISARDO.
Till my vision loses, Laura,
Thy resplendent beauty, I
Cannot keep me from thy presence—
Thou the loadstone of my heart.
Exit.
FREDERICK.
Oh! how much I am delighted,
That they've left me here alone,
Since it gives me an occasion
To peruse this letter now.
FABIO.
If I do not lose my reason
After this, the cause must be
That I have got none to part with.
FREDERICK.
What do you wonder at?
FABIO.
At what?
At your coolness: since a letter,
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You have opened not till now.
FREDERICK.
Know you whence this letter cometh?
FABIO.
Be it whence it may; 'tis certain,
Is it not? with seal unbroken
You have kept it since last night?
FREDERICK.
'Twas this moment I received it.
FABIO.
You will make me lose my senses;
No one spoke to you since morn,—
Doubtless, 'twas the wind that brought it.
FREDERICK.
Not the wind. It was the fire
Which doth burn me and consume me.
FABIO.
How!—the fire?
FREDERICK.
Yes.
FABIO.
Now I'm certain
That 'tis true .....
FREDERICK.
What?
FABIO.
You are mad,
And, a phantom lover turning,
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Some hobgoblin lady fair,
Whom you mentally make love to!—
Therefore, now I supplicate thee
For a favour.
FREDERICK.
Say, what favour?
FABIO.
Since in your conception only
Liveth this imagined lady,
Without any soul or body
But what you are pleased to give;
Let, at least, her letters reach you
Filled with loves and tendernesses;
For it were a signal error,
When you craved yourself this favour,
To despise yourself, my lord.
FREDERICK.
Stand apart.
FABIO.
And does the letter
Need it?
FREDERICK.
No: for I will own
It is written all in cypher;
Nevertheless, stand off.
FABIO.
A lackey,
Even of Limbo, I must be,
Neither pain nor glory tasting.
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reading aside.
“Dear lord and master mine,
The final torments of my soul commence,
Since my free choice my father will incline,
By cruel force and tyrant violence,
Ordering a marriage of dislike and sorrow,
Whose fatal contract must be signed to-morrow.”
Aloud.
Oh! unhappy me, how wretched!
What a brief and fleeting tenure
Hold I of this life! Till morning
Have I but to live: you'll see me,
Fabio, then .....
FABIO.
What?—
FREDERICK.
Lying dead!—
FABIO.
You will wrong yourself, believe me,
If you can at all excuse you;
'Tis a vulgar thing to die.
FREDERICK.
How avoid it? How avoid it?
If this letter is the sentence
Of my death?
FABIO.
By simply adding
A short postscript to the letter
Which you're holding in your hand.
FREDERICK,
aside.
Scarcely living, scarcely breathing,
I return to read what follows:—
[Reads.
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Lest any should our hapless love suspect,
And so betray our secret, still I must
To-night speak with thee; and for such effect,
The garden-gate will not its aid refuse:—
Sooner than lose thee, I my life must lose;
Upon the faith of which, accept, I pray,
This portrait, which with yours you may repay.”
Aloud.
Was there ever man so happy!—
Fabio! Fabio!
FABIO.
What's the matter?
You're not dying yet!—
FREDERICK.
I live.
FABIO.
Did I not good counsel give thee?
There is nothing like one's loving
One's own self.
FREDERICK.
With tranquil rapture,
Full of gladness, proud and happy,
Shall I speak, this tardy night-time,
With the beauty that I worship.
O thou sun! heaven's shining champion,
Driving slow thy golden chariot
Round in everlasting circles
The unbounded azure fields,
Shorten now thy daily labour,
Knowing well how many longing
Eyes thy dazzling light offends;
And ye stars! love's beauteous planets,
Rise with gentler influence over
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In its stead your bright republics
Through the shining hosts of heaven;
For the sun your laws hath broken,
And your sacred rights betrayed.
[Exit.
FABIO.
He's as mad as fifty madmen!
But I wonder not at that,
Mad although he be,—but rather
To behold myself as mad.
So absurd as .....
Enter FLORA.
FLORA.
Fabio!
FABIO.
Lady,
What are your commands?
FLORA.
That you
Follow me this instant hence.
FABIO.
Let me know if 'tis a challenge,
That I may together call
Four or five of my friends to aid me.
FLORA.
Follow me.
FABIO.
And for what purpose
Must I follow thee? Art thou
That too liberal, loving lady,
Giving all her jealousy
Unto me, and I the lover
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Not the fourth of a maravedi,
That I must go following thee?
FLORA.
'Tis her highness who desireth
To speak with you; she is writing,
And commanded you to come.
FABIO.
Has her highness sent you for me?
Heavens! who knows but she has taken
Courage now to own her love?
Enter FLERIDA, with a letter.
FLERIDA.
Flora, have you called the servant?
FLORA.
Here, my lady, he doth stand.
FLERIDA.
Leave, and wait me near at hand.
[Exit Flora.
You remain and be observant.
FABIO.
Yes, my lady, I shall keep
Heart and mind both open; say
How I'll serve you: show the way,
For I am willing and dog-cheap:
So you've little need to go
Round about the bush to persuade me.
FLERIDA.
Fabio, I desire you aid me
In a matter I would know,
Which my power requires in sooth
144
It is about a grave suspicion,
Of which I wish to test the truth.
FABIO.
If I can tell I won't delay it,
'Tis done at once, as I shall show,
Far more than you desire to know,
I shall die with the wish to say it.
FLERIDA.
Take this chain.
FABIO.
Of course, 'twere rude
Not to accept it; rude and cold,
Since being yours, and made of gold,
It must, indeed, be very good.
Ask me: I'm mad to burst this dam
Of silence, which my zeal reproves.
FLERIDA.
Who is the lady Frederick loves?
FABIO.
Unhappy babbler that I am!
Since the Fates but one thing hide,
Señora, 'neath their silent mask,—
It is the very thing you ask.
FLERIDA.
If you never leave his side,
Can it be, that, as you say,
You do know it not? (O woe!)
FABIO.
If he himself doth scarcely know,
How am I to know it, pray?
145
It cannot be his bosom's pain
Can so secret be.
FABIO.
If so,
Tell it then, I wish to know,
And I'll give you back your chain:—
Because, Señora, he doth keep
His love a thing from all unknown,—
He, to himself, doth laugh alone,
He, to himself, alone doth weep;
If he receives a letter, why,
How it arriveth no one knows,
Nor do we know to whom it goes,
If he despatcheth a reply;—
It was but to-day, that even
I found out he wore love's fetter—
For when he perused a letter
Which Barrabas must have given,
Since none else approached the spot,—
I, said he, expect to-night,
By the glimmering stars' pale light,
To meet a beauteous lady.
FLERIDA.
What!
Do they meet to-night?
FABIO.
Unless
Love, some wanton trick repeating,
Interferes to prevent the meeting.
FLERIDA.
And can it be (O dire distress!)
That the street or house of her
He loves is quite unknown to thee?
146
I know this, that it must be
In the palace.
FLERIDA.
Why?
FABIO.
I infer
That from this; beyond the scope
Of change he suffers, in a fire
Unknown he burns, without desire
Adores, and loveth without hope,
And day beholds, and midnight sees
Him filling a big book with letters;
'Tis in a palace, 'mong one's betters,
Only occur such fooleries.
FLERIDA.
Now attend to what I say.
It must be your special aim
To find out for me the name
Of this lady; from this day,
Every act of his observing;—
And when in his manner you
Shall discover aught that's new,
That you think may be deserving
Of a hearing or relating,
Come and tell me; full permission
Shall I leave for your admission.
FABIO.
Then a gentleman in waiting
Shall I be henceforth 'tis plain,
Till the secret is found out.
147
And that you may have no doubt
Whence will come your loss or gain,
Know that both must spring from me.
If my will you do not cross,
Then the gain;—but tenfold loss
If to any one, what we
Now have said, you dare betray.
FABIO.
Sly and silent I shall be,
If the two at all agree.
FLERIDA.
Go with God!
FABIO.
And with him stay!
Exit.
FLERIDA.
O fond and foolish thought be still!
What tyrant empire is usurp'd by thee,—
That thou dost come by force to take from me,
Out of my hands, the reins of my own will?—
But why distrust myself, and think so ill
Of my own strength, and seem afraid to move?
Now on myself, ye pitying powers above,
On my sole self, my only hope must be;
But if I must conceal my jealousy,
Let me, at least, be silent of my love!—
Shall they (while doubts my troubled rest destroying),
Shall they to-night (while every hope is dying),
Upon my fancied ignorance relying,
Meet and rejoice, the flying hours enjoying?
It must not be; this scene of amorous toying
I neither could prevent, nor even reprove,
148
Wrong to permit; take pity, heavens! on me,
And if I must betray my jealousy—
Let me, at least, be silent of my love;—
This letter, which I wrote, a double
Duty must discharge, that by .....
But he comes: ah! vainly I
Struggle to conceal my trouble.
Enter FREDERICK with a writing-desk and portfolio.
FREDERICK.
These letters, please your highness, need
Your royal signature.
FLERIDA.
Ah! me—
[Aside.
Courage, strength, dexterity,
Now my heart requires, indeed;—
Frederick, leave the letters there,
[Aloud.
Which at leisure I desire
To peruse; as I require
Your service in a new affair,
More important in my sight,
Since it doth my peace import.
FREDERICK.
What is it?
FLERIDA.
That you a short
Journey make for me to-night.
FREDERICK.
To-night?
FLERIDA.
To-night; and here I give
The letter .....
149
aside.
Grief begins anew!
FLERIDA.
Which you will bring along with you.
FREDERICK.
You know, my lady, that I live
Only solicitous to show
My zeal to serve you; that my breast
Throbs every hour to know how best
To pay the duty that I owe;—
When I assure you that to-day
My health requires it, I believe
That I the favour will receive
Which now I ask, and that I may
Obtain, Señora, leave from thee
To rest this evening, or permit .....
FLERIDA.
No, no excuse can I admit;—
So trifling will the absence be,
You can be back by morning's light;—
And think of this, that I confide
Even my honour and my pride
Into your faithful charge this night:—
So no excuse:—this letter take,
And on the instant go away,
Without postponement or delay;
The affair is urgent, I shall make,
Some time, a confidant of you;
In person you shall bring it where
The superscription shall declare,—
Bring a reply, and so adieu!
Exit.
150
This night, fair Laura said that she
Would grant me leave to speak to her;—
Has it not then through all its sphere
One friendly star to shine for me?
What shall I do? How keep sincere
My love, nor do my duty wrong?
Enter FABIO.
FABIO.
Is not the day extremely long?
FREDERICK.
It was the devil sent you here;—
This very instant, (cruel pain!)
I must depart; (what suffering!)
Two saddled horses, Fabio, bring.
FABIO.
Has a letter come again
By the fire or the breezes, pray?
FREDERICK.
One has come.
FABIO.
What needs it more
Than to amend it as before,
And be glad as Christmas-day;—
Look at it again, indeed
You will find it read much better.
FREDERICK.
Even the name upon the letter
I have not the strength to read;—
151
Read it then, perchance it may
Not be what you thought it meant.
FREDERICK.
I shall see to whom I'm sent;
“To the duke of Mantua”—
Now begins a new confusion:
[Aside.
Doubtless she the duke doth know,
And in this way seeks to show
Unto me, that my collusion,
Hiding him within my dwelling,—
Treason is, though not intended;
'Tis for this she is offended,
This the reason of her telling
That her pride did so demand it.—
Oh! I step from brink to brink!
FABIO.
Does it mend?
FREDERICK.
The more I think,
Less and less I understand it.
FABIO.
Is it in cipher?
FREDERICK.
What vexation!
FABIO.
Like that sent some time ago
With figures?
FREDERICK.
Oh! I do not know.
152
Listen then to the narration:
In Tremezen there lived a man
That dealt in glass, who felt a flame
For a fair and comely dame
Of the place; in Tetuan
Long had lived his greatest friend;—
She her lover asked one day
To write unto his friend, and pray
That he would a monkey send.
As lovers ever offer more
Than even a mistress deigns to ask,
So he went beyond his task,
And ordered over three or four.
She may have her choice, he said,
When the number thus is rifer;—
But the gawk adopting cipher,
He of Tetuan thus read:
“Friend, for one whom I revere
And would please, I beg of thee
To send to me immediately
3 or 4 good monkeys here.”—
Mistaking “Or” for O:—the affair
Was hard enough to manage well,—
But the glassman's rage to tell,
When upon his brittle ware
Soon (alas! not five or six)
He, with frenzied eyes surveying,
Saw three hundred monkeys playing
Thrice three thousand monkey tricks!—
If the ciphers cause your rigours,
Free the meaning from these fetters,
For one ape in Spanish letters
Turns a hundred apes in figures.
FREDERICK.
Thus to thwart me! to encumber!
Rob the hope that made me rich!
153
Is there not some means, by which
You may send a lesser number?
FREDERICK.
Who in all the world was ever
So confused? What shall I do?
Enter HENRY.
HENRY.
What disturbs you?
FREDERICK.
Any clue
Is, I see, a vain endeavour!—
Hear the cause apart.
They retire and converse together.
FABIO.
They go
Out of hearing: how absurd,
To doubt of me! I never heard
Any guest who spoke so low.
FREDERICK.
What is best to do, I doubt.
HENRY.
Let us to your house repair;
Here we cannot speak, and there
That the letter may point out.
If she knows my rank and name,
Then my only course can be
To avow myself: if she
Still doth know not who I am,
New expedients we shall try,
154
I shall write to her to-night,
What you'll bring as my reply.
FREDERICK.
You say well: if I obtain,
From what it says, or does not say,
The happy privilege to stay
This night in Parma, I shall gain
For all my sore anxiety,
For all my griefs and sorrows past,
A compensating joy at last,
And still preserve my loyalty;—
For if the letter was for thee,
It is no fault in me to do
As I was told—to give it you,
No matter where the place might be.
HENRY.
When the letter we have read,
We shall know her whole design.
FABIO.
Shall I get, O master mine,
Horses ready, as you said?
FREDERICK.
Fabio, yes: because, though I
Shall not go, it must appear
That I did.
FABIO.
What joy is here!
What means this?
FREDERICK.
Let love reply.
155
Now so glad?
FREDERICK.
Is joy admired
As something strange?
FABIO.
Oh! no, for you
Find the ....
FREDERICK.
What?
FABIO.
The cipher's clue,
And all the apes are not required.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
—A ROOM IN THE PALACE—EVENING.Enter LAURA.
LAURA.
Oh! how tardy is the dying
Of a day of hope! It seemeth
As if night had all forgotten
Its alternate realm to rule.
Since so slowly fall its shadows,—
Mournful birds descending lightly,
Beating their nocturnal pinions,
Spreading out their murky plumes;—
156
Came that I would fly to see thee,
Then with thee would all my troubles
Be consoled and soothed to peace;
And Flerida:—Ah! my mistress,
Why those efforts art thou making,
By which thou thy scorn dissemblest,
And false favour dost pretend?—
I must pass to her apartment
Ere the dusky gardens call me,
As to some anticipated
Pang of my afflicted fate,—
By so doing, I shall compass
Two advantages, preventing
By the first her fear'd inquiries,
By the last my longing sighs;
Since so often occupation
Speeds the leaden-footed moments,
Making hours appear the shorter,
Though no shorter be their flight.
Enter FLERIDA. FLORA follows with lights.
FLERIDA.
Laura, cousin, does my friendship
Merit at thy hands this absence?
All this day I have not seen thee.
LAURA.
As a favour I esteem,
That you deigned to miss me, lady;
'Twas a slight and casual illness
Kept me from thy side so long:
And though yet but convalescent,
Ere retiring for the night-time,
I would kiss your hand in going,
And respectfully inquire
How you feel yourself, Señora.
157
I am sorry that your absence
Was occasioned by your health,
But am glad that you have hither
Come to see me, even though late.
Since, indeed, this night, dear Laura,
I require your presence here,—
So, take notice, you continue
With me.
LAURA.
Think, reflect, Señora. ...
FLERIDA.
Why reflect? When you a thousand
Times have done the same through kindness,
Do it to oblige me once,—
For to thee alone, my cousin,
Can I tell a certain secret.
LAURA,
aside.
Was there ever such confusion?
If I answer, I but raise
Some suspicion, (Heaven assist me!)
And if not, I lose. ...
FLERIDA.
What say you?
LAURA.
That I ever am thy faithful
Servant.
FLERIDA,
to Flora.
Leave us here alone:—
[Exit Flora.
Laura, give me your attention.
I have ascertained, a lover
158
Has but now received a letter
From some lady, with a promise
Him to meet to-night.
LAURA,
aside.
O heavens!
FLERIDA.
And although I know the lover,
I the lady do not know.
LAURA,
aside.
But I do.
FLERIDA.
I must discover
Who, from out these trellised windows
That look down upon the terrace,
Dares to outrage the decorum
Of my never-broken laws.
LAURA.
You do very right, for truly
'Tis a most unheard-of daring.
FLERIDA.
'Tis not fitting that in person
I descend, nor were it right;
And I thus, my lovely Laura,
Trust to you; for you alone,
You, of all the many persons
Unto whom imagination
Wandered in its searching flight,
Have escaped the smallest shadow
Of the most remote suspicion.
LAURA.
What are then your orders?
159
These:
Once and many a time descending
To the garden through the night,
You become the watchful sentry
Of my honour, reconnoitring
Whom you meet within its bounds.
Think not that my care arises
Solely from decorum, Laura;
No, I wish to know the lady
Frederick loves—(with strange imprudence
Has my tongue declared his name;
But it matters little!)—cousin,
This is what I charge you with.
LAURA.
Needlessly thou dost implore me,
Since, attentive to thy pleasure,
And obedient to thy will,
Not alone, as thou commandest,
Shall I pay a thousand visits
To the garden,—no, till morn
Shall it be my joy to stay there,
Proud and happy thee to serve.
Takes the light, as if going.
FLERIDA.
I entrust my peace, my honour,
Unto thee, my friend and cousin;
Thou hast ready wit and prudence,
Laura mine, be these thy guide—
Go then, in the way thou wishest;
I will only say my feelings
Equal thine, and must be grateful.
Exit.
LAURA.
God preserve me! Oh! how many
160
To my mind; upon each other
Crowd they so, and so depend,
That when I would make an ending
Of them all, I find I cannot
Choose the foremost to begin.
But why grieve thus? It is better
To leave all this tangled net-work
To the unravelling of time;
And to gain on time the sooner,
Silence is the best conductor,
Till with Frederick I can speak;
He must necessarily show me,
By his voice or by his face,
If he loves me or deceives me.
She enters at one side and returns by the other.
O thou fair and beauteous garden,
Whose eternal green republic
Is the chosen clime of April,—
April only dwelling here,
It the God that makes thy spring-time,
It the King that rules thy year;
She who oft came hither freely
To thy fair and fertile bowers,
To confide her love's sweet secrets,
To thy flowers and to thy fountains,
To thy fountains and thy flowers;
Now comes hither, forced and bidden,
Sleepless, anxious, full of fear,
To discover who has hidden,
With perfidious hand, the aspen
Jealousy, within my breast.
A noise within at the grate.
In the street the signal's given;
Full of terror, full of doubt
Beats my heart: but for what reason?
If, in all the world, no being
161
Since 'tis jealousy defends me ......
Who is there?
Frederick appears at the grated window.
FREDERICK.
Oh! do not ask me,
Beauteous Laura mine, unless
You desire my sure enjoyment
Should be changed to sad distrust;
If not I, who could it be?
LAURA.
Do not wonder, do not murmur,
That I did not recognise thee,
Since, indeed, you are another
Person from the one I thought.
FREDERICK.
In what manner?
LAURA.
In this manner:—
Frederick, at this grate, the duchess
Left me to find out the lady
That to-night did here invite thee;
From which clearly I infer
That you have betrayed my favours.
FREDERICK.
May the listening Heaven, my Laura. ...
Mine I said, do not reproach me,
That when truths I came to utter,
I thus falsely should begin;—
May the angry heavens destroy me,
May a bolt of forkéd lightning
Strike me dead, if from my breast
Faintest accents ever issued,
162
Why need more to undeceive you,
Than that she confides in you?—
And moreover, how, I pray thee,
Could she tell thee watch for me,
When she must suppose me absent
On a journey, of whose nature
I have not now time to tell?
LAURA.
Though so far you exculpate you,
Now explain to me the cause
Of the interest she taketh,
Frederick, in thus detecting
Who it is that favours you?
FREDERICK.
As to that, though I am doubtful,
That the cause of these inquiries
Springs from me and not herself,
Were it not to give thee, Laura,
Even a greater triumph still,—
And to bring thy love in deeper
Debt to mine, to speak my thought?—
He who wins what's not resisted
Scarcely can be said to win:—
Do not baffle my complainings,
Since they have a surer base
In Lisardo, there exchanging
Seeming ills for certain woes;—
Say, ah Laura! must you wed him?
LAURA.
I wed not: it is misfortune
Forms the wish, and not my heart.
FREDERICK.
One who loves can conquer all things.
163
That is true: 'tis also certain,
One who loves, all danger fears.
FREDERICK.
Then why write to me that letter,
Laura, where you fondly vowed,
Ere you'll lose me, life shall leave thee;—
That my portrait I should bring
In return for thine you sent me?
LAURA.
There was not the inconvenience,
Frederick, that has since arisen.
FREDERICK.
What a poor excuse you give me,
For your sudden change! Ah! Laura,
If your firm resolve is taken,
Why waste time at such a moment?
Why waste words in speaking to me?—
See the portrait that you asked for
Comes to be the only witness
Of my jealousy:—behold!
In its setting, it appeareth
Similar to that dear image
That you sent me, when with joy
Looked my happy fortune on me;—
For it was my poor ambition,
Since the jewel was not equal,
That the case that hid it were:—
Take it, and but this I ask thee,
If another thou shouldst wed,
Look not on it: though but painted,
It will silently upbraid.
164
Frederick, I .... But hark! I hear
Footsteps through the street approaching.
FREDERICK.
Ah! perhaps you then had told me
Something would have given me joy,
If you were not interrupted?
LAURA.
Thine I am, and thine for ever,
Had I said, and now I say it.
FREDERICK.
Let him come, whoe'er is coming;—
No, they turn another way.
LAURA.
Notwithstanding that, 'tis needful
That I close the grating now.
Frederick, let my word of parting
Be a word of caution too:
Jealous eyes are watching o'er us.
FREDERICK.
Need we more for our protection
Than to watch them too?
LAURA.
And how?
FREDERICK.
I shall send to you a cipher
In the morning, which will show,
165
You can speak direct to me;—
And without the least suspicion,
In the presence of them all,
Loudly speak, and loudly answer.
LAURA.
This will be, unless I err,
What is called the spoken secret.
FREDERICK.
Use all caution in the reading
Of the letter I shall bring.
LAURA.
I will do so. God defend thee!
FREDERICK.
Heaven protect thy precious life.
LAURA.
Love! what bitter pangs you cost me.
FREDERICK.
Laura! what to me you owe!
Exeunt.
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