hermione.
Nay, that sorts not with my humour, Blanch.
blanch.
Shall I try the merry troll you were always right glad to
hear, which the old steward taught us?
hermione.
Stay:—not now:—some other song, and we'll in to the
toilet: let it be brief—I know not why,—save that I think
thy singing hath not now such a jocund and mirthful spirit
in it.
blanch.
Ah, lady!—but strange purposes are i' the wind when the
mirth-giving Hermione becometh a lover of lamentable
ditties!—Stay, shall it be of love?—a sleepy tale of love, as
you were wont to call it?—I know a ballad of this hue.
hermione.
I care not: another, it may be, would have chimed better.
Yet, I'll hear thee as a babbler of strange stories.
blanch (sings).
blanch.
How like you the song?
hermione.
Indifferent well;—methinks it were too sad. But sadness
and I must have closer fellowship ere long, or I mistake
the note of her approach. Away, Blanch; we must not
delay the honours of the feast. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
An Inn at Mantua.
Enter Bertrand and Carlos, fatigued with travel.
bertrand.
'Tis well, good Carlos, in this noble city,
Thanks to all proper instruments, we now
Enter safe housed. Nay, nay, dole-stricken friend,
Put off these looks, drench'd still in woe. Why, man,
Love ne'er was waked with weeping; woman's eye
E'er kept her heart, and thou must henceforth bribe
With gayer looks that restless twinkling organ,
Ere thou may'st gain admittance to her breast.
Rouse thee!—Accost her thus, with careless look
And laughing eye;—bid her "good day;"—
Wring her fair hand; and if withdrawn,
Why seize her by the waist: her sullen looks
Heed not; an' if she chide, toss back her words;—
Let her not learn from thy woe-tinctured face,
Ere yet the tremulous voice its utterance shape,
Thou pinest a love-sick fool!—
carlos.
Bertrand, forbear.
Thou speakest like to one whose lofty spirit
Love hath not quell'd. I cannot now th' oppressor
Lift from my soul; I am bow'd down,—subdued,—
Crush'd even to earth,—yet crawling heavily,
A cumbrous burden, wearied, useless here,
And without purport to my fellow-men!—
I seem aloof from all connexion, tie,
Or kindred with mankind. The very earth,
My parent dust, claims not its fellowship
With mine! Would that yon chill and rayless dwelling
Had shut me out, and all mine hated sorrow,
Far from the gaze, the cold, unpitying gaze,
Alike of stranger and of friend!
Soon shall the darkness cover me,—the tomb
Close mine account for ever. Then shall I rest;—
No glance of cool-eyed scorn shall meet me there,
Nor woman's charm'd and traitorous tongue shall mock me.
They seek not victims i' the grave!—My grief
Shall there be spent; the heart's last ebbing throe
To earth in quiet nothingness shall leave me,
Loosed from my dungeon and my chain!—
bertrand.
Carlos,
Thy troubled spirit hath no appetite
For aught but evil. Fancy, diseased,
Shapeth its wrongs from what itself doth breed,—
E'en as the timid and belated hind
From out his spectre-haunted brain brings forth
The shadow most he fears.—I do not mock thee;
Cold scorn lurks not i' the same laughing orbit
Of an unfraudulent eye. Thou know'st it well,
Thy peace alone I've sought; and this coy dame,
Woo'd as mine hopes commend, would free my bosom
From half its load. For these remediless griefs
With equal weight oppress mine anguish'd spirit,
As the united woe this breast e'er smote,
The sum untold of this world's misery.
carlos.
Forgive a wayward tongue, fretful—unkind:
My breaking heart still holds thee dear.
bertrand.
Forgive!—
Nay, ask not this;—man asks but favours.
What waits our bolder claim we crave not. Hold!—
'Tis needful we devise, touching our errand,
Some scheme for its adventure. Shrewd my guess,
Thou would'st e'en now return, unwoo'd, unsought
This dainty maiden, and to others leave
The fond pursuit, then lay thee down and weep!
I've led thee hither, Carlos;—here I vow,
Ere this same gallant city hath disgorged
Such useless habitants, to her dull ear
Thou shalt commend thy love.
carlos.
I've penn'd a fragrant billet——
bertrand.
Or a sonnet,
Mayhap, unto her eyne. Nay, 'tis not thus
Her fickle love is caught:—canst find no speech?
'Tis said love 's eloquent, and pleadeth nobly,
Using such vehement passion as doth rouse
The listening heart. Pour thy whole soul to hers:
Give her no space for thought—'twill bring resistance.
Reflection's chill and polish'd surface soon
Would glance off thine artillery, rolling back
The warm flood to thine heart. But I forbear:—
My wish is ever foremost on my tongue,
And still outstrips thy power! Well, thou canst sing,
Play on the cittern, trill the soft-voiced lute
Beneath a lady's chamber; thou canst fill
A delicate ear with ditties framed so deftly,
And with such wondrous skill, another's woe
Shall seem thine own, 'Tis said, in that soft hour
The maiden's heart is tender, and well nurtured
To cherish love's impressions. Then, I tell thee,
Unask'd attend, and with some vagrant band
Of hired melodists, at once discourse,
To thine heart's easing, of pale woe, sighs, groans,
And love forsaken. Thus prepared, her thought
Will wondering turn to her moon-driven warbler.
Thou knowest well in woman's restless soul
A lurking fondness lies for mystery.
If thou but win her thought to some connexion,
Some yet scarce-felt recurrence with thine own,
And pleasure once associate with the thought—
These outworks gain'd, cheer thee, thou gloomy knight;
The lady shall be won. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.
The Terrace. Moonlight.
Enter Hermione.
hermione.
Calm orb, how tranquil is thy path!—
Amid the stars thou walkest, clad in light
As with a garment. Still thy borrow'd robe
The darkness compasseth, and sullen night
His cloud-spread visage cleareth at thy beam.—
How calm on yonder stream the moonlight sleeps!
Fair image, woman, of thy maiden breast,
Unmoved by love. Anon, some vagrant breath
Ruffles its surface, and its pure still light
In tremulous pulses heaves:—brighter, perchance,
That feverish glitter, but its rest is o'er!—
How fresh the dewy air falls on my cheek,
As if some spirit, clothed in its influence, came
Upon my soul, with one heaven-given drop,
To cool its torment! Would that I could bind
Thine incorporeal essence! I would chain thee
Here!—on my heart! Benevolent visitor,
Whether from yon bright sphere to mortals sent,
On moonbeams gliding,—fairy gnome or sylph,
Whate'er thy name;—or from earth's glistening caves,
Or from the forest-corall'd deep thou comest,
In these chill drops that stud my dew-deck'd hair,
Its every braid impearling:—fly me not,
I charge thee, gentle spirit!—Hark! he comes!
[Music at a distance.
I thank thee——
[The sound gradually approaches, until heard
apparently from beneath the Terrace.
A voice!—I'll hear thy words. Breathe not too loud,
Ye winds.—
SONG.
hermione.
Oh fly not!—bear me on thy wing!—from earth—
From——Why this shudder?—Save me, spirit of air,
Or earth, or sea! Tear me but hence; and yet
I cannot part. Oh! why in mercy once
Was I conceived, and not to nothing crush'd
Ere the first feeble pulse, unconscious life,
Crept through this viewless form?—Why was I kept
Unharm'd through infinite perils?—spared, yet doom'd
To writhe unpitied—succourless—alone,
Beneath one cruel, one remorseless woe,—
From hope shut out—from common sympathy,
And all communion of sorrow,—e'en
To the veriest wretch upon thy bosom earth
Ne'er yet denied?—This boon I dare not ask:
Wither'd, consumed, companionless, unwept,
I meet mine hastening doom. Yet, clad in smiles,
A flower-wreathed sacrifice, I gaily bound,
With gambols playful as the innocent lamb,
To the devouring altar. The knife is bared!—
Uplifted,—glittering! Yet I woo thee, tyrant,
And madly kiss my chain. This night the feast
I left;—arm'd, I had proudly thought—vain hope!
With such resolve as, on this moonlit terrace,
Where, freed awhile from earth's disquietude,
My thralled heart might here unchain for ever!—
[Takes a billet from her bosom.
I vow'd to snatch thee from my breast!
To tear thee hence! and to the winds, unseen,
Commit thy perishing fragments, e'en as now
This unoffending page I rend, far scattering
Its frail memorial to the air.—
[Makes an effort to tear the paper.
Some power withholds me. What! for this thou yearnest?
Weak, foolish heart, some other hour, thou say'st,
Better thou canst resign this fluttering relic
Of thy——hope, whisperest thou?
Nay, folly—madness,—call it but aright,
Thou throbbing fool, and I will give thee back
Thy doted bauble. [Returns it into her bosom.
There—there!—watch over it!
Brood on thy minion!—cherish and pamper it
Until it mock thee!—prey on thy young blood,—
Poison each spring of natural affection,
And all the sympathies that flesh inherits,—
Then wilt thou curse thine idol!—Impotent rage,—
It will deride thee, and will fiercely cling
To thine undoing for ever. Fare thee well,
Thou star-hung canopy!—far-smiling orb.
Farewell! No more sweet influences ye fling,
As ye were wont, around my desolate heart;
I cannot bear your stillness:—Earthquake—storm—
The mighty war of the vex'd elements,
Would best comport with my disquiet:—now,
On thy calm face I dare not look again! [Exit.
Enter Roland and Stephano.
stephano.
So, so, my moon-eyed maiden. Ah, "Good Roland,"
gallants breed not i' the sun; they thrive best belike i' the
moonbeams.
roland.
I saw no gallant.
stephano.
Why, poor wretch, I pity thee. Perhaps she hath fallen
sick for the moon; thou seest his cheek is somewhat shorn
off, and I verily think he favours the lover that I told
thee of.
roland.
Thou art an old and a wicked rogue. But what waked
such pleasant music? Came that from the moon too?
stephano.
Ah, ah, honest friend, dost thou breed suspicions?—Ask
the gardener who brought the music-men so late under the
garden terrace.
Enter Laura cautiously, carrying a light.
laura.
How now, masters, wot ye,—a pretty time o' night for
secret whisperings! What brings you to the terrace, worthy
sirs, so nigh upon midnight? Pleasant discourse truly, you
unseasonable villains! Can't you stay a-bed?
roland.
Sweet mistress, we came to hear the music.
laura.
And what should lug your dainty ears to the serenade?—I'
faith, 'tis high time for your betters to stop their ears,
when asses jog to the pipe. So, you guessed the music
came to benefit your private discourse. An excellent jest
this!—a serenade to a couple of owls.—Get in, you lazy
dolts, and thank your stars, and not your ears, that you have
'scaped a beating.——[Exeunt Roland and Stephano.]——I
wonder these idiots guessed not who drew the serenade
to this long-deserted house. True it may be some
dozen years or more since this same salute awoke me; nevertheless,
I was not past hope of its return. That gallant
stranger whom I saw at vespers yesterday eyed me not, nor
did he watch the corner of the street, for nought.—Well, it
is a noble-looking cavalier, and a steady, well-ordered person,
I warrant, from his noticing me so properly, and not that
giddy coz of mine, the love-unheeding Hermione.—I hope
he will return. Virgin decorum permitteth not my regard
to his first appearance.—Hark!——[Music.]——Oh! how
my heart flutters! Sweet harbinger of love! I must show
myself, or he will die of despair, or, perchance, he will not
come again, which will suit me still worse. Though, certes,
it would be mightily amusing to feel oneself the cause of a
gay cavalier hanging himself in his garters! What a precious
revenge for the many slights we maidens are subject
to! And then, to have it said, "there goes the signora for
whom signor so and so hanged himself." Oh, how charming
is this moonlight! Really, I am younger to-night than when
I was but one year past thirty. Hush!—ay, I warrant thou
art in love;—I can tell by the turn of thy voice. Senor
Antonio quavered just as thou dost;—but—he was fickle,
and quavered so far he could not get back again. I never
saw him again after his second sky alto!—Hark!
SONG.
laura.
I cannot resist.
[She waves her hand over the Terrace. A letter is
thrown—she takes it to the lamp, and reads—
"Say, fairest, canst thou love? or doth cold scorn compose
the sum of thy affections? Can thine eyes enkindle so
suddenly another's heart, and yet shed no warmth on thine
own? Give me but one smile, and thou shalt frown upon
me for ever: so shall that cheering beam outlive a thousand
dark winters. I am grown bold, for I have but a simple tale,
and if thou wilt lend an ear to my suit, on the Terrace, to-morrow
night at this hour, my presence will not offend thee
again unless thou judgest in my favour.
"Carlos."
So, so,—rather a bold gallant I trow, seeing it is the first he hath asked of my company; but I guess it is the fashion of these perilous days. Peradventure, if I had not been beforetime so careful of my favours, I had been woo'd and wedded with the best of 'em. After all, I see no great harm in the company of a handsome young spark, save that the uncourted dames are envious withal! but verily they would change their minds mayhap as I do, though every one doth not judge so charitably as the person who hath chanced to ride on the other side of his opinion. I scolded the maids though but yesterday for a night frolic with their sweethearts, and bravely will Hermione laugh at my sermon, with the practice thereto appended. Well, I care not—"let those laugh that get the magpie's nest."—When I am married, grin who dare;—Carlos, I meet thee! [Exit.
ACT II.—SCENE I.
The Duke's Chamber.
Enter Duke.
duke.
A strange conceit:—where dwellest thou,
And on what nurtured?—Love on air-fed dreams
Yet lives not: if in the heart nor hope there be,
Nor thought, nor token'd glimpse on which to cling
For daily sustenance, the recreant dies.—
Repliest thou?—What, nought my monitor?—
Nay, thou didst rise unbidden on my path,
With threatening front, and sternly stalked thee forth
From out thy covert, sent, forsooth, as though
To warn of menaced danger. Back to thy den!
Dream there of mischief and invent new terrors;
I yet can jest, laugh with the laughing dames,
Sport in their transient blaze, unharm'd, uncensured,
And ever to thy fond embrace return,
Beatrice, thence more wedded to thine heart!
In quiet cease thine oft foreboding ill,
Nor with unreal fears haunt my repose,
Lest when thou shouldst arouse, erewhile to rush
Betwixt me and my purpose, thine alarms
I heed not, if so oft thy drivelling fancies
Arise to fool me!——
Enter an Attendant.
attendant.
My Lord, the Lady Hermione visits you to-day.
duke.
My pages—are they summoned?
attendant.
Fabian waits below, in the great hall, just equipped for
the chase.
duke.
Let him attend. [Exit Attendant.
The tongue of that gay damsel in mine ear
Yet rings. I like her wit well, she doth sport
These humours nobly. Words from her charmed lips
Do gather sweetness, and the sharpest taunt
Falls from her harmless, veil'd in the soft tones
Of her most delicate voice. And yet her presence
I would not seek; a lurking mystery
Hangs, or my thought deceives me, fathomless,
Inscrutable, and dazzling as the veil
That quells th' intruder's gaze. I watch'd her eye
In secret yesternight, amid the feast;
The soul that sate there laugh'd not, but her face
With radiant smiles was sprinkled, dimpling o'er
Like the soft waves on summer seas, with such
Smooth, gentle undulation. Yet her eye
Ne'er rose nor fell, but fix'd as some stern rock
Amid that smiling wave. I like not this—
There's witchery in that glance.
Enter Fabian.
Bring here my tablets, boy:—how goes the news?
fabian.
Your grace, perchance, hath heard two gentle strangers
The abode inquiring of Hermione.
Beneath Ridolfi's terrace, yesternight,
Unto her ear they gave, with pipe and lute,
Sweet signal of their presence.
duke.
Where?—the terrace!—
I'll have them seiz'd. Ho!—guards!
Enter Guard.
fabian.
Oh, stay!—why thus, my lord!—
The men purpose no mischief, hither bent
On some love errand; they in this can plot
None other hurt.
duke.
Love! sayest thou?—Whom seek they?—
fabian.
Hermione, my lord, and she——
duke.
Admits their coming?—Seize them, guards!—
Why this delay?
guard.
My lord, we know not where
Your message hath its reference.
duke.
Where lurk the caitiffs, boy?
fabian.
Alas! alas! some frenzy masters you:
One moment wait, one precious moment, ere
Upon the spotless robe of your fair justice
Fall this abhorred stain. Pause, I beseech you,
[The Duke motions the Guards to withdraw.
'Tis for yourself I plead! [Kneels.
duke.
Up, boy!—what ails thee? Knowest thou, Fabian,
Of these intruders?—Speak!
fabian.
I know them not.
duke.
Then why such ready zeal in their good service?
fabian.
My lord, the zeal I now profess
Seeks but your own. To strangers, courtesy,—
And faith reciprocal, demands protection.
This need I tell to Andrea!
Whose name with purest honour coupled, grew
Into its likeness, till the very words
Had but one sense. Need I to Andrea
Interpret honour's laws? its high-born chivalry,
In whose once noble breast her temple rose
Unsullied, unapproach'd by aught of earth,
To which defilement clung. Think but on this—
One moment on the past now gaze—'tis bright!
Oh let not one dark cloud, gathering but yet
Upon the whirlwind of this turbulent passion,
Obscure yon sunny glade, where stilly winds
'Mid verdant hills, calm waters, glittering plains,
The beamy path of an unclouded life,—
At one fell sweep, let not this merciless blast
O'erwhelm its wonted pride!
Enter Duchess.
beatrice.
Your presence, Andrea, I crave
To greet our visitors.
duke.
Not now, Beatrice,—
I cannot come. Where sayest thou?—
beatrice.
My lord! you are disturb'd!
What!—Fabian, and in tears!—Why this reproof?
The boy is gentle, and ill brooks harsh words;
You were not wont to chide him thus!
duke.
'Tis Fabian, I ween, his master chiding.
'Twas thus:—Two prying and suspicious elves
I mark'd, to punish. Issuing forth command
For their arrest, this silly, wayward boy,
With words and tears, hath temper'd mine intent
To his entreaty. True, I might but gain
Small honour by their seizure, hence I've given
The stripling his desire; yet mark me, Fabian,—
I watch them closely.——
Enter Hermione and Laura.
My soul seems pain'd at her approach. [Aside.
My gentle cousins, hail! None other name
Wherewith I greet you sounds so consonant,
So kin to mine affection. How hath fared
Each friend in Mantua? Laura, yet as fresh
As when my childhood knew thee, and thine hand
Supplied a mother's fondness. Look not grave,
Thou art not half so old as thou art aged
In mine esteem.—Hermione, to you
I publish greeting.
hermione.
Our beloved cousin,—
The form I trow your greeting takes.
duke.
Sweet coz!
No form I use, I greet thee well, and crave
Thy long abode in Mantua. Ladies' eyes
Have most miraculous virtue; they can draw
The moon from his orbit, and the little stars
To watch their tender sighs at the soft wail
Breath'd from a timorous lute. You love the moonlight?
Why do ye start?—'tis not the first fair dame
That in our city listen'd i' the cool
And passionless night, to piped sighs, and vows
Enamour'd, breathed from reed and flageolet!
hermione.
Mean you the serenade? 'Twas meant, my lord,
For other ears than mine.
duke.
How? For the maid's, belike! Sweet, innocent fool,
Love e'er was held a story-telling urchin;
Pr'ythee forswear such idle company.
But whence upon that cheek such tell-tale hues,
Wrought suddenly in their bright texture?—whence
That strange confusion? Love's unquenched flame
Defies control.
hermione.
I do confess,—one night,
To while a feverish hour,—I had walk'd forth,—
I sought the garden-terrace. True, surprise
A moment cross'd me, when your ear I found
Such marvellous tidings heard!
duke.
Well, to the maids
'Tis like we are beholden for this minstrelsy.
Nought living now in that good house would tempt
Our gallants from their beds.
laura.
And why, your grace?
If older ears enjoy such ravishment,
I'm not so old, beshrew me, potent Duke,
But I can wake at true-love's bidding!
duke.
Well said,
My maiden-queen! The fire of Zampria's house
Yet quenches not, nor through thy cooler veins
Flags in its current.
hermione.
Yesternight
She sought my chamber. I had left the terrace
Ere the unyielding maid answer'd her call;
She came all radiant with love's virgin fire,
She trod on air, and her quick-throbbing bosom
All o'er the god confess'd. What says our cousin?
laura.
No need that maiden's blush reveal her secret,
If such rude, giddy, and discretionless tongues
Are left abroad.
hermione.
Nay, Laura, thou hast lived
But in that snowy page, so prettily crimp'd,
O'er which, thou sayest, love whilom hath brush'd
His tiny wings, and deftly to thine heart
From thence hath sprung. Ah! gentle maid! in mercy
Vouchsafe to me one touch,—one thrilling touch
Of that same love-wrought billet,—haply, thence
The god may come: I'll make the urchin room;
Or some stray rubbish, hoarded, yet to me
As worthless, I'll remove.
laura.
So fair a jewel,
To thy rude hand I yield not.
duke.
Excellent maid!
Thy jewel I had thought would hence have pass'd,
A legacy to earth. I'd give my cap
To view this comely gallant.—So, to thee,
Hermione, hath love ne'er yet approach'd,—
Or, if perchance he came, 'twas clad in guise
Of other import. If on thy chill bosom,
Smiling, he yet should nestle, archly pouting
His pretty lip for entrance, wouldst thou grant
The wanderer room?
hermione.
I know not:—now, mayhap,
'Tis not much worth his lodging.
duke.
Then its chambers
Are still defil'd with many visitors.
Or, it may chance, some envious power usurps
His lawful birthright. Bid thee of such guest,—
To thy liege lord submit, and pardon crave
For past offences.
hermione.
Where shall I begin
My maiden suit?
duke.
Lay but that garb aside,
That glittering panoply, its surface, bright,
Yet harder than the thrice-quench'd steel,
No bolt can pierce; and I do promise thee
A hundred shafts from some well-furnish'd quiver.
hermione.
But if those shafts are pointless and unfledg'd,
A hundred more would boot not!
Of what avail, though twice ten thousand fell
Unspeeding at my feet!
duke.
Thy fickle fancy,
Yet unfetter'd, will not always thus,
Gay as the light breeze, rove where'er she list,
Nor heeding ought she passes. She will droop,
And, sighing, linger o'er some cherish'd form,
Enamour'd while she worships.
hermione.
Mine roves not!
One form I cherish! None I wot beside
Comes forth at fancy's call. 'Tis not mine own!
duke.
Thou speakest riddles.
hermione.
And must ever thus.
Whate'er on this dark theme I could reveal
Were mystery still, trackless, inscrutable.
The subtle web in which my fate is bound
Time serves not to unravel: all beside
Basks in the broad moonlight. All hopes, desires,
Each changing hue, as cloud or sunshine sweeps
Their varied surface, pass without concealment
Before the eye of watchful day.—
beatrice.
And every maid hath some fond secret,
Some stored love, that she unwilling keeps
Until claim'd thence for its blest owner. Why
That face of solemn mystery brought forth,
As if thine own were some peculiar fate
None ever knew?
hermione.
Our light burden galls
More than the heaviest load our neighbours bear.
But we return. The day unwitting slides
Adown the cope of yon bright heaven. Few hours
Yet come till eve, and Laura looks impatient.
And wherefore thus, bright cousin?—no sly meeting,
No time-drawn assignation? Well I know
The disrespect thou bearest them, or now
My thoughts would judge thee!
duke.
Guard well your giddy charge,
Most vigilant dame, most excellent duenna,
Lest some gay treacherous gallant should beguile
Her tender years. Farewell.
laura.
I thank your duteous care. Farewell.
[Exeunt Hermione and Laura, followed by the
Duchess.
duke.
A strange wrought mixture thou
Of our mortality; mingled, perchance,
By nature in some freakish mood, when tired
Of that same endless reproduction, man,—
Still to his fellow mortal answering,
As, in a mirror, face to face.
fabian.
Go you, my lord, to-day, upon the Prado?
duke.
To-day?—yes, boy. But I would change this habit,
And mix unknown with that gay crowd. 'Tis well—
Hermione, or strange my thoughts misgive me,
Now seeks the walk. I'll watch; this paramour
Or hers or Laura's I may chance discover.
[Exeunt separately.
SCENE II.
A Street.
Enter Carlos and Bertrand.
bertrand.
Thou speedest well, thanks to my shrewd invention.
Yon babbling rogue, Stephano, gave me note
Of her night walk upon the terrace, where
I bribed the keeper to admit ye.
carlos.
Thanks,
Thrice worthy friend. But I do fear mine errand;
Some secret terror burdens mine intent,
And heavily droops the wing of my firm purpose.
Dull hope's uncertain beam, foreboding, quivers,
While the rude blast, low howling in mine ear
The roar of muttering tempests, sweeps it by,
And, in that flickering glare, pale spectres glide,
A mournful train,—sullen despair, pale woe,
And grisly terror, dwell in their pale looks.
Would this dread night were o'er!
bertrand.
Some rancorous fiend
Possesses thee. Some stroke of sudden madness
To thy weak brain hath sped, reversed thy thoughts,
Turn'd each unto its contrary,—what once
Waked smiling hope, now brings despair,—love, hate!—
Joy, measureless sorrow!—Rouse thee! Once thou wert
Of different mood, and, ere thy clouded sun
Sinks to his gloomy bed, again his glance
Shall be unveil'd. I'll be thy prophet! Haste
From this inglorious sleep! As he of old,
Thy fetters from thee shake, in terrible might
Uprising, when awaked from the soft lap
Of indolent love. Thou lovest but too well,
Nor mayest thou speed, until she find thee oft,
With careless port, braving her frown. Wayward,
The maiden scorns true lover's tenderest sigh,
And inward pines for some ungracious churl,
Who slights such light-won favours. 'Tis the good
We might possess we loath and sicken at,
For that beyond our reach, we moan and fret,
As if our very soul were thither urged,
And life itself but hung on its frail tenure.
We'll seek the public walk: (woman e'er follows
The giddy crowd, as doth your swift-winged hornet
Hunt forth its prey): it will beguile the hours,
Till night, with drowsy tongue, calls thee to love
And to Hermione! [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Chamber.
Enter Laura.
laura.
How this little tyrant rules it over me! Again—[Takes
a letter from her bosom]—I can repeat the words
backwards, tell every turn of a letter, count the dots, blurs,
and crossings; but—[In attempting to replace the billet, it
drops on the floor unperceived]—I think the sun creeps
backward, and then returns, out of sheer spite and maliciousness.
I must not be on the terrace too soon: I'll have him
wait now; it looks more an it were as if I had other business
by the nose than dancing to the pipe of a gay gallant.
Three full hours yet. Alack, alack! I can neither scold the
maids, darn the Venice lace, sort my brother's hose, nor even
turn up the plaitings of my own hair. I'll bethink me of
the gown I must wear that shall best please my cavalier, and
lay it down, to smooth out the folds. Oh, sweet heart! how
tender he looked on me at the Prado to-day. Yes,—the
same,—I gave him an encouraging glance betimes, lest the
youth should wax timorous and melancholy. I hope we
may have a quiet night: the sky looks somewhat wild and
turbid. [Exit.
Enter Hermione.
hermione.
How fierce the sun gazes from below that bank of clouds
he has just quitted, as if he threatened us at his going with
some terrible disaster. His beam wraps the city, as with a
mantle of fire bespangled with stars,—here and there a
glittering cross studding its purple vestment: one by one
they are quenched, and the glowing mantle itself fades. A
dark dun haze rests upon the city, and in the west a fiery
streak alone tells of the past. I fear me the night forebodes
a storm.——Carlos, I find, follows me to Mantua. How
the moody wretch and his companion dogged us at the Prado
to-day: I doubled more than a hare at its lasts shifts, to
keep out of their ken. I had hoped he would have forgotten
me ere this; but you may not cram wisdom even down a
mallard's throat.—
Enter Sylvio.
Whose message bring you here?
sylvio.
My Lord Duke sends greeting.
hermione.
Thanks, boy, for his intent. I lack not pleasant compliments.
sylvio.
He hopes, lady, the air of our public walk suits well your
delicate health, and that your spirits droop not in this gay
city.
hermione.
Tell my Lord Duke, when he next goes with the crowd,
to veil the dark fringe of his eye, and to fashion the bend of
his nose afresh; or the fire of his eye, and his lordly beak,
will betray to every idle flutterer the presence of the proud
Duke of Mantua. Good b'ye, Sylvio. [Exit.
sylvio.
I cannot read this haughty damsel. Ah! what have we
here?—[Picks up the paper Laura has just dropped.]—Something,
I trow, more legible than maiden's breast.
[Reads.
"Say, fairest, canst thou love,"—I warrant thee—"or
does cold scorn compose the sum of thine affections"—"Grown
bold"—"If thou wilt lend thine ear to my suit on
the terrace to-morrow night at this hour"—A bold suitor,
truly—"I will not offend thee again unless thou judgest in
my favour." "Carlos."
Good b'ye, lady.—[Mimicks her.]—The Duke shall enjoy
this tender morsel. Tell my Lady Hermione, when she
next gives a private meeting to her gallant, to keep her
billet safe, to veil the fringe of her bodice, and raise the beak
of her stomacher, else their shallow covering will betray to
every idle flutterer the secrets of the haughtiest beauty in
Christendom. [Exit.
SCENE IV.
The Terrace. The night dark and tempestuous, with distant thunder.
Enter Carlos.
carlos.
The night broods heavily, as though
Gaunt mischief were abroad, and its dun cloak
Would hide some horror, the yet timid eye
Shrinks to behold. An hour—a minuted age,
Ere the appointed moment can break in
Upon its tedious march. Hark! footsteps.
I must conceal——this friendly——Ah, Hermione!
Thus anxious for the meeting?
[Steps behind a pillar.
Enter Hermione, with a light; she sets it down at the entrance, and walks across the Terrace.
hermione.
Roll on, thou terrible storm,—
On thy dark brow, the lightnings, as they play,
Reveal thy rapid march!—
Spirit of air, that on the untamed winds
Dost walk, or, on the rushing elements
Upborne, thy chariot cleaves the groaning sky,—
Whether to me thou speakest with rude voice
Of unstill'd tempest, or in whispering breath
From morn's flower-fragrant breeze,—I hail thy presence.
Bear in thine hand hot thunder-bolts,
The whirlwind on thy wing, the cloud-swoln cataract
Burst on the reeking earth,—dauntless I'll make
Terror my pastime, sport in their turmoil,
And with the storm-careering demon's shriek
My bitter laugh shall mingle. These are but
The harmless play of innocent childhood,—
So fierce the storm that desolates my soul!
[Carlos comes from behind the pillar, and hesitatingly
approaches.
Soft—Who approaches?—How!—Don Carlos!
Whence this intrusion?—Speak not, but begone!
I hear thee not. Touch but my garment,
Shuddering, I'll shake thee off, as some vile reptile
My senses loathe. Hence, ere I spurn thee!
Enter the Duke hastily, his sword drawn.
duke.
Draw, villain!—guard thine hated carcass!
Unsheath, bewildered fool, lest I should spike thee
On this good weapon!
[They engage.
hermione.
Help!—How fierce they fight!—Lights!
Ho!—within!— [Carlos falls.
carlos.
Oh, I'm wounded!—
There, may thy paramour complete thy work,
Unblushing traitress!—Home to my heart—
Strike deep! thou canst not give so keen a thrust
As her rude tongue!—Haste, ere thy weapon cool;—
Yet, ere I die, Hermione—I loved thee once,
Now—from my heart I proudly tear thine image,
Blotting it out for ever, as the memory
Of some loathed wanton!—Hence!—haunt not my sight,
Fell murderess!—Now unbar my prison, death!—
duke.
Nay,—I'll not haste thee to thy last acquittance,
Ill-fated wretch!—I do repent mine haste.
Enter Bertrand.
bertrand.
Foul deeds betray ye, sirs!—Carlos!
Wounded!—Unhand him, villain!—'tis to thee
He owes this bitter thrust. If thou art aught
But what I deem thee, by the earliest dawn
Again we meet. The outskirts of yon wood,
Nigh to the city, with thy weapon, there
Uphold thee for this most unjust assault.
An innocent man, if yet protection be
Upon the stranger in proud Mantua,
I bear to his abode; but on thy head
His blood doth rest, a dastard's recreant crow
Down drawing Heaven's hot vengeance!
Enter Ridolfi, Laura, and Attendants, with lights.
laura.
Oh! they have slain him! Help! Who dealt this blow?
Sweetheart, for love thou diest, and for love,
Malicious fate! thy maiden too must die.
[Bertrand bears off Carlos.
Yet stay, Carlos! I follow thee.
ridolfi.
Nay, maid, content thee;
Thou followest not this stranger.
laura.
Oh, he was mine!
But they have ta'en him.
ridolfi.
Thine! Some demon sure
Makes ye his sport. My Lord—the Duke—I dream—
This night, methinks, the storm doth send confusion
To men's calm thoughts, o'ermaster'd with its frenzy.
On they would rush, malign, to the fulfilment
Of some sure, unscaped doom.
hermione.
I know not whence
These changes come,—inexplicable, dark
As lies my fate,—the abyss to which I hasten!
My lord, can you unriddle these events?
Your presence would denote, at least to me,
Some knowledge of their bearing.
duke.
A pleasant jest, from me to ask the key!
It hangs in thy bosom, lady. Friends, farewell!
I hasten hence ere this unpitying tempest
Its fiercest burst, its gathering deluge pour;
Cataracts of forked fire, commingled torrents,
From the wide womb of the vexed elements.
hermione.
Farewell, my lord! some other time we meet.
duke.
Farewell, my friends! another hour must tell
My purpose here this night. [Exeunt.
ACT III.—SCENE I.
A Chamber in the Palace.
The Duke at a table, surveying his sword.
duke.
Mischievous weapon!
I would forswear thy company: but now
We cannot part. Blameless,—inanimate,—
The heart alone makes thee its passive tool
To work the several ills its thought conceives!
What art thou, senseless steel? cold, motionless,
Incapable of ought, or fraud or injury,—
No dire intent there broods, no passionate flame
Mix'd with thy temper, flashes o'er the obscure,
The restless gulf within, troubling the spirit;
A fitful gleam, on the dark surges wreathing
Forms of unutterable horror,—wide
Disclosing from the womb—the fathomless womb
Of that abyss!—Would the events,
The brief record of time, the narrow space
By yesternight enclosed, were blotted out,
Effaced for ever. I must meet thee, stranger,—
Thou may'st avenge thy friend.—Hermione!—
Why should I start?—a sound—a bursting bubble
Moves me. Hermione!—Again!—This heart
Not so hath leapt in the loud roar of battle!
'Tis folly—madness,—yet she marks me out—
Gazes so strangely,—'twere an idle thought,
But from her soul, methinks, such pulses come
Of wild, unworded passion, as they'd mingle,
Perforce, with every faculty, desire,
And through each avenue rush, thralling the will
Unto its influence. Those basilisk eyes
Are on me ever! Asleep, awake, they change not.
'Tis fascination! If such spell there be,
Hermione doth use it! Yet enchains she not
Others unto the like. I've watch'd her thus,
How angrily,—as the quick lightning sped,
The night uncovering from her form,—I saw
Her eagle-glance the timorous love-sick wretch
Strike helpless at her feet. It is not love,—
A spell earth owns not hangs upon my heart!—
I love Beatrice; yet more tenderly
Unto her bosom mine affections cling,
The more this parasite, this foul excrescence
Preys on my vitals, wastes mine healthful spirit,
Poisoning life's current even at its source.
I'll shake me from these toils: I knew not when
The cunning net was thrown, so light the texture;
And warily I wot the snare was laid,
Or I had 'scaped it.
This unwelcome dawn
Comes dimly on the casement;—heavily
The day's dull beam seems labouring up the sky,—
Low hang the clouds, huge relics of the storm,
Like dark reflections brooding o'er the mind
When passion's rudest burst hath pass'd, and reason,
As yon pale gleam, thus struggling forth its way
Through adverse clouds, visits again the soul—
'Tis then the mind, shuddering, at once recoils
From the dire consequence, and conjures up
A thousand possibilities to scare
The resolute purpose. I linger at the threshold
Of this proceeding. I will not fight thee, stranger;
I've wrong'd thy friend. His death, yet unappeased,
Clings to my burden'd spirit: I'll atone
If yet there be of reparation aught
This hand can give. Sylvio!
Enter Sylvio.
Attend me with the weapons. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An unfrequented Place, on the Outskirts of a Wood, without the Walls.
Enter Bertrand and two Attendants.
bertrand.
How goes the morn?
first attendant.
When past the rock,
Methought the convent bell chimed there for matins.
Heard you it, signor?
bertrand.
I know not. Is the hour yet gone?
first attendant.
What hour?
bertrand.
Does the day dawn?
second attendant.
Ay; but night-lurking clouds
Shut out the approaching light. One short, wan streak,
As if in the branches of yon distant oak,
Alone brings niggard tidings.
bertrand.
Hark!—footsteps.
first attendant.
It is the tread
Of some roused deer: upon the rustling leaves
Man's bolder foot falls not so lightly.
bertrand.
The day its custom'd hour forgets,
And lingers in its chamber, loth to rise,
With unveil'd face, on the wide ruin
Of this hush'd tempest.
first attendant.
Look towards the east!
The light breaks rapidly athwart its face.
You look not, signor. Hear you the——
Enter Duke, disguised.
bertrand.
Welcome, if thou art he—the foe I meet.
duke.
The same; but not thy foe.
bertrand.
That hated voice!
Revenge it cries. Prepare! no more delay!
Draw, dastard! or thy recreant blood I'll pour
Unfought for to this earth.
[Bertrand makes the attack, the Duke keeping
on the defensive.
bertrand.
Thou wardest but my blows; fight, villain!
[The Duke makes a parry, and immediately
disarms Bertrand.
I seek not mercy. None would I have given
If I had seen thee thus.
duke.
Take back thy sword. How fares thy friend?
bertrand.
If he recover, hate to thee, unceasing,
And to Hermione, he vows for ever!
duke.
Does he recover?
bertrand.
Wherefore askest thou?
duke.
Nay, chafe me not:—passion but slowly sinks
If still the wind buffet the boiling wave!
bertrand.
Thou threatenest well. I can defy thy wrath.
Another stroke might change the haughty hue
Of thy proud boast.
first attendant.
Nay, be at peace—again
Ye may not quarrel. Soft, good signor, sheath
Your perilous weapon. 'Tis not just we wait
Another issue with decided strife.
duke.
Farewell!
I would depart while better reason yet
Keeps stedfast watch. [Exit.
bertrand.
Cool-hearted wretch!
Thy passion kept not pace with thine occasion,
Else had it minister'd to other issues.
Anger disarm'd me—not thine arm, assassin.
first attendant.
Yet hath he braved it nobly, and, methinks,
A better name hath earn'd in thy report.
second attendant.
Knowest thou thy foe?
bertrand.
What need? His name I wot not.
second attendant.
The Duke!
bertrand.
The Duke?—of Mantua!
second attendant.
'Tis he!
A nobler heart beneath a truer breast
Ne'er beat. I watch'd his bearing as he gave
The weapon back to thy reluctant grasp:
'Twas just the air, the lofty temper'd port,
I've seen him use, when, with proud condescension,
Gracious—yet bating nought his dignity,—
He deals such pardon to the trembling culprit
As makes the offence yet doubly heinous.
bertrand.
I ask'd of him no favour—where the crime?
'Twas unprovoked; he rush'd upon my friend,—
They fought,—he fell,—and I had hoped to avenge
The sufferer's wrong. But whence?—'tis wondrous strange.
Hermione!—the Duke!—the proud Hermione
A prince's paramour! It cannot be.
So fair, so noble, yet——There's mystery here;
I must unravel this perplexed web,
Or perish in its toils! [Exeunt.
SCENE III.
A Balcony, overlooking the Garden.
Hermione and Blanch.
hermione.
I am sad, Blanch.
blanch.
I would, lady, you were in your little toilet-chamber at
Venice. You were not sad there once. Why stay you in
this unlucky house? I do conceive, that I shall have no
more heart soon than hath your goose-quill, nor life within
me than a dried puff-ball. When go you to Venice, lady?
hermione.
Never!
blanch.
Oh, sweet mistress; and must we die in this dismal city?
My very countenance hath changed its fashion, forsooth;
being smoke-dried and tarnished, like your two years' hung
stock-fish. I do fear me that I shall pine with home-longings;
and the sight of yon garlick-faced knave, Stephano,
for ever at my heels, turns me sick when he gets within
stride of me. But you jest, lady.
hermione.
Blanch, thou hast been kinder to me than my fate hath
answered for; and I give thee good counsel when I tell thee
to return to Venice. Stay not with me; for soon the high, the
proud-spirited Hermione will——I shall soon lay me in the
quiet grave—and thou wilt grieve to see me sink—so young—so
early to my doom. I look fresh, mayhap, and blooming,
and they call me happy; but I am withered—here!
blanch.
Oh, lady, you will break my heart! (Weeps.) I will not
go! If they bear you to the grave, I will follow you
there to weep, and to quiet myself beside you.
hermione.
Thou art kind, Blanch. I would thou hadst a happier
mistress, thou wouldest, peradventure, be happy too.
blanch.
What frets you so keenly? I would compass sea and
land to fetch you a morsel of comfort. Do tell me, lady.
They say sorrow hath companionship, and loves its like.
hermione.
Ask it not, girl: I would not tell it to the winds, lest
they should babble it again; I would not whisper it to
mine own heart, lest each pulse should echo it back to mine
ear; I dare not think on 't, lest my very thoughts should
create a corporeal voice to utter it withal. Other sorrows
have companionship, but mine hath none!
Enter Servant.
servant.
The strange gipsy woman your ladyship gave an alms to
yesterday waits without, asking to see you. I would have
put her away, but she looked on me, and I shuddered as I
approached her.
hermione.
Bid her come in.
blanch.
How it would delight me to have my fortune cast; but—my
fate answers to your own!
Enter Zorayda.
hermione.
Why this silence?—Thy message.
zorayda.
Askest thou?—Thanks!—What marvel? they speak not
With unembodied tongue!
hermione.
Thou comest, then,
But on a thankless errand; I dispense
With empty words.
zorayda.
Why then I go unaudienced.
I would not vex thee, lady;—thou art strung
By unseen anguish, e'en to the topmost pitch
Thy nature bears. One other strain, it breaks!
hermione.
What knowest thou?
zorayda.
That other comes!
hermione.
Too soon,
I wot, these heart-strings break not. How, beldame?
Thy prying eyes gather some secret. Hence
With the silly maids thou tamperest, and anon
The mistress' ear greets her own confidence;
But not on me impose thy mummeries:
None other breast than mine yet holds its trust.
zorayda.
What proof requirest thou, ere faith admit
My proffer'd testimony?
hermione.
Proof!
What thou, weak fool—the crazed and worn-out plaything
Of thy too credulous fancies—cannot give.
Reveal my thoughts!