_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.
Lady, list to me!
Thy gentle spirit I'll be;
The fire is my garment, the flood is my bed,
And I paint the first cloud with the sunbeam red
That rolls o'er the broad blue sea.
Lady, list to me! To the mountain-top I flee: There I watch the first
wave that comes laden with light, And its soft hue I spread o'er each
billow so bright, With its beam I enkindle each heaven-peering height,
And the morn's radiant canopy.--
[_The voice ceases, and the music slowly retires._
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.
Fair as the moonbeam,
Bright as the running stream,
Sparkling, yet cold.
In Love's tiny fingers
A shaft yet there lingers,
And he creeps near thy bosom and smiles, lady.
Soon his soft wings will cherish
A flame round thine heart,
And, ere it may perish,
Thy peace shall depart.
O listen, listen, lady gay,
Love doth not always sue;
The brightest flame will oft decay,
The fondest lover rue, lady!
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!
ZORAYDA.
But if disclosed, there now
Be other ears to listen, lady.
HERMIONE.
Blanch,
Awhile thou may'st withdraw.
BLANCH.
How fierce her eye scowls! I marvel that her brows should escape a
singeing.--I would not leave you, gentle mistress, until----
ZORAYDA.
Begone!---- [_HERMIONE smiles, and motions BLANCH to
depart. Exit BLANCH._
HERMIONE.
Now to thy task.
ZORAYDA.
What bearest thou, with such o'er-vigilant watch,
In that fair bosom?
HERMIONE.
Marry, my heart; what more?
ZORAYDA.
'Tis then but late return'd: the truant once
Had left its home--what served thee in its place,
Knowest thou yet, gentle dame?
HERMIONE.
I note thy craft:
Thou busiest me with questions, hoping thus
To catch unheeded words for thine advantage--
I answer nothing.
ZORAYDA.
None I crave, fair maiden.
An empty billet is but poor exchange
For the heart's losing!
HERMIONE.
How--a billet! Where?
ZORAYDA.
In that bright bosom, lady. Search it well--
And yet a thing of nought: 'tis but a form,
An every-day express of custom'd greeting,
But as a precious relic thou dost wear it;
And 'tis to thee a coveted possession
Of more esteem than the sun-ripen'd gems
Golconda bears!
HERMIONE.
Is this my unveil'd thought?
Not thus I'm fool'd. Perchance thy cunning eye,
For ever on the watch, hath spied this billet.
'Tis here. What more knowest thou?
ZORAYDA.
Reserve thy scorn,
'Twill soon give place----Hark! [_Distant music._
Ah! start not thus.--Why that frail shudder?
Yon guest within the chamber of thine ear
Ere this hath had sweet audience. But come,
My pretty spirit, hither speed, and frame
Thine uncorporeal organ to the sound
Of bodily voice.--[_Music approaches._]--Hark, lady!--ever knew
Your ear aforetime yon wild melody?
SONG.
Lady, list to me,
Thy gentle spirit I'll be;
The fire is my garment, the flood is my bed,
And I paint the first cloud with the sunbeam red
That rolls o'er the broad blue sea.
Lady, list to me;
To the mountain top I flee,
There I watch the first wave that comes laden with light,
And its soft hue I spread o'er each billow so bright;
With its beam I enkindle each heaven-peering height,
And the morn's radiant canopy.
HERMIONE.
Mysterious being, say from whence that voice!
But once--and on such feverish perception,
The sound did strike, I thought some air-form'd vision,
Some fantasy, hot from the teeming brain,
Imposed unreal conceptions on mine ear,
To which sense held no cognizance. Say where,
Thou awful visitor!
ZORAYDA.
'Twas on the terrace, when the charmed moon
Hung o'er the trembling stream. And thinkest thou
Spirits have not such utterance?--Oft unseen,
Upon the viewless air, strange visions float,
And voices people the unfetter'd blast,
Vouchsafed not save to those who reverence
And bow to their high bidding. Now--they speak!
HERMIONE.
And to what import?
ZORAYDA.
Thus the mystic chant.
When the proud eagle
Sighs to the dove,
And his dark wing spreads o'er her
While fluttering with love:
That eagle's bright crest,
And that dove's timid eye,
Are quench'd in the storm
That rolls recklessly by!
That storm the proud eagle
Hath swept from his nest:
But where is the dove
Shelter'd once in his breast?
She clings to his plume,
But in death they shall sever;
The eagle and dove
They have perish'd for ever!
HERMIONE.
The eagle?--Mantua's crest!--But who the dove?
ZORAYDA.
Tempt not yet further to thine harm: we rue
If thou break silence!
The spirit sings, but mine imperfect hearing
Shapes not its voice to aught articulate
That human utterance owns. Again--speak not--
'Twas thus he sang:
A sprite in the moon-beam,
A mote in the sun,
I dive in the smooth stream,
Through the curl'd flame I run.
I see o'er proud Mantua
The beacon's red light;
As the taper 'tis quench'd
In the chill blast of night!
I see from the turret
A maiden's dim form,
And her white robe waves high
On the wing of the storm!
I hear a loud shriek,
With the wail of the dead;
And that spirit from thence
To its Giver hath fled!
Some dire event breaks from the womb of time:
To thee the spirit speaks. Hermione,
If yet three days on this forbidden air
Thou breathest, Mantua and her lord
May dearly rue thy longer stay. 'Tis past.
I heed not further question. Well I know
The winds I counsel, and the turbulent flood
To soothe its rage. On, if some power prevent not,
Madly ye rush to your undoing; then,
Fair city, thy glad voice to woe shall turn;
The loud lament, the chill and desolate wail
Of thy bereavement shall ascend, piercing,
Unpitied, the dun pall of heaven!
Follow me not----
Once more I meet thee:--if too soon, beware!
Thine hours are number'd. [_Exit._
HERMIONE.
Three days!--Where shall I fly?--To what lone spot
Can I escape? Has this wide earth no room?--
Measureless woe!--too vast for mortal limit!--
Yon wild enthusiast, her impostor's craft
Hath here some secret consequence to which
These bodings tend--cheat! Nay, thou didst affix
Fearful credentials to thy testimony;
They wore the impress of truth. None but that gaze
Which scans the soul, may the unvisited depths
Of mind reveal, its untold subtilties
Unto the eye disclosing. But three days!
Yet once--one sad farewell! [_Exit._
SCENE IV.
_A Chamber in the Inn._
_CARLOS on a couch, attended by GIULIO._
CARLOS.
I thank thee, Giulio.
The couch feels easier from thine hand. 'Tis now
But as a troublesome scratch, scarce worth the pains
To work its cure. Another strain--thy lute
Strange chords doth waken, long untuned, forgot,
Slumbering untouch'd within my breast, the sound
Breathes on them sweetly; at its marvellous bidding,
Startled they wake, quivering once more to life.
I love these ancient ballads, they do savour
O' the olden time.
GIULIO.
Good signor, my poor music
Suits not this garnish'd age:--a simple air
That lives in the heart, and floats o'er the still depths
Of long-lapsed recollections, freshening
Their stagnant surface with soft impulse--this,
Brief skill!--'tis all I claim.
[_Touches the chords to a slight prelude._
They are but snatches of old songs, signor;
Broken as fragments of the imperishing columns
Whitening some arid desert; but they are hallow'd
By the same hand that spoil'd them!
CARLOS.
They are bonds
That with the past yet link our purer thoughts,
Our most unsullied affections. Still
The voice of other years breathes through them,
As the low breeze, while creeping timorously
Around some ancient ruin, wailing there
Sad echoes of departed greatness.
_GIULIO sings._
There is a wood, there is a cot,
There is a gentle river;
There is a home where I am not,
But where I would be ever.
And adown the green valley the meadows were fair,
And the breeze came to woo the young daffodils there.
There is a lip I have not press'd,
A heart yet coldly beating;
But true love's throb within that breast
Will wake at others' greeting.
And adown through the valley the morn shone so fair,
When the breeze gently kiss'd the young bud blushing there.
And thou wilt light thy taper cold
At some gay treacherous eye;
Its flame shall still thy soul enfold
When lovers' glance shall die!
And adown the green valley, while morn shone so fair,
The breeze sigh'd, and left the young bud weeping there!
CARLOS.
Woman loves not her true lover,
A treacherous lewdster best o'ersteps her grace!--
Another, Giulio: I could live in them--
They feed the soul, as doth ambrosia
The mighty gods.
_GIULIO sings._
Let me rest mine head, lady,
On thy bended knee:
Every pulse to thine beats true;
I would 'twere so with thee.
Sing heigho!
Under the willow tree.
My cheek will not harm thee, Start not from thy rest----
CARLOS.
Cease!--I do remember me the ballad
Thou gavest yesterday. Upon my brain
So loud the music rings, this chaunt I hear not.--
Prithee again thy strings touch to the carol.
GIULIO.
Yet by your preference I know it not.
How name you the ballad?
CARLOS.
'Twas of the pilgrim, and his goodly benison.
GIULIO.
Thus? (_Plays._)
CARLOS.
The same.
_GIULIO sings._
The chase was done, the feast was begun,
When the monarch sate proudly high;
And the revelry rode on the wind afar,
As it swept from the darkening sky.
No lordly guest----
_Enter BERTRAND._
CARLOS.
Welcome. I grew oppress'd from thy long absence--
But why that heavy, that disquieted brow?
Some choler, scarce dismiss'd, hath moved thee!
BERTRAND.
The Duke--
CARLOS.
Didst thou complain to him
Touching my wrong?
BERTRAND.
I did.
CARLOS.
Yet I have heard
This prince o'er all his peers hereto extoll'd,
The mirror of true courtesy; embodying
The proud and chivalrous spirit of his time.--
How spake he?
BERTRAND.
Few his words;--but this good sword--
Bitter degradement!----Yon proud Duke, he gave--
When from this recreant hand the traitor fell!
He had disarm'd me, Carlos!
CARLOS.
He!--You fought?
BERTRAND.
Ay, with the Duke--thy mistress' paramour!
CARLOS.
The Duke!--_Her_ paramour!--
'Tis fuel to my hate.
BERTRAND.
How fares thy wound?
CARLOS.
This?--where?--'tis well.--These garments I shake off,
And put on my revenge--its panoply
Shall case my bosom.--Henceforth unto all
Compunction dead, and steel'd to every touch
Of natural sympathy, mine o'ercharged hate,
As the veil'd fire, pent in yon gathering cloud,
Deep-brooding waits, in fearful silence crouching,
Or ere it strike----'Twas for this minion
She spurn'd me!
BERTRAND.
Such my hate to Andrea.
Together and in secret we devise--
Yet not with such precipitate haste, our counsel,
As shall defeat its own resolve--some plan
To furnish our revenge. [_Exeunt._
SCENE V.
_A Chamber in the Palace._
_Enter the DUKE._
DUKE.
Arouse thee!--fly.
Ere yet the fetters closer to thine heart
Are riveted--immoved for ever!
Thou counsellest well--these are ignoble trammels.
And I do rid me of them. Once--'tis fix'd--
A short, sad hour we meet, and then farewell!
Duty, remorseless, bids me.--There I'll pour
Into her wondering ear a hapless tale
Of thwarted love--hearts broken, severed
By obdurate fate--and in that feign'd lament,
Bewail mine own.--I must my story tell;
None other cause could I with honour urge
Why thus we part--for ever!
_Enter FABIAN._
FABIAN.
My lord, a woman of strange aspect,
And habited in Eastern garb, sits now
Within the western porch, waiting your presence.
She would not tell to me her errand.
DUKE.
How--
A stranger, and from whence?--Knowest thou her name?
FABIAN.
She holds most resolute silence--I forebore
To question her.
DUKE.
Describe this sullen guest.
FABIAN.
A turban girds her brow, white as the sea-foam,
Whence, all untrammelled, her dark thin hair
Streams fitfully upon her storm-beat front;
Her eye at rest, pale fire in its black orb
Innocuous sleeps--but roused, Jove's thunder-cloud
Enkindles not so fiercely! Once it shot
Full on mine eye:--in dazzling terror yet
It haunts my brain!
DUKE.
How eloquent the tongue
When the soul stirs it!--I would see, unharm'd,
This quickened volcano! [_Exit FABIAN._
Some moon-struck wanderer
Craving redress for her wrong'd fancies.
_Enter FABIAN followed by ZORAYDA; she stands in silence gazing
at the DUKE._
Woman, what seekest thou?--Doth silence best
Declare thine errand?
ZORAYDA.
Silence best, my lord,
Should tell thy destiny--Heaven hath commanded
To speak no evil.
DUKE.
A rare conceit.--What more?--Is this thy message?
Haste,--we command not back the passing time:--
To thy request.
ZORAYDA.
Much need hast thou to note
These priceless minutes;--let no fragment slip
Ungathered.--Yet my boon thou wilt not grant!
Seest thou yon shadow?--
[_She beckons him to the window._
DUKE.
Nought this ungifted eye beholds
But the dark battlement upon the stream,
Spread by the tranquil moon.
ZORAYDA.
Seest thou yon pennon
Furl'd from the turret, floating on the verge
Of that still, sedgy shore?--
DUKE.
Its shadow falls
Where thou dost point;--but how may this befit
With thy request?
ZORAYDA.
At thy far-echoing birth,
When hoarse artillery told to Mantua,
Thy wailing entrance to a troublous life,
Yon trembling shadow fell, as now it meets,
Just on the rippled bank,--uniting each--
The calm wave and the shore.--
DUKE.
Thy meaning, stranger.
ZORAYDA.
Ere yet the bubbling life crept through thy veins,
'Twas thus decreed: thine hour of danger comes,
And sudden death, when that dim shadow passes
Where at thy birth it brooded.--
DUKE.
(_Aside to FABIAN._) Watch this woman;
Suspicion wakes at her discourse.--(_To ZORAYDA._)--
That shadow
Hath oft-time pass'd, no danger thence betiding.
ZORAYDA.
Thy death can happen not, save when, as now,
The pale moon flings yon omen from her beam;
But ever it bodes danger.
DUKE.
For this purpose
Enterest thou my chamber?
ZORAYDA.
I have sought thee
To give rejected counsel.--What! some treachery
From me thou fearest!--Bind me--gird my chains
To the unhewn rock beneath the unvisited depths
Of these abhorr'd foundations--I would wear them
Without a murmur could'st thou listen!--Hark!
Thus runs the record of thy house:
"_When the proud eagle
From his cloud-wreath'd nest
Enamour'd meets the dove,
And sighs on her soft bosom,
One shaft shall pierce them._"
Duke, beware----that shaft shall come!
Let it not find thee in that perilous hour,
Prescience forebodes thee, at some lady's ear
Sighing unhallowed love.--Its malice then
Harms not thy breast, another bears the stroke!
Remember--once again I meet thee.
[_Exit ZORAYDA._
FABIAN.
My lord, the guard shall rid you of the witch.
DUKE.
Let her depart, she harms me not.
FABIAN.
You seem
O'erspent with watching, and forget your couch.--
Betake you now to your accustom'd rest?
DUKE.
My _rest_?--'Tis well;--but will the couch give rest?
Ay, to the wearied limb--but not the weary breast!
Follow me, boy, unto my chamber. [_Exeunt._
ACT IV.--SCENE I.
_A Church._
_Enter two CITIZENS._
FIRST CITIZEN.
Strange omens these!
SECOND CITIZEN.
They bode disaster, else
Hath Nature changed, and her accustom'd course
No longer holds.--See, from the ducal vault
The stone--o'er which its mailed warrior rests
In such grim pomp--is roll'd, as if that mouth
Expectant yawn'd for prey.--How comes it thus?
THIRD CITIZEN.
Some swarth attendant, late within the tomb,
Hath left unclosed its yet insatiate gulf;
And he returns ere long.--His task complete,
This stone, oft visited, regains its place;--
Would it were closed for ever!
SECOND CITIZEN.
Ne'er to his country's weal a truer prince
Shall rise in Mantua--all proper tongues
To his just praise are eloquent;--no voice
But gathers blessing, when it speaks of Andrea.
I'll peep o'er the dark wall of this huge grave.
Fresh wonders still!--Here lie funeral trappings
Covering the entrance;--an inscription too
Upon the pall--[_Reads_]--"_Andrea, the fifth Duke
Of Mantua_"--a goodly list of honours,
Names and illustrious acts, now follow--"_Died_"--
I cannot tell those mystic characters--
Canst thou assign their import?
FIRST CITIZEN.
I am not skill'd
To interpret mysteries; but they are form'd
By cabalistic art. Elsewhere I've seen
The conjuror, Aldenbert, those uncouth shapes
Upon his tablets tracing. 'Tis not language
Akin to mortal tongue.
SECOND CITIZEN.
Treason, I wot, with bold and impious front,
Stalks forth uncheck'd:--it skulks not now abroad,
But in the open day roams unabash'd,
Nor shuns the sunbeam. Some unform'd event
Is yet in ripening--it bursts ere long
The shell of this dread mystery.
_Enter GRAVE-DIGGER and PRIEST._
GRAVE-DIGGER.
None, father, save the Egyptian woman, who so troubles the church. She
slept in the porch yesternight, and I sent her away this morning
betimes.
PRIEST.
Thou hast sent a message to the Duke?
GRAVE-DIGGER.
Some half-hour agone.--I expect his highness in person will take special
note of this matter.
PRIEST.
I fear me they be foes, enemies to the Duke, who have done
this.--Treachery puts on bold aspects, when such foretokenings as these
go before her, with loud admonishing of her approach. Here comes the
Duke.
_Enter DUKE with ATTENDANTS._
DUKE.
Good morrow, friends. I am something curious to behold this
device.--Some trick of intimidation, your petty wonder-monger breeds to
set our citizens agape.--You have not disturbed this masked frolic?
GRAVE-DIGGER.
My lord, it rests in such shape as when it scared me dismally ere the
light was well out, about cock-crowing.
DUKE.
Knowest thou any skulking vagrant of late loitering near the church?
GRAVE-DIGGER.
None, your grace, save the tall gipsy--she slept in the porch
yesternight.
DUKE.
The gipsy woman?
GRAVE-DIGGER.
She, with the linen turban, that walks the city with her arms
folded--thus.
DUKE.
She was in the porch?
GRAVE-DIGGER.
I waked her there, but roughly, an hour agone.
DUKE.
Here hangs some clue to guide us.--I'll have the beldame seized.--Raise
that unseemly pall from the tomb, and close its mouth.--This inscription
I'll keep as a brief chronicle of the event.--[_Takes off the
inscription: a billet falls from beneath it._]--What counsels us here?
One wonder treads fast upon another's heels, and o'ertops its
neighbour.--[_Reads._]--"_I have garnished thy tomb, and it waiteth not
for its prey. Depart!--When thou goest forth, but once shalt thou return
hither!_"--Guard, search the city--every chink and avenue.--To your
utmost speed.--This hag shall not escape.--Hence!--[_Exit Guard._]--My
friends, let not this matter trouble you; some mischievous spirit hath
malice at our peace, and hopes to work confusion within the city.--Soon
we unravel the flimsy web of this strange craft. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_Enter DUCHESS and HERMIONE._
HERMIONE.
Laura hath not yet
Put off her sorrow.--Still doth fancy cherish
The darling form of yon misguided youth
Your lord encounter'd on the terrace.--
With long entreaty I have learnt his name;
And, as my yet unquestion'd word befits,
'Tis but a cast-off suitor of mine own!
DUCHESS.
I fear me this adventure still broods mischief.
The Duke somehow had strange intelligence
Of danger threatened to Hermione.--
On that same night he watch'd, and foil'd the ruffian,
But he forebore to afflict him farther.
HERMIONE.
Strange--
This brief-told tale--
_Enter DUKE._
Welcome--thrice welcome now.
By what good chance, my lord, sought you the terrace
Few nights agone?--Some stray intelligence,
The Duchess tells, crept to your ear of danger
To me denounced!
DUKE.
Some secret whisper met me of the matter.
Know you this billet?
HERMIONE.
Forsooth its fair outside
Small import gives of such unworthy deed.--
I know not, save at once you dare commit
Its contents to my ken.
DUKE.
Well spoken, lady.--
What read you?
HERMIONE.
Carlos!--(_Reads._)
Some strange mistake rests here. As my good word
Earns your belief--till now, I ne'er beheld
This love-lorn billet.
DUKE.
Ah, woman, pleasant still,
But full of subtlety;--perverse, untoward--
Thy ways mark'd deep by unabash'd deceit:
Well thou mayst laugh at thine imposture.
HERMIONE.
The riddle solves:--this billet by mistake
Hath found its way to yon same helpless virgin.
Laura hath dropp'd it--some officious friend
Unto your eye the unoffending page
Hath straight convey'd.
DUKE.
Thou answerest plausibly;--
I would believe thy honied tongue.
HERMIONE.
I did repulse him, sore amazed
At his approach.--He threaten'd with his hate,
Which I do love more than his unprized favour!
DUKE.
I well remember thy reproof.
DUCHESS.
Our rebel cousin hither comes with word
Of her departure from our city.--Hence,
To-morrow, by the saffron-breaking dawn,
To Venice she returns. I urge in vain
Some further hindrance.--Wilt thou again make suit
To lady's ear, and win her stay?
DUKE.
To-morrow!
"Let then to-morrow come if e'er it may;
But when to-morrow comes, 'tis still to-day--
To-morrow go, and thou art never gone,
Till yon to-morrow and to-day are one!"
HERMIONE.
I must hence:
Urge me not further.
DUKE.
Nay, I urge thee not.
My will in Mantua e'er was held injunction.
I'll be thy tyrant, lady--thy stern keeper.
This day, within our palace, thou shalt be,
If willing and obedient, our guest:
If stubborn and self-will'd, our prisoner!
I'll compass thee with such delicious chains,
Thou shalt not wish e'en thine own thought were free!
HERMIONE.
Your guest this day, the last I spend in Mantua.
The night I give to Laura.
DUCHESS.
This proud night
Shall so out-mimic day, thou shalt not guess
When night hath drawn the twilight to his bosom.
_Enter SYLVIO._
SYLVIO (_aside to the DUKE_).
The guard hath yet no tidings;
The woman hides her warily.
DUKE.
Not yet!
I would, ere night, this mumming witch were found.
Without the walls perchance she lurks. Command
Their search unto the outskirts: large reward
Will follow their success. [_Exit SYLVIO._
DUCHESS.
At this inviting hour, we taste
The fragrance from our incense-breathing flowers:
My lord, attend you us?
The roses are fresh sprinkled,--the soft breeze
Comes heavily from their odour-blushing heads,
Faint and oppress'd with its delicious burden.
DUKE.
My spouse hath set her love on some tall poppy,
Some velvet-cheek'd, young tulip; drinking nectar
From his soft, balmy lip. I must be jealous
Of these same gentle favours.
DUCHESS.
You shall attend
Our fragrant courtship--the unwitting pander
To my stolen pleasures. Ah, my lord! what mean you?
Comes that dark frown to me, or to my lovers?
DUKE.
Nothing, Beatrice,--a passing jest,--'tis gone,--
I needs must frown when I am jealous. Now,
Fair dames, I would attend you. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_A Wood._
_ZORAYDA, sitting at the foot of an oak._
ZORAYDA.
An outcast from an outcast race,--spurn'd, chid,
From the churl's threshold. Shunn'd, unbless'd by all:
Nor home nor heritance--I live, alone,
Without associate, tie, or fellowship
E'en to my kin. I might from these consist
Of other nature; other substance might
Enfold my spirit,--other shape
Envelope me, than wraps the affrighted herd
Who stand aloof and gaze! Th' inanimate forms,
Nature's unchisel'd workmanship--unsullied
By man's rude contact--'tis with these I hold
Converse and high communion;
And from the spirit that lives in them, free
And uncommunicable intercourse
My soul receives. In all things there exists
Distinct peculiar essence, like the soul
Our being animates; at seasons oft,
In presence, though unseen, yet to the mind
Internal, manifest, imparting there
Miraculous influence. In secret, too--
The bodily eye, from grosser matter freed,--
In shape as palpable they come, as doth
Each outward image rise to corporeal sense.
I am not mad. The heated brain creates not
These uncall'd phantoms: yet men say I'm crazed.
They know not, dream not, of the mighty world
That lives around them. Other orbs might hold us!
--By mine art, with potent spell,
And wily stratagem, the Duke I've warn'd.
Hermione--proud victim! Love unhallow'd
Yet lingers in their breasts, and they must sever,
Though one heart break in that most cruel parting!
There's a foul taint of murder in the wind--
I do suspect her lover--yon Venetian,
Her suitor once--rejected. Such revenge
Will ofttimes rouse the spirit up to mischief,
Loathing, it would abhor e'en if beheld
But as a guilty dream. If this fond Duke
Seek not again her presence I have hope.
To-morrow she departs from Mantua--
No power can harm thee, save in that brief space
Appointed with thy birth. Here comes my spy:
The urchin loves me for the good he owes.
_Enter GIULIO._
Welcome, boy!
Thine errand?
GIULIO.
Some whisperings I've caught,
Yet know not to what purpose they should tend.
I heard "to-night," twice to each listener told,
And oft a cautious glance where I but stood,
Tuning my simple lute. As thou hast bid me,
With careful eye, note well their secret converse,
I hasten'd with the news: and now, good mother,
Say me farewell.
ZORAYDA.
A toward child;
Great largess thou mayest earn for thy discourse:
Hence! lest this absence tell what thine excuse
May not conceal. [_Exit GIULIO._
To-night!--I'll watch. This hour of danger past,
I'll pledge me to thy safety. Noble Mantua,
In that dread day, my parent's forfeit life
When thou didst spare, I vow'd to seek thy welfare;
And my good power, for thee and for thine house,
Hath not its use in vain. Yet, I do fear
The issue of this night: the vision told
Mortal conclusion nigh--"_They will not hear_
"_Warning oft utter'd, but impetuous rush,_
"_Unheeding, to their doom._"
Perchance some hidden meaning lurks beneath
This fearful message; an ambiguous sense,
Its proper import framing, when the event
From which it springs, like day-betokening morn,
Is past. His death it may not show. I'll save thee,
Or my destruction----soft!--the tramp of men:
Scouts, peradventure, on my track. Go, follow
The wild bee to its nest!--or to yon cliff
Climb with the eagle!--then ye mark my course! [_Exit._
_Enter CARLOS and BERTRAND, meeting._
BERTRAND.
My messenger brings welcome news: to-day
Hermione again visits the palace.
Till this dim light shall fade, her promised stay--
But the first watch of night, perchance, may find
This cuckoo harbour'd yet in others' nest!
CARLOS.
'Tis well:--our friends with the opportunity
Alone are arm'd; and as the time may note
Their several parts. From the west turret
The accomplice issue signal, if to-night
The Duke refreshes in the mountain-breeze,
As 'tis his wont, around the platform. When
Upon its staff the turret pennon sinks
(The moon to this good signal will suffice),
We climb the unguarded stair, and it conducts
To our dark enterprise. [_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.
_Part of the Platform, sloping to the Palace Walls._
_Enter DUKE, DUCHESS, HERMIONE, RIDOLFI._
DUKE.
We love these moon-lit walks, Hermione,
Whilst in her wane: you like her visage best,
Perchance, increasing. More I love to mark
Her gradual decay--retreating coy,
And half aside, as if ashamed to meet
The full gaze of the sun.
HERMIONE.
I love the waxing
Yet rather than the wane of yon pale light:
Like timid maid, when first her opening charms
Meet love's warm beam. Scarce on the wanton boy
She dares to gaze, till, bolder grown, her eye
Averted still, or half withdrawn, drinks in,
With silent ecstacy, love's treacherous glance.
Now his fond smile, full orb'd, the embolden'd sight
Enamour'd meets: her very being, essence,
And every faculty absorb--each thought
Rising impregn'd with love's fierce fire; anon
There comes a change--shy gleams succeed, her brow
Hath one slight shade, scarce seen, but on its light
The darkness grows--love's brightest dream is o'er,
And his pale taper quench'd in utter gloom!
RIDOLFI.
Ay, till another change. Yon fickle goddess
Her fond, fool'd swain entices, till enamour'd
E'en to his heart's last core; she then averts
Her love-impassion'd glance, and, scorning, shuns him!
DUCHESS.
If from deserted maid, Hermione,
Whose charms were withering in the fallow wane
Of an unprofited life, this speech forlorn
Had seem'd to ring the knell of her young hopes.
But when from rosy lips, and ardent youth,
It comes unlook'd for as a wintry chill
Beneath a summer sun.--This air blows keenly,
My locks fall with the dew--I think the night
Hath not its wonted soothness: thrice I shudder'd
As the cold breeze methought sigh'd on my bosom.
I must begone--Hermione, you go not.
'Tis the last moonlight you behold, mayhap,
In this brief stay; take a long parting, ere
Ye bid adieu--the Duke himself attends you;
With me, our brother his good presence grants,
Till your return.
RIDOLFI.
With such proud gallantry
I bow to your decree.
[_Exeunt DUCHESS and RIDOLFI._
DUKE.
Beneath the western turret
I love to walk--to watch the huge dim battlements
On the smooth river sleeping, when the moon,
Low in the brightening east, their shadow throws
Upon its calm, cold bosom.
HERMIONE.
Awhile I loiter with you there, my lord. [_Exeunt._
SCENE V.
_The Battlements._
_Enter DUKE and HERMIONE._
HERMIONE.
A pleasant tale, you say?
DUKE.
A story
At which the sad might laugh, the merry weep!
HERMIONE.
Strange modes of pleasantry--the sad might laugh?
DUKE.
That his own woes were lighter.
HERMIONE.
And yet, withal,
The merry weep?
DUKE.
So sad the tale--
HERMIONE.
In troth,
Most dolorously pleasant!
DUKE.
I've been in love.
HERMIONE.
A strange propensity--a punishment
Man suffers for his sins. You've been in love?
Most melancholy! How! I wot the Duchess
Believed you not?
DUKE.
Beatrice yet--mark me--
Most tenderly I love. Her long affection
Won my regard: but--late, another power--
It is not love, 'tis witchery, false glamour
Chaining the sense, unwilling to be held
In such deep thrall--I've seen a basilisk,
And it hath holden me within the circuit
Of its charmed eye. How counsel you? how break
From its bright glance?
HERMIONE.
I know not where, my lord,
You're held, or how enchain'd. Knows she your love?
DUKE.
I sought her, and the truth unto her ear
I utter'd. Was it well?
HERMIONE.
'Twere answer'd best
In the concealed purpose unto which
Truth's outward semblance serv'd. What meaning else
Behind it crouch'd?
DUKE.
That we might part for ever.
HERMIONE.
For ever!--Yes--'twas well!
What answer gave she?
DUKE.
Answer?--Oh--'twas well!
Then we must part, Hermione?
HERMIONE.
_We_ part!
Wherefore for ever?
DUKE.
I would not again
Cringe in thy burning glance,--and yet--I might--
This foolish heart its vanish'd dream forgot--
Unmoved endure thy presence! Bitter the pang!
I could not say for ever! I should cling
As the doom'd wretch to life, loosing his hold
But with the heart's last throb!
HERMIONE.
I cannot counsel thus!
Alas! more need some power above our own
To tear us hence--to sever. You will forget
This idle thought--'tis but a vagrant breath,
Stirring your past affections--they respond
Untouch'd, when memory wakes the soft still voice
Of other years. Their echoes o'er, again
Peace, haply frighted thence, your bosom visits.
I would not now for ever part!
DUKE.
Then for a time--when absence
The torn heart heals, we meet again. Hermione,
For thee, in this night's converse, have I risk'd
My happiness, my hope, and every comfort
Which most I prize--my peace, my honour--all
Committed to thy trust--true confidence
If not in mutual charge--nor interchange
Of strict communion held. If one alone
The precious load entrusts, it is o'erbalanced
Without due counterpoise, reciprocal faith,
And it endures not. Tell me--nay, but listen--
This heart unfetter'd, offer'd thee, unplighted,
Would'st thou have ta'en?
HERMIONE.
Indeed, I cannot now
Such wild words answer. Spare me but this trial--
DUKE.
Nay, answer me--what--silent?--why 'tis well.
And so we part--but I repent me now
Thou hast my trust. No answer?--then 'tis well!
We part for ever! On that treacherous face
I would not gaze again.
HERMIONE.
My lord, you must--
If this suffice--I answer--_Yes!_
DUKE.
Angel
Of soul visiting light! the storm hath still'd
At thy omnipotent word! I would not----
_Enter ZORAYDA hastily, before the DUKE; she points to the
stream._
What notest thou, dun sorceress?--speak!
ZORAYDA.
Yon shadow!
DUKE.
Yet two full hours unspent, ere on the stream
Yon pennon flits: and now we part. But who
Sent thee with such authority--with power
To question, and to watch, with daring eye,
Mine every movement? I have sought thee, fiend!
If thine hell-vomited sire protect thee not,
Again thou shalt not 'scape. I charge thee, witch!
Confederate with foul treachery.
ZORAYDA.
There's treason in the air!
Meet not the wind, it blows incontinently--
The maid hath other lovers.
HERMIONE.
Hag! thy meaning?
We study not ambiguous phrase.
DUKE.
I'll crush thy treason,
Ere it be ripe for hatching.
[_As the DUKE raises the silver call to his lips,
ZORAYDA seizes his arm._
ZORAYDA.
'Tis for thy rescue--stay! one moment stay
Thy rash resolve. If I depart, undone,
Destroy'd this night!
[_The DUKE makes the signal._
Rash prince! it shriek'd thy doom!
_Enter Guard._