Chapter IX: 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._