My liege, a lady in the antechamber
Boasts knowledge that concerns your this day's coun
Give instant answer to the court.
Oh! wedded, but most miserably single.
Woman, thou palterest with our dignity. Thy husband's name and quality?-Why shakest thou And draw'st the veil along thy moody brow, As thou too wert a murderess ?-Speak, and quickly BIANCA (faltering).
"Tis thy husband then Woman, take heed, if, petulant and rash, Thou wouldst abuse the righteous sword of law,
Admit her. (Enter BIANCA.)- How! what know'st That brightest in the armoury of man,
To a peevish instrument of thy light passions, Or furtherance of some close and secret guilt: Take heed, 't is in the heaven stamp'd roll of sins, To bear false witness- -Oh, but 'gainst thy husband. Thy bosom's lord, flesh of thy flesh! - To set The bloodhounds of the law upon his track! If thou speak'st true, stern justice will but blush To be so cheer'd upon her guilty prey: If it be false, thou givest to flagrant sin A heinous immortality. This deed Will chronicle thee, woman, to all ages, In human guilt a portent and an era:
'Tis of those crimes, whose eminent fame Hell joys at, And the celestial angels, that look on it, Wish their keen airy vision dim and narrow.
My liege, e'en where she said, an unstripp'd corpse Lay carelessly inearth'd: old weeds hung on it, Like those that old Bartolo wont to wear;
My liege, I do beseech thee, argue not, From the thick clogging of my clammy breath, Aught but a natural and instinctive dread Of such a bloody and ill-sounding title. My liege, I do beseech thee, whate'er reptile Hath cast this filthy slime of slander on me, Set him before me face to face: the fire Of my just anger shall burn up his heart, Make his lip drop, and powerless shuddering Creep o'er his noisome and corrupted limbs, Till the coarse lie choke in his wretched throat. DUKE.
Thou 'rt bold. But know ye aught of old Bartolo? Methinks, for innocence, thou 'rt pale and tremulous- That name is to thee as a thunderclap;
But thou shalt have thy wish.-Woman, stand forth: Nay, cast away thy veil. -- Look on her, Fazio.
No, it is a horrid vision! And, if I struggle, I shall wake, and find it A miscreated mockery of the brain.
If thou'rt a fiend, what hellish right hast thou To shroud thy leprous and fire-seamed visage In lovely lineaments, like my Bianca's? If thou 'rt indeed Bianca, thou wilt wear A ring I gave thee at our wedding time. In God's name do I bid thee hold it up; And, if thou dost, I'll be a murderer, A slaughterer of whole hecatombs of men, So ye will rid me of the hideous sight.
Death is thy doom-the public, daylight death. Thy body do we give unto the wheel:
The Lord have mercy on thy sinful soul!
Death!-Death!-I meant not that!-Ye mean not
What's all this waste and idle talk of murder? He slay a man with tender hands like his?— With delicate mild soul? - - Why, his own blood Had startled him! I've seen him pale and shuddering At the sad writhings of a trampled worm : I've seen him brush off with a dainty hand
A bee that stung him. Oh, why wear ye thus The garb and outward sanctity of law? What means that snow upon your reverend brows, If that ye have no subtler apprehension Of some inherent harmony in the nature
Of bloody criminal and bloody crime?
"T were wise t' arraign the soft and silly lamb Of slaughtering his butcher: ye might make it As proper a murderer as my Fazio.
Woman, th' irrevocable breath of justice Wavers not: he must die.
Die! Fazio die!Ye grey and solemn murderers by charter! Ye ermined manslayers! when the tale is rife With blood and guilt, and deep and damning, Oh, Ye suck it in with cold insatiate thirst: But to the plea of mercy ye are stones, As deaf and hollow as the unbowell'd winds. Oh, ye smooth Christians in your tones and looks, But in your hearts as savage as the tawny And misbelieving African! ye profane, Who say, "God bless him! God deliver him!" While ye are beckoning for the bloody axe, To smite the unoffending head! - his head!My Fazio's head! - the head this bosom cherish'd With its first virgin fondness.
Fazio, hear. To-morrow's morning sun shall dawn upon thee But when he setteth in his western couch, He finds thy place in this world void and vacant.
To-morrow morning!- Not to-morrow morning! The damning devils give a forced faint pause If the bad soul but feebly catch at heaven. But ye, but ye, unshriven, unreconciled, With all its ponderous mass of sins hurl down The bare and shivering spirit. Oh, not to-morrow!
Woman, thou dost outstep all modesty : But for strong circumstance that leagues with thee, We should contemn thee for a wild mad woman, Raving her wayward and unsettled fancies.
Mad! mad!-ay, that it is!-ay, that it is.
Is 't to be mad to speak, to move, to gaze, But not know how, or why, or whence, or where ? To see that there are faces all around me, Floating within a dim discolour'd haze,
Yet have distinction, vision, but for one? To speak with rapid and continuous flow,
Mine own Bianca! I shall need too much mercy
Yet know not how the unthought words start from Or ere to-morrow, to be merciless.
Oh, I am mad, wildly, intensely mad.
"T was but last night the moon was at the full; And ye, and ye, the sovereign and the sage, The wisdom and the reverence of all Florence, E'en from a maniac's dim disjointed tale, Do calmly judge away the innocent life, The holy human life, the life God gave him.
Giraldi Fazio, hast thou aught to plead Against the law, that with imperious hand Grasps at thy forfeit life?
My liege, this soul Rebels not, nay, repines not at thy sentence; Yet, oh! by all on earth, by all hereafter, All that hath cognizance o'er unseen deeds, Blood is a colour stranger to these hands. But there are crimes within me, deep and black, That with their clamorous and tumultuous voices Shout at me," Thou shouldst die, thy sins are deadly:" Nor dare my oppressed heart return," "T is false."
But I, I say, 't is false: he is not guilty: Not guilty unto death: I say he is not. God gave ye hearing, but ye will not hear; God gave ye feeling, but ye will not feel; God gave ye judgment, but ye falsely judge.
Captain Antonio, guard thy prisoner. If it be true, blood is not on thy soul,
Yet thou object'st not to the charge of robbery?
[Fazio bows. Thou dost not. Robbery, by the laws of Florence, Is sternly coded as a deadly crime : Therefore, I say again, Giraldi Fazio, The Lord have mercy on thy sinful soul!
BIANCA (seizing and detaining AURIO). My lord! my lord! we have two babes at home- They cannot speak yet; but, your name, my lord, And they shall lisp it, ere they lisp mine own- Ere that poor culprit's yonder, their own father's. Befriend us, oh, befriend us! 'Tis a title Heaven joys at, and the hard and savage earth Doth break its sullen nature to delight in- The destitute's sole friend And thou pass too! Why, what a common liar was thy face, That said the milk of mercy flow'd within thee!- Ye're all alike.-Off! off! Ye're all alike.
Oh yes, oh yes! There'll be a dawn to-morrow [Exeunt all but Fazio, the Officer, and BIANCA. Will steal upon us. Then, oh then BIANCA (creeping to FAZIO).
Thou wilt not spurn me, wilt not trample on me, Wilt let me touch thee—I, whose lips have slain thee? Oh, look not on me thus with that fond look Pamper me not, for long and living grief To prey upon -Oh, curse me, Fazio —
Kill me with cursing: I am thin and feeble A word will crush me - any thing but kindness.
Oh, think not on't!- And thou remember'st too that beauteous evening Upon the Arno; how we sail'd along,
And laugh'd to see the stately towers of Florence Waver and dance in the blue depth beneath us.
How carelessly thy unretiring hand Abandon'd its soft whiteness to my pressure!
Oh, what a life must theirs be, those poor innocents! When they have grown up to a sense of sorrow— Oh, what a feast will they be for rude misery! Honest men's boys and girls, whene'er they mingle, Will spurn them with the black and branded title, "The murderer's children." Infamy will pin That pestilent label on their backs; the plague-spot Will bloat and blister on them till their death-beds; And if they beg for beggars they must be- They'll drive them from their doors with cruel jeers Upon my riches, villanously style them "The children of Lord Fazio, the philosopher."
To-morrow will the cry begin, to-morrow.- It must not be, and I sit idle here.
Fazio, there must be in this wide, wide city Piercing and penetrating eyes for truth, Souls not too proud, too cold, too stern for mercy. I'll hunt them out, and swear them to our service. I'll raise up something -Oh, I know not what Shall boldly startle the rank air of Florence With proclamation of thy innocence. I'll raise the dead! I'll conjure up the ghost Of that old rotten thing, Bartolo; make it
Cry out i' the market place, "Thou didst not slay him!"
Farewell, farewell! If in the walls of Florence Be any thing like hope or comfort, Fazio,
I'll clasp it with such strong and steadfast arms, I'll drag it to thy dungeon, and make laugh This silence with strange uncouth sounds of joy.
FALSETTO, DANDOLO, PHILARIO.
Good Signior Dandolo, here's a prodigal waste Of my fair speeches to the sage philosopher. I counted on at least a two months' diet, Besides stray boons of horses, rings, and jewels.
Oh my Falsetto, a coat of my fashion
Come to the wheel!- it wrings my very heart, To fancy how the seams will crack, or haply The hangman will be seen in 't!-That I should live To be purveyor of the modes to a hangman! Enter BIANCA.
They pass me by on the other side of the street; They spurn me from their doors; they load the air With curses that are flung on me: the Palace, The Ducal Palace, that should aye be open To voice of the distress'd, as is God's heaven, Is ring'd around with grim and armed savages, That with their angry weapons smite me back, As though I came with fire in my hand, to burn The royal walls: the children in the streets Break off their noisy games to hoot at me; And the dogs from the porches howl me on. But here's a succour.—(To Falsetto.) Oh, good sir, thy
To waste a breath (Detaining them) upon such thinblown bubbles!
Why, thou didst cling to him but yesterday, As 't were a danger of thy life to part from him; Didst swear it was a sin in Providence
He was not born a prince. (To Dandolo.) And thou, sir, thou
Chains, sir, in May-it is a heavy wear, Hard and unseemly, a rude weight of iron.- Faugh! cast ye off this shape and skin of men ; Ye stain it, ye pollute it: be the reptiles Ye are. (To Philario.) And thou, sir-I know whose porch
He hired thee to troll out thy fulsome ditties: I know whose dainty ears were last night banqueted With the false harlotry of thy rich airs.
I do beseech thee, lady, judge me not
The prime of Florence wait upon thy smiles, Like sunflowers on the golden light they love. Thy lips have such sweet melody, 't is hung upon Till silence is an agony. Did it plead For one condemn'd, but oh, most innocent,
So harshly. In the state, Heaven knows, I'm power- "T would be a music th' air would fall in love with,
And never let it die, till it had won
Nay think, oh think, What 't is to give again a forfeit life: Ay, such a life as Fazio's!- Frown not on me: Thou think'st that he's a murderer-'t is all false, A trick of Fortune, fancifully cruel,
To cheat the world of such a life as Fazio's.
Frivolous and weak: I could not if I would. BIANCA.
Nay, but I'll lure thee with so rich a boon- Hear,- hear, and thou art won. If thou dost save him,
It is but just he should be saved for thee. I give him thee- Bianca - I his wife:- 1 pardon all that has been, all that may be Oh I will be thy handmaid; be so patient- Calmly, contentedly, and sadly patient- And if ye see a pale or envious motion Upon my cheek, a quivering on my lips, Like to complaint- then strike him dead before me Thou shalt enjoy all—all that I enjoy'd :
His love, his life, his sense, his soul be thine; And I will bless thee, in my misery bless thee.
What mist is on thy wild and wandering eyes? Know'st thou to whom and where thou play'st the
I, Aldabella, whom the amorous homage Of rival lords and princes stirs no more
Than the light passing of the common air
I, Aldabella, when my voice might make Thrones render up their stateliest to my service- Stoop to the sordid sweepings of a prison? I-
Nay, stand not with thy pale lips quivering nothings- Proud-lipp'd woman, earth's most gorgeous soveSpeak out, and freely.
Were worthless of my Fazio! Foolish woman,
Thou cast'st a jewel off! The proudest lord That ever revell'd in thy unchaste arms, Was a swarth galley-slave to Fazio.
Ah me! me! me! e'en I his lawful wife Know't not more truly, certainly than thou- Hadst thou loved him, I had pardon'd, pitied thee: We two had sate, all coldly, palely sad; Dropping, like statues on a fountain-side, A pure, a silent, and eternal dew.
Hadst thou ontwept me, I had loved thee for 't- And that were easy, for I'm stony here. (Putting her
« ПретходнаНастави » |