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._