Classic Poem

Scene I. — A Garden of Diana's Villa .

Enter R ONDINELLI , C OLONNA , and D A R IVA .

Col. I pray thee, Antonio, be comforted.
Ron. I am, I am; as far as friends can comfort me:
And they do comfort. How can I love love,
And not love all things lovely? sweet discourse,
And kindness, and dear friendships. But this suffering
Sweet saint, — the man, the household fiend, I mean —
Will kill her.
Col. I tell thee, no. In the first place
Her health is really better. Is it not?
Riva . Olimpia and Diana both have staked
Their credit on it. The man 's a fool no doubt,
But she is wise.
Col. Ay, is she; for lo! secondly,
She loves thee, Antonio.
Riva . Yes; by that pure look
We told thee of, at mention of thy name,
She does: — it was as though her mind retreated
To some blest, serious thought, far off but possible;
Then ended with a sigh.
Col. And blushed withal.
( Aside .) I did not see the blush, I must confess;
But being so virtuous, there must have been one,
And he'll be glad to hear of it ( Aloud .) Well, seeing
She loves thee then, as thou must needs believe,
For all that modest earthquake of thine head,
Bethink thee what a life within a life
She has to retire into, sweet and secret,
For help from common temper such as his;
Help, none the worse, eh? for a small, small bit
Of stubbornness, such as the best gentle wives
Must have in self-defence. Now — —
Ron. Fear me not
Such blessed thoughts must needs give me some comfort:
And I shan't quarrel with the comfort's fashion.
Col. Well then, you'll let me have my fashion out?
You'll let me speak after my old blithe mood,
Secure of my good meaning?
Ron. Ay, and thankfully.
Col. Why then, sir, look; there are a hundred marriages
In Florence, and a hundred more to those,
And hundreds to those hundreds, bad as this;
As ill assorted, and as lover-hated;
(Always allowing for the nobler difference,
And therefore greater power to bear;) and yet
They do not kill; partly, because of lovers;
Partly, of pride; partly, indifference;
Partly, of hate, (a good staunch long-lived passion;)
Partly, because all know the common case,
And custom's custom. There'll be a hundred couples
To-night, 'twixt Porta Pinti and San Gallo,
Cutting each other's hearts out with mild looks,
Upon the question, whether the Pope's mule
Will be in purple or scarlet; — yet not one
Will die of it; no, 'faith; nor were a death
To happen, would the survivors eyes refuse
A tear to their old disputant and partner,
That kept life moving somehow.
Ron. By which logic,
You would infer, to comfort me, that all
Marriages are unhappy.
Col. Not unhappy,
Although not very happy.
Riva . With exceptions?
Col. Surely — — for such good fellows as ourselves!
Riva . And doubtless
A time will come — —
Col. Oh, ay; a time will come —
Poet and prophet — Redeunt Saturnia regna
Now hear him on his favourite golden theme,
" A time will come;" — a time, eh? when all marriages
Shall be like some few dozen; exceptions, rules;
Every day, Sunday; and each man's pain in the head
A crowning satisfaction!
Riva . No; but still
A time, when sense and reason shall have grown
As much more rife than now, and foolish thorns
As much less in request, as we, now living,
Surpass rude times and savage ancestors
Improvement stopped not at the muddy cave,
Why at the rush-strewn room? The wild man's dream,
Or what he might have dreamt, when at his wildest,
Is, to the civilized man, his commonplace:
And what should time so reverence in ourselves,
As, in his due good course, not still to alter?
Col. Till chariots run some twenty miles an hour?
Riva . Ay, thirty or forty.
Col. Oh! oh! Without horses?
Say, without horses.
Riva . Well, to oblige you, — yes.
Col. And sailing-boats without a sail! Ah, ha!
Well, glory be to poetry and to poets!
Their cookery is no mincing! Ah! ha! ha!
They certainly, while they're about it, do
Cut and carve worlds out with their golden swords,
To which poor Alexander's was a pumpkin
What say you, Antonio?
Ron. My dear friends both,
What you were saying of the good future time
Made me but think too sadly of the present;
Pardon me — I should think more sadly far,
But for your loves and ever generous patience.
Yet let me take you back to our fair friends,
From whom my gusty griefs bore you away.
Nay, my good wish rewards me: — see, one comes.

Enter O LIMPIA .

Olim. A certain Giulio, in a pretty grief
Though for himself alone, and not another,
Inquires for Signor Rondinelli.
'Twas lucky that I saw this Giulio first,
For he 's a page of pages; a Spartan boy; —
Quite fixed on telling his beloved Signor
Antonio all the truths which the said Signor
May now, or at any time in all futurity,
Insist on knowing. Poor fellow! he 's turned away.
Riva . For what?
Olim. Come in,
And you shall hear. Your ices and sherbets
Await you; and your cheeks will need the cooling.
Scene II. — A chamber hung with purple, and containing a cabinet picture of the Madonna, but otherwise little furnished G INEVRA discovered sitting at a window .

Enter A GOLANTI .

Ago. Every way she opposes me, even with arms
Of peace and love. I bade remove that picture
From this deserted room. Can she have had it
Brought back this instant, knowing how my anger,
Just though it be, cannot behold unmoved
The face of suffering heaven? Oh artifice
In very piety! 'twere piety to veil it
From our discourse, and look another way.
Gin. ( cheerfully ). The world seems glad after its hearty drink
Of rain. I feared when you came back this morning,
The shower had stopped you, or that you were ill.
Ago. You feared! you hoped. What fear you that I fear,
Or hope for that I hope for? A truce, madam,
To these exordiums and pretended interests,
Whose only shallow intent is to delay,
Or to divert, the sole dire subject, — me.
Soh! you would see the spectacle! you, who start
At openings of doors, and falls of pins.
Trumpets and drums quiet a lady's nerves;
And a good hacking blow at a tournament
Equals burnt feathers or hartshorn, for a stimulus
To pretty household tremblers.
Gin. I expressed
No wish to see the tournament, nor indeed
Anything, of my own accord; or contrary
To your good judgement.
Ago. Oh, of course not. Wishes
Are never expressed for, or by, contraries;
Nor the good judgement of an anxious husband
Held forth as a pleasant thing to differ with.
Gin. It is as easy as sitting in my chair,
To say I will not go: and I will not.
Be pleased to think that settled.
Ago. The more easily,
As 'tis expected I should go, is it not?
And then you will sit at happy receipt
Of letters from Antonio Rondinelli.
Gin. Returned unopened, sir.
Ago. How many?
Gin. Three.
Ago. You are correct, as to those three. How many
Opened? — Your look, madam, is wondrous logical;
Conclusive by mere pathos of astonishment;
And crammed with scorn, from pure unscornfulness.
I have, 'tis true, strong doubts of your regard
For him, or any one; — of your love of power
None, — as you know I have reason; — tho' you take
Ways of refined provokingness to wreak it.
Antonio knows these fools you saw but now,
And fools have foolish friendships, and bad leagues
For getting a little power, not natural to them,
Out of their laughed-at betters. Be it as it may,
All this, I will not have these prying idlers
Put my domestic troubles to the blush;
Nor you sit thus, in ostentatious meekness,
Playing the victim with a pretty breath,
And smiles that say " God help me" — Well, madam,
What do you say?
Gin. I say I will do whatever
You think best, and desire.
Ago. And make the worst of it
By whatsoever may mislead, and vex?
There — now you make a pretty sign, as tho'
Your silence were compelled
Gin. What can I say,
Or what, alas! not say, and not be chided?
You should not use me thus. I have not strength for it,
So great as you may think. My late sharp illness
Has left me weak.
Ago. I've known you weaker, madam,
But never feeble enough to want the strength
Of contest and perverseness. Oh, men too,
Men may be weak, even from the magnanimity
Of strength itself; and women can take poor
Advantages, that were in men but cowardice.
Gin. ( aside ). Dear Heaven! what humblest doubts of our self-knowledge
Should we not feel, when tyranny can talk thus.
Ago. Can you pretend, madam, with your surpassing
Candour and heavenly kindness, that you never
Uttered one gently-sounding word, not meant
To give the hearer pain? me pain? your husband?
Whom in all evil thoughts you so pretend
To be unlike
Gin. I cannot dare pretend it.
I am a woman, not an angel
Ago. Ay,
See there — you have! you own it! how pretend then
To make such griefs of every petty syllable,
Wrung from myself by everlasting scorn?
Gin. One pain is not a thousand; nor one wrong,
Acknowledged and repented of, the habit
Of unprovoked and unrepented years.
Ago. Of unprovoked! Oh, let all provocation
Take every brutish shape it can devise
To try endurance with; taunt it in failure,
Grind it in want, stoop it with family shames,
Make gross the name of mother, call it fool,
Pander, slave, coward, or whatsoever opprobrium
Makes the soul swoon within its rage, for want
Of some great answer, terrible as its wrong,
And it shall be as nothing to this miserable,
Mean, meek-voiced, most malignant lie of lies,
This angel-mimicking non-provocation
From one too cold to enrage, too weak to tread on!
You never loved me once — You loved me not —
Never did — no — not when before the altar
With a mean coldness, a worldly-minded coldness
And lie on your lips, you took me for your husband,
Thinking to have a house, a purse, a liberty,
By, but not for, the man you scorned to love!
Gin. I scorned you not — and knew not what scorn was —
Being scarcely past a child, and knowing nothing
But trusting thoughts and innocent daily habits
Oh, could you trust yourself — But why repeat
What still is thus repeated, day by day,
Still ending with the question, " Why repeat?"

You make the blood at last mount to my brain,
And tax me past endurance. What have I done,
Good God! what have I done, that I am thus
At the mercy of a mystery of tyranny,
Which from its victim demands every virtue,
And brings it none?
Ago. I thank you, madam, humbly,
That was sincere, at least.
Gin. I beg your pardon.
Anger is ever excessive, and speaks wrong.
Ago. This is the gentle, patient, unprovoked,
And unprovoking, never-answering she!
Gin. Nay, nay, say on; — I do deserve it, — I
Who speak such evil of anger, and then am angry.
Yet you might pity me too, being like yourself
In fellowship there at least.
Ago. A taunt in friendliness!
Meekness's happiest condescension!
Gin. No,
So help me Heaven! — I but spoke in consciousness
Of what was weak on both sides. There 's a love
In that, would you but know it, and encourage it.
The consciousness of wrong, in wills not evil,
Brings charity. Be you but charitable,
And I am grateful, and we both shall learn.
Ago. I am conscious of no wrong in this dispute,
Nor when we dispute ever, — except the wrong
Done to myself by a will far more wilful,
Because less moved, and less ingenuous
Let them get charity that show it.
Gin. ( who has reseated herself ). I pray you,
Let Fiordilisa come to me. My lips
Will show you that I faint.
Ago. When you have seen your mistress well again,
Go to Matteo, and tell him, from herself,
That 'tis her orders she be excused at present
To all that come, her state requiring it,
And convalescence. Mark you that addition.
She 's getting well; but to get well, needs rest.
Fior. Needs rest! Alas! When will you let her rest,
But in her grave? my lady! My sweet mistress!
She knows me. — He has gone: — the Signor's gone.
( Aside .) She sighs as though she mourned him.
Gin. ( listening ). What 's that?
Fior. Nothing, madam; — I heard nothing.
Gin. Everything
Gives me a painful wonder; — you, your face,
These walls. My hand seems to me not more human,
Than animal; and all things unaccountable
'Twill pass away. What 's that?
Fior. Yes, I hear that;
'Tis Father Anselmo, madam, in the chapel,
Touching the new organ. In truth, I asked him;
Thinking that as the Signor is so moved
By whatsoever speaks to him of religion,
It might have done no harm to you, and him, madam,
To hear it while conversing. But he 's old
And slow, is the good father.
Gin. Thank Heaven! thank Heaven and the sweet sounds! I have not
Wept, Fiordilisa, now, for many a day,
And the sound freshens me; — loosens my heart
O blessed music! at thy feet we lie,
Pitied of angels surely.
Fior. Perhaps, madam,
You will rest here, and try to sleep awhile?
Gin. No, Fiordilisa ( rising ). Meeting what must be,
Is half commanding it; and in this breath
Of heaven, my mind feels duty set erect,
Fresh out of tears. Bed is for night, not day,
When duty's done. So cheer we as we may.