Dramas (Baillie)/The Separation/Act 4

by Joanna Baillie

ACT IV.

SCENE I.—An Ante-room: Rovani discovered pacing to and fro.

ROVANI.

Their conference is long. The gentle Hermit
Has had, I fear, no easy task.—He comes!

Enter Hermit.

Save thee, good Father! hath thy shriving sped?
How is thy penitent?

HERMIT.

Better, I hope: may Heaven preserve his mind

In the meek frame in which I left it. Never,
In all my intercourse with wretched sinners,
Have I with a more keen ungovern'd spirit
Stronger contention held.

ROVANI.

I well believe thee:

For I have seen ere now his spirit strive
In all the restless energy of passion.
Thou hast at last subdued him?

HERMIT.

Thank God, I have! Meek and resigned to Heaven

He now appears. But go to him, my son;
He needs thy presence much. Within an hour
He leaves the castle,—leaves his wife and child;
It is not fit that he should be alone.
Go, good Rovani, and with soothing words
Keep thou his resolution to the bent.

ROVANI.

Ah! such a resolution! Heard I right?

To leave his wife and child?

HERMIT.

Question me not, my son; there is good cause:

'T is meet that he should go.

ROVANI.

Forgive me, Father!

That solemn voice and sorrowing eye too well
Asserts there is a cause,—a fearful cause.
I will obey thee. (Going, but returns again.)
Is there aught further thou would'st have me do?

HERMIT.

He will, perhaps, desire to see his lady;

But till he be prepared to leave the castle,
And take his last farewell, methinks 't were better
They should not meet.

ROVANI.

I understand you, Father.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The Apartment of the Countess, who is discovered sitting on a low seat, her elbows resting on her lap, and her face covered with her clasped hands. She raises her head suddenly, listens for a moment, and then springs from her seat.

COUNTESS.

I am not now deceived. (Goes to the door and listens, then returns.) I heard his steps,—

Yea, and his voice,—and it was nothing. Ah!

My mind and senses so confused are grown,
That all this wretchedness seems like a dream;
A dream, alas! from which there is no waking.
I hear him now: it is a distant step;

I may be yet deceived. (Going near the door, and listening again.) It is, it is!

Heaven give me strength! my trial is at hand!

Enter Garcio, who approaches her, and then stopping short, gazes at her sadly, while she stands with her eyes fixed on the ground.

GARCIO.

Marg'ret, I thought—I hoped—I was persuaded

The farewell yearnings of a broken heart
Would move thee to some pity of my state;

But that averted face, that downcast eye,—
There is abhorrence in it.

COUNTESS.

O no! I fear'd to look; 't is not abhorrence.

(Raises her eyes to him, and shrinks back.)

GARCIO.

What moves thee thus?

COUNTESS.

Alas! thou 'rt greatly alter'd:

So pale thy cheek, thine eyes so quench'd and sunk!
Hath one short night so changed thee?

GARCIO.

A night spent in the tossings of despair,

When the fierce turmoil of contending passions
To deepest self-abasement and contrition,
Subside;—a night in which I have consented
To tear my bosom up—to rend in twain
Its dearest, only ties; ay, such a night
Works on the mortal frame the scathe of years.

COUNTESS.

Alas! thy frame will feel, I fear, too soon

The scathe of years. Sorrow and sickness then
Will bow thee down, while cold unkindly strangers
Neglect thy couch, nor give thee needful succour.

GARCIO.

And wherefore grieve for this? So much the better:

They least befriend the wretched who retard
The hour of his release.—Why should I live
If Heaven accept my penitence? Hath earth
Aught still to raise a wish, or gleam the path
Of one so darken'd round with misery?

COUNTESS.

Nay, say not so: thy child, thy boy, to see him

In strength and stature grown,—would not this tempt thee
To wish some years of life?

GARCIO.

Others shall rear him; others mark his change

From the sweet cherub to the playful boy;
Shall, with such pity as an orphan claims,
Share in his harmless sports and catch his love;
Whilst I, if that I live and am by Heaven
Permitted, coming as a way-worn stranger,
At distant intervals, to gaze upon him,
And strain him to my heart, shall from his eye
The cold and cheerless stare of wonderment
Instead of love receive.

COUNTESS.

O think not so! he shall be taught to love thee;

He shall be taught to lisp thy name, and raise
His little hands to Heaven for blessings on thee
As one most dear, though absent.

GARCIO.

I do believe that thou wilt teach him so.

I know that in my lonely state of penitence,
Sever'd from earthly bliss, I to thy mind
Shall be like one whom death hath purified.
O that, indeed, or death or any suff'rings,
By earthly frame or frameless spirit endured,
Could give me such a nature as again
Might be with thine united!
Could I but forward look and trust to this,
Whatever suff'rings of a lengthen'd life
Before me lay would be to me as nothing;
As the rough billows of some stormy frith,
Upon whose further shore fair regions smile;
As the rent shroudings of a murky cloud,
Thro' which the mountain traveller, as he bends
His mantled shoulders to the pelting storm,
Sees sunny brightness peer. Could I but think—

COUNTESS.

Think it! believe it! with a rooted faith,

Trust to it surely. Deep as thy repentance,
Aspiring be thy faith!

GARCIO.

Ay, were my faith

Strong as my penitence, 't were well indeed.
My scourge and bed of earth would then be temper'd
Almost to happiness.

COUNTESS.

Thy scourge and bed of earth! alas, alas!

And meanest thou then to wreak upon thyself
Such cruel punishment? O no, my Garcio!
God doth accept the sorrow of the heart
Before all studied penance. 'T is not well:
Where'er thou art, live thou with worthy men,
And as becomes thy state.

GARCIO.

No; when from hence a banish'd man I go,

I'll leave behind me all my crime did purchase.
Deprived of thee, its first and dearest meed,
Shall I retain its base and paltry earnings
To live with strangers more regarded? No;
Poor as I was when first my luckless steps
This fatal threshold pass'd,—I will depart.

COUNTESS.

And wilt thou then a houseless wand'rer be?

Shall I, in warm robe wrapp'd, by winter fire
List to the pelting blast, and think the while
Of thy unshelter'd head?—
Or eat my bread in peace, and think that Garcio—
Reduce me not to such keen misery!
(Bursting into an agony of tears.)

GARCIO.

And dost thou still feel so much pity for me?

Retain I yet some portion of thy love?

O, if I do! I am not yet abandoned

To utter reprobation. (Falling at her feet, and embracing her knees?) Margaret! wife!

May I still call thee by that name so dear?

MARGARET (disentangling herself from his hold, and removing to some distance).

O, leave me, leave me! for Heaven's mercy leave me!

GARCIO (following her, and bending one knee to the ground).

Marg'ret, beloved wife! keenly beloved!

COUNTESS.

Oh, move me not! forbear, forbear in pity!

Fearful, and horrible, and dear thou art!
Both heaven and hell are in thee! Leave me then,—
Leave me to do that which is right and holy.

GARCIO.

Yes, what is right and holy thou shalt do;

Stain'd as I am with blood,—with kindred blood,
How could I live with thee? O do not think
I basely seek to move thee from thy purpose.
O, no! Farewell, most dear and honour'd Marg'ret!
Yet, ere I go, could'st thou without abhorrence—
(Pauses.)

COUNTESS.

What would'st thou, Garcio?

GARCIO.

If but that hand beloved were to my lips

Once more in parting press'd, methinks I'd go
With lighten'd misery.—Alas! thou canst not!
Thou canst not to such guilt———

COUNTESS.

I can! I will!

And Heaven in mercy pardon me this sin,

If sin it be. (Embraces him, and after weeping on his neck, breaks suddenly away and exit, while Garcio stands gazing after her.)

GARCIO.

Have I not seen my last?—I've seen my last.

Then wherefore wait I here?—
The world before me lies,—a desert world
In which a banish'd wand'rer I must be.
(A pause.)
Wander from hence, and leave her so defenceless
In these unruly times! I cannot do it!
I'll seem to go, yet hover near her still,
Like spell-bound spirit near th' embalmed dust
It can no more reanimate. Mine eyes
May see her distant form, mine ears may hear
Her sweet voice through the air, while she believes
Kingdoms or seas divide us.

The Hermit is my friend, and I to him—
Rest for the present, eager crowding thoughts!
I must not linger here. [Exit.

SCENE III.

An outer Court of the Castle; an arched Gateway in front with a stone Bench on one side of it.

Enter Ludoviquo, Gauvino, and Pietro, and seat themselves on the bench.

GAUVINO.

The ev'ning breeze will cool us better here.

LUDOVIQUO.

After the sultry day it is refreshing.

PIETRO (to Gauvino).

Well, as I was a-saying to the seneschal,

I wonder that the Count should think of choosing
That noodle Gomez to attend upon him.

GAUVINO.

He has some reason for it, be assured.

LUDOVIQUO.

How so, good Chamberlain?

GAUVINO.

Heaven knows! but this fantastical Rovani,

Whom as his deputy he leaves behind,
Already takes upon him, by my faith!
As if his kingdom were to last for ever.

LUDOVIQUO.

Thou speak'st in spleen; he seems to me right gracious.

GAUVINO.

I say not in the way of tyranny

He takes upon him; 't is his very graciousness,
His condescending vanity I hate.
A vain, assuming coxcomb! Ev'n when Garcio
Frown'd like a master o'er us, yet my heart
Acknowledged him as such, and loved him oft
The better for his sternness.

LUDOVIQUO.

Didst thou? I'm sure full many a time and oft

Thou'st grumbled like a fiend, whene'er his orders,
Too roughly given, have cross'd thy wiser will.

GAUVINO.

Well, well; perhaps I have; yet, ne'ertheless.

Would he were with us still!

PIETRO.

Ay, would he were!

LUDOVIQUO.

Perhaps he'll soon return.

GAUVINO (significantly).

He'll ne'er return.—We'll see him here no more.

LUDOVIQUO.

Why say'st thou so ?

GAUVINO.

I have my reasons: he hath been too prosperous.

PIETRO.

And what of that?

GAUVINO.

The power that has upheld him

Will, when his term is up, dire reck'ning take.

PIETRO.

What dost thou mean?

GAUVINO.

Nay, if thou canst not guess,

I will not utter more.

LUDOVIQUO.

Ha! yonder Gomez comes!

PIETRO.

Gomez, indeed! (All rising to meet him.)

LUDOVIQUO.

His Lord is then return'd.

Enter Gomez.

OMNES.

Return'd already, man! Where is thy master?

LUDOVIQUO.

Is he not with thee?

GOMEZ.

I would he were. I left him some leagues hence;

By his command charged to return again,
And follow him no more. Long I entreated
To be permitted still to share his fate,
But was at last constrain'd to leave him.

GAUVINO.

Ha!

Constrain'd! 't is very strange. Where didst thou leave him?

GOMEZ.

In the dark centre of a gloomy forest,

Dismounting, to my care he gave his steed,
And, as I said before, so strictly charged me,
I was constrain'd to leave him.

GAUVINO.

A dark forest?

LUDOVIQUO.

Saw'st thou where he went?

GOMEZ.

He turn'd away, and I with heavy cheer———

GAUVINO (very eagerly).

Didst thou not look behind thee in retreating

To see what path he took?

GOMEZ.

I look'd behind,

But in a moment lost him from my sight.

GAUVINO (shaking his head).

'T is marvellous strange!

Was there not pit, nor cave, nor flood at hand?

GOMEZ.

Not that I noticed. Why dost shake thy head?

GAUVINO.

He'll never more upon this earth be seen.

Whether or cave, or gulf, or flood receiv'd him,
He is, ere this, I fear, beneath the earth
Full deep enough, reck'ning with him who bought him.

PIETRO.

Reck'ning with him who bought him! Be there then

Such fearful compacts with the wicked power?

GAUVINO.

Have ye not heard of John the Prosperous,

Who, starting at the sound of piping winds,
That burst his chamber door, full sore aghast,
With trembling steps his gorgeous chamber left,

And, by himself in a small boat embark'd,
Wearing his way to the black wheeling eddy
In centre of the lake, which swallow'd him?

PIETRO.

My flesh creeps at the thought?

GOMEZ.

Dost thou believe it?

GAUVINO.

Ay; or what think ye of the Count Avergo,

Who, after years of such successful crimes,
Took leave of all his friends, at warning given
By sound of midnight trumpet at his gate;
Round which, 't is said, a band of plumed spectres,
Whose whiten'd bony jaws and eyeless sockets
Did from their open'd beavers to the moon
Stare horribly, stood ready to receive him?

OMNES.

And went he with them?

GAUVINO.

Ay, certes, did he! for above the ground

With mortal men he never more was seen.
(To Gomez.) But enter, man, and have a stoup of wine;
Thou seemest faint and spent.

OMNES.

Ay, give him wine, for see how pale he is.

PIETRO.

Like one who hath been near unearthly things.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The Garden.

Enter the Countess and Sophera.

SOPHERA (speaking as they enter).

And look, I pray, how sweet and fresh and fragrant

The dewy morning is. There, o'er our heads
The birds conven'd like busy gossips sit,
Trimming their speckled feathers. In the thick
And tufted herbage, with a humming noise
Stirs many a new-waked thing; amongst the grass
Beetles, and lady-birds, and lizards glide,
Showing their shining coats like tinted gold.

COUNTESS.

Yes, all things, in a sunny morn like this,

That social being have and fellowship
With others of their kind, begin the day
Gladly and actively. Ah! how wakes he,
His day of lonesome silence to begin,
Who, of all social intercourse bereft,

On the cold earth hath pass'd the dismal night?
Cheerful domestic stir, nor crowing cock,
Nor greeting friend, nor fawning dog hath he
To give him his good-morrow.

SOPHERA.

Nay, do not let your fancy brood on this.

Think not my Lord, tho' he with Gomez parted
In a lone wood, will wander o'er the earth
In dreary solitude. In every country
Kind hearts are found to cheer the stranger's way.

COUNTESS.

Heaven grant he meet with such!

SOPHERA.

Then be not so cast down. Last night the air

Was still and pleasant; sweetly thro' the trees,
Which moved not, look'd the stars and crescent moon;
The night-bird's lengthen'd call with fitful lapse,
And the soft ceaseless sound of distant rills
Upon the list'ning ear came soothingly;
While the cool freshness of the air was mix'd
With rising odours from the flowery earth.
In such sweet summer nights, be well assured
The unhoused head sleeps soundest.

COUNTESS.

The unhoused head! and Garcio's now is such!

I could not sleep; and, as I paced my chamber,

Alas! thought I, how long a term is night
To lonely watchers! ev'n a summer's night.
And in the lengthen'd gloom of chill December——
Why dost thou move?

SOPHERA.

There is a stranger coming.

COUNTESS.

Perhaps it is some message from my lord.

SOPHERA.

I rather fear it is Tortona's lord.

COUNTESS.

I wish my gate had not been open'd to him.

Will he persist to press his presence on me?

Enter Tortona.

TORTONA.

Pardon me, Madam, this too bold intrusion,

But hov'ring round your walls, like the poor moth
Gilding the fatal flame, I needs must enter.
I was compell'd to do it. May I hope
I see you well as lovely, and inclined,
From the angelic sweetness of your nature,
To pardon me?

COUNTESS.

You still preserve, my Lord, I do perceive,

The bountiful profusion of a tongue
Well stored with courteous words.

TORTONA.

Nay, rather say,

A tongue that is of all expression beggar'd,
That can the inward sentiments declare
Which your angelic presence still inspires.

(Pointing to Sophera.) This lady knows how deep, how true they are.

She did refuse, yet, ne'ertheless, I trust

She bore my secret message to your ear.

SOPHERA.

'T was well for you I did not, good my Lord;

You had not else, I trow, found entrance here.

COUNTESS.

It had, in truth, prevented this presumption.

A secret message, saidst thou, for the ear
Of Garcio's wife!

TORTONA.

And does the man who quits thee,—

Like a dull dolt such heavenly beauty quits,—
Deserve the name of husband? No, sweet Marg'ret;
Gloze not to me thy secret wrongs; I know,
Full well I know them; nor shall formal names
And senseless ties my ardent love repel.
(Catching hold of her hand.)

COUNTESS (shaking him off).

Base and audacious fool! did not thy folly

Almost excuse thy crime, thou shouldst most dearly
Repent this insult. Thinkest thou my lord
Has left me unprotected?—Ho! Rovani!
Move with a quicker step.

Enter Rovani, followed by Gonzalos.

(To Tortona, pointing to Rovani.) Behold, my Lord, the friend of absent Garcio,

And in his absence holder of this castle.

To his fair courtesy, as it is meet,
I now consign you with all due respect;
And so farewell. [Exit, followed by Sophera.

TORTONA.

I might, indeed, have known that modern dames

An absent husband's substitute can find
Right speedily.

ROVANI (aside to Gonzalos).

Jealous of me, I hear.

It makes my soldier's plume more proudly wave
To think such fancies twitch him.
(Aloud to Tortona, advancing to meet him.)
Noble Marquis!
Proud of the lady's honourable charge,
Which to my care entrusts a guest so valued,
Let me entreat you to partake within

Some slight refreshment. After such fatigue,
So early and so gallantly encounter'd,
(Two leagues at least upon an ambling steed
Your morning's hardships fairly maybe reckon'd,)
You must require refreshment.

TORTONA.

Paltry coxcomb!

ROVANI.

Yes, paltry as a coxcomb, good, my Lord,

Compared to greater. Pardon a deficiency
Your presence has occasion'd, and permit
That I conduct you———

TORTONA.

Most contemptible!

Follow me not! My way from this curst place
I'll find without a guide.

ROVANI.

Then be it so,

If it so please you: and, farewell, my Lord,
Until within these walls you shall again
Vouchsafe to honour us.

TORTONA.

Which may be, jeering minion, somewhat sooner

Than thou dost reckon for.

ROVANI.

Whene'er you will, we're ready to receive you.

[Exit Tortona.
He calls me minion: seest thou not, Gonzalos,

Which way suspicion leans? The fool is jealous,—
Jealous of me! Hath any one besides
Harbour'd such foolish fancies?

GONZALOS.

No, by St. Francis! ne'er a soul besides

Hath such a thought conceived, or ever will.

ROVANI.

Thou'rt angry: dost thou think my thoughts are evil?

GONZALOS.

No; evil thoughts thrive not within thy breast,

Valiant Rovani; this I know right well:
But vain ones there a fatt'ning culture find,
And reach a marv'llous growth.

ROVANI.

Well, do not chide; I will with scrup'lous honour

Fulfil my trust; and do but wish my arms
The lady and this castle might defend
Against a worthier foe than that light braggart.

GONZALOS.

But thou know'st well, or ought to know, Rovani,

A braggart may be brave. Faith! were it not
For some small grains of wit and honest worth
Which poor Tortona lacks, thyself and he
In natural temper'ment and spirit are
So nearly match'd, you might twin nestlings be
From the same shell.—Be not so rash, I pray!

Tortona is no coward; and his forces
Greater than thou in ruin'd walls like these
Canst prudently oppose: therefore be wise,
And send for timely aid, lest he surprise thee.

ROVANI.

I will be hang'd before another soldier

Shall be admitted here.

GONZALOS.

See to it then.

ROVANI.

And so I will; it is not thy concern.

[Exit Gonzalos.

ROVANI (alone).

He, too, 'tis manifest, has some suspicion

That Marg'ret favours me. (Muttering, and smiling to himself, then speaking aloud.)

Ay, those same looks. Well, well, and if it be,

It touches not our honour.—Fair advice!
Call in some neighbouring leader of banditti
To share the honour of defending her!
I know his spite. Twin nestlings from the shell
With such a fool! I know his jealous spite,
I will be hang'd before another soldier
Shall cross the bridge or man our moated wall.
[Exit.