Ugolino/Act 1 Scene 3
< Ugolino
SCENE III.—Outside of the Marquis de Monteno's Palace, the interior illuminated. Music is heard playing within. Groups of Maskers pass over the Stage and enter the palace. Dark stage.
Enter Count Ugolino and Angelica, l. f. e. the latter in a Page's dress.
Count. I tell thee Julio, 'tis impossible—
Thou couldst not hear aright—what? wed to-morrow!
Will she scarce suffer the cold earth to close
Above her father's corse before she breaks
In sunder the fond chain he vainly thought
His aged hands had fasten'd round our souls;
And will she then, contemptuous of remorse
For one, whom she hath forced in haste to close
The book of joy forever, and to read
His bitter lesson in the ugly scroll,
Of heart-consuming grief: will she—O, hell!
Will she, who seem'd made up of gentleness,
Of loving charity, and sweet compassion,
Thrust with rude hand the barbed sting of scorn,
Into the green wounds of neglected love?
It is impossible. [Crosses to l.
Ang. Indeed my lord,
The Marquis de Serassi and the Countess,
In close communion. but this morn I heard,
Fix on to-morrow for their wedding day.
Olympia for a while, indeed, hung back,
Pleaded her father's late decease—Your suit,
But newly silenc'd—the necessity
To let these matters wear their strangeness off,
And grow familiar to the public ear,
Ere gossip fame should cram it with the news
Of vows between Serassi and herself,
At holy altar made—but all in vain—
The Marquis urg'd his love with so much warmth,
That she who doubtless such excuses framed,
But for the joy of hearing them o'eruled,
Consented blushingly, that they should meet
To-morrow, after vespers in the church
Of the miracoli.
Count. Julio! They shall meet;
But how—how, Julio? not with kindling cheeks,
And throbbing hearts—not in the gaudy garb,
By bride and bridegroom worn—The fest'ring shroud
Shall be their wedding garment, the dark grave,
Their marriage bed. The worm their only guest
Hark, thee, good Julio! Dost thou love thy master?
Ang. Has Julio liv'd to hear thee doubt his love?
Count. Forgive me, Julio—but it seems a riddle,
That thou should'st love me, whilst the sun of fortune
Pour'd its full beams upon me, was not wond'rous,
Then I was Ugolino, thy rich master;
Happy myself, the cause of joy in others;
But now that ray has set, and the false herd,
That doff'd the hat, and bent the supple knee,
Pass me, as summer winds the blighted oak,
Amidst whose branches, when with foliage clad,
They sung and revell'd thro the sunny day!
That thou should'st love me still, appears so strange,
So much unlike the practice of the world—
Away! away, boy! seek some wealthier lord,
I cannot pay thee for thy service now. [Crosses to r.
Ang. O, my good lord, drive not poor Julio from thee,
I ask no payment, let me follow still
Thy fortunes, still be near thee, watch thine eyes,
And from them learn thy will ere it be spoken.
Count. Ha! learn it from mine eyes—observe them now,
Canst read my will, boy? Julio! would thou couldst,
'Twould save my lips a labor which they loath.
Ang. O, they look terrible! I know not what
May be their import; but they make one shudder!
Count. He!—He comes here to-night—I cannot name him.
Were I to utter his detested title,
My tongue would blister with't—He—to these walls,
These mirth resounding bow'rs laughing comes—
Take this, good Julio, [gives him a purse.] hasten and provide
Thyself with some disguise—that done, return,
Bearing thy lute with thee to this gay scene,
And mingle with the Maskers—watch his steps,
And should he leave the crowd, attract his notice,
With some like lay, or sibyl like expression.
Lure him with hints of meeting with his love,
Or any specious tale thy wit may frame,
To the Rialto's foot—He shall not need
A guide on his return.
Ang. Thou wilt not murder him?
Count. My hate's athirst, his blood alone can slake it!
Wilt do my bidding?
Ang. Oh, my lord, I dare not!
Count. Fool that I was to build upon thy love—
Out—but my sword! thou art my only friend.
Here will I wait his coming, 'midst the swarm
Of silken fools that buz around his steps,
This blade shall seek his heart, and from its core
Pluck forth—Revenge! thy purple sacrifice. [Crosses to l.
Ang. [aside.] Ha! this must be prevented—I perforce,
Must seem to yield consent [aloud.] O, think my lord,
If here you should attack him midst his friends,
How many ready swords may fence him round,
And mar your purpose—Dreadful though it be
Your will shall be obey'd—Serassi's life
I hold but as a rush, when weigh'd against your safety.
Put up your sword, my lord—
Count. If thou deceive me—
Ang. Then let your fury also light on me.
Count. It shall, by every wrong that goads my soul!
Therefore be warn’d, boy—sport not with my rage,
Think of it, as a serpent coild about thee,
Shrink but in thought, it stings to death. [Exit Count, l.
Ang. What's to be done? unhappy that I am!
I have but laid my woman's garb aside.
A woman's heart still beats within my breast.
O, Ugolino! deeply as thou'st wrong'd me,
And fervently as I have pray'd for vengeance,
Now that my slightest breath had power to crush thee,
Love—Which thy cruelty had banish'd hence,
Comes rushing back and melts my hate to pity—
Think of thy rage as of a serpent round me!
Alas! the worst of serpents was thy love.
I knew not, I but saw,
Its beauteous hues, and playful undulations,
I felt it twine around my heart,
Nor dream'd of mischief till it fled and left,
The deadly poison of its sting within it—
The thought hath roused me faithless Ugolino!
Yes, thou shalt feel an injured woman's vengeance;
But it is not blood I thirst for—no—my aim
Is but to kill the vices which deface thee.
Serassi must be saved—but how? I'll lead him
To the Rialto's foot—a letter dropp'd
In old Monteno's path, shall breed suspicion,
And bring his servants to the spot. Occasion
Must prompt my further steps. Some one approaches.
'Tis he, I'll note his dress,—aye, as I guessed,
Friends with him. [Stands aside, r.
Count. I tell thee Julio, 'tis impossible—
Thou couldst not hear aright—what? wed to-morrow!
Will she scarce suffer the cold earth to close
Above her father's corse before she breaks
In sunder the fond chain he vainly thought
His aged hands had fasten'd round our souls;
And will she then, contemptuous of remorse
For one, whom she hath forced in haste to close
The book of joy forever, and to read
His bitter lesson in the ugly scroll,
Of heart-consuming grief: will she—O, hell!
Will she, who seem'd made up of gentleness,
Of loving charity, and sweet compassion,
Thrust with rude hand the barbed sting of scorn,
Into the green wounds of neglected love?
It is impossible. [Crosses to l.
Ang. Indeed my lord,
The Marquis de Serassi and the Countess,
In close communion. but this morn I heard,
Fix on to-morrow for their wedding day.
Olympia for a while, indeed, hung back,
Pleaded her father's late decease—Your suit,
But newly silenc'd—the necessity
To let these matters wear their strangeness off,
And grow familiar to the public ear,
Ere gossip fame should cram it with the news
Of vows between Serassi and herself,
At holy altar made—but all in vain—
The Marquis urg'd his love with so much warmth,
That she who doubtless such excuses framed,
But for the joy of hearing them o'eruled,
Consented blushingly, that they should meet
To-morrow, after vespers in the church
Of the miracoli.
Count. Julio! They shall meet;
But how—how, Julio? not with kindling cheeks,
And throbbing hearts—not in the gaudy garb,
By bride and bridegroom worn—The fest'ring shroud
Shall be their wedding garment, the dark grave,
Their marriage bed. The worm their only guest
Hark, thee, good Julio! Dost thou love thy master?
Ang. Has Julio liv'd to hear thee doubt his love?
Count. Forgive me, Julio—but it seems a riddle,
That thou should'st love me, whilst the sun of fortune
Pour'd its full beams upon me, was not wond'rous,
Then I was Ugolino, thy rich master;
Happy myself, the cause of joy in others;
But now that ray has set, and the false herd,
That doff'd the hat, and bent the supple knee,
Pass me, as summer winds the blighted oak,
Amidst whose branches, when with foliage clad,
They sung and revell'd thro the sunny day!
That thou should'st love me still, appears so strange,
So much unlike the practice of the world—
Away! away, boy! seek some wealthier lord,
I cannot pay thee for thy service now. [Crosses to r.
Ang. O, my good lord, drive not poor Julio from thee,
I ask no payment, let me follow still
Thy fortunes, still be near thee, watch thine eyes,
And from them learn thy will ere it be spoken.
Count. Ha! learn it from mine eyes—observe them now,
Canst read my will, boy? Julio! would thou couldst,
'Twould save my lips a labor which they loath.
Ang. O, they look terrible! I know not what
May be their import; but they make one shudder!
Count. He!—He comes here to-night—I cannot name him.
Were I to utter his detested title,
My tongue would blister with't—He—to these walls,
These mirth resounding bow'rs laughing comes—
Take this, good Julio, [gives him a purse.] hasten and provide
Thyself with some disguise—that done, return,
Bearing thy lute with thee to this gay scene,
And mingle with the Maskers—watch his steps,
And should he leave the crowd, attract his notice,
With some like lay, or sibyl like expression.
Lure him with hints of meeting with his love,
Or any specious tale thy wit may frame,
To the Rialto's foot—He shall not need
A guide on his return.
Ang. Thou wilt not murder him?
Count. My hate's athirst, his blood alone can slake it!
Wilt do my bidding?
Ang. Oh, my lord, I dare not!
Count. Fool that I was to build upon thy love—
Out—but my sword! thou art my only friend.
Here will I wait his coming, 'midst the swarm
Of silken fools that buz around his steps,
This blade shall seek his heart, and from its core
Pluck forth—Revenge! thy purple sacrifice. [Crosses to l.
Ang. [aside.] Ha! this must be prevented—I perforce,
Must seem to yield consent [aloud.] O, think my lord,
If here you should attack him midst his friends,
How many ready swords may fence him round,
And mar your purpose—Dreadful though it be
Your will shall be obey'd—Serassi's life
I hold but as a rush, when weigh'd against your safety.
Put up your sword, my lord—
Count. If thou deceive me—
Ang. Then let your fury also light on me.
Count. It shall, by every wrong that goads my soul!
Therefore be warn’d, boy—sport not with my rage,
Think of it, as a serpent coild about thee,
Shrink but in thought, it stings to death. [Exit Count, l.
Ang. What's to be done? unhappy that I am!
I have but laid my woman's garb aside.
A woman's heart still beats within my breast.
O, Ugolino! deeply as thou'st wrong'd me,
And fervently as I have pray'd for vengeance,
Now that my slightest breath had power to crush thee,
Love—Which thy cruelty had banish'd hence,
Comes rushing back and melts my hate to pity—
Think of thy rage as of a serpent round me!
Alas! the worst of serpents was thy love.
I knew not, I but saw,
Its beauteous hues, and playful undulations,
I felt it twine around my heart,
Nor dream'd of mischief till it fled and left,
The deadly poison of its sting within it—
The thought hath roused me faithless Ugolino!
Yes, thou shalt feel an injured woman's vengeance;
But it is not blood I thirst for—no—my aim
Is but to kill the vices which deface thee.
Serassi must be saved—but how? I'll lead him
To the Rialto's foot—a letter dropp'd
In old Monteno's path, shall breed suspicion,
And bring his servants to the spot. Occasion
Must prompt my further steps. Some one approaches.
'Tis he, I'll note his dress,—aye, as I guessed,
Friends with him. [Stands aside, r.
Enter Serassi, Caliari, and Orsino, with dominoes and masks, l.
Orsi. Not I, faith—I have no taste for masking,
So, here I leave you,—Signors, both good even. [Going l.
Ser. Nay; but you must,—we will not part with you.
Come, come, you must along.
Orsi. Hark, ye, Serassi!
Had I your receipt for making love,
And could hope equal sport amongst these fair ones,
I would not baulk you—but I know full well,
That where you angle, I shall catch no fish.
I'll ride, run, fence, game, drink with any one;
But for a soft tale in a wench's ear,
I am no match for you. I'll wager now,
A purse of fifty ducats, you have here
No less than ten appointments.
Ser. By my life!
Or by my lady's glove, an oath more suitable,
You do me wrong, Orsino. Two fair eyes,
Have thrown so strong a spell about my heart,
That save their own, the brightest looks fall forceless,
As wintry sunbeams on a frozen lake
That wanton on't, but thaw not. I should hold it
Treason most foul, to her, my lady liege,
Were I to throw away but one poor sigh
Upon the fairest she, that ever themed
A lover's rhapsody.
Ang. [Aside.] I shall remember it. [Exit Angel., l.
Cali. What say you, now, Orsino—will you come?
Orsi. No—I'll to bed, sleep and dream of seeing
Serassi in a Friar's cloak and cowl,
Or anything that's most improbable,
'Twill be a proper sequel to his fable,
Of love and constancy.
Enter Servant, s. e. r.
Serv. My lord! My lord Serassi! [Quickly spoken.
Orsi. Grammercy, friend, what's lost? thou seem'st the crier.
Some lady's reputation stolen away, or is't
The conscience of a not’ry that's mislaid?
Serv. Your pardon,
I would speak with the Marquis.
Cali. There he stands.
Ser. What would'st thou?
Serv. Sir, my lady bade me haste,
And if you had not enter'd the Palazzo,
To pray you to return: this note, my lord,
Will further speak her wishes. [Gives a note.
Orsi. Look you, there, now,
Her ladyship's opinion jumps with mine;
She fears, you see, to trust him.
Ser. Tell the Countess,
I will return upon the instant.—[Exit Servant, r.] Gentlemen,
'Tis now my turn to be a runaway—
I must beseech you, grant me these two favors,
To pardon my abrupt departure, and
T'excuse me to our noble friend, Monteno.
Orsi. Hold thee, a little. I've a thought, Serassi,
There is no need t'excuse you to Monteno:
Since you must needs go worship your fair idol,
Lend me your mask and dominoes! o'er heaven!
I'll pass amongst these revellers for you,
And if I am not hail'd at every step,
With, "So, you're come," and, "My own dear Marquis,"
And, "I have waited for you,"
And, "Sweet Serassi."
And twenty of these sugar plum beginnings,
I'll scrape a one string'd fiddle at thy wedding.
Ser. With all my heart—here, take them; Caliari,
Thou shalt be judge if he has guess'd aright.
[Gives mask and dominoes to Orsino.
Cali. I will report his progress faithfully.
Ser. Farewell, then, friends. I leave you to your glee,
That way leads you to pleasure, this way, me. [Exit. r.
Orsi. Now, sir, have with you, mind you name me often,
And Marquis me whene'er a lady passes,
Heav'n help me! what a shoal of petticoats,
Shall I have to encounter; but Corragis!
The spirit of Serassi dwells within
This dominoe and mask, I feel inspired!
Come, Caliari, pry'thee, let's away,
Cupid commands, and who shall disobey? [Exeunt through opening.
END OF ACT I.
Orsi. Not I, faith—I have no taste for masking,
So, here I leave you,—Signors, both good even. [Going l.
Ser. Nay; but you must,—we will not part with you.
Come, come, you must along.
Orsi. Hark, ye, Serassi!
Had I your receipt for making love,
And could hope equal sport amongst these fair ones,
I would not baulk you—but I know full well,
That where you angle, I shall catch no fish.
I'll ride, run, fence, game, drink with any one;
But for a soft tale in a wench's ear,
I am no match for you. I'll wager now,
A purse of fifty ducats, you have here
No less than ten appointments.
Ser. By my life!
Or by my lady's glove, an oath more suitable,
You do me wrong, Orsino. Two fair eyes,
Have thrown so strong a spell about my heart,
That save their own, the brightest looks fall forceless,
As wintry sunbeams on a frozen lake
That wanton on't, but thaw not. I should hold it
Treason most foul, to her, my lady liege,
Were I to throw away but one poor sigh
Upon the fairest she, that ever themed
A lover's rhapsody.
Ang. [Aside.] I shall remember it. [Exit Angel., l.
Cali. What say you, now, Orsino—will you come?
Orsi. No—I'll to bed, sleep and dream of seeing
Serassi in a Friar's cloak and cowl,
Or anything that's most improbable,
'Twill be a proper sequel to his fable,
Of love and constancy.
Enter Servant, s. e. r.
Serv. My lord! My lord Serassi! [Quickly spoken.
Orsi. Grammercy, friend, what's lost? thou seem'st the crier.
Some lady's reputation stolen away, or is't
The conscience of a not’ry that's mislaid?
Serv. Your pardon,
I would speak with the Marquis.
Cali. There he stands.
Ser. What would'st thou?
Serv. Sir, my lady bade me haste,
And if you had not enter'd the Palazzo,
To pray you to return: this note, my lord,
Will further speak her wishes. [Gives a note.
Orsi. Look you, there, now,
Her ladyship's opinion jumps with mine;
She fears, you see, to trust him.
Ser. Tell the Countess,
I will return upon the instant.—[Exit Servant, r.] Gentlemen,
'Tis now my turn to be a runaway—
I must beseech you, grant me these two favors,
To pardon my abrupt departure, and
T'excuse me to our noble friend, Monteno.
Orsi. Hold thee, a little. I've a thought, Serassi,
There is no need t'excuse you to Monteno:
Since you must needs go worship your fair idol,
Lend me your mask and dominoes! o'er heaven!
I'll pass amongst these revellers for you,
And if I am not hail'd at every step,
With, "So, you're come," and, "My own dear Marquis,"
And, "I have waited for you,"
And, "Sweet Serassi."
And twenty of these sugar plum beginnings,
I'll scrape a one string'd fiddle at thy wedding.
Ser. With all my heart—here, take them; Caliari,
Thou shalt be judge if he has guess'd aright.
[Gives mask and dominoes to Orsino.
Cali. I will report his progress faithfully.
Ser. Farewell, then, friends. I leave you to your glee,
That way leads you to pleasure, this way, me. [Exit. r.
Orsi. Now, sir, have with you, mind you name me often,
And Marquis me whene'er a lady passes,
Heav'n help me! what a shoal of petticoats,
Shall I have to encounter; but Corragis!
The spirit of Serassi dwells within
This dominoe and mask, I feel inspired!
Come, Caliari, pry'thee, let's away,
Cupid commands, and who shall disobey? [Exeunt through opening.
END OF ACT I.