Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu, page 865
Have you harboured thought of sin?
BEATRICE. No.
SPALATRO. Come, speak truth, there’s no one by!
(Aside). Pretty parrots, how they lie!
BEATRICE. No, I tell thee, Father, truly.
SPALATRO. Little rogue! why so unruly?
Think you not, I know full well
Many a thing I never tell;
How beneath a windowsill,
Myrtle-shadowed, o’er the water,
Music, on the air of night,
Rises like a sudden light;
And the Noble, pretty daughter,
Ha! the Noble whose disguise
Cheats, perchance, all other eyes,
Is seen as clear, I tell you true,
By me, as he is seen by you.
(Looking upwards.)
BEATRICE. No, Father! Mary! Mother! No!
SPALATRO. Her eyes are innocent. A good dream so,
If it means that you must die.
There, don’t tremble, do not cry,
When the good hour, clothed in fear,
Of endless rapture draweth near,
Be the bless’d one old or young,
A welcome clear
The angels hear
Thro’ all the bells of heaven rung —
’Twas your mother, come to tell
The tidings of that silverous bell.
Why sobbing, child?
BEATRICE. I used to see her always near,
Till the sable veil of care,
Fold by fold bedraping me,
Hid her as the cloud the star.
’Tis some evil— ’tis not she.
Hell’s near us always — heaven so far!
SPALATRO. Ay, heaven so far, yet very near —
The blinking stars that now you see,
How far,
Measured by miles, each star
‘Twixt number and immensity,
Twixt thought and madness — hung they be
So many miles in space tremendous,
The living brain
Contends in vain
To seize the sum stupendous.
Yet those stars
Whose distance Time cannot repeat,
With friendly motion,
Nightly on the breast of ocean
Rock and glimmer at our feet.
(Calling) — Boy! how is it?
BOY (within). Well, but not ripe as yet, so please
you, Father.
SPALATRO (to BEATRICE again).
Not all God, nor yet all devil;
Good commanding useth evil.
Thy open casement courts communion
With the great soul of the night;
And thy spirit, held in union,
Gave sight;
As each flower, its breath exhaling,
Feeds the incense of the night;
So each soul its thought retailing
Tints and streaks its spirit-light.
With each holy aspiration,
Crossing shapes of pain and sin,
Sprung of midnight’s inspiration,
On the outer air steal in.
Thence our dreams their meanings borrow
From the sounds that not in vain,
O’er the shoreless wastes of sorrow,
O’er the furnace of all pain,
Quiver on the sleeping brain.
CHORUS.
For with the mist pale dreams looked in,
Their feet were up and down upon the stair;
Her sleep, as in the grave the sleep of sin,
Without a turning, yet with gasp and scare —
Broke never; for the spirits busy there,
Weighed on her will and made the awful air
Her prison — till she saw the long night out,
And had her warning and her doubt.
SPALATRO. I fain would help thee — only be thou frank;
Under the sacred seal — behold the tonsure.
(He withdraws his cowl.)
Thou may’st tell all; and in my ear ’tis locked
As in a kist of adamant. Besides,
My art hath told me much concerning thee.
Thou hast a lover — rogue! ah, ah! — who comes
Rowing his gondola, alone — by night,
By day — whene’er he knows old Leonardo
Is out o’ the way. He loves thee well; and thou
Lov’st him. See, I know all, or next to all.
Come, daughter, hath he talked of marriage? Say.
BEATRICE. He hath.
SPALATRO. And thou’st consented?
BEATRICE. Yes.
SPALATRO. ’Tis well —
’Tis very well! But say the day and hour,
If he hath named them, and I’ll tell thee straight
If the stars favour thee. Nay, pretty child,
Dost fear to tell me?
BEATRICE. NO, good Father, no —
Heaven knows I trust thee. He will come tonight
At twelve o’clock, and in his gondola
Convey me where a priest shall wed us.
SPALATRO. Good!
I’m glad — I’m very glad. At twelve o’clock,
No sooner, thou art sure? — ha, well! Alone, too
’Tis good. Then let me see thy hand. It is
A good hand, wench! and fortunate; the thumb
Is Venus, and these lines converging, good —
And this cross line quite excellent, beside
To-day I made, for Julio Contarini,
A youth who hath a venture for tonight,
A scheme that shows the planets all conjoin
To avour enterprise and love this night.
There, there— ’tis all most fortunate! Thy dream
Was but a cheat of envious spirits grudging
Thy coming bliss; who’d dash the interval
Although th’ event they cannot mar. Most like
The youth’s impatient — champs the iron time,
And frets and spurns against the tedious hours.
Thou’lt hear of him before the noon of night
Unless my art beguiles me. Hi thee home —
Who knows how suddenly his hasty love
May bid him to thy door? Away! The stars
Befriend thee — the good spirits greet thee — go,
In fortune’s name, be happy.
(He closes the window.)
BEATRICE. Thou good man!
Thou good Samaritan! thou comforter!
If ever blessing followed mercy’s steps,
May mine pursue thee. Now all’s bright and clear,
Joy above joy! and I am safe as though
A radiant angel took me by the hand.
Exit Beatrice.
SCENE.
The interior of Spalatro’s Laboratory. The same night and hour.
SPALATRO (closing the window). —
She’s gone — damned little fool! I cannot help it.
Ho, there! Apollo! A baiocco — quick —
From the bag there. On with thy blue tabarro —
Thy cap — and get thee down — unmoor the boat —
I join thee in a moment — and we pull
Swift for the city. ’Tis just eight o’clock;
Give me yon nail and hammer; get thee gone.
(Exit ATTENDANT.
SPALATRO pierces the coin with the nail, changes his cassock and cowl for a tunic and a cap and feather, buckles on a sword, and puts on a pair of shoes with roses, then with a short cloak and gloves on, and quite disguised, he follows to the boat.)
SCENE.
The Piazetta. About nine o’clock. (Saunterers, music, and laughter. Enter SPALATRO from the quay alone; he pauses between the pillars and draws his cloak about him.)
SPALATRO (aside). About this time walks Giacopo beneath
The cloister of the Doge’s palace, here.
Disguised, he said, as an old Spanish merchant.
He must break tryst, and come away with me.
Lo, ha! there goes a stooped and weak-kneed sage —
In ruff, Toledan hat and cloak — and — ay —
How well he does it— ‘slife. ’Tis exquisite —
So stiff and feeble, and so lightly jolted
Out of his way by gay-voiced youths, ha, ha!
Thou comic Death! I have a job for thee.
(He crosses the arcade beneath the Doge’s palace.)
Good evening, Don Gonzales.
GIACOPO. Who? why? so!
Your reverence — in such a trim! Zooks, sir,
You make one laugh — you make an old man
laugh
Until he shakes to pieces; ha, ha, ha!
SPALATRO. Come round the corner.
( They walk to the quay.)
Never mind this business,
Beppo can wait. Put off this masquerade,
And go upon an errand will enrich thee.
GIACOPO. What fee?
SPALATRO. Three hundred crowns.
GIACOPO. What service?
SPALATRO. Thou knowst Leonardo’s cottage?
GIACOPO. Ay, the place
I’ve tracked young Julio Contarini to —
About that pretty wench, his daughter, eh?
(Spalatro nods.)
And the same lady?
SPALATRO. Ay.
GIACOPO. Oh! come bella!
SPALATRO. Ay, handsome as a devil! and her
purse
So long. Come this way.
(The clock of St. Mark’s tolls the hour.)
Tempus fugit! Here,
Take this (gives him the baiocco), come this way —
nearer the water’s edge. —
( They talk low for a few minutes.)
GlACOPO. And who pays?
SPALATRO. I — who else?
GIACOPO. We’ve had some dealings.
SPALATRO. Many.
GIACOPO. None quite so large as this. Suppose
You should forget.
SPALATRO. Why, then you knock my brains out.
GIACOPO. Ha, ha! I trust thee; there’s my hand.
SPALATRO. Enough.
Eleven o’clock. May fortune smile.
GIACOPO. ’Tis nothing.
(GIACOPO runs down the stone steps and springs into his gondola, rowing swiftly round to the opposite side oj the city.)
SCENE.
The Island of Torcello. Eleven o’clock. The moon has set. The fisherman’s cottage.
(The lamp burning. BEATRICE leaning from the window watching; she stretches her hands towards the sea.)
BEATRICE. From the dark come forth, oh! dearest,
Fold my heart unto thy breast.
Oh! poor heart, what is’t thou fearest?
Why this sadness and unrest?
’Tis a change from death to life,
From a recluse to a wife;
With my love my life is spent,
And marriage is a sacrament.
GIACOPO (rowing at a distance unseen, sings.)
Lo Merlo non a testa
Col tal-la-ral-lal-la-ral-tal-la-ral-la,
La testa non a lo Merlo
Povero Merlo! come fara pensar?
BEATRICE. What’s that?
Every little foolish thing
Startles and dismays me now.
Idle fellows always sing,
As by night they homewards row,
Rowing cheer’ly home by night,
Home to kindred and to light,
Home to kindred. Where art thou?
Mother, would I had thee nigh me,
Just to bless me as I go;
Hold the lamp, and smiling by me,
Kiss and bless me as I go.
Giacopo (nearer — he sings.)
For jolly weddings in the town
Laughing bells ring up and down!
With partridges and Cyprus wine,
And honey-cates, a feast divine;
Every fellow fills his skin,
Till the comely bride looks in.
Ring on finger, merry girl!
In each ear a Roman pearl;
Then to loving groom and lass
Carol we and fill the glass.
(Beatrice removes the lamp hastily from the window, and looks out in alarm. GIACOPO’s gondola enters the creek. He runs it on the shingle, and steps on the stairs.)
GIACOPO (beckoning, cap in hand, towards the window, softly). Signora.
BEATRICE. Lo! who’s there?
GIACOPO. A messenger.
BEATRICE. From whom? Oh! speak thy news.
GIACOPO. From Signor Julio.
BEATRICE. In Heaven’s name, man, speak out.
What hath befallen?
GIACOPO. Why, nought but good, Signora. He awaits
Thee in the chapel yonder, with a priest.
BEATRICE. Thank God! ’tis well.
GIACOPO. ’Tis very well, Signora.
Here’s a note.
(She runs to the door, and he gives it to her.)
BEATRICE (aside). How wickedly he looked!
Methought — but for a moment! What is it?
A dream! oh, Heaven! yet all too good, and still
It seems unreal, and I’m frightened.
GIACOPO.(calling). Come!
BEATRICE (answering). I come, sir, I but take my
beads and mantle.
(Lower) Oh, happy, happy hour! God send us safe!
So near, and yet as far as Paradise,
Until thou hold’st me, Julio.
GIACOPO (without). Come, lady.
BEATRlCE (answering). I come, I come, sir. Only this —
(She places on the table, beside the lamp, a note
with these words:)
“Father, dearest, tomorrow I return a bride.
Forgive, and still love Beatrice.”
GIACOPO. Come down,
Young woman! by the mass; or else you come
The day after the fair!
BEATRICE. Good sir, a moment.
GIACOPO (watching her through the window). —
She stands and prays before the crucifix —
So let her. Quiet all.
(He listens seaward.)
Even so shall I:
We all will make our peace— ’tis right — some day.
All sinners. I’d a left this trade long since
If the vile skinflints had but paid fair wages.
But how’s a proper man to live and save?
There ever is a right and wrong — and this
Is wrong, quite wrong; though it must come some way,
Fever or plague, to all of us, some day.
She’s coming.
BEATRICE (descending the steps with a small bundle in her hand, and her mantle about her in a low tone) —
Ho! Signor Gondolier.
GIACOPO. Here — by the boat.
BEATRICE — How dark it is!
GIACOPO. Ay, lady, very dark!
Beatrice (looking up at the window, says softly) —
Farewell!
GIACOPO (assisting her into the boat) —
There, sit where thou art.
BEATRICE. Thanks, sir.
GIACOPO. No; facing t’other way.
Beatrice. Thanks, sir; I will (changes).
(He pushes off the boat and rows swiftly.)
How far is it, sir?
GIACOPO. Hold thy tongue.
(A pause.)
How know we, girl,
Who’s near. ’Tis Julio’s order —
Beatrice (whispering to herself). Yes; so dark.
He’s right — he’s always right. Beloved!
(Silence, during which Giacopo rows the boat swiftly for some time.)
GIACOPO. What mean’st thou
Over thy shoulder looking still at me?
Wilt look ahead or no? We may run foul
O’something. Lookahead. Lookout. (Aside) I wish
She’d pray. (Aloud) Hast ne’er a hymn? Come now, thou may’st
Be heard.
BEATRICE. What’s that — an island?
GIACOPO. Ay, the Lido.
BEATRICE. Voiceless and huge. How black in the black air —
Down, like a ship forsaken, drifting on us.
Dream-haunting Lido, pass away, oh! quickly.
Father! mother! shall I the roses see
Of sweet Torcello more? Tomorrow; yes,
Tomorrow. So, goodnight, and bless me, father!
Oh! bless your little Beatrice.
GIACOPO. Wilt sing?
Wilt sing a hymn or no?
BEATRICE. I will. ’Tis meet, sir,
On such a night — so happy and so fearful.
May God forgive us all. Oh! Julio, soon;
Oh! soon.
(She sings.)
As in a boat, the Lord of life —
Was ever king so lorn?
Among the roaring billows’ strife
Slumbered, travel-worn.
The twelve Apostles did despair
Amid the storm prevailing;
And standing round Him, filled the air
With fearful words and wailing.
His face so sweet, and kinglike form
Upraising at their cry,
With sign and word He stilled the storm,
And laid the billows by.
And thus He is for ever nigh,
E’en when He seems to sleep,
When seas are white, and black the sky,
The Lord my soul will keep.
(She shrieks) Jesu!
(A swift blow descending with the edge of the oar,
despatches her, and Giacopo knots a heavy
stone in her dress, and throws her over the
gunwale.)
