SCENE VII.
A HALL IN THE HOUSE OF LYSANDER.
Enter JUSTINA and LYSANDER.
JUSTINA. Consolation, sir, is vain,
After what I've seen to-day:
The whole city, madly gay,
Error-blinded and insane,
Consecrating shrine and fane
To an image, which I know,
Cannot be a god, although
Some demoniac power may pass,
Making breathe the silent brass
As a proof that it is so.
LYSANDER. Fair Justina, thou indeed,
Wert not who thou art, if thou
Didst not weep as thou dost now,
Didst not in thy pure heart bleed
For what Christ's divinest creed
Suffers on this sinful day.
JUSTINA. Thus my lineage I display:—
For thy child I could not be,
Could I without weeping see
This idolatrous display.
LYSANDER. Ah, my good, my gentle maid!
Thou art not my daughter, no,
'Twere too happy, if 'twere so.
But, O God! what's this I've said?—
My life's secret is betrayed!
'Twas my soul that spoke aloud.
JUSTINA. What do you say, sir?
LYSANDER. Oh! a crowd
Of old thoughts my heart hath stirred.
JUSTINA. Many times methought I heard
What but now you have avowed,
And yet never wished to hear,
At the risk perchance of paining,
A more accurate explaining
Of your sorrow and my fear;
But since now it doth appear
Right that I should be possess'd
Of the whole truth half confess'd,
Let me say, though bold appearing,—
Trust your secret to my hearing,
Since it hath escaped your breast.
LYSANDER. Ah! Justina, I have long
Kept this secret from your ears,
Fearing from your tender years
That the telling might be wrong;
But now seeing you are strong,
Firm in thought, in action brave,
Seeing too, that with this stave,
I go creeping o'er the ground,
Rapping with a hollow sound
At the portals of the grave,
Knowing that my time is brief,
I would not here leave you, no,
In your ignorance; I owe
My own peace, too, this relief:
Then attentive to my grief
Let your pleasure list.
JUSTINA. A fear
Struggles in my breast.
LYSANDER. Severe
Is the test my duty pays.
JUSTINA. From this most perplexing maze
Oh, sir, rescue me.
LYSANDER. Then hear.
I, most beautiful Justina,
Am Lysander.... This commencement
With my name need not surprise you;
For though known to you already,
It is right, for all that follows,
That it should be well remembered,
Since of me you know no more
Than what this my name presenteth.
Yes, I am Lysander, son
Of that city which on Seven
Hills a hydra seems of stone,
Since it seven proud heads erecteth;
Of that city now the seat
Of the mighty Roman empire,
Cradle of Christ's wider realm,—
Boon that Rome alone could merit.
There of poor and humble parents
I was born, if "poor" expresses
Well their rank who left behind them
Virtues, not vain earthly treasures.
Both of them by birth were Christians,
Joyful both to be descended
From brave sires who with their blood
Happily life's page had reddened,
Terminating the dull scroll
With death's bright emblazoned letters.
In the Christian faith well grounded
I grew up, and so well learnt it,
That I would, in its defence,
Even a thousand lives surrender.
I was young still, when to Rome,
In disguise and ill attended,
Came our good Pope Alexander,
Who then prudently directed
The high apostolic see,
Though its place there was not settled;
For, as the despotic power
Of the stern and cruel gentiles
Satisfies its thirst with blood
From the martyrs' veins that shed it,
So must still the primitive church
Keep concealed its sons and servants;
Not that they decline to die,
Not that martyrdom is dreaded
But that rebel rage should not,
At one stroke, one hour of vengeance,
Triumph o'er the ruined church,
So that no one should be left it
Who could preach and teach the word,
Who could catechise the gentile.
Alexander being in Rome,
I was secretly presented
To him there, and from his hand
Which was graciously extended,
With his blessing I received
Holy Orders, which the seraphs
Well might envy me, since man
Only such an honour merits.
Alexander, as my mission,
Unto Antioch then sent me,
Where the law of Christ in secret
I should preach. With glad contentment
I obeyed, and at their mercy,
Through so many nations wending,
Came at length to Antioch;
And when I, these hills ascending,
Saw beneath me in the valley
All its golden towers and temples,
The sun failed me, and down sinking
Drew with him the day, presenting
For my solace a companion,
And a substitute for his presence
In the light of stars, a pledge
That he'd soon return to bless me.
With the sun I lost my way,
And then wandering dejected
Through the windings of the forest,
Found me in the dim recesses
Of a natural bower, wherein
Even the numerous rays that trembled
Downward from each living torch
Could in noways find an entrance,
For to black clouds turned the leaves
That by day were green with freshness.
Here arranging to await
The new sun's reviving presence,
Giving fancy that full scope,
That wide range which it possesses,
I in solitude indulged
Many and many a deep reflection.
Thus absorbed was I in thought
When there came to me the echo
Of a sigh half heard, for half
To its owner retroverted.
Then collecting in mine ear
All my senses joined together,
I again heard more distinctly
That weak cry, that faint expression,
That mute idiom of the sad,
Since by it they're comprehended.
From a woman came that groan
To whose sigh so low and gentle
Followed a man's deeper voice,
Who thus speaking low addressed her:
"Thou first stain of noblest blood
By my hands this moment perish,
Ere thou meetest with thy death
'Neath the hands of infamous headsmen."—
Then the hapless woman said
In a voice that sobbed and trembled,
"Ah, lament for thine own blood,
But for me do not lament thee!"—
I attempted then to reach them,
That the stroke might be prevented,
But I could not, since the voices
At that moment ceased and ended,
And a horseman rode away
'Mong the tree-trunks undetected.
Loadstone of my deep compassion
Was that voice which still exerted
All its failing powers to speak
Amid groans and tears this sentence,—
"Dying innocent and a Christian
I a martyr's death may merit."—
Following the polar-star
Of the voice, I came directly
Where the gloom revealed a woman,
Though I could not well observe her,
Who in life's despairing struggle,
Hand to hand with death contended.
Scarcely was I heard, when she
Summoning up her strength addressed me,—
"Blood-stained murderer mine, come back,
Nor in this last hour desert me
Of my life."—"I am," said I,
"Only one whom chance hath sent here,
Guided it may be by heaven,
To assist you in this dreadful
Hour of trial."—"Vain," she said,
"Is the favour that your mercy
Offers to my life, for see,
Drop by drop the life-stream ebbeth,
Let this hapless one enjoy it,
Who it seems that heaven intendeth,
Being born upon my grave,
All my miseries should inherit."—
So she died, and then I...
SCENE VIII.
LIVIA, JUSTINA, and LYSANDER.
Enter LIVIA.
LIVIA. Sir,
The same tradesman who so presses
To be paid, comes here to seek you,
By the magistrate attended.
That you were not in, I told him:
By that door you have an exit.
JUSTINA. This untimely interruption
By their coming, how it frets me!
For upon your tragic story
Life, soul, reason, all depended!—
But retire, sir, lest the justice
Should here meet you, if he enters.
LYSANDER. Ah! with what indignities
Poverty must be contented!
[Exit.
JUSTINA. They are coming here, no doubt,
Outside I can hear some persons.
LIVIA. No, they are not they. I see
It is Cyprian.
JUSTINA. How? what sendeth
Cyprian here?
SCENE IX.
Enter CYPRIAN, CLARIN, and MOSCON.
CYPRIAN. A wish to serve you
Is the sole cause of my presence.
For on seeing the officials
Issuing from your house, the friendship
Which I owe unto Lysander
Made me bold herein to enter;
But to know ([Aside.] Disturbed, bewildered
Am I.) if by chance ([Aside.] What gelid
Frost is freezing up my veins!)
I in any way could help you.
([Aside.] Ah, how badly have I spoken!—
Fire not frost my blood possesses!)
JUSTINA. May heaven guard you many years,
Since in his more grave concernments,
Thus you honour my dear father
With your favours.
CYPRIAN. I shall ever
Be most gratified to serve you.
([Aside.] What disturbs me, what unnerves me?)
JUSTINA. He is not just now at home.
CYPRIAN. Thus then, lady, I can better
Tell you what is the true cause
That doth bring me here at present;
For the cause that you have heard
Is not that which wholly led me
Here to see you.
JUSTINA. Then, what is it?
CYPRIAN. This, which craves your brief attention.—
Fair Justina, beauty's shrine,*
To whose human loveliness
Nature, with a fond excess,
Adds such marks of the divine,
'Tis your rest that doth incline
Hither my desire to-day:
But see what the tyrant sway
Of despotic fate can do,—
While I bring your rest to you,
You from me take mine away.
Lelius, of his passion proud,
(Never less was love to blame!)
Florus, burning with love's flame,
(Ne'er could flame be more allowed!)
Each of them by vows they vowed
Sought to kill his friend for you:
I for you disturbed the two,
(Woe is me!) but see the end;
While from death I saved my friend,
You my own death give in lieu.
Lest the scandal-monger's hum
Should be buzzed about your name,
Here to speak with you I came,
(Would that I had never come!)
That your choice might strike it dumb,
Being the umpire in the cause,
Being the judge in love's sweet laws;—
But behold what I endure,
While I their sick hearts may cure,
Jealousy mine own heart gnaws.
Lady, I proposed to be
Their bold spokesman here, that you
Might decide betwixt the two
Which you would select (ah, me!)
That I might (oh, misery!)
Ask you of your father: vain
This pretence. No more I'll feign:—
For you see while I am speaking
About them, my heart is seeking
But a vent for its own pain.
[footnote] * The five-lined rhymed stanza here recommences, and
continues to the end of the scene.
JUSTINA. Half in wonder and dismay
At the vile address you make me,
Reason, speech, alike forsake me,
And I know not what to say.
Never in the slightest way
Have your clients had from me
Encouragement for this embassy—
Florus never—Lelius no:—
Of the scorn that I can show
Let then this a warning be.
CYPRIAN. If I, knowing that you loved
Some one else, would dare to seek
Your regard, my love were weak,
And could justly be reproved.
But here seeing you stand unmoved,
Like a rock mid raging seas,
No extraneous miseries
Make me say I love you now.
'Tis not for my friends I bow,
So your warning hear with ease.—
To Lelius what shall I say?
JUSTINA. That he
Well may trust the boding fears
Of his love of many years.
CYPRIAN. To Florus?
JUSTINA. Not my face to see.
CYPRIAN. And to myself?
JUSTINA. Your love should be
Not so bold.
CYPRIAN. Though a god should woo?
JUSTINA. Will a god do more for you
Than for those I have denied?
CYPRIAN. Yes.
JUSTINA. Well then, I have replied
To Lelius, Florus, and to you.
[Exeunt JUSTINA and CYPRIAN at opposite sides.
SCENE X.
CLARIN, MOSCON, and LIVIA.
CLARIN. Livia, heigh!
MOSCON. And Livia, ho!—
List good lass.
CLARIN. We're here, we two.
LIVIA. Well, what WANT you, sir? and YOU,
What do you want?
CLARIN. We both would show,
If perchance you do not know,
That we love you to distraction.
On a murderous transaction
We came here, to kill each other:—
So to put an end to the bother,
Just choose one for satisfaction.
LIVIA. Why the thing that you're demanding
Is so great, it hath bereft me
Of my wits. My grief hath left me
Without sense or understanding.
Choose but one! My heart expanding,
Beats so hard a strait to shun!
I one only! 'Tis for fun
That you ask me so to do.
For with heart enough for two,
Why require that I choose one?
CLARIN. Two at once would you have to woo?
Would not two embarrass you, pray?
LIVIA. No, we women have a way
To dispose of them two by two.
MOSCON. What's the way? do tell us, do;—
What is it? speak.
LIVIA. You put one out!—
I would love them, do not doubt....
MOSCON. How?
LIVIA. ALTERNATIVELY.
CLARIN. Eh,
What's ALTERNATIVELY?
LIVIA. 'Tis to say,
That I would love them day about.
[Exit.
MOSCON. Well, I choose to-day: good-bye.
CLARIN. I, to-morrow, the better part.
So I give it with all my heart.
MOSCON. Livia, in fine, for whom I die,
To-day love me, and to-day love I.
Happy is he who so much can say.
CLARIN. Hearken, my friend: you know my way.
MOSCON. Why this speech? Does a threat lie in it?
CLARIN. Mind, she is not yours a minute
After the clock strikes twelve to-day.
[Exeunt.