# Dramas (Baillie)/Romiero/Act 4

ACT IV.
SCENE I.—A Grove of Pines, and the Sky of Morning, before Sunrise, seen through them.
Enter Romiero and Guzman from a thicket at the bottom of the Stage.
ROMIERO.
Hath changed its tanny hue for silver grey; 'T is near, 'tis actually, 't is past the time.
GUZMAN.
Behind the eastern hills.
ROMIERO.
Upon the watch, perhaps, hath given alarm.
Should they escape us by some other path!—
It must not be: I will look out.
GUZMAN (drawing him back to the thicket as he is about to advance).
I see them now; but let us be conceal'd
Till they are nearer.
ROMIERO.
With their damn'd dalliance.—So very fond
That they forget the peril of their state,
Lost in the present bliss.—— Ay; smile with lips which shall, within an hour,
Be closed in death; and glance your looks of love
From eyes which shall, ere long, in coldness glare
Like glassy icicles.
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
Shall I look on, and give another moment
To such abhorred transport.—Where's my weapon? (Snatching his sword from Guzman, who attempts to remove it.)
GUZMAN.
And foil thine own intent.—See, they advance.
Enter Maurice, leading Beatrice muffled in her mantle.
MAURICE.
Our horses wait us some few paces off;
And by the baiting hour, when labouring hinds,
Under some tree, sit round the loosen'd scrip,
Holding on homely fare a merry feast,
We will, like them, in all security, Enjoy a welcome rest.
ROMIERO. (rushing forth).
Which shall to doomsday last, thou damned villain!—(Draws fiercely upon him, while Beatrice runs away. They fight, but she presently returns and rushes between them, favoured by Guzman.)
ROMIERO.
BEATRICE.
It is myself who am the most to blame.
Pardon my dear, dear Maurice.—Yes, you will.
Your look of strange amazement, changed to joy,
Emboldens me.—Our hearts have long been join'd;
O do not sever us!
ROMIERO.
Sever ye! by the holy rood I will not!
I am right glad that ye are so united.
Stick to it then; be thrifty of your love,
To make it last; be doves in constancy.
Good sooth, young fools! I will not sever ye.
BEATRICE (kissing his hand).
MAURICE.
I fear'd, my Lord, that you might deem it right
To thwart my suit with Beatrice, who lived,
Protected, as her friends might haply think,
Beneath your roof.
ROMIERO.
In cooler blood so ought I to have felt.
Beshrew me! whither fled my wits the while?
I have most freely given what is not mine.
(To Guzman.) Do thou, my friend, untie this ravell'd knot.
(Turning again to Maurice.) I'll plead thy cause, at least, and prove, perhaps,
A powerful advocate.—Speak to them, Guzman;
And promise in my name, without reserve,
All that my honour warrants. I, meantime.
Must make my peace where I have need of pardon. [Exit in eager haste.
MAURICE.
Would I had fairly own'd to him my love,
Since he is thus inclined! But he appear'd
Hostile, and stern, and fretful at my stay,
Unreasonably prolong'd. I had not courage
To risk my happiness, which his caprice,
Stern sense of honour—call it as you please—
Might in a moment blast.
GUZMAN.
Thou would'st have found him hostile.
MAURICE.
GUZMAN.
Without inquiring why you are so favour'd.
MAURICE.
Delay our happiness, to make it surer.
BEATRICE.
Return again and bide within the castle.
GUZMAN.
Some foolish freak may yet disturb his mind.
I know he'll favour Maurice most when absent.
(To Maurice.) Dost thou not comprehend me?
MAURICE.
Whose love is fix'd on an acknowledged mistress,
So fair, so lovely, were absurd—impossible.
GUZMAN.
Ay, lovers too, who, should you cross their way, New-mated with the Queen of Love herself,
And their own dame or mistress were in form
Black as an Ethiope, would ne'ertheless
Suspect you of designs against their peace.
Then wonder not, Zorada being fair,
If fanciful conceits disturb his brain.
MAURICE.
GUZMAN.
Thy very shadow on the wall will show
Some indication of sinister wishes,
School thou the substance as thou wilt. Go, go!
And be assured I'll prove thy friend when absent.
MAURICE (to Beatrice).
BEATRICE.
MAURICE.
I'll hold my midnight watch; and when thy casement
Moves slowly on its hinges, I'll look up,
And see thy beauty, by the moon's pale light,
Sending sweet smiles to bless me.—
When thou walk'st forth, I'll in some thicket lurk,
To see thee pass—perhaps to touch thy robe.
Wilt thou not give me, dear, before we part,
Some token of thy love?
BEATRICE.
Which every hour thou'lt look upon, and think
How dear, how true——
GUZMAN.
To settle all this nonsense as you will;
That done, we'll meet again in yonder alley,
And I'll conduct the lady to the castle.
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.
The Apartment of Zorada.—She enters with Nurse, who carries a basket in her hand.
ZORADA (speaking as she enters).
Thou stop the crevice well. Oh! that his head,
His dear and honour'd head, should so be laid,
While I am couch'd on down! Thou say'st his face
Look'd not so sadly as before.
NURSE.
And listen'd to my stories of past days,
As if he liked to hear them.
ZORADA.
Address'd to him in peace, is now a solace
Enjoy'd but rarely.—I must talk and smile,
And keep my station at the social board,
While my sad heart is thinking of his silent
And lonely state.—There is my picture then,
Since he desires to have it. (Giving her a picture, which he puts into the basket.)
NURSE.
He bade me say to you, no lover ever
Gazed on the features of a plighted mistress
With such intense and yearning love as he
Will gaze upon this image.
ZORADA.
It looks with love on him; but woe is me!
He cannot know how dearly in my heart
His image is impress'd. I call to mind
His kind caresses in my infant years;
His noble form in warlike harness braced,
When he returning caught me to his heart,
And heard my simple welcome with delight,
Filling his eyes with tears. I well remember—
Dost thou not also, Nurse? the voice of fondness
With which, ev'n when I cross'd his graver mood,
He called me little Zada. O 't was sweet!
I thought so then; but now it haunts mine ear
Like portion of some broken melody,
Which mocking bird is so enamour'd of,
He will not learn the whole.—And say, good Nurse,
That I will surely see him ere he go,
If it be possible.[Exit Nurse.
(After a thoughtful pause.) "My little Zada! tush, my little fool!
I will not have thee for my playfellow,
If thou art so perverse."
No more than this; this was my worst rebuke.
He set no heartless stepdame o'er my head,
Though many ladies strove to win his love.
He was both sire and mother to his child,
Gentle as her I lost.
Then for his sake I'll willingly endure
The present misery. O my Romiero!
Wilt thou not trust my conduct for a day?—
Absent all night! To what a state of passion
His brooding fancy must have work'd his mind!
Alas, alas! 't is his infirmity.
Enter Romiero.
ROMIERO.
I crave it on my knees. O pardon one
Who has offended from excess of love.
I might have thought all eyes that look'd upon thee,
With more than admiration look'd; but, Oh!
To think that thy pure mind could e'er be moved
To aught which blessed saints might not approve,
Was monstrous, vile—yea a most vile suggestion—
Though all the while 'twas an offence of love.
Thou art amazed, I see, and well thou may'st.
I have but now discover'd what my fears—
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
For if thou hast been privy to their love,
Though I might chide thee as a cunning wife,
Who from her husband hath a secret kept,
The bane of confidence; yet being myself
So deep in trespass, I must needs be meek,
And say thou art not very, very naughty.
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
Has to young Maurice's suit such favour given,
That she this morning, short while since, was caught
Escaping in his company?
I watch'd and stopp'd them in the grove of pines.
How glad a sight it was to me, when, wild, With terror wild, she rush'd between our weapons,
To find it was but Beatrice.
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
Betrays too plainly that for which already
I've craved forgiveness.
ZORADA (drawing herself up proudly).
ROMIERO.
Which ne'er before so stain'd thy lovely face,
Speak not of pardon. (She turns away, and he fallows her.) I have much offended.
But he who like offence hath ne'er committed:
Who ne'er hath look'd on man's admiring eye
Fix'd on the treasure of his heart, till fear,
Suspicion, hatred hath bereft his soul
Of every generous feeling; he who never
Hath, in that state of torture, watch'd her face
Till ev'n the traits of saintly innocence
Have worn the shade of conscious guilt; who never
Hath, in his agony, for her dear sake
Cursed all the sex;—may, as the world conceives.
Be a most wise, affectionate, good husband;
But, by all ecstacy of soul, by all
That lifts it to an angel's pitch, or sinks it
Ev'n to perdition, he has loved but slightly—
Loved with a love, compared to what I feel,
As cottage hearth where smould'ring embers lie,
To the surcharged unquenchable volcano.
ZORADA.
Repeats so boldly? Good my Lord, discard it,
As a false faith. I have believed true love
Of such a noble, high, confiding nature,
That neither scandal's breath, nor seeming show
Of fitful change, could shake its gen'rous trust.
'T were agony for me to think thee false;
But till thou front me with a rival—yea,
Till thine own words have own'd that thou art faithless—
I will believe thee true.
ROMIERO.
A thousand times caress'd, let me be vow'd
Ne'er to offend again thy noble nature
With ev'n the slightest movement of suspicion.
Dost thou relent, Zorada? Dost thou love me?
ZORADA.
And yet, it seems, thou did'st mistrust my words.
ROMIERO.
ZORADA (embracing him).
ROMIERO.
Sweet partner, lovely mate, my gentle wife!
O the soft touch of this dear hand thrills through me,
So dear! as dear as when thou first wert mine.
(Stroking her hand, and then pressing it to his forehead and cheek.) If word, or look, or circumstance, again
I am a vulgar wretch, debased and mean,
Unworthy even to look thee in the face,
Or hold myself akin to virtue. No;
I will no more offend.
Re-enter Nurse, who is busy arranging her basket, and then looking up, starts on seeing Romiero.
Nay, start not, worthy Nurse; pray thee advance.
NURSE.
ROMIERO.
In every thought and wish, that thou should'st reckon.
When with each other, we are still alone.
Is it not so?—Thou comest for some good purpose,
I'll swear. To whom bear'st thou that tempting fruit?
NURSE.
It is my Lady's basket.
ROMIERO.
May I——(Putting his hand to the basket.)
NURSE.
ROMIERO (rejecting what she offers).
(Putting his hand into the basket.)
But there be dainty viands and cakes besides!
ZORADA.
A charitable dole for age and want. (Looking to the Nurse significantly.)
Ere she should take it to the poor distress'd.
ROMIERO.
And here, to make amends. (Putting money into the basket.)
(Taking out a picture.)
Is this a present for your villager?
NURSE.
ROMIERO (with bitter irony).
Or does she mean to use it as a charm
To cure old aching bones?
NURSE.
Could I but see your Lady's blessed face!
Quoth I to her, Thou canst not, by good reason:
My Lord is now return'd. Quoth she again.
Could I but see her picture, lack a day!
ROMIERO.
To tell me how it is. I'm satisfied.
ZORADA.
What I must charge thee with.
[Exeunt Zorada and Nurse, the last speaking loudly as she retires.
Ay, ay, quoth she, poor soul! I have a longing
To see that picture. Foolish man, quoth I,
'Tis but a painted—(Her voice still heard as she retires.)
ROMIERO.
Hath made a slip: it was a woman first.
(A pause, and he stands musing and muttering to himself before he speaks aloud, then in a low smothered voice) Ay, and such thoughts
Are by these cunning beldames brought to utterance.
Words follow thoughts, acts follow words, and all
The steps of infamy, from which the mind
By nature shrinks, are thus familiar made.
A blighting bane, corroding to its core
Beauty and innocence. (Mimicking the voice of a nurse.)—"My dearest child!
I know thy tender heart, I know thy fears."
Would the whole race were blasted from the earth! (In his own voice, and stamping on the ground.)
Enter Jerome
What brings thee here?
JEROME.
And craves to speak with you.
ROMIERO.
He trows that I am always in the humour
To hear his prosing proverbs.
JEROME.
Has grown familiar.
ROMIERO.
Tell him I cannot see him now. To-morrow
I'll find him in his cottage.
JEROME.
He bade me further add, is of importance.
And may not be delay'd.
ROMIERO.
SCENE III.
An Antechamber.
Enter Pietro and a Domestic.
PIETRO (speaking as he enters).
I have, good sooth! been wont to speak with him
As though he were my fellow. Much shrewd counsel
He hath received from me right pleasantly.
He looks not grave or proud when poor men speak;
At least I'm sure he was not so inclined
Before he married.
Enter Jerome behind him, and listens archly.
Ay, he knows mankind.
With all their knavish arts; ay, and he knows
I know them also. Bless the day! full often
He listen'd to me with a merry face:
Much shrewd discoursing we have had together.
JEROME (advancing).
Should only upon rainy days take place,
When idle folk, from field and sport debarr'd,
Are glad to while away the weary time
With aught to save the kicking of their heels.
PIETRO.
JEROME.
He'll see thee presently; but do not teaze him
With a long-winded tale, choked up with saws;
He is not in the humour for it now, It would, to say the least on't, be a present
More prized by him who gives than who receives it.
PIETRO.
I know as well as thou dost when to speak,
And when to hold my tongue.
Enter Romiero and Guzman, and the Domestics withdraw.
ROMIERO.
PIETRO.
That is to say, I am not school'd or learn'd
As many be, who set great store by it;
But yet, I think, I can, as well as others.
Scent mischief in its covert. Ah, good lack!
This is a wicked world.
ROMIERO.
Thou'st told me so a thousand times, good Pietro.
What is the matter now? Rehearse it briefly,
And plainly too, my friend: enough of comment
Will follow after. Speak,—what is the matter?
PIETRO.
For there be ill enough in this sad world,—
In court and cot, in city and in village.
ROMIERO (interrupting him impatiently).
A person much afflicted.
PIETRO.
When I left home scarce half an hour since. No;
My story is of other matters; villagers
Are not therein concerned, unless it be
As hired emissaries: for, I trow,
No wealthy devil e'er lack'd some poorer imp.
No rich man ever wants——
ROMIERO.
What is it thou would'st tell me?
PIETRO.
Is hatching secretly.
ROMIERO.
PIETRO.
As they report it, near the ancient chapel,
Where light pour'd through the trees, and strangely vanished
They know not how. I much suspect your ghosts.
'Tis said they're ominous of death; but weddings,
Or worse than weddings, oft'ner follow after.
You have a rich and beauteous ward: Don Maurice
Is young, ambitious, and cunning:—No!
It is no ghastly spectre haunts your woods.
ROMIERO.
PIETRO.
Donna Zorada's air, who is, you know,
Not much unlike, in size and gait, to Beatrice.
GUZMAN.
Naught ill will follow it; be thou content.
ROMIERO.
Gone forth to meet her lover, she hath err'd
Beyond what we believed. (Calling loud.) Ho! Jerome there!
Re-enter Jerome.
In this thou'st sinn'd against thy master! Say,
And I'll forgive thee all, if thou speak truly, Did Donna Beatrice e'er, by night, steal forth
To meet him in the forest?
JEROME.
She never did.
ROMIERO.
Of frighten'd villagers, who have, at night.
Seen wand'ring in the wood a female form.
Thou seem'st confused; thou, too, hast heard of this?
JEROME.
ROMIERO.
JEROME.
Glide hastily before me, through the wood:
The face I could not see.
ROMIERO.
JEROME.
ROMIERO.
JEROME.
PIETRO.
GUZMAN (pulling Pietro back.)
ROMIERO (to Jerome).
Familiar to thine eye? Why dost thou hesitate?
Speak truth; speak freely; think not to deceive me:
Seem'd it a form familiar to thine eye?
JEROME.
It was no well-known form.
ROMIERO.
(Walks perturbedly to and fro, then returning to them.) Why stand ye here to gaze upon me? Go!
GUZMAN (to Pietro).
Save thee, good Pietro; and thou, too, Jerome.
[Exeunt Pietro and Jerome.
(Going up to Romiero.) Thou art bereft of reason. In the dark
Nor having any mark by which to prove
It is or is not any woman breathing;
And thou in thy diseased conceit hast shaped——
ROMIERO.
Cause which thou know'st not of. I'll tell thee more
When I have breath to speak.—— My dame, my wife, she whom I made my wife,
Hath secret myst'ries—hath a beldame Nurse—
Hath one conceal'd to whom she sends—O shame!—
Outrageous, frontless shame! the very picture
Which I have gazed upon a thousand times,
Tears in my eyes, and blessings on my lips.
How little thought I once—vain, vain remembrance!
It is a thing most strange if she be honest.
GUZMAN.
As many men have been, which is a marvel
Of daily note, amongst the sons of Adam.
ROMIERO.
To make that seen which is not; in mine ears,
To make them hear false sounds? I've seen; I've heard:
I am deluded by no gossip's tale.—
O would I were! I loved—I worshipp'd her;
She was the thing that stirr'd within my soul,
Which had no other life. Despise me not;
For tears will force their way.—She was to me——
When I have power to speak, I'll tell thee all.
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO (lowering his voice).
That such as they should know my misery.
I will match wiles with wiles, and borrow of her
That damn'd hypocrisy. Come thou with me,
And give me counsel: thou thyself wilt own
It is no weak conceit disturbs me thus.
But stop, and stand aside. (Stops on seeing Nurse pass by a low window on the outside.)
GUZMAN.
ROMIERO.
Returning from her mission, as I guess.
Stand thou aside whilst I engage with her,
And, with her own deceits, deceive the witch.
Do thou observe her visage as I speak.
GUZMAN.
Thou hast not o'er thyself as much control
As would deceive the simplest soul on earth.
She will outwit thee; leave the task to me,
And do thou stand aside.—I hear her steps.
Enter Nurse, while Romiero goes behind the arras.
And one of service in this family,
If I mistake it not. How could fair damsels,
And dainty dames, and other tender souls
Endure the thraldom of stern lords and masters,
Brothers, and jealous guardians, and the like,
Were it not for such useful friends as thou?
NURSE.
I serve my mistress honestly and fairly.
GUZMAN.
Do I not know it well, and well approve
Thy wary vigilance? Take this broad piece; (giving gold)
A token of respect for all thy virtues.
Thou art, I know, the agent of Zorada
In all her secret charities: how fares it
With that poor invalid?
NURSE.
GUZMAN.
Let me attend thee when thou goest again;
I have some skill in med'cine.
NURSE.
And that suffices. She will soon be well.
GUZMAN.
Look at me stedfastly.—I know it is not.
It is a man; ay, and a man for whom
Thy Lady hath some secret, dear regard.
And so, perhaps, hast thou: where is the harm?
NURSE.
Those near akin to us?
GUZMAN.
NURSE.
But mine own flesh and blood?
GUZMAN.
So near us, and conceal'd?—A son, perhaps?
NURSE.
Or far or near, I know not.
GUZMAN.
When lying must be paid for. Father Thomas
For a small penance will not let thee off. (Here Romiero appears from behind the arras, with gestures of impatience, but draws back again.)
GUZMAN.
A handsome youth, no doubt.
NURSE.
When but an infant, he with fair Zorada
Play'd like a brother. Such a pretty pair!
And the sweet children loved each other dearly.
Would he were here! but where he is I know not.
ROMIERO (bursting out upon her).
I'll press the breath from out thy cursed body,
Unless thou tell me where thy son is hid.
NURSE.
ROMIERO.
The ugliest hound the sun e'er looked upon.
Tell me, and instantly, if thou wouldst breathe
GUZMAN (endeavouring to raise him).
When passion led thee to disgrace thyself,
This was an act of friendship.—Rise, Romiero.
ROMIERO.
I will remain. Sunk to this deep disgrace,
The centre of the earth were fitter for me
Than its fair surface and the light of heaven.
Oh! this exceeds the worst imagination
That e'er found entrance to this madden'd brain!
That he—this hateful, vulgar, shapeless creature——
Fy, fy!
GUZMAN.
Thou art in verity beside thyself.
It is not possible that such a one
Could please Zorada, were she even unfaithful.
ROMIERO (rising fiercely).
Who is bereft of virtue, gross, debased.
Yea, black deformity will be to her
A new and zestful object.
Enter Zorada behind him.
GUZMAN (making her a sign to retire).
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
Nothing that you should be surprised to hear.
That ladies can be fair and delicate,
And to the world's eye as saints devout,
Yet all the while be coarse, debased, and stain'd
With passions that disgrace the vulgar kind.
ZORADA.
ROMIERO.
So base, so sunk, that those whose appellation
Brings blushes to the cheeks of honest women
Compared to thee are pure.—Off! do not speak!
It is a sick'ning sight to look upon thee,
Fair as thou art. Feign not to be surprised:
Begone, I say, I cannot for a moment
Say what I may not do. (Taking his dagger from his side, and giving it to Guzman, who snatches it hastily from him.)
GUZMAN.
And would not listen to a saint from heaven.
[Exit Zorada wringing her hands.]
Come, leave this spot, Romiero; some few hours,
I am persuaded, will reveal this mystery.
Meantime, let me constrain thee as a friend;
Thou art not fit to speak or act with reason.
ROMIERO.
GUZMAN.
Wouldst thou to her expose thy sorry state?
Enter Beatrice.
ROMIERO.
Fair seemings and fair words?
BEATRICE.
ROMIERO.
When woman came to it.
BEATRICE.
For if deprived of women, what were men?
Like leafless elms stripped of the clasping vine;
Like unrigg'd barks, of sail and pennant bare;
Like unstring'd viols, which yield no melody.
Banish us all, and lay my life upon it,
You will right quickly send for us again.
ROMIERO.
To make vain sport withal. It makes me sick
To think of what you seem and what you are.
BEATRICE.
GUZMAN.
(To Romiero.) And come with me, my friend.
[Exeunt Romiero and Guzman.
BEATRICE (looking after him).
She leads a life worse than an Islam slave,
Who weds with such as him. Save me from that!
Enter Maurice by the window, having previously peeped in to see if she were alone.
MAURICE.
BEATRICE.
MAURICE.
To touch thy fair soft hand.
BEATRICE.
To make thee track thy steps so many miles!
MAURICE.
To see thy figure moving in thy veil,
Is worth a course of five good miles at least;
To see thy glowing face of welcome is,
At lowest reckoning, worth ten score of leagues
By sea or land; and this soft thrilling pressure,—
O! 'tis worth all the leagues that gird the globe.
(Taking her hand.)
BEATRICE.
I needs must chide thee for it, thoughtless boy!
MAURICE.
And too good months to boot!—Such high pretension!
Have sixteen summers and a woman's robe
Made thee so very wise and consequential?
BEATRICE (giving him two mock blows on his shoulder).
MAURICE (catching both her hands and kissing them separately).
When this and this are added to the gift.
BEATRICE.
So tell me truly what has brought thee back
To this disturbed and miserable house.
MAURICE.
That thou, and not Zorada, is the queen
Of my impassion'd heart?
BEATRICE.
He is convinced; but what doth it avail?
Some other fancy, yet I know not what,
Again possesses him. Therefore depart;
Quickly depart, nor linger longer here,
When thou hast told me wherefore thou art come.
MAURICE.
That Don Romiero—the occasion past,
Which has excited him to favour us—
May be remiss, or may repent his promise.
I therefore quickly turn'd my horse's head,
Nor drew I bridle till within the forest
I found me once again, close to the postern.
BEATRICE.
Thou may'st not speak to him.
MAURICE.
To keep Romiero stedfast in his promise.
I should have thought of this before I went,
And urged him earnestly that no remissness
With thy relations may retard our bliss.
BEATRICE.
I fear to think of it.
MAURICE.
Shall I be jealous? O my gentle Beatrice!
I never will believe thee false to me,
Until such proof as that heaven's sun is bright
Shall flash upon me, and the agony
Will be my death-blow and prevent upbraiding.
BEATRICE.
In truth it makes me weep to think thou art.
MAURICE.
Think hopefully and cheerfully, I pray thee.
I feel within my breast a strong assurance
Thou never wilt prove false, nor I suspicious.
Where may I find Don Guzman?[Exeunt.