FullReads

[Noise of commotion in the city below.]

CESARIO.
Watchman, what news?

A VOICE.
Sir, on the sea no sail!

ONE OF THE CROWD.
But through the town below a horseman spurs–
I think, Count Lucio! Yes–Count Lucio!
He nears, draws rein, dismounts!

CESARIO.
Sure, he brings news.

GAMBA.
I think he brings word the Duke is sick;
his loyal folk have drunk so much of his
health.

[A murmur has been growing in the town below. It
breaks into cheers as Count Lucio comes springing
up to the terrace.]

[Enter Lucio.]

LUCIO.
News! Where’s the Regent? Eh? is Mass not said?
Cesario, news! I rode across the dunes;
A pilot–Nestore–you know the man–
Came panting. Sixteen sail beyond the point!
That’s not a galley lost!

CROWD.
Long live the Duke!

LUCIO.
Hark to the tocsin! I have carried fire–
Wildfire! Why, where’s my sister? I’ve a mind–

[He strides towards the door of the Chapel; but
pauses at the sound of chanting within, and
comes back to Cesario.]

Man, are you mute? I say the town’s aflame
Below! But here, up here, you stand and stare
Like prisoners loosed to daylight. Rub your eyes,
Believe!

CESARIO
(musing).
It has been long.

LUCIO.
As tapestry
Pricked out by women’s needles; point-device
As saints in fitted haloes. Yet they stab,
Those needles. Oh, the devil take their tongues!

CESARIO.
Why, what’s the matter?

LUCIO.
P’st! another lie
Against the Countess Fulvia; and the train
Laid to my sister’s ear. Cesario,
My sister is a saint–and yet she married:
Therefore should understand … Would saints, like cobblers,
Stick but to business in this naughty world!
Ah, well! the Duke comes home.

CESARIO.
And what of that?

LUCIO.
Release!

CESARIO.
Release?

LUCIO
(mocking a chant within the Chapel)

From priests and petticoats
Deliver us, Good Lord!

GAMBA
(strikes a chord on viol).

AMEN!

CESARIO.
Count Lucio,
These seven years agone, when the Duke sailed,
You were a child–a pretty, forward boy;
And I a young lieutenant of the Guard,
Burning to serve abroad. But that day, rather,
I clenched my nails over an inward wound:
For that a something manlier than my years–
Look, bearing, what-not–by the Duke not miss’d,
Condemned me to promotion: I must bide
At home, command the Guard! ‘Tis an old hurt,
But scalded on my memory…. Well, they sailed!
And from the terrace here, sick with self-pity,
Wrapped in my wrong, forgetful of devoir,
I watch’d them through a mist–turned with a sob–
Uptore my rooted sight–
There, there she stood;
Her hand press’d to her girdle, where the babe
Stirred in her body while she gazed–she gazed–
But slowly back controlled her eyes, met mine;
So–with how wan, how small, how brave a smile!–
Reached me her hands to kiss …
O royal hands!
What burdens since they have borne let Adria tell.
But hear me swear by them, Count Lucio–
Who slights our Regent throws his glove to me.

LUCIO.
Why, soothly, she’s my sister!

CESARIO.
‘But the court
Is dull? No masques, few banquetings–and prayers
Be long, and youth for pastime leaps the gate?’
Yet if the money husbanded on feasts
Have fed our soldiery against the Turk,
Year after year, and still the State not starved;
Was’t not well done? And if, responsible
To God, and lonely, she has leaned on God
Too heavily for our patience, was’t not wise?–
And well, though weary?