Standard Selections Part 76

BEATRICE. I sing it.

LARA. A poor song.

BEATRICE. You love me not, or love me over-much, Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear!

You do not deck me as becomes our state, For fear my grandeur should besiege the eyes Of Monte, Clari, Marcus, and the rest-- A precious set! You're jealous, sir!

LARA. Not I.

I love you.

BEATRICE. Why, that is as easy said As any three short words; takes no more breath To say, "I hate you." What, sir, have I lived Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife, And do not know your follies? I will wager (If I could trap his counts.h.i.+p into this!) The rarest kisses I know how to give Against the turquoise, that within a month You'll grow so jealous--and without a cause, Or with a reason thin as window gla.s.s-- That you will ache to kill me!

LARA. Will you so?

And I--let us clasp hands and kiss on it.

BEATRICE. Clasp hands, Sir Trustful; but not kiss--nay, nay!

I will not pay my forfeit till I lose.

LARA. And I'll not lose the forfeit.

BEATRICE. We shall see.

[_Exit_ BEATRICE.

LARA. She has as many fancies as the wind Which now, like slumber, lies 'mong spicy isles, Then suddenly blows white furrows in the sea!

Lovely and dangerous is my leopardess.

To-day, low-lying at my feet; to-morrow, With great eyes flas.h.i.+ng, threatening doleful death-- With strokes like velvet! She's no common clay, But fire and dew and marble. I'll not throw So rare a wonder in the lap o' the world!

Jealous? I am not jealous--though they say Some sorts of love breed jealousy. And yet, I would I had not wagered; it implies Doubt. If I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile And let the cool air fan me. 'Twas not wise.

'Tis only Folly with its cap and bells Can jest with sad things. She seemed earnest, too.

What if, to pique me, she should overstep The pale of modesty, and give bold eyes (I could not bear that, nay, not even that!) To Marc or Claudian? Why, such things have been And no sin dreamed of. I will watch her close.

There, now, I wrong her.

Yet if she, To win the turquoise of me, if she should-- O cursed jewels! Would that they were hung About the glistening neck of some mermaid A thousand fathoms underneath the sea!

[A PAGE _crosses the garden_.

That page again! 'Tis twice within the week The supple-waisted, pretty-ankled knave Has crossed my garden at this self-same hour, Trolling a canzonetta with an air As if he owned the villa. Why, the fop!

He might have doffed his bonnet as he pa.s.sed.

I'll teach him better if he comes again.

What does he at the villa? O! perchance He comes in the evening when his master's out, To lisp soft romance in the ready ear Of Beatrice's dressing-maid; but then She has one lover. Now I think she's two: This gaudy popinjay would make the third, And that's too many for an honest girl!

I'll ask the Countess--no, I'll not do that; She'd laugh at me; and vow by the Madonna This varlet was some n.o.ble in disguise, Seeking her favor. Then I'd let the light Of heaven through his doublet--I would--yes, That is, I would, were I a jealous man: But then I'm not.

When he comes out again I'll stop him, question him, and know the truth.

I cannot sit in the garden of a night But he glides by me in his jaunty dress, Like a fantastic phantom!--never looks To the right nor left, but pa.s.ses gayly on, As if I were a statue. Soft, he comes!

I'll make him speak, or kill him; then, indeed, It were unreasonable to ask it. Soh!

I'll speak him gently at the first, and then--

_The_ PAGE _enters by a gate in the villa-garden, and walks past the_ COUNT.

Ho! pretty page, who owns you?

PAGE. No one now.

Once Signor Juan, but I am his no more.

LARA. What, then, you stole from him?

PAGE. O! no, sir, no.

He had so many intrigues on his hands, There was no sleep for me nor night nor day.

Such carrying of love-favors and pink notes!

He's gone abroad now, to break other hearts And so I left him.

LARA. A frank knave.

PAGE. To-night I've done his latest bidding--

LARA. As you should--

PAGE. A duty wed with pleasure--'twas to take A message to a countess all forlorn, In yonder villa.

LARA. [_aside_]. Why! that villa's mine!

A message to a countess all forlorn?

In yonder villa?

PAGE. Ay, sir. You can see The portico among the mulberries, Just to the left, there.

LARA. Ay, I see, I see.

A pretty villa. And the lady's name?

PAGE. The lady's name, sir?

LARA. Ay, the lady's name.

PAGE. O! that's a secret which I cannot tell.

LARA. No? but you shall, though, or I'll strangle you!

In my strong hands your slender neck would snap Like a fragile pipe-stem.

PAGE. You are choking me!

O! loose your grasp, sir!

LARA. Then the name! the name!

PAGE. Countess of Lara.

LARA. Not her dressing-maid?

PAGE. No, no, I said the mistress, not the maid.

LARA. And then you lied. I never saw two eyes So wide and frank but they'd a pliant tongue To shape a lie for them. Say you are false!