The Vigil of Venus and Other Poems Part 3

_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 G.o.d, and lonely, she has leaned on G.o.d Too heavily for our patience, was't not wise?-- And well, though weary?

_Lucio._ I tell you, she's my sister!

_Cesario._ Well, an you will, bridle on that. Lord Lucio, You named the Countess Fulvia. To my sorrow, Two hours ago I called on her and laid her Under arrest.

_Lucio._ The devil! For what?

_Cesario._ For that A lady, whose lord keeps summer in the hills To nurse a gouty foot, should penalize His dutiful return by shutting doors And hanging out a ladder made of rope, Or prove its safety by rehearsing it Upon a heavier man.

_Lucio._ I'll go to her.

Oh, this is infamous!

_Cesario._ Nay, be advised: No hards.h.i.+p irks the lady, save to sit At home and feed her sparrows; nor no worse Annoy than from her balcony to spy (Should the eye rove) a Switzer of the Guard At post between her raspberry-canes, to watch And fright the thrushes from forbidden fruit.

_Lucio._ Infamous! infamous!

_Cesario._ Enough, my lord: The Regent!

[_Doors of the Chapel open. The organ sounds, with voices of choir chanting the recessional.

The Court enters from Ma.s.s, attending the Regent Ottilia and her son Tonino. She wears a crown and heavy dalmatic. Her brother Lucio, controlling himself with an effort, kisses her hand and conducts her to the marble bench, which serves for her Chair of State. She bows, receiving the homage of the crowd; but, after seating herself, appears for a few moments unconscious of her surroundings. Then, as her rosary slips from her fingers and falls heavily at her feet, she speaks._

_Regent._ So slips the chain linking this world with Heaven, And drops me back to earth: so slips the chain That hangs my spirit to the Redeemer's cross Above pollution in the pure swept air Whereunder frets this hive: so slips the chain-- _(She starts up)_--G.o.d! the dear sound! Was that his anchor dropped?

Speak to the watchman, one! Call to the watch!

What news?

_Cesario._ Aloft! What news?

_Voice above._ No sail as yet!

_Regent._ Ah, pardon, sirs! My ears are strung to-day, And play false airs invented by the wind.

Methought a hawse-pipe rattled ...

_Gamba (chants to his viol). Shepherds, see-- Lo! What a mariner love hath made me!_

_Regent._ What chants the Fool?

_Gamba._ Madonna, 'tis a trifle Made by a silly poet on wives that stand All night at windows listening the surf-- _Now he comes! Will he come? Alas! no, no!_

_Lucio._ Peace, lively! Madam, there is news--brave news!

I'm from the watch-house. There the pilots tell Of sixteen sail to the southward! Sixteen sail, And nearing fast!

_Regent._ Praise G.o.d! dear Lucio!

[_She has seated herself again. She takes Lucio's hand and speaks, petting it._

What? Glowing with my happiness? That's like you.

But for yourself the hour, too, holds release.

_Lucio (between sullenness and shame, with a glance at Cesario)._ "Release?"

_Regent._ You will forgive? I have great need To be forgiven: sadly I have been slack In guardians.h.i.+p, and by so much betrayed My promise to our mother's pa.s.sing soul.

Myself in cares immersed, I left the child Among his toys--and turn to find him man-- But yet so much a boy that boyhood can _(Wistfully)_ Laugh in his honest eyes? Forgive me, Lucio!

Tell me, whate'er have slackened, there has slipped No knot of love. To-morrow we'll make sport, Be playmates and invent new games, and old-- Wreath flowers for crowns--

[_He drags his hand away. She gazes at him wistfully, and turns to the Captain of the Guard._

Cesario, What are the suits?

_Cesario._ They are but three to-day, Madonna. First, a scoundrel here in irons For having struck the Guard.

_Regent (eying the culprit)._ His name, I think, Is Donatello Crocco. Hey? You improve, Good man. The last time 'twas your wife you basted.

At this rate, in another year or two You'll bang the Turk. Do you confess the a.s.sault?

_Prisoner._ I do.

_Regent._ Upon a promise we dismiss you.

Your tavern, as it comes into our mind, Is the 'Three Cups.' So many, and no more, You'll drink to-day--have we your word? Three cups, And each a _Viva_ for the Duke's return.

_Prisoner._ Your Highness, I'll not take it at the price Of my good manners. I'm a gallant man: And who in Adria calls. 'Three cheers for the Duke!'

But adds a fourth for the d.u.c.h.ess? Lady, nay; Grant me that fourth, or back I go to the cells!

[_The Regent laughs and nods to the Guard to release him._

_Regent._ What next?

_An Old Woman (very rapidly)._ Your Highness will not know me--Zia Agnese, Giovannucci's wife that was; And feed a two-three cows, as a widow may, On the marshes where the gra.s.s is salt and sweet As your Highness knows--and always true to pail Until this Nicolo--