Hæmon: Well – well?
Bardas: No more. When I had struck him down,
He swore it was unswerving all and truth.
Hasting to warn I found Helena ta'en
And sought you here.
Hæmon (grasping his brows): Ah!
Bardas: Helena who is
All purity!
Hæmon: Ah sister, child! – Have I
With strength been father and with tenderness
A mother been to her unfolding years
But to see now unchastest cruelty
Pluck her white bloom to ease his idle sense
One fragrant hour? – If it be so, no flowers
Should blossom; only weeds whose withering
Can hurt no heart!
Bardas: These tears should seal fierce oaths
Against him!
Hæmon: And they shall! until God wrecks
Him in the tempest raised of his outrage!
Bardas: Then may I be the rock on which he breaks!
But hear; who comes? (Revellers are heard approaching.)
We must aside until
This mirth is past. (They conceal themselves.)
Bacchus, hey! was a god, hei-yo!
The vine! a fig for the rest!
With locks green-crowned and lips red-warm —
The vine! the vine's the best!
He loved maids, O-o-ay! hei-yo!
The vine! a maiden's breast!
He pressed the grape, and kissed the maid! —
The cuckoo builds no nest!
(All go dancing, except Lydia and Phaon, who clasps and kisses her passionately)
Lydia (breaking from him): Do you think kisses are so cheap? You must know mine fill my purse! A pretty gallant from Naples, with laces and silks and jewels gave me this ring last year for but one. And another lover from Venice gave me this (a bracelet) – but he looked so sad when he gave it. Ah, his eyes! I'd not have cared if he had given me naught.
Phaon: Here, here, then! (Offers jewel.)
Lydia (putting it aside): They say the ladies in Venice ride with their lovers through the streets all night in boats: and the very moon shines more passionately there. Is it true?
Phaon: Yes, yes. But kiss me, Lydia! Take this jewel – my last. Be mine to-night, no other's! We'll prate of Venice another time.
Lydia: Another time we'll prate of kisses. I'll not have the jewel.
Phaon: Not have it! Now you're turning nun! a soft and virgin, silly nun! With a gray gown to hide these shoulders that – shall I whisper it?
Lydia: Devil! they're not! A nice lover called them round and fair last night. And I've been sick! And – I – cruel! cruel! cruel! (Revellers are heard returning.) There, they're coming.
Phaon: Never mind, my girl. But you mustn't scorn a man's blood when it's afire.
Bacchus, hey! was a god, hei-yo! etc.
Zoe: O! O! O! but 'tis brave! Wine, Basil! Wine, my knight, my Bacchus! Ho! ho! my god! you wheeze like a cross-bow. Is it years, my wooer, years? – Ah! (She sighs.)
Basil: Sighs – sighs! Now look for showers.
Zoe: Basil – you were my first lover – except the duke Charles. Ah, did you see how that Helena looked when they gave her the duke's command? I was like that once. (Hæmon starts forward.)
Basil: Fiends, nymphs and saints! it's come! tears in your eyes! Zoe, stop it. Would you have mine leak and drive me to a monastery for shelter!
Zoe (sings sadly and absently):
She lay by the river, dead,
A broken reed in her hand
A nymph whom an idle god had wed
And led from her maidenland.
Basil: O, had I been born a heathen!
Zoe: He told me, Basil, I should live, a great lady, at his castle. And they should kiss my hand and courtesy to me. He meant but jest – I feared. – I feared! But – I loved him!
Basil: Now, my damsel – !
Zoe (sings):
The god was the great god Jove,
Two notes would the bent reed blow,
The one was sorrow, the other love
Enwove with a woman's woe.
Basil: Songs and snakes! Give me instead a Dominican's funeral! I'd as lief crawl bare-kneed to Rome and mouth the Pope's heel. O blessed Turks with their remorseless harems! – Zoe!
Zoe (sings):
She lay by the river dead;
And he at feasting forgot.
The gods, shall they be disquieted
By dread of a mortal's lot?
(She wipes her eyes, trembles, looks at him and laughs hysterically.)
Bacchus! my Bacchus! with wet eyes! Up, up, lad! there's many a cup for us yet!
(They go, she leading and singing.
He loved maids, O-o-ay! hei-yo!
The vine! a maiden's breast! etc.
(Hæmon and Bardas look at each other, then start after them terribly moved.)
ACT TWO
Scene.—An audience hall in the castle of Charles di Tocca; the next afternoon. The dark stained walls have been festooned with vines and flowers. On the left is the ducal throne. On the right sunlight through high-set windows. In the rear heavily draped doors. Enter Charles, who looks around and smiles with subtle content, then summons a servant.
Charles: The princess Fulvia.
Servant: She comes, sir, now.
Fulvia: My lord, flowers and vines upon these walls
That seem always in dismal memory
And mist of grief? What means it?
Charles: That sprung up,
A greedy multitude upon the fields,
Citron and olive were left hungry, so
I quelled them!
Fulvia: Magic ever dwells in flowers
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