STORIES FROM THE OLD DRAMATISTS.

NO. 1.—MASSINGER’S GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE.

———

BY ENNA DUVAL.

———

“I cannot pretend in these succinct narrations to have rivaled Charles Lamb and his excellent sister in the art of turning drama into narrative. The “Shakspeare Tales” is an unique book, the beauty of which all can perceive who are worth pleasing; but few who have not tried the like, can appreciate the difficulty, the matchless skill of its execution.”

Hartley Coleridge.

Cozimo, duke of Florence, a noble and virtuous prince had the misfortune to lose, by death, his duchess, Clarinda, a lady of such rare and matchless virtues, that, as he said, the whole world could not produce one worthy to be her second. In her grave he buried all thoughts of woman.

His courtiers, and ministers of state, repeatedly urged him to a second marriage, for they feared that after his death, he being childless, distraction might breed in the state, and cause the downfall of his noble house. Residing at the court was a beautiful and wealthy orphan, Fiorinda, duchess of Urbin, the ward of Cozimo, and she was the one that his counsellors desired him to wed. Kindly, but sadly, he always waived aside their counsel, telling them, that the lovely Fiorinda should have a more fitting mate, and that as regarded the welfare of the state, his princely care would provide one worthy to succeed him.

This “worthy successor,” was his nephew Giovanni, his sister’s son, an orphan, dependent on his bounty. This youth he loved for his dear sister’s sake, and he spared no pains or trouble to render him worthy of his future high position. The more to further this, Cozimo placed Giovanni under the sole charge of a noble, and highly educated Florentine gentleman, Carolo Charomonte by name, who lived retired on an estate five hours distance from Florence. This gentleman discharged, to the utmost of his power, the duty the duke committed to him, and by means of his rare experience, using great care, he trained the young Giovanni up in all those arts, peculiar and proper to future greatness; therefore it was no wonder, but rather a necessity, that when this young prince had grown to be a man, he should make good the princely education he had derived from his accomplished tutor.

His uncle had studiously kept him away from court, during the perilous season of youth; but as the young Giovanni approached manhood, he gave such great promise of ability, that Cozimo could no longer withstand his tender desire for his company. Report filled the duke’s ears with stories of his nephew, which, if true, would have made him a miracle—a wonder in arts and arms; and in order to test the verity of this fine account, he sent his secretary, Contarino, to summon Giovanni to his presence.

This secretary came to Charamonte’s house, bearing compliments, and courtly thanks, and promises of munificent reward, from the duke. These the noble Charamonte received with dignified, courteous gratefulness; and although it was a sweet thought to him, that nature had so well aided him in his great duty as to enable him to return to his royal master a phœnix of grace and goodness, in the person of his nephew, this very yielding up of his charge, filled his breast with sadness. The young Giovanni had a disposition so gentle and sweet by nature, that it won on all appointed to attend him, insomuch that it made them rivals, even in the coarsest office, to get precedency to do him service; no wonder then, that his guardian, who had always found him obedient, loving, and reverential as a son, should have unconsciously permitted his affections to twine around him with a parent’s fondness. Nor did Giovanni receive his uncle’s summons with pleasure; as he read the duke’s letter the frequent changes of his countenance, manifested how strongly his unwillingness contended with his duty.

He loved his guardian, regarded him with as much respect and service as would have been due to the one who gave him life; but still more fondly did he love the good Charamonte’s incomparable daughter—the fair Lidia. She had been his companion from childhood; the partner of his studies and his pleasures. The commands of his uncle revealed to him in an instant the nature of his regard for her; but, at the same time, he felt the misery and hopelessness of such a love. His high station he felt would be a barrier to honorable love, and this thought deepened tenfold his anguish. In sweet, tender words he bewailed his sad fate, when he bade farewell to her, describing, in touching language, their future lot had he been born in a more humble state.

“Ah! Lidia,” he exclaimed, “then I might have seen and liked with mine own eyes, and not as now, with others. I might still continue my delights with you, that are alone, in my esteem, the abstract of society. We might walk in solitary groves, or in choice gardens, and in the variety of curious flowers, contemplate nature’s workmanship and wonders; then for change, near to the murmur of some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing, and from the well tuned accents of your tongue, in my imagination, conceive the melody of Heaven’s harmony; then with chaste discourse we would return imp feathers to the broken wing of time. But all this I must part from—I might after continued innocence of love and service have been your husband—”

Here Lidia checked him, and reminded him that she was, and ever would be his servant; that it was far from her, even in a thought, to cherish such saucy hopes as these. Had she been heir to all the globes and sceptres, that mankind bows to, then, at her best, she might have deserved him; but now, in her humble state, she could only wish that he might find a partner—a princess equal to him, who would make it the study of her life, with all the obedience of a wife, to please him. For her own part, she would be content to live and be their humblest handmaid. So humble and childlike doth love show itself in a pure, gentle nature.

In this sweet sorrowful manner they parted from each other, and Giovanni hastened to do his uncle’s bidding; but first he embraced his good old guardian, saying, farewell, and assured him that should he ever reach his high destination their fortunes should be shared—then joining the secretary, he repaired to the Florentine court.

Duke Cozimo had a favorite, Lodovico Sanazarro by name, and he loved him so dearly that he used to say Sanazarro’s merits were so great that should he divide his dukedom with him, he would still continue his debtor. Princes’ favorites are apt to be undeserving men, notwithstanding they may be set off with all the trim of greatness, state, and power; for princes are men, not gods, and though they can give wealth and titles, they cannot give virtues, that is out of their power. But Duke Cozimo had proved the correctness of his judgment in the choice of his friend. Sanazarro’s nature was like pure, tried gold, and any stamp of grace the duke was pleased to give him, to make him current to the world, did but add honor to the royal bestower. Even the courtiers felt no envy against him, for he was no lazy drone, but an industrious bee. He fought the enemies of the state, and displayed great valor; then, after returning crowned with conquest, he labored in the service of his royal master, sharing in the cares and burthen of the government.

Duke Cozimo’s secret design was to wed this favorite with his wealthy ward, Fiorinda. This noble princess was not averse to this plan, for Lodovico being a handsome and brave gentleman, had quite won her heart and she loved to dwell on his exploits in the field, and abilities displayed in the council. Sanazarro, however, was very modest, and never dared to lift his thoughts so high as to woo so rich and noble a dame as the Princess Fiorinda.

Encouraged by her guardian, Fiorinda endeavored by courteous, but delicate advances, to remove this diffidence. She always received him with distinction, and took occasion repeatedly to send him gifts, which he received with the reverent gratefulness of a subject; expressing more ceremony in his humble thanks, than feeling of the favor—appearing almost willfully ignorant, and blind to the tender feeling which prompted these courteous condescensions. But true love is patient, and forbearing, and as Sanazarro displayed no love for any other lady, she used to comfort herself with the thought, that it was the light of her high estate that made him blind, and taxed her woman’s wit for means to lessen the difference between them. The frequent dangers that he was exposed to, however, in the service of the state, made her unhappy, and after the young Prince Giovanni came to court, she took occasion to interest him in Sanazarro’s favor, begging that he would be suitor to the duke not to expose this brave, noble gentleman to so much peril, but rather to command him, after his great labors, to take rest.

Prince Giovanni received this request with delight, for he also had a boon to ask of the duchess. So great was his love for the fair Lidia Charomonte, that he could no longer bear the separation from her, and after describing her with a lover’s colors to the princess, he begged she would take occasion to ask permission of the duke, to add this matchless virgin to her train of ladies. She promised to effect his desire, right quickly; and they parted from each other with bright hopes.

Soon after Giovanni’s return to court, the secretary who had brought him, while reporting to the duke an account of his journey, gave an enthusiastic description of Charomonte’s daughter, and in doing this, implied that the prince loved her. Straightway, but quietly, the kind duke conceived the design of securing also his dearly loved nephew’s happiness, but fearing that this object of his love might not be worthy of so high a fortune, he resolved to send his trusty favorite, Sanazarro, to Charomonte’s house, to see this paragon of beauty and virtue.

This he did without acquainting Sanazarro with his reasons, and the favorite fulfilled his master’s orders, thinking the duke wished to contract a marriage with this humble maid. But after seeing the fair Lidia he was so struck with her beauty, modesty, and wit, that he forgot his duty to his master and his honor. The recollection of past favors from the duke, even the beautiful, kind, forbearing Duchess Fiorinda, seemed as nothing to him, under the influence of this wild infatuation. He returned to court, resolved to find some means of blinding the duke, and turning him aside from pursuit of the fair Lidia. The secretary he knew he could silence, and the Prince Giovanni, the only one who could disclose his falsehood, he hoped to quiet, by telling him of the duke’s purpose of marriage, which would of course endanger his prospect of succeeding to the dukedom.

How weak and wicked are the best of men when exposed to some trials. Here was this loyal, noble, honorable gentleman, who had withstood the weakening effects of princes’ favor, yielding truth and allegiance at a moment when he should have been most strong—at a moment when he felt most confidence. He forgot the honors and glories by Cozimo’s grace conferred upon him; he deceived his trust and made shipwreck of his loyalty. Did he not deserve ruin?

Prince Giovanni received the news of his uncle’s projected marriage with indifference, answering most nobly, that he had no right, because he had received benefits from his uncle’s hands, to prescribe laws for his pleasure. But when he heard who his uncle purposed to wed, then his own love raised the standard of rebellion in his heart, and he willingly united with the false Sanazarro in decrying the charms of his loved mistress. Both singly and together they spoke disparagingly of this beautiful lady, and Cozimo believed them, although it caused him some surprise, but, as he said, he had never found them false.

But falsehood in weaving its net, always forgets to leave a loop-hole for its own escape. Too late Giovanni remembered the favor he had asked of the Duchess Fiorinda, and he hastened to request her to be silent in the matter. But while he was seeking her fruitlessly, she was already with the duke moving him, with all a woman’s eloquence, to command the presence of Charomonte’s fair daughter at the court, saying, that his nephew had given her such an abstract of perfection in his description of this maiden, that she did not wish to employ her as a servant, but to be by her instructed, and use her as a dear companion.

Duke Cozimo listened with amazement, and then, almost doubting his senses, made the princess repeat all that Giovanni had told her. This she did, using his very words: that she possessed all that could be wished for in a virgin. That she had rare beauty, her discourse was ravishing, she had quickness of apprehension, with choice manners and learning too, not usual with women.

This account was so unlike the report given by Giovanni and Sanazarro to him, that the duke saw with anger he had been deceived. This wounded him deeply, for he could not bear the thought of insincerity and falsehood in his nephew and bosom friend. He felt that he had been trifled with, and resolved to examine into the matter himself, then, if he found they had played him false, he would punish them with rigor. But he smothered his wrath, meaning to act quietly without their knowledge. He told the duchess her suit was granted; that the fair Lidia should come to her; but in return he would ask her to go with him the following morning on a short journey to the country. As he made this request, Giovanni and Sanazarro entered just in time to hear it. The duke greeted them coldly and left them. Joyfully the duchess hastened to communicate to Prince Giovanni her success. He dissembled his confusion awkwardly, and essayed to thank her for her kindness. She courteously received his thanks, and then with sweet condescension greeted Sanazarro, begging him to accept of a diamond from her, and wear it for her sake. Saying this, she bade them both adieu, and hastened to be in readiness for the duke’s journey.

The young prince and Sanazarro gazed at each other in consternation. Something must be done, however, and that right quickly, for they both felt certain that it was the duke’s intention to see Lidia with his own eyes, and that the journey of the following day was to Charomonte’s house. Hastily Giovanni decided upon sending his serving man that night with a letter to Lidia. In this letter he told her that the duke, his uncle, had heard of her, and her beauty, and was about to seek her he feared, with unlawful love. “If he see you, as you are, fair Lidia,” he concluded, “my hoped-for happiness will be changed into an everlasting night. Let your goodness find some means to prevent my uncle seeing you, and thus you will save two lives, your own and the honorer of your virtues, Giovanni.”

Giovanni’s messenger found the young Lidia in the midst of her father’s household, who with the kind, old Charomonte, were devising all manner of merry-makings, in order to divert the sadness which had hung over her since the departure of the young prince. She received the letter with joy, and retired to read it in secret, that no one might witness her emotion. So soon as she read his request, the very means of accomplishing it flashed quickly into her mind. As the duke had never seen her, she resolved upon presenting to him another in her place. Her maid, Petronilla, was the person decided upon. This girl was ill-favored, coarse and rude. The only difficulty she had to surmount, would be her father’s opposition, but she thought she would contrive with the servants’ aid, to have Petronilla presented to the duke when her father was not present. This difficulty the duke unconsciously relieved her from, for he came to Charomonte’s mansion in anger; and so soon as he arrived he dismissed his train, desiring to see Charomonte alone. Then he upbraided him with treason—for he suspected the old man of dishonor. He feared that Giovanni had become entangled with this Lidia, and not knowing Sanazarro’s suspicions, he attributed Giovanni’s double dealings, to a dishonorable illicit connection with this girl, connived at by her father.

Poor old Charomonte listened to his royal master’s reproaches with angry amazement. So soon as the duke had ended, he replied with words that proved how his loyalty and outraged feelings contended for mastery. In speaking of his daughter, the light of his eyes, the comfort of his feeble age, he described her so lovingly and tenderly that the duke commanded she should be shown to him.

“But,” said he, “you shall not prepare her to answer these charges. We will see her immediately, and to prevent all intercourse, we do confine thee close prisoner to thy chamber, till all doubts are cleared.”

Lidia was summoned, and in her place came Petronilla, escorted by Giovanni and Sanazarro, followed by the servants, bearing a sumptuous banquet. At the sight of her coarse appearance the duke felt that the manners of her mind must be transcendent to defend so rough an outside. She received him boisterously, and at the banquet, behaved rudely and indelicately, and drank so freely of the wine, that she had to be carried away from the duke’s presence. The imposture, however, was so gross, that the duke began to suspect some cunning deceit or trick had been played upon him; but he dissembled this suspicion, and sent out Giovanni and Sanazarro with his train, saying he would soon join them; that he wished first to see the Signor Charomonte in private, that he might, with a few kind words of comfort, take leave of the poor old man.

It appeared to him unlikely that both Charomonte and Contarino, his old secretary, could be so blinded. “It may be,” he said to himself, “that the daughter, for some ends unknown, has personated this rude behaviour, which seems so ridiculous and impossible. Whatever be the riddle, however, I will resolve it, if possible.”

Charomonte, on being summoned, came to him; but when he heard the duke’s pitying description of the pretended Lidia, he instantly went to his daughter’s chamber, where she was feigning illness, and forced her into the presence of Cozimo. The beautiful Lidia trembling, and in tears, knelt before him and besought his mercy.

“Ah,” exclaimed the duke, “this is the peerless form I expected to see;” then turning to Charomonte, he commanded that Sanazarro and his nephew, Giovanni, should straightway be imprisoned in separate chambers, guarded, until he should pronounce sentence against them as traitors.

In tender, touching language, Lidia pleaded for the prince, and asked that whatever punishment he deserved, to inflict it on her, as she was the sad cause of his offence.

“I know,” she said, “that the prince is so far above me that my wishes even cannot reach him, and to restore him to your wonted grace and favor, I’ll abjure his sight forever, and betake myself to a religious life, where, in my prayers, I may remember him, but no man will I ever see but my ghostly father. Be not, O sire, like the eagle that in her angry mood destroys her hopeful young for suffering a wren to perch too near them.”

Cozimo listened with admiration, and raising her tenderly put her suit off with courteous compliments, telling her that if she would cheer her drooping spirits, bring back the bloom of health to her pale cheek, and let him see the diamond of her beauty in its perfect lustre, there could be no crime that he would not look with eyes of mercy upon if she advocated it.

Already in his mind had he thought of a fitting punishment for his nephew. He resolved to make them all believe that he intended himself to wed the fair Lidia, and acted accordingly.

Poor Sanazarro, in the solitude of his prison, awakened too late to a sense of his wicked, disloyal treachery. He remembered the duke’s kindness and love, in making him almost his second self. The influence of Lidia’s charms faded away, and he recalled the loving favors he had received so carelessly from the beautiful Duchess Fiorinda. Now, he stood without friends, and no one dared or even cared to make intercession to the duke for him. As he thought of the Duchess Fiorinda’s love and past kindness, he resolved to appeal to her, and sent a message to her, begging her mediation in his favor, although he acknowledged himself most unworthy.

But true love forgetteth and forgiveth all injuries, and so soon as the lovely Fiorinda heard his sad plight, she repaired to the duke and entreated of him to be merciful and gracious to his poor servant, Sanazarro. Cozimo reminded her of his infidelity to him, his kind master; and then, to move her still more to anger, he recalled how coldly Sanazarro had always received her courtesies, and how easily he had yielded to the charms of another, and that other beneath her in rank.

The poor lady for a moment struggled with her pride, which whispered to her that, to endure a rival, and one also who was an inferior, betokened poverty of spirit, but her noble heart obtained the mastery, and she replied,

“True love must not know degrees or distances. Lidia may be as far above me in her form as she is in her birth beneath me; and what I liked in Sanazarro he may have loved in her. Vouchsafe to hear his defense.”

The duke consented, and said that both Sanazarro and the young prince should have a speedy trial, in which he would not only be judge, but accuser; and then expressed himself in such courteous, gallant words about the fair Lidia, that Charomonte and the courtiers stared in amazement. They could scarcely credit what he wished to make them believe—that he, the faithful, mourning widower, who had remained constant so many years, purposed a second marriage with this young maiden, so unfit for him in station and age.

The trial commenced, and the prisoners, almost hopeless of mercy, presented themselves, with their lovely advocates, the duchess and Lidia, before the duke. Cozimo, at the sight of Lidia, professed to forget every thing in the rapture her beauty caused him; and after exhausting love’s sweet language in describing her charms, he turned, with looks of rage, to the prince and Sanazarro, and told them they knelt too late for mercy. But Lidia and the duchess reminded him he had promised a gracious hearing to his prisoners, before passing sentence.

Duke Cozimo descended from the chair of state, and placing the two ladies in his seat, told them they should be his deputies; but they must listen to his accusation which would justify the sentence he was about to pronounce on these traitorous heads. First, he reminded Sanazarro of his cold indifference to Fiorinda’s condescending love, and his unfaithfulness to her; but the duchess interrupted him, and told him that charge was naught; she had already heard the count’s confession, and had freely pardoned him.

The duke courteously bowed, but continued and upbraided Sanazarro with his treachery to him, his indulgent master. Then he turned to Giovanni and reminded him of how careful of his interests he had always been; how he had remained unwedded, to secure to a thankless nephew a throne. “We made you both,” continued the duke, “the keys that opened our heart’s secrets, and what you spoke we believed as oracles. But you, in recompense of this, to us, who gave you all, to whom you owed your being, with treacherous lies endeavored to conceal this peerless jewel from our knowledge. Look on her,” he said, pointing to the blushing Lidia, “is that a beauty fit for any subject? Can any tire become that forehead but a diadem? Even should we grant pardon for your falsehood to us, your treachery to her, in seeking to deprive her of that greatness she was born to, can ne’er find pardon.”

As the duke finished, the ladies quickly descended from the chair of state, and kneeling, with the prince and Count Sanazarro before him, besought his mercy, which Charomonte reminded him, was more becoming in a prince than wreaths of conquest. The courtiers and old councillors united their entreaties, but the duke remained inflexible. Turning to Charomonte, he said,

“You, Carolo, remember with what impatiency of grief we bore our Duchess Clarinda’s death, and how we vowed—not hoping to see her equal—never to make a second choice. We did not know that nature had framed one that did almost excel her, and with oaths, mixed with tears, we swore our eyes should never again be tempted. Charomonte, thou heardest us sware—are those vows, thinkest thou, registered against us in heaven?”

Charomonte told him that if he were to wed a woman who possessed all woman’s beauties and virtues united, he had already sworn so deeply, that the weight of his perjury would sink him.

“This is strong truth, Carolo,” replied the duke, “but yet it does not free them from treason.”

“But,” answered the good old Charomonte, who began to suspect the duke’s design, “the prince, your nephew, was so earnest to have you keep your vows to heaven, that he vouchsafed to love my daughter.”

The duke turned to Lidia, as if for assurance of this, who blushingly replied, “He told me so, indeed, sire.”

“And the count has averred as much to me,” said the Duchess Fiorinda, with a playful air and a merry laugh, for she saw by the duke’s manner that he had only been feigning this stern severity as a punishment to the young men.

“Ah,” said Duke Cozimo, smiling, “you all conspire to force our mercy from us.”

Then he placed the gentle, lovely Lidia’s hand in Giovanni’s, and as he pronounced the pardon of the prince and count, he told them they must merit their forgiveness by service and love to their mistresses, the duchess and the beautiful Lidia.

Thus ends this story, courteous reader, and

“May the passage prove,

Of what’s presented, worthy of your love

And favor, as was aimed, and we have all

That can in compass of our wishes fall.”