Part 2 / Act 3 — Scene V.—A Banqueting Hall.—Provençal Nobles assembled.

1st Noble. Joy be to this fair meeting! Who hath seen The viceroy’s bride? 2d Noble. I saw her as she pass’d The gazing throngs assembled in the city. ’Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, Her castle’s wood-girt solitude. ’Twill gall These proud Sicilians that her wide domains Should be the conqueror’s guerdon. 3d Noble. ’Twas their boast With what fond faith she worshipp’d still the name Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves Brook this new triumph of their lords? 2d Noble. In sooth, It stings them to the quick. In the full streets They mix with our Provençals, and assume A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them. ’Twere worth a thousand festivals to see With what a bitter and unnatural effort They strive to smile! 1st Noble. Is this Vittoria fair? 2d Noble. Of a most noble mien; but yet her beauty Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye, In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, From which thou’lt shrink as I did. 1st Noble. Hush! they come. Enter Eribert, Vittoria, Constance, and others. Eri. Welcome, my noble friends!—there must not lower One clouded brow to-day in Sicily! —Behold my bride! Nobles. Receive our homage, lady! Vit. I bid all welcome. May the feast we offer Prove worthy of such guests! Eri. Look on her, friends! And say if that majestic brow is not Meet for a diadem? Vit. ’Tis well, my lord! When memory’s pictures fade—’tis kindly done To brighten their dimm’d hues! 1st Noble (apart.) Mark’d you her glance? 2d Noble (apart.) What eloquent scorn was there? Yet he, th’ elate Of heart, perceives it not. Eri. Now to the feast! Constance, you look not joyous. I have said That all should smile to-day. Con. Forgive me, brother; The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp At times oppresses it. Eri. Why, how is this? Con. Voices of woe, and prayers of agony, Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay, Since ’tis your wish. In truth, I should have been A village maid. Eri. But being as you are, Not thus ignobly free, command your looks (They may be taught obedience) to reflect The aspect of the time. Vit. And know, fair maid! That, if in this unskill’d, you stand alone Amidst our court of pleasure. Eri. To the feast! Now let the red wine foam!—There should be mirth When conquerors revel! Lords of this fair isle! Your good swords’ heritage, crown each bowl, and pledge The present and the future! for they both Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride? Vit. Yes, Eribert!—thy prophecies of joy Have taught e’en me to smile. Eri. ’Tis well. To-day I have won a fair and almost royal bride; To-morrow let the bright sun speed his course, To waft me happiness!—my proudest foes Must die; and then my slumber shall be laid On rose-leaves, with no envious fold to mar The luxury of its visions!—Fair Vittoria, Your looks are troubled! Vit. It is strange—but oft, Midst festal songs and garlands, o’er my soul Death comes, with some dull image! As you spoke Of those whose blood is claim’d, I thought for them Who, in a darkness thicker than the night E’er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long, How blessèd were the stroke which makes them things Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust, There is at least no bondage! But should we, From such a scene as this, where all earth’s joys Contend for mastery, and the very sense Of life is rapture—should we pass, I say, At once from such excitements to the void And silent gloom of that which doth await us— Were it not dreadful? Eri. Banish such dark thoughts! They ill beseem the hour. Vit. There is no hour Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe, But they beseem it well! Why, what a slight Impalpable bound is that, th’ unseen, which severs Being from death! And who can tell how near Its misty brink he stands? 1st Noble (aside.) What mean her words? 2d Noble. There’s some dark mystery here. Eri. No more of this! Pour the bright juice, which Etna’s glowing vines Yield to the conquerors! And let music’s voice Dispel these ominous dreams!—Wake, harp and song! Swell out your triumph! A Messenger enters, bearing a letter. Mes. Pardon, my good lord! But this demands—— Eri. What means thy breathless haste, And that ill-boding mien? Away! such looks Befit not hours like these. Mes. The Lord De Couci Bade me bear this, and say, ’tis fraught with tidings Of life and death. Vit. (hurriedly.) Is this a time for aught But revelry? My lord, these dull intrusions Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene! Eri. (to the Messenger.) Hence! Tell the Lord De Couci, we will talk Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit Messenger. Let there be Around me none but joyous looks to-day, And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth! A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, &c. Eri. What forms are these? What means this antic triumph? Vit. ’Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye some strain Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily! One of the Masquers sings. The festal eve, o’er earth and sky, In her sunset robe looks bright, And the purple hills of Sicily With their vineyards laugh in light; From the marble cities of her plains, Glad voices mingling swell; —But with yet more loud and lofty strains, They shall hail the Vesper-bell! Oh! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze Their cadence wafts afar, To float o’er the blue Sicilian seas, As they gleam to the first pale star! The shepherd greets them on his height, The hermit in his cell; —But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night, In the sound of the Vesper-bell! [The bell rings. Eri. It is the hour! Hark, hark!—my bride, our summons! The altar is prepared and crown’d with flowers, That wait—— Vit. The victim! [A tumult heard without. Procida and Montalba enter, with others, armed. Pro. Strike! the hour is come! Vit. Welcome, avengers! welcome! Now, be strong! (The conspirators throw off their disguise, and rush with their swords drawn upon the Provençals. Eribert is wounded, and falls.) Pro. Now hath fate reach’d thee, in thy mid career, Thou reveller in a nation’s agonies! (The Provençals are driven off, pursued by the Sicilians.) Con. (supporting Eribert.) My brother! oh, my brother! Eri. Have I stood A leader in the battle-fields of kings, To perish thus at last? Ay, by these pangs, And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep, Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins, This should be—death! In sooth, a dull exchange For the gay bridal feast! Voices (without.) Remember Conradin!—spare none!—spare none! Vit. (throwing off her bridal wreath and ornaments.) This is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast, In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling To earth for ever! And it is such joy, As if a captive from his dull cold cell Might soar at once, on charter’d wing, to range The realms of starr’d infinity! Away! Vain mockery of a bridal wreath! The hour For which stem patience ne’er kept watch in vain Is come; and I may give my bursting heart Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert! Believe in retribution! What! proud man! Prince, ruler, conqueror! didst thou deem heaven slept? “Or that the unseen, immortal ministers, Ranging the world to note e’en purposed crime In burning characters, had laid aside Their everlasting attributes for thee?” O blind security! He in whose dread hand The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until The trampler of this goodly earth hath reach’d His pyramid height of power; that so his fall May with more fearful oracles make pale Man’s crown’d oppressors! Con. Oh! reproach him not! His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink Of that dim world where passion may not enter. Leave him in peace. Voices (without.) Anjou! Anjou!—De Couci, to the rescue! Eri. (half raising himself.) My brave Provençals! do ye combat still? And I your chief am here! Now, now I feel That death indeed is bitter! Vit. Fare thee well! Thine eyes so oft with their insulting smile Have look’d on man’s last pangs, thou shouldst by this, Be perfect how to die! Exit Vittoria. Raimond enters. Raim. Away, my Constance! Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands Are scatter’d far and wide. A little while And thou shalt be in safety. Know’st thou not That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man Anselmo?—he whose hermitage is rear’d Mid some old temple’s ruins? Round the spot His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, ’Tis hallow’d as a sanctuary wherein Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm Have spent its fury. Haste! Con. I will not fly! While in his heart there is one throb of life, One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave The brother of my youth to perish thus, Without one kindly bosom to sustain His dying head. Eri. The clouds are darkening round. There are strange voices ringing in mine ear That summon me—to what? But I have been Used to command!—Away! I will not die, But on the field— [He dies. Con. (kneeling by him.) O Heaven! be merciful As thou art just!—for he is now where naught But mercy can avail him.—It is past! Guido enters with his sword drawn. Gui. (to Raimond.) I’ve sought thee long—why art thou lingering here? Haste, follow me! Suspicion with thy name Joins that word—Traitor! Raim. Traitor!—Guido? Gui. Yes! Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms, After vain conflict with a people’s wrath, De Couci hath escaped? And there are those Who murmur that from thee the warning came Which saved him from our vengeance. But e’en yet, In the red current of Provençal blood, That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword, And follow me! Raim. And thou couldst doubt me, Guido! ’Tis come to this!—Away! mistrust me still. I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. Thou knowst me not! Gui. Raimond di Procida!— If thou art he whom once I deem’d so noble— Call me thy friend no more! [Exit Guido. Raim. (after a pause.) Rise, dearest, rise! Thy duty’s task hath nobly been fulfill’d, E’en in the face of death; but all is o’er, And this is now no place where nature’s tears In quiet sanctity may freely flow. —Hark! the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar Of fast-advancing billows; and for thee I shame not thus to tremble.—Speed! oh, speed! Exeunt.