BY TORSTEN SCHWANKE
PROLOGUE
This is the story of Admira Ismić
And Boško Brkić, who became renowned
Throughout the world as Sarajevo's own
True Romeo and Juliet. And yet,
Unlike the drama Shakespeare wrote, their tale
Was bitterest reality, set deep
Within the siege of Sarajevo's war.
Who were these two? A young and loving pair
Born of that city: fair Admira was
A Bosniak Muslim; Boško was a Serb,
An Orthodox believer. In that city
Where cultures mingled, origins meant nought
Before the war; they loved since schoolboy days
And together planned their future years.
Tragedy Upon the Bridge
In May of nineteen hundred ninety-three,
As the cruel siege grew unbearable,
They both resolved to flee. Through trusted contacts
Upon both sides, they had received assurance
Of unmolested passage from the town.
The date: the nineteenth day of May, that year.
The place: the Vrbanja Bridge, which then divided
The city center from Grbavica,
The district held under the Serbian hand.
The deed: as they were crossing over, shots
Rang out. A sniper's bullet struck down Boško;
He fell and died upon the very spot.
Shortly thereafter, fair Admira too
Was hit. Surrounding witnesses reported
That though mortally wounded, yet she crawled
To Boško's side, embraced him in her arms,
And fifteen minutes later passed away.
For nearly four full days the lovers lay
Within that no-man's-land upon the bridge,
For neither side would grant a truce to fetch
The fallen bodies. Yet a photograph
Showing them wrapped in one another's arms
Upon the asphalt sped around the globe,
Becoming an emblem of the utter waste
And senseless tragedy of ethnic hate.
Today they lie entombed together, resting
Within the Lion Cemetery of Sarajevo—
Side by side in death, as in their lives.
Dramatis Personae
Vladimir, Prince of Sarajevo.
Yusuf, a noble youth, kin to the Prince, and lover to Admira.
Brkić and Ismić, heads of two noble houses at variance with each other.
Boško, son to Brkić.
Prince Marko, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Boško.
Joakim, cousin and friend to Boško.
Jan, nephew to Ismić.
Friar Dimitri and Friar Alexander, monks.
Yuryev, servant to Boško.
A Page to Yusuf.
Mohammed and Ali, servants to Ismić.
Abraham, a servant to Brkić.
An Apothecary.
Simon Catling, Homer Rebeck, and Samuel Soundpost, musicians.
Piotr, servant to the Nurse.
Dame Brkić.
Dame Ismić.
Admira, daughter to Ismić.
Nurse to Admira.
Citizens of Sarajevo, Maskers, Guards, Watchmen, and Attendants.
SETTING: The action opens at the Vrbanja Bridge at the beginning of the fifth act; otherwise, the scene is set throughout Sarajevo.
ACT I
(Enter MOHAMMED and ALI, two servants of the house of Ismić, armed with swords and bucklers, encouraging each other to stand fast against the Brkić; their discourse is a web of wordplay, double meanings, and bawdy jests.)
(Enter ABRAHAM and JURYEW.)
ALI (to SAMSON)
Unsheathe thy blade, for here approach two men
Of Brkić’s proud house.
SAMSON
My sword is drawn;
Go, pick a quarrel; I will back thee up.
ALI
What, wilt thou turn thy back and run away?
SAMSON
Fear not for me; I’ll stand fast as a wall.
Yet let us keep the law upon our side,
And force their hand to strike the first blow home.
ALI
I’ll frown upon them as I pass them by,
And let them take it as they choose to take’t.
SAMSON
Nay, as they dare. I’ll bite my thumb at them,
Which is a foul disgrace if they endure it.
ABRAHAM
Dost thou, sir, bite thy thumb at us?
SAMSON
I do—
I bite my thumb, sir.
ABRAHAM
Dost thou bite thy thumb
At us, sir?
MOHAMMED (aside to ALI)
Is the law upon our side
If I say yes?
ALI (aside to MOHAMMED)
No, answer no, it is not.
MOHAMMED
No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you;
And yet I bite my thumb, sir.
ALI
Do you seek
A quarrel, sir?
ABRAHAM
A quarrel, sir? No, sir.
SAMSON
If that you do, sir, I am your match; I serve
As brave a master as your own.
ABRAHAM
No better.
SAMSON
Well, sir.
(Enter JOAKIM.)
ALI (aside to MOHAMMED)
Say "better," man; here comes
A kinsman of our master.
MOHAMMED
Yes, a better, sir!
ABRAHAM
Thou liest!
SAMSON
Draw, if you be men!—Remember, Ali,
That thrust of thine must not be borne in vain!
(They fight.)
(Enter JOAKIM.)
JOAKIM
Part, fools! Put up your swords; ye know not what
Ye do.
(Enter JAN.)
JAN
What, drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Joakim, and look upon thy death!
JOAKIM
I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword,
Or use it straight to help me part these men.
JAN
What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word,
As I hate hell, all Brkićs, and thee!
Have at thee, coward!
(They fight.)
(Enter three or four CITIZENS, armed with clubs.)
FIRST CITIZEN
Clubs, bills, and halberds! Strike them down! Beat back
The surging crowd! Down with the Bosniakes!
Down with the fiends!
(Enter OLD ISMIĆ, in his gown, and Dame ISMIĆ.)
ISMIĆ
What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!
Dame ISMIĆ
A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?
ISMIĆ
My sword, I say! Old Brkić comes in haste,
And flourishes his blade before my face!
(Enter OLD BRKIĆ, and Dame BRKIĆ.)
BRKIĆ
Thou villain, Ismić!—Hold me not; let go!
Dame BRKIĆ
Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe!
(Enter the PRINCE OF SARAJEVO, with his TRAIN. Full of wrath at this outrage, he upbraids the two old men for having thrice disturbed the peace of Sarajevo with their house-feuds, commands them on pain of death to keep the quiet of the streets, and, having dispersed the throng, exits with his train.)
(Old Brkić, Dame Brkić, and Joakim remain.=
Dame
Who set this ancient quarrel fresh abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?
Joakim
Here were the servants of your adversary,
And yours, close fighting when I did arrive.
I parted them; in that same instant came
The fiery Jan, with naked weapon drawn,
Which, breathing brave defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head and cut the winds,
Who, nothing hurt withal, hissed him in scorn.
While we were swapping blows and interchanging,
Came more and more, and fought on either side,
Till that the Prince arrived and parted us.
Dame
O, where is Boško? Have you seen him today?
Right glad am I he was not at this fray.
Joakim
Madam, an hour before the worshipped sun
Peer’d forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drove me to walk abroad;
Where, underneath the grove of sycamore
That westward rooteth from the city’s side,
So early walking did I see your son.
Towards him I made, but he was ware of me
And stole into the covert of the wood.
I, measuring his affections by my own,
Which then most sought where most might not be found,
And being one too many by myself,
Pursued my humor, not pursuing his,
And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
Brkić
Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the furthest east begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,
Away from light steals home my heavy son,
And private in his chamber pens himself,
Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out,
And makes himself an artificial night.
Black and portentous must this humor prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.
Joakim
My noble uncle, do you know the cause?
Brkić
I neither know it nor can learn of him.
Joakim
Have you importuned him by any means?
Brkić
Both by myself and many other friends.
But he, his own affections’ counsellor,
Is to himself—I will not say how true—
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,
We would as willingly give cure as know.
(Enter Boško)
Joakim
See, where he comes. So please you, step aside;
I’ll know his grievance, or be much denied.
Brkić
I would thou wert so happy by thy stay
To hear true shrift.—Come, madam, let’s away.
(Exeunt Brkić and Dame)
Joakim
Good morrow, cousin.
Boško
Is the day so young?
Joakim
But new struck nine.
Boško
Ay me! Sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast?
Joakim
It was. What sadness lengthens Boško’s hours?
Boško
Not having that which, having, makes them short.
Joakim
In love?
Boško
Out—
Joakim
Of love?
Boško
Out of her favor, where I am in love.
Joakim
Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,
Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!
Boško
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should, without eyes, see pathways to his will!
Where shall we dine?—O me! What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love.
Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O anything, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! Serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?
Joakim
No, cousin, I had rather weep.
Boško
Good heart, at what?
Joakim
At thy good heart’s oppression.
Boško
Why, such is love’s transgression.
Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,
Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest
With more of thine: this love that thou hast shown
Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;
Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears:
What is it else? A madness most discreet,
A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
Farewell, my coz.
Joakim
Soft! I will go along;
An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.
Boško
Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here;
This is not Boško, he’s some other where.
Joakim
Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?
Boško
What, shall I groan and tell thee?
Joakim
Groan! Why, no.
But sadly tell me who.
Boško
Bid a sick man in sadness make his will—
Ah, word ill urged to one that is so ill!
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
Joakim
I aimed so near, when I supposed you loved.
Boško
A right good markman! And she’s fair I love.
Joakim
A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
Boško
Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit
With Cupid’s arrow; she hath Dian’s wit,
And, in strong proof of chastity well armed,
From love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharmed.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:
O, she is rich in beauty, only poor
That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.
Joakim
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?
Boško
She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;
For beauty starved with her severity
Cuts beauty off from all posterity.
She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair,
To merit bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow
Do I live dead that live to tell it now.
Joakim
Be ruled by me, forget to think of her.
Boško
O, teach me how I should forget to think!
Joakim
By giving liberty unto thine eyes;
Examine other beauties.
Boško
’Tis the way
To call hers exquisite, in question more:
These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,
Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair;
He that is strucken blind cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost:
Show me a mistress that is passing fair,
What doth her beauty serve, but as a note
Where I may read who passed that passing fair?
Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.
Joakim
I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.
(Exeunt)
(Enter Ismić, Jussuf, and a Servant.)
Ismić
Brkić is bound as heavily as I;
He faces just the selfsame penalty;
And for old men like us, it should not prove
A heavy task to keep the peace between us.
Jussuf
You both are honorable men, and 'tis
A pity you have lived in strife so long.
But now, my noble lord, what do you say
To my suit for your daughter?
Ismić
I can say
No other than what I have said before:
My child is yet a stranger in the world,
She has not seen fourteen years pass her by;
Let two more summers wither in their pride
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
Jussuf
Younger than she have proved happy mothers.
Ismić
And so are ruined earlier, when fruit
Is forced from them prematurely. The earth
Has swallowed all my other hopes; I have
No child but her—she is the single joy
Of my old age. But woo her for yourself,
My dear Jussuf, and seek to win her heart;
If you have her consent, you have my own.
This night I hold a feast, by ancient custom,
To which I have invited many friends.
Come swell their number—none among them all
Shall be more welcome. In my humble house
You shall behold earth-treading stars tonight
Which well may dim the brightness of the heavens.
You shall, with all the joy young spirits feel
When well-apparelled April on the heel
Of limping winter treads, walk mid a spring
Of newly opened maiden buds. View all,
And hear them all, and give your favor to
The one who merits most; you shall find many
So lovely that my child, unseen, will fade
And lose herself amid the crowd. Come, go
With me.—You, sirrah, go, trudge through the streets
Of Sarajevo, find those persons out
Whose names are written on this paper here...
(Exeunt Ismić and Jussuf.)
Servant
Find out the persons whose names are written here! It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yardstick, the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his net. But I am sent to find the persons whose names are written here, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time, here come a pair of them right to my hands.
(Enter Joakim and Boško.)
Joakim
Hush, man! One fire drives out another's burning,
One pain is lessened by another's anguish;
Turn giddy, and be helped by backward turning,
And love's despair is cured by loving anew.
Boško
A plantain-leaf is excellent for that.
Joakim
For what, I pray thee?
Boško
For your broken shin.
Joakim
Why, Boško, art thou mad?
Boško
Not mad, but bound
More tightly than a madman in his cell;
Shut up in prison, kept without my food,
Whipped, tormented... and—good evening, fellow.
(To the Servant.)
Servant
God give you a good evening. I pray, sir, can you read?
Boško
Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.
Servant
Perhaps you learned it without a book.
But I pray, can you read anything you see?
Boško
Ay, if I know the letters and the language.
Servant
Ye say honestly. Rest you merry!
(Going.)
Boško
Stay, fellow; I can read.
(He reads the paper.)
Signor Martino and his wife and daughters; Count Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; the Dame widow Vitruvia; Signor Placentio and his lovely nieces; Prince Marco and his brother Valentine; my uncle Ismić, his wife and daughters; my fair niece Rosalind; Livia; Signor Valentio and his cousin Jan; Lucio, and the lively Signora Helena.
A fair assembly! And whither should they come?
Servant
Up.
Boško
Whither?
Servant
To supper—to our house.
Boško
Whose house?
Servant
My master's.
Boško
Indeed, I should have asked thee that before.
Servant
Now I'll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Ismić; and if you be not of the house of Brkić, I pray come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry!
(Exit.)
Joakim
How well it fits! The beautiful Rosalind,
Whom thou so lovest, attends this family feast
Of Bosniaks, with all the fairest maids
That Sarajevo holds. Go thither too;
Compare her face with unbiased eyes to those
Whom I will show thee, and thou shalt confess
Thy swan is but a crow.
Boško
One fairer than my love! The all-seeing sun
Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.
Joakim
Go to! You saw her when no other stood
Beside her, and you weighed her in both eyes
Against herself alone; but let her charms
Be balanced in those crystal scales against
Some other maid whom I will show to you
In all her splendor at this feast tonight,
And she shall scant show well that now seems best.
Boško
I’ll go along with you, not for your words,
But for the joy of making you a witness
To the triumphant beauty of my love.
(Exeunt.)
(Scene changes to Ismić's house. Dame Ismić and the Nurse enter.)
Dame Ismić.
Nurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.
Nurse.
Now, by my maidenhead—at twelve years old
I had one, I confess—I bade her come.
What, lamb! What, Damebird! God forbid now!
Where is this girl? What, Admira!
(Admira enters to the rest.)
Admira.
What is it? Who is calling?
Nurse.
Your Dame mother.
Admira.
Madam, I am here. What is your will?
Dame Ismić.
This is the matter—Nurse, give leave awhile,
We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again;
I have remembered me, thou’s hear our counsel.
Thou know’st my daughter’s of a pretty age.
Nurse.
Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
Dame Ismić.
She’s not fourteen.
Nurse.
I’ll lay fourteen of my teeth—
And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four—
She’s not fourteen. How long is it now
To Lammas-tide?
Dame Ismić.
A fortnight and odd days.
Nurse.
Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.
Susan and she—God rest all Christian souls!—
Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God;
She was too good for me. But, as I said,
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall she, marry; I remember it well.
’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;
And she was weaned—I never shall forget it—
Of all the days of the year, upon that day.
For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,
Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall.
My lord and you were then at Vrbanja Bridge.
Nay, I do bear a brain! But, as I said,
When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,
To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug!
Shake, quoth the dove-house! ’Twas no need, I trow,
To bid me trudge.
And since that time it is eleven years,
For then she could stand high-lone; nay, by the rood,
She could have run and waddled all about;
For even the day before, she broke her brow,
And then my husband—God be with his soul!
He was a merry man—took up the child:
"Yea," quoth he, "dost thou fall upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit,
Wilt thou not, Jule?" And, by my holidame,
The pretty wretch left crying and said "Ay."
To see now how a jest shall come about!
I warrant, an I should live a thousand years,
I never should forget it: "Wilt thou not, Jule?" quoth he;
And, pretty fool, it stinted and said "Ay."
Dame Ismić.
Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy peace.
Nurse.
Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying and say "Ay."
And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow
A bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone—
A perilous knock—and it cried bitterly.
"Yea," quoth my husband, "fall’s upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age,
Wilt thou not, Jule?" It stinted and said "Ay."
Admira.
And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.
Nurse.
Peace, I have done. God mark thee to His grace!
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nursed.
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish.
Dame Ismić.
Marry, that "marry" is the very theme
Whereof I came to speak. Tell me, daughter Admira,
How stands your disposition to be married?
Admira.
It is an honour that I dream not of.
Nurse.
An honour! Were not I thine only nurse,
I would say thou hadst sucked wisdom from thy teat.
Dame Ismić.
Well, think of marriage now. Here in Sarajevo,
Ladies of esteem, younger than you,
Are made already mothers. By my count,
I was your mother much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief:
The valiant Jussuf seeks you for his love.
Nurse.
A man, young Dame! Dame, such a man
As all the world—why, he’s a man of wax.
Dame Ismić.
Sarajevo’s summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse.
Nay, he’s a flower; in faith, a very flower.
Dame Ismić.
What say you? Can you love the gentleman?
This night you shall behold him at our feast;
Examine him well, and you shall straight confess
No creature living is more lovable.
He is well worthy, and will make you glad.
Admira.
I’ll look to like, if looking liking move;
But no more deep will I endart mine eye
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
(A Servant enters to the rest.)
Servant.
Madam, the guests are come, supper served up,
You called, my young Dame asked for, the nurse
Cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity.
I must hence to wait; I beseech you, come straight.
Dame Ismić.
We follow thee.—Admira, the Count stays.
Nurse.
Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.
(They exit.)
(A street before Bosniake’s house. Boško, Prince Marco, Joakim, with five or six other Maskers, Torch-bearers, and Drums.)
BOŠKO
What, shall this speech be our apology,
Or shall we enter on without excuse?
JOAKIM
Such prolix matters are no longer used.
We need no Cupid, bound with tinsel sash,
Nor painted tartar bow of wooden lath,
To scare the silly maidens like a crow.
Let them judge of us even as they please;
If we displease them, or if they displease us,
We’ll measure out a step or two, and go.
BOŠKO
Give me a torch; I am not in the mood
For leaping.
PRINCE MARCO
No, good Boško, you must dance.
BOŠKO
Not I, believe me; you have dancing shoes
With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead
Which stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
PRINCE MARCO
You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.
BOŠKO
I am too sore enpierced with his shaft
To soar upon his light-bound wings at all.
PRINCE MARCO
Give me a case to put my visage in—
(Takes off his mask)
A visor for a visor! What care I
What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here is a beetle-brow shall blush for me.
JOAKIM
Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in,
But every man betake him to his legs.
BOŠKO
We mean well in our going to this masque,
But ’tis no wit to go.
PRINCE MARCO
Why, may one ask?
BOŠKO
I dreamt a dream last night.
PRINCE MARCO
And so did I.
BOŠKO
Well, what was yours?
PRINCE MARCO
That dreamers often lie.
BOŠKO
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.
PRINCE MARCO
O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
The traces of the smallest spider’s web,
The collars of the moonshine’s watery beams,
Her whip of cricket’s bone, the lash of film,
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old worm,
Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;
O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight,
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees,
O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail
Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep,
Then dreams he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plaits the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs;
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them—
This is she—
BOŠKO
Peace, peace, Prince Marco, peace!
Thou talk’st of nothing.
PRINCE MARCO
True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who woos
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being angered, puffs away from thence,
Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
JOAKIM
This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
BOŠKO
I fear, too early: for my mind misgives
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night’s revels, and expire the term
Of a despised life closed in my breast
By some vile forfeit of untimely death.
But He that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen!
JOAKIM
Strike, drum!
(They march about the stage, and exeunt.)
SCENE: A Hall in Bosniak’s House. Enter several Servants with napkins.
FIRST SERVANT
Where’s Potpan, that he helps not take away?
He shift a trencher? He scrape trencher, too?
SECOND SERVANT
When good manners are in one or two men’s hands,
And those unwashed, ’tis a foul thing indeed.
FIRST SERVANT
Away with joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard,
Look to the plate. Good friend, save me a piece
Of marchpane; and, as thou lovest me, let
The porter in Susanna Grindstone, Nell,
Anthony, and Potpan!
SECOND SERVANT
Ay, boy, ready!
THIRD SERVANT
They call and ask for you, search for you there,
Within the great chamber!
SECOND SERVANT
We cannot be in two places at once.
Cheerly, boys; be brisk awhile, and let
The longer liver take all!
(They exit.)
(Enter the Guests and Ladies, with the Maskers.)
FIRST ISMIĆ
Welcome, gentlemen! Ladies that have
Their toes unplagued with corns will walk a bout
With you. Ah ha, my mistresses! Which of you all
Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,
She, I’ll swear, hath corns. Am I come near ye now?
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair Dame’s ear,
Such as would please: ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone!
(Music plays, and they dance.)
More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.
Ah, sirrah, this unlooked-for sport comes well.
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Ismić, for
You and I are past our dancing days:
How long is’t now since last yourself and I
Were in a mask?
SECOND ISMIĆ
By our Dame, thirty years.
FIRST ISMIĆ
What, man? ’Tis not so much, ’tis not so much:
’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five and twenty years; and then we masked.
SECOND ISMIĆ
’Tis more, ’tis more: his son is elder, sir;
His son is thirty.
FIRST ISMIĆ
Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago.
BOŠKO (To a Servant)
What Dame’s that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder knight?
SERVANT
I know not, sir.
BOŠKO
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder Dame o’er her fellows shows.
The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.
JAN
This, by his voice, should be a Brkić.—
Fetch me my rapier, boy.—What dares the slave
Come hither, covered with an antic face,
To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.
FIRST ISMIĆ
Why, how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so?
JAN
Uncle, this is a Brkić, our foe,
A villain that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
FIRST ISMIĆ
Young Boško is it?
JAN
’Tis he, that villain Boško.
FIRST ISMIĆ
Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone;
He bears him like a portly gentleman;
And, to say truth, Sarajevo brags of him
To be a virtuous and well-governed youth:
I would not for the wealth of all the town
Here in my house do him disparagement:
Therefore be patient, take no note of him:
It is my will, the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.
JAN
It fits, when such a villain is a guest:
I’ll not endure him.
FIRST ISMIĆ
He shall be endured:
What, goodman boy! I say, he shall: go to;
Am I the master here, or you? Go to.
You’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul!
You’ll make a mutiny among my guests!
You will set cock-a-hoop! You’ll be the man!
JAN
Why, uncle, ’tis a shame.
FIRST ISMIĆ
Go to, go to;
You are a saucy boy. (Aside to a Guest) Is’t so, indeed?—
(To Jan) This trick may chance to scathe you, I know what:
(Aside) Well said, my hearts!—(To Jan) You are a princox; go:
Be quiet, or—(Aside) More light, more light! For shame!
(To Jan) I’ll make you quiet.—(Aside) What, cheerly, my hearts!
JAN
Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.
I will withdraw: but this intrusion shall
Now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall.
(Exit Jan.)
BOŠKO (To Admira)
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
ADMIRA
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmer’s kiss.
BOŠKO
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
ADMIRA
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
BOŠKO
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
ADMIRA
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.
BOŠKO
Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.
(He kisses her.)
Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.
ADMIRA
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
BOŠKO
Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.
ADMIRA
You kiss by the book.
NURSE
Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
(Admira moves away.)
BOŠKO
What is her mother?
NURSE
Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the Dame of the house,
And a good Dame, and a wise and virtuous:
I nursed her daughter, that you talked withal;
I tell you, he that can lay hold of her
Shall have the chinks.
BOŠKO (Aside)
Is she an Ismić?
O dear account! My life is in my foe’s debt.
JOAKIM
Away, begone; the sport is at the best.
BOŠKO
Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.
FIRST ISMIĆ
Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.
Is it e’en so? Why, then, I thank you all;
I thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.
More torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.
Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxeth late:
I’ll to my rest.
(Exeunt all but Admira and Nurse.)
ADMIRA
Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?
NURSE
The son and heir of old Tiberio.
ADMIRA
What’s he that now is going out of door?
NURSE
Marry, that, I think, be young Petrucchio.
ADMIRA
What’s he that follows there, that would not dance?
NURSE
I know not.
ADMIRA
Go ask his name. (Aside) If he be married,
My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
NURSE
His name is Boško, and a Brkić;
The only son of your great enemy.
ADMIRA (Aside)
My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,
That I must love a loathed enemy.
NURSE
What’s this? What’s this?
ADMIRA
A rhyme I learned even now
Of one I danced withal.
(One calls within, "Admira!")
NURSE
Anon, anon!
Come, let’s away; the strangers all are gone.
(Exeunt.)
CHOIR
To conclude this act, the solemn chorus stands
To speak what discerning eyes have long divined:
From that fateful night when first young Boško’s gaze
Unfolded on Admira’s matchless face,
His former love grew pale in memory,
Her beauty dimmed like stars before the dawn.
Now bound to fair Admira heart to heart,
His love is met with love as pure and deep.
Yet ancient hatred divides their hostile houses,
A deadly feud that spans the passing years;
Though blood-stained strife could never stay their hearts
Nor crush the silent sympathy within,
It cuts away all chance to meet or speak.
Yet cruel force produces no retreat:
This harsh constraint but fans the hidden flame,
And doubles all their longing and desire.
ACT II.
(The Street. Boško enters alone.)
Boško.
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.
(He climbs the wall and leaps down within.)
(Joakim and Prince Marco enter.)
Joakim.
Boško! Cousin Boško!
Prince Marco.
He is wise,
And, on my life, hath stolen home to bed.
Joakim.
He ran this way, and leaped this orchard wall.
Call, Prince Marco.
Prince Marco.
Nay, I’ll conjure too.
Boško! Whim-finder! Madman! Passion! Lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh!
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;
Cry but "Ah me!" pronounce but "love" and "dove";
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nickname for her purblind son and heir,
Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim,
When King Cophetua loved the beggar-maid!
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.
I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,
By her high forehead and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, straight leg and quivering thigh
And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,
That in thy likeness thou appear to us!
Joakim.
An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.
Prince Marco.
This cannot anger him: ’twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle
Of some strange nature, letting it there stand
Till she had laid it and conjured it down;
That were some spite. My invocation
Is fair and honest.
(Transforms into Bosniake’s garden. Enter Boško.)
Boško.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Admira is the sun.
(Admira appears above at a window.)
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou her maid art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but pale and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
She speaks, yet says she nothing; what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
Admira.
Ay me!
Boško.
She speaks.
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
Admira.
O Boško, Boško! wherefore art thou Boško?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be an Ismić.
Boško.
(Aside) Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
Admira.
’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Brkić.
What’s Brkić? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Boško would, were he not Boško call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Boško, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.
Boško.
I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptiz’d;
Henceforth I never will be Boško.
Admira.
What man art thou that thus bescreen’d in night
So stumbles on my counsel?
Boško.
By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am.
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
Admira.
My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Boško and a Brkić?
Boško.
Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
Admira.
How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
Boško.
With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.
Admira.
If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
Boško.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.
Admira.
I would not for the world they saw thee here.
Boško.
I have night’s cloak to hide me from their sight;
And but thou love me, let them find me here.
My life were better ended by their hate,
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
Admira.
By whose direction found’st thou out this place?
Boško.
By love, who first did prompt me to inquire;
He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.
Admira.
Thou know’st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ‘Ay,’
And I will take thy word; yet if thou swear’st,
Thou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Boško,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
Or if thou think’st I am too quickly won,
I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Brkić, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light;
But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware,
My true love’s passion. Therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.
Boško.
Dame, by yonder blessed moon I vow,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops—
Admira.
O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Boško.
What shall I swear by?
Admira.
Do not swear at all;
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I’ll believe thee.
Boško.
If my heart’s dear love—
Admira.
Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say ’It lightens.’ Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!
Boško.
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
Admira.
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
Boško.
The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.
Admira.
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;
And yet I would it were to give again.
Boško.
Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
Admira.
But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu!
(Nurse calls within.)
Anon, good nurse! Sweet Boško, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.
(Exit above.)
Boško.
O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
(Re-enter Admira, above.)
Admira.
Three words, dear Boško, and good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay
And follow thee my lord throughout the world.
(Nurse calls within.)
I come, anon.—But if thou mean’st not well,
I do beseech thee—
(Nurse calls within.)
By and by, I come:—
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief:
To-morrow will I send.
Boško.
So thrive my soul—
Admira.
A thousand times good night!
(Exit above.)
Boško.
A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.
Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books;
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
(Retiring.)
(Re-enter Admira, above.)
Admira.
Hist! Boško, hist! O, for a falconer’s voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,
With repetition of my Boško’s name.
Boško.
It is my soul that calls upon my name:
How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!
Admira.
Boško!
Boško.
My dear?
Admira.
At what o’clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?
Boško.
At the hour of nine.
Admira.
I will not fail: ’tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.
Boško.
Let me stand here till thou remember it.
Admira.
I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Remembering how I love thy company.
Boško.
And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.
Admira.
’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:
And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird;
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
Boško.
I would I were thy bird.
Admira.
Sweet, so would I:
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
(Exit above.)
Boško.
Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell,
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.
(Exit.)
(A Monastery. Enter Priest Dimitri with a basket.)
Dimitri
The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night,
Check'ring the eastern clouds with streaks of light,
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.
Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye,
To cheer the day and dry the dankish dew,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb;
What is her burying grave that is her womb,
And from her womb children of divers kind
We sucking on her natural bosom find,
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give,
Nor aught so good but strain'd from that fair use
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;
And vice sometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence and medicine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.
(Enter Boško.)
Boško
Good morrow, father.
Dimitri
Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemper'd head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art up-rous'd by some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,
Our Boško hath not been in bed to-night.
Boško
That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.
Dimitri
God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?
Boško
With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
Dimitri
That's my good son: but where hast thou been, then?
Boško
I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me,
That's by me wounded: both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies:
I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.
Dimitri
Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
Boško
Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Bosniak:
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combin'd, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage: when and where and how
We met, we woo'd and made exchange of vow,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to-day.
Dimitri
Holy Saint George, what a change is here!
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young men's love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine
Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste!
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears;
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash me'd yet:
If e'er thou wast thyself and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline:
And art thou chang'd? pronounce this sentence then,
Women may fall, when there's no strength in men.
Boško
Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Dimitri
For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
Boško
And bad'st me bury love.
Dimitri
Not in a grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.
Boško
I pray thee, chide not; she whom I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;
The other did not so.
Dimitri
O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come, go with me,
In one respect I'll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.
Boško
O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.
Dimitri
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.
(Exeunt.)
(A Street. Enter JOAKIM and PRINCE MARCO.)
PRINCE MARCO.
Where, in the devil’s name, can Boško be?
Came he not home to-night?
JOAKIM.
Not to his father's; his man spoke with me.
PRINCE MARCO.
Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.
JOAKIM.
Jan, old Bosniak's nephew, hath sent a letter
To his father’s house.
PRINCE MARCO.
A challenge, on my life.
JOAKIM.
Boško will answer it.
PRINCE MARCO.
Any man that can write may answer a letter.
JOAKIM.
Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.
PRINCE MARCO.
Alas, poor Boško! he is already dead;
Stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; shot thorough
The ear with a love-song; the very pin of his heart
Cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft: and is he
A man to encounter Jan?
JOAKIM.
Why, what is Jan?
PRINCE MARCO.
More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you.
O, he is the courageous captain of compliments.
He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance,
And proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two,
And the third in your bosom: the very butcher
Of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist;
A gentleman of the very first house, of the first
And second cause: ah, the immortal passado!
The punto reverso! the hay!
JOAKIM.
The what?
PRINCE MARCO.
The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting
Fantasticoes; these new tuners of accents!
‘By Jesu, a very good blade! a very tall man!
A very good whore!’ Why, is not this a lamentable thing,
Grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies,
These fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-mois, who stand
So much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease
On the old bench? O, their bons, their bons!
Enter BOŠKO.
JOAKIM.
Here comes Boško, here comes Boško!
PRINCE MARCO.
Without his roe, like a dried herring: O flesh, flesh,
How art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers
That Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his Dame was but a kitchen-wench;
Marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her;
Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy;
Helen and Hero hildings and harlots;
Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose.
Signior Boško, bon jour! there’s a French salutation
To your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit
Fairly last night.
BOŠKO.
Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?
PRINCE MARCO.
The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?
BOŠKO.
Pardon, good Prince Marco; my business was great;
And in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
(Enter NURSE and PJOTR.)
NURSE.
Pjotr!
PJOTR.
Anon?
NURSE.
My fan, Pjotr.
PRINCE MARCO.
Good Pjotr, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face.
NURSE.
God ye good morrow, gentlemen.
PRINCE MARCO.
God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.
NURSE.
Is it good den?
PRINCE MARCO.
'Tis no less, I tell you, for the—
NURSE.
I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this,
That was so full of his ropery?
BOŠKO.
A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk,
And will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.
NURSE.
An a' speak any thing against me, I'll take him down,
An a' were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks;
And if I cannot, I'll find those that shall.
Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills;
I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too,
And suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure?
PJOTR.
I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had seen
Such a thing, my weapon should quickly have been out,
I warrant you: I dare draw as soon as another man,
If I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.
NURSE.
Now, afore God, I am so vexed, that every part
About me quivers. Scurvy knave!
Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young Dame
Bade me inquire you out; what she bade me say,
I will keep to myself: but first let me tell ye,
If ye should lead her into a fool's paradise,
As they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour,
As they say: for the gentlewoman is young;
And, therefore, if you should deal double with her,
Truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman,
And very weak dealing.
BOŠKO.
Commend me to thy Dame; I protest—
NURSE.
Good heart, and, i' faith, I will tell her as much.
Lord, Lord! she will be a joyful woman.
BOŠKO.
What wilt thou tell her, nurse? Thou dost not mark me.
NURSE.
I will tell her, sir, that you do protest;
Which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.
BOŠKO.
Bid her devise
Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;
And there she shall at Priest Dimitrije's cell
Be shrived and married. Here is for thy pains.
NURSE.
No, truly, sir; not a penny.
BOŠKO.
Go to; I say you shall.
NURSE.
This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there.
BOŠKO.
And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall:
Within this hour my man shall be with thee,
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair;
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy
Must be my convoy in the secret night.
Farewell; be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains.
NURSE.
Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir.
BOŠKO.
What say'st thou, my dear nurse?
NURSE.
Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear say,
Two may keep counsel, putting one away?
BOŠKO.
I warrant thee, my man's as true as steel.
NURSE.
Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest Dame—
Lord, Lord! when 'twas a little prating thing—
O, there is a nobleman in town, one Jussuf,
That would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul,
Had as lief see a toad, a very toad,
As see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her
That Jussuf is the properer man; but, I'll warrant you,
When I say so, she looks as pale as any clout
In the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Boško
Begin both with a letter?
BOŠKO.
Ay, nurse; what of that? Both with an R.
NURSE.
Ah, mocker! That's the dog's name; R is for the—
No; I know it begins with some other letter:—
And she hath the prettiest sententious of it,
Of you and rosemary, that it would do you good
To hear it.
BOŠKO.
Commend me to thy Dame.
(Exit BOŠKO.)
NURSE.
Ay, a thousand times. Pjotr!
PJOTR.
Anon?
NURSE.
Take my fan, and go before.
(Exeunt.)
(Changes to Bosniak's House. Enter Admira.)
Admira.
The clock struck nine when I dispatched the nurse;
She promised to return within the space
Of half an hour. Perhaps she finds him not—
Ah, that cannot be! Oh, she is lame indeed!
The messengers of love should be as thoughts,
Which dart ten times more swiftly than the sun,
When from the misty hills they chase away
The shadows of the night. Therefore the dove,
With light-flown wing, attends the queen of love,
And swift-paced Cupid bears a flying shaft.
The sun has reached the zenith of his course;
From nine till twelve are three long, weary hours—
And yet she comes not still! Oh, had she youth,
And warm, impassioned blood, and feeling heart,
She would be nimble as a bounding ball;
My words would cast her to my lover's arms,
And his again to mine—
(Enter Nurse and Pjotr.)
O God, she comes!—
Sweet nurse, what tidings do you bring to me?
Have you encountered him?—Dismiss your man.
Nurse.
Pjotr, wait for me outside.
(Exit Pjotr.)
Admira.
Now, gentle, loving nurse—O gracious heaven,
Why do you wear a brow so full of gloom?
If your report be ill, yet look you kind;
And if it's good, you spoil the harmony
By playing it unto a sour face.
Nurse.
I am so weary; let me rest awhile—
Fie, how my aching limbs do torture me!
What manner of a journey have I made!
Admira.
I wish your limbs were mine, and mine your news.
Come, I beseech you, speak—good nurse, oh, speak!
Nurse.
Jesu! What hastiness and discontent!
Can you not wait a little moment's space?
Do you not see how breathless I have grown?
Admira.
How can you lack for breath, when you have breath
Enough to tell me that you lack the same?
The poor excuse you make for your delay
Is longer than the tale you make me wait for.
Is your report a happy one or sad?
Answer me only that; say which of both,
And I will wait the circumstances after.
Is it good news, or evil? Let me know.
Nurse.
Well, well, you have a dainty choice indeed;
You know not how to single out a man:
Boško?—nay, not he; and yet, although
His face may match no better than another's,
He hath the fairest calves that eye can see;
And for a hand, a foot, a symmetry—
Though we speak not of it—they are peerless.
He is no empty fool of compliments,
Yet gentle as a lamb, I'll warrant him.
Go to your ways, young maiden, and thank God.
How now? Have you already dined today?
Admira.
No, no; but all of this I knew before.
What says he of our secret marriage-Vow?
What says he of it?
Nurse.
Heaven, how aches my head!
What heavy throbbings riot in my brain!
It beats as if it soon would shatter down
In twenty pieces. And my aching back!—
Oh, my poor back! God pardon you for this,
Who sent me running to and fro to risk
My aged life.
Admira.
Upon my troth, I grieve
That you should suffer so. Dear, loving nurse,
I beg of you, what does my Boško say?
Nurse.
Your Boško speaks like an upright nobleman,
And civil, and a kindly, and a handsome,
And—I will vouch for it—a virtuous man.
Where is your mother?
Admira.
Where my mother is?
Why, in her chamber; where else should she be?
How strangely do you question me! "Your lover
Speaks like an upright nobleman—where is
Your mother?"
Nurse.
O holy Mother of our Lord,
How fiery-hot you are! In truth, you drive me
Beyond all reason. Is this my reward
For all the bitter anguish in my feet?
Another time, go send your messages yourself!
Admira.
What fuss is this? Come, what does Boško say?
Nurse.
Have you obtained permission for confession
To go today?
Admira.
Yes.
Nurse.
Hie you straight away
To Priest Dimitrius' cell; a man awaits you
Who will make of you a wedded wife.
Now leaps the wanton blood into your cheeks;
One scarce can tell you news, but straightway they
Are dyed with scarlet. Go you to the church;
I must take other ways, to fetch a ladder
By which your lover shall climb up to nest
As soon as darkness falls. I spend my day
In labor for your pleasure; but tonight
You shall support the burden for yourself.
Go you to dinner; hasten to the cell.
Admira.
How fortunate am I! Farewell the while,
Kind, faithful nurse!
(Exeunt.)
(The scene transforms into the monastery. Enter Priest Dimitri and Boško.)
Priest Dimitri
So may the heavens smile upon this holy act,
That no remorseful hour of future days
May force us to repent!
Boško
Amen, and amen!
Yet let whatever sorrow choose to fall,
It cannot overweigh the deep delight
A single briefest minute in her sight
Grants unto me. Unite our hands with holy words,
And then let even death perform its worst;
'Tis quite enough if I can call her mine.
Priest Dimitri
These violent raptures mostly find a sudden close,
And die within their triumph; like to fire and powder
That meet and instantly consume each other.
Of sweetest honey, by its very sweetness,
We grow at last surfeited. Love therefore moderately,
That you may love for long; too swift arrives
As tardily as too slow.
(Enter Admira to the same.)
Here comes the maiden. How blithe and light of foot!
A lover might bestride the lightest thistle-down
That flutters idly in the wanton summer air,
And never fall—so light is vanity.
Admira
Good evening, holy father.
Priest Dimitri
Boško, my daughter, should thank you for us both.
Admira
I wish him just as much, else were his thanks too great.
Boško
Ah! Admira, if the measure of your joy
Is heaped as high as mine, and you more able
Are to express it, oh, then sweeten with your breath
This ambient air, and let your tongue's magic music
Unfold the bliss that we receive together
From this glad meeting.
Admira
My heart is far too full of its own bliss
To pour itself in words—they only are poor
Who can declare how rich they truly are—
My tenderness has grown to such excess
That I lack power to speak half my wealth.
Priest Dimitri
Come, come with me, and we will make short work;
For, by your leave, you shall not linger side by side
Until the holy church has made of both one body.
(Exeunt.)
ACT III.
(The Street. Enter Prince Marco and Joakim, with their attendants.)
Joakim.
I beg of you, dear Prince Marco, let us go,
The day is hot, and the Bosniakes roam
The streets abroad; if we encounter them,
We shall unfailingly have brawls; for in
These heated days the hot blood is rebellious.
Prince Marco.
You strike me just like one of those brave men
Who, when they step into a tavern, straight
Throw down their rapiers on the table, saying:
"God grant I have no need of thee!" but soon
As the second bottle's mounted to their head,
Draw it against the drawer, which verily
They had no need to do.
Joakim.
And am I matched
To such a fellow?
Prince Marco.
Come, come, when you are vexed,
You are as fiery a blade-eater as
Any in Bosnien—and the worst of it
Is that you are as quick to be provoked
As you are fiery, once you are provoked.
Joakim.
How comes that?
Prince Marco.
Truly, if there were two
Such as yourself, we would very shortly have
None left at all, for one would wear the other
Out in the opening hour. You? Why, you
Will pick a quarrel with a man because
He has one hair too many or too few
In his beard than yourself; you'd tie with one
Who cracks nuts, with no other cause to give
Than that your eyes are nut-brown. Your poor head
Is just as full of brawls as an egg's full
Of yolk and white—and yet this selfsame head,
For all your brawlings, has been beaten soft
As a boiled egg. Why, you have brawled with one
Who coughed upon the street, because he thus
Awakened your dog, that sleeping lay
In the warm sun. Did you not pick a quarrel
With a tailor because he wore his new
Doublet before Easter? and with another
Because he buttoned up his brand-new shoes
With an old shoelace? And you mean to play
The schoolmaster with me here, and warn me off
From brawls!
Joakim.
If I were as quarrel-prone
As you, nobody would give two hours' purchase
Upon my life—
(Enter Jan, Petrucchio, and others of the Bosniakes.)
By my head, here come the Bosniakes—
Prince Marco.
By my heel, I care nothing for it.
Jan.
Keep close
To me, I mean to speak with them.—Good day,
My lords, a word with one of you.
Prince Marco.
Why only
A word? Couple it with some more bodily thing,
Make a word and a blow come of it.
Jan.
You shall
Find me quite willing to that, sir, if you
Will give me occasion.
Prince Marco.
Can you then take no
Occasion, unless one is forced to give it you?
Jan.
Prince Marco, you are ever roaming with
Boško—
Prince Marco.
Roaming! What, do you make
Fiddlers of us? If you make fiddlers of us,
Expect to hear nothing but false tones—
Here is my fiddle-bow—here is the thing
That shall make you dance!—Hell-fiends! Roaming!
(He lays his hand upon his rapier.)
Joakim.
We are here in the midst of folk. Either withdraw
Unto some private place, or settle your
Dispute with cooler blood; here every eye
Is gazing upon us.
Prince Marco.
The people have
Their eyes for this, that they may see; let them
Gaze on; I will not stir from off this spot
To pleasure any man, not I.
(Enter Boško to the preceding.)
Jan.
Good!
You may have peace, sir! Here comes my man.
Prince Marco.
But I'll be hanged, sir, if he wears your livery;
Just go to the field first, he will follow you
Hard at the heel; in that sense your worship may
Indeed call him a man.
Jan.
Boško, the love
I bear you gives me no better greeting
For you than this: you are a worthless fellow.
Boško.
Jan, the cause that I have to be your friend
Is great enough to make me quite unfeeling
Toward the insulting fury of such a greeting—
I am not what you say—So then, farewell;
I see you do not know me.
Jan.
Boy, you shall not
Escape with that for the indignities
That I have taken from you; turn about,
And draw.
Boško.
I swear to you that I have never
Offended you; I love you more than you
Can well imagine; and until you learn
The cause why I love you, good Ismić—
(softly)
—Whose name is just as dear to me as my own—
Compose yourself.
Prince Marco.
How? So submissive? O,
Most shameful, abject submissiveness!—Jan,
Thou rat-catcher, will you come with me?
Jan.
What would
You have of me?
Prince Marco.
Good cat-king, nothing save
One of your nine lives, to make a little
Sport with it, and according as hereafter
You shall conduct yourself, to thump out
The rest for you. Will you draw your rapier?
Make haste—
Jan.
I am at your service.
(He draws the sword.)
Boško.
Dearest Prince Marco, put your rapier up.
Prince Marco.
Come on, sir, a small bout.
(Prince Marco and Jan fight.)
Boško.
Draw, Joakim—
Help me to beat their rapiers from their hands—
My lords—For heaven's sake, hold—Jan—
Prince Marco—You know the strict prohibition
Of the Prince—Hold, Jan—poor Prince Marco—
(Jan exits.)
Prince Marco.
I am wounded—
A plague upon both your houses! I have got
My share. Is he gone, and has nothing?
Joakim.
How,
Are you wounded?
Prince Marco.
Ay, ay, a scratch, a needle-scratch—
The hangman's death, it is enough; where is
My man? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
Boško.
Take
Heart, man, the wound will signify but little.
Prince Marco.
No, 'tis not so deep as a draw-well, nor
So wide as a church door, but 'tis enough,
'Twill serve; ask for me tomorrow morning.
You shall find me a peppered man for this world,
Believe me; the hangman fetch both your houses!
What? Should a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat
Scratch a man to death? A coward whore, a rogue,
A scoundrel who fights by the book of arithmetic!
Why the devil came you in between us two?
I was thrust under your arm—
Boško.
I did it with
The very best intent.
Prince Marco.
Help me into
Some house, Joakim, or I shall sink down—
Pest on your houses! They have made a worm's
Meat of me; I have it, and that full soon—
The devil take your houses!—
(Prince Marco and Joakim exit.)
Bosko
This noble lord, a kinsman to the prince,
My dearest friend, must now lay down his life
For my sweet sake. My honor is defiled
By Jaan's vile slander—Jaan, who scarce an hour
Has been my cousin! O sweet Admira,
Your beauty has unmaned me. Would a man
Endure so much and yet remain so calm?
(Enter Joakim.)
Joakim
O Bosko, Bosko, noble Prince Marco's dead!
Bosko
This most unhappy day, my soul forebodes,
Will drag a host of others in its wake.
Enter Jaan.
Joakim
Here comes the raging Jaan returning now.
Bosko
Alive, triumphant? And Prince Marco slain?
Away to heaven, you patient gentleness!
And you, fire-eyed fury, be my guide!
Come, Jaan, take back the wretched title now
You forced upon me just a moment past.
Prince Marco's soul hovers not far above
Our very heads, and waits to welcome yours.
One of us two must bear him company.
Jan
You, wretched boy, who used to run behind him,
You shall go with him.
(They fight; Jan falls.)
Joakim
Bosko, away, make haste and flee! The town
Is rushing hither, and now Jaan is slain.
Stand not so lost and senseless—the prince
Will seal your doom of death if you are caught.
Away, make haste, begone!
Bosko
O, I am fortune's most unhappy ball!
Joakim
What, do you hesitate?
(Bosko escapes.)
(Some citizens enter.)
Citizen
Which way fled Jan, who murdered Prince Marco?
Where did he fly?
Joakim
Here lies Jan.
Citizen
Arise, sir, come with me—I command you now
In the Prince's name, obey!
(The Prince, Brkić, Ismić, their wives, etc., enter.)
Prince
Where are the guilty authors of this riot?
Joakim
Most gracious lord, I can recount the whole
Unlucky progress of this fatal feud.
Here lies, struck down by youthful Boško's hand,
The man who slew brave Prince Marco, your kinsman.
Dame Ismić
Jan, my dear nephew! My brother's child!
O sight of woe! Ah, me, the sacred blood
Of my most cherished nephew has been shed!—
Prince, as you truly bear that noble name,
Let our blood be avenged by the dark blood
Of murderous Brkić!
Prince
Joakim, who began this fray?
Joakim
Jan, who now lies here slain by Boško's hand—
By Boško, who spoke gently to him, begged
That he consider how profound the peril
Of all the feuds he kindled, and the wrath
He drew upon himself from Your High Grace.
Yet all he spoke with soft and tender voice,
With quiet eyes, and knees humbly bent,
Could not appease the raging, deafened gall
Of stubborn Jan, nor stop him from unsheathing
His flashing steel against bold Prince Marco's breast.
He, equally ablaze, stroke upon stroke
Returned, and with a fearless, chilling calm,
With one hand thrust the cold death to the side,
And with the other sent it back to Jan,
From whose skilled fist it bounded at his foe.
Boško cries out with all his might: "Hold off!
Friends, friends, hold off!" And swifter than his tongue
His nimble arm beats down both deadly blades,
And throws himself between them. But e'en then,
Beneath his arm, an ill-directed thrust
From Jan pierced through unruly Prince Marco's heart.
Jan fled, but soon returned to cross the path
Of Boško, whom a dead friend's fate spurred on
To vengeance. Quick as lightning they engaged;
Ere I could part them, Jan was struck to earth,
And as he fell, Boško took flight. This is
The very truth, or let Joakim die.
Dame Ismić
He is a kinsman of the Serbians,
Friendship makes him suspect, he speaks not truth.
There were at least a score against poor Jan;
Less than twenty men could never master him.
I demand justice, Prince, and it is not
Within your power to deny it now.
Boško killed Jan; Boško shall not live!
Prince
Boško struck him, and he struck Prince Marco—
From whom, then, shall I claim the precious blood
Of my own kinsman?
Dame Brkić
Not from Boško, Prince;
He was Prince Marco's friend. His only fault
Was taking from the murderer Jan that life
Which the law would have taken anyway.
Prince
And for this crime we banish him henceforth
From Sarajevo—Your fierce enmity,
Your wild, unbridled spite consumes my blood;
It is high time, for my own safety's sake,
To put an end to it. I will, I will
Maintain by force of penalties what threats
Could ne'er achieve. No excuses! No pleas!
Neither soft tears nor suppliant knees shall soothe
Wearied justice—Let Boško straightway fly,
Or else the hour he is seized shall be
His last—Bear this dead body hence, and wait
My further will—Mercy becomes herself
A murderer when she pardons murderers.
(They exit.)
(A room in Bosnjak’s house. Admira enters alone.)
Admira
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus’ lodging; such a waggoner
As Phaethon would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway’s eyes may wink, and Boškov
Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Boškov; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Boškov; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess’d it, and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
(Enter Nurse with cord-ladder.)
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
The name of Boškov speaks a heavenly tongue.
Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords
That Boškov bid thee fetch?
Nurse
Ay, ay, the cords.
(Throws them down.)
Admira
Ah me! what news? why dost thou ring thy hands?
Nurse
Ah, well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!
We are undone, Dame, we are undone!
Alack the day! he’s gone, he’s kill'd, he’s dead!
Admira
Can heaven be so envious?
Nurse
Boškov can,
Though heaven cannot: O Boškov, Boškov!
Who ever would have thought it? Boškov!
Admira
What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?
This torture should be roared in dismal hell.
Hath Boškov slain himself? say thou but I,
And that bare vowel shall poison more
The death-darting eye of cockatrice:
I am not I, if there be such an I;
Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer 'I.'
If he be slain, say 'I'; or if not, no:
Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
Nurse
I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,—
God save the mark!—here on his manly breast:
A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood,
All in gore-blood; I swounded at the sight.
Admira
O, break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at once!
To prison, eyes, ne'er look on liberty!
Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
And thou and Boškov press one heavy bier!
Nurse
O Ivan, Ivan, the best friend I had!
O kind Ivan, O courteous gentleman!
That ever I should live to see thee dead!
Admira
What storm is this that blows so contrary?
Is Boškov slaughter'd, and is Ivan dead?
My dear-loved cousin, and my dearer lord?
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!
For who is living, if those two are gone?
Nurse
Ivan is dead, and Boškov banished;
Boškov, that kill'd him, he is banished.
Admira
O God! did Boškov’s hand shed Ivan’s blood?
Nurse
It did, it did; alas the day, it did!
Admira
O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
Despised substance of divinest show!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st,
A damned saint, an honourable villain!
O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell,
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!
Nurse
There’s no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjured,
All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
Ah, where’s my man? give me some aqua vitae:
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.
Shame come to Boškov!
Admira
Blistered be thy tongue
For such a wish! he was not born to shame:
Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit;
For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
O, what a beast was I to chide at him!
Nurse
Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin?
Admira
Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?
But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband:
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Ivan would have slain;
And Ivan’s dead, that would have slain my husband:
All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worser than Ivan’s death,
That murdered me: I would forget it fain;
But, O, it presses to my memory,
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds:
'Ivan is dead, and Boškov banished;'
That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,'
Hath slain ten thousand Ivans. Ivan’s death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship
And needly will be rank'd with other griefs,
Why follow'd not, when she said 'Ivan’s dead,'
Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have moved?
But with a rear-ward following Ivan’s death,
'Boškov is banished,' to speak that word,
Is father, mother, Ivan, Boškov, all,
Dead, all dead. 'Boškov is banished!'
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word’s death; no words can that woe sound.
Where is my father, and my mother, nurse?
Nurse
Weeping and wailing over Ivan’s corse:
Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.
Admira
Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent,
When theirs are dry, for Boškov’s banishment.
Take up those cords: poor ropes, you are beguiled,
Both you and I; for Boškov is exiled:
He made you for a highway to my bed;
But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.
Come, cords, come, nurse; I’ll to my wedding bed;
And death, not Boškov, take my maidenhead!
Nurse
Hie to your chamber: I’ll find Boškov out
To comfort you: I wot well where he is.
Hark ye, your Boškov will be here at night:
I’ll to him; he is hid at Father Dimitri’s cell.
Admira
O, find him! give this ring to my true knight,
And bid him come to take his last farewell.
(Exeunt.)
(Enter Priest Dimitri and Boško.)
Dimitri
Come forth, Boško, come forth, thou fearful man.
Affliction is enamoured of thy beauty,
And thou art wedded unto wretchedness.
Boško
What news bring’st thou, my father? What the Prince’s doom?
What yet unknown and solitary grief
Desires to make acquaintance with my heart?
Dimitri
Too well acquainted with so foul a guest
My dearest son has grown. I bring the tidings
Of what decree the Prince hath passed upon thee.
Boško
What can my sentence be, save only death?
Dimitri
A milder judgment fell from those dear lips:
Not death, but rather thine eternal exile.
Boško
Ha! Exile! Be more merciful and say death;
For exile has far more of dread within
Its looks than death itself. Oh, say not exile!
Dimitri
Hence out of Sarajevo thou art banished;
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
Boško
Beyond these walls is nothing save purgatory,
The deep abyss, and hell itself. To be
Banished from hence is banished from the world,
And banished from the world is very death.
This word “exile” is death misnamed; and if
Thou namest exile death, 'tis just as though
Thou struck’st my head off with a golden axe
And smiledst on the blow that took my life.
Dimitri
O deadly sin! O rude ingratitude!
Our law declares the sentence death for this;
The gentle Prince steps in, thrusts law aside,
And turns the heavy word of death to exile.
This is pure grace, and dost thou not perceive it?
Boško
Torture, no grace! Heaven is where Admira lives.
Every cat, every dog, and every mouse,
Every unworthy thing, lives here in heaven
And may look on her—only Boško not.
Wretched blow-flies have higher privilege,
Are more esteemed, more noble, and more blest
Than Boško is; they on the snowy hand
Of my dear Admira may safely settle
And steal immortal bliss from off her lips—
Flies may do this, while I must fly from her!
And say’st thou still that exile is not death?
They can, but Boško cannot, for he is banished!
Hast thou no poison, no sharp-pointed dagger,
No sudden instrument of instant death,
(Though ne'er so vile) to rid me of this life?
Ha! Banished! O father, those damned souls
In hell make use of this word, howling at it.
How canst thou, being a man of God, a priest,
A holy confessor, and my sworn friend,
So tear and crush me with this cursed word?
Dimitri
Madman, love-sick fool, hearken to me a while—
Boško
Oh, thou wilt speak again of banishment!
Dimitri
I’ll give thee armor to repel this word:
The pleasant milk of sorrow—philosophy—
Which shall console thee, though thou art exiled.
Boško
Still banishment? To the gallows with philosophy!
Unless philosophy can frame an Admira,
Remove a town, and reverse a prince’s doom,
It helps me not, it profits not at all.
Speak no more to me of it.
Dimitri
Then, truly,
Madmen have never ears, as I perceive.
Boško
How should they, when wise men have never eyes?
Dimitri
Come, let us reason calmly of thy state—
Boško
Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.
Wert thou as young as I, Admira thy love,
An hour since wedded, and in that same hour
Hadst slain young Jan, and loved unto the height
Of madness as I do, and wert like me exiled—
Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,
And cast thyself upon the earth as I
Do now, to measure out mine early grave.
(He throws himself upon the floor.)
Dimitri
Arise! Someone is knocking. Hearken, someone knocks.
Good Boško, hide thyself.
Boško
Not truly, save
The vapor of heart-breaking sighs can hide me,
Like mist, from all the prying eyes of men.
Dimitri
Hark! What a knocking is there! Who is out there?
(Softly) Boško, arise, or thou wilt soon be seized.
(Aloud) Just for a single moment have patience!
(Softly) Arise, (Knocking grows louder) run to my cell—
(Aloud) Anon, anon! For heaven’s what stubbornness is this?
(Knocking continues) I come, I come! Who knocks so loud? Who are ye?
What would ye have?
Nurse (behind the scene)
Let me but in, and straightway shall you learn
Whose message I bring forth. I come from Mistress Admira.
Dimitri
Then are you welcome. (He opens the door.)
(Enter Nurse.)
Nurse
O holy sir, oh tell me, reverend sir,
Where is my Dame’s lord? Where is Boško?
Dimitri
Here, on the floor, which his own tears distemper.
Boško (crying out)
Not so! My Dame’s grief is matched with mine.
Nurse
Oh, he doth do e'en as my gracious Dame,
She doth the self-same thing; O mournful sympathy!
Even thus she lies, sobbing and weeping both,
Weeping and sobbing, till her cheeks are swollen.
Rise up, arise! Stand up, if thou art a man!
For Admira’s sweet sake, rise from the ground!
Why should’st thou fall into so deep a woe?
Boško
Nurse!
Nurse
Ah, gracious sir! Ah, gracious sir!
With death, indeed, all mortal troubles end.
Boško
Speak’st thou of Admira? How fares it with her?
Does she not hold me for a hardened wretch,
A bloody-handed murderer, since I stained
The morning of our joy with kindred blood?
Where is she? What doth she? What says my bride
To these unlooked-for obstacles of love?
Nurse
Oh, she says nothing, sir; she does but weep,
And weeps again, and sinks upon her bed,
And starts once more, and calls upon young Jan,
And then on Boško—then falls back anew—
Boško
As if this name, shot from the fatal barrel
Of some dread gun, had murdered her, e'en as
The cursed hand of this same name struck down
Her kinsman! Tell me, father, in what vile
And wretched part of this poor body dwells
My name? Instruct me, that I may destroy
The hated tenement.
(He draws his sword.)
Dimitri
Hold fast thy desperate hand!
Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts show
The frantic fury of a savage beast.
Unwomanly woman in a manly shape,
And savage beast in outward form divine!
Thou dost amaze me. By my holy order,
I thought thee wiser, of a firmer mood.
Thou hast slain Jan; wilt thou now murder too
Thyself, and her who lives within thy breast?
Wilt thou despise what heaven, earth, and birth
Have done for thee? All three combined to make
Thee great and glad, and wilt thou lose it all
At one rash stroke? Fie, fie! Thou sham’st thy shape,
Thy love, thy reason; like a usurer,
Thou hast abundance of all three, and yet
Usest no single noble property
To which thou wast ordained. Thy noble shape
Without the valiant courage of a man
Is but a waxen image; thy sworn love
Is but a faithless perjury, since thou
Would’st slay the very love thou hast vowed to feed;
Thy reason—which should govern and adorn
Both shape and love—like careless powder held
Within a soldier’s pouch, is set on fire
By thine own unconsidered ignorance,
And thou art shattered by thy proper shield!
What, rouse thee, man! Thy Julia still survives,
For whose dear sake thou lately wast as dead:
In this thou art most happy. Jan sought
Thy life, but thou took’st his: herein thou'rt happy.
The law that threatened death became thy friend
And turned to banishment: herein too happy.
How many blessings crown thee—and yet blind
To all? Prosperity puts on her best
Array for thee, and like a wayward girl,
Thou scowl’st upon thy fortune and thy love
With discontented eyes. Take heed, take heed,
Such men do mostly meet a wretched end.
Go, get thee to thy love as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber straight, and comfort her;
But look that thou depart before the watch
Is set, else canst thou not escape away
To Vrbanja Bridge, where thou shalt safely bide
Until we find a fitting time to publish
Thy marriage, reconcile all grieving friends,
And beg the Prince’s pardon—calling thee back
With twenty thousand times more joy than now
With bitter pain thou leavest her. Go before,
Nurse; commend me to your Dame, and beseech her
To make the household straightway go to rest,
whereto their general sorrow will incline them.
Boško will follow soon.
Nurse
O noble sir, I could have lingered here
The live-long night to hear such learned speech!
O, what a thing it is to be a scholar.
Gracious my lord, I’ll tell my Dame straight
That you will come.
Boško
Do so, and bid her come
Prepared to chide me.
Nurse
Here is a ring, dear sir,
Which she desired me give you. Make good haste,
For it grows late indeed.
(Exit Nurse.)
Boško
How swiftly does
This expectation make my spirit live!
Dimitri
Abide at Vrbanja Bridge; I will dispatch
A faithful servant unto you from time
To time, to bring you word of all events
That favor you at home. Give me your hand;
It grows late. Fare you well! Good night!
Boško
Were not this parting swallowed up in joy
That summons me to her, how sharp and full
Of bitter pain would this brief farewell be!
(Exeunt.)
(Changes to the house of Ismić. Enter Ismić, Dame Ismić, and Jussuf.)
Ismić.
So most unfortuitous the circumstances
Have fallen, sir, that we have had no time
To counsel with our daughter. Look you, she
Cherished her cousin Jan with all her heart,
And so did I—Well, we are born to die
Once more—'Tis very late; she will not come
Down-stairs this night; I do assure you, sir,
Were not your company so dear to me,
I would have been abed this hour already.
Jussuf.
I yield me willingly, knowing these days
Of mourning are no season for the suits
Of love. Good night, gracious Dame—commend
Me to your daughter—
Dame Ismić.
I will do so, and
Tomorrow early probe how she is minded—
For this night she is locked in with her grief.
Ismić.
Signor Jussuf, I make bold to take upon me
To promise you my child's affections: I
Think she will govern herself in all points
By my direction—nothing further, doubt it
Not, wife, go thou to her ere thou goest
To bed, impart to her the news of Signor
Jussuf's love, and tell her—mark you—till
Next Wednesday—but softly—what day is
Today?
Jussuf.
Monday, gracious sir.
Ismić.
Monday? Ha, ha, good, Wednesday is too soon,
Let it be Thursday; on next Thursday, tell
Her, she shall be wedded to this noble count.
Will you be ready by then? Are you content
With this dispatch?—We will not make a great
Ado—One or two friends—For, look you,
Since Jan has been so recently cut off
By murder, it would look as though we bore
Little concern for his mishap, if we
Should manifest great demonstrations of
Joy—Therefore we'll have about a half-dozen
Friends, and with that it ends. But what say you
To Thursday?
Jussuf.
Gracious sir, I would that Thursday
Were tomorrow.
Ismić.
Good, good, go now to bed—on Thursday
Let it be then—
(To Dame Ismić.)
Thou, go to Admiran
Ere thou goest to bed, wife—prepare her for
Her wedding day. Farewell, good count—Lights in
My chamber, ho!—Go on, go on, it is
Already so late we might soon call it
Morning. Good night—
(Exeunt.)
(Admira's chamber, seen from the garden side. Boško and Admira, high at a window to which a rope ladder is fastened.)
Admira
Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly on yonder pomegranate tree she sings.
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Boško
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Admira
Yon light is not daylight, I know it well;
It is some meteor that the sun exhales
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Vrbanja Bridge.
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone.
Boško
Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,
But the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
More care and fear can draw me from thy arms;
Let Admira will it, and death is welcome.
How is't, my soul? Let's talk, it is not day.
Admira
It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Boško
More light and light? More dark and dark our woes.
(Enter Nurse.)
Nurse
Madam!
Admira
Nurse?
Nurse
Your Dame mother is coming to your chamber.
The day is broke; be wary, look about you.
(Exit Nurse)
Admira
Then, window, let day in, and let life out.
Boško
Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend.
(Boško climbs down from the window)
Admira
Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay, husband, friend!
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days.
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Boško here!
Boško
Farewell! I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
Admira
O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again?
Boško
I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
Admira
O God! I have an ill-divining soul.
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb.
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.
Boško
And trust me, love, in my eye so do you;
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
(Exit Boško)
Admira:
Oh Fortune, Fortune, all men call thee fickle;
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
Whose loyalty thou shouldst have known by now?
Yet, be thou fickle still, for thus I hope
That thou wilt not retain him long, but soon
Wilt send him back to me.
(Dame Ismić enters.)
Dame:
What, daughter, up so early?
Admira:
Who is there?
Who calls? Is it my gracious mother? What
Unusual cause brings her so early hither?
Dame:
How now, Admira, how goes it with thee?
Admira:
I am not well, my gracious Dame.
Dame:
Still
In tears for thy dead cousin? What, dost hope
To wash him from his grave with all these tears?
Even if thou couldst, thou couldst not bring him back
To life again. Compose thyself at last.
A measured grief is proof enough of love;
Too much of grief betrays too small a mind.
Admira:
I cannot over-weep so keen a loss.
Dame:
In this way thou immortaliz'st the sense
Of thy great loss, and yet canst never bring
The friend back whom thou weepest.
Admira:
Just as deep
I feel my friend's loss, so I needs must weep.
Dame:
Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death,
As that the villain lives who murdered him.
Admira:
What villain, gracious Dame?
Dame:
Who else, pray,
If not Boško?
Admira (aside):
Villain... and he are many miles apart.
(aloud): God pardon him! I do with all my heart...
And yet no one inflicts upon my heart
Such piercing pangs as he.
Dame:
You mean, because
The traitor lives...
Admira:
I, gracious Dame...
(aside): ...without these arms of mine being able to reach him...
(aloud): I wished for nothing, save that I alone
Might soon avenge my cousin's death.
Dame:
We shall
Procure revenge, be easy; cease thy tears.
I'll send someone to Vrbanja Bridge, where
The banished renegade now makes his home,
Who soon enough shall send him after Jan;
And then, I hope, you will be satisfied.
Admira:
Indeed, dear Dame, I shall never be
Content with Boško, till I see him... dead...
(aside): ...is my poor heart for my unhappy friend.
(The reader perceives, without our reminder, the contrived double-entendres in Admira's speech, with which the author plays a rather childish game. They have been expressed as best as possible, although the natural phrasing of our language did not quite wish to comply.)
(aloud): Gracious Dame, if you could only find a man
Who would bring him a poisoned draught, I’d mix it
In such a way that Boško, once consumed,
Should sleep in peace...
(aside): Oh, how my heart abhors
That I should hear him named... and cannot reach him...
To vent the love I bore my murdered cousin
Upon the very person of the man
Who murdered him!
Dame:
Do thou but find the means,
And leave the man to me. But now, dear girl,
I have some pleasant news to tell to thee.
Dame:
It comes right seasonably, if it's pleasant.
And wherein does it lie, if I may ask?
Dame:
Well, well, child, thou hast a most careful father,
Who, to relieve thee of thy melancholy,
Has ordered an unlooked-for day of joy
That neither of us thought of.
Admira:
May one ask
What day that is, my gracious Dame?
Dame:
Child,
Next Thursday, early in the morning, shall
The young, noble, and amiable Count Jussuf
Make thee a happy bride in Peter's Church.
Admira:
Well, by St. Peter's Church, and by Saint Peter
Himself, he shall not! I am much amazed
That I should be betrothed with such great haste
Before my destined husband has bestowed
The slightest trouble on me. I entreat
Your Grace, tell my good lord and father that
I will not marry yet; and if I do,
It shall be Boško—whom I hate, you know—
Rather than Jussuf! That is news indeed!
Dame:
Here comes your father; tell him this yourself,
And see how well he takes it from your lips.
(Ismić and Nurse enter to the others.)
Ismić:
Well, how is this? What art thou doing, girl?
What, still in tears? Still rainy? In thy sole
And little person, thou dost represent
A ship, the ocean, and the wind; thy eyes—
Making an ever-alternating ebb
And flood of tears—are truly the great sea;
Thy body is the ship that sails along
Upon this salty water; and the winds
Are thy deep sighs, which racing with thy tears,
Unless a sudden calm should intervene,
Will drive thy storm-tossed body down to wreck
And ruin at the last... What is it, wife?
Hast thou acquainted her with our resolve?
Dame:
Yes, master; but she will not hear of it,
She turns it down; I wish the foolish fool
Were wedded to her grave instead.
Ismić:
Softly,
Take me along, wife, take me with you. What?
She will not hear of it? She thanks us not?
She is not proud of it? She does not count
Herself right fortunate, unworthy as
She is, that we have chosen out for her
So worthy a nobleman to be her groom?
Admira:
Not proud that you have done it, yet still grateful;
I cannot be proud of a thing I hate,
Yet grateful even for some evil thing
That your fond love meant well.
Ismić:
What's that? What's that?
A maker of distinctions? What means this?
Proud! And I thank you! And I thank you not!
And yet not proud! Why, Mistress Wonder-Child,
Prate not to me of gratitude and pride,
Of non-pride and ingratitude, but lay
Thy finest garments ready for Thursday morn,
To go with Jussuf unto Peter's Church,
Or I shall have thee dragged along a sled!
Out of my sight, you pale-faced carrion crow!
Away, you dawdling dolt! You tallow-face!
Dame Ismić
Fie, fie, what is it? Are you out of your mind?
Admira
Beloved father, I implore you now
Upon my knees, vouchsafe to hear me out
With patience for a single, passing word.
Ismić
Go hang, you headstrong minx! Disobedient
And giddy creature! I will tell you this:
Go to the church on Thursday as I bid,
Or never let me see your face again.
Say nothing, do not argue, answer not;
My fingers itch. Wife, we had scarce esteemed
Ourselves so fortunate that God bestowed
Upon us only this one only child,
Yet now I see this only one is much
Too much, and given us to be a curse—
Out of my sight, you bastard!
Nurse
God in heaven
Bless her! You do her wrong, my gracious lord,
To treat her with such harshness.
Ismić
How now, dame
Wisdom? Hold your tongue and chatter on
With your gossips—pack yourselves away—
Nurse
I say
No wrong;—O, God bestow a happy day
Upon you—May a body speak no more?
Ismić
Be still, you mumbling fool! Play out your airs
When you carouse among your gossips there;
We have no need of them beneath this roof.
Dame Ismić
You are too hasty.
Ismić
What? Zounds! Should this not
Drive a man wild? Both day and night, at dawn
And dusk, at home and far beyond the door,
Alone and in society, awake
And sleeping, my one solitary thought
Has ever been how best to have her wed.
And now, when I have found a worthy youth,
Noble of blood, of ample property,
Of most distinguished kin, who, as all say,
Is rich in virtue—shortly, such a man
As any heart might wish for—must I have
A reckless, foolish, silly little doll,
Who, when good fortune smiles and beckons her,
Replies: "I will not wed just yet"—"I cannot
Love"—"I am much too young"—"I beg you, sir,
Forgive me." Well, if you will not be wed,
I will forgive you; graze wherever you please,
But under my roof you shall dwell no more.
Ponder it well, reflect, for it is not
My custom now to jest. It is not long
Until come Thursday; lay hand on your heart,
Consider well; if you are truly mine,
I give you to my friend; if not, then hang,
Beg, starve, and perish starving in the street;
Upon my soul, I will not own you more
As my dear child, nor shall you have from me
So much as you might moisten on your tongue.
Rely upon it, ponder well, for I
Shall certainly not break my solemn oath.
(He exits.)
Admira
Is there no pitying being in the skies
Who looks down to the depth of all my woe?—
O my sweet mother, cast me not away,
Delay this wedding for a single month—
Only a week; or, if you will not so,
Then make my bridal bed within the dark
And gloomy sepulchre where Jan now lies.
Dame Ismić
Turn not to me, I will not speak a word:
Do as you will, I have no more to say.
(She exits.)
Admira
O God! O Nurse, how can this thing be met?
My husband is on earth; my fealty
In heaven; how can that fealty return
Unless my husband send it back to me,
Departing from this earth?—Console me now,
Give me some counsel. O what misery,
That heaven should deal so harshly and severe
With such a gentle creature as am I!
What say you? Have you not a single word
Of comfort? Only one small comfort, Nurse!
Nurse
Aye, truly, and here it is: Boško is banished.
I wager all the world against a naught
That he lacks heart to venture back again
And lay a claim to you; or should he try,
He'd have to do it all in secrecy.
Thus, since the circumstances stand so framed,
The wisest course, methinks, would be to take
The Count. Oh, he is a most amiable,
Young gentleman! Boško's a ragged wretch
Compared to him; an eagle has no eye
So sharp, so bright, so beautiful as Jussuf.
I'll forfeit all my honesty if this
New match is not far better than the first;
And were it not, yet your first husband’s dead,
Or dead to you, since he lives far away
And is of no more use to you at all.
Admira
Speak you from out your heart?
Nurse
And soul as well,
Or may I lose them both!
Admira
Amen.
Nurse
What?
Admira
Good;
You have bestowed right noble comfort here.
Go in, and tell my gracious Dame this:
That since I have provoked my father's wrath,
I have gone down to Father Dimitri's cell
To make confession and receive release.
Nurse
By my six senses, that I will, and it
Is wisely done besides.
(She exits.)
Admira
Old, deadly sin! Evil, seducing fiend!
Is it not greater sin in thee to try
And make me faithless to my wedding vows,
And to revile my husband with the tongue
That raised him thousand-fold above all else?
Go, counselor—you and my inmost heart
Shall henceforth hold no fellowship at all:
I'll seek the priest to learn if he can aid,
And if all else should fail, I have the courage to die.
(She exits.)
ACT IV.
(The Cloister. Enter Priest Dimitri and Jussuf.)
Priest Dimitri.
On Thursday, gracious lord! The time is brief.
Jussuf.
My father Ismić wills it to be so,
And his great promptness so accords with mine,
That I have never thought to stay his hand.
Priest Dimitri.
You own, then, that you do not know her mind—
This matter goes not as it ought to go;
It pleases me not well.
Jussuf.
She yields herself
Unto a most immoderate grief for Jan’s
Decease, and that has been the cause why I
Could say but little of my love to her;
For Venus never smiles in house of mourning.
Now deems her father it a dangerous thing
That she should yield so much unto her sorrow,
And hastens our espousals, with intent
To stay the running of her tears thereby;
Yet, left alone and to herself abandoned,
She finds a kind of rapture in the same,
To nurse a sadness whereof naught save society
Can ease her. Do you comprehend the cause
Of this dispatch?
Priest Dimitri (aside).
I would I did not know
Why it must be forestalled!—See, gracious lord,
Here comes the Dame moving toward my cell.
(Enter Admira to the same.)
Jussuf.
Welcome, my love, my mistress, and my wife.
Admira.
That first may be, when that the last can be.
Jussuf.
That will, that must be next Thursday, my love.
Admira.
What must be, that will be.
Priest Dimitri.
That is a text
Upon which there can be no argument.
Jussuf.
Come you to make confession to this father?
Admira.
If I should answer that, I’d confess to you.
Jussuf.
Deny him not, at least, that you do love me.
Admira.
I will have confessed thus much to you: that I love him.
Jussuf.
So will I too; I am assured you love me.
Admira.
If I do that, it were of greater worth
Behind your back than to your face to say it.
Jussuf.
Poor soul, your face is quite disfigured with tears.
Admira.
The tears have won but a small victory thereby,
For it was ill enough before.
Jussuf.
You do it more wrong, my child, in speaking thus,
Than all your tears.
Admira.
What is the very truth, my lord, is no
Slander; and what I said then, I said to my face.
Jussuf.
Your face is mine, and you have slandered it.
Admira.
It may be so, for mine it is not indeed.—
Is it convenient now, holy father,
Or shall I come again after vespers?
Priest Dimitri.
I have leisure now, my thoughtful daughter.—
Gracious lord, with your permission—
Jussuf.
God forbid that I should disturb your devotions!—
Admira, next Thursday I will waken you early enough—
Until then, adieu, with this innocent kiss.
(Exit Jussuf.)
Admira.
Go, lock the door, and when you have done it, come,
And weep with me—My wretchedness leaves no hope,
No means, no rescue.
Priest Dimitri.
O Admira, I know
Thy distress, and it grieves me that I know
No means to help thee. Until next Thursday, I hear,
Thou art to be wedded to this count, and nought
Can thwart it.
Admira.
Tell me nought of what thou hearest,
Unless thou canst tell me how I may avoid it.
If thy wisdom can bring no means to hand,
Do thou but approve my resolve, and I
Will help myself upon the spot with this dagger.
God united my heart and Boško's; you, our hands;
And ere this hand that you sealed to my Boško,
Ere this heart that acknowledges him alone
For its lord, should traitorously yield itself
To another, ere then shall this steel
Rob both of motion. Seek therefore in the lore
With which the gray experience of a long life
Has enriched you, a speedy counsel; or grant
That this bloody knife be the arbiter
Between me and my cruel destiny.—
Answer me briefly—every moment that I
Yet live is hateful to me, if what you
Have to tell me is no means of rescue.
Priest Dimitri
Hold, daughter, I discern a kind of hope
That hangs upon a remedy as desperate
As that which we are eager to avoid.
If you are resolute to take your life
Rather than wed the Count of Jussuf, then
You'll surely feel no hesitation now
To dare what looks like death, to 'scape a shame
From which you're ready to escape by death.
If you have courage for it, I will give
The means.
Admira
Oh, bid me—rather than resign
Myself to Jussuf—from that turret's top
Leap down, or bind me to the craggy peak
Of some sheer mountain where howling bears prowl
And fierce lions swarm; or shut me through
A whole night in a charnel-house, up to
My neck, covered with rotting dead men's bones,
Dry shinbones, and bare, yellow skulls; or bid
Me walk into a newly dug-up grave,
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud—
Things at the very thought of which I shake—
Bid me, and without hesitation I
Will do it, to preserve an unstained truth
Unto my love!
Priest Dimitri
Well then, go home, be cheerful, and
Seem as if you consent to wed with Jussuf;
Tomorrow is a Wednesday; tomorrow night
See that you send your nurse away, and lie
Alone; and when you are within your bed,
Take you this phial, and drink it purely down:
Instantly through all your veins will run
A cooling, slumberous vapor, which shall bind
Each of your vital spirits; your blood's flow
Will stand stone-still; nor warmth nor breath shall give
A sign that you are living; on your lips
And cheeks the roses shall fade out to ash-
Gray paleness; your eyelids close, as though
Death's very self had bolted them against
The light of day; each limb, despoiled of all
Its elastic flexibility, shall grow
Stiff, cold, and rigid; and in this disguise
Of seeming death you shall abide for two
And forty hours, and then awake as from
A sweet sleep. When the bridegroom comes at morn
To waken you, you will be dead, and then,
According to our country's custom, dressed
In your best garb, you'll be laid on a bier
Without a lid, and carried to the tomb
Of all your kin—into that ancient vault
Where all the Bosniakes' descendants lie.
In the meantime, until you wake, I'll send
Letters to Bosko telling of our plot
And summon him hither; he and I together
Will wait your waking, and that very night
Shall Bosko bear you hence to Vrbanja Bridge.
Here is the means that saves you from the shame
That hovers o'er you, if you are bold enough
To use it with a firm, unbroken will.
Admira
Give it to me, oh, give it! Speak not to me
Of fear.
(She takes the phial)
Priest Dimitri
Good, go now, and remain steadfast in
This high resolve; I will dispatch with speed
A trusted friar bearing letters to
Your lord at Vrbanja Bridge.
Admira
Love, give me strength, and strength shall grant me help!
Farewell, my dearest father!
(Exeunt)
(Scene shifts to the House of the Bosniak. Enter Ismić, Dame Ismić, a wet nurse, and two or three attendants.)
Ismić
Invite all guests whose names are on this list.
And you, go out and order twenty cooks.
Attendant
You shall have none that's poor, most gracious lord,
For I will test if they can lick their fingers.
Ismić
And how will you contrive to test them so?
Attendant
By heaven, gracious lord, a wretched cook
Is he who cannot lick his very fingers;
So if a fellow cannot lick his fingers,
He may as well stay home where he belongs.
Ismić
Go, go—our preparations for an event
Of such a scale will poorly furnished be.
What? Has my daughter gone to Father Dimitrije?
Nurse
Indeed she has, my lord.
Ismić
'Tis well. Perhaps
He can achieve some good with her—the wayward,
Headstrong and stubborn baggage that she is!
(Enter Admira to the others.)
Nurse
Look, here she comes from confession; and she seems
So full of joy—
Ismić
What now, you stubborn head?
Where have you been off roaming around?
Admira
I went
To a place where I learned to deeply rue
My sin of disobedience to your will,
And where it was enjoined upon my knees
To fall and beg your pardon. Forgive me, then,
I pray you; from this hour on, your word
Shall ever be the compass of my path.
Ismić
Send for the Count, go tell him of this now;
I will have this knot tied tomorrow straight.
Admira
I met him in Father Dimitrije's cell,
And greeted him as kindly as I could,
Without transgressing bounds of modesty.
Ismić
Good, that I love to hear; 'tis well, stand up.
It is as it should be. I must see the Count—
Ho, hang it, go, I say, and fetch him here!
Now, by my faith, this holy father is
Indeed a most revered and holy man,
To whom our entire city owes so much.
Admira
Nurse, will you come with me into my room,
And help me choose the finery we find
Most fitting for tomorrow?
Dame Ismić
There is time
Enough until Thursday.
Ismić
Go, nurse, go with her;
Tomorrow the ceremony shall take place.
(Admira and Nurse exit.)
Dame Ismić
But where on earth shall we find time enough
For preparations now? It's nearly night.
Ismić
Quiet, I will go out myself, and everything
Shall be provided, wife, I vouch for it.
Go you to Admira, and help adorn her;
I will not go to bed tonight, leave me alone.
For once in all my life I'll play the housewife—
Ho there! Holla!—They're all gone. Well, I'll go
To Count Jussuf myself, so he prepares
For tomorrow. A great lightness fills my heart,
Since this wild witch-girl set her sights straight.
(They exit.)
(Admira’s Chamber. Admira and the Nurse enter.)
Admira
Yes, this attire becomes me best of all;
Yet, dearest nurse, I pray thee, leave me now
To solitude this night; I shall need much
Of prayer to pass in close communion here,
That Heaven may smile upon my bold design—
Thou knowest well my sinful circumstance,
And therefore surely knowst I have the need.
(Dame Ismić enters.)
Dame Ismić
How now, so busy? Can I lend a hand?
Admira
No, gracious mother, we have gathered all
That we may need for our tomorrow's rites;
If you would grant it, I should wish right now
To be left lonely, and that you permit
The nurse to stay the night along with you;
For surely you will have your hands full now
With this unlooked-for and sudden turn.
Dame Ismić
Good night; go thou to bed and take thy rest,
For thou hast need of it.
(Dame Ismić and the Nurse exit.)
Admira
Good night—God knows when we shall meet again!—
I know not what cold, terrifying dread
Now surges through my veins—I'll call them back,
That they may lend me courage—Nurse!—Ah, no,
What should she here? I must needs play alone
This terror-laden scene unto the end—
Come, little vial—What if this tincture fails,
And works no cure? Must I perforce submit
To marry with the Count against my will?
No, no, this draft shall bar it—Lye thou there—
(She points to a dagger.)
What if this be a subtle dose of death,
Which the good priest prepares in secret guise
To sweep me from his path, lest his fair name
Suffer disgrace through this united match,
Since he already wed me to Boško?
I fear it is so; yet, methinks, 'twere false,
For he has ever seemed a holy man.
What if, when laid within the silent vault,
I wake before Boško arrives to claim me?
That is a terrifying thought indeed:
Shall I not stifle in this gloomy cave,
Whose foul mouth breathes no wholesome breath of air,
Choked by the tainted vapors ere he comes?
nd should I live, is it not natural
That this grim scene of midnight and of death,
The horror of the place where I abide—
Within this ancient crypt where centuries
Of all my ancestors' cold bones are heaped—
Where bleeding Jan in yawning foul decay
Lies wrapped within his shrouds—where, as they say,
At certain hours spirits walk the dark—
O Heaven, is it not likely that the stench,
The dreadful howling of the specters there
Like mandrakes shrieking when they are torn up,
Sounds that would rob a living man of sense—
Will waken me before the proper hour?
Or, waking, ringed around by horrors all,
Shall I lose reason, playing like a madman
With all my forebears' bones, and drag forth Jan
From out his burial shroud, and in my frenzy,
Using the thigh-bone of some mighty sire
As if a club, beat out my crazed brains?—
O! Look, methinks I see my cousin’s ghost,
Who seeks out Boško here, his murderer,
And my true lord!—Hold, Jan, oh hold!—
Boško, I come! This drink I pledge to thee.
(She drinks the vial and flings herself upon her bed.)
(A vestibule in the house of Bosniak. Dame Ismić and the Nurse enter.)
Dame Ismić
Wait, take these keys, good Nurse, and fetch more spice.
Nurse
They call for dates and quinces in the tart?
(To the others.)
Ismić
Up, brisk and lively, stir yourselves! The cock
has crowed the second time, the morning bell
has rung, and it is three o'clock. See to
the pastry, good Angelica; do not
sparingly use the finest ingredients.
Nurse
Go on, go on, and meddle not in women's
affairs. Go to your bed, for you will fall
ill tomorrow from having slept not at all
throughout this night.
Ismić
No, nothing of the kind! What? I well recall
the times when for a poorer cause I stayed
awake whole nights through, and was never ill.
Dame
Yes, yes, a fine mouse-hunter you have been
in your young days; but, as for today,
I'll watch you closely that you stay not up.
(Dame Ismić and the Nurse exit.)
Ismić
Jealousy, pure jealousy! Now, fellow, what
is there to be done here?
(Three or four servants enter with roasting spits, baskets, wood, etc.)
Servant
Things for the cook, gracious sir, though what they are
I know not.
Ismić
Make haste, make haste! You rascal, fetch drier wood,
and call Pjotr, he will show you where it lies.
Servant
Gracious sir, to find logs, I have head enough
myself, I need no Pjotr for that.
Ismić
Zounds! Well spoken! You have wit, my lad, ha, ha!
Yet, by my faith, it is already broad day—
(Music is heard in the distance.)
The Count will soon be here with musicians,
he promised it—I hear him coming now.
Nurse—wife—ho there, hallo! Nurse, I say!
(The Nurse enters.)
Go, wake Admira, go and deck her out;
I will go off meantime and chat with Jussuf.
Away, make haste, make haste, the groom is here already—
Make haste, I say!
(They exit.)
(Admira's Bedchamber. Admira lies upon the bed. The Nurse re-enters.)
Nurse
My gracious miss! Oh, miss! Admira! dear!
Well, that is sleeping with a vengeance—hey!
My little dove—hey, miss! Oh, fie for shame,
You sleepy-head!—hey, darling!—miss, I say!
My little heart!—my bride!—what, not a word?
I see you're taking up three groats in advance
And sleeping for a solid week ahead!
Well, well, tonight—for that I'll vouch right well—
Lord Jussuf, as a husband, will take care
That you shall get but little sleep indeed!
God pardon me!—holy Maria! Amen!—
What a deep, healthy sleep she has! I must
Cry out to wake her—Miss, and miss, and miss!
Now truly, let the Count get you in bed,
He'll shake you wide awake, upon my word!
Can this not be? What, fully dressed, in clothes—
And lying back again? I must speak stern.
Miss! Miss! Admira! Oh, God! Oh, God, help! help!
Help! For my mistress is right dead! Oh, grief!
Oh, why was I e'er born to see this day!
Oh, for a dram of aqua vitae—hey!
Most gracious lord! Most gracious Dame!
(Enter Dame Ismić.)
Dame Ismić
What shouting is this here?
Nurse
Oh, cursèd day!
Dame Ismić
What is it? What is it?
Nurse
Behold—Oh, fatal day!
Dame Ismić
O God, O God! My child, my only life!
Wake up again, look upon me, or let
Me die along with you! Help! Help! Cry out for help!
(Enter Ismić.)
Ismić
For shame, why bring you not Admiran here?
Her bridegroom has arrived.
Nurse
She is stone dead!
She has departed, she is dead! O God,
Have mercy on us!
Ismić
Ha! Let me behold—
Oh, heaven! All is o'er, she is quite cold,
Her blood is clotted and her joints are stiff;
Her lips are stripped of life, and death lies on her
Like an untimely frost upon the fairest
And sweetest flower across the open field.
Accursed accident! Unhappy, wretched man!
Nurse
Oh, lamentable, woe-begone wedding day!
Dame Ismić
Poor, comfortless, and solitary mother!
Ismić
Death, which has robbed me of my joy of age,
Has bound my tongue and will not let me speak.
(Enter Priest Dimitri and Jussuf with Musicians.)
Priest Dimitri
Come, is the bride prepared to walk to church?
Ismić
To church, but not to lead her home. O son,
Upon the night before your wedding day,
Death has lain down beside your wedded wife.
Behold, she lies there, once the lovely flower,
Now stripped by him of all her ornament:
Death is my son-in-law.
Jussuf
Have I so long
Yearned just to see this morning, that it grants
Me such a sight as this?
Dame Ismić
Accursed, wretched,
Unblest, and most abhorrèd day! Most full
Of lamentation that revolving time
Has ever looked upon in all its course
Of everlasting pilgrimage! Just one,
A single, poor, sweet, tender, cherished child;
Only a single one, who was my joy
And my sweet comfort, and unsparing death
Has snatched her from me!
Ismić
Ill-fated chance!—Must our rejoicing thus
Be murdered in a brutal, treacherous way?
O my child, my child! My soul, say not
My child is dead! O God, she is dead!
My child is dead—all of my hopes sink down
With her into the grave.
Priest Dimitri
Now, put an end
At last to this impatient, wild despair!
All of these comfortless and mournful plaints
Can never heal your grief: Heaven and yourselves
Had both a share in this most lovely maid;
Now heaven has all, and better so for her.
You could not save your share from greedy death,
But heaven preserves its own for endless life.
All that you sought was her uplifting—yet
You weep to see her raised above the clouds,
As high as heaven itself? What twisted love
For your own child is this, that you should lose
Your very wits to see that she is blest?
Dry up your tears, adorn this lovely corpse
With fragrant rosemary, and bear her forth,
As is the custom, in her finest garb,
Unto the church.
Ismić
All preparations that we lately made
For our great festival are now transformed
Into a mournful, solemn funeral pomp;
Our instruments of music into knells
Of melancholy bells; our wedding feast
Into a sorrow-laden burial meal;
Our festive chants of praise to anxious dirges;
And our bright wedding wreaths now serve to deck
A dead man's bier—Oh, lamentable change!
Priest Dimitri
Go in, my lord; and you, madam, go with him;
And you, Signor Jussuf; let each prepare
To follow this fair corpse unto her grave;
And guard yourselves from stirring up, through murmuring
And wild impatience, heaven's suspended wrath.
(Exeunt)
ACT V
(Vrbanja Bridge. Boško enters.)
Boško.
If I might trust the flattering prompts of sleep,
My dreams would augur pleasant news for me.
An unaccustomed spirit of delight
Fills up my breast and lifts me from the earth
Upon delightful thoughts: I dreamed my love
Came and discovered me for dead—(how strange
A thing a dream is, that it still awards
To lifeless folk the privilege to think!)—
And breathed such life into my lips with kisses
That I arose from death and was made king.
O heaven! how sweet is love's actual enjoyment,
Since even its shadows are so rich in bliss!
(Jurjew enters.)
Newspapers from Sarajevo—How goes it, Jurjew?
Do you bring letters from the Priest? How fares
My love? Is my father well? What does my Admira?
That I must ask once more; for if she is well,
Then nothing is amiss.
Jurjew.
So she is well, then, and nothing is amiss.
Her body sleeps within the Bosniaks' grave,
And her immortal part lives with the angels.
I saw her laid into her family's vault
And took the post at once to bring this news to you.
Forgive me, gracious lord, that my sad duty
Compels me to bring you so ill a tidings!
Boško.
Is it indeed so?—Then I defy you, stars!—
You know my lodging, go, fetch ink and paper,
And order post-horses—I set out tonight.
Jurjew.
Forgiveness, gracious lord, I cannot leave you thus.
Your looks are gloomy and wild, and mean no good.
Boško.
Quiet! You deceive yourself. Leave me and do
What I command you: Have you no letters
From the Priest for me?
Jurjew.
No, gracious lord.
Boško.
That signifies nothing: go, and order
The horses; I will be with you directly.
(Jurjew exits.)
BOŠKO
Well, Admira, tonight I mean to lie with you—
Let’s see, how shall we manage it? How quick
Does ruin find an entrance to a soul
That yields to sheer despair!—I call to mind
An apothecary who resides about here,
Whom I of late observed in tattered rags,
With beetling brows, a-searching out for herbs.
I scanned the fellow well; his looks appeared
So lean and starved, and woe and misery
Seemed to have worn him down unto the bone.
Within his wretched hovel hung a tortoise,
A stuffed alligator, and a few more skins
Of monstrous, misshapen fishes; and around,
Set on the shelves, stood a poor, beggar’s show
Of empty boxes, green and earthen pots,
Bladders, musty seeds, remnants of twine,
And ancient rose-cakes, scattered thin enough
To give some semblance of a stock in trade.
And in the very moment that this wretched state
Struck on my eyes, I said unto myself:
If any man should now have need of poison,
The sale of which in Vrbanja Bridge is punished
Without reprieve by death, here lives a wretch
Who would not hesitate to sell it him.
Oh! that same thought was a foreboding sign
That I should soon have need of this man's aid.
As far as I remember, this is the house.
Because today’s a holy day, the beggar’s
Hovel is closed. Holla! Ho! Apothecary!
(The apothecary comes out.)
APOTHECARY
Who calls so loud?
BOŠKO
Come forth, man! I perceive that you are poor;
Look, here are forty ducats; for them give
A dram of poison, of so swift a force
That it shall spread itself through every vein,
And he grown weary of his life who takes it
May be discharged so suddenly and with
Such raging violence of breath as when
The unstoppable powder, once it is inflamed,
Bursts forth from out a cannon's fatal belly.
APOTHECARY
Such deadly preparations I possess;
but law is death to him who deals them out.
BOŠKO
Are you so naked and with woe so laden,
And do you fear the death? Hunger is seated
Upon your cheeks; privation and distress
Peer forth from out your hollow, sunken eyes;
Contempt and beggary hang upon your back,
And yet you fear the death? The world is not
Your friend, nor is the world’s law; the world grants
No law to make you wealthy; therefore be wiser,
Break through it, and accept my gold.
APOTHECARY
My poverty consents against my will.
BOŠKO
And I am paying not your will, but poverty.
APOTHECARY
Pour this into whatever liquor you choose,
And drink it off; and had you yet the strength
Of twenty men, it sends you to the other world.
BOŠKO
Here is your gold; a deadlier poison still
To human souls, and one that works more murders
In this ungodly world than all these wretched
Quackeries that you lack the skill to sell:
It is I sold you poison, not you me—
Farewell, buy food for yourself, and see to it
That you put on some flesh—Come, cordial draught,
And not true poison; come along with me,
Where I have need of you, to Admira's grave.
(They exeunt.)
(Scene transforms into the monastery at Sarajevo. Priest Alexander enters.)
Johann.
Venerable son of holy Georg, brother, ho!
Priest Dimitri comes out.
Dimitri.
That must be Priest Alexander’s voice—welcome
From Vrbanja Bridge; what says Boško? Or do you
Bring me a letter from him?
Johann.
As I prepared
To leave, I went to seek a Barefoot Brother
Of our own order as a travelling companion
Who was in town here to attend the sick.
I found him; but as we prepared to leave the house,
The city’s visitators came, and, having
Suspicion that a contagious sickness raged
Within the house wherein they found us, sealed
The doors and would not let us forth, so that
My journey unto Vrbanja Bridge had to
Be left undone.
Dimitri.
Who then delivered up
My letter unto Boško?
Johann.
I could not
Send it away; here it is back again.
I could not even find a living soul
To bring it back to you, so great their fear
That they might catch the plague.
Dimitri.
An evil stroke
Of fortune! By my monastic vow, the letter
Contained matters of the utmost gravity,
And this delay can breed disastrous ends.
Priest Alexander, go, procure for me
A crowbar and bring it to my cell.
Dimitri.
Now I must go alone into the crypt;
Within the next three hours the lovely Admira
Will waken—how she’ll rail against me then,
That Boško had no tidings of all these
Events! But once again I’ll write to Vrbanja
Bridge, and hide her in my cell the while
Until Boško arrives. Poor, living corpse,
I hasten now to draw you from your tomb! —
(He exits.)
(The scene transforms into a churchyard – upon it, the family vault of the Bosniakes. Enter Jussuf and his page, carrying a torch.)
Jussuf
Give me your torch, boy. Go, and stand afar.
Yet no, extinguish it; I would not be
Observed. Lay yourself down at your full length
Beneath those yew trees there, and press your ear
Close to the hollow earth, so that no foot
Shall ever tread upon this burial ground
Without your hearing it. And as you hear
Something approach, then hiss to me; let that
Be our appointed sign. Give me those flowers.
Do as I bid you; go.
Page
I am so frightened, all alone out here
Within the churchyard, yet I will be brave.
(Exit Page.)
Jussuf
(approaching the vault and scattering flowers over it)
Most gracious flower! Thus with blossoms I
Bestrew your bridal bed: fair Admira,
Now playmate of the angels, take this last
And tender token of a love from one
Who worshipped you in life, and now in death—
(The page hisses.)
The boy gives warning, something now draws near.
What cursed feet are wandering here this late
And midnight hour, to trouble and disturb
The tender rites of sorrowing love in me?
What? A light? O night, conceal me for a while.
(He steps aside.)
(Boško and Jurjew, carrying a torch.)
Boško.
Give me the mattock and the wrenching iron.
Here, take this letter, and see that you deliver
It early in the morning to my lord
And father. Give me the light; as dear
Thy life is held by thee, I charge thee, stay
From far, and hear or see what things thou wilt,
Do not disturb me in my enterprise.
Why I descend into this vault is partly
To look upon my Dame once again,
But chiefly to draw forth from her dead finger
A precious ring, a ring that I have need of
For an important purpose; get thee hence,
Depart—yet if thou dare, led on by idle
Curiosity, return to see what more
I have in mind to do, by heaven, I will
Tear thee joint after joint and scatter round
Thy limbs to feed this hungry burying-place.
My time and my designs are fierce and wild,
More fierce and more inexorable far
Than blood-lapped tigers or the howling sea.
Jurjew.
I will depart, my gracious lord, and not
Disturb you.
Boško.
So canst thou prove thy friendship to me—take
This; live and be right happy, fare thee well,
Good boy.
Jurjew (going aside).
All this becomes a stronger motive still
For me to hide myself here close at hand.
I fear his looks, and doubt that he intends
Anything good.
(Jurjew exits.)
Boško.
Thou abominable maw, cursed throat of death,
That hast devoured the dearest thing on earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
(He forces open the vault.)
To stuff thee full by force with yet more food!
Jussuf (coming forward).
This is the banished, haughty Brkić, who
Slew the dear cousin of my Dame—which,
Through the deep grief she felt for it, 'tis thought,
Became the very cause of her demise—
And now is come to practice some base shame
Upon their bodies: I will stop him here—
Hold back thy damnable work, vile, worthless Brkić!
Wouldst thou extend thy fury to the dead?
Accursed villain, I make prize of thee;
Obey, go with me, thou must surely die.
Boško.
I must, indeed, and therefore came I hither—
Good, gentle youth, provoke not a despairing
Man; flee from hence, and leave me: think upon
These that lie here, and let them strike thee dread.
I pray thee, youth, heap not another sin
Upon my head, drive me not into wrath.
Oh go! By heaven! I love thee better far
Than my own self; for arm'd against myself
Hither I came. Tarry not, go, and say
Thy life is owed to a madman's mercy.
Jussuf.
I spurn thy pity, and arrest thee here
As a high traitor.
Boško.
So wilt thou force and goad me? Take it then
Upon thyself, young boy!
(They fight. Jussuf falls.)
Page.
O God, they fight! I'll go and fetch the watch.
(Jurjew exits.)
Jussuf.
Oh, I am slain; if thou art capable
Of any pity, open up the vault
And lay me by Admiran.
(He dies.)
Boško.
Upon my honor, I will do it: Let me
Behold this face close by—Prince Marco's cousin!
The noble Count Jussuf! What was it my servant
Told me upon the way, while my storm-tossed
Soul paid no heed to what he spoke—Methinks
He told me Jussuf should have wed Admiran.
Said he not so? Or did I only dream it?
Or am I mad to fancy it is so,
Because I heard him speak so tenderly
Of Admiran? — Oh, give me your hand, you
Whom fate has tangled in my wretchedness,
An enviable grave I will accord you—
A grave? Oh no, a glory, murdered youth!
For Admira lies here, and her dark vault
Fills with the light and splendor of her beauty;
Dead man, lie here, buried by a dead man.
(He places him in the vault.)
How oft it happens that men near their end
Have grown right cheerful just before they die! —
Oh grant me yet one such last moment here! —
My love, my wife, death that hath sucked the honey
From off thy breath, hath had no power yet
Over thy beauty; thou art not subdued;
Still floats the crimson banner of thy beauty
Upon thy lips and cheeks, and the pale flag
Of death is not yet planted here—Jan,
Lie here in thy blood-spotted winding sheet?
O what can I do more, how can I better
Avenge thee, than to use this very hand
That ended thy young life against thy murderer?
Forgive me, dear cousin! — Ah! dearest Admira,
Why art thou still so fair? Shall I believe
The unsubstantial Death has fallen in love
With thee, and that the dry and hideous monster
Keeps thee here in the dark to be his bride?
For fear that it may be so, I will stay
Ever with thee, and from this very moment
Will nevermore forsake this palace of
Grim night; here, here will I remain, beside
The worms that are thy chambermaids; here find
An everlasting rest, when I have shaken
The tyrannous yoke of angry stars from off
This life-wearied flesh — My eye, behold
Her for the last time; embrace her for
The last time, arms, and you, my lips, seal with
A final kiss a bond with ravening death
That never can be loosed again! — This, love,
I drink to thee! — O honest apothecary,
(He drinks the poison.)
Thy drugs work well — Yet this one kiss.
(He dies.)
(Priest Dimitri with a lantern, a crowbar, and a spade.)
Priest Dimitri.
Saint George stand by me! How many a time
Have my old feet stumbled at graves late at night!
Who is here?
Jurjew (coming forward).
A friend, who knows you well.
Dimitri.
Salvation be to thee! Tell me, good friend,
What torch is that I see there, lending light
In vain to worms and eyeless skulls? Methinks
It burns within the vault of the Bosniakes.
Jurjew.
It is indeed so, holy father, and
He that is in it is my lord, one of
Your dearest friends.
Dimitri.
What is his name?
Jurjew.
Boško.
Dimitri.
How long has he been there?
Jurjew.
A full half-hour.
Dimitri.
Go with me to the vault.
Jurjew.
I have no heart for it, revered sir—
My lord knows nothing other than that I
Departed hence, and threatened me right sorely
That he would kill me if I stayed behind
And spied upon his purpose.
Dimitri.
Remain thou here then, I will go alone—
A dread comes over me—I fear, I fear
Some evil has befallen.
Jurjew.
As I was sleeping 'neath this yew tree here,
I dreamed my lord and someone else fought hard
Against each other, and my lord slew him.
Dimitri (at the entrance of the vault).
Boško! O heaven! What means this blood that stains
The stony entrance of this vault? What mean
These masterless swords, smeared with clotted gore,
That lie in this blest place of peace? Boško!
O God, lifeless! And this one? — How? Jussuf? —
Swimming in blood? Ha, what unlucky hour
Is guilty of this lamentable chance? —
The Dame stirs—
Admira (waking).
O comfort-bringing father! Where is my lord?
Well do I mind where I should be, and there
Am I—But where is Boško?
Dimitri.
I hear a noise—Dame, come forth from out
This cave of death, corruption, and unnatural
Sleep; a greater power than we can counter
Has cut across our project; come, come with me—
Thy husband lies dead here, and Jussuf too—
Come, I will lead thee to a holy convent
Of sisters: Stay not questioning, I see
The watch approaching—Come, go, dearest Admira;
I can stay no longer—
(He goes.)
Admira.
Go, go thou forth, and let me stay behind—
What is this here? A cup, in my love's hand?
Poison, I see, has been his untimely death—
O unkind man, to drink it all, and leave
No friendly drop to help me follow thee!
I will kiss thy lips; perchance there still
Hangs poison enough on them for my need—
Thy lips are still warm—
(The Page, with the Watchman, enter.)
Watchman.
Show us the way, boy.
Admira.
So? Comes someone? Then I will be brief—
(She finds a dagger.)
O happy dagger! Here is thy sheath, here rust
And let me die.
(She stabs herself.)
Page.
Here is the place; right there, where burns the torch.
Watchman.
The floor is full of blood. Search through the yard,
Go, some of you, secure whom you may find.
Piteous sight! Here lies the count well slain,
And Admira in her blood, still warm and scarce
Extinct, who yet these two days past has lain
Buried here. Go, tell it to the prince,
Run to the Bosniakes, awaken the Serbers—
And you others search—The circumstances
Alone can make this woeful chance so clear.
(Some of the Watchmen with Jurjew.)
2nd Watchman.
Here is a servant of Boško whom we found
Upon the churchyard.
1st Watchman.
Hold him fast until the prince arrives.
(Another of the Watchmen, with Priest Dimitri.)
3rd Watchmen.
Here is a poor monk, who trembles, groans,
And weeps; we found this iron crow and spade
Beside him, and he came from this same side
Of the graveyard.
1st Watch.
That is passing strange; hold him fast too.
(The Prince and his retainers enter now upon the stage.)
Prince
What woe is up so early that it wakes us
out of our morning sleep?
(Ismić and Dame Ismić enter on the other side.)
Ismić
What can it be that such a dreadful cry
resounds throughout the streets?
Dame Ismić
The streets are full
of people shouting Boško's name; some cry
Admira, others Jussuf; and all run
with horror and with crying toward our tomb.
Prince
What tones of terror rush into our ear?
First Guard
Most gracious lord, here lies Count Jussuf slain,
and Boško dead, and Admira, who was
before thought dead, is warm and murdered now
but a few minutes past.
Prince
Search, question out,
and spy from whence these monstrous murders come!
First Guard
Here is a monk, and the slain Boško's man,
who with tools were caught breaking these tombs open.
Ismić
O heaven! O wife! See how our daughter bleeds!
This dagger missed its mark; see, the sheath lies
upon the Serb's back, and the naked blade
is in my daughter's bosom!
Dame Ismić
O God,
this sight is like a passing bell that tolls
my hoary age to the grave.
(Brkić joins the others.)
Prince
Come, Brkić, and behold your only son
and heir here—
Brkić
Woe is me! My wife, gracious lord,
departed in this night. The grief for her
son's banishment has broken her heart.
What new woe conspires against my hoary age?
Prince
Look hither, and you shall see it.
Brkić
O thou ill-mannered one, what sort of life
was that to press thus before your father
into the grave?
Prince
Hold back your laments
until we have set this tangled tale clear,
and brought its origin and true course forth;
then I myself will lead your cries of woe.
Until then, hold! Bring the suspected persons here!
Father Dimitri
I, the most powerless, am the very one
whom the strongest suspicion presses; time and place
seem to accuse me of this dreadful murder;
and here I stand, to be at once my own
accuser and my advocate.
Prince
Then speak
without roundabouts what is known to you.
Father Dimitri
I will be brief; my breath is short enough
without a tedious history. Boško,
who lies here dead, was Admira's spouse,
and she who lies here dead was Boško's wife,
true to him: I blessed their marriage,
and the day of their secret wedding was
Jan's dying day, whose untimely death
banished the new bridegroom from this city,
and this, not Jan's death, was the cause of
Admira's grief. You, (to Ismić) to drive this sorrow
out of her mind, promised her to Count Jussuf,
and were about to force her to this match.
In these circumstances she comes to me,
and with wild looks she begs me to provide
a means to avoid this second marriage,
or she will take her life in my own cell.
In that hard-pressed moment my science came
to help me; I gave her a sleeping draft
whose effect completely answered my intent—
for it placed her in a state so like
to death that she was viewed as a corpse,
and treated so. Meanwhile I wrote to Boško,
and ordered him to come in this same night
of terror—the time when the potion's effect
would reach its end—and help me fetch her out
from her borrowed grave. Only, Father Alexander,
who was to deliver my letter to him,
was delayed by an accident, and yesterday
my letter came back to me; so I was forced,
at the appointed time of her awakening,
to come here all alone, and free her from
her family's vault: with the intent to keep her
hidden in my cell until I found
the chance to summon Boško hither. But
when I came, a few minutes before she woke,
the noble Jussuf lay here slain, and the
all-too-faithful Boško dead. She wakes,
and I beg her earnestly to go with me,
and bear this dispensation of the heavens
with patience: but a noise that I soon heard
frightened me away from the vault, and she,
despairing and resolved to die, would not
go with me, but laid, as it seems, violent
hands on herself. All this I know, and of
the secret marriage her nurse can also
give witness: but if in all this anything
has failed through my fault and been brought
to this unhappy end, let my old life
be offered up to the strictness of the law
some hours before my destined time!
Prince
We have known you at all times as a holy man.
Where is Boško's servant? What can he report?
Jurjew
I brought my master the news of Julia's death,
and straightway he came with post-horses
from Vrbanja Bridge hither, straight hither,
to this very vault; handed me this letter
to his father, and threatened me with death
as he walked toward the vault, if I did not
go away and leave him alone.
Prince
Give me
the letter, I will look it over. Where is
the count's page, who brought the guard?
Boy, what did your master do in this place?
Page
He came to strew the grave of his beloved
with flowers, and commanded me to stand
far off, as I did; soon after, someone
comes with a light to open the vault, and straight
my master draws his rapier against him;
and then I ran and fetched the guard.
Prince
This letter confirms the religious man's tale—
and here he writes that he bought poison
from a poor apothecary, and came
into this vault with it to die and lie
in Admira's grave. Where are these foes?
Ismić! Brkić! See here the rod with which
your unforgivingness is chastised;
see how heaven finds means through love itself
to kill the joys of your life. I too, because
I had too much indulgence for your feuds,
have lost two relatives: we are all punished!
Ismić
O brother Brkić, give me your hand; that is
my daughter's dower—more I cannot ask.
Brkić
But I can give you more; for I will set up
her statue of beaten gold, so that
as long as Sarajevo bears this name,
no monument shall be esteemed like
the monument of tender, faithful Admira!
Ismić
Just as brightly shall Boško lie by his wife,
dear, unhappy victims of our fatal feud!
Prince
This morning brings us a gloomy peace,
and the sun itself seems to have veiled
its head in mourning. Go, and wait our sentence,
what in this unhappy business deserves
punishment and what forgiveness.
You, however, faithful lovers, whom an all-too-strict
fate parted in life, and now a voluntary
death has united forever, live, Admira
and Boško, live in our memory, and may
the latest posterity honor the memory
of your unhappy love with pitying tears!