The Duchess of Malfi

by Frank Kermode

  Made him suspect you.

  BOS. Doth he study physiognomy?

  There’s no more credit to be given to th’ face

  Than to a sick man’s urine, which some call

  The physician’s whore because she cozens him.

  He did suspect me wrongfully.

  FERD. For that

  You must give great men leave to take their times.

  Distrust doth cause us seldom be deceived:

  You see the oft shaking of the cedar-tree

  Fastens it more at root.

  BOS. Yet, take heed;

  For to suspect a friend unworthily

  Instructs him the next way to suspect you,

  And prompts him to deceive you.

  FERD. [Giving him money] There’s gold.

  BOS. So:

  What follows? never rained such showers as these

  Without thunderbolts i’ th’ tail of them: whose throat must I cut?

  FERD. Your inclination to shed blood rides post

  Before my occasion to use you. I give you that

  To live i’ th’ court here, and observe the duchess;

  To note all the particulars of her havior,

  What suitors do solicit her for marriage,

  And whom she best affects. She’s a young widow:

  I would not have her marry again.

  BOS. NO, sir?

  FERD. Do not you ask the reason; but be satisfied

  I say I would not.

  BOS. It seems you would create me

  One of your familiars.

  FERD. Familiar? what’s that?

  BOS. Why, a very quaint invisible devil in flesh,

  An intelligencer.

  FERD. Such a kind of thriving thing

  I would wish thee; and ere long thou may’st arrive

  At a higher place by ’t.

  BOS. Take your devils,

  Which hell calls angels; these cursed gifts would make

  You a corrupter, me an impudent traitor;

  And should I take these, they’d take me to hell.

  FERD. Sir, I’ll take nothing from you that I have given:

  There is a place that I procured for you

  This morning, the provisorship o’ th’ horse;

  Have you heard on’t?

  BOS. No.

  FERD. ’Tis yours: is’t not worth thanks?

  BOS. I would have you curse yourself now, that your bounty,

  Which makes men truly noble, e’er should make me

  A villain. Oh, that to avoid ingratitude

  For the good deed you have done me, I must do

  All the ill man can invent! Thus the devil

  Candies all sins o’er; and what heaven terms vile,

  That names he complimental.14

  FERD. Be yourself;

  Keep your old garb of melancholy; ’twill express

  You envy those that stand above your reach,

  Yet strive not to come near ’em: this will gain

  Access to private lodgings, where yourself

  May, like a politic dormouse—

  BOS. As I have seen some

  Feed in a lord’s dish, half asleep, not seeming

  To listen to any talk; and yet these rogues

  Have cut his throat in a dream. What’s my place?

  The provisorship o’ th’ horse? say, then, my corruption

  Grew out of horse-dung: I am your creature.

  FERD. Away!

  Exit

  BOS. Let good men, for good deeds, covet good fame,

  Since place and riches oft are bribes of shame:

  Sometimes the devil doth preach.

  Exit

  SCENE II

  Enter Ferdinand, Duchess, Cardinal, and Cariola

  CARD. We are to part from you; and your own discretion

  Must now be your director.

  FERD. You are a widow:

  You know already what man is; and therefore

  Let not youth, high promotion, eloquence—

  CARD. No,

  Nor any thing without the addition, honor,

  Sway your high blood.

  FERD. Marry! they are most luxurious15

  Will wed twice.

  CARD. Oh, fie!

  FERD. Their livers are more spotted

  Than Laban’s sheep.16

  DUCHESS. Diamonds are of most value,

  They say, that have passed through most jewellers’ hands.

  FERD. Whores by that rule are precious.

  DUCH. Will you hear me?

  I’ll never marry.

  CARD. So most widows say;

  But commonly that motion lasts no longer

  Than the turning of an hour-glass: the funeral sermon

  And it end both together.

  FERD. Now hear me:

  You live in a rank pasture, here, i’ th’ court;

  There is a kind of honey-dew that’s deadly;

  ’Twill poison your fame; look to’t: be not cunning;

  For they whose faces do belie their hearts

  Are witches ere they arrive at twenty years,

  Aye, and give the devil suck.

  DUCH. This is terrible good counsel.

  FERD. Hypocrisy is woven of a fine small thread,

  Subtler than Vulcan’s engine:17 yet, believe’t,

  Your darkest actions, nay, your privat’st thoughts,

  Will come to light.

  CARD. You may flatter yourself,

  And take your own choice; privately be married

  Under the eaves of night—

  FERD. Think’st the best voyage

  That e’er you made; like the irregular crab,

  Which, though’t goes backward, thinks that it goes right

  Because it goes its own way; but observe,

  Such weddings may more properly be said

  To be executed than celebrated.

  CARD. The marriage night

  Is the entrance into some prison.

  FERD. And those joys,

  Those lustful pleasures, are like heavy sleeps

  Which do forerun man’s mischief.

  CARD. Fare you well.

  Wisdom begins at the end: remember it.

  Exit

  DUCHESS. I think this speech between you both was studied,

  It came so roundly off.

  FERD. You are my sister;

  This was my father’s poniard, do you see?

  I’d be loath to see’t look rusty, ’cause ’twas his.

  I would have you to give o’er these chargeable revels:

  A visor and a mask are whispering-rooms

  That were never built for goodness;—fare ye well;—

  And women like that part which, like the lamprey,

  Hath never a bone in’t.

  DUCH. Fie, sir!

  FERD. Nay,

  I mean the tongue; variety of courtship:

  What cannot a neat knave with a smooth tale

  Make a woman believe? Farewell, lusty widow.

  Exit

  DUCH. Shall this move me? If all my royal kindred

  Lay in my way unto this marriage,

  I’d make them my low footsteps: and even now,

  Even in this hate, as men in some great battles,

  By apprehending danger, have achieved

  Almost impossible actions (I have heard soldiers say so),

  So I through frights and threatenings will assay

  This dangerous venture. Let old wives report

  I winked18 and chose a husband.—Cariola,

  To thy known secrecy I have given up

  More than my life—my fame.

  CAR. Both shall be safe;

  For I’ll conceal this secret from the world

  As warily as those that trade in poison

  Keep poison from their children.

  DUCH. Thy protestation

  Is ingenious19 and hearty: I believe it.

  Is Antonio come?

  CAR. He a
ttends you.

  DUCH. Good dear soul,

  Leave me; but place thyself behind the arras,

  Where thou mayst overhear us. Wish me good speed;

  For I am going into a wilderness

  Where I shall find nor path nor friendly clue

  To be my guide.

  Cariola goes behind the arras

  Enter Antonio

  I sent for you: sit down;

  Take pen and ink, and write: are you ready?

  ANT. Yes.

  DUCH. What did I say?

  ANT. That I should write somewhat.

  DUCH. Oh, I remember.

  After these triumphs and this large expense,

  It’s fit, like thrifty husbands, we inquire

  What’s laid up for to-morrow.

  ANT. So please your beauteous excellence.

  DUCH. Beauteous?

  Indeed, I thank you: I look young for your sake;

  You have ta’en my cares upon you.

  ANT. I’ll fetch your grace

  The particulars of your revenue and expense.

  DUCH. Oh, you are an upright treasurer: but you mistook;

  For when I said I meant to make inquiry

  What’s laid up for to-morrow, I did mean

  What’s laid up yonder for me.

  ANT. Where?

  DUCH. In heaven.

  I am making my will (as ’tis fit princes should,

  In perfect memory), and, I pray, sir, tell me,

  Were not one better make it smiling, thus,

  Than in deep groans and terrible ghastly looks,

  As if the gifts we parted with procured

  That violent distraction?

  ANT. Oh, much better.

  DUCH. If I had a husband now, this care were quit:

  But I intend to make you overseer.

  What good deed shall we first remember? say.

  ANT. Begin with that first good deed began i’ th’ world

  After man’s creation, the sacrament of marriage:

  I’d have you first provide for a good husband;

  Give him all.

  DUCH. All?

  ANT. Yes, your excellent self.

  DUCH. In a winding-sheet?

  ANT. In a couple.

  DUCH. Saint Winfred,20

  That were a strange will!

  ANT. ’Twere stranger if there were no will in you

  To marry again.

  DUCH. What do you think of marriage?

  ANT. I take’t, as those that deny purgatory;

  It locally contains or Heaven or hell;

  There’s no third place in’t.

  DUCH. How do you affect it?

  ANT. My banishment, feeling my melancholy,

  Would often reason thus.

  DUCH. Pray, let’s hear it.

  ANT. Say a man never marry, nor have children,

  What takes that from him? only the bare name

  Of being a father, or the weak delight

  To see the little wanton ride a-cock-horse

  Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter

  Like a taught starling.

  DUCH. Fie, fie, what’s all this?

  One of your eyes is blood-shot; use my ring to’t,

  They say ’tis very sovereign: ’twas my wedding-ring,

  And I did vow never to part with it

  But to my second husband.

  ANT. You have parted with it now.

  DUCH. Yes, to help your eyesight.

  ANT. You have made me stark blind.

  DUCH. How?

  ANT. There is a saucy and ambitious devil

  Is dancing in this circle.

  DUCH. Remove him.

  ANT. HOW?

  DUCH. There needs small conjuration, when your finger

  May do it: this; is it fit?

  [She puts the ring upon his finger: he kneels]

  ANT. What said you?

  DUCH. Sir,

  This goodly roof of yours is too low built;

  I cannot stand upright in’t nor discourse,

  Without I raise it higher: raise yourself;

  Or, if you please, my hand to help you: so.

  [Raises him]

  ANT. Ambition, madam, is a great man’s madness,

  That is not kept in chains and close-pent rooms,

  But in fair lightsome lodgings, and is girt

  With the wild noise of prattling visitants,

  Which makes it lunatic beyond all cure.

  Conceive not I am so stupid but I aim21

  Whereto your favors tend: but he’s a fool

  That, being a-cold, would thrust his hands i’ th’ fire

  To warm them.

  DUCH. So, now the ground’s broke,

  You may discover what a wealthy mine

  I make you lord of.

  ANT. A my unworthiness!

  DUCH. You were ill to sell yourself:

  This darkening of your worth is not like that

  Which tradesmen use i’ th’ city, their false lights

  Are to rid bad wares off: and I must tell you,

  If you will know where breathes a complete man

  (I speak it without flattery), turn your eyes,

  And progress through yourself.

  ANT. Were there nor heaven

  Nor hell, I should be honest: I have long served virtue,

  And ne’er ta’en wages of her.

  DUCH. Now she pays it.

  The misery of us that are born great!

  We are forced to woo, because none dare woo us;

  And as a tyrant doubles with his words,

  And fearfully equivocates, so we

  Are forced to express our violent passions

  In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path

  Of simple virtue, which was never made

  To seem the thing it is not. Go, go brag

  You have left me heartless; mine is in your bosom:

  I hope ’twill multiply love there. You do tremble:

  Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh,

  To fear more than to love me. Sir, be confident:

  What is’t distracts you? This is flesh and blood, sir;

  ’Tis not the figure cut in alabaster

  Kneels at my husband’s tomb. Awake, awake, man!

  I do here put off all vain ceremony,

  And only do appear to you a young widow

  That claims you for her husband, and, like a widow,

  I use but half a blush in’t.

  ANT. Truth speak for me,

  I will remain the constant sanctuary

  Of your good name.

  DUCH. I thank you, gentle love:

  And ’cause you shall not come to me in debt,

  Being now my steward, here upon your lips

  I sign your Quietus est.22 This you should have begged now:

  I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats thus,

  As fearful to devour them too soon.

  ANT. But for your brothers?

  DUCH. DO not think of them:

  All discord without this circumference

  Is only to be pitied, and not feared:

  Yet, should they know it, time will easily

  Scatter the tempest.

  ANT. These words should be mine,

  And all the parts you have spoke, if some part of it

  Would not have savored flattery.

  DUCH. Kneel.

  [Cariola comes from behind the arras]

  ANT. Ha!

  DUCH. Be not amazed; this woman’s of my counsel:

  I have heard lawyers say, a contract in a chamber

  Per verba [de] presenti is absolute marriage.

  [She and Antonio kneel]

  Bless, heaven, this sacred gordian,23 which let violence

  Never untwine!

  ANT. And may our sweet affections, like the spheres,

  Be still24 in motion!

  DUCH. Quickening, and make

  The like soft music!

/>   ANT. That we may imitate the loving palms,

  Best emblem of a peaceful marriage, that ne’er

  Bore fruit, divided!

  DUCH. What can the Church force more?

  ANT. That fortune may not know an accident,

  Either of joy or sorrow, to divide

  Our fixèd wishes!

  DUCH. How can the Church build faster?

  We now are man and wife, and ’tis the Church

  That must but echo this.—Maid, stand apart:

  I now am blind.

  ANT. What’s your conceit25 in this?

  DUCH. I would have you lead your fortune by the hand

  Unto your marriage bed:

  (You speak in me this, for we now are one:)

  We’ll only lie, and talk together, and plot

  To appease my humorous26 kindred; and if you please,

  Like the old tale in “Alexander and Lodowick,”27

  Lay a naked sword between us, keep us chaste.

  Oh, let me shroud my blushes in your bosom,

  Since ’tis the treasury of all my secrets!

  Exeunt Duchess and Antonio

  CAR. Whether the spirit of greatness or of woman

  Reign most in her, I know not; but it shows

  A fearful madness: I owe her much of pity.

  Exit

  ACT II, SCENE I

  Enter Bosola and Castruchio

  BOS. You say you would fain be taken for an eminent courtier?

  CAS. ’Tis the very main of my ambition.

  BOS. Let me see: you have a reasonable good face for’t already, and your nightcap expresses your ears sufficient largely. I would have you learn to twirl the strings of your band28 with a good grace, and in a set speech, at th’ end of every sentence, to hum three or four times, or blow your nose till it smart again, to recover your memory. When you come to be a president in criminal causes, if you smile upon a prisoner, hang him, but if you frown upon him and threaten him, let him be sure to scape the gallows.

  CAS. I would be a very merry president.

  BOS. Do not sup o’ night; ’twill beget you an admirable wit.

  CAS. Rather it would make me have a good stomach to quarrel; for they say, your roaring boys eat meat seldom, and that makes them so valiant. But how shall I know whether the people take me for an eminent fellow?

  BOS. I will teach a trick to know it: give out you lie a-dying, and if you hear the common people curse you, be sure you are taken for one of the prime nightcaps.29

  Enter an Old Lady

  You come from painting now.

  OLD L. From what?

  BOS. Why, from your scurvy face-physic. To behold thee not painted inclines somewhat near a miracle; these in thy face here were deep ruts and foul sloughs the last progress.30 There was a lady in France that, having had the small-pox, flayed the skin off her face to make it more level; and whereas before she looked like a nutmeg-grater, after she resembled an abortive hedgehog.