But this very extravagance
of self-sacrifice may be thought by some to add a crowning touch of
pathos to the unsurpassable beauty of the scene in which her child,
after the murder of his mother, relates her past sufferings to his
uncle. Those to whom the great name of Webster represents merely an
artist in horrors, a ruffian of genius, may be recommended to study
every line and syllable of this brief dialogue:
_Francisco_. How now, my noble cousin? what, in black?
_Giovanni_. Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you
In virtue, and you [? now] must imitate me
In colors of your garments. My sweet mother
Is--
_Francisco_. How! where?
_Giovanni_. Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I'll not tell you,
For I shall make you weep.
_Francisco_. Is dead?
_Giovanni_. Do not blame me now,
I did not tell you so.
_Lodovico_. She's dead, my lord.
_Francisco_. Dead!
_Monticelso_. Blest lady, thou art now above thy woes!
* * * * *
_Giovanni_. What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat,
Hear music, go a-hunting, and be merry,
As we that live?
_Francisco_.
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