 | The actress of Padua, and other tales |  |
1. ACT I.
Scene I.—Rural Prospect—Front of Marcelle's cottage—Viewof a chateau in the distance. Enter Clara, followed by Marcelle.
Marcelle.
Dear Olympia, do you still persist in
quitting the farm? Can you abandon without regret
those who so cordially received you?
Clara.
No, good Marcelle, never shall I forget
your kindness in protecting a stranger to you; a
wretch without parents—destitute and friendless.
Marcelle.
Say not so—you have two sincere
friends—in the first place, there's myself.
Clara.
Generous woman.
And in the next, the princess Euphemia.
Heaven bless her!—No station in life is exempt
from sorrows, and she has had her share.
Though the sister of our sovereign, the grand duke
of Lithuania, for fifteen years was she secluded in
a convent; but since the death of her father, she has
returned to the world, and at present inhabits yonder
chateau. She visits her vassals more frequently
of late; and it is to you, my child, that we are indebted
for this honour, for I plainly see she has serious
views in relation to your welfare.
Clara.
Ah! if you love me, frustrate a project so
contrary to my wishes.—What shall I do?
Marcelle.
You will not reject her friendship?
Clara.
Not that—O! not that! But I shall resist
with firmness all attempts to draw me back to a
world where I again may never appear.
Marcelle.
Always the same language! Is it natural
at your age to entertain such aversion to society?
Clara.
Society has cast me from its bosom!
Marcelle.
So young, and yet so wretched! What
has occurred to call forth so severe a destiny?
Clara.
O! cease!—My soul sickens at the bare
recollection.
Marcelle.
Speak to me, Olympia.—Look upon me
as a mother, and do not reject the consolation my
love may afford you.
Clara.
Yes, yes—I will confide in you. Your
attachment merits my confidence. Hear, then, a
secret that should perish with us in the eternal darkness
of the grave. Olympia, whom you treat so
affectionately—whom you love as your own child—
is no other than the wretched Clara, whose supposed
crime is known to all Europe, and who may yet be
condemned to a death of infamy, to save a wretch
whom her conscience will not permit her to denounce.
Marcelle.
What is it I hear?—
Clara.
Spurn me,—cast me from you—imitate the
rest of the world!—
Marcelle.
Never! Poor unfortunate, proceed.
I was on the eve of being married to the
most worthy of men,—the Count de Valmore. He
had a child, called Julian, by a former wife. I loved
them both—God knows how truly I did love them!
—My father was apprised that the whole of the
count's fortune was entailed upon his son, which
induced him to withhold his consent to our union.
Marcelle.
'Twas ever the way with the calculating
world.
Clara.
I was at that time at de Valmore's chateau
with his sister. My father was at Paris, and, profiting
by circumstances that detained de Valmore at
court, he wrote, directing me to hold myself in
readiness to quit the chateau, and fixed the day and
hour when he would himself come for me. I resolved
to submit, though obedience drove me to despair.
At length the fatal day arrived. Amidst
my preparations to depart, I had given the governess
of Julian a commission, that required her absence.
The dear child slept in a pavilion apart from the
chateau. I arose with the dawn, wishing to caress
him for the last time. The governess had already
departed. As I approached the pavilion, I perceived
a man entering the door. I recognised him,
in spite of his disguise, and followed, but he was
too intent upon the crime he meditated, to observe
any thing else than his victim. I trembled, and,
fearing to be seen, concealed myself beneath a table
covered with a cloth; but was scarcely there, when
he returned from the chamber, his manner wild, and
his eyes darting fire. He fled, without perceiving
that any one was near him, and as he passed, mechanically
threw a bloody poniard under the table,
and left the pavilion.
Marcelle.
Gracious heavens! he did not kill the
child!
Clara.
The bloody weapon fell upon my garments—at
that sight my heart recoiled with horror.
I rushed to aid the poor boy, but my strength failed
me, and I fell senseless in the middle of the apartment.
Unhappy Clara!
Clara.
The governess returned, and her shrieks
soon attracted the domestics to the spot. They discovered
Julian assassinated—the poniard by my
side,—and my garments stained with blood. I was
recalled to life by their maledictions, and the injuries
they heaped upon me. I was accused; and, O,
God! even Valmore himself, deceived by appearances,
was among my accusers. I was arraigned,
tried, and condemned, and should have suffered by
the hand of the public executioner, had not powerful
friends, who did not deign to recognise me in my
shame, succeeded in changing my sentence to perpetual
imprisonment.
Marcelle.
And how did you escape from prison?
Clara.
I know not. The unseen hand that had
my sentence commuted removed me to my father's
chateau of Rosmal on the Rhone, where I was kept
in close confinement.
Marcelle.
You have said that you recognised the
assassin of Julian. Why not denounce him, and
save yourself?
Clara.
Never!—They may tear me piecemeal on
the rack, but never shall his name escape my lips.
Never!—
Marcelle.
You say your father was not at the chateau.
Clara.
He did not appear at the day and hour
appointed.
Marcelle.
I see it all. You are the victim of filial
piety, for it is not in nature to undergo such sufferings
but in a parent's cause.
Clara.
Marcelle, what a thought!—be careful not
to divulge a suspicion so terrible.
Marcelle.
I know enough to sympathise with you,
but too little to hazard an accusation. Depend on
my prudence. Your heroism, dear Olympia, towards
a father whom I believe guilty, endears you to me
more than ever. The only request I have to make
is, if you persist in rejecting the protection of the
princess Euphemia, that you will still remain with me.
Can you ask it, in spite of the prejudice
against me?
Marcelle.
Where the heart is concerned prejudice
loses its influence.—You will remain?
Clara.
I will remain.
Enter a Peasant.
Peasant.
News, Marcelle, news. The Count
Rosenberg is hourly expected at the chateau, from
Paris.
Marcelle.
And my son Peter?
Peasant.
Has already arrived, and brings the
news.
Marcelle.
Is it possible!—How is it I have not
seen him yet?—I flattered myself I should have been
the first.
Peasant.
Here he comes, as gay and lively as
ever.
Enter Peter, followed by peasants.
Peter.
What a stupid pump you are. I would
have finished my travels with theatrical effect; taken
them by surprise, and all that. But by your confounded
hurry, you have made my arrival as flat as
my old mother's stale beer, and be d—d to you.
Marcelle.
Do I see you at last, my dear Peter?
Come to my arms. [embraces him.
Peter.
That's right. Another hug, old lady.
Here I am, fresh from Paris, and with a budget of
stories that will amaze you for the rest of your days,
I promise you. Another hug. Bless your old heart.
Marcelle.
I am glad to see you so happy; and no
doubt you have many fine things to tell us about
Paris.
Peasants.
O! let us hear all about Paris.
Peter.
To the girls who crowd around him.]
Be quiet, girls, don't pester me. Paris! bless your
ignorance, I have been at Madrid, Naples, Venice,
Rome,—saw the pope's holy toe,—in a word, have
run over Europe and Asia.
Marcelle.
And Africa and America.
Not exactly—I was satisfied with seeing
those places on a map. But of all places, France
is the place for spirit, fun, and folly. Ah! there are
fine fellows in France! They do nothing all day
long but laugh, dance, and chatter like the devil.
In Paris you may see men of all complexions—costumes
of all nations. It's a menagerie of strange
animals. There are honest men dressed as ragged
as knaves, and pickpockets as gay as princes; beaux
as proud as peacocks, and damsels as tender as turtle-doves;
husbands devoid of curiosity, and wives
who have a vast deal. But the cooks! God bless
the cooks! They will dress you a dish fit for an
emperor's palate out of a pair of postilion's boots,
and no epicure could tell a rat from a rabbit when it
has passed through their hands. O! delicious! God
bless the cooks!—that's my maxim.
Marcelle.
The count's departure was sudden.
What occasioned it?
Peter.
A terrible business! Don't exactly know
what; but it relates to the daughter of a certain
Montalban. Shocking affair!
Clara,
(apart.)
My father!
Peter.
She was in love with a young gentleman,
who had an infant child by a former wife. She
liked the young man well enough; but the child was
not altogether to her fancy, and so to get rid of it
she killed it. That was her maxim.
Marcelle.
Seriously!
Peter.
To be sure! Zounds! you don't think she
would stick a dagger in its heart merely by way of
a joke? No joke in that.
Clara,
(apart.)
I must retire. My grief will betray
me. [Going.
Marcelle.
Stay, dear Olympia.
Clara.
I am unwell. Permit me to withdraw.
Marcelle.
(to Clara.)
Imprudent girl, conceal
your agitation. Sit down.
[Clara sits—peasants range around her.
Peter.
Faith, mother, that's a confounded pretty
creature. Eh! but what ails her?
Your recital has made her ill; she is
so sensitive.
Peter.
Well, well, I'll say no more about it. I
wouldn't distress so sweet a girl for the best dinner
in Paris. Now, mother, I would bet my life that
she could never be guilty of the crime of that wretched
Clara.
Marcelle.
Hold your tongue, babbler. (To Clara.)
Be calm.
Peter.
And do you know, they say she was as
beautiful as—as—a haunch of venison, or a roasted
pig with apple sauce.
Marcelle.
Beautiful, I believe; but culpable, impossible!
(To peasants.)
Am I not right, my friends?
Is it in nature that one so lovely should be so wicked?
What say you, Olympia? (Apart to Clara.)
Courage, courage.
Clara.
I think—as you do.
Marcelle.
Then I am certain. And I must say
to you Peter, if you have no other news to tell us,
you have travelled to little purpose, and had better
hold your tongue.
Peter.
Why how you fly out, mother!—Hold my
tongue! I will until dinner time. But what's the
matter?
Marcelle.
I defend the truth and honour of my sex.
Peasant.
Make way for the Princess.
Marcelle.
Go, and render to her the honours which
her benevolence and protection merit.
[Exeunt Peasants and Peter.
Stay, dear Olympia.—
Clara.Permit me to retire.
Marcelle.
Nay, nay remain, and assume an air
more calm and collected in the presence of the princess.
Enter Euphemia and attendants, followed by Peter and
Peasants.
Euphemia.
Thanks my friends. I am flattered
by the reception you give me.—You repay with
usury the benefits I have conferred upon you.—Still
was intended less for you than for the amiable Olympia.
I wish the pleasure of being alone with her.
Peter.
[Wishing to speak and Marcelle preventing
him.]
Mother be quiet.—If my lady the princess
would permit a faithful servant of her husband
to present his respectful homage before he retires,
there would not be a happier dog unhung in Lithuania.
Euphemia.
And where is this faithful servant?
Peter.
[to his mother.]
Can't you be quiet, old
woman.—I am the man, your highness.—The
count's confidential groom in chief, and principal
postilion in particular.
Euphemia.
And above all son of Marcelle.—It is
well; I shall not forget you.
Peter.
My business is settled. True, I may live
a poor devil, but I shall die a great man at last.—
Girls, you see how it is.—Permit me to honour you.
[Exit Peter, strutting; peasants following.
Marcelle.
[to Clara.]
Suppress your feelings.
Euphemia.
Leave us, good Marcelle, and see that
no one approaches to interrupt us.
[Exit Marcelle, regarding Clara.
Euphemia.
I am at a loss, dear Olympia, to define
the sentiments I entertain for you. The first moment
I beheld you, you inspired me with the most
lively interest, and every succeeding interview has
tended to increase my attachment for you. We
must not part.
Clara.
Ah! madam, I am sensible how much I
am honoured by your kindness, but I would avoid
the brilliant sphere to which you would remove me.
A court is no place for one so humble as I am.
Euphemia.
You were formed to adorn any sphere
in which fate may place you. But you would sojourn
at court but a short time: it is with me I would
have you pass your days, at the chateau, devoted to
retirement and friendship.
Clara.
What generosity! But madam you do not
perceive all the difficulties—all the dangers!—
Listen, while I make known to you
my source of grief, after which mark of confidence
you may be induced to accept my offer. It is now
twenty years since I was secretly married to Count
Rosenberg.—Six months had passed in a delirium of
joy, when a prince demanded my hand of my father.
—The Count despairing of ever obtaining the consent
of my family, proposed a secret marriage. I
hesitated—trembled—but finally consented. His
chaplain, one of my maids, and a friend of the
Count's were the only witnesses to our union.—I refused
the prince who solicited my hand, and my
father became indignant at my refusal.—An infant
daughter, the fruits of my alliance with the Count,
betrayed my secret.—My father, exasperated, issued
orders that my husband should be arrested, my child
taken from me, and that I should be immured in a
cloister for the rest of my days.
Clara.
And had they the inhumanity to separate
you from your babe.
Euphemia.
They had. My husband disguised
himself for a long time, less for the purpose of evading
his pursuers, than to discover where our infant
was concealed. He was successful, and escaped
with our little treasure into France. I remained
alone to encounter the resentment of an irritated
father. My prayers, my tears availed nothing; he
would never approve of my marriage, and until his
death, I continued ignorant of the fate of my husband
and my child.
Clara.
My heart bleeds for you.
Euphemia.
The Count then went to Paris. Alas!
what bitter disappointment awaited him there! He
apprised me by a letter, blotted with his tears and
dictated by despair, that he had arrived just in time
to receive the dying breath of our child.—I had beheld
her but once, and but once had embraced this
precious pledge of an attachment so ardent yet so
cruelly tried.
Clara.
You indeed have cause to mourn.
Euphemia.
The first act of my brother, on being
approve of my marriage, and at the same time he
appointed the Count to terminate certain differences
with the court of France. This negotiation detained
him six months, which has at length been crowned
with success, and I now await his return—but he
comes without my child. This is the source of my
sorrow; this is the reason why I indulge in solitude.
Enter Marcelle.
Marcelle.
A stranger who appears fatigued by a
long journey, hearing at the chateau that you were
here, begs permission to approach you.
Euphemia.
A stranger! Did he tell you his name?
Marcelle.
No madam. His figure is enveloped in
a cloak; and his hat is drawn over his eyes, so that
I could not perceive his countenance, but he assures
me that you know him.
Euphemia.
I cannot receive him here, at this
time.
Clara.
He is a stranger, worn down with fatigue.
—Perhaps some unfortunate who stands in need of
immediate succour.—Let me not for an instant delay
your charity.—Permit me to retire.
Euphemia.
Marcelle, bid him approach.—[Exit
Marcelle.]
Always kind and compassionate, Olympia,
our interview has redoubled the interest I feel
for you.—Reflect upon the propositions I have made.
I would share with you what felicity is left me, and
henceforth let me possess your entire confidence.—
Clara.
I can refuse you nothing.
Enter Marcelle and Montalban at the back of the stage.
—Clara takes Euphemia's hand and kisses it.—Euphemia
kisses her on the forehead.—Marcelle approaches
Clara.—Montalban recognises her, makes
a gesture of surprise, and exclaims apart—
Montalban.
Good heavens, Clara here!—
[Clara makes an obeisance to Euphemia: Montalban
menaces her with gestures.]
Marcelle.
Come, my dear Olympia.
[apart.]
Olympia! I breathe again.
She has disguised her name, and the Princess knows
nothing.—
[Exit Clara with Marcelle. Euphemia makes a sign
to Montalban to approach. He takes off his hat and
throws his cloak on a bench.
Euphemia.
Is it possible! Montalban!
Montalban.
Yes, madam; that wretched father,
known to a scoffing world by his shame and his misfortunes.
Euphemia.
What service can I render you.
Montalban.
Learning that Count Rosenberg has
returned from Paris, I would ask of his humanity
assistance to enable me to pass over into England,
as a last refuge from the opprobrium that pursues me
here.
Euphemia.
Your claim upon my kindness is not
forgotten. You were the friend of my husband and
the witness to our marriage, and I hear that the vengeance
that Heaven poured upon us has not escaped
you.
Montalban.
Ah! madam, if it was a crime to have
assisted at your nuptials, Heaven has indeed punished
me severely for it.—More so than yourselves.—
Your daughter was cut off in the flower of her youth;
she lived beloved and died deplored; but mine, by
her crimes, has brought ceaseless agony to my heart,
eternal shame upon my head.—No resting place is
left to me.—I mourn her, living, blackened with opprobrium
never to be effaced;—I would that it had
been granted to me to weep for her in the tomb
where her virtues were recorded.
Euphemia.
Yes, Montalban, I have learnt your
griefs from my husband, and acknowledge that they
are far greater than my own.
Montalban.
[apart.]
So, the Count has kept his
word.
Euphemia.
You were acquainted with my daughter:
Do you not know to whom her father entrusted
her during his absence?
Montalban.
[apart.]
Invention aid me.—He
infants are protected.
Euphemia.
And did you see her at times?
Montalban.
But seldom. The war occasioned my
absence from Paris for years.
Euphemia.
Did she ever learn the name of her
mother?
Montalban.
Never.—Neither that of her father
nor her mother.—It would not have been prudent to
have entrusted a secret of such importance to one so
young.
Euphemia.
Poor child! Poor child!
Montalban.
Her father saw her only in her tender
infancy, and were she now alive, it is more than possible
he would not recognise his own child.
Euphemia.
What a destiny!—Return to the chateau,
and you will there see the Count. Explain to
him the motives of your voyage, and we will devise
means to serve you. I have some orders to leave in
this cottage and must part from you for the present.
—Montalban depend upon my friendship.
[Exit into the cottage.
Montalban.
How embarrassing is my situation!
Clara here! and I behold her receiving a kiss from
the lips of her mother! Fortunately I possessed sufficient
presence of mind to conceal my confusion at
this unexpected interview.—But how is it that I find
her here, and whence arises this affection that Euphemia
entertains for her?—When the Count, the
better to conceal the mystery of her birth required
that she should pass for my child, he exacted an oath
that I should never hint, even to her, that she was
otherwise.—Still Clara is with her mother; and if
Rosenberg, surprised by the weakness of his nature,
should betray the secret, I am irretrievably lost.—
She saw me commit the crime for which she suffers.
—My fate hangs by a single hair.—They come.—I
must find some pretext to speak to her.—
[Draws his cloak around him.
Enter Marcelle from the cottage, and Peter by the back
entrance.
Peter.
Mother, I feel the elements of a great man
strong within me. I shall magnify the family yet.
If you desire a place at court, say so, and a word
from me will do the business. Speak quick.
Marcelle.
Peter, you're a fool.
Peter.
I know it, and have heard so daily for these
twenty years; but that's no stumbling block to a
man's preferment. A fool for luck you know, mother.—That's
my maxim.—But who have we here?
Marcelle.
[to Mont.]
I hope sir you were satisfied
with the reception the princess gave you.
Peter.
Ha! a petitioner to the princess!—I am
your man in that quarter.—We are all going to the
chateau with the lovely Olympia, and we shall have
rare sport there, I tell you.—You had better make
one of the party.—Consider yourself invited.
Montalban.
[abstracted.]
True, true, I should
return there.
Peter.
To be sure you should.—There will be a
grand fete in honour of my arrival and the Count's.
—And such eating and drinking!—You must come
along if it is for the pleasure of seeing what sleight of
hand I have in playing with a knife and fork.
Marcelle.
Hold your tongue, blockhead! I believe
you only live to eat.
Peter.
I am a Lithuanian to the very gizzard,
mother, and love good living. It is natural. A man,
you know, must eat to live, and when he finds good
sauce to his food, it is as well to reverse the order
of things and live to eat.—That's my maxim.
Marcelle.
[to Mont.]
If you are so disposed, join
the villagers, and they will conduct you to the chateau.
In the meantime I must assist Olympia in arranging
the handsome dresses with which the princess
presented her.
Montalban.
It appears that she entertains a lively
friendship for that young woman.
Marcelle.
And deservedly.
She is apparently an orphan, and yet
you treat her with the affection due to a child.
Peter.
My old mother has a heart of pure gold—
a real jewel!—but 'tis n't every one has the key to
it.
Marcelle.
Olympia has gained the affection of all.
She is goodness personified.
Montalban.
[with joy.]
Providence then has conducted
me to this spot.
Marcelle.
How! Explain.
Montalban.
I have made a long journey to solicit
a favour from the princess. She has neither granted
it, nor denied; but if my petition were seconded by
one so young and innocent as Olympia, I might
succeed.
Peter.
You are right; but if she fails, apply to
me, and the business is settled.
Montalban.
Might I with confidence entrust a
secret of importance to her?
Marcelle.
I can answer for her. She has given me
proofs of her discretion.
Montalban.
Will you afford me an opportunity of
speaking a few moments with her, alone.
Marcelle.
Alone! And why alone!
Peter.
Curse his impudence! As independent as
a turnspit in the kitchen.
Montalban.
I have secrets to impart that I would
be loath to make known in the presence of a third
person. What has she to fear? You will be near us.
Marcelle.
Your wishes shall be complied with.
Come along, Peter.
Montalban.
[apart.]
So far success attends me!
Peter.
But, mother, what are you about? No man
should ever be left alone with a pretty woman.
That's my maxim.
Marcelle.
Come along. I will call Olympia, and
in a moment she will be with you. Come Peter.
Peter.
I don't half like that black muzzled fellow.
[Exeunt Marcelle and Peter into cottage.
Montalban.
This interview is of vital importance
too sudden a surprise.
Enter Clara.
Clara.
Is it true, sir, that you require my interest
with the princess? Speak without restrant. She
has honoured me with her friendship, and I shall
esteem it a happiness if the first favour I ask shall
prove to the advantage of the unfortunate.
Montalban.
Her presence troubles me, in spite of
myself! [aside.]
Clara.
Say, in what manner can I serve you?
Montalban.
They have given me so touching a
picture of your sensibility—
Clara.
That voice!—
Montalban.
That I could not resist the desire of
being known to you. [discovers himself.]
Clara.
My father! O! heavens, I am lost!
Montalban.
Collect yourself, my child, and think
of the fatal consequences that must follow this
interview, if they suspect the cause that leads to
it.
Clara.
Open earth, and bury me!
Montalban.
Collect yourself, I say, and answer
my questions. When I obtained from the French
government the favour to remove you from the prison
to which you were condemned for the rest of your
days, and transfer you to my chateau at Rosmal,
under a pledge to keep you in close confinement,
wherefore did you escape from those who had you
in custody, and by what means?
Clara.
By the assistance of a man whose heavenly
example is my greatest consolation in the midst of
my sorrows.
Montalban.
And that man was Father Anselmo?
Clara.
It was.
Montalban.
Do you know to what your flight has
exposed you, and me also? You cannot be ignorant
that even here you are liable to be dragged again
before the dreadful tribunal of justice.
Clara.
Again! O! not again, great God!
But there is still a way to escape
their severity. The means are in my power.
Clara.
Name it. O, name it.
Montalban.
Consent to follow me.
Clara.
[shrinking.]
Ah! follow you!
Montalban.
Your safety depends upon it.
Clara.
Never! Death sooner!
Montalban.
What! in a loathsome prison!
Clara.
Aye, in a prison, or on the rack; in any
shape, still I say death sooner!
Montalban.
Misguided girl, do you forget the
duty that you owe me?
Clara.
Duty! It is for that, and that only. Respect
for a father's name has compelled me to endure
with patience this dreadful weight of opprobrium
and wrong. But thanks to your barbarity, you heap
no more upon me. Rest satisfied. You have sacrificed
me yourself, and I know it. I am degraded
enough to ensure your safety; but urge me no
farther, for the ties by which nature bound us together
at length are broken forever.
Montalban.
I sacrificed you! What can you
mean?
Clara.
Ask your own heart, and it will answer
you.
Montalban.
And can you suppose me guilty of
the frightful crime for which you suffer?
Clara.
Had I ever doubted it, that question would
have convinced me.
Montalban.
Horrible! a child to accuse a father!
Clara.
Had you not been conscious of the danger
of such an accusation, you would never have taken
so much care to prevent my escape. Alas! I had
the weakness to attempt to awaken your sympathies,
believing that overwhelmed with remorse, and humiliated
by your crime, you would at least have
given those tears to my misfortunes, that even a
stranger would not refuse to suffering humanity.
But no; you were as insensible as stone, and in
spite of the sacrifice I had made, you are fearful
my total ruin.
Montalban.
Have I merited this!
Clara.
True, you obtained my enlargement from
the prison where I was doomed to perish; but not
out of compassion for my sufferings, but that you
might the more readily secure your own safety
by poison, which was prepared for my lips at the
chateau of Rosmal.
Montalban.
O, my child! What monster has made
you credit a tale so horrible!
Clara.
The confidant whom you selected to fulfil
your purpose. Fortunately that wretch, still retaining
some feeling of pity, not wholly extinguished by
your bribes and promises, acquainted me with your
design. I contrived to acquaint Father Anselmo,
and by the means of money, so potent in the hands
of villains, that good man succeeded in saving the
innocent.
Montalban.
And have you suffered yourself to be
duped by an artifice so gross! It is plain that this
mercenary wretch excited your terrors in order to
make you pay dearly for a service that he would not
render gratuitously.
Clara.
I admit that his motives were mercenary,
still fatal experience satisfies me of the probability
of his story, shocking as it appears.
Montalban.
I pity your sufferings, and pardon a
suspicion that your fears have created. Have you
decided what course to take?
Clara.
I have told you my resolution, and shall
persist in it till death.
Montalban.
Your character is changed.
Clara.
Not changed, but strengthened by adversity.
Montalban.
Father Anselmo is in his grave; on
what do you depend?
Clara.
My innocence and the princess.
Montalban.
The princess! But when she hears
your story—
And how will she hear it? Will you betray
me?
Montalban.
Never! But how can it be concealed
when every passing breeze is tainted with it.
Clara.
Then, sir, it will become your duty to do
me justice. But, alas! that is an act too noble for
such a heart as thine.
Montalban.
Do you forget to whom you speak?
Clara.
No, sir; nor do I forget the advantage that
my knowledge gives me over you. Be advised in
time, lest you weary out my patience by your persecutions,
and, driven to madness, I point out the
proper victim for the axe of justice.
Montalban.
Clara!—My child!—
Clara.
That word, which should not escape a
father's lips but with tenderness, can only awaken
in your bosom recollections the most terrible. Man,
what a frightful picture have you created, and yet
appear insensible to the magnitude of its horror!—
A guilty father, who, by the blackness of his crimes,
has poisoned the holy fountain of affection, and filled
the bosom of his child with bitter hate!—A father,
aware that his dreadful secret's known, and that he
is dependent on the forbearance of a persecuted
child to save him from a death of infamy; and yet
you have the boldness to confront me even here.
Again I caution you; be advised in time.
Montalban.
And dare you thus brave my authority!
Clara.
I owe you no obedience—nothing but a
life of wretchedness and shame; and, in saving you
from a death of shame, I have heavily repaid the
debt. Hear me, and reflect well upon what I say,
before you adopt any course in relation to me. A
woman who has the courage to suffer herself to be
conducted even to a scaffold to save a guilty father,
may summon sufficient fortitude to resist oppression.
In immolating myself for you, I have fearfully exercised
the deplorable right of disposing of my fate; I
shall continue to exercise it to the last,—it depends
on you whether I crush others in my ruin, or fall
a wretched being who has renounced all on earth
to save her father. [exit.
Montalban.
Do I dream!—so changed!—There's
nothing more to hope from her submission!—I tread
upon an earthquake!—Something must be done, and
quickly. The count!—They must be separated as
far as this world will admit.—I'll seek the count—
seas, seas must flow between them! [exit.
| The actress of Padua, and other tales | |