 | Angiolina Del' Albano ; Or Truth And Treachery |  |
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ACT III.
SCENE I.
—A ROOM IN COUNT DEL' ALBANO'S HOUSE.Enter Angiolina and Hippolito.
ANGIOLINA.
Said'st thou my father must so soon depart?
HIPPOLITO.
Aye, sweet! upon the instant: for which cause
Our marriage—heavy thought!—is now deferr'd.
ANGIOLINA.
But will he long remain in Venice?
HIPPOLITO.
Yes!
For much I fear, the business he embarks in
Will long detain him—longer than he dreams of.
ANGIOLINA.
Thou look'st much troubled.—Nay, Hippolito,
Resume thy own dear smiles and cheerfulness.
Thou goest not—we shall be together still—
Oft meet, and talk o'er all the times to come.
My father will return, thou know'st, and then—
HIPPOLITO
(aside).
That know'st thou not!—nor I—
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Why, rebel!—what!
Still lowering—muttering?—clenching, too, thy hands?
Is thy liege lady, then, so ill obeyed?
Did I command not smiles at once to appear?
And dar'st thou put me off with frowns instead?
HIPPOLITO.
If ever thou desir'st to see again
A smile upon this alter'd lip of mine,
Thou wilt consent to what I now propose.
ANGIOLINA.
Good angels, guard me! Dearest!—sole beloved!
Thy solemn looks, and voice, and gestures, chill me!
Say we must part, and freeze me into stone!—
Say we must part, and we are parted, then,—
Say we must part, and kill me with the word!
For could I live to hear thee say it twice!
HIPPOLITO.
Far different, Angiolina, is my project—
Far different is my prayer! What said'st thou?—part!
Part!—Who can part us? Who can e'er divide
Deep soul from soul—or self from self?—No, no!
Mine earnest and most passionate, fond request
Is, that this evening thou should'st deign to meet me—
Be made mine own by all the holiest bands—
Ev'n in thy father's absence, made my bride,
And give me all earth hath of dear and perfect!
ANGIOLINA.
Ev'n in my father's absence? Stay, Colonna!
Wherefore such haste?—I understand it not!
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To me 'tis matter, sweet! of life or death!
Nay, lean on me—thou tremblest fearfully!
By life or death, beloved! what can I mean,
But losing thee or linking thee for ever—
Hear'st thou?—for ever!—ever!—to my soul?
ANGIOLINA.
How can this be? Oh! speak thou not so darkly!
Where is the threat'ning danger? Where the hind'rance?
Hath not my father given most full consent?—
Is not all fix'd—
HIPPOLITO.
Yet, hear me, there are things
I must not yet reveal unto thine ear—
Wherefore I must not—must be secret, too!
But hast thou, Angiolina,—hast thou, then,
So little confidence in him—thy choice—
Thine own selected love, and lord affianced—
As thus to shrink from him—mistrust him—question—
Distract with doubts—suspicious ev'n, perchance!
ANGIOLINA.
The heavens forefend! Colonna, 'tis not so;
Whate'er the mystery, unto thee I trust—
Trust all my happiness—myself—my future—
As I would trust my very soul in dying—
Aye! in the article and point of death—
In thy dear hands, before it pass'd to Heaven!
Which pardon me if I too wildly speak!
Smit with the passion of love's deep remorse!—
Where must I meet thee?
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Near the Annunziata,
And at the first approach of twilight! Bless thee!
Now must I leave thee: nay, indeed, I must!
Must I not seek the holy man? Farewell!
Send'st thou a host of angels with my steps—
Thy precious thoughts?
ANGIOLINA.
My thoughts—my soul itself!
HIPPOLITO.
Nay, sweetest! it would bear me straight above!
While so much happiness of the earth awaits me,
Still would I be a sojourner below!—
[Exit Hippolito.
ANGIOLINA.
My father! much I fear I am doing wrong!
Why did I start? Methought I heard a step—
Methought my father's! Wherefore did I start?
Guilt!—guilt! When shrunk I from his steps before?
Our very instincts tell us truths for ever!
Yes! I am doing wrong! I cannot doubt it—
I dare not doubt it—though I will not help it!
The conscience I have impiously expell'd
From forth my heart, seems speaking in my nerves—
My limbs—my pulses—through mine every vein—
(My blood still ruling as the moon the tides!)
Alas! Hippolito! must this then be?
Why did I not persuade thee, change—o'ercome thee?
Surely I had the right upon my side!
Surely the wrong was pleader on thy tongue!
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It is a horrible and hateful thought!
But then to lose thee—lover, husband, life!—
My soul—my self! And darkly didst thou hint
At that last uttermost ruin and despair!
To lose thee from my hope, and hold, and heart,—
Ev'n at the very steps o' the sacred altar!
No—no! I have not courage for the thought!
How then for worse—the accursed reality?
'Twas not my father's step; and yet he goes
To-day—this hour he goes—he starts for Venice;
Sped on a secret mission by the Duke.
And shall his daughter ask not for his blessing?
The last—though he will know it not—the last
That he shall give her, ere she comes a bride
To claim it weeping at his honour'd knee?
[Exit Angiolina.
SCENE II.
—A STREET IN MANTUA, NEAR A CHAPEL.Enter Angiolina.
ANGIOLINA.
He is not come! Oh! I am faint with fear!
'Tis a bye street, but should some passer-by
By chance walk through it, I should die with shame!
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With consciousness of wrong! Would he were come!
If soon he comes not, I will hence to home!—
If soon he comes not, I will haste—will fly!
The twilight's thickening, thickening round me fast,
I scarce can see to the end of this short street,
'Twill soon be darkness! Cruel—dire suspense!
Cruel Hippolito! to leave me here,
Faint, shiv'ring with a host of hideous fears,—
An undistinguishable throng of thoughts,—
All terrible and torturing to my soul!
This danger that he threaten'd to our loves!
Can this have so detain'd him—can it be?
Ah! hath that threat'ning mine of secret danger
Exploded, making ruin of our hopes!
A step! it stops—another! Oh! 'tis him!
[Enter the Duke, with his mantle held up to his face.
Thou'rt come at last, Hippolito—my husband!
Oh! I have shudder'd—quiver'd like an aspen!
How, in a moment, thy reassuring presence
Hath changed my terrors into confidence!
But speak to me, yet reassure me more,—
Thy voice shall gladden me with deeper trust!
Not speak to me, Hippolito?—Still silent?
And with thy face thus muffled? Oh! once more,
How the agonising dread thrills through my heart—
A thousand madd'ning doubts distract me! Speak,
Hippolito, or I shall die!—Have pity!
Dost hear me? Heaven! 'tis not him!—who is't?
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(shewing himself and kneeling).
I!
ANGIOLINA.
Begone! Ha! treachery! Help!—begone! Oh! mercy!
DUKE.
A lover worthier of such queenly charms—
Such startling wonders of unrivall'd beauty,
Here claims thee—worships thee with heart on fire!
ANGIOLINA.
Wretch! for thy life, if not for my sake, fly!
Should my sworn lord and lover find thee here,
Despite thy royal station, ill sustain'd,
He will most surely slay thee at my feet!
DUKE.
Not as thou slayest me with those murdering frowns,
Ungentle lady! What! hast thou ne'er mark'd
The deep, entire devotion of my love?
But these are maidenly hypocrisies,—
Thou must have seen that I for long have loved thee.
ANGIOLINA.
Loved me! forgettest thou, then, Imelda?
DUKE.
Yes!
And all but Angiolina on this earth!
ANGIOLINA.
How can I pause to parley, e'en a moment,
With such a shameless and presumptuous traitor?
How dar'st thou come thus screen'd in night to insult me?
Ha! 'tis a horrid light breaks on me now!—
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Foresaw and told me of—I see it all!
'Twas thou he fear'd. The keen, quick eye of love
Had pierced the secret of that traitorous heart!
Yes, desolation of a new despair!
It was the Duke he fear'd—'twas therefore thus
He urged the abrupt, clandestine ceremonial!
(To the Duke.)
Where hides Hippolito? How knew'st thou, wretch!
That here at vesper hours we were to meet?
Oh! thou'st waylaid him, seized, withdrawn him, murder'd!
One word—one word—say but that still he lives!
DUKE.
He lives, indeed, but not for thee, my fairest!
ANGIOLINA.
Then I will die for him! Unhand me, monster!
Yet fear his vengeance, be most sure 'twill reach thee!
Hence!—leave my presence—touch me not—begone!
DUKE.
Hippolito is safe: but know, unkind one,
His safety may depend on thee,—thou'st heard!
ANGIOLINA.
Yes—I have heard! Oh! I will kneel to thee—
Implore thy pardon for thine own fierce outrage—
Stay like a statue—pale with supplication—
All breathless with the intenseness of my prayer—
Here at thy feet—here in the dust—here—here—
For ever! till thou say, “He is safe.” Behold me!
(Falls on her knees before him.
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To one whom I would spurn wer't not for him!
Yet whom for him I should more wildly spurn—
Yet whom for him I feel more urged to spurn—
For him I scorn'd thee—for his sake forgive thee!—
Promise to guard thy secret—swear to thee
Thy traitorous conduct ne'er shall pass my lips!—
DUKE.
Traitorous?
ANGIOLINA.
Aye! traitorous! What! think'st thou, great Duke,
That none are traitors save they plot 'gainst princes?
What are the rebels 'gainst religion's edicts—
Against humanity and heaven at once,
Humanity's quick heart, and Heaven and Honour?
What—what art thou?—Ev'n at this very moment
Laying a snare for Innocency's feet,
I' the face of all the angels there above us!
DUKE.
Wilt thou be mine? This lengthen'd, vain resistance—
ANGIOLINA.
Resistance! Oh! let me yet have no cause—
Restore me to Hippolito!—think—think!
The holy man now waits to make us one,—
Dar'st thou dissever what already seems
Bound at the altar—a most sacred knot?
A curse will light upon thee! Back, I say!
DUKE.
Nay! shriek not for the sake of him thou lovest:
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If thou would'st save him!
ANGIOLINA.
No! I would not save him!—
To blush for me in bitterness of soul,
To live in loneliness of heart for ever—
In life-long, woful widowhood—in wretchedness—
Not deigning ev'n to mourn for what he loved;
Yet with that soul a void—where should be mourning!—
If he must die—if such thy guilty purpose,
Be his great heart crush'd midst its happiness!
Oh! let it fall asleep amidst its joy,
And never wake to sorrow or to shame!
DUKE.
Obey me!—come!
ANGIOLINA.
No, never!
DUKE.
I will make thee!
ANGIOLINA.
Unmake me first! destroy me—kill me—tear me,
Live limb from limb, and nerve from nerve! Strike, murderer!
Help! help! oh! help!
[Enter Azzo Durazzo.
Thou blessed man!—befriend me!—
Save me! oh! save me!
AZZO.
I will help thee, lady!—
(She hurries towards him, he seizes hold of her.)
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Help to fulfil thy destiny and duty.
ANGIOLINA.
Off, miscreants! Oh, Hippolito! oh! save me!
(She is carried off.)
SCENE III.
—A ROOM IN COUNT DEL' ALBANO'S HOUSE.Enter Leonora.
LEONORA.
Why! here be changes! all, too, in an hour!
The marriage is deferr'd to time unknown—
My good old lord sent off in breathless haste
On some great state commission unto Venice—
And now, my youthful mistress hath departed,
Nor spoken word to me, nor human being:
I guess she is not gone a hundred miles
From her Colonna's garden, which, in truth,
Is pleasant with its orange-trees and myrtles
At this sweet season of the year!—Who cometh?
[Enter Imelda.
IMELDA.
Say, Leonora, can I speak awhile
With thy sweet lady?—is she much engaged?
I know these times of fluttering preparation—
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Faith! madam, I can ill resolve thy query:
She hath been out this hour at least.
IMELDA.
This hour?
She hath been out!—Thou'rt dreaming, sure, Leonora!
LEONORA.
No, madam!—no, 'tis true. Though as for dreams,
I had last night a most surprising one
About an owl upon four legs—an oyster—
IMELDA.
Also upon four legs?—Ne'er mind thy dream,
But tell me, is it sure that she is out—
The Lady Angiolina?
LEONORA.
Sure as fate,
Or any thing, yet surer—if aught is!
As true, as that the old Count is gone to Venice!
She is not in her study, nor her chamber,
Nor in her oratory,—nor at her toilet,
Nor on her balcony,—nor in the hall,
Nor in the great saloon,—nor in the small one,
Not in the music-room,—nor picture-gallery,
Nor in the corridore,—nor in the cellar,
Nor in the kitchen,—buttery,—offices—
IMELDA.
I pray thee hold thy peace! She must be out—
She must be gone to see her aged aunt!
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(aside).
(She must be gone to see her youthful lover:
The odds are large, but I have the best of it.)
IMELDA.
Know'st thou, Leonora, why the Count was sped
Thus suddenly and rapidly to Venice?
LEONORA
(looking important).
Why! I but heard scant hints—a solemn mission
Unto the Forty, as I do believe,
Relating to—
IMELDA.
To what?
LEONORA.
To certain things,—
A lion's mouth that bit a man's hand off
Belonging to our Mantua.
IMELDA.
Pshaw! thou'st heard
Of that famed lion's mouth wherein they place
Their accusations in the dark.
LEONORA.
Well, lady!
Whate'er they place there in the dark or light,
Be sure the lion would at once snap at them:
Besides this, I believe our gracious Duke
Has sent to beg that the Venetians would
Lend, in all kindness, for his Highness' pleasure,
To drive about in through fair Mantua's streets,
On some great day of jubilee ere long,
Their gilded, splendid, shining Bucentaur!
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Their Bucentaur! Why, Leonora! Well
I might say thou wert dreaming! 'Tis a ship!
LEONORA.
A ship! Oh, well! his Highness was in fault:
You see he must have thought it was a coach.
'Tis strange the great should be so ignorant!
IMELDA.
I give thee credit for thy subterfuge!
[Enter Emmanuel Lorio.
EMMANUEL.
Art thou here, sweet Imelda? Little thought I,
When I did cross the threshold, what a light
Should dazzle all my soul within these walls.
Forgive me! I should speak not thus, I know!—
(To Leonora.)
Dost thou belong to Count Albano's household?
LEONORA.
Signor, I am first tirewoman and hand-maiden
To Angiolina Countess del' Albano.
IMMANUEL.
Hath the Count yet set out for Venice?
LEONORA.
Yea;
With th' arrow's speed he started hours ago.
EMMANUEL.
I am unfortunate: I had despatches
To send to Venice to my dear step-brother,
One of the youngest of the Conscript Fathers.
IMELDA.
Not of the tyrannous Forty, I should hope?
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Himself no tyrant, I can vouch for that.—
Oh, lady! grant me yet your ear awhile;
I have learn'd things that I would fain impart
To thee in private.
IMELDA.
Unto whom relating?
EMMANUEL.
Unto the Lady Angiolina, (dear
To thee I know, Imelda, as thyself—
Thine own sweet self!) and to our Prince the Duke!
IMELDA.
Thou may'st retire, Leonora.
LEONORA
(aside, going).
May I so?—
Another love-case, else mine eyes are pumpkins,
Or any thing but lovely grey-green diamonds!
[Exit Leonora.
IMELDA.
I pray thee, instantly, report thy tidings!
EMMANUEL.
I fear—and pause upon the threshold still
Of my disclosure, lest it give thee pain:
I know thy generous friendship's sympathy
In all that may concern Albano's daughter.
IMELDA.
Most true, for her I feel as for my sister;
A childhood-friendship—deepen'd, day by day,
By constant intercourse, congenial feeling,
Pursuits the same, and sympathetic hearts!
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I fear a baleful eye is fixed on her!
IMELDA.
A baleful eye! (Aside.
Be still, my dubious heart!)
What eye can harm her with its blighting looks?
Dwells fascination in its fixedness?
EMMANUEL.
Aye! fatal, fascinating flame is in it,—
Start not, nor look thus wilder'd and aghast!
I mean not to impugn her constancy,
Her virtue, her sincerity, or firmness;
But merely to express that what shines there
May prove the fascination of a fate,
Through other helps and agents than her frailties,
Through other ministers than her weaknesses.
I fear me, that the Duke doth love her!
IMELDA
(wildly).
Who?
EMMANUEL.
The Duke!
IMELDA.
I fear so too! I long have fear'd it!
EMMANUEL.
Great Heaven! thou'rt pale—thou'rt alter'd!—What! oh, what!
Imelda! what can I have said to cause it?
Dost thou then love the Duke? Is he my rival,—
My long-detested, dangerous, unknown rival?
Oh! I ne'er guess'd 'twas thus! At least reply—
Make certain mine uncertain wretchedness:
Dost thou, then, love the Duke?
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As Life!
EMMANUEL.
Thou dost!—
Oh, happy Duke! an emperor might be proud
To smile his state away from him for thee,
Ev'n for permission but to look and love thee!
And thou dost love him? Happy—happiest prince!
IMELDA.
Happy! he loves me not! thou say'st thyself
He loves sweet Angiolina!
EMMANUEL.
I knew not
When thus I said, of his most blessed fortune;
I was in ignorance of his great bliss!—
I knew not, lady, he was loved by thee!—
Certain,—I oft have seen him gazing deeply
Upon the shrinking charms of Angiolina:
'Twas for her friend's sweet sake, I now doubt not!—
True, Giulio—who adores Albano's daughter—
Hath told me things late hinted unto him
By certain courtiers,—haunters of the palace.—
No! nothing I believe, but that the Duke
Must love Imelda, if Imelda loves him!
IMELDA.
Alas! I dream it not! the illusion fades!
He once did love me, or he deem'd he did—
Then finding—well he might—himself perfection!
That I in nought could be his equal—nought!—
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He changed, and sought another worthier—lovelier!
EMMANUEL.
That I deny! with all my soul deny it!
Such lives not in the universe!—'tis false!
The falsest word those gentlest lips ere spoke,
For Truth, anticipating thy sweet Thoughts
Lives on those lips that speak thy soul unspeaking!—
Lives on those lips to weave them into words,—
Till the air melt musical with truth around thee!—
IMELDA.
Weak flattery this! Oh, do not flatter me!
Praise were a bane and burthen to me now—
A bitterness, scarce—scarce—to be sustain'd,
In this my state of heart-humiliation,
Think, what must flattery be?—then flatter not!
Go to the bed of death and flatter there,
But never—never to the breaking heart!
It sees too clearly—Oh! it feels too deeply!
Illusion withereth from the world away,
And nought is left save stern reality!
EMMANUEL.
Let me proceed then, let me tell thee all:
It is supposed—mysteriously 'tis whisper'd—
The brigands who attack'd Hippolito
(Returning from his country-house near Mantua,
Whither he had but sped the day before
To make some preparations and arrangements—
Some due preliminaries of his marriage,—
There meeting with his legal men of business;
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These brigands were the creatures of the Duke,
And acting by his secret orders thus.
IMELDA.
Oh, Heaven! What horrors! No! I cannot think it!
Changeful he may be, light and most capricious,
But never—never criminal! Oh, no!
I will not, and I cannot think it.—No!
EMMANUEL.
I would not think it; for to know the Duke
Beloved by thee Imelda!—makes him seem
As something sacred in mine eyes—but yet—
IMELDA.
Wherefore—oh! wherefore should he do such deed?
At least he knows—he must know Angiolina
Adores Hippolito, loves not himself,—
Would wed her lover's memory—sadly constant—
Should aught divide Colonna from her fortunes,
Nay, she hath ever frown'd upon the Duke,
Misliking what she term'd his loose, light manners!—
EMMANUEL.
Ah! but he may have plann'd some deep-laid scheme;—
Man cannot dream what Tyranny may purpose!—
What shriek is that? Hark! hurrying steps approach!
[Enter Leonora.
LEONORA.
Oh, madam! horror! Oh! the Count—my master!
IMELDA.
Good gracious Heaven! Why, what has happened?—say!
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He is brought home dead—cold—a stiff, pale corpse!—
Think—think how terrible! so late I had seen him
Go forth in hale and green old age—and now
A livid corpse!
IMELDA.
And is it so in truth?
Indeed, most terrible!—The cause—the cause—
The means—the manner of his death?—
LEONORA.
'Twas thus:—
He left the city mounted on a steed
Sent by the gracious Duke, and meant to ride
Some few leagues forward on this noble beast,
The Duke's own favourite charger, full of fire—
Alas! too fiery far, and too impetuous;
In brief, the Count lost all command of him;
He gallop'd off at a most headlong rate,
And (as reports one, who was of the event
A shock'd spectator), darting suddenly
Round some sharp angle in the road, he threw
His venerable rider to the ground
With force terrific, fracturing thus his skull—
Alack the day! behold the sad procession—
(The body is brought in by servants, &c.)
GUISCARDO.
Alas! my master! generous, noble-hearted,
Kind patron! friend and father! art thou gone?
Woe, woe to all thy house, thy friends, and kin!
For never worthier heart did throb and beat
60
IMELDA.
The unhappy Angiolina! So beloved!
The darling of his age—his cherish'd child!
How my heart bleeds for her!
LEONORA.
And well it may!
How will she bear, when she returns, to hear
The tidings of her sudden, dread bereavement?
EMMANUEL.
Lady Imelda, let me lead thee hence,
Thy nerves, already shatter'd, ill can bear
Th' accumulation thus of grief on grief;
Let Leonora and the other menials
Keep silence on this terrible event
Till the Count's kin may be by me apprised.
IMELDA.
I go, but do not fail, my good Leonora,
T' acquaint me with my hapless friend's return;
Soon as she reaches her late happy home,
I must be with her to console and soothe her.
LEONORA.
I will not fail, believe me, oh, signora!
'Twill be a bitter trial for her heart!
Her kind old father! doating on her so,
Wrapp'd up in her, devoted to her wishes,
For ever watching all her looks and words!
A mournful day! a heavy, weary hour!
[Exeunt.
END OF ACT III.
| Angiolina Del' Albano ; Or Truth And Treachery | |