University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A wilderness, lying between the camp of Alfonso and the rocks of Albanio. Fontano and Scipio asleep, by the side of a waterfall.
Enter Angelo and Angelina.
Angeli.
Oh! what a sad and awful night is this?
There seems no limit to our dangers: list!
List—how soft music swells upon the gale!
Now all is silence.—Hark! It swells again:
Rising and falling with the buoyant wind.

Ang.
I've heard it long. Albanio's troop I fear!
We must away; or ruin will o'ertake us!

Angeli.
Whither, oh! whither shall we fly?—again?
(Sounds approach.)
Ah!—dearest Angelo—sure heaven deserts us!

Ang.
Lean on this arm, thou persecuted maid;
While life remains, no power shall force thee from me.

Angeli.
Let, let us fly. I dare delay no longer.

[Exeunt.
Sci.
(waking.)

Signor! Signor! I heard music,
Signor. I heard it in my sleep.

(Wakes Fontano.
Fon.

What means all this, my Scipio?

Sci.

I am sure, I do not know, Signor: but I will
step out, if you please, and see if I can discover where,
and what it is.

(After looking about some time, he runs hastily to Fontano.)

Oh! Signor! Signor! I see a whole army of soldiers
coming this way.

Fon.
An army of soldiers, Scipio?

Sci.
Yes, Signor, a whole army of soldiers.

(Music.)
Enter Alfonso, Claudia, Sciolto, and an Officer.
Alf.
Remain ye there! At present come no further.

Clau.
What do we here, my most illustrious Lord?

Alf.
Retire thee, Claudia, to yon spreading olive.
Nay—nay—no questions:—I will soon be with thee.
Follow this Signor: 'tis the hour of danger:
Guard her with hero's care.—Farewell—farewell.

Clau.
(Aside.)
'Tis most mysterious!—But my will obeys.

[Exit with Officer.
Alf.
This way he travelled; but we meet him not.

(They search about.)
Sci.
(After peeping out, in a whisper to Fontano.)

Here are two rich cavaliers, Signor: let me beg some

money of them; for our stock is very low, and Venice
is a long, long, way off.

(Scipio goes out, and pulls off his hat to Sciolto.)

Sciol.

Thou art a most eloquent little beggar, whoever
thou art, and I am inclined to give thee a ducat
for thine eloquence; but thou must, first of all, tell
me, whether thou hast seen a blind gentleman travelling
this way?

Sci.

A blind gentleman? Have you any business
with him, Signor?

Sciol.

What matters it to thee, whether I have
business with him or not?

Sci.

Scipio has as much right to ask that question,
as you have to ask, whether he has seen a blind
gentleman travelling this way?

Alf.

One would think, thou wert born in England,
thou free-thinker and free-speaker! Well, then, we
have business with him;—and there is a ducat for
thine information.

Sci.
(refusing the money.)

Is your business with him
good or bad, Signor? For I would not tell you, if
I thought, you meant him any harm.

Alf.

Thou art the noblest beggar, that I ever saw;
and as thou confer'st nobility on thy profession, I will
tell thee:—our business is good.

Sci.
(to Sciolto.)

Is that true, Signor?

Sciol.

True as the moon.

Sci.

True as the moon!—Ah!—but the moon,
they say, wanders about all the year round, and is
constant to nothing.

Alf.

True, then, as thine own honesty!

Sci.

That's sworn like a true and gallant Signor.
Now I know, you will not deceive me: but, first of
all, tell me his name.

Sciol.
Signor Fontano.

Fon.
(coming forward.)
Who seeks Fontano?

Alf.
(to Sciolto.)
This is most fortunate!
What a calm dignity his visage wears! (To Fontano.)

And art thou here, thou great and injured man?
This is far better, than my hopes had whisper'd,
E'en to my fancy.
(To Sciolto.)
Now I'll try him!—Mark!
Claudia and stern Manfredi swear, he's guilty.
Cavallo whispers, he is innocent. Observe!
If he prove guilty:—why—his treacherous head
Is not a ducat's worth.— (To Fontano.)
—Most noble Signor!
I pay thee all the homage of a friend.

Fon.
To whom, oh Signor, am I thus indebted,
For this unsought, unmerited, respect?

Alf.
Albanio.

Fon.
Who?—Albanio?—He who vows
Eternal hatred to his native city?

Alf.
The same.

Sciol.
(to Alfonso.)
He answers, as if innocent.

Alf.
That may be artifice.—My noble Signor!
Thine injuries demand revenge!—Revenge!
Give me thy sanction and assistance then:
March with my troops:—thine honourable name
Alone would raise an army in my cause.

Fon.
Rather than do so, I would lingering die,
Ah!—inch by inch!—Chain'd to a pointed rock,
The hungry vulture, or the famished eagle,
Should tear my entrails.—What?—Eternal shame!
Conspire against my country?

Alf.
'Gainst thy country?
Has not thy country thrown thee from its bosom?

Fon.
It has, it has!—Yet must I love it still!
My country?—Yes, while one declining stone
Lies tottering on another; while thy fields
Blush with their purple vineyards; and thy rocks
Elevate their spires to heaven: oh, use me—
Use me as thou wilt; cover me with wrongs;
Tear me with taunts;—make me a monument
Of public scorn, and I will love thee still!
And, as I beg from door to door, call down
The choicest gifts of bounteous heaven upon thee!

Sciol.
Has not Manfredi robb'd thine eyes of light?

Fon.
He has—he has!

Alf.
Did not thy sovereign, too,
Consent to that most horrible transaction?

Fon.
(mournfully.)
He did—he did!—

Alf.
And wilt thou not revenge?

Sciol.
And did not Claudia—
Dost thou know?—Thy daughter—

Fon.
My daughter?—What?—What of my daughter?—speak—

Alf.
And canst thou not have heard it then?

Fon.
Oh, speak—
Tell me—oh, quickly tell me—of my daughter!
Speak, gracious Signor—I intreat thee speak!

Alf.
(aside.)
Oh, miracle of honour!—how thy virtue
Wrings my sad bosom, for my conduct towards thee!

Fon.
If thou hast mercy, Signor!—

[Alfonso turns aside to conceal his emotion.
Sciol.
Miserable man!
Whilst thou wert lingering in thy loathsome cell,
Returning thanks, most grateful thanks, to heaven,
It still had left thee in thy miseries,
One treasure yet, of value more than all,
Dear to thine heart;—the base, the vile, Manfredi
Devised the means to rob thee of the treasure.

Fon.
(kneeling.)
O, thou eternal Father of the world,
Upon whose mercy I've relied so long;—
Whose matchless power, the earth, the air, the skies,
The universe demonstrate; and whose justice,
Though long delay'd, is ne'er delay'd in vain;
To thee I call for mercy in the present,
And justice in the future!—Thy dread works
I dare not scan;—thy dispensations
I will not, dare not, question!—Weak and humbled,
Let not my words offend thee!—Oh, my father!—

[Appears lost in silent agony
Sci.
Signor—Signor!—Signor!—

Fon.
What wouldst thou, child?

Sci.

Would, that we could lie down among these
rocks, Signor, and close our eyes for ever!—Oh, I
could weep, Signor; but if I wept, you perhaps
would weep too, and that would break my heart.

[Hides his face in Fontano's robe.
Fon.
My dearest boy, I thank thee for this pity.

Alf.
Oh, wretch! to wound the noble man so much.
Could I speak comfort in this hour of woe—

Fon.
I cannot, ought not, to be comforted!
My daughter!—Oh, my child!—Thine injuries
Complete my awful measure of affliction.
Fortune can do no more!—I once had hope—
Now I despair—Heaven seems to have forsa'en me!

Sci.
(weeping.)
My mother has often told me,
Signor, that Heaven never entirely forsakes the good.

Fon.
Oh, my sweet boy!—I pray thee, Signor, leave me.
Here will I die—I will no longer hope,
Nor struggle with my destiny.

[Sinks down on the edge of a rock.
Alf.
Oh, Signor!—

Fon.
Leave me, oh leave me; add not to my griefs,
By bearing witness to my miseries.

Alf.
Signor Fontano—I would whisper comfort—

Fon.
Who speaks of comfort to a man like me?
Banish'd my country—by my sovereign wrong'd—
Who speaks of comfort?—Am I not traduced?—
My house dishonour'd—and my daughter ruin'd?

Alf.
Wilt thou not hear me, Signor? I am come
To supplicate thy pardon.

Fon.
(impatiently.)
I'll not hear!
—And yet, Albanio, I must tell thee, that,
In this thy war against thy native country,
Thou dost offend both God and man!—The power,
That rules the destinies of men and kingdoms,
Visits that crime more heavily than murder.—
Quit, then, thy course of ruin!—I can love
None, who forsake their country;—and admire
None, who presume her errors to revenge.
No!—when our country loves us not, return
Grief for her hate; but let no arm be raised,
Against the blind injustice of her will.
Who loves his passions better than his country,
Deserves full measure of his country's hate!

Alf.
Heaven!—What a noble patriot have I ruin'd!

Sciol.
Signor Fontano—'tis thy king that speaks.

Alf.
I come, Fontano, to entreat thy pardon.
Tell me, thou noble and much injured man,
Canst thou forgive?

Fon.
My king?—It is a dream!
My fancy wanders, and my ears deceive me!

Alf.
Oh, no, Fontano—'tis thy sovereign bends.
These tears respect: forgive me, if thou canst!

Fon.
Thrice honour'd master!—dearly valued friend!—
I've loved thee ever with an ardent zeal:
I know thy nature:—thou hast been deceived.
Let us, then, lose all memory of the past
From this sweet hour.

Alf.
I clasp thee to my heart

Fon.
But I am guilty of a crime to feel
One ray of joy, while yet my daughter lives,
And does not live for me.

Alf.
She does!—She does!—
She lives for thee, and all the world beside;
Fair as the spring, and pure as driven snow.
Rescued, by Angelo, from lawless power
Of unchaste love, among these rocks she strays,
(As penitent Cavallo tells me), led
Led by the hand of Angelo; whom you,
And I, and all th'admiring world, shall love.

Fon.
Ye gracious powers!—Oh!—this is joy indeed!—
Oh!—could I press to this long-aching heart,
My lovely Angelina.

Alf.
(To the Guards).
To the camp
Of stern Albanio, now direct your course.

Fon.
Oh! seek my daughter!—Should Albanio's troops
Behold her wandering, all is lost for ever.
Oh!—seek my daughter—spare a father's tears!

Alf.
Thy tears are mine!— (To Guards.)
—And as ye march along,
Let every eye be watchful. He, who first
Espies the noble wanderers, shall receive
A rich reward from me.

Fon.
And what is more—
A father's grateful thanks!—Oh! let us fly:
A father's haste would far outstrip the wind!

Alf.
Yet ere we go, I would fair Claudia see. (To Sciolto.)

She journey'd with us: lead us to the shade,
Beneath which she reposes. Come, Fontano,
Lean on this arm—

Fon.
I have a father's fears
Albanio's troops—

Alf.
Anticipate no ill.
Heaven bears its character for justice still!

Sci.
(Chagrined at Fontano's taking the arm of Alfonso.)
Nay!—let me lead thee, Signor, pray:—
Each sylph, and sylphid,—fairy,—fay,
Or, by what name soe'er ye call
The nymphs, who guard this waterfall;
Proclaim, that, whether strait or wide
The path meanders,—I'm thy guide!
And, though thy king desires to see;
Thy guide has been, and still must be,
To lead thee, where thou want'st to go,
The wild—but faithful—Scipio.

(Takes Fontano's hand, and insists upon leading him.)
Fon.
Excellent boy!—The world has not thy peer!

[Exeunt.
Enter Manfredi (cautiously) from behind.
Curst be the hour, I e'er beheld the sun
And curst the hour, that gave my mother birth!
May the earth open; may the mountains fall;
And crush Fontano, and Albanio, too,
In one deep wreck of ruin.—
What have these eyes beheld? Fontano clasp'd,
Firm in the king's embrace! Curst be the man,
Who saw me floating in my watery bed,
Dragg'd me to shore, and took me to his hut,
Reared on the craggy margin of the torrent.—
Vile, senseless, fool! I hate thee for thy pains.
What shall I do?—And whither shall I fly?
Outcast of nature! Stay—Albanio's camp
Lies at the feet of yon gigantic mountains.
—The thought is masterly;—
I'll ruin him again! And on his ruin
Exalt myself.
[Drawing some keys and a dagger from under his robe.
These keys—this dagger—oh!
It is a paradise of thought! Disguise
Thy face and figure, too, Manfredi.—Yes! 'tis done.
Some berries, and a bending frame, shall screen
Albanio's enemy. I breathe again!
And dare thee, Fortune, to thy utmost hate.

[Exit.