 | The actress of Padua, and other tales |  |
THE DAUGHTER.
A PLAY, IN THREE ACTS.
- Count Rosenberg, Husband of Euphemia.
- Valmore, French Ambassador.
- Montalban, supposed father of Clara.
- Peter, Marcelle's Son.
- Euphemia, sister of the Grand Duke of Lithuania.
- Clara, under the name of Olympia.
- Marcelle, a Cottager.
- Peasants, Servants, Guards.
DRAMATIS PERSONæ.
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.
2. ACT II.
Scene I.—A gallery at the chateau. Enter Euphemia and Count Rosenberg.Rosenberg.
My dear Euphemia, how sensibly am
I touched by these marks of your affection! Every
thing breathes new life at my appearance, and seems
to be animated by your sentiments for me.
Euphemia.
Yes, my lord, even the humblest villager
participates in the happiness I find in your return
after so long an absence.
Rosenberg.
I revel in delights. But if you would
indulge me, postpone your preparations for a fete
until the arrival of the Marquis de Valmore. He
is on his way to France, with a treaty recently ratified
by our sovereign, and is unwilling to quit Lithuania
without first paying his respects to you. He
may be hourly expected.
Euphemia.
Alas! if our child were still living,
that I might have the joy of dividing between you
the tenderness that fills my heart at this moment.
Rosenberg.
O! harrowing thought! Banish a reflection
so distressing. Your child is no more.
Look upon her death as the last punishment that
Heaven will inflict upon us.
Euphemia.
The severest, though it may not be
else may follow.
Rosenberg.
Your grief is natural, but your tears
awaken in my heart thoughts that time can never
obliterate, and such as I have not the courage to lay
open to your eyes. Spare my feelings, cease to cherish
your own sorrows, and thank Heaven that you
were distant from the wretched scene of which I
was a witness.
Euphemia.
Were her last moments then so awful.
Rosenberg.
For heaven's sake change the discourse.
Tell me who is that young person whom
you have mentioned to me so frequently in your letters?
Do you know any thing respecting her birth?
Euphemia.
Nothing more than that she is of
French origin. She has been three months at Marcelle's
cottage, where, by accident, I first met her.
Her noble and modest demeanour interested me,
and every succeeding interview tended to deepen
the impression. Her image is constantly in my
mind; her virtues have penetrated my heart; and,
with the exception of the love I bear you, there is
no feeling more powerful than my attachment for
this lovely orphan.
Rosenberg.
I trust she may prove worthy of your
good opinion.
Euphemia.
I do not doubt that you will approve
of my predilection. I wish a friend, who can reciprocate
my regard, and in some measure supply
the place of the unfortunate we have lost.
Rosenberg.
Your wishes shall always be a law to
me.
Enter a Page.
Page.
A stranger desires to speak to the count.
Euphemia.
Ah! show him in. It is Montalban
your old friend.
Rosenberg.
Montalban!
Euphemia.
I recommend this unfortunate father
to your sympathy.
He has it. I feel for him—O! God,
how exquisitely!
Euphemia.
The féte shall be delayed until the
arrival of de Valmore, and I will give orders that
he may be received in a manner worthy of his rank.
As soon as Olympia arrives, I shall take occasion
to present her to you.
[Going out meets Montalban, and makes a sign to him
to approach her husband.] exit.
Rosenberg.
You here!
Montalban.
I came to tax your friendship for the
last time, and was far from thinking that my presence
here would be so essential to your peace.
Rosenberg.
What have you done with that wretched
being who has occasioned me so many tears?
Montalban.
Should I not rather ask you that
question, when I find her here.
Rosenberg.
Here! Explain.
Montalban.
Concealed under the name of Olympia,
she has practised on the feelings of the princess,
until she has gained her affections.
Rosenberg.
Ah! Is it possible!
Montalban.
Have you not seen her yet?
Rosenberg.
I see her!—Could I, without overwhelming
her with reproaches; without treating her
as one who merits any thing but pity.
Montalban.
Be prudent, or you will yourself divulge
the shame you dread to encounter.
Rosenberg.
Ah! Montalban!—Nature is struggling
in her behalf in my bosom, but in vain. Her
crime will admit of no extenuation; she is unworthy
even of compassion. I cannot see her. Frame some
pretext to bear her from this place, and free me from
her sight for ever.
Montalban.
That may be readily done. I intend
to pass the seas to some distant land where prejudice
may not reach me. Condescend to aid me in
the execution of this project, and I shall soon remove
from your presence that guilty one, whose
existence only tends to your dishonour.
Be it so. I approve your plan, and
will forward it to the extent of my power.
Montalban.
[Apart.]
Success is mine!
Rosenberg.
You must above all things be cautious
to keep the secret of her parentage concealed from her.
Montalban.
Depend on my discretion. You see,
count, how highly I prize your esteem! By disavowing
Clara as my child, I might return with honour
to society; but gratitude for the services you
have rendered me, seals my lips. Self-interest has
never been the motive of my actions. I gave convincing
proof of that when Clara's marriage with the
Count de Valmore was projected. In the zeal of
the moment, you wrote me that if I succeeded in
effecting the union, you would pay my debts, and
bestow a pension of six thousand florins upon me
for my services. Another, less scrupulous, to have
enjoyed your bounty, would have concealed the situation
of de Valmore; but I preferred your esteem to
wealth acquired by deception, and informed you of
all. The result was, you changed your opinion, and
directed me to break off the overtures. I did not
hesitate to obey, and, renouncing the brilliant fortune
you had promised me, required Clara to quit
the chateau of her lover. Then came the fatal resolution
that destroyed her.
Rosenberg.
Be calm. Your services are not forgotten,
and you shall soon have substantial proof
that there is no need to excite my gratitude. Count
de Valmore is momentarily expected here.
Montalban.
De Valmore! If they should meet!
Rosenberg.
I dread it. It is necessary to accelerate
your departure, to avoid the fatal results of such
an interview.
Montalban.
It is doubtful whether she will consent
to follow me. She regards me as a severe judge,
whose presence is a constant and painful reproach;
and I fear that the friendship with which the princess
honours her may encourage her to resist my
authority.
Rosenberg.
Will she have the audacity?
She is capable of any thing.
Rosenberg.
True; we have bitter proof of that—
but still she looks upon you as her father.
Montalban.
Doubtless. But if the princess oppose
her departure, it may lead to explanations that
it would be prudent to avoid.
Rosenberg.
Should she compel us to that, we must
make known her crime.
Montalban.
Fatal expedient! Is there no one
here upon whose prudence you can depend?
Rosenberg.
Explain.
Montalban.
If reason fail to have influence over
Clara, we must have recourse to stratagem. She
may be secretly abducted.
Rosenberg.
And must be, rather than be permitted
to remain here.
Montalban.
Some one approaches. Dismiss this
intruder, and let us hasten to form a plan that will
relieve you from all your anxiety.
Enter Marcelle and Peter.
Peter.
My lord, I have come to report myself.
You see I have arrived safe and sound after all.
Slow and sure. That's my maxim.
Rosenberg.
It is well, Peter; you come in good
time. [To Montalban.]
This simpleton will answer
your purpose.
Peter.
Allow me to offer a continuation of my
services, my lord. I am very well satisfied with
both you and your cook, and if you are equally so
with me, there needs but two words to the bargain.
Rosenberg.
I will still retain you.
Marcelle.
This kindness, my lord, to my poor
boy—
Rosenberg.
Yes, Marcelle, he shall enter upon his
duties from this hour; and, to commence, I enjoin
upon him to obey whatever orders he may receive
from this gentleman.
Peter.
Obey orders if you break owners; that's
my maxim.
Rosenberg.
Have you, Marcelle, brought with you
your cottage?
Marcelle.
She is with the princess, who loves her
so fondly that, previous to presenting her to you,
she wished her to appear in a manner worthy of herself.
Rosenberg.
Go, and tell the princess to send
Olympia to me, as I would speak to her a few moments
alone. Mark you, alone. [Marcelle hesitates.
Peter.
Devilish strange! Every body wishes to
have a tête-a-tête with pretty Olympia. Shouldn't
object myself.
Rosenberg.
You have heard me. You may add
that I ask it as a favour, and await her compliance.
Marcelle.
But, sir, if the princess—
Rosenberg.
No remarks, but obey.
Peter.
Shut your fly trap, mother, when the big
bugs are abroad. That's my maxim. [exit Marcelle.
Rosenberg.
[To Peter.]
Follow this gentleman,
and obey without hesitation whatever he may command.
[To Montalban.]
See that the horses are
ready, and depart the first favourable moment. I
shall see you within an hour, and give you unequivocal
proofs of my gratitude.
Montalban.
I go to afford additional evidence of
the value I set on your friendship. Come along,
Peter. Courage, Montalban! [exit.
Peter.
What the devil does he want with me!—
If his heart now should be as black as his muzzle!
I begin to feel rather uncomfortable.
Rosenberg.
Well, what are you doing there. Begone.
Be obedient and discreet, and trust to me
for your reward.
Peter.
O! I smell a galley business here. Pardon,
my lord, I obey. Here I go, neck or nothing;
that's my maxim. [exit Peter.
Rosenberg.
Dreadful duty! To tear the daughter
from the mother's arms, and break the hearts of
both. But tyrant honour rules the lofty mind with
whips and scourges, and I must triumph over my
own feelings, lest her opprobrium fall upon my head
This I feared, and foresee that it will be a difficult
task to separate them.
Enter Euphemia and Clara, splendidly dressed.
Euphemia.
Is it true, my lord, that you would
have deprived me of the pleasure of presenting my
Olympia to you?
Rosenberg.
Her presence agitates me, and I am
interested in spite of myself. [aside.
Euphemia.
I could not believe it, and imagined
that Marcelle had misunderstood your words.
Rosenberg.
She faithfully communicated my
wishes. I would interrogate the young stranger,
and discover whether she is deserving of the favour
you have bestowed upon her.
Clara.
If firm attachment and profound respect
for that virtue of which the princess is so bright a
model, are sufficient title to the bounties her kindness
proposes, I will be bold to say, there is no one
more worthy than myself of her regard and confidence.
But, my lord, though I am young, and destitute
of experience, vanity has not yet assumed
such an ascendancy over reason as to induce me to
accept so rashly an honour for which I was never
destined.
Rosenberg.
[To Peter.]
She does herself justice.
Euphemia.
[To Peter.]
I have not deceived
you. She is as diffident as she is lovely.—[to Clara.]
You fear the court and its deceitful splendour.
That salutary fear will save you from danger. Your
indifference to grandeur will excite no jealousy, and
all hearts will be ready to pay you homage.
Rosenberg.
[To Peter.]
I feel for her.
Clara.
I only aspire to your friendship, and instead
of the many proffered favours, I would ask
you to grant but one.—Did I not fear to displease
the Count I would beseech him to use his influence
in obtaining it.
Rosenberg.
A favour; name it.
Euphemia.
An extravagant idea. She would retire
of its most lovely ornaments! What has the world
done to one so young and innocent that you should
manifest such an aversion?—You are distant from
your parents; the court and myself will supply their
places, and we shall love you as our child.
Rosenberg.
[aside.]
Love her as our child!—
Euphemia.
You will recall to our hearts feelings
that have been rudely crushed, and console us for
the heavy loss we have sustained.
Rosenberg.
No, madam, that idea can never be
effaced from my memory. The image of my expiring
child will pursue me to the grave.—I see her—
I hear her still.—Her voice clings to my soul.—She
is overwhelmed with trouble and despair, and in vain
I strive to cast a veil over the fearful catastrophe!—
Urge this no farther, but permit Olympia to follow
her own inclinations. She wishes to renounce the
world and I approve of her decision.
Euphemia.
You fill me with surprise.
Rosenberg.
One of her youth and beauty, destitute
of parents and fortune, cannot better escape the
snares of a corrupt world, than by flying to a place
of refuge where sin may not enter.
Euphemia.
Strange reasons! Have I not said that
I would be as a mother to her.
Rosenberg.
Persist Olympia in your resolution.—
I will aid you to the extent of my power.—Make
choice of your asylum, and this hour, if you desire
it, I will see that you are conducted there, and that
you receive all the comforts becoming your new condition.
Clara.
This kindness overwhelms me.
Euphemia.
Can it be possible, that you, my lord,
who possess a heart so noble and compassionate—
Rosenberg.
Still does it sympathise in the afflictions
of others, though in itself it is but a gloomy
record of a life of sorrows. But let us break off this
interview; it distresses me. She doubtless has not
adopted this course without imperative reason, to
her motives and applaud her resolution.
Clara.
[aside.]
Ah! whither does this tend?
Rosenberg.
Retire, Olympia. They wait to conduct
you to Marcelle's cottage, and to-morrow all
your wishes shall be realized.
Euphemia.
What haste! Do you think Count,
that I can so readily renounce the happy illusion
that my imagination had formed. We cannot be
separated, at all events not so abruptly.—Whether
my partiality is the result of an excited imagination,
or of a sentiment that I am unable to define, I have
not sought to discover, but the source is a pure one
and my project merits your approbation.
Clara.
Ah! madam, my griefs have been sufficient;
do not let me reproach myself with being the
cause of misunderstanding between yourself and
husband.
Enter Montalban.
Montalban.
Count, the Marquis de Valmore has
this moment arrived.
Clara.
[aside.]
Valmore!— [Shouts without.
Montalban.
The shouts of your vassals announce
his presence.
Rosenberg.
My love, let us go and bid him welcome.—
[apart to Clara.]
Olympia, I prohibit you
from appearing in his presence.
Clara.
[aside.] What means that injunction?
Euphemia.
Olympia, I trust you will not leave
the chateau without first seeing me.—[embraces her.]
You promise.—Why do you tremble child?—
Clara.
I promise.—
Montalban.
[apart to Rosenberg.]
All is ready.
Rosenberg.
[to Montalban.]
Conduct her to Marcelle's
dwelling; to night I will meet you there.
Olympia, remain not here.—Montalban, conduct
her into the adjoining apartment, and keep a vigilant
eye upon her.
[Euphemia expresses surprise, Clara horror. Euphemia
takes Rosenberg's hand with impatience, and appears
to quit Clara with regret.]
[Exeunt Rosenberg and Euphemia.
You have heard the orders of the
Count.
Clara.
[too much agitated to hear him.]
Valmore
beneath the same roof with me!—I have not seen
him since that day of ceaseless agony.—Chance has
conducted him to this spot; another opportunity may
never occur on earth, and I will seize the occasion
to justify myself.—That thought inspires my heart
with renewed energy.
Montalban.
What madness do you contemplate?
Can you imagine that de Valmore will remain for an
instant in your presence.
Clara.
He shall remain. During the course of my
fatal trial I in vain endeavoured to see him. He refused.—But
since the hand of fate has at length
brought us together, he shall hear me, until his heart
confesses how deeply I've been injured.
Montalban.
I will not consent to so distressing an
interview.
Clara.
He believes me criminal. Doubtless detests
me!—and I sink beneath the burthen of his
hate.—Alas! I do not aspire to his love. I renounce
that hope forever; but still I may regain his esteem,
and when he knows how cruelly I have suffered he
may accord to me a tear of pity.—Convinced of my
innocence, he will cease to curse a name once so
dear to him, and perhaps, strive to soothe a lacerated
heart where his image is indelibly engraved.
Montalban.
[aside.]
Dangers are gathering fast.
—Retire my child.
Clara.
No.— I will not retire.
Montalban.
Do not oblige me to step beyond the
character of a father to enforce obedience.
Clara.
Nor me, beyond the duty of a child to vindicate
myself.—Here I remain.
Montalban.
Audacious girl!
Clara.
Banish your fears. I shall justify myself
in his eyes without accusing you. Your secret is
buried in my bosom, and I have already given sufficient
proof, that even the rack cannot extort it from
me.—Rest satisfied.
a
Montalban.You count too much upon your resolution.—They
come.—This way; follow me.—Resistance
is useless.—Clara, I beseech you leave this
place, ere you encounter a man whose presence excites
so much apprehension.
Clara.
Go, and leave me. I am resolved to meet
him.
Montalban.
For the last time I bid you withdraw.
—[seizes her.]
I will not hear you.—Nay, then,
if persuasion fail force must be resorted to.
Clara.
Monster! Is this then the reward for all
my sacrifices.
[She breaks from him and runs to the door. Montalban
follows and closes it. She returns and shrieks in despair.]
Help, help, for the love of Heaven!
[Montalban seizes her by the arm and forces her off by a
door in the side wing.]
Montalban.
You struggle in vain. And thus I
avert the fearful destiny that you would madly call
down upon us both. [exeunt.
[Enter in procession, pages and guards preceding Euphemia.
Then Rosenberg and de Valmore, to whom
Euphemia gives her hand. They are followed by vassals
of both sexes, with Marcelle at their head.]
Euphemia to Valmore.
Illustrious cavalier, in
whom loyalty and valour so happily conjoin, behold
in the homage of my people, the esteem of the Lithuanians
for the powerful nation you represent.
Valmore.
These voluntary tributes are grateful to
the receiver, and eulogy is doubly flattering from
the lips of a princess such as you are.
[Euphemia gives signal, and the fete commences. During
the prelude she perceives Marcelle, and whispers
to her. Marcelle manifests joy and goes out. Valmore
and Rosenberg conduct Euphemia to her place.—
Dance.—After the ballet, Marcelle enters in haste and
says—
Marcelle.
Madam, hasten to the aid of Olympia.
They have borne her away, and her resistance proves
that it is contrary to your wishes and her own.
Borne her away! Quick, fly my friends
and restore her to me. [Exeunt vassals.
Marcelle.
Luckily, madam, my son Peter drives
the carriage, and when he heard my voice he refused
to go on.
Euphemia.
What audacious wretch has committed
this outrage within the very precincts of my palace.
Rosenberg.
Nothing has been done without my
orders.
Euphemia.
Your orders! Count, you amaze me.
Rosenberg.
I cannot longer conceal from you that
Olympia is unworthy of your bounty. She is here
under an assumed name, and the person who has
borne her away has claims upon her of a more sacred
nature than yours.
Vassals.
[behind.]
She is here, she is here.
Enter Clara, Montalban, and Vassals.
Marcelle.
[goes to Clara.]
My dear Olympia, let
me conduct you to the arms of your benefactress.
There no danger can approach you.
Clara,
[apart.]
Valmore! I tremble in his presence.
[Throws herself into the arms of Euphemia, who receives
her with transports.
Valmore.
O! heavens! Do my eyes deceive me,
or is it Clara that I behold!
Montalban.
Yes, signor, it is my wretched daughter,
whom I in vain endeavoured to keep from your
presence.
Euphemia.
Your daughter!
[Looks with horror upon her.
Clara.
[to Valmore, throwing herself at his feet.]
Ah! signor, stay, stay I beseech you. Moderate the
indignation with which you behold me. Hear the
appeal of persecuted innocence, for it is perhaps
the last time you will be allowed to hear it.
Valmore.
Innocence! Wretched girl, withdraw—
the sight of you is horror!
Clara.
No, no, I will cling to your knees until
you deign to hear me. I have more than life at
shall hear me.
Valmore.
Too many proofs attest your crime. In
return for love the most devoted, you assassinated
my child. You, whom he adored—called by the
tender name of mother, and clung to as his support
and guide. Is it for a father to pardon an outrage
so horrible!
Clara.
[rising.]
I answer, no! But the more
atrocious the crime the less reason you have to impute
it to me.
Valmore.
Who else had an interest in doing it?
Sole possessor of the wealth of my ancestors, his life
defeated the ambition that inflamed your soul, and
you wished to open to your children a source of
fortune, of which his existence would have effectually
deprived them.
Clara.
God, what a thought! Where is there
safety on earth, when the pure in heart can impute
the blackest motives to the innocent, and upon their
bare knowledge of human frailty convict the accused
of crimes too horrible even for fiends to contemplate.
Valmore.
What other motive could exist?
Clara.
Again! Say then it did exist—that idea
alone should draw the veil from your eyes;—still
think me capable of a crime so atrocious; believe
me the calculating fiend you have pictured, in spite
of all that has passed between us, and then answer
me whether it would have been in character to have
selected the time we were about to be united, for the
performance of such a deed. No. Once your wife,
and the step-mother of Julian, would I not have had
a thousand occasions to have destroyed him without
leaving the slightest vestige of my crime.
Valmore.
These thoughts are the result of after
reflection.
Marcelle.
[regarding Mont. with indignation.]
He hears it all, and is silent. Not even a frown.
Defend her, sir.
Montalban.
[manifests rage]
Away!
a
Euphemia.What means this, Marcelle?
Marcelle.
Is he not her father?
Valmore.
What can he urge in her defence? She
was condemned before her judges. It was there he
should have spoken.
Marcelle.
And did he not speak—not even there?
Valmore.
What could he allege against truth
which overwhelmed her with shame and dismay.
Marcelle.
What could not a parent allege in defence
of a child! O! if he had been a father, nature
would have furnished him with voice and argument,
though truth had flashed like a stream of light
from heaven.
Rosenberg.
[aside.]
That thought!
Clara.
You speak of my judges. They were but
mortals, liable to be deceived, and took appearances
for reality.
Rosenberg.
It was for you to enlighten their consciences.
Why did you not do it? The situation
in which you were surprised admitted of but two
constructions. You were either the author or the
witness of the assassination.
Valmore.
Reply to that.
Marcelle.
[apart.]
O! that I dare.
Clara.
Fatal duty!
Euphemia.
Answer, Clara. We all desire that
you should appear innocent.
Clara.
I am innocent. I asserted it before my
judges—I proclaim it to the whole world—I repeat
it with the accents of despair—I swear it in the
presence of Him who reads the inmost thoughts of
all hearts—I am innocent! But such is the horror
of my destiny that I dare not cite the guilty wretch
before a human tribunal to meet the heavy punishment
imposed on me.
Valmore.
I have listened to you too long. Hence,
from my sight forever.
Clara.
What! you still refuse to credit me? Ah!
Valmore do not turn from me—do not crush the last
hope I have on earth. [approaches him.
Valmore.
[recoiling.]
Approach me not. I still
my child; and his death remains unavenged. Fly,
fly from my presence. Hate and disdain have taken
the place of love in this wounded heart. Away—
lest in my agony I curse you.
Clara.
Curse me!
Valmore.
If there is justice in heaven it will yet
inflict all the anguish on your heart that you have
heaped on mine.
Clara.
[wildly.]
What!—wherefore do you pursue
me? Is there no hiding place on earth?—no
safety this side the grave!
Valmore.
Montalban, free me from her odious
presence.
Clara.
Still, still they follow me! That voice!
Men are changed to fiends, and hunt me down. Still
I care not though all on earth were open-mouthed
against me, if that voice were not in the fearful cry,
urging them on. O! that voice!
Montalban.
Come, come, my child.
Clara.
[in despair.]
O! God, if it is your will to
try me, I will bear all. Give me but strength, but
strength!
Montalban.
Clara, we must begone.
Clara.
Not yet, it is not time. Hark! they follow,
and I am too feeble to move. Hide me! Ha!
darkness surrounds me. That is well. Hist!—my
heart throbs with pain—my head is bursting—my
eyes grow dim! All's dark—dark—dark—
[She places her hands on her forhead, and stands stupified.
Rosenberg.
Painful sight.
Euphemia.
My heart bleeds for her.
Clara.
[Looks wildly around, and beholds Montalban.
She fixes her eyes steadfastly on him, then recoils
with horror.]
Where am I! You here! Wherefore
are you here? Speak, where am I?
Montalban.
With your heart-broken father.
Clara.
My father! You my father! O, mockery!
[Gesture as if she would repulse him.
Is it possible that in her frenzy she
can spurn even me! [approaches her.
Clara.
Go, go, go—I ask but that.
Euphemia.
What means this terror at the sight of
her father?
[Clara again casts her eyes over the scene. She approaches
Rosenberg, who points out Montalban to her.
She recoils.]
Clara.
O! no, no, no! Not even a tear bedims his
eyes, although he is my father! You would not have
me follow him? You cannot mean it!
[Rosenberg turns from her; she tremblingly approaches
de Valmore, who points to Montalban. She exclaims
in a tone of despair—
Send me to the grave. I will meet death cheerfully,
if it is your will, but save me from that man.
Montalban, do your duty.
Clara.
I have said I would die. Will not that
content ye? Ye can but have my life, and I will
yield it.
Rosenberg.
Montalban, I say!
Clara.
They are not human! [Turns to Euphemia.]
I appeal to you. Angel of light! do not
abandon me! They are not human! How have
they treated me! They charge me with the worst
of crimes—yet I am innocent! Pursue me as a
wretch unfit to live—yet will not let me die!
[Euphemia averts her face.
Do not turn from me! Not one look!—one word!
abandoned at last by you—even you! 'Tis well,
'tis well! I now can die!
[Faints, supported by Marcelle.
Euphemia.
This trial has been too severe. I will
protect her until the truth's discovered!
Tableau.
[Curtain falls.
3. ACT III.
Scene I.—An apartment in the chateau. Enter Marcelle and Peter.Peter.
Well mother, what think you of all these
strange doings?
Marcelle.
I am enraged that I dare not speak my
mind.
Peter.
That's enough to enrage any woman.
Marcelle.
[to herself.]
But what good will come
out of accusing Montalban? They will punish him,
but his daughter will not be less unhappy! There is
nothing but grief and despair on all sides.
Peter.
Very true, mother. Our fete's knocked
on the head.—Olympia is in affliction, every body's
in the dumps; no more dancing—and to crown our
misfortunes, I fear the dinner will be overdone before
they have an appetite to eat it.—But grin and
bear it, that's my maxim.
Marcelle.
Poor Clara!—
Peter.
How refreshing it smells.—Delicious perfume!
They may talk of their Arabian gums, but to
my taste there is no odour half as fragrant as the
steam of a kitchen.
Marcelle.
Have you observed how thoughtful
Montalban appears?
Peter.
Good Lord, not I. I have been talking with
the cook on the philosophy of roasting venison.—
He's a magnificent creature; formed when nature
was in one of her most bountiful moods! They may
talk of Alexander the Great and Julius Cæar, but I
would wager my appetite to a mess of porridge, he
would beat them all hollow in basting a turkey.—If
I were not Peter, I would be that cook.
Marcelle.
[abstractedly.]
I must see him, for I
have a great desire to speak to him.
Peter.
You shall see him, mother,—and you shall
him while he is roasting the wild boar, for then he is
hot and peppery, and snaps one up as short as a griskin.
All great men are irritable; passionate myself
at times.
Marcelle.
Of whom are you speaking?
Peter.
Of whom?—My friend the cook!
Marcelle.
[impatiently.]
Insatiable glutton, you
should blush to think of nothing but eating, at a time
we are all overwhelmed with grief.
Peter.
Am I the cause? Am I exempt from disappointment?
Was not I to be the cock of the walk
in the amusements; and is not the whole affair
knocked on the head, and my comb cut as smooth
as your chin?—Answer me that, mother, and then
handle me with gloves on, I beseech you. Disappointments
indeed!—There's my speech!—What
use can I make of it now!—And such a speech!—
Listen, mother.—“Illustrious Princess—”
Marcelle.
I have no time to listen to your fiddle
faddle.
Peter.
Don't interrupt me.—“Illustrious princess,
on this momentous occasion—”
Marcelle.
Po, po, hold your tongue, you silly fellow.
Peter.
Zounds! I say, mother, you shall hear my
speech. Sit down; I am charged to the muzzle,
and you may expect to hear a pretty loud report.—
“Illustrious—” [forcing her into a chair.
Marcelle.
Come, it is time for us to be going home.
Peter.
Home!—what!—without dinner?—are you
mad?
Marcelle.
What should we do here?
Peter.
Eat the dinner if we die by it.—Victory
or death,—that's my maxim.
Marcelle.
Grief is depicted in every countenance.
Clara is so distressed that no one can speak to her.
—The princess is disconsolate.—Valmore pensive
and taciturn, and the count, which most astonishes
me, is still more affected than the others.—Montalban
is sullen, and appears more like one who meditates
comes. Observe him. Has he not the step of a
criminal?
Peter.
Yes, mother, on the way to the gallows.
Enter Montalban.
Montalban.
How does my daughter find herself?
Marcelle.
Ill at ease.
Montalban.
Can I see her?
Marcelle.
For what purpose?
Montalban.
Am I not her father?
Marcelle.
Her father! True, to her sorrow she has
a father.
Peter.
[apart to Marcelle.]
Softly, you tread
upon his kibes.
Montalban.
What mean you by that remark?
Marcelle.
Ask your own heart.
[Montalban betrays passion, but suddenly checks himself.]
Peter.
[apart to Marcelle.]
You'll have all the fat
in the fire presently, mother.
Marcelle.
Your presence makes a strange impression
on her.
Montalban.
With reason, since she is so highly
culpable.
Marcelle.
Culpable! And do you accuse her?
Montalban.
Is it in my power to defend her?
Marcelle.
Who has it more in his power than yourself?
Montalban.
[regarding her sternly—apart.]
O!
rage!
Marcelle.
She has related her misfortunes to me;
and though she appears to the world in the light of
a criminal, if I were but allowed to express my suspicions,
I would wager my life that you know better
than any other that Clara is innocent.
Peter.
[apart.]
Softly.—You tickle him till he
grins.
Montalban.
Are you aware of what you say!—
What an absurd idea!—Can you suppose a father
had it in his power to save her? You are a parent,
Marcelle.
Marcelle.
We sometimes see a child more worthy
than his father, and who would encounter even a
death of ignominy, for his sake.
Peter.
True, mother, that is my maxim. I would
even forego tasting the wild boar to gratify you.
Montalban.
Unworthy woman, are you aware of
the barbarity of your calumnious imputations, and
the punishment that you may invoke upon yourself.
But hear and mark my words. If you breathe a
syllable by which another may entertain the most
distant idea of your odious suspicion, I swear I shall
call down vengeance on your head equally just and
terrible.
Peter.
O that tongue of yours, mother! I knew
how it would be. Out of the frying-pan into the
fire, that's my maxim.
Marcelle.
Bah! bah! I don't fear his menaces.
Peter.
Ha! the count is coming.—I'll go take a
turn in the kitchen and meditate on the vanity of
human wishes. [exit.
Marcelle.
I leave you to go and confer with your
daughter. She is happy in the midst of her misfortunes
in finding hearts more capable of feeling than
your own. [exit.
Montalban.
[looking after her.]
What a woman!
—Is it possible she has become acquainted with
Clara's secret!—If I supposed so.—But the Count
is here.—Now to ascertain whether his suspicions
have also been awakened.
Enter Rosenberg.
Well, Count.
Rosenberg.I am in despair. Clara persists in
disclosing nothing. Until this day I was disposed
to believe her guilty, but now my soul is divided between
hope and fear.—Ah! Montalban, what a dreadful
state for a father!
Montalban.
Calm your feelings. Think of the
weakness expose yourself to the scorn of the world.
Rosenberg.
Barbarous prejudice!
Montalban.
It is unjust, still it exists, and the
high-born have as much to fear from it as the lowly.
Rosenberg.
I admit it.—But since she has returned
to her country, even to our presence, should
she not find an asylum, where without fear of the
future she may await her justification.—An event
difficult to imagine, but perhaps not impossible.
Montalban.
What a project!—This hope appears
chimerical. Certainly I should be the last to instil
doubt in your mind, but since she has constantly refused
to make a confession even to me, which I have
solicited with tears and prayers, to what other cause
can we attribute her silence, than to a full conviction
of the impossibility of affecting the solemn judgment
that condemned her.
Rosenberg.
True, true, but still she is my child.
Montalban.
Remember that one accused—trembling
between life and death, has little regard for the
safety or feelings of others. If he had the power he
would overturn nature itself to put aside the sword
of justice, and create suspicions, which of themselves
should condemn him to breathe his last sigh
upon the scaffold.
Rosenberg.
Still we have had examples of the innocent
perishing in the place of the guilty.
Montalban.
Granted. But when one is connected
by blood even with the throne itself, he should rise
superior to the weakness of nature, rather than run
the chance of an experiment so uncertain and dangerous.
The wounds of the heart heal of themselves,
but honour once lost is never to be recovered.
Rosenberg.
But where is the danger in permitting
Clara to remain in her country?
Montalban.
Should she be recognised—
Rosenberg.
I will conceal her from the eyes of
all.
Montalban.
Impossible!—Your vassals already
know that she is here. This news passes from
will soon despatch their agents in pursuit of
her.—That they will reclaim her is certain; what
then will be your feelings! You will be reduced to
the cruel necessity of delivering her to her executioners,
or of declaring yourself to be her father, and
it is still doubtful whether even such a declaration
would be sufficient to save her.
Rosenberg.
Your conjectures are frightful, but
cannot destroy in my heart the sentiment that speaks
in her favour. The presumption of her innocence
presents an image so seductive, and creates so exalted
an idea of her courage and virtue, that I reproach
myself for the rigour of my proceedings
against her. Judge of my despair should my desertion
be the cause of her death, and her innocence
be one day made manifest! Ah! Montalban, save
me from the remorse that would follow!
Montalban.
[aside.]
He is not to be shaken.
Rosenberg.
Place yourself in my situation. Since
your heart is so deeply affected even by friendship,
you can readily judge what it must cost me to
renounce the sacred title by which nature has bound
me to her.
Montalban.
[aside.]
I must try what fear will do.
No, count, I will not place myself in your situation.
I have felt too long the curse that attaches to it, and
now I am resolved to return to my own humble but
honourable station in society.
Rosenberg.
What mean you?
Montalban.
Friendship has blinded me, but reason
at length awakens me to honour. Protect in your
bosom a daughter whose crime will stamp upon your
name a blot never to be effaced. Cover her with
caresses, though nature recoils while caressing her;
but for me, I prefer the esteem of my fellow men,
to your fruitless and dangerous benefactions.
Rosenberg.
You would not divulge the secret of
her birth?
Montalban.
Should it be divulged without my participation,
in what light would I stand before the
They shun me for having a daughter so guilty, but
if another's lips were to publish that she is your
child, I should be execrated as a mercenary wretch,
willing to traffic his sacred honour for gold. The
pity I inspire would be converted to scorn, and I
should forfeit all claims to the protection of mankind.
Rosenberg.
What proofs would you have from
me? Express your wishes, and I will accomplish
them on the instant.
Montalban.
I have done. Follow your own resolution,
and I will accomplish mine. But should
Clara perish in disgrace, her mother become distracted
in despair, you may, perhaps, when too late,
reproach yourself with the tragic result of your
hasty determination. After having been disgraced
by your prince for a marriage that he condemned,
should you now encounter the hate of his successor,
from the monstrous results produced by that alliance,
you can reproach yourself alone for all your disasters.
When abandoned by your friends, and humbled
by malignity, you will have reason to regret not
having followed the councils of a man who has
given you so many fruitless proofs of his devotion.
Rosenberg.
Ah! cease to wound a heart already
tormented by its own sorrows. Still let us await
until the close of the day. We will again see Clara,
and make a last effort to draw the truth from her,
and should it not prove successful, I promise to
abandon her to your guidance.
Montalban.
I dare not trust your courage.
Rosenberg.
Your presence will sustain me.
Montalban.
It would be more prudent to renounce
this interview.
Rosenberg.
I have promised it at the solicitation
of the princess.
Montalban.
You can evade the promise. Ha!
they come! No, 'tis de Valmore alone. Collect
yourself, lest your agitation awaken his suspicions.
Enter Valmore.
Valmore.
Clara is more composed. The princess,
who is unwilling to leave her for an instant, is
about to conduct her to us.
Montalban.
What can you hope from another interview?
Why annoy her with useless questions?
If she has discoveries to make, would she have
waited until this time to justify herself?
Valmore.
This language is extraordinary from
your lips. Instead of being grateful for the interest
we manifest, you seem disposed to throw obstacles
in our way.
Montalban.
I, signor! Such an intention is distant
from my thoughts. Still I would spare her
feelings, knowing that no good can arise from the
torture to which you would subject her.
Valmore.
[fixedly.]
Do you assist in the examination
about to take place?
Montalban.
Who should interrogate her, if not
her father?
Valmore.
[observing him.]
The princess has remarked
that your presence—nay, the bare mention
of your name, agitates her in a manner beyond her
control.
Montalban.
Ought not a daughter who has entailed
deathless shame upon her family to shrink at the
sight of the father she has dishonoured?
Valmore.
So we imagined. But that woman,
Marcelle, who appears so fondly attached to Clara,
and with whom she has lived for three months on
terms of the closest intimacy, attributes these sentiments
to another cause.
Rosenberg.
Then there is still hope, thank heaven!
Montalban.
[apart to Rosenberg.]
Count, you
will betray yourself. And this cause; pray has she
explained it to you?
Valmore.
No; but in spite of all, she believes
Clara's heart to be spotless, and her courage beyond
all praise.
Montalban.
[observing Rosenberg.]
Count, be
prudent. The prejudice of a weak mind in favour
secured her friendship.
Valmore.
Is it not possible that in a moment of
confidence Clara has made her the depository of her
secret?
Montalban.
You suppose then that a secret exists?
Valmore.
Should you be displeased if it were so?
Montalban.
Be careful how you credit it; though
heaven is my witness I would abandon all earthly
hopes to know it.
Valmore.
Why then have you all along rejected
the idea?
Montalban.
I fear to indulge in it. The disappointment
would be as severe as the first dreadful
blow. But I am not astonished at your credulity.
You love Clara. Your fatal passion has perhaps
been rekindled by her presence, and it is painful to
hate when the heart is burning with love. So far
from blaming your efforts, I will second them with
all my power. Endeavour to discover that innocence
in my daughter that I have so frequently
sought for in vain, and with transports I will bless
the hand that restores me to honour and happiness.
Valmore.
The attempt shall be made.
Montalban.
She comes. Interrogate her. I will
hear all without interfering; but this is the last time,
I trust, that you will compel her to appear before
you.
Enter Euphemia, Clara, Marcelle.
[Clara advances slowly, supported by Marcelle. Euphemia
precedes them, and should have time to speak
before Clara descends.]
Euphemia.
Gentlemen, in order to obtain her
consent to appear again before you, I have promised
that she shall be treated with that delicacy which
her situation is entitled to. Inspire her with confidence
by the mildness of your proceedings, for it is
the only way to obtain her confession.
Montalban.
[apart.]
This, I hope, is my last
trial.
Clara.
O! temper with mercy the power that my
those questions that I am resolved never to answer,
deign to point out an asylum to me where I may
terminate in peace a life, the morning of which promised
a close less fatal.
Valmore.
Listen to me, Clara. We wish to behold
you receiving that homage and respect due to
beauty and virtue. If possible, restore you to the
world.
Clara.
I ask not that. Rather draw a veil as
inky as midnight between me and this world. That
would be an act of mercy; the other, punishment.
Valmore.
Nay, nay. Allow me but one question.
From all that you have said, we presume that you
beheld the murderer.
Clara.
Not again—O, not again!
Valmore.
Clara, pardon me. If you have not denounced
him, is it from motives of fear or affection,
or that you could not at the time mark him sufficiently
to establish an accusation precise and positive?
Clara.
[Her eyes wander from one to another, and
finally fixing on Montalban, she says with effort.]
That's it—I could not. The last motive has kept
me silent.
Valmore.
You are not now before inflexible judges,
who will tax as artifice the assertions of one accused
should he be unable to establish their truth. Name
the person you suspect. Measures shall be taken to
verify this important fact, and every circumspection
used that the delicacy of the case requires. Nothing
shall be divulged, unless we obtain sufficient
proof, and then with what ardour shall I not enter
upon your defence, if we have the good fortune to
unmask the wretch who has thrown upon you the
burthen of his crime.
Clara.
Vain hope.—A rampart, impassable, protects
him from the blow.
Rosenberg.
The greater reason that he should not
be spared.—If he has nothing to fear from our resentment,
whence arises this concern that you have
for him?
Reflect upon the happy change that
this confession would make in your own situation.—
In seeing another denounced, your friends would
examine the actions of his life, and the circumstances
of the crime; and though the veil of mystery in which
it is enveloped should prove too dark for truth to
appear, still a doubt will be created that must result
in your favour.
Clara.
Ah! cease to assail me with arguments so
powerful.
Montalban.
Courage my child. All our hearts
are open to you. If there is a criminal, deliver him
without remorse to our vengeance.—Surrender him,
I say, to the scaffold, and return him torment for
torment.—Triumph, my child, whilst he expires
amidst tortures that justice reserves for the guilty,
and bears to his felon grave the public execrations
he would have entailed upon you.
Clara.
Ah! horrible thought!
Marcelle.
[apart.]
His heartlessness shocks me.
O! that I were allowed to ask her a question.
Valmore.
What would you ask?
Euphemia.
Speak, Marcelle.
Rosenberg.
Go on. I allow you.
Montalban.
What!—Count!
Rosenberg.
Let her explain herself.
Clara.
Marcelle be careful that you commit no
imprudence.
Marcelle.
The wretch, then, has in your eyes a
title so sacred that you prefer your own death to his
degradation?
Clara.
[troubled.]
Marcelle!—I will speak no
more.
Marcelle.
The thing is plain. You are innocent;
you have said so, and your tears attest it. Still the
crime was committed,—you beheld the assassin, and
rather than name him, heroically submit to the worst
conjectures. So fearful a sacrifice could only be
prompted by the strong feelings which nature or
profound love implants in a magnanimous heart, and
could rest.
Valmore.
What a strange supposition.
Montalban.
Urge no farther this audacity and imprudence.
Marcelle.
Why this passion.—Be cautious.—
True, I have been guilty of presumption, but I have
not accused you.
Clara.
Marcelle, excess of friendship carries you
too far.—Imitate my reserve, and cease to bring in
question those who have suffered already too much
by my misfortune.
Marcelle.
Yes, doubtless, here is one who has suffered,
and has reason to grieve.—[pointing at Valmore.]
—
But the other is a monster who deserves
to be strangled.
Euphemia.
What language!
Montalban.
Count, will you not impose silence
on that slanderous woman.
Marcelle.
Do you wish it?—But the count has
allowed me to speak, and I will speak in spite of
you.
Clara.
You can affirm nothing.—Your conjectures
are false, fearfully false!—It is useless to propagate
the error by which you are deluded.—I protest
against all that you have said—all you have conjectured.
Marcelle.
Holy nature! and yet his lips were sealed
in the midst of your fiery trial!—I cannot bear the
idea of crime triumphing over persecuted virtue.—
You beheld the criminal—you recognised him, and
though nature may prevent you from breathing his
name, there is nothing to compel me to that generous
silence.
Rosenberg.
Well.
Euphemia.
Go on.
Valmore.
Do you know the wretch?
Marcelle.
[Pointing at Montalban.]
Behold him
there!
Euphemia.
Her father!
Montalban.
What madness!
Have you any proofs!
Clara.
Proofs!—O! no, she has no proofs!—And
you would not credit such a charge as this without
the clearest proof.
Marcelle.
She herself told me that she was going
to embrace your child when she recognised the monster
who preceded her into the apartment. Surprised
and trembling, she concealed herself, and
was not apprised of his crime, until she beheld the
bloody dagger which he threw upon her without being
aware of her presence.
Rosenberg.
What new light is this that breaks
upon me!
Clara.
[with energy.]
I deny it all.—These are
mere suspicions, vague, unsubstantiated, and before
you all I deny the guilty imputation.
Rosenberg.
Courageous girl! I now divine the
motive that influences your magnanimous conduct.
Clara.
[With increased energy.]
No,—I say to
you, they accuse him wrongfully.—He is innocent.—
Come my father.—Let us quit this place, and seek
an asylum where calumny cannot reach us.—Come,
come! You have a daughter still.—[Leads Montalban
away.]
Rosenberg.
Hold!—Guards arrest him.
Enter Guards, Peter and Vassals.
Montalban.
What! Count, are you aware what
you are about to do?—Arrested!
Rosenberg.
Think how to defend yourself.—Clara,
approach.
Clara.
I remain with my father. His fate is
mine.
Rosenberg.
I see it all.—It is to the sacred title
Montalban bears, that you would immolate yourself
so generously. Satisfy me of your innocence, and
I will instantly prove to you that he is not your
father.
Clara.
Gracious heavens! not my father!
Valmore.
What do I hear!
Montalban.
[apart.]
I am lost!
a
Rosenberg.[takes Clara's hand.]
O! Clara, cease
to appear criminal from excess of virtue. Behold
the contending feelings by which my bosom is agitated.—Witness
these tears.—Their fountain is both
joy and grief.—Still if you doubt my transports are
sincere, turn to your fond mother's arms, and there
fully enjoy the blessing that has so long been withheld
from you.
Clara.
My mother! Do I dream! My mother!
Euphemia.
Count, what fabrication is this?
Rosenberg.
No, madam. Behold your child,
whom I was about to sacrifice to the miserable pride
that tyrannizes over man. But, innocent or guilty,
she is ours, and as such must be acknowledged to
the world.
Euphemia.
[embracing Clara.]
Unlooked for happiness!
Montalban.
[apart.]
The thunderbolt has fallen!
Clara.
[embraces Rosenberg.]
O, my father!—
And he, for whom I have endured so much! O!
away!
Valmore.
Wretched villain!
Clara.
Yes, Valmore, behold the murderer of
Julian!
Valmore.
Hell has not sufficient tortures to punish
you for your wicked deeds.
Montalban.
Spare me your fruitless reproaches.
I might, by a positive denial, prolong my life, and
perhaps escape the punishment that awaits me.
But what is existence in a world like this! Death
is preferable, and I approach his reeking altar without
fear. The heroic conduct of that virtuous girl
has awakened feelings that have long been buried,
and fiendlike as I have been, I will yet make one
sacrifice to virtue. I am the criminal!
Valmore.
What motive could impel you to such a
deed?
Montalban.
A motive, capable of rending every
human tie asunder, and for which man will forfeit
even his inheritance in heaven—avarice! Is it
astonishing that the lowly and the oppressed should
and the prosperous its votaries and its victims?
Clara's father had promised me a liberal recompense
if I should effect a union between you and his
daughter. One obstacle interposed,—a fatal one to
his views,—and I removed it, believing that by one
blow I should become disenthralled from the heavy
load an oppressive world had heaped upon me. I
have done—lead me to my prison.
[Led off by guards.
Euphemia.
O, my child! The mystery is at last
unveiled that so long deprived us of each other's
love.
Valmore.
Noble minded Clara! What mortal
could believe himself worthy of possessing a heart
such as yours!
Rosenberg.
We have found him, Valmore, and
when we have restored this courageous victim of
error, we promise not to dispose of her without first
consulting you. Good Marcelle, you shall never
quit my daughter; her happiness and mine are
owing to your friendship. [To vassals.]
And you,
my friends, recognise in Clara the child of your benefactress,
and participate in the happiness of a
father, who offers you in this virtuous pledge of his
love, a heart to solace you in your misfortunes.
[The Curtain falls.
| The actress of Padua, and other tales | |