 | The actress of Padua, and other tales |  |
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 | |