University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Anselmo's Palace,
Enter Anselmo with a Paper, and Adorno.
Anselmo.
From Ferdinand himself.—

Ador.
From Ferdinand!

Ansel.
From him, Adorno.—But observe his words!
“Touch'd with the various miseries of Venice,
“The first of Europe's kings salutes the senate;
“And offers peace, nay friendship to their realms,
“Peace uncondition'd, and eternal friendship,”

Ador.
What! has the royal ruffian been inform'd
That France has sued us to become her subject;
And does he, fearful of our base assent,
Fearful his rival shou'd obtain our homage,
Give up his own despotic claim upon us,
And rather choose to set us wholly free,
Than see his foe acknowledg'd for our master?

Ansel.
Too plain.—Perdition on his recreant head!
His motive may be seen.—Too plain, his fears
Wou'd now usurp the guise of high-soul'd virtue:
But tho' we know the source of this proposal,
Tho' we are certain that his late defeats,
Join'd to his dread of our receiving Lewis,
Have dragg'd the trembling tyrant from his throne,
To dastart supplication—still his offers
Demand our prompt acceptance—he consents
To yield up all our towns—our captive sons—
To cease for ever his detested claim,
And treat us henceforth, as a sep'rate nation,
A dear ally, but independent people.

Ador.
But say, my lord, what minister he sends,
To sign these terms of unexpected peace?
Fraud and the royal hypocrite are one;
Nor can we trust securely to his word,
When once his int'rest urges him to break it.

Ansel.
That very int'rest is our hostage now—
And here too, conscious of our glad concurrence,
He speeds his Alva to confirm the treaty;
Who comes beneath safe-conduct from Colonna,
(Supplying now my absence in the fleet)
And will arrive at Venice ere the eve.

Ador.
So soon?

Ansel.
So says the letter.—But, my friend,
Haste hence!—Convene the senators—the people!—
Within an hour I'll meet them at Saint Mark's;
There, when our peace is happily restor'd,
They shall receive their government again,
And find a subject in their present ruler.
[Exit Adorno.
Enter Palermo.
Joy to my son!—to Venice boundless joy!—
O my Palermo! I have news that asks
An angel's tongue.—

Pal.
And I have news, that howl'd
In deepest hell, wou'd make the demons tremble.—
Clementina—

Ansel.
Ha! what of her, Palermo?

Paler,
Is false, perfidious—

Ansel.
How?

Pal.
Doats on another!

Ansel.
Beware, Palermo, this capricious temper!
Doubt seldom lodges in a noble mind;
And he scarce merits to be treated justly,
Whose jealous soul, on a light foundation, questions
Th'unsullied lustre of another's virtue—
Retract then quick this hasty accusation,
And kindly say my hapless child is dead,
But dare not once to tell me she is worthless!

Pal.
On light foundation did I doubt, my lord,
This sharp reproach had been indeed deserv'd;
But if incessant coldness, if contempt,
If open insult for protesting love.
And ev'n a noon-day fondness for a stranger,
Are honest grounds of rational suspicion,
Then have I cause for rage and indignation—

Ansel.
By heav'n, 'tis false! nor shall my child be wrong'd
By any coinage of a dotard's madness;
Her soul, superior to the sland'rous charge,
Has prov'd its worth to more than Roman greatness;
And if she meant not to accept your vows,
Her sense—her pride—her virtue had repuls'd them
—Fond of a stranger—Tell me, Sir—what stranger,
What mighty object has alarm'd your fears:,
And kindled hell's most fiercely blazing fire,
The fire of groundless jealousy within you?

Pal.
Why will Anselmo treat me with contempt,
And wound the wounded with the darts of scorn?
Think you I rave, or that my restless brain,
Ingenious, seeks out sources of misfortune?
But what if hid within yon secret arbour
You shou'd yourself detect them—what if there
You knew them long conceal'd? What if you saw
Her alabaster arm, as I have seen it,
O damning sight! thrown round the happy villain,
Wou'd you not then with me conclude her lost,
And think this ample evidence to prove
The plain perdition of her monstrous falshood?

Ansel.
And were you, Sir, like me, a father,
Like me, a doating father—had your child
Thro' life maintain'd an unsuspected honour,
And rose in virtue as she rose in beauty;
Wou'd you believe, at reason's full meridian,
A maid thus pure, thus eminently spotless,
Cou'd plunge at once in infamy eternal,
And set fame, fortune, happiness at nought,
Thro' instant passion for a total stranger?

Paler.
My Lord, I come not with an idiot's tale,
Or wish Anselmo in an angry mood
Shou'd, as an infant, chide a thoughtless daughter:
No; I disdain the thought—I come to guard
No less his honour than my own—to shew
Our mutual danger—and advise, that Granville
May be this moment order'd to his France—
As yet, tho' highly erring, Clementina
Cannot be compleatly guilty—Send, then,
Her new-found fav'rite instantly from Venice—
She still is undestroy'd; and Granville,
Tho' thrice my sword avengingly was drawn,
Safe from this arm, enjoys the law of nations.

Ansel.
Rash—desp'rate youth, forbear to urge my temper—
Or, by yon heav'n, the friendship which I hold you,
No more o'erlooks this treatment of my child—
She false—She shameless—Kneel, blasphemer, kneel,
Fall at her feet, and own you've lost your reason;
For nought but madness can excuse the wound,
Which virtue feels in injur'd Clementina.

Paler.
They're in the arbour yet—convince yourself—
And see how far I wound the cause of virtue,
In this report of faithless Clementina.

Ansel.
I will this instant—But remember, Sir,
Unless your charge proceeds from some mistake
Of probable appearance—unless it springs
From some plain source of obvious misconception,
The purpos'd union never shall take place—
I prize my child's repose too dearly, Sir,
To trust it with a madman—Nor will she
Be e'er prevail'd on to receive a lover,
Who dares to think her capable of baseness.

[Exit.
Paler.
[alone.]
To think her base—O that I cou'd not think it—
What tho' her person spotless and unsullied,
May vie with Zembla's now-descending snows,
What tho' her error is ideal yet,
And actual guilt has stamp'd no sable on her;
Is not her mind, that all-in-all of virtue,
Polluted, stain'd, nay prostitute before me;
Do I not take, O torture! to my arms,
A mental wanton, in the rage, the madness
Of flaming will, and burning expectation?
Will not this fiend, damnation on him, Granville,
Will he not dart like light'ning to her memory.
And fire her fancy ev'n—O hold my brain—
Let me avoid the mere imagination—
It stabs—it tears—On love's luxurious pillow
It blasts the freshest roses, and leaves scorpions,
Eternal scorpions only, in their room.
[Exit. Paler.

Scene changes to the Arbour in the Garden.
Clementina and Granville discovered
Clem.
No more, my love!—'tis time we reach the palace—
But remember, if aught adverse shou'd arise,
Which heav'n forbid, to intercept our flight,
On no account reveal yourself; reflect,
Our law is death to all Venetian subjects,
Who dare propose a government of strangers!

Gran.
Fear not, my Clementina:—with strict prudence,
A prudence render'd doubly nice by love,
The whole shall be conducted.—

Clem.
For my sake
Let it—Reveal'd, your public character
Wou'd now destroy, and not protect you; jealous,
To fury jealous for their antient customs,
The multitude, with all my father's rage,
Wou'd burn—and O, thus wonderfully sav'd,
Again my love, I cannot, must not lose you.

[Embracing him.
Enter Anselmo.
Ansel.
Death to my sight!

Clem.
Ha! I behold my father!

Ansel.
Yes, blushless girl, you do behold your father.—
And you, O base, inhospitable lord!
You too, behold the much-abus'd Anselmo.—
But hence to France, the native nurse of wises:
This moment hence to France, or know the next
Is big with fate, and teeming with destruction!

Gran.
What is my crime, and wherefore shou'd I go?
Is it a crime to doat upon your daughter?
If that, my Lord, is deadly in your sight,
I am indeed a criminal most guilty:
But sure my rank, my fortune, and my fame,
Are no way less, than your approv'd Palermo's.

Clem.
[kneeling.]
O Sir, O father, O rever'd Anselmo!
By ev'ry name of tenderness and duty;
By the dear mem'ry of that sainted matron,
Who gave me birth, and from her well-earn'd heav'n
Beholds me prostrate at your feet for pity;
Break off the curst engagement with Palermo.—

Ansel.
Kneel not to me, ungrateful, kindless girl!
I have been prostrate at your feet in vain,
Ask not my pity, yet deny your own;
Nor think a father's fond forgiving heart,
While deeply bleeding, monster! at your shame,
Can quite forget this base capricious falshood,
Forget the vow scarce cold upon your lip,
To wrong'd Palermo, your affianc'd Lord,
And give its sanction to this guilty change—
A wanton's passion for a slave of France.

Clem.
A wanton's passion!

Gran.
Wanton!—hear, Anselmo—

Clem.
No, let me speak; and let me here assert
The equal rights of justice and of nature;
A wanton's passion—I'm your daughter, Sir,
But am not therefore to be deem'd a slave;
I bear you all the rev'rence, the regard,
That can inform a filial bosom—yet
My heart is free, and must consult its feelings;—
I cannot teach these feelings what you wish,
I cannot rush, deep-perjur'd, to the altar;
Nor in the presence of attesting heav'n,
Profess to honour, what I now despise,
And swear to love the object of my horror.

Ansel.
Shameless deceiver, peace!—You, Sir, to France!
Th'impatient winds are swell'd to fill your sails;
Hence then, and fly the fury of Anselmo!

Gran.
Flight was not made for soldiers, nor befits
Th'ambassador of kings—I claim protection
From the known law of nations—Mark, my lord!—
And think in time, I represent a monarch,
Who will not bear the shadow of an insult.

Ansel.
Dare you assert the sacred law of nations,
To screen deceit, or sanctify dishonour?
To spurn all customs opposite to truth,
And own no rule, but what is own'd by virtue.—
A guard there strait!

Clem.
Yet force him not away.
Behold these tears, my father—O look back
On all the past transactions of my life!
Have I not ever walk'd with innocence,
And held one course of unsuspected honour?
Strong as appearances may speak against me,
Think, kindly think, there may be yet a cause—
What wou'd I say?—Distraction! Murder Granville?
And must Anselmo's bosom bleed?—O mis'ry!
What shall I say?—Indeed—indeed, my father,
I am not criminal—and O believe
At once I cannot be intirely worthless!

Ansel.
O impudence of guilt!—when my own eyes,
With shame have witness'd your licentious fondness!
Nought but that proof cou'd ever have convinc'd me;
For O I lov'd you with such wild excess,
And held your purity in such opinion,
That had an angel told me of this change,
This rapid, dire transition into vice,
I still had wanted ocular conviction.
What ho! a guard!—And can this be my child?
O nature, nature! this my Clementina?
And can she thus desert me after all?
In the cold ev'ning of my age desert me,
For this once-seen, this host-betraying ruffian?
Who, gracious heav'n! O who wou'd be a father!
Enter a Guard.
Arrest that lord!—and bear him to his ship.

Gran.
Stand off, ye slaves! by heav'n, he dies that stirs.

Clem.
Oh mercy!

Ansel.
Strike, if madly he resist you!

Clem.
Strike here then! pay obedience to your chief,
And kill his child, his wretched child, before him.
Dispatch us both, or let us both depart;
We go together, or together fall,

Gran.
And must I live to see you ravish'd from me?
To think perhaps another—that Palermo—
O snatch me, snatch me from the horrid thought!
It breaks, it rends me on a thousand wheels,
And any death is extasy to this,—

Clem.
And do you judge so poorly of my love!
O know me better, and be quite at rest!
This arm, if it must come to that, shall free me.—
Yet, while our hope supplies one glimmering ray,
Let us not urge our fate, before 'tis needful;
Conceal your name and quality with care;
And recollect 'tis time enough to die,
When ev'ry means of living is deny'd us?

Ansel.
What shallow air of mystery is this?
Trifle not, guards,—but execute your orders!

Gran.
Off, barbarians, off!

Clem.
You shall not part us.

Ansel.
Hew them asunder!

Gran.
O my Clementina!
[Borne off.

Clem.
It is too much.
[Faints.

Ansel.
She faints.—
Enter Elizara.
Assist her, quick?
Yet why assist her? O my breaking heart!
Shou'd it not now in mercy be my wish,
To close her eyes for ever on her shame,
And end her being and her crime together;

Eliz.
Patience! she's innocent; and see, my Lord,
See, she revives!

Ansel.
O gentle Elizara,
Cou'd the bright lustre of her mind revive,
I might again behold her as I have done;
But that is set in one eternal night,
And now my dream of happiness gives way
To sure disgrace, and aggravated anguish.
Ye fathers, tear the feelings from your hearts!
Ye mothers, drag your infants from the breast,
Dash them remorseless on their kindred flint,
And kill the embryo savageness within them.
They'll else blast all the comforts of your life,
And, viper-like, with death return your fondness—
O nature, nature, can this be my child!
Lost Clementina; wretched, curst Anselmo!
[Exit.

Eliz.
How does my Clementina?—Look, O look,
And see your truest friend!—

Clem.
Where have I been?
And why am I restor'd?—'Tis Elizara.—
Say, O say kind maid—where is my husband?
Where is he hurried by his brutal guard?

Eliz.
Are you a stranger to your father's order?

Clem.
No—no—I rave—I know it but too well—
O this relentless, this unfeeling father!
Yet why do I exclaim?—His cause for rage
Is just—He only acts as virtue dictates;
And his poor heart is torn for my offence.
'Tis fate alone that marks me out for woe,
And I shall never see Rinaldo more.

Eliz.
Persist not thus in unavailing grief;
But praise the goodness that preserves your husband.
Ev'n now the head-strong multitude, enrag'd
At Granville's embassy to change the state,
Throng round the palace, and in thousands threat
A quick and public measure of revenge.
Had he but stay'd another hour, a moment,
Perhaps Anselmo's, ev'n your father's pow'r,
Had been too weak, tho' exercis'd, to save him.

Clem.
What does this do, but aggravate my sorrows?
But shew how curs'd, how doubly curs'd my fate,
My cruel fate, has mercilessly made me?
Conceal'd, my husband falls a dreadful victim
To popular resentment.—If acknowledg'd,
His country's justice leads him to the scaffold—
And flying, gracious, and immortal pow'rs!
Anselmo, burning at my seeming crime,
Presses that fell Palermo to his bed.—
Why this is woe, 'tis thick substantial woe,
And shall behold a breast unshrinking here—
Burst from your cells ye demons of despair!
Ye furies clad in tenfold snakes arise!
Yawn quick ye graves with all your timeless dead!
Ye cannot now strike terror to my soul;
Rinaldo's lost, and I can fear no farther!

Eliz.
Why this distrust in heav'n's unending mercy?
Has it not now pour'd blessings on your head,
And work'd an actual miracle to save you,
From the wide horror of a double marriage?
What is there now but to refuse Palermo,
To slight the man you meant this morn to slight,
And end a suit you can receive no longer?
Hope therefore still, and think the gracious hand,
Which led your lord at such a crisis here,
Will crown your truth with happiness at last.

Clem.
Go talk of hope to wretches at the stake,
To shrieking mothers o'er their infants dead—
Go bid the murd'rer, while his hands yet reek
With unoffending blood, hope to regain
His former peace of mind, or ever know
A tranquil thought, a tranquil slumber more!—
O, I cou'd curse this base deceiver, hope,
Till echo thunder'd execration back,
And rent the air with imprecating phrenzy.—
[A shout.
What means that shout? Ha! my fears inform me.
Perhaps ev'n now the savage multitude
Have seiz'd my husband; and perhaps they now
Glut their fell vengeance on his quiv'ring limbs.
[Shout.]
Again—it must be so—Barbarians, stay—
For me, for me he falls—'Twas Clementina—
'Twas I who led him to your fatal shores—
Wreak then your vengeane on his wretched wife,
But spare, O spare Rinaldo!
[Runs out wildly, Elizara following.