University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE—A Hall.
Enter two FAMILIARS of the Inquisition, with PAULLO struggling.
PAULLO.

What, separate me from my master! No, burn
me if you do. Do, good catholic bonfire-makers,
consider me with a little christian charity. What
did I pray to come hither for but to be with him?
Do you think I had any desire to see the inside of
this infernal palace—that I came to the devil out
of curiosity?

1st FAMILIAR.

Fellow, no more of this. One may see you are
a heretic by your manners.

PAULLO.

What, is it heresy when honest love takes the
muzzle off a man's tongue for a minute or two?
Call me what you please: Here I am, Paullo
Mendrico, determined to perish with my poor
master. If this is heresy, I glory in it. You shall
find me toughly persist in it at the stake; and, if
my coward tongue fail for a moment to proclaim
it, may I fare worse in the next world than even
an inquisitor.

2d FAMILIAR.

Comrade, persuade this fool to submit quietly:

If he talks in this way much longer, he will excite
notice, and draw punishment upon his obstinacy.

1st FAMILIAR.

Pray tell me; did not you say your name was
Paullo Mendrico?

PAULLO.

Yes, and I am not ashamed of it any where.

1st FAMILIAR.

You are a Neapolitan.

PAULLO.

I am, I hope I need not be ashamed of that
either.

1st FAMILIAR.

Look at me well, Paullo; don't you know me?

PAULLO.

Take off your death's head, and I'll try; no,
yes, why it can't be Carlo! what Carlo.

1st FAMILIAR.

The same, a little altered may be.

PAULLO.

O not at all: you were always a devilish odd
fellow. But what has brought you into purgatory
before your time, Carlo?

1st FAMILIAR.

No matter, Paullo. Here I am, I can't say
very glad to see you in this place; for between

ourselves I am tired of it myself, but very much
disposed to serve you.

PAULLO.

Serve me! then you must serve my master;
Mind, Carlo! here I swear beforehand to accept
no favour he does not partake. I am come here
for the love of my master, and will not be wheedled
by a selfish care of my own carcase to desert
him.

1st FAMILIAR.

We will speak more at length to-morrow: what
I can do I will. I will shew you to your cell, and
order all things for your comfort.

PAULLO.

Don't talk of comfort to me; comfort my
master.

[Exeunt.
SCENE—A Cell, with a Couch.
VIVALDI starts as from sleep.
VIVALDI.
How strong, how vivid are the fancy's pictures!
Reality could not impress more terror
Than I now feel from formless phantasy.
Methought I saw the monk of dark Paluzzi,
His cowl uplifted, frown upon my misery;
His right arm bare, and in his grasp a dagger.
He pointed to the blade embath'd in blood,
And, in a voice that thrill'd my very heart,
Call'd me by name, and bade me to attend him.

(The Monk ascends behind the Couch in the Attitude described.)
MONK.
Vivaldi, mark me.

VIVALDI.
Horror! do I dream?
Or waking do my senses still retain
The images of sleep? Speak yet again,
Thou spirit of terror! Tell me by what power
That airy shape, which threaten'd in the gloom
Of night and rude Paluzzi, follows me
To these close dens of savage superstition,
And cleaves the earth to aggravate its horrors?

MONK.
Listen 'till I unfold me. Well thou say'st
I sought thee at Paluzzi; there I warn'd thee
To shun the mischief that has brought thee hither.
My present task is link'd to that vast chain,
Which winds about the life of an assassin,
And drags him through the lapse of time and action,
To expiate his crimes.

VIVALDI.
My ears are rivetted
To thy mysterious language; but instruct me
How I am implicated in its meaning?
No stain of murder burns in crimson here.

MONK.
Thou'rt in the toils of fate; I come to save thee.
When next interrogated, summon before thy judges
The Count de Bruno, known now by the name
And style, Father Schedoni: accuse thou him
Of having sacrific'd a guiltless wife,

VIVALDI.
If on such admonition, I consent,
Which rashness only could resolve upon,
What proof have I to offer of these facts?

MONK.
Cite as thy witness a right pious man
Father Ansaldo: Bid him recollect
What in confession was reveal'd to him
Some fourteen years since, on San Marco's eve.

VIVALDI.
How if his memory have lost the secret
Entrusted then?

MONK.
He never can forget it.
It lives as freshly there, as if this moment
The lep'rous soul heav'd up the guilt before him.

VIVALDI.
But how adjur'd will the confessor break
The silence of confession? Tis a seal
Upon the errors of all-sinning mortals,
The claims of penitence on heavenly mercy,
Written in bosoms secret as the grave,
And only legible to God himself.

MONK.
The Inquisition can absolve this silence.
Stand thou resolv'd to execute my bidding.
If thou shalt disobey, expect a fate,
Such as he merits, who would stay the stroke
Offended Justice levels at the guilty.

VIVALDI.
But say wilt thou be present at the trial?

MONK.
I will, perhaps invisibly to thee.
Yet we shall meet, and in the hall of death.

[The Monk descends.
VIVALDI.
(Aside.)
When will these mysteries clear up to my reason?
If I should tell how I have been commanded,
Would not they deem me frenzied, or suborn'd
By some malicious foe to slander innocence?
I cannot without further proof—
(turning round.)
ha! vanish'd!
I have heard of spirits unbless'd, who sought this world,
To madden solitude and urge destruction,
But heeded not the tales, as bed-rid fancies,
The foul creation of perturbed brains.
I shall believe all quickly—pin my faith
To gossip legends, and, with pious awe,
Hold midnight peopled with released souls.
The thing look'd corporal; its motion earthly;
And all its visage lighten'd with the glare
Of human vengeance. I must search this deeper.
What ho! the guard without there! Speak to me.

Bolts undrawn. Enter two of the Guard.
1st GUARD.
What would you?

2d GUARD.
Speak.

VIVALDI.
Have any enter'd here?

1st GUARD.
When?

VIVALDI.
Why now, within the last half hour.

2d GUARD.
He dreams. A likely thing indeed. Pray tell me
Are doors like these easily penetrable?

VIVALDI.
Nay, but be very certain I conjure you;
If you have slept, say so, I'll not accuse you.

1st GUARD.
We sleep—No, Sir, we value life too highly.

VIVALDI.
My friends, in solemn earnestness I ask,
Is there no other entrance to this cell?

2d GUARD.
None; you need only ask your eyes that question.
A Bell strikes.
That bell informs us we must lead you hence
For secret scrutiny.

VIVALDI.
'Tis very strange.
Come lead me thither, friends. I am lost in it.

[Exeunt.
SCENE—The Country about Rome.
SCHDONI leading in ELLENA.
SCHEDONI.
Believe me, child, whatever I have seem'd,
And I take shame to me for past neglect,
You shall find in your late recovered father
As fond a zeal to cherish and indulge
As ever nature kindled in the parent.

ELLENA.
I have no wish but one ungratified.
I had been taught to think that both my parents
Died ere I felt their loss. I find a father,
And his first kindness snatches me from death.
The working stream of accident indulges
A further hope. O, does my mother live?

SCHEDONI.
My child the hope is vain. Yet know, thou dear one,
I would rejoice, so she were but alive,
To make my bed upon the flinty rock,
Its scanty moss my pillow, and its roots
The meagre diet of my failing age;
To quit ev'n thee for solitude and penance,
So I could tell my soul Matilda liv'd.

ELLENA.
Ah, Sir, how died my mother!

SCHEDONI.
Spare me, Ellen.
I would preserve thy love, my gentle child.
Let sorrow for the errors of thy father.
Subdue thy curiosity.

ELLENA.
I yield me.
And in the gratitude for what is giv'n,
Sink the regret for that which I have lost.

SCHEDONI.
But to my purpose. The young Count Vivaldi
Is on slight accusation now confined,
The reason of our journey hither child
Is his deliverance, which my influence
Will render easy.

ELLENA.
Does my father view
With pleasure that attachment in his child?

SCHEDONI.
It is most welcome to me. And his family
Will be propitious now to the alliance.

Enter 2d Familiar, an Officer of the Inquisition.
OFFICER.

Stop! You, Marinella Count de Bruno, of late
known by the name of Father Schedoni, I am ordered
to bring before the Inquisition.

SCHEDONI.
Officer I obey and willingly,
It was to appear before them I came hither.
Let this young lady be bestow'd with kindness
Till the affair that summons me be finish'd.

OFFICER.

She may command the best accommodation we
can bestow, or take up her residence within the city.

ELLENA.
No, I will never quit thee, my dear father.
To Schedoni.
Sir, lead me where this reverend priest is going.
Place with you is nothing.

(To Schedoni.)
[Exeunt.
SCENE—A Cell in the Prison.
PAULLO
alone.

Heigho! I am quite deceived, and as melancholy
as St. Bruno. O for a little lively active
torture to rouze my mind out of the vapours. I
begin to find that the question is a very friendly
call upon a man's bones; and prevents his soul
from dropping dead asleep in the black ugly silence
of a prison.

What did I come here for, do they think?
Why, to share my master's fate to be sure; and
here I know no more what he suffers than if the
same roof did not shelter us. Their Reverences
overlook me. Perhaps they don't think a poor
servant worth their notice. What's this; precedence
in purgatory? Zounds I could give up my
share in my master's good fortune; but his calamities
are a common stock; and I have as much
right to suffer as he has.

Enter CARLO.
CARLO.

Well, Paullo. How are you man? You are
likely to get over this business easily I find.

PAULLO.

What do you call easy? I would sooner leap into
the bowels of Vesuvius, than pass another day here.

CARLO.

Why, I call it ease, to escape the thumb-screw.
You perhaps may call stretching upon the rack,
basking upon roses; and hope to crown a life of such
good works, by the flaming zeal of an act of faith.

PAULLO.

Ha! how! what Count Vivaldi march in an
Auto da fé? for what Carlo?

CARLO.

Why, don't you know yet? For heresy, man,
to be sure.

PAULLO.

Heresy! they belye him! Upon my soul they
do. I never knew a better christian. But how
comes the wind to have chang'd? It may be sacrilege
to rob a church even of a sucking sister, but
sacrilege is not heresy.

CARLO.

Why, at the examination last night, he was asked
whether he never broke in upon an act of penance,
and drove away a Monk from the shrine before
which he was confessing.

PAULLO.

Why, I do remember hearing him say that he
had shaken up the conscience of a rascally Baldpate,
who had done him some shrewd turns.

CARLO.

That is the subject of his accusation then. You
see how far my friendship for you stretches, Paullo.
And now I'll trust you with a secret. I am weary

of being whipper-in here. I'll retire, and, contrary
to received custom, without a pension, give up the
keys of office and abscond. You shall accompany
me. (Fioresca sings.)

PAULLO.

But hush! hark! what voice is that? My den
must be near the road side. (again.)
Listen, again.
I know that voice, O bless its sweet pipe. 'Tis
my own dear Fioresca. (again.)

SONG.

CARLO.

Would you like to see her?

PAULLO.

Ask your own heart, man.

CARLO.

Then you shall. I can open a postern here in
the wall, and introduce her.—But, no raptures
mind you. The walls are so unus'd to any sound
of joy, it might have a very sad effect upon them.

(CARLO goes out, and brings her in to PAULLO.)
FIORESCA.

Oh, my poor Paullo!

PAULLO.

My love! (They embrace.)
Well, but tell me,
you dear rogue, how you have come alone, all
this tedious journey, to sing at the door of my cage?

FIORESCA.

I don't know, Paullo; I needed little by the

way; for your misfortune was the only thing I
thought about. Love instructed me in a road
unknown; and at night, when I lay me down by
the way-side, I lifted my thoughts to the Virgin,
and rose refresh'd and safe.

CARLO.

Come, Paullo, you have now a fair opportunity;
evening is throwing her grey cloak over the
Campagna; we may escape together.

FIORESCA.

A thousand, thousand blessings on you.—
But, Paullo, you are dull—Does not my Paullo
rejoice to see me?

PAULLO.

O yes, my girl.—But you must go alone.

FIORESCA.

Alone!

PAULLO.

Yes: I must remain here.

CARLO.

How! is the lad distrasted?

PAULLO.

No: never more in my senses. I prefer my
duty to my pleasures—I stay here with my master.

FIORESCA.

Consider, Paullo; you can do him no good;
you cannot bear his pain for him.

PAULLO.

How do you know that? I can bear it with
him: and as to the good I may do him, I feel
myself, at this moment, how dear is the consolation
of one who loves us. (Kisses her.)
Fioresca,
my good girl, don't try to make me a traitor.

The first step from right is fatal; and what security
would you have, who cherished a viper in
your breast, which you had seen sting the hand
that gave it food?

FIORESCA.

I shall never, never see you more.

PAULLO.

Why then you have now seen the best of me.

FIORESCA.

Ah, dear! would masters, think ye, go such
lengths for their servants?

PAULLO.

Why, I don't know, nor is it material: I never
knew that attachment was an affair of barter.
When my heart tells me it is my duty to stay, I
shall never rummage up my brain for motives to
run away from it. Carlo will guide you; and I
will look after you till my eye-strings crack.

TRIO.
LOVE no toil regarding,
All its pains rewarding,
Blessing, distressing,
No danger can affright:
In love's sweetest anguish,
Whilst thrilling with the pain,
Who'd not willing languish,
Nor think the suffering vain?
Then let lovers think them blest,
Nor repine at froward fate;
In each others arms carest,
Their bliss is perfect, tho' 'tis late.

[Exeunt CARLO and FIORESCA.
SCENE—A Gothic Hall.
VIVALDI enters with ELLENA.
“VIVALDI.
“My Ellena! do I once more behold thee?
“Let this embrace be as the seal of fate,
“And join our hearts for ever.

“ELLENA.
“O, Vivaldi!
“To see thee thus, in freedom and at ease,
“Is such excess of joy, that all the pains
“Endur'd since last we met are blotted out,
“Like the soft traces of the morning dream.”

VIVALDI.
But say, my life, how has the interval
Of separation wrung that gentle breast?

ELLENA.
Briefly—When torn from thee, before the altar,
I was conducted to a dreary hovel,
'Gainst which the angry sea dashes in vain,
The haunt of dark assassins. There Spalatro,
At dead of night, had stabb'd me while I rested,
But Heav'n was wakeful, though half nature slept,
Sent my deliverer—and in him a father.

VIVALDI.
Merciful powers!—a father?
Now listen to my tale, which, tho' less perilous,
Is not less full of wonder. Hither brought,
One night I started from a fev'rish dream
Of that dark monk, whom I have told thee of;
When lo! close to my couch, the boding phantom
Glar'd on me, menacing. His arm was bare,
And in his grasp a dagger.
In fierce and awful accents he denounc'd
Th'assassin who had us'd it; and, for proof,
Bade me to call the holy Priest who heard
The wretch himself confess the savage murder
Of his own wife. Ev'n now I have obey'd him.
But O, my Ellen, think of my surprise,
To find our foe, Schedoni, was that villain.

ELLENA.
What said Vivaldi?—Was Schedoni he?
Horror of horrors!

(she stands in dumb amazement.)
VIVALDI.
What means my better self?—speak plainly to me;
Destroy me not by this soul-dead'ning stupor.

ELLENA.
What hast thou done?—A murderer!—Schedoni!
Murder a wife!—a mother then!—and I—

(Faints in his arms.
VIVALDI.
My senses stagger with this blow unknown.
Schedoni!—Can he be then?—'Tis impossible—

SCHEDONI enters, guarded.
SCHEDONI.
Nay, shed the blood that scarcely warms her heart;
Thy steel were merciful to those rash words,
That hellish hatred, levell'd at my life.

VIVALDI.
Yet tell me, tho' the sound should strike me dead;
(And sure, if thou be he, death were most welcome)
Speak, and prevent my question.

SCHEDONI.
Thy worst fears
Are realized—thy vengeance is complete.
Thy accusation sinks who came to save thee;
Tears from thee thy Ellena.—In one word,
I am her father.

VIVALDI.
The parent of my love! O fatal rashness!
Thus prostrate at your feet behold me, father:
In mercy take the life which has destroy'd you.
While yet death's counterfeit sits on her brow,
And veils the glance, that kills with its reproach,
Let me expire; nor ever view those beams,
That I have strangled in a sea of blood.

SCHEDONI.
No, live.—To die is rapture to the wretched.
My Ellena—soft, she revives.

ELLENA,
(coming slowly to herself, at last sees SCHEDONI bending over her, upon which, with a sudden Recollection, she shrieks franticly)
My mother!

SCHEDONI.
I cannot bear this. Lead me to your cells;
Employ unheard-of engines to torment me:
Your iron whips, your fires, your breaking wheels,
Are Eden to the hell that burns within me.

[Rushes out.
ELLENA
(gazing wildly on VIVALDI.)
Vivaldi! (then to the Guard)

Lead me to the dungeon of my father.

[Exeunt severally.
The Chamber of secret Examination—The MONK sitting in his Inquisitor's Garb.
SCHEDONI brought in.
SCHEDONI.
Most holy Father, let me break through forms,
And, by confession of my crimes, dismiss
The frigid toil of slow and creeping proof.
I am a wretch for whom no hope remains
In being, and do therefore beg to die.

ANSALDO.
Does this despair proceed from conscience, son?
Or from unlook'd for proofs of your offences?

SCHEDONI.
From both. But deem not that I state it so
To shun, by sorrow for repented guilt,
One torture of my punishment. By heaven
I could as soon clasp Etna in his rage,
And think his flaming fountain were the soft
Descending shower that dews the breast of earth,
As feel the misery that rages in me,
And hear of mercy.

ANSALDO.
Yet subdue despair!
It is rebellion to true penitence,
Which half obliterates recorded sin,
With gentle tears.

SCHEDONI.
I have been all my life
The slave of passion in its fierce excess.
I had a wife—had! for she lives not now,
Whom most injuriously I treated—She,
Of high indignant spirit, with disdain
Requited my neglect—till jealousy,
Of that which I contemn'd, seiz'd on my brain,
And made me vigilant o'er which I hated.
My jealousy soon singled out an object.
One day returning from a wiley absence,
I overhear'd what hurried me to frenzy.
I hied me to a lattice, and beheld
The traitor on his knees before my wife;
Whether she rose, resenting his address,
Or that she heard my step, I cannot say.
I did not pause to question, but straight rush'd,
To stab the villain who had wrong'd me—He
Escap'd my vengeance—rage demanded prey—
My wife receiv'd the poinard, and I fled.

ANSALDO.
O fatal rashness! well do I remember
The occasion and the crime.

SCHEDONI.
How, you remember!

ANSALDO.
Yes! Count de Bruno! or memory must fail.
I was the suitor of your beauteous wife.

SCHEDONI.
Say, was she innocent!

ANSALDO.
She was most innocent.
Stung with remorse, I hurried from the world
And took the cowl—In the confessional
Upon St. Marco's eve, some fourteen years since,
Your sorrows in the silence of the night
Breath'd through the grate, and waken'd all my own.

SCHEDONI.
Were you then that Ansaldo! Gracious powers!

ANSALDO.
Nothing more sure. I sought unknown your convent,
Became your friend, to frustrate your designs,
And lure that fiend ambition from your breast,
Which still you nourish'd in the cloister's gloom.
I am the Monk of Fort Paluzzi—He
Who sought to snatch Vivaldi from your snare.
What more I am, a gentler tongue shall tell.
Come forth, Olivia.

The Sister, named OLIVIA, at San Stephano, enters.
(OLIVIA advances, and throws aside her Veil.)
SCHEDONI
(starting.)
It is my wife, my murder'd innocent.
Matilda, speak, art thou thus very she?
Or does my guilty mind create the vision,
To heighten my despair by vain illusion?

OLIVIA.
I am Matilda, more rejoic'd to view
This change wrought in the heart, than I could be
To clasp the wealthy honours of the world,
And hear a nation style me sovereign.

VIVALDI and ELLENA are brought in—ELLENA runs to the feet of OLIVIA.
ELLENA.
My dear preserver—Ah, that veil you gave me

SCHEDONI.
Didst thou bestow thy veil upon Ellena?

OLIVIA.
I did; what means?

SCHEDONI.
Woman, she is thy child. (they fly into each others arms.)


ANSALDO.
Such is my triumph o'er mistaken passion.
A transport greater than ev'n love can give!
Or rather, it is love sublim'd and purg'd
From all its sensual earthly properties.

Enter a Second FAMILIAR.
2d FAMILIAR.
Count Vivaldi, yonder is a fellow,
The most outrageous that I ever handled.
He swears and dances—says he'll eat his way
Through iron bolts and chains to reach his master.

VIVALDI.
Let him come to us—'tis my faithful Paullo.

PAULLO (runs in.)
PAULLO.

What's this? Did I hear truly? Is my master
safe? Free from the foul claws of these harpies?
I could dance—I could sing—I could laugh.
Forgive me; but I feel I must cry, or my heart
will burst.

VIVALDI.
But who are these—Paullo, see who come yonder?

CARLO brings in FIORESCA.
CARLO.
There is no need of flight—Behold him free.
“I have fed long enough on sighs and groans,
“Let me enjoy a little transport, will you?
“Think us not void of feeling, though our office
“It is to punish guilt. Believe me, friends,
“There is no ear that loves the voice of pain.
“And those tough sinews that apply the torture,
“Shake often at the work. Nor is his cheek,
“Who suffers, th'only one bedew'd with tears.”
My fellows come to greet your glad acquittal.

SCHEDONI.
We thank them heartily. Be happy, children.
Matilda, join your benediction with me.
May it fall thick in blessedness upon you;
And let one throb of charitable pity
Soften the censure of your erring father.
Come, my Matilda. Our remains of life
Shall yet be sooth'd by harmony and peace.
Let all who hear me fling away ambition,
For O, I know the fury is remorseless,
The bonds of duty shrivel in her blaze,
And nature is the victim at her altar.

PAULLO
(to Fioresca.)

Do you hear that my delicate anchovy? Fioresca,
girl, keep down ambition. I know what heart
those eyes aim at, but beware; and yet if it so
please my lord Vivaldi, I care not if they hit their
mark.

VIVALDI.
Take her, good Paullo, and my favour with her.

SCHEDONI.
Now go we on to Naples. There lives one
Who must partake our joy, and my regrets.
Then will we to the Convent of my love,
And praise the power who triumphs in the heart.

FINALE.
CHORUS.
SO shall we all from sorrow rest!
So shall our future hours be blest!
High heav'n to praise,
Our voices raise;
And every mercy be confest!

PAULLO.
In chearful strains, Fioresca, we
Will speak our thanks for liberty!

FIORESCA.
So shall our future transports prove,
Heav'n pleas'd to cherish virtuous love!

Chorus repeated.