University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—An Apartment; Views of Ruins.
VIVALDI and PAULLO enter.
VIVALDI.
Come hither, my good Paullo. I have found thee
Still trusty ever. Thy most zealous service
Hath been attemper'd by a love as steady
As waits on equal fortunes—and thy master
Looks on thee as a friend in whom his thoughts
Find sanctuary, and his wishes aid.

PAULLO.

You over-rate my merits, gracious Sir; I have
nothing but honesty, and some odd quirks of
humour, which you accept in lieu of abler service.

VIVALDI.
Attend me, Paullo. Spare professions. Hear,
And then assist me stedfastly. Some months
Have now elapsed since, at San Carlo, I
Beheld a lady, whose unmatch'd perfections
Made conquest of my heart. It was at mass;
And holy was her influence: she inspir'd
A passion sacred as the solemn rites, and pure
As the white vestments of their ministrant.

PAULLO.

Nothing more likely, when the flesh is raised as
high as saintly-virtue, it must settle at last upon
some daughter of frail Nature.

VIVALDI.
Spare comment, and observe me. Since that time
I have, in private, often visited,
And pour'd my soul before her; she receiv'd me
With maiden-modesty, and artless truth,
But high-uplifted sense of honour; firm
Not to accept me, but with the consent
Of both my parents.

PAULLO.

That is contrary to all received procedure—
modern usage makes pardon and consent keep
company.

VIVALDI.
I'the road to Altieri stand the ruins
Of Fort Paluzzi. You have seen, no doubt,
An arch suspended on two rocks; near which,
As often as I visited the lady,
Some thing, of earth or air I doubt, rose darkly,
In form a monk, wrapp'd closely in his cowl,
And bade me dread the road to Altieri.

PAULLO.

Schedoni, on my life.—That meddling priest
has pierc'd your secret, and by these strange
threats seeks to deter you from your purposes.

VIVALDI.
That I would know for certain. You, good Paullo,
Shall soon as dark attend me to Altieri—
But see, Schedoni comes this way. Retire.
Some previous sounding may not be amiss,
And his close soul may flame out on suspicion.

[Exit PAULLO.
Enter SCHEDONI.
SCHEDONI.
Benedicite!—Health and peace be with you.

VIVALDI.
The like to you, most sage and holy father.
You find me musing on the wrecks of time!
These faithful portraits of our country's ruins.
I wonder that my mother has not here
The ruins of Paluzzi; close at hand,
They might be drawn with ease.

SCHEDONI.
'Tis so, my son;
We slight what lies before us; and our sires,
Those human ruins mould'ring in our vaults,
Are lessons bound, whose clasps we never open.

VIVALDI.
Father, perhaps you've lately seen Paluzzi.

(With a glance of scrutiny.)
SCHEDONI.
A striking vestige of antiquity!

VIVALDI.
That arch between two rocks suspended, one
Topp'd by the fortress-towers, the other crown'd
By the tall pine and spreading oak, produces
All that we claim for picture, saving only
The human figure, to give life and action.
Groups of banditti, ready to burst out
On the unguarded traveller; or some Monk,
In his dark vesture, stealing from the shade,
Like some supernal messenger of evil,
Would work it up in true sublimity.

SCHEDONI.
You paint most richly: and I much admire
The skill, that coupled monks with your banditti.

VIVALDI.
I drew no parallel. Your pardon, father.

SCHEDONI.
There's no offence. (With a ghastly smile.)


VIVALDI.
My fancy turn'd on monks
From real occurrences; for though banditti
Ne'er issued from it, yet I never pass'd
That same Paluzzi, but a monk appear'd,
And fled or faded from my sight so suddenly,
That I have thought the shape was spiritual.
But be it what it may, I hope ere long
Better acquaintance; and shall tell him strongly
Such truths, that he shall dare presume no longer
To affect, as though he did not understand them.

SCHEDONI.
You will do right, if he has injur'd you.

VIVALDI.
I have not said he has—and if you know so,
It is by other means than my expression.

SCHEDONI.
I judg'd it by your eye, and tone of voice.

VIVALDI.
No, if I am injur'd, it is by that sly
And subtle fiend, the secret counsellor,
Who steals into a family to wound
Its peace and honour. 'Tis the base informer,
The asperser of the innocent—who stands
Convicted in the person now before me.

SCHEDONI.
I will not here affect to miss your meaning.
You think that I have injur'd you—but yet
I will not trust myself to think you mean
Those most opprobrious stains to light on me.

VIVALDI.
I mean them on the wretch who injures me:
You best know whether they apply to you.

SCHEDONI.
If you direct them only to your foe,
Whate'er they were, I have nothing to complain of.

VIVALDI.
Of this be sure—he will not long escape me.

(Exit.)
SCHEDONI.
Rash and insulting boy—Go, weave the web,
That shall ensnare thy dotage into ruin.
Hast thou so slightly read time's registers,
To dare the gloomy vengeance of the cloister?
Though I seem wedded to austerity,
The iron scourge my exercise, my day
Frozen by abstinence and hourly prayer,
Yet, underneath this icy outside, glows
As fierce a flame of masterless ambition,
As e'er informed the conquerors of earth,
And wither'd nations in its splendid course.
Thy heart shall feel me, stripling, ere the sun
Break from his brilliant chamber in the east,
And wake thee next to think of thy Rosalba.
Now to the marchioness—If I can work
Her pride to give the girl to my disposal,
Exile or death shall shut her from his arms.

(Exit.)
SCENE—Fort Paluzzi, as described before.
Enter VIVALDI, followed by PAULLO with a torch.
VIVALDI.

Behold Paullo, we are near the spot.

PAULLO.

Yes, Sir. I had a presentiment of it—a certain
odd sympathy of the nerves, which the vulgar
would call trembling.

VIVALDI.

How! superstitious Paullo!

PAULLO.

Not the least, Sir; but the place itself makes
a man rummage among the relics of the nursery;
and though I think I could face any thing
in the face of day, yet night, and such desolation
as Paluzzi, make a child of me.

VIVALDI.

It is about the time now, that I have been
cross'd by this strange visitant.

PAULLO.

Did you ever follow it, Sir?

VIVALDI.

O yes—I rush'd down the cavern underneath
that arch. But, as I advanced, the faint moonlight
could not struggle through the gloom

—the figure vanish'd, and I was compelled to
hurry out of the damps for fear of suffocation.

PAULLO.

Well, at all events the torch will allow us to
see the course he takes—if, indeed, it is mere
monkish flesh and blood.

VIVALDI.

You had better for the present hide the torch
in that little cavern on your right hand, and let
us watch the projection of the rock, from which
he must come to take his stand.

PAULLO.

Hush, don't you see some moving shadow cross
the avenue?

VIVALDI.

'Tis the shadow of the fortress turret.

PAULLO.

I beg pardon, Sir; but are you sure you
heard a voice—for my fancy would easily fashion
a monk: in short, are you sure it was not all
moon-shine?

VIVALDI.

Certain. I was walking on Tuesday night this
way—and as I now do, casting a curious eye
towards the arch, I heard at a distance the solemn
murmurs of the mountain; when turning
to proceed on my walk, I saw it.

Enter MONK.
PAULLO.

Look! see there! it comes.

MONK.

She is gone—for ever from thee.

VIVALDI.

By heaven the very same. Fly Paullo, bring
the torch.

[Exit. Paullo.
Stay I beseech thee, whether of good or evil.
By what strange pow'r dost thou know all my steps?
What interest binds thee thus to give these warnings?
Speak plainly to me, now.

MONK.
Fate speaks by death!

[Exit.
VIVALDI.

Stay riddler! child of darkness stop! (he rushes after him sword in hand.)

Enter PAULLO, trembling, with the torch.
PAULLO.

Santa Maria! protect us. I would call, but I
fear the sound of my own voice. Lord, how this
flame quivers! No; I believe it is my hand
that shakes.

VIVALDI
(at a distance.)

Paullo.

PAULLO.

What's that? my name!

VIVALDI.

Paullo.

PAULLO.

Yes, it's my name sure enough.

VIVALDI.

Bring the torch this way.

PAULLO.

I beg to be excus'd. There are times and seasons
for all things. What can animal courage do
against the devil—I beg his pardon.

(The monk comes behind him, and then, advancing, glares upon him in a menacing manner, and exit at the side scene.)

(PAULLO falls upon his knees.)
Saints and martyrs
guard me!

Enter VIVALDI.
VIVALDI.

It has again escap'd me. Paullo, where are
you? Paullo, what upon the ground? arise.

PAULLO.

Holy power forgive me! I'm a poor servant
drawn into profaneness by a master it is my duty

to follow. Forbear to touch me—I feel it in my
marrow, and my blood is frozen. (hiding his face still.)

VIVALDI.

Why, Paullo, are you mad?

PAULLO.

No doubt of it, Sir,—spirit—angel.

VIVALDI.

Come, Sir, rouze yourself—'tis I, Vivaldi speak
to you.

PAULLO.

No: yes—can it? O Lord! yes, it is my
master—cover me, defend a poor, fond, faithful
sinner— (clings to him.)

VIVALDI.

Come, look up, there is no danger—The villain
escap'd me. Why did'nt you bring the light?

PAULLO.

I was coming, Sir,—when all of a sudden I
heard myself called, and turning my head cautiously
over my right shoulder, which a man does
when not very bold in a service of danger, there I
saw—

VIVALDI.

Saw what? the monk!

PAULLO.

It was like a monk—that is, it had a cowl on
—a little open. His face seemed the spectre of a

long fast—He glared upon me with eyes flaming
in sockets a foot deep in his head, and the motion
of his arm, the very wind of it laid me prostrate
on the ground.— (A bell tolls suddenly at a distance —the monk at the top of the stage speaks.)

—Vivaldi, hark! the knell of death sounds heavily!
all is accomplished.

[Exit.
VIVALDI.
Yes, death is in that gale! I feel it here.
It tells me that the fairest flower of earth
Is dropt into the dust—its perfume gone.
Yet I will run and clasp her to my heart,
Wooe her cold relics to benumb my life,
And even in death be wedded to Rosalba.

[Exit.
PAULLO.
Master, my dear master! Hear your servant.

[Exit.
A Cottage near ROSALBA'S—FIORESCA enters making Nets.—(Sings.)
AIR—FIORESCA.

I don't very well like this employment, though
it gives us all bread. There is something treacherous
in the fisherman's art. Like the courtier he
proportions his bait to the palate of his prey, and
spreads his deception with most success when his
victim is under a cloud.— (Sings again.)
—Ah,
Paullo, Paullo, I have however often spread my nets
for thy affection, but I threw out no delusive bait
—I angled only with the simple partiality of a poor
cottager, and if I succeed, I shall be found as

artless and affectionate as I seemed to be.— (Sings again.)

Enter GRADISCA.
GRADISCA.

For shame, Fioresca, what a brawling do you
keep here—O, these young fry! frisking in the
very mouth of the net. Poor Gudgeon, have you
forgot already how our beautiful neighbour Signora
Rosalba was spirited away last night from her
cottage; dragged violently off, nobody knows
whither?

FIORESCA.

No, mother—Her cries are even still in my
ears! Can you surmise why she was carried away?

GRADISCA.

Why, I'll tell you.—You know the Count
Vivaldi used to visit her secretly.

FIORESCA.

What, can he have carried her off?

GRADISCA.

As sure as you're alive, girl. She has no aunt
now living to protect her.

FIORESCA.

Then shame upon him—but if my Paullo had
any hand in the villainy, he shall never come into
my favour again, I promise him.

GRADISCA.

What noise is that? look to the door, girl.

Enter hastily VIVALDI and PAULLO.
VIVALDI.

Gradisca! answer me, and quickly. Know
you any thing of Signora Rosalba?

GRADISCA.

Who I, Signor? Holy Mary, no. Why
does'nt your honour know?

VIVALDI.

No more than you do.

PAULLO
(to Fioresca.)

My dear Fioresca—we know no more of the
matter than St. Januarius.

FIORESCA.

Nay, sure the saint knows well enough—I'll
tell you how it was— (they retire.)

GRADISCA.

Why, your honour says fairly, and speaks as sincerely
as heart could wish! Well, heav'n disclose
all! There's an eye that sees to the bottom of the
muddiest pool. And if its foul weather to-day,
it may be fair enough to-morrow. But to my
story—Spalatro has been down in the bay fishing
for these two days past—He sleeps then at the
old fort—and being lonesome, and tired of hearing

Vesuvio growl at us—Fioresca and I went to
bed—I had but just got to the end of my hours,
when behold you I heard a knocking at Signora
Rosalba's cottage.

VIVALDI.

What time was this?

GRADISCA.

Why, as I guess'd by the few gondoliers upon
the bay, it must have been near twelve. So I
goes up to Fioresca, and wakened her; and then,
very softly opening the casement, we planted ourselves
to watch what was doing. We did'nt stay
to throw any thing over us, for the night was
dark, and nobody would think of such lazzaroni
as us.

VIVALDI.

Well, go on, and be brief.

GRADISCA.

The knocking continued some time. I heard
her exclaim, what do you want? A voice evidently
feigned replied, Come down, and you
will see our business. She, alarmed I suppose
at being thus talked to—refused; upon which, they
very fairly entered by force.—In a few minutes,
we saw the men return with the sweet Lady in
their arms. She was gagged. They placed her
before one of them on a horse; and then the
whole party galloped off towards the wood.

VIVALDI.

Infamous villains! But I am reliev'd from my
worst fear—I had suspicion of her death. My
good Gradisca, I am obliged to your vigilance.
“Enquire among the neighbours whether any
of them remarked such an escort at that time,
and what road they took.” I have my suspicions
as to the perpetrators, which I will immediately
realize, and then pursue her to the extremities
of the universe. Paullo, attend me.

PAULLO.

I come, Sir. Farewel, girl. Good night, honest
Gradisca.

[Exeunt.
GRADISCA.

Ah, a kind hearted gentleman—but cross'd in
love!—I warrant the Count felt a nibble upon
the line, and has whipped her into the basket to
flounder and flounce in vain.

Enter SPALATRO.
SPALATRO.

How now, Smelt (to Fioresca)
what do you
do stirring at this time of the night?—Gradisca,
help me off with my boots? I have had a sweeping
hawl, girl. Never threw nets better in my
life.

FIORESCA.

Why, father, your boots are quite dry—You
haven't waded deep.

SPALATRO.

No, girl, but far. The prey was shallow. I
have touch'd the zechins.

GRADISCA.

O Spalatro, here have been such doings—Do
you know Madam Rosalba was carried off last
night?

SPALATRO
(hastily.)

Did you see it?

GRADISCA.

Why yes, I did.

SPALATRO.

Aye, that cursed curiosity—always rushing into
troubled waters. What business had you with it?

GRADISCA.

None, not I—No, no—as they spawn let 'em
take, say I. But here has been the young Count
Vivaldi here.

SPALATRO.

I saw him—What led him here—He did'nt
suspect that I—

FIORESCA.

O no, father—why should he suspect you—You
are no cavaliero.

GRADISCA.

I told him too that you were at the fort.

SPALATRO.

He seem'd satisfied of that?

FIORESCA.

O yes; should he not? it was the truth.

SPALATRO.

Aye—it was the truth. What did he say at
parting?

GRADISCA.

That he suspected some one, and would realize
his suspicions.

SPALATRO.

Whom did he suspect?

GRADISCA.

He did not tell us that—

SPALATRO.

Did you mention what you observed last night
to Schedoni—I mean to Vivaldi?

GRADISCA.

O yes, I told him the little I saw.—

SPALATRO.

'Twas folly to do so; we shall be put to the
question. Bestir yourself no more in this affair.
Fine objects we are to provoke the Marquis, his
father!

GRADISCA.

Did the young Count then carry her off?

SPALATRO.

I have not said he did—but it is likely. Let
us to bed: I am tired with riding all day.

FIORESCA.

Riding!—you mean wading, father.

SPALATRO.

True, girl; wading and rowing I mean. Come,
come, to bed; and not a word I charge you of
Rosalba. [Exeunt Gra. and Fio.]
So, all's
safe I find. Suspicion does not blow her blight
my way. While knavery pays so well for a little
mischief, no wonder if honest labour sometimes
locks up his oar.

[Exit SPALATRO.

SCENE—The Monastery of San Stephano.
Enter MARGARITONE and ELLENA.
MAGARITONE.

You will stay here, until admitted to an audience
of the Superior.

ELLENA.

Pray, Sister, inform me, who was that beautiful
nun I heard sing so divinely at matins?

MARGARITONE.

I don't know, not I. There are a number of
us beautiful women, and good singers.

ELLENA.

I mean she who executed the solo passage to
the Virgin.

MARGARITONE.

O that was the Sister Olivia; but we do not
think so highly of her beauty as we do of her
voice. She is perpetually singing, and touches
the lute in the best taste imaginable. (Music plays.)

You may hear her now, for she seems
to be preluding upon her instrument.

ELLENA.

I am interested excessively by her appearance.

MARGARITONE.

Well, I shall leave you to your recreation.

[Exit.
ELLENA.

Sweet sufferer, how my heart is prepared to
sympathize with every pang that thine can feel!
—She comes this way.

Enter OLIVIA.
OLIVIA.
My fair young Sister, peace be in your breast.
And yet, if I can judge of that pure brow,
A convent cannot give that peace to you.
How came you to San Stephano?

ELLENA.
By force
Brought and detain'd. No predisposed mind,
By piety or passion led to seek
A cloister's consolation, drew me hither.

OLIVIA.
Ah! my dear child, some disproportion'd love—

ELLENA.
You mark my only crime: I dar'd to love.

OLIVIA.
Think me not meanly curious of your story,
But let me know your name.

ELLENA.
Ellen—Rosalba.

OLIVIA.
Ellen!—Rosalba! I think once I knew
Features like those: yes, very, very like.—
But no, it cannot be; yet am I led
To feel the tenderest interest in your fate,
And almost break my vow to counsel you.
The Abbess soon will summon you before her,
Perhaps command you instant take the veil;
Seem to consent, reject not peremptorily.

ELLENA.
What my heart tells me would be mockery,
My tongue shall never sanction by a word.

OLIVIA.
Poor soul, thou dost not know the perils here
That wait on disobedience. Think, sweet girl,
What merciless authority can pour
Upon thy head, to make resistance bitter!

ELLENA.
I know that I must struggle with oppression,
And nerve my mind against the coming storm.

OLIVIA.
Yet have we punishments that but to hear of
Would stimulate submission.—Think, dear maid,
Of being entomb'd, to dwell with putrid death;
To linger years in vaulted sepulchres,
Amidst unwholesome dews, and morbid stench
From time-dissolved flesh.

ELLENA.
Do not suppose
My purpose shaken by the nauseous horror!
Never with life will I renounce Vivaldi.

OLIVIA.
Yet O reflect what it must be to hear
The hourly tread of happy feet above thee!
The consonance of harmony divine
In sainted sisterhood; whilst thou, poor worm,
Shalt creep from shroud to shroud, thy only change,
Rest thy cold head upon some mouldering bier,
And sleep in all the chilling damps of death.
Think but of this, thy firmest resolution
Will shudder into fearful acquiescence.

ELLENA.
No: death, with all its lingering harbingers,
Shall never win me from my bosom's truth.

OLIVIA.
I doubt thee, fairest. You shall have my prayers.
The Abbess comes—and I dare stay no longer.

[Exit.
The ABBESS enters with solemnity, followed by her Chapter. She takes a Chair prepared for her. The Nuns range themselves on each Side.
ABBESS.
Approach me daughter.—You, no doubt, are conscious
You are brought hither that the charms of youth
Improperly directed may not sully
The honour of a most illustrious house.

ELLENA.
Your sanctity will pardon me. I know
No passion better than the love of truth.
It is a truth, the Count Vivaldi sought me
In honourable seeming—it is true too
That I refer'd him to his noble parents,
And lent no approbation to the suit
Which had not their allowance to sustain it.

ABBESS.
Youth is habitually fickle, fair one.
“No virgin ere would lapse from chastity
“If the repulse to the protesting lover
“Were never thaw'd by importunity.”
Thus much to justify my friend's precaution.

ELLENA.
But can you think distrust of their son's firmness
Gives them a warrant to imprison me?
Am I thus torn from life and all its blessings,
Because a noble youth presumes to love me?
O'er him they have a parent's high controul;
But upon me no right, but such as power gives;
A tyrant's power, that's wrested from the laws,
And violates the confidence of life

ABBESS.
High notions these, from one so lowly born!

ELLENA.
No one is born too low for justice, Madam.
The humble feel as do the proudly born.
Shun pain, court pleasure, wooe esteem like them.
And the most subtle, but quick spark of love
Strikes as much fire of passion in the poor,
As that which warms the bosom of the mightiest.

ABBESS.
What! would you burst subordination's bounds,
And level all in foul equality?

ELLENA.
No; and I hold such minds the world's worst plagues;
For they have more ambition far than they
Whose power and wealth they covet. They are slaves,
Who sire the peaceful dwellings of their lords,
To ravish, plunder from the flaming ruin.

ABBESS.
The Marchioness is just, though much offended.
She orders you, by me, to take the veil,
Or marry such a husband as befits you.
If this meek reference to their decision
Be not a fable, you can soon determine.

ELLENA.
What! because I refer'd him to his parents,
Is it presum'd I do not love Vivaldi?
Or, if the noble youth were nothing to me,
Does it thence follow I can yield my heart
To one it never throb'd at? or, if not,
Seal up its unwak'd feeling at the altar?

ABBESS.
You are too bold.

ELLENA.
Your pardon, I am injur'd.
Malice has silver tones, and placid looks.
The persecuted kindle with resentment,
And call a wrong a wrong—where'er they meet it.

ABBESS.
“Is it a wrong to open wide the doors
“Of bliss eternal, to precarious honour?”
Is it a persecution to enfold
The feeble in religion's chaste embrace?

ELLENA.
No, Madam, when the soul approves the dwelling.
When, stung with all the miseries of flesh,
It wooes the altar to bestow its peace;
'Tis then, what it was meant, the bless'd asylum
Of broken spirits and distracted minds.
But undesir'd, its sanctions are prophan'd,
And the august and sky-enthroned name
Dishonour'd by the impious mockery.

ABBESS.
Thus far with patience I have listen'd, daughter,
To language most unusual to this place—
But mark me—when again I call upon you,
Prepare yourself to make the choice I offer.

(Exit followed by the Nuns—Ellena goes off on the opposite side.)
CHORUS OF NUNS.
HOW calm her life, who, the vain world deriding,
Here finds that peace it denied to her breast:
Care at the voice of her duty subsiding,
Visions of rapture subliming her rest.
Fancy exerting her airy dominion,
Rouzes the Nun at the breaking of day;
Sleep flies dispers'd by the rustling pinion,
The wing of the seraph who flutter'd away.
The wing of the seraph who flutter'd away.