 | The Italian Monk |  |
ACT II.
SCENE—A Convent.SCHEDONI before a Shrine. To him the MARCHIONESS.
MARCHIONESS.
Father, your pardon for this interruption.
Thus at the hour of night, with heavy step,
And with a heart as heavy as my tread,
I crave your best advice, and your assistance.
SCHEDONI.
Daughter, most welcome. But it should appear
There was no need to tempt the falling dews
For such advice as mine: my Lord the Marquis
Is the best guardian of his house's honour.
MARCHIONESS.
The Marquis is the slave of prejudice:
Bred in confin'd and narrow principles,
He cannot reach at lofty purposes
By means uncommon; when he should rush to action,
He but deliberates 'twixt just and unjust,
And poises scruples in a trembling balance.—
He must not be consulted. But remember,
What passes here is sacred.
SCHEDONI.
As confession.
This son of mine still hangs upon my heart.
Unhappy boy!—Know you his late proceedings?
SCHEDONI.
When first he found we had remov'd his mistress,
He sought me in my convent: I was busied
In the most holy office of our faith,
And rapt in penitential recollection.
He impiously assail'd my meditation,
Broke in upon contrition, and with menace
Slander'd my unsoil'd name and character.
Our brethren saw, and will resent the insult.
MARCHIONESS.
What tidings have we from the Lady Abbess?
SCHEDONI.
There are no bounds to sacrilege like his:
Know, he has dar'd prophane the sanctuary,
And snatch'd his minion even from the altar.
MARCHIONESS.
I see we cannot be secure an instant,
Unless the girl be first dispos'd of. This
It is that now distracts my thoughts. What manner—
SCHEDONI.
And are you still to think upon the manner?
Souls such as yours should promptly execute
Were this shrewd wanton by the law condemn'd,
How eagerly would you applaud the sentence!
You feel the justice, yet dare not inflict it.
MARCHIONESS.
The law will lend no shield to such proceedings.
SCHEDONI.
You have the church, to shield an act of justice:
For daring virtue it has absolution.
MARCHIONESS.
Does virtue stand in need of absolution?
SCHEDONI.
When I said so, I spoke to common notions.
Remember that the girl is not immortal!
A few years cut off from her guilty life,
The honour of your family is sav'd.
MARCHIONESS.
Speak low, some one may lurk behind these pillars.—
Necessity admitted for this act,
How may it be perform'd?—we cannot trust
The important vengeance to a mercenary.
SCHEDONI
(ruminating.)
No: mercenaries cannot here be trusted.
MARCHIONESS.
Yet, who but such would—
You amaze me, daughter.
Why should we hesitate to right ourselves?
MARCHIONESS.
Ah! holy Father, where exists another
Like you, prepar'd at once for thought and action?
But when can this be done—the place, the manner?
SCHEDONI.
Down in the bay stands a lone habitation,
But seldom noted: there a fisherman,
After his day of toil, finds sordid shelter.
I know the wretch, and know he may be trusted.
MARCHIONESS.
But yet, being mean and needy, are we safe?
SCHEDONI.
Lady, suffice it that I know the man.
MARCHIONESS.
I could have wish'd the secret and the deed
Had left me debtor only to yourself.
SCHEDONI.
Could you suppose that I would do a murder?
MARCHIONESS.
A murder! no.—An act of justice, virtue!
Great souls anticipate the common process,
And boldly dare redress the wrong they suffer.
I could convince you, we may trust this fellow.
MARCHIONESS.
Well, for the place: you mention'd a lone house.
SCHEDONI.
True: in a chamber of that house, there is—
(Low music heard.)
MARCHIONESS.
What noise was that?—'Tis melancholy music,
Touch'd by a fearful hand.
SCHEDONI.
Within that chamber
There is a secret door.
MARCHIONESS.
Fram'd for what purpose?
SCHEDONI.
Suffice it that 'tis apt for our design.
A passage leads thence to the sea—at night
Its waves will leave no print of what has pass'd.
(Music low and solemn.)
MARCHIONESS.
Again.—It is a requiem—one departed.
SCHEDONI.
Heaven's peace be with him. I am summon'd hence.—
Rely on my affection and my zeal.
[Exit.
(Music again.)
'Tis a first requiem, and the soul but just
Escap'd its fleshly dwelling. That is cold,
Cold now and still, which but an hour gone by
Was fill'd with mind, and throbbing with sensation.
And what am I?—the enemy of life!
Come here to plot, perhaps against a soul!
Return, Schedoni! No! he hears me not.
How feeble are our strongest resolutions!
While passion rul'd in my distracted frame,
It found not, or it conquer'd all my scruples;
One feeble note, a sound, an airy breath,
Strikes on the heart, and wakes my slumb'ring pity.
Ungrateful son, what misery you cause me!
My peace of mind is lost, I fear for ever.
[Exit.
SCENE—a Church.
VIVALDI leading in ELLENA.
VIVALDI.
Revive my love, and let those drooping eyes
Lift their pure beams to happiness and love!
The storm is past away that menac'd you.
ELLENA.
Vivaldi, I once thought no earthly power
Should lead me to accept your offer'd plight
Unsanction'd by your parents—Their injustice
And your entreaty must absolve my vow.
Why tarries thus the reverend Priest—'tis so—
Duty is tardy to the eager wish
Of bliss-expecting love—But see, he comes!
Enter PRIEST.
Forgive me, Father, that I thought you long.
Ah! could your feet keep pace with youthful fancy
You had anticipated sun-rise—hurried
From sleepless midnight to the altar's foot,
And counted every pulse of yonder clock,
That circulates the creeping blood of time;
Gaz'd on the dial, doubted every minute,
That accident had fetter'd down his hand,
And mock'd meridian day with morning hours.
PRIEST.
May it be ever thus!
VIVALDI.
Most reverend Sir,
Proceed you to the rites—O if you know
What 'tis to lose and to regain a treasure
Dearer than life itself, you will not wonder
At this impatience to secure the blessing.
PRIEST.
Young son, I yield me to your virtuous wishes.
That gentle 'haviour, daughter, does announce
What therefore 'tis my pleasing task to do
Is to pronounce in the most holy name
Of mother church the solemn benediction.
Enter several OFFICERS.
1st OFFICER.
Stop—Proceed no further with the rites.
ELLENA.
Vivaldi, we are betray'd—Behold those men—
VIVALDI.
Father, proceed—he dies, who interrupts you.
Enter Men in the Garb of the Inquisition.
1st OFFICER.
In the name of the most holy inquisition
I charge you, Vincent di Vivaldi—You
Ellena di Rosalba, to surrender.
VIVALDI.
Of what am I accus'd?
OFFICER.
Of merely stealing this Nun from the Monastery
of San Stephano. You may swear safely to the
fact, for she wears the veil of her profession at this
moment.
VIVALDI.
The veil is none of hers—this holy Father
Supplied the kind concealment of her flight.
OFFICER.
Confession of the robbery! We believe we shall
be able to prove her profess'd—You must go
both of you before the inquisition at Rome.
VIVALDI.
Or give me way, or, by my love I swear,
My sword shall cut a passage through your hearts.
PAULLO rushes in with his sword drawn.
PAULLO.
Nay, come, I'll tickle some of you. Come on,
you tipstaves for the devil's court—Here are two
of us candidates for San Benitos—Win us and we
wear them.
(They fight—one of the Officers is wounded; at last they disarm VIVALDI and PAULLO.)
OFFICER.
Bring them away. Bear off the Lady first.
VIVALDI.
No, let me perish rather—On my knees
I supplicate the mercy of her company.
OFFICER.
A pleasant jest indeed!—In company!
Let criminals accompany each other!
Besides, indulgence after such resistance,
One of our brethren wounded by your sword.
PAULLO.
Nay, friend, let your old black patron the
devil have his due: The sprinkling of blood there
is a piece of my handy work I assure you; and I
only wish the same lancet could breathe the veins
of your whole fraternity.
VIVALDI.
Paullo, I charge you, cease this idle folly.
The wound was given by me.
OFFICER.
We know it, Sir, but he shall answer for his profane
scurrilities in another place.
PAULLO.
Let me. And if you will rack the truth out
of me, let their reverences look to it. If I don't
whip their consciences with good stinging-nettle
sarcasms, when they have done with me, may I
visit their master the devil next door to 'em.
VIVALDI.
O my best love—I cannot succour thee.
ELLENA.
Vivaldi—O Vivaldi—
[They are torn off by the Officers. Exit. Priest.
Enter FIORESCA.
FIORESCA.
I can't think what my father does down in the
bay so long? As sure as I live, he was concern'd
in carrying off Lady Ellena. He had not been
fishing that's clear. He had got money, for I
heard the chink of the zechins. O that I could
but whisper what I think to Paullo! And yet it
might bring my father into trouble.
But, my mother comes.
GRADISCA.
Ah, daughter, daughter. Yonder is doleful
doings.
FIORESCA.
Where, mother?
GRADISCA.
Why, at the church of our Lady. The Count
Vivaldi stole it seems Madam Rosalba from the
Convent of San Stephano; and to our Lady they
came to be married; but at the very altar they
were seized—and fighting followed; and Paullo
drew his sword; and to sum up all in a word,
they were overpowered and carried off to the
prison of the Inquisition.
Paullo, too! Wounded!
GRADISCA.
No, no. Not wounded—but worse, worse.
FIORESCA.
How worse, dear mother?
GRADISCA.
Why, as I hear, seeing his master in this non-plus,
he flew at the officers like a sword-fish, and
stabbed one of them an ugly gash. But they
turned upon 'em like sharks, and it is death to
resist 'em.
FIORESCA.
O, Paullo, Paullo!
(weeps.)
GRADISCA.
Ah, poor wench, well may'st thou weep and
take on. He was as good a youth as ever serv'd
up macaroni, and as reverent to age, as if he had
liv'd in the good old times.—I'll go and bring
Father Sebastian hither to comfort you. O, that's
a good Priest, aye, and a wise one too. I should
never be so comfortable as I am, if it were not
for his pious exhortations.
FIORESCA.
I shall never know comfort more, mother, if
any harm befal poor Paullo.
You cannot say that.—Hear Father Sebastian,
that's all, and then tell me so.
[Exit.
FIORESCA.
I have determin'd. It's a long distance for
a lone girl; but no distance shall keep me from
him. Yes, I will go to the gates of his prison,
whisper into his dungeon that I would die to
save him; and then bid my poor heart break and
be at peace.
Ah! this reminds me of the unhappy fate of
poor Mary of our village.
[I.]
DARK was the night, the children slept,Poor Mary climb'd the cottage stair,
And at her chamber window wept,
And plac'd a little taper there.
Why does he tarry thus, she cried?
Alas! what pains do I endure!
Heav'n grant this taper be his guide,
And lead him safe across the moor.
II.
At length his well known voice she hears;“He comes, my terror to remove!
“My William comes to dry my tears.”
And down she flies to meet her love.
Sigh'd out “alas! no more we meet!
“I'm stabb'd by robbers in the wood.”
Then fell a corse at Mary's feet.
[Exit.
SCENE—A strong dismantled lonely Fort upon the Sea-side.
Enter STILETTO, CORVINO and others, with ELLENA.
1st OFFICER.
We are at our journey's end.
ELLENA
(aside.)
'Tis as I fear'd. Do we sleep here to night?
2d OFFICER.
You do, my fair one.
1st OFFICER.
What ho! Spalatro!
ELLENA.
When do we set forward?
2d OFFICER.
We go to-night. He's dead asleep. Spalatro!
Enter SPALATRO, from the Fort-gate.
SPALATRO.
What, in the devil's name, keep you such a
you're like to find.
1st OFFICER.
Here is your charge. You know the rest I
think?
SPALATRO.
Aye, aye. Wont you come in, damsel? This
is a rude lodging; but the guests seldom complain.
They are scurvily treated 'tis true; but
then they sleep very quietly.
ELLENA.
I have no doubt of that friend. Lost for ever.
(aside.)
[Exeunt into the Fort.
SCENE—The Inside of the Place, a Table, a Lamp on it; a few Stools, and a Fire at a Distance.
Re-enter SPALATRO, ELLENA, and the TWO OFFICERS.
SPALATRO.
Well, here we are—You must be weary, Sister.
I'll dress some fish, and we'ave a stoop of wine,
A potent cordial for low spirits, girl.
You'll need refreshment for your coming journey.
My maxim is a short and merry life—
No bad one—Ha! Corvino! Come, some wine.
I beg you will excuse me. The fatigue
Of journeying so quickly makes me think
A bed the best refreshment I can find.
Pray shew me to my chamber for the night.
SPALATRO.
Well; if nothing else suits your palate, e'en as
you like. I'll shew it you. Come, this way.
[He takes a lamp, and she follows him out.
STILETTO.
Come, come, off with your holy skin, Corvino.
Aye, aye, now I know you for as true a knight
of the stiletto, as ever practised justice in the court
of honour.
CORVINO.
Nay, the profession is honourable, no doubt.
It is a sort of trial after term; what common leets
take no cognizance of, we decide, and the best of
our practice is dispatch.
STILETTO.
You shan't find me a profession equal to it,
either for courage or dexterity. The art to waylay,
the address to shift to any shape, and hold
any language. Compare it with the trades most
in vogue.
CORVINO.
Aye, marry; draw me some comparisons,
brother. Try it with the soldier's.
O, a mere flea-bite in respect of the danger;
requiring less subtlety in design, and less promptitude
in the execution. Besides, you shall have
him be as active in the wrong as in the right.
Now we never use arms but to redress some injury.
CORVINO.
To the next—we carry it hollow—there.
STILETTO.
As to your physician, he gives death with torture.
Ours is scarcely felt, and always sudden.
He with his lotions and his potions holds nature
as it were in purgatory. We set up upon a single
pill, the extract of lead, which never fails to cure
all disorders.
CORVINO.
Go on, go on. The lawyer's will not 'pose you.
STILETTO.
O, no, that's too clear a case to dwell on. He
strips you of your land, and leaves your heirs to
beggary—We take away only the living incumbrance,
and bestow the property entire.
Enter SPALATRO.
CORVINO.
Spalatro returns.
I don't half like the business.
CORVINO.
How now—What devil has played truant, and
left a corner of thy heart scrupulous—Han't you
noble payment for her lodging?
SPALATRO.
She looks so innocently; and moreover, brother
stabbers, I have a child myself. As she flung
herself on the damn'd mattrass, I look'd at her by
the lamp, and thought I beheld my own girl,
Fioresca—
STILETTO.
Come, come; we must have no qualms like
these. Either dispatch the business like a man,
or we will earn this other purse ourselves.
SPALATRO.
No, no; I wasn't so chicken-hearted as that
neither; only I did not like to trust the steadiness
of my hand. His Reverence mix'd a bowl of
milk here, which I laid by her, and I'll trust the
Friar's balsam against hope in this world. I'm
pleas'd to be rid of the deed, I can tell you. But
come, our fish is ready.
1st OFFICER.
You look disorder'd, Spalatro. Come, a cup
of wine to dissipate vapours.
I believe it was that curs'd bleak gallery that
chill'd me. You remember, Corvino, your handy
work in the chamber—
CORVINO.
Pooh, pooh; some wine, boys, and let us sing
the chorus that Trombone made upon our way of
living.
CHORUS.
HARK, the night crow shrieks for food!
Wolves are howling in the wood!
To the cottage clowns retire,
And quake around the scanty fire.
Then we track the gloomy way,
Lurking to ensnare our prey.
'Tis he, stand close. Strike by surprize.
What light's that? 'Tis the fire-gnat flies.
Now then take aim! he falls, he dies.
[Exeunt.
Enter SCHEDONI.
There are, who, wandering at this lonely hour,
With murder for the herald of their way,
Would dream that every gust of fretful wind
Rebuk'd their purpose, and the roaring sea
In solemn sentences condemned the deed.
Ev'n I, whose reason mocks such childish thoughts,
Feel unaccustom'd dread palsy my progress.
In this rude solitude I turn and start,
As though my path were planted with observers.
Spalatro!
SPALATRO.
Here.
SCHEDONI.
Well, hast thou done this business?
SPALATRO.
No, for she laps up poison like an adder. I
laid the bowl beside her.
SCHEDONI.
Is it gone?
SPALATRO.
Yes, she but sleeps though; I am just come
from her. Her rest is much disturbed.
SCHEDONI.
That must be remedied. Here, take this dagger,
and the work is easy.
SPALATRO.
I have no great affection to the thing.
SCHEDONI.
But, the reward.—
SPALATRO.
Well, the reward—I grant you.
[Exit.
SCHEDONI.
This blow atchieves my object. All were doubtful,
Did I not work the Marchioness to something
She is my debtor now in all she has:
Her bond is of such force when writ in blood,
As to restore what once was Marinella.—
Those steps of terror tell me it is done.
SPALATRO
(within.)
Father Schedoni!
SCHEDONI.
Here, Spalatro.—Well—
Enter SPALATRO, with the Lamp and Dagger.
Am I obey'd—have you perform'd this deed?
What mean those ghastly looks?—that bloodless weapon?
SPALATRO.
The gallery—the gallery—I dare not.
SCHEDONI.
Dastard! What bug-bear have you conjur'd up,
To scare your senseless spirit from its office?
SPALATRO.
Go there yourself: I saw it, and I heard it.
Murder the innocent! No: I'll sleep o'nights.
Do it yourself: here, take the dagger from me—
Take it—My hand is white again!
SCHEDONI.
Base coward!
Stay then 'till I return.
No, you'll excuse me.
Your Holiness may shield me from the devil—
I'll wait without.
SCHEDONI.
Where is the cloak, to wrap around the body?
SPALATRO.
It hangs just by the door—you see it, there.
SCHEDONI.
Give me the lamp.
SPALATRO.
You have it in your hand.
SCHEDONI.
I mean the dagger.
SPALATRO.
It is in your girdle.
SCHEDONI.
Now then attend me.
SPALATRO.
That is not the way.
SCHEDONI.
O, true—she sleeps you say.
[Exit.
SPALATRO.
She does.
[Follows.
SCHEDONI enters with the Lamp.
SCHEDONI.
Yes, she's asleep! Fie on these shaking joints!
Does not my interest tell me she must die?
Hush! sure she speaks!—She never will speak more.
Oh! such weak thinkings will unman me quite.
How deep that sigh!—Her whole frame seems convuls'd.—
Can I remove her robe and not awake her—
(He looks at her Breast, and seeing a Picture starts; then eagerly detatches it, drops the Dagger, and shuddering draws back in an Agony of Horror.)
Am I alive? and do my eyes see truly?
Or are these features but a fancied charm,
To bind that devil, which tempts me to destruction?
Ellen!—awake! awake!
(ELLENA starts up, shrieks, and falls at his Feet.)
ELLENA.
O save me! save me!
Spalatro will destroy me!
SCHEDONI.
Quickly, tell me,
How came you by this picture?
'Twas my mother's.
SCHEDONI.
Whose the resemblance—tell me, on your life?
ELLENA.
It is my father's portrait, and—
SCHEDONI.
His name?
ELLENA.
The Count de Marinella.
SCHEDONI.
My child, my child—In me behold that father.
Yet spare me—I shall blast you with my touch.
Stand off! The springs of love are poison'd here:
O misery! To have a star unknown,
Beaming with brightness rise upon my view,
While all the hemisphere is stain'd with blood.
Let me gaze on thee! O that sweet alarm!
Be hush'd my child—no danger shall approach thee.
I'll make this breast a bulwark to defend thee.
I rave! O pardon me! and bless your father.
ELLENA.
I stand amaz'd—Eternal Providence!
A father, my deliverer! O, Sir, tell me,
Why the first care I meet with from my parent
Preserves the life he gave? My infant years
Is apt I feel to learn its filial lesson.
SCHEDONI.
You shall know all, my child. But ah! the
drink!
ELLENA.
Distrusting it, I threw it down, between
The bars of yonder window. (seeing it on the ground.)
Ha! a Dagger!
The villain would have stabb'd me as I slept,
Had not the father sav'd me from the blow.
SCHEDONI
(walks from her in the greatest Agony.)
My Ellen, if you would not blast my senses,
Mention this scene no more. Blot it from memory.
Here, from this hour of terror and of transport,
Promise, if possible, never to think of it.
ELLENA.
O, should I not? when it reminds my heart,
How infinite the debt I owe my father!
Where is Spalatro? Send that villain hence.
Supported even by you, I dare not see him.
SCHEDONI.
He shall not meet your eye. Retire my child.
The morning dawns. Get on your cloak, your veil,
Come forth my sweet one.
[Exit. ELLENA.
SCHEDONI.
Ho! Spalatro!
Enter SPALATRO, with a cloak.
SPALATRO.
Here.
Here is the cloak to hide the body in.
SCHEDONI.
Villain, be dumb—another such a word—
SPALATRO.
What! will not her life then suffice you, Priest?
SCHEDONI.
She lives! dear as my life itself.
SPALATRO.
She lives!
Where? for I see no signs of her existence.
SCHEDONI.
Be silent; let no syllable escape you
Of that accurs'd design. I will reward you.
Hope shall be outrun by my bounty to thee,
So thou art trusty. We must leave you straight.
Be not you seen by her. Hence good Spalatro.
[Exit. SPALATRO.
By man, who thinks himself a god in foresight.
To tear Vivaldi from his lovely bride,
Ambition would have made me kill my child!
Yet what more sanguine wish could my soul form,
Than to behold the heir of great Vivaldi
Espouse the daughter of the Monk Schedoni?
Vivaldi now; but that shall shape our course.
My Ellena, approach.
Enter ELLENA.
ELLENA.
Here, my best father.
SCHEDONI.
Come, my sole pride—we will away for Rome;
And think me not averse to thy attachment.
Vivaldi shall be thine. I dote in fondness.
My heart, unus'd to be awaken'd thus,
Does like the bursting rock, gush out in streams;
The flood is pure, and will refine its channel.
Come, come, my child—
[Exeunt.
| The Italian Monk | |