University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—Balthazar's House.
Enter Balthazar, followed by the Count disguised as a Friar.
Balthazar.
These things premis'd, you have my full consent
To try my daughter's humour:—to that end
I have sent for her. But observe me, sir!—
I will use no compulsion with my child;
Though of a merry spirit, I have found her
In weighty matters of so ripe a judgment,
That she shall choose a husband for herself.
If I had tendered thus her sister Zamora,
I should not now have mourn'd a daughter lost!

Enter Volante.
Volante.
What is your pleasure?

Balthazar.
Know this holy man;
(introducing the Count to her.)
It is the father Confessor I spoke of.
Though he looks young, in all things which respect
His sacred function, he is deeply learn'd.

Volante.
It is the Count! (aside.)


Balthazar.
I leave you to his guidance:
And do not with that wild wing you are wont
Fly from his questions;—act as may befit
The sober purpose of his visit here;
And, without diminution or concealment,
Commit your actions and your private thoughts
To his examination and free censure.

Volante.
I shall observe, sir.—
[Exit Balthazar.
Nay, 'tis he, I'll swear! (aside.)


Count.

Pray Heaven she don't suspect me!—Well,
young Lady, you have heard your father's commands?

Volante.

Yes: and now he has left us alone, what
are we to do?

Count.

I am to listen, and you are to confess.

Volante.

What! and then you are to confess, and
I am to listen?—I'll take care you shall do penance
though!— (aside.)

Count.

Pshaw!

Volante.

Well; but what am I to confess?

Count.

Your sins, daughter; your sins.

Volante.

What! all of them?

Count.

Only the great ones.

Volante.

The great ones! Oh, you must learn those
of my neighbours, whose business it is, like yours,
to confess every body's sins but their own. If now
you would be content with a few trifling peccadilloes,
I would own them to you with all the frankness of an
author, who gives his reader the paltry errata of the
press, but leaves him to find out all the capital blunders
of the work himself.

Count.

Nay, Lady, this is trifling:—I am in
haste.

Volante.

In haste!—then suppose I confess my virtues?
you shall have the catalogue of them in a single
breath.

Count.

Nay, then, I must call your father.

Volante.

Why, then, to be serious:—If you will tell
me of any very enormous offences which I may have
lately committed, I shall have no objection in the
world to acknowledge them to you.

Count.

It is publicly reported, daughter, you are in love.

Volante.

So! so! are you there! (aside.)
That I am
in love?

Count.

With a man—

Volante.

Why, what should a woman be in love
with?

Count.

You interrupt me, Lady.—A young man.

Volante.

I'm not in love with an old one, certainly.—
But is love a crime, father?

Count.

Heaven forbid!

Volante.

Why, then, you have nothing to do with it.

Count.

Ay, but the concealing it is a crime.

Volante.

Oh, the concealing it is a crime?

Count.

Of the first magnitude.

Volante.

Why, then, I confess—

Count.

Well, what?

Volante.

That the Count Montalban—

Count.

Go on!

Volante.

Is—

Count.

Proceed!

Volante.

Desperately in love with me:—

Count.

Pshaw! that's not to the point!

Volante.

Well, well, I'm coming to it:—and not
being able in his own person to learn the state of my
affections, has taken the benefit of clergy, and assumed
the disguise of a friar.

Count.

Discovered!

Volante.

Ha, ha, ha!—You are but a young masquerader,
or you wouldn't have left your vizor at
home. Come, come, Count, pull off your lion's apparel,
and confess yourself an ass.

Count.

Nay, Volante, hear me!

Volante.

Not a step nearer!—The snake is still
dangerous, though he has cast his skin. I believe
you're the first lover on record that ever attempted
to gain the affections of his mistress by discovering her
faults. Now, if you had found out more virtues in
my mind than there will ever be room for, and more
charms in my person than even my looking-glass can
create, why then indeed—

Count.

What then?

Volante.

Then I might have confess'd what it's now
impossible I can ever confess: and so farewell, my
noble Count confessor!

[Exit.
Count, solus.
Count.
Farewell!
And when I've hit upon the longitude,
And plumb'd the yet unfathom'd ocean,
I'll make another venture for thy love.—
Here comes her father.—I'll be fool'd no longer!

Enter Balthazar.
Balthazar.
Well, sir, how thrive you?

Count.
E'en as I deserve:
Your daughter has discovered, mock'd, and left me.

Balthazar.
Yet I've another scheme.

Count.
What is't?

Balthazar.
My daughter,
Being a lover of my art, of late
Has vehemently urg'd to see your portrait;
Which, now 'tis finish'd, I stand pledg'd, she shall.
Go to the picture-room—stand there conceal'd:
Here is the key. I'll send my daughter straight.
And if, as we suspect, her heart leans tow'rds you,
In some unguarded gesture, speech, or action,
Her love will suddenly break out.—Away!
I hear her coming.

Count.
There's some hope in this.

Balthazar.
It shall do wonders. Hence!
[Exit Count.
I'll tax her home.

Enter Volante.
Volante.
What, is he gone, sir?

Balthazar.

Gone!—d'ye think the man is made of
marble?—Yes, he is gone.

Volante.
For ever?

Balthazar.
Ay, for ever.

Volante.
Alas, poor Count!—Or has he only left you
To study some new character? Pray, tell me!
What will he next appear in?

Balthazar.
This is folly.
'Tis time to call your wanton spirits home;—
You are too wild of speech.

Volante.
My thoughts are free, sir;
And those I utter.

Balthazar.
Far too quickly, girl:
Your shrewdness is a scare-crow to your beauty.

Volante.

It will fright none but fools, sir: men of
sense must naturally admire in us the quality they
most value in themselves; a blockhead only protests
against the wit of a woman, because he can't answer
her drafts upon his understanding. But now we talk
of the Count, don't you remember your promise,
sir?

Balthazar.

Umph! (aside.)
What promise, girl?

Volante.

That I should see your picture of him.

Balthazar.

So you shall, when you can treat the
original with a little more respect.

Volante.

Nay, sir, a promise!

Balthzar.

Well, you'll find the door open:—but,
before you go, tell me honestly how do you like the
Count, his person, and understanding?

Volante.

Why, as to his person, I don't think he's
handsome enough to pine himself to death for his
own shadow, like the youth in the fountain—nor yet
so ugly as to be frightened to dissolution, if he should
look at himself in a glass. Then, as to his understanding,
he has hardly wit enough to pass for a
madman, nor yet so little as to be taken for a fool.
In short, sir, I think the Count is very well worth any
young woman's serious contemplation—when she has
no other earthly thing to think about.

[Runs off.
Balthazar solus.
Balthazar.
So the glad bird, that flutters from the net,
Grown wanton with the thought of his escape,
Flies to the limed bush, and there is caught.
I'll steal and watch their progress.

[Exit.