University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Alfonso's Tent.
Claudia—Sola.
Clau.
Odious Fontano!—how my heart detests thee!
What?—Scorn my love?—Refuse a proferr'd crown?
Counsel the king to listen to the charge
Against my only son?—A charge, which doom'd
That son to banishment!—I'll bear no more!
[Enter Cavallo.
Speak!—Speak!—Cavallo—Is the deed perform'd?

Cav.
Ne'er shall Fontano see the light again!
He lives, but sees not!—Yes!—The deed is done.
Would it were undone!—Miserable man!
Why?—why, assist in such a barbarous deed?

Clau.
Would it were undone?—Nay, my good Cavallo,
Would that it could be executed twice!
But what said he?—How bore he all the pain?
Did he not weep?—Or bore he all in silence?

Cav.
As to Fontano's miserable cell,
Silent, and anxious of the deed, we mov'd,
Manfredi whispered me to move with care;
Lest, in our haste, we wak'd him from his rest.
For, though in chains, Manfredi fear'd his arm.

Clau.
The senseless coward!—But did Fontano shew
No signs of misery.—Heav'd he not a sigh?
Said he no word?—Did he not curse me?—Speak!—

Cav.
He wore an air of manly melancholy!
We found him sitting at his prison window,
Watching the clouds, that roll'd in volumes round
The giant summit of Vesuvius!
The moon, at intervals, illumin'd his face;
No passion seem'd to move him:—All was calm,
E'en as the scene, on which his eyes were fixt!
He heard us not:—But, ever and anon,
Drew deep ton'd murmurs from a trembling lyre.—

Clau.
Oh! what a tale is this!—A poet's tale!
Worthy the pen of Tasso!—Well! what more?

Cav.
Sometimes he seem'd, as wandering wild in thought;
For, now and then, the sounds were wild and sad;—
Now he would chaunt the Virgin's evening hymn;
At which I trembled, and Manfredi too!

Clau.
Trembled?—The bigots!—But proceed,—proceed.

Cav.
Seeing him thus absorb'd, Manfredi rush'd,
As if he were awaken'd from a trance;—
And as Fontano, for the last, last time,
Fix'd one sad look upon the scene, which rais'd
His thoughts to heaven, full in his visual orbs
Scattered the drug, that robb'd his eyes of light!
Oh! righteous heaven! I do repent me now
Of all I saw!—that, seeing, I forbore
To strike the hand that did it.—Gracious heaven:

Clau.
—Repent thee?—Nay, Cavallo, why repent?
Thou canst not doubt, but I'll reward thee well!

Cav.
Not all the wealth, Italian monarchs boast;
Nor all the gems, that Indian quarries yield,
E'er can reward me.—Oh! that I had died
E'er, in an hour accursed, I gave consent,
Thus, thus, to barter all my hopes of heaven!
What, though I were beset with ills around,
Steep'd in the gulph of every deep distress,
And my lov'd infants famishing with want—

Clau.
They'll want no longer!—

Cav.
Yes!—a father's fame!
Oh!—better had they pined, from day to day,
Till death had lull'd them to a happier fate;
Than that their father should allay their wants
In banquets, purchased at a rate so dear!

Clau.
Cavallo!—why—I took thee for a MAN!
Nature had stampt a goodly image on thee;
Therefore, I say, I took thee for a MAN!
This weak, this idle, sense of moral wrong
Writes driveller on thy forehead!—But proceed—

Cav.
—'Tis done!—alas!—the coward act is done!
Manfredi did it!—Having so perform'd,
Unpitying,—unrelenting,—and unmoved,
He led him to yon precipices; where,
Watching the bubbles of a spring, he saw,
Eating wild berries for a feast, a Boy,
Who smil'd with rapture at the sight of money.

Clau.
And what ensued?

Cav.
Manfredi gave a ducat;
And whisper'd in the famish'd urchin's ear,
That if he wished for fifty ducats more,
He'd lead the miserable, sightless man,
Up to the margin of a precipice,
And leave him there, to wander as he would!

Clau.
'Twas well concluded!—And ye left him there?

Cav.
Yes! there we left him.—Thus I quit my tale.
Would I could lose all memory of it too!

Clau.
Hence—hence!—thou hero of the ready tear;
Hence, to Manfredi!—Send Manfredi hither.— (Aside.)

I fain would thank him for Fontano's ruin;
[Exit Cavallo.
Oh!—it is balsam to my soul indeed!—

[Exit.

SCENE II.

An olive grove.—A ruinous edifice on one side; a bridge over a stream on the other.
Enter Manfredi.
'Tis here—at evening—Angelina walks,
To meditate on absent friends.—I'll make her mine!
Fool—that I was—to trust so young a boy,
To lead her father to a precipice!—
Fool!—fool!—unworthy of a high estate!
The boy, as every idiot might foresee,
Pitied the wretch, because the wretch was blind
And leads him on, as I am taught to fear,
By secret paths to Venice. There he hopes
To meet his daughter.—Little does he think—
Ah!—little dreams he, that the friend, he chose,
To guide his daughter to the court of Venice,
Bribed high by me, convey'd the treasure here.
Oh! sightless idiot!—Hope deludes thy fancy!
Meet thee at Venice?—Hail thy hopes at Venice?
Yes!—yes!—she'll meet thee, miserable father,
Meet thee, and stun thee, with her sighs and tears,
Ruin'd and dishonor'd.—She appears!
List—list—she comes!—Her steps resound with music!

[Retires.
Enter Angelina, attended by Agnes.
Angeli.
Ah!—with what pensive pleasure does the mind
Dwell on those moments of delighted youth;
When, led by Angelo, through vallies deep,
We've culled sweet violets from soft beds of moss,
Or snatch'd wild roses from a wilderness
Of thorns and briery brakes:—enchanting time!

Agnes.

Signora!—Bless me!—she is so melancholy,
that she will not speak to me.—Poor heart!—she is
not proud—she is only sad!—

(Manfredi comes a little forward, and conceals himself behind one of the trees, not far distant from Angelina.
Angeli.
Sometimes we've wandered on the rocky shore,
To hear the murmur of each curling wave:
Sometimes the colours of departing day
Have charm'd our footsteps up the mountain side.
Till in the east, in silent state, the moon
Ting'd every cloud with most bewitching hue;
And o'er the shadowy scene such glory cast,
That Nature paus'd, and gazed, with silent rapture,
On this her fair creation.

Manf.
(aside.)
How each word
Sinks to the deep recesses of my soul!

Angeli.
But why recal those happy moments now?—

Agnes.
Why do you then?—present sorrows,
Signora, are always enough for the time.

Angeli.
Ah, my good Agnes, what thou say'st is true.
Oh! my dear father!—How my sinking heart
Bleeds for thy sorrows!—Lead me to thy chamber:
My eyes feel heavy; and my life a burthen.

Agnes.

Come then, good Signora;—come with me.
I've made a bed for you, as soft as rose-leaves.—Singing,
sleeping, and dreaming, Signora, are the best pastimes
of a body's life.

Angeli.
Yes!—when we sing
With a pleas'd heart, and sleep with soundest sleep,
And dream of those we love.—Oh! why didst wake me,
So early in the morning?—

Agnes.

What did you dream about, then, good
Signora?—Not about Signor Manfredi?—No!—no!
—It was not about Signor Manfredi!—

Manf.
(aside.)
Thou haggard serpent!—Yes!—
Thy withered bones
Shall ache with torture all thy life to come.

Angeli.
Methought, last night, I saw my father's arms
Stretched out to save me.—'Twas an airy dream!—
Ah Heaven!—I thank thee, that he knows not yet,
What woes I've suffered; and what anguish now
Wrings his poor daughter's bosom with despair.

Agnes.

Oh!—do not weep, Signora,—do not weep.
Alas!—alas!—she does not hear me.—Poor lady
—I pity her from my heart.—Oh!—good heaven—the
Signor!—

(Manfredi comes forward.
Angeli.
Signor Manfredi!—Then I'm lost indeed!

Manf.
(Points to Agnes to go off.)
(Exit Agnes.
Not lost, fair ingrate!—But why drown'd in tears?
Is this my only recompence?—Oh!—Why
Those looks so haughty?—Did I love thee less,
Ill should I brook such dignified returns.

Angeli.
'Tis well such conduct meets with such reward!
Did'st thou not steal me from the friends, I loved?
And at a time, too, when my father,—ruined—
Needed the solace of his daughter most?
Was that a moment to distress me more?
Oh!—yes—a time, most meet for such design!

Manf.
Fair Angelina!—some officious friend
Has, with successful malice, wrong'd thine ear.
I call the sainted spirits to be witness—

Ange.
Away!—away!—No more!—Wert thou to call
E'en Heaven itself, it would avail thee nought.

Manf.
By Heaven thou wrong'st me.—No, my Angelina,
I lov'd thy father, though he lov'd not me.
I lov'd his virtues;—I admired his zeal:
And, if I cou'd have imitated any,
His was the model, I'd have copied from.

Angeli.
Has Heaven no judgments for hypocrisy?

Manf.
Ah! how thy words do sully thy sweet lips!
Nay!—Angelina, do—I charge,—dismiss
Doubts of my sacred honour, which ne'er yet,
E'en by the venom of a slanderer's tongue,
Has once been breath'd on.—

Angeli.
I'm the slanderer then!

Manf.
Come my sweet maid.—

Angeli.
Oh! miracle of meanness—
What?—would'st thou stoop to take a wife so cold,
So loathing, and so hating?—Who, from youth,
Has pledged her faith to one, the proudest boast
Of all the maids of Italy.—His name
I will not, need not, breathe—

Manf.
Insulting maid!
This—this is past endurance.—

Angeli.
Who as much,
In all the true nobility of heart,
As in his form and manners, does surpass
Thee;—as, in turn, thyself eclipsest all,
The poets dream of, when they paint a monster.

Manf.
Why all this anger?—Fair, deluded maid!
Why all this anger? 'twill avail thee nought—

Angeli.
Signor Manfredi!—rather would I die
Ten thousand deaths, than listen to thy prayers.
Angelo!—earliest idol of my heart!

Manf.
Angelo?—Yes!—This goodly Angelo
Now pays dear penance for his treachery.
And can this youth be Angelina's idol?
Theme of her boast, and monarch of her heart?
Oh! he would stain it, lady; he would stain it—

Angeli.
Thy tongue speaks slander, thou unworthy man!
He is all honour; full of noblest thoughts.—
E'en now he animates my glowing breast
With all his virtues; and inspires my heart
With hatred for thy crimes.—Could Angelo—

Manf.
Not Angelo, nor Heaven itself, can now
Secure thee from my arms.—

Angeli.
Oh!—Heaven—To thee
I call for my revenge!—This friendly dagger—

(Takes a dagger from her bosom and prepares to strike, when Manfredi seizes her arm, and snatches it away.
Manf.
Is weak and powerless in a woman's hand!
There—get thee hence—thou enemy to love—
(Throws it away.
Fair Angelina—

Angeli.
Vilest wretch!—Away.

Enter Angelo.
Angeli.
This way the noise was.—Yes:—The fiend is here!
Turn, son of hell; thy hated visage turn.

[Manfredi turns, draws, and rushes upon Angelo. After fighting some time, he retreats upon the bridge, and falls into the stream, that flows beneath.
Ang.
There, worthless miscreant, buffet with the stream;
And let thy Fortune save thee, if she will.
[Flies to Angelina, who has fainted.
Fair Angelina!—'Tis thy love that calls.
Thy father lives—he journeys on to Venice.
Look up, my angel;—yes—thy father lives—
Indeed he lives!—Propertio's gone to Naples,
To save the remnants of his shattered fortune.

[Takes her in his arms.
(Cries of Manfredi heard, as he floats down the stream.)
A Woodman passes hastily over the stage.
Wood.

Bear up, Signor.—I'll bring you to shore,
whoever you are. (without.)
Take hold of this bough,
Signor.—Holloa—holloa!—

Ang.
The woodman saves him!—See—he drags him to the shore!
Look up, my fair:—'tis ruin here to stay.
Just Heaven, how cold!—Alas!—she dies—she dies!

[Carries her into the forest.

SCENE III.

A distant View of the City of Naples.
Enter Fontano and Scipio among Precipices.
Sci.

Follow my steps, Signor; and we shall soon
come to a safer road than this. Oh! 'twas a cruel
deed, to rob you of your sight, and then to leave you
among these dreadful precipices.

Fon.
Cruel beyond the cruelty of men.
Where art thou, Scipio?—Let me hold thine hand!
I fear to step;—these rocks are wild and steep;
There—lead thee on:—to thee and heaven I trust!

Sci.
And heaven shall fail you, Signor, sooner than
I will.

Fon.
Heaven proves its mercy by its gift of thee!
Alfonso!—Oh Alfonso!—To be duped
By the low craft of Claudia!—'Tis too much!
Oh!—how man's intellect does crouch before
The bought endearments of an artful woman!

Sci.
Whither shall I lead you, Signor?

Fon.
Lead me to Venice, boy.
Lead me safe thither; and my gratitude
Shall pay thee well, for thy good conduct towards me.

Sci.

Venice?—Venice, I suppose, is a long way
off, Signor, is it not?—But we shall one day reach it,
nevertheless, I hope. This ducat, which the savage
Signor gave me, will take us several leagues. When
we have spent it, Signor, have I your leave to exercise
my profession?

Fon.
(smiling.)
Profession?
And what is that, my noble minded boy?

Sci.

Why, Signor, you must know, the Virgin and
my mother taught me the art of an improv—prov—
provi—

Fon.

Improvisatore?

Sci.

Ah!—that is the word, Signor!—So, if I see
a rich cavalier, riding on the road, this is the way, I
shall begin, perhaps:

Fon.
Oh! richest mirror of a noble heart!
What splendid court contains a soul like thine?

Sci.
Come, Signor, don't be afraid;—this is the way:

Fon.
To grant me thee, my Scipio, was indeed
To grant a treasure, that I ne'er could hope,
In this most weary pilgrimage!—Proceed.
If heaven has but preserved my child, I yet
May taste of happiness!—'Tis now sev'n days,
Since she and Paulo took the road to Venice.

Sci.

Then let us take the road to Venice, too,
Signor. If a lady can travel to Venice in seven days,
surely you and I can go thither in ten. Come, Signor,
who is afraid?

Fon.
Paulo's a man—I would have had a better;
But that the time prevented.—Heaven preserve her!

Sci.

Come, Signor, come along: the road is better
now.

Fon.
Well, my dear boy.—But we must now be cautious.
Albanio's camp, if I mistake not, lies
Full towards the west:—so lead me northward, boy.

Sci.

Albanio? Who is Albanio, Signor? I have
heard a great deal of talk about this Signor Albanio;
but cannot make out, who he is.

Fon.
Oh! He is worse, than language e'er can paint!
He slew his wife, at midnight; fled the land,
Which gave him birth; and wars on all its sons!—

Scip.
Oh! ! What a monster!
(A hunting horn heard at a distance.)

Merciful Virgin!—There are three or four men, flying
from rock to rock, yonder, as if they were frantic.
For heaven's sake, Signor, let us get out of their
way, as fast as we can.

(Horn louder.)

Oh!—it is a chamois hunt.—Ah! now they have
killed the poor chamois!—Here they come, Signor;
we had better retire: for they may hunt us now, as far
as we know.—Come, Signor; we have not a single
moment to lose.

[Exeunt.
Enter Albanio, Spalatro, Carlo, Marco, &c. Albanio comes forward, and leans, for a few moments, in a melancholy attitude against one of the rocks.
Alb.
It shames my nature, thus to waste the time
In the pursuit of animals, while men
Are hunting me.—I stand ashamed!—The world—
'Twill laugh to hear it.
(relapses into thought.)
—If I draw my sword
Thus, and then thus;—then this way, and then that;
What city's walls shall I have outlin'd?—Speak!

Spa.
What city's outlines?—Why—the walls of Naples.

Alb.
Ah! thou art right!—And hadst thou said the walls
Of Babylon, or Nineveh, thou hadst
Said rightly too. For e'er the gilded moon
Shall wane into a melancholy crescent,
Naples shall be a Nineveh!

Spa.
A Nineveh?

Alb.
Yes,—a Nineveh, and a Babylon!
One stone shall not repose upon another!
The future traveller shall search for her,
And dust alone shall recompense his search!
And we've been hunting here, like boys and clowns,
Because a chamois cross'd us on our way!
I stand ashamed at such a folly.—Marco,
Unbend thy bow;—and thou—and thou—and thou.
[They unbend their bows.
This bow shall such a folly see again,
When children pick it up;—and not before.
[Breaking the bow.
'Tis thus—and more than thus—Spalatro?—here!
Hast ever heard?—But stay—the sun is up,
And this no time for secrets.—Now—be honest—
I sometimes fear my faculties do wander!—
That is, Spalatro, now and then:—not now:—
But when I brood too deeply o'er my sorrows.
Hast thou remark'd it?—Come, be honest—speak—
Speak like a man, that venerates another,
Loving the truth.

Spa.
I ne'er observ'd it, Signor.

Alb.
Nay now—thy looks speak truer, than thy words.
But I forgive thee.—Truth's an honest fool,
That few men love to deal with.
(With some hesitation.)
Hast thou heard?—
Hast ever heard, that I was married?

Spa.
Yes.

Alb.
Thou hast?

Spa.
I've heard it whisper'd, Signor—

Alb.
Whisper'd?—
Right noble men speak out; they never whisper!
Why should men whisper, when they speak the truth?
Manfredi is the villain!—Was it he—
Was it not he, that stabb'd my innocent wife?

Spa.
(In a very indistinct manner.)
Oh! horrible!

Alb.
What?—think'st thou, then, 'twas I?
If thou think that—

Spa.
Most noble Signor, thou mistak'st my meaning.

Alb.
(His passion subsiding in an instant.)
Thine hand!—I'm hasty—but I'm innocent.
Oh, if thou knew mine agony of soul!—

Spa.
I could not love thee more!

All.
Nor we.
Nor we.
Nor we either, Signor.

Alb.
Bear with my humour!—Friends, I thank ye all.
I've sworn eternal hatred to Manfredi!
I've sworn eternal hatred unto Naples!
And war,—eternal war—'gainst all her perjur'd sons!
And, if ye wish to know the hated cause,
Follow my steps, and I will tell it ye.
But, ere ye hear my agonizing tale,
Swear, by this sword, ye will revenge my cause—

Spa.
We swear!—

All.
We swear!

Spa.
And may perdition hurl
Her deadliest tortures, if we e'er prove false!

Alb.
Then I am trebly arm'd!—Spalatro, come;
Come, my bold comrades;—let us to our rocks,
And meditate the ruin.—Naples—see—
Yon distant towers are those of Naples!—we—
We'll pulverize each palace into dust,
—So small,—
That e'en a summer's breeze may waft it to the skies!

[Exeunt.