University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Alfonso's Tent.
Enter Claudia, musing.
Clau.
This does perplex me more,
Than all my other causes of complaint!
Manfredi missing?—'Tis a mystery
I have no power to solve.—The king?—he comes,
When I'm but ill prepared to meet him.—List!—

Enter Alfonso, Sciolto, and several Officers. Officers retire to the back part of the stage.
[Claudia retiring.
Alf.
Whither, my gentle Claudia, art thou going?
I would exchange some words of import with thee.

Clau.
Ever obedient to thy sacred will!
What wouldst thou urge, my lord?

Alf.
I fear me much,
Signor Manfredi has dishonoured us.—

Clau.
In what?—dishonoured thee?—Impossible!

Alf.
He came not, at our bidding, to the council;
Which I've thought prudent, therefore, to delay.
And rumour says, he's no where to be found.
This looks suspicious.—Whither is he gone?

Clau.
It is a question, I'd give worlds to solve!

Alf.
Ha!—wouldst thou?

Clau.
Yes!—assuredly I would!—

Alf.
I know not why thou should'st:—Fontano's fate
Call'd from thine eye-lid not one pitying tear.—
I see no urgent reason, therefore, why
Manfredi's should distress thee.—He's a villain.

Clau.
A villain?—What?—Thy faithful friend, Manfredi?

Alf.
There's one, who gives us reason to suspect,
This “faithful friend,” Manfredi, is a villain!

Clau.
I much do question it—

Alf.
Indeed?—Indeed?

Clau.
Beware, my liege, the monarch's bitterest foe,
Suspicion!—'Tis an enemy, that sits—
Oh! how ungracefully—on a manly brow.
Dismiss it, Sire, I charge thee.—Tis a fiend!
We ought not to give credit to vile tales,
Against an absent man.

[Exit haughtily.
Alf.
'Tis nobly said!
Oh!—had I listened to that bosom truth,
Ere I had given such credit to Manfredi!
Hither,—Sciolto!—To the neighbouring rocks
Thou shalt attend us.—There Fontano travels,
Led by a guide.—We must propose some plan,
As thither we are journeying, to establish,
Whether or no Cavallo's tale be true.
Prepare my Claudia for the march
She must attend us—Haste:—away

Scio.
But if
The stern Albanio should surprize us there?
Ere morrow's night, he meditates, they say,
Naples to lay in ruins!—Mid yon rocks
He sits, when military caution grants,
And loads the air, with many a bitter curse,
Against the sons of Naples.

Alf.
Yes;—'tis true.
But I'm a foe to fear.—He 'll dearly pay
For bearing arms against his native city.
Let us away:—I will not sleep, till I
Have proved the worth, or falsehood, of Fontano.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Scene changes, and discovers Albanio, with Spalatro, Carlo, and a select number of his troop, reclining among scattered rocks, in one of the recesses of a vast pile of mountains, capt with snow. A Cave at the farther end of the stage, almost entirely screened by overhanging herbage.
Alb.
My tale is short.—Ye all have heard the chance,
That placed Alfonso on the throne of Naples!

Troop.
We have, we have.

Spa.
And suffered from it too.

Alb.
He was elected by the people's voice,
To stem the torrent of the lawless power
Of factious nobles.—He deserved the honour!

Spa.
'Tis nobly said, since he is now thy foe.

Alb.
To drown all cause of future jealousies,
The king, to win my interest in the state,
Gave me consent to marry with his niece;
Whom I, in studious secresy, had loved,
From the first dawn of youthful manhood.—Oh!
How my nerves thrill!—The vile Manfredi, too,
Long had the captivating maiden loved!
This hated monster, stung with jealous rage,
The very midnight of our wedding day,
Silently stealing, from th' adjoining closet,
(Where, by the treachery of my groom, he lay),
And, as in nature's best repose we slept,
Murdered my wife!—

Spa.
Oh, monster!—monster!—

Troop.
Horrible!—

Alb.
O'ercome with terror, in the dread confusion,
The assassin fiend escaped my angry arm;
And to the astonished world proclaim'd aloud,
I did the deed in jealousy of him.

Spa.
Execrable villain!—

Car.
Vile, detested fiend!

Alb.
All Naples rose, in tumults, in the morn.
From house to house the monstrous rumour ran;
That I—that I—that I had stabb'd my wife!
My friends forsook me:—every lisping babe
Was taught to curse me:—e'en Fontano, too,
Believed the tale, and showered invectives on me.
The people, from all quarters of the city,
Like hungry hornets driven from their nests,
Throng'd round my house, demanding my arrest!

Spa.
And did the miscreants seize upon thee, Signor?

Alb.
Seize on me?—Aye!—and to the prison gates
They dragg'd me—hisssing all the odious way.
Oh, what a time was that!—The city shouted,
Calling me tiger, monster, and hyena,
And dogs were taught to snarl at vile Albanio's name

Spa.
Did they not try thee, noble Signor?

Alb.
Yes!
Oh, yes—they tried!—But justice fled the city.
Manfredi pensioned witnesses against me!
They swore!—Naples believed!—Albanio was undone!—
To lose my wife—fame—fortune—in an hour!
Too much it was for human strength!—I'm told—
And I believe the tale—“my mind is ruined!”

[Tears starting into his eyes.
Spa.
Oh no, Signor, that's only a fancy of your's.

Car.
Oh, aye, that's all a fancy of your's, noble Signor.

Alb.
Would I could think so.—Yes, my mind is ruined!

Spa.

Come, noble Signor, do not brood over your
injuries now. Tell us the sequel of your history.

Alb.
Amid these mountains once a hermit lived.
His food were berries, and his drink the dews,
Distilling from the leaves of olives.—He—
But stay—my mind is sailing in the air!—
'Twas not a hermit's history, I was telling:—
Where left I off?—He pensioned witnesses, I say:
Naples believed, convicted, and condemned me!
Oh, cruel, senseless, idiots!—In the town
One only man was found with heart to pity;—
That man my gaoler!—He believed my tale,
Applied the balm of comfort to my breast,
Oped wide his gates, and bade me to be free.
I fled—and here, amid these mountains wild,
A refuge found.—This, comrades, is my tale.
For this I have vow'd vengeance to Manfredi;
And, for believing his enormous tale,
Have I vow'd hate against the sons of Naples!

Spa.
And we'll assist thee, in thy just revenge!

Troop.
(tumultuously.)
All!—all!—all!

Alb.
Then ere the setting of to-morrow's sun,
Naples, the credulous, insidious Naples,
Prostrate shall lie!—Amid its ruins, weeping,
The snow-hair'd sire shall recognize his son,
Amongst the heap of dying and the dead;
The wife her husband; while her little babe
Shall pinch her bleeding breast, in vain, for food!

Spa.
Then come, my comrades, echo every note,
That forms the chorus of our evening song.

Alb.
First to the banquet!—Let us form the hymn
O'er golden goblets. Enter to the feast.
Come, my brave brothers, to this coral cave;
Screen'd from the sight by many a shady bough.
Full many a fathom is it deep.—'Tis here
We hold our banquet.—Enter to the feast;—
And drink due honour to the safe arrival
Of those brave troops, who'll join us on the morrow.

[Exeunt into the cave.
Enter Fontano and Scipio.
Sci.

Take care, Signor; mind how you walk:
these great stones, and pieces of rock, are enough to
throw both of us down.—Oh!—I begin to be almost
tired.

Fon.

Let us sit down then, Scipio.—I would not
tire thee, for the world. Let us sit down, I say.

Sci.

So we will, Signor.—Here,—here—is a clean,
mossy place, fit for a lady to sit down upon.

[They sit down.
Fon.

Art thou hungry or thirsty, Scipio?—

Sci.

N---o; are you thirsty, Signor?

Fon.

Yes, my little friend, I am thirsty.

Sci.

So am I, Signor; very thirsty indeed!

Fon.

I thought thou saidst, thou wert not, Scipio?

Sci.

Why, I did not mean to confess, that I was
thirsty, unless you were so too, Signor; because, if
we are ever so thirsty, there is nothing for us to
drink.

Fon.

Thou art the best of all possible comforters,
Scipio.—But let us search about; perhaps we may
find a spring, some where bubbling from these mossy
rocks.

Sci.

So we will, Signor.—It is not impossible.—

Fon.

Thou dear little improvisatore!

Sci.
Perhaps from some lone rock there wells
A bubbling spring;—perhaps there dwells
Some little nymph of Scipio's age,
Who guards the fount, from robber's rage.
Ah!—If I find one, as I go,—
I'll kiss the little maiden so!
And while she cries—“No—no—no—no;”—
I'll bid her love poor Scipio!

[Sci]

What a vast number of birds, Signor, there seem
to be in this solitude.—I wonder, they should choose
to live, where there is not a single soul to listen to their
music.—Did you not say, Signor; that the bird, we
heard just now, was a nightingale?

Fon.
Yes; 'twas a nightingale!—sure notes so wild,
So tender, and so rich, were never heard
In Persia, or in Araby.

Sci.
List!—list!—
[Nightingale sings.
There, there, she flies to yon tall sycamore.

Fon.
Hark!—Hark!—She breathes her solemn strain again!

Sci.
Oh!—how she jugs!—

Fon.
A pause more sweet, than that,
Ne'er lulled the night to ravishment!—Again?

Sci.

Oh!—there she flies!—Why she flies as fast,
Signor, as if she thought, we came to rob her of her
brains.—Fairies, they say, Signor, live upon the
brains of nightingales.

Fon.

Do they so, my little bird of paradise?—

Sci.

Yes!—Signor.—And not only on the brains of
nightingales, but on the purple leaves of violets.—
Oh!—It must be excellent food!

Fon.
Thou art so cheerful and engaging, boy,
That nightingales will cover thee with leaves;
And flowers spring up, in myriads, o'er thy grave,
To tell each stranger, as he passes by,
That Nature's happiest work lies buried there.

Sci.
Oh!—that were charming, if it e'er prove true.

[Exeunt.
Enter Angelo and Angelina, at the farther end of the stage.
Angeli.
Ah! dearest Angelo, to thee I owe,
More than a life of endless power could pay.
How shall I thank thee? How reward thy love?

Ang.
With thy sweet self!

Angeli.
An indigent reward!

Ang.
Richer, by far, than monarchs can bestow.

Angeli.
But ah!—my father!—whither strays my father?
Oh!—never, never, shall I see him more!
This way, thou saidst, he travelled:—but I see
No traces of his wandering!—Oh! that I could!
When first thou sav'd'st me from Manfredi's arms,
I gave myself to happiness: ah! then
I little thought, how rude the storm had visited
My father's sacred head. Oh! dearest love—
Oh! think, how hard to be deprived of sight,
And wandering all alone.—

Ang.
Hush, my sweet maid, and let me lead thee to
The sheltering arch of these impending piles;
While I, amid the mazes of the rocks,
Seek for a cave to screen thee from the winds.
—Here sit thee down;
Till I have found, amid these desert wilds,
A cave, to shelter thy sweet innocence.

(Searches about.)
Angeli.
How does the music of thy voice compose
Each misery to silence! Art thou gone?
How shall I cheat the anxious time away,
Till thy belov'd return? Oh that I could,
Like Orpheus, fam'd of old, with vocal lyre,
Charm these rude rocks away!—Angelo!
(Calls.)
[Her voice reverberates among the mountains.
How the rocks echo!—Angelo!—Angelo!—
[Echoes.
Stay—I will follow thee; we'll search together.

[Exit.
Enter Scipio cautiously.

What sounds are these, I wonder?—These rocks do
nothing but echo!—and that, too, with such music,
as I never heard before. Why—I do not see any one!
Signor Fontano told me, that echo never speaks, but
when some one has spoken to her. But I do not believe,

any one spoke to her now; so, I suppose, she
has learnt to talk to herself.

(Looks about.)

Here?—No—I do not see any one here.—I will return
to the Signor again! Ah!—now—I would give
half this ducat, if I could but discover a fountain: I
am so thirsty, I know not what I shall do!

Fon.
(without.)

Scipio!—Scipio!—where art thou, Scipio?

Sci.

Ha—ha!—There is the Signor, I declare.
Stop, Signor, I am coming. Come along, Signor!
The way is even there: come along: a little more to
the right, Signor. [Enter Fontano.]
Why, I declare,
Signor, you walk very well without a guide!

Fon.

Thou art an excellent companion, for a melancholy
spirit, Scipio.

Sci.

But the echo, Signor!—Did you ever hear any
thing, so beautiful in all your life?—Now,—if I might—
I would sing you a canzonet, Signor, that you would,
perhaps, have no objection to hear again.—That is,
when you are melancholy.

Fon.

Can'st thou?—Then sing it me, I pray thee.

Sci.

You must not laugh, Signor.—Don't look at
me, Signor.

Fon.

Alas!—my boy, I ne'er shall see again!

Sci.

Oh! I beg your pardon, Signor.—I had really
quite forgot, that you were blind!—I am a thoughtless
little fellow, Signor, without wit; and, I am sorry to
say, without money.—But I mean no harm, Signor;
and so I'll sing you a stanza:—and if you do not like
it, I'll never sing you another:—so you will only lose
three minutes of time.

Fon.

Thou mak'st me smile, in spite of all my sorrows!

ECHO—Canzonet.
Sci.

[Echoes.
Sci.

There, Signor,—is not that very pretty?

Fon.

Beautiful, my little nightingale; and beautifully sung.

Sci.

Nay—Signor,—I did not ask for that.—But
there's only one stanza, Signor:—shall I sing you the
other?—

Fon.

Ah!—my sweet linnet, twenty if you will.

Sci.

There is but one more, Signor;—but that, I
think, is the best.—Now then!—I'm almost ashamed,
too!—

[Echoes.
Sci.
There, Signor.—Never ask me to sing again.
—But what is this?—I surely hear a sound—

Fon.
List! list!—Lead forward:—Danger travels near.—

[Exeunt.
Re-enter Angelo and Angelina, at the farther end of the stage.
Ang.
These rocks seem vocal; yet no human form
Appears to animate their solitude.

Angeli.
A voice
We surely heard; and then its echo.

Ang.
Yes!—
Yet here no trace of wandering man is found!—
(Sees the cave.)
—A cave!—
Made to our hopes, and suited to our fortune!
Its entrance form'd of coral!—like those caves,
Form'd in the niches of a stormy coast,
For nymphs, who, warbling wild seductive notes,
Lull the enchanted mariner to sleep.

Angeli.
Oh! do not enter:—It perchance contains
Adders, or serpents, wolves, or famish'd eagles.—

Ang.
Fair Angelina, can thy bosom know
Such groundless fears as these?—Ah!—Tell me whence—

Angeli.
Nay—do not chide me, Angelo:—yet if
Fate and misfortune have decreed it so,
Chide as thou wilt, but do not venture there.
Nay—I entreat thee:—On my knees I beg:
Oh! If thou love me, grant this one request!—

Ang.
My Angelina!—Cease these terrors wild.
Hemm'd, as we are, on every side, we turn—

Angel.
Ah!—but, my Angelo, it looks so wild;—
If there thou go, some hidden power within
Will tear thee from me:—If thou enter there,
I ne'er shall see thy form, belov'd, again.

Ang.
See!—Yonder could portends a coming storm.
These rocks afford no shelter;—not a hut
Adorns these sterile solitudes with smoke,
Curling in peaceful volumes.—Sit thee there.

Angeli.
My dearest Angelo—

Ang.
—The storm begins
In yonder valley:—See!—The lunar bow
[A lunar rainbow.
Stretches from side to side.—Some shelter must be found!

Angel.
Dost thou persist?—Then I will enter too.—
Thy fate is mine, whatever it may be.

Ang.
No!—I entreat.—Sit there till I return.
[Angelo is about to enter the cave;—but returns hastily.)
We must away!—destruction lurks within.—

[Exeunt.
Enter Albanio.
Alb.
Their merriment disturbs me;—and, indulg'd
Too long; will drown, perhaps, their thoughts of vengeance.
I'll summon them to rest!—
[Blows his bugle.—Spalatro and the troop issue confusedly from the cave.
Form into groupes!
[They arrange themselves into detached groupes.
The banquet over, time, with drowsy wand,
Lulls the grey eve, and woos to short repose.
Now let each comrade travel to his bed:—
These hollow rocks abound in shaggy moss,
Equal to beds of down, for Nature's hardy sons.
[Troops disperse.—Some climb up the rocks, and repose upon their points; others lie down at their feet.
Mine be the station, that commands the bay,
O'erlook'd by huge Vesuvius.—Brother!—Brother!—
[To Spalatro.
Last night I saw strange visions, as I slept.
Francisca beckon'd me!—I heard a voice
Crying out, “Murder,”—“Rescue,”—and “Revenge!”—
And then I saw Manfredi torn by serpents:
And then I thought, they curl'd along the ground,
Until they crept into a yawning cave,
And made its hollow womb resound with hisses.
Nay—do not speak:—We have no prophets now,
To tell the meaning of such horrid dreams.
Marvel—but doubt not.—Polydore!—good night:
Good night, my comrades; sleep ye well till morn.

[The troops murmur affectionate applause, as Albanio retires, accompanied by Spalatro and a part of the band.