University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A wilderness, lying between the camp of Alfonso and the rocks of Albanio. Fontano and Scipio asleep, by the side of a waterfall.
Enter Angelo and Angelina.
Angeli.
Oh! what a sad and awful night is this?
There seems no limit to our dangers: list!
List—how soft music swells upon the gale!
Now all is silence.—Hark! It swells again:
Rising and falling with the buoyant wind.

Ang.
I've heard it long. Albanio's troop I fear!
We must away; or ruin will o'ertake us!

Angeli.
Whither, oh! whither shall we fly?—again?
(Sounds approach.)
Ah!—dearest Angelo—sure heaven deserts us!

Ang.
Lean on this arm, thou persecuted maid;
While life remains, no power shall force thee from me.

Angeli.
Let, let us fly. I dare delay no longer.

[Exeunt.
Sci.
(waking.)

Signor! Signor! I heard music,
Signor. I heard it in my sleep.

(Wakes Fontano.
Fon.

What means all this, my Scipio?

Sci.

I am sure, I do not know, Signor: but I will
step out, if you please, and see if I can discover where,
and what it is.

(After looking about some time, he runs hastily to Fontano.)

Oh! Signor! Signor! I see a whole army of soldiers
coming this way.

Fon.
An army of soldiers, Scipio?

Sci.
Yes, Signor, a whole army of soldiers.

(Music.)
Enter Alfonso, Claudia, Sciolto, and an Officer.
Alf.
Remain ye there! At present come no further.

Clau.
What do we here, my most illustrious Lord?

Alf.
Retire thee, Claudia, to yon spreading olive.
Nay—nay—no questions:—I will soon be with thee.
Follow this Signor: 'tis the hour of danger:
Guard her with hero's care.—Farewell—farewell.

Clau.
(Aside.)
'Tis most mysterious!—But my will obeys.

[Exit with Officer.
Alf.
This way he travelled; but we meet him not.

(They search about.)
Sci.
(After peeping out, in a whisper to Fontano.)

Here are two rich cavaliers, Signor: let me beg some

money of them; for our stock is very low, and Venice
is a long, long, way off.

(Scipio goes out, and pulls off his hat to Sciolto.)

Sciol.

Thou art a most eloquent little beggar, whoever
thou art, and I am inclined to give thee a ducat
for thine eloquence; but thou must, first of all, tell
me, whether thou hast seen a blind gentleman travelling
this way?

Sci.

A blind gentleman? Have you any business
with him, Signor?

Sciol.

What matters it to thee, whether I have
business with him or not?

Sci.

Scipio has as much right to ask that question,
as you have to ask, whether he has seen a blind
gentleman travelling this way?

Alf.

One would think, thou wert born in England,
thou free-thinker and free-speaker! Well, then, we
have business with him;—and there is a ducat for
thine information.

Sci.
(refusing the money.)

Is your business with him
good or bad, Signor? For I would not tell you, if
I thought, you meant him any harm.

Alf.

Thou art the noblest beggar, that I ever saw;
and as thou confer'st nobility on thy profession, I will
tell thee:—our business is good.

Sci.
(to Sciolto.)

Is that true, Signor?

Sciol.

True as the moon.

Sci.

True as the moon!—Ah!—but the moon,
they say, wanders about all the year round, and is
constant to nothing.

Alf.

True, then, as thine own honesty!

Sci.

That's sworn like a true and gallant Signor.
Now I know, you will not deceive me: but, first of
all, tell me his name.

Sciol.
Signor Fontano.

Fon.
(coming forward.)
Who seeks Fontano?

Alf.
(to Sciolto.)
This is most fortunate!
What a calm dignity his visage wears! (To Fontano.)

And art thou here, thou great and injured man?
This is far better, than my hopes had whisper'd,
E'en to my fancy.
(To Sciolto.)
Now I'll try him!—Mark!
Claudia and stern Manfredi swear, he's guilty.
Cavallo whispers, he is innocent. Observe!
If he prove guilty:—why—his treacherous head
Is not a ducat's worth.— (To Fontano.)
—Most noble Signor!
I pay thee all the homage of a friend.

Fon.
To whom, oh Signor, am I thus indebted,
For this unsought, unmerited, respect?

Alf.
Albanio.

Fon.
Who?—Albanio?—He who vows
Eternal hatred to his native city?

Alf.
The same.

Sciol.
(to Alfonso.)
He answers, as if innocent.

Alf.
That may be artifice.—My noble Signor!
Thine injuries demand revenge!—Revenge!
Give me thy sanction and assistance then:
March with my troops:—thine honourable name
Alone would raise an army in my cause.

Fon.
Rather than do so, I would lingering die,
Ah!—inch by inch!—Chain'd to a pointed rock,
The hungry vulture, or the famished eagle,
Should tear my entrails.—What?—Eternal shame!
Conspire against my country?

Alf.
'Gainst thy country?
Has not thy country thrown thee from its bosom?

Fon.
It has, it has!—Yet must I love it still!
My country?—Yes, while one declining stone
Lies tottering on another; while thy fields
Blush with their purple vineyards; and thy rocks
Elevate their spires to heaven: oh, use me—
Use me as thou wilt; cover me with wrongs;
Tear me with taunts;—make me a monument
Of public scorn, and I will love thee still!
And, as I beg from door to door, call down
The choicest gifts of bounteous heaven upon thee!

Sciol.
Has not Manfredi robb'd thine eyes of light?

Fon.
He has—he has!

Alf.
Did not thy sovereign, too,
Consent to that most horrible transaction?

Fon.
(mournfully.)
He did—he did!—

Alf.
And wilt thou not revenge?

Sciol.
And did not Claudia—
Dost thou know?—Thy daughter—

Fon.
My daughter?—What?—What of my daughter?—speak—

Alf.
And canst thou not have heard it then?

Fon.
Oh, speak—
Tell me—oh, quickly tell me—of my daughter!
Speak, gracious Signor—I intreat thee speak!

Alf.
(aside.)
Oh, miracle of honour!—how thy virtue
Wrings my sad bosom, for my conduct towards thee!

Fon.
If thou hast mercy, Signor!—

[Alfonso turns aside to conceal his emotion.
Sciol.
Miserable man!
Whilst thou wert lingering in thy loathsome cell,
Returning thanks, most grateful thanks, to heaven,
It still had left thee in thy miseries,
One treasure yet, of value more than all,
Dear to thine heart;—the base, the vile, Manfredi
Devised the means to rob thee of the treasure.

Fon.
(kneeling.)
O, thou eternal Father of the world,
Upon whose mercy I've relied so long;—
Whose matchless power, the earth, the air, the skies,
The universe demonstrate; and whose justice,
Though long delay'd, is ne'er delay'd in vain;
To thee I call for mercy in the present,
And justice in the future!—Thy dread works
I dare not scan;—thy dispensations
I will not, dare not, question!—Weak and humbled,
Let not my words offend thee!—Oh, my father!—

[Appears lost in silent agony
Sci.
Signor—Signor!—Signor!—

Fon.
What wouldst thou, child?

Sci.

Would, that we could lie down among these
rocks, Signor, and close our eyes for ever!—Oh, I
could weep, Signor; but if I wept, you perhaps
would weep too, and that would break my heart.

[Hides his face in Fontano's robe.
Fon.
My dearest boy, I thank thee for this pity.

Alf.
Oh, wretch! to wound the noble man so much.
Could I speak comfort in this hour of woe—

Fon.
I cannot, ought not, to be comforted!
My daughter!—Oh, my child!—Thine injuries
Complete my awful measure of affliction.
Fortune can do no more!—I once had hope—
Now I despair—Heaven seems to have forsa'en me!

Sci.
(weeping.)
My mother has often told me,
Signor, that Heaven never entirely forsakes the good.

Fon.
Oh, my sweet boy!—I pray thee, Signor, leave me.
Here will I die—I will no longer hope,
Nor struggle with my destiny.

[Sinks down on the edge of a rock.
Alf.
Oh, Signor!—

Fon.
Leave me, oh leave me; add not to my griefs,
By bearing witness to my miseries.

Alf.
Signor Fontano—I would whisper comfort—

Fon.
Who speaks of comfort to a man like me?
Banish'd my country—by my sovereign wrong'd—
Who speaks of comfort?—Am I not traduced?—
My house dishonour'd—and my daughter ruin'd?

Alf.
Wilt thou not hear me, Signor? I am come
To supplicate thy pardon.

Fon.
(impatiently.)
I'll not hear!
—And yet, Albanio, I must tell thee, that,
In this thy war against thy native country,
Thou dost offend both God and man!—The power,
That rules the destinies of men and kingdoms,
Visits that crime more heavily than murder.—
Quit, then, thy course of ruin!—I can love
None, who forsake their country;—and admire
None, who presume her errors to revenge.
No!—when our country loves us not, return
Grief for her hate; but let no arm be raised,
Against the blind injustice of her will.
Who loves his passions better than his country,
Deserves full measure of his country's hate!

Alf.
Heaven!—What a noble patriot have I ruin'd!

Sciol.
Signor Fontano—'tis thy king that speaks.

Alf.
I come, Fontano, to entreat thy pardon.
Tell me, thou noble and much injured man,
Canst thou forgive?

Fon.
My king?—It is a dream!
My fancy wanders, and my ears deceive me!

Alf.
Oh, no, Fontano—'tis thy sovereign bends.
These tears respect: forgive me, if thou canst!

Fon.
Thrice honour'd master!—dearly valued friend!—
I've loved thee ever with an ardent zeal:
I know thy nature:—thou hast been deceived.
Let us, then, lose all memory of the past
From this sweet hour.

Alf.
I clasp thee to my heart

Fon.
But I am guilty of a crime to feel
One ray of joy, while yet my daughter lives,
And does not live for me.

Alf.
She does!—She does!—
She lives for thee, and all the world beside;
Fair as the spring, and pure as driven snow.
Rescued, by Angelo, from lawless power
Of unchaste love, among these rocks she strays,
(As penitent Cavallo tells me), led
Led by the hand of Angelo; whom you,
And I, and all th'admiring world, shall love.

Fon.
Ye gracious powers!—Oh!—this is joy indeed!—
Oh!—could I press to this long-aching heart,
My lovely Angelina.

Alf.
(To the Guards).
To the camp
Of stern Albanio, now direct your course.

Fon.
Oh! seek my daughter!—Should Albanio's troops
Behold her wandering, all is lost for ever.
Oh!—seek my daughter—spare a father's tears!

Alf.
Thy tears are mine!— (To Guards.)
—And as ye march along,
Let every eye be watchful. He, who first
Espies the noble wanderers, shall receive
A rich reward from me.

Fon.
And what is more—
A father's grateful thanks!—Oh! let us fly:
A father's haste would far outstrip the wind!

Alf.
Yet ere we go, I would fair Claudia see. (To Sciolto.)

She journey'd with us: lead us to the shade,
Beneath which she reposes. Come, Fontano,
Lean on this arm—

Fon.
I have a father's fears
Albanio's troops—

Alf.
Anticipate no ill.
Heaven bears its character for justice still!

Sci.
(Chagrined at Fontano's taking the arm of Alfonso.)
Nay!—let me lead thee, Signor, pray:—
Each sylph, and sylphid,—fairy,—fay,
Or, by what name soe'er ye call
The nymphs, who guard this waterfall;
Proclaim, that, whether strait or wide
The path meanders,—I'm thy guide!
And, though thy king desires to see;
Thy guide has been, and still must be,
To lead thee, where thou want'st to go,
The wild—but faithful—Scipio.

(Takes Fontano's hand, and insists upon leading him.)
Fon.
Excellent boy!—The world has not thy peer!

[Exeunt.
Enter Manfredi (cautiously) from behind.
Curst be the hour, I e'er beheld the sun
And curst the hour, that gave my mother birth!
May the earth open; may the mountains fall;
And crush Fontano, and Albanio, too,
In one deep wreck of ruin.—
What have these eyes beheld? Fontano clasp'd,
Firm in the king's embrace! Curst be the man,
Who saw me floating in my watery bed,
Dragg'd me to shore, and took me to his hut,
Reared on the craggy margin of the torrent.—
Vile, senseless, fool! I hate thee for thy pains.
What shall I do?—And whither shall I fly?
Outcast of nature! Stay—Albanio's camp
Lies at the feet of yon gigantic mountains.
—The thought is masterly;—
I'll ruin him again! And on his ruin
Exalt myself.
[Drawing some keys and a dagger from under his robe.
These keys—this dagger—oh!
It is a paradise of thought! Disguise
Thy face and figure, too, Manfredi.—Yes! 'tis done.
Some berries, and a bending frame, shall screen
Albanio's enemy. I breathe again!
And dare thee, Fortune, to thy utmost hate.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Albanio, sitting in a meditative posture. Part of his army lying asleep, in detached groupes, around him. He comes forward and sits upon a jutting crag.
Alb.
Music has lulled these iron hearts to rest!
But mine shall never more be soothed to sleep,
Till yon proud city smokes beneath its ruins.—
Again!—it pleases, though it soothes me not;—again!
[Music:—soon after interrupted by vivid flashes of lightning:—Music continues till the lightning is followed by a violent thunder storm.
The angry storm subsides at last!—
Full many a year, upon this rocky coast,
I've watched the warring elements; while these,
More happy far than me, lie lock'd in sleep;
But ne'er, till now, have I been greeted with
Such dismal wailings, as these rocks sublime,
This night have echo'd from their secret caves.
Oh! I could wish to see this piteous world
Crumble to atoms!—And the hideous noise
Of its crude elements would charm my ear,
Like softest music, which, I've oft times heard,
Lulls the sad soul of anguish to repose.—
[Music resumes.
In what deep silence wave yon clouds of jet.
Mark, how the moon-beams gild their shadowy skirts:
[The dark clouds glide gradually away; the moon shines brilliantly; and the whole of Mount Vesuvius is seen towering in the perspective.
How glorious!—Lo!—Vesuvius appears!—
Itself a planet.—Towering o'er the vale,
It gives new grandeur to sublimity.—
Magnificent!—Oh Nature!—How thy works
Dissolve my soul in holiest admiration!—
[Loud peals of thunder.
Roll on, ye heralds of omnipotence;—
Roll to the utmost limit of the spheres.
And you, ye lightnings, guide me on my way
To yon proud towers.—But spare the time-worn walls:
Rob not my soul of vengeance:—'tis mine own.
Ah! Can ye sleep my comrades?—Well; sleep on.
Would I could sleep as well!—The thunder roars
Harsh music to harsh bosoms; but to me—
It breathes soft, melancholy, music.—Oh!—
There was a time—How wild the volumes roll!
Echoing from one deep valley to another:—
Now dying in faint murmurs.—Hush'd the scene!
So dies each tumult of an injured spirit;
When hope has charm'd each passion into peace.
—Mine ne'er will rest, till death has closed the scene!

[Relapses into melancholy.
Angelo, supporting Angelina, appears on one of the cliffs above.
Alb.
What's this I see, on yonder cliff?—a youth!
Bearing a fainting woman in his arms.
Carlo!—Spalatro!—Polydore!—awake!—
How can ye sleep amid this warring uproar?

[The troops start up, and fly to their arms.
Spal.
Who's there?—what danger?—

Car.
Signor—didst thou call?—

Alb.
See ye not yonder fine-form'd maid, that leans,
Weak and exhausted, on her lover's breast?—

Car.
Good heaven!—why run we not to succour them?—

[Carlo, and several of the troop, climb to the spot; and, after some difficulty, succeed in leading Angelo and Angelina down the precipice. —Angelo comes forward, Angelina clinging to his robe.
Ang.
Fortune has cast me in so many dangers,
Most noble chief, that I would well consent,
No more to buffet her tumultuous stream;
Did I not feel, for this affrighted maid,
More pangs, than death has power to bestow.

Alb.
(Aside)
—A noble pair!—and worthy of each other.

Ang.
If thou hast ever felt the bitter pang
Of ill requited service;—ever seen
A faithful friend, that every secret knew,
Which prisoned in thine heart, accused, disgraced,
Cast in a dungeon;—from that dungeon freed,
Only to wander into banishment,
An unknown outcast—

Alb.
(Aside with great emotion.)
Thou hast touched the chord!—
And yet I fear, that he was born in Naples!

Ang.
—But ah!—
If love hath ever fired thy manly breast,
And innocence has answered thine entreaty,
With the soft rapture of requiting love;
With heart,—all beating,—thy benignant hand
Will stretch, with pleasure, to assist this Angel.

Alb.
Guard them, ye Powers!—My conscience sinks within me.—

Ang.
O'erwhelm'd by fortune,—trembling under pangs
Of home remembered, friends, and parents too;
Fainting with hunger; sinking with fatigue;
We ask thee nothing, but a little food,
To quell our hunger; and the meanest bed
To rest our weary frames.—Oh!—do not tremble!
Lean on this arm, my Angelina.—Signor!
This maid is fainting with fatigue:—I charge thee,
Shew her thy pity.—

Alb.
(To Angelina.)
—Fairest maid, this youth
Speaks to the heart.—But I forget my oath! (To Angelo.)

—As thou dost value life, and what is more,
This maid's possession,—answer me with truth.
—Art thou from Naples?— (A pause.)
(Aside.)

I do entreat, that he may answer “No.”
Stay—I'll not ask him:—No!—I will not ask him!
—Thou'rt born in Florence—yes—I know thou wert!—
I saw thee there some eighteen months ago—

Ang.
In Florence?—No!—In Naples I was born.

Alb.
Ye powers!—I fear'd as much!—Now for my oath!
I wish I had not sworn!
—I wish I had not sworn!— (After a pause.)

—Dost know Albanio?

Ang.
He, who on the night
Of sacred marriage, massacred his wife?
Who fled?—who wars upon his native city?
I know his name too well!—

Alb.
Ye sons of darkness!—
Heard ye not that?—He strikes the chord of madness.
No pity now shall lull me into mercy.—
Carlo!—Spalatro!—Bind this youth of Naples;
Bind him with bonds, and seer his flowing locks—

Angeli.
Oh chief! I do entreat thee to forbear.
What has he done?—What uttered to offend?
What he has said, I pledge a virgin's word,
Is sacred truth.—Outcasts, indeed, we are:
Fall'n from as high estate, as fortune grants
To any lord in Naples.—Tell me, then,
What he has done, that draws this sudden flash
Of wildest anger, from thy threatening eye?

Alb.
Did he not say, that he was born in Naples?
A state, that I've resolved, on oath, to ruin;
And every son, that comes within my power!

Ang.
Unnatural fiend!—Oh, worse than leopard born!

Alb.
(to Angelina.)
Did he not say, Albanio fled his country?
Murdered his wife?—He said it—yes, he said it!—
Deny ye that?—Said he not that?—

Ang.
Albanio?

Alb.
Yes!—Albanio—FUGITIVE and MURDERER!
I am Albanio; and I love the name;
Though I abhor the practice of your charge.
Bear, bear him hence, ye pausing idle crew:
Take him and hurl him from yon pointed brow,
That peaked summit, called “Albanio's Rock!”
Hurl him to the dolphins—hurl him—hurl him down

Angeli.
Oh, on my bended knees—

Alb.
Avaunt—avaunt!
No, no!—they neither heard, nor pitied, me!
None, born in Naples, therefore, shall receive
One ray of hope from me.

Ang.
I've heard of tigers,
Lions, and panthers—but I never yet
Read of a monster, who did hate the land,
Which gave him birth, with such a hate as thine!—

Alb.
I care not what thou'st read.—Albanio is
Albanio's self:—let that suffice for Naples!
Damn'd and insidious race,—how I abhor ye!
Holding me guilty of a crime, so foul,
As wed a wife, and stab her to the heart,
Deserves that famine, pestilence, and war
Should visit ye for ages.

Ang.
(to Angelina, pointing to heaven.)
—Look, upward, angel!
Mid yon bright globes our consolation rests!

Angeli.
They shall not part us!—We will die together.

Alb.
(impatiently.)
Take—take him hence, and hurl him on the strand;
While hated Naples bleeds at every pore

Angeli.
Oh, do not tear him from these eyes away!
I ne'er can bear so sad a separation.
Take me—take me—but let that youth still live:
I'd bear ten thousand tortures for his sake.

[As they prepare to lead Angelo off the stage, Angelina endeavours to follow, but is prevented.
Ang.
(to troop.)
Away—away!—One last embrace, my love!—

Alb.
Begone!— (aside.)
Or this rough bosom may relent.

Angeli.
Oh, let me follow.—Monsters, let me go!—
Look at him—see—ah, how can ye refuse
The grand expression of those speaking eyes?
Oh, good Albanio—I intreat thy mercy;—
Let me but follow, and I'll bless thy name,
E'en in the hour of death!—

[He turns from her with an air of softened dignity.
Ang.
Farewell—farewell—

[They tear him away.
Angeli.
Off, off, ye miscreants:—do not hold me thus!
Angelo—Angelo!—my dearest Angelo!—

[Faints.
Alb.
(to troop.)
Leave me, oh leave me.—Send Marcella hither.

[Troops exeunt.
[Albanio brings Angelina to the front of the stage, and holds her upon his knee. He bends over her, and becomes softened by her beauty.
Alb.
How fair, how lovely!—In all nature's works,
A form, more lovely, never met my sight.
She almost tempts me to forego my hate;
But I have sworn, and will not be subdued.—
[Pauses, and looks at her with emotion,
Has beauty, then, the power to charm me still?
Fortune!—Thou hast, for many a weary year,
Singled me out to be thine instrument;
On which to play thy melancholy airs;
And used me, as a discord, to complete
The cruel concord of thy varying notes.
Tell me, then, jilt, is this sweet, blooming, creature,
Cast in my way to smooth these rugged brows,
So wrinkled by my sorrows; and to soothe
The harsher features of my gloomy soul?
No—I disdain thy boon!—Francisca lives!—
Lives in my heart!—her sainted spirit lives
In regions pure. Who sent her there?—'Twas I!—
Yes—Naples swears it was Albanio sent her;—
Stabb'd with a poignard!—Oh, revenge, revenge!
The time is coming;—nay, the time is come.
Enter Marcella and Carlo.
Take this fair maid;—and use thy best design,
To calm the anguish of her wounded breast.—
Soothe her torn heart—I war not with a woman.

Mar.
Come, my sweet innocent, I will not harm thee!

Car.
(in an under tone.)
Poor lady!—E'en this savage bosom feels
To witness thy distress.

[Exeunt, bearing Angelina.
Alb.
Away—away:
Say, Naples, how my vengeance can display
Proofs of envenomed hate, more full than this?
The youth is noble, and the maid is lovely;
Both form'd in Nature's most exalted mood.
The nobler, and more lovely, be the victims;
The better, firmer, ranker, my revenge.
“Revenge is virtue!”—Is it?—No, ye're false,
Who cry, “Revenge is virtue!”—But my oath—
My oath doth make me war against my reason.
And yet— (in a sudden paroxysm.)
Oh, the vile race of miscreants!—Yes—
Have they not warr'd?—They've warr'd on me for years.
He says, I've sent my innocent wife to heaven!—
Oh! that the father of yon boundless deep
Would change his figure to a towering cliff,
Round which the waves and winds might tyrannize for ages.

[Exit.