University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—Count Lambertazzi's House.
Count Lambertazzi alone.
Lam.
A dark foreboding strangely troubles me!—
Algarves saved the young Princess's life—
The Duke would doubtless shower upon him all
The o'erflowings of his deepening gratitude—
And he would in the impulse of the moment
Reveal at once—the secret he is charged with!—
If so—why! I am lost!—'twere utter ruin!—
And worse!—my loss should be his gain—his gain!—
I scarce could make the Prince believe the plot
Was but a suppositious and unreal one!—
Yet—ha! I have it!—yes! I still am safe!—

Enter Nicolo.
Nico.
The Count Algarves—if your leisure serves—
Claims speech with you and instant—

Lam.
Let him enter!—
[Exit Nicolo.
Now will I probe him to the core with looks—
Anatomize his mind with nice precision—
Search to the hidden corners of his heart—
And rake up all his vile pernicious thoughts!—

Enter Algarves.
Al.
Count Lambertazzi!—I have sped to thee,
To give thee notice of a deed I have done,
Without circumlocution or concealment!—
As far as I had entered and engaged
In thy conspiracy—and dark cabal—
I have revealed the whole unto the Duke—
All—

Lam.
Death! you did!—

Al.
I did!—

Lam.
And doubtless—all—
And more than all that I—and others—

Al.
Hold!—
I swear to you no name hath passed these lips,
And no confession save mine own to him—
He graciously released me from the task
(A task not torture to the last extreme
Had forced me to fulfil,) of following up
My free confession by particulars—
Details—and full unfoldings of the Plot!—
Be most assured of this—through me at least
The gracious Prince knows nothing of your own,
Or Millaflores' implication in it—
Yet it must follow doubtlessly that he
Will be more strictly on his guard, and keep
A general scrutiny and certain watch.

Lam.
(coldly.)
Your conduct, Sir! to me seems most mysterious—
You entered in our glorious enterprise
With Heart and Soul—methought a world had failed
To shake your 'stablished purpose and design—
A straw hath done it!—

Al.
It were vain indeed—
Most useless to discuss this subject now—
In me the madness of a moment rose
To cast the promise of a life aside—
And almost in that moment gave my Soul
To the everlasting uttermost perdition!—
My crime, premeditation lacked at least,
And prompt repentance charmed some evil from it!—
Precipitous preparation made my thoughts
To range themselves with stratagems and treasons!—
And as precipitately these prepared
(And well it was such deep contrition came,)
To stand once more in the open ranks of Virtue,
Though drooping with the weight of conscious wrong!—
Ev'n drooping to the dust!—

Lam.
Enough! Sir!—go!—
And if you can,—renounce these glorious visions
That rushed upon your mind in tides of triumph!—
Your thoughts had ranged themselves right royally
Upon the side of suffering Human Nature—
The rights of man—the freedom of the world!—
They shrink now back to join the fatal Phalanx—
The cold confederacy of formal judgments—
For ever leagued and linked in hateful pact
Against the People—'gainst the Mass of Man!—
Traitor thou calledst thyself—I tell thee no!—
The Traitors are the Tyrants that abuse
The hands of all born Freedom unto chains!—
But go! I plead not—where in vain are pleading
The rights and hopes of the endless generations!—
The high humanities—and Heav'n-born instincts
That point one path, and steer but by one star!—
I plead not where unheard are pleading still
The tongues of thrice ten thousand Angels!—Go!—
Forsake the hope to raise and bless mankind,—
But in their degradation find thy doom!—
Thou hast a Soul that pines with proudest thirsts—
It still must pine—while Slavery walks the world!—
The very Tyrants that oppress their fellows,
Oppress themselves—and must themselves debar
From good and greatness—sole to be atchieved
Through joint free efforts of a world untrammelled!—
They little know how much they lack and lose—
How utterly impoverished, weakened, lowered—
The world they sway, is, by their rule pernicious!—
They little know—

Al.
I pray thee, noble Count,
Permit my absence. Not your zealous bursts
Of wild enthusiasm can move me now,
Save to regret I e'er was blinded by them!—
But I am sobered now, and all unshaken—
The infatuation and the illusioned mood—
Of strange excitement, have subsided all!—
Howe'er to Fancy seem the unreal splendours
Thou conjurest up, with light and truth endued,
Sound Reason looks through each fantastic fabric,
And views the o'er-weening Vanity shrined in it—
Sees too the impossibilities—

Lam.
Away!—
That word insults the Almightiness of Virtue!
I may not listen to thy cold discourse!—
Go! help to forge the chains that ever best
Fit those that frame them for another's neck!—
And take thy long farewell of all that shone
In bright perspective to thine eyes before—
Fame, Freedom, Honour, Truth, and Right and Love—
The Happiness of myriads with thine own!—
Thy Country's and Costanza's—theirs—yes! theirs!—
And more, the good of the Universal Country—
The great Creator's Country!—wide Creation!—

Al.
(aside.)
He troubles me!—be firm! my Soul!—be firm!—
(Aloud.)
I go—yet I would pray thee to dismiss
These visionary schemes of fancied good—
A good impossible I fear on earth—
And do thy best as far as in thee lies
To aid the cause of Man by other means
Than treacherous—

Lam.
Hence!—but spare me thine advice!—
Not oft at my age men endure a tutor!—
My grave Preceptors are within! the thoughts
And inmost counsels of near threescore years!—
Irreverend boy! away!—

Al.
Forgive me! yes!—
I have much erred, forgive me!—

Lam.
Aye!—and hence!—
[Exit Algarves.
Forgive thee! when the arch Rebel is forgiven—
And on his throne on high—in Heaven—once more—
Then—not till then will I forgive thee!—Yes!—
'Tis failure—failure all! on every side!—
Far more than ever do I hate thee now!—
I will make meshes of my heart's own fibres,
Alive, and quivering with convulsion's anguish,
But I will trap thy steps unwary, yet!—
So! Nicolo! within there!—

Nicolo enters.
Nico.
Gracious Count!—
Command you aught?—

Lam.
Yes! hie you instantly
To Ugo Marco—bid him hither send,
At earliest speed, one Diego Riva, known
Full well to him; and take this token with ye,
[Gives a signet ring.
Charge them to loiter not—and straight begone!—

[Exit Nicolo.
Lam.
Look to thyself—proud Penitent!—twice Traitor!—
Thou yet shalt expiate every sin 'gainst me—
The greatest—being—what I fear thou art—
The heir to Andrea!—What! must I then see
My sweet Costanza—(all her mother smileth
In her fair aspect, touched with tenderest softness!
The while no trace of her appears in thee!)—
My sweet Costanza thrown aside—impoverished—
By such an arrant Wanderer,—utter Venturer?—
And then I shudd'ring think how thou hast inspired—
Thou—thou her Brother—feelings which—

Enter Lorenzo.
Loren.
Forgive—
I pray thee, good my Lord!—the haste of grief—
Which thus hath forced me unannounced, at once
Into thy presence—I can hide no longer
From mine own self nor thee the bitter truth—
Costanza loves me not—and loves Algarves!—

Lam.
Between Costanza and Algarves yawns
A gulph, so terrible, that with one word
Could I now change that love you dream you see
In her young Soul, to horror without end!—
A bar insuperable is raised between them—
She never can be his—let this suffice!—

Loren.
Say, what can be that gulph?—

Lam.
Inquire no more!—
Enough that it is so—time may reveal it—
For me I cannot—dare not—must not—no!—
It ne'er shall pass these lips—whoe'er reveals it,
I should not—and I shall not—this believe!—
Whate'er may seem Costanza's backwardness
To join her hand with yours—it yet must be!—
And will be for her happiness in the end!—
If she will not espouse thee—she is doomed!—
The veil must be her portion!—Who draws near?—
Is't Millaflores?—

Loren.
(looking off.)
Aye!—and Count!—farewell!—
My Heart is sore—I cannot brook his follies!—

Enter Millaflores.
Milla.
Nay! good Lorenzo!—what! art going?—

Loren.
Yes!—
Much business trenches on my time to-day!—
[Exit Lorenzo.

Lam.
(aside.)
This empty fool, even better saw than I
The ill-starr'd catastrophe of my design,
And prophesied the end with wond'rous shrewdness—
Strange—strange!— (Aloud.)
Did my despatch come safe to hand?—

Milla.
It did—was I not right?—Oh! I was sure,
Once in the vortex of the Princely Presence—
The faintly purposed mind of that rash boy
Would plunge amid the eddies all bewildered,
And give its secrets up with headlong hurry!—
But it is well he nothing said of us!—
So are we safe, I trust—the Prince conceives
The error all his own, nor further questions!—
Enough of him!—I seek your presence, friend—
To ask your counsel on momentous matters!—

Lam.
(aside.)
Now must I bear with what good grace I may—
The tedious torture of his tongue's dull clatter—
For I am in his power!—Oh! fallen! fallen! fallen!—

Milla.
Advise you me to make proposals straight
To Lady Fiorilina Diodati?—
Her princely family—her lofty rank—
Incline me much to such a step!—

Lam.
Thou think'st
That she would marry thee?—

Milla.
Good troth! I do!—
Who could resist me? tell me that!—Now listen—
I have possessions that might win the Hearts—
No!—hands of Queens and ermined Empresses!—
Allow me first to name a catalogue—

Lam.
Be speedy then, I pray!—commence!—

Milla.
Attend!—
For the delights of sweet Villegiatura
I have a house some few fair leagues from Florence—
Hung with worm-eaten tapestries old—so old—
You dare not breathe lest they should drop to pieces—
And forty volumes on fine vellum writ—
Forty huge volumes quite illegible—
(These she might study o'er and o'er for ever,
I vow she'll never make a word on't out)—
Of course, the subjects cannot well be known,
But 'tis supposed a compilation fair
Of various records of the Millaflores—
Forty huge volumes covered think with dust,
Regarding my illustrious family!—
Fine portraits too,—so very ancient these—
They're much obliterated—some erased—
You could not swear now if they represented
An owl or man—a monkey or a fish—
So undiscoverably confused and darkened—
Besides,—these are fair stores of perquisites
My courtier ancestors had well amassed—
A huge stone chair—none e'er can sit in it—
A drinking cup—the bottom out—(besides
So narrow nothing but a crane I swear
Could ever drink from it, and that but ill)—
Seven pair of shoes most furiously turned up—
No one could wear them—in these days at least!—
A Roman toga, which an ancestor
Of mine,—a senator!—once wore, when he
Was torn to shreds by fierce wild Beasts, at the order
Of some great Emperor whom he had offended—
I have one rag of't worth a revenue—
A real Lachrymatory—precious relique—
Thou'dst laugh for joy o'er that lugubrious treasure—
(Enough to make her happy that for ever!)
Then to crown all—Ah! such a vault!—a vault—
That makes one long to die—to lie in it!—

Lam.
Good sooth! a happy prospect 'tis indeed,
In Life or Death!—

Milla.
Thou sayst the truth, my friend!—
Amongst the portraits that I told thee of,
Is one not wholly vanished from the canvas—
I was at first provoked—it looks too modern—
But then, thank Heaven!—the frame is fallen in fragments!—
My Great-great-Grandmother, a noble Lady,
There frowns in all the splendour of her state—
This portrait represents her going forth
To join her lordly Husband in the chase—
Her face as solemn as a funeral!—

Lam.
Strange!—
When thus about to take her place and part
In such gay sport of ever-jocund cheer!—

Milla.
Know, Sir, aware of their own dignities—
Alive to their position and importance,—
The Millaflores never condescended
To be amused—it was beneath them quite—
Vulgar hilarity they could not share!—

Lam.
Why did they hunt then, prithee?—

Milla.
Sir?—why?—Sir!—
But that it might be said they hunted surely—
A proper aristocratic relaxation!—

Lam.
Oh! Lord!—would no one tell a lie to save
Their greatnesses the trouble then, with all
Their loftiness?—

Milla.
The question now at issue,
Is whether Fiorilina would look well—
Painted and placed among my ancestors;—
There is one portrait of my Great-grand-Uncle—
His costume marks him to have been a judge—
'Tis partly faded, yet in part preserved—
A little dog is holding in its paws
(A sweet device,) his stately coronet!—
If she had one—if she but had one like it!—

Lam.
A little dog?—

Milla.
Nay!—nay! mistake me not!—
A coronet like his!—

Lam.
I hear a step!—
Good Marquess!—I must urge thine absence now—
It is my sweet Costanza!—I must hold
Discourse with her in private—pray your pardon—
But there are subjects—

Milla.
I am gone at once!—

(Exit Millaflores; and enter Costanza at the opposite side.)
Lam.
Approach, my child!—

Cos.
Oh! blessings on that word!—

Lam.
Deserve it! and it ever will be thine!—
Once more, I urge thee, by all love and duty—
By all things sacred, and all things endeared—
To marry with Lorenzo!—

Cos.
Never! no!—

Lam.
No!—then a Convent shall receive ye straight—
For know, none other e'er shall claim thy hand!—
Yet—yet beware!—think—pause—and weigh!—beware!—
[Exit Lambertazzi.

Cos.
Grief crowds on grief, and all is suffering now!—
Who calls thee King of Terrors?—Death! dear Angel!—
Thou—thou art the King of Terrors! Life! dark Life!—
And once I could be happy!—oh! how happy!—
I was the lark—I was the chainless breeze—
I was the morning!—aye! I was the Sun!—
The crowned Sun was my Soul!—my very Soul!—
I was each flower that beautified the Earth—
Each Star that blazoned forth the eternal Heavens!—
And now—the ruinous difference!—I am all
That is the embodying or the sign of grief!—
Then—then my thoughts went flying all abroad—
I lived out of myself—all happy things
Were part of me!—my Life is now crushed in!—
Oh! Majesty of Sovereign Misery!—
I worship at the foot of thy dim throne!—
And pour my Soul, sense, strength, out in that worship!—

Enter Monna Laura.
Laura.
Dear Lady—wilt thou see thy gentle Friend,
The noble Fiorilina?—

Cos.
On the instant!
[Exit Monna Laura.
Let sorrow feed on other sorrow now,
Till joy shall seem a thing indeed unreal!—
Enter Fiorilina.
My Friend, my Sister—still thy gentle presence
Anticipates the pulses of my Heart!—
They throbbed to chime with thy approaching steps!—
I pined for them, and here thou art!—

Fio.
Thou'rt changed!—
Thine eye is hollow—and thy cheek how wan!—
Thou look'st all tears!—from worse to worse it darkeneth!—

Cos.
The Convent now, or this loathed contract's horror!—

Fio.
Thou'st chosen?—

Cos.
Doubt me not!—

Fio.
Now hear me, Sweet!—
Lorenzo—struck by thy despairing looks—
Thy shrinking from his homage and approaches—
Methinks, hath guessed the truth—and more than that—
For having guessed that truth, I dare to hope
He hath half triumphed o'er his ill-starred passion!—
And looked with eye of feeling on thy Friend!—

Cos.
A gleam of joy in midst of all this gloom!
A vale of peace midst mountain-peaks of storm!—

Fio.
It seems—Costanza—I confess my pride
Could never suffer me to help thee thus—
But it doth seem to me wer't once made known
To young Lorenzo!—that thy Heart shrinks from him—
He could not for one moment longer urge
His suit to thee, but would withdraw his claim!—

Cos.
Alas! I know not!—

Fio.
If I thought not so,
By all the thrones that blaze in all the Heavens—
By all the hosts of all the Heaven of Heavens—
I would unteach the lesson of this love
To every feeling of my woman's Soul—
Would blot his image from my Spirit's mirror!—
Aye! from my height of Heart would hurl him down
With sovereignty of spurning and all scorning
To the descent and dust beneath my feet,
Defying and denying—leaving,—loathing!—
Though I have worn thee in my very Soul,
Lorenzo!—loved beyond what thought can image!—
I would not soil that Soul again with thee—
I would not dim my thoughts with thee or thine!—
Oh! fallen from honour—fallen from noble fame—
If this indeed could be the hateful truth!—

Cos.
I cannot think it, yet I fear—I fear—
My thoughts, that once all brightened into hopes,
Now tremble into terrors—of themselves!—

Fio.
Sweet Saints! how pale thou art!—the very lily
Were blooming near thy cheek!—call Monna Laura—
Her cheerful prattle evermore was wont
To please thee and beguile—I'll seek for her!—
[Exit Fiorilina.

Cos.
To please me—yes!—it needed little then—
Now it needs much—yet but one thing could do it—
Thy Presence, oh! Algarves!—

Re-enter Fiorilina with Laura.
Lau.
Dearest Lady—
Oh! art not ill? it is thy ghost be sure—
So pallid and so changed!—Ah! well-a-day!—
'Tis all for nothing, this!—I know, for nothing!—
Since well I know it is for nought but love—
And love is nothing—though for that, 'tis true—
Myself too am entirely broken-hearted!—

Fio.
How, Laura!—thou, the gay, the free, the blithe!—

Lau.
Ev'n so!—Signora!—broken-hearted, blighted—
Deserted by the admirer who professed
To worship me, and swore his love should last
While stars were visible in yon clear sky!—

Fio.
Then the first cloudy night his love should cease!—

Lau.
(dejectedly.)
It ceased—or changed—and, Lady, 'tis your maiden—
Even yours that now my false-souled Love adores!—

Fio.
Indeed!—and who may be this sad inconstant?—

Lau.
Rodriquez, follower of my Lord Algarves!—

Fio.
And he is faithless!—

Lau.
I have cause to fear it!—
Alas! I am most sad!—one cure alone—
One only cure remains for me!—

Fio.
And that?—

Lau.
Must be to choose another Love at once!—

Fio.
Good!—better far than broken Hearts and dyings!—

Lau.
Yet 'tis a loss—in his own country now,
He was a great Signor, he swears to me,
A Torreadore—a mighty Cavalier
He saith, with gold and scarlet to his wear;
And often did he promise me, whene'er
We two were wedded, I should have,—but think!—
A Count unto my Cousin!—much I marvelled—
But more of wond'rous still did he disclose,
Assuring me his family of yore
Were of the highest grade—and as he said—
It sounds most strange in sooth—of real blue blood!—
He told me that it meant of mighty rank.
But what think ye, Signoras?—for myself,
I think old Raphaël Reggio—he, the same
That married to my aunt three years ago,
The rich Venetian goldsmith, must be too
Of this blue blood, at least his nose looks like it—
'Tis ever very purple towards the tip—
Ah! my wild tongue runs on, and thou, dear mistress!
Art silent, cold, and moveless as a statue—
What can I do for thee?—

Cos.
But leave me so!—
And would I altogether could be such!—

Lau.
Nay, Lady!—grief's immoderate o'er-indulgence—

Fio.
(smiling.)
Spare us, good Laura! these long words!—they're vulgar!—

Lau.
How? vulgar?—

Fio.
Surely!—since beyond your station.
Pretension is Vulgarity's own essence!—
The peasant is not vulgar—for he lacks
The smattering twang of apish imitation—
But I forgive thee for that smile's dear sake—
I mark pale fluttering round Costanza's lip!—
Alas! dear Friend! 'tis smiling's very ghost!—
Poor dove!—and I must leave thee for a space—
I have some household duties to perform—
But ere the sundown will again be with thee!—
[Exit Fiorilina.

Cos.
And leave me, Laura!—I would try to rest—
Sleep long hath flown my eyelids—throbs my head—
My temples burn—nay! comes the Count again!—
Begone! good Laura!—'tis my Uncle's step!—

Enter Lambertazzi; and Laura goes out on the opposite side.
Lam.
I hear from Fiorilina, whom I met
Where joins the corridor with the entrance hall,
That thou'rt scarce well!—nay!—comfort thee!—take cheer!—
'Tis best for man he should not look beyond
The present moment, on his mortal race!—
'Tis good to think all the issues of this life—
Of Life and Death—are in the Eternal Hand!—
What most we fear, may yet come fraught with blessings—
The morrow that we shrink from, yet may shine
With rays the brightest that have ever blessed us—
Whate'er we think, believe, doubt, dread, and feel,
The Future is indeed an unknown Land—
No foot hath ever tried it—in an hour,
Its Deep Realities may laugh to scorn
Our calculations—reasonings—fears or hopes!—
No moment of its time hath yet been tried!—
Take cheer, Costanza!—deal I not right gently—
Too gently with thee, disobedient Child?—

Cos.
For which my heart's thanksgivings are thine own!—

Enter Silvio.
Sil.
Most honoured Madam, I am sent to beg
You would consent to honour with your presence,
The Lady Fiorilina's house—she finds
She scarcely will have time to wait on you,
But ill can bear to miss your company.

Cos.
Methinks, with your fair leave, my gracious Uncle,
I will at once consent—the free fresh air
May cool these throbbing brows, and work sweet change!—

Lam.
So do!—Costanza!—and take counsel good
With your own thoughts the while!—
[Exeunt Cos. and Sil.
Her lovely mien
Hath now a fixedness of pensive languor—
Her words are few—her movements calm and slow—
But in her eyes a purposed firmness sits,
That seems the interpretation of her silence—
I fear she will not yield unless all hope
Of him should die away by slow degrees—
As 'twill in truth if my new scheme succeeds!
This same bold Diego!—he will fail me not—
Though I have ne'er employed him, well I know
Where in high quarters he hath been employed,
And he knows I was privy to such business—
The “Gran Diavolo,” as he is surnamed
By the affrighted peasants near his haunts—
He will not fail me, and I need not fear!—
Look to thyself, Algarves!—scorpion!—yes!—
The storm is brewing that shall break o'er thee
When least thou shalt expect it!—thou shalt fall—
Shalt vanish darkly from the haunts of man!—
For thou and I, with our unmeasured hate,
There is not room in all this sunny Realm—
'Tis well for thee if in the World there is!—
In some lone spot divided from thy kind,
Shalt thou yet count thy weary days and hours,
And spend thy life in wishing for its end!

[Exit.