The
Mysterious Marriage
Act I
Scene 1
[The outer wall and gate-way of a magnificent Castle, with an ascent, and distant view of the entrance. Osmond and Uberto meeting.]
Osmond.
YOU come from the chace, Uberto: what's the sport?
Uberto.
Sport! marry, such sport as had well nigh cost us our lives, and our friends
some score of masses.
Osmond.
You roused then the boar!
Uberto.
I warrant you we did, and to some purpose too! An I e'er rouse another such,
I'll give him leave to make a dinner of me. But for our brave guest, the Lord
Sigismond, I question whether our souls had not come to tell you whereabouts
they had left our bodies.—In my life shall I never forget how he churned
and tore up the ground with rage! And what's most strange, methought, when
his eyes glared with the greatest fury, he always looked full upon me. Yet
I had not offended him either; for if some people's valour did not lie nearer
the point of their lance than mine, the boar might have made his breakfast
i'the forest, and we ours i'the castle, without either of us taking a fancy
to a limb of the other.
Osmond.
But, Sigismond!
Uberto.
True! he's a hero—and your hero, I suppose, has a life or two more to
spare than your commoner. Br[ief]ly, however, he advanced, brandished his
spear with a determined look—as—thus!—and—I will not wrong
my honesty so far as to say I saw him kill the monster—But this I will
certify—I saw the monster dead, and heard our whole troop shout to the
honour of Sigismond.
Osmond.
'Tis a brave youth!
Uberto.
And courteous too; I warrant he's nobly born!
Osmond.
At least he's nobly bred.
Uberto.
And methinks love could not devise a better match of gentleness, than betwixt
him and my lord's young favourite, the Lady Constantia.
Osmond.
Trust me, no!
Uberto, there's a secret spring of blood
That bids the obscure still soar! 'Tis Nature's touch;
Who thus would mock the avarice of Fortune,
Wooing her from her own! He'll no Constantia!
Nay much I err too, or our beauteous Countess
Beholds the young and gallant Sigismond
With more than friendly gaze. Come, come, thou'st marked it.
Uberto.
Why truly I have seen some glances pass between them, that it were worth more
than my head to recount to my lord. For, despite of what nature may do in
the heart of his daughter, she will never, I trow, move his into thinking,
that all these noble titles and princely domains should fall into the hands
of a vagrant stranger—and a prisoner too.
Osmond.
He had ne'er been a prisoner but in the cause of the Count. Thou knowest that
on the day my lord and his daughter were ta'en captive by a band of wandering
Poles—this young stranger—this valiant Sigismond, stood forth to
save her from dishonour, and drew his sabre even against his countrymen.
Uberto.
Yes; and his countrymen rewarded him for it by leaving him in our hands!—What
a tale dost thou tell me, as if I was not in at the rescue; and did not with
my good sword—
Osmond.
Nay, good Uberto—keep but they tongue as quiet as they sword, and—[music]—Peace!
the hunters!—'tis the horn of Sigismond.
Uberto.
And, true to the sound, see if my lady, the Countess, be not roused up to
give him welcome. Well, how easily may a man perceive a thing when he's told
it! methinks I can spy out love in the very folds of her robe—and then
there's a turn in her eye—
[Music, and chorus of Hunters.]
"Hail to the sprightly beams of morn!
"Gaily sound the mellow horn!
"Hark, she answers to
the cry!
[Echo repeated at intervals.]
"Sound, sound again the mellow horn!
"Echo hails the sprightly morn!"
[The hunters pass in groups
across the stage; and enter the castle-walls with Osmond—the
Countess descending at the same time, they salute her severally—Sigismond
enters last.]
Sigismond [seeing the
Countess].
Uberto, bear my greetings to thy lord;
I wait him on the instant. My fair hostess!
Oh how the morning brightens with the beam
That radiates from those eyes! A smile like that
Breaks from the heav'ns, when day-spring gilds the east,
And nature lives before it! Thou should'st chide
Th'uncourtly hand, that, reckless of the heart,
Lays not beneath thy feet our sylvan triumphs—
The boar's rough spoils.
Countess.
Believe me, Sigismond,
I should have deem'd the uncouth gift misplaced:
And honour more the instinctive human polish
That bade thee spare it, than the laboured courtesy
That with a bloody spoil would grace a woman.
Nay trust me, Sir,—but 'tis my father's part
To chide his guest—You have been much in danger.
E'en now I heard the tale with mingled fear—
Yet 'twas not fear—'twas but a passing wonder!
How, rough of taste, your souls should hunt out death,
And brave him e'en in scenes, which our weak sex
Shrink from the view of!
Sigismond.
Prettiness of nature!—
Who, sportive goddess, has embodied weakness
In the fair form of woman, to create
Instinctive force and energy in man!
To guard such fragile loveliness as thine,
We cherish danger, my fair monistress!
And grow familiar with the forms of death.
But why of death or danger do we talk?
Hence with th'ill-omen'd words! Thy lip's rich ruby
Grows pale beneath them! While a half-drawn breath,
That quivered to a sigh, disturb'd its polish,
As summer breezes ripple the smooth stream.
Countess.
I did not sigh! Or if perchance I did,
Is it for you to weigh—You are too forward!
'Twere well to scant this aptness of remark,
And tread in narrower scope.
Sigismond [going].
You teach me right.
I shall remember, Madam.
Countess.
Gone so soon!
Oh, these hot spirits! What, my father waits!
Or say, the honours of our rural feast
Demand your presence! Well, Sir! We can spare you.
One word alone! Deem not, that conscious rank,
Nor all the selfish pride that waits on greatness,
Impels me thus—I lose myself again—
Begone!—
Sigismond.
Impossible! The witchery of that voice
Spreads in soft circles thro' the ambient air,
And roots me spell-bound! Witness for me heaven,
If there be cause of pride in human kind,
I deem it most in thee!—Nor aught that greatness,
Wealth, or superior power can give, e'er added
To they attractions, or can dim their lustre!
I see thee noblest in thy noble soul;
Richest in beauty; while my willing heart
Bows down to both, and owns its conqueror.
Countess.
All-gracious heaven!
Sigismond.
To tell thee that I love,
Is but to give the feeble form of words
To my soul's language! Yet I am not rash,
Save only in adoring. Proud alone
In that I deem no other of thy sex
Worthy my thought. Nor do I to the heiress
Of these rich lands aspire—The woman only,
Shrin'd in my heart, has all its vows; its wishes
In the rude current of my fate are wrecked.
Once, and once only. [kisses her hand] Oh! that this deep sigh,
Whose forceful energy doth shake my being,
Could breathe a sacred atmosphere around!
Guard thee from sorrow, sickness, or disquiet!
And, fraught with every bliss it wafts from me,
Enrich thy fate with our united store!
I trespass.—
Countess.
Oh! Too noble Sigismond!
There is a native candour at my heart,
That struggles with my sex's wonted forms
To tell thee—But it should not be! Farewell!—
Yet—If the woman claim indeed thy thought,
Oh! deem she has one virtue worthy thee;
The sense of thine.
Sigismond [kneeling].
Heav'ns! Did I hear aright!
Countess.
Perchance thou didst not! We may be observ'd.
Rise, gentle Sigismond—Another time—
Nay, pr'ythee rise! For see, where loved Constantia
Comes, drooping like a blossom of the spring,
That wintry gales have shook. Retire, I charge thee—
We will speak more anon.
[Exit Sigismond towards
the Castle.—Constantia enters, leaning on Theresa.]
Countess.
How fares my friend?
Constantia [faintly].
Why, if to die be good, I should say well.
Nature, that smiles around, yet smiles not here; [laying her hand
on her breast]
And life but feebly flutters o'er my heart,
Ev'n as the wounded bird upon her nest.
Countess.
Oh! thou art vapourish! Trust me, I shall chide.
Is it for years like thine to talk of death?
Come, we shall mark the roses steal again
Upon thy cheek: Nay, pr'ythee look, Theresa,
Dost thou not see the wily traitors ambush'd
Ev'n mid the lilies that usurp their throne?
Your hand; Come, chearly! This is the mere form,
The ceremony of sickness. Let me lead you
To yonder sunny border—The fresh dew
Claims cautious treading here. [Exit Theresa.]
Now could I tell a tale—Oh! have I caught you?
Well, when a woman's heart informs her head,
How soon she may defy the schools!
'Tis a nice art, that from such premises
Can draw conclusions: I but looked a secret,
And you have guessed it.
Constantia.
Is Alberto come?
Countess.
Nay, pr'ythee patience! The first lord o' the court,
Without a train or courier? Cry you mercy!
The turtles of Arcadia had their wings,
And flew at will; our modern ones are clipt,
Confin'd, and tutor'd—Therefore 'tis, their notes
Are oft unmusical. Yet is he coming,
Fast as a courtier's zeal, and great man's train,
Can convoy him!
Constantia.
Oh, wherefore comes he now?
Now, when my faded form—
Countess.
True woman still!
Come now, regret the toilette! Swear Alberto
Better at court than here; and those fair tresses,
That kiss the wanton Zephyrs as they blow,
And woo them to thy bosom, thus dishevell'd,
Mere Medusean locks!
Constantia.
Oh, not for that,
Nor for the few faint graces of a storm
Now crush'd to earth, do I lament!—Alberto,
If e'er he lov'd me, lov'd me not for those.
Witness, ye conscious shades! where my sick heart
Still courts the spirit of departed hours,
'Twas sympathy of thought, congenial taste,
'Twas the fair lucid web that fancy weaves
O'er yielding souls, and sensibility
Enriches with her thousand Iris hues,
That bound us to each other.—He is changed!
Changed to himself! The world has stepp'd between us;
Blasted with magic spell our fairy bow'rs,
Nor left ev'n Love the power to make us happy.
Countess.
Oh, we shall try its influence! True, Alberto,
No more the stripling that some two years past
Thought love supreme, now tow'rs above his equals;
Far-fam'd for valour, as for noble birth;
And boasts a monarch's favour.—Say, 'twas fortune,
A lucky chance, that bade the Turkish squadrons
Fly from his sword, and our best chieftains own him
Bravest amid the brave! He deems not so:—
But, conscious of superior power, infers
Superior merit. Yet when court cabals,
Levees, and flatterers, cease to fill the day,
When our sweet shades again shall woo to love,
And peace—But soft!—my father!—Dear Constantia,
Resume thy fortitude! I shall have much,
Much yet to tell thee.
Count Roselva [entering].
Oh, you're found, my wanderers!
I sought you through the castle: sweet Constantia,
Wilt thou still play the sick one? Shame upon't!
We must call in a tribe of our young courtiers
To bid the truant blushes to their station.
We shall have feasts anon! What says my daughter?
I bring you tidings of the Lord Alberto—
He comes upon the hour.
Countess.
Indeed!
Count Roselva.
Even so!
Nay, I might tell you more, but troth you care not.
You are too much enamoured of each other
To think of revelry and sports; tho' ev'n
A brave young lord should head them.
Nay, should the king,
Devising how he may enrich a favourite,
Send him to claim a bride.
Countess.
A bride!
Constantia.
Oh heaven!
Countess.
How is't, Constantia?
Constantia.
But a sudden sickness—
Your pardon, Sir! You spoke of Lord Alberto;
Or was't the error of mine ear?
Count Roselva.
Constantia,
These sudden starts, and panic fits of tremor,
Claim heedful notice; they import a malady
Of dangerous consequence; and our true love
Bids seek a remedy. 'Twere best retire:
The air blows chill for tender frames like thine, [The Countess leads
Constantia towards the Castle.]
And tender hearts too! This fond girl disturbs me!
There is a secret in this cherished weakness
I do not wish to learn. [To the Countess, who returns.]
Thou'rt made of tears
And soft endearments! 'Tis your sex's foible
Ever to love too little, or too much!
Of thy fair friend no more. Dear tho' I prize her,
There is a closer, softer, nearer tie,
That twines around my heart. My darling child!
With what excess of fondness I have loved thee,
Heav'n only knows! And well thy youthful grace,
Thy gentle manners, and unsullied duty,
Have justified the weakness. Can I then,
Even in the bloom and lustre of thy virtues,
Then, when my feeble age most claims their succour,
Can I consent to lose thee? Yet, my daughter,
Spite of these foolish drops that mar my speech,
It must be so! Thou art Lord Albert's bride.
The court, the world, demand thee! Royalty
Itself most graciously approves the union.
Fraught with remembrance of thy early charms,
Even now the favourite comes in haste to claim thee:
Mark the dispatches!
Countess [rejecting
them].
Of my early charms!
Trust me, my Lord, Alberto mocks us both.
Count Roselva.
I would not have it so, nor will believe it.
There is a lurking spirit in thine eye
That leads to disobedience; mark me well!
Motives most potent and unanswerable,
That touch my honour, nay perhaps my life,
Enforce thy prompt obedience! Childish friendship,
And all the flimsy web of fine-spun feelings,
Are blown aside by the strong breath of nature.
For thy Constantia, when thou deck'st a court,
She will not want a husband. Such a dowry,
As a fond sire might give a second-born,
My love shall lavish on her.
Countess.
Vainly lavish!
A grave and winding sheet, my lov'd Constantia,
Will soon be all thy portion.
Count Roselva.
Pr'ythee, peace!
Who dies in youth, dies best; dies innocent:
Yet thou may'st live so too!
Countess.
Alas, my father!
You tremble, you are pale—some cruel secret—
Of honour and of life you spoke but late!
I marked it not; but now thick-rushing fancies
Press on my heart, and call forth all its fears.
Count Roselva.
Why should'st thou know, what knowing would afflict thee?
Art thou not noble, rich, and innocent?
Countess.
I hope I am so!
Count Roselva.
Then be sure on't quickly,
By being Albert's wife!
Countess.
Oh, tell me wherefore?
What mystery's in this? Why should I barter
A name as great, a state more rich than Albert's,
For aught that he can offer? And for virtue,
Judge me just heav'n, how scant would be its portion
In the base heart that thus could wrong itself!
Count Roselva.
Then wrong thy father! Disavow thy name!
Bring my hoar head with sorrow to the grave,
And wander forth a hopeless, helpless orphan.
Countess.
What should this mean? Heav'n shield my honour'd sire!
Some phrenzy, sure—
Count Roselva.
The worst of phrenzy—Guilt!—
Yet 'twas a venial crime! Hear me, my daughter!
I will a tale unfold—
Which on thy life, thy honour, and thy duty,
I do command thee never to reveal!
—A younger brother born, and unendowed,
My youth was past in penury and arms.
I lov'd thy mother; truly, fondly loved;
Yet lived to lose her! Thee, her helpless offspring,
Unheeded by a proud and wealthy race,
I rear'd in sorrow! Till the chance of war,
On one drear night, led forth a band of Turks,
To waste the lands thou seest, and spoil yon castle,
The scene was bloody; for my wealthier brother,
Heedless of danger, and unskill'd in arms,
Lodged there his wife and infants: they were twins:
Twins, as it seemed, in sorrow! To be brief,
Th' exterminating foe swept off our vassals,
And in the carnage spared nor youth nor age.
I came to claim my rights; and found yon towers,
That lift their heads so gaily o'er the landscape,
A scene of desolation! One domestic
'Scaped from the massacre; and, while he hail'd me,
Breathed an unwelcome secret in mine ear—
The children—
Countess.
What of them?
Count Roselva.
Both were not dead!
Hid with her nurse in the surrounding forest,
The girl survived.
Countess.
My heart divines the rest!
It was Constantia!
Count Roselva.
Pr'ythee, calm thy transports!
I saw this infant—born to princely fortunes,
Torn from great Nature's mass, and left to me;
Me, doomed henceforth her vassal, or her lord!
I chose my fate! The rest I need not tell.
Thou know'st with what officious care my heart
Has reared her childhood; with what tender fondness,
Next to thyself, has drawn her to my bosom.
Nor have I, like the iron-hearted villain,
Hated whom I had injured. Yet does fear,
The curse of guilt, hang upon my footsteps.
Her age—her form—and some surviving vassals,
Whom neither power can trace, nor wealth can silence,
May yet betray me.
Countess.
Oh! betray thyself!
Call to thy memory the glorious precept
That bids us guard the helpless and the orphan,
And boldly—
Count Roselva.
Rash, misjudging girl, beware!
Silence thy murmurs; summon all thy duty;
As Albert's wife, no voice shall dare arraign thee.
No hand of pow'r shall seize these fair domains,
Or blast me with dishonour. [bugle sounds without]
Hark! the summons
That bids me greet my noble guest. Beware!
For know, the hour that tells thy father's shame,
Fixes thy father's fate! [Lays his hand on his sword, and exit.]
Countess [sola].
Thou Pow'r supreme!
Gild the wild mazes of this perilous way
With thy bright star of truth!
And oh! whatever ills my fate betide,
Still let its sacred beams my footsteps guide!
Dark tho' the clouds, and black the tempest roll,
The ray is ne'er obscured that lights the soul.
[Music, with an accompaniment
of cymbals, &c. by Turkish slaves, who advance with the domestics of the
Count, and take their station before the gate; they are met by the
retinue of Albert: who, lastly, appears himself, and with the procession,
enters the Castle.]
END OF ACT I
