[An antichamber in the Castle,
with folding doors, the pillars gaily wreathed with flowers, and the niches
adorned with statues, bearing baskets of flowers on their heads.—Music
within.]
Osmond [entering hastily].
WHAT, ho! who waits there?—Quick!
More wine i'the feasting chamber! Lazy knaves!
Is this a time to stare, and shake your heels?
First let your lords be served! More wine, I say!
Let the saloon be hung with fresher flowers:
And see the ices yield not. Quick!—dispatch! [Exit.
[Several servants cross the
stage, bearing silver ewers of wine.Uberto and Mathias.]
Uberto.
Pr'ythee, good Mathias, let's have a cup of my Lord's Tokay, though it be
but to drink to my Lady's health.
Mathias [drinking].
This is rare sport, i'faith; if there be such merry days as this at court,
why the devil take labour and the country, say I!
Uberto.
But who, I marvel, would have thought your courtiers had been such generous
fellows, Mathias?
Mathias.
Nay, for the matter of that, if it be generous to eat, drink, and be merry
at another man's cost, why generosity is a cheap virtue, and what few would
be without.
Uberto.
There thou misconceivest me, man! In the article of eating and drinking, I
say not that your courtier is more kind-hearted than your clown; But if mirth
be, as we are told, the zest of the entertainment, he must be allowed to be
the most generous man alive who keeps the feast only for himself, and leaves
the mirth for us, his poor servitors. Now for the instance! What think'st
thou of the company within?
Mathias.
That my Lord is moody—the Countess hath the spleen—Sigismond is
sad—and the Lady Constantia sick. For the Lord Albert, indeed—
Uberto.
Oh! he hath all complaints at once! He hath the court fever; and looks at
a serving-man, as though he wondered why heaven bestowed five senses on any
being less magnificent than himself.
Mathias.
Come, another cup of wine, and then—
Uberto.
Peace, fool—We'll have more wine anon;—for see, here comes the Lord
Sigismond.
[Sigismond enters from
the folding doors, and passes the stage thoughtfully, speaking to Uberto.—Music.]
Servant [followed by
Rodolphus].
Dispatches from the court, to Lord Alberto.
[Osmond gives them to
Uberto, who carries them in. Manent Osmond and Rodolphus.]
Osmond.
Honest Rodolphus, welcome! Thy suit bears testimony against thee; and looks
as if thou hadst seen more service than preferment at court.
Rodolphus.
When I first wore this suit I was my Lord's friend; now, I am but his serving-man.
I could have had a laced coat as well as the rest, had it so pleased me; but
I had rather be the humble attendant of his fools, that the first fool of
his attendants.
Osmond.
Why what is it that hath made thee so splenetic, good Rodolphus?
Rodolphus.
That, master Osmond, which might make any man splenetic—age and disappointment.
I was my Lord's follower when he was an infant;—his play-fellow when
he was a boy;—and now that I am grown old and grey-headed, every knave
that has the wit to flatter him, steps before me.
Osmond.
Yet I remember when you were here some two years ago—
Rodolphus.
Aye, good Osmond, thou art not grown a great man, and therefore may'st
reasonably have a memory of two years' standing;—yet that of a great
man, I trow, is not so short, but if a service is in question, he knows where
to apply. My Lord's pride left me home; but his convenience did not forget
that I should be the most faithful bearer of his dispatches. [The folding
doors are opened] But soft you—here he comes. He seems moved too!
Why, what a fool am I to carry so green a heart under grey locks! Now could
I blubber like a whipt school boy, lest I should have been the bearer of mischief.
Albert [with letters
in his hand].
What time, Rodolphus, lost you on the road?
Rodolphus.
Just two days, my Lord, four hours, and some odd minutes—the latter of
which only were spent in eating and repose.
Albert [thoughtfully].
Bear you from Arnulph aught?
Rodolphus.
Nothing, my Lord.
Albert.
Two days' delay! Was there no quicker convoy?
Rodolphus.
None, my Lord, unless I had interest in the air, and could have borrowed a
pair of wings. As far as gold or zeal could supply their place, your Lordship
has no reason to complain.
Albert.
'Tis well! You may retire. [Exit Rodolphus.]
—My adverse star
At length hath gained th'ascendant! I am lost.
Down busy devil! [laying his hand on his heart]
Thou betray'st thyself
With fearful flushings; which, like lurid clouds,
Portend to vulgar eyes the bursting storm.
A fallen favourite! No time left to prop
My tottering fortunes with Roselva's pow'r!
Ev'n when some ready demon was at hand
To drive him to my purpose. Yet, perhaps,
All may be well yet. Once espoused, the rank,
The wealth, and numerous minions of my will,
Conjointly with my personal daring, well
Might awe ev'n royalty. 'Twere a brave deed
To crush where I have vainly strove to snare;
And with one strong, collected blow, destroy
The puny insects that would sting me thus.
It fires my hope! Who waits there? Say to the Count,
I do desire a moment's conf'rence.—Way, Sir! [to Sigismond,
whom he meets.]
Sigismond.
When Albert learns to speak with courtesy,
He may have courteous hearing.
Albert.
Albert, Sir,
Perhaps may want the time to scan his talk,
And deal out candied courtesies of words
By the quaint estimate of rustic breeding.
Sigismond.
Civility, my Lord, 's the courtier's traffic!
I did not trespass on you for a virtue!
Albert.
You are presuming!
Sigismond.
Only frank, Lord Albert!
A very mirror to the passing object;
Reflecting even its blots.
Albert.
Most free of speech!
This roof is privileged, or it might chance—
You're safe, Sir!
Sigismond.
So I shall esteem myself,
While I do wear a sword! [Exit. The Count enters on the other side.]
Albert.
Noble Roselva,
I press upon your leisure; but the time
Is full of wayward checks. The bubble, pleasure,
Of late so sparkling to mine eye, hath burst,
And leaves my stream of fortune dark and turbid.
I must to court, my Lord.
Count Roselva.
How, back so soon!
Albert.
With my best speed. Some day or two, perchance,
We steal from loyalty: days which, when passed,
Like the bright lustre of a setting sun,
Shall leave a golden track. Oh! it doth move me,
Ev'n to my stretch of patience, that, or War,
Or the blind demon, Politics, should haunt us
Ev'n in the lap of Peace.
Count Roselva.
'Tis most perverse!
The cause unknown too!
Albert.
Only hinted at,
And sealed to secrecy.—Oh! dared I hope—
But that were past presumption!
Count Roselva.
Noble Albert
Cannot presume!
Albert.
Alas! you know me not!
I do confess me proud—aspiring—rash—
Nursed in the lap of vain prosperity,
And dazzled by my fortunes! Thou, perhaps,
Wilt deem so too, if I should thus, unwooing,
Stinted the lover's offerings of signs,
Aspire to call Roselva's heiress mine.
Count Roselva.
How! Wed so suddenly!
Albert.
'Twas a rash thought!
Your pardon, Sir.
Count Roselva [thoughtfully].
My daughter hath a soul
Noble as duteous; and so maiden white
It hath not learnt to blush! She may be won
Beyond th'observance of her sex's rules.
And you have form and eloquence, my Lord,
To tempt a woman's will.—I will consider.
Albert.
Nay, if considered—'tis half sanctified!
Come—come—it must be so! Forms and ceremonies
Are nought in honour's or in love's account.
Say, 'twere to-morrow—
Count Roselva.
Well!—'tis sudden too—
It may perchance be happier!—Be it so!
Albert [kissing his
hand].
Now, by my life, this generous, frank compliance,
Binds me your son and servant!
Count Roselva.
I will leave you:
The time claims thought. A father too hath pangs,
When yielding thus the treasure of his age!
I will prepare my daughter. Gentle Albert—
When she is thine—But wherefore should I urge thee?
Thou hast a soul to feel her worth.—I'm choak'd! [Exit abruptly.]
Albert [solus].
Prosperous so far! Or hath my worser genius
Betrayed me to my fate? A cold sick damp
Ev'n dash'd me at the moment of success,
And 'dew'd my dastard brow! Constantia too!
Oh! she came o'er me like a wintery cloud,
Blasting my noon of fortunes. She yet lives!
Th' envenomed drugs have quench'd the flame of life,
Yet left the embers.—But a single chill,
And those are cold too.—Well! it shall be weigh'd.
The demon, Pride, is busy in my soul,
Holding a thousand hideous mirrors up,
Peopled with shadowy mischiefs. One fair form
Alone stands forth, and points a bright perspective.
It must be so! Roselva's princely heiress
Shall yet be mine!
Hence then the idle fopperies of love!
Who bars my fortune, must my vengeance prove! [Exit.]
[SCENE—A low Gothic
gallery, with a range of arched doors on one side the stage, and painted casements
on the other, to correspond.]
Constantia [sola].
He bade me meet him in the western gallery:
Would he were here, or e'er my failing step
Play truant to my heart. Fain would I greet him
As in the bloom and may-day of my life!
When my light foot scarce press'd th'unconscious ground,
And health diffused a lustre o'er the day
That mock'd the paler sun-beam. I have mark'd him;
Noted each little change that time hath made
In my heart's tablet; and, with jealous glance,
Have almost chid the rude and manlier graces
That have usurp'd the primy charm of youth.
Hark!—No!—the sounding arches mock mine ear.
Ah, 'tis himself! My lord!—my love!—my Albert! [Throws herself
into his arms as he enters.]
Albert.
My sweet Constantia!—Nay, I pr'ythee check
This transport, that doth shake thy tender frame
Almost to fainting.
Constantia.
I would fain be strong,
Be rational—be calm—but 'twill not be.
My wayward heart, so long unused to joy,
Heaves with such wild convulsive throbs to meet it,
As shake the pow'rs of life! Oh, thou unkind one!
But I will not complain:—the sacred vow
That bound me to thee at the holy altar,
Binds not the heart alone; my will is thine!
Yet blame me not, if, on the verge of being,
Unown'd—unhonour'd—nay, perhaps, unlov'd—
I grasp the little good that fate allows me,
With painful extasy!
Albert.
The little, say'st thou!
Oh, had Constantia still retain'd that passion
Which once shot roseate blushes o'er her cheek,
Lived in her accent, languish'd in her eye,
And gave each charm its own ethereal lustre;
Then had she met me with a joy so pure,
It had defied the feeble pow'r of fate
To dash it with a care.—Nay, pr'ythee smile!
Or I shall think thou art a very wife,
And mean'st to chide thy truant.
Constantia.
Dearest Albert!
When, dear to gratitude's commanding voice,
And reckless of my virgin fame, I dared
To plight in secret an unsanctioned vow,
I lost that peace which is the life of virtue.
Yet thou wert mine; and my idolatrous heart
Liv'd on the certitude:—till losing that,
I'd well nigh lost life too! Hours, days, and months,
Have past in sad and sober recollection
Since last we met:—and still, as they've gone by,
Some early flow'r of fancy and of youth
Hath droop'd the head and wither'd:—firmer reason
Alone increased in vigour—spread its foliage,
Wholesome, but chilling, o'er a thankless soil.
Albert.
If this same reason makes my fair one sad,
I'll not a leaf on't—'tis a bitter plant!—
Come, come, I know this pretty self-reproach
Tends, like the veil coquetry bids you draw
O'er brightest eyes, to make the dart more sure.
But tell me, love—in those same months thou speak'st of,
Those tedious months of absence—Has they tongue—
It were a venial trespass—Has it never—
I could not chide an 'twere so—Ne'er betray'd
The mystery of our union?
Constantia.
Never.
Albert.
How?
In the soft hours of confidence and friendship,
Ne'er hinted—smiled—or blushed away the secret?
Constantia.
Oh, never!
Albert.
The good priest too—
Constantia.
I had wrote thee,
Or I mistake, that heav'n long since had call'd him.
Albert.
'Tis true; I had forgot.—[aside] Heav'n was most gracious
To further deeds in which heav'n has no share.
[To her] His fate was sudden too—But he was pious:
And pious minds are never unprepared
For their great audit.
Constantia.
Happy who, like him,
Have early closed the various page of life,
And lifting the dim view from hence on high,
Have traced the sacred characters of heav'n!
Albert [aside].
Most beauteous saint! Now, by my life, those charms
Might warm an anchorite. An anchorite, said I!
Weak fires may thaw—She, planet-like, has spells
To rule the boundless ocean of ambition!
I shall be lost!
Constantia.
Trust me, my love, thou'rt chang'd too!
Even mid the pomp and splendour of a court,
Thy heart, perchance, is sick!
Albert [aside].
My reason rather!
Constantia.
Some lovelier fair—
Albert.
I should have curs'd the tongue,
Had it been aught but thine, that dared suggest it!
Hear, and believe me, dearest, when I swear,
In all the tedious hours I've past without thee,
Ne'er hath my wandering eye encountered beauty,
But it hath breath'd a sigH for my Constantia!
And yet, my love—
Constantia.
Ah! What?
Albert.
Thou should'st be great,
Be noble.—Nature, when she gave thee beauty,
Matchless, imperial beauty—gave a claim
That might have bankrupt fortune's richest means;
But treacherous love has marr'd the glorious gift,
And cast thee on a beggar.
Constantia.
Art thou one?
Albert.
Clouded the fair perfection of that form,
That should have blaz'd, like a bright wand'ring star,
The wonder of the hemisphere—in darkness,
Obscurity, and sorrow.
Constantia.
Is it sorrow
To call thee mine? To spend my painful vigils
In dwelling on thy memory? and in pray'r
That when Constantia silent sleeps in dust,
Thou may'st be happy!
Albert.
Dost thou love me, then?
Constantia.
Love you! Oh, heavens!
Albert.
Now with your sex's passion;
With jealousy, with tears, with fond endearment:
But with a flame so generous and so noble,
That it could soar beyond their feeble ken,
And aim at manly daring!
Constantia.
Name your proof!
Albert.
Could it renounce the selfish claims of wife?
Rich in my fortunes, richer in my love,
Assert its empire o'er my heart alone,
And leave the world a name?
Constantia [disordered].
How should I answer
To what I understand not?
Albert.
To be plain;
Thou know'st my means ill suited to my birth.—
Honour and fame are mine: but wealth—the dross,
The clay in which we build those tott'ring fabrics,
Must be acquired by art.—Roselva's heiress—
Constantia [faintly].
Pr'ythee no more!
Albert.
Nay shrink not!—To hear half
Were but to blast thee.
Constantia.
I am blasted now!
Oh heav'n!—Oh earth!—Can it be possible?
Wouldst thou thus coolly meditate destruction?
Thus spread a wide accumulating ruin?
A ruin, that would mock sweet mercy's pow'r
To raise it from the dust!
Albert [impatiently].
Art mad?
Constantia.
Past cure!
Ev'n at the moment when my fleeting sense
Hung on thy image; and enfeebled life
Stood tott'ring on the precipice of fate,
Then, then to plunge me down the vast profound,
Ev'n with the outstretch'd arm that seem'd to save me!
Oh, merciless!
Albert [seizing her
hand roughly].
Peace! Peace!
Constantia [wildly].
Where shall I find it?
The cherub sits in heav'n, and mocks my pray'r!
The earth is cover'd with a mist of crimes
That hides her from our view! See, how it thickens!
All's black—All's dark!—Thy hand—We're lost!—Oh, mercy!
[she faints.]
Albert.
I am a devil! and have dispossest
An angel's reason!
Constantia [recovering].
Art thou there, my Albert?
Oh, I've had dreams. But thou art by to shield me!
Albert.
Rest then on me.
Constantia.
My brain is all confusion:
This weakness is most strange! for I have ta'en
Of those same powders, that you sent me, oft.
Albert [starting].
Indeed!
Constantia.
Nay, but this very morn, to chear our meeting,
And give the name of Health to't, I had swallow'd
The cordial draught thy tender care prepared
For my worst need.
Albert.
Oh heav'n!
Constantia.
Did I not right?
Nay, trust me, love, it cheared me much; yet now,
I know not wherefore, all things swim before me.
'Tis but a moment since methought thy form
Assumed some horrid semblance.
Albert.
Rest will chear thee.
Constantia [as she goes
out].
When shall we meet again?
Albert [disturbed].
To-morrow.
Constantia.
Here?
Albert [with increasing
perturbation].
Yes, here.
Constantia.
'Tis well; I shall remember. [Exit into a chamber.]
Albert.
Aye, indeed!
Your memory will be long then; and must reach
Ev'n to that gloom where fancy's self expires.
Constantia, thou art lost! And the black venom
That taints thy blood, has, with infectious pow'r,
Stol'n o'er my heart, and poison'd all its joys.
Away, remorse!—the deed that's past must be
As it had never been! [Going out, he meets the Count and Countess.]
Count Roselva.
My noble guest,
You're well encounter'd—Start not thus, my daughter:
Lord Albert bears no terrors.
Albert [still disturbed].
Good my Lord—
Count Roselva.
Nay, gentle Albert, fathers have a privilege
To wave the forms of sex.
Albert [to the Countess].
Dared I believe—
Countess.
My Lord, you have a secret monitor,
Without presumption, well may bid you trust
To what you wish.—I do beseech you, spare me!
Some two hours hence my father will impart
What conscious honour, and, I hope, a sense
Of nature's rights, may dictate. Rest we thus:
Roselva's heiress cannot be unconscious
Of Lord Alberto's worth.
Albert [laying his hand
on his breast].
My thanks are here. [Exit.]
Count Roselva.
Why dost thou trifle thus? Why dress thy tongue
In dubious promises?
Countess.
Oh, rather, why
Must I debase truth's everlasting lustre
With vile equivocation?
Count Roselva.
Thou art chang'd.
I deem'd thee duteous: trust me I can change too!
Has then a parent's voice no pow'r to awe?
I gave thee life!
Countess.
You gave me more ev'n; virtue!
Reason, the glorious pow'r to judge of wrong;
And courage to declare. Nay, dear my father,
Look not upon me with an angry eye:
I am your daughter, tutor'd by your cares;
And can I, in one selfish hour, forget
Each nobler principle those cares have cherish'd?
You had a thousand, thousand claims to urge you:
Aspiring manhood; pride; unheeded sorrows;
The fond excesses of parental love:
All that could tempt the proud, or warm the injured.
But I—a creature nursed in luxury,
Whose every feeling, polish'd even to weakness,
Starts at the thought of wrong—shall I inflict it?
Inflict it on a helpless—suffering friend?
Bid me do this, and tremble at the future!
Tremble at the black list of nameless crimes
Such monstrous guilt may gender!
Count Roselva.
Thou perverse one!
But well I guess thy secret soul assigns
Motives more pow'rful than this fine-spun honour,
To tempt thee from they duty.—Sigismond—
Countess.
Nay, wrong me not so far!—Tho' my heart cherish'd
A passion dearer than its vital flood;
Tho' all of happiness concentred there
Left nought to virtue but her own bright record;
I call attesting angels down to witness
That I would bid my stubborn senses yield,
And own her voice in yours! Yet hear me swear too
By that same heav'n whose sacred mandate bids
Not to inflict what we should grieve to suffer,
That while my lov'd Constantia lives to claim them,
Ne'er shall my treach'rous pow'r invade her rights:
Ne'er shall my secret soul conceive the wish,
Nor my base tongue pronounce th' unhallow'd vow,
That thus would sanction fraud.
Count Roselva.
Is't possible?
Away, ingrate!—Oh thou dost plant fresh thorns,
When thy soft hand alone could pluck out those
That cruel memory fixt here! Get thee hence!
I will but con a lesson of humility,
And follow thee anon.—Yes—'tis most fit
That I should learn to be an infant's vassal.
My knees are old and stubborn—but they'll bend;
At least to heav'n—and then—no matter—hence.
Countess.
I dare not leave you.
Count Roselva.
You have dared do that
To which all future darings are as feathers
In the scale of nature.
Countess.
Oh, my father!
Count Roselva.
Away, thou'lt drive me desperate!
Theresa [without].
Help ho! help there!
Count Roselva.
What cry was that?
Theresa [entering from
one of the arched doors].
The lady Constantia, Sir,
Demands your instant succour.
Count Roselva.
Say'st thou?
Countess.
Heavens!
Theresa.
Half frantic—flutt'ring on the verge of being,
By fits she lives, and dies.—See—see—she's here!
Constantia [led in from
the same door].
Air—air—more air—Oh, you have cruel kindness!
Why do you hold me thus?—You choak—you kill me!
Aye—here I breathe more freely!
Count Roselva.
Sweet Constantia,
Give me thy hand.
Constantia.
And my pulse too, I warrant!
No—no—no more of medicine—it hath kill'd me.
Count Roselva.
Hath medicine kill'd thee?
Constantia.
Aye—a villain's, Sir?
Count Roselva [in disorder].
I gave her none!
Physician.
My Lord!
Countess.
Alas! she wanders!
Physician.
It is not strange. Exhausted nature oft,
When she hath lost her pure and healthful spring,
Genders strange meteors and wild fiery starts,
The offspring of corruption.—Yet this morn
I found her calm and temp'rate;—she's much chang'd.
Countess.
But not to death!
Physician.
Would, Madam, I could say so!
Countess.
Oh no—it cannot be!—she whose fair cheek
So lately shamed the morning!—whose firm pulse
Beat with the steady tone of health and virtue!
Constantia [drawing
her hand from that of the Countess, and looking at it].
What's here?—a tear—a soft and gracious drop
From orbs of mercy—I can feel its influence—
Mark you how it hath cool'd me!
Countess.
Cooled thee, say'st thou?
Death's in this hand.
Count Roselva.
Her fever is most potent.
Constantia [gazing earnestly
around].
Is there none else here?
Count Roselva.
None, dear sufferer!
Whom would'st thou?
Constantia.
Nobody—no matter—yet.
Methinks there should be eyes, that, for each tear
You drop, should rain down torrents. Oh, that pang!
One more such, and all's past.
Countess.
Is there no aid?
Physician.
None, Madam, that my skill can minister.
The powers of life are wasted;—life itself
Hangs like a leaf upon a sapless branch,
Which the first breath may shake.
Countess.
Yet youth like hers—
Constantia [wildly].
Who talks of life and youth? I am wither'd—feeble!
Grief hath struck palsies here [laying her hand on her heart]—Feel
how it trembles!
And now—Oh, agony!—You tear it from me! [repels the Countess].
Spare me!—Oh, spare my heart-strings!
Countess.
Gracious heaven,
I do submit me to thy will. Oh, take her!
And with these drops of painful resignation,
May every selfish and repining thought
Be blotted from my soul!
Physician.
Repose her here. [a small sopha is brought]
Constantia [reviving].
Why stand ye so far off?
Count Roselva.
Sweet, we are near thee.
Constantia.
Nay, nay, ye are not—and your voices too!
So low—so distant—that mine ear scarce catches—
—Light there!—more light—[starting forward]
—Mind eyes are dim too. Oh!—[she dies]
Countess.
Too much of sorrow!
Theresa.
Help there—Raise her!
Count Roselva [dropping
the lifeless hand].
No!—
'Tis past.—She's dead: and that ethereal essence
That gave the flow'r its soft and living perfume,
Is lost in air.
Physician.
Look to the Countess there!
Count Roselva.
Bear in the beauteous clay! [The sopha is borne off; the Count takes
his daughter in his arms, and signs to the attendants, who follow the body.]
My child—My dear one!
Nay ope thine eyes!
Countess.
They are turn'd inward, Sir!
And there have learnt a lesson of submission.
I am awe-struck, and own the voice of heav'n.
Roselva hath no heiress now but me;
And I no will but yours.
Count Roselva.
Still then thou'rt duteous!
Trust me, my child, I would not urge thy will,
Did I not see a train of happy days
Rise from this mournful hour.
Countess.
Perhaps they may so. One at least is rescued
From the black list, when I obey a father.
This night, with your good leave, I would devote
To pray'r for my lov'd friend.—To-morrow's sun
Shall find a joyless, but obedient heart,
Ready, an it shall please lord Albert claim it,
To yield its plighted vow. One boon alone:
That, faithful to the business of the state,
He part o' the instant. Our less urgent haste
May claim some few days' respite!
Count Roselva.
At thy wish!
I will not wrong the virtue of thy sorrow
By ill-tim'd festivals. Yet pr'ythee chear thee!
Countess.
Nay let me weep, my father. Dews like these
Are blasting only to the weeds of life;
The virtues bloom beneath them. Sacred tears!
How many soft and tender courtesies,
How many graces, that rapacious death
Has snatch'd from vulgar vision, new embodied,
Through your bright medium rise again to being,
Ting'd warm and high with colourings divine! [Exeunt.]
END OF ACT II
