SCENE I.

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Masterpieces of Foreign Authors

GOLDONI'S COMEDIES

MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

THE COMEDIES OF

CARLO GOLDONI

_EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION BY_

HELEN ZIMMERN

LONDON

DAVID STOTT, 370 OXFORD STREET, W.

1892

GOLDONI,--good, gay, sunniest of souls,--

Glassing half Venice in that verse of thine,--

What though it just reflect the shade and shine

Of common life, nor render, as it rolls,

Grandeur and gloom? Sufficient for thy shoals

Was Carnival: Parini's depths enshrine

Secrets unsuited to that opaline

Surface of things which laughs along thy scrolls.

There throng the People: how they come and go,

Lisp the soft language, flaunt the bright garb,--see,--

On piazza, calle, under portico,

And over bridge! Dear King of Comedy,

Be honoured! Thou that didst love Venice so,

Venice, and we who love her, all love thee!

ROBERT BROWNING.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

INTRODUCTION, 7

A CURIOUS MISHAP, 33

THE BENEFICENT BEAR, 95

THE FAN, 147

THE SPENDTHRIFT MISER, 229

INTRODUCTION.

"Painter and son of nature," wrote Voltaire, at that time the arbitrator

and the dispenser of fame in cultured Europe, to Carlo Goldoni, then a

rising dramatist, "I would entitle your comedies, 'Italy liberated from

the Goths.'" The sage of Ferney's quick critical faculty had once again

hit its sure mark, for it is Goldoni's supreme merit, and one of his

chief titles to fame and glory, that he released the Italian theatre

from the bondage of the artificial and pantomime performances that until

then had passed for plays, and that, together with Moliere, he laid

the foundations of the drama as it is understood in our days. Indeed,

Voltaire, in his admiration for the Venetian playwright, also called

him "the Italian Moliere," a comparison that is more accurate than

such comparisons between authors of different countries are apt to

be, though, like all such judgments, somewhat rough and ready. It is

interesting in this respect to confront the two most popular dramas of

the two dramatists, Moliere's "Le Misanthrope" and Goldoni's "Il Burbero

Benefico." Goldoni, while superior in imagination, in spontaneity, deals

more with the superficial aspects of humanity. Moliere, on the contrary,

probes deep into the human soul, and has greater elegance of form. In

return, Goldoni is more genial and kindly in his judgments, and, while

lacking none of Moliere's keenness of observation, is devoid of his

bitter satire. Both have the same movement and life, the same intuitive

perception of what will please the public, the same sense of dramatic

proportion. Goldoni was, however, less happy than Moliere as regards

the times in which his lines were cast. The French dramatist, like

Shakespeare, was born at an age in which his fatherland was traversing

a glorious epoch of national story. The Italian lived instead in the

darkest period of that political degradation which was the lot of the

fairest of European countries, until quite recently, when she emancipated

herself, threw off the chains of foreign bondage, and proclaimed herself

mistress of her own lands and fortunes. And manners and customs were no

less in decadence in private as well as in public,--a sad epoch, truly,

though to outsiders it looked light-hearted and merry enough. Goldoni's

lot was cast in the final decades of the decrepitude of Venice, the last

of the Italian proud Republics, which survived only to the end of the

eighteenth century, indeed dissolved just four years after her great

dramatist's demise. His long life comprised almost the whole of that

century, from the wars of the Spanish Succession, which open the history

of that era, to the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle and the French Revolution.

Historical events had, however, merely an outward and accidental

influence on this great artist-nature, entirely absorbed in his work,

and indifferent, even unconscious, to all that surged around him in this

respect. To be assured that this is so, we need merely peruse Goldoni's

own Memoirs, composed by him in his old age, and which, according to

Gibbon's verdict, are even more amusing to read than his very comedies.

"The immortal Goldoni," as his countrymen love to call him, was born in

Venice in 1707. His family were of Modenese origin. The grandfather,

who held a lucrative and honourable post in the Venetian Chamber of

Commerce, married as his first wife a lady from his native town, who

died, leaving him a son. He then espoused a widow with two daughters,

the elder of whom, in due course, he gave in marriage to this son. The

couple became the parents of the playwright.

This grandfather had a considerable influence over Goldoni's youth, and

also modified his later life. A good-natured, not ill-intentioned man,

he was nevertheless hopelessly extravagant, and inordinately addicted to

material pleasures,--at that time, it must ever in justice be remembered,

the only outlet possible to male energies and ambitions. For a

pleasure-lover, the Venice of that day was an earthly paradise, and the

result in this case was that the elder Goldoni put no restraint upon

himself whatever. It so happened that he had the entire control not only

of his wife's comfortable fortune, but of that of her two daughters.

With this he hired a large villa, six leagues from Venice, where he

lived in so free and open-handed a manner as to rouse the jealousy of

the neighbouring proprietors. A fanatic for the stage and all that

pertained to it, he caused comedies and operas to be performed under

his roof; the best singers and actors were hired to minister to his

amusement; reckless expenditure and joyous living were the watchwords of

the house. It was in this atmosphere that the child Carlo was reared, no

wonder it affected his character. It may be said that he imbibed a love

for the play with his first breath. Unfortunately, ere he was a man, the

pleasure-loving and open-handed grandfather caught cold and died, to

be followed soon after by his wife. At a blow all was changed for the

Goldoni family. Carlo's father, having lacked proper training, was

unable to maintain himself in his father's position, which was offered

him; the property had to be sold, and when all debts were paid there

remained only the mother's dowry for the maintenance of the whole

family. However, there was clearly good stuff in Goldoni's father.

Already a man of some years, he resolved nevertheless to study medicine

in order to earn an honest livelihood, and, wonderful to tell, he became

a very popular and successful physician, practising first at Perugia. It

was there that, only eight years old, Carlino, as he was then called,

wrote a comedy, which so vastly pleased his father that in consequence

he resolved to give him the best education within his reach. To this

end he placed him in the local Jesuit school. At first the boy, shy and

repressed, cut a bad figure, but by the end of the first term he came

out at the head of his class, to the immense delight of his father. To

reward him for this success, his parents instigated for his benefit

what we should now call private theatricals. As women were forbidden

to appear on the stage within the Papal States, to which Perugia then

belonged, Carlino took the part of the prima donna, and was further

called upon to write a prologue, which, according to the taste of the

day, was absurdly affected and hyperbolical. Goldoni gives in his

Memoirs the opening sentence of this literary effort, and it may serve

as a measure of the extent to which he became a reformer of Italian

style:--

"Most benignant Heaven, behold us, like butterflies, spreading in the

rays of your most splendid sun, the wings of our feeble inventions,

which bear our flight towards a light so fair."

To compare this bombast with the crystal clearness and simplicity of the

language of Goldoni's comedies, is to gain a fair estimate of what he

had to overcome and what he achieved.

A while after, the family removed to Chioggia, the climate of Perugia

not being suited to Goldoni's mother. He himself was sent to Rimini to

study philosophy in the Dominican school, a study which in those days

was considered indispensable for the medical career to which he was

destined. But philosophy as taught at Rimini did not attract our hero,

and instead of poring over the long passages dictated to him by his

professor, he read Plautus, Terence, Aristophanes, and the fragments of

Menander. Nor did the philosophic debates amuse him half as much as a

company of actors with whom he contrived to knock up an acquaintance.

Hearing that these people, to his immense regret, were leaving Rimini,

and that of all places in the world they were proceeding to Chioggia,

it occurred to the youthful scamp that nothing could be more easy and

delightful than to go with them in the big barge they had hired for

their transit. The rogue knew full well that his mother at least would

forgive him his escapade in the pleasure of having him back again. So he

went, and there was an end of his philosophy. As he foresaw, his mother

pardoned him, and his father happened to be absent on business. From

Pavia, where he was staying with a relative, at that time governor of

the city, Dr. Goldoni wrote that his Marchese had promised to be kind to

his eldest son. "So," went on the letter, "if Carlo behaves well, he

will provide for him." This sentence filled Carlo the disobedient with

alarm. Nevertheless, when his father returned, he forgave him almost as

readily as his mother had done. They were not strict disciplinarians,

these Goldoni, but easy-going folk, who liked to live and let live.

The father now resolved to keep his son at home at Chioggia, that he

might begin to study medicine under his guidance. Very desultory study

it was, both father and son thinking more of the theatre and of actors

than of the pharmacopoeia. So medicine, too, had to be abandoned.

Goldoni's mother then bethought her of the law, and Carlo was sent to

Venice to study under the care of an uncle. At Venice he found no less

than seven theatres in full swing, and all of them he frequented in

turn, enjoying especially the operas of Metastasio, which were the

latest novelty,--that author who may be said to have done for Italian

opera what Goldoni did for Italian comedy, though unfortunately the

music to which his graceful verses have been set has not, like them,

proved immortal. After some months of alternate gaiety and study of

jurisprudence, Carlo was moved to Pavia to complete his studies, a

vacancy having been found for him there in the Papal College. Various

preliminaries were needful to obtain admission, among them the tonsure.

During the delay caused by these formalities, Carlo devoted himself

to the study of dramatic literature in the library of one of the

professors. Here he found, beside his old friends, the classical

dramatists, the English, Spanish, and French playwrights. But the

Italian, where were they? he asked himself, and at once the resolve

awoke in him that he would do his very utmost towards reviving the drama

of his native land and tongue. What he would do should be to imitate the

style and precision of the great authors of antiquity, but to give to

his plays more movement, happier terminations, and characters better

formulated. "We owe," he says, "respect to the great writers who have

smoothed the way for us in science and in art, but every age has its

dominant genius and every climate its national taste. The Greek and

Roman writers knew human nature and copied it closely, but without

illusion and without skill. To this is owing that want of moderation

and decency which has led to the proscription of the drama by the

Church."

At Pavia, Goldoni spent his time over everything else but study, nor

was his sojourn there long, for a satire composed and published, taken

together with other pranks, led to his expulsion from the College. His

parents as usual forgave him, and he was allowed to accompany his father

on one of his business journeys, during the course of which Goldoni

tells that he obtained much knowledge of men and things. At Modena, it

happened that the pair fell in with some very devout people, and saw

the "admonition" of an abbe of their acquaintance, who was punished in

public after a severe and impressive fashion. Carlo, who was at the time

suffering from a juvenile attack of disgust with the world, felt this

spectacle arouse in him the desire to become a Capuchin monk. His wise

father did not contradict him, and took him to Venice, ostensibly

to present him to the Director of the Capuchins. But he plunged him

also into a round of gaieties, dinners, suppers, theatres; and Carlo

discovered that, to avoid the perils of this world, it was not needful

to renounce it altogether. He had now arrived at man's estate, it was

requisite he should have an occupation. Through the kindness of friends

he obtained a position in the service of the government, not lucrative

but yet remunerative, which he contrived to make useful to his dramatic

training, the one idea to which he ever remained faithful. This

position, Chancellor to the Podesta, required almost continual change

of place, and although Goldoni himself liked it very well, his mother

disapproved of it highly, calling it a gipsy's post.

In 1731, Goldoni lost his father, an irreparable sorrow to him. He

now found himself, at twenty-four, the head of his family. His mother

consequently insisted he should give up his wanderings and assume the

lawyer's toga. He therefore went to Padua to finish his studies, and

this time he studied really, passing a brilliant examination, though

the whole night previously he had spent at the gaming-table, whence

the University beadle had to fetch him to come before his examiners.

Behold him now a full-fledged lawyer, but with few clients and causes

to defend. His fruitless leisure was employed in scribbling almanacs in

terza rima, in which he sought to insert such prophecies as were likely

to fulfil themselves. In hopes of further bettering his fortunes, he

also wrote a tragedy called "Amalasunta." He had hoped this would bring

him in one hundred zecchini. Unfortunately, however, he had at the same

time let himself in for a love affair, from which there was no other

exit but that which his father had taught him to adopt in similar

cases, namely, flight from the scene of action. So, putting the MSS. of

"Amalasunta" under his arm, he bolted from his native town. This was

to be the beginning of his artistic career. Milan was his destination,

where he arrived in the full swing of the Carnival. Here he was brought

in contact with Count Prata, Director of the Opera. At a reception

at the house of the prima ballerina, Goldoni undertook to read his

"Amalasunta." The leading actor took exception to it from the outset,

and by the time the reading was ended none of the audience were left in

the room except Count Prata. The play ended, the Count told the author

that his opera was composed with due regard to the rules of Aristotle

and Horace, but was not framed according to the rules laid down for

Italian opera in their day.

"In France," he continued, "you can try to please the public, but here

in Italy, it is the actors and actresses whom you must consult, as well

as the composer of the music and the stage decorators. Everything must

be done according to a certain form, which I will explain to you. Each

of the three principal personages of the opera must sing five airs, two

in the first act, two in the second, and one in the third. The second

actress and the second soprano can only have three, and the lower rank

of artists must be contented with one, or at most two. The author must

submit his words to the musician, and must take care that two pathetic

airs do not follow each other. The same rule must be observed with

regard to the airs of bravura, of action, of secondary action, as also

with regard to the minuet and rondeau. And above all things remember

that on no account must moving or showy airs be given to the performers

of the second rank. These poor people must take what they can get, and

make no attempt to shine."

The Count would have said more, but the author had heard enough. He

thanked his kind critic, took leave of his hostess, went back to the

inn, ordered a fire, and reduced "Amalasunta" to ashes. This performance

completed, not without natural regret, he ordered a good supper, which

he consumed with relish, after which he went to bed and slept tranquilly

all night. On the morrow, dining with the Venetian Ambassador, he

recounted to him his adventures. The Ambassador, compassionating his

destitute condition, and finding pleasure in his company, found a post

for him in his household as a sort of chamberlain. This position, by no

means arduous, left Goldoni plenty of time for himself. He now made the

acquaintance of a quack doctor, a certain Buonafede, who went by the

name of the Anonimo, and was a very prince of charlatans. This man,

among other devices to attract customers, carried about with him a

company of actors, who, after assisting him in distributing the objects

which he sold and collecting the money for them, gave a representation

in his small theatre erected in the public square. It so happened that

the company of comedians which had been engaged for that Easter season

at Milan, unexpectedly failed to keep their engagement, so that the

Milanese were left without players. The Anonimo proposed his company,

Goldoni through the Venetian Minister helped him to attain his end, and

wrote for the first performance an intermezzo, "The Venetian Gondolier,"

which was set to music by the composer attached to the company, and had,

as Goldoni himself says, all the success so slight an effort deserved.

This little play was the first of his works performed and afterwards

published.

At this time in Italy, the so-called _Commedie dell' arte_ or _a

soggetto_ held the boards; extremely artificial, stilted forms of

dramatic composition, which, it is true, testified to the quick and

ready wit of the Italians, but also to a puerile taste, far removed from

artistic finish. These plays were all performed by actors in masks,

after the manner of the classical drama, and in the greater number of

cases the players were supplied merely with the plot and the situations

of the play, the dialogue having to be supplied by the invention of the

actors themselves; the outline was often of the roughest nature, much

after the manner of modern drawing-room charades, but there were certain

stock characters, such as an old man who is the butt of the tricks and

deceptions of the others, an extravagant son, scampish servants, and

corrupt or saucy chambermaids. These characters and their established

costumes were derived from different cities of Italy, and were traditional

from the earliest appearance of the _Commedie dell' arte_. Thus,

the father, Pantaloon, a Venetian merchant, the doctor, a lawyer

or professor from learned Bologna, and Brighella and Harlequin,

Bergamasque servants as stupid as the corrupt or saucy maid-servants

and lovers from Rome and Tuscany were sharp. Lance and Speed in "Two

Gentlemen of Verona" are good specimens of these characters. The

merchant and the doctor, called in Italian "the two old men," always

wore a mantle. Pantaloon, or Pantaleone, is a corruption of the cry,

_Plantare il Leone_, (Plant the Lion), to the sound of which, and

under shadow of their banner, the Lion of their patron St. Mark, the

Venetians had conquered their territories and wealth. Pantaloon was the

impersonation, however, not of fighting but of trading Venice, and wore

the merchant costume still in use, with but slight modification, in

Goldoni's day. The dress of the doctor was that of the lawyers of the

great university, and the strange mask which was worn by this character

imitated a wine-mark which disfigured the countenance of a certain

well-known legal luminary, according to a tradition extant among the

players in Goldoni's time. Finally, "Brighella and Arlecchino," called

in Italy Zanni,[1] were taken from Bergamo as the extremes of sharpness

or stupidity, the supposed two characteristics of the inhabitants of

that city. Brighella represented a meddlesome, waggish, and artful

servant, who wore a sort of livery with a dark mask, copied after the

tanned skin of the men of that sub-Alpine region. Some actors in this

part were called Finocchio, Scappino (Moliere's Scapin), but it was

always the same character, and always a Bergamasque. Arlecchino, or

Harlequin, too, had often different names, but he never changed his

birthplace, was always the same fool, and wore the same dress, a coat

of different-coloured patches, cobbled together anyhow (hence the

patchwork dress of the modern pantomime). The hare's tail which adorned

his hat formed in Goldoni's time part of the ordinary costume of the

Bergamasque peasants. Pantaloon's disguise was completed by a beard of

ridiculous cut, and he always wore slippers. It is in allusion to this

that Shakespeare calls the sixth age of man, "the lean and slippered

pantaloon."

[1. Jacks; Zanni being a nickname for Giovanni, John.]

When Goldoni began to write, the drama had fallen into a sadly burlesque

condition. Shortly after the first performance of his "Venetian

Gondolier," a play called "Belisario" was represented, in which the

blinded hero was led on to the stage by Harlequin, and beaten with a

stick to show him the way. This indignity of presentation awoke in

Goldoni a desire to write a play on the same theme. Asking the principal

actor in this farce, what he thought of it, the man replied, "It is a

joke, a making fun of the public, but this sort of thing will go on till

the stage is reformed." And he encouraged Goldoni to put his purpose

into action. He did indeed begin a play on this theme, but wars and

sieges hindered its performance; for the War of the Polish Succession

broke out, that war called the war of Don Carlos, regarding which

Carlyle is so sarcastic in his Life of Frederick the Great; and Milan

was occupied by the King of Sardinia, to the great astonishment of

Goldoni, who, although he lived in the house of an ambassador, and

should have been well informed of current events, knew no more about

them than an infant. He now accompanied his chief to Crema, Modena,

and Parma, in which latter city, he, the man of peace _par excellence_,

assisted at the great battle of June 1734. The impressions then gained,

he afterwards utilised in his comedy, "L'Amante Militare." Indeed,

skilful workman that he was, he always turned to account whatever

befell him, whatever he saw or heard, and his wandering and adventurous

life furnished him many opportunities for studying men and manners.

It would lead us too far to follow Goldoni through all the incidents of

his varied history. It must suffice to indicate the salient points. In

1736, having freed himself from service to the Ambassador, and having

again now consorted with actors, now exercised his legal profession,

he married the woman who proved his good angel, Nicoletta Conio,

who accompanied him all his life, modest, affectionate, indulgent,

long-suffering, light-hearted even in the midst of adverse fortune,

enamoured of him and of his fame, his truest friend, comforter, inspirer,

and stay: in a word, an ideal woman, whose character has been exquisitely

sketched by the modern Italian playwright, Paolo Ferrari, in his graceful

comedy, "Goldoni e le sue sedici Commedie." Shortly after this marriage,

and in large part thanks to his wife's encouragement and faith in him,

Goldoni issued finally from out the tortuous labyrinth of conventional

tragedies, _intermezzi cantabili_, and serious and comic operas in which

hitherto his talents had been imprisoned, and found his true road, that

of character comedy. His first attempt at a reforming novelty was the

abolition of the mask, to which he had a just objection, considering it,

with perfect reasonableness, as fatal to the development of the drama of

character.

But he was not to go on his road unhindered. War, so frequent in those

days of petty States, once more crossed his plans, and this conjoined to

his native love for roaming, inherited from his restless father, caused

him to sojourn in many cities, and encounter many adventures gay and

grave, all recounted by him with unfailing good temper in his Memoirs,

in which he never says an unkind word, even of his worst enemies; for

Goldoni's was an essentially amicable character. He writes of himself:--

"My mental nature is perfectly analogous to my physical; I fear neither

cold nor heat, neither do I let myself be carried away by anger, nor be

intoxicated by success.... My great aim in writing my Comedies has been

not to spoil nature, and the sole scope of my Memoirs is to tell the

truth.... I was born pacific, and have always kept my equanimity."

These words sum up the man and the author. In Goldoni the perfect

equilibrium of the faculties of the man correspond to the perfectly just

and accurate sense of truth and naturalness which is revealed in the

writer.

After five years spent in Pisa, practising, and not unsuccessfully, as

a lawyer, and hoping he had sown his theatrical wild oats, and had now

settled down as a quiet burgher, Goldoni was roused from this day-dream

(which after all did not reflect his deepest sentiments, but only an

acquired worldly wisdom) by an offer from Medebac, the leader of a group

of comedians, to join his fortune to theirs as dramatic author to the

company. After some hesitation, his old love for the stage gained the

upper hand, and Goldoni assented, binding himself to Medebac for a

certain number of years. From that time forward he remained true to

his real passion, the theatre.

The company proceeded to Venice, at that time in the last days of its

glory, but dying gaily, merrily. The Venice of those days, an author of

the time said, was as immersed in pleasure as in water. And above all

did its inhabitants love the play. To this city, among this people,

Goldoni returned, one of its own children, endowed with its nature,

apt to understand its wishes and inclinations. And here, among his

compatriots, he resolved not to follow the bad theatrical taste in vogue

in favour of spectacular plays and scurrilous _Commedie dell' arte_, but

to take up for Italy the task accomplished by Moliere for France, and to

re-conduct comedy into the right road, from which it had wandered so

far.

"I had no rivals to combat," he writes, "I had only prejudices to

surmount."

The first play written for unmasked actors proved unsuccessful. Goldoni

was not daunted. He wrote a second. It was applauded to the echo, and

he saw himself well launched upon his career as a reformer. The great

obstacle to his entire success lay in the difficulty of finding actors,

as the masked parts could be taken by greatly inferior players; and

also by the circumstance, already pointed out to him by his critic of

"Amalasunta," that an Italian playwright had to think more of pleasing

his actors than his public. What Goldoni had to endure from this _gens

irritabilis_, from their rancour, vapours, caprices, stolid and open

opposition to his reform, is told with much good nature and sense of fun

in his Memoirs. It can have been far from easy to endure, and no doubt

often exasperated the author, though in his old age he can speak of it

so calmly and dispassionately. But Goldoni, even as a young man, was

wise, and proceeded slowly, first making himself and his name known

and popular on the old lines, and only risking his new ideas under

favourable conditions. Thus he respected the antique unities of time and

action, which, after all, save in the hands of great genius, are most

conducive to dramatic success, and he only infringed the unity of place

to a certain extent, always confining the action of the comedies within

the walls of the same town. He says, with a sagacity not common in his

profession, that he should not have met with so much opposition, had it

not been for the indiscreet zeal of his admirers, who exalted his merits

to so excessive a degree, that wise and cultivated people were roused to

contradict such fanaticism. As to the ill feeling roused by the ridicule

freely showered by Goldoni upon the corrupt customs of his time, he

takes no heed of it, save to redouble his efforts in the same direction.

Like Moliere, he had the courage to put upon the boards the defects and

absurdities of his own age, not merely those of a bygone time. And his

satire, though keen, is never bitter. His laugh is an honest one. As

Thackeray says of Fielding, "it clears the air." His dramatic censure is

considered to have been instrumental in putting down the State-protected

gambling which was the plague-spot of Venice in those days, and further

in giving the first death-blows to that debased survival from the time

of chivalry, the _Cavaliere Servente_, or _Cicisbeo_.

Goldoni's diligence was as great and untiring as his invention was

fertile. Thus once, provoked by an unjust _fiasco_, he publicly promised

that he would write and produce sixteen new comedies in the course of

the next year, and he kept his pledge, though at the time of making it

he had not one of these plays even planned. And among this sixteen are

some of his Masterpieces, such as "Pamela" and the "Bottega del Caffe."

The theme of Pamela was not exactly his choice. He had been teased to

compose a play after the novel of Richardson, then all the fashion in

Italy. At first he believed it an impossible task, owing to the great

difference in the social rules of the two countries. In England a noble

may marry whom he likes; his wife becomes his equal, his children in no

wise suffer. Not so in the Venice of that time. The oligarchical rule

was so severe, that a patrician marrying a woman of the lower class

forfeited his right to participate in the government, and deprived his

offspring of the patriciate. "Comedy, which is or should be," says

Goldoni, "the school of society, should never expose the weakness of

humanity save to correct it, wherefore it is not right to recompense

virtue at the expense of posterity." However, the necessity of finding

themes, conjoined to this insistence on the part of his friends, induced

Goldoni to try his hand with Pamela. He changed the _denouement_,

however, in compliance with Venetian social prejudices, making Pamela

turn out to be the daughter of a Scotch peer under attainder, whose

pardon Bonfil obtains.

It must not be supposed, however, that Goldoni, although he had now

reached the apex of success and fame, was to find his course one of

plain sailing. Enmities, rivalries, assailed him on all sides; and

these, in the Italy of that date, took a peculiarly venomous character,

men's ambitions and energies having no such legitimate outlets as are

furnished to-day by politics and interests in the general welfare.

Everything was petty, everything was personal. Goldoni's chief rival,

and consequently enemy, was Carlo Gozzi, the writer of fantastic dramas,

and stilted, hyperbolical dramatic fables, entirely forgotten now, which

found a certain favour among the public of that day, one having indeed

survived in European literature in the shape of Schiller's "Turandot." A

fierce skirmish of libellous fly-sheets and derisive comedies was carried

on by the respective combatants and partisans, filling now one theatre,

now another, according as the taste of the public was swayed or tickled.

Annoyances with the actors, graspingness on the part of Medebac,

made Goldoni abandon his company and pass over to that conducted by

Vendramin, an old Venetian noble,--for in those days men of birth

thought it no dishonour to conduct a theatre. He was then forty-six

years of age, and had written more than ninety theatrical works. For his

new patron and theatre he laboured with various interruptions, caused by

political events and by his own restless temperament, until 1761, in

which space of time he produced some sixty more comedies, besides three

comic operas and plays written for a private theatre. And all this

labour in less than ten years, and among them some of his best works,

such as the trilogy of the Villeggiatura, _Il Curioso Accidente_, _I

Rusteghi_, _Le Barufe Chiozote_, and many others, removed from changes

of fashion, schools, methods, to which no public has ever been or can

be indifferent, eternally fresh and sunny, filled with the spirit of

perpetual youth. Notwithstanding, however, the excellence of Goldoni's

dramas, the current literary rivalries made themselves felt, and there

was a moment when Gozzi's Fables left Goldoni's theatre empty.

It then happened that at this juncture there came to him an offer

from Paris to go thither as playwright to the Italian Comedy Company,

established there under royal patronage. Was it fatigue, a desire for

new laurels, a love of change, the hope of larger gains, that induced

him to accept the offer? Perhaps a little of all these. In any case, he

assented, binding himself for two years. He was never again to leave

France. Paris fascinated him, though he regretted his lovely Venice, and

a certain nostalgia peeps forth from his letters now and again. Still

his social and pecuniary position was good in the French capital, he was

honoured and esteemed, his nephew and adopted son had found lucrative

employment there, and, added to all this, even Goldoni was growing old.

His eyesight began to fail; he was often indisposed, and no longer

inclined to move about and pitch his tent in various cities. A post as

Italian teacher at the court brought him much in contact with the royal

family. It strikes the readers of the Memoirs with some amazement

to see how Goldoni could live in that society, could hear the talk of

intellectual Paris, and not be aware upon the brink of how frightful a

precipice all French society then hovered. He actually held the king

to be adored by his subjects, and these subjects as happy as it was

possible for a people to be, well ruled, kindly governed. The narrative

of his life ends at the age of eighty, six years before his death, two

before the outbreak of the Revolution. We have not, therefore, his

impression of the storm when it broke. We only know, alas! that this

light-hearted, gay old child--for a child he remained to the end--died

in misery, involved in the general ruin and wreck that overwhelmed all

France within that brief space of time. It was, in fact, his nephew who

stood between him and starvation; for with the king's deposition had

vanished the pension allowed to the aged Italian dramatist. A day after

his death a decree of the National Convention restored it to him for

the term of his days. The proposed gift came too late, but it honours

those who voted it and him who pleaded for it, no less a person than

Joseph-Marie Chenier, the poet. When the orator learned that the

benevolence he invoked could no longer help its object, he again pleaded

for the octogenarian, or rather that the pension should be passed on to

the faithful wife in whose arms Goldoni had passed away. "She is old,"

said Chenier, "she is seventy-six, and he has left her no heritage save

his illustrious name, his virtues, and his poverty." It is pleasant to

learn that this request was conceded to by the Convention. The French,

to their honour be it said, are ever ready to pay tribute to genius.

So sad, so dark, so gloomy, was the end of that gay, bright spirit,

Italy's greatest and most prolific comic author. To sum up his merits

in a few words is no easy task. It is doubtful whether we should rank

him among the geniuses of the world. On the plea of intelligence he

certainly cannot claim this rank; his intellectual perceptions might

even be called mediocre, as his Memoirs amply prove, but he had a gift,

a certain knack of catching the exterior qualities of character and

reproducing them in a skilful and amusing mode upon the boards. His art

is not of the closet kind. What he put down he had seen, not elaborated

from out his brain, and his own genial temperament gave it all an

amiable impress. The turning-point of his comedies is always the

characters of his personages. His plays are founded on that rather than

on the artifice of a plot, which, as compared to the former, was held by

him as of secondary importance. He distinguished between the comedy of

plot and the comedy of character, and imposed the latter on the former,

which he held the easier of the two. His mode was in direct contrast

to that of the Spanish dramatists, then held in great vogue, who were

masters at spinning plots, but whose characters were usually mere

conventional types. In Goldoni, action results in most part as a

consequence of the individuality of the personages depicted, and his

intrigue is directed and led with the purpose that this may develop

itself, more especially in the protagonist. Herein consists his great

claim to being a theatrical reformer. What is to-day a commonplace was

then a novelty. We moderns study character almost to exaggeration. In

earlier drama it was ignored, and complicated plot absorbed its place.

It was on this that Goldoni prided himself, and justly. It was he who

first invented the Commedia del Carattere. Yet another of Goldoni's

merits was his rare skill in handling many personages at the same time,

without sacrificing their individuality or hindering the clear and rapid

progress of the scene. This gift is specially manifest in "The Fan."

Roughly speaking, we may perhaps divide Goldoni's plays into three

classes: Those that deal with Italian personages, and which are written

in pure Italian, among which may be comprised those written in Martellian

verse; those, including the largest number, which are written partly in

Italian and partly in dialect; and finally, those written entirely in

Venetian dialect, which are the fewest, eleven in all. From this it will

be seen how unjust is the criticism of those who would look on Goldoni

as merely a writer of comedies in a local dialect. It is this admixture

of dialect, however,--and a racy, good-humoured, and amiable dialect it

is, that Venetian,--which renders Goldoni's works so difficult, indeed

impossible, to translate, especially into English, where dialects such

as the Italian, which form quite distinct languages, are unknown.

Happily, for we are thus saved much confusion of tongues, and we hence

know no such schism between written and spoken language such as exists

in Italy. Even in translation, however, much as Goldoni's plays suffer,

their life and movement, their excellent dramatic action, and their

marvellous play of character, are not lost. To understand, however, how

eminently they are fitted for the boards, it is needful to see them

acted. Those who have witnessed either Ristori, or her younger and more

modern rival, Eleonora Duse, in "Pamela" or "La Locandiera," will not

easily forget the dramatic treat. Goethe in his Italian journey, while

at Venice relates how he witnessed a performance of "Le Barufe Chiozote,"

and how immensely he was struck with the stage knowledge possessed by

Goldoni, and with his marvellous truth to the life that surged around

him. "This author," writes Goethe, "merits great praise, who out of

nothing at all has constructed an agreeable pastime." It has been

objected by foreign critics that Goldoni's dialogue is sometimes a

little dull and tame. Charles Lever, for example, could never be brought

to find Goldoni amusing. It is, however, more than probable that a very

accurate acquaintance with Italian is required to appreciate to the

full the manner in which the plays are written, the way in which each

person's conversation is made to fit his or her character. "La Donna di

Garbo" (the title may be rendered as "A Woman of Tact") is a case in

point. This young person seizes on the peculiar hobby or weakness of the

people around her, and plays on it in her talk. Desirous, for weighty

reasons, of becoming the wife of the young son of a great family, this

"woman of tact" gets herself hired as a chambermaid in the household,

and so pleases every member of it that all are in the end glad to assist

her in gaining her cause. The extreme simplicity of Goldoni's plots

is truly astonishing. None but a true adept in human nature and stage

artifice could hold audiences, as he does, spell-bound with interest

over such everyday occurrences as he selects. His comedies recall one of

Louis Chardon's articles in Balzac's "Grand Homme de Province a Paris,"

beginning, "_On entre, on sort, on se promene._" People go and come,

talk and laugh, get up and sit down, and the story grows meanwhile so

intensely interesting, that for the moment there seems nothing else in

the world worthy of attention. And the secret of this? It lies in one

word: Sympathy. Goldoni himself felt with his personages, and therefore

his hearers must do the same.

Goldoni in his Memoirs gives no account of the production of "The

Fan." It was written and first brought out in Paris, and soon became

universally popular, especially in Venice. "The Curious Mishap" was

founded on an episode of real life which happened in Holland, and was

communicated to Goldoni as a good subject for a play. The _denouement_

is the same as in the real story, the details only are slightly altered.

The intrigue is amusing, plausible, and happily conceived. The scene in

which Monsieur Philibert endeavours to overcome the scruples of De la

Cotterie and gives him his purse, is inimitable. Indeed, it is worthy of

Moliere; for if it has not his drollery and peculiar turn of expression,

neither has it his exaggeration. There is no farce, nothing beyond what

the situation of the parties renders natural. "The Beneficent Bear" was

first written in French, and brought out at the time of the _fetes_ in

honour of the marriage of Marie Antoinette and the Dauphin, afterwards

Louis XVI. Played first in the city, and then before the court at

Fontainebleau, it was immensely successful in both cases. For this play

the writer received one hundred and fifty louis d'or. The published

edition also brought him much money.

It was certainly a rare honour for a foreigner to have a play

represented with such success in the fastidious French capital and in

the language of Moliere. He followed it with "L'Avaro Fastoso" ("The

Ostentatious Miser"), also written in French. The fate of this drama was

less happy, owing, however, to a mere accident, for which Goldoni

was in no wise responsible. Nevertheless, he would not allow it to be

represented a second time. He seems to have been discontented with it

as a dramatic work, though it has qualities which bring it nearer to

the modern French _comedie de societe_ than perhaps any other play he

has left behind him. "It was born under an evil constellation," writes

Goldoni, "and every one knows how fatal a sentence that is, especially

in theatrical affairs." "The Father of the Family" is, according to

Goldoni's own opinion, one of his best comedies; but, as he considers

himself obliged to abide by the decision of the public, he can, he says,

only place it in the second rank. It is intended to show the superiority

of a domestic training for girls over a conventual one. "The aunt, to

whom one of the daughters is consigned, figures allegorically as the

convent," says the author, "that word being forbidden to be pronounced

on the Italian stage." "Action and reaction are equal," says the axiom;

and much, if not all, of the present irreverent attitude of Italians

towards religious matters must be attributed to the excessive rigour,

petty and despicable detail, of the regulations in vogue under their

former priestly and priest-ridden rulers in these respects.

Goldoni, during his residence in Paris, had an amusing colloquy with

Diderot, who was furious at an accusation made that he had plagiarised

from Goldoni in his own play, "Le Pere de Famille,"--an absurd idea, as

there is no resemblance, save in name, between the two. It was from the

_Larmoyant_ plays of Diderot and his school, which reflected the false

sentimental tone of the day both in France and Germany, that Goldoni had

liberated his countrymen, quite as much as from the pseudo-classical

plays to which their own land had given birth. Diderot did not perceive

this, and in his fury wrote a slashing criticism of all the Italian's

plays, stigmatising them as "Farces in three Acts." Goldoni, who, with

all his sweetness of temper, was perfectly fearless, simply called on

Diderot, and asked him what cause for spite he had against him and his

works. Diderot replied that some of his compositions had done him much

harm. Duni, an Italian musician, who had introduced them to each other,

at this point interposed, saying that they should follow the advice of

Tasso,--

"Ogni trista memoria ormai si taccia

E pognansi in oblio le andate cose,"

which may be freely rendered as "Let bygones be bygones." Diderot, who

understood Italian well, accepted the suggestion, and the two parted

friends. It is an anecdote creditable to all parties, and not least to

the two Italians.

It is a pity that Goldoni's Memoirs, from which the above sketch of his

life is derived, were written in French instead of Italian, and with

regard to a French rather than an Italian public. Had he written in

his own language and for his own people, he might have produced a work

worthy to rank beside the wondrous tale of Cellini, though of course

of a very opposite character. As it is, the narrative is little known,

though it has been translated into Italian and issued in cheap form.

Such, briefly, the Italian dramatist, whose best works in substance are

the continuation of the ancient plays of Menander and Terence, imitated

by the Italians in the sixteenth century, but allowed to degenerate, and

then again renovated and carried to perfection by Moliere in France and

by himself in Italy.

A CURIOUS MISHAP

(_UN CURIOSO ACCIDENTE_)

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

PHILIBERT, _a rich Dutch merchant._

GIANNINA, _his daughter._

RICCARDO, _a broker._

COSTANZA, _his daughter._

DE LA COTTERIE, _a French lieutenant._

MARIANNA, _Mademoiselle Giannina's servant._

GASCOIGNE, _De la Cotterie's servant._

_The Scene is at the Hague, in the house of_ PHILIBERT.

A CURIOUS MISHAP.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--Gascoigne, _packing his master's trunk._

_Enter_ Marianna.

_Mar._ May I wish good-morning to Monsieur Gascoigne?

_Gas._ Yes, my sweet Marianna, I thank you for your good-morning, but

good-night would be more agreeable to me from your lips.

_Mar._ From what I see, I should rather wish you a pleasant journey.

_Gas._ Oh, my precious jewel, such a melancholy departure must be

followed by a most doleful journey!

_Mar._ Then you are sorry to go?

_Gas._ How can you doubt it? After having enjoyed your delightful

society for six months, can I leave you without the deepest sorrow?

_Mar._ And who forces you to do what is so disagreeable?

_Gas._ Do you not know? My master.

_Mar._ Masters are not wanting at the Hague, and you can easily find one

who will give you better wages than a poor French officer, a prisoner of

war, and a man in every way roughly used by fortune.

_Gas._ Pardon me, such language does not become so good a girl as you

are. I have for many years had the honour of serving my excellent

master; his father, I may say, recommended me to him; I have attended

him in the war, and have not shunned danger to show my fidelity. He is

poor, but never man had a better heart. Were he promoted, I am sure I

should share his good fortune. Would you desire me to abandon him, and

let him return to France without me?

_Mar._ You speak like the worthy fellow you are; but I cannot conceal my

affection for you.

_Gas._ Dear Marianna, I am as much distressed as you are, but I hope to

see you again, and then to be able to say, Here I am, I can support you,

and, if you wish it, I am yours.

_Mar._ Heaven grant it! But why is the Lieutenant in such haste to

depart? My master is fond of his company, and I think the daughter not

less so than the father.

_Gas._ Too true; and that is his reason for going.

_Mar._ What! does he dislike people to be fond of him?

_Gas._ Ah, my Marianna, my poor master is desperately in love with your

young mistress; he leads the most wretched life in the world; he knows

their love for each other is increasing every day, and, as they can no

longer hide it, he fears for himself, and for Mademoiselle Giannina.

Your master is rich, and mine is poor. Monsieur Philibert has this only

daughter, and will not give her to a younger son, a soldier; one, in

short, who would have to live on her means. The Lieutenant, though poor,

is a man of honour; he respects the obligations of hospitality, of

friendship, of good faith; he fears he may be overcome and seduced by

love, and that he in turn may seduce his mistress from her duty. This

being the case, he does violence to his feelings, sacrifices love to

principle, and is resolved to go.

_Mar._ I admire his heroic conduct, but could not imitate it.

_Gas._ We must exert self-control.

_Mar._ You can do so more easily than I.

_Gas._ Indeed, a man's resolution is stronger than a woman's.

_Mar._ Say rather his affections are weaker.

_Gas._ So far as regards me, you are wrong.

_Mar._ I look at acts, not words.

_Gas._ What can I do to convince you of my love?

_Mar._ Monsieur Gascoigne does not need me for a teacher.

_Gas._ Do you wish me to marry you before I go?

_Mar._ That would, indeed, remove all doubt.

_Gas._ But then I should have to leave you.

_Mar._ And could you have the heart to abandon me?

_Gas._ Oh, you might go with me!

_Mar._ That would be much better.

_Gas._ To encounter so many hardships?

_Mar._ In truth, that would not suit me so well.

_Gas._ Should I remain here with you, would that satisfy you?

_Mar._ Perfectly.

_Gas._ For how long?

_Mar._ A year at least.

_Gas._ And after a year, would you let me go?

_Mar._ Yes, a year after our marriage, if you found it easy to do so.

_Gas._ I daresay you would let me go after a month.

_Mar._ I know better.

_Gas._ I am sure of it.

_Mar._ Let us try.

_Gas._ My master is coming; another time we will talk it over.

_Mar._ Ah, Monsieur Gascoigne, this conversation has unnerved me; do

what you please, I trust to you.--[_Aside._] Indeed, I know not what I

say. [_Exit._

_Gas._ If I had not more sense than she, the folly would have been

committed before now.

_Enter_ De la Cotterie.

_De la Cot._ [_To himself._] Oh, Heaven! how wretched I am! how

unfortunate!

_Gas._ The trunk, sir, is packed.

_De la Cot._ Ah, Gascoigne! I am in despair.

_Gas._ Alas! what misfortune has happened?

_De la Cot._ The worst that could befall me.

_Gas._ Our troubles seldom come alone.

_De la Cot._ Mine is alone, but so great that I cannot support it.

_Gas._ I suppose you allude to your love?

_De la Cot._ Yes; but it has increased to such a degree that I have no

longer firmness enough to resist it.

_Gas._ What if the lady is unconcerned at your departure, and does not

love you as you imagine she does?

_De la Cot._ On the contrary, she is more affectionate, and more devoted

to me than ever. Oh, God! what will my despair drive me to? I saw her

weep.

_Gas._ Well, this is bad enough, but I thought it was something much

worse.

_De la Cot._ Inhuman! unfeeling! vile plebeian soul! can you imagine

anything worse in the world than the tears of a tender-hearted,

distressed lady, who accuses me of cruelty, who makes my resolution

waver, and puts to a severe trial my honour, my reputation, and my

friendship?

_Gas._ I am not conscious of deserving so harsh a reproof; this is a

just recompense for ten years' service.

_De la Cot._ Ah! put yourself in my place, and then, if you can,

condemn my transports. My wounds, my blood, my being a prisoner of

war, which prevents my promotion, the narrowness of my fortune, all

appear nothing in comparison with the love which inflames my soul. The

excellent principles of the young lady prevented her from assuring me

that I possessed her heart, and in consequence I resolved to leave her.

Ah! at the moment of taking leave, tears and sobs prevented her from

speaking, and they proved her love was equal to mine. My wretchedness

is extreme; my resolution seems barbarous; and now, frantic with love,

reason appears to desert me.

_Gas._ Take time, sir; remain here. Monsieur Philibert is the best man

in the world; in Holland they pride themselves on their hospitality, and

our host takes the greatest interest in you, and in your health. You are

not perfectly cured, and this is a good reason for not going.

_De la Cot._ I will think over what you say; very little would change my

determination.

_Gas._ With your leave I will at once unpack the trunk. [_Unpacking._]

_De la Cot._ [_Apart._] What will they say if I remain after having

taken my leave?

_Gas._ [_Apart._] Marianna will not be sorry for this.

_De la Cot._ [_Apart._] If I allege I am unwell, my sadness will make it

appear so.

_Gas._ [_Apart._] Nor indeed am I.

_De la Cot._ But the longer I remain, the more my love increases; and

what remedy can there be for it? what hope is there for my desperate

passion?

_Gas._ Time accomplishes wonders. [_Still unpacking._]

_De la Cot._ How much better to meet death at once than to live in such

torture!

_Gas._ My master will be obliged to me.

_De la Cot._ What shall I do?

_Gas._ The trunk is unpacked, sir.

_De la Cot._ Who told you to unpack it?

_Gas._ I said I was going to do it, and you did not forbid me.

_De la Cot._ Blockhead! put up the clothes. I shall go.

_Gas._ Well, whatever happens, let them remain now.

_De la Cot._ Do not make me angry.

_Gas._ I will put them up this evening.

_De la Cot._ Do it at once, and order the post-horses at twelve o'clock.

_Gas._ And the tears of Mademoiselle?

_De la Cot._ Wretch! have you the heart to torment me?

_Gas._ My poor master!

_De la Cot._ Indeed, I am an object of compassion.

_Gas._ Let us stay.

_De la Cot._ No.

_Gas._ Shall I pack up the things, then?

_De la Cot._ Yes.

_Gas._ How I pity him! [_Putting the clothes in the trunk._]

_De la Cot._ Can I leave this house without seeing her again?

_Gas._ While he continues in this state of mind, we shall never be done.

_De la Cot._ By leaving her, I fear my love will not leave me.

_Gas._ Alas, poor master! [_Looking out._] What do I see?

_De la Cot._ What is the matter? Why do you stop?

_Gas._ I am going on, sir.

_De la Cot._ You are confused?

_Gas._ A little.

_De la Cot._ What are you looking at?

_Gas._ Nothing.

_De la Cot._ Oh, Heaven! Mademoiselle Giannina! What an encounter! What

do you advise me to do?

_Gas._ I do not know; any course is dangerous.

_De la Cot._ Do not leave me.

_Gas._ I will not.

_De la Cot._ I will go away.

_Gas._ As you please.

_De la Cot._ I cannot.

_Gas._ I pity you.

_De la Cot._ Why does she stop? Why does she not come in?

_Gas._ She is afraid of disturbing you.

_De la Cot._ No; it is because you are here.

_Gas._ Then I will go. [_Going._]

_De la Cot._ Stay.

_Gas._ I will remain, then.

_De la Cot._ Have you the snuff-box? bring it.

_Gas._ I will go for it. [_Exit._

_De la Cot._ Hear me! where are you going? Poor me! Gascoigne!

[_Calls._]

_Enter_ Giannina.

_Gian._ Are you in want of anything?

_De la Cot._ Excuse me, I want my servant.

_Gian._ If yours is not here, there are others. Do you want any one?

_De la Cot._ No, I thank you; my trunk must be packed up.

_Gian._ And are you disturbed in this manner about so trifling an affair?

do you fear there will not be time? Perhaps you are already expecting

horses? If the air of this country is not favourable to your health,

or rather if you are tired of us, I will myself hasten forward your

departure.

_De la Cot._ Mademoiselle, have compassion on me; do not add to my

suffering.

_Gian._ If I knew the cause of your suffering, instead of increasing, I

would endeavour to diminish it.

_De la Cot._ Seek the cause in yourself; there is no need for me to tell

you.

_Gian._ Then you go away on my account?

_De la Cot._ Yes, it is on your account that I am compelled to hasten my

departure.

_Gian._ Have I become so odious in your sight?

_De la Cot._ Oh, Heaven! you never appeared to me so lovely; your eyes

never beamed with so much tenderness.

_Gian._ Ah, were this true, you would not be so anxious to go.

_De la Cot._ If I loved only the beauty of your person, I should yield

to the strength of my attachment, which bids me stay with you; but I

love you for your virtues; I see your peace of mind is in danger, and in

return for the kindness you have shown me, I mean to sacrifice the

dearest hopes of my life.

_Gian._ I do not believe you have so little resolution as not to be able

to control your passion, and you do me injustice if you think I cannot

resist the inclinations of my heart. I own my love for you without a

blush: this virtuous love, I feel, will never leave me, and I cannot

persuade myself a man is less able than I am to sustain with glory the

conflict of his passions. I can love you without danger; it is happiness

enough for me to see you. You, on the contrary, by determining to

depart, go in quest of more easy enjoyment, and show that your obstinacy

prevails over your love. It is said hope always comforts the lover. He

who will not use the means proves he cares but little for the end, and,

if you go, you will still suffer the tortures of disappointed desire;

you will act either with culpable weakness, or unfeeling indifference.

Whatever cause hurries you away, go, proud of your resolution, but be at

least ashamed of your cruelty.

_De la Cot._ Ah, no, Mademoiselle! do not tax me with ingratitude, do

not accuse me of cruelty. I thought, by my departure, to do you an act

of kindness. If I am wrong, pardon me. If you command it, I will remain.

_Gian._ No; my commands shall never control your inclination; follow the

dictates of your own heart.

_De la Cot._ My heart tells me to remain.

_Gian._ Then obey it without fear, and, if your courage does not fail,

rely on my constancy.

_De la Cot._ What will your father say to my change of mind?

_Gian._ He is almost as much grieved at your departure as I am; he is

not satisfied about your recovery; and whether it is the consequence of

your wound, or of mental affliction, the surgeons do not believe your

health is re-established, and my father thinks it too soon for you to

undertake the journey. He loves and esteems you, and would be much

pleased at your remaining.

_De la Cot._ Has he any suspicion of my love for you? and that it is

mutual?

_Gian._ Our conduct has given him no cause for suspicion.

_De la Cot._ Can it be possible it has never passed through his mind

that I, an open, frank man, and a soldier, might be captivated by the

beauty and merit of his daughter?

_Gian._ A man like my father is not inclined to suspicion; the

cordiality with which he received you as a guest in his family, assures

him he may rely on the correct conduct of an officer of honour; and his

knowledge of my disposition makes him perfectly easy: he does not

deceive himself in regard to either of us. A tender passion has arisen

in our hearts, but we will neither depart from the laws of virtue, nor

violate his confidence.

_De la Cot._ Is there no hope his goodness may make him agree to our

marriage?

_Gian._ My hope is that in time it will; the obstacles do not arise from

motives of interest, but from the customs of our nation. Were you a

merchant of Holland, poor, with only moderate expectations, you would

immediately obtain my hand, and a hundred thousand florins for an

establishment; but an officer, who is a younger son, is considered among

us as a wretched match, and were my father inclined to give his consent,

he would incur the severe censure of his relations, his friends, and

indeed of the public.

_De la Cot._ But I cannot flatter myself with the prospect of being in a

better condition.

_Gian._ In the course of time circumstances may occur that may prove

favourable to our union.

_De la Cot._ Do you reckon among these the death of your father?

_Gian._ Heaven grant that the day may be distant! but then I should be

my own mistress.

_De la Cot._ And do you wish me to remain in your house as long as he

lives?

_Gian._ No, Lieutenant; stay here as long as your convenience permits,

but do not appear so anxious to go while there are good reasons for your

remaining. Our hopes do not depend on the death of my father, but I have

reasons to flatter myself our attachment in the end may be rewarded. Our

love we must not relinquish, but avail ourselves of every advantage that

occasion may offer.

_De la Cot._ Adorable Giannina, how much am I indebted to your

kindness! Dispose of me as you please; I am entirely yours; I will not

go unless you order me to do so. Persuade your father to bear with my

presence, and be certain that no place on earth is so agreeable to me as

this.

_Gian._ I have only one request to make.

_De la Cot._ May you not command?

_Gian._ Have regard for one defect which is common to lovers;--do not, I

entreat you, give me any cause for jealousy.

_De la Cot._ Am I capable of doing so?

_Gian._ I will tell you. Mademoiselle Costanza, in the last few days,

has visited our house more frequently than usual; her eyes look tenderly

on you, and she manifests rather too much sympathy for your misfortunes.

You are of a gentle disposition, and, to own the truth, I sometimes feel

uneasy.

_De la Cot._ Henceforth I will use the greatest caution, that she may

indulge no hopes, and that you may be at ease.

_Gian._ But so conduct yourself, that neither my jealousy nor your love

for me shall be remarked.

_De la Cot._ Ah, would to Heaven, Mademoiselle, our troubles were at an

end!

_Gian._ We must bear them, to deserve good fortune.

_De la Cot._ Yes, dearest, I bear all with this delightful hope. Permit

me now to inquire for my servant, to get him to countermand the horses.

_Gian._ Were they ordered?

_De la Cot._ Yes, indeed.

_Gian._ Unkind one!

_De la Cot._ Pardon me.

_Gian._ Let the order be countermanded before my father knows it.

_De la Cot._ My hope and my comfort! may Heaven be propitious to our

wishes, and reward true love and virtuous constancy. [_Exit._

_Gian._ I never could have believed it possible for me to be brought to

such a step; that I should, of my own accord, use language and contrive

means to detain him. But unless I had done so, in a moment he would have

been gone, and I should have died immediately afterwards. But here comes

my father; I am sorry he finds me in our visitor's room. Thank Heaven,

the Lieutenant is gone out! All appearance of sorrow must vanish from my

face.

_Enter_ Philibert.

_Phil._ My daughter, what are you doing in this room?

_Gian._ Curiosity, sir, brought me here.

_Phil._ And what excites your curiosity?

_Gian._ To see a master who understands nothing of such things, and an

awkward servant endeavouring to pack up a trunk.

_Phil._ Do you know when he goes away?

_Gian._ He intended going this morning, but, in walking across the room,

his legs trembled so, that I fear he will not stand the journey.

_Phil._ I think his present disease has deeper roots than his wound.

_Gian._ Yet only one hurt has been discovered by the surgeons.

_Phil._ Oh, there are wounds which they know nothing of.

_Gian._ Every wound, however slight, makes its mark.

_Phil._ Eh! there are weapons that give an inward wound.

_Gian._ Without breaking the skin?

_Phil._ Certainly.

_Gian._ How do these wounds enter?

_Phil._ By the eyes, the ears, the touch.

_Gian._ You must mean by the percussion of the air.

_Phil._ Air! no, I mean flame.

_Gian._ Indeed, sir, I do not comprehend you.

_Phil._ You do not choose to comprehend me.

_Gian._ Do you think I have any mischievous design in my head?

_Phil._ No; I think you a good girl, wise, prudent, who knows what the

officer suffers from, and who, from a sense of propriety, appears not to

know it.

_Gian._ [_Aside._] Poor me! his manner of talking alarms me.

_Phil._ Giannina, you seem to me to blush.

_Gian._ What you say, sir, of necessity makes me blush. I now begin to

understand something of the mysterious wound of which you speak; but, be

it as it may, I know neither his disease nor the remedy.

_Phil._ My daughter, let us speak plainly. Monsieur de la Cotterie was

perfectly cured a month after he arrived here; he was apparently in

health, ate heartily, and began to recover his strength; he had a good

complexion, and was the delight of our table and our circle. By degrees

he grew sad, lost his appetite, became thin, and his gaiety was changed

to sighs. I am something of a philosopher, and suspect his disease is

more of the mind than of the body, and, to speak still more plainly, I

believe he is in love.

_Gian._ It may be as you say; but I think, were he in love, he would not

be leaving.

_Phil._ Here again my philosophy explains everything. Suppose, by

chance, the young lady of whom he is enamoured were rich, dependent on

her father, and could not encourage his hopes; would it be strange if

despair counselled him to leave her?

_Gian._ [_Aside._] He seems to know all.

_Phil._ And this tremor of the limbs, occurring just as he is to set

out, must, I should say, viewed philosophically, arise from the conflict

of two opposing passions.

_Gian._ [_Aside._] I could imprecate his philosophy!

_Phil._ In short, the benevolence of my character, hospitality, to which

my heart is much inclined, humanity itself, which causes me to desire

the good of my neighbours, all cause me to interest myself in him; but I

would not wish my daughter to have any share in this disease.

_Gian._ Ah, you make me laugh! Do I look thin and pale? am I melancholy?

What says your philosophy to the external signs of my countenance and of

my cheerfulness.

_Phil._ I am suspended between two opinions: you have either the power

of self-control, or are practising deception.

_Gian._ Have you ever found me capable of deception?

_Phil._ Never, and for that reason I cannot believe it now.

_Gian._ You have determined in your own mind that the officer is in

love, which is very likely; but I am not the only person he may be

suspected of loving.

_Phil._ As the Lieutenant leaves our house so seldom, it is fair to

infer his disease had its origin here.

_Gian._ There are many handsome young ladies who visit us, and one of

them may be his choice.

_Phil._ Very true; and, as you are with them, and do not want wit and

observation, you ought to know exactly how it is, and to relieve me from

all suspicion.

_Gian._ But if I have promised not to speak of it?

_Phil._ A father should be excepted from such a promise.

_Gian._ Yes, certainly, especially if silence can cause him any pain.

_Phil._ Come, then, my good girl, let us hear.--[_Aside._] I am sorry I

suspected her.

_Gian._ [_Aside._] I find myself obliged to deceive him.--Do you know,

sir, that poor Monsieur de la Cotterie loves to madness Mademoiselle

Costanza?

_Phil._ What! the daughter of Monsieur Riccardo?

_Gian._ The same.

_Phil._ And does the girl return his affection?

_Gian._ With the greatest possible ardour.

_Phil._ And what obstacle prevents the accomplishment of their wishes?

_Gian._ Why, the father of the girl will hardly consent to give her to

an officer who is not in a condition to maintain her reputably.

_Phil._ A curious obstacle, truly. And who is this Monsieur Riccardo,

that he has such rigorous maxims? He is nothing but a broker, sprung

from the mud, grown rich amid the execrations of the people. Does he

think to rank himself among the merchants of Holland? A marriage with an

officer would be an honour to his daughter, and he could not better

dispose of his ill-got wealth.

_Gian._ It seems, then, if you were a broker, you would not refuse him

your daughter?

_Phil._ Assuredly not.

_Gian._ But, being a Dutch merchant, the match does not suit you?

_Phil._ No, certainly not; not at all--you know it very well.

_Gian._ So I thought.

_Phil._ I must interest myself in behalf of Monsieur de la Cotterie.

_Gian._ In what manner, sir?

_Phil._ By persuading Monsieur Riccardo to give him his daughter.

_Gian._ I would not advise you to meddle in the affair.

_Phil._ Let us hear what the Lieutenant will say.

_Gian._ Yes, you should hear him first.--[_Aside._] I must give him

warning beforehand.

_Phil._ Do you think he will set out on his journey immediately?

_Gian._ I know he has already ordered his horses.

_Phil._ I will send directly to see.

_Gian._ I will go myself, sir.--[_Aside._] I must take care not to make

matters worse. [_Exit._

_Phil._ [_Alone._] I feel I have done injustice to my daughter in

distrusting her; it is a happiness to me to be again certain of her

sincerity. There may be some concealed deception in her words, but I

will not believe her so artful; she is the daughter of a man who loves

truth, and never departs from it, even in jest. Everything she tells me

is quite reasonable: the officer may be in love with Mademoiselle

Costanza; the absurd pride of the father considers the match as far

below what his daughter is entitled to. I will, if possible, bring about

the marriage by my mediation. On the one hand, we have nobility reduced

in circumstances; on the other, a little accidental wealth; these fairly

balance one another, and each party will find the alliance advantageous.

_Enter_ Marianna.

_Mar._ Isn't my mistress here, sir?

_Phil._ She is just gone.

_Mar._ By your leave. [_Going._]

_Phil._ Why are you in such haste?

_Mar._ I am going to find my mistress.

_Phil._ Have you anything of consequence to say to her?

_Mar._ A lady has asked for her.

_Phil._ Who is she?

_Mar._ Mademoiselle Costanza.

_Phil._ Oh! is Mademoiselle Costanza here?

_Mar._ Yes; and I suspect, by her coming at this unusual hour, that it

is something extraordinary that brings her here.

_Phil._ I know what this extraordinary something is. [_Smiling._] Say to

Mademoiselle Costanza, that, before going to my daughter's room, I will

thank her to let me see her here.

_Mar._ You shall be obeyed, sir.

_Phil._ Is the officer in?

_Mar._ No, sir, he is gone out.

_Phil._ As soon as he returns, ask him to come to me in this room.

_Mar._ Yes, sir. Do you think he will go away to-day?

_Phil._ I am sure he will not.

_Mar._ Indeed, his health is so bad, that it would be dangerous for him

to proceed on his journey.

_Phil._ He shall remain with us, and he shall get well.

_Mar._ My dear master, you alone have the power of restoring him to

health.

_Phil._ I? How! do you know what is the Lieutenant's disease?

_Mar._ I know it; but do you, sir?

_Phil._ I know everything.

_Mar._ Who told you?

_Phil._ My daughter.

_Mar._ Indeed! [_With an expression of surprise._]

_Phil._ Why are you surprised? Would not my daughter be wrong to conceal

the truth from her father?

_Mar._ Certainly; she has acted most wisely.

_Phil._ Now we can find the remedy.

_Mar._ In truth, it is an honourable love.

_Phil._ Most honourable.

_Mar._ The Lieutenant is an excellent young man.

_Phil._ Most excellent.

_Mar._ It is his only misfortune that he is not rich.

_Phil._ A handsome fortune with his wife would indeed make his situation

more comfortable.

_Mar._ If the father is satisfied, no one has a right to complain.

_Phil._ A father with an only child, when he finds an opportunity of

marrying her respectably, ought to be pleased to avail himself of it.

_Mar._ May God bless you! these are sentiments worthy of so good a man.

I am delighted both for the officer and the young lady.--[_Aside._] And

not less so for myself, as my beloved Gascoigne may now remain with me.

[_Exit._

_Enter_ Mademoiselle Costanza.

_Phil._ [_To himself._] Good actions deserve praise, and every person of

sense will approve of what I am doing.

_Cost._ Here I am, sir, at your commands.

_Phil._ Ah, Mademoiselle Costanza! it gives me great pleasure to see

you.

_Cost._ You are very kind.

_Phil._ I am gratified at your friendship for my daughter.

_Cost._ She deserves it, and I love her with all my heart.

_Phil._ Ah, do not say with all your heart!

_Cost._ Why not? are you not convinced I love her sincerely?

_Phil._ Sincerely, I believe, but not with all your heart.

_Cost._ Why should you doubt it?

_Phil._ Because, if you loved my daughter with all your heart, there

would be none of it left for any one else.

_Cost._ You make me laugh; and who should have a part of it?

_Phil._ Ah, Mademoiselle, we understand!

_Cost._ Indeed, I do not understand.

_Phil._ Now let us dismiss Lady Modesty, and introduce Lady Sincerity.

_Cost._ [_Aside._] I cannot discover what he is aiming at.

_Phil._ Tell me, have you come on purpose to visit my daughter?

_Cost._ Yes, sir.

_Phil._ No, Mademoiselle.

_Cost._ For what, then?

_Phil._ Know I am an astrologer. I am visited by a certain spirit that

tells me everything, and hence I have learnt this: Mademoiselle Costanza

has come not to visit those who stay, but those who go away.

_Cost._ [_Aside._] I suspect there is some truth in what the spirit

says.

_Phil._ What! are you puzzled how to answer?

_Cost._ I will answer you frankly: if I have come to show civility to

your guest, I do not perceive I deserve reproof.

_Phil._ Reproof! on the contrary, praise; acts of civility ought not to

be omitted--especially when dictated by a more tender feeling.

_Cost._ You seem to be in a humour for jesting this morning.

_Phil._ And you seem to be out of spirits; but I lay a wager I can cheer

you up.

_Cost._ Indeed?

_Phil._ Without fail.

_Cost._ And how?

_Phil._ With two words.

_Cost._ And what are those fine words?

_Phil._ You shall hear them. Come this way--a little nearer. The

Lieutenant is not going away. Does not your heart leap at this

unexpected news?

_Cost._ For mercy's sake! Monsieur Philibert, do you believe me in love?

_Phil._ Say no, if you can.

_Cost._ No; I can say it.

_Phil._ Swear to it.

_Cost._ Oh, I will not swear for such a trifle.

_Phil._ You wish to hide the truth from me, as if I had not the power of

serving you, or was unwilling to do so, and of serving the poor young

man too, who is so unhappy.

_Cost._ Unhappy, for what?

_Phil._ On account of you.

_Cost._ On account of me?

_Phil._ Yes, you; we are in the dark, so that his love for you is in a

manner hidden, and every one does not know that his despair sends him

away.

_Cost._ Despair for what?

_Phil._ Because your father, from pride and avarice, will not consent to

give you to him: this, my girl, is the whole affair.

_Cost._ It appears that you know more of it than I do.

_Phil._ You know, and do not choose to know. I make allowance for your

modesty; but when a gentleman speaks to you, when a man of my character

exerts himself in your behalf, you ought to lay aside modesty and open

your heart freely.

_Cost._ You take me so by surprise, I am embarrassed what answer to

make.

_Phil._ Let us end this conversation. Tell me, like an honest girl as

you are, do you not love Monsieur de la Cotterie?

_Cost._ You force me to own it.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] Thank Heaven! so my daughter spoke the truth.--And he

loves you with an equal affection.

_Cost._ Of that, sir, I know nothing.

_Phil._ If you do not know it, I tell you so; he loves you to perdition.

_Cost._ [_Aside._] Can it be possible? and he has never declared it to

me!

_Phil._ And I have undertaken to persuade your father.

_Cost._ But does my father know I am in love with the officer?

_Phil._ He certainly ought to know.

_Cost._ He has never mentioned it to me.

_Phil._ Oh, your father will soon come and talk with you on the subject.

_Cost._ He has never objected to my coming here, where I meet the

officer.

_Phil._ He knows that you are visiting in an honourable house; no

greater liberty would be allowed you here than is proper for a modest

young lady. In a word, are you willing that I should manage the affair?

_Cost._ Entirely willing.

_Phil._ Bravo! this is enough; and what would it avail you to deny with

your lips what your looks proclaim? the flame that burns in your heart

sparkles in your eyes.

_Cost._ You have a most penetrating glance.

_Phil._ Ah, here comes the officer.

_Cost._ By your leave, sir.

_Phil._ Where are you going?

_Cost._ To Mademoiselle Giannina.

_Phil._ Remain here, if you will.

_Cost._ Oh no, sir, excuse me--your servant.--[_Aside._] I am overjoyed!

I know not in what world I am! [_Exit._

Philibert, _alone_.

_Phil._ How amusing these girls are! Boldness and modesty are mingled in

so strange a manner, that it is a pleasure to observe them. Here is an

instance of love to devotion, and if it succeeds it will be owing to my

daughter's intervention.

_Enter_ De la Cotterie.

_De la Cot._ They told me, sir, that you asked for me.

_Phil._ Have you seen Mademoiselle Giannina?

_De la Cot._ No, sir, I have not seen her.

_Phil._ I am sorry that you appear so melancholy.

_De la Cot._ One whose health is bad cannot be expected to look

cheerful.

_Phil._ Do you not know I am a physician, and have the skill to cure

you?

_De la Cot._ I did not know that you were skilled in the medical art.

_Phil._ Well, my friend, capacities often exist where they are not

suspected.

_De la Cot._ Why, then, have you not prescribed for me before now?

_Phil._ Because I did not sooner know the nature of your disease.

_De la Cot._ Do you think you know it now?

_Phil._ Yes, certainly--indubitably.

_De la Cot._ If you are learned in the medical art, sir, you know much

better than I do how fallacious and how little to be relied on are all

the symptoms that seem to indicate the causes of disease.

_Phil._ The indications of your disease are so infallible, that I am

confident there is no mistake, and on condition that you trust to my

friendship, you shall soon have reason to be content.

_De la Cot._ And by what process do you propose to cure me?

_Phil._ My first prescription shall be for you to abandon all intention

of going away, and to take the benefit of this air, which will speedily

restore you to health.

_De la Cot._ On the contrary, I fear this air is most injurious to me.

_Phil._ Do you not know that even from hemlock a most salutary medicine

is extracted?

_De la Cot._ I am not ignorant of the late discoveries, but your

allusion covers some mystery.

_Phil._ No, my friend; so far as mystery is concerned, each of us is now

acting his part; but let us speak without metaphor. Your disease arises

from love, and you think to find a remedy by going away, whereas it is

an act of mere desperation. You carry the arrow in your heart, and hope

to be relieved; but the same hand which placed it there must draw it

out.

_De la Cot._ Your discourse, sir, is altogether new to me.

_Phil._ Why pretend not to understand me! Speak to me as a friend who

loves you, and takes the same interest in you as if you were his son.

Consider: by dissembling you may destroy your happiness for ever. My

attachment to you arises from a knowledge of your merit, and from your

having spent several months with me; besides, I should be mortified for

you to have contracted in my house an unhappy passion; and therefore I

most zealously interfere in your favour, and am anxious to find a remedy

for you.

_De la Cot._ My dear friend, how have you discovered the origin of my

unhappiness?

_Phil._ Shall I say the truth?--my daughter revealed it to me.

_De la Cot._ Heavens! had she the courage to disclose it?

_Phil._ Yes, after a little persuasion she told me everything.

_De la Cot._ Oh, by the friendship you possess for me, have pity on my

love!

_Phil._ I have pity on you; I know what human frailty is at your age,

and the violence of passion.

_De la Cot._ I confess I ought not to have encouraged my affection, and

concealed it from such a friend.

_Phil._ This is the only complaint I have to make. You have not treated

me with that unreserved confidence which I think I was entitled to.

_De la Cot._ I had not the courage.

_Phil._ Well, Heaven be praised! There is yet time. I know the girl

loves you, for she told me so herself.

_De la Cot._ And what do you say to it, sir?

_Phil._ I approve of the marriage.

_De la Cot._ You overwhelm me with joy.

_Phil._ You see I am the good physician who understands the disease and

knows the remedy.

_De la Cot._ I can hardly feel assured of this great happiness.

_Phil._ Why not?

_De la Cot._ I thought the narrowness of my fortune an insuperable

obstacle.

_Phil._ Family and merit on your side are equal to a rich dower on the

other.

_De la Cot._ Your kindness to me is unequalled.

_Phil._ But my kindness has yet done nothing; now it shall be my

endeavour to provide for your happiness.

_De la Cot._ This will depend entirely on your own good heart.

_Phil._ We must exert ourselves to overcome the difficulties.

_De la Cot._ And what are the difficulties?

_Phil._ The consent of the father of the girl.

_De la Cot._ My friend, it seems you are making game of me; from the way

you spoke just now, I thought all obstacles were removed.

_Phil._ But I have not mentioned it to him yet.

_De la Cot._ To whom have you not mentioned it?

_Phil._ To the father of the girl.

_De la Cot._ Oh, Heavens! and who is the father of the girl?

_Phil._ Good! You do not know him? you do not know the father of

Mademoiselle Costanza, that horrid savage, Monsieur Riccardo, who has

grown rich by usury, and has no idol but his money?

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] I shall go mad! Thus end all my hopes.

_Phil._ Riccardo does not visit at my house, you never go out, so it is

not surprising you do not know him.

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] Ah! I am obliged to dissemble, not to disclose

my love at a moment so unpropitious.

_Phil._ But how did you know the father would not give you his daughter

if you did not know him?

_De la Cot._ I had reasons for thinking so, and for my despair there is

no remedy.

_Phil._ Am I not your physician?

_De la Cot._ All your attention will be unavailing.

_Phil._ Leave it to me; I will go immediately to find Monsieur Riccardo,

and I flatter myself--

_De la Cot._ No, sir, do not.

_Phil._ It seems the prospect of success turns your head; just now you

were all joy. Whence arises this sudden change?

_De la Cot._ I am certain it will end unfortunately.

_Phil._ Such despondency is unworthy of you, and unjust to me.

_De la Cot._ Do not add to my unhappiness by your interference.

_Phil._ Are you afraid the father will be obstinate? let me try.

_De la Cot._ By no means; I am altogether opposed to it.

_Phil._ And I am altogether for it, and will speak to him.

_De la Cot._ I shall leave the Hague; I shall go in a few minutes.

_Phil._ You will not treat me with so much incivility.

_Enter_ Giannina.

_Gian._ What, sirs, is the cause of this altercation?

_Phil._ Monsieur de la Cotterie acts towards me with a degree of

ingratitude that is anything but agreeable.

_Gian._ Is it possible he can be capable of this?

_De la Cot._ Ah, Mademoiselle, I am a most unfortunate man!

_Phil._ I may say he does not know his own mind. He confessed his

passion, and, when I offered to assist him, fell into transports; and

then, when I promised to obtain the hand of Mademoiselle Costanza for

him, he got furious, and threatened to go away.

_Gian._ I am surprised the Lieutenant should still speak of leaving us.

_De la Cot._ Would you have me stay and entertain such hopes?

[_Ironically._]

_Gian._ I would have you stay, and entertain a mistress who loves you.

With my father's permission, you shall hear what Mademoiselle Costanza

has just said of you.

_Phil._ May I not hear it?

_Gian._ Impossible; my friend directed me to tell it to him alone.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] I shall hear all from my daughter when we are by

ourselves.

_Gian._ [_Apart to_ De la Cotterie.] I have contrived to make my father

believe you were in love with Mademoiselle Costanza. As you love me,

say it is so, and talk no more of going away.

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] Oh, the stratagems of love!

_Phil._ Will you still persist in your obstinacy?

_De la Cot._ Ah, no, sir; I rely on your kindness.

_Phil._ Do you desire me to speak to Monsieur Riccardo?

_De la Cot._ Do what you please.

_Phil._ Are you still anxious to go?

_De la Cot._ I promise you to remain here.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] What magic words have wrought this change? I am

curious to hear them.

_De la Cot._ Pardon, I pray you, my strange conduct.

_Phil._ Willingly; the actions of lovers are often extravagant. Tell me,

Giannina, is Mademoiselle Costanza gone?

_Gian._ No, sir; she is waiting in my room.

_Phil._ Go, Lieutenant, and keep her company for a little while.

_De la Cot._ I would rather not, sir.

_Gian._ Go, go.--[_Aside to_ De la Cotterie.] Listen! Wait for me in the

antechamber; I will be there presently.

_De la Cot._ I shall obey you, sir. [_Exit._

_Phil._ [_Aside._] The power of words!--Well, what did you say to him?

_Gian._ I told him to go to his mistress; that she expected him.

_Phil._ But the first time you spoke to him?

_Gian._ I said that Mademoiselle Costanza had hope she could persuade

her father.

_Phil._ Why did you not tell him so openly, before me?

_Gian._ Things said in private often make the greatest impression.

_Phil._ Perhaps so.

_Gian._ By your leave. [_Going._]

_Phil._ Where are you going?

_Gian._ To encourage this timid gentleman.

_Phil._ Yes, by all means; I recommend him to you.

_Gian._ Doubt not I shall take good care of him. [_Exit._

_Phil._ My girl has a good heart, and mine is like

hers.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

SCENE I.--_The chamber of_ Mademoiselle Giannina.

Mademoiselle Costanza, _alone, seated_.

_Cost._ Who would ever have thought Monsieur de la Cotterie had such a

liking for me? It is true he has always treated me with politeness, and

been ready to converse with me; but I cannot say I have observed any

great signs of love. Now I have always loved him, but have not had

courage enough to show it. I flatter myself he too loves me, and for the

same reason conceals it; in truth a modest officer is a strange animal,

and it is hard to believe in its existence. Monsieur Philibert must

have reasons for what he says, and I am well pleased to think him not

mistaken, especially as I have no evidence that he is so. Here comes

my handsome soldier--but Mademoiselle Giannina is with him; she never

permits us to be alone together for a moment. I have some suspicion she

is my rival.

_Enter_ Mademoiselle Giannina _and_ De la Cotterie.

_Gian._ Keep your seat, Mademoiselle; excuse me for having left you

alone for a little while. I know you will be kind enough to forgive me,

and I bring some one with me, who, I am sure, will secure your pardon.

_Cost._ Though surely in your own house and with a real friend such

ceremony is needless, your company is always agreeable. I desire you

will put yourself to no inconvenience.

_Gian._ Do you hear, Lieutenant? You see we Dutch are not without wit.

_De la Cot._ This is not the first time I have observed it.

_Cost._ Monsieur de la Cotterie is in a house that does honour to our

country, and if he admires ladies of wit, he need not go out of it.

_Gian._ You are too polite, Mademoiselle.

_Cost._ I simply do justice to merit.

_Gian._ Let us not dispute about our merits, but rather leave it to the

Lieutenant to decide.

_De la Cot._ If you wish a decision, you must choose a better judge.

_Gian._ A partial one, indeed, cannot be a good judge.

_Cost._ And to say nothing of partiality, he feels under obligations to

you as the mistress of the house.

_Gian._ Oh, in France, the preference is always given to the guest: is

it not so, Lieutenant?

_De la Cot._ It is no less the custom in Holland, than in my own

country.

_Cost._ That is to say, the greater the merit, the greater the

distinction with which they are treated.

_Gian._ On that principle you would be treated with the most

distinction.

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] I shall get into trouble if this conversation

continues.

_Cost._ By your leave, Mademoiselle.

_Gian._ Why do you leave us so soon?

_Cost._ I am engaged to my aunt; I promised to dine with her to-day, and

it is not amiss to go early.

_Gian._ Oh, it is too early; your aunt is old, and you will perhaps

still find her in bed.

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] Do not prevent her from going.

_Gian._ He begs me to detain you.

_Cost._ I am overpowered by your politeness. [_Curtseying._]--[_Aside._]

Her amusement is to torment me.

_Gian._ [_To_ Costanza.] What say you, my friend, have I not a good

heart?

_Cost._ I must praise your kindness to me.

_Gian._ [_To_ De la Cotterie.] And do you, too, own you are under

obligations to me?

_De la Cot._ Yes, certainly, I have reason to be grateful to you; you,

who know my feelings, must be conscious of the great favour you do me.

[_Ironically._]

_Gian._ [_To_ Costanza.] You hear him? he is delighted.

_Cost._ My dear friend, as you have such a regard for me, and take so

much interest in him, allow me to speak freely to you. Your worthy

father has told me a piece of news that overwhelms me with joy and

surprise. If all he has told me be true, I pray you, Monsieur De la

Cotterie, to confirm it.

_Gian._ This is just what I anticipated; but as your conversation cannot

be brief, and your aunt expects you, had you not better defer it to

another opportunity?

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] Heaven grant I may not be still more involved!

_Cost._ A few words are all I ask.

_Gian._ Come, Lieutenant, take courage, and say all in a few words.

_De la Cot._ Indeed, I have not the courage.

_Gian._ No, my dear, it is impossible to express in a few words the

infinite things he has to say to you.

_Cost._ It will be enough if he says but one word.

_Gian._ And what is that?

_Cost._ That he really loves me.

_Gian._ Pardon me; the Lieutenant is too polite to speak of love to one

young lady in the presence of another; but I can, by going away, give

you an opportunity of conversing together, and so remove all obstacles

to an explanation. [_Going._]

_De la Cot._ Stay, Mademoiselle!

_Cost._ Yes, and mortify me no more. Be assured I should never have

spoken with the boldness I have done, had you not led me to do so. I do

not comprehend your meaning; there is an inconsistency in your conduct;

but, be it as it may, time will bring the truth to light. And now permit

me to take leave.

_Gian._ My dear friend, pardon my inattention to you on first coming.

You are mistress to go or remain as you please.

_Enter_ Philibert.

_Phil._ What delightful company! But why are you on your feet? why do

you not sit down?

_Gian._ Costanza is just going.

_Phil._ [_To_ Costanza.] Why so soon?

_Gian._ Her aunt expects her.

_Phil._ No, my dear young lady, do me the favour to remain; we may want

you, and in affairs of this kind moments are often precious. I have sent

to your father, to say I desire to have a conversation with him; I am

certain he will come. We will have a private interview, and, however

little he may be inclined to give his consent, I shall press him so

as not to leave him time to repent; if we agree, I will call you both

immediately into my room.

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] Our situation is becoming more critical every

moment.

_Phil._ [_To_ De la Cotterie.] You seem to me to be agitated.

_Gian._ It is the excess of joy.

_Phil._ [_To_ Costanza.] And what effect has hope on you?

_Cost._ I have more fear than hope.

_Phil._ Rely on me. For the present, be content to remain here; and, as

we do not know exactly when your father will come, stay to dinner with

us.

_Gian._ She cannot stay, sir.

_Phil._ Why not?

_Gian._ Because she promised her aunt to dine with her to-day.

_Cost._ [_Aside._] I see she does not wish me to remain.

_Phil._ The aunt who expects you is your father's sister?

_Cost._ Yes, sir.

_Phil._ I know her; she is my particular friend. Leave it to me. I will

get you released from the engagement, and, as soon as Monsieur Riccardo

comes here, I will send word to her where you are, and she will be

satisfied.

_Cost._ I am grateful, Monsieur Philibert, for your great kindness;

permit me for a moment to see my aunt, who is not well. I will soon

return, and avail myself of your politeness.

_Phil._ Very well; come back quickly.

_Cost._ Good morning to you; you will soon see me again.

_Gian._ Good-bye.--[_Aside._] If she does not come back I shall not

break my heart.

_Phil._ Adieu, my dear.--One moment. Lieutenant, for a man who has been

in the wars, you do not seem quite as much at your ease as you should

be.

_Cost._ Why do you say so, sir?

_Phil._ Because you are letting Mademoiselle go away without taking

notice of her--without one word of civility.

_Cost._ Indeed, he has said but few.

_De la Cot._ [_To_ Philibert.] I ought not to abuse the privilege you

have given me.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] I understand.--Giannina, a word with you.

_Gian._ Yes, sir?

_Phil._ [_Aside to_ Giannina.] It is not right for a young lady to

thrust herself between two lovers in this manner; on account of you,

they cannot speak two words to each other.

_Gian._ [_To_ Philibert.] They spoke in whispers together.

_Phil._ [_To_ De la Cotterie.] Well, if you have anything to say to

her--

_De la Cot._ There will be time enough, sir.

_Phil._ [_To_ Giannina.] Attend to me.

_Cost._ [_Aside to_ De la Cotterie.] At least assure me of your

affection.

_De la Cot._ [_Aside to_ Costanza.] Excuse me, Mademoiselle. [Giannina

_coughs aloud_.] [_Aside._] I am exceedingly embarrassed.

_Cost._ [_Loud enough for all to hear._] Is it possible you will not say

once that you love me?

_Gian._ [_To_ Costanza, _with asperity_.] How many times do you want him

to tell you so? Did he not say so before me?

_Phil._ [_To_ Giannina, _with asperity_.] No meddling, I tell you.

_Cost._ Do not disturb yourself, Mademoiselle; to see clearly here is

not easy. I wish you all a good morning. Adieu, Lieutenant.--[_Aside._]

He is worried by this troublesome girl. [_Exit._

_Phil._ [_To_ Giannina.] I am not pleased with your ways.

_Gian._ My dear father, let me amuse myself a little. I, who am so free

from love, like sometimes to vex these lovers. As it was I who

discovered their passion for each other, they are under obligations to

me for their approaching happiness; hence they may pardon my jokes.

_Phil._ You girls are the devil! but the time will come, my daughter,

when you will know how trying to lovers are these little teasing ways.

You are now old enough, and the first good offer that presents itself,

be prepared to accept it. What says Monsieur de la Cotterie! Am I not

right?

_De la Cot._ Quite right.

_Gian._ Monsieur Quite Right, that is for me to decide, not for you.

_Phil._ Are you averse to being married?

_Gian._ If I could find a husband to my taste--

_Phil._ I shall be pleased if he is to your taste--to mine he certainly

must be; the fortune I intend for you will make you equal to the best

match in Holland.

_Gian._ The father of Mademoiselle Costanza says the same.

_Phil._ Do you compare Monsieur Riccardo with me? or do you compare

yourself to the daughter of a broker? You vex me when you talk so. I

will hear no more.

_Gian._ But I do not say--

_Phil._ I'll hear no more. [_Exit._

_De la Cot._ Ah, my Giannina, our affairs are worse than ever. How much

better not to have taken such a step!

_Gian._ Who could have foreseen my father would involve himself as he

has done?

_De la Cot._ I see no remedy but my immediate departure.

_Gian._ Such weakness I did not expect.

_De la Cot._ Then I may be forced to marry Mademoiselle Costanza.

_Gian._ Do so, if you have the heart.

_De la Cot._ Or shall the whole mystery be explained?

_Gian._ It would be a most unhandsome act, to expose me to the shame of

having contrived such a deception.

_De la Cot._ Then do you suggest some plan.

_Gian._ All I can say is this: think no more of going away. As to

marrying Mademoiselle Costanza, it is absurd; to discover our plot

preposterous. Resolve, then, on some plan to secure at the same time our

love, our reputation, and our happiness. [_Exit._

_De la Cot._ Excellent advice! but among so many things not to be done,

where shall we find what is to be done? Alas! nothing remains but

absolute despair. [_Exit._

SCENE II.--_Enter_ Monsieur Philibert, _alone_.

_Phil._ I can never believe Monsieur Riccardo refuses to come here; he

knows who I am, and that it is to his interest not to offend one who can

do him either good or harm. He must remember I lent him ten thousand

florins when he commenced business, but there are persons who easily

forget benefits, and regard neither friends nor relations, when they can

no longer make use of them.

_Enter_ Marianna.

_Mar._ If I do not interrupt you, Monsieur Philibert,

I would say something to you.

_Phil._ I am now at leisure.

_Mar._ I would speak to you of an affair of my own.

_Phil._ Well, be quick, for I am expecting company.

_Mar._ I will tell you in two words: with your permission, I would get

married.

_Phil._ Get married, then! much good may it do you!

_Mar._ But this is not all, sir. I am a poor girl, and have now lived

ten years in your family; with what attention and fidelity I have served

you, you know. I ask you, not for the value of the thing, but as a mark

of your favour, to make me a small present.

_Phil._ Well, I will do something for you as a recompense for your

faithful services. Have you found a husband?

_Mar._ Yes, sir.

_Phil._ Bravo! I am glad of it. And you tell me of it after it is all

arranged?

_Mar._ Pardon me, sir; I should not do so now, but accident has led me

to an engagement with a young man of small means, which makes me come to

you.

_Phil._ I will lay a wager it is the servant of the officer with whom

you are in love.

_Mar._ You are right, sir.

_Phil._ And are you willing to travel all over the world with him?

_Mar._ I am in hopes he will live here, if his master marries, as they

say--

_Phil._ Yes, it is likely he will get married.

_Mar._ No one should know better than you, sir.

_Phil._ I am most anxious to see him happy.

_Mar._ As that is the case, sir, I consider it as though it were already

done.

_Phil._ There may be difficulties in the way, but I hope to overcome

them.

_Mar._ There are none, I think, on the part of the young lady.

_Phil._ No; she is much in love with him.

_Mar._ That is evident.

_Phil._ And when do you propose to be married?

_Mar._ If it please you, sir, at the same time my young lady is married.

_Phil._ What young lady?

_Mar._ My mistress, your daughter.

_Phil._ If you wait till then, you will have time enough.

_Mar._ Do you think her marriage will be long delayed?

_Phil._ Good! Before talking of her marriage, the husband must be found.

_Mar._ Why, is there not a husband?

_Phil._ A husband! not that I know of.

_Mar._ You do not know?

_Phil._ Poor me! I know nothing of it. Tell me what you know, and do not

hide the truth.

_Mar._ You astonish me! Is she not to marry Monsieur de la Cotterie? Did

you not tell me so yourself, and that you were pleased at it?

_Phil._ Blockhead! Did you suppose I would give my daughter to a

soldier--the younger son of a poor family? to one who has not the means

of supporting her in the way she has been accustomed to from her birth?

_Mar._ Did you not say just now that Monsieur de la Cotterie was about

to be married, and that you were most anxious for his happiness?

_Phil._ To be sure I did.

_Mar._ And, pray, who is he to marry, if not Mademoiselle Giannina?

_Phil._ Blockhead! Are there no girls at the Hague but her?

_Mar._ He visits at no other house.

_Phil._ And does nobody come here?

_Mar._ I do not perceive that he pays attention to any one but my young

mistress.

_Phil._ Blockhead! Don't you know Mademoiselle Costanza?

_Mar._ A blockhead cannot know everything.

_Phil._ Has my daughter made you her confidant?

_Mar._ She always speaks of the officer with the greatest esteem, and

expresses much pity for him.

_Phil._ And did you believe her pity proceeded from love?

_Mar._ I did.

_Phil._ Blockhead!

_Mar._ I know, too, he wanted to go away, because he was in despair--

_Phil._ Well?

_Mar._ Fearing her father would not give his consent.

_Phil._ Excellent!

_Mar._ And are you not that father?

_Phil._ Are there no other fathers?

_Mar._ You gave me to understand they were to be married.

_Phil._ How absurd is your obstinacy!

_Mar._ I will venture my head I am right.

_Phil._ You should understand your mistress better, and respect her more

than to think so.

_Mar._ Indeed, it is an honourable love.

_Phil._ Begone directly!

_Mar._ I see no great harm in it.

_Phil._ Here comes some one--Monsieur Riccardo. Go quickly.

_Mar._ You are too rough, sir.

_Phil._ Blockhead!

_Mar._ We shall see who is the blockhead, I or--

_Phil._ You or I the blockhead?

_Mar._ I--or that man passing along the street. [_Exit._

_Phil._ Impertinent! whether she gets married or not, she shall stay no

longer in my house. To have such an opinion of my daughter! Giannina is

not capable of it; no, not capable.

_Enter_ Monsieur Riccardo.

_Ric._ Your servant, Monsieur Philibert.

_Phil._ Good day to you, Monsieur Riccardo. Excuse me if I have put you

to any inconvenience.

_Ric._ Have you any commands for me?

_Phil._ I wish to have some conversation with you. Pray be seated.

_Ric._ I can spare but a few moments.

_Phil._ Are you much engaged just now?

_Ric._ Yes, indeed; among other things, I am harassed by a number of

people about the case of the smugglers who have been arrested.

_Phil._ I have heard of it. Are these poor people still in prison?

_Ric._ Yes; and I wish they may remain there until their house is

utterly ruined.

_Phil._ And have you the heart to bear the tears of their children?

_Ric._ Had they not the heart to violate the laws of the customs--to

defraud the revenue? I wish I could catch them oftener; do you not know

that smugglers on conviction pay all costs?

_Phil._ [_Aside._] Oh! his vile employment.

_Ric._ Well, what have you to say to me?

_Phil._ Monsieur Riccardo, you have a daughter to marry.

_Ric._ Yes, and a plague to me she is.

_Phil._ Does her being in your house put you to any inconvenience?

_Ric._ No; but the thought of providing for her when she marries does.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] How contemptible!--If she wishes to marry, you must

provide for her.

_Ric._ I shall do so; I shall be obliged to do so; but on one of two

conditions: without a fortune, if she marries to please herself,--with

one, if to please me.

_Phil._ I have a proposal to make to you.

_Ric._ Let me hear it, but be quick.

_Phil._ Do you know a certain French officer who is a guest in my house?

_Ric._ Do you propose him for my daughter?

_Phil._ Say I did, would you have any objection?

_Ric._ An officer, and a Frenchman! He shall have my daughter neither

with nor without a fortune.

_Phil._ Are you, then, opposed to the French and the military?

_Ric._ Yes, to both equally; much more so if they are united in the same

person. I hate the French, because they are not friends to commerce and

industry, as we are; they care for nothing but suppers, the theatre, and

amusement. With soldiers I have no reason to be pleased; I know how much

I lose by them. They contend we contractors are obliged to maintain

their infantry--their horse; and when they are in quarters, they waste a

whole arsenal full of money.

_Phil._ The French officer of whom I speak is an honourable man; he has

no vice, and is moreover of a noble family.

_Ric._ Is he rich?

_Phil._ He is a younger son.

_Ric._ If he is not rich, I value but little his nobility, and still

less his profession.

_Phil._ My dear friend, let us speak confidentially. A man like you,

blessed with a large fortune, can never better employ fifty or sixty

thousand florins, than by bestowing them on his daughter, when she

marries so worthy a man.

_Ric._ On this occasion, I would not give ten livres.

_Phil._ And to whom will you give your daughter?

_Ric._ If I am to dispose of so large a sum of money, I wish to place it

in one of the best houses in Holland.

_Phil._ You will never do so.

_Ric._ I shall never do so?

_Phil._ No, never.

_Ric._ Why not?

_Phil._ Because the respectable houses in Holland have no occasion to

enrich themselves in this manner.

_Ric._ You esteem this French officer highly?

_Phil._ Most highly.

_Ric._ Why not then give him your own daughter?

_Phil._ Why not? Because--because I do not choose.

_Ric._ And I do not choose to give him mine.

_Phil._ There is some difference between you and me.

_Ric._ I do not perceive in what it consists.

_Phil._ We know very well how you began.

_Ric._ But we do not know how you will end.

_Phil._ Your language is too arrogant.

_Ric._ Were we not in your house, it should be stronger.

_Phil._ I will let you know who I am.

_Ric._ I am not afraid of you.

_Phil._ Go; we will speak of this again.

_Ric._ Yes, again.--[_Aside._] If he ever falls into my hands--if I

catch him in the least evasion of the revenue laws--I swear I will

destroy him. [_Exit._

_Phil._ A rascal! a brute without civility! an impertinent fellow!

_Enter_ De la Cotterie.

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] Their conference, ending in an altercation,

makes me hope he has refused his daughter.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] I am not I, if I do not let him see--

_De la Cot._ Monsieur--

_Phil._ An ill-tempered, worthless--

_De la Cot._ Are these compliments intended for me, sir?

_Phil._ Pardon me; I am carried away by my anger.

_De la Cot._ Who has offended you?

_Phil._ That insolent fellow, Monsieur Riccardo.

_De la Cot._ And has he refused his consent to the marriage?

_Phil._ [_Aside._] I am sorry I must bring this new trouble on the poor

Lieutenant.

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] Heaven be praised! fortune at last aids me.

_Phil._ My friend, never give way to resentment--to impatience of

temper.

_De la Cot._ Tell me the truth; does he refuse his daughter?

_Phil._ A man in this world ought to be prepared for any event.

_De la Cot._ I am impatient to hear the truth.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] Ah! if I tell him, he will drop down dead.

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] This suspense is intolerable.

_Phil._ [_Aside_] Yet he must know.

_De la Cot._ By your leave, sir. [_Going._]

_Phil._ Stay a moment.--[_Aside._] If he goes, there is danger he will

destroy himself from despair.

_De la Cot._ Why not tell me at once what he said to you?

_Phil._ Control yourself. Do not give way to despair, because an

avaricious, presumptuous, ignorant father refuses to marry his daughter

respectably. There is a way to manage it in spite of him.

_De la Cot._ No, sir; when the father refuses, it is not proper for me

to persist.

_Phil._ Well, what do you mean to do?

_De la Cot._ To go far away, and to sacrifice my love to honour, duty,

and universal quiet.

_Phil._ And have you the heart to abandon a girl who loves you?--to

leave her a prey to despair?--soon to receive the sad intelligence of

her illness, perhaps of her death!

_De la Cot._ Ah, Monsieur Philibert, your words will kill me! if you

knew their force, you would be cautious how you used them.

_Phil._ My words will conduct you to joy, to peace, to happiness.

_De la Cot._ Ah, no! rather to sorrow and destruction.

_Phil._ It is strange that a man of spirit like you should be so easily

discouraged.

_De la Cot._ If you knew my case, you would not talk so.

_Phil._ I know it perfectly, but do not consider it desperate. The

girl loves you--you love her passionately. This will not be the first

marriage between young persons that has taken place without the consent

of parents.

_De la Cot._ Do you approve of my marrying the daughter without the

consent of the father?

_Phil._ Yes--in your case--considering the circumstances, I do approve

of it. If the father is rich, you are of a noble family. You do him

honour by the connection; he provides for your interest by a good dowry.

_De la Cot._ But, sir, how can I hope for any dowry when I marry his

daughter in this manner? The father, offended, will refuse her the least

support.

_Phil._ When it is done, it is done. He has but this only child; his

anger may last a few days, and then he must do what so many others have

done: he will receive you as his son-in-law, and perhaps make you master

of his house.

_De la Cot._ And may I hope for this?

_Phil._ Yes, if you have courage.

_De la Cot._ I do not want courage; the difficulty lies in the means.

_Phil._ There is no difficulty in the means. Hear my suggestions.

Mademoiselle Costanza must now be at her aunt's. Do what I tell you.

Give up your dinner to-day, as I shall do mine on your account. Go and

find her. If she loves you in earnest, persuade her to show her love

by her actions. If the aunt is favourable to your designs, ask her

protection, and then, if the girl consents, marry her.

_De la Cot._ And if the injured father should threaten to send me to

prison?

_Phil._ Carry her with you into France.

_De la Cot._ With what means? With what money?

_Phil._ Wait a moment. [_Goes and opens a bureau._]

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] Oh, Heavens! how unconscious is he that he is

encouraging me to an enterprise, of which the injury may fall on his own

head!

_Phil._ Take this. Here are a hundred guineas in gold, and four hundred

more in notes: these five hundred guineas will serve you for some time;

accept them from my friendship. I think I can make the father of the

girl return them to me.

_De la Cot._ Sir, I am full of confusion--

_Phil._ What confuses you? I am astonished at you! you want spirit; you

want courage. Go quickly, and do not lose a moment. In the meantime, I

will observe the movements of Monsieur Riccardo, and if there is any

danger of his surprising you, I will find persons to keep him away. Let

me know what happens, either in person or by note. My dear friend, you

seem already to have recovered your spirits. I rejoice for your sake.

May fortune be propitious to you!--[_Aside._] I am anxious to see

Monsieur Riccardo in a rage--in despair. [_Closes the bureau._]

_De la Cot._ [_Aside._] He gives me counsel, and money to carry it into

effect. What shall I resolve on? what plan shall I follow? Take fortune

on the tide; and he can blame no one but himself, who, contriving a

stratagem against another, falls into his own snare. [_Exit._

Monsieur Philibert, _alone_.

_Phil._ In truth, I feel some remorse of conscience for the advice and

aid I have given. I remember, too, that I have a daughter, and I would

not have such an injury done to me. Nature tells us, and the law commands,

not to do to others what we should not wish done to us. But I am carried

along by several reasons; a certain gentleness of disposition inclining

me to hospitality, to friendship, makes me love the Lieutenant, and

take almost the same interest in him as if he were my son. The marriage

appears to me to be a suitable one, the opposition of Monsieur Riccardo

unjust, and his severity to his daughter tyranny. Add to all this the

uncivil treatment I have received from him, the desire to be revenged,

and the pleasure of seeing his pride humbled. Yes, if I lose the five

hundred guineas, I shall have the satisfaction of seeing my friend made

happy, and Monsieur Riccardo mortified.

_Enter_ Mademoiselle Costanza.

_Cost._ Here I am, sir.

_Phil._ [_Disturbed._] What brings you here?

_Cost._ Did you not send for me?

_Phil._ [_As before._] Have you seen Monsieur de la Cotterie?

_Cost._ No, sir, I have not seen him.

_Phil._ Return at once to your aunt's.

_Cost._ Do you drive me from your house?

_Phil._ No, I do not drive you away, but I advise you I entreat. Go

quickly, I tell you.

_Cost._ I wish to know the reason.

_Phil._ You shall know it when you are at your aunt's.

_Cost._ Has anything new occurred?

_Phil._ Yes, there is something new.

_Cost._ Tell me what it is.

_Phil._ Monsieur de la Cotterie will tell you.

_Cost._ Where is he?

_Phil._ At your aunt's.

_Cost._ The Lieutenant has not been there.

_Phil._ He is this moment gone there.

_Cost._ What for?

_Phil._ Return; then you will know it.

_Cost._ Have you spoken to my father?

_Phil._ Yes; ask your husband that is to be.

_Cost._ My husband!

_Phil._ Yes, your husband.

_Cost._ Monsieur de la Cotterie?

_Phil._ Monsieur de la Cotterie.

_Cost._ May I rely on it?

_Phil._ Go directly to your aunt's.

_Cost._ Please tell me what has happened.

_Phil._ Time is precious; if you lose time, you lose your husband.

_Cost._ Ah me! I will run with all speed; would that I had wings to my

feet. [_Exit._

_Enter_ Mademoiselle Giannina.

_Phil._ Two words from the Lieutenant are worth more than a thousand

from me.

_Gian._ Is what Monsieur de la Cotterie has told me true, sir?

_Phil._ What has he told you?

_Gian._ That you advised him to marry the girl without the consent of

her father.

_Phil._ Did he tell you this in confidence?

_Gian._ Yes, sir.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] I am displeased at his indiscretion.

_Gian._ And that you gave him five hundred guineas to aid him in the

scheme.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] Imprudent! I am almost sorry I did so.

_Gian._ Your silence confirms it; it is true, then?

_Phil._ Well, what do you say to it?

_Gian._ Nothing, sir. It is enough for me to know you did it. Your

humble servant, sir.

_Phil._ Where are you going?

_Gian._ To amuse myself.

_Phil._ In what manner?

_Gian._ With the marriage of Monsieur de la Cotterie.

_Phil._ But it has not taken place yet.

_Gian._ I hope it soon will.

_Phil._ Be cautious--mention it to no one.

_Gian._ Never fear; it will be known as soon as it is over. You will

have the credit of contriving it, and I shall be most happy when it is

done. [_Exit._

_Phil._ [_Alone._] I hope she will not imitate this bad example; but

there is no danger. She is a good girl, and, like me, can distinguish

between cases, and understands what is proper; and as I know how she has

been brought up, under my own care, I have no apprehensions such a

misfortune may befall me.

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

ACT III.

SCENE I.--Philibert _and_ Marianna.

_Mar._ Excuse me for interrupting you again.

_Phil._ I suppose you have some new piece of nonsense?

_Mar._ I hope you will not again call me blockhead.

_Phil._ Not unless you utter more absurdities.

_Mar._ I have only to tell you I am just going to be married, and to

bespeak your kindness.

_Phil._ Then you have determined to marry before your mistress?

_Mar._ No, sir; she is to be married to-day, and I shall be married

to-morrow.

_Phil._ And you do not wish me to call you blockhead?

_Mar._ You still persist in concealing it from me?

_Phil._ Concealing what?

_Mar._ The marriage of my young lady.

_Phil._ Are you out of your senses?

_Mar._ Now, to show you I am not so foolish, I will own a fault I have

committed, from curiosity. I stood behind the hangings, and heard

Monsieur de la Cotterie talking with your daughter, and it is fixed on

that they are to be married privately this evening, and you have given

five hundred guineas on account of her portion.

_Phil._ On account of her portion! [_Laughing._]

_Mar._ Yes, I think on account of her portion; I saw the guineas with my

own eyes.

_Phil._ Yes, you are foolish, more foolish, most foolish.

_Mar._ [_Aside._] He vexes me so I hardly know what to do.

_Phil._ The Lieutenant, however, has acted very improperly; he ought not

to have mentioned it to my daughter, especially when there was danger of

being overheard.

_Mar._ If you hide it from me for fear I shall make it public, you do

wrong to my discretion.

_Phil._ Your discretion, indeed! you conceal yourself, listen to what

people are talking about, misunderstand them, and then report such

nonsense.

_Mar._ I was wrong to listen, I admit; but as to misunderstanding, I am

sure I heard right.

_Phil._ You will force me to say or do something not very pleasant.

_Mar._ Well, well! where did Mademoiselle Giannina go just now?

_Phil._ Where did she go?

_Mar._ Did she not go out with Monsieur de la Cotterie?

_Phil._ Where?

_Mar._ I heard they went to Madame Gertrude's.

_Phil._ To my sister's?

_Mar._ Yes, sir.

_Phil._ Giannina may have gone there, not the Lieutenant.

_Mar._ I know they went out together, sir.

_Phil._ The Lieutenant may have accompanied her; my sister's house is

near the place where he was to go; my daughter might choose to be at

hand to hear the news. I know all; everything goes on well, and I say

again you are a blockhead.

_Mar._ [_Aside._] This is too bad; I can scarcely keep my temper.

_Phil._ See who is in the hall--I hear some one.

_Mar._ [_Aside._] Oh, it will be excellent if a trick has been played on

the old gentleman! but it is impossible. [_Exit._

_Phil._ [_Alone._] Heaven grant it may end well! The imprudence of the

Lieutenant might have ruined the plot, but young persons are subject to

these indiscretions. I fortunately had sense enough when I was a young

man, and have more now I am old.

_Enter_ Gascoigne.

_Gas._ Your servant, Monsieur Philibert.

_Phil._ Good-day, my friend. What news have you?

_Gas._ My master sends his best compliments.

_Phil._ Where is the Lieutenant? What is he doing? How go his affairs?

_Gas._ I believe this note will give you full information.

_Phil._ Let us see. [_Opens it._]

_Gas._ [_Aside._] As he does not send me away, I will remain here.

_Phil._ [_To himself._] There is a paper enclosed, which seems to be

written by my daughter. Let us first know what my friend says.

_Gas._ [_Aside._] Marianna is listening behind the hangings; she is as

curious as I am.

_Phil._ [_Reading._] "Monsieur: Your advice has encouraged me to a step

which I should not have had the boldness to venture on, however urged

by the violence of my love." Yes, indeed, he wanted courage. "I have

carried Mademoiselle to a respectable and secure house, that is to say,

to her aunt's."

He must have met Costanza, and they have gone together. I did well to

send her quickly; all my own work!

"The tears of the girl softened the good old lady, and she assented

to our marriage." Excellent, excellent! it could not be better done.

"Orders were given for a notary to be called in, and the marriage

service was performed in the presence of two witnesses."

Admirable--all has gone on well. "I cannot express to you my confusion,

not having the courage to ask anything but your kind wishes; the rest

will be added in the writing of your daughter, whom you will more

readily pardon. I kiss your hand."

What does he want of me that he has not the courage to ask, and gets

my daughter to intercede? Let me read the enclosed. He must have gone

immediately to my sister's, to let Giannina know when the marriage was

over. Well, what says my daughter?

"Dear father." She writes well--a good mercantile hand; she is a fine

girl, God bless her. "Permit me, through this letter, to throw myself

at your feet, and to ask your pardon." Oh, Heavens! what has she done?

"Informed by yourself of the advice you had given to Monsieur de la

Cotterie, and of the money you furnished him with to carry it into

execution, I have yielded to my affection, and married the Lieutenant."

Oh, infamous! Deceiver! traitress! abandoned! They have killed me!

_Enter_ Marianna.

_Mar._ What has happened, sir?

_Phil._ Help me! support me! for Heaven's sake do not leave me!

_Mar._ How can such a blockhead help you?

_Phil._ You are right; laugh at me--abuse me--show me no mercy. I

deserve it all, and I give you full liberty to do so.

_Mar._ No; I feel compassion for you.

_Phil._ I am not worthy of your compassion.

_Gas._ Do not, sir, abandon yourself to despair; my master is an

honourable gentleman, of a noble family.

_Phil._ He has ruined my daughter; he has destroyed my hopes.

_Mar._ You are able to provide handsomely for him.

_Phil._ And shall my estate go in this way?

_Gas._ Pardon me, sir; the same arguments you urged to convince Monsieur

Riccardo may serve to convince yourself.

_Phil._ Ah, traitor! do you amuse yourself at my folly?

_Mar._ Gascoigne speaks to the purpose, and you have no right to

complain of him. [_With warmth._]

_Phil._ Yes, insult me, rejoice at my disgrace!

_Mar._ I have pity on you, blinded as you are by anger.

_Gas._ Condemn yourself for the fruits of your own bad advice.

_Phil._ Why deceive me? why make me believe the love of the officer was

for Mademoiselle Costanza?

_Gas._ Because love is full of stratagems, and teaches lovers to conceal

their passion, and to contrive schemes for their own happiness.

_Phil._ And if Monsieur Riccardo had agreed to the marriage of his

daughter, what a figure I should have made in the affair!

_Gas._ My master never asked you to interfere for him.

_Phil._ No, but he let me do it.

_Gas._ Say, rather, that you did not understand him.

_Phil._ In short, they have betrayed and cheated me; the conduct of my

daughter is treacherous, and that of the Lieutenant infamous.

_Gas._ You should speak more respectfully, sir, of an officer.

_Mar._ Remember, soldiers swear swords.

_Phil._ Yes, that is right; all he has to do now is to kill me.

_Gas._ My master has no such cruel design; you will soon see him come to

ask your pardon.

_Phil._ I do not wish to see him at all.

_Gas._ Your daughter, then, shall come instead of him.

_Phil._ Name her not to me.

_Mar._ Your own flesh and blood, sir!

_Phil._ Ungrateful! she was my love--my only joy.

_Gas._ What is done cannot be undone.

_Phil._ I know it, insolent--I know it too well.

_Gas._ Do not be offended with me, sir.

_Mar._ Have compassion on him, his anger overpowers him. My poor master!

he hoped to marry his daughter to a man of his own choice--to have her

always near him--to see his grandchildren around him--to delight in

their caresses, and to instruct them himself.

_Phil._ All my hopes are gone; no consolation is left for me.

_Gas._ Do you think, sir, your excellent son-in-law, a worthy Frenchman,

and a good soldier, cannot provide grandchildren for you?

_Mar._ Not a year shall pass, but you will see the finest boy in the

world gambolling around your feet.

_Phil._ My hatred for the father will make me hate the child.

_Mar._ Oh, the sense of consanguinity will cause you to forget every

injury.

_Gas._ You have one only daughter in the world; can you have the heart

to abandon her--never to see her more?

_Phil._ My anguish of mind will kill me. [_Covers his face with his

hands._]

_Mar._ Gascoigne!

_Gas._ What do you say?

_Mar._ Do you understand me? [_Makes a sign for him to go out._]

_Gas._ I understand.

_Mar._ Now is the time.

_Gas._ So it may prove.

_Phil._ What do you say?

_Mar._ I am telling Gascoigne to go away, to disturb you no longer, and

not to abuse your patience.

_Phil._ Yes, let him leave me.

_Gas._ Your servant, sir. Excuse me, if, after having committed such an

offence in your house, you see me no more. My master, as things appear

at present, will be forced to leave this, and to carry his wife to

France. Have you no message to your poor daughter?

_Phil._ Do you think he will go away so soon?

_Gas._ He told me, if he received no kind answer from you, to order

horses immediately.

_Mar._ It is a great grief to a father never to see his daughter again.

_Phil._ Is your master a barbarian? is he so ungrateful? Could I have

done more for him? And he has used me with the greatest inhumanity; to

seduce the heart of my daughter, and the whole time to conceal it from

me.

_Gas._ He would willingly have brought her to you before now, but for

the fear of your resentment.

_Phil._ Perfidious! I have to applaud him for his handsome action,--I

have to be grateful for his treachery; he shuns the reproaches of an

offended father,--he cannot bear to hear himself called traitor.

_Gas._ I understand; by your leave. [_Going._]

_Phil._ Tell him he must never dare to come in my presence; I do not

wish to see him,--I do not desire it.

_Gas._ [_Aside._] I understand perfectly; nature never fails. [_Exit._

_Mar._ [_Aside._] Matters will soon be accommodated.

_Phil._ [_To himself._] My own injury! this is good!--to my own injury!

_Mar._ To turn your thoughts from this subject, sir, may I now speak to

you concerning my own affairs?

_Phil._ I need nothing else to torment me but for you to talk of your

marriage. I hate the very word, and never wish to hear it again while I

live.

_Mar._ It seems, then, you want the world to come to an end.

_Phil._ For me it is ended.

_Mar._ My poor master! and where will your estate go--your riches?

_Phil._ May the devil take them!

_Mar._ You would die rich, and let your daughter live in want?

_Phil._ Poor unhappy girl!

_Mar._ And would you carry this hatred in your bosom, and feel remorse

at your death?

_Phil._ Be silent, devil! torture me no more.

_Enter_ Mademoiselle Costanza.

_Cost._ Monsieur Philibert, you have made sport of me.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] This was wanting to complete all.

_Cost._ I have been waiting two hours, and no one has appeared.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] I know not what answer to make.

_Cost._ Did you not urge me to return to my aunt's, telling me the

Lieutenant would be there?

_Mar._ My young lady, you shall hear how it was. The Lieutenant had to

go to the aunt's,--and to the aunt's he went. There he was to have an

understanding with Mademoiselle,--and he had an understanding with

Mademoiselle. But the poor gentleman mistook the house: instead of going

to Aunt Hortensia's he found himself at Aunt Gertrude's, and instead of

marrying Mademoiselle Costanza, he has married Mademoiselle Giannina.

_Cost._ Can it be possible they have laughed at and deceived me in this

manner? Speak, Monsieur Philibert; tell me truly what has been done, and

do not suppose me patient enough to submit to such an injury.

_Phil._ Oh, if I submit to it, you must submit too.

_Cost._ And what have you to submit to?

_Phil._ On your account I have been accessory to the ruin of my

daughter.

_Cost._ On my account?

_Phil._ Yes; the machine I contrived for you has fallen on my own head.

_Mar._ Fortunately my master's skull is reasonably thick.

_Cost._ I understand nothing of all this.

_Phil._ I will tell you plainly and distinctly the whole affair. Know

then--

_Enter_ Monsieur Riccardo.

_Ric._ [_To Costanza._] What are you doing here?

_Phil._ [_To himself._] Another torment!

_Cost._ Sir, you have never forbidden my coming here.

_Ric._ Well, now I forbid it. I know what you have come for; I know your

love for the foreigner, and your schemes against my authority and your

own honour.

_Phil._ [_To_ Riccardo, _with asperity._] You know nothing. If you knew

as much as I do, you would not speak so.

_Ric._ I speak so in consequence of what you told me this morning, and

no light matter it is; enough to make me forbid my daughter's coming to

your house.

_Mar._ Are you afraid they will marry her against your wishes?

_Ric._ I may well fear it.

_Mar._ Listen to me: if she does not marry my master, there is nobody

else here for her to marry.

_Ric._ Where is the Frenchman--the officer?

_Mar._ Shall I tell him, sir?

_Phil._ Ah! he will hear it soon enough.

_Mar._ Know, then, the officer has presumed to marry my young mistress.

_Ric._ Ah! [_With surprise._]

_Phil._ Oh! [_With vexation._]

_Cost._ This is the wrong I apprehended. Ah, my father, resent the

insult they have offered to me! They have made use of me to accomplish

their designs; they have flattered me to expose me to ridicule; and the

injury I have received is an insult to our family.

_Ric._ Yes, I will resent the insult they have offered to me. You I will

send to a convent; and Monsieur Philibert makes amends for his offence

by his own shame.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] Quite right--I deserve yet more.

_Cost._ [_Aside._] Wretched me! to what am I brought by my passion, my

wretchedness, and disobedience!

_Phil._ My dear friend, excuse my impatient manner. I acknowledge

the injustice I have done you, and Heaven punishes me rightly for my

improper intentions. Ah, Monsieur Riccardo, I have lost my daughter!--I

contrived my own disgrace!

_Ric._ Lost! she is only married--not entirely lost.

_Phil._ I fear I shall never see her again. Who knows but that monster

has already carried her away? I gave him five hundred guineas to carry

away my heart--my daughter--my only daughter--my love--my only love! Ah,

could I embrace her once more! I wish to know if she is gone; I want to

see her again. If she is gone, I will kill myself with my own hand.

[_Going, meets his daughter._]

_Enter_ Mademoiselle Giannina, _and a little after_, De la Cotterie.

_Gian._ Ah, dearest father!

_Phil._ Ah, most ungrateful daughter!

_Gian._ For mercy's sake, pardon me! [_Throws herself on her knees._]

_Phil._ Do you deserve pardon?

_Gian._ Your anger is most just.

_Phil._ [_Aside._] I shall not survive it; I must die.

_Ric._ Both are to be pitied.

_Cost._ [_Aside._] I shall be revenged if her father refuses to forgive

her.

_Phil._ Rise.

_Gian._ I will not rise without your pardon.

_Phil._ How could you have the heart to cause me so great an affliction?

_Gian._ Ah, sir, your advice--

_Phil._ Not a word of it! torture me no more; never mention again my own

folly and weakness. Rise; on that condition I pardon you.

_Gian._ Oh, dearest father! [_Rises._]

_Cost._ [_Aside._] She obtains forgiveness on easy terms.

_Gian._ Ah, sir, let your grace extend--

_Phil._ Do not speak to me of your husband!

_Gian._ Oh, give him a place in your heart, or I shall be forced to

leave you.

_Phil._ Perfidious! to talk so to your father!

_Gian._ Conjugal duty will oblige me to take this step.

_Phil._ Oh, hard fate of a father! but it is just--I deserve more.

_Ric._ My friend, the act is done, there is no remedy. I advise you to

be reconciled to him before your curious mishap is known throughout the

whole city.

_Phil._ [_To_ Costanza.] I entreat you, Mademoiselle--I entreat you not

to make it known, for the sake of my honour and reputation. [_To_

Marianna.] I tell you not to speak of it. My daughter, mention it to no

one.

_Gian._ No, for the love of Heaven, let nobody hear of it. Quick! let

everything be settled before any one leaves this room. Quick, my dear

husband, come here; throw yourself at my father's feet, ask his pardon,

kiss his hand; and do you pardon him, receive him for a son-in-law and

for a son. Quick! hush! that no one may hear of it. [_She rapidly does

everything as she says it._]

_Phil._ [_Aside._] I am confounded; I know not what to say.

_Cost._ He has not the firmness to resist the sight of his ungrateful

daughter. [_Exit._

_De la Cot._ Have I your pardon, sir?

_Phil._ Do you think you deserve it?

_Gian._ For Heaven's sake, say no more! We must take care that nobody

shall know what has happened. My father is anxious to save the honour of

his family; and, above all things, I charge you never to urge in your

justification that he advised the scheme, and gave you five hundred

guineas to carry it into execution.

_Phil._ [_To_ Giannina, _with asperity._] I commanded you not to mention

it.

_Gian._ I was only informing my husband of your commands.

_Ric._ Well, Monsieur Philibert, are you reconciled?

_Phil._ What can I do? I am constrained by necessity, by affection, by

my own kind disposition, to be reconciled to them. You are husband and

wife, you are in my house, remain here, and may Heaven bless you!

_Gian._ Oh, perfect happiness!

_De la Cot._ I hope, sir, you will never repent of your pardon and

kindness to me.

_Mar._ Hush! quick! that nobody may know it.

_Phil._ What now?

_Mar._ Hush! quick! There is a little affair of mine to be finished.

Gascoigne is to be my husband, with the permission of our masters.

_Gas._ [_To his master._] By your leave, sir. [_Gives her his hand._]

_Mar._ Hush! quick! that nobody may know it.

_Gian._ Against your marriage nothing can be said; mine may be

condemned. I confess that I have exceeded the limits of duty, that I

have been wanting in respect to my father, and have exposed to hazard my

own honour and the reputation of my family. Those who now see me happy,

and not punished, must be cautious not to follow a bad example; let them

rather say it has pleased Heaven to mortify the father, and not that the

daughter is exempt from remorse and regret. Most kind spectators, let

the moral of this representation be a warning to families, and may

whatever enjoyment you derive from it be consistent with the principles

of duty and of virtue.

THE END OF "A CURIOUS MISHAP."

THE BENEFICENT BEAR[2]

(_IL BURBERO BENEFICO_)

(_LE BOURRU BIENFAISANT_)

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

[2: In order to render the exact shade of meaning of the Italian

title, it has been necessary to adopt the colloquial phrase.]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

GERONTE.

DALANCOURT, _his nephew._

DORVAL, _the friend of Geronte._

VALERIO, _the lover of Angelica._

PICCARDO, _the servant of Geronte._

A SERVANT _of Dalancourt._

MADAME DALANCOURT.

ANGELICA, _sister of Dalancourt._

MARTUCCIA, _housekeeper to Geronte._

_The Scene is in Paris, at the house of_ GERONTE.

THE BENEFICENT BEAR.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--Martuccia, Angelica, _and_ Valerio.

_Ang._ Valerio, leave me, I entreat you; I fear for myself, I fear for

you. Ah! if we should be surprised--

_Val._ My dear Angelica!

_Mar._ Do go, sir.

_Val._ [_To_ Martuccia.] One moment more. If I could be well assured--

_Mar._ Of what?

_Val._ Of her love--of her constancy.

_Ang._ Ah, Valerio! can you doubt it?

_Mar._ Go, go, sir; she loves you but too well.

_Val._ This is the happiness of my life--

_Mar._ Quick, go away. If my master should come in suddenly!

_Ang._ [_To_ Martuccia.] He never leaves his room so early.

_Mar._ That is true; but you know he walks and amuses himself in this

room. Here are his chessmen, and here he often plays. Oh, don't you know

Signor Geronte?

_Val._ Pardon me, he is Angelica's uncle. I know my father was his

friend, but I have never spoken to him.

_Mar._ He is a man, sir, of a most singular character. At bottom a most

worthy man, but impatient, and peculiar to the last degree.

_Ang._ Yes, he tells me he loves me, and I believe him; but while he

tells me so, he makes me tremble.

_Val._ [_To_ Angelica.] What have you to fear? you have neither father

nor mother. You are at your brother's disposal, and he is my friend; I

will speak to him.

_Mar._ Ah! Exactly! Trust to Signor Dalancourt.

_Val._ Well, can he refuse me?

_Mar._ Indeed, I think he can.

_Val._ Why so?

_Mar._ Listen; I will explain the whole matter in a few words. My

nephew, your brother the lawyer's new clerk, has told me what I will now

tell you. He has been with him only a fortnight, I heard it from him

this morning; but he confided it to me as the greatest secret: for

Heaven's sake do not betray me!

_Val._ Do not fear.

_Ang._ You know me.

_Mar._ [_Speaking in a low tone to_ Valerio, _and looking towards the

door_.] Signor Dalancourt is a ruined man, overwhelmed. He has run

through all his fortune, and perhaps his sister's dowry too. Angelica

is a burden too great for him to bear, and to free himself from it, he

means to shut her up in a convent.

_Ang._ Oh, Heavens! What do you tell me?

_Val._ Can it be possible? I have known him a long time. Dalancourt

always appeared to me a young man of good sense and honourable

principles; sometimes impetuous, and apt to take offence, but--

_Mar._ Impetuous--oh, most impetuous!--a match for his uncle, but far

from having his uncle's excellent feelings.

_Val._ He is esteemed, beloved by every one. His father was perfectly

satisfied with him.

_Mar._ Ah, sir, since his marriage he is no longer the same man.

_Val._ Can it be that Madame Dalancourt--

_Mar._ Yes, she, they say, is the cause of this great change. Signor

Geronte is deeply offended with his nephew for his foolish compliance

with the whims of his wife, and--I know nothing, but I would lay a wager

that this plan of the convent is of her contrivance.

_Ang._ [_To_ Martuccia.] You surprise me. My sister-in-law, whom I

looked on as so discreet, who showed me so much friendship! I never

could have thought it.

_Val._ I know her, and cannot believe it.

_Mar._ Surely you are not serious? Does any lady dress more elegantly?

Is there any new fashion that she does not immediately adopt? At balls

and plays, is she not always the first?

_Val._ But her husband is ever at her side.

_Ang._ Yes, my brother never leaves her.

_Mar._ Well, they are both fools, and both will be ruined together.

_Val._ It is impossible.

_Mar._ Very well, very well. I have told you what you wanted to know.

Now go at once, and do not expose my mistress to the danger of losing

her uncle's favour. He alone can be of any service to her.

_Val._ Keep calm, Angelica. No question of interest shall ever form an

obstacle.

_Mar._ I hear a noise. Go at once. [_Exit_ Valerio.

_Ang._ How miserable I am!

_Mar._ There's your uncle coming. Did I not tell you so?

_Ang._ I am going.

_Mar._ No, remain here, and open your heart to him.

_Ang._ I would as soon put my hand in the fire.

_Mar._ Come, come; he is sometimes a little hasty, but he has not a bad

heart.

_Ang._ You direct his household, you have influence with him; speak to

him for me.

_Mar._ No, you must speak to him yourself; all I can do is to hint at

the matter, and dispose him to listen to you.

_Ang._ Yes, yes, say something to him, and I will speak to him

afterwards. [_Going._]

_Mar._ Remain here.

_Ang._ No, no; when it is time, call me. I shall not be far off.

[_Exit_ Angelica.

Martuccia, _alone_.

_Mar._ How gentle she is--how amiable. I have been with her from her

babyhood. I love her; I am distressed for her, and wish to see her

happy. Here he is.

_Enter_ Geronte.

_Ger._ [_To_ Martuccia.] Where's Piccardo?

_Mar._ Signor--

_Ger._ Call Piccardo!

_Mar._ Yes, sir. But may I say one word to you?

_Ger._ [_Very impatiently._] Piccardo, Piccardo!

_Mar._ [_In the same tone._] Piccardo, Piccardo!

_Enter_ Piccardo.

_Pic._ Here, sir; here, sir.

_Mar._ [_To_ Piccardo _angrily._] Your master--

_Pic._ [_To_ Geronte.] Here I am, sir.

_Ger._ Go to my friend Dorval, and tell him I am waiting to play a game

of chess with him.

_Pic._ Yes, sir, but--

_Ger._ But what?

_Pic._ I have a commission--

_Ger._ To do what?

_Pic._ From your nephew.

_Ger._ [_In a passion._] Go to Dorval's.

_Pic._ He wishes to speak to you.

_Ger._ Begone, sir!

_Pic._ What a man! [_Exit._

_Ger._ A madman--a miserable creature! No, I will not see him; I will

not permit him to come and disturb my tranquillity. [_Goes to the

table._]

_Mar._ [_Aside._] There, he is in a rage at once. Most unfortunate for

me.

_Ger._ [_Sitting down._] What a move that was I made yesterday! what a

fatality! How in the world could I be checkmated with a game so well

arranged? Let me see; this game kept me awake the whole night. [_Looking

over the game._]

_Mar._ May I speak to you, sir?

_Ger._ No.

_Mar._ No! But I have something important to say to you.

_Ger._ Well, what have you to say? let me hear it.

_Mar._ Your niece wishes to speak to you.

_Ger._ I have no time now.

_Mar._ Really! Is what you are about, then, of such very great

importance?

_Ger._ Yes, of the utmost importance; I don't often amuse myself, and

then I do not choose to be plagued to death. Do you hear?

_Mar._ This poor girl--

_Ger._ What has happened to her?

_Mar._ They want to shut her up in a convent.

_Ger._ In a convent!--To shut my niece in a convent! to dispose of my

niece without my approbation, without my knowing anything about it!

_Mar._ You know your nephew's embarrassments.

_Ger._ I have nothing to do with my nephew's embarrassments, nor his

wife's follies. He has his own property; if he squanders it, if he ruins

himself, so much the worse for him. But as for my niece, I am the head

of the family, I am the master; it is for me to provide for her.

_Mar._ So much the better for her, sir, so much the better. I am glad to

see you get so warm in the dear girl's behalf.

_Ger._ Where is she?

_Mar._ She is near, sir. Wait a moment--

_Ger._ Let her come in.

_Mar._ Yes, she most earnestly desires to do so, but--

_Ger._ But what?

_Mar._ She is timid.

_Ger._ Well, what then?

_Mar._ If you speak to her--

_Ger._ I must speak to her.

_Mar._ Yes, but in this tone of voice--

_Ger._ The tone of my voice hurts nobody; let her come and rely on my

heart, not on my tone of voice.

_Mar._ That is true, sir. I know you; you are good, humane, charitable;

but I entreat you, do not frighten the poor girl; speak to her with a

little gentleness.

_Ger._ Yes, I will speak to her with gentleness.

_Mar._ You promise me?

_Ger._ I promise you.

_Mar._ Do not forget it.

_Ger._ [_Beginning to be impatient._] No.

_Mar._ Above all, do not get impatient.

_Ger._ [_Impatiently._] I tell you, no.

_Mar._ I tremble for Angelica. [_Exit._

Geronte, _alone_.

_Ger._ She is right; I sometimes suffer myself to be carried away by my

irritable temper. My niece deserves to be treated with tenderness.

_Enter_ Angelica.--_She remains at a distance._

_Ger._ Come near.

_Ang._ Sir? [_Timidly advancing one step._]

_Ger._ [_Warmly._] How can you expect me to hear you when you are three

miles off?

_Ang._ Excuse me, sir. [_She approaches him, trembling._]

_Ger._ What have you to say to me?

_Ang._ Has not Martuccia told you something?

_Ger._ [_At first gently, then by degrees he gets excited._] Yes, she

has spoken to me of you, of that insensate brother of yours, that

extravagant fellow, who suffers himself to be led by the nose by his

silly wife, who is ruined, utterly lost, and has no longer any respect

for me. [_Angelica moves as though to go away._] Where are you going?

[_Very impetuously._]

_Ang._ You are angry, sir.

_Ger._ Well, what is that to you? If I get angry at a blockhead, I am

not angry with you. Come near; speak; you must not be afraid of my

anger.

_Ang._ My dear uncle, I can't speak to you unless I see you calm.

_Ger._ What martyrdom! Well, I am calm. Speak. [_Trying to compose

himself._]

_Ang._ Martuccia, sir, has told you--

_Ger._ I don't mind what Martuccia says. I want to hear it from

yourself.

_Ang._ My brother--

_Ger._ Your brother--

_Ang._ Wishes to shut me up in a convent.

_Ger._ Well, do you wish to go into a convent?

_Ang._ But, sir--

_Ger._ [_With warmth._] Well! Speak.

_Ang._ It is not for me to decide.

_Ger._ [_With a little more warmth._] I do not say it is for you to

decide, but I want to know your inclination.

_Ang._ You make me tremble, sir.

_Ger._ [_Aside, restraining himself._] I shall burst with rage.--Come

near. I understand, then, a convent is not to your liking?

_Ang._ No, sir.

_Ger._ For what have you an inclination?

_Ang._ Sir--

_Ger._ Do not be afraid. I am calm. Speak freely.

_Ang._ Ah! I have not the courage.

_Ger._ Come here. Do you wish to be married?

_Ang._ Sir--

_Ger._ Yes or no?

_Ang._ If you desire--

_Ger._ Yes or no?

_Ang._ Well, yes--

_Ger._ Yes! you wish to be married! to lose your liberty, your

tranquillity! Very well; so much the worse for you. Yes, I will marry

you.

_Ang._ [_Aside._] How good he is for all his hasty temper!

_Ger._ Have you an inclination for any one in particular?

_Ang._ [_Aside._] Now, if I had the courage to speak to him of Valerio!

_Ger._ Well, have you any lover?

_Ang._ [_Aside._] This is not the opportune moment. I will get Martuccia

to speak to him.

_Ger._ Come, come, let us end the matter. The house in which you live,

the persons you see, may perhaps have led you to form an attachment. I

wish to know the truth. Yes, I will do something handsome for you, but

on the condition that you deserve it. Do you understand? [_With great

warmth._]

_Ang._ [_Trembling._] Yes, sir.

_Ger._ Speak openly, frankly. Have you any attachment? [_In the same

tone._]

_Ang._ [_Hesitating and trembling._] But--no, sir.--No, sir, I have

none.

_Ger._ So much the better. I will find a husband for you.

_Ang._ Oh, God! I should not like, sir--

_Ger._ What is it?

_Ang._ You know my timidity.

_Ger._ Yes, yes, your timidity. I know womankind; now you are a dove,

but get married, and you will be a hawk.

_Ang._ Ah, my uncle! since you are so good--

_Ger._ Yes, too good.

_Ang._ Let me tell you--

_Ger._ Dorval not come yet! [_Going to the table._]

_Ang._ Hear me, my dear uncle.

_Ger._ Don't disturb me now. [_Intent on the chessboard._]

_Ang._ One single word--

_Ger._ [_Impatiently._] Enough has been said.

_Ang._ [_Aside._] Oh, Heaven! I am more unhappy than ever. Ah, my dear

Martuccia will not abandon me! [_Exit._

Geronte, _alone_.

_Ger._ She is a good girl; I would willingly do all I can for her. If

she had any attachment, I would endeavour to please her, but she has

none. I will see, I will look about. But what in the world detains

Dorval? Is he never coming? I long to try that cursed combination again

that made me lose the last game. Certainly, I ought to have won it--he

did not beat me, I beat myself. I must have lost my senses. Let us

see a little. My pieces were placed so, and Dorval's so. I moved the

king to his castle's square; Dorval placed his bishop on his king's

second square. I--check--yes, I take the pawn--Dorval--he takes my

bishop,--Dorval--yes, he takes my bishop, and I--give check with my

knight. By Jove! Dorval loses his queen. He plays his king, and I take

his queen. Yes, the fellow, with his king, has taken my knight. But so

much the worse for him. Now he is in my nets; his king is fast. Here is

my queen; Yes, here she is. Checkmate. It is clear. Checkmate, and the

game is won. Ah! if Dorval would come, he should see it.--[_Calls._]

Piccardo!

_Enter_ Dalancourt.

_Dal._ [_Apart, and in much confusion._] My uncle is alone; if he will

listen to me!

_Ger._ I will place the pieces as they were at first. [_Not seeing_

Dalancourt, _he calls loudly._] Piccardo!

_Dal._ Sir--

_Ger._ [_Without turning, and supposing he is speaking to_ Piccardo.]

Well, have you found Dorval?

_Enter_ Dorval.

_Dor._ Here I am, my friend.

_Dal._ [_With resolution._] My uncle.

_Ger._ [_Turning, sees_ Dalancourt, _rises quickly, throws down the

chair, and goes out without speaking._]

SCENE II.--Dalancourt _and_ Dorval.

_Dor._ [_Laughing._] What is the meaning of this scene?

_Dal._ It is dreadful! All this because he has seen me.

_Dor._ [_In the same manner._] Geronte is my friend. I know his

disposition perfectly.

_Dal._ I am sorry on your account.

_Dor._ Indeed, I came at an unlucky time.

_Dal._ Excuse his violence.

_Dor._ [_Smiling._] Oh, I'll scold him; I'll scold him.

_Dal._ Ah, my friend, you are the only person who can do anything for me

with him.

_Dor._ I will do what I can, with all my heart, but--

_Dal._ I agree that, from appearances, my uncle has reason to be

offended with me; but if he could read the bottom of my heart, all his

affection for me would return, and he would never repent it.

_Dor._ Yes, I know your character, and I believe everything might be

hoped from you; but your wife--

_Dal._ My wife, sir! Ah, you do not know her. All the world is mistaken

about her, and my uncle especially. I must do her justice, and let the

truth be known. She knows nothing of the embarrassments by which I

am overwhelmed. She thought me richer than I was, and I have always

concealed my affairs from her. I love her. We were married very young. I

have never permitted her to ask for anything--to want anything. I have

always endeavoured to anticipate her wishes, and to provide for her

pleasures. In this way I have ruined myself. [_Earnestly._]

_Dor._ To please a lady--to anticipate her desires! That is no easy

task.

_Dal._ I am certain, had she known my situation, she would have been the

first to forbid the expenses I have indulged in to please her.

_Dor._ Yet she did not forbid them.

_Dal._ No, because she had no fear--

_Dor._ My poor friend!

_Dal._ [_Afflicted._] Indeed I am poor.

_Dor._ [_Still smiling._] I pity you.

_Dal._ [_With warmth._] You are making a jest of me.

_Dor._ [_Still laughing._] By no means; but--you love your wife

prodigiously?

_Dal._ Yes, I love her; I have always loved her, and shall love her as

long as I live; I know her, know all her worth, and will not suffer any

one to accuse her of faults which she has not.

_Dor._ [_Seriously._] Gently, my friend, gently; you have a little too

much of the family hastiness.

_Dal._ [_With much warmth._] Pardon me, I would not for the world offend

you; but when my wife is spoken of--

_Dor._ Well, well, let us speak of her no more.

_Dal._ But I wish you to be convinced.

_Dor._ [_Coldly._] Yes, I am convinced.

_Dal._ [_With much earnestness._] No, you are not.

_Dor._ [_A little excited._] Excuse me, I tell you I am.

_Dal._ Very well, I believe you, and am delighted that you are. Now, my

dear friend, speak to my uncle on my behalf.

_Dor._ Most willingly will I do so.

_Dal._ How much obliged to you I shall be!

_Dor._ But we must be able to give him some reasons. How have you

managed to ruin yourself in so short a time? It is only four years since

your father died, leaving you a handsome fortune, and it is said you

have spent it all.

_Dal._ If you knew all the misfortunes that have happened to me! Seeing

my affairs were in disorder, I wished to remedy them, and the remedy was

worse than the disease: I listened to new schemes, engaged in new

speculations, pledged my property, and have lost everything.

_Dor._ Here lies the error--new projects; the ruin of many another man.

_Dal._ And my condition is utterly hopeless.

_Dor._ You have been very wrong, my friend, especially as you have a

sister.

_Dal._ Yes; and it is now time to think of providing for her.

_Dor._ Every day she grows more beautiful. Madame Dalancourt receives

much company in her house, and youth, my dear friend, sometimes--you

understand me?

_Dal._ Regarding this point, I have on reflection found an expedient; I

think of placing her in a convent.

_Dor._ Place her in a convent! A good plan; but have you consulted your

uncle?

_Dal._ No; he will not hear me; but you must speak to him for me and for

Angelica. My uncle esteems and loves you, listens to you, confides in

you, and will refuse you nothing.

_Dor._ I have great doubts of this.

_Dal._ I am sure of it. Pray try to see him, and speak to him at once.

_Dor._ I will do so; but where is he gone?

_Dal._ I will find out.--Let us see--Is any one there? [_Calls._

_Enter_ Piccardo.

_Pic._ [_To_ Dalancourt.] Here, sir.

_Dal._ Is my uncle gone from home?

_Pic._ No, sir; he went into the garden.

_Dal._ Into the garden! at this time of day?

_Pic._ For him it is all the same. When he is a little out of temper,

he walks about and goes out to take the air.

_Dor._ I will go and join him.

_Dal._ I know my uncle, sir; you must give him time to get calm. It is

better to wait for him here.

_Dor._ But if he goes out, he may not return here again.

_Pic._ [_To_ Dorval.] Pardon me, sir, it will not be long before he is

here: I know his temper, a few minutes will be sufficient. I can assure

you he will be much pleased to see you.

_Dal._ Well, my dear friend, go into his room. Do me the favour to wait

for him there.

_Dor._ Willingly; I understand perfectly how cruel your situation is.

Some remedy must be provided; yes, I will speak to him, but on

condition--

_Dal._ [_With warmth._] I give you my word of honour.

_Dor._ It is sufficient.

[_Exit into_ Geronte's _room._

_Dal._ You did not tell my uncle what I told you to tell him?

_Pic._ Pardon me, sir, I have told him, but he drove me away, according

to his custom.

_Dal._ I am sorry for it; let me know when the moment is favourable for

me to speak to him. Some day I will reward you for your services.

_Pic._ I am much obliged to you, sir; but, thank Heaven, I am in want of

nothing.

_Dal._ You are rich, then?

_Pic._ I am not rich, but I have a master who will not let me want for

anything. I have a wife and four children, and ought to be in the

greatest straits of any man in the world; but my master is so good, that

I support them without difficulty, and distress is unknown in my house.

[_Exit._

Dalancourt, _alone_.

_Dal._ Ah, my uncle is an excellent man. If Dorval can have any

influence over him--If I can hope to receive assistance equal to my

wants--If I can keep it concealed from my wife--Ah, why have I deceived

her? Why have I deceived myself? My uncle does not return. Every minute

is precious for me. In the meantime, I will go to my lawyer's. Oh, with

what pain I go to him! It is true, he flatters me that, notwithstanding

the decree, he will find means to gain time; but quibbles are so odious,

my feelings suffer, and my honour is affected. Wretched are they who are

forced to resort to expedients so discreditable.

_Enter_ Madame Dalancourt.

_Dal._ Here comes my wife. [_Seeing her._]

_Mad._ Ah, my husband! are you here? I have been looking everywhere for

you.

_Dal._ I was going out.

_Mad._ I met that savage just now; he is scolding and scolding wherever

he goes.

_Dal._ Do you mean my uncle?

_Mad._ Yes. Seeing a ray of sunshine, I went to walk in the garden, and

there I met him. He was stamping his feet, talking to himself, but in a

loud voice. Tell me, has he any married servants in his house?

_Dal._ Yes.

_Mad._ It must have been this. He said a great many had things of the

husband and wife; very bad, I assure you.

_Dal._ [_Aside._] I can easily imagine of whom he spoke.

_Mad._ He is really insupportable.

_Dal._ You must treat him with respect.

_Mad._ Can he complain of me? I have failed in nothing; I respect his

age, and his quality as your uncle. If I laugh at him sometimes when we

are alone, you pardon it. Except this, I have for him all possible

respect. But tell me sincerely, has he any for you or for me? He treats

us with the greatest asperity; he hates us as much as he can, and now

his contempt for me has become excessive: yet I must caress him and pay

court to him.

_Dal._ [_Embarrassed._] But--when it is so easy to do so--he is our

uncle. Besides, we may have need of him.

_Mad._ Need of him! we! how? Have we not means of our own to live in

decency? You are not extravagant; I am reasonable. For myself, I desire

no more than for you to provide for me as you have done. Let us continue

to live with the same moderation, and we shall be independent of every

one.

_Dal._ [_In a passionate manner._] Let us continue to live with the same

moderation!

_Mad._ Yes, indeed; I have no vanity. I ask nothing more of you.

_Dal._ [_Aside._] How unhappy I am!

_Mad._ But you seem to me to be disturbed--thoughtful. What is the

matter? you are not easy.

_Dal._ You are mistaken, there is nothing the matter.

_Mad._ Pardon me, I know you. If you have any sorrow, why hide it from

me?

_Dal._ [_More embarrassed._] I am thinking of my sister. I will tell you

the whole.

_Mad._ Your sister! But why of her? She's the best girl in the world--I

love her dearly. Hear me. If you will trust her to me, I will relieve

you of this burden, and at the same time make her happy.

_Dal._ How?

_Mad._ You think of placing her in a convent, and I know, on good

authority, it will be against her wishes.

_Dal._ [_A little warmly._] At her age, ought she to be asked what she

wishes or does not wish?

_Mad._ No; she has understanding enough to submit to the will of her

friends; but why not marry her?

_Dal._ She is too young.

_Mad._ Good! was I older than she when we were married?

_Dal._ [_Excitedly._] Well, must I go about from door to door looking

for a man to wed her?

_Mad._ Listen to me, my husband, and do not disturb yourself, I pray. If

I guess aright, I am sure Valerio loves her, and that she too is

attached to him.

_Dal._ [_Aside._] Heavens, how much I have to suffer!

_Mad._ You know him. Can there be a better match for Angelica?

_Dal._ [_Much embarrassed._] We will see--we will talk of it.

_Mad._ Do me the favour to leave the management of this affair to me; I

have a great desire to succeed in it.

_Dal._ [_In the greatest embarrassment._] Madame?

_Mad._ What say you?

_Dal._ It cannot be.

_Mad._ No! why not?

_Dal._ Will my uncle consent to it?

_Mad._ And if he does not? I do not wish that we should be wanting in

our duty to him, but you are the brother of Angelica. Her fortune is in

your hands--whether it is more or less depends on you alone. Let me

assure myself of their inclination, and on the subject of interest, I

would soon arrange that.

_Dal._ [_Anxiously._] No; if you love me, do not meddle with it.

_Mad._ Are you then averse to marrying your sister?

_Dal._ On the contrary.

_Mad._ What then?

_Dal._ I must go now. I will talk with you about it on my return.

[_Going._]

_Mad._ Are you displeased at my interference?

_Dal._ Not at all.

_Mad._ Hear me. Perhaps it is concerning her fortune?

_Dal._ I know nothing about it. [_Exit._

_Mad._ What does this conduct mean? I do not comprehend it. It is

impossible that my husband--No, he is too wise to have anything to

reproach himself with.

SCENE III.--_Enter_ Angelica.

_Ang._ If I could speak with Martuccia! [_Not seeing_ Madame D.]

_Mad._ Sister!

_Ang._ [_Uneasily._] Madame!

_Mad._ Where are you going, sister?

_Ang._ [_Uneasily._] I am going away, Madame.

_Mad._ Ah! then you are offended?

_Ang._ I have reason to be so.

_Mad._ Are you angry with me?

_Ang._ Why, Madame?

_Mad._ Hear me, my child; if you are disturbed about the affair of the

convent, do not think I have any hand in it. It is just the reverse; I

love you, and will do all I can to render you happy.

_Ang._ [_Aside, weeping._] What duplicity!

_Mad._ What's the matter? you are weeping.

_Ang._ [_Aside._] How much she has deceived me! [_Wipes her eyes._]

_Mad._ What cause have you for sorrow?

_Ang._ Oh, the embarrassments of my brother.

_Mad._ The embarrassments of your brother!

_Ang._ Yes; no one knows them better than you.

_Mad._ What do you say? Explain yourself, if you please.

_Ang._ It is needless.

_Enter_ Geronte, _and then_ Piccardo.

_Ger._ [_Calls._] Piccardo!

_Pic._ Here, sir. [_Coming out of_ Geronte's _apartment._]

_Ger._ [_With impatience._] Well, where is Dorval?

_Pic._ He is waiting for you, sir, in your room.

_Ger._ He in my room, and you said nothing about it?

_Pic._ You did not give me time, sir.

_Ger._ [_Seeing_ Angelica _and_ Madame D., _he speaks to_ Angelica,

_turning as he speaks towards_ Madame D., _that she may hear him._] What

are you doing here? I wish to have none of your family. Go away.

_Ang._ My dear uncle--

_Ger._ I tell you, go. [_Exit_ Angelica, _mortified._

_Mad._ I ask your pardon, sir.

_Ger._ [_Turning towards the door by which_ Angelica _has gone out,

but from time to time looking at_ Madame D.] This is strange. This is

impertinent. She wants to annoy me. There is another staircase for going

down into the other apartment. I will shut up this door.

_Mad._ Do not be offended, sir; as to myself, I assure you--

_Ger._ [_He wants to go into his room, but not to pass_ Madame D., _and

says to_ Piccardo.] Tell me, is Dorval in my room?

_Pic._ Yes, sir.

_Mad._ [_Perceiving the embarrassment of_ Geronte, _steps back._] Pass

on, sir; I will not be in your way.

_Ger._ [_Passing, salutes her._] My lady--I will shut up the door.

[_Goes into his room, and_ Piccardo _follows him._]

_Mad._ What a strange character! but it is not this that disturbs me.

What distresses me is the anxious manner of my husband, and Angelica's

words. I doubt; I fear; I wish to know the truth, and dread to discover

it.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

SCENE I.--Geronte _and_ Dorval.

_Ger._ Let us go on with our game, and talk no more of it.

_Dor._ But it concerns your nephew.

_Ger._ A blockhead! A helpless creature, who is the slave of his wife,

and the victim of his vanity.

_Dor._ More gentleness, my friend, more gentleness.

_Ger._ And you, with your calmness, you will drive me mad.

_Dor._ What I say is right.

_Ger._ Take a chair. [_Sits down._]

_Dor._ [_In a compassionate tone, while he is going to the chair._] Poor

young man!

_Ger._ Let us see the game of yesterday.

_Dor._ [_In the same tone._] You will lose--

_Ger._ Perhaps not; let us see--

_Dor._ I say you will lose--

_Ger._ No, I am sure not.

_Dor._ Unless you assist him, you will certainly lose him.

_Ger._ Lose whom?

_Dor._ Your nephew.

_Ger._ [_With impatience._] Eh! I was speaking of the game. Sit down.

_Dor._ I will play willingly, but first listen to me--

_Ger._ You are always talking to me of Dalancourt.

_Dor._ Well, if it be so?

_Ger._ I will not listen to you.

_Dor._ Then you hate him--

_Ger._ No, sir, I hate nobody.

_Dor._ But if you do not wish--

_Ger._ No more--play. Let us go on with the game, or I shall go away.

_Dor._ One single word, and I have done.

_Ger._ Very well.

_Dor._ You have some property?

_Ger._ Yes, thank Heaven!

_Dor._ More than you want?

_Ger._ Yes, some over with which I can serve my friends.

_Dor._ And you will give nothing to your nephew?

_Ger._ Not a farthing.

_Dor._ It follows--

_Ger._ It follows?

_Dor._ That you hate him.

_Ger._ It follows that you do not know what you say. I hate, I detest

his manner of thinking, his abominable conduct; to give him money would

be only to nourish his vanity, his prodigality, his folly. Let him

change his system, and I will change when he does. I wish repentance to

deserve favours, not favours to prevent repentance.

_Dor._ [_After a moment's silence, he seems convinced, and says, with

much gentleness_] Let us play.

_Ger._ Let us play.

_Dor._ I am distressed at it. }

}

_Ger._ Check to the king. }[_Playing._]

}

_Dor._ And this poor girl! }

_Ger._ Who?

_Dor._ Angelica.

_Ger._ [_Leaving the game._] Ah, as to her, it is another affair. Speak

to me of her.

_Dor._ She must suffer, too.

_Ger._ I have thought of it, and have foreseen it. I shall marry her.

_Dor._ Excellent! she deserves it.

_Ger._ Is she not a most engaging young lady?

_Dor._ Yes, truly.

_Ger._ Happy is the man who shall possess her. [_Reflects a moment, and

then calls_] Dorval!

_Dor._ My friend?

_Ger._ Hear me.

_Dor._ [_Rising._] What would you say?

_Ger._ If you wish her, I will give her to you.

_Dor._ Who?

_Ger._ My niece.

_Dor._ What?

_Ger._ What! what! are you deaf? Do you not understand me? [_Animated._]

I speak clearly--if you wish to have her, I give her to you.

_Dor._ Ah! ah!

_Ger._ And if you marry her, besides her fortune, I will give her of my

own a hundred thousand francs. Eh! what say you to it?

_Dor._ My friend, you do me much honour.

_Ger._ I know who you are; I am certain by this step to secure the

happiness of my niece.

_Dor._ But--

_Ger._ But what?

_Dor._ Her brother?

_Ger._ Her brother! Her brother has nothing to do with it; it is for me

to dispose of her; the law, the will of my brother--I am master here.

Come, make haste, decide upon the spot.

_Dor._ Your proposal is not to be decided on in a moment. You are too

impetuous.

_Ger._ I see no obstacle; if you love her, if you esteem her, if she

suits you, it is all done.

_Dor._ But--

_Ger._ But--but--Let us hear your but.

_Dor._ Does the disproportion between sixteen and forty-five years

appear to you a trifle?

_Ger._ Nothing at all. You are still a young man; and I know Angelica,

she has no foolish notions.

_Dor._ She may have a liking for some other person?

_Ger._ She has none.

_Dor._ Are you sure of it?

_Ger._ Most certain; quick--let us conclude it. I will go to my

notary's; he shall draw up the contract: she is yours.

_Dor._ Softly, my friend, softly.

_Ger._ [_With heat._] What now? Do you wish still to vex me--to annoy me

with your slowness--with your cold blood?

_Dor._ Then you wish--

_Ger._ Yes, to give you a sensible, honest, virtuous girl, with a

hundred thousand crowns for her fortune, and a hundred thousand livres

at her marriage. Perhaps I affront you?

_Dor._ By no means; you do me an honour I do not deserve.

_Ger._ [_With warmth._] Your modesty on this occasion is most

inopportune.

_Dor._ Do not get angry; do you wish me to take her?

_Ger._ Yes.

_Dor._ Then I take her--

_Ger._ [_With joy._] Indeed!

_Dor._ But on condition--

_Ger._ Of what?

_Dor._ That Angelica consents to it.

_Ger._ Do you make no other obstacle?

_Dor._ No other.

_Ger._ I am delighted. I answer for her.

_Dor._ So much the better if you are sure.

_Ger._ Most sure--most certain. Embrace me, my dear nephew.

_Dor._ Let us embrace, my dear uncle.

[Dalancourt _enters by the middle door; sees his uncle; listens as he

passes; goes towards his own apartment, but stops at his own door to

listen._]

_Ger._ This is the happiest day of my life.

_Dor._ My dear friend, how very kind you are!

_Ger._ I am going to the notary's. This very day it shall all be

concluded. [_Calls._] Piccardo!

_Enter_ Piccardo.

_Ger._ My cane and hat. [_Exit_ Piccardo.

_Dor._ I will now go home.

[Piccardo _returns, and gives his master his cane and hat, and

withdraws._ Dalancourt _is still at his door._]

_Ger._ No, no, you must wait here for me; I will soon return. You must

dine with me.

_Dor._ I have to write; I must send for my agent, who is a league from

Paris.

_Ger._ Go into my room and write; send your letter by Piccardo.

Yes, Piccardo will carry it himself; Piccardo is an excellent young

man--sensible--faithful. Sometimes I scold him, but I am very fond of

him.

_Dor._ Well, since you are determined, it shall be so; I will write in

your room.

_Ger._ Now it is all concluded.

_Dor._ Yes, we agree.

_Ger._ [_Taking his hand._] Your word of honour?

_Dor._ [_Giving his hand._] My word of honour.

_Ger._ My dear nephew! [_Exit at the last words, showing joy._

SCENE II.--Dalancourt _and_ Dorval.

_Dor._ In truth, all this seems to me a dream. I marry!--I, who have

never thought of such a thing!

_Dal._ Ah, my dear friend, I know not how to express my gratitude to

you.

_Dor._ For what?

_Dal._ Did I not hear what my uncle said? He loves me, he feels for me;

he has gone to his notary; he has given you his word of honour. I see

plainly what you have done for me; I am the most fortunate man in the

world.

_Dor._ Do not flatter yourself so much, my dear friend, for the good

fortune you imagine has not the least foundation in truth.

_Dal._ How then?

_Dor._ I hope, in time, to be able to do you a service with him; and

hereafter I may have some title to interest myself in your behalf; but

till then--

_Dal._ [_With warmth._] For what, then, did he give you his word of

honour?

_Dor._ I will tell you at once; he did me the honour to propose your

sister to me as a wife.

_Dal._ [_With joy._] My sister! Do you accept?

_Dor._ Yes, if you approve it.

_Dal._ You overwhelm me with joy; you surprise me. As regards her

fortune, you know my situation.

_Dor._ About that we will say nothing.

_Dal._ My dear brother, let me, with all my heart, embrace you.

_Dor._ I flatter myself that your uncle on this occasion--

_Dal._ Here is a connection to which I shall owe my happiness. I am in

great need of it. I have been to my lawyer's, and did not find him.

_Enter_ Madame Dalancourt.

_Dal._ [_Seeing his wife._] Ah, Madame!

_Mad._ [_To_ Dalancourt.] I have been waiting for you with impatience. I

heard your voice.

_Dal._ My wife, here is Signor Dorval; I present him to you as my

brother-in-law, as the husband of Angelica.

_Mad._ [_With joy._] Indeed!

_Dor._ I shall be highly pleased, Madame, if my happiness meets with

your approbation.

_Mad._ I am rejoiced at it, sir; I congratulate you with all my heart.

[_Aside._] What did he mean by speaking of the embarrassments of my

husband?

_Dal._ [_To_ Dorval.] Is my sister informed of it?

_Dor._ I think not.

_Mad._ [_Aside._] Then it was not Dalancourt who made the match.

_Dal._ Do you wish me to bring her here?

_Dor._ No, do not bring her; there may still be a difficulty.

_Dal._ What is it?

_Dor._ Her consent.

_Dal._ Fear nothing; I know Angelica, and your circumstances and merit.

Leave it to me; I will speak to my sister.

_Dor._ No, my dear friend, do not, I beg you, do not let us spoil the

affair; leave it to Signor Geronte.

_Dal._ As you please.

_Mad._ [_Aside._] I comprehend nothing of all this.

_Dor._ I am going into your uncle's room to write; he has given me

permission, and he has told me expressly to wait for him there, so

excuse me; we shall soon see each other again.

[_Exit into_ Geronte's _apartment._

SCENE III.--Dalancourt _and_ Madame Dalancourt.

_Mad._ From what I hear, it appears you are not the person who marries

your sister?

_Dal._ [_Embarrassed._] My uncle marries her.

_Mad._ Has your uncle mentioned it to you? Has he asked your consent?

_Dal._ [_With a little warmth._] My consent! Did you not see Dorval? Did

he not tell me of it? Do you not call this asking my consent?

_Mad._ [_A little warmly._] Yes. It is an act of civility on the part of

Dorval, but your uncle has said nothing to you.

_Dal._ [_Embarrassed._] What do you mean by that?

_Mad._ I mean, he thinks us of no account.

_Dal._ [_Warmly._] You take the worst view of everything. This is

terrible! You are insupportable.

_Mad._ [_Mortified._] I insupportable! you find me insupportable! [_With

much tenderness._] Ah, my husband! this is the first time such an

expression has ever escaped from your lips. You must be in a state of

great uneasiness so to forget your affection for me.

_Dal._ [_Aside._] Ah! too true.--My dear wife, I ask your pardon with

all my heart. But you know my uncle; do you desire to offend him still

more? Do you wish me to hinder my sister? The match is a good one;

nothing can be said against it. My uncle has chosen it; so much the

better. Here is one embarrassment the less for you and me. [_With joy._]

_Mad._ Come, come, I am glad you take it in good part; I praise and

admire your conduct. But permit me to make one suggestion: Who is to

attend to the necessary preparations for a young lady going to be

married? Is your uncle to have this trouble? Will it be proper? will it

be correct?

_Dal._ You are right; but there is time, we will talk of it.

_Mad._ Hear me: you know I love Angelica. The ungrateful girl does not

deserve I should care for her; but she is your sister.

_Dal._ How! you call my sister ungrateful! Why so?

_Mad._ Do not let us speak of it now; some other time, when we are

alone, I will explain to you. And then--

_Dal._ No; I wish to hear it now.

_Mad._ Have patience, my dear husband.

_Dal._ No, I tell you; I wish to know at once.

_Mad._ Well, as you wish it, I must satisfy you.

_Dal._ [_Aside._] How I tremble!

_Mad._ Your sister--

_Dal._ Proceed.

_Mad._ I believe she is too much on your uncle's side.

_Dal._ Why?

_Mad._ She told me--yes, me--that your affairs were embarrassed, and

that--

_Dal._ That my affairs were embarrassed;--and do you believe it?

_Mad._ No. But she spoke to me in such a manner as to make me think she

suspected I was the cause of it, or at least, that I had contributed to

it.

_Dal._ [_A little excitedly._] You! she suspects you!

_Mad._ Do not be angry, my dear husband. I know very well her want of

judgment.

_Dal._ [_With feeling._] My dear wife!

_Mad._ Do not be distressed. Believe me, I shall think no more of it. It

all arises from him; your uncle is the cause of it all.

_Dal._ Oh no! my uncle has not a bad heart.

_Mad._ He not a bad heart? Heavens! the worst in the world! Has he not

shown it to me?--But I forgive him.

_Enter a_ Servant.

_Ser._ Here is a letter for you, sir.

_Dal._ Give it to me. [_He takes the letter. Exit_ Servant.] Let us see

it. [_Agitated._] This is the hand of my lawyer. [_Opens the letter._]

_Mad._ What does he write?

_Dal._ Excuse me for a moment. [_He retires apart, reads, and shows

displeasure._]

_Mad._ [_Aside._] There must be some bad news.

_Dal._ [_Aside, after reading the letter._] I am ruined!

_Mad._ [_Aside._] My heart beats!

_Dal._ [_Aside._] My poor wife! what will become of her? How can I tell

her?--I have not the courage.

_Mad._ [_Weeping._] My dear Dalancourt, tell me, what is it? Trust your

wife: am I not the best friend you have?

_Dal._ Take it and read: this is my situation. [_Gives her the letter._]

[_Exit._

Madame Dalancourt, _alone_.

_Mad._ I tremble.--[_Reads._] "_Sir, all is lost; the creditors will not

subscribe. The decree was confirmed. I inform you of it as soon as

possible; be on your guard, for your arrest is ordered._"--What do I

read! what do I read! My husband in debt, in danger of losing his

liberty! Can it be possible? He does not gamble, he has no bad habits;

he is not addicted to unusual luxury.--By his own fault--may it not then

be my fault? Oh, God! what a dreadful ray of light breaks in upon me!

The reproofs of Angelica, the hatred of Signor Geronte, the contempt he

shows for me, day after day! The bandage is torn from my eyes: I see the

errors of my husband, I see my own. Too much love has been his fault, my

inexperience has made me blind. Dalancourt is culpable, and I perhaps am

equally so. What remedy is there in this cruel situation? His uncle

only--yes--his uncle can help him;--but Dalancourt--he must be now in a

state of humiliation and distress--and if I am the cause of it, though

involuntarily, why do I not go myself? Yes--I ought to throw myself at

Geronte's feet--but, with his severe, unyielding temper, can I flatter

myself I shall make any impression on him? Shall I go and expose myself

to his rudeness? Ah! what matters it? Ah! what is my mortification

compared to the horrible condition of my husband? Yes, I will run! This

thought alone ought to give me courage. [_She goes towards Geronte's

apartment._]

_Enter_ Martuccia.

_Mar._ Madame, what are you doing here? Signor Dalancourt is in despair.

_Mad._ Heavens! I fly to his assistance. [_Exit._

_Mar._ What misfortunes!--what confusion! If it be true she is the cause

of it, she well deserves--Who comes here?

_Enter_ Valerio.

_Mar._ Why, sir, do you come here now? You have chosen an unfortunate

time. All the family is overwhelmed with sorrow.

_Val._ I do not doubt it. I just come from Signor Dalancourt's lawyer. I

have offered him my purse and my credit.

_Mar._ This is a praiseworthy action. Nothing can be more generous than

your conduct.

_Val._ Is Signor Geronte at home?

_Mar._ No; the servant told me he saw him with his notary.

_Val._ With his notary?

_Mar._ Yes; he is always occupied with some business. But do you wish to

speak with him?

_Val._ Yes, I wish to speak with them all. I see with sorrow the

confusion of Dalancourt's affairs. I am alone. I have property, and

can dispose of it. I love Angelica, and am come to offer to marry

her without a portion, and to share with her my lot and my fortune.

_Mar._ This resolution is worthy of you. No one could show more esteem,

more love, and more generosity.

_Val._ Do you think I may flatter myself?--

_Mar._ Yes, and especially as she enjoys the favour of her uncle, and he

desires to marry her.

_Val._ [_With joy._] He desires to marry her?

_Mar._ Yes.

_Val._ But if he wishes to marry her, he also wishes to propose a match

that is to his taste?

_Mar._ [_After a moment's silence._] It may be so.

_Val._ And can this be any comfort to me?

_Mar._ Why not? [_To_ Angelica, _who enters timidly._] Come in, my young

lady.

_Ang._ I am terribly frightened.

_Val._ [_To_ Angelica.] What is the matter?

_Ang._ My poor brother--

_Mar._ Is he just the same?

_Ang._ Rather better. He is a little more tranquil.

_Mar._ Hear me. This gentleman has told me something very consoling for

you and for your brother.

_Ang._ For him too?

_Mar._ If you knew what a sacrifice he is disposed to make!

_Val._ [_Aside to_ Martuccia.] Say nothing of it. [_Turning to_

Angelica.] Can any sacrifice be too great for you?

_Mar._ But it must be mentioned to Signor Geronte.

_Val._ My dear friend, if you will take the trouble.

_Mar._ Willingly. What shall I say to him? Let us see. Advise me. But I

hear some one. [_She goes towards the apartment of_ Signor Geronte.]

[_To_ Valerio.] It is Signor Dorval. Do not let him see you. Let us go

into my room, and there we can talk at our ease.

_Val._ [_To_ Angelica.] If you see your brother--

_Mar._ Come, sir, let us go--quick. [_She goes out and takes him with

her._]

SCENE IV.--Angelica, _and then_ Dorval.

_Ang._ [_Aside._] What have I to do with Signor Dorval? I can go away.

_Dor._ Mademoiselle Angelica!

_Ang._ Sir?

_Dor._ Have you seen your uncle? Has he told you nothing?

_Ang._ I saw him this morning, sir.

_Dor._ Before he went out of the house?

_Ang._ Yes, sir.

_Dor._ Has he returned?

_Ang._ No, sir.

_Dor._ [_Aside._] Good. She knows nothing of it.

_Ang._ Excuse me, sir. Is there anything new in which I am concerned?

_Dor._ Your uncle takes much interest in you.

_Ang._ [_With modesty._] He is very kind.

_Dor._ [_Seriously._] He thinks often of you.

_Ang._ It is fortunate for me.

_Dor._ He thinks of marrying you. [Angelica _appears modest._] What say

you to it? Would you like to be married?

_Ang._ I depend on my uncle.

_Dor._ Shall I say anything more to you on the subject?

_Ang._ [_With a little curiosity._] But--as you please, sir.

_Dor._ The choice of a husband is already made.

_Ang._ [_Aside._] Oh, heavens! I tremble.

_Dor._ [_Aside._] She seems to be pleased.

_Ang._ [_Trembling._] Sir, I am curious to know--

_Dor._ What, Mademoiselle?

_Ang._ Do you know who is intended for me?

_Dor._ Yes, and you know him too.

_Ang._ [_With joy._] I know him too?

_Dor._ Certainly, you know him.

_Ang._ May I, sir, have the boldness--

_Dor._ Speak, Mademoiselle.

_Ang._ To ask you the name of the young man?

_Dor._ The name of the young man?

_Ang._ Yes, if you know him.

_Dor._ Suppose he were not so young?

_Ang._ [_Aside, with agitation._] Good Heavens!

_Dor._ You are sensible--you depend on your uncle--

_Ang._ [_Trembling._] Do you think, sir, my uncle would sacrifice me?

_Dor._ What do you mean by sacrificing you?

_Ang._ Mean--without the consent of my heart. My uncle is so good--But

who could have advised him--who could have proposed this match? [_With

temper._]

_Dor._ [_A little hurt._] But this match--Mademoiselle--Suppose it were

I?

_Ang._ [_With joy._] You, sir? Heaven grant it!

_Dor._ [_Pleased._] Heaven grant it?

_Ang._ Yes, I know you; I know you are reasonable. You are sensible; I

can trust you. If you have given my uncle this advice, if you have

proposed this match, I hope you will now find some means of making him

change his plan.

_Dor._ [_Aside._] Eh! this is not so bad.--[_To_ Angelica.]

Mademoiselle--

_Ang._ [_Distressed._] Signor?

_Dor._ [_With feeling._] Is your heart engaged?

_Ang._ Ah, sir--

_Dor._ I understand you.

_Ang._ Have pity on me!

_Dor._ [_Aside._] I said so, I foresaw right; it is fortunate for me I

am not in love--yet I began to perceive some little symptoms of it.

_Ang._ But you do not tell me, sir.

_Dor._ But, Mademoiselle--

_Ang._ You have perhaps some particular interest in the person they wish

me to marry?

_Dor._ A little.

_Ang._ [_With temper and firmness._] I tell you I shall hate him.

_Dor._ [_Aside._] Poor girl! I am pleased with her sincerity.

_Ang._ Come, have compassion; be generous.

_Dor._ Yes, I will be so, I promise you; I will speak to your uncle in

your favour, and will do all I can to make you happy.

_Ang._ [_With joy and transport._] Oh, how dear a man you are! You are

my benefactor, my father. [_Takes his hand._]

_Dor._ My dear girl!

_Enter_ Geronte.

_Ger._ [_In his hot-tempered manner, with animation._] Excellent,

excellent! Courage, my children, I am delighted with you. [Angelica

_retires, mortified_; Dorval _smiles_.] How! does my presence alarm

you? I do not condemn this proper show of affection. You have done well,

Dorval, to inform her. Come, my niece, embrace your future husband.

_Ang._ [_In consternation._] What do I hear?

_Dor._ [_Aside and smiling._] Now I am unmasked.

_Ger._ [_To_ Angelica, _with warmth._] What scene is this? Your modesty

is misplaced. When I am not present, you are near enough to each other;

when I come in, you go far apart. Come here.--[_To_ Dorval, _with

anger_.] And do you too come here.

_Dor._ [_Laughing._] Softly, my friend.

_Ger._ Why do you laugh? Do you feel your happiness? I am very willing

you should laugh, but do not put me in a passion; do you hear, you

laughing gentleman? Come here and listen to me.

_Dor._ But listen yourself.

_Ger._ [_To_ Angelica, _and endeavouring to take her hand._] Come near,

both of you.

_Ang._ [_Weeping._] My uncle!

_Ger._ Weeping! What's the matter, my child? I believe you are making a

jest of me. [_Takes her hand, and carries her by force to the middle of

the stage; then turns to_ Dorval, _and says to him, with an appearance

of heat_] You shall escape me no more.

_Dor._ At least let me speak.

_Ger._ No, no!

_Ang._ My dear uncle--

_Ger._ [_With warmth._] No, no. [_He changes his tone and becomes

serious._] I have been to my notary's, and have arranged everything; he

has taken a note of it in my presence, and will soon bring the contract

here for us to subscribe.

_Dor._ But will you listen to me?

_Ger._ No, no. As to her fortune, my brother had the weakness to leave

it in the hands of his son; this will no doubt cause some obstacle on

his part, but it will not embarrass me. Every one who has transactions

with him suffers. The fortune cannot be lost, and in any event I will be

responsible for it.

_Ang._ [_Aside._] I can bear this no longer.

_Dor._ [_Embarrassed._] All proceeds well, but--

_Ger._ But what?

_Dor._ The young lady may have something to say in this matter.

[_Looking at_ Angelica.]

_Ang._ [_Hastily and trembling._] I, sir?

_Ger._ I should like to know if she can say anything against what I do,

what I order, and what I wish. My wishes, my orders, and what I do, are

all for her good. Do you understand me?

_Dor._ Then I must speak myself.

_Ger._ What have you to say?

_Dor._ That I am very sorry, but this marriage cannot take place.

_Ger._ Not take place! [Angelica _retreats frightened_; Dorval _also

steps back two paces._] [_To_ Dorval.] You have given me your word of

honour.

_Dor._ Yes, on condition--

_Ger._ [_Turning to_ Angelica.] It must then be this impertinent. If I

could believe it! if I had any reason to suspect it! [_Threatens her._]

_Dor._ [_Seriously._] No, sir, you are mistaken.

_Ger._ [_To_ Dorval. Angelica _seizes the opportunity and makes her

escape._] It is you, then, who refuse? So you abuse my friendship and

affection for you!

_Dor._ [_Raising his voice._] But hear reason--

_Ger._ What reason? what reason? There is no reason. I am a man of

honour, and if you are so too, it shall be done at once. [_Turning

round, he calls_] Angelica!

_Dor._ What possesses the man? He will resort to violence on the spot.

[_Runs off._]

Geronte, _alone._

_Ger._ Where is she gone? Angelica! Hallo! who's there? Piccardo!

Martuccia! Pietro! Cortese!--But I'll find her. It is you I want.

[_Turns round, and, not seeing_ Dorval, _remains motionless._] What! he

treat me so! [_Calls._] Dorval! my friend! Dorval--Dorval! my friend!

Oh, shameful--ungrateful! Hallo! Is no one there? Piccardo!

_Enter_ Piccardo.

_Pic._ Here, sir.

_Ger._ You rascal! Why don't you answer?

_Pic._ Pardon me, sir, here I am.

_Ger._ Shameful! I called you ten times.

_Pic._ I am sorry, but--

_Ger._ Ten times! It is scandalous.

_Pic._ [_Aside, and angry._] He is in a fury now.

_Ger._ Have you seen Dorval?

_Pic._ Yes, sir.

_Ger._ Where is he?

_Pic._ He is gone.

_Ger._ How is he gone?

_Pic._ [_Roughly._] He is gone as other people go.

_Ger._ Ah, insolent! do you answer your master in this manner? [_Very

much offended, he threatens him and makes him retreat._]

_Pic._ [_Very angrily._] Give me my discharge, sir.

_Ger._ Your discharge--worthless fellow! [_Threatens him and makes him

retreat._ Piccardo _falls between the chair and the table._ Geronte

_runs to his assistance and helps him up_.]

_Pic._ Oh! [_He leans on the chair, and shows much pain._]

_Ger._ Are you hurt? Are you hurt?

_Pic._ Very much hurt; you have crippled me.

_Ger._ Oh, I am sorry! Can you walk?

_Pic._ [_Still angry._] I believe so, sir. [_He tries, and walks

badly._]

_Ger._ [_Sharply._] Go on.

_Pic._ [_Mortified._] Do you drive me away, sir?

_Ger._ [_Warmly._] No. Go to your wife's house, that you may be taken

care of. [_Pulls out his purse and offers him money._] Take this to get

cured.

_Pic._ [_Aside, with tenderness._] What a master!

_Ger._ Take it. [_Giving him money._]

_Pic._ [_With modesty._] No, sir, I hope it will be nothing.

_Ger._ Take it, I tell you.

_Pic._ [_Still refusing it._] Sir--

_Ger._ [_Very warmly._] What! you refuse my money? Do you refuse it from

pride, or spite, or hatred? Do you believe I did it on purpose? Take

this money. Take it. Come, don't put me in a passion.

_Pic._ Do not get angry, sir. I thank you for all your kindness. [_Takes

the money._]

_Ger._ Go quickly.

_Pic._ Yes, sir. [_Walks badly._]

_Ger._ Go slowly.

_Pic._ Yes, sir.

_Ger._ Wait, wait; take my cane.

_Pic._ Sir--

_Ger._ Take it, I tell you! I wish you to do it.

_Pic._ [_Takes the cane._] What goodness! [_Exit._

_Enter_ Martuccia.

_Ger._ It is the first time in my life that--Plague on my temper!

[_Taking long strides._] It is Dorval who put me in a passion.

_Mar._ Do you wish to dine, sir?

_Ger._ May the devil take you! [_Runs out and shuts himself in his

room._]

_Mar._ Well, well! He is in a rage: I can do nothing for Angelica

to-day; Valerio can go away. [_Exit._

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

ACT III.

SCENE I.--Piccardo _and_ Martuccia.

_Mar._ What, have you returned already?

_Pic._ [_With his master's cane._] Yes, I limp a little: but I was more

frightened than hurt; it was not worth the money my master gave me to

get cured.

_Mar._ It seems misfortunes are sometimes profitable.

_Pic._ [_With an air of satisfaction._] Poor master! On my honour,

this instance of his goodness affected me so much, I could hardly help

shedding tears; if he had broken my leg, I should have forgiven him.

_Mar._ What a heart he has! Pity he has so great a failing.

_Pic._ But what man is there without defects?

_Mar._ Go and look for him; you know he has not dined yet.

_Pic._ Why not?

_Mar._ My son, there are misfortunes, terrible misfortunes, in this

house.

_Pic._ I know all; I met your nephew, he told me all: this the reason I

have returned so soon. Does my master know it?

_Mar._ I think not.

_Pic._ Ah, how it will distress him!

_Mar._ Certainly--and poor Angelica.

_Pic._ But Valerio?

_Mar._ Valerio--Valerio is here now; he will not go away. He is still in

the apartment of Signor Dalancourt: encourages the brother, takes care

of the sister, consoles Madame;--one weeps, another sighs, the other is

in despair; all is in confusion.

_Pic._ Did you not promise to speak to my master?

_Mar._ Yes, I should have spoken to him, but he is too angry just now.

_Pic._ I am going to look for him, to carry him his cane.

_Mar._ Go; and if you see the tempest a little calmed, tell him

something concerning the unhappy state of his nephew.

_Pic._ Yes, I'll speak to him, and I'll let you know what passes.

[_Opens the door softly, enters the room, and then shuts it._]

_Mar._ Yes, dear friend, go softly.--This Piccardo is an excellent young

man, amiable, polite, obliging; he is the only person in the house to my

liking. I do not so easily become friends with everybody.

_Enter_ Dorval.

_Dor._ [_In a low tone, and smiling._] Ah, Martuccia!

_Mar._ Your servant, sir.

_Dor._ Is Signor Geronte still angry?

_Mar._ It would not be strange if the storm were over. You know him

better than any one else.

_Dor._ He is very angry with me.

_Mar._ With you, sir? He angry with you!

_Dor._ [_Smiling._] There is no doubt of it; but it is nothing; I know

him. I am sure as soon as we meet he will be the first to embrace me.

_Mar._ Nothing is more likely. He loves you, esteems you, you are his

only friend. It is singular--he, a man always in a passion, and you--I

say it with respect--the most tranquil man in the world.

_Dor._ It is exactly for this reason our friendship has continued so

long.

_Mar._ Go and look for him.

_Dor._ No; it is too soon. I want first to see Angelica. Where is she?

_Mar._ With her brother. You know the misfortunes of her brother?

_Dor._ [_With an expression of sorrow._] Ah, too well: everybody is

talking of them.

_Mar._ And what do they say?

_Dor._ Don't ask me: the good pity him, the hard-hearted make a jest of

him, and the ungrateful abandon him.

_Mar._ Oh, Heaven! And the poor girl?

_Dor._ Must I speak of her too?

_Mar._ May I ask how she will fare in this confusion? I take so much

interest in her, that you ought to tell me.

_Dor._ [_Smiling._] I have learned that one Valerio--

_Mar._ Ah, ah! Valerio!

_Dor._ Do you know him?

_Mar._ Very well, sir; it is all my own work.

_Dor._ So much the better; will you aid me?

_Mar._ Most willingly.

_Dor._ I must go and be certain if Angelica--

_Mar._ And also if Valerio--

_Dor._ Yes, I will go to him too.

_Mar._ Go then into Dalancourt's apartment; you will there kill two

birds with one stone.

_Dor._ How?

_Mar._ He is there.

_Dor._ Valerio?

_Mar._ Yes.

_Dor._ I am glad of it; I will go at once.

_Mar._ Stop; shall I not tell him you are coming?

_Dor._ Good! such ceremony with my brother-in-law!

_Mar._ Your brother-in-law?

_Dor._ Yes.

_Mar._ How?

_Dor._ Do you not know?

_Mar._ Nothing at all.

_Dor._ Then you shall know another time. [_Goes into_ Dalancourt's

_apartment.]

_Mar._ He is out of his senses.

_Enter_ Geronte.

_Ger._ [_Speaking while he is turning towards the door of his room._]

Stop there, I will send the letter by some one else; stop there, it

shall be so. [_Turning to_ Martuccia.] Martuccia!

_Mar._ Sir?

_Ger._ Get a servant to take this letter directly to Dorval. [_Turning

towards the door of his apartment._] He is not well, he walks lame, and

yet he would take it. [_To_ Martuccia.] Go.

_Mar._ But, sir--

_Ger._ Well, let us hear.

_Mar._ But Dorval--

_Ger._ [_Impatiently._] Yes, to Dorval's house.

_Mar._ He is here.

_Ger._ Who?

_Mar._ Dorval.

_Ger._ Where?

_Mar._ Here.

_Ger._ Dorval here?

_Mar._ Yes, sir.

_Ger._ Where is he?

_Mar._ In Signor Dalancourt's room.

_Ger._ [_Angrily._] In Dalancourt's room! Dorval in Dalancourt's room!

Now I see how it is, I understand it all. Go and tell Dorval from

me--but no--I do not want you to go into that cursed room; if you set

your foot in it, I will discharge you. Call one of the servants of that

fellow--no, I don't want any of them--go yourself--yes, yes, tell him to

come directly--do you hear?

_Mar._ Shall I go, or not go?

_Ger._ Go! don't make me more impatient. [Martuccia _goes into_

Dalancourt's _room._]

Geronte, _alone_.

_Ger._ Yes, it must be so; Dorval has discovered into what a terrible

abyss this wretched man has fallen; yes, he knew it before I did, and if

Piccardo had not told me, I should be still in the dark. It is exactly

so. Dorval fears a connection with a ruined man; that is it. But I must

look further into it to be more certain. Yet why not tell me? I would

have persuaded him--I would have convinced him.--But why did he not tell

me? He will say, perhaps, that my violence did not give him an

opportunity. This is no excuse: he should have waited, he should not

have gone away; my resentment would have been over, and he might have

spoken to me. Unworthy, treacherous, perfidious nephew! you have

sacrificed your happiness and your honour. I love you, culpable as you

are. Yes, I love you too much; but I will discard you from my heart and

from my thoughts. Go hence--go and perish in some other place. But where

can he go? No matter, I'll think of him no more;--your sister alone

interests me; she only deserves my tenderness, my kindness. Dorval is

my friend; Dorval shall marry her. I will give them all my estate--I

will leave the guilty to their punishment, but will never abandon the

innocent.

SCENE II.--_Enter_ Dalancourt.

_Dal._ Ah, my uncle, hear me for pity's sake! [_He throws himself in

great agitation at_ Geronte's _feet._]

_Ger._ [_Sees_ Dalancourt, _then draws back a little._] What do you

want? Rise.

_Dal._ [_In the same posture._] My dear uncle, you see the most unhappy

of men; have mercy! listen to me!

_Ger._ [_A little moved, but still in anger._] Rise, I say.

_Dal._ [_On his knees._] You, who have a heart so generous, so feeling,

will you abandon me for a fault which is the fault of love only, and an

honest, virtuous love? I have certainly done wrong in not profiting by

your advice, in disregarding your paternal tenderness; but, my dear

uncle, in the name of your brother, to whom I owe my life, of that blood

which flows in the veins of us both, let me move you--let me soften your

feelings.

_Ger._ [_By degrees relents, wipes his eyes, yet not letting_ Dalancourt

_see, and says in a low tone_] What! you have still the courage?

_Dal._ It is not the loss of fortune that afflicts me; a sentiment more

worthy of you oppresses me--my honour. Can you bear the disgrace of a

nephew? I ask nothing of you; if I can preserve my reputation, I give

you my word, for myself and my wife, that want shall have no terrors for

us, if, in the midst of our misery, we can have the consolation of an

unsullied character, our mutual love, and your affection and esteem.

_Ger._ Wretched man! you deserve--but I am weak; this foolish regard

for blood speaks in favour of this ingrate. Rise, sir; I will pay your

debts, and perhaps place you in a situation to contract others.

_Dal._ [_Moved._] Ah, no, my uncle! I promise you, you shall see in my

conduct hereafter--

_Ger._ What conduct, inconsiderate man? That of an infatuated husband

who suffers himself to be guided by the caprices of his wife, a vain,

presumptuous, thoughtless woman--

_Dal._ No, I swear to you, my wife is not in fault; you do not know her.

_Ger._ [_Still more excited._] You defend her? You maintain what is

false in my presence? Take care! but a little more, and on account of

your wife I will retract my promise; yes, yes, I will retract it--you

shall have nothing of mine. Your wife!--I cannot bear her. I will not

see her.

_Dal._ Ah, my uncle, you tear my heart!

_Enter_ Madame Dalancourt.

_Mad._ Ah, sir! you think me the cause of all the misfortunes of your

nephew; it is right that I alone should bear the punishment. The

ignorance in which I have lived till now, I see, is not a sufficient

excuse in your eyes. Young, inexperienced, I have suffered myself to be

guided by a husband who loved me. The world had attractions for me; evil

examples seduced me. I was satisfied, and thought myself happy, but I am

guilty in appearance, and that is enough. That my husband may be worthy

of your kindness, I submit to your fatal decree. I will withdraw from

your presence, yet I ask one favour of you: moderate your anger against

me; pardon me--my youth--have compassion on my husband, whom too much

love--

_Ger._ Ah, Madame, perhaps you think to overcome me?

_Mad._ Oh, Heaven! Is there no hope? Ah, my dear Dalancourt, I have then

ruined you! I die. [_Falls on a sofa._]

_Ger._ [_Disturbed, moved with tenderness._] Hallo! who's there?

Martuccia!

_Enter_ Martuccia.

_Mar._ Here, sir.

_Ger._ Look there--quick--go--see to her; do something for her

assistance.

_Mar._ My lady! What's the matter?

_Ger._ [_Giving a phial to_ Martuccia.] Take it. Here's Cologne water.

[_To_ Dalancourt.] What is the matter?

_Dal._ Ah, my uncle!

_Ger._ [_To_ Madame D., _in a rough tone._] How are you?

_Mad._ [_Rising languidly, and in a weak voice._] You are too kind, sir,

to interest yourself in me. Do not mind my weakness--feelings will show

themselves. I shall recover my strength. I will go, my--I will resign

myself to my misfortunes.

_Ger._ [_Affected, does not speak._]

_Dal._ [_Distressed._] Ah, my uncle! can you suffer--

_Ger._ [_With warmth to_ Dalancourt.] Be silent!--[_To_ Madame D.,

_roughly._] Remain in this house with your husband.

_Mad._ Ah, sir! ah!

_Dal._ [_With transport._] Ah, my dear uncle!

_Ger._ [_In a serious tone, but without anger, taking their hands._]

Hear me: my savings are not on my own account; you would one day have

known it. Make use of them now; the source is exhausted, and henceforth

you must be prudent. If gratitude does not influence you, honour should

at least keep you right.

_Mad._ Your goodness--

_Dal._ Your generosity--

_Ger._ Enough! enough!

_Mar._ Sir--

_Ger._ Do you be silent, babbler!

_Mar._ Now, sir, that you are in a humour for doing good, don't you mean

to do something for Mademoiselle Angelica?

_Ger._ Well thought of. Where is she?

_Mar._ She is not far off.

_Ger._ And where is her betrothed?

_Mar._ Her betrothed?

_Ger._ He is perhaps offended at what I said, and will not see me. Is he

gone?

_Mar._ Sir--her betrothed--he is still here.

_Ger._ Let him come in.

_Mar._ Angelica and her betrothed?

_Ger._ Yes, Angelica and her betrothed.

_Mar._ Admirable! Directly, sir, directly. [_Going towards the door._]

Come, come, my children; have no fear.

_Enter_ Valerio, Dorval, _and_ Angelica.

_Ger._ [_Seeing_ Valerio.] What's this? What is this other man doing

here?

_Mar._ They are, sir, the betrothed and the witness.

_Ger._ [_To_ Angelica.] Come here.

_Ang._ [_Trembling, speaking to_ Madame D.] Ah, sister! I ought indeed

to ask your pardon.

_Mar._ And I too, Madame.

_Ger._ [_To_ Dorval.] Come here, Signor Betrothed. What say you? Are you

still angry? Will you not come?

_Dor._ Do you speak to me?

_Ger._ Yes, to you.

_Dor._ Pardon me, I am only the witness.

_Ger._ The witness!

_Dor._ Yes. I will explain the mystery. If you had permitted me to

speak--

_Ger._ The mystery! [_To_ Angelica.] Is there any mystery?

_Dor._ [_Serious, and in a resolute tone._] Hear me, friends: you know

Valerio; he was informed of the misfortune of the family, and had come

to offer his fortune to Dalancourt, and his hand to Angelica. He loves

her, and is ready to marry her with nothing, and to settle on her an

annuity of twelve thousand livres. Your character is known to me, and

that you delight in good actions. I have detained him here, and have

undertaken to present him.

_Ger._ You had no attachment, eh? You have deceived me. I will not

consent that you shall have him. This is a contrivance on both your

parts, and I will never submit to it.

_Ang._ [_Weeping._] My dear uncle!

_Val._ [_In a warm and suppliant manner._] Sir!

_Dor._ You are so good!

_Mad._ You are so generous!

_Mar._ My dear master!

_Ger._ Plague on my disposition! I cannot continue angry as long as I

would. I could willingly beat myself. [_All together repeat their

entreaties, and surround him._] Be silent! let me alone! May the devil

take you all! let him marry her.

_Mar._ [_Earnestly._] Let him marry her without a portion!

_Ger._ What, without a portion! I marry my niece without a portion! Am I

not in a situation to give her a portion? I know Valerio; the generous

action he has just proposed deserves a reward. Yes, let him have her

portion, and the hundred thousand livres I have promised Angelica.

_Val._ What kindness!

_Ang._ What goodness!

_Mad._ What a heart!

_Dal._ What an example!

_Mar._ Bless my master!

_Dor._ Bless my good friend!

[_All surround him, overwhelm him with caresses, and repeat his

praises._]

_Ger._ [_Trying to rid himself of them, shouts_] Peace! peace! Piccardo!

_Enter_ Piccardo.

_Pic._ Here, sir.

_Ger._ We shall sup in my room; all are invited. Dorval, in the meantime

we'll have a game of chess.

THE FAN

(_IL VENTAGLIO_)

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

COUNT ROCCA MARINA.

BARON DEL CEDRO.

SIGNOR EVARIST.

SIGNORA GELTRUDE, _a widow._

CANDIDA, _her niece._

CORONATO, _an innkeeper._

MORACCHIO, _a peasant._

NINA, _his sister._

SUSANNA, _a small shopkeeper._

CRISPINO, _a shoemaker._

TIMOTEO, _an apothecary._

LIMONATO, _a waiter._

TOGNINO, _servant to the two ladies._

SCAVEZZO, _boots to the innkeeper._

_Scene of action, a little village near Milan._

THE FAN.

ACT I.

[An open space bounded at the back by a house bearing the inscription

_Osteria_ (_Inn_). Houses to right and left; on the left a gentleman's

mansion with a low projecting terrace. The foremost house has the word

Cafe upon a swinging shield; before its main door and windows stand

small tables and chairs. It has also a back door which adjoins a little

pharmacy. At the end of the right-hand side of houses, a small general

store. The inn has a restaurant on the ground-floor, and on the left a

small shoemaker's workshop. Right and left, between the inn and the side

houses, runs the street.]

SCENE I.

[_Evarist_ and the _Baron_ sit towards the front at a little table

drinking coffee. _Limonato_ serves them. _Crispino_ is cobbling in his

booth, near to him _Coronato_ sitting beside his door, writing in a

note-book. The _Boots_ cleans the restaurant windows. In the middle of

the stage sits the _Count_ reading a book. He is dressed in a white

summer costume, while the _Baron_ and _Evarist_ are in shooting dress,

with their guns beside them. _Geltrude_ and _Candida_ on the terrace,

knitting. To the right _Tognino_ is sweeping the square, _Nina_ is

spinning before her house door, beside her stands _Moracchio_ holding

two hunting dogs by a cord. Every now and again _Timoteo_ puts his head

out of the pharmacy; in the background _Susanna_, sewing before her

shop. A pause after the rise of the curtain. All absorbed in their

occupations. _Crispino_ hammers energetically upon a shoe at which he is

working. _Timoteo_ is pounding loudly in a mortar, therefore invisible.]

_Evarist._ How do you like this coffee?

_Baron._ It is good.

_Evarist._ I find it excellent. Bravo, Limonato! to-day you have

surpassed yourself.

_Limonato._ I thank you for the praise, but I do beg of you not to call

me by this name of Limonato.

_Evarist._ I like that! Why, all know you by that name! You are famed by

the name of Limonato. All the world says, "Let us go to the village and

drink coffee at Limonato's." And that vexes you?

_Limonato._ Sir, it is not my name.

_Baron._ Eh, what! From to-day onwards I will call you Mr. Orange.

_Limonato._ I will not be the butt of all the world.

[Candida _laughs aloud._]

_Evarist._ What think you, Signorina Candida? [_He takes up a fan which_

Candida _has put down on the parapet of the terrace and fans himself,

replacing it._]

_Candida._ What should I think? Why, it makes one laugh.

_Geltrude._ Leave the poor creature in peace; he makes good coffee, and

is under my patronage.

_Baron._ Oh, if he is under the patronage of the Signora Geltrude, we

must respect him. [_Whispers to_ Evarist.] Do you hear? The good widow

protects him.

_Evarist._ [_Softly to the_ Baron.] Do not speak evil of the Signora

Geltrude. She is the wisest and most reputed lady in all the world.

_Baron._ [_As above._] As you like; but she has the same craze for

patronizing as the Count over there, who is reading with the very mien

of a judge.

_Evarist._ Oh, as regards him, you are not wrong. He is a very

caricature, but it would be unjust to compare him with the Signora

Geltrude.

_Baron._ For my part, I think them both ridiculous.

_Evarist._ And what do you find ridiculous in the lady?

_Baron._ Too much instruction, too much pride, too much self-sufficiency.

_Evarist._ Excuse me, then you do not know her.

_Baron._ I much prefer Signorina Candida.

[_After having carried on this talk in half tones, they both rise to

pay. Each protests to the other, the_ Baron _forestalls_ Evarist.

Limonato _returns to the shop with the cups and money._ Timoteo _pounds

yet louder._]

_Evarist._ Yes, it is true. The niece is an excellent person. [_Aside._]

I would not have him as a rival.

_Count._ Hi, Timoteo!

_Timoteo._ Who called me?

_Count._ When will you cease pounding?

_Timoteo._ Excuse me. [_Pounds on._]

_Count._ I cannot read, you crack my skull.

_Timoteo._ Excuse me, I shall have done directly.

[_Continues yet louder._]

_Crispino._ [_Laughs aloud as he works._] Hi, Coronato!

_Coronato._ What would you, Master Crispino?

_Crispino._ [_Beating hard on a sole he has in hand._] The Count does

not wish us to make a noise. [_Beats yet louder on his shoe._]

_Count._ What impudence! Will you never end this worry?

_Crispino._ Does not the Count see what I am doing?

_Count._ And what are you doing?

_Crispino._ Mending your old shoes.

_Count._ Quiet, impudent fellow! [_Continues to read._]

_Crispino._ [_Beats on and_ Timoteo _also._] Host!

_Count._ Now, I can bear it no longer. [_He rises from his seat._]

_Scavezzo._ Hi, Moracchio!

_Moracchio._ What is it, Boots?

_Scavezzo._ The Count.

[_Both laugh and mock at the_ Count.]

_Moracchio._ Quiet, quiet! after all, he is a gentleman.

_Scavezzo._ A strange one.

_Nina._ Moracchio!

_Moracchio._ What do you want?

_Nina._ What did Scavezzo say?

_Moracchio._ Nothing, nothing. Attend to your own affairs, and spin.

_Nina._ [_Turns away her chair with contempt, and goes on spinning._] My

good brother is truly as amiable as ever. He always treats me thus. I

can hardly await the hour when I shall marry.

_Susanna._ What is the matter, Nina?

_Nina._ Oh, if you knew! In all the world I don't think there is a

greater boor than my brother.

_Moracchio._ I am as I am, and as long as you are under me--

_Nina._ [_Pouts and spins._] Not much longer, I hope.

_Evarist._ [_To_ Moracchio.] Now, what is it all about again? You are

always teasing that poor child, and she does not deserve it, poor

thing.

_Nina._ He makes me wild with anger.

_Moracchio._ She wants to know everything.

_Evarist._ Come, come, it will do now.

_Baron._ [_To_ Candida.] Signor Evarist is kind-hearted.

_Candida._ [_With disdain._] It seems so also to me.

_Geltrude._ [_To_ Candida.] Look to yourself, child. We do nought but

criticise the actions of others, and do not take care of our own.

_Baron._ [_Aside._] There, these are the sort of doctrines I can't abide

to hear.

_Crispino._ [_Aside while he works._] Poor Nina! But once she is my

wife, he won't tease her any more.

_Coronato._ [_Aside._] Yes, I will marry her, and if it were only to

free her from the brother.

_Evarist._ Well, Baron, shall we go?

_Baron._ To tell you the truth, this morning I do not feel like going

shooting. I am tired from yesterday.

_Evarist._ Do as you like. You will excuse me if I go?

_Baron._ Do not let me detain you. [_Aside._] So much the better for me.

I will try my luck with Signorina Candida.

_Evarist._ Moracchio! we will go. Call the dogs and take your gun.

_Baron._ [_To_ Evarist.] You come back to dinner?

_Evarist._ Certainly. I have ordered it already.

_Baron._ Then I will await you. _Au revoir_, ladies. [_Aside._] I will

go to my room, so as to rouse no suspicions.

SCENE II.

_The above._ Moracchio _comes back._

_Moracchio._ Here I am, sir, with the dogs and the gun.

_Evarist._ If you allow, ladies, I will go shooting a while.

_Geltrude._ Pray do as you please, and enjoy yourself.

_Candida._ And good luck.

_Evarist._ Accompanied by your good wishes, I must be lucky. [_He busies

himself with his gun._]

_Candida._ [_Aside._] Signor Evarist is really amiable.

_Geltrude._ Yes, amiable and well-mannered. But, niece, distrust all

strangers.

_Candida._ Why should I mistrust him?

_Geltrude._ For some time since I have had my reasons for this.

_Candida._ I have always been reserved.

_Geltrude._ Yes, I am content with you. Continue to be reserved towards

him.

_Candida._ [_Aside._] This warning comes too late. I am deeply enamoured

of him.

_Evarist._ All is right. Come, Moracchio. Once more, ladies, your humble

servant.

[Geltrude _bows_. Candida _the same. In doing so her fan falls into the

street._ Evarist _picks it up._]

_Candida._ Oh, never mind.

_Geltrude._ Do not trouble.

_Evarist._ The fan is broken. How sorry I am!

_Candida._ What does it matter?--an old fan!

_Evarist._ Well, if you allow. [_Gives the fan to_ Tognino, _who takes

it into the house._]

_Candida._ There, aunt, you see how it vexes him that the fan is broken.

_Geltrude._ Good manners demand this. [_Aside._] Here love is in play.

SCENE III.

_The above._ Tognino _on the terrace. He hands the fan to_ Candida.

_Evarist._ I am vexed that this fan broke on my account, but I will

make it good. [_To_ Susanna.] I should like to speak to you, but inside

the shop. [_To_ Moracchio.] Go on ahead, and wait for me at the edge of

the wood. [_With_ Susanna _into the shop._]

_Moracchio._ [_To himself._] I call this waste of time. Out upon these

gentlemen sportsmen. [_Exit._

_Nina._ [_To herself._] So much the better that my brother has at last

gone. I can scarcely await the moment to be alone with Crispino. But

this tiresome man, the host, is always around. He follows me

perpetually, and I can't abide him.

_Count._ [_Reading._] Oh, beautiful, beautiful! [_To_ Geltrude.]

Signora!

_Crispino._ What have you read that is interesting, Count?

_Count._ What does that matter to you? What do you understand about it?

_Crispino._ [_Hammering._] Who knows who knows most?

_Geltrude._ You called me, Count?

_Count._ You a lady of taste, oh, if you heard what I have just read! A

masterpiece!

_Geltrude._ Something historical?

_Count._ Bah!

_Geltrude._ A philosophical discussion?

_Count._ Bah!

_Geltrude._ A poem?

_Count._ Bah!

_Geltrude._ What then?

_Count._ Something astonishing, unheard of, translated from the French!

A fable.

_Crispino._ A fable! Astonishing! Unheard of! [_He hammers hard._]

_Count._ Would you like to hear?

_Geltrude._ Gladly.

_Crispino._ Why, he reads fables like little children! [_Hammers._]

_Count._ Will you at last leave off your noise?

_Crispino._ [_Hammering on._] I am putting a patch on your shoe.

[Timoteo _pestles._]

_Count._ The devil's own noise! And you too?

_Timoteo._ [_Puts his head outside the pharmacy._] It is my business.

_Count._ [_Reads._] "There was once a lovely maiden"--[_To_ Timoteo.] Go

to the devil with your mortar! It is not to be borne.

_Timoteo._ I pay my rent, and have no better place in which to pound.

[_Goes on._]

_Count._ If you will allow, signora, I will take the liberty of coming

up to you. You will then hear the beautiful fable. [_Goes into the

house._]

_Geltrude._ This chemist is too tiresome. Let us go and receive the

Count.

_Candida._ I don't care to hear his fables.

_Geltrude._ But good manners demand it.

_Candida._ Out upon this Count!

_Geltrude._ Niece, honour that you may be honoured. Come. [_She goes

into the house._]

_Candida._ [_Rising to follow her._] To please you.

SCENE IV.

_The above without the_ Count _and_ Geltrude. Evarist _and_ Susanna

_come out of the shop._

_Candida._ What! Signor Evarist still here? Not gone shooting? I should

like to know the reason. [_Watches him from the back of the terrace._]

_Susanna._ Do not complain, sir, the fan is cheap.

_Evarist._ [_Aside._] Candida is no longer here. [_Aloud._] I am sorry

that the fan is not more beautiful.

_Susanna._ That was the last of those of the first quality. Now my shop

is emptied. [_Smiling._] I suppose it is a present?

_Evarist._ Certainly. I do not buy fans for myself.

_Susanna._ For Signorina Candida, because hers broke?

_Evarist._ [_Impatiently._] No; for some one else.

_Susanna._ All right, all right. I am not curious. [_Reseats herself in

front of the shop to work._]

_Candida._ He has great secrets with the draper. I am curious to hear

some details. [_Approaches to the front._]

_Evarist._ [_Approaching_ Nina.] Nina!

_Nina._ Your wishes, sir?

_Evarist._ A favour. I know Signorina Candida loves you.

_Nina._ Yes, she has pity on the poor orphan. But alas! I am subjected

to my brother, who embitters my life.

_Evarist._ Listen to me.

_Nina._ [_Spinning on._] Spinning does not make me deaf.

_Evarist._ [_To himself._] Her brother is full of whims, but neither

does she seem free of them.

[Susanna, Crispino, _and_ Coronato _stretch out their heads to observe

the couple._]

_Candida._ Business with the shopwoman; business with Nina. I do not

understand. [_Comes forward yet more._]

_Evarist._ May I ask you a favour?

_Nina._ Have I not already answered you? Have I not told you to command?

I am not deaf. If my spindle disturbs you, I will throw it aside. [_Does

so._]

_Evarist._ But how impetuous!

_Candida._ What does her anger signify?

_Coronato._ It seems to me they are getting hot. [_Creeps to the front,

his note-book in hand._]

_Crispino._ She throws aside her spindle. [_Does the same with his shoe

and hammer._]

_Susanna._ Would he give her a present were she less angry? [_She too

approaches from out the background._]

_Nina._ I am at your orders.

_Evarist._ You know that Signorina Candida broke her fan?

_Nina._ Why, certainly.

_Evarist._ I have bought a new one at the shop.

_Nina._ As you please.

_Evarist._ But Signora Geltrude must not know.

_Nina._ There you do wisely.

_Evarist._ And I wish that you should give her the fan secretly.

_Nina._ I cannot serve you.

_Evarist._ How unkind of you!

_Candida._ [_To herself._] He told me he was going shooting, and he is

still here.

_Crispino._ [_Approaches, pretending to be at work._] If I could only

hear something!

_Coronato._ [_Approaches also, pretending to do accounts._] I can

scarcely contain myself for curiosity.

_Evarist._ Why will you not do me this favour?

_Nina._ Because I want to know nothing about this matter.

_Evarist._ You take the matter too seriously. Candida loves you so much.

_Nina._ True, but in such matters--

_Evarist._ You told me you wanted to marry Crispino. [_Turns and sees

the two listeners._] What do you want here, you rogues?

_Crispino._ [_Seating himself hastily._] I am working, sir.

_Coronato._ [_Does the same._] Can I not reckon and walk around at the

same time?

_Candida._ They are discussing important secrets.

_Susanna._ What is there about this Nina that all men are after her?

_Nina._ If you want nothing else of me, I will go on spinning. [_Does

so._]

_Evarist._ But listen, do! Candida has begged me to give you a dowry

that you may wed your Crispino.

_Nina._ [_Suddenly grows friendly._] Really?

_Evarist._ Yes; and I gave her my word that I would do all--

_Nina._ Where is the fan?

_Evarist._ Here.

_Nina._ Quick, quick, give it to me, but so that no one sees.

[Evarist _gives her the fan._]

_Crispino._ [_Advancing his head, to himself._] Ho, ho, he gave her

something!

_Susanna._ [_The same._] In very truth--he gives her the fan!

_Coronato._ [_Ditto._] What could he have given her?

_Candida._ [_Ditto._] Yes, he deceives me. The Count is right.

_Evarist._ But, mind, quite secretly.

_Nina._ Let me act, and do not fear.

_Evarist._ Addio.

_Nina._ My respects.

_Evarist._ Then I rely on you?

_Nina._ And I on you. [_Seats herself and resumes her spinning._]

_Evarist._ [_About to go, sees_ Candida _on the terrace._] Ah, there she

is again! I will tell her to be attentive. [_Calls._] Signorina Candida!

[Candida _turns her back to him and goes away._]

_Evarist._ What does this mean? Is it contempt? Does she despise me?

Impossible! I know she loves me, and she knows my passion for her. And

yet--no, now I understand! Her aunt will have seen and observed her, and

she would not show before her. Yes, yes, it must be that, it cannot be

anything else. But I must at last give up all this secrecy and talk with

Signora Geltrude, and obtain from her the precious gift of her niece.

_Nina._ In truth, I owe the Signorina thanks that she interests herself

in me. Shall I not repay her? These are little services one exchanges

without any base thoughts in the rear.

_Coronato._ [_Gets up and goes to_ Nina.] Hm, great secrets, great

consultations with Signor Evarist?

_Nina._ What does not concern you, does not matter to you.

_Coronato._ Were that the case I should not interfere.

[Crispino _approaches the couple quietly to listen._]

_Nina._ I am not subservient to you, Master Host.

_Coronato._ Not yet, but I hope soon.

_Nina._ Indeed! and who says so?

_Coronato._ He has said it and promised it and sworn it, and he can and

may dispose of you.

_Nina._ [_Laughing._] Perchance my brother?

_Coronato._ Yes, your brother; and I will tell him of all the secrets,

the confidence, the presents--

_Crispino._ [_Comes between them._] Ho, ho! what right have you to this

girl?

_Coronato._ I owe you no answer.

_Crispino._ And you, what have you to discuss with Signor Evarist?

_Nina._ Leave me in peace, both of you.

_Crispino._ I will know!

_Coronato._ What, you will? Command where you may command. Nina is my

betrothed, her brother has promised her to me.

_Crispino._ And I have her word, and the word of the sister is worth a

thousand times more than that of the brother.

_Coronato._ She is as good as engaged to me.

_Crispino._ We will speak of this again. Nina, what did Signor Evarist

give you?

_Nina._ Go to the devil with you!

_Coronato._ No answer! But stop, I saw him come out of Susanna's shop.

She will tell me. [_Goes towards_ Susanna.]

_Crispino._ He bought her a present. [_He too goes to_ Susanna.]

_Nina._ [_To herself._] I shall reveal nothing. But if Susanna--

_Coronato._ Neighbour, I beg you, what did Signor Evarist buy of you?

_Susanna._ [_Laughing._] A fan.

_Crispino._ Do you know what he gave the girl?

_Susanna._ What could it be but the fan?

_Nina._ That is not true.

_Susanna._ Why, certainly it is!

_Coronato._ [_To_ Nina.] Produce the fan.

_Crispino._ [_Pushing him away._] Here I command! I must see the fan.

_Coronato._ [_Raises his fist towards_ Crispino.] Wait a while.

_Crispino._ [_Ditto._] Yes, you wait too.

_Nina._ [_To_ Susanna.] It is all your fault.

_Susanna._ Mine?

_Nina._ Chatterbox!

_Susanna._ Oh ho! [_Threatens her._]

_Susanna._ I go. Peasant girl, consort with your likes. [_Retires into

her shop._]

_Crispino._ But now I will see the fan.

_Nina._ I have not got one.

_Coronato._ What did the gentleman give you?

_Nina._ Your curiosity is impertinent.

_Coronato._ I will know.

_Crispino._ [_To_ Coronato.] I tell you that does not concern you.

_Nina._ This is not the way to treat a respectable girl. [_Goes towards

her house._]

_Crispino._ [_Approaching her._] Tell me, Nina.

_Nina._ No.

_Coronato._ I must know. [_He pushes_ Crispino _aside._]

[Nina _hurries into the house and shuts the door in both their faces._]

_Coronato._ It's your fault.

_Crispino._ Impudent fellow!

_Coronato._ Do not excite yourself.

_Crispino._ I do not fear you.

_Coronato._ Nina will be mine!

_Crispino._ We shall see about that. And should she be, I swear--

_Coronato._ What, threats! Do you not know to whom you speak?

_Crispino._ I am an honest man, as all know.

_Coronato._ And what am I, pray?

_Crispino._ I know nothing about it.

_Coronato._ I am an honoured innkeeper.

_Crispino._ Honoured?

_Coronato._ What! you doubt it?

_Crispino._ Oh, it is not I who doubt it.

_Coronato._ Who, then, may I ask?

_Crispino._ All the village.

_Coronato._ My good man, it is not about me that all talk. I do not sell

old leather for new.

_Crispino._ Nor I water for wine; nor do I trap cats at night to sell

them as lamb or hare.

_Coronato._ I swear to Heaven--[_Raises his hand._]

_Crispino._ What! [_Does the same._]

_Coronato._ The devil take me! [_Feels in his pocket._]

_Crispino._ His hand in his pocket! [_Runs to his booth to fetch an

implement._]

_Coronato._ I have no knife.

[Crispino _seizes the apothecary's chair and threatens to hurl it at his

adversary._ Coronato _takes up a bench and swings it at_ Crispino.]

SCENE V.

_The above._ Timoteo, Scavezzo, Limonato, _the_ Count.

[Timoteo _hurrying out of his shop, pestle in hand._ Limonato, _out of

the cafe with a log of firewood._ Scavezzo, _out of the inn with a

spit._]

_Count._ [_Coming out of_ Geltrude's _house._] Peace, peace! quiet

there, I command!--I, you villains, the Count Rocca Marina! Ho there,

peace, I say, you rogues!

_Crispino._ [_To_ Coronato.] Well, to please the Count.

_Coronato._ Yes, thank the Count, for but for him I would have broken

all the bones in your body.

_Count._ Quiet, quiet, it is enough! I would know the reason of the

strife. Go away, you others. I am here, no one else is needed.

_Timoteo._ Is no one hurt?

[Limonato _and_ Scavezzo _depart._]

_Count._ You wish that they had cracked their skulls, contorted their

arms, disjointed their legs, is it not so, Apothecary, to show us a

specimen of your talents and powers?

_Timoteo._ I seek no one's ill; but if there were wounded to heal,

cripples to succour, breakages to bind up, I would gladly help them.

Above all, I would with all my heart serve your worship in such an

eventuality.

_Count._ Impertinent fellow! I will have you removed.

_Timoteo._ Honest men are not removed so easily.

_Count._ Yes, one removes ignorant, impudent impostors of apothecaries

like you.

_Timoteo._ I am astonished to hear you talk thus, Count--you who without

my pills would be dead.

_Count._ Insolent fellow!

_Timoteo._ And those pills you have not yet paid for. [_Exit._

_Coronato._ [_Aside._] Here the Count might be of use to me.

_Count._ Well, now, my men, tell me what is the matter, what is the

reason for your quarrels?

_Crispino._ I will tell you, sir--I will tell it before all the world. I

love Nina.

_Coronato._ And Nina will be my wife.

_Count._ [_Laughing._] Ah ha! I understand: a love quarrel; two

champions of Cupid, two worthy rivals, two pretenders to the lovely

Venus of our village.

_Crispino._ If you think to make fun of me--[_Moves to go away._]

_Count._ No, stay.

_Coronato._ The matter is serious, I assure you.

_Count._ Yes, I believe it. You are lovers, you are rivals. By Jupiter,

what a combination! Why, the very theme of the fable I was reading to

Signora Geltrude just now. [_Points to his book._] "There was a maiden

of rare beauty"--

_Crispino._ I understand. With your permission--

_Count._ Where are you going? Come here!

_Crispino._ If you will allow me, I go to finish cobbling your shoes.

_Count._ Yes, go, that they may be ready by to-morrow.

_Coronato._ And be careful that they are not patched with old leather.

_Crispino._ I shall come to you when I want a fresh skin.

_Coronato._ Thank Heaven I am no cobbler nor shoemaker!

_Crispino._ It does not matter, you will give me a horse's skin or a

cat's.

_Coronato._ [_Aside._] I know I shall kill that man.

_Count._ What did he say of cats? Do you give us cats to eat?

_Coronato._ Sir, I am an honest man, and this person is a rogue who

persecutes me unjustly.

_Count._ The effect of love, of rivalry. So you are in love with Nina?

_Coronato._ Yes, sir, and I was about to seek your protection.

_Count._ My protection? [_Gives himself an important air._] Well, we

will see. Are you sure she loves you in return?

_Coronato._ To tell the truth, I fancy she loves him better than me.

_Count._ That is bad.

_Coronato._ But I have her brother's word.

_Count._ A thing not much to be relied on.

_Coronato._ Moracchio has promised it to me most faithfully.

_Count._ So far so good, but you cannot force a woman.

_Coronato._ Her brother can dispose of her.

_Count._ [_Hotly._] It is not true. Her brother cannot dispose of her.

_Coronato._ But your protection.

_Count._ My protection is all well and good. My protection is valid, my

protection is powerful. But a nobleman, such as I, does not arbitrate

nor dispose of a woman's heart.

_Coronato._ But, after all, she is a peasant.

_Count._ What does that matter? A woman's ever a woman. I distinguish

the grades, the conditions, but as a whole I respect the sex.

_Coronato._ [_Aside._] I understand. Your protection is worthless.

_Count._ How are you off for wine? have you a good supply?

_Coronato._ I have some that is quite perfect, good and exquisite.

_Count._ I shall come and taste it. Mine has turned out ill this year.

_Coronato._ [_Aside._] It is two years that he has sold it.

_Count._ If yours is good, I will take a supply.

_Coronato._ [_Aside._] I do not care for this patronage.

_Count._ Do you hear?

_Coronato._ Yes, I hear.

_Count._ Tell me one thing: if I were to speak to the girl, and induced

her by explanations--

_Coronato._ Your words might do something in my favour.

_Count._ After all, you deserve to be preferred.

_Coronato._ It seems to me, too, that between me and Crispino--

_Count._ Oh, there is no comparison!--a man like you, educated, well

dressed, a respectable person.

_Coronato._ You are too kind.

_Count._ I respect women, it is true, but just because of that, treating

them as I treat them, I assure you, they do for me what they would do

for no one else.

_Coronato._ It is that which I thought too, but you wanted to make me

doubt.

_Count._ I do like the lawyers, who start by making difficulties.

Friend, you are a man who has a good inn, who can afford to maintain a

wife decently. Have confidence in me, I will take up your cause.

_Coronato._ I beg your protection.

_Count._ I accord it. I promise it.

_Coronato._ If you would put yourself out to come and taste my wine--

_Count._ Most gladly, good man. [_Puts his hand on his shoulder._]

_Coronato._ [_Aside._] Two or three barrels of wine will not be ill

spent here.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Susanna _alone, comes out of her house and arranges her wares._

_Susanna._ Bad times, little business to be done in this village. I have

as yet sold but one fan, and that I have given for a price--really just

to get rid of it. The people who can spend take their supplies in the

city. From the poor there is little to earn. I am a fool to lose my time

here in the midst of these peasants, without manners, without respect,

who do not know the difference between a shopwoman of education and

those who sell milk, salad, and eggs. My town education stands me

no stead in the country. All equal, all companions, Susanna, Nina,

Margherita, Lucia; the shopkeeper, the goatherd, the peasant, all one.

The two ladies yonder are a little more considered, but little, very

little. As for that impertinent Nina, because she is a little favoured

by the gentry, she thinks she is something great. They have given her

a fan. What will a peasant girl do with such a fan? Cut a dash, eh!

the minx must fan herself, thus. Much good may it do you! Why, it's

ridiculous, and yet these things at times make me rage. I, who have been

well educated, I can't tolerate such absurdities. [_Seats herself and

works._]

SCENE II.

Candida, _who comes out of the mansion._

_Candida._ I shan't be at peace till I have cleared it up. I saw Evarist

coming out of the shop and go to Nina, and certainly he gave her

something. I must see if Susanna can tell me something. Yes, aunt is

right, "Mistrust all strangers." Poor me! If he prove unfaithful! It is

my first love. I have loved none but him. [_Advances towards_ Susanna.]

_Susanna._ [_Rises._] Ah, Signorina Candida, your humble servant.

_Candida._ Good day, Susanna. What are you working at so busily?

_Susanna._ I am making a cap.

_Candida._ To sell?

_Susanna._ To sell, but Heaven knows when.

_Candida._ It might be that I need a nightcap.

_Susanna._ I have some in stock. Will you see them?

_Candida._ No, no, there is no hurry. Another time.

_Susanna._ Will you take a seat? [_Offers her chair._]

_Candida._ And you?

_Susanna._ Oh, I will fetch another chair. [_She goes into the shop and

brings out a second chair._] Pray sit here, you will be more comfortable.

_Candida._ You sit down also and go on working.

_Susanna._ [_Does so._] What an honour you afford me! One sees at once

you are well-born. He who is well-born despises no one. The peasants

here are proud, and Nina especially.

_Candida._ Speaking of Nina, did you notice her when Signor Evarist

spoke to her?

_Susanna._ Whether I noticed? I should think so.

_Candida._ He had a long confab with her.

_Susanna._ Do you know what happened after? Such a fight as there was!

_Candida._ I heard a noise, an angry discussion. They told me Crispino

and Coronato were at loggerheads.

_Susanna._ Precisely, and all because of this beauty, this treasure.

_Candida._ But why?

_Susanna._ Jealousy between themselves, jealousy because of Signor

Evarist.

_Candida._ Do you think Signor Evarist has any friendship for Nina?

_Susanna._ I know nothing. I do not concern myself about others'

affairs, and think ill of no one; but if the host and the shoemaker

are jealous of him, they must have their reasons.

_Candida._ [_Aside._] Alas! the argument is but too true,

to my prejudice.

_Susanna._ Excuse me, I should not like to make a mistake.

_Candida._ In what?

_Susanna._ I hope that you take no interest in Signor Evarist?

_Candida._ I? Oh, none whatever! I know him because he sometimes comes

to the house, and is a friend of my aunt's.

_Susanna._ Then I will tell you the truth. [_Aside._] I do not think

this can offend her. I almost thought that between you and Signor

Evarist there was some understanding,--of course permissible and

respectable,--but since he was with me this morning, I am of another

opinion.

_Candida._ He was with you this morning?

_Susanna._ Yes. He came to buy a fan.

_Candida._ [_Eagerly._] He bought a fan?

_Susanna._ Precisely; and as I had seen that you had broken yours, so to

speak, on his account, I at once said to myself, He buys it to give it

to the Signorina Candida.

_Candida._ So he bought it for me?

_Susanna._ Oh no, Signorina. I will confess to you I took the liberty of

asking him if he were buying it for you. He replied in a manner as if I

had offended him, "That is not my business; what is there between me and

the Signorina Candida? I have destined it elsewhere."

_Candida._ And what did he do with this fan?

_Susanna._ What did he do with it? He gave it to Nina.

_Candida._ [_Aside._] Oh, I am lost! I am miserable!

_Susanna._ [_Observing her agitation._] Signorina Candida!

_Candida._ [_Aside._] Ungrateful, unfaithful, and for whom?--for a

peasant girl!

_Susanna._ [_With insistence._] Signorina Candida!

_Candida._ [_Aside._] The offence is insupportable.

_Susanna._ [_Aside._] Poor me! What have I done?--Signorina Candida,

calm yourself, it may not be thus.

_Candida._ Do you believe he gave the fan to Nina?

_Susanna._ Oh, as to that, I saw it with my own eyes.

_Candida._ And then you say it may not be thus?

_Susanna._ I do not know--I do not wish that by my fault--

SCENE III.

_The above._ Geltrude _at the door of the villa._

_Susanna._ See, there is your aunt.

_Candida._ For Heaven's sake, say nothing!

_Susanna._ Do not fear.--[_Aside._] And she would have me believe she

does not love him! It's her own fault. Why did she not tell me the

truth?

_Geltrude._ What are you doing here, niece?

[Candida _and_ Susanna _rise._]

_Susanna._ She is condescending to accord me her company.

_Candida._ I came to see if she sold nightcaps.

_Susanna._ Yes, it is true, she asked me about some. Oh, do not fear

that your niece is not safe with me. I am no chatterbox, and my house is

most respectable.

_Geltrude._ Do not justify yourself without being accused.

_Susanna._ I am very sensitive, Signora.

_Geltrude._ Why did you not tell me you needed a nightcap?

_Candida._ You were in your writing-room, and I did not wish to disturb

you.

_Susanna._ Would you like to see it? I will go and get it. I pray, sit

down. [_Gives her chair to_ Geltrude, _and goes into the shop._]

_Geltrude._ [_Seating herself, to_ Candida.] Have you heard nothing of

this encounter between the shoemaker and the host?

_Candida._ They say it is a matter of love and jealousy. They say Nina

is the cause.

_Geltrude._ I am sorry, for she is a good girl.

_Candida._ Oh, aunt, excuse me; I have heard things about her of a

nature that would make it better we should no longer let her come to the

house.

_Geltrude._ Why? What have they told you?

_Candida._ I will tell you after. Do as I do, aunt; don't receive her

any more, and you will do well.

_Geltrude._ Since she came more often to see you than to see me, I leave

you free to treat her as you please.

_Candida._ [_Aside._] The minx! she will not have the impudence to

appear before me.

_Susanna._ [_Returning._] Here are the caps, ladies; see, choose, and

content yourselves. [_All three occupied with the caps, and speaking

softly among themselves._]

SCENE IV.

_The above. The_ Count _and the_ Baron _come out of the inn._

_Count._ I am glad you have confided in me. Leave the rest to me, and do

not fear.

_Baron._ I know you are Signora Geltrude's friend.

_Count._ Oh, friend!--well, I will tell you. She is a lady who has some

talents; I like literature, I converse with her more willingly than with

any other. For the rest, she is a poor city dame. Her husband left her

this wretched house and some acres of ground, and, in order to be

respected in this village, she needs my protection.

_Baron._ Long live the Count who protects widows and fair ladies!

_Count._ What would you have? In this world one must be good for

something.

_Baron._ Then you will do me the favour--

_Count._ Do not fear, I will speak to her; I will ask her niece's hand

for a cavalier, who is my friend, and when I have asked her I am sure

she will not have the courage to say no.

_Baron._ Tell her who I am.

_Count._ To what purpose, when it is I who ask?

_Baron._ But you ask for me.

_Count._ For you.

_Baron._ You know precisely who I am.

_Count._ How should I not know your titles, your faculties, your

honours! Oh, we members of the aristocracy all know each other.

_Baron._ [_Aside._] How I should laugh at him if I had not need of him!

_Count._ My dear colleague!

_Baron._ What is it?

_Count._ Behold Signora Geltrude and her niece.

_Baron._ They are busy; I do not think they have seen us.

_Count._ Certainly not. If Signora Geltrude had seen me, she would have

moved instantly.

_Baron._ When will you speak to her?

_Count._ At once if you like.

_Baron._ It is not well I should be there. Speak to her. I will wait at

the apothecary's. I am in your hands.

_Count._ Good-bye, dear colleague and friend.

_Baron._ Good-bye, beloved colleague. [_Embraces him._] [_Aside._] He is

the maddest March hare in the world.

_Count._ [_Calling aloud._] Signora Geltrude!

_Geltrude._ [_Rising._] Oh, Count, excuse me! I did not see you.

_Count._ I beg, give me a word.

_Susanna._ Pray approach. My shop is at your service.

_Count._ No, no; I have something private to say. Excuse the trouble,

but I beg you come here.

_Geltrude._ In a moment. Allow me to pay for a cap I have bought, and

then I am at your disposal. [_Pulls out a purse to pay_ Susanna, _and to

prolong the moment._]

_Count._ What! you would pay at once! I never had that vice.

SCENE V.

Coronato _comes out of the inn with_ Scavezzo, _who carries a barrel of

wine on his shoulders._

_Coronato._ Honoured sir, this is the barrel of wine for you.

_Count._ And the second?

_Coronato._ After this I will bring the second. Where shall we take it?

_Count._ To my palace.

_Coronato._ To whom shall I consign it?

_Count._ To my steward, if he is there.

_Coronato._ I am afraid he is not there.

_Count._ Give it to any one you find.

_Coronato._ All right. Let us go.

_Scavezzo._ The Count will give me some drink money.

_Count._ Take care not to drink my wine, and don't put water to

it.--[_To_ Coronato.] Don't let him go alone.

_Coronato._ Never fear, never fear! I go too.

_Scavezzo._ [_Aside._] No, no, don't fear; between the master and me we

have prepared it by now. [_Exit._

_Geltrude._ [_Who has paid, advances towards the_ Count. Susanna _is

seated, and works._ Candida _remains seated. They whisper together._]

Here I am, Count, and what is it you wish?

_Count._ In a few words, will you give me your niece?

_Geltrude._ Give? What do you mean by give?

_Count._ What? don't you understand? In marriage.

_Geltrude._ To you?

_Count._ Not to me, but to a person I know and propose.

_Geltrude._ I will tell you, Count: you know my niece has lost her

parents, and, being the daughter of my only brother, I have undertaken

to fill for her a mother's place.

_Count._ All these, excuse me, are useless discourses.

_Geltrude._ Excuse me. Let me come to my point.

_Count._ Well, what then?

_Geltrude._ Candida has not inherited enough from her father to suffice

to marry her in her own rank.

_Count._ It does not matter; it is no question of that here.

_Geltrude._ Let me finish. My husband left me an ample provision.

_Count._ I know.

_Geltrude._ I have no children.

_Count._ And you will give her a dowry?

_Geltrude._ Yes, when the match shall meet her favour.

_Count._ Oh yes, that is the needful point. But I am proposing this

match, and when I propose, it must meet her favour.

_Geltrude._ I am certain that the Count is incapable of proposing other

than an acceptable person, but I hope he will do me the honour to tell

me who this person is.

_Count._ A colleague of mine.

_Geltrude._ What! a colleague! What does that mean?

_Count._ A nobleman, like yourself.

_Geltrude._ Signore--

_Count._ Do not raise objections.

_Geltrude._ Pray let me speak. If you will not let me, I shall go.

_Count._ Come, come, be gracious! Speak, I listen. I am amiable,

complaisant with ladies. I listen to you.

_Geltrude._ I will tell you what I feel in a few words. A title makes

the honour of a house, but not of a person. I do not think my niece is

ambitious, nor am I inclined to sacrifice her to the idol of vanity.

_Count._ [_Laughing._] Ah, one sees that you read fables.

_Geltrude._ Such feelings are not learnt from fables nor novels. Nature

inspires them and education cultivates them.

_Count._ Nature, education, all you will. He whom I propose is the Baron

del Cedro.

_Geltrude._ The Baron is in love with my niece?

_Count._ Oui, Madame.

_Geltrude._ I know him and respect him.

_Count._ You see what a good match I propose to you.

_Geltrude._ He is a gentleman of merit.

_Count._ And my colleague.

_Geltrude._ He is perhaps a trifle free of speech, but without harm.

_Count._ Well, now, your answer, I beg?

_Geltrude._ Adagio, adagio, Count. Such matters are not decided all in a

moment. I should like the Baron to have the goodness to speak to me.

_Count._ Excuse me, if I say a thing, there can be no doubt about it. I

woo on his behalf, and he has begged my intercession, implored me--And I

speak to you, beg you--that is to say, I do not beg you, I demand of

you--

_Geltrude._ Let us admit that the Baron is in earnest.

_Count._ By Jupiter, what is this we are to admit? the thing is certain

when I say so.

_Geltrude._ Admitted, then, that the thing is certain. The Baron desires

her, you demand her. It is always needful I should ask Candida if she

assents.

_Count._ She cannot know about it unless you tell her.

_Geltrude._ [_Ironically._] Have the goodness to believe that I shall

tell her.

_Count._ Here she comes. Speak to her about it.

_Geltrude._ I will speak to her.

_Count._ Go, then, and I will wait you here.

_Geltrude._ [_Bowing._] Excuse me.--[_Aside._] If the Baron is in

earnest, it would indeed be a piece of good luck for my niece, but I

doubt. [_Goes towards_ Susanna.]

_Count._ Ha, ha! with my good manners I attain from people all I want.

[_Takes a book from his pocket, seats himself, and reads._]

_Geltrude._ Candida, I have to speak to you. Let us take a turn.

_Susanna._ Will you go into my little garden? You will be quite free

there.

_Geltrude._ Yes, let us go there, because I must come back here at once.

_Candida._ [_Aside._] What can she want to tell me? I am too miserable

to expect any good news. [_Both into the shop._]

_Count._ She is capable of keeping me waiting here for an hour. It is

well that I have this book to entertain me. What a beautiful thing is

literature! A man with a good book to hand is never alone. [_Reads._]

SCENE VI.

Count. Nina _comes out of her house._

_Nina._ Well, one good thing, the dinner is ready, so when that fellow

Moracchio comes he can't scold me. No one is looking. I had better go

now and take the fan to Signorina Candida. If I can give it her without

her aunt seeing, I will; if not, I'll wait another chance.

_Count._ Why, Nina, Nina. Ho, here, my girl! [_Goes towards the villa._]

_Nina._ Signore. [_Turns to look at him._]

_Count._ A word.

_Nina._ [_Aside._] I did not need this impediment.

_Count._ [_Aside._] I must not neglect Coronato. I have promised him my

protection, and he merits it. [_Gets up and puts aside his book._]

_Nina._ Here I am. What would you, sir?

_Count._ Where were you going?

_Nina._ To do my own business, sir.

_Count._ What! You reply like that to me, with such audacity, such

impertinence?

_Nina._ How would you have me speak? I speak as I know how; I am not

used to converse. I speak like that with every one, and no one has told

me I am impertinent.

_Count._ You must distinguish the people with whom you speak.

_Nina._ I don't know how to distinguish. If you want something, say it!

If you want to amuse yourself, I have no time to lose with your worship.

_Count._ Come hither.

_Nina._ I am here.

_Count._ Would you like to marry?

_Nina._ Yes, sir.

_Count._ That is well; you please me now.

_Nina._ Oh, what I have in my heart, I have in my mouth.

_Count._ Would you like me to find you a husband?

_Nina._ No, sir.

_Count._ How no?

_Nina._ How no? Because it's no, because to marry I have no need of you.

_Count._ Do you not need my protection?

_Nina._ No, indeed, not a bit of it.

_Count._ Do you understand all I can do in this village?

_Nina._ You may be able to do all in the village, but you can do nothing

in my marriage.

_Count._ I can do nothing?

_Nina._ [_Smiling gently._] Nothing, in truth, nothing, nothing.

_Count._ You are in love with Crispino.

_Nina._ He is to my taste.

_Count._ And you prefer him to that worthy man, to that rich man, that

admirable man, Coronato?

_Nina._ I would prefer him to others far better than Coronato.

_Count._ You would prefer him to any other?

_Nina._ [_Laughing, and making him understand that she refers to him._]

Oh, and if you knew to whom, for instance!

_Count._ And to whom would you prefer him, then?

_Nina._ To what end? Do not make me chatter.

_Count._ No, because you would be capable of saying some impertinence.

_Nina._ Do you want anything else of me?

_Count._ Simply this: I protect your brother, your brother has given his

word for you to Coronato, and you must marry Coronato.

_Nina._ [_With affectation._] Your worship protects my brother?

_Count._ Just so.

_Nina._ And my brother has given his word to Coronato?

_Count._ Just so.

_Nina._ Well, if things be so--

_Count._ Well?

_Nina._ Let my brother marry the host.

_Count._ I swear that you shall never marry Crispino.

_Nina._ No? And why?

_Count._ I shall send him away from this village.

_Nina._ I shall go and seek for him wherever he is.

_Count._ I shall have him beaten.

_Nina._ Oh, as for that, he will think about it.

_Count._ What would you do if he were dead?

_Nina._ I do not know.

_Count._ Would you take another?

_Nina._ It might be.

_Count._ Imagine that he is dead.

_Nina._ Sir, I can neither read, nor write, nor reckon.

_Count._ Saucy girl!

_Nina._ Do you want anything else?

_Count._ Go to the devil!

_Nina._ Show me the road!

_Count._ I swear, were you not a woman--

_Nina._ What would you do?

_Count._ Go hence, I say!

_Nina._ I obey at once, for I am well bred.

_Count._ Well bred? and goes off and does not salute!

_Nina._ Oh, pardon me. I am till death your worship's obedient servant.

[_Laughs and runs towards the villa._]

_Count._ [_With scorn._] Rustica progenies nescit habere modum. I do not

know what to do. If she does not want Coronato, I can't force her. It is

not my fault. What on earth does he want a wife for, who does not want

him? Are women scarce? I will find him one better than this. He shall

see what my protection is worth.

SCENE VII.

_The above, and_ Geltrude _and_ Candida _outside the shop._

_Count._ Well, Signora Geltrude?

_Geltrude._ Count, my niece is a prudent girl.

_Count._ Well, then, briefly?

_Geltrude._ Count, permit me.

_Count._ Pardon me, but if you knew what I have endured with a woman--it

is true, another woman--[_Aside._] But all women are alike.--Well, then,

what does niece Candida say?

_Geltrude._ If the Baron really--

_Count._ Really! out upon your suspicions!

_Geltrude._ Admitting the condition and the circumstances, my niece is

content to marry the Baron.

_Count._ Bravo! [_Aside._] This time at least I have had a success.

_Candida._ [_Aside._] All to revenge myself on that false Evarist!

_Geltrude._ [_Aside._] I certainly did not think she would consent. I

fancied another affection held her, but I see I erred.

SCENE VIII.

Nina _on the terrace. The above._

_Nina._ She is not here, and I can find her nowhere. Oh, there she is!

_Count._ Consequently the Signorina Candida marries the Baron del Cedro.

_Nina._ [_Aside._] What do I hear? What will she answer?

_Geltrude._ She will do it as soon as the conditions--

_Count._ [_To_ Candida.] What conditions do you put?

_Candida._ None, sir; I marry him in any case.

_Count._ Excellent Signorina Candida! I like you thus. [_Aside._] Ah,

when I have to do with matters, all goes swimmingly.

_Nina._ [_Aside._] But this is a terrible business! Poor Signor Evarist!

It is useless for me to give the fan to Signorina Candida. [_Exit._

_Geltrude._ [_Aside._] I deceived myself. She loves the Baron, and I

thought her attracted to Signor Evarist.

_Count._ If you will allow me, I will go and give this good news to the

Baron, to my dear friend, my dear colleague.

_Geltrude._ And where is the Baron?

_Count._ He expects me at the apothecary's. Do as I beg. Go to the

house, and I will conduct him to you at once.

_Geltrude._ What do you say, niece?

_Candida._ Yes, he can speak with you.

_Count._ And with you?

_Candida._ I will do whatever my aunt wishes.--[_Aside._] I shall die,

but I shall die avenged.

_Count._ I go at once. Expect us, we will come to you. As the hour is so

advanced, it would not be amiss if you invited him to dinner.

_Geltrude._ What! the first time!

_Count._ Oh, these are exaggerated considerations. He will gladly

accept, I answer for him, and to induce him, I will stay too. [_Exit._

_Geltrude._ Let us go, then, and await them.

_Candida._ Yes, let us go.

_Geltrude._ What is the matter with you? Do you do it willingly?

_Candida._ Yes, willingly.--[_Aside._] I have given my word, it is

irremediable.

_Geltrude._ [_Aside._] Poor child, I pity her. In these cases,

notwithstanding one's love, one feels confused. [_Goes towards the

villa._]

SCENE IX.

Nina _on the terrace, and the above._

_Nina._ Oh, Signorina Candida!

_Candida._ [_Angrily._] What are you doing here?

_Nina._ I came to look for you.

_Candida._ Go away, and do not presume to set foot in our house again!

_Nina._ What! this affront to me?

_Candida._ What affront? You are an unworthy creature, and I cannot and

will not tolerate you longer. [_Enters the villa._]

_Geltrude._ [_Aside._] This is a little too severe.

_Nina._ I am amazed, Signora Geltrude.

_Geltrude._ I am indeed sorry for the mortification you have had, but my

niece is a person of good judgment, and if she has treated you ill, she

must have her reasons.

_Nina._ What reasons can she have? I am astonished at her.

_Geltrude._ Come, come, do not forget your respect; do not raise your

voice.

_Nina._ I will go and seek justification.

_Geltrude._ No, no, stay here. It is no good now, do it after.

_Nina._ And I tell you, I will go now!

_Geltrude._ Do not presume to pass this door. [_Places herself on the

threshold._]

SCENE X.

_The above._ Count _and_ Baron _going from the apothecary's to the

villa._

_Count._ Come, come, let us go.

_Baron._ I must go.

_Geltrude._ [_To_ Nina.] Impudent lass! [_Goes in and throws to the door

at the moment that the_ Count _and_ Baron _are about to enter. She does

not see them._]

[Nina _goes away angered._ Count _remains speechless, looking at the

closed door._]

_Baron._ What, they shut the door in our faces!

_Count._ In our faces? No, it is impossible!

_Baron._ Impossible, you say! But it is a fact.

_Nina._ This insult to me! [_Walks up and down trembling._]

_Count._ Let us go and knock.

_Nina._ [_Aside._] If they go in, I will get in too.

_Baron._ No, stay; I want to know no more. I do not wish to expose

myself to fresh insults. You have served me but ill. They have laughed

at you, and made fun of me on your account.

_Count._ [_Hotly._] What way of speaking is this?

_Baron._ And I demand satisfaction!

_Count._ From whom?

_Baron._ From you.

_Count._ In what manner?

_Baron._ Sword in hand!

_Count._ With the sword! But it's twenty years that I am in this

village, and that I no longer use a sword.

_Baron._ With pistols, then. [_Draws two pistols from his pocket._]

_Nina._ [_Running towards the house._] Pistols! hi, folks, here!

pistols! They are murdering each other.

SCENE XI.

_The above._ Geltrude _on the terrace._

_Geltrude._ But, gentlemen, what is this?

_Count._ Why did you bolt the door in our faces?

_Geltrude._ I? Excuse me, I am incapable of such a vile action with

whomsoever it should be; how little, then, with you and the Baron, who

deigns to condescend to my niece!

_Count._ [_To the_ Baron.] You hear!

_Baron._ But, Madame, at the very moment we wanted to come to you, the

door was closed in our faces.

_Geltrude._ I assure you I did not see you. I closed the door to hinder

that saucy girl Nina from entering.

_Nina._ [_Puts her head, out of her own door._] What? saucy! saucy

yourself!

_Count._ Quiet the impudent lass!

_Geltrude._ Will you enter, pray? I will give orders that the door be

opened.

_Count._ [_To the_ Baron.] You hear?

_Baron._ I have nothing more to say.

_Count._ What will you do with these pistols?

_Baron._ Excuse my acute sense of honour. [_Puts away the pistols._]

_Count._ And you mean to present yourself to two ladies with two pistols

in your pocket?

_Baron._ I always carry them in the country for self-defence.

_Count._ But if they knew you had these pistols,--you know what women

are,--they would not come near you.

_Baron._ You are right. Thank you for warning me, and, as a sign of good

friendship, allow me to present you with them. [_Draws one from his

pocket and presents it._]

_Count._ [_Nervously._] A present to me?

_Baron._ Yes; surely you will not refuse it?

_Count._ I accept it because it comes from your hands. But they are not

loaded?

_Baron._ What a question! Do you expect me to carry empty pistols?

_Count._ Wait! Ho there, cafe!

_Limonato._ [_From out his shop._] What would you, sir?

_Count._ Take these pistols and keep them till I ask you for them.

_Limonato._ At your service. [_Takes the pistols from the Baron._]

_Count._ Take care, they are loaded!

_Limonato._ [_Laughing._] Oh, I know how to manage them.

_Count._ Take care, no follies!

_Limonato._ [_Aside._] The Count is courageous, truly.

_Count._ I thank you, and shall value them.--[_Aside._] To-morrow I will

sell them.

_Tognino._ [_From the villa._] Gentlemen, my mistress expects you.

_Count._ Let us go.

_Baron._ Yes, let us go.

_Count._ Well, what do you say? Am I a man of my word? Ah, dear

colleague, we noblemen--our protection is worth something.

[Nina _comes out of her house softly, and goes behind them to enter._

Tognino _has let the_ Count _and_ Baron _pass, and remains on the

threshold._ Nina _wants to enter._ Tognino _stops her._]

_Tognino._ You have nothing to do here.

_Nina._ Yes, but I have.

_Tognino._ My orders are not to let you pass. [_Goes in and shuts the

door._]

_Nina._ I am furious!--I feel choking with rage! This insult to me--to a

girl of my kind! [_Stamps with rage._]

SCENE XII.

Evarist _from the street, his gun, on his shoulder, and_ Moracchio _with

a gun in his hand and bag with game, and the dogs tied by a cord. The

above._

_Evarist._ Here, take my gun, and keep those partridges till I dispose

of them. [_Seats himself before the cafe._]

_Moracchio._ Never fear, I will take care of them.--[_To_ Nina.] Is

dinner ready?

_Nina._ Quite ready.

_Moracchio._ What on earth is the matter? You are always angry with all

the world, and then complain of me.

_Nina._ Oh, it's true, we are relations, there is no gainsaying it.

_Moracchio._ Come, let us go in and dine. It is time.

_Nina._ Yes, yes, go. I will come after.--[_Aside._] I want to speak to

Signor Evarist.

_Moracchio._ Yes, come; if not, I shall eat all. [_Goes into the

house._]

_Nina._ If I ate now, I should eat poison.

_Evarist._ [_Aside._] No one on the terrace! Doubtless they are at

dinner. It is better I go to the inn, the Baron expects me. [_Rises._]

Well, Nina, nothing new to tell me?

_Nina._ Oh yes, sir, I have something to tell you.

_Evarist._ Have you given my fan?

_Nina._ Here it is, your accursed fan!

_Evarist._ What does this mean? Could you not give it?

_Nina._ I have received a thousand insults, a thousand impertinences,

and have been chased from the house like a good-for-nothing.

_Evarist._ Then Signora Geltrude noticed it?

_Nina._ Oh, not only Signora Geltrude. The greatest insults came from

Signorina Candida.

_Evarist._ But why? What did you do to her?

_Nina._ I did nothing to her, sir.

_Evarist._ You told her you had a fan for her?

_Nina._ How could I tell her when she never gave me time, but sent me

off like a thief?

_Evarist._ But there must be some reason.

_Nina._ For my part, I know I have done nothing to her. But all this

ill-treatment, I am sure, I am certain, has been done to me because of

you.

_Evarist._ Because of me? The Signorina Candida, who loves me so much!

_Nina._ Does the Signorina Candida love you so much?

_Evarist._ There is no doubt about it. I am sure of it.

_Nina._ Oh yes, I too can assure you that she loves you much, much,

much.

_Evarist._ You put me into a terrible agitation.

_Nina._ [_Ironically._] Go, go and seek your lady-love, your dear one.

_Evarist._ And why should I not go?

_Nina._ Because the place is taken!

_Evarist._ [_Anxiously._] By whom?

_Nina._ By Baron del Cedro.

_Evarist._ The Baron is in the house?

_Nina._ Why should he not be in the house, seeing he is to marry the

Signorina Candida?

_Evarist._ Nina, you dream--you are raving! you do nothing but talk

absurdities!

_Nina._ You don't believe me? Well, go and see, and you will know if I

speak the truth.

_Evarist._ In Signora Geltrude's house?

_Nina._ And in Signorina Candida's.

_Evarist._ The Baron!

_Nina._ Del Cedro.

_Evarist._ Marries Signorina Candida!

_Nina._ I have seen it with these eyes, and heard it with these ears.

_Evarist._ It cannot be! It is impossible! You talk nonsense.

_Nina._ Go, see for yourself. Listen, and you will soon learn if I talk

nonsense.

_Evarist._ I will see at once! [_Runs to the villa and knocks._]

_Nina._ Poor fool, he trusts in the love of a city girl. The city girls

are not as we are.

[Evarist _goes on knocking._ Tognino _opens and looks out of the door._]

_Evarist._ Well, what is it?

_Tognino._ Excuse me, I can let no one pass.

_Evarist._ Have you told them it is I?

_Tognino._ I have.

_Evarist._ To Signorina Candida?

_Tognino._ To Signorina Candida.

_Evarist._ And Signora Geltrude does not wish that I should come in?

_Tognino._ Yes, Signora Geltrude had said you might pass, but Signorina

Candida did not wish it.

_Evarist._ Did not wish it? I swear to Heaven I will come in! [_Tries to

push aside_ Tognino, _who bolts the door._]

_Nina._ Well, and what did I tell you?

_Evarist._ I am beside myself! I do not know in what world I am. To shut

the door in my face!

_Nina._ Oh, do not be amazed! They treated me in the same beautiful way.

_Evarist._ How is it possible Candida could thus deceive me?

_Nina._ What is a fact cannot be doubted.

_Evarist._ I still do not believe it--I cannot believe it--I will never

believe it!

_Nina._ You do not believe it?

_Evarist._ No; there must be some mistake, some mystery. I know

Candida's heart. She is incapable of this!

_Nina._ All right. Console yourself that way, and enjoy your

consolation. Much good may it do you!

_Evarist._ I absolutely must speak to Candida.

_Nina._ But since she won't receive you?

_Evarist._ It does not matter. There must be some other reason! I will

go into the cafe. It will be enough for me to see her, to hear a word

from her. A sign alone from her will suffice to assure me of life or to

give me my death-blow.

_Nina._ Well, take it.

SCENE XIII.

Coronato _and_ Scavezzo _return._ Scavezzo _goes straight to the inn._

Coronato _remains aside to listen. The above._

_Evarist._ What do you want to give me?

_Nina._ Why, your fan!

_Evarist._ Keep it. Don't torment me.

_Nina._ You give me this fan?

_Evarist._ Yes, yes, keep it, I give it you.--[_Aside._] I am beside

myself!

_Nina._ If it is so, I thank you.

_Coronato._ [_Aside._] Ho, ho! now I know what the present was! A fan.

[_Goes to the inn without being seen._]

_Evarist._ But if Candida won't let me see her--if by chance she does

not look out of the window--if seeing me she refuses to listen to me--if

her aunt forbids her! I am in a sea of confusion, of agitation.

[Crispino, _with a sack full of leather and shoes on his shoulder, goes

towards his booth. Seeing the two, he stops to listen._]

_Nina._ Dear Signor Evarist, you make me sad; I am deeply grieved for

you.

_Evarist._ Yes, my good girl, I deserve your pity.

_Nina._ So good, amiable, and polite a gentleman.

_Evarist._ You know my heart, you bear testimony to my love.

_Crispino._ [_Aside._] Nice things these! I see I came in time.

_Nina._ Indeed, if I knew how to comfort you--

_Crispino._ [_Aside._] Better and better!

_Evarist._ Well, at all costs I will try my luck. I will not have to

reproach myself that I neglected to clear up the matter. I go to the

cafe, Nina; I go and tremble. Retain to me your friendship and

good-will. [_He takes her hand, and goes into the cafe._]

_Nina._ On the one hand he makes me laugh, on the other I am sorry for

him.

[Crispino _puts down his sack, pulls out some shoes, puts them on the

bench, and goes into his shop without speaking._]

_Nina._ Why, here is Crispino! Welcome back! Where have you been till

now?

_Crispino._ Don't you see, to buy leather and to take shoes for mending.

_Nina._ But you do nothing but mend old shoes. I would not have people

say--you know they are so ill-natured here--

_Crispino._ The evil tongues will find more to say about you than about

me.

_Nina._ About me! What can they say?

_Crispino._ What do I care what they say--that I am more of a cobbler

than a shoemaker? It is enough for me to be an honest man, and to earn

my bread righteously. [_He sits down and works._]

_Nina._ But I don't want to be called the cobbleress.

_Crispino._ When?

_Nina._ When I shall be your wife.

_Crispino._ Eh?

_Nina._ Eh! What does this eh! mean? what does this eh! mean?

_Crispino._ It means that Signorina Nina will be neither cobbleress nor

shoemakeress; she has aims most vast and grand.

_Nina._ Are you mad, or have you drunk this morning?

_Crispino._ I am not mad, I have not drunk, but I am neither blind nor

deaf.

_Nina._ Then what the devil do you mean? Explain yourself if you would

have me understand you.

_Crispino._ I am to explain myself! You would have me explain myself? Do

you think I have not heard your fine words with Signor Evarist?

_Nina._ With Signor Evarist?

_Crispino._ [_Imitating_ Evarist.] Yes, my good girl, you know my heart;

you bear testimony to my love.

_Nina._ [_Laughing._] You silly fellow!

_Crispino._ [_Imitating_ Nina.] Indeed, if I knew how to comfort you--

_Nina._ [_Laughing._] Silly fellow, I say!

_Crispino._ [_Imitating_ Evarist.] Nina, retain to me your friendship

and good-will.

_Nina._ [_Laughing yet more._] Sillier than ever!

_Crispino._ I?

_Nina._ Yes, absurd; madly absurd!

_Crispino._ But, by Jove, did I not see, did I not hear your beautiful

conversation with Signor Evarist?

_Nina._ Silly boy, I tell you!

_Crispino._ And what you replied.

_Nina._ Silly boy!

_Crispino._ Nina, have done with this "silly," or I shall go silly in

very deed. [_Threatens her._]

_Nina._ Eh! eh! [_Becomes serious, and changes her tune._] But do you

really think Signor Evarist loves me?

_Crispino._ I know nothing about it.

_Nina._ Come here. Listen. [_Speaks rapidly._] Signor Evarist loves

Signorina Candida; and Signorina Candida has planted him, and wants to

marry the Baron. And Signor Evarist is desperate, and came to pour out

his heart to me; and I pretended to be sympathetic to make fun of him,

and he let himself be comforted that way. Do you understand now?

_Crispino._ Not a word.

_Nina._ Are you persuaded of my innocence?

_Crispino._ Not entirely.

_Nina._ Then, if things are thus, go to the devil with you! Coronato

desires me, seeks me; my brother has promised me to him. The Count, who

respects me, implores--I shall marry Coronato.

_Crispino._ Come, come, don't be so angry instantly. Can you assure me

you speak the truth--that there is nothing between you and Signor

Evarist?

_Nina._ And you do not wish me to call you silly! But, my own good

Crispino, whom I love so much, my dear betrothed! [_She caresses him._]

_Crispino._ [_Gently._] And what did Signor Evarist give you?

_Nina._ Nothing.

_Crispino._ Nothing? nothing? nothing?

_Nina._ When I tell you nothing, nothing--[_Aside._] I do not want him

to know about the fan, or he will suspect me again.

_Crispino._ Can I be sure?

_Nina._ Come, come, you tease me.

_Crispino._ You love me?

_Nina._ Yes, I love you.

_Crispino._ Well, then, let us make peace. [_He takes her hand._]

_Nina._ [_Laughing._] Silly fellow.

_Crispino._ [_Laughing._] But why silly?

_Nina._ Because you are.

SCENE XIV.

Coronato, _who comes out of the inn. The above._

_Coronato._ At last I know what present Signorina Nina has had.

_Nina._ What business is that of yours?

_Crispino._ [_To_ Coronato.] From whom has she had a present?

_Coronato._ From Signor Evarist.

_Nina._ It is not true.

_Crispino._ It is not true?

_Coronato._ But it is, and I know, too, what it is.

_Nina._ Well, be it what it be, it does not concern you. I love

Crispino, and shall be the wife of my Crispino.

_Crispino._ [_To_ Coronato.] Well, what is the present?

_Coronato._ A fan.

_Crispino._ [_Angrily to_ Nina.] A fan?

_Nina._ [_Aside._] Confound that fellow!

_Crispino._ [_To_ Nina.] Did you receive a fan?

_Nina._ It is not true.

_Coronato._ It is so true, that you have it in your pocket.

_Crispino._ I wish to see that fan.

_Nina._ No, no!

_Coronato._ I will find the means to make her show it.

_Nina._ You are an interfering fellow.

SCENE XV.

Moracchio _from out the house, a table napkin in his hand, eating._

_Moracchio._ What's all this noise about?

_Coronato._ Your sister has had a fan given her, it is in her pocket,

and she denies it.

_Moracchio._ [_Sternly._] Give me that fan.

_Nina._ Leave me alone.

_Moracchio._ Give me that fan, or, I swear by Heaven--[_Threatens her._]

_Nina._ Confound you all! Here it is.

_Crispino._ [_Wants to take it._] I want it.

_Coronato._ No; I.

_Nina._ Leave me alone, I say!

_Moracchio._ Quick, give it here. I want it.

_Nina._ No; rather than to you or Coronato, I will give it to Crispino.

_Moracchio._ Give it to me, I say!

_Nina._ To Crispino! [_Gives the fan to_ Crispino, _and runs into the

house._]

_Coronato._ Give it here.

_Moracchio._ Give it here.

_Crispino._ You shall not have it.

[_Both fall on_ Crispino _to yet it from him. He escapes from the scene,

they follow him._]

SCENE XVI.

_The_ Count _on the terrace._ Timoteo _outside his shop._

_Count._ Hi! Signor Timoteo!

_Timoteo._ What do you command?

_Count._ Quick, quick, bring spirits and cordials! Signorina Candida has

fainted!

_Timoteo._ Instantly. [_Returns into the shop._]

_Count._ What was she looking at? One would think some poisonous plants

grew in the garden of the cafe. [_Exit._

[Crispino _crosses the stage, running._ Coronato _and_ Moracchio _run

after him, and all three disappear._]

_Baron._ [_From the villa to the apothecary._] Quick, quick, Signor

Timoteo!

_Timoteo._ [_Advancing with various phials and cups._] Here I am.

_Baron._ Quick, quick!

_Timoteo._ All right, all right. [_Goes up to the door._]

[Crispino, Coronato, Moracchio, _from outside the scene, run furiously

across the stage, knock against_ Timoteo, _throw him down, breaking all

his bottles._ Crispino _falls over him and loses hold of the fan._

Coronato _snatches it up and runs off._ Timoteo _gets up and returns to

his shop._]

_Coronato._ [_To_ Moracchio.] Here it is, here it is! I have got it!

[_Exit._

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

_Crispino_ comes out of his shop, with bread, cheese, and a bottle of

wine, seats himself on the bench, and breakfasts. _Tognino_ comes out of

_Geltrude's_ villa with a broom, and crosses to the pharmacy. _Coronato_

and _Scavezzo_ come out of the inn; the latter carries a barrel on his

shoulders; the former passes _Crispino_, looks at him and laughs. Then

both go off. _Crispino_ looks after him and clenches his fist. _Tognino_,

issuing from the pharmacy, sweeps the square. _Timoteo_ with glasses

and bottles hurries across to the villa. _Crispino_ has emptied his

wine-bottle, and goes into the inn. _Susanna_ comes out of her shop,

seats herself to do some needlework. _Tognino_ off into the villa.

_Crispino_ comes back, his bottle refilled. He draws the fan from his

pocket, looks at it smiling, and seats himself again. _Nina_ also seats

herself outside her door to spin. _Crispino_ hides the fan under his

leather apron, and goes on eating. _Coronato_ comes back, passes

_Crispino_, and smiles. _Crispino_ smiles also. _Coronato_, arrived at

his own door, turns round once more to look at _Crispino_ and smile,

then enters. _Crispino_ laughs too, takes up the fan, looks at it with

pleasure, and then hides it again.

Count _and_ Baron _coming out of_ Gertrude's _villa._

_Count._ No excuse! my friend, that should not vex you.

_Baron._ I assure you it can't please me either.

_Count._ If Signorina Candida felt ill, that was an accident; you must

excuse. You know women are subject to vapours and nervous attacks.

_Baron._ But when we went in she was not ill, and scarcely did she see

me than she retired to her room.

_Count._ Because she felt it coming on.

_Baron._ And then, did you notice Signora Geltrude when she came out of

her niece's room, with what attention, what interest she read some

papers that seemed letters.

_Count._ She is a woman who has much business on her hands, and a large

correspondence. Doubtless they were letters just arrived.

_Baron._ No; they were old papers. I bet anything they were something

she had found either on the table or on the person of Signorina Candida.

_Count._ Dear friend, your suspicions are strange! Your imagination runs

away with you!

_Baron._ I imagine that which doubtless is the case. I suspect that an

understanding exists between Signorina Candida and Evarist.

_Count._ Impossible! Were it so, I should know it. I know everything!

There is nothing done in the village that I do not know! And further,

were it as you think, do you suppose Signorina Candida would ever have

accepted your proposal? How can you suppose she would thus compromise

the mediation of a nobleman of my standing?

_Baron._ Oh, for that a good reason can be found. She was forced to say

"Yes;" but Signora Geltrude was not as amiable to me after reading those

letters; indeed, she seemed to me to show pleasure that we should go.

_Count._ Well, I think that all we have to complain of against Signora

Geltrude is, that she did not ask us to stay to dinner with her.

_Baron._ To that I am indifferent.

_Count._ I gave her some hints, but she pretended not to understand.

_Baron._ I assure you she was most anxious we should leave.

_Count._ I am sorry for you. Where will you dine to-day?

_Baron._ I told the host to prepare dinner for two.

_Count._ For two?

_Baron._ I expect Evarist, who has gone shooting.

_Count._ If you will come and dine with me--

_Baron._ With you?

_Count._ But my dinner is half a mile from here.

_Baron._ Thank you, but the dinner is already ordered. Hi there,

Coronato!