The Comedies of Carlo Goldoni

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.