ACT II.
SCENE, the COUNTESS’s Bed-Chamber.
(A state-bed in the back ground under an Alcove: three doors; one the entrance into the room, another into Susan’s room, and the third to the Countess’s dressing-room; a large window that opens to the street.)
The COUNTESS seated, SUSAN waiting.
Countess.
Shut the door—And so the Page was hid behind the great chair?
Susan. Yes, Madam.
Countess. But how did he happen to be in your room, Susan?
Susan. The poor Boy came to beg I would prevail on you to obtain his pardon of my Lord the Count.
Countess. But why did not he come to me himself? I should not have refused him a favor of that kind.
Susan. Bashfulness, Madam. Ah Susan! said he, she is a Divinity! How noble is her Manner! Her very smiles are awful.
Countess. (Smiling) Is that true, Susan?
Susan. Can you doubt it, Madam?
Countess. I have always afforded him my protection.
Susan. Had you, Madam, but seen him snatch the ribband from me!
Countess. (Rising) Pshaw! Enough of this nonsense—And so my Lord the Count endeavours to seduce you, Susan?
Susan. Oh, no indeed, Madam, he does not give himself the trouble to seduce; he endeavours to purchase me: and because I refuse him will certainly prevent my marriage with Figaro, and support the pretensions of Marcelina.
Countess. Fear nothing—We shall have need, however, of a little artifice perhaps; in the execution of which Figaro’s assistance may not be amiss.
Susan. He will be here, Madam, as soon as my Lord is gone a coursing.
Countess. Your Lord is an ungrateful man, Susan!—An ungrateful man! (The Countess walks up and down the room with some emotion) Open the window; I am stifled for want of air—Vows, protestations and tenderness are all forgotten—My Love offends, my Caresses disgust—He thinks his own Infidelities must all be overlook’d, yet my Conduct must be irreproachable.
Susan (At the window looking into the street). Yonder goes my Lord with all his Grooms and Greyhounds.
Countess. To divert himself with hunting a poor timid harmless Hare to death—This, however, will give us time—Somebody knocks, Susan.
Susan. “For Figaro’s the lad, is the lad for me.”
(Goes singing to the Door.)
Enter FIGARO.
(He kisses Susan’s hand, she makes signs to him to be more prudent, and points to the Countess.)
Countess. Well, Figaro, you have heard of my Lord the Count’s designs on your young Bride.
Figaro. Oh yes, my Lady. There was nothing very surprising in the news. My Lord sees a sweet, young, lovely—Angel! (Susan curtsies) and wishes to have her for himself. Can any thing be more natural? I wish the very same—
Countess. I don’t find it so very pleasant, Figaro.
Figaro. He endeavours to overturn the schemes of those who oppose his wishes; and in this he only follows the example of the rest of the world. I endeavour to do the very same.
Susan. But with less probability of success, Figaro.
Figaro. Follow my advice, and I’ll convince you of your mistake.
Countess. Let me hear.
Figaro. You, my lovely Susan, must appoint the Count to meet him, as he proposed, this evening, by the Pavilion in the Garden.
Countess. How! Figaro! Can you consent?
Figaro. And why not, Madam?
Susan. But if you can, sir, do you think I—
Figaro. Nay, my Charmer, do not imagine I would wish thee to grant him any thing thou wishest to refuse—But first we must dress up the Page in your cloaths, my dear Susan—, he is to be your Representative.
Countess. The Page!
Susan. He is gone.
Figaro. Is he?—Perhaps so. But a whistle from me will bring him back. (The Countess seems pleased.)
Susan. So! Now Figaro’s happy!—Plots and Contrivances—
Figaro. Two! Three! Four at a time! Embarrass’d! Involv’d! Perplex’d!—Leave me to unravel them. I was born to thrive in Courts.
Susan. I have heard the Trade of a Courtier is not so difficult as some pretend.
Figaro. Ask for every thing that falls, seize every thing in your power, and accept every thing that’s offered—There is the whole art and mystery in three words.
Countess. Well, but the Count, Figaro?
Figaro. Permit me, Madam, to manage him—And first, the better to secure my property, I shall begin by making him dread the loss of his own.—“Oh, what pleasure shall I have in cutting out Employment for him during the whole day!—To see him waste that time in jealously-watching your conduct, Madam, which he meant to employ in amorous dalliance with my sweet Bride—To behold him running here and there and he does not know where, and hunting a monstrous Shadow, which he dreads to find, yet longs to grasp.”
Countess. Surely, Figaro, you are out of your wits.
Figaro. Pardon, my dear Lady, but it is your good Lord who will soon be out of his wits.
Countess. But as you know him to be so jealous, how will you dare?—
Figaro. Oh, Madam! Were he not jealous, my scheme would not be worth a doit: but it will now serve a double purpose—The Jewel which Possession has made him neglect, will again become valuable, if once he can be brought to dread its loss.
Countess. To confess the truth, Figaro, your project exactly corresponds with the one I meant to practise—An anonymous Letter must be sent, informing him, that a Gallant, meaning to profit by his neglect—
Figaro. And absence—is at present with his beauteous Countess——The thing is already done, Madam.
Countess. How!—Have you dared to trifle thus with a Woman of Honor?
Figaro. Oh, Madam, it is only with a Woman of Honor I should presume to take a liberty like this; least my Joke should happen to prove a Reality.
Countess (Smiles). You don’t want an agreeable excuse, Figaro.
Figaro. The hour of performing the marriage Ceremony will arrive post haste—he will be disconcerted, and having no good excuse ready, will never venture in your presence, Madam, to oppose our union.
Susan. But if he will not, Marcelina will; and thou wilt be condemned to pay—
Figaro. Poh! Thou hast forgot the Count is our Judge!—And, after being entrapp’d at the rendezvous, will he condemn us, thinkest thou?—But come, come, we must be quick—I’ll send the Page hither to be dress’d—We must not lose a moment.
(Exit Figaro.
Countess (Examining her head dress in a pocket looking-glass). What a hideous cap this is, Susan; its quite awry—This Youth who is coming—
Susan. Ah, Madam! Your Beauty needs not the addition of Art in his eyes.
Countess. And my hair too—I assure you, Susan, I shall be very severe with him.
Susan (Smoothing the Countess’s hair). Let me spread this Curl a little, Madam—Oh, pray Madam, make him sing the song he has written.
(Susan throws the song into the Countess’s lap, which the Page had given her.)
Countess. I shall tell him of all the complaints I hear against him.
Susan. Oh Yes Madam; I can see you will scold him, heartily.
Countess (Seriously). What do you say, Susan?
Susan (Goes to the door). Come; come in Mr. Soldier.
Enter PAGE.
(Susan pretends to threaten him by signs.)
Page. Um—(Pouts aside.)
Countess. Well, young gentleman, (With assumed severity)—How innocent he looks, Susan! (Aside to Susan).
Susan. And how bashful, Madam!
Countess (Resuming her serious air). Have you reflected on the duties of your new Profession?
(The Page imagines the Countess is angry, and timidly draws back.)
Susan (Aside to the Page). Ay, ay, young Rake, I’ll tell all I know.—(Returns to the Countess). Observe his downcast eyes, Madam, and long eye-lashes.—(Aside to the Page) Yes, Hypocrite, I’ll tell.
Countess (Seeing the Page more and more fearful). Nay, Hannibal—don’t—be terrified—I—Come nearer.
Susan (Pushing him towards the Countess). Advance, Modesty.
Countess. Poor Youth, he is quite affected—I am not angry with you; I was only going to speak to you on the duties of a Soldier—Why do you seem so sorrowful?
Page. Alas, Madam, I may well be sorrowful! Being, as I am, obliged to leave a Lady so gentle and so kind——
Susan. And so beautiful—(In the same tone and half aside.)
Page. Ah, yes! (Sighs).
Susan (Mimicking). Ah, yes!—Come, come, let me try on one of my Gowns upon you—Come here—Let us measure—I declare the little Villain is not so tall as I am.
Page. Um—(Pouts.)
Susan. Turn about—Let me untie your cloak.
(Susan takes off the Page’s cloak.)
Countess. But suppose somebody should come?
Susan. Dear, my Lady, we are not doing any harm—I’ll lock the door, however, for fear—(The Page casts a glance or two at the Countess, Susan returns) Well! Have you nothing to say to my beauteous Lady, and your charming God-mother?
Page (Sighs). Oh, yes! That I am sure I shall love her as long as I live!
Countess. Esteem, you mean, Hannibal.
Page. Ye—ye—yes—Es—teem! I should have said.
Susan (Laughs). Yes, yes, Esteem! The poor Youth overflows with Es—teem and Aff—ection—and—
Page. Um! (Aside to Susan).
Susan. Nia, nia, nia, (Mocking the Page).—Dear Madam, do make him sing those good-for-nothing Verses.
Countess. (Takes the verses Susan gave her, from her pocket) Pray who wrote them?
Susan (Pointing to the Page). Look, Madam, look! His sins rise in his face—Nobody but an Author could look so silly—
Countess. Come, Hannibal, sing.
Susan. Ah, the bashful Scribbler!
SONG.
To the Winds, to the Waves, to the Woods I complain;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
They hear not my Sighs, and they heed not my Pain;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
“The name of my Goddess I ’grave on each Tree;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
’Tis I wound the bark, but Love’s arrows wound me:
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
The Heav’ns I view with their azure bright skies;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
But Heaven to me are her still brighter eyes:
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!”
To the Sun’s morning splendor the poor Indian bows;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
But I dare not worship where I pay my Vows:
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
“His God each morn rises and he can adore;
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!
But my Goddess to me must soon never rise more:
Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!”
(During the song the Countess is evidently affected by the Passion with which the Page sings.
Susan. Now let us try whether one of my Caps—
Countess. There is one of mine lies on my dressing-table. (Exit Susan to the dressing room of the Countess.)—Is your Commission made out?
Page. Oh yes, Madam, and given me; Here it is.
(Presents his commission to the Countess.)
Countess. Already? They have made haste I see! They are not willing to lose a moment—Their hurry has made them even forget to affix the Seal.
Susan. (Returns) The Seal! To what, Madam?
Countess. His Commission.
Susan. So soon!
Countess. I was observing, there has been no time lost.
(Returns the Page his Commission; he sticks it in his girdle.)
Susan. Come—(Makes the Page kneel down, and puts him on the cap) What a pretty little Villain it is! I declare I am jealous: see if he is not handsomer than I am! Turn about—There—What’s here?—The riband!—So, so, so! Now all is out! I’m glad of it—I told my young Gentleman I would let you know his thievish tricks, Madam.
Countess. Fetch me some black patches Susan.
(Exit Susan to her own chamber.
The Countess and the Page remain mute for a considerable time during which the Page looks at the Countess with great passion, though with the bashful side glances natural to his character—The Countess pretends not to observe him, and visibly makes several efforts to overcome her own feelings.)
Countess. And—and—so—you—you are sorry—to leave us?
Page. Ye—yes—Madam.
Countess. (Observing the Page’s heart so full that he is ready to burst into tears) ’Tis that good-for-nothing Figaro who has frightened the child with his prognostics.
Page. (Unable to contain himself any longer) N-o-o-o indee-ee-eed, Madam, I-I-am o-on-only-gri-ieved to part from-so dear a-La-a-ady.
Countess. (Takes out her handkerchief and wipes his eyes) Nay, but don’t weep, don’t weep—Come, come, be comforted. (A knocking is heard at the Countess’s chamber door) Who’s there? (In an authoritative tone.)
The Count speaks without.
Count. Open the door, my Lady.
Countess. Heavens! It is the Count!—I am ruined!—If he finds the Page here after receiving Figaro’s anonymous Letter I shall be for ever lost!—What imprudence!
Count. (Without) Why don’t you open the door?
Countess. Because——I’m alone.
Count. Alone! Who are you talking to then!
Countess. To you, to be sure—How could I be so thoughtless—This villainous Figaro.
Page. After the scene of the great chair this morning he will certainly murder me if he finds me here.
Countess. Run into my dressing-room and lock the door on the inside. (the Countess opens the door to the Count.)
Enter the COUNT.
Count. You did not use to lock yourself in, when you were alone, Madam! Who were you speaking to?
Countess. (Endeavouring to conceal her agitation) To—To Susan, who is rumaging in her own room.
Count. But you seem agitated, Madam.
Countess. That is not impossible (affecting to take a serious air) We were speaking of you.
Count. Of me!
Countess. Your jealousy, your indifference, my Lord.
Count. “I cannot say for indifference, my Lady, and as for jealousy, you know best whether I have any cause.
Countess. “My Lord!
Count. “In short, my Lady, there are people in the world, who are malicious enough to wish to disturb either your repose or mine. I have received private advice that a certain Thing called a Lover—
Countess. “Lover!
Count. “Ay, or Gallant, or any other title you like best, meant to take advantage of my absence, and introduce himself into the Castle.
Countess. “If there even were any one audacious enough to make such an attempt, he would find himself disappointed of meeting me; for I shall not stir out of my room to-day.
Count. “What, not to the Wedding?
Countess. “I am indisposed.
Count. “Its lucky then that the Doctor is here.”
(The Page oversets a table in the Countess’s dressing-room.)
Countess. (Terrified.) What will become of me? (Aside.)
Count. What noise is that?
Countess. I heard no noise.
Count. No? You must be most confoundedly absent, then.
Countess. (Affecting to return his irony) Oh, to be sure.
Count. But there is somebody in your dressing-room, Madam.
Countess. Who should there be?
Count. That’s what I want to know.
Countess. It is Susan, I suppose, putting the chairs and tables to rights.
Count. What! Your favourite woman turned house-maid! You told me just now she was in her own room.
Countess. In her room, or my room, it is all one.
Count. Really, my Lady, this Susan of yours is a very nimble, convenient kind of person.
Countess. Really, my Lord, this Susan of mine disturbs your quiet very much.
Count. Very true, my Lady, so much that I am determined to see her.
Countess. These suspicions are very much to your credit, my Lord.
Count. If they are not to your discredit, my Lady, it is very easy to remove them—But I see you mean to trifle with me (he goes to the Countess’s dressing-room door, and calls) Susan! Susan! If Susan you are, come forth!
Countess. Very well, my Lord! Very well! Would you have the girl come out half undressed? She is trying on one of my left off dresses—To disturb female privacy, in this manner, my Lord, is certainly very unprecedented.
(During the warmth of this dispute, Susan comes from her own room, perceives what is passing, and after listening long enough to know how to act, slips, unseen by both, behind the curtains of the bed which stands in the Alcove.)
Count. Well, if she can’t come out, she can answer at least. (Calls) Susan!—Answer me, Susan.
Countess. I say, do not answer, Susan! I forbid you to speak a word!—We shall see who she’ll obey.
Count. But if you are so innocent, Madam, what is the reason of that emotion and perplexity so very evident in your countenance?
Countess. (Affecting to laugh) Emotion and perplexity! Ha! ha! ha! Ridiculous!
Count. Well, Madam, be it as ridiculous as it may, I am determined to be satisfied, and I think present appearances give me a sufficient plea. (Goes to the side of the Scenes and calls) Hollo! Who waits there?
Countess. Do, do, my Lord! Expose your jealousy to your very servants! Make yourself and me the jest of the whole world.
Count. Why do you oblige me to it?—However, Madam, since you will not suffer that door to be opened, will you please to accompany me while I procure an instrument to force it?
Countess. To be sure, my Lord! To be sure! If you please.
Count. And, in order that you may be fully justified, I will make this other door fast (Goes to Susan’s chamber door, locks it, and takes the key.) As to the Susan of the dressing-room, she must have the complaisance to wait my return.
Countess. This behaviour is greatly to your honor, my Lord! (This speech is heard as they are going through the door, which the Count locks after him.)
(Exeunt)
Enter SUSAN, peeping as they go off, then runs to the dressing-room door and calls.
Susan. Hannibal!—Hannibal!—Open the door! Quick! Quick!—It’s I, Susan.
Enter PAGE, frightened.
Page. Oh Susan!
Susan. Oh my poor Mistress!
Page. What will become of her?
Susan. What will become of my marriage?
Page. What will become of me?
Susan. Don’t stand babbling here, but fly.
Page. The doors are all fast, how can I fly?
Susan. Don’t ask me! Fly!
Page. Here’s a window open (runs to the window) Underneath is a bed of flowers; I’ll leap out.
Susan. (Screams) You’ll break your neck!
Page. Better that than ruin my dear Lady—Give me one kiss Susan.
Susan. Was there ever seen such a young—(Page kisses her, runs and leaps out of the window, and Susan shrieks at seeing him) Ah! (Susan sinks into a chair, overcome with fear—At last she takes courage, rises, goes with dread towards the window, and after looking out, turns round with her hand upon her heart, a sigh of relief and a smile expressive of sudden ease and pleasure.) He is safe! Yonder he runs!—As light and as swift as the winds!—If that Boy does not make some woman’s heart ache I’m mistaken. (Susan goes towards the dressing-room door, enters, and peeps out as she is going to shut it.) And now, my good jealous Count, perhaps, I may teach you to break open doors another time. (Locks herself in.)
Enter COUNT, with a wrenching iron in one hand, and leading in the COUNTESS with the other. Goes and examines the doors.
Count. Every thing is as I left it. We now shall come to an eclaircissement.
Countess. But, my Lord!—He’ll murder him! (Aside.)
Count. Now we shall know—Do you still persist in forcing me to break open this door?—I am determined to see who’s within.
Countess. Let me beg, my Lord, you’ll have a moment’s patience!—Hear me only and you shall satisfy your utmost curiosity!—Let me intreat you to be assured, that, however appearances may condemn me, no injury was intended to your honour.
Count. Then there is a man?
Countess. No—none of whom you can reasonably entertain the least suspicion.
Count. How?
Countess. A jest!—A meer innocent, harmless frolic, for our evening’s diversion! Nothing more, upon my Honor!—On my soul!
Count. But who—who is it?
Countess. A Child!
Count. Let us see your child!—What child?
Countess. Hannibal.
Count. The Page! (Turns away) This damnable Page again?——Thus then is the Letter!——thus are my Suspicions realized at last!—I am now no longer astonished, Madam, at your emotion for your pretty Godson this morning!—The whole is unravelled!—Come forth, Viper! (In great wrath.)
Countess. (Terrified and trembling) Do not let the Disorder in which you will see him——
Count. The Disorder!—The Disorder!
Countess. We were going to dress him in women’s cloaths for our evening’s diversion—
Count. I’ll stab him!—I’ll!—“And this is your indisposition!—This is why you would keep your Chamber all day! False, unworthy Woman! You shall keep it longer than you expected.”—I’ll make him a terrible example of an injured Husband’s wrath!
Countess. (Falling on her knees between the Count and the door) Hold, my Lord, hold! Or let your anger light on me!—I, alone, am guilty! If there be any guilt—Have pity on his youth! His infancy!
Count. What! Intercede for him!—On your knees!—And to me! There wanted but this!—I’ll rack him!—Rise!—I’ll (Furiously.)
Countess. Promise me to spare his life!
Count. Rise!
(The Countess rises terrified, and sinks into an arm chair ready to faint.
Countess. He’ll murder him!
Count. Come forth, I say, once more; or I’ll drag—(While the Count is speaking, Susan unlocks the door and bolts out upon him.)
Susan. I’ll stab him!—I’ll rack him!
(The Countess, at hearing Susan’s voice, recovers sufficiently to look round—Is astonished, endeavours to collect herself, and turns back into her former position to conceal her surprise.)
Countess. (After standing fixed some time, and first looking at Susan and then at the Countess) Here’s a seminary!—And can you act astonishment too, Madam? (Observing the Countess, who cannot totally hide her surprise.).
Countess. Attempting to speak) I—My Lord—
Count. (Recollecting himself.) But, perhaps, she was not alone. (Enters the dressing-room, Countess again alarmed, Susan runs to the Countess.
Susan. Fear nothing—He is not there—He has jumped out of the window.
Countess. And broke his neck! (Her terror returns.)
Susan. Hush! (Susan claps herself bolt upright against her Lady, to hide her new disorder from the Count.) Hem! Hem!
Re-enter COUNT, (greatly abashed)
Count. Nobody there!—I have been to blame—(approaching the Countess.) Madam!—
(With great submission as if going to beg her pardon, but the confusion still visible in her countenance calls up the recollection of all that had just passed, and he bursts out into an exclamation.)
Upon my soul, Madam, you are a most excellent Actress!
Susan. And am not I too, my Lord?
Count. You see my Confusion, Madam—be generous.
Susan. As you have been.
Count. Hush!—(Makes signs to Susan to take his part.) My dear Rosina——
Countess. No, no, my Lord! I am no longer that Rosina whom you formerly loved with such affection!—I am now nothing but the poor Countess of Almaviva! A neglected Wife, and not a beloved Mistress.
Count. Nay, do not make my humiliation too severe—(His suspicions again in part revive.) But wherefore, my Lady, have you been thus mysterious on this occasion?
Countess. That I might not betray that headlong thoughtless Figaro.
Count. What! He wrote the anonymous billet then?
Countess. It was without my knowledge, my Lord.
Count. But you were afterwards informed of it?
Countess. Certainly.
Count. Who did he give it to?
Countess. Basil—
Count. Who sent it me by a Peasant—Indeed, Mr. Basil.—Yes, vile Thrummer, thou shalt pay for all!
Countess. But where is the justice of refusing that pardon to others we stand so much in need of ourselves? If ever I could be brought to forgive, it should only be on condition of passing a general amnesty.
Count. I acknowledge my guilt.
(The Countess stands in the middle of the stage, the Count a little in the back ground, as if expressive of his timidity, but his countenance shews he is confident of obtaining his pardon—Susan stands forwarder than either, and her looks are significantly applicable to the circumstances of both parties.)
Susan. To suspect a man in my Lady’s dressing-room!—
Count. And to be thus severely punished for my suspicion!—
Susan. Not to believe my Lady when she assured you it was her Woman!
Count. Ah!——(with affected confusion) Deign, Madam, once more, to repeat my pardon.
Countess. Have I already pronounced it, Susan?
Susan. Not that I heard, Madam.
Count. Let the gentle sentence then escape.
Countess. And do you merit it, ungrateful man? (with tenderness.)
Count. (Looking at Susan, who returns his look) Certainly, my Lady.
Countess. A fine example I set you, Susan! (The Count takes her hand and kisses it.) Who, hereafter, will dread a Woman’s anger?
(Countess turns her head towards Susan, and laughs as she says this.)
Susan. (In the same tone) Yes, yes, Madam—I observe——Men may well accuse us of frailty.
Count. And yet I cannot, for the soul of me, forget the agony, Rosina, in which you seemed to be just now! Your cries, your tears, your——How was it possible, this being a Fiction, you should so suddenly give it the tragic tone of a Reality?—Ha! ha! ha!—So astonishingly natural!
Countess. You see your Page, and I dare say your Lordship was not sorry for the mistake—I’m sure the sight of Susan does not give you offence.
Count. Hem!—Offence! Oh! No, no, no—But what’s the reason, you malicious little hussey, you did not come when I called?
Susan. What! Undress’d, my Lord?
Count. But why didn’t you answer then?
Susan. My Lady forbad me: and good reason she had so to do.
Count. Such distraction in your countenance! (To the Countess) Nay, it’s not calm even yet!
Countess. Oh you—you fancy so my Lord.
Count. Men, I perceive, are poor Politicians—Women make Children of us——Were his Majesty wise, he would name you, and not me, for his Ambassador.
Enter FIGARO, chearfully; perceives the Count, who puts on a very serious air.
Fig. They told me my Lady was indisposed, I ran to enquire, and am very happy to find there was nothing in it.
Count. You are very attentive.
Fig. It is my duty so to be, my Lord. (Turns to Susan.) Come, come, my Charmer! Prepare for the Ceremony! Go to your Bridemaids.
Count. But who is to guard the Countess in the mean time?
Figaro. (Surprised) Guard her, my Lord! My Lady seems very well: she wants no guarding.
Count. From the Gallant, who was to profit by my absence? (Susan and the Countess make signs to Figaro.)
Countess. Nay, nay, Figaro, the Count knows all.
Susan. Yes, yes, we have told my Lord every thing.—The jest is ended—Its all over.
Figaro. The jest is ended!—And its all over!
Count. Yes—Ended, ended, ended!——And all over—What have you to say to that?
Fig. Say, my Lord!
(The confusion of Figaro arises from not supposing it possible the Countess and Susan should have betrayed him, and when he understands something by their signs, from not knowing how much they have told.)
Count. Ay, say.
Fig. I—I—I wish I could say as much of my Marriage.
Count. And who wrote the pretty Letter?
Figaro. Not I, my Lord.
Count. If I did not know thou liest, I could read it in thy face.
Figaro. Indeed, my Lord!—Then it is my face that lies; and not I.
Countess. Pshaw, Figaro! Why should you endeavour to conceal any thing, when I tell you we have confess’d all?
Susan. (Making signs to Figaro) We have told my Lord of the Letter, which made him suspect that Hannibal, the Page, who is far enough off by this, was hid in my Lady’s dressing-room, where I myself was lock’d in.
Figaro. Well, well, since my Lord will have it so, and my Lady will have it so, and you all will have it so, why then so let it be.
Count. Still at his Wiles.——
Countess. Why, my Lord, would you oblige him to speak truth, so much against his inclination? (Count and Countess walk familiarly up the stage.)
Susan. Hast thou seen the Page?
Fig. Yes, yes: you have shook his young joints for him, among you.
Enter ANTONIO, the Gardener, with a broken Flower-pot under his arm half drunk.
Antonio. My Lord—My good Lord—If so be as your Lordship will not have the goodness to have these Windows nailed up, I shall never have a Nosegay fit to give to my Lady—They break all my pots, and spoil my flowers; for they not only throw other Rubbish out of the windows, as they used to do, but they have just now tossed out a Man.
Count. A Man!—(The Count’s suspicions all revive.)
Antonio. In white stockings!
(Countess and Susan discover their fears, and make signs to Figaro to assist them if possible.)
Count. Where is the Man? (Eagerly.)
Antonio. That’s what I want to know, my Lord!—I wish I could find him,—I am your Lordship’s Gardener; and, tho’ I say it, a better Gardener is not to be found in all Spain;—but if Chambermaids are permitted to toss men out of the window to save their own Reputation, what is to become of mine?—“It will wither with my flowers to be sure.”
Figaro. Oh fie! What sotting so soon in a morning?
Antonio. Why, can one begin one’s day’s work too early?
Count. Your day’s work, Sir?
Antonio. Your Lordship knows my Niece, there she stands, is to be married to day; and I am sure she would never forgive me if——
Count. If you were not to get drunk an hour sooner than usual—But on with your story, Sir—What of the Man?—What followed?
Antonio. I followed him myself, my Lord, as fast as I could; but, somehow, I unluckily happened to make a false step, and came with such a confounded whirl against the Garden-gate—that I—I quite for—forgot my Errand.
Count. And should you know this man again?
Antonio. To be sure I should, my Lord!—If I had seen him, that is.
Count. Either speak more clearly, Rascal, or I’ll send you packing to——
Antonio. Send me packing, my Lord?—Oh, no! If your Lordship has not enough—enough (Points to his forehead) to know when you have a good Gardener, I warrant I know when I have a good Place.
Figaro. There is no occasion, my Lord, for all this mystery! It was I who jump’d out of the window into the garden.
Count. You?
Figaro. My own self, my Lord.
Count. Jump out of a one pair of stairs window and run the risk of breaking your Neck?
Figaro. The ground was soft, my Lord.
Antonio. And his Neck is in no danger of being broken.
Figaro. To be sure I hurt my right leg, a little, in the fall; just here at the ancle—I feel it still. (Rubbing his ancle.)
Count. But what reason had you to jump out of the window?
Figaro. You had received my letter, my Lord, since I must own it, and was come, somewhat sooner than I expected, in a dreadful passion, in search of a man.—
Antonio. If it was you, you have grown plaguy fast within this half hour, to my thinking. The man that I saw did not seem so tall by the head and shoulders.
Figaro. Pshaw! Does not one double one’s self up when one takes a leap?
Antonio. It seem’d a great deal more like the Page.
Count. The Page!
Figaro. Oh yes, to be sure, the Page has gallop’d back from Seville, Horse and all, to leap out of the window!
Antonio. No, no, my Lord! I saw no such thing! I’ll take my oath I saw no horse leap out of the window.
Figaro. Come, come, let us prepare for our sports.
Antonio. Well, since it was you, as I am an honest man, I ought to return you this Paper which drop’d out of your pocket as you fell.
Count. (Snatches the paper. The Countess, Figaro, and Susan are all surprised and embarrassed. Figaro shakes himself, and endeavours to recover his fortitude.) Ay, since it was you, you doubtless can tell what this Paper contains (claps the paper behind his back as he faces Figaro) and how it happened to come in your Pocket?
Figaro. Oh, my Lord, I have such quantities of Papers (searches his pockets, pulls out a great many) No, it is not this!—Hem!—This is a double Love-letter from Marcelina, in seven pages—Hem!—Hem!—It would do a man’s heart good to read it—Hem!—And this is a petition from the poor Poacher in prison. I never presented it to your Lordship, because I know you have affairs much more serious on your hands, than the Complaints of such half-starved Rascals—Ah!—Hem!—this—this—no, this is an Inventory of your Lordship’s Sword-knots, Ruffs, Ruffles, and Roses—must take care of this—(Endeavours to gain time, and keeps glancing and hemming to Susan and the Countess, to look at the paper and give him a hint.)
Count. It is neither this, nor this, nor that, nor t’other, that you have in your hand, but what I hold here in mine, that I want to know the contents of. (Holds out the paper in action as he speaks, the Countess who stands next him catches a sight of it.)
Countess. ’Tis the Commission. (Aside to Susan.)
Susan. The Page’s Commission. (Aside to Figaro.)
Count. Well, Sir!—So you know nothing of the matter?
Antonio. (Reels round to Figaro) My Lord says you—know nothing of the matter.
Figaro. Keep off, and don’t come to whisper me. (pretending to recollect himself.) Oh Lord! Lord! What a stupid fool I am!—I declare it is the Commission of that poor youth, Hannibal—which I, like a Blockhead, forgot to return him—He will be quite unhappy about it, poor Boy.
Count. And how came you by it?
Figaro. By it, my Lord?
Count. Why did he give it you?
Figaro. To—to—to——
Count. To what?
Figaro. To get—
Count. To get what? It wants nothing!
Countess. (to Susan) It wants the Seal.
Susan. (to Figaro) It wants the Seal.
Figaro. Oh, my Lord, what it wants to be sure is a mere trifle.
Count. What trifle?
Figaro. You know, my Lord, it’s customary to—
Count. To what?
Figaro. To affix your Lordship’s Seal.
Count. (Looks at the Commission, finds the Seal is wanting, and exclaims with vexation and disappointment) The Devil and his Imps!—It is written, Count, thou shalt be a Dupe!—Where is this Marcelina?
[Going.
Figaro. Are you going, my Lord, without giving Orders for our Wedding?
Enter MARCELINA, BASIL, BOUNCE, and Vassals.
(The Count returns.)
Marcelina. Forbear, my Lord, to give such Orders; in Justice forbear. I have a written promise under his hand, and I appeal to you, to redress my injuries! You are my lawful Judge.
Figaro. Pshaw! A trifle, my Lord: a note of hand for money borrowed; nothing more.
Count. Let the Advocates and Officers of Justice be assembled in the great Hall; we will there determine on the justice of your claim. It becomes us not to suffer any Vassal of ours, however we may privately esteem him, to be guilty of public injury.
Basil. Your Lordship is acquainted with my claims on Marcelina: I hope your Lordship will grant me your support.
Count. Oh, oh! Are you there, Prince of Knaves?
Antonio. Yes, that’s his title, sure enough.
Count. Approach, honest Basil; faithful Agent of our Will and Pleasure. (Basil bows) Go order the Lawyers to assemble.
Basil. My Lord!—
Count. And tell the Peasant, by whom you sent me the Letter this morning, I want to speak with him.
Basil. Your Lordship is pleased to joke with your humble Servant. I know no such Peasant.
Count. You will be pleased to find him, notwithstanding.
Basil. My Office, in this House, as your Lordship knows, is not to go of Errands! Think, my Lord, how that would degrade a man of my talents; who have the honour to teach my Lady the Harpsichord, the Mandoline to her Woman, and to entertain your Lordship, and your Lordship’s good Company, with my Voice and my Guitar, whenever your Lordship pleases to honor me with your Commands.
Bounce. I will go, if your Lordship pleases to let me: I should be very glad to oblige your Lordship.
Count. What’s thy Name?
Bounce. Pedro Bounce, my Lord, Fire-work maker to your Lordship.
Count. Thy zeal pleases me, thou shalt go.
Bounce. Thank your Lordship, thank your noble Lordship. (Leaps.)
Count. (To Basil) And do you be pleased, Sir, to entertain the Gentleman, on his Journey, with your Voice and your Guitar; he is part of my good Company.
Bounce. (Leaps) I am part of my Lord’s good Company! Who would have thought it!
Basil. My Lord——
Count. Depart! Obey! Or, depart from my Service.
(Exit.)
Basil. ’Tis in vain to resist. Shall I wage war with a Lion, who am only——
Figaro. A Calf—“But come, you seem vex’d about it—I will open the Ball—Strike up, tis my Susan’s Wedding-day.”
Basil. Come along, Mr. Bounce. (Basil begins to play, Figaro dances and sings off before him, and Bounce follows, dancing after.)
(Exeunt.)
Manent COUNTESS and SUSAN.
Countess. You see, Susan, to what Danger I have been exposed by Figaro and his fine concerted Billet.
Susan. “Dear Madam, if you had but seen yourself when I bounced out upon my Lord! So pale, such Terror in your Countenance! And then your suddenly assumed tranquillity!
Countess. “Oh no, every Faculty was lost in my Fears.
Susan. “I assure your Ladyship to the contrary; in a few Lessons you would learn to dissemble and fib with as good a Grace as any Lady in the Land.”
Countess. And so that poor Child jumped out of the Window?
Susan. Without the least hesitation—as light and as chearful as a Linnet.
Countess. I wish however I could convict my false Count of his Infidelity.
Susan. The Page will never dare, after this, to make a second attempt.
Countess. Ha!—A lucky project! I will meet him myself; and then nobody will be exposed.
Susan. But suppose, Madam—
Countess. My Success has emboldened me, and I am determined to try—(Sees the Riband left on the chair) What’s here? My Riband! I will keep it as a Memento of the danger to which that poor Youth—“Ah my Lord—Yet let me have a care, let me look to myself, to my own Conduct, lest I should give occasion to say—Ah my Lady!” (The Countess puts the Riband in her Pocket.) You must not mention a Word of this, Susan, to any body.
Susan. Except Figaro.
Countess. No exceptions, he must not be told; he will spoil it, by mixing some plot of his own with it—I have promised thee a Portion thou knowest—these men are liberal in their Pleasures—Perhaps I may double it for thee; it will be Susan’s Right.
Susan. Your Project is a charming one, Madam, and I shall yet have my Figaro.
[Exit Susan, kissing the Countess’s Hand.
End of ACT II.