"Don Pedro left the room in great agitation, and soon after I retired to bed. I lay a long time thinking over the events and revelations of the evening; love and pride alternately held the mastery of my determinations. I loved Clara well and truly, and sympathized with her and her brother in their unfortunate situation, but I had been virtually refused once, and my pride revolted from accepting the hand thus forced into mine by the misfortunes of its owner. At last, as the clock struck three, I fell asleep, still undecided. The sun had first risen in the morning when I started from an uneasy slumber. I dressed myself, passed through my window to the verandah, and down to the water, where I bathed, and returning through the garden entered an arbor and stretched myself on a settee, the better to collect my thoughts.
"I had been here but a very short time when I heard voices approaching me, and upon their drawing nearer, I perceived Don Pedro and his sister engaged in earnest conversation. It was now too late to retreat, for they were approaching me by the only way I could effect it, and I was upon the point of going forth to meet them, when they paused in front of the arbor, and I heard Clara pronounce my name so musically, that I hope you will not think I did wrong, when told that I drew back, determined to listen, and thereby to obtain a hint whereupon to act. Clara leaned upon her brother's arm, who had evidently been expostulating with her, for his voice wasearnest and reproachful, and Clara's eyes looked as if she had been crying.
"'And yet you say,' continued Pedro, 'that you can love this gentleman.'
"'Can love him!' cried Clara passionately, 'oh! Pedro, if you only knew how I do love him!'
"'Why, then, in the name of all that is consistent, did you act so strangely last night? In your situation an offer from any American gentleman deserved consideration, to say the least; but Mr. Stewart, a friend andprotégéof our uncle's, a refined, educated man, a man whom you say you love. Clara, I wonder at you! What could have been the reason?'
"'This, Pedro,' said Clara, looking at the toe of her slipper, which was drawing figures in the gravel-walk. 'You must know that I did it to punish him for making love so awkwardly. Now, instead of going down on his knees, as the saints know I could have done to him, the cold-blooded fellow went on as frigidly as if he had been buying a negro, and that too with a moon shining over him which should have crazed him, and talking to a girl whose heart was full of fiery love for him. Pedro, my heart was chilled, and so, to punish him, I—'
"'Diablo!' swore Pedro, dropping his sister's arm, and striding off in a great rage.
"'Oh! stay, brother!' sobbed poor Clara; 'indeed, I could not help it. Oh, dear!' she continued, as Pedro vanished from her sight, 'nowhe'sangry. What have I done?' She buried her face in her hands, entered the arbor, threw herself on the settee, and began sobbing with convulsive grief. Here was a situation for an unsophisticated youth like myself. Egad! my heart bounced about in my breast like a shot adrift in the cook's biggest copper. I approached the lady softly, and, grown wiser by experience, knelt before I took her hand. She started, screamed faintly, and endeavored to escape.
"'Stay, stay, dearest Clara!' cried I, detaining her, 'I should not dare to again address you after the repulse of last night, had I not just now been an inadvertent, but delighted listener to your own sweet confession that you loved me. Let me say in return that I love you as wildly, tenderly, passionately, as if I, like you, had been born under a southern sun; that I cannot be happy without you. Forgive me for last night. It was not that my heart was cold, but I was fearful that unless I constrained myself I should be wild and extravagant. Dearest Clara, will you say to me that which you just now told Pedro?'
"Her head sunk upon my shoulder. 'Señor,' she murmured, 'I do love you, and with my whole heart.'
"'And will be my wife?' I asked.
"'Whenever you please.'"
Here the mate paused, and gave several very energetic puffs, and lighted a new cigar.
"I clasped the dear girl to my heart," he resumed, "and kissed her cheeks, her lips and eyes, a thousand times, and was just beginning on the eleventh hundred, when, lo, there stood mine host in the doorway, evidently very much amused, and, considering that it was his sister with whom these liberties had been taken, extremely satisfied.
"I came immediately to the conclusion, in my own mind, to defer any farther labial demonstrations, and felt rather foolish; but Clara arranged her dress and looked defiance.
"'I beg ten thousand pardons,' said Don Pedro, entering, hat in hand, and bowing low, 'but really the scene was so exquisitely fine, so much to my taste, that I could not forbear looking on awhile. Clara, dear, has Mr. Stewart discovered the way to make loveà la mode? I understood you to say he did it oddly and coldly; but, by Venus! I think he does it in the most natural manner possible, and with some warmth and vigor, or else I'm no judge of kissing—and I make some pretensions to being a connoisseur.'
"'And an amateur also,' retorted Clara.
"'I won't deny the soft impeachment—but, my friends, breakfast is waiting for you, if Mr. Stewart can bring his appetite to relish coffee after sipping nectar from my sweet sister's lips.'
"We made a very happy trio that morning around the well-spread board of my friend Pedro. Just as we were rising, however, a servant brought in a note for his master. Don Pedro's brow darkened as he read it. 'It is from Carlos,' said he, folding it up, 'and informs me that he will be at home to-night, and will call for you, Clara—for it seems he has been informed of your visit here, and is determined that it shall be as short as possible. We must work quick then.'
"'But what is to be done?' I inquired.
"'You need do nothing at present but keep Clara company, while I go to town to see Capt. Hopkins. We will arrange some plan.'
"Clara and I passed the morning as you may imagine; it seemed but a few minutes from Pedro's departure for the city, till his return in company with my skipper.
"'Ben,' shouted the latter, seizing my hand, 'may I be d—d but you're a jewel—begging your pardon, Donna Clara, for swearing in your presence, which I did not notice before.'
"When Clara retired to dress for dinner, Capt. Hopkins divulged to me the plans which had been formed by him and Pedro. 'D'ye see, Ben, my child, Don Pedro and I have arranged the matter in A No. 1 style; and if we can only work the traverse, it'll be magnificent—and I don't very well see why we can't. To day is Thursday, you know. Well, I shall hoist my last box of sugar aboard to-morrow night, and, after dark, Don Pedro is going to run a boat alongside with his plunder and valuables. Your sweetheart must go home, it appears, but before she goes you must make an arrangement with her to be at a certain window of Alvarez' house, Pedro will tell her which, at twelve o'clock Saturday night. You and her brother will be under it ready to receive her; and when you have got the lady, you will bring her aboard the ship, which shall be ready to cut and run, I tell you; up killock, sheet home, and I'll defy all the cutters in Havana to overhaul us with anhour's start! Those chaps in Stockholm are almighty particular about your health, if your papers show that you left Havana after the first of June, and so, to pull the wool over their eyes, and save myself a long quarantine, I was intending to stop at Boston and get a new clearance, so it'll be no trouble at all to set you all ashore, for Don Pedro and his sister will not wish to go to Sweden; and my second mate, I suppose, will want to get married and leave me. Now, Ben, my boy, that's what I call a XX plan; no scratch brand about that; superfine, and no mistake, and entitled to debenture.'
"'Excellent, indeed!' replied I.
"'Well, after dinner, we'll give you time to tell your girl all about it, and to kiss her once or twice; but you must bear a hand about it, now I tell you, because we must be out of that bloody pirate's way when he comes, and there's a sight of work to do aboard.'
"After dinner the whole matter was again talked over and approved by all, and then the skipper and myself took our leave and went aboard.
"As Captain Hopkins had arranged, we finished our freight on Friday evening, and in the night Pedro came off to us with a boat-load of baggage, pictures, heirlooms, and money. The next day we cleared at the custom-house, and in the afternoon hove short on our anchor, loosed our sails, and made every preparation for putting to sea in a hurry. A lieutenant from the castle came off with our blacks after dark, and while he was drinking a glass of wine in the cabin, Don Pedro, most unfortunately, came on board. I heard his voice and started to intercept him; but he met me in the companion, and seizing me by the hand, exclaimed, 'Well, Stewart, you are all ready to cut and run, I see; by this time to-morrow I hope we will be far beyond reach—'
"'Hush! hush! for God's sake!' I whispered, pointing to the companion; 'there is an officer from the castle below.'
"We walked to the sky-light and looked down.
"'Diablo!' muttered Pedro, with a start, 'do you think he heard me?'
"'No, I think not; the skipper and he did not cease conversation. The steward is so glad to get back amongst his crockery, that he was kicking up a devil of a row in the pantry; that may have drowned your voice.'
"'If he did hear me I'm ruined. He is Don Sebastian Alvarez, a nephew of Carlos', and dependent on him; he has watched me closely for three months. What is his errand?'
"'He brought off our cook and steward, who have been confined in the castle.'
"'Well, I dare say all is right; he is a lieutenant in the castle, and there is nothing strange in his being here on such business; but I'll keep out of sight.'
"The officer soon came on deck, shook hands with Captain Hopkins, wished him a pleasant voyage, and then went down into his boat, ordering the men to pull for the castle.
"'All right, I trust,' cried Pedro, emerging from the round-house, 'if he had started for the city, it would have been suspicious.'
"The skipper called the crew, who were principally Yankees, upon the quarter-deck, and in a brief speech stated the case in hand to them. 'Now, my men,' said he, 'which of you will volunteer to go with Don Pedro Garcia and Mr. Stewart?'
"Every man offered his services. We chose six lusty fellows, and supplied them with pistols and cutlasses. Don Pedro gave them a doubloon a-piece, and to each of the rest of the crew a smaller sum. At eleven o'clock we descended into the boat and pushed off for the shore. The night had set in dark and rainy, with a strong breeze, almost a gale, from the south. The men rowed in silence and with vigor, but the wind was ahead for us, and when we landed at the end of the mole, behind a row of molasses-hogsheads, it wanted but a few moments of twelve. Leaving two men for boat-keepers, Don Pedro and myself, with the other four, traversed the silent streets until we stopped in a dark lane, in the rear of a large house, which appeared to front upon a more frequented street, for even at that late hour a carriage occasionally was heard.
"'Now, hist!' whispered Pedro, 'listen for footsteps.'
"We strained our ears, but heard nothing but the clang of the deep-toned cathedral bell, striking the hour of twelve. A moment after a window above us opened, and a female form stepped out upon the balcony.
"'Pedro, whispered the musical voice of Clara, 'is that you?'
"'Yes, yes—hush! Mr. Stewart is here, and some of his men. Are you all ready?'
"'Yes,' replied Clara; 'but how am I going to descend?'
"'Catch this line, which I will throw to you,' said I, making a coil.
"The fair girl caught the line as handily as—as—a monkey, I suppose I must say.
"'Now, haul away,' I said; 'there is a ladder bent on to the other end, which you must make fast to the balustrade.'
"'What!' cried Clara, quite aloud, 'a ladder!—a real, live rope-ladder! how delightfully romantic!'
"'Hush! hush! you lunatic!' said Pedro, in a hoarse whisper.
"'Oh, Pedro!' continued his sister, 'just think how droll it is to run away with one's lover, and one's brother standing by aiding and abetting! Oh, fie! I'm ashamed of you! There, now, I've fastened this delightful ladder—what next?'
"I ascended, and taking her in my arms, prepared to assist her to the ground.
"'Am I not heavy?' she asked, as she put her arms about my neck.
"My God! boys, I could have lifted twenty of her as I felt then.
"'This is the second time, señor, that you have helped me to the ground within a week; now get me on the water, and I will thank you for all at once.'
"'In a few moments more all danger will be behind us, dearest.'
"Clara leaned upon my arm, enveloped in a boat-cloak, while we rapidly retraced our steps to the boat, which we reached in safety, but, behold, the men whom we had left were missing. Hardly had we made ourselves sure of this unwelcome fact when a file of men, headed by the same officer who had boarded us in the evening, sprang out from behind the molasses-hogsheads. In a moment more a fierce fight had begun. I seized Clara by the waist with one arm, and drew my cutlas just in time to save my head from the sabre of Carlos Alvarez, who aimed a blow at me, crying, 'Now, dog of a Yankee, it is my turn!'
"'In the name of the king! in the name of the king!' shouted the officer—but it made no difference, we fought like seamen. Clara had fainted, but I still kept my hold of her, when suddenly a ton weight seemed to have fallen on my head; my eyes seemed filled with red-hot sparks of intense brilliancy and heat; the wild scene around vanished from their sight as I sunk down stunned and insensible.
"When I came to myself, I was lying in my own berth aboard the ship. I felt weak, faint, and dizzy, and strove in vain to collect my thoughts sufficiently to remember what had happened. My state-room door was open, and I perceived that the sun's rays were shining brightly through the sky-light upon the cabin-table, at which sat Capt. Hopkins, overhauling the medicine-chest, which was open before him. I knew by the sharp heel of the vessel, her uneasy pitching, and the cool breeze which fanned my fevered cheek, that the ship was close hauled on a wind, and probably far at sea. I looked at my arms; they were wasted to half their usual size, and my head was bandaged and very sore and painful. Slowly and with difficulty I recalled the events of the few hours preceding that in which I had lost my senses—then I remembered theméléeon the mole. Evidently I had been severely wounded, and while senseless been brought off to the ship. Then came the inquiry, what had been the fate of Clara and her brother. Were they safe on board, or were they captured or killed in thefracas? I hardly dared to ask the skipper who still sat at the table, with a most dolorous face, arranging the vials and gallipots. At last the suspense became intolerable.
"'Captain Hopkins,' said I, but in a voice so weak that it startled me. Faint as it was, however, the worthy skipper started to his feet, and was by my side in an instant.
"'Glory to God!' he shouted, snapping his fingers. 'I know by your eyes that reason has hold of your helm again. You'll get well now! Hurrah! D—n, though I mus'n't make so much noise.'
"'But, Captain Hopkins—'
"'Can't tell you any thing now, you're too weak to bear it; that is—you know, Ben, good news is—ahem! dreadful apt to kill sick people; and you've been horrid sick, that's a fact. I thought four days ago that you had shipped on a voyage to kingdom come, and was outward bound; but you'll do well enough now, if you only keep quiet, and if you don't you'll slip your wind yet. Shut up your head, take a drink of this stuff, and go to sleep.'
"Capt. Hopkins left me, and, anxious as I was, I soon fell sound asleep. When I awoke I felt much better and stronger, and teazed the skipper so much, that he at last ventured to tell me that after I had been struck down by a sabre-cut over the head, Don Pedro, also badly wounded, and Donna Clara, had been captured by the soldiers. The two boat-keepers also were missing, and one of the others left, either dead or badly wounded, on the mole. Our other three men, finding themselves overpowered, succeeded barely in gaining the boat with my insensible form, and pushed off for the ship. Capt Hopkins, upon hearing their story, had no other alternative but to cut and run, and favored by the strong southerly gale, he managed to make good his escape, though fired on by the castle before he had got out of range. In the hurry and confusion my wound was not properly attended to, and a brain fever set in, under which I had been suffering for a week; but the kind care of Capt. Hopkins and Mr. Smith, and the strength of my constitution, at last prevailed over the disease. Dismal as was this story, and the prospects it unfolded, my spirits, naturally buoyant, supported me, and I determined that when the ship should arrive in Boston I would leave her and return immediately to Cuba, to make an effort for the release of my friends. Wild as was this resolve, I grew better upon the hope of accomplishing it; and when we anchored off Long Wharf, after a tedious passage, I was nearly well.
"Notwithstanding the advice of my friends I made arrangements for an immediate return to Matanzas, but the day before my intended departure the Paragon arrived from that port; and I learned from her officers that Don Pedro was closely confined, awaiting his trial for the murder of Count ——, the result of which would be, without doubt, against him. Clara, believing the general report of my death, had entered the Ursuline Convent to begin her novitiate; and I was told that if I was to be seen in Matanzas, thegarrote, or chain-gang, was all that I could expect. Your father then told me that if I would consent to accompany Captain Hopkins, he would sail in my place to Matanzas, and do his utmost for his nephew and niece. I could not help but see the wisdom of this arrangement, and acceded to it. We sailed from Boston to Stockholm, from thence to Rotterdam, and from thence to Batavia. A freight offering for Canton, we went to that port, and from thence came home, after an absence of two years and a half. In the meantime Don Pedro had been tried, and sentenced to death; but by the exertions of your father, who wrought faithfully in his behalf, his sentence was commuted, first to twenty, and then to twelve years in the gallies, or, as it is in Cuba, the chain-gang. His efforts to see Clara, in order to disabuse her mind of the belief of my death, was abortive; and she, after finishing her year as a novice, took the veil—and she is now a nun in the Ursuline Convent at Matanzas, while her noble brother is a slave,with felons, laboring with the cursed chain-gang in the same city to which we are bound. Now, boys, do you wonder that when I found myself under orders to go again to the scene of all this misery I was affected, and that a melancholy has possessed me which has increased as the voyage has progressed? I did determine at first that I would leave the ship at Gibralter and go home, but I dreaded to part with my shipmates. I shall not go ashore while we lay at Matanzas for many reasons, though I should incur no risk, I think. Everybody who knew me in Matanzas believes me dead long since; and six years of seafaring life in every climate, changes one strangely. But the wind has veered again and freshened considerably since I began my yarn. It looks some as if we might catch a norther by way of variety. Brewster will have to shorten sail in his watch, I reckon, and maybe keep the lead going if we make much leeway. Come, Bill, it is 4 o'clock, and a little past."
"Eight bells, there, for'ard!" shouted the third mate. "Call the watch! Rouse Brewster, Frank, will you?"
The sleepy, yawning starboard watch were soon on deck, half-dressed, and snuffing the morning air very discontentedly. We of the larboard division went below to our berths.
"Langley," said I to the third mate, while we were undressing, "I've got a plan in my head to get my cousins clear from their bad fix. Will you help me work it?"
"Marry, that I will," answered Langley, throwing himself into a theatrical attitude. "Look here, Frank, this is the way I'll run that bloody Alvarez through the gizzard!"
The last sounds I heard that night were the hurried trampling of feet over my head on deck, and the shouts of the watch shortening sail. I fell asleep and dreamed that I was in thefracasat the end of the mole.
[Conclusion in our next.
[This is a picturesque little stream in Washington county, State of New York. It flows through the broad and beautiful meadows of the Hon. John Savage, late Chief Justice of the State.]
[This is a picturesque little stream in Washington county, State of New York. It flows through the broad and beautiful meadows of the Hon. John Savage, late Chief Justice of the State.]
Over the stirless surface of the groundThe hot air trembles. In pale glittering hazeWavers the sky. Along the horizon's rim,Breaking its mist, are peaks of coppery clouds.Keen darts of light are shot from every leaf,And the whole landscape droops in sultriness.With languid tread, I drag myself alongAcross the wilting fields. Around my stepsSpring myriad grasshoppers, their cheerful notesLoud in my ear. The ground bird whirs away,Then drops again, and groups of butterfliesSpotting the path, upflicker as I come.At length I catch the sparkles of the brookIn its deep thickets, whose refreshing greenSoothes my strained eyesight. The cool shadows fallLike balm upon me from the boughs o'erhead.My coming strikes a terror on the scene.All the sweet sylvan sounds are hushed; I catchGlimpses of vanishing wings. An azure shapeQuick darting down the vista of the brook,Proclaims the scared kingfisher, and a plashAnd turbid streak upon the streamlet's face,Betray the water-rat's swift dive and pathAcross the bottom to his burrow deep.The moss is plump and soft, the tawny leavesAre crisp beneath my tread, and scaly twigsStartle my wandering eye like basking snakes.Where this thick brush displays its emerald tent,I stretch my wearied frame, for solitudeTo steal within my heart. How hushed the sceneAt first, and then, to the accustomed ear,How full of sounds, so tuned to harmonyThey seemed but silence; the monotonous purlOf yon small water-break—the transient humSwung past me by the bee—the low meek burstOf bubbles, as the trout leaps up to seizeThe skipping spider—the light lashing soundOf cattle, mid-leg in the shady pool,Whisking the flies away—the ceaseless chirpOf crickets, and the tree-frog's quavering note.Now, from the shadow where I lie concealed,I see the birds, late banished by my form,Appearing once more in their usual hauntsAlong the stream; the silver-breasted snipeTwitters and seesaws on the pebbly spotsBare in the channel—the brown swallow dipsIts wings, swift darting round on every side;And from yon nook of clustered water-plants,The wood-duck, slaking its rich purple neck,Skims out, displaying through the liquid glassIts yellow feet, as if upborne in air.Musing upon my couch, this lovely streamI liken to the truly good man's life,Amid the heat of passions, and the glareOf wordly objects, flowing pure and bright,Shunning the gaze, yet showing where it glidesBy its green blessings; cheered by happy thoughts,Contentment, and the peace that comes from Heaven.
Over the stirless surface of the groundThe hot air trembles. In pale glittering hazeWavers the sky. Along the horizon's rim,Breaking its mist, are peaks of coppery clouds.Keen darts of light are shot from every leaf,And the whole landscape droops in sultriness.With languid tread, I drag myself alongAcross the wilting fields. Around my stepsSpring myriad grasshoppers, their cheerful notesLoud in my ear. The ground bird whirs away,Then drops again, and groups of butterfliesSpotting the path, upflicker as I come.At length I catch the sparkles of the brookIn its deep thickets, whose refreshing greenSoothes my strained eyesight. The cool shadows fallLike balm upon me from the boughs o'erhead.My coming strikes a terror on the scene.All the sweet sylvan sounds are hushed; I catchGlimpses of vanishing wings. An azure shapeQuick darting down the vista of the brook,Proclaims the scared kingfisher, and a plashAnd turbid streak upon the streamlet's face,Betray the water-rat's swift dive and pathAcross the bottom to his burrow deep.The moss is plump and soft, the tawny leavesAre crisp beneath my tread, and scaly twigsStartle my wandering eye like basking snakes.Where this thick brush displays its emerald tent,I stretch my wearied frame, for solitudeTo steal within my heart. How hushed the sceneAt first, and then, to the accustomed ear,How full of sounds, so tuned to harmonyThey seemed but silence; the monotonous purlOf yon small water-break—the transient humSwung past me by the bee—the low meek burstOf bubbles, as the trout leaps up to seizeThe skipping spider—the light lashing soundOf cattle, mid-leg in the shady pool,Whisking the flies away—the ceaseless chirpOf crickets, and the tree-frog's quavering note.
Now, from the shadow where I lie concealed,I see the birds, late banished by my form,Appearing once more in their usual hauntsAlong the stream; the silver-breasted snipeTwitters and seesaws on the pebbly spotsBare in the channel—the brown swallow dipsIts wings, swift darting round on every side;And from yon nook of clustered water-plants,The wood-duck, slaking its rich purple neck,Skims out, displaying through the liquid glassIts yellow feet, as if upborne in air.
Musing upon my couch, this lovely streamI liken to the truly good man's life,Amid the heat of passions, and the glareOf wordly objects, flowing pure and bright,Shunning the gaze, yet showing where it glidesBy its green blessings; cheered by happy thoughts,Contentment, and the peace that comes from Heaven.
Giacomo,the Alchemist,
Bernardo,his son-in-law,
Rosalia,his daughter, and Bernardo's wife,
Lorenzo,his servant.
The interior of Giacomo's house. Giacomo and Lorenzo discovered together. Time, a little before daybreak.
Gia.Art sure of this?
Lor.Ay, signor, very sure.'T is but a moment since I saw the thing—Bernardo, who last night was sworn thy son,Hath made a villainous barter of thine honor.Thou may'st rely the duke is where I said.
Gia.If so—no matter—give me here the light.
[Exit Giacomo.
Lor.(Alone.) Oh, what a night! It must be all a dream!For twenty years, since that I wore a beard,I've served my melancholy master here,And never until now saw such a night!A wedding in this silent house, forsooth,—A festival! The very walls in muteAmazement stared through the unnatural light!And poor Rosalia, bless her tender heart,Looked like her mother's sainted ghost! Ah me,Her mother died long years ago, and tookOne half the blessed sunshine from our house—The other half was married off last night.My master, solemn soul, he walked the hallsAs if in search of something which was lost;The groom, I liked not him, nor ever did,Spoke such perpetual sweetness, till I thoughtHe wore some sugared villany within:—But then he is my master's ancient friend,And always known the favorite of the duke,And, as I know, our lady's treacherous lord!Oh, Holy Mother, that to villain hawksOur dove should fall a prey! poor gentle dear!Now if I had their throats within my grasp—No matter—if my master be himself,Nor time nor place shall bind up his revenge.He's not a man to spend his wrath in noise,But when his mind is made, with even paceHe walks up to the deed and does his will.In fancy I can see him to the end—The duke, perchance, already breathes his last,And for Bernardo—he will join him soon;And for Rosalia, she will take the veil,To which she hath been heretofore inclined;And for my master, he will take againTo alchemy—a pastime well enough,For aught I know, and honest Christian work.Still it was strange how my poor mistress died,Found, as she was, within her husband's study.The rumor went she died of suffocation;Some cursed crucible which had been left,By Giacomo, aburning, filled the room,And when the lady entered took her breath.He found her there, and since that day the placeHas been a home for darkness and for dust.I hear him coming; by his hurried stepThere's something done, or will be very soon.
(Enter Giacomo. He sets the light upon the table and confrontsLorenzo with a stern look.)
Gia.Lorenzo, thou hast served me twenty years,And faithfully; now answer me, how was'tThat thou wert in the street at such an hour?
Lor.When that the festival was o'er last night,I went to join some comrades in their wineTo pass the time in memory of the event.
Gia.And doubtless thou wert blinded soon with drink?
Lor.Indeed, good signor, though the wine flowed free,I could not touch it, though much urged by all—Too great a sadness sat upon my heart—I could do naught but sit and sigh and thinkOf our Rosalia in her bridal dress.
Gia.And sober too! so much the more at fault.But, as I said, thou'st served me long and well,Perchance too long—too long by just a day.Here, take this purse, and find another master.
Lor.Oh, signor, do not drive me thus away!If I have made mistake—
Gia.No, sirrah, no!Thou hast not made mistake, but something worse.
Lor.Oh, pray you, what is that then I have made?
Gia.A lie!
Lor.Indeed, good master, on my kneesI swear that what I said is sainted truth.
Gia.Pshaw, pshaw, no more of this. Did I not goUpon the instant to my daughter's roomAnd find Bernardo sleeping at her side?Some villain's gold hath bribed thee unto this.Go, go.
Lor.Well, if it must be, then it must.But I would swear that what I said is truth,Though all the devils from the deepest pitShould rise to contradict me!
Gia.Prating still?
Lor.No, signor—I am going—stay—see here—
(He draws a paper from his bosom.)Oh, blessed Virgin, grant some proof in this!This paper as they changed their mantles droptBetween them to the ground, and when they passedI picked it up and placed it safely here.
Gia.(Examining it.)Who forged the lie could fabricate this too:—But hold, it is ingeniously done.Get to thy duties, sir, and mark me well,Let no word pass thy lips about the matter—
[Exit Lorenzo.
Bernardo's very hand indeed is here!Oh, compact villainous and black! conditions,The means, the hour, the signal—every thingTo rob my honor of its holiest pearl!Lorenzo, shallow fool—he does not guessThe mischief was all done, and that it wasThe duke he saw departing—oh, brain—brain!How shall I hold this river of my wrath!It must not burst—no, rather it shall sweepA noiseless maelstrom, whirling to its centerAll thoughts and plans to further my revengeAnd rid me of this most accursed blot!
(He rests his forehead on his hand a few minutes, and exclaims,)
The past returns to me again—the loreI gladly had forgot comes like a ghost,And points with shadowy finger to the meansWhich best shall consummate my just design.The laboratory hath been closed too long;The door smiles welcome to me once again,The dusky latch invites my hand—I come!
(He unlocks the door and stands upon the threshold.)
Oh, thou whose life was stolen from me here,Stand not to thwart me in this great revenge;But rather come with large propitious eyesSmiling encouragement with ancient looks!Ye sages whose pale, melancholy orbsGaze through the darkness of a thousand years,Oh, pierce the solid blackness of to-day,And fire anew this crucible of thoughtUntil my soul flames up to the result!
(He enters and the door closes.)
Ros.You tell me he has not been seen to-day?
Ber.Save by your trusty servant here, who saysHe saw his master, from without, uncloseThe shutters of his laboratory whileThe sun was yet unrisen. It is well;This turning to the past pursuits of youthArgues how much the aspect of to-dayHath driven the ancient darkness from his brain.And now, my dear Rosalia, let thy faceAnd thoughts and speech be drest in summer smiles,And naught shall make a winter in our house.
Ros.Ah, sir, I think that I am happy.
Ber.Happy?Why so, indeed, dear love, I trust thou art!But thou dost sigh and contemplate the floorSo deeply, that thy happiness seems ratherThe constant sense of duty than true joy.
Ros.Nay, chide me not, good sir; the world to meA riddle is at best—my heart has hadNo tutor. From my childhood until nowMy thoughts have been on simple honest things.
Ber.On honest things? Then let them dwell henceforthOn love, for nothing is more honest thanTrue love.
Ros.I hope so, sir—it must be so!And if to wear thy happiness at heartWith constant watchfulness, and if to breatheThy welfare in my orisons, be love,Thou never shalt have cause to question mine.To-day I feel, and yet I know not why,A sadness which I never knew before;A puzzling shadow swims upon my brain,Of something which has been or is to be.My mother coming to me in my dream,My father taking to that room againHave somehow thrilled me with mysterious awe.
Ber.Nay, let not that o'ercast thy gentle mind,For dreams are but as floating gossamer,And should not blind or bar the steady reason.And alchemy is innocent enough,Save when it feeds too steadily on gold,A crime the world not easily forgives.But if Rosalia likes not the pursuitHer sire engages in, my plan shall beTo lead him quietly to other things.But see, the door uncloses and he comes.
(Enter Giacomo in loose gown and dishevelled hair.)
Gia.(Not perceiving them.)Ha, precious villains, ye are caught at last!
Both.Good-morrow, father.
Gia.Ah, my pretty doves!
Ber.Come, father, we are jealous of the artWhich hath deprived us all the day of thee.
Gia.Are ye indeed? (Aside.) How smoothly to the airSlides that wordfatherfrom his slippery tongue.Come hither, daughter, let me gaze on thee,For I have dreamed that thou wert beautiful,So beautiful our very duke did stopTo smile upon thy brightness! What say'st thou,Bernardo, didst thou ever dream such things?
Ber.That she is beautiful I had no cause to dream,Mine eyes have known the fact for many a day.What villains didst thou speak of even now?
Gia.Two precious villains—Carbon and Azote—They have perplexed me heretofore; but nowThe thing is plain enough. This morning, ereI left my chamber, all the mystery stoodAsudden in an awful revelation!
Ber.I'm glad success has crowned thy task to-day,But do not overtoil thy brain. These themesAre dangerous things, and they who mastered mostHave fallen at last but victims to their slaves.
Gia.It is a glorious thing to fall and dieThe victim of a noble cause.
Ber.Ay, true—The man who battles for his country's rightHath compensation in the world's applause.The victor when returning from the fieldIs crowned with laurel, and his shining wayIs full of shouts and roses. If he fall,His nation builds his monument of glory.But mark the alchemist who walks the streets,His look is down, his step infirm, his hairAnd cheeks are burned to ashes by his thought;The volumes he consumes, consume in turn;They are but fuel to his fiery brain,Which being fed requires the more to feed on.The people gaze on him with curious looks,And step aside to let him pass untouched,Believing Satan hath him arm in arm.
Gia.Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels?No heroes but among the martial throng?Nay, there are patriot souls who never graspedA sword, or heard the crowd applaud their names,Who lived and labored, died and were forgot,And after whom the world came out and reaptThe field, and never questioned who had sown.
Ber.I did not think of that.
Gia.Now mark ye well,I am not one to follow phantom themes,To waste my time in seeking for the stone,Or chrystalizing carbon to o'erfloodThe world with riches which would keep it poor;Nor do I seek the elixir that would makeNot life alone, but misery immortal;But something far more glorious than these.
Ber.Pray what is that?
Gia.A cure, sir, for the heart-ache.Come, thou shalt see. The day is on the wane—Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm,Is thrusted upward, like a bloody shield!On such an hour the experiment must begin.Come, thou shalt be the first to witness thisMost marvelous discovery. And thou,My pretty one, betake thee to thy bower,And I will dream thou'rt lovelier than ever.Come, follow me. (To Bernardo.)
Ros.Nay, father, stay; I'm sureThou art not well—thine eyes are strangely lit,The task, I fear, has over-worked thy brain.
Gia.Dearest Rosalia, what were eyes or brainCompared with banishment of sorrow? Come.
Ber.(Aside to Rosalia.)I will indulge awhile this curious humor;Adieu; I shall be with thee soon again.
Gia.(Overhearing him.)When Satan shall regain his wings, and sitApproved in heaven, perchance, but not till then.
Ber.What, not till then?
Gia.Shall he be worthy deemedTo walk, as thou hast said the people thought,Arm in arm with the high-souled philosopher:—And yet the people sometimes are quite right,The devil's at our elbow oftener thanWe know.
(He gives Bernardo his arm, and they enter the laboratory.)
Ros.(Alone.) He never looked so strange before;His cheeks, asudden, are grown pale and thin;His very hair seems whiter than it did.Oh, surely, 'tis a fearful trade that crowdsThe work of years into a single day.It may be that the sadness which I wearHath clothed him in its own peculiar hue.The very sunshine of this cloudless daySeemed but a world of broad, white desolation—While in my ears small melancholy bellsKnolled their long, solemn and prophetic chime;—But hark! a louder and a holier toll,Shedding its benediction on the air,Proclaims the vesper hour—Ave Maria!
[Exit Rosalia.
Gia.What say'st thou now, Bernardo?
Ber.Let me liveOr die in drawing this delicious breath,I ask no more.
Gia.(Aside.) Mark, how with wondering eyesHe gazes on the burning crucibles,As if to drink the rising vapor withHis every sense.
Ber.Is this the balm thou spak'st of?
Gia.Ay, sir, the same.
Ber.Oh, would that now my heartWere torn with every grief the earth has known,Then would this sense be sweeter by tenfold!Where didst thou learn the secret, and from whom?
Gia.From Gebber down to Paracelsus, noneHave mentioned the discovery of this—The need of it was parent of the thought.
Ber.How long will these small crucibles hold out?
Gia.A little while, but there are two beside,That when thy sense is toned up to the pointMay then be fired; and when thou breathest their fumes,Nepenthe deeper it shall seem than thatWhich Helen gave the guests of Menelaus.But come, thou'lt weary of this thickening air,Let us depart.
Ber.Not for the wealth of worlds!
Gia.Nay, but thy bride awaits thee—
Ber.Go to herAnd say I shall be there anon.
Gia.I will.(Aside.) Now while he stands enchained within the spellI'll to Rosalia's room and don his cloakAnd cap, and sally forth to meet the duke.'Tis now the hour, and if he come—so be it.
[Exit Giacomo.
Ber.(Alone.)These delicate airs seem wafted from the fieldsOf some celestial world. I am alone—Then wherefore not inhale that deeper draught,That sweet nepenthe which these other two,When burning, shall dispense? 'Twere quickly done,And I will do it!
(He places the two crucibles on the furnace.)Now, sir alchemist,Linger as long as it may suit thy pleasure—'Tis mine to tarry here. Oh, by San John,I'll turn philosopher myself, and doSome good at last in this benighted world!Now how like demons on the ascending smoke,Making grimaces, leaps the laughing flame,Filling the room with a mysterious haze,Which rolls and writhes along the shadowy air,Taking a thousand strange, fantastic forms;And every form is lit with burning eyes,Which pierce me through and through like fiery arrows!The dim walls grow unsteady, and I seemTo stand upon a reeling deck! Hold, hold!A hundred crags are toppling overhead.I faint, I sink—now, let me clutch that limb—Oh, devil! It breaks to ashes in my grasp!What ghost is that which beckons through the mist?The duke! the duke! and bleeding at the breast!Whose dagger struck the blow? (Enter Giacomo.)
Gia.Mine, villain, mine!What! thou'st set the other two aburning?Impatient dog, thou cheat'st me to the last!I should have done the deed—and yet 'tis well.Thou diest by thine own dull hardihood!
Ber.Ha! is it so? Then follow thou!
Gia.My timeIs not quite yet, this antidote shall placeA bar between us for a little while.(He raises a vial to his lips, drinks, and flings it aside.)
Ber.(Rallying.) Come, give it me—
Gia.Ha, ha! I drained it all!There is the broken vial.
Ber.Is there no armTo save me from the abyss?
Gia.No, villain, sink!And take this cursed record of thy plot,(He thrusts a paper into Bernardo's hand,)And it shall gain thee speedy entrance atTh' infernal gate!
(Bernardo reads, reels and falls.)
Gia.(Looking on the body.) Poor miserable dust!This body now is honest as the best,The very best of earth, lie where it may.This mantle must conceal the thing from sight,For soon Rosalia, as I bade her, shallBe here. Oh, Heaven! vouchsafe to me the powerTo do this last stern act of justice. ThouWho called the child of Jairus from the dead,Assist a stricken father now to raiseHis sinless daughter from the bier of shame.And may her soul, unconscious of the deed,Forever walk the azure fields of heaven.
(Enter Rosalia, dressed in simple white, bearing a smallgolden crucifix in her hand.)
Ros.Dear father, in obedience, I have come—But where's Bernardo?
Gia.Gone to watch the stars;To see old solitary Saturn whirlLike poor Ixion on his burning wheel—He is our patron orb to-night, my child.
Ros.I do not know what strange experimentThou'dst have me see, but in my heart I feelThat He, in whose remembrance this was made(looking at the cross)Should be chief patron of our thoughts and acts.Since vesper time—I know not how it was—I could do naught but kneel and tell my prayers.
Gia.Ye blessed angels, hymn the word to heaven.Come, daughter, let me hold thy hand in mine,And gaze upon the emblem which thou bearest.(He looks upon the crucifix awhile and presses it to his lips.)
Ros.Pray tell me, father, what is in the air?
Gia.See'st thou the crucibles, my child? Now mark,I'll drop a simple essence into each.
Ros.My sense is flooded with perfume!
Gia.Again.
Ros.My soul, asudden, thrills with such delightIt seems as it had won a birth of wings!
Gia.Behold, now when I throw these jewels in,The glories of our art!
Ros.A cloud of huesAs beautiful as morning fills the air;And every breath I draw comes freighted withElysian sweets! An iris-tinted mist,In perfumed wreaths, is rolling round the room.The very walls are melting from my sight,And surely, father, there's the sky o'erhead!And on that gentle breeze did we not hearThe song of birds and silvery waterfalls?And walk we not on green and flowery ground?Ferrara, father, hath no ground like this,The ducal gardens are not half so fair!Oh, if this be the golden land of dreams,Let us forever make our dwelling here.Not lovelier in my earliest visions seemedThe paradise of our first parents, filledWith countless angels whose celestial lightThrilled the sweet foliage like a gush of song.Look how the long and level landscape gleams,And with a gradual pace goes mellowing upInto the blue. The very ground we treadSeems flooded with the tender hue of heaven;An azure lawn is all about our feet,And sprinkled with a thousand gleaming flowers,Like lovely lilies on a tranquil lake.
Gia.Nay, dear Rosalia, cast thy angel kenFar down the shining pathway we have trod,And see behind us those enormous gatesTo which the world has given the name of Death;And note the least among yon knot of lights,And recognize your native orb, the earth!For we are spirits threading fields of space,Whose gleaming flowers are but the countless stars!But now, dear love, adieu—a flash from heaven—A sudden glory in the silent air—A rustle as of wings, proclaim the approachOf holier guides to take thee into keep.Behold them gliding down the azure hillMaking the blue ambrosial with their light.Our paths are here divided. I must goThrough other ways, by other forms attended.