ACT I.
Rollacomes down a winding Path among the Bushes, followed by theHigh-Priest.
High-Priest.
And this is the way to Rolla’s dwelling?—Ah, equally wild and inaccessible as the way to Rolla’s heart!
Rolla.Spare me, uncle, I entreat you?—spare me, and leave me!—If you could understand me——
High-Priest.Ought I to attempt it?—To understand thee, means to pay homage to thy idol,—to flatter thy passion.
Rolla.Unhappy wretch that I am!—I am a miserable solitary being!—a drop, which can find no kindred drop wherewith to associate!—a lonely voice, which cannot find its echo throughout all animated nature. The worm that crawls upon this leaf soon meets its help-mate, with whom it is united—but I—I alone!—Oh ye gods! if it be your harsh will that, amid the throne of living creatures which animate creation, I only should be left alone!—(casting an impatient glance upon the High-Priest) Then—man!—man!—leave me alone!
High-Priest.Rolla! Rolla! I am indeed old, yet if affection only be wanting to bring repose to thy heart, thou wilt find it here in this faithful bosom.—Young man, I love thee as a father.
Rolla.Well then, if the happiness of thy son be dear to thee, suffer him to live according to his own pleasure!—In this cave I am far happier than thousands who inhabit pompous palaces. Be this my grave!—only make me this promise, uncle; it is my sole request: When I shall be no more, then, on some dark melancholy day, lead Cora to the entrance of my rugged habitation, and shew her the remains of Rolla, as they lie upon the cold damp earth on which he breathed out a life that love had rendered miserable. Let her see those lips on which the name of his beloved murderer quivered even to the last gasp; and by the smile still resting on them, let her know that they closed blessing the name of Cora. Then perhaps, affected by this picture, she may strew flowers over my corpse; or—oh transporting thought!—even embalm it with a tear!—A tear!—ah! a tear from Cora would recall it again to life.
High-Priest.Oh enthusiast!
Rolla.Call me what you please!—Yet, if I be an enthusiast, think not that I am suddenly become so. This heart was born to be the seat of mighty passions.—To the common swarm of emmets which bustle about the world, I had an aversion, even as a boy. When my play-mates were merry and sportive around me, I played it is true, but I always found it irksome, though I never could precisely ascertain to what cause that feeling might be ascribed. But when storms lowered around the horizon, when our mountains vomited forth flames at midnight, or subterraneous groanings announced an approaching earthquake, then my heart felt elevated; my languishing spirit revived; the withered plant again reared its head. As I advanced in life, no female attractions had power to charm my eyes;—they remained stedfastly and eagerly fixed on the more brilliant rays of honour. Blinded to every beauty of nature, my heart, my throbbing heart, burned solely to run the career of fame and glory; while each victory that I obtained, far from proving an assuaging drop to mitigate the flame, served only to encrease its ardour.—Then it was that I saw Cora again!
High-Priest.And the flame which at first burst out with a force that promised its eternal duration, was instantly extinguished!—Extinguished as a lamp by the breath of a child.
Rolla.No, not so!—The flame continued to burn, it only found a different species of nourishment. What was before a wild and all-consuming blaze, was changed into a gentle, genial warmth. Honour gave way to love.
High-Priest.A gentle, genial warmth!—these words sound well, indeed—But whom does thy flame illumine?—whom does it warm?
Rolla.(With indifference) I feel what you would say.
High-Priest.You feel it, yet are not ashamed?—Young man!—endowed with powers to achieve the noblest deeds, perhaps to form the blessing of a whole hemisphere, you contract your circle of action—within acave!—Inca, born of the race of the children of the sun, entitled to become one of the first bulwarks of the throne, you fly—into acave!—Leader; entrusted by your native country with the conduct of her armies, and thus called upon, by a succession of noble actions, to prove yourself worthy so honourable a confidence, you can yet bury yourself—in acave!—
Rolla.Would you seduce me to be a boaster?—As Inca, and as leader of the armies of my country, I have fulfilled my duty through wounds and victories!—Have I not at various times proved myself deserving of her confidence!—Was not this more particularly proved on that awful day when Ataliba’s throne was shaken by Huascar’s power, and Rolla’s sword dyed the fields of Tumibamba with the blood of his sovereign’s enemies. Know you not the history of that day?—One arrow was lodged in my left arm, another pierced my breast; I received a large gash in my cheek from a sword, and was stunned by the stroke of a club upon my forehead. Look at the scars of those wounds, here, and here, and here!—Yet I never stirred from the field of battle.—Tell me now, have I given my country cause to repent her confidence?
High-Priest.(Much affected) Brave youth!—But were the blessings of thy native-country, the friendship of thy sovereign, and the love and shouts of thy army, no recompense to thy heart?
Rolla.(With a sigh) They were!
High-Priest.But are so no longer?
Rolla.No!
High-Priest.Oh ye gods! ’tis thus by annihilating the former man, that you chastise this unworthy love which blights every noble germ implanted in the heart!
Rolla.Judge not so harshly!—Love, like honour, is the parent of great actions!—But I—for whom should I fight?—Is there on earth a heart to which I should communicate joy, were I longer to pursue the road to fame?—Cora does not love me!—I have neither father nor mother, neither brother nor sister!—I am alone in the world.
High-Priest.(Clasping him in his arms) My son!—my son!
Rolla.Leave me, leave me, uncle!—I cannot return this love. You, with those grey hairs, clothed in those priestly garments, bearing an appearance so solemn, so entitled to respect, can never become the confident of my bosom. In you I cannot separate the man from the dignity of the priesthood.—Ah that I had a mother!—God created woman to be the confident of man!—Canst thou not share thy sorrows with her who loves thee? then fly to thy mother!—But I—I enjoy not the love of any one!—I have no mother!
High-Priest.Fly then to the gods!
Rolla.The gods hate me, because I love a maiden who is devoted to their service—because I love this maiden more than I love the gods themselves?—Whether I behold the sun rise, or see Cora appear, a like impression is made upon my senses, upon my heart!—Ah no!—Cora makes the strongest impression on both.
High-Priest.May the gods pardon this enthusiasm!—Ah, Rolla! it is thus that the children of mortality always desire most eagerly, what is impossible to be attained. Cora, the maiden, had only pleased your fancy—Cora, the Virgin of the Sun, you love with unbounded passion.
Rolla.(With rising warmth) What!—(he restrains himself; but casts a look of indignation upon the High-Priest) Good night, uncle. (He is going into his cave.)
High-Priest.Whither art thou going, young man?—Cannot thy friend, thy sincere friend, obtain some little influence over thee?—Live according to thy own pleasure!—Withdraw thyself if thou wilt from mankind, only fly this desert, where fatal images inevitably disturb thy soul,as the wild thorns thy senses. Come to my house!—that quarter of it which runs down to the sea shore is well known to thee;—there may’st thou live sequestered and in solitude, even in the midst of thousands; and there no importunate intruder shall deprive thee of the visions which thy heart so fondly loves to cherish. Thy doors may be closed against me—mine shall always be open to thee.
Rolla.Uncle, accept my thanks. I feel these proposals to be meant in kindness—I know your habitation; I know that it abounds with charms for those who love retirement; but Rolla is resolved to live and die in this cave. There, where the cupola of the temple towers above the trees—there Cora lives—here I can at least behold her dwelling.—Rolla, then, must live and die in this cave!—Good night.
High-Priest.Obstinate young man!—Yet, surely you will not forget what your duty requires during the solemnities of to-morrow. Your presence in the king’s palace, and in the temple, is indispensible at the grand festival of the Sun.
Rolla.Excuse me!—Say what you please to the king—tell him I am dead—I come no more among men. Yet to-morrow I will sacrifice to the gods—whether in a temple, or in a cave, is alike acceptable to them.—Good night.[Exit into his cave.
Young man!—young man!—thou dost not suspect how deeply this heart is interested in thy repose!—But the evening sun already glitters upon the golden cupola of the temple, and here below amid these trees, the night is fast approaching. I fear I shall find some difficulty in tracing out the meandering path through this wilderness. (As he is going, he almost runs against Diego.)
High-Priest.Whence come you?—and whither would you go?
Diego.Whithersoever chance may conduct a pedestrian.
High-Priest.Do you walk for pleasure in such unbeaten ways?
Diego.(Pertly) Yes.
High-Priest.You may probably have mistaken your path?
Diego.So it should seem, since I find myself in your way.
High-Priest.Are you not Don Alonzo’s attendant?
Diego.You are not very wide of the truth.
High-Priest.If you be not well acquainted with this wood, you are in great danger of losing yourself. Accompany me, and I will conduct you in a short time into the right path.
Diego.(Assuming an angry tone) Who told you that I was in the wrong path?—Signor High-Priest, I would have you to know, that neither in Castile nor Arragon, neither in Grenada nor Murcia, no, nor in any other of the countries belonging to my king, by whatsoever name distinguished, has any mother’s son ever been known to excel Diego in valour and virtue.
High-Priest.(smiling) I readily believe it. And what gives the greater currency to this assurance is, that it is uttered by yourself.
Diego.It was forcibly extorted by you, from my modesty.
High-Priest.Pardon me!—And now permit me to request an explanation of this riddle?—How can you be wandering at night in so wild a spot as this, and yet be in the right way?—Are you alone, or is your master near?—What is it you want?—for never can I be persuaded that you come hither only for a walk.
Diego.(with hesitation) Since you press me so closely then—I—must confess—that—I am in love.
High-Priest.(smiling) You are in love?
Diego.(extravagantly) Yes, in love to desperation!—I am tortured with jealousy; driven almost to phrenzy!—In the tumult of passion I am now hurried up to the summits of the highest hills, now driven into the lowest recesses of a subterranean cavern,—till at length I have wandered insensibly into this spot, devoted to tender feelings, here to hold solitary intercourse with the mournful turtle-doves.
High-Priest.This spot does indeed seem to be selected by the gods, as an asylum for enamoured fools.
Diego.Here will I tell of my sorrows to the silent trees!—here breathe out my amorous sighs to the chaste moon!
High-Priest.Thou art a coxcomb! (Exit.)
Diego.(Alone) A coxcomb!—So much the worse for you Signor!—for if such be the case, the most illustrious High-Priest of the Sun has been made the sport of a coxcomb. Live wit, say I—it will fetch its price in the new world, as well as in the old.—But is he really gone?—Yes.—I hear nothing more!—Hist!—Hist!—(He goes and looks out at the other side of the stage.)
Juan.Are we safe, Diego?
Diego.A fine question, truly.—Yes, as safe as men can be who are wandering about a forest in the dead of night, and under the open canopy of heaven, after, saving your honour’s presence, a piece of knavery. By Saint Barnabas I believe we are about as safe as a drunkard who should attempt to cross the river Amazons upon a wire.
Juan.Have you seen any thing?
Diego.In the dark I seldomseeany thing—but I haveheard—
Alonzo.What!—what have you heard?
Diego.The voice of the great High-Priest himself.
Alonzo.The High-Priest!—What could he want here?
Diego.To put me into the right path, nothing more. It is the same in this, as in all other countries, Priests are the only people who are able to lead us into the right path.
Alonzo.But what could bring him into this wilderness?—Oh, speak, Velasquez!—tell me, what dost thou think could be his errand?
Juan.To what purpose speak? What end can conjecture serve? To rush with my sword drawn, and eyes averted, into the thickest of the press, is my maxim in any case of danger. Talking dissipates courage, as a shower disperses the thin coat of earth scattered over a rock, so that no foundation remains from which any adventurous action can shoot forth. If I were disposed to talk, I could find enough to say.
Alonzo.Of what nature?
Diego.Oh speak, Sir, I entreat you!—When it is dark I always like to hear talking.
Juan.Well, it shall be so. It may amuse you too, Alonzo, till the hour when your constellation shall rise;for the time always appears horribly tedious when one is waiting for a tender appointment. I will therefore talk till you command my silence; and this shall be the text with which I introduce my discourse.—My friend, this adventure bodes no good!—believe me, it bodes no good!
Diego.Right, Sir, right.
Alonzo.This is language foreign to thy sentiments. When has the time been known that Don Juan Velasquez turned his back upon an adventure, because it was dangerous?
Juan.There is the matter!—Hear me, Alonzo!—If thou wert capable of doubting my courage, I might easily prove it, by engaging the next rattle-snake I should meet. Thou knowest my principle, that I do not value my life more highly, than a moment of happiness, and happy is every moment that I sacrifice to friendship. If, therefore, thou hast any regard for me, no more of this!—My arm, my sword, are devoted to thy service—I have followed thee blindly into the labyrinth in which we are now involved; but I must still be permitted to think, that we do not give any proof of our wisdom in groping our way here when we might be more advantageously employed.
Alonzo.More advantageously?—let me hear in what way?
Juan.He who is doing ill, may always be more advantageously employed; and by the blood of all the knights that does or does not flow in my veins, I think we are now cursedly in the wrong. I say nothing of the sword suspended by a thread over our heads—affection takes precedence of life—You love Cora—I have the strongest attachment to you, and Diego is attached to both.
Diego.Certainly, certainly, Sir!—but—notwithstanding—pray don’t take it amiss, if I think that life has precedence of affection.
Juan.Granted therefore that the prosecution of this enterprise should prove the means of shortening the duration of our lives, yet we perhaps only give up some years of unhappiness ourselves, to purchase the happiness of a friend.—And since they have lived long, who have lived happily, and he only can be esteemed to have lived happily who has died so; what better can we wish, or how can we end our lives more satisfactorily, than in offering them up a sacrifice to friendship.
Diego.Cursed maxims, these!
Juan.But, Alonzo, to be happy, according to my ideas of happiness, you will understand that I consider this salutary state of the soul as inseparable from integrity and virtue. Lay your hand then upon your heart, and tell me what are now your feelings in moments of temperance and reflection?—Don Alonzo Molina quitted the savage followers of Pizarro, because he abhorred their barbarities—that was a noble principle!—I will go, he said, among these mild and benevolent people, and by cultivating their minds, and instructing them in the arts of civilized life, become their friend and benefactor.—Objects worthy of my friend!—But what has been the end of these virtuous resolutions?—You came among them indeed—the king of the country received you with open arms and an expanded heart—the people loved you—the family of the Incas honoured you—the great men of the nation beheld you without envy, enjoying the favour of their sovereign. You shared that sovereign’s cares; but you also shared his joys, his wealth;—you were no longer considered as a foreigner, and even the priests themselves murmured not when they saw you appear at the worship of their gods.—Oh fatal forbearance!—On one of these solemn days, my noble friend beheld in the temple one of the priestesses of the sun, as she presented the bread of sacrifice to the king.—She was young—she was lovely—Alonzo’s heart was instantly lost—and at the same moment all the grand designs he had formed, were sunk in the ocean of forgetfulness.—The champion for the rights of humanity slumbered upon his post, while the charming device upon his shield, the united hands beneath a cross surrounded with sun-beams, gave way to a burning heart, pierced through with arrows.—And now, if I wish to speak with Alonzo, where must I seek him?—Among the counsellors of the king—the judges of the people—or the instructors of youth?—It was among these, or such as these, that I should once have expected to find him:—but now, now he is only to be found stealing nightly about these walls, or behind these walls, with his face deeply buried in his cloak, hiding himself from his own conscience—while all his glorious projects are crushed in the embryo, as the future brood is destroyed by a mischievous boy who breaks the eggs of the setting hen.
Alonzo.(Indignantly) Velasquez!
Juan.Away with that menacing countenance, it ill accords with your situation. A man should not dare to assume the privilege of growing angry, unless his conscience be pure.—You will perhaps wonder at the jocund Velasquez becoming on a sudden a preacher of morality—but Velasquez was only jocund and light-hearted, because he was an honest man—let him therefore preach on, since he has entered upon the subject. You, by whom formerly every article of popular faith, even to the most minute, was held inviolate, because you considered that to every one was attached, in a considerable degree, the peace of mind of some weak, but honest man—you now rashly bid defiance to one of the most sacred tenets of a whole nation that has received you hospitably into their bosom, and seduce a chaste virgin devoted to their gods.—The conflicts of nature herself, are made subservient to your desires; and while a dreadful earthquake shakes these inaccessible walls even to their foundation, the bold intruder takes advantage of the passage thus opened to him to rush into Cora’s arms, and amidst this elemental warfare to murder innocence.
Alonzo.Forbear, Velasquez!—have you no compassion for me?—believe me, my conscience does not slumber.
Juan.Well then, if it slumber not, it is at least deaf, and the malady must be removed.—Ataliba is thy benefactor,—this amiable people have received thee as a brother,—and thou, assassin-like, art stabbing them in the dark.
Alonzo.Oh Velasquez, once more I entreat you to forbear!—I acknowledge, with gratitude, the voice of friendship,—but what wouldst thou require of me?
Juan.Heaven be thanked that I have succeeded at last in awakening you to some degree of reflection!—I require of you instantly to renounce this dangerous and criminal intercourse.
Alonzo.Well, I will consult with Cora.
Juan.Most admirable!—Cora is indeed the proper person to decide upon this matter. I perceive that you are seriously impressed with my lecture.
Alonzo.Rely upon me!—I will represent to her all that anxious love can suggest—the anger of the king—the indignation of the people—my danger—
Juan.Your danger!—Pardon the interruption, my friend, but you speak here without much reflection!—Your danger put in the balance against hers, is as a handful of down weighed against a bar of gold. You hazard only your life—
Diego.What the devil, and is not that enough?
Juan.She, on the contrary, hazards her fame, her repose, her father’s blessing, the love of her family, her prospect of salvation—and, to sum up all—she must encounter the most horrible of all deaths, supposing that this intercourse should give existence to a being who would prove the betrayer of your loves.
Alonzo.Oh talk not of it!—No, no, Velasquez, thank heaven I am not so deeply involved in guilt!
Juan.Heaven be thanked indeed, if you are yet clear from it?—but while you continue in your present course, what security can you have, that you will always remain so. And should a consequence so fatal ensue, think only on the boundless misery that it must bring both on Cora and yourself. That she must die would be little; the horrible idea is, the manner of her death. Shut up alive in a subterraneous vault, the opening of which will be closed upon her for ever, with only a single loaf of bread and a small lamp, she must sit gasping for air, and soon endure the severest torments of hunger.—Oh the very thought makes me shudder!—I have encountered death undauntedly under a variety of forms; but I could not bear to meet him under this.
Alonzo.(Falling on his neck.) I will never see Cora again!
Juan.Worthily resolved!—let us then instantly depart!—(Endeavours to draw him away.)
Alonzo.Only permit me to take leave of her!
Juan.Write her a letter, which we will throw over the wall—You hesitate!—Oh you are undecided!—Ha! already I see the hapless Cora enclosed in her horrible dungeon, crushed by the two-fold agony of bodily and mental torments, lying on the ground and gnawing her own flesh—uttering the most dreadful execrations against her God, and amid the wildest ravings of phrenzy breathing out that soul, the purity of which was poisoned by thee. Then when she shall stand before him who hereafter will judge alike the Peruvian and the Spaniard, and shall accuse theeas the origin of all her woes, the occasion of her becoming the murderer of her child——
Alonzo.(Eagerly pulling Juan forwards.) Come, come!—let us fly!
Juan.With the utmost transport! (As they are going, a clapping of hands is heard behind the wall.)
Alonzo.(Turning suddenly round) That is her signal! my Cora! my Cora!—(He breaks away from Velasquez, and climbs hastily over the breach in the wall.)
Diego.(After a pause.) Now do I defy any one to assert again, that sound is an empty thing—a nothing. The most reverend Don Juan Velasquez has been for a long time holding such a discourse here as is not delivered every day, even from the pulpit of Salamanca, but the moment that three or four claps are given by a pair of heathenish hands, the wretch for whose benefit this fine oration was intended, loses every beneficial impression, gives them all to the winds, and runs headlong after his own wild inventions.
Juan.(With some asperity) Farewell my friend! Since thou art resolved on ruin, take thine own course!—Oh madman! madman!—where others only walk he runs, where others enter slowly and only step by step, thither he rushes. Well, well, even if what I have urged prove of no avail, friendship has however discharged its duty—and the worst that can happen is at last to be reduced to suffer with my friend. Till then, be of good heart, Diego!—How dost thou find thyself?
Diego.Like a fish upon dry land.
Juan.Thou dost not speak truly. When a fool is running on the wrong side of the post, he is in his proper element; and, by Saint George, I think we are running cursedly on the wrong side of the post here.
Diego.Only with this difference, that Imustdo as youplease—and you are notpleasedto do what God and sound reason require of you.
Juan.Well, let us hear what your wisdom would suggest.
Diego.Were I in the place of the valiant knight DonJuan de Velasquez, in the first place I would deliver a discourse pretty nearly to the same purpose as he has done; but then if that produced no effect, I would say—my dear friend Alonzo, or my dear Don Alonzo, you cannot expect that I should stay to be roasted alive for your sake!—Fare thee well—I shall return home, and take our worthy Diego with me.—We will say over our beads in your behalf.
Juan.That may as well be done here.
Diego.Here!—on heathen ground!—in view of a heathen temple!
Juan.Blockhead!—Our God is every where, and by a firm adherence to the sacred claims of friendship we serve him more acceptably than by saying over a rosary—therefore will I offer no prayers at this moment. I am here as the guardian of my misguided friend.
Diego.And pray then in what capacity am I here?
Juan.As his attendant, whom he employs to carry his arms.
Diego.My presence then, it should seem, is now wholly superfluous, since I am not permitted to appear publickly as such.
Juan.Thy part is to obey, not to remonstrate. Go, take this whistle, and steal silently to the left, along the wall that surrounds the Temple, while I go round by the right—we shall by this means meet on the other side; and should you encounter any thing suspicious by the way, make use of the whistle. Here, take it.
Diego.(Trembling as he takes it) To the left did you say?
Juan.Yes, to the left.
Diego.And quite alone?
Juan.Yes, quite alone.
Diego.I am afraid of losing myself among the bushes.
Juan.Fool, can you not see the wall, and the cupola of the Temple?
Diego.Do you take me for an owl?
Juan.Is not the moon bright enough to light thee?
Diego.No.
Juan.No!—Ha! ha! ha!—Fear seems wholly to have deprived Signor Diego of his senses.
Diego.I must beg leave to observe, Sir, that the night is devoted to rest, and even if the man himself be not allowedto sleep, his internal courage, commonly takes the liberty of enjoying a comfortable nap. My fortitude always goes to bed with the sun.
Juan.(Going up to him earnestly) Friend Diego, we will awaken it with some hearty blows.
Diego.(Shrinking away from him) Oh it is easily awakened: it does not sleep very soundly.
Juan.Go, then, fool!—(He thrusts him off on one side, and goes off himself on the other.)
Alonzo.(As he assists her) Only one little jump, dear Cora!—throw yourself boldly into my arms!—Here will you find a secret and retired spot, formed for love, and guarded by friends. This is not so wide and waste a scene as your garden, in which, barren as it is of all shade, the treacherous moon betrays every form that ventures within its circuit. (He presses her to his bosom) At length I have thee in my arms again.
Cora.(Returning his embrace) And I have thee again in mine.
Alonzo.Ah! it is now three long weeks——
Cora.Only three weeks?
Alonzo.Months to love.
Cora.Years to my heart.
Alonzo.Every evening at twilight has poor Alonzo wandered hither, and listened in anxious expectation of the signal which might summon him to a night of transport.
Cora.And every evening has Cora wept because she dared not meet Alonzo.
Alonzo.You have not been ill, I hope.
Cora.Ah! I am always ill when I am not with you.
Alonzo.Say, dearest Cora, what has prevented our meeting?—You promised that I should sooner——
Cora.Did Ipromise?—That was not right, as I could only hope that it might be sooner; but love always adds hopes to its wishes, and too soon begins to consider those hopes as certainties. It does not often fall to my lot to take the nightly service in the temple, but I relied uponhaving the turn of one of my companions who was ill, and whose place I had offered to supply. She, however, recovered; and, instead of the promised happiness, I had only her thanks for my intentions. Poor Cora was heartily vexed at this disappointment, and her sleepless nights appeared so tedious.
Alonzo.Alas! I have also been a stranger to rest. The dews of morning found me under these trees, while my cloaths were still damp with the dews of the past evening, and my limbs still shivered with the cold of midnight. Beneath yon palm-tree have I stood, night after night, with my eyes fixed upon your temple; and often, as I have seen a form wander backwards and forwards, where glimmers the eternal lamp, I have pleased myself with thinking that it might be Cora’s.
Cora.It was not that in my solitude I could be deceived by shadows, yet I seemed every where to see your image. The idea made me restless, and I ran with hurried steps hither and thither—kept incessantly moving from one spot to another. Oh tell me, does love always render people impatient?—It was not thus with me formerly; but I was gentle, quiet, and bore without a murmur the failure of any trifling wish; the disappointment of any cherished expectation—whether it were that a shower deprived me of a promised walk, or that the wind destroyed the flowers which I had carefully reared with my own hands. Now all is changed; I am no longer the same person. When I sit at my daily employments, and spin, or weave, if a thread happen to break, I am so peevish that I sometimes even startle at myself. (Caressing him) Tell me, Alonzo, does love improve, or spoil us?
Alonzo.True love improves.
Cora.Oh no, no!—True love reigns in my heart, yet I am not so good as I was.
Alonzo.It is only that thy blood runs somewhat more swiftly.
Cora.Or else that I am ill.—Yes, I am now often ill.
Alonzo.Indeed!
Cora.Yes, indeed!—But that must be so—for soon—soon—I shall not love you alone.
Alonzo.(Starting) Not me alone?
Cora.(Smiling) Not you alone!
Alonzo.Your words involve a riddle, or else a crime.Cora, love cannot comprehend more than one object.—You will not love me alone? (He fixes his eyes earnestly upon her) No, you cannot mean to say so—if it were true, you could not look at me with so much composure, such perfect unreserve.
Cora.And why should I not look at you with composure?—My feelings are so sweet that they cannot be criminal. An unknown, but pleasing sadness has taken possession of my heart—I experience sensations not to be described. When lately at the Solstitial feast, I was ornamenting the porch of the temple with flowers, I saw upon the lowest of the steps which lead up to it, a young woman sleeping, at whose breast lay a little smiling angel: my heart was altogether dissolved at so interesting a spectacle, and I involuntarily stretched out my arms to the child, intending to take it gently from its mother, and press it to my bosom. But how easily are the slumbers of a tender mother disturbed; for scarcely had I touched the babe ere she awoke, rose up anxiously, clasped her treasure to her heart, and cast on me a look of deep distrust. Say, Alonzo?—Do you not think an affectionate mother one of the most respectable of creatures?
Alonzo.(Bewildered) Oh, why that question?
Cora.Can’t you guess?—(With pure and innocent transport) I shall soon be a mother myself.
Alonzo.(Thunderstruck) Great God!!!
Cora.What is the matter?—You need not be alarmed!—I love you more than ever!—Ah, at the first commencement of our love I thought it impossible that the attachment I then felt could ever be exceeded; for in you, Alonzo, I beheld the most charming of youths. But, enchanter, you have stolen into my heart under a still more attractive form, since I behold in you, the father of my child.
Alonzo.Cora! Cora!—my hair is erect with horror, while your mind seems wholly at ease.
Cora.And what do you fear?—Is it a crime to become a mother?—My father always taught me, that whoever commits a crime, instantly forfeits all peace of mind; but for me, I feel no uneasiness.
Alonzo.Do you not recollect the circumstances of your situation?—To what rigid ordinances you swore obedience when this figure of the sun was fastened upon your bosom?
Cora.I swore to obey the ordinances of our temple.
Alonzo.And what do they enjoin you?
Cora.I know not. My father told me, that by whomsoever virtue was held sacred, its precepts would be fulfilled without particular instruction. To me virtue is sacred.
Alonzo.And know you then what constitutes virtue?—Alas! your uncorrupted soul is ignorant of the terrible distinction between virtue as founded in the eternal principles of nature, and virtue as constituted by the distorted imaginations of fanatics. (He clasps her eagerly in his arms) Oh, Cora! Cora! what have we done?—In other situations, love and joy recompense the anguish which every mother must endure—in yours alone, those sufferings, however severe, are but the forerunners of others still more dreadful, in the most horrible of all deaths.
Cora.Death!
Alonzo.(In accents of despair) And I—I am your murderer!
Cora.(With composure) How can you thus unnecessarily torment yourself?—Wherefore, and by whom, should I be put to death?
Alonzo.The priests will affirm, that you have offended the gods.
Cora.I offended the gods!—No, Alonzo, I love the gods.
Alonzo.Cora, I do not doubt it; yet you must become the victim of an ancient superstition. Our only safety would be in flight; but, alas! whither can we fly in a foreign land?
Cora.Be composed, dear enthusiast!—I have thought of means to console you.
Alonzo.If so, it must be the suggestion of God himself.
Cora.The plan is simple, yet will give me certain assurance whether or not the gods are really incensed against me; and the approaching morning may decide this important question. Hitherto the moon and stars alone have been the confidents of our love; but the sun himself, the greatest of all our gods, shall now be witness to it.—At present I dare not stay any longer, for I must hasten back to attend the eternal lamp in the temple. Do you then, Alonzo, rest here under these trees, and, as soon as the dawn of morning shall begin to gild the eastern horizon, Iwill return, and we will ascend yonder hill together. Then will we turn our faces towards the east, entwine our arms within each other, join lip to lip, and thus boldly wait the rising of the sun.—You understand me?
Alonzo.But half.
Cora.Do you not comprehend, that if Cora have done evil, either the sun will veil himself from her sight, or the first ray of his light that falls upon her, will annihilate the criminal. But if, oh Alonzo! he, my Father, and my God, shall rise clear and resplendent—if he shall smile upon the affectionate pair as he beholds them joined in mutual embrace, then shall we have a certain token that he favours our love, and your mind may be relieved from its cares—for when satisfied that we are guiltless in the eyes of the sun, whose eyes shall Cora need to fear.
Alonzo.Oh affecting simplicity!—Oh sweetest of thy sex!
Cora.But, more still remains, my Alonzo. To-morrow is the grand festival of the sun—if on that day he rise in unveiled majesty, we always regard it as a joyful signal, that the gods are favourably disposed towards us, consequently that no dreadful crime can have called forth their anger. Then look up, Alonzo; cast thy eyes around the heavens; behold how the stars glitter; how blue and serene is every part within our view!—not a cloud threatens us—not a zephyr moves the trees—Oh we shall have a glorious morning!—One embrace then at parting—farewel!—Let Cora at her return find thee sleeping beneath these trees, and then will she awaken thee with a kiss. (She hastens back through the breach in the wall.)
Alonzo.(Who, sunk in astonishment and horror, has scarcely heard what Cora has been saying) Sweet, benevolent creature!—Oh I have been a villain, the worst of villains! Let me save her!—save her, if it be possible, before the flame shall burst out over her head!—Ah, it is too late! She is irrecoverably lost, and I can only die with her. (He leans against a tree with both hands upon his forehead.)
Alonzo.(Turning round wildly, and grasping his sword) What is the matter?
Juan.(Springing forwards from the left side) What is the matter?
Diego.Is it you, Don Alonzo?—Why did you not say immediately that it was you?
Juan.(Clapping Diego upon the shoulder) My friend, you must take a frightened hare for your device.
Diego.Better than a blind lion. Signor Velasquez, you knights consider it as one of the duties of your order to revile prudence as cowardice, in the same manner as we who cannot write, call all learned men, in derision, feather heroes. Did not you yourself order me to whistle whenever I should encounter any thing suspicious?
Juan.Fool! how long has thy master been an object of suspicion to thee?
Diego.To tell you the truth, Signor Don Juan, some time. Look at him now, how he stands there. (Pointing to Alonzo, who has resumed his former attitude.)
Juan.(Shaking Alonzo) My dear friend, was the adieu then so very heart-breaking?
Alonzo.(Falling on his neck) Ah, Velasquez, thy admonitions came too late!
Juan.Oh God!—What!—is she?——
Alonzo.She is indeed!
Juan.Then may we consider our prospect of seeing the kingdom of heaven as no very distant one.
Alonzo.(Taking Juan’s hand) Oh do not forsake me, my friend, my companion, my brother in arms!
Juan.(Shaking his hand ardently) Alonzo, it is not my practice to call to the boy who is struggling in the water, “You should not have fallen in:”—I would rather, if it were possible, draw him out. But, by the powers above, I do not know what is to be done here!—Had we a vessel at our command, or could we procure an enchanter’s cloak, which would convey us through the air, then would not I be among the last to recommend flight. But since no such means lie at present within our reach, the course to be pursued is not very obvious. Well, well, Velasquez! arm thyself with courage to meet the worst—wrap thyself up in thy cloak, even to the very teeth, and leave the thunder to rattle, and the lightning to flash quietly around thee.
Alonzo.(Wringing his hands) All is lost! No resource, no way of escape left!
Juan.Be not so desponding. All is not lost as long as a man retains his senses. Let us depart, eat, drink, and take our rest;—then, by to-morrow, both mind and body will have acquired new strength, and we shall be better able to consider what is to be done.
Diego.Oh, flower of knighthood!
Alonzo.Stop! she will return soon; she promised me at the dawn of morning——
Juan.So, so!—Well, of all employments under the sun, commend me to that of being confident to a lover! They have no idea that a man can have any human feelings—that he must sleep——
Diego.That he must eat—that he must drink—
Alonzo.Forgive me!
Juan.Yes, yes, I forgive you freely; but you must inscribe this sacrifice deeply in your heart; for, by Heaven! the loss of my night’s rest—yet, no, rather than lose it, I will repose under the trees. (He spreads out his cloak, and lies down upon it) It is always good to make a virtue of necessity; so, with the sage remark, that weariness is the best of all opiates, I wish you a good night, Alonzo. He who has an unsullied conscience can sleep, even with the trunk of a tree only for his pillow, as soundly as the seven sleepers themselves. (He closes his eyes.)
Diego.(Also spreading himself a bed) If there should happen to be a rattle-snake or two hereabouts—or, perchance, a tyger as hungry as myself!—Hold! an idea occurs to me. (He takes out a rosary, which he hangs upon the nearest tree) Now I think we are safe. (He lies down) If I can sleep now, who will say that I am not a master in the trade; for my head is full of thought, my heart full of fear, and my poor stomach quite empty. (He falls asleep.)
Alonzo.(Contemplates both for a while, then exclaims) Happy men! (He leans in musing melancholy against a tree.)
(The Curtain falls.)
END OF THE FIRST ACT.