THE
VIRGIN OF THE SUN.
_A PLAY_,
IN FIVE ACTS:
BY AUGUSTUS VON KOTZEBUE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GENUINE GERMAN EDITION
BY ANNE PLUMPTRE,
TRANSLATOR OF KOTZEBUE’S NATURAL SON (LOVER’S VOWS),
AND OF HIS COUNT OF BURGUNDY.
Second Edition.
_LONDON_:
PRINTED FOR R. PHILLIPS, NO. 71, ST. PAUL’S
CHURCH-YARD.
SOLD BY H. D. SYMONDS, AND T. HURST, PATERNOSTER-ROW;
CARPENTER AND CO. OLD BOND-STREET; AND BY ALL
OTHER BOOKSELLERS.
[_Price Half-a-Crown._]
1799.
Entered at Stationers’ Hall.
THE AUTHOR’s DEDICATION.
TO MADAME VON DER WENSE, OF THE FAMILY OF AHLEFELD AT ZELL, LADY OF THE
PRESIDENT VON DER WENSE.
It has frequently been said, that poetry, like love, cannot be commanded.
This, my very amiable Friend must now acknowledge to be an error, since,
if her memory be accurate with regard to trifles, she will recollect,
that this Drama owes its origin solely and entirely to her commands.
One evening at Pyrmont, the weather being too wet and melancholy to
permit of her enjoying the charms of nature, to which her pure soul is
so closely allied, she had recourse to the Temple of Thalia, where
Naumann’s Opera of Cora happened to be represented. The performers were
of a very inferior kind, and the only thing that pleased me during
the evening, was that I had the good fortune to sit behind my Friend,
who sometimes condescended to favour her humble servant with a little
conversation. Among other remarks which the occasion called forth, she
observed once, when the conclusion of an act gave us a short respite from
being merely auditors, that the Opera at which we were present, contained
excellent ground work for a Drama.
I felt that this idea ought rather to have originated with me, but I
easily found an excuse for my apparent negligence, in the circumstance of
my being in company with one whose powers of pleasing were so great and
so various, as to preclude, wherever she was present, the intervention of
any other thoughts but what her own perfections inspired. Yet I caught
eagerly at the idea when once suggested, and declared to my friend
that her commands only were requisite for the immediate employment of
my pen upon the subject. For a long time she evaded honouring me with
such a command, preferring, in all that she said to encourage me to the
undertaking, the politer language of exhortation, to which her gentle
nature is more accustomed. I however insisted upon a positive command.
“_Well then, I command it_,” she said, at last, with the naïveté so
peculiarly her own.—I made a low bow, and now have the honour of
presenting to her my VIRGIN OF THE SUN. At her command the trembling
maiden appears with downcast eyes in the anti-chamber, and hopes for
permission humbly to wait there, till a friendly invitation shall call
her to the toilette of her Patroness.
“Come nearer, gentle creature!—thou shalt be welcome to me for the sake
of thy father, with whom I have long lived on terms of friendship, and
whom I should now be the more scrupulous of depriving of what does remain
to him, since he has so little that is desirable left in the world.”
Ah, you are but too much in the right, my most amiable friend!—I once
possessed a treasure who greatly resembled you, inasmuch as she was one
of the best of wives, and of mothers. But she is gone to her proper
home, to the society of angels. At the moment when I experienced this
most severe of all afflictions, you benignantly embalmed my sorrows with
a tear;—for that tear my heart retains a lasting gratitude, and my pen
gladly embraces an opportunity, at the same time of dedicating my work to
you, and of giving this public testimony of the high esteem entertained
for you, by
AUGUSTUS VON KOTZEBUE.
ADVERTISEMENT.
_The Translator has selected the VIRGIN OF THE SUN as the Third of her
proposed Series of KOTZEBUE’S Plays. The great reputation this Drama has
acquired in its native country gives her hopes that it will not be found
less interesting to the English Reader under its present form. It will be
followed, as the natural course directs, by THE SPANIARDS IN PERU, or THE
DEATH OF ROLLA, which will be published some time in the month of March._
_London, Feb. 25th, 1799._
Lately was published, and may be had of all Booksellers,
THE NATURAL SON,
(Performing at Covent-Garden under the Title of LOVER’S VOWS),
by the same Author and Translator.—_The Sixth Edition._
The COUNT OF BURGUNDY, by the same.—_The Second Edition._
EACH PRICE HALF-A-CROWN.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
_ATALIBA, King of Quito._
_The HIGH-PRIEST of the SUN._
_XAIRA, another Priest of the SUN._
_TELASCO, an Old Man of the Family of the INCAS._
_ZORAI, his Son._
_CORA, his Daughter, the VIRGIN OF THE SUN._
_ROLLA, formerly General of the Peruvian Army._
_The HIGH-PRIESTESS of the SUN._
_IDALI_, } _VIRGINS OF THE SUN._
_AMAZILI_, }
_DON ALONZO MOLINA, a Spaniard._
_DON JUAN VELASQUEZ, his Friend._
_DIEGO, an Attendant on DON ALONZO._
_A CHAMBERLAIN to the King._
PRIESTS OF THE SUN, VIRGINS OF THE SUN, COURTIERS, SOLDIERS, POPULACE.
THE VIRGIN OF THE SUN.
ACT I.
SCENE I.—_A wild and woody Country, where the Bushes and Underwood are
so closely entwined as to be almost impenetrable. In the Back-ground, a
Wall, in which a large Breach has been made, is just discernible through
the Trees; and farther back, rises the Cupola of the Temple of the Sun.
Nearer the Front, on the right Hand, appears a Cave; on the left, a Hill,
the Top of which is seen above the Trees._
_ROLLA comes down a winding Path among the Bushes, followed by the
HIGH-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 a CAVE!—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 a CAVE!—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 a CAVE!—
_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._
SCENE II.—_The HIGH-PRIEST alone._
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._)
SCENE III.—_DIEGO gropes his Way through the Bushes, and starts violently
at meeting the HIGH-PRIEST._
_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._)
SCENE IV.—_Enter DON ALONZO and DON JUAN. The latter with a large Cloak
wrapped round him._
_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 seldom _see_ any thing—but I have _heard_—
_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 thee as 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._)
SCENE V.—_DON JUAN, and DIEGO. Juan looks after Alonzo with Astonishment
and Indignation._
_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 I _must_ do as you _please_—and
you are not _pleased_ to 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 Don Juan 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 allowed to 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._)
SCENE VI.—_ALONZO springs over the Ruins of the Wall, and then reaches
his Hand to CORA, who follows him._
_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 I _promise_?—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
upon having 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, I will
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._)
SCENE VII.—_DIEGO enters from the right side, and seeing ALONZO, whistles
with all his Strength._
_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.
ACT II.
SCENE I.—_The Scene remains the same as at the Close of the first Act.
DON JUAN and DIEGO are still sleeping.—ALONZO walks about mournfully
among the Trees._
ALONZO.
Will this night never come to an end?—The stars still twinkle in the
heavens, the moon scarcely yet begins to lose her lustre, and a deep and
solemn silence reigns around.—More grateful to the sinner’s soul are
noise and tumult, for they assist to deaden the voice of conscience.—What
said the fool Diego lately?—that it is the same with conscience as with
the stomach, the moment either compels us to feel its existence, we may
be sure it is not in perfect health.—And the fool spoke truly.—Oh my
excellent mother! thy golden instructions may one day conduct me into a
better world—they have not taught me how to conduct myself in another
hemisphere!—Perhaps at this very moment thou art upon thy knees, praying
for a blessing upon thy fallen son!—Ah, pray for him! intercede for
him!—he needs the intercession of a saint!—But away, away ye gloomy
thoughts!—All may yet be well!—Night is followed by twilight—twilight
by the first rays of the rising sun!—(_Looking towards the east_) And
see there the precursor of returning joy!—Already the east begins to be
streaked with purple, and the stars are disappearing.—Hist! I hear the
chirping of a distant bird!—the moment draws near which is to bring Cora
back to her Alonzo!—while I press her to my bosom, conscience is mute,
and I can laugh at danger. I will awaken these sleepers. (_He shakes
Diego_) Diego, rise,—it is already day.
_Diego._ (_Rubbing his eyes_) Hey!—how!—you joke! it is still dark.
_Alonzo._ No, no, the moon is going down, the stars are vanishing.
_Diego._ (_Yawning_) Take heed what you are about, or you will soon
find that it is dark enough. (_He turns on the other side, mutters some
inarticulate words, and falls asleep again._)
_Alonzo._ If that fellow have not slept, or eaten his fill, he is like a
watch not wound up. (_He shakes Don Juan_) Velasquez, the day begins to
break!
_Juan._ (_Raising himself up, and looking about_) Well!—and what of that?
_Alonzo._ Will you not rise and enjoy so fine a morning?
_Juan._ Write an Ode upon the Morning, if it be so very fine; but prithee
let me sleep quietly. (_He lies down again._)
_Alonzo._ Have you forgotten that we may soon expect Cora?
_Juan._ That is no concern of mine, she does not come to see me.
_Alonzo._ And don’t you think it worth while to unbar your eyes a few
minutes earlier, to see an angel?
_Juan._ I will dream of her. (_He falls asleep._)
_Alonzo._ There they lie and sleep as tho’ in mockery of the troubles of
my soul. Ah, it is only the unembarrassed mind which can thus recruit
itself by inactivity. Yes, I perceive that the more man throws off his
rational nature, and assimilates himself with the brute, who looks to
sense alone for his enjoyments, the happier is his lot.—Happier?—Most
certainly so; in his own eyes, at least, if not in the eyes of wisdom;
and what more can be required? (_A clapping of hands is heard behind the
walls_) But hark?—she comes!—Oh, all that I have said of sensual delight
is false! One moment, when the soul partakes of real transport, outweighs
whole hours of mere corporeal pleasure. (_He hastens to meet Cora._)
SCENE II.—_CORA enters and springs into ALONZO’S Arms._
_Cora._ Here I am, dearest Alonzo!—But you have deprived Cora of an
expected pleasure.—I hoped to have found you buried in sleep—I meant to
have concealed myself behind a tree, to have scattered leaves over you,
and then reproved you as a sluggard.—Do you not hear me, Alonzo, or are
you in a waking dream?—else, when your arm is thrown around my neck, how
can you stand with eyes thus fixed, and think of any thing besides your
Cora?
_Alonzo._ Amiable creature! suspect me not unjustly!—Cora alone rules in
my heart, as one sun alone rules in the heavens.—Yet I cannot cease to
think of the discovery made this night!—My peace! my peace of mind is
lost!—Conscience,—a thousand horrible images.—Death in its most hideous
form, with cold and outstretched arms, tearing Cora from my heart,—these,
these are the ideas which haunt me incessantly.
_Cora._ (_Laying her hand upon his mouth_) Be silent and trust to the
gods!—Look up, the heavens are clear and serene all around us, and
my heart is full of transport!—Soon will the sun be risen above the
horizon, hasten, hasten to ascend the hill! (_She climbs hastily up
the hill, Alonzo following her_) Oh behold!—a minute longer and we
had been too late—see how the east already glitters with streaks of
gold—see how the twilight vanishes over the hills and woods—see what
thousands of dew-drops sparkle with the rays of morning, and listen to
the notes of birds innumerable, warbling their early songs! Oh, Alonzo!
My God is great!—My breast is too contracted for all my feelings!—Burst
forth,—burst forth, ye tears of transport which stand in my eyes!—Rejoice
with me, my love; behold where the God ascends in unclouded majesty—he
is not offended. (_She kneels._) Father, to whose service I have devoted
myself!—Father, whose image I bear externally on my bosom, and internally
in my heart!—Vouchsafe to cast one of thy many eyes upon me, be witness
of my love for this young man, and be my judge!—If the feelings which now
engross my soul be sinful, then veil thy flaming forehead in darkness,
or command thy thunder-clouds to gather round thee, and send down upon
me thy forked lightning, as the minister of thy vengeance!—Give me, oh
Father!—Give me a sign of thy love or of thy anger!—(_After a pause_)
Oh with what mildness, what gentleness, do his rays fall upon me!—how
benignantly he looks down and blesses me!—(_She rises_) Well then I dare
venture upon the trial—dare venture to make it even in the presence of
my God himself!—Alonzo, come to my arms. (_She embraces him_) It is
over, and now all my fears are dispelled!—Had this embrace been sinful,
he had annihilated us both at this moment!—My heart is full of joy and
gratitude!—Come let us kneel together!—together pray—together give thanks!
_Alonzo._ I pray with thee?—Dear Cora, the sun is not my God.
_Cora._ Oh yes, he is equally yours and mine. Does he not shine upon
all?—to all give light and warmth?—I entreat you, kneel with me.
_Alonzo._ Dear Cora!
_Cora._ Ungrateful man!—to whom do you owe your Cora?—Would I in the
presence of my God be ashamed of you, my Alonzo?—Oh then if indeed you
love me!—(_She kneels and takes his hand to draw him after her._)
_Alonzo._ Who could resist such sweet enthusiasm! (_He kneels by her._)
_Cora._ Let silent thanks,—the inward emotions of our hearts be the only
incense we offer.
_Alonzo._ These I present to thee, God of all gods! (_They both remain in
silent prayer._)
SCENE III.—_Enter ROLLA from his Cave._
Is it so early!—The sun is scarcely risen!—Alas, thus he sets and
rises again, yet ever finds me wakeful!—But let me arm myself with
patience, and the time will shortly come when he will find me sleeping
for ever!—(_He sees Don Juan and Diego_) Who have we here?—two of the
strangers who live among us—doubtless they have lost their way among
these bushes, and have been overtaken by the night. I will awake them,
and present them with refreshments;—yet first let me offer my morning
prayers to thee, my Father!
_ROLLA turns to the East, and as he raises his hands and eyes towards
Heaven, suddenly espies the lovers kneeling upon the hill, at sight of
whom, he utters a shriek of horror, and remains immoveable as if he had
seen a spirit. CORA and ALONZO rise slowly with their faces still turned
towards the sun, and sink into a silent embrace. ROLLA overpowered,
exclaims with a voice almost suffocated with anguish, “CORA!!!” The
lovers start affrighted, turn round, and look down—CORA sinks in a swoon
upon the declivity of the hill.——ALONZO after hesitating a few moments
whether to hasten down, or stay and assist CORA, at length decides on
the latter, kneels by her, and endeavours to recover her. ROLLA trembling
with agony, yet unable to stir from the spot, remains with his eyes fixed
upon the lovers. ALONZO at length exclaims_ Velasquez! Diego! to arms! to
arms! (_JUAN and DIEGO spring up, but are scarcely awake._)
_Juan._ What is the matter?
_Diego._ What is the matter?
_Alonzo._ Seize him!—Don’t let him escape!
_Juan and Diego._ (_Still staggering with sleep, yet endeavouring to draw
their swords_) Where! whom!
_Alonzo._ Seize him! secure him! he will escape!
_Juan._ (_Recovering himself, and pointing to Rolla_) That man? that
single man?
_Diego._ (_Brandishing his sword_) Two to one!—I am your man for that!
_Alonzo._ Secure him I say! we are betrayed!
_Juan._ A single unarmed man! (_He returns his sword into the scabbard._)
_Alonzo._ (_Quitting Cora, who is not yet recovered, draws his sword and
rushes down the hill towards Rolla, who keeps his eyes immoveably fixed
upon Cora_) Then I must myself.—
_Juan._ (_Seizing him by the arm_) Hold, my friend—or rather my enemy, if
you move a step.
_Alonzo._ My God, Velasquez, have you lost your senses? We are betrayed!
you risk Cora’s life! (_Endeavouring to break away from him._)
_Juan._ (_Eagerly thrusting him back_) Restrain your passion! (_He goes
up to Rolla._) Surely you are not unknown to me.—Is it not Rolla whom I
behold?
_Rolla._ (_Somewhat recovering himself._) I—who am I? Yes, my name is
Rolla.
_Juan._ Rolla, the champion of his country?—Yes, it is he, and in him I
salute one of the bravest and noblest of men.
_Rolla._ How is this? it is yet early morning! (_Striking his hand upon
his forehead._) Am I in a dream? (_After a pause, and fixing his eyes
again stedfastly upon Cora_) No!—By all the gods it is no dream?
_Juan._ Oh no!—Howsoever severe may be the censure which your eyes
denounce against the scene before you—in how horrible a light soever you
may be inclined to consider the truth, still it must be owned that this
is no dream. Probably you may recognize that maiden by the figure of
your deity which adorns her bosom. She is a VIRGIN OF THE SUN.
_Rolla._ And her name is Cora.
_Juan._ This young man too, you may also recollect—he is the favourite of
your king, that Alonzo who saved the life of Ataliba at Cannara, while
Rolla was fighting in support of his throne under the walls of Cuzco.
_Rolla._ (_Offering his hand to Alonzo_) Yes, it is the same Alonzo.
_Juan._ And now, Rolla, if you be indeed the man I believe you, your
sentiments and feelings must differ widely from those of your priests,
who having their eyes almost continually fixed upon the sun, when they
chance to look downward towards the earth, see all things here below
through a false medium, so that scarcely any object appears under its
proper form and colour. You know the world, and mankind, know how the
heart is eternally swayed by circumstances, now this way, now that, and
what numberless passions contend for sovereignty within it. Among these,
Love is always resisted with the greatest difficulty—indeed is scarcely
to be withstood, but where, in making the attack, he has not deigned to
exert all his powers. Look at that virgin—she is lovely——
_Rolla._ Great God!—to whom is this observation addressed.
_Juan._ Look at this youth—he is ardent, impetuous. That he saw and loved
her is his only crime.
_Rolla._ It is no crime.
_Juan._ There spake Rolla!—I was not deceived in him!—
_Alonzo._ And you will keep our secret?—will avert, nameless, misery from
the unfortunate Cora?
_Rolla._ Think you, that I could betray her?—Know, young man, that for
years I have loved, have idolized her.
_Alonzo and Juan._ (_At the same moment and with the utmost
astonishment_) You!!!
_Rolla._ Oh the impotence of words!—Not my language—not your language—not
all the languages of the world combined, have power to describe what I
feel for Cora?—She was scarcely above the age of childhood when I marched
for the first time against the rebels who inhabit the fields at the foot
of the mountains of Sangay—she wept when I bade her adieu, and since our
separation, I have known no pleasure but in the recollection of that
moment and of those tears. When the contest was ended, I returned, but
all had then assumed a new aspect. No longer was I to behold the same
free unfettered maiden whom I had left, she was become the confident of
the gods. I would have made her my wife, she saw the purity of the flame
with which I burned, she saw the ardour of my passion, but her heart was
wholly occupied with her new situation, and while she called the sun her
husband, she looked down with contempt upon me. The day soon arrived on
which a solemn oath consecrated her for ever to the service of her God,
and consigned me over as a victim to eternal misery. Still I continued
for several years to drag about a miserable existence from place to
place, from battle to battle, and while I sought death gained only
renown. At length I retired to this spot, and for some weeks past, this
cave has been my dwelling.—This cave, which has become dear to me since
it conceals from my sight that sun who robbed me of my Cora!
_Alonzo._ (_Who during this narrative has again hastened to Cora, and
endeavoured, though still in vain, to recover her._) I pity you from
my soul!—believe me I pity you from my soul!—But how can I trust a
rival?—Swear that you will not betray us.
_Rolla._ I will not swear.
_Alonzo._ No!—and yet you pretend to love Cora?
_Rolla._ What need of oaths since I do love her?
_Alonzo._ For the satisfaction of my mind.
_Rolla._ What does your satisfaction concern me?
_Alonzo._ I entreat this of you!—Do you wish to keep me in incessant
torments?—Would you force me to proceed to extremities?—recollect that
cases may occur when the commission of an apparent crime, is in reality
to perform an act of virtue.
_Rolla._ (_Contemptuously._) Indeed!
_Alonzo._ And should I ever perceive the slightest ground for suspicion
that thou wert capable of betraying Cora—observe, Rolla, though I respect
and honour thee, yet I assure thee both by my God, and thy own, that I
would take thy life without remorse.
_Rolla._ I will not swear.
_Alonzo._ Rolla, I entreat it once more!—What am I to think of this
refusal?—See how I am shaken to my very soul—every limb trembles—my veins
swell—and I can scarcely breathe for anguish. In mercy then swear.
_Rolla._ I will not swear.
_Alonzo._ (_Drawing his sword in a rage, and pressing upon Rolla._) Die
then!
_Juan._ (_Catching him hastily by the arm_) Is reason again gone
astray?—Hold! hold!—are you a knight?
_Alonzo._ Stand off, or my sword shall dispatch thee also! (_He struggles
to break away from Don Juan, while Rolla continues immoveable and
unconcerned._)
_Juan._ This storm of passion is too mighty for me!—I can restrain him no
longer—Rolla, defend thyself!
_Rolla._ Seek not to restrain him, I die willingly for Cora! (_During
this scene Cora recovers from her swoon, and as she opens her eyes
perceives the struggle. She starts up with the wildest anguish, rushes
hastily down the hill, and throws herself into Rolla’s arms._)
_Cora._ Alonzo, what would you do?
_Alonzo._ It is for thee!—for thy sake alone!—Should he betray thee, we
are lost.
_Cora._ He betray me!—Rolla, my truest friend betray me!—He who was ever
my defender, my intercessor, while I was yet a child,—who has so many
times softened my mother’s rage when I had offended her!—Oh Rolla, you
must remember it well?
_Rolla._ But too well!
_Cora._ And do you think that he would betray me?
_Alonzo._ Why then did he refuse the oath I required?
_Cora._ Had you cause sufficient to require an oath?—Look at those
eyes!—are they not a stronger security for his faith than any oath?
_Rolla._ (_Clasping her to his bosom._) Now let me die!—Let me, oh ye
gods, die this very moment!—I am so happy;—so blessed!—Cora reposes
confidence in me, I clasp her in my arms, I hear her voice once more!—Ah,
five years have elapsed since I experienced such happiness, since I saw
her except at an awful distance.
_Cora._ (_Earnestly._) And I rejoice no less to see you again so
near me!—In your presence all the happy days of my childhood seem to
pass anew before my eyes—so many delightful images are present to my
recollection.——
_Alonzo._ (_Leaning upon his sword, and betraying emotions of the most
poignant jealousy_) Cora, what torments do you inflict upon me!
_Cora._ Why are you tormented?—Oh you do not know how strong an affection
I bear for Rolla!—When a youth he loved me, and we were destined for each
other.—Yes, Rolla, is it not true that we were destined for each other?
_Rolla._ Oh true, true indeed!—for your virtuous mother—but no more—had
she not died so prematurely—who knows—
_Cora._ Ah, dearest Alonzo, at that time I was continually turning his
love into ridicule, because I knew not what it was to love. Forgive me,
Rolla, I know it better now! Oh how often, and how grievously must I have
tormented you!—
_Rolla._ Grievously!—most grievously!—but let that be forgotten—this
moment is so truly blessed!—
_Cora._ Hear him, Alonzo, hear what kindness is breathed in every word he
utters!—but my mother always told me the same—“_Rolla_,” she repeatedly
said, “_has one of the best of hearts—love him—marry him,—and I shall
die happy_.”—But when she died, Rolla was engaged in fighting his
sovereign’s battles, and during his absence a sacred flame was kindled in
my bosom.—At his return, therefore, I could not love him; my heart was
devoted to my God, and I only sighed for the day when I should be wedded
to the Sun.
_Rolla._ But this romantic enthusiasm has at length given way to nature,
and love has found its way to your heart?
_Cora._ Yes, Rolla, that once insensible heart is insensible no longer—be
you my confident.—I love that young man; our first meeting was in the
Temple of the Sun, when I saw him standing by the side of our king.—My
heart was instantly overpowered with an emotion for which I could
scarcely account, and the dish that contained the bread of sacrifice,
almost fell from my trembling hand. An ardent glance which he cast upon
me, soon gave me assurance that my feelings were not unanswered on his
part—yet since I was shut up within the boundaries of the Temple, and
he could only steal round the outward walls, what hope remained that
we might ever find the means of personally communicating our mutual
passion. The gods saw and pitied our distress.—You must well remember
that awful day, some months ago, when the hills around burst out with
flames of fire,—when the ocean raged, and the earth trembled,—when many
palaces were laid in ruins,—when even the Temple of the Sun itself was
menaced with destruction, and the walls by which it is surrounded were
rent asunder in two separate places. Then, trembling, and weeping, we
poor affrighted servants of the gods ran hither and thither—death seemed
to reign triumphant in our cells—he seemed still to pursue us when we
fled under the roof of heaven alone, and our shrieks were mingled with
the groans of contending nature. Alonzo, ever on the watch among these
bushes, soon perceived the breach in the wall, and boldly ventured to
ascend it—one stone after another fell beneath his feet—here the earth
gaped to swallow him up, and there my arm was stretched out to receive
him.—The darkness veiled our love from observation; and since that time
my Alonzo has frequently found his way over the same ruins.
_Rolla._ Cora, I tremble for thee!—In what dreadful perils hast thou
involved thyself!
_Alonzo._ Tell him all!—let him know the fatal consequence of _your_
weakness, and _my_ guilt!—tell him—
_Cora._ Yes, Rolla, it is true.
_Rolla._ What!—how!—Oh thoughtless girl!—And you, Alonzo, were you so
ignorant of our customs that—ye gods!—ye gods!—my children you must
fly!—instantly fly!
_Juan._ But whither?
_Alonzo._ Ah, Rolla, save her!
_Cora._ (_Terrified_) Is this really esteemed so high a crime here below,
altho’ the gods above do not regard it as an offence.
_Rolla._ How much my whole frame is shaken with horror!—I am at this
moment scarcely capable of thought!—Cora, do you love him?
_Cora._ As my own soul.
_Rolla._ And are you certain that in his arms repentance will never
corrode your peace, but that you can live and die contentedly as his wife?
_Cora._ ’Tis all I wish.
_Rolla._ And do you, Alonzo, feel the value of the sacrifice she would
make you?
_Alonzo._ I feel it deeply.
_Rolla._ Then will I save you both. (_He places himself between them_)
Come hither, and each give me a hand!—Consider me as your brother—as
such, Cora, my dearest sister, I unite you to this man. (_Placing her
hand in Alonzo’s_) May the shade of your mother, which hovers over us
at this moment, look down with an eye of favour upon your union!—May it
be followed by her blessing—If you are happy, I shall be so. (_He turns
aside, and wipes tears from his eyes._)
_Alonzo and Cora._ (_Throwing their arms round him_) Our dearest brother!
_Rolla._ Yes, your brother!—and as your brother, will I pass the
remainder of my days with you. In a sequestered spot, on the other side
of the blue mountains, lives a friend of mine, an old Cazique, who,
under the monarch of Cuzco, rules a mild and gentle race, many of whom
served in their sovereign’s army during the last war. At that time the
son of the Cazique, a youth of the fairest promise, was severely wounded,
and fell a prisoner into my hands; but, by my care and attention, he
soon recovered of his wounds, and I restored him, without ransom, to
his father. Since that moment the good man has been unbounded in his
expressions of gratitude—He will receive us with transport; and in that
remote province your love will find a secure asylum. There will I live
with you,—tend and educate your children—be cheerful and happy, since
Cora will be happy;—and at last, amid your brotherly and sisterly tears,
quit this world with calmness and serenity, and ascend with transport to
our Father above.
_Cora._ Where you will be received by my mother with inexpressible
transports of gratitude!
_Alonzo._ Noble, generous man!—Scarcely dare I raise my eyes towards you!
_Juan._ (_Half aside, endeavouring to conceal a tear_) By all the saints
above, if that man be not a Christian, I myself will turn Heathen!
_Rolla._ Let us now consult together what further is to be done!—Flight
is resolved on; but the time and manner of its accomplishment remain to
be considered.
_Diego._ (_Who, during this whole scene has been looking about in
different places, to see that all was safe, now comes forward hastily._)
I hear a rustling noise behind the walls, and sounds which appear like
the whispering of two female voices.
_Rolla._ Hasten, hasten into my cave! (_As they are going Idali and
Amazili appear coming through the breach in the wall, and looking about
with great eagerness and curiosity._)
SCENE IV.—_Enter IDALI and AMAZILI._
_Alonzo._ We are too late, they are here already!
_Idali._ Cora! we were looking for you.
_Cora._ I am coming.
_Rolla._ Tarry a moment!—They have seen and heard us,—for God’s sake! do
not let them escape thus; we must win them over to our interest.
_Juan._ That were a task for a minister of state!—If this be
accomplished, I shall be persuaded that Rolla is capable of conquering
whole provinces, without a stroke of the sword.
_Rolla._ Nothing more easy!—Flatter them, they are women.
_Juan._ Lovely maidens! will you not come near?
_Idali._ (_To Amazili_) I believe he means to address us.
_Amazili._ How he fixes his eyes upon us!—Let us hasten back.
_Idali._ Come, Cora, the High-Priestess sent us to seek for you.
_Alonzo._ Pray come nearer, pious virgins!
_Juan._ And receive the homage due to your charms.
_Idali._ (_To Amazili._) Shall we run away?
_Amazili._ Yes; let us fly. (_Neither of them stir._)
_Cora._ I will go with you directly. But why do you stand there so
bashfully among the trees?—Come here, sisters.
_Idali._ Oh no, not among men.
_Juan._ Men!—Fair maidens! how came you to suppose us men? Three of us
are only Spaniards, and the other will readily withdraw, if you wish to
avoid his presence. (_He makes a sign to Rolla, who immediately retires
into the entrance of his cave._) Are you still afraid, sweet maidens?
_Amazili._ (_To Idali_) What do you think,—shall we venture?
_Idali._ You step first, and I will follow.
_Amazili._ No, you are the oldest.
_Idali._ But you got over the wall first.
_Amazili._ Yes; but it was you that first spied the breach.
_Juan._ The contest may easily be decided. (_He steps between them, and
draws them both after him_) Now you may safely swear that neither took
the first step.
_Amazili._ Ah, Idali! he has laid such fast hold of me!
_Idali._ And of me too!
_Juan._ Be quiet, dear children! no harm shall happen to you. (_He chucks
Idali under the chin_) You are blooming as a rose. (_Turning to Amazili_)
And you, as—as—as—
_Diego._ (_With great gallantry_) As a sun-flower.
_Juan._ (_To Idali_) Your eyes are so soft and blue.
_Diego._ (_To Amazili_) Yours are so very roguish.
_Juan._ You smile so sweetly.
_Diego._ The coral of your lips is so alluring.
_Juan._ This hand is so soft.
_Diego._ This waist is so slender.
_Amazili._ (_To Idali_) Shall we run away?
_Idali._ I think we may as well stay a little.
_Amazili._ But are you certain that you are not men?—We must die if you
deceive us.
_Cora._ Come, sisters, we shall be missed.
_Idali._ And then the High-Priestess will scold.
_Amazili._ We ought to be dressing for the festival.
_Idali._ And there is nobody in the temple—the sacred flame will be
extinguished.
_Diego._ You can easily kindle it again with your bright eyes.
_Cora._ Tell me, Idali, how happened it that the High-Priestess sent you
hither?
_Idali._ We repaired to the temple this morning to take your place, and
not finding you there, we went and reported it to the High-Priestess, who
immediately sent us to look for you in the garden.
_Cora._ Did she give you no further orders?
_Amazili._ Only when we found you, to send you to her.
_Juan._ And should she ask where you met with Cora, what will you answer?
_Idali._ That we found her talking with some Spaniards.
_Juan._ Oh you must not mention us, sweet girls! for the High-Priestess
will be angry at your staying so long, and forbid your meeting us
again—and you would like, I hope, to come here sometimes, and amuse us
with your conversation.
_Diego._ (_To Amazili_) I have fallen so desperately in love with you, my
little rogue, that I hope you will come and meet me again.
_Amazili._ (_To Idali_) What do you say, Idali?
_Idali._ I can’t tell.
_Juan._ Say rather that Cora had fallen asleep behind one of the pillars
in the temple, and in the dusk of morning you did not perceive her.
_Diego._ Or that she was lying under the shade of the great palm-tree, in
the court before the temple.
_Amazili._ Oh charming!
_Idali._ An excellent thought!
_Cora._ Come, let us hasten back.
_Idali._ It is indeed time; let us go.
_Amazili._ Yes, let us go. (_Neither she nor Idali stir_)
_Juan._ Go sweet maiden.
_Diego._ Go you little rogue.
_Idali._ Well, good morning—good morning.
_Amazili._ Farewel—farewel. (_They return over the wall_)
_Cora._ (_Embracing Alonzo_) Farewel, Alonzo!
_Alonzo._ Farewel, my beloved—soon my wife. [_Exit Cora._
SCENE V.—_Re-enter ROLLA._
_Rolla._ Well, how have you managed them?
_Diego._ Most completely—we have wound them round our fingers.
_Juan._ Rolla knows their sex.
_Rolla._ By report chiefly.
_Diego._ I begin to like the adventure extremely—my little creature
seemed disposed to be very loving.
_Juan._ Yet the clouds, so pregnant with thunder, every moment gather
thicker over our heads, and wear a more menacing aspect.
_Alonzo._ (_Taking Rolla’s hand_) Brother!—dearest brother hasten to
extricate us!
_Rolla._ I must consider the matter more calmly.—Oh what new vigour
have my limbs acquired!—I am become quite another man. No longer are all
things indifferent to me; I find something again to interest me in the
world; I can again hope and fear, desire and reject.—Thanks to thee,
Cora, for the mild rain which has thus revived the withered plant. Yes,
we will fly!—Flight may be dangerous, but I shall find it therefore the
more grateful. When our pursuers shall be so close upon us, that their
cries assail our ears, and their arrows fly around us, then shall I be
inspired with new life. When Rolla shall fight for Cora—when he shall
brandish his sword in her defence, then will be, indeed, the moment for
displaying the full extent of his powers. I was called valiant under the
walls of Cuzco, and in the fields of Tumibamba; but then I did not fight
for Cora—did not fight under her eyes!—In that situation I shall become a
god!
_Alonzo._ (_Falling on his neck_) Exalted man!—Deign to give me but one
friendly glance as an assurance that you have pardoned the headstrong boy!
_Rolla._ No, Alonzo, I would not have more merit ascribed to me than I
can justly claim. All that I do is for Cora—nothing for you. Were she
only to drop a withered flower into the water, and express a wish to have
it again, I would instantly plunge into the stream to recover it for her,
even at the hazard of my life. It is for her sake alone that I am your
friend—for _her_ sake that I pardon _you_.
_Alonzo._ Yet permit me at least to cherish a hope, that I may one day be
thought worthy of a place in your friendship, for my own sake.
_Rolla._ You are beloved by Cora, what more can you wish. Oh! if Cora
loved _me_, the gods themselves might seek my friendship in vain!—But we
are merely talking, when we ought to be in action. Come into my cave,
there we shall be secure from listeners; there we can arrange the plan of
our escape, and carouse together unmolested;—for to-day I am resolved to
carouse—yes, even to intoxication!—I am already intoxicated—intoxicated
with joy! From the crown of my head to the sole of my foot, every atom
of my frame is in a commotion of extacy. My strength, my faculties, have
acquired such additional power, that at this moment I seem as if I could
controul the world! (_He takes Alonzo’s hand, and leads him into his
cave._)
_Juan._ (_Following them_) Happy is it for the king of Quito that this
man is in love. Either to love with such unbounded passion, or to
precipitate his sovereign from his throne, seems to be the destination of
such a mind. [_Exit._
_Diego._ Drink, and carouse!—I am your man for that.—It shall quickly be
seen who can empty his glass, to the honour of his girl, most frequently,
and with the greatest expedition. [_Exit._
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
ACT III.
SCENE I.—_The HIGH-PRIESTESS’S Apartment in a Building called the House
of the Stars. Several Cages with Parrots, Turtle-Doves, and other Birds,
are hanging or standing about the Room. The HIGH-PRIESTESS is employed in
feeding the Birds._
HIGH-PRIESTESS.
There, there, little Bibi!—You rogue you would devour every thing!—These
girls are gone a long time, I suppose they are somewhere prattling
together, upon some trifling subject, till they forget how time
goes.—Wait a few minutes, Lulu,—your turn will come in time.—These
tedious creatures put me out of all patience, Heaven knows what they are
doing, they are as stupid as oysters, and as slow as tortoises.—Come
hither, Dudu,—there take this, and give a bit to your wife—oh you little
ingrate! you can bite, can you.—This is too much!—the sun is already
risen above the hills, and they are not returned!—the giddy creatures
rely too much upon the mildness and gentleness of my heart, don’t they
Bibi?—I am too ready to overlook a fault, am I not Lulu?—But locking them
up for a while without food will tame them, and make them more tractable,
won’t it Dudu?