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Title: The virgin of the sun : A play, in five acts
Author: Kotzebue, Augustus von
Language: English
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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?
SCENE II.—_Enter IDALI and AMAZILI in haste and almost breathless. They
both speak together._
_Idali and Amazili._ Here we are already.
_High-Priestess._ Softly, softly, children!—Poor Bibi, are you
frightened?—And so you are absolutely here already?
_Idali._ Oh yes, we have run all the way.
_High-Priestess._ Whence, then, do you come?
_Idali._ From the garden. } (_Both speaking together._)
_Amazili._ From the temple. }
_High-Priestess._ One of you must be guilty of a falsehood.
_Idali._ It is I! } (_Extremely terrified and speaking together._)
_Amazili._ It is I! }
_High-Priestess._ Why how now?—One of you have uttered an untruth again.
What is at the bottom of all this?—Idali, do you remain where you are,
and you, Amazili, come with me. (_She leads her to the other side of the
Stage, and speaks in a half whisper_) Tell me truly, do you come from the
temple?
_Amazili._ Yes.
_High-Priestess._ Now don’t stir. (_She goes to Idali._) Amazili
positively asserts that you come from the garden, I can scarcely believe
her—tell me the real truth.
_Idali._ Oh yes, we come from the garden.
_High-Priestess._ So, so!—Some pretty trick has been playing here, and
I must sift out the truth as well as I can. Idali, don’t stir from your
corner.—And what is the meaning of all this winking, and nodding, and
shaking of the head?—Keep your head still, and your eyes upon the ground.
(_She goes to Amazili_) Have you found Cora?
_Amazili._ Yes.
_High-Priestess._ Where did you find her?
_Amazili._ She had fallen asleep under the large palm-tree that stands
before the porch of the temple.
_High-Priestess._ Remain there, and don’t take your eyes from the ground.
(_She goes to Idali_) Have you found Cora?
_Idali._ Yes.
_High-Priestess._ Where did you find her?
_Idali._ Sitting behind a pillar in the temple, fast asleep. We might
have passed her twenty times without perceiving her.
_High-Priestess._ Admirable!—Now both of you come hither. (_She takes a
hand of each, and looks steadfastly first at one, then at the other_)
You have both uttered falsehoods! You say that Cora was asleep behind
a pillar in the temple, and you that she was under the palm-tree in
the court of the temple. (_Idali and Amazili hem, and cough, and look
terrified and embarrassed_) Which am I to believe?
_Idali._ (_To Amazili_) Silly girl, you have forgotten every thing.
_Amazili._ No, it is you who have forgotten.
_Idali._ No, indeed it is you.
_Amazili._ I am sure that I was bid to say under the shade of the great
palm-tree.
_Idali._ I am sure I was bid to say behind the pillar.
_High-Priestess._ _I was bid!_ and, _I was bid!_—What may all this mean?
(_Idali and Amazili hesitate_) If you will not please to recollect
yourselves now, I shall soon find a way to assist your memories.
_Idali._ (_To Amazili._) This is your fault.
_Amazili._ No, it is your’s.
_Idali._ I certainly did not mention him first.
_High-Priestess._ HIM!—who?—who?——Oh you wicked girls, why you have not
been among men I hope?—The gods defend us from so horrible a misfortune!
_Idali and Amazili._ Oh no!—no indeed!
_High-Priestess._ No?
_Idali._ They were not men.
_Amazili._ Only Spaniards.
_High-Priestess._ Spaniards!—how?—what?—Spaniards!—(_She pauses and
somewhat recovers herself._) Well, well, if they really were only
Spaniards?—And how many might there be?
_Amazili._ (_Growing pleased and communicative_) Three. One for Cora, one
for Idali, and one for me. Mine, had fine brown hair, and eyes just the
same colour.
_Idali._ Mine had black curling hair, and such a sweet countenance.
_Amazili._ But mine was the handsomest.
_Idali._ No, mine was much handsomer.
_High-Priestess._ Well, well, this may be settled another time. Now tell
me how came these Spaniards in the temple?
_Idali._ They were not in the temple.
_High-Priestess._ What, then; had they flown over the high walls into the
garden?
_Idali._ They were not in the garden.
_Amazili._ But they might have come in, as easily as we got out.
_High-Priestess._ You got out of the garden?—and how could that be
managed?
_Idali._ According to your orders we went to look for Cora. We ran hither
and thither, and called her by her name, but to no purpose, till at last
as we were looking about, and listening, we thought we heard voices on
the other side of the wall, just by the arbour, where the little stream
is lost in the wood. We followed the sound, and crept softly through the
thick bushes, till at last we came to a great, great rent in the wall,
from the top, quite to the bottom, and so broad that Amazili and I could
easily go through it, and we had only to step over a few stones to get
quite on the outside.
_High-Priestess._ And you did step over the stones and get on the outside?
_Amazili._ Else we should not have found Cora.
_High-Priestess._ Indeed!—What, she too had stepped over the stones?
_Idali._ Yes, and was talking with the Spaniards. At first we thought
they were men, and were going to run away, but they entreated us very
earnestly to stay; and as we found that they really were only Spaniards,
we thought there could be no harm in complying with them.
_Amazili._ And they wanted us to promise that we would come again.
_High-Priestess._ Which promise you made?
_Idali._ We only half promised it.
_High-Priestess._ But you intend meeting them again?
_Amazili._ What do you say, Idali?
_Idali._ Perhaps so, if you are inclined, Amazili.
_High-Priestess._ Well, well, at present go and send Cora hither—then
dress yourselves, prepare the bread of sacrifice, and dispose it in the
baskets.
_Idali._ (_Taking Amazili’s hand_) Come, sister, I have such an
inclination to dance.
_Amazili._ And I could laugh and sing. (_Exeunt both._)
_High-Priestess._ (_Alone_) Dance, laugh, and sing, if you please,
your simplicity protects you from my anger;—but you shall not find the
breach in the wall again, that I promise you. As for this, Cora—can the
shameless creature have been carrying on an intercourse with men?—Chaste
Oello, look down with compassion upon thy servants, and avert from us
this last of all calamities!—I have long observed, that she has hung
down her head—that her ruddy cheeks have lost their colour—that she
has appeared abstracted, full of thought, and seemed scarcely to know
with whom she was speaking, or to hear when she was addressed.—All this
indicates no good, does it Dudu?
SCENE III.—_Enter CORA._
_High-Priestess._ Shameless girl, do you dare to appear in my presence?
_Cora._ I come from the service of our god.
_High-Priestess._ Be thankful that his thunder is not entrusted to my
hands.
_Cora._ What do you mean?—how have I incurred your anger?
_High-Priestess._ Do you suppose that I am unacquainted with your
licentious conduct?—that I am ignorant how Cora disgraces these sacred
walls, and exposes her own, and her sister’s honour to censure.
_Cora._ I have done nothing wrong.
_High-Priestess._ Look stedfastly in my face,—you have been in the
company of men?
_Cora._ I have not offended the gods.
_High-Priestess._ Cora, I command you to look at me!—you are acquainted
with a Spaniard?
_Cora._ I am innocent.
_High-Priestess._ This very morning you have seen and conversed with him?
_Cora._ The sun was witness of all my actions.
_High-Priestess._ Confess your crime.
_Cora._ I have not been guilty of a crime.
_High-Priestess._ Oh blinded, misguided creature!
_Cora._ The path which I pursue, is that of nature and innocence.
_High-Priestess._ Obstinate girl!—But remember that you are a priestess
of the sun, and tremble at the torments to which the severity of our laws
destines those by whom they are transgressed.
_Cora._ I shall suffer undeservedly.
_High-Priestess._ You will not confide in me?
_Cora._ No.
_High-Priestess._ Nor confess your fault?
_Cora._ No.
_High-Priestess._ I admonish you for the last time, Cora!—But a few
moments remain, in which confession is left to your choice—make your use
of them. I know all—I am instructed in every particular. Soon shall I
assemble the Virgins in the Temple, and convene thither the priests,
who shall judge you, and by whom you will be judged with severity. Death
will then be your lot, and worse than death, shame. At present we are
alone,—do you persist in silence?
_Cora._ Yes.
_High-Priestess._ (_Changing her tone_) Enough, I cannot believe Cora to
be really so guilty. I knew your mother, when you were yet a child, we
had frequent intercourse with each other.—“_My Cora_,” she would often
say, “_has a gentle and complying spirit, for which quality I love her
most tenderly._”
_Cora._ Oh, she was always an affectionate mother!—All the happiness of
my life was buried in her grave.
_High-Priestess._ You have doubtless a sacred reverence for her memory?
_Cora._ Can that be made a question!—Alas how many are the tears which I
have shed for her in secret.
_High-Priestess._ If such your affection, you surely would not convict
her of a falsehood, as she rests in her grave. Must I be compelled to
think that it was only the blindness of maternal love which could ascribe
to you this gentle and complying disposition?—or will you convince me
that she was right in her judgment?
_Cora._ She was right!
_High-Priestess._ Then prove it to me. The mother’s friend has an
undoubted claim upon the daughter’s confidence.
_Cora._ Ah me!—
_High-Priestess._ The last words that were uttered by her pallid
lips, still vibrate in my ears. “_My child_” she said, “_is young and
inexperienced, should she ever want maternal counsel, be it received from
you!_”—She spoke,—with her cold hands pressed mine, and expired. (_Cora
betrays symptoms of irresolution, and appears combating with herself.
The High-Priestess continues after a pause_) And your aged and reverend
father, when he gave you into my hands, kissed you and said, “_Take her,
she is a good girl, and will not occasion you any trouble._”—Afterwards,
when he was about to return home, when he gave you his last blessing,
while a tear trembled on his grey eye-lashes, what were his parting
words—“_Cora, honour her as a mother_.”
_Cora._ (_Falling at her feet_) I love!
_High-Priestess._ (_Starting with horror_) You love?
_Cora._ I can no longer remain a priestess of the Sun!
_High-Priestess._ No longer remain a priestess of the Sun?
_Cora._ But will marry.
_High-Priestess._ Marry!—_you_ marry!
_Cora._ The gods have given me a feeling heart.
_High-Priestess._ To be devoted to their service.
_Cora._ I was born to become a wife.
_High-Priestess._ The Sun is your husband.
_Cora._ To him I can offer only prayers and thanks; but our heart and our
love can be bestowed only on a husband.
_High-Priestess._ Cora, recollect yourself, you are in a dream.
_Cora._ I have now laid open my whole soul. If the affection you bore the
mother be indeed transferred to the daughter, you will be my friend.
_High-Priestess._ And the person you love is a Spaniard?
_Cora._ Yes.
_High-Priestess._ His name?—
_Cora._ Is Alonzo.
_High-Priestess._ When, and where, did you first see him?
_Cora._ In the Temple, by the side of our king.
_High-Priestess._ And what miracle brought you to a nearer intercourse?
_Cora._ The natural miracle which threatened the Temple with destruction,
and rent asunder the walls by which it is enclosed.
_High-Priestess._ Well, I must not know more, and let what has passed be
buried in eternal oblivion. To shew you in how high regard I hold your
mother’s memory, I will preserve your secret inviolate, and you must by
severe repentance endeavour to avert the wrath of the gods. Erase the
image of Alonzo from your heart, forget his smooth and deceitful tongue,
think of him no more, but attend to your employments and devotions.
_Cora._ You certainly have never loved?
_High-Priestess._ No, thanks be to the gods!
_Cora._ Had you ever felt one half of what I now feel, you would have
known that what you enjoin is no longer in my power. Erase the image of
Alonzo from my heart!—think of him no more!—When I awake in the morning,
he is always the first object of my thoughts, and at night when I lie
down he is still the last.—When I kneel in the temple, his name intrudes
itself into my prayers,—when I look at the image of the sun, I see only
him,—and when I would turn my thoughts to my God, I cannot detach them
from Alonzo.
_High-Priestess._ These are heavy offences, Cora!—You must fast, pray,
humble yourself.
_Cora._ I can pray for nothing but that the gods may grant me Alonzo.
Love is so soft, so exquisite a sensation that it never can be sinful.
_High-Priestess._ Sinful!—It is to be held in the utmost abhorrence.
_Cora._ Are _you_ then so entirely free from all emotions of this passion.
_High-Priestess._ I am wholly devoted to the gods.
_Cora._ In this assertion you either deceive me or yourself. Do I not
often see how tenderly you nurse and feed these birds,—taking, now this,
now that, out of the cage, setting it on your finger, stroaking it,
kissing it, talking to it?
_High-Priestess._ Poor little creatures, to love them is such an innocent
affection.
_Cora._ And my love is equally innocent.
_High-Priestess._ Love for a man!
_Cora._ The feeling is still the same!—the heart must love!—a turtle-dove
engages your affections,—am I to blame if mine are fixed on other objects.
_High-Priestess._ Do not deceive yourself, Cora. Is it a matter of
indifference, whether you employ the sacred flame only in consuming the
sacrifice, or use it to set the temple on fire?
_Cora._ I do not comprehend your simile, my heart speaks in a plain and
simple manner. I always thought that love must be pleasing to the gods,
I have made the experiment, and the event has justified my opinion. The
gods cannot be offended with me; for say, good mother, when Cora serves
in the temple, does a sudden gloom overcast the heavens, does the sun
conceal himself behind a cloud?
_High-Priestess._ No, your guilty course has been pursued only in
darkness—the rays of the great light have never witnessed your crimes.
_Cora._ Yes, they also have witnessed my love. On this very morning I
solemnly embraced Alonzo in the presence of the sun himself.
_High-Priestess._ (_With a start of horror_) Embraced Alonzo?
_Cora._ Pressed my lips, my breast, to his.
_High-Priestess._ Your lips—your breast!
_Cora._ And our god smiled upon us.
_High-Priestess._ No more, unhappy girl!—Go and conceal yourself before
I repent that I made you a promise of secrecy. It is not _your_ honour
alone that is concerned in this affair, it is the honour of our whole
order.—Go, and settle as well as you can with your heart, whether it may
find the extinction of your passion pleasing, or displeasing; only of
this be allured, that you must see Alonzo no more.
_Cora._ (_Resolutely_) I will no longer remain a priestess of the sun.
_High-Priestess._ Vain resolution!—Death only can release you from his
service.
_Cora._ But you say that I am criminal.—Well, then, I am no longer worthy
to serve the sun. If however I devote to him in my place, an innocent
creature, pure and free from sin, will not this be pleasing to him, shall
I not then have discharged my duty, and be released from my oath.
_High-Priestess._ I do not understand you.
_Cora._ The innocent creature which I bear within me shall be devoted
to the sun. (_The High-Priestess starts back, attempts to speak, but is
unable; she totters and is obliged to support herself against a chair_)
What is the matter?—Have you misunderstood me?—The innocent creature
which I bear within me shall be devoted to the sun.
_High-Priestess._ (_Running about in a phrenzy_) Idali!—Amazili!—Runa!—Ye
daughters of the Sun, hasten hither!—Ah!—I cannot support myself!—(_She
sinks down upon a chair_)
SCENE IV.—_Enter IDALI, AMAZILI, and several other VIRGINS OF THE SUN
from different parts._
_All talking together._ What is the matter?—What has happened?—She is in
a swoon!—Cora, tell us what is the matter?—What has thrown her into this
agitation?
_Cora._ (_With great composure_) I do not know.
_High-Priestess._ (_Recovering_) Hasten, ye daughters of the Sun, shut
up this sacrilegious creature in our darkest dungeon, that the rays of
our god may not be profaned by falling upon a being so contaminated. You
Runa, and Odila must answer with your lives for the prisoner, till the
moment when she shall be brought forth to judgment. The rest of you veil
yourselves in the deepest mourning, and follow me to the royal palace.
The Sun is incensed against us!—the wrath of the gods has lighted upon
us!—heavy sins are to be answered!—curses must fall upon Peru, and the
avenging arm of the powers above will pursue us into the most secret
places. Hasten!—extinguish the sacred light in the temple, tear down
the wreaths of flowers, no festival can now be solemnized, this day is
changed into a day of mourning!—Let us repair to the foot of the throne
to demand vengeance, dreadful vengeance against the criminal! (_She
rushes out, a confused noise and murmuring is made by all present who all
at once question Cora_)
_All._ What have you done, Cora?—Tell us?—Tell us?—
_Cora._ I have done nothing wrong. (_Exit with composure._)
_All._ (_As they follow her_) Look well to her!—Take care that she does
not escape!—Your lives must answer it! Away—away! (_Exeunt._)
SCENE V.—_A large hall in the king’s palace, with guards ranged on each
side. Enter the KING’S CHAMBERLAIN._
_Chamberlain._ (_To the Guards_) Throw open the doors!—Let all enter, who
are come hither on this solemn day of festival to salute their sovereign
the first-born of the sun, and conduct him to the temple. As soon as the
king shall be arrayed in his Inca’s robes, he will appear himself.
SCENE VI.—_The doors are thrown open. Enter the HIGH-PRIEST, XAIRA,
DON ALONZO, DON JUAN, with a long train of priests and courtiers. Many
compliments are exchanged on all sides; they walk about, and converse
in different groupes. Several of the courtiers assemble round the
chamberlain._
_Xaira._ (_To the High-Priest._) Why do these strangers come hither?
_High-Priest._ Probably to attend the king when he goes to the sacrifice.
_Xaira._ Oh impious, to permit the presence of strangers at the
celebration of our solemnities, perhaps only to make them the subject of
their mockery.
_High-Priest._ Mockery!—No, that were to shew themselves fools, and I can
rely upon that brave youth for not being guilty of any folly. Have you
forgotten that our king is indebted to him for his life—that he has made
the people of Quito the terror of their enemies since he taught them the
mode of fighting practised in his country—that he has also instructed us
in many useful arts of peace?
_Xaira._ Mere deception. He has only increased our wants.—We were much
happier without him.
_High-Priest._ Discontented man!
_Chamberlain._ Gentlemen, do you know any news for the entertainment of
the king?
_One of the Company._ None, excepting that old Telasco arrived here
yesterday evening from his province.
_Another._ And has brought his son Zorai to present him to the Inca.
_Chamberlain._ How long is it since the venerable old man last visited
the capital?
_First Speaker._ Two years. He has not been here since he brought his
daughter Cora to be consecrated as a Priestess.
_Alonzo._ (_Starting, and speaking aside to Juan_) Velasquez, do you hear
that Cora’s father is in Quito?
_Juan._ Yes, I hear it.
_Alonzo._ And her brother?
_Juan._ I hear that too.
_Alonzo._ This alone was wanting to make my misery complete!—How will
their unsuspecting features harrow my conscience. (_Martial instruments
are heard behind the scene, playing a march._)
_All._ The king approaches.
SCENE VII.—_Enter ATALIBA with his train. All present prostrate
themselves before the king._
_Ataliba._ (_Addressing the High-Priest._) I rejoice, good old man, to
see how much your strength bears up beneath the weight of years.
_High-Priest._ Under such a sovereign one cannot grow old.
_Ataliba._ For what I am. I have solely to thank you; that I can
never forget. (_To Xaira._) It is a charming day, Xaira, the gods are
favourably disposed towards us.
_Xaira._ (_With hesitation_) Yet—unfavourable omens, have disquieted my
bosom.
_Ataliba._ How so?
_Xaira._ The lamb which I was about to sacrifice at midnight, struggled
beneath the sacred knife.
_Ataliba._ Most natural.
_Xaira._ And the lungs, which, when they tremble and quiver after they
are torn out, promise happiness for the ensuing year, lay still and
motionless.
_Ataliba._ I thank you for the information, but I desire that it may not
be spread abroad among the people. (_To the High-Priest, smiling and
speaking in a half whisper._) We have tygers enough to annoy us, why
should we tremble before a lamb?
_High-Priest._ To the people such a lamb is more formidable than a tyger;
and the king owes respect to popular faith.
_Ataliba._ True, good old man, for it was upon that foundation that
Manco-Capac erected his dominion.—(_Turning to Alonzo._) I rejoice, my
beloved friend, to see that you are still contented to live among us.
_Alonzo._ How can I be otherwise, royal Inca, while you continue to
entertain me thus hospitably?
_Ataliba._ Which I shall never cease to do, as long as I behold you so
worthy of my love. (_To Velasquez_) Well, Don Juan, do the troops that
you are training make a rapid progress?
_Juan._ They are brave fellows;—they have arms of iron, and hearts of wax.
_Ataliba._ Oh that I could be certain of enjoying eternal peace!—then
should those nervous arms be devoted to agriculture alone. (_Turning to
the High-Priest._) Is it not time that we go to the Temple?
_High-Priest._ We are all ready.
_Chamberlain._ (_Approaching the king._) Sire, the old Telasco, governor
of the castle of Antis, is arrived, and wishes to pay his homage to the
first-born of the Sun.
_Ataliba._ My worthy Telasco!—Let him come in.
_Alonzo._ (_Aside to Velasquez_) Oh Juan!—my heart! my heart!
_Juan._ Do not betray yourself.
SCENE VIII.—_On a signal from the Chamberlain, the Guards open the door,
when TELASCO, and ZORAI, enter._
_Ataliba._ (_Meeting and embracing Telasco._) Welcome venerable old
man!—What brings you from your enviable solitude into the bustle of a
court? (_Calling to the Attendants._) Let a seat be brought.
_Telasco._ Suffer me to stand, good Inca. It is the posture which best
becomes a petitioner.
_Ataliba._ Has Telasco any request to make?—Speak then.
_Telasco._ Two years ago I brought my daughter here, to devote her,
according to her own desire, to the service of the gods. I cannot deny
that the parting with her was a severe trial to me, for I had long been
accustomed to enjoy her innocent society, and ever since the death of my
wife, when I fell into ill health, had been nursed and attended by her
with the tenderest care and affection. It may be supposed, therefore,
that we did not separate without many tears on both sides. My son, at
that time a youth, was then the only treasure remaining—he is now grown
up to manhood, and as his sister is devoted to the gods, I would devote
him to the service of his country. To you, great king, I present him—be
you his father when I am gone!—I do not doubt that he will conduct
himself worthily—I have no fear he will ever forget that the blood of the
Incas flows through his veins. Accept my present with favour!—I bring you
the greatest treasure that I possess upon earth!—I bring you my all!
_Ataliba._ He shall be my own son!—Come hither, young man. (_Zorai kneels
to him_) Inherit thy father’s virtues, and thou shalt be heir to thy
father’s honours.
_Zorai._ Pardon my silence. Time only can decide whether or no I shall
deserve such favour.
_Ataliba._ Rise!—Alonzo, I consign him to thy care. Let him be enrolled
among my life-guards, and learn of thee to fight and conquer.
_Alonzo._ (_Embarrassed_) Oh king! I will endeavour to gain his
confidence.
_Telasco._ (_To Alonzo_) Art thou the man in whom the people bless
the saviour of their Inca? Permit these old arms to embrace thee!
(_He embraces Alonzo_) Thy fame has reached to the remotest parts of
this nation—thy name is repeated with transport by our children’s
children!—Happy is my son in being placed under such a leader.
_Alonzo._ (_Extremely embarrassed and affected_) He shall be my brother.
_Telasco._ (_To Ataliba_) To your goodness am I indebted that the last
moments of my life are made thus happy. Accept my grateful thanks!
(_A solemn march is heard playing at a distance_)
_Ataliba._ Now, my children, let us repair to the temple!—Come, Telasco,
go on my right hand, and should you find the walk fatiguing, let me be
your support!—Ah, how often have you supported me!
_Telasco._ Blessings on you worthy, Inca!
(_As they are preparing to go, the music, which had continued gradually
to advance nearer, suddenly stops_)
_Ataliba._ (_Starting_) What means this?
_Chamberlain._ (_Rushing in trembling, and almost breathless_) Sire, the
High-Priestess of the Sun approaches, with a long train of priestesses
all clad in mourning, and uttering dreadful lamentations. Their cries
pierce the very soul; while the people gather round them trembling, and
observing them with silent awe and terror. (_The whole assembly appear in
the utmost confusion; the king alone preserves his composure_)
_Ataliba._ Conduct them hither.
_Alonzo._ (_Aside to Juan_) Oh God, Velasquez, what can this portend!
_Juan._ You tremble, and look pale;—for shame; rouse yourself; shew
yourself a man!
SCENE IX.—_Enter the HIGH-PRIESTESS, followed by a long train of VIRGINS
OF THE SUN. They are clad in thick mourning veils, and march in slow and
solemn procession towards the King. An awful silence is observed by the
whole company, who wait the sequel of the scene with anxious expectation._
_High-Priestess._ (_Throwing back her veil_) Oh woe! woe! woe!
_Ataliba._ On whom dost thou imprecate woe?
_High-Priestess._ The temple is polluted!—the altars are profaned!—the
holy lamp is extinguished!—Oh woe! woe! woe!
_Ataliba._ Name the criminal, that the gods may be avenged for these
heavy offences.
_High-Priestess._ First born of the Sun, let the stringed instruments,
let the festal song, cease!—Let the temple be divested of its ornaments,
and the garlands be taken from the beasts prepared for sacrifice;
to-day can no festival be solemnized!—Lamentations must be our only
songs, mourning veils our only ornaments!—A serpent has with his poison
polluted the house of the Stars!—A Virgin of the Sun has broken her vow
of chastity! (_She pauses a few moments—the whole assembly shudder—Alonzo
appears like one thunderstruck—at length the High-Priestess proceeds_)
Woe! woe! upon CORA!!!
(_At the mention of this name the KING utters a cry of agony.—TELASCO,
trembling, supports himself upon his staff—ZORAI, full of confusion,
conceals his face in his garments—ALONZO is sinking to the ground, but is
supported by Velasquez—A confused murmur is heard among the rest of the
assembly._)
_High-Priestess._ Vengeance! vengeance! upon the murderer of virtue!—upon
the wretch who could abuse the hospitality of a peaceable people, and
violate the sacred asylum of the Wives of the Sun!—Woe! woe! upon
ALONZO!!!
(_ATALIBA utters a more piercing cry than before—ALONZO stands
with downcast eyes, while a death-like paleness overspreads his
countenance—The attention of the whole company is immediately turned
towards him—TELASCO looks around with a vacant stare._)
_High-Priestess._ First born of the Sun!—image of our God upon earth!—I
stand here, and require from thee an awful atonement for this sacrilege!
_Ataliba._ (_With deep gloom_) Which thou shalt have.
_High-Priestess._ Be death and shame the lot of the seducer!—Be death and
shame the lot of Cora, and her whole family!
(_TELASCO starts, murmurs to himself the word_ “shame,” _and falls to the
ground—ZORAI throws himself by him._)
_Ataliba._ All-merciful God! (_Calls to the attendants_) Come to
the assistance of this poor old man. (_Telasco is raised up—the
High-Priestess is about to proceed, but the King makes her a sign to be
silent, and addresses her and her train_) Enough, ye pious women! I know
my duty, and will perform whatever may be required by the ordinances of
Manco-Capac. To question you, Alonzo, concerning the truth of the charge
alledged against you, were needless;—thy death-like countenance, thy
downcast eyes confess the fault too plainly, and thou art lost beyond
the possibility of redemption.—Hadst thou excited my provinces to rebel
against me; had thy sword deprived me of half my kingdom, I would have
given thee my hand, and said, thou didst once save my life, and all
that I have I share willingly with thee!—But now, the king alone must
speak; the friend must remain silent.—Alonzo, thou art lost beyond the
possibility of redemption!—Unhappy youth, what hast thou done!
_Alonzo._ Let me die!—Death is no more than I justly deserve, for having
repaid with such base ingratitude the unmixed happiness I have enjoyed in
this kingdom. Yes, let me die, oh king! (_Falling upon his knees_) But
save, save, the hapless Cora!—she is innocent!—her seducer only is guilty!
_Ataliba._ Rise!—My power is confined within certain limits: and in no
respect is it so rigidly circumscribed as in all matters which concern
religion. (_He stands for some moments wrapt in mournful musing, and
apparently struggling with himself, then says, with averted countenance_)
Guards, put him in irons! (_To the High-Priest_) Assemble your priests in
the court of the temple, to judge the culprits according to our holy laws
and customs; and ere the sun sink into the ocean, let me be summoned to
confirm the sentence. (_Going_)
_Xaira._ Sire, it is necessary the father and brother should also be put
in irons.
_Ataliba._ Poor old man!—he will not run away from you!
_Xaira._ The brother at least.
_Ataliba._ Well, if it must be!—(_Zorai is put in irons_) Oh what misery
is it to be king when one is compelled to punish! (_Exit_)
_High-Priestess._ (_To the High-Priest_) Hasten, thou first servant of
our gods, hasten to avenge your masters, that this very evening the
last rays of the declining sun may beam upon the grave which encloses
Cora—Go, ye daughters of the sun, bow yourselves down in prayer, wash the
altar with your tears, and conceal your blushing cheeks beneath sevenfold
veils, till the disgrace with which our Order has been branded by that
profligate stranger, be wholly effaced!—(_Exit, followed by the Virgins
of the Sun_)
_High-Priest._ (_Aside_) Poor Rolla! (_Exit_)
_Xaira._ (_To some of the other Priests_) Go out at the northern
gate, and prepare a grave in that waste and desolate spot which is
distinguished by numerous heaps of stones.
_Telasco._ And let me be the first laid within it! [_Exeunt Priests._
_Xaira._ (_To the Guards_) Lead the prisoners away.
_Alonzo._ (_To Juan_) Farewel, Velasquez!—When you return to our native
country, bear my tenderest greetings to my poor mother; but be careful to
conceal from her my unhappy story.
_Telasco._ (_As he is seized by the guards_) Whither would you drag me,
old as I am?
_Alonzo._ Oh, Velasquez, this old man!—this unfortunate old man!
_Telasco._ Give me my daughter!—restore me my daughter!
_Xaira._ Away with them all.
_Telasco._ (_As he is led off_) Give me my daughter!—restore me my
daughter! [_Exeunt omnes._
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.—_A barren Spot on the Outside of the Walls of the Temple.
Four PRIESTS are employed in making a Grave;—several other PRIESTS are
scattered about. While they sing the first Chorus, ROLLA appears upon the
Stage._
(_Solemn Chorus of Priests._)[1]
Haste!—dig with eager hands a grave,
Our guiltless heads from death to save!
A grave, to turn from us aside
The darts destruction’s daemons guide!
For hark!—both justice and compassion cry,
“To save the guiltless, let the guilty die!”
_Rolla._ (_Starting_) What do I hear!—say,—what is the meaning of this?
(_Chorus of Priests._)
Haste!—dig a grave t’avenge the gods!
A grave, that in death’s dark abodes,
Lost Cora’s crime, of deepest die,
May soon for ever buried lie!
_Rolla._ Cora’s crime!—speak!—answer me!
_A Priest._ Away from this spot!—It is cursed for Cora’s sake.
_Rolla._ Curses upon thyself, thou damned babbler!—But say!—why these
solemn preparations?—for what miserable victim is this grave designed?
(_Chorus of Priests._)
Brethren!—the grave’s prepar’d!—away!
Bring Cora hither!—hence!—obey!—
That perishing in earth’s dark womb
Which must her living form entomb,
She a sin-offering may become, for sin;
And by her sufferings heaven’s compassion win.
_Rolla._ Ye powers above!—what sounds are these!—they fall like a
mountain upon my head! (_The priests collect their tools, and prepare
to depart_) Speak, ye flinty-hearted men!—speak!—speak!—it is Rolla who
entreats you!—Rolla entreats!—One who is not accustomed to solicitation
entreats you to tell him the meaning of what he sees!—What has happened
here?—for what purpose is this grave prepared?—and why do you sing that
ill-omened song? (_The priests are going, Rolla stamps on the ground_)
Stop, and speak, or dread the violence you will provoke! (_Exeunt the
Priests, Rolla is following them_)
[1] The translator acknowledges her obligation to a friend, for the
verification of these chorusses.
SCENE II.—_DIEGO enters in great haste, and extreme agitation. ROLLA
stops on seeing him._
_Rolla._ Ha!—Surely I recollect you, my friend!—Were not you also present
at my late interview with Alonzo?—Tell me then what has happened since he
departed hence?—speak!—instantly speak?
_Diego._ See, I tremble in every limb. My poor unfortunate master!—Ah, he
languishes in chains!
_Rolla._ And Cora?—Cora?
_Diego._ Probably shares his fate.—Don Juan must know more, for he was
present during the whole scene.
_Rolla._ Don Juan!—I thank you for mentioning his name!—Where is
he?—hasten, hasten to seek him!—Conduct him hither instantly!—I will wait
here to receive him.—Begone, I entreat you!—the moments are precious!
(_Exit Diego_) My agony is intolerable!—I am impatient to know all, yet
tremble at the thoughts of what I may hear!—I can scarcely breathe for
anguish!—Uncle, uncle, where are you? (_Going_)
SCENE III.—_Enter the HIGH-PRIEST._
_Rolla._ Ha!—here he is!—Oh tell me instantly, whether this be true or
false?
_High-Priest._ Your words are scarcely intelligible, yet the wildness of
your looks explains them but too clearly.—Alas! it is true!
_Rolla._ (_Pointing to the grave_) And here?
_High-Priest._ (_With a deep sigh, and turning away his face_) Yes!
_Rolla._ Tremble then, oh earth, and let thy whole surface become
desolate!—Groan! groan! ye hills!—Thou fire burst forth in the valleys
and consume the fruits of the soil, that the fertile spots may no longer
be crowned with verdure, but the whole earth appear as one vast scene
of conflagration!—Rise ye terrors of nature, ye storms and whirlwinds,
that I may breathe more freely amid your mighty conflicts,—that the voice
of my agony may contend with your roarings!—that my arm may slay more
rapidly than the lightning itself!
_High-Priest._ Rolla, for the sake of all the gods!—
_Rolla._ No, she shall not die!—sooner shall the sacred lamp be
extinguished, and the temple itself become a desert!—Believe me,
Uncle, she shall not die!—you may tell me that the grave is already
prepared—that her fate is inevitable!—Yes, it is prepared, but Rolla
still lives!
_High-Priest._ Your words are of dreadful import!
_Rolla._ Sooner shall it be Rolla’s grave!—sooner shall he be stretched
upon the earth, senseless, motionless, a breathless corpse!—Yet let him
not even then be trusted hastily!—examine carefully that every spark of
life be really extinguished, since if only one be left smothering, it
will assuredly burst forth into a flame, and consume the persecutors of
Cora. Oh, while this hand can wield a sword, let no one venture to touch
Cora!—the blood of him who should harbour so sacrilegious a thought,
shall answer for his rashness!—the priests—the king—even thou thyself.
_High-Priest._ Madman rage on!—dare in thy phrenzy to raise thy arm
against the gods!—
_Rolla._ Against the gods!—No, the gods are on my side, their lightning
is in my hand, their shield before my breast!—Short-sighted mortals!—What
are the brightest, warmest rays of our god but pure effusions of that
benign love which alike unfolds the rose-bud, and expands the human
heart. Woe then to the miserable wretch who remains insensible to its
genial influence, and pining in a cold damp corner of the earth lives
a life scarcely superior to the senseless oyster. Cora even excels
her former self, since she has yielded to this impulse;—and how could
she fail to do so, for the gods would never leave their master-piece
unfinished; and what is the heart without love, but a lamp without light,
an eye without the power of vision?——These are things, Uncle, which
however _you_ cannot understand.
_High-Priest._ You do me injustice, Rolla.
_Rolla._ Injustice!—You cannot have been yourself susceptible of the
exquisite, the heavenly, feeling of love, when it is your lips that have
condemned Cora.
_High-Priest._ You are right now—it was my _lips_ condemned her.
_Rolla._ But not your heart?
_High-Priest._ Not my heart.
_Rolla._ Come then to my arms;—I rejoice to find that you are a man!—But
why stand here so cold and inactive?—fly and save her!
_High-Priest._ That is impossible.
_Rolla._ Courage, dear Uncle, courage!—Your grey hairs, your mild
eloquence, my sword, and the arm of God!—all these united—Yes, yes, we
will save her!
_High-Priest._ Alas, young man, zeal blinds you to the steep rocks which
lie in our way.
_Rolla._ I feel sufficient energy to defy them.
_High-Priest._ Ancient popular opinions—the customs of whole centuries——
_Rolla._ Nature is older than these.
_High-Priest._ But not more powerful.
_Rolla._ Mere evasion.
_High-Priest._ Could I, by sacrificing the few short years remaining
of my life, redeem the hapless Cora’s, I would instantly with firm and
resolute step descend into this vault.
_Rolla._ Babble.
_High-Priest._ Are these tears also babble?
_Rolla._ Hypocrisy!—do not talk, but act.
_High-Priest._ What can I do?
_Rolla._ (_Raising his hands towards Heaven_) Oh Father above, do thou
then interpose to save her!—suffer not the most perfect work upon which
thy rays ever shone to be destroyed, but, to the confusion of these
unfeeling priests, save her!—Oh, how could I expect to find a heart of
sensibility within such a shell!—the heart that beats beneath those
garments never can have any feeling, except for vain and senseless
customs; it dissembles towards its god, and is blood-thirsty as a tyger’s.
_High-Priest._ Oh Rolla, you know not how much you wrong me!
_Rolla._ Carefully instructed by your fathers and mothers to pluck every
flower which might lie in your way,—to wring the neck of every bird which
might fall into your hands,—from your infancy each avenue in your hearts
has been closed against humanity, while he, who could with the greatest
composure perform such ignoble actions, was considered as bearing in his
bosom the germs of the future High-Priest.
_High-Priest._ This from you, Rolla?
_Rolla._ Beloved and pampered self is the sole object of your
attention,—beauty is to you as a blunted arrow—and love appears an absurd
romance. A shake of the head is the utmost tribute you can pay to the
sufferings of a brother, nor does the tear of sympathy ever _start_ into
your eyes, it only quivers there by compulsion. No emotion of concern
would intrude into your breast were the world itself to be laid in
ruins, provided _you_ were spared and could continue to live in case and
affluence.
_High-Priest._ Rolla, you torture me—you break my heart!—I must speak out
and shame you.
_Rolla._ Yes, speak!—that also you can do sometimes—not always.
_High-Priest._ Learn to be silent when an old man would be heard, and
if you cannot respect my age, at least respect my misfortunes. Is the
station in which I am placed that of my own free choice?—are not the
nearest relations of the king priests by birth?—am I to blame because the
caprice of chance destined me to the altar, to immolate turtle-doves,
to draw omens from the entrails of lambs, and to interpret dreams?—Oh
had you known me in my youth, you would have seen me full of ardour and
energy,—more eager to brandish the sword, than to wield the knife of
sacrifice!—Believe me, there are but few persons in the world placed in
the situations for which they are most suited, least of all those who
hold an office by descent.
_Rolla._ (_In a cold and constrained manner_) If I have said too much,
pardon me. Overpowered as I am with rage and anguish, scarcely do I know
myself.
_High-Priest._ Had it been possible to throw aside this dignity with
which I am reproached, as one casts off a tight and uneasy garment, I
had spurned it a thousand, and a thousand times; for it has occasioned
me forty years of the bitterest suffering. Rolla, Rolla, I cannot endure
the chilling frown upon thy countenance; the eye of contempt with which
I am regarded!—Thou the only being on whom my heart still hangs!—thou
only being whose affections I still wish to attract!—listen, Rolla, to my
tragic story—a story nearly resembling thine own!—My sorrows, like thine,
proceeded from the heart—my sorrows arose from an ill-fated passion—I too
loved a Virgin of the Sun!
_Rolla._ How!!!
_High-Priest._ By virtue of my office as High-Priest, I had at all times
free ingress and egress, to and from the house of the Stars. Daily did my
eyes rove about among the expanding blossoms that were confined within
its walls, and I was pleased with contemplating their varied charms,
though this long remained a mere amusement to the eye, while the heart
took no share in the glances that I cast around me. At length Zulma
came, a meteor among meteors; she shone in the midst of her sisters a
brilliant image of the god she served. I saw her often, and every time I
beheld her, only wished more ardently to see her again—yet I continued
insensible to the danger of my situation, till I was one day accidentally
led into a strict examination of my heart, when I was terrified at the
result. My conduct with regard to Zulma was instantly changed; I was no
longer unrestrained in her presence; I scarcely dared to raise my eyes
to hers; and my whole frame trembled as I approached her. I was soon
convinced that her heart beat responsively to mine, since she immediately
began to avoid me, as if too sensible of my meaning. I saw that the
effort was painful, that love and duty were at war in her bosom, and,
desirous to render the conflict less severe, I determined equally to
avoid her. Many months lingered on in this miserable situation, while
both endured the keenest torments of hopeless passion: our cheeks
grew pale; our eyes became hollow and sunk; despair reigned in every
feature; till at length Zulma’s weaker frame could no longer support such
complicated sorrow—she was attacked with a violent illness, and lay at
the point of death; while I——Rolla, you seem affected!
_Rolla._ (_Holding out his hand to him with averted eyes_) Oh, how unjust
have I been!—I am ashamed!—pardon me!—and—proceed, Uncle—tell me she died!
_High-Priest._ I hastened to her assistance—day and night I climbed the
most rugged rocks, or ranged the forests, to seek medicinal herbs for her
restoration. I summoned together the oldest priests in the kingdom who
were celebrated for their skill in the medical science; and at length, by
our unwearied exertions, the lovely Zulma was saved. She sunk in my arms
overpowered with gratitude—not a word was spoken by either, we explained
ourselves only by the expressive language of tears—(_He appears extremely
affected_) Oh, Rolla! I am now grown old, yet see how the recollection of
this scene still shakes me.
_Rolla._ (_Clasping his hand eagerly_) Beloved, excellent Uncle!
_High-Priest._ Stop till you hear the conclusion of my story!—The
long-smothered flame of love now burst out with uncontroulable
wildness—the voices of reason and duty were listened to no longer—passion
had gained the sole ascendency in our bosoms—and——(_Rolla starts, and
fixes his eyes on the High-Priest, who spreads out his arms towards him_)
Rolla, you are my son!
_Rolla._ (_With the most eager emotion_) Old man, you mock me!
_High-Priest._ You are indeed my son.
_Rolla._ (_Throws himself into the High-Priest’s arms; after a few
moments, he breaks from him again hastily_) And my mother—is she still
alive?
_High-Priest._ No—from above she looks down and blesses this scene!
(_Rolla stands with his arms folded, his head sunk upon his bosom, and
his eyes fixed upon the ground, endeavouring to restrain his tears_)
Think then how my paternal heart has been tortured by your bitter
revilings!—Understand why I have always clung to you with such ardent
fondness!—why I have followed, you every where, and interested myself so
eagerly in your fate!—The anxiety I expressed when I saw you depart to
head the armies of your sovereign, is now solved!—solved equally are the
transports by which I was overpowered when I beheld you return as victor.
_Rolla._ (_Falling on his neck_) Have I then ever communicated the throb
of transport to any human breast?—My father!—Oh this name is so new to
my tongue!—filial feelings are so new to my heart!—How often, when at
the head of the army I have knelt to receive your priestly blessing,
have I felt your hand tremble as it was laid upon me!—Oh, why did I not
guess the cause of this tremor!—why did I not know that it was a father’s
blessing I knelt to receive!—My father!—my father!—why have you concealed
yourself so long from your son?—why have you not sooner communicated joy
to a bosom to which it has hitherto been a stranger?
_High-Priest._ Was it possible to trust the wildness and ardour of thy
youth?
_Rolla._ But all is not yet clear to me. Oh then unveil the sequel of
your story!—tell me—could you escape discovery?
_High-Priest._ What would have been impossible to another, was possible
to me from my situation as High-Priest. Our hapless adventure was never
known; and as soon as you were born, I sent you to the frontiers of the
kingdom, among the people of Ibara, of which province my brother was
governor. You were educated as his son; but as he died while you were
still a child, his death furnished me with a pretence for removing you to
Quito, that I, as a near relation, might take you under my protection;
and, from that time, I have never ceased to pay as much attention to
your education myself, as I thought I might do with safety, and without
exciting suspicion. Your mother had gone to the place of rest some months
before your arrival, and left me condemned for a long series of years to
drag about a miserable existence.
_Rolla._ Miserable!—when you had a son!—I have indeed hitherto considered
my existence as miserable, because I thought myself single and solitary
in the world; but never shall I think it so again, now I know that I
have a father living—a father who loves me, whose heart will sympathize
with mine. Yes, I am reconciled to the world!—It is true, my father,
that neither of us can be perfectly happy; yet a life that shall be
supportable, nay in which you shall experience many hours of real
enjoyment, I dare promise you. Hear what golden visions my fancy has
formed:—Cora and Alonzo shall fly, we will accompany them, and I will
conduct you to one who, for my sake, will be a friend to us all. There
we will live,—there pass the remainder of our days quietly, contentedly,
and free from cares;—and, my father, if sometimes when I witness Cora’s
and Alonzo’s caresses, and the transports they mutually experience—if
when—pierced to the heart with the idea that Alonzo’s happiness might
have been mine, I cannot bear to be a spectator of the scene any longer,
I will make you a signal that we depart together, and leave the lovers
alone; then we will retire under the shade of some neighbouring tree, and
you shall soothe my cruel feelings by talking to me of my mother.
_High-Priest._ You do not consider, my son, that flight is impossible.
Cora and Alonzo are both in chains, and both vigilantly guarded; nor
will many hours elapse before sentence is passed upon them by the
assembled priests. Do not then deceive yourself with vain hopes!—Cora is
irretrievably lost.
_Rolla._ Oh do not tell me so!—I cannot bear to hear it!—she must, she
must be saved!—Are you not high-priest?—the first among her judges?
_High-Priest._ But what can the voice of one avail against many?—against
the storm of Xaira’s zeal?—We may cry to the roaring winds till we are
hoarse, and we cannot hinder them from tearing up the young trees by the
roots.
_Rolla._ You will at least have done your part—God and my sword shall
achieve the rest. Think, my father, when Cora shall meet your Zulma in
the regions of peace, and tell her, I am a Virgin of the Sun, condemned
to death because I loved——
_High-Priest._ No more!—All that lies within my power shall be done. I
will harangue, entreat, exert every effort which the infirmities of age
will permit!—Alas, the hour of judgment approaches.
_Rolla._ Oh fail not in your word!—Do all that you can for Cora, and
remember that my life hangs upon hers—But should your endeavours prove
vain, you shall find that in the mean time I have not been idle.
_High-Priest._ (_Taking his hand mournfully_) May we meet again, happier
than we now part!—Farewell!—(_Exit_)
SCENE IV.—_ROLLA, alone. He pauses, and looks after the High-Priest—then
strikes his forehead._
Oh, my father, you know not what thoughts are brooding here!—To
your powers of eloquence alone, I dare not trust a matter of this
importance!—force!—force!—that is the only effectual method of
persuasion.—Where can Velasquez be?—I would fain clasp him in my arms,
and endeavour to communicate to his breast, an ardour equal to that which
glows in mine. Yes, I will save her!—I must save her!—My mother was a
Virgin of the Sun, though I must not dare to pronounce her name, lest the
echoes should learn to repeat it,—to rescue Cora is a sacrifice due to
her memory. Thus it is that the gods wonderfully entwine together every
link in the chain of fate!—Ye powers of heaven!—you cannot be arraigned
if Rolla should die poor in deeds of heroism, since you have not withheld
glorious opportunities for their performance!—To give freedom to her he
loves, and to present a grateful offering to his mother’s memory, are
objects of such magnitude, that if they did not raise a flame within this
bosom, it must have been moulded from the eternal snow on the summits of
the Cordilleras.
SCENE V.—_Enter DON JUAN._
_Rolla._ Welcome, Velasquez!—I have waited for you here!—I have occasion
for your assistance.
_Juan._ In what way?
_Rolla._ Have you sufficient magnanimity to hazard your life for a friend?
_Juan._ Most certainly, if it can be of any avail!
_Rolla._ Then give me your hand.
_Juan._ Take it.
_Rolla._ Cora and Alonzo are lost.
_Juan._ Alas!
_Rolla._ We must save them.
_Juan._ If it be possible.
_Rolla._ Only strike a bold stroke.
_Juan._ With all my heart!—provided it be not a criminal one.
_Rolla._ Criminal!—Ha!—you have touched me indeed!—Yes, I am afraid it
too nearly resembles a crime!
_Juan._ Then seek some other person to share in the attempt.
_Rolla._ Yet state the question thus.—Say, which is most criminal, to
institute, or to abolish, an inhuman law?
_Juan._ To effect the latter is an act of virtue.
_Rolla._ Which we will practice.
_Juan._ That is not in our power. This virtue can be practised by the
king alone.
_Rolla._ Let us then counsel the king.
_Juan._ To that I have no objection.
_Rolla._ But with arms in our hands.
_Juan._ Such counsel were rebellion.
_Rolla._ What signifies a name when good is to be effected?
_Juan._ I am moreover much indebted to Ataliba, he has received me with
hospitality, has been my benefactor.
_Rolla._ Your friend is in danger.
_Juan._ I will not commit a crime even to save _him_.
_Rolla._ How, if I engage my honour, that not a hair of the king’s head,
or of the heads of any of his servants, shall be injured,—that we will
conquer by fear alone?—You know that I was once general of the army—by
that army I am still beloved; for the brave fellows have not forgotten
how often they triumphed under my command, nor that when we were in the
field together the lowest among them was treated as my brother. To you
also, Velasquez, the king has entrusted the conduct of a valiant band. On
the least signal given, all who have borne arms under my standard, will
assemble round me—we will ask nothing for ourselves,—sacred shall be the
throne—sacred the life and property of every individual,—nothing shall be
required but freedom for Cora and Alonzo.
_Juan._ Noble Rolla, you are blinded by love. Search your heart, you will
there detect, probably for the first time, evil designs.
_Rolla._ I have no ears to listen to your morality. Virtue is but an
empty name, if it has never been opposed by passion.
_Juan._ And then the stronger the opposition the more noble is the
victory.
_Rolla._ It may be so, yet I can feel nothing but Cora’s danger,—hear
nothing but Cora’s voice crying for help!—Look, here is Cora’s
grave!—Icy-hearted man, behold Cora’s grave!—Yet why waste time thus
ineffectually?—What interest have you in the fate of Cora?—Well then,
(_He seizes Juan’s hand in haste and agitation_) come with me, I will
lead you to the pile prepared for your friend!—If at the sight of so
dreadful an object your heart can suffer your head to reason—if on that
spot I cannot inspire you with rage and anguish, equal to my own?—then
farewel, I must resign you wholly to your own apathy, and fly to my
mother’s grave,—there as I behold the wind waving the blades of grass,
and think whose form is mouldering beneath, all your precepts will
in a moment be forgotten, and my soul be armed with new resolution.
Come!—away! (_Exit, drawing Juan after him_)
SCENE VI.—_The Court before the Temple. XAIRA in conversation with other
PRIESTS._
_Xaira._ He stays a long time.
_A Priest._ Very long.
_Another._ The time is swiftly passing.
_A Third._ ’Tis now past noon.
_Xaira._ What could the king want with him?
_A Priest._ The messenger was wholly ignorant.
_Another._ All he knew was, that the king required to speak with the
High-Priest, before sentence should be pronounced upon Cora.
_Xaira._ ’Tis very extraordinary.
_A Priest._ The messenger was in great haste.
_Xaira._ Probably the king wished to talk with him about the
sentence,—perhaps to consult with him on the possibility of mitigating
the punishment. Ah, my friends, I fear that this Inca is not eager in
promoting the vengeance due to our offended gods. Didn’t you remark with
what reluctance he consented to Zorai’s being put in irons?—with what
compassion he looked upon the stranger?—nay, that he even degraded his
dignity, so far as to speak to him?—His father was a very different sort
of man!
_A Priest._ He was indeed.
_Another._ He never omitted attendance at any sacrifice.
_A Third._ And trembled whenever he entered the Temple.
_Xaira._ Nor ever failed in shewing due respect to our sacred office.
_A Priest._ Of reverencing our near intercourse with the gods.
_Xaira._ He cast down his eyes with awe, where his son looks up and
smiles with thoughtless levity—exacted the strictest justice, where his
son would shew mercy. But who are we to condemn?—who, but his tutor?—the
man to whom his education was entrusted?—in short, the High-Priest. I
will not say more now, this is neither the place nor the time for long
harangues; however I know his principles. Take heed!—be on your guard!—
_A Priest._ (_Interrupting him_) He comes.
_Xaira._ At last.
SCENE VII.—_Enter the HIGH-PRIEST._
_Xaira._ We have expected you impatiently.
_High-Priest._ I was summoned away to the Inca.
_Xaira._ Is the object of the interview a secret?
_High-Priest._ By no means. Ataliba requires of the judges of Cora and
Alonzo, that they strictly examine whether both be equally guilty, and
whether the one might not have seduced the other—might not have thrown
out improper lures to lead astray the imagination.
_Xaira._ Well, and supposing this should appear to be the case.
_High-Priest._ Then he orders that the seducer only shall suffer, and
that the seduced shall be released.
_Xaira._ Do I hear rightly?—Could the king say this, and dare the
High-Priest of the Sun repeat it after him?
_High-Priest._ Why should he not?
_Xaira._ “_The transgressors of the laws shall die._”—Thus spake our god
himself.
_High-Priest._ Did you hear the god say this?—or was it not rather spoken
by the first Inca, as the ordinance of our god?
_Xaira._ ’Tis the same.
_High-Priest._ That I readily allow.—The Inca is the image of god upon
earth, and the interpreter of his will; but the last Inca is equally so
with the first. The severe laws, therefore, which his ancestor might
find necessary to institute among a wild and uncivilized people, the
descendant may be allowed to meliorate when the necessity for their
enforcement no longer exists.
_Xaira._ (_Sarcastically_) Why then not abolish them entirely?
_High-Priest._ To this the king was strongly inclined. Yet he still
thinks that he owes an example to the repose of his people.
_Xaira._ _One_ example only?—And what is that to be?—He says that the
guilty only shall die; but what earthly wisdom is competent to decide
this question?—Will not both assert their innocence?—and will not each
endeavour to throw the blame of seduction upon the other?
_High-Priest._ ’Tis possible.
_Xaira._ What then is to direct our judgment?
_High-Priest._ Of that hereafter. At present, duty requires that we obey
the Inca’s mandate. Let Cora and Alonzo be brought hither! (_Exit one of
the Priests._)
_Xaira._ No, I will not violate my principles, even to gratify the
Inca?—Both are guilty; and whether seducing, or seduced, is a matter of
total indifference. To his own face I will tell the king the same,—I will
sound it in the ears of the people—and if Ataliba no longer trembles
before the gods, he shall at least tremble before his own subjects.
_High-Priest._ Conscience is his law, and it ought equally to be ours. We
are to judge Cora and Alonzo, but let us not forget that we ourselves are
one day to be judged by a superior power. Now take your places.
SCENE VIII.—_The HIGH-PRIEST stands in the centre, with XAIRA at his
right hand, and the rest of the Priests ranged in a semi-circle round
the stage. CORA, and ALONZO, both in chains, are brought in on different
sides.—Cora no longer bears the image of the sun upon her breast, nor her
flame-coloured girdle._
_Cora._ My Alonzo!
_Alonzo._ Oh God!—you also in chains!
_Cora._ Mourn not my fate!—I shall die with you!
_Alonzo._ With your murderer.
_Xaira._ Silence!
_High-Priest._ (_With mild solemnity_) We, the servants of the gods,
appointed to execute their holy will, are here assembled to pass
judgment upon Cora the daughter of Telasco, and Alonzo the stranger.—Oh
thou, our Father above, who surveyest the whole world with one glance,
diffuse thy light into our hearts!—thou hast appointed us judges over
honour and shame, over life and death!—let thy wisdom then enlighten
our minds that no partiality may bias them, that they may alike be free
from weakness and revenge. (_He kneels, accompanied by all the other
Priests._) We swear, oh sun, to judge according to thy laws communicated
by Manco-Capac!—We swear to shew mercy, if the profanation of thy temple
will permit mercy to be shewn—or if strict justice be required, to exact
strict justice!—We swear, finally, so to conduct ourselves, that should
we be called into thy presence to-morrow, we may not be ashamed of
rendering a faithful account of this awful hour!
_All the Priests._ We _swear_ this, oh sun! (_They rise._)
_High-Priest._ Cora, have you broken your vow?
_Cora._ I have.
_High-Priest._ Do you know this young man?
_Cora._ He is my husband.
_High-Priest._ Alonzo, do you know this woman?
_Alonzo._ She is my wife.
_Xaira._ You are both guilty—both must die.
_High-Priest._ Before we proceed to pass sentence upon you, an important
duty remains to be discharged. In the name of our king, I am to announce
favour to the party, who was solely the victim of seduction. Ataliba,
the first-born of the sun, under whose dominion the kingdom of Quito
flourishes, requires a free and ingenuous confession, which of you was
the seducer, and which the seduced.
_Cora._ It was I seduced him. } (_Both speaking together._)
_Alonzo._ It was I seduced her. }
_Cora._ Do not believe him, he speaks falsely.
_Alonzo._ Do not believe her, she would deceive you.
_Cora._ I alone am guilty.
_Alonzo._ On me must your sentence be pronounced.
_Cora._ Release him, he is innocent.
_Alonzo._ Shall the weakness of woman be punished?—No, let the man make
atonement.
_Cora._ Oh no!—for the love of heaven! (_The High-Priest turns aside to
conceal his emotions._)
_Xaira._ Silence!—Who can extract the truth amid this confusion?—Let one
only speak.
_High-Priest._ Cora begin!—Alonzo, do you remain silent.
_Cora._ The first time that I saw this young man was in the temple. I
immediately employed every artifice to attract his attention,—I always
made the longest pauses wherever he was standing, and contrived various
means to continue near him—I drew aside my veil whenever I passed him,
and endeavoured by expressive glances to excite his affections.
_Alonzo._ ’Tis false!—Her eyes were always cast downwards!
_Xaira._ Silence, stranger, it is not your turn to speak.
_Cora._ My advances inspired him with boldness—he sprang over the
ruins of our sacred walls, yet scarcely was he within their circuit,
when, affrighted at his own rashness, he was about to retreat without
an interview. But his figure had caught my attention as I was walking
at a distance—I called—I made signs to him when I ought to have
fled,—intercourse with him was forbidden to me,—intercourse with me
was not forbidden to him.—He stood trembling and irresolute, while I
ran towards him, threw my arms round his neck, and pressed my lips to
his. Still he was anxious to depart, but I detained him—he would not
have returned, but I entreated him—he described to me the danger of my
situation, but I refused to listen to him. On me, on me, pass sentence,
ye reverend judges, it is I who have seduced.
_Alonzo._ Nature herself convicts you of falsehood.—Modesty is the sister
of beauty—the man _declares_ love, the woman only returns it. Who then
can believe your story?—No, ye priests, it was I, who, when I saw her in
the temple, first threw forbidden glances upon her, by which I disturbed
her quiet, and ruffled the sweet serenity of her mind. It was I who
disregarding the laws both of God and man, with thoughtless confidence
overleaped the sacred walls, and when at sight of me she started back
and would have fled, I cast myself at her feet, and holding her by her
garments, forcibly detained her, to poison her mind with flattery and
deceit. But why should I urge all this?—Ye judges, ye know the character
of man, and must be assured, by the feelings of your own hearts, that I
was the seducer. Pronounce your sentence then on me!
_Cora._ Recollect that he saved the Inca’s life!—Spare him!—he is
guiltless!
_Alonzo._ She raves, she knows not what she says, I alone am guilty.
_Cora._ Can you have a more convincing proof that I only am the criminal,
when you see me wholly unconcerned and unmoved by any emotions of
repentance, while the stranger is bowed down with the weight of his
remorse. I glory in my guilt, and here in the presence of the gods, in
the presence of all these spectators, do I embrace my husband! (_She
rushes up to Alonzo, and clasps him in her arms._) Now observe his
tremor—he breaks from me, while I would still hang about him!—Can you
then doubt any longer?—’Tis I,—I only am guilty.
_Alonzo._ Cora! Cora! Think of what you are doing!
_Cora._ Hear him, how he reproves, how he admonishes me!—Thus has he ever
done, yet I would not listen to him, but regardless of his admonitions
drew him with me into this abyss of misery.
_Xaira._ Shameless woman?—Tear her from him!
_Cora._ (_Returning to her former station_) Now pronounce sentence.
_Xaira._ I shudder.
_High-Priest._ Lead her away.
_Alonzo._ (_Spreading out his arms towards Cora_) Farewel!
_Cora._ We shall soon meet again.
_Xaira._ In the hour of death.
_Cora._ When a mightier power begins to spin the web of a more blest
existence!
_Xaira._ Lead her away.
_Alonzo._ Farewel.
_Cora._ We part on this side of the grave with bitter tears, to meet
with smiles in the realms above. (_Cora and Alonzo are guarded out on
different sides._)
_Xaira._ Need we any farther proof?—my voice is for death!—death to both!
_High-Priest._ (_Addressing the assembly with a mournful voice._) Follow
me into the temple, and let us sacrifice to the gods. Meantime, weigh
well in your hearts what you have seen and heard, and then as mortals,
let us proceed to pass our judgment upon mortals. (_Exeunt omnes._)
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
ACT V.
SCENE I.—_The Inside of the Temple of the Sun—at the Back, the Image
of the Sun upon an Altar raised some Steps above the Ground. The
HIGH-PRIEST, XAIRA, and several other PRIESTS, the latter of whom are
employed in the Back Ground in burning Incense, and preparing the
Sacrifices. The HIGH-PRIEST advances to the Front of the Stage with
XAIRA._
HIGH-PRIEST.
Yet one word more, Xaira, ere, by pronouncing a hasty sentence, we
profane the sacred name we bear. Are we not ministers of the divine
favour?
_Xaira._ And of the divine vengeance.
_High-Priest._ Vengeance!—Can we suppose that the merciful God seeks
vengeance on his creatures?—No, if this principle has been encouraged
to awe the vulgar, we who are initiated into the mysteries of a purer
doctrine, may speak to each other without reserve.
_Xaira._ For what purpose?—and why at this moment?
_High-Priest._ Because an error committed at this moment, may draw after
it an eternity of misery to us both.
_Xaira._ My conduct is the result of my conviction.
_High-Priest._ Then surely that cannot be just. God created man weak and
liable to err, a truth on which your conviction should be founded. This
earth is imperfect, so is every thing that lives and moves in it, and
will not that God who suffers the tyger to mangle the harmless lamb, look
down with forbearance on frail man when he listens to the voice of nature.
_Xaira._ But we men slay the tyger, and we do right,—we punish the faults
of man, and we do right.
_High-Priest._ Yes, if by his weakness he produce disorder in the state.
_Xaira._ And is not that the case in the affair before us?
_High-Priest._ No!
_Xaira._ No?
_High-Priest._ Your own designs have been solely to avenge the gods.
_Xaira._ And would you then sanction the licentious conduct that must
inevitably ensue, should indulgence be shewn in the present instance?
_High-Priest._ At the source of a clear stream, we do not think of the
mud by which it may be contaminated in its course. I entreat you, let
us be true to our vocation, let us resemble the god whom we serve,
whose rays diffuse light and heat over all! let us acquit Cora!—It will
then lie in the king’s bosom to act as he shall judge right, either
by confirming, or reversing, our sentence; and should it be reversed,
we shall, at least, have done our duty, in shewing a disposition to
clemency, while the hapless victim will breathe her last sighs in
gratitude for our intended mercy.
_Xaira._ What would you require of me?—You speak as if the decision of
this point rested upon me alone. Are not you High-Priest?—do not the
duties of your office demand that you lay the case before the whole
assembly of the Priests, in which I have but a single voice.
_High-Priest._ You know well, that in representing this affair to
the assembly, I am forbidden by our laws to employ any persuasions
of eloquence,—what I am to say, must be expressed in the fewest and
the simplest words, and I am therefore precluded from the power of
influencing the auditors. You, it is true, have only one voice, but
you are the oldest of the order, next to me, and successor to the
high-priesthood at my death. To you therefore all the young Priests look
up, and will incline which way soever they shall see you inclined.
_Xaira._ This case may be rightly stated as to what concerns yourself,
but it is otherwise with the Inca who has always power to grant a pardon.
_High-Priest._ But when has this power been exercised?—Has not every
Inca, from father to son, for centuries past, uniformly confirmed the
sentence of the Priests?—will Ataliba, think you, venture to deviate from
the practice of his ancestors?
_Xaira._ No more!—It is equally inconsistent with your duty to endeavour
to extort from me the sentence I shall pronounce, as with mine to listen
to such entreaties. (_Turns away from him_)
_High-Priest._ Well then, their blood be upon thee!
_Xaira._ (_Coldly._) Yes, their blood be upon me!
_High-Priest._ Hither ye Priests! (_The Priests assemble round him_) I
already read in their gloomy countenances the sentence I am to expect!
(_Aside.—After a few moments pause, in which he endeavours to assume
resolution, he proceeds_) You know the criminals and the crime—we wait
your decision.
_Xaira._ What say the laws? (_The High-Priest remains silent_) I ask you
what say the laws?
_High-Priest._ (_After a conflict with himself, in suffocated voice_)
Death.
_Xaira._ (_Solemnly and audibly_) The laws pronounce sentence of death
upon Cora and Alonzo.
_All._ Death!
_High-Priest._ (_After a pause, and in a tone of resolution_) I cannot
give my sanction to this sentence, my opinion inclines to mercy; I
feel that I am myself a mortal liable to error. Search your bosoms, my
brethren, prove well your hearts, and if they in a low and gentle voice
whisper _mercy_,—then join with me and cry aloud mercy!—mercy!
_Xaira._ What say the laws?—Death to Cora and Alonzo.
_All._ Death!
_High-Priest._ Then it must be as you decide.—Oh thou unknown God, look
down upon us, observe that none of this blood stains my hands!—Bring
hither the unfortunate victims of your blind zeal. (_Exeunt two Priests
on different sides_) The rest of you lay the sword and a fresh branch of
palm upon the altar. (_They do as he directs_) Now, Xaira, follow me to
the king. (_Exit, accompanied by Xaira_)
SCENE II.—_CORA and ALONZO are brought in on different sides. During this
and the following scene, the Priests walk backwards and forwards, and are
busied about the altar. ALONZO appears a few minutes sooner than CORA._
_Alonzo._ I am struck with awe!—This temple, it is true, is only
dedicated to the worship of an idol, but God is every where; even in
this place, where he is adored under the image of one of his own works.
This temple I have profaned!—I am brought hither as the murderer of an
artless woman—as the murderer of a venerable old man who never wronged
me—as the murderer of a gallant youth, one of the destined supports of
his country—as one who has disturbed the peace of a liberal nation, among
whom he has been received with unbounded hospitality!—Oh earth! earth!
open wide, and swallow at once this monster with all his crimes!—may no
grass ever grow upon his grave!—may it never be moistened with the dew
of Heaven!—may no wanderer ever repose his wearied limbs upon the sods,
and may they never be trodden by the innocent feet of children, in their
harmless sports! (_Cora enters._) Ah, Cora! how blest did the sight of
you once make me!—how miserable does it make me now!
_Cora._ Alonzo, this cannot be uttered from your heart!—Have you not
often declared, that if you could not live with Cora, you would die with
her; and Cora has always thought the same in respect to her Alonzo. Yes,
we will die together, that we may live together hereafter!
_Alonzo._ Oh that hereafter!—It is the haven of rest to the virtuous, but
for me, an evil conscience accompanies me to the grave.
_Cora._ Do not think so!—we have neither of us done wrong!—we loved
each other—we could not avoid loving; was it in the power of either to
repress our mutual feelings? Can either of us then be criminal?—Chance,
or perhaps our God himself, first brought us together—all is of his
appointment, and I am resigned to my fate. Even man is kind to us, since
he facilitates our union. As a Virgin of the Sun I could not have become
your wife, but in death we shall be united. Resume your fortitude then,
oh Alonzo!—How often have I sprung with you over the rugged stones at
the breach?—Death is no more than a spring over a few rugged stones; and
these once passed, we shall find love and freedom waiting to receive us
on the other side.
_Alonzo._ Amiable creature!—thy guiltless soul can look with composure
both towards the past and future.—But for me!——
_Cora._ How, if I can prove that you may more justly look with composure
towards futurity, than Cora?—Your mother is far hence, and should
she hear of you no more, will believe that your days were ended by
shipwreck, sickness, or some common disaster, and this idea will console
her for your loss; while her maternal fancy will see in her son nothing
but what was fair and good, will frequently recur with transport to the
noble actions he has already performed, and form to itself a thousand
charming images of what he would have achieved had his life been longer
spared. But I!—I have a father, at present, indeed, in a remote province;
but who will soon learn for what offence, and in what manner, his
daughter died. It is that thought alone which makes death dreadful to
me!—He is so good, so venerable, and loves me so tenderly!—Were he to
witness this scene, it would break his heart.
_Alonzo._ (_Aside_) Oh Heaven! then she knows not——
_Cora._ Within the last hour I fell upon my knees and prayed most
fervently, that some calm and easy death might snatch my father from the
world, before his daughter’s fate could reach his ears. Suddenly a sweet
serenity was diffused over my soul, as if the mild rays of a new sun had
fallen upon me; and I hoped this was an assurance that my prayer was
heard. My remaining wish is, that what I must suffer may be over quickly,
lest solemn and protracted preparations should excite my rebel senses to
mutiny, and shake my fortitude.
_Alonzo._ Oh it is the thought of what you have already endured, and must
still endure, which alone oppresses my soul.
_Cora._ Let not my sufferings oppress you; believe me, I am resigned.
SCENE III.—_Enter TELASCO, with ZORAI in chains._
_Cora._ (_Uttering a loud and piercing shriek_) Oh, I am heard!—Behold
my father’s spirit!—Yet his features are full of indignation!—his
countenance is terrible!—Alonzo, awake me from this dream!
_Alonzo._ Would to God it were, indeed, only your father’s shade!—but,
alas! it is he himself.—Oh what an hour of horror!
_Cora._ (_Casting a look of awe towards Telasco_) My father!
_Telasco._ (_To Zorai_) Why was I brought hither at this moment?—Do not
the important services which I have done my native country through so
long a course of years, give me a just claim to expect some forbearance?
Go and demand of the priests if I must be compelled to stay with her,—I
will, meanwhile, support myself against this pillar.
_Cora._ (_Approaching him with trembling steps_) My father!
_Telasco._ (_With agony_) Save me Zorai—save me!
_Zorai._ (_Thrusting Cora away_) Hence serpent!—spare the old man at
least in his last moments. (_Telasco turns away his face_)
_Cora._ (_Falling upon her knees, and clasping her hands in agony_)
Brother!
_Zorai._ I, thy brother!—Alas, yes!—these chains speak too plainly that I
am thy brother.
_Cora._ Father!
_Telasco._ (_With still averted eyes_) Who calls me by that name?—I do
not know that voice!
_Cora._ Father!—brother!—Oh these are the only agonies of death!
(_Wringing her hands_)
_Telasco._ (_Turning his eyes towards Cora_) Oh Zorai, my paternal
feelings will not be suppressed!—It is the voice of her mother!—it is the
form of her mother!—Cora!—Cora—I have passed through life with honour,
and now you cover my grave with shame!—Away, away! nor hope to experience
my compassion!—Do you deserve it?—Did I constrain you to devote your
youth to the service of the sun?—Did I not, on the contrary, frequently
admonish you to consider well what you intended? Did I not represent
to you, that the world afforded many pleasures of which you were then
ignorant, and which you would first learn to think desirable when their
enjoyment would be criminal, and when your life would consequently be
rendered miserable by the impossibility of their attainment? Even on the
very last evening before your irrevocable oath was taken—(God only knows
how I assumed courage for the purpose)—did I not again entreat you to
reflect upon all these things while it was yet possible to retract?—Dark
and gloomy then appeared the future to my soul, as the ocean on a cloudy
day. Even you wept—yes, Cora, you wept; your heart was overpowered.—It
was the warning voice of a guardian spirit within you; but you resisted
the impulse, adhered firmly to your enthusiastic resolution, and would
think of nothing but of a nearer intercourse with the gods—Behold us
now standing here,—I, a poor old man with my grey hairs, mourning the
honour of my house destroyed for ever;—this youth, full of energy and
love for his native country, cut off even in the prime of life, guiltless
himself, yet involved in your destiny;—both, both, murdered by the hand
of a daughter—of a sister;—and worse than murdered, hurled to the grave
with shame as their companion!—Oh that I should have lived to see this
day!—Blest, blest, was thy mother’s lot, that she died before the dawn
of so fatal a morning! (_Cora, overpowered with her father’s reproaches,
sinks to the ground with a sigh; Telasco exclaims with an emotion of
tenderness_) Zorai, support her!
_Zorai._ (_Raising up his sister, in which Alonzo makes an effort to
assist him, but is thrust back by Zorai_) Hence, thou murderer of
innocence!—Oh that a hero should thus sink to nothing when we behold him
near!—How did I reverence this man at a distance!—how admire him when
I listened to the detail of his noble actions!—I felt my young heart
elevated, and wished for nothing so ardently as that I were myself in
his place!—Fool that I was!—His heroism was the effect of chance, not
principle; he is still but a man, and weak as the rest of mankind!—Look
here, and exult at this scene, it is thy work; and thou may’st thank
these chains that, even in the midst of the temple, and in the presence
of our god himself, thou art not made the victim of my vengeance.
_Alonzo._ Did you know how my heart is tortured, how inexpressibly I
love, you would be more compassionate to my sorrows!
_Telasco._ Say no more, my son—his fate is much more deplorable than
ours: we have one treasure left, which we shall carry with us to another
world, a pure conscience;—that treasure he has lost; he is poorer than
ourselves.
_Cora._ Oh, my father, do not let me die in despair!—Can you refuse me
your blessing in the hour of death! (_She falls at his feet_) I will
cling round your knees, my anguish shall move you!—have pity on your
kneeling daughter!—bless me, my father!—forgive me, my brother! (_Telasco
and Zorai appear much affected_) See how I humble, how I twine myself
about you!—Oh, my agony is inconceivable!—Have compassion upon me, or my
heart will break!
_Telasco._ Son! son!—let us not aggravate the bitter stroke of death!—the
wretched easily forgive!—Raise her up to my arms. (_Zorai raises up his
sister. Telasco clasps her to his breast_) Die in peace—I forgive thee!
_Cora._ (_In a faint voice_) My brother!
_Telasco._ Yes, yes, Zorai!—no resentment!—forgive the penitent!—call her
sister!
_Zorai._ (_Embracing her_) Unhappy—sister!
_Cora._ Ye gods, I thank you!—the bitterness of death is past.
_Alonzo._ Your hearts are softened!—Might Alonzo venture!—Zorai, you
called me a weak man. Yes, I am weak; but I am not a villain!—Misery soon
unites the sufferers to each other—let us not die in enmity.
_Telasco._ Stranger, I harbour no resentment against you!—Can I leave the
world in a better state of mind, than in speaking pardon to those by whom
I have been injured. Have you any parents living?
_Alonzo._ An aged mother.
_Telasco._ For her sake come hither, that I may bless thee in her place!
(_He embraces him_)
_Alonzo._ From what a grievous burden is my heart relieved!—And you too
Zorai! (_Offering him his hand_)
_Zorai._ Away! I admire my father’s conduct; but—I cannot follow his
example.
_Alonzo._ Not to give peace to a dying man?
_Zorai._ I cannot!—Would you have me dissemble reconciliation?—You are
hateful to me!—leave me!—I will endeavour to subdue this bitter feeling;
and should I succeed, I will reach out my hand as our last moments
approach, and you will understand my meaning.
_Alonzo._ Accept my thanks even for this concession.—I acknowledge it to
be more than I deserve. (_Cora leans against a pillar, and endeavours to
recover herself_).
SCENE IV.—_Enter the HIGH-PRIEST, XAIRA, and several other PRIESTS._
_Xaira._ The king approaches!
(_The Priests range themselves on the steps of the altar; CORA, TELASCO,
and ZORAI, remain in the front of the stage on one side; ALONZO stands
opposite to them; ATALIBA, attended by his suite, enters with slow and
solemn steps, and with a countenance marked with deep anxiety; he kneels
before the Image of the Sun, and remains for some time in an attitude of
devotion, while a solemn silence is observed by all present. When his
prayer is finished, he rises, and turns towards ALONZO, to whom he speaks
hastily, and in a low voice._)
_Ataliba._ Save yourself, Alonzo!—Urge that you are a foreigner, and
were unacquainted with our laws and customs!—urge your services to
the state, to me, to the people!—urge, in short, whatever your danger
may suggest!—Your judge is your friend, let it be possible for him to
shew you mercy without incurring a suspicion partiality. (_Alonzo bows
silently, with a countenance expressive of ardent gratitude. Ataliba
turns to Telasco_) Good old man, you are free!—He who has hazarded
his life a thousand times in the service of his native country, has
sacrificed it already to the gods. I dare not proceed against you!
_Telasco._ How, Inca!—Can you be so cruel as to deprive the aged tree of
all its branches, and yet leave the trunk standing?
_Ataliba._ (_To Zorai_) Young man, you also are free! (_Turning to the
assembly_) For it is the will of my father, that henceforward the guilty
only shall suffer. (_A murmuring is heard among the priests; Ataliba
casts a look of displeasure upon them, and again addresses Zorai_)
Comfort your aged father, nurse him and attend upon him as long as he
lives; then come to me, as to your elder brother. (_Zorai attempts to
throw himself at the king’s feet, who prevents him, and turns to Cora_)
For you, Cora,—I can do nothing.
_Cora._ Oh, you have done all that I could wish!—more than I could dare
to hope.
_Ataliba._ Your offence comes immediately within the laws, and to the
laws the king himself is subject. (_He ascends to the upper step of the
altar, prostrates himself once more before the Image of the Sun, and then
turns towards the assembly_) High-Priest, execute your office!
_High-Priest._ Pardon me, good Inca!—spare my age!—my infirm state of
health!—my throbbing heart!—Permit Xaira on this occasion to take my
place.
_Ataliba._ Be it as you desire!
_Xaira._ (_Approaching him with solemnity_) First born of the Sun, a
virgin, devoted to the gods, has broken her sacred vow!—Cora, come
forwards!—A stranger who sojourns in this land is the associate of her
crime!—Alonzo, come forwards!—We, the priests of the incensed gods,
and servants of the Temple which has been profaned, faithful to the
ordinances of thy great ancestor, have sat in judgment upon their crime,
and pronounced sentence upon both.—This sentence is DEATH!!!
_Ataliba._ (_After a pause, addressing Cora and Alonzo_) Have you
anything to say in your defence? (_Cora and Alonzo remain silent_) I
ask you, Cora, and you, Alonzo, if you have any thing to urge in your
defence?
_Cora._ Nothing.
_Alonzo._ Nothing.
_Ataliba._ How, Alonzo, have you nothing to urge in extenuation of your
conduct?
_Alonzo._ Nothing.
_Ataliba._ Do not speak rashly!—I give you time for
recollection!—Consider well—STRANGER!
_Alonzo._ I have deserved death, and submit to it willingly.
_Ataliba._ Once more I admonish you to consider well what you are about—a
few moments longer, and it will be too late.—Oh ye assembled judges, know
that I regard it as a sacred duty to grant this indulgence, since this
man is a stranger, and could not be impressed with that sacred reverence
for our faith, which the wisdom of our priests instils from their
earliest infancy into the breast of every Peruvian. Unacquainted with our
laws, he could not see with our eyes, could not know the magnitude of his
transgression. Once more, Alonzo, you are at liberty to speak.—Our gods
are just, reasonable, merciful!
_Alonzo._ I have deserved death.
_Ataliba._ Is that your last word?
_Alonzo._ My last.
_Ataliba._ (_Rests his elbow upon the altar, and conceals his face in his
hands for some moments, then, recovering himself, proceeds_) Priests,
perform your duty!
(_Two priests ascend to the altar, one on each side of the king. One
takes the sword, the other the palm-branch from the altar, when,
descending again, they deliver them to Xaira._)
_Xaira._ (_Presenting the sword to the king_) First born of the
Sun, receive from my hands the symbol of justice! (_Presenting the
palm-branch_) First born of the Sun, receive from my hands the symbol of
mercy!—The gods direct your judgment!
_Ataliba._ (_Kneels_) Oh God, thou seest how my heart is racked at this
awful hour!—Grant that I may never again be compelled to the performance
of so mournful a duty!—Ye shades of my forefathers, hover over me!—let
me be enlightened by your wisdom, and since I exact no more than justice
demands, let my soul find rest in that reflection. (_He rises—Cora,
Alonzo, Telasco, and Zorai, kneel with their heads bowed down.—After a
few minutes struggle with himself, the king raises the sword, and is
about to speak._)
SCENE V.—_Enter the CHAMBERLAIN in great haste, and with a strong
impression of terror upon his countenance._
_Chamberlain._ Pardon me, royal Inca, that I must be the messenger of
evil tidings. The flame of insurrection rages among the people—they
run wildly hither and thither about the streets—the troops assemble
on all sides, crying to arms! to arms!—Drums beat, trumpets sound,
weapons clash, and a forest of lances are collected together. No answer
is to be obtained to a single question; all that is to be heard is
the name of Rolla shouted by ten thousand voices. The troop belonging
to the foreigner Velasquez, was drawn up in the meadow; I saw him run
hastily from one soldier to another; and could plainly perceive by his
gestures, that he entreated, threatened, expostulated, and employed every
effort to restrain them within their duty, but in vain, all by turns
deserted to Rolla. (_The whole assembly, except the king, manifest great
consternation and alarm._)
_Ataliba._ What can this mean?—Rolla, did you say, at the head of the
army?—that cannot be insurrection.—Rolla’s name can never be united with
insurrection—this must be a mistake. Did you see him yourself?
_Chamberlain._ Only at a distance. The officers had made a little
circle round him, he harangued them eagerly, and with a loud voice,
his eyes flashed fire, which seemed to communicate to those about him,
who frequently interrupted his harangue with impetuous shouts, then
brandishing their swords and shaking their lances, they began to throng
towards the Temple, the whole multitude following them, while I hastened
on before, to prepare you for their reception.
_Ataliba._ (_Without changing countenance_) Well, all will soon be
explained. (_He looks around_) I see terror pourtrayed on every
countenance.—Why are you dismayed?—He who only studies to promote his
people’s happiness, has no reason to fear his people. In that conviction
my heart finds repose. Let them come! (_A noise is heard behind the
scenes._)
_All present cry with confusion._ They come!—they are here already!
SCENE VI.—_ROLLA rushes in with a drawn sword in his right hand, a
javelin in his left, and a bow and quiver at his back. He is followed by
a considerable number of OFFICERS and SOLDIERS._
_Rolla._ Be guided by me, my friends.
_Xaira._ A profanation of the Temple!
_Rolla._ You have profaned it by a sanguinary sentence.
_Xaira._ (_To the assembled Priests_) Avenge your gods! (_A confused
murmuring is heard among them_)
_Ataliba._ (_To Xaira_) Silence!—(_He makes a motion with his hand,
signifying that he is about to speak, when a general silence is observed.
He then turns to Rolla, and addresses him_) Who are you?
_Rolla._ Do you not know me?
_Ataliba._ I had once a chieftain, who much resembled you in features—his
name was Rolla, and he was a noble-minded man.—But who are you?
_Rolla._ No mockery Inca!—for the love of God no mockery!—Yet you may be
right—I am no longer Rolla—I no longer know myself!—A storm drives me
on!—a rapid stream hurries me forwards!—but have compassion upon me!—I
honour you, Inca—I love and honour you truly.
_Ataliba._ You honour me?—Once indeed I indulged in such glorious
visions, I said within myself, as long as I have Rolla for a chieftain,
the monarch of Cuzco may rage, may try to seduce my provinces from their
obedience, yet Rolla’s heroic courage is a tree under whose shade I shall
always repose in peace.
_Rolla._ But answer me, I entreat?—is the tree under whose shade you were
reposing thus quietly, responsible to itself, if a whirlwind should come,
tear it up by the roots, and throw it down upon you?
_Ataliba._ What whirlwind has seized upon you?—what is it you
desire?—speak, and thank your former services, that you are now indulged
with the liberty of speaking. I have never sufficiently rewarded your
heroic achievements, I do it now, in granting this permission.
_Rolla._ I have only a plain story to urge in my defence, let it suffice
for my vindication, if you partake more of the human, than of the divine
nature!—I love to excess!—While I was still a boy, this passion stole
into my heart so sweetly, so pleasantly, so devoid of all uneasiness,
that I felt delight in cherishing and indulging it. Love was at that
time like a day of serenity to my soul, and remained so, till the period
of youth intervened, when my passion became a storm, to which all must
bend,—when nothing could restrain the impetuosity of my feelings. To love
and be beloved were the highest objects to which I aspired—I thought of
nothing but enjoying my sweet intoxication in Cora’s arms, regardless of
honour or of the services due to my country, and to the noble race of
our Incas, of which tree I am a branch. My good uncle sought to stem the
torrent, or at least to conduct it into another channel, and sent me to
serve my king in battle, trusting that the fever which burned within me,
might thus in time be wholly exhausted. But vain was the hope, that in
urging my steps to climb the lofty heights of honour, I might be enabled
when I had gained their summit, to look down with calmness on the passion
I had left below. This passion would not be shaken off—it accompanied me
up the steep, and it was that alone which prompted all my heroic actions.
Yes, Inca, whatever great or good I have performed in your service, is to
be ascribed solely to love—it was my companion in the field of battle,
and in my most adventurous moments, I thought not of my king nor of his
throne, neither of the welfare of my country; I only thought of Cora—that
I should become the object of Cora’s admiration—You owe nothing to me,
all to my love for that matchless woman, and that love you must this day
pardon. I am past the days of youth indeed, but my heart remains the
same, it retains all the impetuosity of my earlier years; I still cherish
the lovely visions of childhood; my passion is become like a tree, the
root of which is so deeply entwined with my life, that the one cannot be
plucked up without destroying the other. Oh, Inca, shew that you have the
feelings of a man!—extend your mercy to Cora!—on my knees I intreat for
her life! (_He kneels_) Since she has called the forsaken Rolla, brother,
he is become proud, yet he still condescends on his knees to beg his
sister’s life.
_Ataliba._ (_Endeavouring to conceal his emotions and preserve his
dignity_) Rise!
_Rolla._ Mercy!
_Ataliba._ Rise!—lay thy arms at my feet, dismiss thy followers, and then
wait silently, and submissively, the judgment of thy king.
_Rolla._ Mercy!—Mercy!—Uncle, Sister, aid me to entreat!—I have been so
little accustomed to entreaty, that I scarcely know the form in which it
should be clothed.
_Ataliba._ A petitioner in arms!—would you mock your sovereign?
_Rolla._ (_Rising up_) Oh no!—but you require impossibilities—you expect
a man in a burning fever to sleep. Can Rolla behold Cora in chains, and
lay down his arms?—by Heaven that cannot be!
_Ataliba._ I command you to deposit them at my feet.
_Rolla._ Pronounce her pardon Inca!—declare her absolved from her
detested vow, and you shall instantly be obeyed.
_Ataliba._ No conditions—your arms must instantly be resigned.
_Rolla._ Impossible!—Come to my heart, Cora!—be my breast your shield,
and let my sword hew asunder those chains!
_Ataliba._ Rebel, do whatever you please.—whatever the gods will
permit—but know that Ataliba will not pronounce sentence till he beholds
you kneeling disarmed at his feet. Never shall it be said, that you
_extorted_ mercy from the king. (_In a pathetic tone_) Ye people of
Quito, listen to the voice of your sovereign!—I stand here at this
moment, in the temple, in the presence of our God himself!—For seven
years have I now reigned over you, I ask if any one can charge me during
that time with a wilful injustice?—if any can, let him come forwards!—Has
any one been dismissed from before my throne without assistance, where
assistance could be granted?—if any has, let him come forwards!—I have
conquered other countries, I have triumphed over other kings, but that
is little.—When a few years ago the anger of the gods had cursed the
country with unfruitfulness, I threw open the doors of my full barns, fed
the hungry, and revived the sick, while many a night I lay sleepless in
my own bed, because your misery oppressed my soul, and I had not power
to relieve all. Ye people of Quito your present conduct is undeserved by
me!—Seize that man, chain him, or I lay down my sceptre at this moment.
(_A confused murmuring is heard among the crowd._)
_Rolla._ (_Turning to his followers_) You seize me!—you put me in
chains!—which among you will do this?—You perhaps, my old companion in
battle, with whom I once shared my last morsel when famine stared us
in the face?—or you, whose life I saved in the field of Tumibamba?—or
you, whose son I rescued from the enemy’s hands, even at the moment when
the lance was pointed against his breast?—Which among you will seize
me?—Speak?
_High-Priest._ Rolla, my adopted son, how am I bowed down by this scene.
Would you see me, miserable old man, as I am, prostrate at your feet?
_Rolla._ Forbear!—I honour you as a father, but do not spread out your
hands to the stormy winds,—it is in vain! (_The High-Priest is about to
proceed in his entreaties, but Rolla prevents him impatiently_) Uncle,
no more!—the lots are cast, and whatever may be the consequence I am
resolved to save Cora.
_Cora._ (_Goes up to Rolla, embraces and kisses him_) Brother, take
this kiss from your sister, and let these tears speak my gratitude
for love so ardent. Your soul is truly noble,—this day, for the first
time in my life, have I really known you. But one so great, so good,
must be his sovereign’s friend. Cora has been guilty of a crime, and
would you seek to shelter her by the commission of another? Oh, what
an added weight of remorse would that reflection heap upon my already
overburthened conscience!—No, Rolla, do not act thus beneath yourself!—do
not seek to snatch the reins from the hands of God, who assuredly
directs my fate!—Suffer me to die!—I have received my father’s and my
brother’s forgiveness; Alonzo dies with me, and I die contentedly. Our
spirits shall hover around you, and will rejoice when they behold you
true to your king, and devoting all your powers to the service of your
country.—resolve to endure the remainder of your life without me!—it is
my last request, and I know that Rolla will yield to Cora’s entreaty;
then will she have performed a good action at her departure from the
world, and will be indebted to her brother for that grateful reflection.
Yes, Rolla, I see the clouds upon your brow dispersing, I see tears start
into your eyes—do not repress them,—give them free scope—they are no
disgrace even to the eyes of a warrior.—And now, my brother, give me your
sword, your javelin!—(_She takes his sword and javelin gently out of his
hands, and lays them at Ataliba’s feet_) Behold now a hero indeed!—With
those tears that are trembling on his cheeks, has he washed away the
stain which was beginning to tarnish his fame and virtue—now Rolla, I am
indeed proud of your love!—One only effort sill remains, throw yourself
at the feet of our good king—kneel to him, and let virtue remain sole
victor! (_She draws him gently towards Ataliba, at whose feet she throws
herself.—Rolla, after a few moments’ struggle with himself, kneels by
her—Cora addresses the king_) Oh sovereign of Quito, I bring you back
your hero!—pardon him!—he deserves your pardon! (_She rises and returns
to her former station._) Now Inca, proceed to judgment! (_Rolla remains
kneeling before the king_)
_Telasco._ (_Embracing Cora_) My daughter!—for as such I may now embrace
thee without shame.
_Ataliba._ Does Rolla submit to his king?
_Rolla._ Entirely.
_Ataliba._ Your life is forfeited.
_Rolla._ Of that I am sensible.
_Ataliba._ You have my free pardon.
_Rolla._ (_Raising up his eyes to the king with haste and anxiety_) And
Cora?
_Ataliba._ You are pardoned.
_Rolla._ (_Casting his eyes again to the ground_) Oh God!
_Ataliba._ Rise!
_Rolla._ No, let me hear the sentence upon my knees, for in pronouncing
Cora’s doom you pronounce mine.
_Ataliba._ Well then! (_He takes again into his hands the sword and
palm-branch, which at the beginning of the tumult he had laid upon the
altar._)
_High-Priest._ (_Throwing himself suddenly at the king’s feet_) Oh Inca,
pardon them!
_Ataliba._ (_Raising him up with mildness_) Do you also ask this, my
father?—have the gods manifested their will to you?
_High-Priest._ Mercy is the will of the gods!—Those rude times when your
illustrious ancestor first established the worship of the sun are no
more. Naked as the beasts of the forest, our race then lived under the
open canopy of Heaven alone, while their women were considered like the
dates upon the palm-tree, as fruit which every one might pluck according
to his fancy. At that time they had no subsistence but what they could
snatch precariously from day to day,—they were without religion, without
laws, without property. Then Manco-Capac, endowed with supernatural
powers, appeared among them—he built a temple to the sun, and consecrated
virgins to his service, instituting at the same time the vow of chastity,
because vice reigned so triumphantly throughout the kingdom, and reason
was so much in its infancy, that without such a precaution, the temple
on the solemn days of festival had become a theatre of debauchery. But
a long series of years has changed what was then a forced obedience to
the laws of order, into an inward feeling of their beauty, and where
this rules, compulsive institutions are no longer necessary. Therefore,
Inca, I stand here in the name of the gods, and call upon you, as the
benefactor of your people, to crown all your noble deeds with a sacrifice
due to reason, and through her to the gods themselves. Shrink not from
the trial!—be eager to do what is right, or if any thing still be wanting
to your conviction, let the supplication of an old man at least move
you!—the supplication of one by whom you were educated, who loves you as
his own son, who has watched with anxious care your infant slumbers, and
who now asks this mercy as the recompence of all his cares! (_He takes
the fillet from his head and shews his grey hair._) Grant this request,
oh Inca, for the sake of these grey hairs, become thus silvery in your
service!
_Ataliba._ Enough!—Come forwards, Cora!—and you, Alonzo!
_High-Priest._ Ye gods, direct his noble heart!
(_CORA and ALONZO come forwards trembling._)
_Telasco._ (_To Zorai_) Support me, my son,—support me!
(_ATALIBA after a solemn pause, with his right hand strikes the sword
against the ground and breaks it, then with his left presents the
palm-branch to CORA._)
_Ataliba._ Be the law abolished, and Cora released!
(_CORA sinks down in a swoon,—ALONZO throws himself by her—ROLLA springs
up and presses the king wildly to his breast.—The HIGH-PRIEST raises
his hands gratefully towards Heaven—TELASCO supported by ZORAI totters
towards his daughter,—The people shout repeatedly, crying_)
_All._ Long live the Inca!!! (_The Curtain falls._)
END OF THE PLAY.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The virgin of the sun : A play, in five acts" ***
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