 | Fenelon : or, The Nuns of Cambray |  |
19
ACT II.
SCENE—A Dungeon in the Convent—A Lamp burning—A Loaf of Bread, and a Pitcher of Water—Eloisa, in Chains, asleep upon Straw.Eloisa
(raising herself languidly, and wildly).
Yes, I again shall view the fertile plains
Of Languedoc, where first I drew my breath—
And is it thou, my lord?—O, no; I've lost thee!
This is a prison, this my dark abode,
Where I have linger'd on so many years.
Ah me! I scarcely have the pow'r of utt'rance—
Here is my grave, and these impervious walls
Hold me for life, and death;—yet, yet, at times
A ray of feeble hope illumes my heart,
And my weak, wand'ring fancy paints fair scenes
Of earthly happiness to come!—'Tis wrong
Thus to deceive my reason, for I know
My only portion is despair—then Heav'n
Be merciful, and suffer me to die.
20
ISAURA.
Let us advance—
AMELIA.
She sleeps—
ISAURA.
You weep, my child!
AMELIA.
O Nature! look upon your wretched creature.
ISAURA.
Amelia, you have seen her—we'll retire—
AMELIA.
No—
ISAURA.
My senses are dismay'd—come, come away.
AMELIA.
I will remain.
ISAURA.
Then I must quit thee.
21
Do so—
But soon return.
ISAURA.
You must not—
AMELIA.
I'm resolv'd—
Tho' grief is in my heart, 'tis mingled with
Something like transport;—and I will enjoy
The soft, the dear emotions, that I prove.
ISAURA.
I have not pow'r indeed to oppose your will,
Yet with alarm and deep regret I leave you.
[Exit Isaura.
AMELIA.
This awful silence, these damp-dropping walls,
These gloomy arches, yonder pallid lamp,
That feebly struggles with surrounding darkness,
Make my soul sicken—Poor neglected victim!
Methinks she sighs, and wakens.
ELOISA.
Ha! what voice
Is that, which seems to call me from the tomb?
22
I ne'er was so much mov'd; a new sensation
Thrills ev'ry nerve.
ELOISA.
It is a stranger's tongue!
AMELIA
(taking ELOISA's hand).
I love, and pity you; be not afraid!
ELOISA.
Come then, meek angel! come, and solace me;
Your tears bedew my hand, and your soft eyes
Are fondly fix'd on mine—nay, I am sure
You are compassionate.
AMELIA.
O strong attraction!—
Tell me your sorrows, they shall all be mine—
And I will ransack each inventive pow'r,
And ev'ry possible resource, to comfort,—
Perchance to set you free—
ELOISA.
It is in vain—
Decided is my destiny—Yet hear,
Benignant maiden, hear! there was a time
When brightest prospects open'd to my view—
Pow'r, splendour, riches, tenderness, and love!
23
Do not renew your suff'rings, gentle lady!
'Twas rash in me to urge you—
ELOISA.
No, 'twill soothe me.—
The illustrious blood of princely d'Arlemont
Flows in my veins—yet that has caus'd my ruin:
Else had my marriage been the source of joy:
For tho' Delmance, my lord, had neither wealth
Nor royal blood to boast of, he had honour,
Benevolence, unparallel'd affection,
Valour, and truth; yet these high qualities
Could not subdue my father's ire—
AMELIA.
Unhappy—
ELOISA.
My tender mother, on her bed of death,
Heard the confession of my nuptial vow,
And just ere she expir'd—breath'd forth her blessing.
O had she liv'd, she would have pleaded for me!
AMELIA.
How dear was such a mother!
ELOISA.
Dear, and good—
Too good indeed for hapless Eloisa!
24
Prepar'd to take me into Germany,
That he might wed me to some potent prince.
I therefore was compell'd to avow the truth,
And on my knees to supplicate forgiveness.
“O let me stay,” I cried, “with my lov'd Delmance;
“I ask for nothing more.”
AMELIA.
Could he resist you?
ELOISA.
He had me privately convey'd away,
At dead of night, ere I could write to Delmance,
And brought me to these unrelenting women,
With charge to treat me with severity.
A short time after, I became a mother:
But I was deem'd a frail one, and my child
Offspring of shame; for, in his bitter rage,
My father said, I'd forfeited my honour.
For this I've languish'd many a tedious year,
Lost to the world, abandon'd by the skies.
But now, though it be strange, my woes seem lighten'd—
Your presence surely yields me consolation.
AMELIA.
Thy plaintive accents penetrate my soul,
Where true affection mingles with respect.—
Yet think not I am sordid in my tears;
25
Tho' thus I also shall be punish'd.
ELOISA.
How!
You punish'd also thus? Eternal mercy!
AMELIA.
Such is the fate I must expect, unless
My tongue shall utter vows which I abhor.
ELOISA.
And are your cruel parents leagu'd against you?
AMELIA.
I do not know my parents!—
ELOISA.
Have you not prov'd a mother's kind protection?
Ah! then I pity you.
AMELIA.
Can you forget
Your own afflictions thus to mourn for me?
Methinks they should have made your heart obdurate.
ELOISA.
No—they have made me more compassionate;
Adversity, alas! must teach us kindness—
Prosperity's unfeeling and severe.
26
And is there not amid these horrid cells
One sympathizing female to console you?
ELOISA.
She who at first brought me my daily food,
Was harsh and arrogant—but now another,
Mild and benign, performs the regular task,
And sometimes I've observ'd the silent tear
Steal down her cheek—nay, she has sav'd my life,
If I can call it life, by better nourishment
And gentler treatment—Only Heav'n has known it,
And Heav'n, I trust, will be her recompence!
AMELIA.
How can you thus alone employ your hours?
ELOISA.
By thinking on my husband and my daughter.
AMELIA.
And is that husband's memory still so dear?
ELOISA.
Yes; more than ever lov'd, than ever honour'd.
AMELIA.
How has your love surviv'd such cruel pains?
27
How could I e'er forget my Delmance! if
A moment were unoccupied by him,
I should be desolate; at present dead,
I live on what is pass'd—and then our child,
The pledge of early faith, is mingled with
The fond reflection—Hapless girl! torn from me
The instant of thy birth, to this dark tomb
Thou never hast been brought to bless my sight!
AMELIA.
What! are you ignorant of a husband's fate,
And of a daughter's too?—
ELOISA.
Of both—tho' now I deem myself a widow—
And for my unprotected child!—she was
Conceiv'd in sorrow, and in anguish born;
Then ravish'd from me by these ruthless nuns,
E'en from my very bosom—I remember
That day of horror was the ninth of June.
AMELIA.
O Providence! then first I saw the light.
ELOISA.
Where, where?
AMELIA.
Within this convent.
28
And your age?
AMELIA.
Seventeen.
ELOISA.
Your name?
AMELIA.
Amelia.
ELOISA.
O! you are,
You are my child!—I claim you for my own.
AMELIA.
And thou'rt my mother!
[Falling on the neck of Eloisa.
ELOISA.
Yes, thy name, Amelia,
Is that my mother bore, now doubly dear.
I begg'd those savage nuns would give it thee—
And they assented, while my bursting tears
Rain'd on thy cherub cheek.—
AMELIA.
O blissful moment!—false, inhuman Abbess!
29
Who fled, and left me here, the child of shame!
ELOISA.
The Heav'ns have heard my pray'rs—my woes are ended.
AMELIA.
Have you, my mother, for so long a time,
Endur'd these torments?
ELOISA.
They are all forgotten.—
Come, let me press thee to my raptur'd heart—
Thy father, Delmance, is alive in thee.
Such his expressive countenance—My treasure!
Thou 'rt here—I have thee fast—and I will hold thee
Till my last pulse—this, this is ecstasy!
Enter Isaura.
ISAURA.
Amelia, hasten from this dreary scene.
ELOISA.
You shall not tear her from me.
AMELIA.
She's my mother.
30
Your mother!
AMELIA.
Yes, beyond all doubt.
ISAURA.
If so,
Your woes will only be more terrible—
Archbishop Fenelon is now arriv'd.
AMELIA.
Heav'n then inspires my heart with hope.
ISAURA.
What mean you?
AMELIA.
I will fly to him, tell him all—implore—
Compel him to be just and merciful.
ISAURA.
How can you hence escape?
AMELIA.
'Tis you must aid me.
ISAURA.
To-morrow he will come to approve your vows.
31
Nay, speak not of to-morrow—view my mother.
ISAURA.
Reflect upon the danger.
AMELIA.
Nature scorns it.
ISAURA.
Tow'rds evening, by a secret door, perhaps—
AMELIA.
What! wait till evening?
ISAURA.
Else you'll be discover'd!—
The garden wall that joins the street—
AMELIA.
Is not so very high, but I'll spring over it.
ELOISA.
Think on thy mother, think on Eloisa!
And O! preserve thy life for me, my child!
AMELIA.
Since I have found thee on this happy day,
'Twill be in all things prosperous!
32
Wait awhile.
AMELIA.
Be comforted—you shall be quickly freed
From these degrading chains—Lead on, Isaura!
[Exeunt Amelia and Isaura, and the scene closes.
SCENE—The Archbishop's Palace.
Enter Fenelon and Delmance.
Fenelon.
Nay, Delmance, think not I can e'er forget
Our early, infant friendship.
DELMANCE.
O! if you
Can cherish the remembrance, how must I,
Who feel it honour?
FENELON.
Pray, no more of that—
A prelate's honour is humanity:
Nor shall the flock committed to my care,
Find me a pastor negligent or harsh.—
33
Wipe from the widow's cheek her falling tears,
And be the orphan's comforter—now, indeed,
Expansive pity settles on yourself;
Your woes affect me deeply.
DELMANCE.
Generous friend!
I fear'd to tell my weakness, fear'd to offend
Your holy ear with a sad tale of love.
FENELON.
No shame attends on virtuous love; it is
The first, best gift of Providence to man.
DELMANCE.
A life of gratitude could ill requite
Your fond indulgence and desire to soothe me.—
But O! the loss of her whom I deplore,
Cannot be banish'd from my memory
By pity or by time—
FENELON.
Yet bear with patience—
DELMANCE.
Awhile I sought amid the toils of war,
And in the front of danger, to dispel
34
Of battle, nor its thunders, could control
The still, small voice of Nature;—cruel Death
Shun'd my embrace.—
FENELON.
Yield not to such despair!
For often, from the centre of affliction,
Shoots forth a vivifying flame of joy,
And Heav'n, by secret means, unknown to mortals,
Sends comfort to the agitated soul.
These are the words of Fenelon.—'Tis true,
Your heart is shipwreck'd on a barren shore,
And all around seems desolate and drear;
But a bright morn may rise, and fairest scenes
Expand themselves before you—flow'rs of peace
May unexpected spring beneath your feet.
DELMANCE.
Ah! no—the midnight darkness of my mind
Can ne'er be chas'd by any ray of hope;
To think on what has been, suffer what is,
Remains alone for me—But one approaches—
A nun—novitiate—
FENELON.
One who seems distress'd!
35
AMELIA.
My lord! permit a wretched maid—
FENELON.
Why weep you?
AMELIA.
I would inform you—
FENELON.
Of some slight fault perhaps,
Or of some crime to which you are the victim.
DELMANCE.
To you alone she wishes to reveal
Whate'er it be—I therefore will retire.
[Exit Delmance.
FENELON.
Be confident; fear nothing.—
AMELIA.
The unfortunate—
FENELON.
Are all my family; I am their father.
36
On my knees—
FENELON.
Rise—you should only kneel to Heav'n.
AMELIA.
Alas!
My feeble voice expires upon my lips.
FENELON.
This natural timidity affects me—
Say, what has brought you hither?
AMELIA.
Much affliction—
I fly a hated cloister.
FENELON.
You have been
To blame—
AMELIA.
Despair must expiate my offence.
FENELON.
Perchance the rigour of eternal vows
Makes your young heart revolt?
37
It does indeed
Revolt at tyranny, but 'tis not for
Myself I now would plead—
FENELON.
For whom then?—quickly—
AMELIA.
For a poor suff'ring lady, who may boast
Illustrious blood, and whose misfortune is
To have been my mother.
FENELON.
Tell me of her woes,
And I will haste to succour her—in truth,
Her frailty shall not have reproach, but pardon.
AMELIA.
Nay, now you err, my lord! she is not frail—
The lady Eloisa is a widow—
At least, she so thro' fear reputes herself—
The virtuous relict of lord Delmance.—
FENELON.
How!
But this is strange— [aside]
—Joyful discovery!
Say where she is, I promise to relieve her—
This agony o'erpow'rs you.—
38
Blessings on you!—
In the dark dungeon of a convent, buried,
She has mourn'd for sev'nteen years.
FENELON.
And can this be?
Base policy! unequall'd cruelty!—
Wait a few moments in the adjoining hall,
I will be there anon—but I must first
Speak with a friend on matters of import.—
Then shall you lead me to the dreary scene,
And give your suff'ring parent, liberty.
[Exit Amelia.
Is my lord Delmance there? I fain would see him.—
Enter Delmance.
No more submit to irreligious grief,
Nor e'er mistrust the ways of Providence!
Methinks you yet have happiness in store.
DELMANCE.
The joys that I have lost cannot return!
FENELON.
Perhaps they may!
DELMANCE.
Ah, no—impossible!
39
My languid life is fading fast away,
And, like a shrub that prematurely withers,
I soon shall sink into the dust.
FENELON.
Your woes
Shall not endure.
DELMANCE.
What! can I e'er forget
The faithful pangs that rend my tortur'd breast?—
There is no hope for me!
FENELON.
Yes, there is hope:
She, whose imagin'd death you so lament—
DELMANCE.
How! say'st thou?
FENELON.
Is alive.
DELMANCE.
Can it be true?
O let me spring with lightning swiftness to her,
And strain her to my heartstrings—yet, alas!
This must be some illusion of the brain!
40
'Tis verity—but check these sudden transports,
Nor die of too much joy—you're still a husband;
Nay more, a father—Eloisa lives
In Cambray—
DELMANCE.
With my child—O boundless rapture!
Look forth, bright sun, and view the happiest man
That ever trod this earth—but are you sure?
FENELON.
The beauteous novice, whom you just beheld,
Is Eloisa's daughter, and your child.
DELMANCE.
Say! am I not in Heav'n?—'twas potent instinct
Entranc'd my senses as I gaz'd upon her.
FENELON.
For many a year, in sad imprisonment,
Has Eloisa wept—by the harsh mandates
Of over-zealous and mistaken nuns;
But all shall now be well.—
DELMANCE.
And did my child
Come hither to implore for Eloisa?
The pray'rs of innocence prevail.—But, ah!
41
Base superstition! mockery of religion!
Inhuman monsters! yet 'tis past away—
And joy disperses every angry thought.
Let us be gone—delay were madness to me.
FENELON.
I will attend thee now—but O! beware,
Nor rush too suddenly upon her sight:
It might prove fatal—rather wait awhile
In readiness, until I have prepar'd
Her agitated mind to meet her husband.
DELMANCE.
Considerate Fenelon, your word controls me.
FENELON.
Your lovely daughter, who attends our coming
In the next chamber, is to be our guide.
But do not yet embrace her, or make known
You are her father, till a little time
Permit it safely.—Delmance, trust in Heav'n!
[Exeunt.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
| Fenelon : or, The Nuns of Cambray | |