University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Before the castle of Rasinga. Enter Ehleypoolie, meeting Mihdoony and two officers of the chieftain's household.
Ehley.
Well met, my comrades! I have words for you.

Mih.
We doubt it not; thou'rt bountiful in words.

1st offi.
Thou never wast a niggard of such treasure.

Ehley.
Ay, but the words which ye shall now receive,
Are not the passing ware of daily traffic,
But such as in each list'ner's fancy wakes
Responding sounds, such, as from twisted shell
On sea-beach found, comes to the bended ear
Of wand'ring child; sounds strange and full of omen.

Mih.
What! evil omen? storms and hurricanes?

Ehley.
Fy on't! A stirring, tinkling, hopeful sound:
The ring of scatter'd largess, sweeter far
Than pipe, or chord, or chant of forest birds:
The sound of mummery and merriment:
The sound—
But wherefore stare ye on me thus?
List: I will tell you what concerns us all.

Mih.
Out with it then! for it concerns us all
To be no more tormented with thy folly.

Ehley.
Our Lord Rasinga wills, that we, brave mates,
With fifty armed followers and their followers,
Shall be in readiness by early dawn,
To march in goodly order to the mountains.

1st offi.
I like not mountain warfare.

2d offi.
No, nor I.

Mih.
To force our toilsome way through thick rank woods,
With bleeding limbs drained by a hundred leeches!

Ehley.
Fy, lazy cowards! shrink ye from adventures
Which gentle lady, in her palanquin,
Will share with you?

Mih.
A gentle lady, sayst thou?

Ehley.
Yes, ye dull dolts, I say so.—Brave Rasinga
Has with one wife, for a good term of years,
(Lulled by some charm of sorcery) been satisfied.
It is good time that he, like other chiefs,
Should have a first sultana and a second,
Or any such arrangement as becomes
His age and dignity. So, in gay trim
With our arm'd band, we by to-morrow's dawn
Must be in readiness.—These are your orders,
Sent by our lord through me.

Mih.
Who is this honour'd lady of the mountains?

Ehley.
Caust thou not guess?—The aged chieftain's daughter,
Whose petty hold was sack'd by daring robbers,
Not many weeks gone by. He and his daughter
Were dragg'd as prisoners from their ruin'd home.
In this sad plight, our chief, with Samarkoon,
The valiant brother of his present wife,
And a good strength of spearmen, met them; charged
The bootied spoilers, conquer'd and released
Their wretched prey.—And ye may well suppose
The lady's veil, amidst the strange confusion,
Could not be clutch'd so close, but that Rasinga
Might see the lovely face it should have cover'd.

Mih.
O now I understand it; for, methinks,
Rasinga had not else brought to his house
Another bride to share it with Artina.

[Samarkoon, who has entered behind them unperceived, and overheard part of the preceding dialogue, now rushes forward indignantly.
Sam.
Ye foul-tongued knaves, who so belie your master!
What words are these which ye have dared to utter?

Ehley.
My lord, I crave your pardon; I have utter'd
The orders which Rasinga charged me with,
That these (pointing to Mihdoony and officers)
should straight prepare an armed band
To take their way to-morrow for the mountains.

Sam.
To bring a bride from thence? Speak out, I charge thee,
Thou lying knave! Went not thy words thus far?

Ehley.
If they be true or lying words, I wot not.
What may within a guarded palanquin
Be from the mountains brought, I may but guess.
Perhaps some speaking bird or jabb'ring ape.

Sam.
(striking him).
Take that—and that—thou false audacious slave:
Dar'st thou to answer me with mockery? [Exit Ehleypoolie sulkily, followed by Mihdoony and officers.
Manet Samarkoon.

Base sordid reptiles! for some paltry largess
And passing revelry, they would right gladly
See peace and order and domestic bliss
To misery and wild confusion changed.
Hateful suggestions! base and vague conjectures,
That vulgar minds on slight foundation rear!
All false!—
And yet they are upon my heart
Like the compressure of a coiled boa,
Loathly, but irresistible.
A bride!
It cannot be!—although her unveil'd face
Was of surprising beauty—Oh how lovely!
Yet he bestow'd on her but frigid praise,
And still continued to repress my ardour,
Whene'er I spoke of the fair mountain maid,
With silent stern reserve.—Is this like love?
It is not natural.
Ah! but it is;
It is too natural,—deep subtle nature.
How was my idiot soul so far beguiled
That I ne'er thought of this?
Yes, yes, he loves her!
Loves her whom I so well—so dearly love,
That every female image but her own
Is from my heart effaced, like curling mists
That, rising from the vale, cling for awhile
To the tall cliff's brown breast, till the warm sun
Dissolves them utterly.—'Tis so; e'en she
Whom I have thought of, dreamt of, talk'd of,—ay,
And talk'd to, though in absence, as a thing
Present and conscious of my words, and living,
Like the pure air around me, every where.
(After a pause.)
And he must have this creature of perfection!
It shall not be, whatever else may be!
As there is blood and manhood in this body,
It shall not be!
And thou, my gentle sister,
Must thy long course of wedded love and honour
Come to such end!—Thy noble heart will break,
When love and friendly confidence are fled.
Thou art not form'd to sit within thy bower
Like a dress'd idol in its carved alcove,
A thing of silk and gems and cold repose:
Thy keen but generous nature—Shall it be?
I'll sooner to the trampling elephant
Lay down this mortal frame, than see thee wrong'd.
(After a considerable pause.)
Nay, nay! I am a madman in my rage.
The words of that base varlet may be false.
Good Montebesa shall resolve my doubts.
Her son confides to her his secret thoughts:
To her I'll go, and be relieved from torment,
Or know the worst at once.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

The apartment of Montebesa.
Sabawatté is discovered at work and singing.
Enter Montebesa, as the song is concluded.
Mont.
Did I not hear thee singing, as I came,
The song my dear Artina loves to hear?

Sab.
E'en so, good lady; many a time I sang it
When first I was attendant in her bower;
Ere, at your own desire, and for my honour,
She did resign me to your higher service.

Mont.
Sing it no more: alas! she thought not then
Of its contain'd allusions to a fate
Which now abides herself.

Sab.
No, not her fate; you surely mean not so:
She is a happy wife, the only wife
Of brave Rasinga, honour'd and beloved.

Mont.
She was and is as yet his only wife.

Sab.
As yet his only wife! and think you then
She will not so continue?

Mont.
Sabawatté,
It grieves me much to tell thee what perforce
Must soon be known to all; my son Rasinga
Hath set his heart upon a younger bride,
Perhaps a fairer too.

Sab.
(eagerly).
No; not a fairer.
I'd peril life and limb upon the bet,
She is not half so fair, nor half so good.

Mont.
Be not so hasty.—Why dost thou regard it
As such a grievous thing? She has already
Enjoy'd his undivided love much longer
Than other dames have done with other lords,
And reason teaches she should now give place.

Sab.
Reason and cruelty sort ill together;
A loorie haunting with a spotted pard.
Ah! woe the day! Why have you told me this?

Mont.
Because I would upon your sadden'd brow
Print traces that may lead our poor Artina
To question thee; and thou, who art her friend,
Canst by degrees, with gentle, wise precaution,
Reveal to her what she must needs be told.

Sab.
I cannot: put not such a task on me,
I do implore your goodness!—No, I cannot.

Mont.
Hush, hush! I hear the footsteps of a man,
But not Rasinga.—It is Samarkoon;
I know his rapid tread.—Be wise; be silent;
For he awhile must live in ignorance. Enter Samarkoon, and Sabawatté retires to some distance.

A happy morning to you, youthful kinsman!

Sam.
As it may prove, good lady: happy morning
Oft leads to woeful eve, ay, woeful noon.

Mont.
These are strange sombre words; what is the matter?
Why dost thou look both sorrowful and stern?

Sam.
I have good cause, if that which I have heard
Be aught but a malignant, hateful tale,
On mere conjecture founded. Answer me,
If thou knowst nothing of a num'rous train
In preparation, by Rasinga's orders,
To fetch home to his house a fair young bride?
There's no such thing.—Speak—speak! I will believe thee;
For if to thee unknown, there's no such thing.—
[A pause, he looking inquisitively in her face.
Thou dost not speak; thou dost not answer me;
There's trouble in thine eye.—A with'ring curse
Light on his heartless heart, if this be true!

Mont.
Brave Samarkoon! thou art not wise, so fiercely
To question me of that which well may be
Without my knowledge;—that which, if it be,
Nor thou nor I have any power to alter.

Sam.
Which if it be! that if betrays an answer;
A shameful answer, shunning open words.
Dear, dear Artina! thou hast climb'd already
The sunny side of Doombra's mountain ridge
And now with one short step must pass the bounds
Dividing ardent heat from chilling clouds
With drenching mist surcharged.
So suddenly
To bring this change upon her! Cruel craft!
He knows that it will break her tender heart,
And serve his fatal purpose.

Mont.
Frantic man!
Thou art unjust, ungenerous, unwise;
For should Rasinga—no uncommon act,
Take to his princely bower a second bride,
Would not Artina still be held in honour,
Her children cherish'd, and their rank secured?

Sam.
Such honour as unfeeling worldlings give
To fall'n deserted merit, she will have;
And such security as should-be heirs,
Who stand i' the way of younger, petted minions,
Find in the house of an estranged sire,
Her children will receive. Alas, alas!
The very bonds of soul-devoted love,
That did so long entwine a husband's heart,
For her own life the cord of execution
Will surely prove. Detested cruelty!
But is it so? My head is all confusion,
My heart all fire;—I know not what thou saidst.

Mont.
Indeed, young kinsman, thou art now unfit
To hold discourse on such a wayward subject.
She whom thou lovst so dearly as a brother,
I as a mother do most truly love.
Let this suffice thee, and retire awhile,
For I expect Artina, and 'tis meet
She be not now o'erwhelm'd with thy distress.
Ha! she is here already; tripping lightly
With sparkling eyes, like any happy child,
Who bears away the new-robb'd rock-bird's spoil.

Enter Artina, gaily, with an embroidered scarf of many colours in her hand, and running up to Montebesa.
Art.
Dear mother, look at this! such tints, such flowers!
The spirits of the Peak have done this work;
Not hands of flesh and blood. Nay, look more closely.
And thou too, Samarkoon. How cam'st thou here?
I pray you both admire the beauteous gift—
Rasinga's gift—which I have just received.

Sam.
(eagerly).
Received from his own hand, so lately too?

Art.
E'en now. But did I say, from his own hand?
He sent it to me, the capricious man!
Ay, and another present, some days since,
Was also sent. Ay, so it was indeed.

Sam.
Was he not wont to bring such gifts himself?

Art.
With what a face of gravity thou askst
This most important question! Never mind:
I can devise a means to be revenged
For all this seeming lack of courtesy.

Mont.
Devise a means to be revenged! and how?

Art.
I'll dress old nurse as my ambassadress,
With robe, and veil, and pall majestical,
And she shall thank him in a tiresome speech,
(He hates her formal prosing)—that I trow,
Will cure him of such princely modes of sending
His gifts to me. But ye are wondrous grave.
What ails thee, brother? Speak, good Montebesa;
I fear he is not well.

Mont.
He is not very well.

Art.
(taking his hand affectionately).
Indeed he is not.

Sam.
(turning away his face).
A passing fit of fever has disturb'd me,
But mind it not, Artina.

Art.
Nay, nay, but I will mind it, gentle brother.
And I have learnt this morning cheering news,
Good news for thee and all sick folk beside.

Mont.
We want good news; what is it thou hast heard?

Art.
De Creda, who, by physic magical,
Did cure Rasinga of his fearful malady,
When at the point of death, is just arrived.
Where he hath been these two long years and more,
There's not a creature knows. Perhaps i' the moon,
If magic knows the way to climb so high.

Mont.
Perhaps in his own land.

Art.
Ay, certes, Europe is a wondrous kingdom,
And well worth visiting, which sends forth men
So gifted and so good.

Sam.
I pray thee say not men, but only man.
Hath it e'er sent another like to him?
Yet wherefore came he to these happier regions
With such a wicked crew?

Art.
Nay, blame him not:
His fate hath been disastrous and sad,
As I have heard him say; and, woe is me!
Misfortune is not dainty in associates.

Sam.
Associates! Solitude, in trackless deserts,
Where locusts, ants, and lizards poorly thrive,—
On the bare summit of a rugged peak,
Where birds of prey in dusky circles wing
The troubled air with loud and clam'rous din,
Were to an honest heart endurable,
Rather than such associates.

Art.
Ha! does this rouse thee so? Yet, ne'ertheless,
I'll send for him, and he will make thee well.

Sam.
I'm well if thou art so, my gentle sister.

Art.
And I am so; how canst thou doubt it, brother,
Being so loving and so well beloved.

Sam.
O yes! thou art indeed beloved most dearly,
Both thee and thine, and so shall ever be,
While life gives motion to thy brother's heart.

Art.
A brother's heart!—How so? there is a meaning,—
A meaning and a mystery in this.
Tears, too, are on my hand, dropt from thine eyes;—
O, speak, and tell the worst!

Sam.
I may not now.
I pray thee, let me go; I cannot speak.

[Breaks from her and exit. Then Sabawatté comes forward and takes hold of her robe with an action of soothing tenderness.
Art.
(to Sabawatté).
Dost thou, too, look on me with pity? Speak;
I charge thee speak, and tell the fearful cause,
Since no one else will do it.

Mont.
My dear Artina, thou shalt know the truth,
Which can no longer be conceal'd; but listen,
Listen with patience to the previous story,
And thou wilt see how fated, strange events
Have caused within Rasinga's noble heart,
E'en he who has so long and dearly loved thee,
A growing possibility of change.

Art.
If he is changed, why should I know the rest?
All is comprised in this.

[With actions of despair.
Mont.
Nay, do not wring thy hands, but listen to me.
Sit on this seat and call up strength to hear me.
Thou giv'st no heed to me; thou dost not hear.

Art.
(in a low voice, after a pause).
I'm faint and very cold; mine ears ring strangely;
But I will try to do whate'er thou wilt.
[After another pause.
There is a story then: I'll hear it now.

Mont.
Rasinga, as thou knowst, did, short while since,
A mountain chief and his fair daughter rescue
From ruffian robbers. In its youthful charms
He saw the virgin's unveiled face. Alas!
A sight so rare he could not see unmoved.
Restless and troubled, like a stricken wretch
Whom sorcery possesses, for awhile
He strove against his passion, but at length
Nature gave way; and thou mayst guess what follows.

Art.
What follows! What has followed?

Mont.
Our gates must soon receive this youthful bride;
And thou, dear daughter, must prepare thyself
To bear some natural change.

[Artina faints away in the arms of Sabawatté.
Sab.
I knew it would be so! Oh, my dear mistress!
These cruel words have dealt the fatal blow.

Mont.
Be not afraid of this infirmity,
Which, though it seems appalling, brings relief,
E'en like Niwané, when the virtuous soul
Hath run, through many a change, its troubled course.
Let us remove her gently to my couch!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The apartments of Rasinga.
He enters, followed by Ehleypoolie and Mihdoony, and is speaking as he enters.
Ras.
(to Ehleypoolie).
Thou hast done well.

Ehley.
I am not given to boasting,
Yet I must say all things are so arranged,
That never bride's array, on such short notice,
Was better order'd, or for gallant show,
Or for security.

Ras.
'Tis rich and splendid?

Ehley.
Our palanquin, with all its colour'd streamers,
Will shine above the guards' encircling heads,
Like any crested mancka, proudly perch'd
Upon the summit of her bushy knoll.

Ras.
And have ye pioneers to clear its way?

Ehley.
Ay, pioneers who through a tangled thicket
Make room as quickly as the supple trunk
Of a wild elephant; whilst forest birds,
From their rent haunts dislodged, fly up and wheel
In mazy circles, raising clam'rous cries,
And casting noon-day shadows, like a cloud,
On the green woods beneath.

Mih.
In truth, my lord, he makes it well appear
He is not given to boasting.

Ras.
(smiling).
Not a whit!
As meek and modest as a Padur's child.
And having done so much for show and speed,
Good Ehleypoolie, I will take for granted
The chiefest point of all, security,
Has not been overlook'd; for mountain robbers
May yet be lurking near some narrow pass.

Ehley.
Well, let them lurk, and burst upon us too;
'Twill be as though a troop of mowing monkeys,
With antic mimic motions of defiance,
Should front the brinded tiger and his brood.
Full soon, I trow, their hinder parts they turn,
Lank and unseemly, to the enemy,
In scamp'ring haste, to gain the nearest shelter.
It were good sport if they should dare to stand.

Mih.
You see, my lord, he is in all things perfect.

Ras.
I see it plainly. Thanks for all thy pains,
Brave Ehleypoolie.

Ehley.
Shall we take with us
The pipes and doulas that have hung so long
In the recess of Dame Artina's garden?
Of all your instruments there are not any
That sound so loud and clear.

Ras.
(sternly).
No, no! I charge thee,
Let nothing there be changed. Thy witless words
Have struck upon my heart a dismal note,
Depressing all its life and buoyancy.
Alas! my joy is like the shimm'ring brightness
Of moving waves, touch'd by the half-risen moon,
Tracing her narrow pathway on the deep:
Between each brighten'd ridge black darkness lies,
le far on either side, the wat'ry waste
Spreads dim, and vague, and cheerless.

Mih.
If such thy thoughts, dost thou repent thy purpose?

Ras.
Not so; there's ecstacy in those bright gleams;
Ay, and though cross'd with darkness black as midnight,
I will enjoy this momentary radiance. Enter a Slave, in haste.

What brings thee here with such a staring face?

Slave.
The lady's coming; she is close at hand.

Ras.
Ha! from her father's house, unsent for, come?

Slave.
No, not that lady, sir; it is Artina.

Ras.
(much disturbed).
I thought my mother would have spared me this.
Is Montebesa with her?

Slave.
No, my lord;
She has her children with her.

Ras.
Wretched moment!
The sight of them will change my strength to cowardice:
What shall I do?

Ehley.
I'll quickly run and say that you are busy,
And cannot see her.

Ras.
(pulling Ehleypoolie back as he is about to go out).
Restrain thy heartless zeal; it is most odious.
Shall she be so debarr'd from entrance here,
Whose presence was a blessing and a grace! Enter Artina, leading her youngest child, and followed by Samar, leading his little sister. Rasinga hastens to meet her, and leads her in silence to the principal seat, at the same time motioning to Ehleypoolie and Mihdoony to withdraw, who immediately leave the apartment.

Here, take this seat, Artina.

Art.
No, my lord;
I come not here to sit; I come to kneel,
As now beseems a scorn'd forsaken wife,
Who pleads with strong affection for her children:
Who pleads in painful memory of love
Which thou for many years hast lavish'd on her,
Till, in the gladness of a foolish heart,
She did believe that she was worthy of it.

Ras.
Yes, dear Artina, thou wast worthy of it!
Thou wast, and art, and shalt be loved and honour'd
While there is life within Rasinga's bosom.
Why didst thou think it could be otherwise,
Although another mate within my house
May take her place, to be with thee associated,
As younger sister with an elder born?
Such union is in many houses found.

Art.
I have no skill in words—no power to reason:
How others live I little care to know:
But this I feel, there is no life for me,
No love, no honour, if thy alter'd heart
Hath put me from it for another mate.
Oh, woe is me! these children on thy knees,
That were so oft caress'd, so dearly cherish'd,
Must then divide thy love with younger fav'rites,
Of younger mother born? Alas! alas!
Small will the portion be that falls to them.

Ras.
Nay, say not so, Artina; say not so.

Art.
I know it well. Thou thinkest now, belike,
That thou wilt love them still; but ah! too soon
They'll be as things who do but haunt thy house,
Lacking another home, uncheer'd, uncared for
And who will heed their wants, will soothe their sorrow,
When their poor mother moulders in the grave,
And her vex'd spirit, in some other form,
Is on its way to gain the dreamless sleep?
Kneel, Samar, kneel! thy father loved thee first,
In our first happy days.—Wilt thou not, boy?
Why dost thou stand so sullen and so still?

Sam.
Ne loves us not.

Art.
Nay, nay, but he will love us.
Down on thy knees! up with thy clasped hands!
Rasinga, O Rasinga! did I think
So to implore thy pity—I and mine
So to implore thy pity, and in vain!

[Sinks on the ground exhausted with agitation.
Ras.
(raising her gently in his arms).
Dearest
Artina! still most dear to me:
Thy passionate affections waste thy strength;
Let me support thee to another chamber,
More fitting for retirement and for rest.
Come also, children.—Come, my little playmates!

Sam.
We're not thy playmates now.

Ras.
What dost thou say?

Sam.
Thou dost not speak and smile and sport with us
As thou wast wont: we're not thy playmates now.

Ras.
Thou art a fearless knave to tell me so.

[Exeunt, Artina leaning on her husband, and the children following.

SCENE IV.

A retired grove near the castle of Rasinga.
Enter Samarkoon and a forest freebooter.
Sam.
Now, stop we here; in this sequester'd spot,
We may with freedom commune on the purpose
For which I would engage thy speedy aid.
Thou knowest who I am; and dost remember
Where, how, and when I last encounter'd thee?

Free.
I do, my lord; but though thou findst me thus,
Alone and slightly arm'd, be well assured
I will defend my life and liberty,
Against thyself (looking suspiciously around)
or any ambush'd band,
To the last bloody push of desperation.

Sam.
I know thou wilt; it is thy desp'rate prowess
That makes me now, all robber as thou art,
And lurking here disguised, as well I guess,
For no good end,—to seek thy amity.

Free.
My amity! the noble Samarkoon—
A chief of rank, and brother of Rasinga!

Sam.
Strong passion by strong provocation roused,
Is not a scrup'lous chooser of its means.
How many of these armed desperadoes,
From whose fell hands we did so lately rescue
That petty chieftain and his child, couldst thou
Within short time assemble?

Free.
Few remain
Of those who once, at sound of my shrill horn,
With spear and bow in hand, and quiver'd back
The deadly arrows bearing, issued forth
From cave or woody jungle, fierce but stealthy,
Like glaring, tawny pards,—few, few remain.

Sam.
But some remain?

Free.
Ay, some.

Sam.
And they are brave?

Free.
No braver bandits e'er in deadly strife
With man or tiger grappled.

Sam.
Enough! hie quickly to thy forest haunts,
And near the narrow pass where ye sustain'd
The onset of Rasinga, wait my coming
With all the armed mates thou canst assemble;
And there I'll join thee with a trusty band.
Do this, and thou shalt be rewarded richly.

Free.
I will; nor do I doubt the recompense
From such a noble chief will be most bountiful.

Sam.
Tis well; be speedy, secret, faithful,—brave,
I need not say. So let us separate,
Nor stay for further parley; time is precious.

Free.
I will but go to leave an offering
At the Wiharé yonder; then with speed
Wend to our woods.—But wherefore smilest thou?

Sam.
Dost thou regard such duties?

Free.
Ay, good sooth!
Who has more need of favour from the gods
Than he who leads a life of lawless peril?

[Exit.
Sam.
(exultingly).
Ay, now, Rasinga, set thy costly chamber,
While poor Artina sighs and weeps unheeded,
In gallant order for thy fair new bride!
Another bridegroom and another chamber
Abide her which thou little thinkest of.

[Exit.