University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Frankfort.—Enter Conrad, slowly and thoughtfully.
Con.
I have an eddying sorrow in my heart!
It must be done!—it must be done, as sworn!
I know too much of speed—to linger here!
Here is a hand, and here is, too, a heart!—
A kinder, never lov'd, or had a friend.—
A prouder, never beat a human breast!
With these two friends, in purpose bound, I'll make
A breach in nature, time shall never heal!
Beside this heart, sleeps virtue's warmest friend.
Within this cell, it rests in deep repose.
It counts the very pulses of my heart,
And cheers impatience on to swifter speed.
How warm it feels!—now, when I wake it hence!
[Draws his dagger.
See how its face will shine!—and I will wash
It in a human fount, all full of blood!
Then bury him, without a funeral rite,
That virtue's foes may read his epitaph!
This tongue, no more, shall sound his obsequies!
Nor wake him from his rest!—but, like his prey,
Shall live and die! upon his first resolve!
Now, when I wake him, thus,—'twill be, to sheathe
It in the foulest heart that ever beat!
I would not deign inter it in his breast,
But such an absolution sweeps away
The guilt, which dyed the name of innocence!
'Tis hard!—but these are darling energies!—
He made his bed—his fardels shall be thorns.
There is a watchman in the city, here,
Which cries loves night of hate, to actual morn!
When I must guardian be, to love's estate—
Avenge her many wrongs, with gratitude;
And stamp the traitor underneath my feet!
Thou good old friend!—my heart! it must be done!
Wake up thy rivulets, and feed my soul;
And make a freshet, like Eudora's tears!
Now, balance consequence with insult given;
And in the scales of everlasting love,
Sweep down the wasting banks of sandy life,
And wash seduction from creation's shore.
My country! when I look upon my land—
Mine own devoted soil, which gave me birth,
I cry out in my spirit, glorious Isle!—
Thou younger mother of the best of men!—
Where once the canebrake told the rivers flow,
The queen of Andalusia stands divine!—
I'd live a thousand years and be at rest
With thee—thou altogether lovely land!
Wer't not for that huge dam, which shoals the stream
Of all life's blessedness!—now, he shall die!
But stay—am I not wrong? She bade me kill
Him in the night!—the starless, dead of night!—
But I must probe the courage of his soul,
And meet him in the daylight, like a man.—
Enter Alver.
Who comes there? Alver, my friend! how art thou?

Alver.
Well, I thank your kindness, how art thou?

Con.
Well, I thank ye—Alver! can'st thou not tell
Me where Alonzo keeps himself, to day?

Alver.
Yes, I saw him pass the street just now—why?

Con.
You know I have been absent for some time;
I wish to see him—we were once old friends.

Alver.
Alonzo's friend? no, no! that cannot be!
I thought the villain had no friends of late.
Were I his friend, 'twould be to take his life!

Con.
Why so? Alver! my friend! thou art officious?

Alver.
I want no cameos, intaglios and jewels—
No foul, barbaric gold, enrich'd with pearl,
To make myself a frantic libertine,
And woo a wanton nymph from virtue!
To be thus filagreed with antique gems!—
[Disdainfully.
I'd rather be an owl, and hoot all night,
Than such a conscience-smitten traitor.

Con.
Hast thou a spark of hatred gainst that man?

Alver.
I'm not his friend! I need not tell thee more.
A fair outside—but when you search his heart,
There, guilt and rottenness sepulchred lie,
And crime stands pauting with stupendous guilt!
The offspring of his promise to Eudora.
Mark me! a man, who lives a foe to virtue,
Is no friend to man!—traitor! coward! dog!
That man would steal your soul at dead of night!
That man, who would deceive an orphan girl,
By blushes—silvered over with his tears—
Would rob a widow, and betray his father!
If smaller hearts hold in their smaller deeds,
Then larger hearts hold in them greater crimes;
And the incentive in the last, is greatest!
Therefore, I say, beware of such a man!
A Cataline—a Nero is a brighter man.

Con.
Thou art incensed against that man!—why so?
Thou would'st impugn him with thy very wrath!

Alver.
Since thy return, thou hast not heard the news,
Which float about, like chaff upon the wind,
Which way you choose to blow it.

Con.
Why? that's strange!

Alver.
'Tis not more strange than true!—didst thou not know,
About one year ago, this same Alonzo.
Courted fair Eudora?

Con.
No; I did not.

Alver.
The villain kept it from the world, for fear
His devilish deeds might come to light.

Con.
How so?
What harvest has he sown to reap thy curses?

Alver.
Go down in yonder vale, and thou wilt see.
Look at that eye, which was unto thy soul,
A living star!—which roll'd within its orb,
And would have gazed a wild gazelle away—
Now shining in an atmosphere of tears!
The sorrows of Elvira are too great!

Con.
Where is Elvira?—has she left this place?

Alver.
Yes, long ago; and made the solitudes
Her home.

Con.
Has he exposed her goods to sale?
He had her property at his control,
To which Elvira's daughter was an heir.

Alver.
Ah! so much the worse;—I did not know that.
The treacherous devil, then, has ruined them both.
You tramp the adder—see if he will bite!
To try a man, place money in his hands,
Then mount him on the steed of lenity;
And when he has the reins, if you perceive
He guides him well,—with care and honesty,—
Then set him down as one who may be trusted;
But when you see him sell his neighbour's horse,
Upon a breach of trust, you shun that man.
He is a traitor!—thus he sold Eudora.

Con.
What has he done?

Alver.
Promised to marry her.

Con.
Is that all? that cannot break her heart.

Alver.
This cannot break it: 'tis already broken.

Con.
Perhaps some light may chase away her gloom?

Alver.
You cannot mend a broken egg.

Con.
That's true.

Alver.
Well, you can no more make her what she was.
A woman's virtue robbed, like loss of sight,
Can never be restored—and life is night!
Were he to give you all he has on earth,
'Twould only lend enchantment to the crime,
And gild destruction. Gilt wears off;
But guilt like this can never wear away.
If thou canst be her friend, 'twould please the heavens.

Con.
I be her friend? how can that be?

Alver.
Kill him!

Con.
Do that which I could not behold thee do?
There, thou hast touched the secret strings of nature.

Alver.
No less than death can ever give her peace.

Con.
How knowest thou that?

Alver.
By fathoming the crime.

Conrad
takes his hand.
Alver! thou art an honest man—I know thee!
Were I a man, who trusted men—I'd choose thee
From the world! but say no more! I'll love thee,
Though I ne'er shall see thee more!

[Shakes hands.
Alver.
Fare thee well!
[Exeunt Alver.

Con.
When Noah sent the turtle from the ark,
The first poor, honest thing, was drowned!—it died!
Elijah multiplied the widow's oil,
And, Nathan gave to David good advice.
How I love to look upon an honest man!
My heart once grew so full of love, I thought
'Twould be a better plan to trust that man.
My soul was full, to ask him to befriend me;
But such a deed as this, admits no trust!
Then, quickly, down the door of prudence shut,
And lock'd credulity in unbelief.
I love that man, as David lov'd his brother!
But he might turn out Cataline, for all.
Therefore, 'tis best to hardly trust one's self.
Who knows how soon man's nature may misgive!
And frail expectancy beguile his trust?
Where art thou, friend?—what! asleep in daylight!
[Takes out his dagger.
This bright embassador's as warm as life!
This is that guardian angel, at the gate
Of paradise, which keeps the banished out.
Ah! 'tis a ticket in a lottery—
With love, and hate, and homicide for numbers,
And when the prize is drawn, 'twill turn out blood!
And pay my way to fond Eudora's arms.
How sweet is self-congratulation's voice!
Like echoes from the sighs of those we love:
It builds a bridge across the gulf of fear,
And binds the sword of resignation on.
Have I them all? 'tis better to be sure,
[Looks at himself.
Than lose one's life from negligence—to ask
An absolution when decrees are past,
Seems begging pardon after punishment.
[Hesitates.
Now, I must think upon it for the last.
I'll do that which is best—I'll call him out.

[Goes to his office and knocks. Alonzo comes out.
Alonzo.
Conrad! is that you? Friend! how do you do?

[Shakes hands.
Con.
How do ye do, my friend? is Alonzo well?
I'm glad to see you, sir, indeed!—no news?

Alon.
None, I think, upon my word!

Con.
Ah! no news?
Well, that is strange, I do declare! no news!
Suppose we take a walk? I have some news!

[Hesitates.
Alon.
I would, but—I—I have—I must be gone—

[Starts away.
Con.
Stay—all excuse is vain! walk, or do worse.

Alon.
Do what? thou hast no hatred 'gainst a friend?

Con.
None in the world—best friend you ever had.

Alon.
Well, indeed! and I am glad to hear it.

[Trembles
Con.
Why do you tremble so? Why look so pale?
You look like you had been in some bad place?

Alon.
You have no hatred lodged in heart, for me?

Con.
Why do you ask that question?

Alon.
You look mad!
You look as if you had repressed some thought,—
Some hatred which is wont to vent—is't so?

Con.
'Tis Mexico.

Alon.
Conrad, I ask forgiveness—do not kill me!

[Kneels.
Con.
Alonzo! what's the matter? rise, you fool!
[Rises.
I said 'twas Mexico—the land—the sun—
That savage land!—the things I saw last year!

Alon.
I fear that sunny land! men's hearts grow hot
Beneath that sun.

Con.
It should be warm to friends.

Alon.
Art thou my friend? oh! could I think thee so!

Con.
Did I not tell thee so, just now?—why not?
Thou look'st as if some foregone deed beguiled thee.
Why not look up, and be a man? dost love?

Alon.
I love my wife and children—they are kind.

Con.
Hast thou a wife and children?

Alon.
Yes, 'tis true.

Con.
Eudora is thy wife?

Alon.
No; Angeline!

[Frightened.
Con.
Ah! then the people lie—they say, Eudora!

Alon.
Eudora—yes—I know!—but! I thought—

Con.
Thought what! Art thou a man? Hast thou a soul?

Alon.
I am not what I was! ah! 'tis too hard!

Con.
Thou 'rt more than thou wilt ever be again!

Alon.
You will not murder me?

[Frightened.
Con.
Why think you so?
Dost thou deserve to die? She bade me ask thee?
Thou wilt not speak, and look'st as pale as death—
Did'st thou never love Eudora?

Alon.
I did.

Con.
Why, then, not marry her?

Alon.
I could not, then!

Con.
Why not? lie not to me—I know thee, devil!
Thou hadst her moneys in thy hand, thou villain!
Why cheat her of her birthright, and thus bring
Her mother into want and sorrow!—speak?

Alon.
Oh! Conrad, do not kill me! let me live!

[Kneels.
Con.
Thou, villain! dost thou not deserve to die?

Alon.
Oh! Conrad, do not kill me—spare my life!
Didst thou not tell me, thou wert true, my friend?

Con.
I did—I thought thee honest!—thou art not!

Alon.
Oh! be my friend!—I would that I were dead!

[Weeps.
Con.
Would freely die, had'st thou a friend to kill thee?

Alon.
Oh! Conrad, spare my life!

Con.
Ah! hear how he lies!
Thou art a traitor to thyself!

Alon.
Oh! guilt!

Con.
Guilt, I think you say? thou art guilty then?
Thou prowling wolf, in clothing of a lamb!
'Twould be much better if thou had'st no wife.

Alon.
Thou wilt not kill me, Conrad?

Con.
Think on thy soul!
[Points at him.
Thou art dying with a conscience-wasting heart!
And I am sorry for thy wife and children—
How many children have you in this world?

Alon.
I have two lovely children!

Con.
Only two?

Alon.
None but two, on earth!

Con.
Then name them, if you please.

Alon.
Juliet and Anna.

Con.
Poor Juliet! and poor Anna!

Alon.
I love them.

Con.
Which dost thou love the best, of all the three?

Alon.
I have but two on earth—Juliet and Anna!

Con.
Where is Eudora?—where is she, I say?

[Raises his dagger.
Alon.
Conrad, do not kill me! I pray for life!
[Kneels.
Think of my wife and children! Spare them! O!

Con.
What! did'st thou spare Elvira, when she wept,
And mourn'd her only child?

Alon.
Have mercy on me!

[Raises his hands.
Con.
What mercy did'st thou ever grant to her?
My poor Eudora! Did'st thou heed her cries?
Who call'd upon thee, in the hour of need?
Thou art asham'd to beg for pardon now!
Did mercy ever know thy heart? now, tell me!—

[Takes him by the throat.
Alon.
I beg thee for my life!

Con.
What shall I do?
[Lets go his throat.
Did I not tell thee, that I was thy friend?

Alon.
Then, be my friend! and let me live once more!

Con.
Why did'st thou tell a lie, about thy children?
Thou shouldst be murdered in these streets,—come—rise!
We must be gone—I have a balm for thee!

[Rises.
Alon.
Indeed I cannot go—I must attend!
I should be, at this moment, with my friends.

Con.
Thou wilt be judged before to-morrow morn!
Thou wilt be chained, by devils, down in hell!

Alon.
Why say'st thou art my friend, and look'st so mad?
I cannot understand thee!—thou art mad!
I see—thy countenance is full of storms!

Con.
So my lightning kills a traitor, all is well!
If I but prove thy friend—then all is right?

Alon.
I cannot go!—I fear some harm may breed!
Thou art a different man from what I thought.
Thou art Eudora's friend!—hast seen her?

Con.
Well!

Alon.
She is mine enemy!—the worst on earth!

Con.
Hast thou not been the vilest foe to her?
Hast thou not rolled a mountain on her heart?
Hast thou not robbed her of her joys in life?
And driven her mother from the best of friends?

Alon.
Thou hast seen Eudora! and, I know it well!
I must return! I fear thee, for my life!

Con.
If thou art innocent of crime, why fear?
The truth will be thy bulwark and thy shield.
No man's afraid when he has truth about him.
Talk not philosophy!—that, I will teach.

Alon.
Art thou my friend, and wilt thou swear it now?

Con.
I swear, I am thy friend! thy strongest friend!

Alon.
Thou hast no enmity at heart? do'st love me?

Con.
Why!—dost thou not believe a friend?

Alon.
I do!

Con.
Then go with me, and I will teach thee much!

[Exeunt Conrad and Alonzo.