University of Virginia Library

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.