 | Aurelio And Miranda |  |
ACT IV.
Enter Raymond and Lorenzo.Raymond.
My heart refuses me a place of rest!
I wander like some night-enlarged spirit,
Still loth to quit the earth, tho'all that gave
A shape, an aim, a colour to my being
Is sunk into the grave. May you be happier!
Lor.
Time and my best Antonia may do much.
But my dear sister's death sits heavy on me,
And I could sink beneath my own regrets,
Did not your still superior loss arouse me,
To mitigate the sufferings of a brother.
Ray.
O my Lorenzo, horrors sore besiege me.
The day—the night, are fill'd with my despair!
All day I ponder on the heav'n I lost,
And night, like a perfidious flattering foe,
Gives me again poor Agnes to my arms;
Makes me most rich in shadowy happiness,
Which the next dawning dissipates in air.
Lor.
If comfort can be drawn from misery,
Calamity has fill'd your cup so full,
And for these wild and feverish nightly dreams,—
Ray.
Yet mark the circumstance that clothes my visions.
Last night had worn away itself in thought,
And day already dimm'd my taper's flame,
When slumber clos'd my eye-lids. I was led,
Methought, by some one in a monkish garb,
Into an antique vault, a place of burial;
Where—side-by-side, the long-forgotten bones
Of faith's pure votaries lay fair-inscrib'd.
In the mid pathway of this ghostly hall
Sat one like sorrow's queen—Her throne the grave,
And the dull pillow on the which she lean'd,
Was a new shell of death untenanted.
The coffin-lid was off—I read its plate;
It told me that my Agnes rested there.
The seeming Monk then bade me look again:
The female form, that sat upon the ground,
Lifted her head, which till then droop'd to earth,
And call'd me by my name—But, O! that voice!—
Lorenzo, 'twas your sister's—thine, my Agnes.
While from that coffin rose a cherub shape
Bright like an angel! Beams of glory burst
From his clear flesh, and such a smile effus'd
From his soft dewy eyes that I was dazzled
And fainting with delight. “Behold thy son,”
Preserv'd and found, and giv'n thee from the tomb!”
I flew to clasp them; but the agony
Burst the frail thread of visionary action,
And I awoke.
Lor.
Such are the shadowy trains,
Which fancy adds to double real griefs.
[Don Christoval without.]
Chr.
What ho! Where are you? Let me speak
with you.
Lor.
I hear Don Christoval. How ill his levity
Becomes a house like this!
Ray.
Excuse me to him.
I have not yet composure fit to see him.
[Exit.
Christoval running in.
Chris.
She's alive! She's alive! Lorenzo, she
lives, and I am out of breath—I can't tell you
half. I should have burst my wind if it had not
been for my sword-belt.—But, thank Heaven,
she's alive.
Lor.
Who—Who's alive?—What idle stuff is
this?
Chr.
Who's alive? Why, who should be?
Your sister Donna Agnes—I am sure of it! I have
it under her own hand! She writes me word so.
Where? How! For Heaven's sake be
explicit!
Chr.
I haven't the paper. No matter—I read
it. It dropt upon his head.
Lor.
Whose head?
Chr.
Upon Pedro's, I tell you. No wonder
he has been crazy ever since.
[Searches again.]
Ha! ha! 'Ecod, here it is at last—I've squeezed
it into a pellet in my hand. I've lamed my fingers
with clenching it.
Lor.
Let me undo it, man.
Chr.
No—no—You're not cool enough.
[His
hand shakes so, that he is long about it: and tears
the letter a little.]
There—there—Not much torn
—I can read it all by heart.
Lor.
O, give it me.
[Snatches the letter.]
Chr.
Ha! this is idle stuff, is it?
Enter Antonia.
Ant.
Don Christoval, your servant!
Chr.
How do you do, Sir?
[Flies to her.]
You're an angel! I'll kneel to you, I have such
news—My heart's broke with joy—but she's alive.
Lor.
Look here, my dear Antonia, and bless
Heaven!
Ant.
[Reads.]
“Pedro, my good friend, I
“conjure you, convey this to Don Christoval—
“You will hear that I am dead. My death is
“of my agony.
“Agnes.”
Lor.
Where, where is Pedro?
Chr.
He's coming as fast as possible.
Lor.
And you here so long before him?
Chr.
How should he come so fast as I did? My
heart's twice as big. He is a friendly assistant,
and only runs: Love makes me a principal, and
I flew. If you should hear of any body overturned
—any old woman roll'd into the kennel—
any chairs with glass beat out of the windows, and
the chairmen rib-roasted with their own poles, set
them all down to my account. My joy's worth a
million times the damage. I'll pay it all tomorrow.
Here he is—Now then, my honest delver—
Tell us the manner how—the place where—the
time when—all this news fell upon your weak
penthouse?
Pedro.
Aye, aye,—
[Smiles—half-laughing, half-weeping,
is unable to relate it.]
Lor.
It was in the garden, friend?
Pedro.
To be sure! Oh! all the Saints!
Lor.
What day was this mock funeral then
performed?
Pedro.
Blessed be the day I was born!
He does not understand me.
Pedro.
St. Ursula, and St. Bridget! St. Agatha!
—No, I blot her from the martyr-roll.
Lor.
My poor, dear fellow!
Pedro.
[Falling on his knees.]
He is merciful to us all.
Chr.
'Sblood! He's bewitch'd!—Pedro!
Pedro.
[Crying.]
Aye, aye!
Chr.
Zounds! the fool's in hysterics! Thus it
is drink affects a soft head. The brain addles.
The whole man becomes maudlin. This animal
now is nothing but a gross pumpkin, all water:
his head is dropsical—and grief has tapp'd him.
Lor.
Let him compose himself below—We'll
talk to him at a fit season.
Chr.
You're a pretty fellow, indeed, to travel
with good news. The heart of you isn't in fault,
that's the truth on't. And as for this embassy by
water to our comfort, it is but an April shower—
the sun-shine of the soul beams through it in the
brightest colours. 'Tis Heaven's own rainbow,
the sign of compassion and love.
[Leads off Pedro.]
Lor.
The difficulty now will be to deliver her
from this dreadful situation.
Ant.
Some management will be necessary in its
disclosure to Don Raymond.
Christoval returning.
Chr.
I have it—I am the man for difficulties.
My dear, whimsical, faithful friend—
What device is there in thy brain that thou enjoy'st
so mightily?
Chr.
Your sister must not be regain'd—No!—
that's certain—nobody will stir in her behalf—she
must be suffer'd to endure all the malignant tortures
of that hell-cat.
[Walking about.]
Lor.
No!—I will make my appeal to the spiritual
powers.
Chr.
Heav'n help you!—you'll need it.—No,
no—I'll deliver your sister—I—the maggot-pated,
idle, thoughtless chough, will do it. I apply
to the cannon law—and rescue the captive by
military ordinance—Trust to my genius, and be
ready to aid me when I give the word.
Lor.
Now let us seek Don Raymond.
Chr.
Be that your business. I have mightier
matters.—Courage—and march.
[Exeunt.
SCENE, Aurelio's Cell.
Miranda enters, followed by Aurelio.
Mir.
No more—It ill becomes your lips to utter;
I feel myself dishonour'd to have heard
The plain avowal of illicit love.
Mark me, Aurelio: That my yielding soul
Was wholly yours, I glory to avow.
I made myself a love of character,
I knew my honour, and relied on yours.
Aur.
Yet do me justice, ev'n in your displeasure.
I could not hope, and early I confess'd it,
To be allow'd to gaze upon your beauty,
Indulge the knowledge of your answ'ring love,
And not approve temptation in the grant.
I yielded my consent.
Mir.
To save my life!—
Your memory is perfect, Sir—But still
Those words must come from no one but myself.
Aur.
Cruel Miranda!—could you think my nature
Would e'er insult the object it adores?
If, in the hourly witness of those charms,
The fires they must excite will burst their way,
In spite of all the checks of my condition—
Mir.
And what you gave in pity to my weakness,
You now would make the ruin of my fame!—
But if I thought I could be so degraded,
To fall a victim to impure desires,
I'd tear myself from thee, and all the world,
And burning shame should crumble me to ashes.
Aur.
The passions Heav'n inspires his love permits.
His creatures all indulge them, and are happy.
Shall we alone disclaim the generous bliss,
And freeze the mighty fervour by caprice?
'Tis true—the chain of love surrounds creation,
And all the various tribes of being feel it:
To man exclusively the law is giv'n,
That binds his reason and his love together,
And bids him live for one—and one alone.
Aur.
Hear me protest—that you, and only you,
Shall ever reign the sovereign of my heart!—
Silence your scruples then—Accept a pledge
Sacred as if recorded at the altar.
Comply, my gracious sweetness!—Who can know it?
Mir.
I shall. No, no; these solemn-sounding words
But veil the infamy that lurks beneath them,
They cannot change its colour.—Shall I speak it?
It makes of you a cheat, tho'saint without:—
And, to describe the partner of your crime,
'Tis Nature's error, an immodest woman;
A common character, but not Miranda's.
Aur.
Perverse, mysterious sex!—proposing ever
Objects that mock all possible attainment.
Show them a being, who renounces love,
One covenanted to despise its power,
Him they pursue with all the rage of conquest,
And bend him to their will. The task achiev'd
Seems to annihilate the love which prompted it,
Or fences it with scruples never dreamt on.
Mir.
Thus irritated passion ever clouds
The purposes that thwart its rash indulgence.
And call me then capricious or unjust.
Fatally for my peace, a slave to love,
I sought, with innocence, its safe indulgence.
I saw Aurelio awful in his virtue;—
But what repell'd the sex attracted me;
Nor could I think the highest hopes of man
Rais'd him beyond the reach of woman's love.
I did aspire to make him own a wish,
And to supply that wish by virtuous passion;
My house's power might have absolv'd his vows,
And bid his goodness blaze in social life;—
I hop'd in him a husband.
Aur.
O Miranda,
Assail not thus my falt'ring resolution!
Think, think, before you bid me leap the gulph,
To what a fearful depth your victim falls.
Where is the fame, to which I sacrific'd
The feeling idly deem'd beyond temptation?
Can I go forth, and tell the scoffing world
My firm resolves are feeble as their own,
And bear the bitter taunt which waits on him,
Who dares a trial mightier than his strength?
Mir.
He, who does well in any rank of life,
May calmly brave the calumnies of men,
And boldly look to Heav'n for his reward.
Aur.
Yes, there are duties, public and recluse,
Which to discharge is praise, howe'er we chuse;
But when the choice is made, and bound for ever,
The world will say 'twas appetite alone,
Not his conviction, that produc'd the change,
And hold him an apostate and impostor.
Mir.
No more, no more—I see where it must end:—
Aurelio blushes at an act of virtue,
Because some misconstruction waits upon it;
And, therefore, he would have Miranda yield,—
To guilt, which no construction can excuse.
[Exit.
Aur.
'Tis well.—Her scorn has giv'n me back myself.—
My pride sustains me now. Aurelio, wake!—
Renounce the hope of those high dignities
Thou may'st aspire to! and for what? A woman!
But such a woman! How! relapsing—Slave!
Bondman to folly and vexation still?—
I will forget Miranda and her charms,—
Nay learn—if possible—to hate her.—Now,
Oh now, poor Agnes, I remember thee.
[Exit.
SCENE, the Garden.
Enter Miranda—Zingarella waiting behind.
Mir.
The monastery must no more supply
A safe indulgence to my chaste affection!
He, whom I fancied rais'd above temptation,
Like the cold ice-alp, which the sun ne'er melts,
Descends to dally with unholy fires,
Yet I must leave my pity with thy fault,
And rate my idle and romantic wish,
That drew thy lonely virtues into peril.
[Exit Miranda.
Zingarella advances.
Zin.
Aye, that's the lady Pedro told me of:
and, by the description I have heard of her, she
should be Miranda, the long lost sister of Don
Christoval.
[Sings.]
Listen to me, I entreat!
I've a tender tale to tell—
You will feel—who love so well.
Re-enter Miranda.
Mir.
Ha! who is this, that seems to know my story?
Approach, me, child!—What wouldst thou say to me?
Zin.
Pray pardon me, madam—but indeed I
must interest you in the saddest story, that ever
met your ear—and all who know the lady Miranda
are sure that she will listen to the wretched.
Mir.
How is it, that thou know'st me for Miranda?
Zin.
O, madam, gypsy as I am, I have relations
in the church. The gardener of St. Clare's
now endeavouring to procure speech with Aurelio.
Mir.
Nay, then, we need not fear an interruption.
What is the story I am wish'd to hear?
Zin.
You have heard, madam, of an unhappy
nun, named Agnes?
Mir.
I have—She perish'd by inhuman rigour.
Zin.
So the good Abbot thinks, madam, I am
sure. But did he know that she is yet living, and
buried by the merciless Domina of the convent, to
fall a victim to hunger, and her inexorable revenge,
I am certain his pity would relieve the poor
sufferer.
Mir.
Agnes alive! Doubtless he would relieve her.
For O, he knows how frailty's dusky spots
Stick on the ermine of the whitest virtue.
[Aside.
But where is she confin'd?—Say, has your brother
Suspicion of the place of her confinement?
Zin.
He does not know for certain, madam.
But it is thought, that those, who are condemn'd
to expiate any great offences, are usually thrust
down into a dungeon in the Cemetery.
Mir.
The Cemetery!—As I recollect
It joins the Sepulchre, that appertains
To th'Abbey. Ha! a gleam of light breaks on me!
And interest him in her swift recovery.
[Exit Zingarella.
I did not think to tarry here an hour—
But now there is a cause, which claims me wholly.
Shall not a woman feel a woman's sorrows?
There is a gate, that parts the neighbour graves—
O could I burst its bars, and save this Agnes!—
And why not? Pity's torch burns bright before me,
And lights me to the trial. Mercy lead me!
[Exit.
SCENE, Aurelio's Cell.
Enter Aurelio and Old Zingaro.
Old Zin.
I knew your reverence would be deeply mov'd
At this poor Nun's distress, and bless the chance
That gave me knowledge she was yet alive.
Aur.
No: be assur'd I never meant her penance
Should fasten on her life; and will myself
Demand her from the cruel Agatha.
Old Zin.
Thanks, thanks for that.—But I have something more,
Which, while it lays my guilt before your mercy,
Calls louder yet for hearing from Aurelio.
But ere I tell my tale I must exact
Your sacred promise of forgiveness, Sir,
For all the injuries which I have done you.
Injuries done,—and done by thee, poor man!—
But, be this wonder what it may reveal'd,
They cannot be too great for me to pardon.
Old Zin.
You may have heard, that they receiv'd you here
An orphan child—Ah! little did they think
That they then buried from his rank and splendor
The long-lost heir of De Medina's house.
Your father was a pillar of the state,
Grave, rigid, just,—let me say unrelenting.—
He persecuted our poor wandering tribe
With such severity, that pity wept.
But he forgot, the meanest may revenge;
And the low worm, that cannot reach the breast,
May strike its deadly venom in the heel.
Aur.
Spare these reflections—On!—thy story: briefly!
For, oh! it quickens in my springing soul,
Transports unutterable.
Old Zin.
In resentment
I found a way to steal you from his palace;
Baffled all search to find his only son;
And having foster'd with my fittest means
The powers, that open'd in your infancy,
At length I yielded to the gen'ral wish
Of these good fathers, and you took the cowl.
Here I had left you, sunk and unregarded—
Had not the noble spark of merit in you
From the remotest corner of our country,
The virtues of the excellent Aurelio,
His eloquence divine, his piety,
The miracles wrought by his life and doctrine,
Repentance came upon me. I am ready
With proof to vouch my tale. And now, my fate!—
Whatever you decree, I bend submissive.
Aur.
Take my forgiveness!—Take my blessing, father
Of this my better birth. Thou dost not know
How ev'ry word thou'st utter'd glads my heart.
Prepare thy proofs, and meet me on the instant.
[Exit Old Zin.
My birth declar'd, absolves me from my vows;
Returns me to the world,—and thee, Miranda.—
O, in one little hour, to be restor'd,
While tottering on the verge of guilt and horror,
To rank, and affluence, and spotless love!—
But, let me pay my gratitude to Heav'n,
Not in the empty sounds of wordy praise,
But in the deeds of mercy. Yes, poor Agnes!
I can now feel a sympathy severe
Impell me tow'rds thee—and I fly to save thee.
[Exit.
| Aurelio And Miranda | |