 | Adelaide : or The Emigrants |  |
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ACT III.
SCENE I.
A Chamber in Lunenberg's Castle.—Storm.—Night.Lunenberg.
Here I will seek a refuge from myself.
Am I not damned already, since to me
Repentance is denied? Can I recall,
By sighs as heavy as the tempest's moan,
Deeds sinking down eternity's abyss?
She sleeps: how sweetly innocent she looked!
Her breathing was the perfume of the soul,
As, trembling to the couch of loose desire,
I led the unsuspecting purity.
How could I bear the murmuring tenderness
With which she whispered, ‘he will weep to-night?’
[Enter Adelaide.]
Adel.
Where is my husband? where is Lunenberg?
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Better to see a vampire's ghastly shape,
And feel it suck my blood.
Adel.
And art thou here?
Have these lone chambers, whose profound recess
Appears an habitation of the spectres
That sweep along their dreary emptiness,
Moving in measure with the falling winds,
Has all this scene of antique desolation
More charm than Adelaide? Why did you leave me?
Lunen.
I raised the lamp to look upon thy face:
Thy slumber was as mild as is a babe's,
And there was o'er thy lips a tender smile
That seemed to say thy dreams were happy ones:
I could not bear that smile.
Adel.
Why is it thus? In what have I offended?
You fright me with the quivering of your lip.
Oh! take me to thy heart! Thou dost not know
When, as I woke and heard the roaring tempest
That howled along the castle's tottering age,
And shrunk for refuge in thy circling arms,
What terrors filled the soul of Adelaide,
To find thee gone. I started up, and listened,
And in the voices of the sinking storm
Methought I heard a cry most sorrowful:
Methought I heard my father! Take me, Lunenberg,
I need the solacing of thy affection.
Lunen.
Thou art a very beauteous wretchedness.
Adel.
Then hast thou ceased to love me, Lunenberg.
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Scooped in the bosom of a desert rock,
That far from land among the rolling waves
Uprose in solitude; where nought was heard
Except the sleepy murmur of the sea;
Yet if I still could think at evening's hour,
When haply I should sit and watch the west,
That thou didst still remember Adelaide—
Lunen.
Oh! thou wilt loathe me.
Adel.
Loathe thee!
Lunen.
Thou wilt curse me.
Adel.
Thus let me throw myself upon thy bosom.
Lunen.
Come, look thee here, and try if he who wrote
A warning on his front who murdered first,
Hath traced ‘a villain’ here. Thou tremblest! ha!
'Tis so—the characters are burning flames—
I am a murderer too—for I have killed thee,
And damned thee with myself—No, Adelaide,
Thou still art innocent: not thine the crime:
Pure as the spotless seraph that adores
In burning contemplation.
Adel.
Save me, heaven!
Lunen.
Two silent fiends will bear me to a dungeon,
And cast me down, and close the grate for ever:
Nothing shall there be heard: no sound, no touch,
No ray of light be there, save when a demon
Will come with some blue lamp's infernal power,
In semblance of thyself, to haunt my sight
And look me in the eyes with tears like thine,
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If, haply wandering with thy sister saints,
Thou should'st approach my place of punishment,
Then wilt thou think with pity on the man
Whose sin was loving thee.
Adel.
Why how is this?
The sin? What sin? Thou couldst not play me false.
With burning blushes thus I cast it from me,
And turn to thee, my life, my lord, my husband,
In all the confidence of boundless faith,
And all the constancy of woman's love.
Lunen.
Thou wilt not leave me then? No change, no crime,
Shall ever wring thee from my bleeding heart.
Adel.
Though want should wither all thy worldly substance,
Though scorn should touch and blast thy name for ever,
Though all men fled thee like a noisome plague,
Yet never dove hung o'er her dying young
With half the tenderness I'd cling to thee.
Nay, I'd exult to share my husband's shame,
And glory in the proud sweet consciousness
That I was thine for ever.
Lunen.
Damned ambition,
That hurled from heaven's light and God's bright presence
Millions of spirits, splendid and immortal,
To live a long eternity of pain,
Intense and endless: thou whose sacrilege
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Dried up the bounty of the teeming earth,
Why stoop from desolation so sublime,
From mighty havoc that assailed both worlds,
And tempt so pitiful a knave as I am,
To tear this modest wild-briar from its fence,
To toy awhile; and then to trample on it?
Adel.
I've scarcely breath to ask what this may mean?
Lunen.
Oh! thou confiding goodness, I've betrayed thee:
I am a villain, and the most perfidious
Who e'er belied an unsuspecting faith,
And stained the lilies of a virgin's love.
Adel.
What dreadful mystery is bursting on me?
Am I dishonored? Answer me, my husband:
My honor is thine own. Nay, now you mock me—
The book, the altar, and the man of God—
I saw them with these eyes: these ears have heard
The holy form of prayer that made me yours,
Made me for ever yours—your wedded wife.
Lunen.
Never was wife more true, or more beloved.
Adel.
Ten thousand blessings on thee for the word:
Hope has come back to my affrighted heart.
Lunen.
Had I but loved thee less, I ne'er had wronged thee:
Or had it been my destiny to know thee
Before—
Adel.
Am I your wife?
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'Twas madness seized me:
The fury of a guilty desperate passion.
Before I saw, before I burned for thee,
My faith was plighted, and my sovereign's will
Commanded marriage. Call the lightning down!
I lured thy unsuspecting innocence,
And, with a semblance of religion's rites,
Abused thy trust, and plunged thee into shame.
But here, behold me kneeling at thy feet,
Behold me here renounce the world for thee.
Adel.
An icy adder winds around my heart,
And now it stings and stings, and yet I live.
Not wedded to thee! Oh for some dark depth
To hide me from all eyes, where odious light
Could never see my shame! False! false! all false!
And I am that vile thing I dare not name.
Lunen.
My fame, the pride of power, the legion's guidance,
My emperor's smile, my all, I yield to thee:
The pomp of courts, the soldier's acclamation,
The host, the battle, and the victory.
I'll lead thee to the altar, and proclaim
Our consecrated nuptials. There a priest,
With all the solemn rite and circumstance
Religion asks, shall join our hallowed hands.
Adel.
They curse me!
Lunen.
Here shall be thy throne, thy empire. (Placing his hand upon his heart.)
Adel.
Not wedded to thee! then I'll wed despair.
Come my new bridegroom to this heart: 'tis thine,
For ever thine: thou wilt be faithful to me:
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Come then: let's fly: but hold—no mockery now,
We'll wed in earnest, and without a priest.
Lunen.
My wife, my Adelaide: I'll call thee wife,
For so thou shalt be—
Adel.
Ha! unhand me! help!
Pollution's in thy touch.
Enter Albert St. Evermont.
Alb.
It came this way.
It is the master of these lonely towers,
And with him's one, whose sorrows at this hour
Rose like a spirit's wailing on the blast.
Her cheek is blanched, and every broken thought
Intruding on that lovely dreariness,
Appears a wild and haggard wanderer.
Adel.
They call me back: they bid me come to them.
Lunen.
Where wouldst thou rush?
Adel.
Thou shalt not stay me from them—
I am their child! (Thunder)
Aye, thou art angry, heaven!
Why does the lightning flash, and not fall here
Upon this guilty head? Strike here and blast me!
[Exit.
Alb.
What may this mean? It seems a fitting place
For deeds of foul mysterious villainy;
And sure the storm, that shakes these tottering towers,
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Doth howl auspiciously. Count Lunenberg!
Unconscious of the sound! 'tis something terrible,
For in the hollow of his gleamy eyes
The dreadful passions light their murky fires;
And in my chamber from this very place
I heard the voice of intermingled anguish—
Lunen.
He was unfortunate, he was my friend!
(turning to Albert)
Begone: avoid my sight: avoid a plague:
My bosom heaves with guilt, and every breath
Will shed a rotting leprosy upon thee.
If in the social cup I had infused
The chilling draught of death, or at the couch
Of him who sought a shelter 'neath my roof
Had crept at midnight to the act of blood,
I were not half the villain that I am.
Dost thou not fly me yet? Then hear it all,
And thou wilt bid volcanos burst between us.
I robbed the fondest parents of their child,
The noblest mind of honor's treasured hoard,
Abused a believing woman's confidence,
Trod down the blooming of her innocence,
The flower that grew upon the grave of hope!
Alb.
(aside)
I had a sister.
Lunen.
Adelaide!
Alb.
Speak on!
Lunen.
Thou art the emigrant, and thou hast cause
To load me with the choicest execration,
For she was consecrate of misery
And shared thy griefs. I would avoid thy face,
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In France's stormy fate.
Alb.
Hear me, ye heavens!
I saw my country frantic with the thirst
Of her own blood: I have awaked at night,
And, from a dungeon's subterranean depth,
Have heard the tocsin with its fierce alarm
Arouse the Furies from their dreams of blood.
I've lost my name, my fortunes, and my country:
I am without the sparrow's privilege,
Without a home, a naked wanderer.
But let not all be crowned with infamy.
Speak, thou proud lord, my blood is pure as thine,
Its fount as noble. Hast thou tarnished it?
Hast thou received me in thy guilty towers
That I might see thee gorge thy lechery
Upon a sister's shame? Speak, who was this,
That tossed her arms on high, and rent her hair,
Then rushed into the centre of the night?
Lunen.
What? lie upon the cold and barren earth!
That form, whose delicate and tender touch
Would hardly leave impression on the bed
Which love had strewed with roses; and that bosom
Where lingering thought hath never yet reposed,
And was not heated into exstacy.
A torch there! hoa! a torch: set night in flames:
Awake, and through the forest's blackening depth
Wave your exploring fires. (rushes out)
Alb.
Hear, villain, hear!
Thou shalt not 'scape me thus: if it be she—
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Poor, not dishonored; wretched, not disgraced.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
The interior of St. Evermont's Cottage.Enter Madame St. Evermont and the Count.
Madame.
I cannot trust thee, Julia. Married! no:
The proud relentless heart of that bad man
Would never stoop to wed an emigrant.
Thou dost but feed a hope that will not live.
Thou sleepest: happy they who can forget
That they have been—or are. Alas! my child.—
St. Ever.
I wish that I could weep as easily
As thou dost weep. My sorrow will not melt:
'Tis here and here—the cold that chills my heart:
The heat that fires my brain.
Mad.
My child! my child!
St. Ever.
Child, child! I pray you do not speak that word;
It is a very arrow in my soul,
That deeply rankles here; and when 'tis touched
By memory's hand, oh then the barbed shaft
Doth quiver with a pang most exquisite.
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There's not a name of melting melody,
A soft harmonious concourse of sweet sounds,
To speak the love with which I doated on her.
Her saddest smile chased sternest grief away;
And all her offices of filial care
Were moss upon the rocks of misery.
Do you remember?
St. Ever.
Aye, I well remember:
And would I could forget, that infamy
Has laid its rottenness upon my name:
That she, my child—'Twill make me mad again.
If the great power, that punishes hereafter,
Did stretch his hand across the burning gulf,
Grasping the writhing soul of that black villain,
I'd cry ‘plunge, plunge!’ though I should follow for it.
Hell would be heaven, if I beheld him damned.
Mad.
She was more dear than all: her artless talk,
Her beauty, and her winning tenderness,
Had made me feel a mother's deeper joy.
To leave me, Adelaide, to break the tie
That very feebly held me back to life!
St. Ever.
But I will throw, I'll blot thee from my heart!
Mad.
And is it then so easy to forget?
The rest were ta'en away, but she was left me!
Have I not often in the dead of night
Started in frenzied horror from my dream,
And rushed to catch her in my yearning arms,
To be persuaded by my very senses
She had not perished too. She yet was left me,
And I was blest!
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To filch me of my child!
Load with disgrace the stooping of my age,
Make infamy my epitaph! Damnation!
[Enter Adelaide, with her hair dishevelled.]
Adel.
My father! (she sinks at his feet)
Mad.
It is Adelaide! Ye heavens!
And do I hold thee here? Art thou returned
To fill the dreadful void within my heart?
For, when thou didst abandon my misfortune,
I spread my arms, and closed them round my breast,
And found no daughter there.
Adel.
I come to die.
But, ere I go to that eternal rest,
Here let me kneel, and with a bursting bosom
Implore one look of mercy. I am dying.
Mad.
And hast thou then restored her back to me,
That I might see her perish in my arms,
Watch the slow fading of this livid cheek,
The eyelids close upon the beamless sight,
Till every pulse and stir of life has ceased,
Then clasp a cold and senseless heaviness?
St. Ever.
(wildly)
Let me observe that woman's countenance:
She's very like my daughter—
And yet it is not she: for, look you here,
The blush upon the cheek of Adelaide
Was beautiful as summer's evening skies;
But here's a face more pallid than the shroud
Of one that's newly dead. Not Hesperus,
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Beamed with more radiant meekness than her eyes;
And they were made of smiles. Nor this the hair,
Whose ringlets the soft breathing of the south
Scarce dared to kiss with too much wantonness.
The warmth of youthful life was in my child!
Mad.
Alas! distraction lingers in his eye.
Oh! look upon her, for she is our child.
St. Ever.
I'll know that straight; and take her in my arms,
And feel if she's my daughter Adelaide.
By heavens! it is! the throbbing of her heart!
Now it beats quicker: now it heaves with life.
Adel.
It is my father's voice, and on his bosom!
Let, let me go, unloose me from your clasp,
That I may throw myself upon the earth,
Lie prostrate in the dust, and, at your feet,
In anguish weep my wasting sight away:
For never, never more shall I be pressed
Against the bosom where I used to slumber.
This is the place for me: here will I lie,
And wring my hands in grief. I'll gaze intent,
Until I see you turn an eye of pity;
Then will I raise me thus from off the ground,
Make one last effort of exhausted life,
And, clinging round about your parent knees,
Unloose the filial hold at last, and die.
St. Ever.
Are you my child?
Adel.
I am that wretched one;
But now I am not worthy of the name:
For I am she than whom upon the earth
There's not a thing more vile; the finger-mark
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Who left a father's for a traitor's arms,
Nor pitied your calamity. But oh!
I am not half the guilty thing I seem.
To trust a man, to believe a perjury,
This is my crime; for, with religion's rite,
Count Lunenberg deceived me.
St. Ever.
(addressing himself to heaven)
Dost thou hear it?
The morning dawns, and nature's glorious priest,
The mighty sun, collecting from the earth
The perfumed dew, makes sacrifice to God.
But I have incense will ascend above,
A fitter offering; 'tis a father's curse.
Make him unfortunate, but leave him still
A daughter beautiful and innocent:
Give him a child in whom his heart may joy:
Then find a friend to tear her from his heart,
And steep her in pollution—
Adel.
He will curse me:
Oh! save me from his curse.
Mad.
St. Evermont!
Give not an utterance to the dreadful sound!
St. Ever.
Curse her! what father ever cursed his child?
Adel.
Lay me for ever in that bed of peace
Where sleep, untroubled by a dream, shall close
My eyelids in oblivious happiness.
My weary spirit will be laid in rest;
Nor will the withering of a father's prayer
Blast the green sod upon my lowly grave.
St. Ever.
My tears begin to flow: at length I weep.
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And can you speak so very tenderly?
Can you indeed forgive me?
St. Ever.
Adelaide!
How, Adelaide, could'st thou abandon me?
Adel.
Alas! Count Lunenberg—
St. Ever.
Count Lunenberg!
Thou smiling cold and marble-hearted villain,
Whose soul came reeking from the pools of hell,
A vapour from its blue sulphureous gulf!
I weep, and yet he lives: he breathes the air,
He grins, and mocks, and triumphs in my ruin:
Where is my sword? I perish, or avenge.
[Exit.
Mad.
St. Evermont, my husband! hear me! hear!
He goes to die!
Adel.
To die!
Mad.
For you.
Adel.
O God!
[Exeunt.
END OF THE THIRD ACT.
| Adelaide : or The Emigrants | |