University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Convent Hall.
Provost, Prior, Confessor, other Brethren, and Laymen.
Pro.
[to the Laymen.]
Brothers! no charge of murder rests on them.
Depart in peace, my friends! Heav'n's blessing on you!
Would that the princes of the world, and those
That sigh on golden beds, could lay, like you,
Hands innocent of ill, on guiltless hearts,
And taste such sleep as yours! depart in peace!

Sacristan enters.
Sac.
Alfonso is return'd—yet—hapless man!

Pro.
Why stands he not, as duty bids, before us?

Sac.
Oh he is loth to come.

Pro.
This is most strange.

Sac.
I found him, in the cemetery, lone,
'Mid many a stranger corse, unsepulchred,
Still-gazing on that pilgrim, lately found
When slipt the snow-heap from the southern ridge.
His face was yet unchang'd, and calm each feature
As when he rested on the snow, while death
Stole on his sleep. So calm, Alfonso look't,
Such too his smile: each seem'd the other's image:
Scarce could I tell who of the twain had life,
Or who had ceas'd to breathe. Pardon me, father,
Long-time I fear'd to break that solemn trance,
And when at last I rous'd him.

Con.
[interrupting him.]
'Twas not kind
To rouse him, brother. Well I know his nature,
You should have spar'd him yet a little while,
'Tis long since holy peace has still'd his spirit:
That time his soul had converse with its maker.

Pro.
But when at last you urg'd him—

Sac.
At the word
At once the trance dissolv'd—he started up,
And frowning darkly on me, bad me say
That never earthly ear should hear his grief,
If thou reject his pray'r, to wear out life
Here, amid perilous labours—thus he left me,
And onward 'mid the mountains swiftly rush'd,
Regardless of my answer.

Prior.
Holy father!
Send forth the Confessor: with him alone
He communes willingly: but shuns us ever,
Save when a sufferer common aid demands.

Con.
Yes, I have sooth'd his melancholy soul,
And won at times to half-form'd confidence,
By tales of woe which breath'd to tranquil minds
Had rack'd the soul with horror: still to these
He gives most heedful ear.

Pro.
Go, sooth, persuade him.
[To the Confessor, who departs.
It must be strange unexpiated guilt
Harrows his soul: and was it right, good Prior,
To give him charge among you?

Prior.
He deserv'd it.
Such thoughts as trouble you, at first came o'er us,
When with wan look distraught, and wild attire,
He call'd at midnight, when no foot beside
Long time had scal'd the snows. Our wary eye
Watch'd o'er him. Stern his brow, and strange his mood,
Yet at our call most zealous: so months past,
He still the same. When patient Anselm died,
(Heav'n rest his soul! he fell in manhood's prime,
Worn out with toil) Alfonso, now long-tried,
Here vow'd to pass his dedicated days
A cloister'd menial, and with earnest pray'r
Besought his perilous office. Look on us:
Age and infirmity here bow before you.
Point out the man whose limbs could stand that charge.

Pro.
None—none; I blame you not. But say, good Prior,
How doth he exercise his charge?

Prior.
With zeal
Passing belief. His labour shames our service:
For still in boist'rous months, when all within
Shake at the tempest's roar, and icy blast,
Singly he ventures forth, his dog sole guide,
At starless midnight, or when drifted heaps
Have hid the pass: nor seeks again the roof,
(Tho' numbness steal on his o'erwearied limbs)
Till he has sounded each snow-cover'd cave,
And long and loudly call'd, if heard from far
Shrieks of the lost night-wanderer strike his ear.
So pass his days away.
Claude enters.
Oh holy fathers!

Pro.
Claude, what brings thee hither?

Claude.
Help, speedy help! or she for whom I beg
Will not long need your succour. [to the Infirmier.]
Good, good father,
This is thy office. Yes, we know thee well,
We who frequent these mountains.

Pro.
Take thy cordials:
Rare medicines: and this strongly scented oil.
Its essence once inhaled, thro' closed lips
Will call the spirit back!

Inf.
Where are the sufferers?
And what their numbers?

Claude.
'Tis but one poor soul,—
A delicate tender creature: one of those
That left at noon your roof. She would away:
Though at that time, methought, a deadly paleness
Was settled in her face.—Oh how it griev'd me!

Inf.
But where, where are they?

Claude.
They had past the storm-house
Where, every day, at noon, and fall of night,
Ye kindly leave, for those who chance may need,
A dole of bread and wine: this, they had past
A little space, when they who bore the litter
In which she lay, slipp'd on the melted ice:
And much I fear the fall has quite o'erpow'r'd her.
I never thought that thing of such slight frame
Could heave so deep a groan. And so I help'd them
To bear her to the shed, then hurried hither
To claim your aid.

Inf.
Come, honest Claude.—Farewell! [to the Monks.]


Pro.
Heav'n guide, and prosperous issue crown your labour!
Say, was she of that train whom late I greeted
Where rushing from the mountain snows, the flood
Ceaselessly roars?

Prior.
No other foot but theirs
Has dared the pass.

Pro.
In vain I urg'd them back.
Know you their names?

Pri.
They wish'd to be conceal'd.
Some secret cause of grief ('twas whisper'd so)
Unmeet to be divulg'd to common ears,
Silenc'd enquiry. Yet a prattling page
Who loiter'd o'er the hearth, said that his lady,
The dark-stol'd dame, was Countess of Tortona:
And he did hint of a poor peasant girl
Tales of strange import—but we sought not out
What misery wish'd conceal'd.

Pro.
The noon-bell strikes.
Come, holy duties call our thoughts to heav'n—
Here meet again. Alfonso must be question'd.

[Exeunt.
Scene changes to the Storm-house, on one side of the rocky pass, amid the Mountains
Agnes, Ellen in a litter sleeping, Attendants, Blanche and Laura.
Agnes.
So—gently bring her to the open air.
A soothing sleep steals o'er her: soft she breathes.
How sweet her tranquil look! and lo, that smile:
As if an angel touch'd with earthly woe
Look'd down upon her slumber.

Blan.
Such art thou
In mortal semblance.

Agnes.
[looking on her.]
Sleep, poor hapless Ellen!
Three painful years are pass'd, since I have watch'd thee,
And laid thy stranger brow upon my breast.
I have assuag'd thy bitterness of grief,
Sooth'd the wild dreams of a distracted mind,
And led thee to the view of opening heav'n,
Where tears are turn'd to gladness: but such sleep
Till now has ne'er been thine.
Francis enters.
Francis! Oh say,
Will they proceed?

Fran.
No golden bribe will tempt.
I have explor'd the further tract.

Agnes.
Well, Francis!

Fran.
It is impassable.

Agnes.
Oh say not so.
I will myself explore it.

Fran.
None can pass.
The rock more rugged far: and that bright sun
Which cheer'd at dawn of day, its noon now past,
Has turn'd to foaming streams the melted snow.

Agnes.
Yet, if the convent send sufficient aid,
Still, still we may proceed.

Fran.
E're I turn'd back
Reluctantly, (I know thy stedfast mind,)
Prone from a crag that overhung the road
A snow mount thunder'd down, and barr'd all progress.
Some from the convent soon will join our guides,
And warrant safe return; and, pardon lady!
I have long serv'd you.

Agnes.
Say whate'er thou wilt.
Thy lord esteem'd thee highly.

Fran.
Aye, these arms
Oft fondled him in childhood.

Agnes.
By his side
Thou hast in battle stood, when many a warrior
Fled from the field. The man whom Julian honor'd
I hold my friend. Say on, nor fear offence.

Fran.
Would I had died in battle at his feet,
E're liv'd till now: e're seen what now I see,
The Countess of Tortona like a slave,
Tending a peasant girl: one too, who lur'd,
Aye, and by witching wiles;—

Agnes.
[interrupting him.]
No, not thy virtues,
Nor privilege of years, nor length of service,
Zeal for my house and honour shall avail,
If ere thy rash unhallow'd breath shall whisper
Disgrace on her. Rather aloud revile
The memory of him whom most I honour;
The man, who but for this, had proudly stood
'Mid men unrivall'd: if thou deem it base
To serve my will because I sooth her woe,
Such service I disclaim—gold thou shalt have,
But never look to see my face again.
Thou art in tears: nay, rise.

Fran.
Not look on me!
And give me gold! I am indeed most vile.
I never felt what service was till now.
If you do wish my death, bid me begone.
I rashly spoke what zeal for you inspir'd.
She was not the seducer.

Agnes.
Peace, good Francis!
You touch a string that vibrates on my heart.
Still calm her sleep?

[To the Attendants.
Blan.
Most tranquil.

Agnes.
Such repose
I fear bodes nought but evil. From the convent
None yet arrive. 'Tis vain without their aid
To move her hence.

Fran.
They will be here, ere long.
The guide, whose ready zeal so won our hearts,
Was fresh, and nimble footed.

Agnes.
Go, my friend!
Yon height commands afar the winding path:
Look, if you see aught hastening.
[He goes.
Julian! Julian!
Thy word enjoin'd not this: but not till death
Has still'd that woe-worn frame, will I forsake her.
But thou!
Oh art thou with the living! or with those
That grieve no more? what earthly voice can speak!
Since that dread hour (oh! let me not recal it!)
My search how vain! and save that fatal scroll
Which bad me raise thy tomb, and deem thee dead,
Gave me thy worldly wealth, and loos'd the tie
That binds eternally my soul to thine,
Of thee I nought have heard. Wert thou on earth,
This now had been thy office. No. I wrong thee.
He who sustains my soul, and bids me, here,
Shelter in life's last agonies the orphan,
And her that has no helper, had once more
Made one our wedded hearts.

Francis, the Infirmier, Claude, Guide, Laymen, enter.
Fran.
[to the Infirmier.]
Haste! holy father.

Inf.
Where is the sufferer?

Agnes.
Here, in still repose.

Inf.
Has she long slumber'd thus?

Agnes.
An hour, or more.

Inf.
Rouse, rouse her quickly. Chafe her temples, lady!
Here, hold this pungent spirit.

[Ellen sighs.
Agnes.
Oh that sigh!

Inf.
You of the southern climes, you haply know not,
Amid these chilling snows when sleep steals on,
How fatally it ends! the blood too rests,
And every vital part forgets its function.
Sleep here is but the harbinger of death.

Agnes.
The harbinger of death! oh rouse her not:
Sir, she is broken-hearted.

Inf.
I must do
What duty bids, and with unwearied zeal
Apply all earthly means to bring back life.
The rest is Heav'n's.

Agnes.
[to the Servants.]
She wakes—stand, stand apart!
How is it with you, Ellen?

Ellen.
Well—quite well—
Free from all pain.

Agnes.
Your cheek, methinks, is ting'd
With a faint flush like renovated health,
But weak, most weak your voice. Why do you gaze
So earnestly around? these are your friends,
Those of my household whom you ever lov'd,
Blanche, and kind-hearted Laura: this good man,
One of the convent brethren.

Ellen.
I scarce knew
Whether I liv'd or not. I've been in heav'n:
You too were there: indeed I ever thought you
Too good for this vile world.

Agnes.
Compose thyself.

Ellen.
I am most calm.

Agnes.
Oh hush.

Ellen.
I am not wandering.
But most distinctly as I now behold you,
I saw you there. [pointing up.]
And I, poor Ellen, help'd
To place a crown of glory on your brow.
And there came one—I dare not, Saint on earth!
Before your honour'd presence breathe his name.
He, in this world, has had his doom of woe.
Oh say that you forgive me—ne'er, till now,
While my poor mind was mine—

Inf.
This must not be.
Daughter! be still! speak to her, tender lady!
Speak, if thy gushing tears permit the utterance.

Agnes.
Sweet Ellen! clasp my hand.

Ellen.
Thou more than parent!
Had not thine eye met mine, when first I woke,
I had not thank'd this charitable man
For forcing life upon me. Oh! I faint.

Agnes.
Here, on my bosom rest.

Ellen.
Thou art most kind.
Yes, I shall soon have rest: eternal rest,
And thou thy heavenly crown.

[Swoons.
Inf.
Here—bear her up.

Agnes.
Oh gently with her.

Inf.
Good St. Bernard, aid us!

[Exeunt.
Scene, a Lake on the South side of the Convent surrounded with Mountains covered with snow. Alfonso pacing restlessly to and fro.
Alfonso.
Alf.
Ye mountains! on whose heights when first ye tow'r'd,
Coeval winter stood! hoar cliffs! where Time
From the first stretch and waving of his wing,
Shed everlasting snows! oh hear my voice,
Fall on my brow! and thou, on which I tread,
Immoveable rock! rive thy deep base beneath me,
Nor give me back, till at th'appointed hour
I, and each secret sinner upon earth
Stand up, and hear the doom that shall not change.
It will not be conceal'd! they shall hear all:
Or I once more on that loath'd world beneath,
Must stand all lonely 'mid the moving press
Like one, on whom the blue plague, as it past,
Shed visible taint.

Confessor
without.
Alfonso!

Alf.
Ha!

Confessor enters.
Con.
Alfonso—
'Tis he. I long have sought thee—louldly call'd—
And thrice the convent bell has warn'd thee back.

Alf.
It 'scap'd me not unheard.

Conf.
The Provost sent me—

Alf.
Consents he to my wishes?

Con.
Trust his kindness.

Alf.
He comes to search my soul.

Con.
Not your's alone.
Each layman, every hind that serves the convent,
Have render'd strict account.

Alf.
Pure sinless souls!
Why wound their spirit with unfounded questions?
They have not shed man's blood.

Con.
'Tis true, they urg'd th'enquiry.

Alf.
And ere now
Each to his day-task hies with lighten'd heart,
Merrily trolling forth his mountain song:
Each with the good man's blessing on his head.

Con.
So shall thy soul find peace.

Alf.
Oh never—never.

Con.
Thou dost not know his kindness, but thy deeds
Are known to him—

Alf.
[troubled.]
What deeds?

Con.
All, all, whate'er
Zeal and unwearied toil, and dauntless courage
Have wrought at life's dread risque.

Alf.
Would I had perish'd
In rescuing others!

Con.
Why thus dread the Provost?
To him reveal thy grief:
He is not, as some are who wear our garb,
Of soul austere. Virtue in him beams forth
With seraph mercy: and his way of life
'Mid scenes of misery, but in closer bonds
Links him with those that suffer. And hoar age,
That draws his spirit nearer to his God,
Looks kindly back on those who toil below.
If thou hast sinn'd, in him the penitent sinner
Beholds a father—

Alf.
But I have not shed
The tear of penitence. Who probes my soul,
Must loath the thing I am. I shall pour forth
To his astonish'd and incredulous ear,
Guilt that shall shock his soul, while tears gush forth
In pity of man's weakness.

Con.
Calm thy spirit—

Alf.
[highly agitated.]
These rocks have heard it; and the night-storm borne
On his dark wing, 'mid cliffs, and hollow caves
My echoed groans; and I have quak'd to hear,
Sounds as of men, accomplices in guilt,
Muttering their tales of murder.

Con.
Sooth him, Heav'n!
Be calm, Alfonso; these wild burst of passion
Will but arouse suspicion.—Why thus grasp me?

Alf.
Suspicion! Who beheld me? Where th'accuser?
Come to the Provost.

Con.
Not till thou art calm.
None shall behold thee thus, so strangely mov'd.
I oft have still'd thy grief.

Alf.
Thou art most kind.

Con.
Look round; this scene shall sooth thee:
Long years may pass, ere in these storm tost heights,
A sky so clear, air of such temperate breath,
And sun with scarce a cloud to veil his glory
May visit us again.

Alf.
Oh holy comforter!
Scenes such as these have rais'd my voice in pray'r,
'Mid solitudes where none on earth could hear.
Oh that the innocent joys of days long past
Might steal me from myself, like lenient dreams
Of friends that are no more.

Con.
Nay, inly brood not.
Look on yon azure sky, and call on Heav'n.—
Oh hang not o'er that lake which stilly sleeps:
Its hue is dark and dreary: tho' it spread
A polished mirror to the rocks around.
Why dost thou gaze so fixedly upon it?

Alf.
Look where the shape of yon o'erhanging crag
That thwarts the sun, lies shadow'd on the lake,
How suddenly th'gathering ice shoots on,
Chilling the wave beneath.
E'en so it fares with me—the winter, here,
[Striking his breast.
Turns every object that the eye doth glance on,
To its own cheerless nature.
[Starts back from the lake in the utmost agitation.]
Heav'n and earth!
Saw, saw you it?

Con.
Whence that wild look of horror?
Why start away?

Alf.
[looking round.]
Where did the spectre vanish?

Con.
What spectre? I beheld none.

Alf.
That—that form
Which scowl'd upon me, there— [pointing to the lake.]
not earthly, sure?
Oh never yet did flesh and blood assume
Such ghastly semblance: never living eye
So look'd.

Con.
Oh merciful Heav'n!

Alf.
I do conjure you,
Oh tell me—am I then that ghastly form?
Was it myself? was there none other here?

Con.
It was thy shadow'd form.

Alf.
[vehemently.]
Come to the Provost.
What need of vain confession? guilt is on me:
Deep graven by the visible hand of heav'n,
Like his that bore upon his brow the blood
Of the first slain. Come to the Provost, haste!

[Exeunt.