University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—Interior of a Villa on the Arno.
Enter Eulalia and Ignatio.
IGNATIO.
'Tis past—that pang is over; but, oh God!
Another, worse if possible, succeeds.
Eulalia, can I turn me from that eye,
More sweetly light than is the rising morn,
To follow shudd'ring after black-robed night,
And stalk with her to hell? There's madness in't.
Eulalia—shall we—shall we part, e'en thus?

EULALIA.
Compose yourself, my dear Ignatio;
How thy frame trembles!—Oh! how wan thou look'st!

IGNATIO.
I do not tremble. Shall we part, Eulalia?

EULALIA.
Oh! do not—dare not ask.

IGNATIO.
I dare do aught:
Speak but the word—give me a single look
That says, “we will not;” and we part no more.

EULALIA.
What dost thou mean?

IGNATIO.
There is one way, Eulalia;
Despair, e'en scorpion-like, is its own cure,
When 'tis ring'd round with fire, as we are now.
O! I could rest my head upon thy bosom,
And think the mingling of our parting breaths
More sweet than the first fearful kiss I gave thee,
Because 'twould be the last; and so doubt-free.

EULALIA.
Die?—and thy boy—speak; would'st thou murder him?
Thou may'st be mad; but be not savage too.

IGNATIO.
Oh! no, no, no! yes, I am mad. My brain
Burns, and mine eyes shed not a single tear;
Would I could weep like thee!
But thou weep'st not!
What pulls this coldness on thee? thou look'st pale;
There's ice upon thy lips, and in thy touch;
Yea, and thy brow, pure as the unsunn'd snow,
Is now as chill. Whence is this change? Speak! Yonder,
When thou did'st hang in agony o'er our boy,
I saw him shrink as thy fast scalding tears
Rain'd on his little face; and now thou stand'st
Unshaken, nor a tear comes to thine eye.
It is a horrid calmness. Speak, Eulalia,
If thou would'st not destroy me!

EULALIA.
Thee!—destroy!
Would I not die to blunt one single pang
Of all that tear thee? Oh! Ignatio,
I know not—since we parted from our boy,
(See how the name calls up a tear again,)
I either felt as if my heart had died,
Or that 'twas left with him. That struggle o'er,
I am resign'd—Sorrow were sinfulness.
Must I not breathe in some forgotten nook,
And, as I am forgotten—so, forget—
All, but that innocent, if he lives to know,
A helpless mother is his only help.
Say to thyself, Ignatio, “She is dead;”
And so I shall be, save unto the past.
And when, perchance, thy name, in after time,
Wafted on glory's breath, comes o'er mine ear,
It shall but stir me as the melody
Of his own land—left, never to return,
Breathes on the exile's heart; and I shall weep,
And waste the dew of unavailing tears
Upon the wither'd flow'rs of former joy.
Why dost thou gaze on me, with that sad look?
Is not this duty?

IGNATIO.
What it is, I know not;
But there's a fix'd and horrible calmness in't,
More dread, because it hath the hue of health,
Yet is not it.

EULALIA.
Whate'er it be, Ignatio,
Yet, let us be submissive to the will
Of Heaven. We've striven with fate too much already.
I have oft heard, that ere the common doom
Doth close the struggles of the labouring soul,
Will a strange calmness ofttimes creep upon it,
As though it were some foretaste of that rest,
The weary laden hope. If it be that,
Oh! I could die upon the hard, cold earth,
As smilingly even as the infant sleeps,
Unknowing what he leaves, or what he wakes to.
God will protect him.

IGNATIO.
Whom?

EULALIA.
Our boy, Ignatio;
He hath a father still; hath he not?

IGNATIO.
Cease!—
These melancholy tones, killingly sweet,
Go to my heart. I have an anguish here,
That grows each moment more like mortal. Oh!
Eulalia, thy still accents sound to me
E'en as the o'erstretch'd string, which, ere it breaks,
Vibrates the sweetest music.
Hark! 'tis past:
Our hour is past; 'tis midnight—dark indeed—
The effort must be made—I cannot speak—
But thou can'st think that which I dare not say.
Oh! grasp my hand; and if thou hast a tear
For me, then shed it now; for it must be
The last; and say once more, or e'er we part,
That thou forgivest me.

EULALIA.
Need I say so twice?
Think'st thou I could be unforgiving now?
Would love permit me in an hour like this?
Let this, and this, convince thee.

[Kisses his hand.
IGNATIO.
Humble not
Thyself, Eulalia, for 'tis agony;
Crush me not to the dust with self-reproach;
If I did crawl to thee and kiss thy feet,
It were more fit.

EULALIA.
No more—all's over now;
Thou goest—we must be brief—one look, but one,
Before thou leavest me—then pass at once,
'Tis the last, saddest, boon I ask of thee.
Say not farewell to me, but let me bid thee
Farewell. My woman's heart will have it so.
Speak not again—unclasp my hand—and now
(Oh, for one minute's strength, and then to die!)
Farewell!—God keep!—God bless my dear Ignatio!
[Exit Ignatio.
He is gone for ever. One—one moment more,
Return Ignatio. Lost Eulalia, what
Madness is this! Where is my resolution?
Oh! I must never hear that footstep more,
No, nor that voice, of which a single accent
Were as a drop of dew to the parch'd tongue
Of a thirst-dying wretch. I am friendless now;
A nameless wanderer; a cast-away
On the wide waters.

Enter Child.
CHILD.
Mother!

EULALIA.
Oh! no, no,
Ingrate I am; is there not still a voice
Speaks comfort; and upon this little breast
Still I can drop sweet tears, and see his eyes
Weep when he sees mine weep, he knows not why?
Thou callest for thy father, my poor boy,
And he will hear us. Thou shalt kneel with me,
And lift thy little hands in aid of mine;
And on thy supplicating innocence,
Join'd to thy mother's tears, Heaven may look down
Haply with peace and pardon. Come, my child!

[They retire, and the Scene closes.