University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—A Hermitage, surrounded by the Ruins of an ancient Temple.
Constance. Anselmo.
Constance.
'Tis strange he comes not!—Is not this the still
And sultry hour of noon?—He should have been
Here by the day-break.—Was there not a voice?
—“No! 'tis the shrill Cicada, with glad life
“Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports
“Amidst them, in the sun.—Hark! yet again!”
No! no!—Forgive me, father! that I bring
Earth's restless griefs and passions to disturb
The stillness of thy holy solitude;
My heart is full of care.

Anselmo.
There is no place
So hallow'd, as to be unvisited
By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go,
With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes
Lonely and still; where he that made our hearts
Will speak to them in whispers? I have known
Affliction too, my daughter.

Con.
Hark! his step!
I know it well—he comes—my Raimond, welcome!
Vittoria enters, Constance shrinks back on perceiving her.
Oh heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale.

Vittoria.
(not observing her.)
There is a cloud of horror on my soul;
And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait,
Even as an echo, following the sweet close
Of some divine and solemn harmony:
Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me
Of holy things, and names, in whose deep sound
Is power to bid the tempests of the heart
Sink, like a storm rebuked.

Ans.
What recent grief
Darkens thy spirit thus?

Vit.
I said not grief.
We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not
That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe
Its mantling cup there is a scent unknown,
Fraught with some strange delirium. All things now
Have changed their nature; still, I say, rejoice!
There is a cause, Anselmo!—We are free,
Free and avenged!—Yet on my soul there hangs
A darkness, heavy as th'oppressive gloom
Of midnight phantasies.—Ay, for this, too,
There is a cause.

Ans.
How say'st thou, we are free?
There may have raged, within Palermo's walls,
Some brief wild tumult, but too well I know
They call the stranger, lord.

Vit.
Who calls the dead
Conqueror or lord?—Hush! breathe it not aloud,
The wild winds must not hear it!—Yet, again,
I tell thee, we are free!

Ans.
Thine eye hath look'd
On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang
O'er its dark orb.—Speak! I adjure thee, say,
How hath this work been wrought?

Vit.
Peace! ask me not!
Why shouldst thou hear a tale to send thy blood
Back on its fount?—We cannot wake them now
The storm is in my soul, but they are all
At rest!—Ay, sweetly may the slaughter'd babe
By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men
Who, midst the slain have slumber'd oft before,
Making the shield their pillow, may repose
Well, now their toils are done.—Is't not enough?

Con.
Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet
There is no shade come o'er the laughing sky!
—I am an outcast now.

Ans.
O Thou, whose ways
Clouds mantle fearfully; of all the blind,
But terrible, ministers that work thy wrath,
How much is man the fiercest!—Others know
Their limits—Yes! the earthquakes, and the storms,
And the volcanoes!—He alone o'erleaps
The bounds of retribution!—Couldst thou gaze,
Vittoria! with thy woman's heart and eye,
On such dread scenes unmoved?

Vit.
Was it for me
To stay th'avenging sword?—No, tho' it pierced
My very soul?—“Hark, hark, what thrilling shrieks
“Ring thro' the air around me!—Can'st thou not
“Bid them be hush'd?—Oh! look not on me thus!

Ans.
“Lady! thy thoughts lend sternness to the looks
“Which are but sad!”—Have all then perish'd? all?
Was there no mercy?

Vit.
Mercy! it hath been
A word forbidden as th'unhallowed names
Of evil powers.—Yet one there was who dared
To own the guilt of pity, and to aid
The victims; but in vain.—Of him no more!
He is a traitor, and a traitor's death
Will be his meed.

Con.
(coming forward.)
Oh Heaven!—his name, his name?
Is it—it cannot be!

Vit.
(starting.)
Thou here, pale girl!
I deem'd thee with the dead!—How hast thou 'scaped
The snare?—Who saved thee, last of all thy race?
Was it not he of whom I spake e'en now,
Raimond di Procida?

Con.
It is enough.
Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink!
Must he too die?

Vit.
Is it ev'n so?—Why then,
Live on—thou hast the arrow at thy heart!
“Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes,”
I mean not to betray thee. Thou may'st live!
Why should death bring thee his oblivious balms?
He visits but the happy.—Didst thou ask
If Raimond too must die?—It is as sure
As that his blood is on thy head, for thou
Didst win him to this treason.

Con.
“When did man
“Call mercy, treason?—Take my life, but save
“My noble Raimond!

Vit.
Maiden!” he must die.
E'en now the youth before his judges stands,
And they are men who, to the voice of prayer,
Are as the rock is to the murmur'd sigh
Of summer-waves; ay, tho' a father sit
On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me.
What would'st thou?

Con.
Mercy!—Oh! wert thou to plead
But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved!
If thou hast ever loved—

Vit.
—If I have loved?
It is that love forbids me to relent;
I am what it hath made me.—O'er my soul
Lightning hath pass'd, and sear'd it. Could I weep,
I then might pity—but it will not be.

Con.
Oh! thou wilt yet relent, for woman's heart
Was formed to suffer and to melt.

Vit.
Away!
Why should I pity thee?—Thou wilt but prove
What I have known before—and yet I live!
Nature is strong, and it may all be borne—
The sick impatient yearning of the heart
For that which is not; and the weary sense
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been
Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne!
All, save remorse.—But I will not bow down
My spirit to that dark power:—there was no guilt!
Anselmo! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt?

Ans.
Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken thought,
Lending reproachful voices to a breeze,
Keen lightning to a look.

Vit.
Leave me in peace!
Is't not enough that I should have a sense
Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark,
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me
With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words,
Old man, should gall me too?—Must all conspire
Against me?—Oh! thou beautiful spirit! wont
To shine upon my dreams with looks of love,
Where art thou vanish'd?—Was it not the thought
Of thee which urged me to the fearful task,
And wilt thou now forsake me?—I must seek
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance,
Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths;
—Here I but meet despair!
[Exit Vittoria.

Ans.
(to Constance.)
Despair not thou,
My daughter!—he that purifies the heart
With grief, will lend it strength.

Con.
(endeavouring to rouse herself.)
Did she not say
That some one was to die?

Ans.
I tell thee not
Thy pangs are vain—for nature will have way.
Earth must have tears; yet in a heart like thine,
Faith may not yield its place.

Con.
Have I not heard
Some fearful tale?—Who said, that there should rest
Blood on my soul?—What blood?—I never bore
Hatred, kind father, unto aught that breathes;
Raimond doth know it well.—Raimond!—High heaven,
It bursts upon me now!—and he must die!
For my sake—e'en for mine!

Ans.
Her words were strange,
And her proud mind seem'd half to frenzy wrought—
—Perchance this may not be.

Con.
It must not be.
Why do I linger here?

(She rises to depart.
Ans.
Where wouldst thou go?

Con.
To give their stern and unrelenting hearts
A victim in his stead.

Ans.
Stay! wouldst thou rush
On certain death?

Con.
I may not falter now.
—Is not the life of woman all bound up
In her affections?—What hath she to do
In this bleak world alone?—It may be well
For man on his triumphal course to move,
Uncumber'd by soft bonds; but we were born
For love and grief.

Ans.
Thou fair and gentle thing,
Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak
Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst thou
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men,
Or face the king of terrors?

Con.
There is strength
Deep bedded in our hearts, of which we reck
But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced
Its fragile dwelling.—Must not earth be rent
Before her gems are found?—Oh! now I feel
Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn'd
To look on death for me!—My heart hath given
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith
As high in its devotion.
[Exit Constance.

Ans.
She is gone!
Is it to perish?—God of mercy! lend
Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save
This pure and lofty creature!—I will follow—
But her young footstep and heroic heart
Will bear her to destruction faster far
Than I can track her path.
[Exit Anselmo.