University of Virginia Library

ACT I

Scene I

The Sea Shore on the Coast of Granada.
Don Alvar, wrapt in a Boat cloak, and Zulimez (a Moresco), both as just landed.
Zulimez.
No sound, no face of joy to welcome us!

Alvar.
My faithful Zulimez, for one brief moment
Let me forget my anguish and their crimes.
If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling,
'Tis surely this—after long years of exile,
To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us,
To hail at once our country, and our birth-place.
Hail, Spain! Granada, hail! once more I press
Thy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers!

Zulimez.
Then claim your rights in it! O, revered Don Alvar,
Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose.
It is too hazardous! reveal yourself,
And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt!

Alvar.
Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother,
Injured indeed! O deeply injured! yet
Ordonio's brother.

Zulimez.
Nobly-minded Alvar!
This sure but gives his guilt a blacker dye.

Alvar.
The more behoves it I should rouse within him
Remorse! that I should save him from himself.

Zulimez.
Remorse is as the heart in which it grows:
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews
Of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy,
It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmost
Weeps only tears of poison!

Alvar.
And of a brother,
Dare I hold this, unproved? nor make one effort
To save him?—Hear me, friend! I have yet to tell thee,
That this same life, which he conspired to take,
Himself once rescued from the angry flood,
And at the imminent hazard of his own.
Add too my oath—

Zulimez.
You have thrice told already
The years of absence and of secrecy,
To which a forced oath bound you; if in truth
A suborned murderer have the power to dictate
A binding oath—

Alvar.
My long captivity
Left me no choice: the very wish too languished
With the fond hope that nursed it; the sick babe
Drooped at the bosom of its famished mother.
But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy;
The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest,
No motive could have tempted him to falsehood:
In the first pangs of his awaken'd conscience,
When with abhorrence of his own black purpose
The murderous weapon, pointed at my breast,
Fell from his palsied hand—

Zulimez.
Heavy presumption!

Alvar.
It weighed not with me—Hark! I will tell thee all;
As we passed by, I bade thee mark the base
Of yonder cliff—

Zulimez.
That rocky seat you mean,
Shaped by the billows?—

Alvar.
There Teresa met me
The morning of the day of my departure.
We were alone: the purple hue of dawn
Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us,
And blending with the blushes on her cheek,
Suffused the tear-drops there with rosy light.
There seemed a glory round us, and Teresa
The angel of the vision!
Had'st thou seen
How in each motion her most innocent soul
Beamed forth and brightened, thou thyself would'st tell me,
Guilt is a thing impossible in her!
She must be innocent!

Zulimez.
Proceed, my lord!

Alvar.
A portrait which she had procured by stealth,
(For even then it seems her heart foreboded
Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry)
A portrait of herself with thrilling hand
She tied around my neck, conjuring me,
With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred
To my own knowledge: nor did she desist,
Till she had won a solemn promise from me,
That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it
Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew,
Knew that which none but she could have disclosed.

Zulimez.
A damning proof!

Alvar.
My own life wearied me!
And but for the imperative voice within,
With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen.
That voice, which quelled me, calmed me: and I sought
The Belgic states: there joined the better cause;
And there too fought as one that courted death!
Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying,
In death-like trance: a long imprisonment followed.
The fulness of my anguish by degrees
Waned to a meditative melancholy;
And still the more I mused, my soul became
More doubtful, more perplexed; and still Teresa,
Night after night, she visited my sleep,
Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful,
Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me!
Yes, still as in contempt of proof and reason,
I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless!
Hear then my fix'd resolve: I'll linger here
In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.—
The Moorish robes?—

Zulimez.
All, all are in the sea-cave,
Some furlong hence. I bade our mariners
Secrete the boat there.

Alvar.
Above all, the picture
Of the assassination—

Zulimez.
Be assured
That it remains uninjured.

Alvar.
Thus disguised
I will first seek to meet Ordonio's—wife!
If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk,
And this the hour; her words, her very looks
Will acquit her or convict.

Zulimez.
Will they not know you?

Alvar.
With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly
Trust the disguise; and as to my complexion,
My long imprisonment, the scanty food,
This scar—and toil beneath a burning sun,
Have done already half the business for us.
Add too my youth, since last we saw each other.
Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voice
A hoarser note—Besides, they think me dead:
And what the mind believes impossible,
The bodily sense is slow to recognize.

Zulimez.
'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey.
Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock,
Where having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain,
I'll seek our mariners; and in the dusk
Transport whate'er we need to the small dell
In the Alpujarras—there where Zagri lived.

Alvar.
I know it well: it is the obscurest haunt
Of all the mountains—
[Both stand listening.
Voices at a distance!
Let us away!
[Exeunt.

Scene II

Enter Teresa and Valdez.
Teresa.
I hold Ordonio dear; he is your son
And Alvar's brother.

Valdez.
Love him for himself,
Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

Teresa.
I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez,
But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain
Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.

Valdez.
Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves,
And could my heart's blood give him back to thee
I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!
Thy dying father comes upon my soul
With that same look, with which he gave thee to me;
I held thee in my arms a powerless babe,
While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty
Fixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this,
That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,
And with slow anguish wear away thy life,
The victim of a useless constancy.
I must not see thee wretched.

Teresa.
There are woes
Ill bartered for the garishness of joy!
If it be wretched with an untired eye
To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;
Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock,
My hair dishevelled by the pleasant sea breeze,
To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again
All past hours of delight! If it be wretched
To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there,
To go through each minutest circumstance
Of the blest meeting, and to frame adventures
Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them;
(As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid
Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,
And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft
Hung with her lute, and played the selfsame tune
He used to play, and listened to the shadow
Herself had made)—if this be wretchedness,
And if indeed it be a wretched thing
To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine
That I had died, died just ere his return!
Then see him listening to my constancy,
Or hover round, as he at midnight oft
Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon;
Or haply in some more fantastic mood,
To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers
Build up a bower where he and I might dwell,
And there to wait his coming! O my sire!
My Alvar's sire! if this be wretchedness
That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
If in a most assured reality
He should return, and see a brother's infant
Smile at him from my arms?
Oh what a thought!

Valdez.
A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought.
The very week he promised his return—

Teresa.
Was it not then a busy joy? to see him,
After those three years' travels! we had no fears—
The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter.
Almost endeared his absence! Yet the gladness,
The tumult of our joy! What then if now—

Valdez.
O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts,
Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless!
Yes, I am old—I have no pleasant fancies—
Hectic and unrefreshed with rest—

Teresa.
My father!

Valdez.
The sober truth is all too much for me!
I see no sail which brings not to my mind
The home-bound bark in which my son was captured
By the Algerine—to perish with his captors!

Teresa.
Oh no! he did not!

Valdez.
Captured in sight of land!
From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tower
We might have seen—

Teresa.
His capture, not his death.

Valdez.
Alas! how aptly thou forget'st a tale
Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! my brave Ordonio
Saw both the pirate and his prize go down,
In the same storm that baffled his own valour,
And thus twice snatched a brother from his hopes:
Gallant Ordonio! O beloved Teresa,
Would'st thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar,
And most delight his spirit, go, make thou
His brother happy, make his aged father
Sink to the grave in joy.

Teresa.
For mercy's sake
Press me no more! I have no power to love him.
His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow,
Chill me like dew-damps of the unwholesome night:
My love, a timorous and tender flower,
Closes beneath his touch.

Valdez.
You wrong him, maiden!
You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well
To character by such unkindly phrases
The stir and workings of that love for you
Which he has toiled to smother. 'Twas not well,
Nor is it grateful in you to forget
His wounds and perilous voyages, and how
With an heroic fearlessness of danger
He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar.
It was not well—You have moved me even to tears.

Teresa.
Oh pardon me, Lord Valdez! pardon me!
It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,
A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurried
Beyond myself, if I but hear of one
Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not
Born in one day, like twins of the same parent?
Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!
A six years' absence is a heavy thing,
Yet still the hope survives—

Valdez
(looking forward).
Hush! 'tis Monviedro.

Teresa.
The Inquisitor! on what new scent of blood?

Enter Monviedro with Alhadra.
Monviedro.
Peace and the truth be with you! Good my Lord,
My present need is with your son.
We have hit the time. Here comes he! Yes, 'tis he.
Enter from the opposite side Don Ordonio.
My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman
(Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.

Ordonio.
Hail, reverend father! what may be the business?

Monviedro.
My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse
To his false creed, so recently abjured,
The secret servants of the Inquisition
Have seized her husband, and at my command
To the supreme tribunal would have led him,
But that he made appeal to you, my lord,
As surety for his soundness in the faith.
Though lessoned by experience what small trust
The asseverations of these Moors deserve,
Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name,
Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honour
The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers,
Thus far prevailed with me that—

Ordonio.
Reverend father,
I am much beholden to your high opinion,
Which so o'erprizes my light services.
[Then to Alhadra.
I would that I could serve you; but in truth
Your face is new to me.

Monviedro.
My mind foretold me
That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez,
'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio,
That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely
Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors,
Should prove the patron of this infidel!
The warranter of a Moresco's faith!
Now I return.

Alhadra.
My Lord, my husband's name
Is Isidore. (Ordonio starts.)
You may remember it:
Three years ago, three years this very week,
You left him at Almeria.

Monviedro.
Palpably false!
This very week, three years ago, my lord,
(You needs must recollect it by your wound)
You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates,
The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar!
What, is he ill, my Lord? how strange he looks!

Valdez.
You pressed upon him too abruptly, father!
The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted.

Ordonio.
O Heavens! I?—I doted?
Yes! I doted on him.

[Ordonio walks to the end of the stage, Valdez follows.
Teresa.
I do not, can not, love him. Is my heart hard?
Is my heart hard? that even now the thought
Should force itself upon me?—Yet I feel it!

Monviedro.
The drops did start and stand upon his forehead!
I will return. In very truth, I grieve
To have been the occasion. Ho! attend me, woman!

Alhadra
(to Teresa).
O gentle lady! make the father stay,
Until my lord recover. I am sure,
That he will say he is my husband's friend.

Teresa.
Stay, father! stay! my lord will soon recover.

Ordonio
(as they return, to Valdez).
Strange, that this Monviedro
Should have the power so to distemper me!

Valdez.
Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son!

Monviedro.
My lord, I truly grieve—

Ordonio.
Tut! name it not.
A sudden seizure, father! think not of it.
As to this woman's husband, I do know him.
I know him well, and that he is a Christian.

Monviedro.
I hope, my lord, your merely human pity
Doth not prevail—

Ordonio.
'Tis certain that he was a catholic;
What changes may have happened in three years.
I can not say; but grant me this, good father:
Myself I'll sift him: if I find him sound,
You'll grant me your authority and name
To liberate his house.

Monviedro.
Your zeal, my lord,
And your late merits in this holy warfare
Would authorize an ampler trust—you have it.

Ordonio.
I will attend you home within an hour.

Valdez.
Meantime return with us and take refreshment.

Alhadra.
Not till my husband's free! I may not do it.
I will stay here.

Teresa
(aside).
Who is this Isidore?

Valdez.
Daughter!

Teresa.
With your permission, my dear lord,
I'll loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze.

[Exeunt Valdez, Monviedro and Ordonio.
Alhadra.
Hah! there he goes! a bitter curse go with him,
A scathing curse!
You hate him, don't you, lady?

Teresa.
Oh fear not me! my heart is sad for you.

Alhadra.
These fell inquisitors! these sons of blood!
As I came on, his face so maddened me,
That ever and anon I clutched my dagger
And half unsheathed it—

Teresa.
Be more calm, I pray you.

Alhadra.
And as he walked along the narrow path
Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager;
'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember
That his Familiars held my babes and husband.
To have leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge,
And hurl'd him down the rugged precipice,
O, it had been most sweet!

Teresa.
Hush! hush for shame!
Where is your woman's heart?

Alhadra.
O gentle lady!
You have no skill to guess my many wrongs,
Many and strange! Besides, I am a Christian,
And Christians never pardon—'tis their faith!

Teresa.
Shame fall on those who so have shewn it to thee!

Alhadra.
I know that man; 'tis well he knows not me.
Five years ago (and he was the prime agent),
Five years ago the holy brethren seized me.

Teresa.
What might your crime be?

Alhadra.
I was a Moresco!
They cast me, then a young and nursing mother,
Into a dungeon of their prison house,
Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light,
No touch, no sound of comfort! The black air,
It was a toil to breathe it! when the door,
Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed
One human countenance, the lamp's red flame
Cowered as it entered, and at once sank down.
Oh miserable! by that lamp to see
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread
Brought daily; for the little wretch was sickly—
My rage had dried away its natural food.
In darkness I remained—the dull bell counting,
Which haply told me, that the all-cheering sun
Was rising on our garden. When I dozed,
My infant's moanings mingled with my slumbers
And waked me.—If you were a mother, lady,
I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises
And peevish cries so fretted on my brain
That I have struck the innocent babe in anger.

Teresa.
O Heaven! it is too horrible to hear.

Alhadra.
What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right
That such as you should hear it.—Know you not,
What nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal?
Great evils ask great passions to redress them,
And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence.

Teresa.
You were at length released?

Alhadra.
Yes, at length
I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven!
'Twas the first time my infant smiled. No more—
For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady,
A trance comes on which makes me o'er again
All I then was—my knees hang loose and drag,
And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh,
That you would start and shudder!

Teresa.
But your husband—

Alhadra.
A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady.

Teresa.
Alas, poor man!

Alhadra.
He hath a lion's courage,
Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance;
Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart
He worships nature in the hill and valley,
Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all—

Enter Alvar disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish garments.
Teresa.
Know you that stately Moor?

Alhadra.
I know him not:
But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain,
Who hides himself among the Alpujarras.

Teresa.
The Alpujarras? Does he know his danger,
So near this seat?

Alhadra.
He wears the Moorish robes too,
As in defiance of the royal edict.

[Alhadra advances to Alvar, who has walked to the back of the stage, near the rocks. Teresa drops her veil.
Alhadra.
Gallant Moresco! An inquisitor,
Monviedro, of known hatred to our race—

Alvar.
You have mistaken me. I am a Christian.

Alhadra.
He deems, that we are plotting to ensnare him:
Speak to him, Lady—none can hear you speak,
And not believe you innocent of guile.

Teresa.
If aught enforce you to concealment, Sir—

Alhadra.
He trembles strangely.

[Alvar sinks down and hides his face in his robe.
Teresa.
See, we have disturbed him.
[Approaches nearer to him.
I pray you, think us friends—uncowl your face,
For you seem faint, and the night-breeze blows healing.
I pray you, think us friends!

Alvar
(raising his head).
Calm, very calm!
'Tis all too tranquil for reality!
And she spoke to me with her innocent voice,
That voice, that innocent voice! She is no traitress!

Teresa.
Let us retire (haughtily to Alhadra).


Alhadra.
He is indeed a Christian.

Alvar
(aside).
She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning garment!
Why should my brother's—wife—wear mourning garments?
[To Teresa.
Your pardon, noble dame! that I disturbed you:
I had just started from a frightful dream.

Teresa.
Dreams tell but of the past, and yet, 'tis said,
They prophesy—

Alvar.
The Past lives o'er again
In its effects, and to the guilty spirit
The ever-frowning Present is its image.

Teresa.
Traitress!
(Then aside.)
What sudden spell o'ermasters me?
Why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman?

Alvar.
I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I leant
With blindest trust, and a betrothéd maid,
Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me:
For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her.
This maid so idolized, that trusted friend
Dishonoured in my absence, soul and body!
Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt,
And murderers were suborned against my life.
But by my looks, and most impassioned words,
I roused the virtues that are dead in no man,
Even in the assassins' hearts! they made their terms,
And thanked me for redeeming them from murder.

Alhadra.
You are lost in thought: hear him no more, sweet Lady!

Teresa.
From morn to night I am myself a dreamer,
And slight things bring on me the idle mood!
Well sir, what happened then?

Alvar.
On a rude rock,
A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs,
Whose thready leaves to the low-breathing gale
Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,
I stayed, as though the hour of death were passed,
And I were sitting in the world of spirits—
For all things seemed unreal! There I sate—
The dews fell clammy, and the night descended,
Black, sultry, close! and ere the midnight hour
A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear,
That woods, and sky, and mountains, seemed one havock.
The second flash of lightning shewed a tree
Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumultuous:
My soul worked high, I bared my head to the storm,
And with loud voice and clamorous agony,
Kneeling I prayed to the great Spirit that made me,
Prayed, that Remorse might fasten on their hearts,
And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable
As the gored lion's bite!

Teresa.
A fearful curse!

Alhadra.
But dreamt you not that you returned and killed them?
Dreamt you of no revenge?

Alvar.
She would have died
Died in her guilt—perchance by her own hands!
And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds,
I might have met the evil glance of frenzy,
And leapt myself into an unblest grave!
I prayed for the punishment that cleanses hearts:
For still I loved her!

Alhadra.
And you dreamt all this?

Teresa.
My soul is full of visions all as wild!

Alhadra.
There is no room in this heart for puling love-tales.

Teresa
(lifts up her veil, and advances to Alvar).
Stranger, farewell! I guess not who you are,
Nor why you so addressed your tale to me.
Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplexed me,
With obscure memory of something past,
Which still escaped my efforts, or presented
Tricks of a fancy pampered with long wishing.
If, as it sometimes happens, our rude startling,
Whilst your full heart was shaping out its dream,
Drove you to this, your not ungentle, wildness—
You have my sympathy, and so farewell!
But if some undiscovered wrongs oppress you,
And you need strength to drag them into light,
The generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordonio,
Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer,
Nor shall you want my favourable pleading.

[Exeunt Teresa and Alhadra.
Alvar
(alone).
'Tis strange! It cannot be! my Lord Ordonio!
Her Lord Ordonio! Nay, I will not do it!
I cursed him once—and one curse is enough!
How sad she looked, and pale! but not like guilt—
And her calm tones—sweet as a song of mercy!
If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice,
Hell scarce were Hell. And why not innocent?
Who meant to murder me, might well cheat her?
But ere she married him, he had stained her honour;
Ah! there I am hampered. What if this were a lie
Framed by the assassin? Who should tell it him,
If it were truth? Ordonio would not tell him.
Yet why one lie? all else, I know, was truth.
No start, no jealousy of stirring conscience!
And she referred to me—fondly, methought!
Could she walk here if she had been a traitress?
Here where we played together in our childhood?
Here where we plighted vows? where her cold cheek
Received my last kiss, when with suppressed feelings
She had fainted in my arms? It cannot be!
'Tis not in nature! I will die believing,
That I shall meet her where no evil is,
No treachery, no cup dashed from the lips.
I'll haunt this scene no more! live she in peace!
Her husband—aye her husband! May this angel
New mould his canker'd heart! Assist me, heaven,
That I may pray for my poor guilty brother!

[Exit.