University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIRST

Scene —The sea shore on the coast of Granada.
Velez, Maria.
Maria.
I hold Osorio dear: he is your son,
And Albert's brother.

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

Maria.
I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Velez!
But Heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain
Faithful to Albert, be he dead or living.

Velez.
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 mine arms, a powerless babe,
While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty
Fix'd 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.

Maria.
There are woes
Ill-barter'd 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 dishevell'd 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 Albert there;
To go through each minutest circumstance
Of the bless'd meeting, and to frame adventures
Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them:
(As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid,
Who dress'd her in her buried lover's cloaths,
And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft
Hung with her lute, and play'd the selfsame tune
He used to play, and listen'd 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;
And hover round, as he at midnight ever
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 Albert's sire! if this be wretchedness
That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
If in a most assur'd reality
He should return, and see a brother's infant
Smile at him from my arms?
[Clasping her forehead.
O what a thought!
'Twas horrible! it pass'd my brain like lightning.

Velez.
'Twere horrible, if but one doubt remain'd
The very week he promised his return.

Maria.
Ah, what a busy joy was ours—to see him
After his three years' travels! tho' that absence
His still-expected, never-failing letters
Almost endear'd to me! Even then what tumult!

Velez.
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 dreams—
Hectic and unrefresh'd with rest.

Maria
(with great tenderness).
My father!

Velez.
Aye, 'twas the morning thou didst try to cheer me
With a fond gaiety. My heart was bursting,
And yet I could not tell me, how my sleep
Was throng'd with swarthy faces, and I saw
The merchant-ship in which my son was captured—
Well, well, enough—captured in sight of land—
We might almost have seen it from our house-top!

Maria
(abruptly).
He did not perish there!

Velez
(impatiently).
Nay, nay—how aptly thou forgett'st a tale
Thou ne'er didst wish to learn—my brave Osorio
Saw them both founder in the storm that parted
Him and the pirate: both the vessels founder'd.
Gallant Osorio!
[Pauses, then tenderly.
O belov'd Maria,
Would'st thou best prove thy faith to generous Albert
And most delight his spirit, go and make
His brother happy, make his agéd father
Sink to the grave with joy!

Maria.
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.

Velez.
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 toil'd 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 roamed the coast of Afric for your Albert.
It was not well—you have moved me even to tears.

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

Velez
(looking forwards).
Hush—hush! Maria.

Maria.
It is Francesco, our Inquisitor;
That busy man, gross, ignorant, and cruel!

Enter Francesco and Alhadra.
Francesco
(to Velez).
Where is your son, my lord? Oh! here he comes.
Enter Osorio.
My Lord Osorio! this Moresco woman
(Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.

Osorio.
Hail, reverend father! What may be the business?

Francesco.
O the old business—a Mohammedan!
The officers are in her husband's house,
And would have taken him, but that he mention'd
Your name, asserting that you were his friend,
Aye, and would warrant him a Catholic.
But I know well these children of perdition,
And all their idle fals[e]hoods to gain time;
So should have made the officers proceed,
But that this woman with most passionate outcries,
(Kneeling and holding forth her infants to me)
So work'd upon me, who (you know, my lord!)
Have human frailties, and am tender-hearted,
That I came with her.

Osorio.
You are merciful.
[Looking at Alhadra.
I would that I could serve you; but in truth
Your face is new to me.

[Alhadra is about to speak, but is interrupted by
Francesco.
Aye, aye—I thought so;
And so I said to one of the familiars.
A likely story, said I, that Osorio,
The gallant nobleman, who fought so bravely
Some four years past against these rebel Moors;
Working so hard from out the garden of faith
To eradicate these weeds detestable;
That he should countenance this vile Moresco,
Nay, be his friend—and warrant him, forsooth!
Well, well, my lord! it is a warning to me;
Now I return.

Alhadra.
My lord, my husband's name
Is Ferdinand: you may remember it.
Three years ago—three years this very week—
You left him at Almeria.

Francesco
(triumphantly).
Palpably false!
This very week, three years ago, my lord!
(You needs must recollect it by your wound)
You were at sea, and fought the Moorish fiends
Who took and murder'd your poor brother Albert.

[Maria looks at Francesco with disgust and horror. Osorio's appearance to be collected from the speech that follows.
Francesco
(to Velez and pointing to Osorio).
What? is he ill, my lord? How strange he looks!

Velez
(angrily).
You started on him too abruptly, father!
The fate of one, on whom you know he doted.

Osorio
(starting as in a sudden agitation).
O heavens! I doted!
[Then, as if recovering himself.
Yes! I doted on him!

[Osorio walks to the end of the stage. Velez follows soothing him.
Maria
(her eye following them).
I do not, cannot love him. Is my heart hard?
Is my heart hard? that even now the thought
Should force itself upon me—yet I feel it!

Francesco.
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 Maria).
O gentle lady, make the father stay
Till that my lord recover. I am sure
That he will say he is my husband's friend.

Maria.
Stay, father, stay—my lord will soon recover.

[Osorio and Velez returning.
Osorio
(to Velez as they return).
Strange! that this Francesco
Should have the power so to distemper me.

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

Francesco
(to Osorio).
My lord, I truly grieve—

Osorio.
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.

Francesco.
I hope, my lord, your sensibility
Doth not prevail.

Osorio.
Nay, nay—you know me better.
You hear what I have said. But 'tis a trifle.
I had something here of more importance.
[Touching his forehead as if in the act of recollection.
Hah!
The Count Mondejar, our great general,
Writes, that the bishop we were talking of
Has sicken'd dangerously.

Francesco.
Even so.

Osorio.
I must return my answer.

Francesco.
When, my lord?

Osorio.
To-morrow morning, and shall not forget
How bright and strong your zeal for the Catholic faith.

Francesco.
You are too kind, my lord! You overwhelm me.

Osorio.
Nay, say not so. As for this Ferdinand,
'Tis certain that he was a Catholic.
What changes may have happen'd in three years,
I cannot say, but grant me this, good father!
I'll go and sift him: if I find him sound,
You'll grant me your authority and name
To liberate his house.

Francesco.
My lord you have it.

Osorio
(to Alhadra).
I will attend you home within an hour.
Meantime return with us, and take refreshment.

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

Maria
(aside).
Who is this Ferdinand?

Velez.
Daughter!

Maria.
With your permission, my dear lord,
I'll loiter a few minutes, and then join you.

[Exeunt Velez, Francesco, and Osorio.
Alhadra.
Hah! there he goes. A bitter curse go with him.
A scathing curse!
[Alhadra had been betrayed by the warmth of her feelings into an imprudence. She checks herself, yet recollecting Maria's manner towards Francesco, says in a shy and distrustful manner
You hate him, don't you, lady!

Maria.
Nay, fear me not! my heart is sad for you.

Alhadra.
These fell Inquisitors, these sons of blood!
As I came on, his face so madden'd me
That ever and anon I clutch'd my dagger
And half unsheathed it.

Maria.
Be more calm, I pray you.

Alhadra.
And as he stalk'd along the narrow path
Close on the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager.
'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember
That his foul officers held my babes and husband.
To have leapt upon him with a Tyger's plunge
And hurl'd him down the ragged precipice,
O—it had been most sweet!

Maria.
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 they do never pardon, 'tis their faith!

Maria.
Shame fall on those who so have shown 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.

Maria.
What might your crime be?

Alhadra.
Solely my complexion.
They cast me, then a young and nursing mother,
Into a dungeon of their prison house.
There 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! I have seen
The gaoler's lamp, the moment that he enter'd,
How the flame sunk at once down to the socket.
O 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 dry'd away its natural food!
In darkness I remain'd, counting the clocks
Which haply told me that the blessed sun
Was rising on my garden. When I dozed,
My infant's moanings mingled with my dreams
And wak'd 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!

Maria.
O God! 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.

Maria.
You were at length deliver'd?

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 fit 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 ideot laugh
That you would start and shudder!

Maria.
But your husband?

Alhadra.
A month's imprisonment would kill him, lady!

Maria.
Alas, poor man!

Alhadra.
He hath a lion's courage,
But is not stern enough for fortitude.
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 Albert disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish garments.
Albert
(not observing Maria and Alhadra).
Three weeks have I been loitering here, nor ever
Have summon'd up my heart to ask one question,
Or stop one peasant passing on this way.

Maria.
Know you that man?

Alhadra.
His person, not his name.
I doubt not, he is some Moresco chieftain
Who hides himself among the Alpuxarras.
A week has scarcely pass'd since first I saw him;
He has new-roof'd the desolate old cottage
Where Zagri lived—who dared avow the prophet
And died like one of the faithful! There he lives,
And a friend with him.

Maria.
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 Albert, who has walked to the back of the stage near the rocks. Maria drops her veil.
Alhadra.
Gallant Moresco! you are near the castle
Of the Lord Velez, and hard by does dwell
A priest, the creature of the Inquisition.

Albert
(retiring).
You have mistaken me—I am a Christian.

Alhadra
(to Maria).
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.

[Albert, on hearing this, pauses and turns round.
Maria.
If aught enforce you to concealment, sir!

Alhadra.
He trembles strangely.

[Albert sinks down and hides his face in his garment.
Maria.
See—we have disturb'd 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!

Albert
(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!
It was a dream, a phantom of my sleep,
A lying dream.
[He starts up, and abruptly addresses her.
Maria! you are not wedded?

Maria
(haughtily to Alhadra).
Let us retire.

[They advance to the front of the stage.
Alhadra.
He is indeed a Christian.
Some stray Sir Knight, that falls in love of a sudden.

Maria.
What can this mean? How should he know my name?
It seems all shadowy.

Alhadra.
Here he comes again.

Albert
(aside).
She deems me dead, and yet no mourning garment!
Why should my brother's wife wear mourning garments?
God of all mercy, make me, make me quiet!
[To Maria.
Your pardon, gentle maid! that I disturb'd you.
I had just started from a frightful dream.

Alhadra.
These renegado Moors—how soon they learn
The crimes and follies of their Christian tyrants!

Albert.
I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I lean'd
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 idoliz'd, that trusted friend,
Polluted in my absence soul and body!
And she with him and he with her conspired
To have me murder'd in a wood of the mountains:
But by my looks and most impassion'd words
I roused the virtues, that are dead in no man,
Even in the assassins' hearts. They made their terms,
And thank'd me for redeeming them from murder.

Alhadra
(to Maria).
You are lost in thought. Hear him no more, sweet lady!

Maria.
From morn to night I am myself a dreamer,
And slight things bring on me the idle mood.
Well, sir, what happen'd then?

Albert.
On a rude rock,
A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs
Whose threaddy leaves to the low breathing gale
Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,
I stay'd as tho' the hour of death were past,
And I were sitting in the world of spirits,
For all things seem'd 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 seem'd one havock!
The second flash of lightning show'd a tree
Hard by me, newly-scathed. I rose tumultuous:
My soul work'd high: I bared my head to the storm,
And with loud voice and clamorous agony
Kneeling I pray'd to the great Spirit that made me,
Pray'd that Remorse might fasten on their hearts,
And cling, with poisonous tooth, inextricable
As the gored lion's bite!

Maria.
A fearful curse!

Alhadra.
But dreamt you not that you return'd and kill'd him?
Dreamt you of no revenge?

Albert
(his voice trembling, and in tones of deep distress).
She would have died,
Died in her sins—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 pray'd for the punishment that cleanses hearts,
For still I loved her!

Alhadra.
And you dreamt all this?

Maria.
My soul is full of visions, all is wild!

Alhadra.
There is no room in this heart for puling lovetales.
Lady! your servants there seem seeking us.

Maria
(lifts up her veil and advances to Albert).
Stranger, farewell! I guess not who you are,
Nor why you so address'd your tale to me.
Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplex'd me
With obscure memory of something past,
Which still escap'd my efforts, or presented
Tricks of a fancy pamper'd with long-wishing.
If (as it sometimes happens) our rude startling,
While 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 undiscover'd wrongs oppress you,
And you need strength to drag them into light,
The generous Velez, and my Lord Osorio
Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer,
Nor shall you want my favourable pleading.

[Exeunt Maria and Alhadra.
Albert
(alone).
'Tis strange! it cannot be! my Lord Osorio!
Her Lord Osorio! Nay, I will not do it.
I curs'd him once, and one curse is enough.
How sad she look'd 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 stain'd her honour.
Ah! there I am hamper'd. What if this were a lie
Fram'd by the assassin? who should tell it him
If it were truth? Osorio would not tell him.
Yet why one lie? All else, I know, was truth.
No start! no jealousy of stirring conscience!
And she referr'd to me—fondly, methought!
Could she walk here, if that she were a traitress?
Here where we play'd together in our childhood?
Here where we plighted vows? Where her cold cheek
Received my last kiss, when with suppress'd 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 dash'd from the lips!
I'll haunt this scene no more—live she in peace!
Her husband—ay, her husband! May this Angel
New-mould his canker'd heart! Assist me, Heaven!
That I may pray for my poor guilty brother!