SCENE FROM LEAH, THE FORSAKEN.
ACT IV. SCENE III.
SCENE.—Night. The Village Churchyard. Enter Leah slowly, her hair streaming over her shoulders.
LEAH—[solus]-What seek I here? I know not; yet I feel I have a mission to fulfil. I feel that the cords of my I being are stretched to their utmost effort. Already seven days! So long! As the dead lights were placed about the body of Abraham, as the friends sat nightly at his feet and watched, so have I sat, for seven days, and wept over the corpse of my love. What have I done? Am I not the child of man? Is not love the right of all,—like the air, the light? And if I stretched my hands towards it, was it a crime? When I first saw him, first heard the sound of his voice, something wound itself around my heart. Then first I knew why I was created, and for the first time, was thankful for my life. Collect thyself, mind, and think! What has happened? I saw him yesterday—no! eight days ago! He was full of love. "You'll come," said he. I came. I left my people. I tore the cords that bound me to my nation, and came to him. He cast me forth into the night. And yet, my heart, you throb still. The earth still stands, the sun still shines, as if it had not gone down forever, for me. By his side stood a handsome maid, and drew him away with caressing hands. It is she he loves, and to the Jewess he dares offer gold. I will seek him! I will gaze on his face—that deceitful beautiful face. [Church illuminated. Organ plays softly.] I will ask him what I have done that—[Hides face in her hands and weeps. Organ swells louder and then subsides again.] Perhaps he has been misled by some one—some false tongue! His looks, his words, seem to reproach me. Why was I silent? Thou proud mouth, ye proud lips, why did you not speak? Perhaps he loves me still. Perhaps his soul, like mine, pines in nameless agony, and yearns for reconciliation. [Music soft.] Why does my hate melt away at this soft voice with which heaven calls to me? That grand music! I hear voices. It sounds like a nuptial benediction; perhaps it is a loving bridal pair. Amen—amen! to that prayer, whoever you may be. [Music stops.] I, poor desolate one, would like to see their happy faces—I must—this window. Yes, here I can see into the church. [Looks into the window. Screams.] Do I dream? Kind Heaven, that prayer, that amen, you heard it not. I call it back. You did not hear my blessing. You were deaf. Did no blood-stained dagger drop upon them? 'Tis he! Revenge!——No! Thou shalt judge! Thine, Jehovah, is the vengeance. Thou, alone, canst send it. [_Rests her arm upon a broken column.]
Enter Rudolf from the sacristy door, with wreath in hand._
RUD.—I am at last alone. I cannot endure the joy and merriment around me. How like mockery sounded the pious words of the priest! As I gazed towards the church windows I saw a face, heard a muffled cry. I thought it was her face,—her voice.
LEAH.—(coldly.) Did you think so?
RUD.—Leah! Is it you?
LEAH.—Yes.
RUD.—(tenderly.) Leah—
LEAH.—Silence, perjured one! Can the tongue that lied, still speak? The breath that called me wife, now swear faith to another! Does it dare to mix with the pure air of heaven? Is this the man I worshipped? whose features I so fondly gazed upon! Ah! [shuddering] No—no! The hand of heaven has crushed, beaten and defaced them! The stamp of divinity no longer rests there! [Walks away.]
RUD.—Leah! hear me!
LEAH.—[turning fiercely.] Ha! You call me back? I am pitiless now.
RUD.—You broke faith first. You took the money.
LEAH.—Money! What money?
RUD.—The money my father sent you.
LEAH.—Sent me money? For what?
RUD.—[hesitating.] To induce you to release me—to——
LEAH.—That I might release you? And you knew it? You permitted it?
RUD.—I staked my life that you would not take it.
LEAH.—And you believed I had taken it?
RUD.—How could I believe otherwise? I——
LEAH.—[with rage] And you believed I had taken it, Miserable Christian, and you cast me off! Not a question was the Jewess worth. This, then, was thy work; this the eternity of love you promised me. Forgive me, Heaven, that I forgot my nation to love this Christian. Let that love be lost in hate. Love is false, unjust—hate endless, eternal.
RUD.—Cease these gloomy words of vengeance—I have wronged you. I feel it without your reproaches. I have sinned; but to sin is human, and it would be but human to forgive.
LEAH.—You would tempt me again? I do not know that voice.
RUD.—I will make good the evil I have done; aye, an hundredfold.
LEAH.—Aye, crush the flower, grind it under foot, then make good the evil you have done. No! no! an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a heart for a heart!
RUD.—Hold, fierce woman, I will beseech no more! Do not tempt heaven; let it be the judge between us! If I have sinned through love, see that you do not sin through hate.
LEAH.—Blasphemer! and you dare call on heaven! What commandant hast thou not broken? Thou shalt not swear falsely—you broke faith with me! Thou shalt not steal—you stole my heart. Thou shalt not kill—what of life have you left me?
RUD.—Hold, hold! No more! [Advancing.]
LEAH.—[repelling him.] The old man who died because I loved you, the woman who hungered because I followed you, may they follow you in dreams, and be a drag upon your feet forever. May you wander as I wander, suffer shame as I now suffer it. Cursed be the land you till: may it keep faith with you as you have kept faith with me. Cursed, thrice cursed, may you be evermore, and as my people on Mount Ebal spoke, so speak I thrice! Amen! Amen! Amen!
[Rudolf drops on his knees as the curtain descends on the tableau.]
* * * * *
SCENE FROM LEAH.
ACT V. SCENE I.
RUD.—(Leah comes down stage gently and sad, listening). Think, Madalena, of her lot and mine. While I clasp a tender wife, and a lovely child; she wanders in foreign lands, suffering and desolate. It is not alone her curse that haunts me, it is her pale and gentle face, which I seem to see in my dreams, and which so sadly says to me,
"I have forgiven!" Oh, Madalena, could I but hear her say this, and tell her how deeply I feel that I have wronged her—could I but wet her hands with my repentent tears, then would I find peace.
MAD.—Rudolf, a thought! In yonder valley camps a company of Jews who are emigrating to America; perhaps one of them may be able to give you news of Leah, and if you find her, she shall share the blessings of our home. She shall be to me a dear sister! (Leah hastily conceals herself.) Ha, that beggar woman, where is she? (Looks around.) Perhaps she belongs to the tribe; perhaps she may tell you of her.
RUD.—How say you? A beggar woman?
MAD.—Yes, a poor Jewess, whom I rescued to-day. She must now be in the house. Oh, come, Rudolf, let us find her. All may yet be well! [Exeunt in house.
Enter Leah from behind a hayrick.
LEAH.—Have I heard aright? The iron bands seem melting, the cold dead heart moves, and beats once more! The old life returns. Rudolf! (tears.) My Rudolf. No, no, he is no longer mine! The flame is extinguished, and only the empty lamp remains above the sepulchre of my heart. No, Madalena, no, I shall not remain to be a reproach to you both. I will wander on with my people, but the hate I have nourished has departed. I may not love, but I forgive—yes, I forgive him. But his child. Oh, I should so like to see his child!
Child comes to doorway from house.
Fear not, little one, come hither.
CHILD.—(coming towards her). Is it you? Father seeks you.
LEAH.—His very image. (kisses her,) What is your name, my darling?
CHILD.—Leah.
LEAH.—What say you? Leah?
CHILD.—Did you know the other Leah?—she whom mother and father speak of so often, and for whom every night I must pray?
LEAH.—(With emotion, kissing her, and giving her a withered rose- wreath, which she takes from inside her dress) Take this, my pretty one.
CHILD.—A rose-wreath?
LEAH—Take it, and give it your father. Say to him your little prayer has been heard, and that Leah—(emotion)—Leah forgives. (going, returns again, kisses child, and with extended arms and choking voice.) Bless, you, darling! (extending arms to house.) And you, and you— and all—and all'. (goes to fence, totters, and sinks down, endeavoring to exit.)
Enter Rudolf and Madalena from house.
RUD.—Not here!
CHILD—(running to Madalena.) See, mother, see what the strange woman gave me. (showing wreath.)
MAD.—(not noticing child) Where is she?
CHILD.—She has gone away (running to Rudolf with wreath.) See, father.
RUD.—(taking wreath.) A rose-wreath. Great heaven, Madalena, it must have been Leah; it is my wreath. Leah!
MAD.—It was she!
RUD.—Yes, it was Leah. By this token we are reconciled. (Leah moans.) Ha, what sound is that?
MAD.—(going to the prostrate figure.) Quick, Rudolf! It is she. (they run to her, raise her up, and bear her to front.)
LEAH.—(feebly.) I tried to go, but my strength forsook me. I shall, at least, then, die here!
RUD.—Die! No, no; speak not of dying, you shall live!
LEAH.—No; I am too happy to live. See, Madalena, I take his hand, but it is to place it in yours. All is over. (sinks into their arms.)
SCENE FROM PIZARRO.
SCENE I.—A Dungeon.
Alonzo in chains—A sentinel walking near.
ALONZO. (c.)—For the last time, I have beheld the quivering lustre of the stars. For the last time, O, sun! (and soon the hour), I shall behold thy rising, and thy level beams melting the pale mists of morn to glittering dew drops. Then comes my death, and in the morning of my day, I fall, which—no, Alonzo, date not the life which thou hast run, by the mean reckoning of the hours and days, which thou has breathed:—a life spent worthily should be measured by a nobler line; by deeds, not years. They only have lived long, who have lived virtuously. Surely, even now, thin streaks of glimmering light steal on the darkness of the East. If so, my life is but one hour more. I will not watch the coming dawn; but in the darkness of my cell, my last prayer to thee, Power Supreme! shall be for my wife and child! Grant them to dwell in innocence and peace; grant health and purity of mind—all else is worthless.
[Enters the cavern, R. U. E.
SEN.—Who's there? answer quickly! Who's there?
ROL.—(within.) A friar come to visit your prisoner. (enters,
L. U. E. disguised as a monk.) Inform me, friend, is not Alonzo, the
Spanish prisoner, confined in this dungeon?
SEN.—(c.) He is.
ROL.—I must speak with him.
SEN.—You must not. (stopping him with his spear.)
ROL.—He is my friend.
SEN.—Not if he were your brother.
ROL.—What is to be his fate?
SEN.—He dies at sunrise.
ROL.—Ha! Then I am come in time.
SEN.—Just—to witness his death.
ROL.—Soldier, I must speak to him.
SEN.—Back, back—It is impossible.
ROL.—I do entreat you, but for one moment.
SEN.—You entreat in vain—my orders are most strict.
ROL.—Look on this wedge of massive gold—look on these precious gems. In thy own land they will be wealth for thee and thine—beyond thy hope or wish. Take them—they are thine. Let me but pass one minute with Alonzo.
SEN.—Away!—wouldst thou corrupt me? Me! an old Castilian! I know my duty better.
ROL.—Soldier!—hast thou a wife?
SEN.—I have.
ROL.—Hast thou children?
SEN.—Four—honest, lovely boys.
ROL.—Where didst thou leave them?
SEN.—In my native village; even in the cot where myself was born.
ROL.—Dost thou love thy children and thy wife?
SEN.—Do I love them! God knows my heart—I do.
ROL.—Soldier! imagine thou wert doomed to die a cruel death in this strange land. What would be thy last request?
SEN.—That some of my comrades should carry my dying blessing to my wife and children.
ROL.—Oh! but if that comrade was at thy prison gate, and should there be told—thy fellow-soldier dies at sunset, yet thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children or his wretched wife, what would'st thou think of him, who thus could drive thy comrade from the door?
SEN.—How?
ROL.—Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come but to receive for her, and for her babe, the last blessing of my friend.
SEN.—Go in. [Shoulders his spear and walks to L. U. E.
ROL. (c.)—Oh, holy Nature! thou dost never plead in vain. There is not of our earth a creature bearing form, and life—human or savage—native of the forest wild, or giddy air—around whose parent bosom thou hast not a cord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. On iron pinions borne, the blood-stained vulture cleaves the storm, yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the cygnet's down, and o'er her unshelled brood the murmuring ring-dove sits not more gently.—Yes, now he is beyond the porch, barring the outer gate! Alonzo! Alonzo, my friend! Ha! in gentle sleep! Alonzo—rise!
ALON.—How, is my hour elapsed? Well, (Returning from the recess R.
U. E.) I am ready.
ROL.—Alonzo, know me.
ALON.—What voice is that?
ROL.—'Tis Rolla's. [Takes off his disguise.
ALON.—Rolla, my friend (Embraces him.) Heavens!—how could'st thou pass the guard?—Did this habit—
ROL.—There is not a moment to be lost in words. This disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar as I passed our field of battle; it has gained me entrance to thy dungeon: now, take it thou and fly.
ALON.—And Rolla—
ROL.—Will remain here in thy place.
ALON.—And die for me? No! Rather eternal tortures rack me.
ROL.—I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro seeks, not Rolla's; and from thy prison soon will thy arm deliver me. Or, should it be otherwise, I am as a blighted plantain standing alone amid the sandy desert—nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art—a husband and a father; the being of a lovely wife and helpless infant hangs upon thy life. Go! go, Alonzo! Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy child!
ALON.—Urge me not thus, my friend! I had prepared to die in peace.
ROL.—To die in peace! devoting her thou'st sworn to live for to madness, misery, and death! For, be assured, the state I left her in forbids all hope, but from thy quick return.
ALON.—Oh, God!
ROL.—If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me well. I think thou hast not known that Rolla ever pledged his word, and shrunk from its fulfilment. And by the heart of truth, I swear, if thou art proudly obstinate to deny thy friend the transport of preserving Cora's life, in thee; no power that sways the will of man shalt stir me hence; and thoul't but have the desperate triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the assured conviction that Cora and thy child—are lost forever.
ALON.—Oh, Rolla! you distract me!
ROL.—Begone! A moment's further pause, and all is lost. The dawn approaches. Fear not for me; I will treat with Pizarro, as for surrender and submission. I shall gain time, doubt not, whilst thou, with a chosen band, passing the secret way, may'st at night return, release thy friend, and bear him back in triumph. Yes, hasten, dear Alonzo! Even now I hear the frantic Cora call thee! Haste, Alonzo! Haste! Haste!
ALON.—Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from honour and from right.
ROL.—Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend?
ALON.—Oh! my preserver! [Embracing him.
ROL.—I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek.—Go! I am rewarded. (Throwing the Friar's garment over him.) There, conceal thy face; and that they may not clank, hold fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee!
ALON.—At night we meet again. Then, so aid me Heaven! I return to save or perish with thee. [Exit L.U.E.
ROL. (Looking after him.)—He has passed the outer porch—he is safe! He will soon embrace his wife and child! Now, Cora, did'st thou not wrong me? This is the first time throughout my life, I ever deceived man. Forgive me, God of Truth! if I am wrong. Alonzo flatters himself that we shall meet again! Yes, there! (Lifting his hands to heaven.)— assuredly we shall meet again; there, possess in peace, the joys of everlasting love, and friendship—on earth imperfect and embittered. I will retire, lest the guard return before Alonzo may have passed their lines. [Retires into the cavern.
ACT V
SCENE I.—A thick forest. A dreadful storm. CORA has covered her child in a bed of leaves and moss, R. U. E.
CORA. (Sitting on bank by child, R.)—Oh, Nature! thou hast not the strength of love. My anxious spirit is untired in its march; my wearied shivering frame sinks under it. And for thee, my boy, when faint beneath thy lovely burden, could I refuse to give thy slumbers that poor bed of rest! Oh, my child! were I assured thy poor father breathes no more, how quickly would I lay me down by thy dear side!—but down—down forever! (Thunder and lightning.) I ask thee not, unpitying storm to abate thy rage, in mercy to poor Cora's misery; nor while thy thunders spare his slumbers, will I disturb my sleeping cherub, though Heaven knows I wish to hear the voice of life, and feel that life is near me. But I will endure all while what I have of reason holds. (Thunder and lightning.) Still, still implacable!—unfeeling elements! yet still dost thou sleep, my smiling innocent! Oh, Death! when wilt thou grant to this babe's mother such repose? Sure I may shield thee better from the storm: my veil may—
ALON. (Without L.)—Cora!
CORA (Runs to C.) Ha!
ALON.—Cora!
CORA—Oh, my heart. Sweet Heaven, deceive me not. Is it not Alonzo's voice?
ALON. (Louder)—Cora!
CORA (L. C.)—It is—it is Alonzo!
ALON. (Very loud) Cora! my beloved!
CORA (L.) Alonzo! Here!—here!—Alonzo!
[Runs out.
* * * * *