High-Priest. Are these tears also babble?
Rolla. Hypocrisy!—do not talk, but act.
High-Priest. What can I do?
Rolla. (Raising his hands towards Heaven) Oh Father above, do thou then interpose to save her!—suffer not the most perfect work upon which thy rays ever shone to be destroyed, but, to the confusion of these unfeeling priests, save her!—Oh, how could I expect to find a heart of sensibility within such a shell!—the heart that beats beneath those garments never can have any feeling, except for vain and senseless customs; it dissembles towards its god, and is blood-thirsty as a tyger’s.
High-Priest. Oh Rolla, you know not how much you wrong me!
Rolla. Carefully instructed by your fathers and mothers to pluck every flower which might lie in your way,—to wring the neck of every bird which might fall into your hands,—from your infancy each avenue in your hearts has been closed against humanity, while he, who could with the greatest composure perform such ignoble actions, was considered as bearing in his bosom the germs of the future High-Priest.
High-Priest. This from you, Rolla?
Rolla. Beloved and pampered self is the sole object of your attention,—beauty is to you as a blunted arrow—and love appears an absurd romance. A shake of the head is the utmost tribute you can pay to the sufferings of a brother, nor does the tear of sympathy ever start into your eyes, it only quivers there by compulsion. No emotion of concern would intrude into your breast were the world itself to be laid in ruins, provided you were spared and could continue to live in case and affluence.
High-Priest. Rolla, you torture me—you break my heart!—I must speak out and shame you.
Rolla. Yes, speak!—that also you can do sometimes—not always.