CATILINE. [Enters impetuous and uneasy.] "Nemesis then indeed has heard my prayer, Vengeance you have invoked on your own head!" Such were the words from the enchantress' lips. Remarkable! Perchance it was a sign,— A warning of what time will bring to me.
CATILINE. Now therefore I have pledged myself on oath The blood avenger of my own misdeed. Ah, Furia,—still I seem to see your eye, Wildly aflame like that of death's own goddess! Your words still echo hollow in my ears;— The oath I shall remember all my life.
[During the following AURELIA enters and approaches him unnoticed.]
CATILINE. Yet, it is folly now to go on brooding Upon this nonsense; it is nothing else. Far better things there are to think upon; A greater work awaits my energies. The restless age is urgent with its plea; Toward this I must direct my thought in season; Of hope and doubt I am a stormy sea—
AURELIA. [Seizes his hand.] And may not your Aurelia know the reason? May she not know what moves within your breast, What stirs therein and rages with such madness? May she not cheer and soothe your soul to rest, And banish from your brow its cloud of sadness?
CATILINE. [Tenderly.] O, my Aurelia,—O, how kind and tender—. Yet why should I embitter all your life? Why should I share with you my many sorrows? For my sake you have borne enough of anguish. Henceforth upon my own head I shall bear What ill-designing fate allotted me,— The curse that lies in such a soul as mine, Full of great spiritual energies, Of fervent longings for a life of deeds, Yet dwarfed in all its work by sordid cares.— Must you, too, sharing in my wretched life, Bitter with blasted hopes, then with me perish?
AURELIA. To comfort is the role of every wife, Though dreams of greatness she may never cherish. When the man, struggling for his lofty dream, Reaps nothing but adversity and sorrow,— Her words to him then sweet and tender seem, And give him strength sufficient for the morrow; And then he sees that even the quiet life Has pleasures which the most tumultuous lacks.
CATILINE. Yes, you are right; I know it all too well. And yet I cannot tear myself away. A ceaseless yearning surges in my breast,— Which only life's great tumult now can quiet.
AURELIA. Though your Aurelia be not all to you,— Though she can never still your restless soul,— Your heart yet open to a gentle word, A word of comfort from your loving wife. Though she may never slake your fiery thirst, Nor follow in their flight your noble thoughts,— Know this, that she can share your every sorrow, Has strength and fortitude to ease your burden.
CATILINE. Then listen, dear Aurelia; you shall hear What has of late depressed so deep my spirits. You know, I long have sought the consulate— Without avail. You know the whole affair— How to increase the votes for my election, I have expended—