If ye betray him to these holy brethren!
In truth, I shall not wonder if you mourn
That their rude grasp should seize on such a victim. 240
Doth so o'ertop the height of sympathy,
That I should feel too little for mine enemy—
Ah! far too little—if 'twere possible,
I could feel more, even tho' my child or husband 245
Were doom'd to suffer them! That such things are——
More than a woman's spirit.
I can endure no more.
Lord Albert used to talk so.
These are my Albert's lessons, and I con them
With more delight than, in my fondest hour,
I bend me o'er his portrait.
You may retire. [Exit the Foster-Mother.
Velez. We have mourn'd for Albert.
[575] Have I no living son?
That low imposture—my heart sickens at it,
If it be madness, must I wed a madman?
And if not madness, there is mystery,
And guilt doth lurk behind it!
How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear,
Displac'd each other with swift interchanges?
If this were all assumed, as you believe,
He must needs be a most consummate actor;
And hath so vast a power to deceive me, 265
I never could be safe. And why assume
The semblance of such execrable feelings?
An old man's passion! Was it not enough
That thou hast made my son a restless man, 270
[576] Banish'd his health and half-unhinged his reason,
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion,
And toil to blast his honour? I am old—
A comfortless old man! Thou shalt not stay
Beneath my roof!
[Francesco enters and stands listening.
Or to the convent.
And I will live a solitary woman,
Or my poor foster-mother and her grandsons
May be my household.
But you spoke so, I could not choose but hear you.
I pray, my lord! will you embolden me
To ask you why this lady doth prefer
To live in lonely sort, without a friend
Or fit companion?
[577] O Albert! Albert! that they could return,
Those blessed days, that imitated heaven!
When we two wont to walk at evening-tide;
When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard 290
The voice of that Almighty One, who lov'd us,
In every gale that breath'd, and wave that murmur'd!
O we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure
Hath half-assumed the countenance of grief,
And the deep sigh seem'd to heave up a weight 295
Of bliss, that press'd too heavy on the heart.
Such aids as might preserve you from perdition.
There you might dwell.
Mad melancholy, antic merriment, 300
Leanness, disquietude, and secret pangs!
O God! it is a horrid thing to know
That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads
Had once a mind, which might have given her wings
Such as the angels wear!
That Ferdinand (or if not he his wife)
I have fresh evidence—are infidels.
We are not safe until they are rooted out. 310
Of Him whose law was love unutterable!
Why is thy soul so parch'd with cruelty,
That still thou thirstest for thy brother's blood?
Heed it not, father!
Nor prize a life which soon may weary me.
Bear witness, Heav'n! I neither scorn nor hate him— 320
But O! 'tis wearisome to mourn for evils,
Still mourn, and have no power to remedy! [Exit Maria.
To-morrow early.
The moon is high in heaven, and my eyes ache,
But not with sleep. Well—it is ever so.
A child, a child is born! and the fond heart
Dances! and yet the childless are most happy.
[Scene changes to the mountains by moonlight. Alhadra alone in a Moorish dress, her eyes fixed on the earth. Then drop in one after another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable number of Morescoes, all in their Moorish garments. They form a circle at a distance round Alhadra. After a pause one of the Morescoes to the man who stands next to him.
'Twere pleasant to cleave down the wretch who framed it.
May chance to prove most perilous informers.
[A third Moresco, Naomi, advances from out the circle.
We have obey'd thy call. Where is our chief?
And why didst thou enjoin the Moorish garments?
Warriors of Mahomet, faithful in the battle,
My countrymen! Come ye prepared to work
An honourable deed? And would ye work it 340
In the slave's garb? Curse on those Christian robes!
They are spell-blasted; and whoever wears them,
His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away,
And his bones soften!
His children all asleep; and he was living!
And I return'd, and found them still asleep—
But he had perish'd.
Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know
That he is fatherless, a desolate orphan! 350
Why should we wake them? Can an infant's arm
[580] Revenge his murder?
[They all, at once, draw their sabres.
This is thy chieftain's! [He steps forward to take it.
Dost thou dare receive it? 355
For I have sworn by Alia and the prophet,
No tear shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart
Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword
Wet with the blood of all the house of Velez!
Enter Maurice.
[After much struggling he disengages himself and draws his sword.
Some twenty of you! But ye are Spanish slaves!
And slaves are always cruel, always cowards.
The son of Velez hath hired one of you
To murder! Say, do ye know aught of Albert?
Murmur'd in sleep! High-minded foreigner!
Mix thy revenge with mine, and stand among us. 370
[Maurice stands among the Morescoes.
Forced me to sheathe my dagger. See—the point
Is bright, unrusted with the villain's blood!
Gave Ferdinand a letter, and departed,
Swift as he came. Pale, with unquiet looks,
He read the scroll.
He answer'd me, 'Alhadra! thou art worthy 380
A nobler secret; but I have been faithful
To this bad man, and faithful I will be.'
He said, and arm'd himself, and lit a torch;
Then kiss'd his children, each one on its pillow,
And hurried from me. But I follow'd him 385
At distance, till I saw him enter there.
After a pause I saw the son of Velez
Rush by with flaring torch; he likewise enter'd—
There was another and a longer pause— 390
And once, methought, I heard the clash of swords,
And soon the son of Velez reappear'd.
He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,
And seem'd as he were mirthful! I stood listening
Impatient for the footsteps of my husband! 395
[582] 'Twas dark and very silent. [Then wildly.
What said'st thou?
No, no! I did not dare call, Ferdinand!
Lest I should hear no answer. A brief while,
Belike, I lost all thought and memory 400
Of that for which I came! After that pause,
O God! I heard a groan!—and follow'd it.
And yet another groan—which guided me
Into a strange recess—and there was light,
A hideous light! his torch lay on the ground— 405
Its flame burnt dimly o'er a chasm's brink.
I spake—and while I spake, a feeble groan
Came from that chasm! It was his last! his death groan!
And agony, that cannot be remember'd,
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!
But I had heard his last—my husband's death-groan!
My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment, 415
And it was stain'd with blood! Then first I shriek'd!
My eyeballs burnt! my brain grew hot as fire!
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
Turn'd into blood. I saw them turn to blood!
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm 420
When on the further brink I saw his sword,
And it said, Vengeance! Curses on my tongue!
The moon hath moved in heaven, and I am here,
And he hath not had vengeance! Ferdinand!
Spirit of Ferdinand! thy murderer lives! 425
Away! away! [She rushes off, all following.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT
FOOTNOTES:
[564:1] The square brackets (which appear in both MSS.) seem to indicate that these words were an 'aside'. P. W. 1893, p. 499. Editor's Note.
[565:1] Against this passage Coleridge has written in MS. II:—'This will be held by many for a mere Tragedy-dream—by many who have never given themselves the trouble to ask themselves from what grounds dreams pleased in Tragedy, and wherefore they have become so common. I believe, however, that in the present case, the whole is here psychologically true and accurate. Prophetical dreams are things of nature, and explicable by that law of the mind in which where dim ideas are connected with vivid feelings, Perception and Imagination insinuate themselves and mix with the forms of Recollection, till the Present appears to exactly correspond with the Past. Whatever is partially like, the Imagination will gradually represent as wholly like—a law of our nature which, when it is perfectly understood, woe to the great city Babylon—to all the superstitions of Men!' P. W., 1893, p. 499.
[567:1] Against this passage Coleridge writes in MS. II:—'Under the mask of the third person Osorio relates his own story, as in the delusion of self-justification and pride, it appeared to himself—at least as he wished it to appear to himself.' P. W., 1893, p. 499.
'Osorio darkly, and in the feeling of self-justification, tells what he conceives of his own character and actions—speaking of himself in the third person.' MS. III.
[570:1] Against this line Coleridge writes in MS. II:—'Osorio has thrust Ferdinand down the chasm. I think it an important instance how Dreams and Prophecies coöperate to their own completion.' P. W., 1893, p. 501.
LINENOTES:
Erased MS. III.: om. Remorse.
| This ceaseless dreary sound of |
|
dropping water— |
|
| I would they had not fallen upon my Torch! | |||
Corr. in MS. III.
In inverted commas. Remorse.
cannot] can not Remorse. cranny] crevice Remorse.
MS. III erased.
Between 11 and 13
| (a) | Any thing but this crash of water drops! |
| These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence | |
| With puny thwartings and mock opposition! | |
| So beats the death-watch to a sick man's ear |
Remorse.
| (b) | Anything but this |
|
crash of water-drops |
|
| At broken measure |
|
scoffing |
||
| Their discontinuous, interruptive sound | ||||
|
These |
|||
MS. III erased.
Affixed to variant (a) of l. 12 '—this at all events is the final result of this correction.' S. T. C.
A hellish pit! O God—'tis that I dreamt of! Corr. in MS. III: A hellish pit! The very same I dreamt of! Remorse.
Affixed to 13 'You mean like the dream presented to my mind when under the influence of the night-mare. This is most ludicrously expressed.' C. Ll[oyd]
I swear that I saw something Remorse.
In the stage-direction the last four words are omitted Remorse.
Drips] Drops Remorse.
Between 19 and 31.
It was not that which scar'd me, good my lord.
But first permit me! [Lights his torch at Ordonio's, and while lighting it.
(A lighted torch in the hand
Is no unpleasant object here—one's breath
Floats round the flame, and makes as many colours
As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.)
You see that crevice there?
My torch extinguished by these water drops,
And marking that the moonlight came from thence,
I stept in to it, meaning to sit there;
But scarcely had I measured twenty paces—
My body bending forward, yea, o'erbalanced
Almost beyond recoil, on the dim brink
Of a hugh chasm I stept. The shadowy moonshine
Filling the void so counterfeited substance,
That my foot hung aslant adown the edge.
Was it my own fear?
Fear too hath its instincts!
(And yet such dens as these are wildly told of,
And there are beings that live, yet not for the eye)
An arm of frost above and from behind me
Pluck'd up and snatched me backward. Merciful Heaven!
You smile! alas, even smiles look ghastly here!
My lord, I pray you, go yourself and view it.
Remorse.
move] creep Remorse.
if] had Remorse.
I blush for thy cowardice. It might have startled,
I grant you, even a brave man for a moment—
Remorse.
thump] strike Corr. in MS. III, Remorse.
and] then Remorse.
Sunk with a faint splash in that groaning Corr. in MS. III. Sunk] Sank Remorse.
fellow-men] fellow man Remorse.
laugh] smile Remorse.
Between 54 and 57:
By forms so hideous that they mock remembrance—
Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing,
But only being afraid—stifled with fear!
While every goodly or familiar form
Had a strange power of breathing terror round me!
I saw you in a thousand fearful shapes;
And I entreat your lordship to believe me,
Remorse.
om. Remorse.
my] mine Remorse.
Abhorrent from our nature, Remorse.
'Tis so with me at least. But you, perhaps,
Have sterner feelings?
How shall I serve you?
Remorse.
yards] strides Remorse.
Stage-direction om. Remorse.
the] thy Remorse.
Between 84 and 88
I am on my guard however: no surprise [Then to Ordonio.
Remorse.
om. Remorse.
phantasies] phantom thoughts Remorse.
go on] proceed Remorse.
his] this Remorse.
being] substance Remorse.
Stage-direction om. Remorse.
some] same Remorse.
om. Remorse.
Stage-direction om. Remorse.
Between 143 and 145.
Beckons me onwards with a warrior's mien,
And claims that life, my pity robb'd her of—
Now will I kill thee, thankless slave, and count it
Remorse.
Affixed to 147.
Ferdinand on hearing the threat of Osorio feels a momentary horror at the consequences of his being killed, and in tones of mingled fear and sorrow—
then bursting into indignation 'Die thou first', MS. III.
After 147
[They fight. Ordonio disarms Isidore, and in disarming him throws his sword up that recess opposite to which they were standing. Isidore hurries into the recess with his torch, Ordonio follows him; a loud cry of 'Traitor! Monster!' is heard from the cavern, and in a moment Ordonio returns alone.
He dreamt of it, henceforward let him sleep,
A dreamless sleep, from which no wife can wake him.
His dream too is made out—Now for his friend. [Exit. Ordonio.
Remorse.