Part 2 / Act 4 — Scene II.—A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruins of an Ancient Temple.

Con. ’Tis strange he comes not! Is not this the still And sultry hour of noon? He should have been Here by the daybreak. Was there not a voice? —“No! ’tis the shrill cicada, with glad life Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports Amidst them in the sun.” Hark! yet again! No! no! Forgive me, father! that I bring Earth’s restless griefs and passions, to disturb The stillness of thy holy solitude: My heart is full of care. Ans. There is no place So hallow’d as to be unvisited By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes Lonely and still, where He that made our hearts Will speak to them in whispers? I have known Affliction too, my daughter. Con. Hark! his step! I know it well—he comes—my Raimond, welcome! Vittoria enters, Constance shrinks back on perceiving her. Oh, heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale. Vit. (not observing her.) There is a cloud of horror on my soul; And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, Even as an echo, following the sweet close Of some divine and solemn harmony: Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound Is power to bid the tempests of the heart Sink, like a storm rebuked. Ans. What recent grief Darkens thy spirit thus? Vit. I said not grief. We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown, Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now Have changed their nature: still, I say, rejoice! There is a cause, Anselmo! We are free— Free and avenged! Yet on my soul there hangs A darkness, heavy as the oppressive gloom Of midnight fantasies. Ay, for this, too, There is a cause. Ans. How say’st thou, we are free?— There may have raged, within Palermo’s walls, Some brief wild tumult; but too well I know They call the stranger lord. Vit. Who calls the dead Conqueror or lord? Hush! breathe it not aloud, The wild winds must not hear it! Yet again, I tell thee we are free! Ans. Thine eye hath look’d On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang O’er its dark orb. Speak! I adjure thee: say, How hath this work been wrought? Vit. Peace! ask me not! Why shouldst thou hear a tale to send thy blood Back on its fount? We cannot wake them now! The storm is in my soul, but they are all At rest!—Ay, sweetly may the slaughter’d babe By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men, Who midst the slain have slumber’d oft before, Making their shield their pillow, may repose Well, now their toils are done.—Is’t not enough? Con. Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet There is no shade come o’er the laughing sky! —I am an outcast now. Ans. O Thou whose ways Clouds mantle fearfully! of all the blind But terrible ministers that work thy wrath, How much is man the fiercest! Others know Their limits—yes! the earthquakes, and the storms, And the volcanoes!—he alone o’erleaps The bounds of retribution! Couldst thou gaze, Vittoria! with thy woman’s heart and eye, On such dread scenes unmoved? Vit. Was it for me To stay th’ avenging sword? No, though it pierced My very soul! Hark! hark! what thrilling shrieks Ring through the air around me! Canst thou not Bid them be hush’d? Oh!—look not on me thus! Ans. Lady! thy thoughts lend sternness to the looks Which are but sad! Have all then perish’d? all? Was there no mercy! Vit. Mercy! it hath been A word forbidden as th’ unhallow’d names Of evil powers. Yet one there was who dared To own the guilt of pity, and to aid The victims!—but in vain. Of him no more! He is a traitor, and a traitor’s death Will be his meed. Con. (coming forward.) Oh, heaven!—his name, his name! Is it—it cannot be! Vit. (starting.) Thou here, pale girl! I deem’d thee with the dead! How hast thou ’scaped The snare! Who saved thee, last of all thy race! Was it not he of whom I spake e’en now, Raimond di Procida? Con. It is enough: Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. Must he too die? Vit. Is it e’en so? Why then, Live on—thou hast the arrow at thy heart! “Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes—” I mean not to betray thee. Thou may’st live! Why should Death bring thee his oblivious balms! He visits but the happy. Didst thou ask If Raimond too must die? It is as sure As that his blood is on thy head, for thou Didst win him to this treason. Con. When did men Call mercy treason? Take my life, but save My noble Raimond! Vit. Maiden! he must die. E’en now the youth before his judges stands; And they are men who, to the voice of prayer, Are as the rock is to the murmur’d sigh Of summer-waves!—ay, though a father sit On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. What wouldst thou? Con. Mercy!—Oh! wert thou to plead But with a look, e’en yet he might be saved! If thou hast ever loved—— Vit. If I have loved? It is that love forbids me to relent. I am what it hath made me. O’er my soul Lightning hath pass’d and sear’d it. Could I weep I then might pity—but it will not be. Con. Oh, thou wilt yet relent! for woman’s heart Was form’d to suffer and to melt. Vit. Away! Why should I pity thee? Thou wilt but prove What I have known before—and yet I live! Nature is strong, and it may all be borne— The sick impatient yearning of the heart For that which is not; and the weary sense Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne! All, save remorse. But I will not bow down My spirit to that dark power; there was no guilt!— Anselmo! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt? Ans. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken thought, Lending reproachful voices to a breeze, Keen lightning to a look. Vit. Leave me in peace! Is’t not enough that I should have a sense Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, And of unearthly whispers, haunting me With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words, Old man, should gall me, too? Must all conspire Against me?——O thou beautiful spirit! wont To shine upon my dreams with looks of love, Where art thou vanish’d? Was it not the thought Of thee which urged me to the fearful task, And wilt thou now forsake me? I must seek The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance, Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths; —Here I but meet despair! [Exit Vittoria. Ans. (to Constance.) Despair not thou, My daughter! He that purifies the heart With grief will lend it strength. Con. (endeavouring to rouse herself.) Did she not say That some one was to die? Ans. I tell thee not Thy pangs are vain—for nature will have way. Earth must have tears: yet in a heart like thine, Faith may not yield its place. Con. Have I not heard Some fearful tale?—Who said that there should rest Blood on my soul? What blood? I never bore Hatred, kind father! unto aught that breathes: Raimond doth know it well. Raimond!—High heaven! It bursts upon me now! And he must die! For my sake—e’en for mine! Ans. Her words were strange, And her proud mind seem’d half to frenzy wrought; —Perchance this may not be. Con. It must not be. Why do I linger here? [She rises to depart. Ans. Where wouldst thou go? Con. To give their stern and unrelenting hearts A victim in his stead. Ans. Stay! wouldst thou rush On certain death? Con. I may not falter now. —Is not the life of woman all bound up In her affections? What hath she to do In this bleak world alone? It may be well For man on his triumphal course to move, Uncumber’d by soft bonds; but we were born For love and grief. Ans. Thou fair and gentle thing, Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst thou Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, Or face the King of Terrors? Con. There is strength Deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent Before her gems are found?—Oh! now I feel Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn’d To look on death for me! My heart hath given Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith As high in its devotion. [Exit Constance. Ans. She is gone! Is it to perish?—God of mercy! lend Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save This pure and lofty creature! I will follow— But her young footstep and heroic heart Will bear her to destruction, faster far Than I can track her path. [Exit Anselmo.