Scene VI Alonzo Springs Over the Ruins of the Wall, and Then Reaches His Hand to Cora, Who Follows Him
Alonzo. (As he assists her) Only one little jump, dear Cora!—throw yourself boldly into my arms!—Here will you find a secret and retired spot, formed for love, and guarded by friends. This is not so wide and waste a scene as your garden, in which, barren as it is of all shade, the treacherous moon betrays every form that ventures within its circuit. (He presses her to his bosom) At length I have thee in my arms again.
Cora. (Returning his embrace) And I have thee again in mine.
Alonzo. Ah! it is now three long weeks——
Cora. Only three weeks?
Alonzo. Months to love.
Cora. Years to my heart.
Alonzo. Every evening at twilight has poor Alonzo wandered hither, and listened in anxious expectation of the signal which might summon him to a night of transport.
Cora. And every evening has Cora wept because she dared not meet Alonzo.
Alonzo. You have not been ill, I hope.
Cora. Ah! I am always ill when I am not with you.
Alonzo. Say, dearest Cora, what has prevented our meeting?—You promised that I should sooner——
Cora. Did I promise?—That was not right, as I could only hope that it might be sooner; but love always adds hopes to its wishes, and too soon begins to consider those hopes as certainties. It does not often fall to my lot to take the nightly service in the temple, but I relied upon having the turn of one of my companions who was ill, and whose place I had offered to supply. She, however, recovered; and, instead of the promised happiness, I had only her thanks for my intentions. Poor Cora was heartily vexed at this disappointment, and her sleepless nights appeared so tedious.
Alonzo. Alas! I have also been a stranger to rest. The dews of morning found me under these trees, while my cloaths were still damp with the dews of the past evening, and my limbs still shivered with the cold of midnight. Beneath yon palm-tree have I stood, night after night, with my eyes fixed upon your temple; and often, as I have seen a form wander backwards and forwards, where glimmers the eternal lamp, I have pleased myself with thinking that it might be Cora’s.
Cora. It was not that in my solitude I could be deceived by shadows, yet I seemed every where to see your image. The idea made me restless, and I ran with hurried steps hither and thither—kept incessantly moving from one spot to another. Oh tell me, does love always render people impatient?—It was not thus with me formerly; but I was gentle, quiet, and bore without a murmur the failure of any trifling wish; the disappointment of any cherished expectation—whether it were that a shower deprived me of a promised walk, or that the wind destroyed the flowers which I had carefully reared with my own hands. Now all is changed; I am no longer the same person. When I sit at my daily employments, and spin, or weave, if a thread happen to break, I am so peevish that I sometimes even startle at myself. (Caressing him) Tell me, Alonzo, does love improve, or spoil us?
Alonzo. True love improves.
Cora. Oh no, no!—True love reigns in my heart, yet I am not so good as I was.
Alonzo. It is only that thy blood runs somewhat more swiftly.
Cora. Or else that I am ill.—Yes, I am now often ill.
Alonzo. Indeed!
Cora. Yes, indeed!—But that must be so—for soon—soon—I shall not love you alone.
Alonzo. (Starting) Not me alone?
Cora. (Smiling) Not you alone!
Alonzo. Your words involve a riddle, or else a crime. Cora, love cannot comprehend more than one object.—You will not love me alone? (He fixes his eyes earnestly upon her) No, you cannot mean to say so—if it were true, you could not look at me with so much composure, such perfect unreserve.
Cora. And why should I not look at you with composure?—My feelings are so sweet that they cannot be criminal. An unknown, but pleasing sadness has taken possession of my heart—I experience sensations not to be described. When lately at the Solstitial feast, I was ornamenting the porch of the temple with flowers, I saw upon the lowest of the steps which lead up to it, a young woman sleeping, at whose breast lay a little smiling angel: my heart was altogether dissolved at so interesting a spectacle, and I involuntarily stretched out my arms to the child, intending to take it gently from its mother, and press it to my bosom. But how easily are the slumbers of a tender mother disturbed; for scarcely had I touched the babe ere she awoke, rose up anxiously, clasped her treasure to her heart, and cast on me a look of deep distrust. Say, Alonzo?—Do you not think an affectionate mother one of the most respectable of creatures?
Alonzo. (Bewildered) Oh, why that question?
Cora. Can’t you guess?—(With pure and innocent transport) I shall soon be a mother myself.
Alonzo. (Thunderstruck) Great God!!!
Cora. What is the matter?—You need not be alarmed!—I love you more than ever!—Ah, at the first commencement of our love I thought it impossible that the attachment I then felt could ever be exceeded; for in you, Alonzo, I beheld the most charming of youths. But, enchanter, you have stolen into my heart under a still more attractive form, since I behold in you, the father of my child.
Alonzo. Cora! Cora!—my hair is erect with horror, while your mind seems wholly at ease.
Cora. And what do you fear?—Is it a crime to become a mother?—My father always taught me, that whoever commits a crime, instantly forfeits all peace of mind; but for me, I feel no uneasiness.
Alonzo. Do you not recollect the circumstances of your situation?—To what rigid ordinances you swore obedience when this figure of the sun was fastened upon your bosom?
Cora. I swore to obey the ordinances of our temple.
Alonzo. And what do they enjoin you?
Cora. I know not. My father told me, that by whomsoever virtue was held sacred, its precepts would be fulfilled without particular instruction. To me virtue is sacred.
Alonzo. And know you then what constitutes virtue?—Alas! your uncorrupted soul is ignorant of the terrible distinction between virtue as founded in the eternal principles of nature, and virtue as constituted by the distorted imaginations of fanatics. (He clasps her eagerly in his arms) Oh, Cora! Cora! what have we done?—In other situations, love and joy recompense the anguish which every mother must endure—in yours alone, those sufferings, however severe, are but the forerunners of others still more dreadful, in the most horrible of all deaths.
Cora. Death!
Alonzo. (In accents of despair) And I—I am your murderer!
Cora. (With composure) How can you thus unnecessarily torment yourself?—Wherefore, and by whom, should I be put to death?
Alonzo. The priests will affirm, that you have offended the gods.
Cora. I offended the gods!—No, Alonzo, I love the gods.
Alonzo. Cora, I do not doubt it; yet you must become the victim of an ancient superstition. Our only safety would be in flight; but, alas! whither can we fly in a foreign land?
Cora. Be composed, dear enthusiast!—I have thought of means to console you.
Alonzo. If so, it must be the suggestion of God himself.
Cora. The plan is simple, yet will give me certain assurance whether or not the gods are really incensed against me; and the approaching morning may decide this important question. Hitherto the moon and stars alone have been the confidents of our love; but the sun himself, the greatest of all our gods, shall now be witness to it.—At present I dare not stay any longer, for I must hasten back to attend the eternal lamp in the temple. Do you then, Alonzo, rest here under these trees, and, as soon as the dawn of morning shall begin to gild the eastern horizon, I will return, and we will ascend yonder hill together. Then will we turn our faces towards the east, entwine our arms within each other, join lip to lip, and thus boldly wait the rising of the sun.—You understand me?
Alonzo. But half.
Cora. Do you not comprehend, that if Cora have done evil, either the sun will veil himself from her sight, or the first ray of his light that falls upon her, will annihilate the criminal. But if, oh Alonzo! he, my Father, and my God, shall rise clear and resplendent—if he shall smile upon the affectionate pair as he beholds them joined in mutual embrace, then shall we have a certain token that he favours our love, and your mind may be relieved from its cares—for when satisfied that we are guiltless in the eyes of the sun, whose eyes shall Cora need to fear.
Alonzo. Oh affecting simplicity!—Oh sweetest of thy sex!
Cora. But, more still remains, my Alonzo. To-morrow is the grand festival of the sun—if on that day he rise in unveiled majesty, we always regard it as a joyful signal, that the gods are favourably disposed towards us, consequently that no dreadful crime can have called forth their anger. Then look up, Alonzo; cast thy eyes around the heavens; behold how the stars glitter; how blue and serene is every part within our view!—not a cloud threatens us—not a zephyr moves the trees—Oh we shall have a glorious morning!—One embrace then at parting—farewel!—Let Cora at her return find thee sleeping beneath these trees, and then will she awaken thee with a kiss. (She hastens back through the breach in the wall.)
Alonzo. (Who, sunk in astonishment and horror, has scarcely heard what Cora has been saying) Sweet, benevolent creature!—Oh I have been a villain, the worst of villains! Let me save her!—save her, if it be possible, before the flame shall burst out over her head!—Ah, it is too late! She is irrecoverably lost, and I can only die with her. (He leans against a tree with both hands upon his forehead.)