Chapter 6

_Jul._ Never.

_Rod._ So deep in guilt, in treachery! Forced to acknowledge it! forced to avow The traitor!

_Jul._ Not to thee, who reignest not, But to a country ever dear to me, And dearer now than ever: what we love Is loveliest in departure! One I thought, As every father thinks, the best of all, Graceful, and mild, and sensible, and chaste: Now all these qualities of form and soul Fade from before me, nor on anyone Can I repose, or be consoled by any. And yet in this torn heart I love her more Than I could love her when I dwelt on each, Or clasped them all united, and thanked God, Without a wish beyond.—Away, thou fiend! O ignominy, last and worst of all! I weep before thee—like a child—like mine— And tell my woes, fount of them all, to thee!

FIRST ACT: FOURTH SCENE.

ABDALAZIS _enters_.

_Abd._ Julian, to thee, the terror of the faithless, I bring my father’s order, to prepare For the bright day that crowns thy brave exploits: Our enemy is at the very gate! And art thou here, with women in thy train, Crouching to gain admittance to their lord, And mourning the unkindness of delay!

_Jul._ [_much agitated_, _goes towards the door_, _and returns_.] I am prepared: Prince, judge not hastily.

_Abd._ Whether I should not promise all they ask, I too could hesitate, though earlier taught The duty to obey, and should rejoice To shelter in the universal storm A frame so delicate, so full of fears, So little used to outrage and to arms, As one of these; so humble, so uncheered At the gay pomp that smoothes the track of war. When she beheld me from afar dismount, And heard my trumpet, she alone drew back, And, as though doubtful of the help she seeks, Shuddered to see the jewels on my brow, And turned her eyes away, and wept aloud. The other stood awhile, and then advanced: I would have spoken, but she waved her hand And said, “Proceed, protect us, and avenge, And be thou worthier of the crown thou wearest.” Hopeful and happy is indeed our cause, When the most timid of the lovely hail Stranger and foe—

_Rod._ [_unnoticed by_ ABDALAZIS.] And shrink but to advance.

_Abd._ Thou tremblest? whence, O Julian! whence this change? Thou lovest still thy country.

_Jul._ Abdalazis! All men with human feelings love their country. Not the highborn or wealthy man alone, Who looks upon his children, each one led By its gay handmaid, from the high alcove, And hears them once a day: not only he Who hath forgotten, when his guest inquires The name of some far village all his own; Whose rivers bound the province, and whose hills Touch the last cloud upon the level sky: No; better men still better love their country. ’Tis the old mansion of their earliest friends, The chapel of their first and best devotions; When violence or perfidy invades, Or when unworthy lords hold wassail there, And wiser heads are drooping round its moats, At last they fix their steady and stiff eye There, there alone—stand while the trumpet blows, And view the hostile flames above its towers Spire, with a bitter and severe delight.

_Abd._ [taking his hand.] Thou feelest what thou speakest, and thy Spain Will ne’er be sheltered from her fate by thee. We, whom the prophet sends o’er many lands, Love none above another; Heaven assigns Their fields and harvests to our valiant swords, And ’tis enough—we love while we enjoy. Whence is the man in that fantastic guise? Suppliant? or herald? he who stalks about, And once was even seated while we spoke: For never came he with us o’er the sea.

_Jul._ He comes as herald.

_Rod._ Thou shalt know full soon, Insulting Moor.

_Abd._ He cannot bear the grief His country suffers; I will pardon him. He lost his courage first, and then his mind; His courage rushes back, his mind still wanders. The guest of heaven was piteous to these men, And princes stoop to feed them in their courts.

FIRST ACT: FIFTH SCENE.

RODERIGO _is going out when_ MUZA _enters with_ EGILONA; RODERIGO _starts back_.

_Muza_ [_sternly to_ EGILONA.] Enter, since ’tis the custom in this land.

_Egi._ [_passing_ MUZA _disdainfully_, _points to_ ABDALAZIS, _and says to_ JULIAN.] Is this our future monarch, or art thou?

_Jul._ ’Tis Abdalazis, son of Muza, prince Commanding Africa, from Abyla To where Tunisian pilots bend the eye O’er ruined temples in the glassy wave. Till quiet times and ancient laws return, He comes to govern here.

_Rod._ To-morrow’s dawn Proves that.

_Muza_. What art thou?

_Rod._ [_drawing his sword_.] King.

_Abd._ Amazement!

_Muza_. Treason!

_Egi._ O horror!

_Muza_. Seize him.

_Egi._ Spare him! fly to me!

_Jul._ Urge me not to protect a guest, a herald— The blasts of war roar over him unfelt.

_Egi._ Ah fly, unhappy!

_Rod._ Fly! no, Egilona— Dost thou forgive me? dost thou love me? still?

_Egi._ I hate, abominate, abhor thee—go, Or my own vengeance—

_Rod._ [_taking_ JULIAN’S _hand_, _and inviting him to attack_ MUZA _and_ ABDALAZIS.] Julian!

_Jul._ Hence, or die.

SECOND ACT: FIRST SCENE.

_Camp of_ JULIAN.

JULIAN _and_ COVILLA.

_Jul._ Obdurate! I am not as I appear. Weep, my beloved child, Covilla, weep Into my bosom; every drop be mine Of this most bitter soul-empoisoning cup: Into no other bosom than thy father’s Canst thou, or wouldst thou, pour it.

_Cov._ Cease, my lord, My father, angel of my youth, when all Was innocence and peace.

_Jul._ Arise, my love, Look up to heaven—where else are souls like thine! Mingle in sweet communion with its children, Trust in its providence, its retribution, And I will cease to mourn; for, O my child, These tears corrode, but thine assuage the heart.

_Cov._ And never shall I see my mother too, My own, my blessed mother!

_Jul._ Thou shalt see Her and thy brothers.

_Cov._ No! I cannot look On them, I cannot meet their lovely eyes, I cannot lift mine up from under theirs. We all were children when they went away; They now have fought hard battles, and are men, And camps and kings they know, and woes and crimes. Sir, will they never venture from the walls Into the plain? Remember, they are young, Hardy and emulous and hazardous; And who is left to guard them in the town?

_Jul._ Peace is throughout the land: the various tribes Of that vast region sink at once to rest, Like one wide wood when every wind lies hushed.

_Cov._ And war, in all its fury, roams o’er Spain.

_Jul._ Alas! and will for ages: crimes are loose At which ensanguined War stands shuddering; And calls for vengeance from the powers above, Impatient of inflicting it himself. Nature in these new horrors is aghast At her own progeny, and knows them not. I am the minister of wrath; the hands That tremble at me, shall applaud me too, And seal their condemnation.

_Cov._ O kind father, Pursue the guilty, but remember Spain.

_Jul._ Child, thou wert in thy nursery short time since, And latterly hast passed the vacant hour Where the familiar voice of history Is hardly known, however nigh, attuned In softer accents to the sickened ear; But thou hast heard, for nurses tell these tales, Whether I drew my sword for Witiza Abandoned by the people he betrayed, Though brother to the woman who of all Was ever dearest to this broken heart, Till thou, my daughter, wert a prey to grief, And a brave country brooked the wrongs I bore. For I had seen Rusilla guide the steps Of her Theodofred, when burning brass Plunged its fierce fang into the founts of light, And Witiza’s the guilt! when, bent with age, He knew the voice again, and told the name, Of those whose proffered fortunes had been laid Before his throne, while happiness was there, And strained the sightless nerve tow’rd where they stood At the forced memory of the very oaths He heard renewed from each, but heard afar, For they were loud, and him the throng spurned off.

_Cov._ Who were all these?

_Jul._ All who are seen to-day On prancing steeds richly caparisoned In loyal acclamation round Roderigo; Their sons beside them, loving one another Unfeignedly, through joy, while they themselves In mutual homage mutual scorn suppress. Their very walls and roofs are welcoming The king’s approach, their storied tapestry Swells its rich arch for him triumphantly At every clarion blowing from below.

_Cov._ Such wicked men will never leave his side.

_Jul._ For they are insects which see nought beyond Where they now crawl; whose changes are complete, Unless of habitation.

_Cov._ Whither go Creatures unfit for better, or for worse?

_Jul._ Some to the grave—where peace be with them! some Across the Pyrenean mountains far, Into the plains of France; suspicion there Will hang on every step from rich and poor, Grey quickly-glancing eyes will wrinkle round, And courtesy will watch them day and night. Shameless they are, yet will they blush, amid A nation that ne’er blushes: some will drag The captive’s chain, repair the shattered bark, Or heave it from a quicksand to the shore, Among the marbles of the Libyan coast; Teach patience to the lion in his cage, And, by the order of a higher slave, Hold to the elephant their scanty fare, To please the children while the parent sleeps.

_Cov._ Spaniards? must they, dear father, lead such lives?

_Jul._ All are not Spaniards who draw breath in Spain; Those are, who live for her, who die for her, Who love her glory and lament her fall. Oh, may I too—

_Cov._ But peacefully, and late, Live and die here!

_Jul._ I have, alas! myself Laid waste the hopes where my fond fancy strayed, And view their ruins with unaltered eyes.

_Cov._ My mother will at last return to thee. Might I once more, but—could I now behold her, Tell her—ah me! what was my rash desire? No, never tell her these inhuman things, For they would waste her tender heart away As they waste mine; or tell when I have died, Only to show her that her every care Could not have saved, could not have comforted. That she herself, clasping me once again To her sad breast, had said, Covilla! go, Go, hide them in the bosom of thy God! Sweet mother, that far-distant voice I hear, And passing out of youth and out of life, I would not turn at last, and disobey.

SECOND ACT: SECOND SCENE.

SISABERT _enters_.

_Sis._ Uncle, and is it true, say, can it be, That thou art leader of these faithless Moors? That thou impeachest thy own daughter’s fame Through the whole land, to seize upon the throne By the permission of those recreant slaves? What shall I call thee? art thou—speak, Count Julian— A father, or a soldier, or a man?

_Jul._ All—or this day had never seen me here.

_Sis._ O falsehood! worse than woman’s!

_Cov._ Once, my cousin, Far gentler words were uttered from your lips. If you loved me, you loved my father first, More justly and more steadily, ere love Was passion and illusion and deceit.

_Sis._ I boast not that I never was deceived, Covilla, which beyond all boasts were base, Nor that I never loved; let this be thine. Illusions! just to stop us, not delay; Amuse, not occupy! Too true! when love Scatters its brilliant foam, and passes on To some fresh object in its natural course, Widely and openly and wanderingly, ’Tis better! narrow it, and it pours its gloom In one fierce cataract that stuns the soul. Ye hate the wretch ye make so, while ye choose Whoever knows you best and shuns you most.

_Cov._ Shun me then: be beloved, more and more. Honour the hand that showed you honour first, Love—O my father! speak, proceed, persuade, Thy voice alone can mutter it—another—

_Sis._ Ah lost Covilla! can a thirst of power Alter thy heart thus to abandon mine, And change my very nature at one blow?

_Cov._ I told you, dearest Sisabert, ’twas vain To urge me more, to question, or confute.

_Sis._ I know it, for another wears the crown Of Witiza my father; who succeeds To king Roderigo will succeed to me. Yet thy cold perfidy still calls me dear, And o’er my aching temples breathes one gale Of days departed to return no more.

_Jul._ Young man, avenge our cause.

_Sis._ What cause avenge?

_Cov._ If I was ever dear to you, hear me, Not vengeance; Heaven will give that signal soon. O Sisabert, the pangs I have endured On your long absence—

_Sis._ Will be now consoled. Thy father comes to mount my father’s throne; But though I would not a usurper king, I prize his valour and defend his crown: No stranger and no traitor rules o’er me, Or unchastised inveigles humbled Spain. Covilla, gavest thou no promises? Nor thou, Don Julian? Seek not to reply— Too well I know, too justly I despise, Thy false excuse, thy coward effrontery; Yes, when thou gavest them across the sea, An enemy wert thou to Mahomet, And no appellant to his faith or leagues.

_Jul._ ’Tis well: a soldier hears throughout in silence. I urge no answer: to those words, I fear, Thy heart with sharp compunction will reply.

_Sis._ [_to_ COVILLA.] Then I demand of thee before thou reign, Answer me—while I fought against the Frank Who dared to smite thee? blazoned in the court, Not trailed through darkness, were our nuptial bands; No: Egilona joined our hands herself, The peers applauded, and the king approved.

_Jul._ Hast thou yet seen that king since thy return?

_Cov._ Father! O father!

_Sis._ I will not implore Of him or thee what I have lost for ever. These were not when we parted thy alarms; Far other, and far worthier of thy heart Were they; which Sisabert could banish then. Fear me not now, Covilla! thou hast changed— I am changed too—I lived but where thou livedst, My very life was portioned off from thine. Upon the surface of thy happiness Day after day I gazed, I doted—there Was all I had, was all I coveted; So pure, serene, and boundless it appeared: Yet, for we told each other every thought, Thou knowest well, if thou rememberest, At times I feared; as though some demon sent Suspicion without form into the world, To whisper unimaginable things. Then thy fond arguing banished all but hope, Each wish, and every feeling, was with thine, Till I partook thy nature, and became Credulous, and incredulous, like thee. We, who have met so altered, meet no more. Mountains and seas! ye are not separation: Death! thou dividest, but unitest too, In everlasting peace and faith sincere. Confiding love! where is thy resting-place? Where is thy truth, Covilla? where!—Go, go, I should adore thee and believe thee still.

[_Goes_.

_Cov._ O Heaven! support me, or desert me quite, And leave me lifeless this too trying hour! He thinks me faithless.

_Jul._ He must think thee so.

_Cov._ Oh, tell him, tell him all, when I am dead— He will die too, and we shall meet again. He will know all when these sad eyes are closed. Ah, cannot he before? must I appear The vilest?—O just Heaven! can it be thus? I am—all earth resounds it—lost, despised, Anguish and shame unutterable seize me. ’Tis palpable, no phantom, no delusion, No dream that wakens with o’erwhelming horror: Spaniard and Moor fight on this ground alone, And tear the arrow from my bleeding breast To pierce my father’s, for alike they fear.

_Jul._ Invulnerable, unassailable Are we, alone perhaps of human kind, Nor life allures us more, nor death alarms.

_Cov._ Fallen, unpitied, unbelieved, unheard! I should have died long earlier: gracious God! Desert me to my sufferings, but sustain My faith in Thee! O hide me from the world, And from thyself, my father, from thy fondness, That opened in this wilderness of woe A source of tears—it else had burst my heart, Setting me free for ever: then perhaps A cruel war had not divided Spain, Had not o’erturned her cities and her altars, Had not endangered thee! Oh, haste afar Ere the last dreadful conflict that decides Whether we live beneath a foreign sway—

_Jul._ Or under him whose tyranny brought down The curse upon his people. O child! child! Urge me no further, talk not of the war, Remember not our country.

_Cov._ Not remember! What have the wretched else for consolation! What else have they who pining feed their woe? Can I, or should I, drive from memory All that was dear and sacred, all the joys Of innocence and peace? when no debate Was in the convent, but what hymn, whose voice, To whom among the blessed it arose, Swelling so sweet; when rang the vesper-bell And every finger ceased from the guitar, And every tongue was silent through our land; When, from remotest earth, friends met again Hung on each other’s neck, and but embraced, So sacred, still, and peaceful was the hour. Now, in what climate of the wasted world, Not unmolested long by the profane, Can I pour forth in secrecy to God My prayers and my repentance? where besides Is the last solace of the parting soul? Friends, brethren, parents—dear indeed, too dear Are they, but somewhat still the heart requires, That it may leave them lighter, and more blest.

_Jul._ Wide are the regions of our far-famed land: Thou shalt arrive at her remotest bounds, See her best people, choose some holiest house; Whether where Castro from surrounding vines Hears the hoarse ocean roar among his caves, And, through the fissure in the green churchyard, The wind wail loud the calmest summer day; Or where Santona leans against the hill, Hidden from sea and land by groves and bowers.

_Cov._ Oh! for one moment in those pleasant scenes Thou placest me, and lighter air I breathe: Why could I not have rested, and heard on! My voice dissolves the vision quite away, Outcast from virtue, and from nature too!

_Jul._ Nature and virtue! they shall perish first. God destined them for thee, and thee for them, Inseparably and eternally! The wisest and the best will prize thee most, And solitudes and cities will contend Which shall receive thee kindliest—sigh not so; Violence and fraud will never penetrate Where piety and poverty retire, Intractable to them, and valueless, And looked at idly, like the face of heaven. If strength be wanted for security, Mountains the guard, forbidding all approach With iron-pointed and uplifted gates, Thou wilt be welcome too in Aguilar, Impenetrable, marble-turreted, Surveying from aloft the limpid ford, The massive fane, the sylvan avenue; Whose hospitality I proved myself, A willing leader in no impious war When fame and freedom urged me; or mayst dwell In Reynosa’s dry and thriftless dale, Unharvested beneath October moons, Among those frank and cordial villagers. They never saw us, and, poor simple souls! So little know they whom they call the great, Would pity one another less than us, In injury, disaster, or distress.

_Cov._ But they would ask each other whence our grief, That they might pity.

_Jul._ Rest then just beyond, In the secluded scenes where Ebro springs And drives not from his fount the fallen leaf, So motionless and tranquil its repose.

_Cov._ Thither let us depart, and speedily.

_Jul._ I cannot go: I live not in the land I have reduced beneath such wretchedness: And who could leave the brave, whose lives and fortunes Hang on his sword?

_Cov._ Me thou canst leave, my father; Ah yes, for it is past; too well thou seest My life and fortunes rest not upon thee. Long, happily—could it be gloriously!— Still mayst thou live, and save thy country still!

_Jul._ Unconquerable land! unrivalled race! Whose bravery, too enduring, rues alike The power and weakness of accursed kings— How cruelly hast thou neglected me! Forcing me from thee, never to return, Nor in thy pangs and struggles to partake! I hear a voice—’tis Egilona—come, Recall thy courage, dear unhappy girl, Let us away.

SECOND ACT: THIRD SCENE.

EGILONA _enters_.

_Egi._ Remain, I order thee. Attend, and do thy duty: I am queen, Unbent to degradation.

_Cov._ I attend Ever most humbly and most gratefully My too kind sovereign, cousin now no more; Could I perform but half the services I owe her, I were happy for a time; Or dared I show her half my love, ’twere bliss.

_Egi._ Oh! I sink under gentleness like thine. Thy sight is death to me; and yet ’tis dear. The gaudy trappings of assumptive state Drop at the voice of nature to the earth, Before thy feet—I cannot force myself To hate thee, to renounce thee; yet—Covilla! Yet—oh distracting thought! ’tis hard to see, Hard to converse with, to admire, to love— As from my soul I do, and must do, thee— One who hath robbed me of all pride and joy, All dignity, all fondness. I adored Roderigo—he was brave, and in discourse Most voluble; the masses of his mind Were vast, but varied; now absorbed in gloom, Majestic, not austere; now their extent Opening, and waving in bright levity—

_Jul._ Depart, my daughter—’twere as well to bear His presence as his praise—go—she will dream This phantasm out, nor notice thee depart.

[COVILLA _goes_.

_Egi._ What pliancy! what tenderness! what life! Oh for the smiles of those who smile so seldom, The love of those who know no other love! Such he was, Egilona, who was thine.

_Jul._ While he was worthy of the realm and thee.

_Egi._ Can it be true, then, Julian, that thy aim Is sovereignty? not virtue, nor revenge?

_Jul._ I swear to Heaven, nor I nor child of mine Ever shall mount to this polluted throne.

_Egi._ Then am I still a queen. The savage Moor Who could not conquer Ceuta from thy sword, In his own country, not with every wile Of his whole race, not with his myriad crests Of cavalry, seen from the Calpian heights Like locusts on the parched and gleamy coast, Will never conquer Spain.

_Jul._ Spain then was conquered When fell her laws before the traitor king.

SECOND ACT: FOURTH SCENE.

_Officer announces_ OPAS.

O queen, the metropolitan attends On matters of high import to the state, And wishes to confer in privacy.

_Egi._ [_to_ JULIAN.] Adieu then; and whate’er betide the country, Sustain at least the honours of our house.

[JULIAN _goes before_ OPAS _enters_.

_Opas_. I cannot but commend, O Egilona, Such resignation and such dignity. Indeed he is unworthy; yet a queen Rather to look for peace, and live remote From cities, and from courts, and from her lord, I hardly could expect in one so young, So early, widely, wondrously admired.

_Egi._ I am resolved: religious men, good Opas, In this resemble the vain libertine; They find in woman no consistency, No virtue but devotion, such as comes To infancy or age, or fear or love, Seeking a place of rest, and finding none Until it soar to heaven.

_Opas_. A spring of mind That rises when all pressure is removed, Firmness in pious and in chaste resolves, But weakness in much fondness; these, O queen, I did expect, I own.

_Egi._ The better part Be mine; the worst hath been—and is no more.