THE AUTHOR’s DEDICATION.

TO MADAME VON DER WENSE, OF THE FAMILY OF AHLEFELD AT ZELL, LADY OF THE PRESIDENT VON DER WENSE.

It has frequently been said, that poetry, like love, cannot be commanded. This, my very amiable Friend must now acknowledge to be an error, since, if her memory be accurate with regard to trifles, she will recollect, that this Drama owes its origin solely and entirely to her commands.

One evening at Pyrmont, the weather being too wet and melancholy to permit of her enjoying the charms of nature, to which her pure soul is so closely allied, she had recourse to the[4] Temple of Thalia, where Naumann’s Opera of Cora happened to be represented. The performers were of a very inferior kind, and the only thing that pleased me during the evening, was that I had the good fortune to sit behind my Friend, who sometimes condescended to favour her humble servant with a little conversation. Among other remarks which the occasion called forth, she observed once, when the conclusion of an act gave us a short respite from being merely auditors, that the Opera at which we were present, contained excellent ground work for a Drama.

I felt that this idea ought rather to have originated with me, but I easily found an excuse for my apparent negligence, in the circumstance of my being in company with one whose powers of pleasing were so great and so various, as to preclude, wherever she was present, the intervention of any other thoughts but what her own perfections inspired. Yet I caught eagerly at the idea when once suggested, and declared to my friend that her commands only were requisite for the immediate employment of my pen upon[5] the subject. For a long time she evaded honouring me with such a command, preferring, in all that she said to encourage me to the undertaking, the politer language of exhortation, to which her gentle nature is more accustomed. I however insisted upon a positive command.

“Well then, I command it,” she said, at last, with the naïveté so peculiarly her own.—I made a low bow, and now have the honour of presenting to her my Virgin of the Sun. At her command the trembling maiden appears with downcast eyes in the anti-chamber, and hopes for permission humbly to wait there, till a friendly invitation shall call her to the toilette of her Patroness.

“Come nearer, gentle creature!—thou shalt be welcome to me for the sake of thy father, with whom I have long lived on terms of friendship, and whom I should now be the more scrupulous of depriving of what does remain to him, since he has so little that is desirable left in the world.”

[6]

Ah, you are but too much in the right, my most amiable friend!—I once possessed a treasure who greatly resembled you, inasmuch as she was one of the best of wives, and of mothers. But she is gone to her proper home, to the society of angels. At the moment when I experienced this most severe of all afflictions, you benignantly embalmed my sorrows with a tear;—for that tear my heart retains a lasting gratitude, and my pen gladly embraces an opportunity, at the same time of dedicating my work to you, and of giving this public testimony of the high esteem entertained for you, by

Augustus von Kotzebue.

[7]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Translator has selected the VIRGIN OF THE SUN as the Third of her proposed Series of Kotzebue’s Plays. The great reputation this Drama has acquired in its native country gives her hopes that it will not be found less interesting to the English Reader under its present form. It will be followed, as the natural course directs, by THE SPANIARDS IN PERU, or THE DEATH OF ROLLA, which will be published some time in the month of March.

London, Feb. 25th, 1799.

Lately was published, and may be had of all Booksellers,

THE NATURAL SON,

(Performing at Covent-Garden under the Title of Lover’s Vows), by the same Author and Translator.—The Sixth Edition.

The COUNT OF BURGUNDY, by the same.—The Second Edition.

EACH PRICE HALF-A-CROWN.

[8]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

[9]

ACT I.

SCENE I.—A wild and woody Country, where the Bushes and Underwood are so closely entwined as to be almost impenetrable. In the Back-ground, a Wall, in which a large Breach has been made, is just discernible through the Trees; and farther back, rises the Cupola of the Temple of the Sun. Nearer the Front, on the right Hand, appears a Cave; on the left, a Hill, the Top of which is seen above the Trees.

Rolla comes down a winding Path among the Bushes, followed by the High-Priest.

High-Priest.

And this is the way to Rolla’s dwelling?—Ah, equally wild and inaccessible as the way to Rolla’s heart!

Rolla. Spare me, uncle, I entreat you?—spare me, and leave me!—If you could understand me——

High-Priest. Ought I to attempt it?—To understand thee, means to pay homage to thy idol,—to flatter thy passion.

Rolla. Unhappy wretch that I am!—I am a miserable solitary being!—a drop, which can find no kindred drop wherewith to associate!—a lonely voice, which cannot find its echo throughout all animated nature. The worm that crawls upon this leaf soon meets its help-mate, with whom it is united—but I—I alone!—Oh ye gods! if it be your harsh will that, amid the throne of living creatures which animate creation, I only should be left alone!—(casting an impatient glance upon the High-Priest) Then—man!—man!—leave me alone!

[10]

High-Priest. Rolla! Rolla! I am indeed old, yet if affection only be wanting to bring repose to thy heart, thou wilt find it here in this faithful bosom.—Young man, I love thee as a father.

Rolla. Well then, if the happiness of thy son be dear to thee, suffer him to live according to his own pleasure!—In this cave I am far happier than thousands who inhabit pompous palaces. Be this my grave!—only make me this promise, uncle; it is my sole request: When I shall be no more, then, on some dark melancholy day, lead Cora to the entrance of my rugged habitation, and shew her the remains of Rolla, as they lie upon the cold damp earth on which he breathed out a life that love had rendered miserable. Let her see those lips on which the name of his beloved murderer quivered even to the last gasp; and by the smile still resting on them, let her know that they closed blessing the name of Cora. Then perhaps, affected by this picture, she may strew flowers over my corpse; or—oh transporting thought!—even embalm it with a tear!—A tear!—ah! a tear from Cora would recall it again to life.

High-Priest. Oh enthusiast!

Rolla. Call me what you please!—Yet, if I be an enthusiast, think not that I am suddenly become so. This heart was born to be the seat of mighty passions.—To the common swarm of emmets which bustle about the world, I had an aversion, even as a boy. When my play-mates were merry and sportive around me, I played it is true, but I always found it irksome, though I never could precisely ascertain to what cause that feeling might be ascribed. But when storms lowered around the horizon, when our mountains vomited forth flames at midnight, or subterraneous groanings announced an approaching earthquake, then my heart felt elevated; my languishing spirit revived; the withered plant again reared its head. As I advanced in life, no female attractions had power to charm my eyes;—they remained stedfastly and eagerly fixed on the more brilliant rays of honour. Blinded to every beauty of nature, my heart, my throbbing heart, burned solely to run the career of fame and glory; while each victory that I obtained, far from proving an assuaging

drop to mitigate the flame, served only to encrease its ardour.—Then it was that I saw Cora again!

[11]

High-Priest. And the flame which at first burst out with a force that promised its eternal duration, was instantly extinguished!—Extinguished as a lamp by the breath of a child.

Rolla. No, not so!—The flame continued to burn, it only found a different species of nourishment. What was before a wild and all-consuming blaze, was changed into a gentle, genial warmth. Honour gave way to love.

High-Priest. A gentle, genial warmth!—these words sound well, indeed—But whom does thy flame illumine?—whom does it warm?

Rolla. (With indifference) I feel what you would say.

High-Priest. You feel it, yet are not ashamed?—Young man!—endowed with powers to achieve the noblest deeds, perhaps to form the blessing of a whole hemisphere, you contract your circle of action—within a cave!—Inca, born of the race of the children of the sun, entitled to become one of the first bulwarks of the throne, you fly—into a cave!—Leader; entrusted by your native country with the conduct of her armies, and thus called upon, by a succession of noble actions, to prove yourself worthy so honourable a confidence, you can yet bury yourself—in a cave!—

Rolla. Would you seduce me to be a boaster?—As Inca, and as leader of the armies of my country, I have fulfilled my duty through wounds and victories!—Have I not at various times proved myself deserving of her confidence!—Was not this more particularly proved on that awful day when Ataliba’s throne was shaken by Huascar’s power, and Rolla’s sword dyed the fields of Tumibamba with the blood of his sovereign’s enemies. Know you not the history of that day?—One arrow was lodged in my left arm, another pierced my breast; I received a large gash in my cheek from a sword, and was stunned by the stroke of a club upon my forehead. Look at the scars of those wounds, here, and here, and here!—Yet I never stirred from the field of battle.—Tell me now, have I given my country cause to repent her confidence?

High-Priest. (Much affected) Brave youth!—But were the blessings of thy native-country, the friendship of thy sovereign, and the love and shouts of thy army, no recompense to thy heart?

Rolla. (With a sigh) They were!

[12]

High-Priest. But are so no longer?

Rolla. No!

High-Priest. Oh ye gods! ’tis thus by annihilating the former man, that you chastise this unworthy love which blights every noble germ implanted in the heart!

Rolla. Judge not so harshly!—Love, like honour, is the parent of great actions!—But I—for whom should I fight?—Is there on earth a heart to which I should communicate joy, were I longer to pursue the road to fame?—Cora does not love me!—I have neither father nor mother, neither brother nor sister!—I am alone in the world.

High-Priest. (Clasping him in his arms) My son!—my son!

Rolla. Leave me, leave me, uncle!—I cannot return this love. You, with those grey hairs, clothed in those priestly garments, bearing an appearance so solemn, so entitled to respect, can never become the confident of my bosom. In you I cannot separate the man from the dignity of the priesthood.—Ah that I had a mother!—God created woman to be the confident of man!—Canst thou not share thy sorrows with her who loves thee? then fly to thy mother!—But I—I enjoy not the love of any one!—I have no mother!

High-Priest. Fly then to the gods!

Rolla. The gods hate me, because I love a maiden who is devoted to their service—because I love this maiden more than I love the gods themselves?—Whether I behold the sun rise, or see Cora appear, a like impression is made upon my senses, upon my heart!—Ah no!—Cora makes the strongest impression on both.

High-Priest. May the gods pardon this enthusiasm!—Ah, Rolla! it is thus that the children of mortality always desire most eagerly, what is impossible to be attained. Cora, the maiden, had only pleased your fancy—Cora, the Virgin of the Sun, you love with unbounded passion.

Rolla. (With rising warmth) What!—(he restrains himself; but casts a look of indignation upon the High-Priest) Good night, uncle. (He is going into his cave.)

High-Priest. Whither art thou going, young man?—Cannot thy friend, thy sincere friend, obtain some little influence over thee?—Live according to thy own pleasure!—Withdraw thyself if thou wilt from mankind, only fly this desert, where fatal images inevitably disturb thy soul,[13] as the wild thorns thy senses. Come to my house!—that quarter of it which runs down to the sea shore is well known to thee;—there may’st thou live sequestered and in solitude, even in the midst of thousands; and there no importunate intruder shall deprive thee of the visions which thy heart so fondly loves to cherish. Thy doors may be closed against me—mine shall always be open to thee.

Rolla. Uncle, accept my thanks. I feel these proposals to be meant in kindness—I know your habitation; I know that it abounds with charms for those who love retirement; but Rolla is resolved to live and die in this cave. There, where the cupola of the temple towers above the trees—there Cora lives—here I can at least behold her dwelling.—Rolla, then, must live and die in this cave!—Good night.

High-Priest. Obstinate young man!—Yet, surely you will not forget what your duty requires during the solemnities of to-morrow. Your presence in the king’s palace, and in the temple, is indispensible at the grand festival of the Sun.

Rolla. Excuse me!—Say what you please to the king—tell him I am dead—I come no more among men. Yet to-morrow I will sacrifice to the gods—whether in a temple, or in a cave, is alike acceptable to them.—Good night. [Exit into his cave.

SCENE II.—The High-Priest alone.

Young man!—young man!—thou dost not suspect how deeply this heart is interested in thy repose!—But the evening sun already glitters upon the golden cupola of the temple, and here below amid these trees, the night is fast approaching. I fear I shall find some difficulty in tracing out the meandering path through this wilderness. (As he is going, he almost runs against Diego.)

SCENE III.—Diego gropes his Way through the Bushes, and starts violently at meeting the High-Priest.

High-Priest. Whence come you?—and whither would you go?

Diego. Whithersoever chance may conduct a pedestrian.

High-Priest. Do you walk for pleasure in such unbeaten ways?

[14]

Diego. (Pertly) Yes.

High-Priest. You may probably have mistaken your path?

Diego. So it should seem, since I find myself in your way.

High-Priest. Are you not Don Alonzo’s attendant?

Diego. You are not very wide of the truth.

High-Priest. If you be not well acquainted with this wood, you are in great danger of losing yourself. Accompany me, and I will conduct you in a short time into the right path.

Diego. (Assuming an angry tone) Who told you that I was in the wrong path?—Signor High-Priest, I would have you to know, that neither in Castile nor Arragon, neither in Grenada nor Murcia, no, nor in any other of the countries belonging to my king, by whatsoever name distinguished, has any mother’s son ever been known to excel Diego in valour and virtue.

High-Priest. (smiling) I readily believe it. And what gives the greater currency to this assurance is, that it is uttered by yourself.

Diego. It was forcibly extorted by you, from my modesty.

High-Priest. Pardon me!—And now permit me to request an explanation of this riddle?—How can you be wandering at night in so wild a spot as this, and yet be in the right way?—Are you alone, or is your master near?—What is it you want?—for never can I be persuaded that you come hither only for a walk.

Diego. (with hesitation) Since you press me so closely then—I—must confess—that—I am in love.

High-Priest. (smiling) You are in love?

Diego. (extravagantly) Yes, in love to desperation!—I am tortured with jealousy; driven almost to phrenzy!—In the tumult of passion I am now hurried up to the summits of the highest hills, now driven into the lowest recesses of a subterranean cavern,—till at length I have wandered insensibly into this spot, devoted to tender feelings, here to hold solitary intercourse with the mournful turtle-doves.

High-Priest. This spot does indeed seem to be selected by the gods, as an asylum for enamoured fools.

Diego. Here will I tell of my sorrows to the silent trees!—here breathe out my amorous sighs to the chaste moon!

High-Priest. Thou art a coxcomb! (Exit.)

[15]

Diego. (Alone) A coxcomb!—So much the worse for you Signor!—for if such be the case, the most illustrious High-Priest of the Sun has been made the sport of a coxcomb. Live wit, say I—it will fetch its price in the new world, as well as in the old.—But is he really gone?—Yes.—I hear nothing more!—Hist!—Hist!—(He goes and looks out at the other side of the stage.)

SCENE IV.—Enter Don Alonzo and Don Juan. The latter with a large Cloak wrapped round him.

Juan. Are we safe, Diego?

Diego. A fine question, truly.—Yes, as safe as men can be who are wandering about a forest in the dead of night, and under the open canopy of heaven, after, saving your honour’s presence, a piece of knavery. By Saint Barnabas I believe we are about as safe as a drunkard who should attempt to cross the river Amazons upon a wire.

Juan. Have you seen any thing?

Diego. In the dark I seldom see any thing—but I have heard—

Alonzo. What!—what have you heard?

Diego. The voice of the great High-Priest himself.

Alonzo. The High-Priest!—What could he want here?

Diego. To put me into the right path, nothing more. It is the same in this, as in all other countries, Priests are the only people who are able to lead us into the right path.

Alonzo. But what could bring him into this wilderness?—Oh, speak, Velasquez!—tell me, what dost thou think could be his errand?

Juan. To what purpose speak? What end can conjecture serve? To rush with my sword drawn, and eyes averted, into the thickest of the press, is my maxim in any case of danger. Talking dissipates courage, as a shower disperses the thin coat of earth scattered over a rock, so that no foundation remains from which any adventurous action can shoot forth. If I were disposed to talk, I could find enough to say.

Alonzo. Of what nature?

Diego. Oh speak, Sir, I entreat you!—When it is dark I always like to hear talking.

Juan. Well, it shall be so. It may amuse you too, Alonzo, till the hour when your constellation shall rise;[16] for the time always appears horribly tedious when one is waiting for a tender appointment. I will therefore talk till you command my silence; and this shall be the text with which I introduce my discourse.—My friend, this adventure bodes no good!—believe me, it bodes no good!

Diego. Right, Sir, right.

Alonzo. This is language foreign to thy sentiments. When has the time been known that Don Juan Velasquez turned his back upon an adventure, because it was dangerous?

Juan. There is the matter!—Hear me, Alonzo!—If thou wert capable of doubting my courage, I might easily prove it, by engaging the next rattle-snake I should meet. Thou knowest my principle, that I do not value my life more highly, than a moment of happiness, and happy is every moment that I sacrifice to friendship. If, therefore, thou hast any regard for me, no more of this!—My arm, my sword, are devoted to thy service—I have followed thee blindly into the labyrinth in which we are now involved; but I must still be permitted to think, that we do not give any proof of our wisdom in groping our way here when we might be more advantageously employed.

Alonzo. More advantageously?—let me hear in what way?

Juan. He who is doing ill, may always be more advantageously employed; and by the blood of all the knights that does or does not flow in my veins, I think we are now cursedly in the wrong. I say nothing of the sword suspended by a thread over our heads—affection takes precedence of life—You love Cora—I have the strongest attachment to you, and Diego is attached to both.

Diego. Certainly, certainly, Sir!—but—notwithstanding—pray don’t take it amiss, if I think that life has precedence of affection.