[Bewildered.]
Dead, did you say? So bright it never burned; —
‘Twill never, never die!

 

THE VESTAL. Great heavens, — what is this?

 

FURIA. The fires of hate are not thus lightly quenched!
Behold, love bursts forth of a sudden, — dies
Within the hour; but hate —

 

THE VESTAL. By all the gods, —
This is sheer madness!

 

[Calls out.]

 

THE VESTAL. Come! Oh, help! Come, help!

 

[VESTALS and temple SERVANTS rush in.]

 

SOME. What is amiss?

 

OTHERS. The vestal fire is dead!

 

FURIA. But hate burns on; revenge still blazes high!

 

THE VESTALS. Away with her to trial and punishment!

 

[They carry her out between them.]

 

CURIUS. [Comes forward.]
To prison now they take her. Thence to death. —
No, no, by all the gods, this shall not be!
Must she, most glorious of womankind,
Thus perish in disgrace, entombed alive? —
Oh, never have I felt so strangely moved.
Is this then love? Yes, love it is indeed. —
Then shall I set her free! — But Catiline?
With hate and vengeance will she follow him.
Has he maligners not enough already?
Dare I still others to their number add?
He was to me as were an elder brother;
And gratitude now bids me that I shield him. —
But what of love? Ah, what does it command?
And should he quake, the fearless Catiline,
Before the intrigues of a woman? No; —
Then to the rescue work this very hour!
Wait, Furia; — I shall drag you from your grave
To life again, — though at the risk of death!

 

[He goes away quickly.]

 

[A room in CATILINE’s house.]

 

CATILINE. [Enters impetuous and uneasy.]
“Nemesis then indeed has heard my prayer,
Vengeance you have invoked on your own head!”
Such were the words from the enchantress’ lips.
Remarkable! Perchance it was a sign, —
A warning of what time will bring to me.

 

CATILINE. Now therefore I have pledged myself on oath
The blood avenger of my own misdeed.
Ah, Furia, — still I seem to see your eye,
Wildly aflame like that of death’s own goddess!
Your words still echo hollow in my ears; —
The oath I shall remember all my life.

 

[During the following AURELIA enters and approaches him unnoticed.]

 

CATILINE. Yet, it is folly now to go on brooding
Upon this nonsense; it is nothing else.
Far better things there are to think upon;
A greater work awaits my energies.
The restless age is urgent with its plea;
Toward this I must direct my thought in season;
Of hope and doubt I am a stormy sea —

 

AURELIA. [Seizes his hand.]
And may not your Aurelia know the reason?
May she not know what moves within your breast,
What stirs therein and rages with such madness?
May she not cheer and soothe your soul to rest,
And banish from your brow its cloud of sadness?

 

CATILINE. [Tenderly.] O, my Aurelia, — O, how kind and tender — .
Yet why should I embitter all your life?
Why should I share with you my many sorrows?
For my sake you have borne enough of anguish.
Henceforth upon my own head I shall bear
What ill-designing fate allotted me, —
The curse that lies in such a soul as mine,
Full of great spiritual energies,
Of fervent longings for a life of deeds,
Yet dwarfed in all its work by sordid cares. —
Must you, too, sharing in my wretched life,
Bitter with blasted hopes, then with me perish?

 

AURELIA. To comfort is the role of every wife,
Though dreams of greatness she may never cherish.
When the man, struggling for his lofty dream,
Reaps nothing but adversity and sorrow, —
Her words to him then sweet and tender seem,
And give him strength sufficient for the morrow;
And then he sees that even the quiet life
Has pleasures which the most tumultuous lacks.

 

CATILINE. Yes, you are right; I know it all too well.
And yet I cannot tear myself away.
A ceaseless yearning surges in my breast, —
Which only life’s great tumult now can quiet.

 

AURELIA. Though your Aurelia be not all to you, —
Though she can never still your restless soul, —
Your heart yet open to a gentle word,
A word of comfort from your loving wife.
Though she may never slake your fiery thirst,
Nor follow in their flight your noble thoughts, —
Know this, that she can share your every sorrow,
Has strength and fortitude to ease your burden.

 

CATILINE. Then listen, dear Aurelia; you shall hear
What has of late depressed so deep my spirits.
You know, I long have sought the consulate —
Without avail. You know the whole affair —
How to increase the votes for my election,
I have expended —

 

AURELIA. Catiline, no more;
You torture me —

 

CATILINE. Do you too blame my course?
What better means therefor had I to choose? —
In vain I lavished all that I possessed;
My one reward was mockery and shame.
Now in the senate has my adversary,
The crafty Cicero, trampled me to earth.
His speech was a portrayal of my life,
So glaring that I, even I, must gasp.
In every look I read dismay and fear;
With loathing people speak of Catiline;
To races yet unborn my name will be
A symbol of a low and dreadful union
Of sensuality and wretchedness,
Of scorn and ridicule for what is noble. —
And there will be no deed to purge this name
And crush to earth the lies that have been told!
Each will believe whatever rumor tells —

 

AURELIA. But I, dear husband, trust no such reports.
Let the whole world condemn you if it will;
And let it heap disgrace upon your head; —
I know you hide within your inmost soul
A seed that still can blossom and bear fruit.
Only it cannot burst forth here in Rome;
Poisonous weeds would quickly prove the stronger.
Let us forsake this degradation’s home; —
What binds you here? Why should we dwell here longer?

 

CATILINE. I should forsake the field, — and go away?
I should my greatest dreams in life surrender?
The drowning man still clutches firm and fast
The broken spars — though hope is frail and slender;
And should the wreck be swallowed in the deep,
And the last hope of rescue fail forever, —
Still clings he to the lone remaining spar,
And sinks with it in one last vain endeavor.

 

AURELIA.