Manfred, a dramatic poem/Act 3 Scene 1
ACT III.
SCENE I.
A Hall in the Castle of Manfred.
Manfred and Herman.
Man. What is the hour?
Her.It wants but one till sunset, And promises a lovely twilight.
Man.Say, Are all things so disposed of in the tower As I directed?
Her.All, my lord, are ready; Here is the key and casket.
Man.It is well: [Exit Herman.Thou mayst retire.
Man. (alone).There is a calm upon me—Inexplicable stillness! which till now Did not belong to what I knew of life. If that I did not know philosophyTo be of all our vanities the mothest,The merest word that ever fool'd the earFrom out the schoolman's jargon, I should deemThe golden secret, the sought "Kalon," found,And seated in my soul. It will not last,But it is well to have known it, though but once:It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense,And I within my tablets would note downThat there is such a feeling. Who is there?Re-enter Herman.My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice cravesTo greet your presence.
Enter the Abbot of st. Maurice.
Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred!
Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls;Thy presence honours them, and blesseth thoseWho dwell within them.
Abbot.Would it were so, Count!—But I would fain confer with thee alone.
Man. Herman, retire. What would my reverend guest?
Abbot. Thus, without prelude:—Age and zeal, my office,And good intent, must plead my privilege;Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood,May also be my herald. Rumours strange,And of unholy nature, are abroad,And busy with thy name; a noble nameFor centuries: may he who bears it nowTransmit it unimpair'd!
Man.Proceed,—I listen.
Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the thingsWhich are forbidden to the search of man;That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,The many evil and unheavenly spiritsWhich walk the valley of the shade of death,Thou communest. I know that with mankind,Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarelyExchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitudeIs as an anchorite's, were it but holy.
Man. And what are they who do avouch these things?
Abbot. My pious brethren—the scared peasantry—Even thy own vassals—who do look on theeWith most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril.
Man. Take it.
Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy—I would not pry into thy secret soul;But if these things be sooth, there still is timeFor penitence and pity: reconcile theeWith the true church, and through the church to heaven.
Man. I hear thee. This is my reply; whate'erI may have been, or am, doth rest betweenHeaven and myself.—I shall not choose a mortalTo be my mediator. Have I sinn'dAgainst your ordinances? prove and punish!
Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punishment,But penitence and pardon;—with thyselfThe choice of such remains—and for the last,Our institutions and our strong beliefHave given me power to smooth the path from sinTo higher hope and better thoughts; the firstI leave to heaven—"Vengeance is mine alone!"So saith the Lord, and with all humblenessHis servant echoes back the awful word.
Man. Old man! there is no power in holy men,Nor charm in prayer—nor purifying formOf penitence—nor outward look—nor fast—Nor agony—nor, greater than all these,The innate tortures of that deep despair, Which is remorse without the fear of hell,But all in all sufficient to itselfWould make a hell of heaven—can exorciseFrom out the unbounded spirit, the quick senseOf its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revengeUpon itself; there is no future pangCan deal that justice on the self-condemn'dHe deals on his own soul.
Abbot.All this is well;For this will pass away, and be succeededBy an auspicious hope, which shall look up With calm assurance to that blessed place,Which all who seek may win, whatever beTheir earthly errors, so they be atoned:And the commencement of atonement isThe sense of its necessity.—Say on—And all our church can teach thee shall be taught;And all we can absolve thee, shall be pardon'd.
Man. When Rome's sixth Emperor was near his last,The victim of a self-inflicted wound,To shun the torments of a public deathFrom senates once his slaves, a certain soldier,With show of loyal pity, would have staunch'dThe gushing throat with his officious robe; The dying Roman thrust him back and said—Some empire still in his expiring glance,"It is too late—is this fidelity?"
Abbot. And what of this?
Man.I answer with the Roman—"It is too late!"
Abbot.It never can be so,To reconcile thyself with thy own soul,And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope?'Tis strange—even those who do despair above,Yet shape themselves some phantasy on earth,To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men.
Man. Ay—father! I have had those earthly visionsAnd noble aspirations in my youth,To make my own the mind of other men,The enlightener of nations; and to riseI knew not whither—it might be to fall;But fall, even as the mountain—cataract,Which having leapt from its more dazzling height,Even in the foaming strength of its abyss,(Which casts up misty columns that becomeClouds raining from the re-ascended skies,)Lies low but mighty still.—But this is past,My thoughts mistook themselves.
Abbot.And wherefore so?
Man. I could not tame my nature down; for heMust serve who fain would sway—and soothe—and sue—And watch all time—and pry into all place—And be a living lie—who would becomeA mighty thing amongst the mean, and suchThe mass are; I disdain'd to mingle withA herd, though to be leader—and of wolves.The lion is alone, and so am I.
Abbot. And why not live and act with other men?
Man. Because my nature was averse from life;And yet not cruel; for I would not make,But find a desolation:—like the wind,The red—hot breath of the most lone Simoom,Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'erThe barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast,And revels o'er their wild and arid waves,And seeketh not, so that it is not sought,But being met is deadly, such hath beenThe course of my existence; but there cameThings in my path which are no more.
Abbot.Alas!I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid From me and from my calling; yet so young,I still would———
Man. Look on me! there is an orderOf mortals on the earth, who do becomeOld in their youth, and die ere middle age,Without the violence of warlike death;Some perishing of pleasure—some of study—Some worn with toil—some of mere weariness—Some of disease—and some insanity—And some of wither'd or of broken hearts;For this last is a malady which slaysMore than are numbered in the lists of Fate,Taking all shapes, and bearing many names.Look upon me! for even of all these thingsHave I partaken; and of all these things, One were enough; then wonder not that IAm what I am, but that I ever was,Or, having been, that I am still on earth.
Abbot. Yet, hear me still———
Man.Old man! I do respectThine order, and revere thine years; I deemThy purpose pious, but it is in vain.Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself, Far more than me, in shunning at this time[Exit Manfred.All further colloquy—and so—farewell.
Abbot. This should have been a noble creature: heHath all the energy which would have madeA goodly frame of glorious elements,Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,It is an awful chaos—light and darkness—And mind and dust—and passions and pure thoughts,Mix'd, and contending without end or order,All dormant or destructive: he will perish,And yet he must not; I will try once more,For such are worth redemption; and my dutyIs to dare all things for a righteous end.[Exit Abbot.I'll follow him—but cautiously, though surely.