The Mysterious Mother/Act 1 Scene 3
SCENE III.
BENEDICT, MARTIN.
BENEDICT.Ay! sift her, sift her—As if I had not prob'd her very soul,And wound me round her heart—I tell thee, brother, This woman was not cast in human mould.Ten such would foil a council, would unbuildOur Roman church—In her devotion's real.Our beads, our hymns, our saints, amuse her not:Nay, not confession, not repeating o'erHer darling sins, has any charms for her.I have mark'd her praying: not one wand'ring thoughtSeems to steal meaning from her words.—She praysBecause she feels, and feels, because a sinner.
MARTIN.What is this secret sin; this untold tale,That art cannot extract, nor penance cleanse?Loss of a husband, sixteen years enjoy'd,And dead as many, could not stamp such sorrow.Nor could she be his death's artificer,And now affect to weep it—I have heard,That chasing, as he homeward rode, a stag,Chas'd by the hounds, with sudden onset flewTh' adventurous count.
BENEDICT.'Twas so; and yet, my brother,My mind has more than once imputed bloodTo this incessant mourner. Beatrice,The damsel for whose sake she holds in exileHer only son, has never, since the nightOf his incontinence, been seen or heard of.
MARTIN.'Tis clear, 'tis clear; nor will her prudent tongueAccuse its owner.
BENEDICT.Judge not rashly, brother.I oft have shifted my discourse to murder:She notes it not. Her muscles hold their place, Nor discompos'd, nor firm'd to steadiness.No sudden flushing, and no falt'ring lip:Nor, tho' she pities, lifts she to her eyesHer handkerchief, to palliate her disorder.There the wound rankles not.—I fix'd on love,The failure of the sex, and aptest causeOf each attendant crime—
MARTIN.Ay, brother, thereWe master all their craft. Touch but that string—
BENEDICT.Still, brother, do you err. She own'd to me,That, tho' of nature warm, the passion loveDid ne'er anticipate her choice. The count,Her husband, so ador'd and so lamented,Won not her fancy, till the nuptial ritesHad with the sting of pleasure taught her passion.This, with such modest truth, and that truth heighten'dBy conscious sense, that holds deceit a weakness,She utter'd, I would pawn my order's creditOn her veracity.
MARTIN.Then whither turnTo worm her secret out?
BENEDICT.I know not that.She will be silent, but the scorns a falshood.And thus while frank on all things, but her secret,I know, I know it not.
MARTIN.Till she disclose it,Deny her absolution.
BENEDICT.She will take none:Offer'd, she scoffs it; and withheld, demands not. Nay, vows she will not load her sinking soulWith incantations.
MARTIN.This is heresy;Rank heresy; and holy church should note it.
BENEDICT.Be patient, brother—Tho' of adamantHer reason, charity dissolves that rock,—And surely we have tasted of the stream.Nay, one unguarded moment may discloseThis mystic tale—then, brother, what a harvest,When masters of her bosom-guilt!—Age tooMay numb her faculties.—Or soon, or late,A praying woman must become our spoil.
MARTIN.Her zeal may falter.
BENEDICT.Not in solitude.I nurse her in new horrors; form her tenantsTo fancy visions, phantoms; and report them.She mocks their fond credulity—but trust me,Her memory retains the colouring.Oft times it paints her dreams; and ebon nightIs no logician. I have known her callFor lights, e'er she could combat its impressions.I too, tho' often scorn'd, relate my dreams,And wond'rous voices heard; that she may think meAt least an honest bigot; nor rememberI tried to practice on her fears, and foil'd,Give o'er my purpose.
MARTIN.This is masterly.
BENEDICT.Poor mastery! when I am more in aweOf my own penitent, than she of me.My genius is command; art, but a toolMy groveling fortune forces me to use.Oh! were I seated high as my ambition,I'd place this naked foot on necks of monarchs,And make them bow to creeds myself would laugh at[1].
MARTIN.By humbler arts our mighty fabric rose.Win pow'r by craft; wear it with ostentation;For confidence is half-security.Deluded men think boldness, conscious strength;And grow the slaves of their own want of doubt.Gain to the holy see this fair domain;A crimson bonnet may reward your toils,And the rich harvest prove at last your own.
BENEDICT.Never, while Edmund lives. This steady womanCan ne'er be pious with so many virtues.Justice is interwoven in her frame;Nor will she wrong the son she will not see.She loves him not; yet mistress of his fortunes,His ample exhibition speaks her bounty.She destines him whate'er his father's loveGave blindly to her will. Her alms, her charities,Usurp'd from her own wants, she sets apartA scanty portion only for her ward,Young Adeliza.
MARTIN.Say her son were dead,And Adeliza veil'd—
BENEDICT.I press the latterWith fruitless ardour. Often as I urge it,She pleads the maiden's flushing cheek, and nature,That speaks in characters of glowing roseIts modest appetites and timid wishes.Her sex, she says, when gratified, are frail;When check'd, a hurricane of boundless passions.Then, with sweet irony and sad, she wills meAsk my own breast, if cowls and scapulariesAre charms all powerful to subdue desire?
MARTIN.'Twere wiser school the maiden: lead the trainOf young ideas to a fancied object.A mental spouse may fill her hov'ring thoughts,And bar their fixing on some earthly lover.
BENEDICT.This is already done—but Edmund's deathWere hopes more solid—
MARTIN.First report him dead,His letters intercepted—
BENEDICT.Greatly thought!Thou true son of the church!—and lo! where comesOur patroness—leave me; I will not loseAn instant. I will sound her inmost soul,And mould it to the moment of projection.[Exit Martin.[Benedict retires within the castle.
- ↑ Alluding to Sixtus quintus.