The Mysterious Mother/Act 1 Scene 5
SCENE V.
BENEDICT, COUNTESS.
BENEDICT.I sought you, lady.
COUNTESS.Happily I'm found.Who needs the widow's mite?
BENEDICT.None ask your aid.Your gracious foresight still prevents occasion:And your poor beadsman joys to meet your presence;Uncumber'd with a suit. It pains my soul,Oft as I tax your bounty, lest I seemA craving or immodest almoner.
COUNTESS.No more of this, good father. I suspect notOne of your holy order of dissembling:Suspect not me of loving flattery.Pass a few years, and I shall be a corpse—Will flattery then new cloath my skeleton,Fill out these hollow jaws? Will't give me virtues?Or at the solemn audit pass for truth,And varnish o'er my stains?
BENEDICT.The church could sealYour pardon—but you scorn it. In your prideConsists your danger. Your's are Pagan virtues:As such I praise them—but as such, condemn them.
COUNTESS.Father, my crimes are Pagan; my beliefToo orthodox to trust to erring man.What! shall I, foul with guilt, and self-condemn'd,Presume to kneel, where angels kneel appal'd,And plead a priest's certificate for pardon?While he, perchance, before my blasted eyesShall sink to woes, endless, unutterable,For having fool'd me into that presumption.
BENEDICT.Is he to blame, trusting to what he grants?
COUNTESS.Am I to blame, not trusting what he grants?
BENEDICT.Yet faith—
COUNTESS.I have it not—Why shakes my soulWith nightly terrors? Courage such as mineWould start at nought but guilt. 'Tis from withinI tremble. Death would be felicity,Were there no retrospect. What joys have IWhat pleasure softens, or what friendship soothsMy aching bosom?—I have lost my husband:My own decree has banish'd my own son.
BENEDICT.Last night I dreamt your son was with the blessed.
COUNTESS.Would heav'n he were!
BENEDICT.Do you then wish his death?
COUNTESS.Should I not wish him blest?
BENEDICT.Belike he is:I never knew my Friday's dreams erroneous.
COUNTESS.Nor I knew superstition in the right.
BENEDICT.Madam, I must no longer hear this language.You do abuse my patience. I have borne,For your soul's health, and hoping your conversion,Opinions most deprav'd. It ill beseemsMy holy function to give countenance,By lending ear, to such pernicious tenets.The judgments hanging o'er your destin'd headMay reach ev'n me—I see it! I am wraptBeyond my bearing! my prophetic soulViews the red falchion of eternal justiceCut off your sentenc'd race—your son is dead!
COUNTESS.Father, we no prophetic dæmon bearWithin our breast, but conscience. That has spokenWords more tremendous than this acted zeal,This poetry of fond enthusiasmCan conjure up. It is the still small voiceThat breathes conviction. 'Tis that voice has told me,'Twas my son's birth, not his mortality,[1]Must drown my soul in woe.—Those tears are shed.
BENEDICT.Unjust, uncharitable as your words, I pardon them. Illy of me you deem;I know it, lady. 'Tis humiliation:As such I bow to it—yet dear I tenderYour peace of mind. Dismiss your worthless servant:His pray'rs shall still be yours.
COUNTESS.Forgive me, father:Discretion does not guide my words. I meantNo insult on your holy character.
BENEDICT.No, lady; chuse some other monitor,Whose virtues may command your estimation.Your useless beadsman shall behold with joyA worthier man mediate your peace with heav'n.
COUNTESS.Alas! till reconcil'd with my own breastWhat peace is there for me!
BENEDICT.In th' neighb'ring districtThere lives a holy man, whose sanctityIs mark'd with wond'rous gifts. Grace smiles upon him;Conversion tracks his footsteps: miraclesSpring from his touch; his sacred casuistryPours balm into despair. Consult with him.Unfold th' impenetrable mystery,That sets your soul and you at endless discord.
COUNTESS.Consult a holy man! Inquire of him!—Good father, wherefore? What should I inquire?[2]Must I be taught of him, that guilt is woe? That innocence alone is happiness?That martyrdom itself shall leave the villainThe villain that it found him? Must I learnThat minutes stamp'd with crimes are past recall?That joys are momentary; and remorseEternal? Shall he teach me charms and spells,To make my sense believe against my sense?Shall I think practices and penancesWill, if he say so, give the health of virtueTo gnawing self-reproach?—I know they cannot.Nor could one risen from the dead proclaimThis truth in deeper sounds to my conviction.We want no preacher to distinguish viceFrom virtue. At our birth the god reveal'dAll conscience needs to know. No codicilTo duty's rubric here and there was plac'dIn some saint's casual custody. Weak mindsWant their soul's fortune told by oraclesAnd holy juglers. Me, nor oracles,Nor prophets, death alone can certify,Whether, when justice's full dues exacted,Mercy shall grant one drop to flake my torment.—Here, father, break we off; you to your calling;I to my tears and mournful occupation.
End of the First Act.