Olla Podrida. Фредерик Марриет
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to grace his rank and dignity. Sup. He that hath mock'd high Heav'n with sacrilege Should live for nought except to make his peace. Your son must straight renew his broken vows, With tears and penance must wash out his sin— His life, however long, too short to plead For mercy and forgiveness, and his wealth, However great, too small to make atonement. Inez. Father, this cannot be. Sup. It shall be so. Inez. Then I'll appeal elsewhere. I'll to the king, And tell him this sad story. The Guzmans Have too well served him, not to gain his help In this their need. If we must pay a price, The bargain shall be made with Rome herself, Who will be less exacting. Sup. (aside). I must not grasp too much, or I lose all. (Aloud) Lady, I know your thoughts, and do not blame you. You are divided, as frail mortals are In this imperfect state, 'twixt heaven and earth, Your holy wishes check'd by love maternal; Now would I know the course that you would steer Between the two. We can arrange this point. The church is generous, and she oft resigns That she might claim in justice. Tell me, lady, What do you proffer? Inez. There is a fair domain of great extent Water'd by the Guadalquiver's wave, Whose blushing harvests each returning autumn Yield the best vintage in our favour'd land. Six hamlets tenanted by peaceful swains, And dark-eyed maidens, portion'd to the soil, Foster its increase. The fairest part of Spain Which Heav'n hath made, I render back to Heav'n. Sup. I know the land, and will accept the gift:— But to it must be added sums of gold To pay for holy rites to be perform'd For years, to purify our monastery Which has been desecrated. Inez. That will I give, and freely. Now, good father, Remember, in exchange for these you promise To pardon all, and to obtain from Rome A dispensation to my truant child. Sup. I do! Inez. Father, I'll send him to you. You'll Rebuke him, but not harshly, for his soul Is with his new found prospects all on fire. [Exit Inez. Sup. Now will our convent be the best endow'd Of any in the land. This wild young hypocrite, Who fears nor Heaven nor man, hath well assisted My pious longing. More by the sins of men Than their free gifts, our holy church doth prosper. [Enter Anselmo in cavalier's dress. What do I see? One, that's in sanctity, Who vow'd his service and his life to Heav'n, In this attire. Heaven is most patient! Ans. It is, good father, or this world of guilt Had long been wither'd with the threaten'd fire. My sins are monstrous, yet I am but one Of many millions, erring as myself. 'Tis not for us to judge. He, who reads all Our hearts, and knows how we've been tempted, Alone can poise the even scale of justice. If I'm to blame, good father, are not you? Sup. How? Ans. I had it from my mother, she reveal'd To you her history, and did make known The mark by which I might be recognised— That mark, so oft the theme of idle wonder In the convent. Before I took my vows You therefore must have known my station, The rank I held by birthright, and the name Which I inherited. Why did you press me then To take those vows? It was a rank injustice. Sup. (aside). He argues boldly. (Aloud) 'Twere as well to say, It were unjust to help you unto Heav'n— I put you in the right path. Ans. One too slippery. Father, I've stumbled. Sup. You have. But that your fond and virtuous mother Stretch'd forth her hand to save you, it had been To your perdition. Ans. I am so full of gratitude to Heaven, I cannot cavil at the deeds of men. Yet are we blind alike. You did intend To serve me, and I thank you. Sup. I'll serve you yet, my son. This very night A message shall be forwarded to Rome. Before a month is past you'll be absolved. Till then return unto the monastery, Resume your cowl, and bear yourself correctly. A month will soon be o'er. Ans. To one who is imprison'd, 'tis an age; Yet is your counsel wise, and I obey you With all humility. Sup. 'Tis well, my son. Your follies are unknown but to ourselves. I shall expect you ere the night be past. [Exit Superior. Ans. "Stretch'd forth her hand to save me!" Well I trow, Had it been stretch'd forth empty I had perish'd. I've bought my freedom at no trifling price. Most potent gold! all that the earth can offer, Are at thy bidding. Nay, more powerful still— Since it appears that holy men for thee Will barter Heav'n. Still his advice is good. Yet must I first behold my Isidora: Whose startled innocence, like to a rose When charged with dew and rudely shaken, Relieves itself in sweet and sudden showers From its oppressive load. My heavy guilt Hath shock'd her purity—now, she rejects The love of one who has been false to Heav'n. She refused to see me; but I have gain'd, By intercession of my doting mother, One meeting, to decide if my estate Shall be more wretched than it was before. If she, unheard, condemns me, mine will be A wild career most perilous to the soul— That of a lion's whelp, breaking his chain And prowling through the world in search of prey. [Exit.
Scene II.
Isidora's Room in the Guzman Palace.
Isidora alone on her knees at a small oratory. Rises.
Isid. Yes, I would pray, but the o'erwhelming thought Of vows made light—nay, mock'd by him, the guide, Th' elected star of my too trusting soul, Stops in my breast the heavenly aspiration. And nought I utter but th' unconscious wail Of broken-hearted love. Love—and for whom!— How have I waken'd from a dream of bliss To utter misery. Fond, foolish maid, Thus to embark my heart, my happiness, So inconsiderate—now the barque sinks, And, with its freight, is left to widely toss In seas of doubt, of horror, and despair. Oh! Isidora, is thy virgin heart Thus mated to a wild apostate monk? The midnight reveller, and morning priest, At e'en the gay guitar, at noon the cowl; The holy mummer, tonsure and the missal, The world, our blessed Church, and Heav'n defied. To love this man, I surely have become That which a Guzman ought to scorn to be. Is he not, too, a Guzman, and my cousin? Yet must he be renounced. Here let me kneel, Nor rise till I be freed of love and him. (Isidora kneels a short time in silence, and proceeds.) Anselmo—Virgin holy, will no name But his rise from my wretched heart in pray'r? Then let me bind myself by sacred vows: Record it, Heav'n!—Thus do I renounce—— Enter Anselmo. Ans.——All sorrow, my beloved; for grief no more Shall worm its canker in our budding bliss.
(Anselmo approaches her, she rises abruptly.)
Isid. Nay, touch me not—approach me not, Anselmo. Ans. (looking earnestly at her). Isidora! Isid. Holy Virgin, to thee I trust for strength In this my hour of peril. Anselmo, That look has reft a heart too fondly thine— But only thine, henceforth, in holy love. Ans. And is not all love holy? that the holiest, Which gushes from the springs of thy pure heart; So pure, that, laved by it, my spotted breast Shall shortly be as snow. Isid. Hear me, Anselmo: It is ordain'd we meet no more. Ans. And canst thou say those words? (Kneels.) See, on the earth I grovelling kneel—my straining eyes seek thine: Turn, turn to me; say not those words again; Thou canst not, dearest. Isid. (her eyes still averted). We must meet no more. Ans. I'll not believe thy voice: look on me now One steady, one unflinching glance, and then If thou'lt repeat those words—I must believe. (Pause.) Averted still!—Oh, Isidora, who, Who pour'd such cruel thoughts into thy breast? Was it a female fiend, or some vile priest, Some meddling, sin-absolving, canting priest?— It was—that start declares it.—Curse him, curse him. (Rises.) Isid. (coming forward with dignity and fronting Anselmo.) Anselmo, curse him not. Thou art that priest. [Anselmo covers his face with his hand.] My better angel hath my mind illumed— Hath shown me thy past life. Thy heavy sins, In black array, hath weigh'd before mine eyes; That silent voice, which every bosom sways, Hath spoken deeply—bidden me abjure Him who mock'd all. That gentle voice hath said, That of us twain, immortal bliss alone Can crown the union; which to be obtain'd, Must on this earth be won by penance strict, Unceasing prayer, and thy resumed vows. Is it not well, Anselmo—— Ans. Isidora, Are racking tortures well? is liquid fire Rushing and bubbling through the burning veins, Until they shrivel, well? And is it well To find the angel, who hath borne your soul Half o'er the flaming abyss of the damn'd, Shake it away, and feel it whirling sink To everlasting torments?—In bitter truth, These are but nought compared to the fell pangs Thy words have caused, which rack my tortured breast. Isid. Anselmo, hear me! Ans. Hear me now in turn, By the soul I've perill'd, we must not part! Cast me but off, and Heav'n may do so too: Here stand I, Isidora, with one foot Upon Heaven's threshold, thou within the gates: Oh! call me to thee. I am Heaven's and thine: But, loose thy hand,