thought she would be able to come out. I'll go to her immediately, and
make the appointment. Saint Petronila, smile on my joys of wedlock!
[_Exit Sancho._
_Ant._ How I hate women!... If that fool had mentioned the name of
Lopez, the crafty Beppa would have discovered the whole affair. What
with keeping my own secrets, and finding out those of my master, I have
enough to do. So far the former has been well managed, now for the
latter. [_Exit into house._
_Scene V._
_An Apartment in the Guzman Palace. Donna Inez discovered seated at
table._
_Inez._ Last night, again, beneath my niece's window
I heard that tuneful voice; and if mine ears
Deceived me not, my Isidora's too.
As I pass'd by, a light whose feeble rays
Shone thro' the vacancy beneath the door
Proved that she'd not retired. I much suspect
She is entangled in some web of love.
Yet oft have I enjoin'd her to advise
With me, her friend, and truest counsellor.
But 'tis in vain;
Love ne'er would be so sweet,--so fondly cherish'd,
If not envelop'd in the veil of secrecy:
And good intents are oft in maidens check'd
By that strange joyous fear, that happy awe,
Which agitates the breast when first the trembler
Receives its dangerous inmate.
I've summon'd her, for now I must endeavour
To be her confidante. (_Muses._) 'Twere better first
I made her mine.
And sympathy may win the treasured key,
Which startled love would willingly retain.
_Enter Isidora._
_Isid._ You wish my presence. (_Aside_) Hush, my tell-tale heart.
_Inez._ Hast thou slept well, my child?
_Isid._ My dreams have been confused, but not unhappy.
_Inez._ Oh! may'st thou never wake to mystery!
Thine is a dang'rous age: my Isidora,
Thou little know'st, that while thy path is strew'd
With flow'rs, how many serpent dangers lurk
Beneath the sweets.
_Isid._ I will not stray, then.
_Inez._ It is a happy resolution.
If, in my youth, I had been so resolved,
I had not loaded mine old age with care,
Nor soak'd my pillow with remorseful tears.
_Isid._ I've often seen you weep, and then retire,
Nor glad me with your presence, until after
You had communion held with Father Philip;
Then have you smiled again, that is to say,
Smiled mournfully, as does the winter's sun,
Gleaming through heavy clouds, and scarce deigning
To light up sober nature for the minute.
_Inez._ True, dearest child, for such is our blindness,
That we reject our greatest boon, until
We can receive support from it alone.
'Tis time thou should'st receive my confidence,
And learn the danger of clandestine love.
_Isid._ (_aside_). She must suspect me. (_Aloud_) I'm all
attention.
_Inez._ To say I once was fair, and that mine eyes
Were bright as thine are now, were almost needless.
I had a mother most considerate--
Kind to excess, yet ever pointing out
The path to virtue, and to happiness.
One precept above all did she enjoin,
And sure 'twas little in exchange to ask
For so much kindness--wisely to seek her counsel
Ere the heart was wounded. You hear me, love,
I oft have made the same request of you.
_Isid._ (_faintly_). You have.
_Inez._ I promised faithfully, as thou hast done,
And well, I know, wilt keep the promise made.
But virgin fear induced _me_ to withhold
My confidence, until it was too late.
My heart was given and my troth was plighted;
Don Felipe, such was his cherish'd name,
Implored my silence; our frequent meetings
Were sanctified by marriage: then I learn'd
It was an old and deadly feud that barr'd
His long sought entrance to our house; but soon
He hoped our marriage publicly t'announce,
And strife of years to end, and peace restore
By our acknowledged union.
Alas! two days before this much-sought hour,
My brothers were inform'd I did receive
My husband in my chamber. He was surprised
And murder'd--basely in my presence slain!
_Isid._ Oh Heavens!
_Inez._ They would not listen to my frantic words!
They would not credit our asserted union!
They dragg'd me to a convent in their wrath,
And left me to my widowhood and tears,
Tore my sweet infant from my longing arms,
And while I madly scream'd, and begg'd for pity,
The abbess spoke of penitence and prayer.
Reason, for weeks, forsook me: when again
I was awaken'd to a cruel world,
They would have forced me to assume the veil.
_Isid._ To me, that force had been most needlessly
Exerted. What haven could the world offer
So meet for such a wreck of happiness?
What could induce you to repel that force?
_Inez._ The hope, that one day I might find my boy--
A hope which still I cherish. Years have fled;
My brothers fell by those who sought revenge,
And I remain'd, sole scion of our noble house,
In line direct. Then did I seek my child.
Those who attended at the birth inform'd me
It had a sanguine bracelet on the wrist.
By threats and bribes at last I ascertained
My child had been removed unto the hospital
Built in this city for receiving foundlings.
Full of a mother's joy, a mother's fear,
I hasten'd there, alas! to disappointment!
All clue of him was lost, and should my boy survive,
The heir of Guzman's noble house may be
Some poor mechanic's slave!
(_In anguish throws herself into a chair._)
_Isidora_ (_kneels beside Inez_).
Indeed 'tis dreadful. I marvel not you grieve
To think that he survives in hapless penury,
Unconscious of his right, perchance unfitted,
And if recover'd, prove no source of joy,
But one of deep regret, that a young stock
Which culture and the graft of education
Would now have loaded on each bough with fruit,
Neglect hath left degenerate and worthless.
How should I joy, yet dread to meet my cousin,
Should your maternal hopes be realised!
_Inez._ He is my child. You cannot feel the pangs
Which rack a mother sever'd from her own.
_Isid._ I've often thought how sweet that love must be
Where all is sanction'd, nought is to conceal--
When hand may lock in hand, heart beat with heart,
And the whole world may smile but not upbraid.
Such love a sister towards a brother bears,
And such a mother feels towards her son.
I have no brother--none of kin but you.
Now, dearest mother, for mother you have been
Unto my childhood and now budding youth,
Would that my feebleness could e'er repay
Your years of love. O that I could console you,
And prove me grateful! Heaven ne'er be mine
If these, my sobbing words, be not sincere.
_Inez._ 'Tis well, my child, thou canst console me much:
Let my sad tale but prove to thee a beacon
And I am satisfied. Tell me, my love,
Hast thou no secrets hidden in thy breast?
[_Isidora, still kneeling, covers her face with her hands._]
Hast thou fulfill'd thy oft-repeated promise?
_Isid._ Forgive me, dearest aunt; forgive and pity me!
_Inez._ Last night, my child, I heard the sound of music:
Methought thy name was wafted by the air
With most harmonious utterance.
_Isid._ Forgive me, aunt, but say that you forgive me!
You shall know all.
_Inez._ I do, my Isidora, I forgive thee (_raises her_).
But I must have thy confidence, my child.
Who is this cavalier?
_Isid._ Alas! I know not.
_Inez._ Not know, my Isidora? Hast thou then
Been so unwise as to receive a stranger?
_Isid._ Alas! I have, but too much for my peace.
_Inez._ Thou lov'st him then? [_Isidora throws herself into
the arms of Inez and bursts into tears._]
(_Aside_) The barb has entered deeply. (_Aloud_) Isidora,
Come, come, cheer up, my love,
I mean not to reproach. All may yet be well.
(_Inez kisses Isidora, and they separate._)
Thou say'st he is a stranger?
_Isid._ I only know he calls himself Don Gaspar.
I have indeed been foolish.
_Inez._ Has he ne'er mention'd his condition,
His family or descent?
_Isid._ Never; and when that I would question him,
He answers vaguely. There is some mystery.
_Inez._ With honest love concealment never dwells.
When does he come again?
_Isid._ To-morrow even--and he'll keep his word.
_Inez._ Then will I see him. Fear not, my love,
No trifling cause shall bar thy happiness.
Be he but gentle, e'en of Moorish blood,
And honest, he is thine. Go to thy chamber,
Thither will I follow, that we some project
May devise, which shall remove all obstacle. [_Exit Isidora._
I like not this Don Gaspar, and my heart
Forebodes some evil nigh. I may be wrong,
But in my sear'd imagination,
He is some snake whose fascinating eyes,
Fix'd on my trembling bird, have drawn her down
Into his pois'nous fangs. How frail our sex!
Prudence may guard us from th' assaults of passion,
But storm'd the citadel, in woman's heart,
Victorious love admits no armistice
Or sway conjoint. He garrisons alone. [_Exit Inez._
_Act III. Scene I._
_The monastery.--Procession of monks, choristers, &c., returning from
performing service in the chapel.--The organ still playing in the chapel
within, Anselmo at the head of the choristers.--They pass on bowing to
the Superior, who, with Manuel, remain.--The organ ceases._
_Sup._ (_looking round_). Anselmo hath pass'd on. I do observe,
Of late he shuns communion. 'Tis most strange.
Say, Manuel, hast thou discover'd aught?
Doth he continue steadfast and devout?
Or, borne away by youthful phantasies,
Neglect the duties of our sacred order?
_Man._ He bears himself correctly, and e'er since
His last offence, when self-inflicted pain
Proved his contrition, he hath ever seem'd
To be absorb'd in holy meditation.
_Sup._ May this continue, he's of great import
To the well doing of our monastery----
Yet he hath not of late confess'd his sins.
_Man._ Perchance he hath not err'd. Forgive me, Heav'n,
Rash words like these when all are born to sin!
I deem'd that he had nothing to confess
Except the warring of his youthful passions,
O'er which he strives to hold dominion.
_Sup._ I would it were so; but, too frequently,
I do perceive a furtive glance of fire
From 'neath his fringed eyelash wildly start,
As does the lightning from a heavy cloud:
It doth denote strong passion--much too strong
For youthful resolution to control.
_Man._ Why then permit him to behold the world
And all its vanities? 'Tis true, our coffers
Are somewhat help'd by that he brings to them,
Instructing music, a gift from nature
In him most perfect. Were it not better
That he within our cloister'd gates should stay?
_Sup._ Then would he pine; for our monastic vows
Are much too harsh, too rigid save for those
Who, having proved the world, at length retire
When they have lost the appetite to sin.
There's much depending on the boy Anselmo;
He is a prize whose worth I little knew
When first into our brotherhood he came.
_Man._ I comprehend you not.
_Sup._ Thou canst not, Manuel, but I will confide
What has been reveal'd to me alone.
Well thou know'st for years I have confess'd
The Donna Inez. From her I late have learn'd
She bore a child in wedlock, which she lost;
And, by the notices which she has given,
I find him in Anselmo.
_Man._ In Anselmo! Then he's the rightful heir
To all the Guzman wealth.
_Sup._ 'Tis even so.
_Man._ Father, how long since you discover'd this?
_Sup._ But a few months before he took his vows.
_Man._ Why did you then permit them?
_Sup._ To serve our holy church; which either way
Must gain by his belonging to our order.
The lady mourns her son. If I restore him,
She must be grateful. Thus our convent will
Become endow'd with acres of broad land.
And should he choose still to retain his vows,
When he has learnt the story of his birth,
Then will our monast'ry no doubt receive
The wealth _he_ values not, but _we_ require.
_Man._ I do perceive--'twas prudently arranged--
What wait you for?
_Sup._ To see if he will turn his thoughts to Heav'n;
But, look, he moves this way. Leave me with him.
[_Exit Manuel, and enter Anselmo._
Where hast thou been, my child?
_Ans._ Lending mine ear to those who would unload
A conscience heavy with repeated sin--
Giving advice and absolution free
To those who riot in a sinful world.
_Sup._ Yet still be lenient. We in holy bonds
Expect not men exposed, to be so perfect.
Tell me, for lately thou hast not confess'd,
How throbs thy heart? Do holy thoughts prevail?
Art thou at peace within, or does thy youth
Regret its vow, and yield to vain repinings?
_Ans._ I am, most holy father, as Heav'n made me--
Content, and not content, as in their turns
The good or evil thoughts will be ascendant.
When that the evil thoughts the mastery gain,
I try to curb them. Man can do no more.
_Sup._ At thy rebelling age, 'tis doing much.
Now put my question to thy inmost soul
And answer me:--could'st thou rejoin the world
And all its pleasures, now so bright in fancy
To youth's all ardent mind, tell me sincerely,
Would'st thou reject them?
_Ans._ Why call in question that which ne'er can be?
My vows are ta'en, therefore no choice is mine.
_Sup._ Most things are possible to mother church,
As would this be--a dispensation sought
Might be obtain'd.
_Ans._ (_at first with joy in his countenance, then assuming a
mournful expression_). It would not be a kindness. Who, my father,
In this wide glorious world is kindred to Anselmo?
I will confess, I sometimes have indulged
Half dreaming thoughts (O say not they are sinful!)
Of the sweet hours of those, who, lapp'd in bliss,
See brothers, sisters, offspring, clust'ring round,
Loving and loved; then have I wept to think
That I have none, and sadly felt convinced
'Tis for my happiness that I am here.
_Sup._ True, my Anselmo, 'tis a dreary world,
And still more dreary when we've nought to cling to,
But say, if thou hadst found a doting mother,
One that was nobly born and rich, who hail'd
In thee the foundling heir to large estates,
What then?
_Ans._ (_starts, and after a pause_).
I cannot say--my thoughts ne'er stray'd so far.
Father, you oft the dangers have set forth
Of dreaming fancies which may lead astray;
Yet do you try to tempt me, by supposing that
Which shakes my firmness, yet can never be.
_Sup._ We are but mortal. I did wish to know
Thy secret thoughts, and thou withhold'st them still.
At night come to me, then shalt thou confess,
For I would learn the workings of thy soul.
_Ans._ First let me strive to calm my troubled mind:
I will confess to-morrow.
_Sup._ Then, be it so. [_Exit Superior._
_Ans._ 'Tis strange. He ne'er before essay'd me thus.
A doting mother, wealthy too, and noble!
O! if 'twere true, and I could gain my freedom!
But these are very dreamings. Hold, my brain!
For he has conjured up a vision wild,
And beautiful as wild! Wealth, ancestry,
A mother's love! But what are these to thee,
Thou monk Anselmo? go--go and hang thy head
Within the cowl, droop'd humbly on thy breast--
For know, thou art a monk, and vow'd to Heav'n!
Oh parents stern! to fling me thus on fate!
But vows more stern that thus debar me from
The common rights of man! Why were we made
With passions strong, that even Nature laughs
When we would fain control them? Lone to live
And die are rebel acts, to Heav'n unpleasing.
Say I were humbly born of peasant race,
I should have glided on the silent brook;
Or highly bred and nobly father'd,
Dash'd proudly like the rapid flowing river.
But in these confines against Nature pent,
I must remain a stagnant torpid lake;
Or else marking my wild course with ruin,
Till my force is spent and all is over,
Burst forth a mad, ungovernable torrent.
_Enter Jacobo._
_Jac._ What Anselmo! not outside the convent gates, and service over
this half hour! By St Dominic, it is as I expected--thou hast fallen in
with the Superior, and hast been ordered home with penance.
_Ans._ Not so, Jacobo. The Superior and I roll on in different orbits.
Saturn and Venus are as like to jostle as we upon our travels.
_Jac._ Well, I've an idea that there's something wrong, and my news will
not be very agreeable to you: the key is, in future, to be delivered to
the Superior at nine o'clock, and, if required, it must be sent for.
_Ans._ Indeed! then he must suspect that we are not so regular. Still, I
must out to-night, Jacobo--I must indeed!
_Jac._ Impossible!
_Ans._ (_giving him money_). I must, Jacobo. Here's for thy wine, much
watching needs it.
_Jac._ The Superior calls me, brother; I only wish there was brotherhood
in our drinking. The noble juice which mantles in his cup would cheer me
in my vigils.
_Ans._ And that will purchase it. I must be out to-night. Let the
Superior have the key, but do not lock the door. You understand, Jacobo?
_Jac._ I do; but there's danger in it. Holy Virgin! the Superior comes
this way. Anselmo, you had better to your cell.
_Ans._ I detest it. Now must I play the hypocrite.
_Enter Superior followed by Jacobo._
_Sup._ (_observing Anselmo_). Thou here, my son! I thought thee at thy
cell.
_Ans._ I wish'd to seek it; but till vesper chimes
I must employ in teaching melody;
But that the coffers of our holy church
Receive the thrift, my mind were ill at ease
Thus mixing with the world; for holy vigils
Are better suited to my early years.
(_Kneeling._) O bless, my father, my untoward youth
And teach my thoughts to find the path to Heav'n.
_Sup._ (_bending over Anselmo_). Bless thee, my child, may thy young heart
Turn now to Heav'n, as Samuel's did of old!
May holy thoughts pervade thy youthful mind!
May holy dreams enrich thy peaceful sleep!
May heavenly choristers descend in visions,
And point thee out the joys awaiting those
Who dedicate on earth their lives to Heav'n.
[_Exit Superior, after blessing Anselmo.--Anselmo, still kneeling,
watches the departure of the Superior._
_Ans._ (_rising._) He's safe.
_Jac._ Hah, hah! do you edify?
_Ans._ Peace, peace, Jacobo! 'Tis time that I were gone.
_Jac._ You will return before the door is lock'd?
_Ans._ Because you will not lock it. I shall be home at midnight: it
must be so, Jacobo. If not, expect no further gifts from me; and what is
more, a full confession of the many times you have been bribed to
secrecy. [_Exit Anselmo._
_Jac._ Why, what a penance if this should be discovered! They know how
much I love my wine, and always punish me with water. I should have to
drink the Guadalquiver dry before the Superior would give me absolution.
Well, we all have our besetting sin; and a pot of good wine will put my
soul in more jeopardy than all the temptations that the world contains.
I suppose I must forget to lock the door. I'll only bolt it; that will
satisfy my conscience as a porter. [_Exit Jacobo._
_Scene II._
_Street before Don Gaspar's lodgings.--Enter Antonio._
_Ant._ I wonder where my master is! I expected him sooner. He may be in
his chamber, but 'tis impossible to say. Why, here comes Beppa, and that
knave Garcias with her. I've often thought they are too intimate; I will
retire and watch them.
_Enter Beppa, followed by Garcias.--Antonio advances behind._
_Bep._ But, Garcias, is this true?
_Gar._ It is, upon my faith! Sancho revealed it in his cups. Don Perez,
afraid to encounter with Don Gaspar, has hired bravos to dispatch him.
_Bep._ I rejoice at it. A wretch like him deserves no better fate, and
my poor mistress will be well revenged. Indeed, his servant is no
better.
_Gar._ What! your dear husband?
_Bep._ My scoundrel husband! Unhappy day I married him! It was but
yesterday that I found him kissing another.
_Gar._ Indeed!--You can revenge yourself.
_Bep._ I almost wish I could.
_Gar._ (_kissing her hand_). Then kiss again.
_Bep._ Pshaw! that's but poor revenge.
_Gar._ I'll join the bravos, and strike him down, if you will marry me.
_Bep._ Not so, good sir: it were indeed to make a better choice, to take
a murderer in second wedlock. I ask but to be free; and leave the time
to Heaven.
_Gar._ Then fare ye well. [_Exit Garcias._
_Ant._ A very pretty proposal, and a very pretty plot have I discovered!
yet will I conceal my knowledge. (_Shows himself._) Good day, again, my
Beppa! Who is that friend of yours? (_smacking lips in imitation of
kissing_).
_Bep._ (_after a pause_). Well, good husband, how could I help it?
_Ant._ How could you help it!
_Bep._ My mistress ordered me.
_Ant._ Oh, I understand!
_Bep._ Yes, only a little by-play, you know.
_Ant._ Or else you must quit your service. Pray who is the gentleman to
whom your mistress is making love?
_Bep._ That's a secret.
_Ant._ Of course she gave you ten moidores for me.
_Bep._ Really I don't remember.
_Ant._ Indeed! why, thou--thou--
_Bep._ Good morning. I must to my mistress. Adieu, Antonio. [_Exit
Beppa._
_Ant._ Well; I like thee better than usual. Thou hast refused him for
me, and would not have him murder me; that's something in a wife
now-a-days. I have obtained a key which fits my master's door; and now I
feel assured he'll not come back, I'll find his secret out. I must be
quick. Suppose he should be there. Impossible! he would have summoned
me. At all events I'll risk it. [_Exit Antonio._
_Scene III._
_Interior of Don Gaspar's room.--Enter Antonio._
_Ant._ Pugh! what a heat I'm in! I really tremble with delight or
fear--I can't tell which. If he should come, what shall I say? Oh, the
news I gained from Beppa. That will do. (_Looking round._) Well, I see
nothing after all. Why should he keep his chamber locked? But, then,
there's that chest; let me try--locked fast;--nothing to be gained from
that. Still, he comes in by some other way than the door, that's clear;
we must have a search for a trap door. (_He looks round, and then under
the bed. While he is on his knees, feeling the boards, Don Gaspar enters
by the secret sliding panel, and observing him, draws his sword, and, as
Antonio rises, he points it to his breast._)
_Gasp._ Villain! how cam'st thou hither?
_Ant._ (_much alarmed_). Sir, sir, I came--came (_recovers himself_)--I
came to save your life, unless it please you to take mine before I can
speak to you.
_Gasp._ To save my life!
_Ant._ Yes, sir; I knew not where to find you; I thought you might be
here, and so I forced the lock with a rusty key. I meant to say, that I
knew you had another way out from your chamber, and I have been looking
for it, that I might hasten to you, to save your life.
_Gasp._ Well, sirrah, first prove to me that you _can_ save my life, and
then, perhaps, I may overlook this impertinent intrusion.
_Ant._ Sir, I overheard a conversation between the valet of Don Felix
and a woman, in which they stated that bravos were hired by Don Perez to
waylay and murder you, Don Perez not caring to meet you with his sword.
This night they wait for you.
_Gasp._ Is Don Perez then so basely treacherous?
_Ant._ Indeed he is, sir! You must not out to-night.
_Gasp._ I must, and fear them not. For this I overlook your prying--nay,
more, I will in confidence explain the secret of this chamber; but, mark
you! keep it, or I shall soil my rapier with thy knavish blood. This
private entrance hath much served me (_showing the sliding panel_).
_Ant._ May I be so bold as to ask how?
_Gasp._ It oft has saved my life. It is about a year since, and about
three months before you entered my service, that I gained the love of
one named Julia; she was too fond, and urged me to marry her, which I
refused. Her brothers, who were at home at the time, wrested from her
the cause of those tears which she could not control. I met them both,
and with ease disarmed them; I did not wish to slay them, I had already
done them injury. These officers, who were more annoyed by my conquest
than even their sister's shame, hired bravos, as Perez now has done, who
sought to murder me. Each night that I went home I found them near my
door: twice I fought an entrance to my own house; a friend, who was
aware of the inveteracy of those who toiled to procure my assassination,
hired me this chamber. For months they watched the door with
disappointment, until the brothers being recalled to join their troops
in Murcia, the bravos ceased their persecutions.
_Ant._ How did you escape them in the city, senor?
_Gasp._ In daylight I was safe; at night I wore the garb of a holy monk,
that lies upon that chair. You'll keep my secret?
_Ant._ Yes, sir, when I know it.
_Gasp._ Have I not told it you?
_Ant._ You have told me that at times you are a monk, and at times a
cavalier. Which is the real character, him of the rosary, or him of the
rapier?
_Gasp._ (_aside_). The knave is deep. (_Aloud._) I am a monk but when it
suits me.
_Ant._ But, sir, is there not danger in thus assuming a holy character,
if it were known--the Inquisition?
_Gasp._ I grant it: but we do many things which, if known, would subject
us to something unpleasant. I serve two mistresses; but, should I marry
them both----
_Ant._ (_starting back_). Then would you to the galleys, at east.