A vile impostor!--He but states the truth,
Yet will I crush him, that he hath stumbled
On that truth. Yes! of no parentage!--Why--
Why is this constant pining of the heart,
As if it felt itself defrauded still
Of rights inherent? If I'm basely born
Why do I spurn the common herd of men?
The eaglet that regains its liberty,
Soars to the sun at once--it is its nature:
While meaner birds would hop from spray to spray.
Oh! would I had ne'er been born.--
To-morrow I intend to leave for ever
Her whom I love--the sacred walls I hate,
In some far distant land to die unheeded.
My Isidora has desired my presence,
And strange, admits me in the open day.
Within an hour of this she will receive me,
Then must I falter out my last adieu.
This evening also I must meet Don Felix.--
_Re-enter Antonio._
So soon return'd! Hast thou then seen him?
_Ant._ I have, sir; I met him as I gained the door, and your message was
duly delivered. He answered, that _he_ would not fail, and that he
trusted his _sword_ would not fail either.
_Gasp._ Should his sword fail, I must not return for many days; should
it not _fail_, I return no more.
But having balanced thus my brief account
Of love and hate, I'll quit fair Spain for ever. [_Exit._
_Ant._ (_taking out a purse_). This purse is a heavy one, but not so
heavy as the one I received from Don Felix. I hardly dared deliver the
message, but there's seldom profit without danger. I will say this for
my master, that he knows the salve for every wound. Let me see--one
purse for my intelligence, or rather for keeping my master's secret, and
another from Don Felix for betraying it--and a third for a blow. Ah!
here comes Beppa. (_Puts up purse hastily._)
_Enter Beppa._
_Bep._ What's that you've put into your pocket?
_Ant._ Only an empty purse.
_Bep._ It appeared to me well filled.
_Ant._ Appearances are very deceitful. How is your mistress?
_Bep._ Alas! she has watched all night--now the tears pouring down her
cheeks, whilst heavy sobs hindered all utterance, and then would she
turn to rage, and pace her chamber with frantic gestures. Oh! what a
wretch is this Don Gaspar!
_Ant._ He fights this evening.
_Bep._ With whom?
_Ant._ Don Felix--a better match for him than Perez.
_Bep._ They say the former's skilled in fence. Heaven grant his sword
may prove the master! Where do they meet?
_Ant._ Nay, that's a secret.
_Bep._ Tell me, Antonio. Should Don Felix not prevail, a woman's
vengeance yet may reach Don Gaspar. Antonio, do tell me where they meet.
_Ant._ It is a secret.
_Bep._ But I must know. There is nothing I would not give to win this
secret from you. Antonio, you must tell me.
_Ant._ That I cannot, I made a promise. (_Puts his hand to his heart._)
_Bep._ (_scornfully._) You made a promise. I know your promises too
well. What will you sell this secret for?
_Ant._ My purse of ten moidores!
_Bep._ Then you shall have it. But will you tell it truly?
_Ant._ Honour! when I have the money.
_Bep._ (_Takes out purse and throws it at him._) Then, there it is. I
believe that you will keep a roguish contract, although no other.
_Ant._ You're right. They meet at sunset under the copse of trees where
Perez fell.
_Bep._ The copse of trees where Perez fell! Does he not fear his ghost?
No, he fears nothing. Breaking the hearts of women, and piercing those
of men, is all the same to this fell Gaspar. Well, I have bought your
secret, and will make good use of it.
_Ant._ Had you not known that it was a marketable commodity, you never
had purchased it. You'll turn a penny, never fear. I must unto my
master's lodgings. [_Exit._
_Bep._ Yes, to follow thy old trade of pilfering. I must unto my lady,
and bear her this intelligence. Thus will I rouse the woman in her, and
urge her to revenge. [_Exit._
_Scene IV._
_A Room in the Guzman Palace._
_Enter Nina, ushering in Don Gaspar._
Stay here, senor. You'll not be long alone. [_Exit Nina._
_Gasp._ Thus am I hurried, by resistless love,
To follow that I never can obtain.
I love thee, Isidora, dote upon thee,
There's not a boiling drop within these veins
I'd not pour out, could it but make thee happy.
And yet I 'gainst my better reason plunge,
Dragging thee with me deep into perdition.
A monk, and marry! 'Tis impossible!
Each time I quit her, then do I resolve
Never to see her more; yet one hour's absence
Kills my resolution, and each moment
Seems an eternity, till in her presence
Vows I repeat, that vows alone make false.
'Tis not in human nature to withstand
Against such strong temptation,--
To fold her in my arms--inhale her breath,
Kiss tears away, neither of grief nor joy,
But from both fountains equally o'erflowing--
Oh! 'tis a bliss indeed, to gain which
Angels might leave their bright cerulean home,
And barter their eternal heaven of joy.
_Enter Donna Inez. Gaspar advances quickly to her, thinking it is
Isidora, but finding his mistake stops abruptly, and bows to Donna
Inez._
_Inez._ Don Gaspar--for 'tis so I hear you're styled--
Hither you came in ardent expectation
Of meeting one more suited to your age,
My beauteous niece, the Donna Isidora.
Now would I have some conference with one
Who by insidious means hath gain'd her heart,
Yet shrouds himself in mystery: she has placed
Her fortunes in my hands--she resigns her all,
To me confiding to unlock your secret.
When once you're manifest and fully known,
A task which must precede, senor, it will decide
Whether I join your hands and bless your union,
Or curse the fatal day she first beheld you!
_Gasp._ Madam, I thank you much, I'll speak directly.
But I'm so overcome with wretchedness,
Your kindness must bear with me.
You ask me who I am--a question fair,
As fairly answer'd now--I cannot tell.
_Inez._ Is it you know not, or you will not tell?
_Gasp._ I do not know--and therefore cannot tell--
Though from this hour I date my misery,
I am resign'd. You may dismiss me
With stern remonstrance at my daring love--
Yet it is better. I am of those forsaken--
Who have no parents--owing to the state
A nurture most unkind--a foundling child.
_Inez._ A foundling child? (_Aside._) His voice--his presence--
And those words make my heart leap in agony.
_Gasp._ Yes, and must live to curse the hearts of those
Unnatural parents, who could thus renounce me.
Love conquer'd shame, and brought me into being,
But in her turn shame triumph'd over love,
And I was left to destiny.--
The bloody tigress parts not with her young:--
Her cruel nature, never known to pity,
Is by maternal feeling changed to tenderness.
The eyes which fiercely gleam on all creation,
Beam softly, as she views her snarling cubs.
But cruel man, unruly passion sated,
Leaves to neglect the offspring of his guilt.
I have no more to say. Dismiss me now,
And when, henceforth, you rail at my presumption,
Consider the perfection that has caused it.
I oft have made the healthy resolution
To quit for ever her whom I adore.
Take my farewell to her--your lovely niece,
Although I'm friendless, she will pity me.
_Inez._ (_aside_). How strange it is
I feel not anger'd! Strange indeed, there is a pulse
Which makes me lean to his presumptuous love.
[_Gaspar is going._
(_Aloud._) Yet stay awhile, for I would know your age?
_Gasp._ 'Twas at nine years I left the hospital,
And now have been for ten a wanderer.
_Inez._ (_aside_). The age exact. O Heav'n! let not these hopes
For ever springing, be for ever wither'd!
(_Aloud._) Youth, have you any mark, should you be sought,
Might lend a clue to your discovery?
_Gasp._ I have; they who deserted me, if ever
Their intention to reclaim my person,
May safely challenge me among ten thousand.
(_Baring his wrist._) 'Tis here--a ruby band upon my wrist.
[_Inez goes towards him, catches his hand, and gazes
on the wrist intently without speaking._
What can this mean? oh, speak, dear lady, speak!
_Inez._ (_throwing herself into his arms_). My child, my child!
_Gasp._ I, I your child! almighty Heaven, I thank thee!
My heart is bursting in its wild emotion,
Till all be understood. Oh, speak again!
_Inez._ Thou art my son--he whom I've mourn'd so long,
So long have sought. Features thou hast, my boy,
Which in the memory of all save her,
Who fondly loved, long, long have pass'd away.
_Gasp._ Who was my father?
_Inez._ One of most ancient name, Don Felipo.
_Gasp._ Then I am noble?
_Inez._ And by each descent.
_Gasp._ Pardon me, lady, if I seem more eager
To know this fact, than render unto you
My love and duty.--From the world's scorn
I've suffer'd much; and my unbending pride
Would rather that my birth remain'd in doubt,
Than find a parentage which was obscure.
Now all is perfect, and to you I tender
(_Kneeling_) My truth and love, still in their infancy,
And therefore may they seem to you but feeble.
(_Rises._) Yet blame me not: this sudden change of state
Hath left me so bewilder'd I scarce know
Myself, or what I feel; like to the eyes
Of one long plunged in gloom, on whom the sun,
At length admitted, pours at once a flood
Of glorious light--so are my senses dazzled.
_Inez._ And I am faint with gratitude and love.
Come in with me. Then shall you learn
The cruel cause that cast you out a foundling,
And I, the bounteous, blessed providence,
That led you to my arms. [_Exeunt._
_Act V. Scene I._
_A chamber in the Guzman Palace._
_Enter Donna Inez, meeting Superior._
_Sup._ Save thee, good lady! I have stolen an hour
From holy prayer, for which may I be pardon'd,
To weigh the merits of a mother's virtue
Against the errors of an impious son;
To put in counterpoise the deep disgrace,
The insult offer'd to our brotherhood,
With the atonement you would make to Heav'n.
_Inez._ And you are merciful!
_Sup._ Lady, there is nought
Which Heav'n detests so much as sacrilege;
'Tis the most damn'd of all the damning sins.
The fire of hell can purge away all crimes,
Howe'er atrocious, save this deed of death,
To life eternal, if not here atoned for
By a surrender of all earthly goods.
_Inez._ All, father!
_Sup._ All!
_Inez._ Father, this cannot be.
Surely there is
In our extensive wealth enough for both--
To satisfy the holy church, yet leave
Withal 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, and I will seek that hell
Which lies beneath. The deed be on thy head.
_Isid._ Oh! horrible, Anselmo--horrible!
_Ans._ Question me, Isidora. Where's the sin
That, in thine eyes, demands such heavy penance?
_Isid._ The violated vow----
_Ans._ Was made long ere I
Knew its power or meaning, and was forced
By those who thrust it on me in deceit;
For well they knew it robb'd me of my birthright.
'Twas sin to make that vow; and were it not
God's 'gerent here on earth hath power more ample
To unloose, than monks to bind--thou'rt answer'd.
_Isid._ Answer'd, but not content--if false to vows
More sacred far;--yet surely not more sacred,--
For what should be more sacred than the vows
Which link the happiness of two in one
Till death dissolves the union?--If false
To Heav'n, Anselmo----
_Ans._ Who made me false, then?
_Isid._ Touch not that chord--treat me not as woman,
Easy to flattery, boastful of her charms:
You know me not, Anselmo; but till late
I scarcely knew myself.
Talk not to me of Heaven's vicegerent:
Can man absolve from compact made with God?
_Ans._ Isidora, it is now my duty
T' assume the monitor, and point out to thee
How e'en the purest of us, in our frailty,
May haply slide. A maiden in her pride,
But scarce in womanhood, dare to dispute
The tenets of our faith, strikes at the head
Of our religion; and what, for ages,
Holy men have reverenced and believed,
Hath been by her denounced as not her creed.
_Isid._ 'Tis true--'tis true. The sin of unbelief,
'Gainst which I've rail'd, I fall into myself,
Swayed by my foolish pride. (_Turns to Anselmo._) But still, as yet
Thou'rt bound, Anselmo--e'en this discourse,
Methinks, is sacrilege.
_Ans._ Nay, Isidora,
Does not the father, he whose spiritual sway
I yet acknowledge, grant me this sweet bliss?
And is the tender sanction of that saint,
Our more than mother, nothing? As monk,--
And now I scarce am one,--it would seem
I am an object of your utter hate.
_Isid._ Not hate, Anselmo--'tis a bitter word;
Say rather fear--of what belongs to Heav'n.
Was there no crime, Anselmo, when thou stol'st,
Like a disguised thief, this trusting heart?
What sophistry can'st thou put forth to show
Thou should'st retain thy base, dishonest theft?
_Ans._ Not words, but deeds, my Isidora,
Shall prove me worthy of the stolen treasure:
The first are due to God. This very night
With penance strict, I'll cleanse my tainted soul;
Deep in contrition, on my knees I'll wait
My dispensation from the sovereign pontiff;
Then----
_Isid._ And then--dear, dear Anselmo.
_Ans._ And then
Shall sneering cavalier or flaunting dame
Say, when a Guzman shall a Guzman wed,
The monk parades it boldly, and the bride
Hath cull'd the cloister for her wedded lord?
No, no; they never shall, my Isidora.
Then will I clad me in the warrior's steel:
Thou shalt receive me from the crimson'd field,
A laurel'd hero, or shall mourn me slain;
I will not steal to thee from cloister'd sloth,
But at thy portal light from battle steed.
Spain hath around and that within, shall make
The monk--a hero. Dost thou not think
The plumed helm will better fit this head,
Than the dull friar's cowl? My Isidora,
Now for a space--a brief one, fare thee well!
Once more I'll meet thee, and on bended knee,
As soldier should, I'll claim from my betroth'd
Some token that shall cheer me in the fight.
I must be worthy of you.
_Isid._ Thou art so. (_Embrace._)
Anselmo, fare thee well! may Heav'n bless thee! [_Exit._
_Ans._ All powerful virtue, unto thy shrine
I bow. Sweet maid, whose great perfection
Hath as a glass display'd to me my crimes;
Oh may'st thou ever keep me in the path
Where peace and happiness attend my steps!
Now must I to the monast'ry repair,
There to remain until I'm freed;--but then,
To-night it is I meet the brave Don Felix:
I had forgotten it. Most willingly
Would I avoid this foolish rash dispute;
And yet I must not. When I was friendless,
Reckless of life,--a life not worth preserving,--
I could have pass'd whole days in mortal strife. [_Exit._
_Scene III._
_A Part of Garden of Serafina's House._
_Enter Antonio._
_Ant._ This friar's gown, which I have borrowed from my master, has
proved most valuable. I never could have reached this spot, if I had not
been thus disguised. (_Opens his gown, and shows his face and clothes
smeared with blood._) Here's blood enough. Noble, for all I know. I
begged it from the barber. Thank Heaven, 'tis not mine own. Sancho will
never know me. I see them coming in the distance. (_Takes off the gown,
and puts it behind the trees, and then lies down._) Now for self-murder.
Lopez is no more.
_Enter Sancho and Nina._
_San._ 'Tis here that we fought, and hereabouts should be the body.
_Nina._ (_fearfully pointing to the body._) What's that? Sancho, it
is--it is my husband! (_Bursts into tears._)
_San._ Why do you grieve? Did you not wish him dead?
_Nina._ Alas! we often wish what we do not really want, prompted by the
anger of the moment. What, in our selfish views, seems nothing at the
time, becomes most horrible in the reality. Alas, poor Lopez! (_Weeps._)
_San._ Why, Nina, did he not basely leave you? Forgot his vow to love
and cherish you? Holy Saint Petronila! why, then, do you love and
cherish him? Come, dry your eyes, Nina; he's not worth a tear. (_Kisses
her hand._)