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 unbuild
Our Roman church—In her devotion's real.
Our beads, our hymns, our saints, amuse her not:
Nay, not confession, not repeating o'er
Her darling sins, has any charms for her.
I have mark'd her praying: not one wand'ring thought
Seems to steal meaning from her words.—She prays
Because she feels, and feels, because a sinner.
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 unbuild
Our Roman church—In her devotion's real.
Our beads, our hymns, our saints, amuse her not:
Nay, not confession, not repeating o'er
Her darling sins, has any charms for her.
I have mark'd her praying: not one wand'ring thought
Seems to steal meaning from her words.—She prays
Because 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 flew
Th' adventurous count.
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 flew
Th' adventurous count.
BENEDICT.
'Twas so; and yet, my brother,
My mind has more than once imputed blood
To this incessant mourner. Beatrice,
The damsel for whose sake she holds in exile
Her only son, has never, since the night
Of his incontinence, been seen or heard of.
'Twas so; and yet, my brother,
My mind has more than once imputed blood
To this incessant mourner. Beatrice,
The damsel for whose sake she holds in exile
Her only son, has never, since the night
Of his incontinence, been seen or heard of.
MARTIN.
'Tis clear, 'tis clear; nor will her prudent tongue
Accuse its owner.
'Tis clear, 'tis clear; nor will her prudent tongue
Accuse 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 eyes
Her handkerchief, to palliate her disorder.
There the wound rankles not.—I fix'd on love,
The failure of the sex, and aptest cause
Of each attendant crime—
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 eyes
Her handkerchief, to palliate her disorder.
There the wound rankles not.—I fix'd on love,
The failure of the sex, and aptest cause
Of each attendant crime—
MARTIN.
Ay, brother, there
We master all their craft. Touch but that string—
Ay, brother, there
We 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 love
Did ne'er anticipate her choice. The count,
Her husband, so ador'd and so lamented,
Won not her fancy, till the nuptial rites
Had with the sting of pleasure taught her passion.
This, with such modest truth, and that truth heighten'd
By conscious sense, that holds deceit a weakness,
She utter'd, I would pawn my order's credit
On her veracity.
Still, brother, do you err. She own'd to me,
That, tho' of nature warm, the passion love
Did ne'er anticipate her choice. The count,
Her husband, so ador'd and so lamented,
Won not her fancy, till the nuptial rites
Had with the sting of pleasure taught her passion.
This, with such modest truth, and that truth heighten'd
By conscious sense, that holds deceit a weakness,
She utter'd, I would pawn my order's credit
On her veracity.
MARTIN.
Then whither turn
To worm her secret out?
Then whither turn
To 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.
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.
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 soul
With incantations.
She will take none:
Offer'd, she scoffs it; and withheld, demands not.
Nay, vows she will not load her sinking soul
With incantations.
MARTIN.
This is heresy;
Rank heresy; and holy church should note it.
This is heresy;
Rank heresy; and holy church should note it.
BENEDICT.
Be patient, brother—Tho' of adamant
Her reason, charity dissolves that rock,
—And surely we have tasted of the stream.
Nay, one unguarded moment may disclose
This mystic tale—then, brother, what a harvest,
When masters of her bosom-guilt!—Age too
May numb her faculties.—Or soon, or late,
A praying woman must become our spoil.
Be patient, brother—Tho' of adamant
Her reason, charity dissolves that rock,
—And surely we have tasted of the stream.
Nay, one unguarded moment may disclose
This mystic tale—then, brother, what a harvest,
When masters of her bosom-guilt!—Age too
May numb her faculties.—Or soon, or late,
A praying woman must become our spoil.
MARTIN.
Her zeal may falter.
Her zeal may falter.
BENEDICT.
Not in solitude.
I nurse her in new horrors; form her tenants
To 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 night
Is no logician. I have known her call
For 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 me
At least an honest bigot; nor remember
I tried to practice on her fears, and foil'd,
Give o'er my purpose.
Not in solitude.
I nurse her in new horrors; form her tenants
To 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 night
Is no logician. I have known her call
For 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 me
At least an honest bigot; nor remember
I tried to practice on her fears, and foil'd,
Give o'er my purpose.
MARTIN.
This is masterly.
This is masterly.
BENEDICT.
Poor mastery! when I am more in awe
Of my own penitent, than she of me.
My genius is command; art, but a tool
My 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].
Poor mastery! when I am more in awe
Of my own penitent, than she of me.
My genius is command; art, but a tool
My 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.
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 woman
Can 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 love
Gave blindly to her will. Her alms, her charities,
Usurp'd from her own wants, she sets apart
A scanty portion only for her ward,
Young Adeliza.
Never, while Edmund lives. This steady woman
Can 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 love
Gave blindly to her will. Her alms, her charities,
Usurp'd from her own wants, she sets apart
A scanty portion only for her ward,
Young Adeliza.
MARTIN.
Say her son were dead,
And Adeliza veil'd—
Say her son were dead,
And Adeliza veil'd—
BENEDICT.
I press the latter
With fruitless ardour. Often as I urge it,
She pleads the maiden's flushing cheek, and nature,
That speaks in characters of glowing rose
Its 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 me
Ask my own breast, if cowls and scapularies
Are charms all powerful to subdue desire?
I press the latter
With fruitless ardour. Often as I urge it,
She pleads the maiden's flushing cheek, and nature,
That speaks in characters of glowing rose
Its 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 me
Ask my own breast, if cowls and scapularies
Are charms all powerful to subdue desire?
MARTIN.
'Twere wiser school the maiden: lead the train
Of young ideas to a fancied object.
A mental spouse may fill her hov'ring thoughts,
And bar their fixing on some earthly lover.
'Twere wiser school the maiden: lead the train
Of 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 death
Were hopes more solid—
This is already done—but Edmund's death
Were hopes more solid—
MARTIN.
First report him dead,
His letters intercepted—
First report him dead,
His letters intercepted—
BENEDICT.
Greatly thought!
Thou true son of the church!—and lo! where comes
Our patroness—leave me; I will not lose
An instant. I will sound her inmost soul,
And mould it to the moment of projection.
[Exit Martin.
[Benedict retires within the castle.
Greatly thought!
Thou true son of the church!—and lo! where comes
Our patroness—leave me; I will not lose
An 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.