The Mysterious Mother/Act 1 Scene 5
SCENE V.
BENEDICT, COUNTESS.
BENEDICT.
I sought you, lady.
I sought you, lady.
COUNTESS.
Happily I'm found.
Who needs the widow's mite?
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 seem
A craving or immodest almoner.
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 seem
A craving or immodest almoner.
COUNTESS.
No more of this, good father. I suspect not
One 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?
No more of this, good father. I suspect not
One 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 seal
Your pardon—but you scorn it. In your pride
Consists your danger. Your's are Pagan virtues:
As such I praise them—but as such, condemn them.
The church could seal
Your pardon—but you scorn it. In your pride
Consists your danger. Your's are Pagan virtues:
As such I praise them—but as such, condemn them.
COUNTESS.
Father, my crimes are Pagan; my belief
Too 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 eyes
Shall sink to woes, endless, unutterable,
For having fool'd me into that presumption.
Father, my crimes are Pagan; my belief
Too 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 eyes
Shall sink to woes, endless, unutterable,
For having fool'd me into that presumption.
BENEDICT.
Is he to blame, trusting to what he grants?
Is he to blame, trusting to what he grants?
COUNTESS.
Am I to blame, not trusting what he grants?
Am I to blame, not trusting what he grants?
BENEDICT.
Yet faith—
Yet faith—
COUNTESS.
I have it not—Why shakes my soul
With nightly terrors? Courage such as mine
Would start at nought but guilt. 'Tis from within
I tremble. Death would be felicity,
Were there no retrospect. What joys have I
What pleasure softens, or what friendship sooths
My aching bosom?—I have lost my husband:
My own decree has banish'd my own son.
I have it not—Why shakes my soul
With nightly terrors? Courage such as mine
Would start at nought but guilt. 'Tis from within
I tremble. Death would be felicity,
Were there no retrospect. What joys have I
What pleasure softens, or what friendship sooths
My 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.
Last night I dreamt your son was with the blessed.
COUNTESS.
Would heav'n he were!
Would heav'n he were!
BENEDICT.
Do you then wish his death?
Do you then wish his death?
COUNTESS.
Should I not wish him blest?
Should I not wish him blest?
BENEDICT.
Belike he is:
I never knew my Friday's dreams erroneous.
Belike he is:
I never knew my Friday's dreams erroneous.
COUNTESS.
Nor I knew superstition in the right.
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 beseems
My holy function to give countenance,
By lending ear, to such pernicious tenets.
The judgments hanging o'er your destin'd head
May reach ev'n me—I see it! I am wrapt
Beyond my bearing! my prophetic soul
Views the red falchion of eternal justice
Cut off your sentenc'd race—your son is dead!
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 beseems
My holy function to give countenance,
By lending ear, to such pernicious tenets.
The judgments hanging o'er your destin'd head
May reach ev'n me—I see it! I am wrapt
Beyond my bearing! my prophetic soul
Views the red falchion of eternal justice
Cut off your sentenc'd race—your son is dead!
COUNTESS.
Father, we no prophetic dæmon bear
Within our breast, but conscience. That has spoken
Words more tremendous than this acted zeal,
This poetry of fond enthusiasm
Can conjure up. It is the still small voice
That 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.
Father, we no prophetic dæmon bear
Within our breast, but conscience. That has spoken
Words more tremendous than this acted zeal,
This poetry of fond enthusiasm
Can conjure up. It is the still small voice
That 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 tender
Your peace of mind. Dismiss your worthless servant:
His pray'rs shall still be yours.
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 tender
Your 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 meant
No insult on your holy character.
Forgive me, father:
Discretion does not guide my words. I meant
No insult on your holy character.
BENEDICT.
No, lady; chuse some other monitor,
Whose virtues may command your estimation.
Your useless beadsman shall behold with joy
A worthier man mediate your peace with heav'n.
No, lady; chuse some other monitor,
Whose virtues may command your estimation.
Your useless beadsman shall behold with joy
A worthier man mediate your peace with heav'n.
COUNTESS.
Alas! till reconcil'd with my own breast
What peace is there for me!
Alas! till reconcil'd with my own breast
What peace is there for me!
BENEDICT.
In th' neighb'ring district
There lives a holy man, whose sanctity
Is mark'd with wond'rous gifts. Grace smiles upon him;
Conversion tracks his footsteps: miracles
Spring from his touch; his sacred casuistry
Pours balm into despair. Consult with him.
Unfold th' impenetrable mystery,
That sets your soul and you at endless discord.
In th' neighb'ring district
There lives a holy man, whose sanctity
Is mark'd with wond'rous gifts. Grace smiles upon him;
Conversion tracks his footsteps: miracles
Spring from his touch; his sacred casuistry
Pours 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 villain
The villain that it found him? Must I learn
That minutes stamp'd with crimes are past recall?
That joys are momentary; and remorse
Eternal? Shall he teach me charms and spells,
To make my sense believe against my sense?
Shall I think practices and penances
Will, if he say so, give the health of virtue
To gnawing self-reproach?—I know they cannot.
Nor could one risen from the dead proclaim
This truth in deeper sounds to my conviction.
We want no preacher to distinguish vice
From virtue. At our birth the god reveal'd
All conscience needs to know. No codicil
To duty's rubric here and there was plac'd
In some saint's casual custody. Weak minds
Want their soul's fortune told by oracles
And 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.
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 villain
The villain that it found him? Must I learn
That minutes stamp'd with crimes are past recall?
That joys are momentary; and remorse
Eternal? Shall he teach me charms and spells,
To make my sense believe against my sense?
Shall I think practices and penances
Will, if he say so, give the health of virtue
To gnawing self-reproach?—I know they cannot.
Nor could one risen from the dead proclaim
This truth in deeper sounds to my conviction.
We want no preacher to distinguish vice
From virtue. At our birth the god reveal'd
All conscience needs to know. No codicil
To duty's rubric here and there was plac'd
In some saint's casual custody. Weak minds
Want their soul's fortune told by oracles
And 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.