The Mysterious Mother/Act 2 Scene 1
ACT the SECOND.
The SCENE continues.
Count EDMUND, FLORIAN.
EDMUND.
Doubt not, my friend; Time's pencil, hardships, war,
Some taste of pleasure too, have chas'd the bloom
Of ruddy comeliness, and stamp'd this face
With harsher lineaments, that well may mock
The prying of a mother's eye.—A mother,
Thro' whose firm nerves tumultuous instinct's flood
Ne'er gush'd with eager eloquence, to tell her,
This is your son! your heart's own voice proclaims him.
Doubt not, my friend; Time's pencil, hardships, war,
Some taste of pleasure too, have chas'd the bloom
Of ruddy comeliness, and stamp'd this face
With harsher lineaments, that well may mock
The prying of a mother's eye.—A mother,
Thro' whose firm nerves tumultuous instinct's flood
Ne'er gush'd with eager eloquence, to tell her,
This is your son! your heart's own voice proclaims him.
FLORIAN.
If not her love, my lord, suspect her hatred.
Those jarring passions spring from the same source:
Hate is distemper'd love.
If not her love, my lord, suspect her hatred.
Those jarring passions spring from the same source:
Hate is distemper'd love.
EDMUND.
Why should she hate me?
For that my opening passion's swelling ardour
Prompted congenial necessary joy,
Was that a cause?—Nor was she then so rigid.
No sanctified dissembler had possess'd
Her scar'd imagination, teaching her,
That holiness begins where nature ends.
No, Florian, she herself was woman then;
A sensual woman. Nor satiety,
Sickness and age, and virtue's frowardness,
Had so obliterated pleasure's relish—
She might have pardon'd what she felt so well.
Why should she hate me?
For that my opening passion's swelling ardour
Prompted congenial necessary joy,
Was that a cause?—Nor was she then so rigid.
No sanctified dissembler had possess'd
Her scar'd imagination, teaching her,
That holiness begins where nature ends.
No, Florian, she herself was woman then;
A sensual woman. Nor satiety,
Sickness and age, and virtue's frowardness,
Had so obliterated pleasure's relish—
She might have pardon'd what she felt so well.
FLORIAN.
Forgive me, Edmund; nay, nor think I preach,
If I, god wot, of morals loose enough,
Seem to condemn you. You have often told me,
The night, the very night that to your arms
Gave pretty Beatrice's melting beauties,
Was the same night on which your father died.
Forgive me, Edmund; nay, nor think I preach,
If I, god wot, of morals loose enough,
Seem to condemn you. You have often told me,
The night, the very night that to your arms
Gave pretty Beatrice's melting beauties,
Was the same night on which your father died.
EDMUND.
'Tis true—and thou, sage monitor, dost thou
Hold love a crime so irremissible?
Wouldst thou have turn'd thee from a willing girl,
To sing a requiem to thy father's soul?
I thought my mother busied with her tears,
Her faintings, and her masses, while I stole
To Beatrice's chamber.—How my mother
Became appriz'd, I know not: but her heart,
Never too partial to me, grew estrang'd.
Estrang'd!—aversion in its fellest mood
Scowl'd from her eye, and drove me from her sight.
She call'd me impious: nam'd my honest lewdness,
A profanation of my father's ashes.
I knelt and wept, and, like a puling boy,
For now my blood was cool, believ'd, confess'd
My father's hov'ring spirit incens'd against me.
This weak confession but inflam'd her wrath;
And when I would have bath'd her hand with tears,
She snatch'd it back with horror.
'Tis true—and thou, sage monitor, dost thou
Hold love a crime so irremissible?
Wouldst thou have turn'd thee from a willing girl,
To sing a requiem to thy father's soul?
I thought my mother busied with her tears,
Her faintings, and her masses, while I stole
To Beatrice's chamber.—How my mother
Became appriz'd, I know not: but her heart,
Never too partial to me, grew estrang'd.
Estrang'd!—aversion in its fellest mood
Scowl'd from her eye, and drove me from her sight.
She call'd me impious: nam'd my honest lewdness,
A profanation of my father's ashes.
I knelt and wept, and, like a puling boy,
For now my blood was cool, believ'd, confess'd
My father's hov'ring spirit incens'd against me.
This weak confession but inflam'd her wrath;
And when I would have bath'd her hand with tears,
She snatch'd it back with horror.
FLORIAN.
'Twas the trick
Of over-acted sorrow. Grief fatigues;
And each collateral circumstance is seiz'd
To cheat th' uneasy feeling. Sable chambers,
The winking lamp, and pomp of midnight woe,
Are but a specious theatre, on which
Th' inconstant mind with decency forgets
Its inward tribute. Who can doubt the love
Which to a father's shade devotes the son?
[Ironically.
'Twas the trick
Of over-acted sorrow. Grief fatigues;
And each collateral circumstance is seiz'd
To cheat th' uneasy feeling. Sable chambers,
The winking lamp, and pomp of midnight woe,
Are but a specious theatre, on which
Th' inconstant mind with decency forgets
Its inward tribute. Who can doubt the love
Which to a father's shade devotes the son?
[Ironically.
EDMUND.
Still must I doubt: still deem some mystery,
Beyond a widow's pious artifice,
Lies hid beneath aversion so relentless.
All my inheritance, my lordships, castles,
My father's lavish love bequeath'd my mother.
Chose she some second partner of her bed,
Or did she waste her wealth on begging saints,
And rogues that act contrition, it were proof
Of her hypocrisy, or lust of fame
In monkish annals. But to me her hand
Is bounteous, as her heart is cold. I tell thee,
Bating enjoyment of my native soil,
Narbonne's revenues are as fully mine,
As if I held them by the strength of charters.
Still must I doubt: still deem some mystery,
Beyond a widow's pious artifice,
Lies hid beneath aversion so relentless.
All my inheritance, my lordships, castles,
My father's lavish love bequeath'd my mother.
Chose she some second partner of her bed,
Or did she waste her wealth on begging saints,
And rogues that act contrition, it were proof
Of her hypocrisy, or lust of fame
In monkish annals. But to me her hand
Is bounteous, as her heart is cold. I tell thee,
Bating enjoyment of my native soil,
Narbonne's revenues are as fully mine,
As if I held them by the strength of charters.
FLORIAN.
Why set them on the hazard then, when she,
Who deals them may revoke? Your absence hence
The sole condition.
Why set them on the hazard then, when she,
Who deals them may revoke? Your absence hence
The sole condition.
EDMUND.
I am weary, Florian,
Of such a vagrant life. Befits it me,
Sprung from a race of heroes, Narbonne's prince,
To lend my casual arm's approved valour
To quarrels, nor my country's nor my own?
To stain my sword with random blood !—I fought
At Buda 'gainst the Turk—a holy war,
So was it deem'd—I smote the turban'd race:
Did zeal or did ambition nerve my blow?
Or matter'd it to me, on Buda's domes
Whether the crescent or the cross prevail'd?
Mean time on alien climes I dissipated
Wealth from my subjects wrung, the peasant's tribute,
Earn'd by his toil. Mean time in ruin laid
My mould'ring castles—Yes, ye moss-grown walls!
Ye tow'rs defenceless!—I revisit ye
Shame-stricken.—Where are all your trophies now?
Your thronged courts, the revelry, the tumult,
That spoke the grandeur of my house, the homage
Of neighb'ring barons? Thus did Thibalt, Raoul,
Or Clodomir, my brave progenitors,
Creep like a spy, and watch to thrid your gates
Unnotic'd? No; with martial attributes,
With waving banners and enlivening fifes,
They bade your portal wide unfold its jaws,
And welcome them and triumph.
I am weary, Florian,
Of such a vagrant life. Befits it me,
Sprung from a race of heroes, Narbonne's prince,
To lend my casual arm's approved valour
To quarrels, nor my country's nor my own?
To stain my sword with random blood !—I fought
At Buda 'gainst the Turk—a holy war,
So was it deem'd—I smote the turban'd race:
Did zeal or did ambition nerve my blow?
Or matter'd it to me, on Buda's domes
Whether the crescent or the cross prevail'd?
Mean time on alien climes I dissipated
Wealth from my subjects wrung, the peasant's tribute,
Earn'd by his toil. Mean time in ruin laid
My mould'ring castles—Yes, ye moss-grown walls!
Ye tow'rs defenceless!—I revisit ye
Shame-stricken.—Where are all your trophies now?
Your thronged courts, the revelry, the tumult,
That spoke the grandeur of my house, the homage
Of neighb'ring barons? Thus did Thibalt, Raoul,
Or Clodomir, my brave progenitors,
Creep like a spy, and watch to thrid your gates
Unnotic'd? No; with martial attributes,
With waving banners and enlivening fifes,
They bade your portal wide unfold its jaws,
And welcome them and triumph.
FLORIAN.
True, my lord;
They reign'd the monarchs of a score of miles;
Imperial lords of ev'ry trembling cottage
Within their cannon's mandate. Deadly feuds
For obsolete offences, now array'd
Their livery'd banditti, prompt to deal
On open vallies and unguarded herds,
On helpless virgins and unweapon'd boors,
The vengeance of their tribe. Sometimes they dar'd
To scowl defiance to the distant throne,
Imprison'd, canton'd inaccessibly
In their own rock-built dungeons—Are these glories
My Edmund's soul's ambitious to revive?
Thus would he bless his vassals!
True, my lord;
They reign'd the monarchs of a score of miles;
Imperial lords of ev'ry trembling cottage
Within their cannon's mandate. Deadly feuds
For obsolete offences, now array'd
Their livery'd banditti, prompt to deal
On open vallies and unguarded herds,
On helpless virgins and unweapon'd boors,
The vengeance of their tribe. Sometimes they dar'd
To scowl defiance to the distant throne,
Imprison'd, canton'd inaccessibly
In their own rock-built dungeons—Are these glories
My Edmund's soul's ambitious to revive?
Thus would he bless his vassals!
EDMUND.
Thy reproof,
My friend, is just. But had I not a cause,
A tender cause, that prompted my return?
This cruel parent, whom I blame, and mourn,
Whose harshness I resent, whose woes I pity,
Has won my love, by winning my respect.
Her letters! Florian; such unstudied strains
Of virtuous eloquence! She bids me, yes,
This praying Magdalen enjoins my courage
To emulate my great forefathers' deeds.
Tells me, that shame and guilt alone are mortal;
That death but bars the possibility
Of frailty, and embalms untainted honour.
Then blots and tears efface some half-told woe
Lab'ring in her full bosom. I decypher'd
In one her blessing granted, and eras'd.
And yet what follow'd, mark'd anxiety
For my soul's welfare. I must know this riddle.
I must, will comfort her. She cannot surely,
After such perils, wounds by her command
Encounter'd, after sixteen exil'd years,
Spurn me, when kneeling—Think'st thou 'tis possible?
Thy reproof,
My friend, is just. But had I not a cause,
A tender cause, that prompted my return?
This cruel parent, whom I blame, and mourn,
Whose harshness I resent, whose woes I pity,
Has won my love, by winning my respect.
Her letters! Florian; such unstudied strains
Of virtuous eloquence! She bids me, yes,
This praying Magdalen enjoins my courage
To emulate my great forefathers' deeds.
Tells me, that shame and guilt alone are mortal;
That death but bars the possibility
Of frailty, and embalms untainted honour.
Then blots and tears efface some half-told woe
Lab'ring in her full bosom. I decypher'd
In one her blessing granted, and eras'd.
And yet what follow'd, mark'd anxiety
For my soul's welfare. I must know this riddle.
I must, will comfort her. She cannot surely,
After such perils, wounds by her command
Encounter'd, after sixteen exil'd years,
Spurn me, when kneeling—Think'st thou 'tis possible?
FLORIAN.
I would not think it; but a host of priests
Surround her. They, good men, are seldom found
To plead the cause of pity. Self-denial,
Whose dissonance from nature's kindest laws
By contradicting wins on our perverseness,
Is rank fanaticism's belov'd machine.
Oh! 'twill be heroism, a sacrifice,
To curb the torrent of maternal fondness!
You shall be beggar'd, that the saint your mother
May, by cowl'd sycophants and canting juglers,
Be hail'd, be canoniz'd a new Teresa.
Pray be not seen here: let's again to th' wars.
I would not think it; but a host of priests
Surround her. They, good men, are seldom found
To plead the cause of pity. Self-denial,
Whose dissonance from nature's kindest laws
By contradicting wins on our perverseness,
Is rank fanaticism's belov'd machine.
Oh! 'twill be heroism, a sacrifice,
To curb the torrent of maternal fondness!
You shall be beggar'd, that the saint your mother
May, by cowl'd sycophants and canting juglers,
Be hail'd, be canoniz'd a new Teresa.
Pray be not seen here: let's again to th' wars.
EDMUND.
No, Florian; my dull'd soul is sick of riot:
Sick of the thoughtless jollity of camps,
Where revelry subsists on desolation,
And shouts of joy contend with dying groans.
Our sports are fleeting; snatch'd, perhaps, not granted.
'Tis time to bid adieu to vagrant pleasure,
And fix the wanderer love. Domestic bliss—
No, Florian; my dull'd soul is sick of riot:
Sick of the thoughtless jollity of camps,
Where revelry subsists on desolation,
And shouts of joy contend with dying groans.
Our sports are fleeting; snatch'd, perhaps, not granted.
'Tis time to bid adieu to vagrant pleasure,
And fix the wanderer love. Domestic bliss—
FLORIAN.
Yes, your fair pensioner, young Adeliza,
Has sober'd your inconstancy. Her smiles
Were exquisite—to rule a family! [Ironically.
So matron-like an air—She must be fruitful.
Yes, your fair pensioner, young Adeliza,
Has sober'd your inconstancy. Her smiles
Were exquisite—to rule a family! [Ironically.
So matron-like an air—She must be fruitful.
EDMUND.
Pass we this levity—'Tis true, the maiden
Is beauty's type renew'd. Like blooming Eve
In nature's young simplicity, and blushing
With wonder at creation's opening glow,
She charms, unknowing what it is to charm.
Pass we this levity—'Tis true, the maiden
Is beauty's type renew'd. Like blooming Eve
In nature's young simplicity, and blushing
With wonder at creation's opening glow,
She charms, unknowing what it is to charm.
FLORIAN.
This is a lover's language—Is she kind?
This is a lover's language—Is she kind?
EDMUND.
Cold as the metal bars that part her from me;
She listens, but replies not to my purpose.
Cold as the metal bars that part her from me;
She listens, but replies not to my purpose.
FLORIAN.
How gain'd you then admittance?
How gain'd you then admittance?
EDMUND.
This whole month,
While waiting your arrival, I have haunted
Her convent's parlour. 'Tis my mother's wish
To match her nobly. Hence her guardian abbess
Admits such visitors as claim her notice
By worthy bearing, and convenient splendor.
O Florian, union with that favour'd maiden
Might reconcile my mother—Hark! what sound—
[A chapel bell rings.
This whole month,
While waiting your arrival, I have haunted
Her convent's parlour. 'Tis my mother's wish
To match her nobly. Hence her guardian abbess
Admits such visitors as claim her notice
By worthy bearing, and convenient splendor.
O Florian, union with that favour'd maiden
Might reconcile my mother—Hark! what sound—
[A chapel bell rings.
FLORIAN.
A summons to some office of devotion.
My lord, weigh well what you project—
[Singing within.
A summons to some office of devotion.
My lord, weigh well what you project—
[Singing within.
EDMUND.
I hear
Voices that seem approaching—huh! they sing.
Listen!
I hear
Voices that seem approaching—huh! they sing.
Listen!
FLORIAN.
No; let us hence: you will be known.
No; let us hence: you will be known.
EDMUND.
They cannot know me—see!
They cannot know me—see!