The Mysterious Mother/Act 3 Scene 3

SCENE III.

COUNTESS, BENEDICT.

BENEDICT.
Rest on this dwelling!The dew of grace
Rest on this dwelling!

COUNTESS.
Rest on this dwelling!Thanks, my ghostly friend.
But sure, or I mistake, in your sad eye
I spell affliction's signature. What woes
Call for the scanty balm this hand can pour?

BENEDICT.
You, lady, and you only need that balm.

COUNTESS.
To tutor my unapt and ill-school'd nature
You come then—Good, my confessor, a truce
With doctrines and authority. If ought
Can medicate a soul unsound like mine,
Good deeds must operate the healthful change,
And penance cleanse it to receive the blessing.
Shall I for faith, shall I, for but believing
What 'tis my int'rest to believe, efface
The stains, which, tho' believing, I contracted?

BENEDICT.
Lady, your subtle wit, like daring infants,
Sports with a weight will crush it—but no more,
It is not mine to argue, but pronounce.
The church, on rock of adamant establish'd,
Now inch by inch disputes not its domain.
Heav'n's law promulg'd, it rests obedience follow.
And when supreme It taxes that obedience,
Not at impracticable, vain perfection,
But rates its prodigality of blessings
At the slight credence of its pow'r to grant them;
Shall man with stoic pride reject the boon,
And cry, we will do more, we will deserve it?^[1]

COUNTESS.
Deserve it!—oh! have all your sainted hosts,
Your choirs of martyrs, or your clouds of cherubim,
Deserv'd to feel the transport but of hope?
Away; nor tell me of this holy juggle
'Twixt faith and conscience. Shall the latter roam,
Wasting and spoiling with a ruffian hand,
While her accomplice faith, wrapt up at home
In proud security of self-existence,
Thinks that existence shall absolve them both?

BENEDICT.
'Twas not to war with words, so heav'n's my judge,
That your poor rated servant sought your presence.
I came with charitable friendly purpose
To sooth—but wherefore mitigate your griefs?
You mock my friendship, and miscall my zeal.
Since then to council, comfort, and reproof
Obdurate—learn the measure of your woes.
Learn, if the mother's fortitude can brave
The bolt the woman's arrogance defied.

COUNTESS.
The mother! said'st thou?

BENEDICT.
Yes, 'twas no vision rais'dYes, imperious dame:
Yes, 'twas no vision rais'd by dreams and fumes,
Begot 'twixt nightly fear and indigestion:
Nor was it artifice and pious fraud,
When but this morning I announc'd thy Edmund
Was number'd with the dead—

COUNTESS.
Nor dally with a mother's apprePriest, mock me not!
Nor dally with a mother's apprehension.
Lives, or lives not my son?

BENEDICT.
On Buda's plain thy slaugWoman, heav'n mocks thee!
On Buda's plain thy slaughter'd Edmund lies.
An unbeliever's weapon cleft his heart;
But 'twas thy unbelief that pois'd the shaft,
And sped its aim.

COUNTESS.
Oh! may its joysTo heav'n's high will I bow me.
Oh! may its joys be open to his soul,
Tho' clos'd to mine for ever!

BENEDICT.
Lov'd him!—oh! nature, bleThen you lov'd him!

COUNTESS.
Lov'd him!—oh! nature, bleeding at my heart,
Hearest thou this? Lov'd him!—ha! whither!—rage,
Be dumb—Now, listen, monk, nor dare reply
Beyond my purpose. In the grave, thou say'st,
My Edmund sleeps—how didst thou learn his fate?

BENEDICT.
No angel whisper'd it; no dæmon spoke it.
Thou, by the self-same means I learn'd, may'st learn it.

COUNTESS.
Be brief.

BENEDICT.
To a poorThen—but what boots his life or death
To a poor taunted friar—Benedict,
Leave this proud mistress of the fleeting hour,
E'er the destroying angel's kindling brand
Smoaks in the tow'rs of Narbonne—

COUNTESS.
I am thy mistress yet: nor will Hold! presumptuous!
I am thy mistress yet: nor will I brook
Such insolent reproof. Produce thy warrant,
Assure Edmund's death—or dread his vengeance!
Severely shall he question ev'ry throb
His agonizing mother now endures.

BENEDICT.
My warrant is at hand— [Goes out and returns
with Edmund.

↑ We will do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it. Portius in Cato.

[1] We will do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it. Portius in Cato.

[1]