me! Inez. Last night, my child, I heard the sound of music: Methought thy name was wafted by the air With most harmonious utterance. Isid. Forgive me, aunt, but say that you forgive me! You shall know all. Inez. I do, my Isidora, I forgive thee (raises her). But I must have thy confidence, my child. Who is this cavalier? Isid. Alas! I know not. Inez. Not know, my Isidora? Hast thou then Been so unwise as to receive a stranger? Isid. Alas! I have, but too much for my peace. Inez. Thou lov'st him then? [Isidora throws herself into the arms of Inez and bursts into tears.] (Aside) The barb has entered deeply. (Aloud) Isidora, Come, come, cheer up, my love, I mean not to reproach. All may yet be well. (Inez kisses Isidora, and they separate.) Thou say'st he is a stranger? Isid. I only know he calls himself Don Gaspar. I have indeed been foolish. Inez. Has he ne'er mention'd his condition, His family or descent? Isid. Never; and when that I would question him, He answers vaguely. There is some mystery. Inez. With honest love concealment never dwells. When does he come again? Isid. To-morrow even—and he'll keep his word. Inez. Then will I see him. Fear not, my love, No trifling cause shall bar thy happiness. Be he but gentle, e'en of Moorish blood, And honest, he is thine. Go to thy chamber, Thither will I follow, that we some project May devise, which shall remove all obstacle. [Exit Isidora. I like not this Don Gaspar, and my heart Forebodes some evil nigh. I may be wrong, But in my sear'd imagination, He is some snake whose fascinating eyes, Fix'd on my trembling bird, have drawn her down Into his pois'nous fangs. How frail our sex! Prudence may guard us from th' assaults of passion, But storm'd the citadel, in woman's heart, Victorious love admits no armistice Or sway conjoint. He garrisons alone. [Exit Inez.
The monastery.—Procession of monks, choristers, &c., returning from performing service in the chapel.—The organ still playing in the chapel within, Anselmo at the head of the choristers.—They pass on bowing to the Superior, who, with Manuel, remain.—The organ ceases.
Sup. (looking round). Anselmo hath pass'd on. I do observe, Of late he shuns communion. 'Tis most strange. Say, Manuel, hast thou discover'd aught? Doth he continue steadfast and devout? Or, borne away by youthful phantasies, Neglect the duties of our sacred order? Man. He bears himself correctly, and e'er since His last offence, when self-inflicted pain Proved his contrition, he hath ever seem'd To be absorb'd in holy meditation. Sup. May this continue, he's of great import To the well doing of our monastery—— Yet he hath not of late confess'd his sins. Man. Perchance he hath not err'd. Forgive me, Heav'n, Rash words like these when all are born to sin! I deem'd that he had nothing to confess Except the warring of his youthful passions, O'er which he strives to hold dominion. Sup. I would it were so; but, too frequently, I do perceive a furtive glance of fire From 'neath his fringed eyelash wildly start, As does the lightning from a heavy cloud: It doth denote strong passion—much too strong For youthful resolution to control. Man. Why then permit him to behold the world And all its vanities? 'Tis true, our coffers Are somewhat help'd by that he brings to them, Instructing music, a gift from nature In him most perfect. Were it not better That he within our cloister'd gates should stay? Sup. Then would he pine; for our monastic vows Are much too harsh, too rigid save for those Who, having proved the world, at length retire When they have lost the appetite to sin. There's much depending on the boy Anselmo; He is a prize whose worth I little knew When first into our brotherhood he came. Man. I comprehend you not.
Sup. Thou canst not, Manuel, but I will confide What has been reveal'd to me alone. Well thou know'st for years I have confess'd The Donna Inez. From her I late have learn'd She bore a child in wedlock, which she lost; And, by the notices which she has given, I find him in Anselmo. Man. In Anselmo! Then he's the rightful heir To all the Guzman wealth. Sup. 'Tis even so. Man. Father, how long since you discover'd this? Sup. But a few months before he took his vows. Man. Why did you then permit them? Sup. To serve our holy church; which either way Must gain by his belonging to our order. The lady mourns her son. If I restore him, She must be grateful. Thus our convent will Become endow'd with acres of broad land. And should he choose still to retain his vows, When he has learnt the story of his birth, Then will our monast'ry no doubt receive The wealth he values not, but we require. Man. I do perceive—'twas prudently arranged— What wait you for? Sup. To see if he will turn his thoughts to Heav'n; But, look, he moves this way. Leave me with him. [Exit Manuel, and enter Anselmo. Where hast thou been, my child? Ans. Lending mine ear to those who would unload A conscience heavy with repeated sin— Giving advice and absolution free To those who riot in a sinful world. Sup. Yet still be lenient. We in holy bonds Expect not men exposed, to be so perfect. Tell me, for lately thou hast not confess'd, How throbs thy heart? Do holy thoughts prevail? Art thou at peace within, or does thy youth Regret its vow, and yield to vain repinings? Ans. I am, most holy father, as Heav'n made me— Content, and not content, as in their turns The good or evil thoughts will be ascendant. When that the evil thoughts the mastery gain, I try to curb them. Man can do no more. Sup. At thy rebelling age, 'tis doing much. Now put my question to thy inmost soul And answer me:—could'st thou rejoin the world And all its pleasures, now so bright in fancy To youth's all ardent mind, tell me sincerely, Would'st thou reject them? Ans. Why call in question that which ne'er can be? My vows are ta'en, therefore no choice is mine. Sup. Most things are possible to mother church, As would this be—a dispensation sought Might be obtain'd. Ans. (at first with joy in his countenance, then assuming a mournful expression). It would not be a kindness. Who, my father, In this wide glorious world is kindred to Anselmo? I will confess, I sometimes have indulged Half dreaming thoughts (O say not they are sinful!) Of the sweet hours of those, who, lapp'd in bliss, See brothers, sisters, offspring, clust'ring round, Loving and loved; then have I wept to think That I have none, and sadly felt convinced 'Tis for my happiness that I am here. Sup. True, my Anselmo, 'tis a dreary world, And still more dreary when we've nought to cling to, But say, if thou hadst found a doting mother, One that was nobly born and rich, who hail'd In thee the foundling heir to large estates, What then? Ans. (starts, and after a pause). I cannot say—my thoughts ne'er stray'd so far. Father, you oft the dangers have set forth Of dreaming fancies which may lead astray; Yet do you try to tempt me, by supposing that Which shakes my firmness, yet can never be. Sup. We are but mortal. I did wish to know Thy secret thoughts, and thou withhold'st them still. At night come to me, then shalt thou confess, For I would learn the workings of thy soul. Ans. First let me strive to calm my troubled mind: I will confess to-morrow. Sup. Then, be it so. [Exit Superior. Ans. 'Tis strange. He ne'er before essay'd me thus. A doting mother, wealthy too, and noble! O! if 'twere true, and I could gain my freedom! But these are very dreamings. Hold, my brain! For he has conjured up a vision wild, And beautiful as wild! Wealth, ancestry, A mother's love! But what are these to thee, Thou monk Anselmo? go—go and hang thy head Within the cowl, droop'd humbly on thy breast— For know, thou art a monk, and vow'd to Heav'n! Oh parents stern! to fling me thus on fate! But vows more stern that thus debar me from The common rights of man! Why were we made With passions strong, that even Nature laughs When we would fain control them? Lone to live And die are rebel acts, to Heav'n unpleasing. Say I were humbly born of peasant race, I should have glided on the silent brook; Or highly bred and nobly father'd, Dash'd proudly like the rapid flowing river. But in these confines against Nature pent, I must remain a stagnant torpid lake; Or else marking my wild course with ruin, Till my force is spent and all is over, Burst forth a mad, ungovernable torrent.
Enter Jacobo.
Jac. What Anselmo! not outside the convent gates, and service over this half hour! By St. Dominic, it is as I expected—thou hast fallen in with the Superior, and hast been ordered home with penance.
Ans. Not so, Jacobo. The Superior and I roll on in different orbits. Saturn and Venus are as like to jostle as we upon our travels.
Jac.
