her heart, Yet shrouds himself in mystery: she has placed Her fortunes in my hands—she resigns her all, To me confiding to unlock your secret. When once you're manifest and fully known, A task which must precede, senor, it will decide Whether I join your hands and bless your union, Or curse the fatal day she first beheld you! Gasp. Madam, I thank you much, I'll speak directly. But I'm so overcome with wretchedness, Your kindness must bear with me. You ask me who I am—a question fair, As fairly answer'd now—I cannot tell. Inez. Is it you know not, or you will not tell? Gasp. I do not know—and therefore cannot tell— Though from this hour I date my misery, I am resign'd. You may dismiss me With stern remonstrance at my daring love— Yet it is better. I am of those forsaken— Who have no parents—owing to the state A nurture most unkind—a foundling child. Inez. A foundling child? (Aside.) His voice—his presence— And those words make my heart leap in agony. Gasp. Yes, and must live to curse the hearts of those Unnatural parents, who could thus renounce me. Love conquer'd shame, and brought me into being, But in her turn shame triumph'd over love, And I was left to destiny.— The bloody tigress parts not with her young:— Her cruel nature, never known to pity, Is by maternal feeling changed to tenderness. The eyes which fiercely gleam on all creation, Beam softly, as she views her snarling cubs. But cruel man, unruly passion sated, Leaves to neglect the offspring of his guilt. I have no more to say. Dismiss me now, And when, henceforth, you rail at my presumption, Consider the perfection that has caused it. I oft have made the healthy resolution To quit for ever her whom I adore. Take my farewell to her—your lovely niece, Although I'm friendless, she will pity me. Inez. (aside). How strange it is I feel not anger'd! Strange indeed, there is a pulse Which makes me lean to his presumptuous love. [Gaspar is going. (Aloud.) Yet stay awhile, for I would know your age? Gasp. 'Twas at nine years I left the hospital, And now have been for ten a wanderer. Inez. (aside). The age exact. O Heav'n! let not these hopes For ever springing, be for ever wither'd! (Aloud.) Youth, have you any mark, should you be sought, Might lend a clue to your discovery? Gasp. I have; they who deserted me, if ever Their intention to reclaim my person, May safely challenge me among ten thousand. (Baring his wrist.) 'Tis here—a ruby band upon my wrist. [Inez goes towards him, catches his hand, and gazes on the wrist intently without speaking. What can this mean? oh, speak, dear lady, speak! Inez. (throwing herself into his arms). My child, my child! Gasp. I, I your child! almighty Heaven, I thank thee! My heart is bursting in its wild emotion, Till all be understood. Oh, speak again! Inez. Thou art my son—he whom I've mourn'd so long, So long have sought. Features thou hast, my boy, Which in the memory of all save her, Who fondly loved, long, long have pass'd away. Gasp. Who was my father? Inez. One of most ancient name, Don Felipo. Gasp. Then I am noble? Inez. And by each descent. Gasp. Pardon me, lady, if I seem more eager To know this fact, than render unto you My love and duty.—From the world's scorn I've suffer'd much; and my unbending pride Would rather that my birth remain'd in doubt, Than find a parentage which was obscure. Now all is perfect, and to you I tender (Kneeling) My truth and love, still in their infancy, And therefore may they seem to you but feeble. (Rises.) Yet blame me not: this sudden change of state Hath left me so bewilder'd I scarce know Myself, or what I feel; like to the eyes Of one long plunged in gloom, on whom the sun, At length admitted, pours at once a flood Of glorious light—so are my senses dazzled. Inez. And I am faint with gratitude and love. Come in with me. Then shall you learn The cruel cause that cast you out a foundling, And I, the bounteous, blessed providence, That led you to my arms. [Exeunt.
Act V. Scene I.
A chamber in the Guzman Palace.
Enter Donna Inez, meeting Superior.
Sup. Save thee, good lady! I have stolen an hour From holy prayer, for which may I be pardon'd, To weigh the merits of a mother's virtue Against the errors of an impious son; To put in counterpoise the deep disgrace, The insult offer'd to our brotherhood, With the atonement you would make to Heav'n. Inez. And you are merciful! Sup. Lady, there is nought Which Heav'n detests so much as sacrilege; 'Tis the most damn'd of all the damning sins. The fire of hell can purge away all crimes, Howe'er atrocious, save this deed of death, To life eternal, if not here atoned for By a surrender of all earthly goods. Inez. All, father! Sup. All! Inez. Father, this cannot be. Surely there is In our extensive wealth enough for both— To satisfy the holy church, yet leave Withal to grace his rank and dignity. Sup. He that hath mock'd high Heav'n with sacrilege Should live for nought except to make his peace. Your son must straight renew his broken vows, With tears and penance must wash out his sin— His life, however long, too short to plead For mercy and forgiveness, and his wealth, However great, too small to make atonement. Inez. Father, this cannot be. Sup. It shall be so. Inez. Then I'll appeal elsewhere. I'll to the king, And tell him this sad story. The Guzmans Have too well served him, not to gain his help In this their need. If we must pay a price, The bargain shall be made with Rome herself, Who will be less exacting. Sup. (aside). I must not grasp too much, or I lose all. (Aloud) Lady, I know your thoughts, and do not blame you. You are divided, as frail mortals are In this imperfect state, 'twixt heaven and earth, Your holy wishes check'd by love maternal; Now would I know the course that you would steer Between the two. We can arrange this point. The church is generous, and she oft resigns That she might claim in justice. Tell me, lady, What do you proffer? Inez. There is a fair domain of great extent Water'd by the Guadalquiver's wave, Whose blushing harvests each returning autumn Yield the best vintage in our favour'd land. Six hamlets tenanted by peaceful swains, And dark-eyed maidens, portion'd to the soil, Foster its increase. The fairest part of Spain Which Heav'n hath made, I render back to Heav'n. Sup. I know the land, and will accept the gift:— But to it must be added sums of gold To pay for holy rites to be perform'd For years, to purify our monastery Which has been desecrated. Inez. That will I give, and freely. Now, good father, Remember, in exchange for these you promise To pardon all, and to obtain from Rome A dispensation to my truant child. Sup. I do! Inez. Father, I'll send him to you. You'll Rebuke him, but not harshly, for his soul Is with his new found prospects all on fire. [Exit Inez. Sup. Now will our convent be the best endow'd Of any in the land. This wild young hypocrite, Who fears nor Heaven nor man, hath well assisted My pious longing. More by the sins of men Than their free gifts, our holy church doth prosper. [Enter Anselmo in cavalier's dress. What do I see? One, that's in sanctity, Who vow'd his service and his life to Heav'n, In this attire. Heaven is most patient! Ans. It is, good father, or this world of guilt Had long been wither'd with the threaten'd fire. My sins are monstrous, yet I am but one Of many millions, erring as myself. 'Tis not for us to judge. He, who reads all Our hearts, and knows how we've been tempted, Alone can poise the even scale of justice. If I'm to blame, good father, are not you? Sup. How? Ans. I had it from my mother, she reveal'd To you her history, and did make known The mark by which I might be recognised— That mark, so oft the theme of idle wonder In the convent. Before I took my vows You therefore must have known my station, The rank I held by birthright, and the name Which I inherited. Why did you press me then To take those vows? It was a rank injustice. Sup. (aside). He argues boldly. (Aloud) 'Twere as well to say, It were unjust to help you unto Heav'n— I put you in the right path. Ans. One too slippery. Father, I've stumbled. Sup. You have. But that your fond and virtuous mother Stretch'd forth her hand to save you, it had been To your perdition. Ans. I am so full of gratitude to Heaven, I cannot cavil at the deeds of men. Yet are we blind alike. You did intend To serve me, and I thank you. Sup. I'll serve you yet, my son. This very night A message shall be forwarded to Rome. Before a month is past you'll be absolved. Till then return unto the monastery, Resume your cowl, and bear yourself correctly. A month will soon be o'er. Ans. To one who is imprison'd, 'tis an age; Yet is your counsel wise, and I obey you With all humility. Sup. 'Tis well, my son. Your follies are unknown but to ourselves. I shall expect you ere
