Firmilian : Or The Student of Badajoz A Spasmodic Tragedy |
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| 7. | SCENE VII. |
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 | Firmilian : Or The Student of Badajoz |  |
69
SCENE VII.
Saloon.—Pall and Coffin.Enter Countess, Confessor, Haverillo, and Attendants.
CONFESSOR.
Weep not, dear lady—he is now at rest!
Nor thundering cannon, nor loud-booming drum,
Nor braying trumpet, nor the clarion's call,
Nor rapid crash of charging chivalry,
Can stir him from his sleep. For him no more
Hath the lewd tinkling of the amorous lute
Behind a twilight lattice, or the wave
Of a light kerchief in a stealthy hand,
Or lifting of dark eyelids, any charm!
No more shall he, in joyous revelry,
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And therefore, I beseech you, dry your tears.
HAVERILLO
. (Aside.)
Why, what a ghostly comforter is this!
He tells her nothing of the yet to be,
But only harps upon the aching past.
CONFESSOR.
Bear up that coffin! Grief hath had its scope,
And now 'tis time to pause. Bethink thee, lady,
How it may fare with thine Alphonzo's soul.
There's no rich clothing in the world beyond,
No jewell'd cups, no sparkling costly gems,
No rare display of silver and of gold
Such as your sideboards show on gala-days—
But the poor spirit, shivering and alone,
On the cold sea-beach of eternity,
Must shriek for help to those he left behind.
Say—shall Alphonzo plead to thee in vain?
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O man—man—man! Thy prating drives me mad—
Thy hideous voice is loathsome to mine ear,
Albeit I know not what thou croakest there!
Set down the coffin—set it down, I say!
I have not yet wept half the flood of tears
That I must pour on my Alphonzo's head.
There's a hot deluge seething in my brain,
And I must give it leave to flow, or die!
HAVERILLO.
Poor lady, she is greatly moved! 'Twere best
To give her passion way. Bethink you, sir;
A mother rarely will with patience hear
A true reproach against a living son,
Far less a taunt directed at the dead.
CONFESSOR.
Who's he that dares usurp my privilege,
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Thou silken moth, to flutter round the torch
Of conscience, flaming in a Churchman's hands,
And try to smother it? What art thou, sirrah?
I warrant me some kinsman, with an eye
To those vast hoards of molten vanity,
Which can alone relieve Alphonzo's soul
Under the guidance of our holy Church.
Out on thee, heretic!
HAVERILLO.
Presumptuous priest!
Wer't thou unfrocked, I'd tell thee that thou liest.
CONFESSOR.
Hence, vile disturber of the hapless dead!
Thou enemy of souls—thou sordid knave,
That, for a paltry pittance to thyself,
Wouldst bar the gates of Paradise to him
Who lies beneath yon pall! What, caitiff wretch!
Wilt thou again presume to answer me?
Let but a word escape thy tainted lips,
And the most fell anathema of Rome,
From which there neither is appeal nor cure,
Shall fulmine on thy head!
Thou enemy of souls—thou sordid knave,
That, for a paltry pittance to thyself,
Wouldst bar the gates of Paradise to him
Who lies beneath yon pall! What, caitiff wretch!
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Let but a word escape thy tainted lips,
And the most fell anathema of Rome,
From which there neither is appeal nor cure,
Shall fulmine on thy head!
As for thee, lady—
If thou regardest him whom thou hast lost
With holier feeling than the tigress shows
When, in her savage and blood-boltered den,
She moans above the carcass of her cubs—
Consume no more the precious hours in grief;
Each hour is precious to a soul in pain!
Give me the keys of all thy coffered wealth,
That, with a liberal hand, I may dispense
Thy hoarded angels to the suffering poor.
Thy jewels also—what hast thou to do
With earthly jewels more?—give them to me;
And for each brilliant thou shalt hear a mass
Sung for Alphonzo. Fie on filthy pride!
Is't meet a widow's house should hold such store
Of flagons, cups, and costly chalices,
Of massive salvers and ancestral bowls?
These are the subtile spider-threads of sin
That bind the soul to earth. Away with them!
Thou hast no children now.
If thou regardest him whom thou hast lost
With holier feeling than the tigress shows
When, in her savage and blood-boltered den,
She moans above the carcass of her cubs—
Consume no more the precious hours in grief;
Each hour is precious to a soul in pain!
Give me the keys of all thy coffered wealth,
That, with a liberal hand, I may dispense
Thy hoarded angels to the suffering poor.
Thy jewels also—what hast thou to do
With earthly jewels more?—give them to me;
And for each brilliant thou shalt hear a mass
Sung for Alphonzo. Fie on filthy pride!
Is't meet a widow's house should hold such store
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Of massive salvers and ancestral bowls?
These are the subtile spider-threads of sin
That bind the soul to earth. Away with them!
Thou hast no children now.
COUNTESS.
Thou crawling wretch—
Thou holy lie—thou gilded sepulchre—
Thou most consummate hypocrite and knave!
How darest thou take measure of my grief
With thine unnatural hands? What! thou a priest,
And, in the hour of desolation, seek'st
For ransom to be paid in gems and gold
For a pure spirit, which, beside thine own,
Would show as glorious as an angel's form
Contrasted with an Ethiopian slave!
What are thy prayers, that I should purchase them?
Hast thou not fed, for twenty years and more,
Upon the liberal bounty of our house?
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Fawn like a spaniel; and, with readiest lie,
Make coverture of thine obscene attempts
Upon my handmaids? Villain! there they stand,
The blushing proofs of thine impurity.
Hast thou not stroked my lost Alphonzo's head
A thousand times, protesting that no youth
Gave ever promise of a fairer course?
And wouldst thou now retract that word of thine,
And, in the presence of my blighted flower,
Deny the glorious perfume that it bore?
O get thee gone! thou mak'st me wrong the dead,
By wasting moments, consecrate to tears,
In idle railing at a wretch like thee!
CONFESSOR.
This is mere madness! Think not to escape,
By angry words and frantic declamation,
The righteous claims of the defrauded Church.
I stir not hence until her dues are paid.
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That holy Peter will not turn his key
For any of thy race!
COUNTESS.
Thou cormorant
That screamest still for garbage! take thy fill,
And rid me of thy presence. Fabian—
Show him the secret chamber of the Cid,
Wherein the ransom of the Moors is piled:
There is the key—and let him never more
Pollute my threshold! O my lost Alphonzo!
(Swoons.)
CONFESSOR.
Ho, ho! I have it now! The key, the key!
Come quickly, Master Steward!
[Exit. Scene closes.
| Firmilian : Or The Student of Badajoz | |