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53
SCENE III.
The Study of Calaynos. Calaynos. reading, Oliver transcribing a manuscript.Oliver.
(Rising.)
My lord, this learned manuscript has raised
A crowd of strange conjectures in my mind,
That rush and jostle through my wildered brain,
In wild confusion, without settled purpose.
Calaynos.
(Rising.)
What part stirred up this riot in your head?
Oli.
That part in which it hints at God's design
In the creation of the earth and man.
I oft have wondered how omniscient God
Could take delight in forming things like men:
So full of meanness, yet so full of pride—
So strong in thought, and yet so weak in act—
So foul in nature, so o'ergrown with sin,
Yet destined for a sphere 'neath Him alone.
What pleasure finds He in our paltry deeds,
Begot of selfishness and headstrong will?
What feeling moves Him when the puny thing
Lifts up his voice, and boldly rails at Him?
How deems He, when He sees the myriad souls
That speed to death—their destiny forgot,
The purpose of their being unachieved—
Seeking, unawed, a hell of their own choosing?
Why did He form so fair a stage as this,
To dance His trifling puppet, man, upon?
And, last, does not this whole creation seem
'Neath His contempt, so far above it He?
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Stop, Oliver; you tread on dangerous ground,
A mental bog, that quakes beneath your feet.
These words would seem to come from humbleness,
And low opinion of yourself and man;
Yet are engendered by the rankest pride,
Arrayed in robes of meek humility—
Stop! the next step is infidelity.
Contempt for man begets contempt for God:
He who hates man must scorn the Source of man,
And challenge, as unwise, his awful Maker.
The next step doubt; and then comes unbelief.
Last, you raise man above all else besides,
And make him chiefest in the universe.
So, from a self-contempt, grows impious pride,
That swells your first-thought pigmy to a giant,
And gives the puffed-up atom fancied sway.
God is! Philosophy here ends her flight;
This is the height and term of human reason:
A fact that, like the whirling Norway pool,
Draws to its centre all things, swallows all.
How can you know God's nature to Himself?
How learn His purpose in creating man?
What 's ultimate to man, remains concealed:
Enough for you, to know that here you are—
A thought of God, made manifest on earth.
Ah, yet His voice is heard within the heart;
Faint, but oracular, it whispers there:
Follow that voice, love all, and trust to Him.
O, learn, dear Oliver, to pity one,
Who wanders in this world without a faith
In something greater than his feeble self!
Oli.
Yet thoughts, like these, will rise in spite of me.
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I know it; 't is the taint of primal sin,
That mingles with each thought, mars every act,
That stains our very good with something ill;
And, like the poison which abounds in plants,
Mingles its portion with our healthiest food.
Oli.
Does not this knowledge of man's sinfulness
Awake a doubt of individuals,
And make you cautious, when you deal with men?
Cal.
No; I have predetermined trust in man,
That never alters, till I find him false.
I am above the common herd in power;
No rogue can wrong, but in my ample purse;
Which I scarce feel, which, had he asked, I 'd given.
Oli.
'T is all in vain! I cannot raise a doubt
In his ingenuous nature.—There 's no hope.
I have but slender grounds to doubt Don Luis;
And my own doubts, perchance, may work me ill—
Yet will I go to death, if he 's not false!
I, from Seville, will gain the facts I want;
Meantime— (Aside.)
My lord, much of your friend you'll see;
For you must hunt, and feast, to pass his time,
And show all courtesies that may befit.
Cal.
Nay; he 's too dear a friend to make a stranger.
I will divide my castle and my wealth;
Let him use each, as suits his present mood.
We will not clash in interests: he may hunt,
I study; thus, each may enjoy his bent.
Then Doña Alda will be much with him.
Oli.
Hum, hum! I like not that, I like not that.
[Aside.]
Cal.
She is so full of life, so fond of change;
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Unhood their thoughts at every whim that flies,
And chase the quarry till they bring it down.
Oli.
Heaven grant, these coupled falcons prove not haggards!
[Aside.]
(Calaynos reads, Oliver writes. Scene closes.)
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