University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A chapel. Henriquez discorered on his knees by the confessional, the Friar bending over him, and muttering words in a low voice.
Friar
(aloud).
Rise, son, in humble but assured faith!
Repentance, and these penances endured,
Will gain from heavenly grance full absolution
Of this most guilty deed—of all thy sins.
Rise, and be comforted!
[Raising him, and leading him forward.
Be comforted!
The worst of sinners league not with despair,
But by their own untoward disbelief,
The greatest sin of all. Thou smit'st thy breast,
And shak'st thy drooping head: thou must not doubt.
All sin is finite, mercy infinite;
Why shouldst thou doubt that God will pardon thee?

Hen.
I doubt it not. God's mercy pardons all
Who truly do repent; and O how truly,
How deeply, how intensely I repent!
But in my breast there is a goading sense,
An inward agony, a power repelling
In dire abhorrence every better thought.
The bliss of heaven for me! incongruous hope!
My soul, my fancy, yea my very will
Is link'd to misery; and happiness
Comes to my thoughts like gleams of painful day
To owls and bats, and things obscene and hateful,
Fitted by nature for their dismal dens.
O that I were like such! in the reft rock
Of some dank mine coil'd up, dull and unconscious
Of the loud hammer's sound, whose coming stroke
Should crush me from existence!

Friar.
Alas, alas, my son, have better thoughts.

Hen.
Let them arise in better hearts, for mine
A nest of stinged scorpions hath become,
And only fit for such. Each recollection,
Each waking fancy, like a barbed fang,
Pierces its core with thrilling agony,
Which yields to a succeeding, sharper sting,
And that again to others keener still.
So kind, so dear, such manly, true affection!
Friendship so pure! such noble confidence!
Love that surmounted all things! When, in passion,
I did an outrage on his fiery blood,
What would have hurl'd on any other head
The instant stroke of death—he only waited—

Friar.
Give o'er, my son; thou art too vehement.

Hen.
He waited till my senseless rage was spent,
Then smil'd—O such a sweet, upbraiding smile!
Open'd his arms, and clasp'd me to his heart.
That smile, those open'd arms, I see them now,—
I see them constantly; where'er I turn,
They front me like a vision of delight
Changed to a gorgon terror.
Yet no restraining love did plead for him:
As though he had some common rev'ller been,
All base suggestions were received against him,
Were cherish'd, brooded on by dint of thought,
Work'd to a semblance of consistent truth,
Which, but for this, hateful ingratitude,
All other crimes surpassing, ne'er had found
Credence so wild. Iron heart and ruffian hand!
Ye took your cursed will, and slew the noblest,
The bravest, and the best, like a vile traitor!

[Beating his forchead and striding away.
Friar.
My son, this is wild ecstasy of passion,
Which leads not to that humble true repentance
Our holy church enjoins.

Hen.
(returning).
Or had I met him as an open foe,
With accusation of defiance fairly
Preceding vengeance; but unheard, i' th' dark!
Tremble, ye venerable roofs, ye towers
Of my brave fathers, men without reproach;
Fall on my cursed head, and grind to dust
What bears the honour'd semblance of their son,
Although unmeet to bear the human form.

Friar.
Nay, nay! I pray forbear; this violent grief
For thy soul's weal is most unprofitable.
Betake thyself betimes to prayer and penance.
The sufferings of the body will relieve
The suff'rings of the mind.

Hen.
The sufferings of the body! They are powerless.
[Showing his hand.
See here, short while, in agony of thought,
Pacing the armoury where hangs the mail
Which Juan wore, when in Tolosa's field
We fought the turban'd Moslems side by side;
It was his gift, which I did beg of him,
In the proud joy I felt at his high deeds.
How swell'd my heart! A braver knight in arms
Fought not that day. Bold heart and potent hand,
And lofty mien and eyes that flash'd with valour!
Where run my words? I have forgot their drift.

Friar.
Something which happen'd in the armoury.

Hen.
Ay, in the armoury, as I have said,
I struck my hand, in vehemence of action,
On a spik'd shield, nor knew till afterwards,
When the wild fit was past, and oozing blood
Loaded my clammy touch, that in my flesh
The broken iron was sheath'd.
No; what can corporeal pain or penance do?
That which inflicts the mental wound, which rends
The hold of pride, wrenching the bent of nature;
'Tis that alone hath power. Yet from the effort
Nature starts back; my mind, stunn'd at the thought,
Loses the use of thought.

Friar.
I do not understand you, good my lord.

Hen.
It matters not; you will, perhaps, hereafter.

Friar.
You are at present feeble and exhausted,
And lack repose; retire awhile, my son.
Hark! on the walls without, do you not hear
The warder's call to note the rising morn?

Hen.
The morn! And what have I to do with morn?
The redd'ning sky, the smoking camp, the stir
Of tented sleepers rousing to the call,
The snorting steed, in harness newly dight,
Did please my fancy once. Ay; and the sweetness
Of my still native woods, when, through the mist,
They show'd at early dawn their stately oaks,
Whose dark'ning forms did gradually appear
Like slow approaching friends, known doubtfully.
These pleased me once in better days; but now
My very soul within me is abhorrent
Of every pleasant thing; and that which cheers
The stirring soldier or the waking hind,
That which the traveller blesses, and the child
Greets with a shout of joy, as from the door
Of his pent cot he issues to the air,
Does but increase my misery.—
I loathe the light of heaven: let the night,
The hideous unbless'd night, close o'er me now,
And close for ever!

Friar.
Cease, cease! and cherish not such dark despair.
Retire to your apartment, and in prayer
Beseech Almighty Goodness to have pity
On a perturbed soul.

Hen.
Pray thou for me; I will pray when I can.

Friar.
Hark! steps along the corridor; they come
To say an early mass for the repose
Of the interr'd: they must not find you here.

Hen.
And to the dead they give repose! What mass,
What prayers, what chaunted hymns can to the living
Give respite from this agony of soul?
Alas, alas! there is no cure for this.

[Exeunt.