University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—The Convent.
Aurelio sitting in the Confessional Chair. Agnes kneeling, as at Confession.
Aurelio.
Arise, my daughter, purified from error.
Offences light as these find easy pardon.
[Agnes in rising drops a letter from her bosom. It falls at the Abbot's feet.]
Stay, Agnes, you have dropt a paper.

Agn.
Ah! [Turns suddenly round, and flies to regain it.]


Aur.
Hold! I must read this letter.

Agn.
Then I'm lost.

Aur.
[Reads].

“Dearest Agnes, all is ready
“for your escape. I tremble every moment
“lest your situation be observ'd by your companions.
“Immediate flight can alone save you
“from shame and punishment. At the garden
“door, to-night by twelve, I will be ready to
“receive you.”

This letter, girl, must to the Prioress. [Going.]


Agn.
Yet I conjure you, stay. O holy Sir,
With pity view the error of my youth;
Conceal the guilty weakness of a wretch!
Here, at your feet, and bathing them with tears,
I supplicate for mercy. Hide my fault;
Let not the hand of scorn write shame upon me.
And here I vow, be angels witness for me,
To pass my rest of life in expiation.

Aur.
Amazing confidence! Shall folly stain
The virgin-tended altar of St. Clare?
And shall we cherish foul incontinence?

Agn.
O treat me not so harshly. Think, I charge you,
Of that oppression, which a daughter suffers,
When buried by her parents from the world,
From social joy, from friendship, and from love!
O shield my character from infamy;
Restore my soul to virtue and to Heav'n!

Aur.
You have profan'd the sacred veil; and can you
Conceive yourself entitled to forgiveness?
I must have way. Where is the Prioress?

Agn.
Deem me not harden'd in unseemly passion.
Long ere compulsion forc'd me to these walls,
The partner of my fault possess'd my heart.
Accident only let me know he liv'd.
Could I refuse to meet whom I ador'd?
Till often mingling tears and stol'n embraces,
Caution was lost—he press'd, and ruin found me.
Feel for my state, about to be a mother;
Restore the letter! Save me from destruction!

Aur.
This is to add audacity to guilt.
Mother, St. Agatha, I say. [She catches his robe.]


Agn.
O Father,
Think of the innocent I nourish in me,
Living, unconscious of my agony.
O, do not lay its nursery in the dust,
And make its cradle in its mother's grave!

Aur.
I must not hear you. Where's the Prioress?

Agn.
O cruel, cruel—Mercy! Heav'n sustain me! [She sinks to the ground.]


Enter the Prioress and Nuns.
Aur.
How shall I speak?—Peruse that impious letter,
Dropt by the Sister Agnes at confession.

Agn.
[Starting up.]
Hear me, thou man of sternness, hard, obdurate!
You could have sav'd my honour from contempt,
Have giv'n my days to peace and penitence.
Arrogant confidence in your own strength
Makes you reject the contrite sinner's prayer,
Makes you disdain a mother's agonies,
And therefore on your conscience and your soul
I lay the death of me and of my child.

Aur.
Forbear these ravings—Sisters, take her hence! [They seize her.]


Agn.
No: in the pangs of death I would be heard. [She bursts from them.]

What trials has your boasted virtue vanquish'd?
You fled them, like a coward, unattempted.
But mark! the hour of proof must come to all.—
If in that hour you feel, that man is weak;
While shudd'ring you look back on your own crimes,
O then remember Agnes and her faults!
May yours compar'd plant horror in your heart!
Remember Agnes then,—nor hope for mercy,
But die the frantic victim of despair.

Aur.
Haste to the convent with her—Let her penance
Be strict; and striking terror by its nature!
Should guilt like this experience mitigation,
The place of holiness will be a seat
For loath'd intemperance.—Away with her.

Agn.
O grant me, Heav'n, the mercy they deny me.

[Exeunt.
SCENE, the Garden of Aurelio's Monastery. A rustic Hermitage on one side. The Abbey in the distance.
Enter Eugenio.
Eug.
O miserable state, wretched Miranda!
O fruitless stratagem! Was it for this
I left friends, fortune, family, and honour?
My irresistible and fatal love
Will force its way through all this vain disguise.
Yet how reveal it to him?—How support
The lightnings of his anger?—My weak spirits
Shrink from the thought, and my chill'd heart dies in me. [Sinks down upon the seat in dejection.]


Aurelio enters unseeing and unseen.
Aur.
However painful, I have executed
The task impos'd upon me by my office.
Penance and meditation may perhaps
Preserve the fallen Agnes from perdition.
I've done my duty! Why then do I feel
As if my conduct merited reproach,
As though beyond the size of the offence?
Would I could banish this solicitude!
In this sequester'd spot I may regain
My wonted firmness and tranquillity.

[Seeing Eugenio, he draws back.]
Eug.
[Surveying the inscriptions.]
My heart refuses to admit the truth.
No: Solitude supplies no balm to me.
O could I feel disgust at all mankind;
Did scorn, injustice, treachery, combine
To plant the sullen fiend Misanthropy
Within this breast, how happy might I be!

Aur.
Seek in misanthropy for happiness!
That's a strange thought, Eugenio, pardon me.
One so young too to wish for solitude,
And animate its bower with hate alone!

Eug.
'Twas a vain wish, I own, most holy Father,
Yet gives my only hope of earthly comfort.

Aur.
Alas, Eugenio, churlish solitude
Is seldom the abode of peace or virtue.
While rankling hate inflames the mental wound,
The wretch who flies from men may think him happy;
May bless the hour, that tore him from the scene
Of broken hopes and violated vows.
But time still dries the tear on sorrow's cheek,
And injuries forgot are half aton'd.

Eug.
Yet tell me, Father, when his worldly pangs
Corrode and vex his chasten'd heart no more,
Then does not virtue smile upon his bower,
And fold him in her friendly arms to rest?

Aur.
No! These are visions of the social man.
The hermit views a melancholy waste
Where'er he strays; pores on the setting sun
With vacant eyes; and when the falling dews
Drive him from gloomy, fruitless contemplation,
His cell is void of all the joys of home:
His lonely meal nor satisfies nor cheers:
But on his sinking heart sits blank despair,
Bids him forsake the tasteless food he loaths,
And be a solitary wretch no longer.

Eug.
O that I ne'er had seen this Abbey's walls!

Aur.
Eugenio, whence this change, my tender friend?
What! can you wish that you had never known me?

Eug.
You, you! Ah no—Yet, Father, pity me!
Indulge this loneliness! The crowded world
Can give none willing to partake my sorrows.

Aur.
At least confide them to my friendly trust;
And if my aid, my pity can alleviate—

Eug.
Yours only can. And oh! how willingly
Would I reveal my heavy hoard of anguish,
But that I fear—

Aur.
What should you fear, my son?

Eug.
My weakness known would lose me your esteem;
You would abhor me for the confidence.

Aur.
Abhor you! No—It is not in my power!
You give the greatest pleasure to my life:
Reveal then your affliction, while I swear—

Eug.
Yes, swear, that, be my secret what it may,
You will not force me to forsake the Abbey.

Aur.
I promise it, my friend, by all that's holy.
And now explain, and trust to my indulgence.

Eug.
Hear then with pity, hear, rever'd Aurelio,
And call up ev'ry latent weakness in you,
To aid that pity, while my desperate passion
Bids me confess your suppliant is—Miranda!

[Throws back her cowl.]
Aur.
[after a pause.]
Begone, or let me leave you.

Mir.
Stay, I charge you.
Heav'n ne'er inspir'd a purer flame than mine.
Listen in mercy!

Aur.
Can you nourish hope
I may permit your residence with me?
Ha! whence these tumults beating in my heart?
[Aside.]
Think of the violation of my order!
Nor dare I yield myself to such temptation.

Mir.
O listen to me, most ador'd Aurelio!
Grant me the blessing only to be near you:
Keep my sex secret: nay, forget it quite;
For my affection—hear me!—is so pure,
So far sublim'd from ev'ry frailer thought,
That seraphs burn not with a holier fire.

Aur.
To-morrow you must leave the Monastery.

Mir.
And will you banish your poor friend for ever?
And will you drive her out a wanderer?
Rend the poor heart that only beats for you,
And spurn me to an undeserved grave?
O do not, my Aurelio!

Aur.
Sweet Miranda,
I pity you—but am not to be mov'd.
To-morrow you must leave these walls for ever.

[Going.]
Mir.
Did you not swear?—

Aur.
You know my resolution.
You sue in vain.

Mir.
Go then, barbarian, go.
But this resource you cannot rob me of.
[Draws a dagger.]
Shall I endure the keen reproach of friends,
The vulgar scoff, or, what is worse, the pity?
No: never will I quit these walls alive.

Aur.
Hold, hold—most lovely, most unhappy woman!

Mir.
You are determined, Father: so am I.
The moment that you leave me, here I swear
To finish life and misery together.
Or your lov'd hand shall lead me on to joy—
Or my sure means conduct me to perdition.

Aur.
Stay; thou delightful, beauteous mischief—stay!
Yes, stay, Miranda, though for my destruction!

[Exit.
Mir.
My heav'n is won. My triumph is complete.
Love lights his torch of bliss, and burns in rapture.

[Exit.
SCENE, the Garden Gate of the Convent.
The Prioress and Sister Teresa.
Prio.

The hour draws on. How left you the
weak, wicked one?

Ter.

In agony so violent, as to produce the infant
witness of her guilt.

Prio.

Holy St. Clare! I who have passed my

life in the most mortifying denial, to build my
Convent a reputation, to be sham'd at these years
—and before Aurelio too, of all the world—the
man whose praise would make the fortune of any
Domina in Spain!

Ter.

Has my holy mother determin'd on her
punishment?

Prio.

'Tis likely her extremity may spare me
that task—If she recovers, woe be to the harlot!
In the mean time, Teresa, let no one have access
to her cell. Give out she died this evening.

Ter.

Yet consider: She is of a noble family.
Do you think no search will be made what becomes
of her? If they credit her death, will they
not expect her funeral to be public?

Prio.

Doubtless: that can be easily arranged.
You shall be acquainted with all my plan ere we
retire to rest. Now seek out Pedro, the gardener,
and give him instructions what he must answer to
any enquiry. I'll again to Agnes.

[Exit.
Ter.

Pedro, where are you? Pedro, I say. O
here he comes.

Enter Pedro.

Pedro, Here, here, my sweet saint. What commands
have you for Pedro? By St. Antony, my
afternoon devotion has stretched plaguily into
evening service. Your Malaga is a very dry wine.
I'm rather dry myself—It suits my palate exactly.

Ter.

Pedro, our lady has detected a most shameless
piece of villainy.

Pedro.
[Aside]

O Lord, what's in the wind now?
I'm sober in a moment.

Ter.

The Sister Agnes—

Pedro.
[Aside]

Pray heaven they don't suspect me
to be in the plot!

Ter.

Has been detected in an amour.

Pedro.
[Aside]

Yes, and I shall be detected too,
if I don't get her off.

Ter.

The appointment to go off with her betrayer
this night has fallen into our hands.

Pedro.
[Aside]

Don Raymond will be here in a
moment,—and then I'm ruined.

Ter.

In her condition, no wonder at the effect
of such a discovery! She expired in child-birth
this evening.

Pedro.

Sweet creature! [Aside]
O, don't mention
such shocking offences to me. [Pushing her off.]

Ter.

If any enquiry should be made after her,
you now know what to answer.

[Exit.
Pedro.

Aye, aye. Detected, dead, her infant
too perhaps! How shall I meet Don Raymond?
how stab him to the heart, when it beats high
with the hope of clasping in his arms all that is
dearest to him? Poor gentleman! By Teresa's
silence on that head, they don't know him.—O, if
they find him out, their fury at the disgrace of the
Convent will send him speedily to the Inquisition.
Thank Heaven, they don't suspect me! If they

did, they might torture me, but they should never
make me treacherous. It's about the time. I'll
see that they have actually retired. [Enters the garden.]

Enter Raymond and Lorenzo.
Ray.
I wonder Pedro is not here on guard.
If his attendance now should be prevented,
We have the cords, and scale the garden walls.

Lor.
It wants a trifle only of the hour.

Pedro returns.
Pedro.
They are retired. All's safe. The gates are clos'd.
O yonder sure they are. I'll give the word.
But how reveal the tale? “'Tis almost twelve.”

[Aloud.]
Ray.
He gives the word! How my heart dances. in me!
Pedro, my friend—Where is my beauteous Agnes?
Is she not ready? Nothing has occurr'd
To stop her flight!

Pedro.
Who is that with you, Signor?

Ray.
My noble friend her brother, whose full heart
O'erflows with fondness for her: and he comes
To end captivity and doubt together,
To give her to her Raymond. Why this shyness?
Come forth, my Agnes, now while none observe us.

Lor.
[advances]
Yes, my dear sister—'Tis Lorenzo's self,
That breaks the galling fetters of your bondage,
And gives you freely to the man you love.

Pedro.
I cannot speak to him—my heart is stifled.
The poor, dear lady!

Ray.
Pedro, speak, what mean you?
Why are you dumb? What mean your hands thus clasp'd,
Your bended eyes, that seem to penetrate
The very earth rather than look on me?
Is not my Agnes safe? Are we discover'd?

Pedro.
All that you fear is true. I cannot speak it;
Nor is it fit abrupt to strike your sense
With tidings that would murder as they fell.

Ray.
Yet tell me all. She is detected!—Well—
I can bear that—We'll heal that trivial wound;
No scar of shame shall mark it to the world!
But she is well.

Pedro.
[to Lorenzo, drawing him aside.]
I am not man enough.
Tell him,—(You are a scholar, and will wisely;
You are her brother, therefore will with feeling;)
Tell him her agony at the detection
Brought on the crisis of a mother's pains,
And in the conflict she and all are lost.

[Exit in great emotion.
Ray.
The news that's fitter for a brother's ear
Than for a lover's, tells itself, untold.
Then she is dead? Your silence, my Lorenzo,
Is both my answer and my condemnation!
Reproaches me for a dear sister's death,
And barbs the arrow conscience fixes here.
Sweet innocent! 'tis I, whose selfish love
Brought shame and death upon thee. Cursed Raymond
Alone could blast the promise of thy life!

Lor.
I cannot give thee what I want myself—
Besides, what comfort lies in words?—She's dead!
And you must mourn her loss as her adorer,
I as her brother—
Let us from this place!
And keep yourself conceal'd—You know the peril
That would attend on your discovery!—
My firmness staggers under this rude shock;
And calls for lonely thought, to nerve my mind!
Come, my more wretched friend! My brother, come.

[Leads him off.