 | Aurelio And Miranda |  |
ACT I.
SCENE I.
—The Cathedral Church of Madrid. A number of persons going out from the service.Lorenzo and Christoval come forward.
Lorenzo.
Well, Christoval, you see your sister Miranda
is not in the church.
Chris.
No; but I am, and that's equally strange.
I have told you of her sudden manner of quitting
home?
Lor.
Yes, and it is no slight instance of the ardor
with which that sex pursues its object, whatever
it be.
Chris.
She was upon a visit at the Countess Osorio's
seat, when she first heard this Aurelio preach:
and the last intelligence I had of her was, that
noon, and night, whenever there was a
chance of hearing him.
Lor.
I must confess, I half excuse Miranda. In
spite of the lovely object who sat opposite, there
were times when his eloquence drew me so irresistibly,
that beauty could only divide the hour
with him.
Chris.
He awes me by his manner, I think—the
severity of his eye, the loftiness of his carriage,
the authority of his voice.
Lor.
Nay, let us do him justice. His piety is
unaffectedly grand, and his learning profound;
and his command over the passions instantaneous
and absolute.
Chris.
I only wish the truant Miranda was here
to complete this eulogium. My life on't, she
would discover the grace and beauty of his person,
which you have omitted—the more striking
to women, as, from his order, they can cherish no
hope. O, nothing is so precious to a female as
what's unattainable. But who are these?
Lor.
Ha! why the young one is the sweetest
creature in the universe; the very enchantress
that bewitched me just now. I'll accost her. Do
you amuse the old woman, while I endeavour to
get from her, who, and what she is.
Chris.
And so, I must make the old hen cluck,
while you inveigle the young pullet!
What! not in friendship, Don?
Chris.
Well, well—you know that way I'm your
slave.
Enter Antonia and Leonella.
[They approach them ceremoniously.]
Lor.
Well, Signora, what do you think of our
renowned Preacher? the triumphant Orator! the
Man of Holiness as he is styled!
Ant.
He surpasses all my expectations. His
eloquence sunk deeply in my heart. The very
sound of his voice affected me in a manner I cannot
describe—though never heard before, it did
not seem strange to me—it pierced my very soul,
and commanded my affection as well as reverence.
Lor.
What think you of his countenance?
Ant.
It is of the first order of manly beauty:
yet the searching severity of his eye, whilst it announces
the keenness of his scrutiny, warns you of
the terror of his rebuke. His is the front of purity,
and vice must be abash'd before it.
Lor.
See! He is returning to his monastery.
[The organ plays a fugue, while Aurelio, preceded by boys with incense, and followed by the Fathers of his Monastery, walks from the top of the stage down, and quits the cathedral, making signs of his benediction upon the people.]
Leon.
Well, for my part, I wonder what can
him! Mercy upon me, I did but give a peep up,
as it were, at his face, and he frowned so sternly
upon me, that I tremble every joint of me.
Chris.
O, 'tis very distressing indeed, to be measured
in that way by a large bright, black, piercing
eye, reading all that we meant should lie hidden
in the bottom of that sacred well, one's own conscience.
Ant.
With what humility, yet, at the same time,
with what dignity did he retire from our admiring
veneration!
Leon.
Dignity! Why he is doubtless a person
of quality.
Chris.
Ah, Signora, one may see how thoroughly
you observe mankind! What wisdom! what experience,
you manifest!
Leon.
O, Saint Barbara! You are too polite,
Signor.
[Christoval draws Leonella a little aside.
Lor.
Without absolutely saying so, the chance,
I confess, is, that he had no noble origin. Report
says, that, while a child, he was observed by
some of the Monks among a gang of gypsies, who
begged constantly at the Abbey-gates, and who,
noticing his quick parts, took him into the Monastery
—there, at the proper age, he made his
profession.
Ant.
What is mentioned of his conduct?
Lor.
That his mortification and penance have
himself, his severity to others is unbounded. This
would be thought blameable; but he tempers the
austerity of his religion with so much generosity
of sentiment, his charity is so large, and his judgment
so enlightened, that he is become the idol,
as well as the wonder of all ranks throughout
Madrid.
Ant.
I regret that my retirement in Murcia
kept me so long from the knowledge of your
city's chief ornament.
Lor.
Do you intend to stay long here? If you
will allow myself, (Don Lorenzo) or Don Christoval,
my friend, to use our influence for your service,
I believe you will find that the attention we
shall be proud of may not be unworthy of your
acceptance.
[Christoval and Leonella advance.]
Leon.
Never tell me, Signor. His time is not
yet come. Averse to the sex! Let me see such
a man insensible to charms he might meet with!
Let me find beauty in tears (and that's always irresistible)
confessing at his feet, (for Heaven knows
we have all of us some peccadillos upon our consciences,)
and then, what becomes of his apathy?
Chris.
Why indeed, Madam, if you were thus
before him:—
Leon.
I vow, Signor Cavalier, you are the politest,
finest gentleman!
[They retire.
Ant.
I know not why I should resist your curiosity,
and, though a stranger to me, I feel no repugnance
to gratify it. I am the niece of the late
Duke de Medina. My birth cost my mother her
life. My father did not long survive her. The
Duke, my uncle, received us: but he is lately
dead too; and a very distant branch of the family
has succeeded to the title and domains. Upon
coming to take possession, he unfeelingly cast us
out, with no other means, than what the few jewels
I could call my own might produce. O, had
my brother lived!—
Leon.
Yes, Signor, she tells you truth. The
dear child's dependance is now solely upon me,—
unless his Majesty is graciously pleased to order
the selfish Don Pedro to make her a suitable allowance,
or, if that cannot be done, render her
indebted for independance to his own royal
bounty.
Chris.
How long has your brother been dead?
Ant.
I never knew him:—he died ere I was
born—at least he died to us—for in his infancy he
was lost; and all the search that could be made
was ineffectual—nor have the faintest tidings of
him reach'd us since.
Lor.
May I hope you will allow me to second
your application to the King?—My family is possess'd
you where I may learn more fully—
Ant.
That I must absolutely forbid. As you
would retain my favourable opinion, here we must
take leave.
Leon.
(to Chris.)
Well, I will not refuse my
hand.
[Chris. kisses her hand, and Leon. and Ant. exeunt.
Lor.
Loveliest of your sex, farewell!
Chris.
Don Lorenzo!
Lor.
What say'st thou, Christoval?
Chris.
I beseech you provide yourself with a
new friend. Flesh and blood can't bear the service
you put me upon. I am going to the druggist's.
Lor.
Why, man, why?
Chris.
To buy hemony, to be sure. A full
pound of myrrh, cinnamon, and aloes, would not
sweeten my imagination.
Lor.
Her eyes did seem two stars new shot from heav'n,
The messengers of blessedness to man!
Chris.
Nay, we had eyes that shot too, and
very furiously. Their squint kept me up a kind
of a cross-fire, like the two salient angles of a
bastion; 'twas death to come between 'em.
Lor.
Don Christoval, look yonder at that man,
Close-muffled in his cloak—just by the pillar.
He's lurking for some mischief here, I doubt.
Chris.
I'm sure of it. Ah! well-said, Signor Shadow!
See, how he drops a letter at the foot
Of old cold stone St. Francis, hard as marble
Can make him 'gainst a lover's rhapsodies.
Lor.
And now he plants himself behind the column,
To watch th'event. But look, what's this approaching?
Chris.
The fine old hen St. Clare, and all her chickens—
Some of 'em game; my life upon it.
Enter the Prioress followed by Nuns.
CHORUS.
“Mark! how the sacred calm, that breathes around,
“Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease!”
[Agnes, in the procession, drops her rosary at the foot of the Statue; and stooping takes up the letter.]
Lor.
By hell, my sister Agnes.
[Raymond goes out satisfied.
Nay, nay, my Spaniard, you shall not escape me.
[Rushes after with Christoval.
CHORUS.
“In still small accents whispering from the ground
“A grateful earnest of eternal peace.”
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
—A Street before the Cathedral.Raymond enters hastily, followed by Lorenzo and Christoval.
Lor.
Stay, Signor Lurker!
And tell me what clandestine correspondence
You carry on with this chaste sisterhood?
Ray.
That voice! Lorenzo, is it you, my friend?
Well met—I could not hope for this encounter;
Yet willingly refer me to your justice.
Say, is not that Don Christoval?
Chris.
The same. Come here in search of
my sister Miranda. I could have wish'd myself
better employment, than hunting after a capricious
woman.
Ray.
Lorenzo, you are prepossess'd, I see.
Go to my lodgings: there I will detail,
As truly as I do my sins to Heav'n,
All that has pass'd between me and your sister.
Take heed, Don Raymond! By my life I swear,
If any indirect and treacherous means
Have warp'd my sister Agnes from her duty,—
Ray.
You shall behold my very secret soul;
And must be satisfied.
Chris.
We will be satisfied.
Lor.
Come then.—Don Raymond!—but you shall have hearing.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
—The Cell of Aurelio.Enter Aurelio—the Fathers Hilario and Bonaventure attending him.
Aur.
Brethren, I thank you. Yet, while lowly bending
For courtesy so gratifying,—let me
Be just to your most exemplary virtues:—
Under the fost'ring dew of holiness,
If I have yielded worthy fruits of piety,
Be all the praise to you, and to your order.
Hil.
We bless the hour, when the especial love
Of favouring Heaven gave you to our charge.
Bon.
Be yours the glory, that we boast a man
Whom vice could never warp.
Hil.
Be all your meditations, visions, pray'rs,
Propitious as your eloquence.
[Exeunt Monks.
Aur.
Farewell.
Yes, here indeed I triumph! here indulge
It is my pride, to write upon the heart
The words of truth in characters of fire.
O sacred pledge of unpolluted life!
Earnest, that abstinence from vain delights,
Passions subdu'd and sacrific'd to duty,
Are sanctify'd, and minister to Heav'n.
And yet—am I indeed secure from frailty?
A man—whose very nature leads to error:
Here, in retirement, that I liv'd unstain'd
Is scarce a wonder.—Summon'd to the world,
Courted by wealth and power, and wit, and—beauty,—
How will Aurelio stand the tempting siege?
May not the mounds of abstinence give way,
And nature's passions, like a flood, o'erwhelm me?
[A knocking heard.]
Who knocks there?
[Eugenio without.]
Eug.
'Tis Eugenio.
Aur.
Enter, son.
Enter Eugenio, with a basket of flowers.
Eug.
Most holy Father, pardon this intrusion.
I have a friend lies dangerously sick,
And would entreat your pray'rs in his behalf.
To piety like yours Heav'n will be bounteous.
Aur.
I will remember him at morn and eve,
And in the solemn hour, when midnight calls
Your poor sick friend shall never be forgotten.
What have you in your basket, kind Eugenio?
Eug.
Some of those flow'rs, which most, I think, you love.
Let me arrange them, Father, in your cell.
[He does so.
Aur.
There's something strangely winning in this boy:
These simple acts of friendship from him charm me.
Great benefits flow rarely through the world:
But calm attentions, like a gentle wind,
Waft our frail vessel down the stream of time,
In one unruffled, even, steady voyage,
Till we are harbour'd in eternity.
[To Eugenio.]
I saw you not at church this morning, son.
Eug.
Yet I was present, Father. Grateful as I am
For your protection, counsel, nay esteem,
Ah! could I fail, to witness all your triumph?
Aur.
My triumph! O, my son, how vain a thought!
The pow'r was Heav'n's—to Heav'n be all the glory!—
Then you were satisfied with my discourse?
Eug.
How say you, satisfy'd! O never heard I
Such eloquence, save once—save only once.
Aur.
When was that once, Eugenio?
When you preach'd
On the late Abbot's sudden malady.
Aur.
And were you present when I knew you not?
Eug.
Ah! had I perish'd, ere I saw that day,
What endless sufferings had my youth escap'd!
Aur.
How! Sufferings at your age, my son!
Eug.
Yes, sufferings,
Which known would raise your anger and your pity—
The torment and the transport of my being.
Yet here I hop'd my bosom would feel tranquil,
But apprehension tortures me ev'n here.
O God, how wretched is a life of fear!
In the noviciate I have enter'd on
I've giv'n up all the world, and its delights;
Your friendship is the only blessing left me.
If I lose that—O, if I lose that, Father,
I tremble for th'effects of my despair.
Aur.
You apprehend the loss of my esteem!
Be comforted; it is no transient sentiment,
Lightly bestowed, capriciously resum'd,
'Tis merit only claims, and will preserve it.
But for your suff'rings, let that friendship teach you,
To trust me with their cause, and if relief
Be in my power—
Eug.
'Tis in no power but yours.
Yet, ah! you must not know them—Did I dare
Avow them to you, you would hate and loath me,
And give me to the scorn of all mankind.
Aur.
Impossible, my son. Let me entreat you.
Eug.
I cannot—dare not—Ah, enquire no further!
[Exit in great emotion.
Aur.
[after a pause.]
Mysterious youth! Within two little months
How deeply is he rooted in my heart!
His voice affects me ev'n to melancholy!
His manners are the gentlest sure on earth!
As far as his retiring modesty
Allows the eye to note his lineaments,
His features seem of female loveliness!
[Bell rings.
But hark!—I must prepare me to attend
The Sisters of St. Clare in the Confessional.—
That duty done, my dearest care will be
To win the confidence of this poor boy,
And heal, or share, the sorrows of his breast.
[Exit.
| Aurelio And Miranda | |