The Mirror of Taste, and Dramatic Censor Part 14

_Prior._ True; therefore should he demand to see our novice, even let his wish be gratified-- this hated youth is ours beyond reprieve, this Venoni whom Josepha preferred to me, this Venoni to whom alone I impute my disappointment. I had worked upon the superst.i.tion and enthusiasm of the weak-minded Hortensia; I had persuaded her, that happiness and virtue existed not, except within the walls of a convent; already she saw in fancy her daughter's head encircled with a wreath of sainted glory, and she placed her in the Ursuline convent, in hopes that the example of the nuns might induce her to join their sisterhood-- Josepha was in my power defenceless!

_Jer._ And yet she defeated your views!

_Prior._ She did, oh, rage! though snares were laid for her at every step, though where'er she turned, her eye met seductions of such enchanting power, as might have thawed the frozen bosom of chast.i.ty herself! but virtuous love already occupied Josepha's whole heart; and no room was left for impurer pa.s.sions: or if for a moment she felt her wavering senses too forcibly a.s.sailed, she only p.r.o.nounced the name of Venoni, and turned with disgust from every thought of pleasure, whose enjoyment would have made her less worthy of his love. But the hour of my revenge approaches! Venoni----

_Jer._ His last abode is prepared: his wealth once secured to our monastery, the donor shall be soon disposed of.

_Prior._ I hear a noise-- tis Venoni: ever about this hour he comes to bathe yonder grating with his tears. Let us retire: solitude and the ideas which Josepha's tomb suggests, can but increase the confusion of his mind, and rivet the chains which bind him in our power. He is here: follow me in silence.

[Exeunt.

[As they go off on one side, _Venoni_ enters on the other: he walks slowly; his arms are folded, and his head reclines on his shoulder.

_Venoni._ It was no mistake! oh, man, man! frail and inconstant! yes; for an instant I felt pleasure, and yet Josepha is no more; but the dream was of thee, my beloved, and oh! it was so fair, so lovely!

however it is gone, and I am myself again; again am fit for the dead, and I hasten to thee my Josepha! (_turning to the grate_) I salute ye, cruel bars, which separate my beloved and me: another day has past, and again I mourn beside you! ye are cold: (_kissing them_) so is Josepha's heart; so too will mine be shortly. (_rapidly_) Yet while still that heart shall palpitate, while one spark of that fire still lives in it which was kindled by her eyes, still will I mourn beside you, cruel bars; still kneel and mourn beside you! (_kneeling, and resting his head against the grate_)

The _viceroy_ enters.

_Viceroy._ That plaintive voice-- I cannot be mistaken. Tis he! tis Venoni! my friend!

_Venoni._ (_starting_) Benvolio! you within these walls! ah, did I not entreat-- I told you, I repeat it now, I'm dead to the world. I exist for no one-- for nothing-- but grief and the memory of Josepha. Leave me! leave me! (_he resumes his despondent att.i.tude_)

_Vice._ Not till I have obtained one last, last interview. Venoni, I claim it in the name of that paternal friends.h.i.+p which I have borne you for so many years, and which even now I feel for you as strong as ever. I claim it in the name of that sacred union, once so near connecting us by the most tender ties: I claim it in the name of her, who while living was alike the darling of both our hearts, and in whose grave the affection of both our hearts alike lies buried-- Venoni, I claim it in the name of Josepha.

_Venoni._ (_quitting the grate_) Of Josepha? say on you shall be heard.

_Vice._ Tell me then, cruel friend, what is your present object? why bury yourself in this abode of regret and sorrow, of repentance and despair? what reason, nay, what right have you to deprive society of talents, bestowed on you by Nature to employ for the benefit of mankind?

and what excuse can you make for resigning into the hands of strangers that wealth which it is your sacred duty to distribute with your own?

heaven has endowed you with talents capable of making your own existence useful; and your ungrateful neglect renders the gift of no avail: heaven has bestowed on you wealth, capable of making the existence of others happy; and your selfish indolence declines an office which the saints covet, and for which even the angels contend!

_Venoni._ Friend! Benvolio! in pity!

_Vice._ You are neither weak nor credulous: vulgar prejudices, superst.i.tious terrors, enthusiastic dreams have never subjugated a mind whose innate purity can have left you nothing to fear, and whose genuine piety must have made you feel, that every thing is yours to hope. Why then do I find you in this seclusion? what good is to arise from this servile renunciation of yourself, this forgetfulness of the dignity of human nature, this disgraceful sinking under afflictions which are the common lot of all mankind? tis but too frequently the fate of man to encounter calamity; but to bear it with resignation is always his duty.

Now speak, Venoni, and say, what arguments can defend your present conduct.

_Venoni._ (_weakly and despondingly_) Benvolio-- I am wretched! I have lost every thing; my strength of mind is broken; my heart is the prey of despair.

_Vice._ Of despair? oh, blush to own it! true, you have met with sorrows; and who then is exempt from them? true, your hopes have been deceived; accident has dissolved your dream of happiness; death has deprived you of the mistress of your choice: but you are a man and a citizen; you have a country which requires your services, and yet, oh shame! you resign yourself to despair, Venoni, where is your fort.i.tude?

_Venoni._ Fort.i.tude? oh! I have none-- none but to sue for death at the hand of heaven: had I possessed less fort.i.tude, my own hand would have given me what I sue for long since!

_Vice._ And say, that death be the only blessing left yourself to wish for; is it then only for yourself, that you wish for blessing? say, that your heart be dead to pleasure, ought it not still to live for virtue?

your prospects of happiness may indeed be closed, but the field of your duties remains still open. Mark me, Venoni; life may become to man but one long scene of misery; yet surely the spirit of benevolence should never perish but with life.

_Venoni._ Nor shall mine perish even then, Benvolio. In the hands of those virtuous men to whom I shall confide my treasures, they will become the patrimony of the widow and the orphan, of the wanderer in a foreign land, and of him on whom the hand of sickness lies heavy. When my bones shall be whitened by time, still shall my riches feed the fainting beggar. When this heart, itself so heavy, shall be mouldered away into dust, my bounty shall still make light the heavy hearts of my fellow-sufferers! yes; even in his grave, Venoni shall still make others happy!

_Vice._ And how can you hope that these friars will perform that duty hereafter, which you now through indolence refuse to perform yourself?

you, who decline the task of distributing your wealth to advantage, how can you expect to find in strangers the spirit of benevolence more active?-- would you have your fortune well administered, at least set yourself an example to your heirs: summon your fort.i.tude, return to the world once more, and----

_Venoni._ I cannot! tis impossible! I am here!-- here I must remain. My understanding impaired-- a wretched creature, quite alone in the wide, wide, world-- a feeble reed, crushed and broken by the tempest-- I required support-- I require it still-- the superior of this house-- the good man regrets my beloved, and mingles his tears with mine. I have found no one but him whose heart was open to my affliction-- who would listen to my complaints unwearied-- who would talk to me of Josepha.

I am here-- and Josepha-- she is here too! nothing separates us except those bars. I am near her grave-- I am near her-- I live near her-- I will die near her! (_leaning against the grate_)

_Vice._ The superior of this house? and are you sure you know his real character? mark me, unfortunate! yet should we be overheard----

_Venoni._ We are alone-- proceed.

_Vice._ Know you a friar, called in this monastery by the name of Michael?

_Venoni._ I have seen the man; and now it strikes me that unusual care has been always taken to prevent our being left alone.

_Vice._ This Michael has written to me-- but I know not if I ought-- Venoni, should you betray----

_Venoni._ How, Benvolio? you doubt----

_Vice._ I doubt the soundness of your head, not the sentiments of your heart-- yet it must be risked-- Venoni, I came hither in search of father Michael-- I heard your voice, and hastened to embrace you once more. Doubtless, I shall not be permitted to see this friar; be that your care. He writes, that what he has to disclose is of extreme importance; that it concerns-- but you shall hear his letter-- (_reading_) "I have secrets to divulge of consequence too great to be confided to paper. Suffice it, that your friend Venoni is in danger; totally in the power of his most cruel enemy----"

[At this moment the _prior_ enters; the viceroy hastily conceals the letter in his bosom.]

_Prior._ (_in an humble voice_) I heard that your excellence was in the convent, and was unwilling to deprive you of an uninterrupted interview with your friend. But the hour is come, when our rules enjoin us solitude; pardon me then, when my duty compels me to observe----

_Vice._ I understand you, father; it is time that I should retire: yet surely your rules are not so strict as to prohibit my conversing with Venoni for one half hour more?

_Prior._ It grieves me to inform your excellence, that I have already in some degree infringed upon the scrupulous observance of our regulations.

It may not be.

_Venoni._ How, father? a single half hour surely----

_Prior._ Ah, what do you request of me, my son? the viceroy's visit aims at depriving me of my dearest friend; of that friend whom I have selected from all mankind; and shall I not oppose the perseverance of his efforts? I know well the count Benvolio's influence over your mind, and tremble at the power of his persuasions. I cannot, and I ought not to abandon you to the tender anxious insinuations of generous but misjudging friends.h.i.+p; and I must not permit your eyes to dwell too long upon the deceitful pleasures of that world, which you have quitted with so much reason, and to which with such mistaken kindness your friends would force you back.

_Vice._ Father, this eagerness----

_Prior._ You have promised to be my brother, to be that which is far dearer, my friend: and shall I renounce a treasure so invaluable at the very moment, which ought to make it mine forever? No, no! Venoni, nor will I fear your exacting from me so great a sacrifice. He whose tears I have dried, whose sorrows I have shared-- who has told me a thousand times that I was his only consolation, and that my sympathy shed the only gleam over his days of mourning. No! never will I believe that he will now reward my friends.h.i.+p with caprice, with desertion, with ingrat.i.tude so cruel, so cutting, so unlooked for!

_Venoni._ Oh, good father-- I know not how----

_Vice._ You talk, sir, much of your friends.h.i.+p? I too profess to feel for Venoni no moderate share of that sentiment; and I think, that I prove my friends.h.i.+p best, when I advise him not to renounce a world, to which he owes the service of his talents and the example of his virtues.

Yes, sir, yes! I advise Venoni to return into the world-- and at least in giving that advice, I am certain that no one will suspect me of having views upon his fortune.

_Pri._ (_to Venoni_) You hear this accusation, my son! you hear it, and are silent! you, who are acquainted with my whole heart; you who know well how little I regard your wealth; that wealth, which perhaps I might desire without a crime, since it would only be placed in my hands, in order that it might pa.s.s into those of the unfortunate: that wealth which you would aid me yourself to distribute, and which-- you turn away your eyes? you are afraid to encounter mine? the blow is then struck.

I see-- I feel too well that my friend is lost to me!

_Venoni._ (_eagerly_) Oh, no, no, no! never shall I forget the share which you have taken in my misfortunes; never shall I forget how much I owe to your consoling attentions, to your sympathy and pity. But yet-- I confess-- Benvolio's remonstrances-- the duties which he has recalled to my contemplation-- my country's claims upon my services----

_Vice._ (_embracing him_) Courage, my friend! proceed! dare to become a man once more, and restore to your native land that most precious treasure, a virtuous citizen!

_Pri._ (_with a.s.sumed gentleness_) I have no more to say: since such is your choice, return to the world, my son; I oppose it no longer.

Undoubtedly you will there meet with pleasures and indulgences, such as the sad and silent cloister could little hope to offer you. Perhaps you act wisely; perhaps in the tumult of society, surrounded by gay and fascinating objects who will spare no pains to charm and please you, at length you may succeed in forgetting the unfortunate, to whose remembrance you once were prepared to sacrifice every thing.

_Venoni._ (_starting in horror at the idea_) I! I forget her! forget Josepha!