Chapter 3

_Benedetto_, _Teresa_, _Carlo_, _Pietro_, _Giovanni_, and servants are discovered.

_Ben._ Bless my heart! bless my heart! no signs of them yet! tis past mid-day, and yet not coming? surely some misfortune has happened, or they must have been in sight ere this.

_Teresa._ Your impatience makes the time seem long, Benedetto; else you’d know, that on these great occasions it wouldn’t be for the viceroy’s dignity to move with more expedition. Besides, all the grandees of Messina are gone out to receive and conduct him to his palace; and with such a crowd of gallies and gondolas, take what care they may, I’m sure, twill be a mercy, if half the good company dont get tumbled into the water.

_Ben._ Well, well, Teresa, perhaps you’re in the right; but no wonder, that every minute appears an age, till I once more embrace the knees of my excellent master. However, I’ll be calm, Teresa, I’ll be calm; I’ll wait quietly for the arrival of the gondolas without uttering a single impatient word. Only, my good Carlo, do just run up the leads of the palace, and try whether you can’t see the gallies coming at a distance.

_Carlo._ That I’ll do with all my heart, master steward, and I’ll make what speed I can.

_Ben._ Oh, I’m not at all impatient; I assure you, I can wait very contentedly for your return: so pray dont hurry yourself; only my dear good fellow, do just make as much haste as you can.

[Exit _Carlo_.

_Ben._ Bless my heart! what an agitation I am in! oh, how happy will Sicily be under this good man’s government! how happy too will it make the poor marchioness, when after an absence of four long years she again embraces her invaluable brother.

_Teresa._ The poor marchioness indeed! well, Benedetto, for my part I feel no pity for misfortunes which people bring upon themselves. Why did not the marchioness take her daughter with her to the court of Naples? why did a mother ever consent to trust her daughter out of her sight! but forsooth she must be left behind in a convent, where soon afterwards an epidemic complaint attacks the sisterhood, and Josepha, abandoned to the care of strangers, sinks into an untimely grave, the victim of her mother’s neglect and imprudence.

_Ben._ But the dangers of the voyage-- Her confessor had so often assured her that Josepha would be more safe in the convent--

_Teresa._ More safe? more safe indeed: where can a daughter be more safe than in the arms of her mother? and then as to her confessor--

_Pietro._ What, the prior of St. Mark’s? he with that humble hypocritical air-- who speaks so softly and bows so low--

_Teresa._ Ay, ay; the same-- oh, I can’t bear the sight of him!

_Pietro._ Nor I.

_Giovanni._ Nor I.

_Ben._ Stop, stop! not so violent, my good friends, not so violent; for as to the prior, you must permit me to tell you that for my part, I can’t say I like him any better than yourself. And yet, signor Venoni, who is a man of great sense, believes that since the world was a world, there never was such a saint as this father Cœlestino!

_Teresa._ Ah! poor signor Venoni! where is he now, Benedetto?

_Ben._ Still in St. Mark’s monastery, whither he fled in despair on losing his destined bride, the lady Josepha.

_Pietro._ And his senses-- are they right again?

_Ben._ Why, as he believes father Cœlestino to be a saint, I should rather suppose, that they must still be very wrong indeed.

_Pietro._ Perhaps that friar, who twice this morning has inquired at the palace whether the viceroy was arrived, is the bearer of some message from Venoni?

_Ben._ Very likely, very likely! and therefore, Pietro, should that friar call again----

_Carlo._ (_appearing at the balcony of the palace_) Benedetto, Benedetto! the gallies, the gallies!

_Ben._ Indeed! are you sure? yes, yes, yes, I hear the music! (_shouting without_) and hark, Teresa! hark! the mob are huzzaing like---- bless my heart, I shall certainly expire at his feet for joy! they come! oh! look, look, look!

[A marine procession arrives-- the _viceroy_ lands from the state-galley, accompanied by the grandees of _Messina_, who conduct him to the palace gate, and take their leaves of him respectfully. While the grandees, &c. retire, _Benedetto_ and the servants pay their homage to the viceroy, who receives them graciously. _Teresa_ and the rest then busy themselves in taking charge of the baggage, and retire into the palace. The viceroy motions to _Benedetto_ to remain.]

_Viceroy._ (_to the servants, as they go off_) Farewell, my friends, and for your own sakes take good care of yonder chests; part of their contents will convince you, that during my absence your fidelity and attachment have still been present to my recollection.

[Exeunt _Teresa_ and _servants_.

_Ben._ Ay! ay! just the same kind master! ever attentive to others!

_Vice._ And without the attention of others, how could I exist myself? good Benedetto, in imparting pleasure we receive it in return: to make ourselves beloved is to make ourselves happy; and never can others love that man, who is not capable himself of loving others.

_Ben._ My dear, dear lord!

_Vice._ But inform me, Benedetto; my sister?--

_Ben._ The marchioness, my lord, is still inconsolable; and in truth, she has good cause to be so. The marquis wished his daughter to be married immediately; my lady chose to defer it for a year, and my lady was obstinate. The marquis wished to take his daughter with him to Naples; my lady chose she should remain in a convent; and my lady was obstinate. Her daughter fell ill there, and died; my lady says, that she shall never recover her death, and it is but fair that my lady should be now as obstinate on this point, as she has formerly been on every other.

_Vice._ Beloved unfortunate Josepha!-- and Venoni----?

_Ben._ Good lack, poor gentleman! he was absent, when this sad event took place: for you must know, my lord, that when after the departure of her parents he went to visit his betrothed at the convent-grate, the sour-faced old abbess would’nt suffer him to see the lady Josepha. Nay, what is the strangest circumstance of all, she produced a letter from the marchioness commanding positively, that during her absence no person whatever should have access to her daughter.

_Vice._ Most unaccountable!

_Ben._ The poor signor was almost frantic with surprise and grief: away he flew for Naples; contrary winds for awhile delayed his arrival; but at length he did arrive, and hastened to plead his cause to the parents of his mistress.

_Vice._ And was the marquis aware of his lady’s strange orders to the abbess?

_Ben._ Oh, no! and Venoni returned to Messina, authorized to see Josepha as often and for as long as he pleased. Alas, he was destined never to see her more! the report had reached me, that a contagious disorder had broken out in the Ursuline convent. I hastened thither. I inquired for the dear lady; “she was ill!” I implored permission to see her; the marchioness’s commands excluded me. I returned the next day; “she was worse.” Another four-and-twenty hours elapsed and-- merciful heaven! she was dead!

_Vice._ (_concealing his tears_) Josepha! thou wert dear to me as my own child, Josepha! (_after a moment’s silence, recovering himself_) And where is Venoni now?

_Ben._ In the monastery of St. Mark, of which your sister’s confessor is now the superior.

_Vice._ What! the father Cœlestino?

_Ben._ Even he-- Venoni’s grief brought him to the brink of the grave. They say, that his senses were disordered for a time. But it is certain that he only exchanged the bed of sickness for a cell in St. Mark’s monastery, where he shortly means to pronounce his vows.

_Vice._ What! so early in life will he quit the world? his immense wealth too----

_Ben._ His wealth? ah, my good lord, I suspect tis that very wealth which has proved the cause of his seclusion from the world. The prior Cœlestino knew of his riches, and kindly came to comfort him in his distress. He talked to him-- he soothed him-- he flattered him-- he is as subtle as a serpent, and as smooth and slippery as an eel! he wormed himself into Venoni’s very heart; the deluded youth threw himself into his arms, and the seducer bore him to the convent.

_Vice._ Benedetto, he shall not long remain there. My sister’s afflictions claim my first visit; but that duty paid, I’ll hasten to St. Mark’s, dissipate the illusions by which Venoni’s judgment is obscured, and tell him plainly that the man commits a crime, who is virtuous like him, and denies mankind the use and example of his virtues. Venoni has youth, wealth, power, abilities: let him not tell me, that he quits the world, because it contains for him nothing but sufferings; he must remain in it, to preserve others from suffering like himself. Let him not tell me, that his own prospects are forever closed; the noblest is still entirely open to him, that of brightening the prospects of others!-- oh! shame on the selfish being who looks upon life as worthless, while it gives him the power to impart comfort, or to relieve distress; who, because happiness is dead to himself, forgets that for others it still exists; and who loses not the sense of his own heart’s anguish while contemplating benefits with which his own hand’s bounty has blest his fellow creatures! [Exit.

_Ben._ Ah! very true, my good master! all very true! but lord, lord, lord! it is really mighty difficult to forget one’s own dear self. Heaven knows, poor sinner that I am, a few twinges of the gout are always enough to make me as hard-hearted as a rock of adamant; and even when dear lady Josepha died, I’m almost afraid I should have felt very little for any body but myself, if just at that time I had happened to have a touch of the toothach! ah! we are all poor weak creatures! poor weak creatures! poor weak creatures! (_going_)

Father _Michael_ enters hastily.

_Michael._ Friend! hist! friend!

_Ben._ (_returning_) Well, friend! hey a monk? I beg your pardon then; well, father!

_Mich._ The viceroy is at length arrived?

_Ben._ He is.

_Mich._ Conduct me to him: I must speak with him instantly.

_Ben._ Stop, stop! no hurry-- the viceroy is already gone out.

_Mich._ Unfortunate! my business is of such importance----

_Ben._ Well, well! I dare say, some few hours hence----

_Mich._ My superior knows not that I am absent; I have ventured here without permission, I dare not stay, and perhaps my return may be impossible!

_Ben._ Indeed! that’s a pity! and is your superior then so rigid, that he would’nt excuse-- (_looking at his habit_) ha, ha! I see now how it is. Is not your superior the prior Cœlestino?

_Mich._ The same! and-- (_looking round anxiously, and lowering his voice_) and I am no favourite with him.

_Ben._ No? that’s very much to your credit.

_Mich._ (_acquiring confidence_) Nor am I partial to him.

_Ben._ Nor I neither, heaven knows! there’s my hand upon it. Father, you’re a very sensible honest man.

_Mich._ You appear to be well acquainted with the prior’s character: but for heaven’s sake do not betray me!

_Ben._ I betray you? to be sure one ought not to wish one’s neighbour