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!