ACT IV
Scene: The Chapel of the Castle—or Chapel of the Magdalen—a few hours later. It is of stone, low-arched, gloomy, and adorned with Byzantine mosaics of gaunt saints on backgrounds of gold. The altar is in the rear, and above it a large window, through which pours the still moon. In front of it, to either side, rise two pillars supporting the roof, and on one of them, halfway up, stands a stone image of the Magdalen. Forward are two other pillars whose bases form seats. The right wall has, set midway, a large door hung with heavy curtains. In the rear are smaller doors leading to a sacristy. The altar lamp and a few tapers burn. Alessa enters, rubbing her eyes as if to clear them of vision, looks around, then calls uncertainly—
Alessa. Good father! Father Moro!... He is not here.
(Rubs her eyes again.)
The dead are strange! I knew not all their power.
It is as if her spirit still imprisoned
Hovered beneath the pallor of her face
And strove to speak. Good father!
(Enter Moro.)
Ah, you were
There in the sacristy.
Moro. Yes. Your desire?
Alessa. The acolytes summoned from Famagouste
To aid your rites before her burial
Have come, and wait.
Moro. Send hither two.
(Looks closely at her.)
Alessa. At once.
(Is going. He stops her.)
Moro. Woman, this passes silence. There must be
Some question. Do you understand this wedding?
The evil that has risen in this house?
Speak.
Alessa. I may not.
Moro. As says Yolanda, who
Has been to-day impenetrable in all.
But who, now, in a lofty grief above
The misery that blasted her, seems calm,
And answers only,
"God in His season will,
I trust, unfold it soon; I cannot, now!" ...
And yet I heard
Her darkly bid the Paphian be gone——
From here—without her.
Alessa. And he would not?
Moro. No.
(A pause.)
Does she not see lightnings now in Amaury,
Plunging for truth? What is't?
Alessa. The acolytes
Are waiting.
Moro. Go ... But if this hour bring forth
What you shall rue——
Alessa. Father!
(Goes quickly, troubled.)
Moro. In blindness still!
For Vittia Pisani, who alone
Seems with these twain to share this mystery
Is silent to all importunity.
Oh, Berengere Lusignan!
But 'tis mine
To pray and to prepare. (Listens.) The acolytes.
(Two enter, sleek, sanctimonious.)
(To First.) Come here ... You're Serlio,
Of the Ascension. You?
2nd Acolyte. Hilarion.
From Santa Maria by the Templars' well,
Which God looks on with gratitude, father.
For though we're poor and are unworthy servants
We've given willingly our widow's mite.
And now we ...
Moro. You are summoned to this place
For ministrations other than the tongue's.
Prepare that altar—masses for the dead.
Hilarion. Man is as grass that withers!
Moro. Kindle all
Its tapers. The departed will be borne
Hither for holy care and sacred rest.
So do—then after
Look to that image of the Magdalen,
Once it has fallen.
Serlio. Domine, dirige!
(Moro goes. They put off cant and set to work.)
Hilarion (insolently, lighting a taper).
We'll have good wine for this!
Serlio. The Chian! Hee!
None's like the Chian! and to-morrow, meat!
Last week old Ugo died and we had pheasant.
Hilarion. When we are priests we'll give no comforting
To wife or maid—till we have sipped!
Serlio. And supped!
Though 'tis a Friday and the Pope is dead!
(Silence. They work faster.)
Hilarion. There, it is done. Now to the image.
Serlio. Well,
Olympio, the cock who fetched us, said
That image fell first on the day——
Hilarion. Tchuck! tchuck!
Better no breath about that lord of Paphos
Or any here. For till the dead are three
Days gone, you know—! But there's the woman. Feign.
(As Alessa re-enters; hypocritically.)
The blessed dead! in Purgatory may
They briefly bide.
Alessa (still troubled). What say you?
Hilarion. Ah!
I lay that it is wise never to foul
The dead, even in thinking,
For they may hear us, none can say, and once
My mother saw a dead man who had gone
Unshriven start up white and cry out loud
When he was curst.
Serlio. O Lord!
Alessa (staring). No!... Well, such things
There are perchance. And now they say that Venus,
The Anadyomene, who once ruled this isle,
Is come again.... But you have finished? Soon
They bring her body here.
Hilarion. Now have I, now!
It will not totter again. (Descends.)
Alessa Would that it might
Upon the head of —— (catches herself; calmly)
You are awaited
There in the sacristy.... The chant begins!
(The acolytes go. She grows more disquieted.)
Begins! and lady Yolanda still awaits
Heedless, though Lord Amaury's desperate
As is the Paphian!... They near!... The curtains!
(Goes to them and draws them back. As she does so the chant swells louder. Then the cortège enters—Moro, the acolytes with tapers; Berengere on a litter, Amaury, Renier, Vittia, the women, Hassan, and last Yolanda. The litter, Amaury by it, comes to the altar; the chanting ceases.)
Moro (as Amaury bows, shaken).
No moan or any toil of grief be here
Where we have brought her for sainted appeal.
But in this holy place until the tomb
Let her find rest.
Amaury. Set down the bier.
(It is placed.)
Moro. Lone rest!
Then bliss Afar for ever!
Amaury (rises). Be it so!
(Turning; brokenly.)
But unto any, mother, who have brought thee
Low to this couch, be never ease again.
To any who have put thy life out, never!
But in them be the burning that has seemed
To shrivel thee—whether with pain or fear!
And be appeaseless tears,
Salt tears that rust the fountain of the heart.
(Sinks to a seat. A pause.)
Moro. My son, relentless words.
Amaury (up again). To the relentless!
Moro. God hear you not!
Amaury. Then is He not my God.
Moro. Enough, enough. (To the rest.) But go and for her soul
Freight all of you this tide of night with prayer.
Moro. I bid.
Amaury. And I forbid those who
Have prized her not!
For though nought's in the world but prayer may move,
Still but the lips that loved her
Should for her any sin beseeching lift.
(Looking at Yolanda.)
They and no other!
Yolanda. And, you mean——?
Amaury. Not one.
Yolanda. Then, mother——
(Goes to bier.)
Amaury. That name again?
Yolanda. While I have breath.
(Nobly.) Yes, though you hold me purgeless of that sin
Only the pale arch-angels may endure
Trembling to muse on!
Or though yon image of the Magdalen,
Whose alabaster broke amid her tears
And her torn hair, forbade me with a voice.
And you, whose heart is shaken
As in a tomb a taper's flame, would know
I speak with love.
Camarin. Unswerving love.
Amaury. Then, by
Christ, and the world that craves His blood, I think
She, if she would, or you, could point to me,
Or you, Vittia Pisani,
The reason of this sudden piteous death
Hard on the haunted flight before my father,
Whose lips refuse.
Camarin. She knows no shred of it.
Amaury. You lie to say it.
Camarin. Then will, still—if there
Is need.
Amaury. Because you love her?
Yolanda. Peace, peace, peace.
Amaury. A hollow word for what had never being.
Yolanda. Look on her face and see.
Amaury (at bier). Upon her face!
Where not oblivion the void of death
Has hid away, or can, the agony
Of her last terror—but it trembles still.
I tell you, no. Grief was enough, but now
Through it has risen mystery that chokes
As a miasma from Iscariot's tomb.
And till this pall of doubt be rent away
No earth shall fall and quicken with her dust!
But I will search her face ... till it reveals.
Camarin. He raves.
Amaury. Iscariot! yes!
Yolanda. Again, peace, peace!
Amaury. That you may palter!
Yolanda (gently). That she may not grieve.
(Goes again to bier.)
For—if 'tis near—her soul with this is wrung.
Near! would it were to hear me and impart
Its yearning and regret to us who live,
Its dim unhappiness and hollow want.
Yes, mother, were you now about us, vain,
Invisible and without any voice
To tell us of you!
Were you and now could hear through what of cold
Or silence wrap you, oh, so humanly
And seeming but a veil—
Then would you hear me say—(suddenly aghast)
Ah, God!
Amaury. Yolanda!
(She starts back from the bier.)
Yolanda!
Renier. Girl, what rends you?
Yolanda. Saw you not?
(Rushes to bier and shakes it.)
Mother! you hear me? mother!
Renier. Girl!
Yolanda. She breathes!
(Consternation. Some fall to their knees.)
Vittia. What? What?
Yolanda. Mother! Her breast! Mother! She moves!
Amaury. God! God!
Yolanda. Stand off from her ... Mother!
Camarin. Her eyes!...
They open! open!
Yolanda. Mother!...
Amaury. See; her lips!
They strive to speak! O faintly, O so faint!
Can you not hear?
Berengere. Yolanda!
Yolanda. Mother!
Berengere. Renier!
Renier. Yes, yes?
Berengere. Yolanda—
Renier. Speak!
Berengere. Christ, save me ... Christ!
Yolanda's innocent, and I ... 'twas I.
Amaury. What? what is it she says?
Berengere. Camarin! Ah!
(She shudders and dies, amid low-uttered awe. Renier bends, lays his hand a moment on her breast, then, with a cry of rage, springs from her and draws, and rushes on Camarin, who awaits him, desperate.)
Amaury (confused, as they engage).
Yolanda; what is this?
Yolanda. Amaury, in!
Compel Lord Renier back! he cannot live,
You only could against Camarin now!
Wait not to question, but obey me! if
You ever—! (As he rushes in) Holy Magdalen, defend him!
(Renier falls back.)
Now, now defend him, if to chastity
Thou'rt vowed in heaven.
Vittia. Fool!—Camarin, strike!
Camarin. Oh!... Berengere!... treachery!
(He staggers and sinks back heavily toward the pillar. There is breathless, strained suspense. Then he strikes the sacred column, and as he does so the image above sways, totters and crushes upon him. A cry, "The Magdalen!" goes up around.)
Hassan (hurrying to him; after awe and silence).
He's dead.
Alessa. The Magdalen!
Hassan. No breath in him.
(A pause.)
Renier (low, harshly).
Bear him without then ever from this place,
That never more shall know a holy rite—
And from these gates, I care not to what tomb.
(To Amaury.)
Then shall you hear this mystery's content,
That still as a madness measures to your sight.
Bear him without.
(The limp body is borne away. All follow but Amaury, Yolanda, Renier.)
Now you shall hear, with shame,
But with exalted pride and happy tears;
Then come obliteration!
Speak, girl ... Nobility
Had never better title to its truth.
(Kisses her hand and goes.)
Amaury. Yolanda!... he!... this reverence as to
An angel? Speak!
Yolanda. Amaury——
Amaury. O pause not!
Yolanda. Then—to save her who's dead—from death and shame,
I took her place within the Paphian's arms.
Amaury. O!... and by me, driven by me, bore this!
(Overcome) Pure as the rills of Paradise, endured?
Yolanda. For you!—and her who sleeps forgiven there,
(With deep abandon.)
Now while her spirit weightless overwingeth
Night, to that Throne whose seeing heals all shame!
For her I did! but oh, for you, whose least
Murmur to me is infinite with Spring,
Whose smile is light, filling the air with dawn,
Whose touch, wafture of immortality
Unto my weariness; and whose eyes, now,
Are as the beams God lifted first, they tell us,
Over the uncreated,
In the far singing mother-dawn of the world!—
Come with me then, but tearless, to her side.
(They go to the bier and stand as in a dream. A pause; then her lips move, last, as if inspired.)
While there is sin to sway the soul and sink it
Pity should be as strong as love or death!
(With a cry of joy he enfolds her, and they kneel, wrapped about with the clear moon.)
The End.
[LYRICS]
[JAEL]
Jehovah! Jehovah! art Thou not stronger than gods of the heathen?
I slew him, that Sisera, prince of the host Thou dost hate.
But fear of his blood is upon me, about me is breathen
His spirit—by night and by day come voices that wait.
Athirst and affrightened he fled from the star-wrought waters of Kishon.
His face was as wool when he swooned at the door of my tent.
The Lord hath given him into the hand of perdition,
I smiled—but he saw not the face of my cunning intent.
He thirsted for water: I fed him the curdless milk of the cattle.
He lay in the tent under purple and crimson of Tyre.
He slept and he dreamt of the surge and storming of battle.
Ah ha! but he woke not to waken Jehovah's ire.
He slept as he were a chosen of Israel's God Almighty.
A dog out of Canaan!—thought he I was woman alone?
I slipt like an asp to his ear and laughed for the sight he
Would give when the carrion kites should tear to his bone.
I smote thro' his temple the nail, to the dust a worm did I bind him.
My heart was a-leap with rage and a-quiver with scorn.
And I danced with a holy delight before and behind him—
I that am called blessed o'er all who're of Judah born.
"Aye, come, I will show thee, O Barak, a woman is more than a warrior,"
I cried as I lifted the door wherein Sisera lay.
"To me did he fly and I shall be called his destroyer—
I, Jael, who am subtle to find for the Lord a way!"
"Above all the daughters of men be blest—of Gilead or Asshur,"
Sang Deborah, prophetess, under her waving palm.
"Behold her, ye people, behold her the heathen's abasher;
Behold her the Lord hath uplifted—behold and be calm.
"The mother of him at the window looks out thro' the lattice to listen—
Why roll not the wheels of his chariot? why does he stay?
Shall he not return with the booty of battle, and glisten
In songs of his triumph—ye women, why do ye not say?"
And I was as she who danced when the Seas were rendered asunder
And stood, until Egypt pressed in to be drowned unto death.
My breasts were as fire with the glory, the rocks that were under
My feet grew quick with the gloating that beat in my breath.
At night I stole out where they cast him, a sop to the jackal and raven.
But his bones stood up in the moon and I shook with affright.
The strength shrank out of my limbs and I fell a craven
Before him—the nail in his temple gleamed bloodily bright.
Jehovah! Jehovah! art Thou not stronger than gods of the heathen?
I slew him, that Sisera, prince of the host Thou dost hate.
But fear of his blood is upon me, about me is breathen
His spirit—by day and by night come voices that wait.
I fly to the desert, I fly to the mountain—but they will not hide me.
His gods haunt the winds and the caves with vengeance that cries
For judgment upon me; the stars in their courses deride me—
The stars Thou hast hung with a breath in the wandering skies.
Jehovah! Jehovah! I slew him the scourge and sting of Thy Nation.
Take from me his spirit, take from me the voice of his blood.
With madness I rave—by day and by night, defamation!
Jehovah, release me! Jehovah! if still Thou art God!
[MARY AT NAZARETH]
I know, Lord, Thou hast sent Him—
Thou art so good to me!—
But Thou hast only lent Him,
His heart's for Thee!
I dared—Thy poor hand-maiden—
Not ask a prophet-child:
Only a boy-babe laden
For earth—and mild.
But this one Thou hast given
Seems not for earth—or me!
His lips flame truth from heaven,
And vanity
Seem all my thoughts and prayers
When He but speaks Thy Law;
Out of my heart the tares
Are torn by awe!
I cannot look upon Him
So strangely burn His eyes—
Hath not some grieving drawn Him
From Paradise?
For Thee, for Thee I'd live, Lord!
Yet oft I almost fall
Before Him—Oh, forgive, Lord,
My sinful thrall!
But e'en when He was nursing,
A baby at my breast,
It seemed He was dispersing
The world's unrest.
Thou bad'st me call Him "Jesus"
And from our heavy sin
I know He shall release us,
From Sheol win.
But, Lord, forgive! the yearning
That He may sometimes be
Like other children, learning
Beside my knee,
Or playing, prattling, seeking
For help,—comes to my heart....
Ah sinful, Lord, I'm speaking—
How good Thou art!
[OUTCAST]
I did not fear,
But crept close up to Christ and said,
"Is He not here?"
They drew me back—
The seraphs who had never bled
Of weary lack—
But still I cried,
With torn robe, clutching at His feet,
"Dear Christ! He died
So long ago!
Is He not here? Three days, unfleet
As mortal flow
Of time I've sought—
Till Heaven's amaranthine ways
Seem as sere nought!"
A grieving stole
Up from His heart and waned the gaze
Of His clear soul
Into my eyes.
"He is not here," troubled He sighed.
"For none who dies
Beliefless may
Bend lips to this sin-healing Tide,
And live alway."
Then darkness rose
Within me, and drear bitterness.
Out of its throes
I moaned, at last,
"Let me go hence! Take off the dress,
The charms Thou hast
Around me strown!
Beliefless too am I without
His love—and lone!"
Unto the Gate
They led me, tho' with pitying doubt.
I did not wait
But stepped across
Its portal, turned not once to heed
Or know my loss.
Then my dream broke,
And with it every loveless creed—
Beneath love's stroke.
[ADELIL]
Proud Adelil! Proud Adelil!
Why does she lie so cold?
(I made her shrink, I made her reel,
I made her white lids fold.)
We sat at banquet, many maids,
She like a Valkyr free.
(I hated the glitter of her braids,
I hated her blue eye's glee!)
In emerald cups was poured the mead;
Icily blew the night.
(But tears unshed and woes that bleed
Brew bitterness and spite.)
"A goblet to my love!" she cried,
"Prince where the sea-winds fly!"
(Her love!—it was for that he died,
And for it she should die.)
She lifted the cup and drank—she saw
A heart within its lees.
(I laughed like the dead who feel the thaw
Of summer in the breeze.)
They looked upon her stricken still,
And sudden they grew appalled.
("It is thy lover's heart!" I shrill
As the sea-crow to her called.)
Palely she took it—did it give
Ease there against her breast?
(Dead—dead she swooned, but I cannot live,
And dead I shall not rest.)
[THE DYING POET]
Swing in thy splendour, O silent sun,
Drawing my heart with thee over the west!
Done is its day as thy day is done,
Fallen its quest!
Swoon into purple and rose—then sink,
Tho' to arise again out of the dawn.
Sink while I praise thee, ere thro' the dark link
Of death I am drawn!
Sunk? art thou sunken? how great was life!
I like a child could cry for it again—
Cry for its beauty, pang, fleeting and strife,
Its women, its men!
For, how I drained it with love and delight!
Opened its heart with the magic of grief!
Reaped every season—its day and its night!
Loved every sheaf!
Aye, not a meadow my step has trod,
Never a flower swung sweet to my face,
Never a heart that was touched of God,
But taught me its grace.
Off, from my lids then a moment yet,
Fingering Death, for again I must see
Miraged by memory all that I met
Under Time's lee.
There!... I'm a child again—fair, so fair!
Under the eyes does a marvel not burn?
Speak they not vision, song, frenzy to dare,
That still in me yearn?...
Youth! my wild youth!—O, blood of my heart,
Still you can answer with whirling the thought!
Still like the mountain-born rapid can dart,
Joyous, distraught!...
Love, and her face again! there by the wood!—
Come thou invisible Dark with thy mask!
Shall I not learn if she lives? and could
I more of thee ask?...
Turn me away from the ashen west,
Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk.
Something is stealing like light from my breast—
Soul from its husk ...
Soft!... Where the dead feel the buried dead,
Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls,
Bury me, near to the haunting tread
Of life that o'errolls.