Louis—Oswald, then,
Was rescued by the angels?
Abbot—Without doubt.
The globe of fire that Dominic beheld
Above our Lady's chapel in the plain
Of Prouille was a light in his own mind.
Louis—The multitude will never understand
This nice distinction.
Abbot—Just so; but shall we
Show them the foul body of fair Truth
Or the clear spirit?
Louis—The spirit, Father.
I never doubt the end you have in view.
Abbot—You doubt the means, though. Deep down in your heart
You smile and say: "But Father is all right.
The times are fire, and fight for Benedict.
To build the abbey, Father must have gold.
To get the gold, the people must be bilked.
But Father will return them light for gold.
I never doubt the end he has in view."
Louis—You are the brain, Father; I, the hand.
You know that I would help you. You know that.
Abbot—Anyway, Louis, I am justified.
For simple souls find joy in simple faith.
Go down into the village. Guido tells me
Their faces shine because of this bright thing.
It purifies and cheers them. Cyprian says
There is no power that does not come from God.
He might have said the same of light and joy,
And shall I, to whom what I know this thing is
Seems quite as strange as what they think it is—
That angels did it—, take their light away
Because I know it falls not from a star?
A thousand lamps burn in the House of Life.
Shall I walk through its chambers and say: "This,
Children, and this, now these were lit of Hell;
But that one there—see how the oil of God
Goes up the wick and throws a brighter flame"?
Unless they see it brighter, it is not.
They cannot see it so without my eye.
They cannot have my eye and keep their own,
And they must keep their own a little while;
At least until I get my abbey built,
Until I shout the sun from out the sea
And with its beams illumine the valley there.
And since its rising on their gifts depends,
And since their gifts depend on their belief,
I cannot tell them their belief is false;
'Twould bring the abbey down upon their heads;
And Benedict would shout forevermore,
Seeing their night come back without a star.
And so I cannot tell them what is true.
Nothing is sadder than to see a mind
Drifting between an old faith torn away
And a new rock not risen from the waves.
Their wisp must burn until the sun comes up.
Our Lord himself tempered his dazzling truth
To simple minds, and spake in parables,
Leaving the halo on the brow of things.
And shall we blow it away?
Louis— Is it there?
Abbot— For them,
It is intensely there. And when they come
Bringing their little gifts, what can I say?
They ask me, "Is this light?" I say, "Does it
Shine?" They answer, "Yes." "Then it is light." (A pause.)
Is it? (A pause.) Louis?