Louis— (With a smile.)
An angel or a god, then?
Abbot— Half so, yes.
Louis—To free us from our policy?
Abbot— Pray God
It may be, Louis, pray God it may be.
That unknown god should have an altar here.
No, Louis: what I mean is simply this:
This thing that we call evil, may it not
Be the other side of this thing we call good,
The passing of bright planets of the mind,
Dreaming eclipse that is no thing at all,
Simply the passing of the two things, both bright?
God ever wrestles with his shadow, Louis,
And now the bright goes down and now the dark:
And man stands by and watches the great game
With heart divided and with swaying mind
And lifts whichever falls. The game goes on
Forever, and the nations rise and fall
Forever, and fall and rise. And so they strive,
Like light and shade over the mountain slopes,
Each wrestling not for victory but strength.
Louis—And you and Benedict?
Abbot— I am not his foe.
I come from Florence and he comes from Rome.
Louis—And you love painted windows.
Abbot— I love God;
He loves the Church. There is the difference.
He iterates with fire in his eyes
That Heathendom shall tumble down to Hell,
But not a word that Ignorance shall fall
Or Passion lose her lightning in the deep.
I wrestle with the bright against the dark.
Louis—For the world-soul.
Abbot— Neither of us may win.
In fact, I pray God that we may not.