University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A Grove of Oaks. Enter Conor to Caffa.
CONOR.
Gods! Caffa! that terrible sight last night
Has almost driven me mad!

CAFFA.
Do you repent?

CONOR.
Repent of what?

CAFFA.
Of all your sins.

CONOR.
What sins?

CAFFA.
Your manifold sins of love of power—of lust—
And murder!

CONOR.
Murder! Who said so?

CAFFA.
Thy wife—
The spirit of thy wife.

CONOR.
My wife?

CAFFA.
Thy wife!

CONOR.
Do the dead lie?

CAFFA.
No—but they speak the truth!

CONOR.
Then may her tongue be palsied when she comes
Again! Is not the spirit of the wife,
After decease, true to her husband's bed?

CAFFA.
Much oftener than the husband to the wife.

CONOR.
Would she betray her husband after death?

CAFFA.
No—not unless he would betray himself.

CONOR.
Yet she informed you I did murder her?
For doing which I hate her in the grave!

CAFFA.
Yet, all she told was not the half that thou
Hast said.

CONOR.
Said when?

CAFFA.
The night she came to us.

CONOR.
What said I then?

CAFFA.
Told all that thou hadst done!

CONOR.
No, I said nothing, but stood dumb with grief!

CAFFA.
Struck dumb with fear. That fear betrayed thy soul!

CONOR.
No, you inferred it from her bloody robes.

CAFFA.
What would those robes have said to thee? The same
That they did speak to me,—that she had died
By violence! Is it not so? I see
Thy tongue is charmed again.

CONOR.
As thine should be.
Art thou not Kinsman to my soul?

CAFFA.
I am,
By blood—but not by bloody deeds.

CONOR.
Art thou
Not God's High Priest?

CAFFA.
I am—I hope I am—
I do profess to be—trusting my Tree
Is known by the good fruit it bears.

CONOR.
Well, then,
Cannot man's soul confess itself to thee,
Without betraying itself to endless ruin—
When this confession is the road to Heaven?

CAFFA.
It can—but you have not confessed—denied.

CONOR.
Should I confess, would that absolve the sin?

CAFFA.
Confession, in contrition, made to God,
Would surely wash away your sin—make you
As white as new-washed wool, fresh shorn
From one of David's lambs.

CONOR.
Then I will not
Confess to thee—so, charm thy golden tongue,
That it be palsied not in death! You know
My power!

CAFFA.
I know thy weakness well. He who
Could not stand up before the holy face
Of his dead-living wife, returned from Heaven
To visit him again on earth with love—
To warn him from the error of his way—
Could not before the immaculate mail I wear!

CONOR.
Nay! you mistake my drift. I meant not that
I wished to make you fear, but merely chide you
To work enchantment on your tongue.

CAFFA.
Had you
But wrought the like enchantment on your soul,
It were not necessary now to ask
This grace of me; but you do know I know.

CONOR.
Then if you know, answer me what I ask:
Believe you in the transmigration of souls?

CAFFA.
I do. Why ask?

CONOR.
Because the thought has just
Occurred to me, that your Slessama's soul
Passed in Daidra's body at her death—
Her death-day being Daidra's day of birth.

CAFFA.
Why think you this?

CONOR.
Because she favors her.

CAFFA.
In purity she does, but that is all—
Although Daidra's body were a place
Fit for the dwelling of an Angel's soul.
Had you said Lavercam, you had been wise;
For they are more alike than twins.

CONOR.
Alike!
In wisdom they may be—but not in form,
Or feature—Lavercam being more than wise—
And beautiful as wise—more chaste than fair.

CAFFA.
You are not often wont to speak this way
Of woman's charms. Why do you laud her now?

CONOR.
Because of her resemblance to your wife.

CAFFA.
Is this the reason? Then you are not lost
Wholly to Virtue's charms?

CONOR.
Why should I be?
Am I not man? have I not had a wife—
A virtuous, amiable wife as yours?

CAFFA.
Then why not treat her as you speak of her?

CONOR.
I did—until she drove me mad with love
For one too far beneath my thoughts to name.

CAFFA.
For which you sent her out of time, before
Her time, into Eternity?

CONOR.
I did
Not send her there—she sent herself—where you
Had sent your wife, had she been false to you.

CAFFA.
Judge not, for you are judged aright,
And sentenced—sentenced, by yourself, to Hell!
From whose finality your soul can now
Make no appeal.

CONOR.
Well, you are frank; for which
I mean to thank you some of these odd days.

CAFFA.
I want no thanks for speaking truth. I give
You this advice as God's vicegerent here
On earth, hoping that you may flee the wrath
To come!

CONOR.
I hope I may. But since you spoke
Of Lavercam's resemblance to your wife,
I have resolved it in my mind to make
Her mine.

CAFFA.
Thy wife?

CONOR.
My wife.

CAFFA.
You would do well.

CONOR.
I would, for her resemblance to your wife.

CAFFA.
She would give lustre to your throne.

CONOR.
Just as
The Moon gives glory to the Sun—by clear
Reflection.

CAFFA.
She would incarnate the Moon,
Should you the Sun—therefore, reflect your light;
But should you fail to live his shining life,
Then, she would but betray your spots—not light.

CONOR.
Having lost Daidra, there is now no way
To make repayment but by Lavercam.

CAFFA.
I wish you all success—better than with
Your wife now dead.

CONOR.
And so do I myself,
If but for her resemblance to your wife.
For this, if nothing else, she shall be mine.

CAFFA.
You lost Daidra—you may lose her too.

CONOR.
Have you an eye that way?

CAFFA.
My eyes look up
To Heaven—where the Divine possessions lie;
There lives the wife I seek.

CONOR.
Then you can have
No relish for the things of earth. I have
No wife in Heaven, therefore, I seek one here.
While you fly upward with your Zenith love,
I downward to the opposite Nadir go.
I love the Venus Pandemos—you love
The Venus Urania best. Is this not so?

CAFFA.
It is—but sorry am I that it is.

CONOR.
Weep not for me—but for yourself. Learn, first,
That Charity begins at home.

CAFFA.
How know
You that—who never had her at your home—
Where she begins, or ends?

CONOR.
I want her not—
Having no use for her—my wife now dead—
And dear Daidra stolen away from me;
But you who do, should take good care of her—
For she does trouble us sometimes for alms.
But I must go. Farewell. When next we meet,
I hope to speak of my success with Lavercam,
If but for her resemblance to your wife.

[Exit.
CAFFA.
Lost, lost, lost! Yet, he must not be given up.
But for the sake of Usna's Sons, must not,
And fair Daidra,—heavenly Lavercam.
Let the vile Serpent hiss; by this alone
He tells that he is nigh,—needs to be shunned.
Let him seek Lavercam to be repulsed.
What did the devil get for seeking Heaven,
But finding Hell? So let him seek that bliss—
Then find the woe—for she is mine—all mine!
For I would love her—just because I must—
If but for her resemblance to my wife—
Which this poor fool pretends that he can see.
For from the hour that I first saw her face
In Eman, I have been her veriest slave—
If slave it be to lie down at her feet,
And sell my soul to her forever more,—
Living, as dying, serving her alone!
This is to love with love divine—the love
I have for her. Yet, when I love her so—
Which is forever—when my soul is set
On fire out of the radiance of her loveliness—
Hymning celestial songs of praise to her—
I thrill with fear, remembering my dear wife
In Heaven—lest she should make complaints to God
For my apparent infidelity;
When, God knows, as she does, that all my love
For her, is her resemblance to my wife.
If this be sinful, then I sin indeed.
If this sin bring me death, then I must die;
For I can no more cease to love her than
I can to live—or die against God's will;
For when this ends, then I must cease to be.
Feeling this love grow stronger, day by day,
Which time, through age, in most men's hearts makes cold—
Coupled with memory of my wife in Heaven—
Makes me reluctant to approach too near—
This growing stronger as I wish her most—
Until, sometimes, I feel that I must die,
Or tell her all my soul, or see her not—
Which I must do or die! Then, it appears
That life is Hell—that death would give me peace—
That love is pain—but still—I cannot die—
I still must love—love on through life through pain,
Through death, through Hell, to my eternal Home
In Heaven! This is the way I live. Even now.
I long to look at her, yet fear to see
Her face—lest my dear wife in Heaven should cry
Out, in my hearing, unto God, Forbear!
In memory of your Bridal Vow to me!
So that the pains of Tantalus are mine!
But I must love—must, loving, feel this pain.
So, I will see her, bring it life or death!

[Exit.