University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—The Convent of the Celestines. Nuns and Novices at work embroidering vestments and altar-cloths.
1st Novice.

I was next before Iolande, and heard a
kind of soft scuffle behind, and, turning round, I missed
her; and oh! woe is me! I cried, there is a maid gone
and it might have been I! And I looked through the
grating, and there he stood, a tall man and a beautiful
bachelor. He bade the other touch him if he dared;
and there were words and oaths, and when they drew
their swords I squealed and ran away.

1st Nun.

Ay, and it was time, too. Who taught thee
to look at a man through a grating?

1st Novice.

Nobody, Mother; I was looking for Iolande.

1st Nun.

Then do so no more. If a maid look through
a grating what may she not see? Peradventure the
Grand Turk and all his Janissaries, and I know not what
masquings and mummeries; or the six Satyrs which
danced at the widow's wedding with no more clothing
than a beast's, and by God's providence took fire and
were burnt; all except his gracious Majesty, whom God
preserve!

2nd Nun.

Yes, Sister, there was another saved; which
was Jean de Nantouillet; seeing he flung himself into a
trough of water which was there for cooling of the wine, and

calling upon St. Winifred, she endowed the water with
that virtue that it quenched the flames.

1st Nun.

But saidst thou a tall man, eh! and with a
long nose?

1st Novice.

Tall, Mother; and for his nose, it may be
long or may not, as it pleases God; for there was but a
small matter of moonlight to see it by. But he was not
a Turk, which has tusks, they say, like a boar; nor a
Satyr, which is shaggy.

2nd Novice.

Twice since has a tall man come hither by
the garden gate that was left open for him. I saw him
through the casement in the dormitory.

2nd Nun.

Fie! fie! This looking out of casements is
unseemly. Marcian looked out of a casement and she
saw a little boy with a bow and arrow, which was a
heathen and shot at her. Was he a fair-faced man with
blue eyes and a light-brown beard?

2nd Novice.

I know not, Mother, for his hat was drawn
over his brows, and he held his kerchief to his face as
though he had the toothache.

3rd Nun.

Marry, and I'll warrant you God sent a
toothache no sooner than he deserved. And if I were Abbess
there should be no leaving open of gates for sinners to
come in with their blue eyes and their brown beards.

4th Nun.

Yea, and their rapiers at their sides like
leopards, gaping and prancing up the walks that one
knows not which way to turn for them.

5th Nun.

No more prating and prattling. Come,

Marceline, sing us one of thy holy songs, which is better than
our babblement.

3rd Novice.

I will sing you the song of the Knight and the Dragon.

It begins so, Mother, and then it tells what happened.

5th Nun.

Go on, child; truly 'tis a good beginning,
and very necessary.

3rd Novice.

6th Nun.

Well, I pray God and St. Gregory that Sin
come no way near us, nor a Dragon neither; and if
one shall come that is not Sin nor a Dragon, what I say
is, he should not come muffled up and no one to see the
face of him.

5th Nun.

Past a doubt this Knight which comes once
and again is the same which snatched Iolande from the
hands of the spoiler.

3rd Nun.

Which some will say was sore against her
will, for all her scuffling and screeching. I am a guileless
woman that thinks no ill; but if ever such a thing happens
to me, I shall not stand screeching away to no purpose, I
think not indeed. I shall not stand waiting for any chance
of a passer-by just to fall out of one man into another.

5th Nun.

St. Mary, Sister, it is not for such as thou
and I to stand in dread of these dangers.

3rd Nun.

Who knows? It is true God has been good
to me for sixty years and upwards, but I were too bold
to count upon his mercies as though they were never to
fail me.

Enter a fourth Novice.
4th Novice.

I vow there is the same man again, coming
in through the garden gate.

3rd Nun.

The same again! Fearful! This must be
looked to; I must see to this.

[Exit.
1st Nun.

We must all see to it, we that wear the veil.
What is this hurry-skurry! Keep back, Novices; it is not
for you .... Nay, young legs! They're all gone before
one can cross oneself.

[Exeunt.
Enter the Lady Abbess and Father Renault.
The Abbess.
A woeful plight, poor sinner, woeful—
yes—
Poor Flos! I told her it would come to this.
Poor soul! she never heeded me, no more
Than had I been a magpie or a chough.

Father Renault.
That woeful is her plight I well believe,
And hear with hope; the woefuller the better;
So woe shall work to weal.

The Abbess.
Pray God it may!
Pary God you bring it so to work! God grant it!
But what it works to now is bad to worse.
She hates him with a passion and a heat
More senseless than she loved him with before;
And take my word for 't—of a truth you may—
I know her well, and she may sit and sulk
And spare to speak, but well I know her thoughts—
And take my word for 't she is dangerous;
She's brooding, and there's somewhat will be hatch'd;
And she has those—I say not who they be—
At her behest who'll do a deed of blood
For love or lucre; and what scandal then
Should light upon this holy House and me
And all of us. I pray you press it home;
Enjoin her if she harbour in her soul
Bad thoughts of malice and revenge, to speak,
And bid her upon pain of her soul's death
Put them away.

Father Renault.
Else shall she not be shriven.
Go, summon her and send her to confession.
By this example we may mark how swift
The transformation whereby carnal love
Is changed to carnal hate. I have heard it said,
There is no haunt the viper more affects
Than the forsaken bird's-nest. In the Chapel
I shall await her; send her to me there.

The Abbess.
She's there already and expects you.

Father Renault.
Good.
My part accomplished, it will then be yours
To hold her well in hand.

[Exit.
The Abbess.
So; gone at last.
The Duke is late; or is he hiding? Oh!
My gracious Lord!

Enter Orleans.
Orleans.
Good Abbess, my good friend,
Where is she? No—not here—nor coming? Nay,
Is her thank-offering of yesterday,
Her hand to kiss, the sum?

The Abbess.
My gracious Lord,
That were but little.

Orleans.
Abbess, say you so?
You think I ran some hazard of my life;
It was not much; but by the Lord of Life
If twenty lives were mine to put in pledge
And on each life were twenty kingdoms staked,
Laugh they that laughter love, that hand to kiss
Should countervail them.

The Abbess.
Oh, my Lord, I blush
To hear such things.

Orleans.
No need, good Abbess, none.
I am not what I was. Her saintly grace
Hath wrought a miracle and made of me,
Whole sinner that I was, now half a saint.
I think you scarce believe it, but 'tis true;
That quest I told you of—that sacred quest
Touching the king,—is all my errand now:
Tell her for holy ends I humbly crave
To be admitted to her presence.

The Abbess.
Nay,
My gracious Lord, it pleases you to waive
Your royal state; but it befits not me
To be forgetful. She is near at hand:
She shall attend you.

Orleans.
But no word, I pray,
Of who or what I am.

The Abbess.
My gracious Lord,
She does not, and she shall not, even surmise,
If I can help it, till your Grace give leave,
The honour that is hers.

[Exit.
Orleans.
When soul meets soul
I crave a riddance of my royalties.
Save those that wear them, there are none can know
The leaden hand they lay upon the hearts
Of whosoe'er approaches, numb and dumb,
That else were sprightly, fervent, fond and free.
But wherefore do I wish her free and fond?
And is it but the Devil's self within
Assures me she has power to cast him out,
So to betray us both? No, verily,
Should the unholy ghost entice my soul
From this its holy purpose, she herself
Would rescue and redeem it.
Enter Iolande.
Fairest friend,
Is it too soon I come again?

Iolande.
Too soon?

Orleans.
It would not seem so were my mission told.
Have I seemed slow to tell it? Then believe
'Tis that I loved to linger in the joys
That herald what is grave.

Iolande.
You speak of joys,
And then you speak of that which is not joy.
What else it is I know not; nor can I guess
Why you, that have the splendours of the world
(So thinks the Abbess) in your choice, should choose
To haunt this dim retreat.

Orleans.
If dim it be,
It's dimness is divine. In years long past
I sought and found another dim retreat;
And shall I tell you where?

Iolande.
Tell what you will.

Orleans.
Once in a midnight march—'twas when the war
With Brittany broke out—tired with the din
And tumult of the host, I left the road,
And in the distant cloisters of a wood
Dismounted and sat down. The untroubled moon
Kept through the silent skies a cloudless course,
And kiss'd and hallow'd with her tender light
Young leaf and mossy trunk; and on the sward
Black shadows slumber'd, softly counterchanged
With silver bars. Majestic and serene,
I said, is Nature's night, and what is Man's?
Then from the secret heart of some recess
Gush'd the sweet nocturns of that serious bird
Whose love-note never sleeps. With glad surprise
Her music thrill'd the bosom of the wood,
And like an angel's message enter'd mine.
Why wander back my thoughts to that night march?
Can you divine? or must I tell you why?
The worlds without this precinct and within
Are to my heart,—the one the hurrying march
With riot, outrage, ribaldry, and noise
Insulting night,—the other, deep repose
That listens only to a heaven-taught song
And throbs with gentlest joy.

Iolande.
What march was that?
Said you, the Breton War? You follow'd then
The banner of the founder of this House,
His Grace of Orleans. He is brave, they say,
But wild of life, and though abounding oft
In works of grace and penitence, yet as oft
Lapsing to sin, and dangerous even to those
His bounty shelter'd.

Orleans.
By his enemies
All this is said, and more. Are you then one?

Iolande.
Nay, I know nothing save the gossiping tales
That flit like bats about these convent walls
Where twilight reigns. Gladly would I believe
Our Founder faultless if I might; but you,
Living in courts and camps, must know him well.

Orleans.
He is not faultless.

Iolande.
Are his faults as grave
As tattling tongues relate?

Orleans.
They're grave enough.

Iolande.
Are you then to be number'd in the file
Of the Duke's enemies?

Orleans.
Indeed I am:
Not one has hurt him more.

Iolande.
What is your name?
The Abbess vows—what I but scantly credit—
She knows it not. May I not know it? No?
She says you are of credit with the Court,
And hope through certain ministries of ours
With holy relics, to restore to health
One whom the Founder loves.

Orleans.
Soon will you know
Mine errand and my name; the last too soon;
It is well known to calumny; when heard,
It may be you will bid the gates be barred,
And banish me your presence?

Iolande.
Never. No,
If calumny assail you, much the more
Be gratitude intent to do you right.
That you are true and generous and brave
Not all the falsehood all the world can forge
Shall sunder from my faith.

Orleans.
Yet is there more.
I said that calumny had soil'd my name,
Which is a truth; but bitterer truth's behind;
My life deserves not that my name stand clear;
I claim but to be true; save loyalty
Few gifts of grace are mine.

Iolande.
But you are young,
And you will grow in grace.

Orleans.
It should be so;
But hardly may I dare to say it will.
I came upon a holy mission hither;
Yet something but half holy in my heart
Detains my tongue from telling it.

Iolande.
Your words
Are strangely dark. I guess not what they mean
And almost fear to ask. I know but little;
Yet know that there are dangers in the world
I have but heard of. May I trust in you?
Oh that 'twere possible to trust in you
With boundless and inalterable faith!
Oh that 'twere possible to cast my soul
On you as on the pillar of its strength!
But you, too, you are weak; you say you are;
And only God is strong, and in His strength
And in none other strength may strength be found,
And in His love and in none other love
His child may win an unbewildering love,
Love without danger, measureless content.
Leave her to seek it there.

Orleans.
Oh, Iolande!
I love you—yet to say so is a sin;
And such a sin as only such a love
And veriest inebriety of heart
Can palliate or excuse. An earthly bond,
Earthly as it was woven of earthly aims
By heedless hands when I was but a child,
Yet sacred as it binds me to a wife,—
This earthly sacred bond forbids my soul
To seek the holier and the heavenlier peace
It might have found with you.

Iolande.
Go back, go back.
I knew not you were married; back to your wife;
Leave me—forget me—God will give me strength;
There yet is time, for I am innocent still,
And now each moment gathers guilt. Begone;
Nor ever come again, nor ever again
Wrong her you speak of, as you did but now
In saying you love me.

Orleans.
Yet loving you
I love not her the less,—surely not less;
Nay with a pitying love I love her more;
And pitying love shall have a heavenlier home.
For even in the instant I beheld your face
All that this glorious earth contains of good,
As in a new creation, freshly, strangely,
Reveal'd itself, borne in upon my soul;
And since the mandate which created light
And eyes not mortal then beheld God's works
Not then defaced, no eye of man hath seen
So fair an apparition as appear'd
This earth to me.

Iolande.
Home to your wife,—go home.
Your heart betrays itself and truth and me.
You know not love, speaking of love for two.
I knew not love till now; and love and shame
Have flung themselves upon me both at once.
One will be with me to my death I know;
The other not an hour. Oh, brave and true
And loyal as you are, from deadly wrong
You rescued me, now rescue me from shame;
For shame it is to hear you speak of love,
And shame it is to answer you with tears
That seem like softness: but my trust is this,
That in myself I trust not,—nor in you,
Save only if you trust yourself no more
And fly from sin.

Orleans.
More precious to my soul
Is your affiance, though with stern reserves,
Than ever soft surrender wild to meet
Love's wildest wish; nor will I longer dare,
Uplifted by the rapture of the time
Entrancing me from insight, to forget
That what is heavenliest in our mortal moods
Is not as fix'd and founded as the heavens.
Yet do I dread to leave you, leaving thus
My name the victim of all vile reports
Which, when you hear it, you will hear.

Iolande.
No—no.
The evil you have spoken of yourself
I will believe, and not a breath beside.

Orleans.
I ask no more—no more—oh, nothing more;
Not for one tone of that too tender voice,
Not for one touch of that transparent hand;
No, nothing for myself ...

Voices without.
What! Iolande:

Enter two Novices.
1st Novice.
Oh! cry you mercy! Are you not alone?

Iolande.
You knew I was not.

2nd Novice.
Well, perhaps we did;
But 'tis no fault of ours, for we were sent.
The Sisters want you in the Founder's chapel
To deck the altar for St. Clement's Eve;
And Father Renault tells us first and last
None knows so well to twine the mimic flowers
And Nature's broidery to counterfeit.

1st Novice.
Old Sister Martha, mounting the ladder, tried,
We handing up the flowers; but from her hold
Thrice fell the fleur-de-lys; and she, poor soul!
Was seized with trembling and would try no more.
She said it was unlucky.

Orleans.
It was strange.

1st Novice.
Yes, truly, Sir, it scared us.

2nd Novice.
Worse ensued;
For in her fright the ladder she o'erthrew,
Which struck the Founder's banner in its fall,
And that fell too.

Orleans.
That fell before its time;
If ancient prophecy may win belief
That should have waited for St. Clement's Eve.

2nd Novice.
Sir, you say true. Come, Iolande; they wait.

Iolande.
I will be there anon. So tell them.

[Exeunt the two Novices.
Orleans.
This
I said, and I will say it once again,
That for myself I ask nor word nor look
That speaks of more than pardon. What remains
Is but to name mine errand and begone.
For one far worthier than myself I crave
A boon that in the holiest human pity
You may confer. A brother whom I love,—
Whom all men love,—a treasure-house of weal
For France and me,—in his behalf I ask
What none but you can give. Sorely his soul
Is wrung and tortured by the terrible power
Of evil spirits, ever and anon
Re-entering his body through the gaps
Of faltering faith and intermitted prayer,
When struggling nature wearied with the strife
Yields a brief vantage.

Iolande.
He shall have my prayers;
'Twill be my sorrow's solace when you're gone
To pray for one you love.

Orleans.
And did you know,
In health how kind he is, how good and just,
In anguish how unutterably tried,
You'd pray with tears.

Iolande.
I never pray without;
But they shall flow from deeper depths for him.

Orleans.
For prayers I ask—for prayers and something more.
A vial is there in the Bernardins
Which holds a relic of transcendant price,
The tears of Mary Magdalene, let fall
Then when she stood before the tomb of Christ
Ere Christ appear'd; an Angel as they fell
Caught them, and later gave them to St. John
In Patmos; to St. Bernard from St. John
Successive Saints devolved them; and such power
Is theirs, that should a virgin whom no sin
Nor sinful thought hath violated, dip
Her finger in them, calling Christ to aid,
And trace upon the brow of one possess'd
The figure of the Cross, the unclean spirit
Will instantly depart; and never more
To one so fortified can fiend or imp
Make good his entrance. Now you know what boon
In what behalf I beg.

Iolande.
Am I the maid
That may do this? Oh, would that I were worthy!
But if no holier hath the call, then I,
Beseeching God of His abounding grace
To give sufficiency, will work in faith.

Orleans.
His blessing then upon your work and you!
I will betake me to the Bernardins,
Where is enshrined the relic. Once again,
But in the hallowing presence of a rite
More solemn than a service for the dead,
We meet; and then, if so your conscience wills,
We part for ever.

Iolande.
Once and no more.

Orleans.
Meanwhile
The Lady Abbess will instruct you more
Touching myself, my Brother, and the weight
And import of your task.

[Exit.
Enter the Lady Abbess.
Abbess.
Well, pretty one;
You know not yet what crown of honour ... Yes,
And worthily you wear it—here's a colour!
I wonder if my cheeks will e'er again
Glow like a meteor, and my dangerous eyes
Throw out blue lights .. believe me once they could.
Well! there's a time for all things! I protest
You look so stately and so lifted up
I think you know what Knight you have in hand;
I think he told you.

Iolande.
No, dear Lady-Mother;
Nor do I greatly care. How brave he is,
How kind, how generous, how great of heart,
I know—what care I for his name?

Abbess.
Good child,
Say not you care not till you know. What, what!
I will not tell you if you say you care not.
Now do you care?

Iolande.
Yes, I believe I do.
Who is he?

Abbess.
Louis, by the Grace of God
Of Orleans, Valois, Blois, and Beaumont Duke,
Count of Touraine! Hi! hi! Beshrew thy heart!
The red blood ebbs amain; the fleur-de-lys
Has beaten back the roses.

Iolande.
Oh! my Mother!
Then he whose malady I am charged to cure,—
He is the King! Oh Mother, yes, I know—
“A treasure-house of weal to France and him;”
He said to France. Mother, no hour shall fly,
No minute that I shall not pass in prayer.
Send for the Hermit; tell him in the chapel
I shall be found.

Abbess.
Well, well, my child, I will.