University of Virginia Library

Scene 1.

House of the Sisterhood at Oxford. Near the Church of St. Philip and St. James, on the Woodstock Road. Garden of the Nunnery.—Beatrice in nun's attire, walking in it, in close conversation with two other nuns, Mary and Dorothea.
Bea.
—Six years have passed. I have not seen him yet.
Long, long ago they seem—those burning days
Of August, when the sunstruck Eastern plains
Of France were bright with blossoms tinged with blood.
Long, long ago it seems, that weary tale
That I have told you—Mary, Dorothea,
That you have listened to with gentle ears,
Giving me hope and comfort as is meet.
I trust that I have conquered earthly love!
That all the base alloy of earth is purged,
Yea, truly purged from me—that now my hope
Is fixed alone on righteous deeds and heaven.
You know my story, girls, my sister nuns—
My soft, good-hearted sisters; it was strange,
Now was it not, in this cool, quiet garden,
To hear of deeds so desperate—passion mad
And fierce and bitter; of the loss of love,
And utter ruin of all hope on earth?
But now there is a higher crown awaiting
My earnest toils and prayers, than any crown,
Be it ne'er so bright, never so sweet, of love.
That crown awaits me, and I am content.
[She pauses.
Yet think not, think not that I have forgotten
My joy, my hope, my early spirit's love:
Be patient, love—yea, glorious love of loves—
So said I, in a wild, delicious dream
To him, one night—to him, to him, to him.
Be patient, love of loves, eternal love.
Be patient, crown of crowns—and we shall meet.

Mary.
—You dream of him, then, Beatrice?

Bea.
—Is that right?
You would go on to say—yea, right it is;
Or rather 'tis not right, but something more—
Far more—far more than any paltry right
Of earth—it is the holiness of heaven.
The priests, who would disparage love to us,
Flinging their epithets of “carnal,” “base,”
Around it, hiding it as in a veil
Of common coarseness, woven by themselves
At their imagination's vicious loom,
They are the base, the carnal—love is pure.
Yea, love is pure as is the peerless sun
Above us, or the solemn stars by night,
Pure as the round orb of the sacred moon
That floats amid the azure depths supreme,
Pure as these lilies in the garden here;
These buds of pinks, these roses; sweet and pure,
Oh flower—sweet, flower—pure maidens, as yourselves.
Never let any fool disparage love.
Love is the strengthener of earthly life,
And the bright herald at the heavenly gates
To guide with triumph towards fair lands unseen.
I give up love in this life: many do,
But 'tis because I will not give up love.
It is because I hold the gift of love
So high, so sacred, kingly and supreme,
That, rather than by over-hasty touch
And avaricious snatching premature
Break the bright crystal bowl of passion, we
Would wait that sweet gift for ten thousand years!
So sweet the perfect perfume of the rose
Of passion is, that here it cannot be
With full fruition perfectly enjoyed.
I give up love to win love—to obtain
In fullest bloom the very flower I yield;
To win the crown fools think I would destroy.

Dorothea.
—But lady, if your love came again,
Yea, rode with clatter of his sword and spurs,
Right by our walls, along the Woodstock road,
How would it fare with dreams of heavenly love?
Would heavenly love abide his coming long?
Would he not slay those sad dreams with his sword,
This gallant soldier you have told us of?
And carry you off to Woodstock—build a bower
For his, perhaps, far fairer Rosamond there,
And leave us poor nuns to inherit heaven?

Mary.
—Oh, Dorothea, Dorothea, love,
How can you talk so wildly. Beatrice
Is shocked, I see it in her tender face!

Bea.
—Nay, darling, not shocked, hardly shocked at all.
But pained a little, startled at the thought
For I had given him up. I never dreamed
That here in life I should behold again
The nodding plume—the sword—the clinking spurs;
[Her face shows that her mind has gone back strongly to the past.
The noble, honest and trustworthy face;
Nor will it be in earth-life, as I think.
Besides the wars are over—ne'er again
Through all the terrors of the years to come,
At which the seers tremble as they glance,
Never again—never—never again,
Will Edward Raynor bare the glittering sword,
To dye it in the blood of foes of France.

[She grows fierce and impassioned, and her face lightens.
Ma.
—Oh, Beatrice.
[She looks down at Mary half tenderly, half pityingly.
The old fire came upon me—Mary, love,
Forgive me—child, I must have frightened you.

Ma.
—You darted out your hand as though in thought
To strike.

Bea.
—To strike an enemy! Old dreams
Were present with me—in that bitter war
I killed a man once.
[Ma. and Do. are full of horror.
Killed him right clean dead.
He was no soldier, either French or German,
No honest soldier, but a wandering thief,
A scavenger of the army—a foul knave—
A would-be pillager of maidens' honours.
He found me in the garden of the château,
One day alone—all help was far away.
He leapt across the low and useless hedge,
And came across the flower-beds: even now—
Now that I stand in Oxford—even now—
With you two gentle, timid souls, beside,
I see with horror of great startled eyes
One splendid scarlet tulip that he crushed.
He came towards me—quite defenceless there,
I saw his purpose—fell, and black, and foul—
I saw his shameful purpose in his face,
And drew a knife. I always wore one then,
For due protection in those wild, wild days—
I drew a knife, and kept it out of sight,
And when he drew quite near, and put his hand,
His great coarse hand, upon me with a grin,
Why then—why then—I stabbed him to the heart.
And all the red bright blood—the one pure thing
He carried yet about him—splashed the tulips.

Dorothea and Mary
(together)
—Sweet saints defend us.

Bea.
—Surely then the saints
Defended me, or I had never dared
Unmaidenly to imbrue my maiden hand
E'en in defence of maidenhood, in blood.
But come my children, let me calm your hearts,
That flutter now—I know it—like the wings
Of two poor startled, palpitating doves—
Let me divert the current of your thoughts
By singing you this little, gentle song
I made the other day: 'tis of my love—
I sang his song about the dark-brown hair,
“Dying for ever loving”—you remember?
I sang his song—now I will sing you mine.
[She sings. When the same chorus comes again in the second verse the nuns look at one another, and by mutual consent, as it were, join in it.

[They rise—flushed, but happily and quietly—
Bea.-
And now let us retire; there sounds the bell
We sisters of sweet mercy know so well.

Ma.
—(solemnly)—
The time is come for silence and for prayer.
White blossoms now let love, awe-stricken, wear.

Do.
—(mischievously and archly, and half aside)—
Yet those white blossoms shall be changed to red,
If he but comes—her love is no more dead
Than some coy maiden's, yestermorning wed.