University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—The Interior of the Convent of the Celestines. Iolande de St. Rémy and Flos de Flavy.
Flos.
A charming little Abbess if you will;
That liberty she grants herself, good soul,
She not denies to others; so far, well;
But then comes Father Renault, spare and dry,
With menace of the Bishop and the Chapter,
And in her straits we're straiten'd. Oh, no, no,
I cannot bear it; some day I shall run;
Yes, Iolande, I will, I will.

Iolande.
Oh Flos!
Oh foolish Flos! impatient of restraint
Because you scarce have felt it. The loose rein
It is that makes the runaway; too kind
The Abbess is; for those who say she errs
In other ways and worse, God pardon them!
Or if their tale be true, God pardon her!
But God forbid that I should know it true,
For love her I needs must.

Flos.
What! though she's wicked?

Iolande.
Yes, though she's wicked. That is not forbidden.
In pain and sorrow should I love her then,
As I love you.

Flos.
Oh, I am wicked too?

Iolande.
No, there I said too much. But yet with fear,
If not with pain, you fill me. Flos, from my soul
I hate the man you love.

Flos.
Well, you speak out;
But ere you spake I knew it.

Iolande.
Did you but know
The cause !—and I will tell you it in part.
Last night I had a dreadful dream. I thought
That borne at sunrise on a fleece of cloud
I floated high in air, and, looking down,
Beheld an ocean-bay girt by green hills,
And in a million wavelets tipp'd with gold
Leapt the soft pulses of the sunlit sea;
And lightly from the shore a bounding bark,
Festive with streamers fluttering in the wind,
Sail'd seaward, and the palpitating waves
Fondly like spaniels flung themselves upon her,
Recoiling and returning in their joy;
And on her deck sea-spirits I descried
Gliding and lapsing in an undulant dance,
From whom a choral gratulating strain
Exhaled its witcheries on the wanton air:
Still sail'd she seaward, and ere long the bay
Was left behind; but then a shadow fell
Upon the outer sea—a shadowy shape—
The shadow bore the likeness of the form
Of the Arch-fiend; I shudder'd for the bark
And stretch'd my hands to heaven and strove to pray
But could not for much fear; the shadow grew
Till sea and sky were black; the bark plunged on
And clove the blackness: then the fleece of cloud
That bore me, melted, and I swooned and fell,
And falling I awoke.

Flos.
Yes, Iolande,
You're ever dreaming dreams, and when they're bad
They're always about me. I too can dream,
But otherwise than you. The God of dreams
Who sleeps with me is blithe and debonnaire,
Else should he not be partner of my bed.
I dreamt I was a cat, and much caress'd
And fed with dainty viands; there was cream
And fish and flesh and porridge, but no mice;
And I was fat and sleek, but in my heart
There rose a long and melancholy mew
Which meant, “I must have mice;” and therewithal
I found myself transported to the hall
Of an old castle, with the rapturous sound
Of gnawing of old wainscot in my ears:
With that I couch'd and sprang and sprang and couch'd,
My soul rejoicing.

Iolande.
May God grant, dear Flos,
Your mice shall not prove bloodhounds. That the veil
Befits you not, I own; nor if you long
In secular sort to love and be beloved
Shall I reproach you; for if God denies
The blessing of a heart espoused to Him
His mercy wills that love should be fulfill'd
In other kind, more mixed but still divine,
Less happy but still rapt; and to this end
In his own image he created Man.
The love for Man I blame not; but oh, Flos!
There are, though you may miss to see it, men
Who have transform'd God's image in themselves
Into another likeness.

Flos.
Iolande,
You hate him; you have said so—'tis enough.
I love him; yes, and may my false heart perish
That instant that it leaves to love as now.
And if I thought this heart would so revolt,
Or ere one sun had risen upon its shame,
It should be buried without toll of bell
Six fathom in the earth, and o'er its grave
A letter'd stone should tell its terrible tale,
And say it was a heart that, having fallen,
Would rather rot below ground than above.
Oh, take your arms away—you shall not kiss me—
Sweet Iolande, I know you wish me well,
But is it wishing well to wish me false?

Iolande.
Not if your truth were plighted to the true.

Flos.
Whate'er his treasons he is true to me;
True as the bravest of the brave in love;
True as the lion that laid down its head
O'ersway'd by love divine on Lectra's lap.

Iolande.
Deceived past rescue! Were it Vezelay,
He is not good, but I believe him true,
Know him but too devoted in his love;
Were it but he!

Flos.
More kind is he than good,
Poor mortal! Yet I love his love for me
And him some little.

Enter the Lady Abbess.
Abbess.
Well, my daughters dear,
The Lord is good and gracious to this House;
So is his Grace the Founder. Have you heard?
He grants two masses daily for the soul
Of Good Duke Philip, whom may God absolve!
Truly his Grace's bounty knows no end,
Such holy love he has for this poor House.

Flos.
Likewise its charming Abbess.

Abbess.
Naughty child!
No more of that. Hark ye! the bell for Nocturns.
Go, Iolande. For Flos, she stays with me,
For I am ill and she a cheerful nurse.
Mercy! such shootings in my back! Oh me!
And such a shaking here! And then such qualms!
And here a gurgling up! By God's good help,
St. Bartlemy assisting, I have hope
To struggle through the night—but not alone.
Come, Flos, we'll sleep together. Bless my heart!
Why, Flos is stricken too! How pale she looks!
This frost will be the death of some poor souls;
The Marne is frozen over. Come, sweet Flos.