(Pierre comes from the chapel.)
(Pierre comes from the chapel.)
Abbot—Pierre!Pierre— What it is, Father?Abbot— Is the ambry clean?Pierre—It is, Father.Abbot— Go find Louis, and fetch—Fetch the diotas and—let's see—three casks.
Abbot—Pierre!
Pierre— What it is, Father?
Abbot— Is the ambry clean?
Pierre—It is, Father.
Abbot— Go find Louis, and fetch—Fetch the diotas and—let's see—three casks.
(He saunters toward the gate. Three monks followPierre, right. The rest disperse about the court, thegreater part eventually finding their way into the chapel.A few walk back in the rear and stand looking up atthe road. Three monks, who came in at the end ofthe procession and who all the while have stood perfectlystill, slip back their hoods and discover Simon, Rene,and Basil. At the corner of the dormitory, Pierre andhis companions meet Louis entering.)
(He saunters toward the gate. Three monks followPierre, right. The rest disperse about the court, thegreater part eventually finding their way into the chapel.A few walk back in the rear and stand looking up atthe road. Three monks, who came in at the end ofthe procession and who all the while have stood perfectlystill, slip back their hoods and discover Simon, Rene,and Basil. At the corner of the dormitory, Pierre andhis companions meet Louis entering.)
One of the Monks—The train has come.Pierre— Father says bring the casks.
One of the Monks—The train has come.
Pierre— Father says bring the casks.
(Louis reaches under his gown and produces a large ironkey which he hands to Pierre. He then passes into thecourt. The four go out.)
(Louis reaches under his gown and produces a large ironkey which he hands to Pierre. He then passes into thecourt. The four go out.)
Abbot—(Calculating.)Thirty gallons and six—(Turning.) Four casks, Pierre.Simon—The chopin too, Pierre. You know the men,The mule-men will be dry.Basil— Or Simon will.Rene—Or Basil.Basil— Or Rene.Simon— (With his hand to his mouth.) Or Father.
Abbot—(Calculating.)Thirty gallons and six—(Turning.) Four casks, Pierre.
Simon—The chopin too, Pierre. You know the men,The mule-men will be dry.
Basil— Or Simon will.
Rene—Or Basil.
Basil— Or Rene.
Simon— (With his hand to his mouth.) Or Father.
(They laugh.)
(They laugh.)
Abbot— Louis!
Abbot— Louis!
(The shutter near the corner of the dormitory opens, andSolomon leans out. He has a parchment in his hand.)
(The shutter near the corner of the dormitory opens, andSolomon leans out. He has a parchment in his hand.)
Soloman—Quid est, Leo?Leo—(Telling his beads, on one of the benches.)The wine train has arrived.Soloman—From Paradise.Leo— Don't be irreverant.Basil—-(To Soloman.) Let no man look on wine when it is red.Simon—I shut my eyes.
Soloman—Quid est, Leo?
Leo—(Telling his beads, on one of the benches.)The wine train has arrived.
Soloman—From Paradise.
Leo— Don't be irreverant.
Basil—-(To Soloman.) Let no man look on wine when it is red.
Simon—I shut my eyes.
(Holding their sides for laughter, Rene and Basil staggerback toward the rear. Soloman withdraws from thewindow.)
(Holding their sides for laughter, Rene and Basil staggerback toward the rear. Soloman withdraws from thewindow.)
Leo— Father will tend to you.
Leo— Father will tend to you.
(Simon makes faces at him and follows his companions.)
(Simon makes faces at him and follows his companions.)
Abbot—(Walking aside with Louis.)Say nothing to the strangers of the affair.Louis—Of finding brother Oswald?Abbot— No, not that.His fall, his being found before the gate,All that, no doubt, the villagers last nightPoured into their ears. The folk are deeply stirred.From tongue to tongue the flame of rumor runsThat heavenly hands bore Oswald from the gulch.They think the holy saints have blessed his palmsWith power of healing and of miracles.Alms have increased ten-fold. Cattle and sheep,Jewels and coin, and corn and casks of winePour in from every side. Within a year,St. Giles will swell her roofs and shine in gold—(Confidentially.)Provided, Louis, provided. You understand?Louis—You mean the abbey here will robe herselfIn purple cloth-of-bodkin stiff with pearl,Provided—Abbot— This new loom shall keep her hum.Louis—That here red wines will flow to flush her face,Provided—Abbot— Hand in hand upon the hillsThis sudden sun that hath sprung up the skyShall lead the vine and pour his blood to swell—Louis—That morning when it strikes her eastern gateWill see her heaving heavenward dome on dome,Provided—Abbot— Ay, that's it. You understand.The quarry for our domes is in our brains.Here, in our brains, your brain and mine, Louis,We have the shuttle of that wonderous loomThat shall array her in her cloth-of-gold.Here is the sun, the bridegroom of the grape.And here, from hills of France and Italy,The purple bride shall come and loose her zoneAnd lay her dower in the abbey's lap.Lock up that jewel, Louis, in its case.Let it not get abroad that you suspect—Suspect, I say; you surely do not know—Louis—I only know of what I heard and saw.I heard his voice and—Abbot— You were fast asleep.Louis—At first I was; then, wakened by the shout,Three times I heard him cry out in the dark:"Haro! help! help!"Abbot— A voice, of course; but whose?The night so alters sound you cannot tell.A cat-o'-mountain screaming in the darkFor all the world sounds like a wailing child.Louis—But when I see the track, I'll tell you then.The track up by the gate, and it's there now,Is the dwarf's track, four toes on the left foot.Abbot—Preposterous, Louis, that this hunched devilock,Brought up on witch's dugs, in the dead of nightShould be about the service of the Lord.Asses can talk like men when angels bid.Perhaps the angels, taking him in the actOf throwing brother Oswald from the cliff,Scourged him before them to the abbey gateAnd made him in his pain cry out for helpAnd set his print to attest the power of God.Who knows?Louis—Brother Oswald, perhaps.Abbot—Only God.But make no mention of the witch's son.When truth is whist and doubt a favoring galeBlowing toward golden islands in the sea,Let the ship drive before it into port.No one was with you when you found him.Louis—No one.Abbot—And no one saw you.Louis—No one. It was still dark;The brothers were asleep.Abbot—Say nothing of it.Let rumor blow it as a miracle.Sweet feet of saints have run down in the nightAnd with a touch enriched a holy houseOf no more worth than this of good St. Giles.Rumor of saints can do as much as saints.If thoughts of bright wings stirring in the skyCan kindle hearts to deeds of charity,And by those deeds the Virgin's chapels rise,Let the flame run. We'll blow it through the land.I've had the brothers circulate reportThat wings were seen dissolving in the dawnAbove the mountains.Louis—(With a smile.) So, perhaps, there were—agles wheeling airily in the clouds.Is this not, Father, to build upon the sand?Abbot—To build on sand is to build on a lie.Louis—What is a lie?Abbot—A lie is not a thingThat is not, but a thing that cannot be.Thus to say good is evil is a lie,For good cannot be evil. But to sayThat that hath been which God hath power to doIs to make faith a fact. In days like these,When the Albigensian heresy is rank,We must support the Holy Writ in this,That what is done in thought is done in deed.Has a good deed been done? Then a good thoughtHas done that deed, and that good thought is God's,And such thoughts we call angels.Louis—Oswald, then,Was rescued by the angels?Abbot—Without doubt.The globe of fire that Dominic beheldAbove our Lady's chapel in the plainOf Prouille was a light in his own mind.Louis—The multitude will never understandThis nice distinction.Abbot—Just so; but shall weShow them the foul body of fair TruthOr the clear spirit?Louis—The spirit, Father.I never doubt the end you have in view.Abbot—You doubt the means, though. Deep down in your heartYou smile and say: "But Father is all right.The times are fire, and fight for Benedict.To build the abbey, Father must have gold.To get the gold, the people must be bilked.But Father will return them light for gold.I never doubt the end he has in view."Louis—You are the brain, Father; I, the hand.You know that I would help you. You know that.Abbot—Anyway, Louis, I am justified.For simple souls find joy in simple faith.Go down into the village. Guido tells meTheir faces shine because of this bright thing.It purifies and cheers them. Cyprian saysThere is no power that does not come from God.He might have said the same of light and joy,And shall I, to whom what I know this thing isSeems quite as strange as what they think it is—That angels did it—, take their light awayBecause I know it falls not from a star?A thousand lamps burn in the House of Life.Shall I walk through its chambers and say: "This,Children, and this, now these were lit of Hell;But that one there—see how the oil of GodGoes up the wick and throws a brighter flame"?Unless they see it brighter, it is not.They cannot see it so without my eye.They cannot have my eye and keep their own,And they must keep their own a little while;At least until I get my abbey built,Until I shout the sun from out the seaAnd with its beams illumine the valley there.And since its rising on their gifts depends,And since their gifts depend on their belief,I cannot tell them their belief is false;'Twould bring the abbey down upon their heads;And Benedict would shout forevermore,Seeing their night come back without a star.And so I cannot tell them what is true.Nothing is sadder than to see a mindDrifting between an old faith torn awayAnd a new rock not risen from the waves.Their wisp must burn until the sun comes up.Our Lord himself tempered his dazzling truthTo simple minds, and spake in parables,Leaving the halo on the brow of things.And shall we blow it away?Louis— Is it there?Abbot— For them,It is intensely there. And when they comeBringing their little gifts, what can I say?They ask me, "Is this light?" I say, "Does itShine?" They answer, "Yes." "Then it is light."(A pause.)Is it? (A pause.) Louis?Louis— Suppose so; if it shines.Abbot—And if they say it shines?Louis—(After a pause.) I suppose so.Abbot—Shall Plato take Saint Giles' faith away?That, Louis, is the question of all time.Louis—If he can give him Plato's.Abbot—Ifhe can.And if he cannot?Louis— If he cannot—(He stops.)Abbot— What?Ready to give to one who cannot take,Who cannot see my light beyond her light.Shall I step in upon my mother's prayerWith noise, and say: "But see, yours is no god."And pick and pound and blow her hope awayAnd loose her tears upon my father's corpse?(A pause.)Louis? (A pause.) Shall I?Louis—(Walking about with his head down.)I have naught to say.Abbot—Do I still seem to be a hypocrite?Louis—(Turning quickly.)Father!Abbot—What should I say? "Your eye sees false"?If they think rue will keep the devils off,To kill their thought would bring the devils backAnd leave them fleeing Hell, not seeking God;A different thing though Benedict knows it not.They are not ready for the larger life,And in a day I cannot make them so.They cannot take my light. Shall I take theirs,Their little light, and leave them in the dark?Take from their hearts the glory and the hope?How do I know what God means by this thing?If they should ask me I must drop my eyesAnd say: "He hides to-morrow from to-day,"Which is no answer, Louis, and I know it.What can I do? No, I must seem to lie:While I am serving God, seem to serve Hell;Pray to the Giver of Light, "Thy will be done,"And then give darkness! Oh, for some power,Some angel, Louis, that should come from heavenAnd free us from these bonds of policy!That we must hide our light like secret partsAs though each shining ray were snake of Hell!Oh, that some god would step down on the peaksAnd make us throw our thought out on the dark,As fields their seeds, leaving the god of growthTo separate and slay and bring to sheaf!How I would lay this cope and this aside,And with my face upon the mountains run,Aye, run to meet the bright thing coming down,And cry, "Hail, hail, hail, hail, thou blessed one!"
Abbot—(Walking aside with Louis.)Say nothing to the strangers of the affair.
Louis—Of finding brother Oswald?
Abbot— No, not that.His fall, his being found before the gate,All that, no doubt, the villagers last nightPoured into their ears. The folk are deeply stirred.From tongue to tongue the flame of rumor runsThat heavenly hands bore Oswald from the gulch.They think the holy saints have blessed his palmsWith power of healing and of miracles.Alms have increased ten-fold. Cattle and sheep,Jewels and coin, and corn and casks of winePour in from every side. Within a year,St. Giles will swell her roofs and shine in gold—(Confidentially.)Provided, Louis, provided. You understand?
Louis—You mean the abbey here will robe herselfIn purple cloth-of-bodkin stiff with pearl,Provided—
Abbot— This new loom shall keep her hum.
Louis—That here red wines will flow to flush her face,Provided—
Abbot— Hand in hand upon the hillsThis sudden sun that hath sprung up the skyShall lead the vine and pour his blood to swell—
Louis—That morning when it strikes her eastern gateWill see her heaving heavenward dome on dome,Provided—
Abbot— Ay, that's it. You understand.The quarry for our domes is in our brains.Here, in our brains, your brain and mine, Louis,We have the shuttle of that wonderous loomThat shall array her in her cloth-of-gold.Here is the sun, the bridegroom of the grape.And here, from hills of France and Italy,The purple bride shall come and loose her zoneAnd lay her dower in the abbey's lap.Lock up that jewel, Louis, in its case.Let it not get abroad that you suspect—Suspect, I say; you surely do not know—
Louis—I only know of what I heard and saw.I heard his voice and—
Abbot— You were fast asleep.
Louis—At first I was; then, wakened by the shout,Three times I heard him cry out in the dark:"Haro! help! help!"
Abbot— A voice, of course; but whose?The night so alters sound you cannot tell.A cat-o'-mountain screaming in the darkFor all the world sounds like a wailing child.
Louis—But when I see the track, I'll tell you then.The track up by the gate, and it's there now,Is the dwarf's track, four toes on the left foot.
Abbot—Preposterous, Louis, that this hunched devilock,Brought up on witch's dugs, in the dead of nightShould be about the service of the Lord.Asses can talk like men when angels bid.Perhaps the angels, taking him in the actOf throwing brother Oswald from the cliff,Scourged him before them to the abbey gateAnd made him in his pain cry out for helpAnd set his print to attest the power of God.Who knows?
Louis—Brother Oswald, perhaps.
Abbot—Only God.But make no mention of the witch's son.When truth is whist and doubt a favoring galeBlowing toward golden islands in the sea,Let the ship drive before it into port.No one was with you when you found him.
Louis—No one.
Abbot—And no one saw you.
Louis—No one. It was still dark;The brothers were asleep.
Abbot—Say nothing of it.Let rumor blow it as a miracle.Sweet feet of saints have run down in the nightAnd with a touch enriched a holy houseOf no more worth than this of good St. Giles.Rumor of saints can do as much as saints.If thoughts of bright wings stirring in the skyCan kindle hearts to deeds of charity,And by those deeds the Virgin's chapels rise,Let the flame run. We'll blow it through the land.I've had the brothers circulate reportThat wings were seen dissolving in the dawnAbove the mountains.
Louis—(With a smile.) So, perhaps, there were—agles wheeling airily in the clouds.Is this not, Father, to build upon the sand?
Abbot—To build on sand is to build on a lie.
Louis—What is a lie?
Abbot—A lie is not a thingThat is not, but a thing that cannot be.Thus to say good is evil is a lie,For good cannot be evil. But to sayThat that hath been which God hath power to doIs to make faith a fact. In days like these,When the Albigensian heresy is rank,We must support the Holy Writ in this,That what is done in thought is done in deed.Has a good deed been done? Then a good thoughtHas done that deed, and that good thought is God's,And such thoughts we call angels.
Louis—Oswald, then,Was rescued by the angels?
Abbot—Without doubt.The globe of fire that Dominic beheldAbove our Lady's chapel in the plainOf Prouille was a light in his own mind.
Louis—The multitude will never understandThis nice distinction.
Abbot—Just so; but shall weShow them the foul body of fair TruthOr the clear spirit?
Louis—The spirit, Father.I never doubt the end you have in view.
Abbot—You doubt the means, though. Deep down in your heartYou smile and say: "But Father is all right.The times are fire, and fight for Benedict.To build the abbey, Father must have gold.To get the gold, the people must be bilked.But Father will return them light for gold.I never doubt the end he has in view."
Louis—You are the brain, Father; I, the hand.You know that I would help you. You know that.
Abbot—Anyway, Louis, I am justified.For simple souls find joy in simple faith.Go down into the village. Guido tells meTheir faces shine because of this bright thing.It purifies and cheers them. Cyprian saysThere is no power that does not come from God.He might have said the same of light and joy,And shall I, to whom what I know this thing isSeems quite as strange as what they think it is—That angels did it—, take their light awayBecause I know it falls not from a star?A thousand lamps burn in the House of Life.Shall I walk through its chambers and say: "This,Children, and this, now these were lit of Hell;But that one there—see how the oil of GodGoes up the wick and throws a brighter flame"?Unless they see it brighter, it is not.They cannot see it so without my eye.They cannot have my eye and keep their own,And they must keep their own a little while;At least until I get my abbey built,Until I shout the sun from out the seaAnd with its beams illumine the valley there.And since its rising on their gifts depends,And since their gifts depend on their belief,I cannot tell them their belief is false;'Twould bring the abbey down upon their heads;And Benedict would shout forevermore,Seeing their night come back without a star.And so I cannot tell them what is true.Nothing is sadder than to see a mindDrifting between an old faith torn awayAnd a new rock not risen from the waves.Their wisp must burn until the sun comes up.Our Lord himself tempered his dazzling truthTo simple minds, and spake in parables,Leaving the halo on the brow of things.And shall we blow it away?
Louis— Is it there?
Abbot— For them,It is intensely there. And when they comeBringing their little gifts, what can I say?They ask me, "Is this light?" I say, "Does itShine?" They answer, "Yes." "Then it is light."(A pause.)Is it? (A pause.) Louis?
Louis— Suppose so; if it shines.
Abbot—And if they say it shines?
Louis—(After a pause.) I suppose so.
Abbot—Shall Plato take Saint Giles' faith away?That, Louis, is the question of all time.
Louis—If he can give him Plato's.
Abbot—Ifhe can.And if he cannot?
Louis— If he cannot—(He stops.)
Abbot— What?Ready to give to one who cannot take,Who cannot see my light beyond her light.Shall I step in upon my mother's prayerWith noise, and say: "But see, yours is no god."And pick and pound and blow her hope awayAnd loose her tears upon my father's corpse?(A pause.)Louis? (A pause.) Shall I?
Louis—(Walking about with his head down.)I have naught to say.
Abbot—Do I still seem to be a hypocrite?
Louis—(Turning quickly.)Father!
Abbot—What should I say? "Your eye sees false"?If they think rue will keep the devils off,To kill their thought would bring the devils backAnd leave them fleeing Hell, not seeking God;A different thing though Benedict knows it not.They are not ready for the larger life,And in a day I cannot make them so.They cannot take my light. Shall I take theirs,Their little light, and leave them in the dark?Take from their hearts the glory and the hope?How do I know what God means by this thing?If they should ask me I must drop my eyesAnd say: "He hides to-morrow from to-day,"Which is no answer, Louis, and I know it.What can I do? No, I must seem to lie:While I am serving God, seem to serve Hell;Pray to the Giver of Light, "Thy will be done,"And then give darkness! Oh, for some power,Some angel, Louis, that should come from heavenAnd free us from these bonds of policy!That we must hide our light like secret partsAs though each shining ray were snake of Hell!Oh, that some god would step down on the peaksAnd make us throw our thought out on the dark,As fields their seeds, leaving the god of growthTo separate and slay and bring to sheaf!How I would lay this cope and this aside,And with my face upon the mountains run,Aye, run to meet the bright thing coming down,And cry, "Hail, hail, hail, hail, thou blessed one!"
(Shaking with emotion, his voice husky.)
(Shaking with emotion, his voice husky.)
I cannot be a man!Louis— But, Father, that—Abbot—Accursed bondage harder than the Nile!Louis—That prophesy that Oswald brings, may itNot mean this very thing, that by his fallAnd this bright rumor that the angels saved him,A summer cloud that seems to rain down gold,May it not be that by this very goldYour tower of light shall rise upon this rockAnd save the North from darkness? May it not?Abbot—But who will save us from our policy,From playing hide and seek with God's bright son,From the necessity of withholding truthFrom those to whom the vital thing belongs,Who do not even hunger for it more,Who live and die about a taper's flame,Calling it star, and sun, salvation, God—And here all round us—Louis, look, the dawn!Louis—The quality of all light is the same.Abbot—Quality, Louis, is not quantity.The myriad spheres of dew leave the fields dark.The midnight luster on the swamp is light,Enough to guide the wild thing paddling there.The willow leaves give light unto the moth.The stars that fill us with the life to comeLeave darkness in the prowling tiger's eye,And rise and set upon its curve of ball.God made the day for higher things than these.Some light is not enough for something moreThan moth and water-rat and prowling mawsThat find their food in flesh. With what designLit God the radiant pages? For what purposeHung he the planet Plato in the skyWith kindred constellations of pure thought,If I, a mortal man, can lift my handAnd leave a shadow in the valley there?It fills my life with meaning to know this,That God hath ordered so our spiritual worldThat every bright thing needs my will to shine,As it needs His to reach the shining state.Think of such confidence of God in man!And I betray it.(He walks about thoughtfully.)Louis— You betray it? How?By holding back the truth about the dwarf?Abbot—I hide the light.Louis— You hide it as a seedWhich, if the people eat, the famine spreads,But which, if planted, wide the harvest waves.Your own heart tells you you are right in this.Abbot—But when, when is the feeding to begin?If I to-day withhold the seed, who knowsThat I will not to-morrow withhold the yield,And so continue, building larger barns?Meanwhile the people in the valley die.Louis—But God, who sees your purpose in it all,Sees the day coming when this rock shall beA beacon, and this region full of light.Abbot—'Twill never be while Benedict is here.Louis—Oh, but look yonder, Father! Three hours agoBlack clouds besieged the east, and lo, now DayStands on the mountain tops and sees them not.Where Night has gone there's room for Benedict.Abbot—I know that, Louis; but the years go by.And oh, to use the little breath I haveIn doing what I never did before!How is it I cannot tell them what is true?Louis—'Twould crush in seed the abbey you would build.Abbot—How can an abbey rise upon a lie?Louis—You said it was not a lie.Abbot— It is a lieUntil they know that it is not a lie.As I do.Louis— Will you tell them?Abbot—(Walking about.)I am bound,Bound hand and foot by cursed policy.I cannot be a man.Louis— Many a churchHas lies like this above the altar place.Abbot—My abbey was to be part of the one.Louis—(After a pause.)You said, "Until they know it," Father.Abbot— Yes.Louis—"As I do."(The Abbot turns.)Do you doubt it was the dwarf?Abbot—I do not doubt the fact in the case, butI may not limit its significance.Louis—(With a smile.)An angel or a god, then?Abbot— Half so, yes.Louis—To free us from our policy?Abbot— Pray GodIt 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 notBe 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 gameWith heart divided and with swaying mindAnd lifts whichever falls. The game goes onForever, and the nations rise and fallForever, 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 eyesThat Heathendom shall tumble down to Hell,But not a word that Ignorance shall fallOr 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.Louis— How?Abbot—I hope that some free, somefreespirit may win.Not one wrapped round with ignorance, nor oneBound hand and foot by cursed policy.But I am not his foe.Louis— But he is yours.Abbot—Night does not understand.Louis— I cannot see.Abbot—Louis, the greatest man in this great worldIs he who sees all things are going right.Yet fights as though all things were going wrong.(Louis shakes his head.)I know you don't. But I can do no moreThan show my thought. To see it, must be yours.Louis—Then Oswald's fall—Abbot— Not if it gives him strengthTo do the work his spirit bids him do,To wrestle with the dark and with the bright,To wrestle better than he did before.And shake the fruit down of that prophesy.Who knows what God behind the horizon holdsFor Oswald till the dawning of that day?I somehow feel the dream is, as it were,The warp to which the prophesy is woof,And that beneath the hills unseen a loomRocks as it weaves in dogs and storm and deerAnd underneath the meaning of it all.But I was speaking of the witch's son.This pebble here I take up in my hand.I turn it, yet I always see one side.The other side is toward the underworld,And though I turned it till the Judgment Day,That side would still be round there. Bid it grow,Swell to a bowlder's, now the chapel's size,And now a globe's. And let us hold it thus.Above us, on our palms. Like Atlas nowI stand supporting it.(Pointing as though under the globe.)Down here I seeA little night following a little dayAbout a water-drop, a grain of sand,A point in which my spirit lives and moves.(Reaching up and around.)How do I know that up here are not worldsLit with Gods' providence and bathed with soul?What is my thought that it should scale these zonesAnd take my law of good and evil thereAnd recreate that life to what I know?Is my eye God's, that it should see all things?From what far mountains come the grains of goldThat sparkle in the river of my soul?Ranges of being and tall peaks of thoughtMay hold up here a brighter metal still,Some burning thing would dry my river bed.The dreams that vein the dark sky of our sleep,As lightnings vein the night and then are gone,Whence come they and whither go they, that they leaveVast expectation and the vacant eye?And out beyond the chalice of our sleepThat cases round my dew-drop soul, who knowsWhat oceans roar with life beyond our life,And spray with stars the dark rocks of the void?How do I know what creatures come and goBeyond my little line of night and day,Doing the will of the Eternal Mind?I am not Benedict to say, "This is He,And this is not."Louis— Not even of the dwarf?Abbot—God is the author of the book we seeWhose pages are the mountains and the stars.Though He may sit aloof, his soul pervadesEach word and letter. Prowling in the spring,The mountain lion feels Him in her paws,And the wild creatures of the caves are His.Louis—Was He in Oswald's fall?Abbot— 'Tis past my thoughtHow He should not be;—in his rising, too.If God is with me when I climb a hill,When I descend do I leave God somewhereUpon the top? If only he ascends,How came he in the valley, then, at first?Only the ignorant halve the universeAnd thresh events and say, "Thewheatis God's,"Piecing their small minds out with nothingness.The chaff too served its purpose in its timeAnd while it served its purpose it was goodAnd like the wheat it drew its strength from God.Having served its end, is wheat itself not chaff?If Oswald's fall is evil in our minds,It is because we do not see its place.But where my knowledge ends, does God end, too?Our brother tumbling from the bluff that nightInto the gorge, but tumbled, as it were,Off of God's fingers into his great palm.Ascent and descent are in one straight line.I see no angle in the universe,A break in things, a point where God beginsAnd Satan ends. If, in this strange event,The people see a movement of the skyAnd stand amazed, I stand even more amazedAt what I see than they at seraphim.For what I see is darkness giving light,An earth-born thing showing capacityFor deeds divine, and busy in the darkNot with its own low nature but with God.I grapple with it and my light goes out.I feel as though I walked in a strong windAlong a reed, with only faith for eyes.Reason calls it to me with a blind man's voice.That helplessness should bring an angel down,Is that as wonderful as that it should bringA devil up to do an angel's work?Whatwesee, Louis, is the miracle.Whattheysee, while it jars our sense of things,Falls nicely into the mental harmony.Louis—Good becomes evil having served its end.How Benedict would rage should he hear this.Abbot—Each mind takes of the light what it can hold.Louis—You know that day in the scriptorium,When you were reading the Symposium,What he said, do you remember?Abbot— Yes, I do.Louis—"If I had my way I would burn that thing."Abbot—A beam of the sunshine hurts the owl's eyes.Louis—And he would peck the stars out if he could.Abbot—As though our faith were fungus!Louis— If it be,If it must feed on darkness, let it die.Abbot—(Walking about thoughtfully.)It need not feed on darkness, Louis.Louis— ThisMiracle, Father, will bring back the day.Abbot—(To himself.)The Age is torn and shaken. Passions swellAnd range like winter rivers. I would have itLucid and calm as Arno flowing downBy sacred Florence. I am far away,Far away and my hairs begin to fall.Louis—This will bring back the day.Abbot— (To himself.) And nothing done.
I cannot be a man!
Louis— But, Father, that—
Abbot—Accursed bondage harder than the Nile!
Louis—That prophesy that Oswald brings, may itNot mean this very thing, that by his fallAnd this bright rumor that the angels saved him,A summer cloud that seems to rain down gold,May it not be that by this very goldYour tower of light shall rise upon this rockAnd save the North from darkness? May it not?
Abbot—But who will save us from our policy,From playing hide and seek with God's bright son,From the necessity of withholding truthFrom those to whom the vital thing belongs,Who do not even hunger for it more,Who live and die about a taper's flame,Calling it star, and sun, salvation, God—And here all round us—Louis, look, the dawn!
Louis—The quality of all light is the same.
Abbot—Quality, Louis, is not quantity.The myriad spheres of dew leave the fields dark.The midnight luster on the swamp is light,Enough to guide the wild thing paddling there.The willow leaves give light unto the moth.The stars that fill us with the life to comeLeave darkness in the prowling tiger's eye,And rise and set upon its curve of ball.God made the day for higher things than these.Some light is not enough for something moreThan moth and water-rat and prowling mawsThat find their food in flesh. With what designLit God the radiant pages? For what purposeHung he the planet Plato in the skyWith kindred constellations of pure thought,If I, a mortal man, can lift my handAnd leave a shadow in the valley there?It fills my life with meaning to know this,That God hath ordered so our spiritual worldThat every bright thing needs my will to shine,As it needs His to reach the shining state.Think of such confidence of God in man!And I betray it.(He walks about thoughtfully.)
Louis— You betray it? How?By holding back the truth about the dwarf?
Abbot—I hide the light.
Louis— You hide it as a seedWhich, if the people eat, the famine spreads,But which, if planted, wide the harvest waves.Your own heart tells you you are right in this.
Abbot—But when, when is the feeding to begin?If I to-day withhold the seed, who knowsThat I will not to-morrow withhold the yield,And so continue, building larger barns?Meanwhile the people in the valley die.
Louis—But God, who sees your purpose in it all,Sees the day coming when this rock shall beA beacon, and this region full of light.
Abbot—'Twill never be while Benedict is here.
Louis—Oh, but look yonder, Father! Three hours agoBlack clouds besieged the east, and lo, now DayStands on the mountain tops and sees them not.Where Night has gone there's room for Benedict.
Abbot—I know that, Louis; but the years go by.And oh, to use the little breath I haveIn doing what I never did before!How is it I cannot tell them what is true?
Louis—'Twould crush in seed the abbey you would build.
Abbot—How can an abbey rise upon a lie?
Louis—You said it was not a lie.
Abbot— It is a lieUntil they know that it is not a lie.As I do.
Louis— Will you tell them?
Abbot—(Walking about.)I am bound,Bound hand and foot by cursed policy.I cannot be a man.
Louis— Many a churchHas lies like this above the altar place.
Abbot—My abbey was to be part of the one.
Louis—(After a pause.)You said, "Until they know it," Father.
Abbot— Yes.
Louis—"As I do."(The Abbot turns.)Do you doubt it was the dwarf?
Abbot—I do not doubt the fact in the case, butI may not limit its significance.
Louis—(With a smile.)An angel or a god, then?
Abbot— Half so, yes.
Louis—To free us from our policy?
Abbot— Pray GodIt 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 notBe 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 gameWith heart divided and with swaying mindAnd lifts whichever falls. The game goes onForever, and the nations rise and fallForever, 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 eyesThat Heathendom shall tumble down to Hell,But not a word that Ignorance shall fallOr 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.
Louis— How?
Abbot—I hope that some free, somefreespirit may win.Not one wrapped round with ignorance, nor oneBound hand and foot by cursed policy.But I am not his foe.
Louis— But he is yours.
Abbot—Night does not understand.
Louis— I cannot see.
Abbot—Louis, the greatest man in this great worldIs he who sees all things are going right.Yet fights as though all things were going wrong.(Louis shakes his head.)I know you don't. But I can do no moreThan show my thought. To see it, must be yours.
Louis—Then Oswald's fall—
Abbot— Not if it gives him strengthTo do the work his spirit bids him do,To wrestle with the dark and with the bright,To wrestle better than he did before.And shake the fruit down of that prophesy.Who knows what God behind the horizon holdsFor Oswald till the dawning of that day?I somehow feel the dream is, as it were,The warp to which the prophesy is woof,And that beneath the hills unseen a loomRocks as it weaves in dogs and storm and deerAnd underneath the meaning of it all.But I was speaking of the witch's son.This pebble here I take up in my hand.I turn it, yet I always see one side.The other side is toward the underworld,And though I turned it till the Judgment Day,That side would still be round there. Bid it grow,Swell to a bowlder's, now the chapel's size,And now a globe's. And let us hold it thus.Above us, on our palms. Like Atlas nowI stand supporting it.(Pointing as though under the globe.)Down here I seeA little night following a little dayAbout a water-drop, a grain of sand,A point in which my spirit lives and moves.(Reaching up and around.)How do I know that up here are not worldsLit with Gods' providence and bathed with soul?What is my thought that it should scale these zonesAnd take my law of good and evil thereAnd recreate that life to what I know?Is my eye God's, that it should see all things?From what far mountains come the grains of goldThat sparkle in the river of my soul?Ranges of being and tall peaks of thoughtMay hold up here a brighter metal still,Some burning thing would dry my river bed.The dreams that vein the dark sky of our sleep,As lightnings vein the night and then are gone,Whence come they and whither go they, that they leaveVast expectation and the vacant eye?And out beyond the chalice of our sleepThat cases round my dew-drop soul, who knowsWhat oceans roar with life beyond our life,And spray with stars the dark rocks of the void?How do I know what creatures come and goBeyond my little line of night and day,Doing the will of the Eternal Mind?I am not Benedict to say, "This is He,And this is not."
Louis— Not even of the dwarf?
Abbot—God is the author of the book we seeWhose pages are the mountains and the stars.Though He may sit aloof, his soul pervadesEach word and letter. Prowling in the spring,The mountain lion feels Him in her paws,And the wild creatures of the caves are His.
Louis—Was He in Oswald's fall?
Abbot— 'Tis past my thoughtHow He should not be;—in his rising, too.If God is with me when I climb a hill,When I descend do I leave God somewhereUpon the top? If only he ascends,How came he in the valley, then, at first?Only the ignorant halve the universeAnd thresh events and say, "Thewheatis God's,"Piecing their small minds out with nothingness.The chaff too served its purpose in its timeAnd while it served its purpose it was goodAnd like the wheat it drew its strength from God.Having served its end, is wheat itself not chaff?If Oswald's fall is evil in our minds,It is because we do not see its place.But where my knowledge ends, does God end, too?Our brother tumbling from the bluff that nightInto the gorge, but tumbled, as it were,Off of God's fingers into his great palm.Ascent and descent are in one straight line.I see no angle in the universe,A break in things, a point where God beginsAnd Satan ends. If, in this strange event,The people see a movement of the skyAnd stand amazed, I stand even more amazedAt what I see than they at seraphim.For what I see is darkness giving light,An earth-born thing showing capacityFor deeds divine, and busy in the darkNot with its own low nature but with God.I grapple with it and my light goes out.I feel as though I walked in a strong windAlong a reed, with only faith for eyes.Reason calls it to me with a blind man's voice.That helplessness should bring an angel down,Is that as wonderful as that it should bringA devil up to do an angel's work?Whatwesee, Louis, is the miracle.Whattheysee, while it jars our sense of things,Falls nicely into the mental harmony.
Louis—Good becomes evil having served its end.How Benedict would rage should he hear this.
Abbot—Each mind takes of the light what it can hold.
Louis—You know that day in the scriptorium,When you were reading the Symposium,What he said, do you remember?
Abbot— Yes, I do.
Louis—"If I had my way I would burn that thing."
Abbot—A beam of the sunshine hurts the owl's eyes.
Louis—And he would peck the stars out if he could.
Abbot—As though our faith were fungus!
Louis— If it be,If it must feed on darkness, let it die.
Abbot—(Walking about thoughtfully.)It need not feed on darkness, Louis.
Louis— ThisMiracle, Father, will bring back the day.
Abbot—(To himself.)The Age is torn and shaken. Passions swellAnd range like winter rivers. I would have itLucid and calm as Arno flowing downBy sacred Florence. I am far away,Far away and my hairs begin to fall.
Louis—This will bring back the day.
Abbot— (To himself.) And nothing done.
(He stands with his eyes upon the ground. Then, dreamily.)
(He stands with his eyes upon the ground. Then, dreamily.)
Young faces radiant with the golden airThat Plato breathed among the olive leaves.Louis—(Half aloud.)"If I had my way I would burn that thing."Abbot—(Half to himself, his back to Louis.)And if I had my way—(He lifts his face.)—Oh, I would buildAn abbey! I would cut its trenches deepDown into God, the God of all things. ThenI would lay the white stones of Philosophy,The Sages who, as gifts to Delphi, broughtSmall sheaves of wisdom, offering them to GodAs better gifts than first born bulls and goats.And I would slay the griffin, Policy,And scatter its bright gold about the worldAnd lay its carcass for the corner stone.Its telamons should be those giant menWho propt the fabric of the ancient world.The east and west and north and south should layTheir four white corners on the four broad backsOf Plato and his solid pupil's mind,Then him who dove too deep for Rome to see,Lucretius, maddening round the seeds of things,And Cicero because he loved the truth.And there should stand all round as peristyleThe Bards of Greece in cluster, speaking gold;Young Sappho with the glory of the seaAll round her milk white throat and marble arms,Proud Pindar fawning kings, and Sophocles,And he, he, Aeschylus, wild son of fire,Who never swerved for mincing Policy,But spake his sea-thought out and shook the world.Its roof should be the shields of golden songWherever burning on the hills of Time,Wherever smouldering in Eternity.And I would have all planets God hath hungSince first His word went forth, "Let there be light,"Within our spiritual heaven, shining hereWithout eclipse forever. And up there,In alto relievo on the frieze, should beApollo slaying python Ignorance,And Darkness with the face of BenedictHalf hung down, heavy, livid, hands and teethTugging and biting at the architraveTo tear these golden letters from the slab."The soul is in the brain." And over all,Towering with her calm eternal eyes,Athene, soul of Athens, holy One.Oh, I would build an abbey!Louis—(As in prayer.) Father! Father!Guido—(Appearing at the door of the chapel.)The fifteenth chapter has that blue stain on it.Abbot—(Pointing right.)In the scriptorium, the second shelf;Get the Symposium; I will read that.
Young faces radiant with the golden airThat Plato breathed among the olive leaves.
Louis—(Half aloud.)"If I had my way I would burn that thing."
Abbot—(Half to himself, his back to Louis.)And if I had my way—(He lifts his face.)—Oh, I would buildAn abbey! I would cut its trenches deepDown into God, the God of all things. ThenI would lay the white stones of Philosophy,The Sages who, as gifts to Delphi, broughtSmall sheaves of wisdom, offering them to GodAs better gifts than first born bulls and goats.And I would slay the griffin, Policy,And scatter its bright gold about the worldAnd lay its carcass for the corner stone.Its telamons should be those giant menWho propt the fabric of the ancient world.The east and west and north and south should layTheir four white corners on the four broad backsOf Plato and his solid pupil's mind,Then him who dove too deep for Rome to see,Lucretius, maddening round the seeds of things,And Cicero because he loved the truth.And there should stand all round as peristyleThe Bards of Greece in cluster, speaking gold;Young Sappho with the glory of the seaAll round her milk white throat and marble arms,Proud Pindar fawning kings, and Sophocles,And he, he, Aeschylus, wild son of fire,Who never swerved for mincing Policy,But spake his sea-thought out and shook the world.Its roof should be the shields of golden songWherever burning on the hills of Time,Wherever smouldering in Eternity.And I would have all planets God hath hungSince first His word went forth, "Let there be light,"Within our spiritual heaven, shining hereWithout eclipse forever. And up there,In alto relievo on the frieze, should beApollo slaying python Ignorance,And Darkness with the face of BenedictHalf hung down, heavy, livid, hands and teethTugging and biting at the architraveTo tear these golden letters from the slab."The soul is in the brain." And over all,Towering with her calm eternal eyes,Athene, soul of Athens, holy One.Oh, I would build an abbey!
Louis—(As in prayer.) Father! Father!
Guido—(Appearing at the door of the chapel.)The fifteenth chapter has that blue stain on it.
Abbot—(Pointing right.)In the scriptorium, the second shelf;Get the Symposium; I will read that.