ACT IV
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Scene: The Chapel of the Castle—or Chapel of the Magdalen—a few hours later. It is of stone, low-arched, gloomy, and adorned with Byzantine mosaics of gaunt saints on backgrounds of gold. The altar is in the rear, and above it a large window, through which pours the still moon. In front of it, to either side, rise two pillars supporting the roof, and on one of them, halfway up, stands a stone image of the Magdalen. Forward are two other pillars whose bases form seats. The right wall has, set midway, a large door hung with heavy curtains. In the rear are smaller doors leading to a sacristy. The altar lamp and a few tapers burn. Alessa enters, rubbing her eyes as if to clear them of vision, looks around, then calls uncertainly—
Alessa. Good father! Father Moro!... He is not here.
(Rubs her eyes again.)
The dead are strange! I knew not all their power. It is as if her spirit still imprisoned Hovered beneath the pallor of her face And strove to speak. Good father!
(Enter Moro.)
Ah, you were There in the sacristy. Moro. Yes. Your desire? Alessa. The acolytes summoned from Famagouste To aid your rites before her burial Have come, and wait. Moro. Send hither two.
(Looks closely at her.)
Alessa. At once.
(Is going. He stops her.)
Moro. Woman, this passes silence. There must be Some question. Do you understand this wedding? The evil that has risen in this house? Speak. Alessa. I may not. Moro. As says Yolanda, who Has been to-day impenetrable in all. But who, now, in a lofty grief above The misery that blasted her, seems calm, And answers only, "God in His season will, I trust, unfold it soon; I cannot, now!" ... And yet I heard Her darkly bid the Paphian be gone—— From here—without her. Alessa. And he would not? Moro. No.
(A pause.)
Does she not see lightnings now in Amaury, Plunging for truth? What is't? Alessa. The acolytes Are waiting. Moro. Go ... But if this hour bring forth What you shall rue—— Alessa. Father!
(Goes quickly, troubled.)
Moro. In blindness still! For Vittia Pisani, who alone Seems with these twain to share this mystery Is silent to all importunity. Oh, Berengere Lusignan! But 'tis mine To pray and to prepare. (Listens.) The acolytes.
(Two enter, sleek, sanctimonious.)
(To First.) Come here ... You're Serlio, Of the Ascension. You? 2nd Acolyte. Hilarion. From Santa Maria by the Templars' well, Which God looks on with gratitude, father. For though we're poor and are unworthy servants We've given willingly our widow's mite. And now we ... Moro. You are summoned to this place For ministrations other than the tongue's. Prepare that altar—masses for the dead. Hilarion. Man is as grass that withers! Moro. Kindle all Its tapers. The departed will be borne Hither for holy care and sacred rest. So do—then after Look to that image of the Magdalen, Once it has fallen. Serlio. Domine, dirige!
(Moro goes. They put off cant and set to work.)
Hilarion (insolently, lighting a taper). We'll have good wine for this! Serlio. The Chian! Hee! None's like the Chian! and to-morrow, meat! Last week old Ugo died and we had pheasant. Hilarion. When we are priests we'll give no comforting To wife or maid—till we have sipped! Serlio. And supped! Though 'tis a Friday and the Pope is dead!
(Silence. They work faster.)
Hilarion. There, it is done. Now to the image. Serlio. Well, Olympio, the cock who fetched us, said That image fell first on the day—— Hilarion. Tchuck! tchuck! Better no breath about that lord of Paphos Or any here. For till the dead are three Days gone, you know—! But there's the woman. Feign.
(As Alessa re-enters; hypocritically.)
The blessed dead! in Purgatory may They briefly bide. Serlio. Aye! aye! Alessa (still troubled). What say you? Hilarion. Ah! I lay that it is wise never to foul The dead, even in thinking, For they may hear us, none can say, and once My mother saw a dead man who had gone Unshriven start up white and cry out loud When he was curst. Serlio. O Lord! Alessa (staring). No!... Well, such things There are perchance. And now they say that Venus, The Anadyomene, who once ruled this isle, Is come again.... But you have finished? Soon They bring her body here. Hilarion. Now have I, now! It will not totter again. (Descends.) Alessa Would that it might Upon the head of —— (catches herself; calmly) You are awaited There in the sacristy.... The chant begins!
(The acolytes go. She grows more disquieted.)
Begins! and lady Yolanda still awaits Heedless, though Lord Amaury's desperate As is the Paphian!... They near!... The curtains!
(Goes to them and draws them back. As she does so the chant swells louder. Then the cortège enters—Moro, the acolytes with tapers; Berengere on a litter, Amaury, Renier, Vittia, the women, Hassan, and last Yolanda. The litter, Amaury by it, comes to the altar; the chanting ceases.)
Moro (as Amaury bows, shaken). No moan or any toil of grief be here Where we have brought her for sainted appeal. But in this holy place until the tomb Let her find rest. Amaury. Set down the bier.
(It is placed.)
Moro. Lone rest! Then bliss Afar for ever! Amaury (rises). Be it so!
(Turning; brokenly.)
But unto any, mother, who have brought thee Low to this couch, be never ease again. To any who have put thy life out, never! But in them be the burning that has seemed To shrivel thee—whether with pain or fear! And be appeaseless tears, Salt tears that rust the fountain of the heart.
(Sinks to a seat. A pause.)
Moro. My son, relentless words. Amaury (up again). To the relentless! Moro. God hear you not! Amaury. Then is He not my God. Moro. Enough, enough. (To the rest.) But go and for her soul Freight all of you this tide of night with prayer. Amaury. Never! Moro. I bid. Amaury. And I forbid those who Have prized her not! For though nought's in the world but prayer may move, Still but the lips that loved her Should for her any sin beseeching lift.
(Looking at Yolanda.)
They and no other! Yolanda. And, you mean——? Amaury. Not one. Yolanda. Then, mother——
(Goes to bier.)
Amaury. That name again? Yolanda. While I have breath. (Nobly.) Yes, though you hold me purgeless of that sin Only the pale arch-angels may endure Trembling to muse on! Or though yon image of the Magdalen, Whose alabaster broke amid her tears And her torn hair, forbade me with a voice. And you, whose heart is shaken As in a tomb a taper's flame, would know I speak with love. Camarin. Unswerving love. Amaury. Then, by Christ, and the world that craves His blood, I think She, if she would, or you, could point to me, Or you, Vittia Pisani, The reason of this sudden piteous death Hard on the haunted flight before my father, Whose lips refuse. Camarin. She knows no shred of it. Amaury. You lie to say it. Camarin. Then will, still—if there Is need. Amaury. Because you love her? Yolanda. Peace, peace, peace. Amaury. A hollow word for what had never being. Yolanda. Look on her face and see. Amaury (at bier). Upon her face! Where not oblivion the void of death Has hid away, or can, the agony Of her last terror—but it trembles still. I tell you, no. Grief was enough, but now Through it has risen mystery that chokes As a miasma from Iscariot's tomb. And till this pall of doubt be rent away No earth shall fall and quicken with her dust! But I will search her face ... till it reveals. Camarin. He raves. Amaury. Iscariot! yes! Yolanda. Again, peace, peace! Amaury. That you may palter! Yolanda (gently). That she may not grieve.
(Goes again to bier.)
For—if 'tis near—her soul with this is wrung. Near! would it were to hear me and impart Its yearning and regret to us who live, Its dim unhappiness and hollow want. Yes, mother, were you now about us, vain, Invisible and without any voice To tell us of you! Were you and now could hear through what of cold Or silence wrap you, oh, so humanly And seeming but a veil— Then would you hear me say—(suddenly aghast) Ah, God! Amaury. Yolanda!
(She starts back from the bier.)
Yolanda! Renier. Girl, what rends you? Yolanda. Saw you not?
(Rushes to bier and shakes it.)
Mother! you hear me? mother! Renier. Girl! Yolanda. She breathes!
(Consternation. Some fall to their knees.)
Vittia. What? What? Yolanda. Mother! Her breast! Mother! She moves! Amaury. God! God! Yolanda. Stand off from her ... Mother! Camarin. Her eyes!... They open! open! Yolanda. Mother!... Amaury. See; her lips! They strive to speak! O faintly, O so faint! Can you not hear? Berengere. Yolanda! Yolanda. Mother! Berengere. Renier! Renier. Yes, yes? Berengere. Yolanda— Renier. Speak! Berengere. Christ, save me ... Christ! Yolanda's innocent, and I ... 'twas I. Amaury. What? what is it she says? Berengere. Camarin! Ah!
(She shudders and dies, amid low-uttered awe. Renier bends, lays his hand a moment on her breast, then, with a cry of rage, springs from her and draws, and rushes on Camarin, who awaits him, desperate.)
Amaury (confused, as they engage). Yolanda; what is this? Yolanda. Amaury, in! Compel Lord Renier back! he cannot live, You only could against Camarin now! Wait not to question, but obey me! if You ever—! (As he rushes in) Holy Magdalen, defend him!
(Renier falls back.)
Now, now defend him, if to chastity Thou'rt vowed in heaven. Vittia. Fool!—Camarin, strike! Yolanda. He's wounded! Camarin. Oh!... Berengere!... treachery!
(He staggers and sinks back heavily toward the pillar. There is breathless, strained suspense. Then he strikes the sacred column, and as he does so the image above sways, totters and crushes upon him. A cry, "The Magdalen!" goes up around.)
Hassan (hurrying to him; after awe and silence). He's dead. Alessa. The Magdalen! Hassan. No breath in him.
(A pause.)
Renier (low, harshly). Bear him without then ever from this place, That never more shall know a holy rite— And from these gates, I care not to what tomb.
(To Amaury.)
Then shall you hear this mystery's content, That still as a madness measures to your sight. Bear him without.
(The limp body is borne away. All follow but Amaury, Yolanda, Renier.)
Now you shall hear, with shame, But with exalted pride and happy tears; Then come obliteration! Speak, girl ... Nobility Had never better title to its truth.
(Kisses her hand and goes.)
Amaury. Yolanda!... he!... this reverence as to An angel? Speak! Yolanda. Amaury—— Amaury. O pause not! Yolanda. Then—to save her who's dead—from death and shame, I took her place within the Paphian's arms. Amaury. O!... and by me, driven by me, bore this! (Overcome) Pure as the rills of Paradise, endured? Yolanda. For you!—and her who sleeps forgiven there,
(With deep abandon.)
Now while her spirit weightless overwingeth Night, to that Throne whose seeing heals all shame! For her I did! but oh, for you, whose least Murmur to me is infinite with Spring, Whose smile is light, filling the air with dawn, Whose touch, wafture of immortality Unto my weariness; and whose eyes, now, Are as the beams God lifted first, they tell us, Over the uncreated, In the far singing mother-dawn of the world!— Come with me then, but tearless, to her side.
(They go to the bier and stand as in a dream. A pause; then her lips move, last, as if inspired.)
While there is sin to sway the soul and sink it Pity should be as strong as love or death!
(With a cry of joy he enfolds her, and they kneel, wrapped about with the clear moon.)
The End.