out, and closes the door behind him.]
SCENE IV.—Night. The court of a country-inn. The Abbot, while his horse is brought out.
Abbot. Now for a shrine to house this rich Madonna, Within the holiest of the holy place! I'll have it made in fashion as a stable, With porphyry pillars to a marble stall; And odorous woods, shaved fine like shaken hay, Shall fill the silver manger for a bed, Whereon shall lie the ivory Infant carved By shepherd hands on plains of Bethlehem. And over him shall bend the Mother mild, In silken white and coroneted gems. Glorious! But wherewithal I see not now— The Mammon of unrighteousness is scant; Nor know I any nests of money-bees That could yield half-contentment to my need. Yet will I trust and hope; for never yet In journeying through this vale of tears have I Projected pomp that did not blaze anon.
SCENE V.—After midnight. JULIAN seated under a tree by the roadside.
Julian. So lies my journey—on into the dark! Without my will I find myself alive, And must go forward. Is it God that draws Magnetic all the souls unto their home, Travelling, they know not how, but unto God? It matters little what may come to me Of outward circumstance, as hunger, thirst, Social condition, yea, or love or hate; But what shall I be, fifty summers hence? My life, my being, all that meaneth me, Goes darkling forward into something—what? O God, thou knowest. It is not my care. If thou wert less than truth, or less than love, It were a fearful thing to be and grow We know not what. My God, take care of me; Pardon and swathe me in an infinite love, Pervading and inspiring me, thy child. And let thy own design in me work on, Unfolding the ideal man in me; Which being greater far than I have grown, I cannot comprehend. I am thine, not mine. One day, completed unto thine intent, I shall be able to discourse with thee; For thy Idea, gifted with a self, Must be of one with the mind where it sprang, And fit to talk with thee about thy thoughts. Lead me, O Father, holding by thy hand; I ask not whither, for it must be on.
This road will lead me to the hills, I think;
And there I am in safety and at home.
SCENE VI.—The Abbot's room. The Abbot and one of the Monks.
Abbot. Did she say Julian? Did she say the name?
Monk. She did.
Abbot. What did she call the lady? What?
Monk. I could not hear.
Abbot. Nor where she lived? Monk. Nor that. She was too wild for leading where I would.
Abbot. So! Send Julian. One thing I need not ask: You have kept this matter secret?
Monk. Yes, my lord. Abbot. Well, go and send him hither.
[Monk goes.] Said I well, That prayer would burgeon into pomp for me? That God would hear his own elect who cried? Now for a shrine, so glowing in the means That it shall draw the eyes by power of light! So tender in conceit, that it shall draw The heart by very strength of delicateness, And move proud thought to worship! I must act With caution now; must win his confidence; Question him of the secret enemies That fight against his soul; and lead him thus To tell me, by degrees, his history. So shall I find the truth, and lay foundation For future acts, as circumstance requires. For if the tale be true that he is rich, And if——
_Re-enter _Monk in haste and terror.
Monk. He's gone, my lord! His cell is empty.
Abbot (starting up). What! You are crazy! Gone? His cell is empty?
Monk. 'Tis true as death, my lord. Witness, these eyes!
Abbot. Heaven and hell! It shall not be, I swear! There is a plot in this! You, sir, have lied! Some one is in his confidence!—who is it? Go rouse the convent.
[Monk goes.]
He must be followed, found.
Hunt's up, friend Julian! First your heels, old stag!
But by and by your horns, and then your side!
'Tis venison much too good for the world's eating.
I'll go and sift this business to the bran.
Robert and him I have sometimes seen together!—God's
curse! it shall fare ill with any man
That has connived at this, if I detect him.
SCENE VII.—Afternoon. The mountains. JULIAN.
Julian. Once more I tread thy courts, O God of heaven! I lay my hand upon a rock, whose peak Is miles away, and high amid the clouds. Perchance I touch the mountain whose blue summit, With the fantastic rock upon its side, Stops the eye's flight from that high chamber-window Where, when a boy, I used to sit and gaze With wondering awe upon the mighty thing, Terribly calm, alone, self-satisfied, The hitherto of my child-thoughts. Beyond, A sea might roar around its base. Beyond, Might be the depths of the unfathomed space, This the earth's bulwark over the abyss. Upon its very point I have watched a star For a few moments crown it with a fire, As of an incense-offering that blazed Upon this mighty altar high uplift, And then float up the pathless waste of heaven. From the next window I could look abroad Over a plain unrolled, which God had painted With trees, and meadow-grass, and a large river, Where boats went to and fro like water-flies, In white and green; but still I turned to look At that one mount, aspiring o'er its fellows: All here I saw—I knew not what was there. O love of knowledge and of mystery, Striving together in the heart of man! "Tell me, and let me know; explain the thing."— Then when the courier-thoughts have circled round: "Alas! I know it all; its charm is gone!" But I must hasten; else the sun will set Before I reach the smoother valley-road. I wonder if my old nurse lives; or has Eyes left to know me with. Surely, I think, Four years of wandering since I left my home, In sunshine and in snow, in ship and cell, Must have worn changes in this face of mine Sufficient to conceal me, if I will.
SCENE VIII.—A dungeon in the monastery. A ray of the moon on the floor. ROBERT.
Robert. One comfort is, he's far away by this. Perhaps this comfort is my deepest sin. Where shall I find a daysman in this strife Between my heart and holy Church's words? Is not the law of kindness from God's finger, Yea, from his heart, on mine? But then we must Deny ourselves; and impulses must yield, Be subject to the written law of words; Impulses made, made strong, that we might have Within the temple's court live things to bring And slay upon his altar; that we may, By this hard penance of the heart and soul, Become the slaves of Christ.—I have done wrong; I ought not to have let poor Julian go. And yet that light upon the floor says, yes— Christ would have let him go. It seemed a good, Yes, self-denying deed, to risk my life That he might be in peace. Still up and down The balance goes, a good in either scale; Two angels giving each to each the lie, And none to part them or decide the question. But still the words come down the heaviest Upon my conscience as that scale descends; But that may be because they hurt me more, Being rough strangers in the feelings' home. Would God forbid us to do what is right, Even for his sake? But then Julian's life Belonged to God, to do with as he pleases! I am bewildered. 'Tis as God and God Commanded different things in different tones. Ah! then, the tones are different: which is likest God's voice? The one is gentle, loving, kind, Like Mary singing to her mangered child; The other like a self-restrained tempest; Like—ah, alas!—the trumpet on Mount Sinai, Louder and louder, and the voice of words. O for some light! Would they would kill me! then I would go up, close up, to God's own throne, And ask, and beg, and pray to know the truth; And he would slay this ghastly contradiction. I should not fear, for he would comfort me, Because I am perplexed, and long to know. But this perplexity may be my sin, And come of pride that will not yield to him! O for one word from God! his own, and fresh From him to me! Alas,