LITMIR.BIZ

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I don't know how to express it, gracious one.

      Dianora. Just say a little. Does he preach of so many things?

      Nurse. No, almost always about one thing.

      Dianora. What?

      Nurse. Of resignation to the Lord's will.

      Dianora [looks at her and nods].

      Nurse. Gracious one, you must understand, that is all.

      Dianora. What do you mean by—all——

      Nurse [while speaking, she is occupied with the flowers]. He says that all of life is in that—there's nothing else. He says everything is inevitable and that's the greatest joy—to realize that everything is inevitable—that is good, and there is no other good. The sun must glow, and stone must be on the dumb earth and every living creature must give utterance to its voice—whether he will or no—we must——

      Dianora [is thinking—like a child].

      Nurse [goes from window—pause].

      Dianora.

      As though 'twere mirrored in a placid pool

       Self-prisoned lies the world asleep, adream—

       The ivy's tendrils clamber through the dusk

       Closely embracing thousandfold the wall.

       An arbor vitae towers. At its feet

       The quiet waters mirror what they see.

       And from this window, on this balustrade

       Of cool and heavy stones, I bend me o'er

       Stretching my arms so they may touch the ground.

       I feel as though I were a dual being

       Gazing within me at my other self.

      [Pause.]

      Methinks such thoughts crowd in upon the soul

       When grim, inexorable death is near.

      [She shudders and crosses herself.]

      Nurse [has returned several times to the window; in one hand she carries scissors with which she clips the dry branches from the plants].

      Dianora [startled]. What? Good night, nurse, farewell. I'm dizzy, faint.

      Nurse [goes off].

      Dianora [with a great effort]. Nurse! Nurse!

      Nurse [comes back].

      Dianora. If the Spanish monk preaches to-morrow, I'll go with you.

      Nurse. Yes, to-morrow, my Lady, if the Lord spare us.

      Dianora [laughs]. Certainly,—if the Lord spare us. Good night.

      [A long pause.]

      Dianora.

      His voice is all he has, the strange monk,

       Yet people flock, hang on his words like bees

       Upon the dark sweet blossoms, and they say

       "This man is not like others—he

       Does shake our souls, his voice melts into space,

       Floats down to us, and penetrates our being—

       We are all like children when we hear his voice."—

       Oh, if a judge could have his lofty brow,

       Who would not kneel upon the steps to read

       Each sentence from his clear and shining brow.

       How sweet to kneel upon the honest step

       And know one's fate were safe within that hand,

       Within those kingly, good and noble hands.

      And oh, his merriment! How exquisite!

       To see such people merry is a joy,

       —He took me by the hand and drew me on.

       My blood ran magic, backward stretched my hand.

       The laughing throng upon it closely hung

       A sinuous chain, we flew along arbored walks

       Down through a deep and steep and narrow path

       Cool as a well, and bordered very close

       With cypresses that lived a century—

       Then down the brightest slope.

       Up to my knees the wild, warm flowers kissed

       Where we were running like a breeze in May.

       Then he released me, and along he leapt

       Upon the marble stairs between cascades;

       Astride he sat upon the dolphin's back

       And held himself up on the arms of fauns,

       Upon the dripping Triton's shoulders stood

       Mounting always; high, higher still he clomb,

       The wildest, handsomest of all the gods!—

       Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth,

       They sparkled, foamed, and showered the air with spray,

       Falling on me. The waves' tumultuous din

       Drowned out, engulfed the entire world,

       Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth,

       They sparkled, foamed and showered their spray on me.

      [Pause—footsteps are heard in the distance.]

      Dianora. Sh! Footsteps! No, it is so much too soon—And yet—and yet—[long waiting] they come.

      [Pause.]

      They do not come—

       Oh, no, they do not come—They're shuffling steps,

       They shuffle down the vineyard—now they reel—

       There are the steps! A drunkard, verily!

       Stay in the street, intoxicated one.

       What would you do within our garden gates?—

       No moon shines here to-night—were there a moon

       I were not here—no, no, I were not here.

       The little stars are flick'ring restlessly,

       They cannot light the way for a drunken one,

       But one not drunken from a musty wine.

       His footsteps are as light as wind on grass

       And surer than the tread of the young lion.

      [Pause.]

      These hours are martyrdom! No, no, no, no,

       They're not—no, they are beautiful and good,

       And lovely and so sweet! He comes, he comes;

       A long, long way already he has walked—

       The last tall tree down there has seen him come—-

       It could—if that dark strip of woodland boughs

       Did not obscure the road—and 'twere not dark—

      [Pause.]

      He comes—as certainly as I do now

       Upon this hook bend this frail ladder—comes.

       As surely as I now do let it down

       In rustling murmur in the leaves enmeshed,

       As certainly as it now swaying hangs,

       Quivering softly as I bend me low,

       Myself aquiver with a greater thrill—

      [She remains for a long time bent over the balustrade. Suddenly she seems to

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