The Road to Damascus, a Trilogy Part 15

STRANGER. You've broken your vow: you've been reading my book!

LADY. I have.

STRANGER. Then you've done wrong.

LADY. My intention was good.

STRANGER. The results even of your good intentions are terrible! You've blown me into the air with my own petard. Why must all our misdeeds come home to roost--both boyish escapades and really evil action? It's fair enough to reap evil where one has sown it. But I've never seen a good action get its reward. Never! It's a disgrace to Him who records all sins, however black or venial. No man could do it: men would forgive.

The G.o.ds... never!

LADY. Don't say that. Say rather _you_ forgive.

STRANGER. I'm not small-minded. But what have I forgive you?

LADY. More than I can say.

STRANGER. Say it. Perhaps then we'll be quits.

LADY. He and I used to read the curse of Deutertonomy over you... for you'd ruined his life.

STRANGER. What curse is that?

LADY. From the fifth book of Moses. The priests chant it in chorus when the fasts begin.

STRANGER. I don't remember it. What does it matter--a curse more or less?

LADY. In my family those whom we curse, are struck.

STRANGER. I don't believe it. But I do believe that evil emanates from this house. May it recoil upon it! That is my prayer! Now, according to custom, it would be my duty to shoot myself; but I can't, so long as I have other duties. You see, I can't even die, and so I've lost my last treasure--what, with reason, I call my religion. I've heard that man can wrestle with G.o.d, and with success; but not even job could fight against Satan. (Pause.) Let's speak of you....

LADY. Not now. Later perhaps. Since I've got to know your terrible book--I've only glanced at it, only read a few lines here and there--I feel as if I'd eaten of the tree of knowledge. My eyes are opened and I know what's good and what's evil, as I've never known before. And now I see how evil you are, and why I am to be called Eve. She was a mother and brought sin into the world: it was another mother who brought expiation. The curse of mankind was called down on us by the first, a blessing by the second. In me you shall not destroy my whole s.e.x.

Perhaps I have a different mission in your life. We shall see!

STRANGER. So you've eaten of the tree of knowledge? Farewell.

LADY. You're going away?

STRANGER. I can't stay here.

LADY. Don't go.

STRANGER. I must. I must clear up everything. I'll take leave of the old people now. Then I'll come back. I shan't be long. (Exit.)

LADY (remains motionless, then goes to the door and looks out. She sinks to her knees). No! He won't come back!

Curtain.

SCENE IX

CONVENT

[The refectory of an ancient convent, resembling a simple whitewashed Romanesque church. There are damp patches on the walls, looking like strange figures. A long table with bowls; at the end a desk for the Lector. At the back a door leading to the chapel. There are lighted candles on the tables. On the wall, left, a painting representing the Archangel Michael killing the Fiend.]

[The STRANGER is sitting left, at a refectory table, dressed in the white clothing of a patient, with a bowl before him. At the table, right, are sitting: the brown-clad mourners of Scene I. The BEGGAR. A woman in mourning with two children. A woman who resembles the Lady, but who is not her and who is crocheting instead of eating. A Man very like the Doctor, another like the Madman. Others like the Father, Mother, Brother. Parents of the 'Prodigal Son,' etc. All are dressed in white, but over this are wearing costumes of coloured crepe. Their faces are waxen and corpse-like, their whole appearance queer, their gestures strange. On the rise of the curtain all are finis.h.i.+ng a Paternoster, except the STRANGER.]

STRANGER (rising and going to the ABBESS, who is standing at a serving table). Mother. May I speak to you?

ABBESS (in a black-and-white Augustinian habit). Yes, my son. (They come forward.)

STRANGER. First, where am I?

ABBESS. In a convent called 'St. Saviour.' You were found on the hills above the ravine, with a cross you'd broken from a calvary and with which you were threatening someone in the clouds. Indeed, you thought you could see him. You were feverish and had lost your foothold. You were picked up, unhurt, beneath a cliff, but in delirium. You were brought to the hospital and put to bed. Since then you've spoken wildly, and complained of a pain in your hip, but no injury could be found.

STRANGER. What did I speak of?

ABBESS. You had the usual feverish dreams. You reproached yourself with all kinds of things, and thought you could see your victims, as you called them.

STRANGER. And then?

ABBESS. Your thoughts often turned to money matters. You wanted to pay for yourself in the hospital. I tried to calm you by telling you no payment would be asked: all was done out of charity....

STRANGER. I want no charity.

ABBESS. It's more blessed to give than to receive; yet a n.o.ble nature can accept and be thankful.

STRANGER. I want no charity.

ABBESS. Hm!

STRANGER. Tell me, why will none of those people sit at the same table with me? They're getting up... going....

ABBESS. They seem to fear you.

STRANGER. Why?

ABBESS. You look so....

STRANGER. I? But what of them? Are they real?

ABBESS. If you mean true, they've a terrible reality. It may be they look strange to you, because you're still feverish. Or there may be another reason.

STRANGER. I seem to know them, all of them! I see them as if in a mirror: they only make as if they were eating.... Is this some drama they're performing? Those look like my parents, rather like... (Pause.) Hitherto I've feared nothing, because life was useless to me.... Now I begin to be afraid.

ABBESS. If you don't believe them real, I'll ask the Confessor to introduce you. (She signs to the CONFESSOR who approaches.)

CONFESSOR (dressed in a black-and-white habit of Dominicans). Sister!

ABBESS. Tell the patient who are at that table.