MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL
_A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS_
BY
HENRY ARTHUR JONES
AUTHOR OF "THE TEMPTER," "THE CRUSADERS," "THE CASE OF
REBELLIOUS SUSAN," "THE MIDDLEMAN," "THE DANCING
GIRL," "JUDAH," "THE MASQUERADERS," "THE
TRIUMPH OF THE PHILISTINES," ETC.
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1920
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1895,
BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
Set up and electrotyped. Published May, 1896.
_Norwood Press_
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
PREFACE
MICHAEL, though styled by Milton "of celestial armies prince," has
found his sword unequal to the task of combating the well-ordered
hosts of darkness,
By thousands and by millions ranged for fight.
The author of "Michael and his Lost Angel" seeks accordingly in print
consolation for the rebuffs he has experienced upon the stage. Some
comfort in the midst of defeat may be found in the fact that the gods
themselves fight vainly against prejudice and stupidity. I am not in
the least seeking to set aside the verdict pronounced by the majority
of "experts" upon Mr. Jones's latest play and subsequently accepted if
not ratified by the general public which would not be induced to see
it. All I seek to do is to deal so far as I am able with the adverse
influences to which it succumbed, and to explain why I think it a fine
work and in many respects a triumph.
The misfortunes of "Michael and his Lost Angel" attended, if they did
not anticipate, its conception. Like Marina in Pericles it had at least
as chiding a nativity
as play has often encountered. Before it saw the light a war had been
waged concerning its name. That the name itself involved as some
seemed to think a gratuitous insult to any form of religious
connection or was even ill chosen I am not prepared to grant. Michael
is not a scriptural character, and his functions, civil and militant,
and his place in the celestial hierarchy are assigned him by
uninspired writers. But for the use made of him in art and by Milton
it is doubtful whether his name would be familiar enough to the
general public to provoke a discussion. A discussion was, however,
provoked and with a portion of those present the verdict was
pronounced before the piece had been given. An opening scene,
meanwhile, in which the very raison-d'être of the play is found, an
indispensable portion of the motive began too soon and was, through
the noise and disturbance caused by late arrivals, practically
unheard. The difficulty thus caused was never quite overcome, and the
nature of Michael Feversham's offence and the value of his expiation
were both partially misunderstood.
That the display of human passions in a sacred edifice and the lavish
use of ecclesiastical ceremonial might cause offence I could have
conceived, had there not been the immediately previous proof of the
success of another play in which the very words of the Inspired
Teacher are used with a background of pagan revelry and a lavish and
superfluous display of nudity of limb. Paul of Tarsus is surely a more
recognisable personage, and one more closely connected with Christian
faith than a nebulous being such as Michael. While, however, the
slight banter in the title of Mr. Jones's play and the reproduction of
the rather florid pageant of the highest Anglican service has in a
work of earnest purpose and masterly execution wounded sensitive
consciences, the presentation as vulgar as inept of a portion of the
holiest mysteries of religion has been received with sacerdotal
benediction as well as with public applause. Foreign opinion
concerning English hypocrisy and prudery finds frequent utterance, and
our witty Gallic neighbours have excogitated a word they believe to be
English and take as the cant phrase of the Briton, _schoking._ We do
at times our best to furnish foreigners with a justification for their
views; and in the present case at least, we have shown our capacity to
"strain at a gnat and swallow a camel."
That the author has overburdened his work with dialogue is shown by
the result, since a play that the public will not have is naturally a
play unsuited to the public.
Some measure of the blame, to my thinking, almost the whole of the
blame, rests with the audience. In seeking to interest his world in a
series of duologues Mr. Jones has credited it with a knowledge of
dramatic art and an interest in psychology it does not possess. His
experiment is analogous to that undertaken in France by the younger
Dumas. A _première_ of Dumas was one of the most fashionable and
intellectual of Parisian "functions." With ears sharpened to acutest
attention the Parisian public listened not only to dialogue thrice as
long as any Mr. Jones has attempted, but also to monologue of the most
didactic kind. In the case of Victor Hugo again there is more than one
soliloquy of length absolutely portentous. These things have never
wearied a public art-loving, theatre-loving, before all appreciative
of literary subtlety and conscious of what are the true springs of
dramatic interest.
At the moment when these lines are written, the London playgoer, not
perhaps of the most fashionable class, receives with delight a scene
in which a hero swims to the rescue of injured innocence, which a
generation ago established the fortunes of a dramatist and a theatre.
I refer, of course, to the Colleen Bawn of Dion Boucicault, which has
once more been revived. The rescue scene in this hit exactly the sense
of the English public and fulfilled its ideal. For a year or two
afterwards the intellect of our dramatists was exercised as to the
means by which virtue imperilled could be rescued, whether by climbing
a tower or swinging by a tree, or by any other contrivance involving
the risk of a broken neck. Those days, happily, are past. We have not,
however, made great progress in our education, and seem yet to have to
learn that the most telling drama is the psychological, and that
dialogue moves us, or should move us, more than incident. Othello, in
some respects the most poignant of tragedies, is nearly all duologue,
the gradual poisoning of the Moor's mind by Iago being one of the most
tremendous scenes ever attempted. The Greeks, the great art-loving
people of antiquity, banished in tragedy all incident from the stage,
and in this respect have been copied by the great school of French
classicists.
So far, without any very direct purpose or intention, I have been
posing, apparently, as the apologist for Mr. Jones's play. Underneath
this, perhaps, some few may have traced a design still less definite
of apologising for the English public. Nothing is further from my
intention than to proffer an excuse for what I regard as a fine and
most moving drama. For myself, I can only say that rarely indeed have
my entrails been stirred by more forcible pathos, my attention been
rapt by more inspiriting a theme, and my intellect been satisfied by
dialogue more natural, appropriate, and, in the highest sense,
dramatic. In one respect, I am disposed at times to agree with some of
Mr. Jones's censors. The logic of events which brings about the scene
in the island is, perhaps, not sufficiently inexorable. That Mrs.
Lesden is, in the eyes of the world, hopelessly compromised when she
spends a night alone on the island with her lover, I will concede. I
can conceive, however, Michael treating her with the more delicacy
therefor, abandoning to her his house, and spending a summer night, no
enormous penalty, in the open air, on the seashore. This, however,
only means that the overmastering influence of passion over Michael
has not been fully exhibited in action.
With Mr. Jones's previous works--with "Judah," "The Crusaders,"
"Saints and Sinners"--"Michael and his Lost Angel" is connected by
strong, albeit not too evident, links. The bent of Mr. Jones's mind,
or the effect of his early environment, seems to force him into
showing the struggle between religious or priestly training, and high
and sincere aspiration, on the one hand, and, on the other, those
influences, half earthly, half divine, of our physical nature, which
sap where they cannot escalade, and, in the highest natures, end
always in victory. There is nothing in Michael Feversham of the
hypocrite, little even of the Puritan. Subject from the outset to
priestly influences, and wedded to theories of asceticism, the more
binding as self-imposed, he has come to look upon the renegation of
the most imperative as well as, in one sense, the holiest functions of
our nature as the condition of moral regeneration. _Sic itur ad
astra._ Crime, generally, he holds as condemnable, but murder and
theft are things aloof from the human nature with which he has to
deal. They are exceptional products of diseased organisations or
untoward surroundings. Not one of his flock that he is conducting
peacefully and unwittingly to Rome, is coming to him to own in
confession to having stolen an umbrella from a rack or a book from a
stall, still less to having slain his enemy on a secret path. Had such
confession been made, it would have been an episode of comparatively
little interest, a mere skirmish in the war he constantly sustains
against the forces of evil. Uncleanness, on the other hand, as he
elects to describe it, is the one offence against the higher life, in
regard to which, whether as concerns inward promptings or outside
manifestation, it behooves him to be ever armed and vigilant.
Accepting this theory, which, though subversive of the highest and
most obvious aims of nature, is still held by a considerable section
of civilised humanity, the conduct of Michael wins a measure of
sympathy. In imposing upon Rose Gibbard the unutterably shameful and
humiliating penance, the nature of which reaches us from the ferocious
Calvinism of the Puritan rather than from the gentler moral discipline
of the Romish church, to which he is hastening, Michael is thoroughly
sincere and conscientious. He believes it the best, nay, the only way
to save her soul and restore her to the self-respect and dignity of
pure womanhood. So much in earnest is he that, when Mrs. Lesden
propounds the theory, which among the virtuous and generous wins
acceptance, that "it is nearly always the good girls who are
betrayed," he resents the utterance as a levity, not to say a
profanity. A character such as this is not only conceivable, it is
well known. There is nothing in its psychology to scare the unthinking
or alarm the vulgar. In the humiliation which Michael is himself
compelled to undergo, I find at once the vindication of a morality
immeasurably higher and more Christian than that taught by any of the
churches, and a soul tragedy of the most harrowing description. My
words will to some appear irreverent. I am sorry, but I cannot help
it. It is not I who said of the woman taken in adultery, "Qui sine
peccato est vestrum, primus in illa lapidem mittat"; and again, "Nec
ego te condemnabo. Vade et jam amplius noli peccare."
That a nature such as that of Michael would be likely to provoke the
curiosity and interest of an Audrie Lesden, few will contest. Vain,
frivolous, passionate, mutinous, sceptical, defeated, unhappy, with
the sweet milk of true womanhood curdled in her breast, Audrie Lesden
sets herself the task of breaking through the defences of this "marble
saint." She succeeds. Under her temptations the icy image thaws. That
she herself thaws also, is a matter of which she scarcely takes
cognisance. In her mood of irritation and defiance what happens to
herself is a matter of comparative indifference. She has abandoned her
positions and called in her reserves, concentrating all her forces for
a combat, in which victory is, if possible, more disastrous than rout.
Let us take then the position. A man resolute as he thinks in the
maintenance of a standard of scarcely possible and wholly undesirable
purity, a woman bent at first in wantonness of spirit upon his
subjugation, but finding as she progresses that her heart is in the
struggle, and that instead of being engaged in a mere sportive
encounter she is playing for her life, her all. Here are the materials
for a tragedy, and a tragedy is the outcome. The idea is happy, the
execution is superb, and the result is a play that must be pronounced
so far Mr. Jones's masterpiece, and that is in effect one of the
worthiest and in the highest sense of the word, putting apart the
financial result and judging only from the standpoint of art, one of
the most successful dramas of the age. For the first time the
dramatist has divested himself of all adventitious aid or support,
swimming boldly and skilfully on the sea of drama. The melodramatic
devices on which he has leant disappear, the sketches of eccentric
character by which he strove to fortify past stories have vanished. A
tale of ill-starred love is told with simple downright earnestness,
simplicity, and good faith. Not a character unnecessary to the action
is introduced, not a word that is superfluous or rhetorical is spoken.
Free from obstruction, unpolluted and undefiled, a limpid stream of
human life and love flows into the ocean of defeat and death.
In some respects the loves of Michael Feversham and Audrie Lesden seem
to take rank with the masterpieces of human passion, if not with Romeo
and Juliet, with Cupid and Psyche, with Paul and Virginia, and shall I
add with Edgar of Ravenswood and Lucy Ashton, at least with Helen and
Paris, Antony and Cleopatra, and Manon Lescaut and the Chevalier des
Grieux. Just enough of fatefulness as well as of human wilfulness is
there to add the crowning grace of tragedy by showing man the sport of
circumstance. Michael dwells on this point and finds "a curious bitter
amusement" in tracing out the sequence of events. "The hundred little
chances, accidents as we call them, that gave us to each other.
Everything I did to avoid you threw me at your feet. I felt myself
beginning to love you. I wrote urgently to Uncle Ned in Italy,
thinking I'd tell him and that he would save me. He came. I couldn't
tell him of you, but his coming kept Withycombe [the boatman] from
getting your telegram. I went to Saint Decuman's to escape from you.
You were moved to come to me. I sent away my own boat to put the sea
between us: and so I imprisoned you with me. Six years ago I used all
my influence to have the new lighthouse built on Saint Margaret's Isle
instead of Saint Decuman's, so that I might keep Saint Decuman's
lonely for myself and prayer. I kept it lonely for myself and you. It
was what we call a chance I didn't go to Saint Margaret's with Andrew
and my uncle. It was what we call a chance that you telegraphed to my
boatman instead of your own. If any one thing had gone differently--"
Even so. In this world, however, "nothing walks with aimless feet" and
the most commonplace and least significant of our actions may have
world-reaching results. "Oh, God bring back yesterday" is the
despairing cry which, since the beginning of time, has been wrung from
human lips.
The scene on the island seems to me admirable in management. I am not
sure that I care for Audrie's confession concerning the conquest of
the heart of "a cherub aged ten," though that leads to the very
humorous illustration of his sister's treason. Michael's own
confession on the other hand of his one flirtation with Nelly, the
tender osculation never repeated, and her farewell words "Good-night,
Mike" serve a distinct purpose in preparing Michael's ultimate
subjugation. "She called you Mike?" says Audrie with some surprise and
more bitterness. He is human then, this austere, ice-bound man only
just beginning to relent to her. His lips, those lips for which she
hungers, have been pressed upon a woman's face, and he has had a boy's
name by which another woman has dared to call him, a name her own lips
tremble to frame. She is long before she does frame it aloud. The idea
of that woman however dwells in her mind, and its full influence and
the extent of her surrender are shown when at what might be quite, and
is almost, the close of the third act she looks back and says, "Listen
to this. Whatever happens, I shall never belong to anybody but you.
You understand? I shall never belong to anybody but you, MIKE." All
this is supreme in tenderness and truthfulness and is the more
dramatic and convincing on account of its simplicity.
So it is throughout the play. There is not a moment when the effort
after rhetorical speech interferes with or mars the downright
earnestness and conviction of the language and the fervour of the
underlying emotion. The love-making so far as we are permitted to see
it is on the woman's side. Hers are the raptures, the reproaches, the
protestations. Only in the moment of supreme difficulty or defeat is
Michael tortured into amorous utterance, and then even it is the idea
of responsibility and possession that weighs upon him. The deed is
done, he belongs to the woman with whom he has sinned, the past is
ineffaceable: no expiation can alter, even if it may atone. He is,
moreover, impenitent in the midst of penitence, fiercely glad,
fiercely happy, in what he has done, ready to face all tribulation,
loss, and reproach, rather than sacrifice the burning, maddening,
joyous knowledge of his guilt. This is the spirit in which love in
strong, austere, unemotional natures manifests itself. "All for love
or the world well lost" is the title Dryden gives his alteration of
Antony and Cleopatra. All for love or heaven well lost is the phrase
Mr. Jones in effect puts into the lips of his Michael, a phrase used
not for the first time, and savouring of blasphemy or sanctity
according to the point of view of the audience.
There are perhaps higher ideals of love. What dramatist or preacher
has said anything finer than the words of the great cavalier lyrist:--
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.
One of the best known of the Tudor dramatists, Habington, says:--
He is but
A coward lover, whom or death or hell
Can fright from 's Mistress.
The enormity of Michael's sacrifice, the very unpardonableness of his
offence, constitute the sweetest savour to him as to her. To her it
brings an intoxicating, a delirious triumph, to him a sense how much
he must hug to himself and cherish a possession secured at so fearful
a price.
It is perhaps the distinguishing characteristic of Michael's madness
that the sin once committed is not repented. Landor talks of
Modesty who when she flies
Is fled for ever.
This is true of other things beside modesty. Not seldom it is true of
virtue. Sin is our sad portion, let us make the best of it. If we may
not have a "stately pleasure-house" of love, let us get what shelter
we may and at least cling close together while the winds of censure
rebuke and the rains of scandal chill. This is, of course, what Audrie
would suggest. "My beloved is mine and I am his." What matter
concerning other things, what other thing is there to matter? Not so
Michael. Lead me back, he says, to the ways of peace and purity. Let
us march hand in hand to the throne of forgiveness. There is no such
throne, says the moralist and the priest within him. "Can one be
pardoned and retain the offence?" he asks with Claudius, and the
answer extracted from his conscience is a negative. After her death, a
death for which he is, as he knows, mainly responsible, he abandons
all struggle, resigns his volition and his being into the hands of a
church that demands implicit obedience and pardons no questioning of
its decisions and decrees, and taking upon himself monastic vows
enters permanently a cloister.
If this is not according to the present reading of the word "tragedy,"
I know not where tragedy is to be sought. It may be that the subject
is one that cannot with advantage be set before the public with the
fierce and brilliant illumination of stage presentation. Compare
however the method of treatment, earnest, severe, resolute,
unfaltering, with that which was adopted by novelists dealing with
clerical trials and offences of the sort from the time of Diderot to
that of L'Abbé Michon, the reputed author of "La Réligieuse," "Le
Maudit," and other works of the class.
Once more I repeat that "Michael and his Lost Angel" is the best play
Mr. Jones has given the stage and is in the full sense a masterpiece.
It is the work of a man conscious of strength, and sure of the weapons
he employs. Whether the stage will know it again who shall say? It
will at least take rank as literature and in its present shape appeal
to most readers capable of having an independent opinion and clearing
their minds of cant.
From the figures as to the receipts which are published it appears
that a full chance of recording its opinion was scarcely given the
public. On this point I am not prepared to speak. Such rebuff as the
play encountered was, I fear, due to the preconceived attitude of some
representatives of public opinion rather than to any misunderstanding
between Mr. Jones and the public. Mr. Forbes Robertson's performance
of the hero was superb in all respects. The refusal of the part of the
heroine by Mrs. Patrick Campbell, its destined exponent, was so far a
calamity that it fostered the belief that there was something immoral
in the part. In other respects I cannot regard the substitution for
that actress of Miss Marion Terry as a misfortune.
JOSEPH KNIGHT.
LONDON, 12th February, 1896.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
THIS play was produced at the Lyceum Theatre on the 15th January,
1896, and was withdrawn on the 25th, the management suddenly
announcing the last three nights in the morning papers of the 23d. An
impression has therefore prevailed in the public mind that the piece
was a great financial failure. So far was this from being the case
that the receipts for the first ten nights during which it was played
were more than £100 higher than the receipts for the first ten nights
of my play "The Middleman," which proved so great a financial success
in England and America. The takings during the brief run at the Lyceum
were as follows:--
January 15. £209 7s. 6d. January 21. £ 99 9s. 11d.
" 16. 128 9 3 " 22. 114 14 4
" 17. 123 12 3 " 23. 121 18 0
" 18. 203 5 5 " 24. 146 12 7
" 20. 99 9 4 " 25. 231 7 0
The great number of sympathetic letters that I have received about the
play and its cordial reception on the later nights of the run show
that it created a deep impression on those who did see it, and
encourage me to hope that I may introduce it again to the English
public under happier auspices.
HENRY ARTHUR JONES.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
THE REVEREND MICHAEL FEVERSHAM.
SIR LYOLF FEVERSHAM.
EDWARD LASHMAR (FATHER HILARY).
ANDREW GIBBARD.
THE REVEREND MARK DOCWRAY.
WITHYCOMBE.
AUDRIE LESDEN.
ROSE GIBBARD.
MRS. CANTELO.
FANNY CLOVER.
_Villagers, Congregation, Choristers, Priests._
ACT I.
THE VICARAGE PARLOUR AT CLEVEHEDDON.
(_Four months pass._)
ACT II.
THE SHRINE ON SAINT DECUMAN'S ISLAND.
(_Two nights and a day pass._)
ACT III.
THE VICARAGE PARLOUR AS IN ACT I.
(_A year passes._)
ACT IV.
THE MINSTER CHURCH AT CLEVEHEDDON.
(_Ten months pass._)
ACT V.
RECEPTION ROOM OF THE MONASTERY OF SAN SALVATORE AT MAJANO, ITALY.
ACT I
SCENE.--_The Vicarage parlour at Cleveheddon. An old-fashioned
comfortable room in an old English house. A large window, with low
broad sill, takes up nearly all the back of the stage, showing to the
right a part of Cleveheddon Minster in ruins. To the left a stretch of
West Country landscape. A door, right, leading to house. A fireplace,
right. A door, left. Table with chairs, right. A portrait of MICHAEL'S
mother hangs on wall at a height of about nine feet. It is a very
striking painting of a lady about twenty-eight, very delicate and
spirituelle. Time.--A fine spring morning. Discover at the window,
looking off right, with face turned away from audience, and in an
attitude of strained attention to something outside, ANDREW GIBBARD.
Enter FANNY CLOVER, the vicarage servant, showing in the REVEREND MARK
DOCWRAY, a middle-aged clergyman._
FANNY. Mr. Feversham is over to the church, sir, but he'll be back
directly.
(_Exit._)
MARK. Andrew----
(_ANDREW turns round, an odd, rather seedy, carelessly-dressed man, a
little over forty, rather gaunt, longish hair, an intelligent face
with something slightly sinister about it. He shows signs of great
recent sorrow and distress._)
MARK. Andrew, what is it?
ANDR. I'd rather not tell you, Mr. Docwray.
MARK. Nothing has happened to Mr. Feversham?
ANDR. No.
MARK. Come! Come! What's the matter?
ANDR. My daughter----
MARK. What ails her? Where is she?
ANDR. Over at the church.
MARK. What is she doing?
ANDR. Making a public confession.
MARK. Public confession--of what?
ANDR. You'll be sure to hear all about it, so I may as well tell you
myself. Perhaps it was my fault, perhaps I neglected her. All my time
is given to Mr. Feversham in the library here. While I was buried in
my work, and sometimes staying here half the night with Mr. Feversham,
a scoundrel ruined my girl. Of course my only thought was to hide it.
Was I wrong?
MARK. Go on. Tell me all.
ANDR. Well, right or wrong, I sent her away to the other end of
England. Her child only lived a few weeks. And I brought her back home
thinking it was all hushed up.
MARK. But it became known?
ANDR. Yes. Little by little, things began to leak out. Well, you may
blame me if you like--I lied about it; and the more lies I told, the
more I had to tell to cover them. Mr. Feversham heard of it and
questioned us. Like a fool I lied to him. It wasn't like lying, it was
like murdering the truth to tell lies to him. And she had to lie, too.
Of course he believed us and defended us against everybody. And then
we daredn't tell him the truth.
MARK. Go on. What else?
ANDR. There's nothing else. It all had to come out at last.
MARK. What did Mr. Feversham do?
ANDR. He persuaded us that we could never be right with ourselves, or
right with our neighbours, or right with our God, till we had unsaid
all our lies, and undone our deceit. So we've confessed it this
morning.
MARK. In church? In public?
ANDR. Yes. I wouldn't have minded it for myself. But was it necessary
for her--for Rose? Was it bound to be in public before all her
companions, before all who had watched her grow up from a child?
MARK. You may be sure Mr. Feversham wouldn't have urged it unless he
had felt it to be right and necessary.
ANDR. I wouldn't have done it for anybody else in the world. I feel
almost as if I were quits with him for all his favours to me.
MARK. You mustn't speak like this. Remember all he has done for you.
ANDR. Oh, I don't forget it. I don't forget that I was his scout's
son, and that he educated me and made me his friend and companion and
helper--there isn't a crumb I eat or a thread I wear that I don't owe
to him. I don't forget it. But after this morning, I feel it isn't I
who am in Mr. Feversham's debt--it's he who is in my debt.
(_A penitential hymn, with organ accompaniment, is sung in church
outside._)
ANDR. (_looking off_). It's over. They're coming out.
MARK. Why aren't you there, in church, by her side?
ANDR. I was. I went to church with her. I stood up first and answered
all his questions, and then I stood aside, and it was her turn. I saw
her step forward, and I noticed a little twitch of her lip like her
mother used to have, and then--I couldn't bear it any longer--I came
away. I know it was cowardly, but I couldn't stay. (_Looking off._)
Hark! They're coming! She's coming with the sister who is going to
take her away.
MARK. Take her away?
ANDR. Mr. Feversham thinks it better for her to be away from the
gossip of the village, so he has found a home for her with some
sisters in London. She's going straight off there. Perhaps it's best.
I don't know.
(_ROSE GIBBARD, sobbing, with her face in her hands, passes the window
from right to left, supported by an Anglican sister. The REVEREND
MICHAEL FEVERSHAM follows them and passes window. A crowd of villagers
come up to the window and look in. A moment or two later, ROSE GIBBARD
enters left, supported by the sister. ROSE is a pretty delicate girl
of about twenty, with rather refined features and bearing._)
ANDR. (_holding out his arms to her_). Bear up, my dear. Don't cry! It
breaks my heart to see you.
_Enter the REVEREND MICHAEL FEVERSHAM about forty; pale, strong, calm,
ascetic, scholarly face, with much sweetness and spirituality of
expression; very dignified, gentle manners, calm, strong, persuasive
voice, rarely raised above an ordinary speaking tone. His whole
presence and bearing denote great strength of character, great
dignity, great gentleness, and great self-control._
_The villagers gather round the outside of the window and look in with
mingled curiosity, rudeness, and respect. MICHAEL goes up to left
window, opens it. The villagers draw back a little._
MICH. (_speaking in a very calm voice_). Those of you who are filled
with idle foolish curiosity, come and look in. (_They fall back._)
Those of you who have been moved by the awful lesson of this morning,
go to your homes, ponder it in your hearts, so that all your actions
and all your thoughts from this time forth may be as open as the day,
as clear as crystal, as white as snow.
(_They all go away gradually. MICHAEL comes away from the window,
leaving it open, goes to MARK._)
MICH. Mark! (_Cordial handshake._) You've come to stay, I hope?
MARK. A few days. You have a little business here?
(_Glancing at the group of ROSE, ANDREW, and Sister._)
MICH. It's nearly finished. Leave me with them for a few moments.
MARK. I'll get rid of the dust of my journey and come back to you.
(_Exit MARK. MICHAEL turns towards ROSE with great tenderness._)
MICH. Poor child!
(_She comes towards him with evident effort; the Sister brings a chair
and she sinks into it, sobbing._)
MICH. (_bending over her with great tenderness_). I know what you have
suffered this morning. I would willingly have borne it for you, but
that would not have made reparation to those whom you have deceived,
or given you peace in your own soul. (_She continues sobbing._) Hush!
Hush! All the bitterness is past! Look only to the future! Think of
the happy newness and whiteness of your life from this moment! Think
of the delight of waking in the morning and knowing that you have
nothing to hide! Be sure you have done right to own your sin. There
won't be a softer pillow in England to-night than the one your head
rests upon. (_She becomes quieter. MICHAEL turns to the Sister._)
Watch over her very carefully. Keep her from brooding. Let her be
occupied constantly with work. And write to me very often to tell me
how she is. (_Turns to ROSE._) The carriage is ready. It's time to say
good-bye.
ROSE. Good-bye, sir. Thank you for all your kindness. I've been very
wicked----
MICH. Hush! That is all buried now.
ROSE. Good-bye, father.
(_Throws her arms round ANDREW'S neck, clings to him, sobs
convulsively for some moments in a paroxysm of grief. MICHAEL watches
them for some moments._)
MICH. (_intercepts, gently separates them_). It's more than she can
bear. Say good-bye, and let her go.
ANDR. (_breaking down_). Good-bye, my dear! (_Kissing her._)
Good-bye--I--I--I----
(_Tears himself away, goes up to window, stands back to audience._)
MICH. (_To ROSE._) No more tears! Tears are for evil and sin, and
yours are all past! Write to me and tell me how you get on, and how
you like the work. It will bring you great peace--great peace. Why,
you are comforted already--I think I see one of your old happy smiles
coming. What do you think, sister, isn't that the beginning of a
smile?
SISTER. Yes, sir. I think it is.
ROSE. Good-bye, sir--thank you for all your goodness. I--I----
(_Beginning to sob again._)
MICH. No, no, you are forgetting. I must see a little smile before you
go. Look, Andrew. (_ANDREW turns round._) For your father's sake. When
you have gone you will like him to remember that the last time he saw
your face it wore a smile. That's brave! Good-bye! Good-bye!
(_ROSE with great effort forces a smile and goes off with the Sister.
A moment or two later she is seen to pass the window sobbing in the
Sister's arms._)
ANDR. Look! Oh, sir, was it bound to be in public, before everybody
who knew her?
MICH. Believe me, Andrew, if my own sister, if my own child had been
in your daughter's place, I would have counselled her to act as your
daughter has done.
ANDR. She'll never hold up her head again.
MICH. Would you rather that she held up her head in deceit and
defiance, or that she held it down in grief and penitence? Think what
you and she have endured this last year, the deceit, the agony, the
shame, the guilt!
ANDR. I can't think of anything except her standing up in the church.
I shall never forget it.
MICH. Tell me you know I would willingly have spared you and her if it
had been possible.
ANDR. Then it wasn't possible?
MICH. I have done to you this morning as I would wish to be done by if
I had followed a course of continued deception.
ANDR. Ah, sir, it's easy for you to talk. You aren't likely to be
tempted, so you aren't likely to fall.
MICH. I trust not! I pray God to keep me. But if ever I did, I should
think him my true friend who made me confess and rid my soul of my
guilt. And you think me your true friend, don't you, Andrew? (_Holding
out hand._) Won't you shake hands with me?
(_ANDREW takes MICHAEL'S hand reluctantly, shakes it half-heartedly;
is going off at door._)
MICH. (_calls_). Andrew, it will be very lonely in your own house now
your daughter has gone. Come and live with me here. There is the large
visitors' room. Take it for your own, and make this your home. You
will be nearer to our work, and you will be nearer to me, my friend.
_MARK enters._
MARK (_at door_). Am I interrupting?
MICH. No. Come in. My little talk with Andrew is finished. (_To
ANDREW._) Say you know I have done what is right and best for you and
her.
ANDR. You've done what you thought was best for us, sir. I've never
doubted that. I can't see anything straight or clear this morning.
(_Exit._)
MARK. You've had a painful business here?
MICH. Terrible! But I was bound to go through with it. The whole
village was talking of it. I believed in her innocence and defended
her to the last. So when the truth came out I daren't hush it up. I
should have been accused of hiding sin in my own household. But that
poor child! My heart bled for her! Don't let us speak any more of it.
Tell me about yourself and the work in London.
MARK. You must come and join us there.
(_MICHAEL shakes his head._)
MICH. I couldn't live there. Every time I go up for a day or two I
come back more and more sickened and frightened and disheartened.
Besides, you forget my Eastern studies. They are my real work. I
couldn't pursue them in the hurry and fever of London.
MARK. How are you getting on with the Arabic translations?
MICH. Slowly but surely. Andrew is invaluable to me. In spite of his
bringing up, he has the true instincts of the scholar.
MARK. Well, you know best. But we want you in London. You'd soon raise
the funds for restoring the Minster.
MICH. (_shakes his head_). I can't go round with the hat.
MARK. How's the work getting on?
MICH. Very slowly. I'm afraid I shall never live to finish it. By the
bye, I received fifty pounds anonymously only yesterday.
MARK. Have you any idea where it came from?
MICH. No. The Bank advised me that it had been paid to my credit by a
reader of my "Hidden Life," who desired to remain anonymous.
MARK. The book is having an enormous influence. Nothing else is talked
about. And it has gained you one very rich proselyte--this Mrs.
Lesden. She's living here, isn't she?
MICH. Yes. Curious woman----
MARK. Have you seen much of her?
MICH. I called, of course. I've met her once or twice at dinner. She
has called here three or four times, and wasted several good hours for
me.
MARK. How wasted?
MICH. Kept me from my work. I wish the woman would take herself back
to London.
MARK. Why?
MICH. Her frivolity and insincerity repel me. No--not insincerity. I
recall that. For she said one or two things that seemed to show a vein
of true, deep feeling. But on the whole I dislike her--I think I
dislike her very much.
MARK. Why?
MICH. She comes regularly to church----
MARK. Surely there's no very great harm in that----
MICH. No; but I don't know whether she's mocking, or criticising, or
worshipping; or whether she's merely bored, and thinking that my
surplice is not enough starched, or starched too much.
MARK. She's very rich, and would be an immense help to our movement. I
should try and cultivate her.
MICH. I can't cultivate people. What do you think of her?
MARK. A very clever society woman, all the more clever that she was
not born in society.
MICH. What do you know of her?
MARK. Merely what I wrote you in my letter. That she was the only
daughter of an Australian millionaire. Her great-grandfather, I
believe, was an Australian convict. She was sent to England to be
educated, went back to Australia, married, lost her husband and
father, came back to England a widow, took a house in Mayfair,
entertained largely, gave largely to charities, read your book, "The
Hidden Life," came down to see the country round here, made up her
mind to live here, and wanted an introduction to you--which I gave
her.
_Enter FANNY, announcing SIR LYOLF FEVERSHAM, an English country
gentleman, about sixty-five, a little old-fashioned in manners and
dress. Exit FANNY._
SIR LYOLF. Michael--Mr. Docwray! Glad to see you. You're talking
business, or rather religion, which is your business. Am I in the way?
MICH. No, we're not talking business. We're discussing a woman.
SIR LYOLF. Aren't women nine-tenths of a parson's business? (_MICHAEL
looks a little shocked._) Excuse me, my dear boy. (_To MARK._) I quite
believe in all Michael is doing. I accept all his new doctrines, I'm
prepared to go all lengths with him, on condition that I indulge the
latent old Adam in me with an occasional mild joke at his expense. But
(_with great feeling_) he knows how proud I am of him, and how
thankful I am to God for having given me a son who is shaping
religious thought throughout England to-day, and who (_with a change
to sly humour_) will never be a bishop--not even an archdeacon--I
don't believe he'll be so much as a rural dean. What about this woman
you were discussing? I'll bet--(_coughs himself up_)--I should say,
I'll wager--(_MICHAEL looks shocked, SIR LYOLF shrugs his shoulders at
MARK, proceeds in a firm voice_)--without staking anything, I will
wager I know who the lady is--Mrs. Lesden? Am I right?
MICH. Yes.
SIR LYOLF. Well, I haven't heard your opinion of her. But I'll give
you mine--without prejudice--(_with emphasis_) very queer lot.
MARK. Michael had just said she was a curious creature.
MICH. I don't understand her.
SIR LYOLF. When you don't understand a woman, depend upon it there's
something not quite right about her.
MICH. She seems to have immense possibilities of good and evil.
SIR LYOLF. Nonsense. There are all sorts of men, but, believe me,
there are only two sorts of women--good and bad.
MICH. You can't divide women into two classes like that.
SIR LYOLF. But I do--sheep and goats. Sheep on the right hand--goats
on the left.
MICH. (_shaking his head_). Women's characters have greater subtlety
than you suppose.
SIR LYOLF. Subtlety is the big cant word of our age. Depend upon it,
there's nothing in subtlety. It either means hair-splitting or it
means downright evil. The devil was the first subtle character we meet
with in history.
MICH. And he has still something to do with the shaping of character
in this world.
SIR LYOLF. I don't doubt it. And I think he has very likely something
to do with the shaping of Mrs. Lesden's.
MICH. Hasn't he something to do with the shaping of all our
characters? Don't all our souls swing continually between heaven and
hell?
SIR LYOLF. Well, the woman whose soul swings continually between
heaven and hell is not the woman whom I would choose to sit at my
fireside or take the head of my table. Though I don't say I wouldn't
ask her to dinner occasionally. That reminds me, how long are you
staying, Mr. Docwray?
MARK. Only till Friday.
SIR LYOLF. You'll dine with me to-morrow evening?
MARK. Delighted.
SIR LYOLF. You too, Michael. I'll ask the Standerwicks, and
(_suddenly_) suppose I ask this lady?
MICH. Mrs. Lesden? I would rather you didn't.
SIR LYOLF. Why not? If her soul is swinging between heaven and hell,
it would only be kind of you to give it a jog towards heaven.
MICH. Very well--ask her. But I would rather you didn't speak lightly
of----
SIR LYOLF. Of her soul?
MICH. Of anyone's soul?
SIR LYOLF. I won't--even of a woman's. But I wish they wouldn't swing
about. Women's souls oughtn't to swing anywhere, except towards
heaven. Ah, Michael, you must let me have my fling. Remember when I
was a boy, religion was a very simple, easy-going affair.
Parson--clerk--old three-decker pulpit--village choir. What a village
choir! I suppose it was all wrong--but they were very comfortable old
days.
MICH. Religion is not simple--or easy-going.
SIR LYOLF. No. Subtlety again. I want a plain "yes" or "no," a plain
black or white, a plain right or wrong, and none of our teachers or
preachers is prepared to give it to me. Oh dear! This world has grown
too subtle for me! I'll step over to Island House and ask Mrs. Lesden
to dinner to-morrow.
MARK. I'll come with you and pay my respects to her. You don't mind,
Michael?
MICH. Not at all. I want to set Andrew to work at once to keep him
from dwelling on his trouble.
SIR LYOLF. I didn't come to the church this morning. I felt it would
be too painful. (_Glancing up at portrait._) What would she have said
about it?
MICH. I think she approves what I have done.
SIR LYOLF (_looks at portrait, sighs, turns away_). Come, Mr. Docwray.
I can't say I like this Mrs. Lesden of yours--I wonder why I'm going
to ask her to dinner.
(_Exit._)
MARK (_who has been looking intently at portrait_). What a wonderful
portrait that is of your mother! It seems as if she were alive!
MICH. She is.
(_Exit MARK after SIR LYOLF._)
MICH. (_goes up steps, takes portrait into his hand_). Yes, I have
acted faithfully to my people, have I not? Whisper to me that I have
done right to restore to this wandering father and child the blessing
of a transparent life, a life without secrecy and without guile!
Whisper to me that in this morning's work I have done what is well
pleasing to my God and to you.
_AUDRIE LESDEN, about thirty, in a very fashionable morning dress,
enters at back of window in the opposite direction to that in which
SIR LYOLF and MARK have gone off. At first she seems to be watching
them off. When she gets to the open window, she turns and sees MICHAEL
with the portrait in his hand. MICHAEL very reverently kisses the
portrait and places it on table; as he does so he sees her._
MICH. Mrs. Lesden!
AUDR. Wasn't that Sir Lyolf who just went out?
MICH. Yes. I'll call him back----
AUDR. Please don't.
MICH. But he wishes to speak to you.
AUDR. I don't wish to speak to him.
MICH. Why not?
AUDR. I wish to speak to you.
MICH. About what?
AUDR. About my soul, about your soul, and about other people's souls.
(_Leaning a little in at the window. He remains silent, and reserved.
All through the early part of the scene his demeanour is cold,
constrained, and a little impatient. A pause._) I know you make it a
rule always to see people about their souls.
MICH. (_very coldly_). If they are really in need of spiritual advice.
AUDR. I think I'm in need of spiritual advice. (_A pause. He stands
cold, irresponsive._) Did you see me in church?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. The whole thing was delightfully novel. (_He frowns._) Do you
mean to repeat this morning's scene?
MICH. Scene?
AUDR. It was a "scene," you know. I felt terribly distressed for the
poor girl. And yet I envied her.
MICH. Envied her?
AUDR. (_leaning a little more in at the window_). You must allow she
was the heroine of the occasion, though you were certainly very
impressive yourself, and did your part very well. Still, after all,
it's the man who is to be hanged who is the central figure in the
proceedings. And the poor little creature looked exquisitely pathetic
and graceful, and so sweetly innocent--quite good enough to go to
heaven right away, I thought. A Sunday-school teacher told me once
that it is nearly always the good girls who are betrayed. Is that so?
MICH. (_coldly_). You came to speak to me about yourself.
AUDR. So I did. Do you know when I saw that girl standing there and
looking so interesting, I felt I wouldn't mind making a public
confession myself--if you thought it would benefit the parish--and if
you would allow me to wear a special dress for the occasion?
(_MICHAEL turns round quickly as if about to speak angrily to her,
stops, remains silent._)
AUDR. (_musingly_). I suppose one couldn't confess in anything except
black or white. It couldn't be done in red or yellow--or blue. Pale
grey might do. (_Pause._) What do you think?
(_MICHAEL does not reply._)
AUDR. (_leaning a little more in at the window, in a much lower and
subtler tone_). Don't you find it an exquisite pleasure to feel your
sense of power over your people, especially over us poor women?
MICH. When you come to me you are neither man nor woman--you are only
a soul in sin and distress.
AUDR. Oh, no! I won't be an "it." I insist on being a woman, though I
don't mind _having_ a soul--and in sin and distress, too. And I would
save it--only I always think it's such a selfish piece of business,
saving one's soul,--don't you?--so unkind to all one's neighbours?
(_He stands half-bored, half-angry. A little pause._) Do you know what
I was thinking in church this morning?
MICH. No.
AUDR. I was comparing the delights of three different
professions,--the soldier's, the doctor's, and the priest's. What a
glorious joy it must be to ride to meet a man who is riding to kill
you--_and to kill him!_ But I'd rather be a doctor, and play with life
and death. To have a man in your power, to see him lying tossing on
his bed, and to think, "This may cure him, or it may kill him. Shall I
risk it? At any rate, if he dies, I shall have learnt so much. I will
risk it! And--he dies--No, he lives! I've saved him." Wouldn't you
like to be a doctor?
MICH. No.
AUDR. That's because you know what far greater joy it is to be a
priest. (_He turns very angrily._) To play with people's souls----
MICH. Play!
AUDR. You do play with our souls, don't you? They're in your hands. To
think, "This man, or, say, this woman, has an immortal soul. She is
vain, silly, deceitful, foolish, perhaps wicked, perhaps horribly
wicked. She'll lose her soul and be eternally lost. But if I were to
struggle with her for it, rebuke her, teach her, plead with her,
entreat her, guide her--who knows--she's not wholly bad--I might save
her? Is she worth saving? The worse she is, the greater will be my
reward and honour for having saved her. Shall I do it? This woman's
soul is in my keeping! I can choose for her eternal life or eternal
death. What shall I do? Shall I save her, or let her be lost?"
MICH. (_comes eagerly to the window_). Do you mean that?
AUDR. Mean what?
MICH. That your soul is in my keeping?
AUDR. Not at all. I meant nothing except that thoughts like these must
constantly stray through a priest's mind. Don't they? (_Long pause._)
Why don't you speak?
MICH. (_cold, stern_). I have nothing to say.
(_Pause._)
AUDR. (_taking out purse, taking out two notes_). Oh! I was
forgetting--I've brought you a little contribution for the restoration
of your Minster.
(_Putting notes on window-sill. MICHAEL stands cold, angry._)
AUDR. Won't you take it?
MICH. Thank you. No.
AUDR. I think you're a little rude to me. I came as a heart-stricken
penitent; you wouldn't accept me in that character. Then I came as a
pious donor. You wouldn't accept me in that. You've kept me outside
here--you haven't even asked me in.
MICH. (_very sternly_). Come in! (_She looks up, uncertain as to his
intentions._) (_Same cold, stern voice._) Please to come in. That
way--the outer door is open.
(_She goes off, he goes to door left, opens it, she comes in._)
MICH. (_the moment she has entered closes door decisively, then turns
round on her very sternly_). What brings you to this village, to my
church, to my house? Why are you here? Come to me as a penitent, and I
will try to give you peace! Come to me as a woman of the world, and I
will tell you "The friendship of the world is enmity with God. It
always has been so, it always will be. The Church has no need of you,
of your pretended devotions, of your gifts, of your presence at her
services. Go your way back to the world, and leave her alone." But you
come neither as a penitent, nor as a woman of the world. You come
like--like some bad angel, to mock, and hint, and question, and
suggest. How dare you play with sacred things? How dare you?!
AUDR. (_very low, quiet, amused voice_). I do not think it seemly or
becoming in a clergyman to give way to temper. If anyone had asked me
I should have said it was impossible in you.
(_He stands stern, cold, repellent._)
_Enter ANDREW._
MICH. What is it, Andrew?
ANDR. I thought you were disengaged. (_Going._)
MICH. So I am. I'll come to you at once.
(_Exit ANDREW._)
MICH. (_to AUDRIE_). You are right. It is unseemly to give way to
temper, and perhaps you won't think me rude if I guard myself against
it in future by asking you not to call upon me until I can be of real
service to you. Good morning.
AUDR. Mr. Feversham, Mr. Feversham. (_MICHAEL turns._) I've been very
rude and troublesome. I beg your pardon. Please forgive me.
MICH. Certainly. Pray say no more.
AUDR. I saw you kissing that portrait as I stood at the window. It is
your mother?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. What a good woman she must have been! Don't think because I am
bad----
MICH. Are you bad?
AUDR. Didn't you say I was? I don't know whether I'm bad or good, but
I know that no woman longs to be good more than I do--sometimes.
MICH. Do you indeed?
AUDR. (_impulsively_). Let me kiss that portrait!
(_Leaning forward to do it._)
MICH. (_peremptorily_). No.
(_Intercepts and stops her._)
AUDR. Why not?
MICH. I'd rather you didn't.
AUDR. You don't think I'm good enough.
MICH. I cannot allow you.
AUDR. Who painted it?
MICH. A young Italian. My mother's brother is a Catholic priest, and
at that time he was living at Rome. My mother went there for her
health when I was three years old. This young Italian saw her and
asked permission to paint her. She came home and died of consumption.
Then my uncle sent this portrait to my father with the news that the
young painter had also died of consumption.
AUDR. How strange! And you've had it ever since?
MICH. I was only a child when it came. I fell into the habit of saying
my prayers before it. So when I first left home my father gave it to
me; it has been with me ever since, at Eton, and Oxford, and in my
different curacies.
AUDR. Won't you let me kiss it before I go?
(_Leaning towards it._)
MICH. (_preventing her_). I'd rather you did not.
AUDR. Why not?
MICH. I have a strange belief about that picture. I'll hang it up.
AUDR. (_a little intercepting him_). No. Let me look at it. Let me
hold it in my hands. I won't kiss it without your permission. (_She
takes it and looks at it intently._) Tell me--what is your strange
belief about it?
MICH. My mother was a deeply religious woman, and before my birth she
consecrated me to this service as Hannah consecrated Samuel. When she
was dying she said to me, "I'm not leaving you. I shall watch over you
every moment of your life. There's not a word, or a deed, or a thought
of yours but I shall know it. You won't see me, but I shall be very
near you. Sometimes my hands will be upon your head, but you won't
know it; sometimes my arms will be round you, but you won't feel them;
sometimes my lips will be on your face, but you won't know that I have
kissed you. Remember you are watched by the dead."
AUDR. And you believe that you are watched by the dead?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. And that she is with us now--in this room?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. She is your good angel.
MICH. She is my good angel.
AUDR. I can understand why you did not wish me to kiss her.
(_MICHAEL makes a movement to take the picture._)
AUDR. (_retains it_). No. Yes, I feel she must be in this room.
MICH. Why?
AUDR. I was full of silly wicked thoughts when I came--she has taken
them away.
MICH. Ah, if I dared hope that you would really change!
AUDR. Perhaps I will. (_Very imploringly._) Do let me kiss this sweet
face.
(_Pause._)
MICH. No--at least not now, not yet. Please give it back to me. (_He
takes it._) I'll hang it up. (_He takes it to steps._) Will you hold
it for a moment?
(_She comes to steps, holds it while he mounts, gives it to him._)
AUDR. What a wonderful thought that is, that we are watched by the
dead. It never occurred to me before. I wonder what a spirit is like?
(_He hangs up the picture._) Now she is quite out of my reach. (_He
comes down steps._) Won't you take that money for rebuilding the
Minster! It's there on the window-sill. (_He goes and takes it._)
Thank you.
MICH. Thank you.
AUDR. Then I'm not to call again? Not even about my soul?
MICH. I'm going over to the Island for some time, and shall only be
back on Sundays.
AUDR. Saint Decuman's Island. You've built yourself a house over
there, haven't you?
MICH. The shrine was neglected and decayed. I restored it and built
myself a couple of rooms round it. I've a few books, and just food and
drink. I go over there sometimes for work and meditation.
AUDR. And yours is the only house on the island?
MICH. Yes.
AUDR. Isn't it awfully lonely there?
MICH. (_glancing at picture_). I'm never alone.
AUDR. No, you have your millions and millions of good and bad angels,
besides hundreds of cheap excursionists.
MICH. Yes, in the summer, but they only stay a few hours.
AUDR. I can see the smoke from your chimney quite plainly in the
evening from my drawing-room windows. How far is it across?
MICH. About four miles.
AUDR. I shall get Hannaford to row me over some day. Don't look
alarmed. I won't come when you are there. I should frighten all your
good angels away. (_MICHAEL shows a little impatience._) You want to
get rid of me. (_Going, suddenly turns._) If I come to you as a
penitent, you won't send me away?
MICH. Not if I can be of service to you.
AUDR. I seem to have changed my nature since I came into this room.
MICH. How?
AUDR. I don't know. I wonder how many natures I have and how often I
can change them.
MICH. I wish you wouldn't speak like that.
AUDR. I won't. (_Very seriously._) You said just now that I was
playing with sacred things. I am, or I was until you spoke about her.
(_With warning._) Don't let me play with your soul.
MICH. I don't understand you.
AUDR. You may do me good, but I am far more likely to do you harm.
MICH. How?
AUDR. I'm not nearly so good a woman as you are a man.
MICH. But perhaps I may influence you for good.
AUDR. Do you think that you can have any influence on my soul without
my having an equal influence on yours?
MICH. Action and re-action are equal and opposite. You think that law
prevails in the spiritual world as well as in the material world?
AUDR. I'm sure it does. So let me go.
MICH. (_suddenly, with great feeling_). Oh, if I could save you!
AUDR. You can if you will. I would try so hard if you would only help
me. But you don't believe that I can.
MICH. What makes you say that?
AUDR. You called me a bad angel--and you don't think me good enough to
kiss her. (_Sidling up to the steps; he makes a deprecating movement
to prevent her, but she takes no notice._) If you knew it would give
me a splendid impulse to goodness, would you refuse me? (_She watches
him very closely; he watches her, half deprecating, half consenting;
she goes up a step or two; he again makes a deprecating gesture, but
does not stop her._) Can't you see what an awful effect it would have
on me if you thought me worthy to be in the company of your good
angel? It would be almost a sacrament! (_Going up steps. He makes a
stronger gesture of deprecation._) Ah, you think I'm not worthy----
MICH. No, no----
AUDR. (_on top of steps, very seductively_). Do save me. I'm worth
saving. (_Whispers._) I may kiss her? I may? I may? (_He does not
reply. She very reverently takes the picture from the wall, turns
round, kisses it reverently, hangs it up again, comes down slowly to
him._) Your bad angel has kissed your good angel. (_A mock curtsey to
him._)
(_Exit softly. MICHAEL stands troubled._)
CURTAIN.
(_Four months pass between Acts I. and II._)