ii rr m i II I II I. f I - ■ . 1 ' 8 ; ill J i 1 ! I A 1 III '. : ' ■ ■ ! ■ T - * THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES /* I* The Green Tree Library Vistas CHICAGO STONE fcf KIMBALL MDCCCXCIV COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY STONE AND KIMBALL S~3SX~ THIS FIRST EDITION ON SMALL PAPER IS LIMITED TO SIX HUN- DRED COPIES Stone &• Kimball *-*' -i. .*.._•■<_> -«_> w^ LI3RARf Contents. — ♦ — PAGE FINIS 9 THE PASSION OF PERE HILARION .... 21 THE BIRTH OF A SOUL 47 A NORTHERN NIGHT 59 THE BLACK MADONNA §9 THE LAST QUEST Ir 3 THE FALLEN GOD I 21 THE COMING OF THE PRINCE I3 1 THE PASSING OF LILITH 143 THE LUTE-PLAYER J 59 THE WHISPERER l 7 l To H. M. Alden. TN dedicating to you this American edition of ■*■ "Vistas" I am in the position of one of those islanders of old who offered their rude iron in exchange for wrought gold. lliey, however, bartered in all innocence : while I, for my part, know loo well that nothing you can find herein can give you the same deep and last- ing pleasure I have had in your beautiful and moving book, — the book of a lifelong dream, of a lifetime reverie, full of strange beauty, spirit- ual, wrought out of lovely thoughts into lovely words. How well I reme??iber the day when I first saw the Hudson in its autumnal glory ! But memorable as that day is, shared with you and a dear common friend, poet and veteran critic, — in the "sixties " now, so far as years go, but in the luonderful " twenties " in all else, — my most living memory is of those proof-sheets of " The Following Love " which were entrusted to me, and made tipon my mind so indelible an impression. 1 1 Now, and so far less happily, surely, called "God in His World" {Harpers'). i 1 Dedication. Two years later I was with you again, when the shadow of ill lay almost more darkly upon you yourself than upon the blithe, heroic suf- ferer : and by that time I knew your book intimately, and had learned much from it. Then, too, I was able to show you one of these "Vistas," and to hear generous words in praise of what at best was a passing breath of music, as fugitive, and perhaps as meaningless to most people, as those faint airs heard by my charcoal- burner in the forest, as intangible as that odour of white violets which came and went with each delicate remote strain. You asked me then what my aim was in those " dramatic interludes " which, collectively, I call "Vistas." I could not well explain: nor can I do so now. After all, I could make only a redundant use of the title. All are vistas into the inner life of the human soul, psychic episodes. One or two are directly autopsy chical, others are renderings of dramatically conceived impressions of spiritual emotion : to two or three no quotation could be more apt than that of the Spanish novelist, Emilia Pardo Bazan : "Enter with me into the dark zone of the human soul." These " Vistas" were written at intervals : the most intimate, in the spiritual sense, so long ago as the spring of 1886, when, during recovery from a long and nearly fatal illness, "Lilith " Dedication. 3 came to me as a vision and was withheld in words as soo?i as I could put pen to paper. Another was written in Rome, after a vain effort to express adequately in a different form the episode of death-menaced a?id death-haunted love among those remote Scottish wilds where so much of my childhood and boyhood and early youth was spent. Some of my critics say that " Vistas" is but an English reflection of the Maeterlinckian fire. Two of the most Maeter- linckian are, by those critics, held to be "A Northern Night" and " The Passing of Lilith," — creations, if such they may be called, anterior to the fortunate hour when 1 came for the first time upon "La Princesse Maleine" and "Vln- truse." I say " the fortunate hour," for almost from the first mo7tient it seemed clear to me that the Belgian poet-dramatist had i7itroduced a netv and vital literary form. It is one that many had been seeking, — stumblingly, among them, the author of " Vistas," — but Maurice Maeter- linck wrought the crude material into a form fit for swift and dexterous use, at once subtle and simple. The exaggerations of his admirable method were obvious from the first ; in " L'ln- truse" even, more markedly in " Les Aveugles," unmistakably in " La Princesse Maleine : " and, it must be added, still more prominently in his 4 Dedication. later productions. But he saw that there was a borderland for the Imagination, between the realms of Prose and Poetry. He discerned the need, even though it should be but the occasional need, — for after all it is only an addition to the old formulas that we seek, — of a more elas- tic method than any exercised in our day, one that would not restrict the elusive imagination nor yet burden it with verbal juggleries and license. There is room for the Imagination in Prose : there is room for the Imagination in Verse : there is room, also, for the Imagination in the vague, misty, beautiful bordeilands. Of course there is nothing radically new in M. Maeterlinck' s method. The Greek dramatists, the French, and, among others, Calderon nota- bly, have all preceded him : the miracle-plays are " Alaeterlinckian : " the actual form as now identified with his name was first used by his contempo7-ary, Charles Van lerberghe, in " Les Flaireurs." Probably there is never any quite new literary method. Certainly the greatest writers were not creators of the form or forms they adopted: Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Shakespere, Racine, Goethe, Hugo. But after all, these things matter little. The "form," be it what it may, is open to all. Our concern should be, not with the accident of for- mal similitude, but with the living and convinc- Dedication. 5 ing reality behind the form, created or adapted or frankly adopted. No one would dream of an imputation upon a poet's originality if he choose to express himself in the sonnet form, the most hackneyed of all verse-formulas and yet vir- ginal to each new wooer who is veritably son to Apollo. After the two already specified, one or two of the "Vistas " were written in Stuttgart, in 1891, others a year or so later in London or else- where, — all in what is, in somewhat unschol- arly fashion, called the Maeterlinckian formula. The first which I wrote tinder this impulse is that entitled "Finis." The latest, or the latest but one (now added to this edition) seems to me, if I may say so, as distinctively individual as " The Passing of Lilith" and some, at least, of my critics have noted this in connection with " The Lute Player." In all but its final form, it is a conception, an embodied conception, that has been with me for many years, ever since boyhood : a living actuality for me, at last ex- pressed, but so inadequately as to make me differ wholly from the distinguished critic who adjudged it the best of the "Vistas." To me it is the most obvious failure in the book, though, fundamentally, so near and real emotionally. But where doctors disagree how may the patient be sure on any point? If ever a book were 6 Dedication. diversely reviewed it is "Vistas." It has been called " rubbish, 1 '' and has enjoyed the opposite extreme of appreciation : it has been dubbed immoral, and held to be purely mystical and spiritual : one leading literary periodical has ignored it altogether, and another of equal eminence devoted several columns to it: it has been patronized by a well-known young critic in the "Daily Chronicle" and snubbed by an unknown young critic in the " Bookman" and the " Scotsman " solemnly reprobated the author because (no doubt through igtwrance) he began with a piece called "Finis" Through it all, the book has survived, and found its way ; and I am content. All this is very personal, but I suffer it to go, though so much more 7oillingly would I let this dedicatory note remain a private letter. It was thought advisable that I should add some- thing to the American edition, but the chief inducement for me was the opportunity of pay- ing a tribute of affection and admiration to you, my friend, whom I honor and esteem so highly. If "Vistas " be liked by those American readers who see it in this edition for the first time (whether or not their verdict be for " The Birth of a Soul," " The Passion of Pere Hil- arion," and " A Northern Night," as the gen- Dedication. 7 eral estimate goes here) well and good : if it should not appeal, my regret will be genuine : but in any case what I hope for is that some of the younger generation may obtain from it a few indications, a hint, a suggestion, that may guide or help them towards that already near and profoundly important development of literary expression which so many of us foresee with eager interest. A great creative period is at hand. Probably a great dramatic epoch. But what will for one thing differentiate it from any predecessor is the new complexity, the new subtlety, in apprehension, in formative concep- tion, in imaginative rendering. William Sharp. 15 Greencroft Gardens, London, N. W. Finis. . . . Blood for blood, Bitter requital on the dead is fallen. Euripides: Electra. Finis. [An obscure wood, at whose frontiers neither night nor day prevails, but only a drear twilight, a brief way beyond the portals of the Grave. In the vast vault overhead no cloud moveth, no star shineth.] THE PHANTOM OF THE MAN. The shadows deepen. THE SOUL OF THE MAN. \_Blind with the darkness of death.'] On ! On! THE PHANTOM. This way let us go. THE SOUL. Chill, chill, the breath from the Grave. Would that I too were dead. THE PHANTOM. The wood is dark, and the shadows deepen. THE SOUL. Canst thou see nought? Dost thou see nothing ? THE PHANTOM. I see nought. I see no one. 12 Vistas. THE SOUL. This awful silence ! THE PHANTOM. Two shadows only — two shadows in the Hollow Land that move. We are they. THE SOUL. Dost thou not hear? THE PHANTOM. What? THE SOUL. Afar off, as in the heart of the wood, a strange sighing. THE PHANTOM. Is it the wind of Death ? THE SOUL. Is it the perishing lamentation of the dead? THE PHANTOM. I see vast avenues penetrating the darkness of the wood. THE SOUL. And there is no one there ? There is nought visible ? THE PHANTOM. No shadow moves. No branch stirs. But always, always, leaves are falling : shadowless, soundless. Finis. 13 THE SOUL. Let us go back : let us go back ! It may be that in the Grave there is a place of rest ! THE PHANTOM. I see the portals no more. A mist has risen THE SOUL. What lies behind us? THE PHANTOM. Dim avenues. No shadow moves. No branch stirs. But always, always, leaves are falling : shadowless, soundless. THE SOUL. Which way came we ? THE PHANTOM. I know not. THE SOUL. Whither go we ? THE PHANTOM. I know not. THE SOUL. Did we perish ere we entered the dark way of the Grave ? THE PHANTOM. The body died. 14 Vistas. THE SOUL. [Terrified.'] Who art thou? THE PHANTOM. Thou. [The Soul of the Man staggers wildly away, with outstretched arms, with lips moving in agony, but silent. The Phantom of the Man stands motionless. In a brief while the Soul has wandered in a circle back to the place whence it started.] THE PHANTOM. The shadows deepen. Let us go. THE SOUL. \_In the bitterness of anguish.'] I am as a leaf blown by the wind. [They move through the gloom of a vast avenue. There is no sound, no stir, no shadow, though ever there are falling leaves that fade into the under-darkness. From afar, within the hollow of the wood, there comes a faint sighing, that is as the sea in calm or as a wind that swoons upon the pastures, but is not any wind that breathes on any sea.] THE SOUL. Doth it grow more dark ? THE PHANTOM. There is no change. It is neither day nor night. But far away the avenues reach into utter blackness. Finis. 15 THE SOUL. Doth a wind blow in the Shadow of Death ? THE PHANTOM. No wind bloweth through the Hollow Land, though from the darkness beyond cometh a faint sighing. THE SOUL. Dead prayers — dead hopes — dead dreams ! [A long silence : and still the twain move down the sombre avenues of the wood. There is no sound, no stir — only the fall of leaves forever and ever.] THE PHANTOM. A great weakness is come upon me. I can fare no further. THE SOUL. \_Terrified.~] Leave me not alone ! Leave me not ! Leave me not ! THE PHANTOM. Behold, another cometh. I perish. [The Soul stretcheth out its hands to its fel- low, but nought can stay the fading and the falling of the leaf, from another ave- nue come two figures, the one leading the other.] THE PHANTOM OF THE WOMAN. I am weary of the long quest. As a leaf goeth before the wind, I go. 1 6 Vistas. THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. Leave me not alone ! Leave me not ! Leave me not ! [The Soul of the Woman stretcheth out its hands to its fellow, but nought can stay the fading and the falling of the leaf.] THE SOUL OF THE MAN. [ Whispering. ,] O Death, give me thy sting ! O Grave, suffer me to be thy victim ! THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. Where art thou? Where art thou — thou who wast myself? [The Soul of the Man stops, trembles, listens intently. Through the profound silence the leaves fall, but none seeth ; for the Soul of the Man is blind, and blind the Soul of the Woman.] THE SOUL OF THE MAN. \_In deep awe.] Doth aught pass by? [Profound silence.] THE SOUL OF THE MAN. For the love of life, I beseech thee, art thou, who art in the silence, even as I am ? [Profound silence.] THE SOUL OF THE MAN. [/« terror."] It is Death. [Profound silence.] Finis. 17 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. [In a low whisper.~\ At last ! At last ! [Slowly the Soul of the Woman advances. The Soul of the Man listens intently, and an awful fear is upon him.] THE SOUL OF THE MAN. Speak, thou that comest ! [There is a faint echo as of a rustling sound.] It is leaves blown by the wind ! [There is an echo as of a rustling sound, nearer, and nearer, and nearer.] What art thou ? [The faint rustling steps are close by. With tremulous, groping hands the Soul of the Man moves away, and then, paralyzed with terror, goes no further. He hears the faint steps encircling him, slowly, slowly. It is as of one groping blindly.] THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. [ Whispering^ It is he ! THE SOUL OF THE MAN. Who spoke? Who comes? Oh, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me? [A low, thin sighing from afar in the darkness of the wood, as though of all dead prayers, dead hopes, dead dreams.] THE SOUL OF THE MAN. [ Crying shrilly in his terror, .] Who comes ? Who comes? [The Soul of the Woman draws nigh, till it stands beside the other. Then with out- 1 8 Vistas. stretched arms she gropes for him whom she seeketh. The Soul of the Man cowers, sobbing in agony.] THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. Thou knowest. THE SOUL OF THE MAN. Oh, God ! Oh, God ! THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. Yea, even so at the last, for death cometh unto all. THE SOUL OF THE MAN. Have pity upon me, Agatha ! Hast thou come to slay? THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. Thou knowest. THE SOUL OF THE MAN. Death ! Death ! THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. I have waited long. THE SOUL OF THE MAN. My sin — my sin — is there no expiation ? THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. Yea, verily, at the last. THE SOUL OF THE MAN. Oh, inner heart of hell ! Finis. 19 THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. There is no heaven and no hell but upon the earth. And unto some is heaven, and unto some is hell : but woe unto those by whom hell is wrought for another, for his end is undying death and the horror of the grave. THE SOUL OF THE MAN. Have mercy upon me ! THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. Thou wert my hell. THE SOUL OF THE MAN. Have mercy upon me ! THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. Thou didst take the fresh life and pollute it with evil — thou didst seek me out to defile me — thou didst fling me into the mire and trample upon me — thou didst laugh me to scorn and drag me through the depths — and at the last, when once, only once, one gleam of brightness, one gleam of joy, came to me, thou didst foul it as death corrupts the carrion of the body, and didst work for me woe within woe, and hell within hell. [The Soul of the Man suddenly throws his arms on high as though to ward a blow : then stoops, and flees like the wind down a sombre avenue of the obscure wood. For minutes, for hours — he knoweth not, he careth not — he goeth thus. Then, all at once, he stops ; for nearer, nearer, he hears 20 Vistas. the sighing from the midmost of the dark- ness, the sighing as of dead prayers, dead hopes, dead dreams. Suddenly there is a faint sound as of blown leaves. It draweth near.] THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. For thou hast wrought woe within woe for me, and hell within hell. [The Soul of the Man staggers dumbly, stretches forth unavailing arms, and know- eth the agony of the second death. Then wildly, and with a triumphing cry — ] At the least I slew him — at the least I strangled him where he lay ! THE SOUL OF THE WOMAN. Was it thus ? [With a strange perishing cry the Soul of the Woman springs upon the other, and, clasp- ing with both hands, strangles the Soul of the Man. And in the sombre twilight of the vast ave- nues of the wood there is no sound ; and in the darkness nought stirs, save the leaves falling forever, forever. Only from afar, in the uttermost darkness, there is a low sigh- ing, that passeth not, that changeth not, and is as the vanishing breath of dead prayers, dead hopes, dead dreams.] The Passion of Pere Hilarion. SlRIA Voire amour lui serait Forage. Nurh ye Faime. Siria Malheur a lui. Nurh ye Palme. Siria Malheur a vous. Le Barbare. The Passion of Pere Hilarion. [A small, dark room, opening from the Sac- risty of the Church of Notre Dame, in the village of Haut-Pre, on the French side of the Meuse. In the room, which is window- less, there is no light save the dull, yellow flicker from an iron cruse suspended from the low roof. Nought else is visible save a small iron bell jutting out above the door, connected with the outside by a string pass- ing through a hole in the highest panel, and, on the further wall, a heavy metal cru- cifix. On the floor a man, in a priest's robes, lies at full length, face downward. Every now and then a convulsive shudder passes over his frame. He has lain thus for long, uttering no words, but praying silently with a passion that rends him. At last, with a low, sobbing sigh, Hilarion the priest rises, stands passively for a few mo- ments, and then slowly advances till he is close to the crucifix.] HILARION. Wilt Thou not hearken to my cry, O Thou who savest? [A faint, dull resonance of his voice haunts the room for a few moments ; then silence as of the tomb.] 24 Vistas. HILARION. [ With broken, supplicating voiced O Thou who hast passioned, wilt Thou not have pity upon me in this mine agony? Lord, Lord, wilt Thou not save? Lo, I am younger than Thou wert when Thy bloody sweat fell in Gethsemane ! Have compassion upon me, O Christ compas- sionate ! I am but a man, and the burden of my manhood, the bitter burden of my youth, is heavy upon me. [The dull, fading echo of a human voice; then silence as of the grave.] HILARION. Speak, Lord. Show me a sign ! O Thou who wast crucified for me, hearken ! Friend, O Brother, O Heavenly Love, I beseech Thee ! Jesus, Son of Mary, wilt Thou not hear? 1 cry to Thee, O Son of God ! I cry to Thee, O Son of Man ! [He bows his head, and waits for he knows not what, his lips twitching, and hands clasping and unclasping. Then, suddenly :] What wilt Thou, O Son of Man ? Am I not Thy Brother? [Leaning forward, and speaking slowly :] Art Thou dead indeed, O Thou who wast crucified ? [The dull beat of sound around the walls : then silence as of deep night.] The Passion of Pere Hilarion. 25 I perish ! Stretch forth Thine hand and save ! I perish ! [Faintly round the tomb-like walls breathes the echo of the word : Perish. Then silence, chill and still as death.] I am but a man, O God ! I am but a man, O Christ ! My sin is oversweet, and the world calls me, and I die daily, hourly, yea, every bitter moment ! [With a fierce cry, and wild gesture with his arms :] What wouldst Thou? Doth not my neck break beneath the yoke ? [Suddenly he throws his priestly robe from off him. Beneath he has but a garment of hair and coarse serge, girt round the waist by a long rope heavily knotted. This also he removes, and then winds one end of the rope round his right wrist. With swift sweep he swings the knotted rope above his head, and brings it down upon his quivering sides. Slowly and steadily the knotted rope rises, circles, falls ; moment after moment, minute after minute. At the last, one, two, three of the great weals along the man's back and sides break, and the flesh hangs purple-red, and the blood runs in thin scarlet streams down his thighs. Then, with a low cry, he throws down the rope and sinks on his knees, quivering with agony and exhaustion.] HILARION. [ With a low, choking sob.~] " Come unto Me, ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." i6 Vistas. [The bell over the door clangs loudly. The priest slowly rises, puts on his hair shirt and stanches the blood as best he can, girds the rope about his waist, and dons again his long black robes. He is calm now, and deathly pale. Before he leaves the Penitents' room he makes a grave obei- sance before the crucifix, but in silence and with downcast eyes. He goes forth, and through the Sacristy to a side door, open- ing on to a wide, deserted village street. He stands in the doorway, looking out as in a dream. The day is far spent, and the shadows gather and lengthen. In an old inn, opposite, from an open window, comes a woman's joyous laughter. The priest does not move, and seems neither to hear nor to see. A little later, the deep voice of a man slowly chants to a strange, monoto- nous tune :] " Elle est retrouvee. Quoi ? Letemite. C'est la mer allee. Avec le soldi." x [The priest Hilarion abruptly turns away, mut- tering, as though in fierce pain, Oh, God ! Oh, God ! He passes into the Sacristy, and stands idly by a desk, brooding on the thing that is in his mind. A bell suddenly rings again. The sacristan enters and says that a woman is at the third confessional, and asks for Father Hilarion. He slowly leaves, and walks down the aisle toward his place, with bent head and heavy steps. As he reaches the box he looks back through the church toward the altar, where a young priest is leisurely lighting the candles. Below his breath he mutters :] 1 "Les Illuminations." The Passion of Pere Hilarion. 27 " C'est la nier allee Avec le so lei I" [He enters the box and seats himself. A woman — veiled — tall, young, and with a figure of strange grace and beauty, is on her knees.] HILARION. [Quietly. ~\ My daughter. THE WOMAN. [Hurriedly.] My father, my heart is . . . HILARION. [Abruptly rising, but seating himself again.] Anais ! ANA'iS. Yes, Father Hilarion, it is I. No, no, I cannot call you so ! HILARION. Hush ! Anais, God is pitiful. We will pray for His help, and that of His holy Son, and that of the Blessed Mary. ANA'iS. There is no help but in ourselves. HILARION. Here we are as shadows in a fevered dream. The voice of Eternity. . . . [Stops abruptly, as in his ears rises an echo of the song:] 28 Vistas. " JOeternite. . . . Cest la mer allee Avec le soleil.'" ANA'iS. My heart breaks. The time has come : I must speak — and you, Hilarion — No, no, you must stay ! Father Hilarion, I command you, as my priest, as my spiritual director ! I must confess. [She removes her veil, and in Hilarion's face a flush rises and fades as he looks again upon a face of such rare, surpassing beauty that even in dreams, before he first saw it, he had never beheld one lovelier, aught so lovely. An acolyte, with a tall wax taper, passing by again, hears the swift whispering, the low, ardent tones of a woman's voice : and, once or twice, the deep murmur of Father Hilarion.] ANA'iS. Better than the dream of heaven ! He is my paradise ! HILARION. My daughter, this love is madness ! ANAl'S. Then better so. I am mad. Oh, are you a man ? Do you not understand ? I love him — I love him — I love him ! The Passion of Pere Hilarion. 29 HILARION. My daughter, you must tell me all. What is this secret thing that lies betwixt you and — and this man? ana'i's. Hilarion ! HILARION. [Troubled.] Ana'is, my daughter ! ANAlS. Hilarion ! [Hilarion half rises, then seats himself again. His face has grown paler, and his hand trembles.] ANAlS. Oh, my God, how I love him ! What is the world to me? What is this paradise you dream of, this heaven you preach? He is my heaven, my paradise, my heart's delight, my life itself, my very soul ! [Ana'i's bends forward, but hides her face from Hilarion, and sobs convulsively. The priest stares fixedly above her head into the gloom of the church beyond the uncurtained door- way.] HILARION. \In a low voiced Most Blessed Virgin- Mother, have pity ! [There is silence for some moments. Ana'is slowly lifts her head and looks at the priest, who still stares fixedly into the gloom.] 3° Vistas. ANAlS. [/;/ a faint whisper i\ Beyond words ! Be- yond thought ! HILARION. Mary, Mother of Pity, hearken ! ANAlS. \_Quivering, as she clasps her hands together^ Life is a dream, and the dream is brief. . O Love, Love, Love ! HILARION. Mater Consolatrix, save, oh, save ! [The grating, long loose, gives way, and falls with a clang upon the stone floor. Trem- ulously the priest lets his hand fall upon the head of Anais. Suddenly she takes his icy hand in hers, aflame as with fever ] HILARION. My daughter, it is a sin to love so wildly. Only to God. . . . ANAlS. \In a loud, mocking voice.~\ Only to God ! HILARION. Hush, my daughter. I . . . ANAlS. Hilarion ! The Passion of Pere Hilarion. 31 HILARION. [Speaking low and hurriedly.~\ My daugh- ter, I am a priest. Thou must speak to me as to thy spiritual father. I . . . ANA1S. Three years ago, Hilarion . . . HILARION. Anai's, Ana'is ! [Anais bows her head over the priest's hand, and her lips are pressed against it. His face is deathly pale, and on his forehead are drops of sweat. With a sudden move- ment he extricates his hand from her grasp.] ANAiS. [Murmuring.'] It is killing me ! HILARION. [With a great effort^] My daughter, there is neither rest, nor peace, nor beauty, nor hap- piness, nor content, nor any weal whatever in this world, save in . . . [Ana'is raises her head and looks at him. He speaks no further. There is deep silence in the church, save for the shuffling step of an old beggar-woman, who slowly moves through the dusk, and at last sinks wearily on her knees.] THE BEGGAR-WOMAN. [Repeating a prayer of the Church.'] " For this is Thy Kingdom, and we are Thy children, O heavenly King ! " 32 Vistas. HILARION. [Mechanically.'] And we are Thy children ! ANA1S. [ With a low, shuddering voice."] And this is Thy Kingdom ! [Hilarion rises suddenly, as if about to go.] HILARION. My daughter, confess to the Blessed Mary herself. She will give you peace. ANA1S. There is no peace for me. I love him with all my heart and all my soul and all my life, and I know that he loves me beyond all his dreams of heaven and hell. HILARION. [Hoarsely.] Who is this man? ANA'iS. He is a priest. HILARION. [Murmuring, half to himself.] " He who transgresseth in this wise shall go down into the pit, and his undying death shall be terror beyond terror, and horror within horror." ANAl'S. And for one kiss from his lips I would barter this life ; for one hour of love I would exchange The Passion of Pere Hilarion. 33 this dream of a Paradise that shall not be. He is my day of sunshine and joy, he is my night of mystery and beatitude. HILARION. \Tre?nbling^\ The curse shall lie heavy upon him. . . . ANA1S. Oh, joy of life ! HILARION. And upon you ! ANA1S. Oh, the glad sunlight, the free air, the singing of birds ; everywhere, everywhere, the pulse of the world ! HILARION. All that live shall die. ANAi'S. And the dead know not : and if perchance they dream, it is Life. [The voice of the Beggar-woman sounds hoarsely in the deepening gloom :] " For in this life nought availeth, and only in the grave — " ANA'iS. [ Whispering, as she draws closer to the aper- ture.] Only in the grave ! — O Heart of Love ! 34 Vistas. HILARION. \In a strained voice. ~\ And this man — this priest? ANA1S. Thou knowest him. HILARION. Better for him that he had never been born. Better — ANAIS. \_In a low, thrilling voice.~\ Hilarion ! Hilarion ! [The priest trembles as though in an ague Anais again whispers, " Hilarion ! "] HILARION. [Hurriedly.'] My daughter, I must go. I have to officiate. ANAIS. For the last time, Hilarion. HILARION. Go, woman ! We are in the hands of God. I — ANAIS. I die to-night. HILARION. Anais ! The Passion of Pere Hilarion. 25 ANA1S. [With a passionate sob.] My darling, my darling ! O Love, Love, Love ! [A bell clangs suddenly, and a young priest enters the church from behind the altar, bearing a light.] THE BEGGAR-WOMAN. [Mumbling loudly, as she rises to her feet.'] " For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory — " ANAlS. [ Whispering eagerly.] Where ? Where ? HILARION. [Slowly, and as if in a dream.] By the bend of the river at Grand-Pre : where the Calvary of the seven willows is : an hour after moonrise. [Ana'is hesitates a moment, then abruptly turns away and leaves the church. Hila- rion passes into the aisle : walking slowly, with bent head, and lips moving as though in prayer. The young priest comes toward him.] THE YOUNG PRIEST. Is it well with thee, Hilarion, my brother? Thou seemest in the shadow of trouble. HILARION. [Suddenly raising his head, and with a clear, ringing voiced] It is well with me. 36 Vistas. THE YOUNG PRIEST. And thou hast peace? HILARION. Yea, at the last I have found peace. THE YOUNG PRIEST. May, too, the joy that likewise passeth under- standing — HILARION. [Interrupting, in a strange voice.'] Verily, it also hath come unto me at the last. [He passes on, with head erect and flashing eyes. The young priest looks after him.] THE YOUNG PRIEST. He is a dreamer — but a saint. HILARION. \To himself as he passes beyond the altar, .] Yea, the joy that likewise passeth under- standing. [The choristers are practising their chant of the day.] Mere celeste de la Pitie I De toute Eternite. HILARION {passes muttering) . " Elle est retrouvee. Quoil L? eternite — " [The choristers singing :] The Passion of Pere Hilarion. 37 On a retrouve O Mere bien-aimee, Ton doux conseil — hilarion {slowly, as he passes from sight). " C 'est la mer allee Avec le solei'l." [Three hours later. The church is closed. The village is swathed in darkness, save for a few lights here and there. Across the great meadow that divides the village from the river moves a tall figure clothed in priest's robes. The dew upon the high grasses glistens with a faint sheen where swept by his skirts. A few emerald-green fireflies wander hither and thither through the gloom. A breath of wind comes and goes, bearing with it a vague fragrance of hay and roses and meadow-sweet. Once the priest stops and listens 5 but he hears nothing save the distant barking of a dog, and, close by, the stealthy wash of flow- ing water. Beyond the marshes of Haut- Pre the moon has risen. The marsh-water gleams like amber in torchlight. The priest moves on. As he draws nearer the river he sees, looming in a confused mass through the obscurity, the group of seven willows in the front of which stands the great Calvary. A sudden short essay of song thrills through the dusk. Then the nightingale is still. As the priest approaches the willows their upper branches glow as with dull gold in the welling wave of moon- rise. He descries the high ash-gray mass of the Calvary through their heavy boughs, and, beyond, the moving blackness, shot with furtive gleams and sudden spear-like shafts of pale light, of the river. He passes the willows and stops as he nears the 38 Vistas. Calvary. He sees no one. Slowly moving forward, he stands on the bank of the river, and looks upon the dull, obscure flow of the water. Suddenly he turns and goes back to the Calvary, which he faces. A long, wavering shaft of moonlight illumes the woe-wrought face of the carven Christ. The priest stands with crossed arms, star- ing fixedly at the moonlit features of the God. The green fireflies wander fitfully betwixt him and the image: he sees them not. The nightingale gives three thrilling cries, passionate vibrations of forlornest music ; he hears them not. Through the tall dew-drenched grasses be- yond there is a soft susurrus. The priest's ears are charmed, for still, with crossed arms, he stands staring fixedly at the tor- tured face of the dead God. Suddenly he starts, as, from beyond the mass of the Calvary, a fantastic shadow moves toward him. He steps aside, and through the thin, moon-illumined mist behind he sees Ana'i's approach, the moonshine turning her hair to pale bronze and making her face as one of the water-lilies in the river.] AXAlS. \_Eagerly advancing.'] Hilarion ! HILARION. I am here. ANA1S. [ With fierce fervor^ Let the priest die ! It is you — it is you, Hilarion — whom I meet here. At last ! At last ! [Hilarion is silent, and neither advances nor makes any gesture. Anais hesitates, then comes close up to him and looks into his eyes.] The Passion of Pere Hilarion. 39 ANAl'S. Hilarion, is it life or death ? [Abruptly the nightingale sends a low cres- cendo note throbbing through the moon- light.] HILARION. [ Whispering and slowly. .] Life — or — death. [With rapture swells the song of the nightin- gale, intoxicated with a mad ecstasy.] ANAlS. [In a low voice. - ] Ah, Hilarion, have you forgotten ? [Suddenly, with rapid diminutions, the night- ingale's song sinks to a thin, aerial music : abruptly wells forth again: and then, in a moment, ceases absolutely. There is a faint beat of wings, a rustle, and then the bird swoops in slanting flight from the mid- foliage, circles twice round the willow, and swiftly, as though an arrow, flies through the dusk across the river. Hilarion starts as though awakened from a trance.] HILARION. [ Wildly.'] Anais ! ANA1S. Hilarion ! O my darling, my darling ! [She springs to his open arms, and, as he bends over her, kissing her passionately, she sees by the moongleam reflected from the Calvary how deathly white he is.] 4