Within and Without

woman; love is troublesome!⁠—
She loved him too, but falsehood came between,
And used this woman for her minister;
Who never would have peached, but for a witness
Hidden behind some curtain in her heart⁠—
An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience,
Who has appeared and blabbed⁠—but must conclude
His story to some double-ghostly father,
For she is ghostly penitent by this.
Our consciences will play us no such tricks;
They are the Church’s, not our own. We must
Keep this small matter secret. If it should
Come to his ears, he’ll soon bid us goodbye⁠—
A lady’s love before ten heavenly crowns!
And so the world will have the benefit
Of the said wealth of his, if such there be.
I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else
Until our Abbot comes. First Monk

That is to-morrow.

Another group near the bottom of the table, in which is Robert.

First Monk

’Tis very clear there’s something wrong with him.
Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity,
Which passes like a thought across his face,
When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen,
A while to our discourse?⁠—he never joins.

Second Monk

I know quite well. I stood beside him once,
Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking:
He chanced to say the words, “Our Holy Faith.”
“Their faith indeed, poor fools!” fell from his lips,
Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words
Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure
He is an atheist at the least.

Third Monk

Pale-faced and large-eyed.

And I
Fear he is something worse. I had a trance
In which the devil tempted me: the shape
Was Julian’s to the very finger-nails.
Non nobis, Domine! I overcame.
I am sure of one thing⁠—music tortures him:
I saw him once, amid the Gloria Patri,
When the whole chapel trembled in the sound,
Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain,
And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands,
Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees.

Second Monk

He does not know his rubric; stands when others
Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice
With his missal upside down.

Fourth Monk

Plethoric and husky.

He blew his nose
Quite loud on last Annunciation-day,
And choked our Lady’s name in the Abbot’s throat.

Robert

When he returns, we must complain; and beg
He’ll take such measures as the case requires.

Scene III

Julian’s cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, its candle nearly burnt out. Julian lying on his bed, looking at the light.

Julian	And so all growth that is not toward God Is growing to decay. All increase gained Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth. ’Tis aspiration as that wick aspires, Towering above the light it overcomes, But ever sinking with the dying flame. O let me live, if but a daisy’s life! No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence! Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me? Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none That springs from me, but much that springs from thee. Hast thou not made me? Liv’st thou not in me? I have done naught for thee, am but a want; But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims; And this same need of thee which thou hast given, Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself, And makes me bold to rise and come to thee. Through all my sinning thou hast not recalled This witness of thy fatherhood, to plead For thee with me, and for thy child with thee. Last night, as now, I seemed to speak with him; Or was it but my heart that spoke for him? “Thou mak’st me long,” I said, “therefore wilt give; My longing is thy promise, O my God! If, having sinned, I thus have lost the claim, Why doth the longing yet remain with me, And make me bold thus to besiege thy doors?” Methought I heard for answer: “Question on. Hold fast thy need; it is the bond that holds Thy being yet to mine. I give it thee, A hungering and a fainting and a pain, Yet a God-blessing. Thou art not quite dead While this pain lives in thee. I bless thee with it. Better to live in pain than die that death.” So I will live, and nourish this my pain; For oft it giveth birth unto a hope That makes me strong in prayer. He knows it too. Softly I’ll walk the earth; for it is his, Not mine to revel in. Content I wait. A still small voice I cannot but believe, Says on within: God will reveal himself. I must go from this place. I cannot rest. It boots not staying. A desire like thirst Awakes within me, or a new child-heart, To be abroad on the mysterious earth, Out with the moon in all the blowing winds. ’Tis strange that dreams of her should come again. For many months I had not seen her form, Save phantom-like on dim hills of the past, Until I laid me down an hour ago; When twice through the dark chamber full of eyes, The memory passed, reclothed in verity: Once more I now behold it; the inward blaze Of the glad windows half quenched in the moon; The trees that, drooping, murmured to the wind, “Ah! wake me not,” which left them to their sleep, All save the poplar: it was full of joy, So that it could not sleep, but trembled on. Sudden as Aphrodite from the sea, She issued radiant from the pearly night. It took me half with fear⁠—the glimmer and gleam Of her white festal garments, haloed round With denser moonbeams. On she came⁠—and there I am bewildered. Something I remember Of thoughts that choked the passages of sound, Hurrying forth without their pilot-words; Of agony, as when a spirit seeks In vain to hold communion with a man; A hand that would and would not stay in mine; A gleaming of white garments far away; And then I know not what. The moon was low, When from the earth I rose; my hair was wet, Dripping with dew⁠—
	Enter Robert cautiously. Why, how now, Robert? Rising on his elbow.
Robert	Glancing at the chest. I see; that’s well. Are you nearly ready?
Julian	Why? What’s the matter?
Robert	You must go this night, If you would go at all.
Julian	Why must I go? Rises.
Robert	Turning over the things in the chest. Here, put this coat on. Ah! take that thing too. No more such head-gear! Have you not a hat,