Chapter XXVI: Part 26

KEENEY. I warned you what it'd be, Annie. "Whalin' ain't no ladies' tea party," I says to you, "and you better stay to home where you've got all your woman's comforts." [_Shaking his head._] But you was so set on it.

MRS. KEENEY [_wearily_]. Oh, I know it isn't your fault, David. You see, I didn't believe you. I guess I was dreaming about the old Vikings in the story books and I thought you were one of them.

KEENEY [_protestingly_]. I done my best to make it as cozy and comfortable as could be. [_Mrs. Keeney looks around her in wild scorn._] I even sent to the city for that organ for ye, thinkin' it might be soothin' to ye to be playin' it times when they was calms and things was dull like.

MRS. KEENEY [_wearily_]. Yes, you were very kind, David. I know that. [_She goes to left and lifts the curtains from the porthole and looks out--then suddenly bursts forth_]: I won't stand it--I can't stand it--pent up by these walls like a prisoner. [_She runs over to him and throws her arms around him, weeping. He puts his arm protectingly over her shoulders._] Take me away from here, David! If I don't get away from here, out of this terrible ship, I'll go mad! Take me home, David! I can't think any more. I feel as if the cold and the silence were crushing down on my brain. I'm afraid. Take me home!

KEENEY [_holds her at arm's length and looks at her face anxiously_]. Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't yourself. You got fever. Your eyes look so strange like. I ain't never seen you look this way before.

MRS. KEENEY [_laughing hysterically_]. It's the ice and the cold and the silence--they'd make any one look strange.

KEENEY [_soothingly_]. In a month or two, with good luck, three at the most, I'll have her filled with ile and then we'll give her everything she'll stand and p'int for home.

MRS. KEENEY. But we can't wait for that--I can't wait. I want to get home. And the men won't wait. They want to get home. It's cruel, it's brutal for you to keep them. You must sail back. You've got no excuse. There's clear water to the south now. If you've a heart at all you've got to turn back.

KEENEY [_harshly_]. I can't, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. Why can't you?

KEENEY. A woman couldn't rightly understand my reason.

MRS. KEENEY [_wildly_]. Because it's a stubborn reason. Oh, I heard you talking with the second mate. You're afraid the other captains will sneer at you because you didn't come back with a full ship. You want to live up to your silly reputation even if you do have to beat and starve men and drive me mad to do it.

KEENEY [_his jaw set stubbornly_]. It ain't that, Annie. Them skippers would never dare sneer to my face. It ain't so much what any one'd say--but--[_He hesitates, struggling to express his meaning_] you see--I've always done it--since my first voyage as skipper. I always come back--with a full ship--and--it don't seem right not to--somehow. I been always first whalin' skipper out o' Homeport, and--don't you see my meanin', Annie? [_He glances at her. She is not looking at him, but staring dully in front of her, not hearing a word he is saying._] Annie! [_She comes to herself with a start._] Best turn in, Annie, there's a good woman. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY [_resisting his attempts to guide her to the door in rear_]. David! Won't you please turn back?

KEENEY [_gently_]. I can't, Annie--not yet awhile. You don't see my meanin'. I got to git the ile.

MRS. KEENEY. It'd be different if you needed the money, but you don't. You've got more than plenty.

KEENEY [_impatiently_]. It ain't the money I'm thinkin' of. D'you think I'm as mean as that?

MRS. KEENEY [_dully_]. No--I don't know--I can't understand. [_Intensely._] Oh, I want to be home in the old house once more, and see my own kitchen again, and hear a woman's voice talking to me and be able to talk to her. Two years! It seems so long ago--as if I'd been dead and could never go back.

KEENEY [_worried by her strange tone and the far-away look in her eyes_.] Best go to bed, Annie. You ain't well.

MRS. KEENEY [_not appearing to hear him_]. I used to be lonely when you were away. I used to think Homeport was a stupid, monotonous place. Then I used to go down on the beach, especially when it was windy and the breakers were rolling in, and I'd dream of the fine, free life you must be leading. [_She gives a laugh which is half a sob._] I used to love the sea then. [_She pauses; then continues with slow intensity._] But now--I don't ever want to see the sea again.

KEENEY [_thinking to humor her_]. 'Tis no fit place for a woman, that's sure. I was a fool to bring ye.

MRS. KEENEY [_after a pause--passing her hand over her eyes with a gesture of pathetic weariness_]. How long would it take us to reach home--if we started now?

KEENEY [_frowning_]. 'Bout two months, I reckon, Annie, with fair luck.

MRS. KEENEY [_counts on her fingers--then murmurs with a rapt smile_]. That would be August, the latter part of August, wouldn't it? It was on the twenty-fifth of August we were married, David, wasn't it?

KEENEY [_trying to conceal the fact that her memories have moved him--gruffly_]. Don't you remember?

MRS. KEENEY [_vaguely--again passes her hand over her eyes_]. My memory is leaving me--up here in the ice. It was so long ago. [_A pause--then she smiles dreamily._] It's June now. The lilacs will be all in bloom in the front yard--and the climbing roses on the trellis to the side of the house--they're budding--

[_She suddenly covers her face with her hands and commences to
sob._]

KEENEY [_disturbed_]. Go in and rest, Annie. You're all worn out cryin' over what can't be helped.

MRS. KEENEY [_suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him_]. You love me, don't you, David?

KEENEY [_in amazed embarrassment at this outburst_]. Love you? Why d'you ask me such a question, Annie?

MRS. KEENEY [_shaking him fiercely_]. But you do, don't you, David? Tell me!

KEENEY. I'm your husband, Annie, and you're my wife. Could there be aught but love between us after all these years?

MRS. KEENEY [_shaking him again--still more fiercely_]. Then you do love me. Say it!

KEENEY [_simply_]. I do, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_gives a sigh of relief--her hands drop to her sides. Keeney regards her anxiously. She passes her hand across her eyes and murmurs half to herself_]: I sometimes think if we could only have had a child--[_Keeney turns away from her, deeply moved. She grabs his arm and turns him around to face her--intensely._] And I've always been a good wife to you, haven't I, David?

KEENEY [_his voice betraying his emotion_]. No man has ever had a better, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY. And I've never asked for much from you, have I, David? Have I?

KEENEY. You know you could have all I got the power to give ye, Annie.

MRS. KEENEY [_wildly_]. Then do this, this once, for my sake, for God's sake--take me home! It's killing me, this life--the brutality and cold and horror of it. I'm going mad. I can feel the threat in the air. I can't bear the silence threatening me--day after gray day and every day the same. I can't bear it. [_Sobbing._] I'll go mad, I know I will. Take me home, David, if you love me as you say. I'm afraid. For the love of God, take me home!

[_She throws her arms around him, weeping against his shoulder.
His face betrays the tremendous struggle going on within him. He
holds her out at arm's length, his expression softening. For a
moment his shoulders sag, he becomes old, his iron spirit weakens
as he looks at her tear-stained face._]

KEENEY [_dragging out the words with an effort_]. I'll do it, Annie--for your sake--if you say it's needful for ye.

MRS. KEENEY [_with wild joy--kissing him_]. God bless you for that, David!

[_He turns away from her silently and walks toward the
companion-way. Just at that moment there is a clatter of footsteps
on the stairs and the Second Mate enters the cabin._]

MATE [_excitedly_]. The ice is breakin' up to no'the'ard, sir. There's a clear passage through the floe, and clear water beyond, the lookout says.

[_Keeney straightens himself like a man coming out of a trance.
Mrs. Keeney looks at the Mate with terrified eyes._]

KEENEY [_dazedly--trying to collect his thoughts_]. A clear passage? To no'the'ard?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY [_his voice suddenly grim with determination_]. Then get her ready and we'll drive her through.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

MRS. KEENEY [_appealingly_]. David! David!

KEENEY [_not heeding her_]. Will the men turn to willin' or must we drag 'em out?

MATE. They'll turn to willin' enough. You put the fear o' God into 'em, sir. They're meek as lambs.

KEENEY. Then drive 'em--both watches. [_With grim determination._] They's whale t'other side o' this floe and we're agoin' to git 'em.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir.

[_He goes out hurriedly. A moment later there is the sound of
scuffling feet from the deck outside and the Mate's voice shouting
orders._]

KEENEY [_speaking aloud to himself--derisively_]. And I was agoin' home like a yaller dog!

MRS. KEENEY [_imploringly_]. David!

KEENEY [_sternly_]. Woman, you ain't adoin' right when you meddle in men's business and weaken 'em. You can't know my feelin's. I got to prove a man to be a good husband for ye to take pride in. I got to git the ile, I tell ye.

MRS. KEENEY [_supplicatingly_]. David! Aren't you going home?

KEENEY [_ignoring this question--commandingly_]. You ain't well. Go and lay down a mite. [_He starts for the door._] I got to git on deck.

[_He goes out. She cries after him in anguish, "David!" A pause.
She passes her hand across her eyes--then commences to laugh
hysterically and goes to the organ. She sits down and starts to
play wildly an old hymn, "There is rest for the weary." Keeney
reenters from the doorway to the deck and stands looking at her
angrily. He comes over and grabs her roughly by the shoulder._]

KEENEY. Woman, what foolish mockin' is this? [_She laughs wildly and he starts back from her in alarm._] Annie! What is it? [_She doesn't answer him. Keeney's voice trembles._] Don't you know me, Annie?

[_He puts both hands on her shoulders and turns her around so that
he can look into her eyes. She stares up at him with a stupid
expression, a vague smile on her lips. He stumbles away from her,
and she commences softly to play the organ again._]

KEENEY [_swallowing hard--in a hoarse whisper, as if he had difficulty in speaking_]. You said--you was agoin' mad--God!

[_A long wail is heard from the deck above, "Ah, bl-o-o-o-ow!" A
moment later the Mate's face appears through the skylight. He
cannot see Mrs. Keeney._]

MATE [_in great excitement_]. Whales, sir--a whole school of 'em--off the star-b'd quarter 'bout five miles away--big ones!

KEENEY [_galvanized into action_]. Are you lowerin' the boats?

MATE. Yes, sir.

KEENEY [_with grim decision_]. I'm acomin' with ye.

MATE. Aye, aye, sir. [_Jubilantly._] You'll git the ile now right enough, sir.

[_His head is withdrawn and he can be heard shouting orders._]

KEENEY [_turning to his wife_]. Annie! Did you hear him? I'll git the ile. [_She doesn't answer or seem to know he is there. He gives a hard laugh which is almost a groan._] I know you're foolin' me, Annie. You ain't out of your mind--[_Anxiously._] be you? I'll git the ile now right enough--jest a little while longer, Annie--then we'll turn home'ard. I can't turn back now, you see that, don't you? I've got to git the ile. [_In sudden terror._] Answer me! You ain't mad, be you?

[_She keeps on playing the organ, but makes no reply. The Mate's
face appears again through the skylight._]

MATE. All ready, sir.

[_Keeney turns his back on his wife and strides to the doorway,
where he stands for a moment and looks back at her in anguish,
fighting to control his feelings._]

MATE. Comin', sir?

KEENEY [_his face suddenly grows hard with determination_]. Aye.

[_He turns abruptly and goes out. Mrs. Keeney does not appear to
notice his departure. Her whole attention seems centered in the
organ. She sits with half-closed eyes, her body swaying a little
from side to side to the rhythm of the hymn. Her fingers move
faster and faster and she is playing wildly and discordantly as
the_

_Curtain falls._]

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN

A MIRACLE PLAY

BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS

Based on a story by Vernon Lee.
Copyright, 1920, by Thomas Wood Stevens.
All rights reserved.

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN was first produced by the School of the
Drama, Carnegie Institute of Technology, Pittsburgh, Pa., on the night
of November 14, 1919, with the following cast:

SISTER BENVENUTA _Hazel Beck_.
SISTER GRIMANA _Alicia S. Guthrie_.
SISTER ROSALBA _Grey McAuley_.
THE ABBESS _Dorothy Rubinstein_.
THE SISTER SACRISTAN _Inez D. R. Hazel_.
ATALANTA BADOER [_a novice_] _Carolyn McCampbell_.
ABBE FILOSI _Wm. R. Dean_.
THE PUPPET MAN _Lawrence Paquin_.
BEELZEBUBB SATANASSO _James S. Church_.

SCENE I: The Chapter-Room of the Convent of Our Lady of the
Rosebush, Cividale.
SCENE II: Benvenuta's cell.
SCENE III: The Chapter-Room.

TIME: _Early in the eighteenth century. Some days elapse between
scenes_.

Stage settings and properties by ALEXANDER WYCKOFF and DAVID S.
GAITHER.

Lightning by ARLEIGH B. WILLIAMSON.

Costumes by SARA E. BENNETT and LELA MAY AULTMAN.

Music by CHARLES PEARSON.

The amateur and professional stage rights to THE NURSERY MAID OF
HEAVEN are reserved by the author. Applications for permission to
produce the play should be addressed to Frank Shay, Stewart & Kidd
Company, Cincinnati, Ohio. No performance may be given without his
consent.

THE NURSERY MAID OF HEAVEN

A MIRACLE PLAY BY THOMAS WOOD STEVENS

[_SCENE I: Atalanta, the novice, sits, rebellious and sullen, on
the steps of the Mother Superior's dais. From time to time nuns
and novices pass across the stage to the left, on their way to the
refectory. Sister Grimana, an old nun, comes down to Atalanta
purposefully._]

GRIMANA. Sulking again, are you? Waiting for Sister Benvenuta, are you?

[_Atalanta is silent._]

Remembering things that are really no concern of yours; and thinking they concern you because you remember them--doubtless quite inaccurately. I know. It's a way of the Badoer family--and of the Loredani, too, for that matter. When you were a child there was confiture with the bread--and you threw away the crust; and they let you do it, and now you can't find your vocation.

[_She taps her foot impatiently._]

Well--well--will you come?

[_Atalanta is still silent, her face hard with resolution._]

I might mention it to the Sister Sacristan. She'd fetch you.

[_Atalanta gives her a look of scornful disgust._]

It's as well you didn't say that in so many words, Sister.

[_Atalanta looks straight before her, a statue of silence._]

Perhaps there is some one you would prefer to have me call, before the Sister Sacristan comes to fetch you? Sister Rosalba?

[_No response._]

So it must be Sister Benvenuta, must it?

ATALANTA. I would speak with her.

GRIMANA. Oho! You would speak with her! And so you shall--for the love I bore your mother when we were children together. But what good she can do you, with her chatter and laughing--childish laughing and chatter--I can't see. I'll send her to you. And meantime, count your buttons. That's my advice. Count your buttons.

[_She comes close and speaks more confidentially._]

That helps greatly--it did when I was your age.

[_Grimana goes off. Atalanta mechanically runs her fingers over
the buttons of her novice's cape; as she arrives at the end of the
row, she mutters._]

ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta!

[_At the second word she rises abruptly, her hands on the veil._]

Heaven forgive me!

[_She tears off the veil just as Benvenuta enters from the left.
Benvenuta limps down around the Mother Superior's throne, and on
seeing Atalanta with her veil off, bursts into laughter._]

ATALANTA. Even you, Benvenuta! What amuses you so?

BENVENUTA. It's your hair. It's so funny--it's so long since I've seen your hair, Atalanta, dear.

ATALANTA [_sullenly_]. It's not that I want to talk to you about. You needn't have laughed.

BENVENUTA. I know, dear. I shouldn't have laughed, but I always do. I'm so unworthy. I can't seem to help it, though I tell myself, often and often, that it's trifling and worldly to laugh so much, and undignified, too, before the children and novices. I will try not to laugh, Atalanta. Sister Grimana said you wanted me. What is it, dear?

[_She looks at Atalanta and smothers another laugh._]

Put on your veil, child.

ATALANTA. Don't call me child--I'm only three years younger than you, and I'm taller.

[_She puts on the veil again, still sullen._]

BENVENUTA. You're only a novice and I call you a child--very properly, too. And if you want me to talk to you, you must listen--like a good child.

[_A step is heard approaching and a rattle of keys; Atalanta pulls
at Benvenuta's dress as if to draw her down beside her._]

ATALANTA. It's the Sister Sacristan. Now she'll make me go, and there's something you must tell me--you must--I beg of you.

[_The Sister Sacristan comes in and goes straight to Atalanta,
ignoring Benvenuta. Her keys are audible as she walks._]

THE SISTER SACRISTAN. Well, Mistress Perverse and Disobedient? Not come to reason yet?

BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan, pardon her. Let me speak with her a little while--only a little while. Her tasks can wait--

SISTER SACRISTAN. Her tasks! Praise the Blessed Mother, in this noble house we need not depend on the novices for anything. It's not that--it's the discipline in the pigeon cot. The Mother Abbess will be displeased--

BENVENUTA. Pray you, Sister Sacristan. This novice has asked of me some spiritual admonition. She is my kinswoman, and I cannot refuse it. So I ask you for a little time with her, to speak to her of spiritual things, and perhaps bring her some comfort, to the end that her holy vocation may the sooner come. I ask it in humility, Sister Sacristan.

SISTER SACRISTAN [_crossing to the closet, which she unlocks_]. Admonition, eh?

[_She takes out some vestments, which she hangs over her arm,
closing the door._]

BENVENUTA. I ask you to remember, Sister, that last Thursday I took upon myself the vexed matter of the hair of the two new novices, and that it throve in my charge.

SISTER SACRISTAN. Yes--throve. You so coddled them that they cried for you each night after, and are more trouble to the lay sisters than ever. But since she's your kinswoman--have it as you will. I look for little effect from your admonitions, I may as well tell you.

[_She removes her keys and goes out, without locking the closet._]

ATALANTA. That was good of you, Benvenuta. Now, listen to me. I am unworthy. I am unhappy. I feel no call. Tell me--tell me about the world, Sister Benvenuta--I beg you, tell me--

BENVENUTA. I will tell you of God's love, and of this holy life--

ATALANTA [_leading her to the stairway, where she sits down_]. Yes--I know. But first, tell me about the world.

BENVENUTA. I only tell you by way of admonition--that you may see how hollow is the world, and full of delusion--

ATALANTA. I understand you. Go on.

[_She draws Benvenuta down beside her._]

BENVENUTA. You must know then, that I--even I, Sister Benvenuta, was a most worldly little girl. I can remember so clearly how I used to run madly through the gardens, and roll on the grass like--like a wild puppy, and bury my face in the roses--till they scratched my nose and the warm scent made me dizzy. And then I would climb on the wall and watch the barges go by, with the strong men sculling them, and the women under the awnings sorting crabs and prawns.

ATALANTA. Tell me about the barge people.

BENVENUTA. That was all I saw of them. And then they would take me to my lady mother, of a forenoon, while she was having her hair powdered and curled; and there would be a black page bringing her chocolate, and her serving cavalier would be leaning beside her mirror taking snuff.

ATALANTA. Yes--tell me about the cavalier servant.

BENVENUTA. That was all I ever saw of him. But he was very worldly, I am sure.

ATALANTA. I wish you had seen more of him. And your mother? Did she have little children?

BENVENUTA. You know well I was the youngest of our family. That was why I was destined for the benefice we possessed in this high born convent.

ATALANTA. Tell me about your father?

BENVENUTA. I used only to see him once in a month, and I was much frightened of him--he was so noble and so just.

ATALANTA. Oh, he was a father of that sort, was he?

BENVENUTA. And when he did receive me, he had a handkerchief like a turban around his head, and horn spectacles on his nose, and he would be making gold with an astrologer, or putting devils in retorts. That was what he said he was doing, but I know now that he deceived me; he was a very worldly man, though he was so noble and just.

ATALANTA. Tell me, Benvenuta, when you were in the world, did you ever see mothers and babies--tiny babies--not old at all?

BENVENUTA. The only one was in the picture in our chapel--the panel in the center with the Blessed Mother and the little Child Christ. He was so sweet, and his eyes were as if they would open in a moment and then I should know what color of eyes they were.

ATALANTA [_glancing toward the Sacristy closet_]. And that's why you so love the Bambino they keep in the Sacristy closet?

BENVENUTA. Yes.

ATALANTA [_more passionately_]. And was it easy for you, Benvenuta--always easy in your heart, to give up the world?

BENVENUTA. I was destined for this, dear.

ATALANTA [_rising_]. I am not sure. I was not destined. I am--

BENVENUTA. Ssh! Dear Atalanta. Be quiet. Be calm. Yes, I was worldly, and I gave it up willingly--

ATALANTA. Yes, it was easy for you, and so you think it should be for me. You never even saw a little baby with her mother. You were destined, and you were the youngest--

BENVENUTA. It was for the best. I was unworthy, but I gave up the world willingly--

ATALANTA [_bitterly_]. Willingly--you were lame, and--

[_She stops, biting her lips. There is a pause._]

BENVENUTA. Yes. I was a little lame. But I was a worldly little girl.

ATALANTA. Forgive me, dear sister. I meant no hurt.

BENVENUTA. You did not hurt me. [_Another pause._]

ATALANTA. Dear Benvenuta, one thing I must tell you. I must. It happened just before I came here.

[_Benvenuta looks at her soberly._]

BENVENUTA. Are you sure it is to me you should tell it?

ATALANTA. It is not a sin--not something I could confess, dear. It was this. Just as you looked over the wall at the barges, it was. In our gardens there was a time when the old gardener brought a vinedresser to help him. And the vinedresser's wife came with his dinner and their baby. And I came on them eating under the ilex trees, very secretly, of course. And the baby was clambering over her. She was no older than I am now--the vinedresser's wife. And she fed the baby at her breast in the deep shade under the ilexes. And I talked to her. Then the old gardener came, and of course I walked away, very haughtily, as became a daughter of the house. But hear me, sister. I cannot forget her, the vinedresser's wife with the baby clambering over her, under the shade of the ilex trees, I cannot put her out of my thoughts.

BENVENUTA. I understand you, dear. I cannot put out of my thoughts the poor little Bambino in the Sacristy closet all the year around, shut up with the saint's bones and the spare vestments, and he with only a piece of stiff purple and gold stuff around his middle.

ATALANTA. I cannot think that the same. The vinedresser's baby was alive--so alive.

BENVENUTA. It is much the same, I think.

ATALANTA. Anyway, I am glad I told you, Benvenuta. Why can I not forget about it?

BENVENUTA [_laying her hand on Atalanta's head_]. It would be better if you could forget it, Atalanta. You must go now.

ATALANTA. One moment--don't take your hand away. I had to tell somebody.

[_Both look off in a sort of dreamy ecstasy, thinking of the two
babies. Grimana enters again. Atalanta rises._]

ATALANTA. I am full of thankfulness, Sister Benvenuta. I will go to my task.

[_Atalanta bows her head and follows Grimana out. A muffled
droning chorus is heard from the chapel. Benvenuta watches the
others go off, and then speaks to the Bambino through the door of
the Sacristy closet._]

BENVENUTA. My dear--my dear little Great One, can you hear my voice through the door? Dear little child Christ, I am so sorry for you, alone for days and days in the closet with the holy relics and the wax lights. And at night it must be very cold for you. I wish I might touch you, dear little Great One, with my hands.

[_She tries the door and, finding it unfastened, draws back from it
a moment._]

It is open; the Sister Sacristan has left it unlocked. For this I am thankful, for I am sure you put it into her mind to leave it so--or that you by your divine power and foresight put it out of her mind to lock it as she intended.

[_She opens the door and looks in._]

If only I could get appointed Sacristan! But I am too young and being lame would prevent my getting on to the step-ladders, as a Sacristan must. But I would never leave you alone among the relics in their cotton-wool, little Great One. And now--just for a moment lest the Sister Sacristan come back--I will take you out of the closet.

[_She brings out the Bambino._]

I will show you the chapter room, for while you have seen all places, and the high heavens and all the hells, it will be pleasant to you to see the chapter room, after so long in the closet. See, yonder is the seat of the Mother Abbess. She is very great, and very holy, and of the high house of the Morosini. And that way is to the refectory and the work room. And that way is to the chapel--up the stairs. And up that way are our cells, where I sleep and where I pray to dream of you, little Great One. Touch my cheek, I pray you.... How cold your hands are!... Touch my cheek as she said the vinedresser's babe touched his mother's--

[_She stops suddenly, and then reverently returns the Bambino to
his place. She kneels before the open door._]

Forgive me, dear little Child Christ. I spoke not in vain glory. But all my life I have waited, not knowing for what ... but happy ... dreaming that sometime.... If it be a sin I will confess it--I will.

[_Again the rattle of keys is heard. Benvenuta stands up hurriedly
and speaks in a half whisper._]

She is coming back to lock the closet. But I will get you a coat for the cold nights. Your hands were so cold. I will get you a warm coat--that I promise, dear little Great One.

[_She closes the door and stands before it looking consciously
innocent, as the Sister Sacristan enters. The Sister Sacristan is
not deceived, however._]

SISTER SACRISTAN. By your leave, Sister Benvenuta.

[_She ostentatiously locks the closed door._]

BENVENUTA. Sister Sacristan, I trust the novice you left in my charge has returned to her task.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I trust she has.

BENVENUTA [_after a pause_]. I wish I might help you with your duties sometimes, Sister.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I do not need you, little sister.

BENVENUTA. I am sorry.

[_Mechanically she counts her buttons._]

[_Enter the Abbess._]

THE ABBESS [_to the Sacristan_]. Sister, go into the chapel and tell the Reverend Father that the Bolognese puppet man is waiting, and say that I wish to see him here; and bid the Reverend Father bring the manuscript of his poem for Shrove Tuesday.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out. Benvenuta remains, waiting
patiently for a word from the Abbess._]

Well, my little sister?

BENVENUTA. I pray you, Mother.

ABBESS. I listen, little sister.

BENVENUTA. It is about the little Child Christ. I pray you that a coat may be made for him--a warm coat of soft silk; for at Christmas he lies out in the draughty manger before the altar, and even at other times he is very cold at night here in the Sacristy closet. And I pray you, Mother?

ABBESS. I listen.

[_Reenter the Sister Sacristan._]

BENVENUTA. That I may help with the making of the coat, for all that I sew so badly.

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Truly, our little sister Benvenuta Loredan was born to be the nursery-maid of Heaven.

SISTER SACRISTAN. Is it for me to know also, Mother?

ABBESS. Our little sister wishes that a coat of warm silk be made for the little Bambino, against next Christmas in the cold of the chapel.

SISTER SACRISTAN. I suspected something of that kind.

ABBESS. You do not approve, sister?

SISTER SACRISTAN. No, mother. It would be taking the time and money from the redressing of the skeleton of Saint Prosdoscimus, which is a most creditable relic, of unquestioned authenticity, with real diamond loops in his eye holes; this skeleton ought to be made fit to exhibit for veneration. And besides, this Bambino never had any clothes, and so far as I know never wanted any. The purple sash is only for modesty's sake. And as for such a new-fangled proposal coming from Sister Benvenuta--that alone--

ABBESS. That will do. Fie, fie, little sister. The Sacred Bambino is not your serving Cavalier, that you should wish to cover him with silk and velvet. Is the Reverend Father coming?

SISTER SACRISTAN. Immediately, mother. He only stayed to gather his manuscript.

ABBESS. Call in the man with the puppets.

[_Exit Sister Sacristan._]

And now, little sister, you may go. You see it is not wise, ... your thought for the Bambino.

BENVENUTA. No, mother. I see it is not wise.

[_Benvenuta goes up the staircase and off at the left.--The Abbess
seats herself in the chair of State. The Father Confessor comes in
from the Chapel._]

ABBESS. You are welcome, Father.

ABBE FILOSI [_bowing very low_]. Happy greetings, Reverendissima.

ABBESS. I have sent for you because the puppet man, the Bolognese one you sent for, has come to make his bargain for the Shrove-tide play, and I wished you to be present, lest he fail to serve your inspiration worthily.

ABBE FILOSI. I am grateful for your care in the matter, Reverendissima.

[_Enter Sister Sacristan._]

ABBESS. The fellow is waiting?

[_The Sister Sacristan bows._]

Show him in.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out._]

And now, Father, I pray that you will make terms for your play, as you please.

ABBE FILOSI. Perhaps I had better not do that, Reverendissima. Poets are proverbially improvident--

ABBESS. That does not matter in the least. Whatever he charges, I shall beat him down.

[_The Sister Sacristan brings in the Puppet Man, who carries a bag
of his puppets on his arm. He bows extravagantly to the Abbess._]

PUPPET MAN. Excellenza Reverendissima, my prayers shall in the future be lightened by the memory of your presence. Reverend Father, I am humbly your servant.

[_The Abbess nods to Father Filosi._]

ABBE FILOSI. You have been summoned here, sir, with regard to the Shrove Tuesday play which her Excellenza condescends to give for the edification of the friends of this noble convent. She has commissioned me to write the poem, and she graciously proposes to allow you to perform it with your puppets.

PUPPET MAN. I am honored, and in me all my craft is honored.

ABBE FILOSI. I have here the manuscript of my poor device.

PUPPET MAN. I cannot have so excellent a work so slightly spoken of.

ABBE FILOSI. A trifle ... a trifle. But I trust, when you have done your part, it may amuse the novices and the ladies--noble guests of Our Lady of the Rosebush.

PUPPET MAN. Is it from the gospels, or a saint's story?

ABBE FILOSI. Humbly, it is the story of Judith.

PUPPET MAN. Humbly, as an artist, I am filled with delight. And I have for it just the figures you could wish. A Judith, lovely beyond the power of song, and a Prince, heavy with gold, and a cavalier for the lady--

ABBE FILOSI. That will not serve. In my play she goes with only her maid-servant to the tent of the Holophernes.

PUPPET MAN. It is not usual, in Venice. Will it not be deemed strange by the ladies present?

ABBE FILOSI. Better so, than its author be deemed ignorant by the learned Reverendissima, who will grace your performance personally.

PUPPET MAN [_stiffly_]. I bow to your learning, Reverend Father.

ABBE FILOSI. My poem will require of you some artistry, and not all of the stale and accustomed sort.

[_The Puppet Man bows._]

I shall require, for example, that the head of the Holophernes be actually and visibly severed.

PUPPET MAN. I will undertake it, and moreover, I will promise a goodly flow of red blood from the corpus of the Holophernes.

ABBE FILOSI. Excellent. Further, there is required a Triumph of Judith, in a car of state, and a figure of Time, speaking, and a Religion, out of the clouds, who speaks some verse in praise of the Reverendissima and of the noble house of the Morosini. All this must be carried out precisely.

PUPPET MAN. All this I undertake, seeing how famous is this convent, and of how illustrious a house is its Abbessa. Suffer me to inquire if the entire poem is of a lofty and tragic nature.

ABBE FILOSI. Certainly.

PUPPET MAN. This is a great honor to me, but a ruinous one as well. For I see I shall have no opportunity to bring on my most potent figures--my Harlequino with the seven wires, and--

ABBE FILOSI. Harlequino does not appear in the poem.

PUPPET MAN. But might he not appear in an interlude? Let me suggest, in all humility, that I might perform an interlude between the Harlequino and the serving-wench of Judith, after the death of the Holophernes?

ABBE FILOSI. Dio, dio--what a profanation!

ABBESS. Come, come, your Reverence, I see no profanation in it. We must not be too severe--too lofty. Think of our guests, and of the novices, mere children in heart--who will be witnessing our play. Let there be something in it for the liking of all, I should say.

ABBE FILOSI. But, Reverendissima--

PUPPET MAN. I could assure you of the success of the poem, if you would permit it.

ABBESS. I am sure it will be permitted. And now, sir, there are some other matters to be settled. First, we shall require that you bring here your puppets, in advance of the play, for our inspection, lest there be anything ungodly and unfit about them.

PUPPET MAN. It is the custom. I have brought some; and you shall have the others when I have conned the reverend Father's poem, and know which ones shall be required.

[_Opens his bag and takes out puppets._]

Here is a lady who might serve for Judith. And here a Prince, though I have a richer one, better perhaps for the Holophernes. And here a devil--a Satanasso, and here--

ABBESS. Leave them all on the table. I will have them examined at leisure. Now, sir, tell me what you expect to be paid for this performance?

PUPPET MAN [_fingering his manuscript_]. Reverendissima, considering the difficulties of the poem, and the Holophernes to be visibly beheaded, and the great fame of this convent, that is said to require of every novice sixteen quarterings to her crest and a thousand ducats of dowry, and considering the illustrious family of which the Abbessa herself descends--I will perform the poem in the best manner for twelve ducats.

ABBESS. Considering just the matters you mention, and the honor to you to bring your puppets into this convent at all, you shall have five ducats.

PUPPET MAN. Five ducats--Reverendissima, I cannot have heard you aright--five ducats.

ABBESS. Five ducats.

PUPPET MAN. Mercy of the Saints! Five ducats for Shrove Tuesday, and a Holophernes to be visibly beheaded--in a most illustrious convent, too. It is ruin to me, Reverendissima--black ruin.

ABBESS. Five ducats you shall have.

PUPPET MAN [_starting to put his puppets back in the bag_]. It is not possible, Reverendissima. No one of my craft could do it--even the worst of them would ask more than I have. Mere jugglers and bunglers from Padua would ask twenty ducats. And the fame of this convent! I see I have been deceived,--

ABBESS. Be silent, sir. You cannot trifle with me. Put down your trinkets. Do you know who I am, and of what family in the world? Well, sir?

PUPPET MAN [_slowly putting down his puppets again_]. Maybe it will profit me in the sight of the Saints--

ABBESS. I need not warn you further. Be prepared for the performance in the best style against Shrove Tuesday. And if all goes well, I may add a ducat to your fee.

[_She taps a gong on the table, and the Sister Sacristan enters.
The Puppet Man, dismissed, bows himself out, clutching the
manuscript to his breast. The Sacristan follows him out, returning
at once._]

Now, Father, since the play is yours, it shall also be yours to pass on the propriety of the figures.

ABBE FILOSI. I do not seek the responsibility, Reverendissima. Will you not excuse me?

ABBESS. You have some intention in this, Father?

ABBE FILOSI. Will you not excuse me?

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Certainly not. What troubles you about it?

ABBE FILOSI. Reverendissima, I would gladly have passed it in silence. Your wisdom in matters of the world--and of the Church--is greater than mine. But look you now. This Judith I think shows more of her bosom than is seemly.

ABBESS [_with asperity_]. I will instruct you. By the laws on the serene Republic, a Venetian lady may show one-half of her bosom and no more, and there is no immodesty in the proceeding. This law the lady Judith obeys.

ABBE FILOSI. I do not dissent from your wisdom, nor from the law of Venice. Still, it seems to me there would be more propriety in it if we were to have a collarette of tissue pinned about her--the eyes of all the novices, remember--

ABBESS. I remember also our guests, many of them ladies of the first houses, who would certainly take it amiss, and as a reflection upon themselves--

ABBE FILOSI. I wish with all my heart, Reverendissima, you had excused me.

ABBESS [_turning to Sister Sacristan_]. I will ask the Sisters Grimana Emo and Rosalba Foscarini to examine the puppets.

[_The Sister Sacristan goes out._]

Their learning in theology may not be profound, but they know the world's judgment, coming as they do of the first families.

[_The Abbe Filosi bows low._]

ABBE FILOSI. I shall be at your service, Reverendissima.

ABBESS. I thank you enough for the poem. Farewell.

[_He bows himself out, at right, as Sister Grimana and Sister
Rosalba enter left._]

GRIMANA. You have sent for us, Mother?

ABBESS. In the matter of the Shrove Tuesday play--yes. The puppets will be brought in advance, as usual. These few the show-man has already left.

GRIMANA. You wish them to be looked over, as usual?

ABBESS. Not quite as usual. This year they are to appear in a play or poem which the Father Confessor has written for us--dealing with the story of Judith. Now the good Abbe, though a man of great learning and a graceful poet withal, has not the advantage of family that some of our sisters--

GRIMANA. And some of our guests--

ROSALBA. I remember once, at a fete in the gardens of my uncle, the Doge--

ABBESS. I need instruct you no further. I do not wish anything ungodly or unfit to appear; nor do I wish anything in the play to suggest that there is any impropriety in the illustrious audience.

GRIMANA. I understand, Mother. It is chiefly a question of the dressing of the ladies.

ABBESS. Precisely. I shall leave it in your charge. Remembering, Sister Grimana, the laws of Venice and the customs of the house of your father, the most illustrious Admiral, and you Sister Rosalba, the fetes in the gardens of your uncle, the Doge--surely it will be properly cared for.

[_Exit the Abbess._]

GRIMANA. All this because we have been given a bourgeois Confessor--

ROSALBA. No matter for that, Sister. I love puppets. We had once a puppet festival, when they played the whole history of the Serene Republic, and there were great ships with puppet sailors--

[_They begin to separate the puppets with their wires and strings.
Enter Sister Benvenuta._]

BENVENUTA. Oh, the joy! Are these for the Shrove Tuesday play? If only we could show them to--

[_She glances toward the Sacristy closet, stops, and goes on._]

Sister Rosalba, can you make them dance?

GRIMANA. Dance, forsooth--to what music, sister?

ROSALBA. You might sing for them, Sister.

GRIMANA. Aye, so I might.--Time was when I knew tunes enough.

BENVENUTA. There is a lute in the cloister--left from the musical mass. And my cousin Atalanta can play it--I should like to hear some music here.

[_She glances at the closet._]

I'll fetch her.

[_She goes off to find Atalanta._]

GRIMANA. What personages have we here? This lady for Judith?

ROSALBA. That can scarcely be, Judith was black haired.

GRIMANA. Nothing of the sort. She had hair of a dark red--a smoldering color.

ROSALBA. Was she not of the tribe?--

GRIMANA. What matters the tribe? In her picture by Titian, in the great hall of my father's house--

ROSALBA. We had a Judith also--by Jacopo Bellini. He was Titian's master. Her hair was black.

GRIMANA. You may be right. In our picture by Titian, now I remember it, the head was so covered with a wonderful jeweled crown that we could see little of the hair.

[_Rosalba is somewhat put down by the splendor of Grimana's
Titian. Benvenuta comes back with Atalanta, who carries a lute. As
she appears Grimana untangles and holds up another puppet--the
Beelzebubb._]

GRIMANA. Here's a personage of terror.

[_She turns the figure and moves it threateningly toward
Benvenuta, who looks at Beelzebubb and is instantly seized with a
wild fit of laughter._]

Saint Mark preserve us! You are queerly pleased, Sister. It's not many that laugh at this figure.

ROSALBA [_reading the figure's label_]. He's Beelzebubb Satanasso, Prince of all Devils.

BENVENUTA. I pray your pardon. I could not keep from laughing. I can never look at a devil without laughing. He seems so anxious to understand, and so important with the responsibility of being Prince of all Devils.

ROSALBA. You may laugh if you like, but you should remember how ready he is to slip away with the unwary souls of people who laugh at him. How he is always in wait, by day and by night, for a wavering thought or a rift in one's faith--

GRIMANA. See here the pouch he carries to put your soul in. Truly, Sister, he might pluck you off like a cherry.

ATALANTA [_shuddering_]. Dear Sister Grimana--I beg of you--

GRIMANA. And he comes at the call of the secret thought--that's what makes him look so anxious--lest he should not be listening when you call him, and the Saints come to your soul first, and warn it--

ATALANTA. Sister Grimana!

BENVENUTA. Still, I can never look at him without laughing. He is droll. Atalanta, the lute.

[_Atalanta brings forward the lute and tries the strings. Rosalba
takes up the puppet of the lady._]

I saw the show-man. He was a most ill-favored man. Sister Rosalba, do you think he was excommunicate.

ROSALBA. Of course not. And if he were, that would not make his puppets excommunicate.

GRIMANA. What if it did? A noble convent has privileges. It would not matter to us.

ATALANTA. What shall I play?

GRIMANA. Can you play? [_She sings_]:

Go visto una colomba el cielo andare
Che la svolava su per un giardino
In mezzo 'l peto la gavea do ale
E in boca la tegniva un zenzamino!

ATALANTA. I do not know the air. But I can play a furlana.

BENVENUTA. That will be gay, Atalanta. Play a furlana, I beg you.

GRIMANA. That will serve, Sister Rosalba, your prince.

[_As Atalanta plays, Grimana manipulates the Judith and Rosalba
the Prince. They are unskillful and the puppets dance crudely, but
Benvenuta looks on in ecstasy, falling slowly back until she
stands by the door of the closet. As she does so two or three more
nuns and novices come furtively in at the back and stand watching
the performance. As the dance of the puppets grows more animated
the Abbess enters with the Sister Sacristan. For a moment the
others do not see her, and the play continues. Then she speaks
coldly and evenly._]

ABBESS. Sisters, is this the solemn judgment I bespoke on these trinkets? Sister Grimana!

[_Grimana lays down the puppets and comes forward._]

Sister Rosalba!

[_Rosalba also comes forward._]

I will consider this, and will give out the penances in chapter.

GRIMANA. Yes, Mother.

[_Rosalba stands with her head bowed and her fingers run along the
buttons of her cape._]

ABBESS. There has been too much playing of lutes, too much worldly anticipation and imagining among us. So I have decided that all the holy relics shall be re-furbished, and all the vestments mended and cleaned, against Shrove Tuesday. And all other work, whether of embroidery or of whatever nature, shall wait till this be done. Sister Sacristan, let the tasks be set at once.

[_The sisters bow their heads and go out, the Sister Sacristan
following Rosalba and Grimana off. Benvenuta stands still in an
attitude of deep humility._]

Well, little Sister?

BENVENUTA. Holy Mother, I am waiting for my penance.

ABBESS. Your penance, Benvenuta?

BENVENUTA. The fault was mine. I brought Atalanta with her lute. I was to blame for it all. I am heedless, and unworthy, and stained with worldliness, Mother.

ABBESS. There, there, my child. I will overlook it.

[_Benvenuta turns away, weeping furtively._]

Come here, little Sister. Why should you weep? I have said I will overlook it.

BENVENUTA. I weep because I am unworthy to be penanced. I am nothing.

ABBESS. You are nothing? Is not this the very essence of humility? Little Sister, when I forgave you your fault, did you doubt my wisdom?

BENVENUTA. Yes, holy Mother. Oh, I have sinned in vain glory. I doubted. But I did not mean to doubt.

ABBESS [_smiling_]. Come hither, little Sister. If I must set you a penance, what would you have it be?

BENVENUTA. I would have it ... no....

[_She hesitates._]

ABBESS. Speak, Sister.

BENVENUTA. I would have you set me to the making of a coat for the Holy Bambino, as I asked of you before.

ABBESS. That would hardly be a penance. And, besides, you sew so badly.

BENVENUTA. Yes, Mother. I sew badly. And it would not really be a penance.

[_The Sister Sacristan comes in and takes from the closet some
cloth and a reliquary or two. She lays them on the table,
preparing them for work._]

ABBESS. I will speak of this another time. Another time, little Sister.

[_Benvenuta stands very still. The Abbess turns to the Sister
Sacristan._]

What have you there?

SISTER SACRISTAN. The fine lawn for the surplices for His Eminence.

ABBESS. That can wait. I do not think it wise to leave the workroom alone while the relics are being done over.

[_She stands in the doorway. The Sister Sacristan is about to
follow, but notices Benvenuta and goes over ostentatiously to lock
the closet; then she goes out after the Abbess. Benvenuta stands
still and her eyes go from the closet to the cloth and takes up a
piece of lawn, and carries it with her to the closet door._]

BENVENUTA. Dear little Great One, I see no way but this to keep my promise. I do not understand what the Holy Mother means. But I will do my penance when she determines it. I do sew very badly, dear little Great One, but I will make the stitches slowly, night by night in my cell, and every one of them, no matter how far askew, shall have all the love of my heart drawn tight in it. I have promised you a coat, little Great One, and I will surely keep my promise.

[_She steals upstairs in the gathering darkness. The organ in the
chapel is heard, faintly at first, then swelling in exultation.
Slowly, after she disappears, the door of the closet opens of
itself, and from within a golden light glows across the room and
up the stair. The Curtain Falls._]

[_SCENE II. In her white-walled cell, with its one high window
looking over the tree tops into the night sky, Benvenuta sits
alone, sewing, with great labor and difficulty, by the light of a
candle. There is a soft knock, and Atalanta slips in, bringing
something concealed under her cape._]

BENVENUTA. Have you brought it, dear?

ATALANTA. I've got the coat of the gardener's child, but I fear it is not what you wanted.

BENVENUTA. I'm sure it will serve. Why do you fear for it?

ATALANTA. Because it's the little girl's coat. The boy's I could not get, for he has but the one, and the nights are so cold.

BENVENUTA. So they are--and we wouldn't have the poor lad shivering. Perhaps the girl's will serve. Did you get the thread of gold?

ATALANTA. Yes, dear.

[_There is a pause._]

You wouldn't be happier telling me all about it? Or letting me help you, perhaps?

BENVENUTA. What good were there in that? You sew as badly as I do, child.

ATALANTA. It's not kind of you to say so.

BENVENUTA. I'm sorry, Atalanta, dear. And it's most ungrateful of me--for you are helping me--helping me very much. And as for my telling you--it's a great secret, and you should be content to know as much as you do of it.

ATALANTA. I'm afraid I know too much of it now. I'm afraid I ought to be confessing what I know already.

BENVENUTA. Confessing it. Oh, no; Atalanta, dear--

ATALANTA. I'm afraid I ought--unless you tell me more.

BENVENUTA. Oh, I see. Now, listen, my child. This matter is one concerning my devotions--a private matter surely, and needing no confessions from you.

ATALANTA. Then why these secret messages, and the gold thread, and the gardener's child's coat to be got by stealth?

BENVENUTA. For what I am doing, I would call for help from you--or from any one--from the Evil One himself, if it would serve. But it is surely no sin--though it might get you into trouble to help me with it, Atalanta, dear.

ATALANTA. Prt! That's not what I mind.

BENVENUTA. You--you love me enough to be troubled for my sake, a little, dear?

ATALANTA [_breaking out_]. I would flout the Mother Abbess to her face for you, Benvenuta. It's that you try to keep me in the dark that I mind about it. I'm going.

[_Atalanta turns sharply and goes. Benvenuta lays out the little
coat of the gardener's child, and lays her lawn, already cut, upon
it. She seems discouraged, turns it over, and tries again. Then
with an air of resolution, she takes it up and sews fiercely,
pricking her fingers, stopping to put them to her mouth, and going
on doggedly._]

BENVENUTA. I promised it, dear little Great One, and I would give my soul to keep my promise, but I fear me it will never comfort you.

[_She sews for a minute in silence. Then lifts her head with a
sudden thought, and says aloud with a firm resolution_]:

I would give my soul.

[_She waits. After a moment there is a light tapping of footsteps;
then a marked rapping, as of hoofs on a pavement; she shivers, and
starts up in sudden terror, as Beelzebubb Satanasso confronts her.
He is like the Devil Puppet in every respect, but the size of a
small man. He bows low in a mechanical sort of way as if jointed.
She gazes at him in wonder, laughs nervously and suppresses her
laughter._]

BEELZEBUBB [_in a voice like a Jews' harp_]. Sister Benvenuta, did I hear you call for me, or wish for me to come?

BENVENUTA. Yes, I called you.

BEELZEBUBB. You wished me to help you?

BENVENUTA. Yes.

BEELZEBUBB. You know who I am.

[_He points to his label._]