Chapter XIV: Act III: Scene I

_A week later. The Chapel of the Convent of San Miguel. SISTER
ASSUMCION kneels in the Confessional, where JAIME RODRIGUEZ is
receiving penitents._

_Sister Assumcion_: I ask your blessing, father. I confess to Almighty God, and to you, father....

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Well, daughter—Ten Commandments, Seven Deadly Sins. What of the Second Commandment, which we break whensoever we follow after vanities?

_Sister Assumcion_: Yes, father. I have not foregone blackening my eyes with kohl ... and I have procured me a crimson scarf the dye of which comes off on the lips ... and ... the pittance I got at Easter I have expended upon perfumes.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Ever the same tale, daughter! As I have told you many a time before, civet and musk make the angels hold their noses, as though they were passing an open grave, and a painted woman makes them turn aside their eyes; but ’tis God Himself that turns away His eyes when the painted woman is a nun. The Second Commandment is ever a stumbling-block to you, daughter, and so is the Sixth, for in God’s sight he who commits the deadly sin of Rage breaks that commandment; admit, daughter!

_Sister Assumcion_: Yes, father; during the singing of None, I did loudly rate Sister Ines and boxed her ears.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Shame on you, daughter! Why did you thus?

_Sister Assumcion_: Because she had spewed out on my seat the sage she had been chewing to clean her teeth after dinner, and, unwittingly, I sat on it.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: And do you not know that a stained habit is less ungracious in the eyes of God than a soul stained with rage against a sister and with irreverence of His holy service?

_Sister Assumcion_: Yes, father.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Well, for your concupiscence, rage, and unmannerliness: seven penitential psalms with the Litany on Fridays, and a fare of bread and water on the Fridays of this month. There still remains the Tenth Commandment and the deadly sin of Envy; I mind me in the past you have been guilty of Envy ... towards more virtuous and richer sisters.

_Silence._

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_sternly_): Daughter, admit!

_Sister Assumcion_: Father, I....

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Daughter, admit!

_Sister Assumcion_: It may be ... a little ... Sister Pilar.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Aha! Envious of Sister Pilar! And wherein did you envy her?

_Silence._

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Daughter, admit!

_Sister Assumcion_: I have envied her, father, but ... the matter touches her more than me.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: You have envied her. Envy is a deadly sin; if I’m to give you Absolution I must know more of the matter.

_Sister Assumcion_: I have envied her in that ... well, in that she was a Guzman ... and ... and has a room to herself, and a handsome dowry....

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Doubtless you envy her for these things; but ... I seem to detect a particular behind these generals. Touching what particular matter during these past days have you envied Sister Pilar?

_Silence._

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Daughter, admit!

_Sister Assumcion_: Oh, father ... ’tis she that is involved ... I....

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Daughter, admit!

_Sister Assumcion_: There was a man ... it was Trotaconventos ... all he asked was a few words with me, no more ... nothing ... nothing unseemly passed between us ... and then he flouted me ... and then he came bearing a letter and saying he was a kinsman of Sister Pilar.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Come, daughter, your confession is like a peasant’s tale—it begins in the middle and has no end. Why should you envy Sister Pilar this kinship?

_Silence._

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Daughter, it is a dire and awful thing to keep back aught in the Confessional; admit.

_Sister Assumcion_: He was not her kinsman, as it happens, and ... even had he been....

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_eagerly_): Well?

_Sister Assumcion_: Father ... pray....

_Jaime Rodriguez_: I begin to understand; your foolish, vain, envious heart was sore that this knight treated you coldly, and you have dared to dream that that most virtuous and holy lady, Sister Pilar....

_Sister Assumcion_ (_hotly_): Dreaming? Had you been in the orchard last evening, and seen what I saw, you would not speak of dreaming!

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_breathlessly_): What did you see?

_Silence._

_Jaime Rodriguez_: You have gone too far, daughter, to turn back now. I must hear all.

_Sister Assumcion_: Well, last evening, just before Compline, I went down to the orchard to breathe the cool air; and there I came upon Sister Pilar and this knight; but they were so deep in talk they did not perceive me, so I hid behind a tree and listened.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Well?

_Sister Assumcion_: Well, he is, I think, clean mad, and she, too, is of a most fantastical conceit; and sometimes their words seemed empty of all sense and meaning, but sometimes it was as clear as day—little loving harping upon foolishness and little tricks of speech or manner, as it might be a country lad and lass wooing at a saints’ shrine: “there again!” “what?” “You burred your R like a child whose mouth is full of chestnuts.” “Nay, I did not!” “Why, yes, I say you did!” And then a great silence fell on them, she with her eyes downcast, he devouring her with his, and the air seemed too heavy for them even to draw their breath; then up she started, and trembled from head to foot, and fled to the house.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: But ... but ... yes; thank you, daughter ... I mean, six paters daily for a fortnight. (_Gabbles mechanically_): Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat: et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum, et tu indiges. Deinde ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

_SISTER ASSUMCION crosses herself, rises and leaves the
Confessional. After a few seconds, SISTER PILAR enters it._

_Sister Pilar_: I ask your blessing, father. I confess to Almighty God, and to you, father....

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Well?

_Sister Pilar_: I unwittingly omitted the _dipsalma_ between two verses in choir, father.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Yes, yes ... what else?

_Sister Pilar_: Last Sunday I chewed the Host with my back teeth instead of with my front.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Yes, yes, yes; small sins of omission and negligence ... what else?

_Sister Pilar_: That is all, father.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: All you have to confess?

_Sister Pilar_: All, father.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: But ... but ... this is ... daughter, you _dare_ to come to me with a Saint’s confession? Bethink you of your week’s ride, ten stone walls to be cleared clean, seven pits from which to keep your horse’s hoofs ... not one of the Ten Commandments broken, daughter? Not one of the Seven Deadly Sins upon your conscience?

_Sister Pilar_: No, father.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: But ... beware ... most solemnly do I conjure you to beware of withholding aught in the Confessional.

_Silence._

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Well, I shall question you. On what have you meditated by day?

_Sister Pilar_: On many things; all lovely.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Of what have you dreamed o’ nights?

_Sister Pilar_: Of godly matters, cool cathedrals, and Jacob’s ladder.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Of man?

_Silence._

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_threateningly_): Daughter! Admit!

_Sister Pilar_: Sometimes ... I ... have dreamed of man.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Of _a_ man?

_Sister Pilar_: Of a monk dwelling in the same community who has sometimes knelt at the altar by my side to receive the Lord.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: But this is not a mixed community.

_Sister Pilar_: No, father.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: What of this monk, then?

_Sister Pilar_: You asked me, father, of my dreams.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: And had this monk of dreams the features of a living man?

_Sister Pilar_: Yes, father.

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_hoarsely_): Whose?

_Sister Pilar_: Sometimes they were the features of my father ... one night of an old Basque gardener we had in my home when I was a child.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Pooh! Daughter, you are holding something back.... Beware! What of your allegory of the little stone the giant could not move?

_Sister Pilar_: I have confessed _all my sins_.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Daughter, I refuse to give you Absolution.

_SISTER PILAR crosses herself, rises, and goes out of the
chapel. JAIME RODRIGUEZ leaves the confessional looking pale
and tormented; he is accosted by TROTACONVENTOS, who has been
sitting waiting._

_Trotaconventos_: A word with you, Don Jaime.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Anon, anon, good dame. I have pressing business in the town.

_Trotaconventos_: Your business can wait, but not my words. They touch Sister Pilar. (_He starts violently and looks at her expectantly._) You see, you will not to your business till I am done with you ... just one little word to bind you to my will! And in that I ever know the little word that will make men hurrying to church or market stand still as you are doing now, or else if they be standing still to run like zebras: they call me a witch.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Yes, yes, but you said you had ... a word ... touching ... for my ear.

_Trotaconventos_: And so I have, Don Jaime; I am making my soul. A hard job, your eyes say. Well, with my brushes and ointments I can make the complexion of a brown witch as fair as a lily, I can make an old face slough its wrinkles like a snake its skin in spring; and who knows what true penitence will not do to my soul?

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Good dame, I beseech you, to business!

_Trotaconventos_: And is not the saving of my soul business, if you please?

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Yes, your confessor’s ... in truth, dame, I am much pressed for time.

_Trotaconventos_: And yet, though time, or the lack of him, expresses all the marrow from your bones, because of that little name you cannot move till I have said my say. Is it true that St. Mary Magdalene was once a bawd and a maker of cosmetics?

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_with weary resignation_): Aye.

_Trotaconventos_: And did you ever hear that she sold her daughter to a Jew, and that daughter a nun?

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_in horror_): Never!

_Trotaconventos_: But if she had, would her tears of penitence have washed it out?

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Yes, if she had confessed it and done penance.

_Trotaconventos_: And what is more, become herself a scourge of sinners and saved the souls of two innocent babes for the Church?

_Jaime Rodriguez_: Yes, thus would she have acquired merit.

_Trotaconventos_: Well, I have brought as many maids to bed that multiplied by ten you will have baptised and buried when you are three score years and ten.... Why! it is no more to me than it was to my old father, who owned some land Carmona way, to take a heifer to bull. In truth, if Don Love still reigned in heaven and had not fallen with Satan into hell, your children’s children would be praying to _Saint_ Trotaconventos that she would send them kisses and ribbons and moonless nights; my bones would be lying under the altar of some parish church, and two of my teeth in a fine golden reliquary would cure maids of pimples, lads of warts. All that lies very lightly on my soul ... but there are other things ... and ... (_looking round furtively_) these nights I’ve sometimes wished for a dog that I might hear his snore.... What if before she died Trotaconventos should be re-christened Convent-Scourge? I have learned ... oh, one of my trade needs must have as many eyes as the cow-herd of the Roman dame, I forget what the _trovares_ call her, and as many ears as eyes ... that a certain nun of this convent ... you grow restive? Why, then, once more I must whisper the magic name and root you to the ground. _Sister Pilar_ is deep in an _amour_ with a knight of the Court ... an overbearing, vain, foolish man against whom I bear a grudge. And Trotaconventos means, before she dies, on one nun at least in place of opening, to shut the convent gate; nay, to bring her to her knees and penitence. Well, what think you?

_Jaime Rodriguez_: There is some dark thought brooding in your heart, and, unlike the crow, I deem it will hatch out acts black as itself,[4] but the whiteness of her virtue will not be soiled.

_Trotaconventos_: And is Sister Pilar too firmly settled in her niche to topple down? Yet how she laughs at you! Why, I have heard her say that you are neither man nor priest, but just a bundle of hay dressed up in a soutane, whose head is a hollow pumpkin holding a burning candle, to frighten boors and children with death and judgment on the eve of All Souls.

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_hotly_): She said that? When?

_Trotaconventos_: Why, I cannot mind me of the date; she has used you so often as a strop for sharpening her tongue. But let me unfold my plan. Maybe you know I am ever in and out of the Alcazar with draughts and oils and unguents ... and other toys that shall be nameless ... for Doña Maria. Poor soul! The fiends torment her, too, and she clutches at aught that may serve as atonement. I told her the story, and she was all agog to be the instrument for restoring the good name to the convents of Seville. She thanked me kindly for my communication, and sent her _camarero_ to fetch me a roll of Malaga silk, and then she went to Don Pedro feigning ignorance of the knight’s name—for, next to his carbuncle, Don Pedro puts his faith in the strong right arm of Don Manuel de Lara—told him the tale, and wheedled from him a writ signed with the royal seal, the name to be filled in when she had learned it, for he is very jealous of the right which it seems alone among the Kings of Christendom is his—to punish infringements of canon, as well as of civil law. I have the writ, and towards sundown I shall come to the convent orchard with three alguaciles[5] to tear the canting Judas from his lady’s arms.

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_in horror_): Her arms? Nay, not that....

_Trotaconventos_: Why, yes; her arms and lips. Come, come, Sir Priest, think you it is with the feet and nose lovers embrace?

_JAIME RODRIGUEZ continues to gaze at her in horror._

_Trotaconventos_ (_chuckling_): Oh, well I know the clerks of your kidney! Your talk would bring a blush to a bawd, and you’ll hold your sides and smack your lips over French fables and the like; but when it comes to flesh and hot blood and _doing_, you’ll draw down your upper lip, turn up your eyes, and cry, “But it’s not true. It cannot be!” Come, pull yourself together—’tis you must be the fowler of the nun.

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_starting_): I?

_Trotaconventos_: You.

_Jaime Rodriguez_: But the discipline of nuns lies with the Chapter.

_Trotaconventos_: Yes, yes, but, ’tis the common talk of Seville that the Prioress here is too busy with little hounds and apes and flutings and silk veils to care for discipline ... you’ll not get her wetting her slashed shoes in the orchard dew. You, the chaplain of this house, must meet me to-night outside the orchard’s postern to catch the nun red-handed and drag her before the Prioress.... Ah! to-night you’ll see whether it be only in songs and tales and little lewd painted pictures that folks know how to kiss!

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_violently_): I’ll not be there!

_Trotaconventos_: Not there? Why, Sister Pilar spoke truly: “neither man nor priest”—not man enough to take vengeance on his spurner, not priest enough to chastise a sinner.

_Jaime Rodriguez_ (_in a fury of despair_): Ah! I will be there.

_He rushes from the chapel. TROTACONVENTOS looks after him, a
slow smile spreading over her face, and she nods her head with
satisfaction. Enter SISTER ASSUMCION._

_Trotaconventos_: Aha! my little pigeon, how goes the world? Has my lotion cured that little roughness on your cheek? Come, my beauty, let me feel (_she draws her hand down her cheek_). Why, yes, it’s as smooth and satiny as a queen-apple (_makes a scornful exclamation_). And so that lantern-jawed Knight prefers Sister Whey to Sister Cream! Well, he’ll get well churned for his pains. Oh, the nasty Templar come to life ... oh, the pompous fool, marching with solemn gait like a lord abbot frowning over a great paunch because, forsooth, he has swallowed the moon and she has dissolved into humours in his belly! Oh ... oh ... with “good dame, do this,” and “good dame, do that,” as though I were his slave ... ’tis sweet when duty and vengeance chime together. (_Looking maliciously at Sister Assumcion._) Spurned, too, by the pretty French _trovar_! Why, it is indeed a deserted damsel! Oh, you needn’t blush and toss your head; when I was of your age and your complexion, I could land a fish as well as throw a line. (_Melting._) Never mind, poor poppet, you were wise in that you came to me with your tale of Don Joseph and my lady Susannah for once caught napping ... and that in each other’s arms. I have devised a pretty vengeance which I will unfold to you. Aye! you’ll see that proud white Guzman without her black veil, last in choir for the rest of her days, and every week going barefoot round the cloister while the Prioress drubs her! And the sallow knight who thought my cream had turned when it was but his own sour stomach ... he’ll have to sell his Moorish loot to buy waxen tapers, and be beaten round all the churches of Seville ... may I live to see the day! Never was there a sweeter medicine whereby to save one’s soul, than vengeance on one’s foes. (_She pauses for a few seconds, and a strange light comes into her eyes._) Don Juan Tenorio, I have made my choice—I fight with the dead. (_shakes her fist at the audience_) Arrogant, flaunting youth! Beauty! Hot blood! From the brink of the grave Trotaconventos threatens you.

SCENE II

_The evening of the same day. The convent orchard. SISTER PILAR
and DON MANUEL DE LARA are lying locked in each other’s arms.
She extricates herself and sits up._

_Sister Pilar_ (_very slowly_): You ... have ... ravished ... me.

_Don Manuel de Lara_ (_triumphantly_): Yes, eyes of my heart; I have unlocked your sweet body.

(_Pause._)

_Sister Pilar_: Strange! Has my prayer been answered? And by whom?

_Don Manuel de Lara_: What prayer, beloved?

_Sister Pilar_: That night you were the other side of the wall, I prayed that I might behold the woof without the warp of sin, a still, quiet, awful world, and all the winds asleep. (_Very low._) IT was like that. (_Springing to her feet._) Christ Jesus! Blessed Virgin! Guardian angel, where was your sword? I, a nun, a bride of Christ, I have been ravished. I am fallen lower than the lowest woman of the town, I have forfeited my immortal soul. (_Sobbing, she sinks down again beside DON MANUEL, and lays her head on his shoulder._) Beloved! Why have you brought me to this? Why, my beloved?

_Don Manuel de Lara_ (_caressing her_): Hush, little love, hush! Your body is small and thin ... hush!

_Sister Pilar_: But how came it to fall out thus? Why?

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Because there was something stronger than the angels, than all the hosts of the dead.

_Sister Pilar_: What?

_Don Manuel de Lara_: I cannot say ... something ... I feel it—yet, where are these words? They have suddenly come to me: _amor morte fortior_—against love the dead whose aid you, and I, too, invoked, cannot prevail.

_Sister Pilar_ (_shuddering_): Yet the dead kept Sister Assumcion from her _trovar_.

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Their souls were barques too light to be freighted with love; for it is very heavy.

_Sister Pilar_: And so they did not sink.

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Who can tell if lightness of soul be not the greatest sin of all? And as to us ... the proverb says the paths that lead to God are infinite ... beloved, I feel.... Something holy is with us to-day.

_Sister Pilar_: Fiends, fiends, wearing the weeds of angels.... (_Groans._)

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Rest, small love ... there, I’ll put my cloak for your head. Why is your body so thin and small?

_Sister Pilar_ (_her eyes fixed in horror_): I cannot believe that it is really so. A week since, yesterday, an hour since, I ... was ... a ... a ... virgin, and now ... can God wipe out the past?

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Nay ... nor would I have Him do so.

_Sister Pilar_: Beloved ... we have sinned ... most grievously.

_Don Manuel de Lara_: What is sin? I would seem to have forgotten. What is sin, beloved? Be my herald and read me his arms.

_Sister Pilar_: Death ... I have said that before ... ah, yes, to the _trovar_ ... death, death....

_Don Manuel de Lara_: With us is neither sin nor death. You yourself said that during IT sin vanished.

_Sister Pilar_: Yes ... so it seemed ... (_almost inaudibly_) ’twas what I feel, only ten times multiplied, when I eat Christ in the Eucharist.

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Hush, beloved, hush! You are speaking wildly.

_Sister Pilar_: Oh! what did I say? Yes, they were wild words.

(_Pause._)

_Sister Pilar_: Do you know, we are in the octave of the Feast of Corpus Christi? I seem to have fallen from the wheel of the Calendar to which I have been tied all my life ... saints, apostles, virgins, martyrs, rolled round, rolled round, year after year ... like the Kings and Popes and beggars on the Wheel of Fortune in my mother’s book of Hours. Yes, beloved, we have fallen off the wheel and are lying stunned in its shadow among the nettles and deadly night-shade; but above us, creaking, creaking, the old wheel turns. It may be we are dead ... are we dead, beloved?

_Through the trees SISTER ASSUMCION is heard shouting, “Sister
Pilar! Sister Pilar!” SISTER PILAR starts violently and once
more springs to her feet. SISTER ASSUMCION appears running
towards them._

_Sister Assumcion_ (_breathlessly_): Quick! Quick! Not a moment ... they’ll be here! I cannot ... quick! (_She presses her hand to her side in great agitation_).

_Don Manuel de Lara_: What is all this? Speak, lady.

_Sister Assumcion_: Trotaconventos ... Don Jaime ... the _alguaciles_.

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Take your time, lady. When you have recovered your breath you will tell us what all this portends.

_Sister Assumcion_: Away! Away! Trotaconventos has been to Don Pedro ... she has a writ against you ... the _alguaciles_ will take you to prison ... and Don Jaime comes to catch Sister Pilar ... fly! fly! ere ’tis too late.

_Sister Pilar_ (_dully_): Caught up again on the wheel ... death’s wheel, and it will crush us.

_Sister Assumcion_ (_shaking her_): Rouse yourself, sister! You yet have time.

_Don Manuel de Lara_: We are together, beloved ... do you fear?

_Sister Pilar_: No ... I neither fear, nor hope, nor breathe.

_Sister Assumcion_: Mad, both of them! I tell you, they come with the _alguaciles_.

_Don Manuel de Lara_: And if they came with all the hosts of Christendom and Barbary, yet should you see what you will see. I have a key, and I could lock the postern, but I’ll not do so. (_He picks up his sword, girds it on, and draws it._) Why ... all the Spring flows in my veins to-day.... I am the Spring. What man can fight the Spring?

_Sound of voices and hurrying steps outside the postern.
TROTACONVENTOS, JAIME RODRIGUEZ, and three alguaciles come
rushing in. SISTER ASSUMCION shrieks._

_Trotaconventos_: There, my brave lads, I told you! Caught in the act ... the new Don Juan Tenorio and his veiled concubine!

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Silence, you filthy, bawdy hag! (_glares at her._) Here stand I, Don Manuel de Lara, and here stands a very noble lady of Spain and a bride of Christ, and here is my sword. Who will lay hands on us? You, Don Priest, pallid and gibbering? You, vile old woman, whose rotten bones need but a touch to crumble to dust and free your black soul for hell? You ... (_his eyes rest on the alguaciles_). Why! By the rood ... ’tis Sancho and Domingo and Pedro! Old comrades, you and I, beneath the rain of heaven and of Moorish arrows have buried our dead; we have sat by the camp-fire thrumming our lutes or capping riddles (_laughs_). How does it go? “I am both hot and cold, and fish swim in me without my being a river,” and the answer is a frying-pan ... and in the cold dawn of battle we have kneeled side by side and eaten God’s Body.

_The alguaciles smile sheepishly and stand shuffling their
feet._

_Trotaconventos_: At him! At him, good lads! What is his sword to your three knives and cudgels? Remember, you carry a warrant with Don Pedro’s seal.

_Sancho_ (_dubiously_): ’Tis true, captain, we carry a royal warrant for your apprehension.

_Trotaconventos_: At him! At him!

_Don Manuel de Lara_: At me then! Air! Fire! Water! A million million banners of green leaves! A mighty army of all the lovers who have ever loved! Come, then, and fight them in me! _You_, too, were there that day when the whole army saw the awful ærial warrior before whom the Moors melted like snow ... what earthly arrows could pierce his star-forged mail? I, too, have been a journey to the stars. I wait! At me!

_The alguaciles stand as if hypnotised._

_Trotaconventos_: Rouse yourselves, you fools! Oh, he’s a wonder with his stars and his leaves. Why, on his own showing, he is but a tumbler at a fair in a suit of motley covered with spangles, or a Jack-in-the-green at a village May-day. Come to your senses, good fellows; we can’t stay here all night.

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Sancho, hand me that warrant.

_Trotaconventos_: No! No! You fool!

_Without a word SANCHO hands the warrant to DON MANUEL, who
reads it carefully through._

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Sir Priest! I see you carry quill and ink-horn.... I fain would borrow them of you.

_Trotaconventos_: No! No! Do not trust him, Don Jaime.

_Don Manuel de Lara_ (_impatiently_): Come, Sir Priest.

_JAIME RODRIGUEZ obeys him in silence. DON MANUEL makes an
erasure in the warrant and writes in words in its place._

_Don Manuel de Lara_ (_handing the warrant to Sancho_): There, Sancho, I have made a little change ... you’ll not go home with an empty bag, after all. (_Pointing to Jaime Rodriguez._) There stands your quarry, looking like a sleep-walker ... to gaol with him ... until his arch-priest gets him out ... ’twill make a good fable, “which tells of a Prying Clerk and how he cut himself on his own sharpness.”

_The alguaciles, chuckling, seize JAIME RODRIGUEZ and bind him,
he staring all the time as if in a dream._

_Trotaconventos_ (_stamping_): You fools! You fools! And _you_ (_turning to DON MANUEL_) ... you’ll lose your frenzied head for tampering with Don Pedro’s seal.

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Nay, I’d not lose it if I tampered with his carbuncle ... he is menaced by shadows and I fight them for him. Nor, on my honour as a Knight, shall one hair of the head of Sancho and Pedro and Domingo there suffer for this. But _you_ ... you heap of dung outside the city’s wall, you stench of dogs’ corpses, devastating plague ... _you_ shall die ... not by my sword, however (_draws his dagger and stabs Trotaconventos_). Away with her and your other quarry, Sancho ... good-day, old comrades ... here’s to drink my health (_throws them a purse_).

_SANCHO and PEDRO lift up the dying TROTACONVENTOS, DOMINGO
leads off JAIME RODRIGUEZ and exeunt. SISTER PILAR stands
motionless, pale, and wide-eyed, SISTER ASSUMCION has collapsed
sobbing with terror on the ground. DON MANUEL DE LARA stands
for a few moments motionless, then quietly walks to the
postern and locks it with the key, returns, and again stands
motionless; then suddenly his eyes blaze and he throws out his
arms._

_Don Manuel de Lara_ (_loudly and triumphantly_): His truth shall compass thee with a shield: thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by the night. For the arrow that flieth in the day, for the plague that walketh in the darkness: for the assault of the evil one in the noon-day. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. The dead, the dead ... they melted like snow before the Spring ... my beloved!

_Pause. Beyond the orchard wall there is heard the tinkling of
a bell, and a voice calling, “Make way for el Señor! Way for el
Señor!”_

_Sister Assumcion_ (_sobbing_): They are carrying the Host to Trotaconventos.

_All three kneel down and cross themselves. The sound of the
bell and the cry of “el Señor” grow fainter and fainter in
the distance; when it can be heard no more, they rise. SISTER
PILAR draws her hand over her eyes, then opens them, blinking a
little and gazing round as if bewildered._

_Sister Pilar_: Yes ... Corpus Christi ... and then Ascension ... and then Pentecost ... round and round ... Hours ... el Señor wins in His Octave.... Is He the living or the dead, Don Manuel?

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Beloved! What are you saying?

_Sister Pilar_: What am I saying? Something has had a victory ... maybe the dead ... but the victory is not to you. (_Her eyes softening as she looks at him._) Beloved! (_makes a little movement as if shaking something off_). First, I must finish my confession ... the one I made this morning was sacrilege ... something had blinded me. They say that in the Primitive Church the penitents confessed one to other, so will I.

_She walks up to SISTER ASSUMCION, who is crouching under a
tree, her teeth chattering, and goes down on her knees before
her._

_Sister Pilar_: I confess to Almighty God, and to you, little sister, because I have sinned against you exceedingly, in thought, word and deed (_she strikes her breast three times_), through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. You were wiser than I, little sister, and knew me better than I knew myself. I deemed my soul to be set on heavenly things, but therein was I grievously mistaken. When I chid you for wantonness, thinking it was zeal for the honour of the house, it was naught, as you most truly said, but envy of you, in that you gave free rein to your tongue and your desires. And, though little did I wot of it, I craved for the love of man as much as ever did you, nay, more. Even that poor wretch, Don Jaime ... it was as if I came more alive when I talked with him than when I was in frater or in dorter with naught but women. Then that poor _trovar_ ... he gave me a longing for the very things I did most condemn in talk with him ... the merry rout of life, all noise and laughter and busyness and perfumed women. Then when he gazed at you as does a prisoner set free gaze at the earth, my heart seemed to contract, my blood to dry up, and I hated you. And then ... and then ... there came Don Manuel, and time seemed to cease, eternity to begin. All my far-flown dreams came crowding back to me like homing birds; envy, rage, pride dropped suddenly dead, like winds in a great calm at sea ... and that great calm was ... Lust.

_DON MANUEL, who has been standing motionless, makes a movement
of protest._

_Sister Pilar_: Yes ... Lust. Little sister, I verily believe that in spite of foolishness and vanity, all the sins of this community are venial ... excepting mine. For I am Christ’s adulteress (_DON MANUEL starts forward with a stifled cry, but she checks him with upraised hand_), a thing that Jezebel would have the right to spurn with her foot ... yes, little sister, I, a bride of Christ, have been ravished. (_Seizing her hands._) Poor little sister ... just a wild bird beating its wings against a cage through venial longings for air and sun! I am not worthy to loose the latchet of your shoe.

_SISTER ASSUMCION, who up to now has been crying softly, at
this point bursts into violent sobs._

_Sister Assumcion_: Oh ... Sister ... ’tis I ... I envied you first your fine furniture and sheets and ... things ... and then the knight there ... spurning me for you ... and I told Trotaconventos ... and Don Jaime ... and it is all my doing ... and ’tis I that crave forgiveness.

_Sister Pilar_: Hush, little sister, hush! (_Strokes her hands._) Sit quiet a little while and rest ... you have been sadly shaken.

_Rises and silently confronts DON MANUEL DE LARA._

_Don Manuel de Lara_: And what have you to say to me—my beloved?

_Sister Pilar_: Only that I fear my little sister and I are late for Vespers.

_He falls on his knees and seizes the hem of her habit._

_Don Manuel de Lara_: Oh, very soul of my soul! White heart of hell wherein I must burn for all eternity! I see it now ... we have been asleep and we have wakened ... or, maybe, we have been awake and now we have fallen asleep. Look! look at the evening star caught in the white blossom—the tree’s cold, virginal fruition (_springs to his feet_). Vespers ... the Evening Star ... bells and stars and Hours, they are leagued against me ... and yet I thought ... is it the living or the dead? I cannot fight stars ... wheels ... the Host ... Beloved, will you sometimes dream of me? No need to answer, because I know you will. Our dreams ... God exacts no levy on our dreams ... the angels dare not touch them ... they are ours. First, heavy penance, then, maybe, if I win forgiveness, the white habit of St. Bruno. When you are singing Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline, I, too, shall be singing them—through the long years. God is merciful and the Church is the full granery of His Grace ... maybe He will pardon us; but it will be for _your_ soul that I shall pray, not mine.

_Sister Pilar_ (_almost inaudibly_): And I for yours ... beloved. (_Turns towards SISTER ASSUMCION_): Come, little sister.

_They move slowly towards the Convent till they vanish among
the trees. DON MANUEL holds out the key in front of him for a
few seconds, gazing at it, then unlocks the postern, goes out
through it, shuts it, and one can hear him locking it at the
other side._

SCENE III

_The Convent chapel. The nuns seated in their stalls are
singing Vespers._

Praise the Lord, O Jerusalem; praise thy God, O Zion.

For He hath strengthened the bars of thy gates; he hath blessed thy children within thee.

Who hath made peace in thy borders: and filled thee with the fat of corn.

Who sendeth forth His speech upon the earth: His word runneth very swiftly.

_SISTER PILAR, as white as death, and SISTER ASSUMCION, still
sobbing, enter and take their places._

Who giveth snow like wool: He scattereth mist like ashes.

He sendeth His crystal like morsels: who shall stand before the face of His cold?

He shall send out His word and shall melt them: His wind shall blow, and the waters shall run.

Who declareth His word unto Jacob: His Justice and judgments unto Israel.

He hath not done in like manner to every nation: and His judgement He hath not made manifest to them.

The Lord, who putteth peace on the borders of the Church, filleth us with the fat of wheat.

Brethren: For I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered unto you, that the Lord Jesus, the same night in which He was betrayed, took bread, and giving thanks, broke, and said: “Take ye and eat: this is my body, which shall be delivered for you: this do for the commemoration of me.”

_They sing_:

Pange, lingua, gloriósi,
Córporis mystérium,
Sangúinisque pretiósi,
Quem in mundi prétium
Fructus ventris generósi
Rex effudit géntium.

_During the singing of this hymn, SISTER PILAR leaves her place
in the choir and prostrates herself before the altar._

Nobis datus, nobis natus
Ex intacta virgine,
Et in mundo conversátus,
Sparso verbi sémine,
Sui moras incolátus
Miro clausit órdine.

In suprémæ nocte coenæ
Recúmbens cum frátribus.

_The curtain, when there is one, should at this point begin
slowly to fall._

Observáta lege plene
Cibis in legalibus
Cibum turbæ duodénæ
Se dat suis manibus.

For a few seconds there was silence; and Teresa saw several ladies exchanging amused, embarrassed glances.

Then Harry could be heard saying, “Er ... er ... er ... a piece ... er ... AMAZINGLY well adapted to its audience ... er ... er....” All turned round in the direction of his voice, and some smiled. Then again there was a little silence, till a gallant lady, evidently finding the situation unbearable, came up to Teresa and said, “Thrilling, my dear, thrilling! But I’m afraid in places it’s rather too deep for me.”

Then others followed her example. “What _is_ an auto-sacramentál, exactly?” “Oh, really! A knight of the time of Pedro the Cruel? I always connected Don Juan ... or how is it one ought to pronounce it? Don Huan, is it? I always connected him with the time of Byron, but I suppose that was absurd.” “I liked the troubadour’s jolly red boots; are they what are called Cossack boots? Oh, no, of course, that’s Russian.”

But it was clear they were all horribly embarrassed.

The babies and children had, for some time, been getting fretful; and now the babies were giving their nerve-rending catcalls, the children their heart-rending keening.

In one of her moments of insight, Jollypot had said that there is nothing that brings home to one so forcibly the suffering involved in merely being alive as the change that takes place in the cry of a child between its first and its fourth year.

But the children were soon being comforted with buns; the babies with great, veined, brown-nippled breasts, while Mrs. Moore, markedly avoiding any member of the Lane family, moved about among her women with pursed mouth.

Then the actors appeared, still in their costumes, and mingled with the other guests, drinking tea and chatting. The Doña, eyebrows quizzically arched, came up to Teresa.

“My dear child, what _were_ you thinking of? Just look at Mrs. Moore’s face! That, of course, makes up for a lot ... but, still! And I do hope they won’t think Spanish convents are like that nowadays.”

Thank goodness! The Doña, at least, had not smelt a rat.

Then she saw Guy coming towards her; for some reason or other, he looked relieved.

“I wish to God Haines would make his people stylisize their acting more—make them talk in more artificial voices in that sort of play. They ought to speak like the Shades in Homer; that would preserve the sense of the Past. There’s nothing that can be so modern as a voice.” He looked at her. “It’s funny ... you know, it’s not the sort of thing one would have expected you to write. It has a certain gush and exuberance, but it’s disgustingly pretty ... it really is, Teresa! Of course, one does get thrills every now and then, but I’m not sure if they’re legitimate ones—for instance, in the last scene but one, when Don Manuel becomes identified with the Year-Spirit.”

So _that_ was it! He had feared that, according to his own canons, it would be much better than it was; hence his look of relief. She had a sudden vision of what he had feared a thing written by her would be like—something black and white, and slightly mathematical; dominoes, perhaps, which, given that the simple rule is observed that like numbers must be placed beside like, can follow as eccentric a course as the players choose, now in a straight line, now zigzagging, now going off at right angles, now again in a straight line; a sort of visible music. And, indeed, that line of ivory deeply indentured with the strong, black dots would be like the design, only stronger and clearer, made by an actual page of music; like that in a portrait she had once seen by Degas of a lady standing by a piano.

But she felt genuinely glad that her play should have achieved this, at least, that one person should feel happier because of it; and she was quite sincere when she said, “Well, Guy, it’s an ill wind, you know.”

He grew very red. “I haven’t the least idea what you mean,” he said angrily.

After that, Concha came up, and was very warm in her congratulations. Did she guess? If she did, she would rather die than show that she did. Teresa began to blush, and it struck her how amused Concha must be feeling, if she _had_ guessed, at the collapse of Sister Assumcion’s love affairs, and at the final scene between Pilar and Assumcion—Pilar’s noble self-abasement, Assumcion’s confession of her own inferiority.

And David? He kept away from her, and she noticed that he was very white, and that his expression was no longer buoyant.