Scene 5
[Richard
running after Mary on a dark country road]
Richard: Beloved, wait!
I would speak with thee!
There
are bleak half-truths abiding
In
the space between us,
And
their incompletion will undo us
Lest
thou would let me speak!
[Mary
stops and turns to face him]
Mary:
Do you still have words?
Even now? Even here?
Richard,
our son is dead.
[Breaks into sobs]
Richard:
I know, Mary, I know.
I have known no greater sorrow,
Nor
ever shall, I think,
Than
the passing of my boy.
Charles!
Whom I loved—
Yes, I too, loved him,
Mary!—
All
I can see now, against the wind and darkness,
Is
a vision of his smile, his winsome eyes,
His
cheeks alight with laughter
When
I dandled him on my knee.
I
see him strong and true,
A
man of such beatified virtue
That
it put his father to shame, yes!
And
now, to have that light, that laughter,
The
glory of all he is,
Torn
away in one heartless night—
It
dismembers my very soul…
I
am unmade with sorrow.
Yet
even in the valley of the shadow of death
I
see another vale before me,
Fulsome,
clear, unshadowed,
And
there I know, I know, I know,
My
son Charles waits for me,
And
these unsanctified eyes,
After
many long purgations,
Will
see him once again.
But Mary! Mary!
This
night thou hast daggered my corpse,
Driving
sorrow upon endless sorrow,
And
I do not know the reason why.
Charles
I have lost, yet Charles I will gain again;
But
how have I lost thee?
Whence
comes this flood of dark reproach,
Surmounting
our darkest moment
With
oceans of trouble still darker yet?
In
this one night, the consolation of thine embrace
Has
abandoned me—
That consolation had been for me a
steady pillar
Grounded deep and true in the
boundless love of God—
In
this one night, thou hast played the Samson to my life
And
torn the temple down.
Why?
Speak to me something, anything…
Please.
Mary:
I cannot speak.
Thou sayest sorrow unmakes thee—
It
has already unwritten the record
Of
my very life.
Behold
the vapor of a woman who beforehand was,
Yet
soon to vanish in the wind.
Why
have I hated thee,
In
this, our final moment?
Neither
have I any answers, save this:
In
the face of black injustice,
That
ascends unreasoned from the abyss,
Justice
would demand a victim’s anger.
And who else is there left for me to hate?
[Richard moves closer and takes her by the
hands]
Richard: I know that thou art angry, Mary.
That I can understand.
But let not thine anger
shatter the foundations
Of the only refuge that
remains….
Mary…Mary, what is this?
These
marks upon thy arm?
Oh, ungracious God, say not that
this can be!
Not here! Not to thee!
And no, not now!
Has heaven truly
hated me?
And thee! Why thee, my beloved, to
suffer so?
Thou didst not tell me
this!
Mary: I only knew today.
Perhaps my anger was not
toward thee at all,
Good Richard…
Perhaps it was the echo
of a traitorized faith,
That had trusted vainly the word
which the ancient book had spoke:
“Thou shalt not fear the
pestilence that stalks in darkness.”
Richard: Thou has it, then—the plague!
Mary: Aye, the plague.
Unhand me now, lest this divine
malice,
This serpent of hell’s
wrath,
Make deadly strike at thee.
Richard: How can I let thee go?
Mary: Go, Richard. Fly from my side,
And let this Samson destroy the
temple of our lives,
That thou may have space
to build another.
Richard: But where shall I go?
Mary: Go back to hallowed ground,
And seek the answer to thy question.
Perhaps the wisdom of
the cell,
Of a martyrdom chosen in the midst of life,
Might grant thee some
reprieve
From the scourgings of the living
death
Thine eyes must now
behold.
Go, Richard.
Go, and be blessed.