This is a re-posting of a play written last year; see note in the header above.
Scene 3
[Richard pacing alone in the antechamber]
Richard: O Timeless Hope of helpless souls,
Thou Endless and Sublime,
Stand Thou as my vindication,
Or my forbidding judge?
Is she right?—
She, with whom my love
waxed slow,
But now burns in
riotous flames
Of gratitude and fierce
respect
For all her manifold
charms—
Is she right about Thee, O God?
Cruel, careless, helpless, or dead…
If Thou, in ruthless providence,
Made fall the branch that crushed my son
Simply to cause us pain,
A disgracious, superfluous raging
Of Thy wrath before Thy self-appointed time,
Then yes, Thou art
cruel…
But faith
cannot abide that.
If Thou art so distant from us,
O Unmoved Mover,
As to be hard-set against
The smallest reflex of
pity,
An adamantine wall of unimpassioned power
In the face of earthly
suffering,
So that the simplest act of mercy,
The averting of the
fateful blow,
Was too
much for Thy undertaking—
Then yes, Thou art careless…
But faith cannot abide
that either.
If Thou stand in endless struggle
‘Gainst foes who whelm
Thy might—
Evil and
sin and dark mischance—
And Thou, though good-hearted, strong and true,
Must still abandon some
forlorn field
To the
sternest of defeats,
Then yes, Thou art helpless…
But such faith, while
taking consolation
From Thy
fidelity and love,
Is left still more disconsolate
By the
prospect of Thy fall.
If Thou art dead and gone,
A frail idea whose
unreality
Mocks the
frailty of Thy followers,
A shadow dancing on our cavern walls
For which no light
gives source—
Then we are lost to ourselves alone,
With never an escape—
No
salvation from the harshness
Of a
hateful reality
Where
nothing loves mankind.
Oh, would that Thou wert helpless, careless, cruel,
Than lost to us in
black unfaith!
My heart speaks no to every choice,
So what remains to us?
That Charles is damned for his misdeeds?
No, there Mary strikes
it true—
Not perfect, he, but made of patient faith
Such that men would joy
to praise.
Then I, I…is it I?
Dark my heart, yes—
I know nothing so well
as this—
Bur dark
enough to merit torture
On heaven’s
grinding rack?
Lord of the estate am I,
And death-breathing
avarice
Knocks often at my door.
Or perhaps I am the unjust lord, not Thou,
Who’ve thought too
little of my yeomen
‘Til
justice turns the balance
By breaking
my heart, as I,
Thoughtless
master, must oft have broken theirs.
But no, I think not—
Fairness is my guiding
aim.
Then what? Failure to pray to Thee
As Thou deserve?
No, that’s
the place of all mankind.
A lustful glance at comely maiden?
If so, this punishment
unfits
The measure
of the crime.
Perhaps an old attachment, too long held—
A love I’ve no more
right to love—
Is it this,
O God?
Have mercy on Thy servant,
And grant sweet
consolation
Of knowing
the unspoken Why.
Enough. I go to St. Julian’s.
I must speak with her
again.
[Richard exits]