The Poetical Works of George MacDonald, vol 1 | Page 5

heresy. 'Twere well that one Should find it poison. I have no pique at him-- But there's that Julian!--
Stephen. Hush! speak lower, friend.
Two Monks _farther down the table--in a low tone_.
_1st Monk_. Where did you find her?
_2nd Monk_. She was taken ill At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way, And so they called me in. I found her dying. But ere she would confess and make her peace, She begged to know if I had ever seen, About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man, Moody and silent, with a little stoop As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders, And a strange look of mingled youth and age,--
_1st Monk_. Julian, by--
_2nd Monk_. 'St--no names! I had not seen him. I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes, And urged her to proceed; and she began; But went not far before delirium came, With endless repetitions, hurryings forward, Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past Was running riot in her conquered brain; And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group Held carnival; went freely out and in, Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed As some confused tragedy went on; Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain Lay desolate and silent. I can gather So much, and little more:--This Julian Is one of some distinction; probably rich, And titled Count. He had a love-affair, In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.-- Give me the woman; love is troublesome!-- She loved him too, but falsehood came between, And used this woman for her minister; Who never would have peached, but for a witness Hidden behind some curtain in her heart-- An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience, Who has appeared and blabbed--but must conclude His story to some double-ghostly father, For she is ghostly penitent by this. Our consciences will play us no such tricks; They are the Church's, not our own. We must Keep this small matter secret. If it should Come to his ears, he'll soon bid us good-bye-- A lady's love before ten heavenly crowns! And so the world will have the benefit Of the said wealth of his, if such there be. I have told you, old Godfrey; I tell none else Until our Abbot comes.
_1st Monk_. That is to-morrow.
_Another group near the bottom of the table, in which is_ ROBERT.
_1st Monk_. 'Tis very clear there's something wrong with him. Have you not marked that look, half scorn, half pity, Which passes like a thought across his face, When he has listened, seeming scarce to listen, A while to our discourse?--he never joins.
_2nd Monk_. I know quite well. I stood beside him once, Some of the brethren near; Stephen was talking: He chanced to say the words, Our Holy Faith. "Their faith indeed, poor fools!" fell from his lips, Half-muttered, and half-whispered, as the words Had wandered forth unbidden. I am sure He is an atheist at the least.
_3rd Monk (pale-faced and large-eyed_). And I Fear he is something worse. I had a trance In which the devil tempted me: the shape Was Julian's to the very finger-nails. _Non nobis, Domine_! I overcame. I am sure of one thing--music tortures him: I saw him once, amid the _Gloria Patri_, When the whole chapel trembled in the sound, Rise slowly as in ecstasy of pain, And stretch his arms abroad, and clasp his hands, Then slowly, faintingly, sink on his knees.
_2nd Monk_. He does not know his rubric; stands when others Are kneeling round him. I have seen him twice With his missal upside down.
_4th Monk (plethoric and husky_). He blew his nose Quite loud on last Annunciation-day, And choked our Lady's name in the Abbot's throat.
Robert. When he returns, we must complain; and beg He'll take such measures as the case requires.
SCENE III.--_Julian's cell. An open chest. The lantern on a stool, its candle nearly burnt out_. JULIAN _lying on his bed, looking at the light_.
Julian. And so all growth that is not toward God Is growing to decay. All increase gained Is but an ugly, earthy, fungous growth. 'Tis aspiration as that wick aspires, Towering above the light it overcomes, But ever sinking with the dying flame. O let me _live_, if but a daisy's life! No toadstool life-in-death, no efflorescence! Wherefore wilt thou not hear me, Lord of me? Have I no claim on thee? True, I have none That springs from me, but much that springs from thee. Hast thou not made me? Liv'st thou not in me? I have done naught for thee, am but a want; But thou who art rich in giving, canst give claims; And this same need of thee which thou hast given, Is a strong claim on thee to give thyself, And makes me bold to rise