Читать книгу Satan Absolved: A Victorian Mystery - Blunt Wilfrid Scawen - Страница 2

To-day is the Lord’s “day.” Once more on His good pleasure

I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure

Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.

How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,

Its old-world furniture, its linen long in press,

Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!

Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me

Intoxicates and haunts – and hurts. Who would not be

God’s liveried servant here, the slave of His behest,

Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best,

Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed,

Would enter His Saints’ kingdom – even as a little child (laughs).

I have come to make my peace, to crave a full “amaun,”

Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers-drawn,

Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe,

An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse

Of always evil-doing. He will mayhap agree

I was less wholly wrong about Humanity

The day I dared to warn His wisdom of that flaw.

It was at least the truth, the whole truth I foresaw

When he must needs create that simian “in His own

Image and likeness.” Faugh! the unseemly carrion!

I claim a new revision and with proofs in hand,

No Job now in my path to foil me and withstand.

Oh, I will serve Him well!

(Certain Angels approach). But who are these that come

With their grieved faces pale and eyes of martyrdom?

Not our good Sons of God? They stop, gesticulate,

Argue apart, some weep, – weep, here within Heaven’s gate!

Sob almost in God’s sight! ay, real salt human tears,

Such as no Spirit wept these thrice three thousand years.

The last shed were my own, that night of reprobation

When I unsheathed my sword and headed the lost nation.

Since then not one of them has spoken above his breath

Or whispered in these courts one word of life or death

Displeasing to the Lord. No Seraph of them all,

Save I this day each year, has dared to cross Heaven’s hall

And give voice to ill news, an unwelcome truth to Him.

Not Michael’s self hath dared, prince of the Seraphim.

Yet all now wail aloud. What ails ye, brethren? Speak!

Are ye too in rebellion?

Satan, no. But weak

With our long earthly toil, the unthankful care of Man.

Ye have in truth good cause.

And we would know God’s plan,

His true thought for the world, the wherefore and the why

Of His long patience mocked, His name in jeopardy.

We have no heart to serve without instructions new.

Ye have made a late discovery.

There is no rain, no dew,

No watering of God’s grace that can make green Man’s heart,

Or draw him nearer Heaven to play a godlier part.

Our service has grown vain. We have no rest nor sleep;

The Earth’s cry is too loud.

Ye have all cause to weep

Since you depend on Man. I told it and foretold.

Truly thou didst.

Dear fools! But have ye heart to hold

Such plaint before the Lord, to apprise Him of this thing

In its full naked fact and call your reckoning?

We dare not face his frown. He lives in ignorance.

His pride is in His Earth. If He but looks askance

We tremble and grow dumb.

And ye will bear it then?

We dare not grieve His peace. He loves this race of men.

The truth should hardly grieve.

He would count it us for pride.

He holds Mankind redeemed, since His Son stooped and died.

We dare not venture.

See, I have less than you to lose.

Give me your brief.

Ay, speak. Thee He will not refuse.

Mayhap thou shalt persuade Him.

And withal find grace.

The Lord is a just God. He will rejudge this case,

Ay, haply, even mine. O glorious occasion!

To champion Heaven’s whole right without shift or evasion

And plead the Angels’ cause! Take courage, my sad heart,

Thine hour hath come to thee, to play this worthiest part

And prove thy right, thine too, to Heaven’s moralities,

Not worse than these that wait, only alas more wise!

Hush! Silence! The Lord God! (Entereth the Lord God, to whom the Angels minister. He taketh His seat upon the throne).

Thank ye, my servants all.

Thank ye, good Seraphim. To all and several,

Sons of the House, God’s blessing – who ne’er gave God pain.

Impeccable white Spirits, tell me once again

How goeth it with the World, my ordered Universe,

My Powers and Dominations? Michael, thou, rehearse

The glory of the Heavens. Tell me, star and star,

Do they still sing together in their spheres afar?

Have they their speech, their language? Are their voices heard?

All’s well with the World. Each morn, as bird to answering bird,

The Stars shout in Thy glory praise unchanged yet new.

They magnify Thy name.

Truth’s self were else untrue.

Time needs be optimist nor foul its own abode.

Else were Creation mocked – and haply I not God.

In sooth all’s well with the World. And thou my Raphael,

How fare the Spirit hosts? Say, is thy world, too, well?

All’s well with the World. We stand, as aye, obedient.

We have no thought but Thee, no asking, no intent

More than to laud and worship, O most merciful,

Being of those that wait.

The contemplative rule

Out-ministers the active. These have right to boast,

Who stand aye in His presence, beyond the Angel host.

And none of ye grow weary?

Nay in truth.

Not one?

God is a jealous God. He doubteth Thee.

Nay, none.

We are not as the Angels.

These have their devoirs,

The search, the novelty. Ye drowse here in your choirs,

Sleep-walkers all, – while these, glad messengers, go forth

Upon new joyous errands, Earthwards, South and North,

To visit men and cities. What is strange as Man?

What fair as his green Globe in all Creation’s plan?

What ordered as his march of life, of mind, of will?

What subtle as his conscience set at grips with ill?

Their service needs no sleep who guide Man’s destinies.

Speak, Gabriel, thou the last. Is Man grown grand and wise?

Hath he his place on Earth, prince of Time’s fashionings,

Noblest and fairest found, the roof and crown of things?

Is the World joyful all in his most perfect joy?

Hath the good triumphed, tell, o’er pain and Time’s annoy,

Since Our Son died, who taught the way of perfect peace?

Thou knowest it how I love these dear Humanities.

Is all quite well with Man?

All’s well with the World, ay well.

All’s well enough with Man.

Alas, poor Gabriel.

How meanest thou “enough”? Man holdeth then Earth’s seat,

Master of living things. He mild is and discreet,

Supreme in My Son’s peace. The Earth is comforted

With its long rest from toil, nor goeth aught in dread,

Seeing all wars have ceased, the mad wars of old time.

The lion and the lamb lie down in every clime.

There is no strife for gold, for place, for dignities,

All holding My Son’s creed! The last fool hath grown wise.

He hath renounced his gods, the things of wood and stone!

The Christian name prevaileth. Its dominion

Groweth in all the lands. From Candia to Cathay

The fear of Christ is spread, and wide through Africa.

The fear and not the love?

Who knoweth Man’s heart? All bow,

And all proclaim His might. The manner and the how

It were less safe to argue, since some frailties be.

We take the outward act to prove conformity.

All’s well enough with Man – most well with Christendom.

Again thou sayest “enough.” How fareth it in Rome?

Hath My vicegerent rest?

He sitteth as of old

Enthroned in Peter’s chair with glories manifold.

He sang a mass this morning and I heard his prayer.

For Peace?

And Power on Earth.

And were the monarchs there,

The great ones in their place? Did a3ll pray with one breath?

Some priests and poor I saw,

The poor he always hath.

His guards, his chamberlains.

The mighty ones, the proud,

Do they not kneel together daily in one crowd?

Have they no common counsel?

Kings have their own needs,

Demanding separate service.

Ay, and their own creeds.

One cause alone combines them, and one service – mine.

Thou sayest?

Man still is Man.

We did redeem his line

And crown him with new worship. In the ancient days

His was a stubborn neck. But now he hath found grace,

Being born anew. His gods he hath renounced, sayest thou?

He worshippeth the Christ? What more?

Nay, ’tis enow.

He is justified by faith. He hath no fear of Hell

Since he hath won Thy grace. All’s well with Man, – most well.

“All’s well”! The fair phrase wearieth. It hath a new false ring.

Truce, Gabriel, to thy word fence. Mark my questioning.

Or rather no – not thou, blest Angel of all good,

Herald of God’s glad tidings to a world subdued,

Thou lover tried of Man. I will not question thee,

Lest I should tempt too sore and thou lie cravenly.

Is there no other here, no drudge, to do that task

And lay the secret bare, the face behind the mask?

One with a soul less white, who loveth less, nay hates;

One fit for a sad part, the Devil’s advocate’s;

One who some wrong hath done, or hath been o’erborne of ill,

And so hath his tongue loosed? O for Soul with will!

O for one hour of Satan!

He is here, Lord God,

Ready to speak all truths to Thy face, even “Ichabod,

Thy glory is departed,” were that truth.

Thou? Here?

A suppliant for Thy pardon, and in love, not fear,

One who Thou knowest doth love Thee, ay, and more than these.

That word was Peter’s once.

I speak no flatteries;

Nor shall I Thee deny for this man nor that maid,

Nor for the cock that crew.

Thou shalt not be gainsaid.

I grant thee audience. Speak.

Alone?

’Twere best alone.

Angels, ye are dismissed. (The angels depart.) Good Satan, now say on.

Omnipotent Lord God! Thou knowest all. I speak

Only as Thy poor echo, faltering with words weak,

A far-off broken sound, yet haply not unheard.

Thou knowest the Worlds Thou madest, and Thine own high word

Declaring they were good. Good were they in all sooth

The mighty Globes Thou mouldedst in the World’s fair youth,

Launched silent through the void, evolving force and light.

Thou gatheredst in Thy hand’s grasp shards of the Infinite

And churnedst them to Matter; Space concentrated,

Great, glorious, everlasting. The Stars leaped and fled,

As hounds, in their young strength. Yet might they not withdraw

From Thy hand’s leash and bond. Thou chainedst them with law.

They did not sin, those Stars, change face, wax proud, rebel.

Nay, they were slaves to Thee, things incorruptible.

I might not tempt them from Thee.

And the reason?

Hear.

Thou gavest them no mind, no sensual atmosphere,

Who wert Thyself their soul. Though thou should drowse for aye,

They should not swerve, nor flout Thee, nor abjure Thy way,

Not by a hair’s breadth, Lord.

Thou witnessest for good.

I testify for truth. In all that solitude

Of spheres involved with spheres, of prodigal force set free,

There hath been no voice untrue, no tongue to disagree,

No traitor thought to wound with less than perfect word.

Such was Thy first Creation. I am Thy witness, Lord.

’Twas worthy of Thyself.

And of the second?

Stop.

How shall I speak of it unless Thou give me hope;

I who its child once was, though daring to rebel;

I who Thine outcast am, the banished thief of Hell,

Thy too long reprobate? Thou didst create to Thee

A world of happy Spirits for Thy company,

For Thy delight and solace, as being too weary grown

Of Thy sole loneliness – ’twas ill to be alone.

And Thou didst make us pure, as Thou Thyself art pure.

Yet was there seed of ill – What Spirit may endure

The friction of the Spirit? Where two are, Strife is.

Thou gavest us mind, thought, will; all snares to happiness.

Unhappy blinded one. How sinnedst thou? Reveal.

Lord, through my too great love, through my excess of zeal.

Listen. Thy third Creation…

Ha! The Earth! Speak plain.

Now will I half forgive thee. What of the Earth, of men?

Was that not then the best, the noblest of the three?