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The Road to Damascus: A Trilogy, a play by August Strindberg |
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Part 3 - Act 4 - Scene 1. Chapter House Of The Monastery |
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_ PART III ACT IV SCENE I. CHAPTER HOUSE OF THE MONASTERY [A Gothic chapter house. In the background arcades lead to the cloisters and the courtyard of the monastery. In the middle of the courtyard there is a well with a statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by long-stemmed white roses. The walls of the chapter house are filled with built-in choir stalls of oak. The PRIOR'S own stall is in the middle to the right and rather higher than the rest. In the middle of the chapter house an enormous crucifix. The sun is shining on the statue of the Virgin in the courtyard. The STRANGER enters from the back. He is wearing a coarse monkish cowl, with a rope round his waist and sandals on his feet. He halts in the doorway and looks at the chapter house, then goes over to the crucifix and stops in front of it. The last strophe of the choral service can be heard from across the courtyard. The CONFESSOR enters from the back; he is dressed in black and white; he has long hair and along beard and a very small tonsure that can hardly be seen.] CONFESSOR. Peace be with you! STRANGER. And with you. CONFESSOR. How do you like this white house? STRANGER. I can only see blackness. CONFESSOR. You still are black; but you'll grow white, quite white! Did you sleep well last night? STRANGER. Dreamlessly, like a tired child. But tell me: why do I find so many locked doors? CONFESSOR. You'll gradually learn to open them. STRANGER. Is this a large building? CONFESSOR. Endless! It dates from the time of Charlemagne and has continually grown through pious benefactions. Untouched by the spiritual upheavals and changes of different epochs, it stands on its rocky height as a monument of Western culture. That is to say: Christian faith wedded to the knowledge of Hellas and Rome. STRANGER. So it's not merely a religious foundation? CONFESSOR. No. It embraces all the arts and sciences as well. There's a library, museum, observatory and laboratory--as you'll see later. Agriculture and horticulture are also studied here; and a hospital for laymen, with its own sulphur springs, is attached to the monastery. STRANGER. One word more, before the chapter assembles. What kind of man is the Prior? CONFESSOR (smiling). He is the Prior! Aloof, without peer, dwelling on the summits of human knowledge, and... well, you'll see him soon. STRANGER. Is it true that he's so old? CONFESSOR. He's reached an unusual age. He was born at the beginning of the century that's now nearing its end. STRANGER. Has he always been in the monastery? CONFESSOR. No. He's not always been a monk, though always a priest. Once he was a minister, but that was seventy years ago. Twice curator of the university. Archbishop.... 'Sh! Mass is over. STRANGER. I presume he's not the kind of unprejudiced priest who pretends to have vices when he has none? CONFESSOR. Not at all. But he's seen life and mankind, and he's more human than priestly. STRANGER. And the fathers? CONFESSOR. Wise men, with strange histories, and none of them alike. STRANGER. Who can never have known life as it's lived.... CONFESSOR. All have lived their lives, more than once; have suffered shipwreck, started again, gone to pieces and risen once more. You must wait. STRANGER. The Prior's sure to ask me questions. I don't think I can agree to everything. CONFESSOR. On the contrary, you must show yourself as you are; and defend your opinions to the last. STRANGER. Will contradiction be permitted here? CONFESSOR. Here? You're a child, who's lived in a childish world, where you've played with thoughts and words. You've lived in the erroneous belief that language, a material thing, can be a vehicle for anything so subtle as thoughts and feelings. We've discovered that error, and therefore speak as little as possible; for we are aware of, and can divine, the innermost thoughts of our neighbour. We've so developed our perceptive faculties by spiritual exercises that we are linked in a single chain; and can detect a feeling of pleasure and harmony, when there's complete accord. The Prior, who has trained himself most rigorously, can feel if anyone's thoughts have strayed into wrong paths. In some respects he's like--merely like, I say--a telephone engineer's galvanometer, that shows when and where a current has been interrupted. Therefore we can have no secrets from one another, and so do not need the confessional. Think of all this when you confront the searching eye of the Prior! STRANGER. Is there any intention of examining me? CONFESSOR. Oh no. There are merely a few questions to answer without any deep meaning, before the practical examinations. Quiet! Here they are. (He goes to one side. The PRIOR enters from the back. He is dressed entirely in white and he has pulled up his hood. He is a tall man with long white hair and along white beard-his head is like that of Jupiter. His face is pale, but full and without wrinkles. His eyes are large, surrounded by shadows and his eyebrows strongly marked. A quiet, majestic calm reigns over his whole personality. The PRIOR is followed by twelve Fathers, dressed in black and white, with black hoods, also pulled up. All bow to the crucifix and then go to their places.) PRIOR (after looking at the STRANGER for a moment.) What do you seek here? (The STRANGER is confused and tries to find an answer, but cannot. The PRIOR goes on, calmly, firmly, but indulgently.) Peace? Isn't that so? (The STRANGER makes a sign of assent with head and mouth.) But if the whole of life is a struggle, how can you find peace amongst the living? (The STRANGER is not able to answer.) Do you want to turn your back on life because you feel you've been injured, cheated? STRANGER (in a weak voice). Yes. PRIOR. So you've been defrauded, unjustly dealt with? And this injustice began so early that you, an innocent child, couldn't imagine you'd committed any crime that was worthy of punishment. Well, once you were unjustly accused of stealing fruit; tormented into taking the offence on yourself; tortured into telling lies about yourself and forced to beg forgiveness for a fault you'd not committed. Wasn't it so? STRANGER (with certainty). Yes. It was. PRIOR. It was; and you've never been able to forget it. Never. Now listen, you've a good memory; can you remember _The Swiss Family Robinson_? STRANGER (shrinking). _The Swiss Family Robinson_? PRIOR. Yes. Those events that caused you such mental torture happened in 1857, but at Christmas 1856, that is the year before, you tore a copy of that book and out of fear of punishment hid it under a chest in the kitchen. (The STRANGER is taken aback.) The wardrobe was painted in oak graining, and clothes hung in its upper part, whilst shoes stood below. This wardrobe seemed enormously big to you, for you were a small child, and you couldn't imagine it could ever be moved; but during spring cleaning at Easter what was hidden was brought to light. Fear drove you to put the blame on a schoolfellow. And now he had to endure torture, because appearances were against him, for you were thought to be trustworthy. After this the history of your sorrows comes as a logical sequence. You accept this logic? STRANGER. Yes. Punish me! PRIOR. No. I don't punish; when I was a child I did--similar things. But will you now promise to forget this history of your own sufferings for all time and never to recount it again? STRANGER. I promise! If only he whom I took advantage of could forgive me. PRIOR. He has already. Isn't that so, Pater Isidor? ISIDOR (who was the DOCTOR in the first part of 'The Road to Damascus,' rising). With my whole heart! STRANGER. It's you! ISIDOR. Yes. I. PRIOR (to FATHER ISIDOR). Pater Isidor, say a word, just one. ISIDOR. It was in the year 1856 that I had to endure my torture. But even in 1854 one of my brothers suffered in the same way, owing to a false accusation on my part. (To the stranger. ) So we're all guilty and not one of us is without blemish; and I believe my victim had no clear conscience either. (He sits down.) PRIOR. If we could only stop accusing one another and particularly Eternal Justice! But we're born in guilt and all resemble Adam! (To the STRANGER) There was something you wanted to know, was there not? STRANGER. I wanted to know life's inmost meaning. PRIOR. The very innermost! So you wanted to learn what no man's permitted to know. Pater Uriel! (PATER URIEL, who is blind, rises. The PRIOR speaks to the stranger. ) Look at this blind father! We call him Uriel in remembrance of Uriel Acosta, whom perhaps you've heard of? (The STRANGER makes a sign that he has not.) You haven't? All young people should have heard of him. Uriel Acosta was a Portuguese of Jewish descent, who, however, was brought up in the Christian faith. When he was still fairly young he began to inquire--you understand--to inquire if Christ were really God; with the result that he went over to the Jewish faith. And then he began research into the Mosaic writings and the immortality of the soul, with the result that the Rabbis handed him over to the Christian priesthood for punishment. A long time after he returned to the Jewish faith. But his thirst for knowledge knew no bounds, and he continued his researches till he found he'd reached absolute nullity; and in despair that he couldn't learn the final secret he took his own life with a pistol shot. (Pause.) Now look at our good father Uriel here. He, too, was once very young and anxious to know; he always wanted to be in the forefront of every modern movement, and he discovered new philosophies. I may add, by the way, that he's a friend of my boyhood and almost as old as I. Now about 1820 he came upon the so-called rational philosophy, that had already lain in its grave for twenty years. With this system of thought, which was supposed to be a master key, all locks were to be picked, all questions answered and all opponents confuted--everything was clear and simple. In those days Uriel was a strong opponent of all religions and in particular followed the Mesmerists, as the hypnotisers of that age were called. In 1830 our friend became a Hegelian, though, to be sure, rather late in the day. Then he re-discovered God, a God who was immanent in nature and in man, and found he was a little god himself. Now, as ill-luck would have it, there were two Hegels, just as there were two Voltaires; and the later, or more conservative Hegel, had developed his All-godhead till it had become a compromise with the Christian view. And so Father Uriel, who never wanted to be behind the times, became a rationalistic Christian, who was given the thankless task of combating Rationalism and himself. (Pause.) I'll shorten the whole sad history for Father Uriel's sake. In 1850 he again became a materialist and an enemy of Christianity. In 1870 he became a hypnotist, in 1880 a theosophist, and 1890 he wanted to shoot himself! I met him just at that time. He was sitting on a bench in Unter den Linden in Berlin, and he was blind. This Uriel was blind--and Uriel means 'God is my Light'--who for a century had marched with the torch of liberalism at the head of _every_ modern movement! (To the STRANGER.) You see, he wanted to know, but he failed! And therefore he now believes. Is there anything else you'd like to know? STRANGER. One thing only. PRIOR. Speak. STRANGER. If Father Uriel had held to his first faith in 1810, men would have called him conservative or old-fashioned; but now, as he's followed the developments of his time and has therefore discarded his youthful faith, men will call him a renegade--that's to say: whatever he does mankind will blame him. PRIOR. Do you heed what men say? Father Clemens, may I tell him how you heeded what men said? (PATER CLEMENS rises and makes a gesture of assent.) Father Clemens is our greatest figure painter. In the world outside he's known by another name, a very famous one. Father Clemens was a young man in 1830. He felt he had a talent for painting and gave himself up to it with his whole soul. When he was twenty he was exhibiting. The public, the critics, his teachers, and his parents were all of the opinion that he'd made a mistake in the choice of his profession. Young Clemens heeded what men were saying, so he laid down his brush and turned bookseller. When he was fifty years of age, and had his life behind him, the paintings of his early years were discovered by some stranger; and were then recognised as masterpieces by the public, the critics, his teachers and relations! But it was too late. And when Father Clemens complained of the wickedness of the world, the world answered with a heartless grin: 'Why did you let yourself be taken in?' Father Clemens grieved so much at this, that he came to us. But he doesn't grieve any longer now. Or do you, Father Clemens? CLEMENS. No! But that isn't the end of the story. The paintings I'd done in 1830 were admired and hung in a museum till 1880. Taste then changed very quickly, and one day an important newspaper announced that their presence there was an outrage. So they were banished to the attic. PRIOR (to the STRANGER). That's a good story! CLEMENS. But it's still not finished. By 1890 taste had so changed again that a professor of the History of Art wrote that it was a national scandal that my works should be hanging in an attic. So the pictures were brought down again, and, for the time being, are classical. But for how long? From that you can see, young man, in what worldly fame consists? Vanitas vanitatum vanitas! STRANGER. Then is life worth living? PRIOR. Ask Pater Melcher, who is experienced not only in the world of deception and error, but also in that of lies and contradictions. Follow him: he'll show you the picture gallery and tell you stories. STRANGER. I'll gladly follow anyone who can teach me something. (PATER MELCHER takes the STRANGER by the hand and leads him out of the Chapter House.) [Curtain.] _ |
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