SECOND ACT.
(At the Abbey, in the study room which opens on the garden of the abbey.
Tables, desks, stalls. Well in sight. A statue of the Virgin, newly
finished, in a mystic attitude of indulgence and love, which a monk is at
work coloring. Grouped around the Musician Monk, other monks finish
rehearsing, under his direction, a hymn to the Virgin which he has
composed for the occasion; it is Assumption morning.)
All the Monks.
(The musician Monk directs the vocal ensemble and sings.)
Ave coeleste lilium,
Ave rosa speciosa,
Ave mater humitium
Superbis imperiosa
In had valla lacrymarum
Do robur, fer auxilium.
Jean (dreaming alone).
The cooking is good at the abbey.
* * * * * *
I who did not dine often,
I drink good wine. I eat fat meats.
* * * * * *
Glorious day.
The Virgin ascends, ascends to
Heaven this day,
And for her they rehearse a song of
grace.
* * * * * *
(Sadly.)
A song in Latin.
* * * * * *
Queen of angels,
To you, to whom I owe fat meats
and good wines,
I should like with them to celebrate
your praise.
* * * * * *
But I know not how to sing Latin.
The Prior (entering).
Brethren, it is very good.
(To the Musician Monk.)
I compliment the author.
(To the Poet Monk, author of the words, who steps forward jealously.)
The poet, too.
(The monks take up their work and their places: some paint, others model
or chisel, others copy on vellum, others at the end of the garden spade
and cultivate flowers. In a corner, modestly, Boniface strips
vegetables.)
The Prior (to John).
But, in this solitary corner,
Alone, you do not sing, you, an old
singer?
Jean.
Pardon me, my father;
But, alas, I only know
Profane songs in the vulgar French.
Several Monks
(coming near).
--Oh, Brother Jean! how lazy!
--See how fat he is getting.
(Touching his stomach.)
Boniface
(Intervening good naturedly).
What of it! Brother Jean loves good things
The Prior.
To the Virgin, no doubt, he offers
this morning.
Like a bouquet, the freshness of his
complexion.
Colored with lilies and roses.
The Monks.
(The musician, the poet, the painter and the sculptor.)
Brother Jean,
Do you sleep...
Jean.
Brethren, I know my sad indignity,
Day and night I lament it.
You laugh at me, ‘tis little. Your
anger, right here,
Should destroy me; I deserve it.
* * * * * *
Since in this prosperous abbey,
Guiding me by her white hand,
The Virgin, helpful mother,
Permits me to eat at my ease,
Have I once earned daily bread?
No, and not one work of merit
Testifies to heaven my love.
Monk ignorant, monk stupid,
I go to the refectory.
Eat and drink, then, drink and eat,
Each one in this holy house
Serves Our Lady with great zeal;
Even the least little altar boy
Knows how to sing to her,
Verse or song at the chapel.
And I willing to die
With joyous heart for her glory,
Alas, alas, what fearful fate!
Jean.
I know naught but in the refectory,
To eat and drink, to drink and eat.
The Monks.
Jean knows only in the refectory
To eat and drink, to drink and eat.
Jean (to the Prior).
Ah turn me away, my father.
I feat to bring you ill luck...
Come, juggler,
Take up your baggage and your
misery.
The Sculptor Monk (to Jean).
Juggler, a poor trade.
(Ironically.)
Why not be a sculptor?
Thou shalt be my pupil.
(Showing the statue he is limning.)
Look: from the flanks of the marble
rises,
Wakened by a pious chisel,
The charm of the Queen with
delicate front,
I, in my turn, create, I her creature,
Gaining glory with the heavens,
Nothing equals sculpture!
The Painter Monk
(approaching).
You forget, my brother, painting...
Be my pupil, Jean.
The inanimate marble cannot give
life;
But under the all powerful brush,
(Showing the painted Virgin).
You see her palpitate, shudder,
subdued,
To the lips she empurples, to the
eyes in the look.
(Painting.)
It is the great art!
The Sculptor Monk.
The Great Art
Is sculpture!
The Poet Monk
(approaching.)
Not so. In the place of honor
Only poetry must sit.
‘Tis my Lady, and I am her fervent
servitor,
Your art is very gross. Of choicer
essence,
The poet, fixing the flight of the
spirit pure,
Encloses it vibrating to verses of
heaven's gold
Glory to Poetry.
The Painter Monk.
Painting--
Is the Great Art!
The Sculptor Monk.
The Great Art
Is Sculpture.
The Prior (intervening).
Brethren, calm yourselves.
The Musician Monk
(approaching.)
For myself, I figure
That my art alone can make you
agree...
See with what ardent flight,
While you grovel on Earth
Music goes straight to Heaven.
Voice of the inexpressible, echo of
the great mystery,
‘Tis the Blue Bird that comes from
the Eternal Shore,
And ‘tis the White Beam on the
ocean of Dreams.
What does a seraphim in heaven?
It sings, and again, and always,
without rest.
Music is a divine art.
The Sculptor Monk.
No, the great art is sculpture.
The Painter Monk.
No, the great art is painting.
The Poet Monk.
Poetry, oh queen of arts!
The Musician Monk.
Oh, Music, queen of arts!
* * * * * *
A talker, the poet!
The Painter Monk.
Sculptors are only masons!
The Sculptor Monk.
Painters, mixers of color!
Jean (frightened).
Great God! what a tempest.
The Poet Monk
(to the musician
who threatens him).
Music softens the manners.
(Tumult.)
The Prior.
What, my brethren, in this place
Discord!... Agitans discordia
fratres...
‘Tis the saying of Virgil.
By order of Apollo, by order of the
Prior,
Let the Muse to the Muse offer the
kiss of a sister.
(The four rivals embrace with poor grace.)
And come all to the chapel,
To the feet of Our Lady, and more
humble of heart
Pray her to receive her new Image.
(Carrying the Statue the monks retire before the Prior.)
Jean,
(seated head in hands.)
Alone, I offer nothing to Mary.
Boniface.
If one must swell with glory,
When I prepare a good repast,
I do meritoriously.
Sculptor, I am in paste.
Painter, by the color so soft of my
creams;
A capon, cooked to a turn, is worth
a thousand poems,
And what a symphony to ravish
heaven and earth
Is a table where presides
harmonious order!
Jean.
Certainly.
Boniface (fatuously).
But to please Marie
I remain simple.
Jean.
Simple, alas,
I am too much so. She loves to be
prayed to
In this Latin I do not know.
Boniface.
And I so little... Kitchen Latin...
Is that then your trouble.
(Naively.)
The Virgin understands the French
language, too;
Her goodness divinates want.
For the humble Marie is good as a
sister;
And I read in a book a history
divine
Where one sees clearly that she
gave her heart
To the simplest, the most humble
flower.
(Telling a story.)
Mary with the infant Jesus, by mountains and plains, fled... But
the winded ass could do no more; and not far away, on the side of the
hill,-- suddenly appeared--the bloody cavaliers of the King, the child
killer.
"Oh my son, where hide they weakness!"
* * * * * *
A rose was in flower on the roadside:
"Rose, beautiful rose, be good: to my child that he may hide,
--open big your calice; --save my Jesus from death."
But for fear of spoiling the crimson of her dress--the proud one
replied: "I will not open."
A sageplant flowered on the way;
"Sage, my little sage,--open thy leaves to my child."
And the good floweret opened so wide her leaf--that in the bottom
of this cradle the child slept..."
Jean (tenderly).
Oh, miracle of love!
Boniface (finishing).
"And the Virgin blessed among all women--blessed the humble sage
among all the flowers!"
(Aside, quite convinced).
Sage is in effect very precious in cookery.
Jean
(aside, eyes raised
toward Heaven).
If your white hand should bless me
some day...
Let death come. Die under your
eyes. What a holiday!
Boniface.
We'll celebrate first the dinner I
prepare.
I must run to my young turkey...
(Coming back.)
For I please the virgin in looking to
the oven:
Hath not Jesus, with an equal smile Received from the wise men gold,
incense and myrrh,
And for the poor shepherd a tune
on his pipe.
(Goes out running.)
Jean
(alone, vaguely repeats the
last words of Boniface.)
And from the Poor shepherd an air on his pipe.
* * * * * *
(Changing his tone, with emotion.)
What a sudden ray of light,
And in my heart what joy.
He is right, the Virgin is not proud.
The shepherd, the juggler, in her
eyes, par the King.
(Advancing, eyes and hands toward Heaven.)
Virgin, mother of love, Virgin
goodness supreme,
As on the shepherd's tune smiled
the God-Child,
If the juggler dared honor you the
same,
Deign to smile from the sill of
Heaven.
(Jean remains in an attitude of mystic invocation.)
(The orchestra plays the mystic pastorale that unites the two acts.)
translation © 1998 Jeffrey A. Klingfuss