CLARA (Quietly, her gaze on Mona): Be quiet, Pica. —Mona, do you know me? —What is her name, Pica?
PICA: I don’t know. I’ve forgotten.
CLARA: Go and ask Old Thomas what her name is. I don’t want you to call her Old Crazy. —Has she a home to go to?
PICA: Oh, Mother—she is very rich. But her family drives her out of the house all day.
(Mona, has seated herself on one of the benches, her elbows on her knees. She is staring at the ground.)
CLARA: Go and find out what her name is.
(Pica runs into the convent.)
Mona, do you know me? . . . Mona, do you know me? I am Mother Clara of the Poor Sisters at Saint Damian’s. Do you know me? . . . What is your name?
MONA (Rising; impressively): I am who I am. —He is coming today. You know I am the Queen of . . .
CLARA: What? . . . Who is coming?
MONA: The King of . . .
CLARA: Yes. What king?
MONA (Becoming confused): The King of Solomon. To see me. I must be ready. He is coming . . . from France. And . . .
CLARA: From France?!!
MONA: Of course, from France. I must have presents to give him. And . . . He will have lions. And . . .
CLARA: Yes. You must be ready, Mona.
(In order to induce Mona to leave the garden, Clara crosses the stage and starts walking backward through the audience.)
Come. You must go to your home and make yourself ready. Look! . . . Just look! You must comb your hair beautifully. And you must wash your face! —Who is it you say is coming?
MONA (Following her; angrily): I told you—the King of Solomon . . . Of France. That is: French France. I didn’t love him—no!; but he loved me. But now he has become a great person and he sends me all these messages.
(Stopping at the edge of the stage, she looks at the floor in a troubled way; softly) Did I tell you the truth? Did I love him? Did I?—Oh, he wrote such songs for me. Songs and songs.
CLARA: Come, Mona. I think you should rest, too.
MONA (Confidentially): If I walk slowly he will not see that I am lame. One of the boys in the street kicked me.
CLARA: Kicked . . . !! Yes, walk slowly. Like a queen. No, no, stand up straight, Mona—like a queen. You can do it. Come. What will you say when you see the king?
MONA: I shall say . . . (Standing straight) Oh, King of Solomon, I shall say: Change the world!
CLARA (Astonished): You will say that?
MONA: They throw stones at me. They kick me. Everywhere people hate people. My daughters—with brooms—they drive me away. I can’t go home; I can only go home when the sun goes down. And I shall say: Oh, King, change the hearts of the world.
CLARA (Returns to the stage; as Mona passes her on the way to the village): That is a very good thing to say. You won’t forget it?
MONA (Loudly): The world is bad.
CLARA: Yes.
MONA: Nobody is kind anymore.
CLARA: You tell your daughters that Mother Clara of Saint Damian’s says that they are to let you into the house; and you will wash your face and your hair, won’t you? And God bless you, dear Mona, and make you wise . . . wise and beautiful . . . for your friend.
(Mona has almost disappeared. From the convent sounds of joyous cries and laughter. Pica comes running out like an arrow.)
PICA (Shrilly): He has come, Mother Clara. Father Francis is here!
(She flies back into the convent.)
MONA (Returning a few steps): What did you say? . . . Wise?
CLARA: Yes . . . and beautiful. Good-bye, Mona. Remember. Good-bye.
MONA (Mumbling): Wise . . . and beautiful . . . (She goes out)
(Francis appears at the convent door. He is forty, browned by the weather, almost blind, and with very few teeth.
Also he is very happy. Clara, joyously, and as lightly as a young girl, runs to the center of the stage and falls on her knees.)
CLARA: Bless me, Father.
FRANCIS (Kneels, facing her): God bless you, dearest Sister, with all His love. —And now you bless me, Sister.
CLARA (Lowered eyes, laughing protest): Father!
FRANCIS: Say after me: God bless you, Brother Francis, and God forgive you that load of sins with which you have offended Him.
CLARA: God bless you, Brother Francis, with all His love.
FRANCIS: And . . .
CLARA (Rippling laughter of protest): I cannot say that, Father.
FRANCIS: I order you by your holy obedience.
CLARA: . . . And God forgive you that load of sins—Father!—with which you have offended Him. —There!
FRANCIS: Yes.
(They both stay on their knees a moment, looking at one another, radiantly. Francis rises first and says with a touch of earnest injunction:)
I want you to say that prayer . . . that whole prayer . . . for me, every day.
CLARA: I will, Father. —Now sit in the sun. The meal will be ready very soon.
FRANCIS (Sitting): And how is my little plant?
CLARA (Again soft running laughter): Your little plant is very well, Father.
FRANCIS: Let me see . . . was it ten years ago we cut off your beautiful hair and found you a bridegroom?
CLARA: Ten years ago next month.
FRANCIS: Yes . . . Never, Sister Clara, have I seen a more beautiful wedding . . .
CLARA (Blushing with pleasure): Father!
FRANCIS (Softly): . . . Except, of course, my own.
CLARA: Oh, yes—yours. We know all about that—to the Lady Poverty.
FRANCIS: The Lady Poverty.
CLARA: Yes. —And how are you, dear Father?
FRANCIS: Well . . . Well . . .
CLARA: And your eyes?
FRANCIS: Oh, Sister . . . I can see the path. I can see the brothers and sisters. I can see the Crucified on the wall.
CLARA: Oh, then, I’m so happy. I’d heard that you had some difficulty.
FRANCIS (Emphatically): Oh, yes, I can see. (Confidentially) Maybe I’m a little bit blind; but . . . I hear so well. I hear so much better.
CLARA: Do you?
FRANCIS: Everything talks all the time. The trees. And the water. And the stones.
CLARA (Holding her breath): What, Father?
FRANCIS: The stones. The rocks. Now, when I go up there to pray, I must say to them: “Be quiet.”
CLARA: “Be quiet.”
FRANCIS: “Be quiet for a while.” And they are quiet.
CLARA: Yes, Father.
(There is a moment while she digests this; then she begins again with animation.)
My sisters are so happy that you have come. Sister Agnes has made something for you. Now promise that you will eat all of it. It will break her heart if you don’t.
FRANCIS: All?
CLARA (Laughing): Oh, it is very little. We have learned that.
FRANCIS: All? My stomach has grown so small . . . (Making a ring with his thumb and forefinger) . . . That is enough.
CLARA: We understand. But this time there is a touch—a touch of saffron.
FRANCIS: Saffron!!
CLARA: The Count sent it to us from the castle, especially for you. He remembered that you liked it . . . before . . .
FRANCIS: Before? Before when?
CLARA: Well . . . Father . . . before . . . Before you entered the religious life.
FRANCIS (Agitated): Before!!? When I was the most sinful of men! No, no, Sister Clara! Go quickly and tell Sister Agnes—no saffron! No saffron.
CLARA (Calling sharply and clapping her hands): Pica! Pica!
(Pica enters at once.)
PICA: Yes, Mother.
CLARA: Tell Sister Agnes no saffron in Father’s dish. And do not stand by the door.
PICA: Yes, Mother.
(During this interchange, Mona has returned, mumbling, through the audience.)
MONA: They throw stones at me. They kick me. Hmm. But when the king comes they will learn who I am. Hmm. They will sing another song.
/>
CLARA (Her eyes again thoughtfully on Mona, who has seated herself on one of the benches): She has lost her wits . . . She comes of a prosperous family, but they send her out of the house all day. I think the children torment her. She likes to come and sit here, rain or shine. —Father—she thinks she is the Queen of Sheba! And that King Solomon is coming to visit her!
FRANCIS (Delighted): She thinks she is . . . ! How rich she is. How happy she must be!
CLARA (Pointing to her own forehead): Yes—but she is touched.
FRANCIS: Touched? . . . Oh, touched. —Is she able to receive the blessed sacrament?
CLARA: No. I think not. They tell me that in church she cries out and says unsuitable things. No, she is not allowed in the church.
FRANCIS: What is her name?
CLARA: Everyone here seems to have forgotten it. They simply call her Old Crazy. We call her Mona.
FRANCIS (Taking a few steps toward Mona): Mona! . . . Yes, your king is coming.
MONA (Violently): Go away from me! I know all about your nasty filthy wicked ways!
CLARA (Authoritatively): Now, Mona, you must be quiet or we will send you away—with a broom, too. You know our Thomas. Our Thomas knows how to make you move.
FRANCIS (Quiets Clara with a gesture; his eyes on Mona in reflection): Who can measure the suffering—the waste—in the world? And every being born into the world—except One—has added to it. You and I have made it more and more.
(He turns to Clara and adds with eager face) Let us go to the church now and fall on our knees. Let us ask forgiveness.
CLARA: Father, we shall go to the church later. Now you have come here to take the noon meal with my dear sisters.
FRANCIS (With a sigh, as of a pleasure postponed): Yes . . . yes.
CLARA (Resuming the animated tone): You received my letter? We can’t give thanks enough! More and more are coming all the time. Sometimes I’m at my wit’s end to find room and food for all these girls and women who are coming to join us. Oh, but I won’t trouble you with those things—beds and food. We always find a way.
FRANCIS: Yes. Yes. No one would believe how we always find more beds and food.
CLARA: And their happiness! From morning to night. —You will hear them sing. They have been learning some new music to sing to you.
FRANCIS (Rising, stuttering with eagerness): Sister C-C-Clara, let us go into the chapel and thank God.
CLARA: We will. We will. But now, dear Father, just for a moment, let us sit in the sun and rest ourselves.
FRANCIS (Again resigned): . . . Yes . . . Very well.
CLARA: Father, there is something I’ve long wanted to ask you. Can we talk for a moment of childish things? —Father, you will eat the noonday meal at our table today? You will?
FRANCIS: Sister! Sister! Can’t I have it out here? Where I eat it is of no importance. I shall see the sisters later when I preach to them.
CLARA: Father, you hurt them.
FRANCIS: Hurt them?! I hurt them?
CLARA: They cannot understand it. You let Brother Avisio and Brother Juniper eat with us.
FRANCIS: Yes . . . yes . . .
CLARA: But you have never sat down with us at our table . . . Why is that? (Lowering her voice) My sisters are beginning to believe that you think that women are of a lower order in God’s love.
FRANCIS: Sister Clara!!
CLARA: They have heard that you share your meal with . . . wolves and birds, but never with them.—Can the Father Francis whom we love—this once—sit down with us women?
FRANCIS (Agitated slightly but compliant): Yes . . . oh, yes . . . I will.
CLARA (Urgently): It is so important, Father. I work among these good women and girls. They have left everything. They have God in Heaven but they have very little on earth.
(He nods repeatedly.)
Thank you! Now there’s another childish thing I want to ask you. Brother Avisio told me a short time ago that you were christened John. Is that true?
FRANCIS: Yes. Yes. John.
CLARA: You chose the name Francis?
FRANCIS: My friends gave it to me. But that’s long ago.
MONA (From under the hood of her shawl, as though brooding to herself): Francis the Frenchman . . . They all called him that. That’s what I called him, too.
(After Francis and Clara have looked at Mona a moment:)
FRANCIS: Long ago—when I was a young man. Before I found something better, I was never tired of hearing all those songs and stories that came down from France . . . about knights in armor who went about the world killing dragons and tyrants. A growing boy must have something to admire—to make his heart swell. I talked about those stories to everyone I knew. I dressed myself in foreign dress. I made songs, too—many of them. And . . . but . . .
CLARA: Why do you stop, Father?
FRANCIS: And I heard that each of these knights had a lady. (He looks at her with pain and appeal) I looked everywhere. I . . . I . . . looked everywhere.
CLARA: Do not talk of it, if it distresses you.
FRANCIS (Low and urgently): . . . May God forgive me that load of sin with which I offended him!
CLARA: Yes.
FRANCIS: I went through a troubled time . . . (Suddenly he looks at her happily) And then I found my lady.
CLARA (Laughing): Yes, we know, Father.
FRANCIS: Poverty! And I married her!
CLARA: Yes.
FRANCIS: And ever since, I go about the world singing her praises.
CLARA: Yes.
FRANCIS (Eagerly): Before I knew her I was a coward. Yes. I was afraid of everything: of going into the forests at night; I was afraid of hunger and of cold. I was afraid to knock at the doors of nobles and great people. But now—with her beside me—I go everywhere. I do not trouble when I go into the Pope’s presence, even. I am not afraid when twenty new brothers arrive at our house: where shall I put them? How shall I feed them? She shows me. (Clara nods in complete agreement) But how can one say how beautiful she is! And . . . and (Lowering his voice) how severe. Sometimes I almost offend her. And then I know that her eyes are turned away from me! . . .
(Suddenly raising his hands) No saffron! No saffron! —But most of the time we live together in great happiness.
(He crosses the stage, groping in his memory for an old song)
. . . That song . . . that old song I wrote for her:
When in the darkness of the night
I see no lantern and no star,
My lady’s eyes will bring me light.
When in pathless woods I stray
My feet have stumbled in despair
My lady’s eyes will show the way.
MONA:
When prison chains do fetter me—
FRANCIS (A loud cry of recognition): Mona Lucrezia!!
MONA (Harshly): Shame on you! To sing that song in the ears of a holy woman! That is Mother Clara of Saint Damian’s. Cover your ears, Mother Clara.
(Advancing on Francis) What do you know of Francis the Frenchman? I know him. He wrote that song for me.
When prison chains do fetter me
And it is written I must die
My lady’s eyes will set me free.
Yes, we all knew that he searched for his lady. We all knew that—the mayor’s wife and Ninina Dono . . . and I . . .
FRANCIS: Mona Lucrezia.
(Trembling, to Clara) Leave me alone with her.
MONA: Mother Clara, they say that he goes all over the world now; that he sees the Pope and says good morning, good morning; that he’s gone to Palestine to convert the Grand Turk himself—
CLARA: Do not be long, Father. The meal is almost ready.
(She hurries out.)
MONA (Calling after her): He said my body was of marble and snow—no, he said that my body was of fire and snow.
(She starts leaving the stage through the audience.)
He’ll convert the Grand Turk. The Devil will help him. He converted the mayor’s wife and me—the Dev
il helping him.
(Francis, shaken and speechless, stands looking after her. Pica has entered stealthily from the convent. Francis appears not to hear her.)
PICA: Father Francis, we did everything we could to prevent that crazy woman from coming here today. Mother Clara says that you are going to sit at table with the sisters—for the first time. You must sit quite still during the reading because Sister John of the Nails is going to draw a picture of you that we can have on the wall. When people draw you, you have to sit very still, because when you move, they can’t see what to draw—
(Sounds of shouting from the street.)
MONA (Offstage): Go away from me! Peter, put down that stone! Aiiiiiiee!
PICA: Oh, Father Francis! She’s coming back again. They’ve been throwing stones at her.
(She goes down the aisle.)
Don’t . . . come . . . back. We’ll beat you!
FRANCIS: Come here and be quiet!
(Mona lurches back, shouting toward the street. One side of her face is covered with blood. She is struck again and sinks on one knee at the edge of the stage.)
MONA: Pigs—all of you. Lock your mothers up and there’ll be no more of you.
FRANCIS: Come and sit down here, Mona Lucrezia.
MONA (To Francis): Don’t strike me—you! Go away from me.
FRANCIS (Authoritatively to Pica): Get a bowl of water and a clean cloth. Put some leaves and stems of the hazel into it. And be quick.
(Pica stands gaping.)
Be quick! Be quick!
(Pica runs off.)
MONA (Harshly to Francis): You kicked me!
FRANCIS: No, Mona Lucrezia.
MONA: You did.
FRANCIS: Come over here and sit down. You are among friends now.
MONA (Sitting down): There are no friends. I don’t want any friends. I had some.
(She stares at Francis, somberly) Who are you? What’s your name?
FRANCIS: I was christened John.
MONA: John! —Do you know who John was?
FRANCIS (In a small voice): Yes.
MONA: You stand there—idle as a log—and do nothing. If all the men in the world named John would join themselves together and be worthy of their name, the world would not be like that.
FRANCIS: Don’t put your hand on your wound, Lucrezia. We’ll wash it in a moment.
MONA (Harshly): Don’t talk to me!