ACT V

SCENE.--_Reception room of the Monastery of San Salvatore at Majano, in Italy. A simply furnished room in an old Italian building. At back right an open door approached by a flight of steps, at back left a large window; a mass of masonry divides the window and door. A door down stage, left. The portrait of MICHAEL'S mother hangs on the wall. Time, a summer evening. Discover FATHER HILARY reading. Enter SIR LYOLF up the steps and by door at back._

FATHER H. Well?

SIR LYOLF. I've been to see her again. I can't get her out of my mind.

FATHER H. How is she this evening?

SIR LYOLF. In the very strangest state, laughing, crying, jesting, fainting, and chattering like a magpie. I believe she's dying.

FATHER H. Dying?

SIR LYOLF. Yes. It seems she had a kind of malarial fever a month or two ago and wasn't properly treated. I wish there was a good English doctor in the place. And I wish Michael was here.

FATHER H. Be thankful that he is away.

SIR LYOLF. But if he finds out that she has been here, that she has sent again and again for him, and that we have hidden it from him--and that she has died?

FATHER H. He mustn't know it until he can bear to hear it. We must consider him first. Think what he must have suffered all these months. Now that at last he is learning to forget her, now that he is finding peace, how wrong, how cruel it would be to reopen his wounds!

SIR LYOLF. She said he promised to come to her if she sent for him. She begged so hard. She has come from England with the one hope of seeing him. I felt all the while that I was helping to crush the life out of her.

FATHER H. What did you tell her?

SIR LYOLF. That he had gone away alone for a few days in the mountains. That we didn't exactly know where to find him, but that he might come back at any time, and that I would bring him to her the moment he returned.

FATHER H. Well, what more can we do?

SIR LYOLF. Nothing now, I suppose. I wish we had sent after him when she came last week. We could have found him before this. Besides, she doesn't believe me.

FATHER H. Doesn't believe you?

SIR LYOLF. She thinks that Michael is here with us, and that we are hiding it from him. I wish he'd come back.

FATHER H. If she is passing away, better it should all be over before he returns.

SIR LYOLF. I don't like parting them at the last. She loves him, Ned, she loves him.

FATHER H. Remember it's a guilty love.

SIR LYOLF. Yes, I know.

FATHER H. Remember what it has already cost him.

SIR LYOLF. Yes, I know. But love is love, and whether it comes from heaven, or whether it comes from the other place, there's no escaping it. I believe it always comes from heaven!

(_FATHER HILARY shakes his head._)

SIR LYOLF. I'm getting my morals mixed up in my old age, I suppose. But, by God, she loves him, Ned, she loves him--Who's that?

(_FATHER HILARY looks out of window, makes a motion of silence._)

FATHER H. Hush! He's come back.

SIR LYOLF. I must tell him.

FATHER H. Let us sound him first, and see what his feelings are. Then we can judge whether it will be wise to let him know.

_Enter up steps and by door MICHAEL in a travelling cloak. He enters very listlessly. He has an expression of settled pensiveness and resignation, almost despair. He comes up very affectionately to his father, shakes hands, does the same to FATHER HILARY. Then he sits down without speaking._

SIR LYOLF. Have you come far to-day, Michael?

MICH. No, only from Casalta. I stayed there last night.

SIR LYOLF. You are back rather sooner than you expected?

MICH. I had nothing to keep me away. One place is the same as another.

FATHER H. And about the future? Have you made up your mind?

MICH. Yes. I had really decided before I went away, but I wanted this week alone to be quite sure of myself, to be quite sure that I was right in taking this final step, and that I should never draw back. (_To FATHER HILARY._) You remember at Saint Decuman's Isle, two years ago, you said you could give me a deeper peace than I could find within or around me?

FATHER H. And I can. And I will.

MICH. Give me that peace. I need it. When can I be received?

FATHER H. When I have prepared you.

MICH. Let it be soon. Let it be soon. (_To his father._) This is a blow to you----

SIR LYOLF. You know best. I wish you could have seen your way to stay in your own church.

MICH. I was an unfaithful steward and a disobedient son to her. She is well rid of me. (_To FATHER HILARY._) You are sure you can give me that peace----

FATHER H. If you'll but give me your will entirely, and let me break it in pieces. On no other condition. Come and talk to me alone.

(_Trying to lead him off left._)

SIR LYOLF. No--! (_Goes to MICHAEL._) Michael, you are at peace now, aren't you?

(_MICHAEL looks at him._)

FATHER H. He will be soon. Leave him to me.

SIR LYOLF. No. I must know the truth from him.

FATHER H. You're wrong to torture him.

SIR LYOLF (_to MICHAEL_). You are at peace now--at least, you are gaining peace, you are forgetting the past?

FATHER H. He will. He shall. Say no more. (_To MICHAEL._) Come with me,--I insist!

SIR LYOLF. No. Michael, before you take this last step answer me one question--I have a reason for asking. Tell me this truly. If by any chance someone in England--someone who was dear to you----

MICH. Oh, don't speak of her-- (_Turns away, hides his head for a minute, turns round with a sudden outburst._) Yes, speak of her! Speak of her! I haven't heard her name for so long! Let me hear it again--Audrie! Audrie!

FATHER H. (_sternly to SIR LYOLF_). Do you hear? Let him alone. Don't torment him by dragging up the past. He has buried it.

MICH. No! No! No! Why should I deceive you? Why should I deceive myself? All this pretended peace is no peace! There is no peace for me without her, either in this world or the next!

FATHER H. Hush! Hush! How dare you speak so!

MICH. I must. The live agony of speech is better than the dead agony of silence, the eternal days and nights without her! Forget her? I can't forget! Look!

(_Takes out a faded red rose._)

SIR LYOLF. What is it?

MICH. A flower she threw me in church the last time I saw her. And I wouldn't take it! I sent her away! I sent her away! And her flower was trampled on. The next night I got up in the middle of the night and went over to the church and found it on the altar steps. I've kept it ever since. (_To his father._) Talk to me about her. I want somebody to talk to me about her. Tell me something you remember of her--some little speech of hers.--Do talk to me about her.

SIR LYOLF. My poor fellow!

MICH. I can't forget. The past is always with me! I live in it. It's my life. You think I'm here in this place with you--I've never been here. I'm living with her two years ago. I have no present, no future. I've only the past when she was with me. Give me the past! Oh! give me back only one moment of that past, one look, one word from her--and then take all that remains of me and do what you like with it. Oh!

(_Goes back to bench, sits._)

SIR LYOLF (_to FATHER HILARY_). You see! I must tell him----

FATHER H. No, not while he's in this mad state. Let's quiet him first.

SIR LYOLF. Then we'll take him to her!

FATHER H. When he is calmer.

SIR LYOLF. Take care it isn't too late.

FATHER H. (_goes to MICHAEL, puts his hand on MICHAEL'S shoulder_). This is weakness. Be more brave! Control yourself!

MICH. Have I not controlled myself? Who trained and guided himself with more care than I? Who worked as I worked, prayed as I prayed, kept watch over himself, denied himself, sacrificed himself as I did? And to what end? Who had higher aims and resolves than I? They were as high as heaven, and they've tumbled all round me! Look at my life, the inconsequence, the inconsistency, the futility, the foolishness of it all. What a patchwork of glory and shame! Control myself? Why? Let me alone! Let me drift! What does it matter where I go? I'm lost in the dark! One way is as good as another!

(_The vesper bell heard off at some little distance._)

FATHER H. You've wandered away from the road, and now you complain that the maps are wrong. Get back to the highway, and you'll find that the maps are right.

MICH. Forgive me, Uncle Ned--I'm ashamed of this. I shall get over it. I'll talk with you by and by. I will submit myself. I will be ruled. Father, come to me. You nursed me yourself night after night when I was delirious with the fever. I was a child then. I'm a child now. Talk to me about her. Talk to me about Audrie!

(_AUDRIE'S face, wasted and hectic, appears just over the doorstep, coming up the steps at back; during the following conversation she raises herself very slowly and with great difficulty up the steps, leaning on the wall._)

MICH. I've heard nothing of her. Where do you think she is? In England? I think I could be patient, I think I could bear my life if I knew for certain that all was well with her. If I could know that she is happy--No, she isn't happy--I know that.

SIR LYOLF. Michael, I've had some news of her.

MICH. News! Good? Bad? Quick! Tell me.

SIR LYOLF. You can bear it?

MICH. She's dead? And I never went to her! I never went to her! She won't forgive me!

SIR LYOLF. She's not dead.

MICH. What then?

SIR LYOLF. You promised you'd go to her if she sent for you.

MICH. Yes.

SIR LYOLF. She has sent for you. (_Sees her entering._)

MICH. She's dying?

(_She has gained the door, just enters, leaning back against the post. MICHAEL'S back is towards her._)

AUDR. I'm afraid I am.

(_MICHAEL looks at her, utters a wild cry of joy, then looks at her more closely, realizes she is dying, goes to her, kisses her, bursts into sobs._)

AUDR. (_putting her hand on his head_). Don't cry. I'm past crying for. Help me there. (_Points to seat._)

(_He seats her; looks at her with great anxiety._)

AUDR. (_laughing, a little weak feeble laugh, and speaking feebly with pause between each word_). Don't pull--that--long--face. You'll--make me--laugh--if you--do. And I want to be--serious now.

MICH. But you're dying!

AUDR. (_with a sigh_). Yes. Can't help it. Sir Lyolf, pay--coachman--(_taking out purse feebly_) outside--No, perhaps--better--wait--or bring another sort--of--carriage. But no mutes--no feathers--no mummery.

SIR LYOLF. I'll send him away. You'll stay with us now?

AUDR. (_nods_). So sorry--to intrude. Won't be very long about it.

(_Exit SIR LYOLF by door and steps; MICHAEL is standing with hands over eyes._)

FATHER H. (_coming to AUDRIE_). Can I be of any service, any comfort to you?

AUDR. No, thanks. I've been dreadfully wicked--doesn't much--matter, eh? Can't help it now. Haven't strength to feel sorry. So sorry I can't feel sorry.

FATHER H. There is forgiveness----

AUDR. Yes, I know. Not now. Want to be with him.

(_Indicating MICHAEL._)

_SIR LYOLF re-enters by steps._

SIR LYOLF. Come, Ned----

AUDR. (_to FATHER HILARY_). Come back again--in--few minutes. I shall want you. I've been dreadfully wicked. But I've built a church--and--(_feverishly_) I've loved him--with all my heart--and a little bit over.

(_Exeunt SIR LYOLF and FATHER HILARY, door left._)

AUDR. (_motioning MICHAEL_). Why didn't you come when I sent for you?

MICH. I've only known this moment. Why didn't you send before?

AUDR. I sent you hundreds--of messages--from my heart of hearts. Didn't you get them?

MICH. Yes--every one.

AUDR. I've crawled all over Europe after you. And you aren't worth it--Yes, you are. You wouldn't come----

MICH. Yes--anywhere--anywhere--take me where you will.

AUDR. You know--he's dead. I'm free.

MICH. Is it so? But it's too late.

AUDR. Yes. Pity! Not quite a well-arranged world, is it? Hold my hand. We're not to be parted?

MICH. No.

AUDR. Sure?

MICH. Quite sure. You're suffering?

AUDR. No--that's past--(_Shuts her eyes. He watches her._) Very comfortable--very happy--just like going into a delicious faint--(_Sighs._) Do you remember--beautiful sunrise--diamonds on the sea----

MICH. Yes, I remember--all--every moment! And the wind that blew us together when we stood on the cliff! Oh! we were happy then--I remember all! All! All!

AUDR. So glad your memory's good at last. (_A vesper hymn heard off at some distance._) Pity to die on such a lovely evening--not quite well-arranged world? But we were happy--if the next world has anything as good it won't be much amiss. I'm going. Fetch--priest--(_MICHAEL is going to door left; she calls him back._) No. No time to waste. Don't leave me. We shan't be parted?

MICH. No! No! No! No!

AUDR. (_gives a deep sigh of content, then looks up at his mother's picture_). She's there? (_MICHAEL nods._) She'll forgive me! (_Blows a little kiss to the picture._) But I'm your angel--I'm leading you----

MICH. Yes. Where?

AUDR. I don't know. Don't fuss about it. "Le bon Dieu nous pardonnera: c'est son métier"--(_Closes her eyes._) Not parted?

(_Looks up at him._)

MICH. No! No! No! No!

AUDR. You won't keep me waiting too long? (_Looks up at him, a long deep sigh of content._) Hold my hand--Tight! tight! Oh! don't look so solemn----

(_Begins to laugh, a ripple of bright, feeble laughter, growing louder and stronger, a little outburst, then a sudden stop, as she drops dead. MICHAEL kisses her lips, her face, her hands, her dress._)

_Enter FATHER HILARY._

MICH. Take me! I give my life, my will, my soul, to you! Do what you please with me! I'll believe all, do all, suffer all--only--only persuade me that I shall meet her again!

(_Throws himself on her body._)

CURTAIN.

Printed in the United States of America.

MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL.

A New and Original Drama.

By HENRY ARTHUR JONES.

16mo. Cloth. 75 cents.

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"In 'Michael and his Lost Angel' Mr. Henry Arthur Jones has enriched, not our theatre only, but our literature, with a beautiful love-story. . . . Where shall we look, in modern fiction or drama, for a large, simple, lyrical love-story, neither philosophic, nor analytic, nor moral, but celebrating with the directness of a ballad or folk-tale, the potency for life or death of the divine illusion? I can think of nothing which so nearly fulfils this definition as Mr. Jones's finely inspired romance. It is by far--oh, very far!--the best thing he has done." --WILLIAM ARCHER in _The World._

"One of the great comforts of criticising the work of Mr. Henry Arthur Jones is that the critic can go straight to the subject-matter without troubling about the dramatic construction. In the born writer the style is the man; and with the born dramatist the play is the subject. Mr. Jones's plays grow: they are not cut out of bits of paper and stuck together. . . . When I respond to the appeal of Mr. Jones's art by throwing myself sympathetically into his characteristic attitude of mind, I am conscious of no shortcoming in 'Michael and his Lost Angel.' It then seems to me to be a genuinely sincere and moving play, feelingly imagined, written with knowledge as to the man and insight as to the woman by an author equipped not only with the experience of an adept playwright, and a kindly and humorous observer's sense of contemporary manners, but with that knowledge of spiritual history in which Mr. Jones's nearest competitors seem so stupendously deficient. Its art is in vital contact with the most passionate religious movement of its century, as fully quickened art always has been. . . . The melancholy truth of the matter is that the English stage got a good play, and was completely and ignominiously beaten by it." --GEORGE BERNARD SHAW in _The Saturday Journal._

"Exquisitely touching, human, sad, and painful is the new play by Mr. Henry Arthur Jones. . . . Mr. Jones has the courage of his convictions, and presents uncompromisingly his problem. That his work is as capable as it is thorough will also be conceded. 'Michael and his Lost Angel' is a fine, we are not sure that we ought not to say a great play. Granting the choice of a subject, it is difficult to imagine treatment more masterly or more effective than it receives." --_Daily Graphic._

"In his latest effort Mr. Henry Arthur Jones may not have written a play that will appeal to the taste of the average playgoer, but he has unquestionably produced a noble, and we may also add, a great work. It is serious in tone throughout, there is a rigid adherence to its single theme, and he has made no. attempt to lighten the subject by side issues, or lower it by the introduction of any motive or thought below the high level of achievement which, it is self-evident, he marked out for himself. We are no upholders of the morbid drama, of that dragging on to the stage social horrors merely for stage effect, but if we are to have a serious drama then let it be of the quality of 'Michael and his Lost Angel' produced last night at the Lyceum with but equivocal success. Mr. Jones has given us a play of heart-searching truth, a play based on the aspirations and failings of two souls, of love in conflict with religion. He has brought to bear on it a depth of study and insight into the workings of the human heart most profoundly true, and he has clothed the skeleton of his drama with language so noble and expressive that a single hearing enables one to do it only faint justice. A powerful command of the English tongue has long been acknowledged to be among Mr. Jones's especial gifts, and never before has he, from the purely literary point of view, accomplished anything so refined and poetical in expression, so instinct with the true language of the heart. Whatever may be the success of the new play from the box-office point of view, there is no doubt that it will rank in the minds of thoughtful men as his finest work." --_Morning Advertiser._

"Mr. Henry Arthur Jones has written his masterpiece--of this there can be no doubt. But whether 'Michael and his Lost Angel' will achieve a popular success depends entirely upon how far popular judgment is able to appreciate this work--deeply sombre, terribly real, and heartrending from first to last--and whether following with awe its judiciously-set lesson on the frailty of woman and man, the mind will not be too much taxed by serious thoughts to consider 'Michael and his Lost Angel' in the light of an evening's amusement. . . . The fact remains that Mr. Jones has, with the power of a master, constructed a play of engrossing interest, knit together with a strength and breadth of grasp which leaves a feeling of astonishment at the close of the play, astonishment, because the picturesqueness, and the sorrowful reality of the play are borne down upon you with a force and intenseness that leave no escape for the mind to speculate or to anticipate. The fascination of the picture is absorbing and complete, and one bounds back to stalls and human faces at the close of each act with a thud in the brain." --_Court Journal._

OTHER WORKS BY HENRY ARTHUR JONES.

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Transcriber's Note

This transcription is based on scanned images posted by the Internet Archive from a copy made available by the University of California:

archive.org/details/michaelhislostan00joneiala

This copy is a 1920 reprint of the edition published in May 1896. In preparing this transcription, the copy held by the Library of Congress was also consulted. Images of this copy are posted at:

archive.org/details/michaelhislostan01jone

The LOC copy appears to be an advance proof submitted to secure copyright in the United States. The title page of the LOC copy was date-stamped on December 18, 1895, and the play opened in London in January 1896. Subsequent printings by Macmillan have a copyright date of 1895 and a date of publication of May 1896. The LOC copy was compared with the copy used in the transcription as well as a copy printed in 1896 held by the Robarts Library at the University of Toronto and posted at:

archive.org/details/michaelandhislos00joneuoft

The pagination of the LOC copy and the other consulted copies is essentially the same.

The differences between the LOC copy and the play as subsequently printed by Macmillan include:

- The "Preface" and "Author's Note" were added to the 1896 edition.

- On p. 1 of the LOC copy, the stage direction reads: "_showing to the right part of Cleveheddon Minster in ruins._" In the 1896 edition, "_a_" has been inserted before "_part_".

- On p. 5 of the LOC copy, the stage direction reads: "_supported by a Protestant sister._ In the 1896 edition, the words "_a Protestant_" have been changed to "_an Anglican_".

- On p. 6 of the LOC copy, a line of Michael's reads: "Those of you who have been moved by all the awful lesson of this morning. . ." In the 1896 edition, "all" has been deleted.

- On p. 29, at the end of Act I, after the line "Your bad angel has kissed your good angel," the following stage direction was added to the 1896 edition: "(_A mock curtsey to him._)"

- On p. 45, Audrie's line "He kicked her on the eye. . ." in the LOC copy was changed to "He kicked her on the nose. . ." in the 1896 edition.

- On p. 53, the tableau at the end of Act II is different. In the LOC copy, the stage direction reads "(_Takes both her hands in his, very slowly._)" and Michael repeats the line "No boat will come to-night!" followed by "VERY SLOW CURTAIN." In the 1896 edition, the stage direction reads "(_They stand looking at each other._)" followed by "VERY SLOW CURTAIN."

- On p. 69 of the LOC copy, Audrie has the line, "My memory is good for such trifles. Forget you?!" The exclamation mark is deleted in the 1896 edition.

- On p. 73 of the LOC copy, in the scene description at the beginning of Act IV, the phrase "_Large brass candlesticks on altar with lighted candles._" is followed by "_The altar covered with flowers._" The second phrase is deleted from the 1896 edition.

- On p. 74 of the LOC copy, the stage direction at the beginning of