P - “ I am more than willing to accept your reproaches. It was entirely my fault that your commissions were neglected; but Gertrude bears no blame for this ........ if you could have seen her pleasure you would not for an instant begrudge her my time, without me she could do none of these things. “
A - “ No .............. you have succeeded so well in bringing Gertrude to the light, no-one would credit the changes you have wrought. But should you not consider the rest of your family; are they not also in need of your time and affection? “
P - “ They were not lost in darkness. It was my chance to prove that love, God's love, could touch another human spirit through me; to bring the lost sheep back to the fold. Do you not remember how we talked of my vocation, my passion, when we were young. You were part of it then. “
A - '....... Yes, we were young:'
How I loved your desire
to fight for your vision,
the strength of your spirit,
the light in your eyes.
Then I was wrapped in your certainty
filled with the thought of the future.
Now I am locked into simply
progressing from children to sweeping
from kitchen to stove.
P - “You could discover that freshness again if ..............”
A - getting up “What's the use my dear. We can't all be blind.” exit
Scene 8 The Chapel
A small chapel with a gallery above at the back and an harmonium near the front, the line of sight needs to be sufficiently impaired for the Pastor not to realise straight away that his son is at Gertrude’s side.
The Pastor enters quietly and goes to the little gallery at the back where he is enjoying listening to Gertrude's playing until he becomes aware that his son Jacques is sitting at her side giving her some guidance which must involve touching and placing her hands on the keyboard, though she doesn't really need his assistance. The Pastor is beside himself with fury that is jealousy, but which he tells himself is indignation at the imagined advantage that his son is taking of Gertrude. He continues his secret observations, but sees nothing untoward in their behaviour.
Slow like the outline of the landscape that I hear
the rise and fall of bells across the meadows;
deep as the blue in my lily of the field,
the heads ringing in the breeze.
What colour shall I give the wind?
which colours can I find to match
the image of its touch come from the mountains?
Can it be wrong to love you as I do?