University of Virginia Library

ACT I

SCENE I

Scene: Room in the English Castle of Count Geoffrey. Ursyne, a girl of twenty, very delicate in expression and countenance, but with no suggestion of morbidity, is standing on a kind of raised stool, looking out of the window. The room is lit by two torches. One is placed in the corner away from Ursyne; the other at back of stage near Osbern, who is working at a table with his back to the audience. At the opposite end of the room, which can be divided by a long curtain, a group of girls are sitting together—Arlette, Muriel, Jacqueline and Blanche. Cecily sits apart with an instrument, and is apparently resting as the curtain goes up.
URSYNE.
[To herself.]
Setting sun and joy of life all quenched,
Trembling sea, and trees tall in the dusk.
The north wind drives the fallen leaves,
They dance and reel,
And seem to feel
Spring thrilling with her soft reprieves
From winter's blight.
Birds in their nests lie warm;
But black rooks take their flight.
Wild restless ones!
Why will ye fight with sleep?
For night—night comes.

[Ursyne sighs deeply and continues looking out of the window.
CECILY.

[Ursyne comes down from window,

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3

drags curtain across, separating herself from the rest of the girls.
URSYNE.
Here it is cold.

[She goes back to the window.
BLANCHE.
How desolate she seems!
No song of love has ever reached her ears,
For who that loves doth ever sigh for death?

ARLETTE.
Hush! Hush!

BLANCHE.
Why hush?

ARLETTE.
She never talks of love.

MURIEL.
How oft, then, must she think of it!

BLANCHE.
Oh, hush!

ARLETTE.
New damoiselle from France, you should be courtly.

[Arlette goes out.
CECILY.
She could not hear. We hate her. She's a witch.

JACQUELINE.
[Mysteriously.]
Secrets have I,
Not from the sky!
Ursyne could tell
Better than well,
Why she is sad
While we are glad,
Why it is cold
In towers old,
When maidens sing
Of anything
Which brings to mind
Lovers unkind!

BLANCHE.
Jacqueline!

JACQUELINE.
Earl Hugh came here from Normandy
Two years ago. He sailed to see
Whether the praise he heard was verity,
Concerning Arlette of Belesmes,
Lovely of face and sweet in fame,
Not yet sixteen.—What piteous blame!

BLANCHE.
Jacqueline!

JACQUELINE.
Betrothed were they, but, since her years
Were still so new, the Earl had fears
Marriage would bring but showers of tears.
He thought this more when he saw there
Her cousin Ursyne's raven hair,
And eyes that drew him with flames more fair
Than Elfin light on marshes deep.
Whene'er he looked, she seemed to weep.
Little by little, false love did creep
Into his heart. Betrothed was he
To Arlette, yet, O, misery!
Ursyne did hold him in captivity.

MURIEL.
Arlette, methinks, can have no pride,
Despised so soon—not yet a bride.
Ships borne to sea by an unwilling tide
Are often wrecked!

JACQUELINE.
She never knew.
But when the silver trumpets blew
For Holy War 'gainst sinful Turk and Jew,
Scarce were her tears at his desire
To win a martyr's crown, or fire
All infidel mosques. He rode away:
His cross was red: the morning grey
Was glittering as some moonlit bay
Of waters dark, for his bright spear
And helmet shone like crystal clear.
“One kiss,” he cried, “then pray for me, my dear!”

BLANCHE.
Jacqueline!

JACQUELINE.
Earl Hugh was slain: Arlette is free:
Ursyne in woe must ever be,
Dreading the doom of her iniquity.

BLANCHE.
Jacqueline!

CECILY.
[Peeping through curtain at Ursyne and pointing to Osbern.]
The witch is still,
But, by her will,
She calls the spell
Of madness from Hell,
For Osbern, the knave,
Handsome and brave,
Ignoble in birth,
Cursed on the earth,
His father's sin to bear,
His mother's shame to wear!

MURIEL.
Who is this Osbern?

BLANCHE.
'Tis Carliol's cousin.

MURIEL.
The great Earl's cousin? Is't by virtue of blood?

JACQUELINE.
Nay, rather by his mother's lack of virtue!

BLANCHE.
For shame! for shame! Count Geoffrey much regards him.
He's something lunatic and would be a poet.
Meanwhile he casts long sums and writes in Latin
Old stuff that's counted precious.

JACQUELINE.
I would not read it.

MURIEL.
And I had rather sleep and eat and dance
Than hear a nightingale any day o'the week!
Come, come. Let's to the court and laugh awhile.

[They all go out. Osbern, who has been seated at the back of the stage, now comes forward. He rubs his eyes and draws back the long curtain and looks at Ursyne for some moments before he speaks. He is a young man, about twenty-six, vigorous in appearance, but with an ascetic countenance.
OSBERN.
What do you think of while you sit alone?

URSYNE.
I think of summers that are past and stars
That fall.

OSBERN.
But, if they fall from heaven to earth,
The earth is very fair, Ursyne!

URSYNE.
Alas!
I do not see it so.

OSBERN.
Then through your eyes,
I'll watch a wretchedness so set in beauty.

URSYNE.
Is stark damnation sadder than the world
Which, compassed about with happiness, still feels
No touch of it? For what is good, I find not.

OSBERN.
[Going up to her and looking into her eyes.
O, more mysterious than an autumn night,
Grave as a wintry sea with all its storms
Enchanted and entranced! Let me sink deep
And drown myself!

URSYNE.
You have your cousin's voice—
Your cousin's very voice.

OSBERN.
But he is dead.
We live—we live, Ursyne, and this is life.

URSYNE.
Once he said that.

OSBERN.
And he said all things well!
But, as thou sayest I have his voice to speak with,
Give me the kiss that taught his lips their utterance,
Then you shall hear what desperate men dare do
When they are cursed in loving, and all the war
They make is on their mutinous hearts. God knows!

URSYNE.
God sees that I am trembling—yet, I listen.

OSBERN.
Stars that are brightest tremble most, sweet lady!
In overwhelming love—in jealousy's grief,
Vainly I sought to say what I say now.
Be but a little patient! I have had patience
While sore incurable hopes grew on my soul.
Teach me your sorceries that I may know
When seven devils come to me. Their malice
Could not be half so subtle as this hair
Which, like a serpent, winds around my being,
Till I could faint in ecstasies of love
Or—death. I know not which, I am become,
So strange from desperation.

URSYNE.
I fear your mind.
'Tis treacherous, bound to the Furies, all
Uncertain.

OSBERN.
Was I not born without the law?

URSYNE.
Why dost thou always harp upon these wrongs?
Hate will undo you: there shall be madness next.
[With terror.]
At night I hear the crackling laugh of fools,
Yet my room's empty but for owls and bats.

OSBERN.
O, how this acid passion of grief doth waste
Thy conscience! One would think there were more causes—
Nay, I'll not think it. [Aside.]
Sin would be more silent,
Would show a smoother resignation. Sin
Would fold its disannulling hands, and speak
Gaping beatitudes about God's will—
But this once answer me—did he, at any time,
Threaten or breathe that thou wast greatly loved?

URSYNE.
He came for Arlette. Laughing, I peeped to see
My little cousin's bridegroom: he looked also.

OSBERN.
That glance became intangled, past unravelling. ...

URSYNE.
Arlette played melodies; I stole away
Into the outer court and watched our men,
Who, barely strong enough to lift his armour,
Were cleansing it from dust. In mirth I breathed
Upon the heavy plate that shields his breast,
And, with my sleeve, did make it bright as glass,
Where, bending low, I could discern no Arlette,
But my own face affrighted at its joy.

OSBERN.
O, woman's loving is more soft than ours,
And gains such rapture from some foolish omen
As we, in all our might, cannot extract
From Nature's best reality.

URSYNE.
No more
We looked, and, after that, I laughed no more.
We met and passed and passed and met each day.
Each evening, from the hall where others danced,
I crept away; nor did I think of love,
Nor anything disloyal to Arlette.
But it was sad to sleep whilst others danced.

OSBERN.
And did you sleep?

URSYNE.
Yes; for in sleep I lost
The dreams life gave. ... Then, after twenty days,
He rode away and I was left continuing. ...
That morn we spoke. What words he said, I heard not,
But, now he's dead, I do remember them,
And they come back like distant music played
Behind great gates of bronze and adamant.

OSBERN.
And is this all?

URSYNE.
Could there be more than this?
He was betrothed to Arlette.

OSBERN.
[Ironically.]
I had forgotten!

[A knocking is heard.
URSYNE.
My father has come.

OSBERN.
Hath he found the lovers?

URSYNE.
[Smiling.]
Lovers! Thou art handsome but thou art crazed!

OSBERN.
[Mocking.]
Ursyne sees the dead; she is blind to the living!

URSYNE.
What have I missed, wise Osbern?

OSBERN.

The game of Fate, swifter than God!
[With a hidden sneer.]
I can tell you the
tale of a maid who is not weeping like a
widow. She does not sit a poor languishing
bird, without mate or answering voice. Her
love is not for the absent.

URSYNE.

What would you say?

OSBERN.

I say that Arlette hath found a husband
—Eadric the Saxon. They meet in the
twilight by the lake, and in the orchard, and
in the copse. There are pretty meetings.
The man hath honour: on his side it is
worship, and on hers it is innocence. But if
there is much honesty, there is more love.

URSYNE.

[Slowly.]
How soon she hath learnt forgetting!
Carliol now is surely mine, for I
am found faithful.

OSBERN.

[Mocking.]
You touch derision's bell! Hast
no interest in thy yearning cousin? Shall she
marry a Saxon? I speak of Arlette, I hint
at peril—the peril of marriage; straightway
you thank God for her fickleness, saying,
Carliol is the more mine. I, only I, am
faithful. Blessings on Arlette—blessings on
her new love. Who is he? Yet no matter;
I am found faithful! Girl! girl! thou shalt
surely die of this. I read it! I read it!

URSYNE.
I would read gladly in that book.

OSBERN.
Wouldst thou then yield thy fragrant youth to death?
Sink this soft image of white perfectness
In those dark dregs where roots and creeping things
Seethe in the primal heat ere they become
Matter that's fit for th'sight. Art thou declined
To that foul kettle? And why? Is it for God?
His greater glory? Nay, 'tis a spleen—a rage,
A sick discouragement, that comes from loving
Some pretty, strutting, eloquent, hardened dust
You took to be a man. I see too well.

URSYNE.
He who seeks love must have himself the quality
To comprehend its essence. Thou art far
From that deep knowledge.

[Ursyne goes out.
OSBERN.
O, not so far, Ursyne.

[He throws up his arms in despair, then casts himself down at the table, burying his face in his hands. Enter the Abbot.
ABBOT.

My son, thou art cast down. For three
things do young men suffer—the vain love of
this world, the excessive love of self, or the
inordinate love of some creature!

OSBERN.

I do confess my great affection. I deny it
not, just as I do not deny that I am a man.
I can feel pain, and that in spite of myself.
I can love a woman. You may call this
carnal. I say that it is human.

ABBOT.

Let thy affliction instruct thee, not destroy
thee. All things fall short of being perfect;
none are safe; many are beyond thy prayer.

OSBERN.

True. Yet I have blood in my veins, and
where the knife pierces I must bleed; and if
I am stricken I must grieve.

ABBOT.

Take upon your brow and your shoulders
the mark of salvation; march, in arms, under
the standard of the living God. Give your
life to the service of your brothers, and so
find peace.

OSBERN.

Aye, in peace is my bitterness most bitter!

ABBOT.

Join this holy pilgrimage, and a hard road
under thy feet will ease thy troubled spirit.

OSBERN.

Ask me again—not now, not now.

ABBOT.

The pilgrims go at daybreak.

OSBERN.

Not now!

ABBOT.

Such wilfulness, my son, is sin.

OSBERN.

So be it, then. My will is all I have; when
I renounce that I give up everything, and I

am not yet ready for that sacrifice. I can fast;
I can spend whole nights upon my knees. I
can let chains fret into my flesh; I fear neither
cold, nor heat, nor scourgings, nor austerities.
But my will is my will.

ABBOT.

The pilgrims go at daybreak!

OSBERN.

My father, I shall rise earlier than they to
watch their setting forth! ...

[The Abbot lifts up his hands, shakes his head, and goes out.
OSBERN.
O God! I give Thee all—except my will!

SCENE II

Scene: A copse. Eadric waits by the path, and through the trees Arlette is seen approaching. She walks slowly and reaches him in silence.
EADRIC.
The wood is white with your paleness, sweet Arlette.

ARLETTE.
Accusing cares flock round my joy this day.
I dared not think or speak the name of Eadric.
Love that is secret hath remorse for friend.

EADRIC.
My sweet Arlette, from sunny France you came
To these bleak hills, black woods, and skies forlorn.
My rose, more beautiful than the shining sun,
If you should go away, how should I live?

ARLETTE.
I could not leave thee though they bore me hence,
And, under fathoms of ground, laid me to sleep.
My home is in thine heart and there I'll rest,
As some small seagull nestling on the sea,
Floats o'er the agitations of each tide
With confident peace.

EADRIC.
O, my sole joy on earth,
Flower too silken, too delicate and white
For my rough hold, how I do worship thee!
Yet, I'll not call thee angel lest thou change
By that rash word into the phantom beauty
I may adore but never quite possess.
In wrath I lived here, heartsick, sorrowing,
Thrall to one constant thought which was a hate
Against thy race. My murdered kinsmen stood
With dreadful wounds entreating swift revenge
For injuries dire.

ARLETTE.
Beloved, say no more.
You look so sternly toward me, I could weep.

EADRIC.
Dear love, I feel ashamed at thy pure face.
It is a milky pearl set in the air
To make my blackness seem the more corrupt.
Yet, when I turn aside, my eyelids ache,
And I would seek once more humiliation
Given with a recompense that's infinite!

[Kneels at her feet.
ARLETTE.
[Looking away from him.]
Around the pallid south, stars pierce the twilight.
Dear, I must go. But yes—Ursyne is waiting.
I trust her well. She is an intercessor
Who hath compassion for fidelity.
She once did love a great lord who is dead.
She does not speak of him: his name I know not.
Often I sit close by her while she thinks.
Companions in our silence, we have watched
The blaze of many fires and heard the logs
Sing their shrill song while the hot flames consumed them.
“Ah,” said she once, “a woman would die thus!”

EADRIC.
I doubt a sorrow when it mutters words
Too wise. Witches do that.

ARLETTE.
She is no witch!
Swiftly I'll go and beg her influence.
Get you to prayer, then wait upon my uncle

EADRIC.
But he shall hear defiance, not entreaties.

ARLETTE.
Thou art a Saxon—free—the son of kings,
And when thou call'st, I follow, not rebellious,
But conquered by the pride of my own choice.
Be sure that Norman love is as thine own ...

EADRIC.
Eternal!

[They embrace; she leaves him. He watches her till she is out of sight, then follows at a distance.

SCENE III

Scene: The same as Scene I. Ursyne enters bearing a torch, followed by Count Geoffrey.
URSYNE.
Why are you late? Colder now grows this room.
[She goes back to her place by the window. Count Geoffrey watches her from where he stands by the fire.
The wind, more dismal still, howls the lament
Of everlasting love, bound in the air,
To feel both fire and frost and chilly rain,
But never the sweet flowering of the Spring.
My element is earth, yet I could sob
With thee! O, dark, cold night—if I had wings!

COUNT GEOFFREY.
The night is quiet and I hear no wind.

URSYNE.
Then it must be presentiment of woe
That gnaws my heart whilst I sit watching here.
Watching—for whom? Waiting—for whom?

COUNT GEOFFREY.
I bring
Strange news that will interpret well these portents.
[She comes down the stage.
Turn thy white face toward me. It is sad.
How old art thou?

URSYNE.
Twenty, and that's too long.

COUNT GEOFFREY.
Dost thou hate all men?

URSYNE.
All living men save thee.

COUNT GEOFFREY.
Many brave knights have begged thy hand, Ursyne.
Though thou art poor, thy beauty looks more rare
Than all the land and dower of Arlette.

URSYNE.
Let Arlette be.

COUNT GEOFFREY.
No envy need afflict
Thy girlhood's pride because of this rich cousin.
Arlette may buy a husband, while for thee
There's the devotion that a man achieves
When he's competitor and not the prize.

URSYNE.
My mind is not for marriage. Oft I think
That my wild heart is with some damned soul
Already suffering all the pangs of hell.
My body's here, my spirit's far away,
Driven and tossed, and tortured on a rack,
Which does not rend the less because it is
Invisible! O God!

COUNT GEOFFREY.
Go and confess.
Thy solitude is shared by whispering fiends.
Thou art too much alone. Acts of contrition
Will drive away these mad and gloomy thoughts.
Come, be not sullen. What? She loves no man?
She has no curiosity—perverse!
I have great news. Wilt thou not beg for them?

URSYNE.
All tidings come full soon. Is England lost?
Is Normandy become a wilderness?
Has the day's sport been somewhat better or worse
Than the day's sport this day, this month, last year?

COUNT GEOFFREY.
Now wide astonishment, larger than any hope,
Will catch these roving eyes, and light these cheeks.
My news affects thy cousin more than thee,
And her young soul, more womanish and frail
Than thine, may grow distraught from th'violence
Of unexpected joy. Tranquillity
Broods o'er thy nature and to thee emotion
Is but a lake that sleeps among high hills.
Therefore, I'll make no phrase. Hear the plain truth.
Hugh of Carliol is not dead. He lives!

URSYNE.
[Stupefied.]
Hugh of Carliol is not dead! He lives!

COUNT GEOFFREY.
Send for thy cousin, and, if thou hast a heart
Under that iron shell which seems a girl,
Say this: Kind Heaven, perceiving her distress,
Has heard our supplications and preserved
Her bridegroom from that sleep the sword doth give
More certainly than either drug or herb.

URSYNE.
[Repeating mechanically.]
That sleep the sword doth give more certainly
Than either drug or herb.

COUNT GEOFFREY.
What dost thou say?

URSYNE.
I say thy news is strange.

COUNT GEOFFREY.
I'll call Arlette, and, at the curfew bell,
Th'assembled household shall give thanks to God
For this deliverance from the enemy.

[Count Geoffrey goes out.
URSYNE.
O, at his rumoured death my spirit left me
To join its wild associate in pain.
Then we were one—to-night we are dissevered.
I fall again to life as one that wakes
From fierce delirium to the surgeon's knife,
But to exchange the anguish of the mind
For butchery's cold steel.—O, who would live,
Or who would love this world or any on it,
When penalties await each pitiful joy
Snatched from the aching littleness of time!
And he was mine, being dead, no barrier
Could stay the dear approach of our two wills.
Supreme, insatiable was the thirst
Each owned for the other's self, till, made one wave,
We lashed the world's harsh shore, and ever gained,
Recoiling, newer force to smite that sand!
This is no more. Already, love, thou'rt gone,
And, as the amber east of this bleak morning
Was fast obscured by clinging, feverous mists,
So doth thy spirit fade from my desire,
And all I journey with is emptiness!

Enter Osbern.
OSBERN.
Ursyne!

URSYNE.
Alas!

OSBERN.

Alas! Hast thou no word save this? I
hate Carliol and I curse the good news. So
much, then, for my hate. But is thy love of
such ethereal quality that neither death nor
life affects it? Is it “Alas!” both ways?

URSYNE.

Yes, for my will is struggling against
treason. If I kill the treason—as I shall—
I must die for the sorrowful victory! And
if my will is overpowered—as it must not be
—I shall perish from the shame of defeat.
And thus—it is “Alas!” both ways!

OSBERN.

What wilt thou say to Carliol when he
comes?

URSYNE.

There is nothing left to say. My heart—
which holds my words—is broken.

OSBERN.

[Passionately.]
And me? and me? and
me? Do you never think of me, or understand
me? There are women who will give
love for love. There are women who, seeing
that they may save a soul by loving it, do
love it for that reason! But you are cold,
dumb, merciless!

URSYNE.

No, no If I still live, Osbern, it is
because of thee.

OSBERN.

Ah! [Touches her hand.]
Is this true?

URSYNE.

And I know more—I would not have thee
marry another. Take vows, dear Osbern—
take vows. Never marry. No woman could
make thee happy.

OSBERN.

No other woman could make me unhappy!
When I see some beauty, I ask myself, Could
this paragon give me one minute of despair?

I laugh! Ah, Ursyne, thou hast no cause
for jealousy. Thou art the one source of my
undying wretchedness. In this you have no
rival!

URSYNE.

When I look at you, and hear you, I think
it is well I do not love you.

OSBERN.
Why?

URSYNE.
Because I should have loved you far too well!
Ah, had I known you ere Carliol came,
Then all my life had changed from woe to rest,
Then, as some poor white sail shines by the sun
And seems a wing of brightness till the night,
So I had been rejoicing in your love.
But you were born for more than woman's praise,
And I come as a sad song in your way,
You'll hear me and pass on, and think at last,
“I wonder was that song some winter's dream?”

OSBERN.
Extreme grief hath no fear, nor limit, nor shame ...
Its violence, impalpable as the wind,
Scatters our inmost nature till we seem
Bare empty trees with neither wood nor leaves—
But only bark that's brittle, and soon dust!

[Arlette enters, and Osbern goes out. Arlette comes timidly and takes a stool by the fire. Ursyne hesitates a moment and then goes to her.
URSYNE.
Why do you sit apart so white and still,
And colour suddenly when footsteps follow?
Why do you watch the burning embers till
They flush too bright and in the ashes die?
And, ever through your laugh, a cutting sigh
Pricks through the mirth. My bird, Arlette, say truly.
Is it because you mourn the dead unduly?

ARLETTE.
[Surprised.]
The dead! Now, speak not of the dead! I pray
Their souls may rest in peace. Thoughts more prolonged
Spoil what remains to us, and, shedding tears,
We miss an immediate glory. Is it not so?

URSYNE.
How love will teach the purest heart deception!
My bird chirps well the teaching of the Church!

ARLETTE.
Those great long words, I know, are not my own,
Yet I feel all their sense.

URSYNE.
[With mockery.]
Why then this pallor!
This pensive look when, supperless at night,
You steal away to watch the glittering sky,
And rise at dawn ere the empurpled clouds
Have risen like mountains on the east horizon?
When the last morning stars retreat to heaven,
When the moon's light doth mingle with the sun's
First radiance—my Arlette then doth wake,
It may be, murmuring prayers, but I think not!

ARLETTE.
Ah, dear Ursyne ...

[She pauses.
URSYNE.
Now is the white face red,
The bud becomes a flower, the thought a blush.
Denials would be vain, my accusation
Blames not the purity of your dreaming mind,
For, where's the harm, though you are sick with love.
The state is unfamiliar to your knowledge.
How could you guess that when you search the clouds,
Or sigh because a melancholy note
Drives you to think the passingness of life
Is all too swift—that this is love—not wisdom!

ARLETTE.
I think if I did love I could discern
The difference between an orison
And this compelling, sweet, perpetual spell.
I say, if I did love, Ursyne.

URSYNE.
And do you?

ARLETTE.
Should I declare outright that intimate secret
I scarce could breathe even to him who holds
My heart's allegiance? Help me, Ursyne.

URSYNE.
Here's woe indeed!

[Osbern enters during following speech, unperceived by the two women.
ARLETTE.
Let me come near thee now.
Stay with me but a while. It frightens me
When, in a sombre mood, you fly away
From my poor presence, and ominously talk
To unseen ears. Somewhat I have to tell ...

URSYNE.
Nay, tell it not, save to the one who holds
Thy heart's allegiance! The Earl still lives.
Thy lover was not slain. Carliol comes
To claim thy promised faith.

[Voices heard from the chapel chanting the Te Deum. Arlette falls in a swoon.
URSYNE.
[Contemptuously.]
Why does she fall?

OSBERN.
[With a sinister laugh.]
I think it must be joy! Te Deum laudamus.