University of Virginia Library

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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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!