University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

A banqueting room in Malaspina's palace.
Cyrano, Amadeus, Torrismond, and other young lords, drinking.
Amad.
Another health! Fill up the goblets, sirrah!
This wine was pressed from full and rolling grapes
By the white dance of a Circassian princess,
Whose breast had never aught but sunlight touched,
And her own tears: 'tis spicy, cool, and clear
As is a magic fount where rainbows grow,
Or nymphs by moonlight bathe their tremulous limbs;
And works an intellectual alchemy,
Touching the thoughts to sunshine. Now, to whom,—
To what young saint, between whose breathing paps
Love's inspiration lies,—shall we devote
This last and richest draught: with whose soft name
Shall we wash bright our hearts? Say, Cyrano.

Cyran.
Let Torrismond be sponsor for this bowl.
He sate so still last night, that by plump Cupid,
That merry, cherry-lipped, delicious god,
Whose name is writ on roses, I must think
He's paid away his soul in broken sighs,
Glass oaths, and tears of crocodilish coinage,
For one quick finger-kiss. Ask him, what name,
Made to be written upon hearts and trees,
And grace a sonnet, shall be sugar here,
Making the juice steam music.

Torris.
I beseech you,
Waste not this Araby of words on me:
I'm dull, but not in love.

Cyran.
Not ancle-deep?
What means a leaning head, eye-lids ajar,
And lips thick-sown with whispers? Sir, I say,
Before to-morrow you'll be soused in love,
To the ear's tip. In truth, it will be so;
Sure as an almanac.

Torris.
I lay my fate
Upon your mercy: e'en tie love-knots in it,
If you've nought else to do. Good Cyrano,
And you, sirs, all pray drink. I fear the fog
Of my most stupid dulness spreads.

Amad.
We'll drink
One cup,—one more liquid delight, my friends;
Then for the masquerade at Signor Paulo's.—

Cyran.
Ay; dedicated to the sweet To be,
The lady Future of our comrade's love.

A guest.
What rhymes unborn are shut within that word!

Amad.
(They drink.

Torris.
To night, I thank you,
It is against my will; indeed I cannot;
I'm vilely out of tune,—my thoughts are cracked,
And my words dismal. 'Pray you, pardon me:
Some other night we will, like Bacchanals,
Shiver the air with laughter and rough songs,
And be most jovial madmen.

Amad.
Be it so,
If be it must. We bid you, sir, farewell.

Torris.
[Exeunt Amadeus and others: manent Torrismond and Cyrano.

Cyran.
If it does not offend you, suffer me—

Torris.
Offend me! No; thou dost not, Cyrano;
I do offend myself. Hadst thou but eyes
To see the spirit toiling in this breast,
How low a wretch should I appear to thee;
How pitifully weak! Now tell me, sir,—
I shrink not from the truth, although it stab,
And beg it from your mouth,—what think you of me?

Cyran.
Of you, my lord?

Torris.
Yes, yes; my words, my manners,
My disposition, will,—how seem they to you?

Cyran.
Sir, my heart speaks of you as one most kind;
Spirited and yet mild: a man more noble
Breathes not his maker's air.

Torris.
Stay, my good friend;
I did not ask for flattery.

Cyran.
Nor I answer it;
Saying, that here I shake him by the hand
That has no better in humanity:
A fine, free spirit.

Torris.
You had better say
A whirring, singing, empty wine-bubble,
Like one of these that left us. So I was;
Vain, futile, frivolous; a boy, a butterfly,—
In semblance: but inside, by heaven! a depth
Of thoughts most earnest, an unfuelled flame
Of self-devouring love. Cyrano, Cyrano,
I yearn, and thirst, and ache to be beloved,
As I could love,—through my eternal soul,
Immutably, immortally, intensely,
Immeasurably. Oh! I am not at home
In this December world, with men of ice,
Cold sirs and madams. That I had a heart,
By whose warm throbs of love to set my soul!
I tell thee I have not begun to live,
I'm not myself, till I've another self
To lock my dearest, and most secret thoughts in;
Change petty faults, and whispering pardons with;
Sweetly to rule, and Oh! most sweetly serve.—

Cyran.
Have you no father,—nor a friend? Yet I,
I, Torrismond, am living, and the duke.

Torris.
Forgive me, sir, forgive me: I am foolish;
I've said I know not what, I know not why;
'Tis nothing,—fancies; I'll to bed;—'tis nothing;
Worth but a smile, and then to be forgotten.
Good-night: to-morrow I will laugh at this.

Cyran.
I'll say no more but that I hope you will.

[Exit.
Torris.
I knew it would be so. He thinks me now
Weak, unintelligible, fanciful,—
A boy shut up in dreams, a shadow-catcher:
So let him think. My soul is where he sees not,
Around, above, below. Yes, yes; the curse
Of being for a little world too great,
Demanding more than nature has to give,
And drinking up, for ever and in vain,
The shallow, tasteless skimmings of their love,
Through this unfathomable fever here.—
A thought of comfort comes this way; its warmth
I feel, although I see it not. How's this?
There's something I half know; yes, I remember,—
The feast last night: a dear, ingenuous girl
Poured soft, smooth hope upon my dashing passions,
Until they tossed their billowy selves to sleep.
I'll seek her, try her: in this very garden
Often she walks; thither I'll bear my wishes,
And may she prove the echo of their craving!

[Exit.