University of Virginia Library

Scene II

Dusk. The garden as before. Enter Lady Margherita from the terrace above. She seats herself on a stone bench at the foot of the stair, and loses herself in thought.
Margherita:
I must confess or perish with denying
This in my heart which still refutes denial.
How many months now hath it tortured me?—
The time seems limitless to love that waits
Fruition; but to me where sweet its fruit
Ripened long months ago,—when first we met,—
The tree of promise ages with restraint
And dies of drought, its golden fruit upon it.
Had I not loved the troubadour in him
When first we met, my heart, without a word,
Had instantly surrendered to the man;
The man, so gentle, gallant, so superior.—
Now he must know—must know. This long delay
Must have an end in understanding. He,
In some way, by a look or word, must learn
What I have hid here in my heart so long.
All hesitancy must be put aside;
Passion must speak, the eloquent of tongue,
And what men name immodesty when woman
Confesses love to him who has not asked.—
The distance that the world of men has placed
Between his heart and mine has kept him silent.
The world of Love obliterates that distance,
And face to face now shall our spirits speak.
Long have I seen the love that waits on me
Homing within his eyes: and all his songs,
Between the lines, cry heartbreak things to me.—
Queens have revealed themselves to those they loved,
However low their station, and been happy.—
But he is nobler in his soul than all
That man holds noble, though a beggar born.—
Modesty, till now, has held me. It must go.—
I bade him write a poem. Such an one
As he would fashion for his heart's own mate,
And bring it here and read it me at dusk.
[A lute is heard approaching through the shrubbery of the upper terrace, to the left of the castle entrance.
He comes.—My heart, oh, let him hear and heed!—
Be eloquent, my soul, and let confession
Look from the casements of thine eyes, and speak
The heart's consent love hath no words to say.
[Cabestaing enters above, strumming a lute. Seeing the Lady Margherita seated on the lower terrace, he comes swiftly down the terrace stair, seizes both her hands impetuously in his and kisses

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them. Margherita continues, ecstatically:
What ministers of beauty walk with thee?
Surprise and Passion and pale Inspiration.—
Would that one thought of me were of their train!

Cabestaing:
Without that thought of thee they could not be,
Lady, by whom I live. There is no song,
Sung or unsung, of mine that draws not music
From thy high loveliness.

Margherita:
Thou art a poet:
Needs must thou speak thus when a Countess asks.
What says thy heart now?—Put thy art aside
And let the man speak. I would hear thy heart.

Cabestaing:
The artist is a portion of his art,
And what it speaks inevitably is part
Of what the man is.

Margherita:
Then convince me now.—
Hast thou a song in which the man 's submerged?
Which evidences the authority
Of that within the soul, naught can deny,
The truth, eternal, which shall win belief?

Cabestaing:
The song thou bad'st me write I have with me.

Margherita:
[Cabestaing seats himself at her side and, striking a few preliminary chords, he sings:

Margherita:
There is no passion in thy song: no throb
Of revelation that reveals.—Removed,
Remote, and unconvincing.—Oh, that thou
Couldst speak as I would have thee! As my heart
Makes eloquent with ecstasy my soul,
That urges to possession—Oh, that I
Should tell thee this!—But 't was thy song that prompted.
Thy song—thou might'st have sung to any Lady:
Me, Beatrix, or Ermengard. It lacks
Distinction, point. If thou wouldst win for aye
The heart of any woman, then put fire
And passion of possession in thy song.
The voice of Love should rise insistent; flame
With fierce compulsion; and its music burn.
I know this, for I love, and would be loved.

Cabestaing:
Ah, not by me! not by thy troubadour?

Margherita:
And wherefore not by him, my troubadour?
Look in mine eyes, thy hand upon thy heart,
And tell me what thou readest in mine eyes. ...
My soul has called thee wearily, night and day,
But thine hath never heard, being enthralled
With other fancies, bloodless, of thy mind.

Cabestaing:
I read thy secret many moons ago,
But curbed the longing here within my heart,
The deep response of passion to possess.
I would not let my tongue speak as my heart
Prompted and, frequently, almost compelled.
Lord Raymond towered, like despair, between
The gateway of thy loveliness and me.
Oh, could I fling his benefactions by,
And stand up free, unburdened of his gifts,
A man like other men, and with the right
To claim the one thing that, above all others,
My soul desires, this rose of Paradise,
That I would wear for ever on my heart;
Then could I sing as thou wouldst have me sing,
And say the words that halt now on my lips
For adequate utterance, and cry to Fate,—
“Do what thou wilt with me! do what thou wilt!
I have the one desire of my soul,
And nothing more can matter in the world!”

Margherita:
At last! at last!—Long have I yearned to hear
Words like these words: and read within thy face
Corroboration of their poetry.
This is the mightiest chanson thou hast sung.
Yet greater shalt thou sing: for Love shall charge
Thy words with moment such as none hath known,
Till every thought becomes a testament
Of beauty sure of immortality.—
How long hast loved me?

[His lute has fallen by his side. Both her hands are in his, and they gaze into each other's eyes.
Cabestaing:
From the very day
I met thee here at Roussillon, and Raymond
Made me thy gentleman-usher, and thou smil'dst
Upon my lute's endeavours in thy praise.
Not gradual was its growth, my rose of Love:
Sudden 't was there, full blown and breathing fire,
With all the rapture of existence in it.
Then in my soul were opened springs of light;
The fountain of my being ran with beauty,
Drawn from the inspiration of my love.
Why, ev'n my words took on the attributes,
It seemed, of my desire; and when I sang
Before my Lord and thee, surely, I thought,
I have betrayed myself; 't is manifest
To all how high my love is, how 't is she,
The unattainable.—At last attained.
[They kiss passionately.
Now let Fate send whatever it will send!
We 've had this moment that can never die. ...

Margherita:
Thou wilt sing many songs in praise of Love,
But none so poignant with eternity
As this one instant.—See; the stars and moon,
The fountain and the marble and the flowers
Have taken on a loveliness not of earth.
The rossignol hath taken fire of love
From our wild words and kisses, and pours forth
A strain more passionate than it ever poured.—
Older than all we dream is Love; and yet,
'T is young and fresh as this dew-heavy rose.—
[Plucking a rose.
Take it and wear it on thy heart of hearts:
It is the badge of my possession, love,
And marks thee mine as I am thine.

Cabestaing:
This kiss
Shall seal our love. (Kissing her, and plucking a rose and placing it in her hair.)

This rose be pledge to thee
Of constancy.—I feel the god within me
Burn as he never burned before. What light
Of majesty is round me! Bright of hair
And eyes and lips I feel it touch me now,
Possessing and compelling. Night is filled
With cosmic music, archangelic song,
And on its tide our souls, inseparably,
Are swept beyond the stars of circumstance.

Margherita:
Come with me now. We must not linger here.
I shall be missed. Perhaps these trees have eyes,
These flowers ears, they look and listen so.
In Hall they are at table. Raymond fumes
When I'm away.—He hath been moody of late.—
No one must speak of seeing us together.—
We must be careful.—He must never know—
Oh, God! must never know!—The beast, that sleeps,
Would put forth claws to rend thee, rend and tear.
[Possessed as it were with a dread of some approaching calamity she leans staring

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before her, her hands dejectedly clasped between her knees, while she repeats in a voice scarcely above a whisper:
Raymond must never know! must never know!

Cabestaing
(rising with a determined gesture):
For thy sake he must not; but not for mine.
I care not for myself if he should know.
I am a man, too, and I long to stand,
Bare sword to sword, before this man of men,
And wrest possession from him at a stroke.
I would proclaim it with exultant tongue
Were it not for thy honour, thy high name.
I am Lord Raymond's equal now. My soul
Stands loftier in the sight of Love and God,
Seigneured of thee, thy love, whose kiss but now
Has accoladed me thy knight of knights;
And badged me with nobility above
That of a king.—Wild words! wild words are mine.
And, as thou sayest, Raymond must not know.—
I'll guard my eyes and tongue.

Margherita:
Oh, suzerain
And overlord of all my heart's demesne,
Thou stirr'st my soul as nothing has before.
One kiss, and yet again, before we part.—
See, where the moon climbs o'er the donjon-tower!

Cabestaing:
Moon of my world of dreams, my moon of women!
Into the donjon of a soul thou shinest
Upon a prisoner there—Love, thou sett'st free. ...

[She passes up the terrace stair, while he remains below by the stone bench. She turns at the head of the stair for one parting look, then disappears swiftly into the castle. He remains, his eyes fixed on the entrance where she disappeared. Slow curtain.