Act 4 of a MS. Play - Scene 3
SCENE III. — A rugged court-yard inside a wall, with low blocks of stone lying about , Madeleine sitting upon one of them, veiled
Enter D E L IVRY .
De Liv. Oh grief and joy, which of you is't will kill me?
She stirs not; and she wears a dreadful veil;
And as she sits in that poor loneliness,
Methinks I could lie down, and kiss her feet,
And weep myself away for love and pity. —
I know not if she sees me. I'll step nearer. —
More near, — and listen if she speaks. No whisper.
Louise had spoken, had it been Louise.
She trembles! — ( He addresses her ) Oh! lest blushing ignorance trespass
On the lorn charities of one unknown,
Or lest it wrong sweet reverent memories
Sacred to one sole friend and to myself,
Be pleased to make some sign if I may speak,
And if it be such, let it be, I pray,
So full of meaning and of memory,
And all that would be said, if the stuffed throat
And tears could speak, that I may know, this heart
With beating heart is met. — Great God, she puts
Ashes upon her head, and bows to me! —
What for? what for? I did not bargain, sweet,
For that; nor ever dared to ask of thee
But that thine eyes would open their true orbs,
And see beyond us all. — If I have dashed not
My being at thy feet, 'twas but for fear
Of frighting thee, and starting the soft nerves
Made weak with sympathies beyond this earth,
Perhaps with saddest burthens of thine own.
I have thine hand, and the touch hurts thee not! —
Madeleine! — Say, we'll never part again.
Walk with me strongly, if you can, and leave
This place; — if you are feeble, lean upon me,
And I will tell the people, where you live,
That your betrothed has come to help with them,
And live, and die, with Madeleine.
Mad ( lifting her veil, and clasping her hands ). Behold
The lowliest, thankfullest, remorsefullest,
Yet happiest face that ever shone with tears.
De Liv. Look at me
Mad. Mine own!
De Liv. Who?
Mad. De Livry.
De Liv. You tremble still!
Mad. More; but it is with joy.
De Liv. Sit down again
Mad. Let me but hold you thus,
And with the very fierceness of the tremble
I seem to root tow'rds earth. And 'twill subside,
Fear having gone.
De Liv. What fear?
Mad. I know not what.
Fear of the heavenly newness of your sight,
And that with all my sorrow, I had yet
Borne not enough.
De Liv. To join the stars at once?
Better remain with poor frail earth and me.
Mad. The same, the same, — ever the same kind face
And generous words. Yet see — 'tis but two months,
And care has worn it!
De Liv. And yourself are weak,
For all your boasting. These sweet earnest shoulders
Pressing up tow'rds me thus, have yet somehow
A piteous stooping in their joys.
Mad. I seem
To have been bending ever since I saw you,
With prayers that you might prosper, and with pity
Ev'n for myself; — but mark — I suffered none
To thank me beyond what the truth made just —
Nay, let me say it. Shall not my whole soul
Henceforth, for ever, think out loud before you?
And then in still hours, when some patient slept,
And I sat looking on the unthought-of floor,
I would imagine, how, some day or other,
If you still wished it, nor had found a heart
More crystal clear in which to see your own,
I might take courage to creep back to you,
And whisper underneath some veil, and say,
" I have learnt and suffered, and I now can come,
And tell you I am poor, and beg you take me."
De Liv. Which last most generous and most blessed words
I tried at first to think were ever coming,
When the door opened.
Mad. And you think at last
The words are here.
De Liv. To my eternal joy.
Mad. Not so.
De Liv. Not all. I said not all of them,
Only the blessed poverty and the gift.
Mad. Nothing can I yet give you, but farewell,
Till in a letter I say more to-morrow;
And yet meantime I may say this, — Be glad,
And hopeful: and this also must I say,
My truth must now be tested on the spot,
And your faith too, and by myself who doubt it
Nor ever did, no more than you this palm,
Which I hold up ( he kisses it ) for what I knew was coming.
But I am Madeleine, am I not?
De Liv. Who doubts it?
Mad. And yours?
De Liv. Or that?
Mad. Therefore a truth-teller?
De Liv. All three, as surely as sun, moon, and stars.
Mad. And yet, as surely as I am Madeleine,
And yours, and true, I am not Madeleine:
Nor yours, till I am suffered to be yours;
Nor true, except I tell you I am false,
Seeming, nor lightly so, what I am not.
De Liv. Wonder can kill me not, ev'n with such words,
As long as you look at me with such eyes;
No, though they fill with tears.
Mad. Because I'm forced
To speech, for truth's sake; and yet not to speak,
For duty's sake; being ordered, when I do,
To say thus much alone, and then be mute.
Will you believe in me?
De Liv. Do I look at you?
Mad. Come then to-morrow to these convent walls,
Early as happy thoughts are glad to rise;
And at the wicket, where the portress waits,
You'll find a letter; one, shall make you think
The whole world changed, even yourself. By that,
Judge if the change can be for ill. Farewell.
The star that rules me, forces me away;
But only to prepare a glorious day.
Enter D E L IVRY .
De Liv. Oh grief and joy, which of you is't will kill me?
She stirs not; and she wears a dreadful veil;
And as she sits in that poor loneliness,
Methinks I could lie down, and kiss her feet,
And weep myself away for love and pity. —
I know not if she sees me. I'll step nearer. —
More near, — and listen if she speaks. No whisper.
Louise had spoken, had it been Louise.
She trembles! — ( He addresses her ) Oh! lest blushing ignorance trespass
On the lorn charities of one unknown,
Or lest it wrong sweet reverent memories
Sacred to one sole friend and to myself,
Be pleased to make some sign if I may speak,
And if it be such, let it be, I pray,
So full of meaning and of memory,
And all that would be said, if the stuffed throat
And tears could speak, that I may know, this heart
With beating heart is met. — Great God, she puts
Ashes upon her head, and bows to me! —
What for? what for? I did not bargain, sweet,
For that; nor ever dared to ask of thee
But that thine eyes would open their true orbs,
And see beyond us all. — If I have dashed not
My being at thy feet, 'twas but for fear
Of frighting thee, and starting the soft nerves
Made weak with sympathies beyond this earth,
Perhaps with saddest burthens of thine own.
I have thine hand, and the touch hurts thee not! —
Madeleine! — Say, we'll never part again.
Walk with me strongly, if you can, and leave
This place; — if you are feeble, lean upon me,
And I will tell the people, where you live,
That your betrothed has come to help with them,
And live, and die, with Madeleine.
Mad ( lifting her veil, and clasping her hands ). Behold
The lowliest, thankfullest, remorsefullest,
Yet happiest face that ever shone with tears.
De Liv. Look at me
Mad. Mine own!
De Liv. Who?
Mad. De Livry.
De Liv. You tremble still!
Mad. More; but it is with joy.
De Liv. Sit down again
Mad. Let me but hold you thus,
And with the very fierceness of the tremble
I seem to root tow'rds earth. And 'twill subside,
Fear having gone.
De Liv. What fear?
Mad. I know not what.
Fear of the heavenly newness of your sight,
And that with all my sorrow, I had yet
Borne not enough.
De Liv. To join the stars at once?
Better remain with poor frail earth and me.
Mad. The same, the same, — ever the same kind face
And generous words. Yet see — 'tis but two months,
And care has worn it!
De Liv. And yourself are weak,
For all your boasting. These sweet earnest shoulders
Pressing up tow'rds me thus, have yet somehow
A piteous stooping in their joys.
Mad. I seem
To have been bending ever since I saw you,
With prayers that you might prosper, and with pity
Ev'n for myself; — but mark — I suffered none
To thank me beyond what the truth made just —
Nay, let me say it. Shall not my whole soul
Henceforth, for ever, think out loud before you?
And then in still hours, when some patient slept,
And I sat looking on the unthought-of floor,
I would imagine, how, some day or other,
If you still wished it, nor had found a heart
More crystal clear in which to see your own,
I might take courage to creep back to you,
And whisper underneath some veil, and say,
" I have learnt and suffered, and I now can come,
And tell you I am poor, and beg you take me."
De Liv. Which last most generous and most blessed words
I tried at first to think were ever coming,
When the door opened.
Mad. And you think at last
The words are here.
De Liv. To my eternal joy.
Mad. Not so.
De Liv. Not all. I said not all of them,
Only the blessed poverty and the gift.
Mad. Nothing can I yet give you, but farewell,
Till in a letter I say more to-morrow;
And yet meantime I may say this, — Be glad,
And hopeful: and this also must I say,
My truth must now be tested on the spot,
And your faith too, and by myself who doubt it
Nor ever did, no more than you this palm,
Which I hold up ( he kisses it ) for what I knew was coming.
But I am Madeleine, am I not?
De Liv. Who doubts it?
Mad. And yours?
De Liv. Or that?
Mad. Therefore a truth-teller?
De Liv. All three, as surely as sun, moon, and stars.
Mad. And yet, as surely as I am Madeleine,
And yours, and true, I am not Madeleine:
Nor yours, till I am suffered to be yours;
Nor true, except I tell you I am false,
Seeming, nor lightly so, what I am not.
De Liv. Wonder can kill me not, ev'n with such words,
As long as you look at me with such eyes;
No, though they fill with tears.
Mad. Because I'm forced
To speech, for truth's sake; and yet not to speak,
For duty's sake; being ordered, when I do,
To say thus much alone, and then be mute.
Will you believe in me?
De Liv. Do I look at you?
Mad. Come then to-morrow to these convent walls,
Early as happy thoughts are glad to rise;
And at the wicket, where the portress waits,
You'll find a letter; one, shall make you think
The whole world changed, even yourself. By that,
Judge if the change can be for ill. Farewell.
The star that rules me, forces me away;
But only to prepare a glorious day.
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