Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays. Various
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INTERLUDE
By Federico More
Scene: A Salon.
Marquise [entering].
It is chic yet full of peril to be a marquise, betrothed
And on the brim of nineteen, with two whole years'
Devotion at the convent behind her. Well may the man
I am to marry place his faith in me.
And yet, I am obsessed with the sweet indecision
Of having met a poet who will shrive me in verse,
Drape my life with the vigor of his youth
Yet never kiss me.
Poet [entering].
I was looking for you, madame.
Marquise.
Well, here I am.
Poet.
Does the dance tire you or the music displease?
Marquise.
It has never before displeased me, and yet—now—
Poet.
In a life
Happy as yours, joy is reborn,
Your moods are versatile, and charming, marquise....
Bad humor de luxe ... perhaps mere caprice....
Marquise.
Perhaps mere caprice ... perhaps; but I am prey
To something more profound, something warmer....
Poet.
Have I not told you
That in happy lives such as your high-placed life
There is nothing of ennui, nothing to lead astray,
Nothing to spur you on, nothing to unfold,
Nor any dim wraith stalking by your side?
Marquise.
Ah, you have uttered my thought. I feel as though a ghost walked with me.
Poet.
And I could almost swear
You do not feel your grief molded as the phantom wills.
Marquise.
I do feel it. There is a spell,
An echo from afar.
Poet.
Nerves ... the dance ... fatigue!
Too many perfumes ... too many mirrors....
Marquise.
And the lack of a voice I love.
Poet.
Oh do not be romantic. Don't distort life.
Romance has always proved an evil scourge.
Marquise.
But you, a poet ... are not you romantic?
Poet.
I? Never.
Marquise.
Then how do you write your verse?
Poet.
I make poems
The way your seamstresses make your dresses.
Marquise.
With a pattern and a measure?
Poet.
With a pattern and a measure.
Marquise.
Impossible! Poets give tongue to truth sublime.
Poet.
Pardon, marquise, but it is folly
To think that poems are something more than needles
On which to thread the truth.
Marquise.
Truly, are they no more than that?
Poet.
Ephemeral and vain, in this age
Poetry is woven of agile thought.
Marquise.
What of the sort that weeps and yearns most woe-begone?
Poignancy that is the ending of a poem?
Poet.
All that
Is reached with the noble aid of a consonant
As great love is reached with a kiss.
Marquise.
And what of the void in which my soul is lost
Since no one, poet ... no one cries his need for me....
Poet.
Do not say that, marquise. I can assure you....
Marquise.
That I am a motif for a handful of consonants?
Poet.
Nonsense! I swear it by your clear eyes....
Marquise.
Comparable, I suppose, in verse to two clear diamonds....
Poet.
You scoff, but love is very serious....
Marquise.
Love serious, poet? A betrothal, it may be, is serious,
Arranged by grave-faced parents with stately rites;
Yawns are serious and so is repletion.
Poet.
But tell me, whence comes this deep cynicism?
Marquise.
Oh, do not take it ill. I say it but in jest,
Merely because I like to laugh at the abyss,
What do you think, poet?
Poet.
Well, marquise, I must confess
That I am capable of feeling various loves.
Marquise.
Then you were born for various women.
Poet.
No, I was born for various sorrows.
Marquise.
Or, by the same token, for various pleasures.
Poet.
Sheer vanity! Women always presume
That their mere earthly presence gives men pleasure.
Marquise.
You are clear-witted
And a pattern of such good common-sense. Who would believe
That a poet, dabbler in every sort of folly,
May turn discreet when mysterious love beckons?
Poet.
Mysterious love? Marquise, that is not so.... Love has abandons
Irrestrainable.
Marquise.
And