Scene 2

[Gwymplane starts imperceptibly. The malicious Duchess, reading his thought, shuts the window and locks it. Gwymplane looks at her in terror.]

Unconscious, charming thief of affection that should tonight, if ever, have been faithful! So [half to herself] one can be jealous of a man without caring a rap for him! Well, it is something to have found out that vanity is the ruling passion. I shall take more care of its feelings than ever after this. But—your story, little blind girl.

O—I stretched my arms out against this gentleman and prayed, and my prayer was heard, for Phedro came and said he thought he had heard you call, and this man went out telling me to remain, when a pair of hands suddenly laid hold upon my wrists and led me out into the air, then pushed me into this room.

[Gwymplane looks at her in a horror of bewilderment, the point of her conduct beginning to pierce his heart.]

It seems to me, child, that upon this somewhat fantastic night we have perhaps changed partners.

[Gwymplane stands rigidly silent. The Duchess plucks a flower from a vase, throwing the petals over Dea's head in a gesture half gay, half brutal.]

Still you and I have proven to each other, with and without intent, the existence of a quality common to the world at large—faithlessness, look you.

[With an almost violent gesture she drags Dea over to Gwymplane and places her hand upon the familiar form.]

[Feeling with gradually hurrying, hysterical fingers.]

How wonderful to find you in this terrible nightmare—like a fire flaming up before snow-lost feet.

[She puts her hand upon his shoulder, the Duchess regarding them through her lorgnette.]

What an idyl! How it refreshes me to watch. However, come, clown, take the girl and begone. Here is a crown for your love—it did not please me, you know, so you are getting far more than your deserts.

I do not understand, but for what is love save to pass understanding? [She puts her arm through his] Come, let us go.

What a charming way of conducting life, little blind girl! When your lover is tired of pursuing his latest fancy and has been thrown out [almost stamping her foot] he will return and grow warm in the rays of your faith.

Gwymplane will not fancy anyone save me. Ursus says so, and besides I know it—I could not live if I did not know it.

[Gwymplane steps menacingly towards her.]

Clown, clown, you shall not murder me because I do not champion your deceits. [to Dea] Your lover does not care that I should repeat the poetry of his conversation to me this evening, but it was such rare poetry—more rare than I wanted in fact. [mimicking derisively] "I feel as if we were in a black barge upon a scarlet sea, as if in a moment our boat would dip over the horizon line, and we two should be lost forever," or—here is another pretty line—"I feel as if all the rays of light in the world were flowing from behind the chalice of your pale face."

Maybe it is a stanza that he says to all of us. Poets are peculiar creatures—they have their lines by heart and insist upon repeating them, even at the wrong moment.

Gwymplane, my love—for you are my love—I am terribly hurt somewhere—Let us go.

[Supporting Dea and turning to the Duchess.]

Go, clown. I can add the situation up myself. No, I think I want another word with you.

[Gwymplane, unheeding, tries to pass her with Dea upon his arm.]

Fool, obey me, or embrace a peril that will choke you and your little friend of disobedience. Come, she shall await you in my private conservatory.

[She makes a gesture as if to separate them.]

Nay, suspect no more mousetraps. Lead her there yourself; see that she is comfortable among the candles and flowers, then return to me for your own interest and for hers.

[Gwymplane leads Dea out door on left and returns.]

You have had a strange evening for a mountebank—an evening filled with such events as to strain almost any amount of discretion.

Not of ourselves, of course. No man, not even a clown, but draws a veil across his rejected flesh.

But in that spiritual condition which follows being repudiated your muscles will probably be seeking, straining, to express your mind and the direction will probably be to avenge your blind girl.

Ah, Madame, I am weary of your commands. Over my actions you have a certain power, but, as my mind and what shall come out of it is still mysterious to me, I am afraid you must share the discomfort of my own ignorance.

Listen to me, clown. You were brought to me tonight to relieve me of a whim, I admit that. And you brought me no relief.

The question interests me dispassionately, Madame. But, considering you waived my personal defects [he winces], just why did I not—please you?

But I told you before—I wanted a clown, and you talk like the very essence of all these lords and poets. But that is aside—I am to be married tomorrow.

I know,—to him—and you wish him spared the public lash of scandal, I suppose.

He need not be spared it entirely—I do not ask that. You can make plea to the Queen, if you wish, the day after the ceremony—only not tomorrow. Much rests on that for me.

Madame, with the insolence of your class, you are asking favours of one whose degradation you have sought and shared.

Perhaps, but you must remember that I am the sister of the Queen and can impose obedience to the most insolent favours I choose to demand.

[A loud knock from the door leading into the conservatory. Gwymplane starts towards the door. The Duchess holds him back.]

I heard you were so indisposed you could not come to me even upon the most urgent matter.

[The Duchess signifies with a gesture of fury that she is aware of being fatally played against. In the meantime the Queen is putting her own key into the lock. Josephine turns with supplication to Gwymplane, at length too afflicted by the situation to guard her poise.]

You would not talk like a clown. Be——I know you—a gentleman. Save me! Save us!

[She points to a door.]

[Bowing low and casting an ironic eye upon the panic of the Duchess.]

[The door barely closes upon him as the Queen enters continuing her speech.]

Consequently, if you are too ill to attend the Queen, it is but human for the Queen to await anxiously upon you. But, my dear—

[The Duchess is biting her lip with ill-concealed rage.]

[She plucks the curtain aside, and lets it drop, but continues looking about her with assumed carelessness.]

Nothing more disturbing than being continually interrupted—I do not speak of your Majesty's visit—when I wished to remain undisturbed.

How annoying to have one's solitary reveries continually scattered by people hammering at the door. What did they all want? Who were they?

[She plucks a large bit of heliotrope from the bowl and bites it rather vengefully.]

But, my sister, do confide in me the august matter that can necessitate your being abroad at such an unearthly hour.

You will forgive my poking about, Josephine? But you are so vague—all artistic and beautiful natures are vague—you might easily have forgotten that Piccolo is hanging about somewhere waiting to carry a last goodnight word to your impatient bridegroom. Why, there is a strange girl sitting at this very moment in your conservatory. Her face was somehow familiar.

Ah, yes, a late hamper of my wedding clothes. The girl awaits for me to repay her pains for coming. But, indeed, your Majesty, I would be flattered if you would accept my word that we are alone here.

Dear child, naturally, I accept your conviction that there is no one about, but I do not trust your memory. I admire too much the artist in you for that. Ah! Do I hear someone scratching apologetically upon the window? [smiling] Really, no wonder your sense of privacy is outraged tonight.

[Looking at the Queen, whose ironic countenance struggles with real emotion.]

A girl—one of the troupe of mountebanks—a blind girl. Phedro brought her in with a most important letter for the Queen. He left her a moment, returned, and she was gone. He hesitated to disturb you at this late hour; so I told him I would come myself and ask.

Ah, with a note for me. Is it only that? For Heaven's sake, don't go on talking through a closed window, Charles. It gives such an air of tension to everything. Josephine, open the window to Charles.

[Josephine obeys.]

[Stepping into the room so befogged with his own agitation as to have no room left for astonishment at the presence of the Queen.]

My dear Charles, do you think I am in the habit of not noticing the intrusion of perfectly strange women into my apartment at night?

[Duchess smiles enigmatically.]

Why are you so anxious that this message from the blind girl is delayed? Or are you just naturally upset about everything tonight, being so near the altar?

Ah, yes, so near the altar. Tell me how have you spent these last free hours, Charles?

[Charles glances at the Duchess in alarm. The Queen intercepts the look and grows a little uneasy herself.]

You seem to be throwing dirt at one another out of a bonbonnière. I have a feeling I should extremely dislike to hear you actually explain yourselves. I wonder where Phedro is. He has hinted to me of extraordinary news for tonight. [she opens the window and looks out] And now it is almost dawn.

[She calls Phedro, and opens the door through which she has entered the room, calling Phedro.]

[He enters. The Duchess gives him a fearful look, which he returns with a grim smile.]

You promised significant news for me after midnight and in the apartment of the Duchess. I have come. It is long beyond midnight. What have you to say?

[Phedro steps at once to the door where the mountebank is concealed, but the Duchess with a haughty look actually forestalls him, opening the door herself. Gwymplane steps into the room. The Queen pretends to be speechless. The Prince is.]

Oh, this mountebank was merely seeking the blind girl from his troupe, who had been admitted, or possibly abducted, into the palace.

[At the word "abducted" Gwymplane steps menacingly up to the Prince. The Queen catches the look of hauteur and hatred that is exchanged between them. She hastily discovers some growing discomfort from which she slides away in her usual fashion by pursuing another channel of thought.]

What you are or would be, Charles—a star of the nobility, shedding its single glory for the last time.

Come, come, cease your language. Why was this mountebank in your Grace's closet?

He flew to the nearest door in the opposite direction from whence came your Majesty's voice. I suppose he lost his head in his embarrassment. That is a quality of the lower classes.

Your answers are tedious evasions. They explain nothing save what you wish to conceal—your dishonour. [she turns to Gwymplane] Mountebank, I think you have ruined and frustrated the life of a most important personage in our court.

No? Then what has happened, Phedro? And do drop your metaphor. We are not wise enough so late to do it justice.

Two stars have blundered together, that is all. Her Grace the Duchess of Beaumont and His Highness Prince Ian of Vaucluse.

My brother? Here? But my brother is dead! Where can you have imagined to have seen my brother?

[Approaches Gwymplane making him a low bow.]

[Gwymplane, as if he saw madness, loses the nervous control of his features by which he can efface his terrible grin, and his face grows convulsed with it.]

Here is some monstrous joke devised by Phedro. Why, Josephine, if this were true, then he—the clown—would be your fiancé, nor have a right to reject you, since sharing in your rather disreputable offence. Ah, what folly! [she places her hand upon her heart, gazing at Prince Charles] But how I would like to credit the wildest phantasy tonight.

[The Duchess is looking on disdainfully as if witnessing rather a boring farce.]

When the thing that we have longed for comes true, it may sound like madness. I have every credential to prove my extraordinary announcement.

[Looking whimsically from one to another.]

Ah, let us suppose for a moment, Josephine, that this were true. Surely you would be happy in a marriage so fortified by natural selection, and, as for Charles—the loss of certain things might be replaced by others.

[She gazes at him tenderly.]

[In a sudden outburst of confusion and ennui.]

We are all gone mad. I feel as if we were in a web. I marry with a clown—the clown a lord—the lord a deformity. [She shudders]

O, I cannot stand this hellish whirl another instant. It is biting my ankles off and blinding my eyes in a red sting of madness.

[He attempts to throw open the door. Phedro swiftly forestalls him with widespread arms and a grim expression; Gwymplane turns away bowed from his ferocity of pain and bewilderment, while Phedro, with an incredible, greased swiftness, lets himself out the door, and returns almost upon the instant with Dea terrified, supported on his arm.]

[Dea takes it from her breast. Gwymplane looks at the letter in agonized amazement.]

[Dea makes a low curtsey, and holds out the letter. The Queen takes it from her with a strange, stiff gesture.]

[Reads the letter, her face played upon by expressions varying from incredulity to ironic joy. Turning to Phedro.]

[Finishes the letter and stands looking intently ahead of her. She suddenly speaks in a rather strange voice.]

I hate to be trite, but my inner laughter is far too loud to be tamed into wit; so I think I must use the stock phrase, and observe that truth is never so tedious as fiction. [she passes her hand over her brow] Come, clown, you may go, or rather my lord, you have my earnest leave to exchange our presence for the open air, while we sit in judgment over these discoveries. You may take the young lady with you, who apparently cannot see [with a bitter look at Charles] the interest she evokes.

[Gwymplane drags Dea out half fainting, but turns in the door, facing them all.]

Take care. It is dangerous to be marionettes too long—even now your limbs may be turning into sawdust.

[They exit without paying the Queen respect.]

[Turning to Prince Charles and then to the Duchess.]

How very uncomfortable he will make the House of Lords. Artists are terrible people, especially when they get out of their métier, and even if they were born gentlemen. [she takes a hand of the Duchess and of Charles] I request you both to be in my cabinet tomorrow morning as early as you can manage to rouse yourselves after this rather full evening, and we shall see what it is fair to do in love [she glances softly and rather whimsically at the Prince] and war. [looking fixedly at Josephine]

[She throws both their hands away from her as if they had stung her. An equerry opens the door, and she exits abruptly.] Prince and the Duchess [bowing low to her departing back and murmuring]:

Scene 2

[It is night upon the deck of a small schooner, whose sails are outlined against leaden streaks, commencing to herald the dawn.

Dea lies extended upon a low couch, beside the chair of Ursus. In the dim light her form possesses the eternal majesty of sculpture. From afar the voices of sailors chanting some sad litany of the sea. Ursus leans back in his chair, looking up into the face of departing night. Gwymplane paces in and out, anguished with unrest.]

Nothing follows us. It never occurred to them that a man should want to escape good fortune. They never think to bolt the door when they have gilded the walls. O, how profitably one can surprise these people who think the entire world reflects their contemplation of self.

[Who has not heard the preceding speech at all, comes in, halting abruptly.]

Life, life. It has suddenly burst its leash—torn in among us like a mad dog and wounded us, mortally, I think, [glances at Dea] O, the pain, the tragedy that can come out of nonsense. Will Dea live, can Dea live?

Perhaps, perhaps. How quiet and smiling she looks. There is some great pathos about her peacefulness as if Heaven were restoring to her something cruelly lost in this world.

[Walking over to her couch and wringing his hands.]

[Ursus rising and soothing his agonized posture with a gentle hand, which Gwymplane shakes off.]

Oh, there seems no corner in myself into which I can creep, pull down the blinds, and shut out those horrible, jeering, grotesque, indecent processionals that I joined and made last night.

My poor son! You threw your body to the jackals for an hour. You forgot there was a soul in your body to get mangled along with the rest.

Most people perish from thinking like you. [earnestly] Somewhere in you is a blinding, transfigured face, struggling up out of the sprawled, coiling limbs of infinite pasts, yet put it in certain conditions and it retains its fearful stamp of former bestiality. But during death, death the last condition we follow, what a likeness unto God appears upon the features of the worst of us.

Oh, how can I ever again catch at her lovely virginal hands? [he lifts one very gently] Her hands have the sudden beauty and strange fragrance of flowers that bloom among shadows. How can I ever press my lips against them again without bruising their dear shy softness by this weight of unworthiness I carry within me?

Hope is for people who have not such keen noses as I. I can smell the decay in myself far too well to go near the person I love with it. Only to sleep, to sleep, and not have to make my way any more, through these biting, malicious, stifling memories. How can a man's soul exist after he knows what sodden morasses the body can clamp him into!

[Ursus is immediately at her side and bends over her. Gwymplane stands looking down over the back of her couch.]

[She puts her hand on her heart. Gwymplane winces.]

Let me put my hand across your forehead and smooth you back into dreams as I used to when you were a child. That will be best.

I wonder, have I not passed what is best. You say that I am on a boat, but it seems to me I am going somewhere by myself, swiftly, eagerly, and that I am carrying my love for Gwymplane like a sheaf of lilies under my arm.

[Gwymplane bends over, whispering her name out of the bursting anguish of his heart.]

Gwymplane, I feel your breath across my cheek. I feel your tears upon my face. Oh, why are you crying?

My love, my dear love, there is too much beauty about you. You are an answer to the last wish of a man's heart that blows him over the gates of Paradise. Anyone would weep if the face of God were to shine out suddenly through their prayers.

[She puts her hand tenderly on his. Suddenly she raises herself on her elbow.]

Gwymplane! Ursus! I think—I think I am about to see! There are bright stretches of colour beginning behind my eyes.

[She lifts herself into a sitting position, stretching out her arms. There is a long pause.]