In a Balcony/III


 * enters.

Norbert.

Well? we have but one minute and one word—

Constance.

I am yours, Norbert!

Norbert.

Yes, mine.

Constance.

Not till now! You were mine. Now I give myself to you.

Norbert.

Constance?

Constance.

Your own! I know the thriftier way Of giving—haply, 'tis the wiser way. Meaning to give a treasure, I might dole Coin after coin out (each, as that were all, With a new largess still at each despair) And force you keep in sight the deed, preserve Exhaustless till the end my part and yours, My giving and your taking; both our joys Dying together. Is it the wiser way? I choose the simpler; I give all at once. Know what you have to trust to, trade upon! Use it, abuse it,—anything but think Hereafter, "Had I known she loved me so, And what my means, I might have thriven with it." This is your means. I give you all myself.

Norbert.

I take you and thank God.

Constance.

Look on through years! We cannot kiss, a second day like this; Else were this earth no earth.

Norbert.

With this day's heat We shall go on through years of cold.

Constance.

So, best! —I try to see those years—I think I see. You walk quick and new warmth comes; you look back And lay all to the first glow—not sit down For ever brooding on a day like this While seeing embers whiten and love die. Yes, love lives best in its effect; and mine, Full in its own life, yearns to live in yours.

Norbert.

Just so. I take and know you all at once. Your soul is disengaged so easily, Your face is there, I know you; give me time, Let me be proud and think you shall know me. My soul is slower: in a life I roll The minute out whereto you condense yours— The whole slow circle round you I must move, To be just you. I look to a long life To decompose this minute, prove its worth. 'Tis the sparks' long succession one by one Shall show you, in the end, what fire was crammed In that mere stone you struck: how could you know, If it lay ever unproved in your sight, As now my heart lies? your own warmth would hide Its coldness, were it cold.

Constance.

But how prove, how?

Norbert.

Prove in my life, you ask?

Constance.

Quick, Norbert—how?

Norbert.

That's easy told. I count life just a stuff To try the soul's strength on, educe the man. Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve. As with the body—he who hurls a lance Or heaps up stone on stone, shows strength alike: So must I seize and task all means to prove And show this soul of mine, you crown as yours, And justify us both.

Constance.

Could you write books, Paint pictures! One sits down in poverty And writes or paints, with pity for the rich.

Norbert.

And loves one's painting and one's writing, then, And not one's mistress! All is best, believe, And we best as no other than we are. We live, and they experiment on life— Those poets, painters, all who stand aloof To overlook the farther. Let us be The thing they look at! I might take your face And write of it and paint it—to what end? For whom? what pale dictatress in the air Feeds, smiling sadly, her fine ghost-like form With earth's real blood and breath, the beauteous life She makes despised for ever? You are mine, Made for me, not for others in the world, Nor yet for that which I should call my art, That cold calm power to see how fair you look. I come to you; I leave you not, to write Or paint. You are, I am: let Rubens there Paint us!

Constance.

So, best!

Norbert.

I understand your soul. You live, and rightly sympathize with life, With action, power, success. This way is straight; And time were short beside, to let me change The craft my childhood learnt: my craft shall serve. Men set me here to subjugate, enclose, Manure their barren lives, and force thence fruit First for themselves, and afterward for me In the due tithe; the task of some one soul, Through ways of work appointed by the world. I am not bid create—men see no star Transfiguring my brow to warrant that— But find and bind and bring to bear their wills. So I began: to-night sees how I end. What if it see, too, power's first outbreak here Amid the warmth, surprise and sympathy, And instincts of the heart that teach the head? What if the people have discerned at length The dawn of the next nature, novel brain Whose will they venture in the place of theirs, Whose work, they trust, shall find them as novel ways To untried heights which yet he only sees? I felt it when you kissed me. See this Queen, This people—in our phrase, this mass of men— See how the mass lies passive to my hand Now that my hand is plastic, with you by To make the muscles iron! Oh, an end Shall crown this issue as this crowns the first! My will be on this people! then, the strain, The grappling of the potter with his clay, The long uncertain struggle,—the success And consummation of the spirit-work, Some vase shaped to the curl of the god's lip, While rounded fair for human sense to see The Graces in a dance men recognize With turbulent applause and laughs of heart! So triumph ever shall renew itself; Ever shall end in efforts higher yet, Ever begin. ..

Constance.

I ever helping?

Norbert.

Thus!

[As he embraces her, the Queen enters.]

Constance.

Hist, madam—so I have performed my part. You see your gratitude's true decency, Norbert? A little slow in seeing it! Begin, to end the sooner! What's a kiss?

Norbert.

Constance?

Constance.

Why, must I teach it you again? You want a witness to your dullness, sir? What was I saying these ten minutes long? Then I repeat—when some young handsome man Like you has acted out a part like yours, Is pleased to fall in love with one beyond, So very far beyond him, as he says— So hopelessly in love that but to speak Would prove him mad,—he thinks judiciously, And makes some insignificant good soul Like me, his friend, adviser, confidant And very stalking-horse to cover him In following after what he dares not face. When his end's gained—(sir, do you understand?) When she, he dares not face, has loved him first, —May I not say so, madam?—tops his hope, And overpasses so his wildest dream, With glad consent of all, and most of her The confidant who brought the same about— Why, in the moment when such joy explodes, I do hold that the merest gentleman Will not start rudely from the stalking-horse, Dismiss it with a "There, enough of you!" Forget it, show his back unmannerly: But like a liberal heart will rather turn And say, "A tingling time of hope was ours; Betwixt the fears and falterings, we two lived A chanceful time in waiting for the prize: The confidant, the Constance, served not ill. And though I shall forget her in due time, Her use being answered now, as reason bids, Nay as herself bids from her heart of hearts,— Still, she has rights, the first thanks go to her, The first good praise goes to the prosperous tool, And the first—which is the last—rewarding kiss."

Norbert.

Constance, it is a dream—ah, see, you smile!

Constance.

So, now his part being properly performed, Madam, I turn to you and finish mine As duly; I do justice in my turn. Yes, madam, he has loved you—long and well; He could not hope to tell you so—'twas I Who served to prove your soul accessible, I led his thoughts on, drew them to their place, When they had wandered else into despair, And kept love constant toward its natural aim. Enough, my part is played; you stoop half-way And meet us royally and spare our fears: 'Tis like yourself. He thanks you, so do I. Take him—with my full heart! my work is praised By what comes of it. Be you happy, both! Yourself—the only one on earth who can— Do all for him, much more than a mere heart Which though warm is not useful in its warmth As the silk vesture of a queen! fold that Around him gently, tenderly. For him— For him,—he knows his own part!

Norbert.

Have you done? I take the jest at last. Should I speak now? Was yours the wager, Constance, foolish child, Or did you but accept it? Well—at least You lose by it.

Constance.

Nay, madam, 'tis your turn! Restrain him still from speech a little more, And make him happier as more confident! Pity him, madam, he is timid yet! Mark, Norbert! Do not shrink now! Here I yield My whole right in you to the Queen, observe! With her go put in practice the great schemes You teem with, follow the career else closed— Be all you cannot be except by her! Behold her!—Madam, say for pity's sake Anything—frankly say you love him! Else He'll not believe it: there's more earnest in His fear than you conceive: I know the man!

Norbert.

I know the woman somewhat, and confess I thought she had jested better: she begins To overcharge her part. I gravely wait Your pleasure, madam: where is my reward?

Queen.

Norbert, this wild girl (whom I recognize Scarce more than you do, in her fancy-fit, Eccentric speech and variable mirth, Not very wise perhaps and somewhat bold, Yet suitable, the whole night's work being strange) —May still be right: I may do well to speak And make authentic what appears a dream To even myself. For, what she says, is true: Yes, Norbert—what you spoke just now of love, Devotion, stirred no novel sense in me, But justified a warmth felt long before. Yes, from the first—I loved you, I shall say: Strange! but I do grow stronger, now 'tis said. Your courage helps mine: you did well to speak To-night, the night that crowns your twelvemonths' toil: But still I had not waited to discern Your heart so long, believe me! From the first The source of so much zeal was almost plain, In absence even of your own words just now Which hazarded the truth. 'Tis very strange, But takes a happy ending—in your love Which mine meets: be it so—as you chose me, So I choose you.

Norbert.

And worthily you choose. I will not be unworthy your esteem, No, madam. I do love you; I will meet Your nature, now I know it. This was well. I see,—you dare and you are justified: But none had ventured such experiment, Less versed than you in nobleness of heart, Less confident of finding such in me. I joy that thus you test me ere you grant The dearest richest beauteousest and best Of women to my arms: 'tis like yourself. So—back again into my part's set words— Devotion to the uttermost is yours, But no, you cannot, madam, even you, Create in me the love our Constance does. Or—something truer to the tragic phrase— Not yon magnolia-bell superb with scent Invites a certain insect—that's myself— But the small eye-flower nearer to the ground. I take this lady.

Constance.

Stay—not hers, the trap— Stay, Norbert—that mistake were worst of all! He is too cunning, madam! It was I, I, Norbert, who. ..

Norbert.

You, was it, Constance? Then, But for the grace of this divinest hour Which gives me you, I might not pardon here! I am the Queen's; she only knows my brain: She may experiment upon my heart And I instruct her too by the result. But you, sweet, you who know me, who so long Have told my heart-beats over, held my life In those white hands of yours,—it is not well!

Constance.

Tush! I have said it, did I not say it all? The life, for her—the heart-beats, for her sake!

Norbert.

Enough! my cheek grows red, I think. Your test? There's not the meanest woman in the world, Not she I least could love in all the world, Whom, did she love me, did love prove itself, I dare insult as you insult me now. Constance, I could say, if it must be said, "Take back the soul you offer, I keep mine!" But—"Take the soul still quivering on your hand, The soul so offered, which I cannot use, And, please you, give it to some playful friend, For—what's the trifle he requites me with?" I, tempt a woman, to amuse a man, That two may mock her heart if it succumb? No: fearing God and standing 'neath his heaven, I would not dare insult a woman so, Were she the meanest woman in the world, And he, I cared to please, ten emperors!

Constance.

Norbert!

Norbert.

I love once as I live but once. What case is this to think or talk about? I love you. Would it mend the case at all If such a step as this killed love in me? Your part were done: account to God for it! But mine—could murdered love get up again, And kneel to whom you please to designate, And make you mirth? It is too horrible. You did not know this, Constance? now you know That body and soul have each one life, but one: And here's my love, here, living, at your feet.

Constance.

See the Queen! Norbert—this one more last word— If thus you have taken jest for earnest—thus Loved me in earnest. ..

Norbert.

Ah, no jest holds here! Where is the laughter in which jests break up, And what this horror that grows palpable? Madam—why grasp you thus the balcony? Have I done ill? Have I not spoken truth? How could I other? Was it not your test, To try me, what my love for Constance meant? Madam, your royal soul itself approves, The first, that I should choose thus! so one takes A beggar,—asks him, what would buy his child? And then approves the expected laugh of scorn Returned as something noble from the rags. Speak, Constance, I'm the beggar! Ha, what's this? You two glare each at each like panthers now. Constance, the world fades; only you stand there! You did not, in to-night's wild whirl of things, Sell me—your soul of souls, for any price? No—no—'tis easy to believe in you! Was it your love's mad trial to o'ertop Mine by this vain self-sacrifice? well, still— Though I might curse, I love you. I am love And cannot change: love's self is at your feet!

[The Queen goes out.]

Constance.

Feel my heart; let it die against your own!

Norbert.

Against my own. Explain not; let this be! This is life's height.

Constance.

Yours, yours, yours!

Norbert.

You and I— Why care by what meanders we are here I' the centre of the labyrinth? Men have died Trying to find this place, which we have found.

Constance.

Found, found!

Norbert.

Sweet, never fear what she can do! We are past harm now.

Constance.

On the breast of God. I thought of men—as if you were a man. Tempting him with a crown!

Norbert.

This must end here: It is too perfect.

Constance.

There's the music stopped. What measured heavy tread? It is one blaze About me and within me.

Norbert.

Oh, some death Will run its sudden finger round this spark And sever us from the rest!

Constance.

And so do well. Now the doors open.

Norbert.

'Tis the guard comes.

Constance.

Kiss!