Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays. Various

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      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 shame restrains them.

      Poet.

      But what has shame to do with poetry?

       It has no worth, it is a social value,

       Value of a marquise, par excellence.

      Marquise.

      None the less, shame is a resigned and subtle justice,

       The justice of women, poet.

      Poet.

      Which is no justice at all.

      Marquise.

      Poet, the stones you throw

       In your defeat, will fall upon СКАЧАТЬ