The Sisters' Tragedy [9]
we but find it. Nastasia!
HE.
What! beg life of her? Not I.
SHE.
Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. Were she told all, would she not pity us? For if she love you, as I think she must, Would not some generous impulse stir in her, Some latent, unsuspected spark illume? How love thrills even commonest girl-clay, Ennobling it an instant, if no more! You said that she is proud; then touch her pride, And turn her into marble with the touch. But yet the gentler passion is the stronger. Go to her, tell her, in some tenderest phrase That will not hurt too much--ah, but 'twill hurt!-- Just how your happiness lies in her hand To make or mar for all time; hint, not say, Your heart is gone from you, and you may find--
HE.
A casemate in St. Peter and St. Paul For, say, a month; then some Siberian town. Not this way lies escape. At my first word That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire In every vein.
SHE.
How blindly you read her, Or any woman! Yes, I know. I grant How small we often seem in our small world Of trivial cares and narrow precedents-- Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men-- Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse; But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs, The weakest of us measures pulse with you.
HE.
Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height! But there's no martyr wrapt in HER rose flesh. There should have been; for Nature gave you both The self-same purple for your eyes and hair, The self-same Southern music to your lips, Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same mould, Yet failed to put the soul in one of you! I know her wilful--her light head quite turned In this court atmosphere of flatteries; A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, And since spoiled here; as soft as swan's down now, With words like honey melting from the comb, But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. I fancy her, between two rosy smiles, Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!" That is the sum of her.
SHE.
You know her not. Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken The soul these two months--and the face to-night! [Removes her mask.]
HE.
You!--it was YOU!
SHE.
Count Sergius Pavlovich, Go find Pauline Pavlovna--she is here-- And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. [She goes out hurriedly, replacing her mask.]
BAGATELLE
CORYDON
A PASTORAL
SCENE: A roadside in Arcady
SHEPHERD.
Good sir, have you seen pass this way A mischief straight from market-day? You'd know her at a glance, I think; Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink; She has a way of looking back Over her shoulder, and, alack! Who gets that look one time, good sir, Has naught to do but follow her.
PILGRIM.
I have not seen this maid, methinks, Though she that passed had lips like pinks.
SHEPHERD.
Or like two strawberries made one By some sly trick of dew and sun.
PILGRIM.
A poet!
SHEPHERD.
Nay, a simple swain That tends his flock on yonder plain, Naught else, I swear by book and bell. But she that passed--you marked her well. Was she not smooth as any be That dwell herein in Arcady?
PILGRIM.
Her skin was as the satin bark Of birches.
SHEPHERD.
Light or dark?
PILGRIM.
Quite dark.
SHEPHERD.
Then 'twas not she.
PILGRIM.
The peach's side That's next the sun is not so dyed As was her cheek. Her hair hung down Like summer twilight falling brown; And when the breeze swept by, I wist Her face was in a sombre mist.
SHEPHERD.
No, that is not the maid I seek. HER hair lies gold against the cheek; Her yellow tresses take the morn Like silken tassels of the corn. And yet--brown locks are far from bad.
PILGRIM.
Now I bethink me, this one had A figure like the willow-tree Which, slight and supple, wondrously Inclines to
HE.
What! beg life of her? Not I.
SHE.
Beg love. She is a woman, young, perhaps Untouched as yet of this too poisonous air. Were she told all, would she not pity us? For if she love you, as I think she must, Would not some generous impulse stir in her, Some latent, unsuspected spark illume? How love thrills even commonest girl-clay, Ennobling it an instant, if no more! You said that she is proud; then touch her pride, And turn her into marble with the touch. But yet the gentler passion is the stronger. Go to her, tell her, in some tenderest phrase That will not hurt too much--ah, but 'twill hurt!-- Just how your happiness lies in her hand To make or mar for all time; hint, not say, Your heart is gone from you, and you may find--
HE.
A casemate in St. Peter and St. Paul For, say, a month; then some Siberian town. Not this way lies escape. At my first word That sluggish Tartar blood would turn to fire In every vein.
SHE.
How blindly you read her, Or any woman! Yes, I know. I grant How small we often seem in our small world Of trivial cares and narrow precedents-- Lacking that wide horizon stretched for men-- Capricious, spiteful, frightened at a mouse; But when it comes to suffering mortal pangs, The weakest of us measures pulse with you.
HE.
Yes, you, not she. If she were at your height! But there's no martyr wrapt in HER rose flesh. There should have been; for Nature gave you both The self-same purple for your eyes and hair, The self-same Southern music to your lips, Fashioned you both, as 'twere, in the same mould, Yet failed to put the soul in one of you! I know her wilful--her light head quite turned In this court atmosphere of flatteries; A Moscow beauty, petted and spoiled there, And since spoiled here; as soft as swan's down now, With words like honey melting from the comb, But being crossed, vindictive, cruel, cold. I fancy her, between two rosy smiles, Saying, "Poor fellow, in the Nertchinsk mines!" That is the sum of her.
SHE.
You know her not. Count Sergius Pavlovich, you said no mask Could hide the soul, yet how you have mistaken The soul these two months--and the face to-night! [Removes her mask.]
HE.
You!--it was YOU!
SHE.
Count Sergius Pavlovich, Go find Pauline Pavlovna--she is here-- And tell her that the Tsar has set you free. [She goes out hurriedly, replacing her mask.]
BAGATELLE
CORYDON
A PASTORAL
SCENE: A roadside in Arcady
SHEPHERD.
Good sir, have you seen pass this way A mischief straight from market-day? You'd know her at a glance, I think; Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink; She has a way of looking back Over her shoulder, and, alack! Who gets that look one time, good sir, Has naught to do but follow her.
PILGRIM.
I have not seen this maid, methinks, Though she that passed had lips like pinks.
SHEPHERD.
Or like two strawberries made one By some sly trick of dew and sun.
PILGRIM.
A poet!
SHEPHERD.
Nay, a simple swain That tends his flock on yonder plain, Naught else, I swear by book and bell. But she that passed--you marked her well. Was she not smooth as any be That dwell herein in Arcady?
PILGRIM.
Her skin was as the satin bark Of birches.
SHEPHERD.
Light or dark?
PILGRIM.
Quite dark.
SHEPHERD.
Then 'twas not she.
PILGRIM.
The peach's side That's next the sun is not so dyed As was her cheek. Her hair hung down Like summer twilight falling brown; And when the breeze swept by, I wist Her face was in a sombre mist.
SHEPHERD.
No, that is not the maid I seek. HER hair lies gold against the cheek; Her yellow tresses take the morn Like silken tassels of the corn. And yet--brown locks are far from bad.
PILGRIM.
Now I bethink me, this one had A figure like the willow-tree Which, slight and supple, wondrously Inclines to