Part 1
Produced by David Garcia, David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
A NIGHT IN AVIGNON
A NIGHT IN AVIGNON
BY CALE YOUNG RICE
Author of "Charles Di Tocca," "David," "Plays and Lyrics," etc.
NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY MCMXIII
_Copyright, 1907, by_ CALE YOUNG RICE
Published, March, 1907
TO DONALD ROBERTSON
A NIGHT IN AVIGNON
CHARACTERS
FRANCESCO PETRARCA _A Young Poet and Scholar_
GHERARDO _His Brother, a Monk_
LELLO _His Friend_
ORSO _His Servant_
FILIPPA } } _Ladies of light life in Avignon_ SANCIA }
MADONNA LAURA
A NIGHT IN AVIGNON
SCENE: _A room in the chambers of PETRARCA at Avignon. It opens on a loggia overlooking, on higher ground, the spired church of Santa Clara and the gray cloisters of a Carthusian monastery. Beyond lie the city walls under glamour of the blue Provencal night._
_The room, faintly frescoed, is lighted with many candles; some glittering on a wine-table heavy with wines toward the right front. A door on the left leads to other rooms, and an arrased one opposite, down to the street. Bookshelves and a writing-desk strewn with a lute and writings are also on the left; a crimson couch is in the centre; and garlands of myrtle and laurel deck the wine-table._
_GHERARDO, the monk, is seated by the desk, following with severe looks the steps of PETRARCA, who is walking feverishly to and fro._
_Gherardo_ (_after a pause_). Listen. Another word, Francesco.
_Petrarca._ Aih! And then another--that will breed another.
_Gherardo._ Dote on this Laura still--if still you must: Woman's your destiny. But quench these lights and set away that wine.
_Petrarca._ And to no other lips turn? hers denied me? Never, Gherardo!
_Gherardo._ Virtue bids you.
_Petrarca._ Vainly! I've borne until I will not ... For it is Two years now since in the aisles Of Santa Clara yonder my heart first Went from me on mad wings. Two years this April morning Since it fell fluttering before her feet ... As she stood there beside our blessed Lady, Gowned as young Spring in green and violets!...
_Gherardo._ And these two years have been inviolate; Your life as pure as hers, As virgin-- Save for the songs you've sung to her; those songs This idle city echoes with. But now----
_Petrarca._ Now I will open all the gates to Pleasure! To rosy Pleasure--warm, unspiritual, Ready to spring Into the arms of all Whom bloodless Virtue pales. For, of restraint and hoping, I have drunk But a vintage of tears! And what has been my gain?
_Gherardo._ Her chastity.
_Petrarca._ A chastity unchallenged of desire-- And therefore none! Aih, none! For, were it other; Could I aver that once, that ever once Her lids had fallen low in fear of love, I'd bid the desert of my heart burn dry-- To the last oasis-- With resignation! But never have they, never! and I'm mad.
(_Pours out wine._)
_Gherardo._ And you will seek to cure it with more madness? To cast the devil of love out of your veins With other love and lower!
_Petrarca._ Yes, yes, yes! (_drinks._) With little Sancia's! Whose soul is a sweet sin! Who lives but for this life and asks of Death Only a breath of time before he ends it, To tell three beads and fill her mouth with _aves_. Just for enough, she says, "To tell God that He made me"--as He did.
_Gherardo._ And to blaspheme with! O obsessed man.
(_Has risen, flushed._)
But you will fail! For this vain revelry Will ease not. And I see all love is base-- As say the Fathers-- All!... and the body of woman Is vile from the beginning.
_Petrarca._ Monkish lies!
(_Drinks again for courage._)
The body of woman's born of bliss and beauty. Only one thing is fairer--that's her soul.
_Gherardo._ And is that Word which says thou shalt not look Upon another's wife a monkish lie?
(_Silence._)
Your Laura is another's.
_Petrarca_ (_torn_). As I found! After my heart became a poison flame-- Within me! A fierce inquisitor against my peace! After I followed her from Santa Clara, That mass-hour, To an escutcheoned door! After and not before ... And such another's! Ugo di Sade's! A beast whose sullen mind two thoughts would drain; Whose breath is a poltroon's; Who is unkind.... I've seen her weep; who loves Her not.... And yet the fane of song I frame her, The love I burn on it, she laughs away. To hide her own?... I will not so believe.
_Gherardo._ Nor should you.
_Petrarca._ Yet you bid me quarry still The deeps of me to shrine her? And be Avignon's laughter? A mock, a titter on the tongue of geese That gad the city gates? A type of fools that sigh while others kiss? "Francesco Petrarca! Who never clasped his mistress--but in a sonnet! Who fills empty canzone with his passion-- But never her ears! Never!--though she was wed against her will To an unlettered boor out bartering-- One whom she well could leave!"... I'll not, Gherardo!... Sonnets?
(_Tears several from desk._)
Vain, all!...
(_Casts them away._)
But Lello comes! and brings me Sancia! Filippa! merry Filippa and Sancia! We'll drink!--wine of Rocella! Wine of the Rhine! Bielna! San Porciano!-- And kiss!
(_Throws back his head._)
Kiss with the lips of life and not of ...
(_A knell has begun to beat from the church without. He hears it, and, awed, sinks, crossing himself, to the couch._)
(_GHERARDO, exalted, shudders._)
_Gherardo._ It is the knell of Matteo Banista, Whose soul is gone for its licentious days Upon steep purgatory.
(_Prepares to go._)
Your sin be on you ... and it will.
_Petrarca_ (_fearful_). No!... no!
(_Starts up._)
But hear, Gherardo, hear!
(_His words come stifled._)
There in the cloister have you peace--in prayer? In visions--penances?... Swear that you have! swear to me! once!... but once! And I...! ... No, never!... never!
(_He wipes his brow._)
While we are in the world the world's in us. The Holy Church I own-- Confess her Heaven's queen; But we are flesh and all things that are fair God made us to enjoy-- Or, high in Paradise, we'll know but sorrow. You though would ban earth's beauty, Even the torch of Glory That kindled Italy once and led great Greece-- The torch of Plato, Homer, Virgil, all The sacred bards and sages, pagan-born! I love them! they are divine! And so to-night...! ...
(_Voices._)
They! it is Lello! Lello! Sancia!----
(_Hears a lute and laughter below, then a call, "Sing, Sancia"; then SANCIA singing:_)
To the maids of Saint Remy All the gallants go for pleasure; To the maids of Saint Remy-- Tripping to love's measure! To the dames of Avignon All the masters go for wiving; To the dames of Avignon-- That shall be their shriving!
(_He goes to the Loggia as they gayly applaud. Then LELLO cries:_)
_Lello._ Ho-ho! Petrarca! Pagan! are you in? What! are you sonnet-monger?
_Petrarca._ Ai, ai, aih!
(_Motions GHERARDO--who goes._)
_Lello._ Come then! Your door is locked! down! let us in!
(_Rattles it._)
_Petrarca._ No, ribald! hold! the key is on the sill! Look for it and ascend!
(_ORSO enters._)
Stay, here is Orso!
(_The old servant goes through and down the stairs to meet them. In a moment the tramp of feet is heard and they enter--LELLO between them--singing:_)
Guelph! Guelph! and Ghibbeline! Ehyo! ninni! onni! [=o]nz! I went fishing on All Saints' Day And--caught but human bones!
I went fishing on All Saints' Day. The Rhone ran swift, the wind blew black! I went fishing on All Saints' Day-- But my love called me back!
She called me back and she kissed my lips-- Oh, my lips! Oh, onni! [=o]nz! "Better take life than death," said she, Better take love than--bones! bones!
(_SANCIA kisses PETRARCA._)
"Better take love than bones."
(_They scatter with glee and PETRARCA seizes SANCIA to him._)
_Petrarca._ Yes, little Sancia! and you, my friends! Warm love is better, better! And braver! Come, Lello! give me your hand! And you, Filippa! No, I'll have your lips!
_Sancia_ (_interposing_). Or--less? One at a time, Messer Petrarca! You learn too fast. Mine only for to-night.
_Petrarca._ And for a thousand nights, Sancia fair!
_Sancia._ You hear him? Santa Madonna! pour us wine, To pledge him in!
_Petrarca._ The tankards bubble o'er!
(_They go to the table._)
And see, they are wreathed of April, With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined. We'll hold symposium, as bacchanals!
_Sancia._ And that is--what? some dull and silly show Out of your sallow books?
_Petrarca._ Those books were writ With ink of the gods, my Sancia, upon Papyri of the stars!
_Sancia._ And--long ago? Ha! long ago?
_Petrarca._ Returnless centuries!
_Sancia_ (_contemptuously_). Who loves the past, loves mummies and their dust-- And he will mould! Who loves the future loves what may not be, And feeds on fear. Only one flower has Time--its name is Now! Come, pluck it! pluck it!
_Lello._ _Brava_, maid! the Now!
_Sancia_ (_dancing_). Come, pluck it! pluck it!
_Petrarca._ By my soul, I will!
(_Seizes her again._)
It grows upon these lips--and if to-night They leant out over the brink of Hell, I would.
(_She breaks from him._)
_Filippa._ Enough! the wine! the wine!
_Sancia._ O ever-thirsty And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out!
(_She lifts a brimming cup._)
We'll drink to Messer Petrarca-- Who's weary of his bed-mate, Solitude. May he long revel in the courts of Venus!
_All_ (_drinking_). Aih, long!
_Petrarca._ As long as Sancia enchants them!
_Filippa._ I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him to oath.
_Sancia._ And, to the rack, if faithless? This Filippa! Messer Petrarca, should she not be made High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil, Whose breath of life is oaths?... But, swear it! ... by the Saints! Who were great sinners all! And by the bones of every monk or nun Who ever darkened the world!
_Lello._ Or ever shall!
(_A pause._)
_Petrarca._ I'll swear your eyes are singing Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia, Like nightingales in the wood.
_Sancia._ Pah! Messer Poet ... Such words as those you vent without an end-- To the Lady Laura!
_Petrarca._ Stop!
(_Grows pale._)
Not _her_ name--here!
(_All have sat down; he rises._)
_Sancia._ O-ho! this air will soil it? and it might Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after?
(_To the rest--rising:_)
Shall we depart, that he may still indite them? "To Laura--On the Vanity of Passion"? "To Laura--Unrelenting"? "To Laura--Whose Departing Darkens the Sky"?
(_Laughs._)
"To Laura--Who Deigns Not a Single Tear"?
(_ORSO enters._)
Shall we depart?
_Lello._ Peace! Sancia.
_Sancia._ Ah-ha!
(_Moves away._)
_Petrarca_ (_still tensely--to ORSO_). Speak.
_Orso._ Sir, you are desired.
_Petrarca._ By whom?
_Orso._ Her veil Was lifted and she told me: Therefore I say it out--Madonna Laura.
(_All stare, amazed. Silence._)
_Petrarca_ (_hoarsely_). What lie is this!
_Orso._ I am too old to lie.
_Sancia_ (_laughing_). Who was the goddess that his books tell of, The cold one so long chaste, but who at last----
_Lello._ Be silent, Sancia! Francesco ... what?
_Petrarca_ (_to ORSO_). Lead Monna Laura here--
(_ORSO goes._)
If it is she!... But you, my friends, must know how strange this is, And how--!... I have no words!... Wait me, I pray you, yonder, in that chamber.
(_They go, left, SANCIA shrugging. Then ORSO brings LAURA, whom PETRARCA is helpless to greet, and who falters--yet nobly determining, comes down._)
_Laura._ Messer Petrarca, ... I have been impelled To come ... and as the purest should, boldly, With lifted veil, to say ...
_Petrarca._ Lady!
_Laura._ To say-- (Of gratitude I cannot give another ... For life to a woman is but resignation, And that at last is shame) ...
_Petrarca._ At last ... shame----
_Laura._ To say--Love is to us as light to the lilies That lean by Mont Ventoux. The love of one pure man for one pure woman.
_Petrarca_ (_dazed_). Lady!...
_Laura._ Yes, and--I've been unkind to you. Ungentle ever.
(_Shakes her head._)
But there's no other way sometimes for those Who would be wholly true. And yet ... do I owe _any_ truth to _him_?
_Petrarca._ To--Ugo di Sade?
_Laura_ (_bitterly_). Who is called my husband? How I was bound to him, you know! and how I've dwelt and have endured more than his bursts Of burning cruelty. For still, I thought, He is my husband! And still--He is my husband!... But now no more I think it--oh! no more! Too visible it is That he belongs to any--who sell love. So I may innocently say to you Who for two years have sung my name Yet never once have turned unto another--
(_PETRARCA pales._)
I well may say ...
(_Stopped by his manner._)
There's something that you ... Ah!
(_Sees, stricken, his grief and shame. Then her glance goes round the room and falls on the wine-table ... Then SANCIA is heard within:_)
_Sancia._ Well, well, Messer Petrarca! How long will You shut us in this dark--that is as black As old Pope John the twenty-second's soul? A pretty festa, this!
_Petrarca_ (_brokenly_). Merciless God!
(_Falls abased before LAURA'S look, tortured with remorse._)
O lady, what have I done beyond repair!...
(_She gathers her veil._)
What have I lost within this gulf of shame! For a paltry pleasure have I sold my dream, Whose pinions would have lifted you at last?
_Laura_ (_very pale_). I did not know, Messer Petrarca, you Had friends awaiting.
(_Pauses numbly._)
I came to-night, as first I would have said, With holy gratitude-- For a love I thought you gave. With gratitude that honor well could speak, I thought, and yet be honor; With gratitude forgetful of all else ... And trusting ... But no matter: All trust shall be embalmed and laid away. I go with pity; seeing My husband--is even as other men.
(_She passes to the door and out: PETRARCA moans. Then LELLO enters and comes to him anxiously._)
_Lello._ Francesco!
_Petrarca._ Lello!
(_Dazed._)
Lello! Have I dreamed?
(_Rising, with anguish._)
Did Laura come to me out of the night-- Come as the first voice breaking beyond death To one despairing? And was I lifted up to Heaven's dawn? And then ...
(_Reels._)
God! am I falling...? shall I ever...? Down this...? ... My friend stay with me! No, go ... and take them with you--Sancia--all!... I have slain the Spring forever! The green of the whole fair world!... O Laura! Laura!
(_Sinks down on the couch and buries his face in his arms. LELLO goes sorrowfully out._)
THE END.
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
PORZIA
By
CALE YOUNG RICE
"It presents a last phase of the Renaissance with great effect." _Sir Sidney Lee._
"'Porzia' is a very romantic and beautiful thing. After a third reading I enjoy and admire it still more." _Gilbert Murray._
"There are certain lyrical qualities in the dramas of Cale Young Rice and certain dramatic qualities in many of his finest lyrics that make it very difficult for the critic to resolve whether he is highest as singer or dramatist. 'Porzia' is a poetic play in which these two gifts blend with subtle and powerful effectiveness. It is not written in stereotyped heroic verse, but in sensitive metrical lines that vary in beat and measure with the strength, the tenderness, the anguish, bitterness and passion of love or hate they have to express. The bizarre and poignant central incident on which the action of 'Porzia' turns is such as would have appealed irresistibly to the imagination and dramatic instincts of the great Elizabethan dramatists, and Mr. Rice has developed it with a force and imaginative beauty that they alone could have equaled and with a restraint and delicacy of touch which makes pitiful and beautiful a story they would have clothed in horror.... He turns what might have been a tragic close to something that is loftier and more moving.... It matters little that we hesitate between ranking Mr. Rice highest as dramatist or lyrist; what matters is that he has the faculty divine beyond any living poet of America; his inspiration is true, and his poetry is the real thing." _The London Bookman._
"'Porzia' has the swift human movement which Mr. Rice puts into his dramas, and technique of a very high order.... The dramatic form is the most difficult to sustain harmoniously and this Mr. Rice always achieves." _The Baltimore News._
"To the making of 'Porzia' Mr. Rice has summoned all the resources of his dramatic skill. On the constructive side it is particularly strong.... The opening scene is certainly one of the happiest Mr. Rice has written, while the climaxing third act is a brilliant piece of character study.... The play is rich in poetry;... in it Mr. Rice has scored another success ... in a field where work of permanent value is rarely achieved." _Albert S. Henry (The Book News Monthly)._
"Mr. Rice apes neither the high-flown style of the Elizabethans, nor the turgid and cryptic style of Browning.... 'Porzia' should attract the praise of all who wish to see real literature written in this country again." _The Covington (Ky.) Post._
"The complete mastery of technique, the dignity and dramatic force of the characters, the beauty of the language and clear directness of the style together with the vivid imagination needed to portray so strikingly the renaissance spirit and atmosphere, make the work one that should last." _The Springfield (Mass.) Homestead._
"It is not unjust to say that Cale Young Rice holds in America the position that Stephen Phillips holds in England." _The Scotsman (Edinburgh)._
"Had no other poetic drama than this been written in America, there would be hope for the future of poetry on the stage." _John G. Neihardt (The Minneapolis Journal)._
FAR QUESTS
CALE YOUNG RICE
"The countrymen of Cale Young Rice apparently regard him as the equal of the great American poets of the past. _Far Quests_ is good unquestionably. It shows a wide range of thought, and sympathy, and real skill in workmanship, while occasionally it rises to heights of simplicity and truth, that suggest such inspiration as should mean lasting fame."--_The Daily Telegraph (London)._
"Mr. Rice's lyrics are deeply impressive. A large number are complete and full-blooded works of art."--_Prof. Wm. Lyon Phelps (Yale University)._
"_Far Quests_ contains much beautiful work--the work of a real poet in imagination and achievement."--_Prof. J. W. Mackail (Oxford University)._
"Mr. Rice is determined to get away from local or national limitations and be at whatever cost universal.... These poems are always animated by a force and freshness of feeling rare in work of such high virtuosity."--_The Scotsman (Edinburgh)._
"Mr. Cale Young Rice is acknowledged by his countrymen to be one of their great poets. There is great charm in his nature songs (of this volume) and in his songs of the East. Mr. Rice writes with great simplicity and beauty."--_The Sphere (London)._
"Mr. Rice's forte is poetic drama. Yet in the act of saying this the critic is confronted by such poems as _The Mystic_.... These are the poems of a thinker, a man of large horizons, an optimist profoundly impressed with the pathos of man's quest for happiness in all lands."--_The Chicago Record-Herald._
"Mr. Rice's latest volume shows no diminuition of poetic power. Fecundity is a mark of the genuine poet, and a glance through these pages will demonstrate how rich Mr. Rice is in vitality and variety of thought.... There is too, the unmistakable quality of style. It is spontaneous, flexible, and strong with the strength of simplicity--a style of rare distinction."--_Albert S. Henry, (The Book News Monthly, Philadelphia)._
THE IMMORTAL LURE
CALE YOUNG RICE
It is great art--with great vitality. _James Lane Allen._
In the midst of the Spring rush there arrives one book for which all else is pushed aside.... We have been educated to the belief that a man must be long dead before he can be enrolled with the great ones. Let us forget this cruel teaching.... This volume contains four poetic dramas all different in setting, and all so beautiful that we cannot choose one more perfect than another.... Too extravagant praise cannot be given Mr. Rice. _The San Francisco Call._
Four brief dramas, different from Paola & Francesca, but excelling it--or any other of Mr. Phillips's work, it is safe to say--in a vivid presentment of a supreme moment in the lives of the characters.... They form excellent examples of the range of Mr. Rice's genius in this field. _The New York Times Review._
Mr. Rice is quite the most ambitious, and most distinguished of contemporary poetic dramatists in America. _The Boston Transcript (W. S. Braithwaite.)_
The vigor and originality of Mr. Rice's work never outweigh that first qualification, beauty.... No American writer has so enriched the body of our poetic literature in the past few years. _The New Orleans Picayune._
Mr. Rice is beyond doubt the most distinguished poetic dramatist America has yet produced. _The Detroit Free Press._
That in Cale Young Rice a new American poet of great power and originality has arisen cannot be denied. He has somehow discovered the secret of the mystery, wonder and spirituality of human existence, which has been all but lost in our commercial civilization. May he succeed in awakening our people from sordid dreams of gain. _Rochester (N. Y.) Post Express._
No writer in England or America holds himself to higher ideals (than Mr. Rice) and everything he does bears the imprint of exquisite taste and the finest poetic instinct. _The Portland Oregonian._
In simplicity of art form and sheer mystery of romanticism these poetic dramas embody the new century artistry that is remaking current imaginative literature. _The Philadelphia North American._
Cale Young Rice is justly regarded as the leading master of the difficult form of poetic drama. _Portland (Me.) Press._
Mr. Rice has outlived the prophesy that he would one day rival Stephen Phillips in the poetic drama. As dexterous in the mechanism of his art, the young American is the Englishman's superior in that unforced quality which bespeaks true inspiration, and in a wider variety of manner and theme. _San Francisco Chronicle._
Mr. Rice's work has often been compared to Stephen Phillips's and there is great resemblance in their expression of high vision. Mr. Rice's technique is sure ... his knowledge of his settings impeccable, and one feels sincerely the passion, power and sensuous beauty of the whole. "Arduin" (one of the plays) is perfect tragedy; as rounded as a sphere, as terrible as death. _Review of Reviews._
The Immortal Lure is a very beautiful work. _The Springfield (Mass.) Republican._