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 your head.
POET.
That is my destiny. Your rising sun Can never know the splendor of my sun that sets.
MARQUISE.
The fault is nowise mine....
POET.
True.... I am insane And a madman is insane, marquise, although he reason.
MARQUISE.
Oh, reason, poet. I would convince you That even a marquise may be sincere.
POET.
And I, my lady, I would fain believe it.
MARQUISE.
Believe it then, I beg of you.
POET.
But there is this: A marquise might also lose her head.
MARQUISE.
True she might lose her head ... but for a rhyme?
POET.
Which, no matter how true, will always be a lie.
[_Pause._]
MARQUISE.
But why did you protest against my skepticism?
POET.
I riddled your words, but protested for myself.
MARQUISE.
So vain a reason, and so selfish?
POET.
A prideful reason.... I stand aghast before the abyss.
MARQUISE.
I see that all your love has been in verse.
POET.
No, marquise, but life Cradles crude truths which the poet disdains.
MARQUISE.
And amiable truths which pa.s.sion pa.s.ses by.
POET.