Cale Rice - Yolanda of Cyprus

Of your intent.

Vittia. I thank you. And you shall,

To-night – if you have love.

Yolanda. That thread were vain.

Vittia. I say, if you have love.

Yolanda. Of guile?

Vittia. Of her

You hold as mother, and who is Amaury's.

Yolanda. Were it so simple, all designs that ever

Laired in you, would to my eyes have been as clear

As shallows under Morpha's crystal wave.

Vittia. Unproven you speak so.

Yolanda. And proven would.

Vittia. If so, then – save her.

Yolanda. Who? What do you – ? ( stops ).

Vittia ( with irony ). Mean?

It is not clear?

Yolanda. Save her?

Vittia. The surety flies

Out of your cheek and dead upon your heart:

Yet you are innocent – oh innocent! —

O'er what abyss she hangs!

Yolanda. O'er no abyss.

Vittia. But to her lord is constant!

Yolanda ( desperate ). She is constant.

Vittia. And to his bed is true!

Yolanda. True.

Vittia. And this baron

Of Paphos – Camarin – is but her friend ,

And deeply yours – as oft you feign to shield her!

Yolanda. He is no more.

Vittia. Your heart belies your lips,

Knows better than believing what you say.

Yolanda. Were, were he then … ( struggles ) lord Renier knows it not!

And never must. I have misled his thought

From her to me. The danger thus may pass,

The open shame.

Sir Camarin departed, her release

From the remorse and fettering will seem

Sweet as a vista into fairyland.

For none e'er will betray her.

Vittia. None?

Yolanda. Your tone …!

( Realising. ) The still insinuation! You would do it!

This is the beast then of the labyrinth!

And this your heart is!

Vittia. No, not ever: no.

But now , if you deny me.

Yolanda. Speak as a woman,

If there is womanhood in you to speak.

The name of Berengere Lusignan must

Go clean unto the years, fair and unsullied.

Nor must the bloody leap

Of death fall on her from lord Renier's sword,

A death too ready if he but suspect.

No, she is holy!

And holy are my lips

Remembering that they may call her mother!

All the bright world I breathe because of her,

Laughter and roses, day-song of the sea,

Not bitterness and loneliness and blight!

All the bright world,

Of voices, dear as waking to the dead —

Voices of love and tender earthly hopes —

O, all the beauty I was once forbid!

For O! —

She lifted me, a lonely convent weed,

A cloister thing unvisited of dew,

Withering and untended and afar

From the remembered ruin of my home,

And here has planted me in happiness.

Then, for her, all I am!

Vittia. Or – hope to be?

Yolanda. The price, say, of your silence. – I am weary.

Vittia. And would be rid of me.

Yolanda. The price, the price.

Vittia. It is ( low and ashamed ) that you renounce Amaury's love.

[A pause.

Yolanda. Amaury's love… You then would rend me there

Where not Eternity could heal the wound

Though all the River of God might be for balm!

Cruelty like to this you could not do?

[Waits a moment.

A swallow on the battlements to-day

Fell from the hawk: you soothed and set it free.

This, then, you would not – !

Vittia. Yes.

Yolanda. You cannot!

Vittia. Yes.

Yolanda ( wrung for a moment then calm ).

I had forgotten, you are of Venice – Venice

Whose burdening is vast upon this land.

Good-night.

Vittia. And you despise me!

Yolanda. More I loathe

That love of him has led your thought so low.

[Is going.

Vittia. Stay! If you leave and do not choose at once —

[Sounds are heard at the gates.

Who's that?.. ( starts ). Amaury?.. You've expected him?

[The chains fall.

Your purpose, then! Is it now to renounce

And force him from you or to have me breathe

To Renier Lusignan the one word

That will transmute his wrong to madness?

Say it! For centuries have stained these walls

But never a wife; never —

Enter Berengere.

Yolanda. Mother?..

Berengere. Amaury

Has spurred to us, Yolanda, from his post,

And is below. But … what has befallen?

[Looks from one to the other.

Yolanda. He comes here, mother?

Berengere. At once.

Yolanda ( in dread ). Ah!

Berengere. Child?..

Vittia ( to Yolanda). To-night

Must be the end.

Yolanda. Go, go.

Berengere ( as Vittia passes out ). What thing is this?

Yolanda. Mother, I cannot have him – here – Amaury!

Defer him but a little – till to-morrow.

I cannot see him now.

Berengere. This is o'erstrange.

Yolanda. Help me to think. Go to him, go, and say

Some woman thing – that I am ill – that I

Am at confession – penance – that – Ah, say

But anything!

Berengere. Yolanda!

Yolanda. Say… No use.

Too late.

Berengere. His step?

Yolanda. Oh, unmistakable;

Along the corridor. Go!

[The curtains are thrown back.

Amaury ( at the threshold ). My Yolanda!

[ Hastens down and takes her, passive, in his arms. Berengere goes.

My, my Yolanda!..

[Kisses her.

To touch you is as triumph to the blood,

Is as the boon of battle to the strong!

Yolanda. Amaury, no; release me and say why

You come: The Saracens – ?

Amaury. Not of them now!

[Bends back her head.

But of some tribute incense to this beauty,

Dear as the wind wafts from undying shrines

Of mystery and myrrh!

I'd have the eloquence of quickened moons

Pouring upon the midnight magicly,

To say all I have yearned,

Now, with your head pillowed upon my breast!

Slow sullen speech, come to my soldier lips,

Rough with command, and impotent of softness!

Come to my lips! or fill so full my eyes

That the unutterable shall seem as sweet

To my Yolanda. But … how, how now? tears?

[Lifts her face.

Yolanda. Amaury —

Amaury. What have I done? Too pronely pressed

You to this coat of steel?

Yolanda. No, no.

Amaury. My words,

Or silence, then?

Yolanda. Amaury, no, but sweet,

Sweet as the roses of Damascus crusht,

Your silence is! and sweeter than the dream

Of April nightingale on Troados,

Or gushing by the springs of Chitria,

Your every word of love! Yet – yet – ah, fold me,

Within your arms oblivion and hold me,

Fast to your being press me, and there bless me

With breathèd power of your manhood's might.

Amaury!..

Amaury. This I cannot understand.

Yolanda ( freeing herself ). Nothing – a folly – groundless frailty.

Amaury. You've been again at some old tale of sorrow,

[Goes to the lectern.

Pining along the pages of a book —

This, telling of that Italy madonna

Whose days were sad – I have forgotten how.