A Night in Avignon

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!