Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (627 page)

Any renunciation save the wife’s,

Which turns away from other possible love

Future and worthier, to take his love

Who asks the name of husband. He who sought

Armgart obscure, and heard her answer, “Wait” —

May come without suspicion now to seek

Armgart applauded.

ARMGART (turning toward him) .

Yes, without suspicion

Of aught save what consists with faithfulness

In all expressed intent. Forgive me, Graf —

I am ungrateful to no soul that loves me —

To you most grateful. Yet the best intent

Grasps but a living present which may grow

Like any unfledged bird. You are a noble,

And have a high career; just now you said

‘T was higher far than aught a woman seeks

Beyond mere womanhood. You claim to be

More than a husband, but could not rejoice

That I were more than wife. What follows, then?

You choosing me with such persistency

As is but stretched-out rashness, soon must find

Our marriage asks concessions, asks resolve

To share renunciation or demand it.

Either we both renounce a mutual ease,

As in a nation’s need both man and wife

Do public services, or one of us

Must yield that something else for which each lives

Besides the other. Men are reasoners:

That premise of superior claims perforce

Urges conclusion — “ Armgart, it is you.”

GRAF.

But if I say I have considered this

With strict prevision, counted all the cost

Which that great good of loving you demands —

Questioned my stores of patience, half resolved

To live resigned without a bliss whose threat

Touched you as well as me — and finally,

With impetus of undivided will

Returned to say, “ You shall be free as now;

Only accept the refuge, shelter, guard,

My love will give your freedom “ then your words

Are hard accusal.

ARMGART.

Well, I accuse myself.

My love would be accomplice of your will.

GRAF.

Again — my will?

ARMGART.

Oh, your unspoken will.

Your silent tolerance would torture me,

And on that rack I should deny the good

I yet believed in.

GRAF.

Then I am the man

Whom you would love?

ARMGART.

Whom I refuse to love!

No; I will live alone and pour my pain

With passion into music, where it turns

To what is best within my better self.

I will not take for husband one who deems

The thing my soul acknowledges as good —

The thing I hold worth striving, suffering for,

To be a thing dispensed with easily,

Or else the idol of a mind infirm.

GRAF.

Armgart, you are ungenerous: you strain

My thought beyond its mark. Our difference

Lies not so deep as love — as union

Through a mysterious fitness that transcends

Formal agreement.

ARMGART.

It lies deep enough

To chafe the union. If many a man

Refrains, degraded, from the utmost right,

Because the pleadings of his wife’s small fears

Are little serpents biting at his heel —

How shall a woman keep her steadfastness

Beneath a frost within her husband’s eyes

Where coldness scorches? Graf, it is your sorrow

That you love Armgart. Nay, it is her sorrow

That she may not love you.

GRAF.

Woman, it seems,

Has enviable power to love or not

According to her will.

ARMGART.

She has the will —

I have — who am one woman — not to take

Disloyal pledges that divide her will.

The man who marries me must wed my Art —

Honour and cherish it, not tolerate.

GRAF.

The man is yet to come whose theory

Will weigh as nought with you against his love.

ARMGART.

Whose theory will plead beside his love.

GRAF.

Himself a singer, then? who knows no life

Out of the opera books, where tenor parts

Are found to suit him ?

ARMGART.

You are bitter, Graf.

Forgive me; seek the woman you deserve,

All grace, all goodness, who has not yet found

A meaning in her life, nor any end

Beyond fulfilling yours. The type abounds.

GRAF.

And happily, for the world.

ARMGART.

Yes, happily.

Let it excuse me that my kind is rare:

Commonness is its own security.

GRAF.

Armgart, I would with all my soul I knew

The man so rare that he could make your life

As woman sweet to you, as artist safe.

ARMGART.

Oh, I can live unmated, but not live

Without the bliss of singing to the world,

And feeling all my world respond to me.

GRAF.

May it be lasting. Then, we two must part?

ARMGART.

I thank you from my heart for all. Farewell!

SCENE III.

A YEAR LATER.

The same Salon. WALPURGA is standing looking toward the window with an air of uneasiness.

DOCTOR GRAHN.

DOCTOR.

Where is my patient, Fraulein?

WALPURGA.

Fled! escaped!

Gone to rehearsal. Is it dangerous?

DOCTOR.

No, no; her throat is cured. I only came

To hear her try her voice. Had she yet sung?

WALPURGA.

No; she had meant to wait for you. She said,

“The Doctor has a right to my first song.”

Her gratitude was full of little plans,

But all were swept away like gathered flowers

By sudden storm. She saw this opera bill —

It was a wasp to sting her: she turned pale,

Snatched up her hat and mufflers, said in haste,

I go to Leo — to rehearsal — none

“Shall sing Fidelio to-night but me!”

Then rushed down-stairs.

DOCTOR (looking at his watch).

And this, not long ago?

WALPURGA.

Barely an hour.

DOCTOR.

I will come again,

Returning from Charlottenburg at one.

WALPURGA.

Doctor, I feel a strange presentiment.

Are you quite easy?

DOCTOR.

She can take no harm.

‘T was time for her to sing: her throat is well,

It was a fierce attack, and dangerous;

I had to use strong remedies, but — well!

At one, dear Fraulein, we shall meet again.

SCENE IV.

TWO HOURS LATER.

WALPURGA starts up, looking toward the door. ARMGART enters, followed by LEO. She throws

herself on a chair which stands with its back toward the door, speechless, not seeming to see

anything. WALPURGA casts a questioning terrified look at LEO. He shrugs his shoulders, and lifts

up his hands behind ARMGART, who sits like a helpless image, while WALPURGA takes off her hat

and mantle.

WALPURGA.

Armgart, dear Armgart (kneeling and taking her hands), only speak to me,

Your poor Walpurga. Oh, your hands are cold.

Clasp mine, and warm them! I will kiss them warm.

(ARMGART looks at her an instant, then draws away her hands, and, turning aside, buries her face

against the back of the chair, WALPURGA rising and standing near. DOCTOR GRAHN enters.)

DOCTOR.