I was looking for you, madame. Does the dance tire you or the music displease? In a life Happy as yours, joy is reborn, Your moods are versatile, and charming, marquise.... Bad humor de luxe ... perhaps mere caprice.... Have I not told you That in happy lives such as your high-placed life There is nothing of ennui, nothing to lead astray, Nothing to spur you on, nothing to unfold, Nor any dim wraith stalking by your side? And I could almost swear You do not feel your grief molded as the phantom wills. Nerves ... the dance ... fatigue! Too many perfumes ... too many mirrors.... Oh do not be romantic. Don't distort life. Romance has always proved an evil scourge. I? Never. I make poems The way your seamstresses make your dresses. With a pattern and a measure. Pardon, marquise, but it is folly To think that poems are something more than needles On which to thread the truth. Ephemeral and vain, in this age Poetry is woven of agile thought. All that Is reached with the noble aid of a consonant As great love is reached with a kiss. Do not say that, marquise. I can assure you.... Nonsense! I swear it by your clear eyes.... You scoff, but love is very serious.... But tell me, whence comes this deep cynicism? Well, marquise, I must confess That I am capable of feeling various loves. No, I was born for various sorrows. Sheer vanity! Women always presume That their mere earthly presence gives men pleasure. Mysterious love? Marquise, that is not so.... Love has abandons Irrestrainable. But what has shame to do with poetry? It has no worth, it is a social value, Value of a marquise, par excellence. Which is no justice at all. That is my destiny. Your rising sun Can never know the splendor of my sun that sets. True.... I am insane And a madman is insane, marquise, although he reason. And I, my lady, I would fain believe it. But there is this: A marquise might also lose her head. Which, no matter how true, will always be a lie.

Poet Monologue from Interlude

Rehearse Poet's monologue