Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WAGER, by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL



Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WAGER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Five years ago in this same garden space
Last Line: Claire. Why not a woman's love?
Subject(s): Gambling; Kisses; Love - Complaints; Love - Nature Of; Wagering; Betting


TIME, 1650. Twilight

The Duke's garden near Tours.

CLAIRE DE CHASTEL BLANC, a lady of the Duchess.
RENÉ LA TOUR.
THE VICOMTE DE LANCIVAL.

LA TOUR walks moodily to and fro.

LA TOUR. Five years ago in this same garden space
I fled the mockery of a smiling face.
Upon my soul, I was a love-sick lad;
A baser man perchance had won; I had
The self-accusing modesty of love,
That by its proud humility doth prove
How honest is its nature. Since that day
Our feet have trod, alas! a diverse way—
Mine as the devil guided, hers to find
A man to match the lightness of her mind.
So runs the world; and always, I suppose,
The thorns outlast for many a year the rose.
What is there memory may care to keep
Of her life or of mine? I basely heap
Dull days on sorrier yesterdays: what more
Is left to me? And yet—and yet before
I loved this woman and she bade me go
For but a love-struck boy, I used to know
Far other dreams than such as madly keep
The wild days reeling through the hours of sleep.
[Pauses.
So, here it was I sang my pretty way
To steal in sleep a heart was cold by day.
How long ago it seems! I used to sing
Not very ill. Ah me! How ran the thing?
[He sings as he walks.

Sleep on! Sleep on! Thou canst not fly;
Thou art the gentle thrall of sleep.
Thy captured dreams in vain may try
The daylight's cold reserve to keep.

Sleep on! Those watchful eyes that be
Thy maiden sentinels by day
No more shall keep their guard for thee,
Sweet foes that warned my love away.

And I will kiss thee with a song—

A modest way to kiss! I have it wrong;
And all the rest, like love, has taken wings
And gone the deuce knows whither. If some things
Were like a song, as readily forgot,
Man's fate on earth might prove a happier lot.
[A servant enters with a letter. LA TOUR takes it and stands in
thought, smiling. He opens it in an absent way, not yet reading it.

Here is the woman's name I was to learn
This morning. Well, I trust the lips that earn
My needed ducats are not old. By heaven!
That were an insult scarce to be forgiven,
A jest to cost some drunken reveller dear.
[Glances at the letter.
"Claire!—Claire de Chastel Blanc." I did not hear
That name among the many tossed about
On ribald lips last night. Perhaps a doubt,
Or the Duke's presence, or a friend who knew
To check some reckless sot, held back the crew,
Till at the gray of dawn I homeward went,
And left them babbling, on a choice intent.
[He walks to and fro, in thought, and then slowly tears up the
letter,
retaining the fragments.
Now, I'll not do it! This mad bet of mine,
The bastard child of folly and of wine,
Has somehow lost to-day its vinous zest,
And, in the sober light of morn confessed,
Stirs certain memories. Now, there's my lord—
Her lord—will fume and talk about his sword,
And then is just as like as not, I think,
To pouch the insult and forget in drink.
What of the woman? Wherefore should I spare
The lips that spared not me? Why should I care?
[Pauses.
I will not do it.
[As he speaks he casts away the torn paper and wanders aimlessly to
and
fro in the Duke's garden. Of a sudden he sees Claire seated and busy with the
roses lying in her lap.
(Aside.) By St. Opportune,
Who doth for mischief match the naughty moon!
What devil set this trap for me who meant
To swear the wager lost, and well content
To pay and end it, duly penitent
And out of pocket? What would she have lost?
The fool who is her lover scarce will miss
One kiss subtracted from his sum of bliss.
Now, good St. Anthony, who ought to be
The friend of men sore tempted, pray for me;—
You were not tempted, for you knew not love.
[Coming up behind CLAIRE, he bends over and kisses her. She
starts to
her feet.
CLAIRE. Now, by dear Marie and all saints above,
You—René—kissed me!
LA TOUR. Yes, and, on my soul,
I'm glad and sorry: that sums up the whole,
The sin and penance; larger joy and pain
Than ever I shall know in life again. [She is silent.
For God's sake, speak to me; say something, Claire.
CLAIRE. Your shame lacks courage, sir; how could you dare?
LA TOUR. Fate, fortune, luck, have never known to spare
Head, heart, or purse of mine. 'T is very rare
My follies pay as well. How could I dare?
The question's childlike, madam. What! in tears!
These were not counted in my list of fears.
CLAIRE. An idle gossip warned me yestereve
Of this, and you; yet how could I believe
Of one who once—no matter. What I said
Did cost one shameless cheek its share of red.
He little liked my comment; nor would you
Who tossed about amid a gambling crew
What estimate to put upon a kiss,
And set its worth at haply that or this.
He, laughing, swore the chivalry of wine
Did make you set a double price on mine.
You gaily urged, they say, that stolen fruit
Is ever sweeter. May I ask, to suit
The pretty poetry of tavern hours,
If that be also true of stolen flowers?
What need to talk? You have the prize you sought,
A courteous wager!
LA TOUR. Madame, he who brought
This garnished story lied.
CLAIRE. It matters naught;
A man shall question you.
LA TOUR. That were but just;
In point of fact, I really think he must;
And 'twixt a tongue-stab and a rapier-thrust
I gladly choose the latter; but why both
To punish one who never yet was loath
To face a man? Before a mistress' tongue
I cry for pity as I did when young.
Down goes my flag; I counted not the cost,
Else had this silly bet been gladly lost.
CLAIRE. Jest if it please you. Better men have died
For lighter cause than this.
LA TOUR. So, I am tried,
Condemned past hope. Ah, Claire, thou ever art
The same cold woman. Could I call my heart
To witness for me—
CLAIRE. 'T is a feebler jest.
LA TOUR. Perhaps! perhaps! But let me be confessed.
Give one decree to die his little hour.
The gay temptation of a minute's power
Set in my way the honey of a flower;
And, by your leave, we'll say it was a rose
The bee-god Cupid robbed; and, I suppose,
A dainty diet, to be held more sweet
Than common clover honey.
CLAIRE. You may treat
This insult lightly—
LA TOUR. Madam, I believe
Men have kissed women since the days of Eve;
'T is very frequent. Such fair goods, you know,
Are bartered, stolen, sold or high or low;
The market varies. One may cost a life,
A curse, a kingdom, win or lose a wife.
[LA TOUR pauses, while CLAIRE stands in silence.
Have you no answer, madam? I have tried
Love, logic, penitence, have not denied
The muse her pretty privilege to defend
This naughty brigand here without a friend.
Now, what's a kiss that naught can it atone?
CLAIRE. The trembling scales of loyal love alone
May know to weigh this coin of nature's own.
You cast the shadow of a nameless fear,
You left the memory of an angry tear.
Go! I could wish that you were lying dead,
Ay, here, to-night, ere this had need been said.
LA TOUR. Am I so surely hated?
CLAIRE. Call it hate,
Contempt—a woman's sorrow.
[She moves away.
LA TOUR. Pray you wait.
What if I swear this wager, wildly made,
Was lost? Wilt say—?
CLAIRE. That you were more afraid
Than fits a man.
LA TOUR. Yes, that may well be said.
'T is you I fear.
CLAIRE. Me! There was once an hour,
Oh, very long ago, should still have power
To hurt you now. What is there more to say?
LA TOUR. Yes, there are ghosts no priest has power to lay;
One is to-morrow, one is yesterday;
Both have your words called up to-night for me.
But ghosts like these at least do set one free
From such poor scare-souls as an honest blade.
That lays all spectres! Madam, undismayed
I bow before my judge and glad accept
The fate this wretched hour for me has kept.
And for De Lancival, I promise he
Shall in the quickest blade of Picardy
Find naught to hinder what your lips decree.
Say,—when you think upon this hour and me,—
"He loved me once." Be that slight epitaph
Deep graven where the miserable half
Of life's most worthless memories serves to keep
Some fading thought of such as, thankful, sleep,
And wake no more on earth.
CLAIRE. You loved me?
LA TOUR. Ay.
CLAIRE. How can it be? If once you loved me, why,
Why did your folly choose of all who live,
Of all fair women, me alone to give
This tavern feast a flavor? Pray you go.
The modest gentleman I seemed to know
In memory, kindly, tender, brave, and true,
Died very long ago. He is not you.
As willingly would I forget this night
And think it also dead. You won the right
To claim your wager.
LA TOUR. Madam, it is I
Shall tell the Viscount, and with me shall die,
I promise you, this story. I shall pay
With what this wrecked life owns of life. I pray,
As God is good, your pardon. Fare you well.
CLAIRE. Wait—wait a moment. No, you shall not tell.
LA TOUR. And why not, madam?
CLAIRE. Hush!
[DE LANCIVAL approaches, singing.
DE LANCIVAL. He kissed her twice,
Or was it thrice?
Oh, what will kisses fetch?
You may buy a score
For a louis d'or.
Now, that's a pretty catch.

Out with it, Claire.
What fortune had he? Did he really dare?
No need to go, La Tour. We all have heard.
Oh, there were bets on it. Right well it stirred
The inn's good fellows. I, too, had my bet
La Tour would lose.
CLAIRE. Indeed!
LA TOUR. At what was set
My beggared chance of fortune?
DE LANCIVAL. I forget.
CLAIRE. I, too, am curious.
DE LANCIVAL. I am not clear
How much it was; a very trifle, dear:
Some dozen louis—hardly worth one's while.
CLAIRE. Yet it might set the value of—
LA TOUR. A smile—
DE LANCIVAL. Who said a smile? 'T was nothing but a kiss.
CLAIRE. They make fair company. Perchance to miss
The gracious comment of a smile might take
Some value from the lips' resort, and make
Their rosy honors less.
DE LANCIVAL. What did I bet?
[Searches his tablets.
I had it yesternight. Just here't was set,
Upon my honor!
LA TOUR. That's a pious oath
That no commandment breaks.
DE LANCIVAL. St. Denis! Both
Are set to read me riddles. I for one—
LA TOUR. An easy riddle. Nowhere 'neath the sun
On land or sea the thing is found. Pardie!
Swear by a thing less mortal.
DE LANCIVAL. I make free
To think you mock me. But who was it won?
LA TOUR. I won, my lord. The trick was neatly done.
DE LANCIVAL. You won? Claire! Claire!
LA TOUR. Indeed, it so befell,
I won my ducats and some thoughts as well
A man could do without.
CLAIRE. It is not true.
The beau sire jests—no courteous thing to do.
LA TOUR. By Venus, I have but my word to give.
Here as she sat I kissed her, as I live!
DE LANCIVAL. Ye saints! The man has luck. Now, when I bring
This news to-night, the tavern roof will ring.
I never dared as much. To kiss her hand
Was my slim ration. I may understand
You really kissed her?
LA TOUR. Yes.
DE LANCIVAL. Well—as one may
Kiss any woman for a wager's play;
Had she kissed you I should have more to say.
CLAIRE. Then take the truth: I kissed him as he lay
A-sleeping in the garden. Now, sir, pray,
What is it more your lordship has to say?
DE LANCIVAL. You kissed La Tour?
CLAIRE. I did.
DE LANCIVAL. Now, by my sword—
LA TOUR. That's near kin to cursing. Well, my lord—
DE LANCIVAL. Is this a jest?
CLAIRE. That may somewhat depend
On how a maudlin tragedy shall end.
LA TOUR. I wait your orders, Viscount.
DE LANCIVAL. Nonsense! Why
Should you or I for such a trifle die?
Yet, as a friend, La Tour, I take fair leave
To doubt her story.
LA TOUR. Then, my lord,—I grieve
To put it coarsely,—does this lady lie?
I wait your answer. Is it she or I?
She doth depose to kissing one La Tour.
He swears in turn and is devoutly sure
He kissed the lady. Neither doth exclude
Belief in either. You, my lord, are shrewd.
Which is the sinner?
CLAIRE. Stay, sir.
DE LANCIVAL. You shall hear
From me to-morrow.
LA TOUR. And why not next year?
Had I once loved this gentle lady's face
His shrift were short, and small his chance of grace,
That dared to think those haughty lips could kiss
A man whom, dead, no man on earth would miss
Save some poor tapster. Sir, you seem to show
Small skill at riddles. Follow me.
CLAIRE. No, no.
Here must it end. A most unseemly brawl!
I'll have no more of it. It does not call
For such grave consequences. Let it end.
DE LANCIVAL. With all my heart; and now, to surely mend
A needless quarrel, I, for one, agree
A kiss, my mischief-brewing maid, shall be
My own reward, his ransom.
CLAIRE. Here must stop
This tragedy, which seems inclined to drop
To something comic. I have long endured
A bond not of my making. Rest assured
This day forever breaks it.
LA TOUR. And beware,
Be very careful that you do not share
This tale with tap-room friends. Remember, too,
I lost this wager and will pay my due.
DE LANCIVAL. When once the wine is out comes folly in.
So said the Duke, and bet that you would win
And vow you did not. For my lady there,
She'll change her mind to-morrow. I can bear
My tenth dismissal gaily.
[He goes away singing.

"I would I were a priest,"
Quoth the devil;
"I would shrive me twice a day
And then revel."
"I would I were a girl,"
Quoth the devil,
"With a lie in every curl."

LA TOUR. He shall rue
This insolence.
CLAIRE. No, René. What of you?
LA TOUR. No more of me. I rid you of a fool
Who went his way as unconcerned and cool
As though love's perfect roses knew to grow
On every hedge. Now have I also earned
The tardy wages of a fool, and learned
Too late the lesson of a vain regret
For what life might have been.
CLAIRE. And yet—and yet—
LA TOUR. By heaven, do not trifle with me now! Take care!
Think ere you speak. Be very certain, Claire.
Hope was so dead. I count it no light thing
To give love's winter rose a day of spring.
You tremble, hesitate—
[Voices from a distance call, "Claire, Claire!" LA TOUR seizes her
hand as she turns to go.
Ah, let me share
Your heart's wise counsel, Claire. I pray you spare
A man twice hurt. Give me a minute, one—
[Voices call her. She moves away in haste.
You cannot leave me thus.
CLAIRE. Sir, I have done.
You won your bet. But what, sir, gave the right
To think you won a heart?
[The voices approach.
Enough. Good-night.
[LA TOUR looks after her until she is lost behind a hedge in the
twilight.
LA TOUR. The man is gone to heal his petty smart
With wine, sure balsam for a broken heart.
A comedy? Perhaps! And, by the rood,
The plot unlooked for and the acting shrewd:
A stately woman, resolute and sweet,
A bragging coward; and, to be complete,
This tavern hero, with, one ought to state,
King of the stage, Life's greatest actor, Fate!
I served her purpose well, and so once more—
I ever the sad loser as before—
We part. The usual ending, exeunt all.
And for the moral: It doth oft befall
One woman pays with usury the debts
Of that half-dozen maids a man forgets.
[A glove cast over the hedge falls at LA TOUR'S feet; he picks it
up.
I would it were my lord's. A woman's glove!
CLAIRE. What rhymes to that?
LA TOUR. By every saint above,
How should I know?
CLAIRE. Why not a woman's love?






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