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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BEQUEST OF 
 
 George Jean Nathan 
 
 Class of 1904 
 
3 1924 081 241 857 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924081241857 
 
THE MASTERPIECES 
 OF MODERN DRAMA 
 
JOHN DREW A.S PKOSPEH COriiA.MOXT AND ETHEL BARRY- 
 RIOKE AS srZAXXE DE RUSEVILLE 
 
 n'~- '-llV' ""■ ""' '^'■'■■'l' "f l"'I»-i- tluit .v.jii had jiLst uu\Y. 
 I ro.i. llie strap of iiapir! I ilnTi't iiuilcrstand. 
 
THE MASTERPIECES 
 OF MODERN DRAMA 
 
 FOREIGN 
 
 Abridged in Narrative Form with Extracts 
 from the Chief Scenes 
 
 BY 
 JOHN ALEXANDER PIERCE 
 
 FORMERLY WITH THE NEW YORK "SUN" 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION ON THE KEBIRTH OF THE DHAMA 
 BY 
 
 BRANDER MATTHEWS 
 
 PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 
 
 IUiT78TBAT£D PBOM PHOTOGBAPHS 
 
 GABDEN CITT NEW YOBK 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 1916 
 
Copyright, 1915, by 
 
 DOUBLBDAT, PaGE & COMPANT 
 
 All rigktt retened, inclvding (ftot (ff 
 
 iranilation into foreign langitaget, 
 
 induiing the Seandinaman 
 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 ' GBATBPUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT IS MADE HERE TO THB 
 AUTHORS, TRANSLATORS, AND PUBLISHERS, WHOSE 
 CO6PERATION HAS MADE THIS VOLUME POSSIBLE 
 
CONTENTS 
 PART I 
 
 FAGS 
 
 Introduction xiii 
 
 Poirieb'b Son-in-Law 3 
 
 By Emile Augier and Jules Sandeau 
 
 The Demi-Monde 22 
 
 By Alexandre Dumas the younger 
 
 Perhichon's Journey 44 
 
 By Eugene Labiche, in colkboration with M. E. Martin 
 
 A Scrap of Paper 61 
 
 By Victorien Sardou 
 
 Frotj Frou 83 
 
 By Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Hal6vy 
 
 Getting Divorced 105 
 
 By Victorien Sardou and Emile de Nanjac 
 
 The Cult of Boredom 130 
 
 By £douard Pailleron 
 
 The Crows 151 
 
 By Henry Becque 
 
 The Prince d'Aubec 177 
 
 By Henri Lavedan 
 
 For the Croavn 196 
 
 By Frangois Copp6e 
 
 vu 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 rAOB 
 
 Ctbano de Bergerac 211 
 
 By Edmond Rostand 
 
 The Red Robe 229 
 
 By Eugene Brieuz 
 
 The Torch Race 249 
 
 By Paul Hervieu 
 
 Business Is Business 268 
 
 By Octave Mirbeau 
 
 The Thief 290 
 
 By Henry Bernstein 
 
 PART n 
 
 GlOCONDA 3 
 
 By Gabriele D'Aimunzio 
 
 Pillars op Society 25 
 
 By Henrik Ibsen 
 
 A Doll's House , • . . . 45 
 
 By Henrik Ibsen 
 
 The Great Galeoto 64 
 
 By Jos6 Echdgaray 
 
 The Submerged 88 
 
 By Maxim Grorki 
 
 Beyond Our Power 109 
 
 By BjSrnstjerne Bj5rnsen 
 
 The Power of Darkness 125 
 
 By Leo Tolstoy 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 IX 
 
 The Father 149 
 
 By August Strindberg 
 
 Hedda Gabler 166 
 
 By Hertrik Ibsen 
 
 Pelleas and Melisande 187 
 
 By Maurice Maeterlinck 
 
 The Weavers 207 
 
 By Gerhart Hauptmann 
 
 The Seagull 226 
 
 By Anton Tchekhof 
 
 John the Baptist 250 
 
 By Hermann Sudermann 
 
 The " Good Hope " 264 
 
 By Herman Heijennans , 
 
 MoNNA Vanna ,.•«...• • • *82 
 
 By Maurice Maeterlinck 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 PART I 
 
 .^^ Frontispitce 
 
 John Drew as Prosper Couramont and Ethel Barry- 
 more as Suzanne de Ruseville in "A Scrap of 
 Paper " (see page 74) 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 Grace George as Cyprienne and Prank Worthing 
 as Des Prunelles in " Getting Divorced " . . 122 
 
 Scene from "Por the Crown" 208 
 
 Francis Wilson as Cyrano, Lulu Glaser as Roxane 
 in " Cyrano de Bergerac " 220 
 
 W. H. Crane as Isidore Lechat in "Business Is 
 Business" 282 
 
 PART II 
 
 Eleonora Duse as Silvia Settala in "Gioconda" 
 
 Mrs. Fiske as Nora in "A Doll's House " . 
 
 Mrs. Fiske as Hedda in " Hedda Gabler" . 
 
 Scene from " P^lleas and M^lisande "... 
 
 Bertha Kalich as Monna Vanna and Henry 
 Jewett as Prin2avalle in "Monna Vanna" 
 
 21 
 
 52 
 
 180 
 
 200 
 
 294 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Now that the nineteenth century has so far receded from 
 us that we can begin to survey it in a perspective not dis- 
 torted by the prejudices which always mar our vision of 
 the immediate present, we are at last able to sum up its 
 efforts and its achievements in the several arts. When we 
 consider the Hterature of the past hundred years we cannot 
 fail to remark upon the extraordinary and unprecedented 
 vogue of prose-fiction, beginning with the startHng success 
 of the Waverly novels of Scott in England in the first quar- 
 ter of the century; stimulated by the indefatigable curiosity 
 which sustains the Human Comedy of Balzac in France in 
 the mid-years; and ennobled by the lofty veracity of Tol- 
 stoy's later studies of human struggles in Russia in the final 
 decades. Poets there were in all the modern literatures, 
 poets of high ambition and of genuine inspiration as well 
 as sincere aspiration; historians and biographers, critics 
 and essayists, there were in abundance; and yet the novel- 
 ists outnumbered the others and seemed at times almost 
 to outshine them. Indeed, the attraction of fiction was so 
 potent that poets laid aside their singing robes to tell tales 
 in humble prose; and historians, critics, and essayists now 
 and again deserted their own fields to adventure themselves 
 as novelists. 
 
 It is perhaps more or less in consequence of this inrushing 
 of writers who were not primarily storytellers that the 
 modern novel is so many sided and so uncertain of its own 
 ultimate goal. The novelist to-day feels at liberty to 
 compete with the historian in dealing with the manners 
 and customs of the past; he holds himself at liberty to di- 
 gress from his theme and to become discursive quite in the 
 manner of the essayist; he does not hesitate to put iato his 
 pages the lyric cry, which has been the special privilege of 
 
xr/ INTRODUCTION 
 
 the poet; and he has despoiled the drama of its monopoly 
 of dealing with the vital struggles of a soul at war with the 
 words of fate. In other words, the modern novel is a 
 chameleon, changing color as you gaze on it and taking on 
 at wiU the semblance of history or poetry or drama. It is 
 from the play that the story has made its most frequent 
 and the most abundant borrowings; and it was from among 
 the potential playwrights that novelists were most obvi- 
 ously recruited in mid-years of the nineteenth century. 
 
 The necessary result of this was that as prose-fiction 
 flourished the drama dwindled. As the novel became 
 more and more popular and more and more profitable, 
 many of the writers intended by nature to be playwrights 
 were tempted away to swell the ranks of the novelists. 
 It is not too much to say that in the middle of the nine- 
 teenth century French was the only one of the leading 
 literatures in which prose-fiction had not ousted the drama 
 from its former position of proud preeminence; and even 
 in France there was no dramatist of the force and the fe- 
 cundity of Balzac. Even in France while Augier and the 
 younger Dumas, Meilhac and Halevy, Becque and La- 
 Biche were still writing for the stage, Flaubert and the 
 Goncourts and Daudet were emboldened to believe that 
 the drama was an outworn form, incapable of carrying the 
 message of a more cultivated and a more complicated civil- 
 ization. And outside of France, in German Hterature and 
 Italian, in English literatiu-e ia both of its branches, British 
 and American, the drama had almost ceased to be a com- 
 petitor of prose-fiction. In these Uteratures it seemed as 
 though a divorce had been proclaimed between literature 
 and the drama; and in English as in German and in Italian 
 most of the plays which were actable were imreadable and 
 most of the plays which were readable were imactable. 
 
 Only in France was the art of the playwright held in 
 honor; and only in France was there a constant production 
 of plays that were both actable and readable. As it hap- 
 pened, this richness of French literature tended to increase 
 the poverty of the drama in other languages because the 
 absence of international stageright permitted the Italian 
 and the German managers, the British and the American, 
 to take French pieces without payment, so that their 
 theatres were filled with mangled and misleading adapta- 
 
INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 tions of the works of the leading French playwrights. 
 Thus the native dramatists of Germany and Italy, Great 
 Britain and the United States were discouraged by being 
 forced to vend their wares in competition with stolen goods. 
 It is no wonder that many of them renounced the stage 
 and turned to storytelling, which is always much easier and 
 which for the moment was far more remunerative. Charles 
 Reade, for one, used to maintain that he was a dramatist 
 by native gift, compelled to practise as a novelist because 
 of bad laws. 
 
 Yet in all these middle years of the nineteenth century 
 while the drama was enfeebled, while there were scarcely 
 any playwrights dealing simply and sincerely with the life 
 of their own people in their own time and in their own 
 country, the theatre itself was flourishing and there were 
 actors of rich endowment and of high accompUshment. 
 But these prominent performers were rarely eager for new 
 plays; in fact, most of them preferred the old estabhshed 
 favorites in which they could compete with the reputation 
 of their predecessors. Of John Philip Kemble it was said 
 that he beUeved that aU the good plays had been writteii. 
 Macready did bring out pieces written for him by Knowles 
 and by Bulwer-Lytton; and he was amply rewarded for his 
 courage; and Edwin Forrest sought to perform a like ser- 
 vice for the drama on this side of the Atlantic. But 
 Edmund Kean and Charles Kean, Junius Brutus Booth 
 and Edwin Booth, Henry Irving and Joseph Jefferson, were 
 content, for the most part, with the plays which had 
 pleased earlier generations of playgoers; and these shrank 
 from the risk of failure in untried novelties. 
 
 Then toward the end of the third quarter of the nine- 
 teenth century there began to be signs of a change. First 
 of all, there was a slackening in the dramatic productivity 
 of France, which supphed a lessening number of plays 
 available for export. Second, there was a general recogni- 
 tion of the right of a dramatist to control his pieces, not 
 only in his own country, but in all countries; and the 
 granting of international stage-right instantly removed the 
 premium of cheapness which had filled our theatres with 
 transmogrified French pieces. Thirdly, the novel seemed 
 for a while to have exerted its full strength and to be too 
 weary for further advance. Fourthly and finally, came the 
 
xvi , mTRODUCTION 
 
 discovery of the value of Ibsen's social-dramas, a discovery 
 which revealed that the drama was not an outworn form 
 unfit to carry a message to our complicated civilization. 
 
 So it came about that in the final quarter of the nine- 
 teenth century the divorce between literature and the 
 drama was annulled. In German and ItaKan and English 
 an increasing proportion of plays which were actable dis- 
 closed themselves as also readable; and the theatres of 
 these languages began to lend to and to borrow from 
 one another. Sarah Bernhardt appeared in the German 
 "Madga" and Duse in the British " Second Mrs. Tanque- 
 ray"; Mrs. Fiske appeared in the Norwegian " Hedda Gab- 
 ler" and George Arliss in the Hungarian "Devil." Bron- 
 son Howard's "Saratoga" was acted in Berhn; Gillette's 
 "Secret Service" was acted in Paris; and Clyde Fitch's 
 " Truth ' ' was acted in Rome. The play became as popular 
 and as profitable as the novel; and so it was that instead of 
 potential playwrights becoming novelists the novelists 
 themselves were tempted to turn dramatists — Barrie and 
 Shaw and Galsworthy in Great Britain, Howells and James 
 in the United States, Hervieu in France, Sudermann in Ger- 
 many, and d'Annunzio inltaly. Atthe end of the nineteenth 
 century the revival of the drama was no longer a hope or a 
 hypothesis; it was an irrefragible fact, as indisputable in 
 Hungary as in Austria, in the United States as in Great 
 Britain. The drama had no longer any need or any desire 
 to apologize for itself. It challenged the supremacy of the 
 novel; and as the more diflBcult art, it won from the ranks 
 of the writers of prose-fiction not a few of those who were 
 most keenly interested in art for its own sake. 
 
 II 
 
 This revival of the drama in all the leading modem liter- 
 atures, evident enough in the final decades of the nine- 
 teenth century and becoming more and more indisputable 
 in the earher decades of the twentieth century, could not 
 have come about at a more f ortxmate moment, because it 
 was coincident with a remarkable modification in the 
 actual theatre and in the circumstances of actual perform- 
 ance — a modification iwhich has profoundly influenced the 
 methods of the contemporary drama and of which the full 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 xvii 
 
 results have not yet been made manifest. The dramatist 
 must conceive his dramas and shape them in accord with 
 the conditions of the playhouse in which they are to be 
 performed. As he has never written his plays for posterity 
 but always for his contemporaries, so he has always ad- 
 justed these plays to the theatre of his own time and his 
 own country. This is as true of Sophocles and Shakespeare 
 and Moliere, as it is, of Beaumarchais and Sheridan, of 
 Victor Hugo and Ibsen. 
 
 The dramatic poet plans his plays for performance, by 
 actors, in a theatre and before an audience; and consciously 
 or unconsciously he fits them to the capability of the actors 
 of his own time and his own country, to the shape and size 
 and conditions of the theatres of his own time and his own 
 country, and to the opinions and the prejudices of the 
 audiences of his own time and his own country. The in- 
 fluence of the audiences is exerted only upon the content of 
 his plays, upon what he will put into them, upon the themes 
 he will treat; and the influence of the theatre is exerted 
 upon the form of his plays, upon his method of telling his 
 story on the stage. Any important change in the condi- 
 tions of the theatre will compel the playwright to modify 
 his method, to adapt his processes to these new conditions, 
 to adjust his technic to the circumstances of performance to 
 which the playgoers of his own time and his own coimtry 
 are accustomed. 
 
 Now, while the drama was awakening itself from its 
 lethargic sleep, the theatre was undergoing a transforma- 
 tion which may have seemed to careless observers slight 
 and unimportant, but which has already had obvious and 
 far-reaching effects. This transformation of the theatre 
 and the resulting modification of the methods of the dram- 
 atist is due to the development of the picture-frame stage 
 out of the apron stage, which had earlier been evolved from 
 the platform stage. Shakespeare wrote his plays for a 
 bare platform, which was devoid of scenery (although sup- 
 plied with "properties" of all sorts) and which jutted out 
 into the yard, wherein the spectators stood. Two centuries 
 later Sheridan wrote his plays for a stage which curved 
 forward boldly, in what was called the "apron," on which 
 the actors advanced to perform all the more significant 
 incidents, because it was only out on the apron that sufli- 
 
xviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 cient illumination could be secured to enable the spectator 
 to see their faces. There was scenery, far behind on the 
 stage itself, but this served mainly as a background from 
 which the performers could come forward on the projecting 
 apron, far beyond the curtain. On the apron stage, as on 
 the earher platform stage, the actors were siirrounded on 
 three sides by the audience; and they were in such close 
 proximity to the spectator that it was natural enough for 
 them to make speeches directly to him and to indulge in 
 confidential soliloquies. 
 
 With the invention of more satisfactory appliances for 
 lighting — ^the calcium hght and the electric light — ^it be- 
 came possible to illuminate the whole stage; and the 
 projecting apron ceased to be a necessity. So it was cut 
 away and the footUghts receded to the curtain, which now 
 rises and falls in a picture frame. The actors are no longer 
 surrounded on three sides by the audience; they are no 
 longer in close proximity to the spectators; and the charac- 
 ters are no longer tempted to reveal their souls and to set 
 forth their schemes in confidential soliloquies addressed 
 directly to the playgoers massed all around them. To talk 
 at the audience has been discovered to endanger the plaus- 
 ibility of the performance, because it forced the actor to 
 step "out of the picture;" And the picture disclosed with- 
 in the picture frame is no longer lie vague backgrotmd 
 acceptable enough on the apron stage; it has become a 
 reproduction of the fit habitation of the character whose 
 home it purported to represent. Here the drama has been 
 influenced by prose-fiction; Scott first and then Balzac had 
 taught us how a character could be revealed in a character- 
 istic environment. It was from the novel that the realistic 
 movement spread to the play; and it is only on the picture- 
 frame stage that it is possible to present the persons of the 
 drama in their appropriate surroundings. 
 
 Furthermore, as this characteristic environment is often 
 indicated by a complex stage-setting, with realistic scenery, 
 realistic furniture, and reahstic properties, it takes more 
 time for its proper preparation than was needed for the 
 more primitive scenery which supplied a background satis- 
 factory enough on the apron stage, the dramatist has dis- 
 covered the advisability of not changing the scenery during 
 an act, imless there was some unusual advantage to be 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 XIX 
 
 gamed. Jtist as the adoption of the picture frame forced 
 the abandonment of the soliloquy, so the adoption of the 
 single set to the act compelled a closer compacting of the 
 story and imposed on the playwright a severer economy 
 of construction. In fact, the changes in the conditions of 
 performance necessarily brought about various changes in 
 the methods of the playwright and forced him to solve 
 novel problems of technic. 
 
 The transformation of the apron stage of the end of the 
 eighteenth century mto the picture-frame stage of the be- 
 ginning of the twentieth century, and the resulting modi- 
 fication of the methods of playmaking can now be observed 
 in the theatres of all the leading cities of the world; a 
 modern type of playhouse has been slowly evolved in con- 
 sequence of international borrowings, every country avail- 
 ing itself speedily of the inventions and improvements of 
 every other country. It is to this twentieth-century type 
 of theatre that the twentieth-century playwright adjusts 
 his play, no matter what his nationality. Plays are now 
 immediately transportable from one language to another; 
 and the dramatists of every modem language are compos- 
 ing their plays in accordance with the same set of principles. 
 So far as its structure is concerned, there is no difference 
 between a German play and a Hungarian, or between an 
 American and an Italian. The craftsmanship may be 
 more dexterous in the work of the French dramatists, but 
 they are working in accord with a body of artistic doc- 
 trine accepted also by the dramatists of every other modern 
 language. 
 
 But while the external form of the contemporary drama 
 does not vary from tongue to tongue, the internal content 
 retains the full flavor of its author's nationality. The 
 skeleton of a comedy by Hervieu may resemble the skeleton 
 of a comedy by Barrie, but the spirit of the former is as 
 indisputably Gallic as the spirit of the latter is undeniably 
 British. So far as their technic is concerned, the plays of 
 Clyde, Fitch and Herman Bahr, of Echegaray and d'An- 
 nunzio are more or less identical; but there the resemblance 
 ceases and each of these authors reveals his racial point of 
 view in his choice of theme, in his handling of situation, and 
 in his treatment of character. The drama of the twentieth 
 century is cosmopoUtan in its acceptance of a unified 
 
XX 
 
 mTRODUCTION 
 
 theory of the theatre; but it is intensely national and there- 
 fore immensely varied in its divergent outlook upon life. 
 Here the art of the modern dramatist is seen to resemble 
 the art of the modern writer of short stories. In form, in 
 method, in technic, the short stories of Poe and Bret 
 Harte and O. Henry, of Stevenson and Kipling, of Mau- 
 passant and Daudet, of Turgenef and Sacher-Masach, are 
 surprisingly alike; while in content, in flavor, in aroma, 
 every one of these writers discloses instantly that he is 
 solidly rooted in the soil of his nativity. 
 
 Ill 
 
 It is partly because the technic of the short story is more 
 difficult than that of the more loosely knit novel that so 
 many of our later writers of fiction have been tempted to 
 wrestle with the exigencies of the briefer form; and it is 
 partly because in like manner the technic of the drama 
 demands a sterner effort that so many of our later novelists 
 have sought to win success also on the stage. A true ar- 
 tist joys in overcoming obstacles and in turning stumbling- 
 blocks into stepping-stones. This desire of the ardent 
 artist to wrestle with technical problems is one reason why 
 the sonnet with its rigid scheme of rimes has always been 
 alluring to poets. This is one reason why we may expect 
 the drama to attract to itseK the more richly endowed 
 storytellers and why we have a right to hope that the pres- 
 ent rivalry between the drama and prose-fiction will be- 
 come more acute. 
 
 (This much at least is certain now, that in all the more 
 important modern literatiu-es the drama has been reborn. 
 No one who is interested in understanding his fellowman 
 in his own country and in other countries can afford to 
 neglect the plays of our time. It is a chief function of 
 literature to enable us to see ourselves first of aU — and this 
 we can do best in the novels and the plays of our fellow- 
 countrymen. Almost equally important are the novels 
 Imd plays written in foreign tongues which enable us to 
 see foreigners as they see themselves and which help us 
 therefore to that more intimate understanding of alien 
 peoples that makes for international comity.) 
 
 As plays, whether native or foreign, are composed spe- 
 
INTRODUCTION xxi 
 
 cffically for performance on the stage, and as they therefore 
 display their full power and render up their full meaning 
 only when they are acted, it is best always to see them in 
 the theatre whenever this is possible. But unfortunately 
 it is not always possible. Even in the largest cities many 
 of the most interesting plays are visible in the playhouse 
 only infrequently; and in the smaller towns and in the re- 
 moter rural districts the opportunities of seeing them are 
 even more limited. In default of the possibility of behold- 
 ing them in the theatre we shall have, perforce, to content 
 ourselves with the less satisfactory perusal in the library. 
 We shall have to recover the lost art of reading plays as 
 easily and as effectively as we read novels. We shall have 
 to train ourselves to interpret the stage directions of the 
 dramatist and to learn as best we can to visualize the actual 
 performance we are deprived of. 
 
 In the eighteenth century and even in the earlier years 
 of the nineteenth century, before the overwhelming popu- 
 larity of the Waverly novels led to the enormous expansion 
 of prose-fiction and to the consequent decline of the Eng- 
 lish drama, plays were as freely read as novels. A success- 
 ful comedy or tragedy went through edition after edition. 
 Hazlitt dwelt on the delight of reading a comedy in which 
 the cleverest things are said and the most amusing happen. 
 But as the novel slowly but surely crowded out the play, 
 the mass of readers became accustomed to the amplitude 
 of description and to the superfluities of analysis in which 
 the novelist was wont to indulge; and they came in time 
 to find the bare dialogue of a play, supported only by sparse 
 stage directions, a httle too bare for comfortable perusal. 
 They became too lazy to make the effort needed to picture 
 the action for themselves. In other words, the art of 
 reading a play was lost by the immense majority of those 
 whose faculties were weakened by the often excessive 
 amount of detail provided in the more leisurely and less- 
 condensed narratives of the novelist. 
 
 To-day there is evidence that this lost art is being re- 
 covered, both in Great Britain and in the United States. 
 There has been a constant succession of translations of the 
 social dramas of Ibsen; and abundant English renderings of 
 the more important pieces of other European dramatists 
 have been published in the past score of years. The 
 
xxu 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 American or British reader who has only his own native 
 language has been enabled to form his own opinion of the 
 most significant plays of Rostand, d'Aimunzio, Strindberg, 
 Tchekof, and Hauptmann. The more ambitious of the 
 playwrights of our own language have been encouraged to 
 prepare their pieces for publication; the plays of Mr. 
 Shaw and Mr. Galsworthy have been carried to hundreds 
 of readers who have never had an opportunity to see any- 
 thing by either of these British writers represented in the 
 theatre. The Drama League of America has encouraged 
 its members to peruse plays, and to this end it has issued 
 carefully prepared and annotated lists. 
 
 (It is one of the objects of the series of volumes to which 
 this paper serves as an introduction to aid in the acquisi- 
 tion of the art of reading a play. Half a hundred of the 
 most important and most interesting pieces of the last half 
 century have been chosen; and the story of each has been 
 retold in the form of succinct narrative which from time to 
 time gives place to the actual dialogue of the play itself. 
 Thus the possessor of these volumes will be introduced 
 to many masterpieces of the modern drama by an ingenious 
 and enticing compromise between the unadorned dialogue 
 of the stage play and the unbroken narrative of prose- 
 fiction.) 
 
 Bbandeb Matthews. 
 
 Columbia University 
 in the City of New York. 
 
THE MASTERPIECES 
 OF MODERN DRAMA 
 
 PART I 
 
The Masterpieces of Modern Drama 
 
 POmiER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 By Smile Augier and Jules Sandbau 
 
 First played in Paris at the Th^itre du Gymnase in 1854. 
 
 Argument: Poirier, a wealthy retired merchant who 
 married his daughter to the Marquis de Presles to favor his 
 dreams of social and poUtical advancement, finding that 
 she is not happy blames her husband's idleness and under- 
 takes to make him seek an occupation. The Marquis is 
 on the point of discovering that he is really in love with 
 his wife when Poirier learns that his daughter has signed 
 away her dowry to pay his debts, and takes revenge by 
 imposing the strictest economies, thus driving the Marquis 
 back to a fast life. Will the Marquis be reclaimed and 
 make his wife happy? 
 
 Gaston, the Marquis de Presles, has not seen his old 
 friend Hector, the Duke of Montmeyran, for some months, 
 when Hector, who is in the army, comes back from Africa 
 on furlough. Hector entered the service for the same rea- 
 son that Gaston married the daughter of a wealthy bour- 
 geois, as a means of livelihood. 
 
 Duke. Before I went away I placed the remnants of my 
 fortune in the hands of a banker. It amounted to some 
 hundred thousand francs, the revenue from which will give 
 me thirty days of my old life each year. Natiu-ally, I have 
 chosen the carnival season for my prodigalities. It began 
 yesterday. I arrive to-day, and my first visit is to you. 
 
 Gaston. Thanks! I will not hear of your staying else- 
 where than at my house. 
 
 Duke. Oh, I don't want to inconvenience you. 
 
 3 
 
4 POmiER'S SON-m-IAW 
 
 Gast. You won't inconvenience me in the least. 
 
 Duke. Well, frankly, it's not you who I am afraid of 
 incommoding, but myself. You understand . . . 
 You Uve with yoiu- family . . . your wife and father- 
 in-law ... 
 
 Gast. Oh, yes. You imagine because I married the 
 daughter of a cloth merchant that my house is the temple 
 of ennui, that my wife keeps a horde of bourgeois virtues 
 in her wardrobes, and that all there is to be done is to write 
 on my door: Here lies Gaston, Marquis dePresles! Dis- 
 illusion yourself. I live the life of a prince. I keep racing 
 stables, gamble without limit, buy paintings, and have the 
 best cook in Paris, a scamp who pretends to be descended 
 from Vatel and who takes his art very seriously. I keep 
 open house. Parenthetically, you shall dine to-morrow 
 with all our old friends and shall see how I entertain. In 
 short, marriage has suppressed none of my habits, none 
 except the creditors. 
 
 Duke. Do yoiu" wife and father-in-law throw the bridle 
 on your neck? 
 
 Gast. Exactly. My wife is a little school miss, pretty 
 enough, rather awkward, rather timid, still wonderstruck 
 by her metamorphosis, and I'd swear that she spends her 
 time looking at the Marchioness de Presles in the mirror." 
 As for Monsieur Poirier, my father-in-law, he is worthy 
 of his name.* Modest and nourishing like all fruit trees, 
 he was born to live on a trellis. His entire ambition was 
 to supply the deserts of some gentleman. His prayers 
 were heard by heaven. 
 
 At the age of fifteen Gaston was left an orphan. Five 
 years later he came into his fortune and lost no time in 
 making ducks and drakes of it, entertaining great expecta- 
 tions on account of the wealth of an old bachelor uncle, who 
 had the bad taste, however, to marry and have children. 
 Thus Gaston had nothing but his debts in the amount of 
 500,000 francs. His only recourse was to join the corps of 
 sons-in-law, and then Poirier came his way. He assiu-es 
 Gaston that he has arrived at a very opportune moment as 
 he needs a second in a duel that he is going to fight on ac- 
 count of Madame de Mont jay. 
 
 *Poiner means pear tree. 
 
AUGIER AND SANDEAU 5 
 
 Presently Poirier enters with his friend, Verdelet, and 
 Gaston takes occasion to treat him with an air of grand 
 patronage before taldng Hector out to show him "his 
 stables." Verdelet disapproves very strongly of Poirier's 
 servility, and predicts that the Marquis will ruin him in 
 ten years. Poirier says he would rather be loved than 
 feared, and that he wishes to make Gaston feel his indebt- 
 edness, but is evidently nettled. Verdelet remarks that 
 this extreme delicacy comes to him rather late in life. 
 Having had enough of the topic, Poirier picks up a news- 
 paper. His eye faUs on an announcement of a manufac- 
 turer having been made a peer. The item fans his own 
 ambition, which is another butt of Verdelet's ridicule. 
 
 Poirier is rather jealous of his daughter's fondness for 
 Verdelet, who is her godfather, and who always takes her 
 side against him. Aitoinette comes into the room while 
 they are still discussing the son-in-law, and Poirier remarks 
 that he could wish that Gaston had some other occupation 
 than spending money. 
 
 Poirier [to Antoinette]. One is very weak toward his 
 wife during the honeymoon. If you should ask him this 
 prettily ... in the evening . . . while taking 
 your hair down . . . ? 
 
 Antoinette. Oh, father! 
 
 Pair. What! That's how Madame Poirier asked me 
 to take her to the opera, and I took her there the very next 
 night. . . . You see! 
 
 Ant. I should never dare speak to my husband of such 
 a serious thing. 
 
 Poir. But your dowry certainly gives you some say in 
 the matter. 
 
 Ant. He would shrug his shoulders and not answer me. 
 
 Verdelet. He shrugs his shoulders when you speak to 
 him? 
 
 Ani. No, but . . . 
 
 Verd. Oh, oh! You lower your eyes. It seems that 
 your husband treats you somewhat slightingly. It's what 
 I've always feared. 
 
 Poir. Have you reason to complain of him? 
 
 Ant. No, father. 
 
 Poir. Doesn't he love you? 
 
 Ant. I don't say that. 
 
6 POIRIER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 Poir. What is it you do say, then? 
 
 Ant. Nothing. 
 
 Verd. Come, my girl, explain yourself frankly to your 
 old friends. We were only created and put in the world to 
 watch over your happiness. In whom would you confide if 
 not in your father and godfather? Something puts you out? 
 
 Ant. I have no reason to be put out. My husband is 
 very kind and very good. 
 
 Pair. Well, then? 
 
 Verd. Does that suffice? He's kind and good, but he 
 pays scarcely more attention to you than he woidd to a 
 pretty doll? Isn't that it? 
 
 Antoinette says it is her own fault. She is timid with 
 Gaston. She dares show him neither her mind nor heart, 
 fearing that he will regard her as a schoolgirl who wanted 
 to be a marchioness. How can she tell him that it was not 
 his title that pleased her, but the grace of his manners, his 
 lively wit, cluvabous disposition, and his disdain for the 
 paltry meannesses of life; how tell him that he is the man 
 of her dreams, if he stops her with a pleasantry at the first 
 word? She confesses to the fear that she bores Gaston. 
 
 Verd. A wife should be the preoccupation and not the 
 occupation of her husband. 
 
 Poir. Why did I always adore ypur mother? Because 
 I never had time to think of her. 
 
 Verd. Your husband has twenty-four hours a day in 
 which to love you. 
 
 Pair. Too much by twelve. 
 
 Ant. You open my eyes. 
 
 Poir. Let him take some employment and things will 
 go as they should. 
 
 Ant. What do you think, Tony? 
 
 Verd. It's possible. The difficulty is to make him 
 consent. 
 
 Poir. I'll bell the cat. You two back me up. 
 
 Verd. Do you mean to bring up the question at once? 
 
 Poir. No, after dinner. I've noticed that Monsieur 
 the Marquis has a gay digestion. 
 
 Hector finds Antoinette charming, but Gaston replies 
 indifferently that she is well enough. A painting is 
 brought in that Gaston ordered and he and Hector discuss 
 it as connoisseurs. 
 
AUGIER AND SANDEAU 1 
 
 Pair. It isn't interesting in the least, such a subject. 
 It means nothing. I have an engraving in my room that 
 represents a dog on the seashore barking at a sailor's cap. 
 What do you think of that ! That's comprehensible. It's 
 ingenious, simple, and touching. 
 
 Gast. Well, Monsieur Poirier . . , since you like 
 touching pictures I'll have one painted for you after a 
 subject which I have taken from nature myself: on a table 
 a little onion cut in quarters, a poor little white onion! 
 The knife was lying beside it. . . . It wasn't much, 
 but it brought tears to the eyes. 
 
 It is rather a shock to Poirier to learn that Gaston gave 
 fifty louis for the picture. If the artist was reaUy hard up, 
 he thinks Gaston could have bought it for twenty-five at 
 the dinner hour. It is not that he is unwilling to protect 
 the arts but the artists, who are lazy, good-for-nothing 
 fellows. Diimer is announced, and Poirier says they are to 
 have some wine of a rare old vintage that is worth fifteen 
 francs a bottle. He tells Verdelet privately that they two 
 win not partake of it. 
 
 After diimer Gaston is in such good humor that he -calls 
 Poirier an excellent man, and says he only wishes there 
 were some way in which he could acquit himself. 
 
 Pair. You are happy, my dear Gaston. That you 
 should say so is my best recompense. 
 
 Gast. I ask only to double yovu: gratification. 
 
 Poir. But here after three months given over to the 
 sweetness of the honeymoon. That seems to me enough 
 for romance, and I think the time come to think of 
 history. 
 
 Gast. Zounds! You talk like a book. Think of his-' 
 tory, I'm quite willing. 
 
 Poir. What do you think of doing? 
 
 Gast. To-day? 
 
 Pair. And to-morrow, and in the future. . . . You 
 ought to have some idea. , 
 
 Gast. Of course, my plans are made. I mean to do 
 to-day what I did yesterday, and to-morrow what I shall 
 do to-day. I am not a versatile soul in spite of my frivo- 
 lous air, and so long as the future may resemble the present 
 I am satisfied. 
 
8 POmiER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 Poir. But you are too sensible to believe in the eternity 
 of a honeymoon. 
 
 Gast. Too sensible, you have said it, and too well posted 
 on astronomy. . . . But you must have read Henry 
 Heine. 
 
 Poir. You have, haven't you, Verdelet? 
 
 Verd. I've read him, I admit. 
 
 Poir. He was a fellow who spent his life playing truant. 
 
 Goat. Well, Heniy Heine interrogated as to the fate of 
 old full moons replied that they were broken up to make 
 stars. 
 
 Pair. I don't see the . . . 
 
 Gast. When our honeymoon grows old we'll break it 
 up, and there'll be material enough to make a milky way. 
 
 Poir. The idea is doubtless very gracious. 
 
 Gast. Its chief merit is its extreme simplicity. 
 
 Poir. But seriously, doesn't the somewhat idle life you 
 lead seem disastrous to the happiness of matrimony? 
 
 Gast. Not in the least. 
 
 Verd. A man of your talents ought not to condemn 
 himself to perpetual unemployment. 
 
 Gast. With resignation. . . . 
 
 Ant. Aren't you afraid, dear, that ennui will get the 
 better of you? 
 
 Gast. You calumniate yoiu-self, my dear. 
 
 Ant. I'm not so vain as to think that I can fiU your en- 
 tire existence, and I own that I should be very glad to see 
 you follow the example of Monsieur de Montmeyran. 
 
 Gast. Do you advise me to enlist? 
 
 Poirier advances the idea that the nobility cannot con- 
 tinue forever to abstain from taking any part in affairs, 
 and points out that a number of the nobles have engaged 
 in commerce. Gaston stops him. It is not a question of 
 politics, he says, politics may be discussed but not senti- 
 ments. He is bound to the old order. He will not have 
 another word on the subject, and begs Hector's pardon 
 that the subject should have come up. A servant enters 
 and speaks to Poirier. 
 
 Pair. Your creditors are here. 
 
 Gast. Yours, my dear sir. I have given them to you. 
 
 Antoinette and Verdelet go out. Poirier says he will see 
 the creditors, and Gaston tells bim not to be too polite to 
 
AUGEER AND SANDEAU 9 
 
 the scoundrels. Hector knows them and lets drop the fact 
 that he borrowed money of them at fifty per cent. Poirer 
 exclaims that there are laws against usury. Hector ex- 
 plains that the transaction is made in a legal way. One 
 gives his note and receives only half its face value in cash. 
 Poirier turns to Gaston. 
 
 Pair. I like to think that you haven't borrowed at such 
 a rate. 
 
 Gast. I should Uke to think so, too. 
 
 Pair. Fifty per cent! 
 
 Gast. Neither more nor less. 
 
 Pair. Why didn't you tell me so before? Before your 
 marriage I might have made a bargain. 
 
 Gast. That's just what I didn't want. It would be a 
 fime thing to see the Marquis de Presles redeeming his word 
 at a discount. It would be insulting his own name. 
 
 Poir. Nevertheless, if you owe only half . . . 
 
 Gast. I received only half, but I owe the whole. It's 
 not to those robbers, but to my signature. 
 
 Pair. It seems to me that in reimbursing these scamps 
 for what they paid out, and in adding interest compounded 
 at six per cent., you would have satisfied the most scrupu- 
 lous probity. 
 
 Gast. This is not a question of probity, but of honor. 
 
 Poir. What difiference do you make between the two? 
 
 Gast. Honor is the probity of a gentleman. 
 
 Poir. So our virtues change their names when you are 
 good enough to practise them? You rub the dirt off before 
 you use them? I'm surprised at one thing, and that is 
 that a noble's nose deigns to have the same name as a 
 bourgeois'. 
 
 He warns Gaston that he is going to try to get out of the 
 situation at the best bargain he can, and goes out. Hector 
 goes to make arrangements for the duel over Madame de 
 Montjay, and Antoinette comes back. She observes that 
 the other evening at the opera Gaston spent a long time in 
 Madame de Montjay's box. She asks if the lady is clever. 
 Gaston replies that she is, and there is a silence. 
 
 Ant. Why haven't you let me know when I have done 
 something that displeases you? 
 
 Gast. I have never failed to. 
 
 Ant. Oh ! You have never said a word of remonstrance. 
 
10 POmiER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 Goat. Then that is because you have never done any- 
 thing that displeased me. 
 
 Ant. Without going any further, in insisting just now 
 that you should seek an employment I oflEended you. 
 
 Gast. I no longer think of it. 
 
 Ant. You may believe that if I had known what a 
 worthy sentiment I was going counter to . . - 
 
 Gast. Really, my dear child, one would say that you 
 were making excuses for me. 
 
 Ant. It is because I am afraid that you may attribute 
 it to puerile vanity. . . . 
 
 Gast. And if you should have a little vanity, what a 
 crime that would be! 
 
 Ant. I haven't any, I assure you. 
 
 Gast. [getting up]. Well, my dear, you are without 
 faults; for I have seen no others in you. Do you know 
 tiiat you have made Montmeyran's conquest. That's a 
 tiling to be proud of. Hector is difficult. 
 
 Ant. Less so than you. 
 
 Gast. You think me difficult? You see you really are 
 vain. I've caught you at it. 
 
 Ani. I have no iUusions about myself. I know all that 
 I lack to be worthy of you . . . but if you would like 
 to take the trouble to guide me, to teach me the ideas of 
 your set, I like you well enough to be metamorphosed. 
 
 Gast. [kissing her hand\. I should only lose by the meta- 
 morphosis. Besides, I should be a bad instructor. There 
 is but one school in which to learn that which you believe 
 you are ignorant of: that is the world. Study it. 
 
 Ant. Yes, I shall model myself on Madame de Montjay. 
 
 Gast. That name again! . . . Are you doing me 
 the honor of being jealous? Take care, my dear, that feel- 
 ing is very bad form. Know, since you permit me to be 
 pedagogue, know that in our world marriage is not house- 
 keeping; we share in common only the noble and elegant 
 things of life. So when I am away from you, do not worry 
 about what I am doing; say to yourself simply: he is tiring 
 out his faults so that he may bring me an hour of approxi- 
 mate perfection. 
 
 Ant. I find that your greatest fault is your absence. 
 
 Gast. The madrigal is pretty, and I thank you for it. 
 
 The creditors are unwilling to go without seeing the 
 
AUGIER AND SANDEAU 11 
 
 Marquis. They complain that he has treated them as if 
 they were bloodsuckers, whereas they are very honest 
 fellows. Gaston asks if his notes have not been paid in full. 
 They reply that a bagatelle is missing, or, in other words, 
 two hundred and twenty-eight thousand francs. Rather 
 than give up the full amount, they report, his father-in-law 
 has declared that he would see him in the debtor's prison. 
 
 Gaston acknowledges his indebtedness for the balance 
 and informs them that he now has considerable property. 
 They know, however, that he cannot touch it without the 
 consent of his wife. Antoinette immediately writes her 
 note for the amount and gives it to the moneylenders, who 
 bow themselves out with profuse thanks. 
 
 Gaston throws his arms around Antoinette and kisses 
 her impulsively, exclaiming that he adores her. He ad- 
 dresses her as "Marchioness," and calls her attention to the 
 fact. The clock striking three reminds him of an appoint- 
 ment with Madame de Montjay, but he asks Antoinette to 
 go for a drive. Poirier comes in. 
 
 Qasl. [to PomiER]. Permit me to acknowledge your 
 skilfulness. You tricked those rogues neatly. [Low to 
 Antoinette.] You see how agreeable I am? 
 
 Poir. You take the thing better than I had hoped. I 
 was prepared for a haughty kick about your honor. 
 
 Oast. I'm reasonable, my dear sir. You acted accord- 
 ing to your lights. I find it the less bad because it has not 
 prevented us from acting according to our ideas. 
 
 Pair. What? 
 
 Oast. You paid these rascals only their actual credit. 
 We have paid the rest. 
 
 Poir. [to his daughter]. What, you have signed? [An- 
 toinette makes an affirmative sign.] Oh, God in heaven! 
 Why did you do that? 
 
 Avi. I beg your pardon, father. . . . 
 
 Poir. I rack my brains for a way to save a good round 
 sum, and you throw it out of the window! Two" hundred 
 and twenty-eight thousand francs! 
 
 Oast. Don't cry. Monsieur Poirier, it is we who shall 
 lose it and you who gain it. 
 
 A maid brings Antoinette's hat and she goes out with 
 Gaston. Poirier determines to put an end to his son-in- 
 law's domination before it costs him his eyes. He sends 
 
12 POmiER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 for the doorkeeper and the cook. The former he directs 
 to put up a sign oflFering the second floor of the house and 
 the stables and coach houses for rent. Then he demohshes 
 the cook's elaborate menu for the dinner to which Gaston 
 has invited a number of friends and substitutes a few simple 
 bourgeois dishes. 
 
 Gaston returns from the drive stiU more highly pleased 
 with his wife, and assures her that she is the most charming 
 woman whom he knows. Their drive was delightful, but 
 the views of her mind were prettier. He had lived with her 
 without knowing her, like a Parisian in Paris. He says he 
 is like a countryman who has given shelter to a jqueen in 
 disguise. Suddenly the queen puts on her crown, and the 
 rustic is greatly confused at not having received her with 
 more ceremony. He was only her husband. Now he 
 wishes to be her lover. 
 
 Antoinette does not like the distinction. She has always 
 regarded marriage as the closest and most tender of rela- 
 tions, and tells him that love for another man than her 
 husband would seem to her a sentiment outside of nature. 
 There is another side to this. As there is only one man 
 in the world for her she demands all his affection. If she 
 should find that he took it elsewhere she would make no 
 complaint or reproach, but the tie would be broken; her 
 husband would at once become a stranger to her; she 
 would consider herself a widow. 
 
 When Gaston is alone with Poirier a little later he asks his 
 father-in-law if he has made his decision. 
 
 Pair. No, but I have made a decision. 
 
 Gast. Violent? 
 
 Poir. Necessary ! 
 
 Gast. Would it be indiscreet to ask what it is? 
 
 Poir. On the contrary, it is an explanation that I owe 
 you. In giving you my daughter and a million I imagined 
 that you would consent to take a position. 
 
 Gast. Do not let us go back to that, I beg you. 
 
 There are a few reforms, Poirier explains, that he has no 
 doubt Gaston wiU approve of. The first is that he shall 
 not serve as a butt for Gaston's ridicule, for although 
 Gaston regards him as a very insignificant person there are 
 more brains in his shpper than in Gaston's hat. 
 
AUGIER AND SANDEAU 13 
 
 Gast. Fie! That's trivial. You speak like a commoQ 
 person. 
 
 Pair. I'm not a marquis, myself. 
 
 Gast. Don't say it so loud. One would end in believing it. 
 
 Poir. Let them believe it or not, it's the least of my 
 troubles. I make no pretension to gentility, thank God! 
 I don't take enough account of it for that. I laugh at the 
 chances of birth. Nobility doesn't dazzle me. 
 
 Gaston is well aware, however, that Poirier had an 
 ulterior motive in making him his son-in-law, and finally 
 obUges him to admit that he hoped Gaston would go to 
 court and thus promote his own ambitions. He suggests 
 that Poirier should seek training in commerce in emulation 
 of Richelieu, Colbert, and other great statesmen. 
 
 Poir. Oh, I don't pretend to such. . . . 
 
 Gast. But what would befit this good Monsieur Poirier? 
 A prefecture? Fie upon it! State councillor, no! A 
 diplomatic post? Ah, it happens that the embassy at 
 Constantinople is vacant. 
 
 Poir. I have sedentary tastes. I do not understand 
 the Turk. 
 
 Gast. Wait! [Striking Poieiek on the shoulder.] I be- 
 lieve the peerage would fit you like a glove. 
 
 Poir. Oh, you think so? 
 
 At last Poirier says he has three million francs which he 
 can invest in landed property at a word from Gaston. 
 
 Gast. You shall be a count. 
 
 Poir. No, we must be reasonable. Baron is enough. 
 
 Gast. The Baron Poirier! It sounds well in the ear. 
 
 Poir. Yes, Baron Poirier! 
 
 Gast. [looks at him and bursts out laughing]. I beg your 
 pardon, but really it's too drole! Baron! Monsieur 
 Poirier! . . . Baron de Catillard ! * 
 
 Poir. [aside]. He's making game of me! 
 Hector comes in. 
 
 Gast. Come here. Hector! Come! Do you know why 
 John Gaston de Presles was the first in the assault at La 
 Rochelle? Why Louis Gaston de Presles blew up his ship 
 at La Hogue? Why Philip Gaston de Presles took two 
 flags at Fontenoy ? Why my grandfather died at Quiberon ? 
 
 *CatiUard is a pear used for cookmg. 
 
14 POIRIER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 It was in order that Monsieur Poirier might one day be 
 made a baron or peer of France. 
 
 Hector. What do you mean? 
 
 Gast. That was the secret of the little attack made on 
 me this morning. 
 
 Pair. Do you know, my lord, why I worked fourteen 
 hours a day for thirty years? Why I amassed four millions, 
 sou by sou, while denying myself everything? It was so 
 that Monsieur the Marquis Gaston de Presles, who did 
 not die at Quiberon, nor at Fontenoy, nor at La Hogue, nor 
 elsewhere, may die of old age on a feather bed, after having 
 passed his life in doing nothing. 
 
 Duke. Well answered, sir! 
 
 Gast. That promises well for the tribune! 
 
 A servant informs Poirier that some one has come to see 
 the apartments which are to let. It is a shock to Gaston 
 to learn that his father-in-law means to let the second floor, 
 and the stables and coach houses as well. Poirier says 
 Gaston can live on the third floor. 
 
 Gast. And my horses? Will you lodge them on the 
 third floor, too? 
 
 Poir. You shall sell them. 
 
 Gast. I go on foot? 
 
 Duke. It will be good for you. You don't walk enough. 
 
 Poir. Besides, I shall keep my little blue coupe. I will 
 lend it to you. 
 
 The cook enters and formally tenders his resignation to 
 Gaston, who accepts it upon learning that Poirier has 
 changed the menu and has also invited some plebeian friends 
 of his own to the dinner. Gaston says he is going to leave 
 the house himself the next day, Poirier inquires what 
 profession he will adopt, for he will need more income than 
 nine thousand francs, since that is all that the remains of 
 Antoinette's dowry will produce. It is not a revenue, he 
 points out, on which Gaston will be likely to nourish his 
 friends with carpes a la Lithuanienne and volailles k la 
 concordat. He advises Gaston to remain where he is, and 
 to consider his children, who will not be sorry to find in 
 the pocket of the Marquis of Presles the fruits of Goodman 
 Poirier's economies. He turns abruptly and goes out. 
 
 Gaston observes that Poirier has done him an unexpected 
 service, and saved him from covering himself with ridicule 
 
AUGIER AND SANDEAU 15 
 
 by falling in love with his wife. He could never kiss her 
 ,again without thinking of that old crocodile. He is going 
 to see Madame de Montjay, who has been expecting him 
 for two hours. Hector tries in vain to stop him, and then 
 remmds him that he is to fight the duel with Pontgrimaud 
 at two o'clock the next day. Gaston says that judging 
 by the humor he is in, Pontgrimaud is going to have a lively 
 time of it. 
 
 Hector takes it upon himself to apprise Antoinette that 
 her father, irritated by Gaston's refusal to further his am- 
 bitions, is avenging himself by annoyances for which he 
 fears she will suffer. Verdelet assures her that if the house 
 is made odious to Gaston he will seek distraction elsewhere. 
 At this moment a servant comes in with a letter for Gaston 
 which he says was left by Madame de-Montjay's footman. 
 Antoinette knows that Gaston has been attentive to 
 Madame de Montjay lately, but does not think he is her 
 lover. He should have had to have begun his advances on 
 the morrow of their wedding to have progressed so far, and 
 that would be infamous. She says he could not have 
 married her in the certainty that he was not going to love 
 her, and that he should not have condemned her so soon. 
 Poirier, coming in and finding Antoinette agitated, thinks 
 she is feverish. Upon learning what has disturbed her he 
 angrily takes the letter and breaks the seal. Even Verde- 
 let tries to restrain him, but he reads as far as "Dear 
 Gaston," and then drops the letter. Antoinette sinks in 
 an armchair, half fainting, but recovers in a few minutes 
 and goes to her room. Poirier is beside himself when Gas- 
 ton returns, and asks if he is looking for something. If it 
 is a letter from Madame de Montjay he has it in his pocket, 
 and, furthermore, he has opened it. 
 
 Gaston declares that Poirier has committed a dishonest 
 act. There is but one dishonest man present, returns 
 Poirier, and that is his son-in-law. Gaston will not suffer 
 any reproaches; in stealing the secret of his transgressions, 
 he says, Poirier has forfeited the right to judge them. 
 Poirier replies that Gaston may explain all that in court, 
 for he means to bring a suit for a separation. The Marquis 
 is aghast at the thought of Madame de Montjay's reputa- 
 tion being ruined through him, but Poirier insists that she 
 shall be punished. 
 
16 POmiER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 Gad. [to Veedelet]. Help me to prevent an irreparable 
 misfortune, sir. 
 
 Verd. Ha! You don't know him ! 
 
 Gast. [to Poirieh]. Take care, sir. I am going to save 
 this woman. I am going to save her at any cost. You 
 know that I am responsible for it all. 
 
 Poir. I know that well enough. 
 
 Gast. You do not know to what lengths I may be driven 
 by desperation. 
 
 Pdr. Oh, threats? 
 
 Gast. Yes, threats. Give me that letter, or you shall 
 not go out from here. 
 
 Poir. Violence! Must I call the servants? 
 
 Gaston says he was losing his head, and asks Poirier to 
 listen to him. He admits that his idleness has been his 
 ruin. What if he should seek employment? Poirier has 
 a right to doubt his word, but he may keep the letter, and 
 if Gaston fails in his promise there will still be time to resort 
 to extreme measures. 
 
 Verd. Come, Poirier, that's a guarantee. 
 
 Poir. A guarantee of what? 
 
 Verd. Of his fidelity to his promises. He will not see 
 this lady again; he will take employment; he will devote 
 himself to the happiness of your daughter. What more 
 could you ask? 
 
 Poir. I understand that all right, but who will be an- 
 swerable for it? 
 
 Verd. The letter! Good heavens, the letter! 
 
 Poir. That's true, yes. That's true. 
 
 It remains only to submit the agreement to Antoinette 
 for her approval. Gaston tells Hector that Pontgrimaud 
 would render him a service by killing him. He says he 
 is done for; the slave of a father-in-law whose tjrranny is 
 justified, the husband of a woman whom he has wounded to 
 the heart and who will never forgive him. He is disgusted 
 with himself and everything else. His folly has lost hiTn his 
 liberty, domestic happiness, and the respect of society and of 
 himself. Poirier and Verdelet come back with Antoinette. 
 
 Ant. No, father, no, it is impossible! All is over be- 
 tween Monsieur de Presles and me. 
 
 Verd. I no longer recognize you when you talk so, my 
 child. 
 
AUGIER AND SANDEAU 17 
 
 Pair. But when I tell you that he will take an occupa- 
 tion! That he will never see this woman again! That he 
 will make you happy! 
 
 Ant. There can no longer be any happiness for me! If 
 Monsieur de Presles did not love me voluntarily, do you 
 think he will love me under compulsion? 
 
 Poir. [to the Makqdis]. Speak, sir. 
 
 Ant. Monsieur de Presles is silent; he knows that I 
 should not believe his protestations. He knows, too, that 
 every tie between us is broken, and that he can no longer 
 be anything but a stranger to me. Let us both have what 
 liberty the law can restore to us. I desire a separation, 
 father. Give me this letter. It is I, I alone, who have the 
 right to make use of it. Give it to me! 
 
 Poir. I beg you, my child, think of the scandal that 
 will bespatter everybody. 
 
 Ant. It will soil only the guilty. 
 
 Verd. Consider this woman whom you are going to 
 ruin forever. 
 
 Ant. Has she had pity on me? Father, give me that 
 letter. It is not your daughter who demands it, but the 
 outraged Marchioness de Presles. 
 
 Poir. There it is. . . . But since he will take an 
 occupation . . . 
 
 Ant. Give it to me. [To the Maeqtjis.] I hold the 
 means of vengeance, sir, and it shall not elude me. You 
 have pledged your honor to save your mistress;, I release 
 it and give it back to you. [She tears up the letter and throws 
 it in the fire.] 
 
 Poir. Why! What has she done? 
 
 Ant. My duty! 
 
 Verd. My good child! [He hisses Aer.] 
 
 Duke. Generous act! 
 
 Gast. Oh, Madame, how can I express myself to you? 
 In my pride I thought I had made a misalliance. You 
 keep my honor better than I ! My whole life would not be 
 too much in reparation for the wrong I have done. 
 
 Ant. I am a widow, sir. 
 
 She takes Verdelet's arm and goes out. 
 
 The next day Verdelet attempts to bring about a recon- 
 ciliation, but bothi Antoinette and her father are firmly op- 
 
18 POmiER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 posed to the thought of it. Antoinette says that Gaston 
 has killed all the love she had for him, and that the only 
 thing she asks is never to see him again. Poirier informs 
 them that he has just shot another bolt into the Marquis 
 by ofifering for sale the ChMeau de Presles, the ancestral 
 estate of the Marquis's family, which he bought some time 
 before. He hopes that in a month this vestige of feudalism 
 will no longer be a blemish on the soil of a free people. Beet 
 roots will be planted on the site of the ch&teau, cottages 
 will be built with its materials, and the woods in the park 
 will be sawed up for fuel. He is going to see if the adver- 
 tisements have been printed. 
 
 Gaston comes in without having waited to see if Antoi- 
 nette will receive him. He tells her that he wishes to say 
 good-bye, as he is going to Africa with Hector to join the 
 army. He regrets having troubled her life, but reminds 
 her that war has fortunate chances. Hector, who has 
 followed his friend, assures Antoinette that Gaston loves 
 her, but she makes a scornful reply. Gaston says his fate 
 is deserved. Antoinette was worthy of the purest love, 
 and he married her for her money; he made a bargain, but 
 was not honest enough to keep it; she saved his honor twice 
 before his blind heart was opened. He has lost everything; 
 he concludes, and she is right to despise him. 
 
 Duke. As your wife no longer loves you, it may be per- 
 missible to tell her. . . . Madame, he is going to 
 fight a duel. 
 
 Ard. Ah! Tony, his life is in danger. . . . 
 
 Duke. What does it matter to you, Madame? Is not 
 everything over between you? 
 
 Ant. Yes, yes, I know it, everything is over. . . . 
 Monsieur de Presles can dispose of his life. . . . He 
 no longer owes anything to me. . . . 
 
 Dwfce [to Gaston]. Come on, come. [They go as far as 
 the do(yr.\ 
 
 Ant. Gaston! 
 
 Duke. You see that she still loves you! 
 
 Gast. [throwing himself at her feet]. Ah! Madame, if it 
 is true, if I am not entirely effaced from your heart, say 
 one word. . . . Give me the desire to live. 
 
 Poirier comes in again, and hearing the duel mentioned 
 says he is not surprised, for mistresses and duels are in 
 
AUGIER AND SANDEAU 19 
 
 keeping: the one leads to the other. Antoinette asks 
 Gaston to deny the imputation. He answers that he can- 
 not lie; the duel is all that remains of an odious past. 
 
 Ant. And they say that you love me! . . . And I 
 was ready to pardon you at the moment when you were 
 going to fight for your mistress! . . . They were set- 
 ting a trap for my weakness with this last offence. . . . 
 Ah! Monsieur de Monteyran! 
 
 Duke. He told you, Madame, that this duel is a legacy 
 of the past which he detests and wishes to annihilate. 
 
 Verd.ltotheMAiiQuis]. Well, sir, this is very simple. If 
 you no longer love Madame de Mont jay, do not fight for her. 
 
 Gast. What, sir, make excuses! 
 
 Verd. It is a question of giving Antoinette a proof of 
 your sincerity. It is the only one that you can offer her. 
 Besides, did you not ask her just now as a favor to impose 
 some form of atonement upon you? Time was the only 
 proof to which one could put you. Shouldn't you be happy 
 to make a sacrifice which acquits you in an instant? What 
 is asked is a great deal, I know; but if it were less could it 
 redeem your misdoings? 
 
 Poir. [aside] . Here's this imbecile going to reconcile them ! 
 
 Gast. I would gladly sacrifice my life to make repara- 
 tion, but my honor. . . . The Marchioness de Presles 
 would not accept it. 
 
 Ant. And if you are mistaken, sir, if I demand it? 
 
 Gast. What, Madame, you would exact that? 
 
 Ant. That you should do for me almost as much as for 
 Madame de Montjay ? Yes, sir. You consented for her to 
 ignore your family's past, and for me you will not renounce 
 a duel ... a duel which offends me? How can I 
 believe in your love if it is not so strong as your vanity? 
 
 Poir. Besides, you'd be so much better off for coming 
 in for a bad wound! BeUeve me, prudence is the mother 
 of safety. 
 
 Verd. [aside]. Old serpent! 
 
 Gast. That is what people would say, Madame. 
 
 Ant. Who would dare to doubt your coiu-age? Haven't 
 you given proof of it? 
 
 Poir. What do you care for the opinion of a crowd of 
 fops? You will have the esteem of my friends, that ought 
 to suffice. 
 
20 POmiER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 Gast. You see, Madame, I should be laughed at. You 
 would not care long for a man who was ridiculous. 
 
 Duke. No one will laugh at you. I will take the ex- 
 cuses myself, and I promise you that they will not be 
 pleasing. 
 
 Gast. What, you are of the same opinion? 
 
 Duke. Yes, my friend. Your duel is not one that 
 cannot be prevented, and the sacrifice which is acceptable 
 to your wife will only affect your self-esteem. 
 
 Gast. Excuses at the place of meeting! 
 
 Pair. I will attend to it, I . . . 
 
 Verd. Decidedly, Poirier, you wish to force your son- 
 in-law to fight. 
 
 Pcdr. I! I'm doing everything I can to prevent it. 
 
 Duke. Come, Gaston, you haven't the right to deny 
 this proof of love to your wife. 
 
 Gast. Well! . . . No! . . . It's impossible. 
 
 Ant. My pardon is at this price. 
 
 Gast. Keep it, then, Madame. I shall not endure my 
 despair very long. 
 
 Pair. Ta, ra, ta, ta. Don't listen to him, little girl. 
 When he has his sword in his hand he will fight in spite of 
 himself. It's hke an expert swimmer wanting to drown 
 himself. Once in the water, the devil can't keep him from 
 striking out. 
 
 Ant. If Madame de Montjay forbade you to fight, you 
 would obey her. Good-bye. 
 
 Gast. Antoinette. ... In the name of heaven! 
 
 Duke. She is a thousand times right. 
 
 Gast. Make excuses! I! 
 
 Ant. Ah, you are all pride! 
 
 Duke. Come, Gaston, you are doing violence to your- 
 self. I swear to you that in your place 1 should not hesi- 
 tate. 
 
 Gast. Eh! Well ... To a Pontgrimaud! Go 
 without me. 
 
 Duke [to Antoinette] . Well, Madame, are you satisfied 
 with him? 
 
 Ant. Yes, Gaston, all is expiated. I no longer have 
 anything to pardon you for. I believe you. I am happy. 
 I love you. [The Maequis stands motionless, his head 
 bowed. Antoinette goes to her husband, takes his head 
 
AUGIER AND SANDEAU 21 
 
 in her hands and hisses him on the forehead.] And now, go 
 and fight! Go! 
 
 Gast. Oh, my dear wife, you have my mother's heart! 
 
 Avi. That of my own, sir. 
 
 Poir. How silly the women are, my God! 
 
 GaM. [to the Duke]. Come, quick, we shall be there last. 
 
 Ard. You are a good swordsman, are you not.? 
 
 Duke. Like Saint George, Madame, and a wrist of steel. 
 Monsieur Poirier, pray for Pontgrimaud. 
 
 Ant. [to Gaston]. Do not go and kill this poor young 
 man. 
 
 Gast. He shall get off with a scratch, since you love me. 
 Come, Hector. 
 
 A servant comes in with a letter. Gaston tells An- 
 toinette to open it. She does, and finds it is from Pont- 
 grimaud, who writes: 
 
 "My dear Marquis: We have both given proofs of oiu* 
 courage. I do not hesitate, therefore, to teU you that I 
 regret a moment of hastiness. You are the only man in the 
 world to whom I should consent to make excuses, and I do 
 not doubt that you will accept them in the spirit of gal- 
 lantry in which they are made." 
 
 Verd. [to Gaston]. All turns out for the best, my dear 
 fellow. I hope chastened by it. 
 
 Gast. Forever, my dear Monsieur Verdelet. From 
 to-day I enter upon a quiet and serious life, and to break 
 irrevocably with the follies of my past, I ask for a place in 
 your office. 
 
 Verd. In my office! You, a gentleman! 
 
 Gast. Haven't I to support my wife? 
 
 Poir. [aside]. My turn to give in. [Aloud.] These 
 sentiments are truly liberal. You are worthy of being a 
 bourgeois. We shall be able to understand each other. 
 Let us make peace, and you remain with us. 
 
 Gast. To make peace I am very glad. As for remain- 
 ing here, that is another matter. You have made me 
 understand the happiness of the charcoal burner who is 
 master in his own house. 
 
 Poir. And you are going to take my daughter? You 
 will leave me alone in my comer? 
 
 Ani. I shall come to see you, father. 
 
 Gast. And you wiU always be welcome at my house. 
 
22 POIRIER'S SON-IN-LAW 
 
 Pair. My daughter going to be the wife of a coimnission 
 merchant! 
 
 Verd. No, Poirier. Your daughter will be the mistress 
 of the ChMeau de Presles. The chateau was sold this 
 morning, and with your husband's permission, Toinon, it 
 will be my wedding present. 
 
 Ant. Good Tony! You wiU permit me to accept, 
 Gaston? 
 
 .Gast. Monsieur Verdelet is one of those toward whom 
 it is pleasant to feel gratitude. 
 
 Verd. I shall give up business, and with your permis- 
 sion, will retire and help you cultivate your land. You, 
 Poirier, buy an estate near us. You have nothing to do, 
 as you are cured of your ambition, I think. 
 
 Pair. Yes, yes. [Aside.] This is 1846. I shall be 
 Deputy from de Presles in '47 . . . and peer of 
 France in '48. 
 
THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 By Alexandre Dumas the Younger 
 
 First played in Paris at the Thedtre du Gymnase on 
 March 20, 1855. 
 
 Argument: OHvier de Jahn is unwiUing to marry Mar- 
 celle de Sancenaux, with whom he is in love, because she 
 has been thrown much among women whose reputations 
 are bad, and he tries to prevent Raymond de Nanjac from 
 marrying one of these women by exposing her past. His 
 efforts result in a quarrel with Raymond, who finally chal- 
 lenges him to a duel, and he makes a will in favor of Mar- 
 celle. Does he succeed in preventing Raymond's marriage 
 without either of them being killed, and does he overcome 
 his scruples against marrying Marcelle? 
 
 The Viscountess de Vernieres, although no longer young, 
 felt some hesitation in calling upon Olivier de Jalin as it is 
 said that he sometimes receives bad company. He assures 
 her that his visitors are all friends of her own. The object 
 of her visit is to ask Olivier that her name shall not be con- 
 nected even indirectly with the duel between M. de Mau- 
 croix and M. de Latour, as she cannot aflFord to have it 
 known that she permits gambling at her house. 
 
 This matter disposed of to her satisfaction, the Vis- 
 countess reminds Olivier that he has not asked for news of 
 her niece, Marcelle de Sancenaux, who charged her with a 
 number of agreeable things to say to Olivier, in a purely 
 amiable spirit, knowing perfectly well that he does not wish 
 to marry her. As a man of good birth and some means, 
 and not hampered by family ties, he is eminently eligible. 
 The fact that Marcelle is an orphan is a distinct induce- 
 ment to him, and, at one time, he admits, he entertained a 
 fear that he might many her. 
 
 Olivier. I was quite ingenuously enamored of her, and 
 
 S!3 
 
24 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 if I had kept on going to your house, as I am an honoraJble 
 man, I should finally have asked you for her, which would 
 have been folly. 
 
 Viscountess. Because she has no fortune? 
 
 Oliv. That made no difference to me. I am not the 
 man to make a mercenary marriage. No, there was an- 
 other reason. 
 
 Vise. What? 
 
 Oliv. We men of the world are not so stupid as we 
 seem. When we marry it is to find in a wife what we have 
 found lacking in the wives of others, and the more we have 
 seen of life the more store we set by having the woman 
 we marry know nothing of it. 
 
 He does not hesitate to tell Madame de Vernieres that 
 she made a mistake when Marcelle left boarding-school 
 not to have entrusted her to the care of M. de Thonnerins, 
 who has a daughter of the same age. Then she would be 
 in conventional society and would be sure to make a good 
 marriage, which he doubts now if she will ever do. 
 
 Vise. I loved her too much to part from her.' 
 
 Oliv. Egoism which you will regret later, and for 
 which she will reproach you one of these days. 
 
 Vise. No, for if she wishes she will be married in two 
 months, and she will be a charming wife. Wives are what 
 their husbands make them. 
 
 Oliv. But husbands are also what their wives make 
 them, and the compensation is insufficient. And to whom 
 are you going to marry her this time? 
 
 The Viscountess has her eye on a handsome young 
 officer who has a good income and no family except a sister, 
 and who knows no one in Paris but M. Latour, herself, and 
 Marcelle. His name is Raymond de Nanjac. M. de 
 Nanjac has already called on Olivier in the capacity of 
 Latour's second. Madame de Vernieres begs him if he 
 becomes friends with M. de Nanjac not to say any such 
 stupid things as he has just been saying to her. 
 
 Madame ValiJntine de Santis calls by appointment with 
 Madame de Vernieres to take her home in her carriage. 
 She is a far different person from her friend, young, fasci- 
 nating, light-headed, and in Olivier 's opinion a deplorable 
 companion for Marcelle. Furthermore, she has almost 
 entirely squandered her private fortune and coimts on 
 
DUMAS 25 
 
 exacting money from her husband, with whom she has not 
 been living for ten years, by imposing on his good nature 
 if possible and otherwise by recoiu-se to law. She boasts 
 that he has always been in love with her. 
 
 Valentine asks Olivier if he has heard from Madame 
 d'Ange since she went to Baden. He denies that he has, 
 but Valentine says she knows better for a very good reason, 
 declaring that she herself mailed letters that Madame 
 d'Ange wrote to him. 
 
 As Valentine is leaving with Madame de Vernieres she 
 asks Olivier to go with them to see a new apartment that 
 she is furnishing, but he tells her he is expecting a friend 
 who has just come back to Paris after an absence of ten 
 years, Hippolyte Richond, whose father amassed wealth 
 at Marseilles in the oil trade. A strange look comes into 
 Valentine's face, but she quickly recovers herself. 
 
 Hippolyte Richond enters before the ladies have left, 
 and no sooner has the door closed on them than he asks 
 who they are. He can inform Olivier that Santis was not 
 the name of the younger woman's husband, but her own 
 maiden name, and says that he knew her husband very 
 well. The husband discovered that she was the mistress 
 of the man who brought about the match between them, 
 killed the man in a duel, settled two hundred thousand 
 francs on her, and never saw her again. 
 
 Olivier enlightens Hippolyte regarding Madame de 
 Vernieres, the remains of a woman of quality who has been 
 dragged down little by little through a craving for luxury 
 and amusement into an easy-going set. A widow for some 
 years, her only resources are a few old friends, buying 
 stocks at par and selling them at a premium, and the flot- 
 sam and jetsam of her wrecked fortune which the wind 
 brings from time to time to the shores of the present day. 
 
 The Viscountess counts upon regilding her scutcheon 
 by marrying off her pretty niece, but she cannot find the 
 husband. In the meantime she is putting up as stiff a 
 fight as she can. She entertains, when every one knows 
 that the next day she will have to pawn some jewelry to 
 pay for the punch and ices. The yovmg men whom she 
 invites eat the ices, drink the punch, send bonbons on New 
 Year's Day, marry girls in society, and upon meeting the 
 Viscountess and her niece touch their hats with the tips of 
 
26 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 their fingers to avoid introducing them to their mothers 
 and wives. 
 
 OUvier gives a letter that he has written to a servant to 
 deliver, and tells Hippolyte that it is to a Mme. de Lornan, 
 with whom, for the most commendable reasons, he is re- 
 fusing to cany on a flirtation. It appears, however, 
 that he is "Joseph" in this instance because he means to 
 continue his "affair" with Madame d' Ange when she re- 
 turns from Baden. 
 
 This lady, whose name he does not reveal to Hippolyte, 
 passes for a widow without being one and is still in her 
 twenties. She dresses marvellously, is clever, and knows 
 how to preserve appearances. The present has no dangers 
 for her, the future no regrets, for she foresees every event- 
 uality and smilingly guides a love affair of convenience 
 as far as the relay where the horses are changed. He has 
 assiuned this relationship as a traveller who is in no hurry 
 takes the stage coach instead of the railroad. It is much 
 more gay, and stops when one wishes. , 
 
 Hippolyte has just gone when Suzanne d'Ange comes to 
 see Olivier. He is rather surprised to learn that she re- 
 turned from Baden a week before, and much more sur- 
 prised when she asks if he wishes to marry her. She tells 
 him not to betray too much astonishment, and changes 
 the subject without his having answered. There is one 
 thing more that she has to say. They will not meet again 
 as she is going to leave Paris. She will not tell him why 
 she is going away, and exacts his promise that he will be 
 her friend if occasion should ever arise for him to prove 
 that he is discreet. 
 
 The servant announces M. de Nanjac. 
 
 Suzanne. There are strange coincidences sometimes! 
 
 Oliv. What has happened.'' 
 
 Suz. How can I get out without being seen? 
 
 Oliv. You know very well. How agitated you are! 
 Do you know M. de Nanjac? 
 
 Suz. He was presented to me at Baden. I have spoken 
 to him two or three times. 
 
 Oliv. Ho! Ho! It seems that I am getting warm, as 
 they say in parlor games. 
 
 She changes her mind about beating a retreat, and tells 
 Olivier to let M. de Nanjac come in. Raymond de Nanjac 
 
DUMAS 27 
 
 enters, starts to speak to Olivier at once, and then upon 
 seeing Suzanne betrays astonishment and emotion. 
 
 Suzanne remains only long enough to ask Raymond 
 when he came back from Baden and to say that she will 
 be glad to see him. As soon as she has left the room Ray- 
 mond turns to Olivier very stiflBy and proceeds at once to 
 the subject of the quarrel between M. Latour and M. de 
 Maucroix. M. de Latour, having lost considerable money, 
 said that he would play on credit, and thereupon M. de 
 Maucroix laid down his hand, saying he passed. M. de 
 Latour saw in this act a refusal to accept his word as being 
 as good as money. 
 
 Olivier says that his friend's hand was bad, but Ray- 
 mond is very uncompromising and insists that M. de 
 Maucroix would have played if M. de Latour's money had 
 been on the table. Finally, charged by Olivier with trying 
 to pick a quarrel on his own account, he changes his tone 
 and asks if he may speak frankly. He wishes to know 
 what Mme. d'Ange was doing there if she is a respectable 
 woman. Olivier satisfies him by pointing out that she 
 might have gone out by the side door without beiag seen 
 if she had had anything to conceal. 
 
 When Hippolyte comes again Olivier is able to tell him 
 that the duel can be avoided. Hippolyte has received 
 an invitation from Mme. de Vernieres to come to her house 
 Wednesday evening to meet Mme. de Santis. He thinks 
 that Mme. de Santis probably wishes to talk to him about 
 her husband. Ohvier says he will go with him in order to 
 observe at close quarters the signs of an intrigue which 
 he thinks is brewing there. 
 
 On Wednesday evening Mme. de Vernieres has to go out 
 for a while to take measures to avoid being evicted from 
 her apartment, and asks Mme. d'Ange to entertain her 
 guests until her return, entrusting to her especially the 
 furtherance of her cherished project of a match between 
 M. de Nanjac and Marcelle. 
 
 The first visitor is the Marquis de Thonnerins, whom 
 Mme. d'Ange asked to meet her there. It is to him that 
 she owes her position in a world which she says is a de- 
 thronement for those who come from above, and a summit 
 for those who come from the lower classes. At the present 
 
28 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 moment she must either fall lower or rise again by means 
 of a marriage. The Marquis does not wish to know the 
 man's name. It might place him in a diffictilt position if 
 he happened to know him. 
 
 For safety, Mme. d'Ange means to leave France and her 
 past with it, but in order that her marriage may not 
 seem to be due to material considerations she must have 
 a fortune equal to her husband's. The Marquis has been 
 supplying her with fifteen thousand francs a year, and now 
 assures her of sufficient means to provide that amount in 
 the future. He regards such an act as merely discharging 
 his obUgations. 
 
 Suz. I shall owe you everything, even the happiness 
 which comes to me from another. 
 
 Marquis. A clever woman is never indebted to any- 
 body. 
 
 Suz. An indirect reproach. 
 
 Marq. A mutual discharge. [He kisses her hand. 
 Make my excuses to the Viscountess. [He goes out. 
 
 Raymond is delighted to find Suzanne alone. When 
 he tells her that he has resigned from the army to be free 
 to go anywhere with her she asks if he will not regret it in 
 a year, or possibly in a month. 
 
 Raymond. You treat me like a child! I was ten, 
 Suzanne, when I lost my mother whom I adored, and 
 however young one may be, when one loses his mother he 
 becomes old at once. Do you think that life in camps, 
 that long days in the wilderness, braving death every day, 
 the memory of my best friends who have fallen about me, 
 has not hastened my thoughts and made me live twice my 
 years? I have gray hairs, Suzanne. Love me. 
 
 Suz. If I loved you and you doubted me, as you did 
 when you saw me at M. de Jalin's where I went to talk 
 about you; if I had to struggle constantly against your 
 suspicions, against your jealousy, what would become of 
 me? 
 
 Ray. What I told Olivier proves my love. Where is 
 the man loving sincerely who would allow the woman he 
 loved to be suspected? Love does not exist without es- 
 teem. 
 
 There can be no true happiness, she tells him, unless 
 no one knows it, and for that reason she asks him not to 
 
DUMAS 29 
 
 tell any one they are going to be married, not even his sister 
 or Olivier, for whom he has conceived a strong friendship 
 in the last few days. 
 
 Olivier comes with Hippolyte, and as soon as he has an 
 opportunity to speak privately to Suzanne he asks her if 
 Raymond loves her. She denies that he has spoken to 
 her of the subject, or that she loves him, a little even, a 
 great deal, passionately, or at all. 
 
 When the Viscountess has returned, Marcelle comes 
 into the drawing-room with her. 
 
 Marcelle. Monsieur Olivier, lend me M. de Nanjac a 
 moment. I will return him. [To Raymond.] I want to 
 speak to you, but first take out my hat pin. Now tell me, 
 M. de Nanjac, do you know that there is a conspiracy 
 against you? 
 
 Ray. Truly, mademoiselle? 
 
 Mar. Yes, they want you to marry me. 
 
 Ray. But . . . 
 
 Mar. No gallantry. You don't want to be my husband 
 any more than I want to be your wife. You love some one 
 who is ever so much nicer than I am. I have guessed it. 
 I shan't speak of it. Now that you have nothing to fear, 
 come with me. My aunt will think that you are paying 
 court to me. That will please her. One has to do some- 
 thing for one's relatives, but I am good natured and warn 
 unfortunates who do not know that they are being man- 
 aged. Mind you don't spoil my hat. I know it hasn't 
 been paid for. [She goes out laughing vnth Raymond. 
 
 The Viscountess is gratified to see things going so well. 
 Olivier confides in Hippolyte that he is going to try to 
 rescue Raymond from Suzanne d'Ange at the risk of re- 
 gretting it later. 
 
 Valentine now arrives, and having whispered to the 
 Viscountess that she had some difficulty in getting away 
 from M. de Latour, who tried to keep her in, she button- 
 holes Hippolyte and takes care that no one overhears when 
 she asks what he intends to do for her. He states flatly that 
 he will do nothing for her. For years he waited vainly for 
 a word from her heart, a tear of repentance. Now she is 
 dead to him. In that case, she says, he will be responsible 
 for what is going to happen. 
 
 To open Raymond's eyes, Olivier asks Mme. de Ver- 
 
30 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 nitres why she receives such a man as M. de Latour, a 
 professional gambler who is not received in respectable 
 society, and then questions Mme. de Santis regarding the 
 means by which she hopes to extort money from her hus- 
 band. Marcelle comes to the rescue and bids him stop 
 talking. 
 
 Oliv. From the moment when you begin I have no 
 more to say. I speak only of things which I understand, 
 and knowing nothing about dollies and playing house I 
 do not talk to little girls. 
 
 Mar. You say that to me? 
 
 Oliv. Yes, mademoiselle. 
 
 Mar. I talk of the same things as you. When impor- 
 tant personages discuss certain things before little girls, the 
 little girls have a right to take part in the conversation. 
 Besides, I am no longer a little girl. 
 
 Oliv. What are you then, mademoiselle? 
 
 Mar. I am a woman and I talk like a woman! 
 
 Oliv. You might almost say like a man. 
 
 Mar. Monsieur! 
 
 Valentine. I should have been surprised if you hadn't 
 ended by being impertinent. 
 
 Vise, [taking away Makcelle]. You went too far, Mon- 
 sieur de Jalin. This child did nothing to you. Another 
 time if you have to be disagreeable to some one remember 
 that in my house you are to be disagreeable only to me. 
 Come, Marcelle. Are you coming with us, M. de Nanjac? 
 
 Raymond stops to ask Olivier for a more direct explana- 
 tion of the people who surround them. Olivier likens their 
 friends to peaches which, although fair to outward view, 
 are not classed with the best, the reason being that a close 
 inspection will detect a blemish in each. 
 
 Oliv. With the same origin, the same exterior, and the 
 same prejudices as women in society, they find that they 
 are no longer in it but compose the "demi-monde." 
 
 Ray. Where is this world to be seen particularly? 
 
 Oliv. Everywhere, indistinctly, but a Parisian recog- 
 nizes it on sight. 
 
 Ray. By what is it recognizable? 
 
 Oliv. By the absence of husbands. It is full of women 
 who are really married but whose husbands are never seen. 
 
 Ray. But where does this strange set come from? 
 
DUMAS 31 
 
 Oliv. It is of modern creation. Formerly adultery as 
 we understand it did not exist. Manners were much 
 easier, and to represent the thing which we call adultery 
 to-day there was a much more trivial word, one employed 
 by Moliere, which ridiculed the husband more than it 
 blamed the woman. But since husbands, armed with the 
 civil code, have had the right to eject their wives from the 
 bosoms of their families for forgetting their pledges, a 
 change has been brought about in marital relations which 
 has created a new class, that of all the women who have 
 been compromised or repudiated. 
 
 Girls who have made their debut in life by a mistake, 
 pretended widows, women going under the names of men 
 with whom they live, all go to swell the ranks of this class, 
 explains Ohvier, and this bastard society has much charm 
 for young men because love is easier of attainment in it 
 than in higher circles and less expensive than in the lower. 
 On the many-colored surface of this world, gilded by 
 youth, beauty, fortune, the most sinister dramas and pain- 
 ful expiation are brewing, scandal, ruin, and dishonor. 
 
 Ohvier, having expatiated at some length, particularly 
 on the forbidding aspect of the half world's seamy side, is 
 somewhat startled at Raymond's cool remark that Mme. 
 d'Ange has told him the same thing. She explained to him 
 that she saw these people occasionally on account of 
 friendships contracted in other days, and furthermore she 
 is going to put an end to those relations in a manner which 
 will be a great surprise to Ohvier when it comes about at 
 the end of eight days. 
 
 MarceUe returns to tell Raymond that Mme. d'Ange 
 wishes to see him, and then informs Olivier that she has 
 something to say to him. He made her cry a little while 
 ago and she asks what his object was. After some tem- 
 porizing he comes to the point. 
 
 Oliv. A young girl must be a young girl, and must 
 occupy herself only with things which are proper for her age. 
 But there are moments when I find your conversation em- 
 barrassing and I don't know how to answer. I used to be 
 sorry to see you being brought up in this bad company, and 
 to hear you speak of such things as you spoke of a while ago- 
 
 Mar. Then your severity was due to interest. Thanks. 
 But what should be done. I cannot leave the surroundings 
 
32 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 in which I live. I have no father and no mother. The 
 language which I speak is that which I have heard for a 
 number of years. May it not be that it is not a misfortune 
 for me to have lived in these surroundings? From seeing 
 every day what a woman comes to as a result of her first 
 mistake I have learned not to make this mistake. 
 
 Oliv. That is true. 
 
 Mar. But that does not suflSce, it seems, especially for 
 the future. Well, as you are interested in me I ask your 
 advice. 
 
 Oliv. Speak, then. 
 
 Mar. A girl like me, without family, without fortune, 
 without other protector than a relative like Madame de 
 Vemieres, brought up in the world in which I find myself, 
 if she wishes to avoid these influences, escape suppositions, 
 resist bad counsel and discouragement, how shoidd she act? 
 [A patise.] You do not answer? You may pity me, blame 
 me even, but you cannot advise me. Can I say now that 
 I am no longer a little girl? 
 
 Oliv. [moved]. Pardon me. 
 
 Mar. I will do more than pardon you. I will thank 
 you for having opened my eyes before it was too late. Only 
 I shall ask of you, whatever happens, if you hear me slan- 
 dered to defend me a little, and in exchange I will promise 
 to find the means to remain an honest woman. Perhaps 
 some day I shall find an honest fellow who will take a liking 
 to me. 
 
 Suzanne is preparing to leave her house when Marcelle 
 comes to ask a favor. Mme. de Vernieres has just threat- 
 ened to refuse Marcelle further support because she will 
 make no effort to ensnare M. de Nanjac, and having no- 
 where to turn Marcelle thought of asking Suzanne to see if 
 M. de Thonnerins would not renew his offer of an asylum 
 in his home with his daughter. Suzanne promises to ask 
 the Marquis that very day. 
 
 OHvier, coming to return Suzanne's letters at her request, 
 meets Raymond, who has regretted not having told Olivier 
 the truth and now avows that he is going to marry Suzanne. 
 OUvier begs him to delay the wedding. In fact, he says, 
 if he may give advice in a serious situation, there is no 
 need for one to marry Suzaime; it isn't done. For a time 
 
DUMAS 33 
 
 all hints seem utterly lost on Raymond. Finally a light 
 dawns on him, and in the reaction of the moment he declares 
 that he no longer loves the woman. Olivier assures him 
 that if he desires further proof he has only to apply to M. 
 de Thonnerins, who can convince him that the Baron 
 d'Ange never existed. 
 
 Raymond thinks that the letters which Olivier is return- 
 ing would furnish proof against Suzanne, and insists so 
 upon seeing them that Olivier fears Raymond is never go- 
 ing to forgive him for having warned him. He leaves the 
 letters on a table and says he will come back in half an hour 
 to see Suzanne. Raymond does not look at the letters. 
 Suzanne returns with documents establishing the facts of 
 her birth and marriage and the death of her husband. She 
 thinks Raymond distracted. He asks her to write some- 
 thing and finds it almost illegible. Then he tells her that 
 Olivier has left some letters for her. "Letters?" she asks. 
 "What letters?" 
 
 Raymond shows her the packet which Olivier left, and 
 she tells him to break the seal and look at them himself, 
 declaring that she does not know what they are. The 
 letters, which are unsigned, are written in a very legible and 
 elegant hand, bearing no resemblance to Suzanne's. 
 
 Raif. Then why this lie of Olivier's, and above all why 
 his air of truth? 
 
 Suz. What lie? Let's see what this means? Did M. 
 de Jalin tell you that I wrote those letters? 
 
 Ray. Yes. 
 
 Suz. [indignant]. But then M. de Jalin must have been 
 my lover? 
 
 Ray. So it seems. 
 
 Suz. Did he tell you so? 
 
 Ray. He let me think so. 
 
 Suz. Where's the joke? 
 
 Ray. M. de Jalin doesn't joke. 
 
 Suz. He's made game of you. You told him a lie 
 yesterday. He found it out, and to-day he has taken his 
 revenge. I have known M. de Jalin longer than you; I 
 know he is incapable of a cowardly act, and what you accuse 
 him of is one. He has paid me court; I've had letters from 
 him; I can show them to you; I think he sees me marrying 
 with regret because it takes away all his hope; but from 
 
34 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 that to trying to prevent the marriage by a falsehood is a 
 long way. I don't know what has happened, but I declare 
 M. de Jalin incapable of such an action. 
 
 Ray. We shall see. 
 
 Suz. Do you doubt it. 
 
 Ray. It must be settled between him and me. You 
 must swear that nothing that he has said is true? 
 
 Suz. An oath.!" Ah, there was something besides a joke in 
 this. There was a falsehood, there was treason on your part. 
 
 Ray. Treason! 
 
 Suz. Yes, you regret the engagement which you en- 
 tered into with me, but it would have been much simpler to 
 have told me so frankly than to have called such a means 
 to your aid, which does more honor to yoiu" ingenuity than 
 to your delicacy. 
 
 Ray. You accuse me of infamy, Suzanne. 
 
 Suz. Of what do you accuse me? 
 
 Ray. M. de Jalin is coming. We will shed light on the 
 subject in his presence. 
 
 Suz. What! You need his permission to believe in 
 my honesty? I am to have him tell you that he hasn't 
 been my lover, and you will beUeve it only imder these 
 circumstances? Who do you take me for? I loved you, 
 Raymond, but I confess your suspicious and jealous char- 
 acter frightens me. I hesitate on that account to become 
 your wife. Nevertheless, I believe at least that you esteem 
 me. I do not wish to seek the reasons and causes of what 
 has happened. You have subjected my love and my 
 dignity to a humiliating trial. You have doubted me. 
 All is over between us. 
 
 Ray. But my jealousy is a proof of my love. I love 
 you so, Suzanne! 
 
 Suz. I do not wish to be loved in that way. 
 
 They are interrupted by the arrival of Marcelle, and 
 Raymond goes. Suzanne tells her servant that she will 
 not be at home to M. de Nanjac if he comes again. She has 
 to inform Marcelle that M. de Thonnerins refused her 
 request. 
 
 Olivier's half-hour being up, he returns, and Suzalme 
 tasks him with having told Raymond that it would be a 
 mistake for him to marry her. She says it was a cowardly 
 thing to do. 
 
DUMAS 35 
 
 Suz. You didn't think he would repeat your conversa- 
 tion to me. 
 
 Oliv. I didn't think he would because he gave me his 
 word. 
 
 Suz. You also gave me your word to be my friend. 
 
 Oliv. To be your friend, yes; to be your accomplice, no. 
 
 Suz. Accomplice is hard. [Laughing.] Tell me, Olivier. 
 
 Oliv. What? 
 
 Suz. Do you know that yoiu* measure turned out to 
 my advantage? 
 
 Oliv. So much the better! In that way I have accom- 
 plished a duty on the one hand, and on the other I have 
 done you a service. 
 
 Suz. He is more in love than ever. 
 
 She tells Olivier he has falfen into a trap. He might 
 have guessed that something was on foot when she told 
 him to bring the letters and then threw him and Raymond 
 together while she was out. Then he played his role of 
 honorable man, explaining what his relations had been with 
 her, and left the letters within easy reach. The fact, 
 however, that the letters were not in her handwriting con- 
 vinced Raymond at once that she was the victim of a lie. 
 He loved her more than ever, but she dismissed him in 
 punishment for his suspicions. Nevertheless, he will be 
 back in ten minutes, she says, and in eight days they will 
 be married. 
 
 The explanation of the letters is that Suzanne let Mme. 
 de Santis write to him for her from Baden. She did not 
 even look at the letters. She accuses Olivier of acting 
 really from pique in warning Raymond, and because she 
 once loved him, of trying now to wreck the happiness of her 
 whole life. When one has profited by somebody's weakness 
 it is an injustice, she says, to use it as weapon against that 
 person. 
 
 The maid says that M. de Nanjac has come back and 
 insists upon seeing M. de Jalin, who he knows is there. 
 Suzanne tells Olivier to receive him and say what he be- 
 lieves he ought to say, but to remember that Raymond 
 loves her and she him, and that she wants what she wants. 
 Raymond enters brusquely and charges Olivier with 
 having deceived him. He has seen Suzanne's marriage 
 contract and the death certificate of her husband. He has 
 
S6 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 been to see M. de Thonnerins, who assured him that he 
 knew of nothing against the Baroness d'Ange, and, fi- 
 nally, these letters were not written by her. Making use 
 of the trick of the letters as an excuse, Olivier says that he 
 was mistaken and has played the fool. He takes back 
 everything, declaring even that Suzanne is entirely worthy. 
 
 M. de Thonnerins comes to see Suzanne to oppose her 
 marriage to Raymond, who is closely related to his family 
 by friendship. She forestalls him by telling him that she 
 has volimtarily broken off the match, M. de Jalin having 
 aroused Raymond's suspicions and made it impossible. 
 She no longer loves Raymond, she says. 
 
 Suzanne and Mme. de Santis are planning a grand coun- 
 terstroke against Olivier. Mme. de Santis has already 
 been to see Mme. de Lornan, who she reports to have com- 
 pletely lost her head over Olivier, and to be ready to spread 
 any scandal against Marcelle if they tell her it is necessary 
 to prevent Olivier from marrying her. Mme. de Santis, 
 who blames Olivier for turning her husband against her-" 
 self, wishes that they could bring about a duel between 
 him and M. de Nanjac, so that Olivier might receive a 
 good sword-thrust. 
 
 Mme. de Vemieres has been very much upset by a resolu- 
 tion that Marcelle has taken to leave her and support her- 
 self by teaching, an occupation which Mme. de Vemieres 
 considers beneath the dignity of a Sancenaux. Upon 
 going to see Mme. d'Ange, she meets Olivier there with 
 Hippolyte and blames him for Marcelle's decision. 
 
 The maid tells Suzanne that Mme. de Lornan is there to 
 see her. Olivier goes out quickly and returns in a few 
 minutes. Raymond asks him what he has done, and he 
 replies that he told Mme. de Lornan that he did want her 
 to come in there. 
 
 Ray. By what right? 
 
 Oliv. By the right of a gentleman to prevent a virtuous 
 woman from compromising herself. 
 
 Suz. Especially when this virtuous woman is the mis- 
 tress of this gentleman. 
 
 Oliv. You lie, Madame! 
 
 Ray. Sir, you are insulting a woman. 
 
 Oliv. For eight days, sir, you have been looking for a 
 
DUMAS 37 
 
 chance to pick a quarrel with me, and I have come here 
 to give you this opportunity. You think that a swcrd- 
 thrust will cut the knot that binds you. Good for the 
 sword-thrust. I am at your service. 
 
 Ray. In an hoiu-, sir, my seconds will be at your house. 
 
 Oliv. Very good. I shall expect them. 
 
 First Raymond goes out, and then Olivier and Hippolyte. 
 Mme. de Vernieres begs Suzanne to prevent the duel, and 
 Suzanne assures her that she will find a way to do so. 
 When Mme. de Vernieres has left, the maid brings Suzanne 
 a letter from M. de Thonnerins. The letter says : 
 
 "You have deceived me. You have seen M. de Nanjac 
 again, and the marriage which I told you was impossible 
 you are trying to bring about in spite of my prohibition. 
 I will give you an hour to break it off. If you have not 
 found the means in an hour I will acquaint M. de Nanjac 
 with everything." 
 
 Suzanne is writing an answer rapidly when Raymond 
 returns. He is determined to fight the duel and wishes to 
 write to his notary to arrange for his marriage at once 
 so that he will have kept his promise to Suzanne what- 
 ever happens. She tells him there is no paper in the 
 portfolio on which she has just been writing, but he has 
 seen it. 
 
 If she permits him to look in the portfoUo he will see the 
 letter which she was writing to M. de Thonnerins, but his 
 suspicions are awakened at her asking him not to open the 
 portfolio and she says that she did not wish him to see all 
 the things she was ordering for her trousseau. He does 
 not consider that a reasonable thing for her to have been 
 engaged upon while he was looking for his seconds, and 
 insists upon knowing to whom she was writing. 
 
 Suz. Oh, so that's the case. Well, you shan't know. 
 [She opens the portfolio and takes out the letter.] 
 
 Ray. Take care! 
 
 Suz. Threats! And by what right? Thank God, I'm 
 not your wife yet. I'm in my own home here, free, the 
 mistress of my actions as much as you are free and the 
 master of yours. Do I question you? Do I meddle with 
 your papers? 
 
 Ray. [seizing her imsf]. That letter. 
 
 Suz. You shan't have it, I tell you! I have never 
 
38 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 yielded to violence. I told you the truth. You are free 
 to suppose and believe whatever seems best to you. 
 
 Ray. I believe that you are deceiving me. 
 
 Suz. So be it! 
 
 Ray. [in a threatening voice]. Suzanne! . . . 
 
 Suz. Enough, sir! I give you back your word. I 
 take back mine. There is no longer anything in common 
 between us. 
 
 Ray. You have employed this means before, Madame. 
 This time I shall stay. 
 
 Suz. What sort of a man am I dealing with? 
 
 Ray. You are dealing with a man who has asked you, 
 in exchange for the honorable name which he will give you, 
 only a moment's sincerity, and to whom you have sworn 
 that you have nothing to reproach yourself for; who to- 
 morrow will fight with a man whose honor he cannot doubt 
 to sustain your honor which he does doubt; who for two 
 weeks has been struggling with lies and duplicity without 
 relying upon anything but loyalty, frankness, and confi- 
 dence, and who is resolved now to know the truth by 
 whatever means it may be had. If that letter does not 
 contain it complete, I judge by yoiu- emotion that it con- 
 tains at least a part of it. I must have that letter. Give 
 it to me, or I shall take it. 
 
 Suz. [crushing it in her hand and trying to tear ii]. You 
 shall not have it. 
 
 Ray. [squeezing her arm]. That letter! 
 
 Suz. You will lay hands on a woman? 
 
 Ray. [carried away]. That letter! 
 
 Suz. Well, I don't love you. I never loved you! . . . 
 I deceived you. Leave now. 
 
 Ray. That letter! [He tries to open her hand by force.] 
 
 Suz. Raymond, I will tell you everything . . . 
 You hurt me ... I am not guilty, by the name of 
 your mother! . . . [He tears the letter from her.] 
 Wretch! [She falls exhausted on a chair.] Well, read it. 
 But I shall avenge myself. I swear it. 
 
 Ray. [reading in a moved voice]. "I beg you, do not 
 destrdy me. It is necessary for me to see you, and I will 
 explain everything. What you command will be done. 
 It is not my fault if M. de Nanjac loves me, and I love 
 him. It is my excuse. I depend on you. Meanwhile, 
 
DUMAS 39 
 
 be generous, pardon me. If he should know the truth I 
 would die of shame. I promise you not to be his wife, but 
 don't let him know anything. Wait until I shall be at 
 liberty . . . "[Speaking.] And I still doubted! [He 
 hides his faee in his hands.] What have I ever done to 
 you, Suzanne? Why should you deceive me? . . . 
 Here, take your letter. Good-bye. 
 
 He starts to go out. Halfway to the door he lets him- 
 self drop in a chair and cannot restrain his tears. Suzanne 
 declares that she loved him and wanted his esteem. Every 
 woman would have done as she did, she says. She will 
 tell him her whole life now. There was indeed a thing 
 which she wished to conceal, but if he knew it he would find 
 her less culpable than he imagines. She had no one to 
 advise her, was without means, and she believes that he 
 would have pardoned her if she had told him all. Nothing 
 obliges her to tell him now, she reminds him, falling on her 
 knees and taking his hand. 
 
 Suzanne confesses she owes to M. de Thonnerins every- 
 thing that she has, and that she was never married but 
 showed Raymond the papers of another woman. She de- 
 nies, however, that she was more than a friend to Olivier, 
 for that is the one thing which he would not pardon. He 
 asks only one proof of her love, that she will return M. de 
 Thonnerins' property, and she consents with an alacrity 
 that completely satisfies him. She gives him the deeds to 
 property that M. de Thonnerins gave her and tells him to 
 return them. 
 
 The next day Olivier has put all his affairs in order in 
 preparation for the duel when Hippolyte comes to propose 
 a means of avoiding it. Raymond has said that he would 
 consider Olivier perfectly justified in all that he has done 
 if he should give his word of honor that Suzanne was his 
 mistress. OUvier, however, can see no justification for his 
 making such a confidence to Raymond, even if it were 
 true. Hippolyte beUeves that Olivier is more in love with 
 Suzanne than he lets it appear. 
 
 Among the letters which Olivier has written is one to 
 Marcelle. His final request of Hippolyte is to see that 
 Marcelle receives it, in case he falls, before she leaves Paris. 
 Hippolyte has just left when Marcelle comes in. She re- 
 
40 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 preaches Olivier for asking why she should come, and why 
 she is agitated. She declares that she will warn a magis- 
 trate that a duel has been planned. 
 
 OKv. And by what right? 
 
 Mar. The right of a woman to save the man she loves. 
 
 Oliv. You love me? 
 
 Mar. You know it well. 
 
 Oliv. Marcelle! 
 
 Mar. Who has had such influence over me as to make 
 me change my whole life by a single word? Who has made 
 me leave the surroundings in which I lived? For whom 
 am I resigned to being buried in the depths of the prov- 
 inces, and to gaining my living in sadness and obscurity? 
 For whom was I going away without other consolation 
 than the certainty of knowing that I was esteemed, and 
 was going to be forgotten by you? . . . For whom 
 does a woman transform herself except for the man she 
 loves? But in the bottom of my heart I bore a hope. 
 I said to myself: "Perhaps he seeks a proof. When he 
 sees that I am virtuous, when he has made of me the 
 woman he wishes me to be, perhaps he may love me, who 
 knows?" And when I had given myself up to this dream 
 I learned that you were going to fight a duel for a woman. 
 And do you think that I shall allow this duel? She may 
 permit it, the one you love. Let her. But I who love 
 you? Never! 
 
 Oliv. Listen, Marcelle, I swear to you that if you take 
 any steps, if you say a word to stop the duel, if you do stop 
 it, that that would dishonor me, for they would say that I 
 had made use of a woman in order not to fight. I swear 
 to you, Marcelle, that I should not sxu-vive such dishonor. 
 
 There is a chance, however, that the duel may not talie 
 place, he tells her, for now that he knows she loves him he 
 wishes to live. At this moment Hippolyte knocks on the 
 door. She suspects that it is a signal to call OUvier away 
 to the rendezvous. 
 
 Oliv. My seconds are in there. They are conferring 
 with M. de Nanjac's seconds. They want to speak to me. 
 That is why Hippolyte called me. 
 
 Mar. I am afraid. 
 
 Oliv. Listen, Marcelle. The dream you had may have 
 been mine, too. I was happy and proud to develop the 
 
DUMAS 41 
 
 good feelings which I divined in you. The mysterious 
 instinct of happiness bore me toward you; I could not ex- 
 plain why I wanted to see you worthy in every respect; I 
 did not know yet, but it was a need of my heart. That ia 
 all I can tell you, for when a man's life is at stake he has no 
 right to speak of hope and the future. 
 
 Mar. Olivier! 
 
 Oliv. In an hour all will be arranged. In an hour I can 
 explain myself. Before that nobody must find you at my 
 house. Return to the Viscountess and wait for me there. 
 We shall see each other again, I promise you. I shall be 
 in there. I shall not go out except to go to see you. 
 
 Olivier has scarcely left her when Suzanne comes in. 
 Marcelle says that Olivier has assured her that he will try 
 to prevent the duel. Suzanne gives way to a momentary 
 fury, suspecting that Olivier means to justify himself to 
 Raymond at her expense, but she quickly regains her self- 
 control, believing that Olivier is not the man to take such a 
 course. She assures Marcelle that Olivier has deceived 
 her and was only trying to gain time. Marcelle repUes 
 that he is in the next room. Suzanne opens the door and 
 finds no one there. 
 
 Mar. I must find him ! I must save him ! 
 
 Suz. Where will you find him? Do you know where he 
 is? And how save him? Wait. That's all we can do. 
 Chance will play for us. Olivier and Raymond are fighting 
 at this moment. There is no doubt of it. They are both 
 brave; they hate each other; one will kill the other. 
 
 Mar. My God! 
 
 Suz. Now listen. Olivier has lied either to you or to 
 me, for he has also told me that he loves me. 
 
 Mar. Told you! When? 
 
 Suz. Two hours ago. In a minute I may lose love, 
 fortune, future. If Raymond survives I am saved. But 
 if he falls the love of Olivier is my only resource. He must 
 love me or I shall sink under my shame. You, too, hold by 
 knowing the truth. 
 
 She says that if Olivier comes back he will not explain 
 himself before both of them, and that it is therefore neces- 
 sary for one of them to go into the other room. It is pos- 
 sible to listen behind the door. She says she is willing to 
 be the one to go out. Just then they hear some one 
 
42 THE DEMI-MONDE 
 
 coming. It is Olivier. Marcelle, thankful to know that 
 he is alive, permits Suzanne to shove her into the other 
 room. 
 
 Olivier enters and speaks to Suzanne in a weak voice. 
 At her inquiry if he is wounded he replies that it is nothing. 
 He obliges her to admit that he was right in the quarrel. 
 Therefore, he says, Raymond's death is a misfortune, not 
 a crime. She remains calm, waiting for him to go on. 
 He declares that from the day when she came to tell him 
 that she no longer loved him he was carried away by jealr 
 ousy. He loved her with the strange and fatal passion 
 which she always inspired. 
 
 It was not for any offence of Raymond's that he killed 
 him, he says, but so that she may not be his; in a minute 
 he has ma<le her lose everything, and now he can belong 
 only to her, she only to him. He asks her not to leave him 
 and says they will go away together. She looks search- 
 ingly in his face and then agrees. He takes her in his 
 arms, exclaiming, "At last!" Then he begins to laugh 
 and says she has lost her bet. 
 
 Raymond and Hippolyte enter, and then Marcelle, who 
 throws herself into Ofivier's arms. Raymond thanks 
 Olivier, and acknowledges that he has been a fool. He has 
 received a slight wound and Olivier not any. He will not 
 even speak to Suzanne, who is consimied with anger at 
 Olivier. 
 
 Oliv. No grand words. When one has risked the 
 lives and honor of two men one should be a good loser. 
 I did well to deal a thrust, because the right was mine to 
 prove the truth. It is not I who prevent your marriage. 
 It is right, it is justice, it is the social law which sees that 
 an honest man shall marry a virtuous woman. You have 
 lost the game but saved your stake. 
 
 Suz. How is that? 
 
 Oliv. By this instrument Raymond restores the fortune 
 which he made you give up. [Shoioing her a document.] 
 
 Suz. Give it to me ! [She tears open the envelope, looking 
 at Ratmond.] What I wanted of him was his name and 
 not his fortune. . . . In an hour I shall have left Paris, I 
 shall be out of Prance. [Ratmond does not seem to hear heT.\ 
 
 Oliv. But you no longer have anything. You gave baclt 
 everything to the Marquis. 
 
DUMAS 43 
 
 8uz. I don't know how it happened, but I was so upset 
 when I gave the papers to M. de Nanjac that after he had 
 gone I foimd the greater part of them on my table. Good- 
 bye, Olivier. [She goes out. 
 
 Oliv. Just to think that to have done good that woman 
 would have had to have used only a small part of the in- 
 telligence that she devoted to evil! 
 
 Ray. [to Mabcelle]. You will be happy, mademoiselle. 
 You will marry the most honorable man I Imow. 
 
PERRICHON'S JOURNEY 
 By Eugene Labiche and M. E. Mahtin 
 
 First played in Paris at the Theatre du Gymnase on 
 September 10, 1860. 
 
 Argument: Perrichon, a retired coach maker of Paris, 
 takes his wife and pretty daughter to Switzerland and is 
 followed by two suitors. One of the suitors rescued Per- 
 richon on a glacier and the other is rescued by Perrichon. 
 Which suitor does Perrichon favor, and which wins his 
 daughter.? 
 
 "This way! Don't get separated! We'd never find 
 each other! Where's the baggage? Who has the um- 
 brellas?" 
 
 It is the voice of M. Perrichon, the retired carriage man- 
 ufacturer, raised suddenly on the concourse of the Lyons 
 railroad station in Paris, as he rushes forward dragging 
 his wife and pretty daughter, Henrietta, in feverish agita- 
 tion at setting out upon a long-contemplated trip to Swit- 
 zerland, the first journey of his life. 
 
 Perrichon. My panama! . . . I left it in the cab! 
 . . . Oh, no! I have it in my hand. . . . Heavens, 
 how hot I am! 
 
 Mme. Perrichon. It's your own fault! You rushed 
 us! You hustled us! I don't like to travel like 
 that! 
 
 Per. It's getting oflp that's laborious. . . . Once 
 we're in the train! . . . Wait here. I'll get the 
 tickets. 
 
 Entrusting his panama to his daughter, Perrichon hurries 
 to the ticket window. Henrietta bows to a young man, 
 explaining that she met him the week before at a ball. He 
 comes forward eagerly, inquires if the ladies are leaving 
 town, and hazards the guess that they are going to Mar- 
 
 4A 
 
LABICHE AND MAETIN 45 
 
 seilles. They are not. Neither are they going to Nice. 
 His porter reminds him that he has barely time to attend to 
 his baggage. 
 
 Another young man with whom Henrietta danced at the 
 same ball also has the good fortune to catch sight of her, 
 also thinks they may be going to Marseilles or to Nice, and 
 withdraws hurriedly. Such is his haste that he collides 
 with the first young man at the ticket window. Both 
 bristle up, and then recognize each other. 
 
 Armand. Daniel! 
 
 Daniel. Armand! 
 
 Arm. Going away? 
 
 Dan. At once. Are you? 
 
 Arm. I, too. 
 
 Dan. Good! I've got some first-class cigars. . . . 
 Where are you going? 
 
 Arm. My word, old boy, I haven't the least idea. 
 
 Dan. You don't mean it? I haven't either. I've got 
 a ticket as far as Lyons. 
 
 Arm. Have you, really? So have I. I'm going to 
 follow a charming young lady. 
 
 Dan. You! I am, too! 
 
 Arm. The daughter of a carriage maker. 
 
 Dan. Perrichon? 
 
 Arm. Perrichon! 
 
 Dan. It's the same one! 
 
 Arm. But I love her, my dear fellow. 
 
 Dan. I love her, too. 
 
 Arm. I want to marry her. 
 
 Dan. 1 wish to ask her in marriage . . . which 
 is practically the same thing. 
 
 Arm. But we can't both marry her! 
 
 Dan. It's forbidden in France. 
 
 Arm. What's to be done? 
 
 Dan. Simple enough. Since we've started, let's go on, 
 strive to please, pay court, each on his own hook. 
 
 Arm. Then it's a competition, a tournament. 
 
 Dan. A battle royal . . . and friendly. . . . 
 If you're the winner . . .1 submit. If I carry her 
 ofiF, you bear me no ill will. 
 
 Arm. It's a go. I accept. 
 
 Dan. Your hand before the fight. 
 
46 PERRICHON'S JOURNEY 
 
 Arm. And your hand afterward. 
 They shake hands and board the train. 
 
 At Montanvert, near the Mer de Glace, the suitors in- 
 stall themselves at the same inn as Mile. Perrichon and 
 her parents. There is every indication that the struggle 
 between them will be a long one. Both, fortunately, are 
 gentlemen of leisure, Daniel being the manager of a steam- 
 boat company and Armand a private banker. Fate, how- 
 ever, is soon to cast an extraordinary opportunity in 
 Armand's path. 
 
 Perrichon, having ventured abroad on horseback, comes 
 a crupper at the verge of a precipice and is only saved from 
 rolling off into space by Armand's timely assistance. The 
 news of the narrow escape and rescue creates great excite- 
 ment at the inn. Mile. Perrichon is fairly overcome with 
 gratitude to the rescuer. As for Daniel, his hopes are so 
 dashed that he decides to abandon the struggle at the out- 
 set and go back to Paris. He even undertakes to sound 
 Perrichon in behalf of his rival. 
 
 Per. Certainly, certainly. It was a very pretty thing 
 that he did. 
 
 Dan. Yes, indeed! 
 
 Per. My gratitude will end only with my life. Ha! 
 So long as the heart of Perrichon beats. But between you 
 and me, the service he did me is not so great as my wife 
 and daughter try to make it. 
 
 Dan. Really? 
 
 Per. Yes, it went to their heads. But you know how 
 women are. 
 
 Dan. Nevertheless, when Armand stopped you you 
 were rolling. . . . 
 
 Per. I was rolling, that is true. But with surprising 
 presence of mind I saw a little fir tree that I was going to 
 cling to. I had hold of it already when your friend readied 
 me. 
 
 Dan. [aside]. Wait, wait! We shall see that he saved 
 himse^ all alone. 
 
 Per. I am not the less grateful to him for his good in- 
 tention. I count on seeing him again. I shall ask him to 
 call next winter. 
 
 It seems that similar accidents have not been unknown. 
 
LABICHE AND MARTIN 47 
 
 Pemchon has heard that the season before a Russian prmce 
 who was a very good rider fell down the same hole. The 
 guide pulled him out, and the prince gave the man a hun- 
 dred francs. 
 
 Dan. It was well paid for. 
 
 Per. I think so, indeed. However, it's what it's worth, 
 
 Dan. Not a sou more. [Aside.] Ha! But I shan't go. 
 
 Per. I'm expecting a guide to take me up on the glacier. 
 The ladies are not coming, but I shall count on you. 
 
 Dan. And on Armand? 
 
 Per. It he wishes to be one of us. I shall certainly not 
 refuse the company of Monsieur Desroches. 
 
 The innkeeper asks Perrichon to write something in the 
 visitors' book. After reflecting, Perrichon writes: "How 
 little is man when one contemplates him from the top of 
 the mh-e de Glace." Daniel notices that he has written 
 mere instead of mer, but holds his tongue. 
 
 Scarcely has Perrichon left the room when another guest. 
 Major Mathieu, inspects the book and perceives the mis- 
 take. He jots down below: "I must observe to M. 
 Perrichon that the Mer de Glace not having any children, 
 the final e which he attributes to it becomes a grammatical 
 outrage. Signed, Major Mathieu." 
 
 The Major inquires for M. Armand Desroches, to whom 
 he wishes to explain a certain matter. Payment is overdue 
 on a note of his and Armand's banking house has found it 
 necessary to obtain a warrant for his arrest, but it is not on 
 account of the note that Major Mathieu left Paris. He 
 happ^is to be in love with a certain young person who 
 seems to be totally unworthy of his devotion. As Armand 
 is a bachelor it is easier for the Major to explain. 
 
 Major. I wish to get rid of her, so I start and travel two 
 hundred leagues. I come to the Mer de Glace, and I'm 
 not sure of not going back to-night to Paris. It's stronger 
 than I am! Love at fifty, you know. It's like rheuma- 
 tism. Nothing cures it. 
 
 Arm. This confidence is not necessary to prevent pur- 
 suit. I will write to Paris at once. 
 
 Major [quickly]. Not at all! Don't write. I count on 
 being locked up. It might be a way of getting cured. I 
 haven't tried it yet. 
 
 Arm. Very well, if you like, Major . . . 
 
48 PERRICHON'S JOURNEY 
 
 Major. I beg you. At once. As soon as I get back. 
 
 Armand is w3ling to accommodate him. 
 
 Armand seeks an opportunity to inform Mme. Perricnon 
 of his love for her daughter and his desbe to make her his 
 wife, but he is interrupted by a commotion that is caused 
 by the return of the party from the glacier. There has 
 been another rescue. Daniel fell into a crevasse and has 
 been snatched from death by Perrichon. 
 
 Perrichon enters, followed by Daniel, who is supported 
 by the innkeeper and a guide. Perrichon, deeply moved, 
 calls for water, salt, and vinegar. He makes Daniel sit 
 down. All are anxious to know what has happened. 
 
 Per. A frightful event. . . . Make him drink. 
 Rub his temples. 
 
 Dan. Thanks. I feel better. 
 
 Arm. What has happened? 
 
 Dan. If it were not for M. Perrichon's courage . . . 
 
 Per. No, not you. Don't try to speak. It was horri- 
 ble! We were on the Mer de Glace. Mont Blanc re- 
 garded us, calm and tranquil. For five minutes we had 
 quietly followed a path that wound between the crevasses. 
 I was ahead. 
 
 Mme. p. What imprudence! 
 
 Per. Suddenly I heard behind me a sound like a land- 
 slide. I turned. This gentleman had disappeared in 
 one of the bottomless abysses, the mere sight of which 
 makes one shudder. Then I, listening only to the call 
 of coiu-age, I, the father of a family, sprang to the 
 rescue. 
 
 Mme. P. and Henrietta. Heavens! 
 
 Per. On the edge of the precipice I reached down with 
 my alpenstock. He seized it, and pulled and pulled. We 
 both pulled, and after a desperate struggle I snatched him 
 from annihilation and brought him forth into the light of 
 day before the Father of all. 
 
 Dan. Monsieur Perrichon, you have restored a son to 
 his mother. 
 
 Per. True! And a man to society. 
 
 Dan. Words are powerless to express my gratitude. 
 
 Per. Daniel, my friend, my child! Your hand. . . . 
 I owe you the sweetest emotions of my life. Without me 
 you would have been only a formless and repulsive mass. 
 
LABICHE AND MARTIN 49 
 
 buried under the frost and rime. You owe everything to 
 me, everything ! I shall never forget it ! 
 
 Dan. Nor I! 
 
 Per. [to Abmand, wiping his eyes]. Ah, young man, you 
 do not know the pleasure one experiences in rescuing a 
 fellow creature. 
 
 Henrietta. But, papa, monsieur knows it very well as 
 he has just . . . 
 
 Per. At, yes, that's so. Mr. Innkeeper, bring me the 
 visitors' book. 
 
 Before leaving these regions Perrichon wishes to conse- 
 crate the event with a suitable inscription. When the 
 book is brought everybody notices Major Mathieu's cor- 
 rection of Perrichon's grammar. Perrichon seizes the pen 
 and writes: "The Major is a boor. Perrichon." 
 
 The carriage is announced to take Perrichon and his 
 family to the station. Perrichon invites Daniel and 
 Armand, who are retiu-ning to Paris, to drive with them. 
 Mme. Perrichon takes him aside and informs him that 
 Armand has asked their daughter's hand. He replies that 
 Daniel has made the same overture to him. 
 
 It has just begun to rain in torrents and there is only 
 room for four inside the carriage. Perrichon says that 
 Daniel shall get in with them. Henrietta inquires in a 
 low tone of her father how about M. Armand. 
 
 Per. \low\. Good lord, there are only four places! Let 
 him get up on the box. 
 
 Hen. In such a rain! 
 
 Mme. P. A man who saved your life! 
 
 Per. I'll lend him my raincoat. 
 
 When the Perrichons return to their home in Paris 
 Daniel and Armand have been there for a week or more and 
 have been leaving their cards at the house every day. Mme. 
 Perrichon thinks it high time that her husband came to 
 a decision regarding the suitors. 
 
 Per. I haven't changed my opinion. I like Daniel best. 
 
 Mme. P. Why? 
 
 Per. I don't know ... I find him more . . . 
 Well, he pleases me. 
 
 Mme. P. But the other rescued you. 
 
 Per. Rescued me! Always the same refrain! 
 
60 PERRICHON'S JOURNEY 
 
 Mme. P. What's the matter with him? He comes of 
 good family, and he has an excellent position. 
 
 Per. Good lord, I don't find any fault with him. I 
 don't want the fellow! 
 
 Mme. P. There's nothing else the trouble with him? 
 
 Per. Well, I think he's affected. 
 
 Mme. P. He? 
 
 Per. Yes, he assumes a protecting tone . . . gives 
 himself airs . . . seems to be always preening himself 
 on account of the Uttle service he did me. 
 
 Mme. P. He never speaks of it. 
 
 Per. I know that well enough, but it's his air. _ His air 
 says, "Without me . . ." It's provoking in time. 
 But the other . . . 
 
 Mme. P. The other is always saying: "Ah, without 
 you! Ah, without you!" That flatters your vanity, and 
 there you are. That's why you prefer him. 
 
 Per. I — vanity! Maybe I've got the right to have it. 
 
 Mm£. P. Oh! 
 
 Per. Yes, Madam. The man who has risked his life to 
 save a fellow creature . . . but I prefer to seal my 
 lips in modest silence ... a characteristic sign of 
 true courage! 
 
 Mme.P. But all that doesn't prove that M.Armand . . 
 
 Per. Henrietta doesn't like him, cannot like M. 
 Armand. 
 
 Mm^. P. What do you know about it? 
 
 Per. Goodness, I suppose . . . 
 
 Mm£. P. There's a way of finding out. That is to ask 
 her. And we will choose the one she prefers. 
 
 Per. Very well, but don't influence her. 
 
 Jfme. P. Here she is. 
 
 Henrietta comes into the room. 
 
 Mme. P. Henrietta, my dear child, your father and I 
 wish to talk seriously to you. 
 
 Hen. To me? 
 
 Par. Yes. 
 
 Mme. p. Here you'll soon be of an age to be married. 
 Two young men have presented themselves to obtain your 
 hand. Both of them are acceptable to us, but we do not 
 wish to act against your will, and we have decided to leave 
 you entire Uberty of choice. 
 
LABICHE AND MARTIN 61 
 
 Hen. Really? 
 
 Per. Full and entire. 
 
 Mme. P. One of these young men is M. Armand 
 Desroches. 
 
 Hen. Ah! 
 
 Per. [quickly]. Don't influence her! 
 
 Mme. P. The other is M. Daniel Savary. . . . 
 
 Per. A charming young man, distinguished, spiritual, 
 and one whom I do not hesitate to say has all my sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Mme. P. But you are influencing her! 
 
 Per. Not at all! I was stating a fact, [To Henbi- 
 ETTA.] Now you are enlightened, choose. 
 
 Hen. Heavens! You embarrass me too much. . . . 
 I'm willing to take the one you decide on. 
 
 Per. No, no, decide yourself. 
 
 Mme. P. Speak, my child. 
 
 Hen. Well, since it's absolutely necessary to make a 
 choice. . . . M. Armand. 
 
 Mme. P. There! 
 
 Per. Armand! Why not Daniel? 
 
 Hen. Armand rescued you, papa. 
 
 Per. Come, come! Again? This is a bore, on my 
 word! 
 
 Mms. P. Well, you see, there is nothing to hesitate 
 about. 
 
 Per. Ah, but permit me, my dear, a father cannot ab- 
 dicate. I will reflect. I will take it tmder advisement. 
 
 Mme. P. Monsieur Perrichon, that is bad faith. 
 
 It is a relief to Perrichon when his friend Majorin drops 
 in. He invites him to dinner, but John, the manservant, 
 whispers in his ear that they are going to have veal stew, 
 and he adds that the invitation is for another time. Ma- 
 jorin offers to return a loan of six hundred francs, as his 
 steamboat dividend comes in the next day, but Perrichon, 
 knowing this, is not in a hurry for the money. 
 
 Per. Do you know what I've done? I've brought 
 you a present. 
 
 Major. A present! For me! 
 
 Per. Passing through Geneva, I bought three watches 
 — one for John, one for Marguerite, the cook — ^and one 
 for you, a repeater. 
 
52 PERRICHON'S JOURNEY 
 
 Major [aside]. He puts me after his servants ! [Alovd.] 
 Well? 
 
 Per. Before coming to the French custom house I put 
 them in my cravat 
 
 Major. What for? 
 
 Per. Ha ! Well, I didn't want to pay the custom duties. 
 They asked me, "Have you anything to declare?" I 
 replied no; I made a movement and thereupon your devilish 
 watch rang: ding, ding, ding! 
 
 Major. Well? 
 
 Per. Well, I was frisked. They took everything. 
 
 Major. How was that? 
 
 Per. There was an atrocious scene! I called the cus- 
 toms officer a miserable underling. He said I would hear 
 from him again. I regret the incident very much. . . . 
 Your watch was charming. 
 
 Major [dryly]. I do not thank you for it the less. 
 [Aside.] As if he couldn't pay the duty. . . . It's 
 sordid! 
 
 When Armand appears Mme. Perrichon and Henrietta 
 receive him with great cordiality, and as Perrichon intro- 
 duces him to Majorin casually as a mere acquaintance, 
 Henrietta exclaims with vivacity that he saved her father's 
 life. Perrichon has a peevish moment. Daniel arrives, 
 however, and Perrichon has a chance to save the situation. 
 He is about to recount his deed of heroism when Henrietta 
 discovers it set forth ia a newspaper. 
 
 It is a glowing encomium of the worthy manufacturer 
 and father of a family, as well it may be, for Daniel has 
 paid three francs a line to have it printed. He does not 
 mention this fact. Mme. Perrichon suggests sending the 
 story of Armand's fine act to the paper, and Henrietta ' 
 thinks it would make a pretty pendant. At this moment 
 John comes in with an official-looking document which he 
 hands to Perrichon. It is a summons ordering Perrichon 
 to appear in court to answer a charge of having abused a 
 public officer engaged in the discharge of his duties. 
 
 Per. It's the customs officer who seized my three 
 watches ... I was too hasty ... I called him 
 an underling, and scum of the earth. 
 
 Major. It's very serious ! Very serious! Fifteen days 
 to three months in prison. 
 
LABICHE AND MARTIN 53 
 
 The family are horrified. Majorin points out that 
 severity is necessary in order to make people pay the duties. 
 Armand alone sees a ray of hope. He knows a high officer 
 in the custom^s department and offers to see if the in- 
 spector cannot be induced to withdraw his complaint. 
 He has no sooner started than Mme. Perrichon asks her 
 husband what he thinks of Armand now. Perrichon re- 
 plies glowingly that he is "an angel, an angel!" 
 
 Mme. P. And you hesitate to give him your daughter? 
 
 Per. No, I hesitate no longer. 
 
 She says he must tell Daniel, and goes out of the room 
 with Henrietta. 
 
 Per. [aside]. This good young man ... It gives 
 me pain . . . Come, it has to be . . . My dear 
 Daniel . . . My good Daniel ... I have a 
 painful communication to make to you. 
 
 Dan. Well, let's have it. 
 
 Per. You have done me the honor to ask the hand of 
 my daughter. I have cherished this project, but cir- 
 cumstances . . . Your friend. Monsieur Armand, 
 has rendered me such services . . . 
 
 Dan. I understand. 
 
 Per. For it's no use talking, he saved my life. 
 
 Dan. But this little fir tree that you grasped? 
 
 Per. Certainly, the little fir. It was very little. It 
 might have broken. And then, I was no longer holding by it. 
 
 Dan. Ah! 
 
 Per. No, that is not all. At this very moment the ex- 
 cellent young man is burning the pavements to drag me 
 from a dungeon. I owe him my honor, honor ! 
 
 Daniel, apparently resigned, says that he will remember 
 only Perrichon's courage and devotion to him. He cannot 
 continue his visits at the house. It would be compromis- 
 ing for Mademoiselle Henrietta, and painful for him, but 
 Perrichon's image will never leave him. He has decided 
 to have the heroic scene on the Mer de Glace commemo- 
 rated on canvas. He will engage one of the most illustrious 
 painters. He asks if Perrichon is willing to pose. Per- 
 richon is willing to give any number of sittings, but in- 
 quires if they are not to pose together. 
 
 Per. There I'll be, I and Mont Blanc, tranquil and 
 majestic. But you! Where will you be? 
 
54 PERRICHON'S JOURNEY 
 
 Dan. In the hole. Down at the bottom. One will 
 perceive only my two hands, clasped and supplicating. 
 
 Per. What a magnificent pictvire! 
 
 Dan. We will send it to the Exposition. 
 
 At the last moment, just as Daniel is about to go, Per- 
 richon tells him to remain. He declares that nothing is 
 decided about the marriage. He insists that Daniel shall 
 remain. John announces Major Mathieu, who, upon 
 entering, assures himself first that he is addressing the 
 Perrichon who was at the Mer de Glace a month earlier. 
 
 Major. Then it was you who wrote in the hotel register, 
 "The Major is a boor." 
 
 Per. What! You are . . . 
 
 Major. Yes, Monsieur, it is I. 
 
 Per. Enchanted! [They exchange several little bows.] 
 
 Major. Sir, I am neither quarrelsome nor a fencer, 
 but I do not like to leave such expressions beside my name 
 in hotel registers. 
 
 Per. But you wrote the first note, a more than sharp 
 one. 
 
 Major. I? I limited myself to stating that Mer de 
 Glace did not take an e at the end: look in the dictionary. 
 
 Per. Well, sir, you are not charged with correcting my 
 mistakes . . pretended mistakes in spelling. Why 
 are you concerning yourself about it? 
 
 Major. Pardon me. The French language is a be- 
 loved compatriot, a lady of good family, elegant, and a bit 
 cruel . . . You know it better than any one. 
 
 In spite of Perrichon's irritation, the Major says he will 
 give him the choice of two courses, but Perrichon retorts 
 that he is not to be intimidated. He informs the Major 
 that he has already given proof of his courage, as he wUl 
 let the Major see ... at the Exposition . . . 
 next year. 
 
 Major. It will be impossible for me to wait until then. 
 Come to the fact. Do you retract or not? 
 
 Per. Not in the least! 
 
 Major. Take care! 
 
 Daniel attempts to interpose to avert the catastrophe 
 which he sees impending, but Perrichon does not heed, and 
 the Major says abruptly he will await him the next day at 
 noon, with his second, in the wood at Malmaisoa. The 
 
LABICHE AND MARTIN 55 
 
 fact is that Perrichon did not realize he was dealing with a 
 military oflBcer, but becomes a prey to the keenest appre- 
 hension as soon as the Major has withdrawn. 
 
 The situation presents an opportunity which Daniel 
 immediately takes advantage of by writing to the Prefect 
 of Police to have the affray averted. Perrichon has the 
 discretion to take the same course, making his communica- 
 tion anonymous, and then calls Daniel to witness that in 
 the face of this new danger he is perfectly calm. His wife, 
 however, detects signs of his anxiety and worms the story 
 out of him. She also writes secretly to the Prefect of 
 Police to stop the duel. Henrietta has overheard the 
 conversation between her parents and writes to Armand 
 to come to the rescue again. 
 
 The next morning Perrichon is perfectly calm. He says 
 so himself as he walks about the garden with Daniel, as 
 calm as bronze. It is ten o'clock, and he has sent for a cab 
 to convey him to the field of honor. He devoted a large 
 part of the night to writing to his friends that he is going 
 to fight a duel. 
 
 To avoid a distressing scene, he has decided not to take 
 a farewell of his wife and daughter, but to his surprise they 
 are fully as calm as he. It strikes him that they are singu- 
 larly lacking in heart. They even remind him that he 
 must be prompt. Armand suddeidy bursts into the 
 garden. 
 
 Arm. Stop, Monsieur Perrichon! The duel will not 
 take place. 
 
 AVi. What! 
 
 Arm. It's very simple. I've had Major Mathieu 
 locked up. 
 
 AH. Locked up! 
 
 Arm. Yes, it has been decided upon for a month by the 
 Major and myself, and I couldn't find a better occasion 
 to oblige him. \To Perrichon.] And you, too. 
 
 Mme. P. Oh, what gratitude . . . 
 
 Hen. You are our deliverer! 
 
 Perrichon can scarcely conceal his vexation. Madame 
 Perrichon gets the others out of the way to give Armand a 
 chance to follow up his advantage. The young man is full 
 of confidence. 
 
56 PERRICHON'S JOURNEY 
 
 Arm. I am happier than I can say to have been able 
 to stop this disagreeable affair. 
 
 Per. [aside] . Always his little air of protection ! [Alcrud.] 
 As for me, sir, I regret that you have deprived me of the 
 opportunity of giving a lesson to this professor of grammar. 
 
 Arm. Why,.but you forget that your adversary . . . 
 
 Per. Is an ex-major of the Second Zouaves. Well, 
 what of it? I esteem the army, but I am one of those 
 who can face it. [He takes a jew strides proudly.] 
 
 John announces Major Mathieu. 
 
 Per. What.? 
 
 Arm. He? 
 
 Per. You told me he was in prison ! 
 
 Major [coming forward]. I was, indeed, but I have got 
 out. Ah, Monsieur Armand, I have just transmitted to 
 you the amoimt which I owed. 
 
 Arm. Very well. Major. I trust that you do not bear 
 me any grudge. You seemed so anxious to be locked 
 up. 
 
 Major. Oh, that's all right, but on days when I am 
 going to fight . . . [To Pebbichon.] I regret ex- 
 ceedingly having made you wait. I am at yom* service. 
 Let us start. 
 
 Per. Let us start! 
 
 Major [looking at his watch]. It is noon. 
 
 Per. [aside]. Noon already! 
 
 Major. We shall be there by two o'clock. 
 
 Per. [aside]. Two o'clock! They will have gone. 
 
 Arm. What is it? 
 
 Per. I have always thought that there was a certain no- 
 bihty in acknowledging when one is in the wrong. 
 
 This remark produces considerable surprise. Perrichon 
 asks Armand and John to leave him with the Major, but 
 the Major prefers that Perrichon shall say anything he 
 has to say before witnesses. 
 
 Per. Major, you are a brave officer . . . and I 
 . . .1 love officers. I admit that I did you an injus- 
 tice . . . and I beg you to believe that I . . . 
 [Aside.] Heavens, before my servant! [Ahvd.] I beg 
 you to believe that I had no intention . . , [He makes 
 a sign to John to go, hut John does not appear to understand. 
 Asviei] It's all the same to me. I'U fire him to-night. 
 
LABICHE AND MAETIN 57 
 
 [Aloud.] Nor was it my thought ... to offend a 
 man whom I esteem and honor. 
 
 Major. Sir, you wrote in a large hand in the book at 
 Montanvert:"TheMajorisa ..." 
 
 Per. I retract the word! It is retracted! 
 
 Major. It is retracted . . . here . . . but 
 there! It is spread all over the middle of a page where 
 every traveller can read it. 
 
 Per. Ha! Bother it, yes, unless I should go back my- 
 self to erase it. 
 
 Major. I should not have dared to ask it, but as you 
 offer . . . 
 
 Per. I? 
 
 Major. I accept. 
 
 Per. Allow me . . . 
 
 Major. Oh, I don't ask you to go to-day, no. But 
 to-morrow. I respect your conciliatory feelings. 
 
 Per. I don't like to spill blood. 
 
 The Major declares himself completely satisfied and 
 goes out. 
 
 John [sadly]. Well, sir, so your duel is off. 
 
 Per. [bursting out]. I discharge you! Go pack your 
 belongings, animal! 
 
 John [stupefied]. Well, what have I done? 
 
 [He goes out. 
 
 Per. There's nothing to be said, I've backed down! I, 
 whose portrait will be seen at the Musee! . . . But 
 whose fault is it? This Armand's! Ha! Why doesn't 
 he get out? Perhaps he has another service to do me. 
 Pretty things, these services! 
 
 Arm. [coming forward]. Yesterday upon leaving you I 
 went to my friend in the customs department. I spoke to 
 him of that matter. 
 
 Per. [dryly]. You are too good. 
 
 Arm. It's all iSxed. There will be no prosecution. 
 
 Per. Ah! 
 
 Arm. But you must write the inspector an apology. 
 
 Per. That's it! Apologies! More apologies! What 
 are you meddling with this for? 
 
 Arm. But ... 
 
 Per. Aren't you going to drop your habit of interfering 
 at every moment of my life? 
 
68 PEKRICHON'S JOURNEY 
 
 Arm. What? 
 
 Per. Yes, you're mixed up in everything! Who asked 
 you to have the Major arrested? fl it hadn't been for 
 you we should have been there at noon! 
 
 Arm. But nothing prevented your being there at two 
 o'clock. 
 
 Per. That's not the same thing. 
 
 Arm. Why not? 
 
 Per. You want to know why? Because ... no, 
 you shan't know why! [AngrUy.] Enough of your serv- 
 ices, sir! Enough of your services! Henceforth, if I 
 fall into a hole I beg you to let me stay there. I'd mudi 
 rather give a hundred francs to the guide. That's what it 
 costs, a hundred francs. There's nothing to be so proud 
 about ! I beg you also not to change the hours of my duels, 
 and to let me go to prison if I take a fancy to. 
 
 Arm. But, Monsieiu* Perrichon . . . 
 
 Per. I don't like people who intrude. It's indiscreet. 
 You are a trespasser! 
 
 Arm. But let me . . . 
 
 Per. No, sir! I won't be dominated! Enough of your 
 services! Enough of your services! \He goes off to the 
 summerhouse.] 
 
 Henrietta comes in at the back of the garden, and 
 seeing Armand runs forward to him. She is quite 
 overcome to hear that her father has expressed dislike 
 for him, and assures him that she does not like Daniel. 
 She will not let him thank her, but says he must thank 
 mamma, who is on his side, and leaves in some embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 Daniel returns. He is now confident of success, and in 
 the goodness of his heart points out to Armand some of the 
 mistakes of his campaign in order that he may profit by 
 his experience another time. 
 
 Dan. You're too fond of rendering services. It's an 
 unfortunate passion. 
 
 Arm. [laughing]. How is that? 
 
 Dan. Believe nie. I have lived longer than you, and 
 in a more sophisticated world. Before obliging a man 
 assiu-e yourself first that he is not an imbecile. 
 
 Arm. Why? 
 
 Dan. Because an imbecile is incapable of enduring for 
 
LABICHE AND MARTIN 59 
 
 very long the crushing burden called gratitude. There 
 axe even people of sense who are too delicately organized. 
 
 Arm. Develop your paradox. 
 
 Dan. If you wish an example: Perrichon. 
 
 Perrichon looks out of the door of the summerhouse. 
 
 Dan. You will excuse me for not classifying him as a 
 superman. Well, you quietly took a good grip on Perri- 
 chon. 
 
 Arm. I greatly fear so. 
 
 Dan. Nevertheless, you saved his life. You imagine 
 perhaps that this thought reminds him of a great act of 
 devotion. No, it reminds him of three things: first, that 
 he can't ride a horse; secondly, that it was a mistake to 
 wear spurs contrary to his wife's advice; thirdly, that he 
 was thrown in public. 
 
 Arm. True, but . . . 
 
 Dan. And as if you must have a cluster of these fine 
 fireworks, you demonstrate to him, as two and two make 
 foiu", that you take no accoimt of his courage, by prevent- 
 ing a duel . . . that wouldn't have taken place. I 
 had taken precautions. I do services sometimes, too. 
 
 Arm. Well, you see. 
 
 Dan. Yes, but I hide them. I mask them. When I 
 investigate the wretchedness of my fellowman it is in my 
 stocking feet and without a light, as if in a powder mill. 
 From which, my conclusion . . . 
 
 Arm. That one mustn't oblige any one? 
 
 Dan. No. But it is essential to work ia the dark and 
 to select the victim. Wherefore, I sum up that the afore- 
 said Perrichon detests you. Your presence humiliates him. 
 He is tmder obligations to you, is your inferior. You crush 
 the man. 
 Arm. But that is ingratitude! 
 
 Dan. Ingratitude is a variety of pride. It is independ- 
 ence of heart, as an amiable philosopher has said. Now 
 Monsieur Perrichon is the most independent carriage maker 
 in France. I scented that at once. Also, I took a course 
 directly opposite to yours. 
 Arm. What? 
 
 Dan. I let myself slide into a little crevasse on purpose, 
 not a diangerous one. Don't you see, if you give a carriage 
 maker the chance of saving his fellowman without danger 
 
60 PERRICHON'S JOURNEY 
 
 to himself it is a master stroke. From that day I was his 
 joy, his triumph, his feat of arms. I no sooner appeared 
 than his face beamed, his bosom swelled, and he sprouted 
 peacock plumes imder his coat. I held him as fast as 
 vanity can hold a man. When it grew cool, I revived it 
 again. I printed it in the paper at three francs a line. 
 
 Arm. Oh, so it was you? 
 
 Dan. Bah! To-morrow I'm going to have him painted 
 in oils, in tSte-a-t^te with Mont Blanc! I stipulated for a 
 very Uttle Mont Blanc and an immense Perrichon ! Lastly, 
 my friend, remember this, and above all keep my secret: 
 men do not become attached to you for the services which 
 you do them, but for those which they do you. 
 
 Perrichon enters the garden with his wife and daughter. 
 He is very grave. He says he is glad to find both the 
 young men there, for he is going to tell them his decision. 
 He turns to Daniel with a smile. 
 
 Per. Daniel, my friend, I have already done much for 
 you. I wish to do still more. I wish to award to you . . . 
 
 Dan. [gratefully]. Ah, Monsieur! 
 
 Per. [coldly]. A piece of- advice. [Lower.] Don't 
 speak so loud when you are near a door. 
 
 Dan. [astonished]. Ah! Ha! 
 
 Per. Yes ... I thank you for the lesson. [Alovd.] 
 Armand, you have not seen so much of life as your friend, 
 but you please me more. I give you my daughter. 
 
 Arm. Ah, Monsieur! 
 
 Per. And note that I do not seek to acquit myself 
 toward you. I desire to remain your debtor. [Looking at 
 Daniel.] For it is only imbeciles who cannot support the 
 crushing burden known as gratitude. 
 
 [He TTwves away and Henbietta goes to Akmand. 
 Daniel follows Pekeichon.] 
 
 Dan. So you listen at doors? 
 
 Per. Well, well, a father must seek to enlighten himself. 
 Come, now, truly, did you throw yourself down there on 
 purpose? 
 
 Dan. Where is that? 
 
 Per. In the hole? 
 
 Dan. Yes . . . but I shan't tell anybody. 
 
 Per. I beg of you! 
 
 They shake hands. 
 
A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 By Victokien Sardou 
 
 First played in Paris at the Thetoe du Gymnase on 
 May 15, 1860. 
 
 Argument: Prosper Couramont tries to make Baro- 
 ness de la ' Glaciere help him find a wife by getting posses- 
 sion of a love letter that she wrote him before her marriage. 
 Suzanne de Russeville, cousin of the Baroness, endeavors J;o 
 help her recover the note from Prosper, but it is lost and 
 there is danger that it will be found by the Baron. Does 
 Prosper achieve his object, and is the threatened mischief 
 avoided.'' 
 
 A period of six weeks' grace in which to find a wife strikes 
 Prosper Couramont as a somewhat brief allowance upon his 
 return to France after three years spent in Eastern travel. 
 Yet comply with this requirement he must in order to pro- 
 vide the comforts of a well-regulated home for the benefit 
 of a milUonaire uncle living at Chinon, who otherwise will 
 marry his maid-of -all-work and cut off Prosper without a 
 sou. 
 
 A mode of procedure is suggested to Prosper by seeing a 
 dashing young beauty riding horseback in the village. He 
 learns that she is Mile. Mathilde de Merical, the sister of 
 Louise, with whom he was in love before her marriage to 
 the Baron de la Glaciere. He loses little time in calling 
 upon his old sweetheart to ask for Mathilde's hand. 
 Louise informs him, however, that when she was carried 
 off to Paris to be married to the Baron she wrote to him to 
 come and elope with her. He did not respond, and now 
 she will not tolerate him as her sister's husband. 
 
 They had been in the habit of concealing billets doux 
 designed for each other in a statuette in her mother's 
 drawing-room, but Prosper was wounded in a duel at the 
 
 61 
 
62 A SCBAP OF PAPER 
 
 critical moment and could not go to get her desperate ap- 
 peal. The first news he heard upon recovering was that 
 she had married, and he has not yet ceased to reproach her 
 for fickleness. As the house has been closed ever since, it 
 is evident that the missive is still in its hiding-place. 
 Louise, horrified at the possibiUty that her husband might 
 find it, as he is jealous beyond behef, is about to go to the 
 statuette when she hears her husband comLag. 
 
 The Baron de la Glaciere enters, accompanied by M. 
 Brisemouche, the latter's sister, Zenobie, and Anatole, a 
 young man who lives with them. Glaciere notes with 
 suspicion that his wife is agitated, and his distrust is aug- 
 mented by a disagreement between her and M. Couramont. 
 She announces that the guest asked for the hand of her 
 sister, but has now withdrawn the request. Prosper de- 
 clares that he has not withdrawn it by any means. 
 
 The situation's painfully interesting to Anatole, who is 
 in love with Mathilde and has been hampered in paying 
 his addresses by the opposition of his guardians. M. 
 Brisemouche and his sister are determined that Anatole 
 shall devote his attention to his studies. Mathilde brings 
 in her cousin. Mile. Suzanne de Russeville, whom she in- 
 troduces to the company. Profiting by this diversion. 
 Prosper is about to lift the statuette when his hostess, 
 seeing what he is about, calls him abruptly and presents 
 him to Suzanne. 
 
 Prosper. I have long been desirous of being introduced 
 to you, mademoiselle. 
 
 Suzanne. You are fond of curiosities, I believe? 
 
 Brisemouche. He has collected them from all parts of 
 the world. He is a mighty traveller 
 
 Suz. A man's happy privilege! How is a poor woman 
 to scamper over the world in steel hoops and crinoline 
 petticoats? What is the greatest curiosity you have seen 
 in the world? 
 
 Prosp, The greatest curiosity? Woman, of course! 
 
 Suz. It seems you have studied the animal. 
 
 Prosp. Yes, as Brisemouche does insects and reptiles. 
 
 Suz. I hope you have not found any venomous speci- 
 mens. 
 
 Prosp. Sometimes — ^and they are generally the fairest to 
 the eye. [Turns to look at the Baeoness, and sees her abcmt 
 
SAEDOU 63 
 
 to tahedovm the Flora— aside.] She's at it again ! [Aloud.] 
 I was just making that identical remark to Madame de la 
 Glaciere — wasn't I? [By directly addressing the Bakoness 
 he forces her to drop the Flora, which she has just lifted, and 
 come down — he offers her a chair, and thus obliges her to sU.] 
 I was comparing woman to a bird with a sharp beak, long 
 claws, and varied plumage, which it is always striving to 
 show off to the best advantage, and moults at every caprice 
 of fashion. 
 
 Suz. Indeed! And would you speak in that tone of 
 your mother, or your sister, or your wife? 
 
 Prosp. I haven't got one. 
 
 Suz. Then, that's the reason you are so deficient in your 
 knowledge of natiu-al history. 
 
 Prosp. But, my dear Madame, the exception only 
 proved the rule. 
 
 Suz. But, my dear sir, the rule is wholly made up of 
 exceptions. 
 
 Prosp. Well, I confess I believed in exceptions un- 
 til 
 
 Suz. Until what.? 
 
 Prosp. Until two or three pleasant attempts were made 
 to poison me. Since then, even in our civilized country, 
 where poisons take the shape of perfidy and breach of faith, 
 I have sworn never to be without an antidote. 
 
 Brise. Bless my soul, an antidote! Of what nature? 
 
 Prosp. Oh, the merest trifle, sometimes, is enough — ^a 
 mere scrap of paper, perhaps — a line of scribbling. 
 
 Suz. [aside]. He means some letter. Hmn! hum! 
 What is all this? 
 
 Brise. Fie, fie! you wouldn't use such a weapon against 
 a woman. 
 
 Prosp. I would — as a shield, not a sword. Such a sys- 
 tem is permissible by the moral code of every nation. 
 
 Brise. There! we shall have him citing his darling 
 Chinese now. 
 
 Prosp. Why not? They are oiu- superiors in many things 
 — ^their porcelain, for instance. Now compare with 
 Chinese works of art this little Sevres ornament for in- 
 stance. [To the Bakoness.] It is a statuette of Flora, I 
 perceive. [Takes down the Flora.] 
 
 Louise [alarmed]. Stop, sir! 
 
64 A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 Prosp. Don't be alarmed, Madame! I know all its 
 value. 
 
 Louise [trying to stop him]. Give it to me — it's covered 
 with dust. 
 
 Prosp. [coming doum with ii]. Don't give yourself the 
 trouble. [Aside.] I feel the letter. 
 
 Louise [trying to dust with her handkerchief]. Allow me, 
 with my handkerchief 
 
 Prosp. No, no! I'U blow on it — ^that will do. [Turns 
 away as if to blow the dust off the statuette^ 
 
 Suz. [seizing the hand of Baboness to stop her — apart]. 
 Your husband's eyes are upon you. 
 
 Louise. Oh! did you but know! [The letter falls.] Ah! 
 [Peosper puts his foot hastily on the letter.] 
 
 Suz. [aside.] A letter! I was sure of it! 
 
 Prosp. [giving the Flora to the Baeonbss]. It is evident 
 you set great store by this little ornament, Madame. 
 
 Louise [low to him]. What you are doing is shameful, 
 sir! 
 
 [The bell rings vnthoutfor luncheon.] 
 Enter Mathilde. 
 
 Math. Luncheon is ready. 
 
 Brise. [getting up]. I'm not sorry to hear it. 
 
 Anat. [rising hastily and getting away from Zenobie]. 
 No, nor I. 
 
 Zeno. [apart to Anatole]. I forbid you to sit by the 
 side of that Mademoiselle Mathilde. 
 
 Anat. But I 
 
 Zeno. I forbid you, I say. 
 
 Math, [seizing hold of Anatole]. You'll give me your 
 arm, Monsieur Anatole? 
 
 Zeno. I forbid you. [Turning, she finds herself opposite 
 to the Baron, who offers his arm formally; she is obliged to 
 accept — the Baroness, unwillingly, takes the arm of Brise- 
 MoucHE, and keeps looking back at Prosper — the party grad- 
 vaUy prepare to go out the doori] 
 
 Suz. [to Prosper, who never stirs, and stands with his foot 
 on the letter]. My dear sir, don't you mean to offer me your 
 arm? 
 
 Prosp. I beg your pardon, but I've let fall my hand- 
 kerchief. [Lets fall his handkerchief, and picks up the letter 
 with it.] 
 
SARDOU 65 
 
 Suz. [low to him]. Come, come! Give it up like a 
 gentleman. 
 
 Prosp. [low to her]. Give up what? 
 
 Suz. The letter! 
 
 Prosp. My antidote? No, I thank you. 
 
 Suz. I'll make you give it up. 
 
 Prosp. I'll bet you anything you like you won't. 
 
 Suz. I'll bet you anything you like I will. 
 
 Baron [turning back]. Are you coming, you two? 
 
 Prosp. [aloud]. Deign to accept my arm, Madame. 
 
 Suz. So you are a collector of curiosities? I think I 
 shall be able to show you a few curious matters which may 
 astonish you, great traveller as you are! 
 
 Prosp. [laughing]. In instruments of warfare? 
 
 Suz. In instruments of warfare. Have you ever met 
 with any Amazons in your travels? They say it is a fabu- 
 lous race — ^not quite, my dear sir; not quite, I can assure 
 you — I'm an Amazon! Only, nowadays people call us 
 old maids, blue stockings, or strong-minded women! 
 
 [They go up toward L. door, laughing. 
 
 Prosper is the guest of his old friend, Brisemouche. While 
 sitting in a study that he has decorated with a great quan- 
 tity of Oriental curiosities, considering where he shall hide 
 the letter, there is a knock at the door. Anatole comes in 
 pale with emotion, for he is determined to fight a duel 
 with Prosper for pretending to the hand of Mathilde. In 
 the kindness of his heart Prosper consents to satisfy the 
 youth, but stipulates that the affair shall be conducted in 
 the Japanese fashion. 
 
 Prosp. [fetching two Malay daggers, and presenting them 
 politely]. Here are the tools for the job. Take your 
 choice! 
 
 Anat. One of these? 
 
 Prosp. Of course. [Anatole takes one.] You have 
 taken the biggest — but never mind. And now — [sits down]- — 
 you are the challenging party, have the kindness to begin. 
 
 Anat. [turning in an attitude of defence, and surprised at 
 seeing Peo^eb quietly seated]. Begin! How? 
 
 Prosp. [coolly]. By ripping yourself up. 
 
 Anat. Rip myself up? 
 
 Prosp. Yes, it's the Japanese manner of proceeding. 
 
66 A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 They call it "the happy despatch." The challenger rips 
 himself up first, and then the challenged is bound in honor 
 to follow his example. Proceed — I'll follow you imme- 
 diately! 
 
 The interview is interrupted by the arrival of Mme. de 
 la Glaciere with Mathilde and Suzanne, who have come 
 to see the curios. After the ladies have gone Suzanne 
 comes back again and demands the letter. Prosper main- 
 tains that it is his property. She wiU not concede the 
 point, but asks what use he wishes to make of it. 
 
 Prosp. My answer to that question has been abeady 
 categorically given. Let the strictest neutrality be ob- 
 served; and the moment I give up all hopes of Mathilde, 
 I'll bid an eternal adieu to Madame de la Glaciere, and 
 burn the letter before her eyes. 
 
 Suz. You wUl do that? 
 
 Prosp. On my honor! And I verily believe I should 
 have done so at once on returning home — of course, with- 
 out admitting the fact — ^had you not defied me to mortal 
 combat. 
 
 Suz. Well, then, I withdraw my challenge; and you can 
 burn it now. [Rising, laughing.] Look, here is a capital 
 fire — I won't say a word to Louise — and you will lose noth- 
 ing by your good action. 
 
 Prosp. [rising, laughing]. I beg your pardon — ^I should 
 lose the intense satisfaction of seeing you hunt for the 
 letter in vain. 
 
 Suz. Is that your ultimatum? 
 
 Prosp. My ultimatissimum. Search, search! I shan't 
 prevent you. The letter is here — ^somewhere! 
 
 Suz. In this very room? 
 
 Prosp. Or else in the other ! First catch your hare, and 
 then you may cook hiin, yourself, at any fire you please. 
 
 Suz. No, no, I shall not be satisfied till I have made 
 you burn it with your own hands. 
 
 Prosp. Indeed! Then, I give you my word of honor, 
 if you contrive to do that I will pack myself o£E this very 
 evening to look for a ivife in the Cannibal Islands, Jericho, 
 or anywhere you please. 
 
 Suss. Your word of honor? 
 
 Prosp. My word of honor! 
 
 Suz. Beware! I am obstinate. 
 
SARDOU 67 
 
 Prosp. So am I. 
 
 Suz. I am going to sit down to a regular siege — I shall 
 bore you until you say yourself, "I had better bm-n the 
 letter and get rid of that nuisance of a woman!" 
 
 Prosp. Never was criminal threatened with so alluring 
 a punishment ! I'm enraptured to think of the many pleas- 
 ant hoiu"s we are about to pass in a long delicious tete-a-tete 
 — I am sorry to be obliged to leave you a short time — 
 I have an indispensable visit to pay to a tiresome old uncle, 
 but pray consider yourself perfectly at home. 
 
 Suzanne finds it disconcerting to be left alone in a man's 
 apartments, but Louise soon comes to join her and begins 
 a feverish search of the room. Louise reproaches Suzanne 
 for indifference, but Suzanne thinks the letter is not in 
 any very secret place. She turns over the heaps of letters 
 in a basket on the table. One of them addressed to Pros- 
 per at Honolulu attracts her attention. It contains a 
 slip of pink paper with a few words in Louise's handwriting, 
 which Suzanne starts to read: 
 
 "My dear love, I leave to-night for Paris " 
 
 Louise seizes the note. It is the one. At this moment 
 there is a knock at the door and Louise hears her hus- 
 band's voice. She flies in terror to the bedroom, in spite 
 of Suzanne's protests, and locks herself in. Suzanne 
 unlocks the outer door and admits the baron. 
 
 Baron [surprised]. You! 
 
 Suz. [calm and smiling]. Yes — I! What an uproar you 
 have been making! 
 
 Baron. Here! 
 
 Suz. In this museum. I'm looking at all the curiosities. 
 
 Baron [looking round him]. Alone? 
 
 Suz. You see [Sits at table and examines a drawer 
 
 full of shells.] What a wonderful collection of shells to be 
 sure — only look? 
 
 Baron [putting dovm his gun]. But I heard talking. 
 
 Suz. I was trying to pronounce these dreadful words 
 aloud. Why vnll scientific men give such preposterous 
 names to things? Oh, look, isn't that pretty? 
 
 Baron. You were not alone — Louise was here. 
 
 Suz. What should she be doing here? 
 
 Baron. Something she was ashamed of apparently, 
 since she made her escape. 
 
68 A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 Suz. [laughing, still looking at the shells]. Ha, ha, ha! 
 does this fit often seize you, cousin? 
 
 Baron. She was here, I say ! 
 
 Suz. And if she was, why shouldn't she be here still? 
 Do you think she has hidden herself under the table? 
 
 Baron [roughly, looking her full in the face]. Then why 
 didn't you open the door immediately? 
 
 Suz. [not at all disconcerted]. Because I thought the 
 knocking was at the other door — and I opened that first. 
 
 Baron. In order that Louise might get away. That's 
 the way she went then? [Goes up to door.] 
 
 Suz. What a tiresome old bear you are! If Louise 
 went that way, go and look after her; and leave me to ex- 
 amine the shells. 
 
 Baron [coming doum]. My wife was strangely agitated 
 this morning after her conversation with Monsieur What's- 
 his-name — ^whom she knew before her marriage — more 
 still, during that little aflfair about the statuette — what 
 did that mean? 
 
 Suz. [coming down — looking at shells]. Perhaps she was 
 afraid he would drop it. 
 
 Baron [getting 'more and more angry]. The man made an 
 offer of marriage for Mathilde without ever having seen 
 her — a mere pretext, it is very clear, to get into the house 
 and see my wife — a got-up plan to divert my suspicions! 
 [Seizing hold of Suzanne.] Look me in the face and tell 
 me it was not so, if you can. 
 
 Suz. It's as clear as noonday — only let go my hand, 
 please, for you hurt me; and a pretty mess you have made 
 of the poor shells. [Opens her hand — shows the shells in 
 powder.] You really don't know how to behave yourself. 
 
 Baron. Listen: I left Brisemouche out shooting, to re- 
 turn home. I inquired for my wife — she was gone out; 
 but I had her spaniel, Fidele, with me; and he has tracked 
 her to this house — to the foot of that stair; I tell you my 
 wife is here! Where is she, I say? Where is she? 
 
 Suz. What do you ask me for? Since you've taken to 
 hunting your wife, as they hunt negroes, whistle for 
 Fidele, my dear sir — whistle for Fidele. 
 
 Baron. Suzanne, you trifle with my feelings! 
 
 Suz. Trifle with your feelings! No — ^I wish to spare 
 them. If I laugh at you, it is to show how senseless is 
 
SARDOU 69 
 
 your conduct. Come — come — calm yourself, and try to 
 be a little reasonable. 
 
 Baron. You are right — ^you are right to jeer me — my 
 jealousy blinds me — it drives me mad! It makes me 
 utterly miserable! [Throws himself into a chair.] 
 
 Suz. Look up, my poor friend ! Now, how can you ruin 
 all your happiness thus when you have a charming wife 
 who thinks of nobody but you — ^lives for nobody but you? 
 
 Baron. I know it, Suzanne — I know it — and I am calm 
 now — quite calm — but should anything again ever cause 
 
 me to suspect [Seeing Louise's shawl, and darting on it.] 
 
 My wife's shawl! Ah! you see she has been here! [Rises.] 
 
 Suz. Well — ^what of the shawl? 
 
 Baron. Who put it there? 
 
 Suz. I did — I took up the first that came to hand. 
 
 Baron. I don't believe you. My wife's shawl is here — 
 then she's not gone — she's still concealed here — and I 
 swear that if I find her [Goes to take his gun.] 
 
 Suz. Baron! I beg of you 
 
 Baron [searching, in spite of her]. Leave me! 
 
 Suz. [trying to stop him]. Hear me! Hear me! 
 
 Baron [finding the door]. Ah! there's a door here! 
 [Suzanne springs between him and the door.] She is con- 
 cealed in that man's room. Let me go — by heaven, I'll 
 have his life ! [Menacing with his gun.] 
 
 Suz. For my sake 
 
 Baron. For your sake? 
 
 Suz. [with feverish haste, as if regardless of what she^ is 
 saying]. Yes — ^for mine! you drive me to this confession 
 by your violence. What ! were you so blind? Did not my 
 embarrassment — my agitation — at once reveal the truth? 
 I didn't open the door at once, 'tis true, because I was 
 afraid of being found here. Your dog evidently recognized 
 your wife's shawl which I wore. Don't you see? Louise 
 refused her sister's hand to Prosper because she knew I 
 loved him years ago— don't you see? Prosper imagined 
 I had deceived him, and so wanted to marry another in 
 order to revenge himself on me — don't you see? When 
 Louise spoke low to him, it was to justify me and prevent 
 this detested marriage, which I was resolved never should 
 take place— don't you see? don't you see? 
 
 Baron Yes, yes, I remember now. He spoke this 
 
70 A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 morning of some heartless treachery on the part of a 
 woman. 
 
 Suz. He meant me — I was the heartless treachery [sigh- 
 ing]. But it was all a mistake — a misunderstanding. 
 
 Baron. Why not teU me this at once? 
 
 Suz. Can you ask the question? What woman would 
 willingly confess the wealmess of her heart? And then 
 you were so violent, and made such an awful noise — ^you 
 don't know what a noise you do make. And I was so 
 frightened, and — so out it came — I don't know how — 
 and — don't you see? don't you see? [Aside.] I don't know 
 what on earth I am talking about. 
 
 Baron. Be calm, my dear Suzanne — no one shall ever 
 learn this secret from me. But I'll not allow this man 
 to trifle with your feelings in this manner — ^I'U see him at 
 once. 
 
 Suz. See him? — ^what for? 
 
 Baron. What for? Why, to tell him I know the state 
 of affairs between you, make him withdraw his pretensions 
 to the hand of MathUde, and — and 
 
 Suz. And what? 
 
 Baron. What? Why marry you to be sure! 
 
 Suz. [aside]. Good heavens! I didn't take that into 
 my reckoning. 
 
 Baron. Yes, yes; I'U see the fellow — speak out my mind 
 at once. 
 
 Suz. What are you thinking of, my dear friend? Let 
 me see him first — endeavor to lure him back myself. You 
 would not deprive a woman of her dearest privilege — 
 would you, cousin? 
 
 Baron. As you will. [Going on with volubility, spite of 
 the efforts of Sitzanne to speak.] Marry you he shall— dead 
 or alive! I won't have him play fast and loose with cousin 
 Suzanne — that I won't. I owe him a grudge for making 
 me suspect Lpuise — ^my own dear good Louise. [Bursts 
 out laughing.] Good heavens! what a fool man makes of 
 himself sometimes! But he shall pay for it — ^he shall 
 marry you as a punishment — no, I don't mean that- — ^but 
 marry you he shall! [Taking up his gun.] Now, then, to 
 bring down my man! amicably — I mean amicably! [Pai- 
 ting his gun.] Old trusty, here, is for the partridges — so ho, 
 Fidele! and off we go! 
 
SARDOU 71 
 
 Suz. [aside]. Now the popular opinion is that man can't 
 talk. 
 
 Baron [turning at door]. Not a word to Louise! 
 
 Suz. She shall not know more about the affair than she 
 knows at this moment — I give you my word. 
 
 Baron. I would not have her know for the world. 
 
 [He goes out. 
 
 Suzaime is the mistress of a large fortune and has re- 
 mained unmarried from choice. She is a very independent 
 young woman and has no idea of getting married on ac- 
 count of this muddle if there is any way to avoid it. Louise 
 is engrossed with her own troubles and urges Suzanne to 
 burn the letter and make Prosper go away at once. She 
 goes home to be there before her husband. 
 
 It is obviously a simple matter to burn the letter, but 
 to make Prosper go away is a very different thing. Su- 
 zanne recalls, however, that Prosper promised that he 
 would go to look for a wife in the Polynesian Islands if she 
 could make him burn the letter. She determines to place 
 it in a suggestive manner between the bars of the fender, 
 twisted up like a lamplighter. Having done so she throws 
 the matches in the fire. Then she hears a step outside, 
 quickly settles herself in an easy chair, and pretends to be 
 asleep. Prosper enters. 
 
 Prosp. Asleep! Overcome with fatigue and utterly 
 discouraged. [Looking around him.] She has been turn- 
 ing everything topsy-turvey. [Looks into room, and 
 laughs.] Yes, and there, too! Now for the letter! Can 
 she have found it? [Suzanne follows him with the corners 
 of her eyes, while he opens the tobcLcco jar and sees the envelope.] 
 
 No, all safe Come, woman's cunning has been baffled 
 
 for once. [Sits down at table and looks at Suzanne.] I 
 am sorry for her — [looking more closely] — she is really a 
 very nice woman — ^pretty hand — good eyes, too — I really 
 must have another look at her eyes. [Getting up and bend- 
 ing over her.] 
 
 Suz. [opening her eyes wide, and looking at him]. What 
 did you say? 
 
 Prosp. [staggering back]. Knocked clean over! 
 
 Suz. [pretending to awake]. Oh! I beg your pardon, I 
 believe I must have dropped asleep. 
 
 Prosp. Pray consider yourself at home. 
 
72 A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 Suz. [rising]. What o'clock is it? 
 
 Prosp. [going to the dock on the mantelpiece]. Past six. 
 
 Suz. So late! Well, I can't help it — I won't give up my 
 purpose; and here I shall remain at my post till that pur- 
 pose is accomplished. 
 
 Prosp. AUow me to admire your obstinacy. It is the 
 most heroic piece of chivalry I have ever seen. 
 
 Suz. Obstinacy! You are not gallant. 
 
 Prosp. Well, let us say firnmess. 
 
 Suz. Yes : firmness in a woman — obstinacy in a man. 
 
 Prosp. Now, take care, you are pitting yourself against 
 a man who has fought with Red Indians, and won his 
 tomahawk on the field. I have been dubbed a great chief 
 myself, and it would be no mean glory to carry off my 
 scalp. [It gets gradually d/iisk.] 
 
 Suz. But, great chief, in spite of the intense satis- 
 faction I should naturally have in scalping you, I have 
 better motives than the desire of obtaining such question- 
 able glory. But please light your lamp — ^it is getting quite 
 dark. 
 
 Prosp. Immediately. [Takes off the globe of the lamp 
 on the table and looks at it.] There! that fool of a servant 
 has put no wick in the lamp. [He rings.] 
 
 Suz. Then light a candle — it will be much handier. 
 
 Prosp. You are right. [Hunting about for matches.] 
 Of course, there may exist women who — ^now there's not a 
 match to be found anywhere. 
 
 Suz. Then take a piece of paper, my dear sir. 
 
 Prosp. [seeing the piece of paper on the hearth]. Ah! this 
 will do. [Picks up paper.] There may exist women, cer- 
 tainly, who are so far traitors to their nature as to 
 
 [He lights the paper.] 
 
 Enter Francois, door, with a lighted lamp. 
 
 Prosper blows out the paper and retains it in his 
 hand. 
 
 Suz. [aside] . Was ever anything so provoking ! Another 
 minute, and he would have done it. [Pran^ois has put 
 the lamp on the table, and gone out.] 
 
 Prosp. As I said, there may be women who — in short — 
 upon my word, I don't know, now, what I was going to 
 say. 
 
 Suz. You were going to say, probably, that there may 
 
SARDOU 73 
 
 be women who would do and sacrifice much for the peace 
 of mind of a friend. 
 
 Prosp. [sealed at table, holding the paper]. A friend! a 
 friend! Have women female friends? [^silie.] She looks 
 better still by lamplight. 
 
 Suz. You don't believe in friendship. 
 
 Prosp. In that respect I have not a much better opinion 
 of our own sex than of yours. [Aside.] I can't help being 
 fascinated by her more and more. 
 
 Suz. [taking the envelope and false letter from the jar me- 
 chanically and playing vnth it while Pkospee shows his agi- 
 tation]. Come, that's something. You have generally so 
 marvellous an opinion of your own superiority. 
 
 Prosp. [laughing at seeing the letter in her hand and shaking 
 the paper he Holds], We certainly sometimes fancy we see 
 more clearly than your sex. [Laughing — aside.] She little 
 knows she's got the letter. [Aloud.] Well, if I be an ego- 
 tist, I have never found out after a life's experience what 
 I gained by doing good to others. 
 
 Suz. [throwing back the envelope into the jar]. Gained! — 
 the pleasure of doing it. Does that count for nothing? 
 Ah! if you knew how bright the world would look to you 
 under the consciousness of having done good — ^if you knew 
 with how light a heart you would sleep at night — ^with how 
 cheery a spirit you would raise your head from your pillow 
 in the morning, you would never ask again what you would 
 gain. 
 
 Prosp. [surprised and pleased]. Perhaps — I don't know. 
 
 Suz. Exactly. You don't know. 
 
 Prosp. [aside.] What a smile the woman has! and what 
 a heart! [Lets fall the letter on the carpet] 
 
 Suz. [aside]. Suppose I put out the lamp; he must light 
 it again. [She begins turning the lamp up and dovm.] 
 
 Prosp. [with enthu^asm]. Ah, my dear Madam, if it 
 were true Does the lamp smoke? 
 
 Suz. It does a little. [Putsitout.] There — I'veputitout. 
 
 Prosp. [aside.] So much the better. [Aloud.] Ah, if 
 it were true that your heart alone prompted you to give me 
 battle, my admiration for your courage would give place to 
 a far warmer feeling. I don't exactly know why, but it is a 
 fact, of all the women I have ever seen you are the only 
 woman who is a real woman. 
 
74 A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 Suz. A very pretty declaration, upon my word — only a 
 little obscure. Perhaps it would be clearer if you lighted 
 your lamp. 
 
 Prosp. [approaching her]. Ah, the fitful flicker of the 
 cozy fire on the hearth is better suited to what I would 
 say. 
 
 Suz. Light the lamp, sir, or you'll force me to go at once. 
 
 Prosp. But I've got no matches. 
 
 Suz. Will you light the lamp, sir? 
 
 Prosp. I declare to you 
 
 Suz. I'll hear no declaration till you light the lamp. 
 
 Prosp. I dare say you think I am mad! I am not. 
 Perhaps it was the most sensible thing I could do to fall in 
 love with the god-daughter this morning and the godmother 
 this evening. 
 
 Suz. Well, then, since you drive me away, sir. [Getting 
 up.] 
 
 Prosp. Don't go — don't go — don't leave your purpose 
 unaccomplished. You have made me believe in the exist- 
 ence of a woman's heart that can beat with kindliness and 
 purity. Let me prove myself worthy of that heart. See! 
 here is the letter! [Takes envelope from jar.] I yield — I 
 biu-n it before your own eyes. [Throws the envelope into the 
 fire.] 
 
 Suz. [aside]. Now I could positively hug the man for 
 that! 
 
 Prosp. [taking up the burning envelope wiih the tongs]. 
 Look, Madam, it burns — ^it bums. 
 
 Suz. I haven't the heart to send him away now. I 
 must confess all. 
 
 Prosp. Shall I lay down the ashes at your feet? 
 
 Suz. [laughing]. Are you quite sure you have burned 
 the right thing? 
 
 Prosp. Can you doubt? 
 
 Suz. Your good faith ? — oh, no ! But pick up that little 
 scrap of paper you had in your hand just now. 
 
 Prosp. [hunting on the carpet] . That httle scrap of paper ! 
 What do you mean? 
 
 Suz. [pointing it out, laughing]. There it is! 
 
 Prosp. [picking it up with surprise]. Well, and what then? 
 
 Suz. [listening]. Hush! what's that I hear? 
 
 Prosp. [going to udndow]. The barking of dogs! [Looks 
 
SARDOU 75 
 
 out.] Brisemouche and the Baron are coming toward the 
 house. 
 
 Suz. And they may come upstairs! Give me that 
 scrap of paper, quick! 
 
 Prosp. This darkness is rather awkward — I understand. 
 I'll light the candle at once. [He lights the paper.] 
 
 Baron [vrithout, beneath the window]. Here, Fidele! 
 
 Suz. [aside]. It was fated that he should burn the paper 
 after all ! [Riosper lights the candle with the burning paper, 
 and throws it out of the loindow.] Oh, what have you done? 
 
 Baron [as before]. Holloa! Do you mean to set the 
 house on fire? 
 
 Prosp. [at window looking out]. Some one is picking it 
 up! 
 
 Suz. The Baron! Oh, we're lost! 
 
 Prosp. What do you mean? 
 
 Stvs. That was the very letter! 
 
 Prosp. [bewildered]. That scrap of paper — the letter? 
 
 Suz. The very letter! Run! — quick! — get it back! 
 Why don't you run? 
 
 Prosp. [losing his head, and running to the loindow]. I am 
 running! 
 
 Suz. Not by the window, man — ^by the door! 
 
 Prosp. [running to the door]. Yes, to be sure! 
 
 Suz. Not that way! 
 
 Prosp. No, no, of course not! [Runs to door, throw- 
 ing down aU the furniture in his way.] 
 
 Sia. You'll find me at the chdteau in the conservatory ! 
 
 Prosp, I'll have it, dead or ahve! [Runs out door. 
 
 Sua. That comes of being too clever by half! 
 
 [Exit, rapidly, door. 
 
 The Baron takes Brisemouche home to dinner with him. 
 Brisemouche failed to shoot any partridges, but he is de- 
 lighted at having found a rare beetle. He was carrying 
 it in his hand when a piece of burning paper fell from 
 Prosper's window, and he picked up the paper to wrap the 
 beetle with. He comes into the conservatory of the chS.^ 
 teau with the twisted paper containing the beetle stuck in 
 the muzzle of his gun, and leaves the gun standing in a 
 comer. 
 
 Suzanne and Prosper, having failed to find the piece of 
 
76 A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 paper in Brisemouche's garden, follow the sportsmen to the 
 chS,teau and come into the conservatory. Suzanne is 
 greatly distressed at the possibility of the Baron havmg 
 fomid the scrap of paper and makes Prosper go back to 
 continue the search. Then she learns from a servant that 
 Brisemouche picked up the paper, and goes to call Prosper 
 back. 
 
 Anatole has got into disgrace by neglecting his studies 
 and was sent off to take the five o'clock train back to school, 
 but he escaped from the carriage and made his way to the 
 chateau. He now comes into the conservatory with great 
 circumspection in the hope of obtaining a clandestine in- 
 terview with his fair one. He looks about for paper on 
 which to write a note to her, but as there is no stationery 
 at hand he takes the twist from the gun, discards the beetle 
 as a thing of little value, and having torn off the burnt 
 part of the paper, writes a note on the blank side and en- 
 trusts it to a new maid to deliver. 
 
 Suzanne returns to the conservatory with Brisemouche, 
 and Anatole conceals himself discreetly among the shrubs. 
 Brisemouche is telling Suzanne that he stuck the paper in 
 the muzzle of his gun. Alas, it is gone, and the rare speci- 
 men with it. She insists that he must find the paper at 
 least, but then as imperatively insists upon his stopping 
 again when the Baron enters the room. 
 
 They are summoned to dinner. Prosper, unsuccessful 
 and famished, comes back a minute later. He sees a bit of 
 pink paper on the floor and utters a loud cry of joy, but it is 
 only the burnt part torn off by Anatole. He has about 
 decided that the Baron himself must have found the note 
 when the Baron comes in to see who is there. 
 
 Baron. I thought I heard a voice. [Perceiving him.] 
 Ah — it's you ! 
 
 Prosp. I beg your pardon — I'm afraid I'm rather late. 
 [Going to dining-room.] 
 
 Baron [stopping him]. Two words, if you please. 
 
 Prosp. [asnde, coming back]. I shall have to fight on an 
 empty stomach. 
 
 Baron. Do you still entertain the same views you did 
 this morning? 
 
 Prosp. [aside]. They will have done dinner soon. 
 
 Baron. Do you stiU entertain the same views 
 
SARDOU 77 
 
 Prosp. Yes — no — that is — [aside] — I had forgotten all 
 about that! [Ahiid.] Well, in principle, yes — ^in practice, 
 no; certainly not — in fact, Madame de la Glaciere displayed 
 so much opposition to my projects 
 
 Baron. She had her reasons, probably. 
 
 Prosp. I don't know what reasons. 
 
 Baron [quietly]. Her unwiUingness probably to see you 
 sacrifice an old attachment to a new fancy. 
 
 Prosp. [after looking at him steadily]. Indeed! [Aside.] 
 Nothing like makiag the plunge at once. [With a change 
 of manner.] I see, sir, that you know all. 
 
 Baron. AU. 
 
 Prosp. Then perhaps you'll permit the conversation to 
 drop imtil after dinner. [Attempts again to enter dining- 
 room — stopped by the Babon.] 
 
 Baron. I beg pardon, sir — the affair is too serious to 
 admit of any delay. 
 
 Prosp. Serious — serious! After all, there's nothing so 
 very serious in the matter. I admit that I entertained a 
 very strong regard for the lady — that there was a sort of 
 Understanding between us, and that we even had a trifling 
 correspondence; but that was all — and the lady has no 
 longer the slightest regard for me. 
 
 Baron. Her affection is undiminished. 
 
 Prosp. I beg your pardon — I beg your pardon — I give 
 you my word of honor that 
 
 Baron. She has confessed it to me herself. 
 
 Prosp. Confessed it! — confessed what? 
 
 Baron. Her attachment to you. 
 
 Prosp. She confessed that — to you? 
 
 Baron. To me. 
 
 Prosp. [aside]. I'm thimderstruck! 
 
 Baron. She has told me all, sir. Your desertion of her 
 upon the most unfounded suspicion — ^your long absence in 
 consequence — and, in spite of your unkindness, the affec- 
 tion she stUl bears you 
 
 Prosp. She told you that I 
 
 Baron. She told me that. 
 
 Prosp. [aside]. Well, I must say she might have chosen 
 another confidant. [Alovd.] I imderstand you, sir; and 
 you have sought me to demand a reparation at the sword's 
 point. 
 
78 A SCBAP OF PAPER 
 
 Baron. Far from it — to try and effect a reconciliation 
 between you. 
 
 Prosp. [stupefied]. What! 
 
 Baron. And to take you by the hand. [Stretches out his 
 hand.] 
 
 Prosp. You are too good. [Aside.] Too good, a vast 
 deal! 
 
 Baron. Her happiness is in your hands. 
 
 Prosp. Is it? 
 
 Baron. Make her happy, then. 
 
 Prosp. [shaking hands]. I should be delighted to oblige 
 you, but 
 
 Baron. And make me happy, too. 
 
 Prosp. But, my dear sir, have you maturely considered 
 what you are proposing to me? 
 
 Baron. Do you think, sir, I would permit you to refuse 
 a lady so closely allied to me — ^af ter proffering her the most 
 ardent attachment — ^the satisfaction she has a right to 
 demand? 
 
 Prosp. Surely Madame de la Glaciere could never have 
 sent you to 
 
 Baron. I must insist, sir, you don't mix up my wife's 
 name in this business. 
 
 Prosp. But how the deuce, sir, am I to do otherwise! 
 Oh, I have had enough of this — ^you'll drive me mad, 
 famished as I am. Do what you like — ^fight, or go to 
 the 
 
 Baron. Not another word — time and place? 
 
 Prosp. [exasperated]. When you please! 
 Enter Suzanne and Louise hastily from the dining-room. 
 
 Suz. [aside]. This is what I feared. 
 
 Louise [aside]. A challenge! all is lost! 
 
 Suz. [throwing herself between them]. Ah, Prosper! has 
 the Baron's persuasion, then — [crosses] — ^had no more 
 power over you than my tears? 
 
 Prosp. [surprised]. Hey! what? 
 
 Suz. Would you wish to see me at your feet? 
 
 Baron. Never would I suffer such a humiliation! 
 
 Prosp. [aside]. What the deuce does all this mean? 
 
 Suz. But when I swear. Prosper, that I never deceived 
 you. [Low to him.] Back me up in all I say. [Aloud.] 
 It was only a misapprehension, [^stde.] Back me up. 
 
SAEDOU 79 
 
 Prosp. [bewildered]. But I don't see- 
 
 Suz. [low to him]. Don't be stupid! [Aloud.] You 
 don't see that you break my heart? 
 
 Prosp. Break your heart! 
 
 Suz. Yes, my loving heart and you are still silent! 
 Speak, sir, speak! 
 
 Baron. Now, sir, what have you to say? 
 
 Prosp. I have to say I have to say [Aside.] Oh, 
 
 I have her now ! [Ahud.] That if all she says be true 
 
 Suz. Can you doubt me. Prosper? [Apart to him.] 
 That's right, go on — go on! 
 
 Prosp. [a^ide]. That's right, is it? Just you wait a bit. 
 [Aloud.] And you swear that you have never been faith- 
 less to me? 
 
 Suz. Oh, never, never! [Apart to him.] Go on — go 
 on! 
 
 Prosp. That you love me still? 
 
 Suz. Love you! oh, yes! 
 
 Prosp. Then, Madam, I own that I, too, love — adore 
 you! I swear it before these witnesses ,of oiu- mutual 
 affection. 
 
 Suz. [apart to him]. That will do now! Quite enough! 
 
 Prosp. And I am ready to marry you, Madam, as soon 
 as you will. 
 
 Suz. In make believe, of course. [Apart to him.] 
 
 Prosp. [aside]. Deuce a bit! in downright earnest! 
 [Aloud.] Come to my arms, Suzanne! 
 
 Suz. [springing back]. You go too far, sir — ^you go too 
 far. 
 
 Baron [pushing her into Phospeh's arms]. Never mind 
 us, Suzanne; it's all in the family. Embrace him, I tell 
 you. 
 
 Prosp. [embracing her]. Oh, Suzanne! 
 
 Suz. Oh, Prosper! [Apart to him.] You horrid traitor! 
 
 Prosp. I think I've caught you now. 
 
 Suz. [aside]. Don't make too sure of that. 
 Enter Mademoiselle Zenobie and Mathilde, from the 
 dining-room — ^Bkisemouche — then Baptiste and 
 Pauline. 
 
 [During the follcywing, Servants hand coffee — 
 Bbisemouche is alone in front, holding a piece of 
 paper in his hand; he is slightly intoxicated.] 
 
80 A SCRAP OP PAPER 
 
 Brise. It is a love letter! — a love letter to Zenobie! I 
 shouldn't have believed it, if I hadn't seen— with my own 
 eyes seen^— the young woman slip it under her plate. 
 [Reading.] "I am obliged to leave home by daylight, 
 dearest love." Now, who the deuce could ever call Ze- 
 nobie "dearest love?" [Reading again.] "But farornear, 
 my soul will follow thine." AH this to Zenobie! It is 
 incredible! but here it is. Ah, here's a chance — if I could 
 but get rid of Zenobie — ^force the fellow to marry her — 
 what a piece of good luck it would be. [Folds the paper in 
 two.] 
 
 Baron [coming down vdih a cup of coffee in his hand]. 
 Don't you take coffee? [Drops dmim.] 
 
 Brise. [aside]. Ah — an idea ! [Gives paper to the Baron.] 
 Do you know that handwriting? 
 
 Baron. This? [As he opens the paper, Pbosper is 
 coming down with a cup of coffee in his hand, and observes the 
 Babon reading the reverse side to that read by Bhisemouche.] 
 "They wanted to send me away, but I have returned." 
 
 Brise. Nonsense — "returned" — ^he said he was obliged 
 to go. 
 
 Baron [continuing to read]. "They say I must continue 
 my studies." 
 
 Brise. Nonsense — "studies" — no, no — "dearest love." 
 
 Baron. No — "studies" — ^it is written in pencil! 
 
 Brise. No — "dearest love" in ink. [Takes letter and 
 turns over to the other side.] There — it is there ! [Gives back 
 letter to the Babon.] 
 
 Prosp. [coming down hastily]. The letter! [Snaiching it 
 from the Babon.] 
 
 Baron [still laughing]. Come, let's see this wonderful 
 letter. 
 
 Prosp. No, no; I can't allow it. 
 
 Brise. But why? 
 
 Prosp. [quietly finishing his cup of coffee]. Because I 
 don't want to admit everybody into my confidence. [Gives 
 his empty cup to Bbisemouche to hold.] 
 
 Brise. Then you wrote that letter? 
 
 Prosp. Well, and if I did? 
 
 Brise. What! unworthy friend, you have taken advan- 
 tage of being under my roof to make love to Zenobie — 
 delude her innocence — — 
 
SARDOU 81 
 
 Baron. He! make love to Zenobie? 
 
 Brise. But, of course, he will take her off my hands — 
 I mean marry her? 
 
 Baron [giving his empty cup to Bbisemouche to hold]. 
 What does all this mean, sir? This morning you make 
 love to Mathilde — this evening you promise to marry 
 Suzanne — and all the while you are making love to Zenobie. 
 
 Brise. Don't you call Zenobie "dearest love?" 
 
 Prosp. Never dreamed of such a thing! 
 
 Brise. But the proof is that scrap of paper. 
 
 Baron. Yes — show us the scrap of paper — what is it? 
 
 Prosp. As you say — a mere scrap of paper. [Shows it 
 behind his back to Suzanne.] 
 
 Suz. [to Louise, alarmedl. It is the letter! 
 
 Louise [alarmed]. The letter! 
 
 Prosp. [coolly]. But as you seem to attach some mystery 
 to this scrap of paper, I request MademoiseUe Suzanne — 
 my wife — ^to judge of its contents. [Holds out paper to 
 
 SuZANIiTE.] 
 
 Baron [seizing letter to the alarm of Pbospeb and Su- 
 zanne]. So be it — Suzanne shall read and judge! 
 
 Suz. It is imnecessary — quite. I know what it con- 
 tains. [Takes the paper. ^ 
 
 Baron. You know? 
 
 Suz. Yes — a mere bit of folly — a joke. 
 
 Brise. A joke! a joke! The chance of getting rid of 
 Zenobie is no joke! 
 
 Baron. Beware, Suzanne — ^your life's happiness may be 
 concerned. [Crosses to Suzanne.] 
 
 Suz. Well, even if it be? [Gives paper to Prosper, 
 and holds a lighted candle which she takes from a table close 
 by her.] Burn it, my good friend. 
 
 Baron. Suzanne ! 
 
 Suz. [holding candle]. Burn — burn! 
 
 Baron. Ah ! you're a happy man to marry such a woman 
 who trusts you so implicitly. 
 
 Prosp. I know I am. [Burns the letter and puts the 
 taper on one of the coffee cups held by Brisemouche — looking 
 at the ashes of letter.] Oh, you confounded little rascal of a 
 scrap of paper ! what a peck of troubles you have put me in. 
 
 Brise. [holding the two cups of coffee and taper] . I take my 
 oath I saw the words "dearest love." 
 
82 A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 Zen. [ctming dovm]. What's that you are saying? 
 
 Sus. My dear Mademoiselle Zenobie, I've a piece <Jf 
 pleasant intelligence to communicate. We've just made 
 up a match between Monsieiu* Anatole 
 
 Zen. [simpering]. Oh, xieai^— spare my feelings! 
 
 Suz. And my little cousin Mathilde. 
 
 Anat. [springing forward from the bushes]. Oh! what 
 joy! [Drops dmvn.] 
 
 ^en. [aside]. The Uttle wretch was there all the time. 
 
 Anat. [kissing the hand of Mathilde]. I am so happy. 
 
 Prosp. [to Suzanne]. And so am I. 
 
 Suz. [low to him]. I have no doubt you are. You have 
 given your word to start to-night for the Cannibal Islands. 
 
 Prosp. By all means — ^but not without my wife. 
 
 Suz. What! do you want to eat me up? 
 
 Prosp. With love! 
 
 Louise. Suzanne — ^you must give in, you know. 
 
 Suz. [smiling]. Well, it seems fated I am to sacrifice 
 myself for others. 
 
 Prosp. Yes: to ensiu-e my happiness. 
 
 Louise. Your own as well. 
 
 Prosp. And the contentment of all aroimd, I trust. 
 
 Suz. [looking at the ashes]. And all on accoimt of a mere 
 ScBAP OF Paper. 
 
FROU FROU 
 
 By Henki Meilhac and Ludovic HAiiivr 
 
 First played in Paris at the ThMtre du Gymnase on 
 October 30, 1869. 
 
 Argument: Frou Frou, a pretty, light-headed, spoiled 
 child, marries Count Sartorys on the advice of her sister 
 Louise, who is in love with him and appreciates his admi- 
 rable qualities, but she neglects her duties as a wife, and 
 Louise, who comes to live with her, has to take charge of 
 the household. Later, when Frou Frou tries to recover her 
 position, her husband and sister refuse to take her seriously, 
 and in a fit of jealousy she runs away with an old lover. 
 Will she regret her action, and will her husband seek ven- 
 geance? 
 
 Frou Frou is a pet name that Mademoiselle Gilberte de 
 Brigard says nobody but her papa and sister Louise may 
 call her, but Count Paul de Valreas declares that no other 
 name could be better suited to so delightful a little person 
 as herself, for whom it seems to have been especially in- 
 vented. One hears a door open, he says, and down the 
 stairs comes a rustling flutter of silken skirts sweeping 
 along like a whirlwind — Frou Frou! Into the room with 
 a twirl — ^now here, now there, arranging, disarranging, 
 prattling, pouting, laughing, singing, skipping, piano- 
 rattling, dancing — and off again in the twinkling of an eye. 
 Frou Frou ! Always Frou Frou ! But it happens that Val- 
 reas has something more serious to say to her this very day — 
 astoundingly serious. In that case, she replies, it can wait, 
 for she has something still more serious to do, and that is 
 to dress for dinner. 
 
 M. Brigard, Frou Frou's father, came to this place in the 
 country only two years ago and bought the chateau known 
 as "The Charmerettes," which is situated between ch4- 
 
 83 
 
84 FROU FROU 
 
 teaux owned by two young bachelors, one of them Vab^as, 
 and the other. Count Henry de Sartorys. The two young 
 men have been very attentive to M. Brigard's daughters. 
 Vabeas intends to ask for the hand of Mile. Gilberte, and 
 thinks that Sartorys is on the point of asking for Louise. 
 M. Brigard, however, puts a damper on Valreas' aspira- 
 tions. He assures the young man that he likes him ex- 
 ceedingly, but as to giving him his daughter, he really 
 cannot think of it. The fact is that Brigard and Valreas 
 have had rivalries over more than one chorus girl, and 
 Brigard knows that one of these young women has been at 
 Vakeas' home for the last four days. 
 
 Valrias. Four days! And how long have I kept away 
 from my roof and taken shelter under yours? For forty- 
 eight hoiurs. If that doesn't prove that I intend to break 
 with my past life 
 
 Brigard. Take two from four and you have There 
 
 are the first forty-eight hours unreckoned. 
 
 Val. I'm like Hercules at the crossroads. I've aban- 
 doned Pleasure to follow Virtue, finding her the most beau- 
 tiful of the two, for your daughter is deucedly fascinating, 
 sir. 
 
 Brig. Yes, you're quite right there. 
 
 Val. And besides that, she has a sort of 
 
 Brig. Yes, it runs in the family. But that doesn't 
 matter. As I said before, it's not the thing to come and talk 
 to a father about marrying his daughter when at the very 
 same moment there's a 
 
 Val. Yes, you're right. When you say anything 
 reasonable I admit it at once. It's evident that somebody 
 
 at home must be politely requested to But the thing 
 
 is, how to A friend now, who would be kind enough 
 
 to act for one, is what is needed. 
 
 Brig. A friend, eh? 
 
 Val. Yes. A friend sufficiently accustomed to these 
 sort of things to be able to arrange it pleasantly. 
 
 They look each other in the face for a moment and then 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 Brig. By Jove, if you mean it 
 
 Val. Certainly! Will you go? 
 
 Brig. In order to oblige you. 
 
 Val. Ah, that's good! 
 
MEILHAC AND HALEVY 85 
 
 Br^. But don't tell Antonia Brunet. 
 
 Vcd. Antonia Brunet? Wlio is Antonia Brunet, any 
 one I know? When will you go? 
 
 Brig. I'll go at once. 
 
 Vol. AU right. When you come back I shall address 
 my suit to you formally. 
 
 Brig. What! You aren't going back to that. Here 
 comes Louise. Talk to her about your great project. 
 
 Louise refuses even more firmly than her father to con- 
 sider Valreas' proposal for her sister. He has just left when 
 Sartorys enters. 
 
 Sartorys informs Louise that he has made up his mind 
 to say this very day something that he has been longing 
 to say for the last three months. Nevertheless, he seems 
 so nervous that Louise suggests that he defer it to another 
 time, but he proceeds. He is in love, and M. Brigard has 
 authorized him to speak, or rather told him that he must 
 address himself especially to her. 
 
 Sartorys. Have you not divined? I love . . . 
 
 Louise. You love? 
 
 Sar. Deeply — your sister Gilberte. 
 
 He goes on without looking at Louise and asks if she 
 approves of the marriage. After the first shock is over 
 Lpuise assures him that he is just the husband that she 
 should have chosen for her sister, for she knows no better, 
 worthier man. She withdraws her hands from his grasp 
 and strives to hide her emotion. He asks her to say all 
 the good of him she can to Gilberte, but not to dwell too 
 much upon the serious side of his nature and the soberness 
 of his demeanor. He goes out on the lawn to walk up and 
 down while Louise undertakes his commission. 
 
 Gilberte is surprised to learn that Sartorys is in love with 
 her, as Louise is the one he ought to love, but she leaves it 
 to Louise to decide whether she shall accept him, as she 
 says it is too serious a question for her. Louise advises her 
 to do so. Gilberte is afraid that her faults are of a kind 
 that would make Sartorys wretched. 
 
 Gilberte. He'll cure me of them, you think? Ah, I'm 
 not so sure of that! I've always been a spoilt child, you 
 know; and the worst of it is, with regard to those darling 
 faults of mine, that I'm resolved I won't be cured of them; 
 being most decidedly satisfied with my little self just as 
 
86 FROU FROU 
 
 I am. Ah! depend upon it, the struggle between him and 
 me for the upper hand will be a great deal more serious 
 than you think for. I know that he has a firm will of his 
 own; but though it were proved to me that he's competent 
 to manage the whole world, that wouldn't at all prove to 
 me that he is therefore competent to manage — ^Frou Frou. 
 
 Louise. He loves you, Gilberte. 
 
 Gil. Are you very sure? 
 
 Louise. Did you not see a Uttle while ago? 
 
 Gil. [a pause; she reflects]. And so it is me he loves. 
 [Laughs.] What a funny idea. [Rises.] 
 
 Louise [animated; rising]. Is it nothing to be loved by 
 such a man? To see that he trembles before you hke a 
 child? [Still more animated.] It seems to me if I were 
 asked who is it I love, I should say with pride: "Look for 
 the man who is superior to every one about him — it is he." 
 
 Gil. [going to her and putting her arms around her waist]. 
 Do you know one thing, sister Louise? 
 
 Louise. What is it? 
 
 Gil. I will not marry Monsieur Sartorys. 
 
 Louise. Why? 
 
 Gil. [demurely]. Because, up to this time, I thought that 
 you loved him; and now — I am sure of it. 
 
 Louise. I? 
 
 Gil. [patting Louise's cheek]. Yes, you. 
 
 Louise [very quietly]. If I loved him I would not advise 
 you to marry him. 
 
 Gil. [moving away]. Louise, I'm become afraid of you. 
 I believe you are — ^first, capable of sacrificing yourself for 
 me and then of being proud of the sacrifice. 
 
 Louise [going to Gilberte and putting her arm about her 
 waist]. Then, this time, little sister, you are wrong. My 
 affection for you is certainly very great, but however great 
 
 it might be, li I loved I would not 
 
 [An imperceptible look of pain passes over her face, not 
 seen by Gilberte.] 
 
 Gil. [doubtingly, and looking down]. Do you speak truly? 
 
 Louise [gayly]. Absolutely. And if you have no other 
 objection to this union 
 
 Gil. Objections! Oh, I've plenty of them; but I don't 
 know whether they amoxmt to anything. So I will do as 
 I have always done — ^place myseK in your hands. Must 
 
MEILHAC AND HALEVY 87 
 
 I say yes or no? [Louise abcmt to speak.] Do not answer 
 too quickly. Be serious; and before answering think of 
 everything. 
 
 Louise. I have thought of everything. 
 
 Gil. And you believe 
 
 Louise. I believe that Monsieur Sartorys will be too 
 happy with you for you not to be always happy with him. 
 
 Gil. [smiling]. So I must answer yes? 
 
 Louise [kissing her]. You must answer yes. 
 
 When the family and guests are assembled for dinner 
 Valreas quickly perceives that something momentous has 
 happened. Brigard confirms his suspicion by saying that 
 now he hopes Valreas will leave him in peace. 
 
 Vol. Then it strikes me that I'd better go back to 
 "somebody." 
 
 Brig. "Somebody's" gone, my boy! 
 
 Val. Gone? 
 
 Brig. Yes. 
 
 Val. In a rage, I suppose? 
 
 Brig. Oh, no, no! Perfectly willing to change her 
 — residence. 
 
 The flight of four years has wrought little change in 
 Gilberte. She has a little boy whom she regards about as 
 seriously as if he were a doll. At the present moment she 
 is very much taken up with preparations for a theatrical 
 performance in which she is going to appear with Valreas, 
 who is still as attentive as before her marriage. She is 
 trying over the music for the part with a prompter from a 
 theatre when Sartorys comes in. He seems somewhat 
 surprised, but she declares that he gave his consent. It 
 is for the performance that Mme. de Cambri is getting up 
 for the benefit of charity. 
 
 Gilberte continues to peruse the manuscript of her part 
 while Sartorys talks to her. He tells her that he has some- 
 thing important to decide, but she interrupts to ask what 
 the costume of a debardeur is. He replies that it consists of 
 a loose silken chemise and knee breeches of velvet or satin. 
 
 Gil. I'll never wear that, even for the poor. Go on 
 with what you were saying. I'm listening. 
 
 Sar. Well, I saw the Minister of Foreign Affairs this 
 morning. 
 
88 FROU FROU 
 
 Gil. [eagerly]. Is he coming? 
 
 Sar. Where? 
 
 Gil. To see the performance! 
 
 Sar. I didn't tell him, but I will the next time. We 
 spoke of an appointment they have for me. They want 
 me to accept a post abroad. 
 
 GU. [alarmed]. Abroad? 
 
 Sar. There's no future for me in Paris. 
 
 Gil. And what do they offer you abroad? 
 
 Sar. The position of minister at Carlsruhe. 
 
 Gil. Minister at Carlsruhe! Is it nice to be minister at 
 Carlsruhe? 
 
 Sar. Very nice indeed. 
 
 Gil. And how far is Carlsruhe from Paris? 
 
 Sar. I don't know exactly — ^three or four hundred miles; 
 fifteen hours by rail. 
 
 Gil. As far off as Baden? 
 
 Sar. It is very near Baden. 
 
 Gil. [rising]. Near Baden ! why didn't you say so before. 
 You said it was abroad. I'll tell you how we'll manage it. 
 [Sabtoeys rises] You shall be minister to Carlsruhe — 
 that's settled. [Sabtokys takes her hand.] I'll go and pass 
 the summer with you at Baden, and the balance of the year 
 you will come to Paris and see me as often as you can. 
 
 Sar. What! 
 
 Gil. [gleefully and rapidly]. And I may — but mind, I 
 don't promise it — I may come and surprise you at Carls- 
 ruhe. 
 
 Sar. [in a tone of disappointment]. But— 
 
 Gil. [stopping, astonished]. Why, you didn't think of 
 taking me to Carlsruhe? 
 
 Sar. Why, yes. 
 
 Gil. Alone — we two way off there — all the year? 
 
 Sar. Why not? 
 
 Gil. But that would be to die — of happiness, I know — 
 but to die, nevertheless. [Smiling and coaxingly.] Come, 
 you were not serious? Can you imagine Frou fVou without 
 Paris?, 
 
 Sar. Well, to tell you the truth, I did ! [Gilbekte turns 
 away pettishly.] But I see I must do one of two things; go 
 to Carlsruhe without you or decline the mission. 
 
 Gil. WeU. 
 
MEILHAC AND HAL^VY 89 
 
 Sar. I have decided. 
 
 Gil. [interested]. You will go without me? 
 
 Sar. No; I will decline. 
 
 Gil. Ah, that wiU be right. [Goes to him.] 
 
 Sar. Do you think so? I doubt it myself. But one 
 thing I'm sure of — I haven't the heart to leave you. 
 
 Gil. [putting her arm about him]. You love me, then, a 
 little still, after four years of marriage? 
 
 Sar. Yes, Gilberte! and I am only afraid that I do not 
 know how to love. 
 
 GU. [archly]. Oh, yes, you do. You know very well, for 
 the very best way to love a wife is to let her do everything 
 she wishes — ^because then, you know, the wife is bound in 
 honor to do everything her husband wishes. 
 
 Sar. [taking her hands in his]. Then, if I asked you 
 something 
 
 GU. After what you have done for me, can you doubt? 
 
 Sar. Then, suppose I ask you not to play at this per- 
 formance. 
 
 Gil. [vnthdravdng her hands]. Oh, my love. 
 
 Sar. WeU? 
 
 GU. I thought you were going to ask me something 
 reasonable. It is impossible for me to refuse to play now; 
 and then, you will see how pretty I will look in a debardeur 
 costume — if they insist on it. But in anything I'm sure 
 to be pretty, and you will be so proud of me. 
 
 Brigard is glad to find Gilberte at home for he is going 
 away for a while and wants her to ask Louise to stay with 
 her. He is going to Prague for three or four months with a 
 friend. He cannot take Louise, and she has been talking 
 of going into a convent. Gilberte is delighted at the idea 
 of having Louise with her. Louise has always refused to 
 visit her before, and now she will have to accept. She 
 wishes that Louise would make her home with her per- 
 manently. 
 
 The Baroness de Cambri comes to hear Gilberte rehearse 
 a scene with Valr^as. She thinks that Yalreas ought to 
 play very well, he is so desperately in love with Gilberte, 
 and in order to prove that he is she tells him when he comes 
 that Sartorys has accepted the diplomatic post and that 
 Gilberte is going with him to Carlsruhe immediately after 
 the performance. Valr^as seems deeply moved, but the 
 
90 FROU FROU 
 
 Baroness reassures him, and they begin the rehearsal. 
 There is one point at which Gilberte and Vabeas meet in a 
 doorway and are supposed to kiss, a piece of business of 
 which she disapproves, though it is the chief attraction of 
 the play for Vah^as. He and the Baroness succeed in 
 gaining her consent, as it is for the benefit of the poor. 
 Passing his arm gently around her waist, he touches her 
 hair lightly with his lips just as Louise comes in. 
 
 The rehearsal is called o£E for the day, and Gilberte asks 
 Louise to make her home there. Louise refuses, but Gil- 
 berte is persistent. Sartorys soon returns and she presents 
 the situation to him. She says he must make Louise see 
 that it will be doing a great service to both of them for her 
 to stay; that there are heaps of things to see after in con- 
 nection with the housekeeping; the dullest of domestic 
 duties seem to delight Louise; and besides, little George 
 idolizes her. Gilberte hasn't time to say any more, having 
 to dress to go out to dinner. She leaves them hastily. 
 
 Sar. [seriously]. Louise! [Taking her hands.] You will 
 render Gilberte and myself a great service by staying with 
 us; for then something that is very much needed in this 
 house will be needed no longer. 
 
 Louise [vAhdravdng her hands]. What is needed here? 
 
 Sar. A wife. 
 
 Louise. What is this you tell me? 
 
 Sar. I say that what is needed in this household is a 
 wife; and you know it, although you pretend that you do 
 not. 
 
 Sartorys admits that the child has a place in Gilberte's 
 heart, but says that weeks will sometimes pass during 
 which she sees him for about five minutes only in the morn- 
 ing, and again for another five minutes at night. He en- 
 treats her to remain and take charge of the domestic duties 
 which Gilberte neglects and which he has not the moral 
 courage to insist upon her fulfilling. Louise is finally per- 
 suaded. 
 
 Gilberte enters in evening dress. Little George is hold- 
 ing to her skirt as she comes forward hurriedly, engrossed 
 in her engagement elsewhere. Sartorys teUs her that 
 Louise will remain. 
 
 Gil. Then this is a good day's work. I'm so glad. 
 [Goes toward Louise, hut perceives that Geokgie has hold of 
 
MEILHAC AND HALEVY 91 
 
 her skirt] Take care, take care; you will tear me! [Re- 
 pulses him hrusqitely, and looks at her govm.] 
 
 Louise. Come to me, Georgie. 
 
 Gil. Yes, go to your aunt. 
 
 [Geohgie runs to Loxiise and embraces her.] 
 
 Gil. You see you did well to remain. Your duties 
 begin at once. You will all dine together very nicely. 
 But let me see: before I go, I must install you. [To Sak- 
 TORTS, seating him in chair.] Now, here are your letters, 
 and yoiu" papers, and your darling politics. [She spreads 
 on the table before Saetorts the letters, etc., which Vincent 
 brought in.] And you, Louise, you will sit there in my 
 place. [Places armchair by chimney, to which Louise 
 crosses with Georgie.] 
 
 Gil. [going]. Now, I must be off. [Stops in doorway and 
 looks back] How charming you all look that way. 
 [Laughing] A delightful httle family group. [Kissing her 
 hand to each] For you. [To LoutSE.] For Georgie. 
 For you. [To Sartoets.] 
 
 [Exits laughing with childish glee. 
 
 When Mme. de Cambri assured Gilberte that Valreas 
 was deeply in love with her it was the first time that a 
 serious thought had ever entered Gilberte's head. Having 
 once gained admittance it opened the door to others. She 
 discovered that Louise had quietly taken her place in the 
 house. At the end of two months she has taken a decided 
 step, the first by which she means to recover her rightful 
 position in the household. It was to write to Valreas to 
 demand his immediate departure from Paris. She intends 
 to lead a wholly different life. The Baroness, to whom she 
 has confided her intentions, advises her not to be a stupid, 
 jealous wife, but she has become quite frightened. As soon 
 as the Baroness has gone she sends word to her husband 
 that she wishes to see him. 
 
 Louise enters, dressed to go out, as Sartorys comes from 
 his study. 
 
 Gil. [to Louise]. Where are you going? 
 
 Louise. To Madame de Lussy's; she recommends the 
 new governess we have engaged for Georgie. 
 
 Gil. [aside]. We have engaged! [Aloud] I will go 
 myself. 
 
92 FROU FROU 
 
 Sar. [laughingly]. If you go to Madame de Lussy's I 
 know in advance what will happen. You will both chat for 
 an hour over some new toilet, and never once think of the 
 governess. Let Louise go. 
 
 Gil. [turning away]. Be it so. 
 
 Louise [to Saktorts]. Don't forget that you are to go 
 at three o'clock to see about that property we wish to buy. 
 
 Sar. [gayly]. I shan't forget. 
 
 Gil. [aside]. That we wish to buy. 
 
 Louise. Is that all?. Yes — ^let me see! yes, that is all 
 By-by, Frou Frou! [Kisses Gilbehte, and exits. 
 
 Sar. [his manner is paternal — a little too paternal, during 
 this scene] . Well, my darling ! [Brings his chair and makes 
 GiLBEETE sit on tt stool beside him.] 
 
 Gil. [holding down her head]. I wanted to tell you — ^that 
 is 
 
 Sar. Is it something very hard to say, then? 
 
 Gil. Yes, very hard — it is something like a confession. 
 
 Sar. [earnestly]. A confession? 
 
 Gil. I was going to accuse myself 
 
 Sar. Ah, I see; we have been extravagant — ^we have nm 
 into debt, Frou Frou? [Patting her heed.] 
 
 Gil. [impatiently]. No, it is not that. 
 
 Sar. Qf what have you to accuse yourself then? 
 
 Gil. Can you not imagine? [Saktorts shakes his head.] 
 Of having been a little frivolous and giddy — even after our 
 marriage, even after the birth of little Georgie — ^in fact, 
 of having always remained Frou Frou, and of not having 
 become 
 
 Sar. Is that all? Why, you almost frightened me. I 
 see nothing very dreadful in all that. 
 
 GU. Nothing? 
 
 Sar. Nothing at all! 
 
 Gil. But some time ago you spoke diflFerently. No, 
 you did not speak, but in place of words your face, your 
 silence itself seemed to utter the fears that troubled you 
 then, and to show me the danger that threatened. [Put- 
 ting her hand on his shoulder.] 
 
 Sar. Yes, that was two mouths ago, but since those 
 two months 
 
 Gil. Since then- 
 
 Sar. Louise has been here. 
 
MEILHAC AND HALEVY 93 
 
 Gil. Louise! 
 
 Sar. All the danger has disappeared; and now if it 
 should please Frou Frou to be more Frou Frou than ever, 
 the harm would not be very great, since in your place 
 Louise does everything. 
 
 GU. And how if I wished to attend myself to those 
 things which my sister takes such good care of? 
 
 Sar. What an idea, now that everything is working so 
 smoothly and safely. 
 
 Gil. You think everything is safe? 
 
 Sar. Look aroimd you, my dear Gilberte, and tell me if 
 you ever saw a house better governed than ours since 
 Louise has taken control. See what care she takes of 
 Georgie, and how well she is bringing up the child; and 
 even I myself, have you not noticed that since Louise has 
 been here I have acquired a certain air of content? 
 
 Gil. [earnestly]. But if I really wished — if I were really 
 resolved to become better and wiser, and to govern myself? 
 
 Sar. Your zeal is too praiseworthy not to be encouraged, 
 and I will encourage it by all the means in my power, 
 but 
 
 Gil. But what? 
 
 Sar. But if, despite your resolution and my encourage- 
 ment, this ardor should die out, and at the end of a week, 
 or say a fortnight, my little Gilberte becomes wearied, 
 don't consider yourself bound to continue ! Return as fast 
 as you please to your pleasures, your triumphs, and your 
 gayeties; neither my face nor my silence shall reproach you, 
 and I shall be content to remain the husband of the prettiest 
 darhng and most adored Uttle wife in the world. 
 
 Gil. [rising and speaking quietly]. That appointment 
 which was offered you, and which you refused on my 
 account? 
 
 Sar. No, I cannot go there now. Government might 
 have felt hurt at my refusal, but, on the contrary, I have 
 been treated with marked kindness, and I have now in 
 Paris a position almost equivalent to the other. All's well 
 that ends well, and so you see, you really have not as much 
 to reproach yourself with as you thought. 
 
 GU. [looks at him peculiarly for a second]. What I really 
 see is tJtiat all my beautiful projects are rejected. 
 
 Sar. Oh, I give you full credit for them. 
 
94 FROU FROU 
 
 Gil. [sarcastically]. Really. 
 
 Sar. [going to her]. And I wish to reward you for them. 
 That span of horses you liked so much, and which I thought 
 so expensive — 
 
 Gil. I don't want them now. 
 
 At this moment Gilberte's father arrives and Sartorys 
 resigns to him the task of wheedling her out of the sulks. 
 Brigard does not imagine that Gilberte is very seriously 
 upset about anything. His errand at the house is twofold. 
 A lady of his acquaintance whom he gives a German name, 
 evidently thinking it has a respectable sound, wishes to 
 borrow a tocque that she has seen Gilberte wearing, in order 
 to copy it. 
 
 The other matter is more serious. M. de Villaroel who 
 has called so often at the house of late is in love with 
 Louise and wishes to marry her. Gilberte sees her salva- 
 tion in this opportunity. Villaroel is considered a charm- 
 ing man, and has a great name and large fortune. Gilberte 
 sees no reason why Louise should refuse. Brigard reminds 
 her, however, that Louise has said that she intends never 
 to marry. He thinks she has been crossed lq love. 
 
 Although Valreas wrote in reply to Gilberte's note that 
 he would go away, he comes to see her before doing so. 
 She is inclined not to receive him, but tells the maid to 
 show him in, and also to have Georgie dressed to go to 
 walk with her. Vabeas declares that he means to go, but 
 says he could not resist coming to bid her farewell. To 
 indicate that he need not take long about it she informs 
 him that she is going out with her child, but at that mo- 
 ment the maid returns and says that Louise has taken 
 Georgie with her. 
 
 Gil. [passionately]. Louise! [Trying to control herself.] 
 Very well, Pauline, since Mademoiselle Louise has taken 
 him. [Pauline goes out. To herself] My child no 
 more! There is no safeguard left — none — none! 
 
 Vol. Yes, I swear to you that I will go away. 
 
 Gil. You know well that I do not love you, that I 
 should never love you. You ought to know it well — and 
 you love me! That is why I want you to go. Under- 
 stand me thoroughly. If I were frivolous, as they say, 
 and heartless and bad, I should keep you about me, and 
 it would entertain me to make you suffer. Plenty of 
 
MEILHAC AND HALEVY 95 
 
 women conduct themselves in that way. But I — ^will 
 not do it — ^you shall go. You will forget me. Yes, it 
 must be so. Forget me — ^but not too quickly. 
 
 Vol. [taking her hands]. Oh, Gilberte! Gilberte! 
 
 Gil. [disengaging her hands]. To-night, won't you? 
 Go to-night. 
 
 The return of Sartorys terminates the interview. When 
 Gilbert tells Sartorys that Louise is going to leave them to 
 be married, he starts up with a cry that it is impossible, 
 and he is relieved to find that Louise has not yet decided 
 the matter. Louise comes in presently. She is also sur- 
 prised at the news. M. de Villaroel, she says, is one of 
 the most distinguished men of the age, and, of course, his 
 proposal causes her some feeling of pride, and not a Uttle 
 pleasiu-e. Gilberte, hanging intently on her words, flings 
 herself back in her chair with passionate impatience as 
 Louise adds that when it becomes known that she has 
 refused to marry such a man it will be understood that 
 she does not mean to marry anybody. 
 
 Sartorys urges Louise to consider her own happiness. 
 She repUes that to be happy she must remain where she 
 is, and he laughingly teUs Gilberte that when Louise has 
 once made up her mind it is useless to say anything more. 
 Still, if Gilberte wishes to try, he has no objection. 
 
 Gil. [shortly]. Yes, I shall try. 
 
 Sar. I have not changed my opinion, my dear 
 Louise, and I think that you ought to accept. But you 
 have given me so much pleasure by refusing that I don't 
 feel equal to pressing the matter further, at least for the 
 present. 
 
 Louise. Neither now nor later. 
 
 Sar. [pressing her hand]. As for that 
 
 Louise. To what piurpose.? What I say to-day you 
 know very well I shall say forever. 
 
 Sartorys goes off to his study. Louise moves toward 
 the back of the room to leave, but Gilberte rises quickly 
 and intercepts her by passing behind the piano, meeting 
 her face to face. 
 
 Gil. Where are you going? 
 
 Louise. To get a book that Georgie asked me for; it is 
 in your room. 
 
 Gil. Georgie will wait for his book. [Louise steps back 
 
96 FROU FROU 
 
 astonished at the tone and look of Gilbebtb,] So, you refuse 
 this marriage which is oflEered you? 
 
 Louise. Why — ^yes, I refuse. 
 
 Gil. Oh! And is it so as to continue watching over 
 the happiness of both of us? 
 
 Louise. GUberte! [Shrinking back a step.] 
 
 Gil. A worthy reason. [Advancing a step.] And I 
 ought to thank you for it. But what I have to blame you 
 for is that you have not equally divided your attentions 
 in this household between my husband and me, and for 
 having bestowed them more cheerfully on one than on the 
 other. 
 
 Louise. Good heavens! 
 
 GH. That you have lavished your care upon my hus- 
 band, upon my child, but me you have neglected. And 
 there you were wrong, because, had you looked around 
 you, you would have seen that of all the dangers which 
 threaten this home that you wished to preserve so much, 
 the gravest of all might strike it through me. 
 
 Louise. I do not understand you. 
 
 Gil. Within this hour M. de VaJr&is was here at my 
 side swearing that he loved me. I told him that I did not 
 love him. 
 
 Louise. Well? 
 
 Gil. It wasn't true. I love him. 
 
 Louise. Oh! 
 
 Gil. This is what you haven't seen with all your care, 
 sister, and it is what you should have seen before every- 
 thing if you had performed well that duty which you ac- 
 cepted at such heroic self-sacrifice. 
 
 Louise. Gilberte! 
 
 Gil. But I suppose that the absorbing attention you 
 bestowed on one side hindered you from watching the 
 other. 
 
 Louise. What you wish to tell me is that you love 
 Vabdas — ^is that it? 
 
 Gil. Two months ago there was no such thing; but 
 within those two months many things have happened. 
 That love has had time for birth and growth! What 
 at first was but a game has become a danger — a danger so 
 great that when I saw you had no thought of me, to saving 
 me, I tried to save myself. My husband, my child, I 
 
MEILHAC AND HAL^VY 97 
 
 tried to return to them. But my child was no longer 
 mine; you had come between us. 
 
 Louise. I will go, Gilberte. I will go! 
 
 Gil. You have estranged my child, and for my hus- 
 band 
 
 Louise. Your husband! 
 
 Gil. When I saw you just now beside him, I recalled 
 the past — ^my suspicions of other times and my suspicions 
 to-day. 
 
 Louise. Your suspicions? 
 
 Gil. Do not force me to say what I do not wish. 
 
 Louise. Say it! Speak the words which burn on your 
 lips — that four years ago I loved your husband — ^is that 
 it? 
 
 GU. You dare speak of it? 
 
 Louise, Yes, I did love him, but it was you that he 
 loved, and believing that your happiness depended upon 
 his love, I took your hand myself and placed it in his, and 
 that nothing should hinder your consent to that marriage 
 I pretended to be glad, and yet, at that very moment, I 
 sacrificed my heart for you — ^for I loved him! I loved 
 him! 
 
 Gil. And by the next day, I suppose, your love had 
 vanished. 
 
 Louise. Not so. I suffered long, and perhaps my suf- 
 ferings and sacrifice merited another recompense than 
 this. You have forgotten your repeated efforts to make 
 me come and live with you, and the surprise that my 
 refusal caused you. You have forgotten that I did refuse 
 to come. 
 
 Gil. But you ended by consenting. 
 
 Louise. Because I had conquered myself; because I no 
 longer loved him; 
 
 GU. Indeed! Was it not rather because you thought 
 the moment better chosen? 
 
 Louise. Gilberte, it is not yourself who speaks so! 
 
 GU. Yes! Yes, it is I. 
 
 Louise. Gilberte! Sister! Was it not you who wished 
 
 me- 
 
 Gil. Ah, you knew well how to make me wish that 
 you desired most; you are wise, my sister, and I was but 
 a child in your hands. You knew well what you were 
 
98 FROU FROU 
 
 doing after you had married us — after you had sacrificed 
 yourself for us — since you knew one instant would suffice 
 for you to regain all that you boast you have given me, 
 since now he is yours. 
 
 Louise [terrified]. I will go, Gilberte. I will go! 
 
 Gil. Another sacrifice still. No! It is not you who 
 will go. 
 
 Louise. What do you mean? 
 
 Gil. Heaven is my witness that I was sincere in my 
 effort to resist, to defend myself; but I am not strong 
 enough for a lifetime of such efforts. And when I succumb 
 I shall have a right after all to love whoever loves me, 
 since you and he 
 
 Louise. What are you going to do? 
 
 Gil. I acknowledge that I am conquered! Take my 
 place! I give it to you. 
 
 Louise. Where are you going? 
 
 Gil. You ask me too much! 
 
 Louise. Gilberte ! 
 
 Gil. [furiously]. Husband, child, everything you have 
 taken from me ! Very well, keep everything ! 
 
 Gilberte rushes into the other room and closes and locks 
 the door. Louise runs and knocks on it, crying out to 
 her, but there is no answer. 
 
 Six months later Gilberte is waiting for Valreas to come 
 to dinner in the hall of an ancient palace in Venice. Her 
 manner is subdued, with at times a touch of sadness. 
 Pauline, who has followed her mistress in order to care 
 for her, is rather distressed at the way bills have come in 
 and are left unpaid. At last she informs Gilberte that 
 the debts amount to 10,000 francs. A letter brings the 
 news that Sartorys, who had been in danger of death for 
 almost a month, is now recovering. When Gilberte is 
 alone she looks about her and exclaims : "An hour of anger, 
 and this is what it has brought me to!" 
 
 Vaheas says he will explain why he is late to dinner. 
 Gilberte seems almost smprised that he should offer to do 
 so. His mother has been there for three days and is now 
 going on to Rome. She hoped that he would accompany 
 her. Gilberte in turn has something to tell him. She 
 suspected that he was going to meet some one secretly. 
 
MEILHAC AND HALEVY 99 
 
 followed his gondola in another, and saw him meet his 
 mother. It surprises him to learn that she was afraid to 
 tell him. 
 
 Gil. Oh, yes! And if I am somewhat reassured now 
 it is because I see you laughing, and because I suspect 
 although, as you laugh, I have nothing to fear 
 
 Vol. Of what are you afraid? 
 
 cm. She hates me, doesn't she? 
 
 Vol. Oh, my mother loves me so much that she couldn't 
 hate those who 
 
 Oil. Those who love you. Why don't you say it? 
 
 Vol. Those who love me. There. 
 
 Gilberte knows too that the Baron and Baroness de 
 Cambri have also come to Venice, and she had hoped that 
 the Baroness would come to see her. Still, she says she 
 ought not to care, as she has Valr^as. 
 
 Gil. I should not forget that you are my entire life 
 now, and I shall be happy as long as you do not forget 
 it. 
 
 Vol. Why say such things? You know well that I 
 shall never forget you. 
 
 He picks up a French newspaper, and she looking over 
 his shoulder, they begin to read the advertisements of the 
 plays in Paris, speaking alternately, "The Outcast," "The 
 Last Day of Happiness," "Patrie," at the Porte-Saint- 
 Martin. Their voices become grave, finally sad. The 
 paper falls from Valreas' hand. They remain silent a 
 moment, looking at each other. Then she says it gave 
 her a queer feeling to read that paper, and asks if he 
 feels regret. 
 
 Vol. I! 
 
 GU. Speak! You do not regret? 
 
 Vol. Decidedly! 
 
 GU. You love me truly, don't you? 
 
 Vol. Yes, I love you. 
 
 Pauline shows in the Baron and Baroness de Cambri. 
 The two women clasp each other in a long embrace. The 
 Baroness says that if her husband had not consented to her 
 coming she should have slipped out and come all alone. 
 They sit on a sofa while the two men talk together. Cam- 
 bri does not wish to be thanked. He has come on a mission 
 which has been entrusted to him by Sartoiys. Vabr6as 
 
100 FROU FROU 
 
 replies that there are certain things which are bound to 
 come to pass, and yet which one never thinks about. He 
 smiles, but he is thinking of death. 
 
 Turning to the ladies, Valr6as says he is going out with 
 the Baron to have a chat. Gilberte inquires if they are 
 going to his mother's, and if he is coming back. Looking 
 into her eyes, and restraining his emotion with difficulty, 
 he says "Adieu!" 
 
 GU. For a little while. 
 
 Vol. Yes, for a little while. 
 
 [He goes out with the Baron. 
 
 Gilberte is anxious to hear news of her child. The 
 Baroness left Georgie with his governess and says he gave 
 her a kiss for herself and several kisses for lus mother. 
 As soon as it was seen that Sartorys was not going to die 
 Louise took Georgie and went back to live in the country 
 at "The Charmerettes" with him and her father. The 
 Baroness says that every one sympathized with Gilberte, 
 and that even those who had been severe in their judg- 
 ments were sorry for her when they heard that she had 
 returned to her husband, for George, her dowry of 2,000,000 
 francs, which he had forwarded to her. 
 
 Pauline enters suddenly, looking very frightened. Gil- 
 berte goes to her and asks what is the matter. They con- 
 verse in low tones for a moment, and then Gilberte requests 
 the Baroness to step into the next room and wait until she 
 calls, but makes her promise not to go away, not to aban- 
 don her. Pauline goes to the rear of the room and opens 
 the door. Sartorys enters. He is pale, thin, frightfully 
 changed. 
 
 Gil. You? 
 
 Sar. I. 
 
 Gil. I knew that you had been very, veiy sick; that 
 you were almost 
 
 Sar. Yes, they told me that I was so ill, I must not hope. 
 But you see I am not dead. When sufficient of my strength 
 returned to me, I had some business to settle witii you. I 
 came. 
 
 Gil. Some business — ^with me? 
 
 Sar. Yes, about [He braces himself against back of 
 
 chair. Gilberte goes toward him; he recovers himself with 
 emotion.] 'Tis nothing. I beg your pardon. I am still 
 
MEILHAC AND HALfiVY 101 
 
 very — very — ^my throat is on fire — ^water — I can hardly 
 speak 
 
 GU. Water? [Goes to table, pours water in one of the 
 glasses, and brings to Sabtokys, who, noticing the double set 
 on the table, points to them and reuses to take the glass. 
 GiLBEHTE, in despair, staggers back to table and sets down the 
 glass.] Heaven help me! 
 
 Sar. It was about your dowry. 
 
 Gil. My dowry? [Turning toward him again.] 
 
 Sar. Yes, the money which you sent back to Paris. 
 You must take it . I will not leave you exposed to 
 
 GU. I have already said — ^I do not need it! 
 
 Sar. I know, I know, but you must. 
 
 Gil. No, I will take nothing 
 
 Sar. Then will you force me to give you another reason ? 
 [GiLBERTE looks at him vdth frightened face.] I do not wish 
 my son ever to touch one cent of that money. I will not 
 have it. You understand? 
 
 Gil. [sinks into chair]. Yes. 
 
 Sar. And so that no one else should be compelled to 
 tell you, I have come myself; and I leave you this. 
 
 He lays large envelope, heavily sealed, on table beside 
 her and takes one step toward door. 
 
 GU. You are going? 
 
 Sar. Yes, now that everything is concluded 
 
 Gil. You are going to fight him! 
 
 Sar. Yes! You expected it, did you not? And I 
 swear to you, if I had had the strength to come sooner 
 
 Gil. [C.]. You, you fight, and for me? For me? [Hys- 
 terical laugh.] ProuFrou! Think of it — Frou Frou means 
 frivoUty, trifles, dresses. What fearful fate is it then 
 which throws me amongst things so terrible as bloodshed 
 and death. [He starts toward door; she stops him by running 
 before and throwing herself at his knees, clasping her hands 
 before him.] You shall not fight! What! a man like you 
 to risk a precious life, and for a woman like me? [In tears.] 
 There must be some other way to satisfy yoiw honor. 
 
 Sar. [bitterly]. My honor! 
 
 Gil. The world, no matter what you may do, can never 
 doubt your courage! 
 
 Sar. You are mistaken if you believe it is of my honor 
 I think of now, or that I have troubled myself one instant 
 
102 FROU FROU 
 
 with what the world has thought of your fault or what it 
 may think of my vengeance. I am not a husband who 
 comes to kill the lover of his wife ! I loved you— you have 
 betrayed me because you love another — and I shall try 
 to kill that other— that is all. [Goes toward door.] 
 
 Gil. No, no, I alone am guilty. Crush me, but me 
 alone. [Clings to him — he tries to disengage himself.] 
 
 Sar. Release me. 
 
 GU. What vengeance do you want? I dare not speak 
 of death for myself— I would not have the courage to die — 
 but there are convents — close by there is one — take me 
 there — ^I will go gladly — ^let its gates close upon me and 
 never again shall you hear of the woman who has oflFended you. 
 
 Son [still struggling to get away]. I told you 
 
 Gil. Is that not enough? — ^Think of some other punish- 
 ment — anything — ^but do not condemn me to live with the 
 horrible thought that a man has died through me! 
 
 Sar. [trying to unclasp Gilbebte's fingers]. All this is 
 
 G^. Mercy! 
 
 Sar. No! 
 
 Gil. Henri! 
 
 Sar. [striving to free himself by main strength]. Oh! 
 
 Gil. Do not go — I will love you! 
 
 He repulses her; she faints, still holding his hand; he 
 drags her a few steps, still trying to open her fingers; 
 when he does, she falls across a chair. He starts to 
 go out; at the back he stops, returns and looks at Gil- 
 berte a few minutes as if demented. The Baroness 
 enters. Sartorys, without saying a word, points to 
 Gilberte and withdraws. 
 
 Later when Cambri comes back it is with the news that 
 Valrdas is mortally woimded. 
 
 Some time after the death of Valreas Pauline goes to 
 Paris to see little George in behalf of his mother, and from 
 her Sartorys learns that Gilberte has contracted a danger- 
 ous illness while nursing among the poor. Immediately 
 after Louise arrives and asks Sartorys if he wiU oblige 
 Gilberte to die without seeing her child. He is willing to 
 have the child go to its mother, but will not take it as 
 Louise desires. 
 
MEILHAC AND HALlgVY 103 
 
 Louise. She is dying, struck by your hand. You are 
 avenged, but after being avenged one pardons. 
 
 Sar. I cannot. 
 
 Louise. Has not her atonement been hard enough, all 
 that she has suffered? 
 
 Sar. What she has suffered! Look about you . . . 
 this deserted house, the abandoned child . . . look 
 at me and say whether she or I have suffered the most. 
 
 Louise. She is dying, and she is waiting for you. 
 
 Sar. Do you wish me to lie? I might do what you 
 want, I can say that I forgive her without forgiveness being 
 in my heart. The wound was too cruel, the suffering too 
 great. 
 
 Louise. Greater suffering has been forgiven you. I 
 speak of a mother 
 
 Sar. Louise 
 
 Louise. Whose son you killed. She has seen Gilberte 
 and pardoned her and you. 
 
 Sar. Ah! You women are helped to do such things 
 by religion. Take the child and go with him. 
 
 Brigard enters and says that Gilberte has insisted upon 
 coming. Louise runs to the door and assists Gilberte to 
 cross the room. When Gilberte is near Sartorys she takes 
 a few steps unaided and falls on her knees. Brigard goes 
 to her quickly. 
 
 Gil. Not you, father, not you. 
 
 Sartorys rushes to her, raises her and takes her in his 
 arms. 
 
 Sar. Oh! Gilberte! Gilberte! 
 
 GU. Thank you! [Sinking down on the sofa.] At 
 home! At home! 
 
 Sar. Yes, at home, Gilberte, at home. And you will 
 not die. You shall stay here — always. 
 
 Gil. [smiling]. Always! 
 
 Sar. Gilberte! My Gilberte! 
 
 GU. You pardon me, don't you? 
 
 Sar. Yes, yes, I pardon you and you shall not die. 
 
 Gil. As for that My son! Bring me my son. 
 
 Sartorys goes out and returns in a moment with George, 
 who runs to his mother with a cry of joy. She holds him 
 fast in a long embrace, kissing him. 
 
 George. She's come back! 
 
104 FROU FROU ! 
 
 Gil. Yes, but not for long, Georgie. Let me kiss you 
 again — once more. [She lasses the child repeatedly.] 
 Louise, and now he is yoiu-s. J give him to you. 
 
 Louise [taMng George in her arms]. Gilberte! 
 
 GU. And him also. [Motioning toward Saetobts.] 
 Take both of them. I said the same thing once before in 
 this very spot. Forgive me, all of you. Come and — 
 promise me, for Georgie's sake — it must be. 
 
 Sar. You shall not die! It is impossible. 
 
 Gil. Not die! [She looks about at them. They are 
 weeping.] Oh, now that would be a pity. 
 
 Bngard. My daughter! 
 
 Gil. Do not mourn me, poor father. What should I 
 have to look forward to, dying abandoned and hopeless. 
 Instead of that I die among my own, peacefully, happy. 
 
 Sar. Oh, it was not you who needed pardon, but I who 
 did not know 
 
 Gil. Pardon, you? For what? Having loved me too 
 much? That has been my misfortune. All have loved 
 me too much. 
 
 Louise. Gilberte! 
 
 Gil. That is why I am dying. And that is why I die 
 so happy. [Falling hack] Ah! 
 
 All [thinking her dead]. Gilberte! 
 
 Gil. [raising her head slightly, supported by Sartorts]. 
 And is this death, O God? It is an easy thing. Louise. 
 Where are you, Louise? When I am dead you must make 
 me as I used to be. Not in this black dress. Take one 
 of my ball gowns, a white one with the skirt covered with 
 little roses. That is the one I want. And you will see 
 how pretty I shall be, as if you had Frou Frou back agaia. 
 
 Sar. Oh! 
 
 Gil. You shall see. Still the same My son, you 
 
 will pardon me, won't you — ^Frou Frou, poor Frou Frou! 
 [She dies.] 
 
GETTING DIVORCED* 
 
 By Victomen Sabdou and Emile de Nanjac 
 
 First played in Paris at the Palais-Royal on December 6, 
 1880. 
 
 Argument: After two years of marriage Henri des 
 Pnmelles finds that his wife has conceived a romantic 
 fancy for a handsomer man and believes that her happiness 
 lies in divorce. In the hope of shaking her resolve he pre- 
 tends that he is equally eager to be rid of her. Will the 
 husband seem attractive again, and will the gallant be 
 exposed as a fraud? 
 
 Henri des Prunelles is a wealthy citizen of Rheims, a 
 little over forty. His wife, Cyprienne, who is only twenty- 
 five, has been reading up on divorce. The fact is, the 
 couple seem so incompatible that they will have to separate. 
 Des Prunelles explains to a friend that the rabbit married 
 the duck, as in the fable. It was idiotic. 
 
 Des Prunelles. Weave into this story the arrival of a 
 stupid dandy, embeUished with irresistible cravats and 
 dowered by nature with that fine perfume of stupidity that 
 women inhale with drunken joy: "Ah! what a beauty he is 
 and what a cipher! He will be all mine and I shall be his 
 all in all!" Add to this that the insipid beauty is my 
 cousin. 
 
 Clavignac. Adhemar! 
 
 Des P. The handsome Adhemar! now a government 
 forester. He comes here with his military boots on, and 
 makes a big noise with his spurs and cracks his whip. 
 Imagine what kind of a figure I cut alongside of that mus- 
 keteer! 
 
 There are still two reassuring symptoms from Des Pru- 
 
 *DiTOTsons. Copyright, 1909. by the Diamatic Publiihing Co., 
 Chicago, III. 
 
 lOS 
 
108 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 nelles' point of view. In the first plaxie, his wife is stubborn 
 in his company. When she begins to be charming he will 
 know where he stands. And then, she is completely taken 
 up with the idea of divorce, which proves that she has not 
 yet taken the fatal step. When she does take it she won't 
 care about divorce any more. He means to bring matters 
 to a head by a great stroke. 
 
 He does not permit Adhemar to appear at the house 
 publicly any more except on their regular "at home" days. 
 But the "blackguard" has rented a room across the street 
 and nms in through the garden whenever occasion favors. 
 Des Prunelles, however, is a clever mechanician and has 
 arranged a little trap for Mr. Man this afternoon. Des 
 Prunelles will pull his ears. There will be a duel. 
 
 Clav. And he kills you! 
 
 Des P. And then — I'm at rest! 
 
 Clav. And this mouse-trap consists in ? 
 
 Des P. Oh, simple enough — a secret spring operated by 
 a button. Hush! Here she comes! 
 
 Other visitors arrive. Monsieur Bafourdin, Mme. de 
 Brionne, and finally Adhemar de Gratignan. Cyprienne 
 starts when he is announced. Des Prunelles ignores his 
 bow. Bafourdin remarks that he has seen an annoimce- 
 ment in the paper that Adhemar has been appointed sub- 
 forest inspector at Arcachon. Cyprienne is surprised not 
 to have heard it from Adhemar, but he explains tjiat he has 
 refused the post. 
 
 In refusing advancement, Adhemar says impudently 
 that he did so in order to remain in the bosom of his family. 
 Des Prunelles assures Clavignac that there is going to be a 
 duel. Cyprienne takes Adhemar a cup of tea, stirring it 
 with a sentimental air. She does not wish her dear friend 
 to make a sacrifice for her sake. He must accept. 
 
 Adhemar [in a stage whisper]. Leave you, Cyprienne? 
 I'd die first! 
 
 Cyprienne [in same tone]. 1 must speak to you — ^at 
 once! 
 
 Ad. At my apartments? 
 
 Cyp. [quickly]. At your apartments? Never! Later — 
 perhaps. I won't say no. 
 
 Ad. Why not now? 
 
 Cyp. No, no! Here! Come when you see the signal. 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 107 
 
 Hush! Some one is looking. [Aloud.] Monsieur de Cla- 
 vignac, don't you drink tea? 
 
 There is general discussion of a bill before the Chamber 
 of Deputies which is to make divorce free upon mutual 
 consent. Cyprienne thinks that it should pass on account 
 of the number of deputies who have an interest in it. 
 Bafourdin declares it is the wiU of the people, Adhemar that 
 all the men are for it, and Cyprienne and Madame de 
 Brionne that all the women are. Madame de Brionne is a 
 widow but would like to see the husbands put back into 
 circulation to give her a wider field. 
 
 In the opinion of Madame de Yalfontaine the bill is the 
 height of abomination. If people are married for life they 
 become resigned, they make concessions. If they had the 
 hope of a divorce they would carry things beyond all en- 
 durance in order to reach a rupture as soon as possible. 
 It would mean the end of the marriage relation. Bafour- 
 din believes that it would encourage marriage if people 
 could get out of it again. 
 
 Ad. Why, it suppresses assassination! Nowadays a 
 luckless yoimg gentleman can't forget himself with an 
 unhappy young wife without the whole world shouting to 
 the husband: "Kill them!" 
 
 Madame de Brionne [thoiightlessly]. Oh! People never 
 tell him that! 
 
 Ad. What? Don't they tell him: "Kill him! Kill 
 her? KiUthem?" 
 
 MTne. de B. [laughing]. Oh, I understood you well 
 enough. 
 
 Ad. And the murderous fellow shoots — ^bing, bang! 
 Think of it! Why, it's barbarous! It does not belong to 
 this enlightened age! And why does this massacre have 
 to take place? Because there is no other way to get rid 
 of the wife and her lover. Let him be given the right of 
 divorce! 
 
 Clav. And then you would have nothing more to fear! 
 
 Ad. There you are! I wouldn't have [Correcting 
 
 himself.] There wouldn't be anything more to fear. 
 
 Clav. And then all the husband would have to do would 
 be to sling his wife into your arms in order to be avenged! 
 
 Ad. There you are! That is 
 
 Clav. Yes, yes. Just so. 
 
108 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 Des P. [apart]. What an idiot! 
 
 Cyprieime holds that if there were such a law the virtu- 
 ous woman would no longer hesitate to transgress, for the 
 law would automatically make aU right. Adhemar in- 
 stantly declares his intention of telegraphing to a journal- 
 istic friend for news of the bill. The women urge him to 
 hurry. 
 
 Wien the guests have gone Cyprienne orders her car- 
 riage. Des Prunelles has said that he is going out, but he 
 is not, any more than Cyprienne. He comes back from the 
 vestibule with Clavignac and slips into his study. The 
 mouse-trap is going to be sprung. 
 
 Cyprienne comes out of her room cautiously and pulls 
 down a window shade. A moment later Adhemar enters 
 from the garden. The instant the door closes behind him 
 an electric bell breaks out with a shrill, imceasing clamor. 
 Adhemar is stunned, Cyprienne terrified. The door will 
 not open again. A servant enters and another bell begins 
 in a different key. 
 
 Cyp. A trap! It's a trap! We are caught! Run, run! 
 
 Ad. Yes, but which way? 
 
 He runs around in a circle. Cyprienne follows him. 
 As Adhemar approaches the vestibule Des Prunelles 
 emerges from his study and blocks the way. Des Primelles 
 presses a button and the ringing stops. 
 
 Des P. We will have a little conversation later, my 
 young friend. Just now, you were about to go out, were 
 you not? 
 
 Ad. Yes, I beUeve — I also think — I was going — ^but, 
 which way? 
 
 Des P. [opening the door at the right]. This way. 
 
 Ad. Without music? 
 
 Des P- Without music. 
 
 Cyprieime drops on the sofa and awaits the crisis. 
 
 Des P. Well, then, since Adhemar has been here, will 
 you be so kind as to tell me why you accept visits from him 
 without my knowledge? What is it that gives motive to 
 and justifies such forgetfulness of your entire duty? I am 
 not a very disagreeable husband nor a very troublesome 
 one. I am not brutal, ill-bred, miserly, nor troublesome. 
 I have made your life the most pleasant and the most 
 carefree in the world. I never show temper. I have 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 109 
 
 simple tastes, I lead a regular life, in fact that's exactly 
 what I married for. I haven't the grace and beauty of a 
 nobleman; but nevertheless my appearance is not without 
 a certain distinction. [He sits.] I'm not exactly fiery; 
 but every now and then I have outbursts of amiable ten- 
 derness In short, Madame, I believe, without flatter- 
 ing myself, that I am placing it within your power to be 
 as happy as a woman can be ! ■* 
 
 Cyp. [to herself, with a little hitler laugh]. Ha, ha! 
 
 Des P. I beg your pardon — — -? 
 
 Cyp. That's what I expected from you! Admirable, 
 upon my word! "As happy as a woman can be!" And 
 how do I know that. Monsieur.'' It is you who say it! 
 But how far does the possibility of a woman's happiness go? 
 Where have I learned it.!* When? How? With whom? 
 
 Des P. But 
 
 Cyp. To put the matter plainly, Monsieur, when you 
 say of me, to your friends, "She's a, delightful woman!" 
 you are placing me in the scales against others ! You have 
 a comparison in your mind! But what terms of compari- 
 son have I to proclaim you a remarkable man? 
 
 Des P. I 
 
 Cyp. No! it's unendurable, the self-assurance you men 
 
 have! Oh, you've arranged affairs beautifully to suit 
 
 yourselves, you men; it's delightful, the world you have 
 made! Delightfid — ^for you! — you are young, you paw 
 the ground, you caper. "Amuse yourself, my dear," says 
 mamma, "it is proper at your time of life!" "Sow your 
 oats, my lad," says papa, "it will be good for your health!" 
 And monsieTJT prances, ciu*vets about, from the blonde to 
 the brunette, and then to the auburn-haired! And so it 
 goes. Then, when it has got so far that the gallant steed 
 is used up, " Woof ! perhaps I'd better get married ! " Then 
 they throw some luckless maid into his arms, some Uttle 
 one all of a tremble, utterly innocent, who has always hung 
 to her mother's apron strings, who knows nothing of life 
 but that it is hidden from her, nothing of natural emotions 
 but that they are forbidden her, nothing of love but what 
 she is able to divine. And monsieur tells her, embracing 
 her somewhat tamely with his tired arms: "My, but aren't 
 you lucky to have stumbled on a jolly dog like me! — ^No 
 one could love a woman more than I love you; no one em- 
 
110 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 braces more energetically than I embrace you!" And tbe 
 unfortunate young creature, who finds the clasp a little 
 slack, says to herself with a sigh: "What! Can it be so?" 
 
 For such tame embraces, she thinks, Romeo would not 
 have risked breaking his back by a fall from the foiu1;h 
 story, nor Leander have swimi through stormy seas. All 
 is far, far different from the dreams of her convent days. 
 He asks if she can reaUy expect him to disguise himself as a 
 Calabrian brigand and come into her room by the window. 
 
 Reports have reached her ears that he has done such 
 things, but he replies that she is talking ancient history. 
 That is just her complaint. He is a veteran. She thinks 
 that a young girl should be allowed to run about like a 
 young man. Then when she was married she would be a 
 faithful wife, no longer having any curiosity to be satisfied. 
 
 On this point they cannot come to an agreement, and 
 he asks her to return to the question. What are her in- 
 tentions with regard to Adhemar? She declares that she 
 was just about to destroy all Adhemar's hopes when her 
 husband made his absurd entry. But absurd or not, she 
 will keep her wedding vow. At the same time, she gives 
 him notice that this loyalty has only a temporary character, 
 
 for if the divorce bill passes — oh ! la, la, la So now he is 
 
 forewarned. 
 
 When they have retired to their respective rooms the 
 garden door opens softly a little way. Adhemar pokes 
 his head in. In spite of his recent terror, an inspiration has 
 restored his courage. He has fabricated a telegram an- 
 nouncing the passage of the divorce bill by an overwhelm- 
 ing majority. 
 
 Upon seeing the bogus telegram Cyprienne agrees at 
 once to pay a visit to Adhemar's apartments. In order 
 not to start the bell, Adhemar has held the door open, but 
 as soon as he departs the bell begins again. 
 
 Des Prunelles rushes in furiously and finds no one there. 
 He sits down at the desk to dash off a challenge to Adhemar 
 when he sees the message on the telegram blank. The ruse 
 does not take him in. After a moment's consideration he 
 writes asking Adhemar to have the goodness to come and 
 have a chat about a very amicable proposition that he 
 wishes to make. He has nipped Adhemar's scheme in the 
 bud just in time to prevent Cyprienne from going to him. 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 111 
 
 The plan that Des Pninelles has decided upon is to catch 
 Adhemar in his own trap by feigning to want a divorce. 
 Cyprienne is dumbfounded to find him in a tranquil and 
 amiable mood. He takes Adhemar's telegram from his 
 pocket and shows it to her. 
 
 Cyp. [surprised]. Ah! 
 
 Des P. [gayly]. Understand me? 
 
 Cyp. [giving a shout of joy]. Divorce? 
 
 Des P. Thrice-blest divorce! 
 
 Cyp. [confvjedi. But just a few moments ago you 
 said 
 
 Des P. A few moments ago, my dear little one, I did 
 not dare to hope! But now, since the law has been 
 
 Cyp. You will consent? 
 
 Des P. With pleasure. 
 
 Cyp. [joyfully]. And we will have a divorce? 
 
 Des P. As soon as you desire! 
 
 Cyp. [embracing him wildly]. Ah, how sweet you are — 
 oh, how noble — how I love you! [Loosing her embrace.] 
 Really, now, are you in earnest? is it true? you are not 
 trying to give me a false joy? we are really going to get a 
 divorce? Will you swear it? 
 
 Des P. Whoever retracts is a coward! 
 
 Cyp. Oh, you dear boy! What happiness! But how 
 shall we bring it to pass? 
 
 Des P. Oh, as to the means, my dear, it is merely a 
 question of choice. We'll talk of that directly. For the 
 present, let us revel in the joy of this separation — ^so candid! 
 
 Cyp. So cordial! 
 
 Des. P. So tender! 
 
 Cyp. Ah! that's so true. I have never loved you so 
 much. Oh, how I do love you! [She takes his head in her 
 two hands and kisses him.] 
 
 Des P. [kissing her in turn]. Dear little girl! And it's 
 so simple ! We no longer find joy in each other's company, 
 therefore we quit each other as good friends; instead of 
 living together, fighting like cats and dogs, fooling each 
 other in a thousand little ways, and making untold misery 
 for one another! 
 
 Cyp. [laughing]. Oh, yes, indeed. You certainly have 
 caused me a heap of trouble, you rascal! 
 
112 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 Des P. [same play]. And you have certainly fooled me 
 in a thousand ways! Now, we can just laugh at all that, 
 can't we? No more anger, laughter instead! 
 
 Cyp. [gayly]. Yes, now it is only funny. Don't you 
 think you have spied on me enough, you big tyrant? Gk) 
 'way! [She pinches his chin.] 
 
 Des P. [pinches hers]. Not quite. 
 
 Cyp. [laughing]. Oh, is that so? How about the elec- 
 tric bell? 
 
 Des P. That certainly was a clever dodge, eh, that httle 
 buzzer? 
 
 He is curious to know if Adhemar is really so bewitching. 
 He is a darling fellow, she assures him, perhaps not a 
 saint, but what would she want of a saint. Besides, in 
 these country towns one hasn't a great deal of choice. 
 One has to be satisfied with the material at hand, it is so 
 lonesome. But he is still more anxious to know if she has 
 not made just the faintest little pin prick in the marriage 
 contract. 
 
 Cyp. No! Not one! 
 
 Des P. Oh, tootsie, wootsie, come,, now. 
 
 Cyp. Why, never! I assure you, my dear. 
 
 Des P. Not the tiniest little teeny, weeny nickie? 
 
 Cyp. Why, no; nothing, honor bright! 
 
 He does not seem to realize that people are under con- 
 tinual restraint, she says, everybody spying on one, and 
 no chance to be alone. Finally she admits there has 
 been just a little kiss or two — but he was speaking of 
 serious things. Why is he interested in such trifles 
 now? 
 
 Des P. They amuse me! 
 
 Cyp. [gayly moving the armchair dawn a little]. Oh, very 
 well, if that's the case, listen; here's the full list: The first 
 kiss was four months ago — on the shoulder, at the Pre- 
 fecture hall, while he was putting on my cloak! 
 
 Des P. One! 
 
 Cyp. The second, last summer [Shehesiiates.] But 
 
 honest, now — ^won't you be angry? 
 
 Des P. Do I look like it? 
 
 Cyp. The second, last summer, between two doors, on 
 the arm! he even bit me! 
 
 Des P. Two! 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 113 
 
 Cyp. And the third, eight days ago, on the neck, when 
 we were looking at the litue goldfishes? 
 
 Des P. And the next? 
 
 Cyp. That's all! 
 
 Des P. Cyprienne! 
 
 Cyp. Why, if there was anything else, I would tell 
 you — now. 
 
 Des P. [rising]. Nevertheless I'd be very much inter- 
 ested in seeing 
 
 Cyp. [same play]. What? 
 
 Des P. Your correspondence. 
 
 Cyp. His letters? Do you want to, dear? They are 
 here. 
 
 The letters serve to show that she has not deceived him. 
 He likes it better so in spite of the divorce. She throws 
 her arms around his neck and is kissing him when the serv- 
 ant shows in Adhemar. The astounded yoimg man con- 
 ceives that Des Prunelles asked him to come to witness 
 this scene. The husband greets him cordially. 
 
 Des P- And so, my young friend, there is no way to 
 conquer that love of yours? It is a wild passion, a de- 
 lirium? 
 
 Ad. Monsieur! 
 
 Des P. Cyprienne has told me all! [Shomng him the 
 drawer.] The matches, the button, the kisses on the neck, 
 the shoulder, the arm — ^Bless my soul, you're a clever wooer, 
 you young devil! It seems you bite, eh? 
 
 Ad. [looking at Cyprienne, who smiles]. You know 
 that? 
 
 Des P. [smiling familiarly]. Well — ^to put the whole 
 matter in a nutshell — ^you've got to have my wife, no use 
 talking, eh? You positively must have her? 
 
 Ad. [stiU astonished]. But 
 
 Des P. Very well, my dear boy, take her. [Going 
 toward Ctpeienn^.] Take her! I hereby cede her to 
 you! 
 
 Ad. [more confused than ever, at left]. Oh! 
 
 Des P. Now will you say I'm not a good fellow? 
 
 Cyp. [gayly]. He doesn't understand! 
 
 Des P. [to Adhemae]. The divorce law! 
 
 Cyp. [idem.] We are going to have a divorce ! 
 
 Des P. And you will marry each other — I'll marry you ! 
 
114 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 Ad. The divorce law?- 
 
 Cyp. Since it has been passed 
 
 Ad. [forgetting himself]. Oh, bosh! 
 
 Cyp. [surprised]. Well! And your telegram? 
 
 Des P. Ah! I understand; in spite of that telegram 
 he still had doubts, eh?— you had doubts? 
 
 Des PnmeUes declares that he has verified the report 
 and found it to be authentic. So he has had a cordial ex- 
 planation with this dear child here, Cyprienne, and de- 
 cided that ihey were mismated. He passes her over. 
 Adhemar mumbles that his hopes did not go so far, but 
 Des Prunelles assures him he is a veiy luclqr dog. Cyp- 
 rienne will bring him 400,000 francs in her own name, a 
 pretty good catch as Adhemar hasn't a sou. 
 
 A(Uieniar is radiant. The affair suits him to a T. He 
 gratefully calls Des PruneUes his benefactor. Des Prunelles 
 explains that the new law is nothing but a slight modi- 
 fication of the civil code. The requirements have been ful- 
 filled by two years of marriage and the mutual desire to 
 separate. Cyprienne has a copy of the code. Upon con- 
 sulting it she finds that neither of the parties may con- 
 tract a new marriage for four years. 
 
 Cyp. Hm, well! You see me waiting four years with 
 my arms folded between a husband who's no longer a 
 husband and another who's not yet a husband! You see 
 me! 
 
 Des P. No! 
 
 Cyp. No ! Never in the world ! 
 
 Des p. Impracticable! We shall have to fall back 
 upon divorce for stated cause. 
 
 There is another hitch in this contingency, however, 
 for a culpable party cannot marry his or her accomplice. 
 There is room for further choice between insanity, aban- 
 donment, a penitentiary sentence, and cruelty and assault. 
 Rather than wait four years, Cyprienne agrees to submit 
 to a teeny, weeny slap. Still, there will be ten months 
 to wait. 
 
 In the meantime, Des Prunelles suggests that they 
 should suppress kissing as dangerous and exciting. Be- 
 sides, if they abuse this privilege now, what will they do 
 with their evenings later? It is quite to Adhemar's per- 
 sonal interest, furthermore, if personal interest has any 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 115 
 
 weight with a soul so deeply in love, to act with the great- 
 est possible restraint toward Madame. 
 
 It is an unexpected stroke of good fortune for Adhemar 
 to marry twenty thousand francs a year, Des Prunelles 
 reminds him, when one considers his salary of twenty-six 
 hundred. He shouldn't do anything to spoil so charming 
 a state of affairs. Ten months is a long time. Who could 
 guarantee that their passion would not be sated? Then 
 at the moment of marriage one of them might cry out that 
 they had had enough. 
 
 Des P. Do you know what I would do if I were in your 
 shoes? I'll tell you. I would accept that place at Arca- 
 chon at once, and I would leave this evening; and for some 
 time to come I would stay away from here. 
 
 Ad. Ah! Monsieur! 
 
 Des P. Well — it would be the part of wisdom! [Ad- 
 HEMAK and Ctpeienne regard each other piteously.] So, 
 consider, weigh matters, it's the counsel of a friend that 
 I'm giving you. And I hope it won't be the last one, 
 either. [With emotion, putting Cypbieistne's arm in his.] 
 When you are married, my dear friends, you will permit 
 me, won't you, to come and see you now and then? You 
 will reserve a little place for me between you, at your 
 fireside? — at your table — Sundays? 
 
 Cyp. [touched]. Ah, yes, my dear friend! 
 
 Ad. [same play]. Ah, yes! 
 
 Des P. Hey? Good Lord, I could be useful to you 
 occasionally! The advice I could give you, through my 
 experience! [Tapping Cypbjenne's hand.] My profound 
 comprehension of her character! And then your house- 
 hold affairs — I will guide you in the choice of your little 
 economies — ^if you think of making any. With an in- 
 come of twenty-two thousand six hundred francs one 
 can't do very much — [this observation causes a start on 
 the part of Cypbiennb] — especially when a person is ac- 
 customed, like her, to eat up sixty thousand. [Cypeienne 
 is again struck ■with the force of the idea.] But, of course, 
 with care, and with great economy in table expenses, 
 dioice of apartments, dress, and horses especially — a 
 great many sacrifices! For while it is a stroke of fortune 
 for you, my friend, for her it will mean a sacrifice! But 
 mnlring a Sacrifice for the man a woman loves — that is the 
 
116 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 greatest happiness in the world! [Taking Adhemab's 
 arm vnihcndletiing go of Cyphienne's.] And I will be a,ble 
 to say, as I look at you: "They are happy! And it is I 
 that have made them so! This, this is my work!" And 
 that is a tender thought; it is a sweet thought, I assure 
 you ! Positively, I am getting foolish ! the thought touches 
 me! [To Ctprienne, taking her in his arms] My dear, 
 dear child. [To Adhemak.] You will permit me? 
 
 Ad. Oh, I entreat you; go ahead. 
 
 Des P. [kissing Ctprienne upon the forehead]. One 
 cannot have lived so long a time in the greatest possible 
 intimacy with another without there being a certain grief. 
 [To Ctprienne arranging a curl upon her forehead.] You 
 will think of me sometimes, won't you, Madame? 
 
 Cyp. [touched]. Aren't you going to call me "dear" 
 any more? 
 
 Des P. Well — all right, I will. [ToAdhemar.] You 
 will permit me? [To Ctprienne.] Yes, you will think 
 of me, dear. [He kisses her, and turning tow(j,rd Adhemar 
 says.] Thanks. [Leading Ctprienne over toward Adhe- 
 mar.] And now, my children, it is right that you be left 
 alone! You will have supper here, won't you, my dear 
 successor? 
 
 The prospect of living on twenty thousand francs in- 
 stead of sixty is beginning to make an impression on 
 Madame. Adhemar, on the other hand, is much relieved 
 to think that there are to be no more plots, no more 
 danger. 
 
 Cyp. So that bothered you? That's odd; for my part 
 it was exactly those things that gave the affair charm for 
 me. 
 
 Ad. Same here — but I felt considerable remorse at the 
 thought of deceiving that noble-hearted gentleman. 
 [Points toward door of study where Des Prunelles now is.] 
 But now — all is security, calm! 
 
 Cyp. A great calm, my dear friend — ^ah, what a calm! 
 
 As her husband-in-waiting, Adhemar sees in Cyprienne 
 only a fiancee, and assures her as such that he honors and 
 respects her. She replies somewhat ruefully that she is 
 a much-respected woman. 
 
 Upon taking leave until dinner time, Adhemar calls her 
 his treasure, an expression so apt in view of her four 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 117 
 
 hundred thousand francs that he has to chuckle, once his 
 back is turned. 
 
 Mme. de Brionne has got wind of the telegram announc- 
 ing the passage of the divorce bill, and has come back 
 to the Des Prunelles to verify the report. She says that 
 a score of women have followed her, but did not have the 
 courage to come in and are waiting at the gate. Des 
 Primelles hands her the slip and bids her exhibit it to her 
 followers. She waves it from the window and the ladies 
 cheer. 
 
 Mme. De Brionne [turning around]. AU married. 
 
 Clav. There are going to be fireworks. 
 
 Des Prunelles drags Clavignac aside and thanks him 
 heartily for disseminating the false report so rapidly. 
 It, is a blow to Clavignac to learn that the dispatch was 
 forged. 
 
 Cyprienne is a little shocked to find that her husband 
 does not intend to dine at home. 
 
 Cyp. But you invited Adhemar to dinner ! 
 
 Des P. With you — not with me! 
 
 Cyp. Ah! I understood — ^it was such a pretty idea, a 
 sort of betrothal dinner, just for us three! 
 
 Des P. [taking another step to get his hat]. No, my pretty 
 baby. You will like it better dining alone — ^just you two. 
 My presence would put a damper on the yoimg man's 
 pleasure. 
 
 Cyp. Why, on the contrary, you would inject some 
 life into him. Now that he is to marry me, he is con- 
 gealed — ^he's a cake of ice. 
 
 Des P. [coming back toward her]. And, besides, to speak 
 sincerely, I'm glad to have the opportunity to go out and 
 take the air, and to stretch my arms a little on being re- 
 leased from my prison. 
 
 Cyp. Now — my whole evening is spoilt! Oh, please 
 stay! 
 
 Des P. [starting to go]. Honestly, I can't, duckie. Well 
 — good evening! [He holds out his hand to her across the 
 table.] 
 
 Cyp. [approaching the table and holding on to his hand]. 
 But where are you going to eat.!* 
 
 Des P. [with the air of one who wants to get away]. At 
 Dagneau's, the Grand Vatel. 
 
118 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 Cyp. [still holding his hand]. Alone? 
 
 Des P. Probably. [He takes his hand away.] 
 
 Cyp. Oh! you aren't sure? 
 
 DesP- WeU ! 
 
 Cyp. Is some one expecting you? 
 
 Des P. No — but I may find some friend. 
 
 Cyp. A woman? 
 
 Des P. [laughing]. Oh! 
 
 Cyp. Now confess that you're going to dine with some 
 woman. 
 
 Des P. [laughing]. I assure you I am not, dear. 
 
 Cyp. Henri, don't he. 
 
 Des P. [laughing again]. But I'm not lying! 
 
 Cyp. You are not frank and open. That isn't loyalty. 
 I told you everything. Now you tell me eveiything. Who 
 is she? Please tell me who she is. 
 
 Des P. [same play]. Well, since I don't know her myself. 
 
 Cyp. [approaching him and rumpling his necktie slightly]. 
 Do you mean to say that you've gone and dressed yourself 
 up like that to dine alone? 
 
 Des P. Certainly! 
 
 Cyp. You never made yourself so handsome for me! 
 
 Des P. Well, upon my word ! 
 
 Cyp. [half angry and seeking to wheedle him]. Anyway, 
 as things are now, this is very funny — ^these mysterious 
 goings on — ^why? [Taking his arm in a friendly way.] 
 What difference would it make to me now? We're only 
 good friends; that's all — ^isn't it? Two comrades — ^two 
 jolly boys? 
 
 Des P. Siu-ely. 
 
 Cyp. All right, then ? 
 
 Des P- AU right, then — what difference does it make 
 to you? 
 
 Cyp. Why, I just want to know! - It vexes me not to 
 know. 
 
 Des P. [latighing]. But I repeat there is nobody. 
 
 Cyp. [letting go of his arm]. You don't seem to be able 
 to say it without laughing. 
 
 Des P. I laugh — ^because it's too funny, this access of 
 posthumous jealousy. 
 
 Cyp. But it isn't jealousy; it's curiosity. And that's 
 entirely natural, surely. All women 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 119 
 
 Des P. Well, anyway, I can't tell you, my dear. 
 
 Cyp. [hastily]. AL, you can't! There you are! 
 
 Des P. Because 
 
 Cyp. Because you're afraid it will compromise her? 
 
 Des P. No, because 
 
 Cyp. [vnthovt listening]. Do I know her? 
 
 Des P. No more than I. 
 
 Cyp. [hastily]. But as much! Is it one of my ac- 
 quaintances? 
 
 Des P. Dear, if you 
 
 Cyp. I'll wager it's one of my friends! 
 
 Des P. Oh! 
 
 Cyp. Oh, that's the way it always is! I'll bet that if 
 I investigate [Siiddenly.] Madame de Brioime! 
 
 Des P Estelle? 
 
 Cyp. Estelle! — That's it; you've given yourself away! 
 
 Des p. No, I haven't. 
 
 Cyp. Oh! "Estelle!" Come, now, doesn't that make 
 it plain? 
 
 Des P. But I call her "Estelle" just as you do, my 
 dear. 
 
 Cyp. [moving a little away off from him]. Oh, yes, like 
 me, notliing! I say "Estelle," short, like that. But you 
 — " Est-e-eUe ! " You bleat her name ! I'll wager my best 
 hat there's something in it! 
 
 Des P. But 
 
 Cyp. Oh! anyway, I've had my suspicions about it, 
 don't you ever think 
 
 Pes P. Aha! 
 
 Cyp. She was always snooping around in my house 
 and I never could endure her, the affected thing, with her 
 giddy airs! An intriguing creature, jealous, envious, de- 
 ceitful! 
 
 Des P. Oh ! 
 
 Cyp. [leaning against the table]. Oh, natiu-ally you de- 
 fend her — and she's made up from head to foot! Hair, 
 eyebrows, eyelashes — ^none of it is her own. Painted, 
 enameled, varnished! She has a smile — goodness, I won- 
 der what she made that with! 
 
 Des P. Oh! 
 
 Cyp. [TTioving away from the table slightly]. Besides, she 
 gave herself away just now, when she told us that she 
 
120 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 wanted the divorce law to pass so that she could have 
 another woman's husband! And only a few minutes ago, 
 here, right under my nose, she was all lighted up with 
 smiles — she actually danced for joy! You kissed her 
 hands — I call that indecent. 
 
 Des P. If you'd only let me 
 
 Cyp. Well, so that's your conquest! Really, I can't 
 compliment you on it! 
 
 Des P. Come, now, lovey, that's not very good taste on 
 your part. I didn't rip yoiu- Adhemar up the back. 
 
 Cyp. [going up left] . Oh, go ahead and do it ! " EsteUe !" 
 I can see through a glass window! — "Estelle!" — ^I believe 
 you're foolish enough to marry her! 
 
 Des P. I'd like to call yova attention 
 
 Cyp. [wiih both hands on the back cushion of the couch]. 
 Are you going to marry her? 
 
 Des P. I haven't said so. 
 
 Cyp. But you will! [With an exclamation of horror.] 
 Oh! — ^And you would marry that little devil, who deceived 
 her first husband, who wiU deceive you as she did him, and 
 who will deceive the third, when you are gone, poisoned 
 to death by her chemical products! [As she speaks she 
 gradually gets over to the right, behind the table.] 
 
 Des P. You carry things pretty far! [He sits down on 
 the couch, putting on his gloves.] 
 
 Cyp. [coming down to the front of the stage, right]. And 
 so that rouge-pot wiU take my place here ! She will Install 
 herself in my house — [goes up and strikes the armchair] — 
 among my furniture! She will bespatter me with mud 
 from my own carriages! [Going toward Des Pbtjnelles, 
 in front of the table.] Why, if I knew it was going to be 
 that way — ^rather than let you do it — ^I wouldn't accept 
 the divorce! 
 
 Des P. And how about Adhemar? 
 
 Cyp. [sinking into the armchair at right of the table]. 
 Oh, Adhemar! — to think that I am to be cast aside for 
 that wax doll! Oh, heavens! No, no! really, that's too 
 much! 
 
 Des P. [standing]. I am not casting you aside. We're 
 casting each other aside. 
 
 Cyp. [rising and coming down]. If it were some one 
 else, I wouldn't care. — ^But that woman — Oh! 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 121 
 
 Des p. [behind her]. All right, be happy, then — it isn't 
 she! 
 
 Cyp. [turning suddenly round toward him and seizing the 
 lapel of his coat to look at him face to face]. Then it's some 
 other woman? 
 
 Des P. I 
 
 Cyp. Who? 
 
 Des P. Since you don't care- 
 
 Cyp. I don't care ! No, I don't care ! But please tell 
 me who? 
 
 Des P. Why? 
 
 Cyp. Is she young? Pretty? 
 
 Des P- Since 
 
 Cyp. Prettier than I? 
 
 Des P. But what does it signify to you? 
 
 Cyp. [resolutely and with comic approach to a cry]. It — 
 bothers me! 
 
 Des P. Bosh! 
 
 Cyp. Yes, it bothers me, so there — to think that you 
 would go off like that, right away, and run aroimd with 
 some other woman. It's silly, of course I know — ^but it's 
 too much for me; it worries me! 
 
 Des P. \laughing\. Still 
 
 Cyp. And besides, you are too merry, you have too 
 happy an air. I have never seen you so joyous. 
 
 Des P. [taking her hands as if to say good-bye. Both in the 
 armchair]. But there is an excellent reason for that, you 
 silly httle kitten. My independence, your serenity of 
 mind, our mutual happiness! I am happy to see you 
 happy, dear — ^for of course you are happy, aren't you? 
 
 Cyp. [kneeling on the armchair, udthout certainty]. Yes. 
 
 Des P. Well, then ? 
 
 Cyp. [ready to cry]. But there's a big fly in my soup! 
 
 Des P. How's that? 
 
 Cyp. [sinking into his arms across the armchair and burst- 
 ing into tears]. You aren't sorry enough about leaving me ! 
 
 Des p. Ah! 
 
 Cyp. [still crying]. No, you aren't a bit kind! You 
 throw me into a corner like an old bouquet. So there, so 
 there! It's humiliating, I won't be thrown away like 
 that! 
 
 Des P. [straining her to his heart and patting her on the 
 
122 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 bach]. Well, then, am I to understand that you do not 
 want to be separated from me? 
 
 Cyp. [as before]. No, but that doesn't prevent me from 
 having certain regrets — I have some regrets, I have; but 
 you, not one! Yet we have had some good times to- 
 gether 
 
 Des P. [as before]. Occasionally. 
 
 Cyp. [as before]. Oh, often! It's evident you have 
 forgotten them. I am the only one who remembers! 
 
 Des P. [as before, kissing the hair that hangs over her fore- 
 head]. My big baby girl! 
 
 Cyp. [as b^ore]. Eat diimer with me just once more. 
 People eat at home on hoHdays and family festivals. This 
 is a festival. To-morrow you can have supper with the 
 other woman. 
 
 Des P. [as b^ore]. But there isn't any other woman! 
 
 Cyp. [as before]. Oh! 
 
 If she wants to have it proved to her, he says, she can 
 come and eat supper with him. She accepts quickly. He 
 thinks it such a pretty idea, a divorce dinner. If she likes, 
 he will let her get a little tipsy. She dances about, laugh- 
 ing with joy, and she gets her hat and cloak. She is going 
 to have plenty of time to eat with Adhemar later, so why 
 should she stay at home to entertain him to-night. 
 
 They see Adhemar coming through the court and Cyp- 
 rienne tells the maid to say she has gone out, and to give 
 some excuse. They have hardly left one way when Adhe- 
 mar comes in the other. He is in evening dress, with a 
 white tie and white gloves, and has a bouquet of white 
 roses. 
 
 Josepha [hastily]. Monsieur is not at home! 
 
 Ad. [radiant, crossing to the right]. Monsieur — a pile I 
 care! Where is Madame? 
 
 Jos. Madame begs you to excuse her. Monsieur. She 
 has just gone out! 
 
 Ad. [vdth a start]. Gone out? 
 
 Jos. Yes, Monsieur. Her aunt is very ill. 
 
 Ad [in consternation]. What, already? [Throwing his 
 bouquet on the table.] Her aunt? Well, we'll find out about 
 this soon enough!— I'm going there— to her aunt's. [He 
 rushes out.] 
 
 Bastien. Supper is ready, Madame! [He offers his arm 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 123 
 
 to JosEPHA, who has taken the haniquet on the table, and Both 
 enter the dining-room, aping their employers.] 
 
 The small dining-rooms at the Grand Vatel are very con- 
 veniently arranged, with a piano, fireplace, closet, sofa, 
 and the sideboard in an antechamber. In the centre of 
 one of these rooms is a table with places laid for two. Des 
 Prunelles and Cyprienne enter. 
 
 The convenience of the closet is shown before so very 
 long when Adhemar demands admittance. Cyprienne 
 goes into it, but leaves the door open far enough to over- 
 hear everything. Adhemar has been to Cyprienne's 
 aunt's, she was not there. Then he went to Des Pru- 
 nelles' club, where he was told that that gentleman was at 
 Clavignac's dinner party at the Grand Vatel. It is m inin g 
 hard, and Adhemar has been drenched going about. 
 
 The trouble is, Des Prunelles explains, Adhemar went 
 to the wrong aunt's. He should have gone to Aunt Ni- 
 cole's, niunber 92 rue de Paris. She has asthma and is 
 eighty-three years old. It is very far and the storm is 
 ferocious. Before starting oil again Adhemar requests 
 confidential information; as between man and man, has 
 Des Prunelles much faith in this aunt story. It looks 
 deucedly like a humbug to Adhemar. His predecessor 
 may be able to enUghten him, if she has ever used this aimt 
 story before. 
 
 Des P. Do you mistrust her.? 
 
 Ad. Well, I've discovered that the woman is pretty 
 artful — I've seen her twist you round her finger 
 
 Des P. Oh ^! 
 
 Ad. She certainly led you a merry dance! 
 
 Des P. Yes, I stood it, but how about you? 
 
 Ad. Oh, with me those tricks wouldn't go down at all. 
 
 Des P. No! of course not. 
 
 Ad. Not by a damn sight! I wouldn't be such an easy 
 mark as you were. [Putting on his hat vdth a lordly air.] 
 She'U have to toe the liue with me! 
 
 Des P. [with a sidelong glance at Ctpbienne]. That's 
 the way to talk, old sport! 
 
 Ad. Where did you say the aunt lived? 
 
 Des P. Nicole? Niuety-two rue de Paris. 
 
 Ad. [sitting down on the couch]. Oh, dash it! [Turns up 
 
124 GETTmO DIVORCED 
 
 his trousers. To himself.] If it wasn't for the four hundred 
 
 thousand francs But there you are! [Rising.] 
 
 Well I'm oflF! Thousand pardons — and hope you 
 
 enjoy the meal! [He starts toward the rear.] 
 
 Des P. Thanks. [Calling him back and holding up his 
 umbrella.] Your umbrella! 
 
 Des Pnmelles wishes him a pleasant journey. As he 
 remarks to Cyprienne a moment later, the poor fellow is 
 going the devil knows where. It is little she cares how far 
 he trots. She repeats some of his expressions angrily, 
 about her "tricks," "the woman," "humbug," and "she'd 
 have to toe the line with me." In short, he is stupid, that 
 Adhemar! 
 
 Des Prunelles reminds her that the young man is only 
 playing his part. He should not be blamed for that. A 
 husband and a lover are two absolutely diflferent things. 
 As the husband, it is Adhemar's turn to be quarrelsome; 
 he is defending himself. To be sure, he is not very skilful. 
 He is younger than his predecessor, and has not seen so 
 much of life. 
 
 Des P. To sum the matter up, all husbands can be re- 
 solved into a single general type — the husband; and all 
 lovers into a general type — the lover. The husband has 
 all the faults; the lover has all the merits. That's under- 
 stood. In reality, the husband has only one fault — that of 
 being the husband. And the lover has but one good qual- 
 ity — that of being the lover. [Cyprienne pours out some 
 champagne for herself.] This is so true that the same man 
 can be at one and the same time the highly tedious husband 
 of his own wife and the highly agreeable lover of some other 
 man's wife. The difference is not in the individual, it is 
 in the function that he performs. [He pours out cham- 
 pagne for himself. Joseph enters with a bottle in a wicker 
 basket.] 
 
 Cyp. Then, is it inadvisable to marry? 
 
 Des P. Oh, there are just as many disadvantages in not 
 marrying. [He drinks.] 
 
 Cyp. Well, what? 
 
 Des P- You must be reasonable, my dear — I will speak 
 of the matter quite freely, shan't I? seeing that we are 
 going to get a divorce. There is neither wife nor husband 
 here now — ^just two good friends, two boon companions, 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 125 
 
 who are having a chat in the cafe, with their elbows on the 
 
 table [Both drink at the same time.] All right, then — 
 
 don't expect of poor Adhemar what he can't offer you — 
 passion — ecstasy — all that! Content yourself with what 
 he is able to give you, and if he gives it regularly, agreeably, 
 be happy. True felicity does not consist in excesses — 
 heavens, no ! A good regular life, a good general average, 
 that's happiness. 
 
 Cyp. Yes, if the wife is good — ^really good! 
 
 Des P- She always is with a few mutual concessions. 
 
 To illustrate the truth of his remark he tells her of an 
 old custom in Switzerland where, when a couple wanted a 
 divorce, they were locked in a room for a week with a table, 
 one plate, one chair, and one bed. Things to eat were 
 passed in by the window. At the end of the week they 
 were asked how about the divorce. 
 
 Cyp. Profound silence! They had eaten each other 
 up! 
 
 Des P No, nothing of the sort! Three times out of 
 five they didn't want a divorce any more. 
 
 Cyp. [laughing]. Oh, so you think that if we were 
 locked up 
 
 Des P. [serving]. Oh, I'm not talking about our case at 
 all. You and I are people of judgment. We know what 
 we are doing. That is understood. 
 
 Cyp. [gayly]. It wouldn't be so bad here! 
 
 Des P. No, generally speaking. What I am eating here 
 is very good. 
 
 Cyp. Yes, but peppery. 
 
 Des P. Your glass. [He pours out some of the Cham- 
 bertin for her and himself.] And then, during those seven 
 days, we could at least make one another's acquaintance. 
 
 Cyp. [laughing]. What, acquaintance? 
 
 Des P. Yes. 
 
 Cyp. [breaking out into laughter]. Oh! how silly you are! 
 Why, we've been married for two years ! 
 
 Des P. And twenty-two days. Twenty-sixth of Oc- 
 tober. [They raise their glasses and drink.] 
 
 Cyp. And you think we don't know each other 
 yet? 
 
 Des P. Not in the least! 
 
 Cyp. Oh! 
 
126 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 Des P- [serving]. Come, now, won't you admit that 
 you've never seen me in such a good humor? 
 
 Cyp. That's true. 
 
 Des P. Then you see, don't you, that you don't know 
 me? And how should you know me? During two years 
 we lived in iatimacy for only fifteen days! 
 
 He figures out the total number of waking hours that 
 they have spent alone together and convinces her that he is 
 right. And a good deal of that time was spent in squab- 
 bling and turning their backs to each other. 
 
 The waiter coming in with a platter of crawfish and 
 finding Cyprienne in Des Prunelles' lap, advances with 
 caution, puts down the platter discreetly and makes off. 
 
 Voices are heard outside. Adhemar has come back and 
 insists upon entering the little dining-room. The waiters 
 are holding him back. Des Prunelles conceals Cyprienne 
 behind a screen. At the same moment Adhemar bursts into 
 the room and rushes forward, fighting off the waiters. 
 Cyprienne is in full view of the audience. She eats some 
 crawfish and then dips her fingers in the finger bowl. 
 
 Des P. [napkin in hand]. Well, well, what's the meaning 
 of this? 
 
 Ad. [extremely hoarse]. Monsieur — words fail me 
 
 Des P. Yes, it's annoying ! 
 
 Ad. To characterize your conduct! I have just come 
 from Aunt Nicole's 
 
 Des P. Ah! how is she? 
 
 Ad. How is she? She is no more! [With a quick move- 
 ment he throws his umbrella under his left arm and wets 
 Des PeunelXiES, Joseph, and the under-waiters, who wipe 
 themselves off mth their napkins.] 
 
 Des P. Indeed! 
 
 Ad. Dead three months ago! 
 
 Des p. Ah! I didn't know it Such a distant 
 
 aunt [He makes a sign to Joseph and the waiters to 
 
 retire.] 
 
 Ad. [opening his umbrella and leaving it at left to dry]. 
 Three miles, going and coming! And no carriage-^ — ! 
 And no Cyprienne! I returned to your house with all 
 speed, to see if she hadn't come back. And all I found 
 there was your Josepha and your Bastien, who were eating 
 your dinner and drinking your Pomard ! It works speedily. 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 127 
 
 your Pomard! When they saw me, those blackguards 
 were walloAsdng in booze — especially the maidj "Looking 
 for Madame? Oh! well, if you're running after Madame, 
 you're a fine jackass!" 
 
 Des P. Phew! 
 
 Ad. "Jackass!" That word was an eye-opener! I 
 rushed back to the Grand Vatel. I spoke to the woman 
 downstairs, at the foot of the staircase, the one that opens 
 the oysters. She knows me quite well. I said: "Did 
 you see Monsieur Des Prunelles when he came in?" "Yes, 
 Monsieur." "Was there a lady with him?" "Yes." 
 "Describe her," I said. "Small, plump, a regular quail." 
 {Uttering a savage cry.] Ah! "Jackass" is explained! 
 I have been jobbed! You are eating here together, you 
 and she! This is disloyal, you turned her over to me; and 
 you are treading our agreement under foot! 
 
 Des P- [stammering a little and slightly "under the in- 
 jluence"]. My dear successor — consider a minute! If 
 she were here ! 
 
 Ad. Behind the screen! 
 
 [Cyprienne gives vent to a little laugh.] 
 
 Des P. Why, if she were here, she would now be in 
 your arms! 
 
 Ad. Oh ! a man never knows. Women are like weather 
 vanes. Perhaps she now thinks it amusing to deceive me 
 with your assistance. 
 
 Cyp. [uttering a little involuntary cry of protestation]. 
 Oh ! 
 
 Ad. That cry! She's here! [He rushes toward the 
 screen.] 
 
 Des P. [grabbing him by the tail of his overcoat and making 
 him pirouette]. Beg pardon, that's one of my lady friends. 
 
 Ad. Exhibit her! 
 
 Des P. It's not the proper thing. 
 
 Adhemar wants to hear the lady's voice, but Des 
 Prunelles will not permit that either. At last he asks if 
 Adhemar would know Cyprienne's foot. She sticks the 
 toe of her shoe under the screen. Adhemar declares it is 
 not Cyprienne's foot at all. He is ashamed of himself, 
 he begs Des Prunelles' pardon and goes. Cyprienne 
 comes out from behind the screen and sits on the couch. 
 She asks if it is permissible for any one to be so stupid. 
 
128 GETTING DIVORCED 
 
 Des P. The fact stares you in the face. 
 
 Cyp. Hm! do you think that it will be a pleasure to 
 deceive that fellow? 
 
 Des P [going toward her]. Certainly — some day! 
 
 Cyp. Some day! Hm, right off! 
 
 She txuns to the piano and sings a snatch of an old song: 
 '"Twas hardly worth the botherment 
 To go and change the government."* 
 
 Ad. [withovt]. You are inside there, Madame! I have 
 recognized your voice! but I shall have my revenge! 
 Tremble! tremble! Vengeance approaches! 
 
 Des P. Vengeance? 
 
 Waiters [dragging Adhemar away]. Quick, quick! let's 
 get him out of here! 
 
 Ad. But it's my wife! 
 
 The Voices. To the station-house with him! [The 
 Voices are lost in the distance.] 
 
 Cyprienne looks out of the window and sees Adhemar 
 dragged across the street. In jumping down from a' chair 
 she splashes Des Primelles with wine, and he takes off his 
 coat and puts it in front of the fire. She now declares 
 she was insane to think she liked that man. She insists 
 upon her husband falling at her feet and asking her for- 
 giveness for casting her into the arms of such an idiot. 
 
 Des P. [on his knees, thunderstruck]. But 
 
 Cyp. Why, he is odious, do you understand? He is 
 ridiculous, he is ugly, he is stupid, yoxu- Adhemar! Why, 
 I hate him, I want you to know! And I don't love any- 
 body but you! Tell me that you love me still, more and 
 more, forever! Say it quick! 
 
 Des P. I 
 
 Cyp. And that you repent having thrown me off! 
 And that you will never leave me again! Never! never! 
 never! 
 
 Des P. Never! I 
 
 Cyp. That's enough! you are repentant! I will forget 
 everything! I forgive you! Come to my arms! I adore 
 you! 
 
 [Three knocks are heard at the door.] 
 
 *C'n' etait pas la peine assurem^nt 
 De changer de gouvemement. 
 
SARDOU AND DE NANJAC 129 
 
 A Voice. Open, in the name of the law! 
 
 Cyprienne hides behind the screen. Adhemar has come 
 back with the poHcemen. He has had the hardihood to 
 claim that Cyprienne is his wife and to demand the help 
 of the police in recovering her. Even when she comes out 
 from her retreat, looking somewhat tousled, and identifies 
 her real husband, the police will not believe her. They 
 have never seen such barefaced impudence. 
 
 Cyprienne and Des Prunelles rush into each other's 
 arms, only to be dragged apart by the scandalized officers. 
 Profiting by the open door, Des Prunelles makes a dash 
 for liberty. Under cover of this diversion Cyprienne 
 gives Adhemar a violent slap and goes into the closet. 
 Des Prunelles is quickly surrounded and is brought back. 
 He is pushed into the closet and locked up. Then a search 
 is started for the lady. 
 
 Adhemar forgets himself when the closet door is opened, 
 and exclaims "With his wife!" Immediately he is taken 
 into custody and the officers shower their apologies upon 
 Des Prunelles, begging him most encouragingly to go on 
 enjoying himself. Des Prunelles and his wife go out gayly 
 between the policemen and waiters, who salute them re- 
 spectfully, while Adhemar nurses his cheek. 
 
THE CULT OF BOREDOM* 
 By Edouabd Pailleeon 
 
 First played in Paris at the Comedie Frangaise on 
 April 25, 1881. 
 
 Argument: The Countess de C^ran wishes her son 
 Roger to marry Lucy Watson, an English girl of wealthy 
 family, but Roger's great aunt, the Duchess de Reville, 
 wishes him to marry Suzanne de Villiers, a poor orphan. 
 The Coimtess finds a note in a disguised hand, not Roger's, 
 arranging a clandestine rendezvous with one of the young 
 ladies, and she and the Duchess lie in wait for the lovers. 
 What do they discover, and whom will Roger many? 
 
 Madame de Ceran's salon is one of the three or four 
 most powerful centres of influence, both literary and 
 pohtieal, in Paris, and it is with high hopes of preferment 
 that Paul Raymond, a sub-prefect of Agenis, goes with his 
 wife, Jeanne, to visit at her chateau at Saint-Germain. 
 He cautions Jeanne against any levity of deportment. 
 One must not laugh in the countess's chiteau, he tells her. 
 
 Paul. We are not here to amuse ourselves. We come 
 here sub-prefect, we must depart prefect. Everything 
 depends on her, on us, on you. 
 
 Jeanne. On me? How on me? 
 
 Paul. Certainly. The world judges a man by his wife. 
 And it is right. That is why you must be on your guard. 
 Assume gravity without hauteur, a smile replete with 
 meaning. Keep yoiu- eyes open, listen much, speak little. 
 Oh! Compliments, of course, as many as you like, and 
 quotations also, that has a good effect, but let them be 
 short and pithy; in philosophy, Hegel; in literature, Jean- 
 Paul; in politics 
 
 *Iie Monde oik Ton s'ennme. 
 
 130 
 
PAILLERON 131 
 
 Jeanne. I don't talk politics. 
 
 Pavl. All the women talk politics here. 
 
 Jeanne. I don't know the first thing about it. 
 
 Paul. No more do they. That makes no difference. 
 Go ahead. Cite Pufendorf and Machiavelli as if they 
 were yoiu* relations, and allude to the Council of Trent 
 as if you had presided at it. As for diversion: chamber 
 music, a turn in the garden and whist. That is all I can 
 allow you. Besides that, high-necked gowns, and the 
 few words of Latin I have told you, and I insist that before 
 eight days are out they will be saying of you: "Ah, that 
 little Madame Raymond will be the wife of a minister." 
 And in this set when one says that a woman is the wife of 
 a minister, her husband is pretty near being one. 
 
 Jeanne. What, you want to be a minister? 
 
 Pavl. Certainly. Not to be an exception. 
 
 It is in this very drawing-room, Paul assiu-es her, that 
 reputations, situations, and elections are made and un- 
 made, and that the designing thrust themselves forward. 
 Here is the back door to ministries, the antechamber of 
 the academies, the laboratory of success. It is a circle in 
 which people talk and pose, in which pedantry takes the 
 place of science, sentimentality of sentiment, and affecta- 
 tion of delicacy; where one never says what one thinks; 
 where attentiveness is politic, friendship calculating, and 
 gallantry only a means; it is the circle where one swallows 
 Oiie's cane in the ant«;hamber and one's tongue in the 
 drawing-room, serious society in short. 
 
 Jeanne. But it's the society where one is bored. 
 
 Pavl. Precisely. A Frenchman has a horror of bore- 
 dom which amounts almost to veneration. For him 
 boredom is a terrible god whose religion is decorum. He 
 understands serious things only in this guise. This light- 
 hearted nation despise themselves for being so. They 
 have lost faith in their ancient laughter; this sceptical 
 and chattering race beUeve in sUence; they allow themselves 
 to be imposed upon by the deadly pedantry and empty 
 pretentiousness of the pontiffs with white neckties, in 
 politics, in science as well, in art as well, in literature as 
 well, in everything as well. They rail at them, hate them, 
 and flee them like the plague, but they alone possess their 
 secret admiration and absolute confidence. 
 
132 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 The idea of going for eight days without talking, without 
 laughing, and without kissing her husband is dreadful to 
 Jeanne, but Paul says he will give her rendezvous as he did 
 at her father's house before they were married. She sits 
 at a piano and begins to play an air from a light opera. 
 In dismay he tries to stop her before anybody can hear it, 
 but at that moment some one enters the room. Jeanne 
 changes the air to a symphony of Beethoven's. The new- 
 comer is a servant, and Paul questions him about the 
 company 
 
 Roger de Ceran, who has been absent on a scientific ex- 
 pedition in the Orient, returns home that very day, and 
 Professor Bellac, having finished his course at the Sor- 
 bonne, is expected for a visit. Those already in the house 
 besides Madame de C6ran and her aunt, the Duchess de 
 ReviUe, include Miss Lucy Watson, an English girl; Mon- 
 sieur and Madame Saint-Reault, Madame de Loudan, 
 Madame de Arri^go, and Suzanne de Villiers, a second 
 cousin of Roger. 
 
 Paul informs Jeanne that Suzanne is a giddy little cut-up 
 of eighteen, who ran away twice from the convent where 
 she was sent after the death of her parents. He says she 
 is quite out of place in the house and that she is detested 
 by Madame de Ceran, but that the Duchess, whose desires 
 receive special consideration on account of the large for- 
 tune that she has to leave, brought the girl there and is 
 simply crazy about her. 
 
 Jeanne makes a most favorable impression on Madame 
 de Ceran by citing a few words from the philosophers, and 
 the Countess thinks that Jeanne will appreciate the pro- 
 gram for the evening's entertainment. Monsieur de 
 Saint-Reault is to read from his unpublished work on the 
 Rama-Ravana and the Sanscrit legends. Professor Bellac 
 will give a short talk, and finally a young and imknown 
 poet will read a tragedy which has just been accepted by 
 the Theatre Frangais. Jeanne feigns great dehght at the 
 prospects. 
 
 Saint-Rlault has spoken to Madame de C6ran of his 
 wish to succeed M. Revel as head of the Jeune ^cole. She 
 did not know that the position was likely to be vacant, but 
 from an evening paper she learns that Revel is very ill. 
 She decides that the position is the very one for her son. 
 
PAILLERON 133 
 
 Fortunately, M. Toulonnier, the secretary of a minister, is 
 coming to dinner. She foresees that Roger will be in the 
 Institute at thirty and in the Chamber of Deputies at 
 thirty-five. 
 
 The Duchess thinks that Roger's happiness as well as 
 his career should be considered. She objects to Lucy 
 Watson, whom Madame de Ceran has picked out for her 
 son, although wealthy and of good family, on the ground 
 that she is a pedant, wears spectacles, corresponds with 
 learned men, and has a scrawny neck. Besides, she de- 
 clares, Bellac is in love with Lucy and Lucy with Bellac. 
 The Duchess makes no secret of having brought Suzanne 
 there and had Roger act as her tutor so that he would 
 marry her. 
 
 Mme. de Ceran rephes that she will never give her con- 
 sent. She regards Suzanne as being of disquieting origin, 
 disquieting ways, uneducated, awkward, and without for- 
 tune or birth. She says the Duchess is on the wrong 
 track, because Suzanne is in love with Bellac, and has be- 
 trayed it lately by a change in her character, singing, 
 laughing, blushing, blanching, and weeping. The Duchess 
 returns that Suzanne is bored. 
 
 Diwhess. There is only one thing that never bores us 
 women, and that is loving and being loved. And the older 
 I grow the more clearly I see that there is no other happi- 
 ness in the world. 
 
 Mme. de Chan. There are more serious things. Duchess. 
 
 Duch. More serious than love! What nonsense! 
 That is to say that when love escapes us we create other 
 interests. When one is old one has false happiness just as 
 one has false teeth, but there is only one true happiness. 
 Only one! It is love! It is love, I tell you! 
 
 Mvie. de C. You are romantic, aunt. 
 
 Duch. It is my age, my niece. Women are romantic 
 twice, at sixteen for themselves and at sixty for others. 
 . . . You say that Suzanne loves Bellac. I say it is 
 Lucy. Let Roger judge. It will wake him up a little. 
 He needs it. 
 
 When Roger arrives he kisses his mother's hand and says 
 he is very happy to see her. The Duchess makes him kiss 
 her on the cheek. He has already been in Paris a day 
 before coming out to see them, but explains that he went 
 
134 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 to see the minister, and shows them the ribbon of the 
 Legion of Honor which he has received. The minister sent 
 his respects to Mme. de Ceran, and hopes that she will 
 think of him when a certain law is before the Senate. 
 
 The Duchess tells Roger that while he has been away 
 Suzanne has grown up, and that she is smitten with this 
 fascinating Professor Bellac whom all the ladies admire so 
 much. What Mme. de Ceran maintains about the matter 
 is that Suzanne is striving openly to get into the good graces 
 of a man who is too serious to marry her, but who is 
 enough of a coxcomb to amuse himseK with her. The 
 affair has only amounted to impropriety so far, she says, 
 and she will take care that it does not become a scandal. 
 
 Suzanne comes in. She creeps up behind Roger as 
 stealthily as a cat and puts her hand over his eyes. 
 
 Suzanne. Coocoo ! 
 
 Roger [getting up]. Hey? 
 
 Suz. [coming in front of him]. Ah, here she is. 
 
 Rog. [surprised]. But, mademoiselle . . . 
 
 Suz. Wretch! Don't you recognize your daughter? 
 
 Rog. Suzanne! 
 
 Duch. [aside]. He's blushing. 
 
 Suz. Well, aren't you going to kiss me? 
 
 Mme. de C. Suzanne, come, it isn't seemly. 
 
 Suz. To kiss one's father? Really! [Goes up to him.] 
 
 Duch. [to Roger]. Kiss her, come, now! [They kiss.] 
 
 Suzanne teUs them that she was at Bellac's lecture when 
 she learned from Mme. de Saint-Reault that Roger had 
 arrived, and she left at once to come and greet him. She 
 lavishes praises on Bellac. All through the lecture, she 
 says, the ladies were exclaiming, " Charming ! Charming ! " 
 and Mme. de Loudan constantly uttered little squeaks like 
 an India pig. Mme. de C^ran and the Duchess go out, and 
 Suzanne tells Roger she is so glad to see him because she 
 loves him so much, adores him. He replies that she must 
 get over the habit of using words which she does not know 
 the meaning of. 
 
 Suz. Oh, what makes you look so funny? Because you 
 like me better than Lucy? 
 
 Rog. Suzanne! 
 
 Suz. That's it! Aren't you going to marry her? 
 
 Rog. Suzanne! 
 
PAILLERON 135 
 
 Suz. They told me you were. 
 
 Rog. Nonsense! Nonsense! 
 
 She asks why he wrote to Lucy oftener than to her, and 
 although he says it was about scientific matters she leans 
 on his shoulder for a moment and sheds a few tears. Then 
 she tells him how hard she has worked during his absence, 
 and assures him she has become quite learned. She coaxes 
 him to pet her as he used to, and tries to give him a kiss. 
 
 Rog. Suzanne, no more of that! 
 
 Suz. Why? 
 
 Rog. There, that will do. Be reasonable. 
 
 Suz. I've been reasonable enough for to-day. [Rum- 
 ples his hair.] 
 
 Rog. Stop it! Such a big girl! 
 
 Suz. [jealously]. Oh, if it was Lucy. 
 
 Rog. There, run along now. 
 
 Laughing at him, she sits on his knees and kisses him. 
 
 Rog. Suzanne, once more! 
 
 Suz. Yes, once more. [Kisses him.] 
 
 Rog. [pushing her away and getting wp]. This is intoler- 
 able! 
 
 Suz. I'm a tease, am I? Well, I'll go and get my note- 
 books. That will smooth things over. 
 
 Bellac enters with his bodyguard of admiring ladies. 
 Suzanne, in arranging some papers on the table before 
 placing her notebooks on them, finds a piece of pink note- 
 paper, and at the same time she overhears a servant telling 
 Lucy that he has not been able to find the note that she 
 told him to look for. Suzanne hides the note behind her, 
 and Lucy goes out into the garden with Bellac and the 
 other ladies. The note says: "I shall arrive Thursday. 
 Ten o'clock in the evening, in the conservatory. Have a 
 headache." She does not understand why Roger slanted 
 the writing back and did not sign the note. 
 
 Roger has watched Suzanne reading the note furtively, 
 and when he gets a chance to take it from a place where 
 she conceals it he reads it and shows it to the Duchess. He 
 thinks that Bellac has made considerable progress with 
 Suzanne. Suzanne comes back to the room with a scarf 
 for which the Duchess sent her, and going up to Roger she 
 takes her notebooks away from him, tears them up, throws 
 them on the floor and goes out angrily. 
 
136 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 Toulonnier is a little late, but at last he appears and is 
 presented to the company. Roger comes in abruptly and 
 reports to the Duchess privately that he has just heard the 
 sound of a kiss in the hall. Paul and Jeanne slip into the 
 room. 
 
 Dvch. [jumping]. Of a 
 
 Rog. Oh, yes, I heard it! 
 
 Duch. But who? 
 
 Mme. de C. [presenting Raymond to TouvasNOSR]. 
 Monsieur Paul Raymond, sub-prefect of Agenis. 
 
 Suzanne enters wearing a decollete gown. 
 
 Bog. [to the Duchess]. Look! Decollet6! Frightful! 
 
 Ditch. I don't think so. [Aside.] She's been crying. 
 
 As Roger approaches Suzanne dinner is annoimced, and 
 she goes to Bellac, who is talking with Lucy, and takes his 
 arm. The Duchess telk Paul to sit by her, and says they 
 will talk ill of the government. He reminds her reproach- 
 fully that he is an official, but says he may listen to her. 
 
 After dinner Saint-Reault gives his lecture on the sacred 
 writings of the Hindus, and concludes with a more than 
 broad hint that he is better qualified th§.n any one else to 
 succeed M. Revel as head of the Jeune Ecole. It is very 
 noticeable that Suzanne asks BeUac in a loud tone to come 
 out Luto the conservatory. He complies, although re- 
 luctant to leave Lucy. Toulonnier congratulates Saint- 
 Reault on his speech, and assures him that the allusion to 
 his candidacy was unnecessary, for " they are all with him." 
 Mme. de Ceran approaches Toulonnier in behalf of her 
 son. He assures her that he will not forget his promise, 
 and that "they are all for him." Paul and Jeanne come in 
 from the conservatory, and a moment later the Duchess 
 and Roger enter from the same direction. 
 
 Rog. [agitated]. Well! You have heard now? 
 . Duch. Yes, but I haven't seen. 
 
 Rog. It was really a kiss that time. 
 
 Duch. And a hearty one. Who can be kissing so 
 around here? 
 
 Rog. Who? Who? 
 
 Roger is too disturbed to give his attention to a report 
 that he must prepare. 
 
 The poet's appearance is a disappointment to the ladies7 
 
PAILLERON 137 
 
 He is gray, bald, and awkward. " No talent ! " is Mme. de 
 Loudan's comment. "He's too homely." They are ex- 
 tremely anxious to have Bellac say a few words before the 
 evening is sacrificed to the tragic muse, and press about him 
 with much flutter and importunity. Bellac protests that 
 it is neither the time nor place to plumb the depths of those 
 profound problems which fascinate souls of lofty flight, 
 those mysterious enigmas of this life and the hereafter. 
 
 Ladies. Ah! The hereafter, my dear! the hereafter! 
 
 Bellac. But with this reservation, I am at your orders. 
 And wait, at this very moment the thought occurs to me 
 that there is one of those questions eternally agitated and 
 never resolved as to which I would beg your leave to de- 
 clare my position in two words. 
 
 Ladies. Yes, yes, speak! 
 
 Bel. It concerns love. 
 
 Ladies. Ah! Ah! 
 
 Bel. Of love! The weakness which is a force — the 
 sentiment which is a faith, the only one perhaps which has 
 no atheist. 
 
 Ladies. Ah! Ah! Charming! 
 
 Mme. de Loudan [to the Bakoness]. His wings, my 
 dear . . . There they are! 
 
 Bel. I was brought this morning to speak, in regard to 
 Grerman literature, of a certain philosophy which makes 
 instinct the basis and ruler of all oiu- actions and all our 
 thoughts. 
 
 Ladies [protesting]. Oh! Oh! 
 
 Bel. Well, I seize this occasion to declare boldly that 
 this opinion is not mine, and that I repel it with the whole 
 force of a soul proud of being one. 
 
 Ladies. Good! That's right! 
 
 Baroness [low to Mme. de Loudan]. What a beautiful 
 hand he has ! 
 
 Bel. No, ladies, no! Love is not what the German 
 philosopher said, a purely specific passion, a beguiling illu- 
 sion with which nature dazzles man in order to gain its ends. 
 No, a hundred times no, if we have a soul! 
 
 Ladies. Yes, yes! 
 
 Suz. Bravo! 
 
 Duch. [to Rogbb]. She's doing it on. purpose, of course. 
 
 Bel. Leave to the sophists and vulgarians these theories 
 
138 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 which debase the heart; do not discuss them even; reply 
 to them by silence, the language of obUvion. 
 
 Ladies. Charming! 
 
 Bel. God forbid that I should go so far as to deny the 
 influence of beauty on the faltering will of man. [Looking 
 around.] I see before me that with which to refute myself 
 triumphantly. 
 
 Ladies. Ah! Ah! 
 
 Rag. [to the Duchess]. He looked at her! 
 
 Duch. Yes. 
 
 Having assured his hearers of what love is not, the pro- 
 fessor borrows a few flights of fancy from the poets to 
 illustrate what it is, citing the experiences of a number of 
 legendary persons to bear him out. He attains the warm- 
 est approbation upon assuring his hearers that many an 
 unknown Beatrice exists in the legion of those who cherish 
 chaste and secret love. After taking another shot at ma- 
 terialism, he informs the ladies that all this which he has 
 been saying is what must be taught to the young people 
 whom Revel has heretofore instructed, by whoever is 
 chosen to instruct them after him. And seeing that Saint- 
 Riault is at some distance, engaged in earnest conversation 
 with Toulonnier, Bellac adds that with all due respect to 
 his colleague, Revel's successor must have more than mere 
 scholarly attainments to recommend him, that he must 
 have the irresistible power of a voice that is still young and 
 of an ardor that is not extinct. 
 
 The ladies crowd round Bellac again with praises. Su- 
 zanne says he is warm and gives him her handkerchief. 
 The ladies run for glasses of water to offer him. Suzanne 
 insists upon his taking hers. The reading of the tragedy 
 is now called in a larger drawing-room, and the company 
 pass out. Bellac asks Toulonnier if he may hope for 
 Revel's place. The Secretary General assures him, taking 
 his hand, that the place belongs to him by rights. He says 
 "they are all for him." 
 
 The Duchess and Roger remain behind with Mme. de 
 Ceran, whom they inform regarding the note which Su- 
 zanne had, making an appointment for 10 o'clock in the 
 greenhouse, and suggesting that she should have a head- 
 ache. The Duchess intends to be in the greenhouse and 
 to learn how far things have gone. Roger, who is still less 
 
PAILLERON 139 
 
 able to apply his mind to his work, says that he will 
 be in the greenhouse, too, and that he wiU box this rascal's 
 ears before everybody if he has dared to forget how he 
 should conduct himself. 
 
 At five minutes of ten the door from the other salon is 
 opened softly and Jeanne enters. She stops abashed upon 
 seeing who is in the room. She protests that she really 
 likes the tragedy very much, and stammers a quotation 
 which she is unable to finish. Then she says she does not 
 feel very well, that she has a headache in fact. Mme. de 
 CSran, the Duchess, and Roger rise and say with one voice, 
 "a headache?" Startled, she asks what is the matter. 
 
 Diush. [after a pause]. It doesn't surprise me. It's in 
 the air. 
 
 Jeanne. Ah, you have one, too? 
 
 Duch. I ! Oh, not at my age. You have one, well, you 
 must do something for it, my child. 
 
 Jeanne. Yes, I am going to walk a little. You will 
 pardon me, won't you? 
 
 Dvich. Go along. Go along. 
 
 [Jeanne goes out the door leading to the garden. 
 
 A moment later die door from the other salon opens 
 again and Lucy appears. She hesitates and then proceeds 
 on her way. Ten o'clock strikes. The Duchess inquires 
 if Lucy is tired of the reading. She replies that she wishes 
 to take the air, having a headache, and goes out composedly 
 into the garden. The Duchess thinks this is beginning to 
 look curious. She is willing to wager that Lucy will not 
 come back. 
 
 For a third time the door from the other salon opens, 
 more brusquely this time, and Suzanne enters precipitately 
 as if she were pursuing some one. Mme. de C6ran tells her 
 to stop, and asks why she has left the reading. Suzanne 
 answers that it bores her. 
 
 Rogev. Is that really the reason? 
 
 Suz. I went out because Lucy went out, if you must 
 have another. 
 
 Mme. de C. Miss Watson, mademoiselle . . . 
 
 Suz. Oh, that's understood! She is perfection! The 
 ideal, the rare bird. Miss Watson! She can do everything, 
 while I. . . . 
 
 Mme. de Ceran says that Suzaime runs about the streets 
 
140 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 alone, dresses extravagantly, and monopolizes Bellac. To 
 each count of this indictment Suzanne's reply is "like 
 Lucy." 
 
 Mme. de C. But secretly, you understand me perfectly. 
 
 Suz. Oh, as for secrets, there's no need for people to 
 speak to each other . . . they write — [looking at 
 Roger, and in a small voice] — disguising their writing. 
 
 Mme. de C. What's that? 
 
 The Duchess warns Roger with a look not to speak. 
 
 Suz. Well, Lucy speaks to whom she likes; Lucy goes 
 out when she likes; Lucy dresses as she likes. I want to 
 do as Lucy does, since she is loved so much. 
 
 Mme. de C. And do you know why she is loved? It's 
 because, in spite of the independence of her ways, due to 
 her nationality, she is reserved, serious, learned . . . 
 
 Sitz. Well, and I? I haven't been all that, not I? 
 Yes, for six months, imtil to-day, imtil this evening, I've 
 worked for five hours, kept myself dignified, and I studied 
 as much as she, and I know as much about the subjective 
 and the objective as she, and all that! Well, what good 
 has that done me? Do people love me any better? Am 
 I not always treated like a little girl? Everybody, yes, 
 everybody! [She looks at Rogeh out of the comer of her 
 eye.] Who pays any attention to me even? Suzanne, 
 oh, Suzanne! What does she amount to, she, Suzanne? 
 And all because I'm not an English old maid! 
 
 Rog. Suzaime! 
 
 Suz. Yes, defend yourself! I know very well what 
 one has to be like to please you. Here! [Taking the 
 Duchess's glasses and putting them on her nose.] Esthetic! 
 Schopenhauer! The ego! The non-ego! Etcetera! Na, 
 na, na! 
 
 Mme. de C. Spare us your monkeyshin.es, young lady! 
 
 Suz. [vnth a low bow]. Thank you, cousin! 
 
 Mme. de C. Yes, your monkeyshines, and the foolish 
 things you do. 
 
 Suz. As I'm only a little girl it's not surprising that I 
 do foolish things. [With more sjdrit.] Yes, I do foolish 
 things, I do them on purpose, and I am going to do still 
 more ! 
 
 Mm£. de C. Not at my house, I promise you. 
 
 Smz. Yes, I went out with Monsieur Bellac! Yes, I 
 
PAILLERON 141 
 
 talked in a low voice with Monsieur Bellac! Yes, I have 
 a secret with Monsieur Bellac! 
 
 Rog. You dare! 
 
 Suz. And he is more learned than you! And he is 
 better than you! And I love him more than you! Yes, I 
 love him! There! I love him! 
 
 Mme. de C. I wish to believe that you do not know 
 the gravity . . . 
 
 Suz. Yes, yes, I know the gravity, yes! 
 
 Mme. de C. Then listen to me! Before committing 
 the new folly with which you threaten us, consider well. 
 There will be gossip and headshakings and scandal, which 
 you can afford less than any one. Mademoiselle de ViUiersI 
 
 Dvjch. Oh, take care! 
 
 Mme. de C. Well, Duchess, it's necessary at least that 
 she should know . . . 
 
 Duch. What! 
 
 Suz. [throwing herself into her arms and weeping]. Oh, 
 aunt! Aunt! 
 
 The Duchess soothes her, and Suzanne says she has 
 known there was something against her, that people stop 
 speaking when she comes into a room, and that they call 
 her "poor little one" when they kiss her. The Duchess 
 dries her eyes. 
 
 Duch. There, my pet. There, don't cry. 
 
 Suz. And at the convent I saw that I wasn't like the 
 others. Of course I did! Oh, yes, I saw it. They were 
 always talking to me about . . . my father and 
 mother . . . why? Because I hadn't them any 
 more. What have I done that I should not be like every 
 one, that everything that I do is wrong? Is it my fault? 
 
 Duch. [kissing her]. No, darling, no, my pet! 
 
 Mme. de C. I regret . . . 
 
 Suz. [sobbing]. Well, then, why do they blame me if it 
 isn't my fault? But I'm a burden to every one here. I 
 know it very well. I don't want to stay. I want to go 
 away. Nobody loves me here, nobody ! 
 
 Rog. [greatly agitated]. Why do you say that, Suzanne? 
 It isn't so. Everybody here, on the contrary . . . 
 and I . . . 
 
 Suz. [rising, furious]. You! 
 
 Rog. Yes, I. And I swear to you . . . 
 
142 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 Suz. You? Oh, stop! Leave me alone! I detest 
 you! I don't want to see you again, ever! Do you hear? 
 [She goes toward the garden door.] 
 
 Rog. But Suzanne, Suzanne, where are you going? 
 
 Suz. Where am I going? I'm going to walk. And, 
 moreover, I'm going where I like. 
 
 Rog. Why now? Why are you going out? 
 
 Suz. Why? [She comes toward him.] Why? [Look- 
 ing him in the eyes.] I have a headache!!! [AU rise, 
 Suzanne goes out by the door to the garden.] 
 
 Roger thinks that even the Duchess must admit it is 
 clear enough now. Mme. de C6ran says that if it is true 
 she will send her away, and Roger declares that he will 
 kill Bellac. The Duchess says she will marry them. There 
 is a loud sound of applause from the large salon, the noise 
 of chairs being moved and the buzz of conversation. It 
 means that the poet has finished reading his first act. 
 They go out quickly, and a moment later the door into 
 the other room is opened, revealing the guests standing 
 in groups, and Paul slips out quietly, making for the gar- 
 den door. 
 
 One end of the conservatory is furnished like a drawing- 
 room. Beyond are clumps of shrubbery and clusters of 
 plants behind which a number of persons might glide and 
 conceal themselves. The Duchess comes in with Mme. de 
 C6ran, and, having assured herself they are alone, stops 
 the fountain in order to hear better and turns down tie 
 gas so that they may see better, for the less they are seen, 
 she says, the better they may see. Mme. de Ceran is sur- 
 prised that Bellac should be concerned in this rendezvous, 
 and the Duchess that Suzanne should be. though she says 
 they will discover whether she is. Hearing voices they go 
 behind a cluster of large plants, whence, says the Dudiess, 
 they will emerge like fairies at the right moment. 
 
 Duch. Has some one come in? 
 
 Mme. de C. [looking through the branches]. Yes. 
 
 Duch. Which? 
 
 Mme. de C. It's she. 
 
 Duch. Suzanne? 
 
 Mme. de C. Yes. [Astonished.] No! 
 
 Du€h. What, not she? 
 
PAILLERON 143 
 
 Mme. de C. No! Not d6collet6. Some one else. 
 
 Jeanne's voice is heard calling "Paul." She comes for- 
 ward and Paul follows her, after having stopped to put a 
 piece of wood in the hinge of the door so that it wiU make a 
 noise if it is opened. One mystery is dispelled at once 
 when they spteak of having kissed in the corridor and in 
 the garden. Paul rails at the house, the guests, the trag- 
 edy, that "frozen" Lucy, "wooden" Roger, and "Bellac 
 of the ladies." The Duchess is the only one, he says, who 
 lias common sense. Madame de Ceran is very indignant, 
 but the Duchess finds Paul amusing. 
 
 Jeanne has to laugh to think of Paul discussing politics 
 solemnly with the senator, and he at the idea of her quo- 
 tations and feigned quotations from the philosophers. 
 Jeanne has no remorse on that score, so great is her ire 
 against her hostess for having put her and Paul at opposite 
 ends of the house. 
 
 Mme. de C. [rising]. I shall ask her to leave. 
 
 Duch. Keep quiet. 
 
 Jeanne. What a wicked thing to do! It was! It was! 
 I'm sure. ... A woman must know, mustn't she, 
 that newly married people . . . always have things 
 to say to each other. 
 
 Paul [tenderly]. Yes, always. 
 
 Jeanne. Always, naturally? It's always so? 
 
 Paul. What a sweet voice you have! I was listening 
 to it a while ago while discussing the treaties of 1815, 
 delicate, sweet, enveloping. It is the music of the heart, 
 as de TocquevUie says. 
 
 Jeanne. Ah! Paul, you mustn't laugh at serious 
 things. 
 
 Paul says he is so happy that he does not mind not being 
 prefect. The Duchess has to restrain Mme. de Ceran 
 when Paul begins to kiss Jeanne's hands, murmuring one 
 sweet inanity after another. Suddenly the door creaks. 
 Jeanne and Paul spring up in alajm and slip out at the 
 rear. Mme. de Ceran thiiJiS it was a good thing that they 
 were interrupted, but the Duchess regrets it, for now, she 
 says, she is done with laughing. It is Bellac who has 
 entered. 
 
 Mme. de C. The other isn't far off. You shall see. 
 
 Dtich. Oh, it's only the imprudence of a schoolgirl. 
 
144 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 [The door creaks.] Here she is! Oh, dear, my heart is 
 thumping. In these things one tries in vain to make 
 sure. One is never certain. Do you see her? 
 
 Mme. de C. Yes, it's she, and in a moment Roger, who 
 has been watching her, will come in, too. Shan't we show 
 ourselves. Duchess? 
 
 Duch. No, not now. I want to know how far it has 
 gone. I am resolved to know what to think about it, 
 
 Mme. de C. This uncertainty will finish me. . . . 
 Decollete! . . . It's she! It's really she! 
 
 Duch. Oh! The little rascal! Let me see. 
 
 They peer through the foHage for a moment, and then 
 discover that it is Lucy. While she and Bellac are groping 
 about trying to find each other, Paul comes back with 
 Jeanne at the rear, unperceived by the Duchess and Mme. 
 de Ceran, and conceal themselves behind shrubbery at the 
 other end of the conservatory so that the professor and the 
 English girl are between two pairs of onlookers. 
 
 Lucy tells Bellac that he might have given her his arm 
 and walked out with her instead of going to the trouble 
 of writing an unsigned note in a disguised hand, but he 
 tells her that in France such things cannot be done, and 
 that since she lost the note it was just as well that there 
 was nothing to show who wrote it. He has brought the 
 proofs of his book, tied with pink ribbon, to give to her so 
 that she shall see it first of aU. There is only one point 
 in it upon which they are not agreed. Sinking his voice 
 to a tender pitch, he inquires if it is reaUy true that she 
 does not believe in Platonic love. 
 
 Lucy. No, I do not in the least. 
 
 BeWac [gracefully]. Well . . . how about us? 
 
 Lucy [simply]. With us it is friendship. 
 
 Sel. Pardon me! It is more than friendship and better 
 than love! 
 
 Lucy. Then if it is more than one and better than the 
 other, it is neither one nor the other. And now, thank you 
 again, a thousand times, but let us go back. Shall we not? 
 [She starts to go.] 
 
 Bel. [holding her baclc]. Wait! 
 
 Lucy. No! No! Let us go back. 
 
 Paul [to Jeanne]. She isn't going to bite. 
 
 Bel. [holding her]. But do wait, please! Two words! 
 
PAILLERON 145 
 
 . . . Two words! Enlighten me, or enKghten your- 
 self. The question is worth the trouble. Come, Lucy. 
 
 Luqf [becoming animated]. Come, BeUac! Come, my 
 friend, your Platonic love cannot be sustained philosophi- 
 cally. 
 
 Bel. Permit me. This love is a friendship . . . 
 
 Lucy. If it is friendship it is not love ! 
 
 Bd. But the concept is double! 
 
 Lvffy. If it is double it is not one. 
 
 The Duchess has often heard love discussed, but never 
 with the metaphysical phrases that BeUac begins to em- 
 ploy. 
 
 Bel. Take this for an example, Lucy. Suppose two 
 given persons, two abstractions, two entities, a given man 
 and a given woman, both in love, but with the vulgar 
 physical love. Do you understand me? 
 
 Lucy. Perfectly. 
 
 Bel. Suppose diem to be in a situation like this, alone, 
 at night, together. What is going to happen? 
 
 Duch. \to Mme. de Cekan]. I'm doubtful about this. 
 
 Bel. It is inevitable — ^follow me closely — it is inevitable 
 that a phenomenon which I am going to show you will be 
 produced. 
 
 Jeanne [to Paul]. Oh, this is amusing! 
 
 Paul. Well, rather! 
 
 Bel. Both of them, or more probably one of them first, 
 the man ... 
 
 Pavl [to Jeanne]. The male entity. 
 
 Bel. Will approach her whom he thinks he loves. 
 [He approaches her.] 
 
 Lucy [recoiling a little]. But . . . 
 
 Bel. [restraining her gently]. No, no! You shall see! 
 They look into the depths of each other's eyes. Their 
 breath mingles, and their hair . . . 
 
 Lucy. But Monsieur BeUac . . . 
 
 Bel. And then . . . And then • • • _ there 
 takes place in their beings, independently of their egos 
 themselves, an uninterrupted series of unwitting acts, 
 which, by a sort of progression, of processus, slow but in- 
 eluctable, will inevitably bring them to the foreseen con- 
 clusion, when neither the wiQ, nor the intelligence, nor the 
 soul will count for anything. 
 
146 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 Liu:y. One moment. This processus . . . 
 
 Bel. Wait, wait! Let us now suppose another couple 
 and another love. Listead of physical love, psychological 
 love— two exceptions — do you follow me? 
 
 Jeanne. Yes. 
 
 Paul. They also, sitting near each other, draw closer. 
 
 Lvxyy [moving farther atoay]. But that's the same thing! 
 
 Bel. [still restraining her]. But wait! There is a dis- 
 tinction. Let me make you see the distinction. They 
 also may look into the depths of each other's eyes, and 
 mingle their hair . . » 
 
 Lucy. But what then? [Getting up,] 
 
 Bel. [making her sit cUnvn]. Just this! Just this! 
 It is not each other's beauty that they contemplate, it is 
 their souls. It is no longer their voices which they hear, 
 it is the very palpitation of their thoughts. And when at 
 last, by quite a different processus, altiiough related, they 
 also arrive at that obscure and troubled point when the 
 being is imconscious of itself, a sort of deUcious benumbed- 
 ness of the will which seems at once to be the summum and 
 the terminus of human felicity, they do not come to them- 
 selves on this earth, but in heaven, for love has borne them 
 beyond the stormy clouds of common passions in the pure 
 ether of sublime ideality! [A pau^.] 
 
 Paul [to Jeanne]. He's going to kiss her! 
 
 Bel. Lucy! Dear, Lucy! Do you understand me? 
 Oh, say that you understand! 
 
 Lucy [perplexed]. But ... it seems to me that 
 the two concepts . . . 
 
 Paul. Ho! Concepts! This is too much! 
 
 Lucy. The two concepts . . . are identical! 
 
 Paul. Oh, identical! 
 
 Bel. [passionately]. Identical! Oh, Lucy, you are 
 cruel ! Identical ! ! ! But realize that aU this is subjective ! 
 
 Paul. Subjective!! Oh, I've got to do sometidng 
 crazy! 
 
 Bel. [stiU more wrought up]. Subjective, Lucy! Do 
 comprehend me! 
 
 Lwyy [deeply mmed]. But, Bellac! . . . Subjec- 
 tive! . . . 
 
 Jeanne [to Paul] . He isn't gomg to kiss her ! 
 
 Paul. Then I'm going to kiss you! 
 
PAILLERON 147 
 
 Jeanne [defending herself]. Paul! Paul! [Sound of 
 kisses.] 
 
 Bellac and Lucy start up in alarm, and the Duchess also 
 rises, astonished. 
 
 Duch. Why! Why! They're kissing! 
 
 Lucy. Somebody's there! Somebody's there! 
 
 BeUac. Come! Take my hand. 
 
 Lucy. They were listening to us. Oh, Bellac, I told 
 you so. 
 
 Bel. Come! 
 
 Lucy. Oh, I am horribly compromised! 
 
 Bel. I will make reparation, my dear young lady. I 
 will make reparation. 
 
 Paul and Jeanne come out of concealment and mimic 
 Bellac and Lucy, repeating a number of their expressions. 
 When, at the end, Paul cries: "Identical! Oh, cruel one! 
 Realize that all this is subjective!" and Jeanne answers: 
 "Oh, Bellac, subjective!" the Duchess supplies the kisses 
 on the back of her hand. 
 
 Paul. We're caught! 
 
 Jeanne. They've been listening to us! 
 
 Paul [dragging her along]. Come, come! 
 
 Jeanne. Oh, Paul, perhaps they were there from the 
 beginning! 
 
 Paul. I will make reparation, my dear angel. I will 
 make reparation. 
 
 The Duchess reminds Mme. de Ceran that she must go 
 back and look out for her guests, and also for the Revel 
 candidacy, and so gets rid of her before Suzanne enters. 
 Suzanne hides, and then Roger comes in and does the same. 
 They have been spying on each other, and when the Duchess 
 makes a sound as if to call some one's attention Suzanne 
 thinks Roger made it, taking her for Lucy, while Roger 
 thinks that she made it, taking him for Bellac. 
 
 Rog. [low]. Is that you? 
 
 Suz. Yes. 
 
 Rog. Did you get my letter? 
 
 Suz. Yes. Otherwise I shouldn't have come to meet 
 you. 
 
 Each is siuprised that the other does not perceive who is 
 talking, and they draw near in the dim light and sit side 
 by side, keeping their faces averted in order not to reveal 
 
148 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 themselves. When at last Roger has taken Suzaime's 
 hands and then put his arm around her she leaps to her feet. 
 
 Suz. Oh, this is too much! 
 
 Rog. Yes, it is too much! 
 
 Suz. Look at me, will you! Suzanne! Not Lucy, 
 Suzanne. Do you understand? 
 
 Rog. And I am Roger! Not Bellac, Roger! Do you 
 understand? 
 
 Suz. Bellac? 
 
 Rog. Oh, miserable child! So it was true ... Oh, 
 Suzanne! Suzanne! What a misfortune! How you 
 hurt me! Well, he is coming. I shall wait. 
 
 Suz. What? Who? 
 
 Rog. But don't you know that I have seen the letter? 
 
 Suz. The letter! It was I who read it. Your letter! 
 
 Rog. My letter? Bellac's letter! 
 
 Suz. Bellac's! Yours? 
 
 Rog. Mine! 
 
 Suz. Yours! ... To Lucy! 
 
 Rog. To Lucy? To you, to you, to you! 
 
 iSwz. ToLucy, toLucy, toLucy! . . . who lost it! 
 
 Rog. [astounded]. Lost! 
 
 Suz. Oh, I was there when she asked the servant to find 
 it. You can't deny it. And I found it! 
 
 Rog. [enlightened]. Found! 
 
 Sua. Yes, yes, I found it, and the rendezvous, and the 
 headache . . . and everything ... I know all 
 about it. And you took me for her. 
 
 Rog. I? 
 
 Suz. [tears beginning to get the better of her]. Yes, you! 
 . . . You took me for her, and you were saying to her 
 that you loved her! Yes . . . yes . . . Why 
 did you tell me that you did not love her? Yes, why? 
 You told me that, and that you wouldn't marry her. Why 
 did you say that? You shouldn't have said so. Marry 
 her if you want to. It's all the same to me, but you 
 shouldn't have told me that. You deceived me. You lied 
 to me. It wasn't right. Since you loved her you shouldn't 
 have . . . you should have . . . [Throws herself 
 in his arms] Oh, don't marry her! Don't marry her! 
 Don't marry her! 
 Roger is so delighted to know that the note was not ad- 
 
PAILLERON 149 
 
 dressed to Suzanne that he hardly pays attention to any- 
 thing else. He assures her that he did not write it, but she 
 makes him say that he wUl not marry Lucy. Then he tells 
 her not to cry any more. 
 
 Suz. I can't help it. 
 
 Rog. But why? 
 
 Suz. Because I have only you, Roger. I don't want 
 you to leave me. 
 
 Rog. To leave you? 
 
 Suz. [still crying], I'm jealous. You know . . . 
 You don't understand that. No, no. I saw that clearly 
 enough when I tried to get you mad with Bellac. You 
 didn't even look at me. It was all the same to you about 
 Bellac. 
 
 Rog. But I wanted to kill him! 
 
 Suz. Kill him! [She throws herself on his neck.] Oh, 
 how nice you are! 
 
 Roger makes her sit beside him and begins to talk to her 
 affectionately as if she were a child whom he had not seen 
 for some time, but he warms up a little at the task and it is 
 in a tone of considerable tenderness that he says he really 
 loves his dear little Suzanne. It remains for the Duchess, 
 however, to complete the understanding by stepping out, 
 turning up the gas, and saying that Suzanne shall be Roger's 
 wife. Roger realizes suddenly that he does love Suzanne. 
 
 The guests come into the conservatory. Mme. de Ceran 
 announces a great piece of news to her aunt, the death of 
 Revel. It is in an evening paper. Toulonnier says, how- 
 ever, that he has received a telegram saying that Revel is 
 getting better. The Duchess sees that Toulonnier knew 
 before he came that the report of Revel's sickness was 
 false, but contents herself with announcing her own news. 
 Everybody is eager to hear it. 
 
 Duck. First, the marriage of our friend, Miss Lucy 
 Watson, to Professor Bellac. 
 
 Everybody. To Bellac! Really! 
 
 Bel. [low]. Duchess! 
 
 Duch. Ah . . . make reparation! 
 
 Bel. Rep . . . Well, gladly! Ah, Lucy! 
 
 Lux;y [astonished]. Pardon me, Madame? . . . 
 
 Duch. [low]. Oh, you must make reparation, my child. 
 
 Lu£y [low]. There can be no reparation when there was 
 
150 THE CULT OF BOREDOM 
 
 no offence, Madame, and you are wrong to say I must 
 doit. 
 
 Bel. What? 
 
 Lucy. My feelings being in accord with my will. 
 [Gives him her hand.] 
 
 Bel. Ah, Lucy! 
 
 Mme. de Loudan. Oh, Lucy, you are happy before all 
 women! 
 
 Dvch. And another announcement is the marriage of 
 my dear nephew, Roger de C6ran . . . 
 
 Mme. de C. Duchess! 
 
 Duch. To a girl whom I love with aU my heart . . . 
 
 Mmx. de C. Aunt! 
 
 Duch. My sole legatee . . . 
 
 Mme. de C. Your . . . 
 
 Duch. The heir to all my property and my name. In 
 short, my adopted daughter. Mademoiselle Suzanne de 
 Villiers de Reville. 
 
 The Duchess calls Paul Raymond aside and asks him 
 how he is going to make reparation. He is rather sheepish, 
 but she tells him that so long as he did not say anything 
 bad about her that she will forgive him, and lastly, she 
 assures him that he shall be a prefect. 
 
THE CROWS* 
 
 By Henry Becque 
 
 Translated by Benedict Papot 
 
 First played in Paris at the Com^die Frangaise on Sep- 
 tember 14, 1882. 
 
 Argument: A prosperous manufacturer is suddenly 
 overtaken by death. His partner, attorney, and architect, 
 and numerous tradesmen as well, are the "Crows" who 
 immediately pounce upon the widow and three daughters. 
 The doubtful issue is whether these unfortunates will find 
 some means of protecting themselves or will be reduced to 
 abject poverty. 
 
 The brilliant and too luxurious furnishings of the Vig- 
 nerons' parlor are eloquent of newly acquired wealth. 
 Despite the fact that the father of the family is dozing on 
 the sofa, Judith, the eldest daughter, is playing on the 
 piano. Marie is seated by her father, sewing, and Blanche 
 is writing at a table. 
 
 Mme. Vigneron enters. She stops the piano-playing 
 and asks Blanche if she has finished the menus, which the 
 "Bourgeois' Cook Book" says should be laid at the dinner 
 plates of the guests. The duoner that night is in honor of 
 Blanche's betrothal, and they have invited, among others, 
 the witnesses to the written contract by which Blanche's 
 father settles a substantial sum on George de Saint-Genis, 
 his future son-in-law. 
 
 At the moment when Vigneron wakes up he hears Blanche 
 saying that she could do without the company of M. 
 Teissier. He asks why she should slight his partner. She 
 replies that Teissier is old, coarse, ugly, miserly, and always 
 looks at one stealthily. Marie questions her father anx- 
 
 •Copyright, 1912, by the Dramatic Publishing Company, Chicago. 
 
 161 
 
152 THE CROWS 
 
 iously about his health. She thinks he should work less, 
 enjoy his fortune a little more, and take better care of him- 
 sefi when he is sick. 
 
 Vigneron replies that he is not sick. He is only a little 
 tired from taking the annual inventory of the firm. No 
 longer than a week ago, he remarks, they were offered 
 600,000 francs for the factory. He declares that in ten 
 years he will sell it for a million, and that in the meantime 
 he will make as much more. He is buying land and build- 
 ing houses. 
 
 It is evident that the good man has been in the habit of 
 speaking quite freely at home about his business. Blanche 
 does not subscribe to the view that he is indebted to Teis- 
 sier for everything, for Teissier was not successful imtil he 
 took her father into business with him. 
 
 Gaston, the only son, comes in. His father takes him to 
 task gently for being a young scamp, gives him money, and 
 tells him to amuse himself, for before long he shall have to 
 go into the factory and learn the business. As soon as he 
 has started for his office, Mme. Vigneron sends out Judith, 
 Marie, and Gaston, and has a talk with Blanche about her 
 manners when her intended is present. She wishes 
 Blanche to appear less absorbed in George when others are 
 about. As she dismisses Blanche, Mme. de Saint-Genis 
 enters. 
 
 Mme. de Saint-Genis has asked the notary to correct 
 what she terms an omission in the marriage contract. 
 The dowry is to be 200,000 francs, and as M. Vigneron 
 asked to pay it in instalments, she says, until the full 
 amount is made over it should bring the young people in- 
 terest at five or six per cent. She changes the subject to 
 show that the matter is disposed of. Incidentally, she 
 advises Mme. Vigneron not to receive the young ladies' 
 music teacher, M. Merckens, any more, and will say noth- 
 ing further when Mme. Vigneron replies that her daughters 
 have never had to complain of him or his lessons. 
 
 M. Merckens is annoimced. Mme. Vigneron takes 
 Mme. de Saint-Genis to see some purchases that she has 
 made and tell her whether they are the correct thing. 
 August, the servant, brings M. Merckens into the parlor, 
 treating him in a most patronizing manner. When Judith 
 comes down August observes that Mademoiselle did not 
 
BECQUE 153 
 
 take long to dress but made good use of her time. Mer- 
 ckens is furious. He can find nothing so good to say, but 
 soothes his vanity presently by an allusion to his own 
 wittiness. 
 
 It appears that there is a little conspiracy between pupil 
 and teacher. Judith is secretly devoting herself to musical 
 composition. Merckens returns one of her pieces. It is 
 refined and interesting he remarks, somewhat sad — ^perhaps 
 she had a cold that day. The title of the piece is "Good- 
 bye to the Bride." That explains why Judith was sad 
 when she wrote it. The music master imagines that she 
 is piqued because the yoimg man did not ask for the oldest 
 daughter instead of the youngest. 
 
 Art is all sufficient to her Judith says. He deplores her 
 lack of temperament to bring out her talent, but assures 
 her that she has fire, brilliancy, soul — especially soul, and 
 advises her to go on the stage. She thinks his lessons 
 better than his advice. 
 
 When Mme. Vigneron returns to the room she is wearing 
 a loud dress and too much jewelry. Teissier arrives shortly 
 after. He insists upon sitting in a comer by himself while 
 waiting for dinner. Mme. de Saint-Genis says he has the 
 eyes of a fox and the mouth of a monkey. 
 
 Bourdon, the notary, comes next. He learns from 
 Teissier that the Bar Association is considering an investi- 
 gation of some of his sharp practices, but is not at all dis- 
 turbed. George de Saint-Genis brings M. Lenormand, one 
 of his witnesses, and General Fromentin, the other, is not 
 far behind them. 
 
 August announces "Monsieur Vigneron." Gaston comes 
 in wearing a dressing-gown and mimics his father. Some 
 of the guests are taken in, but the game is interrupted by 
 the entrance of a physician who tells Mme. Vigneron to 
 send the children out of the room. He informs her that 
 M. Vigneron has just died from an attack of apoplexy. 
 The body of M. Vigneron is brought in. Mme. Vigneron, 
 with a heart-rending cry, throws herself upon the corpse of 
 her husband. 
 
 Less than a month later Mme. de Saint-Genis calls on 
 Mme. Vigneron in regard to a matter of some importance. 
 She reproves the widow, who cannot restrain her tears, for 
 
154 THE CROWS 
 
 being neither reasonable nor courageous, and taking no 
 thought of the future, either for herself or her daughters. 
 She suspects that Mme. Vigneron in her present state has 
 not thought of her affairs for an instant. 
 
 Mme. de Saint-Genis. You must realize that M. Vig- 
 neron's estate will not liquidate itself; there will be interest 
 to settle and perhaps difficulties to solve. 
 
 Mme. Vigneron. No, Madam, no difficulties whatsoever. 
 My husband was too honest a man to ever have had com- 
 plicated dealings. 
 
 Mme. de S.-G. They may become such after his death. 
 Understand me correctly. I do not suspect M. Vigneron's 
 honesty, but I suspect the honesty of others. M. Teissier 
 hasn't moved yet? 
 
 Mm^. V. M. Teissier stayed home as usual. I needed 
 money; he sent me the amount I asked for after some urg- 
 ing on my part; our relations did not go any further until 
 now. 
 
 Mms. de S.-G. Listen to what I am going to tell you, 
 Madame Vigneron, and even if my advice should be wrong 
 in this instance, take it as a rule of conduct. Distrust M. 
 Teissier. 
 
 Mm£. V. All right. Madam, I shall distrust him. But 
 supposing that his intentions toward us were bad, it is not 
 I who would make him listen to reason, but my notary. 
 
 Mm^. de S-G. Distrust your notary. 
 
 Mme. V. Oh, Madam! 
 
 Mms. de S-G. Don't say, oh! Madam Vigneron, I 
 know these legal gentlemen. One never knows whether 
 they rescue you or betray you, and with them one is al- 
 ways in the wrong. 
 
 Mme. V. What will you say then. Madam, when 
 you learn that M. Bourdon, my notary, is at the same 
 time M. Teissier's notary? 
 
 Mm£. de S-G. I shall tell you to take another. 
 
 Mm^. V. No, Madam; I have absolute confidence in 
 M. Bourdon and shall dismiss him only after he has lost it. 
 
 Mm£. de S-G. It will be too late then. 
 
 It surprises Mme. de Saint-Genis that Mme. Vigneron 
 should see honest people everywhere. She wishes that 
 the estate might be easily settled; but in business nothing 
 goes easily, she says; what is simple is complicated, what is 
 
BECQUE 155 
 
 complicated is incomprehensible. Lastly, she observes 
 that it will no longer be possible for Mme. Vigneron to keep 
 her financial engagements, and nothing in the world would 
 make Mme. de Saint-Genis allow her son to contract a 
 marriage for which he would have the right to reproach 
 her later. The most useful and friendly recommendation 
 she can make to Mme. Vigneron is to distrust everybody, 
 everybody! 
 
 M. Teissier, Mme. Vigneron also receives in tears. It 
 was work, she says, that killed her husband. He wanted 
 to see his children happy in his lifetime and leave them a 
 fortune after his death. After a moment of silence Teissier 
 asks if she authorized Mme. de Saint-Genis to call upon 
 him and inquire in what situation the death of M. Vigneron 
 left his wife. He took the lady by the arm and pushed her 
 out of his office. Mme. Vigneron replies that she did not 
 ask Mme. de Saint-Genis to act for her, but asks for in- 
 formation from M. Teissier now. 
 
 From his calculations, after the factory is sold, after the 
 lots and buildings are disposed of, he replies, she will have 
 about fifty thousand francs. She thinks he means an in- 
 come of that amount, but he quickly disabuses her mind of 
 any such misconception. Going quickly to her desk she 
 writes a note to M. Bourdon, asking him to come to see 
 her at once, and gives it to August to deliver. Teissier 
 pulls out a portfolio filled with papers, and begins to say 
 that she will understand better when she reads something 
 that he has to show her. She turns to him with an excla- 
 mation of "Fifty thousand francs!" and strikes the port- 
 folio out of his hand. She says she wiU have nothing more 
 to do with him, and goes out hurriedly. 
 
 Teissier picks up his papers. He is so intent upon what 
 he has in mind that he mutters that if Bourdon can manage 
 the affair as he has promised he can get hold of properties 
 worth double what he shall have to pay. 
 
 Marie enters. Teissier tells her she has come in just 
 in time to keep him from going to have her mother sub- 
 poenaed to make her return the money that he has ad- 
 vanced her. There was 4,000 francs for the fimeral, 
 5,000 for household expenses, and then 10,000 on a note 
 that Gaston signed. Marie asks for advice. She tells him 
 to consider their situation and say what they ought to do. 
 
156 THE CROWS 
 
 Teissier. Ah! Let us leave aside your buildings which 
 do not concern me. What are you going to do with the 
 factory? 
 
 Marie. What would happen if we wished to keep it 
 and you wished to sell it? 
 
 Teis. It would be sold. That point is covered by law. 
 
 Marie. There is a law? 
 
 Teis. [still smiling]. Yes, mademoiselle, there is a law. 
 There is Article 815 of the Givil Code, which authorizes 
 either of us to liquidate the partnership, which was broken 
 in fact by the death of your father. I wish to give you the 
 opportunity of making sure of this at once. [Putting a 
 book from his pocket.] You see what this is : " Compendium 
 of the laws and regulations in force in all French terri- 
 tories." I never go out without taking my code along, 
 I advise you to form that habit, too. [He hands her the vol- 
 ume open at the page; while she is reading the article, he looks 
 at her mth a mixture of interest, pleasure, and mockery.] 
 Do you understand? 
 
 He questions her closely about herself, asking if she is 
 not the second daughter, the one her father considered the 
 most reasonable, if she does not help her mother with the 
 details of the household, and if she does not figure readily. 
 He says to himself that she must figure like an angel. She 
 brings him back to the value of the properties. He asks 
 how he is to know that after manceuvring cleverly they will 
 not want to sell the factory themselves, to buy it up for 
 half price. He thinks, however, that it is to the interest 
 of both parties to sell the factory. 
 
 When Teissier has left, Marie imparts the news to 
 Blanche that they are probably ruined. They fall into 
 each other's arms, but Marie quickly controls herself and 
 says that they must be prudent and resigned. It makes 
 her sad to think that the marriage is on Blanche's mind, 
 and that perhaps it is no longer possible. Blanche says 
 Marie judges George very wrongly if she thiiis he cares 
 more for her dowry than for her heart. 
 
 Blanche. If I thought M. de Saint-Genis sought me 
 only for my dowry, I should be the most ashamed of wo- 
 men, and if, my dowry being lost, he hesitated to marry me, 
 I should become mad or die. 
 
 Marie. Do you love him so much? 
 
BECQUE 157 
 
 Blanche. Yes, I love him! I adore him, if you want 
 to know! He is gentle, he is tender, he is a child like my- 
 self. I am certain that he has a good heart and that he 
 is incapable of a bad action. You understand, don't 
 you, that I want him as a husband? And even if I were 
 mistaken in him, if he deserved neither my affection nor my 
 esteem, if he were the lowest of men, I must marry him now. 
 
 Marie [aside]. The poor child is suffering and raving. 
 
 Blanche. Oh! what a mistake we made! What a mis- 
 take! You know me, sister, we have been living together 
 for twenty years without a secret between us. Am I not 
 a pretty little girl, very loving it is true, but very honest 
 also? I never had a thought that could not be expressed. 
 If I had met M. de Saint-Genis in the street or elsewhere, 
 I would not even have looked at him. He came here with 
 his hand in my father's hand. We took a fancy to each 
 other at once and we were betrothed right away. Manuna 
 used to warn me to be more discreet with my betrothed, 
 but he was my betrothed and I saw no danger nor great 
 harm in trusting him. 
 
 Marie. Come, calm yourself, you are exaggerating 
 as always. You told M. de Saint-Genis that you loved 
 him, didn't you; you are quite excusable since you were 
 to marry him. You used to hold hands sometimes and 
 perhaps you kissed; that's wrong, of course, but that doesn't 
 deserve your reproaching yourself as you do. 
 
 Blanche, after some hesitation, says that she is George's 
 wife. Marie does not understand her and Blanche tells 
 her to forget what she said. Bourdon has already re- 
 ceived Mme. Vigneron's note, and comes in. He tells 
 Marie that her father's estate does not present very serious 
 difficulties, yet that her father left a large land deal which 
 has to be examined closely and liquidated as soon as possi- 
 ble. Mme. Viglieron now comes in. 
 
 Bourdon refers to a call that Mme. de Saint-Genis paid 
 him, but says he received her in such a way that she will 
 not come again, and tells Mme. Vigneron to come to the 
 point. She asli if it is true, if it is possible that her hus- 
 band leaves her only fifty thousand francs in all. It is 
 possible, the notary replies guardedly, that slightly more 
 may be obtained. He asks if she was hoping that the es- 
 tate would be large. How much did she think it would be? 
 
158 THE CROWS 
 
 Surely she must have ascertained what M. Vigneron left 
 her. That is the first thing one does on losing a husband. 
 He sees that she knows nothing about her husband's affairs 
 and tells her that she is facing the evident necessity of sell- 
 ing her husband's properties. 
 
 Marie. What do you think we will get for them? 
 
 Bourdon [going to Marie]. What you will get for them, 
 mademoiselle?. Nothing! You must not count on clear- 
 ing anything. 
 
 Mme. V. [rising]. What advantage is there in selling, 
 then, if that is the case? 
 
 Bour. [coming back to Mme. Vigneron]. What advan- 
 tage. Madam? The advantage of getting rid of a ball and 
 chain which is tied to your ankle. Believe me, it is not my 
 custom to be as positive as I am now when I offer advice. 
 Each day of delay is portentous in its consequences for 
 you. While you are deUberating Catiline stands at the 
 gates of Rome. To be specific, Catiline is the mortgage 
 which is eating you up, your architect who is lying in wait 
 for you with his bill, the government which will claim its 
 dues. 
 
 Enter Teissier, L. E.: Blanche behind him. 
 
 Teis. 'Morning, Bourdon. 
 
 Bour. Good morning, Teissier. I was just explaining 
 to Madam Vigneron and her daughter how impossible it 
 is for them to keep their lots. 
 
 Teis. I have nothing to do with that. The ladies can- 
 not have a better adviser than you. They are in good hands. 
 
 Bour. I beg of you. Madam, notice the point of view I 
 take, so that there may be no misunderstanding between 
 us. I do not wish to expose myself later to reproaches, 
 which I do not deserve. I merely wish to establish this 
 point: The statu quo is harmful to your interests, get out 
 of the statu quo. I am not telling you, far from it, that the 
 condition of your properties is excellent and the moment 
 is well chosen to offer them at auction. No. And yet, if 
 I present the proposition in its most favorable aspect, and 
 I shall not fail to do so, we might perhaps obtain a satis- 
 factory result with a little charlatanism and beating of 
 the bass drum, and 
 
 Teis. [aside]. What's that? what's that? [In a low 
 tone to Bourdon.] Aren't we agreed any more? 
 
BECQUE 159 
 
 Bour. {in a low tone]. Let me manage this. [Going to 
 Mme. Vigneron.] Come, Madam, make up your mind, 
 and make it up quickly, I advise you to. Let me know 
 when you have decided. [Makes ready to go.] 
 
 Teis. Don't go, Bourdon, before we have spoken of 
 the factory. 
 
 Bour. The factory can wait, my dear M. Teissier. 
 Before anything else, I would like to relieve Mme. Vigneron 
 of her lots. We are in the presence of a widow and her 
 four children who have been impoverished within a day; 
 this is a very distressing situation, do not let us forget 
 that. [Teissier smiles.] 
 
 M. Lefort, the architect, joins the conference. He is a 
 loud-voiced man with common manners. He says he is 
 not afraid to say what he thinks before Teissier and 
 Bourdon. He tells Marie where to find a memorandum 
 on the real estate which explains the whole proposition 
 from A to Z. She gets it and Bourdon and Lefort tear it 
 in two and appropriate the halves. Meanwhile Teissier 
 is examining Mme. Vigneron about Marie. Is she or- 
 derly? Is she going to make a capable woman? Does 
 she figure readily? 
 
 Lefort [hammering each one of his sentences]. From the 
 beginning, M. Vigneron's lots, situated as they were at the 
 extremity of Paris, close to a railroad station, and encum- 
 bered because of this by numberless restrictions, were, 
 at the price he paid for them, a very bad speculation. Let 
 us speak plainly — ^he was taken in. 
 
 Bour. I'll stop you there. No one was interested in 
 deceiving M. Vigneron. He bought these lots in the hope 
 that they would be condemned. 
 
 Lef. Condemned? By whom? 
 
 Bour. By the railroad. 
 
 Lef. What a joke ! It was the railroad that was selling 
 them! 
 
 Bour. Are you sure of that? 
 
 Lef. Perfectly sure. 
 
 Bour. Very well; then it was supposed that the city, 
 T7hich had begun vast improvements in the outlying dis- 
 tricts, would need the property. I remember now — ^we 
 hoped to deal with the city. 
 
 Lef. With the city or with the Sultan of Turkey. You 
 
160 THE CROWS 
 
 can't tell me anything about real estate. I know Paris 
 from A. to Z. I proceed. M. Vigneron, who had been 
 taken in, I repeat, soon became aware of his foolishnpss and 
 wished to repair it. How? By building. He came to 
 me. He had known my conscientiousness and my disin- 
 terestedness for a long time; I did not leave him until he 
 entrusted his work to me. Unfortunately, my plans 
 were no sooner made and the foundations begun when 
 — [comical pantomime] — ^Vigneron skipped for the other 
 world. 
 
 Bour. We all know those details. Monsieur; you are 
 wasting our time telling us about them. 
 
 Lef. The heirs find themselves in a tight place, but they 
 can come out of it to their advantage. They have at their 
 disposal a devoted, intelligent man who enjoys universal 
 consideration in Paris — the architect of the deceased, who 
 becomes their own. Will they listen to him? If they dis- 
 regard his advice and his direction — [comic pantomime] — 
 the game is lost. 
 
 Bour. State your proposal without so much verbosity, 
 I pray. 
 
 L^. Let us consider the most unfavorable hyirothesis. 
 M. Lefort, who is now addressing you, is dismissed. His 
 bUl is settled, loyally, without quibbling over each item. 
 M. Lefort does not ask anything more for himself. What 
 becomes of the property? I repeat, it lies far from the 
 centre, is hampered by restrictions, and, I may add, loaded 
 down with mortgages, as many reasons which will be 
 brought to bear against the owner for the benefit of a 
 mysterious purchaser who will surely happen along. [With 
 great volubility.] The property will be depreciated, the sale 
 will be hastened, purchasers will be kept away, the comi; 
 will be deceived so as to obtain a ridiculously upset price, 
 the bids will be smothered — [comic pantomime] — there's a 
 property reduced to nothing. 
 
 Bour. Be specific; I demand that you be specific. You 
 say such and such things will be done. Who is to do it, if 
 you please? Do you know that such manoeuvres could be 
 practised by only one person, and that you are incrimmat- 
 mg the notary in charge of the sale? 
 
 Lef. Maybe it's you. 
 
 Bour. I am not speaking for myself, but for all my col- 
 
BECQUE 161 
 
 leagues who are accused by you. You speak very lightly 
 of the most honorable corporation that I know. You cast 
 suspicion upon the law itself in the person of the public 
 oflScer whose duty it is to carry it out. You do worse than 
 that, if it were possible: you distiu-b the security of fam- 
 ilies. How suitable it is for you to hurl such an accusa- 
 tion when you present a bill of thirty-seven thousand 
 francs! 
 
 L^. I ask leave to be present when you present 
 yours. 
 
 Bour. Let us end this. State briefly what you propose. 
 
 Lef. I am getting there. I propose to the heirs to keep 
 on building 
 
 Bour. Of course! Why did you not say that at first? 
 You are the architect; you propose to keep on building. 
 
 ief. Let me finish. 
 
 Bour. That is useless. If Mme. Vigneron is willing to 
 listen to you, she is at liberty to do so; but as for me, I shall 
 listen no longer to such rambling. What amount do you 
 put up? Mme. Vigneron has no money, I warn you; where 
 is yours? Three months from now we would be in the 
 same position, with this diflFerence — that your bill, which 
 to-day is thirty-seven thousand francs, would be twice as 
 large, at the rate you are going. Do not compel me to say 
 more. I take your ofiFer for what it seems to mean. I do 
 not wish to see it in the light of some dark combination 
 which would make you a landlord at a small cost. 
 
 ief. What's that? Look me in the face, wiU you? 
 Do I look like a man capable of a dark combination? 
 Upon my word, I have never seen such a puppet as 
 you! 
 
 Bour. [restraining himself, low]. What's that you call 
 me, you moimtebank? 
 
 [Mme. Vigneron rises to interfere.] 
 
 Teis. Leave them alone. Madam; do not say a word. 
 One must never interrupt a business conversation. 
 
 Lef. [to Mme. Vigneron]. I'll withdraw, Madam. If 
 you wish to know my plans and the resources at my dis- 
 posal, you will send for me. If not, you will be kind 
 enough to settle my bill as soon as possible. I have to 
 make advances for all my clients — ^while a notary messes 
 with the money of his. [Exit. 
 
162 THE CROWS 
 
 Teis. Wait for me, Lefort; we'll go part way together. 
 [To Mme. Vignehon.] I'll leave you with Boxirdon, 
 Madam; make the most of having him here. 
 
 Lef. [coming back]. I forget to tell you, Madam: Was 
 it with your authorization that Mme. de Saint-Genis called 
 at my oflBce? 
 
 Mme. V. She called on every one. I authorized no one 
 to go and see you, M. Lefort — no one — and if the lady were 
 to call again 
 
 Lef. The lady will not call again. I made her go down 
 the stairs quicker than she came up. 
 
 Teissier says good-bye especially to Marie, telling her to 
 keep in good health. He comes back again to admonish 
 her to remain what she is . She will have no lack of suitors. 
 If he were not so old he would be one himself. He goes out 
 with Lefort. 
 
 Mme. Vigneron thinks she made a mistake in bringing 
 about such a meeting. Then, although she says M. Lefort 
 has no manners, what he proposed was exactly what her 
 husband meant to do. Bourdon inquires if she can be 
 speaking seriously, after hearing his comments on Lefort. 
 Mme. Vigneron says they might get another architect. 
 That is not enough, replies Bourdon. They will look at 
 the situation in its best aspect. Let them admit for the 
 instant that the lots belong to her. Between 400,000 and 
 600,000 francs are needed to finish the houses, he says. Is 
 that a suitable undertaking for a woman? As family 
 counsel, whose duty it is to help her as executrix and guard- 
 ian of her minor children, he opposes it. 
 
 Left to themselves, the widow and her daughters try 
 vainly to arrive at a decision. Each has a different opin- 
 ion, but none urges it with any certainty. Mme. Vigneron 
 finally says that if they have to sell their lots they shall 
 have to sell theu- lots, but that while she lives they shall not 
 touch the factory. 
 
 Marie. M. Teissier may sell it to-morrow. There is a 
 law which authorizes him to do so. 
 
 Mme. V. While I live 
 
 Marie. There is a law. 
 
 Blanche and Jvdith. If there is a law- 
 
 Mnie. V. Leave me alone with your law. If I were to 
 have many days like this, children, I could not stand it; 
 
BECQUE 163 
 
 you would be without a mother before long! [Lets herself 
 fall upon the sofa and weeps.] 
 
 August brings in bills with imperative demands for 
 payment from a ntunber of tradespeople. 
 
 M. Teissier soon forms the habit of coming frequently to 
 the Vignerons'. He drops in at breakfast, and although 
 the young ladies do not like him they think it necessary to 
 be agreeable. He now enters the parlor, arm in arm with 
 Marie, followed by Mme. Vigneron, Judith, and Blanche. 
 Marie releases herself and walks away from Teissier. He 
 follows her. 
 
 Teissier. Your sisters are good-looking, especially the 
 eldest, who is very pretty; and yet it is you I prefer. I have 
 not always been old. I can still distinguish a brunette from 
 a blonde. You are very pleasing to me; do you hear? 
 
 Marie. Do turn toward my mother. 
 
 Teis. Tell me. Madam, why M. Gaston, who is so handy 
 making notes, did not breakfast with us? 
 
 Mme. V. [shmoing great emotion]. My son enlisted. 
 
 Teis. So he is a soldier. That's the best thing he could 
 do. A soldier is housed, fed, and kept warm at govern- 
 ment's expense. What does he risk? To have himself 
 killed. Then he doesn't need anything more. 
 
 Mme. V. My son did what he pleased. Later, he wiU 
 regret his decision. I would have arranged with you, M. 
 Teissier, to place him in the factory, and if this factory, as 
 I believe, does not get out of your hands and ours, in a few 
 years Gaston would have succeeded his father. [A paiise.] 
 
 Teis. Have you seen Bourdon? 
 
 Mm£. V. No; were we to have seen him? 
 
 Teis. [embarrassed, goes back to Makie vntkout answering]. 
 Your sisters are good-looking, but they are Parisians; you 
 can see that at once. No color. One would never think, 
 on looking at you, that you were brought up with them. 
 In the summer I have roses in my garden which have no 
 prettier color than your cheeks. You must come and see 
 my country house, with your mother and sisters. You are 
 no longer children; you will not spoil anything. You can 
 breakfast at home before starting, and you will be back in 
 time for dinner. You haven't much distraction; that will 
 be one for you. 
 
164 THE CROWS 
 
 Marie. Do not think, M. Teissier, that we shall visit 
 you before being a little easier in mind. As you know, our 
 situation has not improved; it's becoming more compli- 
 cated — that's aU. We are tormented now by tradesmen 
 with whom we used to deal, and who have become very 
 impatient creditors. 
 
 Teis. [embarrassed, goes back to Mme. Vignebon withoui 
 answering]. If your occupations call you. Madam, do not 
 stay for me; your young ladies will keep me company until 
 my departure. 
 
 Mme. V. Remain as long as you please; we are not 
 sending you away. [Going to Marie.] Did you speak to 
 M. Teissier? 
 
 Marie. No, not yet. 
 
 Mme. V. It goes against you? 
 
 Marie. Yes, it does. Twelve thousand francs — ^it's a 
 large amount to us. 
 
 Mme. V. Don't let's ask for it. 
 
 Marie. And where shall we be to-morrow if the dress- 
 maker sues on her bUl? And she will do it, as she said she 
 would. 
 
 Teissier asks Judith if Marie will make a woman who 
 would like to stay at home and take care of an old person, 
 and who could be trusted with keys. When Marie ap- 
 proaches him regarding the loan he makes a fuss, mentions 
 the fact that he has taken measures to secure the payment 
 of iall that Mme. Vigneron owes him, which with this last 
 amount wiU make 32,000 francs, and goes to get the money. 
 
 Mme. Vigneron asks Judith to take charge of their 
 business affairs. 
 
 Jvdith. You know my opinion; it will not change. We 
 shall do nothing, and there is nothing to be done. 
 
 Mme. V. Aid yet, my child, if we are being robbed? 
 
 Judith. Well, we shall be robbed. It's neither you nor 
 I who shall prevent it. It isn't Marie, either. She must 
 see now that we are only temporizing to meet a greater 
 disaster. I would prefer, a thousand times, a thousand 
 times, to get through with all this to-morrow and take 
 what they are willing to leave us, since they are willing to 
 leave us something. If the past didn't worry us any more, 
 we should think of the future. 
 
 Mme. V. You speak of the future very lightly, my child. 
 
BECQUE 165 
 
 Jvdith. It worries me, but it does not frighten me. 
 Blanche is the most unfortimate, I think. She is losing a 
 husband she hked. 
 
 The effect of Judith's logic is to wound her mother, whom 
 she regards as incompetent, to discourage Marie, and re- 
 duce Blanche to tears. Blanche persists that George loves 
 her and will marry her despite the lack of a dowry. She 
 admits that they are not defending themselves very seri- 
 ously, but says that the decisiveness which they lack in 
 business she will have where her marriage is concerned. 
 Mme. Vigneron protests that they are always saying that 
 they lack decision, and yet whenever she proposes coming 
 to a decision they are the first to advise against it. 
 
 The question is, shall they discharge M. Bourdon, she 
 says. They might take that gentleman who sent his busi- 
 ness card to them, M. Duhamel. It is not long before 
 Bourdon comes in, and Mme. Vigneron lays the matter 
 before him. She says he is giving himself a great deal of 
 trouble with her affairs for tiie little profit he is going to 
 get out of it, and that she has heard of an honorable and 
 intelligent man whom they might engage. She shows him 
 Duhamel's card. In a few weU-chosen words Bourdon 
 gives the gentleman a very bad character. Duhamel 
 would have only to agree with another rascal, Lefort for 
 instance, and M. Vignernon's estate would vanish entirely. 
 
 Having disposed of this matter so decisively. Bourdon 
 goes on to say that one of the mass of mortgages on the 
 lots is almost due. A renewal cannot be obtained, and 
 so sixty and some odd thousand francs will have to be paid 
 shortly. Then there is the inheritance tax to be met at 
 once. (It is evident that Bourdon sees he can put a sub- 
 stantial amoimt in his own pocket and charge it to the 
 inheritance tax.) While they are stirring themselves up 
 without getting anywhere, he says, awaiting he does not 
 know what event that will not take place, Teissier, Uke the 
 business man he is, has gone ahead and made all arrange- 
 ments for selling the factory. There is only one condition 
 on which he can get Teissier's consent to putting off the 
 sale, and that is that she will get rid of her lots. 
 
 Merckens is announced and Mme. Vigneron goes to con- 
 sult with her daughters. When Bourdon informs the music 
 master that it is certain that Mile. Judith will not begin her 
 
166 THE CROWS 
 
 lessons again M. Merckens says he will skip. He doesn't 
 stop to speak to Mme. Vigneron, although she enters the 
 room as he is going out. 
 
 Mme. Vigneron has an air of resolution. Teissier's deci- 
 sion is so disastrous to them, she says, that he dares not 
 impart it to them himself. They intend to comer him 
 and let him know that he is committing a bad action. 
 She thinks that Marie may be able to make him change 
 his mind. Bourdon takes occasion to say that if Teissier 
 were disposed to marry this young girl it would not be such 
 a bad thing for her to marry him. Mme. Vigneron replies 
 that they expect nothing of M. Teissier, but that the 
 factory belongs to them as much as to him, and that he is 
 abusing the right the law gives him by disposing to suit 
 himself of her husband's work and her children's property. 
 
 Teissier returns to renew operations. Bourdon ex- 
 presses siuprise that he should have taken breakfast with 
 the family when he is hostile to their interests, and lets 
 fall a hint that he must prepare for a siege on the part of 
 his ingenue, as the family are depending on her to get the 
 best of him. Bourdon leaves Teissier with Marie. Teis- 
 sier has brought the money she asked for, and tells her not 
 to hesitate to make the tradesmen cut down their bills, 
 and to be careful not to pay the same one twice. He asks 
 her what she is going to do, but she replies she does not 
 know, work is so hard to find for a woman and so poorly 
 paid. 
 
 Teissier. That's what I wanted to make you say. [A 
 Vattse; he proceeds with hesitation and embarrassment.] I 
 know a house where, if you wanted to, you could go and 
 stay. You would have lodging, food, and a small amoimt 
 every month which you could save for later. You would 
 no longer have to worry about yourself. 
 
 Marie. What house? Yours? 
 
 Teis. [with an equivocal smile]. Mine. 
 
 Marie [after showing her emotion, not knowing what she 
 is to understand nor what she is to answer]. What you are 
 proposing to me is not possible. In the first place, my 
 mother would not let me go away from her. 
 
 Teis. Yes, I suspect that your mother would raise ob- 
 jections, but you are old enough to-day not to listen to 
 any one and to consider your own interests. 
 
BECQUE 167 
 
 Marie. I told you no, M. Teissier, no. 
 
 Tds. Wouldn't you be glad to leave your family and 
 their troubles and to get out of it yourself? I would have 
 that feeling in your place. 
 
 Marie. It isn't mine. 
 
 She tells him that it isn't necessary for him to marry to 
 have people around him, and asks if he has no relatives, 
 
 Teis. I stopped seeing my relatives to protect myself 
 from their requests for money; they are starving. I would 
 like very much to secure a simple, gentle, and safe little 
 person, who would keep my house decently and would not 
 pillage it. I would see a little later if I ought not to marry 
 her. But you are all lambs before marriage, and no one 
 can know what you will become afterward. I should 
 regulate my conduct upon hers; she would not be very 
 imhappy while I am alive, and she would have no reason 
 to complain after I am dead; married or not married, it 
 would be the same thing for her. 
 
 Marie. Get up, M. Teissier, and go away. I do not 
 wish to be near you another minute. I believe that you 
 are unhappy, and I pity you. I believe that your proposi- 
 tion was honest and acceptable, and I thank you for it. 
 Yet, it might hide a thought, such an odious thought that 
 my heart fails me at the bare suspicion of it. Go away. 
 
 Teis. [standing, embarrassed, and stammering]. Let us 
 see what you had to tell me. 
 
 Marie. Nothing, nothing, nothing! I would be 
 ashamed now to speak to you of my family, ashamed for 
 them as much as for myself. You will think about it. 
 You will remember what my father was, and whether you 
 owe nothing to his honesty, his work, and his memory. 
 [She quickly goes to the vxriting desk, takes out the bank hills 
 and gives them to him.] Take back your money. Take 
 it back without embarrassment. M. Bourdon has just put 
 himself at our disposition and we wiU find at his office 
 what we should not have asked you for. Go away. Gro 
 away or I shall call Rosalie, who will put you out. 
 
 Mme. de Saint-Grenis comes to have a final understand- 
 ing with Blanche. Love, she says, is all very fine, very 
 vague, and very poetic, but a passion, however great it 
 may be, never lasts very long and does not lead anywhere. 
 You cannot pay your landlord and yoiur baker with it. 
 
168 THE CROWS 
 
 Blanche [quickly]. This marriage must take place. 
 Madam, and it will. 
 
 Mme. de S.-G. [geally]. It will, if I am willing. 
 
 Blanche. You will consent, Madam. 
 
 Mme. de S.-G. I don't think so. 
 
 Blanche. Yes, Madam, yes, you will consent. There 
 are affections so sincere that even a mother has no right 
 to break them. There are engagements so sacred that a 
 man loses his honor in not keeping them. 
 
 Blanche says that the loss of her dowry does not affect 
 George in the least. She finds him all the more impatient 
 to marry her. In reply, Mme. de Saint-Genis seeks to 
 implant the yeast of suggestion in her mind by asking if 
 they ever know what men are thinking of. George is no 
 more sincere than the others. Perhaps he is only awaiting 
 an order to free himself from an embarrassing situation. 
 Blanche replies that if she has to deal with a coward who 
 hides behind his mother, he must not count on abandoning 
 her so easily. She will reach him. She will break his 
 position and destroy his futiu-e. 
 
 Mme. de S.-G. You will compromise yourself and 
 nothing else. Perhaps that's what you wish. Happily, 
 your mother will prevent you. She will consider that it 
 is enough to have a stain in the family without adding 
 scandal to it. Good-bye, mademoiselle. 
 
 Blanche [detaining her]. Do not go. Madam. 
 
 Mm£. de S.-G. [gendy]. We have nothing more to say 
 to each other. 
 
 Blanche. Stay. I am crying, I am suffering. Touch 
 my hand, I am in a constant fever. 
 
 Mm£. de S.-G. Yes, I realize your agitation, you wiU 
 get over it; while if you were married to my son, your re- 
 grets and his would be eternal. 
 
 Blanche. We love each other. 
 
 Mme. de S.-G. To-day, yes, but to-morrow - 
 
 Blanche. Consent, Madam, I beseech you. 
 
 Mm£. de S.-G. Must I repeat to you the words you 
 said to me a little while ago? Never! [Blanche leaves 
 her, walks back and forth, crosses the stage imtk signs of the 
 deepest agitation and sorrow; she lets herself fall upon an 
 arrmhadr. Madam de Saint-Genis going slowly to 
 Blanche.} I deeply regret, my child, to seem so cruel 
 
BECQUE 169 
 
 to you and to leave you in such a state. And yet I am 
 right, quite right. A woman of my age and of my experi- 
 ence, who has seen all that can be seen in this worid, knows 
 the value of things, and does not exaggerate some at the 
 expense of others. 
 
 Blanche [thrcnving herself at her knees]. Listen to me. 
 Madam. What's to become of me, if your son does not 
 marry me ? It is his duty. I know no odier more noble nor 
 easier toward a woman who loves him. Do you believe 
 that if ours were an ordinary engagement I would stoop 
 to call him back? I would break my heart rather than to 
 offer it to him who scorns it and would no longer be worthy 
 of it. But your son must many me; it is his duty, I shall 
 repeat it forever. All other considerations vanish before 
 that. You speak to me of the future, let it be what it will, 
 I am only thinking of the past, which will make me die of 
 shame and sorrow. 
 
 Mme. de Saint-Genis tells Blanche that the image of 
 her son which fills Blanche's thoughts at present will 
 vanish little by Uttle, quicker than she believes. She is 
 young. Many suitors will present themselves, and she 
 will choose, not the most brilliant, but the most solid, and 
 then she will say Mme. de Saint-Genis was right. 
 
 Blanche. Who are you. Madam, to give me such ad- 
 vice? What would your son say if he knew of it? I 
 would rather be his mistress than another's wife. 
 
 Mme. de S.-6. His mistress! What an expression in 
 your mouth. My son will know what expressions escape 
 you, mademoiselle. They are the sign of yoiu* precocity. 
 
 Blanche. No, no. Madam. No, no, you wiU not repeat 
 this frightful word which I blush to have uttered. 
 
 Mme. de S.-G. His mistress! I will tell you all then, 
 since you can hear all. I never would have broken yovu: 
 marriage with my son on a question of interest. But I 
 want my son's wife to bring him no suspicions as to her 
 past nor worry as to the future. [She goes toward the door.] 
 
 Blanche. Oh! oh! oh! you insult me. Madam, without 
 reason and without mercy. 
 
 Mme. de S.-G. Let me go, mademoiselle. His mis- 
 tress! That's the language of a lost woman. [Shejmshes 
 Blanche away and leaves.] 
 
 Blanche. Lost woman! She dared call me — infamous! 
 
170 THE CROWS 
 
 She bursts into tears.] All is over now. Gteorge is weak, 
 lis mother dominates him, he will obey her. Lost woman! 
 She weeps abundantly.] 
 
 Blanche rings, and when Rosalie comes, asks for some- 
 thing to put over her shoulders, saying she is cold. After 
 looloiig at her, Rosalie replies that she is going to put her 
 to bed, which will be much better for her. At first Blanche 
 objects, but then admits she is going to be sick. Her mind 
 wanders and she thinks she sees her father. Exclaiming 
 that she is a lost woman, she falls into Rosalie's arms 
 and slides to the ground. First Marie, and then Mme. 
 Vigneron and Judith enter. Blanche keeps muttering, 
 "Lost woman!" 
 
 Mme. Vigneron. Judith, come here. [They come down 
 stage.] You were right my child. All these affairs are not 
 good for us. There, they are taking your sister to bed, to- 
 morrow it will be you, and the day after it will be myself. 
 You are still thinking that it is best to bring it to an end? 
 
 Judith. Yes, I do. 
 
 Mme. V. All right. You are going to take Rosalie 
 with you and you will go to M. Bourdon. You will tell 
 him tiiat I accept everything, that I approve everything, 
 and that I am in haste now to have everything terminated. 
 You will add that I am as anxious as he. That's your 
 opinion, isn't it? 
 
 Judith. It is. 
 
 Mm£. V. Go, my big girl, go. [They 'part] I am 
 willing to keep what I have, but I want &st to keep my 
 children. 
 
 The Vignerons have moved into miserable quarters. 
 M. Merckens, for whom Judith has had to send twice, 
 finds the place smells of poverty. RosaUe tells him that 
 poor Mme. Vigneron and her daughters are ruined. When 
 the lawyers come behind a dead man, she tells him, you 
 can say: "Here are the crows! They leave only what 
 they can't take away." 
 
 Judith comes in. In reply to Merckens' half-serious ques- 
 tions she explains that they did not have money enough 
 to defend their fortune. It would have taken 300,000 
 francs. He says she should have spoken to him. The 
 next instant he remembers that he is in a great hurry, as 
 
BECQIJE 171 
 
 she says that before her father's death she little thought 
 that they shoiild feel the lack of relatives. He feels forced 
 to inform her immediately that he is not very obliging. 
 
 What she wanted to speak to him about was her idea of 
 giving lessons herself. He tells her she is not capable of 
 teaching music. That reduces her to a second hope. Ask- 
 ing him not to see vanity or presumption in what she has in 
 mind, she asks if she could not with the pieces that she has 
 written and others that she might produce, secure a little 
 comfort for all her people. 
 
 Merckena [after having laughed]. Look at me. [He 
 laughs again.] Never repeat what you have just told me. 
 You hear, never. They would laugh at you in the five 
 parts of tiie world. [He laughs again.] A little comfort! 
 IS that all? 
 
 Judith. No, it is not all. We spoke formerly of a pro- 
 fession which I did not like, and which even to-day tempts 
 me but little. But in the situation in which my family is, 
 I must stop at nothing to help them out of their trouble. 
 The stage? 
 
 Mer. Too late. 
 
 Judith. Why shouldn't I do what many others have 
 done, who hesitated first and then sununoned their cour- 
 age? 
 
 Mer. Too late. 
 
 Judith. I have perhaps natural talent which lacks only 
 training and practice. 
 
 Mer. Too late. One doesn't go on the stage without 
 having prepared for it for a long time. You will never be 
 an artist. You haven't what is required. At the present 
 moment you would find on the stage only deceptions, or 
 adventures, is that what you wish? 
 
 Judith. Then what can I do? 
 
 Mer. Nothing. I see what you have come to. You are 
 not the first whom I find in this situation and to whom I 
 give this answer. There are no resources for a woman, or, 
 rather, there is only one. See here, mademoiselle, I am 
 going to tell you the whole truth in one sentence. If you 
 are pure, they will esteem you without helping you; if you 
 are not. they will help you without esteeming you; you can- 
 not hope for anything else. Do you wish to speak of th« 
 lessons again? 
 
172 THE CROWS 
 
 JtidUh. It is useless. I regret having disturbed you. 
 
 Mer. You send me away? 
 
 Judith. I do not detain you any longer. 
 
 Mer. Good-bye, mademoiselle. 
 
 Judith informs Marie that her plans have come to noth- 
 ing, not only as to teaching but her secret design of making 
 use of her voice on the stage. 
 
 Marie. You, sister, on the stage! 
 
 Jtidith. What of it? We must help ourselves and 
 undertake something. We cannot wait until we have 
 spent our last sou. Mother is too old to work and we 
 would not allow it anyway. Who knows whether our poor 
 Blanche will ever be in her right mind again? So we are 
 left, you and I, and at that, what could you possibly do? 
 You will have to work twelve hours a day to earn a franc 
 and a half. 
 
 Marie, Tell me very sincerely what you think of 
 Blanche's condition. 
 
 Judith. Better one day and worse the other. Every 
 minute we think that she is going to recognize us, but she 
 sees no one and hears nothing. I thought a great deal of 
 this misfortune, and perhaps it spared us a worse one. If 
 Blanche, hot-headed as she is, had learned by chance of the 
 marriage of M. de Saint-Genis, who knows if the news 
 would not have killed her? She is aUve, that's the princi- 
 pal thing. She is not lost to us. If we must take care of 
 her, we will take care of her; if we must deprive ourselves 
 of bread for her, we will do without; she is no longer our 
 sister, she is our child. 
 
 Marie. You are good, sister, and I love you. [They kiss.] 
 
 Judith. I also love you. I am abrupt at times, but I 
 bear you all in my heart. It seems to me that it is I, the 
 oldest, the big sister as you call me, who should get us out 
 of trouble and put us all on our feet again How? I 
 do not know. I seek a way and do not find any. If I 
 could do it by throwing myself into the fire, I would have 
 done it long ago. [A pause.] 
 
 Marie asks if Judith has heard of Bourdon's call in behalf 
 of Teissier. Judith had not heard of it. She says that 
 Marie must weigh the proposition, thinking of herself only, 
 but if their position frightens her to marry Teissier, who 
 will make her pay dearly enough for a little comfort and 
 
BECQUE 173 
 
 security. The rest of them would be most guHty to advise 
 her to make a sacrifice which is the greatest a woman can 
 make. 
 
 Blanche enters, preceding her mother. She is pale, 
 without strength, and has a vacant look. Her attitude is 
 that of a mad woman at rest. Mme. Vigneron has aged 
 and turned white. They sit down at the table and there 
 is a long and sad silence. Mme. Vigneron suddenly bursts 
 out weeping and sobbing, and exclaims: "Ah! children, if 
 yoiu" father could see us." Bourdon enters softly. 
 
 Rosalie. How did you enter? 
 
 Bourdon. Through the door, which was open. You do 
 wrong, my girl, to leave the entrance door open. Some one 
 might rob your mistress. 
 
 Ros. [under his nose]. No danger. The job is done, and 
 well done. 
 
 Bourdon states that he has come again on behalf of 
 Teissier, and Mme. Vigneron sends out Rosalie, Judith, and 
 Blanche. In case mademoiselle regrets her first decision, 
 he says, she has the opportunity to change her mind. 
 
 Marie. I would like to know, M. Bourdon, and I pray you 
 to tell me sincerely, whether M. Teissier is an honest man. 
 
 Bour. An honest man! What do you mean by that? 
 I would not advise you, mademoiselle, in case you were to 
 marry M. Teissier, to stake all your hopes upon a simple 
 promise from him: but there are notaries to draw up con- 
 tracts which establish the rights of the parties. Have I 
 answered your question? 
 
 Marie. No, you did not understand it. An honest 
 man, for a young girl, means many things. 
 
 Bour. Are you asking, mademoiselle, if Teissier made 
 his fortune honestly? 
 
 Marie. Yes, I would like to be informed upon that 
 point and upon others. 
 
 Bour. What are you bothering about? If one were to 
 seek to-day, in France, the origin of all the fortunes, there 
 are not a hundred, not fifty, which would stand a scrupu- 
 lous examination. I speak of it knowingly, as a man who 
 holds the threads in his office. Teissier has been in busi- 
 ness all his life; he accumulated a considerable fortune 
 which is quite his own, and which no one dreams of attack- 
 ing; you don't need to know any more. 
 
174 THE CROWS 
 
 Marie. What is the usual conduct of M. Teissier? 
 What are his tastes, his habits? 
 
 Bour. The tastes and habits of a man of his age. I do 
 not think that you have much to fear on that side. I see 
 now what yoiu* questions are leading to. Believe me, 
 Teissier will be a husband too faithful rather than not 
 enough, I leave it to your mother herself. 
 
 In their acciu-sed aflFairs which terminated so badly, says 
 Bourdon, they were obliged to submit to the laws of the 
 stronger. To-day this law is in their favor. Mademoiselle 
 has made the conquest of an old man who will do anything 
 to spend with her the few days he has to live. She must 
 make the best bargain she can, and he, Bourdon, will help 
 her. The terms which he persuades them will be so greatly 
 to her advantage will be, instead of asking for a doTvry, to 
 stipulate that after Teissier's death one half of his property 
 shall go to her. 
 
 Not perceiving that Marie could not receive less, even if 
 she made no bargain whatever, Mme. Vigneron replies 
 with severity that M. Bourdon instead of promising M 
 Teissier's fortune to her daughter would have done better 
 to have kept her father's fortune for her. 
 
 Bourdon observes that she is always harping on that. 
 What he is thinking of is what mademoiselle might object 
 to, and he can think of nothing. She must understand 
 that there is no such thing as love. He has never met any 
 for his part. There is only business in this world ; marriage 
 is a business like any other; the business which presents 
 itself to her to-day she wiU never meet again. 
 
 Marie. During the conversations he had with you did 
 M. Teissier speak of my family? 
 
 Bour. Of your family? No. [In a law voice.] Do 
 they demand anything? 
 
 Marie. M. Teissier ought to know that I would never 
 consent to part from them. 
 
 Bour. Why should he part you from them? Your 
 sisters are charming, your mother is a very agreeable per- 
 son. Besides, it is entirely to Teissier's interest not to 
 leave alone a young woman who will have many idle 
 moments. Now, rnademoiselle, prepare for what I have 
 to tell you. Teissier accompanied me here; he is down- 
 stairs; he is waiting for an answer which, this time, must be 
 
BECQUE 176 
 
 final; you would run a great risk if you were to delay it. 
 Hence, I ask you: Yes or no? 
 
 Mme. V. That is enough, M. Bourdon. I was willing 
 that you should inform my daughter of the proposition 
 which was made to her, but if she is to accept it, it concerns 
 her, and I do not intend that she should do so in a moment 
 of weakness or emotion. 
 
 In conclusion, Mme. Vigneron says that she has not a 
 hearty and healthy girl of twenty to give to an old man. 
 He exclaims that any one would think she had her pockets 
 full of sons-in-law. It seems to him that mademoiselle 
 would do well to sacrifice a few years for her family. With 
 tears in her eyes, Marie says he may tell M. Teissier that 
 she accepts. Bourdon goes to get his client. 
 
 Marie assures her mother that Bourdon is right: the 
 marriage is salvation. It is not possible for her mother to 
 begin a life of misery and privations. Blanche cannot be 
 asked to be courageous. And then there is Judith. Who 
 knows what might become of a young girl, the best and 
 purest of them, when her mind is active and she is not 
 afraid of adventures. Marie says that she feels relieved 
 now that the marriage is decided upon. It will be what it 
 may, blameworthy, mercenary, very painful also, but she 
 prefers a little shame and sorrow that she knows to worries 
 of all sorts which may end in misfortime. She tells her 
 mother to wipe her eyes and not let them see that they have 
 wept. 
 
 Bourdon enters, followed by Teissier, who goes smiling 
 toward Marie. Bourdon stops him and motions to him 
 to greet Mme. Vigneron first. Assured that Marie is not 
 going to change her mind, Teissier says the wedding will 
 take place in three weeks. 
 
 Rosahe tells them that Dupuis, the furniture dealer, is 
 there with a bill. Mme. Vigneron says to send him away, 
 that they owe him nothing, but Teissier tells her to have 
 the man in and settle the question. He suggests leaving 
 Marie to deal with Dupuis, and goes behind the door to 
 listen. 
 
 Dupuis enters. At first he tries politeness, but when he 
 finds that Marie asserts firmly that they owe him nothing 
 he says he is grieved. Then he warns her that he will 
 become angry. He declares they owe him two thousand 
 
176 THE CROWS 
 
 francs, and tells Marie to have her mother give him her note 
 for it. She repeats that he is making a mistake. 
 
 Dupuis. Well, mademoiselle, I shall not leave this 
 house until I get it. I presented myself politely, hat in 
 hand. [He jnds on his hat.] You seem to treat me like a 
 thief; that does not go with me. Go and get your mother; 
 let her give me two thousand francs or a note. I am still 
 willing to take a note. Otherwise, M. Dupuis will get 
 raging mad, and make the whole house shake. 
 Enter Teissier. Dupuis, surprised and already intimi- 
 dated by his arrival, removes his hat. 
 
 Teis. Keep your hat on. No ceremony in business. 
 You have your bill with you? 
 
 Teissier says he is going to pay the bill and then verify 
 it afterward. Dupuis tells him to verify the bill first. 
 It is possible that his wife made a mistake. Teissier replies 
 that his wife has nothing to do with the matter. It is he 
 who is liable by asking for the same amount twice. Du- 
 puis declares he would not ask for the money if it were not 
 due, but when Teissier offers him the cash he will not take 
 it. 
 
 Teis. Go back home, my man, and don't let me ever 
 catch you here again; you hear me? 
 
 Dup. What's that, Monsieur? 
 
 Teis. I am telling you to go home. Don't be insolent; 
 you would regret it. 
 
 Dup. Give me back my bill at least. 
 
 Teis. Take care you do not find it in the State's At- 
 torney's office. 
 
 Dup. Ah! that's too much. A man whom I do not 
 know dares to speak to me like that, to my very face. I 
 am going, mademoiselle; you'll hear of me soon. 
 
 [Exit, putting on his hat. 
 
 Teis. You have been surrounded by rascals ever since 
 the death of your father, my child. Let us join your 
 family. 
 
THE PRINCE D'AUREC* 
 By Henht Lavedan 
 
 First played in Paris at the TMdtre du Vaudeville on 
 June 1, 1892. 
 
 Argument: The Prince d'Aurec, a frivolous aristocrat 
 who beheves that any serious occupation in life is unworthy 
 of his position, has just lost 400,000 francs at cards, and in 
 addition to his other obligations, his wife owes 200,000 
 francs to her dressmaker. His mother, who has paid 
 his debts three times, refuses to make another sacrmce, 
 but a Jewish banker who is in love with his wife lends the 
 money. Will the banker succeed in exacting the compen- 
 sation he desires, or will the Prince find some means of 
 rescue in his extremity? 
 
 The hotel of the Prince d'Aurec is an old mansion in the 
 Faubourg Saint-Germain. In one of the drawing-rooms, 
 furnished in the style of Louis XIV, is a magnificent por- 
 trait of that magnificent monarch. Two servants in Uvery 
 are parleying with a creditor who has worked himself into 
 a pet over flie way he has been trifled with for the past 
 year by the Prince and his household. One of the servants 
 says it is not at all reasonable to talk about money when 
 they are to have a fancy-dress ball that evening and have 
 no time to think of anything else. Fifteen himdred invi- 
 tations have been sent out. The whole aristocracy will 
 be present. As soon as the creditor has gone, the steward 
 comes in. He is being harried by a host of trades- 
 people who have been stirred up like hornets by the 
 news of the ball. He fears that he shall be obUged to in- 
 
 *From "Three Modem Plays from the French," (Lemaitre's, "The 
 Pardon," Lavedan's, "The Prince d'Aurec," Donnay's, "The Other Dan- 
 ger.") trans, and edited by Barrett H. Clarke and Charlotte Tenney 
 David, Henry Holt & Co., New York, $1.50. 
 
 177 
 
178 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 form the Prince's mother, the Duchess de Talais," of the 
 
 situation. , , . in. 
 
 The Princess d'Aurec is m the drawing-room when the 
 Prince enters. He has just been engaging m one of his 
 most important pursuits, driving a coach froni Robin- 
 son's," which is a fashionable restaurant near Pans. When 
 he says that he is very much troubled she thinks at first 
 that he has run into something, but he tells her that it is 
 about "a Httle money" that he lost the night before at the 
 dub. 
 
 Princess. How much? 
 
 Prince. Four hundred. 
 
 Princess. Thousand? 
 
 Prince. Of course! Not four hundred francs! 
 
 Princess. My congratulations, dear. 
 
 Prince. Don't mention it. 
 
 Princess. Well, I think you might have chosen a better 
 time to lose so much! 
 
 Prince. Why? 
 
 Princess. Because I myself am very short for the time 
 being, and I was just about to ask you for a rather large 
 sum. 
 
 Prince. Ah, this is just the day! 
 
 Princess. I suppose my demand is very mal d, jrroposl 
 
 Prince. It is; I am sorry. Now you imderstand how 
 impossible it is for me to help you. — ^What's the trouble? 
 Dressmakers? They can wait. 
 
 Princess. Never mind, let's not speak about it. Tell 
 me, who won all that from you? 
 
 Prince. The Prince of Suabia. 
 
 Princess. It is a very expensive luxury to play with a 
 Crown Prince! 
 
 Prince. Twenty thousand louis! It is a good deal. 
 So you are not surprised to see me a httle nervous? 
 
 Princess. Nervous? You seem to me astonishingly 
 calm. 
 
 Primie. I drove my coach as usual this morning, for 
 after all — noblesse oblige! It was rather pleasant, the 
 horses were well in hand; no sun, no dust: perfect English 
 weather! Only, I'm rather tired from loss of sleep — ^and 
 the ball this evening seems rather too much. 
 
 Princess. At least you'll not play to-night. 
 
LAVEDAN 179 
 
 Prince. No, worse luck. I might have recouped my- 
 self. 
 
 Princess. At this rate, you will ruin us altogether! 
 Then how will you live? Will you be a coachman, or give 
 lessons on the horn? 
 
 Prince. That might pay me better than being a Bache- 
 lor of Science, like my steward Bertin. 
 
 Princess. Let us count up your dead; in three years, 
 since our marriage, you have already consumed two 
 uncles 
 
 Prince. My grandfather, my aunt, the Canoness 
 
 Princess. And one alive: me! 
 
 Prince. That's true. 
 
 Princess. But I shan't blame you for squandering my 
 dowry; I despise money. 
 
 Prince, So do I! 
 
 Princess. But really it is high time you stopped, be- 
 cause I know some one who will make you if you don't. 
 
 Prince. Who? 
 
 Princess. Your mother. 
 
 Prince. Oh, the poor Duchess ! She will give me what- 
 ever I want. 
 
 Princess. Do you believe that? 
 
 Prince. She's already let me have quite a fortune! 
 
 Princess. Do you intend to tiun to her for the four 
 hundred thousand? 
 
 Prince. I do: to-morrow. 
 
 Princess. And do you think she will give them to you? 
 
 Prince. I do: she adores me. 
 
 Princess. That is no valid reason. 
 
 Prince. You fail to do justice to my mother; you mis- 
 judge her. 
 
 Princess [ironically]. Heaven keep me from that! 
 [She laughs.] 
 
 Prince. I know what you think about her: she lacks 
 distinction. 
 
 Princess. You agree to that? 
 
 Prince. Well — she is not of our class. It is all very 
 well for her to believe that her blood is as good as yotu-s 
 or mine! simply because my father made her a duchess. 
 She is a Pi^doux, my dear, daughter of the famous manu- 
 facturer of automatic chums, Ajristide Pi6douz 
 
180 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 The Prince says that his mother is obstinate, determined, 
 prejudiced, but that she simply cannot resist him, and in 
 preventing her husband from spending all her money she 
 was a provident, far-seeing mother. He can see no other 
 way out of his difficulty except by making his mother dis- 
 gorge, for the Prince of Suabia must be paid in twenty-four 
 hours. If the worst came to the worst he might sell the 
 famous sword of his forefather the Constable. Chambersac 
 has offered him 130,000 francs for it. But that would not 
 help much. Then there is De Horn, the millionaire banker. 
 The Prince has nothing against Jews, but is afraid that 
 De Horn would take advantage of him as his creditor, hay- 
 ing already proposed that they should go into partnership 
 in some shooting grounds, and that the Prince should in- 
 troduce him at the club. 
 
 Prince. As I am firmly decided not to do either of these 
 things, no matter how amiable the Baron is, I shall not put 
 myself under any obligation to him. 
 
 Princess. You are perfectly right. 
 
 Prince. To go back to what I was saying, I have thought 
 of everything, but my mother is the only practicable solu- 
 tion. She has paid my debts three times already, and she 
 will pay them a fourth. 
 
 Princess. Very possibly. 
 
 When Baron de Horn comes to the house the Princess 
 says she wishes to speak to him about some Turkish bonds, 
 thus sending Montade, the novelist, to the other end of the 
 room, and informs De Horn that once more she must take 
 advantage of his friendly offer. He takes a check-book 
 from his pocket and makes out and signs a blank check. 
 Taking the check-book, she says, "What confidence I 
 have in you," and goes out quickly. Montade rejoins 
 De Horn and inquires how he is coining on — ^with those 
 Turkish bonds. Being a psychologist, he is not blind. If 
 De Horn will not be angry he will explain what it is that he 
 is not bUnd to. 
 
 Montade. I am a celebrity, I am invited out as a matter 
 of course. But it is not a matter of course that a man like 
 you — ^who comes of an eminently practical race — should 
 have private conversations with a woman like the Princess, 
 and take out of his pocket a little volume that resembles a 
 check-book! [Negative gesture from De Horn.] There 
 
. LAVEDAN 181 
 
 must be sometliing*beliind all this when the Baron de Horn, 
 one of our most hard-headed millionaires, a leader, although 
 young, among the Hebrew financiers, lets himself in for 
 such elegant and refined little chats before dinner! 
 
 De Horn. Well? 
 
 Mont. And as that something else is one of the most 
 charming and desirable little women in Paris, why, my 
 dear fellow, I wish you all the luck in the world! 
 
 De H. I assure you 
 
 Mont. Oh, no, no, no — don't explain! Only, I don't 
 know just why: I should be careful about the Prince and 
 Princess. [The Babon pays strict attention to these words.] 
 I have an idea that this family's intentions in regard to you 
 are not of the most disinterested, and you are running the 
 risk of being fooled if you don't play your cards with ex- 
 treme care 
 
 DeH. I have never yet been fooled! 
 
 Mont. You and I are not what might be termed close 
 friends, but in the interest of psychology I think I ought 
 to warn you of possible danger. Now, let's say nothing 
 more about it! 
 
 De H. You are very kind! But you may rest assured 
 I shall never be fooled by these people. Monsieur Novelist. 
 I know them too well for that! 
 
 Mont. Not as well as I. They don't love us! 
 
 De H. They despise us; me for my money, you for your 
 ability. These people are our born enemies; no peace is 
 possible between us. They tolerate us, but never for an 
 instant do they admit us to be their equals. We are a 
 race apart; the same blood does not flow in our veins. 
 
 Mont. We are like higher servants to them. I am 
 happy to see that we can converse on a basis of mutual un- 
 derstanding. But if they despise us — and they do — ^why 
 do they receive us in their circle? 
 
 De H. First, because we force our way, but, above all, 
 because they are airaid of us. They are afraid of us as 
 they are afraid of what is unknown, of the future. I in- 
 spire fear by reason of the millions I have in my pocket, 
 you by the quahties you have in your mind. You see, the 
 impudence of their affected courtesy, the carefully guarded 
 degree to which they extend their friendship, their attitude 
 of patronage, their formal manner of shaking hands — ^it all 
 
182 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 shows that they can never pardon us for obliging them to 
 accept us. It is sometimes said that their hauteur is on]y a 
 form of timidity, their rudeness, absent-mindedness. WeU, 
 I shall believe that when I have once seen them amiably 
 absent-minded! What are they good for nowadays? 
 What do they care for art, literature, science? They sup- 
 port nothing but horse-racing and horse-shows. If they 
 were able they would put a stop to everything. They are 
 useless, vain, frivolous, irritable: they form a totally arti- 
 ficial and isolated class in the society of to-day: luxurious 
 and rotten to the core! They now quietly decompose 
 amid the splendor and show of their past. To-morrow 
 they will have ceased to exist! 
 
 Mont. Far be it from me to defend them ! I don't want 
 to, nor am I bound to, but really, between you and me, 
 you exaggerate. There are among them, iiP you know 
 where to look, people who still possess the old-fashioned 
 honor and fideUty. 
 
 De H. Very possibly: in the provinces! 
 
 De Horn maintains that as a whole the aristocracy of 
 to-day is in the last stages of decay. 
 
 Mont. It is a great satisfaction to me to know that seven 
 hundred years ago my ancestors went about in rags, bare- 
 footed, scratching the arid soil of the Middle Ages, while I, 
 the descendant of those outcasts, may hold my head high, 
 and can write my thoughts and have them printed! 
 
 De H. And my ancestors seven hundred years ago! 
 Worse than outcasts! They lived in filth, the objects of 
 fierce hatred; they were driven out of the towns at the 
 sword's point like lepers! A Jewess who was enceinte 
 and had to cross a bridge paid the same toll as swine. But 
 the times have changed, and now we are the kings: we are 
 the true aristocrats. They — ^ha! — they are appropriately 
 called descendants! As we rise, they sink! Proofs? 
 Everywhere! There, on the table! [He jncka up a book 
 at hazard.] "Rules of the Game of Poker." 
 
 Mont, [picking up another book]. "Thirty Calls on the 
 Horn," collected by the Baron de X. . . . 
 
 De H. [taking another]. "The Mail-coach in Paris." 
 And in this house, what do we find? A Prince aged thirty- 
 four, good for nothing on earth 
 
 Mont. Capable of everything 
 
LAVEDAN 183 
 
 De H. A perverted mind, heart and feelings like dry 
 tobacco. There's the Princess, a pretty doll, to whom you 
 may sa,y anything, but to whom I happen to be making 
 love, with the certitude, I admit, of her being mine ! What 
 else? Jo jo, the cousin from the provinces, the grandson of 
 a Chouan 
 
 Mont. Let's say nothing more about them! 
 
 The Duchess de Talais enters with a number of other 
 persons, and they discuss the costumes that they are going 
 to wear at the ball. The Viscoimt de Montrejeau, " Jojo," 
 the Princess's cousin from Nantes, who has come especially 
 to conduct the Pavane, thought at first of appearing as a 
 Chouan with hat and cockade, representing his grandfather's 
 last heroic days, but he feared it might be too painful, 
 and is coming as the Duke d'Epernon. As the company 
 pass out to dinner De Horn stands aside and looks at the 
 check-book, which the Princess has returned to him. He 
 raises his eyebrows, saying to himself, "Two hundred 
 thousand ! I begin to have hope ! " The Duchess starts to 
 observe that, "The day the king comes riding into Paris 
 
 " but the Prince interrupting, concludes, "He will soon 
 
 be on foot again!" 
 
 The folding doors at the back of the Louis XIV drawing- 
 room open on a balcony that overlooks the balboom, so 
 that it is easy to see when the guests begin to arrive. The 
 Princess is dressed in the costume of Marion Delorme, and 
 the Prince has on a suit of armor that belonged to the Con- 
 stable, Guzman d'Aurec, with the famous sword at his 
 side. For the last time Montrejeau is putting his eight 
 couples through the steps of the Pavane. De Horn enters 
 in the costume of an Lidian Rajah, sparkling with diamonds 
 worth three million francs. 
 
 Princess [to the Bakon]. Your entrance somehow 
 lacked effect; a rajah hke you should have come on an 
 elephant. 
 
 MUe. de Saint-Patrice. A white one. 
 
 De H. I left him in the cloakroom. 
 
 Montrejeau [going out with De Gancat]. Too much 
 jewelry! 
 
 M. de Bertamont. Are you sure his teeth aren't set with 
 diamonds^P 
 
184 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 The Princess has a chance to thank De Horn, and giving 
 him her hand she tells him that he acted as tactfully as a 
 great lord. 
 
 Princess. But I always insist on paying my debts: in a 
 year's time I shall no longer be your debtor. 
 
 De H. I regret it. 
 
 Princess. Oh! [Delicately.] Notice that I did not say 
 I should not be infinitely obliged to you! 
 
 De H. Those words are worth all the money I have 
 loaned you. But really I am your debtor, yours and the 
 Prince's, especially yours ! 
 
 In the past two years, De Horn says, he has risen con- 
 siderably in the world, the Prince and Princess having 
 opened to him doors through which he would never have 
 have been able to pass vdthout their assistance. Before he 
 knew them he was an ordinary banker. To-day he ap- 
 pears before the world as an aristocrat. 
 
 Princess. You have been of great service tome. I shall 
 never forget. 
 
 De H. Never? 
 
 Princess. Do you want me to say it again? 
 
 De H. Never is a great deal. I don't ask that much. 
 I ask you to remember it — some day! 
 
 Princess. What day? 
 
 DeH. I shall tell you. 
 
 The Princess begins to fear that she has been too grateful. 
 She tells him that if he wishes their relations to continue 
 he must swear by what he holds most dear, his diamonds, 
 not to make love to her. 
 
 De H. I don't swear it. I want immediately what is 
 denied me. For that reason I have sworn never to go into 
 a museum. The moment I see a sign "do not touch!" I 
 do touch! 
 
 Princess. But this isn't a museum! 
 
 De H. That is so, yet I can't help thinking I'm at the 
 Louvre. 
 
 She finds that he has changed a great deal in his man- 
 ner in the last few minutes. 
 
 De H. •! am speaking to Marion! 
 
 Princess. Then I understand. Well, take care that 
 Marion doesn't take offence at what is said to the Princess 
 d'Aurec! 
 
LAVEDAN 186 
 
 Be H. I have no fear. The Princess d'Aurec belongs 
 to the Rajah! 
 
 The Prince comes in. He is somewhat incommoded by 
 his armor and says that he could not go bicycle-riding, but 
 that he could manage to cut the cards. The Duchess enters 
 dressed as Madame de Maintenon, with a high coiffure 
 covered with lace. Her face is very set and stern as she 
 goes to her son and says that she must see him at once. 
 As soon as they are alone she informs him that she knows 
 all: the 400,000 francs he lost the night before, the condition 
 the house is in, all the money he owes, everything. The 
 Prince expostulates that this is no time to bring up such a 
 matter, when he has the Constable's helmet on and is 
 about to receive the guests. She will not be put off, so he 
 says, "Come at once to the deluge!" 
 
 Duchess. What do you mean? 
 
 Prince. Nothing. 
 
 Duchess. Probably something impertinent! But I'm 
 used to you. When I married, at the age of nineteen, I had 
 a large fortune. The day I lost your poor father you were 
 very young, you never knew in what a state his affairs 
 were! My dowry I arranged so that my husband might 
 use it, in spite of my family's objections 
 
 Prince. This is really a very painful subject to me. 
 Don't talk about it! 
 
 Duchess. Not as painful as it is to me. Of a dowry of 
 fifteen miUions, only three remain. 
 
 Prince. That's a very fair sum! 
 
 Duchess. With the remaining three miUions 
 
 Prince. Yes, I know everything : acting on the advice of 
 M. Sorbier, a lawyer and friend of your father's, you placed 
 me in a boarding-school at Angers, you yourself lived 
 not far away, at B^cigny, and there by means of strict 
 economy you were enabled to mend the family fortimes a 
 httle 
 
 Dvxihess. During twelve years, and by all sorts of pri- 
 vations. 
 
 Prince. Well? What about it? 
 
 Duchess. Listen, and you will know. You thought fit 
 to remain idle while you were supposed to be studying, you 
 couldn't even pass yoiu- first degree while ordinary farmers' 
 sons 
 
186 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 Prince. I beg your pardon: I passed the written ex- 
 amination.' 
 
 Duchess. And were refused three times in the oral. 
 When you left college you lived the life of most young men, 
 did nothing from the age of eighteen to thirty, and cost me 
 eleven hundred thousand francs! 
 
 Prince. Now 
 
 Duchess. Not a sou less: I have the accounts in my 
 books. At thirty, thanks to me, you met the grand-niece 
 of the Duke de Richelieu, Therese de Varaucourt, whom 
 you married. It was a superb match! I thought at that 
 time you would settle down! Nothing of the sort: you 
 gambled as before, every single night, and in two years' 
 time and less you have squandered your wife's dowry 
 and your own personal fortune of a hundred thousand 
 francs a year ! Then after you had lost all your own money 
 you begged me for more, making all sorts of fine promises 
 — "I promise you never to touch another card!" I was 
 foolish enough to believe you; for the third time I 
 paid your debts, and for the third time you ruined your- 
 self. Now you owe money to usurers, uphobterers, coach- 
 makers, florists, bakers, and butchers! 
 
 Prince. Let us leave these tradespeople out of the 
 discussion! 
 
 Duchess. You owe more than two hundred thousand 
 francs, and last night at the Jockey Club you lost four 
 hundred thousand to the Prince of Suabia. You're in a 
 pretty situation! Well, take my word for it, I'm done 
 with you! You need expect notiiing further from me; I 
 shall not pay a single sou! 
 
 Prince. Not a single sou; good! Is that all? I should 
 like to dance! [He starts to go.] 
 
 Duchess [calling him back]. Dominique! 
 
 Prince. Yes? 
 
 Duchess. What else have you to say to me? 
 
 Prince. What else can I say? You are absolutely 
 right; if I were in your place, I should do precisely as you 
 are doing. [Again he starts to go^ 
 
 Duchess. My poor boy, what can you do? 
 
 Prince. I know! 
 
 >A written examination must first be passed, then an oral. 
 
LAVEDAN 187 
 
 He tells her to have no fear, that he will see to his debts. 
 But she insists that she has a right to know how he will do 
 so, a,nd exhorts him to remember that the blood of the 
 Talais runs in his veins, to live a life more worthy of his 
 title, of the glorious past which his ancestors have left 
 him, and which he is disgracing. He replies that he can- 
 not bring back the days of the Crusades, that the epoch 
 of heroism is past. She replies that a man works when he 
 is in such a dangerous situation. He retorts that the 
 Prince of Suabia owes fifty miUions. She interrupts him 
 at the worst possible moment, he says, to talk about the 
 past, the present, and the future, his father, himself, every- 
 thing, and blames him seventeen years afterward for hav- 
 ing failed in his examination. She answers that she merely 
 wanted to remind him of all that she had done for him. 
 
 Prince. You had no need to tell me that. Every 
 time you pay my debts I have thanked you. We're 
 even! 
 
 Duchess. A child never ceases to owe its parents ! 
 
 Prince. So I see. You are a very hard creditor! You 
 take advantage of me to criticise every act of mine, my 
 tastes, what I do, how I live ! I like cards, horses, luxury, 
 and money! What of it? Fearful crime! I am a gen- 
 tleman; and I do no more nor less than others to maintain 
 my dignity as such. 
 
 Duchess. That isn't enough. When a man has the 
 honor to bear your name 
 
 Prince. Devil take my name! You'll make me sick 
 of it before long! Sometimes I wish my name were 
 Dubois or Morin; then I shouldn't have to Usten to all 
 this twaddle. It seems I can't be noble enough for you, 
 who were bom in the faubourg Saint-Antoine, and whose 
 father was achium manufacturer! 
 
 Duchess. He was an honest man! 
 
 Prince. Oh! We have our names — ^no credit to us! 
 
 Duchess. No, your names have you — ^they support 
 you! 
 
 Prince. Tell me what good they are! They're nice 
 to use in restaurants. The French aristocracy is seen on 
 every menu card in Paris: — ^There's a certain kind of 
 lamb that's named after me! When, I ask, when wiU 
 you keep up with the times, and stop pestering me with 
 
188 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 your worm-eaten conventions of the aristocrsitic faubourg I 
 The Monarchy has fallen years ago; it hasn't existed since 
 the Revolution! Lace collars and red heels and sedan 
 chairs are things of the past! And we, the nobility, called 
 the privileged class even since we lost our privileges, are 
 dead! If not forever, for a good long time! To-day 
 everything is changed 
 
 Duchess. There is going to be war, anarchy, a second 
 Terror! 
 
 Prince. Possibly: I don't know. What is sure is that 
 we are not going back to the age of Saint-Louis. To-day 
 we don't believe in the nobility. You may have your 
 king, if you like, but I defy you to consecrate him! Every 
 one woiid laugh at you! 
 
 Duchess. Be silent, my son! You may if you will be 
 of your time, but don't ask me to join you. To-morrow I 
 am going to have trustees appointed to regulate your af- 
 fairs and your income. 
 
 Prince. Would you do that? 
 
 Duchess. Yes ; you have been troublesome enough to me. 
 
 Prince. And to myself ! 
 
 Duchess. Ah! If you ever have to sell this house, re- 
 member that my estate at Recigny and my house in the 
 Rue de Varenne are at the disposal of you and your wife. 
 
 Prince. Never! I'd rather give ridmg-lessons! 
 
 Duchess. Just as you please. 
 
 Prince. Is that all you have to say? 
 
 Duchess. Yes. 
 
 Prince. Then I shan't need your assistance: I shall 
 sell everything I have to the highest bidder, and — ^I'm go- 
 ing to sell the sword! 
 
 Duchess. No! You wouldn't have the heart ! 
 
 Prince. You'll see! "For sale: a magnificent sword, 
 unique specimen." And then you talk of trustees 
 
 Duchess. Dominique, please 
 
 Prince. Very well, then, pay. 
 
 Duchess. Oh, you wanted to force me to ! You at- 
 tacked me on my weakest side — ^the Piedoux side! Your 
 scheme won't work this time, my child! I told you I 
 wouldn't pay a sou, and not a sou will I pay! Sell what- 
 ever you like — sword and all. I shall be bitterly disap- 
 pointed, but I shan't be sorry for you. The sword will be 
 
LAVEDAN 189 
 
 in better hands than yours, wherever it goes. You're no 
 son of mine, you're no true nobleman! 
 
 They are interrupted by the entrance of De Horn, who 
 informs them that the guests are arriving. The Duchess 
 goes to the balcony, and De Horn asks the Prince what is 
 the matter. When he says that his mother is threatening 
 him with trustees, and that he must have 400,000 francs 
 the next day, De Horn begs him not to worry about it, as 
 he knows where the money can be had. 
 
 Although the Prince was enabled to pay his debts by 
 borrowing from De Horn, he was forced soon after to sell 
 his house, his horses, and even the famous sword, and come 
 to live at the country chateau of his mother in Anjou. 
 And the Duchess has made good her threat about having 
 his estate placed in the control of a trustee. De Horn and 
 Montade are again guests of the Prince, and the novelist 
 reminds the banker of his warning three months before to 
 look out lest he get fooled. He does not beUeve that De 
 Horn has made the slightest progress in the favor of the 
 Princess since she asked his advice about the Turkish 
 bonds, and he knows that the Prince has not even proposed 
 De Horn at the Jockey Club. De Horn is not at all im- 
 patient, but he soon learns that he must act quickly to 
 recoupe an indemnity. 
 
 The Prince is royally bored, but he is resigned and is 
 waiting for better days. To kill time he has decided to go 
 to Hungary with the Princess to visit some of her relatives 
 for several months. This is more than De Horn had reck- 
 oned on, and he decides to burn his bridges behind him and 
 proceed to the attack. 
 
 The poor Duchess is still striving to arouse her son's am- 
 bition. She believes he might make himself anything he 
 Ukes. If he will go into politics she will finance the cam- 
 paign. She conceives that a Deputy might govern very 
 well without knowing anything about his own private 
 affairs, and that he can rise to be Speaker, Minister, Am- 
 bassador. 
 
 Princess. Sultan! 
 
 Duchess. There is nothing you can't be! 
 
 Prince. A Prince d'Aurec ought not tb hold office 
 under the present administration. 
 
190 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 Princess [to the Duchess]. Just what you've said a 
 hundred times! 
 
 The Duchess considers that it would be a fine thing for 
 her son to get into the Academy; the green coat would be 
 very becoming to him. To be sure, he has written nothing, 
 but she suggests that he copy something out of his an- 
 cestors' correspondence; he could write a beautiful book, 
 as good as another. H he will not do that he must decide 
 on some profession. Sorbier, an old friend of the Duchess, 
 says that the aristocracy must learn to work like ordinary 
 mortals, unless they want to disappear from the face of the 
 earth. 
 
 Prince. But the times are not yet ripe for the reforms 
 M. Sorbier speaks of. I want to hear nothing more about 
 my entering a profession. I have one now. 
 
 Duchess. Laziness! 
 
 Prince. Precisely: I am a gentleman! 
 
 Duchess. That's not much. 
 
 Prince. I think it is. To set a standard in taste, in- 
 vent a new clever saying, a perfume, a shade, set in circu- 
 lation a new cravat, a distinctive hat, find a new method of 
 riding, make vice as attractive as the ridicule of virtue. 
 That is the only occupation worthy of a gentleman now- 
 adays. 
 
 ^ter this conversation the Prince goes out for a walk to 
 recuperate. The Duchess reminds Sorbier of her life 
 when she was a girl of eighteen, when he used to come and 
 have supper with them on Sunday nights. 
 
 Duchess. When any one mentioned any of the famous 
 heroes of French history in my presence, whenever I read 
 about the deeds of old, my heart beat at a terrible rate! 
 The nobles! In my eyes they were something high above 
 us, something apart, by reason of their better deeds and 
 thoughts and aspirations! They were for me the essence 
 of the good qualities of the whole race. This superior 
 race was in duty bound to carry on the traditions of the 
 past; each member was part of a long line of ancestors, and 
 it was his sole object in life to hand down intact to his 
 son the unstained family name. I said to myself: "If by 
 any chance I ever make a place for myself in that closed 
 caste, I, Virginie Pi^doux, will do my best to honor it." — 
 What a dream! The dream came true, I do belong to the 
 
LAVEDAN 191 
 
 class, and now I know it is less important than my own. 
 I'm punished! 
 
 Sorbier. Come, now ! 
 
 Duchess. I have suffered enough because of the no- 
 bility! I brought it my money and my bourgeois virtues, 
 it brought me its hereditary vices and its soiled 'scutcheon! 
 I got no happiness out of it, from my husband or my son. 
 There are times even when I am glad I am not a grand- 
 mother; a grandson would have had too many chances to 
 inherit his father's vices — ^that's another of the disillusions 
 of my old age ! My last days aren't happy ! 
 
 Sor. Nonsense 
 
 Duchess. No, they aren't. When I think of the dif- 
 ferent life I might have lived if I had not been so obstinate 
 and blind — oh, the marriages I have refused! 
 
 Sor. [pensively]. Yes! 
 
 Duchess. I have regretted a hundred times ! 
 
 Sor. [ill at ease]. Please! 
 
 Duchess. Why not speak of it? It will make my life 
 easier for a little! I am so sorry I refused you when 
 you asked for my hand — ^from my father — thirty-five 
 years ago! 
 
 Sor. Thirty-six. 
 
 Duchess. How old we're getting! 
 
 The Duchess goes out with Sorbier. De Horn picks up 
 a photograph of the Princess. Fiction may satisfy Mon- 
 tade, he thinks, but it does not suflSce for him. The Prin- 
 cess enters and looks at him. She tells him to put back 
 the picture. 
 
 Princess. Let us keep our distance. 
 
 De H. I want to bring us closer together. 
 
 Princess. You are wasting your time. 
 
 De H. So that we may come closer afterward! . . . 
 You see, don't you, that I have a confession to make? 
 
 Princess. And you are put out because I don't ask you 
 what? I'm not in the least curious. 
 
 De H. So much the worse : I am indiscreet — ^I love you ! 
 
 Princess. Is it worth while to ring for a servant? 
 
 De H. I love you deeply, with all my power, with all 
 my heart! 
 
 Princess. Of course! 
 
 De H. Up to now I have been treated as an inti- 
 
192 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 mate friend of the family, I have been shown special con- 
 sideration 
 
 Princess. And therefore you conclude "That little 
 Princess — mm. — ah! One of these days I'll have only to 
 open my arms and she will fall into them!" Well, Mon- 
 sieur, you have aimed a httle too high! 
 , De H. Madame, you would not be the first great 
 lady who has stooped! 
 
 Princess. That is very true, but when we do stoop, we 
 choose! 
 
 De H. And if I am so low that you please to make 
 me feel my position, who can blame me if I aspire to you? 
 What finer ambition could I have? I'm a millionau-e, 
 blasi, hard to please! There is nothing in the world but 
 you to desire! I have everything! 
 
 Princess. Except 
 
 De H. Except everything! You!! And I feel as if 
 I had nothing! 
 
 Princess. Surely you exaggerate! 
 
 De H. You are all I have ever wanted, dreamed of! 
 
 Princess. Most flattered, I'm sure! 
 
 De H. I think it is a punishment for aU my wealth that 
 I should love a woman who scorns and despises me! I 
 must be terribly in love with you, your quahties, and your 
 race 
 
 Princess. Everything that you haven't! 
 
 De H. I know it; and that is why I love you. I don't 
 need you to tell me that you are a superior being; I am the 
 first to admit it. It is the only thing I have ever been 
 forced to admit. If I hadn't been born what I am, I should 
 have liked to belong to your class ! 
 
 De Horn says that the Prince has ruined her, that she 
 has a kingdom to rule over in Paris, and that he will give 
 it to her. 
 
 Princess. Suggest that to him! 
 
 De H. Little he thinks of you ! Mademoiselle de Varau- 
 court, descendant of Richelieu, has now been reduced to 
 the position of wife of a bankrupt country squire ! Pretty, 
 isn't it? I have more pride in you than he has, I think 
 more of your social prestige than your husband! With me 
 at least money would flow again in the house he has raided 
 and despoiled; you can spend what you like: you will 
 
LAVEDAN 193 
 
 always have plenty. There'll not be enough room in the 
 house to keep it all! Come with me and let me reestablish 
 you where you belong! Be a princess again, and not what 
 you now are! 
 
 Princess. That will do! 
 
 De H. No, that will not do ! You know life well enough 
 to realize that that will not do — in these times! 
 
 Princess. I insist. Monsieur! And the proof is that I 
 ask you to leave immediately! Go away and don't come 
 back. I don't want to see you again! 
 
 He reminds her of his services. She says that her hus- 
 band will repay him. 
 
 De H. Are you going to tell him? 
 
 Princess. Within five minutes. 
 
 De H. Will you tell him that I have bought your clothes 
 for you? 
 
 Princess. Yes, Monsieur. 
 
 De H. He will be dehghted! 
 
 Princess. I can't say as much for you! 
 
 De H. Oh, I have nothing to fear from him. How 
 about you? 
 
 Princess. He will understand me; we are equals. 
 
 De H. You are — equals! 
 
 Princess. Insolent Jew! 
 Enter the Pbince, hearing the Princess's last words. 
 
 Prince. What's the matter? 
 
 Princess. Monsieur has just asked me to become his 
 mistress. 
 
 Prince. Indeed! 
 
 Princess. I offered a few objections, and then he said 
 something about havuig rendered us some services. Ask 
 him, he will give you all the necessary details. 
 
 [She goes out. 
 
 De Horn stands his ground composedly, and when the 
 Prince tells him to leave, says he is still there, and moreover 
 that he is good enough to fight a duel with any one. 
 
 Prince. I'm sorry, but I'm not "any one." I have 
 honored you by my company, I have received you as an 
 intimate friend in my family, you have made free with us 
 and our acquaintances, patronized the same tailor as I, 
 until you have forgotten that a great gulf separates us! I 
 have even shown myself in public with you, I have ridden 
 
194 THE PRINCE D'AUREC 
 
 with you in your own carriages, and now you talk about 
 your damned money 
 
 De H. I well recall how you swooped down on that 
 damned money! 
 
 De Horn informs the Prince that he is not going to put 
 up with his impudence, and that he is not afraid of his 
 threats. He may think he can caress and flatter him, 
 empty his purse whenever he likes, and then throw him 
 aside like a worn-out coat, but this time he is mistaken. He 
 tells the Prince that the Princess owes him 300,000 francs. 
 The moment tiey seek to discharge him Uke a servant, he 
 asks for his wages. 
 
 De H. Have you seven hundred thousand francs? No. 
 I shall not leave until I have my money. 
 
 Prince [white vdth anger, as he raises his ami]. You !! 
 
 Take care, or I'll ! 
 
 De H. Violence will not pay your debts. Monsieur. I 
 have taken precautions, and I hold the reins tight in my 
 hands. There is ho use becoming excited. Get my 
 money for me. I'll wait. 
 
 The Prince stands mute with rage and impotence. He 
 walks back and forth twisting his moustache, casting side- 
 long glances at De Horn. He rings the bell, and a servant 
 enters a moment later. He lets the servant go, and then 
 rings again and sends for his mother. He also asl^ for the 
 Princess, M. Sorbier, and M. Montade. 
 
 De H. Every one? 
 
 Prince. Every one. 
 
 De H. A pleasure party! 
 
 Prince. Or an execution. 
 
 The Duchess, the Princess, Sorbier, and Montade come 
 in. 
 
 Prince. Mother 
 
 Duchess. Never mind: Th6rese has told me everything. 
 [To De Hobn.] Monsieur, if you will be good enough to 
 go to your room, you will find yom* baggage packed. M. 
 Bertin, who has received instructions from me, is waiting 
 for you below. He will take the same train as you do, the 
 Paris express, leaving at five fifty-eight. To-morrow morn- 
 ing you will be paid. 
 
 De H. Very well. 
 
 [He stays for a tnomeni, as if about to say someUiing.] 
 
LAVEDAN 195 
 
 Sor. [approaching him], I advise you to go. Monsieur, 
 you have nothing more to do here. 
 
 De H. [going]. Oh, by the way, the Constable's sword is 
 in my collection! 
 
 [The Prince is about to follow him, but his mother 
 prevents him with a gesture.] 
 
 Duchess. Dominique! 
 
 [De Horn goes out in silence. The Prince sits 
 dovm, angry and disgusted, his head in his hands. 
 He bursts into sobs.] 
 
 Mont, [in an undertone]. Nervous let-down. 
 
 Sor. [aside to the Duchess]. He is yours now; strike 
 while the iron is hot. 
 
 Princess [to her husband]. Thank your mother! She 
 deserves it! 
 
 Duchess [going to the Prince]. Are you satisfied with 
 me? Was I really the Duchess de Talais? 
 
 Prince. Yes. You are noble, not I. 
 
 Duchess. When will you be? 
 
 Prince. I shall never be the man you want me to be! 
 To-day I can only promise you one thing: to live the life 
 of an honest man, and when the time comes, to die like a 
 prince. 
 
 Duchess. War? Will you give up your life in war? 
 
 Mont, [suavely polite]. As would any of us. 
 
 Prince [drawing himself up to his full height, and with 
 conscious pride]. There is a certain way of doing it ! 
 
FOR THE CROWN 
 By FHAN901S CoppfiB 
 
 First played in Paris at the Thefitre de I'Oddon on 
 January 19, 1895. 
 
 Argument: Michael Brancomir, who for twelve years 
 has defended the Balkan passes against the Turks, is 
 incensed at not being elected king and conspires to obtain 
 the crown by becoming an ally of the Sultan. His son 
 Constantine, discovering the plot and failing to dissuade 
 him, slays him in combat. Will Constantine, accused as 
 a traitor, clear himself by confessing his father's guilt, or 
 will he suffer martyrdom? 
 
 Before the gateway of a fifteenth centiu-y stronghold in 
 the Balkans two soldiers are talking of the evU times. 
 Benko, a secret agent of the Turks, disguised as a wander- 
 ing minstrel, listens to their conversation. They say that 
 fearful portents are reported by travellers; at Prague in 
 Bohemia a portrait of the Virgin was seen to turn pale, 
 and in Poland the wayside crucifixes have bled from their 
 five woimds. 
 
 Michael Brancomir enters with Bazilide, a Greek prin- 
 cess of fascinating beauty, who is his second wife. He is 
 expecting word from the Diet, which is in session at Wid- 
 din, that he has been elected king in recognition of his 
 services in defending the country successfully against the 
 Turks for many years. His son Constantine has just 
 defeated the Turks in a skirmish and enters accompanied 
 by soldiers. 
 
 It is against Michael's orders to give quarter to the en- 
 emy, and he tells Constantine that two prisoners whom 
 he has brought with him must be put to death. Constan- 
 tine acquiesces in the case of one of the prisoners, but 
 claims the other, a gypsy girl named Militza, as booty. 
 
 196 
 
COPPEE 197 
 
 Then he offers the girl her liberty and a well-filled purse. 
 She begs him, however, to let her remain with him as his 
 servant; and on his consenting, asks him to give her a 
 poniard from his belt as a pledge that he will keep his 
 word. She says she will kill herself with it if he dies. 
 
 Soldiers enter. With them is Ourosch, a grizzled vet- 
 eran. 
 
 Ourosch. Good news for every Christian soul! 
 The Diet names the Bishop Stephen, king! [The soldiers 
 cheer.] 
 
 Constantine [aside]. My father! 
 
 Ourosch. And the king, scarce crowhed. 
 
 Has come here to the camp to bring his blessing. 
 
 [Shouts are heard at a little distance.] 
 'Tis he . . . You hear . . . 
 
 Michael [in a low voice to Bazilidb]. And so the thing 
 is done! 
 He comes here close upon my envoy's heels; 
 In triumph comes to give offence to me! 
 I'm stifled! Ha! I think my veins will burst. 
 
 BazUide. We shall take vengeance. I pray you to be 
 calm. 
 
 [At this moment the Bishop-King, wearing the crown 
 over his mitre and holding a cross of white wood, 
 enters at the rear followed by an escort of boyars.] 
 
 Mich. [a,side]. 'Tis he! 
 
 Soldiers. Long live the king! 
 
 King. Peace be with 
 
 you! 
 Prince Michael, and thou, Constantine, all of you. 
 Christian soldiers, blessed be you all 
 Li the name of the Trinity. 
 
 AU. So be it! 
 
 King. War has made Brancomir the first among us; 
 He more than I deserves the kingly crown; 
 And yet they give it me, who ask it not. 
 But I must needs obey the people's voice. 
 Who in their wisdom wish their mighty chief, 
 The shield of Christian Europe and our land. 
 To cariy to the end his warlike task. 
 And choose an aged man whose ardent prayer 
 Is ever for his country. The will of God 
 
198 FOR THE CROWN 
 
 Be done! I shall obey, nnd I accept 
 The duty rather than the place and title. _ 
 But having on my brow the crown and mitre. 
 Oh valiant Brancomir, I come to you 
 To give the kiss paternal of your king. 
 Brief will be my reign, for night is near; 
 Beneath my throne I sense the empty tonib. 
 More conqueror you, when I am dead, will be. 
 And king at last of your delivered country. 
 Until then, Brancomir, in heart and thought 
 Be we united for the work begun. 
 The holy work, with unabating zeal; 
 And so it may be known that no ill-will 
 Doth rankle in your breast, embrace your king. 
 And kneel before the presence of your priest. 
 
 Mich, [aside]. I bend the knee before this mountebank. 
 This hypocrite! . . . 0!God! It were dishonor! 
 
 King. Come, I extend my arms, and do you wait? 
 
 Baz. [low to Michael]. He is the master and you must 
 obey. 
 
 [Michael, quelling his fury, approaches Stephen, 
 who embraces him; then he kneels before the bishop, 
 who places both hands on his head.] 
 
 Benko [aside]. I come in time. This man is ripe for 
 treason. 
 
 King. I bid you now farewell, for I return 
 To Widdin, happy to have seen the hills. 
 The mighty Balkan rampart of the Faith, 
 And seek the altars where I pray for you, 
 Brancomir, champion of all Christendom! 
 No glory, friend, is equal to your own; 
 Beyond the mountain chain the horde is held 
 At bay, conquered, and with terror struck 
 By the sword sublime that glitters in your hand. 
 
 Soldiers. Long live the king! 
 
 Mich. You think our hearts 
 
 rmited! 
 Hatred and malediction! 
 
 King [raising his hand]. Bless you all! 
 
 The great hall of the citadel is decorated in barbaric 
 style. Oriental tapestries, skins of beasts, trophies and 
 
COPPEE 199 
 
 standards taken from the Turks are hung on the walls. 
 Bazilide is giving an audience to Benko, the pretended 
 minatrel. He assures her that her husband may easily- 
 become king. He has only to do what other kings have 
 done, become a vassal of the Sultan, allow the worshippers 
 of Allah to reopen the mosques, and pay a tribute yearly. 
 Benko has ready a firman to settle the compact. 
 
 BaziUde replies that it is no easy thing, notwithstanding 
 Michael's ambition, to persuade such a rough soldier to 
 act the part of a traitor. Benko places the firman in her 
 hands. It is to the efiFect that whoever opens the moun- 
 tain passes to the troops of the Sultan and becomes his 
 ally shall be crowned king. Only the seal of Brancomir is 
 wanted to make the firman binding. But there must be 
 no further delay. Benko proposes that Michael shall 
 that very night take the place of the watchman on Tra- 
 jan's road; t£at he shall fail to light the warning beacon, 
 and that he shall meet the pasha Othorgul, who will come 
 up with his troops and cross the mountain. Bazilide 
 agrees to use all her power over her husband to make him 
 accept. 
 
 When Bazilide and Benko have gone out, Constantine 
 enters the hall and is followed by Militza, who warns him 
 of a threatening danger. She tells him that the minstrel 
 whom the haughty Bazilide favors is a Turk whom she has 
 seen on the other side of the frontier in company with 
 Othorgul. She is sure that Constantine's Greek step- 
 mother is plotting with Benko. 
 
 Mil. Misfortune take me if it angers you — 
 Suspect them all, your father with the rest. 
 
 Cons, [raising his hand furiously]. My father! . . . 
 Miserable slave! 
 
 MU. Strike me. 
 
 But believe yotir father would be king. 
 
 Cons. MUitza! 
 
 Mil. When a dog finds peril near 
 
 And barks, the unjust man would strike. Well, strike! 
 It matters little if my blood is shed. 
 Let the dog die, if the master's life is saved. 
 
 Cons. My father! Horrible! 
 
 Mil. My heart beats fast. 
 
 May I die on a sudden if my instinct fails. 
 
200 FOR THE CROWN 
 
 Most plainly have I seen that Brancomir 
 Exchanges with the stranger certain looks — 
 Shall I say the word? — of an accomplice. 
 
 Ccms. Accomplice! . . . He! . . . 
 
 Mil. I hurt you. Yes, I 
 
 know. 
 But then, reflect. Desire drives him ever; 
 Has he not grown as gloomy as the night 
 Since the wmte-haired bishop was chosen king? 
 Does he not long for vengeance at any price? 
 Ah, yes, but late his loyalty was a boast, 
 But Bazilide is there to tempt him on; 
 And subtle is the poison that is poured 
 In hours of love by woman so perverse. 
 Hatred in him effects its work obscure; 
 'Tis like a storm that blots the clearest sky. 
 His eyes betrayed it gathering slowly, mounting, 
 A whirlwind black of all his evil thoughts. 
 
 C<ms. Be silent, for I know! I shudder at it. 
 An echo in me says that you are right . . . 
 Father! . . . 'Tis atrocious to suspect you! . . . 
 
 Mil. You know the danger, so deUberate. 
 The slave has told you all and now is silent. 
 
 Cons. Oh, God! I shotild go mad if this thing were! 
 And yet . . . My father . . . no, it cannot be — 
 That he would sell his country, soul, and God. 
 A traitor! After thirty years of honor! 
 I must know all at once! I must know all. 
 
 He may easily assure himself, Militza says, for Bazilide 
 and Benko will seek a conference with his father as soon 
 as he returns from the hunt, and Constantine may over- 
 hear by concealing himself behind the tapestry. He is 
 loathe to play the spy, but for the country and for the 
 faith he follows Militza's suggestion. Michael enters the 
 hall accompanied by Bazilide and preceded and followed 
 by huntsmen. 
 
 Michael laments that he has nothing better to war on 
 than wild beasts. The huntsmen go out and Militza 
 slips out with them. Bazilide thinks her lot worse than 
 her husband's, for she was born in the purple, is accus- 
 tomed to court life, and now has nothing to do but gaze at 
 the snowy mountain summits. He replies that it was for 
 
COPPEE 201 
 
 her that he so ardently desired the throne which intrigue 
 gave to Stephen. The old man is only sixty, and it has 
 been prophesied that he will live to be a hundred. 
 
 Mich. A hundred years ! You'll need for that, old man, 
 A bosom that is proof against the poniard. 
 This dagger one fine day, drawn by this hand. 
 Shall, if I wish, make prophecy a liar. 
 I would do murder, and when I shall have struck. 
 There's no one shall usurp my throne again. 
 
 Baz. Thy fury and thy blasphemy are futile! 
 The entire people guard him. Your own soldiers 
 Know how to guard the bishop or avenge him. 
 
 She reminds him that there is a safer way of obtaining 
 the throne, as she has told him many times before, but he 
 resists her appeals to his ambition and love. 
 
 Baz. I wish it because I love you, Brancomir, 
 Because I know the bottom of your heart, 
 Because I know the secrets of your dreams. 
 At night you've tossed with fever and I've heard 
 Always the same word murmured by your lips. 
 Yes, this is what I wish and have prepared, 
 But only to bring happiness to you; 
 This dreadful life has lasted long enough 
 In which oiu* ardent and suppressed desires 
 Cut Uke two knives, the one against the other. 
 Killing our love, destroying our affection. 
 Too much! One day the cup will overflow. 
 Beware then lest our love turn into hate . . . 
 When I should tear myself from your embrace ! . . . 
 But that will never be, for you'll consent . . . 
 Do what I ask, Michael. Have faith in me; 
 And if the ambition be both crime and madness 
 Which gnaws oiu- bosoms like a vulture's beak. 
 Commit the crime and let us save our love. 
 But wherefore speak of crime and its remorse.'' 
 You would but take the station which is yoiu-s. 
 You shall chastise this race, thankless as God. 
 What of a minaret beneath the sky. 
 The tribute, or another petty shame? 
 Some day you will cast out the host of Islam 
 And be acclaimed Saint Michael, and the Great; 
 And you shall be as famous as the Csesars. 
 
802 FOR THE CROWN 
 
 But know you what you want and what is offered? 
 The royal might and coffers filled with gold. 
 If still you feel your soul oppressed by scruples 
 Tell me, and you will see that I can die. 
 
 Mich. By heaven! 
 
 Baz. Michael, do you want a proof? 
 
 My woman's heart is stouter than your own. 
 Myself I'll strangle with my braided hair. 
 
 Mich. Enough! I do accept, comply and vow! 
 Lead on where'er you will and I will go. 
 I'm steeled for aught, for crime or sacrilege. 
 I'd build this throne for you though I were forced 
 To become the slave and satelUte of Satan, 
 And with him, taking hammer, plane and saw. 
 To make it from the wood of Calvary's cross. 
 
 Baz. [dravnng him with her, and poiniing imperiously 
 toward the door of the gallery where the SuUan's emissary 
 awaits them]. Come! 
 
 Cons, [coming out from his place of concealment in 
 despair]. I know my father is a traitor! 
 
 A sentry is at his post near the triumphal arch of Trajan, 
 waiting to be relieved. Michael arrives, disguised, gives 
 the password and takes the watchman's place. He is 
 expecting the approach of the Turks when he is surprised 
 by the appearance of Constantine. 
 
 Mich. , What brings you here 
 
 In this vast solitude at such an hour? 
 Your mouth is quivering and your face is white. 
 What do you here? 
 
 Ccffis. What do you here, yourself? 
 
 Mich. Answer, and do not overstrain my patience. 
 What do you here? 
 
 Cons. My duty. I know all. 
 
 Mich. You know . . . 
 
 Cons. The Balkans will resound 
 
 with arms; 
 The Turks are coming, and this beacon piled 
 Beside you is not kept by faithful guard. 
 To-night to save entire Christendom, 
 My father's honor and his soul as well. 
 In spite of you, I'll kindle it in flame. 
 
COPPEE 203 
 
 Telling his father to spare himself the shame of falsehood, 
 Constantine reveals how he overheard the plot. But he 
 hopes now that he was somehow deceived, that he has had 
 a horrible dream, has lost his reason, or that his father only 
 pretended to BaziUde that he agreed. Michael disdains 
 to make a response. He will remain there, he says, and 
 Constantine must return to the castle. Constantine, reit- 
 erating that he will save his country from devastation and 
 his father from shame, wishes to set the torch to the beacon 
 and demands that Michael stand aside. 
 
 Mich. Never! 
 
 Cons. Father, reflect! Father, beware! 
 
 God sees you, starry Heaven is looking on! 
 I asked myself, when I had heard the plot. 
 What honor did require me to do. 
 'Twiis clear, alas, denounce your infamy, 
 Together with your miserable wife! 
 For you that would have meant both death and torture. 
 And, worse than all, the glory of your past 
 Effaced at one fell stroke by open crime. 
 Atrocious thought, a son betray his father! 
 I could not do it; it filled my heart with terror. 
 But now time passes, I must act. Give way! 
 Appease your coimtry and high Heaven in wrath. 
 
 Mich. Too late. Repent that you have saved my life. 
 I will do that on which I have resolved. 
 
 Cons. You would give up our ancient frontier post! 
 The Turks wotdd ravage Eiu-ope from end to end, 
 The whole Christian world. 
 
 Mich. It was ungrateful. 
 
 Cons. And Christ! Your God! 
 
 Mich. And has he made me 
 
 king? 
 In spite of him, I swear I'll have the crown. 
 
 Cons. The crown, perhaps, will fit no traitor's brow. 
 It might, indeed, new ruler of the Balkans, 
 Slip to your shoulder and a shackle cling. 
 
 Mich. You would insult me? Your madness goes too 
 far! 
 
 Cons. Well, I am wrong. 'Tis true! I crave your 
 pardon! 
 I know not what to say. I call to rescue 
 
204 FOR THE CROWN 
 
 The memory of warriors now dead, 
 Theix glories and heroic deeds of yore. 
 The prowess and exploits of his yoimger days. 
 Hasten! Rise up around him now he wavers. 
 And make him blush to think of treason's name. 
 Tell him, to-morrow when returning home. 
 The standards hanging at the palace gates 
 Would strive to give him buffets as he passed. 
 Tell him, oh, tell the hero who now falters. 
 His soldiers who have fallen in the wars 
 Know he has thought of this surpassing crime. 
 That they are speaking of it underground; 
 One passing in the evening by their tombs 
 Would hear a murmur run among the heath. 
 
 Throwing himself upon his knees, Constantine prays 
 that he may recover his hero and his father; that his father 
 will light the beacon and cast his base project in the flames 
 like a poisonous herb, and that the night wind may sweep 
 away this horrible dream in the whirUng flame and sparks. 
 Michael stops him brusquely, telling him to rise, and 
 swears by all the demons that he will be king of mountain 
 and plain, crown his queen, and take vengeance on the 
 priest. No one, he swears, shall light the beacon while he 
 lives. 
 
 Constantine remembers that the Turks are drawing near 
 the pass at this very moment. Every second wasted 
 makes him an accomplice. His sword, he says, leaps from 
 its sheath, commanding him to be judge and executioner. 
 He draws it, and Michael draws his. 
 
 Cons. I defend my country and all of Christian Europe, 
 My martial duty, the honor of my house. 
 But you for treason strike. May God preside. 
 Death to the traitor! 
 
 [Constantine lunges at Ms father. Their swords 
 cross for a moment. Michael receives a thrust 
 full in the chest and staggers.] 
 
 Mich. Ah! 
 
 Cons. What have I done! 
 
 Mich, [on the ground, expiring]. Parricide! 
 Be accursed! [He dies.] 
 
 [Constantine throws a torch on the beacon, which 
 flames up. At a distance on the mountain other 
 
COPPEE 205 
 
 signal fires flare out, and cannon are heard giving 
 
 the alarm.] 
 Cons. You are witnesses, stars, you eyes of God! 
 Before this body and before this fire 
 I dare regard you and reveal my soul. 
 My father would betray his land and faith! 
 Oh, stars, I have killed my father. Judge me then. 
 
 An interval of some inonths has elapsed. Ourosch, 
 whose daughter Anna is dressing his wounds, is discussing 
 with Lazare, another soldier, the frequency of the defeats 
 suffered by the Christians since the death of Michael Bran- 
 comir, who fell bravely at his post and to whom a statue 
 has been erected at Widdin. They criticise Constantiae, 
 blaming his recklessness in giving battle to the Turks, and 
 commenting upon his gloomy manner and his coldness 
 toward the widowed Bazilide. Lazare suspects him of 
 treachery, and Anna alone has a word to say in his 
 favor. 
 
 Constantine by turns reproaches himself for his terrible 
 crime, and justifies his conduct to himself. Bazilide seeks 
 an interview with him, and tells him that although aware 
 of his hatred toward her she is anxious for the welfare of 
 the son of the dead hero. His rashness in battle and fre- 
 quent defeats, she says, have bred discontent among the 
 soldiers, who suspect him of being a traitor. The Turks, 
 she has learned, have crossed the Balkans through a ravine 
 and will reach Widdin in a few days. He is anxious to rush 
 at once to arms, but Bazilide assures him that the army 
 will no longer obey him. The mutinous soldiers are heard 
 shouting outside. 
 
 She has a means of safety to offer Constantine. By 
 employing it he may accomplish an object dreamed of by 
 his father, whose reason for going to Trajan's arch was to 
 extend his hand to Othorgul. If Michael had shown more 
 energy he might have become a strong and powerful king. 
 Constantine may succeed where his father failed, and be- 
 stow peace and happiness upon his country. 
 
 Impulsively she (Iraws from her bosom the Sultan's fir- 
 man, on which Michael placed his seal. The bargain still 
 holds good; she has just seen an agent of the Turks. Mean- 
 while, sedition is spreading. Before long Constantine 
 
206 FOR THE CROWN 
 
 will undoubtedly be denounced as disloyal. But it is the 
 throne that she offers him. She exhorts him to be more 
 resolute than his father and open the way to the Turks. 
 
 Cons. Infamous ! This surpasses every bound. 
 You dare to offer me the selfsame treason! 
 Wretch that you are, I will be satisfied. 
 And blurt the hideous secret in your face! 
 
 Baz. What! 
 
 Cans. I, too, was at the Roman arch, 
 
 Alone, save for my father, sword in hand . . . 
 
 Baz. You! 
 
 Cons. And well I know, thou wretched woman, 
 
 That Brancomir had done the infamous act, 
 So was he hardened by your arts in crime. 
 Had I not slain him with this veiy hand. 
 
 Baz. You! His son! 
 
 Cons. Yes, parricide am I! 
 
 The cause of this so frightful freak of chance 
 Was you alone! And I endure the guilt. 
 Speak not. Your crime was shared by him as well. 
 By irony of fate it has to be 
 That you unpunished Uve to spare his honor. 
 I cannot brand you, woman, in the sight 
 Of God and man, but I at least can say 
 That I have blasted your insane chimsera. 
 The snare you set in darkness secretly. 
 Destroyed by me, did fail to take its prey. 
 'Twas I who shattered your so frightful hope. 
 And like a dagger in your wicked heart 
 I'd plunge the hellish fangs of this regret. 
 And make you bear the burden of your miurder. 
 Nature outraged, and law I would avenge 
 In shaking o'er your head these bloody hands. 
 
 Baz. Beware! . . . 
 
 Cons. You wish to reign and make a 
 
 king! 
 But I shall bring your crafty wiles to nought. 
 
 A flourish of trumpets and acclamations resound without. 
 The great doors of the hall are flung apart and the bishop- 
 king, crowned and mitred, with a cuirass over his white 
 robe, carrying a sceptre surmounted by a golden reliquary, 
 enters abruptly. He is accompanied by a number of 
 
COPPICE 207 
 
 boyars, and by peasants armed with scythes. The citadel 
 guard press in disorder about the king. 
 
 The soldiers denounce Constantine as a traitor and call 
 for vengeance on his head. The king silences the clamor. 
 He declares himself ready to take the field against the 
 enemy in defence of Christianity and liberty, and invites 
 Constantine to accompany him and thus dissipate the 
 fears and suspicions that have been aroused. Such a man 
 as Constantine, he says, must not be accused without 
 proof. 
 
 Baz. I then with such proof do here accuse him! 
 
 King. You, princess? 
 
 Cons, [aside]. My God! 
 
 Baz. You wish a proof. 
 
 Holy Bishop? Listen! I the widow 
 Of Brancomir, the hero whom we mourn, 
 Afl&rm that all these men have said the truth. 
 Herewith I show the proof that you demand. 
 
 [She gives him the Sultan's firman. Constantine 
 starts.] 
 An instrument which offers him the crown. 
 If the Turks may cross the mountains unopposed. 
 Ah! , . . What is that! . . . The seal of Bran- 
 comir! 
 
 Crowd [in indign(Uion]. Ha! 
 
 Baz. He sought to make me his 
 
 accomplice. 
 It is my care to see that he is punished. 
 
 Cons. Wretched woman! 
 
 Baz. And then continue mourn- 
 
 ing .. . 
 [Aside.] Avenged! 
 
 [She goes out. The muttering of the crowd increases.] 
 
 Cons, [asyie]. Do you permit this wrong to me. 
 Just God! I find your wrath a heavy weight! 
 I must be silent or accuse my father. 
 
 King. You do not speak? 
 
 Cons, [aside]. Defend myself? But how? 
 
 King. Exonerate yourself from such a charge! 
 Your silence is construed to be admission. 
 
 Cons, [aside]. Conceal the treason! Bury parricide! 
 I only ask for death, so let it come. 
 
208 FOR THE CROWN 
 
 King. For the last time, will you say nothing? 
 Cons. Nothing. 
 
 Crowd. Death to the traitor! 
 King. Justice shall be done. 
 
 We give the executioner his head; 
 His crime is that which Judas did commit. . . . 
 Seize him! 
 
 [Soldiers surround Constantine.] 
 
 My friends, we will concern ourselves 
 With sacred vengeance in the holy war. 
 Your only chief is now a white-haired priest; 
 But he is full of hope, and God will guide. 
 Have at the Turk, soldiers of Christ! To war! 
 
 [The crowd cheer loudly and follow the King from the 
 hall. As chains are being placed on Constantine, 
 MiUTZA runs forward and throws herself on her 
 knees before him.] 
 
 Victory has attended the arms of the Christians, and 
 while the people are rejoicing in a square in Widdin and 
 describing the losses of the Turks, the king arrives. Hav- 
 ing declared that the glory belongs to God alone, he di- 
 rects that Constantine be brought forth from prison. 
 Pointing to the statue of Michael Brancomir, he reminds 
 Constantine of his father's achievements, dwells on the 
 enormity of his treason, and once more urges him to con- 
 fess his crime fully and to allow his heart to melt at the 
 thought of the disgrace he has brought upon his father's 
 name. Constantine is still silent. The king joins the 
 council which is sitting in judgment. When he returns 
 he announces that Constantine has been found guilty, but 
 that death is considered too slight a punbhment. The 
 crowd clamor for his execution. 
 
 King. Silence! He shall live, but in a way 
 Shall make him crave the dreadfulest of deaths. 
 Enchained forever to the pedestal 
 Where stands his father in eternal bronze 
 He'll live devoid of hope to gain release; 
 And you shall spit upon him as you pass 
 And fling the gutter's mud upon the craven. 
 But do not strike him, do not spill his blood; 
 For he must live and all his shame endure. 
 
O a 
 
 « 3 
 
 « S 
 
 O " 
 W 
 
COPPEE 209 
 
 Cons. Horrible! 
 
 Worse than death this sentence is. 
 Do you approve it, do you feel avenged? 
 Crowd. Yes. 
 
 Lazare. May he suflEer long. 
 
 Ouroseh. Well done! 
 
 Lazare. Well judged! 
 
 Anna. Unhappy man ! It's worse than rope or axe. 
 Cans. To live thus, and hve on! O God! 
 King. Chain him! 
 
 [SoMiers seize Constantine and drag him to the base 
 of the statue.] 
 It is forever. Death alone can end 
 His suflFering, a warning to all traitors. 
 
 Our. [standing out from the crowd\. 
 Long may he suffer in despair arid shame. 
 In pillory beneath his father's image. 
 
 Cons, [aside]. My father's place should be where I 
 shall be. 
 
 Laz. [coming forward]. May he remain attached here 
 to this bronze 
 Belike some hideous ulcer on a tree. 
 
 Cons, [aside]. Sustain me. Heavenly Father, give me 
 strength 
 That I may bear my burden to the end. 
 
 Laz. [to the King]. Oh, king, we scarce contain tne 
 wrath we feel. 
 You wished that he should live, and he is saved. 
 But let us hear him howl, the forest beast. 
 For what we may do every day we'd do; 
 Let each of us who wishes to, confront him 
 And cast an insult, spittle or a curse. 
 
 [MiLiTZA runs forward and throws herself into 
 Constantine's arms.] 
 Militza. There's one who will embrace him, one who 
 
 loves him! 
 Cons. Militza! 
 
 Mil. [to the crowd]. And now base executioners, come. 
 Together we will undergo the outrage. 
 Laz. Take her from him. 
 
 King. Wait! Now tell me, woman. 
 
 You know this man to be an infamous monster. 
 
210 FOR THE CROWN 
 
 His crime a horror in the light of day. 
 What are you who defend him? 
 
 Mil. I am love. 
 
 So let the clamor of the mob resound! 
 For love is for him, which stronger is than justice. 
 
 Laz. KiU her! 
 
 The king restrains him with a violent gesture. 
 
 Mil. Yes, love, oh, people, greedy of blood, 
 
 Is faithful and believes him innocent. 
 
 Cons, [kissing her forehead]. 
 Some one loves me! 
 
 Mil. You wanted him to live 
 
 To suffer. I will dehver him from that. 
 
 King. How? 
 
 Mil. [to CoNSTANTiNE, dfavdng from her bosom the pon- 
 iard which he formerly gave her.] 
 
 'Twas you who gave this dagger to me, 
 Constantine! [She stabs him.] See! I love you! 
 
 Cons. Thanks! 
 
 I die! [Dies.] 
 
 Crowd. Ha! 
 
 MU. K heaven exists I follow thee. [KiUa her- 
 
 self.] 
 
 Laz. The crime escapes of punishment. 
 
 King. Perhaps. 
 
 God will do justice to this sleeping pair. 
 Respect the dead, and pray for their repose. 
 
CYBANO DE BERGERAC* 
 
 By Edmond Rostand 
 
 Translated by Gertrude Hall 
 
 First played in Paris at the Porte Saint-Martin TM&tre 
 on December 28, 1897. 
 
 Argument: Cyrano, famed as poet and duellist, and 
 for the excessive stature of his nose, is hopelessly in love 
 with Roxane, a frivolous court beauty. He generously 
 determines to sacrifice himself to her happiness, and to 
 advance the suit of a handsome cavalier to whom she has 
 taken a fancy by supplying the young man with the wit 
 which he lacks. Whether Roxane has the discrimination 
 to appreciate Cyrano is the crux on which the drama hangs. 
 
 In the hall used for theatrical performances in the 
 Hotel de Bourgogne, in Paris, in the year 1640, a motley 
 crowd, courtiers and burghers, lackeys and cavaliers, 
 thronged to one of the obscurest of productions, assured 
 at least of some entertainment, for Cyrano de Bergerac, 
 poet and duellist, had forbidden the actor Montfleury to 
 appear upon the boards for an entire month. 
 
 First Marquis. What is this Cyrano? 
 
 Cuigy. A crack-brain! 
 
 Second Marquis. Of quality? 
 
 Cuigy. Enough for daily uses. He is a cadet in the 
 Guards. [Calling.] Le Bret! . . . [Le Beet comes 
 toward them.] You are looking for Bergerac? 
 
 Le Bret. Yes. I am uneasy. 
 
 Cuigy. Is it not a fact that he is a most uncommon 
 fellow? 
 
 ♦Published by Doubleday, Page & Co. Copyright, 1898, by Double- 
 day & McClure Co. 
 
 211 
 
212 CYRANO DE BERGEEAC 
 
 Le B. [affectionately]. The most exquisite being he is 
 that walks beneath the moon! 
 
 Ragueneau. Poet! 
 
 Cuigy. Swordsman! 
 
 Brissaille. Physicist! 
 
 Le B. Musician! 
 
 Ligniere. And what an extraordinary aspect he pre- 
 sents! 
 
 Rag. I will not go so far as to say that I beUeve 
 our grave PhiUppe de Champaigne wiU leave us a portrait 
 of him; but the bizarre, excessive, whimsical fellow that 
 he is would certainly have furnished the late Jacques 
 Callot with a type of madcap fighter for one of his masques. 
 Hat with triple feather, doublet with twice-triple skirt, 
 cloak which his interminable rapier lifts up behind, with 
 pomp, Uke the insolent tail of a cock; prouder than all the 
 Artabans that Gascony ever bred, he goes about in his stiff 
 Punchinello ruff, airing a nose. . . . Ah, gentlemen, 
 what a nose is that! One cannot look upon such a speci- 
 men of the nasigera without exclaiming, "No! truly, the 
 man exaggerates," . . . After that, one smiles, one 
 says: "He will take it off." . . . But Monsieiu- de 
 Bergerac never takes it off at all. 
 
 Le B. [shaking his head\. He wears it always . . . 
 and cuts down whoever breathes a syllable in comment. 
 
 Ra^. [proudly]. His blade is half the shears of Fate! 
 
 There is a general flutter at the arrival of Magdeleine 
 Robin, a famous beauty, also called Roxane, who is Cy- 
 rano's cousin. It is current gossip that the Comte de 
 Guiche is enamored of her, and, himself married to Rich- 
 elieu's niece, wishes to bring about a match between Rox- 
 ane and a certain Monsieur de Valvert. 
 
 Finally the gentry go behind the curtain to occupy their 
 places on the stage-seats. The hall is crowded and there 
 is not an empty seat in the boxes or the gallery. Three 
 knocks are heard and the curtain is drawn apart. Violins 
 play softly, then a bagpipe as Montfleury appears upon 
 the stage. He is an enormous man, clad in shepherd's 
 costume, with rose-wreathed hat on one side of his head. 
 The audience start to applaud but there is an interrup- 
 tion. 
 A Voice. Rogue! Did I not forbid you for one month? 
 
ROSTAND 21S 
 
 * 
 
 Every one looks about. There are murmurs, and some 
 rise from their seats. The voice warns the actor to vanish. 
 Montfleury hesitates and then begins to recite. Cyrano 
 appears above the audience, standing on a chair, his hat 
 at a combative angle, his moustache on end, his nose 
 terrifying. There is a sensation at sight of him. 
 
 Cyrano. Ah! I shall lose my temper! 
 
 Montfleury [to the Marquises]. Messieurs, I appeal to 
 you! 
 
 One cf the Marquises [languidly]. But go ahead! . . . 
 Play! 
 
 Cyr. Fat man, if you attempt it, I will dust the paint 
 off you with thisi [Raises his stick.] 
 
 The Marquis. Enough! 
 
 Cyr. Let every Uttle lordling keep silence in his seat, 
 or I will ruffle his ribbons with my cane! 
 
 All the Marquises [rising]. This is too much! . . , 
 Montfluery. ... ' 
 
 Cyr. Let Montfleury go home, or stay, and, having 
 cut his ears off, I will disembowel him! 
 
 A Voice. But . . . 
 
 Cyr. Let him go home, I said! 
 
 Other Voice. But after all . . . 
 
 Cyr. It is not yet done? [With show of turning up his 
 sleeves.] Very well, upon that stage, as on a platter 
 trimmed with green, you shall see me carve that moimt of 
 brawn. 
 
 Mont, [calling up his whole dignity]. Monsieur, you cast 
 indignity, in my person, upon the Muse! 
 
 Cyr. [very civilly]. Monsieur, if that lady, with whom 
 you have naught to do, had the pleasure of beholding 
 you . . . just as you stand there, like a decorated 
 pot! . . . she could not live, I do protest, but she 
 hurled her buskin at you! 
 
 The audience become impatient, but Cyrano orders 
 them all to hold their tongues, challenges everybody, says 
 he will take down their names and promises them mortu- 
 ary flowers. Again he turns to the stage and tells the actor 
 to begone before he counts three. Montfleury goes. 
 Cyrano has two grounds for disliking him: first, because 
 he is an execrable actor, and secondly — but that is Cyrano's 
 secret. 
 
214 CYRANO DE BERGERAC 
 
 The performance is broken up, and as the audience 
 depart a bore accosts Cyrano, observing that Montfleury 
 has a powerful patron. Cyrano tells him shortly to be 
 on his way. 
 
 Cyr. Face about, I say ... or else, tell me why 
 you are looking at my nose. 
 
 The Bore \bevnldered\. I . . . 
 
 Cyr. [advancing upon him]. In what is it imusual? 
 
 The Bore [backing]. Your worship is mistaken. 
 
 Cyr. [same business as above]. Is it flabby and pendu- 
 lous, Uke a proboscis? 
 
 The Bore. I never said . . . 
 
 Cyr. Or hooked like a hawk's beak? 
 
 The Bore. I . . . . 
 
 Cyr. Do you discern a mole upon the tip? 
 
 The Bore. But ... 
 
 Cyr. Or is a fly disporting himself thereon? What is 
 there wonderful about it? 
 
 The Bore. Oh . . . 
 
 Cyr. Is it a freak of nature? 
 
 The Bore. But I had refrained from casting so much as 
 a glance at it! 
 
 Cyr. And why, I pray, should you not look at it? 
 
 The Bore. I had . . . 
 
 Cyr. So it disgusts you? 
 
 The Bore. Sir . . . 
 
 Cyr. Its color strikes you as unwholesome? 
 
 The Bore. Sir . . . 
 
 Cyr. Its shape unfortunate? 
 
 The Bore. But far from it! 
 
 Cyrano finally chastises him and lets, him go. The 
 Comte de Guiche finds Cyrano tiresome and asks if there 
 is no one who will take him up. Valvert responds and 
 swaggers up to Cyrano. He remarks that Cyrano's nose 
 is very large. Cyrano affects surprise that he should find 
 no more to say upon the subject and gives him a suggestion 
 or two. 
 
 Cyr. For instance, here you are: — ^Aggressive: "I, 
 Monsieur, if I had such a nose, nothing would serve but I 
 must cut it off!" Amicable: "It must be in your way 
 while drinking; you ought to have a special beaker made!" 
 Descriptive: "It is a crag! ... a peak! ... a 
 
ROSTAND 216 
 
 promontory! . . . A promonotory, did I say? . . . 
 It is a peninsula!" Inquisitive: "What may the office 
 be of that oblong receptacle? Is it an inkhom or a scissor- 
 case?" Mincing: "Do you so dote on birds, you have, 
 fond as a father, been at pains to fit the httle darUngs with 
 a roost?" Blunt: "Tell me. Monsieur, you, when you 
 smoke, is it possible you blow the vapor through your nose 
 without a neighbor crying ' The chimney is afire? ' " Anx- 
 ious: "Go with caution, I beseech, lest your head, 
 dragged over by that weight, should drag you over!" 
 Tender: "Have a little sunshade made for it! It might 
 get freckled ! ' ' Learned : ' ' None but the beast, Monsieur, 
 mentioned by Aristophanes, the hippocampelephanto- 
 camelos, can have borne beneath his forehead so much 
 cartilage and bone!" Off-hand: "What, comrade, is 
 that sort of peg in style ? Capital to hang one's hat upon ! " 
 Emphatic : "No wind can hope, O lordly nose, to give the 
 whole of you a cold, but the Nor-Wester!" Dramatic: 
 "It is the Red Sea when it bleeds!" Admiring: "What 
 sign for a perfumer's shop!" 
 
 So Cyrano runs on fluently to show him what might 
 be said in other modes, lyrical, simple, deferent, rustic, 
 miUtary, practical, and what not. 
 
 In reply all that Valvert can find to say is that Cyrano 
 is a clodhopper and loutishly dressed. 
 
 Cyr. My foppery is of the inner man. I do not trick 
 myself out hke a popinjay, but I am more fastidious if I 
 am not so showy. I would not sally forth by any chance 
 not washed quite clean of an affront, my conscience foggy 
 about the eye, my honor crumpled, my nicety blackrimmed. 
 
 Valvert, outfaced, turns to go when Cyrano cries out, 
 declaring his rapier prickles like a foot asleep. Valvert 
 draws Ms sword. Cyrano composes a ballade as they 
 fence, which he says will have three stanzas of eight Unes 
 each and an envoy of four, and at the last Une, he says, he 
 will give Valvert a charming little hurt. 
 
 There are acclamations from every side as Cyrano keeps 
 his word. Ladies toss flowers and handkerchiefs from the 
 boxes. Officers congratulate him. The wounded man is 
 carried off. Le Bret takes Cyrano to task for making 
 enemies recklessly, and demands his actual reason for dis- 
 liking Montfleury. 
 
216 CYRANO DE BERGERAC 
 
 Cyr. That old Silenus, who has not seen his knees this 
 many a year, still behaves himself a dehcate desperate 
 danger to the fair. And as he struts and burrs upon the 
 stage, casts languishing glances at them with his moist 
 frog's eyes. 
 
 The Thespian has been so bold as to cast his glance on 
 the lady whom Cyrano loves, "the most beautiful that 
 breathes!" He is speaking of Roxane. 
 
 Cyr. Look well at me, dear friend, and tell me how 
 much hope you think may justly be entertained with this 
 protuberance. Oh, I foster no illusions! . . . Some- 
 times, indeed, yes, in the violet dusk, I yield, even I! to a 
 dreamy mood. I penetrate some garden that Ues sweeten- 
 ing the hour. With my poor great devil of a nose I sniff 
 the April. . . . And as I follow with my eyes some 
 woman passing with a cavalier, I think how dear would I 
 hold having to walk beside me, linked like that, slowly, in 
 the soft moonlight, such a one! I kindle — I forget — and 
 then . . . then suddenly I see the shadow of my 
 profile upon the garden wall! 
 
 Le Bret reminds Cyrano of the admiration of the ladies 
 so recently attested, and tells him that during the duel 
 Roxane went deadly pale. It is only a moment later that 
 Roxane's duenna seeks out Cyrano and archly imparts to 
 him the fact that somebody is going to hear Mass at Saint 
 Roch at the earliest roses of the dawn, who afterward 
 might be skilfully decoyed into a tSte-a-tMe. Cyrano, his 
 head in a whirl, tells her to take her mistress into Rague- 
 neau's, the pastrycook's near the church in the Rue St. 
 Honore. 
 
 In his infatuation Cyrano longs for an army to put to 
 rout. The wish is answered in a manner by the entrance 
 of a drunken cavaher, Ligniere, who has been warned that 
 a hundred men are waiting, in ambush at the Porte de Nesle 
 to attack him on his way home. He begs permission to 
 spend the night at Cyrano's house. Cyrano says he shall 
 and, furthermore, Cyrano sallies out to meet the Imndred 
 at the Porte de Nesle. 
 
 Ragueneau is somewhat of a poet as well as pastrycook, 
 and is composing in his kitchen with an inspired air, count- 
 ing on his fingers in the gray dawn as helpers hedge him 
 
ROSTAND 217 
 
 about with custards, mince pies, and other delicacies from 
 the ovens. One of them has made a lyre of pie-crust in 
 his honor, with candied fruits and strings of spun sugar. 
 He is deeply touched. 
 
 A number of shabby poets who profess great friendship for 
 Ragueneau and gobble up his comestibles like ogres report 
 that a single man has put to flight a hundred at the Porte 
 de Nesle. Eight ruffians, they say, ripped open with the 
 sword, Ue weltering on the pavement. Cyrano, who has 
 come in, is writing a letter to Roxane, lacking the courage 
 to tell her his love. Cyrano sighs, the poets sidle up to the 
 cream tarts, and Ragueneau reads a recipe in rhyme, 
 setting forth how almond cheese-cakes should be made. 
 
 At last Roxane comes. She wants to thank Cyrano for 
 chastising Valvert, whom de Guiche is trying to force on 
 her as a husband. But there is something else which she 
 desires to confide in him, though she hardly dares. There 
 is some one whom she loves. Cyrano, nearly bereft of sense, 
 can only murmur, "Ah!" 
 
 Roxane. But if he does not know it, he soon will. 
 
 Cyrano. Ah! . . . 
 
 Rox. A poor boy who until now has loved me timidly, 
 from a distance, without daring to speak. . . . 
 
 Cyr. Ah\ . . . 
 
 Rox. No, leave me your hand. It is hot, this will 
 cool it. . . . But I have read his heart in his face. 
 
 Cyr. Ah! . . . 
 
 Rox. [completing the bandaging of his hand with her small 
 'pocket-handkerchief]. And, cousin, is it not a strange coin- 
 cidence — ^that he should serve exactly in your regiment! 
 
 Cyr. Ah! . . . 
 
 Rox. \laughing\. Yes. He is a cadet, in the same com- 
 pany! 
 
 Cyr. Ah! .. . 
 
 Rox. He bears plain on his forehead the stamp of wit, 
 of genius! He is proud, noble, young, brave, handsome. 
 
 Cyr. [rising, pale]. Handsome! .... 
 
 R/3X. What . . . what is the matter? 
 
 Cyr. With me? . . . Nothing! ... It is 
 . . . it is . . . [Shorjoing his hand, smiling.] You 
 know! ... It smarts a little . . . 
 
 Roxane says she has seen the young man only once, at 
 
218 CYRANO DE BERGERAC 
 
 the play, and that they have spoken to each other only 
 with their eyes. He is Baron Christian de Neuvillette, 
 just admitted to the cadets, and he has hair like one of 
 d'Urf^'s heroes. She has just learned that the cadets in 
 Cyrano's company are all Gasgons, and that they pick 
 quarrels with any not Gascons who manage to get in through 
 favoritism. In fact, she wants Cyrano to guarantee 
 Christian protection. Cyrano promises. 
 
 Rox. Oh, I quite love you! . . . Now I must go. 
 [She hurriedly resumes her mask, throws a veil over her head; 
 says absentmindedly.] But you have not yet told me about 
 last night's encounter. It must have been amazing! 
 . . . Tell him to write to me. [She kisses her hand to 
 him.] I love you dearly! 
 
 Cyr. Yes, yes. 
 
 Rox. A hundred men against you? . . . Well, 
 adieu. We are fast friends. 
 
 Cyr. Yes, yes. 
 
 She departs hastily. A number of the cadets come to 
 compliment Cyrano on his latest and most astonishing 
 exploit. The town is agog over it. A number of ladies 
 wish to be presented to the hero. Distinguished officers 
 express their admiration. Even De Guiche has come at 
 the request of the Marshal de Gaussion. 
 
 De Guiche says that Richelieu has found Cyrano's 
 spontaneity diverting. Le Bret is dazzled, thinking that 
 now there will be no difficulty in getting Cyrano's tragedy 
 played. But De Guiche reveals that it was he who set the 
 ambush for Ligniere, a drunken scribbler. A cadet entering 
 at that moment with a number of draggled hats on his 
 sword, Cyrano takes the sword and saying, "Monsieur, 
 if you should care to return them to your friends, " shakes 
 off the hats at De Guiche's feet. Le Bret is plunged in 
 despair at seeing his needy friend cut the throat of oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 Christian is darkly warned by his new companions that 
 there is one thing no more to be mentioned in their com- 
 pany than the rope in the house of the hanged. "Two 
 persons were lately cut off in their pride," says one, "for 
 talking through their noses. Cyrano thought it personal." 
 Christian is also informed that he will be expected to prove 
 his courage. He at once determines to prove it in the 
 
ROSTAND 219 
 
 manner which he sees will make the greatest effect upon the 
 cadets. 
 
 Cyrano is describing his exploit at the Porte de Nesle. 
 The streets being nowise Ughted, he says, when the moon 
 
 was obscured you could see no farther than "Your 
 
 nose," cries Christian. Cyrano stops in amazement and 
 asks who the young man is. As soon as he learns he sup- 
 presses his wrath and goes on with the story. 
 
 Cyr. And as I was walking along, reflecting that for a 
 very insignificant rogue I was probably about to offend 
 some great prince who would bear me a lasting grudge, 
 that, in brief, I was about to thrust my . . . 
 
 Christian. Nose . . . 
 
 [All get up. Chbistian has tilted his chair and is 
 rocking on the hind legs.] 
 
 Cyr. [choking]. Finger . . . between the tree and 
 the bark; for the aforesaid prince might be of suflBcient 
 power to trip me and throw me . . . 
 
 Chris. On my nose . . . 
 
 Cyr. [mpes the sweat from his brmo]. But, said I, "Gas- 
 cony, forward! Never falter when duty prompts! For- 
 ward, Cyrano!" and, saying this, I advance — when 
 suddenly, in the darkness, I barely avoid a blow . . . 
 
 Ckrisi Upon the nose . . . 
 
 Cyr. I ward it . . . and thereupon find myself . . . 
 
 Chris. Nose to nose . . . 
 
 Cyr. [springing toward him], Ventre-Saint-Gris! . . . 
 [All the (jAsgoNS rush forward, to see; Cyrano, on reaching 
 Christian, controls himself and proceeds.] . . . with a 
 hundred drunken brawlers, smelling . . , 
 
 Chris. To the nose's hmit . . . 
 
 Cyr. [deathly pale, and smiling]. ... of garlic and 
 of grease. I leap forward, head lowered . . . 
 
 Chris. Nose to the wind! . . . 
 
 Thoroughly infuriated, Cyrano sends out the cadets, 
 who expect to find nothing but a mound of mince meat to 
 represent Christian upon their return, but Cyrano explains 
 his forbearance to the young man. Christian, who felt so 
 httle fear of an invincible swordsman, is in despair because 
 in the presence of women he cannot find a word to say, but 
 Cyrano proposes to lend him eloquence, saying that Chris- 
 tian shall lend him all-conquering physical charm and that 
 
2S0 CYRANO DE BERGERAC 
 
 they will walk side by side. Christian in the full light, 
 Cyrano in his shadow. 
 
 There is a balcony over the door of Roxane's house, 
 which stands in a small square in the old Marais. Roxane 
 harbors a dismal foreboding that Christian, because he is 
 so handsome, cannot possibly be witty, and in fact when 
 he meets her at the door of her house and attempts to make 
 love to her his eloquence is so rudimentary that she quits 
 him in disdain and takes refuge indoors. Cyrano comes to 
 the rescue. Standing under a balcony, he prompts Chris- 
 tian, enabling him to coax Roxane to the window. 
 
 Rox. To-night your words come falteringly. . . . 
 Why is it? 
 
 Cyr. [talking low like Chbistian]. Because of the dark. 
 They have to grope to find your ear. 
 
 Boa;. My words do not find the same difficulty. 
 
 Cyr. They reach their point at once? Of course they 
 do! That is because I catch them with my heart. My 
 heart, you see, is very large, your ear particularly small. 
 . . . Besides, your words drop . . . that goes 
 quickly; mine have to climb . . . and that takes 
 longer! 
 
 Rox. They have been climbing more nimbly, however, 
 in the last few minutes. 
 
 Cyr. They are becoming used to this gymnastic feat! 
 
 Rox. It is true that I am talking with you from a very 
 moimtain top! 
 
 Cyr. It is sure that a hard word dropped from such a 
 height upon my heart would shatter it! 
 
 Rox. [vdth the motion of leaving]. I will come down. 
 
 Cyr. [quickly]. Do not! 
 
 Rox. [pointing at the bench at the foot of the balcony]. 
 Then do you get up on the seat. 
 
 Cyrano suggests that they profit by the chance to talk 
 softly together without seeing each other. He says it 
 seems to him that he is speaking to her for the first time. 
 Protected by the dark he dares to be himself. She notices 
 that his voice is different. The moment inevitably comes, 
 he says, in which, feeling the noble depth of their love, it 
 bmts to utter a shallow word. She asks what words he 
 will then say to her. 
 
ROSTAND 221 
 
 Cyr. All those, all those, all those that come to me ! Not 
 in formal nosegay order, ... I will throw them you 
 in a wild sheaf! I love you, choke with love, I love you, 
 dear. . . . My brain reels, I can bear no more, it is 
 too much. . . . Your name is in my heart the golden 
 clapper in a bell; and as I know no rest, Roxane, always 
 the heart is shaken, and ever rings your name! . . . 
 Of you I remember all, all that I love ! Last year, one day, 
 the twelfth of May, in going out at morning you changed 
 the fashion of your hair. ... I have taken the Ught 
 of your hair for my light, and as having stared too long 
 at the sun, on everything one sees a scarlet wheel, on every- 
 thing when I come from my chosen light, my dazzled eye 
 sets swimming golden blots! . . . 
 
 Rox. [in a voice unsteady with emotion]. Yes . . . 
 this is love ... 
 
 He says that she is trembling like a flower among the 
 leaves, for he felt a tremor pass along a jasmine bough, 
 which he madly kisses. 
 
 Rox. Yes, I tremble . . . and weep . . . and 
 love you . . . and am yours! . . . For you have 
 carried me away . . . away! . . . 
 
 Cyr. Then, let death come! I have moved you, I: 
 . . . There is but one thing more I ask . . . 
 
 Chris, [under the balcony]. A kiss! 
 
 Rox. [drawing hastily back]. What? 
 
 Cyrano has to begin his suit for a kiss anew. "Kiss. 
 The word is sweet," he says. "Why does your fair lip 
 stop at it? If the mere word bums it, what wiU be the 
 thing itself?" 
 
 Cyr. A kiss! When all is said, what is a kiss? An 
 oath of allegiance taken in closer proximity, a promise 
 more precise, a seal on a confession, a rose-red dot upon 
 the letter i in loving; a secret which elects the mouth for 
 ear; an instant of eternity murmuring Uke a bee; baliny 
 communion with a flavor of flowers; a fashion of inhaUng 
 each other's heart, and of tasting, on the brink of the lips, 
 each other's soul! 
 
 Rox. Say no more . . . no more! 
 
 Cyr. A kiss, Madame, is a thing so noble that the 
 Queen of France, on the most fortunate of lords, bestoweii 
 one, did the queen herself! 
 
222 CYRANO DE BERGERAC 
 
 Rox. If that be so . . . 
 
 Cyr. [with increasing fervor]. Like Buckingham I have 
 suffered in long silence, like him I worship a queen, Uke 
 him I am sorrovsrful and unchanging . . . 
 
 Rox. Like him you enthrall through the eyes the heart 
 that follows you! 
 
 Cyr. [to himself, sobered]. True, I am handsome . . . 
 I had forgotten! 
 
 Rox. Come, then, and gather it, the supreme flower . . . 
 
 Cyr. [pushing Christian toward the balcony]. Go! 
 
 Rox. . . . tasting of the heart. 
 
 Cyr. Go! . . . 
 
 Rox. . . . murmuring Uke a bee . . . 
 
 Cyr. Go! 
 
 Chris, [hesitating]. But now I feel as if I ought not! 
 
 Rox. . . . making Eternity an instant . . . 
 
 Cyr. [pushing Christian]. Scale the balcony, you 
 donkey ! 
 
 [Christian springs toward the balcony, and clirriba 
 by means of the bench, the vine, the posts, and bal- 
 usters]. 
 
 Chris. Ah, Roxane! [He clasps her to him, and bends 
 over her lips.] 
 
 Cyr. Ha! . . . What a turn of the screw to my 
 heart ! . . . Kiss, banquet of Love at which I am Laz- 
 arus, a crumb drops from your table even to me, here in 
 the shade . . . Yes, in my outstretched heart a Uttle 
 falls, as I feel that upon the lip pressing her lip Roxane 
 kisses the words spoken by me! 
 
 The scene is interrupted by the arrival of a monk with 
 a letter for Roxane. It is from De Guiche, who is coming 
 to see her. She announces, however, that De Guiche sent 
 the monk to pronoimce the nuptial blessing over Christian 
 and herself. The monk goes in with them to perform this 
 office while Cyrano remains on guard and delays De 
 Guiche. 
 
 De Guiche conceals his chagrin upon learning that the 
 knot has been tied, but he tells Roxane that she must now 
 take leave of her husband, as the cadets are to go with the 
 army to the relief of Arras, which is besieged by the Span- 
 iards. Roxane entrusts Christian to Cyrano, and bids 
 him see that Christian writes often. 
 
ROSTAND 223 
 
 The French are caught in a trap before Arras, being them- 
 selves surrounded and besieged. Their supplies have been 
 cut off and they are nearly starved. Cyrano, every morn- 
 ing at great risk, steals through the enemy's lines and sends 
 off a letter. He fears that the last day has come, as a 
 powerful attack is expected. De Guiche has served his 
 King as well as his inclination by giving the cadets the 
 post of greatest danger. 
 
 The Spaniards, although formidable enemies, are the 
 most gallant of men, and permit Roxane to drive through 
 their lines in her coach when she tells them she is going to 
 see her lover. Ragueneau is her coachman, and the ve- 
 hicle is completely stuffed with the most delectable viands. 
 Christian's letters went to Roxane's heart, and she had to 
 come. 
 
 Rox. Say nothing! You cannot understand! Listen: 
 The truth is that I took to idolizing you one evening, when, 
 below my window, in a voice I did not know before, your 
 soul began to reveal itself. . . . Think then what the 
 effect should be of your letters, which have been like your 
 voice heard constantly for one month, your voice of that 
 evening, so tender, caressing . . . You must bear it 
 as you can, I have come to you! Prudent Penelope 
 would not have stayed at home with her eternal tapestry, 
 if Ulysses, her lord, had written as you write . . . 
 
 She says that now at last she loves him for his soul alone. 
 
 Rox. Rejoice! For to be loved for that wherewith 
 we are clothed so fleetingly must put a noble heart to tor- 
 tm-e. . . . Your dear thought at last casts your dear 
 face in shadow: the harmonious lineaments whereby at 
 first you pleased me, I do not see them, now my eyes are 
 open! 
 
 Chns. Oh! 
 
 Rox. You question your own triumph? 
 
 Chris, [sorrowfully]. Roxane! 
 
 Rox. I understand, you cannot conceive of such a love 
 in me? 
 
 Chris. I do not wish to be loved Kke that! I wish to 
 be loved quite simply . . . 
 
 jRoa;. Still would I love you! . . . Yes, though a 
 blight should have fallen upon your face and form . . . 
 
 Chris. Do not say it! 
 
?.U CYRANO DE BERGERA.C 
 
 Rox. But I do say it, . . . I do! 
 
 Chris. What? If I were ugly, distinctly, oflfensively? 
 
 Boa;. Kyou were ugly, dear, I swear it! 
 
 Christian calls Cyrano and takes him aside to tell him 
 that it is he whom she loves now. 
 
 Cyr. Ah! I am glad she should have told you that! 
 But, beUeve me, beUeve me, place no faith in such a mad 
 .tsseveration! Dear Grod, I am glad such a thought 
 should have come to her, and that she shoidd have spoken 
 ?t — ^but beUeve me, do not take her at her word: Never 
 oease to be the handsome fellow you ar^. . . . She 
 would not forgive me! 
 
 Christian protests that he is weary of carrying about a 
 rival in himself, that he will be loved for what he is or not 
 at all, and that Cyrano must tell her. Cyrano questions 
 Roxane. She says that nothing could make Christian 
 grotesque to her. If he were dreadfully ugly, disfigured, 
 she would only love him the more. Cyrano loses his head 
 and is about to tell her all when Le Bret comes to him and 
 whispers a few words in his ear. Firing is heard. 
 
 Cyr. It's all over. My Ups are sealed forevermore! 
 
 Cadets come in, attempting to conceal something they 
 carry between them. Cyrano draws Roxane away, but 
 she soon learns that Christian has been killed by the en- 
 emy's first shot. She throws herself on his body and the 
 cadets rush back to repel the assault. 
 
 Cyrano wants to go to the barricade with his comrades, 
 but Roxane clings to his hand. 
 
 Rox. [clinging]. No! . . . Stay with me a little! 
 . . . He is dead. You are the only one that truly 
 knew him. . . . [She cries svhdiiedly.] Was he not 
 an exquisite being, ... an exceptional, marvellous 
 being? . . . 
 
 Cyr. [standing bareheaded]. Yes, Roxane. 
 
 Rox. A poet without his peer, . . . one verily 
 to reverence? "■■* i 
 
 Cyr. Yes, Roxane. 
 
 Rox. A sublime spirit? 
 
 Cyr. Yes, Roxane. 
 
 Rox. A profound heart, such as the profane could never 
 have understood . . . a soul as noble as it was charm- 
 ing? . . . 
 
ROSTAND 225 
 
 Cyr. \firmly]. Yes, Roxane. 
 
 Boa;, [throwing herself on Christian's body]. And he is 
 dead! 
 
 Cyr. [aside, dramng his sword[. And I have now only 
 to die, since, without knowing it, she mourns my death in 
 his! 
 
 [Trumpets in the distance.] 
 
 Cyrano joins the fray, and the cadets repulse the enemy 
 after a desperate struggle. 
 
 Fifteen years later Cyrano makes weekly visits at the 
 convent of the Sisters of the Cross, in Paris, of which Rox- 
 ane has been an inmate for more than ten years. She tells 
 De Guiche that it seems sometimes as if Christian were 
 only half dead, and that his love still wraps her round. 
 Le Bret says that all has come to pass which he foretold: 
 Cyrano neglected and in poverty, his writings ever breeding 
 him new enemies. 
 
 Le B. Every day he tightens his belt by an eyelet; his 
 poor great nose is pinched, and turned the sallow of old 
 ivory; the worn black serge you see him in is the only coat 
 he has! 
 
 De Guiche. Do not pity him too much, he signed no 
 bonds with the world; he has hved free in his thought as 
 in his actions. Sometimes I envy him. You see, when a 
 man has succeeded too well in life, he is not unlikely to 
 feel — dear me! without having committed any very serious 
 wrong! — a multitudinous disgust of himself, the sum of 
 which does not constitute a real remorse, but an obscure 
 uneasiness; and a ducal mantle, while it sweeps up the 
 stairs of greatness, may trail in its furry lining a rustling 
 of sere illusions and regrets, as, when you slowly climb 
 toward those doors, your black gown trails the withered 
 leaves. 
 
 De Guiche has heard of plots to silence Cyrano. 
 
 Ragueneau brings word to Le Bret that Cyrano has been 
 struck on the head by a block of wood that was thrown 
 from a window. Ragueneau saw the occurrence and 
 carried Cyrano, unconscious, to his lodgings. They hurry 
 off to see him. 
 
 Monsieur de Bergerac is announced. He enters leaning 
 heavily on his cane, keeping his feet with great difficulty. 
 
226 CYRANO DE BERGERAC 
 
 Roxane, who is working on an interminable tapestry, 
 hardly notices him but chides him on being late for the 
 first time in fourteen years. He musters up a gruff voice 
 to tease one of the sisters, and announces that he ate meat 
 the day before, which was Friday, his favorite joke when 
 he has really fasted. The sister is shocked at his appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Cyr^ And now I shall amaze you. Listen! . . . 
 You are authorized to . . . pray for me, this evening 
 . . . in the chapel. 
 
 Roxane is impatient to hear the news of the week which 
 he always brings her. He begins, but as he is recounting 
 some tittle-tattle of the court his eyes close and his head 
 drops on his breast. Roxane at last takes alarm. She 
 calls his name. 
 
 Cyr. [opening his eyes, in a faint voice]. What is it? 
 . . . What is the matter! [He sees Roxane bending 
 over him, hurriedly readjusts his hat, pulling it more closely 
 over his head, and shrinks back in his armchair in terror.] 
 No! no! I assure you, it is nothing f . . . Do not 
 mind me! 
 
 Rox. But surely . . . 
 
 Cyr. It is merely the wound I received at Arras . . . 
 Sometimes . . . you know . . . even now . . . 
 
 Rox. Poor friend! 
 
 Cyr. But it is nothing ... It will pass . . . 
 [He smiles with effort.] It has passed. 
 
 Rox. Each one of us has his wound: I, too, have mine. 
 It is here, never to heal, that ancient woimd . . . 
 [She places her hand on her breast.] It is here, beneath the 
 yellowing letter on which are still faintly visible tear-drops 
 and drops of blood! 
 
 [The light is beginning to grow less.] 
 
 Cyr. His letter? . . . Did you not once say that 
 some day . . . you might show it to me? 
 
 Rox. Ah! . . . Do you wish? . . . His letter? 
 
 It is too dark to see, but he repeats the letter word for 
 word. At last she perceives that for fourteen years he 
 has been carrying out this generous imposture, when it 
 was he who wrote the letters, the voice in the night was 
 his, and his was the soul she loved. 
 
 Le Beex and Ragtjeneau enter running. 
 
ROSTAND 227 
 
 Le B. Madness! Monstrous madness! . . . Ah, 
 I was sure of it ! There he is ! 
 
 Cyr. [smiling and straightening himself^ Tiens 1 Where 
 else? 
 
 Le B. Madame, he is Ukely to have got his death by 
 getting out of bed! 
 
 Bax. Merciful God! A moment ago, then . . . 
 that faintness . . . that . . . ? 
 
 Cyr. It is true. I had not finished telling you the 
 news. And on Saturday, the twenty-sixth, an hour after 
 sundown. Monsieur de Bergerac died of murder done upon 
 him. [He takes off his hat; his head is seen ivrapped in 
 bandages.] 
 
 Box. What is he saying? . . . 
 
 Cyrano has had nothing he wanted in life. Not even 
 a decent death. Ragueneau, who now has the post of can- 
 dle-snu£Eer at Moli^re's theatre, tells him that Moliere has 
 appropriated a whole scene of his and put it in "Scapin." 
 
 Cyr. Yes, to the end, I shall have been the one who 
 prompted . . . and was forgotten! [To Roxane.] 
 Do you remember that evening on which Christian spoke 
 to you from below the balcony? There was the epitome of 
 my life: while I have stood below in darkness, others have 
 climbed to gather the kiss and glory! 
 ^ Roxane blames herself for wrecking his Ufe. She says 
 she never loved but one, and twice she loses him. She 
 swoons. 
 
 He rises and stands with his back against a tree to die, 
 declaiming and swinging his sword in great circles. 
 
 Cyr. One does not fight because there is hope of winning ! 
 No! . . . no! . . . it is finer to fight when it is 
 no use! . . . What are all those? You are a thou- 
 sand strong? . . . Ah, I know you now ... all 
 my ancient enemies! . . . Hypocrisy? . . . [He 
 strikes loith his sword, in the empty air.] Take this ! and this 1 
 Ha! Ha! Compromises? . . . and Prejudices? and 
 dastardly Expedients? [He strikes.] That I should come 
 to terms, I? . . . Never! Never! , . . [Stops 
 panting.] Yes, you have wrested from me everything, 
 laurel as well as rose . . . Work your wills! . . . 
 Spite of your worst, something will still be left me to take 
 whither I go . . . and to-night when I enter God's 
 
228 CYRANO DE BERGERAC 
 
 house, in saluting, broadly will I sweep the azure thresh- 
 old with what despite of all I carry forth unblemished 
 and unbent . . . [He starts forward, v/ith lifted sword.] 
 . . . and that is . . . [The sword falls from his 
 hands, he staggers, drops in the arms of Le Bret and Rague- 
 
 NEAU.] 
 
 Rox. [bending over him and hissing his forehead]. That 
 is? . . . 
 
 Cyr. [opens his eyes again, recognizes her and says with a 
 smile] . . . My plume!* 
 
 *Tlie symbol of his honor. 
 
THE RED ROBE 
 
 By Eugenk Bhieux 
 
 First played in Paris at the Theatre du Vaudeville on 
 April 15, 1900. 
 
 Argument: Vagret, the public prosecutor in a small 
 French town, baffled by a murder mystery through which 
 he had hoped to win promotion long due him, entrusts the 
 investigation to Mouzon, his secret rival, who claims that 
 he can find the assassin in three days. Mouzon, to advance 
 his own interests, insists on the guilt of a culprit whom he 
 has found, and Vagret conducts the prosecution so skil- 
 fully that a conviction is virtually assured when he is 
 assailed by doubt. Will Vagret sacrifice his career to 
 spare the defendant, and can reparation be made for what 
 the unfortunate man has suffered? 
 
 When Monsieur Vagret, the pubUc prosecutor at Maul- 
 eon, was waked up in the night and informed of the mur- 
 der of an aged man in a lonely part of his jurisdiction he 
 believed that the great opijortunity of his career had 
 come at last. He dressed in five minutes and set to 
 work with the greatest energy. At the end of a fort- 
 night, however, the assassin being still at large, the 
 opportimity began to assume the guise of disaster imder 
 the weight of public disappointment and the censure 
 of the press. 
 
 It is the end of the court term, and Madame Vagret has 
 made her preparations for the customary dinner in honor 
 of the Judge of the Assizes. New appointments are 
 announced at this time, and Madame. Vagret is so confi- 
 dent that justice will be done her husband, in A^iew of two 
 vacancies, that she has had a red robe, the official vestment 
 of Counselor, cleaned and pressed to show him when he 
 brings the good news. She purchased the robe two years 
 
 829 
 
880 THE RED ROBE 
 
 before in anticipation of an appointment which was 
 awarded to the brother-in-law of the Deputy. 
 
 Upon Vagret's return home he is obliged to give his wife 
 the painful tidings that others have received the positions 
 for which he was eligible. She cannot restrain her tears. 
 It is difficult for her to make both ends meet on the salary 
 of a prosecutor of the third class, and now that their 
 children are growing up Bertha must be provided with a 
 dowry and the two boys with the means of higher education. 
 
 Madame Vagret thinks that her husband is overscru- 
 pulous in being unwilling to seek poUtical favor, and argues 
 that he owes it to the magistracy as well as to himself to 
 strive for advancement by every means. There is still 
 another vacant counselorship, Vagret tells her, and the 
 Attorney General has said that he favors Vagret for the 
 post, but his wife reminds him that it is the support of the 
 Deputy that he needs. 
 
 The dinner guests begin to arrive. Monsieur Bunerat, 
 Judge of the Court of Mauleon, and Madame Bunerat are 
 the first. Then come Judge La Bouzule, who is seventy 
 years old and is about to retire, and Mouzon, a foppish 
 man of forty. It is Mouzon who remarks upon the regret- 
 table fact that three defendants have been acquitted dur- 
 ing the court term. The last of the three was pronounced 
 innocent that very day, and Bunerat informs Vagret that 
 the Judge of the Assizes is furious, particularly as Vagret's 
 assistant revealed attenuating circumstances. 
 
 Mouzon observes to Bunerat that this situation will not 
 improve Vagret's chances of appointment. He declares, 
 moreover, that he does not see why any one should think 
 of naming Vagret when there is a man of so much talent 
 as Bunerat at Mauleon, and flatters the Judge of the Court 
 further by saying that he was very witty the other day when 
 he asked an officious witness if he thought that he ought 
 to be on the bench. 
 
 Ardeuil, Vagret's assistant, arrives, and La Bouzule asks 
 him to sit by him. The old man warns Axdeuil that he 
 will be sujjerseded if he continues to behave as he did in 
 the last trial. The assistant prosecutor knows, however, 
 that La Bouzule has frequently indulged in the luxury of 
 benevolence. 
 
 La Bouzule. Yes, my young friend. Because I have 
 
BRIEUX 231 
 
 been cured for some little time of the malady which changes 
 so many honest men into bad judges. This malady is 
 the fever for advancement. Look at the ones over there. 
 If they were not infected by this microbe they would be 
 just and kindly men, instead of being servile and cruel 
 magistrates. 
 
 Ardeuil. You exaggerate, sir. The French magistracy 
 is not 
 
 La. Bou. It is not venal, that is true. Among our four 
 thousand magistrates you would not find one perhaps — 
 you understand me, not one! — even among the humblest 
 and the poorest — especially among the humblest and 
 poorest — who would accept money to modify his decision. 
 That is the glory and the monopoly of the magistracy of 
 our country. Let us honor it. But a great many of them 
 are willing to lend themselves to compromises and con- 
 cessions when it is a question of being agreeable to an 
 influential elector, or to a Deputy, or to an official who dis- 
 tributes places and favors. Universal suffrage is the god 
 and the tyrant of the magistrates. You are right, therefore, 
 and I am not wrong. 
 
 There are certain obscure magistrates, La Bouzule ad- 
 mits, who never solicit anything in their whole lives, but 
 if Ardeuil looks to the magistracy for a career in which he 
 may rise, he would do well to take the advice of a man who 
 has been a judge of the third class for forty years and hand 
 in his resignation. He has made a mistake in the robe. 
 It is only in that of a priest that one may attempt to put 
 in practice the ideas which he has expressed. 
 
 A note is brought in for Madame Vagret which states 
 that the Judge of the Assizes has a headache and cannot 
 come to dinner. It is taken as a clear indication of his 
 displeasure. Mouzon's comment is that three acquittals 
 and the Irissarry murder make deplorable statistics. 
 Bunerat observes that a decrease in court business will not 
 raise Mauldon from the third to the second class. During 
 the year they have given one hundred and eighteen years 
 less imprisonment than in the preceding year, although 
 defending the interests of society with the most extreme 
 vigilance. Vagret says he has given the strictest orders 
 for the suppression of smuggling. 
 
 Regarding the Irissarry case, Mouzon announces it as 
 
232 THE RED ROBE 
 
 his opinion that it was a mistake for the examining magis- 
 trate to get the idea into his head that the criminal was a 
 tramp, and he declares that the witness who said he saw 
 gypsies coming out of the house of the victim is either 
 mistaken or a Bar. He has had considerable experience in 
 criminal cases, he reminds them. In the present instance 
 a man eighty-seven years of age, living in an isolated house, 
 was found murdered in his bed. Except for some small 
 coins, nothing was taken but some family papers. That 
 is the point which he emphasizes. 
 
 La Bouzule remarks to ArdeuiL that Mouzon would 
 have a man condemned simply to give himself an air of 
 knowing a thing or two. Mouzon has several reasons for 
 not believing tJbat the crime was conmiitted by a vaga- 
 bond, above all that a vagabond would not have taken 
 papers which would have convicted him if he were searched. 
 Search should be made, he contends, among those, whether 
 relatives, friends, or debtors, who would profit by the vic- 
 tim's taking off. 
 
 Vagret. That is reasonable. . . . 
 
 Bunerat. I say it is admirable logic, and as clear . 
 
 Mouzon. Believe me. The affair is simple. If I were 
 responsible for the arraignments I would guarantee that 
 the guilty man would be locked up in three days. 
 
 Vag. Well, my dear colleague, I am going to tell you 
 some news. Monsieur Delormej who is in ill health, re- 
 signed this afternoon. You shall be entrusted hereafter 
 with the duties of examiningmagistrate in the Irissarry case. 
 
 Mou. I have only to say that I accept, my dear Prose- 
 cutor. My duty is to obey. I retract nothing that I 
 have said. In tJiree days the assassin will be arrested. 
 
 The clerk of the court is sitting in Mouzon's chair in 
 the judge's chambers when the janitor gives warning of 
 Mouzon's approach. He says that the judge came back 
 from Bordeaux the night before and appeared to be very 
 fatigued. 
 
 Clerk. A Maul6on magistrate is always tired when he 
 comes back from Bordeaux! 
 
 Janitor. Why? 
 
 Clerk [after a silence]. I don't know. 
 
 Shortty after Mouzon has come in he receives a visit 
 
BRIEUX 233 
 
 from Mondoubleau, the Deputy of the Department. 
 Mondoubleau inquires if he is very sure that he has ar- 
 rested the right man in the Trissarry case, reminding him 
 that the magistrate who had charge of the investigation 
 at first was very experienced. Mouzon replies that he is 
 morally certain. Fifteen years ago the prisoner, whose 
 name is Etchepare, bought a vineyard of Goyetche, the 
 man recently murdered, for which he agreed to pay an 
 annuity for life. He thought he had made a very bad 
 bargain and regarded Goyetche as a thief. Furthermore, 
 he sold the vineyard five years ago and had to continue the 
 payments. 
 
 Mouzon calls in an officer and asks him for the results of 
 an examination. The officer has found witnesses who 
 declare that Etchepare said it was maddening to have to 
 pay money to the old rascal; that God had forgotten the 
 old man; when he saw the officers coming that he was 
 caught, and that his wife must not tell any one he had been 
 out the night before. It is also known that the prisoner 
 borrowed eight hundred francs recently. The murder was 
 committed a week before the annual payment on the vine- 
 yard was due. 
 
 Mondoubleau compliments Mouzon warmly. He thinks 
 that the other magistrate was an imbecile not to suspect 
 Etchepare. Mouzon explains that a good examining 
 magistrate is less guided by facts than by a sort of inspira- 
 tion. He also contrives to flatter Mondoubleau, and 
 makes him think that by supporting him he has provoked 
 the censure of the newspapers printed in Basque, whereas 
 the attacks are due to his disregard of the gypsies in the 
 Irissarry case. 
 
 Before leaving Mondoubleau touches upon quite a dif- 
 ferent matter, the case of one Labastide, a man, he says, 
 who was one of his best election agents and is incapable 
 of having committed the acts with which he is charged. 
 Mouzon assures him he will look into the affair. Mon- 
 doubleau replies that he esteems Mouzon too much to ask 
 anything more. 
 
 As soon as the Deputy has gone Mouzon directs the 
 clerk to make out an order for tibe discharge of Labastide 
 on the groimd that there is no cause of action. He then 
 sends for the witness who wishes to testify that he saw 
 
234 THE RED ROBE 
 
 gypsies come out of Goyetche's house after the murder, 
 endeavors to bully him into admitting that he desires to 
 shield Etchepare, arid failing in this dismisses him with an 
 intimation that he will be charged with complicity if he 
 persists in talking about the case. 
 
 A lawyer from Bordeaux who desires to defend Etche- 
 pare to gain publicity informs Mouzon that the defendant 
 persists in declaring that he is innocent and is willing to be 
 examined without having counsel present. Being in a 
 hurry, the lawyer says, he does not care to remain for the 
 examination, and wiU send one of his secretaries if the man 
 wishes to consult any one before the trial. 
 
 When Etchepare is brought before Mouzon he seems 
 uneasy at first, while denying that he made any of the 
 statements attributed to him by witnesses, but when the 
 magistrate has summarized the case against him he de- 
 clares firmly that he did not assassinate the old man. 
 Mouzon assures him that he will have to confess sooner 
 or later in the face of such serious circumstances. Etche- 
 pare replies that he fears nothing, not even death. 
 
 Mou. So much the better. But you are a Basque. 
 You are a Catholic. After death there is hell. 
 
 Etchepare. I do not fear hell, as I have done nothing 
 wrong. 
 
 Mou. There is the dishonor which will fall upon your 
 children. You love your children? Speak. They will ask 
 for you — they love you — because they do not know yet 
 
 Etch, [suddenly crying]. My poor little ones! My poor 
 little ones! 
 
 Mou. Come! All good feeling is not extinct in you. 
 Believe me, Etchepare, the jury ynll like you for your con- 
 fession, for your repentance. You will escape the supreme 
 penalty. You are still young. You have long years, be- 
 fore you in which to expiate your crime. You can merit 
 leniency, and perhaps once more see your children, who 
 will have pardoned you. Believe me, believe me, it is in 
 your own interest. Confess. [Mouzon goes up to him, 
 piUting his hand on his shoulder, and continues very gertUy,] 
 Well. It's true? If you cannot speak make a sign for 
 yes — ^Hey? It's true? Then I shall know it is true — 
 H^? I don't understand what you say. It was you, 
 wasn't it? It was you! 
 
BRIEUX «85 
 
 Eich. [diU crying]. It was not I, sir! I swear to you 
 that it was not I! I swear it. 
 
 Mou. [gromng hard\. You do not have to swear. You 
 have only to tell me the truth. 
 
 Etch. I told the truth, I told it. I cannot say that it 
 was I, since it was not I. 
 
 Finally Mouzon takes up Etchepare's absence from 
 home on the night of the crime, which he says is attested 
 by more than one witness. Etchepare now admits for 
 the first time that he was not at home, but he says that he 
 spent the night on the mountain searching for a horse that 
 escaped from a herd which he had smuggled across the 
 border from Spain. Mouzon ridicules this explanation 
 as unworthy of a child, and tells him he would have done 
 better to have stuck to his original story, in which he was 
 supported by his wife. This is so obvious that Etchepare 
 retracts the explanation and says that he lost his head. 
 
 Thinking that he made a mistake in suggesting how 
 Etchepare should defend himself, Mouzon determines to 
 retrieve it in examining Yanetta, Etchepare's wife. He 
 informs her first of his belief that she advised her husband 
 to commit the crime, and when she has insisted that her 
 husband did not go out of the house that night he says 
 he will consider the rehability of her testimony. He has 
 looked up her past, and although her conduct has been 
 exemplary since her marriage ten years ago, he has dis- 
 covered that she went to Paris when she was sixteen, was 
 employed as a servant, ran away with a young man who 
 had stolen some money, and was sentenced to a month's 
 imprisonment as a receiver of stolen property. 
 
 Yanetta. Oh, my God! I thought that was so long 
 ago, so forgotten! It is all true, sir, but for ten years I 
 have given every minute of my life to atonement, trying 
 to redeem myself. A moment ago I an-swered you rudely! 
 I beg your pardon. You hold not only my life in your 
 hands, but that of my husband, and the honor of my 
 children. 
 
 Mou. Is your husband ignorant of this? 
 
 Van. Yes, sir. Oh! you are not going to tell him! I 
 beg you on my knees. It would be a crime, yes, a crime. 
 Listen to me, listen to me. I came back to the country 
 and hid myself. I would have preferred to be dead. I 
 
286 THE RED ROBE 
 
 did not want to stay in Paris, you will understand why. 
 And then, after some time, I lost my mother. Etchepare 
 loved me, he urged me to marry him. I refused — ^I had 
 the courage to refuse for three years — then, I was so lonely, 
 so sad, so vmfortunate, that I ended by yielding. I ought 
 to have told him everything. I wanted to but I couldn't. 
 He would have suffered too much. 
 
 Weeping bitterly, she begs him again to ke^ the knowl- 
 edge of her dishonor from her husband. Reverting to 
 Etchepare, he assures her in a sincere manner of her hus- 
 band's guilt, but she cries that it is impossible. Once 
 more she swears that he spent the night at home. Mouzon 
 tells her that she will surely condemn her husband if she 
 persists in telling this story, and at last she admits that 
 he went out at ten o'clock and returned at five in the morn- 
 ing, the same hours that Etchepare had given Mouzon. 
 
 Then he asks her if she did not know that her husband 
 was hard up and owed a large sum to Goyetche. Her 
 claim that she was ignorant of it, he asserts, is an added 
 proof that Etchepare went to Irissatry instead of to the 
 mountain, as he told her. Mouzon suggests that her hus- 
 band might have been drinking, went to ask Goyetche for 
 time, and got into a quarrel with him. If he killed the old 
 man in the heat of passion he may get off with a Ught sen- 
 tence, but it is necessary for him to confess. Y'anetta 
 says she will urge her husband to tell everything, and 
 Mouzon sends for him. When he is brought in she im- 
 plores him to prove his innocence. 
 
 Etch. Nothing is any use. I know well enough I am 
 lost. Everything I can do, all that I can say would serve 
 no purpose. My words turn against me. The judge 
 wishes me to be guilty. It's necessary to him for me to 
 be guilty. Well, then, what do you wish, my poor wife? I 
 haven't the strength to struggle against him. Let them 
 do what they like with me. I shall say no more. 
 
 Yan. Yes, yes. You must talk. You must defend 
 yourself. I implore you, Peter, I implore you to defend 
 yourself. If you have anything, the least thing, to re- 
 proach yourself for, tell it. If you went to Irissarry you 
 must say so. Perhaps you quarrelled with the unfortu- 
 nate man. If that is true, say so, say so. Perhaps you 
 fought and you The judge promised me just nowin that 
 
BRIEUX 237 
 
 case you would not be punished — only a very little. My 
 God! What have you to say? 
 
 Etch. What! Do you think me guilty, too! Speak! 
 Do you think me guilty, too! 
 
 Yan. I no longer know! I no longer know! 
 
 Etch, [to Movzon]. Oh! You have done this, too; you 
 have invented this besides, to have me tortured by my wife. 
 I do not know what you can have told her, but you have 
 almost convinced her that I am a wretch, and you have 
 hoped that she would be able to send me to the guillotine 
 for the sake of my children. You spoke to me of my 
 children because you know that I adore them and that 
 they are everything to me. My two sons — my little 
 George, and my little Andre ! I pray God to kill them both 
 if I am a criminal ! 
 
 Yan. [in great .exaltation]. He is innocent! I tell you 
 that he is innocent! I tell you that he is innocent! [A 
 pause.] Ah! Now you may say that you have proof , and 
 ten witnesses, a hundred if you like, and you can say you 
 saw him. I shall tell you that it is not true. It is not 
 true! You could even prove it to me, but I should say it 
 was not true. Oh, you know well, your honor, you have a 
 heart, you know well what it is to love one's children. 
 Then you must be certain now, you, too, that he is inno- 
 cent. You are going to give him back to me, aren't you? 
 It is decided now, and you are going to give him back to 
 me? 
 
 Mou. If he is innocent, why did he lie to me? 
 
 Etch. It was you who Ued! Yes, you. You told me 
 you had Avitnesses who had seen me go out that night, and 
 you had nobody. 
 
 Mou. If I had no one then I have some one now. Yes, 
 there is a witness who has declared that on the night of the 
 crime you were not at home, and that witness is your wife. 
 
 Etch. You? 
 
 Mouzon asks the clerk for the testimony, and while he 
 glances over the paper Yanetta takes a long look at her 
 husband, then at Mouzon, reflects and comes to a decision. 
 
 Yan. The night when Goyetche was assassinated my 
 husband did not go out of the house. 
 
 Mou. You are going to sign this paper, and you are 
 going to do it at once. 
 
238 THE BED ROBE 
 
 Yan. Everything in it is false! I tell you everything 
 in it is false. [Shrieking.] The night when Goyetche was 
 assassinated my husband did not go out of the house. My 
 husband did not go out of the house. 
 
 Mou. [pale vrith anger]. You shall pay me for that. 
 [To the Clebk.] Make out an order for her arrest. Ya- 
 netta Etchepare, I place you imder arrest. You are incul- 
 pated as an accomplice in the assassination. [To the 
 police.] Take this man to his cell, and come back for her. 
 [The police take out Etchepake.] 
 
 Yan. Oh, you are furious, are you, at not doing what 
 you wanted! You have done everything, everything you 
 could except to burn us with slow fire. You made out as 
 if you were good. You talked sweetly! You wanted to 
 make me send my husband to the scaffold. [Mouzon 
 affects to turn the papers over indifferently.] It is your 
 trade to furnish heads to cut off. You have to have vic- 
 tims at any price. When a man has fallen into your claws 
 he is lost. They come in here innocent and they have to 
 go out criminals. It's your trade, it's your glory to do it. 
 You ask questions that don't seem to mean anything and 
 may send a man into the other world, and when you have 
 forced an unfortunate man to condemn himself you feel 
 the joy of a savage. 
 
 Mou. [to the police]. Take her out. Be quick! 
 
 Yan. Yes, of a savage. That is justice! That is 
 what you call justice. [To the police.] You shan't take 
 me out like that. [She clings to a chair.] You are an ex- 
 ecutioner. You're as cruel as they were in the times when 
 they crushed people's bones to make them confess. [The 
 police have detached her from the chair; she falls on the floor 
 and yells what follows while they drag her to the door at, the 
 hack.] Yes! Beast! You don't know it yourself, and 
 think you're a fine man, I know, and you're an executioner. 
 
 Mou. Take her away! What, can't two of you man- 
 age that crazy woman? [They renew their effortsi\ 
 
 Yan. Executioner! Coward! Judas! Pitiless! Yes, 
 pitiless! And more false and cruel when you deal with 
 poor people like us! [She is at door, to which she clings.] 
 Oh, the brutes, they are breaking my fingers! . . . 
 Yes, the poorer one is the wickeder you are! [They carry 
 her out. Her cries are still heard outside.] The poorer one 
 
^ BRIEXJX 239 
 
 is the wickeder you are . . . The poorer one is the 
 wickeder you are . . . 
 
 Since Etchepare's arrest things have been going to rack 
 and ruin on his farm. There is no one to gather the har- 
 vest or treat with creditors, and his mother and children 
 have been dispossessed. To crown all, a neighbor has 
 poisoned the brook from which their farm animals drink 
 by turning the waste from a manufacturing plant into it, 
 and although Etchepare's mother has filed a complaint 
 against the man, whose name is Labastide, he has refused 
 to abate the nuisance. The old woman has come to the 
 prosecutor's office to obtain redress, but learns that it will 
 take two years by legal means. 
 
 Etchepare's trial is going on, and the court has just 
 taken a recess, counsel for the defendant having finished 
 his plea. The Judge of the Assizes, Mouzon, Madame 
 Bunerat, and Madame Vagret come from the courtroom to 
 the prosecutor's office. They fear that Etchepare will 
 be acquitted. The news that the Attorney General has 
 come to Mauleon and is going to appoint a Counselor 
 to the Court of Appeals causes a good deal of excitement. 
 La Bouzule and the clerk of the court confide in each other 
 their opinion that Vagret ought to have the appointment, 
 but when the Attorney General arrives and tells Mouzon 
 that he wishes to see him privately it is regarded as settled 
 that Mouzon is his choice. 
 
 Confident of the appointment, Mouzon is greatly elated, 
 but the first words of the Attorney General are disquieting. 
 A complaint has been lodged with him charging Mouzon 
 with conduct unbecoming a magistrate in having gone 
 about publicly in Bordeaux in a state of intoxication, ac- 
 companied by three women of immoral life in the same 
 condition, and in having abused police officers who inter- 
 fered with him and threatened to have them dismissed 
 from the service. Mouzon is unable to turn the matter 
 off as one of little importance. The Attorney General 
 demands his resignation. Mouzon flatly declines to re- 
 sign, and says that he will defend his position if steps are 
 taken to remove him. 
 
 Mondoubleau, finding the Attorney General alone, 
 surprises him by asking for the appointment for Mouzon. 
 
240 THE RED ROBE 
 
 He makes light of Mouzon's misconduct and of the fact 
 that the post has been promised to Vagret. The At- 
 torney General informs him that the press of Bordeaux 
 will expose the scandal unless Mouzon is removed. On 
 the other hand, Mondoubleau points out, no less a person 
 than the Keeper of the Seals will be displeased if Mouzon 
 is not appointed. The solution he suggests is to remove 
 Mouzon from Mauleon, thus pacifying the press, and to 
 appoint him to the Court of Appeals, to please his own 
 party, and so to satisfy everybody. The Attorney Gen- 
 eral thinks the Deputy cannot be serious, but the latter 
 drags him off to see the Senator, who has it in his power to 
 do a favor for the Attorney General. 
 
 Vagret's summing up has taken the jury by storm and 
 evidently converted an acquittal into a conviction, but 
 instead of letting the jury go out at once he has asked for 
 a recess. He informs the Judge of the Assizes, who is 
 presiding at the trial, that he has been troubled by a doubt 
 and wishes to consult him and the Attorney General, 
 whom he has just met in the corridor. 
 
 Judge. Have you detected some error on my part in 
 conducting the pleadings? 
 
 Vag. No, if there has been an error it was my own. 
 The Attorney General cmnes in. 
 
 Attorney General. What is there so serious about this, 
 my dear Prosecutor? 
 
 Vag. This . . . I'm perplexed to know how to 
 put it ... I have need of both of your consciences 
 to reassure me. 
 
 Att. Gen. Speak. 
 
 Vag. The whole bearing of the facts, the attitude of 
 the defendant, certain particulars that I had overlooked, have 
 made a doubt break on me as to the guilt of this man. 
 
 Att. Gen. Was there any trace of these facts, these 
 particulars, in your brief? 
 
 Vag. Certainly. 
 
 Att. Gen. His coxmsel studied the brief? 
 
 Vag. Naturally. 
 
 Att. Gen. Well, then, what is bothering you? 
 
 Vag. But ... if this man was not guilty? 
 
 Att. Gen. The jury will decide. All the rest of us have 
 only to bow before its decision. 
 
BRIEUX 241 
 
 Vag. Permit me to tell you, sir, how my conviction 
 was shaken. 
 
 Att. Gen. I don't want to know. All this rests with 
 you and your conscience. You have the right to lay your 
 scruples before the jury. You know the adage: "The 
 pen is servile but speech is free." 
 
 Vag. I am going to follow your advice. 
 
 Att. Gen. I'm not giving you any advice. 
 
 Vag. I am going to lay my doubts before the jury. 
 
 Att. Gen. That means an acquittal. 
 
 Vag. What do you wish? 
 
 Att. Gen. [angry]. Do what you like, only, I have one 
 thing to say to you, my dear sir. When one considers 
 causing such an explosion, one has the courage to accom- 
 plish it by himself. One has the courage to accept the 
 sole responsibility for whatever blunders one may com- 
 mit. You are too clever for that and know how to find a 
 way out of suffering the consequences of your indecision. 
 
 Vag. I clever! In what way? 
 
 Att. Gen. Come, come, we are not children, and I see 
 the trap that you have laid for me very plainly. Now 
 you have protected yourself. If you are reproached in 
 the Chancellor's office you can say that you consulted 
 your superior and I will be the victim. Here am I with a 
 job on my hands with the Chancellor's office. You are 
 not worried about my situation, nor with interests that 
 don't affect you. You've got some crotchet or other into 
 yom- head, and you want to pass it on to me in spite of my 
 responsibility. Once more, it is very clever. I compli- 
 ment you, but I do not thank you. 
 
 Vag. You have not understood me, sir. I do not 
 intend in any way to turn over to you the responsibility 
 that I must assume. I should not commit such a mistake 
 when I am about to be appointed Counselor. I tell you 
 my difficulty and ask your advice. That is all. 
 
 Judge. Are you certain? 
 
 Vag. If I were certain I should not ask advice! [A 
 pause.] If there were only a chance for an annul- 
 ment . . . 
 
 Judge [furious]. What do you say? A chance for an 
 annulment, based on an error or an oversight on my part, 
 you mean! Well, you have a lively imagination, my dear 
 
242 THE RED ROBE 
 
 Prosecutor. Some doubt or other strikes you, some anx- 
 iety, and to soothe your wretchedly uneasy conscience 
 you ask me to be good enough to put myself in the wrong! 
 It's very convenient to pass over to some one who has done 
 his duty the mistakes that you have made yourself. 
 
 Att. Gen. [softly]. That's about it. 
 
 Jvdge. And in speaking of me at the Chancellor's office 
 they would say: "What sort of a Counselor is this who is 
 not capable even of presiding at a session of the assizes 
 at Mauleon?" A man whom we've had so much trouble 
 to condemn! And to sacrifice me for this trifle! Oh, no! 
 Find some other way, my good sir. That is not the one 
 that you will employ, I guarantee you. 
 
 Vag. I will find another, but I will not leave things as 
 they are. 
 
 Att. Gen. Do what you like, but acknowledge that I 
 have not given you any advice either one way or the other. 
 
 Vag. I acknowledge it. 
 
 Jvdge. When you have decided to resume the hearing 
 let us know. 
 
 Vag. I shall let you know. 
 
 Att. Gen. [to the Judge]. We'll leave him. [They go out. 
 
 Madame Vagret comes in to find her husband. He tells 
 her how he was carried away by the excitement of the 
 contest and went too far in damning a man of whose guilt 
 he was doubtful. He was swayed by anger against the 
 other lawyer whom he hated for the moment with his whole 
 strength. His success was greater than he intended. 
 Now the jury is ready to obey him. He permitted himself 
 to be congratulated, and shook the hands that were 
 stretched out to him. 
 
 Vag. That is what it means to be a prosecutor. 
 
 Mme. Vagret. Console yourself. Probably there are 
 not ten in France who would have done differently. 
 
 Fagr. You are right. Only ... If one reflects, 
 that is precisely what is so frightful. 
 
 The acquittal of Etchepare relieves the Judge of all fear 
 that a false ruling may be detected. Vagret accuses him 
 flatly of having done an infamous thing in revealing to Etch- 
 epare that his wife had been sentenced for receiving stolen 
 goods, and that she had been seduced before he married her. 
 
BRIEUX 243 
 
 The Judge takes a certain satisfaction in telling Vagret that 
 Mouzon has received the appointment to the Counselorship. 
 
 The law has still another hold on Yanetta. She is 
 charged with having abused a magistrate engaged in the 
 discharge of his duty. 
 
 Etchepare and his mother meet in the Prosecutor's oflBce. 
 As he takes her tenderly in his arms he says she has been 
 greatly changed by the sorrows of the last three months. 
 Then he begins immediately to execrate Yanetta as a 
 thief and a wretch. When he heard the Judge say that 
 she had been condemned as the accomphce of her lover it 
 seemed as if the sky had fallen upon his head. If it had 
 not been for his mother and the children he would have 
 declared that he was guilty. When he asks if she has left 
 the children at home she tells him that they have been 
 ruined and no longer have any home or farm, and that she 
 could not stay any longer in a place where every one 
 shunned them. 
 
 Yanetta comes in. Etchepare will not look at her, and 
 his mother turns her eyes away from Yanetta as she goes 
 out. 
 
 Yan. [takes a few steps toward her husband, falls on her 
 knees and clasps her hands. In a low voice]. Forgive me! 
 
 Etch. Never! 
 
 Yan. No, don't say that! 
 
 Etch. Did the Judge he? 
 
 Yan. No, the Judge did not lie. 
 
 Etch. You are a bad woman! 
 
 Yan. Yes, I am a bad woman, forgive me! 
 
 Etch. Forgive you! I would like to kill you! 
 
 Yan. Yes, yes, but forgive me! 
 
 Etch. You are nothing but a wench, a Paris wench 
 without shame or morals! 
 
 Yan. Yes, insult me, strike me! 
 
 Etch. You have lived a lie to me for ten years ! 
 
 Yan. Oh! How I wanted to tell you all! Oh! How 
 many times I commenced that terrible confession! I 
 never had the courage, Peter; I was always afraid of your 
 anger and of the pain I woidd cause you . . . You 
 were so happy! 
 
 Etch. You came back fresh from vice, just out of prison, 
 and took me for your victim . . . 
 
244 THE RED ROBE 
 
 Yan. And to think that he beUeves that, my God! 
 
 Etch. You came to me — the leavings of a thief . . . 
 and you stole ia my house the place of a good woman 
 . . . Your he has brought the curse of God on my fam- 
 ily, and you are the cause of it all. The misfortime which 
 has just stricken us was caused by you, I tell you! You 
 leper! Accursed! Damned! Don't talk to me any 
 more! Don't talk to me any more! 
 
 Yan. Won't you have pity, Peter? Do you think that 
 I don't suffer! 
 
 Etch. If you do you deserve it! What' had I done to 
 you that you should choose me for your victim? What 
 have I done to suffer as I do? You have made a coward 
 of me! You have degraded me almost to your own level; 
 I ought already to have succeeded in putting you out of 
 my head and my heart. And I cannot! And I suffer 
 terribly ... for I suffer in the love which I bore 
 you . . . You! You have been all in my life for ten 
 years . . . you have been all, all! . . . And I 
 have nothing but one hope left — ^to forget you! 
 
 Yan. Forgive me! 
 
 Etch. Never, never! 
 
 Yan. Don't say that . . . it is only God who has 
 the right to say that. I will come back to your house; I 
 shall only be the first of the servants . . . the most 
 humble, if you wish! I shall not take my place at the 
 fireside untU you tell me to . . . 
 
 Etch. We haven't any fireside, we haven't any home 
 . . . we have nothing now! And I repeat it, it is all 
 your fault . . . and it is because you used to sit there 
 in the place of the mother, of my mother, you! false and 
 faithless! that misfortune has fallen upon us! 
 
 Yan. I swear to you that I will make you forget all 
 that by my humihty, my devotion, and my repentance 
 . . . and wherever you go I shall follow you; Pierre, 
 reflect, your children stiU need me . . . 
 
 Etch. My children! You shall never see them again! 
 Nor speak to them ! I won't have you kiss them, nor even 
 touch them! 
 
 Yan. [changing her tone]. Not that! Not that! The 
 children! You are mistaken there! Ah, no! Deprive 
 me of all, condemn me to every shame, force me to beg 
 
BRIEUX 245 
 
 my bread — I am quite willing! Don't even look at me, 
 don't speak to me except to insult me . . . anything 
 you like . . . but my children ! My children! They 
 belong to me: they came from my womb; they are still a 
 part of me . . . and always, always will be my flesh 
 and blood. . . . You can cut off one of my arms — 
 it would be a dead thing and not a part of me . . . 
 but you can't keep my children from being my chil- 
 dren . . . 
 
 Etch. You have made yourself unworthy of keeping 
 them . . . 
 
 Yan. Unworthy! Don't talk that to me! Have I 
 ever failed in my duties toward them? Have I been a bad 
 mother? Answer! I haven't, have I? Well, if I haven't 
 been a bad mother, my rights upon my children remain 
 entire and absolute! Unworthy! I could be a thousand 
 times more guilty! More unworthy, as you say, and still 
 neither you, nor the law, nor priests, nor God would have 
 the right to take them from me. ... As a woman I 
 may have been guilty — it is possible ... as mother, 
 nobody can accuse me of anything. . . . Well, then! 
 Well, then! They cannot be stolen from me . . . and 
 you who have this project . . . you are a scoundrel! 
 Yes! Yes! To avenge yourself you wish to take them 
 from me! You coward! You are only a man! Father! 
 You don't know what the word means! You have no 
 thought for your children. . . . Yes! Yes! You 
 lie, I tell you ! When you say that I am unworthy of bring- 
 ing them up you lie! Thoseareonly words, words! You 
 know it is not true; you know well enough that I have 
 nourished them, cared for them, loved them, counseled 
 them, and that I used to have them say their prayers every 
 evening and that I would continue. . . . You know 
 well that no woman could fill my place with them . . . 
 but what do you care for all that! You forget them 
 . . . you want to punish me and so you are going to 
 take them from me. ... I have the right to teU you 
 that it is cowardly and mean and is only a horrible venge- 
 ance! Ah! Ah! The children! Now he wants to lug 
 them in!! No! Take them from me? Ah, just think, 
 Peter, it is impossible, what you are saying! 
 
 Etch. You have spoken truly — I am avenging myself. 
 
246 THE RED ROBE 
 
 What you say is impossible is already done. My mother 
 has taken the children and has gone off with them. 
 
 Yan. I will find them again. 
 
 Etch. America is large. 
 
 Yan. I shall find them again! 
 
 Etch. Then I shall tell them why I took them from you. 
 
 Yan. Never! That, never! I will obey you, but 
 swear to me . . . 
 
 Enter the Clerk. 
 
 CUrh. Come and sign your release, Etchepare. You 
 will be released at once. 
 
 Yan. Wait, sir, wait! [To Etchepare.] I accept 
 the separation since I must ... I will dbappear. 
 . . . You will never hear of me again. But, in return 
 for this atrocious sacrifice, swear to me a solemn oath that 
 you will never tell them . . . 
 
 Etch. I swear it . . . 
 
 Yan. You swear never to tell them a word which might 
 diminish their affection for me? 
 
 Etch. I swear it . . . 
 
 Yan. Promise me also — I implore you, Peter, in the 
 name of our happiness, and of my suffering — ^promise me 
 to keep aUve in them the memory of their mother. . . . 
 you will have them pray for me, won't you? 
 
 Etch. I swear it to you .... 
 
 Yan. Then go, my life is over .... 
 
 Etch. Good-bye. 
 
 [Goes out with the Clerk. On the threshold of the 
 door the latter meets Mouzon.] 
 
 Clerk [to Etchepare]. They will show you the way 
 out . . . The Etchepare woman is here 
 
 Mou. So she is here! Vagret has just spoken to me of 
 her. Well, I withdraw my complaint; I ask notiiing bet- 
 ter than to release her. Now that I am Counsellor, I have 
 no desire to come back from Pau every week for the ex- 
 amination. Proceed with the necessary formalities. [To 
 Yanetta.] Well, in consideration of the disciplinary 
 confinement which you have imdergone, I am wiUing to 
 release you provisionally . . . perhaps I shall even 
 withdraw my complaint if you apologize for having in- 
 sulted me . . . 
 
 Yan. I do not regret having insulted you. 
 
BRIEUX 347 
 
 Mou. Do you want to go back to prison? 
 
 Yan. Ah, my poor man, if you only knew how Uttle 
 I care for your prison! 
 
 Mou. How so? 
 
 Yan. Because I have nothing left, neither house nor 
 home, nor husband nor children. [Looks at him.] And it 
 occurs to me, the more I think of it . . . 
 
 Mou. What? 
 
 Yan. That it is you who are the cause of all the trouble. 
 
 Mou. You have both of you been acquitted, haven't 
 you? What more do you want? 
 
 Yan. Yes, we have been acquitted, it is true. But now 
 for my husband, for my children, for everybody, I am a 
 bad woman just the same. 
 
 Mou. If any one throws up to you your former con- 
 viction, if any one makes allusion to your disciphnary 
 detention, you have the right to prosecute the slanderer 
 before the law. He will be punished. 
 
 Yan. Well! It is because some one has thrown up to 
 me my conviction that my husband has taken away my 
 children . . . this some one is a judge — can I have 
 him sentenced? 
 
 Mou. No. 
 
 Yan. Why? Because he is a magistrate? 
 
 Mem. No. Because it is the law. 
 
 Yan. The law! [Violenily.] Well! Your law is con- 
 temptible. 
 
 Mmi. Come, now, no shrieks nor insults, please. [To 
 the Clerk.] Are you through? Then go to the office 
 and get an order for her release. 
 
 Yan. For me I am not learned: I have not studied the 
 law as you have out of books, and perhaps for that very 
 reason I know what is just and what is not. And I have 
 come to ask you simply this: how does the law propose to 
 give me back my chili-en and undo the wrong it has done 
 me? 
 
 Mmi. The law is not beholden to you. 
 
 Yan. Not beholden to me? Then what are you going 
 to do about it? You, the judge? 
 
 Mou. A magistrate is not responsible. 
 
 Yan. Ah, you are not responsible! Then you could, 
 just for a whim, arrest people, on a shadow of suspicion. 
 
248 THE RED ROBE 
 
 even without suspicion; you might bring shame and dis- 
 honor on whole families, torture the unhappy, dig down 
 deep into their existence, parade their misfortunes, bring 
 to light forgotten and expiated faults, faults which go back 
 ten years; you might, by your cunning, your tricks, your 
 Hes, and yoiu* cruelty, send a man to the foot of the scaffold, 
 and, what is worse, rob a mother of her httle ones! And 
 after that, like Pontius Pilate, you would say and would 
 believe that you were not responsible! Not responsible! 
 Before your law you may not be responsible, as you say, 
 but before justice itself, before the justice of decent peo- 
 ple, before God's own justice, I swear to you that you are 
 responsible and that is why I have come to bring you to 
 account ! 
 
 [Sees upon the desk of Motjzon, whose back is turned, 
 the dagger used as a paper-cutter. Seizes it and 
 lays it down again.] 
 
 Mou. I order you to go. 
 
 Yan. Listen to me . . . for the last time, I ask 
 you what you are going to do to relieve me, to return to me 
 all that I have lost through your fault; what are you going 
 to do to lessen my anguish, and how do you propose to get 
 my children back for me? 
 
 Mou. I have nothing to say to you; I owe you nothing. 
 
 Yan. You owe me nothing! You owe me more than 
 life, more than everything . . . My children . . . 
 I shall never see them . . . what you have taken from 
 me is the happiness of every minute, it is their kisses every 
 evening, it is the pride which I had in watching them grow. 
 Never, never again, shall I hear them say mamma! It is 
 as if they were dead! It is just the same as if you had 
 killed them. [Seizes the knife.] Yes! Now look at your 
 work, all you wicked judges: of an innocent man you al- 
 most made a criminal, and of an honest woman, of a 
 mother, you have made a murderess! 
 [Strikes him; he falls.] 
 
THE TORCH RACE 
 By Paul Heratieu 
 
 First played in Paris at the Theatre du Vaudeville on 
 April 17, 1901. 
 
 Argument: In order not to impair her daughter's 
 matrimonial chances, Mme. Revel, a widow,^ refuses a 
 suitor whom she loves, only to find that her daughter has 
 already promised herself to a young man. Later, yielding 
 to her daughter's entreaties, she appeals to her former 
 suitor for aid to save her son-in-law from ruin, and her 
 daughter being ordered to the mountains to ward ofiF con- 
 sumption, she takes with them her mother, who is suffering 
 from a weak heart, rather than distress her daughter with 
 explanations. Was her own self-sacrifice irremediable, 
 and does the sacrifice of her mother prove fatal.'' 
 
 Marie-Jeanne's eighteenth birthday is an occasion of 
 more than usual importance, for it is the day on which she 
 has promised to inform her mother that she and Didier 
 Maravon wish to marry. She has insisted upon a long 
 delay so that her attitude should not seem unreflecting, and 
 in spite of the sympathy between her mother and herself, 
 which has been all the closer as Mme. Revel is a widow, she 
 has guarded her secret carefully from any betrayal. As 
 soon as the guests have gone, she assures her impatient 
 suitor, she will undertake to win her mother's approval. 
 Didier leaves the house, feeling unequal to disguising his 
 suspense before the company. 
 
 Some of the guests have already gone when Mme. Revel, 
 or Sabine as she is called by her intimate friends, comes into 
 the drawing-room with Didier's father. She asks M. 
 Maravon if he has noticed how Mme. Gribert sacrifices 
 herself to her daughter. She thinks it rather odious to see 
 a girl set up as an idol. 
 
 249 
 
250 THE TORCH RACE 
 
 Maravan. I do not share your opinion, my dear friend. 
 On the other hand, I like to see the simple machinery of 
 family life performing its functions among these people 
 who are so imaffectedly natural. They conform to the law 
 which begins by asking of the mother flesh of her flesh, 
 often her beauty, her health, if necessary even her life, to 
 constitute the child. Thenceforth nature exerts herself 
 to despoil the old generation for the succeeding one. It 
 demands of the ascendants without truce, in the form of 
 expense, labor, worry, endowments, sacrifices, all that re- 
 mains of their vital forces, to equip, arm, and prepare those 
 who descend toward the plain of the future. See my own 
 case. It was a question of creating a position for my son. 
 Didier soon persuaded me that my substance would be 
 better placed henceforth in his hands, which had become 
 virile. And to demonstrate to you that Mme. Gribert and 
 her daughter follow the purest classical tradition, if you 
 will excuse pedantry in an old university student, I will 
 draw my argmnent from antiquity 
 
 Sabine. Don't inconvenience yourself! 
 
 Mar. Very likely you have never heard of the lampa- 
 dephoria? This is what it was. The citizens of Athens 
 formed themselves in lines with intervals between them. 
 The first lit a torch at the altar, ran and gave it to a second, 
 who transmitted it to a third, and so it went on from hand 
 to hand. Each competitor ran without looking back, hav- 
 ing for object only to preserve the fiame and remit it as 
 quickly as possible to another. And then, dispossessed, 
 brought to a stop, watching the twinkling of tiie sacred 
 fiame in the distance, he escorted it with his eyes, with all 
 his impotent anxiety and useless vows. The very image 
 of the generations of life has been recognized in the torch 
 race, not by me, but by my very ancient friends, Plato and 
 the good poet Lucretius. 
 
 It seems to Sabine that the one who receives life is under 
 obligation to the one who gives it. Maravon replies that 
 the children acquit their debt to nature in turn by having 
 children. And filial gratitude, he declares, is not spon- 
 taneous but a product of civilization, an effort at virtue. 
 
 Sab. But you will permit me to cite my own case against 
 you? Living as I do with my mother and my daughter, I 
 think I am in a position to know what it means to love one's 
 
HERVIEU 251 
 
 child. I am certain that I should not hesitate to sacrifice 
 my life to spare Marie-Jeanne serious unhappiness, but 
 I cherish my mother spontaneously also, without going 
 back to this far-fetched explanation that you would like 
 to set up. And to save my mother from peril, I assure 
 you, I would give my life with equal readiness. 
 
 This view is a tender illusion, according to M. Maravon, 
 who tells Sabine that she does not even know herself, how 
 good a mother she might be and how bad a daughter. 
 
 From M. Gribert Sabine learns that her old friend, M. 
 Stangy, who is an American, has taken a sudden resolve to 
 return to his own country. A moment later Stangy stands 
 before her. In explanation, he tells her that from the mo- 
 ment she refused to become his wife no other course was 
 open to him than to depart. When he came to Paris it 
 was to make a short visit. Finding that she was a widow, 
 he has remained nearly a year courting her. Time and 
 again she has put him off, refusing him a definite answer, 
 imtil he can bear it no longer. In order to compel himself 
 to go and bury himself in work he has invested his fortune 
 in a great plantation in Louisiana. He has committed him- 
 self to this venture, his new responsibilities will preclude 
 his return to France, and now he must start in half an hour 
 to catch his steamship. Sabine's reply is that he must 
 cable a counter-order, preventing the investment. He is 
 determined, however, to deliver himself from the torment 
 of her fascination. 
 
 Sab. Oh, you constrain me to explain, to unmask my- 
 self, before the event that I had looked forward to. Have 
 I really been so hypocritical, or rather have you been so 
 bliud that you have not seen that my feelings responded 
 to yours? 
 
 Stangy. What? I am not indifferent to you? You 
 love me? You say that you love me? Is that really what 
 you said? 
 
 She confesses that it was her design to put him off, while 
 holding him, imtU her daughter should be married, not 
 only since she feared sacrificing Marie-Jeanne's happiness 
 by dividing her love, but also because in the eyes of society 
 the prospects for Marie-Jeanne's inheritance would be 
 reduced by half, two thirds, or even three quarters by her 
 mother's marriage. She is unwilling to run the risk of 
 
252 THE TORCH RACE 
 
 doing any injury to her daughter, of causing her any afflic- 
 tion. She declares that she disapproves sentimental 
 weakness on the part of mothers, but that this is a case of 
 plain maternal honesty. 
 
 Sab. Don't look at me so severely, as if I were a culprit. 
 
 Stan. How much longer do you still propose to keep me 
 waiting? 
 
 Sab. Good heavens! Now you are being bad again! 
 
 Stan. You have demonstrated to me clearly enough 
 that you love your daughter quite differently from the way 
 you love me. 
 
 Sab. Why make comparisons? I love both of you. 
 Oh, listen to me. How could I fix a date? If I should say 
 a year ... I should be giving the lie to all I wish for 
 the welfare of Marie-Jeanne, and even to that which I wish 
 for myself, if I dare say so. Would you have me thrust 
 her prematurely into the arms of a man? When she leaves 
 me of her own accord I shall be torn harshly enough. Oh, 
 remain near me and sustain me, console me, intoxicate me ! 
 
 Stan. I shall not subject myself further, and for an 
 indeterminate length of time, to languishing in this humil- 
 iating and insupportable way. My soul has been too 
 greatly exasperated. Hasten to cure it, or I shall go and 
 care for it in the way that I have devised. 
 
 A servant enters to announce that a carriage has come 
 for M. Stangy. Stangy tells Sabine that he must begin 
 to work again while he is still young enough tp do it with 
 dignity and to have the energy it requires. In work, he 
 says, is his resurrection. She beseeches him not to create 
 an irreparable chasm between them. 
 
 Stan. My last word is this: I wish to have you, but I 
 will wait no longer. 
 
 Sab. And I am reduced to giving you the same reply: 
 if there were only one possibility in the world of my mar- 
 riage raising up some obstacle to the marriage of my daugh- 
 ter, it would be too much. It would taint all my joy with 
 remorse. 
 
 Stan. When I go out of this door if it is not to go to 
 the telegraph office and release myself from my new enter- 
 
 frise, all will be over between us. You cannot call me back, 
 shall not know how to find the means of returning. 
 Sab. I have told you all that I think, all that I feel. 
 
HERVmU 253 
 
 You crush my heart without destroying the idea that I 
 am doing my duty. I haven't the right! ... I 
 haven't the right! ... I haven't the right! . . . 
 
 Stan. Good-bye! 
 
 Sab. Oh, don't go yet! 
 
 Stan. I must be in the train, in twenty minutes. 
 
 Sab. You will not let me be without word? You will 
 write? 
 
 Stan. No letters. If you address any to me I shall 
 not open them. Take a rest from me, and I will rest from 
 you. 
 - Sab. You will come back? I shall see you again? 
 
 Stan. Never! [Goes toward door.] 
 
 Sab. Oh! Oh! Stangy! 
 
 Stan, [ready to come back]. What? 
 
 Sab. [after an inward struggle]. No! . . . Really! 
 . . . Nothing! [She drops on a chair.] Oh, Marie- 
 Jeanne! 
 
 Stangy goes out. 
 
 Scarcely is Sabine alone when Marie-Jeanne comes to 
 find her. Upon glancing at her mother's face, Marie- 
 Jeanne inquires if she is Ul. Sabine replies that she is 
 upset, but that if Marie-Jeanne will kiss her and assure 
 her of her love she will feel aU right again. Marie-Jeanne 
 then comes to the confidence which she has to make, that 
 she and Didier love each other. Sabine is startled, but 
 treats the affair as if it were not serious. Marie-Jeanne, 
 however, is very determined. She says that she and 
 Didier wish to be married, that she has promised him an 
 immediate reply, and that her happiness or unhappiness 
 depends upon the outcome. 
 
 Sabine calls her mother, Mme. Fontenais, to reason 
 with Marie-Jeanne. Mme. Fontenais admits to Marie- 
 Jeanne that Sabine was married at eighteen, but being of 
 a very cautious nature advises waiting until Didier has es- 
 tablished his social position and begun to be prosperous. 
 When the time comes for Marie-Jeanne to marry, she says, 
 she will insist upon her dowry being so safeguarded that 
 neither she nor her husband can touch anything but the 
 income from it. She believes that this condition would be 
 likely to make the aspirant withdraw, but Marie-Jeanne 
 declares that Didier will accept any conditions with his 
 
254 THE TORCH RACE 
 
 eyes shut. Mme. Fontenais has no further objections to 
 raise and Sabine, bursting into tears, gives her consent. 
 
 Marie-Jeanne and Didier have made their home at 
 Boulogne-sur-Seine where his factory is situated. Four 
 years after their marriage he faces a crisis in his business. 
 A silent partner, acting in bad faith, has withdrawn his 
 capital, and one of Didier's largest customers has suddenly 
 failed. He requires an inmiediate loan of 300,000 francs, 
 but the bankers on whom he has relied will not come to his 
 rescue in this emergency. The only expedient remaining 
 is to draw upon Marie-Jeanne's fortune. Her income 
 would be sufficient for their maintenance in case of fail- 
 ure, but aside from the humiliation which this event would 
 cause Didier, he cannot reconcile himself to allowing others 
 to suffer through him. His father has been to Sabine to 
 present the situation to her. 
 
 Sabine and Mme. Fontenais come at once to the family 
 council. Sabine hastens on ahead of her mother from the 
 railroad station and has a brief talk with Didier alone in 
 which she assiu-es him of her confidence and her desire to 
 avert the peril. Haviag obtained fuller details from him, 
 she asks him to leave her to make a more complete explana- 
 tion to her mother. As soon as Mme. Fontenais enters 
 Sabine goes straight to the point, saying that it has devolved 
 upon her to make the great appeal to her mother's gen- 
 erosity. 
 
 Mme. Fontenais. I don't suppose they expect 300,000 
 francs from me. 
 
 Sab. It is asked only as an advance. The capital will 
 not be lost. It will be invested. 
 
 Mme. F. In good hands, if I may judge by the state in 
 which Didier's affairs are. 
 
 Sab. Have this situation studied by competent persons, 
 ones in whom you have confidence. No one asks you to 
 do anything without a full understanding. 
 
 Mme. F. No! ... I shall not enter upon this 
 course. I shall not let myself be drawn into any of these 
 examinations which end only in deceptive mirages. That 
 was the way in which your husband cost us nearly five 
 hundred thousand francs. We were worth a miUion and 
 a quarter when M. Fontenais retired after twenty-five 
 
HERVIEU 255 
 
 years of labor. What have I left after giving Marie- 
 Jeaime a dowry of a hundred and fifty thousand francs? 
 Something Uke six hundred and fifty thousand francs. 
 Well, that is not too much. It just enables me to keep 
 you all decently. 
 
 Sab. You talk of living decently. That is just the 
 question. I must say that even if you involved half of 
 your actual property for the sake of your grandchildren, 
 it would be a risk from which it would not be a good act 
 to exempt yourself. It is a question of protecting the 
 name which Marie-Jeanne bears from the scandal of a 
 judicial liquidation. You understand, don't you? You 
 hadn't thought of that outcome, I'm sure, when you be- 
 gan by opposing me with a flat refusal. I hadn't thought 
 of it myself until Didier opened my eyes. The instinct of 
 us women is not so quick as that of men to perceive a point 
 of honor. 
 
 Mme. F. Yes, I know that. In an emergency these 
 gentlemen say to us: "My honor! . . . Your sex 
 lacks the nicety of ours. To rehabilitate our masculine 
 honor, which we have staked, give us merely your fem- 
 inine money." 
 
 Sab. You would speak less severely if you had seen 
 the noble indignation with which Didier just now repelled 
 the thought of not honoring his obHgations. He gave me 
 to understand that he would kill himself. 
 
 Mme. F. Ah! I know that story, too! Your husband, 
 they concealed it from you, used to resort to veiled threats 
 and the menace of suicide. Your father gave money to 
 him and gave money to him. Then, when he had got 
 away with half a million and began again to talk of putting 
 an end to his days, M. Fontenais said to himself: "Well! 
 . . . Well! ..." Well, he never killed himself, 
 poor simple soul. 
 
 Sab. Mamma! He is dead. 
 
 Mme. F. Yes, he died of pleurisy one fine day! 
 
 Sabine wishes to believe that Didier would not make 
 her daughter a widow, but she draws a pitiful picture of 
 their being dispossessed from their home. Mme. Fonte- 
 nais is fixed in her determination to safeguard the future 
 of all of them in the way she thinks best. It is in vain 
 that Sabine begs her for a part of the sum required. Mme. 
 
256 THE TORCH RACE 
 
 Fontenais tells her that she promised her husband on his 
 deathbed that she would never risk what was left of the 
 fortune that he had won at the expense of such long and 
 loving labor. 
 
 Sab. But listen to me! 
 
 Mme. F. No, the discussion is closed. 
 
 Sab. I beg you, Usten to me. 
 
 Mme. F. Come, stand aside. 
 
 Sab. You will not go back on one pitiless word? 
 
 Mme. F. This struggle has made me ill. 
 
 Sab. Me, too. 
 
 Mm£. F. I need to take the air. 
 
 Sab. [barring the way]. You shall presently. 
 
 Mme. F. Let me go out in the garden and breathe. 
 
 Sab. [breaking ovi]. You shall breathe, mamma, when 
 my daughter has been rescued. 
 
 Mme. F. Sabine! How are you speaking to me? 
 
 Sab. [drawing back]. Yes! I was lacking in respect. 
 It is because this is the first discord between us. I did not 
 recognize you, and I no longer recognize myself. 
 
 Marie-Jeanne can hardly believe that her grandmother 
 will not save her husband from ruin, but convinced at last 
 by Sabine implores the latter to appeal to friends. 
 
 Sab. I cannot go to any one and say: "How much will 
 you put in? My mother won't put in anything!" 
 
 Marie-Jeanne. We have no choice of means. We 
 must try it. 
 
 Sab. Such friends hardly exist, and we haven't any. 
 
 Mar.-J. You have a friend, mother . . . who is 
 veiy rich . . . who loves you greatly . . . 
 
 Sab. I? 
 
 Mar.-J. A friend who wanted to marry you. 
 
 Sab. Oh, Marie- Jeanne ! . . . Do not recall that 
 memoiy at a moment when I am so unnerved, so pained. 
 The friend to whom you allude I no longer have. I do 
 not know where he is, what has become of him. 
 
 At the time of Marie-Jeanne's marriage Sabine wrote to 
 Stangy of it, and her letter came back imopened. Marie- 
 Jeanne, however, says that his vexation must have long 
 been over, and she looks up his name in a foreign commer- 
 cial directory. She insists that he is the providential per- 
 son upon whom their salvation devolves. Sabine, on the 
 
HERVEEU 257 
 
 contrary, feels that she would degrade herself by appealing 
 to Stangy and destroy what good opinion he might still 
 have of her. She would appear to be trying to extort 
 money from him by recalling the memory of a sacred senti- 
 ment. The view that Marie- Jeanne takes of this attitude 
 is that her mother, in refusing to write the letter that she 
 might, is putting herself in the same position as her grand- 
 mother, who refuses to give the money that she possesses. 
 
 Mar.-J. Instead of his having become a stranger to 
 whom you do not dare to appeal he might have been here 
 with his fortune, and might have helped me in the capacity 
 of a father-in-law. 
 
 Sah. Do you accuse me of having wronged you.!" 
 
 Mar.-J. Oh, I don't accuse you. If you made a mis- 
 take I know that you did it through excess of affection for 
 me. But I am engrossed with the idea that we are not 
 accomplishing anything, that I must go back to my Didier 
 empty-handed, instead of being able to say: "Hope! This 
 has already been done." Then, thinking of the exagger- 
 ated sacrifice which you saw fit to make at another time, 
 I cannot help perceiving that now it rebounds on my 
 destiny. 
 
 Sah. Very well, Marie-Jeanne, if you look at it that 
 way I will try to repair the injmy that you lay at my door. 
 
 Mar.-J. Oh, mother dear, I am afraid I cannot regret 
 my words, as they have given me something to thank you 
 for once again. We are both overlooking what chance you 
 may have of succeeding, but among the vows I shall make 
 the thought comes to me of how I can recompense you for 
 your pain. 
 
 Sab. I have undertaken to act without the least hope 
 of recompense. 
 
 Mar.-J. But let me tell you of the little idea which 
 your agitation just now suggested to me. This friend who 
 is so much dearer to you than I ever suspected, and whom 
 you renounced through motherly tenderness, may be 
 brought back to you by your daughter in making you 
 write this letter. 
 
 Sah. Do you imagine that Stangy would come back? 
 What can suggest such a supposition to you? What mad- 
 ness ! I will admit that he might wish well by me^ that he 
 might lend himself obligingly to disposing of the embar- 
 
258 THE TORCH RACE 
 
 rassment of which I shall urform him . . . But that 
 is all! 
 
 Marie-Jeanne hands her mother a mirror and asks her 
 to assure herself that she is still as young-looking and as 
 charming as when Stangy went away. Sabine is unwilling 
 to look in the mirror at first, but presently, while writing, 
 she turns to the glass and thinks that perhaps she is not 
 much changed. 
 
 The demands upon Mme. Fontenais have not come to 
 an end with Didier's failure. The creditors have refused 
 to consent to his discharge in bankruptcy unless his assets 
 are increased by the sum of 100,000 francs. Mme. Fon- 
 tenais' home, where Didier and Marie-Jeanne have come 
 to live, is the centre of a constant storm in which the grand- 
 mother holds out against the others. Even Maravon is 
 pitted against her, but she holds firm. Marie-Jeanne's 
 health has suffered since she began to share Didier's anx- 
 iety, and finally, after a violent scene which ended in Mme. 
 Fontenais breaking with the others, Marie-Jeanne was 
 seized with an alarming fainting spell. 
 
 The doctor determined that Marie-Jeanne was a prey 
 to somfe fixed idea which must be eradicated before there 
 could be any improvement in her condition. All night 
 they watched over her anxiously. In the morning when 
 Sabine entered Marie-Jeanne's room she was evidently 
 deeply moved, and going to her daughter and embracing 
 her she told her to worry no more, that the money for 
 Didier's discharge had been provided. Marie-Jeanne's im- 
 provement was instantaneous. Sitting up, she cried: 
 "You have heard from M. Stangy! Ah, you see that my 
 idea was a good one!" Sabine's only reply was to tell 
 her to wait, and that she was going out to get the 100,000 
 francs. 
 
 Two hours elapse before Sabine's retiu-n. The doctor 
 has called again, and Maravon is waiting in the parlor to 
 hear his report. He is struck by Sabine's wild and haggard 
 look as she comes into the room. Impatient to confirm 
 what he has heard about the hope of relief, he asks if an 
 answer has come from Stangy at last, after two months. 
 It is not only true that Stangy has not written, she in- 
 forms him, but furthermore nothing else has happened 
 
HERVIEU 259 
 
 which can bring relief. She does not wish to be questioned. 
 Changing the subject abruptly, she reminds him of a con- 
 versation they once had in that room in which he main- 
 tained that the principles of nature compelled parents to 
 sacrifice themselves for the benefit of their offspring. She 
 asks how he reconciles Mme. Fontenais' attitude with this 
 theory. His answer is that the instinctive forces are 
 weakened as people grow old. 
 
 Sab. Then why should a person who no longer has all 
 the natural feelings enjoy aU the rights of the individual? 
 In all justice, shouldn't my mother's senile inhumanity 
 authorize me to declare her iacapable of managing her 
 own affairs, to dispossess her, to take charge of her prop- 
 erty and make salutary use of it? Isn't it monstrous that 
 the soaring of two yotmg lives should be held fettered in 
 agony by hands that are already nearly cold? Say that it 
 is intolerable! Say that anything is permissible against 
 it! . . . Say it! Will you say it? 
 
 Mar. My poor friend, you charge me with having been 
 a bad prophet the day I told you that filial piety would 
 not stand the test. And as if fate intended to prove it 
 to you to-day, your civilized soul reverts suddenly to the 
 level of the Redskin. You speak of your mother's old 
 hands in the spirit of savages who make the head of the 
 family climb up in a tree and then shake the tree to see 
 whether he can hang on or can only drop. 
 
 Sab. No, do not make me think that I am contemplat- 
 ing the idea of my mother's death. Oh, no I That would 
 be a misfortune for which I am not prepared. I haven't 
 got to that. 
 
 Mar. If you haven't got so far as that, how far have 
 you got? 
 
 Sab. What's that? Your tone is so odd. . . . Why 
 do you look into the depths of my eyes like that? It isn't 
 hard to ask me what I have done, if you guess. 
 
 Mar. I do not guess. 
 
 Sab. But it seems as if you must be reading my thoughts. 
 You were just comparing me to a savage. What do sav- 
 ages do when necessity demands, and the object is within 
 reach? Well, I thought that my daughter was drawing 
 her last breath. I had helped carry her body, which had 
 lost half its weight. I had seen her sink on her pillow and 
 
260 THE TORCH RACE 
 
 collapse again from weakness. Then, since the only remedy 
 in the world had been named by the doctor, I could do 
 nothing but take it from the drawer in which my mother 
 keeps her securities. 
 
 Mar. You did it! 
 
 Sab. Yes, I did! 
 
 Mar. Oh! 
 
 Sab. You who have sympathized as deeply as I with 
 our children will beheve that if I have restrained myself 
 for so long from pouring out what is stifling me, it is not 
 because I am ashamed of my act, for I only should be for 
 being foiled. 
 
 Mar. What have you done? What have you done? 
 
 Sah. I am going to tell you. I will tell you all. Listen 
 . . . I did not premeditate it. I had never thought of 
 it before last night. All at once the idea came to me at 
 the bedside of Marie-Jeanne. It was four o'clock in the 
 morning. My resolution was instantly taken. I left the 
 chair where I was watching, left the room, and went in 
 there . . . Mamma uttered a cry. It was nothing. 
 She was dreaming ... I groped my way to the win- 
 dow . . . drew the curtains apart far enough to admit 
 a ray of dawn . . . and then to work! If mamma 
 had waked up, if she had interrupted me, had cried out, I 
 should have raised my voice more authoritatively to silence 
 her and said that I did not mean to let my daughter lose 
 her mind or her life. I took the bunch of keys from the 
 marble top of the commode and opened the bureau. I 
 passed back and forth between the hiding-place of the 
 securities and the streak of light with the stealth of a wolf, 
 trying to make my choice between the papers. And from 
 time to time mamma spoke in a hoarse voice, excited by 
 her nightmare. Several times she cried out: "Ah! Ah!" 
 so loudly that I was afraid I had waked her, but no, she was 
 asleep ... I inspire you with horror? 
 
 Mar. I cannot define what I feel ... I do not 
 judge you at the present moment. Go on to the end. 
 
 At last Sabine selected some registered debenture bonds. 
 She had gone once or twice with her mother and witnessed 
 the formalities of converting such certificates into money. 
 After practising for several hours she succeeded in writing 
 a demand for the conversion of the paper in what seemed 
 
HERVIEU 261 
 
 to her a perfect imitation of her mother's handwriting, 
 signing it with her mother's name. The oflScer in the bank 
 to whom she had to apply was an old friend of her father's, 
 and already knew about Didier's affairs. Sabine told him 
 that her mother wished to liquidate the young man's lia- 
 bilities, but was ill herself and could not leave the house. 
 
 The oflBcial was very cordial and obliging and imme- 
 diately provided the cash on the securities, for which she 
 signed a receipt. Having tucked the hundred thousand 
 francs in her corsage and said good morning, she was 
 opening the dOor when he suddenly asked her to wait, say- 
 ing that she had made the mistake of signing the receipt 
 with her mother's name. In consternation she looked at 
 the receipt and found that she had counterfeited her 
 mother's signature again. At the same moment the official 
 looked at the application once more and detected the for- 
 gery. She threw herself on her knees and begged him not 
 to take the money from her. The plea was in vain, but 
 he consented to give her time to seek her mother's for- 
 giveness and to persuade her to come on the errand 
 herself. 
 
 Maravon points out the danger that threatens from hav- 
 ing given Marie- Jeanne false hopes. Sabine is determined 
 to prolong the illusion at any cost, and to tell whatever lies 
 may be necessary. 
 
 The doctor has diagnosed Marie-Jeanne's condition as 
 nervous exhaustion combined with the first symptoms of 
 consumption, but he says that her constitution still has 
 plenty of resources and that if she spends the summer at a 
 high altitude in the mountains he thinks her health will be 
 restored. As her nervous condition is a sort of hypochon- 
 dria, due to mental strain, he says it is necessary to humor 
 her and make everything as agreeable as possible. The 
 doctor also warns Sabine against taking Mme. Fontenais 
 to the mountains, which would be bad for her heart. 
 
 Doctor. Her heart is not equal to the strain that would 
 be put upon it by the rarefication of the atmosphere at a 
 high altitude. At that height the heart has to work four 
 times as hard to supply the ordinary amount of blood, 
 which is dangerous if the arteries are not sufficiently supple. 
 This should not alarm you about Mme. Fontenais. She 
 may live indefinitely in Paris, in the air of the plains. But 
 
£62 THE TORCH RACE 
 
 to expose her to the respiratory strain of a high altitude 
 would be equivalent to stabbing her with a knife. 
 
 Sab. That's important to kiiow. 
 
 Doctor. One word more. Cardiac patients are very 
 impressionable. If Mme. Fontenais asks your reasons, 
 do not give her the true one. 
 
 When the doctor has gone Mme. Fontenais comes into 
 the parlor, somewhat to Sabine's surprise, but Mme. Fon- 
 tenais says she has not been thrown out to the dogs yet. 
 She expresses regret for the hard words that have been ex- 
 changed, and that Marie- Jeanne should have been made iU 
 because she could not have her way. Mme. Fontenais, 
 however, volunteers to defray the expenses of the visit to 
 the mountains, which Maravon has told her is prescribed 
 by the doctor. 
 
 Sab. I thank you. 
 
 Mme. F. You are sulky. Do you cherish great bitter- 
 ness agaLast me? Perhaps you despise me? 
 
 Sab. I haven't the right. 
 
 Mme. F. Nevertheless, I know there is no one but my- 
 self who loves you. 
 
 Sab. Ah, if I did not have Marie-Jeanne's tenderness 
 to console me I should hardly feel as if I were loved at all. 
 
 Mme. F. Have confidence in the clairvoyance that has 
 come to me: I have no one but you. Your vision takes 
 in no one but your daughter; and your daughter thinks only 
 of her husband. . . . What she loves the most surely 
 in you is that you make common cause with the man whom 
 she loves against me. Beware the day when you will no 
 longer be in accord with her conjugal love. Then you will 
 find it definitely established for you in your turn what it 
 means to be only a mother. 
 
 They revert to the matter of the joiuTiey, and Sabine says 
 that it would be fatiguing for Mme. Fontenais to go to 
 Switzerland and would upset all her habits. Mme. Fon- 
 tenais is all the more anxious to be with Sabine as much as 
 she can for the very reason that she is no longer young and 
 that the end is not so far away. Sabine repfies that she is 
 obliged to say she does not wish to have her mother come, 
 since she will have to devote herself so much to Marie- 
 Jeanne and since it would really be better for her mother 
 to remain in Paris. Mme. Fontenais can see in this atti- 
 
HERVIEU 263 
 
 tude only a desire to get rid of her and have no one to mar 
 the perfect accord of the rest of the household, but she says 
 that she will not consent to being left alone, and will either 
 accompany them or insist upon Sabine remaining with her. 
 The purse strings being in her hands, there seems to be 
 nothing left for Sabine to do but choose between these 
 alternatives. 
 
 As Marie-Jeanne comes in, supported by Didier, Mme. 
 Fontenais leaves the room. Marie-Jeanne asks her mother 
 immediately if she has the 100,000 francs, and sinks down 
 with a gesture of despair when Sabine replies that there has 
 been a slight delay. Didier says that if she can promise 
 the sum within a certain time he will tell his creditors at 
 their meeting at noon, and they will give him his discharge 
 at once. Sabine stammeringly replies that he may count 
 on her, permitting them to believe that Stangy has come to 
 her aid. 
 
 The idea of not having her mother to coddle her when she 
 is ailing is not at all agreeable to Marie-Jeanne. So far as 
 she can see it is much more feasible to bring her grand- 
 mother along than to leave her mother at home. This 
 opposition to her wishes makes her quite feverish again, and 
 Sabine is distracted. Didier has to go to the meeting of 
 his creditors and asks Sabine what delay he shall ask them 
 for, reminding her that if he does not make the payment 
 which he is going to promise all future possibility of re- 
 habilitating himself will vanish. Sabine does not know 
 what to say. 
 
 Mar.-J. Oh, if Didier should fall into the grasp of 
 those wretches again it would kill me. 
 
 Sab. [in anguish]. Will you be good enough not to utter 
 such words ! 
 
 Did. Any engagement that I enter into is of supreme 
 importance. If you feel a shade of uncertainty you must 
 not let me guarantee to pay. 
 
 Sabine is silent. 
 
 Mar.-J. [dr allying herself up, dismayed]. Mother, why 
 don't you answer? 
 
 iSa6. Why, yes! . . . Don't get up on your high 
 horse. Didier confused me for a moment . . . 
 
 Mar.-J. [falling back weakly]. Ah! 
 
 Sab. [distracted]. Come! Good heavens! You aren't 
 
264 THE TORCH RACE 
 
 going to faint again! . . . There! There! Where 
 are the salts? Breathe, my childl Breathe! [roDiDiER.] 
 Look, for no reason at all she turned deathly pale again! 
 It seemed as if I saw her dead. Oh, no, you shan't die. 
 The whole earth shall perish before I will let you die! . . 
 Marie- Jeanne, do you hear? . . . She has openjed her 
 eyes . . . My darling daughter, listen to what I am 
 telling Didier. [To him.] Go and take the step boldly 
 that will restore the strength to this poor little body. I 
 will take upon myself entire responsibility for the agree- 
 ment that you are going to sign. In so far as it is within 
 human power to keep a promise I engage myself to keep 
 mine. 
 
 Didier goes out, and the next moment Mme. Fontenais 
 enters. 
 
 Mme. F. Well, what have you arrived at between 
 mother and daughter? Am I to take the journey? 
 
 Sab. [replying vfitk a mx)tion of her head mxyre Hum her 
 voice]. Yes. 
 
 Sabine has hardly established herself in a chalet in the 
 Engadine when Stangy comes to call. He has been so- 
 journing there for some time, but hesitated to make his 
 presence known until he received a letter from Sabine 
 which had been following him for several months. Mme. 
 Fontenais is the first to receive him, and he assures her 
 that he wishes to justify the honor which Sabine has done 
 him in counting on his friendship and aid. Mme. Fon- 
 tenais has been taking a walk and has found the fresh, pure 
 air intensely invigorating. She thinks that perhaps she 
 has walked a little too far, and she reels slightly as she turns 
 to go to her room for a rest. 
 
 Upon finding Stangy at the house, Sabine can hardly 
 beheve her senses. He has prospered and increased his 
 fortune, and having no heir tells her that it is a great pleas- 
 ure to him to offer her some relief. The subject is painful 
 to her, and she says she will leave it to Didier to discuss 
 with him. As she and her mother are going to return to 
 Paris the next day she fears that she may not see much of 
 him, and tells him that he already knows what he was to 
 her and that she would tremble to repeat what she said to 
 him at their last meeting. 
 
HERVIEU 265 
 
 Sab. Does not this meeting mean that I may yet be 
 happy and perhaps give happiness? Will you not return 
 to Paris? You surely have not forgotten the way to my 
 house, where your image has always remained before my 
 eyes. 
 
 Stan. I have come here to ... I am detained 
 here ... for the health of my wife. 
 
 Sab. [overcome]. Your wife! ... Oh! 
 
 Stan. You thought that I should remain in the loneli- 
 ness of eternal fidelity? 
 
 Sab. Yes ... No ... I don't know! 
 
 A year after parting from Sabine Stangy married a 
 cousin in Louisiana, and having lost his ideal, he expected 
 to remain there for the rest of his life. He had a child 
 that died only three months ago. Since then his wife has 
 not wished to return home. He thinks that fate would 
 have been kinder if he had received her letter and answered 
 it from a distance so that they might have been spared the 
 pain of this interview, but she tells him not to regret it, 
 for she had often feared that she might die without ever 
 seeing him again. 
 
 In Stangy's absence from home he requires some one in 
 whom he can repose confidence to take charge of his affairs. 
 It has occurred to him to offer the position to Didier, but 
 he fears that it would not do to separate him from Marie- 
 Jeanne while her health is still uncertain. Didier, in fact, 
 says that he cannot leave her. The opportunity is so ex- 
 ceptional, however, that Marie-Jeanne will not hear of 
 Didier's refusing it. Marie-Jeanne's health is already 
 much improved, and as there is every prospect that she 
 could rejoin him in America after a reasonable time, he 
 accepts and agrees to start at the end of a week. 
 
 TVten Sabine learns of the plan she asks Marie-Jeanne 
 if she thinks she is well enough to bear the separation so 
 soon, but Marie-Jeanne replies that she has no intention of 
 being separated from Didier. It was his adversity that 
 had such a disastrous effect upon her, and now that 
 fortune favors she feels svu'e that she will be speedily 
 cured. 
 
 Sab. And I, where do I come in in this arrangement? 
 
 Mar. -J. You cannot take grandmother with us to such 
 a distance, and you cannot abandon her. 
 
266 THE TORCH RA.CE 
 
 Sab. So, your plan is already made, you have agreed 
 to go in a week and live five thousand miles from me? 
 
 Mar. -J. Could I agree to being separated from my hus- 
 band by five thousand miles? 
 
 Sah. Neither you nor he is forced to leave Paris. Good 
 heavens, you aren't dying of want! Didier could find 
 something else. How extravagant! You aren't really 
 serious? You are just saying it to distract me. You 
 wouldn't do such a fearful thing! 
 
 Mar. -J. You aren't going to oppose what is already 
 settled? Oh, mother, don't destroy our magnificent 
 hopes! You don't want to set us adrift again! 
 
 Sab. You don't love me! One loves only the person 
 one prefers. One belongs to the preferred being, body and 
 soul, from the moment of choosing him, and for his sake 
 tramples the others under foot. Not loving others, loving 
 them a little or loving them well, are only varying degrees 
 of indifference. Oh, Marie-Jeanne, say that you didn't 
 know what pain you would cause me, say that you will not 
 tear yourself from my arms and place the immensity of 
 this distance between us! 
 
 Marie-Jeanne regrets that she cannot cut herself in two, 
 but she must follow her husband to the end of the world. 
 She leaves Sabine, who calls Mme. Fontenais. 
 
 Mme. F. [running in]. What has happened? You 
 frighten me! 
 
 Sab. Marie-Jeanne is going to leave me. In a short 
 time I shall see her no more. Her husband is going to 
 take her away, running after fortune in Stangy's country! 
 
 Mme. F. What are you telling me? It's some wild 
 project, a fantasy that will pass away. 
 
 Sab. Oh, no! You would share my certainty if you 
 had heard, if you had seen how determined Marie-Jeaime 
 was. After so many indications that I could not count 
 on her, she gave me a last and ineffaceable proof . . . 
 What pain she caused me! What pain I feel! . . . 
 Oh! Oh! Oh! 
 
 Mme. F. My dear Sabine, don't cry so! [Sabine's 
 moans punctuate Mme. Fontenais' words.] Oh, your 
 poor sobs agitate me so differently from your anger, against 
 which perhaps I was too intractable and hard. . . . 
 But what can I do to console you? . . . Come, I will 
 
HERVIEU 267 
 
 grant whatever is necessary . . . Yes! May your 
 father pardon me if I am persuaded to betray my oath. 
 Daughter, I will speak to your son-in-law. I will pay him 
 his price to keep him and Marie- Jeanne! 
 
 Sab. They wouldn't listen to you. They are drimk 
 with illusions. In their dream they see millions before 
 them. Your entire resources would be too modest to-day 
 to satisfy their new demands . . . They will go away, 
 and I shall be forced to forget Marie-Jeanne. After the 
 feeling of freezing me that she gave me, she would not be 
 able to warm me again. I no longer have a daughter 
 . . . I have only you. No doubt I have never really 
 bad any one but you, and I acted like a monster to you. 
 Don't contradict me! Only let me promise a future 
 prostrated before you, when I shall implore you to let me 
 rest my head on your knees . . . What is the matter? 
 What is the matter with you? 
 
 Mme. F. [trying to rise]. Ah! [She falls.] 
 
 ScA. Oh! Oh! No! It can't be that! . . . 
 Speak to me! . . . Make a sign! . . . How she 
 presses my hand! [Sabine withdraws her hand violently.] 
 And her eyes! . . . Dead! . . . She is dead! 
 . . . For my daughter ... I have killed my 
 mother! 
 
BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 By Octave Merbeau 
 
 First played in Paris at the Comedie Frangaise on 
 April 20, 1903. 
 
 Argument: Isidore Lechat, a man of low origin, vulgar 
 and gross, but endowed with great energy and cunning, 
 has amassed an immense fortune by unscrupulous dealings 
 and now sees an opportunity to double his capital. The 
 first step in his plot is to gain political power by the mar- 
 riage of his daughter, but the girl, revolted by his misdeeds, 
 tells him she has become the mistress of one of his employ- 
 ees, and in addition to this blow, in the thick of the fight, 
 his son whom he adored above everything is brought in 
 dead, killed in a motor accident. Will his adversaries 
 get the better of him, or will his instinct for "business" 
 dominate him though stricken with grief and half stunned 
 by the shock? 
 
 The chateau de Vauperdu with its park and surroimding 
 estate is sumptuous enough to have been the property of 
 Louis XrV, as claimed by the present owner, Isidore 
 Lechat. In a setting of green lawns, terraces, fountains, 
 and rose bushes, Mme. Lechat is sitting in a wicker arm- 
 chair, muffled in laces, engaged in knitting. She is stout 
 and overdressed, and her face is pale, flabby, and vulgar. 
 Nearby is her daughter Germaine, reclining on a long 
 garden chair with a book lying open on her knees. She 
 is twenty-five, very pretty, with a supple figure and sad, 
 ardent eyes, and dressed very simply, almost negligently. 
 
 It is six o'clock when a footman brings Mjne. Lechat 
 a telegram. A telegram always gives her stomach a turn, 
 she says. The message is from her son Xavier, who is in 
 Ostend and is going to breakfast at home the next day. 
 Mme. Lechat is oppressed by her customary dread that 
 
 268 
 
MIRBEAU 269 
 
 her husband will bring some one to dinner without warning, 
 and as it is Satiu-day she is a prey to the additional appre- 
 hension that the guests may stay over night and need 
 night shirts. She is half inclined to have a chicken killed, 
 as the dinner consists of what was left over from the day 
 before, but cannot make up her mind to risk the waste. 
 She cannot see what Germaine is laughiag at, and as for 
 giving the remnants to the poor, she thinks it disgusting 
 that there are so many in the neighborhood. 
 
 Germaine. Wherever there is a man who is too rich 
 there must also be people who are too poor. 
 
 Mme. Lechat. We can't help that. And it is no reason 
 for feeding them — with chicken. If they worked they 
 wouldn't be so poor. 
 
 Ger. If they worked? At what? 
 
 Mme. L. How do you mean, at what? 
 
 Ger. We have taken everything from them, their little 
 fields, their little houses, their little gardens, to round out 
 what my father calls his domain. Those who could go 
 away have gone. 
 
 Although the peasants have been paid for their property, 
 Germaine says they have no way of earning their living. 
 A moment later when her mother asks her to go down to 
 the wine cellar she says that it is the duty of a servant, 
 and that if her mother reposed more confidence in the 
 servants they would steal less. Besides, they have stolen 
 only a few bottles of wine, whereas certain persons whom 
 she knows have — gained millions. She thinks her mother 
 should not be angry, for she said "gained." But Mme. 
 Lechat will not let this pass. She declares that her hus- 
 band, with aU his faults, vanity, extravagance, insolence, 
 lying, and folly, never goes back on his word and does not 
 like to cheat people. 
 
 Jfme. L. He made his fortune by work. He has had 
 luck, has been favored by circumstances, but has done 
 more by skill and courage. If he has been bankrupt 
 twice, hasn't he received his discharge? If he has been 
 in prison . . . well, what of it? Wasn't he acquitted? 
 Ah, he has had hard struggles, poor fellow. Others with 
 less energy would have blown their brains out. He, no 
 . . . At each fall he has got up to win more, to strive 
 higher. He has foimded a great paper, he who scarcely 
 
270 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 knew how to write. Come, if your father was arascal would 
 he be the friend of a cabinet minister? 
 
 Ger. It becomes you, really, to reproach me so severely 
 for what you do every day, complaining of father, laying 
 bare his faults before every one, strangers even, 
 
 Mme. X. I . . . That isn't the same thing. 
 
 When Mme. Lechat has started off to the wine cellar 
 the gardener comes forward and tells Germaine that he 
 has been discharged because his wife is going to have a 
 child, a fact that will make it difS^cult for him to find a new 
 place, but M. Lechat will not have children around. Ger- 
 maine knows that it would be useless for her to intercede. 
 The gardener fears that she is not happy at Vauperdu, for 
 he says she has too good a heart. 
 
 The shrill voice of Mme. Lechat is heard screaming at 
 the servants, and then she reappears, descending a flight 
 of stone steps. Prom the other direction comes Lucien 
 Garraud, a chemist employed by Lechat to make special 
 fertilizers. Mme. Lechat accuses Garraud of putting 
 silly notions into her husband's head about revolutionizing 
 agriculture, and being responsible for experiments that 
 may cost thousands of francs. Garraud replies that M. 
 Lechat is the author of the ideas, and that it frequently 
 is the case that a great leader of industry, having extreme 
 confidence in himself, the habit of domination and success, 
 feels a constant need of creating something new and finds 
 joy in struggling with obstacles. The earth, however, 
 cannot be managed, he says, like the poor human soul. 
 Mme. Lechat implores him to make her husband see this. 
 
 Suddenly shouts are heard. "Hurrah for Isidore 
 Lechat!" "Hurrah for Citizen Isidore Lechat!" It is 
 a new idea of the proprietor's to have the farmhands ac- 
 claim him with cheers whenever he approaches. Lechat 
 appears presently from the direction of the driveway, 
 throwing small coins to the laborers and telling them to 
 shut up. He is a large man with a roundish beUy, vulgar 
 bearing, and a crafty, mistrustful eye. His oblique 
 glances contrast strangely with the springiness of his gait 
 and perpetual play of gesture. His beard, which is gray, 
 short, and harsh, accentuates the opening of his mouth 
 and white, wolflike teeth. He has \he heavy jaw of a 
 carnivorous animal. 
 
MIRBEAU 271 
 
 Two men accompany Lechat. He tells his wife and 
 daughter that they represent twenty-thousand horse- 
 power, and then introduces them more specifically as M. 
 Phinck and Wilhelm Gruggh, electrical engineers. He is 
 delighted to learn that Xavier is coming home. The en- 
 gineers have not heard of the young man. 
 
 Isidore. What, you haven't? But he's very well 
 known. He's all the sporting papers talk about. He has 
 a racing stable, a yacht, an automobile worth fifty thou- 
 sand francs, friends in high society, the most beautiful 
 actresses in Paris. He's only twenty -one to-morrow! 
 And he has already figured in two or three very pretty 
 scandals. He's a corker! 
 
 Mme. L. He's too many things. He gives us plenty 
 of tangles to straighten out, principally for me, for this 
 boy, gentlemen, is the pet craze of his father. Isidore 
 exceeds reason. [Isidore beams, rubbing his hands.] And 
 the rascal profits by it, God knows! 
 
 Isi. He amuses himself, the varlet. It's his age. 
 
 Mme. L. He might do it at less expense, especially as 
 he's such a handsome boy. 
 
 Isidore regards the money he lays out on his son as an 
 advertisement which will pay him back a hundred per 
 cent. His wife asks him if the two guests will require beds. 
 Of course, he says, they won't want a roost. She apolo- 
 gizes for the meagre dmner they will receive, but Isidore 
 assures her that they have not come to eat but to talk 
 business. 
 
 •Isi. Enormous undertakings . . . twenty thou- 
 sand horsepower. [He shoves Phinck and Ghuggh back 
 and speaks to them in a low voice.] Don't pay any atten- 
 tion to what my wife says. She's a good woman, but she 
 isn't used to society . . . [Coming back.] Ah, big 
 business ! requiring hordes of men, millions by the handful 
 
 . . . the millions of other people, eh? Gigantic 
 works, bridges, harbors, tunnels, tramways ... I 
 like that sort of thing. It's my life. Do you think we 
 can do your fellow countrymen, the Swiss, and yours, the 
 Germans? They proclaim themselves the kings of electric- 
 ity. Well, they don't know me yet. Look at this chateau. 
 It was built by Louis XIV. The whole court, the whole 
 aristocratic rout, defiled through its halls in garments of 
 
272 BUSmESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 silk and velvet! . . . Who does it belong to to-day, 
 this royal chateau? To a prince? No. To a duke? 
 No. To a man of the people ... to a socialist. 
 
 The steward of the estate comes forward. He is a ruined 
 viscount, a man well along in years, and Isidore takes 
 pleasure in humiliating him and bullying him. He warns 
 him to be on hand the next time he comes home, and after 
 giving orders that no poor persons shall be allowed to 
 gather dead wood on the estate, goes o£P to see a sick cow on 
 which he wishes to practice his ideas of veterinary medi- 
 cine. Germaine tells her mother that she has a headache 
 and will not come to dinner, and goes off toward the house. 
 
 The engineers compliment Mme. Lechat on the mag- 
 nificence of the property, but she replies with a discouraged 
 air that she is not accustomed to living in great buildings 
 and that the work of supervision and administration is 
 head-splitting. It all came to them too late, she explains, 
 shaking her head sadly. She does not feel at home here. 
 It always seems to her as if she were travelling and staying 
 at a hotel in a foreign country. And the great portraits 
 of princesses in intimidating toilets! She does not know 
 how to act with them looking at her. She wishes she were 
 in a little house with a little servant-maid and a little 
 garden. They remind her that the place gives her hus- 
 band pleasure, but she replies that a pleasure which costs 
 money instead of bringing it in is no pleasure. 
 
 When Isidore comes back he points out to the engi- 
 neers a number of distant landmarks that lie within his 
 estate, which comprises fourteen thousand acres. He has 
 four hundred and nineteen fields and pastures. The next 
 day he will show them his woods, fishponds, nurseries, 
 sheepfolds, everything. And the adjoining estate of the 
 Marquis de Porcellet is within his grasp. In fact, he is 
 going to foreclose at once on the Marquis, who is an old 
 spendthrift, he says, and heavily in his debt. Mme. 
 Lechat groans. She does not want another ch&teau. 
 Isidore also describes his project of raising rice, tea, coffee, 
 and sugar cane. It is simply a matter of using the proper 
 fertilizer, he explains. That is the theory that he is going 
 to prove. He always succeeds in whatever he undertakes. 
 He will grow these crops on his place, and he will be elected 
 Deputy. 
 
MIRBEAU 273 
 
 They are just starting to go in to dinner, and Mme. 
 Lechat is explaining again that her husband never tele- 
 phones when he is going to bring some one, when seven 
 new guests arrive, ceremoniously bowing and scraping, 
 whom Isidore had forgotten that he had invited. They 
 are the justice of the peace and his wife, the doctor and his 
 wife, the tax gatherer and his wife, and a retired captain. 
 Mme. Lechat is flurried almost beyond words. Phinck 
 and Gruggh withdraw to one side. 
 
 Gruggh. A fool. We won't have any trouble about 
 getting what we want. 
 
 Phinck. Look out for fools like him. See his eye. 
 He's terrible. 
 
 Gruggh. Oh, bosh! 
 
 Phinck. Look out for him. I've known some of his 
 build, the most dangerous. 
 
 Gruggh. You're always the same, no stomach. 
 
 Phinck. And you no eyes. Look at him. 
 
 Gruggh. A man who has twice failed of election as 
 Deputy — with money. 
 
 Phinck. A man equal to doing us. 
 
 Gruggh. Like to see him. 
 
 When the guests go toward the house with the host and 
 hostess Garraud remains behind, and presently Germaine 
 returns, coming from around the corner of the chS,teau. 
 Running to him, she throws herself into his arms, and tells 
 him that she is overcome with shame and anger and revul- 
 sion in that house where every minute is marked by an 
 injustice or a misfortune, if not by an actual crime. She 
 asks him to deliver her from her misery, to take her away. 
 
 The next morning when Mme. Lechat is going to mass 
 she finds Germaine in a drawing-room that connects with 
 Lechat's office. Germaine will not go to mass, and her 
 mother, who has suspected that something is wrong with 
 her, asks why she is so feverish and agitated, and so aggres- 
 sive toward her parents. There are moments when Mme. 
 Lechat wonders if her daughter is not a little crazy. As 
 soon as Mme. Lechat has gone Germaine sends for Garraud. 
 
 The young man has been seeking another position for 
 some time, but Germaine does not wish to remain at home 
 any longer. She tells him they are wasting their happiness 
 
274 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 and that the continual restraint and concealment that they 
 practise is unworthy of them. And besides, she sayS, the 
 weight of this house on her heart is more than she can bear. 
 She wishes to let everybody know what they are to each 
 other. He begs her to wait a httle longer, for he may ob- 
 tain another position any day, and then she would be safe- 
 guarded from want. 
 
 The night before after leaving him, she says, she did not 
 sleep, but waited until dawn and then went out and walked 
 in the woods. She walked for a long distance, and coming 
 at last to, a clearing she saw suddenly the ch&teau rising in 
 the distance. She felt a shock as li she had seen death. 
 It was a frightful moment, a moment of horrible enchant- 
 ment. She had a vision, more oppressive than ever, real, 
 physical, of all that the house hid within it, of all that it 
 crushed, of all that it killed around it. Woods, fields, the 
 park, the mass of stone on which she stood, implacable in 
 the sunlight, represented crimes. There was not a blade 
 of grass, not a pebble, not a scent that was not stolen. 
 And in the earth that she walked on she heard weeping 
 and saw blood. 
 
 He asks her where they shall go, how they shall live. 
 The thought of want and misery is appalling to him. In 
 passing t&ough them, he says, one leaves behind part of 
 one's life, part of one's pride, of one's conscience, of one's 
 love. Before he came there he sought work vainly for 
 three years. He knocked at every door, but none was 
 opened to him. 
 
 Ger. You lacked faith in yourself. Now there will be 
 two of us to struggle. 
 
 Lucien. Two to suffer doubly, and to be twice van- 
 quished. That is what makes me timid and prudent. 
 
 Ger. And it is what makes me bold and gives me hope. 
 You do not love . . . you do not love me ... if 
 your love does not give you the blind and sublime faith 
 which triumphs over everything. 
 
 He feels that he owes her father some consideration, and 
 asks if she is sure that she knows her father, if he is re- 
 sponsible for all that she accuses him of, and if it is not 
 through herself rather than through her father that she 
 suffers? 
 
 Luc. You suffer from entertaining a dream that is be- 
 
MIRBEAU 276 
 
 yond humanity. And your ideal of absolute justice is 
 preparing for you, oh, believe me, a future of sadness. I 
 am not a saint either. Like everybody I am made up of 
 good and bad . . . more of the bad perhaps tiiaa 
 good. How do I know that on the day when you perceive 
 that I am only a man, a poor inhabitant of the earth, you 
 will not hate me for not being the radiant chimsera that 
 you have created in your own mind? And then what will 
 become of you? 
 
 Ger. That's stupid. 
 
 Luc. No, it is human. And you will find everywhere, 
 in varying intensity and in other forms, what you have seen 
 here at home. The scene which man inhabits may differ, 
 but the soul is the same, or very little different. It is the 
 poor human soul with its appetites, its interests, its de- 
 structive passions, incoherences, its crimes, yes, and with 
 the sad fatality of its misery too. One should pity more 
 than hate. One never knows . . . Even with the 
 most fallen, the most hardened criminal, for those who can 
 see it there is always a little light which shows the way for 
 pity. 
 
 Germaine tells him the story of Gabriel Dauphin, a 
 private banker, who appealed to her father for help when 
 he was afraid of going under. Her father promised him 
 help, took over his stock, and threw it on the market. The 
 price gave way, and with it the house. Dauphin blew his 
 brains out. Business is business. She says there are 
 hundreds of other cases like that, thousands. In her 
 father's eyes, she says, she has a variable, speculative value, 
 and that he frequently plans to throw her in for good 
 measure with a dowry as part of a bargain. In the midst 
 of this shame and crime she might have fallen lower and 
 lower until she had reached the point to which Xavier 
 dropped at once, but somehow she has been preserved from 
 the contagion, though she has been tempted often enough 
 to humiliate her parents in her disgust and savage desire 
 for revenge. Finally Lucien agrees to go away with her at 
 once. She tells him to remain near the chtteau, and 
 directs her maid to pack some things for her in a largetrunk. 
 After some consideration she decides to take her jewelry. 
 
 Isidore brings in Phinck and Gruggh and goes for a few 
 minutes into Ms private office. The two engineers hold a 
 
276 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 final conference before coming to the grapple with the 
 captain of industry. Both are nervous, and Phinck has 
 lost confidence entirely. He declares that Lechat has a 
 marvellous business sense and understanding of the times. 
 He thinks it will not do to tell what they accompUshed by 
 false estimates, but Gruggh holds that it will impress Le- 
 chat with their ability. They agree to stand out for rake- 
 offs on dealings with the contractors, to conceal the fact 
 that certain difficulties are to be expected because the 
 power is situated in a district under military control, that 
 Phinck is to have a special commission, and that they are 
 to receive salaries. Above all, they agree not to reveal a 
 certain name and address. 
 
 They try to assume assured airs when Isidore returns. 
 Isidore cuts short Gruggh's peroration, and will hear 
 nothing about the part that electricity will play in the in- 
 dustrial development of Europe, or any other imposing 
 generalities. What he wants to know is where the water 
 power is situated. Gruggh says that is a detail. The 
 important facts are that it is located in the mountains near 
 a large industrial city, that there are hot springs in the 
 neighborhood, ninety-two large hotels, and that there are 
 large deposits of aluminum there. At first they claim that 
 they own the water power, but Isidore is not deceived and 
 tells them that he never embarks upon a venture without 
 knowing what it is, where it is, and with whom he has to 
 deal. After consulting with Phinck, Gruggh informs him 
 that the proprietor is Joseph Bruneau, for whom they under- 
 took to develop the power. Isidore asks if Bruneau is rich. 
 
 Gruggh. At that time he possessed three hundred 
 thousand francs. . . or thereabouts. We presented 
 estimates which he accepted, and the work began. Only, 
 he discovered that out of ten kilometers of tunnel to be 
 dug, three had not been finished when nothing remained 
 of his three hundred thousand francs. We had made a 
 mistake in the estimates. 
 
 Id. [sarcastically]. Ah! 
 
 Phinck, One is often mistaken in estimates. 
 
 Isi. [leering]. Yes! Go on. 
 
 Gruggh. Bruneau was then at our discretion. He im- 
 derstood it very soon. We drew up a contract under his 
 signature by which we engaged ourselves to go on with the 
 
MIRBEAU 27lr 
 
 work, either by providing a sum to be determined upon, or 
 by assigning a part of the works. 
 
 7m. That does for Bruneau . . . this poor Bru- 
 neau. And the power? This famous power? 
 
 Gruggh [after consuUing with Phinck]. At Saint-Carex, 
 near Grenoble. 
 
 I si. Saint-Carex? But come, my boys, I know the 
 place. Decidedly . . . Saint-Carex, it seems to me, 
 is situated in the military zone. 
 
 Gruggh. Yes. 
 
 Phinck. The detail is of no importance. 
 
 I si. Really? You think so, do you? All the vexations, 
 all the obstacles that the mihtary administration can throw 
 in your way, all the delays, all the refusals, and finally, 
 after years of struggUng and false steps, time lost, money 
 wasted, the impossibility of carrying out what you have 
 undertaken, of exploiting whatever it may be . . . 
 you call that a detail, my good Phinck? 
 
 Phinck [authoritatively]. You think that in such an en- 
 terprise . . . We are not going blindfold. We have 
 influence in high places. 
 
 Isi. Ah ! . . . And . . . capital furthermore, 
 without doubt? Very well, then you have no need of me? 
 Gro on, my boys, go it alone. I shall like it just as well. 
 . . . Another glass of this old Porto? . . . 1804! 
 . . . To the health of this poor Bruneau, eh? [He 
 pours out glasses of vnne and they drink.] TeU me, you look 
 as if it didn't taste so good? 
 
 Phinck. Not at all. On the contrary. 
 
 Isidore informs them that he is not to be taken in like 
 this poor Bruneau, that he has hard bones and a tough hide 
 and when any one tries to swallow him whole he turns 
 crosswise and doesn't go down. He is inclined to favor 
 their proposition, only he needs to know something definite 
 about it, as, for instance, how much capital will be needed 
 to start the thing going. Phinck replies that eight miUions 
 are required. 
 
 Isi. Curses! [A pause.] We'll have to see about that. 
 [A pause.] I will undertake to find the capital, that's 
 understood. But, permit me to stipulate most expressly 
 that I shall do so only after making an investigation and 
 judging the affair soimd. 
 
278 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 Gruggh. That goes without saying. 
 
 Isi. I will undertake also all the negotiations with the 
 Minister of War. And I will be answerable for conducting 
 them in a straightforward manner. [He stops walking.] 
 And this is what I shall exact, first, that Bruneau . . . 
 I don't know him, not I . . . Bruneau . . . and 
 I don't want to know him. Do what you like with him. 
 
 Gruggh. Pardon me. This poor man ... 
 
 Isi. This is either business or philanthropy. Business, 
 isn't it? Very well. You played him for a sucker in the 
 first place. You don't need my help to do him again. I 
 abandon Bruneau to you. [With a horse-laugh.] And as 
 for that, I warn you that the estimates that you are going 
 to present to me will be subjected to close examination. 
 
 Isidore also stipulates that he shall have the sole finan- 
 cial direction of the enterprise, and all the commissions on 
 agreements with the contractors. 
 
 Gruggh. You've said nothing about our salaries. 
 
 Isi. I won't have any. 
 
 Gruggh, But it's the fixed custom. 
 
 Isi. I won't have it on any account. We aren't em- 
 ployees. What the devil! 
 
 Finally Phinck says they cannot accept these conditions. 
 Isidore replies that he will be satisfied to drop the matter. 
 Then he adds that he thinks he wiU go to see Bruneau and 
 get an interview with him which he will publish in his 
 paper. He also thinks that he will go to see the Minister 
 of War. A footman enters to announce the arrival of 
 Xavier. Isidore tells the engineers to consider the matter 
 carefuUy and if they accept his proposal to draw up a 
 memorandum of their agreement with the conditions tbat 
 he has mentioned. As they go toward the door he slaps 
 them on the back, saying they are funny fellows, for he is 
 making their fortunes and they look as if they were going 
 to a funeral. 
 
 Xavier enters in automobile togs. He is tall and thin, 
 and his face is already somewhat faded. He is cold in his 
 manner and holds out a couple of fingers to his father, who 
 insists upon giving him a kiss. Xavier states his errand 
 Very laconically. He must have two hundred thousand 
 francs to settle a "debt of honor." His father is amazed 
 at the amount and asks if it wouldn'^t be possible to com- 
 
MIRBEAU 279 
 
 promise the matter. Xavier replies that it is out of the 
 question. Finally Isidore says he shall have the money, 
 but he must get it back again in a way that they will discuss 
 later. Xavier inquires for a friend of his father's. Isidore 
 replies that she is more and more an angel. 
 
 Xavier [laughing]. Ah, Papa, at yoiu- age! 
 
 Isi. Why not? I'm not like you. I have a yoimg 
 heart. The deuce! I have to have sentiment, love! 
 
 Xav. [ironically]. Ideals! The deuce! 
 
 Isi. Well, yes! It's a rest from business! 
 
 Isidore's study is superbly decorated with ancient 
 tapestry and carved woodwork. A glass door gives a view 
 of the gardens. In the centre of the room is an immense 
 Louis XIV desk of heavy and precious workmanship. 
 Isidore, sitting at the desk, writes a check and hands it to 
 Xavier, warning him that his strong box will not stand 
 many such inroads. He comes to the matter in which 
 Xavier can help him. A friend of Xavier 's, Henry Bra- 
 gard, is the son of a general, who, as Isidore knows, is going 
 to be appointed to an important position in the War De- 
 partment. Now, he requires the general's assistance in an 
 affair in which he hopes to make twenty million francs. 
 
 Xav. Bragard? You have Porcellet, his cousin-german. 
 The two are very intimate. 
 
 Isi. I know. But I should like to have some one still 
 closer to him. And then, I don't know yet what I shall do 
 with Porcellet. Has your friend Henry any influence with 
 his father? 
 
 Xav. That I don't know. But if one goes at it right 
 one always has influence with his father. 
 
 Xavier fears that Henry will not be very glad to meet a 
 man with a reputation like his father's, but promises to do 
 his best to bring him to lunch with his father the next day, 
 and asks what there is in it for him. Isidore is a little 
 hurt at his son's coldness and cynicism, and reminds him 
 that he has never haggled with him. Finally he dismisses 
 Xavier with a caution against speeding in his machine. 
 
 Isidore now receives the Marquis de Porcellet, whom he 
 has purposely kept waiting for some time. Having talked 
 first of some inconsequential matters, the marquis states 
 that he has been disappointed by a debtor who had pro- 
 
280 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 mised to pay him, and that he must ask for another loan 
 from Lechat of 200,000 francs. Isidore looks over their 
 account and finds that the marquis owes him 1,320,000 
 francs already. He appears to make a mental calculation, 
 looking the while at the ceiling, and then says that it will 
 be impossible for him to advance any more money. 
 
 The marquis is prepared to offer further security on his 
 estate. Isidore replies that he thinks he shall be doing 
 well if he gets a million francs out of the marquis's place. 
 It is the &st warning of dispossession to the old marquis, 
 and is rather a shock. Hecovering himself, he offers his 
 honor as a fiu-ther guarantee, and also his prospects of an 
 inheritance from an aunt who is eighty-three years old. 
 Isidore is inflexible. He would gladly save the marquis 
 from ruin, he says, but the fact is that it has long been his 
 pet design to join the Porcellet estate to that of Vauperdu. 
 Tapping his ledger, he adds that he can make his dream 
 come true Monday morning. 
 
 Isidore hints, however, at a deal that they might make 
 together which would save the marquis his estate. Then 
 he thinks better of it, saying the marquis is too scrupulous. 
 The poor marquis asks him to explain the plan, inquiring 
 if it is so very terrible. In two words, Isidore says, the 
 marquis has a son who is ruined, and he himself has a 
 daughter who is very rich, excessively rich. His idea is 
 to marry them. The marquis seems stuimed at the pro- 
 posal. He declares it is impossible. Isidore says he will 
 cancel the marquis's indebtedness to him and wUl provide 
 his daughter with an income of 250,000 francs. As the 
 other alternative, he draws a vivid picture of ruin for the 
 marquis to contemplate. 
 
 The first objection raised specifically by the marquis is 
 that Isidore wishes to buy him. Isidore asserts that he 
 will gain more than the marquis, and that therefore the 
 marquis will be buying him, explaining this paradoxical 
 contention by a reference to his knowledge of the appoint- 
 ment that will be awarded to the marquis's cousin. Gen- 
 eral Bragard. He hopes that the general will approve of 
 a project for national defense which he has nurtured. The 
 marquis also has some influence in the election district 
 which Isidore could use. The marquis has to laugh at the 
 sophistries by which Isidore solicits his support, and an 
 
MIRBEAU 281 
 
 attack that he makes on his rival, the Duke de Maugis, as 
 a vestige of the old order of things which is doomed to final 
 extinction. This leads to a long argument over the future 
 of the aristocracy. 
 
 It is with less firmness now that the marquis repeats 
 from time to time that the marriage is impossible. One 
 of the objections that he raises is the reputed manner in 
 which Lechat has made his fortune, but Lechat argues that 
 there is something at the basis of every fortune that will 
 not bear investigation. By dint of whipsawing the marquis 
 alternately with threats and promises he gradually breaks 
 down his resistance. He offers to throw in the 200,000 
 francs besides everything else. At last, putting his finger 
 on the button of an electric bell, he asks if he may send 
 for his wife and daughter. The marquis consents, and sits 
 down heavily in the chair from which he had risen upon 
 the first mention of the marriage. 
 
 Mme. Lechat looks anxiously at her husband and the 
 marquis as she comes in. Germaine enters immediately 
 afterward. She comprehends at a glance that something 
 unusual is going on. Isidore resumes his seat at the desk 
 with an expression of evil triumph on his face. He £isks 
 the marquis to proceed. Making an effort, the marquis 
 speaks in a thick voice, addressing Mme. Lechat, and say- 
 ing that he has the honor to ask, in behalf of his son, Rob- 
 ert, the Count de Porcellet, the hand of her daughter, 
 MUe. Germaine Lechat. Mme. Lechat is so thunder- 
 struck that she can hardly speak. She puts both hands 
 to her head, looking from her husband to the marquis and 
 then at her daughter, stammering that she does not under- 
 stand. 
 
 Ger. [rises]. It is too great an honor. Monsieur. I do 
 not know to what circumstance it is due, but I refuse. 
 
 Marquis [rises]. You refuse. Mademoiselle? 
 
 Ger. Yes, Monsieur. 
 
 Isi. You refuse? 
 
 Ger. Yes. 
 
 Isi. [everything vile and vulgar in his being is reflected in 
 successive expressions on his face]. Come, come, it isn't 
 possible! The marquis asks you in marriage for his son 
 
 . . in marriage . . . 
 
 Ger. I refuse. [To the Maequis.] And I regret that 
 
282 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 my father did not think of consulting me before this 
 interview. It would have spared all a painful and humili- 
 ating scene. 
 
 I si. [vnth a base expression and humiliated intonations]. 
 But no . . . but no . . . Monsieur le Marquis, 
 my daughter has not understood, hasn't comprehended 
 . . . Her astonishment doubtless . . . her joy, 
 pride . . . She accepts. 
 
 Ger. [more sharply], I refuse. Why do you oblige me 
 to keep repeating the same thing? 
 
 Isi, Come now, that's going a Uttle too strong ! 
 
 Mar. [bitter and vexed]. No doubt you find the house 
 of Porcellet xmworthy of you, mademoiselle.'' 
 
 Ger. You are mistaken, sir. 
 
 Isi. By gad, what did I tell you? 
 
 Ger. [sadly]. The daughter of Monsieur Isidore Lechat 
 has not the right to find it unworthy, whatever it may be. 
 No ... I refuse . . . because I am not free. 
 
 Isi. Not free. What's that spng? Your mother and I 
 consent. 
 
 Ger. I am not free! 
 
 Isi. Why? 
 
 Ger. I cannot tell you here. 
 
 Isi, [menacingly]. Why? Why? 
 
 Ger, You insist? 
 
 Isi, Yes. 
 
 Ger, I am not free . . . because I have a lover! 
 
 The announcement causes general stupefaction. 
 
 Isi. What? What? What's that you say? No, no. 
 Monsieur le Marquis. [Laughing through his teeth.] You 
 see plainly she's joking, amusing herself. She doesn't 
 understand what she's saying. A lover! My daughter! 
 . . . Ah! . . . Ah! Ah! . . . That's a good 
 one ! [He advances menacingly toward his daughter.] Dare 
 to repeat that . . . dare to . . . before your 
 father! 
 
 Ger. I have a lover! A lover! A lover! How many 
 times must I shout it? 
 
 Isi. You lie . . . She lies ... I tell you 
 that she lies. Why, Monsieur le Marquis, she knows no- 
 body. She is lying. [Changing his tone brusquely.] 
 Come, my little Germaine, that's enough now, isn't it? 
 
MIRBEAU 283 
 
 You wanted to play a little farce, a good farce. Nobody 
 believes you. Come, say that it isn't true. 
 
 Ger. And this lover ... I chose him . . . 
 and I love him . . . and he is mine . . . mine 
 . . . He forms no part of a bargain . . . He 
 isn't thrown in to boot . . . he's mine . . . 
 wholly . . . he's mine . . . freely. [TotheMjJL- 
 Qtns.] This surprises you, sir, and I see it isn't the cus- 
 tom for one bearing the name of Lechat to be a creature 
 that cannot be bought . . . who does not sell herself, 
 but gives herself. 
 
 I si. [to his wife]. You stand there as if you were dumb. 
 Make her shut up. 
 
 Mme. L. [overwhelmed]. What do you want me to say? 
 My God! 
 
 Isi. Then this is true? 
 
 Mme. L. I know nothing about it . . . [svdderdy.] 
 My God! My God! . . . My God! . . . [Weep- 
 ing.] It was bound to happen. 
 
 Isi. What? What was bound to happen? 
 
 If 7716. L. [through her tears]. I don't know! I don't 
 know! 
 
 Isi. [walking about, jostling the furniture]. My daugh- 
 ter's crazy! My wife is crazy! They're both crazy! 
 [The Marquis prepares to go.] Monsieur le Marquis 
 . . . this is impossible! Impossible! There's some 
 misunderstanding about it. I tell you that there's some 
 misunderstanding about it. 
 
 Mar. I have nothing further to do but withdraw. 
 
 Isi. You're right. That's best. I will speak to her. 
 [Accompanying him.] Ah! Monsieur le Marquis, one 
 works for one's children, one amasses millions so that they 
 may ' be happy, one has fine dreams, and then . . . 
 But I'll fix it all up with my family. I've seen plenty of 
 other muddles — [lower] — and if it's necessary to make 
 some little additional sacrifice . . . You understand? 
 Until to-morrow. Monsieur le Marquis. 
 
 Mar. [very coldly, • affecting very haughty dignity]. It 
 seems to me, sir, that we have nothing further to say to 
 each other. 
 
 Isi. [looking at him fixedly, and opening the door]. It 
 seems so to you? 
 
284 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 Mar. Yes. 
 
 Id. Ah! 
 
 Mar. Good-bye, sir. \As he is going out Isidore re- 
 strains him.] 
 
 Isi. Tell me, does the plan no longer strike you as a 
 good one? 
 
 Mar. Let us leave it at that, sir. 
 
 Isi. So . . . it's all over between us two? [The 
 Makqtjis is silent.] You think so? [Same silence.] Very 
 well . . . oflBcial documents . . . to-morrow. 
 
 Mar. As you like! [He goes out.] 
 
 Isi. [shaking his fist after the Makqttis]. Scum! 
 
 Isidore comes back and plants himself in front of Ger- 
 maine, who regards him with a provocative air. In a 
 fury, he grasps her by the hair and tries to force her down 
 on her Imees, but she resists and extricates herself. In- 
 forming him of her intention to leave the house, which this 
 fatal incident has not hastened, she says there is no reason 
 why he should regard her as hfe daughter, never having 
 exchanged ten words with her. She wishes to have noth- 
 ing to do with him or his money, she tells him, for as soon 
 as she was old enough to understand anything and learned 
 the soiu-ce of his luxury she repudiated it. She has refused 
 to wear the fine clothes he has bought her because they 
 burned her. 
 
 Ger. Because everything, everything here, is plunder 
 and tears. Thief! Thief! 
 
 Mm£. L. [vxith a cry]. Be still! Be still! Oh, unhappy 
 child! 
 
 Isi. Let her alone. She's much too stupid to under- 
 stand me. [Shrugs his shoulders, his fMs clenched]. My 
 word, it is she who has offended . . . and she insults 
 us? [Going to Gehmaine.] You're as brazen as you are 
 bad. How do you dare to speak, you miserable thing? 
 
 She repeats that she has nothing to reproach herself for, 
 holding it preferable to give hersefi rather than let herself 
 be sold. He declares he will punish her, and demands to 
 know who her lover is. Going to the window that opens 
 on the terrrace, she calls Lucien, who comes running to 
 her. In his surprise Isidore is for a moment berrft of 
 speech. Then he flings himself upon Lucien with a cry 
 of "Brigand! Brigand!" Lucien thrusts him back. 
 
MIRBEAU 285 
 
 facing him calmly, and warns him against violence. In a 
 hoarse voice Isidore accuses the young man of having 
 designs on his money, the Lechat millions. He cannot 
 believe that he has not, and assures them that he will dis- 
 inherit Germaine, and that they may expect trouble from 
 the police. Then he tries to buy Lucien off, and failing 
 in this he tells them to go to the devil and starve where 
 they like. That, he says, will be his revenge. He goes 
 out finally, storming and inarticulate. 
 
 Mme. Lechat begs Germaine piteously not to leave her, 
 saying she cannot live alone in that great house, that it 
 will be like death, but Germaine although softening, re- 
 plies that she must go at once and does not wish to have 
 her father find her there when he returns. She promises 
 to send her mother her address so that her mother may 
 come to see her upon returning to Paris for the winter. 
 Mme Lechat says they have not loved her enough, and that 
 the money has caused all the trouble. Isidore comes back 
 after Germaine has gone. His hands are thrust deep in 
 his trousers pockets, and he looks about sideways with an 
 evil expression. When his wife begins to bewail Ger- 
 maine's departure he tells her she can go, too. She has 
 left him by himself when the steward enters, looking dis- 
 tracted and haggard. 
 
 Steward. Monsiem*! Monsieur! 
 
 Isi. [wilhoid stirring, in a far-away voice]. Who is there? 
 
 Stew, [who can hardly speak]. A misfortune ... A 
 terrible misfortune ... 
 
 Isi. [still vnthout budging]. I forbid you to speak of it. 
 It's none of yoiu* business. 
 
 Stew. Your son . . . 
 
 Isi. My daughter . . . fool. 
 
 Stew. It isn't about your daughter . . . 
 
 Isi. She has gone. Well, yes. 
 
 Stew. No, sir. Oh, no, sir! 
 
 Isi. You're crazy, then? Are you crazy? 
 
 Stew. Don't you understand, sir? Your son [with an 
 effort.] Monsieur Xavier . . . 
 
 Isi. Well? 
 
 Stew. Has been killed! 
 
 Isi. [he has not stirred, his head concealed by his hands. 
 After a very long time, prdting his hands down, he tooks at 
 
286 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 the steward as if in astonishment at finding him there]. What 
 are you saying? 
 
 Stew. Monsieur Xavier has been killed. 
 
 Isi. [rises at a bound, and at a bound he seizes the steward 
 by the throat, strangling him]. What did you say, idiot? 
 [Shakes him. The steward struggles.] Imbecile, dare to 
 repeat what you just said. 
 
 Stew, [in a hoarse, faint voice]. Let me go, sir. Let me 
 
 Isi. [releasing him]. Come, speak. 
 
 As the steward speaks Isidore's eyes grow large with 
 horror and his face becomes distorted. 
 
 Stew, [chopping off his words]. In going ... to 
 Marecom-t ... at the turn in the road . . . M. 
 Xavier's automobile . . . going at full speed . . . 
 turned upside down . . . M. Xavier . . . was 
 thrown out . . . against the wall of the Cafe Gadaud 
 . . . with such violence . . . that he was crushed 
 . . . he was killed . . . stone-dead! 
 
 Isi. [trembling, haggard, his mouth almost paralyzed, loith 
 apoplectic grimaces]. Wh . . . what's . . . that 
 . . . [his mouth remains open without a sound issuing.] 
 
 Stew. The duke's son . . . saw the accident 
 . . . and he came on horseback ... to bring 
 the frightful news. 
 
 Isi. It's . . . it's . . . [His lips form words 
 which are not heard.] 
 
 Stew. They are bringing M. Xavier's body . . , 
 It will be here ... in ten minutes. 
 
 Isidore can no longer speak. He unties his cravat, 
 rips out his collar button and exposes his chest. His 
 mouth is wide open as he gasps for breath, his coUar stand- 
 ing up like white horns on each side of his face. He stag- 
 gers, and the steward supports him, guiding him to an 
 armchair into which he slumps heavily. And suddenly.he 
 weeps, his body shaken by sobs. 
 
 Stew. Monsieur . . . Monsieur . . . 
 
 Isi. [after a few secorids, in a trembling voice which is 
 scarcely audible]. I've lost all ... in a day . . . 
 I've lost all ... [He pants.] And . . . Ma- 
 dame . . . ? 
 
 Stew. I haven't dared. 
 
MIRBEAU 287 
 
 Isi. Yes . . . yes! . . . [A patise.] In a 
 day! . . . [Another pause.] Air . . . give me 
 air . . . I'm smothered . . . 
 
 The steward opens a window and then helps Isidore 
 drag himself to it. Isidore inhales the air in great gulps. 
 
 Stew. How are you, sir? 
 
 Isi. Yes . . . that . . . is better . . . [A 
 pause. He breathes in the air.] Now . . . I'm all 
 solid ... I want to go out . . . 
 
 Stew. You aren't in a condition, sir. 
 
 Isi. Yes . . . yes ... it has passed . . . 
 I must go out . . . [He takes a few steps. The steward 
 wishes to hold him up.] No . . . let go . . . I'm 
 strong. 
 
 He walks with stumbling steps. The door opens and 
 Phinck and Gruggh come in. The steward urges Lechat 
 to sit down, and draws an armchair up to him. Phinck 
 and Gruggh, with every appearance of consternation, 
 come and place themselves at each side of the chair. 
 
 Gruggh. Oh, what a misfortune! 
 
 Phinck. We have come to express our sympathy, our 
 deepest sympathy. 
 
 Isi. Ah! my friends, my dear friends. 
 
 Phinck. Your associates. 
 
 Isi. My dear associates . . . 
 
 Gruggh. So young! 
 
 Phinck. Such a future! 
 
 Gruggh. It's frightful. 
 
 Isi. I have lost . . . all . . . in a day . . . 
 
 Phinck. We wish we could give you some consolation 
 . . . Alas, in the face of such a misfortune . . . 
 there is nothing . . . 
 
 Isi. In a day! 
 
 Gruggh. Time alone . . . and still . . . 
 
 Phinck. Such a handsome young man! [Isidore jerks 
 his head.] And . . . here but now ... so full 
 of life ... so gay . . . so charming! 
 
 Isi. But my dear friends . . . 
 
 Gruggh. You loved him so much! Ah, you did not de- 
 serve this . . . 
 
 Isi. [extending his hands to Gruggh and Phinck]. My 
 dear friends! 
 
288 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 
 
 Gruggh. Courage! You mustn't allow yourself to be 
 overcome. 
 
 Isi. Ah! . . . Now! ... 
 
 Gruggh and Phinck appear to have exhausted their 
 words. They exchange embarrassed glances and make 
 signs to each other. 
 
 Phinck. Would you be good enough to excuse us , . . 
 if we were obliged to trouble you ... for an instant 
 . . . in your grief ... 
 
 Gruggh. Certainly, we know how painful . . . any 
 business would be at such a moment. [He draws two folded 
 sheets of paper from his pocket.] And if we were not obliged 
 to go to-day . . . believe me . . . 
 
 Isidore looks at them insistently. Gruggh hands him 
 the papers. 
 
 Phinck. The signed agreement that you asked us to 
 draft. [Isidore is silent.] You will remember? 
 
 Isi. No ... no . . . not to-day. . 
 Leave me in peace . . . [He does not take his eyes off 
 them.] 
 
 Gruggh. We take the liberty of insisting. 
 
 Isi. No . . . no . . . leave me in peace . . . 
 
 Phinck. This is what . . . [Offers ike paper ogram.] 
 
 Isi. [after a patise, with a terrible face]. Very well. Give 
 them to me. 
 
 Gruggh. We conformed exactly to your desires. 
 
 Phinck. Exactly. 
 
 Isi. [his hand trembling as he reads. From time to time 
 he puts a hand to his throat. After reading the sheets he re- 
 gards his associates wiih a terrible look. From now on his 
 voice remains thick and shaky.] You are scoundrels. 
 
 Phinck. What? 
 
 Isi. Thieves! 
 
 Gruggh. But . . . 
 
 Isi. You have discounted my weakness, speculated on 
 my grief. 
 
 He rises and goes to his desk with an ill-assured step. 
 
 Gruggh. I do not tmderstand. 
 
 Isi. Come here. 
 
 Phinck. Have we left out anything? 
 
 Isi. Come here! [He places paper before each of them, 
 gives each a pen.] A modification. [Indicoiing with his 
 
MIRBEAU 289 
 
 finger.] Write! [They hesitate. He goes on in a thick 
 voice.] Write! [Dictating.] "M. Isidore Lechat, it is 
 understood, reserves expressly to himself the financial 
 direction and commercial administration of the said affair 
 . . . the said affair . . . and that . . . with- 
 out .. . M. Gruggh and M. Phinck . . . who 
 declare . . . that they voluntarily abandon . . . 
 all rights . . . in this connection . . . [Gbuggh 
 and Phinck raise their heads and stop vmting.] Write! 
 [Going on dictating.] Abandon all rights in this connection 
 . . . that can arise in any manner whatsoever . . . 
 and without their having the power ... to oppose 
 . . . any arrangement . . . 
 [A servant enters brusquely.] 
 
 Servant [scared]. Monsieur . . . They are bringing 
 Monsieur Xavier's body . . . Madame has fainted 
 . , . at full length . . . in the great salon . . . 
 
 Stew, [supplicatingly]. Monsieur! 
 
 Isi. [his voice stiU strange, clutching the desk vnih both 
 hands to keep from falling]. I'm coming . . . I'm 
 coming . . . [The servant and the steward go out. He 
 proceeds with the dictation.] "... any arrangement 
 hereafter which may be judged useful by M. Isidore Lechat 
 alone, for the good of the enterprise." That's all, a para- 
 graph. Here, sign! [They sign.] Give it to me. 
 
 He seizes both of the papers, reads them over, signs them 
 also, and returns one copy to Phinck in silence. Then he 
 folds his copy and puts it in his pocket. Without saluting, 
 his legs buclding, he directs himself toward the door, catch- 
 ing hold of the fumitiure. The two engineers, amazed, ia 
 consternation, crushed, follow him with a look, not finding 
 a word or a gesture. They wait, fixed as it were in an 
 attitude of dismay. Isidore goes out without looking 
 aroimd. The two engineers remain alone on the scene, 
 still motionless and mute, their eyes fixed, their mouths 
 open, unable to withdraw their eyes from the door through 
 which Isidore disappeared. 
 
THE THIEF* 
 By Henet Bernstein 
 
 First played in Paris at the Thetoe de la Renaissance on 
 December 7, 1906. 
 
 Argument: Fernand Lagardes, accused by a detective of 
 having stolen 20,000 francs from his stepmother, confesses 
 the theft without showing any repentance. Mme. Voysin, a 
 guest in the house, is forced to confess to her husband that 
 she is the thief, and that the boy desired to shield her, 
 thereby arousing her husband's suspicions as to her rela- 
 tions with Fernand. Will she exonerate Fernand and re- 
 gain her husband's love? 
 
 Even the presence of a comparative stranger, the austere 
 Monsieur Zambault, does not deter Madame Voysin from 
 heaping demonstrations of affection upon her husband. 
 Raymond and Isabelle, their host and hostess, do not 
 count. They are old friends. It is after dinner in the 
 drawing-room of Raymond Lagardes' fine country house, 
 and the men go presently to finish a game of billiards. 
 Madame Voysin takes Madame Lagardes' hands and in- 
 sists upon knowing all about this mysterious Monsieur 
 Zambault. 
 
 Isabelle. My dear, I don't know any more about him 
 than you do. 
 
 Marie-Louise. Haven't you asked Raymond about him? 
 
 Isa. Yes, but he always says the same thing : " I used to 
 have frequent business relations with Monsieur Zambault, 
 but I lost sight of him for quite a while. He turned up, 
 though, recently, with an interesting proposition, and I am 
 looking into it at my leisure." 
 
 ♦Copyright, 1915, by Doubleday, Page & Co., New Yort in the 
 Drama League Series. Tianslated by John Alan Haughton. 
 
 290 
 
BERNSTEIN 291 
 
 Marie-L. Your husband has not said a word to mine 
 about this scheme, and despite his horror of strangers he 
 invites this Monsiem- Zambault to the chateau and forces 
 him upon us frtfm morning till night. Doesn't that seem 
 strange to you, Beauty? 
 
 Isa. No. If I were curious it might, but I'm not the 
 least bit. Oh! I'm not boasting about it, I only envy 
 you! 
 
 Marie-L. If Richard hid the least thing from me, I 
 should beat him! 
 
 Isa. Very well, Marie-Louise, I promise you to give 
 Raymond a good thrashing this very evening. 
 
 Isabelle follows the men, but Marie-Louise remains, 
 saying she will look over the paper. Fernand Lagardes, 
 Raymond's son, who is nineteen, has been reading Maupas- 
 sant in the conservatory, and now takes advantage of the 
 opportunity for a tSte-^-tSte with Marie-Louise. He tells 
 her that he has left a note for her in an armchair in her 
 room. She has had enough of his notes, and is tired of 
 scolding him about his attentions. He declares that he is 
 very unhappy, and feels as if he were abandoned and 
 alone in the world. He has sought distraction in the so- 
 ciety of other women but found it useless. He can love 
 no one but her, and is in utter despair. 
 
 Marie-L. [in a very decided tone]. Fernand! Fernand! 
 I've had quite enough of this L I mean it! If you keep on 
 this way I will really laugh at you. Now listen, I'm going 
 to talk to you as if you were a man, and you are going to 
 act like a man, a loyal and courageous one, I know. First of 
 all, Fernand, I owe you an apology. Yes, I know I flirted 
 with you, I admit it. But I'd no idea you were so in 
 earnest. I'm not a vain woman and I simply didn't be- 
 lieve you. But all my little coquetries meant nothing, 
 absolutely nothing! I never really gave you a serious 
 thought. I've never given any man a serious thought. 
 I've never even dreamed of letting any man kiss me, except 
 my husband! It would be utterly impossible! Fernand, 
 I'm mad about Richard! So I have to tell you right out, 
 and be unkind, cruel! I'm even more mad about him 
 than I seem to be. Fernand! Fernand! don't weep over 
 it! My dear boy, please don't! 
 
 Fernand [recovering himself] . I'm not weeping ! I really 
 
292 THE THIEF 
 
 am not! Only — ^I must answer you I have to 
 
 explain 
 
 Marie-L. Explain? Well? 
 
 Fer. [breaking doton]. Yes, but not now. 
 
 Marie-L. Pull yourself together! Why, in a few 
 months you'll wonder how you ever even 
 
 Fer. Promise me one thing, wiU you? Since you have 
 ordered me to do it, I'm going immediately to get the 
 letters that are hidden in the pavilion and tear them up. 
 You see, I obey you ! Then I shall sit on the bench by the 
 little lake and wait for you. Will you come? 
 
 Marie-L. No, not this evening, Femand. 
 
 Fer. You won't refuse to listen to me 
 
 Marie-L. Yes, I do refuse. Be reasonable, Fernand. 
 
 Fer. But I must see you if only for five minutes. What's 
 the harm? Won't you come? A last talk together? 
 
 Marie-L. No,. I won't. That question is not to be 
 opened again. What would be the use? 
 
 Fer. I implore you, Marise. I hear them laughing, 
 they've finished the game. I'm going now, and I shall sit 
 by the little lake and wait for you. 
 
 Marie-L. You will wait in vain. 
 
 A little later Raymond gathers his wife, Marie-Louise, 
 and Richard in the drawing-room and informs them that 
 he has something very grave to tell them. The business 
 he had with Monsieur Zambault, the proposition he was 
 looking into, was all make-beheve. The fact is he found 
 that money was being stolen from his wife's secretary, in a 
 drawer of which she has been accustomed to place gold and 
 notes in considerable quantities without bothering to count 
 the amount. 
 
 They calculated the total loss in three months at 20,000 
 francs. Monsieur Zambault is really Monsieur Gondoin, 
 a retired police magistrate who has had very great success 
 as a detective. In six days Gondoin has finished his in- 
 quiry and is now ready to expose the culprit. The sus- 
 pense is trying. Both ladies express the fear that a 
 favorite servant will be accused. Gondoin enters the 
 room. 
 
 Raymond. Monsieur Gondoin, you are a rare joker, 
 but we are all consumed with impatience, and 
 
 Gondoin. Monsieur, I do not imderstand. 
 
BERNSTEIN 293 
 
 Richard. The name! Who is it? 
 [GoNDonsr makes a gesture.] 
 
 Ray. Come! Come! Monsieur Gondoin, I have kept 
 my part of our agreement. I said nothing until the end of 
 your inquiry. You have just told me that it is finished, and 
 as I owe a certain reparation to my friends for not treating 
 them frankly in the matter, I want them to be the first 
 
 Isa. Yes, Monsieur Gondoin, do be nice! 
 
 Gm. Monsieur, I have the honor to ask you for a pri- 
 vate interview. In my own opinion, it ought to be pri- 
 vate 
 
 Isa. You're not going to leave us out! 
 
 Ray. Now really, my dear sir 
 
 Rich, [to Raymond]. Monsieur Gondoin may have his 
 reasons for preferring to 
 
 Gon. Exactly. 
 
 Ray. But what reasons? 
 
 Gon. Monsieur, spare me five minutes, and- 
 
 Ray. [shortly]. No. We are all friends here. I can 
 guarantee the discretion of everybody and I'm sure 
 
 Gon. I never doubted that discretion for an instant. 
 
 Ray. Well, then? [A pause.] The robber can hardly 
 get away from you now, can he? And the fact of pro- 
 noimcing his name before my guests won't 
 
 Rich, [laughing]. Unless you accuse one of us! 
 
 Gon. [offended]. Monsieur [He stops. A pause.] 
 
 Ray. [wUh decision]. Come, Monsieur Gondoin, I'm 
 getting tired of this. I insist on your speaking! 
 
 Gon. Very well! I am acting in this affair entirely in 
 your interests. Since you take no account of my obvious 
 opposition 
 
 Ray. [dryly]. No account. 
 
 Gon. I bow to your wishes. Only it is not enough that 
 you merely insist. You demand 
 
 Ray. I do. 
 
 Gon. You demand that I disclose publicly all that my 
 investigation has brought to light? 
 
 Ray. Yes. 
 
 Gon. Very well. Monsieur. The person who took the 
 twenty thousand francs out of the secretary drawer is 
 Monsieur Femand Lagardes, yotir son. 
 
 Ray. [starting up, about to spring upon Gondoin] . You lie ! 
 
£94 THE THIEF 
 
 A moment of confusion follows. Richard and Isabelle 
 hold back Raymond. When Raymond has grown calmer 
 and apologized for his outburst Gondoin asks if a change 
 has not come over Fernand of late. They have noticed 
 that he has become shy and taciturn. The ex-magistrate 
 then inquires how much spending money the boy has, and 
 informs them that he has been carrying on an affair with 
 a woman of the demi-monde. The boy also frequents 
 the race track and bets large sums, according to Gon- 
 doin. 
 
 That very afternoon Gondoin set a trap for the thief. 
 He placed two thousand francs, which he obtained from 
 Monsieur Lagardes, in the secretary in the boudoir, having 
 marked the notes. They were still there before dinner. 
 After dinner he saw Fernand sUp upstairs. Upon looking 
 in the secretary again. Monsieur Gondoin found that four 
 hundred and fifty francs had been stolen. The only other 
 person who had been upstairs was Madame Voysin, and 
 she went to put on a scarf, as Gondoin perceived when 
 she came down. 
 
 Richard says they must tell Fernand at once of what he 
 is accused. Raymond cannot believe the boy guilty and 
 is reluctant to speak to him about the matter. Marie- 
 Louise thereupon suggests that she shall tell him that she 
 thinks his father is trying to hide some terrible grief, and 
 ask him if he has anything to reproach himself for. She 
 goes out quickly and her voice is heard calling Fernand in 
 the park. After a few minutes she returns and says that 
 she could not find him. He enters from the hall, having 
 come down the stairs. 
 
 Gon. Monsieur Fernand, you find solemn faces and 
 sad hearts. Your family and your friends are shocked be- 
 yond expression. 
 
 Fer. At what? 
 
 Gon. Let me first tell you the real reason for my being 
 here at all. I was sent by the Attorney-General of the 
 Repubhc. 
 
 Per, By the Attorney-General? 
 
 Gon. Yes. There has been a robbery in the ch&teau. 
 
 Fer. Here? 
 
 Gon. Here. The thief got away with quite a large 
 amount. 
 
BERNSTEIN 295 
 
 We/T. ^^n a surprised tone]. Ah! 
 
 Gon. I thought you might be able to help us. I have 
 begun to suspect the butler. 
 
 Fer. Louis? 
 
 Gon. Louis! Old Louis. I understand your feelings. 
 The man has been in your family for thirty years. 
 
 Fer. But Louis would not steal! 
 
 Gon. You think him incapable of dishonesty? 
 
 Fer. Absolutely incapable. 
 
 Gon. [looking fixedly at Fbrnand]. And you would be 
 willing to swear to that before a court? 
 
 Fer. I should. 
 
 Gon. Then tell me who is the thief. 
 
 Fer. I don't know! Why should you imagine 
 
 Gon. You don't know who the thief is? 
 
 Fer. The thief? 
 
 Gon. Yes. You know who he is! 
 
 Fer^ Are you joking? 
 
 Gon. Do you know Mademoiselle Jessie Arnold? 
 
 Fer. [leaping up]. Now see here, you ! I forbid you- 
 
 Gon. Don't get excited! Just teU us what you were 
 doing upstairs there this evening, about quarter ajfter nine. 
 
 Fer. [worried]. Upstairs? 
 
 Gon. In the story where Madame Lagardes's rooms 
 are. 
 
 Fer. [lowering his voice]. I was not up there. 
 
 Gon. You were seen going up there at a quarter after 
 nine! 
 
 Fer. [same business]. It is a mistake. I was not up 
 there! 
 
 Gon. Besides that, you've been up there pretty fre- 
 quently. 
 
 Fer. [very much worried]. I have not! You are mis- 
 taken! 
 
 Gon. You have never been in Madame Lagardes's 
 boudoir? 
 
 Fer. Never! 
 
 Gon. What? Look at me! 
 
 Fer. [hesitating]. I do not remember. No, never! 
 
 G(m. Look at me! You are the thief! 
 
 Fer. [feebly]. I? You are mistaken, Monsieur, I have 
 never stolen anything. 
 
296 THE THIEF 
 
 Gon. It was you who took Madame Lagardes's money 
 out of the secretary drawer! 
 
 Fer. I repeat 
 
 Gon. It is useless to deny it! You don't dare even to 
 raise your eyes. 
 
 Fer. [looking Gondoin straight in the face, bid speaking 
 withovi conviction]. It is false ! I did not steal the money. 
 
 Ray. Fernand! Fernand! Can't you see that the 
 very tone of your voice convicts you? 
 
 Gon. Come on, my boy, own up! 
 
 Fer. No! I did not take the money! 
 
 Ray. Show some indignation at least! Yell, if neces- 
 sary! 
 
 Gon. He will be sensible about it! He knows I've got 
 him, that I saw him! Yes, I saw you! Own up, won't 
 you, and don't prolong this situation that is so terrible for 
 everybody. [A patise.^ 
 
 Ray. Well? 
 
 Fer. I should like to speak to you, father, by yourself. 
 
 Ray. It is useless. Your shame is now pubUc. [He 
 sits down, overcome^ 
 
 Gon. You admit it? 
 
 [Fernand makes an affirmative sign.] 
 How did you know that Madame Lagardes kept her money 
 in that drawer? 
 
 Fer. [after some hesitation]. Why, I — ^I knew it. 
 
 Gon. How did you get the drawer open? 
 
 Fer, I tried several keys, but none of them worked. 
 Then I shpped the blade of my penknife into the groove 
 and pushed down the lock. 
 
 Gon. Exactly. [Turning to the others wiih a -profes- 
 sional smife.] I told you that nearly all the drawers in the 
 house could be opened that way! And to shut it? 
 
 Fer. I used a key — the . key of the wardrobe. It 
 wouldn't open the lock, but it would shut it. 
 
 Gon. How much did you take altogether? 
 
 Fer. Twenty-one thousand five hundred francs. 
 
 Gon. Where did you hide the four hundred and fifty 
 francs you got just now? 
 
 Fer. I didn't hide them. Here they are! 
 
 Gon. [examining the notes]. Yes, these are the ones. 
 Here are the marks. [To RAmoNS.] Monsieur 
 
BERNSTEIN 297 
 
 Jtay- [to Pebnand]. Go to your room and wait for me! 
 ni come and talk to you directly! 
 
 Fer. Very well, father! [Exit. 
 
 Rich, [to Raymond]. Poor old man! Poor old fellow! 
 
 Ray. My dear friends, do you mind leaving me? I 
 can't talk any more! I want to be alone with my wife! 
 It is a cruel blow, and I must be alone to think things 
 out. 
 
 When Richard and Marie-Louise are in their room he 
 expresses surprise at her calmness. It strikes him as ex- 
 traordinary that women can live in an atmosphere of 
 catastrophe as if it were their natural element. Fernand's 
 confession fell on Raymond like a blow with an axe. 
 Marie-Louise replies that he will get over it, and that in 
 three months' time Fernand's series of crimes will be looked 
 back upon as mere youthful folly. 
 
 Marie-Louise takes a card-case from the bosom of her 
 gown, hides it among some linen in a chest of drawers and 
 locks the drawer. It is, has always been, somewhat of a 
 mystery how she manages to dress handsomely on her 
 slender means, and as he compliments her on the gown she 
 is wearing she explains that she makes sketches of models 
 at Paquin's and has her seamstress copy them. The 
 materials she obtains exclusively at bargain sales. He is 
 more concerned about Fernand's trouble, however, and 
 remarks that it seems very odd to him that the boy made 
 so little defence. 
 
 Marie-L. He knew he was caught. And then Mon- 
 sieur Gondoin questioned him so cleverly 
 
 Rich. Didn't he! He made cold chills go up and down 
 my back. Fernand is a queer chap! Is he indifferent or 
 just cynical? The way he handed out those banknotes! 
 Everything about it, his replies sometimes vague and 
 sometimes precise, too precise! All that wealth of detail 
 about breaking open the drawer, most of it false 
 
 Marie-L. False? 
 
 Rich. Yes. You can't pick a lock with a penknife. 
 . Mari^-L. I don't see why not. 
 
 Rich. What do you know about it? 
 
 Mari^-L. Don't you remember what Monsieur Gondoin 
 told us when we were alone with him? He had paid a 
 
398 THE THIEF 
 
 visit this afternoon to nearly all of the drawers in the house 
 by means of a knife. 
 
 Rich. Nonsense! Gondoin used a skeleton key. He 
 was just blufBng. He's playing the man who has tried 
 everything and found out everything. 
 
 Bichard has taken out his penknife and gone to the 
 chest of drawers. In reply to a sudden question from 
 Marie-Louise as to what he is about, he says that he wishes 
 to see if he is not right as to the lock. 
 
 Marie-L. [she has run quickly over to him]. Let that 
 drawer alone! 
 
 Rich. Why? 
 
 Marie-L. [stamping her foot]. Let that drawer alone, I 
 tell you! 
 
 Rich. My! What's the matter with you this evening? 
 
 Marie-L. [tahing him by the hand]. Come on, Ric%, 
 let's gp to bed! 
 
 Rich. My dear little one, there's nothing to prevent 
 your going into the dressing-room. [He goes on trying to 
 pick the lock.] I bet I'll be in bed before you are. 
 
 Marie-L. Oh! will you? 
 
 Rich, [sliding the penknife into the groove]. There! I 
 told you so! See? Why do you suppose he said that? 
 {He moves away from the chest of drawers. Maeie-Lotiise, 
 reassured, goes over to the bed and changes the position of the 
 jyiUows. Meanwhile, Richabd goes back to the chest of 
 drawers.] Why, look! If you lift it up — ^why, it does! 
 Gondoin was right, the drawer is open! 
 
 Marie-L. [who has run over to him. She slams shvi the 
 drawer which Richard has opened slightly]. Well, are you 
 satisfied now? 
 
 He opens the drawer halfway and exclaims at the store 
 of beautiful linen. At a word regarding the card-case she 
 commands him with sudden violence not to touch it. 
 This tempts him and he holds it up at arm's length. She 
 declares that if he does not give it to her instantly she will 
 never speak to him again as long as he lives. Pretending 
 to believe that it contains the photograph of a lover, he 
 opens and sees his own picture. 
 
 Marie-L. Now, will you please- 
 
 Rich. [offering his cheek]. Kiss first- 
 Marie-L. No, give it back first. 
 
BERNSTEIN £99 
 
 Rick. Take it! [He holds it out to her and then draws 
 U back suddenly.] How thick it is! What else have you 
 got in it? 
 
 Marie-L. Nothing. 
 
 Rich. Excuse me! [Still joking.] Letters beyond a 
 doubt, incriminating letters! 
 [They struggle again.] 
 
 Marie-L. You're not funny, a bit! 
 
 Rick, [feeling the card-case behind Ms back]. It feels like 
 parchment. 
 
 Marie-L. They are some business papers. 
 
 Rick. Business papers! 
 
 Marie-L. No! Money! Now, are you satisfied? 
 
 Rick. Money! 
 
 Marie-L. What I've saved by my economies! Oh! 
 la! la! 
 
 Rick. Fancy this little chicken making economies! 
 Why, yes — six hundred francs. [Looking at Uie notes which 
 he has taken from the card-case.] What! Six hundred 
 francs! You have been economical to the extent of six 
 hundred francs? 
 
 Marie-L. [motionless, in a dry tone]. It looks like it! 
 
 Rich, [surprise^. It's not possible! You have found a 
 way of putting aside 
 
 Marie-L. It seems so! 
 
 Rich. But — ^but only this morning you asked me — you 
 told me you were running short! 
 
 Marie-L. [upset]. I assure you all this conversation is 
 very unpleasant for me. You could very well spare 
 me. 
 
 Rich. This /Conversation 
 
 Marie-L. [crescendo]. You've no complaint to make of 
 the way I nm the house? Do I do it foohshly? No? 
 Well, then, don't mix yourself up in my accounts, and let 
 my little budget alone, I beg you. 
 
 Rich. Oh! Very well. 
 
 Marie-L. [on the point of tears]. You see how nervous I 
 am, and any one would think you were amusing yourself 
 by 
 
 He gives her the card-case, saying he thought she could 
 take a joke, and tells her to calm herself and put away her 
 money. When she has replaced the card-case in the drawer 
 
300 THE THIEP 
 
 she goes to the dressmg-room. He calls her back almost 
 immediately. 
 
 Rich. Marise, since our marriage there has never even 
 a shadow passed over our love. Until now no concealment, 
 nothing ugly. At least I have liked to think so. 
 
 Marie-L. [laughing]. And now do you doubt it? 
 
 Rich, [taking her hand\. My wife, my dear wife, I want 
 you to tell me right away how that money came into your 
 possession. 
 
 Marie-L. Now you're beginning again! 
 
 Rich. I'm not beginning again, I'm just beginning. 
 And I'm in a hurry to finish. Answer me. 
 
 Marie-L. [candidly]. Why, my poor wolf, I economize 
 the way every one else does. I pinch and scrape and bar- 
 gain 
 
 Rich. No. 
 
 Marie-L. I declare- 
 
 Rich. No! No! No! 
 Marie-L. Well, Richard- 
 
 Rich. No! Your ingenuity, your savdr faire, your 
 common sense has surprised all of us. Widiout going 
 beyond our income, which is relatively modest, you manage 
 the clever trick of dressing as elegantly as the richest 
 women. 
 
 Marie-L. Really? 
 
 Rich. Exactly that. Every day you receive compli- 
 ments. Well, I admit that this luxiuy has not represented 
 a very large outlay 
 
 Marie-L. Thanks. 
 
 Rich. But I cannot quite see all your elegance and a 
 saving of six hundred francs in less than a year. Your clever 
 management would become a miracle, and I don't believe 
 in miracles. Please explain. 
 
 If he must know everything, she says, the money does 
 not entirely represent economies. She has put aside some 
 bills and kept the money she had to pay them with. See- 
 ing that she was not telling the truth about having saved 
 the money, he accuses her of not doing so now. He de- 
 clares that she owes nothing. If he will only wait till 
 morning, she says, she will account for everything, centime 
 by centime. She starts to cry and tells him she will not 
 listen to another thing. 
 
BERNSTEIN 301 
 
 Half an hour ago the idea would not have entered his 
 head that their means were not sufficient for her expenses. 
 Now he is certain of it. He demands to know where she 
 got the money, the money for her gown, the money for 
 those things in the drawer, the money for everything. 
 Again and again he repeats the question point blank as she 
 turns and doubles. And why is she pale with terror? 
 
 Rich. There's no use trying to gain time. I'm not go- 
 ing to let you go until you tell me where you got that 
 money! 
 
 [A jiause. Maeie-Louise turns away her face and 
 lowers her eyes. Richabd, quite close to her, almost 
 whispers.] 
 You were mixed up in that business of the twenty thousand 
 francs, weren't you? Answer! Answer me! Eveiy 
 movement you make accuses you! Fernand didn't do the 
 stealing entirely on his own account? Or did you steal, too? 
 Answer me! 
 
 Marie-L. Fernand did not steal at aU. 
 
 Rich. What? 
 
 Marie-L. [in a whisper]. Fernand accused himself to 
 save me. I stole the twenty thousand francs. 
 
 Rich. Oh! 
 
 [Instinctively he recoils. Then he sits down, crushed. 
 Mabie-Louisb drops to the floor, sobbing bitterly. 
 A long pause.] 
 
 Marie-L. [brokenly]. Richard — ^Richard 
 
 Rich. [vntJiout moving, without raising his head, in a thick 
 voice]. Why did you do it? 
 
 Marie-L. I wanted to have pretty things — ^to look 
 pretty — to please you! 
 
 Rich. To please me? 
 
 Marie-L. It's the truth! 
 
 Rich, [shrugging his shoulders]. Yes! 
 
 Marie-L. It was my only reason for doing it, for doing 
 anything — ^my only reason for living at all! It's the 
 truth! 
 
 Rich. You, you! a thief! I can't grasp it at all — you of 
 all people in the world! A thing like that degrades one, 
 throws one down into the mud, and once there, you never 
 get out again. [In anguish.] But, good God! The mo- 
 tive ! The reason ! 
 
802 THE THIEP 
 
 Marie-L. My mad love for you — threats, duns! 
 
 Rich. Threats? What next? I can't believe a word 
 you say any more. 
 
 Marie-L. I am sufiFering, Richard. 
 
 Rich. I don't believe you! 
 
 Marie-L. I am not suffering because of what you are 
 saying to me, but I suffer because I make you suffer, be- 
 cause I hear that hostile voice and know that it is your 
 voice. If I could only punish myself for my error, for my 
 fault, for my crime! 
 
 Rich. Every word you speak now rings untrue. 
 
 Marie-L. Then it's no use for me even to try to defend 
 myself, to try to show you, to tell you 
 
 He tells her to go on, saying she carmot make matters 
 worse. It was her love for him that carried her away, she 
 continues. Neither pretty nor rich, she feared that she 
 should never find a man she could love who would marry 
 her, and that she would grow old alone. She used to weep 
 from melancholy, as many young girls do. Then she fell 
 in love with him, and at last he began to love her. She 
 could hardly believe it. Even when they were engaged it 
 seemed like a dream. 
 
 For a whole year, ever since their marriage, a single 
 thought had been burning in her brain, that she must keep 
 her husband. She learned that he had been successful 
 with women and determined that he should not regret the 
 past. At first she tried to get along on their means, but 
 they saw so much of women who spent a great deal on their 
 clothes that she lost her confidence. At last she began to 
 vie with them and was rewarded by an appreciation from 
 him that intoxicated her with happiness. After that she 
 would have nothing but things from the most expensive 
 places. 
 
 Her craving for pretty things became a mania, and the 
 debts grew terribly. Then her seamstress arranged a way 
 in which she could get things simply by paying interest, 
 very high interest, but afterward payments on the bills 
 were demanded. One day, soon after they came to the 
 ch&teau, she had just had a terrible talk over the telephone 
 with one of the shops when she saw Isabelle throw several 
 thousand francs carelessly into the secretary. The temp- 
 tation overpowered her. ' 
 
BERNSTEIN 808 
 
 Richard gets up to go and tell Raymond at once. She 
 begs him to give her five minutes more. 
 
 Rich. Very well. Speak quickly. 
 
 Marie-L. Richard, what do you intend to do? 
 
 Rich. Intend to do? 
 
 Marie-L. About me. 
 
 Rich. What do you mean? 
 
 Marie-L. Our life. 
 
 Rich. I'm afraid this will make a difference. 
 
 Marie-L. Then you'U let me stay with you? You won't 
 txim me out? 
 
 Rich. What nonsense! Why, anyhow, I only consider 
 you half responsible. 
 
 Marie-L. Very well! Now, Richard, listen, and listen 
 carefully! This distrusting pardon that you throw at 
 me 
 
 Rich. You're mistaken 
 
 Marie-L. Yes! Yes, distrusting! This distrusting par- 
 don will be the attitude of otu: friends as well. Perhaps 
 they will not go even that far! 
 
 Rich. I am counting a great deal on their goodness. 
 
 Marie-L. Don't expect them to do the impossible! 
 For my part, their opinion doesn't matter! I shall regret 
 nothing, not even a break! 
 
 A revelation will break up this friendship. And then he 
 will carry regrets with him till the end of his days. She 
 urges him to consider finding some way not to ruin their 
 future. He replies that she is wasting her breath. She is 
 carrying her lack of principle a little far. 
 
 Rich. You said just now that you and I were different, 
 try and remember it! You insult me without knowing it! 
 
 Marie-L. And you outrage me without needing to! 
 Why are you making all this parade of your superiority? 
 I know that you are stronger, more honest, more intelligent 
 and finer than I! If you were not my master, should I 
 love you as I do, to idolatry? In spite of everything, I 
 have the right to hold on to my happiness, to defend it! 
 Richard, do, oh! do let us save oiu- happiness! 
 
 Rich. Too late! 
 
 Marie-L. No! not yet! But it will be too late when 
 you have denounced me! Then you will be suspicious 
 of every glance they make, of every movement, you will 
 
304 THE THIEF 
 
 know that they know, and your love will be dipped in the 
 mire! 
 
 She catches hold of him and drags him back from the 
 door. She does not ask him to keep Rajmiond's money. 
 He shall pay it back to the very last sou. He can easQy 
 do this, little by little, in his management of Raymond's 
 affairs. She and Isabelle will do what they can to console 
 Raymond, and he will be only too willing to find a reason 
 to pardon his son. At last, when they no longer owe a sou 
 of the money, if it will sooth his conscience, they will make 
 a clean breast of the whole thing. He is apparently affected 
 by her plea and is further softened by caresses, but another 
 thought occurs to him. 
 
 , Rich. Marise, why did Fernand accuse himself? Why 
 did Fernand take the blame on himself? 
 
 Marie-L. Because I asked him to! 
 
 Rich. What! What! What! You asked him to? 
 
 Marie-L. Yes. 
 
 Rich. When? Where? 
 
 Marie-L. This evening, in the park 
 
 Rick. This evening? 
 
 Marie-L. When I left you all — ^when I went to look for 
 Fernand! 
 
 Rich. Then you did find him? But you came back and 
 said 
 
 Marie-L. So as not to awaken suspicion! 
 
 Rich. Then your return without him, and his entry, it 
 was all a stratagem? You fixed it up between you? 
 
 Marie-L. Yes, Richard. 
 
 Rich. Ah! [A pause.] And you thought it all out then 
 and there, this comedy? 
 
 Marie-L. I planned it while Gondoin was talking. His 
 mistake gave me a chance of safety — ^yes — at the price of 
 another crime. Fright inspired me ! Have pity, Richard ! 
 
 Rich. You knew you would find Fernand? 
 
 Marie-L. I saw him go toward the httle lake 
 
 Rich. In any case, you were sure he would agree? Your 
 calm, your repose 
 
 Marie-L. I hoped that he would do me this service. 
 
 Rich. You didn't have time to ask him to do you a serv- 
 ice. No! You were gone only a few minutes — only long 
 enough to give some instructions, an order. 
 
BERNSTEIN 305 
 
 Harie-L. An order? 
 
 Rich, [vnth a threatening look]. An order. 
 
 Marie-L. Well, Femand agreed almost as soon as- 
 
 Rich. [too calmly]. Admit, Marie-Louise, that all this is 
 very strange! I defy you to answer that simple question: 
 how 
 
 Marie-L. Don't ask it. It is understood that I am no 
 longer hiding anything from you, neither my thoughts nor 
 my deeds. I turned to Fernand because he had been mak- 
 ing love to me. 
 
 [RiCHAKD has come back to the centre of the room' and 
 Marie has followed him.] 
 
 Rich. Making love to you? 
 
 Marie-L. Just calf love, a schoolboy passion, you 
 know 
 
 Rich. Has it been going on a long time? 
 
 Marie-L. Rather long. Since we came to the chftteau. 
 
 Rich. And you didn't tell me? 
 
 Marie-L. The boy didn't seem to me to be dangerous! 
 Besides, I'm not afraid of any man, of any temptation. I 
 love you I 
 
 Rich. You love me and yet for four months you have 
 allowed 
 
 Marie-L. I do reproach myself for some coquetry. 
 
 Rich. Good! Now we've come to the coquetry! 
 
 Marie-L. I regret it all now, but only on Fernand's 
 account. I ought to have snubbed him before. 
 
 Rich. Oh! Then you did pull him up short? 
 
 Marie-L. This very evening! 
 
 Rich, [more and more threateningly]. Ah! Ah! This 
 evening! How convenient! Not very severely, I im- 
 agine, since two hours later you demanded of him a 
 tremendous self-sacrifice — ^yes, tremendous! At your 
 request, this boy, who is pride personified, acknowledges 
 publicly a crime he did not commit! It is heroic! It is 
 subhme ! But it is curious ! 
 
 Marie-L. I misjudged him, I abused his generosity. 
 I saw in Fernand a really deep sentiment 
 
 Rich. Why, it's not a minute since you told me it was 
 only a schoolboy passion! 
 
 Marie-L. Don't try to mix me up in what I say, Rich- 
 ard. I'm telling you the truth ! 
 
306 THE THIEF 
 
 Rich. Oh! Oh! Well, let us go on along that line! 
 If Femand did not steal, why did he go so often to our 
 rooms in the absence of Raymond, in tiie absence of Isa- 
 belle, in my absence? 
 
 Mdrie-L. And in my absence! He came up here to 
 hide letters that he intended for me. 
 
 Rich. Then you've carried on a correspondence? 
 
 Maiie-L. No, I've never written him a single line. 
 If you could have read his letters, you would understand 
 how far 
 
 Rich. Of course none of them is in existence now. 
 
 Marie-L. No. I gave them back to Fernand to de- 
 stroy them. 
 
 Rich. You gave them back to Femand! I see! I see! 
 You gave them back this evening, of course? 
 
 Marie-L. Exactly. This evening 
 
 Rich, [restraining himself with difficulty]. You trull! 
 Have you done making a fool of me? 
 
 Marie-L. [trying to embrace her husbandl. Bichard, my 
 dearest, my beloved, you're joking! 
 
 Rich, [repulsing her]. Ah! Let me alone! You shan't 
 get me that way another time! 
 
 Marie-L. [violently]. What are you thinking of? 
 
 Rich, [bursting ovi]. I'm not thinking any longer! I 
 was eighteen once, my dear, like this CherUbino! I used 
 to glide into bedrooms, too! And I would have sacrificed 
 myself the same way! 
 
 Marie-L. Richard! Take care! Take care! You 
 will say something that you will regret! 
 
 Rich. I shall regret nothing! I am glad, delighted to 
 see you at last as you are! You didn't employ your sly- 
 ness only to pick a lock and empty a money-drawer! 
 You've been deceiving me, too! 
 
 Marie-L. [beside herself]. Don't you dare ! 
 
 Rich. You've been deceiving me! You are probably 
 still doing it ! Only a mistress gets rid of a toy in that way ! 
 
 Marie-L. Madman! Wretch! 
 
 Rich, [in a paroxysm]. Drop those airs of outraged 
 affection! They don't go any longer! You never were in 
 love! A depraved woman, tiiat's what you are! Senses, 
 yes! Vices, yes! As much as one wants of them! More 
 than one wants! 
 
BERNSTEIN 307 
 
 Marie-L. [in a voice that makes Richard he sHent]. Be 
 silent! I command you to stop! It is just your mascu- 
 line vanity crying out now, and you no longer even reach 
 me! But I won't have you degrade yourself like that! 
 I don't want to love a cad! 
 
 Rich. Oh! when it comes to insults 
 
 Marie-L. It's all understood! I stole! I stole! I 
 stole ! Spit in my face ! Give me up to the police ! Pub- 
 lish my shame broadcast! But I forbid you to defile our 
 past! You shall not touch that! 
 
 Rich. And I, too, have had enough of your humbug! 
 Good-night! 
 
 Marie-L. [thro^Ding herself before the door]. What are 
 you going to do? 
 
 Rich. Wake your young gentleman, my dear, and say 
 a few words to him! 
 
 Marie-L. You're not going out of this room! 
 
 Rich. Am I not? 
 
 Marie-L. You're mad with jealousy, and I 
 
 Rich, Get out of the way! [He seizes her by the arm 
 and whirls her around.] 
 
 Marie-L. [she has faUen on her knees], Richard! You 
 see that window! If you go out 
 
 Rich. You'll throw yourself out on the rocks, I suppose ! 
 I'm not such a fool as to beUeve that! [He is at the door.] 
 
 Marie-L. [getting up from the floor and running to the 
 toindow]. You don't know me, Richard ! 
 
 Rich, [changing his mind]. Stop! What is the point 
 of all this? 
 
 Marie-L. You shall not disgrace yourself! 
 
 Rich. Do you expect to keep me a prisoner forever? 
 
 Marie-L. I only ask you to think things over! When 
 morning comes act as you think best! But if you go one 
 step out of this room 
 
 Rich. Very well! I give in! Come away from there! 
 [He makes her leave the window.] But you will gain npth- 
 ing. We shall pass the night this way, face to face! 
 
 Marie-L. I didn't expect anything else! 
 
 Rich, [raising his hand to strike her]. You jade! 
 
 Marie-L. Go on, strike me! 
 
 Rich. [spUefuUy]. You would be only too glad! Let 
 us wait tiius for the dawn! 
 
808 THE THIEF 
 
 The following morning Marie-Louise and Richard are 
 nervous and fatigued when they come down to the library. 
 Isabelle soon joins them. She tells them that Raymond's 
 interview with Fernand the night before lasted three 
 hours. The boy showed only a vague sort of repent- 
 ance, and Raymond has decided that the only thing 
 to do is to get him away from the snares of Paris. He is 
 going to send him to the plantation in Brazil for two 
 years. 
 
 When Fernand is banished, Isabelle says, Raymond will 
 go right on suflFering. She regards the plan as disastrous, 
 and counts on her friends to upset it. Raymond now 
 comes in and teUs them that Fernand will leave the house 
 in a few minutes. Richard says that he approves of Ray- 
 mond's decision. He scarcely takes his eyes off Marie- 
 Louise, who is terrified and almost fainting. She declares 
 to Richard, aside from the others, that she will not be 
 present when Fernand is sent away, but he holds her by 
 the wrist and compels her to stay. 
 
 Fernand enters. His father informs him that he is going 
 to give him the means of earning his living and the other 
 money as well, and since the atmosphere of Paris has not 
 been healthful, he has decided that Fernand had better 
 leave immediately. There is nothing for him to do but 
 obey. Fernand, to whom exile is a terrible blow, begs for 
 some other punishment, but his father replies that he is 
 not trying to punish him. Fernand seems stupefied, and 
 almost staggers as he approaches Isabelle to say good-bye. 
 He turns to Marie-Louise who straightens up to keep from 
 falling. 
 
 Marie-Louise and Fernand look at each other. Their 
 lips move but no word is heard. Their hands scarcely 
 touch, and then, slowly, Fernand goes to the door into the 
 hall. As he reaches the door he tiu*ns, comes back, and 
 falls on his knees before his father. 
 
 Fer. Father! Father, have pity on me! 
 
 Ray. Ah! Go! Go! I am ashamed of your humilia- 
 tion! Go! Go! Go! You are on your knees, but it 
 is I who am begging you ! Go ! 
 
 [Feknajstd, distracted, gets up and rushes out. 
 
 Ray. {in tears]. My dear friends, this has been a terrible 
 hoiur. 
 
BERNSTEIN 309 
 
 Rich, [talcing Raymond hy the arm]. And now, Ray- 
 mond 
 
 Isa. Mariseisill! [Runningtoher.] Marise, little Marise! 
 
 Marie-L. [stifling]. No! No! I'm all right! It is 
 nothing! Letmealone! [She -pushes Isa.'byhjle away from her 
 and cries out^ Raymond, run and stop the automobile ! It 
 was I who took the money! It was I! It was I! It was I! 
 
 Ray. What? 
 
 Marie-L. Yes! Yes! I did it! But run! Run 
 quickly ! Raymond, I tell you I was the thief ! I ! I ! I! 
 
 Ray. What is she saying? 
 
 Rich. It's the truth! It was my wife who stole your 
 twenty thousand francs. 
 
 Raymond runs out, and Richard asks Isabelle to leave 
 him alone with his wife. She does so, and Richard, turn- 
 ing to Marie-Louise, says that his plan has succeeded just 
 when he thought it was going to fail. 
 
 Marie-L. [astounded]. What? I don't understand! 
 
 Rich. Don't play the innocent! You spent the whole 
 night fighting me, trying to keep me from revealing your 
 guilt, the whole night dragging around, clinging to me, 
 indifferent to all I had to say and to all my anguish! 
 You begged me to keep silent, to be your accomplice! 
 You regarded a denunciation as the worst possible thing 
 that could happen, worse than death itself! And after 
 all your efforts, yom- labors, your thrills of agony, at the 
 first whine from your young friend, without giving me 
 time to proclaim the truth, you yell it out and accuse your- 
 self at the top of your lungs! \With a hitter laugh.] Ah! 
 Ah! Thanks! Bravo! I give in! [A pause.] Oh, yes, 
 shrug your shoulders! That's right and proper! But 
 answer me first! Answer me if you can 
 
 Marie-L. My poor Richard! 
 
 Rich. Oh, you needn't pity me! I wanted to see! 
 And I saw! 
 
 Marie-L. Well, what did you see? Obviously I did 
 not know you were trying any plan ! I thought tihat out 
 
 of jealousy or anger you But enough of this! I tell 
 
 you that, rather than speak, I should have dropped dead 
 where I stood. But when Fernand went away weeping, 
 when Raymond and IsabeUe stood there in tears, although 
 you think I am a woman without a soul — you may be right 
 
310 THE THIEF 
 
 — a creature of lies and deceptions — ^well, I felt sometliing, 
 all the same! And so I cried out! I cried to save brave, 
 good Fernand! 
 
 It was also to deliver herself that she cried out, and so 
 that their beautiful past should live again. And they still 
 love each other. She sees that he thought the invincible 
 force which compelled her to burst out was her mad passion 
 for Fernand, that she could not endure being separated 
 from him. 
 
 Marie-L. That was what you thought, wasn't it? 
 Very well, now I suggest to you, myself, that you and I 
 exile ourselves togetlier! That we embark for Rio in his 
 place, to change our coimtry, our very continent, and not 
 come back until you choose! Or never come back at alll 
 I should accept it with joy! 
 
 Is that not proof enough, she asks him. He is sOent. 
 She insists that he shall send for Fernand and question 
 him. He must get at the truth, cost what it may, and if 
 he is a man he will know then that he is outraging her with- 
 out reason. Richard rings. Marie-Louise is surprised 
 when he asks the servant for Monsieur Lagardes instead 
 of for Fernand. Richard assures Raymond first and fore- 
 most that his boy is absolutely innocent. 
 
 The night before when Richard learned the truth be- 
 tween one and two o'clock, he continues, his first move was 
 to go directly to Raymond's room. Marise clung to him 
 like a drowning person and he had pity on her. For the 
 first time in his life he wavered between doing right and 
 doing wrong. But he did not have time to hesitate long. 
 Almost at the same moment disagreeable suspicions crossed 
 his mind. He was jealous of Fernand. 
 
 Raymond can hardly believe it, but Richard assures 
 him that that was why Fernand was wiUing to sacrifice 
 himself. Eaten up with jealousy, Richard never gave 
 even a thought to Raymond's sorrow. He wanted to 
 know. Now he asks if Raymond will forgive him. Ray- 
 mond shrugs his shoulders and holds out his hand. Rid^- 
 ard takes it in a long clasp. 
 
 Rich. Yes. [Pointing toMARiEi-ljOTnaTi crouching miser- 
 ably in an armchair, wiUi her face hidden.] And now, look! 
 Oh! I am not being malicious! I love her better than you 
 imagine, and she on her part loves me, too. She wanted to 
 
BERNSTEIN 811 
 
 deck herself out so as to be pretty for my sake, as pretty as 
 th^ others. Do you understand? Certainly there is 
 nothing worse than stealing, nothing lower! But she is in 
 love, passionately so! When one sees a fellow of my tem- 
 per, whirling, like a cloud of dust, you might say And 
 
 then when she cried out just now, how glad I was! Ever 
 since she spoke to me I have been thankful to her for doing 
 it, for proclaiming Femand's innocence before me in spite 
 of me! And then, I was in the wrong as well. We men 
 teach our wives only one duty: that of pleasing! When 
 they are desirable, desired, then it is we who triumph. 
 
 They know that only too well Instead of making a 
 
 real companion of my own wife I have unconsciously en- 
 couraged her into coquetry. And so, old man, you'll have 
 to forgive her, too; because I love her! Look at me — ^you 
 know what that means? I love her 
 
 Ray. Well, then, take her in your arms! 
 
 Rich. One minute! I put one condition to your clem- 
 ency! Your verdict was that the guilty person should go 
 to Brazil. I agree with you! If you have not lost all 
 confidence in your old pal, I accept now the situation you 
 offered me before my marriage. We are the ones who will 
 embark for Pauillac. 
 
 Ray. You don't mean you will start to-morrow? 
 
 Rich. No, we will go by the next boat. It will take me 
 a fortnight to put my affairs in order, but we shall pass 
 those fourteen days in Paris, at a distance from you. 
 
 Ray. No! No! 
 
 Rich. My dear friend, that idea has taken root in my 
 brain and nothing will dislodge it. The automobile is 
 ready, I believe, and it will take us to Paris. This evening 
 the maid can follow with oiu* trunks. 
 
 Ray. My dear children, if it is only to avoid gossip 
 
 Rich. Raymond, I know that in the goodness of your 
 heart you will suggest all sorts of plans. Don't do it. We 
 have passed through a devilishly tmpleasant time, she and 
 I, and we've got to put out to sea. I assure you 
 
 Ray, [resigned\. Well, then 
 
 Rich. However, we mustn't forget any one There 
 
 is Femand! We couldn't disappear without seeing him 
 again! That would be pretty bad, wouldn't it? Wfllyou 
 send him in here to me? 
 
S12 THE THIEF 
 
 Ray. I will [Just as he is going out.] Marise 
 
 Marie-L. [without raising her eyes]. E,aymond? 
 
 Ray. Little Marise, I'll wait for you witb Isabelle. We 
 shall want to wish you godspeed — to kiss you good-bye. 
 You'll come, won't you? 
 
 Marie-L. [grat^vlly]. Yes, Raymond. 
 
 Ray. In a little while, then. [Exit. 
 
 Rich, [after a pause]. Come here! 
 
 Marie-L. [when she is close to her husband]. Richard 
 
 Rich. Hush! [He draws her to him in a long embrace.] 
 
 Marie-L. My dear husband 
 
 Rich. Hush! Hush! [A silence. Then, changing his 
 tone.] Now, how about this young man? 
 
 Marie-L. Don't be unkind to him. 
 
 Rich. You needn't be afraid. 
 
 Marie-L. What are you going to say to him? 
 
 Rich. I shall say — a lot of things. I shall say : " You've 
 behaved like a young imp and like a young hero." No, no 
 — I shall say that the time of poetry is past, and we must 
 now get down to plain prose. And I shall tell him how 
 Isabelle stood up for him, fought for him as if she had been 
 
 his own mother. I shall tell him above all 
 
 Enter Feenajstd. 
 
 Fer. Here I am, Marise. 
 
 Marie-L. Fernand, it was Richard who wanted to talk 
 to you. 
 
 Rich, [taking Fernand by the shoulders. Feenand is 
 about to burst forth]. Listen, you! [A silence. Richaed 
 releases Feenand and says simply.] No. [Then to Maeie- 
 LouiSE.] Say good-bye to him! [Exit 'Richard. 
 
 Fer. Then you are going away? 
 
 Marie-L. You have been very good, Fernand. 
 
 Fer. You are going away? 
 
 Marie-L. Yes, but I shall never forget what you did. I 
 shall remember it wherever I go. 
 
 Fer. You are going away for a long time? 
 
 Marie-L. We are going into exile instead of you. We 
 must. I shall go out of this house with a bowed head. 
 
 Fer. And the prospect of a second wedding journey 
 doesn't seem unpleasant to you? Well — that is only logi- 
 cal. It's all right, I suppose. Good-bye. I hope you mil 
 eiyoy yourself! 
 
BERNSTEIN 313 
 
 Marie-L. Don't be unjust to me! You mustn't be 
 angry! I'm so afraid, Fernand. 
 
 Fer. Afraid? 
 
 Marie-L. Afraid for you. 
 
 Fer. For me? 
 
 Marie-L. Afraid to leave you — afraid that 
 
 Fer. Ah! You're afraid I might kill myself and cast a 
 gloom over your honeymoon? 
 
 Marie-L. I'm afraid of your despair. Don't avenge 
 yourself on life by doing anything foolish! 
 
 Fer. Don't worry! In the first place, I am very stub- 
 born! I shall hope in spite of everything, and wait for 
 your return. 
 
 Marie-L. Your words are lying, but the tone of your 
 voice speaks the truth! My little knight, I entreat you! 
 Show yourself generous and fine to the very end. Swear 
 to me 
 
 Fer. You have my word that 
 
 Marie-L. Swear on my head! 
 
 Fer. _ What for? H I 
 
 Marie-L. Swear it on my head! 
 [A pause.] 
 
 Fer. [breaking into sobs]. Marise, you are going! You 
 are going away ! I shall lose you! It is torture! Marise, 
 it hm-ts so ! [He throws himself into a chair.] 
 
 Marie-L. It won't be very long before you will look 
 back on this suffering with surprise, with the eyes of a 
 stranger. Fernand, dear, you who are weeping now will 
 laugh at it! Yes, you will laugh to think that you ever 
 had any idea of dying for a miserable little creature like 
 me — ^for Marise! 
 
 Fer. [stifling with tears]. You are going away! Going 
 away! It is terrible! 
 
 Marie-L. The time is getting on! Please 
 
 Fer. Don't be afraid! I swear 
 
 Marie-L. On my head? 
 
 Fer. On your head. [Hiding his head in his arms on the 
 table, he sobs convulsively.] 
 
 Marie-L. [leaning over him]. Fernand, my dear, dear 
 boy! [She leans farther over him, kisses him, and goes out.] 
 
THE MASTERPIECES 
 OF MODERN DRAMA 
 
 PART n 
 
The Masterpieces of Modern Drama 
 
 GIOCONDA* 
 
 Bt Gabbielb D'Anntjnzio 
 
 Translated by Arthur Symons 
 
 First played in Milan at the PonchineUi Theatre on April 
 8, 1876. 
 
 Argument: Lucio Settala, a Florentine sculptor, having 
 sought liberty in death under the stress of an overwhelm- 
 ing passion for Gioconda Dianti, has been saved by the 
 devoted care bestowed upon him by his wife. His heart 
 is filled with love for his wife, but the other woman re- 
 exerts her fascination. It still remains for Lucio to solve 
 his problem. 
 
 Silvia Settala and the old man Lorenzo Gaddi enter the 
 large square parlor of Lucio Settala's house in Florence. 
 Two windows open on a garden; through one of them can 
 be seen, rising against the placid fields of the sky, the little 
 hill of San Miniato and its bright Basilica, and the convent, 
 and the church of the Cronaca, "la Bella Villanella," the 
 purest vessel of Franciscan simplicity. The atmosphere is 
 fresh with spring. 
 
 Silvia Settala. Ah, blessed life! Because I have always 
 kept one hope alight, to-day I can bless life. 
 
 Lorenzo Gaddi. New life, dear Silvia, good brave soul, 
 so good and so strong! The storm is over. Lucio has 
 come back to you, full of gratitude and of tenderness, after 
 all the evil. It is as if he were born again. Just now he 
 had the eyes of a child. 
 
 *Published by the Dramatic Fubllshmg Company, Chicago. 
 
4 GHOCONDA 
 
 Silma. All his goodness comes back to him when 
 you are with him. When he calls you Maestro his voice 
 becomes so affectionate that it must make your heart beat, 
 the father's heart that you have for him. 
 
 In spite of Silvia's joy, the melting away of sorrow, 
 sometimes at a breath she feels cast down with dread. 
 "How this air troubles one, and yet how pure it is!" she 
 exclaims. "All one's hope and despair pass in the wind 
 with the dust of the flowers." She leans out of the window 
 and calls to her little child, Beata, who is running about 
 among the rose bushes, wild with delight. When Beata 
 laughs Silvia says she knows the joy of the flowers when 
 they are filled to the brim with dew. She turns to the 
 Maestro, grave and trembling, and taking his hands. 
 
 Silvia. You think that he will really be healed of all his 
 wounds.? You think he will come back to me with all his 
 soul? Did you feel that when you saw him, when you 
 talked with him? What did your heart say? 
 
 Lorenzo. It seemed to me just now that he had the look 
 of a man who begins to live over again with a new sense of 
 life. He who has seen the face of death cannot but have 
 seen in that instant the face of truth also. The bandage is 
 taken off his eyes. He knows you now wholly. 
 
 Silvia. Maestro, Maestro, if you deceive yourself, if it 
 is a vain hope, what will become of me? All my strength 
 is worn out. 
 
 She says that it was for the other woman that he wanted 
 to die, in a moment of rage and delirium. She asks if he 
 has awakened without memory; does he see an abyss be- 
 tween his life as it renews itself and the part of himself that 
 he left behind in the mist? She declares the old man dares 
 not console her any longer. Yet he does console her, and 
 makes her feel that when Lucio kissed her hands his whole 
 heart melted into tenderness and humility. 
 
 Lorenzo [looking at her hands]. Dear, dear hands, brave 
 and beautiful, steadfast and beautiful! Your hands are 
 extraordinarily beautiful, Silvia. 
 
 Silvia has never been back to Lucio's studio. It is still 
 the domain, she says, of the other woman, who lives and is 
 implacable. 
 
 Lorenzo. Are you sure that she came back, after what 
 happened? 
 
D'ANNUNZIO . 5 
 
 Silvia. Sure. Her insolence has no bounds, ^he ia 
 without pity and without shame. 
 
 Lorenzo. And he, Lucio, does he know? 
 
 Silvia. He does not know. But he will surely know 
 it sooner or later. She will find a way of letting him 
 know. 
 
 Lorenzo. But why? 
 
 Silvia. Because she is implacable. Because she will 
 not relinquish her prey. 
 
 There is a pause. Then she asks him about the statue, 
 the sphinx, for which Gioconda posed. He tells her it is 
 exquisitely beautiful. 
 
 Silvia's sister, Francesca Doni, comes, and also Cosimo 
 Dalbo, Lucio's friend, who has been away on a long visit 
 in Egypt. Francesca does not doubt that Lucio's attempt 
 upon his life has reunited him to her sister. 
 
 Lucio soon comes in. He is pale and thin, and his eyes 
 look extraordinarily large with suffering. He is very glad 
 to see Cosimo, and the others leave them together. Lucio 
 speaks in a singular way, as if in a dream, with a mixture of 
 agitation and stupor, but does not wish to talk about him- 
 self and questions Cosimo about his pilgrimage. 
 
 Cosimo describes the wonderful things he has seen, a 
 Persian monastery, the desert, the Nile, and the Sphinx. 
 Lucio's sphinx, which he saw before his departure, he 
 found exquisitely beautiful. Lucio covers his eyes with 
 both hands and remains for some seconds as if trying to 
 evoke a vision in the darkness. 
 
 Lucio [uncovering his eyes]. I no longer see it. It es- 
 capes me. It comes and goes in a breath, confusedly. If 
 I had it here before me now it would seem new to me: I 
 should cry out. And yet I carved it with these hands! 
 [He looks at his thin, sensitive hands. His agitation increases.] 
 I don't know. I don't know. In the beginning of my 
 fever, when I still had the bullet in my flesh, and the con- 
 tinual murmuring of death in my lost soul, I saw it standing 
 at the foot of the bed, lit like a torch, as if I myself had 
 moulded it out of some incandescent material. So for 
 many days and nights I saw it through my eyelids. It 
 grew brighter as my fever increased. When my pulse 
 burned it tiu-ned to flame. It was as if all the blood shed 
 at its feet had gone up into it and boiled up in it . . , 
 
6 GIOCONDA 
 
 Cosimo Dalbo [uneasily, looking toward the door], Lucio, 
 Lucio, you said just now that you knew nothing now, that 
 you did not want to remember anything. Lucio! [He 
 gently shakes his friend, who remains rigid.] 
 
 Lucio. Do not fear. I have left it all far, far behind 
 me, at the bottom of the sea. The statue was drowned, 
 too, with the rest, after the shipwreck. That is why I can 
 no longer see it except confusedly, as if through deep 
 water. 
 
 Cosimo talks of the Nile, and then Silvia returns. She 
 is smiling and animated. She has changed her gown, and 
 is dressed in a clearer, more springlike color, and she car- 
 ries in her hands a bunch of fresh roses. Lucio looks at 
 her with siu'prise, as if he discovered a new charm in her. 
 She blushes sKghtly, and says that she put on the gown 
 while Francesca was there to see how it looked. Cosimo 
 leaves. 
 
 The setting sun gilds the room. In the square of the 
 window is seen the pallid sky; San Miniato shines on the 
 height; the air is soft, without a breath of wind. Lucio 
 and Silvia, in the silence, hear the beating of their anxious 
 hearts. He speaks first of a bee that is buzzing in the 
 room. Then she asks him if he would not like to go to 
 Bocca d'Arno for a while. It has always been a dream of 
 hers to pass one spring there. Choked with emotion, he 
 replies that her dream is his, too. 
 
 Ludo [holding out his hands to her as if imploringly], 
 Silvia! Silvia! 
 
 Silvia [running to him]. Do you feel ill? You look 
 paler. Ah, you have tired yourself too much to-day, you 
 are worn out. Sit here, come. Will you sip some of this 
 cordial? Do you feel as if you are going to faint? Tell 
 me! 
 
 Lucio [taking her hands with an outburst of love]. No, 
 no, Silvia; I never felt so well. You, you sit down, sit 
 here; and I at your feet, at last, with all my soul, to adore 
 you, to adore you! 
 
 She sinks back on the divan and he falls on his knees 
 before her. She is convulsed and trembling, and lays her 
 hand on his lips, as if to keep him from speaking. Breath 
 and words pass between her fingers. 
 
 Lucio. At last! It was like a flood coming from far 
 
D'ANNUNZIO 7 
 
 off, a flood of all the beautiful things and all the good 
 things that you have poured out on my life since you began 
 to love me; and my heart overflowed, ah, overflowed so 
 that I staggered under the weight of it, and fainted and 
 died of the pain and the sweetness of it, because I dared not 
 say . . . 
 
 Silvia [her face white, her voice almost extinct]. No 
 more, say no more! 
 
 Lticio. Hear me, hear me! All the sorrows that you 
 have suffered, the wounds that you have received without 
 a cry, the tears that you have hidden lest I should have 
 shame and remorse, the smiles with which you have veiled 
 your agonies, your infinite pity for my wanderings, your 
 invincible courage in the face of death, your hard fight for 
 my life, your hope always alight beside my bed, your 
 watches, cares, continual tremors, expectation, silence, 
 joy, all that is deep, all that is sweet and heroic in you, I 
 know it all, I feel it all, dear soul; and if violence is enough 
 to break a yoke, if blood is enough for redemption (oh, let 
 me speak!), I bless the evening and the hour that brought 
 me dying into this house of your martyrdom and of your 
 faith to receive once more at your hands, these divine hands 
 that tremble, the gift of life. 
 
 He presses his convulsed mouth against the palms of 
 her hands, and she gazes at him through the tears that 
 moisten her eyelids, transfigured with unexpected happi- 
 ness. 
 
 Silvia [in a faint and broken voice]. No more, say no 
 more! My heart cannot bear it. You suffocate me with 
 joy. I longed for one word from you, only one, no more; 
 and all at once you flood me with love, you fill up every 
 vein, you raise me to the other side of hope, you outpass 
 my dreams, you give me happiness beyond all expectation. 
 Ah, what did you say of my sorrows? What is sorrow 
 endured, what is silence constrained, what is a tear, what is 
 a smile, now, in the face of this flood that bears me away? 
 I feel as if by-and-by, for you, for you, I shall be sorry not 
 to have suffered more. Perhaps I have not reached the 
 depths of sorrow, but I know that I have reached the 
 height of happiness. 
 
 She bluntly caresses his head as it lies on her knees. 
 
 Silvia. Rise, rise! Come nearer to my heart, rest on 
 
8 GIOCONDA 
 
 toe, give way to my tenderness, press my hands on your 
 eyelids, be sUent, dream, call back the deep forces of your 
 life. Ah, it is not me alone that you must love, not me 
 alone, but the love I have for you : love my love ! I am not 
 beautiful, I am not worthy of your eyes, I am a humble 
 creature in the shadow; but my love is wonderful, it is 
 on high, on high, it is alone, it is sure as the day, it is 
 stronger than death, it can work miracles; it shall give 
 you all that you ask. You can ask more than you have 
 ever hoped. 
 
 She draws him to her heart, raising his head. His eyes 
 are dosed, his lips tight set, he is as pale as death, drunk 
 and exhausted with emotion. 
 
 Silvia. Rise, rise! Come nearer to my heart; rest on 
 me. Do you not feel that you can give yourself up to me 
 that nothing in the world is surer than my breast? that you 
 can find it always? Ah, I have sometimes thought tibat 
 this certitude might intoxicate you hke glory. 
 
 He kneels before her with uplifted face; she with both 
 hands pushes back the hair to imcover his whole forehead. 
 
 Silvia. Beautiful, strong forehead, sealed and blessed! 
 May all the germs of spring awaken in your new thoughts! 
 
 TVembUng she presses her lips to his forehead. Silently 
 he stretches out his arms toward the suppliant. The sun- 
 set is hke a dawn. 
 
 The next day Cosimo Dalbo has come again to see Lucio. 
 He is seated by a table, grave and thoughtful, while Lucio 
 moves about the room, giving way to the anguish that 
 oppresses him. He says that he has had a letter from 
 Gioconda. He opened it. It burnt his fingers. 
 
 Cosimo. Well? [He hesitates. In a voice changed by 
 emotion.] You still love her? 
 
 Liudo [imth a shudder of dread] . No, no, no ! 
 
 Cosirno [looking into the depths of his eyes]. You no 
 longer love her? 
 
 Ludo [entreatingly]. Oh, do not torture me. I suffer. 
 
 Cosimo. But what is it then that distresses you? [A 
 pause.] 
 
 Ludo. Every day, at an hour that I know, she waits 
 for me, there, at the foot of the statue, alone. [Andther 
 pause.] . 
 
D'ANNUNZIO 9 
 
 The two men seem as if they saw before them something 
 strong and living, a Will, evoked by those brief words. 
 
 Cosimo. She waits for you? Where? In your studio? 
 How could she get in? 
 
 Ludo. She has a key : the key of that time. 
 
 Cosimo. She waits for you! She thinks, she desires, 
 tiien, that you should still belong to her? 
 
 Ludo. You have said it. 
 
 Cosimo says that she is terrible. One cannot fight against 
 her save at a distance. He must go away and live only 
 for her who saved him from death, and for whom his heart 
 bleeds. Lucio replies that the other will wait for his return. 
 Her power will increase. He wUl see her from far off, like 
 the guardian of a statue into which he put the most vivid 
 breath of his soul. He denies that he loves her, but says 
 she is the stronger; she knows what conquers and binds 
 him; she is armed with a fascination from which he caimot 
 free his soul except by tearing her out of his heart; must he 
 try again? 
 
 Cosimo tells him to ask Gioconda for the key to the 
 studio, or to clear out everything and leave the house; a 
 change is necessary if his life is to renew itself. Lucio, 
 bitter and disheartened, replies that he is right. They 
 will go away somewhere, to a beautiful, solitary place, 
 shake off the dust from old things, set up a monument to 
 liberty. — One morning Gioconda will knock at the new 
 door. — ^He calls Cosimo a child, to whom the whole thing 
 seems nothing more than a key. 
 
 Liicio [again carried away by excitement]. I deny nothing, 
 I deny nothing. Would you have me cry to you that I 
 love her? [Looks about him in an aimless bevnlderment. 
 Passes his hand across his forehead vnth an air of suffering. 
 Lowers his voice.] You should have let me die. Think, if 
 I who was intoxicated with life, if I who was frantic with 
 strength and pride, if I wanted to die, be sure I knew there 
 was an insuperable necessity for it. Not being able to live 
 either with or without her, I resolved to quit the world. 
 Think: I who looked on the world as my garden, and had 
 every lust after every beauty ! Be sure, then, I knew there 
 was an insuperable necessity, an iron destiny. You should 
 have let me die. 
 
 Cosimo. You have forgotten the divine miracle cruelly. 
 
10 GIOCONDA , 
 
 Lucio. I am not cruel. Because I was in horror of that 
 cruelty toward which the violence of evil drew me, because 
 I would not trample upon a more than human virtue, be- 
 cause I could not endure the sweetness of a Httle uncon- 
 scious voice questioning me, because I wished to keep 
 myself from the worst of all (do you understand?), I made 
 my resolve. And because I am in horror of beginning over 
 again, therefore I hate myself; because to-day I am like 
 one who has taken a narcotic in despair, and who wakes up 
 again, after a sound sleep, and finds the same old despair 
 by his bedside. 
 
 At first he was conscious of adoration of his wife. All his 
 soul was prostrate at her feet, knowing all that was divine 
 in her with an intoxication of humility, with a fervor of 
 unspeakable gratitude. Life had a new splendor; he 
 thought he was saved forever. Then he knew that there 
 was something else that must be abolished in him: the force 
 that flows incessantly to his fingers, as if to reproduce 
 . . . he means that perhaps he should have been saved 
 if he had forgotten art also. 
 
 Again Cosimo urges him to go to Bocca d'Amo where, 
 between the woods and the sea, he would find once more a 
 little calm and might think over what his attitude should 
 be. Now he is still convalescent. Lucio does not believe 
 that hght comes from goodness, but from a profound in- 
 stinct which turns and hurries his spirit toward the most 
 glorious images of life. He was born to make statues. 
 
 Lucio [lowering his voice]. The sport of illusion has 
 mated me with a creature who was never meant for me. 
 She is a soul of inestimable price before whom I kneel and 
 worship. But I am not a sculptor of souls. She was not 
 meant for me. When the other appeared before me I 
 thought of all the blocks of marble hidden in the caves of 
 far mountains, that I might arrest in each one of them one 
 of her motions. 
 
 Now that he has created his masterpiece, Cosimo says, 
 he surely must be satisfied. 
 
 Lucio [more excHedly], A thousand statues, not one! 
 She is always diverse, like a cloud that from instant to 
 instant seems changed without your seeing it change. 
 Every motion of her body destroys one harmony and creates 
 another yet more beautiful. You implore her to stay, to 
 
D'ANNUNZIO 11 
 
 remain motionless; and across all her immobility there 
 passes a torrent of obscm-e forces, as thoughts pass in the 
 eyes. Do you understand? Do you understand? The life 
 of the eyes is the look, that indefinable thing, more expres- 
 sive than any word, than any sound, infinitely deep and 
 yet instantaneous as a breath, swifter than a flash, innu- 
 merable, omnipotent; in a word, the look. Now imagine 
 the life of the look diffused over all her body. Do you 
 imderstand? The quiver of an eyelid transfigures a human 
 face and expresses an immensity of joy or sorrow. The 
 eyelashes of the creature whom you love are lowered: the 
 shadow encircles you as the waters encircle an island: they 
 are raised: the flame of summer bums up the world. An- 
 other quiver: your soul dissolves Uke a drop of water; 
 another: you are lord of the universe. Imagine that 
 mystery over all her body ! Imagine through all her limbs, 
 from the forehead to the sole of the foot, that flash of 
 lightning, like life! Can one chisel the look? The an- 
 cients made their statues blind. Now, imagine, her whole 
 body is like the look. 
 
 He looks about him suspiciously, in fear of being heard. 
 He comes nearer to his friend, who Ustens with increasing 
 emotion as he tells of a wonderful day spent at Carrara 
 with Gioconda, choosing a block of marble for a statue. 
 Everything he saw exalted his spirit. An extraordinary 
 fervor animates him, and at the end he says now Cosimo 
 must understand how furious his impatience is when he 
 knows she is there, alone, at the foot of the sphinx, awaiting 
 him. 
 
 But Cosimo does not know that he had begun another 
 statue. It was left unfinished, sketched out in the clay. 
 If the clay dries all is lost. Lucio thought it was lost, but 
 Gioconda has kept it moist and preserved his work. Co- 
 simo reminds him that the other preserved his life. 
 
 Ludo [gloomily, lowering his forehead, without looking at 
 his friend, in an almost hard voice]. Which of the two is 
 worth more? Life is intolerable to me if it was only given 
 back with such a dragging weight on it. I have told you: 
 you should have let me die. What greater renunciation 
 can I make than that I have made? Only death could 
 stay the rush of desire that drives my whole being, fatally, 
 toward its own particular good. . Now I live again: I 
 
12 GIOCONDA 
 
 recognize in myself the same man, the same force. Who 
 shall judge me if I follow out my destiny? 
 
 Cosimo [terrified, taking him by the arm as if to restrain 
 him]. But what will you do? Have you made up your 
 mind? 
 
 Struck by the sudden terror in the voice and gesture of 
 his friend, Lucio hesitates. 
 
 Ludo [putting his hands through his hair feverishly]. 
 What shall I do? What shall I do? Do you know a more 
 cruel torture? I am dizzy; do you understand? K I 
 think that she is there and waiting for me, and the hours 
 are passing, and my strength is being lost, and my ardor 
 burning itself away, dizziness clutches hold of my soul, 
 and I am in fear that I shall be drawn there, perhaps to- 
 night, perhaps to-morrow. Do you know what that dizzi- 
 ness is? Ah, if I could reopen the wound that they have 
 closed for me! 
 
 Cosimx) [trying to lead him toward the window]. Be calm, 
 be calm, Lucio. Hush ! I think I hear the voice . . . 
 
 Ludo [starting]. Silvia's? [He turns deathly pale.] 
 
 Silvia and her sister enter. They talk of the delights 
 at Bocca d'Arno at this time of year. Lucio leans out of 
 the window trying to conceal his agitation. Cosimo soon 
 leaves and Lucio sees him to the gate. 
 
 Silvia bends her head, knitting her brows as if thinking 
 out some resolution. Then it seems as if she is lifted on 
 a sudden wave of energy. Francesca now tells her that 
 Gaddi has been to see Gioconda to ask her for the key of 
 the studio. Learning that Lucio had not sent him, Gio- 
 conda replied that no one else had the right to make such 
 a demand. Silvia draws herself up. She has the right, 
 she says. She will go and face the woman in the place 
 where she is an intruder. Francesca entreats her not to 
 think of it, but Silvia asks when she has ever shrunk from 
 torture or sorrow. Francesca admits that her strength is 
 great, but persists that the ordeal is too much for her. 
 
 Silvia says that Gioconda thinks her weak and submis- 
 sive and is therefore bold; Gioconda thinks she can get the 
 better of her, but she is wrong. Now that Silvia has won 
 back everything she will defend it. If Gioconda resists, 
 Silvia can turn her out. Again Francesca implores her 
 not to be rash. Silvia repUes that she will not endure a 
 
D'ANNUNZIO 13 
 
 second martyrdom. She would rather go away herself 
 and find a little quiet seashore somewhere, and lie down 
 there with Beata and let the sea take them. 
 
 Lucio is stUl outside, talking at the gate, although it is 
 beginning to rain. He seems beside himself. Francesca 
 tells Silvia to call him. 
 
 Silvia [turning, as if seized by a terrible thought]. I am sure 
 of it. I am sure of it. 
 
 Francesca. What are you thinking of now? 
 
 Silvia [pausing and pronouncing the words distinctly, 
 pale but resoluie]. Lucio knows that she is waiting for him. 
 
 Fran. He knows? How? 
 
 Silvia. There is no doubt, there is no doubt. 
 
 Fran. You imagine it. 
 
 Silvia. I feel it; I am sure of it. 
 
 Fran. But how? 
 
 Silvia. It was bound to come. She was bound to find 
 out the way one day or another. How? A letter, per- 
 haps. He has received a letter. 
 
 Fran. And you were not on the watch? 
 
 Silvia [disdainfully]. Even that? 
 
 Fran. But perhaps you are mistaken. 
 
 Silvia. I am not mistaken. After the old man's visit 
 she wrote. Delay is no longer possible now, not a day, 
 not an hour. You see the danger. Though he may have 
 come back to me with all his soul, though he may have 
 broken with her entirely, though he may have gone back 
 to another life, another happiness, do you not feel what 
 might still be the fascination for him of a woman who says, 
 obstinate and certain: "I am here, I wait?" To know 
 that she is there, that she is waiting there every day, that 
 nothing can dishearten her. Do you see the danger? If 
 Lucio knew this morning that she's waiting for him, he 
 must know to-night, and from my lips, that she waits for 
 him no longer. [An indomitable energy strengthens and 
 lifts her whole being.] He shall know it to-night; I promise 
 him. [She stretches out her hand toward the window, with 
 tlie gesture of one taking an oathi] 
 
 It is in vain that Francesca renews her entreaties. 
 Silvia replies there is not a moment to lose. They will 
 start at once in Francesca's carriage. She goes into the 
 next room. Francesca calls Lucio from the window. It 
 
14 GIOCONDA 
 
 is now raining hard and Lucio comes in drenched. He is 
 astonished to find Silvia about to leave the house. 
 
 Silvia. I have to go out. I shaU not be long. Beata 
 is in there, crying because she wants to come with me. Go 
 and comfort her. Tell her that perhaps I wiU bring her 
 back something beautiful. 
 
 [Lucio suddenly takes her hands and looks her fixedly 
 in the eyes.] 
 
 Silvia [mistress of herself, vrith a firm and clear accent]. 
 What is it, Lucio? 
 
 He casts down his eyes. She withdraws her hands, 
 shaking his as if in a farewell greeting. The temper of her 
 will rings out in her vivid voice. 
 
 Silvia. Au revoirl Come, Francesca. It is time. 
 
 She goes out rapidly, followed by her sister. Lucio re- 
 mains with bowed head, staggering under a thought that 
 transfixes him. 
 
 The studio is a high and spacious room lighted by a glass 
 roof. Li the wall at the back there is a rectangular open- 
 ing, somewhat larger than a door, leading into the sculp- 
 tor's studio. A red curtain covers the opening. At the 
 two sides of the opening are two large winged figures, the 
 Nike of Samothrace and the Nike of Pseonius. Wide 
 divans surround the room. Silvia stands in the middle of 
 the room. Francesca's knees tremble and she has taken 
 a seat. Silvia says that they will hear the door open 
 when any one comes, and Francesca can slip out the side 
 way and wait in the carriage. Francesca wants to wait 
 in the passage, near at hand. 
 
 While they are listening Silvia is seized by an impulse 
 to see the sphinx. Francesca begs her not to go into the 
 other room, but Silvia raises the curtain and slips between 
 the folds. There are a few instants of silence in which 
 nothing is heard but the rapid breathing of the sister. 
 Suddenly within the purple depths appears the white face 
 of Silvia which seems irradiated with the light of the mas- 
 terpiece. She has received the supreme gift of beauty: a 
 truce to anguish, a pause to fear. The soimd of a heavy 
 door closing is heard. The sisters start. Silvia pushes 
 Francesca out by the small door and closes it. 
 
 Silvia is standing with her face turned toward the other 
 
D'ANNUNZIO 15 
 
 door, her eyes fixed, almost rigid in expectation. Through 
 the profound silence is heard distinctly the turning of the 
 key in the lock. Silvia's attitude does not change. A 
 hand lifts the portiere. Gioconda Dianti enters, closing 
 the door behind her. At first she does not perceive the 
 adversary, since she comes from the light into the shadow 
 and a thick veil covers her whole face. When she per- 
 ceives her she stops with a choked cry. Both remain for 
 some instants facing one another without speaking. 
 
 Silvia states who she is. One of them usurps the right 
 of the other, she says; one of them is an intruder. Per- 
 haps it is she herself. Gioconda in a low voice replies, 
 "Perhaps." Silvia says there is a woman who has drawn 
 a man into her net with the worst allurements, who has 
 torn him away from the peace of home, the nobility of art; 
 who has dragged him into a turbid and violent delirium, 
 where he has lost all sense of goodness and justice. 
 
 Silvia. There is a woman who has inflicted on a man 
 the sharpest torments that the cruelty of a torturer sick 
 with ennui could desire; who has exhausted and withered 
 him up, keeping a perverse fever continually alight in his 
 veins; who has rendered life intolerable to him; who has 
 armed his hand and turned it against his own life; who, in 
 short, has known that he was wounded to death on a far- 
 off bed, for days and days, while a ceaseless fight went on 
 about him agaiast death; and who has not had remorse, 
 nor pity, nor shame, but has gone back to the sinister 
 place before the blood was wiped off the floor, meditating 
 another attack upon her prey. She has entered here with 
 her face covered, she has spoken in a dull voice, she has 
 let fall a cold word, calculating always on her own audac- 
 ity and the other's submissiveness. Do you know her? 
 
 Gioconda [without changing her manner]. She whom I 
 know is different. Only because she is sad in your pres- 
 ence does she speak in a low voice. She respects the great 
 and sorrowful love that has given you life; she admires the 
 virtue that exalts you. While you were speaking she 
 understood that it was only in order to comfort an unut- 
 terable despair that your words had created a figure so dif- 
 ferent from the real person. There is nothing implacable 
 in her; but she obeys a power that may be implacable. 
 
 Harslmess is of no avail, says Gioconda. She thought 
 
16 GIOCONDA 
 
 at first that Silvia came simply to learn the truth. The 
 truth that matters, between lliem, is the truth of love, 
 but Gioconda fears to wound. 
 
 Gio. The woman against whom you made such accusa- 
 tions was ardently loved, and — suffer me to say it! — with 
 a glorious love. She did not abase but exalt a strong life. 
 And since the last voice that she heard, a few hoiu-s before 
 the terrible deed was accomplished, the last was of love, 
 she believes she is still loved. And this is the truth that 
 matters. 
 
 Silvia [blindly]. She is wrong, she is wrong . . . 
 You are wrong! He loves you no longer, he loves you no 
 longer; perhaps he never loved you. His was not love but 
 a poisoning, sharp slavery, madness, and thirst. When he 
 suffered on his pillow remembrance passed through his 
 eyes from time to time like a flash of terror. Weeping at 
 my feet, he has blessed the blood that was poured out for 
 his ransom. He does not love you, he does not love you! 
 
 Gio. Your love cries out like a drowning man. 
 
 Silvia. He does not love you! You have been a gadfly 
 to him, you have made him frantic^ you have driven him 
 to his death. 
 
 Gio. Not I, not I, have driven him to his death, but 
 you yourself. Yes, he wished to die, that he might cast 
 off a fetter, but not that which bound him to me: anotha-, 
 yours, that which was set upon him by your virtue or your 
 rule, and which made him suffer intolerably. 
 
 Only a few hours before he gave way to the horrible 
 thought, there in that room, Gioconda says, he called her 
 the life of his life, of liberty, and art, and joy. He spoke 
 of the insupportableness of his yoke, she pursues, the in- 
 evitable weight of goodness, more cruel than any other, 
 and the horror of daily suffering, the repugnance of return- 
 ing to the house of silence and tears. To escape that 
 anguish he sought death. 
 
 Silvia. You he, you lie! I was far away. 
 
 Gio. And you accuse me of having inflicted an in- 
 famous torment upon him, of having been his torturer! 
 Ah, your hands, above all your hands of goodness and 
 pardon, prepared for him every night a bed of thorns on 
 which he could not lie down. But, when he entered here 
 where I awaited him as one awaits the creating god, he 
 
D'ANNUNZIO 17 
 
 was transformed. Before his work he recovered strength, 
 joy, faith. Yes, a continual fever burned in his blood, bept 
 alight by me (and this is all my pride) ; but the fire of that 
 fever has fashioned a masterpiece. [Paints tawwd her 
 stattte, hidden by the curtains.] 
 
 Another statue, she says, is ready to leap forth from its 
 covering of clay. That first breath that he infused into 
 it she kept alive as one waters the furrow where the seed 
 lies deep. That the work may go on living her presence 
 is needful. That is why she said perhaps Silvia was tiie 
 intruder, respecting Silvia's doubt. Silvia cannot feel at 
 home there as in her own house. Household affections 
 have no place there, domestic virtues no sanctuary. The 
 place is outside laws and beyond common rights. Here a 
 sculptor makes his statues. He is alone here with the in- 
 struments of his art. Gioconda is an instrument of his 
 art. Nature has sent her to him to bring him a message, 
 and to serve him. 
 
 Silvia stands before the curtain, without advancing. 
 An increasing shiver shakes her whole body, betraying her 
 inner agitation; while the words of her rival become more 
 and more sharp and stinging, definite, and at last hostile^ 
 Suddenly she turns, panting, impetuous, resolved upon the 
 last defence. Death, she says, has severed every bond« 
 What was interrupted should be lost. Now he is bom 
 again, a new man, he aspires toward other conquests. In 
 his eyes is a new light; his strength is impatient to create 
 other forms. All that is behind mm, all that is on the other 
 side of the shadow, has no longer any power or value. 
 What does it matter to him that an old piece of clay should 
 fall into dust? 
 
 Gioconda replies with greater defiance. She is awaiting 
 Lucio, and she is certain that he will come. An esftraordi- 
 nary change comes over the face of Silvia. It seems as if 
 something strange and horrible enters into her. She is 
 like one suddenly caught in the coils, writhing in the fas- 
 cination of the serpent, blindly. The ancient fatality of 
 deceit suddenly assails the soul of the pure woman, qon- 
 quers and contaminates it. At the last words of the 
 enemy she breaks into an unexpected laugh, bitter, atro- 
 cious, provocative, that renders her unrecognizable. Gio- 
 conda seems overcome by it. 
 
18 GIOCONDA 
 
 Silvia. Enough, enough. Too many words. The 
 game has lasted too long. Ah, your certainty, your pride! 
 But how could you believe that I should have come here 
 to contest the way with you, to forbid your entrance, to 
 faQB your audacity, if I had not had a certainty far more 
 sound than yours to warrant me.'' I know your letter of 
 yesterday, it was shown to me, I know not if with more 
 astonishment or disgust. 
 
 Gio. [overcome]. No, it is not possible! 
 
 Silvia. Yes, it is so. As for the answer, I bring it. 
 Lucio Settala has lost the memory of what has been, and 
 asks to be left in peace. He hopes that your pride will 
 prevent you from becoming importimate. 
 
 Gio. [beside herself]. He sends you? He himself? It 
 is his -answer? His? 
 
 Silvia. His, his. I would have spared you this harsh- 
 ness if you had not forced me. Will you go now? 
 
 Gio. [ker voice hoarse with rage and shame]. I am turned 
 out? 
 
 Fury suffocates her, and gives her a frantic vigor. The 
 vindictive and devastating wild beast seems to awaken in 
 her. Through her flexible and powerful body passes the 
 same force which contracts the homicidal muscles of feline 
 animals in ambush. The veil, which she has kept on her 
 face like a dark mask, renders more formidable the attitude 
 of one ready to do injury in any way and with any weapon. 
 
 Gio. Tinned out? 
 
 Silvia stands convulsed and livid before the furious 
 woman, and it is not the spectacle of that fury which ter- 
 rifies her, but something which she sees within herself, 
 something horrible and irreparable; her lie. 
 
 It would have been better for Lucio to have died, says 
 Gioconda, than to have survived his soul. All is destroyed, 
 all lost, she exclaims; he will never lift his head again. 
 She declares frantically that she was his strength, his youth, 
 his light! And she carries away with her all that was his 
 power. Fury blinds and suffocates her. It is as if she 
 was invaded by a turbid, destructive wiU, as by a demon. 
 All her being contracts in the necessity of accomplishing 
 an immediate act of destruction. A sudden thought 
 precipitates that instinct toward an aim. 
 
 Gio. And that statue which is mine, which belongs to 
 
D'ANNUNZIO 19 
 
 me, which he has made out of the life that I have shed from 
 me drop by drop, that statue which is mine . . . [She 
 rushes like a tcild beast toward the closed curtain, raises it 
 and passes through.] . . . well, I will shatter it, I will 
 cast it down! 
 
 Silvia utters a cry and rushes forward to prevent the 
 crime. Both disappear behind the ciu-tain. The rapid 
 breathing of a brief struggle is heard. 
 
 Silvia. No, no, it is not true! I hed! 
 
 The despairing words are covered by the soimd of a 
 mass that tilts and falls, the fracture of the falling statue; 
 then follows another lacerating cry from Silvia, torn by 
 agony from her very vitals. 
 
 Francesca Doni appears, mad with terror, numing toward 
 the cry, which she recognizes; while Gioconda Diaiiti is seen 
 between the curtains, still veiled, in the attitude of one who 
 has committed a murder and seeks to escape. 
 
 Fran. Assassin! Assassin! [She stoops to sv4:cor her 
 sister, while the other runs out.] Silvia, Silvia, my sister, 
 my sister! What has she done to you, what has she done 
 to you? Ah, the hands, the hands . . . 
 
 Francesca's voice expresses the horror of one who sees 
 something frightful. 
 
 Silvia. Take me away! Take me away! 
 
 Fran. My God, my God! They were underneath! 
 My God! They are crushed! Water! water! There is 
 none here. Wait. 
 
 Silvia. Ah, what agony! I cannot bear it: I am dying. 
 Take me away! 
 
 She appears between the red curtains, her face inex- 
 pressibly contracted by agony, while her sister bends to 
 support her two hands wrapped in a piece of wet cloth, 
 taken from the clay, through which the blood oozes. 
 
 Silvia. What agony! I cannot bear it any longer. 
 
 She is about to faint, when all at once Lucio Settala 
 rushes into the room hke a madman. She trembles, fixing 
 on him her great eyes full of tears, in which her despairing 
 soul dies. 
 
 Silvia. You, you, you! 
 
 Fran, [still supporting the two poor crushed hands thai 
 drench the cloth in which the incurable wreck is hidden]. 
 Support her, support her! She is falling. 
 
20 GIOCONDA 
 
 Lucio supports the poor bleeding creature almost faint- 
 ing in his arms. But before losing consciousness, she 
 turns her glazing eyes toward the curtains as if to indicate 
 the statue. 
 
 Silvia [in a dying voice]. It ... is safe. 
 
 The calm sea, golden sands, and the mouth of the Amo 
 are seen from the windows of a ground-floor room on a 
 September afternoon, as Silvia enters and looks off into 
 the distance with infinitely sad eyes. In her wajr of mov- 
 ing there is a sense of something wanting, calling up a 
 vague image of clipped wings, a vague sentiment of 
 strength humbled and shorn, of nobiUty brought low, of 
 broken harmony. Long sleeves hide her arms without 
 hands, which she sometimes lets drop by her sides, and 
 sometimes sets together, drawn a little back as if to hide 
 them in the folds with a movement of shame and sorrow. 
 
 From outside, between thick oleanders, appears a girlish 
 figure. La Sirenetta, half fairy and half beggar girl. Silvia 
 caJls her in. La Sirenetta asks for Silvia's little girl, and 
 learns that she is expected that day. La Sirenetta offers 
 her a starfish, but Silvia will not take it. The girl says she 
 has great sorrow in her eyes. She can see that something 
 wicked has been done to her. 
 
 Instinctively Silvia hides her arms without hands in the 
 folds of her garment with a sorrowful movement which 
 does not escape the notice of La Sirenetta, who suddenly, 
 as if intentionally, drops the end of her apron so that her 
 little sea treasure falls and is scattered over the ground. 
 She picks out a large starfish and asks Silvia to take it. 
 The mutilated woman shakes her head in sign of refusal, 
 pressing her Ups together as if to keep down the knot that 
 tightens in her throat. 
 
 La Sirenetta. Can't you? Are your hands sick, tied 
 up? [The mtdHated woman nods her head. La Sire- 
 netta's voice becomes tremulous tvith pity.] Did you fall 
 into the fire? Were you burnt? Do they still hurt? 
 Or are they getting better? 
 
 Silvia [in a scarcely audible voice]. I haven't any hands. 
 
 La S. [rising in affright]. You haven't any! They 
 have cut them off? No hands? [The mutilated woman 
 nods her head, frightfully pale. The other shivers with hor- 
 
ELEONORA DUSE AS S1L\1A SETTALA 
 
 Sit. I stretched out my hands too violently toward a good thing that 
 fate denied me 
 
D'ANNTJNZIO 21 
 
 »■<»■.] No, no, no! It isn't true. [She keeps her eyes fixed 
 on the folds of the garment in which the mvUlated woman hides 
 her arm.] Tell me it isn't true. 
 
 Silvia. I haven't any hands. 
 
 La S. Why? why? 
 
 Silvia says that she gave away her hands — to her love. 
 
 Francesca and Lorenzo Gaddi enter. They have left 
 Beata a little way behind so that she should not come to 
 Silvia unexpectedly. The old man instinctively stretches 
 out his hands to Silvia. She bends slightly and offers him 
 her forehead, which he touches with his lips. Concealing 
 his emotion, he tells her how happy he is to see her again. 
 The sea helps her he thinks. He says it is always a great 
 comforter. 
 
 Silvia tells them that she asked so much, that to obtain 
 it, she stooped to tell a lie: she came out mutilated, 
 maimed, in punishment for her lie. She had stretched out 
 her hands too violently toward a good thing that fate had 
 denied her. She does not lament or weep. Since she 
 must live she will live. Perhaps one day her soul will be 
 healed. She says she is strong, ready to see Beata, but 
 cannot restrain her emotion and goes out to hide her 
 tears. 
 
 Lorenzo. Yes, it is too frightful a fate. I remember 
 what you said to her so tenderly, as you looked at her, on 
 that day in April: "You seem as if you had wings!" The 
 beauty and lightness of her hands gave her the aspect of a 
 winged thing. There was in her a kind of incessant quiver. 
 Now it is as if she dragged herself along. 
 
 Fran. And it was a useless sacrifice, like all the others; 
 it has done nothing, changed nothing: that is where it is 
 so frightful a fate. If Lucio had stayed with her, I believe 
 she would have been happy to have been able to give that 
 last proof, to have been able to sacrifice for him her living 
 hands. But she knows now all the truth, in all its naked- 
 ness. Ah, what an infamous thing! Would you have 
 believed that Lucio was capable of it? Tell me. 
 
 Lorenzo. He, too, has his fate, and he obeys it. As he 
 was not master of his death, so he is not master of his life. 
 I saw him yesterday. He had written me at Fort dei 
 Marmi to ask me to go to the quarry and send him a block. 
 I saw him yesterday in his studio. His face is so thin that 
 
22 GIOCONDA 
 
 it seems burnt up in the fire of his eyes. When he speaks 
 he becomes strangely excited. It troubled me. He 
 works, works, works, with a terrible fury: perhaps he is 
 seeking to rid himself of a thought that gnaws him. 
 
 Fran. The statue is still there.'' 
 
 Lorenzo. It is still there, without arms. He has left 
 it so: he would not restore it. So, on the pedestal, it looks 
 really like an ancient marble, dug up in one of the Cyc- 
 lases. There is in it something sacred and tragic, after 
 the divine immolation. 
 
 Fran, [in a low voice]. And that woman, the Gioconda, 
 was there? 
 
 Lorenzo. She was there, silent. When one looks at 
 her, and thinks that she is the cause of so much evil, truly 
 one cannot curse her in his heart; no, one cannot, when 
 one looks at her. I have never seen so great a mystery 
 in mortal flesh. 
 
 There is a pause. The old man and the sister remain in 
 thought for some instants with bowed heads. Presently 
 Francesca says that now it is time to bring the Uttle one 
 to her mother and let her learn the truth. Silvia reappears 
 on the threshold. The old man exhorts her to have cour- 
 age for this last ordeal, and goes out with the sister. La 
 Sirenetta comes running back. She notices that Silvia's 
 eyes are burning. Her heart hurts her too much, she 
 says. 
 
 SUvia. Don't speak. I cannot crush my heart, [She 
 is convulsed, no longer able to endure the agony of waiting.] 
 She is coming now. She is coming. 
 
 The Voice of Beata [from among the oleanders]. Mamma ! 
 Mamma! [The mother starts, and turns frightfully pallid.] 
 Mamma! 
 
 The child rushes toward her mother with a cry of joy, 
 her face lit up, heated, her hair in disorder, panting after a 
 long run, carrying an untidy bunch of flowers. As she runs 
 in, the bunch falls. The mutilated woman stoops toward 
 the little arms that clasp her neck, and offers her death- 
 like face to the furious kisses. 
 
 Silvia. Beata! Beata! 
 
 Beata [paniing]. Ah, how I have rim, how I have run! 
 I ran away from them, all alone. I ran, I ran. They 
 didn't want to let me come. Ah, but I ran away from 
 
D'ANNUNZIO 23 
 
 them, with my bunch of flowers. [Covers her mother's face 
 with fresh kisses.] 
 
 SUvia. You are all damp with sweat, you are hot, 
 burning . . . My God! 
 
 In her rush of tenderness she instinctively makes a 
 movement as if to wipe the child's face; but stops and hides 
 her arms in the folds of her garments; and a shiver of vis- 
 ible horror runs through her. 
 
 Beata. Why don't you take me up? Why don't you 
 put your arms around me? Take me up, take me up, 
 mamma! 
 
 She rises on tiptoe, to be caught into her mother's em- 
 brace. The mother takes a step backward, blindly. 
 
 Silvia. Beata! 
 
 Beata [follovnng her]. Don't you want me? don't you 
 want me? 
 
 Silvia. Beata! 
 
 She tries to feign a smile with her ashen lips, distorted 
 by imspeakable sorrow. 
 
 Beata. Is it for fun? What are you hiding? Oh, give 
 me what you are hiding! 
 
 Silvia. Beata! Beata! 
 
 Beata. I have brought you flowers, such a lot of flow- 
 ers. Do you see? do you see? [As she turns to pick up the 
 fallen bunch, she perceives her little wild friend, and remem- 
 bers her.] Oh, Sirenetta! Are you there? 
 
 La Sirenetta is there, before the window, standing, a 
 silent witness, with her eyes fixed on the sorrowful mother. 
 As the repeated breath of the wind passes between the 
 fronds of an arbutus and makes it tremble, so the sorrow of 
 the mother seems to invest and penetrate that slender 
 body which the oblique rays of the sim ring with bands of 
 gold. 
 
 LaS. Do you see what a lot? All for you! [The child 
 picks up the bunch] Take it! [She runs toward her mother 
 again, who steps back.] 
 
 Silvia. Beata! Beata! 
 
 Beaia [astonished]. Don't you want them? Take them ! 
 Take them! 
 
 Silvia. Beata! 
 
 Overcome with sorrow, as if stricken by an unendur- 
 able blow, she falls on her knees before her frightened child; 
 
24 GIOCONDA 
 
 and a flood of tears, that bursts from her eyes like blood 
 from a wound, bathes her face. 
 
 Beata. You are crying! You are crying? 
 
 Frightened, she throws herself upon her mother's breast 
 with all her flowers. La Sirenetta, who has also fallen on 
 her knees, lays her forehead and the palms of her hands 
 upon the groimd. 
 
PILLARS OF SOCIETY* 
 
 By Henbik Ibsen 
 
 First played in Copenhagen on November 18, 1877. 
 
 Argument: Consul Bernick, the leading citizen of a 
 Norwegian coast town, established his initial success by 
 the sacrifice of his yoimg brother-in-law, Johan, who 
 agreed to act as scapegoat for him and emigrate to America. 
 Johan returns some years later and falls in love with the 
 daughter of the woman with whom he was supposed to 
 have had a scandalous affair, but feels bound by his prom- 
 ise not to defend himself against the false charges that are 
 heaped upon him. Bernick has the alternative of making 
 reparation to those whom he has wronged, or of insuring 
 the permanence of his security by a horrible crime. 
 
 Several ladies are sewing in a large conservatory room 
 in the house of Consul Bernick. The back wall is com- 
 posed almost entirely of plateglass. Through it is an open 
 doorway to a veranda, shaded by an awning, beyond which 
 is a flight of steps leading down to a garden that borders 
 on a street with a row of small, brightly painted houses on 
 the farther side. 
 
 On the right-hand side of the room is a door to Consul 
 Bemick's office, at which stands Aune, the foreman of 
 Bemick's shipyard, talking with the secretary. The secre- 
 tary says the Consul is having an important conference 
 and cannot see Aime, but has commissioned him to say 
 that Aune must stop giving Saturday lectures to the work- 
 men in which he has been telling them that they are going 
 to be injured by machinery and new metho(fc of work. 
 Aune thinks he is supporting society; Bernick believes 
 that Aune is undermining it. 
 
 At a moment when Mrs. Bernick has left her guests 
 
 ♦Published by Charles Scribners' Sons, New York. 
 
 25 
 
26 PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 they begin to gossip with flying tongues. Mrs. Lynge is 
 a newcomer in the community, and, of course, Mrs. Rum- 
 mel and Mrs. Holt must put her on her guard so that she 
 won't make blunders. The fact is that this young girl, 
 Dina, who lives at the Consul's house as if adopted by him, 
 and who is cared for so kindly by his sister Martha, was 
 the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Dorf, a pair of strolling ac- 
 tors. 
 
 The hero of the scandal was Mrs. Bernick's brother, 
 Johan Tonnesen, according to Mrs. Rummel, for it was he 
 who jumped out of the back window of Dorf 's house one 
 night when Dorf came back unexpectedly. At the same 
 time it was said that Johan had been making free with the 
 cash box in Bernick's office. Anyway, he ran away to 
 America. He was the dark spot on the sun of the Ber- 
 nicks' happiness. 
 
 There was another dark spot, too: Lona Kessel, an 
 elder step-sister of Mrs. Bemick and Johan, who was 
 considered rather a strange creature because she cut her 
 hair short and went about in men's shoes in rainy weather, 
 slapped Bernick's face when he announced his engagement, 
 and followed Johan to America to take care of him. 
 
 Dina is made very unhappy by being always made aware 
 that she is an outsider, and knowing that people are al- 
 ways talking about her. Most unbearable of all is the 
 extreme sweetness shown her by these ladies. The school- 
 master. Doctor Rorlund, is considerably in love with her, 
 but feels that for a thousand considerations he cannot 
 veiy well show it, being as he is a pillar of the society in 
 which he lives. 
 
 Doctor Rorlund wants to be very sure that people will 
 not misinterpret his motives. He wishes to make a bar- 
 gain with Dina that when the time comes when circum- 
 stances shall permit him to offer his hand, she will take it 
 and be his wife. Dina gives her consent. 
 
 The very important business conference that has been 
 engaging Consul Bernick's attention relates to the estab- 
 lishment of a railway to the town. The year before he 
 defeated the project, but the plan then was to have a line 
 along the coast. As a public-spirited citizen he could not 
 tolerate anything so detrimental to the town. Incident- 
 ally, the raihoad would have diverted the commerce 
 
IBSEN 27 
 
 handled by his ships. He has now agreed to an inland 
 line, however, with a branch coming down their way, 
 which should increase the trade of the place. It will open 
 up forests and mineral deposits and develop the use of the 
 great water power above them. 
 
 A cable dispatch comes which Bernick finds rather 
 shocking. It is instructions from the American owners of 
 the Indian Girl, now at his shipyard, to send her out with 
 the fewest possible repairs. To do this, he says, would 
 be to risk the lives of eighteen men. Not a single ship- 
 owner in his country would give such an order. 
 
 A ship has just come to the port with a circus and the 
 -procession passes through the street. A woman whom 
 the Bernicks and their guests take at first to be the wife of 
 the circus manager is Lona Hessel. She has come back 
 with her brother Johan. 
 
 To the extreme annoyance of Bernick, he finds that 
 Johan has struck up quite a friendship with Dina in a 
 very short time after his arrival. He remarks to his wife 
 peevishly that he cannot see what induced Johan to re- 
 turn. She is inclined to think Johan might be arrested 
 on account of the old defalcation. He replies tartly that 
 that was all idle gossip, and tells her to put all those old 
 stories out of her head. They torture him, he adds. 
 
 It is dreadful that Johan had to come back just at this 
 time, Bernick continues, just when so much depends on 
 good feeling in the press and in the town. He is afraid 
 people will rake up those old stories, as his wife has, and 
 declares that the ne'er-do-wells are sure to make a scandal 
 one way or another, especially Lona; it is a calamity to 
 have such people in one's family. The eilect of this appre- 
 ciation of her brother and sister at last is to make Mrs. 
 Bernick cry, but the Consul says that her tears will not 
 put a stop to the chatter. 
 
 The foreman of the shipyard comes to the house again, 
 and Bernick gives him a lecture. He is altogether dis- 
 pleased at the way things are going at the yard. The 
 Palm Tree should have been at sea long ago, and there lies 
 the Indian Girl with nothing done on her after five weeks. 
 Aune says the vessel's bottom is as rotten as matchwood; 
 the more they patch it the worse it gets. Bernick suspects 
 the trouble is that Aune won't use the new machines. 
 
28 PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 Bemick is trying to make the town progressive and Aune 
 is opposing him. 
 
 Aune admits that he is afraid, afraid that the machines 
 will take the bread out of the mouths of hundreds of poor 
 folks. Bemick's reply is that when printing was discov- 
 ered many copyists had to starve. But he didn't send for 
 Aune to argue with him. It was to tell him that tiie 
 Indian Girl must be ready to sail the day after to-morrow. 
 Aune assures him that is impossible. If the ship is not 
 cleared in two days, Bemick declares, he will dismiss 
 Aime from his service. 
 
 This threat is itself a blow to the foreman. Discharge 
 would mean the breaking up of the little community he 
 has been able to support and hold together, his family; 
 but Bemick says that Aune is standing out against him be- 
 cause he will not prove the supmority of machinery to 
 manual labor. Bemick is actuated by public spmt, 
 though of course he doesn't want the papers to say that his 
 men have been giving all their attention to his own ships. 
 At last Aune gives in. He promises to have the Indian 
 Girl ready. 
 
 The next thing to happen is that word is brought that 
 the scandal threatened by the return of Johan and Lona 
 is already going full blast, owing to their persistence in 
 going about town with Dina. It really seems as though 
 Johan and Lona did not wish to have the fact overlooked 
 that they belong to the first family in the place. Lona 
 and Johan come to call. They have been much impressed 
 by evidences of Bernick's munificence to the town, for he 
 has given pubhc gardens and has his name over the en- 
 trance, and has built a new schoolhouse and gas and 
 water works. 
 
 Before long Bernick finds himself alone with Johan. 
 Grasping both his brother-in-law's hands, he shakes and 
 presses them warmly, saying he must thank him for every- 
 thing, his house and home, his domestic happiness, ms 
 whole position in society. Johan was not the guilty one, 
 but as he was a single man, and an orphan, he had the 
 generosity to turn appearances against himself. He 
 makes light of his action, saying that most any young 
 fellow would have been glad of an excuse to make a dash 
 
IBSEN 29 
 
 into the world when it only meant a month's town 
 talk. 
 
 The story is not entirely forgotten, however, even yet, 
 Bernick says. Johan doesn't mind. He is going back soon 
 to his farm. In fact, he only returned to satisfy Lona, 
 over whom had come a sort of homesickness, although 
 she would not admit it. She did not wish to leave Johan 
 alone, fearing the wild tendencies that he was supposed 
 to have, and finally, to relieve her mind, as she had slaved 
 for him so when they were very poor, he told her he was 
 not the scapegrace she believed. Then, if he was inno- 
 cent she said, he had no reason for not coming with her. 
 
 Johan is anxious to hear about Dina's parents. Dorf 
 deserted his wife, he learns, and was afterward killed in a 
 drinking bout. Mrs. Dorf wasted away and died of sick- 
 ness and want. She asked Bernick for nothing; would 
 accept nothing. They took care of the little girl, and 
 Bernick's sister, Martha, educated her. It appears that 
 Bernick has never given his sister the share she should have 
 had in their inheritance because he had rather a hard pull 
 to tide things over when he first took up the business. 
 
 Johan. Poor Martha! 
 
 Bernick. Poor! Why so? You don't suppose I let 
 her want for anything? Oh, no; I think I may say I am a 
 good brother to her. Of course she lives here and has her 
 meals with us; her salary as a teacher is quite enough for 
 her dress, and — ^what can a single woman want more? 
 
 Johan. H'm; that's not the way we think in America. 
 
 Ber. No, I daresay not; there are too many agitators 
 at work over there. But here, in our little circle, where, 
 thank heaven, corruption has not as yet managed to creep 
 in — ^here women are content with a modest and unob- 
 trusive position. For the rest, it is Martha's own fault; 
 she could have been provided for long ago if she had cared 
 to. 
 
 Johan. You mean she could have married? 
 
 Ber. Yes, and married very well, too; she has had 
 several good offers. Strangely enough! — ^a woman with- 
 out money, no longer young, and quite insignificant. 
 
 Johan. Insignificant? 
 
 Ber. Oh, I am not blaming her at all. Indeed, I 
 would not have her otherwise. In a large house like ours. 
 
so PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 you know, it is always convenient to have some steady- 
 going person like her whom one can put to anything that 
 may turn up. 
 
 Bernick is called away on business, and Johan has a talk 
 with Martha. He doesn't think she seems very glad to 
 see him. 
 
 Martha. I ha.ve waited so long, Johan — too long. 
 
 Johan. Waited? For me to come? 
 
 Mar. Yes. 
 
 Johan. And why did you think I would come? 
 
 Mar. To expiate where you had sinned. 
 
 Johan. I? 
 
 Mar. Have you forgotten that a woman died in shame 
 and need for your sake? Have you forgotten that by your 
 fault a young girl's best years have been embittered? 
 
 Johan. And you say this to me? Martha, has your 
 brother never ? 
 
 Mar. What of him? 
 
 Johan. Has he never ? Oh, I mean has he never 
 
 said so much as a word in my defence? 
 
 Mar. Ah, Johan, you know Karsten's strict principles. 
 
 Martha reminds Johan of a letter he wrote her when he 
 went away asking her to believe in him. She has beUeved 
 in him. She believed that all the bad things that were 
 rumored of him had been done in desperation, without 
 thought and without purpose. This scarcely satisfies 
 him. She has tried to fulfil the duties that he left behind. 
 She tells him this that he may have less to reproach him- 
 self with. She has been a mother to the much-wronged 
 child. 
 
 Johan. And thrown away your whole life in doing so! 
 
 Mar. It has not been thrown away. But you have 
 been long in coming, Johan. 
 
 He starts to say something, breaks off, and thanks her 
 for her faithful friendship. Martha sees Mrs.. Bernick 
 
 coming with Lona Hessel and doesn't want them to 
 
 She also breaks off her sentence and goes out. Lona has 
 something to say to Johan of which Mrs. Bernick dis- 
 approves, but that does not restrain Lona. She teUs Jo- 
 han to look well at Dina. Johan says he has. Her reply 
 is that he should look to some purpose, for Dina is the very 
 thing for him. Lona thinks Johan needs a little help in 
 
IBSEN 31 
 
 such matters; tie has never had much of an eye for women. 
 As for the last statement, Mrs. Bernick thinks they have 
 had sad cause to entertain doubts. 
 
 Lona insists that the match is very desirable, but Mrs. 
 Bernick expresses great horror at her "American" ideas; 
 a man like her husband, who is so strict in his morality, 
 will never permit it. She thinks that Lona must hate him 
 very much still for saying that he is no more moral than 
 other men, and bursting into tears, she declares that 
 Lona has always envied her happiness, and now comes 
 back to heap trouble on her and show the town what sort 
 of a family her husband married into. 
 
 Bernick tells his secretary to send four hundred crowns 
 for a diimer for the poor, and then takes advantage of the 
 opportunity to say to Lona that he has been burning for 
 a chance to talk openly with her and to beg her forgiveness. 
 It was only a momentary aberration that made him pursue 
 Dina's mother; at one time he really, honestly loved Lona. 
 Then as for marrying Betty, he was absolutely forced to 
 do that for the sake of the money, to save from ruin the old 
 and respected house of Bernick. 
 
 That he was saving the house of Bernick at the expense 
 of a woman did not occur to him, in fact it seems to him 
 now just as well for Lona's happiness that he did not marry 
 her, though he has to confess that her happiness was not 
 what he was considering when he played her false. How- 
 ever, she should not suppose that he acted upon selfish 
 motives, for he had the welfare of hundreds, aye, thou- 
 sands, to consider, for the welfare of the whole community 
 depended upon him. 
 
 Lona. Is it for the sake of the community then, that 
 for these fifteen years you have stood upon a lie? 
 
 Ber. A lie? 
 
 Lona. The threefold lie. First the lie toward me; 
 then the lie toward Betty; then the lie toward Johan. 
 
 He begs her, out of consideration for Betty, not to ask 
 him to speak now. Johan, he says, will not require 
 it. 
 
 Lona. But you yourself, Karsten? Is there not some- 
 thing within you that longs to get clear of the lie? 
 
 Ber. You would have me voluntarily sacrifice my do- 
 mestic happiness and my position in society! 
 
32 PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 Lona. What right have you to stand where you are 
 standing? 
 
 Ber. For fifteen years I have every day earned a 
 clearer right — ^by my whole life, by all I have labored for, 
 by all 1 have achieved. 
 
 Lona. Yes, you have labored for much and achieved 
 much, both for yourself and others. You are the richest 
 and most influential man in the town; they have to bow 
 before your will, all of them, because you are held to be a 
 man without stain or flaw — your home is a model, your 
 life is a model. But all this magnificence, and you your- 
 self along with it, stand on a trembling quicksand. A 
 moment may come, a word may be sppken — ^and, if you 
 do not save yourself in time, you and all your grandeur 
 go to the bottom. 
 
 Ber. Lona — ^what did you come here to do? 
 
 Lona. To help you to get firm ground under your feet, 
 Karsten. 
 
 Ber. Revenge! You want tov revenge yourself. I 
 thought as much! But you will not succeed! There is 
 only one who has a right to speak, and he is silent. 
 
 Lona. Johan? 
 
 Ber. Yes, Johan. If any one else accuses me, I shall 
 deny everything. If you try to crush me, I shall fight for 
 my life. You will never succeed, I tell you ! He who could 
 destroy me will not speak — ^and he is going away again. 
 
 They are interrupted by the arrival of Rummel and 
 Vigeland, who report that the men who were in favor of 
 the seaboard railroad declare that private interests are 
 lurking behind the new proposal. Dr. Rorlund comes 
 next with the complaint that the young girl who has found 
 an asylum beneath Bemick's roof is showing herself in the 
 public streets with the person from whom above all others 
 she should be kept furthest apart. Bernick excuses him- 
 self, saying that he is called away suddenly to the Trade 
 Council, but he cannot escape quite so easily, for Johan 
 and Dina are dragged in to answer to the charge of planning 
 to go to America together. 
 
 Mrs. Bernick. Oh, Johan — ^how can you! 
 
 Rorlund. Can this be true? Such a crying scandal! 
 By what vile arts have you ? 
 
 Johan. What, what, man? What are you saying? 
 
IBSEN 33 
 
 RSr. Answer me, Dlna: is this your intention? — delib- 
 erately formed, and of your own free will? 
 
 Dina. I must get away from here. 
 
 Ror. But with him — ^withhim! 
 
 Dina. Tell me of any one else that has courage to set 
 me free? 
 
 Ror. Then you shall know who he is. 
 
 Jokan. Be silent! 
 
 Ber. Not a word more! 
 
 Ror. Then I should ill serve the community over whose 
 manners and morals it is my duty to keep watch; and I 
 should act most indefensibly toward this young girl, in 
 whose training I have borne an important share, and who 
 is to me 
 
 Johan. Take care what you are doing! 
 
 Ror. She shall know it! Dina, it was this man who 
 caused all your mother's misfortune and shame. 
 
 Ber. Rector ! 
 
 Dina. He! [To Johan.] Is this true? 
 
 Johan. Karsten, do you answer! 
 
 Ber. Not a word more! Not a word more to-day. 
 
 Dina. Then it is true. 
 
 Ror. True, true! And more than that. This person, 
 in whom you were about to place your trust, did not run 
 away empty-handed — ^Mrs. Bernick's strong-box — the 
 Consul can bear witness! 
 
 Lona. Liar! 
 
 Ber. Ah ! 
 
 Mrs.B. O God! O God! 
 
 Johan [goes toward him mth uplifted arm]. You dare 
 to ! 
 
 Lona [keeping him back]. Don't strike him, Johan. 
 
 Ror. Yes, yes; assault me if you like. But the truth 
 shall out; and this is the truth. Consul Bemick has said 
 so himself; it is notorious to the whole town. Now, Dina, 
 now you know him. 
 
 [A short pause.] 
 
 Johan [softly seizing Beenick's arm.] Karsten, Karsten, 
 what have you done? 
 
 Mrs. B. [softly, in tears]. Oh, Karsten, that I should 
 bring all this shame upon you! 
 
 Bemick departs hastily in response to further urging 
 
34 PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 to bring all his moral predominance to the support of so- 
 ciety at the Trade Council. 
 
 Olaf Bernick is the thirteen-year-old son of the Consul. 
 He has adventurous leanings that his father does not like, 
 and the Consul, having learned that Olaf stole out of the 
 house at night and went out in a fishing boat, has just 
 given the boy a thrashing that he will be likely to remem- 
 ber. As he puts away the cane, however, he tells his wife 
 that the young rascal is now threatening to run away for 
 good. "Just let him try it," says the Consul. Mrs. 
 Bernick may not care very much what becomes of Olaf, 
 but he needs some one to carry on his work in the world. 
 
 The secretary closes the door carefully and informs 
 Bernick that he believes Aune intends to send the In- 
 dian Girl to the bottom with every soul on board. He has 
 been down to the shipyard and pbserved that the repairs 
 were being rushed, but so far as he could see not a stick 
 of new timber had been put in. It was only plugged and 
 puttied up and covered with plates and tarpaulins. He 
 declares the [ship will go j^to the bottom hke a cracked 
 pot. 
 
 Ber. Why, this is horrible! What do you think can 
 be his motive? 
 
 Krap. He probably wants to bring the machines into 
 discredit; wants to revenge himself; wants to have the old 
 workmen taken on again. 
 
 Ber. And for that he would send all these men to their 
 death? 
 
 Krap. He has been heard to say that the crew of the 
 Indian Girl are brute beasts, not men. 
 
 Ber. Yes, yes, that may be; but does he not think of 
 the great loss of capital? 
 
 Krap. Aune is not over-fond of capital. Consul. 
 
 Ber. True enough; he is an agitator and mischief- 
 maker; but such a piece of villainy as this ! I'll tell 
 
 you what, Mr. Krap: this affair must be looked into again. 
 Not a word of it to any one. Our yard would lose its repu- 
 tation if this came to people's ears. 
 
 Bernick tells Krap to look over the ship again and make 
 absolutely sure that what he says is true, and then if it is 
 he will report the case so as to make a favorable impression 
 on the press and the public. 
 
IBSEN 35 
 
 At the Trade Council the day before Bemick and his 
 friends carried everything before them, but now he learns 
 that the editor of the town paper has got hold of a rumor 
 that there has been a great buying up of the property along 
 the branch line. It is said that a lawyer has been acting 
 on a secret commission to buy up all the forests, mining 
 rights, and water power. People already believe it and 
 are very indignant. Many are saying that they will strike 
 their names from the lists. 
 
 Bemick makes a fuller explanation to Lona Hessel. 
 There was no actual theft of money, but the rumor that 
 there had been helped him with creditors. He could ask 
 for time and they did not doubt the solidity of the firm, 
 which had been very badly managed by his mother. So 
 he clutched at the rumor like a drowning man clutching at 
 a straw. Bemick maintains that every man has some 
 dark secret that must be kept out of sight. 
 
 Lona. And you call yourself pillars of society. 
 
 Ber. Society has none better. 
 
 Lona. Then what does it matter whether such a so- 
 ciety is supported or not? What is it that passes current 
 here? Lies and shams — ^nothing else. Here are you, the 
 first man of the town, prosperous, powerful, looked up to 
 by every one — ^you who have set the brand of crime upon 
 an innocent man. 
 
 Bemick is prepared to atone for the wrong, he says, by 
 paying whatever Johan demands. Lona replies that the 
 truth is what Johan must have, as Johan discovered when 
 he began to court Dina, and Johan comes to tell Bemick so 
 himself. 
 
 Ber. And just at this moment I require all my moral 
 authority, and therefore I cannot speak out. 
 
 Johan. I don't care so much about the falsehoods you 
 have trumped up at my expense; it is the other thing that 
 you must take upon your own shoulders. Dina shall be 
 my wife, and I will live here, here in this town along with 
 her. 
 
 Lona. You will? 
 
 Ber. With Dina! As your wife? Here, in this town? 
 
 Johan. Yes, just here. I will stay here to outface all 
 these liars and backbiters. And that I may win her, you 
 must set me free. 
 
36 PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 Bernick says Johan has forgotten what society is, or he 
 would reaUze that such a step would crush him to the dust. 
 
 Johan. I can only repeat that I shall make Madam 
 Dorf 's daughter my wife, and Uve with her in this town. 
 
 Ber. [wipes the perspiration from his forehead]. Hear 
 me, Johan — and you, too, Lona. My position at this 
 moment is not an ordinary one. I am so situated that if 
 you strike this blow you destroy me utterly, and not only 
 me but also a great and golden opportunity for the com- 
 munity which was, after all, the home of your childhood. 
 
 Johan. And if I do not strike the blow I destroy aU 
 that mB.kes my own future of value to me. 
 
 Bernick says that it is he who has bought up the 
 property along the line of the inland railway, fi the 
 plan goes through he will be a millionaire. If not, he is 
 ruined. With the unblemished reputation he has borne 
 hitherto he can carry the whole thmg upon his shoulders. 
 He pleads that society itself forces him to adopt indirect 
 methods. If every one could have entered the undertaking 
 it would have been bungled and spoiled. He is the only 
 man in the place of sufficient business abiUty to carry it 
 through, and in his hands the property will be of great 
 permanent benefit to the community. 
 
 Lona now urges Johan to go away and remain silent. 
 
 Johan. I must and will make Dina my wife. So I 
 shall sail to-morrow in the Indian Girl 
 
 Ber. The Indian Girl ? 
 
 Johan. Yes; the captain has promised to take me. I 
 shall go across, I tell you, sell my farm, and settle up my 
 affairs. In two months I shall be back again. 
 
 Ber. And then you will tell all? 
 
 Johan. Then the wrongdoer must take up his own 
 burden. 
 
 Bernick says he will fight for his life; he will deny every- 
 thing, but Johan has his confession in two letters. He will 
 produce them if forced to do so. 
 
 Johan. The wind is fair. In three weeks I shall be in 
 New York — if the Indian Girl doesn't go to the bottom. 
 
 Ber. [starting]. Go to the bottom? Why should the 
 Indian Girl go to the bottom? 
 
 Johan. That's just what I say. 
 
 Ber. [almost inaudihly]. Go to the bottom? 
 
IBSEN 37 
 
 Johan leaves and Lona follows him. The next moment 
 Aune enters the room. He wants to know if Beraick is 
 still firmly determined to turn him adrift if the Indian 
 Girl is not ready for sea the following day. Bernick says 
 there is no need of going over that again. He supposes 
 Aune can assure him that the repairs have been made 
 thoroughly. Aime replies that the time given him for the 
 work was very short, but that the weather is fine and it 
 is midsummer. 
 
 Ber. Then — the Indian (firl sails 
 
 Aune. To-morrow? 
 
 Ber. Yes. 
 
 Aune bows and goes out. Bernick is irresolute for a 
 moment, half inclined to call Aune back. He starts after 
 him, but just then Krap enters. Krap was too late to 
 get aboard the ship again. They were just hauling her 
 out of the dock, but he thinks their haste suspicious. 
 Bernick declares that Aune has entirely satisfied him in 
 regard to the repairs. Krap has no sooner left than 
 Bernick learns that the storm signals have been hoisted, 
 and that the barometer has been falling very rapidly. 
 
 Doctor Rorlund coming in finds the Consul quite pale 
 and upset. Bernick wants to ask the doctor a question. 
 
 Ber. A thought has occiu'red to me lately. When one 
 stands on the threshold of a great undertaking that is to 
 promote the welfare of thousands — if a single sacrifice 
 should be demanded ? 
 
 Ror. How do you mean? 
 
 Ber. Take, for example, a man who is starting a large 
 manufactory. He knows very well — ^for all experience has 
 taught him — ^that sooner or later, in the working of that 
 manufactory, human life will be lost. 
 
 Ror. Yes, it is only too probable. 
 
 Ber. Or suppose he is about to open a mine. He 
 takes into his service both fathers of families and young 
 men in the heyday of life. May it not be predicted with 
 certainty that some will perish in the undertaking? 
 
 Ror. Unhappily there can be little doubt of that. 
 
 Ber. Well, such a man, then, knows beforehand that 
 his enterprise will undoubtedly, some time or other, lead 
 to the loss of life. But the undertaking is for the greater 
 good of the greater number; for every life it costs, it will, 
 
38 PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 with equal certainty, promote the welfare of many hun- 
 dreds. 
 
 Ror. Ah, you are thinking of the railway — of all the 
 dangerous tunnellings, and blastings, and that sort of 
 tiling 
 
 Ber. Yes — ^yes, of course — I am thinking of the rail- 
 way. And, besides, the railway will bring with it both 
 manufactories and mines. But don't you think that 
 
 Ror. My dear Consul, you are almost too scrupulous. 
 If you place the affair in the Viands of Providence 
 
 Ber. Yes, yes, of course; Providence 
 
 Ror. ^you can have nothing to reproach yourself 
 
 with. Go on and prosper with the railway. 
 
 Ber. Yes, but let us take a peculiar case. Let us sup- 
 pose a blasting has to be made at a dangerous place; and 
 unless it is carried out, the railway will come to a standstill. 
 Suppose the engineer knows that it will cost the life of the 
 workman who fires the fuse; but fired it must be, and it 
 is the engineer's duty to send a workman to do it. 
 
 Ror. H'm 
 
 Ber. I know what you will say: It would be heroic 
 if the engineer himself took the match and went and fired 
 the fuse. But no one does such things. So he must 
 sacrifice a workman. 
 
 Ror. No engineer among us would ever do that. 
 
 Ber. No engineer in the great nations would think twice 
 about doing it. 
 
 Ror. In the great nations? No, I daresay not. In 
 those corrupt and unscrupulous communities 
 
 Ber. Oh, those communities have their good points, 
 too. 
 
 Ror. Can you say that — ^you, who yourself ? 
 
 Ber. In the great nations one has at least elbowroom 
 for useful enterprise. There men have the courage to 
 sacrifice something for a great cause. But here one is 
 hampered by all sorts of petty considerations. 
 
 Ror. Is a human life a petty consideration? 
 
 Ber. When that human life is a menace to the welfare 
 of thousands. 
 
 Ror. But you are putting quite inconceivable cases, 
 Consul! I don't imderstand you to-day. And then you 
 refer me to the great communities. Yes, there — ^what does 
 
IBSEN 39 
 
 a human life count for there? They think no more of 
 staking life than of staking capital. But we, I hope, look 
 at things from an entirely different moral standpoint. 
 Think of om- exemplary shipowners! Name me a single 
 merchant here among us who, for the sake of paltry profit, 
 would sacrifice one human life! And then think of those 
 scoundrels in the great communities who enrich themselves 
 by sending out one unseaworthy ship after another 
 
 Ber. I am not speaking of unseaworthy ships ! 
 
 Ror. But I am. Consul. * 
 
 Ber. Yes, but to what purpose? It has nothing to 
 do with the question. Oh, these little craven qualms of 
 conscience! If a general among us were to lead his troops 
 imder fire and get some of them shot he would never sleep 
 o' nights after it. Elsewhere it is very different. 
 
 At this moment Johan enters the room. His insistence 
 that Dina shall be his wife provokes Dr. Rorlund to come 
 out flatly before the household, including Mrs. Bernick, 
 Martha, and Dina. He tells Dina she is a very thought- 
 less girl, though he does not blame her as she has been so 
 long without the moral support she should have had. 
 Dina urges him not to speak now. He is not to be dis- 
 suaded, although he says her conduct has made it harder 
 for him. He tells them that Dina is betrothed to him. 
 She admits it. 
 
 This circumstance. Dr. Rorlund thinks, will paralyze 
 all Johan's "arts of seduction." Mrs. Bernick leads 
 Dina away and Dr. Rorlund follows them. 
 
 Ber. Johan, you won't sail now with the Indian Girl. 
 
 Johan. Now more than ever. 
 
 Ber. Then you will not come back again. 
 
 Johan. I shall come back. 
 
 Ber. After this? What would you do after this? 
 
 Johan. Revenge myself on the whole band of you; 
 crush as many of you as I can. 
 
 The Indian Girl's sailing papers are brought to Bernick 
 and he gives his final authority for her to clear. Bernick 
 goes into his office. Olaf, who is supposed to be locked 
 up in his room, steals in quietly. He confides in a friend 
 that he may yet go buffalo hunting in America. His 
 uncle Johan is saihng for America. 
 
40 PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 Krap comes back to inform the Consul that it is blowing 
 up to a hurricane. He waits a moment for an answer, 
 then, opening the door a little wider, asks if the Indian 
 Girl is to sail in spite of it. Bernick's voice answers from 
 the office, "The Indian Girl is to sail in spite of it." 
 
 The afternoon is stormy, half dark and growing darker. 
 The garden room at Consul Bernick's house is brilhantly 
 illuminated. A surprise has been arranged for the worthy 
 Consul. The whole town is coming to do him homage as 
 its leading citizen. 
 
 The sound of voices comes up from the water-front. 
 It is the sailors singing as they haul out the Indian Girl 
 to her buoy. 
 
 Bernick says he cannot address his townsfolk. He is 
 not feeling well. Rummel agrees that he is not looking 
 well, but tells him to pull himself together. The affair 
 is very important. It will raise the effervescent enthusiasm 
 of the crowd, which is the one thing needed. Again 
 Bernick protests that he cannot speak this evening. He 
 asks Rummel to do so for him. Rummel explains that the 
 Consul's speech is to take the form of a toast to the welfare 
 of the community, but he seems to think that Bernick is 
 not listening. 
 
 Ber. Yes — ^yes, I am. Tell me, do you think the sea 
 is running very high outside? 
 
 Rummel. Oh, you are anxious on account of the Palm 
 Tree ? She's well insured, isn't she? 
 
 Ber. Yes, insured, but 
 
 Rum. And in good repair; that's the main thing. 
 
 They go into the office. 
 
 Johan steals into the room by a door at one side, in 
 travelling dress, with a bag over his shoulder, and Martha 
 and Dina, both wearing cloaks and Dina with a small 
 travelling bag in her hand, come in at the other side. 
 Dina goes to Johan and tells him to take her with him. 
 She says she has never loved Dr. RBrlund, but that she 
 means to support herself for a while before she will marry 
 Johan. They hiu-ry off to catch the ship. Olaf has al- 
 ready climbed down quietly from his window with a plaid 
 over his shoulder and a bundle in his hand and gone down 
 to^ivard the water-front. 
 
 Zona. Now we two must hold together, Martha. 
 
IBSEN 41 
 
 Mar. Can I be anything to you? 
 
 Lona. Who more? We two foster mothers — have we 
 not both lost our children? Now we are alone. 
 
 Mar. Yes, alone. So now I will tell you this— I have 
 loved him more than all the world. 
 
 Lona. Martha! [Seizes her arm.\ Is this the truth? 
 
 Mar. My whole life lies in the words. I have loved 
 him, and waited for him. From summer to summer I 
 have looked for his coming. And then he came — ^but he 
 did not see me. 
 
 Lona. Loved him! And it was you that gave his hap- 
 piness into his hands. 
 
 Mar. What else should I do, since I love him? Yes, 
 I have loved him. I have lived my whole life for him, 
 ever since he went away. What reason had I to hope, you 
 ask? Oh, I think I had some reason. But then, when 
 he came again — it seemed as if everything were wiped out 
 of his memory. He did not see me. 
 
 Bemick tells Lona that she cannot conceive how un- 
 speakably alone he feels in the narrow, stunted society in 
 which he hves. He says he ought never to have given 
 her up. His wife has never been anything that he re- 
 quired. 
 
 Lona. Because you have never shared your life work 
 with her. Because you have never placed her in a free and 
 true relation to you. Because you have allowed her to go 
 on pining under the weight of shame you had cast upon 
 those nearest her. 
 
 Ber. Yes, yes, yes; falsehood and hollowness are at the 
 bottom of it all. 
 
 Lona. Then why not break with all this falsehood and 
 hollowness? 
 
 Ber. Now? It is too late now, Lona. 
 
 Bemick says he is working for his son. A time will 
 come when truth will find its way into the social order, 
 and upon it Olaf shall found a happier life than his father's. 
 Sooner or later the curse of his inheritance must pass away. 
 
 Lona tells Bernick that Johan will never come back, 
 that he has gone forever and Dina with him. That is 
 how these two strike his seraphic society in the face. 
 
 Ber. Gone! — she, too! la\Ja.e Indian Girl? 
 
 Lona. No; he dared not trust such a precious freight 
 
42 PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 to a ship with so ruflSanly a crew. Johan and Dina have 
 sailed in the Palm Tree. 
 
 Ber. Ah! Then it was — to no purpose [Rushes 
 
 to the door of his office, tears it open, and calls in.] Krap, 
 stop the Indian Girl. She mustn't sail to-night. 
 
 Krap [inside]. The Indian Girl is already standing out 
 to sea, Consul. 
 
 Ber. [shuts the door and says feebly]. Too late — and all 
 for nothing. 
 
 Lona asks him what he means, but he will not tell her. 
 Then she shows him the two old letters which he wrote 
 to Johan years before in which he admitted his wrong- 
 doing. He fears that she is going to unmask him pubHcly, 
 when the procession reaches the house. 
 
 Lona. I did not come here to umnask you, but to try 
 if I could not move you to throw off the mask of your own 
 accord. I have failed. Remain standing in the lie. See: 
 I tear your two letters to shreds. Take the pieces; here 
 they are. Now, there is nothing to bear witness against 
 you, Karsten. Now you are safe; be happy too — ^ you 
 can. 
 
 Ber. [profoundly moved]. Lona, why did you not do 
 this before! It is too late now; my whole life is ruined 
 now; I cannot live after to-day. 
 
 Lona. What has happened? 
 
 Ber. Don't ask me. And yet I must Uve! I will 
 live — ^for Olaf's sake. He shall restore all and atone for 
 aU 
 
 Word is brought that Olaf has run away in the Indian 
 Girl. Bemick Staggers at the blow. He shouts again to 
 Krap, in despair, that the ship must be stopped at any 
 cost, that Olaf is on board. They try to reassure Ber- 
 nick by telling him that the boy will be sent back with the 
 pilot, but it is foimd that he left a note saying that he was 
 going to stow away on board the ship until sJbe was safely 
 at sea. 
 
 Ber. I shall never see him again ! 
 
 Rum. Oh, nonsense; a good stout ship, newly re- 
 paired 
 
 Vigeland [who has also come in]. And in your own yard, 
 too, Consul. 
 
 Ber. I shall never see him again, I tell you. I have 
 
IBSEN 43 
 
 lost him, Lona; and — I see it now — ^he has never been really 
 mine. 
 
 The procession is heard coming. Bernick declares he 
 will see no one. The street is suddenly illuminated. On 
 the house opposite is a large transparency with the in- 
 scription, "Long live Karsten Bernick, the Pillar of our 
 Society." 
 
 Ber. [shrinking back]. Away with all this! I will not 
 look at it ! Out with it ! Out with it ! 
 
 Rummel tries to console him. He says it isn't as if the 
 Indian Girl was one of those floating coffins that they 
 hear about sometimes. Mrs. Bernick comes in with a 
 shawl over her head, and Bernick at once begins to re- 
 proach her for not keeping any watch over the boy. But 
 she has kept a close watch over Olaf , she found out his plan 
 and got Aime to row her out to the ship. 
 
 Ber. Aune? What of him? Is the Indian Girl imder 
 sail again? 
 
 Mrs. B. No, that is just the thing 
 
 Ber. Speak, speak! 
 
 Mrs. B. Aune was as terrified as I was; the search took 
 some time; darkness came on, and the pilot made objec- 
 tions : so Aune ventured — in your name 
 
 Ber. Well? 
 
 Mrs. B. To stop the ship till to-morrow. 
 
 Krap. H'm 
 
 Ber. Oh, what unspeakable happiness! 
 
 The crowd comes, speeches are made, and Bernick ad- 
 dresses the people. He repudiates Dr. Rorlund's pane- 
 gyric about himself, and confesses at once that he has often 
 acted with a desire for gaining power and influence. Then 
 he comes out squarely with the admission that he has 
 bought up the property along the proposed railway line 
 and offers to form a joint-stock company for the exploita- 
 tion of these properties. Whoever will can have shares in 
 it, he says. 
 
 Stopping the cheers, he says that his original intention 
 was to keep it all for himseft. This is not all. He will 
 get clear of the lie that has gone near to poisoning every 
 fibre of his being; fifteen years ago it was he who sinned, 
 not Johan Tonnesen. 
 
 Ber. Yes, my fellow citizens, I was guilty, and he fled. 
 
44 PILLARS OF SOCIETY 
 
 The false and vile rumors which were afterward current, it 
 is now in no human power to disprove. But of this I can- 
 not complain. Fifteen years ago I swung myself aloft by 
 aid of these rumors; whether I am now to fall with them 
 is for you to decide. • 
 
 He asks his townspeople to go home and look into 
 themselves and consider whether he has gained or lost by 
 speaking out. 
 
 When the crowd have gone Lona tells Bernick that as 
 soon as she learned from Johan about the lie she swore to 
 herself that Bernick, the hero of her youth, should stand 
 free and true. Now it has come to pass. Bernick asks 
 her not to leave them again. 
 
 Lona. No; how could I think of going away and leav- 
 ing you young people, just beginning life? Am I not your 
 foster-mother.'' You and I, Martha, we are the two old 
 aunts What are you looking at? 
 
 Mar. How the sky is clearing; how it grows light over 
 the sea. The Palm Tree has fortune with it 
 
 Lona. And happiness on board. 
 
 Ber. And we — we have a long, earnest day of work 
 before us; I most of all. But let it come! Gather close 
 around me, you true and faithful women. I have learnt 
 this, in these days: it is you women who are the pillars of 
 society. 
 
 Lona. Then you have learnt a poor wisdom, brother- 
 in-law. [Lays her hand firmly upon his shoulder.] No, 
 no; the spirits of Truth and Freedom — these are the Pil- 
 lars of Society. 
 
A DOLL'S HOUSE* 
 By Henrik Ibsen 
 
 First played in Copenhagen in December, 1879. 
 
 Argument: Nora Helmer, always so carefully protected, 
 first by lier father and then by her husband, from the 
 necessity for considering any of the serious aspects of life 
 that she never acquired any notion of personal responsi- 
 bility, when confronted at last by a crisis in which she had 
 to rely on herself solved the difficulty by the simple ex- 
 pedient of forgery. A blackmailer threatens to expose her 
 and ruin her husband, and she loses faith in her moral right 
 and ability to bring up her children. Will Nora dare 
 confess to her husband, or will she again resort to the sim- 
 ple expedient by ending her life? 
 
 The parlor of the Helmers' apartment in Christiania is 
 comfortably and tastefully but not expensively furnished. 
 Mrs. Helmer comes in with several parcels, and a porter 
 brings in a Christmas tree which he gives to the maid- 
 servant. Mrs. Helmer dismisses the man with twice the 
 pay he asks and gleefully takes off her outdoor things. 
 She eats one or two macaroons from a bag which she has 
 brought with her, and then tiptoes to her husband's door 
 and listens. 
 
 Nora. Yes; he is at home. [She begins humming gayly.] 
 
 Helmer [in his room]. Is that my lark twittering there? 
 
 Nora [bitsy opening some of her parcels]. Yes, it is. 
 
 Hel. Is the squirrel frisking around? 
 
 Nora. Yes ! 
 
 Hel. When did the squirrel get home? 
 
 Nora. Just this minute. [Hides the bag of macarooTis 
 in her pocket and wipes her mmith.] Come here, Torvald, 
 and see what I've been buying. 
 
 ♦Published by Charles Scribners' Sons, New York. 
 
 45 
 
46 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 Eel. Don't interrupt me. [A little later he opens the 
 door and looks in, pen in hand.] Buying, did you say? 
 What! All that? Has my little spendthrift been making 
 the money fly again? 
 
 Nora. Why, Torvald, surely we can afford to launch 
 out a little now. It's the first Christmas we haven't had 
 to pinch. 
 
 Hel. Come, come; we can't afford to squander money. 
 
 Nora. Oh yes, Torvald, do let us squander a little, 
 now — ^just the least little bit! You know you'll soon be 
 earning heaps of money. 
 
 Hel. Yes, from New Year's Day. But there's a whole 
 quarter before my first salary is due. 
 
 Nora. Never mind; we can borrow in the meantime. 
 
 Hel. Nora! [He goes up to her and takes her playfiMy 
 by the ear.] Still my little featherbrain! Supposing I 
 borrowed a thousand crowns to-day, and you made ducks 
 and drakes of them during Christmas week, and then on 
 New Year's Eve a tile blew off the roof and knocked my 
 brains out. 
 
 She puts her hand over his mouth and tells him not to 
 talk so horridly. But if anything so dreadful happened it 
 would be all the same to her whether she was in debt or 
 not; she wouldn't mind the creditors; they are only 
 strangers. He takes occasion to reiterate his principles. 
 There must be no debt and no borrowing, for home life 
 ceases to be free and beautiful as soon as it is founded on 
 borrowing and debt. 
 
 She shows him what she has bought for the children: 
 a suit for Ivar and a little sword, a horse and a trumpet 
 for Bob, and a doll and a cradle for Emmy. There are also 
 things for the servants. Nora is reluctant to admit that 
 she wants anything for herself, but finally asks for money. 
 He says she is a sweet little lark, but that no one would 
 suppose how much it costs a man to keep such a little bird 
 as she. He laughs when she says she saves as much as 
 she can, for that is precisely nothing. 
 
 Helmer suspects that Nora has been eating sweets, 
 which he disapproves of very much as they are so bad for 
 her, but she denies it stoutly. 
 
 Dr. Rank comes to see Helmer and goes into his study 
 with him. At the same time Mrs. Linden, an old friend 
 
IBSEN 47 
 
 of Nora's, comes to see her. They have not met for nine or 
 ten years, and for three years Mrs. Linden has been a 
 widow. Nora tells her friend of the great stroke of for- 
 tune they have had; Helmer has just been made manager 
 of the Joint Stock Bank. Now they will have plenty of 
 money, and Nora is very lighthearted and happy. 
 
 Mrs. Linden remembers that Nora always used to be a 
 shocking little spendthrift, as she puts it, but Nora says 
 she is not quite so bad as her friends think. Her husband 
 and she had a very hard time when they were first married; 
 Helmer overworked and fell dangerously ill, the doctors 
 declared he must go to the South, and that cost a frightful 
 amount of money, four thousand eight hundred crowns, 
 for they had to spend a year in Italy before Helmer's 
 health was restored. Nora says she got the money from 
 her father, who died just at that time. 
 
 Mrs. Linden has had a hard time, too. She had a help- 
 less mother and two yoimger brothers to care for, and so 
 she married a man she did not love. When he died she 
 was left with nothing, but now her mother is no longer 
 living and the boys can take care of themselves. 
 
 Mrs. Linden. My dear Nora, don't you be vexed with 
 me. The worst of a position like mine is that it makes 
 one so bitter. You have no one to work for, yet you have 
 to be always on the strain. You must live; and you be- 
 come so selfish. When I heard of the happy change in 
 your fortunes — can you believe it? — I was glad for my own 
 sake more than for yours. 
 
 Nora. How do you mean? Ah, I see! You think 
 Torvald can perhaps do something for you. And so he 
 shall, Christina. Just you leave it all to me. I shall lead 
 up to it beautifully! — I shall think of some delightful 
 plan to put him in a good humor! Oh, I should so love to 
 help you. 
 
 Mrs. L. How good of you, Nora, to stand by me so 
 warmly! Doubly good in you who know so little of the 
 troubles and burdens of life. 
 
 The unconscious irony of this remark leads Nora to tell 
 how she came by the money that was needed to save 
 Torvald's life. She did not get it from her father, as Tor- 
 vald and every one supposes. She borrowed it, and ever 
 since she has had to pay back instalments as well as inter- 
 
48 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 est. She has pinched and saved, and done work that her 
 husband never knew of, but now she is lighthearted, for 
 she is free at last from anxiety. Torvald does not Imow 
 even that the trip to Italy was taken on his own account, 
 and Nora declares she never could tell him of the debt. 
 Mrs. Linden is apparently inclined to think that Nora 
 borrowed the money from some man who was in love with 
 her. 
 
 Nils EIrogstad, who holds a position in the bank, comes 
 to see Helmer. When he enters the room Mrs. Linden 
 gives a start and turns away to the window. Nora goes 
 up to the man anxiously and inquires in a low voice what 
 he wants of her husband. Erogstad says that it is merely 
 a matter of business and goes into the study. Dr. Rank 
 comes out and talks to the ladies. 
 
 The doctor refers to Kxogstad as a moral incurable. 
 He says that Krogstad goes around searching for rotten- 
 ness, and when he finds a good case squeezes all the black- 
 mail out of it that it will yield. Nora is suddenly amused 
 at something, and asks Dr. Rank if her husband has power 
 over every one employed in the bank. It strikes her that 
 it is funny to think of. She is feeling very happy, and 
 there is only one thing in the world that she really wants. 
 She would Kke to say a httle swear word in her husband's 
 presence if she only dared. 
 
 As soon as Krogstad has gone Helmer comes into the 
 parlor. Nora asks him for a position for Mrs. Linden 
 and he thinks it can be provided. Mrs. Linden, Helmer, 
 and Dr. Rank go and the children come in. Nora is play- 
 ing with them when Erogstad returns. She starts vio- 
 lently at seeing him. He explains that he found the door 
 ajar. 
 
 Krogstad has a few words to say to Mrs. Helmer. It 
 will depend upon herself whether she has a merry Christ- 
 mas. To do so she must assure him of his position in the 
 bank. If need be he will fight as if for his life to keep it. 
 He is a widower and has sons who are growing up. For 
 their sake he is determined to recover his character. The 
 place in the bank was the first step; and now her husband 
 wants to kick him back into the gutter. 
 
 Nora declares that she hasn't the least power to help 
 him. He replies that he will compel her. She fears that 
 
IBSEN 49 
 
 he means to tell her husband that she borrowed money 
 from him, but if he does, she says, her husband will pay 
 hun off at once and they wiU have nothing further to do 
 with him. It appears she cannot dispose of the matter 
 so easily. She gave Krogstad a note of hand for the 
 money with which he supplied her, and the note made 
 her father security for the debt. Krogstad recalls a re- 
 markable fact about that paper. Her father signed it 
 three days after his death. 
 
 Unaware that she is making a dangerous admission, 
 Nora repUes defiantly that she signed her father's name 
 herself. Krogstad then informs her that she did the very 
 thing that made him an outcast from society. She cannot 
 beUeve that the law wiU not take her motives into consid- 
 eration. She thinks it must be allowable to spare a dying 
 father trouble and anxiety, and to save a husband's life. 
 Kjogstad's only reply is that if he is flung back into the 
 gutter again, she shall keep him company. 
 
 A httle later, when Helmer returns, Nora asks him if it 
 was through anything so very dreadful that Krogstad got 
 into trouble. His manner in answering that it was through 
 forgery leaves her in no doubt as to his view of the matter. 
 But Helmer explains that he would not be so hard-hearted 
 as to condemn a man absolutely for a siagle fault. Krog- 
 stad did not retrieve his character by owning his crime 
 and taking his punishment. The word startles Nora. 
 He evaded the law by tricks and subterfuges. That is 
 what has morally ruined him; he had worn a mask toward 
 those who stand nearest to him — toward his wife and 
 children. The ^ect on the children is the most terrible 
 part of it. 
 
 Hel. Because in such an atmosphere of lies home life 
 is poisoned and contaminated in every fibre. Every breath 
 the children draw contains some germ of evil. 
 
 Nora [closer behind him]. Are you sure of that? 
 
 Hel. As a lawyer, my dear, I have seen it often enough. 
 Nearly all cases of early corruption may be traced to lying 
 mothers. 
 
 Nora. Why — ^mothers? 
 
 Hel. It generally comes from the mother's side; but 
 of course the father's influence may act in the same way. 
 Every lawyer knows it too well. And here has this Krog- 
 
50 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 t 
 stad been poisoning his own children for years past by a 
 life of lies and hypocrisy — ^that is why I call him morally 
 ruined. [Holds out both hands to her.] So my sweet Kttle 
 Nora must promise not to plead his cause. Shake hands 
 upon it. Come, come, what's this? Give me your hand. 
 That's right. Then it's a bargain. I assure you it would 
 have been impossible for me to work with him. It gives 
 me a positive sense of physical discomfort to come in con- 
 tact with such people. 
 
 Nora draws her hand away, and moves to the other 
 side of the Christmas tree. Helmer goes into his study, 
 and the nurse comes to ask if she may bring in the children. 
 
 Nora. No, no, no; don't let them come to me! Keep 
 them with you, Anna. 
 
 Anna. Very well, ma'am. [She shuts the door.] 
 
 Nora [pale with terror]. Corrupt my children! [Short 
 •pause. She throws back her head.] It's not true! It can 
 never, never be true! 
 
 Christmas day is far from merry for Nora. She has to 
 prepare a costume for a fancy-dress ball, although she is 
 little in the mood for it. She asks the nurse if she thinks 
 that the children will get used to seeing her less in the 
 future, and if they would forget their mother if she went 
 away. Anna is quite startled at the suggestion, but she 
 says that her daughter has never forgotten her although 
 she was obhged to leave her when she was quite Uttle. 
 
 Mrs. Linden offers to help Nora with the costume. It 
 is to be the dress of a Neapolitan fisher girl. Torvald 
 wishes Nora to dance the tarantella, which she learned at 
 Capri. Mrs. Linden asks if Dr. Rank is always as de- 
 pressed as he seemed the previous evening. Nora has 
 heard that the feebleness of his constitution is due to the 
 dissolute life led by his father. Dr. Rank has been Tor- 
 vald's most intimate friend from his boyhood, and Nora 
 says he is quite one of the family. 
 
 The notion that Dr. Rank is the rich admirer who lent 
 Nora money has taken root in Mrs. Linden's mind, but 
 Nora soon disabuses her of it, although she says Dr. Rank 
 would undoubtedly have helped her 5 she had asked him. 
 Helmer comes in just then and Mrs. Linden takes the dress- 
 making to the nursery. To Helmer's surprise, Nora re- 
 
IBSEN 51 
 
 news her plea for Krogstad. Helmer has ab-eady written 
 a letter dismissing him. 
 
 Nora. Call it back again, Torvald ! There is still time. 
 Oh, Torvald, call it back again! For my sake, for your 
 own, for the children's sake! Do you hear, Torvald? 
 Do it! You don't know what that letter may bring upon 
 us all. 
 
 Hel. Too late. 
 
 Nora. Yes, too late. 
 
 Helmer does not fear the spite of such a wretched crea- 
 ture as Krogstad. He tells Nora to forget her foolish 
 fancies and practise the tarantella with the tambourine. 
 He will close the doors of his room and she can make as 
 much noise as she pleases. He goes with Ms papers into 
 his room. Nora is bewildered with terror. The hall bell 
 rings. 
 
 Nora draws her hands over her face, pulls herself to- 
 gether, goes to the door and opens it. Dr. Rank stands 
 outside. It is beginning to grow dark as Dr. Rank tells 
 her what he has come to say. He is the most wretched of 
 all of his patients. He has been auditing his life account 
 and is bankrupt. Perhaps before a month is over, he says, 
 he will lie rotting in the churchyard. When the break-up 
 sets in he is going to send her his visiting card with a black 
 cross on it; and then she will know that the final horror 
 has begun. 
 
 Nora tells him not to talk in such an ugly way and tries 
 to cheer him up. She says that death shall not separate 
 him from Torvald and herself. He wishes that he could 
 leave behind a token of his gratitude to them. She is 
 about to confide in him her need of a great service 
 of help and advice when he tells her of his love for her. 
 And now she will not breathe a word of her trouble to 
 him. 
 
 Agam Krogstad comes, to make a final threat. Nora 
 locks the door into the room where Dr. Rank has joined 
 her husband. She tells Krogstad that she fought with 
 her husband for him till the last. The only way in which 
 he can be bought off, Krogstad says, is that which he has 
 stipulated; Helmer must be told, for no amount of money 
 that she might offer would get back her note. 
 
 Krogstad. I only want to keep it — to have it in my 
 
62 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 possession. No outsider shall hear anything of it. So, if 
 you have any desperate scheme in your head 
 
 Nora. What if I have? 
 
 Krog. If you should think of leaving your husband and 
 children 
 
 Ncyra. What if I do? 
 
 Krog. Or if you should think of — something worse 
 
 Nora. How do you know that? 
 
 Krog. Put it aU out of your head. 
 
 Nora. How did you know what I had in mind? 
 
 Krog. Most of us think of that at first. I thought of 
 it, too; but I hadn't the courage 
 
 Nora [tonelessly]. Nor I. 
 
 Krog. [relieved]. No, one hasn't. You haven't the 
 courage either, have you? 
 
 Nora. I haven't, I haven't. 
 
 Krog. Besides, it would be very foolish. Just one 
 domestic storm, and it's all over. I have a letter in my 
 pocket for your husband. 
 
 The demand that Krogstad makes now is that he shall 
 have a higher position than before in the bank, and that 
 Helmer shall create it for him. He knows that Helmer 
 will not have the courage to refuse, once he knows the 
 alternative. 
 
 Krog. He wiU do it; I know him — ^he won't dare to 
 show fight! And when he and I are together there, you 
 shall soon see! Before a year is out I shall be the man- 
 ager's right hand. It won't be Torvald Helmer, but Nils 
 i&ogstad, that manages the Joint Stock Bank. 
 
 Nora. That shall never be. 
 
 Krog. Perhaps you will ? 
 
 Nora. Now I have the courage for it. 
 
 Krog. Oh, you don't frighten me! A sensitive, petted 
 creature like you 
 
 Nora. You shall see, you shall see! 
 
 Krog. Under the ice, perhaps? Down into the cold, 
 black water? And next spring to come up again, ugly, 
 hairless, unrecognizable 
 
 Nora. You can't terrify me. 
 
 Krog. Nor you me. People don't do that sort of thing, 
 Mrs. Helmer. And, after all, what would be the use of it? 
 I have your husband in my pocket, all the same. 
 
MKS. FISKE AS NORA 
 
 Helmer. Come, come, come, don't look like a scared dove. It is all 
 nothing — fanc\'. Now \'ou must play the tarantella through and prac- 
 tise with the tainl)ourine 
 
IBSEN 58 
 
 Nora. Afterward? When I am no longer ? 
 
 Krog. You forget your reputation remains in my 
 hands! [Nora stands speechless and looks at him.] Well, 
 now you are prepared. Do nothing foolish. As soon 
 as Helmer has received my letter I shall expect to hear 
 from him. And remember that it is your husband himself 
 who has forced me back again into such paths. That I 
 will never forgive him. Good-bye, Mrs. Helmer. 
 
 He goes out through the hall. Nora hurries to the 
 door, opens it a little, and Ustens. She hears a letter fall 
 into the box, and Krogstad's footsteps gradually receding 
 down the stairs. She utters a suppressed shriek, rushes 
 forward in the room and then back again, out into the hall, 
 crymg, "Torvald, Torvald— now we are lost!" 
 
 Mrs. Linden brings in the costume and Nora shows her 
 the letter where it lies in the box, explaining that it is from 
 Krogstad, who lent her the money. Mrs. Linden insists 
 it is best that her husband should know all. Nora an- 
 swers her wildly. She says that if anything should happen 
 to her so that she could not be there, and some one else 
 should try to take the blame for her, Mrs. Linden must 
 bear witness that it is not true. Mrs. Linden promises 
 to remember, but protests she doesn't understand at all. 
 
 Mrs. Linden says she will go straight to Krogstad and 
 talk to him. Once he would have done anything for her. 
 Now he must get his letter back unread. While Helmer 
 knocks at the door of his room Mrs. Linden tells Nora 
 that she must keep him occupied and somehow prevent 
 him from opening his letters while she goes as quickly as 
 she can to find the blackmailer. 
 
 Nora makes Helmer promise to devote his time to her 
 and not do any work as she has forgotten how to dance the 
 tarantella and he must teach it to her again, but he says 
 he will first just take a look at the mail. At last she 
 dissuades him. She snatches a tambourine and hastily 
 drapes herself in a parti-colored shawl; then, with a bound, 
 stands in the middle of the floor. Helmer plays and she 
 dances, while Dr. Rank stands at the piano and looks on. 
 
 Eel. ['playing]. Slower! Slower! 
 
 Nwa. Can't do it slower! 
 
 Eel. Not so violently, Nora. 
 
 Nora. I must! I must! 
 
54 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 Hel. [stops]. No, no, Nora — that will never do. 
 
 Nora [laughs and svnngs her tambourine]. Didn't I tell 
 you so! 
 
 Rank. Let me play for her. 
 
 Dr. Rank sits down to the piano and plays. Nora dances 
 more and more wildly. Helmer stands by the stove and 
 addresses frequent corrections to her. She seems not to 
 hear. Her hair breaks loose and falls over her shoulders. 
 Mrs. Linden enters and stands spellbound in the door- 
 way. 
 
 Nora [dandng]. We're having such fun here, Christina! 
 
 Hel. Why, Nora dear, you're dancing as if it were a 
 matter of life and death. 
 
 Nora. So it is. 
 
 Helmer asks Dr. Rank to stop playing, and Nora tells 
 him that he must promise to practise with her up to the 
 last moment. He mustn't open a single letter or even 
 look in the letter box. 
 
 Hel. Ah, you're still afraid of that man 
 
 Nora. Oh, yes, yes, I am. 
 
 Hel. Nora, I can see it in your face — there's a letter 
 from him in the box. 
 
 Nora. I don't know, I believe so. But you're not to 
 read anything now; nothing ugly must come between us 
 until aU is over. 
 
 Rank [softly, to Helmer]. You mustn't contradict 
 her. 
 
 Hel. [putting his arm around her]. The child shall have 
 her own way. But to-morrow night, when the dance is 
 over 
 
 Nora. Then you shall be free. 
 
 Dinner is announced. Dr. Rank's suspicions are 
 aroused, but Helmer assures him that there is nothing the 
 matter but Nora's babyish anxiety. Nora stays behind 
 with Mrs. Linden to arrange her hair. 
 
 Mrs. L. He's gone out of town. 
 
 Nora. I saw it in your face. 
 
 Mrs. L. He comes back to-morrow evening. I left a 
 note for him. 
 
 Nora. You shouldn't have done that. Things must 
 take their course. After all there's something glorious in 
 waiting for the miracle. 
 
IBSEN 55 
 
 Mrs. L. What is it you're waiting for? 
 
 Nora. Oh, you can't understand. Go to them in the 
 dining-room; I shall come in a moment. 
 
 Mrs. Linden goes into the dining-room. Nora stands 
 for a moment as though collecting her thoughts- then looks 
 at her watch. 
 
 Nora. Five. Seven hours till midnight. Then twenty- 
 four hours till the next midnight. Then the tarantella 
 will be over. Twenty-four and seven? Thirty-one hours 
 to Hve. 
 
 Helmer appears at the door. 
 
 Hel. What has become of my little lark? 
 
 Nora [runs to him with open arms]. Here she is! 
 
 The next night Mrs. Linden is sitting in the Helmers' 
 parlor alone, absently turning the pages of a book. She 
 tries to read, but seems unable to fix her attention. She 
 frequently Ustens and looks anxiously toward the hall door. 
 Dance music is heard from the floor above where the fancy 
 ball is going on. Finally Krogstad arrives. He has 
 found her note and wants to know what it means. Have 
 they two anything to say to each other? He thinks of 
 her only as a heartless woman who threw him over when a 
 better match offered. 
 
 Since she had to break with him, was it not best, she 
 asks, to put an end to all he felt for her. She admits that 
 she has often asked herself whether she had the right to 
 cast him off, but she had a helpless mother and two little 
 brothers and they could not wait for him as his prospects 
 then stood. 
 
 Krog. When I had lost you I seemed to have no firm 
 ground left under my feet. Look at me now. I am a 
 shipwrecked man clinging to a spar. 
 
 Mrs. L. Rescue may be at hand. 
 
 Krog. It was at hand; but then you came and stood 
 in the way. 
 
 She did not know that she was replacing him in the 
 bank. He asks if now she knows it she does not mean to 
 give way. She says that would not help him, and then 
 suddenly asks if they two shipwrecked people mightn't 
 join hands. He is astounded and incredulous, but she 
 says she is alone in the world and wants somebody to 
 
56 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 work for. He cannot believe in all that; he takes it for a 
 woman's romantic craving for self-sacrifice. 
 
 Krog. And do you know what people say of me? 
 
 Mrs. L. Did you not say just now that with me you 
 could have been another man? 
 
 Krog. I am sure of it. 
 
 Mrs. L. Is it too late? 
 
 Krog. Christina, do you know what you are doing? 
 
 Mrs. L. I need some one to be a mother to, and your 
 children need a mother. You need me, and I — ^I need you. 
 Nils, I believe in your better self. With you I fear nothing. 
 
 At last she calls his attention to the dancing overhead 
 to remind him that the Helmers will soon be coming down- 
 stairs. He is seized with the sudden fear that she will 
 learn what he has been doing and will throw him over 
 again, but she knows already. 
 
 Krog. [looking to her searchingly]. Is that what it all 
 means? You want to save your friend at any price. Say 
 it out — is that your idea? 
 
 Mrs. L. Nils, a woman who has once sold herself for 
 the sake of others does not do so again. 
 
 Krog. I shall demand my letter back again. 
 
 Mrs. L. No, no. 
 
 Krog. Yes, of course. I shall wait till Helmer comes; 
 I shall tell him to give it back to me — that it's only about 
 my dismissal — that I don't want it read 
 
 Mrs. L. No, Nils, you must not recall the letter. 
 
 Krog. But tell me, wasn't that just why you got me 
 to come here? 
 
 Mrs. L. Yes, in my first alarm. But a day has passed 
 since then, and in that day I have seen incredible things 
 in this house. Helmer must know everything; there 
 must be an end to this unhappy secret. These two must 
 come to a full understanding. They must have done with 
 all these shifts and subterfuges. 
 
 It is almost by main strength that Helmer drags his wife 
 away from the ball, and she does not give up the struggle 
 to return to it even after he has got her down to their par- 
 lor. He leads her gently into the room in spite of her 
 resistance. He calls her will obstinacy. He tells Mrs. Lin- 
 den that the tarantella was a great success. As soon as 
 he goes into his room for a moment Mrs. Linden insists that 
 
IBSEN 57 
 
 Nora must tell him everything, but Nora Is very positive 
 in her refusal. Then, Mrs. Linden says, the letter will ac- 
 complish the purpose. 
 
 When Mrs. Linden has gone Helmer declares she is a 
 terrible bore. He wanted to be alone with Nora. That 
 was the reason why he hurried her away from the ball. 
 She does not wish to be wooed. Then, to Helmer's annoy- 
 ance. Dr. Rank looks in. The doctor observes that he 
 has contrived to get down an incredible amount of cham- 
 pagne. Nora fails to gather from his innuendo that he 
 has come to say his last good-bye. She asks him how they 
 shall dress for the next masquerade. 
 
 At the next masquerade, Dr. Rank replies, he will be 
 invisible. Helmer finds this rather a comical idea. There 
 is a big black hat which comes down all over you. Dr. 
 Rank says, and then no one can see you. He asks for a 
 cigar and goes. Helmer says it does seem that Rank had 
 been drinking a good deal. He goes out at last to the 
 letter box and finds Dr. Rank's cards. There is a black 
 cross on each over the name. Nora tells him what the 
 cards mean and then sends him into his room to read his 
 mail. 
 
 Nora [with mid eyes, gropes about her, seizes Hblmbb's 
 domino, throws it round her, and whispers quickly, hoarsely, 
 and brokenly]. Never to see him again. Never, never, 
 never. [Throws her shawl over her head.] Never to see the 
 children again. Never, never. Oh that black, icy water! 
 
 Oh, that bottomless ! If it were only over! Now he 
 
 has it; he's reading it. Oh, no, no, no, not yet. Torvald, 
 good-bye ! Good-bye, my little ones ! 
 
 She is rushing out by the hall; at the same moment 
 Helmer flings his door open, and stands there with an open 
 letter in his hand. 
 
 Eel. Nora! 
 
 Nora [shrieks]. Ah ! 
 
 Eel. What is this? Do you know what is in this letter? 
 
 Nora. Yes, I know. Let me go! Let me pass' 
 
 Eel. [holds her back]. Where do you want to go? 
 
 Nora [tries to break away from him]. You shall not 
 save me, Torvald. 
 
 Eel. [falling back]. True! Is what he writes true? 
 No, no, it is impossible that this can be true. 
 
58 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 Nora. It is true. I have loved you beyond all else in 
 the world. 
 
 Hel. Pshaw — no silly evasions! 
 
 Nora [a step nearer him]. Torvald ! 
 
 Hel. Wretched woman — what have you done! 
 
 Nora. Let me go — ^you shall not save me! You shall 
 not take my guilt upon yourself! 
 
 Hel. I don't want any melodramatic airs. [Locks the 
 outer door.] Here you shall stay and give an account of 
 yourself. Do you imderstand what you have done? 
 Answer! Do you understand it? 
 
 Nora [looks at him fixedly, and says wiih a stiffening ex- 
 pression]. Yes; now I begin fully to understand it. 
 
 Hel. [walking up and down]. Oh ! what an awful awaken- 
 ing! During all these eight years — she who was my pride 
 and my joy — a hypocrite, a liar — worse, worse — a criminal. 
 Oh, the unfathomable hideousness of it all! Ugh! Ugh! 
 [Nora says nothing, and continu£s to look fixedly at 
 him.] 
 
 Hel. I ought to have known how it would be. I ought 
 to have foreseen it. All your father's want of principle — 
 be silent! — ^all your father's want of principle you have 
 inherited — ^no religion, no morality, no sense of duty. 
 How I am pimished for screening him! I did it for your 
 sake; and you reward me like this. 
 
 Nora. Yes — ^like this. 
 
 Hel. You have destroyed my whole happiness. You 
 have ruined my futiu-e. Oh, it's frightful to think of! I 
 am in the power of a scoundrel; he can do whatever he 
 pleases with me, demand whatever he chooses; he can 
 domineer over me as much as he likes, and I must submit. 
 And all this disaster and ruin is brought upon me by an 
 unprincipled woman! 
 
 Nora. When I am out of the world you will be 
 free. 
 
 Hel. Oh, no fine phrases. Your father, too, was al- 
 ways ready with them. What good would it do me if 
 you were "out of the world," as you say? No good what- 
 ever! He can publish the story all the same; I might even 
 be suspected of collusion. People will think I was at the 
 bottom of it all and egged you on. And for all this I have 
 you to thank — ^you whom I have done nothing but pet 
 
IBSEN 59 
 
 and spoil during our whole married life. Do you under- 
 stand now what you have done to me? 
 
 The thing is so incredible, he says, that he cai^'t grasp 
 it; but they must come to an understanding. He orders 
 her to take her shawl off. This matter must be hushed up, 
 cost what it may. Then, he says, of course, she will con- 
 tinue to live there but the children cannot be left in her 
 care. He dares not trust them to her. And he has loved 
 her so tenderly! But that must be a thing of the past. 
 The doorbell suddenly rings. With a start he tells Nora 
 to hide herself. 
 
 A messenger has brought a letter for Nora. Helmer 
 snatches it. He sees it is from Krogstad and says she shall 
 not have it. Tearing it open he reads a few lines and 
 utters a cry of joy. 
 
 Hel. Nora! — Oh! I must read it again. — Yes, yes, it 
 is so. I am saved! Nora, lam saved! 
 
 Nora. And I.'' 
 
 Hel. You, too, of course; we are both saved, both of 
 us. Look here — he sends you back your promissory note. 
 He writes that he regrets and apologizes, that a happy 
 
 turn in his life Oh, what does it matter what he 
 
 writes. We are saved, Nora ! 
 
 He tears the note and Krogstad's letters in pieces, 
 throws them in the fire and watches them burn. Finally 
 it occurs to him that Nora must have been through a bad 
 time. She says yes, she has fought a hard fight for the 
 last three days. He thinks she stiU seems unable to grasp 
 the fact that the horror is aU over. He has forgiven her. 
 He knows that everything she did was for love of him; 
 she loved him as a wife should love her husband. But she 
 mustn't think he loves her less because she cannot do with- 
 out guidance. No, no. Her very womanly helplessness 
 makes her doubly dear in his eyes. She mustn't think of 
 the hard things he said in the first moment of terror. She 
 goes into the next room to take off her costume and he keeps 
 on talking to her, more voluble in his rehef than he was in 
 fright. 
 
 When Nora comes back he is smprised to see that she 
 has on street dress. Her explanation that it is because 
 she will not sleep that night takes his breath away. She 
 tells him to sit down; she has something to say to him. He 
 
60 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 is suddenly alarmed at her manner and declares that he 
 cannot understand her. That is just it, she replies, and 
 she has never understood him — till to-night. They have 
 been married eight years and have never talked together 
 seriously, never set themselves seriously to get to the 
 bottom of anything. 
 
 The suggestion that she has anything to do with serious 
 things surprises him. She declares that he has always 
 done her a great injustice, and that her father did her the 
 same injustice before. Torvald, she says, has never loved 
 her, but only thought it amusing to be in love with her. 
 
 Hel. Why, Nora, what a thing to say! 
 
 Nora. Yes, it is so, Torvald. While I was at home with 
 father he used to tell me all his opinions, and I held the 
 same opinions. If I had others I said nothing about 
 them because he wouldn't have liked it. He used to call 
 me his doll-cluld, and played with me as I played with my 
 dolls. Then I came to Uve in your house 
 
 Hel. What an expression to use about our marriage! 
 
 Nora {undisturbed]. I mean I passed from father's 
 hands into yours. You arranged everything according 
 to your taste; and I got the same tastes as you; or I pre- 
 tended to — ^I don't know which — both ways, perhaps; 
 sometimes one and sometimes the other. When I look 
 back on it now, I seem to have been living here like a beg- 
 gar, from hand to mouth. I lived by performing tricks 
 for you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and 
 father have done me a great wrong. It is yoiur fault that 
 my life has come to nothing. 
 
 Hel. Why, Nora, how unreasonable and imgrateful 
 you are ! Have you not been happy here ? 
 
 Nora. No, never. I thought I was; but I never was. 
 
 Hel. Not — ^not happy! 
 
 Nora. No; only merry. And you have always been so 
 kind to me. But our house has been nothing but a play- 
 room. Here I have been your doll-wife, just as at home 
 I used to be papa's doll-child. And the children, in their 
 turn, have been my dolls. I thought it fun when you 
 played with me, just as the children did when I played 
 with them. That has been our marriage, Torvald. 
 
 Hel. There is some truth in what you say, exaggerated 
 and overstrained though it be. But henceforth it shall 
 
IBSEN 61 
 
 be different. Playtime is over; now comes the time for 
 education. 
 
 Nora. Whose education? Mine, or the children's? 
 
 Hel. Both, my dear Nora. 
 
 Nora. Oh, Torvald, you are not the man to teach me 
 to be a fit wife for you. 
 
 Hel. And you can say that? 
 
 Nora. And I — ^bow have I prepared myself to educate 
 the children? 
 
 Hel. Nora! 
 
 Nora. Did you not say yourself, a few minutes ago, 
 you dared not trust them to me? 
 
 Hel. In the excitement of the moment! Why should 
 you dwell upon that? 
 
 Nora. No — ^you were perfectly right. That problem 
 is beyond me. There is another to be solved first — I 
 must try to educate myself. You are not the man to help 
 me in that. I must set about it alone. And that is why I 
 am leaving you. 
 
 Hel. [jumping up]. What — do you mean to say ? 
 
 Nora. I must stand quite alone if I am ever to know 
 myself and my sxirroundings; so I cannot stay with you. 
 
 Hel. Nora! Nora! 
 
 Nora. I am going at once. I daresay Christina will 
 take me in for to-night 
 
 Hel. You are mad! I shall not allow it! I forbid it! 
 
 Nora. It is of no use your forbidding me anything now. 
 I shall take with me what belongs to me. From you I will 
 accept nothing, either now or afterward. 
 
 She means to return to her home town and find work to 
 do there. What the world may say she need not heed. 
 
 Hel. This is monstrous! Can you forsake your hoUest 
 duties in this way? 
 
 Nora. What do you consider my holiest duties? 
 
 Hel. Do I need to tell you that? Your duties to your 
 husband and your children. 
 
 Nora. I have other duties equally sacred. 
 
 Hel. Impossible! What duties do you mean? 
 
 Nora. My duties toward myself. 
 
 Hel. Before all else you are a wife and a mother. 
 
 Nora. That I no longer believe. I believe that before 
 all else I am a human being, just as much as you are — or 
 
62 A DOLL'S HOUSE 
 
 at least that I should try to become one. I know that 
 most people agree with you, Torvald, and that they say 
 so in books. But henceforth I can't be satisfied with what 
 most people say, and what is in books. I must think 
 things out for myself, and try to get clear about them. 
 
 It strikes Helmer as preposterous that so young a woman 
 should take this stand, in spite of religion, conscience, and 
 moral feelings. 
 
 Hel. You talk like a child. You don't understand the 
 society in which you live. 
 
 Nora. No, I do not. But now I shall try to learn. 
 I must make up my mind which is right — society or I. 
 
 Hel. Nora, you are ill; you are feverish; I almost think 
 you are out of your senses. 
 
 Nora. I have never felt so much clearness and cer- 
 tainty as to-night. 
 
 Hel. You are clear and certain enough to forsake hus- 
 band and children? 
 
 Nora. Yes, I am. 
 
 Hel. Then there is only one explanation possible. 
 
 Nora. What is that? 
 
 Hel. You no longer love me. 
 
 Nora. No; that is just it. 
 
 Hel. Nora! Can you say so! 
 
 Nora. Oh, I'm so sorry, Torvald; for you've always 
 been so kind to me. But I can't help it. I do not love 
 you any longer. 
 
 He forfeited her love when the miracle did not happen, 
 when he did not prove himself to be the man she imagined 
 him. It never occurred to her for a minute that Torvald 
 would think of submitting to Erogstad's conditions; she 
 believed that Torvald would try to take the blame upon 
 himself to shield her. He protests that that would not 
 have been possible. 
 
 Nora. You mean I would never have accepted such a 
 sacrifice? No, certainly not. But what would my as- 
 sertions have been worth in opposition to yours? — ^That 
 was the miracle that I hoped for and dreaded. And it 
 was to hinder that that I wanted to die. 
 
 Hel. I would gladly work for you day and night, Nora 
 — ^bear sorrow and want for your sake. But no man sac- 
 rifices his honor, even for one he loves. 
 
IBSEN 63 
 
 Nora. Millions of women have done so. 
 
 Eel. Oh, you thmk and talk like a silly chUd. 
 
 Nora. Very likely. But you neither think nor talk 
 like the man I can share my life with. When yoiu- terror 
 was over — not for what threatened me, but for yourself — 
 when there was nothing more to fear — then it seemed to 
 you as though nothing had happened. I was your lark 
 again, your doll, just as before — ^whom you would take 
 twice as much care of in future, because she was so weak 
 and fragile. [Stands up.] Torvald — in that moment it 
 burst upon me that I had been living here these eight 
 years with a strange man, and had borne him three chil- 
 dren. — Oh, I can't bear to think of it ! I could tear myself 
 to pieces! 
 
 At last Helmer sees the abyss that has opened between 
 himself and his wife, yet he cannot grasp the thought of 
 parting from her. She will not remain even tiU the next 
 day, for, she says, she cannot spend the night in a strange 
 man's house. She releases him from all duties toward 
 her and gives him back his ring. The children and he will 
 be often in her thoughts, she says, but he must not write 
 to her and must send her nothing. She will take nothing 
 from strangers. 
 
 Hel. Nora — can I never be more than a stranger to 
 you? 
 
 Nora [taking her travelling bag]. Oh, Torvald, then the 
 miracle of miracles would have to happen 
 
 Hel. What is the miracle of miracles? 
 
 Nora. Both of us would have to change so that 
 
 Oh, Torvald, I no longer beUeve in miracles. 
 
 Hel. But I will believe. Tell me! We must so 
 change that ? 
 
 Nora. That communion between us shall be a mar- 
 riage. Good-bye. [She goes out by the hall door. 
 
 Hel. [sinks into a chair by the door mth his faxie in his 
 hands]. Nora! Nora! [He looks round and rises.] 
 Empty. She is gone. [A hope springs up in him.] Ahi 
 
 The miracle of miracles ? 
 
 [From below is heard the reverberation of a heavy door 
 closing.] 
 
THE GREAT GALEOTO* 
 By Jos6 Echegabat 
 
 First played in Madrid in 1881. 
 
 Argument: Don Julian has offered a home to Ernest, the 
 son of a friend to whom he owed a debt of gratitude, and 
 busybodies are soon imagining that the young man is in 
 love with Don Julian's wife. Ernest challenges a slanderer 
 to a duel, but Don JuUan insists upon defending his wife's 
 honor himself and is dangerously wounded. Does Don 
 Julian retain his faith in his wife, or does the persistence 
 of gossip at last force his wife into Ernest's arms? 
 
 For some time Ernest has been sitting at his desk striv- 
 ing to give definite form to an impelling idea which he has 
 vaguely conceived. At moments an inward Ught illum- 
 ines it; he sees a world of living passions. Then it is gone 
 again. Don Juhan, his friend and patron, returns from 
 the opera, and the paper before him is still blank. The 
 fiirst difficulty the yoimg author faces is how to present his 
 chief character in a drama, and for this reason; the 
 chief character is Everybody. There is no room for every- 
 body on the stage. Don Julian suggests representing the 
 community by a few symbohcal persons. 
 
 This device would distort the idea because he would 
 have to bring on the stage types whose guile is repellent 
 and is the less natiu-al in that their evil is without object. 
 He would be accused of depicting a cruel and debased 
 society, whereas his sole design is to prove that not even 
 the most insignificant actions are in themselves insig- 
 nificant or lost for good or evil. The idea impresses 
 Don Julian as rather too philosophical. He advises Er- 
 nest to go shooting with him the next day and to kill a 
 
 •Copyright, 1914, by Doubleday, Page & Co., in the Drama League 
 Series. Translated by Hannah Lynch. 
 
 64 
 
ECHEGARAY 65 
 
 few partridges Instead of characters. But Ernest is de- 
 termined to write the play. 
 
 Don Jidian's wife, Teodora, comes in, and Don Julian 
 remarks that his brother, Don Severo, seemed to be sup- 
 pressing a violent rage at the opera. She thought Mer- 
 cedes, Don Severo's wife, very preoccupied, but says that 
 their son, Pepito, chattered enough for both. He talked 
 about everybody. Don Julian suggests him as a char- 
 acter for the play. Left by himseff again, Ernest's eye 
 falls upon a copy of Dante, lying open on the table at the 
 episode of Francesca and Paolo. A character in the story 
 suggests a name for his principal personage, "The Great 
 Galeoto." He sets it down and begins to write fever- 
 ishly.* 
 
 Teodora and Don Julian are lookiag at the sunset from 
 a balcony opening off a drawing-room of their house in 
 Madrid. She finds the happiness of their life like the radi- 
 ance of the heavens. He is thoughtful, and she asks if 
 there is any business annoyance on his mind. He assiu-es 
 her that such things never trouble him, otherwise he would 
 not be one of the richest bankers in Spain. He was con- 
 sidering a debt of old date, to Don Juan of Acedo, Ernest's 
 father, to whom in fact he owed his entire success. 
 
 When he heard that his good friend was dead and had 
 left a son badly off, Don Julian lost no time in bringing the 
 young man to his home, and now Ernest has lived there a 
 year like one of themselves. But Don Juhan is thinking 
 of what he can do for Ernest's future. He fears that Ernest 
 may feel the protection he is receiving to be a humiliation, 
 and thinks it imperative that there should be an end to his 
 present position. 
 
 At this very moment Ernest enters the room to tell 
 Don Juhan that he can no longer live upon alms. He has 
 come to the conclusion that others, seeing him housed and 
 fed there, are saying of him what he long has thought. 
 In fact, he is sure that Don Severo, Dona Mercedes, and 
 Pepito object to the situation. In that case, replies Don 
 Julian, Don Severo is a fool, Mercedes an idle chatterer, 
 and the lad a puppy. 
 
 Ernest. They only repeat what they hear. 
 
 *The end of the Prologue. 
 
66 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Don Julian. It is not true. This is false reasoning. 
 Between gentlemen, when the intention is honorable, 
 what can the opinion of the world really matter? The 
 meaner it is, the loftier our disdain of it. 
 
 Ernest. It's nobly said, and is what all well-bred men 
 feel. But I have been taught that gossip, whether in- 
 spired by malice or not, which is according to each one's 
 natural tendency, begins in a he and generally ends in the 
 truth. 
 
 If Ernest really desires independence, Don Julian will 
 make him his secretary, and later they shall be partners. 
 He goes out, laughing at the surprise he has caused. The 
 room has become quite dark and when Don Severo and 
 Mercedes enter presently they do not see Ernest and Teo- 
 dora on the balcony at first, but they hear him say that his 
 whole life, a thousand lives, would not be enough to offer 
 her in return for her kindness. His heart knows how to 
 love, he declares, and it can beat to bursting under the 
 sentiment. 
 
 Don Severo. Their eternal tricks — always together. I 
 can stand no niore of this. And their words? I mustn't 
 put it off any longer. 
 
 Mercedes. True, Severo. Come away. It is certainly 
 your duty, since everybody is talking. 
 
 Severo. Yes, I must open Julian's eyes — ^to-day, at 
 once. 
 
 Mer. The fellow has impudence enough and to spare. 
 
 Severo. By all that's holy — so has she. 
 
 Mer. Poor girl! She's but a child. Leave her to me. 
 
 Teodora comes in from the balcony and rings for a lamp. 
 Don Severo looking at Ernest closely thinks him flushed 
 and that he can descry traces of tears. It is only children 
 and lovers that weep, he mutters, as he goes to look for 
 his brother. Mercedes asks Teodora to send Ernest out. 
 She has something very serious to say. Don Severo is 
 being constantly assailed with innuendos, she explains, 
 and with the smiles, covert glances, and reproaches of his 
 friends. He insists that there must be an end to the low 
 gossip about Don Julian, Teodora, and Ernest. Mercedes 
 accuses Teodora of making a laughing-stock of her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Teodora [impetiumsly, rising]. Julian! what a false- 
 
ECHEGARAY 67 
 
 hood! What wretch could say so? Julian would strike 
 him! 
 
 Mer. [endeavoring to soothe her and make her sit dovm]. 
 He would need a good many hands, then; for, if report 
 speak truly, he would have to strike the entire town. 
 
 Teo. But what does it all mean? What is the mystery, 
 and what is this talk of the town? 
 
 Mer. So you're sorry? 
 
 Teo. I am sorry. But what is it? 
 
 Mer. You see, Teodora, you are quite a child. At 
 your lE^e one is so often thoughtless and light, and then 
 such bitter tears are afterward shed. You still don't 
 understand me? 
 
 Teo. No, what has such a case to do with me? 
 
 Mer. It is the story of a scoundrel and the story of a 
 la(^ 
 
 Teo. [eagerly]. Whose name ? 
 
 Mer. Her name 
 
 Teo. Oh, what does it matter? 
 
 Teodora moves away from Mercedes who shifts her 
 seat on the sofa to follow her. The double movement of 
 repugnance and aloofness on Teodora's part and of in- 
 sistence and protection on Mercedes', is very marked. 
 
 Mer. The man is a shabby-hearted betrayer, who, for 
 one hour of pleasure, would thrust upon the woman a life 
 of sorrow: the husband's dishonor, the ruin of a family, 
 and she left shamed and condemned to social penitence in 
 the world's disdain, and to keener punishment still at the 
 whip of her own conscience. 
 
 Here Teodora, avoiding Mercedes, reaches the edge of 
 the sofa, bows her head and covers her face with both 
 hands. At last she understands. 
 
 Mer. [aside]. Poor little thing! She touches me. 
 [Aloud.] 'This man is not worthy of you, Teodora. 
 
 Teo. But, madam, what is the drift of all this blind 
 emotion? Do not imagine that my eyes are dimmed with 
 fear or horror or tears. They burn with the flame of anger. 
 To whom can such words be addressed? What man do 
 you mean? Is it, perchance ? 
 
 Mer. Ernest, 
 
 Teo. Ah I [PoMse.] And the woman I? Not so? 
 [Mebcedes nods and Teodora rises again.] Then listen 
 
68 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 to me, though I may offend you. I know not who is the 
 viler, the inventor of this tale or you who repeat it. Shame 
 upon the meanness that formed the idea, and shame upon 
 the villainy that spreads it! It is so abominable, so fatal, 
 that I almost feel myself criminal because I cannot in- 
 stantly reject the thought and forget it. Heavens ! Could 
 I suppose or credit such baseness? Because of his mis- 
 fortunes I loved him. He was like a brother to me, and 
 Julian was his providence. And he so noble and thorough 
 a gentleman! [Stands staring at Mercedes, then turns 
 away her face. Aside.] How she inspects me! I scarcely 
 hke to say a good word for him to her. My God! I am 
 compelled already to act a part. 
 
 Mer. Be calm, child. 
 
 Tea. [raising her voice]. Oh, what anguish! I feel cold 
 and inconsolable. Stained in this way by pubhc opinion! 
 Oh, my dearest mother, and you, Julian, my heart's be- 
 loved. [She falls sobbing into a chair on the left, and Mer- 
 cedes strives to console her.] 
 
 Mer. I did not imagine — ^forgive me — don't cry. 
 There, I didn't really believe it was serious. I knew your 
 past exonerated you. But as the case stands, you must 
 admit that out of every hundred a hundred woiild accuse 
 you and JuUan of excessive rashness, or say you had led 
 the world to conclude the worst. You a girl of twenty, 
 Julian a man of forty, and Ernest between you, with his 
 head full of romantic thoughts. On the one hand, a hus- 
 band given up to business, on the other a youth to dreams, 
 every day bringing its opportunity, and you there, unoc- 
 cupied, in the flush of romance. It was wrong for people to 
 conclude the worst because they saw you walking with 
 him, and saw him so often at the theatre with you. But, 
 Teodora, in reason and justice I think that if the world 
 was bent on seeing evil, you furnished the occasion. Per- 
 mit me to point out to you that the fault which society 
 most fiercely chastises, pursues most relentlessly and 
 cruelly, and in every varied imaginable way, both in 
 man and woman is — don't frown so, Teodora — is 
 temerity. 
 
 Tea. [turning to Mercedes wUhout having heard her]. 
 And you say that Julian 
 
 Mer. Is the laughing-stock of the town, and you 
 
ECHEGARAY 69 
 
 Teo. Oh, I! That's no matter. But Julian! Oh, 
 oh, so good, so chivalrous! If he only knew 
 
 Mer. He will know, for at this very moment Severo 
 is telling him. 
 
 Teo. What? 
 
 Julian [inside]. That will do, 
 
 Teo. Oh, goodness! 
 
 Julian. Let me alone. 
 
 Teo. Come away, quickly. 
 
 Mer. {rushing vnth Teodoba toward first door on the right]. 
 Yes, yes, quickly. What folly! [Teodoea a?wi Mercedes 
 go to the right.] 
 
 Teo. [stopping suddenly]. But wherefore, since I am not 
 guilty? Not only does miserable calumny stain us, but 
 it degrades us. It is so steeped in evil, that, against all 
 evidence, its very breath takes the bloom off our con- 
 sciences. Why should an idle terror cast its mean influ- 
 ence over me? 
 
 At this moment Don Julian appears on the threshold of 
 the jBrst door on the right-hand side, and behind him stands 
 Don Severo. 
 
 Teo. Julian! 
 
 Julian. Teodora! [She runs over to him, and he folds 
 her in a passionate embrace.] Here in my arms, dearest. 
 It is the home of your honor. 
 
 Don Julian will let the affair pass for this once, but any 
 one who distresses Teodora with it agaia shall be forbidden 
 his house. Don Severo still wishes to ioform his brother 
 as to common report, but Don Julian will not have the 
 mir e of the streets carried iato his drawing-room. He will 
 not even hear of Ernest's going away on a long voyage, 
 which Ernest is desirous of taking. He has no intention, 
 he declares, of subjectiug his actions to the town's idle 
 gossip. 
 
 As they go in to dinner Don Julian notices that Teo- 
 dora is agitated and that there are tears in her eyes. He 
 stays behind with Don Severo and asks him why Teodora 
 and Ernest look back at them so. Don Severo says he is 
 becoming reasonable at last, but Don Julian replies that 
 he has caught the madness. 
 
 Don Julian and Don Severo have come to see Ernest in 
 
70 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 the small, poorly furnished room which the young man is 
 now occupying. While they are waiting Don Julian ex- 
 presses regret for his own ungrateful behavior toward the 
 son of his benefactor and for the false sentiment which 
 took Ernest away. He wishes the world might have left 
 them alone. What did it matter to the public, he asks, if, 
 fulfilling a sacred duty, he treated Ernest as a son and Teo- 
 dora treated him as a sister. 
 
 In his heart, however, Don Julian wishes what his lips 
 deny, as he presently tells his brother. While he shows a 
 frank front, he is watchful and worn with mistrust. This 
 inward struggle, he says, is changing him to another man. 
 Now his wife finds him always sad, always distant. -He is 
 not the man he was and no efiFort will ever make him so 
 again. An ever-deepening shadow has fallen between 
 him and his wife. He is wounded in his love, and she, by 
 his hand, is wounded in her woman's dignity. Don Severo 
 asks, if he sees his position so plainly, why he does not rem- 
 edy it. 
 
 Julian. It's of no use. I know I am unjust to doubt 
 her, worse still. I don't doubt her now. But who will 
 say that I, losing little by little, and he, gaining as steadily, 
 the lie of to-day will not to-morrow be truth? [He seizes 
 Don Seveho by the arm and speaks with voluble earnestness 
 and increasing bitterness.] I — ^jealous, sombre, imjust, and 
 hard; he — ^noble and generous, resigned and unalterably 
 sweet-natured, with that halo of martyrdom which in the 
 eyes of women sits so becomingly on the brow of a brave 
 and handsome youth. Is it not clear that his is the better 
 part, and that my loss is his gain? while I can do nothing 
 to alter the injustice of it. You see it, too? And if the 
 ignoble talk of the town should compel those two to trea- 
 son, though they may now truthfully assert: "we are not 
 lovers," the force of repetition of the word may eventually 
 drive them to the fact. 
 
 Severo. If that's how you feel about it, Julian, I think 
 the safest thing would be to let Ernest carry out his project. 
 
 Julian. That I've come to prevent. 
 
 Severo. Then you are insane. He purposes to go to 
 Buenos Ayres. Nothing could be better. Let him go — 
 in a sailing vessel, fresh wind to his sail, and good speed. 
 
 Julian. Do you wish me to show myself so miserably 
 
ECHEGARAY 71 
 
 ungrateful and jealous before Teodora? Don't you know, 
 Severo, that a woman may despise a lover and love him still, 
 but not so a husband? Contempt is his dishonor. You 
 would not have my wife follow the unhappy exile across the 
 ocean with sad regrets? And I, should I see the trace of 
 a tear upon her cheek, the mere thought that it might be 
 for Ernest would drive me to strangle her in my arms. 
 [Speaks with rancour and rage.] 
 
 All he can do is to suffer, he says. It is for the world 
 that conceived the drama solely by looking at them to un- 
 ravel the knot. 
 
 Pepito also calls for Ernest. He supposes that his father 
 and uncle know that Ernest is going to fight a duel that 
 day and sail the next for Argentina. They had not heard 
 of it, but Don Julian pretends that he has in order to draw 
 out Pepito. The fact is that Ernest went into a cafe where 
 he overheard the Viscount Nebreda utter a slander on 
 Teodora and instantly knocked down the offender. The 
 duel will be a matter of life and death, Pepito says, for 
 Nebreda is a dangerous swordsman. 
 
 It is not until Don Juhan sinks down in a chair, overcome 
 by the dishonor, that Pepito sees what he has done. Don 
 Julian vows he will kiU Nebreda. He bids Pepito find out 
 the place of the duel. He is glad that the calumny has at 
 last taken palpable shape, himian form, and that he may 
 come face to face with it. He and Don JuHan leave Pep- 
 ito to await Ernest. 
 
 The opinion that Pepito had held all along was that it 
 was foUy to leave a resplendent creature like Teodora under 
 the same roof with a handsome young man. He has no 
 faith in such relations when the brotherhood is a fiction. 
 The man who could be near Teodora and not faU in love 
 with her, he thinks, must be a stone. An empty picture 
 frame on the table suggests to him that Ernest is wearing 
 Teodora's picture on his heart. He picks up the copy of 
 Dante as Ernest enters the room. 
 
 Pepito. Here, where the book is open, I find something 
 I can't guess, and you must explain it to me. Reading a 
 love tale together to pass the time, we are told that Fran- 
 cesca and Paolo reached that part where the gallant 
 author, proving himself no amateur in the business, sings 
 the loves of Laimcelot and Guinevere. The match fell 
 
72 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 pat. The kiss in the book was repeated by the passionate 
 youth on the girl's mouth. And at this point of the story, 
 with rare skill and sublime truth, the Florentine poet tells 
 us what happens. [Points to the line.] But this is what I 
 do not understand. "Galeoto" was the book they were 
 reading, and they read no more. They stopped reading? 
 That's easy enough to understand. But this Galeoto, 
 tell me where he comes in, and who was he? You ought 
 to know, since he has given his name to the play that is to 
 make you famous. Let me see. [Takes up the MS. and 
 examines it.] 
 
 Em. Galeoto was the go-between for the Queen and 
 Launcelot, and in all loves the third may be truthfully 
 nicknamed Galeoto, above all when we wish to suggest 
 an ugly word without shocking the audience. [He takes 
 his manuscript from Pepito and flings it upon the table.] 
 Each especial case, I have remarked, has its own especial 
 go-between. Sometimes it is the entire social mass that 
 is Galeoto. It then unconsciously exercises the office 
 under the influence of a vice of quite another aspect, but 
 so dexterously does it work against honor and modesty 
 that no greater Galeoto can ever be foimd. Let a man and 
 woman live happily, in tranquil and earnest fulfilment of 
 their separate duties — nobody minds them, and they 
 float along at ease. But God be praised, this is a state of 
 things that does not last long in Madrid. One morning 
 somebody takes the trouble to notice them, and from that 
 moment, behold society engaged in the business, without 
 aim or object, on the hunt for hidden frailty and impurity. 
 Then it pronoimces and judges, and there is no logic that 
 can convince it, nor living man who can hope to persuade 
 it, and the honestest has not a rag of honor left. And the 
 terrible thing is, that while it begins in error, it generally 
 ends in truth. The atmosphere is so dense, misery so 
 envelops the pair, such is the press and torrent of slander, 
 that they unconsciously seek one another, unite lovelessly, 
 drift toward their fall, and adore each other until death. 
 The word was the stumbling-stone of virtue, and made 
 clear the way for shame — ^was Galeoto and — [aside] — stay! 
 what mad thought inflames me! 
 
 Pep. [aside]. If that's the way he discourses to Teodora, 
 heaven help poor Don JuUan. 
 
ECHEGARAY 73 
 
 Pepito turns the conversation to the duel. Ernest is 
 very cool. He says that if he kills Nebreda the world 
 gains; if Nebreda kills him, he gains. They are to fight in 
 a room upstairs. A servant enters to tell Ernest that 
 some one has come to see him. It is a lady, heavily veiled. 
 Ernest cannot imagine who it can be. Pepito withdraws 
 discreetly and the visitor comes in. She is Teodora, who 
 has heard that he is going to Argentina and has come to 
 say good-bye. Ernest tells her that he cannot understand 
 Ji^ian's jealousy. 
 
 Tea. Poor fellow, he pays a heavy price for his savage 
 distrust. 
 
 £7m. [horrified to find he has been blaming Don Julian to 
 Teodora]. What have I said? I don't accuse him — no 
 
 — ^I meant [He hastens to exculpate Don Julian and 
 
 modifjf his former words.] Anybody might feel the same, 
 that is, if he were very much in love. In our earthly ego- 
 ism, don't we doubt the very God in heaven? And the 
 owner of a treasure jealousy watches it as gold, and cannot 
 but fear for it. I, too, in his place would be full of doubt, 
 — ^yes — even of my own brother. [Speaks with increasing 
 fervor, and again restrains himself, perceiving that he is ore the 
 brink of a peril he wovM avoid. Teodoba hears voices out- 
 side arid rushes to door.] 
 
 They think they recognize Julian's voice at die door 
 but the sounds die away. 
 
 Teo. I have so much to say to you, Ernest, and the 
 time has passed so quickly. 
 
 Em. The time has flown! 
 
 Teo. I wanted 
 
 Em. Teodora, pray forgive me — but is it prudent? If 
 any one came in — and, indeed, I fear some one will. 
 
 Teo. That is why I came — to prevent it. 
 
 Em. So that ? 
 
 Teo. I know everything, and I am stricken with horror 
 at the thought that blood should be shed on my account. 
 My head is on fire, my heart is bursting. [Strikes her 
 breast.] 
 
 Em. It is the affront that hums and shames you until 
 my hand has struck at Nebreda's life. He wanted mud! 
 Well, let him have it stained with blood. 
 
 Teo. You would kill him? 
 
74 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ern. Certainly. [Represses Teodoka's movement of 
 supplication.] You can dispose of me in all else but this 
 one thing. Do not ask me to feel compassion for a man 
 whose insult I remember. 
 
 Teodora says that only her husband has a right to de- 
 fend her, but he replies that every honorable man has a 
 right to defend a lady. He may not even know her. It is 
 enough to hear her insulted. She thinks that it would 
 leave Julian humiliated for Ernest to take the quarrel upon 
 himself. 
 
 Tea. When the world hears of the affront, and learns 
 that it was not my husband who avenged me, and above 
 all — [drops her eyes ashamed] — ^that it was you who took 
 his place — ^have we not a new scandal then topping the 
 old? 
 
 Em. [convinced hut protests]. If one had always to think 
 what people will say, by Heaven! there would be no man- 
 ner or means of hving then! 
 
 Teo. It is so, nevertheless. 
 
 Em. Just so. 'Tis horrible. 
 
 Teo. Then yield. 
 
 Em. Impossible. 
 
 Teo. I beseech you. 
 
 Em. No. Looking into the matter, as nobody can 
 know what will happen, it is better that I should face 
 Nebreda. For, after all, if the fellow lack a sense of honor, 
 he can use a sword. 
 
 Teo. [wounded and humiliated in the protection Ehnest 
 seems to offer Don Julian]. My husband is not lacking 
 in courage. 
 
 Em. Fatality again! Either I have expressed myself 
 ill or you do not understand me. I know his worth. 
 But when a desperate injury lies between men of courage, 
 who knows what may happen, which of them may fall, 
 and which may kill? And if this man's sword must strike 
 Don Julian or Ernest, can you doubt which it ought to be? 
 [Questions her vnth sad sincerity.] 
 
 Teo. [in anguish]. You! — oh, no — ^not that, either. 
 
 Em. Why? If it is my fate? Nobody loses by my 
 death, and I lose still less. 
 
 Teo. For Heaven's sake, do not say that! [Barely able 
 to repress her sobs.] 
 
ECHEGARAY 75 
 
 Em. What do I leave behind me? Neither friendship 
 nor strong love. What woman is there to follow my corpse 
 shedding a lover's tears? 
 
 Teo. Last night I prayed for you — and you say that 
 nobody I could not bear you to die! [Vehemently.] 
 
 Em. Ah, we pray for any one; we only weep for one. 
 [With passion.] 
 
 Teo. [startled]. Ernest! 
 
 Em. [terrified by his own words] . What ! 
 
 Teo. [momng farther away]. Nothing. 
 
 Em. [also moving away and looking nervously down]. 
 I told you a little while ago I was half mad. Do not heed 
 me. [Pause. Both remain silent and pensive, at some dis- 
 tance, not looking at each other.] 
 
 Teo. [starting and glancing anxiously dmrni the stage]. 
 Again! 
 
 Em. [following her movement. Somebody has come. 
 
 Teo. They are trying to get in. 
 
 Em. [listening]. There can be no doubt of it. There, 
 Teodora! [Points to the bedroom door.] 
 
 Teo. My honor is my shield. 
 
 Em. But it is not your husband. 
 
 Teo. Not JuKan? 
 
 Em. [leading her to the door]. No. 
 
 Teo. I hoped [Detains him with an air of supplica- 
 tion.] Will you give up this duel? 
 
 Em. Give it up? When I've struck him! 
 
 Teo. I didn't know that. [Despairingly, but under- 
 stands that nothing can be done.] Then fly! 
 
 Ern. I fly! 
 
 Teo. For my sake, for his sake — ^for God's sake! 
 
 Em. [despairingly]. You must loathe me to propose 
 such a thing to me. Never! 
 
 Teo. One word only. Are they coming for you now? 
 
 Em. It is not yet time. 
 
 Teo. Swear it to me. 
 
 Em. Yes, Teodora. And you — say you don't hate me. 
 
 Teo. Never. 
 
 Pep. [outside]. Nothing. I must see him. 
 
 Em. Quickly. 
 
 Teo. Yes. [Hides in the bedroom.] 
 
 Pepito enters excitedly without his hat, and says that a 
 
76 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 great misfortune has happened. Don Julian heard of the 
 duel and has himself fought with Nebreda. 
 
 Em. Go on 
 
 Pep. [going to the door]. They're coming, I believe. 
 
 Em. Who? 
 
 Pep. They — they're carrying Don JuHan. 
 
 Em,. You terrify me. Explain at once. [Catches his 
 arm violently, and drags him forward.] 
 
 Pep. He compell&d him to fight. There was no way 
 out of it. The viscount cried: "Very well, between us 
 two." It was settled it should take place here. Don 
 Juhan came upstairs. Your servant sent him away, 
 protesting you were engaged with a lady, and swearing 
 nobody could enter. 
 
 Em. And then? 
 
 Pep. Don Juhan went downstairs muttering "better 
 so. I have the day's work for myself." And he, my 
 father, Nebreda, and the seconds came back together, and 
 went upstairs. 
 
 Em. They fought? 
 
 Pep. Furiously, as men fight when their intent is deadly 
 and their enemy's heart is within reach of the sword's point. 
 
 Em. And Don Juhan! No — it must be a he. 
 
 Pep. Here they are. 
 
 Em. Silence. Tell me who it is, but speak softly. 
 
 Pep. There. 
 Enter Don Julian, Don Seveko, and Riteda. The two 
 men support Don Julian, who is badly wounded. 
 
 Em. Heaven preserve us! Don Juhan! my friend, my 
 father, my benefactor! [Hurries excitedly toward him, and 
 speaks brokenly.] 
 
 Julian [weakly]. Ernest! 
 
 Ern. Oh, wretched I! 
 
 Severo. Quick, come away. 
 
 Em. Father! 
 
 Severo. He is fainting with pain. 
 
 Em. For my sake! 
 
 Julian. It is not so. 
 
 Em. Through me — ^pardon! [Takes Don Julian's 
 hand, bends on one knee before him.] 
 
 Julian. No need to ask it, lad. You did your duty, 
 and I did mine. 
 
ECH^GARAY 77 
 
 Severo. A couch. [Loosens his hold of Don Jttuan, and 
 Pepito takes his place.] 
 
 Pep. [pointing to the bedroom]. Let us carry him in 
 there. 
 
 Em. [shouting terribly], Nebreda! 
 
 Severo. Let there be an end to folly. Is it your inten- 
 tion to kill him outright? 
 
 Em. [loith frenzy], FoUy, oh, we'll see. I have two to 
 avenge now. It is my right. [Rushes away,] 
 
 Severo [moving to the right]. We'll take him into your 
 room and lay him on the bed. [Ernest wheels round in 
 terror.] 
 
 Em. Where? 
 
 Severo, In here. 
 
 Pep, Yes. 
 
 Em. No. [Strides back, and stands before the door. 
 The group are on the point of lifting Don Julian, desist, 
 and stare at Ernest in indignant surprise.] 
 
 Severo. You forbid it? 
 
 Pep, Are you mad? 
 
 Severo, Back! Can't you see he is dying? 
 
 Julian. What is it? He doesn't wish it? [Raises 
 himself and looks at Ernest in distrust and fear.] 
 
 Ru£da, I don't understand it. 
 
 Pep. Nor I. 
 
 Em. He is dying — and implores me — and doubts me — 
 father! 
 
 Severo. Come, we must. [Pushes open the door above 
 Eunest'b shoulder. Teobora is discovered.] 
 
 Em. My God! 
 
 Severo and Pepito. She! 
 
 Rueda. A woman! 
 
 Teo. [coming forward to her husband and embracing him]. 
 Julian! 
 
 Julian. Who is it? [Pushes her away to stare at her, 
 drags himself to his feet with a violent effort, and shakes him- 
 self free of all aid.] Teodora! [Falb senseless to the 
 gvound.] 
 
 It is night. A lamp is burning in a drawing-room in 
 Don JuHan's house, connecting with the apartments where 
 he now lies. His life hangs in the balance, but dangerous 
 
78 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 as it was for him to be moved, lie insisted upon being taken 
 away from Ernest's rooms. Pepito is in the drawing- 
 room, and his mother comes in to ask for news from the sick- 
 room. 
 
 Pep. He sufFers greatly, but says nothing. Some- 
 times he calls out "Teodora" in a low, harsh voice, and 
 sometimes "Ernest"; and then he tugs violently at the 
 sheets, and lies quiet again as a statue, staring vacantly 
 into space. Now his brow is bathed in the cold sweat of 
 death, and then fever seizes him. He sits up in bed, lis- 
 tens attentively, and shouts that he and she are waiting for 
 him. He tries to jump out of bed to rush at them, and all 
 my father's entreaties and commands barely suffice to 
 restrain him or soothe him. There's no quieting him. 
 Anger races hot through his veins and thought is a flame. 
 It is shocking, mother, to see the bitter way his lips con- 
 tract, and how his fingers close in a vise, with head all 
 wild, and pupils dilated as though they drank in with 
 yearning and despair every shadow that floats around the 
 chamber. 
 
 Mer. How does your father bear it? 
 
 Pej). He groans and breathes of vengeance. He, too, 
 mutters the names of Teodora and Ernest. I hope to 
 God he will not meet either, for, if he should, small chance 
 there is of restraining his fury. 
 
 Mercedes regards Teodora as hardly to be blamed for 
 her part, considering her youth, but holds Ernest culpable. 
 Accordingly when a servant iiiforms them that Ernest is 
 there they are astonished at his presumption. Pepito 
 means to give him his dismissal, but there is something 
 which he wishes to learn first, and that is if it is true that 
 Ernest has met the viscount. 
 
 When Don Julian was brought into Ernest's rooms 
 Ernest rushed out, overtook Nebreda and forced him to 
 come back with his seconds. Then, in a furious assault, 
 Ernest drove his rapier through Nebreda's body. Ernest 
 begs piteously to be allowed to say a word to Don Julian. 
 Mercedes denies him on the ground that Don Julian is 
 wounded mortally, and that it would be worse for him if 
 Ernest went near him. She commands Ernest to leave 
 the house at once, but he refuses to do so. He has come 
 solely to learn if there is any hope and pleads with Mer- 
 
ECHEGARAY 79 
 
 cedes to give him a word of consolation. She replies at 
 last that Don Julian is better. 
 
 Ernest devoutly beseeches God for Don Julian's re- 
 covery and the restoration of his happiness, and that Don 
 Julian may forgive him and embrace him once more. He 
 falls into an armchair, shaken with sobs. Mercedes and 
 Pepito, fearing the consequences if Don Severo should find 
 Ernest there, implore him to come to his senses, put an end 
 to his lamentations, and leave the house. He goes on to re- 
 peat to them what is being said in the town. 
 
 Some relate that Don Julian found Teodora in his rooms, 
 and that he attacked and slew Don Julian on the spot. 
 Others say that they fought fairly. And others again tell 
 that Don Julian was the antagonist of the viscount because 
 Ernest was afraid or was lingering in the arms of Teodora. 
 Seek the vilest, the blackest, he says, cast it on the wind, 
 and you will have the tale, and may see what reputation 
 remains for an innocent woman and two honest men. 
 
 Mer. It is sad, I admit; but perhaps public opinion is 
 not altogether to blame. 
 
 Pe'p. Teodora did go to your rooms — she was there 
 
 Em. To prevent the duel with Nebreda. 
 
 Pep. Then why did she hide herself? 
 
 Em. Because we feared her presence would be miscon- 
 strued. 
 
 Pep. The explanation is easy and simple. The difficult 
 thing, Ernest, is to get us to believe it, for there is another 
 still more easy and simple. 
 
 Em. Which dishonors more, and that's the beauty 
 of it. 
 
 Pep. Well, at least, admit that Teodora was giddy, if 
 not really culpable. 
 
 Em. Guilt is prudent and cautious. On the other 
 hand, how imprudent is innocence! 
 
 If that rule holds good, Pepito replies, the worst of men 
 is a saint. When Ernest asks if, having killed Nebreda 
 for a lie, what he would do to himself should guilt threaten 
 to give the color of truth to the gossip, they think he is 
 corSessing. Once again he refuses to go, saying it would 
 drive him crazy to spend the night at a distance from the 
 sickroom. They hear some one coming and are in terror 
 lest it be Don Severo, but it is Teodora. Ernest will not 
 
80 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 see her. He leaves the room and Mercedes sends out 
 Pepito. 
 
 Teodora enters timidly and stands near Don Julian's 
 door, listening anxiously, and muffling her sobs in her 
 handkerchief. Mercedes reassures her, saying that she 
 thinks Don Julian will recover, and draws her aflFection- 
 ately away. She says she has faith in Teodora's good sense 
 and can measure her remorse by her tears and her anxiety. 
 Teodora sits down with a satisfied air. She has cried and 
 raved, thinking of JuHan's pUght, the scandal, the violent 
 quarrel and bloodshed, and the possibility of Ernest's 
 dying for her sake. 
 
 Mer. [dryly]. I think your fear for that fellow's life 
 altogether superfluous. 
 
 Teo. Why? with so skilled an antagonist! You have 
 seen it — Julian 
 
 Mer. JuUan has been avenged. The man who killed 
 him no longer lives, so that you have been wasting your 
 fears and your tears. \W'iih deliberate hardness.] 
 
 Teo. [eagerly]. It was Ernest 
 
 Mer. Yes, Ernest. 
 
 Teo. He met the viscount? 
 
 Mer. Face to face. 
 
 Teo. [unable to restrain herself]. How noble and brave! 
 
 Mer. Teodora! 
 
 Teo. What do you mean? Tell me. 
 
 Mer. [sternly]. I can read your thought. 
 
 Teo. My thought? 
 
 Mer. Yes. 
 
 Teo. Which? 
 
 Mer. You know very well. 
 
 Teo. Have I no right to be glad because Julian is 
 avenged? Is that an impulse I could be ejected to re- 
 press? 
 
 Mer. That was not your feeling. 
 
 Teo. You know so much more about it than I do ! 
 
 Admiration is not far from love, Mercedes says pointedly, 
 but is its beginning. Teodora declares that she would 
 give her last drop of blood to save her husband. If Don 
 Severo would let her enter the room she would so inundate 
 him with tears and close him round with the passion of 
 her love that he would no longer doubt. How coidd she 
 
ECHEGARAY 81 
 
 be the victim of a hideous passion, she asks, be uncon- 
 sciously influenced by it, and in some sad and weak mo- 
 ment yield to the senses? 
 
 Mer. Do not cry so, Teodora. I believe in you. 
 Enough! No more tears. Let me but add one more 
 word, and there's an end to the matter. Ernest is not 
 what you believe him to be. He is not worthy of your 
 trust. 
 
 Tea. He is good, Mercedes. 
 
 Mer. No! 
 
 Teo. He is fond of Julian. 
 
 Mer. He would betray him. 
 
 Teo. Again! My God! 
 
 Mer. I no longer accuse you of responding to his pas- 
 sion, but I only assert — I would warn you — that he loves 
 
 Teo. [rising in anger]. Loves me! 
 
 Mer. It is known to everybody. Li this very room, a 
 moment ago, before Pepito and me — ^you understand? 
 
 Teo. No, explain at once — ^what? 
 
 Mer. He openly confessed it. He made a violent 
 declaration, swore that he was ready to sacrifice life, honor, 
 soul, and conscience for you. And when you came, he 
 wanted to see you. He only yielded to the force of my 
 entreaties and went away. I tremble lest he should meet 
 Severo and their encounter lead to an explosion. And 
 you — what have you to say now? 
 
 Teo. [who has listened to Mercedes intently, held in an 
 indefincAle, gloomy terror]. Heavens above! Can it be 
 true ? And I who felt — who professed so sincere an affection 
 for him! 
 
 Mer. There, you are on the point of crying agam. 
 
 Teo. The heart has no tears for the manifold deceptions 
 of this miserable life. A lad so pure and finely natured — 
 and to see him now so debased and spotted ! And you say 
 that he actually uttered those words here — ^he! — Ernest! 
 Oh, oh, Mercedes! send him away from this house. 
 
 Mer. Ah, that is what I wanted. Your energy con- 
 soles me. [With evidence of honest satisfaction.] Pardon 
 me — ^now I fully believe you. [Embraces her.] 
 
 Teodora is deeply shocked to find that Mercedes did not 
 believe in her before. She declares that she will not see 
 
82 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Ernest, but Mercedes urges her to show him her contempt, 
 and as Ernest comes in she leaves Teodora with him. 
 Teodora merely says adieu to Ernest, and wishes him all 
 happiness. He waits for a moment to see if she will oflFer 
 him her hand. She says she forgives him all the injury he 
 has done them, but that her husband is dying in there and 
 she feels as if she, too, were dying. He has fallen upon his 
 knee and taken her hand when a door opens and Don 
 Severo stands glowering at them. 
 
 In a voice of concentrated anger, pitched low so that 
 Don Julian will not hear, Don Severo exclaims that he can 
 find no epithet adequate to the passion of his contempt 
 for Ernest. He orders him to leave the house. Ernest 
 replies that he was upon the point of going but that this 
 insult has rooted his heels to the floor. Don Severo is 
 about to call the servants to put him out when Teodora 
 moves between them. 
 
 Teodora says they seem to forget that this is her house 
 as long as her husband lives and is its owner. She asks 
 Ernest to go. He bows and turns away, but stops as Don 
 Severo angrily tells Teodora she is an audacious and 
 Wretched woman, and accuses her as responsible for the 
 spilling of his brother's blood. Don Severo demands to 
 Imow why she returned and seizes her brutally by the 
 arm. Ernest rushes back and seizes Don Severo vio- 
 lently. 
 
 Severo. You impudent puppy! 
 
 Em. True, but I'll not release you. You loved and 
 respected yoiu* mother, I presume. For that reason you 
 must respect Teodora, and humbly bow before a sorrow so 
 immense as hers. This woman, sir, is purer, more honest 
 than the mother of such a man as you. 
 
 Severo. This to me? 
 
 Em. Yes, and I have not yet done. 
 
 Severo. Your life 
 
 Em. Oh, my life, as much as you like — ^but afterward. 
 [Teodora endeavors to part them, but he pushes her gently 
 away, icilhovi releasing Don Seveho.] You beUeve in a 
 God — ^in a Maker — ^in hope. Well, then, as you bend your 
 knee before the altar of that God above, so will I compel 
 you to kneel to Teodora — and that instantly, sir. Down 
 — ^in the dust. 
 
ECHEGARAY 88 
 
 Teo. For mercy's sake- 
 
 Ernest forces Don Severe to his knees. Teodora begs 
 him to release him, pointing in terror at Don Julian's door. 
 Ernest permits Don Severo to rise, and at that moment 
 they hear Don Julian telling some one to let him go, and 
 Mercedes' voice restraining him. The door opens. Don 
 Julian enters, pale and dying, Mercedes holding his arm. 
 
 Julian. Together! Where are they going? Who de- 
 tains them here? Away with you, traitors. [Wants to 
 rush at them, but strength fails him, and he staggers back.] 
 
 Severo [hurrying to his assistance]. No, no! 
 
 Julian. Severo, they deceived me — they lied to me — 
 the miserable pair! [While he speaks Don Skveko and 
 Dona Mercedes lead him to the armchair.] There, look at 
 them — ^both — she and Ernest! Why are they together? 
 
 Teo. and Em. [separating]. No. 
 
 Julian. Why don't they come to me? Teodora! 
 
 Teo. [stretches out her arms but does not advance]. Julian! 
 
 Julian. Here in my arms. [Teodora runs forward 
 and flings herself into Don Juuan's arms, who clasps her 
 feverishly. Pause.] You see — ^you seey-[to Don SevekoI 
 — I know well enough they were deceiving me. I hold her 
 thus in my arms. I crush and subdue her — ^I might kill 
 her — so ! and 'tis only what she deserves. But I look at 
 her — I look at her — and then I cannot! 
 
 He tells her not to He, saying he knows she loves Ernest. 
 Their protests do not move him. All Madrid knows it, 
 too, he declares. He will have no protests or deceitful 
 words. He works upon his anger and calls them wretched 
 traitors. 
 
 Em. It is fever that misleads you — ^not the testimony 
 of your eyes. 
 
 Julian. Fever, yes. And since fever is fire, it has 
 burnt away the bandage with which before you two had 
 blinded me, and at last I see you for what you are. And 
 now! — ^but why these glances at one another? Why, 
 traitors? Why do your eyes gleam so? Tell me, Ernest. 
 There are no tears in them to make them shine. Come 
 nearer — nearer to me. [Draws Ernest to him, bends his 
 head, and then sticceeds in thrusting him upon his knees. 
 He passes his hand over Ernest's eyes\ You see — ^no 
 tears — no tears — they are quite dry. 
 
84 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Em. Forgive me! Forgive me! 
 
 Julian. You ask my forgiveness? Then you acknowl- 
 edge your sin? 
 
 Em. No. 
 
 Julian. Yes. 
 
 Em. I say it is not so! 
 
 Julian. Then here before me, look at her. 
 
 Severo. Julian. 
 
 Mer. Sir! 
 
 Julian [to Teodoka and Ebnest]. Perhaps you are 
 afraid? Sd it is not like a brother that you cherish her? 
 If so, prove it. Let me see what sort of light shines in yoiu* 
 eyes aJs they meet — ^whether, to my close inspection, the 
 rays dart passion's flame or mild aflFection. Come here, 
 Teodora. Both — ^so — stUl nearer. [Drags Teodoha until 
 she stumbles, so that both faces are compelled toward each other.] 
 
 Tea. [frees herself with a violent effort]. Oh, no I 
 
 Em. [also strives to free himself, but is held in Don Jvir- 
 ujs's grasp]. I caimot. 
 
 Julian. You love one another — ^you can't deny it, for 
 I've seen it. [To Ernest.] Your life! 
 
 Em. Yes. 
 
 Julian. Your blood! 
 
 Em. AU. 
 
 Julian [forcing him to his knees]. Stay still. 
 
 Teo. Juhan! 
 
 Julian. Ah, you defend him, you defend him. 
 
 Teo. Not for his sake. 
 
 Severo. In God's name 
 
 Julian [to Severo]. Silence. [Still holds Ernest 
 down.] Baid friend, bad son! 
 
 Em. My father! 
 
 Julian. Disloyal! Traitor! 
 
 Em. No, father. 
 
 Julian. Here is my shameful seal upon your cheek. 
 To-day with my hand — soon with steel — so! [With a 
 supreme effort strikes Ernest. Ernest jumps up udth a 
 terrible cry, and turns away, covering his face.] 
 
 Everybody utters a startled cry. There is a moment of 
 stupefaction, and then Mercedes and Don Severo endeavor 
 to cahn Don Juhan, who stands staring at Ernest. They 
 take him away with difficulty. At the door he stops and 
 
ECH^GARAY 86 
 
 looks back. Teodora, he says, is crying for Ernest; she 
 does not see that he is dying. He crosses the threshold and 
 they close the door. 
 
 Ernest asks what is the use of loyalty, and Teodora 
 what is the use of innocence. They hear Don Severe cry 
 out and then Mercedes. 
 
 Em. He is dying. 
 
 Teo. Come at once. 
 
 Em. Where? 
 
 Teo. To him. 
 
 Em,. We cannot. [Detains her.] 
 
 Teo. Why not? I want him to live. 
 
 Em. And I ! — but I cannot. [Points to Don Julian's 
 room.] 
 
 Teo. Then I will. [Rushes to the door. Pepito and, 
 behind him, Don Seveko bar the way.] 
 
 Pep. Where are you going? 
 
 Teo. [in desperation], I must see him. 
 
 Pep. It is impossible. 
 
 Severo. She cannot pass. This woman must not re- 
 main in my house — turn her out at once! [To Pepito.] 
 No compassion — ^this very moment. 
 
 Em. What! 
 
 Teo. My mind is wandering. 
 
 Severo. Though your mother should stand in front of 
 that woman, Pepito, you have my orders. Obey them. 
 Never mind her prayers or supplications. K she should 
 cry — then let her cry. [With concentrated fury.] Away 
 with her, away — else I might kiU her. 
 
 Teo. Julian orders 
 
 Severo. Yes, Julian. 
 
 Em. Her husband! It cannot be. 
 
 Teo. I must see him. 
 
 Severo. Very well. Look at him once more — and then 
 — depart. 
 
 Pep. [interfering]. Father 
 
 Severo [pushing him away]. Stop, sir! 
 
 Teo. It can't be true. 
 Pep. This is too horrible. 
 
 Teo. It is a lie! 
 
 Severo. Come, Teodora — come and see. [Seizes her 
 arm and leads her to the door.] 
 
86 THE GREAT GALEOTO 
 
 Teo. Oh! My husband! Julian — dead. [Staggers 
 akudderingly hack, and jails half senseless.] 
 
 Em. [covering his face]. My father! [Paiise. Don 
 Sevebo watches them rancorously.] 
 
 Severe [to his son]. Turn her out. 
 
 Em. [placing himself before Teodoha]. What cruelty! 
 
 Pep. [dmibting]. Sir 
 
 Severo [to Pepito]. Such are my orders. Do you doubt 
 my word? 
 
 Em. Pity. 
 
 Severo [pointing to the death chamber]. Yes, such pity as 
 she showed him. 
 
 Em. Fire races through my veins. I will leave Spain, 
 sir. 
 
 Severo. It makes no di£Ference. 
 
 Em. She will die. 
 
 Severe. Life is short. 
 
 Em. For the last time 
 
 Severo. No more. [To his son.] Ring! 
 
 Em. But I tell you she is innocent. I swear it. 
 
 Pep. [interceding]. Father 
 
 Severo [with a contemptiums gesture]. That fellow lies. 
 
 Em. You impel me with the current. Then I will not 
 struggle against it. I go with it. I cannot yet know what 
 may be her opinion — [pointing to Teodoha] — of others 
 and of your outrages. Her lips are silent, mute her 
 thoughts. But what I thuik of it all — ^yes, I will tell you. 
 
 Severo. It is useless. It won't prevent me from 
 
 [Approaches Teodora.] 
 
 Pep. [restraining him]. Father 
 
 Em. Stay. [Paiise.] Let nobody touch this woman. 
 She is mine. The world has so desired it, and its decision 
 I accept. It has driven her to my arms. Come, Teodora. 
 [He raises her, and sustains her.] You cast her forth from 
 here. We obey you. 
 
 Severo. At last, you blackguard! 
 
 Em. Yes; now you are right. I will confess now. Do 
 you want passion? Then passion and delirium. Do you 
 want love? Then love — boundless love. Do you want 
 more? Then more and more. Nothing davmts me. Yours 
 the invention, I give it shelter. So you may tell the 
 tale. It echoes through all this heroic town. But should 
 
ECHEGARAY 87 
 
 any one ask you who was the infamous intermediary in 
 this infamy, you will reply "ourselves without being 
 aware of it, and with us the stupid chatter of busybodies. ' 
 Come, Teodora; my mother's spirit kisses your pure brow. 
 Adieu, all. She belongs to me, and let heaven choose its 
 day to judge between you and me. [Gathers Teodoba into 
 his embrace, vnth a glance of defiance arcnind.] 
 
THE SUBMERGED* 
 
 By Maxim Gorki 
 
 In "The Submerged" Gorki pictures the dregs of hu- 
 manity gathered in a lodging-house of the poorest sort, men 
 and women who are considered of as little value as vermin. 
 An old pilgrim tries to awaken the beauty in the souls of 
 these derelicts. Will any of those aroused to eflFort be able 
 to raise themselves to the stu^ace or will they be forced 
 down by society? 
 
 It is a morning of early spring. Light falling through a 
 square window in a vaulted stone ceiling reveals a base- 
 ment room with walls of solid masonry. Extended upon 
 benches are several lodgers, hapless and helpless outcasts 
 of a large Russian city. Three persons are occupied: 
 Kleshtsch, a lockmaker by trade, is at work on an old lock. 
 Bubnoff is cutting out caps from an old pair of trousers. 
 Nastiah, a girl of twenty-four, is reading a book entitled 
 "Disastrous Love." 
 
 There is one bed in the room. In it lies a sick woman, 
 the locksmith's wife, Anna. Now and then she is annoyed 
 beyond endurance by the loud talking and quarrelling of 
 the inmates. She asks if they will not let her die in peace. 
 Bubnoff replies that the noise is not keeping her from dying. 
 She complains that the room is stifling, but her husband 
 says he can do nothing about that, for if the door were 
 opened he should catch cold. An actor who is suffering 
 from alcoholic poisoning helps her to get up and go out 
 and sit in the entry way. 
 
 The keeper of the lodging-room is Kostilioff, a man of 
 fifty-four. Coming in, he takes a mistrustful look about, 
 goes to one end of the room and listens at a partition. 
 
 •Translated by Edwin Hopkins. Published in the Contemporary 
 Dramatists' Series by Richard G. Badger, Boston. 
 
 88 
 
GORKI 89 
 
 Kleshtsch claps furiously with his keys and files noisily. 
 The proprietor gives him a black look and asks if his wife 
 has been in, but Kleshtsch replies that he has not seen her. 
 Kostiliofi knocks on a door in the partition and calls for 
 Waska Pepel, the tenant of the space on the other 
 side. 
 
 Opening the door, Pepel asks what KostiUoff is bothering 
 him about. KostiUoff peers into the room but seems to 
 find nothing to say. Pepel, however, demands seven 
 rubles on a watch that KostiliofiE was going to dispose of 
 for him. The landlord replies that he never receives stolen 
 goods, and goes away again. One of the lodgers asks 
 Pepel why he does not fimsh KostiUoff, marry Wassilissa, 
 and become their landlord. The game does not seem 
 worth the candle to Pepel. The Actor, having wheedled a 
 few copecs from Pepel, invites Sahtin, one of the other 
 lodgers, to come out with him and get as drunk as forty 
 thousand topers. 
 
 Natasha, the sister of WassiUssa, brings in a new lodger, 
 Luka. He is an old man who has a staff in his hand, a sack 
 on his back, and a smaU kettle and tea boiler at his belt. 
 He greets the inmates as "honest folks." 
 
 Bubnoff. Honest were we once, as you must know, but 
 since last spring, a year ago . . . 
 
 Luka. It's all the same to me. I know how to respect 
 thieves, too. Any flea, say I, may be just as good as you 
 or me; all are black, and aJl jump . . . that's the 
 truth. Where shaU I quarter myseff here, my love? 
 
 Natasha [points to the kitchen d(Mr]. Gro in there, daddy. 
 
 Luka, Thankyou, mygirl, asyousay . . . a warm 
 comer is an old man's deUght. [Goes into the kitchen.] 
 
 Pepel. What an agreeable old chap you have brought 
 along, Natasha. 
 
 Nat. No matter, he is more interesting than you. 
 [Then to Kleshtsch.] Andrew, your wife is with us in the 
 kitchen . . . come for her after a while. 
 
 Kleshtsch. AU right, I'll come. 
 
 Nat. Be good to her now ... we won't have her 
 long. [Goes out.] 
 
 Pepel. A fine girl. 
 
 Bub. None better. 
 
 Pepel. But what has set her against me so? She alone 
 
90 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 . . . always refusing me . . . but this life will be 
 her ruin, all the same. 
 
 Bub. It is you who will be the ruin of her. 
 
 Pepel, I be her ruin . . .1 pity her . . . 
 
 Bub. As the wolf pities the lamb. 
 
 Pepel. You he! I do pity her . . . her lot is 
 very hard. . . . I see that. ... 
 
 Klesh. Just wait until Wassihssa finds you together. 
 
 Bub. Yes, Wassilissa! Nobody can play any tricks on 
 her, the fiend. 
 
 Pepel [stretches himself ord on the bunk]. The devil take 
 you both, prophets. 
 
 Klesh. Wait . . . and see. ... 
 
 Luka [within singing]. "In the darkness of midnight 
 no path can be found." 
 
 Klesh. Now he is beginning to howl. . . . He, too, 
 is beginning. [Goes out.] 
 
 Pepel. My heart is in the depths . . . why is it? 
 We live and Uve and everything goes well . . . then 
 all of a sudden . . . melancholy like a bUghting frost 
 settles upon us. Life is used up . . . 
 
 Bub. Sad, melancholy, eh? 
 
 Pepel. Yes ... by God. 
 
 Luka [singing]. "No path can be found." 
 
 Pepel. Heh, you bag of bones. 
 
 Luka [eniers]. Do you mean me? 
 
 Pepel. Yes, you. Cut out the singing. 
 
 Luka says that there is a girl in the kitchen weeping over 
 a book because the people in it are so pitiful, and that that 
 is the way she passes her time to drive away despondency. 
 Among the lodgers is a baron who, when he came there, 
 did not take the inmates for human beings even. Now 
 Pepel makes him beg for liquor by getting down on the 
 floor and barking like a dog. 
 
 Baron. To be sure, we have aU seen better days. I, for 
 example ... on waking up I used to drink my coffee 
 in bed . . . coffee with cream . . . that's 
 right. 
 
 Luka. And you are still a man. No matter what 
 somersaults you turn before us, as a man you were bom 
 and as a man you must die. The more I look about my- 
 self, the more I contemplate mankind, the more interesting 
 
GORKI 91 
 
 he grows . . . poorer and poorer he sinks and higher 
 and higher his aspirations mount . . . obstinacy. 
 
 Baron. Tell me, old man . . . exactly who you 
 are . . . where do you come from? 
 
 Luka. Who? I? 
 
 Baron. Are you a pilgrim? 
 
 Luka. We are all pilgrims here on this earth. . . . 
 It has been said, even, I am told, that our earth is only a 
 pilgrimage to Heaven's gate. . . . 
 
 Baron. It is so, but tell me . . . have you a 
 passport? 
 
 Luka [hesitatingly]. Who are you? A detective? 
 
 Pepel [briskly]. Well said, old man ! Ha, my lord, that 
 went home! 
 
 Bub. He gets what's coming to him. 
 
 Baron [disconcerted]. Well ! well! I am only joking, old 
 man. I've no papers, myself. 
 
 Bub. You lie! 
 
 Baron. That is to say . . . I have papers . . . 
 but they're of no use. 
 
 Luka. So it is with all pen scratches. They're of no use. 
 
 Pepel and the Baron go out. Bubnoff tells Luka that 
 the former was a noble, and says that even now the manner 
 clings to him, for breeding is like smallpox, the man re- 
 covers but the pits remain. 
 
 A drunken cobbler comes in and creates a disturbance, 
 and after he has gone away MedviedefiF, Wassilissa's uncle, 
 who is a policeman, enters. Meanwhile Luka has foimd 
 the sick woman creeping about alone in the entry, clinging 
 to the walls and moaning with pain and weakness. He 
 brings her in to the bed and asks why the others have 
 abandoned her so. A noise suddenly breaks out above, 
 stamping and smothered cries. 
 
 Medviedeff. Ah, the service! Why should people be 
 pulled apart when they brawl? They finally quit fighting 
 of their own accord . . . when they are tired of 
 thumping each other . . . the best thing to do is to 
 let them get their bellies full of fighting . . . then 
 they don't row so often . . . they aren't in shape 
 to. . . . 
 
 Buh. [gets off his bench]. You must lay your plan be- 
 fore the authorities. . . . 
 
92 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 KostUioff [iJirows open ^Ae door and cries]. Abram 
 . . . come . . . quick . . . Wassilissa is killiirg 
 Natasha . . . come . . . come! 
 
 Kvaschnya, MedviedeflE, Bubnoff, run to the entry, and 
 Luka looks after them, shaking his head. 
 
 Anna. Ah, God . . . the poor Natashenka! 
 
 Luka. Who is brawling there? 
 
 Anna. Our landlady . . . the two sisters . . . 
 
 Luka [approaches Anna]. Over heirlooms. 
 
 Anna. Both are well fed . . . both are 
 healthy. ... 
 
 Luka. And you . . . what is your name? 
 
 Anna. My name is Anna. . . . When I look at 
 you . . . you are so much like my father, just like my 
 own dear father . . . you, too, are so kind and 
 tender. . . . 
 
 Luka. Because they have knocked me about the world 
 so much, that is why I am tender. [Chuckles to himself.] 
 
 That eveniag the Baron and Sahtin, with two porters, 
 Krivoi Zoba and a Tartar, are sitting on a bunk before the 
 stove playing cards. Kleshtsch and the Actor are watch- 
 ing the game. Bubnoff on his bench is playing Parti- 
 dame with Medviedeff. Luka is sitting by Anna's bed. 
 She is telling him that she has endured Ulness and blows 
 all her life, and that she can never remember having 
 enough to eat. Her whole life she has gone in rags. 
 
 Anna. I am always thinking to myself: My Saviour 
 . . . shall I there, too ... in that world . . . 
 endure such tortures? 
 
 Luka. No! Never! . . . You will suffer nothing. 
 Lie perfectly still . . . and have no fear. You shall 
 find peace there! Be patient yet a little while . . . 
 we must all suffer, my love . . . Every one endures 
 life in his own way. 
 
 The porters catch the Baron cheating and refuse to play 
 any more. They go out, as do also the Baron and Sahtin, 
 calling to the Actor to go along with them. The Actor 
 stops to recite a poem to Luka, but he cannot recall it. 
 He says he has lost his memory almost entirely since his 
 organism has become so poisoned with alcohol. He de- 
 clares he is a lost man. Luka tells him he can be cured; 
 
GORKI 93 
 
 he must be abstemious and suffer for a while. The Actor 
 replies solemnly that he can and will. In the meantime 
 . . . he goes out after his companions. 
 
 Anna. Daddy. 
 
 Luka. What is it, Uttle mother? 
 
 Anna. Talk a little bit to me. . . . 
 
 Luka [going to her]. Gladly ... let us have a 
 long chat. 
 
 [Kleshtsch looks around, silently goes to the bed of his 
 vnfe, looks at her, gesticulates, as if about to spmfc.] 
 
 Luka. Well, brother? 
 
 Klesh. [whispers as if in fear]. Nothing. [Goes slowly 
 to door. Remains a few moments, then goes out.] 
 
 Luka [foUawing him with his eyes]. Your husband seems 
 to be oppressed. 
 
 Anna. I cannot think of him any more. 
 
 Luka. Has he beaten you? 
 
 Anna. How often. . . . He has brought me 
 . . . to this. 
 
 Bvb. My wife . . . had once an admirer. He 
 played with kings and queens quite splendidly, the 
 rascal. ... 
 
 Med. Hm. 
 
 Anna. Grandfather. . . . Talk to me, my dear 
 . . . I am lonely. . . . 
 
 Luka. That is nothing. That may be felt before 
 death, my dove. It means nothing, dear. Have faith. 
 You will die, you see, and then enter into rest. Have fear 
 of nothing more, of nothing more. It will be still and 
 peaceful . . . and you will he resting there. Death 
 subdues everything . . . he is so tender with us. 
 . . . Only in death shall rest be found, they say . . . 
 and such is the truth, my love! Where shall rest be found 
 here? 
 
 [Pepbl enters a little drunk, dishevelled, and sullen. 
 He sits on the bunk by the kitchen door, silent and 
 motionless.] 
 
 Anna. And shall there be such torture there? 
 
 Luka. Nothing is there! BeUeve me, nothing! Rest 
 alone — nothing else. They will lead you before the Mas- 
 ter and will say: "Look, oh, Master — thy servant Anna is 
 come. . . ." 
 
94 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 Med. [vig(yr(yusly\. How can you know what shall be 
 said there: have you ever heard. . . . 
 
 [Pepel, ai the sound of Medviedeff's voice, raises 
 his head and listens^ 
 
 Luka. My information is reUable, Mr. Commis- 
 sioner. . . . 
 
 Med. [sofUy]. Hm — ^yes. Nyah, it is your affair 
 . . . that means . . . but I am not a commis- 
 sioner. . . . 
 
 Bub. Two birds with one stone . . . 
 
 Med. Ah, you, the devil take you. . . . 
 
 Luka. And the Master will look upon you in loving 
 kindness and will say: "I know this Anna! Now," he 
 will say, "lead her forth into Paradise. May she there 
 find peace. ... I know her life was wearisome 
 . . . she is very tired ... let her have rest, our 
 Anna." 
 
 Anna. Grandfather . . . you, my dear . . . 
 if only it is so . . . if I there . . . find peace 
 . . . and feel nothing more. , . . 
 
 Luka. You will suffer nothing . . . nothing! Only 
 have faith! Die joyfully, without anxiety. . . 
 Death to us, I say unto you, is like a mother soothing her 
 children. . . . 
 
 Anna. But . . . perhaps ... I will get well 
 again? 
 
 Luka [laughing]. For what? To fresh tortures? 
 
 Anna. But I might still . . . live a little while 
 . . . a very Httle while ... if there is no torture 
 beyond ... I can afford to suffer at the end here a 
 little more. . . . 
 
 Luka. There shall be no more pain . . . none at 
 all. 
 
 Pepel [rising]. True — ^it may be, and may not be! 
 
 Anna. Ah, God. . . . 
 
 Luka. Ah, my dear boy. . . . 
 
 Med. Who is howling there? 
 
 Pepel [going to him]. Me, what's the matter? 
 
 Med. People must keep quiet in here. . . . You 
 have no cause for howling. 
 
 Pepel. Ah . . . blockhead! And you her uncle 
 . . . ha, ha! 
 
GORKI 95 
 
 Luka [whispers to Pepel]. Listen, boy — ^not so loud. 
 A woman is dying here. . . . Her lips are covered with 
 earth already . . . don't disturb her. . . . 
 
 Pepel. As you say so, grandfather, I will listen to you. 
 You are a splendid chap, pilgrim . . . you tell them 
 famously . . . you're full of nice stories. Keep it 
 up, brother, keep it up . . . there is so little pleasure 
 in the world. 
 
 Bub. Is she dying for keeps? 
 
 Luka. I guess she is not fooling. 
 
 Bub. Then we will finally be rid of that coughing 
 . . . a great nuisance, her everlasting coughing . . . 
 I take two. . . . 
 
 Med. Ah . . . the devil take you. 
 
 Pepel. Abram. . . . 
 
 Med. I am not Abram ... for you. . . . 
 
 Pepel. Abrashka, tell me — is Natasha still sick? 
 
 Med. Does that concern you? 
 
 Pepel. No, but say: did Wassilissa really beat her up 
 so badly? 
 
 Med. And that's none of your business, either . . . 
 that's a family affair . . . who are you, anyhow, eh? 
 
 Pepel. I may be who I am — but when it suits me, I 
 will take yoiu: Natasha away. You will not see her 
 again. 
 
 Med. [interrupting his playing]. What do you say? 
 Whom are you talking about? My niece shall . . . 
 ach, you thief! 
 
 Pepel. A thief — that you have not yet caught. 
 
 Med. Wait! I'll soon catch you ... in a very 
 little while I will have you. . . . 
 
 Pepel. Whenever it suits you , . , and then your 
 whole nest here will be torn up. Do you think I'll hold my 
 tongue when it comes to the coroner? There you're 
 badly mistaken. Who incited you to theft, they will ask 
 — ^who put the opportunity before you? Mischka Kos- 
 tilioff and his wife. And who received the stolen goods? 
 Mischka Kostilioff and his wife. 
 
 Med. You lie! Nobody will believe it. 
 Pepel. They will quickly believe — ^because it is the 
 truth. And I'U get you into the muddle, too, and the rest 
 of you, you gang of thieves — we shall soon see. 
 
96 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 Luka advises Pepel to go to Siberia, which he says is a 
 golden land where a man with strength and a clear head 
 develops, but Pepel doubts if it is any better there. Bub- 
 noff leaves them discussing, and Wassilissa comes in. 
 She draws Pepel aside and Luka pretends to go out, closing 
 the door noisUy and then coming back and chmbing on top 
 of the stove. Wassilissa looks about to assure herself that 
 there is no one near but the dying woman, and then asks 
 Pepel if it is true that he is sick of her. 
 
 He says that she is beautiful, throwing off her arm as 
 she tries to put it around his neck, but that he has never 
 loved her, never truly liked her. Now, he says, there is 
 nothing more to talk about. He tells her to go away. 
 She asks if he has found pleasure in another, fi so, she 
 might be able to bring things about. 
 
 Pepel [siispiciously]. Who with? 
 
 Wassilissa. You know who I mean • . . don't 
 deny it. ... I talk straight out from the shoulder 
 — [softly] — I will only say . . . you have deeply 
 wronged me . . . without provocation you have 
 struck me a blow, as with a club . . . you always 
 said you loved me, and . . . all of a sudden. . . . 
 
 Pepel. All of a sudden . . . not at all. . . . 
 I have thought so, long . . . you have no soul. 
 . . . In a woman there should be a soul. We men 
 are animals . . . we know nothing else . . . 
 and men must first be taught goodness . . . and you, 
 what good have you taught me? . . . 
 
 Was. What has been has been . . . I know that we 
 cannot control the impulses of our hearts ... if you 
 love me no more — ^good . . . it is all the same to me. 
 
 Pepel.^ All right, then. It is settled. We separate in 
 friendship, without scandal . . . pleasantly! 
 
 Was. Stop, not so quick. During the whole time that 
 we have lived together . . . I have always hoped you 
 would help me out of this cesspool here . . . that you 
 would free me from my husband, from my uncle . . . 
 from this whole life . . . and perhaps I have not 
 loved you, Waska, at all . . . perhaps in you I love 
 only . . . my one hope, my one dream ... do 
 you understand? I had hoi>ed you would pull me 
 out. . . . 
 
GORKI 97 
 
 Pepel. You are no nail and I am no tongs ... I 
 had thought you would finish him; with your slyness 
 . . . for you are sly and quickwitted . . . [Sits 
 cO, R. table] 
 
 Was. \leans toward him]. Waska, we will help each 
 other. . . . 
 
 Pepel. How, then? 
 
 Was. \in a low tone, with expression]. My sister . . . 
 you have taken a fancy to her, I know it. . . . 
 
 Pepel. And you knock her about so brutally on that 
 account. I'll say this to you, Waska: don't touch her 
 again. 
 
 Was. Wait. Not so hotly. It can all be done quietly, 
 in friendliness. . . . Many her whenever you feel like 
 it. I'll find the money, three hundred rubles. If I can 
 get more I'll give you more. 
 
 Pepel[rocks on his seat back and forth]. Hold on. . . . 
 How do you mean that. What for? 
 
 She wants her husband put out of the way. If he is 
 afraid to do it himself, he can get some one. Natasha 
 dreads him, too, for he oppresses both of them. While she 
 is ai'guing with him KostiliofI comes in warily. He re- 
 marks that he finds them alone, and asks if they have been 
 chatting for a spell. Then he suddenly stamps his feet 
 and screeches aloud, execrating Wassilissa. Frightened 
 by his own voice, which is answered only by an echoing 
 sUence, he asks the Lord for mercy. Pepel tells him to 
 get out, and they begin to wrangle. Finally Pepel seizes 
 him by the collar and begins to shake him. 
 
 There is a sound from the direction of the stove. Pepel 
 loosens his hold, as Luka, pretending to be just waking, 
 crawls down. KostiliofE goes out and Wassihssa follows 
 him. Luka says it was lucky he was there. He counsels 
 Pepel to keep away from Wassilissa, and not to hsten to her 
 on any account. He shows his bald head. There is not a 
 hair left, he says, and all because of the women, for perhaps 
 he has known more women than he had hairs on his 
 head. 
 
 Luka. Say no more. . . . Listen. If there is a girl, 
 take the one you like best — take her by the hand and go 
 away together; quite away, a long way oflF. . . . 
 
 Pepel IghomUy]. We caimot know each other: who is 
 
98 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 good, who is bad. . . . Nothing certain is known to 
 us. . . . 
 
 Luka. Of what importance can that be? Man's ways 
 vary . . . following the different desires of his heart; 
 so he lives, good to-day, bad to-morrow. And if you love the 
 girl, then puU out, settle it. Or go alone. You are young, 
 you have still time enough to be enmeshed by a woman. 
 
 Pepel [takes him by the shoulder]. No, but say — ^why do 
 you tell me all this. . . . 
 
 Luka. Hold on. Let me go . . . I must look after 
 Anna. . . . Her throat is rattling. [He goes to Anna's 
 bed, strikes the curtain back, looks at the prostrate form and 
 touches it with his hand. Pepel, uneasy and depressed, 
 follows him.] Lord Jesus Christ, All Powerful! receive in 
 peace the soul of this newcomer, thy servant Anna . . . 
 
 The lodgers begin to come back, some of them drunk, 
 and there is more rowing and noise than usual. 
 
 At the rear of the lodging-house, between it and a stable, 
 is an open space filled with rubbish and weeds. The set- 
 ting sun throws a red hght against a brick wall that shuts 
 off the rear. Natasha and Nastiah are sitting on a beam, 
 and Luka and the Baron on a pile of boards. Bubnoff is 
 looking out of a low window. 
 
 Nastiah [with closed eyes, moving her head in time to the 
 story which she is telling in a singsong voice], Li the night, 
 then, he came to the garden, to the summer bower, as we 
 had arranged ... I had waited long, trembling for 
 fear and grief . . . and he, too, was trembUng from 
 head to foot, and chalk white, but in his hand he held a 
 . . . pistol. . . . 
 
 Nat. [nibbling at sunflower seeds]. Just Usten . . . 
 these students are all as mad as March hares. 
 
 Nas. And in a terrible voice, he said to me: my true 
 love. . . . 
 
 Bub. Ha, ha, my "true" love, did he say? 
 
 Baron. Be stiU there, let her humbug in peace — you 
 don't have to listen if it don't please you ... go on. 
 
 Nas. My heart's distraction, said he, my golden treas- 
 ure; my parents refuse to allow me, said he, to marry you, 
 and threaten me with their curses if I do not give you up, 
 and so I must, said he, take my life . . . and his pistol 
 
GORKI 99 
 
 was frightfully large, and loaded with ten bullets. . . . 
 Farewell, said he, true friend of my heart! My decision is 
 irrevocable ... I cannot live without you. But I 
 answered him, my never-to-be-forgotten friend . . . 
 myRaoul. ... 
 
 Bub. [astonished\. What's his name . . . Graul? 
 
 Baron. You are mistaken, Nastiah ! The last time you 
 called him Gaston. 
 
 Nas. [springing up]. Silence! You vagabond curs! 
 Can you understand what love is . . . real, genuine 
 love! And I ... I have tasted this genuine love. 
 [To the Baron.] You imworthy scamp. . . . You 
 were an educated man . . . you say, have drunk your 
 coffee in bed. . . . 
 
 Luka. Have patience! Don't scold her! Show human 
 beings some consideration. . , . It is not what man 
 says but why he says it— that's the point. Keep on, my 
 love — they don't mean anything. 
 
 Bub. Always laying on the bright hues, raven . . , 
 Nyah, cut loose again! 
 
 Baron. Go on. 
 
 Nat. Pay no attention to them . . . who are they, 
 anyway? They only speak out of envy . . . because 
 they have nothing to tell about themselves , . . 
 
 Nas. [sits down again]. I don't want to . . . I won't 
 tell anything more ... if they don't like to believe it 
 . . . and laugh about it. [Suddenly brightens up. Is 
 silent a few seconds, closes her eyes again and begins in a loud 
 and rapid voice, keeping time vnth her hand, while in the dis- 
 tance ringing music is heard.] And I answered him: Joy 
 of my life! O my ghttering star! Without you I, too, 
 could not live . . . because I love you madly and 
 must love you always, as long as my heart beats in my bo- 
 som! But, said I, rob yourself not of your young life 
 . . . for look, your dear parents whose single joy you 
 are — they stand in need of you. Give me up ... I 
 would rather pine away . . . out of longing for you, 
 my love ... I am — alone ... I am — ^wholly 
 yours . . . yes, let me die . . . what matters it 
 . . . I am good for nothing , . . and have nothing 
 . . . absolutely nothing . . . [Covers her face ivith 
 her hands and cries softly.] 
 
100 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 Nat. [goes to her side, quieUy]. Don't. [Ltjka strokes 
 Nastiah's head, latighing.] 
 
 Bub. [laughs aloud]. Oh ... ho ... a de- 
 ceiving minx . . . eh? 
 
 The Baron says she gets the story out of "Disastrous 
 Love." Nastiah asks him furiously where his soul is, but 
 Luka pacifies her, and assures her that if she beUeves herself 
 what she says, then she has had just such true love. He 
 goes away with her. The Baron says the old man is good- 
 hearted but intolerably stupid. BubnoflF finds him always 
 lying as if he were before a coroner. Natasha admits that 
 she thinks lots of lies, and waits. She thinks perhaps 
 somebody will come to-morrow, or something may happen. 
 The Baron replies that none of them can expect anything at 
 all. Luka comes back again and reproves the Baion for 
 tormenting Nastiah. 
 
 Luka. Go, treat her with friendliness ... treat 
 every one with friendliness — injure no one. 
 
 Nat. How good you are, grandfather . . . how is 
 it that you are so good? 
 
 Luka. I am good, you say. Nyah . . . if it is 
 true, all right. . . . [Behind the red wall is heard soft 
 singing and accordeon flaying.] But you see, my girl — 
 there must be some one to be good . . . We must 
 have pity on mankind. Christ, remember, had pity for 
 us all and so taught us to be likewise. Have pity when 
 there is still time, believe me, it is very good. 
 
 Klesh. [springing up as though stabbed, crying]. What 
 is the truth? Where is the truth — ^where! [5ea<« with his 
 hands on his torn clothes.] There is the truth — ^there! No 
 work. . . , No strength ... in the Kmbs — ^that 
 is the truth! No shelter ... no shelter. . . . 
 It is time to die, that is yoiu* truth, curse it! What is it 
 to me, this — truth? Only let me sigh in peace — ^let me 
 sigh. What have I done? Why the devil should we have 
 truth? Curse it, we can't live . . . that is the truth! 
 
 Bub. Just Usten . . . he Is full of matter. . . . 
 
 Luka. The good Lord . . . but say, my friend, 
 you. . . . 
 
 Klesh. [trembling with excitement]. I have heard you talk 
 of the truth. You, pilgrim — ^you consoling every one 
 . . . and I say to you: I hate every one. And this 
 
GORKI 101 
 
 truth, too, this accursed truth ... do you under- 
 stand? Mark you, accursed shall truth be. 
 
 [Hurries out, looking bach as he goes. 
 
 The truth is not a cure for every ill, Luka says, and he 
 tells a story of a man who had always believed that there 
 was a land of justice, but finding at last that it was not 
 shown on any map he went home and strangled himself. 
 
 Luka tells them that he will leave them soon. He is 
 going to Little Russia where, he has heard, they have dis- 
 covered a new religion. He will go and see what it is. 
 Men search and search, always looking for something better, 
 he says. Pepel, who has come out, asks if he thinks 
 they will find it. Luka repUes that they certainly shall 
 find it. He who yearns finds; he who searches zealously 
 finds. Natasha hopes they will find something. Lul^ 
 tells her she can help. 
 
 Pepel now asks Natasha to leave the place and go away 
 with him. He has already promised that he will give up 
 stealing. He has no regret, having consoled his conscience 
 with the thought that others steal more than he and are 
 respected. But he feels that he must hve in a different 
 way. He must live so that he can respect himself. To- 
 day, Natasha says, she is disquieted; she dreads something. 
 She would not begin to-day. She says she loves him 
 . . . not too much . . . sometimes she likes him 
 . . . but then at times she cannot look at him . . . 
 in any case she does not love him . . . when one 
 loves, one sees no fault in the one beloved. He tells her 
 that he has been watching her for a year and sees that she 
 is a good, true woman, and that he loves her with all his 
 heart. Wassilissa comes in at the back and stands 
 there. 
 
 Pepel [gloomily]. Have pity on me. It is no easy life 
 that I lead — ^friendless; pursued like a wolf. ... I 
 sink like a man in a swamp . . . whatever I clutch is 
 slimy and rotten . . . nothing is firm . . . your 
 sister, though, would be different ... if she were 
 not so avaricious ... I would have risked every- 
 thing for her ... if she had only kept faith with me 
 . . . but her heart is set on something else . . . her 
 heart is full of greed . . . and longs for freedom — and 
 only that longing in order to become more dissolute. She 
 
102 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 cannot help me . . . but you — ^like a young fir tree, 
 you are prickly but you give support. . . . 
 
 Luka. And I say to you: take him, my daughter, take 
 him. He is a good-hearted boy. All you must do is to 
 remind him often that he is good ... so that he will 
 not forget it. He wiU soon believe you. Only say to him, 
 often: Waska, you are a good man . . . don't forget 
 it! Think it over, my love — ^what else shall you begin? 
 Your sister — she is a bad lot: and of her husband — ^notlung 
 good can be said either: no words can be foimd to express 
 his baseness . . . and this whole life here . . , 
 where shall you find a way out? . . . But Waska 
 . . . he is a lusty fellow. 
 
 Nat. I cannot find a way . . . I know that . . . 
 I have already thought it over myself . . . but I 
 . . . whom can I trust? . . , I see no way 
 out. . . . 
 
 Pepel. There is but one way . . . but I shall not 
 let you take it ... I wovdd kill you first. . . . 
 
 Nat. [laughing]. Just look ... I am not yet your 
 wife, and you wiU already kill me. 
 
 Pepel [putting his arms around her]. Say, "yes," Natasha. 
 It will soon be well. . . . 
 
 Nat. [presses him affectionately]. . . . One thing I 
 will tell you, WassiU. . . . And God shall be my wit- 
 ness: if you strike me a single time ... or insult me 
 . . . that shall be the end . . . either I hang 
 myself, or . . . 
 
 Pepel. May this hand wither up if I touch you . . . 
 
 Luka assures Natasha that she can believe him, and 
 that they are necessary to each other's happiness. Natasha 
 is frightened at discovering that Wassilissa has been watch- 
 ing them and overhearing what they said. Pepel says she 
 has nothing to fear now. Kostilioff also comes out and 
 orders Natasha into the house to work. Pepel teUs her 
 not to obey, but stung by taunts that Wassilissa flings at 
 him he is unable to keep his temper and finally acts on 
 Luka's advice and goes away. 
 
 KostiliofiF advances on Luka threateningly and demands 
 to know what he is stirring up. He tells him he had better 
 not concern himself with other people's affairs, and then 
 asks if he has his passport. Luka says that Kostihoff is a 
 
GORKI 103 
 
 stony field, not worth sowing. Kostilioff tells him to keep 
 out of the row, and to leave the house. Wassihssa echoes 
 his injunction, remarking that Luka's tongue is too long, 
 and that for all any one knows he may be an escaped con- 
 vict. 
 
 Kostilioff intimates that something disagreeable will 
 happen unless Luka disappears that evening. Luka in- 
 quires if otherwise he does not mean to call his wife's uncle, 
 who is on the police force, and tell him that he can obtain 
 a reward of three copecs by catching a convict. Bubnoff 
 sticks his head out of the window and asks what they are 
 haggling about. Luka replies, "We are trying to sell me." 
 Bubnoff advises him to take care lest they sell him for one 
 copec. 
 
 When the lodging-house keeper and his wife have taken 
 themselves off, Sahtin comes in with the Actor. They are 
 quarrelling, and Sahtin asks Luka what spark he has cast 
 into this burned stump. The Actor has worked cleaning 
 the pavement and has not drunk any spirits. He shows 
 the money he has received, which Sahtin is trying to per- 
 suade him to spend on hquor. The Actor says it is for 
 his journey. 
 
 Screaming suddenly breaks out in the house. 
 
 Nat. [vnthin]. WTiat are you doing — stop . . . 
 what have I done? 
 
 Luka [disquieted]. Who is screaming there? Was it 
 not Natasha? Ah, you. . . . [From Kostiuoff's 
 room is heard a loud alarm, and then from the kitchen the 
 sound of crashing dishes.] 
 
 Kos.[v}ithin, screaming]. A — ^ah — ^youcat — ^you . . . 
 heathen. 
 
 Was. [within]. Wait ... I'll give her . . . 
 so . . . so . . . and so . . . 
 
 Nat. [within]. Help! They are killing me! 
 
 Sahtin [into the passage shoviing]. Heh, there! What 
 are you howling about? 
 
 Luka [walks about uneasily]. Wasja ... he must 
 be caUed. . . . Wassili. ... Oh, God. . . . 
 Children, my dears. 
 
 Actor [hurries out]. I'll bring him . . . right 
 away. ... 
 
 Bub. They're treating the poor girl badly these days. 
 
104 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 Sahtin. Come, pilgrim ... we will be witnesses. 
 
 Luka [exit after Sahtin]. Why witnesses.? Too often, 
 already, have I been a witness. K Waska would only come 
 . . . Oh! this is terrible! 
 
 Nai. [vnthiri]. Sister . . . dear sister . . . 
 wah . . . wa . . . a. . . . 
 
 Bub. Now they have stopped her mouth. . . . I'll 
 see myself. [The noise in Kostilioff's room is weaker, 
 and nothing comes from the kitchen.] 
 
 Kos. [vdthin]. Halt! [A door is slammed vnthin, and 
 the whole noise is cut off as if by a hatchet. On the stage 
 silence. . . . It is tiidlight.] 
 
 Klesh. [sUs on bench taking no part, and rubbing his hands 
 together. Then he begins to mumble to himself, at first in- 
 distinctly. Then louder]. How, then? ... a man 
 must live. [Louder.] At least a shelter . . . but 
 no, not that . . . not even a comer where I can lie 
 down. . . . Nothing but the bare man . . . 
 helpless and deserted. [Ex. bent over, slowly. 
 
 For a few moments ominous silence. Then somewhere 
 within a terrible noise, a chaos of tones, louder and louder 
 and nearer and nearer. Then a single voice is heard. 
 
 Was. [vnthin]. I am her sister. Let me go. . . . 
 
 Kost. [loithin]. What right have you to interfere? 
 
 Was. [vnthin]. You convict! 
 
 Sahtin [vnthin]. Bring Wasjka ... be quick 
 . . . Zoba, strike. [A policeman's whistle is heard.] 
 
 Tartar [jumps down the steps, his right hand bound up]. 
 What sort of laws are these ... to murder in broad 
 daylight? [Keivoi Zoba hurries in, followed by Kos- 
 
 TIMOFF.] 
 
 Krivoi Zoba. Now, he got it from me. 
 
 Med. How did you come to strike him? 
 
 Tartar. And you — do you not know what your duty is? 
 
 Med. [running after Keivoi Zoba]. Stop! Give me my 
 whistle back. [Exit. 
 
 Kos. [enters]. Abram! Catch him . . . hold him 
 tight. He has killed me. . . . 
 
 Down the steps come Kvaschnya and Nastiah. They 
 help Natasha, who is badly beaten up. Sahtin runs up the 
 stairs, bumping into Wassilissa, who is throwing her arms 
 about and trying to strike her sister. Alyoschka is jump- 
 
GORKI 105 
 
 ing around like one possessed. He whistles in Wassilissa's 
 ear and howls. A couple of ragged fellows and some men 
 and women appear. 
 
 Sahiin [to Wassilissa]. Enough, you damned owl! 
 Was. Away, convict. If it costs me my life, I will tear 
 her to pieces. 
 
 Kvaschnya [Imds Natasha aside]. Stop, Karpovna 
 . . . for shame! How can you be so iohuman? 
 
 Med. [reenters, takes Sahtin by the collar]. Aha! Now 
 I have you! 
 
 Sahtin. Krivoi Zoba.' Strike. . . . Wasja, Wasja. 
 [All storm the entrance, Natasha is taken to the bed, L.] 
 Pepel enters. Pushes them away. 
 Pepel. Where is Natasha, you? 
 
 Kost. [crouches on the steps]. Abram! Catch Wasjka 
 . . . brother, help catch Wasjka . . . the thief 
 . . . the robber. . . . 
 
 Pepel. There, you old goat. [Strikes Kostilioff 
 brutally. He fails so that his body lies on the landing, his 
 legs hidden up the stairs. Pepel hurries to Natasha.] 
 
 Was. Fix Wasjka . . . friends ... do up 
 the thief! 
 
 Jfed. [to Sahtin]. You shouldn't have interfered . . . 
 this is a family affair here. They are all related to each 
 other . . . and who are you? 
 
 Pepel [to Natasha]. What did she hit you with? Did 
 she stab you. . . . 
 
 Kvaschnya. Look what a beast. They have scalded 
 her legs with hot water. 
 
 Nas. They turned the samovar over. . . . 
 Tartar. It might have been an accident ... if 
 you are not sure you should not accuse. . . . 
 
 Nat. [half unconscious]. Wassili . , . take me 
 away . . . hide me. . . . 
 
 Was. Look, my friends . . . come here. He is 
 dead . . . they have killed him. . . . [All gather 
 at the landing. Bubnoff separates himself from the others 
 and crosses to Pepel.] 
 
 Bub.[sofUy]. Wasjka! The old man . . . is done for. 
 Pepel [looks at Btjbnoff as though he did not understand]. 
 Get a cab . . . she must be taken to the hospital. 
 ... I'll settle the bill. 
 
106 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 Bvh. Listen to what I'm saying. Somebody has 
 finished the old man. . . . 
 
 [The noise on the stage subsides like afire into which 
 water has been poured. Half-aloud separate sen- 
 tences are uttered.] 
 
 Is it really true? 
 
 We have it there. 
 
 Terrible. 
 
 We had better get out, brother. 
 
 The devil! 
 
 We need clear heads now. 
 
 Get out before the poUce come. 
 
 The group becomes smaller. Bubnoff and the Tartar 
 disappear. Nastiah and Kvaschnya stoop over Kostili- 
 off's body. 
 
 WassiUssa exults loudly over the murder of her husband. 
 Suddenly catching sight of Pepel she declares that he did the 
 act, that she saw him. He is restrained from setting upon 
 her, and Sahtin leads him back to Natasha, telling him not 
 to worry as one gets only a short sentence for kilUng some- 
 body in a row. Pepel, who believes that he struck the 
 fatal blow, says he will drag Wassilissa into it by swearing 
 that he killed her husband at her instigation. Natasha 
 seizes on this explanation. Pepel pleads with her not to 
 think that he planned it with her sister. The police 
 arrive. 
 
 Was. [on the landing]. They killed my husband . . . 
 you high born . . . Waska Pepel, the thief , killed him, 
 Mr. Commissioner, I saw it . . . everybody saw it. 
 
 Nat. [waMzing about half senseless]. Good people 
 . . . my sister and Waska . . . they killed him. 
 Mr. Policeman . . . listen to me . . . these 
 two, my sister put him up to it . . . her lover . . . 
 she instigated him . . . there he is, the accursed — 
 the two did it. Arrest them . . . take them to court 
 . . . and take me, too ... to prison with me! 
 For the sake of God ... to prison. 
 
 Some of the former inmates of the lodging-house have 
 disappeared and others have taken their places. It is 
 night, and Sahtin, the Baron, and Nastiah are sitting about 
 a table with a bottle of vodka, three bottles of beer, and a 
 
GORKI 107 
 
 hunk of black bread lying before them. The Actor is lying 
 on the stove, shifting about and coughing. They discuss 
 old Luka and his theories. He has stirred up some of the 
 lodgers, but they do not know how to make a beginning 
 on a new life. Kleshtsch starts up from a corner and de- 
 clares the old man was no friend of the truth. 
 
 Sahtin claims that he understood Luka, though no one 
 else did. What is truth? he asks. Mankind is truth. 
 That, he says, was what the old man had seized upon. 
 His lies he told out of sympathy, and they were soothing, 
 conciliating lies. There are lies which justify the taking 
 away of Kleshtsch's anvil and tools, which he had to give 
 up to pay for his wife's burial; and lies which justify the 
 mashed hand of the toiler, for the Tartar's hand was 
 crushed at his work; and lies which bring charges against 
 the starving. 
 
 Sahtin. He who has a timid heart ... or Uves at 
 another's table, should be lied to ... it gives him 
 courage . . . puts a mantle on his shoulders . . . 
 but he who is his own master, who is independent, and 
 Uves not from the sweat of another's brow . . . what 
 are lies to him? The lie is the religion of servant and mas- 
 ter . . . the truth is the inheritance of free men! 
 
 Once Sahtin asked Luka why men live, and his answer 
 was : to give birth to strength. His theory was that every 
 one was existing and working so that the occasional genius 
 might be produced, and he gives a new face to a whole 
 trade. 
 
 The allusion to genius reminds the Baron of the founder 
 of his own family in the time of Catherine. His grand- 
 father was a rich man, he says, and held a high position. 
 Nastiah rails at him for his lies, and he breaks out in a 
 passion. He swears he has documents to prove every- 
 thing he says. Sahtin tells him to throw them into the 
 stove, and to forget his grandfather's coach, for in the 
 coach of the past nobody gets anywhere. 
 
 Sahtin asks Nastiah if she often goes to the hospital to 
 see Natasha, but Nastiah tells them that Natasha left the 
 hospital some time ago and has disappeared. She thinks 
 that Wassilissa will lie herself out of her trouble and that 
 Pepel will be sent to the mines. 
 
 Nastiah suddenly reviles her companions and dashes a 
 
108 THE SUBMERGED 
 
 cup on the floor, to show what she would do to them if 
 she could. When she has gone out Sahtin and the Baron 
 tell of the crimes which wrecked their Hves. The Baron 
 at last goes out to look for Nastiah. 
 
 The Actor calls out after the Baron, "Pray for me." 
 He repeats the same words to the Tartar, who tells him 
 shortly to pray for himself. He gets down from the stove, 
 pours out a glass of vodka, which he drinks with a trem- 
 bling hand, and goes out hastily, almost running. 
 
 Medviedeff and BubnoflF enter. Bubnoff has a bottle 
 of vodka under one arm and another in a pocket. He 
 places them on the table and invites all to help them- 
 selves. If he were a rich man, he says, he would have a 
 barroom in which everything would be free, with music 
 and a choir of singers. He also has a bundle of pretzels 
 and a couple of smoked fish, and invites his comrades to 
 eat as well as drink in his free barroom. 
 
 From time to time couples enter, men and women, un- 
 dress, stretch out on the bunks, and grumble to themselves. 
 All the time Bubnoff 's crowd are makmg a great row. Bub- 
 noff asks Krivoi Zoba to strike up his favorite song. 
 
 Zoba [sings]. "Though still the sun goes up and 
 down. . . ." 
 
 Bub. [falls in]. "No gleam can pierce to me in here." 
 [The door is jerked open.] 
 
 Baron [on the platform, crying]. Heh, there . . , 
 you! Come quick . . . come out! In the yard 
 . . . there . . . the actor . . . has hanged 
 himself! 
 
 [Silence, all stare at the Bakon. Behind him appears 
 Nastiah, who, vrith staring eyes, goes to the table.] 
 
 Sahtin [softly]. He must spoil our song . . . the 
 fool. 
 
BEYOND OUR POWER* 
 
 By BjObnstierne BjObnsen 
 , Translated by Edwin Bjorkman 
 
 First played in Christiania in 1883. 
 
 Argument: Adolph Sang, a minister in a little place in 
 the mountains of Norway, who has gained a reputation 
 for marvellous powers of healing, is confident that his 
 supreme faith enables him to work the miracles upon which 
 he holds that the Christian faith is postulated. He under- 
 takes to cure his wife who has been prostrated by a mys- 
 terious iUness, while the people of the neighborhood, 
 gathered about the house, join in his prayers. Not the 
 life of Clara Sang only, but the faith of the community 
 and the clergy as well depend on the outcome. 
 
 In a poorly furnished room with walls of crudely dressed 
 logs the pastor's wife, Clara Sang, lies in bed, facing the 
 doorway. Her sister, Mrs. Hanna Roberts, is looking out 
 of one of the windows. They speak of the rain, which is 
 over. The day before Hanna heard an old man say it was 
 dangerous weather, for things get loosened up in the 
 mountains and there were likely to be landslides. 
 
 Clara. I thought of nothing else last night. We have 
 had slide after slide here, you know. Once — ^well, that was 
 before our time — the church was carried away. 
 
 Hanna. The chm:ch! 
 
 Clara. Not from where it is now. It stood farther 
 away then. 
 
 Hanna. Is that why it has been placed right up against 
 the garden wall? 
 
 Clara. Yes. And when they open up the church win- 
 
 *Copyright, 1913, by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. 
 
 109 
 
110 BEYOND OUR POWER 
 
 dows in the summer, as they have done now, I can lie here 
 and hear Adolph singing at the altar. 
 
 Hanna is very sad, upon her return home from America, 
 to find Clara in such a condition. Moreover, as the doctor 
 lives a long way oflF and his visits seemed to do no good, 
 they stopped having him. At that time Clara had not 
 slept for a month, and now it is close to six weeks. The 
 doctor gave her trouble an ugly-sounding name which 
 Adolph did not repeat to her. It was her daughter, 
 Rachel, who wrote to Hanna to tell her she should come. 
 Clara did not write because America is so far away, and she 
 believed nothing could help her. She is worn out. People 
 who are being worn out are not capable of asking for help, 
 she says, nor do they know how to resist. 
 
 Hanna. But before you had become worn out? 
 
 Clara. You do not know what you are talking of. 
 
 Hanna. Well, explain — ^if you can. 
 
 Clara. No, I cannot — not all at once — but by and by, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Hanna. You didn't share his faith to begin with, did 
 you? How strange that was! And was that one of the 
 reasons? 
 
 Clara. No. Well, it's a long story! But it wasn't 
 that. Our natures are so diCEerent — and yet it isn't that 
 either. If Adolph had been like other men, ramping and 
 raging — oh, then it would have been easy — I think! But 
 long before he knew me, all his strength — and he has 
 strength, I tell you! — ^had become absorbed by his work. 
 It had turned into love and self-sacrifice. It had been 
 made wholly and completely beautiful. What do you say 
 to the fact that in our house a harsh word has never yet 
 been heard? Nothing like a "scene" has ever occurred. 
 And we shall soon have been married twenty-five years. 
 He is constantly radiant as with the joy of the Sabbath, 
 for to him the whole year is made up of Sundays. 
 
 Hanna. Heavens, how you do love him! 
 
 Clara. It is not enough to say that I love him. I don't 
 exist without him. And then you talk of resistance? 
 That is, at times I have had to when matters have been 
 going too far beyond our power. 
 
 Hanna does not imderstand what she means by things 
 going too far beyond their power. Clara says that also 
 
BJORNSEN 111 
 
 she will explain later. But, she asks, who can resist what 
 is all goodness, all sacrifice for others, all joy and happiness? 
 And who can resist when his childlike faith and super- 
 natural powers sweep everybody else along. Adolph, 
 when he prays intently, gets what he prays for. To the 
 whole country he is "the wonder worker." Hanna thinks 
 that Adolph gives one a most wonderful impression of 
 spirituality, as if he didn't belong here. 
 
 Clara. Do you know that sometimes I lie here com- 
 pletely tied up in a knot, with my legs drawn up to my chin 
 almost — ^well, I don't dare to show you, for that might bring 
 it on. And like that I sometimes he for whole days to- 
 gether when he is away, utterly unable to stretch out my 
 limbs. Oh, it's dreadful, I tell you! Once, when he was 
 up in the mountains — oh, those journeys into the moun- 
 tains ! — I was lying here for eight — think of it, eight ! — days 
 in that state. And no sooner did he appear in the doorway 
 so that / saw him and he saw me, than my arms and legs 
 began to yield. And then he came up to me, and passed 
 his hands over me, and in a moment I was lying as straight 
 as I am now! And it is always like that — up they will 
 come, up they will come! And the moment he enters the 
 room it passes. 
 
 At least a hundred times, she says, sick people who really 
 believed have got well when he came and prayed with 
 them. Even sick people he couldn't reach and had to 
 pray for from a distance got well. There is a minister's 
 widow, almost a hundred years old, living there who had 
 been paralyzed for fifteen years, and he cured her. Then 
 there wad the case of Agot Florvagen, most remarkable of 
 all, for she was dead as far as they could see. He held 
 her hands in one of his and placed his other on her 
 heart and she began to breathe again. His name has 
 a glamour all over the country now such as never was 
 heard of. 
 
 Hanna. Then I may also see this — ^what you speak of — 
 while I am here? 
 
 Clara. As surely as I am lying here imable to raise my- 
 self an inch oflf the bed. 
 
 Hanna. But why shouldn't the miracle come to you 
 also, Clara? Why hasn't he cured you long ago? 
 
 Clara [after a pause]. There's a special reason. 
 
112 BEYOND OUR POWER 
 
 Hanna. But can't you tell me? 
 
 Clara. No — ^yes, I mean. But later You'll have 
 
 to open a window again. It's getting close in here. More 
 air, please! 
 
 Clara thinks that probably there is nothing more re- 
 markable in their age than what her husband has done. 
 In any other place it would have attracted a hundred times 
 as much attention. When they came there Adolph brought 
 a fortune with him, and he has given away almost every- 
 thing. If she hadn't held him back they shouldn't have 
 enough to live on to-day, and probably he would not be 
 living. Not even the children would be spared. Open 
 remonstrance woidd do no good. She is forced to invent 
 subterfuges, something new each time, or he would see 
 through them, and that brings her to despair. 
 
 There is only one sense which he lacks entirely: the sense 
 of reality. He never sees anything but what he wants to 
 see. He lives without regard for actual conditions of any 
 kind, small or great. When the weather is such that the 
 hardiest sailors will not venture out in a ship he wants to 
 start off in a mere skiff, and perhaps with his own children 
 in the stern. He can stand anything in the way of fatigue. 
 He Uves in a region of his own; for he is innocent through 
 and through. 
 
 Hanna. How you do love him 
 
 Clara. Yes, it is the only thing that is left of me. This 
 diflSculty about the children finished me. 
 
 Hanna. The children? 
 
 Clara. They took harm from staying here. No regula- 
 tion or discipline : it turned them topsy-turvy. Never any 
 check on whatever was held right! Never any reasoning 
 — only inspiration ! They were already grown up and had 
 learned nothing but to read and write. And how I fought 
 to get them away from here! And then, for five years, to 
 keep them over there and to get them some education! 
 It took the last remnant of my strength. Now it is all 
 over with me. 
 
 Clara doesn't want pity. She has had for companion 
 the best man on earth, the noblest will in all mankind. In 
 that way one does not live so long as otherwise, it is true. 
 But one cannot have everything. Hanna exclaims that 
 he has destroyed the rest of her. Clara replies that he 
 
BJORNSEN lis 
 
 would have destroyed himself, too, had he been given the 
 chance; he is always going beyond his power. 
 
 Hanna. Beyond his power? When he really works 
 miracles? And comes out of everything unharmed? 
 
 Clara. Don't you think that the miracles also depend 
 on the fact that he is going beyond his power? 
 
 Hanna. Now you scare me. What do you mean? 
 
 Clara. I mean that the prophets must have been like 
 that. Those of the Jews as well as of the Pagans. In cer- 
 tain directions they were capable of more than we because 
 they lacked so much in other directions. Yes, that's the 
 way it has seemed to me. 
 
 Hanna is startled at the thought that Clara does not 
 believe. Clara replies that she does not know how far she 
 shares her husband's faith. She has been so harassed 
 she has had no chance to make up her mind about it. 
 Long ago she lost the power of dealing with large problems. 
 She must do what she can. And so with her faith, too. 
 More than that is beyond her power. 
 
 Hanna. But now as to your faith in his miracles — ^at 
 bottom you don't beUeve in them at all. 
 
 Clara. What are you saying? There is nothing else in 
 the world in which I believe so completely! 
 
 Hanna. When you don't dare let him go out in a storm 
 — ^when you don't dare feel sure of getting back what he 
 gives away, even if it be aU you have left — then you don't 
 believe in them. 
 
 All of us are full of contradictions — all but he, she says. 
 
 Clara. Listen — no, let's drop it. I am too tired. All I 
 know is that if he wants to take the children's livelihood 
 and give it to people that are bad and useless, or if he 
 wants to start across the mountains in a fog, or put to sea 
 in a storm — then — then I just throw myself across his 
 path. I'll do anything I can think of, absolutely anything, 
 to stop him! Suppose he should try to do something of 
 that kind just now — I have not been able to stand on my 
 feet in many a month — but then I could do it! Then I 
 could! I am sure of it! At such moments / can also work 
 miracles. For I love him and the children. 
 
 There is a long pause. Then the sick woman asks 
 her sister to bathe her temples with eau de Cologne. Pres- 
 ently Sang comes in. He is filled with hope and joy by the 
 
114 BEYOND OUR POWER 
 
 beauty and fragrance of the morning. He has a great plan 
 which he means to keep secret no longer. Hitherto he has 
 not been able to help Clara, he says, because she is self- 
 willed, so he sent for the children to come home and pray 
 with him. They will weave a prayer chain aroimd her and 
 will not cease their eflForts imtil she is asleep. And then 
 they will repeat it until she gets up and walks with them. 
 The children were deeply stirred at hearing about it, he says; 
 their faces went white. Hanna goes to have a peep at the 
 children, who have overslept. 
 
 Sang tells his wife he knows she has sacrificed herself 
 little by little, and not for the sake of faith but out of love 
 alone. He wanted to speak to her to-day of his great love 
 for her. When Hanna returns she says that the children 
 were still asleep. EUas had thrown himself down all dressed 
 the night before. Sang says he asked too much of the 
 children, as he always does. He goes out. 
 
 Hanna has guessed what is the matter. Clara is trem- 
 bling. The day before she saw something in the children's 
 eyes. How they must have been struggling and suffering, 
 she says, loving their father as they do. Elias comes in 
 and tluwws himself on his knees beside his mother's bed, 
 burying his face in her hands. She tells him she knows 
 everything. He mustn't tell her; she can't bear it. Then 
 she says she must hear how it happened that they lost 
 their father's faith. Sang entering catches the last words. 
 
 Sang. Have you lost your faith? — ^my boy Have 
 
 you lost your faith? 
 
 Hanna. Look at Clara — look at her! 
 
 Sang [hurries over to the bed and puts his hands on Clara]. 
 It'll stop! It won't come! — thank God! 
 
 Clara, It's — ^passing — but you must hold me. 
 
 Sang bends down and kisses her. He tells her she must 
 not cry; she must be strong. She must remember how 
 sorry the children have been. In their suffering and pain 
 the children have wanted to spare them, and they must 
 spare the children. He does not utter a word of bitterness. 
 Their faith came too easily, he says, and perhaps this is 
 the beginning of a faith that cannot be lost. Elias says 
 that if he were to talk with his father for days he could not 
 get to the bottom of it. His father asks what decided 
 them. 
 
BJOKNSEN 115 
 
 Elia,i. I think I can tell in a few words. Rachel and I 
 — we discovered that the Christians were not as you told 
 us they should be. 
 
 Sang. But, children 
 
 Elias. You sent us to the best ones you knew. And I 
 do think them better than all the rest. But soon Rachel 
 and I agreed on something, and she was the first to say it: 
 there's only one real Christian, and that is father! 
 
 Elias says the Christianity of the others is a convention. 
 They bow down to the established order, to institutions, 
 customs, prejudices, economical conditions, and all sorts of 
 things. They have picked out every loophole in the faith, 
 so that they can make it fit in with whatever happens to be. 
 Christianity is something that only one in a million can 
 reach. He alone is a Christian who, from Jesus, has 
 learned the secret of perfection and strives after it in 
 everything. 
 
 Sang asks him if every one may not try to be a Christian 
 without being called a bungler on that account. But Elias 
 says that they ask for so little that their peace may not be 
 disturbed. They do just what suits them. Or if they try 
 really they overreach themselves. Rachel says that was 
 the very thing that made her say to Elias: "If those ideals 
 are so little suited to man's powers and conditions even at 
 the present time, how can they have come from Him who 
 is omniscient? Then they traced those ideals back and 
 found them much older than Christianity. 
 
 Oriental and Greek dreamers proclaimed those ideals in a 
 time of despair, answers Sang; a time when the best ones 
 longed for nothing but to flee to some land of new birth — 
 just to get away ! As if that land of new birth, the millen- 
 nium, were less true, he exclaims, for being an old, an im- 
 mensely ancient Oriental dream! He has tried, as he 
 thinks everybody should try, to show that Christianity is 
 possible. To believe is to know that nothing is impossible 
 to faith. This hour has been prepared. God wants to 
 show them what is possible. It is not he who is speaking, 
 but the great certainty that is within him. 
 
 Sang. I am going over to the church, children, because 
 I want to be alone. I will not leave it again until, from 
 the hands of the Lord, I have received sleep for your 
 mother; and after the sleep, health, so that she may rise 
 
116 BEYOND OUR POWER 
 
 up and walk among us. Be not afraid! I feel within me 
 that he wiU grant it! He will not give it to me at once, for 
 this time I have doubted. But I shall not give up — I shall 
 wait for my Lord, who is stern and kind. Good-bye! 
 [He kneels over his wife in brief prayer.] Good-bye! [He 
 kisses her; she does not move; he gets wp.] Thank you, 
 children. Now you have helped me nevertheless. More 
 than anybody could guess. Now I shall myself ring out 
 the call to prayer. At the first sound of the bell you know 
 that I have begun to pray for your mother. Peace be with 
 you! 
 
 He goes out. Hanna, who has instinctively opened the 
 door for him, bursts into tears. Elias, saying he must see 
 him go into the church, follows his father. Presently the 
 bell is heard. 
 
 Rachel [sinks doton on her knees; a little later she cries out, 
 but in a subdued tone]. My God — ^Hanna! 
 
 Hanna. What is it? 
 
 Rachel. Mother is asleep! 
 
 Hanna. She's asleep? 
 
 Rachel. Mother is asleep! 
 
 Hanna. Really ? 
 
 Rachel. I must find Elias. I must tell him about it! 
 [She goes om<.] 
 
 Hanna. She is sleeping like a child. O God! 
 
 She kneels down. Then a rumbling as of thunder is 
 heard — ^prolonged, deepening, constantly deepening, grow- 
 ing more and more awesome; cries are heard outside; the 
 house is trembling; and still the roar is increasing. 
 
 Rachel [ovisid^. The mountain is falling! [Shrieks; 
 comes running inl] The mountain is falling right on the 
 church! Onus — on father — onus! It's rolling, it's roar- 
 ing — it's Uke night — oh! [She cowers dovm and hides her 
 face.] 
 
 Elias [outside]. Father! Father! Oh! 
 
 Hanna [beside the bed]. Now it's coming! Now it's 
 coming! 
 
 The roar is at its loudest; then it decreases little by 
 little; then the bell is heard again. 
 
 Hanna [leaping to her feet]. It's still ringing! He's 
 alive! 
 
 Rachel. He's alive! 
 
BJORNSEN 117 
 
 Elias [outside]. Father is alive! [Coming nearer.] 
 The church is still there ! [Comes in.] The church is still 
 there. Father is alive. Right in front of the church the 
 tide turned aside — ^turned to the left. He's alive, he's 
 ringing the bell— O God! [He throws himself down beside 
 the bed.] 
 
 Rachel [dravnng nearer]. Elias! Mother ? 
 
 Hanna. She's sleepiag! 
 
 Elias [jumps up]. Is she sleeping? 
 
 Rachel. Yes, she's sleepiag 
 
 [The bell continues to ring.] 
 
 Hanna. She is sleeping just as quietly ! 
 
 There is a small room, with walls made of logs, forming 
 part of the church. A door at the rear, opening on a porch, 
 discloses a view of a narrow landscape abruptly shut off 
 by a bare mountainside. Chairs are placed along the 
 walls of the room. EUas enters from the porch, moving 
 quickly and restlessly. He stops and Ustens. A hymn 
 sung by a man's voice is plainly heard. Elias is deeply 
 moved. Rachel enters softly through a door on the right. 
 Her brother tells her to look out of a window at the hxm- 
 dreds of people there, praying silently. More are coming 
 constantly from miles away. There are many people in 
 the groves at a little distance listening to lay preachers. 
 
 Over toward the shore the ground is black with people 
 from a ship, which was taking them from the East to a big 
 mission conference in the city. Pastor KrSyer boarded the 
 ship and told those on board what had happened here, and 
 all wanted to come ashore, although the bishop and the 
 ministers begged them to go on. A sick man was brought 
 to the church just as the pastor began to sing. It made 
 every one burst into tears to hear him imexpectedly. And 
 the sick man got up without help and was well. 
 
 Elias says their mother also will get up. Rachel beHeves 
 so, too, but she trembles to think of it. Elias at times 
 hears something that is not spoken. He feels a longing to 
 plunge into some great danger, for he is certain he should 
 come out of it unharmed. And yet he asks Rachel if it 
 was a miracle that they have experienced there. He feels 
 it is dreadful that the only two people still doubting are 
 the pastor's own children. Rachel asks what will happen 
 
118 BEYOND OUR POWER 
 
 when their mother has got up; it is a question of her 
 life. She has no power of resistance left. And their father 
 will go right on. 
 
 Elias. But suppose it be a miracle, Rachel? Why need 
 we then be afraid? 
 
 Rachel. I cannot overlook the consequences — to mother 
 and father — ^to all of us. You don't understand me at 
 aU. 
 
 Elias. No. 
 
 Rachel. No! But to me it does not matter what it is. 
 It will destroy us. It will kill us in the end! 
 
 Elias. The miracle? 
 
 Rachel. Yes, yes ! There is no blessing in it ! A horror, 
 that's what it is! — Elias! 
 
 A stranger comes up to the porch and searches the room 
 with his eyes. Rachel goes back into the house. The 
 stranger says that he has come from across the mountains. 
 He saw the landslide from above. And this morning he 
 saw the sick man get up when the pastor sang. He begs to 
 stay and wait. This day, he says, will decide his whole 
 life. 
 
 Pastor Kroyer asks for the use of the room for the bishop 
 and ministers, who feel it necessary to discuss what attitude 
 they are to take toward what is happening. They must 
 try to look rationally at things. Elias goes out and the 
 bishop and ministers enter. They were very seasick on the 
 ship and are now nearly famished, but there is no food at 
 hand. The bishop opens the discussion. 
 
 The bishop has always held the opinion that the min- 
 ister should remain neutral toward any excitement of this 
 kind, and neither affirm nor deny until the excitement has 
 subsided. The older and more experienced one grows, he 
 says, the more difficult it becomes to form a conviction, 
 especially in regard to supernatural things. Pastor Blank 
 states it as his opinion that apparent miracles are regulated 
 by natural law. All they need do, he thinks, is to praise 
 the Lord together with the congregation. 
 
 They cannot get out of the difficulty by singing hymns, 
 the bishop returns. The others concur with him. They 
 cannot imderstand what should prevent their acknowl- 
 edging the miracle at once; they are accustomed to mir- 
 acles in his congregation. Falk appears to be among the 
 
BJORNSEN 119 
 
 more skeptical. Jensen is rather hard-headed. It has 
 been KrSyer's experience repeatedly that none become 
 more easily the prey 0i superstition than the very people 
 that are the most sober-minded. He has grown to think 
 that the craving for the supernatural has to such an extent 
 become a heritage of man that if people resist it in one way 
 it gets hold of them in another. 
 
 What Falk wishes to settle once for all is whether they 
 are now to surrender what the Church has gained of clear- 
 ness and order. It is all right to have a simple mind. He 
 had it once himself. But when a minister in a big city 
 goes from a funeral to a wedding, from there to a poverty- 
 stricken deathbed, and then to dine at the Royal Palace, 
 he becomes familiar with the infirmities of man. What 
 he learns by it is to rely very little on man and very much 
 on institutions. When the miracle appears, then all in- 
 stitutions perish in the revolt of the feelings. For this 
 reason the Catholic Church has tried to make an institu- 
 tion of the miracle itself. He relates an anecdote of how 
 he quieted a number of hysterical women by pouring water 
 on them. Amid the laughter that the ministers with diffi- 
 culty suppress, he adds that that is the most wholesome 
 way: to pour water on it. 
 
 Kroyer's reply has the force of a rebuke. Falk, he says, 
 would be the last to pour water on the minister's widow, 
 now a hundred years old, or on the young girl whom Sang 
 brought back from death. On such testimony, he de- 
 clares, they must believe. 
 
 Kroyer. I know every one of you well enough to know 
 that if you only dared — if you could feel sure of witnessing 
 a miracle so great that it met the test once for all pre- 
 scribed by the Bible: "All who saw it believed" — oh, no 
 matter how far you may have fallen short at other times, 
 then you would become as children, you would smrender 
 yourselves completely, you would sacrifice the days still 
 left to you — only to proclaim it! [Considerable emotion 
 is shown,, especially by the older men.] I dare to make 
 these confessions on your behalf, my brethren, because my 
 place is within the circle of the spirit — that circle of which 
 it has been said: either within or without! Once within, 
 and aU the tricks prompted by om- poverty will collapse of 
 their own accord, and we shall dare to admit the truth! 
 
120 BEYOND OUR POWER 
 
 What will be left of Christianity if we declare the miracle 
 lost to the church? 
 
 The characteristic feature of Christianity, Falk main- 
 tains, is not the miracle but the belief in resurrection. 
 But KrSyer replies that either Christianity is a life in the 
 Lord that takes us beyond this world and all its precepts, 
 or it is nothing at all. After talking long and fervently 
 he sits down trembling and exhausted, unable to say all 
 he would. 
 
 The Bishop. My dear Kroyer, the moment you came 
 aboard this morning I saw that you were overworked and 
 ill. But that's what happens to every follower of Pastor 
 Sang. 
 
 The stranger has in the meantime opened the door in 
 the rear and drawn nearer step by step. He asks to say 
 a word. All turn toward him. The bishop recognizes 
 him as Pastor Bratt. Bratt says he is a man in distress, 
 coming to ask help of his brethren. He is in search of the 
 miracle. Has he found it? 
 
 Bratt. With bUghted hopes I have turned back from 
 every spot in Europe where the miracle was thought to 
 dwell. Here, of course, the faith is bigger and simpler; 
 and the man is great. What I have seen here has taken 
 hold of me with supernatural power. But the next mo- 
 ment doubt has returned. This is the curse that rests on 
 me, you see. I have incurred it by seven years during 
 which, as minister, I promised the miracle to those who 
 would believe. I promised because thus it was written — 
 although I myself doubted — ^for I had never seen it come to 
 anybody that believed. For seven years I preached that 
 in which I did not have faith myseft — and each time the 
 dark days returned. . . . Where is that miraculous 
 power which Thou has promised Thy believers? [Ee 
 hursts into tears.] 
 
 Bishop. Oh, you lay bare everything. And that is 
 what you have always done. 
 
 Bratt. In binding words, each one stronger than the 
 other. He has declared that whosoever will believe shall 
 possess this power. Yes, the power of deeds greater even 
 than those done by the Son of Man. What has become of 
 that power? After eighteen hundred years of passionate 
 laboring for the faith, is there not one who believes in such 
 
BJORNSEN 121 
 
 measure that he can produce a miracle among us? Is the 
 Lord's own promise not yet redeemed? 
 
 Religion no longer constitutes man's only ideal, he says. 
 If it is to be the highest one it must be proved to be such. 
 Man can live and die for what he loves — ^for his country, 
 his family, his convictions. And as these things are the 
 highest of all that exist within the limits of the natural, 
 and as they want to show him something still higher — ^well, 
 then they must pass those limits. All appear strongly 
 moved. 
 
 Falk. Somewhere a scornful word is to be read about the 
 race that will not believe without signs and wonders. 
 
 Bratt. And do you not know the answer of the race? — 
 "We ask only for the signs promised by the Lord himself 
 — ^promised to whosoever wiU believe. Or is there not yet 
 a single one among you that really beUeves? What then 
 do you want of us?" — ^Yes, that's what the race answers. 
 But offer a miracle to that same race — one that cannot be 
 picked to pieces by the sharpest tools ever shaped by 
 doubt — one of which it can be said: "aU that saw it be- 
 heved" — and then you may yet be witness of the fact that 
 not the faculty of beUef is lacldng, but the miracle. 
 
 There is a stir among the ministers. Bratt goes on to 
 say that they need not put a premium on credulity. The 
 danger lies in the opposite direction; for lack of what is 
 genuine men put their faith in what is false. Several of 
 the ministers reply in subdued voices that that is true. 
 He concludes a long and ardent outpouring of his soul with 
 a cry to God that now comes the final test. The bishop 
 calls out to him in a tone of protest, "Bratt! Bratt!" 
 But he insists it is the final test; further struggle is beyond 
 his strength. He will resign from the ministry, resign 
 
 from the Chxu-ch and from the faith — if, if, if [He 
 
 bursts into tears again.] 
 
 Bratt asks the ministers to help him pray, for if the mir- 
 acle be not there it cannot be anywhere. This man, he 
 says, is more than other men; there is no stronger faith 
 than his. He has at last aroused emotion in all his hearers. 
 
 Bratt. There can be none on whom grace has been more 
 richly bestowed; then we, unworthy ones, must be es- 
 pecially chosen! And as I look out upon this hemmed-in, 
 barren land of the fiords, with the screaming gulls over- 
 
122 BEYOND OUR POWER 
 
 head, and as the thought comes to me, that the Kingdom of 
 God began in the luxuriant regions of countries steeped in 
 sun, through which ran the highroads of the world: what a 
 proof it would be to see it resumed in all its grandeur in a 
 poverty-stricken, outlying comer like this, on the edge oi 
 the everlasting ice 
 
 Folk [gets up, pale as death, and whispers].. Yes, yes! 
 
 Several. Yes, yes! 
 
 Bratt. Then it seems to me that everything fits together 
 and that the miracle must come. 
 
 All are now on their feet. 
 
 Bishop [in a low voice]. Oh, that it would come, so that 
 I might see it in my old age ! 
 
 Blank. Yes, if only the great faith would seize us ! Not 
 because we have deserved to see, but because we Tieed it! 
 
 He falls on his knees. Others follow his example. 
 
 Bratt. Because the whole race needs it! More than at 
 any other time. Because it has been promised. Because 
 here it must be if it be anywhere. [He kneels.] His faith 
 must be able to reach it! There is no greater faith than 
 his on earth ! And faith can do it ! Oh, it can ! 
 
 All. It can, it can! 
 
 Bratt. If it couldn't there would be no truth in all the 
 rest either. Then there would be something excessive in 
 all of it — something beyond our power 
 
 Rachel [in a scared voice from the rocrni on the riaht]. 
 EUas! 
 
 Immediately afterward she enters and runs across the 
 room to the window, which she flings open, as she cries 
 out with all her might, "Ehas!" Thereupon she throws 
 herself backward so that she would fall tf she were not 
 caught by KrSyer. She bursts into violent weeping, but 
 struggles to her feet again and points toward the other 
 room in evident terror. 
 
 Rachel. There! In there! She is no longer alone! — 
 See — don't you see! 
 
 All have risen. At that moment EUas appears on the 
 porch. As she catches sight of him Rachel tears herself 
 loose from KrSyer and runs to meet her brother, crving, 
 "Mother! Mother!" 
 
 Elias. Has she risen? 
 
 Rachel. Yes, yes. 
 
BJORNSEN 123 
 
 Elias. And she walks? 
 
 Rachel. Yes! But she is not alone! 
 
 Elias. This must be told! 
 
 Rachel. But not to father ! 
 
 Elias. No — ^from the roof, from the belfry — ^it must be 
 rung out to the whole world ! [He runs out.] 
 
 Rachel. But you have no ladder! [As he fails to reply, 
 she repeats in alarm.] You have no ladder, don't you hear ? 
 
 Kroyer makes a silencing gesture and says, "Hush!" 
 
 Bishop [whispering]. Oh, listen! 
 
 Sang [heard singing in the church]. 
 Alleluia, alleluia! 
 Alleluia, alleluia! 
 
 All [kneel down, whispering]. He knows it! He knows 
 it! 
 
 At that moment Clara appears in a white nightdress; 
 her eyes are turned toward the church; she stops and 
 reaches out her arms as if to meet the song. 
 
 AU the Ministers [singing very softly]. 
 Alleluia, alleluia! 
 Alleluia, alleluia! 
 
 Rachel [in the porch]. Now father is at the church door. 
 
 Sang [his voice is now heard strong and clear]. 
 Alleluia, alleluia! 
 Alleluia, alleluia! 
 
 The church bell begins to ring, and all the people outside 
 join in the singing. There is a triumphant force in their 
 song as if it sprang from a thousand throats. It is in- 
 creasing in strength, for the people who were in the groves 
 come running to join those at the church. For a while it 
 seems as if the "alleluias'" would lift the house off its 
 foundations. 
 
 Sang appears in the doorway. His face is lighted up by 
 the rays of the evening nmi. All rise and fall back. He 
 holds out both amis toward Clara, who is standing in the 
 middle of the room. Her arms are stretched out in re- 
 sponse. All around them the song is pouring forth. The 
 room is fuU of people, and so is the porch; some have 
 climbed up on the shoulders of those in front of them, and 
 others are standing on the window sill. 
 
 Then Clara collapses in her husband's arms. The song 
 dies out. Only the bell is still heard. Clara makes an 
 
124 BEYOND OUR POWER 
 
 eflFort to rise up again, but succeeds only in raising her head 
 so that her eyes can meet his. 
 
 Clara. Light flowed from you — when you came — oh, 
 my beloved! 
 
 Her head sinks back, her arms lose their hold, her entire 
 body collapses. 
 
 Sang [still holding her, puts a hand over her heart; then he 
 bends over her body in surprise. Finally he looks up toward 
 the sky, saying vnth childlike innocence]. But this was not 
 
 the meaning of it ? [He sinks down on one knee and puts 
 
 Claba's head on the other; once more he searches for signs of 
 life; then he lets the body gently sink to the floor; and rising to 
 his feet, he looks up again as he says.] But this was not the 
 meaning of it ? Or ? Or ? 
 
 He puts his hand to his heart and sinks down on the floor. 
 Rachel has been standing as if ttu:ned to stone; now a wild 
 cry breaks from her lips as she sinks on her knees beside the 
 bodies of her parents. 
 
 Kroyer. ^VTiat did he mean — ^by that word — " or " ? 
 
 Bratt. I don't know with certainty. But it killed him. 
 
 Rachel. Dead? It is impossible! 
 
 The bell continues to ring. 
 
THE POWER OF DARKNESS* 
 By Leo Tolstoy 
 
 Written in 1886, but not played until some years later. 
 
 Argument: Nikita, a young farm hand, is loved by the 
 wife of his well-to-do employer, and controlled by her and 
 by his mother, who persuades the other woman to poison 
 her husband, he refuses to marry an orphan whom he has 
 seduced and really loves. By the time Nikita succeeds to 
 the wife and property of the farmer he is involved with the 
 farmer's daughter, and his mother and wife force him to 
 murder the baby which the girl bears in order that she may 
 be foisted upon a suitor. The question of whether this 
 plan succeeds is of subordinate interest to that of the extent 
 to which poetic justice is fulfilled. 
 
 It never seems possible for NiMta AJdmitch to oppose 
 the win of his parents. His father, AJdm, who is an earnest 
 God-fearing peasant, insists upon his marrying Marina, 
 the orphan girl who was his sweetheart when he worked at 
 the railway. His mother, on the other hand, Matryona, 
 cares nothing whatever about making amends. She has 
 seen enough of hardship to consider the merits of a situa- 
 tion from her own point of view. There is a chance for 
 Nikita to come into a good deal of property by a different 
 sort of match, if his employer, Peter Igndtitch, should 
 happen to die. Matryona desires to arrive at an under- 
 standing with Peter's wife, Anisya. 
 
 Anisya. What's it all about then? Do you really wish 
 him to get married? 
 
 Matrydna. Eh, why should he many, my jewel? It's 
 all nonsense, all my old man's drivel. "Many, marry." 
 But he's reckoning without his host. You know the 
 
 *TransIated by Louise and Aylmer Maude. Published by Funk & 
 Wagnalls Company, New York. 
 
126 THE POWER OP DARKNESS 
 
 saying, "From oats and hay, why should horses stray?" 
 When you've enough and to spare, why look elsewhere? 
 And so in this case. [Winks.] Don't I see which way the 
 wind blows? 
 
 Anis. Where's the good of my pretending to you, 
 Mother Matryona? You know all about it. I have 
 sinned. I love your son. 
 
 Mat. Dear me, here's news! D'you think Mother 
 Matry6na didn't know? Eh, lassie — ^Mother Matryona's 
 been ground, and ground again, ground fine! This much 
 I can tell you, my jewel: Mother Matry6na can see through 
 a brick wall three feet thick. I know it all, my jewel! 
 I know what young wives need sleeping draughts for, so 
 I've brought some along, [Unties a knot in her handker- 
 chief and brings out paper packets.] As much as is wanted, 
 I see, and what's not wanted I neither see nor perceive! 
 There! Mother Matryona has also been young. I had 
 to know a thing or two to live with my old fool. I know 
 seventy-and-seven dodges. But I see your old man's 
 quite seedy, quite seedy! How's one to live with such as 
 him? Why, iJP you pridsed him with a hay fork it wouldn't 
 fetch blood. See if you don't bury him before the spring. 
 Then you'U need some one in the house. Well, what's 
 wrong with my son? He'll do as well as another. Then 
 where's the advantage of my taking him away from a 
 good place? Am I my child's enemy? 
 
 Anis. Oh, if only he does not go away. 
 
 Mat. He won't go away, birdie. It's all nonsense. 
 You know my old man. His wits are always wool-gather- 
 ing; yet sometimes he takes a thing into his pate, and 
 it's as if it were wedged in, you can't knock it out with a 
 hammer. 
 
 Anis. And what started this business? 
 
 Mat. Well, you see, my jewel, you yourself know what 
 a fellow with women the lad is — and he's handsome, too, 
 though I say it as shouldn't. Well, you know, he was 
 living at the railway, and they had an orphan wench there 
 to cook for them. Well, that same wench took to running 
 after him. 
 
 Anis. Marina? 
 
 Mat. Yes, the plague seize her! 
 
 When Anisya heard that Nikita was going to marry the 
 
TOLSTOY 127 
 
 girl, it was as if a knife had gone right through her heart. 
 She feared he loved Marina. Matry6na assures her that 
 there is no danger of the boy caring for a homeless baggage 
 like that. He is a sensible fellow. He knows where to 
 love, and he shall stay right where he is if Anisya will only 
 oblige them with a little money. 
 
 Anis. All I know is, that I could not live if NiMta went 
 away. 
 
 Mat. Naturally, when one's young it's no easy matter! 
 You, a wench in full bloom, to be Uving with the dregs of a 
 man like that husband of yours. 
 
 Anis. Mother Matryona, would you beUeve it? I'm 
 that sick of him, that sick of this long-nosed cur of mine, 
 I can hardly bear to look at him. 
 
 Mat. Yes, I see, it's one of them cases. Just look here 
 — [looks round and whispers] — I've been to see that old 
 man, you know — he's given me simples of two kinds. 
 This, you see, is a sleeping draught. "Just give him one 
 of these powders," he says, "and he'll sleep so sound you 
 might jump on him!" And this here, "This is that kind 
 of simple," he says, "that if you give one some of it to 
 drink it has no smeU whatever, but its strength is very 
 great. There are seven doses here, a pinch at a time. 
 Give him seven pinches," he says, "and she won't have 
 far to look for freedom," he says. 
 
 Akim is for doing things the right way, God's way, and 
 enters into a long, fruitless argument with his wife. He is 
 hampered by a hesitating manner of speech, due apparently 
 to difficulty in finding his words, for the want of which he 
 is continually using such expressions as "what d'ye call 
 it." Niklta, catechised by his father, gives evasive an- 
 swers, but finally gets angry and declares Marina deserves 
 no consideration. Opposed by everybody, AMm abandons 
 the struggle. 
 
 Nikita is left alone in the large room of the hut. Akou- 
 lina, a girl of sixteen, Peter's daughter by his first wife, 
 enters. She is hard of hearing and mentally undeveloped. 
 It is getting dark and she asks Nikita why he did not get a 
 light. 
 
 NikUa. What, to look at you? I can see you well 
 enough without 
 
 Akoulina. Oh, bother you! 
 
128 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Nan, the ten-year-old daughter of Peter and Anisya, 
 comes in to tell Niklta there is some one asking for him. 
 
 Nik. What person? 
 
 Nan. Marina from the railway; she's out there, roimd 
 the corner. 
 
 Nik. Nonsense! 
 
 Nan. Blest if she isn't! 
 
 Nik. What does she want? 
 
 Nan. She wants you to come out. She says, "I only 
 want to say a word to Nikita." I began asking, but she 
 won't tell, but only says, "Is it true he's leaving you?" 
 And I say, "No, only his father wanted to take him away 
 and get him to marry, but he won't, and is going to stay 
 with us another year." And she says, "For goodness' 
 sake send him out to me. I must see him," she says, "I 
 must say a word to him somehow." She's been waiting a 
 long time. Why don't you go? 
 
 Nikita says he will wait a bit and she will go away, but 
 Nan sees Marina coming to the door. She goes out and 
 Marina enters. 
 
 Marina. What are you doing with me? 
 
 Nik. Doing? I'm not doing anything. 
 
 Mar. You mean to desert me. 
 
 Nik. [gets up angrily]. What does this look like, your 
 coming here? 
 
 Mar. Oh, Nikita! 
 
 Nik. Well, you are strange! What have you come for? 
 
 Mar. Nikita! 
 
 Nik. That's my name. What do you want with 
 Nikita? Well, what next? Go away, I tell you! 
 
 Mar. I see, you do want to throw me over. 
 
 Nik. Well, and what's there to remember? You your- 
 self don't know. When you stood out there round the 
 comer and sent Nan for me, and I didn't come, wasn't it 
 plain enough that you're not wanted? It seems pretty 
 simple. So there — go! 
 
 Mar. Not wanted! So now I'm not wanted! I be- 
 lieved you when you said you would love me. And now 
 that you've ruined me, I'm not wanted. 
 
 Nik. Where's the good of talking? This is quite im- 
 proper. You've been telling tales to father. Now, do 
 go away, will you? 
 
TOLSTOY 129 
 
 Mar. , You know yourself I never loved any one but 
 you. Whether you married me or not, I'd not have been 
 angry. I've done you no wrong, then why have you left 
 off caring for me? Why? 
 
 Nik. Where's the use of baying at the moon? You go 
 away. Goodness me! what a duffer! 
 
 Mar. It's not that you deceived me when you promised 
 to marry me that hiu-ts, but that you've left off loving. 
 No, it's not that you've stopped loving me either, but 
 that you've changed me for another, that's what hurts. 
 I know who it is! 
 
 Nik. [comes up to her vicioiisly]. Eh! what's the good of 
 talking to the Ukes of you that won't listen to reason? Be 
 off, or you'll drive me to do something you'U be sorry for. 
 
 Mar. What, wiU you strike me, then? Well, then, 
 strike me! What are you turning away for? Ah, 
 Nikita! 
 
 Nik. Supposing some one came in. Of course, it's 
 quite improper. And what's the good of talking? 
 
 Mar. So this is the end of it! What has been has 
 flown. You want me to forget it? Well, then, Nikita, 
 listen. I kept my maiden honor as the apple of my eye. 
 You have ruined me for nothing, you have deceived me. 
 You have no pity on a fatherless and motherless girl! 
 [Weeping.] You have deserted, you have killed me, but I 
 bear you no malice. God forgive you! If you find a 
 better one you'll forget me, if a worse one you'll remember 
 me. Yes, you will remember Nikita! Good-bye, then, 
 if it is to be. Oh, how I loved you ! Good-bye for the last 
 time. [Takes his head in her hands and tries to kiss him.] 
 
 Nik. [tossing his head back]. I'm not going to talk with 
 the likes of you. If you won't go away I will, and you may 
 stay here by yourself. 
 
 Mar. [screams]. You are a brute. [In the doorway.] 
 God will give you no joy. [Exit, crying. 
 
 Akou. [comes out of chset]. You're a dog, Nikita! 
 
 Nik. What's up? 
 
 Akou. What a cry she gave! [Criesl\ 
 
 Nik. What's up with you? 
 
 Akou. What's up? You've hurt her so. That's the 
 way you'll hurt me also. You're a dog. [Exit into chset. 
 [Silence.] 
 
130 THE POWER OF DAEKNESS 
 
 Nik. Here's a fine muddle. I'm as sweet as honey on 
 the lasses, but when a fellow's sinned with 'em it's a bad 
 look-out! 
 
 Six months later spring has come. Anisya is beating 
 hemp before the door of the log hut. She is very much 
 puzzled and exasperated at not being able to find her hus- 
 band's hoard. Akoulina runs out. Her father says he 
 is going to die, and has told her to go and get his sister 
 Martha. 
 
 Anisya will not let her go, but tells her to finish the wash 
 at the river, and that she will go herself. As Matry6na 
 comes along, Anisya exclaims that God has sent the right 
 guest at the right time. Matry6na inquires at once if 
 Peter is stiU alive, and where the money is. Anisya teUs 
 her the money is hidden; she cannot find it with Akoulina 
 spying on her all the time. She has asked NiMta to do 
 something about it, but he is afraid of the job. 
 
 Matryona whispers a question. Has Aiiisya given him 
 the strong tea? Just then a neighbor comes along and tells 
 Anisya that her old man is calling her. Anisya replies 
 indifferently that that is the way he coughs, just as if he 
 were screaming. 
 
 They gossip about one thing and another. Simon 
 Matvdyitch has married that Marina. He had four 
 children to take care of. No decent girl would have had 
 him. The couple seem to get on pretty well. When the 
 neighbor has gone on Matry6na repeats her question, 
 whispering again. 
 
 Mat. I say, did you give him the tea? 
 
 Anis. Don't speak about it. He'd better die of him- 
 self. It's no use — ^he doesn't die, and I have only taken a 
 sin on my soul. 0-oh, my head, my head! Oh, why did 
 you give me those powders? 
 
 Mat. What of the powders? The sleeping powders, 
 lass — ^why not give them? No evil can come of them. 
 
 Anis. I am not talking of the sleeping ones, but the 
 others, the white ones. 
 
 Mat. Well, honey, those powders are medicinal. 
 
 Anis. [sighs]. I know, yet it's frightening, "ihough 
 he's worried me to death. 
 
 Mat. Well, and did you use many? 
 
TOLSTOY 131 
 
 Anis. I gave two doses. 
 
 Mai. Was anything noticeable? 
 
 Anis. I had a taste of the tea myself-^-just a Uttle 
 bitter. And he drank them with the tea and says, "Even 
 tea disgusts me," and I say, "Everything tastes bitter 
 when one's sick." But I felt that scared, mother. 
 
 Mat. Don't go thinking about it. The more one 
 thinks the worse it is. 
 
 Anis. I wish you'd never given them to me and led 
 me into sin. When I think of it something seems to tear 
 my heart. Oh, dear, why did you give them to me? 
 
 Mat. What do you mean, honey? Lord help you! 
 Why are you turning it on to me? Mind, lass, don't go 
 twisting matters from the sick on to the healthy. If any- 
 thing were to happen, I stand aside! I know nothing! 
 I'm aware of nothing! I'll kiss the cross on it; I never 
 gave you any kind of powders, never saw any, never 
 heard of any, and never knew there were such powders. 
 You think about yourself, lass. Why, we were talking 
 about you the other day. "Poor thing, what torture she 
 endures. The stepdaughter an idiot; the old man rotten, 
 sucking her life blood. What wouldn't one be ready to 
 do in such a case!" 
 
 Anis. I'm not going to deny it. A life such as mine 
 could make one do worse than that. It could make you 
 hang yoiu"self or throttle him. Is this a life? 
 
 Mat. That's just it. There's no time to stand gaping; 
 the money must be found one way or other, and then he 
 must have his tea. 
 
 Anis. O-oh, my head, my head! I can't think what 
 to do. I am so frightened; he'd better die of himself. 
 I don't want to have it on my soul. 
 
 Matry6na asks viciously why he doesn't show the 
 money. Does he mean to take it along with him? She 
 tells Anisya to light the samovar before she goes for 
 Martha. They will give him some tea, and then they will 
 find the money. She stops, horror-struck, as Peter ap- 
 pears in the doorway. Holding on to the wall, he creeps 
 out into the porch and calls with a faint, voice. 
 
 Peter. How's it one can't make you hear? Oh, oh, 
 Anfsya! Who's there? [He drops on the bench.] 
 
 Anis. [steps from behind the comer]. Why have you 
 
132 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 come out? You should have stayed where you were 
 
 lying. 
 
 Peter. Has the girl gone for Martha? It's very hard. 
 . . . Oh, if only death would come quicker! 
 
 Anls. She had no time. I sent her to the river. 
 Wait a bit, I'll go myself when I'm ready. 
 
 Peter. Send Nan. Where's she? Oh, I'm that bad! 
 Oh, death's at hand! 
 
 Anis. I've sent for her already. 
 
 Peter. Oh, dear! Then where is she? 
 
 Anis. Where's she got to, the plague seize her! 
 
 Peter. Oh, dear! I can't bear it. All my inside's on 
 fire. It's as if a gimlet were boring me. Why have you 
 left me as if I were a dog? ... no one to give me a 
 drink. . . . Oh . . . send Nan to me. 
 
 Anis. Here she is. Nan, go to father. 
 Nan runs in. AnIsya goes behind the corner of the house. 
 
 Peter. Go you. Oh ... to Aunt Martha, tell 
 tier father wants her; say she's to come, I want her. 
 
 Nan. All right. 
 
 Peter. Wait a bit. Tell her she's to come quick. Tell 
 her I'm dying. 0-oh! 
 
 As soon as the child is off the old woman tells Anisya to 
 go into the hut quickly and look everywhere, like a dog 
 hunting for fleas. She will imdertake to search Peter 
 himself. Matry6na says to Peter that she will go in to 
 light the samovar and make a cup of tea for Mother 
 Matryona. 
 
 Matryona tells Peter reassuringly that he shall have a 
 good burial, and have prayers said for his soul. But 
 Peter is worried to think that there will be no one to man- 
 age things. His wife's head is full of foUy. He knows all 
 about it, he assures Matry6na, and his girl is silly and 
 young. He has got the homestead together, and there's 
 no one to attend to things. One can't help feeling it, 
 he says, whimpering. 
 
 Anisya comes out and makes a sign that she could not 
 find the money. Matry6na sends her to the woodshed, 
 telling her to rummage for all she is worth, all over every- 
 where, as if licking with her tongue. She asks if the sam- 
 ovar is ready. It is just on the boil. 
 
 Niklta comes to the gate as Matry6na is helping Peter 
 
TOLSTOY 133 
 
 up to go inside. Peter stops and speaks to him. Nikfta 
 asks angrily what he wants. 
 
 Peter. I shan't see you again . . . I'll die to-day. 
 . . . Forgive me,* for Christ's sake, forgive me if I 
 have ever sinned against yoti ... if I have sinned 
 in word or deed . . . there's been all sorts of things. 
 Forgive me! 
 
 Nik. What's there to forgive? I'm a sinner myself. 
 
 Mat. Ah, sonnie, have some feeling. 
 
 Peter. Forgive me, for Christ's sake. [Weeps.] 
 
 Nik. [snivels]. God will forgive you, Daddy Peter. I 
 have no cause to complain of you. You've never done 
 me any wrong. You forgive me; maybe I've sinned 
 worse against you. [Weeps.] 
 
 [Peter goes in whimpering, M.a.try6n a supporting 
 him.] 
 
 Anisya tells NiMta that the money was not under the 
 floor, as he said it was, and implores him to help her search, 
 saying that Peter has sent for his sister and wants to give 
 it to her. If that happens they will be turned out of the 
 house. Nikita stubbornly refuses to have a hand in the 
 business. 
 
 Matry6na comes out of the hut again and down the steps 
 to where they are standing and tells them he has got the 
 money on him, sure enough; she felt it on a string aroimd 
 his neck. If they are not wide awake, then they may 
 whistle for it. The samovar is boihng, too, and Anisya 
 must go and make the tea at once. Matryona whispers 
 to her. 
 
 Nan returns and reports that Martha is on the way. 
 
 Anis. Coming! What shall we do? 
 
 Mat. There's plenty of time if you do as I tell you. 
 
 Anis. I don't know what to do; I know nothing, my 
 brain's all in a whirl. Nan! Go, daughter, and see to the 
 calves, they'll have run away I'm afraid. . . . Oh, 
 dear, I haven't the courage. 
 
 Mat. Go on! I should think the samovar's boiling 
 over. 
 
 While Anisya is in the house Matry6na tells Nikita 
 
 *A formal request for forgiveness is customary among Russians, but it 
 is often no mere formality. Niklta's first reply is evasive; his second 
 reply, "God will forgive you," is the correct one sanctioned by custom. 
 
134 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 that she has got advice on how to act in order to get hold 
 of the homestead by marrying the widow. The daughters 
 must be given in marriage, and the whole job will mean a 
 great deal of trouble. But it can be done if there is money. 
 Then, if he has his hooks on the money, any time the 
 woman turns snappish he can control her. 
 
 Anisya runs out of the hut, very pale, holding something 
 under her apron. She says she has got it, and Matryona 
 tells her to give it to NiMta to hide. Anisya wants to 
 hide it herself, but Matry6na seizes her by the arm and 
 tells her she will be missed when Martha comes. Anisya 
 is irresolute. Just then Akoulina appears, carrying the 
 clothes from the wash, and Anisya turns over the money 
 to NiMta, who starts off at once. 
 
 Anis. [stands in terror]. Oh, dear, and supposing 
 he . . . 
 
 Mai. Well, is he dead? 
 
 Anls. Yes, he seems dead. He did not move when I 
 took it. 
 
 Mat. Go in, there's Akoulina. 
 
 Anis. Well, there, I've done the sin and he has the 
 money . . . 
 
 Mat. Have done and go in! There's Martha coming! 
 
 Anis. There, now, I've trusted him. What's going to 
 happen now? 
 
 Nine months have passed. It is winter. Anisya sits 
 before a loom weaving. Nikita has gone to town and 
 taken Akoulina with him. She got herself up very fine for 
 the occasion in a velveteen coat and French shawl. Even 
 the neighbors have taken notice of the excursion. A 
 woman who has come in asks if there is not some one woo- 
 ing Akouhna. Anisya replies that there was, but the 
 thing fell through because of the talk going around. The 
 same thing has happened in two cases in fact. Anisya is 
 impatient enough to get the girl out of the house, but he 
 does not wish it, nor she either. The neighbor is scandal- 
 ized at this state of affairs. 
 
 That is not the worst of it, Anisya says. He has a ter- 
 rible temper when he has been drinking and is ready to 
 trample her under his feet. The girl, too, is worse than a 
 serpent. Akoulina declares she is the mistress, that the 
 
TOLSTOY 135 
 
 house is hers, and that it was she her father wanted Niklta 
 to marry. 
 
 Neighbor. Oh, dear, what a life yours is, now I come to 
 lookatyou. And yet there's people envying you: "They're 
 rich," they say; but it seems that gold don't keep tears 
 from falling. 
 
 Anis. Much reason for envy, indeed! And the riches, 
 too, will soon be made ducks and drakes of. Dear me, how 
 he squanders money! 
 
 Neighbor. But how's it, dear, you've been so simple 
 to give up the money? It's yours. 
 
 Anis. Ah, if you knew all ! The thing is that I've made 
 one httle mistake. 
 
 Akfm comes to the house. He has some business with 
 his son. His horse is done for and he needs money for 
 another. 
 
 Akim [to ANfsTA]. And Nikfta — ^has he what d'you caU 
 it, taken anything up to town? I mean, anything to sell? 
 
 Anis. [laying the table and serving up]. No, he's taken 
 nothing. He's gone to get money from the bank. 
 
 Akim [sitting down to supper]. Why? D'you wish to 
 put it to another use, the money I mean? 
 
 Anis. No, we don't touch it. Only some twenty or 
 thirty riibles as have come due; they must be taken. 
 
 Akim. Must be taken. Why take it, the money I 
 mean? You'll take some to-day I mean, and some to- 
 morrow; and so you'll what d'you caU it, take it all, I 
 mean. 
 
 Anis. We get this besides. The money is all safe. 
 
 Akim. All safe? How's that, safe? You take it, and 
 it what d'you call it, it's all safe. How's that? You put 
 a heap of meal into a bin, or a barn, I mean, and go on 
 taking meal, will it remain there what d'you call it, aU safe 
 I mean? That's, what d'you call it, it's cheating. You'd 
 better find out, or else they'll cheat you. Safe indeed! 
 I mean you what d'ye call . . . you take it and it 
 remains all safe there? 
 
 Anis. I know nothing about it. Ivdn Mos6itch ad- 
 vised us at the time. "Put the money in the bank," he 
 said, "the money will be safe and you'll get interest," h,e 
 said. 
 
 Mitritch [having finished his supper]. That's so. I've 
 
136 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 lived with a tradesman. They all do like that. Put the 
 money in the bank, then lie down on the oven and it will 
 keep coming in. 
 
 AMm. That's queer talk. How's that — ^what d'ye call, 
 coming in, how's that coming in, and they, who do they 
 get it from I mean, the money I mean.? 
 
 Anis. They take the money out of the bank. 
 
 MU. Get along! 'Tain't a thing a woman can under- 
 stand ! You look here, I'll make it all clear to you. 
 
 Mitritch, the laborer, explains payment for the use of 
 money. Akim thinks it dishonest, and that men would 
 not do such things unless they had forgotten God. When 
 people do not know how to inake use of money themselves, 
 pursues Mitrich, they take it to the bank and there it is 
 used to fleece the people. 
 
 Nan comes in and says that a neighbor who has come 
 back from the town saw Niklta at the inn and he was as 
 drunk as could be. 
 
 Anis. And is Marina living well? 
 
 AMm. Yes, she's living all right. The little woman is 
 what d'ye call it, clever and steady; she's living, and what 
 d'ye call it, doing her best. She's all right; the little 
 woman's of the right sort I mean; painstaking and what 
 d'ye call it, submissive; the little woman's all right I mean, 
 all right, you know. 
 
 Anis. And is there no talk in your village that a rela- 
 tive of Marina's husband thinks of marrying our Akou- 
 lina? Have you heard nothing of it? 
 
 Akim. Ah; that's Mironof. Yes, the women did chat- 
 ter something. But I didn't pay heed, you know. It 
 don't interest me I mean, I don't know anything. Yes, 
 the old women did say something, but I've a bad memory, 
 bad memory, I mean. But the Mironofs are what d'ye 
 call it, they're all right, I mean they're all right. 
 
 Anis. I'm that impatieiit to get her settled. 
 
 At last NiMta arrives in a maudlin condition. Before he 
 will come into the house he makes his wife give his name in 
 full and say which foot he shall put across the threshold 
 first. He remembers that his father wants money for a 
 horse and gives him a ten-rftble note, but Akim says he 
 will not take the money as Niklta is not himself. Nikita 
 puts the money into his father's hand. 
 
TOLSTOY 137 
 
 Akoulina is loaded with presents which Niklta has 
 bought her. The sight of them sends Anisya into a fury, 
 and she throws Akoullna's shawl on the floor. In an 
 effort to pacify her, Niklta shows her a parcel, saying he 
 has not forgotten her, but that she must earn her present 
 before she gets it. 
 
 Anis. Enough of yotu* humbug. I'm not afraid of 
 you. Whose money are you spreeing on and buying your 
 fat wench presents with? Mine ! 
 
 Akou. Yotu-s, indeed? No fear! You wished to steal 
 it, but it did not come off! Get out of the way! [Pitahea 
 her while trying to pass.] 
 
 Anis. What are you shoving for? I'U teach you to 
 shove! 
 
 Akou. Shove me? You try! [Presses agrainsi Anisya]. 
 
 Nik. Now, then, now, then, you women. Have done 
 now! [Steps between them.] 
 
 Akou. Comes shoving herself in! You ought to keep 
 quiet and remember your doings' You think no one 
 knows! 
 
 Anis. Knows what? Out with it, out with it! What 
 do they know? 
 
 Akou. I know something about you! 
 
 Anis. You're a slut who goes with another's husband! 
 
 Akou. And you did yours to death! 
 
 Anis. [throwing herself on Akoulina]. You're raving! 
 
 Nik. [holding her back]. Anisya, you seem to have for- 
 gotten! 
 
 Anis. Want to frighten me! I'm not afraid of you! 
 
 Nik. [turns Anisya round and pushes her out]. Be off! 
 
 Anis. Where am I to go? I'll not go out of my own 
 house! 
 
 Nik. Be off, I tell you, and don't dare to come in here! 
 
 Anis. I won't go! [Nikita pushes her, Anisya cries 
 and screams and clings to the door.] What ! am I to be turned 
 out of my own house by the scruff of the neck? What 
 are you doing, you scoundrel? Do you think there's no 
 law for you? You wait a bit! 
 
 Nikita pushes her out. She cries out that she is going 
 to hang herself. Akoulina says Nikita should have sent 
 the woman to the devil in the first place. She has no claim 
 to the property, and, furthermore, she is a murderess. 
 
138 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Akoullna declares she will turn Anisya out of the house. 
 Nikita is unconcerned. He sings a song and tells Akoulina 
 to get the tea things. Finally he lets Anisya in to fetch 
 the samovar, and gives her the present. 
 
 Akim prepares to go. He tells Nikita to take his money 
 back, and puts it down by him. Nikita does not see it, 
 but protests at his father's going at such a time of night. 
 Akim will not stay in the house. He says his son is leading 
 a bad life and is on the road to ruin. 
 
 Akim. I told you, what d'ye call it, I told you about 
 the orphan lass. That you had wronged an orphan — 
 Marina, I mean, wronged her! 
 
 Nik. Eh! he's at it again. Let bygones be bygones. 
 . . . All that's past! 
 
 Akim [excited]. Past! No, lad, it's not past. Sin, I 
 mean, fastens on to sin — drags sin after it, and you've 
 stuck fast, Nikita, fast in sin! Stuck fast in sin! I see 
 you're fast in sin. Stuck fast, sunk in sin, I mean! 
 
 Nik. Sit down and drink your tea, and have done 
 with it! 
 
 Akim. I can't, I mean can't what d'ye call it, can't 
 drink tea. Because of your filth, I mean; I feel what 
 d'ye call it, I feel sick, very sick! I can't what d'ye call 
 it, I can't drink tea with you. 
 
 Nik. Eh! There he goes rambling! Come to the 
 table. 
 
 Akim. You're in your riches same as in a net — ^you're 
 in a net, I mean. Ah, Nikita, it's the soul that God 
 needs! 
 
 At last Nikita becomes angry. He is living without his 
 father's help, he says; it is his father who comes to him 
 for assistance. Akim replies that he would go begging 
 before he would take his son's money. Nikita tries to 
 hold him. 
 
 Akim [shrieks]. Let go! I'll not stay. I'd rather sleep 
 under some fence than in the midst of your filth! Faugh! 
 God forgive me! [Exit. 
 
 Presently Akim opens the door again, puts his head in, 
 and adjures his son to come to his senses, saying it is the 
 soul that God wants. All are silent when the door has 
 closed again. 
 
 Mit. [roars ovt]. O Lord, be merciful to me a sinner! 
 
TOLSTOY 139 
 
 They start. Nikita says it is dull, deadly dull. He lies 
 down sobbing, and tells them to put out the light. 
 
 The harvest moon shines on the interior of the farm court- 
 yard. At the back is the rear of the hut with its porch. 
 There is a shed on the left. The sound of tipsy voices and 
 shouts are heard from the hut. The revelry means that a 
 suitor of Akoulina has come with his family. She is con- 
 fined to her bed in a condition that would compromise her 
 if the company were not drunk, and it is explained that she 
 has been bewitched by an evil eye. 
 
 The guests are not inquisitive, being interested chiefly 
 in the dowry. The suitor's father, however, requires some 
 reassuring, and Anisya comes out with him into the court- 
 yard. Nan runs forward and waits for a chance to speak 
 to her mother. 
 
 Nan. She's gone into the barn. It's awful what she's 
 doing there! I'm blest! "I can't bear it," she says. 
 "I'll scream," she says, "I'll scream out loud." Blest if 
 she didn't. 
 
 Anis. She'll have to wait. We'll see our visitors off 
 first. 
 
 Nan. Oh, mother! She's so bad! And she's angry, 
 too. "What's the good of their drinking my health?" she 
 says. "I shan't marry," she says. " I ^all die," she says. 
 Mother, supposing she does die! It's awful. I'm so 
 frightened! 
 
 Anis. No fear, she'll not die. But don't you go near 
 her. Come along. 
 
 Nikita and Mltritch meet in the courtyard as the guests 
 are leaving from the front of the house. 
 
 Mit. It's a fine mess. But there's the Foundlings' for 
 that sort of thing. Whoever likes may drop one there; 
 they'll take 'em all. Give 'em as many as you like, they 
 ask no questions, and even pay — if the mother goes in as a 
 wet nurse. It's easy enough nowadays. 
 
 Nik. But mind, Mitritch, don't go blabbing. 
 
 Mit. It's no concern of mine. Cover the tracks as you 
 think best. Dear me, how you smell of liquor! I'll go in. 
 Oh, Lord! [Exit yawning. 
 
 Anisya finds Nikita sitting on a sledge and tells him to 
 go down in the cellar and dig a hole. He wants to manage 
 
140 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 some other way, but she mocks at him and says he should 
 have thought of that a year ago. Matryona comes up to 
 them with a lantern and a spade. 
 
 Nik. What do you mean to do? 
 
 Mat. We know what to do. You do your share! 
 
 Nik. You'll be getting me into a mess! 
 
 Mat. What? You're not thinking of backing out, are 
 you? Now it's come to this, and you back out! 
 
 Nik. Think what a thing it would be! It's a living soul. 
 
 Mat. A hving soul indeed! Why, it's more dead than 
 alive. And what's one to do with it? Go and take it to 
 the Foundlings' — it will die just the same, and the rumor 
 will get about, and people will talk, and the girl be left on 
 our hands. 
 
 Nik. And supposing it's found out? 
 
 Mat. Not manage to do it in one's own house? We'll 
 manage it so that no one will have an inkling. Only do as 
 I tell you. We women can't do it without a man. There, 
 take the spade, and get it done there — ^I'll hold the light. 
 
 Nik. What am I to get done? 
 
 Mat. [in a low voice]. Dig a hole; then we'll bring it 
 out and get it out of the way in a trice! There, she's call- 
 ing again. Now, then, get in, and I'll go. 
 
 Nik. Is it dead then? 
 
 Mat. Of course it is. Only you must be quick, or else 
 people will notice! They'll see or they'll hear!, The 
 rascals must needs know everything. And the policeman 
 went by this evening. Well, then, you see — [gives him the 
 spade] — ^you get down into the cellar and dig a hole right 
 in the corner; the earth is soft there, and you'll smooth 
 it over. Mother earth will not blab to any one; she'll 
 keep it close. Go, then; go, dear. 
 
 Nik. You'll get me into a mess, bother you! I'll go 
 away! You do it alone as best you can! 
 
 Anis, [through the doorway]. Well? Has he dug it? 
 
 Anisya is angry to find that Nikita holds back. She 
 declares that she will go to the police and tell them every- 
 thing, that he took the money, knowing that Peter was 
 murdered. He takes the spade from Matiyona but shrinks 
 from the task. She threatens to call the neighbors, and 
 gives a shout. Matry6na, putting her hand over Anisya's 
 mouth, coaxes Nikita and at last he goes toward the cellar. 
 
TOLSTOY 141 
 
 If he knows how to amuse himself, says his mother, he 
 must know how to hide the consequences. 
 
 Anis. [still excited]. He's trampled on me ... he 
 and his slut! But it's enough! I'm not going to be the 
 only one! Let him be a murderer, too! Then he'll know 
 how it feels! 
 
 Mat. There, there! How she flares up! Don't you 
 be cross, lass, but do things quietly little by little, as it's 
 best. You go to the girl and he'U do the work. [She 
 follows NiKiTA to the cellar wUh the lantern.] 
 
 Anis. And I'll make him strangle his dirty brat! [Still 
 excited.] I've worried myself to death aU alone, with 
 Peter's bones weighing on my mind! Let him feel it, too! 
 I'll not spare myself! 
 
 Nik. [from the cellar]. Show a light! 
 
 Mat. [holding up the lantern. To Anisya]. He's digging. 
 Go and bring it. 
 
 Anis. You stay with him, or he'll go away, the wretch! 
 And I'll go and bring it. 
 
 Mat. Mind, don't forget to baptize it, or I will if you 
 like. Have you a cross? 
 
 Anis. I'll find one. I know how to do it. [Exit. 
 
 Presently Anisya brings out a baby wrapped in rags. 
 She says that she has baptized it, but that it was all she 
 could do to get it away from AkouKna, who wouldn't give 
 it up. She offers it to Nikita, who won't take it and so 
 she throws it at him. He catches it and cries out in horror 
 that it is alive. Anisya snatches the baby again and throws 
 it down in the cellar. 
 
 Anis. Be quick and smother it, and then it won't be 
 alive! [Pushes Nikita dovm.] It's your doing, and you 
 must finish it. 
 
 Mat. [sits on the doorstep of the hut]. He's tender- 
 hearted. It's hard on him, poor dear. Well, what of 
 that? Isn't it also his sin? 
 
 [Anisya stands by the cellar.] 
 
 Mat. [sits looking at her and discourses]. Oh, oh, oh! 
 How frightened he was: well, but what of that? It is 
 hard, it's the only thing to be done. Where was one to put 
 it? And just think, how often it happens that people pray 
 to God to have children! But no, God gives them none; or 
 they are all still-bom. Look at our priest's wife now. 
 
142 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 . . . And here, where it's not wanted, here it lives. 
 [Looks toward the cellar.] I suppose he's finished. [To 
 Anista.] WeU? 
 
 Ania. [Looking into the cellar]. He's put a board on it and 
 is sitting on it. It must be^ finished! 
 
 Mat. Oh, oh! One would be glad not to sin, but 
 what's one to do? 
 
 Reenter Nikita from cellar, trembling all over. 
 
 Nik. It's stiU alive! I can't! It's alive! 
 
 Anis. If it's alive, where are you oflp to? [Tries to 
 stop him.] 
 
 Nik. [rushes at her]. Go away! I'll kill you! [Catches 
 hold of her arms; she escapes, he runs after her loith the spade. 
 Matbt6na runs toward him and stops him. Anista runs 
 into the porch. Matbt6na tries to vyrervch the spade from 
 him. To his mother.] I'll kiU you! I'll kill you! Go 
 away! [Matkt6na runs to Anista in the porch. Nikita 
 Oops.] I'll kill you! I'll kiU you all! 
 
 Mat. That's because he's so frightened! Never mind, 
 it will pass! 
 
 Nik. What have they made me do? What have they 
 made me do? How it whimpered. . . . How it 
 crunched under me! What have they done with me? 
 . . . And it's really alive, still alive! [Listens in silence.] 
 It's whimpering . . . There, it's whimpering. [Runs 
 to the cellar.] 
 
 Mat. [<o AnIsta]. He's going; it seems he means to 
 bury it. Nikita, you'd better take the lantern! 
 
 Nik. [does not heed her, but listens by the cellar door]. I 
 can hear nothing! I suppose it was fancy! [Moves away, 
 then stops.] How the Uttle bones crunched under me. 
 Krr , . . kr . . . What have they made me do? 
 [Listens again.] Again whimpering! It's really whim- 
 pering! What can it be? Mother! Mother, I say! 
 [Goes up to her.] 
 
 Mat. What is it, sonnie? 
 
 Nik. Mother, my own mother, I can't do any more! 
 Can't do any more! My own mother, have some pity on 
 me! 
 
 Mat. Oh, dear, how frightened you are, my darling! 
 Come, come, drink a drop to give you courage! 
 
 Nik. Mother, mother! It seems my time has come! 
 
TOLSTOY 143 
 
 What have you done with me? How the little bones 
 crunched, and how it whimpered! My own mother! 
 What have you done with me? [Steps aside and siis dmon 
 on the sledge.] 
 
 Mat. Come, my own, have a drink! It certainly does 
 seem uncanny at night-time. But wait a bit. When the 
 day breaks, you know, and one day and another passes, 
 you'll forget even to think of it. Wait a bit; when the 
 girl's married we'll even forget to think of it. But you go 
 and have a drink; have a drink! I'll go and put things 
 straight in the cellar myself. 
 
 Nik. [rouses himself]. Is there any drink left? Perhaps 
 I can drink it oS! [Exii. 
 
 [Anista, who has stood all the time by the door, si- 
 lently makes way for him.] 
 
 Mat. Go, go, honey, and I'll set to work! I'll go 
 down myself and dig! Where has he thrown the spade 
 to? [Finds the spade, and goes down into the cellar.] An- 
 isya, come here! Hold the light, will you? 
 
 Anis. And what of him? 
 
 Mat. He's so frightened! You've been too hard with 
 him. Leave him alone, he'll come to his senses. God 
 help him! I'll set to work myself . Put the lantern down 
 here. I can see. 
 
 [Matbtona disappears into the cellar. 
 
 Anis. [looking toward the door by which Nikita entered 
 the hvt]. Well, have you had enough spree? You've 
 been puffing yourself up, but now you'll know how it feels! 
 You'll lose some of your bluster! 
 
 Nik. [rushes out of the hut toward the cellar]. Mother, 
 mother, I say! 
 
 Mai. [puts out her head]. What is it, sonnie? 
 
 Nik. [listening]. Don't bury it, it's alive! Don't you 
 hear? Alive! There — it's whimpering! There . . . 
 quite plain! 
 
 Mat. How can it whimper? Why, you've flattened 
 it into a pancake! The whole head is smashed to 
 bits! 
 
 Nik. What is it then? [Stops his ears.] It's still 
 whimpering! I am lost! Lost! What have they done 
 with me? . . . Where shall I go? [Sits down on the 
 step.] 
 
144 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Akoulina's wedding is being celebrated, but Marina, 
 who has come with her husband, waits at the bam and 
 will not go to the hut, which is seen at a little distance. 
 Nildta approaches, hanging his head, swinging his arms 
 and muttering. 
 
 Nik. [sees and recognizes Makina]. Marina, dearest 
 friend, little Marina, what do you want? 
 
 Mar. I have come for my old man. 
 
 Nik. Why didn't you come to the wedding? You 
 might have had a look round, and a laugh at my expense! 
 
 Mar. What have I to laugh at? I've come for my 
 husband. 
 
 Nik. Ah, Marina dear! [Tries to embrace her.] 
 
 Mar. [steps angrily aside]. You'd better drop that sort 
 of thing, Nikita! What has been is past! I've come for 
 my husband. Is he in your house? 
 
 Nik. So I must not remember the past? You won't 
 let me? 
 
 Mar. It's no use recalling the past! What used to 
 be is over now! 
 
 Nik. And can never come back, you mean? 
 
 Mar. And will never come back! But why have you 
 gone away? You, the master — and to go away from the 
 feast! 
 
 Nik. [sits down on the straw]. Why have I gone away? 
 Eh, if you knew, if you had any idea . . . I'm dull, 
 Marina, so dull that I wish my eyes would not see! I 
 rose from the table and left them, to get away from the 
 people. If I could only avoid seeing any one! 
 
 Mar. [coming nearer to him]. How's that? 
 
 Nik. This is how it is: when I eat, it's there! When 
 I drink, it's there! When I sleep, it's there! I'm so sick 
 of it — so sick! But it's chiefly because I'm all alone that 
 I'm so sick, little Marina. I have no one to share my 
 trouble. 
 
 Mar. You can't live your life without trouble, Nikita. 
 However, I've wept over mine and wept it away. 
 
 Nik. The formfer, the old trouble! Ah, dear friend, 
 you've wept yours away and I've got mine up to there! 
 [Bids his hand to his throat.] 
 
 Mar. But why? 
 
 Nik. Why, I'm sick of my whole life! I am sick of 
 
TOLSTOY 145 
 
 myself! Ah, Marina, why did you not know how to 
 keep me? You've ruined me, and yourself, too! Is this 
 life? 
 
 Mar. [stands by the barn crying, but restrains herself]. I 
 do not complain of my life, Nikita! God grant every one 
 a life like mine. I do not complain. I confessed to my 
 old man at the time, and he forgave me. And he does 
 not reproach me. I'm not discontented with my life. 
 The old man is quiet, and is fond of me, and I keep his 
 children clothed and washed! He is really kind to me. 
 Why should I complain? It seems God willed it so. And 
 what's the matter with your life? You are rich . . . 
 
 Nik. My hfe! . . . It's only that I don't wish to 
 disturb the wedding feast, or I'd take this rope here — [takes 
 hold of the rope on the straw] — and throw it across that rafter 
 there. Then I'd make a noose and stretch it out, and I'd 
 climb on to that rafter and jump down with my head in 
 the noose! That's what my life is! 
 
 Mar. That's enough! Lord help you! 
 
 Nik. You think I'm joking? You think I'm drunk? 
 Fm not drunk! To-day even drink takes no hold on me! 
 I'm devoured by misery! Misery is eating me up com- 
 pletely, so that Icare for nothing! Oh, httle Marina, it's 
 only with you I ever lived! Do you remember how we 
 used to while away the nights togetiier at the railway? 
 
 Mar. Don't you rub the sores, Nikita! I'm bound 
 legally now, and you, too. My sin has been forgiven, don't 
 disturb ... 
 
 Nik. What shall I do with my heart? Where am I to 
 turn to? 
 
 They see Marina's husband coming toward them, red 
 and tipsy. Nildta lies down in the straw. Marina's hus- 
 band puts his arm around her and she goes with him to the 
 hut. Now that Nikita has seen her life seems more sick- 
 ening than ever. 
 
 Nan comes and tells him that every one is looking for 
 him. The others have blessed the bride and are getting 
 cross waiting for him. She finds it of no use talking to 
 him, and runs to get her mother. He picks up the end of a 
 rope lying in the straw, makes a noose, and tries it on his 
 neck. Then he sees his mother coming, takes it off, and 
 lies down again. Matry6na lu-ges him to come and give 
 
146 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 the bride his blessing. People have begun to talk, she 
 says, and are putting two and two together. Anisya also 
 comes and tells him he must go with them. She is 
 tipsy. 
 
 At last he assures the women that he will follow them if 
 they will start on ahead. When they have gone he sits 
 down and takes his boots oS, muttering it is a likely thing 
 he will go; he will fix the noose and jump from the rafter. 
 He pulls the rope toward him, but Mitritch, who has been 
 lying in the straw in a drunken sleep, has hold of the other 
 end and will not let go. 
 
 Mitritch, at last aroused, harangues Nikita about his 
 life in the army and the difficulty of keeping him from 
 drinking. Flogging did no good, but at last he swore oflF. 
 Now he has taken to drink, and drink he will. He fears no 
 man. Why should one mind them — such muck as they 
 are. Inspired by his talk with a feeling of contempt for 
 men Nikita gets up and goes to the hut. 
 
 Inside the women are singing their songs over again to 
 kill the time. Nikita enters with his father, holdmg his 
 father's arm and pushing him ahead. He tells Akfm he 
 cannot do without him. The guests are astonished to see 
 that Nikita is barefoot as he comes forward and falls on his 
 knees. His wife and mother try to raise him, but he takes 
 no heed of them, looking straight in front of him. 
 
 Nik. Christian Commune! I have sinned, and I wish 
 to confess! 
 
 Mat. [shakes him by the shoulder]. Are you mad? Dear 
 friends, he's gone crazy! He must be taken away! 
 
 Nik. [shakes her off] . Leave me alone ! And you, father, 
 hear me! And first, Marina, look here! [Bows to the 
 ground to her and rises.] I have sinned toward you! I 
 proniised to marry you, I tempted you and forsook you! 
 Forgive me, in Christ's name! [Again bows to the ground 
 bt^ore her.] 
 
 Anis. And what are you drivelling about? It's not 
 becoming! No one wants to know! Get up! It's like 
 your impudence! 
 
 Mat. Oh, oh, he's bewitched! And however did it 
 happen? It's a spell! Get up! What nonsense are you 
 jabbering? [Pulls him.] 
 
 Nik. [shakes his head]. Don't touch me! Forgive me 
 
TOLSTOY 147 
 
 my sm toward you, Marina! Forgive me, for Christ's 
 sake! 
 
 [Marina covers her face with her hands in silence.] 
 
 Anis. Get up, I tell you! Don't be so impudent > 
 What are you thinking about — to recall it? Enough 
 humbug! It's shanaeful! Oh, my poor head! He's quite 
 crazy! 
 
 Nik. [ptishea his wife away and turns to AKOULfNA]. 
 Akoulfna, now I'll speak to you! Listen, Christian Com- 
 mime! I'm a fiend, AkouUna! I have sinned against 
 you! Your father died no natural death! He was 
 poisoned! 
 
 Anis. [screams]. Oh, my head! What's he about? 
 
 Mai. The man's beside himself! Lead him away! 
 [The folk come up and try to seize him.] 
 
 Akim [motions them back with his anns]. Wait! You 
 lads, what d'ye call it, wait, I mean! 
 
 Nik. Akoulina, I poisoned him ! Forgive me, in Christ's 
 
 name 
 
 Akou. [jumps up]. He's teUing lies ! I know who did it I 
 
 Matchmaker. What are you about? You sit still! 
 
 Akim. Oh, Lord, what sins, what sins! 
 
 Police Officer. Seize him, and send for the Elder! We 
 must draw up an indictment and have witnesses to it! 
 Get up and come here! 
 
 Akim [to Police Officer]. Now you — ^with the bright 
 buttons — I mean, you wait! Let him, what d'ye call it, 
 speak out, I mean! 
 
 Police Officer. Mind, old man, and don't interfere I I 
 have to draw up an indictment! 
 
 Akim. Eh, what a fellow you are; wait, I say! Don't 
 talk, I mean, about, what d'ye call it, 'ditements! Here 
 God's work is being done. ... A man is confessing, I 
 mean! And you, what d'ye call it . . . 'ditements! 
 
 Police Officer. The Elder! 
 
 Akim. Let God's work be done, I mean, and then you, 
 I mean, you do your business! 
 
 Nik. And, Akoulina, my sin is great toward you; I 
 seduced you; forgive me in Christ's name! [Bows to the 
 ground before her.] 
 
 Akou. [leaves the table]. Let me go! I shan't be mar- 
 ried ! He told me to, but I shan't now ! 
 
148 THE POWER OF DARKNESS 
 
 Police Officer. Repeat what you have said. 
 
 Nik. Wait, sir, let me finish! 
 
 Akim [vnth rapture]. Speak, my son! Tell everything 
 — ^you'll feel better! Confess to God, don't fear men! 
 God— God! It is He! 
 
 Nik. I poisoned the father, dog that I am, and I 
 ruined the daughter! She was in my power, and I ruined 
 her, and her baby! 
 
 Akou. True, that's true! 
 
 Nik. I smothered the baby in the cellar with a board! 
 I sat on it and smothered it — and its bones crunched! 
 [Weeps.] And I buried it ! I did it all alone ! 
 
 Akou. He raves! I told him to! 
 
 Nik. Don't shield me! I fear no one now! Forgive 
 me, Christian Commune! [Bows to the ground.] 
 [Silence.] 
 
 Police Officer. Bind him! The marriage is evidently 
 off! 
 
 [Men come up vnth their belts.] 
 
 Nik. Wait, there's plenty of time! [Bows to the ground 
 before his father.] Father, dear father, forgive me, too — 
 fiend that I am! You told me from the first, when I 
 took to bad ways, you said then, "If a claw is caught, 
 the bird is lost!" I would not Usten to yoiu* words, dog 
 that I was, and it has turned out as you said ! Forgive me, 
 for Christ's sake! 
 
 Akim [rapturously]. God will forgive you, my own son! 
 [Embraces him.] You have had no mercy on yom-self. He 
 will show mercy on you! God — God! It is He! 
 Enter Elder. 
 
 Elder. There are witnesses enough here. 
 
 Police Officer. We will have the examination at once. 
 [NiKiTA is bound.] 
 
 Akou. [goes and stands by his side]. I shall tell the 
 truth! Ask me! 
 
 Nik. No need to ask! I did it all myself. The design 
 was mine, and the deed was mine. Take me where you 
 like. I will say no more ! 
 
THE FATHER* 
 
 By August Steindbekq 
 
 First played in Sweden in 1887. 
 
 Argument: The captain feels that the life of one's 
 children is a sort of immortality, the only one he believes 
 in, and wishes to educate his daughter as he thinks best, 
 but all of his wife's ideas are opposed to his, and to thwart 
 him she does everything in her power to aggravate his 
 nervous irritability and to have him locked up as insane. 
 Finally, she succeeds in upsetting him very much by telling 
 him that her daughter is not his daughter, and that al- 
 though he was necessary at one time as a provider she now 
 means to place him in an asylum and live on his pension. 
 Will she succeed in driving him insane and be able to bring 
 up her daughter to suit herself? 
 
 The captain has decided to send his daughter away from 
 home to finish her education because the house is full of 
 women who all want to have their say about the matter. 
 He, who has the chief right to try to form her character, 
 as he tells the pastor, is constantly opposed in his efforts. 
 
 Pastor. You have too many women trying to run this 
 house. 
 
 Captain. You're right! It's like going into a cage full 
 of tigers, and if I di(hi't hold a red-hot iron under their 
 noses they would tear me to pieces any moment. And you 
 laugh, you rascal! Wasn't it enough that I married your 
 sister, without yoiu- palming off yoiu* old stepmother on 
 me? 
 
 Past. But, good heavens, one can't have stepmothers 
 in one's own house! 
 
 ♦Published by John W. Luce & Co., Boston. Translated by Edith 
 and Warner Oland. Copyright, 1912, by L. E. Bassett. 
 
 149 
 
150 THE FATHER 
 
 Capt. No, you think it is better to have mothers-in-law 
 in some one else's house! 
 
 Past. Oh, well, we all have some burden in life. 
 
 The pastor warns the captain, however, to keep a tight 
 rein on his women folks and not let them run things too 
 much. The captain does not see how he can manage to 
 do anything of the sort. The worst thing of all, he says, 
 is that Laura, his wife, will not let their daughter Bertha 
 leave them. The pastor says that when Laura was a child, 
 if she set her mind on anything she used to lie like a corpse 
 imtil she got it, and then as likely as not she would give it 
 back, explaining that she did not care about the thing, 
 whatever it was, but about getting her own way. Upon 
 leaving, the pastor expresses anxiety about the captain's 
 health. 
 
 Laura finds the captain by himself and asks him if he 
 has come to a decision about Bertha. He replies that 
 Bertha is to go to a boarding-school in town. It is accord- 
 ing to the law, he informs her, that children should be 
 brought up in their father's faith because the woman sells 
 her birthright by a legal transaction and forfeits her rights 
 in return for the man's responsibility of caring for her and 
 her children. He goes out, and the new doctor calls. 
 
 Laura informs the doctor that it is her painful duty 
 to tell him that her husband's mind is affected. The 
 doctor is greatly surprised, having read some treatises 
 written by the captain and found that they displayed a 
 
 Erofound and powerful intellect. Nevertheless, she says, 
 er husband has extraordinary ideas, buys books that he 
 never reads, and insists that he can tell all about what is 
 going on on another planet by looking into a microscope. 
 This sounds rather grave to the doctor, and he warns her 
 to avoid suggesting any ideas that might make a deep im- 
 pression on the patient, for in a weak brain they develop 
 rapidly and quickly turn to monomania, or fixed ideas. 
 
 Laura. You mean to avoid arousing suspicions? 
 
 Doctor. Exactly. One can make the insane believe 
 anythiag, just because they are receptive to everythmg. 
 
 A bell rings and she excuses herself. The captain re- 
 turns and the doctor talks with him, learning that it was 
 with the spectroscope that he made a certain discovery, 
 and not with the microscope as the captain's wife had said 
 
STRINDBERG 151 
 
 he claimed. The captain is greatly hampered, he tells the 
 doctor, because he cannot get any booksellers to send him 
 any books, or even to answer his letters. It is maddening. 
 He fears he will not get his treatise done in time, and he 
 knows that they are working on the same thing in Berlin. 
 
 The captain's old nurse, for whom he has a sincere 
 affection, has a talk with him about Bertha in behalf of his 
 wife. A mother, she says, has only her child. The cap- 
 tain replies that he bears a triple burden, otherwise he 
 should have held a better position than that of a poor sol- 
 dier. He wishes to give his child his soul. He tells the 
 nurse she must not desert him, now when they have begim 
 to weave a plot around him and the doctor is not his 
 friend. 
 
 JVwrse. Oh, Mr. Adolf, you beUeve evil about everybody. 
 But you see it's because you haven't the true faith; that's 
 just what it is. 
 
 Capt. Yes, you and the Baptists have found the only 
 true faith. You are indeed lucky! 
 
 Nurse. Anyway, I'm not unhappy Hke you, Mr. Adolf. 
 Humble your heart and you will see that Grod will make 
 you happy in your love for your neighbor. 
 
 Capt. It's a strange thing that you no sooner speak of 
 God and love than yomr voice becomes hard and yoiu: eyes 
 fill with hate. No, Margaret, surely you have not the toie 
 faith. 
 
 Nurse. Yes, go on being proud and hard in your learn- 
 ing, but it won't amount to much when it comes to the test. 
 
 Capt. How mightily you talk, humble heart. I know 
 very well that knowledge is of no use to you women. 
 
 Nurse. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. But in 
 spite of everything old Margaret cares most for her great 
 big boy, and he wffl come back to the fold when it's stormy 
 weather. 
 
 Capt. Margaret! Forgive me, but beheve me when I 
 say that there is no one here who wishes me well but you. 
 Help me, for I feel that something is going to happen here. 
 What it is, I don't know, but something evil is on the way. 
 [Scream from vnthin.] What's that? Who's that scream- 
 ing? 
 
 Bertha comes in and teUs her father that her grandmother 
 wanted to hurt her because their spirit writing that thqr 
 
152 THE FATHER 
 
 were practising did not go just right. He asks her if she 
 would like to go to town and learn something useful. The 
 idea of going to town is pleasing to her. Her mother re- 
 turns to the room and the captain asks Bertha to leave 
 them. 
 
 Laura, You were afraid of hearing her opinion, because 
 you thought it would be to my advantage. 
 
 Cajit. I know that she wishes to go away from home, 
 but I know also that you possess the power of changing her 
 mind to suit your pleasure. 
 
 Laura. Oh, am I really so powerful? 
 
 Ca'pt. Yes, you have a fiendish power of getting your 
 own way; but so has any one who does not scruple about 
 the way it is accomplished. How did you get Doctor 
 Norling away, for instance, and how did you get this new 
 doctor here? 
 
 Laura. Yes, how did I manage that? 
 
 Cajd. You insulted the other one so much that he left, 
 and made your brother recommend this fellow. 
 
 Laura. Well, that was quite simple and legitimate. 
 Is Bertha to leave home now? 
 
 Ca'pt. Yes, she is to start in a fortnight. 
 
 Laura. That is your decision? 
 
 Capt. Yes. 
 
 Laura. Then I must try to prevent it. 
 
 Capt. You cannot. 
 
 Laura. Can't I? Do you really think I would trust 
 my daughter to wicked people to have her taught that 
 everything her mother has implanted in her child is mere 
 foolishness? Why, afterward, she would despise me all the 
 rest of her life! 
 
 Capt. Do you think that a father should allow ignorant 
 and conceited women to teach his daughter that he is a 
 charlatan? 
 
 Laura. It means less to the father. 
 
 Capt. Why so? 
 
 Laura. Because the mother is closer to the child, as it 
 has been discovered that no one can tell for a certainty who 
 the father of a child is. 
 
 Capt. How does that apply to this case? 
 
 Laura. You do not know whether you are Bertha's 
 father or not. 
 
STRINDBERG 153 
 
 Capt. I do not know? 
 
 Laura. No; what no one knows you surely cannot 
 know. 
 
 Capt. Are you joking? 
 
 Laura. No ; I am only making use of your own teaching. 
 For that matter, how do you know that I have not been 
 unfaithful to you? 
 
 Capt. I believe you capable of almost anything, but 
 not that, nor that you would talk about it if it were true. 
 
 Laura. Suppose that I was prepared to bear anything, 
 even to being despised and driven out, everything for the 
 sake of being able to keep and control my child, and that 
 I am truthful now when I declare that Bertha is my child, 
 but not yours. Suppose 
 
 Capt. Stop now! 
 
 Laura. Just suppose this. In that case your power 
 would be at an end. 
 
 Capt. When you had proved that I was not the father. 
 
 Laura. That would not be difficult! Would you like 
 me to do so? 
 
 Capt. Stop ! 
 
 Laura. Of course I should only need to declare the 
 name of the real father, give all details of place and time. 
 For instance — ^when was Bertha bom? In the third year 
 of our marriage? 
 
 Capt. Stop now, or else 
 
 Laura. Or else, what? Shall we stop now? Think 
 carefully about all you do and decide, and whatever you do, 
 don't make yourself ridiculous. 
 
 Capt. I consider all this most lamentable. 
 
 Laura. Which makes you all the more ridiculous. 
 
 Capt. And you? 
 
 Laura. Oh, we women are really too clever. 
 
 Capt. That's why one cannot contend with you. 
 
 Laura. Then why provoke contests with a superior 
 enemy? 
 
 Capt. Superior? 
 
 Laura. Yes, it's queer, but I have never looked at a 
 man without knowing myself to be his superior. 
 
 Capt. Then you shall be made to see your superior for 
 once, so that you shall never forget it. 
 
 Laura. That will be interesting. 
 
154 THE FATHER 
 
 Nurse [comes in\. Supper is served. Will you come in? 
 
 Laura. Very well. 
 
 [Captain lingers; sits down vnth a magazine in an 
 armchair near table.] 
 
 Laura. Aren't you coming in to supper? 
 
 Capt. No, thanks. I don't want anything. 
 
 Laura. What, are you annoyed? 
 
 Capt. No, but I am not hungry. 
 
 Laura. Come, or they will ask unnecessary questions 
 — ^be good now. You won't? Stay there then. [Goes. 
 
 Nurse. Mr. Adolf! What is this all about? 
 
 Capt. I don't know what it is. Can you explain to me 
 why you women treat an old man as if he were a child? 
 
 Nurse. I don't understand it, but it must be because 
 all you men, great and small, are women's children, every 
 man of you. 
 
 Capt. But no women are born of men. Yes, but I am 
 Bertha's father. Tell me, Margaret, don't you believe it? 
 Don't you? 
 
 Nurse. Lord, how silly you are. Of course you are 
 your own child's father. Come and eat now, and don't 
 sit there and sulk. There, there, come now. 
 
 Capt. Get out, woman. To hell with the hags. [Goes 
 to private door.] Svard, Svard! 
 
 Orderly comes in. 
 
 Orderly. Yes, Captain. 
 
 Capt. Hitch into the covered sleigh at once. 
 
 Nurse. Captain, Usten to me. 
 
 Capt. Out, woman! At once! [Otlderly goes. 
 
 Nurse. Good Lord, what's going to happen now. 
 
 [Captain puis on his cap and coat and prepares to go 
 out.] 
 
 Capt. Don't expect me home before midnight. [Goes. 
 
 Nurse. Lord preserve us, whatever will be the end of 
 this! 
 
 That evening the doctor informs Laura that her husband 
 is not only cleared of all suspicion of insanity, but that he 
 has rendered a great service to science. She should be 
 very careful about making such charges, he says, because 
 when a certificate in lunacy is in question it may mean the 
 loss to the subject of both civil and family rights. Laura 
 
STRINDBERG 155 
 
 admits that she intercepted her husband's letters to the 
 booksellers so that he should not waste their money. The 
 doctor tells her that that was likely to make him suspicious 
 and to irritate him, especially by thwarting his will in re- 
 gard to his deepest desires. 
 
 Laura informs the doctor further that the captain raved 
 in the strangest way early in the evening, having the idea 
 that he was not the father of his child. She begins to cry, 
 as she says she fears there is no hope for her husband. Six 
 years previously he was in the same condition, and he 
 wrote to the doctor himself that he feared for his reason. 
 It is after midnight when the captain returns. He wishes 
 to discuss the subject of heredity with the doctor, and makes 
 the point that paternity cannot be proved by likeness of 
 the offspring to the supposed father. 
 
 Capt. Didn't you ever feel ridiculous as a father? I 
 know of nothing so ludicrous as to see a father leading his 
 children by the hand around the streets, or to hear a father 
 talk about his children. "My wife's children," he ought 
 to say. Did you ever feel how false your position was? 
 Weren't you ever afflicted with doubts, I won't say sus- 
 picions, for, as a gentleman, I assume that your wife was 
 above suspicion. 
 
 Doc. No, really, I never was; but. Captain, I believe 
 Goethe says a man must take his children on good faith. 
 
 Cajd. It's risky to take anything on good faith where a 
 woman is concerned. 
 
 Doc. Oh, there are so many kinds of women. 
 
 Capt. Modern investigations have pronounced that 
 there is only one kind! 
 
 Women, the captain says, are unconscious of their 
 instinctive dishonesty. The doctor replies that his 
 thoughts are taking a morbid turn, and that he ought to 
 control them. 
 
 Cajjt. You must not use the word morbid. Steam 
 boilers, as you know, explode at a certain pressure, but the 
 same pressure is not needed for all boiler explosions. You 
 imderstand? However, you are here to watch me. If I 
 were not a man I should have the right to make accusations 
 or complaints, as they are so cleverly called, and perhaps I 
 should be able to give you the whole diagnosis, and, what 
 is more, the history of my disease. But, unfortunately, I 
 
156 THE FATHER 
 
 am a man, and there is nothing for me to do but, like a 
 Boman, fold my arms across my breast and hold my 
 breath till I die. 
 
 When the doctor goes, the captain opens a side door and 
 finds his wife, who has been eavesdropping. She is em- 
 barrassed for a moment. He tells her that he has been to 
 the post office and discovered that she has been keeping 
 back his mail, and that in consequence the result that he 
 expected from his work has been destroyed. He has there- 
 fore intercepted letters for her and found that she has 
 been arraying his friends against him by spreading reports 
 regarding his mental condition. Not one person from the 
 colonel down to the cook believes any longer that he is 
 sane. He says that she has undermined his will, and that 
 sooner or later his intellect wiU go to smash. 
 
 Capt. I will not appeal to your feelings, for you have 
 none; that is your strength; but I will appeal to your in- 
 terests. 
 
 Laura. Let me hear. 
 
 Capt. You have succeeded in arousing my suspicions 
 to such an extent that my judgment is no longer clear, and 
 my thoughts begin to wander. This is the approaching 
 insanity that you are waiting for, which may come at any 
 time now. So you are face to face with the question 
 whether it is more to your interest that I should be sane or 
 insane. Consider. If I go under I shall lose the serv- 
 ice, and where will you be then? If I die, my life insur- 
 ance will fall to you. But if I take my own Itfe, you will 
 get nothing. Consequently, it is to your interest that I 
 should live out my life. 
 
 Laura. Is this a trap? 
 
 Capt. To be sure. But it rests with you whether you 
 will nm around it or stick your head into it. 
 
 Laura. You say that you will kill yourself! You 
 won't do that! 
 
 Capt. Are you sure? Do you think a man can live 
 when he has nothing and no one to live for? 
 
 Laura. You surrender, then? 
 
 Capt. No, I oflfer peace. 
 
 Laura. The conditions? 
 
 Capt. That I may keep my reason. Free me from my 
 suspicions and I give up the conflict. 
 
STRINDBERG 157 
 
 Laura. What suspicions? 
 
 Ca'pt. About Bertha's origin. 
 
 Laura. Are there any doubts about that? 
 
 CajA. Yes, I have doubts, and you have awakened 
 them. 
 
 Laura. I? 
 
 Cajd. Yes, you have dropped them like henbane in my 
 ears, and circumstances have strengthened them. Free 
 me from the uncertainty; tell me outright that it is true 
 and I will forgive you beforehand. 
 
 Laura. How can I acknowledge a sin that I have not 
 committed? 
 
 CajA. What does it matter when you know that I shall 
 not divulge it? Do you think a man would go and spread 
 his own shame broadcast? 
 
 Laura. If I say it isn't true, you won't be convinced; 
 but if I say it is, then you will be convinced. You seem 
 to hope it is true! 
 
 Capt. Yes, strangely enough; it must be, because the 
 first supposition can't be proved; the latter can be. 
 
 Laura. Have you any ground for your suspicions? 
 
 Cajit. Yes and no. 
 
 Laura. I believe you want to prove me guilty so that 
 you can get rid of me and then have absolute control over 
 the child. But you won't catch me in any such snare. 
 
 Caft. Do you think that I would want to be respon- 
 sible for another man's child if I were convinced of your 
 guilt? 
 
 Laura. No, I'm sure you wouldn't, and that's what 
 makes me know you lied just now when you said that you 
 would forgive me beforehand. 
 
 Capl. [rises]. Laiu-a, save me and my reason. You 
 don't seem to understand what I say. If the child is not 
 mine I have no control over her and don't want to have 
 any, and that is precisely what you do want, isn't it? But 
 perhaps you want even more — to have power over the 
 child, but still have me to support you. 
 
 Laura. Power, yes! What has this whole life and 
 death struggle been for but power? 
 
 Capt. To me it has meant more. I do not believe in a 
 hereafter; the child was my future life. That was my con- 
 ception of immortality, and perhaps the only one that has 
 
158 THE FATHER 
 
 any analogy in reality. If you take that away from me, 
 you cut off my life. 
 
 When they had been married for two years they had not 
 had a child. He fell ill and lay at the point of death. In 
 an interval of fever he heard her talking in the next room 
 with a lawyer about the fortune that he still possessed at 
 that time. He heard the lawyer explain that she could not 
 inherit the property from her husband because she had no 
 children. He recovered and they had a child. He asks 
 who its father was. She replies that he was. 
 
 Cajd. No, I am not. Here is a buried crime that be- 
 gins to stench, and what a hellish crime! You women 
 have been compassionate enough to free the black slaves, 
 but you have kept the white ones. I have worked and 
 slaved for you, your child, your mother, your servants; I 
 have sacrificed promotion and career; I have endured tor- 
 ture, flagellation, sleeplessness, worry for your sake, until 
 my hair has grown gray; and all that you might enjoy 
 life without care, and when you grew old, enjoy life over 
 again in your child. I have borne everything without com- 
 plaint, because I thought myself the father of your child. 
 This is the commonest kind of theft, the most brutal slav- 
 ery. I have, had seventeen years of penal servitude and 
 have been innocent. What can you give me in return for 
 that? 
 
 Laura. Now you are quite mad. 
 
 He says he has seen how she has labored to conceal her 
 sin, and that he often lulled her evil conscience because 
 he thought he was chasing away a morbid thought. He 
 has heard her cry out in her sleep without allowing himself 
 to Usten. He remembers now that the night before last. 
 Bertha's birthday, she screamed as if some one were stran- 
 gling her. He had had his suspicions but did not dare to 
 hear them confirmed. 
 
 She swears by God and all that she holds sacred that he 
 is Bertha's father. Not believing her, he implores her to 
 tell him the truth, as a wounded man begs for a death blow. 
 He says that he simply implores pity like a sick man, lays 
 down the tokens of his power and prays for mercy on his 
 hfe. She approaches him, and laying her hand on his fore- 
 head, is surprised to find that he is crying. 
 
 She always felt a motherly sympathy for him when he 
 
STRINDBERG 159 
 
 seemed like a child, but as a man she regarded him as her 
 enemy, because love between the sexes is strife. She did 
 not give herself as he thought, she says, but took what 
 she wanted. He realizes that one of them must go under in 
 this struggle. She says that the stronger will be in the 
 right; she has the power, she assures him, with which to 
 put him under control. 
 
 Laura. And then I shall educate my child without 
 listening to your fantastic notions. 
 
 Capt. And who will pay for the education when I am 
 no longer here? 
 
 Laura. Your pension will pay for it. 
 
 Capt. [threateningly]. How can you have me put under 
 a guardian.'' 
 
 Laura [takes out a letter]. With this letter of which an 
 attested copy is in the hands of the board of lunacy. 
 
 Capt. What letter? 
 
 Laura [moving backward toward the door left]. Yours! 
 Your declaration to the doctor that you are insane. [The 
 Captain stares at her in silence.] Now you have fulfilled 
 yovur function as an unfortunately necessary father and 
 breadwinner, you are not needed any longer and you must 
 go. You must go, since you have realized that my intel- 
 lect is as strong as my will, and since you will not stay and 
 acknowledge it. 
 
 [The Captain goes to the table, seizes the lighted lamp 
 and hurls it at Lauka, who disappears backward 
 through the door.] 
 
 It is night. The captain is locked in his room. His 
 orderly has removed the cartridges from the captain's room 
 at his wife's order. In the sitting-room they can hear the 
 captain sawing. Laura is taking papers out of the cap- 
 tain's desk when the pastor comes in. Terrible things 
 have been happening, she»says; Adolf has conceived the 
 wild idea that Bertha is not his child, and has thrown 
 the lamp at her. The pastor perceives that this is fully 
 developed insanity. 
 
 In the desk are a few keepsakes that the captain had 
 treasured for many years, a doll that had belonged to 
 Laura when she was a child, her letters, and a locket. 
 The pastor wipes his eyes when she has shown them to 
 
160 THE FATHER 
 
 him, but he understands the situation and admires his 
 sister. 
 
 Past. You are strong, Laura, incredibly strong. You 
 are like a fox in a trap, you would rather gnaw oflF your own 
 leg than let yourself be caught! Like a master thief — ^no 
 accomplice, not even your own conscience. Look at your- 
 self in the glass! You dare not! 
 
 Laura. I never use a looking-glass! 
 
 Past. No, you dare not! Let me look at your hand. 
 Not a tell-tale blood stain, not a trace of insidious poison! 
 A little innocent murder that the law cannot reach, an un- 
 conscious crime — unconscious! What a splendid idea! 
 Do you hear how he is working up there? Take care! If 
 that man gets loose he will make short work of you. 
 
 Laura. You talk so much, you must have a bad con- 
 science. Accuse me if you can! 
 
 Past. I cannot. 
 
 Laura. You see! You cannot, and therefore I am 
 innocent. You take care of your ward, and I will take 
 care of mine! Here's the doctor. 
 
 The doctor comes, in. It devolves upon him to decide 
 whether the captain's violence was an outbreak of passion 
 or madness. The pastor at once interposes that the sub- 
 ject has fixed ideas. They are less fixed than the pastor's, 
 the doctor thinks. He believes, however, that it will be 
 "most, advantageous for all parties" that the captain 
 should be treated as insane. He sends for the niu^e and 
 shows her a strait-jacket, which, he says, she is to slip 
 on the captain from behind. He is going to bring the cap- 
 tain in, for he thinks the door will not hold out much 
 longer. 
 
 A door at one side of the room is suddenly burst open, 
 sending flying a chair that was braced against it. The 
 captain comes in. He has several books in his hands, from 
 which he reads selections to the effect that it is a wise child 
 that knows its own father. He turns on the pastor and 
 asks him if he believes he is the father of his children, re- 
 minding him of a handsome young tutor who lived in his 
 house. The pastor is distressed, and the doctor is even 
 more so when his turn comes and the captain reminds him 
 of a certain lieutenant who boarded at his house. 
 
 Past. Do you know, Adolf, that you are insane? 
 
STRINDBERG 161 
 
 Cwpl. Yes; I know that well enough. But if I only 
 had the handling of your illustrious brains for a while I'd 
 soon have you shut up, too! I am mad, but how did I 
 become so? 
 
 He takes the photograph album from the table and looks 
 at Bertha's picture. Now that his conception of immor- 
 telity has been taken from him, he says, he has nothing to 
 live for, and what can he do with his life when he is dis- 
 honored? He wants to die. TelUng them to do with him 
 as they will he buries his head on his arms upon the table. 
 The doctor whispers to the pastor and they go out. Soon 
 after Bertha comes in. 
 
 Bertha \goes up to the Captain]. Are you iU, father? 
 
 Capt. [looks up dazed]. I? 
 
 Ber. Do you know what you have done? Do you 
 know that you threw the lamp at mother? 
 
 Capt. Did I? 
 
 Ber. Yes, you did. Just think if she had been hurt. 
 
 Capt. What would that have mattered? 
 
 Ber. You are not my father when you talk like that. 
 
 Capt. What do you say? Am .1 not your father? 
 How do you know that? Who told you that? And who 
 is your father, then? Who? 
 
 Ber. Not you, at any rate. 
 
 Capt. Still not I? Who, then? Who? You seem to 
 be well informed. Who told you? That I should live to 
 see my child come and tell me to my face that I am not her 
 father ! But don't you know that you disgrace your mother 
 when you say that? Don't you know that it is to her 
 shame if it is so? 
 
 Ber. Don't say anything bad about mother; do you 
 hear? 
 
 Capt. No; you hold together, every one of you, against 
 me, and you have always done so. 
 
 Ber. Father! 
 
 Capt. Don't use that word again! 
 
 Ber. Father, father! 
 
 Capt. [draws her to him]. Bertha, dear, dear child, you 
 are my diild! Yes, yes; it cannot be otherwise. It is so. 
 The other was only sickly thoughts that come with the 
 wind like pestilence and fever. Look at me that I may see 
 my soul in your eyes! — But I see her soul, too! You have 
 
162 THE FATHER 
 
 two souls, and you love me with one and hate me with the 
 other. But you must only love me ! You must have only 
 one soul, or you will never have peace, nor I, either. You 
 must have only one mind, which is the child of ray mind, 
 and one will, which is my will. 
 
 He says he is a cannibal and wants to eat her; her mother 
 wanted to eat him; and that he is Saturn, who ate his 
 children because it had been prophesied that they would 
 eat him. To eat or be eaten! That is the question. He 
 goes and takes a revolver from the wall. Bertha screams 
 for help and tries to escape. The nurse comes in and finds 
 the captain examining the revolver, from which the car- 
 tridges have been removed. She says that she put them 
 away when she was tidying up, but that if he will sit down 
 and be quiet she will get them. 
 
 She takes the captain by the arm and gets him to a 
 chair, into which he sinks feebly. Then she takes out the 
 strait-jacket from under a shawl and goes behind the 
 chair. She reminds him of how she used to tuck 'him in 
 at night when he was a little boy, and would light the can- 
 dles and tell him stories when he had bad dreams. It 
 soothes him to hear her talk. 
 
 Nurse. Oh, yes, but you must Usten then! Do you re- 
 member when you took the big kitchen knife and wanted 
 to cut out boats with it, and how I came in and had to 
 get the knife away by fooling you? You were just a little 
 child who didn't understand, so I had to fool you, for you 
 didn't know that it was for your own good. "Give me 
 that snake," I said, "or it will bite you!" and then you let 
 go of the knife. [Takes the revolver out of the Captain's 
 hand.] And then when you had to be dressed and (hdn't 
 want to, I had to coax you and say that you should have a 
 coat of gold and be dressed like a prince. And then I took 
 your little blouse that was just made of green wool and 
 held it in front of you and said: "In with both arms," and 
 then I said, "Now sit nice and still while I button it down 
 the back." [She puts the strait-jacket on.] And then I 
 said, "Get up now, and walk across the floor like a good 
 boy so I can see how it fits." [She leads him to the sofa] 
 And then I said, "Now you must go to bed." 
 
 Ca'pt. What did you say? Was I to go to bed when I 
 was dressed — damnation! what have you done to me? 
 
STRINDBERG 163 
 
 [Tries to get free.] Ah! you cunning devil of a woman! 
 Who would have thought you had so much wit. [Lies down 
 on sofa.] Trapped, shorn, outwitted, and not to be able 
 to die! 
 
 The nurse tells him she wanted to keep him from killing 
 his child. He calls his orderly and tells him to throw the 
 woman out, but the orderly says that he cannot lay hands 
 on a woman. Laura comes in and motions to the orderly 
 to go. 
 
 Capt. Omphale, Omphale! Now you play with the 
 club while Hercules spins your wool. 
 
 Laura [goes to sofa]. Adolf, look at me. Do you believe 
 I am your enemy? 
 
 He repUes that they are all his enemies, his mother, his 
 sister, his daughter, and especially his wife, because she 
 never let up until he lay there lifeless. 
 
 Laura. I don't know that I ever thought or even in- 
 tended what you think I did. It may be that a dim desire 
 to get rid of you as an obstacle lay at the bottom of it, and 
 if you see any design in my behavior, it is possible that it 
 existed, although I was unconscious of it. I have never 
 thought how it all came about, but it is the result of the 
 course you yourself laid out, and before God and my con- 
 science I feel that I am innocent, even if I am not. Yom- 
 existence has lain like a stone on my heart — lain so heavily 
 that I tried to shake off the oppressive biu-den. This is 
 the truth, and if I have unconsciously struck you down, 
 I ask your forgiveness. 
 
 She declares that his suspicions about the child are ab- 
 solutely groundless. He complains of cold, and she spreads 
 her shawl over him. He says it smells of vanilla, and re- 
 minds him of her hair when she was young, and they walked 
 in the birch woods, with the primroses and the thrushes. 
 He compares the beauty of life then with what it is now. 
 He asks her to take her shawl away and give him his army 
 coat. He calls it his lion skin, likening himself again to 
 Hercules, and her to Omphale. 
 
 Capt. Omphale! You cunning woman, champion of 
 peace and contriver of man's disarmament. Wake, Her- 
 cules, before they take your club away from you! You 
 would wile our armor from us, too, and make believe that 
 it is nothing but glittering finery. No, it was iron, let me 
 
164 THE FATHER 
 
 tell you, before it ever glittered. In olden days the smith 
 made the armor, now it is the needlewoman. Omphale! 
 Omphale! Rude strength has fallen before treacherous 
 weakness. — Out on you infernal woman, and damnation 
 on your sex ! [He raises himself to spit, but falls hack on the 
 sofa.] What have you given me for a piUow, Margaret? 
 It is so hard, and so cold, so cold. Come and sit near me. 
 There. May I put my head on your knee? So! — ^This 
 is warm! Bend over me so that I can feel your breast! 
 Oh, it is sweet to sleep against a woman's breast, a mother's 
 or a mistress's, but the mother's is sweetest. 
 
 Laura. Would you like to see your child, Adolf? 
 
 Cajit. My child? A man has no children, it is only 
 woman who has children, and therefore the futm-e is hers 
 when we die childless. O God, who holds his children 
 dear! 
 
 Nurse. Listen, he is praying to God. 
 
 Capt. No, to you to put me to sleep, for I am tired, so 
 tired. Good-night, Margaret, and blessed be you among 
 women. 
 
 [He raises himself, but falls with a cry on the Nuhse's 
 lap. Laxjea goes to left and calls the Doctob who 
 comes in with the Pastor.] 
 
 Laura. Help us. Doctor, if it isn't too late. Look, he 
 has stopped breathing. 
 
 Doc. [feels the Captain's pulse]. It is a stroke. 
 
 Past. Is he dead? 
 
 Doc. No, he may yet come back to life, but to what an 
 awakening we cannot tell. 
 
 Past. "First death, and then the judgment." 
 
 Doc. No judgment, and no accusations. You who be- 
 lieve that a God shapes man's destiny must go to him about 
 this. 
 
 Nurse. Ah, Pastor, with his last breath he prayed to 
 God. 
 
 Past, [to Laura]. Is that true? 
 
 Laura. It is. 
 
 Doc. In that case, which I can understand as little as 
 the cause of his illness, my skill is at an end. You try 
 yours now. Pastor. 
 
 Laura. Is that all you have to say at this deathbed, 
 Doctor? 
 
STRINDBERG 165 
 
 Doc. That is all! I know no more. Let him speak 
 who knows more. 
 
 [Behtha comes in from left and runs to her mother \ 
 Ber. Mother, mother! 
 Laura. My child, my own child! 
 Past. Amen. 
 
HEDDA GABLER 
 
 By Heneik Ibsen 
 
 First played in Munich at the B«sidenz Theatre, Jan- 
 uary 31, 1891. 
 
 Argument: Hedda Gabler, married to George Tesman 
 simply because he was bent on being allowed to provide for 
 her and she listened to the prevailing opinion that he was 
 destined to attain the highest distinction, has discovered 
 that he is a hopeless mediocrity, and has returned from her 
 wedding journey bored almost beyond endurance by the 
 prospect of the life before her. She finds that Eilert 
 LQvborg, in whom she formerly felt a keen interest, but who 
 was very dissipated, has been reclaimed and enabled to 
 produce a work of brilliant genius by the devotion of 
 Thea Elvsted, whom she always regarded as a thoroughly 
 insignificant little creature. It is a question only of the man- 
 ner in which Hedda's desperate exasperation and malevo- 
 lence will find an outlet. 
 
 After a wedding tour on the Continent lasting nearly 
 six months, which George Tesman has combined with the 
 pursuit of researches into the history of civilization, a pm*- 
 pose for which he holds a scholarship, he has returned with 
 his bride to Christiania and spent the first night in their 
 new home. Tesman's old aunt, Juliana, has come in the 
 first thing in the morning to put some flowers in the draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 Tesman soon comes downstairs. He is a middle-sized, 
 young-looking man of thirty-three, rather stout, with a 
 roimd, open, cheerful face, fair hair and beard, and wears 
 spectacles. His aunt greets him most affectionately. He 
 compliments her on her bonnet, which she explains is a new 
 one that she bought so that his wife need not feel ashamed 
 of her if they should happen to go out together. 
 
 Miss Tesman has hardly become accustomed even yet 
 
 160 
 
IBSEN 167 
 
 to the idea of her nephew having made such a brilliant 
 match with the beautiful and aristocratic Hedda Gabler. 
 With a complacent smile, he remarks that he fancies he has 
 several good friends about town who would like to be in 
 his shoes. Before long she asks quite pointedly whether 
 he has any expectations to tell her about. He can think of 
 nothing but his hope of becoming a professor. 
 
 It might seem rather extravagant for him to have taken 
 such a fine house, one that belonged formerly to a cabinet 
 minister, he admits, but he explains that Judge Brack has 
 written to Hedda that he got the lease on good terms for 
 them. Tesman is somewhat startled to learn that his 
 aunts have given a mortgage on their annuity as security 
 for his furniture and carpets. Heavy expenses are un- 
 avoidable, however, as Hedda has rather grand ideas and 
 is quite inflexible. 
 
 Hedda joins them. She is a woman of nine-and-twenty. 
 Her face and figure show refinement and distinction. Her 
 complexion is pale and opaque. Her steel-gray eyes ex- 
 press a cold, imruffled repose. Her hair is of an agreeable 
 medium brown, but not particularly abundant. She is 
 not interested in the little things which seem to have great 
 importance for her husband and his aunt, and presently 
 she pretends to think that Miss Tesman's bonnet, which 
 she sees on a chair, is an old one left there by the servant. 
 
 Tesman tells his aunt to take a good look at Hedda be- 
 fore going and see how handsome she is. He thinks she 
 has filled out on the journey. 
 
 Hedda [crossing the room]. Oh, do be quiet 
 
 Miss Tesman [who has stopped and turned\. Filled out? 
 
 Tesman. Of course you don't notice it so much now 
 that she has that dress on. But I, who can see 
 
 Hedda [at the glass door, impatiently]. Oh, you can't see 
 anything. 
 
 Tes. It must be the mountain air in the Tyrol 
 
 Hedda [curtly, interrupting]. I am exactly as I was when 
 I started. 
 
 No sooner has Miss Tesman gone than Mrs. Elvsted 
 calls. Hedda tells Tesman that she is the girl with the 
 irritatiag hair who was always showing it off, an old flame 
 of his. 
 
 Mrs. Elvsted is a woman of fragile figure, with pretty, 
 
168 HEDDA GABLER 
 
 soft features. Her eyes are light blue, large, round, and 
 somewhat prominent, with a startled, inquiring expression. 
 Her hair is remarkably light, almost flaxen, and unusually 
 abundant and wavy. She is a couple of years younger 
 than Hedda. Mrs. Elvsted says that she is in trouble and 
 has no one to turn to; she is anxious not to be misunder- 
 stood. In that case, Hedda says, Mrs. Elvsted had better 
 tell her the whole story. 
 
 The starting-point of that story is that Eilert LOvborg 
 is in town. Miss Tesman had just referred to the fact to 
 her nephew that LSvborg was formerly his most dangerous 
 rival before falling from grace. 
 
 Mrs. Elvsted. He has been here a week already. Just 
 fancy — a, whole week ! In this terrible town, alone ! With 
 so many temptations on all sides. 
 
 Hedda. But my dear Mrs. Elvsted, how does he con- 
 cern you so much? 
 
 Mrs. E. \looks at her vnih a startled air, and says rapidly]. 
 He was the children's tutor. 
 
 The children are her husband's. She has none. They 
 had quite reclaimed Lbvborg at their house. For two 
 years now his conduct has been irreproachable, and while 
 he was with them he wrote a book dealing with the march 
 of civilization, just published, which has already brought 
 in considerable money. 
 
 Hedda finds it a little odd that Mr. Elvsted should not 
 have come to look up the tutor instead of sending his wife. 
 She tells Tesman he must write to Lovborg inviting him 
 to the house, and sends him into another room to do so 
 at once, impressing it upon him that he must make the let- 
 ter cordial, friendly, and long. 
 
 Having got rid of Tesman, Hedda says that Mrs. Elvsted 
 must tell her the rest of the story. Mrs. Elvsted protests 
 that there is no more. Hedda knows better. IVts. Elv- 
 sted is very uncomfortable and tries to go, but Hedda 
 makes her sit down and talk about her life at home. To 
 begin with, Mrs. Elvsted confides in Hedda that she used 
 to be very much afraid of her when they were in school 
 together, Hedda used to puU her hair and once threat- 
 ened to bum it off her head. Hedda's attitude now is 
 friendly in the extreme. 
 
 Several years earlier Mrs. Elvsted went to her present 
 
IBSEN 169 
 
 husband's home as governess. The first wife died after a 
 time and the governess automatically became the second. 
 
 At first all went smoothly. But the last three years 
 
 If Hedda could only imagine ! Hedda asks if it was 
 
 not about three years ago that Lovborg went to them. 
 It was. Also, Elvsted, being the sheriff, has been away a 
 good deal travelling about the country. 
 
 Leaning against Mrs. Elvsted's chair, Hedda says her 
 poor sweet friend must tell her everything exactly as it 
 stands. Mrs. Elvsted replies that Hedda must question her. 
 In the first place, the sheriff is about twenty years older 
 than his wife; everything about him is repellent to her; 
 they have not a single thought in common or a single point 
 of sympathy. He did not know that she was coming to 
 town. Hedda wants to know what he will say when she 
 goes back again. 
 
 Mrs. E. I shall never go back to him again. 
 Hedda [rising and going toward her]. Then you have 
 left your home — for good and all? 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes. There was nothing else to be done. 
 Hedda. But then — to take flight so openly. 
 Mrs. E. Oh, it's impossible to keep things of that sort 
 secret. 
 
 Hedda. But what do you think people will say of you, 
 Thea? 
 
 Mrs. E. They may say what they like, for aught I 
 care. [Seats herself wearily and sadly on the sofa.] I have 
 done nothing but what I had to do. 
 
 Hedda [after a short silence]. And what are your plans 
 now? What do you think of doing? 
 
 Mrs. E. I don't know yet. I only know this, that I 
 must hve here, where Eilert Lovborg is — if I am to live at 
 all. 
 
 The influence that Mrs. Elvsted gained over LSvborg 
 came gradually. He dropped his bad habits because they 
 were repulsive to her. He didn't give her lessons exactly, 
 but he talked to her about an infinity of things and made a 
 real human being of her.' Then came the lovely, happy 
 time when she began to share in his work. He never wrote 
 anything without her assistance. Yet, in spite of all this, 
 Mrs. Elvsted is not sure how long their comradeship will 
 last; a woman's shadow stands between them. 
 
170 HEDDA GABLER 
 
 Hedda [looks at her anxiously]. Who can that be? 
 
 Mrs. E. I don't know. Some one he knew in his — ^in 
 his past. Some one he has never been able wholly to 
 forget. 
 
 Hedda. What has he told you — ^about this? 
 
 Mrs. E. He has only once — quite vaguely — alluded to 
 it. 
 
 Hedda. Well! And what did he say? 
 
 Mrs. E. He said that when they parted she threatened 
 to shoot him with a pistol. 
 
 Mrs. Elvsted is incUned to think it is a certain red- 
 haired woman who sings. She has heard that this singing 
 woman is in town again; she doesn't know what to do. 
 She wrings her hands. Tesman has finished the letter, and 
 Judge Brack calls. Hedda goes out with Mrs. Elvsted. 
 
 Judge Brack is a man of forty-five; thick-set, but well- 
 built and elastic in his movements. His face is roundish 
 with an aristocratic profile. His hair is short, still almost 
 black, and carefully dressed. His eyes are hvely and 
 sparkling. His eyebrows are thick. His moustaches are 
 also thick, with short-cut ends. He wears a well-cut walk- 
 ing suit a little too youthful for his age. He uses an eye- 
 glass which he now and then lets drop. 
 
 In the opinion of Judge Brack it would have been better 
 if Tesman had gone about things a little more economically. 
 Tesman's appointment may hang fire. Such things 
 happen. At last he comes out with the fact that the nomi- 
 nation may be made conditional on the result of a competi- 
 tion. Hedda, who has returned to the room, seems much 
 interested. Tesman guesses that his competitor is L6v- 
 borg. He is right. 
 
 It strikes Tesman as indicating a most incredible lack of 
 consideration for Lovborg to become a candidate now. 
 Tesman married on the strength of his prospects, and bor- 
 rowed money extensively because the appointment was as 
 good as promised to him. 
 
 Brack. Well, well, well — ^no doubt you will get it in 
 the end; only after a contest. 
 
 Hedda [immovable in her armchair]. Fancy, Tesman, 
 there will be a sort of sporting interest in that. 
 
 Tes. Why, my dearest Hedda, how can you be so in- 
 difiFerent about it? 
 
IBSEN 171 
 
 Hedda [as b^ore]. I am not at all indifferent. I am 
 most eager to see who wins. 
 
 Brack. In any case, Mrs. Tesman, it is best that you 
 should know how matters stand. I mean — ^before you set 
 about the Uttle purchases I hear you are threatening. 
 
 Hedda. This can make no difference. 
 
 Judge Brack soon takes his leave. 
 
 Tes. Oh, Hedda — one should never rush into adven- 
 tures. Eh? 
 
 Hedda [looks at him, smiling]. Do you do that? 
 
 Tes. Yes, dear — there is no denying — ^it was adven- 
 turous to go and marry and set up house upon mere ex- 
 pectations. 
 
 Hedda. Perhaps you are right there. 
 
 Tes. Well — at all events, we have our delightful home, 
 Hedda! Fancy the home we both dreamed of — ^the home 
 we were in love with, I may almost say. Eh? 
 
 Hedda [rising slowly and wearily]. It was part of our 
 compact that we were to go into society — to keep open 
 house. 
 
 She finds it rather annoying that they are not to have a 
 footman right away, nor the saddle-horse that she wanted. 
 She says, however, that she has one thing to kill time with, 
 the pistols that belonged to her father, the general. She 
 goes into the next room. Tesman seems rather alarmed 
 and rushes after her. 
 
 Tes. No, for Heaven's sake, Hedda darling — don't 
 touch those dangerous things ! For my sake, Hedda ! Eh ! 
 
 That afternoon Hedda gets out the pistols. Seeing Judge . 
 Brack come up the garden path, she threatens to shoot 
 him for snealang in the back way and sends a bullet 
 whistling by his ear. This prank makes the Judge rather 
 nervous, but he reaches the haven of the drawing-room 
 safely and takes a look at the pistols, which he recognizes 
 as General Gabler's. 
 
 It appears that while Judge Brack has been wishing 
 every day that Hedda were at home again she has been 
 wishing the same thing. What she found most intolerable 
 of all was being everlastingly in the company of one and 
 the same person. To make it worse, Tesman is a specialist, 
 and that is not at all amusing. 
 
172 HEDDA GABLER 
 
 Brack. Not even — the specialist one happens to love ? 
 
 Hedda. Faugh — don't use that sickening word. 
 
 The Judge is genuinely surprised. He cannot under- 
 stand why Hedda should have accepted Tesman. She 
 does not see anything wonderful in that. She had danced 
 herself tired; her day was done; Tesman is correctness 
 itself, and she can't see anything absolutely ridiculous 
 about him. Besides, his powers of research, at all events, 
 are untiring, and she sees no reason why he should not 
 one day come to the front after all. Of course, before 
 she married him, she admits, she did expect like every 
 one else that he would attain the highest distinction, 
 and then, he was so bent on being allowed to provide 
 for her. 
 
 That was more than Hedda's other adorers were pre- 
 pared to do for her, she says, assuring Judge Brack that 
 she never cherished any hopes with respect to him. Brack 
 observes that all he requires is a pleasant and intimate 
 interior where he can make himself useful in every way and 
 be free to come and go as — as a trusted friend — of the mas- 
 ter of the house, yes; but frankly, of the mistress first of 
 all. Such a triangular friendship really seems to him a 
 great convenience for all parties. 
 
 On these long railway journeys, Hedda confesses, she 
 often longed for some one to make a third. And the wed- 
 ding journey is not over yet by a long, long way; she has 
 only arrived at a station on the line. In that case, says 
 Brack, the passengers jump out and move about a little. 
 But she never jumps out. There is always somebody 
 standing around to look at her ankles. She won't have it, 
 she declares with a gesture of repulsion. 
 
 Brack. But suppose a third person were to jump in 
 and join the couple? 
 
 Hedda. Ah — that is quite another matter ! 
 
 Brack. A trusted, sympathetic friend 
 
 Hedda. — with a fund of conversation on all sorts of 
 lively topics 
 
 Brack. — and not the least of a specialist! 
 
 Hedda [mth an audible sigh]. Yes, that would be a re- 
 hef indeed. 
 
 Brack [hears the front door open, and glances in that di- 
 rection]. The triangle is completed. 
 
IBSEN 173 
 
 Hedda [half aloud\. And on goes the train. 
 
 Tesman comes in with a large number of new books 
 on his special subject. When he goes to the next room 
 Hedda tells Brack how she and Tesman were passing the 
 house once and she said, in pure thoughtlessness, that she 
 should Uke to live there, and, as often happens, her thought- 
 lessness had consequences. 
 
 Brack. This is exquisite! And you really cared not a 
 rap about it all the time? 
 
 Hedda. No, Heaven knows I didn't. 
 
 Now she finds she has dropped into genteel poverty. 
 And that is what makes life so pitiable! So utterly ludi- 
 crous! He suggests that there may be some stimulating 
 experience in store for her. It won't be Tesman's struggle 
 for the professorship. She will not waste a thought upon 
 that. But what if a solemn responsibiUty should come 
 upon her? She tells him angrily that she has no turn for 
 that sort of thing. The only thing she has a turn for is 
 boring herself to death. 
 
 Judge Brack is going to give a bachelors' party that 
 evening in honor of Tesman's return. Hedda says that if 
 Lovborg calls and won't go to the party he can remain 
 there with her, as Mrs. Elvsted is coming. Then Lovborg 
 can take Mrs. Elvsted home. Brack remarks that his 
 little parties are good only for men with the strictest 
 principles. 
 
 LSvborg appears presently. He is slim and lean; of the 
 same age as Tesman, but looks older and somewhat worn- 
 out. His hair and beard are of a blackish brown, his face 
 long and pale, but with patches of color on the cheekbones. 
 Brack and Tesman tell him at once that they have heard 
 his book very highly praised. He put nothing in it, he says, 
 except what every one would agree with. He means to 
 win a position for himself and make a fresh start, and then 
 he is going to publish his real book, one that he has put 
 his true self into. It will deal with the future. 
 
 Tes. With the future! But, good heavens, we know 
 nothing of the futm-e! 
 
 Brack. No; but there is a thing or two to be said about 
 it all the same. 
 
 He has brought the manuscript with him, thinking he 
 might read a Uttle of it to Tesman. He declines the invita- 
 
174 HEDDA GABLER 
 
 tion of Judge Brack very decidedly. Tesman has heard 
 that LSvborg is going to deliver a course of lectures. 
 Lovborg replies that he is, but that he is going to wait until 
 Tesman has received his appointment. It is only the 
 moral victory that he cares for. 
 
 Tes. Why, bless me — ^Aunt Julia was right after all! 
 Oh, yes — I knew it, Hedda! Just fancy — ^EUert LOvborg 
 is not going to stand in ovu: way. 
 
 Hedda [eurtly]. Our way? Pray leave me out of the 
 question. 
 
 She goes into the next room and gives an order to a 
 servant, who then sets out a decanter and glasses on a tray. 
 Hedda returns and invites the gentlemen to have a glass of 
 cold punch. Judge Brack and Tesman think it won't 
 come amiss, and while they are having a glass in the next 
 room and smoking a cigarette, Hedda and LtSvborg sit in 
 the corner farthest from the door and seem to be absorbed 
 in looking at some photographs from the Tyrol. He 
 scarcely takes his eyes from her as he repeats her name 
 over and over, and reproaches her for throwing herself 
 away on Tesman. 
 
 Tesman looks in and asks if they won't have a little 
 punch, after all. She tells him to bring some. Again 
 Lovborg protests that he won't have any, but Hedda asks 
 Tesman to pour out two glasses, one for herself and one for 
 Mrs. Elvsted when she comes. Hedda tells Lovborg that 
 she doesn't love Tesman, but she won't hear of any sort of 
 unfaithfuhiess. He asks her if it was not love at the bottom 
 of their old friendship that made her cross-question him 
 about his escapades, as if it might purge his stains away if 
 he made her his confessor. 
 
 She asks if it is quite incomprehensible that a yoimg girl 
 should be glad to have a peep into a world which she is 
 forbidden to know anything about. He calls this com- 
 radeship in the thirst for life. He does not see why it 
 should not have continued. 
 
 Hedda. The fault was yours. 
 
 Lovborg. It was you who broke with me. 
 
 Hedda. Yes, when our friendship threatened to develop 
 into something more serious. Shame upon you, Eilert 
 Lovborg! How could you think of wronging your — ^your 
 frank comrade? 
 
IBSEN 175 
 
 Lov. [cbnching Ms hands]. Oh, why did you not carry 
 out your threat? Why did you not shoot me down? 
 
 Hedda. Because I have such a dread of scandal. 
 
 Liw. Yes, Hedda, you are a coward at heart. 
 
 She says that the fact that she dared not shoot him down 
 was not her most arrant cowardice that evening. 
 
 Mrs. Elvsted arrives. Hedda makes her sit on the other 
 side of her, instead of beside Lovborg, where she would 
 Uke to be, but Mrs. Elvsted nestles close to Hedda and 
 exclaims that she is so happy because Lovborg says she 
 inspired him. 
 
 Lov. And then she is so brave, Mrs. Tesman! 
 
 Mrs. E. Good heavens — am I brave? 
 
 Lov. Exceedingly — ^where your comrade is concerned. 
 
 Hedda. Ah, yes — courage! If one only had that! 
 
 Lov. What then? What do you mean? 
 
 Hedda. Then life would perhaps be livable, after all. 
 [With a sudden change of tone.] But now, my dearest 
 Thea, you really must have a glass of cold punch. 
 
 Hedda offers punch, first to Mrs. Elvsted and then to 
 LSvborg. Mrs. Elvsted declines it for both. 
 
 Hedda [looks fixedly at him]. But if I say you shall f 
 
 LSv. It would be no use. 
 
 Hedda [laughing]. Then I, poor creature, have no sort 
 of power over you? 
 
 Lov. Not in that respect. 
 
 Hedda declares very seriously that she thinks he ought 
 to take something so that people could not say he lacks 
 confidence in himself. She says she saw Judge Brack 
 smile contemptuously when he refused before. He is still 
 firm. Hedda then remarks that the terror Mrs. Elvsted 
 was in that morning is evidently without reason. 
 
 Lov. [who has given a start]. Ah — ^what is all this, Mrs. 
 Tesman? 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, my God, Hedda! What are you saying? 
 What are you doing? 
 
 Hedda. Don't get excited! That horrid Judge Brack 
 is still watching you. 
 
 Lov. So she was in mortal terror! On my account! 
 
 Mrs. JE. [softly and piteously]. Oh, Hedda — ^now you 
 have ruined everything! 
 
 Lov. [looks fixedly at her for a moment. His face is dis- 
 
176 HEDDA GABLER 
 
 torted\. So that was my comrade's frank confidence in 
 me? 
 
 Mrs. E. [imploringly]. Oh, my dearest friend — only let 
 me teU you 
 
 Lov. [takes one of the glasses of punch, raises it to his lips, 
 and says in a low, husky voice]. Your health, Thea! [He 
 empties the glass, puts it down, and takes the second.] 
 
 Lovborg declares they shall see that if he was fallen once 
 he has risen again. Brack comes in and Lovborg says he 
 wiU accept the invitation to the Judge's house. He wants 
 to show them one or two things in his new book. He says 
 he will come back again for Mrs. Elvsted. She tries to 
 conceal her anxiety, and says that she will wait until he 
 returns. 
 
 Brack. And now off goes the excursion train, gentle- 
 men! I hope we shall have a lively time, as a certain fair 
 lady puts it. 
 
 The gentlemen go out. At ten o'clock, Hedda says, 
 Lovborg will come back — ^with vine leaves in his hair. 
 Mrs. Elvsted is inclined to think Hedda is acting on some 
 hidden motive. 
 
 Hedda. Yes, I have. I want for once in my life to 
 have power to mould a human destiny. 
 
 She says she has not this power and never had it. 
 
 Mrs. E. Not your husband's? 
 
 Hedda. Do you think that is worth the trouble? Oh, if 
 you could only understand how poor I am. And fate has 
 made you so rich! [Clasps her passionately in her arms.] 
 I think I must bum your hair off, after all. 
 
 Mrs. E. Let me go! Let me go! I am afraid of you, 
 Hedda! 
 
 She says she wants to go home alone, at once, but Hedda 
 calls her a "little stupid," and will not permit her to go. 
 
 The lamp has biu-ned very low on the table. Mrs. 
 Elvsted is still sitting up, wearily waiting. Hedda Ues 
 sleeping, fully dressed, on the sofa. Berta enters and says 
 that it is day. Hedda gets up and draws back the curtains. 
 She thinks at first that Tesman spent the night at his 
 aimts', but a note has come for him from there. Mrs. 
 Elvsted goes reluctantly to the inner room to get some 
 sleep. 
 
IBSEN 177 
 
 When Tesman comes Hedda hears the story of the orgy 
 at Judge Brack's. Early in the evening Lovborg read from 
 his book. Tesman believes it is one of the most remarkable 
 things ever written. Finally they broke up and smarted 
 home. Lovborg had had far more than was good for him. 
 He dropped the package containing his manuscript without 
 knowing it, and Tesman, who was walking behind, picked 
 it up. He thought he ought to take care of it, and warns 
 Hedda that no one must know about the matter. 
 
 The latter part of the night Tesman spent at the quarters 
 of one of his bachelor friends, drinking coflFee with some of 
 the others. Some one took Lovborg home, and Tesman 
 says as soon as Lovborg has had his sleep out he will take 
 the manuscript to him. Hedda wants to know if such a 
 thing as the book could be written over again. Tesman 
 thinks the inspiration would be entirely gone. She gives 
 him the note, which announces that his aunt is dying, and 
 he goes oflf hurriedly. 
 
 Further information of the night's adventures is given 
 by Judge Brack. He admits that he had a reason for 
 wanting to keep close track of LSvborg. He asks Hedda 
 if she knows where L5vborg spent the night. She does not, 
 but would like to if it is not quite unmentionable. Lovr 
 borg and others attended a particularly lively soir6e to 
 which they had been invited in advance, although he had 
 declined the invitation. So he landed at last at the rooms 
 of Mademoiselle Diana. 
 
 Hedda. Is she a red-haired woman? 
 
 Brack. Precisely. 
 
 Hedda. A sort of — ^a singer? 
 
 Brack. Oh, yes — in her leisure moments. And, more- 
 over, a mighty huntress — of men — ^Mrs. Hedda. You have 
 no doubt heard of her. Eilert Lovborg was one of her most 
 enthusiastic protectors — in the days of his glory. 
 
 It seems that the soiree was broken up by a quarrel. 
 LSvborg accused Mademoiselle Diana or one of her friends 
 of having robbed him. Such a disturbance was created 
 that the police intervened. LSvborg made a violent re- 
 sistance, struck one of the constables on the head and tore 
 the coat off his back. Henceforth, Judge Brack says, every 
 respectable house will be closed to LSvborg, and Mrs. 
 Tesman cannot afford to receive him. 
 
178 HEDDA GABLER 
 
 Brack. Yes. I confess it would be more than painful 
 to me if this personage were to be made free of your house. 
 How superfluous, how intrusive, he would be, if he were 
 to force his way into 
 
 Hedda. — ^into the triangle? 
 
 Brack. Precisely. It would simply mean that I should 
 find myself homeless. 
 
 Hedda [looks at him with a smile]. So you want to be the 
 one cock in the basket* — ^that is your aim. 
 
 Brack [nods slowly and lowers his voice]. Yes, that is my 
 aim. And for that I will fight — ^with every weapon I can 
 command. 
 
 Hedda [her smile vanishing]. I see you are a dangerous 
 person — ^when it comes to the point. 
 
 Brack. Do you think so? 
 
 Hedda. I am beginning to think so. And I am exceed- 
 ingly glad to think — ^that you have no sort of hold over 
 me. 
 
 Brack [rising]. Oh, not at all! The triangle, you know, 
 ought, if possible, to be spontaneously constructed. 
 
 Hedda. There I agree with you. 
 
 Brack [laughing equivocally]. Well, well, Mrs. Hedda — 
 perhaps you are right there. If I had, who knows what I 
 might be capable of? 
 
 Hedda. Come, come now. Judge Brack, that sounds 
 almost like a threat. 
 
 He says he will go out through the garden, a short cut. 
 And a back way, she reminds him. He has no objection 
 to back ways; they may be piquant at times. When there 
 is practice with ball cartridges going on, she suggests. But 
 one does not shoot their tame poultry, he thinks. Not 
 when there is only one cock iu the basket, she answers with 
 a laugh. 
 
 She stands looking out through the glass doors for a 
 moment after he has gone and becomes quite serious. 
 Presently she goes and peeps through the curtain over the 
 middle doorway. Then she turns to the writing-table and 
 takes Lovborg's packet out of the bookshelves and is about 
 to look into it when she hears the servant speaking to some 
 one in the hall. She listens a moment and then hastily 
 
 * "Eneste hane i kurven" — a proverbial saying. 
 
IBSEN 179 
 
 locks up the packet in a drawer. Eilert LSvborg tears 
 open the door from the hall. 
 
 Lovborg has abeady learned at Mrs. Elvsted's lodgings 
 that she has been out all night. She hears his voice and 
 comes in. 
 
 Mrs. E. [going toward him] . Ah, LSvborg ! At last ! 
 
 Lov. Yes, at last. And too late! 
 
 Mrs. E. [looks anxiously at him]. What is too late? 
 
 Lov. Everything is too late now. It is all over with me. 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, no, no — don't say that! 
 
 Lov. You will say the same when you hear 
 
 Mrs. E. 1 won't hear anything! 
 
 Lov. I want to say that now our ways must part. 
 
 Mrs. E. Part! 
 
 Hedda [involuntarily]. I knew it! 
 
 Liiv. You can be of no more service to me, Thea. 
 
 Mrs. E. How can you stand there and say that! No 
 more service to you ! Am I not to help you now as before? 
 Are we not to go on working together? 
 
 Lov. Henceforward I shall do no work. 
 
 Mrs. E. [despairingly]. Then what am I to do with my 
 life? 
 
 He tells her she must go home again, but she says she 
 cannot. She wUl not let herself be driven away. She will 
 be with him when his book appears. 
 
 Lov. [looks at her]. My book and Thea's; for that is 
 what it is. 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes, I feel that it is. And that is why I have 
 a right to be with you when it appears ! I will see with my 
 own eyes how respect and honor pour in afresh upon you. 
 And the happiness — the happiness — oh, I must share it 
 with you! 
 
 Lov. Thea — our book will never appear. 
 
 Hedda. Ah! 
 
 Mrs. E. Never appear! 
 
 Lov. Can never appear. 
 
 Mrs. E. [in agonized foreboding]. LiSvborg — ^what have 
 you done with the manuscript? 
 
 Hedda [looks anxiously at him]. Yes, the manu- 
 script ? 
 
 Mrs. E. Where is it? 
 
 Lov. Oh, Thea — don't ask me about it! 
 
180 HEDDA GABLEB 
 
 Mrs. E. Yes, yes, I will know. I demand to be told 
 at once. 
 
 Lov. The manuscript Well, then — ^I have torn 
 
 the manuscript into a thousand pieces. 
 
 Mrs. E. [shrieks]. Oh, no, no ! 
 
 Hedda [involuntarily]. But that's not 
 
 Lov. [looks at her]. Not true you think? 
 
 Hedda [collecting herself]. Oh, weU, of course — since 
 you say so. But it sounded so improbable 
 
 Lov. It is true all the same. 
 
 Mrs. E. [wringing her hands]. Oh, God — oh, God, Hedda 
 — torn his own work to pieces ! 
 
 Lik. I have torn my own life to pieces. So why should 
 I not tear my life work to ? 
 
 Mrs. Elvsted says that to her dying day she shall think 
 of it as if he had killed a little child. He agrees that it is 
 a sort of child murder. 
 
 Mrs. E. How could you, then ! Did not the child 
 
 belong to me, too? 
 
 Hedda [almost inaudibly]. Ah, the child 
 
 Mrs. E. [breathing heavily]. It is all over then. Well, 
 well, now I will go, Hedda. 
 
 Hedda. But you are not going away from town? 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, I don't know what I shall do. I see 
 nothing but darkness before me. 
 
 [She goes out by the haU door. 
 
 Lcivborg says that Thea has broken his courage and his 
 power of braving life out. 
 
 Hedda [looking straight before her]. So that pretty little 
 fool has had her fingers in a man's destiny. [Looks at 
 him.] But all the same, how could you treat her so 
 heartlessly? 
 
 He exclaims that she mustn't say it was heartless. He 
 will tell her the truth. He has not torn up the manu- 
 script; he dares not tell Thea, whose pure soul was in the 
 book, that he has lost it and under what circumstances. 
 
 Hedda. What path do you mean to take then? 
 
 Lov. None. I will only try to make an end of it all — 
 the sooner the better. 
 
 Hedda [ a step nearer him] . Eilert LSvborg — ^listen to me. 
 Will you not try to — to do it beautifidly? 
 
 She gives him one of the pistols. He thanks her and 
 
IBSEN 181 
 
 fT^\ ?^^ listens for a moment to make sure that he has 
 left the house, and then goes to the writing-table and takes 
 out the packet of manuscript. Next she seats herself in 
 the armchair by the stove. Presently she opens the stove 
 door and then the packet. 
 
 Hedda [throws one of the quires into the fire and whispers 
 to herself]. Now I am biu-ning your child, Thea!— Burning 
 it, curly-locks! [Throwing one or two more quires into the 
 stove.] Your child and Eilert Lovborg's. [Throws the rest 
 in.] I am burning — I am burning your child. 
 
 That evening Miss Tesman brings word that her sister 
 has died. 
 
 Miss Tesman. Ah, yes, it is the way of the world. At 
 home we shall be sewing a shroud; and here there will be 
 sewing, too, I suppose — ^but of another sort, thank God! 
 
 When her nephew comes in she thinks Hedda may have 
 something to tell him and leaves them. Tesman is greatly 
 concerned about Lovborg, who declares that he has de- 
 stroyed his manuscript and apparently has gone completely 
 out of his mind. He supposes that Hedda did not give 
 him the packet. 
 
 Hedda. No, he did not get it. 
 
 Tes. But of course you told him that we had it? 
 
 Hedda. No. [Quickly] Did you tell Mrs. Elvsted? 
 
 Tes. No; I thought I had better not. But you ought 
 to have told him. Fancy, if, in desperation, he should go 
 and do himself some injury! Let me have the manuscript, 
 Hedda! I will take it to him at once. Where is it? 
 
 Hedda [cold and immovable, leaning on the armchair]. I 
 have not got it. 
 
 Tes. Have not got it? What in the world do you 
 mean? 
 
 Hedda. I have burnt it — every line of it. 
 
 Tes. [with a violent movement of terror]. Burnt! Burnt 
 Eilert's manuscript! 
 
 Hedda. Don't scream so. The servant might hear you. 
 
 Tes. Burnt! Why, good God ! No, no, no! It's 
 
 impossible! 
 
 Hedda. It is so, nevertheless. 
 
 Suppressing an almost imperceptible smile, Hedda says 
 that she burnt the manuscript for his sake; she could not 
 bear the idea that any one should throw him in the shade. 
 
182 HEDDA GABLER 
 
 Tes. {in an outburst of mingled doubt and joy]. Hedda! 
 Oh, is this true? But — ^but — I never knew you to show 
 your love like that before. Fancy that! 
 
 Hedda. Well, I may as well tell you that — just at this 
 
 time [Impatiently, breaking off.] No, no; you can 
 
 ask Aunt Julia. She will tell you fast enough. 
 
 Tes. Oh, I almost think I understand you, Hedda! 
 [Clasps his hands together.] Great heavens! do you really 
 mean it? Eh? 
 
 Hedda. Don't shout so. The servant might hear. 
 
 Tes. [laughing in irrepressible glee]. The servant! 
 Why, how absurd you are, Hedda. It's only my old 
 Berta! Why, I'll tell Berta myself. 
 
 Hedda [clenching her hands together in desperation]. Oh, 
 it is killing me — it is killing me, all this! 
 
 Tes. What is, Hedda? Eh? 
 
 Hedda [coldly, controlling herself]. All this — absurdity 
 — George. 
 
 Tes. Absurdity! Do you see anything absurd in my 
 being overjoyed at the news? But after all — ^perhaps I 
 had better not say anything to Berta. 
 
 Hedda. Oh, why not that, too? 
 
 Tes. No, no, not yet! But I must certainly tell Aunt 
 Julia. And then that you have begun to call me George, 
 too! Fancy that! Oh, Aunt Julia will be so happy — so 
 happy! 
 
 Hedda. When she hears that I have burnt Eilert L8v- 
 borg's manuscript — ^for your sake? 
 
 Tes. No, bye-the-bye — that affair of the manuscript — 
 of coiu-se nobody must know about that. But that you 
 love me so much,* Hedda — ^Aunt Julia must really share 
 my joy in that! I wonder, now, whether this sort of thing 
 is usual in young wives? Eh? 
 
 Hedda. I think you had better ask Aunt JuUa that 
 question, too. 
 
 Tes. I will, indeed, some time or other. [Looks uneasy 
 and downcast again.] And yet the manuscript — the manu- 
 script ! Good God ! it is terrible to think what will become 
 of poor Eilert now. 
 
 Mrs. Elvsted comes in greatly agitated and says she has 
 
 •Literally, "That you bum for me.'' 
 
IBSEN 183 
 
 heard the most incredible rumors about LSvborg. She 
 heard something about the hospital, but people stopped 
 talking when she drew near. She didn't dare to ask them 
 anything, but she went to his lodgings. They said there 
 that they knew nothing about him. 
 
 It is Judge Brack who brings word that Lovborg is at 
 the hospital at the point of death. Mrs. Elvsted says she 
 must go to him; she must see him alive. Judge Brack 
 replies it is useless to go as she will not be admitted. 
 
 Tes. You don't mean to say that he has himself 
 
 Eh? 
 
 Hedda. Yes, I am sure he has. 
 
 Tes. Hedda, how can you ? 
 
 Brack [keeping his eyes fixed upon her]. Unfortunately 
 you have guessed quite correctly, Mrs. Tesman. 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, how horrible! 
 
 Tes. Himself, then! Fancy that! 
 
 Hedda. Shot himself! 
 
 Brack. Rightly guessed again, Mrs. Tesman. 
 
 The fact that the wound was in the breast, according 
 to Judge Brack, interests Hedda. She asks if it was not 
 in the temple, but says the breast is a good place, too. 
 Judge Brack then informs them that Lovborg is probably 
 dead already. 
 
 Hedda [in a clear voice]. At last a deed worth doing! 
 
 Tes. [terrified]. Good heavens, Hedda! What are you 
 saying? 
 
 Hedda. I say there is beauty in this. 
 
 Eilert LSvborg has made up his account with life, she 
 says; he has had the courage to do the one right thing. 
 Mjs. Elvsted exclaims that she must never think that; 
 Eilert did it in delirium, just as he tore up the manuscript. 
 
 Tes. [moving about the room]. To thiiik of Eilert going 
 out of the world in this way ! And not leaving behind him 
 the book that would have immortalized his name 
 
 Mrs. E. Oh, if only it could be put together again! 
 
 Tes. Yes, if it only could! I don't know what I would 
 not give 
 
 Mrs. E. Perhaps it can, Mr. Tesman. 
 
 Not only has Mrs. Elvsted kept all the loose notes that 
 Lovborg dictated the book from, but she put them in the 
 handbag that she brought from home and now has with 
 
184 HEDDA GABLER 
 
 her. Tesman at once suggests that they put their heads 
 together and try to restore the book from the notes. He 
 says he will dedicate his life to the task. 
 
 Hedda. You, George? Your life? 
 
 Tes. Yes, or rather all the time I can spare. My own 
 collections must wait in the meantime. Hedda — ^you 
 understand, eh? I owe this to Eilert's memoiy. 
 
 Tesman and Mrs. Elvsted go into the back room. She 
 takes off her hat and cloak. They both sit at the table 
 under the hanging lamp, and are soon deep in an eager ex- 
 amination of the papers. Hedda crosses to the stove and 
 sits in the armchair. Presently Brack goes up to her. 
 
 Hedda [in a low voice]. Oh, what a sense of freedom it 
 gives one, this act of Eilert Lovborg's. 
 
 Brack. Freedom, Mrs. Hedda? Well, of course, it is 
 a release for him 
 
 Hedda. I mean for me. It gives me a sense of freedom 
 to know that a deed of deliberate courage is still possible 
 in this world — a deed of spontaneous beauty. 
 
 Judge Brack asks her if Lovborg was not more to her 
 than she is willing to admit to herself. She replies that 
 she does not answer such questions. Lovborg had the 
 courage to live his life after his own fashion, she says, and 
 then had the will and the strength to turn away from the 
 banquet of life so early! Judge Brack tells her he is sorry 
 to have to dispel an amiable illusion. 
 
 In the first place, Lovborg is already dead. He was 
 found shot in Mademoiselle Diana's boudoir, apparently 
 by accident, for the pistol had gone ofiP in his pocket. 
 Also, the wound was in the bowels. Another disagreeable 
 point is the pistol. Judge Brack thinks he must have 
 stolen it. Hedda leaps up indignantly, but just then 
 Tesman and Mrs. Elvsted return to work under a better 
 light. Hedda gets something from the drawer of the 
 writing-desk, holding several sheets of music over it, takes 
 it into the back room, and returns at once. 
 
 Judge Brack cross-examines Hedda in a low voice about 
 the pistol. The police have it now. The possibility that 
 the weapon was stolen would make things look a little 
 better, he seems to think, but Hedda says, "Death rather 
 than that." If there is to be a scandal. Brack points out, 
 Hedda and Mademoiselle Diana will be brought before the 
 
IBSEN 185 
 
 court to explain how the thing happened — whether it was 
 an accidental shot or murder. 
 
 Brack. Well, fortunately, there is no danger so long as 
 I say nothing. 
 
 Hedda [looks up at him]. So I am in your power. Judge 
 Brack. You have me at your beck and call from this 
 time forward. 
 
 Brack [whispers softly]. Dearest Hedda — ^beheve me — 
 I shall not abuse my advantage. 
 
 Hedda. I am in your power none the less. Subject to 
 your will and yotir demands. A slave, a slave, then! 
 [Rises impetuously.] No, I cannot endure the thought of 
 that! Never! 
 
 Brack [looks half mockingly at her]. People "^generally 
 get used to the inevitable. 
 
 Hedda returns his look and then goes to the writing- 
 table. Suppressing an involuntary smile, she asks how they 
 are getting on, imitating her husband's intonations. He 
 says the work wiU take months. 
 
 Hedda [still mockingly]. Fancy that! [Passes her hands 
 softly through Mrs. Elvsted's hair.] Doesn't it seem 
 strange to you, Thea? Here you are sitting with Tesman 
 — ^just as you used to sit with Eilert Lbvborg? 
 
 Mrs. E. Ah, if I could only inspire your husband in the 
 same way! 
 
 Hedda. Oh, that will come, too — in time. 
 
 Tes. Yes, do you know, Hedda — I really think I begin 
 to feel something of the sort. But won't you go and sit 
 with Brack again ? 
 
 Hedda. Thanks. But I am tired this evening. I will 
 go in and He down a little on the sofa. 
 
 Tes. Yes, do, dear — eh? 
 
 [Hedda goes into the hack room and draws the curtains. 
 A short pause. Suddenly she is heard playing a 
 wild dance on the piano.] 
 
 Mrs. E. [starts from her chair]. Oh — ^what is that? 
 
 Tes. [runs to the doorway]. Why, my dearest Hedda — 
 don't play dance music to-night! Just think of Aunt 
 Rina! And of Eilert, too! 
 
 Hedda [puts her head out between the curtains]. And of 
 
 Aunt Julia. And of all the rest of them After this I wOl 
 
 be quiet. [Closes the curtains again.] 
 
186 HEDDA GABLER 
 
 Tes. [at the loriting-table.] It's not good for her to see us 
 at this distressing work. I'll tell you what, Mrs. Elvsted 
 — ^you shall take the empty room at Aunt Julia's, and then 
 I will come over in the evenings, and we can sit and work 
 there — eh.'' 
 
 Hedda [in the inner room] . I hear what you are saying, 
 Tesman. But how am 7 to get through the evenings out 
 here? 
 
 Tes. [turning over the papers]. Oh, I daresay Judge 
 Brack will be so kind as to look in now and then, even 
 though I am out. 
 
 Brack [in the armchair, calls out gaily]. Every blessed 
 evening, with all the pleasure in life, Mrs. Tesman! We 
 shall get on capitally together, we two! 
 
 Hedda [speaking loud and clear]. Yes, don't you flatter 
 yourself we will. Judge Brack? Now that you are the one 
 
 cock in the basket 
 
 [A shot is heard udthin. Tesman, Mbs. Elvsted, 
 and Brack leap to their feet.] 
 
 Tes. Oh, now she is playing with those pistols again. 
 [He throws back the curtains and runs in, followed by Mrs. 
 Elvsted. Hedda lies stretched on the sofa, lifeless. Con- 
 fusion and cries. Berta enters in alarm from the right.] 
 
 Tes. [shrieks to Brack]. Shot herself ! Shothersdfin 
 the temple! Fancy that! 
 
 Brack [half fainting in the armchair]. Good God! — 
 people don't do such things. 
 
PELLEAS AND MfiLISANDE* 
 
 By Madeice Maetekunck 
 
 First played in Paris in 1892. 
 
 Golaud, a king's son and a great hunter, brings home for 
 wife a young princess whom he found in a forest. She and 
 Golaud's younger brother fall in love with each other and 
 strive to suppress their passion. Are they mastered by 
 love, and does Golaud take vengeance? 
 
 While hunting in the depths of a great forest Golaud 
 finds a yoimg girl weeping by a spring. She is dressed like 
 a princess but her garments are torn by briers. A crown 
 has fallen from her head and lies shimmering iu the water. 
 Golaud sees that she is very beautiful. At first she does 
 not hear him, and when he touches her on the shoulder she 
 springs up in fright and starts to flee. He persuades her to 
 wait, but she says if he touches her she will throw herself 
 in the water. He asks if any one has hurt her. 
 
 Between her sobs she replies that she has been hurt by 
 every one, but will not say what has happened or whence she 
 has fled, except that it was from far, far away. She will 
 not let iiim touch the crown; she will have no more of it; 
 she would rather die at once. At last she asks him who he 
 is. 
 
 Golavd. I am Prince Golaud — grandson of Arkel, the 
 old King of Allemonde. . . . 
 
 Mdisande. Oh, you have gray hairs already. . . . 
 
 Gol. Yes; some, here, by the temples . . . 
 
 MSI. And in your beard, too. . . . Why do you 
 look at me so? 
 
 Gol. I am looking at your eyes. — ^Do you never shut 
 your eyes? 
 
 ■Translated by Richard Hovey. Published by Dodd, Mead & Co. 
 Copyright, 1896, by Stone & Kimball. 
 
 187 
 
188 PELLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 MSI. Oh, yes; I shut them at night. . . . 
 
 Gol. Why do you look so astonished? 
 
 MM. You are a giant? 
 
 Gol. I am a man Uke the rest. . . . 
 
 Mil. Why have you come here? 
 
 He tells her that he was chasing a wild boar and mistook 
 the way. He has difficulty in persuading her to come away 
 from the spring, where he says she cannot remain alone all 
 night. Finally she consents to go away with him, and tells 
 him that her name is Mehsande. 
 
 Arkel is sitting with his daughter, Genevieve, in a hall 
 of his castle in AUemonde, reading a letter that Golaud has 
 written to P^lleas, his half-brother, telling how he foimd 
 Melisande in a forest. It is six months since he married 
 her, and he knows no more about her than the first time he 
 saw her, and dares not question her. 
 
 Golaud asks Pelleas to prepare the way for his rettu-n, 
 for he has imdone aU his grandfather's plans of state by his 
 marriage. If Arkel will receive Melisande as his own 
 daughter, he tells Pelleas, on the third night following the 
 letter, to light a lamp at the top of the tower overlooking 
 the sea. He will perceive it from his ship; otherwise he 
 will go far away again and return no more. 
 
 Arkel says that although he is very old he has never seen 
 clearly for one moment into himself, and therefore will not 
 judge what others have done. Golaud is past the age to 
 marry, and he weds, like a child, a little girl that he finds 
 by a spring. . . . That may seem strange because 
 they never see the reverse of their destinies. He thinks 
 Golaud knows his own future best, and that perhaps there 
 happen no useless events. 
 
 Pelleas enters. He has received another letter. It is 
 from his friend Marcellus, who is about to die and would 
 see Pelldas before dying. Arkel says that Pelleas must 
 wait for a httle while for Golaud's return. They do not 
 know what his return may have in store for them, and 
 besides, he says, Pelleas's own father lies there in the castle, 
 more sick perhaps than his friend. 
 
 When Melisande comes she finds it gloomy in the old 
 castle, and the great forests oppress her. ^ Genevieve tells 
 her that^they astonished her, too, when she first came there 
 
MAETERLINCK 189 
 
 nearly forty years before. There are places where one 
 never sees the sun, but one gets used to it quickly. They 
 are standing before the castle, and she tells MeUsande to 
 look toward the other side and she will have the light of 
 the sea. Pelleas joins them, and they watch a great ship 
 putting to sea as night falls. Pelleas says there is going to 
 be a storm. Perhaps the next day he will go away. 
 
 Pelleas takes Melisande to a fountain in the park where 
 he often goes to sit toward noon when it is too hot in the 
 gardens. He says that it was considered a miraculous 
 spring that opened the eyes of the blind, but since the king 
 has been nearly blind himself no one comes any more. 
 
 MSI. How alone one is here! . . . There is no 
 sound. 
 
 PilUas. There is always a wonderful silence here. 
 . . . One could hear the water sleep. . . . Will 
 you sit down on the edge of the marble basin? There 
 is one linden where the sun never comes. . . . 
 
 Mil. I am going to he down on the marble. — ^I should 
 like to see the bottom of the water. . . . 
 
 PSl. No one has ever seen it. — It is as deep, perhaps, as 
 the sea. — It is not known whence it comes. — Perhaps it 
 comes from the bottom of the earth. . . . 
 
 MSI. If there were anything shining at the bottom 
 perhaps one could see it. . . . 
 
 PSl. Do not lean over so. . . . 
 
 Mil. I would hke to touch the water. . . . 
 
 PSl. Have a care of slipping. ... I will hold 
 your hand. ... 
 
 MSI. No, no, I would plunge both hands in it. . . . 
 You would say my hands were sick to-day. . . . 
 
 PSl. Oh! oh! take care! take care! MeUsande! . . . 
 Melisande! . . . Oh! your hair! . . . 
 
 MSI. [starting upright]. I cannot ... I cannot 
 reach it. . . . 
 
 PSl. Your hair dipped in the water. . , . 
 
 MSI. Yes, it is longer than my arms. ... It is 
 longer than I. . . . 
 [A silence.] 
 
 PSl. It was at the brink of a spring, too, that he found 
 you? 
 
190 PELLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 M&l Yes. . . . 
 
 PH. What did he say to you? 
 
 M&l. Nothing — ^I no longer remember. . . . 
 
 P6l. Was he quite near you? 
 
 Mil. Yes; he would have kissed me. 
 
 PH. And you would not? 
 
 M&l No. 
 
 PH. Why would you not? 
 
 M&l. Oh! oh! I saw something pass at the bottom of 
 the water. . . . 
 
 P6l. Take care! take care!— You wiU fall! What are 
 you playing with? 
 
 MH. With the ring he gave me. . . . 
 
 PH. Take care; you will lose it. . . . 
 
 MH. No, no; I am sure of my hands. . . . 
 
 PH. Do not play so, over so deep a water. . . . 
 
 MH. My hands do not tremble. 
 
 She tosses the ring in the air, catching it again, but once 
 she tosses it up toward the sun so that she cannot see it 
 and it falls in the water. She is greatly distressed, but 
 P61Ieas sees no reason why she should be so troubled about 
 a ring. If they do not find it, he says, they will find another. 
 She replies that they will never find it again, or any others 
 either. 
 
 They will come back and look for it another day, he tells 
 her, for it is time to go now. It was striking noon at the 
 moment the riug fell. She asks what they shall say to 
 Golaud if he asks where it is, and Pelleas answers, "The 
 truth, the truth, the truth. . . ." 
 
 While Golaud was hunting all at once his horse ran 
 away without cause. He had just heard the twelve strokes 
 of noon. He is telling Melisande about it as he lies upon 
 his bed. At the twelfth stroke the horse suddenly took 
 fright and ran like a bUnd madman against a tree. He 
 heard no more. The horse must have fallen on him. But 
 now he thinks he did not get a serious hurt. He was made 
 of blood and iron and is not hurt so easily. . 
 
 Melisande tells him to close his eyes and try to sleep, and 
 she will remain by him all night. He does not wish her to 
 tire herself. Then he asks why she weeps all at once. 
 She bursts into tears. She does not know what ails her, 
 she says. But she is not happy there. She feels that she 
 
MAETERLINCK 191 
 
 can live there no longer. That she must go away or she 
 will die. 
 
 Golaud questions her, urging her to tell him the whole 
 truth, if it is the king, or his mother, or Pelleas. Again 
 and again she says that she does not know what it is; she 
 would tell him if she could. He asks if it is he she would 
 leave. She replies it is not that. She would go away 
 with him. It is there she can Hve no longer. She feels 
 that she shall not hve a long while. Trying to comfort her, 
 he takes her hands and sees that the ring is gone. 
 
 Melisande hesitates. She says she thinks the ring must 
 have fallen, but she knows where it is. He asks where, 
 and she says in a grotto by the shore where she was picking 
 up shells. He teUs her she must go and look for it now in 
 the dark, that he had rather have lost all than have lost 
 that ring. She does not know what it is. She does not 
 know whence it came. The sea wiU be very high that 
 night. The sea will come and take the ring before her. 
 He tells her to make haste. 
 
 Taking Pelleas with her, MeUsande comes to the 
 mouth of the grotto. 
 
 PSl. [speaking with great agitation]. Yes; it is here; we 
 are there. It is so dark you cannot tell the entrance of the 
 grotto from the rest of the night. . . . There are no 
 stars on this side. Let us wait till the moon has torn 
 through that great cloud; it will light up the whole grotto, 
 and then we can enter without danger. There are danger- 
 ous places, and the path is very narrow between two lakes 
 whose bottom has not yet been found. I did not think 
 to bring a torch or a lantern, but I think the hght of the 
 sky will be enough for us — You haven't ever gone into this 
 grotto? 
 
 Mil. No. . . . 
 
 PSl. Let us go in; let us go in. . . . You must be 
 able to describe the place where you lost the ring if he 
 questions you. . . . It is very big and very beautiful. 
 There are stalactites that look hke plants and men. It is 
 full of blue darks. It has not yet been explored to the 
 end. There are great treasiu-es hidden there, it seems. 
 You will see the remains of ancient shipwrecks there. But 
 you must not go far in it without a guide. There have 
 been some who never have come back. I myself dare not 
 
192 PELLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 go forward too far. We will stop the moment we no longer 
 see the light of the sea or the sky. When you strike a 
 little Ught there you would say the vault was covered 
 with stars hke the sky. It is bits of crystal or salt, they 
 say, that shine so in the rock. — ^Look, look, I think the 
 sky is going to clear. . . . Give me your hand; do 
 not tremble, do not tremble so. There is no danger; we 
 will stop the moment we no longer see the Ught of the 
 sea. . . . Is it the noise of the grotto that frightens 
 you? It is the noise of night or the noise of silence. 
 . . . Do you hear the sea behind us.? — It does not seem 
 happy to-night. . . . Ah! look, the light! . . . 
 
 The moon lights up abundantly the entrance and part 
 of the darkness of the grotto; and at a certain depth are 
 seen three old beggars with white hair, seated side by side, 
 leaning upon each other and asleep against a bowlder. 
 
 MH. Let us go! . . . Let us go! . . . 
 
 P6l. Yes ... it is three old poor men fallen 
 asleep. . . . There is a famine in the country. . . . 
 Why have they come to sleep here? 
 
 MH. Let us go! . . . Come, come ... let 
 us go! . . . 
 
 Pil. Take care; do not speak so loud. . . . Let 
 us not wake them . . . they are still sleeping heavUy. 
 . . . Come. 
 
 M&l. Leave me, leave me; I prefer to walk alone. . . . 
 
 P6l. We will come back another day. . . . 
 
 M61isande is spinning in an apartment in the castle. 
 P6116as is there also. Golaud has not come back from the 
 chase. They think everybody else is asleep in the castle. 
 Melisande is startled by a knock at the door. Yniold, 
 Golaud's little son, comes in. He says he does not want to 
 go to bed before they do, and bursting into sobs takes 
 refuge by M61isande. She asks him why he is crying, and 
 he says because she is going way. His father does not 
 come back, and now she is going away, too. She assures 
 him there has never been any thought of that, but he de- 
 clares he has seen it. Pelleas thinks he has been dreaming. 
 
 Yniold thinks he sees something out of the window and 
 Pdlldas and Mdlisande run and look but find nothing there. 
 They think he must have seen the light of the moon which 
 
MAETERLINCK 193 
 
 makes queer reflections on the forest. Then Yniold says 
 his father is coming into the courtyard. He runs out, 
 and comes back presently bringing a lamp and accom- 
 panied by Golaud. Lifting the lamp and looking at 
 Melisande, he says she has been weeping. And then 
 looking at Pelleas in turn, he says he has been weeping, too. 
 Golaud tells him not to hold the light under their eyes 
 so. 
 
 At a window in a tower Melisande stands in the moon- 
 light singing and combing her unbound hair: 
 My long locks fall foaming 
 
 To the threshold of the tower — 
 My locks await your coming 
 All along the tower. 
 
 And all along the long, long hour, — 
 And all along the long, long hour. 
 
 Saint Daniel and Saint Michael, 
 Saint Michael and Saint Raphael. 
 
 I was born on a Sunday, 
 A Sunday at high noon . . . 
 
 Pelleas appears on a watchman's round that runs be- 
 neath the window. He calls to her and asks her what she 
 is doing there at the wiadow, singing like a bird that is 
 not native there. She replies that she is doing her hair 
 for the night, and has opened the window because it is 
 hot in the tower. She sees it is a beautiful night. Pelleas 
 says he has never seen so many stars before, and the moon 
 is shining on the sea. He asks her to lean forward a little 
 till he sees her unbound hair. She says she is frightful so, 
 but leans out of the window. 
 
 PSl. Oh! Oh! Melisande! . . . Oh, thou art 
 beautiful! . . . thou art beautiful so! . . . Lean 
 out! lean out! . . . Let me come nearer thee. . . . 
 
 MSI. I cannot come nearer thee ... I am leaning 
 out as far as I can . . . 
 
 PSl. I cannot come up higher; . . . give me at 
 least thy hand to-night . . . before I go away, 
 . . . I leave to-morrow. . . . 
 
 MSI. No, no, no! . . . 
 
 PSl. Yes, yes, yes; I leave, I shall_ leave to-morrow. 
 
194 PELLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 . . . Give me thy hand, thy hand, thy little hand upon 
 my lips. ... 
 
 M&l. I give thee not my hand if thou wilt 
 leave. . . . 
 
 P&l. Give, give, give! . . . 
 
 MSI. Thou wilt not leave? . . . 
 
 PSl. I will wait; I will wait. . . . 
 
 Mil. I see a rose in the shadows. . . . 
 
 P&l. Where? ... I see only the boughs of the 
 willow hanging over the wall. . . . 
 
 Mil. Farther down, farther down, in the garden; 
 farther down, in the sombre green. . . . 
 
 Pil. It is not a rose. ... I will go see by and by, 
 but give me thy hand first; first thy hand. . . . 
 
 Mil. There, there; ... I cannot lean out 
 farther. . . . 
 
 Pil. I cannot reach thy hand with my lips. . . . 
 
 Mil. I cannot lean out farther. ... I am on the 
 point of falling. . . . Oh! oh! my hair is falling down 
 the tower! . . . [Her tresses fall avdderdy over her liead , 
 as she is leaning out so, and stream over Pelx,eas.] 
 
 Pil. Oh! oh! what is it? . . . Thy hair, thy hair 
 is falling down to me! . . . All thy locks, Melisande, 
 all thy locks have fallen down the tower! ... I hold 
 them in my hands; I hold them in my mouth. ... I 
 hold them in my arms; I put them about my neck. 
 . . . I wiU not open my hands again to-night. . . . 
 
 Mil. Let me go! let me go! . . . Thou wilt make 
 me fall! . . . 
 
 Pil. No, no, no; ... I have never seen such hair 
 as thine, Melisande! . . . See, see, see; it comes from 
 so high and yet it floods me to the heart! . . . And 
 yet it floods me to the knees! . . . And it is sweet, 
 sweet as if it fell from heaven! ... I see the sky 
 no longer through thy locks. Thou seest, thou seest? 
 . . . I can no longer hold them with both hands; there 
 are some on the boughs of the willow. . . . They are 
 alive like birds in my hands, . . . and they love me, 
 they love me more than thou! . . . 
 
 Mil. Let me go; let me go! . . . Some one might 
 come. . . . 
 
 Pil. No, no, no; I shall not set thee free to-night. 
 
MAETERLINCK 195 
 
 . . . Thou art my prisoner to-night; all night, all 
 night! . . . 
 
 MSI. Pell6as! P611eas! . . . 
 
 P6l. I tie them, I tie them to the willow boughs. 
 , . . Thou shalt not go away now; . . . thou 
 shalt not go away now. . . . Look, look, I am kissing 
 thy hair. ... I suffer no more in the midst of thy 
 hair. . . . Hearest thou my kisses along thy hair? 
 . . . They mount along thy hair. . . . Each 
 hair must bring thee some. . . . Thou seest, thou 
 seest, I can open my hands. . . . My hands are free, 
 and thou canst not leave me now. . . . 
 
 Doves come out of the tower and fly about them in the 
 night. Melisande is afraid they will be lost in the dark. 
 She tells him to let her go. She hears a noise of footsteps. 
 It is Golaud. She believes it is he, and that he has heard 
 them. Pelleas says her hair is caught about the boughs 
 in the darkness. Golaud enters by the watchman's round. 
 
 Gol. What do you here? 
 
 PSl. What do I here? . . . I . . . 
 
 Gol. You are children. . . . Melisande, do not 
 lean out so at the window; you will fall. . . . Do you 
 not know it is late? — 'It is nearly midnight. — Do not play 
 so in the darkness. — ^You are children. . . . [Laugh- 
 ing nervously.] What children. . . . What chil- 
 dren! .... 
 
 The next day Golaud takes Pelleas down into the vaults 
 under the castle. They find their way into a succession 
 of enormous crypts that seem almost endless. Golaud 
 asks Pelleas if he smells the deadly odor that reigns there. 
 That is what he wished to show him. He believes it comes 
 from an underground lake that he wishes Pelleas to see. 
 They walk on in silence by the light of a lantern that 
 Golaud carries, taking care not to slip into the chasms that 
 lie about them. Suddenly Golaud cries to Pelleas to stop, 
 and seizes him by the arm. One step more, he says, and 
 Pelleas would have been in the gulf. 
 
 Below them is the stagnant water that Golaud spoke of. 
 He asks if Pelleas does not perceive the smell of death that 
 rises. He says they will go to the end of an overhanging 
 rock, and Pelleas shall lean over, when it will strike him in 
 the face. This he says it is that has poisoned the castle 
 
196 PELLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 on certain days. The King does not believe it comes from 
 there, but Golaud thinks the place should be walled up- 
 He points out lizards crawling on the walls and pillars of 
 the vaults. The whole castle will be swallowed up one of 
 these nights, he says, unless it is looked out for. Again 
 he asks if Pelleas does not perceive the smell of death that 
 rises. 
 
 PIZ. Yes; there is a smell of death rising about 
 us. . . . 
 
 Gol. Lean over; have no fear. ... I wiU hold 
 you . . .■ give me . . . no, no, not your hand 
 . . . it might slip . . . your arm, your arm! 
 . . . Do you see the gulf ? [Moved.] Pelleas? Pelleas? 
 
 Pil. Yes; I think I see the bottom of the gulf. . . . 
 Is it the light that trembles so? . . . You . . . 
 [He straightens up, turns and looks at Golaud.] 
 
 Gol. [with a trembling voice]. Yes; it is the lantern. 
 . . . See, I shook it to lighten the walls. . . . 
 
 PSl. I stifle here; ... let us go out. . . . 
 
 Golaud and Pelleas come out on a terrace into the open 
 air. For a moment, Pelleas says, he was going to be sick 
 in the crypts; he was on the point of falling. Now he 
 smells the air of all the sea, and the smell of the verdure 
 and the wet roses at the foot of the terrace. It is nearly 
 noon. They hear bells ringing, and children crying out 
 as they go down to the beach to bathe. Pelleas sees their 
 mother, with Melisande, at a window of the tower. 
 
 Speaking of Melisande, Golaud says, he heard what 
 passed between them the night before. Melisande is very 
 young and very impressionable, he proceeds, and must be 
 treated the more circumspectly that she is perhaps with 
 child; the least emotion might bring on a mishap. It is 
 not the first time he has noticed there might be something 
 between them. Pelleas is the older; it will suffice to have 
 told him, he says. He wants Pelleas to avoid her as much 
 as possible, but without affectation. He points out a 
 herd on the highway toward the forest. They are crying 
 out like lost children, he says, as if they smelt the lautcher 
 already. 
 
 Little Yniold is playing before the castle. Golaud 
 finding him there asks him if his little mother is often 
 with his Uncle Pelleas. Yniold repUes she always is when 
 
MAETERLINCK 197 
 
 his father is away. Golaud asks if it is true that they often 
 quarrel. The child says it is; they quarrel about the door, 
 because it will not stay open. Golaud tries to learn more 
 about this, but the chQd's mind wanders from one thing to 
 another. He says they quarrel about the light. 
 
 Yniold begins to cry, complaining that his father 
 squeezed his little arm. Golaud promises him a quiver 
 and some arrows if he will not cry, and asks why Pelleas 
 and Melisande do not want the door open, and what they 
 talk about. Yniold says they always talk about him. 
 
 Gol. They never tell you to go and play somewhere else? 
 
 Yniold. No, little father; they are afraid when I am 
 not there. 
 
 Gol. They are afraid? . . . What makes you 
 think they are afraid? 
 
 Yni. Little mother always says, "Don't go away; 
 don't go away!" . . . They are unhappy, but they 
 laugh. . . . 
 
 Gol. But that does not prove they are afraid. 
 
 Yni. Yes, yes, little father; she is afraid. . . . 
 
 Gol. Why do you say she is afraid? 
 
 Yni. They always weep in the dark. 
 
 Yniold says the little mother is very pale. No, they do 
 not kiss, he answers in reply to a question, but then cor- 
 rects himself, for they did lass once. He kisses his father 
 on the mouth to show him. His father's beard pricks, 
 and he says it is gettiag all gray. The window under 
 which they are sitting is lighted up at this moment, and 
 the hght falls upon them. Yniold wants to go in, but 
 Golaud lifts him up so that he can look into the window, 
 telling him not to make any noise, lest he frighten the 
 Httle mother, and asks if she is there. 
 
 Gol. She is alone? 
 
 Yni. Yes; . . . no, no; Uncle Pelleas is there, 
 too. 
 
 Gol. He ... ! 
 
 Yni. Ah! ah! little father! you have hurt me! . . . 
 
 Gol. It is nothing; be still; I will not do it any more; 
 look, look, Yniold! ... I stumbled; speak lower. 
 What are they doing? 
 
 Yni. They are not doing anything, httle father; they 
 are waiting for something. 
 
198 PELLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 Gol. Are they near each other? 
 
 Yni. No, little father. 
 
 Gol. And . . . and the bed? are they near the bed? 
 
 Yni. The bed, little father?— I can't see the bed. 
 
 Gol. Lower, lower; they will hear you. Are they 
 speaking? 
 
 Yni. No, little father; they do not speak. 
 
 Gol. But what are they doing?— They must be doing 
 something. . . . 
 
 Yni. They are looking at the light. 
 
 Gol. Both? 
 
 Yni. Yes, little father. 
 
 Gol. They do not say anything? 
 
 Yni. No, little father; they do not close their eyes. 
 
 Gol. They do not come near each other? 
 
 Yni. No, little father; they do not stir. 
 
 Gol. They are sitting down? 
 
 Yni. No, little father; they are standing upright against 
 the wall. 
 
 Gol. They make no gestures? — ^They do not look at 
 each other? — ^They make no signs? . . . 
 
 Yni. No, little father. — Oh ! oh ! little father ; they never 
 close their eyes. ... I am terribly afraid. . . . 
 
 Gol. Be still. They do not stir yet? 
 
 Yni. No, little father. — I am afraid, little father; 
 let me come down! . . . 
 
 Gol. Why, what are you afraid of ? — ^Lookllook! . . . 
 
 Yni. I dare not look any more, little father! . . . 
 Let me come down! . . . 
 
 Gol. Look! look! . . . 
 
 Yni. Oh ! oh ! I am going to cry, little father ! — ^Let me 
 come down! let me come down! . . . 
 
 Gol. Come; we will go see what has happened. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 On the following day P6116as meeting M61isande passing 
 through a corridor of the castle tells her hastily that he 
 must speak to her that night, for now his father is getting 
 well and he is going away. And yet he has had some pre- 
 sentiment that the day would end ill. He has had a rumor 
 of misfortune in his ears for some time. His father told 
 him that he had the grave and friendly look of those who 
 will not live long, and said that he must travel. 
 
MAETERLINCK 199 
 
 They agree to meet that night in the park near the 
 "Blind Man's Spring." It will be the last night, and she 
 will not see him more. He must not say that, she replies, 
 for she wiU see him always; she will look upon him always. 
 He answers that she will look in vain; he will be so far 
 away she could no longer see him. He says abruptly that 
 he hears some one behind the door near which they are 
 standing. He thinks it is some strangers who have been at 
 the castle. They go in different directions. 
 
 Arkel has noticed that Melisande has seemed unhappy. 
 He tells her he has observed that she was listless, but with 
 that strange, astray look of one awaiting ever a great 
 trouble. He cannot explain, but it was sad to see her so. 
 Golaud enters. 
 
 Gol. Pelleas leaves to-night. 
 
 Arkel. Thou hast blood on thy forehead. — What hast 
 thou done? 
 
 Gol. Nothing, nothing. . . . I have passed through 
 a hedge of thorns. 
 
 MSI. Bend down your head a little, my lord. . . . 
 I will wipe your forehead. 
 
 Gol. [repulsing her]. I will not that you touch me, do 
 you understand? Go, go! — I am not speaking to you. — 
 Where is my sword? — I came to seek my sword. . . . 
 
 MSI. Here; on the praying-stool. 
 
 Gol, Bring it. [To Ajrkel.] They have just found 
 another peasant dead of hunger, along by the sea. You 
 would say they all meant to die under our eyes. [To 
 Melisande.] Well, my sword.? — Why do you tremble so? 
 — ^I am not going to kill you. I would simply examine the 
 blade. I do not employ the sword for these uses. Why 
 do you examine me like a beggar? — I do not come to ask 
 alms of you. You hope to see something in my eyes 
 without my seeing anything in yours? — ^Do you think I 
 may know something? — [To Arkel.] — ^Do you see those 
 great eyes? — It is as if they were proud of their rich- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 Ark'Sl. I see there only a great innocence. . . . 
 
 GoL A great innocence! .... They are greater 
 than innocence! . . . They are purer than the eyes 
 of a lamb. . . . They would give God lessons in in- 
 nocence! A great innocence! Listen: I am so near them 
 
200 PELLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 I feel the freshness of their lashes when they wink; and yet 
 I am less far away from the great secrets of the other world 
 than from the smallest secret of those eyes! ... A 
 great innocence! . . . More than innocence! You 
 would say the angels of heaven celebrated there an eternal 
 baptism! ... I know those eyes! I have seen them 
 at their work! Close them! close them! or I shall close 
 them for a long while! .... Do not put your right 
 hand to your throat so; I am saying a very simple thing. 
 . . . I have no under thought. ... If I had an 
 under thought, why should I not say it? Ah! ah! — do not 
 attempt to flee! — ^Here! — Give me that hand! — ^Ah! your 
 hands are too hot. . . . Go away! Your flesh dis- 
 gusts me! . . . Here! — ^There is no more question of 
 fleeing now! — [He seizes her by the hair.]-i— You shall follow 
 me on your knees ! — On your knees ! — On your knees before 
 me! — ^Ah! ah! your long hair serves some purpose at last! 
 . . . Right, . . . left!— Left, . . . right!— 
 Absalom! Absalom. — ^Forward! Back! To the ground! 
 To the ground ! . . . You see, you see; I laugh already 
 like an old man. . . . 
 
 Arkel [running up]. Golaud! . . . 
 
 Gol. [affecting a sudden calm]. You will do as you may 
 please, look you. — I attach no importance to that. — ^I am 
 too old; and, besides, I am not a spy. I shall await chance; 
 and then . . . Oh! then! . . . simply because it 
 is the custom; simply because it is the custom. . . . 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Arkel. What ails him? — ^He is drunk? 
 
 Mil. [in tears]. No, no; he does not love me any more. 
 . . . lamnothappy! . . . lamnothappy! . . . 
 
 Arkel. If I were God I would have pity on men's 
 hearts. . . . 
 
 In the evening Pell6as is the first to come to the fountata 
 in the park. He feels that he shall flee, crying out for joy 
 and woe like a blind man fleeing from his burning house. 
 But it is late and she does not come. He thinks he should 
 do better to go away without seeing her again. Yet he 
 must see her one last time, to the bottom of her heart. He 
 must tell her all that he has never told her. She comes 
 into the garden. 
 
 At first he warns her not to stand in the light, lest they 
 
SCENE FROM PELLEAS AND MELIRANDE 
 
 Gol. You shall follow me on your knees! ^ On your knees! — On your 
 
 knees before me! 
 
MAETERLINCK 201 
 
 be seen. She replies that she wishes to be seen. She was 
 able to come because Golaud slept. They must be careful, 
 for in an hour the gates will be closed and they might be 
 shut out. He tells her to come nearer to him, and she asks 
 why he says he must go away forever. 
 
 P6l. I must tell thee what thou knowest already? — 
 thou knowest not what I am going to tell thee? 
 
 MSI. Why, no; why, no; I know nothing — . . , 
 
 PSl. Thou knowest not why I must go afar. . . . 
 Thou knowest not it is because . . . [He kisses her 
 abruptly.] I love thee. . . . 
 
 Mil. [in a low voice]. I love thee, too. . . . 
 
 PSl. Oh! oh! What saidst thou, Melisande? . . . 
 I hardly heard it! . . . Thou sayest that in a voice 
 coming from the end of the world! . . . I hardly 
 heard thee. . . . Thou lovest me? — ^Thou lovest me, 
 too? . . . Since when lovest thou me? . . . 
 
 MSI. Since always. . . . Since I saw thee . . . 
 
 PSl. Oh, how thou sayest that! . . . Thy voice 
 seems to have blown across the sea in spring! ... I 
 have never heard it until now; . . . one would say it 
 had rained on my heart! . . . Thou sayest that so 
 frankly! . . . Like an angel questioned! . . . I 
 cannot beUeve it, Melisande! . . . Why shouldst thou 
 love me? Nay, why dost thou love me? — Is what thou 
 sayest true!' — ^Thou dost not mock me? — ^Thou dost not lie 
 a little, to make me smile? . . . 
 
 She replies that she never lies. She lies but to his 
 brother. Her voice, he says, is cooler and more frank than 
 the water is. It is like pure water on his lips, on his hands. 
 He takes her hands. He did not know how beautiful she 
 was, he says. He had never seen anything so beautiful 
 before her. He was full of unrest; he sought throughout 
 the house, throughout the country, and he found not 
 beauty. And now he has found her. He does not think 
 there could be on earth a fairer woman. He tells her to 
 come into the light, so little time remains, that they may 
 see how happy they are. She says she is nearer him in the 
 dark. 
 
 Although happy, she says she is sad. She weeps always 
 when she thinks of him. He tells her that he weeps, too, 
 when he thinks of her. Now he weeps for joy. He kisses 
 
202 PELLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 her again. She is strange when he kisses her so, he says. 
 She is so beautiful that one would think she was about to 
 die. He hears a noise. They are closing the gates. 
 
 P6l. We cannot go back now ! — Hearest thou the bolts ? 
 — ^Listen! listen! . . . the great chains! . . . 
 the great chains ! ... It is too late ; it is too late ! 
 
 MSI. AIL the better! all the better! all the better! . . . 
 
 PSl. Thou—. . . Behold, behold! ... It is 
 no longer we who will it so! . . . All's lost, all's 
 saved! all is saved to-night! — Come, come. . . . My 
 heart beats Uke a madman — up to my very throat. 
 [They embrace.] Listen! hsten! my heart is almost stran- 
 gling me. . . . Come! come! . . . Ah, how beau- 
 tiful it is in the shadows! . . . 
 
 MSI. There is some one behind us! . . . 
 
 PSl. I see no one. . . . 
 
 MSI. I heard a noise. . . . 
 
 PSl. I hear only thy heart in the dark. . . . 
 
 MSI. I heard the crackling of dead leaves. . . . 
 
 PSl. Because the wind is silent all at once. ... It 
 fell as we were kissing. . . . 
 
 MSI. How long our shadows are to-night! . . . 
 
 PSl. They embrace to the very end of the garden. 
 Oh, how they kiss far away from us! . . . Look! 
 look! . . . 
 
 MSI. [in a stifled voice]. A-a-h! — ^He is behind a tree! 
 
 PSl. Who? 
 
 MSI. Golaud! 
 
 PSl. Golaud! — ^where? — I see nothing. . . . 
 
 MSI. There ... at the end of our shadows. . . 
 
 PSl. Yes, yes; I saw him. . . . Let us not turn 
 abruptly. . . . 
 
 MSI. He has his sword. . . . 
 
 PSl. I have not mine. . . . 
 
 MSI. He saw us kiss. . . . 
 
 PSl. He does not know we have seen him. . . . Do 
 not stir; do not turn your head. . . . He would rush 
 headlong on us. . . . He will remain there while he 
 tlunks we do not know. He watches us. . . . He is 
 still motionless. . . . Go, go at once this way . . . 
 I will wait for him. . . . I will stop him. . . . 
 
 MSI. No, no, no! . . . 
 
MAETERLINCK 203 
 
 PSl. Go! go! he has seen all! ... He will kill 
 us! . . . 
 
 Ma. All the better! all the better! all the better! . . . 
 
 PSl. He comes! he comes! . . . Thy mouth! 
 . . . Thy mouth! . . . 
 
 M&l. Yes! . . . yes! yes! . . . 
 [They hiss desperately.] 
 
 Pel. Oh! oh! All the stars are falling! . . . 
 
 M61. Upon me, too! upon me, too! . . . 
 
 PSl. Again! Again! . . . Give! give! . . . 
 
 Mil. All! all! all! ... 
 
 Golaud rushes upon them, sword in hand, and strikes 
 Pelleas, who falls at the brink of the fountain. Melisande 
 flees terrified. 
 
 MH. [fleeing]. Oh! oh! I have no courage! ... I 
 have no courage! . . . 
 
 [GoLATJD pursues her through the wood in silence.] 
 
 The women servants are gathered in a lower hall of the 
 castle. One of them is telling how she found Melisande 
 and Golaud, that morning when she opened the gate, 
 stretched on the steps. Golaud's sword was still in his 
 side, and there was blood on the sill. Now it seems that 
 Golaud is nearly cured. He cannot yet walk alone, but 
 they have just helped him to go to his wife's room. He is 
 so big, they say, that he could not kill himself. But she 
 is hardly wounded, and it is she who is going to die. 
 
 An old servant saw Melisande's wound. It was a tiny 
 little wound, she says, under her little left breast, a little 
 wound that would not kill a pigeon. She was delivered 
 of a babe three days ago. The old servant tells them it 
 was a wee little girl a beggar would not bring into the 
 world, a little wax figure that came much too soon. It is 
 not happiness that has come into the house, she says. 
 
 No one knows where the good Lord Pelleas is, says one. 
 The old servant returns that everybody knows, but no- 
 body dares speak of it. She knows he was found at the 
 bottom of the Blind Man's Spring. 
 
 In an apartment of the castle Melisande is stretched 
 upon a bed, and Arkel, Golaud, and the physician are in a 
 corner. The physician is saying that it cannot be of the 
 little wound she is dying. A bird would not have died of it. 
 
204 PELLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 And it is not Golaud then who killed her. He must not 
 be so disconsolate. She was born without reason and dies 
 without reason. 
 
 Golaud replies that he killed her without cause. It is 
 enough to make the stones weep. They had kissed Uke 
 little children, simply kissed. They were brother and 
 sister. And he at once killed them, in spite of himself. 
 The physician says she is waking. 
 
 Mdhsande wishes the window open, and asks if it is not 
 sunset. At first she thinks she is alone in the room with 
 ArkSl. He prepares her for seeing Golaud, but she in- 
 quires why he does not come by her. Golaud drags him- 
 self toward the bed, calling desperately upon her name. 
 
 MSI. Is it you, Golaud? I should hardly recognize 
 you any more. . . . It is the evening sunlight in my 
 eyes. . . . Why look you on the walls? You have 
 grown thin and old. . . . Is it a long while since we 
 saw each other? 
 
 Gol. [to Abkel and the Physician]. Will you withdraw 
 a moment, if you please, if you please? ... I will 
 leave the door wide open. . . . One moment only. 
 . . . I would say something to her; else I could not die. 
 . . . Will you? — Go clear to the end of the corridor; 
 you can come back at once, at once. . . . Do not 
 refuse me this. ... I am a wretch. . . . 
 
 [Exit Arkel and the Physician. 
 M^lisande, hast thou pity on me, as I have pity on thee? 
 . . . MeHsande? . . . Dost thou forgive me, M61is- 
 ande? . . . 
 
 MM. Yes, yes, I do forgive thee. . . . What must 
 I forgive? . . . 
 
 Gol. I have wrought thee so much ill, Melisande. 
 . . . I cannot tell thee the ill I have wrought thee. 
 . . . But I see it, I see it so clearly to-day . . . 
 since the first day. . . . And all I did not know tiU 
 now leaps in my eyes to-night. . . . And it is all my 
 fault, all that has happened, all that will happen. . . . 
 If I could tell it, thou wouldst see as I do ! . . . I see 
 all! I see all! . . . But I loved thee so! ... I 
 loved thee so ! . . . But now there is some one dying. 
 . . . It is I who am dying. . . . And I would 
 know ... I would ask thee. . . . Thou'lt bear 
 
MAETERLINCK 205 
 
 me no ill-will ... I would . . . The truth must 
 be told to a dying man. ... He must know the 
 truth, or else he could not sleep. . . . Swearest thou 
 to tell me the truth? 
 
 Mil. Yes. 
 
 Gol. Didst thou love P^Ueas? 
 
 MSI. Why, yes; I loved him. — Where is he? 
 
 Gol. Thou dost not understand me? — ^Thou wilt not 
 imderstand me? — It seems to me ... it seems to me. 
 . . . Well, then, here: I ask thee if thou lovedst him 
 with a forbidden love? . . . Wert thou . . . were 
 you guilty? Say, say, yes, yes, yes! . . . 
 
 Mil. No, no; we were not guilty. — ^Why do you ask 
 that? 
 
 Gol. Melisande! . . . tell me the truth, for the 
 love of God! 
 
 MSI. Why, have I not told the truth? 
 
 Gol. Do not lie so any more, at the moment of death! 
 
 MSI. Who is dying? — Is it I? 
 
 Gol. Thou, thou! and I, I, too, after thee! . . . 
 And we must have the truth. . . . We must have the 
 truth at last, dost thou understand? . . . Tell me all! 
 Tell me all! I forgive thee all! . . . 
 
 MSI. Why am I going to die? — I did not know 
 
 it. . 
 Gol. 
 
 Thou knowest it now! . . . It is time! It is 
 
 time! 
 
 . . . Quick! quick! . . . The truth! the 
 
 truth! 
 
 • • • 
 
 MSI. 
 
 The truth ... the truth . . . 
 
 Gol. 
 
 Where art thouj" — Melisande! — Where art thou? 
 
 —It is 
 
 not natural! MeHsande! Where art thou? — 
 
 Where goest thou? [Perceiving Aekel and the Physician 
 at the door of the room.] — Yes, yes; you may come in. 
 . . . I know nothing; it is useless. . . . It is too 
 late; she is already too far away from us. ... I 
 shall never know! ... I shall die here like a blind 
 man! ... 
 
 Melisande asks if it is true that winter is beginning, for 
 she says it is beginning to be cold and there are no more 
 leaves. She wiU not have the window closed, however, 
 until the sun be at the bottom of the sea. She does not 
 like the winter, she is so afraid of the great cold. Arkgl 
 
206 PlfiLLEAS AND MELISANDE 
 
 tells her that she has brought a little daughter into the 
 world, and holds the child up. Melisande sees that it is 
 little. It does not laugh; she says it is going to weep, too, 
 and she pities it. 
 
 The room has been invaded little by little by the women 
 servants of the castle, who range themselves in silence 
 along the walls and wait. Golaud asks them why they 
 come in, saying no one sent for them, but they make no 
 answer. Arkel cautions him not to speak so loud, for she 
 has closed her eyes. They are full of tears, and she 
 stretches out her arms. The physician thinks that it is 
 without doubt toward the child. 
 
 Once again Golaud begs to be left alone with her. There 
 is something he must say to her, but Arkel tells him to 
 trouble her no more; the human soul is very silent, and 
 likes to depart alone. 
 
 The servants fall suddenly on their knees at the back of 
 the chamber. The physician, approaching the bed and 
 feeling the body, says they are right. There is a long si- 
 lence, and then Golaud breaks out sobbing. 
 
 Arkel. Do not stay here, Golaud. . . . She must 
 have silence now. . . . Come, come. . . . It is 
 terrible, but it is not your fault. . . . 'Twas a little 
 being, so quiet, so fearful, and so silent. . . . 'Twas a 
 poor little mysterious being, like everybody. . . . She 
 lies there as if she were the big sister of her child. . . . 
 Come, come. . . . My God! My God! . . . 
 I shall never understand it at all. . . . Let us not 
 stay here. — Come; the child must not stay here in this 
 room. . . . she must live now in her place. . . . 
 It is the poor little one's turn. . . . 
 
 [They go out in silence. 
 
THE WEAVERS* 
 
 By Gekhabt Hauptmann 
 
 First played in Berlin in 1892. 
 
 Argument: The weavers of Silesia are represented as 
 reduced to a deplorable condition by arduous toil and in- 
 sufficient pay. They organize to obtain redress and wreak 
 vengeance upon their employers. It seems doubtful 
 whether they will be able to improve their situation. 
 
 Hauptmann drew his inspiration for this play from sto- 
 ries told by his grandfather, who, as a young fellow in the 
 period of 1840, sat at his loom, a poor weaver hke those 
 here depicted. Although such conditions are not to be 
 found in Europe to-day, the drama stands as a permanent 
 warning against injustice. 
 
 A number of the weavers of Peterswaldau have come to 
 the house of Dreissiger, the fustian manufacturer, to de- 
 liver their finished cloth. Most of them have the air of 
 standing before the bar of justice in torturing expectation 
 of a decision that means life or death to them. They are 
 flat-chested, short-winded, sallow, poor-looking creatures 
 of the loom, their knees bent with much sitting. 
 
 Times are very hard and some of the weavers beg for 
 small advances on their work, but Pfeiffer, the manufac- 
 turer's manager, who has risen from the station of weaver 
 himself, is very hard and turns a deaf ear to their entreat- 
 ies. One of the weavers alone, Becker, a powerfully built 
 young man, is bold enough to stand up for himself. 
 
 Pfeiffer has a keen eye for imperfections in the webs, 
 and is so exacting in the matter of weight that Becker saya 
 the weavers would have to pay for extra yarn out of their 
 own pockets to satisfy him. Pfeiffer declares that people 
 
 ♦Published by B. W. Huebsch. New York, 
 
 207 
 
208 THE WEAVERS 
 
 who are industrious and understand their work, doing it 
 in the fear of God, never need pay in advance. 
 
 Neumann, the cashier, sings in a tone that is meant to be 
 droll, "Every year brings a child to the linen- weaver's 
 wife, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh." The apprentice takes up 
 the rhyme, "And the Uttle brat's blind the first weeks of 
 its life, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh." 
 
 Pfeiffer admonishes the weavers that if they want to 
 live well they must weave well, adding that if they are not 
 satisfied with what they get they need not come again, 
 for there are plenty ready to tramp the soles oflF their shoes 
 for it. Baumert, an old weaver, observes that if folks 
 be poor one trouble comes to them on top of another; 
 there's no help for it and there's no end to it. 
 
 Old Baumert. We haven't so much as a bite in the house 
 and so I've had the Uttle dog killed. There's not much on 
 him, for the poor beast was half starved. A nice little 
 dog he was! I couldn't kill him myself. I hadn't the 
 heart to do it. 
 
 Becker growls that they get only a beggarly pittance 
 for their work after plying the treadle from early morning 
 till late at night and bending over their looms for days and 
 days, tired to death every evening, sick with the dust and 
 heat. This speech provokes the warning from Pfeiffer 
 that no impudence is allowed there. 
 
 Becker. If you think I'll hold my tongue for your telling 
 you're much mistaken. 
 
 Pfeiffer [exclaims]. We'll see about that! [Rushes to the 
 glass door and calls into the office.] Mr. Dreissiger, Mr. 
 Dreissiger, will you be good enough to come here? 
 
 Dreissiger comes in. He is about forty, full-bodied, 
 asthmatic, and looks severe. 
 
 Dreissiger. What is it, Pfeiffer? 
 
 Pfeif. [spitefully], Becker says he won't be told to hold 
 his tongue. 
 
 Dreis. [draws himself up, throws back his head, stares ai 
 Beckbb; his nostrils tremi)le]. Oh, indeed! — Becker. 
 [To Pfeiffer.] Is he the man? . . . [The clerks nod.] 
 
 Beck, [insolently]. Yes, Mr. Dreissiger, yes! [Pointing 
 to himself.] This is the man. [Pointing to Dbeissiqer.] 
 And that's a man, too! 
 
 Dreis. [angrily]. Fellow, how dare you? 
 
HAUPTMANN 209 
 
 Pfeif. He's too well off. He'll go dancing on the ice 
 once too often, though. 
 
 Beck, [recklessly]. You shut up, you Jack-in-the-box, 
 Your mother must have gone dancing once too often with 
 Satan to have got such a devil for a son. 
 
 Dreis. [now in a violent passion, roars]. Hold your 
 tongue this moment, sir, or . . . [He trembles and 
 takes a few steps forward.] 
 
 Beck, [holding his ground steadily]. I'm not deaf. My 
 hearing's quite good yet. 
 
 Dreis. [controls himself, asks in an apparently cool busi- 
 ness tone]. Was this feUow not one of the pack . . .? 
 
 Pfeif. He's a Bielau weaver. When there's any mis- 
 chief going, they are sure to be in it. 
 
 Dreis. [trembling]. Well, I give you all warning: if the 
 same thing happens again as last night — a troop of half- 
 drunken cubs marching past my windows singing that low 
 song . . . 
 
 Beck. Is it "Bloody Justice" you mean? 
 
 Dreis. You know well enough what I mean. I tell you 
 that if I hear it again I'll get hold of one of you, and-^ 
 mind, I'm not joking — ^before the justice he shall go. And 
 if I can find out who it was that made up that vile dog- 
 gerel . . . 
 
 Becker states it as his opinion that a manufacturer has 
 four stomachs like a cow, and teeth like a wolf. There- 
 upon Dreissiger directs his clerks to give him no more 
 work. Becker says it is all the same to him whether he 
 starves at his loom or by the roadside. 
 
 A weaver's boy who has tramped a long way with a 
 heavy bundle of cloth faints from hunger and e^diaustion. 
 Dreissiger apparently fears that the incident may look bad 
 for him and takes occasion to harangue the weavers, who 
 are so spiritless that they agree to all that he claims. He 
 makes them admit that a good workman is able to gain a 
 living in his employment. 
 
 Although he is losing money, Dreissiger says, he keeps 
 his weavers at work. He says he has thousands of pieces 
 of cloth in stock, but is still willing to give employment to 
 200 more hands — on conditions that Pfeiffer will state. 
 He withdraws. The new price is to be ten groschen a web, 
 a great reduction from the price usual before. Dreissiger 
 
810 THE WEAVERS 
 
 is only taking advantage of the destitution in the com- 
 munity to increase his stock at a still cheaper rate. 
 
 Old Baumert's home is at Kashbach, and there his 
 family, at work in a tiny room, are anxiously awaiting his 
 return. Emma and Bertha, his daughters, are at their 
 looms, and Mother Baumert, a decrepit old woman, sits 
 on a stool beside the bed with a winding wheel in front of 
 her. Her idiot son August sits on a footstool, also 
 winding. 
 
 Little Fritz, a barefooted, ragged boy of foiu", comes in 
 whimpering and says he is hungry. Enuna tells him to 
 wait a little and grandfather will come with bread. Mother 
 Baumert suddenly begins to ciy. She is afraid her hus- 
 band has stopped at the tavern, and there isn't so much as 
 a pinch of salt or a bit of wood in the house. Bertha, who 
 is fifteen, says they will go out in the wood and get some 
 sticks by moonlight and take the risk of being caught by 
 the forester. 
 
 Mrs. Heinrich, a neighbor, comes in. She is with child 
 and has an expression of anxiety and torturing apprehen- 
 sion. She has a piece of glass in her foot which Bertha 
 undertakes to remove. 
 
 Mrs. Heinrich \brealcs out despairingly]. Things is in a 
 terrible way with us! 
 
 She struggles in vain against a rush of tears; then weeps 
 sUently. 
 
 Mother Baumert. The best thing as could happen to the 
 likes of us, Jenny, would be if God had pity on us an ' took 
 us away out o' this weary world. 
 
 Mrs. H. [no longer able to control herself, screams, stiU 
 crying]. My children's starvin'. [Sobs and moans.] I'm 
 at my wits ' ends. Let me work till I fall down — I'm more 
 dead than alive — ^it's all no use. Am I able to fill nine 
 hungry mouths? We got a bit o' bread last night, but it 
 wasn't enough even for the two smallest ones. Who was 
 I to give it to, eh? They all cried: Me, me, mother! give 
 it to me! . . . An'if it's like this while I'm still on my 
 feet, what'll it be when I've to take to bed ? Our few taters 
 was washed away. We haven't a thing to put in our 
 mouths. 
 
 At last old Baumert returns, staggering under a heavy 
 
HAUPTMANN «11 
 
 bundle of yam, and at the same time another visitor enters, 
 Moritz Jaeger, a reserve soldier, who is clean and rosy- 
 cheeked. He has heard that Emma has a boy, and now 
 learns that the father had consumption and is already dead 
 and forgotten. 
 
 Jaeger has money, having just been discharged, and he 
 takes a bottle of brandy out of his pocket to cheer the 
 family. He says he is dumbfounded to come back and see 
 how the people live. Things can't go on like this, he says; 
 the very dogs in the towns hve better. 
 
 Ansorge, the householder, is in as bad a plight as his 
 tenants. He was formerly a weaver but is now unable to 
 work eflFectively at the loom. Bringing in a pan of soup 
 that he wants to warm, he is quite overcome to find meat 
 roasting in the oven and a bottle of brandy on the table. 
 The bottle circulates freely. 
 
 Old B. If we could anyway have a bit of meat on 
 Sundays and holidays, instead of never seeing the sight of 
 it from year's end to year's end! Now we'll have to wait 
 till another poor little dog finds its way into the house like 
 this one did four weeks gone by — ^and that's not likely to 
 happen soon again. 
 
 Mother B. A nice, kind little beast he was, too! 
 
 Ansorge asks Jaeger if things are likely to improve for 
 the weavers, as far as he can see. He says they are in an 
 awful state, not living and not dying; a man fights to the 
 bitter end, but he's bound to be beaten at the last. An- 
 sorge can scarcely earn a groschen a day at his basket 
 weaving, although he keeps at it till late into the night. 
 
 Old B. Some one would need to go to Berlin an' tell 
 the King how hard put to it we are. 
 
 Jaeger. Little good that would do. Father Baumert. 
 There's been plenty written about it in the newspapers. 
 But the rich people, they can turn and twist things round 
 . . . as cunning as the devil himself. 
 
 Old B. [shaking his head]. To think they've no more 
 sense than that in Berliu! 
 
 Ansorge. And is it really true, Moritz? Is there no law 
 to help us? If a man hasn't been able to scrape together 
 enough to pay his mortgage interest, though he's worked 
 the very slan off his hands, must his house be taken from 
 him? The peasant that's lent the money on it, he wants 
 
£12 THE WEAVERS 
 
 his rights— what else can you look for from him? But 
 what's to be the end of it all, I don't know.^— If I'm put 
 out o' the house . . . [In a voice choked by tears.] I 
 was born here, and here my father sat at his loom for more 
 than forty year. Many was the time he said to mother: 
 Mother, when I'm gone, the house'll still be here. I've 
 worked hard for it. Every nail means a night's weaving, 
 every plank a year's dry bread. A man would think 
 that . . . 
 
 Jaeger. They're quite fit to take the last bite out of 
 your mouth — that's what they are. 
 
 Ans. Well, well, well! I would rather be carried out 
 than have to walk out now in my old days. Who minds 
 idyin'? My father, he was glad to die. At the very end 
 he got frightened, but I crept into bed beside him, an' he 
 quieted down again. I was a lad of thirteen then. I was 
 tired and fell asleep beside him — ^I knew no better — and 
 when I woke he was quite cold. 
 
 Ansorge's tears fall in his soup. Baumert has begun to 
 eat meat out of the saucepan, unable to restrain hunself . 
 It is two years since he took the sacrament, he says, and 
 he went straight after that and sold his Sunday coat and 
 bought some pork. Since then not a mouthful of meat has 
 passed his Ups till to-night. He thinks Jaeger is the man 
 the weavers need to stand up for them in the community 
 and get them better times. 
 
 There is nothing that Jaeger would Uke better than to 
 give the manufacturers a bit of a fright. He'd like to take 
 Dreissiger with one hand and Dittrich with the other and 
 knock their heads together. If the weavers would all join 
 together, he says, and show they had some pluck they could 
 make the manufacturers give them better wages. 
 
 Old Baumert has quietly gone out. Mother Baumert 
 begins to cry. She says that now he has got meat he is not 
 able to keep it down. The old man comes back crying 
 with rage. 
 
 Jaeger [with a sudden violent outburst of torath]. And 
 yet there are people not far from here, justices they call 
 themselves, too, overfed brutes, that have nothing to do 
 all the year round but invent new ways of wasting their 
 time. And these people say that the weavers would be 
 quite well off if only they weren't so lazy. 
 
HAUPTMANN 21S 
 
 Ans. The men as say that are no men at all, they're 
 monsters. 
 
 Jaeger. Never mind, Father Ansorge; we're making the 
 place hot for 'em. Becker and I have been and given 
 Dreissiger a piece of our mind, and before we came away 
 we sang him "Bloody Justice." 
 
 Jaeger reads the song. The lasts two stanzas run as 
 follows: 
 
 Then think of all our woe and want. 
 
 Oh, ye who hear this ditty! 
 Our struggle vaiu for daily bread 
 
 Hard hearts would move to pity. 
 
 But pity's what you've never known — 
 You'd take both skin and clothing 
 
 You cannibals, whose cruel deeds 
 Fill all good men with loathing. 
 
 Old B. [jumps up, beside himself with exdtemsnt]. "Both 
 skin and clothing." It's true, it's all true! Here I stand, 
 Robert Baumert, master-weaver of Kashbach. Who can 
 bring up anything against me? . . . I've been an 
 honest, hard-working man all my life long, an' look at me 
 now! What have I to show for it? Look at me! See 
 what they've made of me! Stretched on the rack day 
 after day. [He holds out his arms.] Feel that! Skin and 
 bone! "You villains aU, you brood of hell!!" 
 
 He sinks down on a chair, weeping with rage and despair. 
 
 Ans. [flings his basket from him into a corner, rises, his 
 whole body trembling with rage, gasps]. And the time's 
 come now for a change, I say. We'll stand it no longer! 
 We'll stand it no longer! Come what may! 
 
 In the tavern at Peterswaldau a few days later the talk 
 is all of the commotion the weavers are making. Old 
 Baumert is there with a bundle of yarn, and Ansorge, too, 
 who is going to try weaving again. Some of the weavers 
 tell of their troubles. A commercial traveller says that 
 an investigation has been made of conditions among the 
 poor which proves the stories of suffering to have been 
 exaggerated. 
 
214 THE WEAVERS 
 
 Homig, the rag dealer, declares that the investigators 
 went about in the better part of the village and then sent a 
 report to Berlin that there was no distress at all. Weavers 
 are heard outside singing, and then some of them come in, 
 headed by Becker and Jaeger. It is old Baumert, much 
 excited, who announces that the weavers are determined 
 to put up with injustice no longer. 
 
 An old blacksmith, Wittig, scoflFs at the idea of a rebellion 
 among the weavers, and says that the baa-lambs will be 
 at it next. Old Baumert replies that he doesn't claim it 
 wouldn't be better to bring about a change peaceably, if it 
 were only possible. 
 
 Wittig. Peaceably! How could it be done peaceably? 
 Did they do it peaceably in France? Did Robespeer tickle 
 the rich men's palms? No ! It was away with them, every 
 one! To the gilyoteen with them! Allongs onfong! 
 You've got your work before you. The geese'll not fly 
 ready roasted into your mouths. 
 
 Jaeger. Look here, Wittig. You've always jawed such a 
 lot about the French revolution, and a good deal, too, about 
 yoiu* own doings, A time may be coming, and that before 
 long, when every one will have a chance to show whether 
 he's a braggart or a true man. 
 
 Wit. [flaring up]. Say another word if you dare ! Have 
 you heard the whistle of bullets? Have you done outpost 
 duty in an enemy's country? 
 
 Jaeger. You needn't get angry about it. We're com- 
 rades. I meant no harm. 
 
 Wit. None of your comradeship for me, you impudent 
 young fool. 
 
 A policeman comes in to learn what is going on. Wittig 
 joins the others in jeering at him. 
 
 Wit. A policeman like that has a hard life. Now it's a 
 starving beggar boy he has to lock up, then it's a pretty 
 weaver girl he has to lead astray; then he has to get roarin' 
 drunk and beat his wife till she goes screamin' to the neigh- 
 bors for help; and there's the ridin' about on horseback 
 and the lyin' in bed till nine — ^faith, but it's no easy 
 job! 
 
 The policeman promises him that the magistrates shall 
 know all about his dangerous tongue. Wittig accuses the 
 policeman of spreading stories about him and hurting his 
 
HAUPTMANN 215 
 
 trade, and at last makes a rush at him. The policeman 
 escapes. 
 
 Jaeger leads in the singing of "Bloody Justice," and most 
 of the weavers march out. Homig and old Baumert are 
 left singing the last stanza: 
 
 You villains all, you brood of hell. 
 
 You fiends in fashion human, 
 A curse will fall on all like you 
 
 Who prey on man and woman. 
 
 Welzel [phlegmatically collecting the glasses]. Their 
 backs are up to-day, and no mistake. 
 
 Homig [to Old Batjmebt, who is preparing to go]. What 
 in the name of Heaven are they up to, Baumert? 
 
 Old B. They're goin' to Dreissiger's to make him add 
 something on to the pay. 
 
 Wei. And are you joining in these foolish ongoings? 
 
 Old. B. I've no choice, Welzel. The yoimg men may 
 an' the old men must. [Goes out rather shanu^acedly. 
 
 Horn. It'U not surprise me if this ends badly. 
 
 Wei. To think that even old fellows like him are goin' 
 right ofiE their heads! 
 
 Horn. We all set our hearts on something! 
 
 Dreissiger meanwhile is entertaiuing Pastor Kittelhaus 
 and his wife. Mrs. Dreissiger, Mr. and Mrs. Kittelhaus, 
 and Weinhold, a theological graduate who is tutoring the 
 Dreissiger children, are in the luxurious drawing-room. 
 The pastor says there is something fine about the ideals of 
 youth, but that imfortunately they don't last. 
 
 Kittelhaus. My dear Mr. Weinhold, however restless- 
 minded and unsettled a man may be — [in a tone of reproof] 
 — and you are a case in point — however violently and 
 wantonly he may attack the existing order of things, he 
 calms down in the end. I grant you, certairdy, that 
 among our professional brethren individuals are to be f oimd 
 who, at a fairly advanced age, still play youthful pranks. 
 One preaches against the drink evil and founds temperance 
 societies, another publishes appeals which undoubtedly 
 read most eflFectively. But what good do they do? The 
 distress among the weavers, where it does exist, is in no 
 
21© THE WEAVERS 
 
 way lessened — ^but the peace of society is undermined. 
 No, no; one feels inclined in such cases to say: Cobbler, 
 stick to your last; don't take to caring for the belly you 
 who have the care of souls. Preach the pure Word of 
 God, and leave all else to Him who provides shelter and 
 food for the birds, and clothes the lilies of the field. — ^But I 
 should like to know where our good host, Mr. Dreissiger, 
 has suddenly disappeared to. 
 
 Dreissiger enters, hot and excited. He says that a vile 
 rabble have come to the house and points them out 
 through the window. He sees Becker in the crowd and 
 declares he will have him arrested. Kittelhaus is highly 
 incensed and asks if there is to be no end to this nuisance. 
 When Weinhold pleads in extenuation of the weavers' 
 misconduct, saying that they are himgry and ignorant, it 
 brings down Dreissiger's wrath upon his head. Weinhold 
 goes, and the ladies retire into another room as the super- 
 intendent of police is announced. 
 
 The superintendent quite approves when he learns that 
 Dreissiger has directed some of his dyers to seize one of the 
 ringleaders of the mob. Jaeger is led in by five dyers. 
 Jaeger, stimulated by brandy, is feeling impudent and 
 gay. He calls the dyers hounds, and says he would as soon 
 have his hand rot off as to lay it on a mate. 
 
 Superintendent [shouts to Jaegeb]. Off with your cap, 
 sir. [Jaeger takes it off, but very slowly, still with an im- 
 pudent grin on his face l\ What's your name? 
 
 Jaeger. What's yoiu:s? I'm not your swineherd. 
 
 Great excitement is produced among the audience by 
 this reply. 
 
 Dreis. This is too much of a good thing. 
 
 Supt. [changes color, is on the point of breaking out furi- 
 ously, but controls his rage]. We'll see about this after- 
 ward. — Once more, what's your name? [Receiving no 
 answer, furiously.] If you don't answer at once, fellow, I'll 
 have you flogged on the spot. 
 
 Jaeger ignores him and addresses a serving maid, whom 
 he advises to leave the house, as a wind may begin to blow 
 that will sweep away everything overnight. The pastor 
 supplies Jaeger's name. The mob are heard yelling wildly 
 to Jaeger to come out. The superintendent orders a 
 policeman to handcuff Jaeger and take him off with six 
 
HAUPTMANN 217 
 
 dyers as a guard. Jaeger shouts a taunt as he goes 
 out. 
 
 Dreissiger affects to regard the trouble as settled, but 
 betrays his nervousness as he and the pastor prepare to 
 play whist. Kittelhaus is frankly much concerned at the 
 uproar in the street, which is now suddenly redoubled. 
 He cannot see what has come over the weavers, who used 
 to be so patient and humble and so easUy led. Dreissiger 
 lays it to the societies for the alleviation of distress among 
 the poor, which have at last convinced the weavers that 
 distress exists. 
 
 Kittelhaus. So that with all their humanitarianism 
 they have only succeeded in almost literally turning lambs 
 into wolves. 
 
 Dreis. I don't say that, sir. When you take time to 
 think of the matter coolly, it's possible that some good 
 may come of it yet. Such occurrences as this will not 
 pass unnoticed by those in authority, and may lead them 
 to see that things can't be allowed to go on as they are 
 doing — ^that means must be taken to prevent the utter 
 ruin of our home industries. 
 
 The remedy, in Dreissiger's opinion, lies in imposing 
 import duties to increase the prices of manufactured goods. 
 
 Pfeiffer staggers in, pale and breathless, almost crying 
 with fear, and screams that the mob has set on the police 
 and set Jaeger free. He thinks things look very serious. 
 The next moment the coachman announces that he has 
 harnessed horses to two carriages, and urges the family 
 to escape by the back door while there is yet time. The 
 pastor is determined he will go out and remonstrate with 
 the crowd. He leaves the room with Dreissiger, Pfieffer, 
 and the coachman. 
 
 Mrs. Dreissiger [absently]. I don't know how it is, Mrs. 
 Kittelhaus, but I ... I can't tell you how I feel. 
 I didn't think such a thing was possible. It's . . . 
 it's as if it was a sin to be rich. If I had been told about 
 all this beforehand, Mrs. Kittelhaus, I don't know but 
 what I would rather have been left in my own humble 
 position. 
 
 Mrs. Kittelhaus. There are troubles and disappoint- 
 ments in every condition of life, Mrs. Dreissiger. 
 
 Mrs. D. True, true, I can well believe that. And sup- 
 
218 THE WEAVERS 
 
 pose we have more than other people . . . goodness 
 me! we didn't steal it. It's been honestly got, every 
 penny of it. It's not possible that the people can be going 
 to attack us? If trade's bad, that's not William's fault, 
 is it? 
 
 Loud, confused yelling is heard outside. While the 
 two women stand gazing at each other, pale and startled, 
 Dreissiger rushes in. 
 
 Dreissiger is at last reduced to panic. Bidding his wife 
 to put on something and get into the carriage, he quickly 
 brings out a strong box and transfers things of value from 
 it to his pockets. The coachman returns abruptly and 
 again urges the family to make haste before they are cut 
 off. Mrs. Kittelhaus thinks that something dreadful has 
 happened to her husband that they are keeping from her. 
 
 Dreis. You mustn't take it to heart — ^they'll be sorry 
 for it yet. I know exactly whose fault it was. Such a 
 detestable, shameful outrage will not go unpunished. A 
 community laying hands on its own pastor and maltreating 
 him — abominable! Mad dogs they are — ^raging brutes — 
 and they'll be treated as such. [To his wife who still stands 
 petrified.] Go, for my sake, Rosa, go quickly! [The 
 clatter of vnndow farces being smashed on the ground floor is 
 heard.] They've gone quite mad. There's nothing for it 
 but to get away as fast as we can. 
 
 [Cries of "Pfeiffer, come outt"—"We want Pfeifferl" 
 — "Pfeiffer, come out! " are heard.] 
 
 Mrs. D. Pfeiffer, Pfeiffer, they want Pfeiffer ! 
 
 Pfeif. [dashes in], Mr. Dreissiger, there are people at 
 the back gate already, and the house door won't hold 
 much longer. The smith's battering it in with a stable 
 pail. 
 
 The cry sounds louder and clearer: "Pfeiffer! Pfeiffer! 
 Pfeiffer! come out!" Mrs. Dreissiger rushes off as if pur- 
 sued. Mrs. Kittelhaus follows. Pfeiffer listens, and 
 changes color as he hears what the cry is. A perfect panic 
 of fear seizes him; he weeps, entreats, whimpers, writhes, 
 aU at the same moment. He overwhelms Dreissiger with 
 childish caresses, strokes his cheeks and arms, kisses his 
 hands, and at last, like a drowning man, throws his arms 
 round him and prevents him moving. 
 
 Pfeif. Deaa*, good, kind Mr. Dreissiger, don't leave me 
 
HAUPTMANN 219 
 
 behind. I've always served you faithfully. I've always 
 treated the people well. I couldn't give them more 
 wages than the fixed rate. Don't leave me here — they'll 
 do for me! If they find me, they'll kill me. God! O 
 God! My wife, my children! 
 
 Dreis. [making his way out, vainly endeavoring to free 
 himself from Pfeiffeb's clutch]. Can't you let me go, fel- 
 low? It'll be all right; it'll be all right. 
 
 For a few seconds the room is empty. Windows are 
 broken in the drawing-room. A loud crash resounds 
 through the house, followed by shouts of "Hurrah!" For 
 an instant there is silence. Then gentle, cautious steps 
 are heard on the stair, then timid, hushed ejaculations: 
 "To the left!"— "Up with you!"— "Hush!"— "Slow, 
 slow!" — "Don't shove hke that!" — "It's a wedding we're 
 goin' to!"— "Stop that crowdmg!"— "You go first!"— 
 "No, you go!" 
 
 Young weavers and weaver girls appear at the door 
 leading from the hall, not daring to enter, but each trying 
 to shove the other in. In the course of a few minutes their 
 timidity is overcome, and the poor, thin, ragged, or patched 
 figures, many of them sickly looking, disperse themselves 
 through Dreissiger's room and the drawing-room, first 
 gazing timidly and curiously at everything, then beginning 
 to touch things. Girls sit down on the sofas, whole groups 
 ajdmire themselves in the mirrors, men stand upon chairs, 
 examine the pictures and take them down. There is a 
 steady influx of miserable-looking creatures from the hall. 
 
 One old weaver thinks things are going too far. They 
 are starting to smash furniture downstairs. He fears 
 there will be a bad end to it. 
 
 Becker, Jaeger, Wittig, and a number of other weavers 
 rush in as if looking for some one, shouting hoarsely. 
 Becker asks where the cruel brute is. Old Baumert says 
 if they can eat grass, he can eat sawdust. Wittig swears 
 they will hang him if they catch him. 
 
 First Young Weaver. We'll take him by the legs and 
 fling him out at the window, on to the stones. He'll never 
 get up again. 
 
 Second Young Weaver [enters]. He's off! 
 
 AU. Who? 
 
 Second Young Weaver. Dreissiger. 
 
220 THE WEAVERS 
 
 Beck. Pfeiffer, too? 
 
 Voices.. Let's get hold of Pfeiffer! Look for Pfeiffer! 
 
 Baumert. Yes, yes! Pfeiffer! Tell him there's a weaver 
 here for him to starve. 
 [Laughter.] 
 
 Jaeger. If we can't lay hands on that brute Dreissiger 
 himself . . . we'll at any rate make a poor man of 
 him. 
 
 Baumert. As poor as a church mouse . . . we'll 
 see to that! 
 
 All, bent on the work of destruction, rush toward the 
 drawing-room door. 
 
 Beck, [who is leading, turns round and stops ike others]. 
 Halt! Listen to me! This is nothing but a begiiming. 
 When we're done here, we'll go straight to Bielau, to Dit- 
 trich's, where the steam power-looms are. The whole 
 mischief's done by these factories. 
 
 Old Ansorge [miters from the hall, takes a few steps and 
 then stops and looks around bemldered; shakes his head and 
 taps his forehead]. Who am I? Weaver Anton Ansorge. 
 Has he gone mad, old Ansorge? My head's goin' round 
 like a hummin' top, sure enough. What's he doin' here? 
 He'll do whatever he's a mind to. Where is Ansorge? 
 [He taps his forehead repeatedly.] Something's wrong. 
 I'm not answerable! I'm off my head! Off with you, 
 off with you, rioters that you are! Heads off, legs off, 
 hands off! If you take my house, I take your house. 
 Forward! Forward! 
 
 He goes yelling into the drawing-room, followed by a 
 yelling, laughing mob. 
 
 The storm spreads to other towns. At Langen- 
 Bielau news of the revolt is brought to the house of Weaver 
 Hilse while the family are at worship. Weaver Hilse is a 
 bearded man of strong build, but bent and wasted with 
 age, toU, sickness, and hardship He is an old soldier and 
 has lost an arm. He is standing, as are also his son, Gott- 
 lieb, and his daughter-in-law, Lulse. His wife, who has 
 gone blind ifom weaving, remains seated. Old Hilse 
 utters a long and devout prayer. 
 
 The younger woman is rebellious at the patience of old 
 Hilse. She is greatly embittered, and finds no comfort in 
 
HAUPTMANN 221 
 
 his faith. It is Homig, the rag dealer, who brings the first 
 word of the outbreak at Peterswaldau. He says the 
 weavers have completely wrecked Dreissiger's house and 
 dye works and thrown his stock of goods into the river. 
 It was a solemn and a woful sight, he says, to see the poor 
 starving creatures taking their revenge for once. 
 
 Distant bells are heard. The weavers, now fifteen 
 hundred strong, are said to be wreaking their vengeance 
 at the village of Reichenbach. In a short time they will 
 be at Langen-Bielau. Old Hilse is fiUed with indigna- 
 tion at their conduct, and cautions his son to have nothing 
 to do with them. This is too much for Luise. 
 
 Luise [has lost all control of herself]. You an' your piety 
 an' rehgion — did they serve to keep the life in my poor 
 children? In rags an' dirt they lay, all the foiu- — it didn't 
 as much as keep them dry. Yes ! I set up to be a mother, 
 that's what I do — an' if you'd like to know it, that's why 
 I would send all the manufacturers to hell — because I'm a 
 mother! — ^Not one of the four could I keep in life! It was 
 cryin' more than breathin' with me from the time each 
 poor little thing came into the world till death took pity 
 on it. The devil a bit you cared! You sat there prayin' 
 and singin', and let me run about till my feet bled, tryin' 
 to get one little drop o' skim milk. How many hundred 
 nights have I lain an' racked my head to think what I 
 could do to cheat the churchyard of my little one! What 
 harm has a baby like that done that it must come to such 
 a miserable end — eh? An' over there at Dittrich's they're 
 bathed in wine an' washed in milk. No! you may talk 
 as you like, but if they begin here, ten horses won't hold 
 me back. An' what's more — if there's a rush on Dittrich's, 
 you'll see me in the front of it — an' pity the man as tries to 
 prevent me — I've stood it long enough, so now you know 
 it. 
 
 She calls the men whey-faced gutter scrapers, and says 
 they haven't enough blood left in them to turn red in the 
 face. Old Hilse, who has "spilled his blood by the quart 
 for king and country," says he has strength enough yet to 
 make a stand against a few rubbishing bayonets, and that 
 he would be glad enough to leave behind the bundle of 
 aches and pains called the body, and the care and oppres- 
 sion called by the name of life. But there's something to 
 
222 THE WEAVERS 
 
 come after and they mustn't do themselves out of 
 that. 
 
 Gottlieb. Who knows what's to come after? Nobody's 
 seen it. 
 
 Old Hilse. GottHeb! don't you be throwin' doubts on 
 the one comfort us poor people have. Why have I sat 
 here an' worked my treadle like a slave this forty year an' 
 more? — sat still an' looked on at him over yonder Uvin' in 
 pride an' wastefulness — why.!* Because I have a better 
 hope, something as supports me in all my troubles. [Poinis 
 out at the window^ You have your good things in this 
 world — I'll have mine in the next. That's been my 
 thought. An' I'm that certain of it — I'd let myself be 
 torn in pieces. Have we not His promise? There's a 
 Day of Judgment coming; but it's not us as are the judges 
 — ^no: vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. 
 
 A cry of "Weavers, come out!" is heard outside the win- 
 dow. Old Hilse and his son seat themselves resolutely at 
 their looms. Presently a strange sound is heard at a little 
 distance, coming nearer, a sort of dull, monotonous wail. 
 It is the weavers' song sung by hundreds of voices. 
 
 Gottlieb's wife and some of the neighbors stand at the 
 window of an adjoining room and call out that the weavers 
 are attacking Dittrich's house. Homig says the weavers 
 are going to smash up the power looms next, for it is they 
 that ruin the hand loom weaver. Some of the mob come 
 to bring out the Hilses. When they see the old man at 
 his loom they cool down a little. But Becker tells old 
 Hilse to leave his work and he will be well taken care of. 
 
 Old Baumert enters the discussion, which soon is di- 
 verted to the subject of what they shall do next. Jaeger 
 suggests giving a lesson to all who hold government posi- 
 tions. Before long, they say, they will go to Breslau, and 
 more and more will be joining them aU the time. Some of 
 them offer Hilse bottles of brandy and wine, which he never 
 touches. "Christmas comes but once a year," says one, 
 and there is general laughter. 
 
 Old H. [impatiently]. What is it you want in my house, 
 you limbs of Satan? 
 
 Old B. [a little intimidated, coaxingly]. I was bringin' 
 you a chicken, Gustav. I thought it would make a (&op 
 o' soup for mother. 
 
HAUPTMANN 223 
 
 Old H. [embarrassed, almost friendly]. Well, you can tell 
 mother yourself. 
 
 Mother Hilse [who has been making efforts to hear, her hand 
 at her ear, motions them off]. Let me alone. I don't want 
 no chicken soup. 
 
 Old H. That's right, mother. An' I want none, an' 
 least of all that sort. An' let me say this much to you, 
 Baumert: The devU stands on his head for joy when he 
 hears the old ones jabberin' and talkin' as if they was 
 infants. An' to you all I say — to every one of you: Me 
 and you, we've got nothing to do with each other. It's 
 not with my will that you're here. In law an' justice 
 you've no right to be in my house. 
 
 Some of them threaten the old man, but he is steadfast. 
 The change they are proclaiming will come, he says, on the 
 Judgment Day. The soldiers will soon be down on the 
 weavers, and for every two they beat off ten will come back. 
 Just then there is a cry outside that the soldiers are coming. 
 Silence falls on the little gathering. A faint sound of JBfes 
 and drums is heard. In a twinkling the room is emptied. 
 After continuing the dispute with the family for a few 
 minutes, Luise rushes out and joins the rioters. 
 
 Old. B. [he has been cowering on a low stool, painfully 
 beating his brains, and now gets up]. It's true, Gustav, as 
 I've had a drop too much. But iot all that I know what 
 I'm about. You think one way in this here matter; I 
 think another. I say Becker's right; even if it ends in 
 chains an ' ropes — we'll be better off in prison than at home. 
 You're cared for there, an' you don't need to starve. I 
 wouldn't have joined them, Gustav, if I could have let it 
 be; but once in a lifetime a man's got to show what he feels. 
 [Goes slowly toward the door.] Good-bye, Gustav. If 
 anything happens, mind you put in a word for me in your 
 prayers. [Goes out. 
 
 Old Hilse knots at his web. Gottlieb has taken an axe 
 from behind the stove and is absently feeling its edge. He 
 and the old man are silently agitated. The hum and roar 
 of a great crowd penetrate the room. Old Hilse notices his 
 son and tells him to put down the axe. Just then some one 
 going by the window looks in and jeers at Gottlieb. 
 
 Gottlieb [jumps up and shakes his fist at the window]. 
 Brute that you are, would you drive me cra2y? 
 
224 THE WEAVERS 
 
 A volley of musketry is heard. 
 
 Mother H. [starts and trembles]. Good Lord! Is that 
 thunder again? 
 
 Old H. [instinctively folds his hands]. Oh, our Father in 
 heaven! Defend the poor weavers, protect my poor 
 brothers! [A short pause ensues. Then he speaks to 
 himself, painfully agitated.] There's blood flowing 
 now. 
 
 Gottlieb sprang up and seized the axe when the firing 
 was heard. Deathly pale and beside himself, he asks if he 
 is still to lie to heel Gke a dog. 
 
 A Girl [caUs from the entry-room]. Father Hilse, Father 
 Hilse! get away from the window. A bullet's just flown 
 in at ours, upstairs. [Disappears. 
 
 Mielchen [puts her head in at the window, laughing]. 
 Gran 'father, gran 'father, they've shot with their guns. 
 Two or three's been knocked down, an' one of them's 
 turnin' round and roimd like a top, an' one's twistin' him- 
 self like a sparrow when its head's bein' pulled of. An' 
 
 oh, if you saw all the blood that came pourin' ! 
 
 [Disappears. 
 
 A Weaver's Wife. Yes, there's two or three'll never get 
 up again. 
 
 An Old Weaver [in the entry-room]. Look out! They're 
 goin' to make a rush on the soldiers. 
 
 A Second Weaver [wildly] . Look, look, look at the women, 
 skirts up', an' spittin' in the soldiers' faces already! 
 
 A Weaver's Wife [calls in]. Gottlieb, look at your wife. 
 She's more pluck in her than you. She's jumpin ' about in 
 front o' the bay 'nets as if she was dancin' to music. 
 
 Foiu: men carry a wounded rioter through the entry- 
 room. Silence, which is broken by some one saying in a 
 distinct voice, "It's Weaver Ulbrich." Once more silence 
 for a few seconds, when the same voice is heard again: "It's 
 all oVer with him; he's got a bullet in his ear." The men 
 are heard climbing the wooden stairs. Sudden shouting 
 outside: "Hurrah! hurrah!" 
 
 Voices in the Entry-room. "Where did they get the 
 stones from?" — "Yes, it's time you were off!" — "From 
 the new road." — "Ta-ta, soldiers!" — "It's raining paving- 
 stones." 
 
 Shrieks of terror and loud roaring outside, taken up by 
 
HAUPTMANN 226 
 
 those in the entry-room. There is a cry of fear, and the 
 house door is shut with a bang. 
 
 Voices in the Entry-room. "They're loading again." — 
 "They'll fire another volley this minute." — "Father Hilse, 
 get away from that window." 
 
 Gott. [clviches the axe]. What! are we mad dogs? Are 
 we to eat powder an ' shot now instead of bread? [Hesitat- 
 ing an instant: to the old man.] Would you have me sit 
 here an' see my wife shot? Never! [As he rushes ovt.] 
 Look out! I'm coming! 
 
 Old H. Gottlieb, Gottlieb! 
 
 Mother H. Where's Gottheb gone? 
 
 Old H. He's gone to the devil. 
 
 Voices from the Entry-room. Go away from the window. 
 Father Hilse. 
 
 OldH. Not I! Not if you all go crazy together! [To 
 Mother Hilse, vrith rapt excitement.] My heavenly 
 Father has placed me here. Isn't that so, mother? Here 
 we'll sit, an' do our bounden duty — ay, though the snow 
 was to go on fire. [He begins to weave.] 
 
 Rattle of another volley. Old Hilse, mortally wounded, 
 starts to his feet and then falls forward over the loom. 
 At the same moment loud shouting of "Hurrah!" is heard. 
 The people who till now have been standing in the entry- 
 room dash out, joining in the cry. The old woman re- 
 peatedly asks: "Father, father what's wrong with you?" 
 The continued shouting dies away gradually in the dis- 
 tance. Mielchen comes rushing in. 
 
 Mielchen. Gran 'father, gran 'father, they're drivin' the 
 soldiers out of the village; they've got into Dittrich's 
 house, an' they're doin' what they did at Dreissiger's. 
 Gran 'father ! [ The child grows frightened, notices that some- 
 thing has happened, puts her finger in her mouth, and goes up 
 cautiously to the dead mani] Gran 'father! 
 
 Mother H. Come now, father, can't you say something? 
 You're frightenin' me. 
 
THE SEAGULL* 
 
 Bt Anton Tchekhof 
 
 First played in Petrograd at the Alexandrynsky Theatre 
 in 1896. 
 
 A rough stage has been knocked together for amateur 
 theatricals in the park of Peter Sorin's estate. It consists 
 of a platform and wings, with no other scenery than that 
 furnished by nature. When the curtain is raised a lake 
 is revealed in the background. A play written by Sorin's 
 nephew, Constantiae Treplef , is to begin at half-past eight, 
 when the moon rises. 
 
 Treplef. If Nina is late, of course the whole effect will 
 be spoilt. It's time she arrived. Her father and step- 
 mother are always watching her, and it's as hard for her to 
 escape from the house as it is for a prisoner to escape from 
 jail. [Puts his uncle's tie straight.] Your hair and beard 
 are all rumpled. You ought to have them cut, don't you 
 think? 
 
 Sorin [smoothing out his beard\. It's the tragedy of my 
 life. Even when I was young I always looked as if I had 
 taken to drink and all the rest of it. Women never loved 
 me. [Sitting.] Why is your mother in such low spirits? 
 
 Trep. Oh, she's bored. [Sitting by him.] She's jealous. 
 She's abeady hostile to me and to the whole performance, 
 because it's Nina Zaretchnaya acting and not she. She 
 hates my play, even before she's seen it. 
 
 Sorin [laughing]. Well, I never! Well, I never! 
 
 Trep. She is vexed at the idea of Nina Zaretchnaya and 
 not herself having a success even in this poor Uttle theatre. 
 [Looking at his watch.] She is a psychological curiosity, is 
 my mother. A clever and gifted woman, who can cry over 
 a novel, will reel you off all Nekrasof 's poems by heart, and 
 is the perfection of a sick nurse; but venture to praise 
 
 ♦Published by Mitchell Kenerley, New York. 
 
 226 
 
TCHEKHOF 227 
 
 Eleonora Duse before her! Oho! ho! You must praise 
 nobody but her, write about her, shout about her, and go 
 into ecstasies over her wonderful performance in La Dame 
 aux CamSlias, or The Fumes of Life; but as she cannot have 
 these intoxicating pleasures down here in the country, she's 
 bored and gets spiteful; we are her enemies, she thinks; it's 
 all our fault. Then, she's superstitious, is afraid of the 
 number thirteen, or three candles on a table. She's a 
 miser, too. She has seven thousand pounds in the bank 
 at Odessa; I know it for certain. But ask her to lend you 
 anything and she'll cry. 
 
 He pulls the petals from a flower saying, "She loves me, 
 she loves me not." According to this test she does not love 
 him. Why should she? he asks. She wants to live, to 
 love, to wear pretty frocks; and he is twenty -five years old, 
 and a perpetual reminder that she is no longer young. He 
 declares that he loves her dearly, but exclaims that she 
 leads a tomfool life with this novelist, Trigorin, always at 
 her elbow, and her name forever in the papers. 
 
 Sorin inquires about the novelist. Treplef says he is 
 intelUgent, simple, inclined to melancholy, quite a good 
 chap, famous already, before he is forty, and sated with 
 everything. As for his writings, charming, talented, but 
 you would not want to read Trigorin after Tolstoy or Zola. 
 He hears some one coming. It is Nina. Even the sound 
 of her footsteps is charming to him. Saying that he cannot 
 live without her, and that he is insanely happy, he goes to 
 meet her. 
 
 Trep. My lovely one, my dream . . . 
 
 Nina [agitated\. I'm not late . . , I'm sure I'm 
 not late . . . 
 
 Trep. [kissing her hands]. No, no, no . . . 
 
 Nina. I've been so anxious all day; I was so frightened. 
 I was afraid father would not let me come. . . . But 
 at last he's gone out, just now, with my stepmother. 
 There's a red glow in the sky, the moon is beginning to rise, 
 and I whipped up the horses as fast as I could. [Laughing.] 
 But I am happy now. [Squeezing Soein's hand heartUy.] 
 
 Sor. [lav{ihing]. You've been crying, I can see. . . . 
 Hey, hey! You naughty girl! 
 
 Nina. It's quite true. You see how out of breath I 
 am. I've got to go in half an hour; we must hurry. I 
 
228 THE SEAGULL 
 
 must; I must. Don't detain me for Heaven's sake. Father 
 doesn't know I'm here. 
 
 Sorin leaves them. 
 
 Nina. My father and his wife won't let me come here. 
 They say you are all Bohemians. . . . They are 
 afraid of my becoming an actress. But I am drawn toward 
 the lake like a seagull. My heart is full of you. [Looks 
 round.] 
 
 Trep. We are alone. 
 
 Nina. Isn't there some one over there? 
 
 Trep. No, there's no one. [Kissing her.] 
 
 Nina. What sort of tree is that? 
 
 Trep. It's an elm. 
 
 Nina. Why is it so dark? 
 
 Trep. It's evening already; everything looks darker. 
 Don't go away early, I entreat you. 
 
 Nina. I must. 
 
 Trep. Shall I drive over to-night, Nina? I will stand 
 all night in the garden and look up at your window. \ 
 
 It is time for the performance to begin. Nina is ner- 
 vous, not at appearing before Madame Arcddina, Con- 
 stantine's mother, but because Trigorin will be there, and 
 he writes such wonderful stories. She thinks Constan- 
 tine's play very hard to act because there are no live peo- 
 ple in it. He sees no reason why there should be. He 
 does not consider it a writer's business to represent life as 
 it is, or as he thinks it ought to be, but as it appears in 
 reveries. It seems to her that a love interest is essential in 
 a play. 
 
 They go behind the scenes, and Pauline, wife of the 
 manager of the estate, comes forward with Dr. Dom. She 
 is nagging the doctor about taking care of himself, and 
 wants him to go and put on his goloshes because it is get- 
 ting damp. He, fond of his melodious voice, sings irrele- 
 vantly, "Say not that I have spoilt your youth." An- 
 other complaint that she makes is that women have al- 
 ways fallen in love with Dom and thrown themselves at 
 his head. 
 
 Madame Arcadina appears arm in arm with Sorin, 
 who is her brother, and Trig6rin, Shamrayef, the manager 
 of the estate; Medvedenko, a schoolmaster, and Masha, 
 Pauline's daughter. Masha is a melancholy girl and has 
 
TCHEKHOF 229 
 
 a weakness for snuff and vodka, but not for the school- 
 master, though he loves her devotedly. 
 
 The curtain rises, opening a view of the lake. The 
 moon is just above the horizon, reflected in the water. 
 Nina is discovered sitting on a rock. 
 
 Nina. Men and lions, eagles and partridges, antlered 
 deer, you, the father of Eternal Matter, the Devil, effects 
 in you, as in stones and water, a perpetual mutation of 
 atoms; you change unceasingly. In all the imiverse spirit 
 alone remains constant and unchanging. 
 
 Treplef is aggrieved at overhearing his mother observe 
 ironically that the play is going to be something decadent. 
 
 Nina pursues her long speech. One thing only is re- 
 vealed to her, that in the cruel and stubborn struggle with 
 the Devil, the principle of material forces, it is fated that 
 she shall be victorious, and that then, after a long series 
 of centuries, spirit and matter are to merge together in 
 exquisite harmony and the reign of Universal Will is to 
 begin. Against the background of the lake appear two 
 red spots, representing the awful blood-red eyes of Nina's 
 mighty antagonist. 
 
 Arc. [laughing]. I see, a scenic effect. 
 
 Trep. Mother! 
 
 Nina. He is lonely without man. 
 
 Pauline [to Dokn]. Why, you've taken your hat off. 
 Put it on again, or you'll catch cold. 
 
 Arc. The doctor's taking off his hat to the Devil, the 
 father of Eternal Matter. 
 
 Trep. [angry, in a loud voice]. The play is over! 
 That's enough! Curtain! 
 
 Treplef stops the performance and takes himself off. 
 His mother says he is a peevish, conceited boy. She does 
 not care to have him teach them what ought to be written 
 and what ought to be acted. If he wanted to please them 
 he should have chosen some ordinary sort of play instead 
 of making them listen to decadent nonsense. She praises 
 Nina's talent, however, telling her she ought to go on the 
 stage, and introduces her to Trigorin. 
 
 It is already time for Nina to go. They urge her to 
 stay a little longer. She hesitates, but says that she can- 
 not, and begins to cry as she shakes hands hastily. Ma- 
 dame Arcddina explains that she is really an unfortunate 
 
230 THE SEAGULL 
 
 girl. Her mother left all her large fortune to her hus- 
 band, and he has made a will bequeathing everything to 
 his second wife. 
 
 Dorn liked the play and urges Treplef to go on writing, 
 "assuring him he is a man of talent. It is quite right in 
 his opinion to choose a subject from the realm of abstract 
 ideas; every artistic production ought to express a great 
 thought. And then there is another thing to bear in mind: 
 the idea must be clear and well-defined; otherwise you will 
 go astray on your picturesque path. 
 
 Masha comes down from the house to find Treplef, but 
 he is on the point of starting after Nina and tells her not 
 to follow him about. Dorn reproves him for speaking 
 harshly. Masha solaces herself with a pinch of snuff, and 
 Dorn takes the snuff-box away from her and throws it into 
 the bushes. 
 
 Masha. I want to say something to you again. I want 
 to talk. [Agitated.] I don't care for my father, but my 
 heart goes out to you. I somehow feel, with all my soul, 
 that you are near to me. . . . Come, help me. Help 
 me, or I shall commit some folly, I shall make havoc of my 
 life ... I can't hold out any longer. 
 
 Dorn. What is it? How am I to help you? 
 
 Masha. I am in pain. No one knows my sufferings. 
 [Laying her head on his breast softly.] I am in love with 
 Constantine. 
 
 Dorn. What bundles of nerves they all are! And 
 what a lot of love. . . . Oh, magic lake! Oh, magic 
 lake! [Tenderly.] What can I do, my child? What can 
 I do? 
 
 From the croquet lawn the house is seen at a distance 
 on high ground. The lake is visible at one side. There 
 are flower beds about. It is midday and hot. Madame 
 Arcadina, Dorn, and Masha are sitting on a bench imder the 
 shade of an old lime tree. Dorn is reading from a book: 
 
 "Truly, it is just as dangerous for people of fashion to 
 beguile novelists to their houses as it would be for a grain 
 dealer to raise rats in his storeroom. And yet they are 
 much sought after. When a woman has chosen the 
 writer she wishes to take captive, she lays siege to him by 
 means of flattery and delicate attentions . . ." 
 
TCHEKHOF 231 
 
 Madame Arcddina says that may be true in France, but 
 that there is nothing of the sort in Russia; they have no 
 programme. As a rule, before a Russian woman takes 
 her writer captive, she is head over ears in love with him. 
 She and Trigorin are an example. 
 
 Sorin approaches with Nina, whose parents have gone 
 away for three days. Sorin affects invalidism a good 
 deal, and is now leaning on a stick and has Medvedenko 
 following him with a wheel-chair. Nina is ecstatically 
 happy. She thinks it a little odd that Trig6rin should 
 spend so much time fishing. 
 
 Madame Ardldina asks what is the matter with her 
 son. It is Masha who answers that he is troubled at heart. 
 She begs Nina to recite something from his play, but Nina 
 thinks it too dull. Masha says that when he reads any- 
 thing aloud, his eyes glow and his face turns pale; he has a 
 beautiful melancholy voice and manners like a poet. She 
 gets up, saying that her leg is asleep, and walks away 
 lazily. Dorn remarks that she is going to get down a 
 couple of glasses of vodka before lunch. 
 
 Sot. The poor thing gets no enjoyment out of life. 
 
 Dorn. Rot, your Excellency. 
 
 S(yr. You talk like a man who has had his fill. 
 
 Arc. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What can be more tedi- 
 ous than this truly rural country tedium! So hot! So 
 quiet! No one does anything, every one philosophizes. 
 You're pleasant company, my friends, and it's very nice 
 to hear you talk, but . . . oh, to be sitting in 
 one's hotel, studying one's part! How very much nicer! 
 
 Nina [enthusiastically]. Oh, indeed! How well I can 
 understand you! 
 
 Shamrayef comes to say that all the horses are being 
 used and that Madame Arcddina cannot have any to drive 
 into town. He is followed by his wife, who^is presently 
 left alone with Dorn. 
 
 Pauline [entreating], Eugene, my dearest, my darling, 
 let me leave him and come to you. Time is flying over us, 
 we are no longer yoimg; let us have done with concealment 
 and falsehood before our days are ended. [A pause.] 
 
 Dorn. I am fifty-five. It is too late to change my way 
 of life. 
 
 Paul. I know why you refuse. It is because there 
 
232 THE SEAGULL 
 
 are other women besides myself who are dear to you. You 
 cannot let them all come to you. I understand. Forgive 
 me; you are tired of me. 
 
 [Nina appears near the house, picking flowers.] 
 
 Darn. No, no, I'm not tired of you. 
 
 Pauline. I suffer agonies of jealousy. Of course you 
 are a doctor; you cannot avoid women. I understand. 
 
 Nina comes down to them. She reports that Madame 
 Arcddina is crying, and that Sorin has asthma. Dorn 
 says he must go and give them some Valerian drops. Nina 
 gives him her flowers and he goes toward the house. 
 Pauline follows him, and when he gets near the house she 
 takes the flowers and tears them to pieces. 
 
 To Nina it seems wonderful that a famous writer, the 
 darling of the public, mentioned daily in the papers, with 
 his photograph in the shop windows, his books translated 
 into foreign languages, should spend his whole day fishing 
 and be delighted because he has caught two chub.* 
 
 Treplef comes up from the direction of the lake, hatless, 
 with a gun and a dead seagull. He lays the bird at Nina's 
 feet. 
 
 Trep. I have been brute enough to shoot this seagull. 
 I lay it at your feet. 
 
 Nina. What is the matter with you? [She takes up the 
 guU and looks at it.] 
 
 Trep. [after a pau^e], I shall soon kill myself inthe same 
 way. 
 
 Nina. You are not yourself. 
 
 Trep. No, not since you ceased to be yourself. You 
 have changed toward me; you look coldly at me; you are 
 not at ease when I am by. 
 
 Nina. You have grown nervous and irritable of late; 
 you express yom:self incomprehensibly in what seems to be 
 symbols. This seagull seems to be another symbol; but, 
 I am afraid I don't understand. [Laying it on the seat.] 
 I am too simple to understand you. 
 
 Trep. It began the night of the idiotic fiasco of my 
 play. Women cannot forgive failure. I have burnt 
 everything, everything to the last scrap. If only you 
 
 'Fishing with a float and looking for mushrooms were Tchekhofs own 
 favorite occupations when he was in the coimtiy. 
 
TCHEKHOF 233 
 
 knew how unhappy I am! Your sudden indifference to 
 me is terrible, incredible, as if I woke one morning and 
 behold, this lake had dried up or run away into the earth. 
 You said just now that you are too simple to understand 
 me. Oh, what is there to understand? My play was a 
 failure; you despise my inspiration; you look on me as 
 commonplace and worthless, Uke hundreds of others. 
 . . . [Stamping.] How well I can imderstand it! 
 How well I can imderstand it! I feel as if there were a 
 nail being driven into my bra,in. The devil take it. The 
 devil take my vanity, too, which sucks out my blood, 
 sucks it out like a snake. [Seeing Tbigobin, who reads a 
 notebook as he walks.] There goes the man of real talent; 
 he walks like Hamlet; with a book, too. [Mocking] 
 "Words, words, words!" This sun has not yet risen on 
 you, yet you smile already, your looks are melted in his 
 rays. I will not stand in your way. [Exit quickly. 
 
 TrigSrin [writing in his book]. Takes snuff and drinks 
 vodka. . . . Always dressed in black. Schoolmaster 
 is in love with her. 
 
 He answers Nina's greeting,* and says that it appears 
 that owing to some unexpected turn of events they are 
 leaving that day. He and she are hardly likely to meet 
 again. He is sorry. He does not often come across young 
 women, young interesting women; he has already for- 
 gotten how one feels at eighteen or nineteen and cannot 
 imagine it very clearly; so that the young women in his 
 stories and novels are usually untrue to life. He would 
 like to be in her place, if only for an hour, so as to know 
 what she thinks and what manner of creature she is. 
 
 She would like to be in his place so as to know what it 
 feels like to be a gifted and famous writer. Either she 
 exaggerates his fame, he says, or fame produces no sensa- 
 tion. But she persists that he is blessed with a brilhant, 
 interesting life, all full of meaning. He is happy. 
 
 Nina. What a delightful life is yoxMs! 
 
 Trig. What is there so very fine about it? [Looking 
 at his watch.] I must be off to my writing in a moment. 
 
 *The actor who plays Trigdrin has been advised to imitate Tchekhof 
 himself as his friends describe him: a sad, thoughtful face, a soft, intimate 
 way of talking, a childlike shyness; shrinking from praise, gentle in all 
 his movements; then, when the moment comes, a sort of exaltation. 
 
234 THE SEAGULL 
 
 You must excuse me; I can't stop. [Laughs.] You have 
 trodden on my favorite corn, as they say, and you see, 
 I begin to get excited and angry at once. However, let 
 us talk. We'll talk about my delightful, brilliant life. 
 . . . Come on; where shall we begin? [Meditating.] 
 You have heard of obsessions, when a man is haunted day 
 and night, say, by the idea of the moon or something? 
 Well, I've got my moon. Day and night I am obsesseid 
 by the same persistent thought; I must write, I must write, 
 I must write. . . . No sooner have I finished one story 
 than I am somehow compelled to write another, then a 
 third, after the third a fourth. I write without stopping, 
 except to change horses like a postchaise. 1 have no 
 choice. What is there brilliant or delightful in that, I 
 should like to know? It's a dog's life! Here I am talking 
 to you, excited and delighted, yet never for one moment 
 do I forget that there is an unfinished story waiting for 
 me indoors. . . . When I finish a piece of work, I fly 
 to the theatre or go fishing, in the hope of resting, of for- 
 getting myself, but no, a new subject is already turning, 
 like a heavy iron ball, in my brain, some invisible force 
 drags me to my table and I must make haste to write and 
 write. And so on for ever and ever. I have no rest from 
 myself; I feel that I am devouring my own life, that for 
 the honey which I give to unknown mouths out in the 
 void I rob my choicest flowers of their pollen, pluck the 
 flowers themselves and trample on their roots. Surely I 
 must be mad? Surely my friends and acquaintances do 
 not treat me as they would treat a sane man? 
 
 He often feels that his friends' interest, their praise, and 
 admiration are all deception. Sometimes he is afraid that 
 at any moment they may steal on him from behind and 
 carry him off to a madhouse. In the old best days, when 
 he was a beginner, his work was a continual torture. An 
 unimportant writer, especially when things are going 
 against him, feels clumsy, awkward, and superfluous. He 
 is like a passionate gambler with no money to play with. 
 The reader that he never saw presented himself to his im- 
 agination as something unfriendly and mistrustful. He 
 was afraid of the public; it terrified him. 
 
 Nina. You must excuse me ; I refttse to understand you. 
 You are simply spoilt by success. 
 
TCHEKHOF 235 
 
 Trig. By what success? I've never satisfied myself. 
 I do not care for myself as a writer. The worst of it is 
 that I live in a kind of bewilderment and often do not 
 understand what I write. I love water like this, trees, sky; 
 I have the feeling for nature; it wakes a passion in me, an 
 irresistible desire to write. But I am something more than 
 a landscape-painter; I am a citizen as well; I love my 
 coimtry, I love the people; I feel that if I am a writer I am 
 bound to speak of the people, of its sufferings, of its future, 
 to speak of science, of the rights of man, etcetera, etcetera; 
 and I speak about it all volubly, and am attacked angrily 
 in return by every one; I dart from side to side like a fox 
 run down by the hounds; I see that life and science fly 
 farther and farther ahead of me, and I fall farther and 
 farther behind, like the countryman running after the 
 train; and in the end I feel that the only thing I can write 
 of is the landscape, and in everything else I am untrue to 
 life, false to the very mart-ow of my bones. 
 
 Nina. You work too hard; you have no time or wish to 
 realize yoiu* own importance. You may be dissatisfied 
 with yourself, but in the eyes of others you are great and 
 wonderful. If I were a writer like you I would sacrifice 
 my whole life to the million, but I would realize that its 
 only happiness was to raise itself up to me; they should 
 puU my chariot along. 
 
 Trig. Chariot indeed! . . . Am I an Agamemnon 
 then, eh? [They both smile.] 
 
 Nina. For such happiness as to be a writer or an actress 
 I would endure the hatred of my nearest and dearest. I 
 would endure poverty and disillusionment. I would lodge 
 in a garret and live on black bread. I would suffer dis- 
 satisfaction with myself, the consciousness of my own im- 
 perfections, but in return I would demand glory . . . 
 real, ringing glory. [Covering her face vnth her hands.] My 
 head swims. Ouf ! 
 
 He hears Madame Arcddina calling him from the house. 
 He supposes that he must pack. But he does not want 
 to go away. He notices the seagull. Then he asks her to 
 persuade Madame Arcddina to stay, and begins to write in 
 his notebook. She asks him what he is writing. He re- 
 plies that it is a subject for a short story that has just 
 occurred to him. A girl — ^like herself, say — Olives from her 
 
286 THE SEAGULL 
 
 childhood on the shores of a lake. She loves the lake like a 
 seagull, and is happy and free Uke a seaguU. But a man 
 comes along by chance and sees her and ruins her, like this 
 seagull, just to amuse himself. 
 
 Madame Arcddina appears at a window and calls again. 
 As Trigorin goes toward the house, looking back at Nina, 
 Madame Arcddina shouts that they are staying on. He 
 enters the house. Nina stands in meditation, and exclaims 
 at last, "It seems like a dream!" 
 
 Trunks and handbaggage set down in the dining-room 
 indicate that Madame Arcddina and Trigorin are about to 
 depart. Trigorin, indeed, is having lunch, and Masha is 
 standing by the table. The fact that he is a novelist has 
 emboldened her to lay bear her heart, and she says that 
 he may use her story. If Constantine had woimded him- 
 self seriously, she assures him, she should not have con- 
 sented to live another minute. She has determined to 
 tear this love out of her heart by marrying Medvedenko. 
 
 The necessity for this course is not apparent to him, but 
 what she cannot bear is to love without hope, for years and 
 years to be waiting and waiting. Once she is married, she 
 thinks, there will be no question of love; new cares will 
 drown all traces of the old life. She refills their glasses, 
 saying that women drink more than he thinks, some of 
 them openly as she does, most of them secretly. She 
 leaves him, and Nina enters. 
 
 Nina [holding out her clenched hand toward Tbig6ein]. 
 Odd or even? 
 
 Trig. Even. 
 
 Nina [sighing.] "No." I have only one pea in my hand. 
 The question was, whether I was to become an actress or 
 not. If only some one would advise me! 
 
 Trig. It's a question one can't advise on. [A pause.] 
 
 Nina. We are parting to-day and very likely we shall 
 never meet again. Please accept this little medallion as a 
 keepsake. I have had your initials engraved on it . . . 
 and on the other side the name of your book, "Days and 
 Nights." 
 
 Trig. How graceful! [Kissing the medaUion.] What 
 a charming present! 
 
 Nina. Think of :me sometimes. 
 
TCHEKHOF 237 
 
 Trig. I will indeed. I will think of you as you were 
 that sunny day, do you remember? a week ago, when you 
 wore a cotton frock . . . and we talked . . . and 
 there was a seagull lying on the seat. 
 
 Nina [meditatively]. A seaguU, yes. [A patise.] We 
 can't talk any more; there's somebody coming. . . . 
 Give me two minutes before you go, I entreat you. . . . 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Madame Arcddina comes in with Sorin, whom she is 
 advising to remain in the country to take care of his rheu- 
 matism. Trig6rin reads the inscription on the medalUon 
 to himself: "Days and Nights, page 121, lines 11 and 12." 
 He goes to find a copy of the book. 
 
 MJadame Arcddina remarks that she is going away with- 
 out having found out why Constantine tried to shoot him- 
 self. She expects the chief reason was jealousy, and the 
 sooner she takes Trigorin away the better. Sorin thinks 
 there were other reasons, too. A clever young man with no 
 money and no position, he was ashamed of his indolence 
 and felt like a parasite. It was very natural. The best 
 thing, Sorin believes, would be for her to let Constantine 
 have a little money. In the first place, he ought to be 
 dressed like a human being. He has been wearing the 
 same jacket for three years and has no overcoat. Then he 
 ought to go abroad and see a bit of life. 
 
 At first thought Madame ArcAdina is inclined to grant 
 the clothes, though not the journey, but in the next breath 
 she declares that she cannot manage even the clothes; 
 she hasn't any money. Sorin laughs, but seeing that she 
 is angry says she is a large-hearted, admirable woman. 
 She begins to cry as she repeats that she has no money. 
 
 A sudden attack of faintness seizes Sorin, and in alarm 
 Madame Arcadina calls for help. Constantine comes in, 
 wearing a bandage about his head, but the unfortunate 
 invalid quickly rallies and smilingly reassures them as 
 he swallows a little water. He will be able to go to town 
 after all, but he will go and lie down first. 
 
 Constantine asks his mother to change his bandage, 
 and while she is doing so he asks her if she will not lend his 
 uncle enough money to enable him to stay in town for a 
 while, it is so much better there for his health. But she 
 informs him that she has not any money; she is an actress, 
 
2S8 THE SEAGULL 
 
 not a banker. She asks him to promise that while she is 
 away he will not play "chik-chik" again, alluding play- 
 fully to the click of a pistol lock. He assures her that it 
 will not happen again. He had lost all self-control in a 
 moment of mad despair. 
 
 Trep. These last few days I have loved you just as 
 tenderly and trustfully as when I was a child. I have no- 
 body left now but you. But why, oh, why, do you submit 
 to this man's influence? 
 
 Arc. You don't understand him, Constantine. He has 
 the noblest nature in the world. . . . 
 
 Trep. Yet when he was told that I meant to challenge 
 him to fight, his noble nature did not prevent him from play- 
 ing the coward. He is going away. It's an ignominious 
 flight! 
 
 Are. What rubbish! It was I who asked him to go. 
 
 Trep. The noblest nature in the world! Here are you 
 and I almost quarrelling about him, and where is he? In 
 the garden or the drawing-room laughing at us, improving 
 Nina's mind, and trying to persuade her that he's a 
 genius. 
 
 Arc. It seems to give you pleasure to try and hurt my 
 feelings. I respect Trigorin and I must ask you not to 
 abuse him to my face. 
 
 Trep. And I don't respect him. You want me to be- 
 lieve him a genius, too; but you must excuse me, I can't tell 
 lies; his writings make me sick. 
 
 Arc. This is mere envy. Conceited people with no 
 talent have no resource but to jeer at really talented people. 
 It relieves their feelings, no doubt! 
 
 Trep. [ironically]. Really talented people! [Angry.] 
 I am more talented than all of you put together if it comes 
 to that! [Tearing off the bandages.] You apostles of the 
 commonplace have taken the front seat in all the arts for 
 yourselves and call nothing but what you do yourselves 
 legitimate and real; you persecute and stifle all the rest. 
 I don't believe in any of you; I don't believe in you and I 
 don't believe in him I 
 
 Arc. Decadent! 
 
 Trep. Go back to your beloved theatre and act your 
 pitiful stupid plays ! 
 
 Arc. I never acted in such plays. Leave me! You 
 
TCHEKHOF 239 
 
 cannot even write a miserable vaudeville if you try ! Kiev- 
 artisan !* Parasite ! 
 
 Trep. Skinflint! 
 
 Arc. Bagamuffin! [Treplef sife rfoton and cries gwieiZi/.] 
 You insignificant nobody! {Walking up and down agi- 
 tatedly.] Don't cry. Don't cry, I say. [Crying.] Please 
 don't cry. [Kissing his forehead, cheeks, and head.] My 
 darling child, forgive me. . . . Forgive your wicked 
 mother! Forgive your imhappy mother! 
 
 Trep. [embracing her]. If only you knew! I have lost 
 everything. She doesn't love me and I cannot write any 
 more ... all my hopes are lost. 
 
 Arc. Don't lose heart. It will be all right in the end. 
 He is going away, she will love you again. [Wiping away 
 his tears.] Stop crying. We are friends once more. 
 
 Trep. [kissing her hands]. Yes, mother. 
 
 Arc. [i^nderly]. Be friends with him, too. You mustn't 
 have a duel. You won't have one? 
 
 Trep. Very well. But you mustn't let me meet him 
 any more, mother. It hurts me; it is too much for me. 
 [Enter Tbigobin.] There! I will go away. [Hastily puts 
 the medicaments away in the cupboard.] The doctor shall 
 bandage me when he comes. 
 
 Trig, [looking for the place in a book]. Page 121. Lines 
 11 and 12. Ha! [Reading.] "If ever my life can be of 
 use to you, come and take it." 
 
 [Tbeplef picks up his bandage and goes. 
 
 Arc. [looking at the time]. The horses will soon be roimd. 
 
 Trig, [to himself]. "If ever my life can be of use to you, 
 come and take it." 
 
 Arc. You've got your things all packed, I hope? 
 
 Trig, [impatiently]. Yes, yes. [Reflectively.] Why do 
 I hear the sound of anguish in this cry of a pure spirit? 
 Why does my heart sink so painfully? "If ever my life 
 can be of use to you, come and take it." [To Aecadina.] 
 Let us stay another day. [She shakes her head.] Let us 
 stay. 
 
 Arc. Dear friend, I know what makes you want to stay. 
 You should have some self-control. You've lost your 
 senses a little; come back to reason. 
 
 *TTepIef 's father was an artisan from Kiev, and afterward an actor. 
 
240 THE SEAGULL 
 
 Trig. And do you, too, come back to reason ; be thought- 
 ful and considerate, I beseech you; look at all this Uke a 
 real friend. [Pressing her harid.] You are capable of a 
 sacrifice. Be kind and set me free! 
 
 Arc. [in deep agitation]. Are you so much in love? 
 
 Trig. Something beckons me toward her. Perhaps 
 this is the very thing that I really need. . . . 
 
 Arc. The love of a provincial girl? Oh, how little you 
 know yourself. 
 
 Trig. People sometimes sleep as they walk; and even 
 while I talk to you, it is as if I were asleep and saw her in 
 my dreams. . . . Wonderful sweet visions possess me. 
 , . . Set me free! 
 
 Arc. [trembling]. No, no. I am an ordinary woman; 
 I cannot be talked to so. Don't torment me, Boris. I am 
 frightened. 
 
 Trig. If you will try you can be an extraordinary 
 woman. A sweet poetical young love, wafting me away 
 into the world of reveries, there is nothing on earth can 
 give happiness like that. Such a love I have never yet 
 experienced. As a young man I had no time; I was wear- 
 ing out editors' thresholds, struggling with poverty* 
 . . . and now at last it stands before me beckoning, 
 this love. . . , Should I not be a fool to fly from it? 
 
 Arc. [angrily]. You have gone out of your mind. 
 
 Trig. Who cares? 
 
 Arc. You are all banded together to-day to torment 
 me. [Crying.] 
 
 Trig, [taking his head between his hands]. She doesn't 
 understand. She refuses to understand. 
 
 Arc. Am I so old and ugly already that men can say 
 what they like about other women to me? [Embracing 
 and kissing him.] Oh, you are mad, mad! My darling, 
 wonderful Boris! Last page of my life! [Kneeling.] 
 My joy, my pride, my bliss. [Embracing his knees.] If 
 you desert me even for an hour, I carmot survive it, I shall 
 go out of my mind, my splendid incomparable friend, my 
 king. 
 
 *So Tchekhof himself complained that success had come to him too 
 late in life. He had spent his stiength to no purpose in the struggle for 
 existence ("Pimyati," 162). He used to support all his family by 
 writing for comic papers when he was still a student at the University. 
 
TCHEKHOF 241 
 
 Trig. Some one might come in. [Helping her to rise.] 
 
 Arc. Who cares? I am not ashamed of my love for 
 you. [Kissing his hands.] You are rash and wild, my 
 treasure; what you want to do is madness; you shall not, 
 I will not let you. [Laiighing.] You are mine! mine! 
 This forehead is mine, these eyes are mine, this lovely 
 silky hair is mine. . . . You are all mine! You are 
 so clever, so gifted, the best of all the writers of the day, 
 you are the only hope of Russia. . . . You have such 
 a gift of sincerity, simplicity, freshness, and bracing humor. 
 . . . In a single stroke you give the essence of a char- 
 acter or a landscape; your people are all alive. Oh, no 
 one can read you without delight! Do you think this is 
 mere incense and flattery? Come, look me in the eyes, 
 right in the eyes. Do I look Uke a liar? You see, there is 
 nobody but me who knows your true value; nobody; I am 
 the only person who tells you the truth, my precious dar- 
 ling. . . . You'll come? Say you will. You won't 
 desert me? 
 
 Trig. I have no wiU of my own. I never had a will of 
 my own. Weak-kneed, flabby, and submissive; every- 
 thing that women hate. Take me, carry me away, but 
 never let me stir an inch from your side. 
 
 Arc. [to herself]. He's mine! [Carelessly.] Well, stay 
 if you like. I'll go to-day and you foUow a week later. 
 After all, why should you hurry? 
 
 Trig. No. We'll go together. 
 
 He takes out his notebook and enters an odd expression 
 that he heard that morning. Several members of the 
 household come in. It is time for the guests to start. 
 They hand Madame Arcddina her hat, mantle, gloves, and 
 parasol. She gives one of the servants a ruble, the equiv- 
 alent of fifty cents, to divide among three, and aU go 
 out. 
 
 Trig, [coming back]. I've left my stick behind. I think 
 she's out there on the verandah. [Goes L. and meets Nina, 
 entering.] Ah, it's you. We're off. 
 
 Nina. I felt that we should meet again. [Agitatedly.] 
 Boris Alex6yevitch, I have made up my mind beyond re- 
 call; the die is cast; I am going on the stage. To-morrow 
 I shall be gone from here; I am leaving my father; I am 
 giving up everything and beginning a new life. I am going 
 
242 THE SEAGULL 
 
 where you are going ... to Moscow. We shall 
 meet there. 
 
 Trig, [looking round]. Stop at the "Slavyansky Bazaar." 
 Let me know at once. Molchanovska, Grokh61sky's 
 house . . . I'm in a hurry. . . . [A pause.] 
 
 Nina. One minute more. 
 
 Trig, [murmuring]. How beautiful you are! . . 
 What joy to think that we shall meet again so soon. [She 
 lays her head on his bosom.] I shall see these lovely eyes 
 once more, this inexpressibly tender, charming smile, this 
 sweet face, this expression of angelic purity. . . . My 
 darling! [A long kiss.] 
 
 Two years later Constantine is beginning to taste success 
 as a writer. He is still living at his imcle's house in the 
 country. One of the drawing-rooms has been converted 
 into a study for him. Sorin is afraid of sohtude and thinks 
 he cannot live without Constantine. Twilight is deepen- 
 ing in the evening, and a lamp has been lit on the table. 
 The wind howls in the trees and chimneys. 
 
 A storm which has raged for two days has kept Med- 
 v6denko and his wife from returning to tiieir home. He is 
 distressed at having left the baby so long. Masha tells 
 him to ask her father for a horse, and says that he can go 
 himself if he wants to so much. 
 
 Masha's mother comes in with Constantine, carrying 
 pillows and blankets, and explains that Sorin wants his 
 bed made in his nephew's room. Medv6denko takes him- 
 self oflF. Pauline sees a manuscript on the table, and re- 
 marks that no one ever imagined that Constantine would 
 become a real writer. She thinks he has become very 
 handsome, too. Stroking his hair, she asks bim if he 
 cannot be kinder to her Masha. Constantine leaves the 
 room silently. Masha says that the authorities have 
 promised to transfer her husband to another district. 
 Once they get there she shall forget everything; she will 
 tear it out by the roots. 
 
 Dorn and Medv6denko wheel Sorin into the room in a 
 chair. He imagines that he is dangerously ill at last, and 
 that his sister is there because the doctor sent for her. Ma- 
 dame Arcddina has gone to the station to meet Trigorin, and 
 is expected back momentarily. The invalid complains 
 
TCHEKHOF 243 
 
 peevishly that although he is at the point of death nobody 
 will give him any medicine. Dorn replies that he will 
 give him anything he wants, and sings, "The moon swims 
 by in the clouds of night." 
 
 Constantine has been playing a melancholy waltz in 
 another room, and now returns and sits on a footstool at 
 his uncle's feet. Masha cannot keep her eyes oflF him. 
 Dorn asks him how Nina Zaretchnaya is now. 
 
 Trep. She's quite well, I imagine. 
 
 Dorn. I was told she was living- some curious sort of 
 life. What was it? 
 
 Trej). It's a long story, doctor. 
 
 Dom. Well, make it a short one. [A pawse.] 
 
 Trep. She ran away from home and went to Trig6rin. 
 That you know. 
 
 Dom. Yes, I know. 
 
 Trej). She had a baby. The baby died. Trig6rin got 
 tired of her and went back to his old ties, as one might have 
 expected. Besides, he never gave up his old ties, but, like 
 the backboneless creature he is, managed to carry on with 
 both at the same time. As far as I can make out from 
 what I've heard, Nina's private life has been disastrous. 
 
 Dorn. And on the stage? 
 
 Trep. Still worse, I should say. She came out first at 
 a summer theatre near Moscow, and then went off to the 
 provinces. I kept her in sight for some time and followed 
 her wherever she went. She was always tryLug to do big 
 parts, but acted crudely and inartistically, mouthing her 
 words and making awkward gestures. There were mo- 
 ments when she showed some talent in screaming and dy- 
 ing, but they were only moments. 
 
 Dom. StiU, you think she has some gift for it? 
 
 Trej). It was hard to make out. I should think so 
 certainly. I saw her, but she refused to see me, and the 
 servants wouldn't let me into her rooms. I understood 
 her mood and did not insist on an interview. [A paused 
 What else is there to tell you? Afterward, when I got 
 back home, I used to get letters from her, nice, friendly, in- 
 teresting letters; she didn't complain, but I could see that 
 she was profoundly imhappy; in every line one felt her 
 strained and tortured nerves. Her imagination was a 
 little disordered. She signed herself " Seagull." In " Rus- 
 
244 THE SEAGUI.L 
 
 alka" the miller says he is a raven; so she said in her letters 
 that she was a seagull. And now she's here. 
 
 Nina has actually come back, and is staying at the inn. 
 She will not see any one. Her father and stepmother re- 
 fuse to know her. 
 
 Madame Arcddina comes back with Trig6rin. He 
 takes Sorin to task for being ill, and is delighted to see 
 Masha, whom he questions about herself with the imper- 
 sonal interest of a novelist. He is working harder than 
 ever and has to be in Moscow the next day. He wants 
 to look round the garden where the play was acted. He 
 has a subject ready for writing and wishes to refresh his 
 memory as to the scene of action. 
 
 Things for a game of loto are brought out and the com- 
 pany sit down at a card table. Shamrayef will not let 
 Medvedenko have a horse, and the schoolmaster starts ofif 
 to walk the four miles in the rain. Madame Arcadina re- 
 counts some of the details of her last tour, its triumphs and 
 ovations. 
 
 Constantine goes out. Shamrayef observes that the 
 papers abuse the young writer a good deal. The trouble 
 seems to be, according to Trigorin, that he cannot seem to 
 get into his natural stride; there is always something 
 queer and vague about his work. Dom is convinced that 
 Constantine will do something some time. His stories are 
 bright and full of color. Dorn feels them very deeply. 
 When the game is finished they go to supper. 
 
 Constantine comes back again and prepares to write. 
 Some one knocks at a window. He looks out without see- 
 ing any one, calls "Who's there," and goes out on the 
 verandah. A moment later he returns with Nina Zaret- 
 chnaya. 
 
 Trej). Nina! Nina! [She lays her head on his bosom 
 and sobs restrainedly. He continues vnth emotion.] Nina! 
 Nina! Is it you.'' Is it you? I had a sort of presenti- 
 ment; all day my heart has been in anguish. [He takes 
 off her hat and cloak.] Oh, my„ dearest, my loveliest! 
 She has come at last! We mustn't cry, we mustn't 
 cry! 
 
 Nina. Is there any one here? 
 
 Trep. No one. 
 
 Nina. Lock the door; they may come in. 
 
TCHEKHOF 245 
 
 Trep. No one will come in. 
 
 Nina. I know that Irina Nikolayevna is here. Lock 
 the door. 
 
 Trep. [locks the door R. and goes to the door L.]. There's 
 no lock on this one. I'll put a chair against it. [Puts an 
 armchair against the door.] Don't be afraid, no one will 
 come in. 
 
 Nina [looking him hard in the face]. Let me look at you. 
 [Looking round the room.] How warm and cozy. . . . 
 This used to be the drawing-room. Am I much changed? 
 
 Trep. Yes. You're thinner and your eyes are bigger. 
 Nina, how strange it is to see you at last! Why would 
 you not let me in when I visited you? Why have you not 
 come before? I know you have been here nearly a week. 
 I've been to the inn several times every day and stood 
 under your window like a beggar. 
 
 Nina. I was afraid you must hate me. I dream every 
 night that you look at me and do not recognize me. JI 
 only you knew ! Every day since I came I've been walking 
 up here by the lake. I've been so often near the house 
 but did not dare to come in. Let's sit down. [They sit.] 
 Let's sit here and talk and talk. How pleasant it is here, 
 how warm and comfortable. . . . Do you hear the 
 wind? There's a passage in Turgenef : "Blessed is he who 
 sits beneath a roof on such a night, in his own comfortable 
 comer." I am a seagull. No, that's wrong. [Rubs her 
 forehead.] What was I saying? Yes . . . Tur- 
 genef. . . . "And the Lord help all homeless wander- 
 ers." . . . I'm all right. [Sobbing.] 
 
 Trep. Nina! you're crying again. . . . Nina! 
 
 Nina. I'm all right. I feel the better for it . . . 
 I haven't cried for two years. Yesterday evening I came 
 into the garden to see if our stage was still standing. It's 
 still there. I cried for the first time in two years, and felt 
 relieved, and easier in my mind. See, I'm not crj'ing any 
 more. [Taking his hand.] So you've become a writer. 
 You're a writer and I'm an actress. We're both caught 
 up in the vortex. Once I lived so happily, with a child's 
 happiness; I would wake of a morning and sing with glee; 
 I loved you and dreamed of fame; and now? Early to- 
 morrow morning I must travel to Yeletz, third class, 
 with peasants, and at Yeletz I shall have to put up with 
 
246 THE SEAGULL 
 
 the attentions of the educated shopkeepers. . . . 
 How brutal life is! 
 
 Trev. Why Yeletz? 
 
 Nina. I've accepted an engagement for the whole 
 winter. I must start to-morrow. 
 
 Trep. Nina, I cursed you and hated you at first; I 
 tore up your letters and your photographs; but all the 
 time I Imew that my heart was bound to you forever. 
 Try as I may, I cannot cease loving you, Nina. Ever 
 since I lost you and began to get my stories printed, my 
 life has been intolerable. How I have suffered! . . . 
 My youth was snatched from me, as it were, and I feel as if 
 I had lived for ninety years. I call to you; I kiss the 
 groimd where you have passed; wherever I look I see your 
 face with that caressing smile which shone upon me in the 
 best years of my life. . . . 
 
 Nina [wildly]. Why does he say that? Why does he 
 say that? 
 
 Trep. I am alone in the world, unwarmed by any 
 affection; it chills me Hke a dungeon, and whatever I write 
 is hoUow, dull, and gloomy. Stay here, Nina, I beseech 
 you, or let me come away with you! [Nina puts on her 
 hat and cloak quickly.] Nina, why are you doing that? 
 For God's sake, Nina . . . [He watches her putting 
 on her things. A pausel] 
 
 Nina. My trap is at the garden gate. Don't come and 
 see me out. I'll manage all right. [Crying.] Give me 
 some water. 
 
 Trep. [giving her water]. Where are you going to? 
 
 Nina. Back to town. [A pause.] Is Irina Nikolay- 
 evna here?* 
 
 Trep. Yes. . . . Uncle Peter was taken ill on 
 Thiu-sday; we wired for her to come. 
 
 Nina. Why do you say you kissed the ground where I 
 had walked? You ought to kill me. [Leaning against the 
 table.] Oh, I am so tired! If I could only rest . . . 
 if I could only rest. [Raising her head.] I am a seagull 
 . . . no, that's wrong. I am an actress. Yes, yes. 
 [Hearing AbcAdina and Teigoein laughing, she listens, 
 then runs to the door R. and looks through the keyhole.] So 
 
 *Madame Arc&dina. 
 
TCHEKHOF 247 
 
 he's here, too! . . . [Coming back to TrufIjEF.] Yes;, 
 yes. . . . I'm all right. ... He didn't believe 
 in the stage; he always laughed at my ambitions; little by 
 little I came not to believe in it either; I lost heart. . . . 
 And on the top of that the anxieties of love, jealousy, per- 
 petual fear for the child ... I became trivial and 
 commonplace; I acted without meaning ... I did 
 not know what to do with my hands, or how to stand on 
 the stage, I had no control over my voice. You can't 
 imagine how you feel when you know that you are acting 
 atrociously. I am a seagull. No, that's wrong. . . . 
 Do you remember, you shot a seagull? "A man comes 
 along by chance and sees her, and, just to amuse himself, 
 ruins her. ... A subject for a short story." . . . 
 No, that's not it. . . . [Rubbing her forehead.] What 
 was I talking about? . . . Ah, about acting. I'm 
 not like that now . . . I'm a real actress now. When 
 I act I rejoice, I delight in it; I am intoxicated and feel 
 that I am splendid. Since I got here I have been walking 
 all the time and thinking, thinking and feehng how my 
 inner strength grows day by day . . . and now I see 
 at last, Constantine, that in our sort of work, whether we 
 are actors or writers, the chief thing is not fame or glory, 
 not what I dreamed of, but the gift of patience. One must 
 bear one's cross and have faith. My faith makes me suflfer 
 less, and when I think of my vocation I am no longer afraid 
 of life. 
 
 Trep. [sadly]. You have found your road, you know 
 where you are going; but I am still adrift in a welter of 
 images and dreams, and cannot tell what use it all is to 
 any one. I have no faith and I do not know what my voca- 
 tion is. 
 
 Nina [listening]. 'Sh. . . . I'm going. Good-bye. 
 When I am a great actress, come and see me act. You 
 promise? And now . . . [Shaking his hand.] It's late. 
 I can hardly stand up, I'm so tired and himgry. . . . 
 
 Trep. Stay here. I'll get you some supper. 
 
 Nina. No, no. Don't see me out; I can find my way. 
 The trap is quite near. ... So she brought him here 
 with her? Well, well, it's all one. When you see Trig6rin 
 don't tell him I've been. ... I love him; yes, I love 
 him more than ever. . . . "A subject for a short 
 
248 THE SEAGULL 
 
 story." ... I love him, love him passionately, des- 
 perately. How pleasant it was in the old days, Constan- 
 tine! You remember? How clear and warm, how joyful 
 and how pure our life was! And our feelings — they were 
 like the sweetest, daintiest flowers You re- 
 member? [Reciting.] "Men and lions, eagles and par- 
 tridges, antlered deer, geese, spiders, the silent fishes 
 dwelling in the water, starfish and tiny creatures invisible 
 to the eye — ^these and every form of life, ay, every form of 
 life, have ended their melancholy round and become ex- 
 tinct. Thousands of centuries have passed since this 
 earth bore any living being on its bosom. All in vain does 
 yon pale moon light her lamp. No longer do the cranes 
 wake and cry in the meadows; the hum of the cockchafers 
 is silent in the linden groves. . . ." [She embraces 
 Teeplef impulsively and runs out by the glass door.] 
 
 Trep. [after a pause] . I hope nobody will meet her in the 
 garden and tell mother. Mother might be annoyed. 
 . . . [For two minutes he silently tears up all his manu- 
 scripts and throws them under the table, then unlocks the door 
 R., and exit.] 
 
 Dom [trying to open the door R.]. Funny. It seems to 
 be locked. . . . [Entering arid putting back the arm- 
 chair in its place.] H'm, obstacle race. 
 Enter Akcadina and Pauline; behind them Yakof, with 
 bottles, and Masha; then Shamrayef and Trigokin. 
 
 Arc. Put the claret and beer here on the table for Boris, 
 Alexeyevitch. We'll drink while we play. Now come 
 along and sit down, all of you. 
 
 Pauline [to Yakof]. And bring tea at [once. [Lighting 
 the candles and sitting at the card table.] 
 
 Shamrayef [taking Tkigoein to the cupboard]. There's 
 the thing I was talking of . . . . [Gets a stuffed seagull 
 out.] You asked to have it done. 
 
 Trig, [looking at the seagull], I don't remember. [After 
 thinking.] No, I don't remember. 
 
 [Report of a pistol behind the scenes, R. Every one 
 starts.] 
 
 Arc. [alarmed]. What's that? 
 
 Dorn. It's all right. I expect something's busted in my 
 travelling medicine-chest. Don't be alarmed. [Exit R., 
 and returns a moment later.] As I exi)ected. My ether 
 
TCHEKHOF 249 
 
 bottle's burst. [Singing.] "Once more, once more before 
 thee, love." 
 
 Arc. [sitting at the table]. Good heavens, I was quite 
 frightened. It reminded me of that time when . . . 
 [Covering her face nnth her hands.] I felt quite faint. . . . 
 
 Dorn [taking up Treplef's magazine and turning over the 
 pages; to Tbigorin.] There was an article in this paper a 
 month or two ago ... a letter from America, and I 
 wanted to ask you, among other things . . . [Puts his 
 arm round Teigorin's waist and brings him to the footlights.] 
 . . . I'm very much interested in the question . . . 
 [In a lower tone.] Get Irina Nikolayevna away from here. 
 The fact is, Constantine has shot himself. . . . 
 
JOHN THE BAPTIST 
 
 By Hermann Sitoermann 
 
 First played in Berlin in 1898. 
 
 Argument: John the Baptist is anxiously awaiting the 
 coming of the Messiah when Herod brings the wife of his 
 brother Philip to Jerusalem and goes through a marriage 
 ceremony with her in the Temple. The outraged people 
 look to John for guidance and he to the Messiah, while the 
 Queen insists that John shall be put to death for stirring 
 up the people against her, and the Princess Salome, whose 
 advances John has rejected, also demands his head. What 
 is John's fate, and does the Messiah come in time to coun- 
 sel him? 
 
 A crowd has collected at night in a rocky place outside 
 Jerusalem to meet John the Baptist. When he arrives 
 the people crowd about him with the tale of their sufferings. 
 John tells them of Him Who cometh Who will bring re- 
 joicing in Israel. He tells a paralytic that he will thank 
 the Lord with shouts of joy for every inch of the road he 
 has crawled along on inflamed knees when he beholdeth 
 Him for Whom their soul longeth and hopeth, for Whose 
 coming they wait and watch by the roadside, looking 
 toward the East. 
 
 Word is brought to John that Herod is expected the next 
 day with Herodias, the wife of his brother Philip, whom 
 she has deserted, and that with them is Salome, her daugh- 
 ter and Philip's. Herod intends to marry Herodias, they 
 say, and on the first day of the Passover present her to the 
 people. John declares he will protest against this infa- 
 mous crime. 
 
 In a square in front of the palace of Herod await the 
 populace, inflamed by John's preacUng, and John, having 
 
 250 
 
SUDERMANN 251 
 
 finished the work for which he came, is about to return to 
 the wilderness when his disciples beg him to remain as a 
 leader of the people. Certain Pharisees stop John and 
 question him about the Messiah he is heralding, and as to 
 how he keeps the law. 
 
 John creates a sensation among the people by answering 
 that he has nothing to do with the law of which they and 
 their like set up to be guardians. Their hand lies heavily 
 on the people, he says, and their well-being is its affliction. 
 Who are they, he asks, that they should look on the law 
 as their special inheritance and possession.? But the 
 people crawl under a heavy scourge. One of the Pharisees 
 replies that thus have rebels always spoken, and the end 
 hath been always the cross and the gallows. The Lord, 
 they say, hath twice redeemed his people through the law. 
 Therefore they guard the law, through which lies redemp- 
 tion. 
 
 When some pilgrims arrive at the fountain, a woman with 
 a heavy burden comes accidentally near one of the Phari- 
 sees, and he warns her angrily not to touch him lest he 
 become unclean. Simon, a Galilean, advises her not to 
 touch the Pharisee lest she become unclean, for the Phari- 
 sees who follow the teachings of the law so scrupulously, 
 he says, are unclean from within. Greater than law, he 
 continues, greater than sacrifice, is love. John approaches 
 in great excitement and asks who taught him that, but the 
 Galilean shakes his head without replying. The Pharisees 
 accuse John of poisoning the people with foul water, and 
 ask him where is his Messiah. The people take up the 
 question and are beginning to press it when a diversion is 
 caused by Herod entering the square with his train. 
 
 The guards clear the square and all flee before them but 
 John, who stands his ground and measures Herod with his 
 glance. Salome notices him and calls Herod's attention 
 to the strange figure. She says he has stood and watched 
 them everywhere they have passed. When the royal 
 party have gone on, John tells his disciples to seek the man 
 from Gahlee and bring him to him. 
 
 Salome and her companions are conversing in a hall of 
 the palace. She has noticed that she is not displeasing to 
 her uncle, Herod, and says that if her mother scolds her 
 
252 JOHN THE BAPTIST 
 
 she will know how to tease her mother. From a window 
 they see John the Baptist outside in the street, and they 
 are watching him when Herodias enters. Herodiasasl^ 
 the maidens, who are Judeans, if any of them knows John 
 the Baptist, this man who is stirring up rebellion in the 
 streets. Miriam replies that she does, for the night before 
 she sat praying at his feet. Herodias teUs her to go and 
 bring him in. At first Salome does not want Miriam, who 
 is her favorite, to go, but then she begs her mother's for- 
 giveness. She and her mother are unhke others, she says, 
 for they sting those they love and kiss those they hate. 
 Laughing, Herodias kisses Salome. 
 
 Herod comes to find Herodias. Troubles are growing 
 thick about him and he is in a gloomy mood. He tells 
 Herodias she has come to Jerusalem too soon, for his wife's 
 father is preparing to make war on him and he has no army; 
 he is threatened with disgrace in Rome, his brother curses 
 him, and Judea points at him the finger of scorn. She asks 
 him if he has forgotten the days of eloquent looks and silent 
 vows, when every breath was a longing desire and every 
 word a feast. 
 
 Herod's attention wanders from her as he sees Salome 
 looking down at him from a balcony. Herodias says that 
 she does not beg of him a nightly dole of caresses; she exists 
 no longer as his beloved, but she is now his ruling mistress. 
 Herod replies that she raves. 
 
 Herodias. So real and positive is my hold over thee, 
 just now when thou didst say I raved thou wast reflecting 
 how thou couldst best get rid of me. . . . Thou fool; 
 then get rid of thy wakeful nights, the inheritance of that 
 greater than thou, whom thou wilt never equal. 
 
 Herod. Woman . . . what . . . [His words 
 choke in his throat.] 
 
 Herodias. Speak out what thou hast to say. If thou 
 no longer needest me for love, thou mayest still require me 
 as a listener and adviser. 
 
 Herod strides up and down in great excitement, railing 
 at his impotence. He is as headstrong as his father, the 
 great Herod, but, bound to B,ome, can do nothing. She 
 asks if he would doubt himself less if the priests of the 
 Temple stood between him and the people. He declares 
 that he does not doubt himself, and that what she suggests 
 
SUDERMANN 253 
 
 can never happen. When two messengers from the Tem- 
 ple are announced he fears that his doom has aheady over- 
 taken him. 
 
 Herod [with a laugh of rage and fear]. Are their trumpets 
 already sounding on the road? Hath the great curse al- 
 ready reached the door? 
 
 Herodias. Thou art wrong, my friend. Only a little 
 blessing scratches at the door. . . . If it pleaseth thee, 
 let it come in. 
 
 Herod. Thou dreamest. 
 
 Herodias. Listen to me! Why did I come before thee 
 in haste to inhabit this empty house? . . . Because 
 every hour since I came I have been negotiating with the 
 priests 
 
 Herod. Thou? 
 
 Herodias. What if instead of hiding the sinning woman 
 from the people, thou, with head held aloft, repairest with 
 her to the Temple? Would it not be an ironical event if 
 the High Priest, with the same air of patriarchal servility 
 with which he greeted the virtuous Mariamne, also smiled 
 a welcome to thy brother's runaway wife? 
 
 Herod. With what sum hast thou purchased this? 
 
 Herodias. When it is given, it will be a present, not a 
 purchase. 
 
 Herod. Only one who knows not these butchers of the 
 High Altar could believe you. 
 
 Herodias. Well, these are the terms. [In a low voice.] 
 If we were to promise never again to aspire in Rome to the 
 sceptre of Judea — [scoffingly] — then they might consider. 
 
 Herod. And what answer didst thou make to such ex- 
 cessive, such 
 
 Herodias. I promised. . . . What else should I do? 
 
 Herod [pointing to himself]. Even before this booty was 
 thine, thou hast betrayed it? 
 
 Herodias. I fancied I heard thee crying out just now 
 for a sword. [Smiling.] When thou art king, thou wilt, 
 of course, kill all whom thou hast promised not to be king! 
 That is the same thing as if thou hadst never promised it. 
 
 Herod [staring at her]. Woman! 
 
 Herodias. Believest thou still that I hurried here only 
 for the sake of a kiss? 
 
 Herod. I shudder at thee. But even if the priests be 
 
254 JOHN THE BAPTIST 
 
 won over, there remain the people, the hydra-headed; thou 
 knowest not the people. They once, it is said, hurled sac- 
 rificial victims at the head of their king, they slew Bara- 
 chia's son between the Temple and the altar. And besides, 
 dost thou not know that John the Baptist is in the town? 
 
 Herodias. The Baptist! Leave the Baptist to me. 
 
 Herod. I warn thee, approach him only with a weapon 
 in thy hand! 
 
 Herodias laughs. 
 
 The hall is empty when John the Baptist is brought in. 
 Salome looks down from the balcony. She throws roses 
 to him while her maidens sing a love song, and then de- 
 scends and tells him she is a rose of Sharon and a flower of 
 the valley. He inquires if she knows how abhorred the 
 house of Herod is, and if she keepeth her soul innocent 
 among the guilty. She has heard tiiat youth knows noth- 
 ing of guilt and guiltiness. 
 
 Herodias retiu-ns to the hall. She says she will not re- 
 proach John for having incited the people, but asks if he 
 was not too proud. He replies that he has not come to 
 hear her praise or her blame, nor to ask if she is going to 
 the Temple with Herod on the Passover. She warns him 
 not to let loose his wrath, and tries to dazzle him with 
 offers of power and splendor. Then she asks if his heart 
 has not trembled at the sight of Salome's loveliness. 
 
 John [after further silence]. Thou wouldst sell thyself 
 to me! Dost thou know thy own price? A grain of bar- 
 ley would be too dear . . . for thy name is courtezan, 
 and adultress is written on thy brow. 
 
 Herodias [infuriated]. Thou — thou 
 
 Salome [falling into her arms]. Mother! 
 
 Herodias [controlling herself, haughtily and contemptu- 
 ously]. I should have thee seized on the instant, only 
 thou makest sport for me. And if not quite intoxicated 
 with thy own superiority, listen to me once more. He who 
 thinketh himself designed to be a judge over men should 
 take part in the life of men, should be human among hu- 
 man beings. 
 
 John [impressed]. What . . . didst thou say? 
 
 Herodias. But thou seemest to me so isolated from thy 
 fellowmen that the throb of a human heart itself is noth- 
 ing to thee. . . . Thou hast avoided, cowardlike, all 
 
SUDERMANN 255 
 
 contact with sin and guUt in thy waste places, and now 
 creepest forth to condemn others as guilty. Th« scorching 
 winds of thy desert may perhaps have taught thee hate 
 . . . but what knowest thou of love? of those who Uve 
 and die for the sake of their love? 
 
 John. Thou, too, speakest of love . . . thou, too? 
 
 Herodias. See! I am laughing at thee, great prophet. 
 [She laughs.] 
 
 Salome. Mother, look at him ... be silent! 
 
 John. Thy poisoned arrows are well aimed, and hit 
 their mark! But . . . [pointing to the vnndow] . . . 
 see there, the Lord's people . . . theygnash their teeth 
 against thee, for thou hast taken their bitter bread out of 
 their mouths and dissipated their miserable joys. . . . 
 Thou sayest that I know them not. . . . Yet I know 
 their heart's desire . . . for I have created it; I have 
 put my life at the service of that desire, and I cry to thee, 
 "Woe! thou that hast contaminated it for them. . . . 
 Thou enervatest the strength of their young men and ex- 
 posest the shame of their young women. Thou sowest 
 scoflBngs where I thought to reap faith. . . . And if 
 thou bendest the High and Mighty to be the footstool of 
 thy lusts, I will fling the poor and humble in thy path, 
 that they may trample thee beneath their feet. . . . 
 Woe to thee, and woe to him who shareth thy adulterous 
 couch! . . . Woe, too, to this youthful body that 
 cringes under the scourge of thy blood! Woe! Woe!" 
 
 Herodias [springing up and going to the door on right]. 
 The guards shall seize him. . . . Guards! . . . 
 [She wrenches the door open. Two guards enter.] 
 
 Herodias. Lead this, man. . . . [She hesitates as 
 she meets John's eyes.] 
 
 John [smiling]. Now, look to it, what thou dost with 
 
 me! 
 
 Herodias. Lead this man . . . out . . . into 
 the street. . . . [She staggers to the divan.] 
 
 Salome. Thou camest in flames of fire! .... 
 
 John walks to the door. 
 
 Word is brought to John at the house of one of his 
 disciples that Herod and Herodias are going to the Temple 
 before the crowd collect in the morning, and will line the 
 
256 JOHN THE BAPTIST 
 
 way with their household servants, whom they have pro- 
 vided with arms. John does not know what counsel 
 to give, and tells his disciples to redouble their efforts to 
 find the Galilean. At last word is brought that the Gali- 
 lean has been found, guarded by soldiers and charged with 
 having blasphemed God. 
 
 Two men from Gahlee are spending the night with other 
 pilgrims near the gate of the Temple, and there John finds 
 them. When he inquires if they have heard of any prophet 
 in their land they tell him of Jesus of Nazareth and his 
 miracles. 
 
 When at last Herod and Herodias approach, great ex- 
 citement prevails among the people. Some of them are 
 for stoning Herod and the woman. Others advise waiting 
 to see what John will do. John is still undecided. One 
 of his disciples puts a stone in his hand and he starts to 
 throw it, saying, "In the name of Him " but he hesi- 
 tates, and then adds — "Who command me to love thee." 
 He does not throw the stone, but is seized by Herod's 
 servants. As Herod and Herodias walk up into the 
 Temple the people cry, "Woe! Woe!" 
 
 Herod has removed his court to Galilee and brought 
 with him John the Baptist as a prisoner. Salome comes 
 into the prison courtyard in search of a ball which she says 
 has fallen inside. The jailer who admits her asks if she 
 does not know that the gate is full of danger for Herod's 
 children. Two sons of Herod the Great came through, 
 he says, before they were sentenced. Salome asks him to 
 tell her of the new prisoner. He confirms her suspicion 
 that John the Baptist is there. She commands him to 
 bring the Baptist before her, but the horrified man de- 
 clares he cannot do so. Warning is given that Herod is 
 coming, ^nd Salome and her maidens hide. 
 
 Herod gives orders to have the disciples of the Baptist 
 driven away from the doors of the prison. He sees Sa- 
 lome peeping out at him from behind a bench and guesses 
 who she is in spite of her veil. She pretends that she came 
 to the prison yard out of curiosity to see him, having heard 
 that he was coming there. She suggests that he might 
 win the favor of the people ty sparing the Baptist. He 
 finds her unlike her mother in the coimsel she gives, and 
 
SUDERMANN 257 
 
 asks her to unveil herself. She will not do so when alone 
 in his presence, she says, but with others present she would 
 be willing, and would even dance for him at a feast. Then 
 she asks him to treat the prisoner humanely, and leaves 
 the courtyard with hen maidens. 
 
 Herod is desirous of knowing why John spared him at 
 the Temple, and has him brought out and questions him. 
 John says that Herod would not understand his reason for 
 not throwing the stone if he should tell him. Thinking 
 John defiant because he is in chains, Herod tells the jailer 
 to remove the shackles and go away with the guard. Now, 
 he tells John he is a free man, and says that if he preaches 
 repentance to preach to him. Again John says that 
 Herod would not understand; he spared Herod because 
 his heart failed him. Herod thinks that now John is 
 flattering him because he is free. 
 
 John. Thou hast not laid me in chains, and canst not 
 loosen me from them. 
 
 Herod. What . . . and yet I made thee falter? 
 
 John. It was Another who threw thee in my way. 
 . . . And so my heart failed me. 
 
 Herod. Tell me, Baptist — I call thee by the name I have 
 heard people speak of thee by, and I hope thou wilt not be 
 angry — ^tell me. Who is that King of the Jews whose image 
 thou danglest before the people? . . . See, the guards 
 are gone, and thy confidence shall be rewarded. Tell me, 
 who is it? 
 
 John. Sire, I know not. 
 
 Herod. And so thou deniest thy own creature? 
 
 John. What is my own I deny. 
 
 Herod. Ha, ha, ha! I have half a mind to summon 
 my Uttle Greek that he may go to school under thee. Listen 
 — [in a low voice] — I, too, have heard of a King of the Jews 
 who will come with a sword drawn above his head, and he 
 will spare no one who doth not serve him at the right mo- 
 ment. 
 
 John [eagerly]. Who is it, of whom thou speakest? 
 
 Herod. Master, I do not know. Thou seest thus that 
 I, too, have a bm-den of secret anxiety oppressing me, and 
 await the sunrise. . . . But let me speak with thee 
 seriously. Baptist. Thou hurlest thy arrows of reproach 
 at me on account of the woman I stole. ... I could 
 
258 JOHN THE BAPTIST 
 
 almost pity thee for that. Thou, a great man, mightst 
 have chosen a greater subject than a woman. And know- 
 est thou every day she sharpens those arrows herself for 
 me? . . . But enough of that. The smiths say that 
 good metal rings true even when it is cracked, and thou 
 ringest true. How dost thou manage it? . . . I pray 
 thee teach me the way. . . . What, silent again? 
 
 John. Methinks I know you now, ye smiling scoffers. 
 Ye grow fat on the wit of the market-places; but hunger 
 seizes you, and ye then lift yoiu* eyes to the earnest ones, 
 walking on the mountain-tops. 
 
 At last Herod asks if it was for that other who cometh 
 that he did not throw the stone. If it was in His Name 
 that John desisted, Herod says, he will lose no sleep over 
 this Jewish king. He calls the jailer and tells him the 
 prisoner shall go in and out as he likes, for he is not dan- 
 gerous. No sooner has Herod left the courtyard than 
 Salome returns. She informs John that he owes his free- 
 dom to her, and asks in return that he shall give her salva- 
 tion. He inquires what has become of Miriajn. 
 
 Salome. I had her. Now she is dead. 
 
 John bows his head- His suspicions realized. 
 
 Salome. I had her slain because she went to thee. No 
 one shall go to thee except me. Seest thou now how pious 
 I am? Seest thou? My soul feels thy strength, and feels 
 it with joy; for I have never seen any one so strong as thou 
 art. I have made thank offerings and secret vows like 
 those the Psalms sing of. Then I have been forth in the 
 gloaming to seek thy countenance and the light of thy 
 eyes. And I have decked my bed with beautiful, many- 
 colored rugs from Egypt, and I have sprinkled my pillows 
 with myrtle, aloes, and cinnamon. I will give thee my 
 fair young body, thou barbarian among the sons of Israel! 
 Come, let us make love till morning. And my playmates 
 shall keep watch on the threshold, and greet the dawn with 
 their harps. 
 
 John. Verily, thou art powerful; thou carriest the 
 world in thy arms ... for thou art sin itself. 
 
 Salome. Yes. Sweet as sin. . . , That am I. 
 
 John's disciples come to him. Josaphat reproaches 
 him for weakness. He says John took the law from them 
 and asks what he gave instead. He is going to Jesus of 
 
SUDERMANN 259 
 
 Nazareth. John tells the others to accompany Josaphat 
 and wherever they find Him to ask, "Art Thou He Who 
 Cometh, or shall we wait for another?" And when He 
 has answered, John tells them, to come back quickly for 
 his longing is great. 
 
 While Herod is overseeing the preparations for a ban- 
 quet at which he is going to entertain Vitellius, the Roman 
 governor, Herodias comes to tell him that she will permit 
 Salome to dance. He inquires what reward she will de- 
 mand, but she replies that Salome will ask. Beside Vitel- 
 lius and his suite, Herod's courtiers are at the feast. 
 Vitellius interrupts the recitation of an ode in his honor, 
 greatly bored, and Herod suggests that they have music. 
 The harps are being tuned when Herodias leads in Sa- 
 lome, thickly veiled. A murmur of astonishment runs 
 around the table. One courtier calls the attention of an- 
 other to Herodias. He thinks her look betokens that 
 some one will lose his head, whom he does not know. 
 
 Salome has extricated herself from the arms of Herodias 
 and, accompanied by exclamations of admiration and de- 
 light, has begun to dance. Her dance becomes wilder and 
 more abandoned; she gradually loosens her veil, then 
 covers herself with it again in voluptuous playfulness, till 
 at last, quite unveiled, she stands with the upper part of 
 her body apparently unclothed. She sinks on her knees 
 half exhausted, half in homage, before Herod. All break 
 into ecstasies of applause. Herod rushes forward to raise 
 her. 
 
 Herodias, who has looked on intently with a harassed 
 expression, intervenes to stop Herod, who exchanges a 
 hostile glance with her. He tells Salome to rise, and swears 
 that she shall have anything for which she will ask. She 
 replies that she desires on a dish the head of John the Bap- 
 tist. Herod accuses her mother of being behind the de- 
 mand, and asks Salome to take it back. She repeats that 
 she desires him to give her the head of John the Baptist on 
 a golden dish. Herodias reminds him that he has sworn. 
 John the Baptist is led in. Herod informs him that he is 
 sorry, but that he must prepare himself to meet death. 
 John asks for a respite. He says that he has sent out 
 messengers and awaits their retujn. Salome tells John to 
 
260 JOHN THE BAPTIST 
 
 beseech her, but he does not do so. Word is brought that 
 two of John's friends have come to the palace, and Herod, 
 with the approval of ViteUius, who is less bored than he 
 was by the ode, has them shown in. Manassa and Amarja, 
 John's disciples, appear in the door. They seem at first 
 as if they would rush to John, but overcome by shyness 
 stand still. 
 
 John. What have ye to tell me? 
 
 Manassa. Master! 
 
 Herod. Speak louder, my good men! Unless ye let us 
 participate in the news, I will have you carried off through 
 separate doors. 
 
 Man. May we. Master? 
 
 John. Speak freely, for methinks we are alone together. 
 
 Man. We took the road in all haste to Bethesda, and 
 at break of day we found Him there. 
 
 John. Ye found Him there? 
 
 Man. And many people were gathered about Him rest- 
 ing in the olive gardens, and praised the Lord for the mira- 
 cle which had been done to them at that hour. And behold 
 there was a light in every eye, and in every mouth the mu- 
 sic of thanksgiving. 
 
 John. And He? How looked His countenance? What 
 were His gestures? 
 
 Man. Master, I know not. 
 
 John. But ye saw Him? 
 
 Amarja. Rabbi, thou mightest as well ask. What is the 
 face of the sun, and what the gestures of light? . . . 
 As we beheld His smile we sank to the ground, and in our 
 souls was a great peace. 
 
 John. And when ye had questioned Him, and He 
 began to speak, tell me what was His manner of speech? 
 Say; I stand here awaiting His wrath. 
 
 Amar. Rabbi. . . . He spoke to us like a brother. 
 His speech was simple. 
 
 Man. And it was beautiful . . . like the voice of 
 the wind which blows from the sea toward evening. 
 
 Amar. And this is what He spake: " Go and tell John 
 what ye have seen and heard. The blind see, the lame 
 walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead rise, 
 and the poor have the gospel preached to them." 
 
 John. The poor — ^He said the poor? 
 
SUDERMANN 261 
 
 Man. And when He prepared to come hither to this 
 town with the people who were gathered about Him, we 
 accompanied Him as far as the gate, and then hurried on 
 before, according to thy wish. 
 
 John. And said He nothing else to you? Reflect 
 well. 
 
 Amar. Yes; yet one more thing. He said, "Blessed 
 be he who hath not been offended at me." But this we 
 could not understand. 
 
 John. But I understand it well and to whom He spoke. 
 1 have been offended, for I have not recognized Him. And 
 my anger filled the world, for I knew Him not. Ye your- 
 selves are my witnesses that I have said, "I am not the 
 Christ, but one sent to prepare the way for Him that 
 Cometh." A man can take nothing to himself that is not 
 given him by Heaven. And unto me nothing was given. 
 The key of death ... I held it not . . . the 
 scales of sin were not confided to me. For out of no man's 
 mouth may the name of sin sound, save out of the mouth of 
 the one that loveth. But I would have scourged you with 
 iron rods. Therefore is my kingdom come to shame, and 
 my Hps are sealed. I hear roundabout a rushing noise, as 
 of many waters, and the divine radiance is near me. . . . 
 A throne hath descended out of heaven amidst darts of 
 fire. The King of Peace sitteth thereon in white robes. 
 And His sword is called Love, and His watchword is mercy. 
 . . . Behold He hath the bride. He is the bridegroom. 
 But the friend of the bridegroom standeth and listeneth, 
 and rejoiceth over the voice that is coming. The same is 
 ™y joy- Now is it fulfilled. [He stands with his arms 
 outspread and his eyes turned toward heaven. Manassa and 
 Amabja sink at his feet.] 
 
 Vitellius. Dear friend, it seems to me that we have had 
 enough of this maniac. 
 
 Herod [between emotion and scorn]. John, I am truly 
 grieved on thy account. And when He cometh of whom 
 thou dreamest, I will greet Him as I have greeted thee. 
 Ha! ha! ha! Lead him to execution. 
 
 Salome. Now, ask me! [As John smilingly looks beyond 
 her.] Mother, will he not ask? 
 
 Vit. My friend, thy banquet has been somewhat dis- 
 turbed. [As Heeod stares at the door through which John 
 
262 JOHN THE BAPTIST 
 
 Ims disappeared.] No matter what I say, he does not hear 
 me. 
 
 Herod. Exalted highness, pardon! 
 
 Salome has crossed the hall and goes stealthily to a door 
 on left. In great curiosity she draws back the curtain, 
 and after gazing eagerly through it, reels backward into the 
 arms of Herodias. Outside, behind the middle cin:tain, 
 an ever-increasing tumult and murmur of many voices has 
 arisen. 
 
 Vit. Bid the women to sit down. Thou hast an ill- 
 conducted people. They brawl in the street while we dine. 
 
 Herod. Are they already muttering about the Baptist? 
 Gabalos, look to it, and tell them to be quiet. 
 
 Gahahs. It shall be done. Sire. [ExU. 
 
 Salome [pointing to the door, the curtains cf which are open]. 
 Mother, see what they are bringing. See! [She rushes 
 ovil\ 
 
 Herod [descending the steps of the dais]. What does she 
 want there? 
 
 Herodias. Sire, thou art of simple understanding. I 
 advise thee to look the other way. 
 
 Herod. What is she doing? 
 
 Herodias. She is dancing! She holds the charger with 
 the Prophet's head high in her arms, and dances. 
 
 Jabad. See, she dances! 
 
 Herod. So thou hast corrupted thy own flesh and blood. 
 So thou wilt corrupt us all. 
 
 [Hekodias, smiling, shrugs her shouMers.] 
 
 Merokles. She sways. She will fall! 
 [Herodias goes out composedly.] 
 
 Mero. The head is rolling on the floor! 
 
 Marcellus. Oh, horror! 
 
 [Herodias comes hack supporting Salome in her 
 arms.] 
 
 Salome. Mother, where is the dish ? Where is the head ? 
 
 Herodias. Make obeisance. Speak thy thanks. 
 
 Salome [before Herod]. Sue, I am a rose of Sharon. A 
 flower of the valley . . . Who would thank me should 
 pluck me . . . Oh, look at the head! 
 
 Herod. Take the women away! 
 
 [Herodias curtseys, and leads, smiling, ike half- 
 swooning Salome off to righi.] 
 
SUDERMANN 26S 
 
 Herod. Well, what is the matter? 
 
 Gab. Sire, the people will net be restrained. Men and 
 women in holiday raiment fill the streets and crowd on the 
 roofs. They carry palms in their hands and sing and shout 
 for joy. 
 
 Herod. What are they singing? 
 
 Gab. Thou knowest. Sire, I am not servile, but I scarcely 
 like to say. 
 
 Herod. Speak! 
 
 Gab. Hosannah! to Him Who shall come. Hosannah 
 to the Elingof the Jews! So they sing. 
 
 Herod [grinding his teeth]. I have had John beheaded. 
 Who may this one be? 
 
 Gab. If thou wouldst see Him, Sire, they say He is 
 coming this way. 
 
 Herod. I will see Him. I will greet Him as I promised. 
 Ha! ha! ha! Open! 
 
 The curtains are drawn aside. One sees the roofs 
 crowded with women waving palms. Others, with palms 
 in their hands, climb the hilly street below. The shouting 
 swells in volume and becomes an orderly, harmonious song. 
 
 Vit. [who has continued sitting, turns round indignantly]. 
 What is going on there again? 
 
 Herod [has grasped a goblet, and springs on the topmost 
 step]. Greeting to thee, my King of the 
 
 He looks, stops short . . . the goblet slips from his 
 hand, he turns away and hides his face in his mantle. The 
 others also stand, looking down in silent amazement. 
 The Hosannahs rise from the street. 
 
THE "GOOD HOPE" 
 By Herman Heijeemans 
 
 First played in Holland in 1900. 
 
 Argument: A widow whose husband and two oldest 
 sons have been lost at sea, unable to maintain the house- 
 hold, persuades her youngest boy, who has always feared 
 death by drowning, to become one of the crew of a trawler. 
 Losing his courage at the last moment and refusing to go 
 although the papers are signed, the boy is dragged aboard 
 by the harbor police, and warning comes too late from a 
 drunken ship carpenter that the trawler is a floating co£Sn. 
 Will the vessel be lost, and will the guilty owner escape 
 punishment? 
 
 The living-room of the Widow Kneirtje's home is fur- 
 nished with two beds and a chest of drawers, on which are 
 some holy images. A door at the back, when opened, dis- 
 closes a narrow, cobblestoned roadway, backed by a view 
 of beach with the sea beyond. The widoVs husband and 
 two of her sons were lost at sea twelve years ago, but she has 
 two younger sons left, Geert, already a man, and Barend, 
 who is big enough but has a great terror of the sea which 
 has swallowed up so many men of the Dutch Ashing village 
 in which he was born. 
 
 Clementine Bos, the daughter of the wealthy shipowner 
 of the place, comes to the cottage to make sketches of some 
 of the old fishermen, and she never fails to rally Barend, 
 as every one else does, on his dislike for the sea. While 
 she is talking to the boy her father comes to offer him a 
 billet on an old lugger, the Good Hope, which has just been 
 refitted. Barend replies that he wants some work on 
 shore. His mother weeps in despair at his refusing the 
 offer and at last, finding him resolved, puts him out of the 
 house. 
 
 264 
 
HEIJERMANS 265 
 
 Geert has just been discharged from the navy for in- 
 subordination. Although Bos says that is the kind of 
 fellow whom nobody wants, he offers to take him for the 
 Good Hope if he returns home in season. The whistle of an 
 incoming trawler is heard, and ajl go out to see what has 
 happened. A side door opens and Geert sneaks in. He 
 throws down a bundle tied in a red handkerchief, looks 
 about muttering, and goes to a back cupboard where he 
 gets a loaf of bread. Having cut a hunk off the loaf, he 
 plumps down in a chair, lets fall the bread, and stares 
 .wrathfuUy before him. 
 
 Barend returns. He finds Geert pale, and thinks he 
 must have been ill in prison. The next to discover Geert's 
 arrival is his sweetheart, Jo. She rushes to him and throws 
 her arms around his neck, sobbing hysterically. He 
 makes her stop this fuss at once, saying his head cannot 
 stand a lot of noise after six months' solitary confinement. 
 He sends Barend out to buy gin and meat, and finds his 
 old pipe. 
 
 Kieirtje is quite overcome at finding her boy at home, 
 but she refuses to embrace him at first, asking what he has 
 done to make her happy. He has only brought disgrace 
 upon her, she complains. Geert says that all his trouble 
 was due to a dance at the tavern the night before his ship 
 put to sea. Jo was there and he had to introduce a quar- 
 termaster to her. Afterward on board the ship the quar- 
 termaster spoke of her as if she were any sailor's girl, and 
 Geert hammered him on the jaw with a marlin spike. 
 Five minutes later he was in irons. 
 
 In addition to six months' solitary confinement, Geert 
 was suspended from the navy for ten years. They found 
 newspapers in his bag which he was not supposed to read, 
 and that made it worse for him. Now he wishes he could 
 warn every boy who wants to join the navy, or bind him- 
 self for fourteen years to murder, as he calls it. He finds 
 a medal that he won and throws it out of the window. 
 His mother weeps silently and Barend stands dazed, as he 
 raves about the hardships that he has suffered. He looks 
 out of the window and sees a woman neighbor walking by. 
 She is weeping, and he is going out to speak to her, but 
 his mother stops him, telling him the body of the woman's 
 husband has just been brought in on a trawler. 
 
THE "GOOD HOPE" 
 
 Encouraged by Geert's example, Barend has consented 
 to sign •with the Good Hope, and his mother gives him as a 
 reward a pair of silver earrings that belonged to his father. 
 They have Uttle ships on them with mast? and sails, and 
 Jo thinks she ought to have them instead of a cowardly 
 boy. Geert and Barend are to start in an hour. Some 
 of the neighbors come in, and as the occasion is also 
 Kneirtje's birthday, she lays out some little cakes and 
 liqueurs. Two jolly old fellows come from the old men's 
 home. One of them refuses to throw away his chew of 
 tobacco, putting it away frugally in his handkerchief. 
 The men sing sailor songs and make a great din. 
 
 A ship carpenter's assistant, Simon by name, comes in 
 quite drunk. He apparently has something on his mind, 
 and starts several times to impart it to Geert. Before he 
 succeeds in doing so his daughter Marietje comes and tries 
 to get him to go home. At this point it is noticed that 
 Barend has disappeared. Kneirtje is very anxious, as she 
 has accepted an advance on his pay. Geert reassures her, for 
 he says now Barfend has signed he will have to go whether 
 he likes it or not. The men are singing the "Marseil- 
 laise" when Bos sticks his head in the window. He is in 
 a great rage that they should be idling there when it is 
 time they should be aboard the Good Hope. 
 
 The other men go, but Geert says he wiU wait a few 
 minutes for Barend. Bos comes in. He asks angrily if 
 Geert is planning to stay behind, too. He says the police 
 have been notified that Barend has refused to go. 
 Kneirtje is overcome with dismay. When at last Bos 
 calls the house a dive, with its drunkenness and rioting, 
 it is only the presence of Kneirtje and Jo that restrains 
 Geert from attacking the shipowner. As it is, he orders 
 him out of the cottage. Bos, in revenge, tells the old 
 widow not to come and work for his wife any more. When 
 Bos has gone Geert starts off for the ship with Jo. 
 
 Barend [entering quickly from left]. S-s-s-st! 
 
 Kneirtje. You miserable bad boy! 
 
 Bar. S-ssst! 
 
 Kneir. What sssst! I'll shout the whole village to- 
 gether if you don't immediately run and follow Geert and Jo. 
 
 Bar. [panting]. If you can keep Geert from going — call 
 him bade! 
 
HEIJERMANS 267 
 
 Kneir. Have you gone crazy with fear, you big 
 coward? 
 
 Bar. [panting]. The Good Hope is no good, no good — 
 her ribs are rotten — the planking is rotten ! 
 
 Kneir. Don't stand there teUing stories to excuse 
 yourself. After half -past two! March ! 
 
 Bar. [almost crying]. If you don't believe me! 
 
 Kneir. I won't listen. March! or I'll slap your face. 
 
 Bar. Strike me then! Strike me then! Ah, God! 
 keep Geert from going! Simon the ship carpenter warned 
 me. 
 
 Kneir. Simon the ship carpenter — that drunken sot 
 who can't speak two words. You are a disgusting bad 
 boy. First you sign, then you run away ! Get up ! 
 
 Bar. Me — you may beat me to death! — ^but I won't 
 go on an unseaworthy ship! 
 
 Kneir. What do you know about it? Hasn't the ship 
 been lying in the dry docks? 
 
 Bar. There was no caulking her any more — Simon 
 
 Kneir. Shut your mouth with your Simon! March, 
 take your package of chewing tobacco. 
 
 Bar. [yelling]. I'm not going — I'm not going. You 
 don't know — ^you didn't see it! The last voyage she had 
 a foot of water in her hold! 
 
 Kneir. The last voyage? A ship that has just re- 
 turned from her fourth voyage to the herring catch and 
 that has brought fourteen loads! Has it suddenly become 
 unseaworthy, because you, you miserable coward, are go- 
 ing along? 
 
 Bar. [with feverish anxiety]. I looked in the hold — ^the 
 barrels were floating. You can see death that is hiding 
 down there. 
 
 Kneir. Bilge water, as in every ship! The barrels 
 floating! Tell that to your grandmother, not to an old 
 sailor's wife. Skipper Hengst is a child, eh! Isn't 
 Hengst going and Mees and Gerrit and Jacob and Nellis 
 — ^your own brother and Truus's little Peter ? Do you claim 
 to know more than old seamen? [Fiercely.] Get up! 
 I'm not going to stand it to see you taken aboard by the 
 police 
 
 Bar. [crying]. Oh, mother dear, mother dear, don't 
 make me go! 
 
268 THE "GOOD HOPE" 
 
 Kneir. O God; how you have punished me in my 
 children — my children are driving me to beggary. Fve 
 taken an advance — Bos has refused to give me any more 
 
 cleaning to do — and — and' [Firmly.] Well, then, 
 
 let them come for you — ^you'd better be taken than run 
 away. Oh, oh, that this should happen in my family 
 
 Bar. [running to the cooking shed.] 
 
 Kneir. [barring the way]. You'll not get out 
 
 Bar. Let me pass, mother. I don't know what I'm 
 doing — I might hurt 
 
 Kneir. Now he is brave, against his sixty-year-old 
 mother Raise yoiu* hand if you dare! 
 
 Bar. [falls on a chair shaking his head between his hands]. 
 
 Oh, oh, oh If they take me aboard, you'll never se'e me 
 
 again — ^you'U never see Geert agaia 
 
 Kneir. The ship is in God's hands. It's tempting 
 
 God to rave this way with fear [Friendlier tone.] 
 
 Come, a man of your age must not cry like a child — 
 come! I wanted to surprise you with father's earrings 
 — come! 
 
 Bar. Mother, dear — I don't dare — I don't dare — I 
 shall drown — ^hide me — ^hide me 
 
 Kneir. Have you gone insane, boy! If I believed a 
 word of your talk, would I let Geert go? [Puts a package 
 in his pocket.] There's a package of tobacco and one of 
 cigars. Now sit still, and I'll put in your earrings — look — 
 [talking as to a child] — real silver — ships on them with 
 sails — sit still, now — there's one — there's two — ^walk to the 
 looking-glass 
 
 Bar. [crying]. No — ^no! 
 
 Kneir. Come, now, you're making me weak for noth- 
 ing — ^please, dear boy — I do love you and your brother — 
 you're all I have on earth. Come now! Every night I 
 will pray to the good God to bring you home safely. You 
 must get used to it, then you will become a brave seaman 
 
 — and — ^and [Cries.] Come now, Barend, Barend! 
 
 [Holds the mirror before him.] Look at your earrings — 
 what ? 
 
 First Policeman [coming in through door at left, good- 
 natured manner]. Skipper Hengst has requested the 
 
 Police If you please, my little man, we have no 
 
 time to lose. 
 
HEIJERMANS 269 
 
 Bar. [screaming]. I won't go! I won't go! The ship 
 — is rotten 
 
 Second Policeman [smiling good-naturedly]. Then you 
 should not have mustered in. Must we use force? Come 
 now, httle man. [Taps him kindly on the shoulder.] 
 
 Bar. Don't touch me! Don't touch me! [Clings 
 desperately to the bedstead and door jamb.] 
 
 Second Policeman. Must we put on the handcuffs, boy? 
 
 Bar. [moaning]. Help me, mother! You'll never see 
 me again! I shall drown in the dirty, stinking sea! 
 
 First Policeman [crossly]. Come, come! Let go of the 
 door jamb ! [Seizes his wrists.] 
 
 Bar. [clinging harder]. No! [Shrieking.] Cut off my 
 hands! God, God, O God! [Crawls up against the 
 wall, beside himself with terror.] 
 
 Kneir. [almost crying]. The boy is afraid 
 
 First Policeman. Then you tell him to let go ! 
 
 Kneir. [sobbing as she seizes B abend's hands]. Come 
 now, boy — come now — God will not forsake you 
 
 Bar. [moaning as he loosens his hold, sobs despairingly]. 
 You'U never see me again, never again 
 
 First Policeman. Forward, march! 
 
 [They exeunt, dragging Babend. 
 
 Kneir. Oh, oh 
 
 Truus [with anximis curiosity, at side door]. What was 
 the matter, Kneir? 
 
 Kneir. [sobbing]. Barend had to be taken by the police. 
 Oh, and now I'm ashamed to go walk through the village, 
 to tell them good-bye — the disgrace — the disgrace 
 
 It is evening. The Widow Kneirtje's room is dimly 
 illumined by a lamp. A rushing wind howls about the 
 house. The widow is lying on a bed, and Jo is reading to 
 her from a prayer book. Jo asks if she is listening, and 
 calls her attention to this stanza: 
 
 "Mother Mary! in piteousness. 
 To your poor children of the sea. 
 Reach down your arms in their distress; 
 
 With God their intercessor be. 
 Unto the Heart Divine your prayer 
 Will make an end to all their care." 
 
270 THE "GOOD HOPE" 
 
 There is a knock on the door. It is Clementine who has 
 brought some broth and eggs for Kneirtje, She is accom- 
 panied by Kaps, her father's bookkeeper. Eiieirtje rises 
 and inquires if the wind has gone down any. Suddenly 
 there is a terrific crash outside. Cobus, Kneirtje's 
 brother, enters and says that he had a narrow escape. A 
 big tree was snapped in two like a pipe stem and missed 
 him by a hair. But he is not afraid of death, he says. 
 God takes them and they take the fish. 
 
 Cobus. When I was on the herring catch, or on the salt- 
 ing voyage, there were times when I didn't dare use the 
 cleaning knife. Because when you shove a herring's head 
 to the left with your thumb, and you lift out the gullet 
 with the blade, the creature looks at you with such Imow- 
 ing eyes, and yet you clean two hundred in an hour. And 
 when you cut throats out of fourteen hundred cod, that 
 makes twenty-eight hundred eyes that look at you! Look! 
 Just look. Ask me how many fish have I killed .J" I had 
 few equals in boning and cutting livers. Tja, tja, and 
 how afraid they all were ! Afraid ! They looked up at the 
 clouds as if they were saying: "How about this now? He 
 blessed us same as He blessed you." I say: we take the 
 fish and God takes us. We must all, the beasts must, and 
 the men must, and because we all must, none of us should 
 — now, that's just as if you'd pour a full barrel into an 
 empty one. I'd be afraid to be left alone in the empty 
 barrel, with every one else in the other barrel. No, being 
 afraid is no good; being afraid is standing on your toes 
 and looking over the edge. 
 
 Kneirtje goes out to see if the tree fell on the pigpen 
 and killed the pig, and Jo follows to look after her. 
 
 Clementine [at the vdndow]. Oh! Oh! Oh! What a 
 gale! [Returning to the table.] Cobus, I'll thank God 
 when the Good Hope is safely in. 
 
 Cob. Tja, no ship is safe to-night. But the Hope is an 
 old ship, and old ships are the last to go down. 
 
 Clem. That's what you say. 
 
 Cob. No, that's what every old sailor says. Have a 
 bowl. Miss? 
 
 Clem, [after a silence, staring]. All the same, I shall 
 pray God to-night. 
 
 Caib. That's real good of you. Miss. But the Jocaba 
 
HEIJERMANS 871 
 
 is out and the Mathilda is out and the Expectation is out. 
 Why should you pray for one ship? 
 
 Clem, The Good Hope is rotten — ^so — so [Stops 
 
 anxiously.] 
 
 Cob. [drinking coffee]. Who said that? 
 
 Clementine stanxmeringly tries to retrieve her indiscre- 
 tion. She is relieved by the return of Kneirtje and Jo. 
 Simon comes in with his daughter, Marietje, whose sweet- 
 heart, Mees, is on the Good Hope. Presently Simon and 
 Cobus go out together. 
 
 Marietje tells of a sort of dream she had the evening 
 before when she was half awake. There was a rap on the 
 window. She lay still, and again there was a rap. Then 
 she got up. There was nothing to be seen, nothing. As 
 soon as she lay down there came another rap, and then she 
 saw Mees. His face was very pale. She rushed to the 
 window and there was nothing there, nothing but the 
 wind. 
 
 Two women neighbors, Saart and Truus, come in for 
 company. Truus's little boy is on the Good Hope. They 
 find Kneirtje, Jo, and Marietje looking very scared. The 
 story that has just been told leads to others. They tell 
 how their men have been lost at sea. Truus's first hus- 
 band was on a ship that never came home, and her second 
 was killed by a blow from a capstan bar. Marietje's little 
 brother was knocked overboard. Finally Kneirtje recoimts 
 a gruesome experience of her husband's when he was res- 
 cued after clinging a whole night to an upturned boat, 
 with a saQor who had gone crazy, and finally slipped off 
 into the water. But the rescue of her husband at that time 
 did no good, for three years later, twelve years ago now, he 
 was lost with his two sons in the Clementina. 
 
 Jo springs up wildly, beating her head with her fists, and 
 cries that they are all driving her mad, telling those horrible 
 stories instead of cheering them up. 
 
 Jo. And now ask me for my story! [Shrieking.] My 
 father was drowned, drowned, drowned! There are others 
 — all — drowned, drowned! — and — ^you are all miserable 
 wretches — ^you are! [Violently bangs the door shut as she 
 runs out.] 
 
 Truus [anxiously]. I believe she's afraid. 
 
 Marietje. Shall I go after her? 
 
27« THE "GOOD HOPE" 
 
 Kneir. No, child, she will quiet down by herself. Ner- 
 vous strain of the last two days. Are you going now, 
 Miss? 
 
 Clem. It has grown late, Kiieir, and your niece — ^your 
 niece was a little unmannerly. No, I'm not offended. 
 Who is going to take me home? 
 
 Saart. If one goes, we all go. Together we won't 
 blow away. Good-night, Ejieir. 
 
 Mar. [depressed]. Good-night, Aunt Kneir. 
 
 Kneir. Thank you again. Miss, for the soup and eggs. 
 
 Truus. Are you coming to drink a bowl with me to- 
 morrow night? Please say yes. 
 
 Kneir. WeU, perhaps. Good-night, Miss. Good-night, 
 Marietje. Good-night, Saart. If you see Jo send her in at 
 once. 
 
 All go out except Kneirtje. She clears away the cups. 
 A fierce wind howls, shrieking about the house. She listens 
 anxiously at the window, shoves her chair close to the 
 chimney, stares into the fire. Her lips move in a muttered 
 prayer while she fingers a rosary. Jo enters, drops into a 
 chair by the window, and nervously unpins her shawl. 
 
 Kneir. You'd better go to bed. You are all unstrung. 
 What an outburst! And that dear child that came out in 
 the storm to bring me soup and eggs. 
 
 Jo [roughly]. Your sons are out in the storm for her and 
 her father. 
 
 Kneir. And for us. 
 
 Jo. And for us. [A silence] The sea is so wild. 
 
 Kneir. Have you been to look? 
 
 Jo [anxiously]. I couldn't stand against the wind. 
 Half the guard rail is washed away, the pier is under water. 
 [A silence. Kneirtje prai/s.] Oh! Oh! I'm dead from 
 those miserable stories! 
 
 Kneir. You're not yourseK to-night. You never went 
 on Hke this when Geert sailed with the Navy. Go to bed 
 and pray. Prayer is the only consolation. A sailor's wife 
 must not be weak. In a month or two it will storm again; 
 each time again. And there are many fishermen on the 
 sea besides our boys. [Her speech sinks into a soft murmur. 
 Her old fingers handle the rosary.] 
 
 Jo. Barend, we almost drove him away! I taunted 
 him to the last. 
 
HEIJERMANS 273 
 
 Seeing that Kneirtje prays, she walks to the window 
 wringing her hands, pulls up the curtain uncertainly, stares 
 through the window panes. Then she cautiously opens a 
 window shutter. The wind blows the curtain on high, the 
 lamp dances, the Hght puffs out. She swiftly closes the 
 window. 
 
 Kneir. [angry from fear]. Have you gone crazy! Keep 
 your paws off that window! 
 
 Jo [moaning]. Oh! oh! oh! 
 
 Kneir. [terrified]. Shut your mouth! Look for the 
 matches! Not so slow! Quick! Beside the soap dish. 
 [A silence.] Have you got them? [Jo lights the lamp, 
 shivering vrith fear.] I'm completely chilled. [To Jo, who 
 crouches sobbing by the chimney.] Why do you sit there? 
 
 Jo. I'm afraid. 
 
 Kneir. [anxiously]. You must not be. 
 
 Jo. If anything happens — then — then 
 
 ■ Kneir. Be sensible. Undress yourself. 
 
 Jo. No, I shall stay here all night. 
 
 Kneir. Now, I ask you, how will it be when you're 
 married? When you are a mother yourself? 
 
 Jo [passionately]. You don't know what you , say! 
 
 You don't know what you say. Aunt Kneir! If Geert 
 
 [Stops panting.] I dichi't dare tell you. 
 
 Kneir. Is it between you and Geert? [Jo sobs loudly.] 
 That was not good of you — ^not good-^to have secrets. 
 Your lover — ^your husband — is my son. [A silenee, the 
 wind shrieks.] Don't stare that way into the fire. Don't 
 cry any more. I shall not speak any hard words. Even 
 if it was wrong of you and of him. Come and sit opposite 
 
 to me, then together we will [Lays her prayer book on 
 
 the table.] 
 
 Jo [despairingly]. I don't want to pray. 
 
 Kneir. Don't want to pray? 
 
 Jo [excitedly]. If anything happens 
 
 Knar, [vehemently]. Nothing will happen! 
 
 Jo [vyiMly], If anything — anything — anything — ^then 
 I'll never pray again, never again. Then there is no God. 
 No, Mother Mary — then there is nothing — ^nothing 
 
 Kneir. [anxiously]. Don't talk like that. 
 
 Jo. What good is a child without a husband! 
 
 Kneir. How dare you say that? 
 
274 THE "GOOD HOPE" 
 
 Jo \beaiing her head on the t(Me\. The wind! It drives 
 me mad, mad! 
 
 Kneir. [opens the prayer book, touches Jo's arm. Jo looks 
 up, sobbing passionately, sees the prayer book, shakes her head 
 fiercely. Again wailing, drops to the floor, which she beats 
 with her hands. Kneibtje's trembling voice sounds]. Oh, 
 Merciful God! I trust! With a firm faith, I trust. [The 
 wind races with vnld lashings about the house.] 
 
 Kaps is at work in Bos's office when Simon comes in like 
 so many others to ask if there is any news of the Good Hope. 
 He accuses Kaps, who is slightly deaf and never hears 
 more than he thinks it discreet to hear, of knowing more 
 than he admits about the condition of the vessel. 
 
 Simon. I warned you folks when that ship lay in the 
 docks. What were the words I spoke then, en? 
 
 Kaps [shrugging his shoulders]. All tales on your part 
 for a glass of gin! 
 
 Simon. You lie. You were there, and the Miss was 
 there. I says, "The ship is rotten, that caulking was damn 
 useless. That a floating coffin like that " 
 
 Kaps. Good! that's what you said. I don't deny it. 
 What of it? Are you so clever that when you're half 
 drunk 
 
 Simon [angrily]. That's a damned he! 
 
 Kaps. Not drunk then, are you such an authority, you 
 a shipmaster's assistant, that when you say "no," and the 
 owner and the Insurance Company say "yes," my em- 
 ployer must put his ship in the dry docks? 
 
 Simon. Damned rot! I warned you! And now, I say 
 — now, I say — ^that if Mees, my daughter's betrothed, not 
 to speak of the others, if Mees — there will be murder. 
 
 Kaps. You make me laugh! Go get yourself a dram 
 and talk sense. 
 
 Enter Mabietje. 
 
 Simon. Better have stayed outside. No tidings. 
 
 Mar. [softly sobbing]. No tidings. 
 
 Simon. Murder will come of it. [Both off. 
 
 Saart is the next to worry the bookkeeper. Seven fami- 
 lies are stricken, she says, by the loss of the Hope. Old 
 Cobus enters, trembling with agitation, and nearly breaks 
 down when he asks for tidings. He knows that the watev 
 
HEIJERMANS 275 
 
 bailiff has received a telegram, and implores Kaps to help 
 him out in his uncertainty. His sister and niece, he says, 
 are simply insane with grief. Kaps declares curtly that 
 he wouldn't give a cent for the old ship after such a storm. 
 
 The telephone rings just as Clementine enters the office, 
 and she answers it. 
 
 Clem, [startled]. What did you say? A hatch marked 
 47 — and — [trembling] — I don't understand you. [Screama 
 and lets the receiver fall.] 
 
 Kaps. What's that? What's that? 
 
 Clem, [painfully shocked]. I don't dare listen Oh, 
 
 oh! 
 
 Kaps. Was that the water bailiff? 
 
 Clem, [passionately]. Barend washed ashore. O God, 
 now it is ended! 
 
 Saart. Barend? ^Barend? 
 
 Clem. A telegram from Nieuwediep. A hatch — and a 
 corpse 
 
 Bos comes in and asks his daughter what she is crying 
 about. He rings up the water bailiff and has a talk with 
 him himself, learning that Barend was identified by his 
 earrings. He says it is damned sad, that they are in God's 
 hands, and that he will notify the insurance company. 
 Then he turns on Cleinentine and scolds her savagely for 
 having repeated what Simon said about the Good Hope. 
 It won't be five minutes now, he says, before half the village 
 will be there. 
 
 Clem. Why didn't you listen? [Sobs softly.] 
 
 Bos. Listen! 
 
 Clem. When Simon, the shipbuUder's assistant 
 
 Bos. The fellow was drunk. 
 
 Clem, [firmly]. He was not! 
 
 Bos. He was, too! And if he hadn't been, what right 
 have you to stick your nose into matters you don't under- 
 stand? 
 
 Clem. Dear God, now I am also guilty 
 
 Bos [angrily.] Guilty? Guilty! Have the novels you 
 read gone to your head? Guilty! Are you possessed, to 
 use those words after such an accident? 
 
 Clem. He said that the ship was a floating coffin. 
 Then I heard you say that in any case it would be the last 
 voyage for the Hope. 
 
276 THE "GOOD HOPE" 
 
 Bos [angrily at first]. That damned boarding-school; 
 those damned boarding-school fads! Walk if you hke 
 through the village like a fool, sketching the first rascal or 
 beggar you meet! But don't blab out things you can be 
 held to account for. A floating coffin! Say, rather, a 
 drunken authority — the North, of Pieterse, and the Sur- 
 prise and the WiUem III and the Young John. I can keep 
 on naming them. Half of the fishing fleet and half the 
 merchant fleet are floating coffins. Did you hear that, 
 Kaps? 
 . Kaps [timidly]. No, Meneer, I don't hear anything. 
 
 Bos tells Clementine that he would have explained every- 
 thing to her if she had only asked him. The fact that the 
 underwriters inspect his ships yearly ought to satisfy her, 
 because they are careful not to pay out insurance if they 
 can help it. Kaps begins to read the muster roll of the 
 lost vessel. Truus and Marietje come in. 
 
 Truus [panting]. Are there tidings? Tidings of my 
 little son? \WiM despair.] Ach, God! Ach, God; don't 
 make me unhappy, Meneer! 
 
 Bos. I'm sorry, Mrs. Stappers 
 
 Mar. [shrieking]. It can't be! It can't be! You lie! — 
 It isn't possible! 
 
 Bos [gently]. The Burgomaster at Nieuwediep has tele- 
 graphed the water baiUff. Barend Vermeer was washed 
 ashore. You know what that means, and a hatch of the 
 47 
 
 TrutLS [hvdly]. Oh, Mother Mary, must I lose that 
 child, too? that lamb of twelve years ! \With a whimpering 
 cry] Oh, oh, oh, oh! Oh, oh, oh, oh! — ^Pietje — Pietje 
 
 Mar. [betoUdered]. Then Then [Bursts into 
 
 a hysterical laugh.] Hahaha! — ^Hahaha! 
 
 Bos. Give her a glass of water. 
 
 Mar. [striking the glass from Clementine's hand]. Go 
 away ! Go away ! [Falling on her knees, her hands catching 
 hold of the railing gate.] Let me die! — Let me die, please, 
 dear God, dear God! 
 
 Clem, [sbbbing]. Come Marietje, be calm; get up. 
 
 Truus. On his first voyage. And so brave; as he stood 
 there, waving, when the ship [Sobs Umdly.] 
 
 Bos. It can't be helped, Truus. It is a visitation. 
 There hasn't been a storm like that in years. Think of 
 
HEIJERMANS 277 
 
 Hengst with four children, and Jacob and Gerrit And, 
 
 although it's no consolation, I will hand you your boy's 
 wages to-day, if you like. Both of you go home now and 
 resign yourselves to the inevitable — take her with you — 
 she seems 
 
 Mar. \vnth trembling sobs]. I don't want to go home. 
 I want to die, die 
 
 Clem, [supporting her]. Cry, Marietje, cry, poor 
 lamb 
 
 When the two women have gone out. Bos asks Kaps how 
 the widows' and orphans' fund stands. Kaps replies that 
 it fell short some time ago, and that another public appeal 
 will have to be made. Bos's wife comes to ask him if he 
 will go to the parlor and see the Burgomaster's wife about 
 the fund. Clementine comes back weeping. Kaps as- 
 sures her it is very unwise to make herseft miserable. So 
 many ships go down, he says, that the Good Hope hardly 
 counts. Cobus returns with Jo, who believes there ia 
 a possibility that Geert may have been saved in a 
 boat. 
 
 Simon comes back again drunk. He is in a bold mood 
 and gives Bos a bad turn by going close to him and making 
 a threatening gesture. Bos calls him a sot with nervous 
 vehemence, and tells bim to get out. He is not reassured 
 when Simon says he won't murder him. 
 
 Simon [steadying himself by holding to the gate]. No — 
 stay where you are — I'm going — I— I — only wanted to 
 say how nicely it came out — ^with — with — the Good Hope. 
 
 Bos. You get out, inunediately! 
 
 Simon. Don't come so close to me — never come so 
 
 close to a man with a knife No-o-o-o — ^I have no 
 
 bad intentions. I only wanted to say that I warned you 
 — ^when— she lay in the docks. 
 
 Bos. You lie, you rascal! 
 
 Simon. Now just for the joke of it — ^you ask— ask 
 — ask your bookkeeper and yoiu* daughter — ^who were 
 there 
 
 Bos [vehemsnUy]. That's a he. You're not worth an 
 answer, you sot! I have nothing to do with you! My 
 business is with your employer. Did you understand 
 me, Kaps? 
 
 Simon. My employer — doesn't do the caulking himself. 
 
278 THE "GOOD HOPE" 
 
 [To Kafs, who has advanced to the gate.] Didn't I warn 
 him? — ^wasn't you there? 
 
 Kapa. [looking anxiously at Bos]. No, I wasn't there, 
 and even if I was, I didn't hear anything. 
 
 Bos. [to Clementine]. And now, you! Did that 
 drunken sot — — 
 
 Clem, [almost crying with anxiety]. Papa! 
 
 Bos [threatening]. As my daughter do you permit 
 
 [Grimly.] Answer me! 
 
 Clem, [anxiously]. I don't remember 
 
 Simon, That's low — ^that's low — damned low! I said, 
 the ship was rotten — rotten 
 
 Bos. A drunken man's stories. You're trying to drag 
 in my bookkeeper and daughter, and you hear 
 
 C<A. Yes, but — ^yes, but — ^now I remember also 
 
 Bos. By thunder! you warned us, too, eh? 
 
 Cob. No, no, that woidd be lying. But your daughter 
 — ^your daughter says now she hadn't heard the ship was 
 rotten. And on the second night of the storm, when she 
 was alone with me at my sister Kneirtje's, she did say 
 that — ^that 
 
 Clem, [trembling]. Did I — say 
 
 Cob. Yes, that you did! That very evening. These 
 are my words to you: "Now you are fibbing, ISfiss; for if 
 your father knew the Good Hope was rotten 
 
 Jo [springing up wildly, speaking with piercing distinct' 
 ness]. You, you lie! You began to cry. You were 
 afraid ships would be lost. I was there, and Truus was 
 there, and Oh, you adders! 
 
 Bos [banging his desk with his fis^. Adders! Adders! 
 You scum! Who gives you your feed, year in, year out? 
 Haven't you decency enough to believe us instead of that 
 drunken beggar who reels as he stands there? 
 
 Jo [raving v)ith anger]. Believe you? You! She lies 
 and you lie! 
 
 Bos [threatening]. Get out of my ofl5ce! 
 
 Jo. You had Barend dragged on board by the police; 
 Geert was too proud to be taken! Thief! tiiief! [Over- 
 wrought, hysterical laugh.] No, no, you needn't point to 
 your door! We are going. If I stayed here any longer I 
 would spit in your face — ^spit in your face ! [Makes threaten- 
 ing gesture.] 
 
HEIJERMANS 279 
 
 Cob. [restraining her]. Come — come- 
 
 Bos [after a silence]. For your Aunt's sake I will con- 
 sider that you are overwrought; otherwise — otherwise 
 
 The Good Hope was seaworthy, was seaworthy! Have I 
 no loss? Even if the ship was insured? And even had the 
 fellow warned me — ^which is a lie, could I, a business man, 
 take the word of a drunkard who can no longer get a job 
 because he is unable to handle tools? 
 
 Simon [stammering]. I — I told you and him and her — 
 that a floating coffin like that. That stands fast! 
 
 Jo [bursting out]. Oh oh! Geert and Barend and 
 Mees and the others! O God, how could you allow it! 
 [Sinks on the chair, sobbing.] Give me the money to go to 
 Nieuwediep myself, then I won't speak of it any more. 
 
 Bos [viridictively]. No! Not a red cent! A girl that 
 talks to me as rudely as you did 
 
 Jo [confuted, crying]. I don't know what I said — and 
 — and — ^I don't believe that you — that you — ^that you 
 would be worse than the devil. 
 
 Bos. The water bailiff says that it isn't necessary to 
 send any one to Nieuwediep. 
 
 Jo [staggering to the door]. Not necessary! Not neces- 
 sary! What will become of me now ? 
 
 Bos paces about. He tells Clementine not to dare to 
 set foot in his office again. Then he calls up the under- 
 writers and demands the insurance money. Finally 
 Kneirtje comes in. She sinks down on the bench, pa- 
 tiently weeping. When Bos sees her he asks why she did 
 not knock. She stares helplessly, her arms hanging limp. 
 Bos says he has sympathy for her, knowing she is a re- 
 spectable woman, but that he is sorry to have to tell her 
 that that niece of hers has never been any good. He re- 
 minds her that her son almost put him out of the house. 
 He is suddenly frightened at noticing that her head has 
 sunk down as if she were insensible. He and Kaps bathe 
 her forehead and wrists. Presently she comes to with 
 long-drawn sobs and sits looking before her with a dazed 
 stare. 
 
 Kneir. [in an agonized voice, broken with sobs]. He didn't 
 want to go! He didn't want to go! And with my own 
 hands I loosened his fingers from the door post. [Moan$ 
 sofUy.] 
 
280 THE "GOOD HOPE" 
 
 Bos [in a muffled voice]. You have no cause to reproach 
 yourself 
 
 Kneir. [in the same voice as before]. Before he went I 
 hung his father's rings in his ears. Like — ^like a lamb to 
 the slaughter 
 
 Bos. Come 
 
 Kneir. [panting]. And my oldest boy that I didn't bid 
 
 good-bye " If you're too late " — these were my words 
 
 — "I'U never look at you again." — "Never look at you 
 again!" 
 
 Bos [strongly rnxmed]. Stop! in God's name, stop! 
 
 Kneir. Twelve years ago — ^when the Clementine — ^I sat 
 here, as I am now. [Sobs with her face between her trembling 
 old hands.] 
 
 Bos. Come now, be strong. 
 
 Mathilde enters. 
 
 Mathilde. Clemens! Ach, poor, dear Kneir, I am so 
 isorry for you. It's dreadful! It is frightful! Two sons! 
 
 Kneir. [staring]. My husband and foiur sons 
 
 Mat. [consoling]. But don't you worry. We have writ- 
 ten an appeal, the Burgomaster's wife and I, and it's 
 
 going to be in all the papers to-morrow. Here, Kaps 
 
 [Hands Kaps a sheet of paper which he places on desk — ^Bos 
 motions to her to go.] Let her wait a while, Clemens. 
 [Sweetly.] I have a couple of cold chops — that will brace 
 her up — and — and — ^let's make up with her. You have no 
 objections to her coming again to do the cleaning? We 
 won't forget you, do you hear? Good day, Kneir. Be 
 brave. [Exits.] 
 
 Bos. No, we will not forget you. 
 
 Kneir. Now, my only hope is — ^my niece's child. 
 
 Bos [surprised]. A child? 
 
 Kneir. That misfortune is added. She is with child 
 
 by my son [Softly smiling.] Misfortune? No, that 
 
 isn't a misfortune now 
 
 Bos. And you sit and tell that? This immorality under 
 your own roof? Don't you know the rules of the fund, 
 that no aid can be extended to any one leading an immoral 
 life, or whose conduct does not meet with our approval? 
 
 Kneir. [submissive voice]. I leave it to the gentlemen 
 themselves — ^to do for me — the gentlemen 
 
 Bos. It will be a tussle with the Committee — the com- 
 
HEIJERMANS 281 
 
 mittee of the fund — ^your son had been in prison and sang 
 revolutionary songs. And your niece who How- 
 ever, I will do my best. I shall recommend you, but I 
 can't promise anything. There are seven new families 
 awaiting aid, sixteen new orphans. [Rising and closing 
 the safe.] No, sit a while longer. My wife wants to give 
 you something to take home with you. [Exits. 
 
 Mat. [invisible]. Kaps! Kaps! [The bookkeeper rises, 
 disappears for a moment, and returns with a dish and an 
 enamelled pan.] 
 
 Kaps [kindly]. If you will return the dish when it's 
 convenient, and if you'll come again Satiurday, to do the 
 cleaning. [She stares vacantly. He closes her nerveless 
 hands about the dish and pan; shuffles back to his stool. A 
 silence. Kneietje sits motionless, in dazed agony; mumbles 
 — moves her lips — rises with difficulty, stumbles out of the 
 office.] 
 
 Kaps [taking up sheet of paper from desk]. Appeal, for 
 the newspapers! [Smiling sardonically, he comes to the 
 foreground; leaning on Bos's desk, he reads.] "Benevolent 
 fellow countrymen, again we urge upon yom: generosity 
 an appeal in behalf of a number of destitute widows and 
 
 orphans. The lugger Good Hope [He continues 
 
 reading as the curtain falls.] 
 
MONNA VANNA* 
 By Maubice Maeterunck 
 
 First played in Paris in May 17, 1902. 
 
 Argument: To save Pisa from being taken by storm and 
 sacked by the Florentines, Monna Vanna, wife of the 
 commander of the garrison, agrees to visit Prinzivalle, the 
 commander of the enemy, at night in his tent, clad only 
 in her mantle. Prinzivalle, swayed by admiration and 
 by the love he has long felt for Monna Vanna, does not 
 require submission of her, and to save him from the Flor- 
 entines, whom he has betrayed by sending munitions to 
 Pisa, she takes him back widi her to the city. WiU Van- 
 na's husband accept her account of what has happened, 
 and will Vanna and Prinzivalle be brought together as 
 lovers? 
 
 From the windows of Guido Colonna's palace is seen a 
 wide stretch of the country about Pisa, where the army of 
 Florence has drawn its hues close to the walls during a 
 siege of three months. Desperate resistance has been 
 made, but now both food and ammimition have given out, 
 and it is only a question of hours when the city will be sub- 
 ject to sack, rapine and slaughter. In this extremity, 
 Guido Colonna, the commander, is consulting with lus 
 lieutenants. The walls are breached, little resistance 
 can be made, and they do not imderstand why Prinzivalle, 
 the leader of the Florentines, delays the assault. 
 
 Marco Colonna, Guido's father, returns from Prinzi- 
 valle's camp, whither he went to treat of terms. He tells 
 his son that he bears a message fraught with salvation to 
 30,000 lives, and with heavy affliction to one. The old 
 man is long-winded, roundabout. He expected to find 
 Prinzivalle the incarnate fiend of battle, headstrong and 
 
 •Copyright, 1907, by Dodd, Mead & Co. Translated by Alfred Sutro. 
 
 282 
 
MAETERLINCK 283 
 
 incoherent, vain, debauched, treacherous, and cruel. He 
 found him learned, studious, humane, and generous, with 
 no liking for war, and a reluctant servant of the perfidious 
 RepubUc of Florence. Guido implores his father to say 
 what salvation is ofiEered. 
 
 It is true that he does wrong to hesitate, replies Marco, 
 cruel as the thing is to the two creatures he loves best of 
 all on this earth. Guido accepts his share of the evU, 
 whatever it may be, but asks who is the other to suffer. 
 Marco wanders off, talking of the determination of Flor- 
 ence to destroy them. The city will be assaulted by Span- 
 ish and German mercenaries who need no m-ging to vio- 
 lence. The leaders will pretend to have lost all control. 
 Prinzivalle has come under the suspicion of his employers 
 by delaying the attack so long. Condemnation, torture, 
 and death await him when Pisa is destroyed. He pro- 
 poses to come into Pisa and help defend her with his own 
 bodyguard, and the archers, who are devoted to him. 
 
 Such auxiliaries would be dangerous, says Guido, and 
 they do not need the men. What they require are ammu- 
 nition and provisions. But PrinzivaUe offers also to divert 
 to Pisa three hundred wagons laden with ammunition and 
 food that have just entered his camp. Guido does not 
 imderstand why Prinzivalle does not seek some simpler 
 way of revenge on Florence and safety for himself. Whither 
 will he go and what will become of him? What does he 
 demand in return? The moment has come, Marco says, 
 when words turn cruel and all-powerful, when two or three 
 syllables suddenly borrow the face of destiny. He trem- 
 bles when he thinks that the sound of his voice can cause 
 so many deaths or save so many Uves. The cruellest 
 words, Guido returns, can add nothing to such a misfor- 
 tune as theirs. 
 
 A sorrow awaits Guido, his father proceeds, that should 
 be no sorrow perhaps, could he consider it rightly. If he 
 rejects the promise, Marco has given his promise to return 
 to the enemy's camp where death and torture will probably 
 be the reward of his loyalty. But the mighty convoy of 
 wagons laden with corn and wine and fruit; the flocks of 
 sheep and herds of cattle shall be introduced into Pisa that 
 very night if Guido will send in exchange and deliver to 
 PrinzivaUe — and she shall return with the first rays of 
 
284 MONNA VANNA 
 
 dawn, Marco says — ^but he demands, in token of victory 
 and submission, that she come alone and clad only in her 
 mantle. 
 
 Guido. Who? Who is to go? You have not told 
 me . 
 
 Marco. Giovanna. 
 
 Guido. What! My wife? . . . Vanna? . . , 
 
 Marco. Yes, your Vanna ... At last I have said 
 it! 
 
 Guido. But why Vaima? Are there not a thousand 
 women? 
 
 Marco. It is because she is the most beautiful, and he 
 loves her . . . 
 
 Guido. He loves her! . . . Where has he seen her? 
 He does not know her! 
 
 Marco. He has seen her. He knows her, but would 
 not say when or how . . . 
 
 Guido. But she, has she seen him? Where have they 
 met? 
 
 Marco. She has never seen him, or at least she does not 
 remember, 
 
 Guido is astonished to find that his father has already 
 seen Vanna and told her of this infamous bargain. When 
 he learns that she turned white upon hearing it, he says 
 that was better than reproaches. He tells his heutenants 
 that they will return to the ramparts and die without stain- 
 ing themselves with dishonor. 
 
 Marco asks him to give reason time to discriminate 
 between duty and private sorrow. He must ask himself 
 whether he has a right to sacrifice a whole people. Did 
 Guido's happiness alone depend upon his choice Marco 
 could understand his preferring death; though to him who 
 is near the end of life there can be no moral or physical evil 
 that is not preferable to death, cold and horrible death, 
 with its eternal silence. And here many thousands of 
 lives are at stake. If he yields to a madman's frenzy, then 
 the thing that seems monstrous to him shall be called heroic 
 by those who come after. The most heroic deed is the one 
 that costs us most, and death is often far easier than life. 
 
 In fury Guido rejects the loathsome compact. His 
 father may choose death for his share and return to the 
 enemy's camp. He will hear no more; they and his lieu- 
 
MAETERLINCK 285 
 
 tenants will keep the secret, and bury all this in their 
 hearts. But buried it cannot be, returns Marco. Guido 
 is not the only judge. All those whose life or death hangs 
 on this hour have a right to know their fate, and to be told 
 upon what their salvation depends. Upon leaving the 
 room he will at once inform the people of Prinzivalle's offer. 
 
 While Pisa stands, says Guido, he is the master and the 
 custodian of her honor. To his Ueutenants, Borso and 
 Torello, he entrusts his father. No one shall know. 
 Marco replies that he may be imprisoned, but not his 
 secret, for that is free and can no longer be stifled. At this 
 very moment it is being discussed by the Seignory. Guido 
 guesses that it will not be difficult to f oreteU what the Seig- 
 nory will decide. To save themselves they have only to 
 sacrifice one man. But he is wrong. The Seignory have 
 refused to owe their safety to the sacrifice of a woman's 
 love. They have summoned Vanna to place the fate of 
 the city in her hands. 
 
 Guido does not doubt that Vanna will refuse. Marco 
 has noticed a certain strength in Vanna, and that leaves 
 him in no doubt as to what her answer will be. Guido says 
 if Vanna's decision is not the same as his, then they have 
 both been deceived in each other, and their love will have 
 been a mere lie. Cries of " Vaima, Vanna," arise from the 
 crowd outside. The door at the back opens and Vanna, 
 alone and pale, advances into the room. Men and women 
 who seem afraid to enter try to hide themselves against 
 the door. Guido rushes to Vanna, throws his arms around 
 her and embraces her frantically. 
 
 Vanna has decided that she must go. Guido asks if she 
 means to kill Prinzivalle, then if she loves him, and finally 
 will not believe that she has spoken and asks her to dispel 
 ' this dream. She says she knows how hard it must be to 
 bear. He thrusts her from him. Has he not to bear it 
 all, he who loved? He declares that she never loved him. 
 Now he begins to see. She is glad to leave him. She 
 loves this man. But he is still the master. Does she 
 think he will let these things be? He will place her in a 
 dungeon until such time as her heroism shall have cooled, 
 and she learns where her duty lies. He gives the command 
 to have her taken away. 
 
 Ouido. They do not obey! No one here to do my bid- 
 
286 MONNA VANNA 
 
 ding! You, Borso, Torello, have your arms turned to 
 stone? Can my voice not make itseK heard! . . . 
 You, down there, you others, who stand and Usten, can you 
 not hear me? I shout to them; they do not move . . . 
 Take her away, I say! . . . Away, away! , . . 
 Ah, I see what it is ! They are afraid; they want to live — 
 to live, that is all they care for! I must die that they may 
 live; but not that way! . . . No, no, that were surely 
 too easy . . . Here am I alone against the crowd, and 
 I am to pay for it all . . . Why I, and not you! You 
 all have wives! . . . [Half drawing his sword and ap- 
 proaching Vanna.] And what if I prefer death to dishonor? 
 . . . That had not occurred to you! • . . But, see, 
 I have only to raise my hand 
 
 Vanna. If your love bids you, Guido . . . 
 
 Guido. "If your love bids you!" Ah, yes, speak of 
 love, you who never have known what it means! You, in 
 whose soul there can never have been any love! Now as 
 I look at you I see a desert — a desert where all is swallowed 
 up, parched and dying . . . not even a tear, not a 
 tear! . . . What was I, what was I to you? A man 
 whose arms offered shelter, that was all! . . . Had 
 you but for an instant . . . 
 
 Vanna. Guido, look at me, look at me! Can you not 
 see? What shall I say to you, Guido? Have I words to 
 tell what I feel? Let me speak but one single word and 
 all my strength goes! ... I cannot ... I love 
 you, I owe everything to you ! . . . And yet I shall go; 
 I must, I must . . . 
 
 Guido [thrusting her from him]. It is well! Go; get you 
 hence ! Go to him, I give you up. Go ! You are mine no 
 longer . . . 
 
 Vanna [seizing his hand]. Guido! . . . 
 
 Guide [pushing her away]. Ah, do not clutch at me with 
 those warm, soft hands . . . My father was right; he 
 knew you better . . . Father, here she is. This is 
 yoiur work, finish it now to the end . . . Lead her to 
 this man's tent. I shall stay here and watch you go off 
 together . . . But do not imagine that I claim a share 
 in the bread and meat she wiU buy . . . There re- 
 mains but one thing for me, and that you shall know very 
 soon . , . 
 
MAETERLINCK 287 
 
 Vanna [clinging to him]. Guido, look at me; do not turn 
 your eyes from me — that is too dreadful . . . Let me 
 see your eyes, Guido . . . 
 
 Guido. See then! Look into my eyes, and read . . . 
 Go, I know you no longer! Time presses — out yonder he 
 waits .-night is falling . . . Go! what have you to fear? 
 I shall not kill myself. I am not mad; it is only when love 
 is triumphant that reason totters, not when love crumbles 
 ... I have gazed into the very depths of love, ay, of 
 love and fidelity ... I have no more to say. No, 
 no, unclasp yoiu: fingers; they cannot detain a vanishing 
 love. All is over, finished, done with; there remains not a 
 trace! . . ' . The past is engulfed, and the future, too 
 . . . Ah, yes, those pure white fingers, those noble eyes, 
 thoseUps;there was a time when I believed . . . Now 
 nothing remains . . . [Casting Vanna 's hands jram 
 him.] Nothing, nothing, less than nothing! Farewell, 
 Vanna! Get you gone! Farewell . . . You go yon- 
 der? . . . 
 
 Vanna. Yes . . . 
 Guido. You will not return? . . . 
 Vanna. Yes, I shall return . . . 
 Guido. As to that, we shall see . . . Ah, we shall 
 see . . . Who could have told me that my father knew 
 her better than I! . . . 
 
 He totters, and chngs to one of the marble columns. 
 Vanna goes out slowly and alone, without another glance 
 at him. 
 
 Prinzivalle's tent is sumptuously arrayed with hangings 
 of silk and gold. Arms and precious furs are strewn about. 
 Great chests lie half open, revealing quantities of jewels and 
 glittering stuffs. Prinzivalle, standing by a table, is ar- 
 ranging documents, plans, and arms. Vedio, his secretary, 
 comes in with a letter from Trivulzio, the first Commissioner 
 of Florence. PrinzivaUe finds that it contains an order 
 for him to dehver an attack upon Pisa at dawn imder 
 pain of immediate arrest. 
 
 Such stale and hackneyed words, PrinzivaUe says, can- 
 not bring terror to the man who awaits the supreme hour 
 of his life. As Marco Colonna has not returned to him he 
 knows that his offer has not been rejected. It seems 
 strange to him that he should confide aU his destiny to a 
 
288 MONNA VANNA 
 
 thing so frail as the love of a woman. Yet he has waited 
 for this hour from boyhood, waited and yearned. Looking 
 out of his tent toward Pisa, he sees a light flaring from the 
 campanile. It is the signal heralding the trembling foot- 
 steps of the woman who gives herself that others may 
 live. 
 
 Trivulzio enters. He speaks first of the high esteem in 
 which he holds Prinzivalle. Enemies accuse Prinzivalle 
 most bitterly, he says, of indecision, vacillation, sloth. 
 Doubt is thrown upon his loyalty. Florence at this very 
 moment is in danger, menaced by an army from Venice. 
 All may yet be well if on the morrow Prinzivalle deUvers 
 the assault. Prinzivalle replies that he has intercepted 
 two letters in which Trivulzio basely and falsely denounced 
 his every action. He asks whether they were written from 
 pure malice, or to provide the treacherous avarice of 
 Florence with an excuse for dealing cheaply with a vic- 
 torious mercenary. 
 
 In these letters every action of Prinzivalle's has been dis- 
 figured, degraded, besmirched; and this from the very first 
 week of the siege down to the present hour, the fortunate 
 hour, he says, in which he has resolved to justify Trivulzio's 
 suspicions. He has been judged unheard and condemned 
 to death. He knows full well that not all the innocence of 
 the archangels could help him to escape from the damning 
 proofs that Trivulzio has provided. 
 
 Hitherto Prinzivalle has been no traitor, but since these 
 two letters fell into his hands, he assures the Commissioner, 
 he has been preparing the ruin of Florence. This night 
 he will sell Trivulzio and his sorry masters; he will deal 
 them the cruellest, the most fatal blow that lies in his 
 power. And he will regard it as the noblest deed of his 
 life thus to have humbled the one city that exalts treachery 
 to a virtue, and seeks to govern the imiverse by means of 
 fraud and hypocrisy, hes, ingratitude, and vUlainy. 
 
 Drawing his dagger, Trivulzio aims a swift blow at 
 Prinzivalle, who wards it off, but the weapon glances across 
 his cheek. He seizes Trivulzio by the wrist. Although 
 he has easily mastered the Commissioner, he will not use 
 the dagger against him, but asks him to confess that it 
 was a despicable thing to write the letters. Trivulzio 
 defends the letters on the groimd that it was wise to guard 
 
MAETERLmCK 289 
 
 against the chance that Prinzivalle might become danger- 
 ous when flushed by the success of victory. 
 
 Prinzivalle turns Trivulzio over to his guard. Vedio 
 bandages his face, and warns him that the trouble with 
 Trivulzio will mean ruin. Prinzivalle rephes that at this 
 moment his destiny is being balanced in the sky, and that 
 they are granting him the share of a hundred lovers, the 
 share of a thousand joys. He touches the moment when 
 those marked out for grand disaster or triumph suddenly 
 find themselves on the topmost peak of their life, where all 
 things belong to them and obey them. What comes after 
 matters nothing. 
 
 Although not knowing whither he shaU go or what will 
 become of him, Prinzivalle tells Vedio to make good his 
 escape alone, and to take what he wants from the coflFers. 
 There is a sound of a shot. Vedio goes out and after a 
 moment returns with Monna Vanna. The shot was fired 
 at her in spite of the precautions that Prinzivalle had taken 
 to safeguard her. 
 
 In a stifled voice Monna Vanna says that she has come 
 as Prinzivalle bade her. When he has assured himself that 
 she accepts the bargain, he raises a curtain at the back of 
 the tent and shows her the convoy waiting outside. He 
 gives an order. Torches are waved to and fro, whips are 
 cracked and wagons creak. There is a bleating of sheep 
 and lowing of oxen. The mighty convoy has started. 
 Thanks to Monna Vanna, Pisa will be invincible. Prinzi- 
 valle asks if she is satisfied. She replies that she is. 
 
 Prinzivalle. Let us close the tent then; and give me 
 your hand. The evening is still mild, but the night will be 
 cold. You have no weapons concealed about you, no 
 poison? 
 
 Vanna. I have only my sandals and this mantle. 
 Search me if you are afraid . . . 
 
 Prinz. It is not for myself that I fear, but for you . . 
 
 Vanna. I place the life of my people high above 
 aU . . . 
 
 Prinz. It is well, and you have done right . . . 
 Come, sit here . . . It is a warrior's couch, rugged 
 and fierce, narrow as a tomb, and but little worthy of you 
 . . . Lie here, on these tiger-skins, that have never 
 yet felt the gentle touch of a woman . . . Place this 
 
290 MONNA VANNA 
 
 soft fur at your feet . . . It is the skin of a lynx that 
 an African monarch gave me on the night of a victory . . 
 [Vanna sits, closely vjrapped in her mantle.] 
 
 Prinz. The Kght of the lamp is falling on your eyes; 
 shall I move it? 
 
 Vanna. It matters not. ... 
 
 Kneeling at the foot of the couch and seizing her hand, 
 Prinzivalle utters her name, "Giovanna," in a tone of 
 such deep feeling that she starts up and looks at him. He 
 trembles as he speaks the name which has long remained 
 sealed in his heart. He had spoken it every hour of every 
 day, he tells her, like a great word of love that one yearns 
 to utter in the presence of her whom it has so long evoked 
 in vain. He says h^ is a poor wretch who for one single 
 instant wistfully gazes at what has been the aim of his 
 life; an unhappy man who asks nothing; who knows not 
 even what it is he should ask; and yet he would, were it 
 possible to him, tell her before she goes of what she has 
 been to him, and will be to the very end of his life. 
 
 They met for the first time when she was eight years old 
 and he was twelve. At Venice, one Sunday in June, his 
 father, who was a goldsmith, took her mother a necklace of 
 pearls. Prinzivalle strayed into the garden. He found 
 her there by the side of a pond, in a grove of myrtle, 
 crying because her ring had fallen into the water. He 
 recovered it and placed it on her finger. He was nearly 
 drowned, but she kissed him and was happy. She re- 
 members a fair-haired child named Gianello. It was he. 
 He shifts the bandage on his face and she recognizes him 
 faintly, especially by his smile, which is still that of a 
 child. 
 
 He can recall the garden to his mind's eye, with its pome- 
 granates, its roses, and laurels. They played there often. 
 At last his father took him to Africa. He was made 
 prisoner by the Arabs and led a wandering life. When 
 he saw Venice again her mother was dead; the garden lay 
 waste. He sought her in vain, tUl at last he heard of her 
 owing to the fame of her beauty. She asks if he knew her 
 when she came into the tent. 
 
 Prinz. Had ten thousand women come into my tent, 
 every one with a face like yours and clad aUke and equally 
 beautiful, ten thousand sisters whom their own kindred 
 
MAETERLINCK 291 
 
 could not distinguish, I should have risen and taken you 
 by the hand and said, "This is she." ... It is 
 strange, is it not, that an image one loves should thus be 
 able to dwell in the heart; for in this heart of mine yours 
 Uved so profoundly that it grew and it changed . . . 
 It was diflferent to-day from what it was yesterday; it 
 blossomed, it became more beautiful; and the years 
 adorned it with the gifts they bring to the budding child 
 . . . And yet, when I saw you again it seemed at first 
 as though my eyes deceived me . . . My memory, 
 that had so faithfully treasured your beauty, had yet been 
 too timid, too halting; it had not dared to endow you with 
 all the glory which so suddenly flashed on my sight. I was 
 like a man who remembers a flower he has only seen once 
 as he crossed the garden in twihght, and suddenly beholds 
 a hundred thousand flowers beneath the radiant hght of 
 the sun . . . You came in, and I saw the brow again 
 that I knew so well, the hair, and the eyes; I saw the soul 
 in the face I adored . . . But its beauty humbled the 
 one that I had been silently storing for days and days, 
 and months without end, and year after year — the beauty 
 that had fed on a halting memory, and fallen so immeas- 
 urably short of the real . . . 
 
 She does not understand why he made no effort to see the 
 woman whom he had loved so deeply, but he had learned 
 at Venice that she was about to marry a great Tuscan 
 noble, the richest and most powerful of all in Pisa. He 
 was an adventurer without a home, without a country. 
 Often he wandered around the walls of the city, unwilling 
 to disturb the love and happiness that she had found. He 
 became a mercenary. At last Florence despatched him 
 to Pisa. 
 
 Vanna. How feeble and cowardly men become when 
 they love! . . . Understand me well; I do not love 
 you, nor can I tell whether I could ever have loved you 
 . . . But it makes the very soul of love leap and cry 
 in my heart when I find that a man who pretended to love 
 as I might myself have loved had not more courage in 
 the face of love ... 
 
 Prinz. It was not courage that failed me ... I 
 had need of more than you think to be able to go . . . 
 But it was too late . . . 
 
292 MONNA VANNA 
 
 Vanna. It was not too late when you left Venice. 
 When one finds a love that fills a life, it never can be too 
 late . . . Such a love never renounces. Expecting 
 nothing, it hopes. And it pei:sists, still, when it has ceased 
 to hope. Had I loved as you say you loved, then I would 
 have . . . Ah, one cannot say what one would have 
 done . . . But this much I know: fate should not 
 have wrenched my happiness from me without a struggle 
 . . . I should have cried to fate, "Hence, hence, I 
 pass here!" . . . I should have forced the very stones 
 to side with me ! And whatever the cost, the man whom I 
 loved should have learnt of my love, and himself have pro- 
 nounced the sentence, and pronounced it more than 
 once! . . . 
 
 Prinz. [seeking her hand]. You do not love him, Vanna? 
 
 She withdraws her hand, for she cannot give it to him. 
 When Guido married her she was alone, almost poor, and 
 the woman who is alone and poor, she says, especially if 
 her face be fair and she scorniful of artifice or falsehood, 
 soon falls victim to calumny. To these calumnies Guido 
 paid no heed; he had faith in her, and his faith pleased 
 her. He made her happy, at least as happy as one can be 
 when one has renounced the vague and extravagant 
 dreams which seem beyond human life. That is the love 
 that fortime has given her, and she will have no other. 
 Furthermore, she does not think he has done what such a 
 love as he tells of would do. 
 
 She must believe him, he replies, for he is one of those 
 who asks for nothing and hopes for nothing. She is in his 
 tent now, and at his mercy. He has only to stretch out 
 his hand, and all is his that the ordinary lover demands. 
 But she knows as well as he that the love of which he has 
 spoken craves other things; therefore he asks that she no 
 longer doubt him. When they part to meet no more, she 
 must know what kind of love his has been, that it halted 
 only before the impossible. 
 
 She remembers that he has madly wrecked his future, 
 his fame, all that he has in the world, to bring her there 
 for an hour beneath his tent, and is forced to admit that 
 possibly his love may be what he says. This last act is 
 the only one that proves nothing, he returns. He should 
 not have betrayed his country for love, but he is only a 
 
MAETERLINCK 293 
 
 mercenary, faithful when others are faithful, a traitor 
 when they betray. He has been falsely accused and con- 
 demned. The thing that he has done this night, far from 
 hastening his ruin, will perhaps save him, if that is still 
 possible. He should have no joy in a smile of hers that he 
 had purchased with a lie. She says this confession is worth 
 more than love and its noblest proofs. At last she asks 
 him what he had in mind when she entered the tent, what 
 he had intended to do. 
 
 Prinz. Ah, how can I tell! ... I knew I was 
 lost, I had the wild craving to drag all things down with 
 me . . . And I hated you because of this love of 
 mine! I marvel now at myself when I think of it . . . 
 There needed but a word that was not yours, a gesture 
 different from your gestures, to unchain the brute within 
 me and fan my hatred . . . But the moment I saw 
 you I realized how impossible it was . . . 
 
 Vanna. So did I reaUze it, too, and all fear left me, for 
 we understood each other without a word being said. And 
 it is all very strange ... I should have done this 
 thing, too, I believe, had I loved like you . . . In- 
 deed, there are moments, as I listen to you, when I fancy 
 that I am speaking, and that your words are my words, 
 and you hearing what I am saying . . . 
 
 Prinz. Could you have loved me, Vanna, had my evil 
 star not brought me to you when it was too late? . . . 
 
 Vanna. Were I to teU you that I could have loved you, 
 it would be the same as my teUing you that I love you 
 now, GianeUo, and you know as well as I that cannot be 
 . . . But we speak to each other here as though we 
 were on a desert island . . . Were I alone in the 
 world there would be no more to say . . . But we 
 forget the suffering that another endures, while we two 
 smile at the past . . . When I think of Guido's sor- 
 row as I left Pisa, the despair in his eyes, his haggard face 
 — oh, I can wait no longer! . . . Dawn must be 
 close at hand, and I am so eager to know! ... I hear 
 a footstep, some one is passing the tent . . . People 
 are whispering behind the curtain . . . Listen, lis- 
 ten! . . . What is it.? 
 
 Vedio has come to the tent to warn Prinzivalle that he 
 must flee at once. Not an instant is to be lost. Messer 
 
294 MONNA VANNA 
 
 Madura, the second Commissioner of Florence, has arrived 
 and proclaimed PrinzivaUe a traitor. The camp is already 
 in an uproar. 
 
 PrinzivaUe tells Vedio to take two men and escort 
 Monna Vanna to Pisa. She asks what he will do. He 
 does not know, and says it matters little. Vedio reminds 
 Tiim that Tuscany is full of spies. There will be no refuge 
 for him. 
 
 Vanna. Come to Pisa. 
 
 Prinz. With you? . . . 
 
 Vanna. Yes. 
 
 Prinz. I cannot . . . 
 
 Vanna. If only for a few days ... to put them 
 off the scent . . . 
 
 Prinz. What will your husband do? . . . 
 
 Vanna. He will not fail in his duty to a guest . . . 
 
 Prinz. Will he beheve you when you tell him? . . . 
 
 Vanna. Yes. . . . — ^If he did not believe me 
 . . . But he will, he must . . . — Come . . . 
 
 Still he will not go, fearing for her, but she says it will not 
 increase her danger to be accompanied by him. It is for 
 >iim that they must fear. He has saved Pisa, and now it 
 is right that Pisa should save him. He shall go under her 
 protection. She will stand surety for him. She says he 
 could give no better proof of his love. He consents to go. 
 
 Followed by Vanna, he goes to the entrance of the tent 
 and throws the tapestry open. There is a vast murmur of 
 voices and clashing of arms; but above all is heard the 
 soimd of distant bells, pealing joyfully, that burst sharply 
 upon the silence of the night. Far away in the distance 
 Pisa is seen on the horizon, brilliantly illuminated. Great 
 bonfires throw a mighty glare on the dark sky. 
 
 In her happiness at the joy of Pisa, Vanna kisses Prinzi- 
 vaUe on the brow, the only lass, she says, that she can give 
 him. Suddenly she turns faint, and he supports her as 
 they go out together. 
 
 In his apartment of state Guido is waiting with Marco, 
 Borso, and ToreUo for Vanna's return. Marco implores 
 Guido not blindly to follow the first counsels of anger and 
 grief, not to judge her to-day, and to do nothing irrev- 
 ocable. Guido says he shaU act as his father would have 
 
MAETERLINCK 295 
 
 urged him to act but a few years ago. Pisa has food now. 
 From this day her fighting men are his. Vanna he shall 
 forgive when this man has ceased to live. He tells his 
 lieutenants, furthermore, that they see a son who judges 
 his own father, denies him and curses him. 
 
 A vague but mighty mtirmur is heard from without. 
 Soon the cries take form, and from all sides are repeated 
 clearly, "Vanna, Vanna! Glory to Monna Vanna!" 
 Marco rushes to a portico opening on a terrace. Borso 
 and Torello follow him. Guido remains alone, leaning 
 against a pillar and looking straight before him. The 
 noise from without has become louder and drawn rapidly 
 nearer. A great crowd fills the square, the streets, the 
 windows, and trees. A lane is opened for Vanna to pass 
 through, and flowers are strewn before her. 
 
 At last Vanna appears at the top of the steps, accom- 
 panied by Prinzivalle, and throws herself into Marco's 
 arms. The crowd invade the stairs and the terrace. 
 Guido steps forward. With a brusque gesture he stops 
 her as she is about to throw herself into his arms, and 
 turning to the people tells them to go. But Vanna says 
 they must wait; she must tell them all. He pushes her 
 back in growing anger and disperses the crowd, asking if it 
 is'not enough that he has paid for their meat and wine. 
 
 Seizing his father by the arm, he says that he above all 
 others should go, as the fault was his. Then he sees 
 Prinzivalle and asks who he is. He snatches a halberd 
 from one of the guard to drive him out. Vanna tells 
 him it is Prinzivalle, his guest, who has put himself into his 
 hands. It was he, she says, who saved her. 
 
 Guido [after a moment's stupor, with growing exultation 
 and vehemence that render it impossible for Vanna to interrupt 
 him]. Ah, this, my Vanna! .... Ah, this falls on 
 my soul like dew from the innermost heaven! . . . 
 Ah, Vanna, my Vanna! . . . Yes, you are right; since 
 it had to be done, that was the way to do it! Ah, I under- 
 stand your stratagem now! Yes, I see it all! . . . 
 But I did not know, I could not imagine! . . . There 
 are women who would have killed him, as Judith killed 
 Holophernes! . . . But his crime is greater than that 
 of Holophernes, and calls for a greater vengeance! . . . 
 Therefore you brought him here; therefore you have led 
 
296 MONNA VANNA 
 
 Viim into the midst of his victims, who now shall become 
 his executioners! . . . Ah, the magnificent triumph! 
 . . . He followed you meekly, tenderly; and did not 
 suspect that the kisses you gave him were kisses of hatred! 
 . . . Here he is, caught in a trap! . . . Yes, you 
 were right! To have killed him down there, alone in his 
 tent, after his horrible crime — that would not have sufficed! 
 . . . A doubt would have remained, we should not have 
 seen hitn . . . All had known of the abominable 
 compact; it was needful, therefore, that aU should know the 
 price to be paid for such treachery! . . . But how did 
 you do it? . . . It is the greatest triumph that ever a 
 woman , . . Ah, you shall tell them! [He rushes to 
 the terrace and shouts at the top of his voice.] Prinzivalle! 
 Prinzivalle! The enemy is here! We hold him! 
 
 The people flock back to the terrace and into the hall. 
 Guido exclaims that there is a justice, after all. He thought 
 that years and years must pass; that he should have to 
 spend his life seeking his foe, in towns, in forests, in moun- 
 tains. And now he suddenly springs up before him. He 
 is no longer the magnificent Prinzivalle. There shall be 
 no pity, he declares, for him who took by a vile and mon- 
 strous artifice the only thing in the world that could not be 
 given. 
 
 The people whom Prinzivalle caused so much suffering, 
 whom he sought to massacre, whose wives and children he 
 sold into slavery, behold him now. The past is the past. 
 They had the right to prefer their own Uves to their com- 
 mander's happiness, but Vanna knew how to build love 
 anew with the thing that had killed it. She did not wish 
 to slay him in a closed tent, but has brought the victim 
 before them alive. She will tell how she did it, he says, but 
 first he stops her to throw his arms around her and kiss her 
 before them all. 
 
 Vanna [thrusting him back violenUy]. No, no! Not yet! 
 • . . No, no, never again if you will not hear me! 
 Listen, Guido! I speak of an honor more real, of a happi- 
 ness greater than those that are blinding you! Ah, I am 
 glad they have all returned! They will hear me, perhaps, 
 before you will: they will understand before you under- 
 stand! Listen, Guido! . . . You, shall not touch me 
 until you know . . . 
 
MAETERLINCK 297 
 
 Guido {im&rrupting her, and again trying to embrace her]. 
 Yes, yes, I know — ^but first of all I will . . . 
 
 Vanna. Listen, I tell you! In all my life I have never 
 lied, but to-day I am telling the profoundest truth, the 
 truth one speaks only once, tiiat brings life or death in its 
 train . . . Listen; and look at me well; look at me as 
 though you had never seen me before this hour, which is 
 the first, the only one when you tridy can love me as I 
 wish to be loved ... I speak to you now in the name 
 of the life we have lived together; in the name of all that 
 I am, of all that you are to me! . . . Be capable of 
 believing what, perhaps, can be scarcely believed . . . 
 I was in this man's power ... I had been handed 
 over to him: he did not come near me, he did not touch me 
 . . . I come from his tent as from the home of a 
 brother . . . 
 
 Guido. Why? 
 
 Vanna. Because he loves me . . . 
 
 Guido. Ah! so that was what you had to say to us! 
 That was the miracle? . . . Yes, yes, at your very 
 first words I saw there was something strange ... It 
 was only a fiash, and I paid no heed ... I thought 
 that the trouble, the horror had . . . But I see now 
 that we must look into it ... So he did not come 
 near you, you say; he did not touch you? . . . 
 ■ Vanna. No. 
 
 Guido. Not even kiss you? 
 
 Vanna. I gave him one kiss on the brow, which he 
 returned. 
 
 Guido. And you can tell this to me? . . . Vanna, 
 Vanna, has this fearful night driven you mad? 
 
 Vanna. I tell you the truth. 
 
 Guido. The truth! Great God! it is that, and that 
 alone, that I seek! But the truth must be human . . . 
 What! a man who betrays his country, ruinS his life, sets 
 all the world against him forever — and does all this that 
 you should go to his tent alone — ^this man demands but a 
 kiss on the brow; and comes to us here with you to make us 
 believe it? . . . No, no; we must be just, and not gibe 
 too much at misfortune ... If this was aU that he 
 asked, why inflict so much misery upon our whole people? 
 And flood me with such despair? . . . This night has 
 
298 MONNA VANNA 
 
 lasted ten years: I have scarcely survived it! . . . Ah, 
 had this been all he sought he could have saved us without 
 this tortiu-e! . . . We should have welcomed him like 
 a god, like a deliverer! You shake your head . . . 
 See, the people shall judge, the people shall answer. [Ad- 
 dressing the crowd.] Have you heard? I know not why 
 she has said these things; but what she has said is said, and 
 you shall be judges . . . You will believe her, per- 
 haps, since she has saved you . . • If you beUeve her, 
 speak . • . Let those who believe her step out from 
 the crowd! . . . Let them come to us here, and give 
 the lie to poor human reason! . . . Let them come, 
 all those who beUeve! ... I am abxious to look at 
 them, and see what sort of men they are! 
 
 Marco alone stands forth. One hears only indistinct 
 miu-murs. Marco rushes forward crying, "I believe her!" 
 Guido says he is the accomplice. Vanna tells him that 
 any one had cause to believe her, except he who loved her. 
 He replies that he will not become her dupe because he 
 loved her. Imploring him to look at her, she declares that 
 all her loyalty, all her strength and her truth are in her 
 eyes. He must believe it; Prinzivalle did not touch her. 
 
 Guido thinks she is seeking to save Prinzivalle. Raising 
 his voice, he tells the crowd that he is restraining himself 
 only by a superhuman effort. These two, Vanna and 
 Prinzivalle, he says, love each other; they shall go forth 
 free with his consent, wherever their love may guide their 
 footsteps; and all he asks in exchange is that this woman 
 first of all shall tell him the truth. He demands the truth 
 in exchange for what he will give her. 
 
 Vanna. I have told you the truth . . . He did 
 not touch me . . . 
 
 Guido. It is well. You have spoken — ^you have con- 
 demned him. Now there is nothing more to be done. [He 
 calls the guards and points to Prinzivalle.] That man 
 belongs to me; take him and bind him; thrust him into the 
 lowest dimgeon beneath this hall. I shall go with you. 
 [To Vanna.] You will never see him again; but on my 
 return I shall report to you his last words . . . 
 
 Vanna [throwing herself in the midst of the guards, who are 
 seizing Prinzivalle and leading him away]. No, no! I 
 have lied, I have lied. [To Guido.] Yes, what you say 
 
MAETERLINCK 299 
 
 is true! [Pushing the gxuirds away^ Go, you must not 
 take what is mine! For he is mine, he belongs to me, not 
 to you ! To me alone ! It is for me to punish — the coward 
 who when I was helpless, defenceless . . . 
 
 Prim, [trying to drown her voice]. She lies! She lies! 
 She lies to save me, but torture me as you will 
 
 Vanna. Be silent! [Turning to the crowd.] He is 
 afraid! [Approaching Riinzivalle, as though enfordng 
 silence upon Phinzivalle,] Give me chains, and irons! 
 Now that I dare speak out my hatred, it is I who shall 
 bind him, I who brought him here. [Whispering to Prtn- 
 zivAiAAS as she ties his hands.] Be silent! He saves us, be 
 silent! He has joined us. I belong to you, I love you! I 
 love you, my Gianello! I put these chains on you, but I 
 shall guard you, and free you! We two shall fly together! 
 [Shouting as though enforcing silence upon Pbinzivalle.] 
 Be silent! [Addressing the crowd.] He pleads for mercy! 
 [Uncovering his face.] Look at his face; it was my dagger, 
 my dagger inflicted that wound! Look at him! He, the 
 coward, the monster! [Seeing that the guards make a move- 
 ment as though to remove Phinzivalle.] No, no, leave him 
 to me! He is my victim, my prey! It is I who have 
 bought him! He belongs to me! 
 
 ^^y did Prinzivalle come, and why did Vanna lie to him, 
 Guido demands. She hesitates, picking her words. There 
 are times when one scarcely knows what one does, she says. 
 The thought of his love, his despair, alarmed her. She 
 yearned to inflict a cruel death upon her victim, but was 
 anxious also that the memory of this horrible night should 
 not weigh upon him to the end of his days. Turning to 
 the crowd, she tells them that what she said was for Guido's 
 sake. She tried to kill Prinzivalle, as they may see by the 
 wound on his face. But he disarmed her, and then she 
 thought of a deeper revenge. She smiled on him, and he, 
 the fool, had faith in her smile. 
 
 So mad is this man, she declares, that he believed her 
 at once when she told him she loved him. It is she, she 
 says, who won him. She has bought him. She totters 
 and supports herself against a column. Turning to Marco, 
 she entrusts her prisoner to him imtil she is stronger. 
 Marco shall find a dungeon for him and give the key to her. 
 He belongs to her, and she alone shall piuiish him. 
 
300 MONNA VANNA 
 
 Vanna. Father, he is mine; you shall answer for him, 
 [She looks fixedly at him.] You understand, you are his 
 guardian. You are responsible for him; not a hand shall 
 approach him, and when I go to him he shall be as he is, 
 now that I give him to you, [Phinzivalle is taken away] 
 Fare you well, my Prinzivalle! Ah, we shall meet again! 
 
 While Guido is in the midst of the soldiers, who brutally 
 remove Prinzivalle, Vanna screams, totters, and falls into 
 the arms of Marco, who rushes forward to support her. 
 
 Marco [rapidly, in a low voice, bending over Vanna as she 
 lies in his amis\. Yes, Vanna, I understand; I understand 
 your falsehood. You have achieved the impossible . . . 
 It is just and very unjust, like all the things that one 
 does . . . and still it is life that is right . . . 
 Collect yourself, Vanna; you will have to lie again, since 
 he refuses to believe . . . [Calling Guido.] Guido, 
 she asks for you . . . Guido, she is coming to herself. 
 
 Guido [rushing up and taking her in his arms]. My 
 Vanna! See, she smiles! . . . Vanna, tell me! . . . 
 I never doubted . . . Now it is over, and all will be 
 forgotten — ^wiped away in our good revenge ... It 
 was all a bad dream . . . 
 
 Vanna [opening her eyes, and speaking in a feeble voice]. 
 Where is he? Yes, yes, I know, I remember . . . 
 Give me the key . . . The key of his prison; none but 
 myself must . . . 
 
 Guido. The moment the guards come back they shall 
 bring the key to you, and all shall be as you wish . . . 
 
 Vanna. I want it for myself alone. So that I may be 
 quite sure, and that no one else . . . Yes, it has been 
 a bad dream . . . but the beautiful one will begin. 
 The beautiful one will begin. . . . 
 
THE COTJNTBT UFB PBISS 
 OABDiaf CITT, N. T. 
 
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