THE PLAYS OF EMILE VERHAEREN \ie>fMb FMQILE DOES NOT I Cj ^ ^ CIRCULATE Cornell Ultttovjsitg Jitovg THE GIFT OF . H .JimruJ^. ,. J. .Q . . . .f oJdjUYi. . Aikn-il.z ^3Jg| n- 3041 PHAStO 0ETER»0RAT10N '\-i ^!'•. . ,„ Pf^AGlLE DOES NOT '^'^ "*' • CIRCULATE MAYl 2 '^'^ DEC 15 1953KUj ?[0''l9 i^ij'-J -^ "^ DETERICM^ATION -.^.;'H^-.=tiWPy/^j;, i,„:,^i. ,^Y Cornell University Library PQ 2459.V8A28 1916 Plays of Emile Verhaeren. 3 1924 027 422 587 FRAGILE PAPER handle PI with care this book xs b rittle » as the paper. Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027422587 THE PLAYS OF EMILE VERHAEREN THE PLAYS OF EMILE VERHAEREN THE DAWN: THE CLOISTER: PHILIP II: HELEN OF SPARTA BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 1916 5 'y / PRINTED IN GKEAT BRITAIN. CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCKRY LANE, LONDON. ''^'fe:^ CONTENTS PAGE THE DAWN I {Translated by Arthur Symons) THE CLOISTER 103 {Translated by Osman Edwards) PHILIP II 177 {Translated by F. S. Flint) HELEN OF SPARTA .... 245 {Translated by Jethro Bithell) THE DAWN A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR SYMONS NOTE T ES JUBES was first published in 1898 by ■/ ^ Ed. Deman, Brussels. The English version, by Mr. Arthur Symons, now republished, appeared later in the same year (London, Duckworth and Co.). The play was privately produced by the Seftion d'Art de la Maison du Peuple de Bruxelles before its appearance in book form. It has not yet been publicly performed. In his introduftion to the first edition of his translation Mr. Symons wrote: "I have translated M. Verhaeren's verse very literally, and I have followed all his rhythms with great exadlitude. But for the most part I have used unrhymed in place of rhymed verse, reserving rhyme for the speeches of the Seer, which are in a more definitely stanzaic form in the original, and for the ronde on page go. It seemed to me this was the best way of conveying M. Verhaeren's form into English; and, having finished my translation, I wrote to him, telling him exadtly what I had done. He replied : 'Si le vers franfais sans rime existait, je I'aurais employ^ moi- m^me. Seulement le vers blanc fran9ais ne me dit rien. En anglais ce doit ^tre mon souhait. Je vous approuve done entierement.'" TO PAUL SIGNAC PERSONS OF THE DRAMA The Crowd. Groups : Workmen,Beggars,Farmers, Soldiers, Women, Young Men and Women, Passers, Boys, Old Men. Jacques Herenien, tribune. Pierre Herenien, his father. Claire, his wife. Georges, his son. Haineau, brother of Claire. Hordain, captain of the enemy, disciple o/" Herenien, Old Gviiih Am, farmer. The Cure. An Officer. An Emissary. A Gipsy. A Consul of Oppidomagne. The Shepherd. The Beggar Benoit. The Seer of the Villages. The Seer of the Cities. The groups aSi as a single person of multiple and contradiiiory aspeifs. THE DAWN ACT I Scene I An immense open space into which converge, on the right, the roads descending from Oppidomagne ; on the left, the paths rising from the plains. Lines of trees accompany them as far as the eye can see. The enemy has surrounded the town. The country is on fire. Great flaring lights in the distance; the tocsin sounds. Groups of beggars fill the trenches. Others, standing- on gravel-heaps, scan the distance, and cry to one another. The Beggars. LOOK, from this mound you can see the villages- all on fire. —Climb the trees: we can see better. [A beggar, clinging to a tree^ — This way ! this way ! Beggars. [Looking towards the town.] — The flames are getting brighter and bigger, to- wards the town. — The powder-mills are blowing up. [The sound of firing and explosions.. The works at the port are on fire, and the quays,. 7 THE DAWN and the docks. The petroleum-sheds have caught fire. Yards and masts burn black, and make crosses against the sky ! Beggars. [Looking towards the plains. '\ — The country is all red, over the plains. The fire has got hold of H6r^nien's farm: they are throwing the furniture into the street, pell mell. They are bringing the beasts out of the stable with covered heads. They are carrying out the old sick father on his great bed. — It is the farmer's turn now to have death on his heels. — Ah! what a fine, quick vengeance! They are cast out themselves, they who cast us out. The ■crowd of them heaps the highways. All our curses have carried ; all our blasphemies, all our prayers, all our angers! — See there, the cattle flying to the fens. The stallions rear and snap the trace in two. And snort against this woeful torch ; And one has fled, with burning at his heels And death upon his flying mane. He turns his head about, and bites the flame That eats upon his neck; Look all of you, and see the hands Of madmen piling up the flame with pitchforks. — The bells madden in the wind. Churches and towers crumble. God Himself might have fear. — Who knows why this war was unchained ? — All the kings desire Oppidomagne. They desire it to the ends of the earth. IPeople rush up excitedly^ and disappear confiisedly in every dire£iien. Some stop, and cry : — The farmers are piling up their furniture and 8 THE DAWN their clothes on waggons; they are coming towards the town ; they will pass here. The Group of Beggars. — This is the moment to make for Oppidomagne. — Follow them. The Beggar Benoit. Follow them? And of what race are you^ then ? Since you and I have been revolters, vagabondsj Yes, you and I, all of us, all the time, Have not these farming, homestead folk Bent us and broken us with aching poverty? They, they have been the bread, And we, we have so sorely been the hunger, That the sharp flames which eat Their bursting granaries now Seem to me like our very teeth And the malevolent tearing of our vehement nails ! Since I have come and gone, and come and gone, and come again, Barring with evil luck The gates at which I beg. My hands have spread the sickness that they breed. My hands have rooted up their dead, Have stolen their dead, my aged hands Have gagged their daughters, and have ravished them ; I hate them as a man may hate The evillest thing upon the earth ; And now at least let them be bashed With their own pikes and their own poles. An Old Man. What is the good of bashing them ? They will do no more harm ; they are more wretched than we are. 9 THE DAWN The Beggar Benoit. Be silent, you are too old to be a man any longer. \_Fresh bands hurry along the Oppidomagne road. A group of nvorkmen appears. One of them speaks to the beggars. The Workman. Has H6r6nien passed yet? A Beggar. \To the workman.] The shepherd knows him. Ask him. The Workman. [To the shepherd.] Has H^r^nien passed here? The Shepherd. [/« rags.] I am waiting for him. He has gone to look after his father. I want to see him again. I cured him when he was a child. The Workman. He is sure to come. We will wait for him together. The Shepherd. How has he left the city ? His enemies themselves ought to have kept him there. The Workman. H^r^nien does what he likes. His father was dying at the village, and called him. The Shepherd. Do you think he will conquer Oppidomagne? The Workman. Is he not the master of the people? He is that wonderful and sacred thing 10 THE DAWN That lives, beyond the shadow of this hour. Already in the future, which he touches; None better have discerned than he How much of folly mixed with how much wisdom waits To bring the new to-morrows in; His clear books cast a light on all we think about. 'Tis there we other mortals learn What is the way that leads to good And what exalts a man, at such an hour, to be a God. The Shepherd. You are one of those who love and defend him in the city. The Workman. Hundreds we are, thousands we are Who worship him, and follow him. No matter where he goes, unto the very end. \The workman goes on ahead^ to watch for Herenien. More people in flighty then a group of peasants dragging after them carts and hand-carts. The horses have climbed the hill, with heavy loads. Old Ghislain. Our beasts are tired out. Let them get wind again. Hallo, there, you beggars, has that scoundrel Herenien passed this way? The Beggar Benoit. Old Ghislain, be silent. Old Ghislain. Be silent! be silent! why? who for? H6r6nien is one of you then ? II THE DAWN The Beggar Benoit. Old Ghislain, we are the power here, and we can strike you down, before you have so much time as to cry murder. If, for all these years and these years, you have thrown to us at your doors the refuse of your pigs and the washings of your kitchen, we too, for all these years and these years, have we not given you our prayers and our aves^. We are quits for the past, and the present is ours. [He advances towards Father Ghislain menacingly. A Peasant. [Running up.] Old Ghislain, Old Ghislain, your farm, "Tinkling Meadow," has spread the fire to the whole of "Wolf Plain." The trees are burning, on the roads. And the whole fir-wood snorts And cries and howls aloud. And all the flames spire up. Up to the clouds, And the flames bite the very sky ! Old Ghislain. Well, and what then ? and what has that to do with me? Let all the plain and all the woods begone, And let the wind, the air, and the sky burn, And let the earth itself break as a pebble breaks. [With a change of tone. Just now this beggar talked of killing me. [To the beggar Benoit. Well, do it, then; be quick with you! Here are my hands, here are my arms, that I have sold For a vain labour ; here too is my obstinate brain ; 12 THE DAWN Here is ray skin withered in all its pores, Here is my back, here are the rags of me. The ruin that I drag about All the long years, all the long years ! Truly I ask myself, why is it that I live ? I dig a field the frost will reap, I farm the meadows that are evil-starred ; All that my father hoarded up, farthing by farthing, all That he had squeezed, and hid, and burrowed, like a miser, I have lost all, eaten it all. I have implored my sons : they have devoured me ; They have been swallowed up in the unfruitful town^ They have preferred a life unfruitful, infamous ; Hamlets and little towns are dead ; Oppidomagne has sapped the strength of them, Oppidomagne has drained the blood of them ; And now, behold In every acre and in every close Branching abroad the several maladies Of water and of earth and air and sun ! A Peasant. Your sorrows are ours. We are all equally wretched. Old Ghislain. When I was but a child, we feasted sowing-time, The soil was kindly then to folk and to horned beasts, The flax came up like happiness in flower. But now, but now men fear the earth. And surely needs must something have been violated, Some sacred and some obscure thing; Now 'tis the coal that all belongs to, kept. Once, in the covering night. 13 THE DAWN The netted rails, upon the plains bestarred With golden signals, swarm ; Trains graze the meadow-lands, and pierce the banks; The living skies are eaten up with piercing smoke ; The grass bleeds, and the virgin herb, harvest itself. Feed on the sulphur's poisonous breath. 'Tis now That, terrible in vidlory, come forth Iron, and lead, and fire ; And hell itself comes forth with them ! [The beggars recoil, and cease to threaten. A Beggar. Poor man ! Old Ghislain. Poor man! But no! [Drawing towards him a peasant, and pointing to an enclosure which is burning.'] You think, do you, that it was the enemy set fire to my enclosure? Undeceive yourselves. [Showing his hands.] It was these two hands. And my woods by "Firefly Pond"? These hands again. And my granaries and my ricks? These always. No, no, Old Ghislain isn't a poor man. It is he, he only perhaps, who sees clear. We don't respeft our fields ; we lose patience with the slow and sure of things; we kill the germs; we overheat them; we arrange, we reason, we contrive. The earth isn't a wife now; it 's a kept woman ! And now, see how the enemy annihilates it! Where it was wounded by the town, 'Tis burnt by war, the torch of war ; Where the wise man had wellnigh drained it dry. The bullets fire it now. Alas, alas, this is the death of it ! There is no need of rain or dewfall now, THE DAWN There is no need of snow about the mountain's head, Nor yet of sun, nor of months clear and sweet, And it were better at one stroke To end, ending the country-side. A Peasant. Truly, Old Ghislain is not sound in his head. Another, It is a crime to blaspheme the earth. Another. We do not know what to believe. \The village Seer appears ; he hums, imitat- ing by his gestures the flight of the fiery crows. The Seer. The forests fly and the meadow flows, And the storm puts ruddy fingers forth In crosses to the south and north. It is the hour of the Fiery Crows. They swoop on house and they sweep on hedge, With frantic claws and wings stretched wide, And with their burning plumes they fledge The sliifting skies on every side. So swift they wing from banks and briars Their unreturning passage out, They seem the messengers of the fires That ring the whole round world about. Terror attends without a sound The mystery of their silent flight ; Their beaks are sharp to rend the ground, And savage there to ravage there The very heart of earth from our delight. 15 THE DAWN The seeds we sow, ere we have sown them, die, The hayricks, with their leaping flames that wing Their flying way towards the sunsetting. Seem, in the smoice that whirls them high, Like wild and bloody horses galloping. This is the hour that was foretold. Ho, bells ! ho, bells ! the bells have tolled ; Toll for the death of harvest, and the death of all. This is the hour that was foretold. Ho, the death-bells ! ho, the death-bells ! the bells have tolled ; Toll the death-bells for the world's funeral. Old Ghislain. Ah well, it is he who is in the right, the seer, the madman, he, whom we all mocked, whom I mocked myself, and whom I have never understood. Ah, the formidable light is there now. \^He points to the horizon.l But he knew it long ago. And we were there, all of us, with an old hope, with our old illu- sions, putting the poor little bar of our common-sense between the spokes of the terrible wheels of destiny. [A troop of young folks from the villages^ farm labourers^ workmen, stable-maids, beggars, carry forward Pierrz Here- NIEN on a litter. A priest accompanies them. The dying man signs to them that he suffers too much, and that they must stop. Jacques Herenien. Here, my friends. Set him down gently. [Helping those who carry him. Then, as if speaking to himself J\ Poor old man, poor old man ! who could not die in his bed, like his father ! Oh, these wars, these wars,, they must be hated with a diamond-like hatred. i6 THE DAWN Pierre Herenien. H^rdnien, H^r^nien! Jacques Herenien. Here I am, father, close to you, close to your hands^ and your eyes ; close to you, as in the old times, as in mother's times, so close, that I can hear your heart beat. Do you see me? do you hear me? Do you feel that it is I, and that I love you always? Pierre Herenien. [Breathing heavily.] This time, it is the end. You will not be able ta carry me to your home, in Oppidomagne, I am happy because the plains are all about me. I have- one favour to ask of you, that you do not forbid the old cur^ to come to me. Jacques Herenien. My father, you shall be obeyed in every will and' wish. Shall I go further ofF? Pierre Herenien. I must be alone to confess. . [Herenien goes aside. The priest approaches.. Old Ghislain accosts the tribune timidly. He speaks to him during the confession. Old Ghislain. Monsieur Herenien, I see you are always good. I thought otherwise. You rule Oppidomagne, and in our farms we talk of you. My sons defend you. Perhaps they are right. But tell me, now that the country is dead, how are we going to live ? Where shall we find a corner to sow the seed, and grow the 17 c TH E DAWN corn? Where shall we find an acre that the smoke and the sewers and the poisons and the war have not spoilt? tell me, tell me! [ Herenien remains silent. His whole atten- tion is given to his father. He merely shrugs his shoulders slightly when Ou) Ghislain has done speaking. The Shepherd, [Who has slowly approached Here- nien.] Jacques, do you remember me ? Jacques Herenien. What ! you are still alive, old shepherd ? [Embraces him with great emotion. The Shepherd. I went a great way off, yonder, for years; I have seen new and marvellous countries. One wanders on like that, from day to day, from moor to moor, and one gets back in time to see someone die ! Pierre Herenien. I ask pardon of all whom I have offended. The Cure. Do not be troubled, you were a christian, you will be saved. {The priest absolves him, Jacques Herenien. [Leading the shepherd up to the dying man.^ Father, this is the shepherd ; you know him well, the shepherd of "Tinkling Meadow," the oldest of your servants and of your friends. i8 THE DAWN Pierre Herenien. [Looiing for a long time at the shepherd^ and then, all of a sudden^ recognizing him, seizing his arm, and drawing him towards him. In almost a firm voice."] When I am dead, shepherd, destroy all the old seeds. They are full of evil germs ; they are rotten ; they are mouldy. It is not with them that the soil shall have its espousals. And you, who have been every- where, you shall sow new seed in my fields and in my meadows ; living seed, fresh seed, good seed that you have seen and found good, yonder, in the virgin countries of the earth. \A pause. The shepherd hows his head and kneels. The beggars and the porters do the same.] And now turn me to the sun. [He is obeyed; but in the west, where the sun is then going down, the burning villages illuminate the country. The heat reaches to the dying man. A Peasant. [Pointing to Pierre Herenien.] The shadow of the fire passes over his face. Another. He turns to the fire. Another. \To those about Pierre HiRENiEN.J Take care, take care, he must not see the flames. Another. Turn him to the right. Another. This way, this way, to the right, to the right. [But the old man clings to the litter, and raises himself, his face towards the set- ting sun and .the fires. 19 THE DAWN Another. Poor man ! if he knew ! Pierre H^renien. [In a scarcely audible voice."] Jacques H6r6nien, come close to me, close. Let me die touching you with my fingers [he caresses him], and looking that way with my eyes at what I have loved most in the world. I have loved you to dis- traction; I have never denied you; I have almost blessed the sorrows that you have given me ; and, while I have loved you, I have loved the earth. I have lived with the sun, as with God; it was the visible master of things. It would have been like a punishment if I had died in the night, in its absence. Happily, it is there before me, and I reach out my arms to it. [He lifts himself towards the conflagration,] I can see it no longer, but I still feel the good, con- quering light. Jacques Herenien. [Murmurs.] Father! father! [Not knowing whether he should disabuse his father, or see in these words a sud- den prediiiion. Pierre Herenien. I feel it, I love it, I understand ; it is from there, now-, that the only springtides now possible must come ! [He falls back, and dies : Jacques Here- nien embraces his father, pressing his lips on his mouth as if he would gather the first truth that has ever left them. Jacques Herenien. Did he know what he was saying? "The only springtides now possible!" [Slowly Herenien returns to himself out of 20 THE DAWN his reverie. The beggars, peasants, and workmen surround him. The shepherd holds his hands and draws him close. The porters raise the body and move onward. At this moment a troop of women and children coming from the city turn into the open space from the upper roads. It is led by old men. An Old Man. [Stopping and pointing to Pierre Herenien.] A dead man ! and Hdrdnien following the bier ! Another. And this crowd? Another. It is the whole country-side flocking towards Oppi- domagne. Another. Do they suppose they will be welcome there? \_He calls.] Hdr^nien ! H6r6nien ! Herenien. Who calls me? The Old Man. Oppidomagne has shut itself in within its walls; it will not permit the plain to send it its vagabonds and its dead ! Herenien. r am returning home ; I have lost my father; I wish to bury him myself, and withdraw him from pillage and profanation. 21 THE DAWN The Old Man. They will drive you back with bullets, they are turning out all who do not help in the defences. Another Old Man. They are blowing up the bridges. The ramparts are bristling with troops. Another. The city no longer knows whom it casts out. No one will recognize you. Another. It is mad to go that way. Another. It is risking your life. Another. [Entreatingly.J Stay with us, among us. You will save us. Herenien. I swear to you that 1 will enter Oppidomagne. If you doUbt, follow me. An Old Man. We cannot. A Peasant. Better die in our own homes. [The beggars, the old men, and some peasants remain. The rest folhvo Herenien. The funeral train disappears slowly. An Old Man. H6r^nien is the cinly man still firm and stable, in these hours of suspended thunder. Perhaps, after all, they will welcome him. 22 THE DAWN Another. As for those who follow him, they will all be killed. Another. [Turning towards the country.'] Look yonder; the enemy teaches the elements to make war. He encircles them, deploys them, masters them, throws them forward. Another. And the country once dead, they will destroy the cities. An Old Man of the Towns. [Older than the others.] O these cities! these cities! And their tumults and their outcries And their wild furies and their insolent attitudes Against the brotherhood of men ; O these cities ! and their wrath against the skies. And their most terrible, most bestial, show. And their stocked market of old sins. And their vile shops, Where wreathe, in knots of golden grapes, All the unclean desires, As, on a time, garlands of flowery breasts Wreathed the white bodies of Diana's maids ! These cities ! The sense of youth is withered up in them ; The sense of heroism is sapped in them; The sense of justice, as a useless thing, is cast away from them. O these cities ! these cities ! That spread themselves abroad like heaps of rotten- ness, Like soft or vehement breeds of slime Whose mouths and suckers wait to suck The noble blood of all the world ! 23 THE DAWN A Peasant. [To the old men.] Without you, the people of cities, our harvests would flourish, our barns would run over with corn ! With- out you, we should still be strong, healthy, and tranquil; without you, our daughters would not be prostitutes, nor our sons soldiers. You have soiled us with your ideas and with your vices, and it is you who let loose war upon us. One from the Towns. [To the peasants.] It is of you that we should complain. Why do you flock in, so many and so greedy? From your fields you hasten to us to traffic with us, to steal from us, and with so stubborn a mind, so narrow, so bitter, and so violent a soul, that you are scarcely to be distinguished from bandits. You have set your malice and your thievishness behind all our counters. You have cumbered little by little all the desks of the world. If the age grinds its teeth with a great noise of meddling and servile pens, it is your millions of hands that were willing to copy till death. One from the Villages. You had need of us. You filled our plains with your appeals. One from the Towns. You are the dough that mediocrity kneads, the regiments that nullity numbers. You are the cause of slow usury, idleness, and sluggishness. Without you, the city would still be nervous, light, valiant; without you, surprise, vivacity, daring might have come back again. Without you, slumber would not have paralysed life, nor death soaked space with blood. 24 THE DAWN An Old Man. Eh, but say now, do you think the enemy is waiting all this time, with folded arms, until you have settled your disputes ? If our city perishes, certainly we might swathe it in a shroud woven of all the need- less words, of all the meaningless discussions, of ail the loquacity and eloquence, lavished upon it for centuries. The talkers are the only guilty ones. Another. Everything has conspired against Oppidomagne. There are a thousand causes which ruin it, as there are a thousand worms that attack a corpse. Happily there is always some Christ, far off, on the horisson. Another. Yesterday, the gravest insurredtion terrified the city. The people took refuge in the cemetery, which overlooks the old quarters. The tombs served for ramparts. They are on strike. The Regent's soldiers surround it and cut it off. A Peasant. Oppidomagne is besieged, then, and besieging. The Old Man. As they did at Rome, the crowd has made an y Aventine. ■' Another. O the foul shame of being one of this degraded race. Whose mortal and whose trumpeting wantonness Affrights the very reason of the earth. Now in these hours of thunder in the air. Instead of setting to. Now at the last, to seek for strength out of the common strength, 2;5 THE DAWN It falls apart, it spreads abroad, it drops away. Say, is there then no longer some unwavering light. Is there no longer then an axiom of aught. Is there no longer a strong hand with us To scourge the wandering flock of these soft wills of ours ? Say, is there then a man no more? [The village Seer, who has never ceased roaming to and fro, prophesies. The Seer. The times which were to come have come at last, Wherein the city, long the mirror of all eyes. The marvellous mirror that had glassed The eyes of the world, Scatters the glory of its memories. Oppidomagne! With thy quays, columns, bridges, thy triumphal arch. Behold against thy pride The whole horizons march ! Oppidomagne ! With thy towers, monuments, belfries, far and wide. Behold in blood of fire written upon thy walls The sign and seal of funerals ! Oppidomagne ! Now is the hour When all things fixed shall crumble into sand. Unless without delay, This day. Some mighty one puts forth his hand ! An Old Man. Oh, whoever he is, how we shall all shout for him, and how we shall be the first to bow down to him 1 26 THE DAWN The Seer. This one that we await Shall be so great, That needs must all you rise to him, maybe If you would know that this indeed is he. An Old Man. He is not yet born. Another. No one can guess him. Another. No one proclaims him. Another. And Jacques Hdr^nien? Another. Jacques H^rdnien ? He is mad ! Scene II As the curtain rises, a cordon of cavalry bars the gate to Oppidomagne. The soldiers are at work undermining the bridges across the river. Patrols mount guard on the slope and the ramparts. A general, field-glass in hand, inspeSfs the horizon. He watches what is going on, while a messenger- runs up, handing an order to the officer in command of the cavalry. The Officer. [Reading.'] " Orders are given to admit no one into the city ; except the tribune Jacques H6r6nien. It is important 27 THE DAWN that he should realize the favour that is shown him. He is to be opposed as a matter of form. (Signed) The Regency of Oppidomagne." [^Herenien appears on the main road, followed by the crowd of ragged men, woman, workmen, farmers, and old men. Find- ing that entry ivill he difficult, he ad- vances hy himself to the officer. Herenien. I am of those who must be heard. Oppidomagne is the city where I have grown up, suffered, fought for my ideas, which are the greatest that a man can bear about with him. I loved Oppidomagne when it seemed invincible. To-day I desire my place among those who die for her. And I desire the like for all those who are here, for all whom I have met with on the way. It is I who have called them to follow me. I have turned back towards courage the flood that was going down to cowardice. The Officer. I know who you are, but I cannot alter the orders I have received. Herenien. What are the orders ? The Officer. To keep that barrier shut. \^He points to the gate of the city. HiRENIEN. Then it must be that this Oppidomagne, At the tremendous hour When mountainous woe and terror fell upon its pride, 28 THE DAWN With the mere poor and little words of a command Shuts to its gates, Shuts from its door Those that are bringing it Their blood, their hearts. And the most vehement flame of all their loves ! I, who so oft at night-time, at the harbour-side, Have seen .the seas Press on and cast abroad in it > The formidable and free universe, Even I who love her, be she evil or good, I who so strangely love, I who so blindly love. That I am as a son, yet passionate as a lover, I must go forth from her, and like a hunted beast ! An order! But it is such orders that ruin a people. Do you reckon up the number of defenders when the sorrow is infinite ? Do you separate for death those that the same danger unites ? I insist that you make room for all. The Officer. Impossible. [Herenien ^oes up to the corpse of his father, and uncovers his head and shoulders, Herenien. For twenty years this man there was a soldier ; He served your leaders over the whole earth, He has fought at the poles, in the desert, and on the sea; Thrice he has crossed Europe from end to end In a tempestuous cloud Of frantic flags and golden eagles and great lights ! Is it to him you close the gates of Oppidomagne ? The Officer. To all who are. with you. 29 THE DAWN Herenien. Know, then, that it is in the name of the clearest, simplest, most unvarying law that I appeal to your honour as a man. In a few days this plain will be ruin, putrefaction, and blood. You have a mere word to say, and all our lives, to which we all have a right, will be saved. The help that men owe to men, you who bear arms, you first of all owe to us. This duty wipes out all others. There was a time when the very name of army and of watchword was unknown. The Officer. Disperse, disperse. Herentien. \_He looks towards the vast crowd which follows him, reckons up the number of soldiers with a glance, and goes up to his dead father^ I ask the pardon of this dead man for desecrating his funeral with blood. \^At this moment the general, who observes the scene from the height of the rampart, approaches the officer. Herenien. \To the crowd.} I have used all means, there remains hut one. You all know it. We are a thousand, and these, but a few. [Pointing to the soldiers^ Some among them have fathers and children among you. They are ours; they will let us pass. Let the women come forward: they will not fire on them. [Advancing alone, while the crowd forms in order. To the soldiers.} He who commands you bids you commit a crime. Disobey him. The right is yours. [Already the general has rejoined the officer, and reprimands him. The words " stu- pidity" and ''folly" are heard. The general advances rapidly towards H ere- nien and salutes him. 30 THE DAWN The General, Jacques H^r^nien, enter Oppidomagne. The Re- gency bids you welcome. Herenien. At last ! I knew that you had need of me, and that it is in your interest that I come into your midst. [^Pointing to the crowd.'] And all these follow me; the old men, the children, the women, they shall all return home, they will all be useful. And you, my father, you shall rest in the tomb where my two children sleep already. \The general makes no objeStion. The ranks ' open. Jacques Herenien and some workmen enter the city, but no sooner have they passed than suddenly, at the officer's command, the ranks close. The body of Pierre Heresies, the porters, the old men, the peasants, the women and the children are thrust back. Fresh battalions hastening up lend their aid. Jacques Herenien, astonished, turns to make his way back. He is heard to cry: "Cowardice," "Treason," "In- famy." But the tumult covers his voice. He is violently hurried into the city. And the howling crowd is driven back into the plain.. 31 ACT II Scene I Herenien's house. Door to r. ; commonplace furniture ; ' stove at back. Things lying about pell-mell. On the table, clothes that are being mended, children's toys. Heaps of books on the chairs. Claire, HkB.'kviiB.n'sivife, finishes lighting the lamps. She waits. Ml at once there is a noise of cheering in the street. HiRitiiEn enters. He clasps his wife in a long embrace. HiaiNiEN. WE have buried my father to the left of the little ones, under the yew-tree which over- looks our burial-place. He will rest there as he did in the village; his body will mingle with the ele- mentary life of the herbs and plants that he loved so much. Claire. Did they spy on you ? ' [^During this scene Her]enien changes his black clothes for indoor things. Impres- sion of home. HiRiNIEN. I don't know. There were only a few of us. On the way back, we p^sed the crowd ; newsboys were calling the news of the Aventine. Everybody made 32 THE D AW N for the papers. Some men carried torches and sang. Along the boulevards and avenues houses lay open^ split or pierced by the bombs. The rubbish was all over the pavements. Not a single gas-lamp wras lighted. At the National Place a quarry-man called my name : that was all. When they allowed me ta bring my father into Oppidomagne — after God knows what difficulties! — I promised that he should be buried without any crowd of people. I have kept my word. [^Finding a roll of banknotes on the writing- desk^ What is this ? Claire. They have sent the remainder of the account. [Taking a note out of her pocketj] Look. Your last, book has been read everywhere. HiRiNiEN. [Looking at the letter.] They must read and discuss me ; they must hunger and thirst after my justice ! [He puts the letter on the table, and opens the window. Going nearer to Claire.] I thought of us, during that simple and homely funeral. I would like to have felt you by my side,, when the coffin sank into the earth ! My heart was so tortured, so full of pent-up tenderness, so walled up within myself. Why had I not your hands in mine, to mark there the half of my mourning ! [He- takes her hand.] You are indeed my sweet and valiant one. You know me, you understand me, before you alone I dare be without compundlion what I truly am : a poor human being, seldom calm, full of vehe- ment pride and tenderness, the more exadling because I love the more. Where is the boy ? Claire. [Points to the room at the r.] In our room, asleep. 33 » T H E D AW N How often I drove my father to despair ! My fits and starts of will were so wild that he used to beat me, and I cried out under his blows, and shrieked, and yelled at him all the same just what I pleased. And now to-day 1 would strangle my son if he were to irritate me. [^ shell bursts not far from the house. HiR^NiEN and Claire rush to the window. The trowd applauds HiR^NiEN.] This, now, is the best time to love. There is nothing like these crises and alarms for bringing people closer together. I seem to see you in the first months of our love ; you seem to me even more beautiful; I bring you my love just as sincere, just as ardent, just as absolute as ever. Claire. And I love and serve you with all my soul. HiR^NIEN. This funeral (in which some part of myself has gone, I know not what, a part of my life, my childhood) tore me away from my burning existence, given up to all, taken by all, scattered wide, fer from you, far from us, all through Oppidomagne. I seemed to myself to be in the village, in the desolate land of the visionary plains; prowling, at night, on the heath, or astride of the wild colts in my father's fields. I remembered the shepherds, the servants, the maid- servants. I remembered the way to school, to church, and the exadl sound of the parish bell. I was so sad and so happy ; I longed to see you again, you and the child. [Putting his arm round Claire.] And now, let me see your eyes, your pale, sweet eve?, that love me more than all others, and are the fairest lights in the world. [Leaning his face over Claire.] Are they not faithful, and tender, and peaceful, and 34 THE DAW N shining, and am I not foolish to make them weep sometimes? Claire. Your words go further than your thoughts, when they are unkind. H^RiNIEN. Oh ! I am not one of those who love tamely. But you, you love me all the same, although you know my terrible life, my real life, my real reason of being on the earth. Claire. [With a slight tone of reproach^ You talk to me of that so often ! HiRENIEN. And I will talk of it to you again ; I will be brutal, and weary you, because it is my passion to be abso- lutely sincere with you. You would be my wife no longer, if I had to hide anything from you. I would rather see you weep than lie to you. Claire. If you were otherwise, I should love you the less. HiR^NIEN. And besides, you know very well that I exaggerate; that really, when I assign you so small a space in my life, I deceive myself and you. Claire. Ah, be what you will, tormentor or despot, what does it matter? You belong to me, you and our child, to all my love. Her]&nien. Ah, you indeed are my wife! When, on a night of June, 35 THE DAW N Long ago now, sweetly you gave me your soul, Did I not swear that my lips Never again should kiss Another's lips, Another's breast? You were the flower of all the lakes and mists That my impetuous hands Have wrested from my haggard country And planted in the heart of Oppidomagne ; And 'tis the soil, the waters, and the meadow-lands. That I behold and worship in your naked eyes. And shall not we remain, hand in hand, heart to heart. Lost in the love that sets us free. Adoringly, forgivingly, exultingly. While the insatiable days eat up the time Our fates shall let us live ? Death like a fire enrings us round about, Night is an ambush set, and evening a disaster; And see, in the insensate skies. The stars hurtle together and consume. And the hot fiery ashes fall ! [H£r^nien's child comes in to embrace his father^ who hardly notices and seems to have forgotten him. The crowd goes by, with vociferous shouting. HiKkniEN rushes to the window. Shouts are heard. " The Exchange is on fire! " « The Arsenal is on fire I " " The Port is on fire! " The refieition of the flames illuminates the room. Herenien. And what if this indeed ended Oppidomagne ! And if these bonfires emptied from their mountain- tops 36 THE DAWN The smoking blood of sacrifice? Oppidomagne Has gathered to its codes and ratified in laws All that was once a hidden crime, a crafty murder, Deceit or theft against true justice and true good. And now that it is puffed and sated with its vices, And drunk enough to drink the very dregs That foul its gutters to the brim, All the dull evils, all the muddy lusts, Hang at its girdle, night and day, And drain its breasts, like hungering wolves. If then these palaces, these sheds. If these bright arsenals, if these gloomy temples, fall. Crumble to shameful dust, The world will shout to see the red sparks fly. To meet the future half way, on the wind. But that the city itself should have an end, Being the soul of future things. That these should sink under the waves of flame ; That the tied bundle of our fates She in her hands yet holds. Break in the furious feeble hands, Break now, and break in face of death ; That the fair gardens of to-morrow Whose gates she opened wide Be wasted with the thunderbolt. And cumbered with dead things; It is impossible : he is mad who says it. Oppidomagne, with all her happy hopes, With all her beacons triumphing in the night. Shall stand, shall stand eredV, As long as any men, whose faith is like my faith. Have blood in them to shed, that faith bear fruit in them, And that the blind and greedy world at length Be fashioned to the will of the new gods ! 37 THE DAWN Claire. Oh ! the terrors and the sorrows that we shall have to endure! H^RiNIEN. Whatever they may be, I forbid you to complain of them. We live in formidable days of terrors, agonies, and new births. The unknown becomes the master. Men shake with an immense movement of the head the weight of all the errors of ages. Utopia resigns its wings, and takes root in the earth. Our very besiegers know of it. Claire. Had you any news of the enemy this morning ? Her]enien. Not yet; but what the captain, Hordain, predidted yesterday, gave me fire and flame for weeks and weeks. This captain belongs to the race of men who realize the impossible. Think ! he and I, to kill the war dead, here, before the discharged and powerless chiefs ! To bring about the public reconciliation of the foreign soldiers and ours! To exhaust all the forces of one's being, all the energies of one's faith, for that supreme end ! What a splendid dream ! Claire. {Gently ironical.'] What a delusion ! HiRiNlEN. We should never rejedl a hope when it spreads such wings. What remains improbable to-day, will be accomplished faft to-morrow. Hordain relies so far only on dim surmisings, a deep but stifled discontent, secret understandings and unions. The troops refuse 38 THE DAWN to fight; they are tired out; they disband. Ideas of justice are in the air. There is vague talk of concord ; the spark is set to the grate. I await the breath of wind that shall set the wood and straw alight. [H^R^NIEN listens to the murmurs in the street. There is a knock at the door. The Consul of Oppidomagne enters the room. The Consul. Jacques H^r^nien, I come to you in the name of the Regency of Oppidomagne, to ask you to accomplish a great duty. Far as our ideas are from one another, an understanding between us is certain, when it is a question of saving the city. I seem to speak to the future leader of this people that we love in different ways, but both of us ardently. HiR^NIEN. Preambles are useless. I ask what brings you, and what you expedl of me. \_He motions to the Consul to sit down. The Consul. Up yonder, at the cemetery, the situation of your friends is lamentable. They would not resist a serious attack ; yesterday the Regency was anxious to bring them to order ; but they seem to be numer- ous, young, hardy ; they are needed for the defence of Oppidomagne. Up to now, they were scarcely rebels; they are disaffefted, on strike: that is all. To-morrow, when they have seen the terrible con- flagrations that are spreading yonder, perhaps they will in turn become incendiaries. Hate counsels folly, and if they slay and. pillage, it will not indeed be the end of things, but it will be an end in shame. 39 THE DAW N I hold war in execration. This between men of the ^ame soil terrifies me more than any other. You, in Oppidomagne, have moved heaven and earth to bring it about. You have cultivated the misery of the people ; you have refused it bread, justice, dignity ; you have tyrannized it in its body and in its thought ; you have helped yourselves with its ignorance, as with your disloyalty, your cleverness, your lying, your irony, and your contempt. You are unworthy and -culpable. The Consul. I believed you to have a more balanced, a more un- clouded, and a loftier judgement. HERiNIEN. I think and judge before you, as I would think and judge before the enemy. I hate, but pity you. The Consul. [Rising.] This is an outrage. HiaiNiEN. It is passion and frankness. The Consul. It is above all injustice. HiR^NIEN. Come now ! But shall I ever end if I begin to show you the anger of the cities and the dread of the country ? My memory is faithful : it is armed With those remembrances that shall cut deep as sickles. It reckons up the murders you and yours have done, 40 THE DAWN It knows the soul you bear, and it defies you To be but honest, loyal, just, Or, without vice, strong in your strength. But I forget myself to thus instrudl you. Knowing that you will turn again To weave your spiders' web of twisted perfidy. Treachery is a sacred thing For all of you : it holds you, hunts you, binds you up Within a monstrous and most fatal forfeiture. The Consul. You have then no confidence ? HiR^NIEN. None. The Consul. Then, I retire. [The Consul rises to leave. Her^nien. I wait. . . . [The Consul hesitates, takes two steps, and changes his mind. The Consul. Come, it would be folly to let our words get the better of our deeds. Oppidomagne alone should occupy us. HiRiNlEN. I had no other thought when I received you here. The Consul. A man of affairs and intelligence, such as you are, knows better than anyone how we have spread abroad the name and influence of Oppidomagne. 41 THE DAWN Its history is the history of its Regents And of its Consuls, who, 'neath skies of flaming gold. Across red soil that lighted up with blood, Unto the end of the world. Drew after them its host with their magnetic hand. Our troubles, in these times, were many and were fruitful. The people and its leaders both Were rivals in the battle-field. And those, Yonder, who threaten and lay siege to us, Know what a crimson and triumphant fluttering. Once, our insatiate flags, Flung to the winds upon their plains of snow. Oppidomagne is splendid in the eyes of all, Oppidomagne is vaster than the memory The sea and earth and wind and sun have kept of it ; Crime, and the noble deeds of war, divide its gloryj You only see, you only speak, its crimes. HiR^NIEN. Your glory is all ended, it has stooped to earth ; With its illustrious sword itself has slain the right ; To-day another glory comes about. Another rises in my breast, Perfedl and strong and virginal of stain. And this glory is made up of the new and profound justice, of private heroism, of ardent tenacity, of necessary and temporary violence. It is less brilliant than yours, but surer. The whole world awaits it. Both of us, you with fear and I with fervour, feel it to be inevitable and imminent. That is why you come to me ; that is why I have the temerity to treat you as though you were already conquered. Do what you will, you and your caste, you are, at this moment, the prisoners of my consent or my refusal. 42 THE DAWN The Consul. You mistake. . . . Herenien. No ! Like me, you know well that you can do nothing without my aid. In my hands, I hold all the deep moral force of Oppidomagne. The Consul. You forget what the ruin of an empire would mean. All the ancient interests, all the customs of ages, sustain it. And we have with us the army. Herenien. The army? Say rather, the chiefs; for the soldiers hesitate or protest. They are on the eve of joining the people. They are my hope and your fear. If they all obeyed you, if you did not fear an immense insurreftion, the people and the soldiers together, you would have already bombarded the Aventine. [/i silence.l Well, you come to ask me, do you not, to go up yonder, to the mountain, among the tombs, and enjoin on those oppressed people to come down into the midst of those who have enslaved them. Oh ! I see all the danger and the peril of my mission ! The Consul. You are mistaken. The Regency begs you to announce that the hour has come when perils are so great as to overcome all rancour. Whoever believes in Oppidomagne should turn hero. Our people has unknown possibilities of regeneration. Herenien. How would they be treated if they came down from up yonder? 43 THE DAWN The Consul. The soldiers should return to their proper rank in the army, the others should return to their homes and families. If poverty, since they have left, has crept in, it shall be banished. For the rest, promise what you will: you are loyal. We have confidence in you. Herenien. Will you sign that for me? The Consul. It is done. [Hands him a written paper.] Read. [Herenien goes over it and appears satisfied. Herenien. One last word. When I brought after me the farmers of the villages, the old men and vagabonds of the cities, why were they driven back from the walls, towards the enemy? The Consul. It was an error. You should have been listened to. HerInien. And who allowed me to bury my father among his own folk? The Consul. I myself. Herenien. Go then, and tell the Regency that I will go to the Aventine. [Herenien goes to the window and cries to the people still standing in the street : " Let the man who comes out of my house pass without a murmur : he has done his duty. . . . To-night, at the cemetery, yonder! " 44 THE DAWN Scene II At the Aventine (cemetery on a height). People assem- bled, Haineau occupies the tribune: a tomb higher than the others. Stacked arms are planted among the little famreal gardens. Crosses, small pillars, pedestals, and columns emerge from among the Jiowers. On the wall surrounding it armed work- men are on guard. Night is coming on. Fires are lighted. Haineau. I conclude then, as I concluded yesterday: in a revolution it is essential to strike at ideas in the per- son of those who represent them. It is essential to go slowly, not to be carried away, and to make for im- mediate ends. Coldly, each of us will choose his man, his victim. No one shall lie down to rest until the three Regents and the two Consuls of Oppidomagne are dead. It is the work of terror that brings the work of safety. The Crowd. — Why proclaim what should be kept quiet ? — Every man is master of his own knife. — Silence ! Haineau. The enemy burns the churches, the banks, the parliaments. The Capitol and the Regency remain. Let us destroy them. Let us go down by night, in bands, into Oppidomagne. S0ME0^fE. Impossible, the Aventine is surrounded. 45 THE D AW N Haineau. Someone can always be bought over. The Crowd. — What is the use of these massacres ? — One chief dies, and another talces his place. — We should conquer the whole mass. Haineau. You must cut off his head if you would master the beast. Once upon a time, in Oppidomagne, when we protested among ourselves, who dreamed of half- measures ? Then we used to admire those who swept away things and people. Banks and theatres were blown up, and fearless, unflinching, the admirable assassins of old ideas died ; they seemed to the judges madmen, but to the people heroes. That was the time of ingenuous sacrifices, tragical decisions, swift executions. Contempt of life swept over the universe. Now to-day everything is flabby and flaccid : energy is like an unstrung bow. We prevaricate, wait, reason, calculate; and you fear Oppidomagne con- quered, though you dared it when it was conquering. The Crowd. — We love it now that it is besieged. — Our wives and children are there still. — Our strike will come to nothing. — Let us go back to Oppidomagne. Haineau. When you will anything, you must will it in spite of everything. The hour of the last anguish has come. What matter the sorrows and the sobs of our mothers if, thanks to our sufferings, new life is gained ! 46 THE DAWN Someone. [Pointing to Hah^uav.] He has no children ! Haineau. If I had, I would sacrifice them for the future. Someone. These are only words: you draw back when the time comes for aftion. Haineau. I have approved myself during the time of the revolt. Someone. You hid yourself when they were killing the people. Haineau. If I had the thousand arms of a crowd, I would acS alone, and I would disdain you. . . . [Hooting and jostling : Haineau is dislodged from, the tribune. A Group in the Crowd. — There goes another who won't make fools of us any more. — He is too base and cowardly. Another Group. — We loathe him, now that we know ourselves better. — We don't know what we want, now that we want it all together. — If we don't do something we are lost. — Let us go back to Oppidomagne. \T^he tumult quiets down, Le Breux mounts the tribune. 47 THE DAWN Le Breux. Haineau let himself be carried away for nothing. He accused us of lacking daring. Is not our very- presence on thismountain sufficient proof of heroism ? At any moment we may be attacked and cut to pieces. Haineau. Take care ; you will frighten them. Le Breux. {^Shrugging his shoulders, glancing at Haineau, and continuing.'} We must not use up, on ourselves and among our- selves, the hate that should strike only Oppidomagne. We have now been here together for a week, and al- ready divisions, jealousies, spite, the hesitation of one, the folly of another, get the better of our mutual un- derstanding, cemented though it was by God knows what promises ! Happily, I have good news for you. The Regency authorizes H^r^nien to treat with us here on the Aventine. [Showing a written paper. His letter brings me the announcement. The Crowd. \0n all sides.] — H^r^nien will see clear. It is he who overcomes- all our troubles. — He knows what to do. — He will give us back to ourselves. An Opponent. Must he always be called on ? Another. We abandon ourselves to him like women. Le Breux. You tempt the people by speaking like that. 48 THE DAWN An Opponent. We open its eyes; we put it on its guard against itself. Le Breux. The crowd adores Hdr^nien. It does not discuss its- enthusiasms. An Opponent. H6r6nien is not a God. Why did he leave Oppido- magne on the night of the revolt ? Le Breux. His father was dying. An Opponent. His leaving was a mask for his flight. Hdrdnien pays you to defend him. Le Breux, If I was in his pay, you would have been in mine long ago. You have a little low soul which cannot understand a higher one than your own. [Acclamations^ Someone. Let us wait for H6r6nien. A Young Man. I will follow him, but I will kill him if he betrays- us. Le Breux. I answer for him, as you answer for yourself to yourself. We need Hdrdnien. We are sure of him. Look yonder. [There is a movement near the gate of 49 E THE DAWN ihe cemetery.] He is coming. It is only he who is strong enough to unite us and save us. \The crowd masses itself on the boundary wall. Long cheering, Her^nien mounts rapidly on a tomb, and speaks, keeping his eye on Haineau, who is in front of htm. HiRiNIEN. At last I am with you ! You and I are only half alive, when we live apart. At the village where my father died I heard of your exodus to this mountain. I thought of Roman times, of the pride, the decisive- ness, the courage, the beauty, of the supreme peoples. Let what may come of it, this dazzling and brutal aft will have greatened you. You have proved your combined stubbornness and your single valour. Those that refuse to you, soldiers, your proper pay, to you, citizens, complete justice, because you were the claimants for it, are to-day checkmated. The means you have used were excellent. But will they remain so? An armed conflict with Oppidomagne would be a disaster. Up to now it has been postponed. Up to now, you have remained bound together in an admirable bond of defence. I affirm, before you all, that you have been proud to live together, thanks to your clear and mutual good-will. You have realized that the future depended upon your attitude. That is well. [Silence. All heads are bowed.] But will this union maintain itself, in the midst of the misery and the famine that will break out here? [General silence. Haineau shrugs his shoulders. HiaiNiEN gathers that there has been a dispute. Suddenly changing his tone.] You were, I admit, in terrible straits. From the height of this mountain of 50 THE DAW N death, certainly, you dominated those whom you detested. But your hearths and homes were wanting ; your wives were wanting, your sons, your daughters. The Regency held them in its grasp, already im- patient to crush them out. Ah! you have suffered the interminable passing of black hours, the long and slow procession of anguish after anguish through the soul ! Happily all may be changed. The Regency offers you peace. Haineau. Never will we parley with the Regents. HiRiNIEN. If you refuse to parley, the massacre begins. What ! we are a handful of enthusiasts here, whose action will decide the lot of a people; we are on the eve of an enormous victory for the people, and we con- sent to die like a rat in a trap. [^Cheers. Haineau. Everything that comes from the Regency must be rejedted without consideration, HiR^NIEN. Everything that it offers must be considered, and used for our own advantage. What matter the danger of the means! I am a man who would use the thunder itself! [Cheers. Haineau. We shall be your dupes. HiR]iNIEN. What do you know of my designs, of my hopes, of my life? You disorganize: I organize. Those who listen to you waste themselves in defiances, in plots, 51 THE D AWN in terrorizings. For a week now you have been using your utmost rigour: you have achieved a nullity, mere disputes. I come and I find your work paltry. I am ashamed of it. [Cheers. Haineau. I will have no tyrant. [Hooting. Hl^R^NIEN. You would become one, if I let you. [Cheers. Haineau. You overturn the Regency only to usurp its place. Her^nien. Its place ! I might have taken it : I disdained it. [Cheers. Haineau. You consent to the most dubious compromises, you traffic. . . . HiRENIEN. Silence ! Not a word more ! This debate shall not descend to personal questions. [Addressing himself direSfly to the crowd.'] I hate the authorities to such a degree that I do not so much as diftate to you the conditions of peace. You yourselves shall impose them upon the Regency. Speak. [Cheers. Someone. We want to be treated as men. We have used our rights in striking for them. H^rInien. Perfeft. 52 THE DAW N Another. We want our goods to be restored to us, HjERiNIEN. Promised. Another. We want the arrears of wages to be paid to work- men. H]ERiNIEN. The Regency agrees to it. Another. We want to re-enter the town under arms. H^RliNIEN. You may. And I add : if confiscations have taken place during your absence, they shall be annulled. All condemnations shall be forgotten. You your- selves shall be the judges of those who have judged you. [Cheers.'] And now that we are in agreement, tell me : would it not have been monstrous that men of the same soil should have cut one another's throats ? Think : yonder, in the feverous streets of the old quarters, in the atmosphere of powder and conflagration, disabled folk have taken refuge, in an immense hope of some renewal. More and more it is our programmes that they discuss, our discourses that they comment on, our soul that they drink in. The army itself is in a ferment with our dreams. Every discontent, every grudge, every injustice, every oppression, every enslavement, takes an un- known voice to make itself heard ! Our masters hate each other. They have no more strength. They obey a phantom. [Acquiescence from all sides,] Among 53 THE DAWN the enemy, the same confusion, the same weakness. Mutinies brealc out among the soldiers. There are revolts against the cruelty of chiefs, against the horrors and follies of the campaign. Storms of hatred arise. Sick of nameless dreads, distresses, and miseries, all long after the necessary union of man with man. They are ashamed to be butchers of their fellows. And now, if this conflagration of instinfts could be extinguished; if our besiegers could be made to feel that they would find brotherly souls among us ; if by a sudden understanding we might realize to-day a little of the great human dream, Oppidomagne would be forgiven for all its shame, its folly, its blasphemy ; it would become the place in the world where one of the few sacred events had happened. It is with this thought that you must all follow me down, towards your children. [Cheers. The Crowd. — He is the only one who makes things move. — Without him, our cause was lost. Someone. [Speaking direilly to HiR^NiEN.] We will all obey you ; you, you are our master. [Cheers. They hoist H^r^nien on their shoulders^ and carry him towards the city. Le Breux escorts him. All descend. Cries of triumph are heard. 54 ACT III Scene I A fortnight after. Abode ofii.'kKkviTe.n,the same as in the second a£i. The work-table, covered with papers, is near the window, in which panes are broken. In the streets.^ the crowd comes and goes, retires to a distance and returns ; groups cry: '^Down with the traitor!" "Death to the traitor I " ^'- Death to him ! " " Down with him ! " Claire. AND now this has lasted for a fortnight! The house seems like a ship in distress. Billows of rage and shouting beat upon it. Oh ! that accursed affair on the Aventine ! To have fallen all of a sudden from the height of enthusiasm, into disgrace and hate! [Haineau enters rapidly^ Claire. You ! here ! Haineau. Yes, I. Claire. What do you want? Haineau. You don't know then of my speech in the " Old Market " ? I expefted a better welcome. 55 THE DAWN Claire, [Pointing to Hi^r^nien's room.] What, you ! his adversary and his enemy ! [Pointing to the street."] You who stir up those cries and up- roars ! Haineau. By this time, after what he must icnow, H6r^nien will receive me better than you, my friend and my sister. Claire. I do not understand. Haineau. You will understand soon. Meanwhile, tell me, what was he like during these days of vain and miserable rage? Claire. Oh, do not think he is overcome! He is still splendidly eredt; he is carrying out the boldest of projects : he will reconcile Oppidomagne with the enemy. Haineau. [Pointing to the street.] But these uproars at his door ? Claire. At first, it was hard. It was useless for me to espouse his furies, envelop him with my fervour, wait upon him better than ever: he called up all his old grudges, he stirred himself up to anger, he rushed to the window, shook his fist at the city, shouted with rage, and the tears started from his eyes. In all his violence he was the terrible child that you know. S6 THE DAWN Haineau. Ah! if he had only listened to me, we should never have fallen out. The Regency would not have deceived him. The people would love him still. But he is not to be disciplined : he has never known what it is to will patiently. He goes by bounds and tempests, like the winds of his country. Claire. And what ought he to have done? Haineau. Prolonged the revolt on the Aventine; extended it instead of reducing it, accepted the civic conflict, made the misery sharper; seized the banks by force; the public services by force ; destiny, by force. Claire. It was impossible. Haineau. Everything was possible, in the state of fever in which we were. But there had to be a plan, a resolution coldly taken and followed. First, we should have organized the resistance : we were on strike, up yonder; then the attack ; then the massacre. It was the immediate, definite, urgent things that needed seeing to. Those in authority would have been assassinated : Regent and Consuls, They were beginning to listen to me. H6r6nien came to the Aventine at an unlucky moment: circumstances were in his favour. He is the sentimental tribune in speaking, big gestures, big words : he magnetizes, he does not convince. Ah ! when I think of it, all my hatred comes back to me. 57 THE DAWN Claire. How you deceive yourself! [Clamours in the street. Haineau and Claire pay no heed to them. Haineau. He seems not to know what he wants himself. He always looks beyond the hour. I never understand him. Claire. I always understand him. Haineau. It is a mistake to put all his will into the service of certain dreams. He who blows down the tube too hard breaks the glass. Claire. Don't let us discuss things. You are violent, and you feel that you are weak and ill at ease. If you are here, in his house, it is to ask for something. What is it ? Haineau. \With pride.] I have come here to tell you that yesterday, I, I who am now speaking, overcame the crowd, defended H^r^nien, made them cheer him. My tenacity has conquered his ill-luck. Claire. You have done that, you ? But how then does your condufl: go with your ideas i Haineau. Ah, it is like this ! When I aft for myself, I am a failure, I am betrayed, I am hated, Le Breux sup- 58 THE D AW N plants me ; in short, H^r^nien, in spite of all, is the only man who can save things, at the point they have reached. He has ravelled them, let him unravel them. Claire. And you, you have sustained him. Haineau. Certainly, because we cannot have the revolt over again, because everything crumbles through my fin- gers, because I have no chance, no luck. If I could only tell you how childish the people are, and how they are already regretting that they have no master ! Oh! it is all over, it is all over! and one ought to have the strength to disappear. Claire. It is in despair then that you sustain my man ? Haineau. What does it matter ? [Taking his hat and stick and preparing to go.'] Good-bye, you know now what you ought to know. When H^r6nien comes down, prepare him to see me. \^He goes out. Renewed tempest of howls and cries. HiR^NiEN enters. Claire. \_Pointing towards the crowd.'] People must be wicked when the best of them be- come savage so soon. H^R^NIEN. Come, have patience. I am as tenacious as the peasant my father. Yesterday, these cries pursued me through the whole house, they beat against the walls from 59 THE D AWN top to bottom, from cellar to attic, everywhere, like alarm-bells. I felt a rage creeping over me, I w^ould like to have strangled them, stamped them to bits, annihilated them. I was in a fever of hate. 1 an- swered their nameless rages with insults. To-day, I feel quite firm. [Unfolding a letter.'] Listen, this is what has been sent to me : " I can now give you a definite assurance. All the officers are now won over to our cause and will follow us : some out of spite, others out of envy, all out of disgust. We came to an understanding yesterday in a secret meet- ing. I hold them in my hand. They will obey me like the pen with which I write to you, like the man who carries you this letter. Through them the whole army is ours. The generals? They are too far off, to high; the soldiers are hardly aware of them : they may be overlooked." [Folding the letter.'] And this letter comes to me from Hordain, the captain of the enemy. \^Fresh outbreak of cries : '■^ Death to him! " " Down with him! " Claire. My friend 1 HiRiisriEN. Well, let them cry on ! As for that, I foresaw that the Regency, when it promised anything, when it gave up everything, kept the half up its sleeves, like the jugglers in fairs. It was the maddest thing to go to the Aventine ! But I had to have the people, I had to have my people and its fervour, before I could make terms with the besiegers. Claire. How reasonable you are now I 60 T H E D AW N The Regency fooled me perfectly ! Those vacuous and bedizened folk, measuring my ambition by their own, came here, to offer me a block of its ruined power : as if men like me did not conquer their own place, for themselves, in the sight of all. They went out of that door like beaten lackeys, and since then my loss has enfuriated them. They have only a few days more to live, and there is nothing but their rage for my downfall to keep their thoughts from their own death-agony. Ah ! if the people knew ! All the appearances are against me. I believe in a poor scrap of writing, a mere signature, scratched out with the same pen that set it down. The more the Regency has broken its promises, the more I seem to have broken mine. Really, they might believe me a guilty accomplice. Claire. It is the people that is. You have only been able to deceive them because you have been deceived your- self. The innocence of all you have done blinds them. Ah ! I have my own idea. The masses are as suspicious, as malignant, as ungrateful, as stupid, as those who govern them. They will never admit that anyone can be simply pure and great. H^Rl^NIEN. I forbid you to think that. Claire. You said it yourself yesterday. HiR^NIEN. Oh ! I, that is diiFerent. [Pause.] The people loves me, and I love it, despite all, through all. What is happening now is only a lover's quarrel. [Insulting shouts in the street. 6i THE DAWN Claire. They are there by their thousands insulting us. And those are the same mouths that cheered you ! Ah ! the cowards ! the wretches ! the madmen ! [Renewed tempest of cries. Hia^NiEN. Indeed, one might think they had never known me. [Going towards the window with clenched fists. Oh ! those brutes ! those brutes ! those brutes ! [Then, returning to his desk. And yet yesterday, at the meeting in the Old Market, they all cheered me. Haineau defended me with such fervour that I forgive him all. Le Breux came to me to-night with the most reassuring news. The duplicity of the Regents is becoming clearer and clearer. All Oppidomagne returns to its true master. My hour has come again. Has it not? [Impatiently.'] Has it not, then? Claire. There is good hope of it. HiR^NIEN. No, no, but there is certainty ! Despite these heady cries, despite their multitude, I can divine already such a flock of hands All bending to my strength, to me, to-morrow ! My past returns again, and fills their minds, In a great flood of memories And in a foam of glory. [Js if speaking to himself. I hold the future fast, in these two hands of mine : Those who withstand. And those who put their trust in me. Deep in their conscience know it, all of them. That noble dream which is made flesh in me. Now more than ever, spurs me on to live ; 62 THE DAWN These are the times and these the hours that fire my soul. What are these cries to me, these clamours on the wind, And these unterrifying storms ? Only the future, in my mind, Far stronger and more real than the present, lives! Claire. {Pointing to the street^ If they could only see you, how they would be won by your confidence! iVly friend, you make of me The proudest woman on earth, And I abase myself and lose myself in your great soul; Take, take this kiss I give to you, Take it, and bear it where you go. As a clear shining weapon bear it ! There are few men upon the earth That ever took A deeper and a truer one than this ! H^RiNIEN. If my own self were to forsake me, I should find myself again in you, my force has passed so into your heart ! But I am so unshaken in my destiny that nothing which is happening now seems to me real. I believe in surprise, chance, the unknown. [Point- ing to the street^] Let them howl on ! they are pre- paring their repentance. [The tumult grows greater. Blows are heard on the door below. Window-panes are smashed. Herenien. If they go on knocking, I v/ill open. 63 THE DAWN Claire. It would be mad. HiR^NIEN. There have been moments when my mere presence meant viftory ! Never have I repelled them, when they approached my threshold. [HiRiNiEN thrusts aside Claire, who tries to stop him, rushes to the window, opens it, and plants himself there with his arms folded. The uproar becomes quieter, then stops, and there is silence. Sudden- ly, at a distance, other cries are heard : '■^Down with the Regency! Down with the firebrands I Long live Herenien! " HiR^NIEN. At last ! There is the true people ! The people that cheered me at the Old Market! My heart never deceived me. It heard when my ears were still deaf. [There is a swaying and jostling in the crowd, contradi£iory outcries, then, slow- ly, quietude. Claire. \_At the window.] Le Breux is going to speak. Listen. H^RiNiEN. [Impatiently.] I want to speak myself. Le Breux. [In the street.] Hdr^nien was sincere and just. [Murmurs,] There are five hundred of you howling at him, and there is not one of you whom he has not helped. [Murmurs.] As for me, he extricated me from the very talons of the consular judges. Last year, he battled to deliver Haineau. And you, all of you? he saved you in the time of the tragic and famishing strikes, he . . . 64 THE DAWN HERiNiEN. llmpatient/y.] I have no need ofa defender. [Addressing Le Breux, who speaks in the street.^ I must take the people : I must not have them given to me. The Crowd. — Let him speak. — Dovv^n w^ith him ! death to him ! He is a traitor ! — Let him speak ! — Death to him ! Down with him ! He is bought I — Silence ! [^iet is restored^ Haineau. [/k the street.] I, Charles Haineau, suspefted Jacques H6r6nien.. He seemed to me a man to be doubted. Like you,. I opposed him. To-day, I regret it. The Crowd. [Contradictorily.] Long live Hdr^nien ! Death to him ! Down with him ! Haineau. The Regency sent emissaries amongst us : I surprised them yesterday at the meeting in the Old Market : they were urging other wretches to kill Jacques- H^renien, to pillage his house, to pretend that it was the vengeance of the people. The Crowd. — Death to the Regents ! — Long live the people of Oppidomagne ! — Long live H6r^nien ! Haineau. We need H^r^nien. 65 F THE D AWN The Crowd. — Why did he receive dubious messages ? — Why did he leave our meetings? — He is a despot. — He is a martyr. — Let him defend himself. — Silence ! — May he forgive us! Her^nien. Forgive you, yes: for a man such as I am is not doubted ; for the Regency of Oppidomagne deceives as easily as I take breath. Bit by bit, the fine front of its authority is chipped away; rag by rag the fine cloak of its power falls from its shoulders. It called on me to sew together the pieces. It dispatched me to the Aventine, with the design of monopolizing or ruining me. The mission was difficult, dangerous, tempting. I acquitted myself of it as of a duty, and to-day I am neither lost to you nor gained by it; I am, and I remain, free ; as always, I set my strength to serve my supreme idea. [Some cheers.'] Just now I heard cries of "Bought! Bought! " [Turning and seizing a bundle of papers on his desk. ] " Bought ! " What have they not done that I should not be ! [Brandishing a roll of papers.] In this handful of letters they have promised me everything that infamy can abandon to an apostate, corruption to a traitor. That you may touch and handle the cynicism, the policy, the perfidy, the baseness, the blindness of the Regency, I hand over to you their letters. They were all accompanied by pressing demands, they were all the prologue of more ardent solicitations, all of them contain no more than the shadow of the infamies that came out in personal interviews. What they dared not write, they said; what they dared 66 THE DAWN not endorse, they impressed ; what they dared not formulate, they hinted. They returned to the attack, after each failure ; they answered refusals by bigger offers. Finally, they gave up all pride. I needed but to have opened my hand, to seize the whole power, and personify, in my own person, all the past. Ah 1 truly I wonder at myself when I think with what violence this fist remained clenched. And now for the letters, read them yourselves. [He throws them to the crowd,^ Talk them over, share them amongst you, spread them to the four winds of Oppidomagne. The immense ruin of the Regency is in them. You will understand all. As for me, I rest all my security on the insane imprudence of disarming myself; I am lost, for ever, willingly, joyously, in the eyes of the Consuls ; I offer them the most unforgettable of insults and I take refuge in your justice. Henceforth, it is you who proteft: my life. [O/m of enthusiasm.^ I may be attacked, on any side. Am I not the shining target, at which all the arrows are aimed ? Swear to me then, — no matter what the calumny that may be reported, no matter what the fable, foolish or looking like truth, that may be invented — swear to follow me, with eyes shut, but with assured heart. [They swear, and cheer."] It should be our joy and our pride to belong to one another, to hate, to love, and to think as one. [Cheers.] I will be your soul, and you my arms. And together we shall realize such splendid conquests of humanity, that seeing them, thanks to us, living and shining in their very eyes, men shall date time from the day of our victory. [Cheers; then calm; H^renien adds.] And now, I request Vincent Le Breux and Charles Haineau to join me here. I wish no faintest differ- ence to exist between us. [Renewed cheers. Hierie- 67 T H E D AW N NiEN turns and goes up to Claire, who embraces him.] You see now that we should never despair of the people. [Jfter a silence.] Tell our emissary from Hordain to come here immediately. [Haineau and Le Breux enter. Claire goes out. Le Breux. This is viftory ! Haineau. Oh! you are really a master. When I fight against you I am without force; I am worth a thousand, when I am by your side. H^r^nien. Well, this time at least, our good old Regency seems finally stuck in its own mud. [Sitting down.] Despite all its promises and oaths, no help was given to the household of any of the revolters. It assigned our men to the most dangerous posts : manipulation of the powder and explosives. The enemy's bombs fell into their midst as they worked. Lists of suspedted persons were drawn up: each of the military leaders had his own. Le Breux. You must regret your aftion at the Aventine. HiaiNiEN. Come now ! [Turning sharply to Haineau.] Do you know, Charles Haineau, what I planned out while you were urging these storms of revolt against me? Haineau, Master, believe that all that, my part in it . . . 68 THE DAWN Do not excuse yourself, do not interrupt; have I not forgotten everything? Yes, over the heads and the thousand arms of this now conquered outbreak, I realized the boldest dream of my life, the one for which alone I exist. [Rising suddenly.l In less than three days the enemy vrWl enter Oppidomagne peace- fully and we shall welcome them. Haineau. It is impossible. Her^nien. The Regent's men have never ceased tempting me. I have discussed patiently with them, questioning, illusioning them, asking for guarantees and confid- ences ; giving them hope and taking it from them in turn, worming out all their secrets; opposing, to their senile tallies, my abruptness and my anger. I played with them audaciously, madly; and I know now, better than anyone, better especially than they themselves, how inevitable and how close is their ruin. Their treasury? Empty. Their munition? Exhausted. Their garners? Ransacked. No more bread for the seige ; no more money for the defence. They are asking in what waste, what orgies, fortunes and public supplies have disappeared. Everyone ac- cuses everybody. The army? The day before yesterday five bat- talions refused to march. The ringleaders were condemned to death. They were led to the place of execution : not a soldier would fire upon them : they are alive yet. [Cheers in the street : " Long Jive Herenien ! "] At the council, the Consuls squabble. Does one propose a plan ? His neighbour opposes it, details his own, and wants that to be adopted. A 69 THE DAWN week since, the ministers decided on a general sortie by the Gate of Rome ; they succeeded in getting it voted : not a Consul would put himself at the head of the troops. Each Regent has sent me his emissary: these old men are not even agreed between themselves. They are like poor caged screech-owls, whose perches are turned round. They lose their heads, cry out, and close their eyes against the fire of day. They cast at one another the stupidities, faults, and crimes, for which they are afraid to take the responsibility. " What is to be done ? " becomes the motto of their reign. Claire. [Entering.] The emissary has come. Hjerenien. Let him come in. [Turning towards Haineau and Le Breux.] I have shown you the situation as it is among us in the city ; you shall judge of what it is like among the enemy. Then you will see that war is no longer possible. [Presenting the emissary to Le Breux and Haineau.] Here is one I am sure of. He knows, more than any of us, as to the state of mind of both armies. [To the emissary.] Tell them what you have discovered. [HiRENiEN walks to and fro in the room. The Emissary. Last Tuesday night my brother was sent to recon- noitre at the outposts. He went on a long way, to find out if the entrenchment that we had bombarded had given way, and would give us the chance of a general sortie from the Gate of Rome. 70 THE DAWN HiRiNIE^f. llnterrupiing.] This is the sortie I told you of. The Emissary. [Continuing.'] All at once, in the dark, a voice calls out, but gently,, as if afraid of frightening him and driving him away. A few quick, friendly words are exchanged. He is asked if there are not really in Oppidomagne respon- sible men who have had enough of the war. HiRENiEN. l^ickly.'] That happened two days ago, and since then there have been many similar colloquies. The Emissary. My brother answers that Oppidomagne will defend itself, that the revolt against this mutual slaughter must come, not from the conquered, but from the conquerors. And other soldiers come up, and say the besiegers are tired out, that deserters are endless, that rebellions are breaking out every day, that there is no longer an army, that they will have to raise the siege, if the frightful epidemic which decimates the troops continues. They want the union of all the miseries against all the powers. H^RENIEN. Well, who then, after such an affirmation of human solidarity, would dare affirm that the conscience of men remains unchanged? O these first trembling confidences that come By night, between the perilous dark And the terrors of war and its despair ; These first confessions of the true soul of man. Lucid a: last and triumphing. The passionless stars On high must rejoice to hear them ! 71 TH E D AW N Haineau. Truly, I admire you! At the tiniest glimmer that reaches you through the crack of a door, you are certain of the immense presence of the sun. Since Oppidomagne was blockaded, has a day passed, a single day, without traps being laid for you ? Who guarantees you the sincerity of the soldiers? Who tells you that Oppidomagne will open its walls, even to unarmed enemies? You believe everything, like a blind man. The force that animates you is as insensate as it is ardent ! It is the only true one: be in the service of circum- stances, hold oneself at the mercy of the immense hope that thrills through the whole world to-day ! Haineau. You believe then that the enemy will abdicate its vidlory, and accept peace without profit? HiaiNiEN. You reason without knowledge. The vagabonds and the peasants, who at the beginning of the siege were driven back into the country, and who live, God knows how, between the besiegers and us, have given me tidings day by day. Hordain confirms what they have said, and I have checked everything. The bombardment was bound to cease. The epidemic devours the camp: twenty thousand men are dead; the moats of the entrenchment overflow with corpses. A general was killed yesterday by a soldier, who had suddenly gone mad. The lower ranks league to- gether to destroy the works of the siege: they spike the cannon, they throw balls and powder into the 72 THE DAWN river. It is thus universal misery, distress, sorrows, tears, rages, terrors, that bring aliout these hopes of fellowship, these deep and fraternal cries. The very force of things is in accord with ours. Le Breux. You are wonderful. You were thought to be over- come, and now you are preparing for a more gigantic enterprise than ever. HerInien. It is because I have faith, a faith capable of com- municating itself to the whole world. I see myself, I feel myself, I multiply myself, in others; I assimi- late them to me. The army of Oppidomagne is in my hands ; that of the enemy obeys Hordain, my disciple and my fanatic. We have both worked with enthusiasm. Of what use is ancient wisdom, prudent, systematic, buried in books? It forms part of the humanity of yesterday ; mine dates from to-day, [To the emissary.'] Go and tell those who will be at the outposts this evening that I shall be with them. You will give notice to Hordain. [Cheers in the street. The soldier goes out, H^r^nien. [To Haineau and Le Breux.] Will you come with me? Come, tell me quickly. Le Breux. Assuredly. HifeRixiEN. [To Haineau.] And you ? 73 THE DAWN Haineau. As long as the leaders live, they may do harm. As long as they have arms, they will kill. They will be the reaftion which will follow your vicSory. Suppress them first. HERiNIEN. They will be the past, powerless and annihilated. Come, will you go with me? Haineau. No. Herenien. Good, we will do great things without you. [Renewed cheering in the street. HfiRiNiEN leans out of the window, and is cheered. Le Breux. \To Haineau.] He always astonishes me. He sees the obstacle, as you and I do. On what prodigies does he rely to overcome it? And how he carries one along in the whirlwind of his tempest! Haineau. That man has on his side the unknown forces of life. \After a pause.J I shall go with him, after all. 74 THE DAW N Scene II Ruined house. Night, at the outposts. On one side, rising ground and entrenchments ; on the other, the distant walls of Oppidomagne, faintly lit up. Le Breux is sitting on a heap of stones; before him an officer of the enemy, and some soldiers. Silent groups arrive. Le Breux. In Oppidomagne, regents, judges, leading men, all are at the mercy of the people. They are unconscious of the imminence of their defeat, and imagine that they still govern. But what H6r^nien wishes will come to pass. The Officer. Among us, no one dares punish any more. All the links that Isound us to our leaders and to our kings have been snapped. We, the inferiors and the poor, are the masters. To think that after twenty months of campaigning, after taking six provinces, and ten strongholds, we should collapse before your disor- ganized capital I Le Breux. Will Hordain come? The Officer. I expert him. Le Breux. I am curious to see him. I do not know him. 75 THE D AWN The Officer. He is fifty, he is a mere captain. It was during the dull and stormy winters of our country of ice, in the gray and snowy boredom of a little garrison town, that he won me over to his will and to his faith. He would sit down, at night, at my chimney corner, under my lamp; and we would argue. The works of H^r^nien had enlightened him ; they were my light. Hordain explained them to me, commented on them, with a conviftion so profound, that nothing seemed to me more self-evident in human thought and justice. Ah ! those friendly and ardent evenings together ! You will never know, you people of Oppidomagne, what miracles can be wrought by a book on the grave, unsatisfied and profound souls of a country of shadow and solitude ! [Hordain and Herenien arrive almost at the same moment, from opposite direc- tions; they are accompanied by officers and soldiers. Hordain. I come to you, proud to know you. There is not an idea which we do not share. H^R^NIEN. I knew by your letters that I could put all my trust in you. Both of us have our lives at stake, both of us love one another for the sake of the same profound and magnificent idea; And what then if they call us traitors? Never have we beheld our souls More proud, more firm, more masters Of all the future. We stand here. Hardy and clear, and face to face; Do we not bring two nations peace? 76 THE DAWN Do we not work at good with our rebellious hands ? And conscience cries to us : Well done ! HORDAIN. Truly, my soul is more peaceful than on a battle- eve ! All the words that justify this understanding between us have been said centuries ago. H^RENIEN. If it were miracles we wanted, they would rise on every hand. The air we breathe, the horizons we behold, the fever that beats in our foreheads, the great burning of which each of us is but a flame, foretell the new justice. HORDAIN. My propaganda was incessant. First, absolutely secret. Then, the general watchfulness was relaxed to such a point that my prudence became a mere luxury. Since the Marshal Hardenz, the only real leader we had, fell into disgrace, our army exists no longer. Without understanding anything definite, our soldiers gather what is in the air. An order! and they would all go towards Oppidomagne, happy, confiding, and fraternal. A number of the dead generals were replaced by captains, of whom some are ours. It is only the very old leaders who seem to me impossible to win over. They would be a danger, if we did not adl without delay, sharply, to-morrow. Haineau. How to-morrow? But time to prepare . . . HiRENIEN. We must adl like a thunder-clap. 11 THE DAWN Haineau. But still, it is urgent that Oppidomagne should know what we want. H^RiNIEN. She guesses it. To-morrow, she shall know it. Haineau. But it is impossible to move thousands of men, to throw open the gates of a city, without taking measures and assuring ourselves of every chance of success. HiRiNIEN. All the measures are taken ; all the chances are in my hand. You alone hesitate and tremble; you have no faith, you are afraid to believe. H ORDAIN. This then is what I propose : to-morrow, as soon as it becomes dark, at seven o'clock, those who are here and all our friends give orders to their men to march peacefully towards Oppidomagne. At that moment, all the leaders who remain to us will be assembled to feast their first victory. My brother, with three battalions which are ours, will mount guard over their debauch. The movement of troops will start from the east, and go in the direftion both of the gate of Rome and of Babylon: it will reach them in an hour. HiR^INIEN. The gate of Rome is too near the Palace and the Regency. The first part of the troops must enter by the gate of Babylon, and spread through the quarters of the people. Ah ! you will see what our people are like, how they will receive you, cheer for you, breathe 78 THE DAWN into you a stormy and courageous soul. You will pass on your way two barracks, the soldiers of which will join yours; and you will be in the heart of the city while the Regency is still deaf and sleeping. Only then will you present yourselves at the gate of Rome. The consternation of our masters and their partisans will be in your favour. Only the five hundred consular guards will remain faithful to them. All the other troops lodged in the Palace will receive you with enthusiasm. If there is any fighting be- tween the guards and us, leave our men to settle the affair. Keep out of any sort of quarrel. You need not fire a single shot. HORDAIN. We will do scrupulously what you tell us to do. HiR^NIEN. It is only you, the conquerors, who could realize our dream. Revolutions always begin by the renunciation of a privilege : you renounce vidlory. An Officer. It was only our King who wanted war. Haineau. Ah, and truly your attack was unjust, your beginning of the campaign . . . HoRDAiN. [Interrupting.] For the last time, let us have things quite clear. My brother will look after the leaders. At eight o'clock three thousand men will enter by the gate of Babylon. Then the gate of Rome opens to let in more bat- talions. No trumpets, no flags, not a shot fired, no singing. The entry will be sudden, peaceful, and silent. Is that it? 79 THE DAWN Perfed:; we will see to the rest. Oppidomagne is ready; she awaits you. In an hour you will have the whole city yours. And now, let us separate; do not leave time for objections to come forward, they are weakening, enervating. Our sole tadlics shall be: sudden, and bold ! Till to-morrow, then, yonder ! [They shake hands and separate. HoRDAiN and HiR^NiEN embrace. 80 ACT IV Scene I Abode a/'HERiNiEN. Same as In first and second a£is. The child is playing. Claire stands anxiously at the window. The Child. "^ T THAT dress shall I put on Polichinelle? ^■ Claire. The prettiest. The Child. Is it a holiday ? Claire. The finest holiday of all. The Child. Is it Christmas? Claire. It is Easter, the real Easter: the first there has ever been in the world. The Child. May I go, if it is a holiday ? 8l G THE DAWN •Claire. It is a holiday for grown-up people ; a holiday that children don't understand. The Child. TTell me what it is. Claire. You will know, one day. You can say then that it is your father, your own father, who made it. The Child. Will there be lots of flags ? Claire. Lots. The Child. Then why do you say I should not understand? When there are flags, I always .understand. Claire. [From the window.'] At last ! [H^renien enters with clothes in disorder. Claire rushes towards him. Hj^R^NiEN. {^Embracing her feverishly.] You know all? Claire. I guess, without knowing. Tell me. H]&RiNIEN. Things never happen as one imagines they are going to. I was convinced that none of our chiefs would beat the gate of Babylon: they never are. Yesterday evening, the oldest of them went there. When they saw the enemy at hand, they thought it was an a6t 82 THE DAWN of sheer madness. It was not an attack : the order of the troops, the absence of commanders, the lack of organization, proved it. It was not parleyers: there were too many. When the troops were a hundred yards away, some threw away their arms, others raised the butt ends of their muskets. Without a word, some of our men ran and opened the gates. Our chiefs struggled, shouted, stormed, all together : no one listened to their abuse nor to their orders. All the presenti- ments they had had, all the fears of defeftion, of treason, which they dared not admit, must have stabbed and tortured and prostrated them. In a lightning-flash, they understood all. They were sur- rounded. Three of them were killed : they were brave men. They saw the enemy enter Oppido- magne; they believed it meant defeat, the shame of the last humiliation. Some wept. Our men flung themselves into the arms of the besiegers. There was hand-shaking, embracing. A sudden joy flashed through the souls of all. Swords, knapsacks, car- tridges were thrown away. The enemy, whose wine- skins were full, offered drink. And the flood, always bigger and bigger, flows on towards the city and the National Square ; our chiefs stand there, pale, mute, incredulous. " It is the end of the war," cried Le Breux in the ear of a commander. " There is neither vidlory nor defeat: it is holiday." Thereupon the brute began to swear, mad with rage, striking out blindly with his sabre, wounding his horse. Two of his neighbours fled in the midst of the con- fusion. They went in the direction of the Regency : they will organize perhaps a semblance of resistance, and the consular guard will second them. I have already seen their green uniforms roving about near here. 83 THE DAW N Claire. But the generals of the enemy ? H^R^NIEN. Oh! they are the prisoners of their own army. Yesterday, seeing the troops reduced to half by sickness and desertion, they wanted, in their last despair, to make a great assault. The soldiers refused to advance ; some of them fired on their leaders. That ended everything. Claire. I have heard the troops pouring into Oppidomagne ; it is like the sound of the sea. Never was I at once so happy and so trembling. HlERiNIEN. Twenty thousand men are now in our midst. Tables are set up in the squares. All those who, during the siege, had hidden away viftuals in their cellars, distribute them to the people. Haineau said: " Never will Oppidomagne abase itself to the point of receiving its enemies ; never will Oppidomagne permit them to walk about its streets and squares; never will the prejudices of humiliated Oppidomagne be effaced." One reasons in that way in normal times : but to-day ! There is such a confusion in accepted ideas that one could found new religions and proclaim new beliefs. Look, up there, on the heights, the Capitol is in flames ! They are burning down the palaces of the Artillery and of the Navy. Before to-night, all the reserves of arms and ammunition will have been served out. During the siege, justice made for itself banks and exchanges. The hour of doing justice to the 84 TH E D AWN fundamental injustice, war, has come in its turn. Only with it will the others disappear too : the hate of the country for the city, of poverty for gold, of distress for power. The organization of evil has been struck to the heart. [Hurrahs are heard in the street^ Listen : it is the universal human holiday, wild and shouting. QClaire and HiR^NiEN go towards the window^ and meet in a long embrace. All at once Hia^NiEN disengages him- self sharply. Herenien, Dress the child ; I came to look for him, so that he might see my work. Claire. The child? But he will not understand. HiR^NIEN. Dress him all the same ; I shall say to him, in the presence of a world's death, words that he will never forget. Dress him, that I may take him with me. Claire. And I? Heri^nien. Your brother Haineau will come for you. Claire. Why can't we all go together? H^R^NIEN. Dress the child, I tell you, and be quick. QClaire goes out. HiR^NiEN looks over his desk., puts some papers in his pocket, then leans from the window, and harangues the people. 85 THE DAWN Her^nien. bitter, shining, and rebellious life That I have lived and suffered, how it seems A rest and light and glory to me now ! 1 feel myself the greater by this conquered world. Drawn from the depths to light, by these mere human hands. Doubtless it was decreed, a farmer of the plains Should first be born to give me being, me, That hugely, with these fingers and these hands of mine, And with these teeth of mine, should grip the throat of the law, And bring to ground the ancient pride of bloody powers ! The countryside, from farm to farm, from hut to hut, Died. In the cities where I came The universal will Had fallen on such a depth Of moral carnage: theft, and lechery, and gold. Howled at each other and crushed each other, thronged In monstrous hordes of mutual murderous violences. All the old instinfts killed each other, in the narrow lists Of the pot house or the counting-house. The formidable and accomplice government Drew for its nourishment and for its bane The sap of life from those most filthy dunghills, And swelled with rotten fullness and content. I was the lightning shining at the window Where certain stood to watch the portents of the sky ; And, less by any skill or any plans of mine Than by some unknown wild supremacy of love For the whole wide world, I know not from my very self, 86 THE DAWN I burst the bolts that held The brotherhood of man In prison-walls. The old Oppidomagne I have cast under me — Charters, abuses, favours, dogmas, memories — And see her now arise, the future city of man, Forged by the thunderbolt, and wholly mine. Who gaze and see the fire of my immortal thought And my unconquered folly and ardour realized Shine and become the light in the fixed eyes of fate !. [Shots are heard. Claire. [From her room.] Hdr^nien, the Regent's soldiers are coming into the street. Her^nien. [Not hearing, continues.'] I have made the world again in my own image, I have lifted up the people and their fruitful powers- Out of the night of instinft to the vast And clear and radiant threshold of my pride. Claire. [^Re-entering.] Hdr^nien ! H^r^nien ! Armed men are watching the house. They will kill you, if you go out. H^R^NIEN. Come, come ! Dress the child. [Renewed ^ring.. Claire. The shots are coming nearer to the square. HiRI^NIEN. Dress the child. Claire. They are spying on you ; they are waiting for you y they want to take your life. . . . 87 THE DAWN HiaiNiEN. Dress the child. [She goes to fetch the child, who trembles, takes it in her arms, and protests it. •Claire. My friend, I beg of you, do not venture out; wait till they have passed. HiR^NIEN. I have no time to wait. To-day I have no fear, ■either of others or of myself. I have risen to that point of human strength. Claire. -Go then by yourself, and leave me the child. HiR^NIE^f. [With violence.] I want the child. I want him there, by my side. ■Claire. He shall come soon. Haineau will bring him to you. HiRI&NIEN. He must be cheered with his father. Give him to ■me, come, give him to me. Claire. I have never resisted you. I obey you always, like a slave, but to-day, I entreat you. . . . HiaiNiEN. ■Give him to me, I tell you. [He tears the child from the arms o/"Claire, thrusts her back, and rushes out with him. T H E D AW N Claire. My friend! my friend! Oh! that madness! Always his poor, colossal madness ! [^Jn immediate sound of firing arrests her. Afier a moment of frantic anguish, she runs to the window, and leans out, crying.^ My son ! my son ! [Then she rushes into the street. Noise of horses galloping away. Tumult. Clam- ours. A silence. Then, dominating all the others : A Voice. Jacques H^rdnien is assassinated ! Scene II Morning. The Place of the People, laid out entirely in terraces. In the background is seen the panorama of Oppidomagne, veiled in the smoke of confiagra- tion. To the right the statue of the Regency, in full view, on a platform. To the left the Palace of War is burning. Townspeople deck the windows with flags; drunken men pass. Wild dances cross the scene; hands succeed hands. Songs are heard on all sides. Boys throw stones at the statue of the Regency. A Beggar. Now then, ragamuffins, look out, you'll have your •ears pulled. The Boys. — We are throwing stones at the Regency, because it 's dead. 89 THE DAWN — {Throwing a stone.] Here goes for the sceptre. — Here goes for the crown. Bands. [^Surrounding the statue and singing catches.^ And count by four and count by three: And men of mettle, who are they ? They who rejeft the soldier's pay. To wrest their rights wherever wrongs may be, And win their way to liberty. And count by three and count by two: The men of mettle, who are they? They are the men whose hearts are gay When cities of gold and fire and fever brew The cup of the wrath of God for you. And count by two and count by one : The men of mettle, who are they ? They who with one hand's hammer bray To dust the dusty hopes and powers that shun The light of their chief, the light of the sun. A Peasant. Hang me if I ever thought to see Oppidomagne again ! Group of Beggars. — I hid myself in a hole, Hke a beast. — I took turns in serving both parties. The Oppi- domagne people called me the mole : I let them into all the projefts of the enemy; and the enemy thought me as subtle as smoke: I kept them posted in the goings on at Oppidomagne. — We did the same. I worked north. — ^And I, west. — By betraying the both of them, we have ended 90 THE DAWN by settling their differences. [Ironically.] We have made peace. A Gipsy. Isn't there always a moment when what is called crime becomes virtue? A Beggar. Is it true H^renien is dead ? The Gipsy. He! he is master and king now. People don't die when they are so great as that. A Beggar. They killed him at his very door. The Gipsy. Who did? A Beggar. The Consulars. The Gipsy. Impossible! A Beggar. They might well wish him ill ! Never man accom- plished so great a work. The Gipsy. It is not a man, it is all of us who have done it. The Shepherd. At last we shall be able to find a living! 91 THE DAWN The Gipsy. We! Come now! the soil of humanity would have to be quite differently turned up if the light is to come into our holes and corners. Peace or war, Still we remain unchanging misery, Nothing avails to us the idle come and go Of sorrow or of joy. Though with new laws Oppidomagne Should this day set its bitted, bridled people free. We only shall remain, God only knows till when, The birds of prey, the wandering birds, That, little piece by piece, tear up the greedy earth, Like crows that rich men frighten from their homes. Chasing them from their thresholds and their or- chard-plots, Although they give free welcome there To the whole race of birds as free. The Shepherd. You speak as if the Regency still lived. The country will be reborn. The cities are purging themselves. The Gipsy. Fortunately! everything is only a going towards something, and to-morrow will always be dissatisfied with to-day. \_J troop of drunken women crosses the scene, with torches. They shout : '■^ To the churches ! to the churches! Burn down God! " To the beggar^ Look at those, there are your allies ! When you and your friends have decided to be really men, come and look for me, as others went and found H^r^nien. \_He goes away. Group of Workmen. {Putting up a platform on which to lay the corpse of Hi^RiNiEN. They bring the black cloth. — This is a bad business if there ever was one. 92 TH E D AW N — He had two shots there, in the forehead. — Was his son killed? —No. — Nobody knows which of the guards were the assassins. They got away. Perhaps we shall never know the name of the abominable coward who killed our tribune. — There was fighting, outside the Regency. It took an hour to dislodge the consulars. Herdnien was already dead. A Beggar. They say Haineau killed him. A Workman. Haineau? You don't know what you are talking about! Haineau! why he is more distressed about it than we are. A Beggar. He was his enemy. The Workman. Be silent; you lie by all the teeth in your jaws. The Beggar. I say what I was told. The Workman. It is people like you who start all the foul stories. [Enemies and soldiers of Oppidomagne pass along arm in arm^ and crowd on the terrace and steps. The Crowd. — Will the holiday come oiF? 93 THE DAWN — Why not? It is the new leaders of Oppidomagne who ordered it. — Never did H^r6nien seem so great as in his death. Group of Passers. — They carry him through the whole city in triumph. — I saw him crossing the Marble Square. There was a red wound across his face. — And I, I saw him pass the Haven Bridge; Mothers with lifted arms Held out their little ones to him, So that all young and joyous things That life can offer to a man Hovered and bent above this man in death. — He passes, garlanded with dedicated flowers ; The scarlet shroud enfolds him in a light of flames; His body: A very storm of love, like waves of the sea. Billows him high and holds him over all men's heads ; Never did king, shining with gold. With blood, with murder, and with battles. Have at his death So glorious and so kingly great a funeral. — At the Colonnades a young man made his way up to the litter. He dipped his handkerchief in the blood on the cheeks, and long and fervently, as if he received the host, he put it to his lips. A Workman. [^fVho has heard them talking.'] Jacques H6rdnien will be laid out here, on this platform, here, in our midst, in all his glory. A Peasant. It is good for the sun to see him. 94 THE DAWN Group of Passers. — Tears, flowers, songs, blood, dances, fire: all conflidling ardours burn in the air ! — It is the right atmosphere when new worlds are created. [jin immense influx; Le Breux, followed by soldiers and workmen, goes upon the step before a house and makes signs that he wishes to speak. Silence, Le Breux. Citizens, in a few moments you will see in this square of Oppidomagne, dedicated to the people, the body of Jacques H^r^nien. Receive him as a con- queror. A few shots have been enougji to close his eyes, stiffen his arms, immobilize his face, but not to kill him. Jacques H6r^nien lives still, in his words, in his afts, in his thought, in his books; he is the force which now exalts us ; he wills, thinks, hopes, afts in us. This is not his burial, it is his last viftory. Stand back: he comes. \Clhildren climb up on people's shoulders. Enormous anxiety in all groups. People get on the windows., climb columns. Different Groups on the Terraces. — What a crowd ! The square will never hold them ! — How they loved him ! People like that ought never to die. Group of Women. — His wife follows the bier. — It is she who is carrying the child. — She is a Christian! — A Roman ! 95 THE D AW N — Silence : here is the body. [The bier comes forward^ and is borne round the square; some weep, others cheery others fall on their knees, some women make the sign of the cross. On tht terraces, clusters of people squeeze to- gether to see better. Young Men. [Marching before the body. With prayer and exultation.^ — H6r6nien, H6r^nien, you were our only master ! — There is not any spark of all my thought You fanned not with your ardour, like a mighty wind. — H6r6nien, H^r^nien, 'tis you survive in us ! We vow and dedicate to you All that our souls one day Shall fashion us of beauty and of strength and light And purity in life! — H6r6nien, H6r6nien, your memory Shall be the pulse and heart-beat of the times to- come! — H6r6nien, H^rdnien, enliven us That we be always thus, these mad and vehement ones, That, in ill times, Now past, your impulse hurried Out of our weak and wandering ways Into the whirlwind of your might ! [The corpse is set down on the platform f women cover the black cloth with flowers, 96 THE D AW N The Seer. ^[Standing on one of the terraces above the- crowd."] What hour is near ? Sounds, not of tears, I hear. This is indeed the hour When, fatal to the gods, thunder has rolled To cast them down, haggard and old. Since sudden truth shines out, in vindicating power ^' The hope of man is now again made flesh; The old desire, replenished with new flowers, new youth, Springs from the earth; now eyes have light and hearts have truth. And these magnetic rays bind soul to soul afresh. And now with shining palms veil over and hide deep- This mortuary crape that covers one asleep ; And now beware lest you profane The worship and the fame Of so pure, powerful, and divine a name, Or this dead man has died in vain. He was in harmony with the new birth That waits the world, and with the stars, and time^ He has won life through mortal tumult, mortal crime ;, He has crushed under him one of the plagues of earth ! [HoRDAiN rises in agitation. The crowd point to him and cheer. People tell one another who he is. The Crowd. , — It was he who refused to attack Oppidomagne. — He won over the enemy. — He is as great as H^r^nien. 97 H THE DAW N HoRDAiN. [Pointing to the corpse.] I was his disciple, and his unknown friend. His books were my Bible, It is men like this who give birth to men like me, humble, faithful, long obscure, but whom fortune permits, in one overwhelming hour, to realize the supreme dream of their master. If fatherlands are fair, sweet to the heart, dear to the memory, armed nations on the frontiers are tragic and deadly; and the whole world is yet bristling with nations. It is in their teeth that we give them this example of our concord. [Cheers.'] They will understand some day the immortal thing accom- plished here, in this illustrious Oppidomagne, whence the loftiest ideas of humanity have taken flight, one after another, through all the ages. For the first time since the beginning of power, since brains have reckoned time, two races, one renouncing its viftory, the other its humbled pride, are made one in an embrace. The whole earth must needs have quivered, all the blood, all the sap of the earth must have flowed to the heart of things. Concord and goodwill have conquered hate. [Cheers.'] Human strife, in its form of bloodshed, has been gainsaid. A new beacon shines on the horizon of future storms. Its steady rays shall dazzle all eyes, haunt all brains, magnetize all desires. Needs must we, after all these trials and sorrows, come at last into port, to whose entrance it points the way, and where it gilds the tranquil masts and vessels. [Enthusiasm of all: the people shout and embrace. The former enemies rise and surround HoRDAiN. Those of Oppidomagne stretch their arms towards him. He disengages himself from them and lays palms at the feet of HiaiNiEN. Then turning towards the widow.] In the name of life and the triumph of life, I demand of you, Claire H6r6nien, to present to these two exultant people, him who 98 THE DAWN seems to us to be Jacques H^r^nien himself: his son ! [He holds out his arms to present the child. Claire. [Staying him.] I want to have strength to do it myself. [She rises.] Here, in the city's very heart, Here, at this moment great with hope, Upon this threshold of new days, that bring A new beginning to the world ; Drying my tears, and calling on my will, I dare confide to you this child, child of his flesh, I dare devote this child to proud, to tragic duty, To that chimaera, dazzling and divine. His father bridled and broke in and rode, I o£Fer him to the future, jubilant in this place Of feast and insurreftion aureoled. Here in this place of joy and sorrow, even here Before you all, before the feet of this slain man Who was Hdrdnien, and is dead ! [Claire holds up the child in her arms for some time in the midst of cheers and waving of arms, then passes him to HoRDAiN, and, unable to control her- self any longer, falls sobbing on the corpse. Silence comes slowly. Le Breux. This hour is too great and too beautiful, it binds us too intimately to each other, for us to think of oaths or terms of peace. In full liberty, in face of all that remains, inviolate and sacred, in face of this man of genius, whose murdered body and immortal soul enfever and inspire us, we give ourselves, each to each, for ever! [Cheers. HORDAIN. Yesterday, when with open hands and hearts we 99 THE DAWN entered the city, I was amazed that he who more than all of us had realized our work should be present, in life, at his triumph. So great a conquest required so great a viftim. If you consider under what strange circumstances H^r^nien, without escort, without arms, offered himself to perhaps the last shot that was fired, you will believe, as I do, that his death is bound up in the mystery of the great and sovereign powers. Haineau. He broke under him the old power whose image still stands upright. [^He points to the statue; there are cries : ^'' Pull it down! Pull it down!" Workmen seize crowbars to pull it down, and mount the pedestal."] He conquered its spawn, its dastard consuls, its bastard laws, its shameful customs, its paid armies. The Crowd. Pull it down ! Pull it down ! Haineau. He purged its thieving banks, its treasury, its parlia- ments and its councils: he slew all antagonisms. That image mocks his a(^ion. [^He points to the statue. The Crowd. — Oh! the old brute! — Luckless doll! — Horrible drab! On all Sides. Pull it down ! Pull it down ! The Crowd. — Throw it into the sewers ! 100 THE DAWN — Break it ! Smash it to pieces ! — Pull it down! Pull it down! Someone from the Fields. It was that that devoured us! Someone from the Cities. It was that that blighted us! Someone from the fields. It was death! Someone from the Cities. It was crime! On all Sides. Pull it down! Pull it down! A Workman. \_From the pedestal, to those aroundJ] Look out : it is going to fall, it is going to fall ! [In the midst of outcries of hate the huge statue totters and falls. There is im- mediate silence. Then Haineau seizes the head, which remains intaif, and, staggering under its colossal weight, flings it and breaks it, without a word, at the feet ff^H^R^NiEN. The Seer. Now let the Dawn arise! lOI THE CLOISTER A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS TRANSLATED BY OSMAN EDWARDS PREFACE POETRY and drama, once intimately allied, have been so little associated of late years that a dramatist who casts his story in poetic form must usually look for appreciation to a staunch minority. To such a minority Emile Verhaeren, in his dramas at least, has hitherto addressed himself, shaping his vision in accordance with independent standards, and confidently awaiting the verdift of more fas- tidious taste than is fostered in the "commercial theatre." Naturally, therefore, the success of Le Clottre has been a striking but gradual succh d'estime, enhanced by fine adling and enthusiastic criticism in those cities — Brussels, Paris, Berlin, Moscow, Manchester, and latterly, London — where special audiences are willing to welcome plays of special calibre. It is hoped that the present version, made in close collaboration with the author some fourteen years ago, and following with fidelity his alternations of elaborate lyric and staccato prose, will convey a fair suggestion of those unconveyable qualities which make the original unique. Le CloUre was written in 1899 and published in 1900. M. Reding produced it in the latter year at the ThMtre Royal du Pare of Brussels, where it ran for a fortnight and has been often revived. At 105 PREFACE Paris M. Lugn^-Poe offered it the hospitality of the Th^itre de I'CEuvre. Ten years later Berlin and Manchester followed suit. It may be surmised that in neither city was a Protestant audience likely to grasp the full significance of such a play. Journals commended it to attention as being "a Play without a Woman." To ask the playgoer to forgo sexual interest betrayed an abnormal playwright. It is well to remember, therefore, that for the author and for Belgium at the end of last century Catholicism in education, politics, art, and every other form of aftivity was a faft of dominant importance. Brought up in an orthodox atmosphere, the young poet derived his clearest impressions of the cloister from a retreat of three weeks spent in a monastery near Chimay. The result was a slim volume of poems — les Jidoines — which are sometimes said to contain the germs of the play written thirteen years after- wards. But they are little more than water-colour sketches of monastic experience in comparison with the solidly drawn figures and careful composition of the ultimate pifture. The play has a charm, which is more than pidlorial, as the poems are — more even than dramatic. Not only does it unfold a tragic story of human misery intensified by a religious setting, but interwoven with the conflidl between a man and destiny is a more shadowy but equally real conflidl between ideas. Behind each monk, behind Balthazar, Thomas, Mark, the Prior, stands an idea, one of the weapons with which the Church has conquered the world. Behind the whole group of io6 PREFACE monks is an ecclesiastical ideal, that of separate and exclusive jurisdiftion, one that seemed no less in- jurious to the community in the author's eyes than the military claim to a similar privilege, which, at the time of the composition of the play, was causing the case of Dreyfus to ring through Europe. The presence of these large but implicit rather than explicit fadtors in the problem of Balthazar's ruin must be borne in mind, if we would realize the scope of the poet's aim. Superficially we are con- cerned with the struggle for succession to the Priorate between two rivals, of whom the loser is disqualified by suicidal remorse. A£tually, however, Balthazar is not merely the viftim of a frantic conscience. He is also the spokesman of emotional, intuitive faith, which contrasts with the keen and subtle scholasticism of his opponent. How con- temptuously does the Prior's ancestral pride dismiss the childlike simplicity of Mark ! The sympathetic insight with which such various types are drawn and the skill with which their interaftion is utilized to entangle the soul of the parricide, have the efFedl of deepening our interest in the issue. We seem to witness not merely the ordeal of a monk, but also the trial of a monastery, before the tribunal of modern thought. Not as an advocate, but as an artist Verhaeren presents the case, draping each participant in turn with folds of splendid rhetoric. Such refleftions are more likely to occur to a reader than to a speftator, for in the theatre one is, or should be, enthralled by the art of the aftor. Of 107 PREFACE the five Balthazars whom I have seen the most fiery, the most tragic w^as certainly M. de Max. The performance given by M. Liten's company at the Kingsway Theatre in January 1915, wrould have been more convincing if the part of Dom Mark had not been left in feminine hands. Apart from this the ensemble was excellent. Gratitude no less than honesty impels me to record that no foreign impersonator of the gentle boy-monk was able to express the beauty and tenderness of the part so perfeftly as Mr. Esm£ Percy, who induced Miss Horniman to mount The Cloister for a week at the Gaiety Theatre, Manchester, on 3 0(£lober 1910. There was no wave of pro-Belgian sympathy at that time to float the play into fame, but the critics declared its production to be "a triumph of courage and initiative." Its reception by both press and public on its own merits, aided, of course, by a competent and well-trained company, encourages me to believe that the " translator " is not wholly " traitor." Mr. Percy has undertaken to introduce the play during the coming season to the people of Birmingham, Newcastle, Glasgow, and Edinburgh. His long and intimate acquaintance with this drama, which dates from its first performance in Brussels, should ensure for it a faithful and fervent lease of life among lovers of great poetry, even though it be seen through the glass, darkly, of Anglo-Saxon translator and interpreters. OSMAN EDWARDS. 108 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA DoM Balthazar. DoM Mark. The Prior. Father Thomas. DoM MiLITIEN. Idesbald. Theodule. Monks. 109 THE CLOISTER ACT I A convent garden with symmetrical flower-beds, box- hedges, arbours, and sun-dial ; to the right towards the front, a Calvary; to the left, Roman archway, leading to the chapel; at the hack. Monks are playing howls, working at fishing-nets, and mend- ing garden-tools. Some, seated in a circle on a broad wooden bench, are engaged in discussion. Thomas, [c] I WAS saying then : God cannot be evil. Now, if we only fear that which is evil, why is it taught that " The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom ? " Balthazar, [JValks up and down impatiently.'] You are too fond of argument. Thomas. The matter is important. If you decide this ques- tion wrongly, you put the whole life of a Christian on a false basis. Balthazar, You are too fond of argument, I tell you, Mark, [Extreme r.J We should not fear God ; we should love Him, III THE CLOISTER Thomas. You talk like the arch-heretic, Basilides. Mark. [Advancing.] I? Like Basilides? Thomas. Basilides says in so many words what you affirm. Mark. Saint Augustine says it, too. MiLITIEN. Dom Mark is right. Saint Augustine does say in so many words, " Love and do what thou wilt." Thomas. Oh ! that is not at all the same thing. Saint August- ine reserves fear. The worshipper should vary his adoration; he should be at once both fearful and trembling and full of fervour. . . • Balthazar. [Impatient.'] You are too fond of argument, too fond of argu- ment. . . . Thomas. [To Balthazar.] My brother, you do not distinguish the infinite diversity of the Divine Nature and Personality. Balthazar. [Abruptly. Advances to c.j A passion, a rage for God is what I feel; I hear but one appeal, — Theirs, who proclaim With all but frantic eulogy His Name ; As if they found no language but a cry, 112 THE CLOISTER One cry, their mad life long. But clear as lustral water, pure and strong. \_A pause^ God does not ask to be described, to be Weighed and dealt out in volumes grandiose Pompous with solemn pride. Thomas. Thy faith grows simply, as grass grows, Contented on God's threshold to abide ; But God to-day, when Thought stirs every mind, Must be discussed, that He may win mankind. Balthazar. {Violently.} He is most God, when comprehended least. When faith and love for weariness have ceased To hold Christ up — bare — bleeding — before men. Then man seeks to explain Him, it is then Man wastes his hour in vain, deep argument. How God must laugh to see such reason spent On spiteful and vainglorious exercise ! He loathes this vulgar trade of "Hows " and "Whys" Wherein His Name stands quoted, high or low, As the defender's skill plead well or no. God is more high than human sages dream; He is too vast, too deep, too infinite For man to sound His depth, or scale His height ; And only in some ecstasy apart Of loving sacrifice and joy supreme A Saint has, once or twice, attained His heart ! MiLITIEN. That is the truth ! Mark. \_Full of enthusiasm, advancing towards Bal- thazar and remaining near him.J Oh ! my brother ! my brother ! 113 I THE CLOISTER Thomas. \_Fetgning surprise.] We deserve, no doubt, to be flouted and denied. [/Addressing the other Monks, who interrupt their games to listen without taking part. And that is where we stand, we — the successors of Bonaventura, of Saint Thomas Aquinas ! [Addressing Dom Mark and DoM Mili- TIEN. Yet these were Saints ! no less than those you claim. Saints ! on whose brows the apostolic flame Shone like a sword of God with ray serene; Their hearts in darkling thought had caught the keen, Essential spark, from which the soul takes fire; Their faith took reason for a cloth of gold, And broidered there great lilies fair, Do£lrines sublime and bold, — Xieaving to feebler hearts the dull desire Of customary prayer. [Taking Balthazar dire£ily to task. Ay : those were saints indeed ! and sages, too. And heroes, whereas you . . . Balthazar. [Troubled.] Look not on me. When you are speaking of such men sublime. MiLITIEN. •Greatness has fallen from the heights; our time Is atheist. It denies the fervent praise. Which hailed in western lands in ancient days The hero's purity, the Christian's strength; When faith fell, shadowing our shores, at length •Came Science and sang her own Magnificat; Now Science in her turn is pointed at, A murderess, a destroyer ; those deny, 114 THE CLOISTER Who dreamed her mistress of bright harmony, So fair, that she alone explained the world! Her truth becomes untruth; to-day is hurled On yesterday; no system is so wide. But premiss by result is falsified ; Prodigal guesswork spreads and spreads no light; There is no more false or true, no wrong or right; Science is dying ... by herself devoured. Thomas. {Advancing towards Militien.] 'Tis false ! With all the future is she dowered ! Militien. We must return to the old, simple creed Of children ; love and gentleness we need And ignorance. I know no man alive, Whose life will suit the time, when these revive, Save one, save only Mark here, Balthazar. Him I call Our Highest! Mark. [/« confusion.'] I? Not I? Among you all I am the least, the lowliest. Balthazar. Thou art the same As Francis of Assisi, child, whose name Perfumes and crowns with lilies all the Church, Oh ! beside thee, I feel what black sins smirch, What heavy sins oppress me. But thou art Fair innocence, our temple's holiest heart. Our paragon, a vessel of pure flame. And were we as those men of fiery fame THE CLOISTER Whose ardour turned the Middle Age to gold, We monks should kiss thy rough robe's hem, should hold Sacred thy tranquil and miraculous hands . . . Mark. {Greatly moved.'] Oh ! Balthazar ! my brother Balthazar ! Balthazar. [Fiokntly.] I am nothing but a wind, blown fierce and far, A torch, tossed madly in the tempest's night, When I behold that fixed and tranquil light, Which through thy soul unconscious shows so plain ! My pride seems then a thing abjecS and vain, When thou art near ; I long to mortify My heart, my flesh, my being; let them lie Here in the dust below thy shining feet . . . \_He falls on his knees^ as if insane. Mark. \Tries to lift him.] My brother, my poor brother Balthazar ! . . . Balthazar. Let be ; let the mud mar My fallen falsity of painted pride ; Sin, upon shame and fear, has crucified My soul, which, wert thou pitiless, would die. Mark. kneel not, Balthazar, I charge thee by The. love that keeps us one : look at me now ! Am I not still thy ward, my guardian thou ? Balthazar. {Rising.] 1 wished to show myself, compared with thee, Humble and worthless. lib THE CLOISTER MiLiTiEN. Brother, thou hast set Such high example of frank worthiness, As fires our fervour. Balthazar. [To Militien.] Pity my distress. Militien. Our prayers will not forget . . . Balthazar. [To all, going with trembling steps to r. behind columns.^ I bid you all immensely pity me . . . [He moves away, leaving the Monks aston- ished. Soon DoM Militien and Dom Mark rejoin him in the arbour. They disappear. Thomas. [To the Monks who continue absorbed, each in his work.] Strange — is it not ? Suddenly, like a gust of wind, to fall into such excess of passion ! You talk and reason and prove, — when all at once this astonishing Bal- thazar breaks all bounds and provokes a sort of edifying scandal, Idesbald. He is masterful and arrogant; impetuous and wild. You would fancy him above us all, and look at him now — more humble, more submissive than the lowest of lay-brothers. No one spe.s his true charafter. Thomas. [Rises scornfully.] You think so? 117 THE CLOISTER Idesbald. The security of these cloisters will be gone, if ever this monk becomes our chief. Thomas. Who would prevent him ? Idesbald. [Earnestly.] I appeal to every monk here. Thomas. [Mociingly.] Oh ! They have neither his strength nor his stature. In his presence they are mute like conquered men, A Monk. Because the time to aA is not yet come. Thomas. Why, it was always time to a£t, since first he came ! Our Prior supports Balthazar, because he is Duke and Count like himself, like Dom Mark and Dom Militien. His wrinkled hands are always pushing him in front of us. For ten 'years I have seen it, struggled against it, worked against it. To-day, when I should welcome the help of you all, not one will move. A Monk. We will never accept Balthazar. Thomas. Then defend yourselves. Something tells me, we must rely on aftion. . . . Idesbald. Rome will never impose him upon us. ii8 THE CLOISTER Thomas. Dom Balthazar comes of a noble line ; His virtues through his titles doubly shine ; He is rich in sureties and ancestral fame; For long since came His ancestor, Bristling with gold and pillage, Back to his village, And dowered with all his store These cloisters ; where we magnify Christ's name, A Monk. 'Tis an old fable. Thomas. If men think it true, that is enough. Idesbald. [Dreamily.] We others are mere clerks and commoners ! Balthazar is Comte d'Argonne, Due de Rispaire. . . , Thomas. Who least among us all Is armed with power to foresee, With livings battling Science ? Surely he ! Beyond our narrow monastery-wall He never notes the lightning, when it sears With distant flash the enormous, thundering sky;. Of that loud-leaping fight he nothing hears, Which even God mistrusts uneasily. His world is bounded by a convent-wall, To-day, when all creation rings so loud With deep revolt, by day and night avowed, That not to hear is not to exist at all. Or else to be of stone ! He only strives To keep intadl the old ascetic dream, 119 THE CLOISTER Dreamed by his forefathers, to reign supreme Above us all : thus would he cramp our lives. He comes to us three centuries in arrear ! His soul is harsh, fanatical, austere ; His knowfledge is of texts alone ; yet he, Because he adis the Prior, our Prior will be. A Monk. 'Tis you, who should be Prior. Thomas. That depends on yourselves. You are the new force, unknown till now, which must assert itself. Warn the Pope. Appeal to Rome. Idesbald. [Hesitating.] They should nominate you. Thomas. [Looking hard at Idesbald.J And you? What of you? Idesbald. [Feigning indifference.'] Oh! I? I? Thomas. [Firmly.] The sole decision rests with Rome. The Bishop favours me. He detests our Prior. He will aft -outside the monastery, cautiously, with proper re- gard for precedent. But you others, for God's sake, bestir yourselves. A Monk. You will tell us what to do. Thomas. Use your own wits. You must oppose Balthazar •with your words, your attitude, and your aims, 120 THE CLOISTER whether expressed or not expressed. Oppose him in every step you take, in every letter you write. You must ruin him in the eyes of the Prior. You must shake him in his own eyes, that he may lose confidence in himself. How can I tell? You must tell yourselves what to do. . . . Idesbald. Balthazar never seemed so dangerous as to-day. Thomas. [T« Idesbald.J He is passing through a crisis of conscience. Theodule. [To the Monks.J Each of us will pray for him. Thomas. [To Theodule.] You will pray for him, when the monastery is safe. Theodule. [Defiantly.'] Dom Balthazar sets us an example. Thomas. No longer God, but Satan there 126 THE CLOISTER Ruins and rules your thought, Dom Balthazar, for you he lays the snare Laid long ago for fervent piety, For monks, whom rocks and deserts saw surprised By Pagan devils, yet unexercised, For Paul and Anthony. Your spirit is afire, your soul aflare, Your haggard feet eschew our paths sublime; You do not see that theirs is the worst crime. Who outrage God by doubt and by despair. Balthazar, Father ! Prior. Be wise and confident again ! Let soberness and measured calm restrain Rebellious fury ! See that from to-day Your will is as a scythe to shear away This evil crop, which bristles with sharp shame. Balthazar. Impossible ! Prior, I charge you in God's name. [In gentler tones, after a pause. My son, thou, in our midst, these ten years past, Hast borne with ecstasy the bloodless fast. The girdle of pain unseen, the burning smart. Which, like a sore laid open, stings the heart To death, to living death, our daily choice. Our hope of earning Heaven ! Christ doth rejoice Because of thee ; His bitter kisses heal Those wounds sublime, where glorious drops congeal ; Lovely to Him is thy self-branding pain, And angels sing thy penitential zeal. Now, such a life from God thou durst not steal ; 127 THE CLOISTER His priest, His harbinger, thou must remain; Thou canst not by a mad red-raging feat Cancel the debt of labour incomplete ; Nor thrust, as if thy justice were His law, Between thyself and Christ a barrier, Balthazar. [Jgonized.] My father 1 Oh my father 1 Prior. Hear my voice ! Leave not the way of pardon — thy first choice — Which thine advancing feet so simply trod, That now thy very crime finds favour with God ;. He loves it, as the instrument whereby Thy soul was chosen for especial grace. If now thy words the heavenly plan confute And break the ban of silence absolute. They injure and blaspheme God to His face. Christ lives indeed for justice, but he died For pardon : death and pardon are the higher. Balthazar. My father! Prior. Think, too, if this parricide Be flung as a bone to curs, how each denier Will suddenly be armed to hurt us all; And think, no human vengeance may appal With crimson terror, since thou owest it nought ;. And think of me, my son, for I had thought To make thee chief and master of my power After my death. Thine is a ruling race; Thou art eledl; thou owest to this place Thy very life. God knows in what wild hour. Or why. He brought thee to these walls at last,. Far from thy strange and stormy past. Humble in spirit, but high and proud of heart. 128 THE CLOISTER Balthazar. I have sore need of pity, father ! Prior. Not so: arise! Thy duty is rather To soar on ample wing ; as new crops start, Spring from the fallow ! — Here thou canst repent,, Winning anew the meed of holiness To heart's content. Balthazar. If only now, once and for all, I might Here, in the chapter-house, my sin confess! Prior. Old usage gives thee such a right. To take and make of it an arm secure. Monks have this licence. But hast thou the might To repossess thyself? Balthazar. Of that be sure ! Before my brethren I shall frankly tear This red-clawed, evil monster from my brain. And drown it in their golden-flowing prayer; I shall go humbly, dazed with joy and pain ; My heart, whose only flowers were grief and fear. Their honest counsel will wash clean and clear ; I shall entreat them, " Take into your hand My weary hopes, wan terrors, rage, despair"; I shall hide nothing. Father, you will stand Beside me? Prior. [Reassuringly.] Have no fear, I shall be there . . . [Balthazar iisses the hand of the Prior,. who goes out. DoM Balthazar runs towards Dom Mark, who, for an in- stant, had been watching them from far off. 129 K THE CLOISTER Balthazar. Mark, my brother, hearken ! — Knowest thou 1 shall be born again ? night will turn day — I shall become that man so far away, Whom thou didst love long since . . . Mark. Whom I love now. For never didst thou forfeit . . . Balthazar. [Growing sombre again ; sits down and turns his face awayj] Hush ! my shame Is still to live and think myself the same. Mark. No matter what thy deed, such faith have I In thy profound, long-noted piety . . . Balthazar. Hush! Hush! Say nothing, until I, defiled. Be pure! Mark. My brother, my master, in whose eyes I am no other than a simple child; No part of me but flies Towards thy misery, thy torments wild. Born of some unknown care : Here is my heart : lay down thy grief, thy torments there ! I am nothing, yet two hands have I To fold in prayer, two knees to ply In supplicating saints above ; And with the whole of my wrapt soul I hail thee, who didst sow my heart with love. For thee my fervent lips are never still ; I love thee all man may, within God's will; 130 THE CLOISTER I long to share thine ill, to bear Thy cross, to feel thine anguish fierce Fasten on me its violent fangs; I long for thy transfixing pangs, Which, like keen lances, thrust and pierce ! Balthazar. My child ! Mark. I feel some mystic atmosphere Around thee ; the most perfect of us fall. Transgressing now and then our rules austere ; But were thy fault most palpable, not all Hell's heaviest blows could interpose To stay my love from growing greater still. Regard me: look into mine eyes, Full of thy fervour and thy will ; Thou art the magnet, bidding my heart rise To happy, golden skies; Thou art the joyful, unassuaged desire. Which, though it tire, fills life with fire; Thy witness, after Christ's, Proves most of all to me that God exists. Brother, for great deeds marked and manifest, Rise up, let sorrow be : Shine, as of old, vidtorious; in thee Commandment shows most fair and mightiest, Balthazar. Fond soul, spontaneous source Of kindness, whom I needs must love and bless. Despite the curbless anguish of remorse. What naked trust I learned from thee, What simple goodness, what sweet lunacy! All nature's simplest tones by thee were taught; Her accents, on thy fresh lips caught. THE CLOISTER Mingled with mine, more harsh and passionate ; My haunted soul became less desolate, Till I believe the message sweet. Which instinft to thy heart sings secretly; I think thou guessest God unerringly ; I know thee pure of all malicious heat ; I know thee strift in duty, prompt in prayer, Chaste as an offering, virginal, and fair . . . Mark. [Excitedly.] Balthazar ! . . . Balthazar ! Balthazar. I shrank alway, Because thy soul is of such delicate clay. From fracturing its timid purity; Else my red secret had been flung to thee ; Thou hadst been told what all will shortly know, — My shame, — my dreadful sin, — which long ago Found absolution, but I see it rise From the black past again ; Again with rampant claws and bloody eyes It comes to roam and roar through every vein ! Mark. [Shrinking.] I am afraid ; say nothing, I implore. Humble not here thyself to me alone. Balthazar. When compline ends, confession shall atone; And thou wilt hear, wilt say what penance still May free me from this riotous ill And put it out of mind for evermore. Mark. My soul entire Shall become fire 132 THE CLOISTER To watch thy pain above; And like white linen all my love Shall swathe thy heart and wipe away each tear ; I hold in hand two weapons shining-clear, Wild prayer and fervent fast ; These shall contend, till peace be thine at la^t; If yet the Holy Virgin, burning now In fiery trance, be fain to grant my vow ; If she my deepest inmost thought would know, " Incomparable Mother," I shall cry, " More bright than rays and roses, Heal thou my brother's grief and misery! Be thou to him the raiment that encloses Both joy and pardon fair. That one on earth should wear For God to glance with unshocked majesty On human woe " ! Balthazar. My gentle brother ! Mark. Heaven without thee Were stripped of gold, of glad eternity; I wish to save my soul along with thine; I wish to die, that ardour infinite May bind us fast in happiness divine; I wish our destinies might so unite, That thy lips should with my lips make one sound, That Jesus and His angels might confound Thy praise with my praise, when our joint desire Pours like a torrent in the heavenly fire. . . . Brother, my brother ! \_He flings himself on Balthazar's breast. The bell rings. Balthazar. Be no more alarmed. — 133 THE CLOISTER Thou hast restored my strength. — Now am I armed With thy clear spirit against all hell's power. Already pardon and pity strike their hour, Already {>eace rings softly in the bell. . . . Already confidence complete Comes to diredl along God's path our feet. . . . Be not alarmed, but pray again. Farewell! \They separate. Balthazar goes to l., and Mark to r. CURTAIN. 134 ACT II The Chapter-home : wooden benches, black and white- pavement with a rush mat in the middle. On the wall a crucifix. To the right, in his usual place, kneels DoM Balthazar with hidden forehead and clasped hands. Thomas, entering, approaches slowly and taps him lightly on the shoulder. Thomas. YOUR soul is uneasy, my brother. May I not pray and suffer with you ? Balthazar. [^Looks at him and replies with hesita- tion.'l All prayers count before God. Thomas. Yours seems no ordinary suffering. Balthazar. All the prayers in the world, perhaps, weigh less than my crime. Thomas. Your crime ? Balthazar. In a moment I shall confess it here before you all. Thomas. Is it so great as to dash your zeal to the ground ? THE CLOISTER Balthazar. My zeal? What has it to do with my zeal? Thomas. I know the nature of your zeal — tenacious, violent ! / know. Balthazar. Leave me . . . Thomas. I know that its secret aim is to dominate these cloisters ! Balthazar. Leave me, I tell you . . . Neither you nor I will be ruler of this House. There are others . . . more worthy . . . Thomas. Dom Militien ? Balthazar. Leave me . . . leave me . . . leave me! [Goes to C. before crucifix. Thomas. I no longer understand; I do not know what to think. \A pause. Balthazar makes no reply. Thomas continues and goes nearer. Dom Balthazar, within our convent wall You were the chosen man, who came one day Empowered by God in some mysterious way To seize by right on our obedience. Your words were lofty battlements of strength, Crested with proud pretence ; 136 THE CLOISTER Your will, by adding stone to stone, at length In spite of my will overawed us all 1 Our Prior heard the call Of a harsh nature, feudal as his own; To you should pass at death his place and power. Life with perplexing, vagrant paths is strown, But you stood firmly up, a border-tower, Whence one might see and show mankind What roads propitious to its journey wind. And where, through ways of Fate, is drawn God's route. I find you at this hour Poor, weary, destitute, A ruin, ruining itself. Your haughty spirit shakes and falls apart ; Your boldness trembles; what if by-and-by The vain, colossal pride, which sways your heart, With sudden crash pay instant penalty? Balthazar. If pride this price must pay. At least 'twas I, who willed and chose the way. Thomas. Ah ! There the spirit spoke. Constrained to utterance by the yoke Of conscience. Always pride ! You and your pride ! Balthazar, [Distraiied.'] What have I said ? It is untrue, untrue ! To love — to love alone — I pay the due Of agonies, which shall my soul reclaim; You rob my words and thoughts of every clue ; Your speech, your glances dart Insidious flame. Which masters me with treacherous surprise; 137 THE CLOISTER But God, who loves and knows me through and through, Into the deep recesses of my heart Sees clearly with illuminative eyes. go your ways, O go your ways ! Thomas. You will not have my prayers, then ? Balthazar. Saints on high, Whose angel-wings are over Calvary, Who watched the early Christians wage their wars, Have pity ! See how my repentance soars Pure of deceit to pardon's mountain-crest. My brother there in darkness stirs again With tempter's tongue old pangs of obscure pain, And sets the old pride bounding in my breast ! But let thy pity. Lord, on him, too, rest, Pity on him, O Lord, pity on me; 1 cannot, will not, even repel one word Of proffered prayer ; Perhaps, more goodness and more grace are there Than others pray with — but have pity, pity, By thy death, by thy baptism, thine agony Have pity on us. Lord ! Thomas. Those prayers for you are mightier that I make Because, in sueing God for your soul's sake, I weep and on myself do violence; More virtue lies In prayer for those who are our enemies, Than in red-wallowing gulfs of penitence. I pray and still shall pray for you. Balthazar. [JVith resignation.] I thank you. [A pause, 138 THE CLOISTER Thomas. ^Afoves away and returns.^ You said to me just now: neither you nor I will be ruler of this House. And yet, Dom Militien — of high lineage, I admit — is too old; moreover, he is ill, shaken, on the verge of death — Idesbald? A medio- crity — Bavon and Theodule? Wretched scriveners, absorbed in books they do not understand. As for Dom Mark, a child, an innocent . . . Balthazar. \Abruptly.\ Let be ! Let him go free ! He does not know our life Of violent ambition, infamous strife. Nor your craft, brother, with his right at odds ; Faith in his own will follows faith in God's ; By angels, not by us, he is chosen chief. Rising above our mire, a golden sheaf; When he shall be our ruler designate, Your lord and mine, to Heaven his heart will cry, That Heaven itself may reinaugurate Self-sacrifice, supreme humility. Since such will be God's will, we shall obey ; Such is God's will — providing, if need were, A miracle for every barrier. Wherewith you cumber the appointed way. Thomas. Astounding! Let the Prior say point blank: " To rule and raise the Church, strong men of rank Are chosen by God, because their force of soul Condenses to more absolute conti-ol. Being kept and garnered for the common weal, Persistent, fervent, even when lost to view. An heirloom, which the centuries seal . . ." I understand, and think at once of you. But Dom Mark , . . 139 THE CLOISTER Balthazar, Think of him now ! Think of him ! [Goes towards l. to door but turns and listens. Thomas. [^Squaring his shoulders and looking Bal- thazar full in the face.'] I dream of no man's future but mine own. Your strength in ruin by a fatal whim Lies spent and prone. But my strength mounts and utters a great cry ; I am- sick of service and humility ; Within my spirit the New Age at length Triumphs, endowing all her sons with strength To spurn the time-worn, customary route, As men rejeft a dead and sapless fruit. You others see not how my heart burns clear With apostolic zeal, God's pioneer ! Monks of proud line and crest armorial, [Pointing to crucifix. Christ would decide for me against you all. Thus would He speak; " You rot in torpid ease Behind a wall of sleepy pieties ; You vegetate ! Far off the trumpets blow War on my cross, whose wide arms long ago Embraced the world and pressed it to my heart; You play an ever-shrinking, sterile part; Your mantles droop, unlifted by God's air ; You deck my altars, but the beadle there Can light the candles and dispose the flowers ; You stifle boundless ardours, virgin powers, The tongues of flame, which on my faithful few At Pentecost descended. Worthless crew How often, when I watch you groan and pray. Drowsing the slow, monotonous hours away. It seems I should chastise you." . . . Balthazar. [Violently.'] Blasphemy! 140 THE CLOISTER Christ said Himself to His disciples, "I Am in your midst, when ye are joined in prayer." Thomas. His voice and gesture, mind and heart are there. When those who preach are luminous and wise ! Balthazar. Monk, we are no less servants in His eyes ! The same fire burns us both with heavenly heat. But our love seeks Him in some mute retreat Of holiest peace. Your dream is to proclaim Before the blind, deaf world His glorious name, A world of dust and lust. Which, like a miser, sick and very old, Still plays with gold. And on a painful death-bed will employ Its utmost will, its utmost skill. To fabricate some criminal, new toy. What matters that, compared with truth divine? With your God and with mine? "Ah! the apostles and the saints!" you cry; Supposing they returned I If suddenly Out of the grave their stormy spirits came. Should we not see them fill their hands with flame To fire the world and reascend the sky? I know as well as you what doom should be Wrought on this impious and desolate age, But never will I bandy words with it, Infefted by its pestilent heritage. , I doubt not that you painfully submit To contaft, which might stain the splendour of Christ, But, pride for pride, mine is less sacrificed. Thomas. Yes, always pride! 141 THE CLOISTER Balthazar. {^Imperiously.'] Say rather, dignity ! I do not blush to hold my honour high. I grapple with my crime in vehement strife, But my soul's stature is thereby no less. Freed from one crime, myself 1 repossess. To crush the evil spirit, that spurs your life; I pave the way for Marie ; I lift him high On these strong Christian arms to viftory. My burning zeal there is no monk but knows. And what rude vigour in my bosom glows. To hinder and repel your mad design. You make impure the sacramental wine With dregs of knowledge and with lees of doubt; So, drop by drop, you pour the poison out. Which by-and-by will breed destruftion. Thomas. \^Fery coldly.] Well, By pride or penitence, I cannot tell, Your soul will be its own destroyer, brother. [The Prior suddenly appears in the Chap- ter-house, The two Monks are silent and embarrassed. After an instant DoM Balthazar goes towards him. Balthazar. Forgive the violence, which broke with shame My spirit's solitude. This mad monk came To pester me with cares; And tempt with wicked words my peace of heart. Prior. Your duty was to drive temptation away. And muse in austere loneliness apart. [Te Thomas. This man is praying — leave him to his prayers ! [The Prior makes a gesture. Thomas moves away. 142 THE CLOISTER We two desire — we only — at this hour To keep, my son, this cloister's pride and power Above men's rancour and men's rivalry. If thy confession be not firm and high. If it should not restore thee to safe ground Of general respeft and peace profound. Then it were well to wait and keep silence, To bridle the stern lips of penitence. I come to smooth the way, ere thou confess. Balthazar. My father, God will easily impress My strength on others, when amends are made. Prior. Truly, He is the Lord, — He owes thee aid ! Were I away, if He abandoned thee, Thy supreme humbleness, and faith rough-shod Would only injure us and injure God. Why, if we cannot — two such men as we — By Christian daring and heroic grace Keep and defend as ours that holy place, Which Heaven assigns us by alternate right, There is an end of merit and of might. An end of law and order, of the hand Which rivets on the world its stridl command. Thy rash example is yet kingly-bold. It must, like holy deeds, shine far and wide. Till all the brethren, rallied to thy side. Accept thee, future Master of their fold. Moreover, I would have these schemers know — Now — when their plottings to fruition grow — All that divides them from such men as we, Who cease not to command — on bended knee ! [The bell rings. Footsteps are heard ap- proaching. The Monks enter the H3 THE CLOISTER Chapter-house. Each takes his place. The Prior ascends the pulpit. Crucifix. Prior. Idesbald. Militien. Monks. Monks. Theodule. Mark. Monks. Monks. Thomas. Balthazar. Prior. This Monastery has abandoned an old custom, of which I am reminded by a monk, one of your brotherhood. Since public confession was abolished, the moral strength of our order has declined. Ten years ago, under Dom Gervais, my master and predecessor, the practice was still in force: I re- establish it to-day. You are about to hear the confession of a parricide . . . Thomas. {^Rises suddenly and remains standing.] A parricide? Prior. [Continues coldly.'] Of a parricide, long since forgiven. Before the world such large and frank avowal would be im- possible. But you are monks: you will understand its beauty and its heroism. You will extol what less lofty souls than yours could not understand. [To Dom Balthazar.] My brother, make your con- fession. Balthazar. [Rises, and then kneels on the straw mat in the middle of the chapter-house.] First I ask pardon of you all. My crime was com- mitted long ago, and I have lived in these cloisters 144 THE CLOISTER day after day, year after year, exempt from punish- ment . . . My father died: 'Twas I who murdered him. Coming, one night, home from a dingy tavern, I felt the wine's wild leaven turn To madness in my head. The household slept, but near my father's bed A solitary light burned red in the dark. The old man, though enfeebled, yet was stark And rudely vigorous : I saw his throat Naked with starting veins : there seemed to float About his pallid brow a radiance dim ; Defenceless dignity defended him. I paused . . . Ah ! had I for a moment there Foreseen the life-long anguish of despair In one flash ; had the Christ, whose limbs avouch [^Pointing to crucifix on walL Our haggard kisses, kept my father's couch ; Had one of you — mine own familiar friend — Been able in those days as now to blend His heart with mine in prayer's enflaming flood, Then sin had never stained my soul with blood. Ne'er had I faced inevitable death . . . Prior. My son, confess your fault more quietly. Balthazar, That instant, big with formidable fate, My father's eyes were opened ; suddenly He sprang ere<3: to meet my hate ; My throat was all on fire and my breath Seemed dead. His clutch grew tighter on my arm,. But from his lips no sound betrayed alarm ; He wished that none should ever know 145 L THE CLOISTER A name as high as ours had sunk so low. I felt his brutal fingers grip my flesh As in a vice ; fury flamed up afresh ; Like a fierce animal, I thrust my father back against the wall . . . And now the knife glittered before his eyes • . . So hard his strength was, and so huge his size, He seemed like all my ancestors in one. My fingers down his body groped their way But lost their hold, and always he would shun The blows I aimed, while his fierce hands at bay Cut crimson nail-marks deep into my neck. With all my strength I held him long in check. Then dashed him to the ground, but he, once more. Rising with supreme effort from the floor, Stood, face to face and pride to obstinate pride : I struck him and he died. Such, in its bitter, utter loathsomeness. Such was the foul, mad crime I now confess, Even as it came to pass ten years ago. Prior. IRistng.] It reeks with blood and shame, yet, even so, Our convent walls can stifle such a deed. Here, tuft by tuft consumed, the evil weed Burns up in golden, penitential fires. We pass to judgment. Grieve, my son, no more. But answer, as each questioner requires, [yi silence. A Monk. [To Balthazar.] Had your murderous hatred no cause? Balthazar. My father was stern and I was wild. He stood like a barrier between my vices and the wealth they coveted. 146 THE CLOISTER Another Monk. Did you take pleasure in desiring this murder? Balthazar. Ay: long enough to tax my conscience with it. Prior. \^Intervening.'\ The murder was hasty and violent. You cannot have taken pleasure in desiring, or time in preparing it. You magnify your fault. Balthazar. My shame reaches farther than my sin. A Monk. If our reason condemns you, our hearts exalt you. Your example is magnificently Christian. Idesbald. '[^Rising.'] Magnificently Christian ? An assassin, then, deserves an aureole? MiLiTiEN. [Rising too.} Dom Balthazar's avowal is sublime ! In olden days, when souls breathed loftier air, Had such a monk confessed to such a crime, Besieging God with such perpetual prayer, Then all his brethren had rejoiced to see With eyes made holier by his piety His sin itself to highest Heaven aspire On flaming wings of penitential fire. Idesbald. [Sti/l standing.] Before you saint the sinner, probe his guilt ! Militien. Ay ! draw your sword and plunge it to the hilt ! " Love all men " is no maxim of ^s«r choice, 147 THE CLOISTER If one mgy judge by that relentless voice. God from your heart is far away to-night ; Black hatred, like a hard and bitter blight, So warps you that you hesitate to tell Your brother he is pardoned. You repel The guest, who knocks by night at your soul's door. Idesbald. {Pointing to Balthazar.] Must 1 be judged? Shall he be judged no more? Theodule. From depth to depth, bewildered and distressed. My judgment falters. MiLiTiEN. [Turning to Theodule.] Crime becomes a test, A crucial struggle, when transfigured by Such radiance of God's lightning from the sky, As struck and woke the apostle in Saint Paul. Celestial miracles, you forget them all! Invoking the poor wisdom of a day, You cast the endless splendour and strength away, Which filled mad. Christian cloisters anciently. Christ's home on earth is an anomaly. Unless we preach this doftrine to the throng: 'Tis heroes set the measure of right and wrong. Dom Balthazar repents: then, from that time, Stands higher in proportion to his crime ; The greater his recoil, the more he is strong ; — Not one of us had fought with death so long, Nor passed vi£torious each perilous place. His holy feat sheds light upon his face, And Heaven shows all of us his sin for a sign, A mark predestinate of grace divine. 148 THE CLOISTER Idesbald. Mad! You are mad! Was ever wickedness So boldly praised ? He is no more, no less Than a mere criminal. His looks are wild And bloody. We renounce him. A Monk. [Rises.] We are defiled, As by a leper's touch. Another Monk. [Rises.] His prayer would mar Our prayers at the same altar. Another Monk. [Rises.] Balthazar Has strained his eyes on death with look so grim That they are tainted. Another Monk. [Rises.] Must we pity him, When half the shame he cried Was mixed with pride? Theodule. [Dreamily.] Nay : casting in His scale A crime so monstrous, Christ Himself will quail. Prior. [Rising.] Silence! [Jll sit down.] You have ceased to ex- amine a conscience : you wreak malice on the man. I hoped this confession would be worthy and profit- able, but it ends in wrangling and hatred. Dom Balthazar's patience and resignation deserve some- thing more than mere pardon. I invite you to ex- amine, exclusively, his fault; that only, and nothing else. Thomas. My brother, was your crime known ? 1.49 THE CLOISTER Prior. We only judge the sin. Crime pertains to human justice. Thomas. [^IVith great calmness.] My brother, was your sin known.? Balthazar. 1 escaped enquiry. A vagabond was punished in my place. I incurred the shame of seeing him die without saying a word. Prior. If the judges err, that is their business. Our justice is not their justice. Idesbald. Still we must examine the fault in its full extent. Prior. Punishment is no part of the fault, but its sequel. Idesbald. Then what penalty remains for him to suffer? Prior. It is I who decide that. Idesbald. But, in that case, why have you summoned us here ? Prior. To flash on you the light, which heroes cast. To show you what a soul is like, where Christ, Lived and enshrined and sacrificed, Triumphs at last. 150 THE CLOISTER Mark. [Ecstatically.] Pray without ceasing . . . pray ... let us pray ! MiLITIEN. Yesterday and to-day Christ is the same. His power can loose the soul from every snare And draw it up to Him, like clustering flame. Our brother was a martyr. . . . Idesbald. [Rising.] Nay ; a murderer ! I say again, a common murderer ! A Monk. [Ironically addressing the Prior.] There are some here, who vaguely would infer That Balthazar deserves aggrandizement For his crime's sake. They have the Prior's assent. . . . Prior. [Suddenly rising.] Be silent all ! I am sole master here. Until my body, shrouded on its bier, Shall lie at rest, where yonder Cross appears, [He points to the Cross on the walL That guide and ensign of my choice. You shall hold true each utterance of my voice. I testify that by heroic tears And fearless heart Dom Baltliazar has won henceforth his part In Heaven above of everlasting bliss. Alone, before you all, what shame was his, What lowly excess of penitence, though Christ Required no martyr to be sacrificed ! Yet no one rose and said, with joy at heart, Knowing he would be understood of all : " We are but sorry Christians, for our part ; Our souls, complacent and methodical, ISI THE CLOISTER What are they matched with this soul, mad for Heaven ? " I testify as well that rancorous leaven -Chokes up your hearts ; suspicious, ill at ease, Basely you bore yourselves and guiltily; I hear with ears I still have wit to use Muttered rebellion, eager to reje6l The total trust, the absolute respedl. And blind obedience, which are my dues. [Total silence. You think, then, by shrewd plots to sap at length The stone-and-iron basis of my strength ? You think by subtle reasons to impair The sense of what is written ? . . . Speak! [He looks round him. Silence. No one moves. I swear. Here to you all, my hands shall wield their power Firmly above you, till that ultimate hour. When my tired footsteps to extin£tion plod : Power that shall stand intadt, when I am dead. Thomas. [Rising.] Know well, in this I hold you warranted. Prior. I care not. My sole warranty is God. [A long pause. The Prior grows gradually calmer and continues. And now, disperse ! [They rise."] You have neither -sufficient calmness nor clear-eyed charity to under- stand and judge your brother. [Turning towards DoM Balthazar. Dom Balthazar, the custom of this monastery de- mands that I, who presided over this gathering, where so much magnanimity might have been shown, should now dictate your penance: 152 THE CLOISTER Tou will sleep on the bare ground, for a month ; You will repeat the Psalms at midnight ; You will keep away from the altar for three days, and will only hear Mass from the gallery behind the grating. Obey these conimands and peace be with you! [Each Monk goes out after reverence to the Altar. CURTAIN. 153 ACT III The Convent Garden. Prior and Militien seated outside door of chapel. Prior. I HAVE been thinking of it all night. — Aftually, in my presence, the assembly was bitterly divided. Dom Balthazar's confession was an utter failure, our monks . . . Militien. Oh, you mastered them splendidly ! Prior. I would sooner have died there and then, in my seat, than abandon Balthazar to them. One and all they flew at him, . . . at m^ . . . And Balthazar did not budge, he refused to defend himself . . . All his strength seemed dead, all his pride crushed. Militien. Remorse will eat away the finest energy. Prior. How fiercely Idesbald opposed us ! How soon his evil spirit made way among our monks ! How openly they all displayed their audacity, their impatience. It seemed as if this monastery were slipping from my grasp, as if my authority were snapping, like a branch bent and whirled away by the blast. 154 THE CLOISTER MiLITIEN. You never spoke to them in such tones before. Prior. And did you notice their tone, when they opposed me, did you weigh their answers, their allusions, their defiance? Everything they said implied an understanding, a sudden consciousness of strength. What troubles me most is that they dared not only speak as they did, but think as they did, in our pre- sence, in my presence. Some profound change must have taken place in this monastery without my know- ing it — even now. MiLITIEN. When a man becomes as old as we are, his eyes are too dim to see every change. Prior. [Catching hold «/"Militien's arm and looking earnestly into his eyes^ To think that thirty years ago all was order and submission ! When I was elefted Prior, you were my only rival, and, when I was nominated, you were the first to obey my orders. Perhaps I should have lacked your wisdom had fortune gone against me. And what good counsel you always gave! . . . Tell me, do you really believe that Balthazar will be my successor? MiLITIEN. Idesbald is plotting as keenly as Thomas for your place. The day which sees the ruin of Balthazar will separate them and pit one against the other. . . . Until now they have made common cause: it is a good sign. Prior. Alas ! I cannot think you right, 155 THE CLOISTER Since I begin to doubt my sovereign might ; Authority has lost its brazen clang, No longer ringing out, as once it rang. While conscience in their hearts heard silently. Mine arms grow weak; I am seventy to-night; I tremble when I lift the monstrance high Above the crowd. Death tolls within my breast. I am a tottering wall, a ruined tower. Whose turrets stand, defiant of death's power ; I shall have been in times of yielding clay The last great Prior of ancestral sway. God knows what swirling tide, when I am at rest. Will sweep this monastery away I [A silence. I see no other but thyself — no other — Dom Militien, able to succeed me. Militien. I ? . . . But if you are vanquished, am not I van- quished too ? Am I not weary, ill, useless, on the brink of the grave ? Who can say which of us two will bury the other? We have done our work in accordance with God's plan and soon we shall both depart in peace. [A silence.'] Besides, when Balthazar has conquered his own qualms of conscience, he will triumph over the other. Prior. [Rises.] Oh, I will answer for that. My strength is equal to that final duty. But what if his own hands should wreak his ruin ? What if he abrogate that magni- ficent store of energy which he has inherited ? There comes a time when strength, even the surest, in spite of itself, accoinplishes its own downfall. In such a case, nothing can be done. All is over. Militien. You have still Dom Mark. 156 THE CLOISTER Prior. He ! Never ! His hands are only able to pray . . . \The bell is heard. MiLITIEN. Sunday matins are ended. — Here come our monks. Prior. Go. — It is your turn to sing High Mass. I shall preach. \They disappear. The Monks enter. Some walk about the arbours, others form into groups and converse. Idesbald. [To Thomas.] Why did you support the Prior so positively? One should never admit that an opponent is in the right. Thomas. You do not understand. [Turns his back on him. Idesbald. You seem changed since yesterday. I do not recog- nize you. Thomas. Once more : you do not understand. Idesbald. What? What? — But tell me then . . . Thomas. [Shrugging his shoulders and ignoring Ides- bald.] The Prior is right. Authority must remain intaft, supreme. . . . Besides, things move so quickly, that my attitude is no longer worth discussing. It is' generally approved. Even Theodule approves. He told me so. 157 THE CLOISTER Ideseald. Theodule ? Thomas, The Prior's cynicism opened his eyes. Idesbald. Listen ! Supposing I were to inform against Bal- thazar ! A public prosecution would abase him more utterly than we can, and our monks would bear me no grudge for it . . . Thomas. A monk can only be judged by monks. If Dom Balthazar came among us to hide his crimes, the monastery must give them burial. Idesbald. It would be so easy . . . Thomas. I forbid you to tempt me. . . . Dom Balthazar is destroying himself. Yesterday I was still thinking of a way to abase him, but to-day it is useless. Remorse is a passion for ruin and extinftion. We need only leave him a clear course. Idesbald. You are wrong. Let me do as I say. Thomas. Let you ... let you do as you say! [Taking a sudden decision.'] You shall see. [Calling the Monks grouped on L.] Brothers, my brothers, listen, all of you ! Someone here advises me to inform the authori- ties outside the monastery that public punishment 158 THE CLOISTER may be inflidted for his fault on Balthazar. I wish you to bear witness that I rejeft the advice with horror. Idesbald. Well, but . . . Thomas. I say this before you all : before those who follow me, and those, if there be any left, who oppose me. Theodule. Your honour was never in doubt. Thomas. I love this monastery. It is my only home. Its spirit may be old fashioned, but its privileges are sacred. I shall cherish them as they have never been cherished before. We are monks, before and above all. Idesbald. This monastery cannot evade the law. Thomas. You are alone in thinking so. You raise between yourself and us a barrier more impassable than that which Dom Balthazar ere