PAUL CLAUDEL

/r
THREE PLAYS
/'
THE HOSTAGE
CRUSTS
THE HUMILIATION OF THE FATHER
TBANSLATED BY
JOHN HEARD
BOSTON
JOHN W. LUCE COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
PQ
2.lots


Copyright 1944, 1945, by Poet Lore, Inc.
Copyright 1945, by John W. Luc< Co.
Prioted in the United States of America
AD rights reserved. For rights of public performance, pItase
Cus the publishtt!, who are the author's agents.
AU PSODS are hertby warntd that "The Hostage," "Crusts." and
Jhe Humiliation of the Father," are fully, protected by
and anyonr presenting any of thtst plays in any form w ttVU
ed
,
without the writtm consent of translator or his rKogni:
_ will be liable to the penalties by law provided.
CONTENTS
The Hostage
9
Crusts
87
The Humiliation of the Father 153
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
The three plays by Paul Claudel cover the period be-
tween the French Revolntion and the Franco-Prussian War.
Their purpose, as I interpret them, is to portray, through
three successive generations of the same family, not ouly the
transformation of France from a semi-feudal, semi-mediae-
val people to a modern nation, hut also the evolution of the
individual's outlook on life.
In the first play, The Hostage, we see the remnants of
the old French aristocracy struggling to maintain its tradi.
tions through the shipwreck of its caste in the Revolution-
ary days. To them King and Church came first, and after
them, their name and their landed estates. To these tradi-
tions all else was subordinate. The individual existed ouly
as a member of his caste; and the rules of that caste were
the infrangible rules of life for the individual. And over and
against this inherited doctrine of life, surged the chaos of
Revolution, of nascent Democracy, of Iconoclasts sweeping
aside and wiping out the" Ancien Regime."
In the second play, Crusts, the younger generation is
firmly in the saddle. The chaos of the Revolution, of the
downfall of the Empire, and of the reestablishment of a
weak shadow of monarchy have successively occn:rred, but
their disturbing effects have not had time to be eradicated,
nor have the new theories become assimilated. We see the
growing spirit of commercialism, of colonization, of indus-
trial development springing up through the ashes of the
older traditions, with all the unpleasant vigor of unre-
strained y o u t h ~ For the first time the Jew is becoming a
factor, both socially and in the larger commercial wo,rld. It
is the age of crass materialism, of the mad scramble in
which only the individual and the present counts. Only one
vestige of the "Ancien Regime" remains, an idealism which
is obviously hopeless - the exponent of a cause lost beyond
possible salvation, although it bas not breathed its last.
In the third play, The Humiliatitm of the Father, the
author shows the world as it appeared after it had emerged
[7J
1
from the political and social upheavals of the first half of
the nineteenth century. Equilibrium has been reestablished
and idealism and materialism are opposed to each other in
approximately the ratios of today. The old traditions have
again come to life, but they are no longer the controlling in
fluences. The individual, not the caste, is the social unit;
and no more do the traditions, handed down from genera- I
tion to generation, govern the every act of the men and
women of a given class. Human emotions have taken the
place of inherited laws as the guides to the life of the in-
dividual. And with the development of individual thought,
comes the unrest, the vague dissatisfaction, the mal de
vivre of individualism.
[&)
,
I
THE HOSTAGE
A Drama in Three Acts
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE POPE Pros
THE CURATE BADILON
THE KING OF FRANCE
VISCOUNT ULYSSES AGENOR GEORGE OF COUFONTAINE .. ND DOli-
j\[ANT
BUON Later COUNT TOUSSAINT TURELUBE: Prefect of th.e
, '.
Marne, later of the Se.net
SYGNE OF COUFONT,uNEt
SElW ... NTS, SOLDIERS, INClDENT.<L CH,o.RACTERS
.Pronounced "Tuerluer"
tPronounced "Seen'"
ACT I
The first fleor of the monastery of the Cistercian Monks
of Coufontaine. The library; a large, high-studded room,
lighted by four windows with small greenish panes of glass,
some of which aTe gone, am.d have been replaced by paper.
There af'e no curtains. At one end of the room hangs a frag-
ment of brightly colored tapestry, on willie}" is embroidered
the coat-of ... rms of Coufontaine, with the motto: "OOU-
FONTAINE, ADSUM." At the back, between two hi.qh
doors, against a whitewashed wall, is hung a large wooden
cross with a bronze Crucifix. The body is mutilated and has
a forbidding appearance. The floor is made of broad, uneve ..
boards, scrupulously clean, fastened down with large, bright-
headed nails.
SYGNE is seated in a CONler, before a graceful little
desk, which is covered with account books and various
bundles of papers, aU .. eatly aH"anged. Beyond her stands
a table, on which there is wine, bread, etc. Large, stiff
cha.rs and arm.chairs are standing against the walls and
give the room an austere and uninhabited appearance: On
the floor lies a frame, in which pru .. es are drying.
Little or none of this is visible when the curtain rises_
It is still night. The blinds are closed. The only light in the
room is a single candle burning on the table.
Outside a storm. is raging. A door opens, but no one enters.
The wind howls and a puff, coming ;"'to the room, makes the
flame of the candle flicker. SYGNE shields it with her hand.
Throughout, SYGNlt speaks in a clear, melodious voice,
but which cO'lltains notes of a strange and almost painful
sonority. COUl'ONTA.UI1I'S voice is even and somewhat low.
He always speaks slowly "",d as if weighing his words.
SOENli I
SYGNE (looking toward the back of the room). George!
CO,?"FONTAINE. Good evening, Sygne; or, rather, good
mornmg. (SYG1f.B puts her hand to her heart as it overcome
by emotion. COUl'ONTAIN:& steps into the half-lighted part of
the room. His figure is athletic and h.e stands straight.)
SYGNE. Your room is ready.
COUFONTAINE. I'll go there later. I haven't time to sleep.
much I want to talk over with you. It's a very long
tune smce we've seen each other, cousin. (She sits dow"
again.)
(11]
i I
I:
" I
SYGNE. I'm quite ready for your visit: All my accounts
are in good order. Every night before gomg to bed, and be
fore saying my prayers, I've made my entries for the day.
This set is for the police, and this little book for you. Day
or night, come when you want, you'll find me ready, and
everything in good order. .
CoUFONTAINJ!. Accounts! It's always the first tbmg you
talk about I Accounts. You haven't changed, Sygne! Old
Susan made a good pupil of you. The best writing teacher
in the world is a man who can't read. You have no account-
ing to make to me. It's all yours.
SYGNE. . .. In trust for you. You are the master, and I
the humble servant, who keeps the fire burning.
COUFONTAINE. I don't like this light.
SYGNE. The blinds are closed and the curtains drawn.
It's so dark one can hardly see. I can barely recognize you.
COUFONTAINE (in. a low voice, an.d raising his hand to en-
join secrecy). Is he here' .
SYGNE (i" a low voice). He arrived two hours ago. J ust11l
brought him through the woods on a donkey.
COUFONTAINE. What did he do when he arrived!
SYGNE. He sat with his hands on his knees, breathing hard,
like a man about to die. He asked for a priest, saying he
wanted to confess. I sent for Abbe Badilon. (COUFONTAIN1I
a gesture of 01I1IQyan.ce.) Should I have done other-
WIse'
COUFONTAIlOl. Go on.
SYGNE. I couldn 't He asked me so kindly, looking
at me with those big, dark eyes, and talking about his hear:,
as churchmen do - "the heavy weight that lay upon his
- Uonde.r what he meant! He confessed, and th'W-
he SaId mass. I heard hlm. Oh, he wasn't the same man
when he stood at the altar. He was like an angel- an angel
of fervor grace _ performing a sacred rite. He was
likhe pontiff spealring a golden language. Tell me, George;
W 018 he!
Is he resting now!
In SVGNX. He's resting and the Abbe is with him. He is go-
t!0 say mass here. (Gusts of wma ron be heard outside.)
old time we were under a roof. The same
WID. recogmze It.
[12]

SVGNE. It's a pity! The apple trees were so beautiful, and
now there won't be a flower left - nor a bud!
C01JFONTAINE. The storm will protect us. Sygne, I'm in
great danger; I've taken a desperate risk.
SYGNE. Don't worry; you're safe with me, no mattcr how
great the danger.
COUFONTAINE. That's exactly it. I've never been molested
here, and that is why I've brought my prize here to you.
And also because of Toussaint's poor eyesighl I know
you're on good terms with him.
SVGNE. I'm a business woman pure and simple, cousin. I
can't afford to choose my associates.
COUFONTAINE. Better marry him! Think of his coat-of-
arms scrambled in with ours! It would brighten up that daub
of color. (He points to the tapestry on tke wall.)
SYGNE. Don't joke.
COUFONTAINE. I'm not joking. (SYGNE begins to cry.) Oh,
I'm a brute! Here she is crying! You're so good and kind;
I can't help mysElif; something makes me want to hurt you. I
suppose it's my way of showing how fond I am of you. Poor
little cousin! What a childhood you've had! Your whole
youth spent gathering together and patching up the scraps
of this estate. Vineyards and fields and woods and sand pits
and meadows. It's like mending a bit of old lace, picking up
the threads one by one.
SYONE. It's your estate that we're patching together again,
Susan and I. Your property, Coufontaine.
C01JFONTAINE. Well done, my clever little weaver! Our
mothers, with their idle fingers, amused themselves by un-
raveling the embroidery and the needlework thread by
thread; and now, thread by thread, you are weaving to-
gether again what they undid. But I have my cousin Sygne,
who is worth more to me than mnch, much gold and many
precious stones. What's that about the lilies of the field that
toil not, neither do they spin! Ah, if aJl the bloodless sons
of France, and aJl the daughters of noble families, had done I
as you, the King could come back, and not a hole would
there be in the old flag. Alas, when the first stitch goes, how
fast the woof unravels I
SYGNE (picking up a miniature from the table and looking
[13]
,
:
I
at it) See! Here are my dear little ones! The least. I can
do is' to take a bit of trouble for them. Y 01:
u

Goo . and they're mine too! Aren't they JUs a e
bitt fairy aunt, their old spider of. an aunt, w::
stayed at home, has to build them a house ill France
her magic arts. The rest of us, yon and I, torn betw
memories and duties as we are, we don't work f?r
I wonder when I shall see them! The dear babIes! e.
tie boy with his whip begins to look like you,
He's got your look of being able to command, and yet
. 1 . 1 . d ling Theu
expression is so kind. And the litt e pr IS a ar _
mother was complaining about them ill he; last letter. Com
plain of them! Why, it doesn't seem pOSSIble! .
COUFONTAlNE. That was an old letter. They're qmet now,
and don't give her any trouble. .
SYGNE. How beautiful their mother is as she holds them m
her bare arms! What a joy it must be when you colIl:e home
from the war to put your arms around them and to kiss that
fresh pink rose, with its six bright eyes! I see what ap-
pealed to you so muoh; it was that forehead of hers, so UD-
proteeted-dooking, and yet so frankly arrogant. and then
the full lips and the narrow brow. They and I work to-
gether here, and it makes me happy to look at them. Her
eyes are very beantiful; they're the eyes of a woman who
gives herself; like someone young and tender looking up at
yon, to see if you love her. You're a brave man to leave
her, and to go wandering ahout so far away from her.
COUPONTAlNE. We both serve
SYGNE. Does he still consult you t
COU:rONTAlNE. I'm afraia I'In no longer in favor.
SYGNE. Have you offended him,
COUl'ONTAINE. It was beyond my power to prolong my
wife's life forever. (A long moment of siletwe.)
SYGNE. George, I don't understand. What do yon mean!
Your words are full of bitter poison.
Didn't vou know that.Jll::L-Jdi.e WIllI the
Danphin's mistress! And all the rest of the world was envy-
ing me my good fortune, while, stupidly enough, I was
only one who saw nothing! When she died, the whoJ.e
came out. - - -
---
[a]
SYGNE. Is she dead!
COUFONTAlNE. Give me that pioture.
SYGNE (holding it from kim.) Don't break it! Don't hurt
her! Dearest, at least you're safe here close against my
heart.
COUFONTAlNE. That's the last pioture I have of them. (She
looks at hIinn as thougk not UOIderstanding luis words.) All
that you hold in your hands is over, done, gone.
SYGNE. George !
COUFONTAlNE. Can't you understand! The two chil-
dren ...
SYGNE. Stop! Don't say it! It's too horrible!
COUFONTAlNE. . .. are dead. They died of that English fe-
ver while I was out of France. Both together; almost at the
same time.
SYGNE. God's help be with us! (SYGNE remains motionless
for a time, as tkougk unconscious. Her eyes are closed.
Slowly she moves her kead as thoughl saying " No.") There's
nothing I can say, is there, George.
COUF'ONTAlNE. No. There's nothing you can say. (A IIntg
pause.)
SYGNE. Come over here and look at these papers that are
waiting for yon on the table. (He steps toward tke table and
as I.e stretckes out kis hand SYGNE takes it in! both. of kers
and sobs. Ske presses I.eI' face against his1 hand. COUFON-
TAlNE caresses ker kead. B otk remain silent for a time.)
COUFONTAlNE. Yon mnstn't ory, my little Sygne. The
name - our name - is finished. You and I are all that are
left - just you and I. And many other things, and far finer
ones, will come to an end with ns. We aren't all born to be
happy. She oared more for someone else; I oonldn't help it;
I had no control over it. I thought my love was great
enough.. And as to the chiltiren, the little ones - a soldier
doesn't need chiltiren. It's a good riddance!
SYGNlI (with. a tone of ir01l1l in her voice). Hard words,
those!
COUFONTAlNE. ! keep my front rank unbrokelL The rest I
concerns no one.
SYGNlI. In the name of these two innocent chiltiren I For-
give her, George, in the name of these innocents! Remem-
[15]
ber how young she was, and how hard it is to die. To be a
young and beautiful woman is more intoxicating than strong
wine I Tell me you've forgiven her.
COUFONTAINE. I've stopped thinking of all that.
SYGNE. No; tell me you've forgiven her I
CourONTAINE. When you love very deeply, it's not easy
to forgive.
SYGNE. My heart bleeds for you.
COUFONTAlNE. It's the nights that are the worst; but
when one's tired, sleep comes in the end.
SYGNE. Dead! Dead! All three of them I
COU'ONTAl"...,. Don't make it harder for me. Sygnel Try
to be calm.
SYGNE. Oh, God, then all I've done is useless, futile,
wasted!
Courm'TAl""". That's the last thing you should say. How-
ever, I notIce you say it to God I
SrGNE. Mine age is departed, and is removed from me
as a shepherd's tent. I've seen my father and my
and yonr father _and mo er too-,"youfontaine, led to-
B'lther onlo the sCaffiil.d. 'Four oly figures 00 g at us to-
ger ther; fonr figures ound like sacrificial offerings my two
athers d ' th
knif an my two mothers, whose heads fell under e
e, one after the other. And ;when it was my mother's
I saw the executioner roll her gray hair about his fist
an drag her head under the blade ! We were in the front
and I; and you held my hand in yours, and
d
our faces! I saw it all and I did not famt;
an when It was ' t th
?"nnJc, an over we walked home together. Man cu . e
Oh, God d now God (luts away the fruit :(rom the brancb.es.
stiU. ' Thou hast taken heed unto the one poor thing which
ours! Thy will be done; Thy bitter, bitter will be
grown e are alone, George; you and I, alone. You and I,
of its :;:e and ever. more into one single being, while Life,
A world, a lli:rd, farther and farther from us.
COtlJ'Q wherem we no longer have any part or pIace.
leave .IIou must go your own way. You must
YONE. No lU your. happiness. .
as once yOu ?OW It IS I who hold your hand in =e,
'lila mme, that morning of PrairiaL
y iI. 179s; _ of Ih.
bloodit3t days of the Fnnch Revolution.
[16]
COUFONTAINE. You are young; you are rich; your life lies
ahead of you, happy and fair.
SYGNE. So rang the bells on your wedding day.
COUFONTAINE. It was not the voice I heard.
SYGNE. I know that you received the sacrament without
believing.
COUFONTAINE. No, I did not believe. I knew everything;
I foresaw it all. But I was a prisoner, and, like a prisoner,
I could not do otherwise.
SYGNE. And the poor girl loved you so deeply.
COUFONTAINE. I was like a miner who for a few moments
comes to the surface, and who becomes aware that, after all,
there is a springtinIe. What a silly dream of happiness sud-
denly possessed me!
SYGNE. You had yonr day.
COUFONTAINE. Never. It was not on my head that happi-
ness chose to lay her hand.
SYGNE. What came between you'
COUFONTAINE. My father's blood spattered across my
face.
SYGNE. And, too, the blood on your hands.
COUFONTAINE. Does that blood turn you cold with horror,
Sygne'
SYGNE. God forgive me; for it does notl
COUFONTAlNE. And yet it is the blood of many innocent
people. Remember what happened in the street of Saint
Nicaise.
SYGNE. Have you not paid for it with your own f
COUFONTAINE. It's true. It's true. Oh, my poor wife!
My children I
SYGNE. But If I am still here.
COUFONTAINE. Yes. Here. But only as a girl who, some
day, will change her name.
SYGNE. No, for mine was laid upon me by a second bap-
tism.
COUFONTAINE. I was with you during that sacrament.
SYGNE. And not unworthily. Oh, George, on that day our
entire race was cast into the wine-press.
COUFONTAINE. Oh, ha1lowed wine, squeezed from a four-
fold heartl
[17]
SYGNE. Their blood has been sbed upon me, and has been
mingled with mine. . h . t
The sap no longer flows ill t e anClen
All, bnt the pure wine! That we still have. And
our name lives on in us. .. e
COUFONTAl''''. Dear sonl that was born .50 like unto rom ,
strange twin, you understand; you apprecIate. As the ea.rth
gives us her name, so do I give her my manhood. Thaili
to her we still have roots, and through me and the grace
God, she is not without seed. I am her lord. And that. IS
why, above all others, I bear her name - her to w:hi<:h
the title is prefixed; the title of "DE"! My fief lIes
my kingdom as within a smaller France. The earth IS. of
me, and my race becomes genUe-blooded and noble - a thing
which cannot be bought. .And as the honey from our flowers,
or the wine from our grapes, or the game that lives in our
woods, or the cattle which we raise, are different from all
others, so does the Tree of Dormant stand forth from among
less sturdy plants. Yes, the old oak-tree of our family, which
grew in the court yard of our castle. The duy it was torn
up I saw its roots, more clinging than the roots of the fig
trees of Caromandel, spreading like the veins on the breast
of a woman - a hreast heavy with milk. The roots had
fought their way half through the mortar of the old Roman
foundations, and even through the bed of brown clay that
underJies the quarry. As the wine of Bouzy is not the wine
of Esseaume, so was I born a Coufontaine because Nature
so willed it - Nature against whose laws 'the laws of man
powerless: Thus was our Nation proof against ber
VISIons; she did not have to create her laws nor make her
chiefs, for Nature, throughout all France, ga;e them to her,
as she. bestowed upon her other gifts, good and bad, even
from Judges to kings, in the bed of each valley, on the slope
of each mountainside! Gifts that each in its season grew tall
and 1l0uflShed from root or trunk like the flowers or the
fruits in their times. '
SYONE (raising her eyes and looking him squarely in the
face). And what, oh, George, does it all matter'
COUFONTAIn. What does it matterT
[IBJ

SYONE. God willed it so. So he it. It is not our fault.
And so, why rebel, why kick against the pricks T
COUFONTAINE. Even God has not to take from
me w a IS ffilDe.
maNE. othing is ours; all belongs to Him, the Lord AI-
migll!l. Insofar you are right; - He can take nothing from
us, but He can remove us from the post He has entrusted
to us to guard.
COUFONTAINE. What am I, if I am removed from the post
from which I take my name T
SYGNE. You are that from which, the only thing from
which, nothing more can be taken.
COUFONTAINE. One thing there is which, when I have
given, I take not back! Not I!
SYGNE. What, GeorgeT
COUFONTAINE (holding out his 1w.nd to her). My right
hand.
SYGNE. Nor!, brother, the hand I give to you.
COUFONTAINE. The world has greatly shrunk, and yet we ,
two live on - we two.
SYGNE (it,. a muffled voice). COUFONTAINE AnSUM.
COUFONTAINE. You are my soil and my fief; you are my I
loyalty and mine heritage; you are true and abiding; you 4
stand in the place of that false woman, and of her children,
and of the world without.
SYONE. God only is true and abiding.
COUFONTAINE (ambiguously). Be that as may be. Later we
shall know.
SYGNE. Don't go against His will.
COUFONTAINE. His will T What do we know of itT Es-
peciaJly when all we can do is run counter to it.
SYGNE. Well spoken, brother of mine!
COUFONTAINE. I've done enough to be danmed. I might
as well know for certain. But you, don't you take part
against. me!
SYGNE. What are you going to doT
COUFONTAINE. I'm going to force this God of yours to de-
,clare Himself openly, and to say once and for all on whose
side He is.
SYGNE. Oh George! What could be clearer1 A robber!
[19}
What more would you know' Blessed is he that hath some-
thing to give, for from him that hath not shall be even
what he hath. Blessed is he that is wrongfnlly depnved, for
he has nothing more to fear from the law. How can
would not accept that which is evil, accept which IS
good' Thus do I see you deprived of ev:e.ryi;hing, my 1?oor
brother. And I, because I accepted all, aU has been given
back to me.
COUFONTAINE. It is not my affairs that matter. Coufon-
taine -may perish yrovided the King is to France.
SYGNl:. Such tribulations, .so many sacrifices, so many
dangers so much thought and scheming, so much money
wasted, 'and so much blood, your own as well, spilled -:- and
all for nothing I And see; my worl<: is done, the estate,'8 re-
stored, and now it lies in my hands, a tiring utterly WIthout
value.
COUFONTAINE. Regretting serves no purpose.
SYGNl:. I do not regret; I rejoice. Oh, my God, bitterly
do I rejoice in Thy omnipotence and in mine own futility,
and in that Thou hast brought me within Thy workings,
which pass understanding. I_am the widow 8J!..d_the_Olll
han
of all mole and a vir' still You take away my
children, and you mock me by setting me alone in the midst
of this estate which I have rebuilt. And yet how couJ.d I
have done otherwise , Was I to stand with idle hands' I
was merely a woman seeing what was closest at hand, and
trying to help those nearest to me. I have not the intelli-
gence to think of other, greater things; but that which I
knew to be good, I strove to repair and to remake. Oh, many
were the tribulations, and many the hardships of want and
fear and loneliness, and old Susan was so harsh to me ...
COUFONTAINE. Poor little Sygue ...
Slowly and bitterly I learned the value of each
C<?IU, from the the big double louis d'or and each
ight made up my accOunts without a spot or an erasure.
each field and of each corner of
tlie o! wheat) and of wine, and of
ne, and"ofliIne anJLof wood, and the daily wage - of men
an women, til las --
un at t I knew the old prop!\l'ty as well as
our dfafheIC.1mew his cards after a night's may, Iwent
[20]
to sales; I spent days on horseback, or driving about the
country the scorching sun, or in the driving rain,
m my long cloak. And I spent long hours fighting
ill lawyers' offices - fighting as one does, with senses alert
and with smiling lips, as in the old days my forefathers
with lowered visor and shield held eJose against them.
LBre Joan of Arc among the soldiers, I was but a weak girl
among the strong men of the law. I caJled upon the authori-
ties; I wrangled with the farmers and with the contractors'
always with eyes wide open and with wits on edge, while m;
heart was hllI'd and unyielding. At last I had gathered and
together again the whole estate, except our manor,
had been torn down. Bit by bit I bought back our
chma; volume by volume I retrieved our books, bound with
our coat-of-arms on the covers. And now, when all is to.<
gether, the whole is dead and remains dead - like a corpse
- a mangled corpse, whose Moody fragments have been
brought together once more. Dead!
COUFONTAINE. Your work prepared this refuge where I
am hiding today - I and the prize I have captured.
S:<!NE_. _ Our has been destroyed, but the House of
Goa still stands. Of our manor the wal.JSIi'iVe crumbled the
moat has been filled in, the Tree of Donnant has beed up-
rooted. Our weJls have been polluted, and the tower lies on
the ground, as a man who falls his length. The old fanlily
house is burst asunder in the midst, and its bowels are
gushed out I Of the ancient edifice, but one gable remains
and, below, the cellars, which are now the haunts of
and groundhogs. But the old house, raised from the ground
by faith, the mystical house built on the sacred Body and
Blood,- still stands. And since none would have it as their
own, here I took refuge, as once John did with tile Holy
Mother; I and my God! I, a woman, weak, alone beueath the
vaulted halls;. I, like a faint sighing sound after the power-
ful rumblings of a hundred men, chanting the glory of God!
COUli'ONTAINE (looking at the Crucifia;) . That is not the
capitulary Cross.
SYGNE. Is it possible that you do not recoguize itt It's
the bronze Crucifix, which our ancestor, Agenor V, the
Leaguer, gave, to replAce the stone Cross which the heretics
[21]
------
had destroyed - the stone roadside Cross, which at
the intersection of the royal from Rheuns and
Soissons. The Re ublicans tore It down, _and destroyed the
whole structure WI a.J)ill e ilas - not op!y the ""Cross and
its pedestal, but the four old linden trees, under whoseslilille
it stood, an W1llCh were the only for. the harves ers
from the sun on the whole, at pia..!!!:.. And_ 0 :he
Cross sa lin of IJberty.. whiCh ill..Q.ne e?--
son UriOO u ith!}red...<\mI)!:. The bronze figure was ill
many pieces, but, luckily, no one had melted it to ma:ke can-
non or pemlies. I found bits of it here and there, as Plutarch
tells of finding the statues of I.sis and Osiris. The legs were
broken like those of the robber. The body was a black-
anvil when I found it. Two old maids were piously
guarding the arms, and the head I discovered in a baker's
oven. Barefooted, walking and praying Hu:oughout ilie long
night, Susan and I brought Our Lord home in our arms
And now He is with us again, the dear Saviour, blackened
and worn by sun and rain. Yes, He is here again, the Great
Sufferer; hidden from the eyes of men, within these walls,
.vhere once more you and I and He begin again, like exiles,
to build our hearth from two glowing embers gathered to-
gether.
COUFONTAINE (his eyes fixed on the Cross). Whence came
the wood of the Cross TIt's charred.
SYGXE. I made the Cross from the beams of our house.
COuFOKTAINE. The pale is of oak and potence of chestnut.
It's a combination we rarely see in these days. And yet, we
find it in the franrework of most of our old farmhouses and
in the rafters of the Cathedral at Rheims.
SYGNE. The wood to make crosses will never
f -
COUFONTAINE. Happy the tree which bears God's weight
- though it be in the likeness of a man! And that,
alas, IS all that I find of myoid house when I come home I
A beam nailed crosswise to a joist! And even them, oh,
Thou. Son of the Carpenter, Thou hast taken unto Thyself!
Nor IS there room here for anyone but Thee. And here I
stand, a mere eross in the stead of my outlawed name. My
earthJy possessions have fallen from me like a cloak, and I
[22]
- -------
remain, standing alone in the midst of ilis readjustment,
despoiled, reduced, unbending and without issue! Changed
in everything except in body and in spirit. And when, like
the Prodigal Son, I come home from a far country to my
father, who gave me my share of mine inheritance, none is
here to embrace me; nor father, nor mother, nor wife nor
children. AIl is fallen from me. '
SYGNE. I, at least, George; yes, I, at least, am left you.
COU}'ONTAINE (looking at her). Would you marry meT
SYGNE. AnI I not yours already, sufficiently, without thatT
COUFONTAINE. True. We are too like each other; nothing
new could come forth from us.
SYGNl'l. Then who will carryon our line!
COtTFONTAINE. You're young; you're rich. Keep, then,
for yourself, these properties you have gathered too-ether
and wlrich wonld be but a barren tree to a man whose"'life
cut off. Someone wiU come to you in time.
SYGNE. Don't mock me.
COUFOYTAINE. Some handsome officer with a tawny beard;
some young blade, full of fight, will come along, and will
lead away my treacherous Judith with her green eyes - you
saintly spirit of Theology, who, all alone, hold in H,e
house of monks. Oh, you self-contained dantsel, whose sIni!e
does not spread even to the corners of your mouth, but
makes at each end three furrows, delicate as though drawn
with the most delicate pencil, until you smile, as if between
quotation marks lOb, Sygne, my smiling lady! And yet
he'll take away my cousin of many moods, my laurel bush
of Dormant, my virgo admirabilis!
SYG>O-:E. Oh, George! I did not think you had observed me
so narrowly.
COUFONTAL"'E. Ay! Ay! And yet not more than one looks
at oneself, or listens to one's own voice. But you were with-
in me, not outside. What do I know of you, Sygne' What,
except the memory of your brave little hand in mine on St.
John's day; and later, the vision of your face, clearcut like
the outline of a church drawn to scale with rule and 'com-
pass; and later, still, your hand upon my brow through the
long nights of fever, when I was sick and wounded and a
fugitive; or your bowed forehead in the glow of the lamp,
[23]

while you sealed despatches or counted the rolls of gold
pieces. . at h
SYGNE. I am she who stays; she who IS ways ere ..
COUFONTAlNE. Ah, you are Coufontaine from the haIr of
your head to the soles of your feet! to talk wi!h. And
yet, there is not one line of your bemg, nor one flicker of
your ways that I do not know and Whenever
yon turn your head, I can see as many our-
selves as, in the old days, there were family portraIts III the
gallery of the manor.
SYGNE. Then never will I give to another what belongs
to, and is of, Confontaine alone.
COUFONTAINE. Only those things are mine which are dead,
shattered, forever inlpossible.
SVGNE. But 1, George' I am not dead; I am not shat-
tered; I am not inlpossible.
COUFONTAIKE. And ther in lies the rea test difference.
Yon are under thirtY. and I fort}:..aruLo er. We do not be-
long to the same century. I am the trunk of an old tree, pol-
larded and without branches; and in your brown eyes I can
see the soft green of the new leaf. Our shadows do not fall
on the same side of our bodies. Yours heads yon ou; mine is
bound to my heel, and I can see nothing of myself before me.
SVGNB. Let me, then, renounce the future. Let me, like a
young knight, take my oath, oh, my lord! Let me, oh you who
are older than I, placing my hands within your hands, pro-
nounce my vows as a nun newly ordained! You, the head
and last survivor of my lineage; you, its only male, I will
not leave you without p.ledging you my faith. Our land has
oo.e
n
from ns, and our might is destroyed, but there
still remaIns the loyalty of man to man, the spirit, pure in
soul, recognizes its chief, and stands true to its flag.
Confontaine,. Confontaine, I am yours; take me, and do with
me as you will! ! wife, if you so wish it, or, if yon pre-
fer, beyond the limits of this life, where earthly bodies are
no more, our souls shall be joined together and indisso;tnbly
made one. '
Oh, SYgne, whom I have found at last, do
not fail me as the. world failed me! Shall I, then, in the
end, have something lasting, other than my own will; oue
[24]
thing that shall abide, and which is mine! Remember that
since I left this place, when I was still a child, I have had
nothing more stable than the sea whereon to plant my feet.
Yes, the great salt sea, or, too, that sea of life which men
have made. And all the while I was holding in my arms that
woman false as night. Now it's all over, dead, passed on.
Even d'Ajac, who was a midshipman with me on the frigate
Saint Esprit - how we used to talk, w,h.ile our hammocks
swung and bumped in the dark night! I saw a round shot
cut him in two before my eyes. And then, in turn, my father
and my mother, who to me were the most sacred things this
world contained - they, and your parents, Sygne. I saw
them butchered like cattle; their blood spattered my face,
and I could smell it as it spurted from their bodies! The
King who was my Sovereign, the rights which were mine,
this woman who belonged to me, my children, even the name
I bear and the land whose fee I hold, all were lies, all are
departed and the very place thereof is no more. My life is
that of a hunted beast, hiding or lying in wait, dangerous
and pursued, threatened and threatening, with no sure ref.
uge wherein to hide. When I think of it all, I am reminded
of the saying of the monks of India, who proclainl that all
this life is bad, a hollow illusion which remains with us only
because we move in step with it, and which would pass from
us, if we but sat qnietly in one place. An unworthy dream!
A sordid temptation! In this collapse of all my life, I, at
least, remain unchanged, and my honor and my duty are un-
changed. But you, Sygne, weigh carefully your words. Do
not fail me; you too, in tllis hour of my approaching end, as
all else has failed me I Do not deceive me, who hunger and
thirst for your heart as for a thing apart, and for your loyal-
ty. I need a thing, not that is sure, but that is infallible.
SYGNE. God only is infallible.
COUFO!.TAINE. God! Godl Forever God! Let God stay
where He is! or more later. For later we ShaII know
how much or how little we may rely upon Him. If He would
still stay concealed, let Him leave us no hostage!
SVGNE. I don't understand. (The faint tinJ.ling of a bell
can be heard.)
CoUFONTAINE. Hark!
[25J
SYONE. It's the curate come to say mass as he promised.
COUFONTAlNE. You should not have involved him in our
affairs.
SYGNE. May God, whom he is now raising on the altar,
hear our words. He who gives Himself in the Unleavened
Bread, and takes llimself not back, may He hear! Us He
hath sanctified with that Sacrament which permits us to give
ourselves and not retake. Accept the offering, and take back
yourself and all that once was yours, or which onCe belonged
to your line and to your name. Let it neVer be said that a
Confontaine failed a Comontaine!
COUFO::<TAlNE. 'rhen, Sygne, I accept, and I will add you
to stake for which I play. Yon, who are the last sur-
vlVmg woman of my lineage, take what oath you will, and
from yom over-l.ord the pledge of faith after the an-
cnstom. Comontaine, receive my glove! (He gives her
ht.Y glove.)
SVGNE. I take it, George; and never shall you take it
back (A long pau,\'e.)
COUFONTAlNE (lifting his hand). Soon now the decision
shalJ. made known. Our fate and the fate of the whole
world h . . ,
't ,IS angmg m the balance. VioJence is drawing near
;nd, the. forces of Nature, and the rights of all man-
regam therr proper ratios and their own momentum.
. .lONE. I know nothing..of.. politics but I have heard it
tillii the is no Ion er at Rome.
,,9
UFONT
Al::< . " DIl He is'
CYGNE. I do not. - - - .
COUFO::<TAlNE He' h .
other side of that IS ere, under this roof and on the
tion.) Caesar rna wall. (He n,lJOlGes a gesture of great emo-
God in our b ttIYf
be
on one Side, but I have put the Man of
a e ront. And n I W
matters to discn (S ow, eave us. e have many
ss. YONE goes out.)
SCENE IT
A servant has 0 e Ii he
becomes visible. It ne t and the whole room
falls m she t b The:e ts a heavy wind and the
blasts. The wale e s, eattng agatnst the WMuWWS it> angry
branches of larg; tuns d;wn the glass panes. Outside, the
rees a most touch the windows and shut
[261
out the light from the room. From time to time one hears the
!!rinding wail of a rusty weather-vane. A rough-coated dog
os lymg before the door.
SuddenJ:y one of the book-cases of the library swings
open. and dtScloses a secret door. Through it can be seen a
bur1lJlng oandle and one corner of an altar draped witIv an
altar cloth,. On the altar lie.s a Missal. An old man enters.
He wears a black oassock and has a white cap on his head.
THE POPE. Peace be with you, my son. It is I. (COUFON-
TAlNE, who has been standing at one of the tuitndows, lost in
thought, turns quickly and kneels down before the old man
who gives hVm his hand to kiss.) ,
COUFONTAINE (rising). Holy Father, take food and drink'
the journey has been hard, and Your rest short before cele:
brating Early Mass.
THE POPE. What is this bread you bid me ealf
A bread made ofjQyaLflmlI. A ChIistian
house shelters You.
- THE POPE:-lseemed to recognize it as having belonged to
the Chareb.
COUFONTAINE. This house was once the abbey of the Cis-
tercian Monks of Comontaine, whom my forefathers fed,
and whose monastery they built. My cousin, Sygne, by
special dispensation, was allowed to buy it from the state to
save it from destruction, and to keep it in the possession of
its rightful owners. The castle has been burned and also the
manor of Dormant.
THE POPE. Is she the pious young woman to whom I gave
Communion this night?
COUFONTAINE. And I am Viscount Ulysses Ageuor George
of Comontaine and Dormant, Lieutenant of King Louis of
France, for Champagne and Lorraine.
THE POPE. What is the meaning of this act of violence'
Why did you take me from my prison'
COUFONTAINE (drawing a paper from his pocket). Here is
an order signed by the Emperor_ .As the bearer could not,
for reasons, carry it out, I took it upon myself to execute
it. Everything was as it should be. Moscow is far. No one
would da.re disregard that signatlll'e. It is almost a blank
draft on the entire Empire, and everyone obeyed me as they
(27]
would a messenger from Heaven. (He hatnds the paper to
Tn POPE, wlw reads it in silence and returns it to mm.)
And so, 1, single-handed, rescued Peter from his prison.
THE POPE. I thank you, my son.
COUFO"TAINE. Here You are safe, for who would think of
looking for You in this remote corner of the Marne' It is
an ancient house and far from the beaten paths. There are
secret passages leading through the woods to three
!llghways and to two valleys. And there are many other hid-
mg places and means of escape. Often have I made use of
them during my days of warfare.
THE POPE. ThEl!\. now We are your prisoner'
..Jl..UFONTAIm:. True mr Father; You are Your son's riB-
And I will say to You as J &COb said when he w;restled
the angel: "I will not let thee go except thou bless me. "
C HE P?PE. .Alas, .my son, e are a hard won prisoner!
OUFONTAINE. It IS God HlIDSelf who is deJivering the
Pope to the King of France.
slowly toward the Crucifix). AVE,
th Yes. That is Our Saviour of Rheims, and
the odgs bf France used to uncover their heads to Him, as
ey r e y on their way to be crowned
THE POPE What th . .
of the wo Id' d 18 e news of this world' No sound
walls. r s OIngs penetrated to Us through Our prison
COUFONTAI"E Th U .
no sound thr-ouab t surper IS at Moscow. And is
the march and the. world but the tramp of armIes on
East. No' 1m rumbling of wheels along the roads to the
hears of has happened out yonder. One
indecisive vict' entirely of wood, going up in flames; of
ones vagueJ.y w E - d t
3 human voice is. on. urope IS empty, an no
the land Th r3ISed through the length and breadth of
. e world wt "
tired man. 31 8 s .. ently like an overburdened,
THE POPE. And th Emp
cow, to give thought U eror had time, away off in Mos-
CoUFONTAINE. Yo s, a man'
through the silence God.8 disapproval, ringing aloud
THE POPI<. What 0 mankind.
which your letter of place is this Fort of Jon of
[28J

-----
COUFONTAINE. .A hovel in the snow from whien men, who
have once entered it, never return.
THE POPE. God in His mercy has seen fit to snatch Us
from the hands of Our enemies.
COUFONTAINE. Some sort of conclave would have been
hastily called, soldiers with fixed bayonets would have stood
around in a circle, and a Cardinal Fesch or a Cardinal
Maury would have been made Pope, as the Emperor made
kings of his brothers. .A Pope who would have been nothing
but the chapJain of this great Emperor!
THE POPE (lifting his hand). On the roads of Judea there
were men, vexed by devils, who, as soon as they saw Our
Saviour, cast themselves down before Him, weeping and cry-
ing aloud. And yet, while they pursued Him with curses and
with stones, tbey ceased not to cry to Him: "Jesus of Naz-
areth, why persecutest Thou us," Thus, throughout the
centuries, have the wicked sons of men dealt with Christ's
Vicar. Since Christ came among thelD, destitute and meek,
there has been no peace among men_ Among themselves do
tbey make paltry agreements, which scarcely outlast the day,
and which they call laws, society, constitutions, states and
kingdoms, according to the measure of power which is be--
stowed upon them for their day of life, and which are good
only because they are hallowed with their own blessings.
They think iliey have halted the march of events and ilie de-
velopment of the world, and that, forever, by their individ-
ual wills, they have established a pennanent order in all
things. And because they know not what part He has played
therein, they are angry with God .Almighty, who was for
nothing in their schemes. (He turns slow/,y and looks at the
Crucifix.) He is na.1red and is without earthly poBsessions_
(A long silence.) And yet, Him would they seize and cast in-
to prison; Him would they hem in with laws and with bar-
riers, ,vith privileges and with treaties of their own making.
Our duty is to bow to their moods, as a sailor upon the sea
trims his sail to the winds that blow, for no other choice is
open to him. Yes, for the welfare of the souls of men, as far
as it lies within Our power. .As to this Emperor, who for
the moment is exalted, he is like a spoiled child whose will is
crossed. He pretends to be the master, and yet, although he
[29J
knows it not, he is one of my poor children - yes, one among
the rest. Having proclaimed himself the conqueror of men,
he seeks to command God, and to impose restraints upon the
.Almighty, and enlist Him on his side .by holding His Vicar
as a hostage. He does not know that It was the pleasure of
the All-Powerful to choose as His representative the weak-
est of the weak. Yes, a poor old man who lives on honey all:d
a little fish; yes, a poor ignorant priest whose knowledge IS
confined to his catechism. And, since he can think of no gift
to bring Us, Lo, he takes from Us even what we have - that
which belongs to our post, Naboth's vineyard, the heritage
of Peter, and even the Fisherman's ring he takes from off
Our finger. And thus it is that Our Lord is again upon this
earth without a place to lay His head, as in the days of Gali-
lee; He is a captive in IIis own honse, and a man whose pres-
ence is mere.iy tolerated. Our very life is ... As though he
who is buried in the tomb with the Christ could live .. , (.A
fierce gust of wind shakes the house. The gak whistks and
howls. The rain streams down the window-panes. THE Pops
shivers and wraps himself more closely in his cloak. He looks
about him in great apprehension..)
COUFONTAINE. Our sun is not the sun of Tivoli, nor are
our winds the breezes of the Sabine hills.
THE POPE. A forbidding house for the younO" woman who
dwells here alone. "
COUFONTAUE. She dwells under her own roof and the
land about is her land. I do not know what more 'she could
ask. Would to God I might always be dry at night, and al-
WD!S the mud of my own country clinging to my boots!
This IS the greatest September storm which comes when
the harvest is done, and which softens 'the soil for the plow.
(A heavy gust of wind.)
P'OPE (halt aloud). "Pray ye that your flight be not
m e wmter, neIther on the Sabbath day!"
(dreamily). It reminds me of the old days,
Briti h f te
eavy
squall at PondiclIerry, whiclI cleared the
s nga S from the sea.
thi
THEh POPE
f
Where are they who once were the masters of
souse
COUFONTAlNE. Th h
ey ave never abandoned it. They have
[30]
n.ever fo,:saken. the shelter of its roof. And now they lie,
SIde by SIde, WIth feet together, in the garden of the mono
astery. Six priests; eight novices, and twelve lay brothers
with their abbot in their. midst, and the prior on his right,
and all the others according to the seniority of their admis-
sion to the order. There do they sleep, thanks to my foster-
brother, who was also a novice, and who directed their exe-
cution in the Year of Grace 1793. Yes, thanks to Toussaint
Turelure, son of the sorcerer and wood-chopper Turelure.
but today a Baron of the Empire and Prefect of the Marne
into whose premises I have brought Your HoJiness. '
THE POPE. We will kneel in prayer above the bones of
martyrs. (The hound lifts its head and raises itself on its
h,nd legs, erect against one of the windows.)
COUFONTAINE. Down, Scylla, down! What troubles vou
you one-time noble hound T Is it the name of my good 'and
brother Toussaint that makes you show your teeth
m a sIlent snarl' Who would come hither by such a night
of storm' (He listens. The dog drops back on to the floor. )
Eat, Holy Father. (Pointing to the table, which is set.) THB
POPE seats himself at the table. COUFONTAINE stands respect-
fully at his silk an.a waits upon hiln. The dog has gone back
tnto the corner and lies down; again.) 'l'he dog has a silent
and morose disposition. She's not to be trifled with. I my-
self taught her never to bark. And manv an hour have we
spent together, she and I; and many and many nights,
when I stopped even my watch beca use of its noise we two
. , ,
In some dangerous hiding place, or in some black hole. All
I had was this dog, this poor faithful beast, and in those
days I became somewhat of a dog, and the doO" somewhat of
0
an arIstocrat. (A cO'nSiderable pause.) We know what it is
stand in constant danger of our lives. (He is silent, lost
.,. thought.) Yes, in those days I came to know lind under .
stand my ancestors, the scattered lords of the Merovingian
wolds a,nd villages. They lived on worm-eaten grain, which
they raIsed on fields over-run by rabbits and wild boars,
full of stumps, and planted while still hot from the flames
had cleared them. They were like a fish of prey hnk
mg under a rock - like a spider in its sticky web. They
spent their days and their nights watching, listening; watclI.
[31]
ing alike for man and beast, while they lay. hidden
green leaves where the mist of dawn still hung, brmgmg
them each faintest sound and
THE POPE (having finished, eattng, rises, ood, makes the
sign of the Gross). DEO GRATIAS. I thank you, my son,
for the hospitality of this meal ., . .
COUFOXTAln:. It is but pOOr hospItality WIth which
greet the greatest King of this world. At least Your Holi-
ness is far from the Count de and the noble
Borghese, and from that most Chri.st18n Portalis. !or these
few days Your Holiness may rest III perfect SecurIty.
THE POPE. Whither wonld you take me, my son T
COUFONTA.LTIl. To England, where is the of France.
THE POPE. My child, do not wrong Us by gJVlDg over the
Pope unto the hands of heretics and unbelievers. .
COUFONTAlXE. For them You are here, because You will
not refuse them.
THE POPE. True. For how shonld I let mine own children
forbid met
COUFO!<TAlNE. Are You not cut off from them by prison
wallst
THE POPE. Where the Cross is, the Church ceaseth not.
CoUFONTAlNE. Come, rather, and be free.
THE POPE. How shall I live among men who are dead?
CoUFONTAINE. Whither can I take Yon where Caesar IS
notT
THE POPE. There where Peter is, for where rest the bones
of Peter, there am I Peter in his stead.
COUFOXTAlNE. Rome? Your place has been taken by a
prefect.
THE POPE: On the earth, perhaps; but not below, where
I should wait. May the Catacombs once again be saluted by
all men. Three centuries has the Church waited, and can I
not wait three days with the Christ?
COUFONTAINE. Forget Rome and turn Your eyes upon the
whole universe. '
THE POPE. There where are the foundations there shall
Peter be. '
CoUFOXTAlNE. And yet Peter in the days of his old age,
bound hand and foot, and was led thither where he
WIShed not to go.
(32]
- - ----
THE POPE. My son, here are my hands, and blessed be he
who comes in the name of the Lord.
COUFONTAINE. Why bow only to violence when love calls
Yon'
THE POPE. The love of that Church to which I am irre-
vocably wedded, rest,rains me.
ComOIITAIN.Ec- Holy_ Fath are You with us or against
us?
THE rOPEJhat is a which was often asked me
at Savona.
OUFONTAINE. But we are the sons who have remained
loyartliroughout and what rewara is given. us for our loyal-
tyJ - -
THE POPE. What shall I give thee, oh, my first born t The
prodigal SOn has taken all and has left us destitute.
COUFONTAINB. Verily, man stricken of years, Your eyes
were sureJy dim from age when you blessed the ram instead
of the sheep.
THE POPE. And shonld I not anoint the forehead of such
an one, when Jesus kissed even the feet of Judas?
COUFONTAINE. Holy Father, let me speak to You openly.
Let us understand one another, since You are here, and since
I keep You with me, You, God's Vicar. I have as many things
to tell You as a young man who goes to confess but once a
year. And, furthermore, do You not belong to all of us T Is
not a single lamb, which has gone astray, worth all the rest
of the tlockT I cannot say that I go daiJy to My
life is not that of a nun. Time enough to ]>ut on a white shirt
when t he Kill- is back .m his throne._ WhLdo You ....
tlLct atllicts us? He brings to naught the godJy,_and
Iaises up the wicked. His ways Jire I _have
But You, You are a man. You can speak.
ShonldYou, then, not answer us? If You remain silent, whom
shall we ask' What is good or evil for us, is it not likewise
good or evil for the Pope? Does the difference lie solely in
success? Is it right for a man to take that wIDch is not hist
Did not the highway-man who took Rome from You, first
take France from her King?
THB POPE. The world can do without a king, but not with-
out the Pope.
CoUFONTAI"E. Can the world do without right? Does the
[33J
right or wrong of man depend upon what he has, or upon
what he has not!
THE POPE Man has nothing save what he holds from God.
COUl'ONTAlNE. And thus, how sacred is what h.e has! To
be and to have. They are the foundations on all
rests. Those things which one possesses ar:e calJed goods.
And man has nothing over which he exerCIses
trol, unless it is from God. Yet see the ways of. the GIver
of All Things"! Not one thing has He made which not
need a man to perfect and preserve it. Thus matter IS non-
existent unless it belongs to man. And from him wh.o ?annot
protect his property, I say, let it be away. So 1t IS that
today Louis sits not on the throne which once belonged to
Charlemagne and to Clovis and to their seed. Of that I
make no complaint.
THE POPE. And so it is that this new man sits upon the
throne which was vacant.
COUFONTAlNE. No; for he does not sit. Beho.ld him as he
stands, and stands in great fearl And hence, Holy Father,
I do not ask You to strike down a man with the thunders of
Heaven, but rather all their new system. Do the rights of
man depend solely on what he has, and on what he has notT
A moment since this doctrine revolted You. Would You let
men have rights equal unto each other and similar unto
themselves, so that the rights of others become a wrong
done unto them t There would be nothing to give, and each
thing, as between men, would have to be bought and sOOd or
bartered. Think You that snch a state of affairs would be
pleasing nn to God t
THE POPE. Is it to ply me with questions that you fell
upon me, a poor old man, as an eagle swoops upon its. preyt
CoUl'ONTAl""'E. Answer me then, You who speak Wlth au-
thority. For it is hard to do one's duty in utter darkness:
THE POPE. Duty is a thing close at hand and concerruug
which there can be no dOUbt.
COUl'Olo--rATh"'E. What can be closer to me in this
than my own thoughtst What closer to a hunted man,
a1?ne. the long night through in a ditclt t A night spent In
thinking under a pelting rain is a sorry cup to drink.
THE POPB. When you cannot sleep, tell your beads, my
[341
son, and pray. Add not troubles to the night season, for
"sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
COUFONTAlNE. I have a rosa in my heart whereby I pray
when cannot seep and it. be 'L are_ e heads of my
father and of my mother, and of all my kin. They are the
beadS-which, one by one, I telll We alone survive, Sygne
and I.
THE POPE. How black a night is yours, wherein you can
behold such brilliant lights.
COUFONTAINE. Lights which mark the goal but do not
light the path.
THE POPE. Trouble thyself not with many things when
one alone sufficeth. Consider tbe heavenly lilies; they toil
not neither do they spin.
COUFONTAINE. Are, then, the lilies of this world forever
withered awayt
THE POPE. Let the earth answer, since earth contains
their seed.
COUFONTAlNE. And yet, I who must toil ani spin
out my threa ....Q..rIife. !Jnt no longer have I my lands, and
the world whereof I was a part has been taken from me; the
world wherein the purposes of my forefathers had been
handed down to me, the task of serving while leading. As
I look about me, there is no longer a society among man-
kind - only that which they are pleased to caJl "the Law",
whose words are ID8i1hine-priuted, and whose spirit is a life-
less will - a senseless idol. There where rights rule su-
preme, affection and love cease. The law of God, from whic.b.
Jesus Christ set us free, was a hard yoke. What will the law
of men bet What will be that Society which each man con-
siders as dependent solely on its own charter! Force can
never take the place of Sacrifice. Have we not seen it in the
case of this man who, having taken one thing, felt hinlself
forced to lay hold of all the rest, and to conquer the whole
world to safe-guard each step he wishes to taket
THE POPE. Our habitation npon earth is but a night's
lodging, a transient abode.
COUFONTAINB. And yet is it not our duty in all things to
search out and maintain that which is right? Is it not writ-
ten that all power is of God and from God T How, then, can
(35)
it come from men! I do not liken it unto a sword, but unto
a healing salve, with Which the head is anointed and with
which the who,Ie body is made sweet. For that reason was
it that our kings were consecrated unto France, as bishops
are consecrated. Their brows were anointed with the chrism
sanctified of the bishops, and they received the Communion
of the Blood and Body. On their shoulders and on the hol-
low of their arms was poured the holy oil, and they were
confirmed in the order of strength through meekness. Does
not the ampulla of the Holy Church contain a confirmation
similar to this!
THE POPE. Can you not answer you who have seen a holy
king die! '
COUFONTAINE. The function of kings is not to die.
. THE POPE. In God's sight, one saint is more than many
kings Or many kingdoms.
"COUFO:'TAINE. And yet, do we not daily pray in the Pater:
Thy Kmgdom come"!
THE POPE. Which testifieth, my son that His Kingdom is
not yet. '
C
d
OUFONTAI2\'E. Do not all things come to us as illusions,
as reams, as symbols!
THE POPE Th lik .
C . e eness of this world pas seth.
T Will the likeness of God pass also!
BE OPE. Not while the Cross endureth.
Oh, .Father, Father, the days of Faith are
lieg:' Gone the of man in God, of the vassal in h.iJ;
IS Iring who was made in God's Jikeness, to
And now IS ;endel'ed because to him only is it due.
the POwer of: the servitude of man to man, based on
was it in the e w -: Law that might is right. Thus
T
P
days of Tlberms; and men caJJed that Liberty!
HE OPE Th lik
God, and who h eness of God which hat11 renounced
a pagan idol.
lC
od hath renounced, is nothing more than
COUFONTm'E A .
shrine to IS. but a man; the idea is the pure
established fo II IS due. What is a tyrant
Was never bo r; time, except a thing whWh is, but whloh
lieve that all Oh, these men who worship Laws, and be-
gs may be settled by a contract!
[36)
THE POPE (in a low voice). Reverting to and taking to
heart the ancient writing whieh was fixed upon the Cross.
COUFONTAINE. What do You say, Father! I could not hear
you.
THE POPE. And We, too, can scarcely see; hardly can We
see you, for this library is dark. We are very old, my son;
and Our eyes are dim. You are young; you are free, for
you have no wife and no children; you are accustomed to
far horizons, and eagerly and fearlessly your feet bear you
to what you can see in the distance. But to Us, the priest
sUpreme, who day and night, without respite, bear in Our
hearts and on Our shoulders all the peoples of the earth,
like the jewels of the ancient pectoral, Life is far different.
Slowly must we walk, slowly act; for it is not the light of
the mind which guides our footsteps, but the light of con-
science. In truth a feeble light, a flickering torch, which
allows llS to see not the advisable, but only the necessary;
not the future, but the present.
COUFONTAINE. Come with me. Remove Your presence
from the world - Render unto Caesar for a space this evil
world, which accepts the coin of Caesar.
THE POPE. How can I excommunicate myself from the
world!
COUFONTAINE. Then release us from our captivity.
,!,HE POPE. __ but giveJQ!! absolution.
CoUFONTAINE. Has not full power to bind and to loose
been given into Your hands'
THE POPE. Peter himself coold not unbind himself; verily
is he called, "Esliens."
COUFONTAINE. Is it that inner light of which You spoke
which bids You refuse'
THE POPE. There where Peter is, there am I. It is not
fitting for the Pope to beeome a wanderer upon the face of
the earth.
COUFONTAINE. But at Rome You will still find the power
of might supreme.
THE POPE. Violence only can restrain me from perform-
ing my duty.
COUl'ONTAINE. Must 1, then, use violence!
THE POPE. It is written: "Honour thy Father and thy
Mother."
[37)
COUFONTAINE. Where shall I.-!.ake refuge' (THE POPE is
silent. The ra, .. 1Leat...!i...agm.nst the Muse. He speaks absent-
ly.) The rain falls ... falls ... and with tbe same diligence
I us In making the year fruitful, it now washes it away.
It turns the soil into a vast sepulchre in which to swallow up
all seed. Whatever we do, that which must be, is, and we
must adapt ourselves thereto. (Aloud.) Holy Father, You
mnst understand that it is primarily Your affairs that are
at stake. From our point of view, what I have done is suf-
ficient for the present. The world knows the violence which
was done You, and also our good will has been made appar-
ent. In the meantime, .we shall derive certain benefits if You
and also if You are recaptured. (THE POPE remains
siknt as though he did not heM.) Do You hear me, Holy
Father'
THE POPE. Did you not say that in any event you would
let Us stay here for a few days'
COUFONTAINE. How many, I cannot say. I must think.
THE POPE. Give God sufficient time to counsel both of us.
COUFONTAlNE. Is Your Holiness very weary'
THE POPE. Weary in body, but wearier far in spirit.
Grant Us a few dayS in which to rest, my son. It is hard
for a poor monk to choose to follow his own will. NON
MEAM, DOMINE. Thy will, not mine. Not my will, Oh
Lord, but Thine be done. (He speaks slowly as though lost
In thought.) UT QUID PERSEQUIMINI ME SECUT
DEUS, VOS SALTEM AMICI MEn Why do ye persecute
me, my brother bishops' Is it for that oh ye cardinals Vi-
:r
s
; God, that I loosed your ' Can not see
e have not the. power to do otherwise' (Silence. TnE
s head slowly SInks Upon his chest. He dozes.)
COUFONTAlNE (tu . t . k
to it) Oh G . mlng . oward tke CrUCIfix and spea ,ng
. I .' ?d, If You eXISt, as my sister Sygne so unfalter-
Ing y maIntains 1 brin to Y will
soon I .' g ou tills innocent man, who
In arms. No more can You remain con-
y t ' Dr eXIstence is at stake and I have compelled
0
1
forth. The Corsican 'no Jonger holds the hos-
it is to de Y; the level of the scales. Yours
happens, take Issue .IS clearly defined, and whatever
e place m full view of men and of angels.
[38]

--- -
Whatever be Your decision, I am protected. I have stretched
forth my hand, but since none wilJ take it, I draw it
If the old man escapes, it will be 1 who saved him, and if
the ogre catches him again, the outrage will be known to a?
the world. If he wishes, let lrim tie the millstone about hli!
neck.
CURTAIN
ACT II
The scene is the same as in Act l. It is afternoon of
tke same day. Bright slt'nlight. SYGNE tmd TUllELURE are
Sl!anding. He is a big man, slightly l'!rne. His nose .is lo,,!,g
and hooked and grows directly trom his forehead, gwmg him
sornewhat the appearance of a ram. Coffee has been served
on a little table.
SOENE I
TURELURE. That coffee never grew on an oak tree, and
this sugar is too white not to have seen Diggers!
SYGNE. Pray excuse me. You have taken me unawares
and unprepared. I had not time to get molasses and chiccory.
TURELURE (drinking his coffee). You are forgiven. (Sunk
in tMught he warms a little glallS of brandy in the hoUow
of his big ham4. From time to time he smells tke bramJ,y, but
does not drink. He only takes a single swallow of coffee.) An
excelleut ending to an excellent meal What did you say of
being taken unawares' Of a poor reception' What the devil!
If this is a sample of the daily fare in this out-of-the-way
spot .. well ... then. I see my mother left good pupils be-
hind her to tend her stove. Poor CIld woman! It's a long
time since I've had a taste of her cooking.
SYGNE. Dear old Susan!
TURELURE. You'll have to excuse me if her memory doesn't
move me to tears. All the hatred she had for her husband
she passed on to me, the dear old woman I She didn't care
whether 1 was a general, and a prefect, and a baron. Not
she! It wasn't anything to her. Well, after all, when a
game-keeper's daughter marries a poacher, you can't expect
very good results, after the first flush of love dies away.
And so, in due course, we each took sides, and went our re-
[39]
spective ways. Perhaps that 's why I'm a mixture; I have
a strong love of law and order, but I also have the instinct of
precaution. (He sniffs the air.) To say nothing of a nose
like a hunting dog's when he ... (he sniffs) smells game.
SVGNE. Have you come here today, Sir Prefect, to make
a police investigation f
TuRELURE. Oh, no! Oh, dear, no! What a horrid idea! No
one has a word to say against Coufontaine. Why, the woods
hereabouts are as quiet as in the days of the monks. No
stagecoach holdups; no escaped prisoners. It would almost
as if y?ur presence were a protection to the country-
Side. Wtnks at her gravely.) You've guessed it. 'l'his
tour of mspection of mine is just an excuse. No use trying
from you! But what I've got on my mind
ticklish to say to you. Let me come to the point
Jittle by littl.e. How'lI 1 sayt It's this way. I've come to ask
you for a of advice, as you might say. And then, of
course, seemg tm:> old place, where 1 spent my boyhood -
you know how It IS! It does something to a fellow.
SVGNE: 1 .see your resemblance to a monk, with his
hidden m hiS sleeves and with Ills hood drawn over
IS face.
t A very COmfortable and convenient garment,
a a.. can remember one night well enough. There 1
matins with a big jack-rabbit I'd just snared,
I
e up under my scapular _ and still warm' It made a
P easaut change d h '.
te 0 on ays w en we had no meat ill the mon-
;:m;y: h, .1 had some fine nights of hunting in these woods,
anythi
ffi
with myoId blunderbuss! You can't teacb me
and ng a out these woods; I know every inch of them _
tb
Path
tbem. Yes, 1 do! The monk in
a trompet e dnonces was pretty old, and I had a voice like
spite of all enough at lectern. But in
ing right her bef ten s the time I've had to own up, kneel-
.1 e, ore the Father Superior.
1!.eard s k of you.
had an idea !bar-as he.r Idea to make a monk of me. She
knows what. 1 d so:nething had to be rna e good - Heavens
thought he on tl My father's ways frightened her; she
as some sort of a wizard _ a white wolf, as
[401
the old folks say. She didn't like his way of curing sprain8
by making the sign of the cross over them with the hig toe
of his left foot. Mr. Badilon must remember him. In those
days curates never said Mass without first running their
hands over the altar cloth to make sure no one had hidden
a book of spells under it. 1 had the pleasure of seeing him
a few minutes ago. He's a fine fellow; a bottle of good
wine at the proper time and place doesn't frighten him one
hit. Oh, 1 know you see him often! All the same, it's a
tidy piece of road from his house all the way up here. I see
nothing's changed hereabouts. You've put every little thing
back in its place - even the books. 1 can't say 1 think: that
Christ there is much of an ornament. They tell me you got
the place at bargain prices. Well, well, state property isn't
all bad, is it - in its way'
SVGNE (mea;ningly). I'm indebted to you for aU this.
TURELURE. I understand what you're trying to say. And
1 know all the stories that are floating around about me.
But there isn't a word of truth in them. The trutb's bad
enough. 1 had them killed for love of my country, and out
of pure enthusiasm. Yes, 1 did. Remember, 1 was a young
man in those days; a young man who thought he stood solid-
lyon his pins. You see, you've got to understand before you
can pass judgment. My blood was boiling in those days, and
boiling hot. None of your buttermilk blood - not a bit of
it - but blood! Yes, blood as fiery as brandy; like the
brandy ont of a still; strong as gun-powder! 1 was full of
indignation; full of ideas, and my heart was as hard as a
musket flint. Along comes that damned fellow from tbe Bay
of Biscay, who smashed my foot, and he made me see things
in a different light. Yes, lots of things! Then there were
all those holy monks I 1 can't say 1 bore them any grudge,
and still, jnst because of me, there they go, wandering into
eternal glory, and onto calendars. They're just like St. Elias
and St. Stapin, who cures your stomach aches. You can see
their pictures on every damned wall from the Field Mar-
shall's house to the cobbler's hut! It may be by the flame of
a torch or by the flicker of a twig some fellow's lighting his
pipe with, but you'll see them just the same. After all,
that's better than trying to win salvation by eating greens
[41]
dowsed in nut-oil - God, what a rotten mess! Don't I just
remember that priest of yours - Precenter, you used to call
him, or something, - standing up at the reading desk, with
a sceptre in his fist, like an Apollo; or walking along, cov-
ered with gold stuff, and hursting with dignity I I suppose
I'll go down to history as Mr. Prefect Olibrius - oh, well,
who And there you are. They're sleeping their fill,
out there by the wall, between the pumpkins and the J eru-
salem artichokes!
SYGNE. It shocks me to hear you say such things.
TURELURE. I know it. And our friendship is based on just
that same feeling of yours.
SYGNE. There is no friendship - as you call it.
TUIlELURE. Maybe not. Well then, a mutual interest, shall
we say!
SYGNE. No; because you're the personification of all I
hate most bitterly.
TURELUBE. Sorry, my dear! Rather a battered and
pathetic figu,re I should say I was I
SYGNE. You might at least have the decency to hide your
true nature from me.
TURELUBE. Then how in the world would you be able to
improve it!
SYGNE. My poor simples are useless to cure broken bones.
TURELURE. But it's your duty to help me if you can,
isn't itt '
SYGNE. If A duty to .Iou f
Why not! _WhaEs a generation, after
Waan t orn serf and the son of your servant? It sa
!!l!!& on that-m'y jllood has been serving Won't
J:Qu_do somethingJor me in return for all thatf
SYGNE. You are the Prefect I am under your jurisdic-
tion. ,-
TUBELUBE. Yes, I'm the Prefect and I'm doing my duty
as Prefect. But I'm a poor by these idiots
that won't listen to reason.
.sYONE. It's only right and fair that you should be a
cnpple and unhappy.
TURELUBE., Not while you're here to he.lp me, it ian't.
SYGNE. I m under no obligation to you.
[42]
TURELURE. Exactly the Bruue obligation that all your peo-
ple have to mine.
SYGNE. It wasn't we who broke the tie, was itt
TURELURE. Maybe it was you; maybe it was us. We served
you, and then you got so that you weren't worth serving.
SYGNE. Tell me; what do you want of me!
TURELURE. I'm the son of Susan, your old foster-mother.
Don't be so hard on me! Here I am, crawling home like a
bado-er with a broken paw I I've come to understand tha1
can't always be trying to get the best, of. each other,
and making the other fellow pay damages. It S Just the way
some things help each other along; th? s0";1e
have certain medicinal properties for gIven mdiVlduals In
given cases. Why shouldn't men have same.
each other; in the nature of things! That s your Idea, Isn t
it! You see, I'm a good listener.
SYGNE. A little more and you'd be a royalist.
TUllELURE. Oh, come! There are lots of things rolling
round in my head. The Emperor is playing his lnck. This
empire he's built up is nothing more or less than a lot of
loot. There's no shape, nor proportion, nor reason for it.
It isn't sensible it isn't sane. And now he goes off to Rus-
sia! Lecturing' away in Moscow about the ComMie Fran-
9Bise from Sparrow Mountain. I suppose yon know that
the Pope's esca d f om . c.e..!.
e know nothing, bnried_awa'y as_ we are, m.. our
Wo .
- TUllELURE. Yes, kidnapped! It's clear as day. Snatched
like a kiss. Carried off, the way the young girls were car-
ried off by dragons. A bold stroke, and no mistake! ou
know I think I can recognize the hand that turned the trick.
But ilien what do I care! Everybody in Paris is standing
on their 'heads. Let them do the worrying! The old man
didn't sneak in my back door.
SYGNE. :May the Holy Father escape from all His enemies I
TUBELUBE. Just as you say. All the same, just on the
chance, I've given a few orders. Nothing very serions, of
course.
SYGNE. He will not fall into your hands.
TUlUlLURE. I don't care. All the same, he might do worse.
[43]
SYGNE. Do you enjoy this police work'
TUBELURE. I wouldn't choose it, but we've all got to do
our jobs the best we cau.
SYGNE. You may think you are shrewd and able because
you fQ!low the scent on the wind and the flow of the stream,
but the only really able people are those who depend on
what is everlasting.
TUBELURE. What's more everlasting than chana-eT
SYGNE. On change do we base our hopes. "
TUBELURE. What '8 dead. . .
SYGNE. '" Generates life.
TURELUBE. But it won't come to life again.
SVGNB. The duty which men owe each other does not die.
TUBELURE. Isn't that what we othe.rs call Fraternity'
Ouly through a singJe man can a nation become
ed.
TURELuRE. Whe
der hi f th' n a mUn comes of age, he's no longer un-
s a er s orders
SYGNE. But a . .
band. woman must always be obedient to her hus-
TUBELUBE. We d 't .
longer. on recognIze those eternal vows any
poor which is deprived of its Royal
TUBELuRE Whatd
SVGNE 1:h " 0 you mean by Royal'
e PrIvilege of making a king through self-
TllRELllRE. Then h b
SYGNE. I shudder ;w h a out 0.ur various plebiscites T
TUBELURE. D 0 ear theIr adulterous voices I
ever' 0 you want the dead to rule the living for-
SVGNE. Our birth .
ours to 0000.. llllposes certain obligations. It is not
T
UBELUBB. Then I
IS of himself suppose we to believe that a man
he IS lD eontrol of as he IS alive, and as long as
SVGNE. He Who d
nal, the same is not something of the Eter-
TuBEL out faIth.
less w:
hat
ca!l be more futile than a child-
rIage Without love'
[44]
SVGNE. It is not within our power to withdraw the oath
we have sworn to the Bishop of France.
TlrnELUBE. We recognize no Bishop of France.
SYGNE. He who is not spouse shall be a slave, Mdhe who
will not be bounden shall be bound; he who is not of the
Church, shall be the servant of the Law.
TURELURE. The Law is Reason set down in writing.
SYGNE. Yes! The Reason of those who have written the
Law.
TURELURE. We have proclaimed the rights of man, that
all mankind might understand.
SYGNE. And who, of them who proclaimed it, shall under-
stand itt
TURELURE. What do you meM'
SYGNE. Who is there who shall renew the bond of man to
man'
TURELUBE. Mutual inte.rests.
SYGNE. The laws of Nature have a wider scope and seek
a farther goal.
TURELUBE. Still talking of Nature! Oll, but you're set in
your ideas I This storm which broke tonight, that's Nature,
too. And when a thing withers away, because life is gone
ont of it, it proves that it is no longer necessary. Chance
plays no part in Nature.
SYGNE. And your arguments still less.
TURELURE. A man isn't like a plant. Your comparison
doesn't hold. Reason is Nature on a higher plane. Listen
to me for a moment. Try to understand before you con-
demn; and give me a chance to explain my side of the qnes-
tion.
SYONE. I'm listening. Say on.
TURELURE. I'm sure you'll find what I have to say inter-
esting. I know I shan't change your ideas, but, at least, un-
derstand me before yon pass judgment. You most intolerant
lady! Who says I may not be ready to be converted' Let's
settle the matter between us. After all, isn't it a more in-
teresting subject of conversation thM gossiping about some-
body's dog or somebody's donkey' Even though the dog
uright be your brother's; and even though some old woman,
or maybe a priest, was riding the donkey. .All that's silly.
[41>j
Ever body knows that George is in Englanj. So much the
better for him. Well then was the revolution ec e
agamst e g, or against God, or ag_aills!.. nobilit Of
tlie monKs, or par ament, or against these out-landish Of-
ganlizabons f -rIr e you w at it was: II was a revo'fiiIiiiii
&gains ciliance can luck. When a ruined
man sets about re a lng -rus '""iiliii:irs, he's not going to
hamper himself with all manner of superstitions and tradi-
tions; and he isn't going to go doing things the same way
he's been doing them, is heT He gets down to fundamentals
- to the sun and to the soil - and pins his faith to his (>wn
power of reasouing. Well then, isn't it about the same in
the case of this Republic, which was like a muttered house
we were trying to set in order by introducing logic and com-
mOn sense'. We had a general stocktaking; we found out
essentials were needed; we outlined the rights of the
members of the community, and then we started in
to build up from facts which were obvious to everyone.
SYONE. Then you base everything on individual interests'
T11RELURE. Individual interests is what brings men to-
gether.
SYGNE. But not what binds them to one another.
T11RELURE. What would bind them to each other'
SYGNE. Love. For love is the only thing which has united
lDankind.
TlTRELUIIE. Much love the King and his noNes had for
us!
SYGNE. Even a dead tree makes a good beam.
T11RELURE. There's no getting ahead of you in an argu-
You talk like Pallas herself did in the good old days
t
Oh ow S -h th at wise bird people stuck her head. And I'm
e one W o's wrong be I d
I " cause talk common sense an
of logic there was in the fine sunny Bummer of
e ,ear ne. My, but the green plums were fine that sum-
had to do was pick them. And wasn't it hot!
W young we were in those days I The whole
down all I
g
to hold us. We were going to knock
We weI' e. 0 d-time stuff and build something much finer.
was to throw everything wide opeD- Everybody
8 eep together, and go walking abont this new
[46]
world like irresponsible and unrestrained ragamuffins. We
were going to march through an earth emancipated from aU
gods and all tyrants. When aU's said and done, it was the
fault of the old structures that weren't sound; it was too
great a temptation to give them a little shake just to see
what would happen. It isn't our fault, is it, that the whole
business came tumbling about our ears' Anyway, I can't
say I'm sorry. J nst ,like that fat Louis Sixteenth; his head
was loose on his shoulders. Quantum potes, tantum auae.
That's every Frenchman's motto. And just as long as
there are any Frenchmen left, you'll never be able to take
away their old-time enthusiasm, and you'll never kill their
dare-devil spirit of adventure and experiment.
SYGNE. You, at least, have your share of it.
TURELURE. Right you are. And you enconrage me to say
now what I came to say.
SYGNE. I don't think I care to hear it.
TURELURE. And yet hear it you shall. Miss Sygne of
Coufontaine, I love yon, and I have the honor to as .Jour
hand in .
- SYGNE. You honor me,B' PJ.:efect.
TURELURE. What the devil! No need of turning as white
as a sheet as if I'd hit you in the face I
SYGNE. Go on. Say anything yon wish. I have no one to
protect me, and so I must hear you out.
TURELURE. No, it's I who am in your power. What have
you to fear from an old cripple like me'
SYGNE. I fear no one in the world.
TURELURE. I know you don't. Oh, but you're channing,
with your flashing eyes and your mouth tightly shut and yet
smiling I You're like a man putting on his armor in silence.
Oh, I know I shaIJ never get the best of youl I know how
well guarded every access is. You are coldness itself; you
are logic itself, and that's the very reason why you make
my blood burn; and that's the very thing that appeals to me,
and makes me desperate. That perfect face and that self-
possessed heart! An angel in an oval frame I You are sure
of yourself; you are triumphant. Everything in yon is weU-
ordered and in its proper ratio, nor could it be otherwise.
All is 80 sure, so sharply defined And yet, is there no flaw
[47]
in that heart of yours wh' h full"
t! Y , IC so care y weighs Its every
:ath, ou:e the who, to save a man condemned to
bod . wo en over hIm, and take him in your arms. My
dark 18 and deformed, and my soul stumbles in the
u I tnrn to you my face distorted by crime and
Tu
SYGNE. How dare you speak to me sot
BELUBE I've dar d If
things the Kin e :worse. men dared only sensible
po u1ace of P lL.:!"ould st!,11 be on lils throne. I'm likethe
with rage cans stormm the IQI,tes of Versailles blind
SYGNE. ' Isn:ll1!1 or t e King and for The Queen.-
your lost! r blo and our blood enough to slake
TUBELU1!E. Not blood
it. I want to see th only, for I want ro humble the spir-
an army that e terror of a defeated army, the panic of
those beautifuJ I That's what I want to see in
SYGNE N' eyes of yours.
TUB ' ever shall you see it.
ELU1!E. Perhaps P ha
there's got to be d' fer ps not. I don't know. But
bee
'. an en 0 all thi F
n liVIng here I kin' s. or ten years now we've
and, I'll admit 't' 00 g mto each other's eyes as it were
. I you'v had h "
mto my eyes and e ha t e best of it. You conld read
You have had whatnever ve I caught your eyes faltering.
of YOlL Oh yes th you I would of me, and I have had nothing
f
"esavery' hi
or me I The da h m w ch my mother lived goes
mmd. So don't loo{ ad to when I should speak my
SYGNE. My Lord surprised.
eous and kindly IIlan. on, I have always found you a court-
S
TUilELU1!E. r've done what I
YGN!!. Your ad . could for you.
ronage, has been invaluable to me ' your pat-
much advantage of' reproach myself lest I taken too
TUilELUlU! W your good-will.
SYGN!! Th ' e have both profited.
. . enwh d
. between os, :agi
roy
the. peaceful bond which ex-
think you, within m eave things as they have been. Is
'.l'uur.U1IE, S .y POwer to be yours'
to want ygne, IS it think ". .
You' ,you, Within my power not
SYGNE, You
should want I .
On y thmgs within reason.
[48]
TUBELURE. Wisdom lies in making the most of facts as we
find them. And the fact is that I love you - a state of af-
fairs over which I have no control. The ways of Nature are
beyond you or me. And since I love you, it proves that
something: in fuat somethin,K irLme is capable of lov-
ing. n for that reason I've come to you directly and
openly. When his instincts speak out loud, there's only one
thing for a man to do, and that's to take command of them,
to put himself at their head, as it were, and - forward
march. So now let's wheel half left and - march!
SVGKE. But what is yom reason for telling me these
things today'
TURELURE. A mighty good reason.
SYG"E. Give me time to think before I answer you.
TUBELURE. Unfortunately, I can't. I must have your an-
swer within an hour Don't try to corne it clever over me.
SVGNE. I snppose it is hardly necessary to tell you that
I don't love you'
TURELURE. My dear young lady, it's altogether too hard
to know what you like and what you don't. Do you suppose
the Kaiser's boys liked it when we were bowling them over,
and poking our bayonets into them'
SVGNE (looking squarely at hi!!!). not at all hand-
some, or even pleasant to look at.
. TUllELURE. Not handsome, maybe, bnt useful. Some-
body's left yon in a pretty JlisJfle and I tell you I've been
Sent especially by Heaven to get you ol!;! of ihe mess. And
not only you, but {he fate of your King and of your religion.
Who knows whether, at this very moment, you don't hold
the fate of your brother, that hero of the olden days, our
valiant Agenor, in your delicate hands! Don't think that
I'm a fanatic. France comes first. I'm interested only in
practical things. If everybody would do his duty as I do
mine, things would run smoothly enough- Even the King
won't frighten me, when some day he appoints me his Prime
Minister I
SYGNE. Why do you talk to me of my COl!!!in George'
TUBELUBE (in a thundering voice) . Becanselle's llere un-
der this rooS,!!lId because I've. got him by the thr_oat!
_ YGNE. Take..him. theu, if you can.
[49]
I!
,!
tf
Ii,
' ..
TUBELUBE. Is his fate a matt f . diff
SYGNE It' I . . er ill erence to you'
tract with ong tune smce he and I made our con-
TURELUBE. What d I b
wretched schemes! 0 care a out your cousin and all his
SYGNE. And what d I f C"
his wretched tricks! 0 care or ltIzen Ture.lure and all
TUBELUBE. I can la h
hostage I ti Y my and on a much more valuable
S
. no ce you have nothing to say to that.
YGNE. What do I kn f
tion! ow 0 your policeman's imagina
TuBELURI! (Ul a low voice) S
your God! (He 1 k h . ygne, saVe your King and
S
00 s at er fixedly)
YGNE (in a low voi ) N .
shall I be yours. ce. 0, you nasty cripple! Never
TuRELUBE I give
was about ;hen I you my oath I knew perfectly what I
SYGNE Th d came here today.
sible and' be eu 0 what you came to do as quickly as pos
, gone.
TUBELUBE. You'd k .
word. You know I a ma e a rrustake if you doubted my
SYGNE Then d Iways keep my promises.
S 0 :ot doubt my '!ord, either.
hanghty mark of Coufontaine, who tries to be so
mine! ' y words: I shall buy you and you shall be
SYGNE. Won't
TURELUBE. I'll take my lands as a gift!
an. ke the land and the name and the wom-
SYGNE. You will t k .
TUBELUBE. I'll taka e me! You, Toussaint Turelure!
Your fathers shall be e the body and the spirit that is in it!
children. my fathers; your children shall be my
SYGNE And will 1
If I have performed this miracle!
the price I re:;e twill not, at least J llStice shall, fOT see
SYG= I kn Y 0 pay for you
l
ow It .
possessiou of my h 'ta
iS
to you lowe the fact that I atn in
TUBEL en ge.
UBE. Yon owe 't t
SYG"'l!. And to I 0 my mother who nursed yon.
ily. you and YOlll"S, who killed all of my fam'
[50J
.
TURELUBE. Then my people made you and educated you
twice over, didn't they!
SYGNE. You have my answer, Sir. It is final. Is there
anything further which retains you beneath my rooft
TuBELURE. Just a very small matter.
SYGNE. What is it, pray!
TURELURE. You have here a complete coLlection of the
Consular decrees. Perhaps you may know that our new
Theodosius is promulgating them in his capital, and is pub-
lishing a new edition. Pr'Ilameneu has a$:ed me to supply
him with certain information on one point, and naturally I
haven't a copy of Manzi at Police Headquarters. Hence ...
SYONE. Take what you need.
TUBELURE. Here's what I'm looking for. I recognize the
magnificent folio edition bound in pig skin. I can appreciate
handsome Italian bindings. (He limps toward that part of
the book-shelves where the secret door is concealed. SYGNE
qUtietly opens the drawer of the desk and slips her hand into
it. Spooking with! his back to SYGNE.) Here is the complete
set in perfect condition, and not a speck of dust on it, either.
SYG""'E. I'll have it taken down to your carriage.
TURELURE. I wonder what would happen if I took one or
two volumes along with me now!
SYGNE. The weight of those Consular Decrees would be
too much for a lame Prefect of police.
TURELURE (whirling around and looking holJrd at SYGNE).
What would happen to me' I'd get a lead bullet in my
brain! A bullet directed my way by a very charming little
hand which I can see! I suppose you keep some of your jew-
els in the drawer of that little desk!
SYGNE. They are at least jewels of which I can make good
use.
TUBELUBE. What would be the sense in making a big spot
on the floor! .And then, what would you do with a great
lumbering corpse! You couldn't put it away in the drawer
there, with all your other little secrets. Could you now' I
know this old house better than you do, and I've put a cat
to watch every passa"ae big enough for a rat to come out of.
SYGNE. Remember, Toussaint Turelure, that I have a
weapon in my hand. Don't tempt me too much!
[51J
tben, I'll take myself off, and I'll leave
you to thm!, thin?B over. Sygne of Coufontaine, I give you
two hours m whwh to make up your mind. (The CURATE
BADJLON enters.) Your humble servant, Sir. (He goes o'ut.)
SOENE II
(a heavy man, with the look of a farmer) I'm
Surp.rISed to see that man in your house Is any
speCIal reaSon for his visit? .
know, perhaps, that the Prefect does me the
Bog me agreeable!
Yes, but a visit from him at this particular
SYGNE. Baron Turel
B . ure came to ask me to marry him.
ADILON. DId he dare do that?
SYGNE. Does it strik
on a P f t e you as very bold! Is he not a Bar-
, re ec a General C d f
what! Does h 't er 0 Heaven knows
three or four e no own all the vmeyards of Mareui!, besides
Would it not d(all mortgaged to the hilt, to be sure)!
ing to me dir Uan a vantageous match! And as to his com-
that I lo_ ec y, what else could he do! It is not his fault
""ve no fathe h .
and experienc d r nor mot er. BesIdes, I'm old enough
as well as wid: ttnough deal with this sort of business
Boer affaIrs
ADILON. Bitter wo d .
SYGNE. And et Irs not pleasing in God's ears.
be used in hi wahs obliged to listen to the sweet words
BADILO B--" s eart to me_
N. ut why h uld
SYGNE Tb S 0 he choose this moment!
you. '. e course of events wiIJ make it quite clear to
b
B.'UILON, Does he b
ere! ' y any chance, know that George is
SYG""E. He knows
BADILON. And do'
whom yoU received es he also know who this traveler is
SYGNE. Then it' under your roof last night!
Pope. . . s true! You, also, tell me. It is the
BADILON Wh
prison. . . . am your brother's hand snatched from his
SYGNE. Oh POor d
, ear, mad George I
[52]
BADILON. . _ He is here, hidden, and entrusted to your
care.
SYONE (turning towa"d the Crucifix). Woe is me that
Thou should'st have visited me.
BADILON. And yet I can hear Him make answer: Was it
not thou who broughtest me back into this house!
SYONE. I have held Thee in my arms, and I know that
Thou art heavy to bear.
BADILON. It is for the strong to bear the heavy burdens.
SYGNE. Nor do I understand wherefore Thou hast helped
me rebuild this house. Lo, it was not for me.
BADlLON. Rather that the Father of all mankind might
here find refuge.
SYONE. An insecure refuge, and but for a single nightl
BADILON. Can not you arrange for the old man to make
good his escape 1
8YGNE. Toussaint has blocked eveq egress.
Is there, then, no horre for the Pope!
SYGNE. Ture\ure has left his fate in the hollow of my
han .
-nA'DILON. What price does he ask1
'SYGNE. The )lana in which that fate rests.
'BADILON. Sygne! Save the Holy Father!
YONE. Ay, hut not at that price! I refuse! I cannot I
Let' God protect his own. My duty is to mine own people.
- BADILON. Then deliver up Our Father, the Holy Fugi-
tive, to his enemies!
SYGNE. I will not deliver up my body and that of my peo-
ple I I will not deliver up my name and their name!
BADlLON. Then give up your God instead.
SYGNE (turning toward the Crucifix ). Thou hast mooked
me.
BADILON. What have you asked of Him which He has not
granted! What have you wished for that is not now yours'
You have received the reward of your toil.
SYGNE. The reward! Indeed I have received itt
BADILON_ The family is saved in George, whose life you
save, and through him his childrea
SYONE. Oh, God Almighty. Herein does Thine hand ap-
pearl
[53]
BADILON. ! do. not hear what yon say, my child.
SYGNE. HIS wife, yon sayT His clUldren'
BADILON. Yes, whyT
StoNE. Dead! .All dead!
BADILON. God's pea b
S
ce e upon them! Now you are frce.
YONE. George is Jeft.
BAillLON. What could y d th
than his life' ou guar at is more precious
SYGNE. His honor.
th BADILON. That same honor with which thou shalt honor
y father and thy mother.
B
SYGNE. He is poor and entirely alone
ADILON (00 . .
far poorer ru:d the Crucifix). One there is Who is
ar more alone than he.
SYGNE. Father si I
what he and I tell everything, listen
his race and I th I t
O
very morrung - he the last of
B' e as of mme
ADILON. I am listening. .
SVGNE. This ni ht .
each other and gha Just passed we pledged ourselves to
BADILON: But
exc
nged our promises.
S you are not yet married
VGNE. What is mar . .
than any marri H nageT What we did is far more
lord unto his v=:se. J e r
ve
me his right hand, as the over-
withiu my heart. a, au I pledged to him my oath deep
BADILoN. An oath s\vo . h .
have given nothin m ill t e mght. Promises you may
was g more; no deed was done; no sacrament
SYGNE. Would yon h .
BADILoN Abo ave me WIthdraw my promiseT
find
- . ve all promis . th ell
s expression in th P es IS e Word of God, whi
SYG N e ope
NE. ever will lb .
Never! Never' e the wife of Toussaint Turelnre!
BADILON. also h Ids
hand. 0 George's life in the hollow of his
. SYGNR. Let him d
live. forever. God as I am re.ady to die! We cannot
8:DXJ.ous to give it back t IDi
i
:
y
life, and I am ready and
my woman's honor is .0 But the name is mine, and
mme, and mine alone!
[54]
BADILON. Good it is to have something of one's own; for
then have we something which we can give.
SYGNE. Would yon let George die that this old man may
live'
BADILON. George it was who sought him ont, and brought
him under this roof.
SYGNE. This guest of a single night! That old man who
has nothing left to render up but his last breath!
BADILON. And yet he is your guest, Sygne.
SYGNE. Let God do His dnty, as I do lnine.
BADlLON. My child, my child, what is weaker and more
defenseless than God, Who, without 11S, is wholly without
power '
SYGNE. Oh, why did I yield to my womanly weakness'
Why did I not kill him, withont even giving the matter a
second tho11ghtT Did I not have a weapon in my hand' But
I feared lest I should serve no purpose.
BADILON. Were you guilty, even for a moment, of such a
criminal thought T
SYGNE. We would all have died together, and I not
have been called upon to choose.
BADILON. Easy it is to destroy that which it is so hard to
save.
SYGNE. But to kill that man would surely be a worthy
act.
BALlILON. He, too, is one of God '8 beloved children; and
of him God taketh heed throughout all time.
SYGNE. Alas, I am deaf, and I cannot wlderstand such
words. I am a woman, not a nun of wax and manna, like an
Agnus Dei! If God would have me love Him, let Him look
deep within my heart, and let Him understam1. rry hatred,
which is as my -love for Him - the bottom of my heart, and
the treasure of my virginity! Can you not understand that
from the very day I was born, my life has been spent oppo-
site that man, watclUng him, protecting myself from him,
trying to bend his will and to force him to serve me, whether
he wished to or not. Each time, when my throat choked with
fear and loathing for him, some new resource has occurred
to me. And now you ask me to caJl him my husband - that
beast! You would have me accept him and offer him my
[55]
cheek. Ha! Never! That I refuse I That I will not do I Not
though God upon his throne demanded it. .
B
t
And that, my child, is precisely why He does
no ill any way demand it.
SYGNE. What, then, do you ask in His name T
BdADllLOkN. I do not ask; I do not demand I merely stand
an 00 at d '
h had
. you! an walt, as Moses watched the rock after
e sInltten It.
SYGNE. For what do you waitT
BADlLON For that f hi h .
and sent .. t thi or w c It appears you were made,
ill 0 s world.
SYGNE. Must I th .
B . save e Pope by losmg my soulT
ADILON. It IS not God' will th
doing evil. s at we should seek good by
SYGNE. I will t ld
B no Yle my soul to the devil
A.DlLO N. And yet air ad th . .
Sygne I And this ' .e y, e devil has it I Oh Sygne,
of Jesus ehr t b tw
very
mght you took the Body and Blood
IS e een your lips I
SYGKE (it> a muffl d .)
B e vOIce. Have pity on me
ADILON with nreat } .
you to pity =h - ve !e11l-ence . God Almjghty! It is for
me, w 0 am obli ed t k .-
words which m II g 0 spea such words to you;
it was TIie sa ge tremble witJ\ horror! WiT mother
1 was "nothiugmb t onntess Renee, who picked me up when
priest fo serve h
U
a fwretched Drat, ana who made me a
..- " ere 0 all t . .
D':!_ own to d
r
now 1: am asking. of
Death is a mere trill 0 a thin In comparison With which
Slloos I I a pOor tu e.. ' w 0 am not wor y Wlriss-ytmr
with sins' and lid whose life is spent in dealing
I, Whom God has a : sordid cares of men! I stand here,
and into whose reltlnted to minister unto men and angels,
and to loose All auds He has given the power to bind
left for you to dead, and I, alone, a poor peasant, aID
blood could hav be ather. At least no father of flesh and
been, my dear truly your father than I have
the Sou. Pray God th ;'. In the name of the Father and ot
to yoU, Dot a com a. m very truth I may 00 a father un
vice to you may .executioner, and that my ad
of love and untamted by anger, and in a spirit
yond Our POwers b t od does not ask of us sacrifices be-
, u rather for things most lowly; He
[56J
lighteth not in bloody sacrifices, but in ihe gifts which His
children give him wholeheartedly.
SYGNE (im, a .nuffled voice). Forgive me, Father. I have
sinned. (He opens his cloak aM one can see the purple stole
crossed on the breast of his oassock.) Have you the viaticum
with you?
BADlLON. No, for I have just taken it to old man Vincent
in the woods. 'fhis morning, when I left (lowering his voice)
the Pope, (in his usual voice) I heard that the poor man had
jnst had his legs crnshed by a falling oak tree. How it did
storm when I got to his house! It reminded me of the good
old days of the Indivisible' , when that old wizard Quiriace
nsed to chase me, and I was obliged to spend the night in
the hollow of a willow tree, with Our Saviour on my heart
under my shirt.
SYGNE (falling Forgive me, .Fat1!er, for I
have sinned.
BADll:ON (he seats himseILi1l.a-'Jhai bJlside her). May God
forg1v.!L Ol!.. as I give you my b.lessing.
SYGNE. J have been guilty of angry words, of wishin$. to
die of murderous thou hts.
BmILON-: Do OU wholeheartedl'y"JjlJlo.unce. the hatred of
any man, and the desire to do him harm,. no matter who he
may beT -- - -
S.!"GNE. I do, Father .
BANLON. Go on.
SYGNE (im, a low, tense voice). George, of whom I spoke to
you ... Oh, Father, I love him ...
BADlLON. There is no harm in that.
SYGNE. I love him more than one shonld love any living
creature.
BADlLON. Yet not as much as God loves him; God who
made him.
SYGNE. Oh, Father I I've given him my heart, and have
withheld nothing I
BADILON. You do not truly or snfficiently love him, unless
you love through God.
SYGNE. Does God demand that I shonld forsake him and
betray him!
BADILON. Listen patiently to me, my beloved child, for I
Ibe name given to the first French Republic.
[57]
am your priest who longs onl f
an leaves all sh h Y or your welfare. If a wom
mother and hO! as'd
a
\ often happens, leaves father and
though the words
e
a':: - and hard it is to do,
to the desert to 1m I hef Y saId - and hetakes herself in
to feed th ee ore a cross, or to nurse the aick or
e poor, or to devote herself t d h .'
reason and without r .t 0 an c erIsh WIthout
to us, she does . InU 8 peopJe who are nothing to her, or
own free will ;: out of. fullness of her heart, and of her
And witli vou Shod .I s her salvatiou thereby assured.
men and yo ,. u you, III order to save the Father of aU
you 'I say en u appear to have been chosen to do 80 should
, , ".ve up your lov '
your executioner and aeee
e
, ?,our your honor, kissing
Christ allowed HinIself t him as your husband, as
be doing a thing whi h JO evoured by Judas, you would
S . C ushce does not demand
td .
BADlLON N . no 0 It, shall I be free from sin'
S . 0 pnest would refuse you absolution.
B YONE. Is that really true, Father'
ADILON. I will go ev f rth
due heed, lest in an wa en a er, and I warn you to take
rament which mar/ r you should profane tl1at holy sac
at first, he made IS. God perfects through us what,
sanctifies He lt . h
a
we offer unto HinI as a sacrifice He
d IS W 0 hallow th B '
an blesses the Oil T s e read and the Wine,
meanmg to the Word H . hroughout all tinIe He gives a
confession whereby . e has spoken to us. From the very
makes a sacrament himself to death, He
a trembles in eve like unto His own Body. How
which is in truth th b limb when he hears that monster
face half J.esus, as he turns to him a
the orifice of a rottin' bod t his through lips which are
the oath, willingly Pl:dged y be And likewise He has sanctified
unto each other 111 ,tween two persons who swear
a f '
SVGNE D ...",e or all eternity
. oes God then n t .
BADlLON H d 0 reqmre such consent from mef
you in all reqnire it. Of that I can assure
tore H" . en the S
bnmili from His Fath ,ou of God, to save mankind,
whi ation of death and s bosom and suffered the
ch He must :till suffers that second death,
eac day, and which is the sin His
[58]

beloved children commit - even that, I say, J nstice did not
require HinI to undergo.
SYGNE. I am not God. I am only a woman.
BADlLON. I know, poor child. I know.
SVGNE. Is it, then, my duty to save God'
BADlLON. It is your duty to J!ave our goest.
SYGl"l'. It IS not I who_bl!:!ie him under m roof.
BADlLON. It is your cousin who hroughtlrim hither.
!?YGNE-:- 1 cal1!.'0.!. Oh, my God! I at such a price I
BADlLON. Very well. You shall he gltless of the blood
of that innocent man. - -
- SVGNE. i cannot go beyond the limit of my powers.
BADILON. Child, what says your heartT
SYGNE. You see my heart; it lies before you, open and
mangled.
BADlLON. If your cousin's children were still alive; if it
were a matter of saving him and his children, and the name,
and the family; and if be hinIself asked you to make the sacri-
fice I ask of you, would you make it, Sygne' Would you,
Sygne'
SYGNE. Who am I, or what is a poor girl, compared to
tbe man of my race' Yes. I should make the sacrifice.
BADlLON. From your own lips have I heard it.
SVGNE. But He has no need of me. The Pope has God's
blood, my brother, my elder, the first and the last of us all!
He is my lord and master, to whom I have pledged my faith.
BADlLON. God is all those things to you. God was before
this other was.
SYGNE. But he has no need of me. The Pope has God's
infallible promises.
BADlLON. Yes, but the world has them not, nor have
those for whom Christ has not prayed. Spare the world
from committing this crime.
SYGNE. It is you who taught me what I know, and did
not yon tell me that whenever the Pope was at death's door,
each tinIe God saved him t
BADlLON. Never without the help and the good will of
some man.
SYGNE. I live alone, and I know nothing of politics.
BANLON. At least you can see that the hour of the
[59J
Prince of the World is t h
into the hands of N andV;::d Peter himself has fallen
ating a new Pope a ap? at prevents him from cre-
ors were made. /; ill dark. ages of yore, new emper
the ancient of ng him far fr?m Rome, as did
their side' This is the that they mIght have hinI at
the World has been to f Lo, the very heart of
we on!y who are Its Ah, it is not
of a VIrgin behold th Oh patIent, peru tent soul, soul
sides. The' blessed people which is about us on all
neath our feet and s In above, the sinners be-
await your decision. e uman millions, million upon
SYGNE. Fath d
er, 0 not tem t
BADILON God. P me beyond my powers.
t
. IS not above b b
no your strength b t us, ut eneath us and it is
tempting. ' u rather your weakness, that I am
SYGNE. Thus it f
t. IS or me S C
arne, 0 my own r VII' ygne, onntess of Coufon-
tlie Son of my IDa.id- aeed w I to marry TuriHure,
marry him ill 1he n of the old wizard Quiriace I am 0
and God the Holy of God the Father God the Son
and with him to exch:n; I am to swear fidelity to binI:
body, soul of my soul ge rrngs! He shall be body of my
that Toussaint' T and] what Jesus .!Jhrist is to the
Ii: e, ffie butclier of"'93 dI u:e ,:,I'e sIiall lie to me - forever!
"e shall, each ilay tak' with the blood of my kin
iller b ,e me In hi - ,
e _ e of me which s arms, and nothing shall
give Olrth to chiIdr s.hall not be his I And by h hall I
sln"le be en In who lID S
e '" lng - he and II m. we shall be molten into a
together, not for this estate which I have gath-
r: ers to the holy k' which belonged to my fore
POrtion. ttt shall I bring to him as
My . d the oath which I sill have toiled and suf-
usm, betraYed of all pJedged, that must I betray.
"Vor of hi men ",c._ t h
tr s race th ,UU.Il, 00, S all I the sole
P
ay at the last! And .,,;. only one left to him fail and be-
entecost h hand hi h '
ents I . ' e took into his . th w c, on the Monday after
before us On th: aIt
e
presence of our four par-
clasped eacl, Of our two hands ar, hand I am to take
other So pass ,which but an hour ago,
Ionately . .
, rnme 18 the false one I
[60]
(A long silence.) You are silent, my Father. Have you
nothing to say!
BADILON. I am silent, my child, and I tremble. I tell you
that nor I, nor any man, nor even God, can ask such a sacri-
fice of you.
SVGNE. What, then, obliges me to make it!
BADILON. Oh, Christian soul, oh, thou child of God! Thou
alone, and of thine own free will can'st make it!
SYONE. I cannot.
BADILON. Then prepare yourself, for I will bless you and
bid you go.
SYONE. Oh, God, oh, God! And yet 'fhou seest that I love
Thee!
BADILON. But not enough to be spat upon, to be crowned
with a crown of thorus; not enough to fall head.long upon
your face, to have your clothes parted and cast lots for; not
enough to be crucified!
SYGNE. Behold my heart. You can see it I
liAQ:ILON. _ Y do nQ.t enough to have your side
ljpped wide.
SYGNE. Jesus, sweet Friend. Who, if not Thou, hast ever
stood my friend! Hard it is t.o disiease Thee!
BADILO"'. And easy it is to do Thy willi
SYGNE. Hard it is to separate myself from Thee for the
first time!
BADILON. But sweet it is to die in Me Who am the Truth
and the Life Everlasting.
SYGNE (looking up). 01, my Father, if it be possible, let
this cup pass from me.
BADILON. Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be done, oh
Lordi
SYGNE. At least, oh, my God, if I sacrifice all I have un-
to Thee, do Thou this much for me. Delay not, but take this
my ,vretched life with all the rest I
BADILON. Yet Thine it is to know the day and the hour.
SYGNE (in great anguish.). 01, Lamb of God, who takest
away the sins of the world, have pity on me!
BADILON. Already is He with you.
SYGNE. Not my will, but Thine be done, oh, God, not
mine.
BADILON. Is it true, my child! Is the sacrifice complete!
[61]
..... j
.. . Not my will, but Thine. . . Not my will, but
oh,. God! Not my will, but Thine oh, God not mine'
wng silence.) ".
B:;nILON. daughter, my beloved child. Can you not
ow easy It to?O this thing God asks of you' The
di
P'd
ace
of your .pnde IS destroyed. That Sygne which God
not make IS hurnbl d' th d
the roots is that fi e In e ust at last. Torn up by
with her C .erce love of self. At last she stands alone
"""d ,reator lIl: the Garden of Eden of the Cross. "Mv
CWl , surelY great IS th h' .
Wh t
e JOY w rch I keep for my saints -
a say ye of my cupT" It .
accept death a d h IS easy to die; easy it is to
stupidity d' th
n
same, and a blow on the face and the
an e scorn of all men' all . '
chastise oneself All' ' yea, IS easy, save to
Thee, except to oh, my for him who loves
And I Th' 0 Y blessed will. (He sta-nds up.)
and fo'r h y Pl
nest
, I, too, stand above this sacrificed victim,
er pray to Th
at High MassI Hoi F thee, as over the Unleavened Bread
all that she conld ira a behoJd this lamb who has done
bear a burden h ve upon her, and make her not to
priest and sinner or he:. Have pity, too, upon me,
own hands upon Thin: al s sacrificed his only child with his
you have forgiven me you, my danghter, tell me
makes a feeble gesture glVe you forgiveness. (8M
head..) My child, r ha-nd .. He puts his ha-nd 011
wiLl give you my bless' e counsel wIth your own heart. I
you. (She SiMs to theIngfl and may the Grace of God be with
Wlth arms O1Itstretched.. oJ!r
1
face downwards, and
VToss above "her The 81'!W1y he makes the sign of the
through the window f1am!ng rwys of the setting sun cpme
and shine upon her.)
CUlITAIN
The ACT m
castle of Pantin .
011 the ground floor. Fo;/"ear A large drawing-roo'"
omo a terrace. Iim:dows, opening like doors
;:;tlo brass trim1llings On the Empt,re furniture, mahogany
apolemJ as he was d waU hatngs a large portrait ot
room is in disorder. ressed for his coronation. The whole
the ::J:0.or is muddy. It is the head- _
IS defendlngJ!.ruis a..ugint tM
[62]
,
Allies. BARON TOUSSAINT TliRELli REL P"etect oj SeineJ is in
c:iii!manlflIetias liill military and civiLP..QE!E: . .
In the distance one can hear the rumble of arhllery-fire.
Close by, three chiming church bells are ringing for a Bap-
tism.
TOUSSAINT TURELuRE stands. SYGNE sits, half-hidden i1l
a deep armchaiR- with wings which conceal her. Throughout
the act SYONE has a nervous twitching of the head from side
to side, as that<.,," saying " No. "
SCENE I
TURELURE. You have heard my instructions. Now I must
leave you. You must excuse me; the procession is leaving
the church. All my officers are gathered together in the
next room, where we are about to celebrate, over some hot
cakes and a few bottles of wine, the entrance of this little
Turelure fellow into the bosom of the Holy Church. We're
taking advantage of the few minutes' leisure these friends
of yours have granted us. Of course, we regret that we
shan't have the pleasure of your company, but business be-
fore pleasure! A sad state of affairs it is when father and
mother cau't both be on hand when their child is baptized!
SYGNE. You don't seem so sad. In fact, you accept this
sad state of affairs, as you call it, very cheerfully.
TURELuRE. Right you are, my dear! I've never been
happier in my life! War, business, a little intriguing now
and then, food for body and mind. mat more can a ffil.In
ask for! To say nothing of a loving wife and a little Ture-
lure, who's getting his first taste of salt.
SYGNE. Why don't you carryon your negotiations your-
self!
TURELURE. My business is your business. It's all one and
the same. I've seen you in action, and I have inIplicit con-
fidence in you. AIlyway, you can see that I ' ve got my hands
fnll. Besides, isn't it proper that, after having given the
rope back to the Cburch. it should be you who gives The
King back to his kinuilnm' Don't forget that this isn't only
,?atter which affects the country alone; ourjoint prop?rty
IS mvolved, and I want to assure the succeSSIOn to the little
fellow.
[63]
SrGNE. By which you im I I
plete the ruin of my familyi y, suppose, that I am to COID-
TURELURE. For the .
is the last male of yo palrtICular benefit of your child, who
. ur me. As fo b
ous cousm, Agenor, I don't d r rave and gener-
turked up his sleeve whi h :bt the KIng has some favor
any loss. ,c I fully compensate him for
SYGNE. I will see wh t .
TURELURE Oh I h a. IS best to be done.
. ave r .
SYG"E. Who I'S' th K' Imp Ielt confidenee in you!
T
e Ill""S en I' .
URIU.lJlIE. He's here I'll ,:oy
SYGNE. I am qm't . d bnng him In.
T ereay
URELURE. I haven't ad'
to terms. How's thatT oubt but what you and he'll come
SYGNE. I didn't speak
TURELURE. Oh! It's U;at .'
head. (He lays kis hand 0 you have of shaking your
:" the table.) These ar n a p,le of papers wMch are lying
ut not one word do I my terms. Take 'em or leave 'em
ihis particular moment
C
lange. This is no time to argue. At
nrre, Prefect of the Sem' anG' France, - I, Toussaint TUTe-
o p . e <'ne aI .
ans, to whom His R ' r ill command of the army
gated all civil and milit oyal and Imperial Majesty has dele-
SYGNE y' ary powers.
Tu . OU Justify the contid
'd RELURE. I'm for F euee he has placed m yon
VI usl 0 ranee not f .' ..
n ,r party. The Cor . ' or any pllIhcular mdI-
0; I m playing my luck had his break of Juck, and
. VGNE. Aren't . en and Where I find 't
IS h you afraIcl h"
eavy. e may come back? His band
TURELURE TI '
time with' lat s exactly wh
Supr care. And't yon; has to choose one's
and (he makes a'M wasn t f?r nothing that the
whole as a pair of s'II"'1 made me lame
in my v on, and for a few e.
s
. ans IS the key to the
S
ery competent hands mmutes Paris happens to be
YGNE. Y .
face of OU don't think
TURIU. three armies, do YOu r
ou
can hold out here in the
Di
. URE. The E
nero I've . mperor has . .
to me are t Just had the news ',"on a VIctory at Saint-
o put up a hold f .'8 IDInute. His instructions
ront, and hold on long enough
(64)
for him to tie those three mules tail to tail. The road to Ger-
many is cut; A1sace and the Y osges are honeycombed with
people who favor him; the forts along the Rhine are hold-
ing out. Don't worry; there are good tinles ahead for the
Man of Austerlitz! And then, you're not silly enough to
thi:nk all those other rascals are hand and glove and hunky-
dory togethert Don't you believe it! There are plenty of
chances to trade. I suppose you know that I'm surrounded
with renegades and runaways T
SYGNE. Perhaps. But you have no troops.
TURELuRE. I've got a den. Let'm try to smoke me out of
Paris! I'm a badger, I am! And I've dug my toes in. What
do you mean, I have no troops' Just let the Emperor of
Russia fetch along his Mister-Musket-Men! Let the oJd
Prussian bring up his Jonas Muliers! 'fhe turnips t I'm not
afraid of anything as long as I've got my Pantin firemen,
and the National Guardsmen of Saint-Denis, and the Popin-
court Volunteers! Why, they're all Bellona's Babies, they
are! You heard the cannon tbis morning, didn't yout
SYGNE. Yes, I did.
TUllELURE. We got into them proper, as my orderly says.
We wiped up that Russian Milordovitch as clean as a bread
plate. There arc four hundred of the \VurttemheJ'g boys,
with their pink pants, laid out nice and neat in the vine-
yards of N oisy-Ie-Sec. And everyone of 'em's got his but-
ter-firkin hat on straight, and his little linger on the seam
of his trousers I Yes, and even after they're dead, their eyes
and their little stub noses are turned to the left toward the
lJ err Adjutant Habt Acht! In honor of all of which we pur-
pose to drink a glass of this good old ;Mareuil wine.
SYGNE. All of which doesn't amount to much.
'fURELURE. You can't tell. But there's one more point I
want to bring up for your careful consideration, and it's
just this: If the Em eror goes under there's only room on
t!'e thro!1e 0 ranee for Oiielillig. Now tneri;' fllere 's tneson
!:If Marie-...Lonise, and then there's tlie boy Oscar's daddy.
whole situation is in my-hand and...depends QlI....whojll I
glVe the keys orParis to. Whoever gets the keys of Paris
is the uncontested heir, and that's the end of any doubts.
I'm a Frenchman, and I hate the idea of surrendering to
[65]
anyone who isn't a s f S . .
servant I wish to 0 amt LoUll!, whose very humble
the whole weight refmam,h
and
to whose support I will throw
S 0 onr ouse.
YGNE. The house of TnrelureT
TUBELURE. Just yo t litt!
ten years from now ; pu a gold crown over the T, and
ered or Tigr nrelnre WIll sound as grand as Tan
ours has no c':1c:;:rteS! that dear cousin of
might be' lin en, and hIS name dies with him. The King
on. me ed to make arrangements to have it carried
SYONE. I think
mind. I uuderstand eveIything you have in
. TlIBELURE. I w
roto yonr sewin : SUIe you would. I put the fate of France
basket.) And g (He puts tlie papers into her work
to present to now e only other thing I still have to do is
S you ... the plenipotentiary
.
a clever man E 8 a. surpnse. YOIl'll soon see. The King's
(He goes out: will settled right in the
can. be heard ro 0 ':n-s, head1ng the baptismal process,()1I,
enters, brim.gi:;P After a mome .. t, TUBELURE re-
Sygne, I present to 1m the. VISCOUNT OF COUFONTAINE-!
of His M' the Lieutenant and Envoy Plem
0 0 - .Qur cousin <reorge, whom the
from...l!!L P os ave now _ too long atirne taken
SVGNE G
. eorO'e'
COUFONTAnlE
adam. (He kisses her h<md.)
BglUn! I swear well! It's nice to see them together
George, my wife has can feel a tear in the corner of my eye!
now, I'll leave " full powers to negotiate with you. And
C .,OU - George!
. OUFONTAINE. G
side. Music hood-bye - Toussaint! (Great .wise out-
salvo f - c eers' the d' A
T 0 mUSketry.)' crow pours into the Muse.
. URELURE. God .
other! I damned fools'll be shoot-
''''!'''' should be' ga e special mstructions that no cart-
lSsued to them.. (He goes out.)
[66]
SCENE II
(SYGNE gives COUFONTAINE one of the papers which the
baron has left in her basket. COUFONTAINE takes his glasses
from his pocket and reads the document. While he is read--
;ng, she remains seated with her eyes closed. A great .wise
breaks out in the nea;t rOom. Doors slam; an uproar of
laughter wnd talk; the clatter of swords, wnd the clink of
glasses; two violi .. s suddenly begin to play, then cease
abrupUy. Tl!e.....a:r:y.-!2f. a -bQm
COUFONTllNE. Is it your child which is being christened,
SIgne CTsa.1" th - roceJl.sion aSt arrived.
SYGNE. Yes.
COUFONTAINE. Why aren't you taking part?
SYONE. My place is here. (He cO'lltinues to read, then
looks up and listens. Someone is rappi .. g on a table for si-
lence.)
VOICE OF 'tURELUBE (in the next room.) The priest has made
a Christian of yon by baptizing you with water, and now
I'm going to make a Frenchman of yon, you little rascal, by
christening you with this drop of champagne poured into
your little month! Citizen, taste the wine of France!
(Laughter; cheers.) Let those Russian gentlemen wait a
while; and let Field Marshal Benningsen and the Prince of
Witzingerode do US the favor of granting us a few minutes'
delay. What the devil! They mustn't expect us to devote all
onr attention to them all the time! We'll be with them di-
rectly. Bnt for the moment, let's take advantage of the
armistice that's been arranged, to d.rink the health of this
youngster in this wine, which is of the Comet-year vintage.
(Great clinking of glasses; shouts of" LO'IIg live Turelure!
Long live Louis-Agerwr! Long live the Emperor!")
VorCE OF TURELURE. Pass the cake, please.
COUFONTAniE. A happy thought to graft our name onto
this new sapling! (Sound.s of bugles in the distance.)
VOICE OF TURELURE. There's the Russian cavalry taking np
its positions. AI; for UB, we'll let the voice of this youngster,
whom we've just baptized to the accompaninnent of artillery
fire, be our bugles. And yon there, Alexis Couillonadovitcb,
or whatever yonr name is, listen to the voice of a free man,
and to hell with yon, you damned Cossackl (Sound of
[67]
D'yon snppose aU those Nicodemuses from North
b
0': re are. going to take France t They haven't got tbe
rams ! Yes gentleme th ' ill . .
th 'II' n, ere s st Wllle m Epernay and
th ere
ld
always be enongh of France left to plague
h
e Of cow I .Yes, plenty to prod her in the rump and
er rom eatmg her ha . '
have th I Y m peace and quiet! Gentlemen, I
news th:t of teJling yon the great and satisfying
at Saint-D' Napoleon has jnst won a great battle
or ") !\. eers; shouts of: "Long live the Emper
tig'ht S ,tor us, what do you think' We're sitting pretty
,aren wet We' t P . b .
has Napoleon and hi ve go ehmd us, and the enemy
health gentle I D
S
eagles behmd their backsides! YOill'
long a's They haven't got it all, as
scrap of Turel got th,s fat shoe of France, tllis little
shouts.) ure, and some cake! (La.'ghter; cheers;
COUFONTAlNE (goin bk I . .
tion and qw't g ac to Its readwg) A noble pero
ra
-
, e worthv of the d' I (" '
and remai-ns sunk .. tI exor mm. He fintshes readtng
then takes off h' '':as '01Ight. He roods the pupe" again,
and atter caret;:;t;' f ,puts them back into his pocket,
the table. SYG" h 0 "'g. the document, he replaces it on
. ,E as re>named sil t d " ha'
WIthout making en ,(,n s.ts ,n he" c tr
C
a movement)
OUFONTAlNE (ta 'n
SYGNE (sitting ,:;:lJ(J,g It,able lightly). Sygne.
COUFONTAlNE. Am I '. m
SYGNE. Yes 'th (hscuss th,S document with you,
authority. He h:: Pl::d The Baron Ims given me complete
COurONTAlNE. "He h full confidence in me.
what you said, isn't itT full in me"! 1'bat's
SYGYE. However, ther he s .nght.
pres es. e s nothmg to discuss. 1'iw
e
COUFO"TAl"E Am I t
nowt . 0 to these terms, bere and
Sm"", :Not one w d
CourONTAlNE. can be changed.
YG,,'E !!' u:afiiiil a se! :cceptt Wha!. thenT
of Turelure;and ' the ca ,envel,?,PeJ.. Here the surren-
ill _le)'lan of'lllS"!iI pl. or Paris to be placed
COUFONrAINE. - S os Christian M'afesty. -
- let IDe see th<:.jociiments.
[68]
SYGNE. That, I cannot.
COUFONTAlNE. Sygne, let me have that docwneut, and I
won't ask for tile others!
SYGNE. I can't; I've promised.
COUFONTAlNE. I know how faitllfully you keep to yOUl'
promises!
SYGNE. At least I can remain faithful to my shame.
COUFONTAlNE. Am I not to be allowed to read tbe terms t
SYGNE.' No. You must take my word.
COUFONTA!NB. Sygne, I believe you.
SYGNE. He's telling the truth, George. He has showed
me all the papers, and I have read them. I have gone over
his reasoning point by poiut, aud I cau find no flaw. The
man is master of Paris, and the person into whose hands he
delivers Paris will be King of France.
_ Then the King of France
by thL haud of_Toussaint Tmelm:e!-
- SYGNE. By him. and by I!Qll.!WAhe.rJ .
COUFONTAlNE (quoting f"om the paper). "The Kmg
swears to maintaiu the Coustitution. The hudget is to be
voted upon, annually, by the representatives of the people"
-Toussaint may be sUl'rendering, but the King is abdicating.
SYGNE. I cannot discuss the terms.
COUFONTAINE. Thus the King, by the Grace of God, be-
comes tile King, by the grace of TurelUl'e
1
SYGNE. And those, George, are the terms which I am pro-
posing to you, and which you will accept.
COUFONTAINE. I cannot accept!
SYGNE. Your instructions are implicit.
COUFONTAINE. What do you know about my instructionsl
SYGNE. If they were uot what I believe them to be, you
would not be here now.
COUFONTAlNE. What does this Baron of yours care for a
Chamber of Deputies T What is it to him t
SYGNE. His interest is in practical matters only.
COUFONTAlNE. It is fOl' this henchman of a tyrant to de--
. fine the powers of a Kingt
SYGNE. All that mortal mau may achieve, has not the
Emperor achieved itt
COUFONTAI"'E. Farewell, theu, oh, King, thou likeness of
[69]
:!::e
m
::e =e: N is left to the King save
whereby he is kina E p 0 llIDltations of the very essence
b
i
..;\, has bee o very man, from the moment of his
.." n wont to accept ch
above him, and th a monar forever placed
might learn that ere placed by virtue of himself, that he
another, and himself alone, but for
v.ery natnre of things' Y :-s IS subJect. to a superior by the
life, it is to be this de no:"" oh, King, at the end of my
signs your death whIch has fought for you, that
SYGNE. Rejoice rath h
hold what your hea' rt h er, at your eyes are about to be-
C
as :wIshed
OUFONTADiE. Sadd t .
for livin han to lose one's life is it to lose
seSSIOns, is e - f' adder than the loss of wor '...llOS
,. oss 0 ope' an It b'
one s ann, than to fail of Ii' . IS more Itter to achieve
SYGNE B t th . ttainment I
. u e Kin will
COUFONTAINE C g be upon his throne I
. an you call him Kin
a Turelure' H' . gt To me he is but
his Office' nothins: but a chief Prefect, ad-
stItution whi!:lh he ha e converuence of all under a con-
card d h s sworn to obe d h' di
e w en people grow ti ed . y, an w 0 can be s-
SVGNE. But for r of him.
King. And he for you and me, he is the
fi?C we are about to make e
f
because of the very sacri-
die, let it not be before hi or his sake. If the Master must
COUFONTAINE AI s servant!
mauds of me" e you referring to what Turelure de-
SVGNE. Yes.
COUFONTAINE H d
ally :-.. ::or' e emands th t I ..
'. ,anu mw<e over to T a surrender unconditIon-
tg!es a';Q property, annet
ure
, all m.]' rights rivileges,
upon this heir ; . after my death, I shall settle
hirig must be you have given me. "Every-
SVGNE. At first, Ge made over.
COUPONTAINE. But orge, wished to protest and to argue.
SVGNE Not you didn'tt
C . a word.
OUFONTAI..'<P.. Thank
recognize you. you, Sygne! In that, at least, I
SVGNE. C .
ome; gIve him all!
[70]
COUFONTAINE. I suppose my dear brother-in-law lays most
stress on that clause, does he notT
SVGNE. Oh, George, give him everything!
COUFONTAINE. What have I to givet You already have it
all.
SYONE. But the name and the title are still yours.
COUFONTAINE. Must I give those, toot
SYGNE. Give him those, too.
COUFONTAINE. But the uame is not mine to give; the title
is not mine; the laud is not nrine; the bond between the soil
and me is not mine!
SYGNE. All things are changed, George. No longer is
there any title, nor any tenancy. And the only permanent
bond between man and the soil is the grave. The hands
which were joined are nOW severed, and yours ean do
nothing now but sign and so resign.
COUFONTAINE. Let him keep everything; never will I
make any claim upon him!
SYGNE. It is not enough; you must sign to evidence your
act.
COUFONTAINE. Surrender! I will not!
SYGNE. Are yon, then, the enemy of your Sovereign t
COUFONTAINE. I cannot surrender my honor!
SYGNE. What else have you left to givet
COUFONTAINE. The least a gentleman ean do is not to be-
tray.
SYGNE. Surrender! Betray! Renounce! Oh, George,
give him that, too! Dearest brother, do not prevent our mak-
ing an end!
COUFONTAIlOl.
child of yours I
We do not come to an end, because of that
SVGNE. But there is an end to eve.rything, as between you
and me.
COUFONTAINE. So much is true. All else is cut off. Our
name and our property devolves upon head of that child.
SVGNE. Are you accusing me of an IgDoble purpose' .
COUFONTAINE. The disgrace you have already accepted IS
sufficient in itself.
SVONE. A shame bought by the sweat of my brow, and at
the price of my sonl!
[71J
COUFONTAINE. Yet the sh .
_ ". ame IS yours.
SVG"E. 1 es mlllc It i .
me! A shame'it is . S and none shall take it from
honor. A shame and more abiding than
beyond. I am seal d .go with me to the grave and even
parcel my bone: un'7il and it is made part and
COUFONTAINE S' t e .ast Judgment be come!
S .' IS er, why did you t
YONE (In a scream of .
conld you t It is the b d George! How
speaks I I, who thou mOOd that flows ill our veins which
reason I Remember g yself so strong, so well armed with
Arc under the flag wh.o fought against Joan of
garet, from whom w e urgundianl Remember that No-
in the face I Nev are descended, who struck the Pope
temptation of do::.
r
ve our hearts been able to resist the
alone, I live m' and terrible things' And now
h' an lenland :'
ad his castle beyond th D' as once Agenor hved, he who
COUFONTAINE. Behold e ead Sea on the slopes of Arnon.
escntcheon is sullied' E our hands are severed, and our
held in mine the '. ven that hand, which last of all I
'th ,mornmg of th' '
WI drawn from me I e sacOOce, even that hand is
SYONE. If I tore my hand f
ont my heartl rom yours, do not now tear
COUFONTAINE All tha
throngh your hand t one man to another' all that
moth ' was still' . ' '
e!, the one Whom I d f 1DlDe; child, sister, father,
Wife, vassa.l compa . e ?nded, the one who comforted
and, were and' ntlOhn In arms I All those, throu .. h "onr
oath ,m em la " J
you have not br k y my strength; Is there any
gave me, which you en, t
ny
pledge of faith which 'Vou
SYGNE. That th e no withdrawn' -
tized I ha oa, at least hi h I
C ' ve not broke' ,w c look when I was bap-
OUPONTAI"E In.
others . ndeed' Th
S . . en you should have sworn no
YGNE. By wi t h
Co la , t en shall
I
b
UFONTAINE. God h. ' one swear if not by GodT
am. as many f' d
S nen 8; I had but one ewe
YGNE. I saved th
Com'oNTAINE B t
e
Father of all men
S . n yo .
YONE. Jndge m if n sent your brother to hell!
e, you wish! I bo
. w my head.
[72]
COUFONTAINE. God shall judge you, and I plead at the
bar of His tribunal. That law which He made, not even He
himself can change. And I call upon you to produce my
glove; for that which has once been given, cannot be with-
drawn in this world nor in the next.
SYONE. I fear nothing from the judgment of God, for He
can set me no lower than I am! There is no seat more lowly
into whjph may be set the man who is seated upon this
earth. Nor do I ask for one more exalted.
COUFONTAlN:E. You broke the faith.
SYONE. Great was the price offered me!
COUFONTAINE. Yon broke faith with love.
SYGNE. Did I wound IOU so dee Iy Geor<'e T
COUFONTAINE. It is too much! That you should not have
done to me, already my cnp was full to overflowing! And,
now, I shall die, and shall be damned, and thronghout aU
Eternity, I shall suffer without consolation! Could not even
this little hour have been left meT Could not a single Ver-
onica have been spared me between whose hands I might
bnry my face, that none might look upon it in this hour,
when my heart must drain the bitter cup of defeat!
SYGNE. It is I, I Mone; 1, of my own free will, who did
this thing! Say no word against God. His not the blame. It
is my evil heart, and it ouly, which is responsible!
COUFONTAINE. You failed me in my need, and this ohild
is become a bitterness.
SYGNE. Let God stand in my stead, and let Him pay that
which I cannot.
Com'oNTAIN'E. You should not have done it! Not even
God can restore faith when once it has been unfaithful to
true love. No, not if He created a new heaven and a new
earth. Rejoice in your Go.J!,19cI.Jl!lsJ .. YQJU
o
J;fX.e:t.Jl1JJ...9f...mY
!!.eart! W l!:!!.. I a Paradise after this life f Or am I
one of 0 todax., who sahsi\" their needs with
empty words' My life was a life of living men! Mine was
t:1i1tSEarmg of a living heart, not an idea. Mine was a shar-
ing with my companions - Faith and Hope - and the shar-
ing of my heart with a heart made like unto it. And yon, in
tllat last hour of my life, you deny me with all solemnity,
like a Jew who reuds his garment from top to bottom! Do
not shake your head!
[73]
is My h:njljation is great. ..Alas, for me, there
for {;y soul thirsts for it as a parched land
. . ears ave gone from me. No further am is
t
POSSI hie, and each suffering which is added to the t: .
o me a very consolation. 0 ers, 18
COUFONTAINE. And I, what shall I d ,
SYONE C . h 0
COUFO' orne WIt me, where suffering is not.
NTAINE. And whe h .
S Ie onOr IS notT
. is no and no honor:
S
. me IS unsIDIrched.
YGNE. What ID tt 't th .
which goes into ers I . at It is unsmirched' The seed
cayed. ground IS of no use unless first it is de-
COUFONTAI"E. TI
decays not. Ie flesh may decay; the rock remains and
SYGNE. The earth is th
for you as for me. e same for both of us; the same
COUFONTAINE. But I h
my faith to the soil h .ave. not .hetrayed it. I have kept
nourish not alone the nune of right, that it might
fruthful forever I y ut the soul. Faithful it is, ay,
SYGNE. It is I wh .
COUFONTAINE. 'Oh 0 In my turn, shall nourish the soil.
no longer yours f ,you who are foresworn I The soil is
become the a so!d it; and your name, which is
SYGNE. My love f IS no longer its ancestra,! name!
Wh
or
1 was greater than yours
r
=L. ose I .
o an exile! ove could be greater than the love
SVGNE Y
. ou love onI th
. COUFONTAINE. It is . e surface thereof.
like noue other on earth y land and my property, and it is
SYONE B t th .
. . u e depth th
IDInCe. All land is the SaID and the roots thereof, are
OUFONTAlNE. D e su feet below the surface
yo S - 0 you e!PllCt .
de - ta.
n
. >peak not of th - resurrection'
rs n I en if ere ose thinID! whiclqyou do not un-
woiila be a . no resurrectio:!!, the ioy of
_ lJJ'ONTAINE. Well essmg"
Oli; G-;Qrge aUeast, is
. e hecrune beb-oth:d ?olish we have heen. It is piti-
In an absurd manner in order
[74)
that we might be man and wife! As if there remained any
place for us among men! Do men any longer have need of
us among them' No more than they have need or use for
Couey Castle and all its towers. Why do you long to be a
land-owner, as another man to be a shepherd, or a miller'
Men no longer need among them one more exalted than they.
We were born to give and to take, but not to share. Come
with me! Take my hand; not as man and wife whose roots
would become entangled and grow into one another. Since,
oh, brother of mine, you can no longer see me as I am, take
my hand. I am unchanged. And my other hand is bound to
the chain of all my dead. Oh, George, what would you here
any longer! Too long already are we a burden on mankind.
Too long have we made men live, not for themselves, but
for us, as we have lived for our King and for our God.
Henceforth each shall live for himself, as best suits him, and
there will be no king, and there will be no God. The world
is wide; let eacih go his ways, for now are men free as the
aninIals are free. But we! What care we for freedom! For
a man gently born there is no freedom, and there are nO
equals, and there are no brothers. And there will be no
Name and no Family. You will be my brother, and there;will
be no others!
COUFONTAINE. You are no longer my sister.
SYGNE. Yes, George, I am. I am still your sister.
COUFONTAlNE. I will not grasp again a hand foresworn.
SYGNE. It is true; I have betrayed. I have surrendered
everything, myself with the rest. And all is dead. My King
is dead. My overlord is dead, but I saved the Priest Eter-
nal. God lives with us, and shall live so long as His Word
is with us; so long as there remains a crust of. bIe.ad; so
long as His hand, iWhich binds and whicl1 looses, IS WIth uS I
COUFONTAINE. It has loosed your hand.
SYONE. Then loosed and alone I go toward the sunlight
of the nether world. (A pawe.)
CoUFONTAINE (in a cola voice). While we are yet alive, let
us finish what we still have to do.
SYGNE. Will yon sign the papers'
COUFONTAINE. I will sign both in the King's name and
in mine. (He takes the reads th.em G!W sigM them.)
[75}
Mnst 1 be prepared f .
SYGlIE. All hi or some tnckery of your husband's!
. s orders are prepa d h h
.. His messengers are T re; e s owed them to
hes m his own interests greatest guarantee
Paris will be disarm w c are rnvolved. In an hour
of your friends. ed, and will be in the hands
COUFONTAI},'"E. Here is m .
enant and treaty B thY will; and here is the new COy
until not read that no will can be
mto being unless first th h ed, and that no treaty comes
SYGNE. Let it b ere as been blood-shed T
Co e my blood.
UFONTAINE. Do not te t
SYGNE (violently) I mp me!
a man; and if there is f y?U there is no God, at least be
as your own code di JustIce, do justice yourself and act
faith of man die lree s you! Let him who has b;oken the
C
,. am ready
OUFONTAINE N IN
child. 0 0 ! I will never kill my own poor
SYGNE. Do you still 1
COUFONTAINE At love me, George T
S . east I will .
YONE. Do not kill him I fld you of this man.
COUFONTAlNE D .
SYGNE. As little 0 you value his life so highly'
COUFONTAINE Th
ss
I do my own.
SYGNE. Wh; co en he shall die by my hand.
COUFONTAINE. yourself about the man'
SYGNE. A dead man the King from his promise.
COUFONTAINE. Doc can gIve back no promise.
uments are not promises and can be
SYONE I . '
-C .....:. S It useless f
-?UFONTAINE U E me to plead'
SYGNE Th seless --
. end h '-
0 w at yOU will
v,ONTAINE I bd .
the window and d. 1 you gOod-day.
silence, TUREL -.sappears beyond it
UEE enters.) .
(He walks slowly to
After a moment of
. TUEELUEE. W ScENE ill
hIm in sile e.l1, Madam t (She Iw
th- . nee. He takes the las out the papers to
0,. "ngs ) N. m exam them .
serva . ow It is for' <nes for a _te,
nt enters.) Send in theme to do what's left to do. (A
messengers I told to be ready.
[76]
(Several officers enter.) These orders to my Generals. The
whole army is to fall back on Paris; the National Guard
and the Reserves on Versailles; the Duke of Raguse is to
take command. The Emperor's orders. Be quick about it!
(He distributes sealed envelopes to the messe1tgers, wlw go
out. He turns toward SYGNE.) I have not forgotten our good
cousin. (He rings. A servant ente's.) Call Mr. Lafleur.
(LAFLEUR enters.) Mr. Lafleur, deliver these papers to a
certain person, and tell him that I am his hwnble servant.
(LAFLEUR goes out. He rings. Two other messengers enter.)
Deliver these papers to Messrs. Dalberg and Talleyrand,
and tell them we shall meet here this evening. (The mes-
sengers go out. He rings. An officer enters.) Sir, give or-
ders to have the flag brought here at three o'clock sbarp.
(The officer goes out.) That's a lot accomplished in a very
short time. (H.e remains his chest thrown out as
if at attention, hilS head erect, arms at his sides. The clock
grinds slowly preparatory to striking. The hour strikes. At
this moment COUFONTAINE outside the window. The
first stroke of the hour st<-ikes. TUllELURE qu,ickly picks up
.a pistol. SYGNE throws herself in front oJ TUBEUJRE. Two
shots ring out simultaneously. The clock strikes thesecond
Siroke. he roont is filled with smoke. When it clears SYGNE
is .lying on the flo!!! in.-!' poEl oj !!Jood. The dock strikes the
th< .. d stroke. TURELullE steps quickly over her body, and hur
ries through the window. He can be seen through the broken
gUiss stoop<ng to the ground, then walking away slowly as
though dragging something behind him. One canMt see
what it is. A long pause. TUBELullE re-enters. A few ser-
vants have comA) into the room.)
TUllELURE (in a voice qj commatfd). .h Barones$ is
..A. mpru; unfortunate accidellt..has occurr.ed. P..re-
j!are a bed for her on this table. Call the Doctor. Call Mr.
Badilon. As for me
J
affairs of State require my attention.
f Ire goes out. 'l'he curtain raIls a'lla O:lJ}1t.jOT a]iii;
,??:oments.)
SoENEIV
(The same room at sundown. It is almost night. SYGNE
is lying 1m a big tab/.e in one corner of the room. BADILON
[77]
stwnds beside her A . I
oandelabra.) . s,ng e candle Imrns in a big silver
BADILON. Sygne m child,
paouse. Her eyelidl can you hear me T (A long
BADILON (in a lower .) C
SVGNE (m a ver vkUJe. . an you hear meT
B
y wea vowel What d th d
ADn.ON. Be of good h' oes e octor sayT
SVGNE. He says I am daughter.
BADn.oN. The d f .
to shake her head your tnals are over. (8he begim.s
gesture. He bends over ;:sual m.wn.ner, but cannot fin.ish the
"More happiness " W:;' try.ng to hear w1uJ.t she says.)
head. It reopens t do you sayT Don't move your
happiness ... More "Wh(;j do you sayT "No more
suffer ... happiness to r' :: . e repeats.) "Sorrow to
self.) Completely m .. (8peakmg to him-
her.) But you are oin'" there 1S more ...
this world of desolation. g g to Heaven, while I remain in
SVGNE. Is he ,
BADILON. Is he Yo .
flutter. e IS (lead, The ball
ur
cousm. Ge.orgeT (Her eyelids
SVGNE. Was there tim struck him m the heart.
ADILON T - e ... f
- _ . lffie to give hint ab I .
Snnmtoned too late H so ution . . ., No. I was
It is hard that I a!rea.dlas y?-ead.. (A lung silence.)
SYGN:&. I fear nothill t b1tterness. But ...
B.wn.oN T g ...
S
. rue. God in His
YGN:&. Together I greatness shaJ,J. provide ...
BADn.oN. The two Co .
leads the other. ufonta.ines together; ea.eh in turn
SYGlI!1!. A broken oath
BADn.oN Y ...
S . ou have atoned b
YGNE. My oath y sacrificing your blood.
BADn.oN. Not .
w:ho sitteth on through God the
s
o 18 complete. ....-., and through Whom the
VGNlI. With hint
B.wn.oN With ... .
COUFONT' "NE yon forever, oh, mId
S
LLl, AD8UM! Y or and overlord I
VGn. Jesus ...
[78]
BADn.ON. Jesus Christ, our Saviour, is you, my
child..
SYGNE. With him ...
BADn.ON. With you; the righteous aud the sinner forever-
more nnseparated. And the work shall not be separated from
the workman, nor the sacrmce from the altar, nor the gar-
ment from the blood with which it is soaked.
SYGNE. Everything ..
BADILON. Everything is finished. All is as it was to be.
The bride, who has received her absolution, lies in her wed-
ding robes. I have completed my task; I have prepared my
child for Heaven. And I alone remain. The child of my
heart is borne from me on aogel :wings, and I, ao old aud
useless priest, am left; I, aloue!
SVGNE (begins, but cannot complete, the negative nwve-
men.t of her hood).
BADILON. Oh, Bride of J esos, I have given you absolu-
tion from sm do you 10 tor!!, give me absolution, aod ab-
solve ffiiS w . cn. raised above you, as one who b1PEses
an who offers a sacrifice! Tell me that you have forgiven
me the sorrow T laid upon you, and the words which I, poor
sinner, spake unto you. Words which God, my Master, bade
me speak, but which filled my oul with dread, in order that
Peter might be saved and that your crown might be com-
plete.
SYGNE. (Her eyelids flutter. 8he camwt speak.)
BADILON. My hand! Would you have me raise my haod
again, and hold it before your eyes'
SYGNE. (Her lips move, but no so-...nd is audible.)
BADILON. The Jamb about to die takes between its tooth-
less jaws the hand that killed it! But, my daughter, it is not
my hand you kiss, but the Christ through His priest; the
Christ, Who forgives and Who anoints. It is the of the
cousecrated priest, who often gave you Commnruo
n
; the
haod whiciJ. ea.eh morning holds aloft The Son of God, Whom
you now go to meet face to face. (He falts Oft> his knees be-
side the bed.) Now, at last, I can, lik!! tbAl: T am,
show you my heart! No mao has loved you as I;
ove passe un erstanQiiig, and or-willEt .!!Lese of
e wor kn<i\V"naug t.: or 1t 0 s ke thro h
[79]
my lips, and Who heard thr h
both Our hearts! Gl oug your ears. Was He not in
ted to the lowlie t orl be to God He should have entrus-
When ou 1m I s.o men the gUidance of a soul sublime!
I who,y in the e at the tribunal of penitence it was
before you. Alas ess, and cast myself down
taken from me I De I but one child, and now that one is
nourishment of H ar amb, who so often came to receive the
(A long silence.) eaven at my hands, forget not your priest!
SYGN"E (with a bitte Z .
face) S . r S1>" e whwh slowly spreads over her
.. 0 very SaIntly. . . f
_ !LON. And what g t I
down one's lif f rea er QY.e can there be than to lay
S e or one's enemiesf - - ---
VONE ( smilesr:-:- -
BANLON. Did ...
hand to protect ?::f
not
throw yourself in front of your hus-
(almost inaudibly). Too d
ALlILON Do yo goo ...
bends ove; her.) u mean Death' What do yon sayf (He
SVGNE (H I
B . er "ps move)
ADlLON (repeating) ':A tbin
let him keep it" D . g too good for me to have
than God ii, 0 y,?u think you know your heart better
dtfflCUlt.) But I 1m (Silence. Her breathing begins to be
(S.lence. She makes ow you have already forgiven hiro.
ment when you are gesture.) Sygne, in the mo-
have forgiVen him S ut to go before God, tell me that you
I have your ohild h he makes a negative Shall
Sygne, do yOU hear to you' (Negative gesture.)
SYGNR (in a cl me. our child'
begins.) ear vowe) . No. ( Silence. Her death agony
BADlLQN (r .
Chri ti is.ng from his 1m )
s an soul, perform. ees: Death draws near. Oh,
SYGNE (makes a WIth me rItes of hope and charity!
BADlLON S negatwe gesture)
The end of Godl Stand up! Stand up!
YO:!.", I h . and upl
B . ave exhaust d all
Si ADlLON. COUFONTAJN . I no more to give.
YONE. All is . .E, .ADSUM!
BADlLON. all 18 exhausted.
, Son of David, ADSUM! (Silence. The
[SO]
death rattle begvns.) All is exhausted - all - to the very
dregs. All has heen cru.shed out, even to the uttermost
drop ... (Silence.) Lord, have mercy on this child Thou gav-
est into my care, and which I give back to Thee! Eli t In tile
fearful secret of this, the last hour, I beseech Thee, have
mercy upon her t Who art Indivisible, and in Whose
sight eternity is but as a watch in the night, have pity on
these two souls abont to appear together before Thy throne,
and which Thon mad est brother and sister! Accept the
blood which has been shed, and the exchange that, in the
space of flashing powder, was made between these souls!
(SYGNE suddenly sits straight ul', stretches her arms out in
the shape of the (Jross, and then, faUing back upon the pil-
lows gives up the ghost with a flood of blood. BADILON ,.ev-
erently wipes her lips emd her face, and then faUs on his
knees beside the bed, sobbing.)
SCENE V
TOUSSAINT TUR"LURE appears outside the windows. He
is foUowed by a ,nan carrying a stable lantern, and, behind
him, by fOl.r men who carry the body of COUFONTAINE, cov-
ered by his cloak, on a door.)
TUBELURE. Well, sir priest, how's the old lady' (No one
answers.) How is Madam' (He takes the lantern and holds
it close to the face of the dead and examines he,..
The,. he puts the lantern on the fZoor, and makes the sign of
the Cross. To the .nen standing behind him) Bring the
body of my cousin over here and lay it on the table j here,
beside my wife. Let the two Coufontaines rest side
by side. Let these two, who were separated in their
lives, share tile same death bed, and let the clenched fist rest
in the open hand. (The servants follow his instrllctwn8, and
stretch the body of COUFONTAINE beside SYGNE. They cover
the two with a flag embroidered withi fleur-de-lys.
SYON"'S open hand protrudes from beneath the flag
cannot be 1>wde to remain .... nder it. 0 .. a table, covered with.
a napkin, at the head of the bed, a Crucifix is placed between
two lighted cOfIlIles. Beside it stands a bowl of holy water
and a sprinkler. During this time the noise of an army on
the march grows steadily louder until it shakes the MUS".
[81]
Intermiooble troops p b
neighing of horses y of artillery, the
hears the sound ;f ha e e a wagons. 8udd.en/;Y one
very fast and which d rness- ells, and of a carnage driving
motion; outside. d ops abruptly at the door. Great co,n,.
with! bright lights tMOwn open; the house is filled
without and a sho'ut <g, double door is torn open from
goes up " T KI "
enter holding torches and' biki H.E NG. Two servants
FRANCE.) , nd them, THE KING OF
TuRELUBE (advancin t .
bacl<...to Y01l4Dwn ow,ard the Ktng). Sire .. welcome
KING' ..1wIJuL) om. (He kneels Tm:
THE KING. Rise Sir W
the most Use or'O ' are pleased to reco ize io ou
have entered his ur (He looks about. Behind
BUtte. They group tn::' I <.s brother and the officers of his
TUBELURE I bye ves about hi,,,,.)
- . eg our M .
the disorder of this h a t2-2verlook and excuse
T - ouse.
HE KINo. It is like Fr
cellar to roof not on 1hin anee. Poor) dear old house! From
Everything has be e g has been left in its proper place.
(His suite m'Ulrmur:n But We briog peace.
the death bed betor gly. THE KINO'S eye falls 071
He t W <c BADILO till k I .
urns questioningl t T N S 'nee s 111 prayer.
the first time.) y 0 URELURE, whom he looks at for
TURELUBE. I trust Your M . .
ty to conceal the death hi aJesty will forgive my inabili-
hold. s w ch have occurred in my house-
KINo. Who is itT
URELUBE. My wife T
blOOd of France /lowed'. :e noblest and most loyal
THE KIN ill er verns.
ADs G (recognizing the
11M. Who is the oth' coat-ot-4rms). COUFONTAlNE,
TURELUBE er.
ty' . George Agen
most devoted servant
I
, my and Your Majes-
ge. er; the result of d and lieutenant. Both fell t(}-
pro quo of thi d
a
eplorable blunder - the terrible
tscaUy t the s su den crisi (T
then 0 bedside and . S. HE KING steps lIwjes-
toll hands the 8p-rinkler t ).,:,nkles it with holy water. He
owed by the King's b/t1:e
s
son, who does likewise; he is
orand by all of the royal suite
[82J
in turn. TURELURE, last of all, performs the duty with
compunoti01l. )
THE KING (standing in the middle of the room). We shall
know how properly to recognize such services, and this blood
shed for Us.
TURELURE. A nohle name is extinguished.
THE KING. It is not extioguished, for I kno:w you have a
son. (A servant enters and whispers to TURELuRE.)
TURELuRE. Sire ...
THE KING. We are listening.
TURELuRE. The various branches of the government are
met outside to pay their homages to Your Majesty.
THE KING. 'Tis well. We will grant them immediate
audience.
TURELuRE (pointirng to the left). Here, on the left, the dele-
gations from the Legislature, from the Department of State,
from the Judiciary, and from the Conservative party in the
senate.
THE KING. Open the door. (The double door is thrown
open. A noise on the right.) And on the right'
TURELURE. At the right, the Bishops of France, who
kneel before Your Majesty. Your Majesty doubtless knOWS
that the Usurper had summoned them here in council to
draw up the rights of the Gallic Church under the super-
vision of the Police!
THE KING. De Pradt and TaJIeyrand shall present these
gentlemen to Us. Open the door. (The door on the right is
opened. A servant enters and whispers to TURELURE.)
TURELURE. Sire, the Marshals of France beg to be pre-
sented to Your Majesty.
THE KING. Let them enter. (The Marshals enter.)
THE DEAN OF THE CORPS OF MARsHALS. Sire, the Army re-
joices to pay its homage to its Sovereign. (He bows lOW.)
THE KING (graciously graspi"g both his hands, as though
the other was about to kneel). Rise, Sir! The King of France
is prond to see you around His throne again. You have not
tendered your swords to a stranger, but to the King of
France, to Louis, Your King, Who, in his person and ouly
m his person, represents (majestically) Peace. Keep the
glory which is yours! Yours it is, and it shall not be taken
[83]
from you. If any onerous or hUmiliating task uo-
derlaken for the welfare of Our people, the Kmg will as-
SIDUe it, as befits the head of the family. I am come to throw
myself between my people and its enemies. I all?- come back
to you, not in company with, but through, the Inldst of your
enemies. In this hour when France bleeds from many
wounds, my hands are the only ones which do not bear arms,
and are the only hands here which know not how to bear
arms. True it is that violence has been done Me. Remem-
ber, I pray, in all fairness, that France is necessary to Eu-
rope, and that this Empire, which has been created about
her, was no longer France. It was not the measure of great-
ness of France, nor France in form; it was not an aggran-
dizement, but rather a diminution of France. . I
THE MARSHAL. We are Your Majesty's most fmthfu
soldiers and most loya.! subjects.
THE KING. Remain and witness what We are about to
do. (He walks to the'middle of the room, turning slightly
first to the left, then to the right, speaks in a loud: vo.ce.)
And all of you, Bishops, Officers, Rrepresentatives ?f
the Government, whose presence We welcome, be WIt-
nesses to what We are about to do. (He walks to a
table which has been made ready and on which have
been placed candles, pens, parchment, woo; and the Great
Seal Of France. Ente, THE KINo OF ENGLA_,,,n, THE KINO OF
PRUSSIA, THE EMPE1l0R OF AUSTRIA THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA,
THE PAPAL NONCE.) My royal I bid you welcome
to my Kingdom, and I thank you for your loyal efforts on
my You, Sovereigns of all Europe, I ask you to act
Wltuesses to this new contract which the King of France
IS about to enter into with his people_ (He turns slowly
ward the window, where a red glow can be seen.) What IS
ow! What is the smoke?
otllmg, stre; mereJ.y a few slums in Paris
whiCll are burning. Good riddance! A few malcontents that
de Ra,,"1lse is bringing to their senses. It is the last ember of
the Revolution sizzling out in smoke and with a fonl s ench._
THE (disdainfully). We have seen the en 0 a
follies. (He sits dow/! heavily.) And the King,
WIth France, makes a new beginning according to the legItI-
mate order and succession. (He sits at the farther side of
(84)
ndl s At his left stands TURll-
the table, the two ca the GRAND CHANC.ELLOR;
LURE at his nght the DAUPHIN ed in front of the unndows
b hv.:a lIMn the SOVEREIGNS. Group lid t through the doors,
e th U._"RALS right and left a ou IVES Slowly the
are e Jll.A"" , d II REPRESENTAT. ___
stand the BISHOPS 00 Ie over the assell.bly, un ....
. t dng eyes wan"",.
KING lets lotS pro ru , ) Sir Count-
then tuming to TURELURE, -; So I'roaCount now!
, 1_ h -11 mockm.9I1!1L. J
TURELURE (<<>'1!9 or TheicMajesties.
THE KING. Feteu...=p.
CURTAIN
[85]
CRUSTS
A Drama in Three Acts
DRAMA TIS PERSONAE
TURELUBE
SICHEL
LUMIR
Loms
ALI HABENICHTS
MORTDEFBOIn
SCENE
The first floor of the
of Coufontaine TI rb monastery of the Cistercian Monks
lighted by tou; ' rary/ a large, high studded room,
some of whic! . ows ,mth smaU greenish glass panes,
There are no !Jone and have been replaced by paper.
frag'ment of a brigh:r 1t one end of the room hangs a
be seen the coat of y co ored tapestry, on which coo still
COUFONT AINE with the motto,
boards. Several he '. floor f,8 made of big, !Weven
random. All the boo::1f.apwces of furniture stand about at
have been piled abo t the 71 been taken from the shelves and
dusty. On the wall u 't The room is disorderly and
"!}!lrk on the wall, ! hOPPos,/: t I.e can see b the
h-- - .. v ere a roe . _J t ha .
""ace t ere is a . 0 ng. In ds
form at the National a:, at 'LoUtS Philippe in the wni-
trousers. The lal'ge bard, li,t1,. heavy epaulettes and white
... g against the wall nmze ru,cfix, ,nuch battered, is lean-
November. .
SICHEL and LUMIB (
LUMIB is dressed in Loull.yir) are seated.
TUBELURE can be s c and wears a long coat.
o ear makmg a speech iIn the ",ext room.
-The room is th .
e same m Act 1 of ''The .... _ ..
...........
[88]
ACT I.
VOICE OF 'fUBELURE. . .. constitutional monarchy; tradi-
tional in its principles, modern in its institutions I (Ap-
plause.)
SICHEL. I coined that phrase. It always goes well. He
uses it every time he has the chance.
VOICE OF TURELURE (stuttering). stut-st.st-st ... The de
velopm:nt of our national resources, which goes hand in
hand Wlth the enlightenment of progressive and sane liberty.
And this, gentlemen, brings me back to the event which is re-
sponsible for this gathering. Today, this very day, the rail
road is opened as far as Coufontaine. Tomorrow, following
the valley of the Marne and sweeping up the slopes of the
Vosges, it will reach the Rhine, and so link us with the Ori-
ent. Our out-stretched hand will grasp the friendly, nay
brotherly, hand of Germany, which is thrust toward us
across the frontier. ]i'Ol'give an old soldier a moment of emo-
tion. All the dreams of our vouth; all that our armies failed
to achieve; all that the mighty genius of a great man could
not accomplish, aU that, I say, science has brought to pass.
A. steady and peaceful trade, not ouly of products, but of
thought and noble ambitions, is established between nations.
The future of our agricultural districts is rosy. To the far-
mer new markets are opened; development is seen every-
where, and overcrowded cities send their snrplus popula--
tion to the fields, and to the farms marches forth an army
of joyous laborers. No more loafers; no more unemployment.
The blast furnaces of industry are blazing; on all sides the
tall chimneys of the sugar factories can be seen against the
sky. And I, gentlemen, I wish to set an example. Hence I
propose to give this land, this house, this estate which has
passed from generation to generation of an ancient family -
yes, gentlemen, I propose to consecrate it to the develop-
ment of our economic resources. This monastery will be a
paper mill. Under the same roof, where formerly well-mean-
ing monks, whom the oldest of you here present doubtless
remember with affection, used to raise their worthy but qnite
useless voices to the glory of God, will soon resound the
cheerful clatter of mill-hoppers and pulleys. von is _
there an of ray..!'r better_oL I)1QOl. .acce table_to the
Almig ty _ an workT Yery well! And to whom do we OW!'
[89]
many blessingsT To whom, gentlemen, I ask. We must
orget. We owe them to the wise Monarch who in his
Wisdom has saved France from the futil . tat! f d
gognes and has firml . e agl Ion 0 ema-
Constitutional M Yh and Implanted in our land
modern in its in y, 1 traSditIonal in its principles yet
plause.) s Ions. ( ilence, followed by mild ap-
SICHEL He' f
V
. s orgotten that he's said that once
OICE OF TURELURE G tl . .
of Louis Philippe th' F' en I raIse my glass in honor
King and his au e Kmg of France. God save the
clapping.) gust family! (Great appl(JIU,se - cheers -
SICHEL. I suppos 'll
get your te th e you say that all that doesn't help you
n ousand francs back
S
LuMlR. Don't worry; I'll get them.
ICHEL. Maybe But t th
every bush. . en ousand francs don't grow on
LuMIR. The Connt is rich.
SICHEL. Not as rich as thin
as he is stingy and t th k. He's as unbusinesslike
ed. Oh, he 's a entia, e Isn't as stingy as he is crook-
and no mistake D g eman - a very fine gentleIDan -
rich, you can 0 you SupPD.se that just because you're
were quite so sun' m
l
like thatf I didn't think you
h
. pemmed
1
Th h d
arder It is to pry it 10 " e er money works, the
when he's hnildin a ose. s. all tied up. Anyway, just
spare cash. g paper mill Isn't the time when he can
LUMIR. I happen to kn th
from your father. ow at he has just gotten money
SICHEL. 01, you kn tha
got twenty thousand fr
ow
t, do youT Well, it's true he
LUMIR ancs.
S
. Yes, for the Dormant estat
ICHEL. Ha! The old e.
A fine trade my father m manor of the Coufontaine family.
some sand piles they A few tumble-down walls,
Yes, but that,e s and an old.millthrown in!
Rheuns branch is to be. s where the JD1lcbon with tbe
SICHEL. Your inf f
LUMIR. And IOn seeInS to be good.
francs. y I shall get my twenty thousand
SICHEL. It's twenty th
ousand francs you want now it is T
,
[9OJ
Lu1olIR. Ten thousand that I loaned and teu thousand iliat
Louis needs to meet his note.
SICHEL. Will that see him through f
LuMIR. Yes, and :will let him wait for his crops. They'll
be good; we've had rain. And he'll be able to get supplies
from ilie depot.
SICHEL. Do you mean itt Has Louis really aooomplished
something out there T
LUMIR. He's reclaimed seven hundred and fifty acres in
the Mitidja swamps. Right outside Algiers. The land is
ready to produce. Our father won't let the Jews get all that
for a paltry ten iliousand francs.
SICHEL. Our father, did you sayf
LUMm. Didn't you know that Louis was marrying me'
SICHEL. I know; he wrote to me.
LUMIR. Did he write to you about itt
SICHEL. Poor boy! I'm sorry for him, and he knows it.
I'll try to help him as far as I can.
That's the least you can do. You owe it to him.
SICHEL. Why do lowe it to him'
LUMIR. Because every penuy he had has gone into your
father's pocket.
SICHEL. It isn't my fault, nor my father's either, that
Captain Louis-Napoleon Turelure-Confontaine took it into
his head to reclaim seven hundred and fifty acres of ilie Mi-
tidja swamps, just outside Algiers, is itt I'd say that he
ought to be grateful to old man Habeuichts. Anyway, the
money didn't go out of the family.
LUMIR. Yes, I know.
SICHEL. And, besides, your father, as you call him, isn't
by any means igllorant of my father's little enterprises:
LUMIR. That's why I've got to have my ten thousand
francs.
SICHEL. And you're counting on me to help you get iliem'
LUMIR. Madam, I take the liberty of soliciting your as-
sistance.
SICHEL. Don't call me "Madam."
LuMIR. Sichel, then . ..
SICHEL. I'm not Sichel eifuer. The old man calls me that.
em raname. An so h ut'
l!!!LouL of lID cili . rna be allowed to s ak so free-
[91]
Iy, he reba. ti"es us all. 'l'hat's why he christened m f tb
One t e says it's just the right 0 enlo;
Sich:L a;t' lCla. My name's Rachel; he's turned it into
s erman for the sickle of the ne w -moon in tbe
cl'=tr sky. After aU, who cares T It doesn't matter to me
S
UMlli. I know you're all nowerful here .
ICHEL Th' '" .
'Lu . Sh e Iamrstress . . ' . of house! Why not say it!
Mm. 0 be nere If raidn't think- - --
SICHEL V' t so
Grodno . th IT. chaperoned by our old aunt from
attracti -. e a Ie Madame Kokloschkinel You ' re very
ve m men s clothes.
LUMnI. The '
SICHEL. ' y more comfortable for traveling.
youn b s mce of you to treat me as a friend. You're
Iy. kd a .Ievel head. You won't marry foolish-
LuMIR. y It' ,surpnsed to see you so eager for money.
S
isn t my money
IeHEL. I see It' .' b .
And miltif _.. s, a IDlsera Ie httle revolutionary fund.
o ieski' ) ou re gOlD to rejuvenate Poland and bu back
"""LuMm s SWor _ r m th =de.n...Museum. -
the Poland vou know Miss Habenicbts.
. ow soT -
LUMnI (looking doutnl). A new Poland.
SICHEL. Where!
LuMIR. Beyond. A
Poland. Poland made of those who died for
SICHEL. Hopeless.
LUMIR Yes h di
But W 0 ed hopeless. (A fl'l'Use.)
out there you'l! live happily on your fine estate
Lmrm. N Algenan sun
ot until I'v t k h'
SICHEL. And e a en t e money back to them.
LUMlR (lookin ar::eyou so sure that you'll come back.
SICHEL (s / T m the eyes). Perhaps. (A piI1lse.)
keeps her e:: :g slowly am.d with; growing intensity. She
have a country' 0: and never looks up). Yes, yOU still
not Some one elm, s world. You have a spot that is yours,
face of the s. You have not been banished from tbe
of land as big a . But for us, Jews, ha! We haven't a bit
is s a gold piece hi h T1.:"
ours, Our own I on w c to stand and say: lW'
notbing but God' lome, this was made for us! We have
Good Lord wh' queer business, that taking of Jerusalem.
, 0 cares about Jerusalem now! And yet, be-
[921
cause of tbat very thing, there's not a man alive - outside
of my race _ who will hold out his hand and say to me of
his own free will: "Come! Be mine, be my wife!" All the
peoples of the earth have cast us out, and it is that same
casting out which has made our race - Oh, yes, I know t
There's that other business ... (Pointing to the Crucifix, but
w,thout looking at it.) Well, it isn't the only miscarriage of
justice. And was it a mistake after all! Why should people
stand His going about calling Himself the Son of God! In
the first place, it's a blasphemy, as my father says, and
wbat's more, it' s a lie. There is no God.
LUMIB. His blood is on your heads. Blood. Ha! Blood.
Blood's a great thing. You ought to talk to my aunt. She
could tell you many, many things. She c1ainls that for your
race it was a new birth, a Te-conception, a second original
sin and the reversal of the blessing of Abraham!
SICHEL. That's mysticism of the Grodno brand. What has
blood to do with it' We were heTe before you; we are the
first born. vVho are you' How can you compare yourselves
to us, IVhenever you can trace yourselves back for ten gen-
erations, with your blood more mixed than a mongrel cur's,
you call yourselves gentlemen! We're pure blooded - and
the only pure blooded race. Our lineage descends straight
from the beginning of the world. To uS you owe everything;
and yet you ostracize us!
LUMIB. I have DO desire to renounce my race.
SICHEL. And I have; I want to cut myself free from mine.
I want to be tak(ln out this ghetto that stifles us. My fore-
fathers believed in God, and waited for the coming of the
Messiah. Tbat has been their past, their only existence since
the creation of the world - and we have not changed one
iota. 'l'he Jews stand aloof under the seven-branched tree,
consu.IDedwith the madness of nope. I'm different; I don't
!'e
lieve
in God; my only hope is in my:self> booause I know
there is but one life. I'm a woman; I want my place in this
life along with the rest of humanity. And to get it I'm ready
to give everything, and to betray anything. Life's too short;
I can't wait. Do you suppose I care a fig for your Poland!
Ha! Wby not be glad that there's one less frontier to worry
about! There's no such thing as Poland; there's no such
[93]
thing as J udaislll' the>' G
and r . ,Ie s no od - buf there are Ii .
Ivmg women and equal . ht f vrng men
and there's no conlin" of rIir S .or all. There is no God;
We've been deceived'" I ess.lah !or us to wait for!
why the things that a;e thOPfl? IS sen.seless. That's
that's why I will not be' h t acffs
f
0 life, are llllportant; and
L suo rom them I
UMIB. Noone begrudge
SICKEL 'l'he h s you your French nobleman
. n w yare you hereT .
LUMIR. It rests entirel .
stay. y III your hands whether I go or
SICHEL. No, it does not Th C .
when people want to b I' d ount has reached the age
anything you want fr e oye or themselves. You can get
Frenchman to the hun. loves women. Oh, he's a
LmuR. Sichel if I . Anything except money. No, No!
go back to the ,money that's owed me I shan't
SICKEL. I don't kn e, I ve understood what you meant.
LUMIR. Y ow what you mean.
And I tell You're the one that's urging me onl
shall. And what's m the money, one way or another. I
risk if you let me st tell you, you're taking a personal
SICKEL Wh
ay
ere.
LuMIR. are you planning to doT
A father like thi suppose I understand a father's heart?
SICHEL. And; of yours T I'm engaged to his son.
LUMIR H see how much you love him
S . onor and duty first I .
ICHEL. Do you expect t .
to hoodwink a stu . d ld me 0 believe that you're trying
dutyT pI 0 man from a sense of honor and
LulIUB. Certain!
SICHEL And th y.
f . at you're bet .
or the same reason' raymg the man who loves you
LuMIR. Show me the I tt
SICHEL. I believe hie ers the Captain has written you.
LUMIB. Yes and lei oves you very sincerely.
, ove him
SICHEL Not as h .
francs 're tryin mtuc as you love those ten thousand
L g 0 collect.
S
UMIB. I gave them to him
ICHEL Loan .
L . ed, rather ...
UMIR. I've given him my life.
[94]
SICHEL. Again, loaned. And at a high rate of interest.
LUMIR. We've done enough. I haven't tbe right to give
anything more to the Frenchman. It was my brother who
brought him back, mangled and bleeding, from the breach of
Constantine. And then it waS I who nursed him. It was my
brother and I who helped him when he began to clear his
land. I kept house for him. Now my brother's dead; I have
other duties.
SICHEL. You know you're not very beautiful.
LUMIR. Good looking enough to make him marry me.
SICHEL. Those eyes of yours! When you lower tbem your
face is so closed that you don't seem to be there. You seem
to have gone. And when they're quiet, like the eyes of a
child, they're so serious that even the Count is baffled. Ob,
but when they turn black with rage, they show the spirit
that lives and burns deep down! It must be your eyes that
the Captain fell in love with.
LUMIR. You're wrong; it's not my eyes he loves. (A CO"'"
siderable pause.)
SICHEL. Lurnir, the Count is old; I think he's lived long
enough.
LUMIR. I wish to God his life and his money were in my
hands!
SICHEL. Or in mine. It doesn't seem right that the dead
should be able to keep the living buried forever.
LUMIR. Well, he's alive, and we can't do anything about
it.
SICHEL. More than you think, perhaps.
LmIR. Are you suggesting that I commit a crime'
SICHEL. I don't call it a crime. When a man refuses to
pay us wbat he owes, he repudiates all treaties and creates
a state of war, and we have the right to use such weapons as
we have; and then, each for himself! Sup ose some fine nig.ht
the Count ot a bullet in his brain. Do yOU -t.hiilk anJ[ one
Would- be surprised' - He's a tyrant to poachers and every
one 'Of his servants hates hill.
- LUMIR (with a sweet s'I"ile). If that's the case, why don't
you play executioner'
SICHEL. Anyone else. I can 't. Besides, I'm a woman.
LUMIR. Nor' can I.
SICHEL. It's true. But there are other ways. I know him.
[95J
two long years I've had nothing else to do than sit and
watch him. He's old; he's afraid of death. He puts up a
hold front, but the doctor says that the mainspring which
sets that grent carcass of his in motion is almost gone.
Have you noticed how tltin the skin is on the top of his head'
You've seen that pile of yellowish skulls near the gardeuer's
cottage' \Vell, his head looks just li1ke one of those skulls-
the same yellowish colo1". A violent emotion, and snap go
the works! He knows it, and he's terrified. Oh there are lots
of y?u can do with a man who's afraid.' Almost every
IS afraId of something. And that's why he doesn't dare
dnve Ille out.
LU"IR. Sweet household!
SICHEL. Do ,.on think he took me because he loved me!
Not for a minute! But you'd newr guess! He took me to
puT an end to my music. You see, he can't re IstruS ove of
a prachcal joke. a musician. I was known all over the
Even yon had probably heard of me. Will you believe
hasn't allowed me to touch a piano for two yearsl
m his He's red11l3ed me to a bondage similar
.2 the bon?age of ancient Israel. In the beginning I thought
was gOing to marry me, but I had to forego that pleasant
/eam so?n I tell you, he won't even die unless he
eels he IS playmg some one a dirty trick I I can't get a
penny out of him. Not for myself any more than I can for
you.
LUMIB Whe h d .
SIC n e Ies, you'll shll have the son.
Lu::'
L
. and your .blessed Poland.
M b . I 'e cOlmmtted a crune, and I must make amends.
y rother and I lent the money and it was thrice hallowed
monev It '
thought I mns get It back, and until I do, that is the only
S
can allow myself to dwell on
IClIEL I think d . Y
thorou hi _ we un erstand each other - es.
!rum g y. Play your game, and I'll play mine. I have my
_ and we'll play together against _ what shall I say
Tummy! (Ellter TUBELUBE.)
S
llRELURE. What's that about a dummy'
ICREL. We w d . hi t d
the h d ere IScussmg the principles of w s, an
we played last evening. Strength and weakness of
TUBEJ.. UltE. X ged
0 place for a poor old man like me! ned
[96)
in between two sharpers! You gave me such a beating yes-
terday that all I bad left were my honors I
SICHEL. It certainly is not honors that the Count of Ture-
lure lrucks.
TUBELURE. Charming. Charming. "Honor above all" is
my motto. "Love above all," as the King of Westphalia used
to say when he drank a toast. Which the go.od
twisted into an expression that sounds like a drmk of Rhine
wine mixed with seltzer.
SICHEL. I'll leave you now. I think Countess Lurnir wants
to talk to you privately.
TUBELUBE. My dear Countess. It is so of you to come
to visit me in this cheerless house. I fear It IS but poor ho...-
pitality I can offer you. The walls are sound; I was stupId
enough to have the roof repaired about two years ago, but
now everything is going to the dogs. Look at all th.ose
books! I can't get rid of them. Just to ship them to RhelDls
would cost more than they would bring at a sale. I guess
I'll hum them. Oh, well. all that'll change when we have
machinery and the railroad. This pond and the dam the old
monks built to hold the fish will give me my water power.
But it all costs money! Lots of money, believe me! I've had
to sell myoId family estate, and it hurt. Your got a
good bargain tbat time, Sichel. He feathers his nest by
plucking me.
SICHEL. Is the deal closed'
TURELURE. Not quite. He wants to see some plans and to
get certain guarantees. Oh, he's a careful man I. Do you
know him Countess' I believe he had the opportumty of ae-
, .
commodating our poor Captam.
LUMIR. He's duly grateful to him for the. help. ,
TURELUBE. I know, I know I Sichel - Lumll - -; ou don t
mind if I call you by your first name' Afte.r all, II soon be
your daddy. Aren't you going to care a little. b,t f.or your
old daddy' I'm so glad to see two. like real
friends Lumir that little woman WIll be Ilke a SIster to you.
Just as she's an angel to me. No, it's true! An
Thanks to her business abilitv. Why, she has more m
her little finger than most have in their whole bodies.
It's the same witb her nmsic. I wish you could hear her.
[971
There's an altist for you! And to think that I simply can't
persuade her to touch the piano! It was art that brought us
together in the first place. If you only knew what happens
to a piano when the steel springs in her fingers attack it. A
perfect hurricane of notes, and yet you can hear each one of
them quite distinctly. Ob, that little finger of hers - yes,
especially the little finger! I swear it's tempered steel. It
seems to find the keys all of a sudden, and hammers away all
over the board at once. I was carried away! And I said to
myself: that little finger has got to be the Lord High Chancel-
lor of old General Turelure. That's tIte story, and nOw she
draws out of this old body all the music that's left in it. (He
kisses her hand.)
SICHEL. Dear Count! Dear Toussaint! Goodbye Lumir.
Keep your courage up I And Toussaint lease \!lL:lrllat
you can; I'm so fond of oor uis.
'ru:RELURE throwing' a kiss after her). Goodby.e,..fuY.eet-
hea . QUO Goodbye, you little beast; I ho ou
!-(Tunvinll to "'Lumi'l' with a Dow). I'm at your
servIce, MISS, and ready to listen to you.
LUMIR. I'm afraid I've come at an unfortunate time. All
these celebrations and you so busy . ..
TURELURE. I'm always busy, and the celebrations are
Over yonder a train decorated with branches and flags IS
taking my well-fed guests back to Paris. Yes, yes, it's a
great event. What a S\vinging of picks, what a trundling of
wh?"lbarrows througllOut the length and breadth of France!
Think of .four other railroads, just like this, all starting out
from ParIS for the four corners of the world! Think that all
the peoples of the earth could in a very rew hours, meet to-
gether in one place. '
LUMIR. The southern railroad already reaches Lyons.
Your son could be here in a few hours.
Tm'ELURE. What's that! D'you mean he's coming!
LuMIa. I don't know. I haven't heard from him.
I told him to stay out there in Algiers. I asked
you to wrIte and tell him so. We don't need him here.
LUMlR. I've written.
I have nofuing to say to him. I don 't want to
see him.
[98]
LulI1IR. That makes me all the more hopeful that my re-
quest will be granted.
TURELURE (dryly). Are you still talking of your ten thou-
sand francs'
LUMIlI. Twenty thousand, please.
TURELURE. Twenty thousand, my little man! How charm-
ing you are in your long coat!
LUMIB. He has a large note maturing. If he can't meet
it, they'll take everyfuing he has.
TURELURE. As bad as all that, eh' Those money lenders
are worse titan Jews!
LUMIR. People say that you're in collusion with them, and
that you've used that method of taking away from him the
property his mother left him.
TURELURE. That's not so! I mean, it's true. And what
of itt Where's the harm! Coufontaine doesn't belong to
him, nor to me either, for that matter. It's a family estate.
Is there any harm in trying to protect it against the whims
of a spendthrift'
LUMIR. Don't drive him to desperation.
TURELURE. He can always go back to the army; they'll
give him back his commission. Damn it all! I'm his father!
I'm fond of him.. Be sure to tell him how fond I am of him,
and tell him that I'm much interested in seeing him get on
in the world.
LUMIR. He needs money.
TURELURE (imJ a tone of supreme disgust and scorn).
Money I Ugh!
LuMJR. He's ready to pay you eight per cent.
'ru:RELURE. Not a penny! It's no kindness to him to en
courage him in that crazy enterprise. He'll never accom-
plish anything in .A.lgiers. No, not a penny.
LUMIlI (looking dow .. ). I'd like my money, too.
TURELURE. Don't blame me. I'm not the one who took it.
LUMlR (looking uv at him with- a great appeal in her eyes).
Won't you do that for me, Count!
TURELURE. That's better! I like that tone of voice; Oh
yes, much better.
LulI1IR. I didn't think you were so unkind.
TURELURE. I'm not! Not a bit of it! I'm a verY kind-
[99]
hearted man. Yes, soft; soft and weak I I'm as soft as stewed
squash.
LUMIR. Joke all you want. There's more truth in it than
perhaps you think.
TURELURE. Then I don't frighten yout People always
said I looked like a bear.
LUMIR (sweetly). Why, it seems to me you're a lamb; a
nice little lamb. The lower part of your face is so funny.
Your lips are like Punch and Judy chasing each other and
telling what you're thinking about when you're not thinlring
about it!
TURELURE (much annoyed). Thanks. You forget to wholD
you're talking.
LUMIR. I know, my lord, what is due you ...
TuRELURE. And, therefore, that there's nothing dne you.
LUMIR. I don't ask you to owe me anything.
TURELURE. Look here, little lady, little man; I might.as
well get some of these ideas out of your head. I'm not gOID..[
to gb:e you back those ten thousand francs.
LUMIR. ou led me to 'hope othenVlse.
TuRELURE. IV ell, the King's policy has changed.
LUMIR. Oh, it's a question of policy, is itT
TURELURE. A few days ago we weren't on the best of
tenus with your legitimate sovereign. I mean the Czar. An?
a well-arranged little plot at Warsaw would ... It wouldn t
have been such a bad time to let him feel. ..
L':'MIR. And if worse carne to worst, you gained the
gratitude of my legitimate sovereign by doing him some ht-
tIe favors.
T,?E:-URE. Just so. Well, we've changed our we
aren t Interested in Poland any more. They're nothlDg but
a gang of rioters. t
LUMIR. About the same as the heroes of the Three Orea
Days of 'Thirty.
. TURELURE. Honor be to those defenders of the Constitu-
tion!
LUlIIlR. Don' t you respect the lawst
TURELURE. Each to his own trade_ Mine is to make laWS.
LTuMIR. Very well, then. I might as well go.
URELURE. Where'
[l00J
Back. I must make an accounting for my brother
and myself.
TURELuRE. And drop the man you're engaged tof
LUMIR. I'm not as much engaged as all that. My first
duty is to others.
TUBELUBE. You're going to be the Deliverer of Poland,
aren't youT
LUMIR. Yes.
TUBELURE. In that case, all the Czar has to do is to rent
a little villa on the shore of Lake Geneva! A boarding house
where they serve breakfast! And here's our little Miss start-
iug off like an army I
LUMIR. The time has come.
TUBELURE. And this is the little girl who's going to settle
the affairs of three Empires! A little girl with blue eyes and
with her little hands stuck into her muff of imitation rabbit-
skin! ( He notwes that LUMIR is looking steadily aJ; him.)
Why do you look at me that way ... with those eyes of yours
that have no expression at all, and are so utterly incapable
of understanding anything' No one can ever tell what you're
thinking about.
LUMIR. Give me back the money.
TURELuRE. No.
LUMrB. Haven't I euough enemies without making one of
you'
TURELuRE. I'm not your enemy.
LUMIR. No, I don't thiuk you are. Tell me, are there many
people who during your life have said to you: "Turelure, I
trust you!" t
TURELURE. Ob, you little fox! You know how to find the
soft spot in an old man's heart, don't you!
LUMIB. Shall I really go!
TUBELUBE. No!
LUMIR. My Lord, you're rich and J have nothing; even
the little I did have was not mine .
TURELUBE. That fellow Louis is a great rascal!
LU:MIR. The money of women - women collected every
of it! The savings of mothers and widows; the mar-
nage portious of young girls; the bread out of the mouths of
orphans; the tears and the blood of exiles and martyrs!
[101]
'I'hat's what it was, and every penny of it sticky with blood!
TURELURE. And all that went to clear away jujube trees
in the Mitidja swamps!
LUMIR. It's cowardly to take advantage of my weakness
to rob me.
TURELURE. I haven't robbed you.
LUMIR. . .. Like a man taking a little girl's bread and
butter sandwich out of her school-bag ...
TURELURE. I haven't robbed you of a thing! God Al-
mighty, hel ed this Ca.n.tain of yours as muchJ!j I
could. He owes ms_money, too. -
Let me have I!lY mon.!lY back",--YOlLdear..oldJamb,
and I'll call the rest square!
TURELURE. If I id;lie'd be ruined, and you couldn't mar-
ry him, eoula you' - --
UMlR ookmg Naturally I couldn't..marry him if
he ad no money.
Then you don't love him.
LUMIR._ ;ITe!s too Short for me to become as attached as
that to an man. -- - -
TUrorr:-URE:-"You're light. What's more, he doesn't love
you. He has too many ideas in his head.
LUMIR. I'm so young. You see, I was proud to think he
needed me.
TuRELURE. There are olliers who may need you more.
LUMIR. Well, then, give me the means of helping them.
TURELURE. And one in particular, who is not so far away.
LUMIR. Who'
TUHELURE. What's the use of talking about Louis, or for
that matter, of all these gloomy and heroic ideas' They may
amuse children. What the devil! Life's a good thing!
LUMIR. I can only stay if my money goes instead of me.
TURELURE (sternly). Answer me, Lumir. Do you really
love your country'
. LUMIR. I don't know. I've never asked myself the ques
tion.
TURELURE. Be that as it may. You're worth more to your
than ten thousand francs. There are other things to
I.n hfe besides being honest. There are other things to do
In life when you're young than to die like the Christian mar
[102]
tyrs, or for that matter, than to let people throw you into
prison. If you go to Boufarik and allow yourself to be buried
alive in a big field of onions, do you suppose you won't ap-
preciate then that there were plenty of better things you
could have done with yourself!
LUMIR. No one is asking me to do more.
TUBELUBE. Louis isn't our kind. He isn't a Coufontaine.
He never knew what a Coufontaine was. All he thinks of is
his notes payable. But I'm different; I can understand you.
Your voice makes myoId blood jump. What llie devil!
We're the kind that made the Revolution!
LUMIR. It's the Revolution that made you!
TUBELUBE. I don't say it didn't. Anyway, it no longer
amuses me. And yet, I must admit, and no doubt about it,
times are still pretty good. When His Majesty out of
the Tuilleries willi the drums beating, and all his court
around him and surrounded by the representatives of
French Oh, that's a sight; a fine sight! You can
stand there and see regicides rubbing elbows with turncoat
nobles, and sugar refiners, and with J
leanings and a dozen or so old soldiers of the EmpIre who
escaped' from all the battlefields Eur?pe, and
Cousin and llien in the middle, HIS MaJesty the King of
over it all willi dignity of the
a charitable institution and the smile of a banker who Isn t
quite sure of his figures! Why, it's half a century. of history
walking along, and His Majesty himself has contributed .sev-
eral items. I teU you it's as good as llie Consular ReVIews
of the Year X in the Place du Carrousel!
LUMIR. And you are France'
TUBELUBE. Yes at the moment I WPy not!
LUMlB. A"iidI p.;ra;;d; - Poland yilliout a in
theworid.
Don't say that, please! Dear God, how it hurts
me to hear you talk like that!
LUMIR. The only friend I had has turned away from me:
TUBELUBE. If you choose, you can find another to take his
place.
LUMIB. I don't understand you.
1103]
TURELURE (whining). Listen. I'm old; I need affection.
Forgive my emotion.
LUMIR (smiling at him). You're funny!
TURELURE. I'm like France; nobody understands me.
LUMIR. Then why do you expect me to understand youl
TURELURE. Is it my fanlt that I am a peer of the realm,
and a Count and a Field Marshal, and a grand officer of God
knows what-all, and President of this, and Minister of that,
and everything else under the sunT Do you suppose it's a
thing of my choosing' Don't you snppose I'd rather be dif-
ferent I It isn't because I'm strong and grasping; it's be-
cause the others are stupid, and insist on giving you things
before you even ask for them. It's like a play; all you have
to. do is to know the boards, and then, if you play your part
WIth assurance, there is nothing you can't do. But life isn't
play-acting; don't you think there are other things I'd rather
dol It's like the days when France rushed Versailles and
the Louvre. The people didn't want bread! People don't
live on bread alone. They want bullets and cannon balls and
good hard punches in the jaw! France is like a young horse.
A younlF horse is full of life, and likes to play, and to feel its
master ill the saddle. You've got to have a seat when you've
got that sort of horseflesh between your legs. A man's got to
realIZe he 's riding a cow. But there again; France had
fat LollS In the saddle, and the minute she stepped out
a bIt, off he falls without a murmur or a kick, like a great
bale of wool. What else conld they do but chop his head offl
I leave it to you!
LUMIR. What do you want me to sav!
TURELURE. Say: "That's right!" .
LUMIR. That's right, Count! That's perfectly true!
TURELURE. There, that's hetter! What was I sayingl Oh,
I know:. M1 wife; my first wife, my only wife ... This
SlChel lSn.t anything ... ; she doesn't count. Ah, she
was a samt! God have mercy on her soul
LUMIR. Sygne de Coufontainel
TURELURE. Say her name again. How did you say itt
. LUlIIlR. Sygne de Coufontaine.
a lowerrd voice). Sygne de Coufontninel
t name nngs quC{U"ly ilL this room.. Oh, we were a well
couple all the time we were married. Too short.
[104J
too short. Only eleven monthi?Jlll told - and nine of
those we were separated. Never a word between as. - Yes,
yes, her manner was very gentle, but how her eyes used to
scorn me when she was willing to see me!
LUMIR. I've heard people say things.
TURELURE. She was better than I, but that was no reason
to despise me. What good are people who only know how to
despise' Scorn is a shield for weak men. Strong men don't
scorn anything; they find a use for everything.
LUMIll. Then she was weaker than you; you made her feel
the difference.
TURELURE. Never be weak with me; it's the worst thing
you can do.
LUMIll. I'll tell Sichel.
TURELU1<E. Sichel! Oh, how she'd like to be stronger than
1, but she isn't! And that's why she's so angry. All I have
to do is to look at her this way ... and she gets upset and
tries to sneak away.
LUMIR. Well, I'm not a bit afraid of you.
TURELURE. I know it; and I like it. There's only room
for one emotion in that hard, eager little heart of yours, or
in your loyal little sonl. There's only one thing that makes
any to you: what your father and your brother
and your own people have told you. As far as you're con-
cerned, anyone who doesn't belong to your Holy People
doesn't count more than the next man. Isn't that soT
LUMlR. Poor people hang together.
TURELURE. And yet your Holy People understood each
other so wel! that they had to bring in an outsider to keep
peace. An outsider who couldn't possibly understand them.
No Pole has been able to control Poland.
LUMIll. Why are you saying all this to me'
TURELU1<E. Give me your hand, and I'll offer you my arm.
LUMIR. That's a joke.
TURELURE. Yes, a joke; but a very serious one. At your
feet is the Man of .Affairs of the French Nation. Field Mar-
shal, Count de Coufontaine, Pl'esident of the Cabinet. Com
mand him .
LUMm. It's too great an honor, my Lord!
TURELURE. Do you know what I like about you I It's the
[105]
abs.olute quiet of your blue eyes, and the purity of your faith
whiCh 18 so great that nothing can affect it. Oh, the sweet
stupid!ty of youth!. Thank God I'm not dead yet; and I still
have time to commIt a great folly before I die by letting my
white .hairs enlist in the service of - (he bows to her) my
Captain.
LuMIR. .Are you serious!
TURELURE. What do you think!
LUMIR. I think you are.
'fURELURE. Co.uld anyone imagine a more appropriate
farewell .to my tnneR and to the Holy Alliance of Sacred
Monar.chles than to toss this nice little bomb-shell among
them Just before dying! Give me a woman - I don't care
who she is - with a purpose in her head, and the man who
can manage her can set the whole world on fire I
LUMTR. But you don't consider me just any woman, do
you!
TURELURE. No, Lumir, I do not. Come here, and let me
look at you. Good Lord, how young you are! How young and
how dangerous - but it's the dangerous part of you that ap-
peals to me. Make me for death! forget time!
Help me to e an Interest In some g.. outside of myself.
Won't you use me m the way I was meant to be used - but
that no one would ever believe! Come now we'11 make a
treaty, an offensive and defensive alliance. '
LUMTR. And will you give me back my ten thousand
francs!
The morning after we are marriedl Yes, and
WIth my sweetheart! (Half humming.) Yes, with
compound mterest, my little butter-ball!
LulIUR. But what will Sichel say!
TURELURE. I'm not afraid of Siehel. (He takes her hIwd.
SICHEL enters.)
at SICHEL and keeping TumlLURE'S hand
whwh he tnes to draw away. She smiles pleasantly at 114m
and speaks aloud). God, but you're old! Old, and very
dreadful! I d :ather die than belong to you. But don't for
one moment think you can frighten me I
SICHEL. My Lord ...
TUBELURE. Were you listening!
(106)
SICHEL. My Lord, the innkeeper of the Tin Cup at
Fismes ...
TURELURE. To hell with him!
SICHEL. . .. Says he has a telegram from Paris. Some
one wants to come to see you. Important business. A car-
riage had to be sent to meet him.
TURELURE. Who sent the telegram!
SICHEL. The fog broke the connection, and it wasn't pos-
sible to get the signature.
TURELURE. You don't suppose it conJ.d be Louis by any
chance!
SICHEL. I douht it. Who would have notified him!
TURELURE. Notified him of whatT He needn't be notified
of anything, I tell you.
LmlIR. Louis is coming! Oh, that's good I
TURELURE. No, Miss; I heg your pardon, it isn't good at
all.
SICHEL. Mr. Sunbeam, the innkeeper, couldn't spare any
horses; I thought it best to send our carriage.
TURELURE. Well, you did just the wrong thing. The horse
is old, and shouldn't travel ten miles in the rain.
SICHEL. There's no question about it, you ought to buy a
new one.
TURELURE (gloomily). Yes, and I'm old, too.
LUMm. I'm going to have Louis's room prepared. Good-
bye, my Lord. (She goes out.)
SICHEL. What a charming child! She's like a pretty little
page. I'm delighted to see that you get on so well together.
She must have gotten what she wanted from yOIL
TURELURE. Everyone always gets what they want from
me.
SICHEL. Yes, if they know how to go about it!
TURELURE. Who told Louis to come!
SICHEL. I'm not even sure he's coming.
TURELURE. I hope he doesn't! There's nothing I bate
more than scenes and arguments. And, besides, there's
nothing so dangerous for my health.
SICHEL. .Are you afraid of him!
TURELURE. I'm old and I don't like scenes.
SICHEL. You have nothing to be afraid of after Lumir
meets him with her good news.
(107)
.'
I
TURELURE. My dear child, you dou't "eally think I let her
get around me like that, do you T
SICHEL. More than you think, perhaps, my dear Tous-
saint!
TURELURE. He won't get a penny from me, even if he kills
me.
SICHEL. Oh, come! Give him his ten thousand francs!
TURELURE. Not if he kills me! He shan't get a penny.
SICHBL. It's never even occurred to him to kill his father.
TURELURE. We'll see which one of us dies first!
SICHEL. .All the same, you're the older.
TURELURE. Not as old as he thinks. (He kvughs harshly.)
SICHEL. Come now; say what's on your mind, and don't
play the fool!
TURELURE. Did you hear the last thing she said'
SICHEL. Yes, I did. And not very flattering, even though
it was true.
'fURELURE. I think she said it for your benefit. In fact,
it seems to me she squeezed my hand just a little while she
was talking.
SICHEL. Are you taking this method of telling me you're
going to marry herT
TURELURE. Maybe. (Laughs.)
SICHEL. So that's what you're going to tell your sonT
TURELURE. Or maybe write him, after he's gone.
SICHEL. Old age certainly makes imbeciles of people.
TURELURE. A. certain amonnt of imbecility adds consider-
ably to the pleasure of this life.
SICHEL. No one will deny that you have your share!
TURELURE. This inmIoral Imion with a Jewess weighed on
my conscience.
SICHEL. On your cQn8cien<:ef
TURELURE. Yes, on my conscience. I can see it all nnw.
I've done you an injustice. It was I who seduced yon.
SICHEL. Yes, I couldn't resist you.
TURELURE. Nor could I resist yon. I've ruined your ca-
reer as a musician. Oh, I've done you great injustice. The
best way of recognizing the fact is by not trying to make
amends.
SIOHEL. It's a hard blow to me ...
TURELURE. And it cuts me to the quick.
[108]
SIOHEL. I told you old age was making you idiotic.
TUBELURE. I wish it would make you civil!
SICHEL. I suppose you'll go on living foreverT
TURELUBE. I certainly hope so. I find from experience
that I outlive every one.
SICHEL. That's not your doctor's opinion.
TURELURE. I'll get another doctor.
SICHEL. .. , Nor probably your son's.
TURELURE. He'll have to get accustomed to the idea.
SICHEL. If you die after marrying that girl .. If you die,
I say ...
TURELURE. I heard you the first time. No need of repeat.
ing.
SICHEL. I say that if you die ...
TURELURE. I won't die! I won't!
SICHEL. . .. You'd leave a rich widow! .
TURELURE. He couldn't marry her. The law won't allow It.
SICHEL. The law I Pah!
TURELURE. I don't like speculations based on my death.
SICHEL. I'm sure you haven't made any provisions
against that contingency.
TURELURE. Time enough to think of such things.
SICHEL. Everything would revert to your son.
TuRELURE. That's absurd.
SICHEL. Or else you would have to make your wife sole
legatee.
TURELURE. I shall have a child by her.
SIOHEL. That's as may be.
TURELURE. I'll have three. I saw it in her eyes.
SICHEL. Oh, come I
TURELURE. At least there would be no crossed breeds as
there would have been with you and me.
SICHEL. I wouldn't let her have too much interest in your
death.
TURELURE. Can't you see that's why I want to protect my-
selfT
SICHEL. Don't put your'self in her pow.er.
TURELURE. I believe I can make that gullove me.
SICHEL. And her lover, too!
TURELURE. Oh, go to hell I . . . .
SICHEL. Lord, but you're childish! This Journey of hl". 18
perfectly natural, isn't itt Oh, yes, the most natural thing
[1091
I
in the world! And I suppose this sudden' arrival of our sol-
dier is perfectly natural, too! Ahout as natural as in a play
when the soldier rushes in with drawn sword just at the
crucial moment!
TURELURE. I wonder what he's after around heref
SICHEL. He's after his ten thousand francs; and then ten
thousand more that he needs in the worst way.
TURELURE. That's the exact amount I got from your
father.
SICHEL. I wonder who notified him,
TURELURE. You, you snake!
SICHEL. Perhaps I did. But I have an idea it's even sim-
pler than that.
TURELURE. So you believe they cooked up the business
between them. Is that it'
SICHEL. Yes, I'm inclined to think so. He wants his share
now, and is willing to wait fOI' the balance.
TURELURE. Well; then, I'll give him his twenty thousand
francs.
SICHEL. And then she'll be free and can get along with-
out you.
TURELURE. Then I won't give him the money.
SICHEL. In that case you'll make him desperate .
. TURELURE. Then I won't wait for him. I'll go to Paris.
SICHEL. You can't; I've sent the carriage to Fismes.
TURELURE. I'm cornered; all I can do is fight.
SICHEL. Yes, and you might begin by doing as I tell you.
TURELURE (with a sardonic laugh). Don't worry; I'll put
you down in my will.
I'm not talking of your will; I mean a sort of
aSSIgnment. (A pause. )
TURELURE (very slow/;y, as if thinking aloud). An assign-
ment in your favor' Yes, yes! I begin to see what you're
driving at.
SICHEL. Suppose we could devise some method of putting
all your property into my name'
TURELURE. That's a thought.
SICHEL. It would do away with any interest they might
have in your death. (A pause.)
TURELURE. Sichel! Tell me! Do you think he wants to
kill mef
SICHEL. What would you do in his place' (A pause.)
[110]
1
TURELURE. I don't like his face! I wish he were dead!
SICHEL. Well, then, give him back his woman and his
money.
TURELURE. I won't.
SICHEL. Then fight.
TURELURE. Death's an awful thing!
SICHEL. Not a bit of it; it's the simplest thing in the
world.
TURELURE. You don't know what I know. (One can hea,
carriage wheels outside.)
SICHEL. I think I hear the carriage.
TURELURE. I'm afraid to die! Afraid!
ACT II.
SCENE
The same room on the following day. A diwner table has
been set in the midtile of the room. TURELURE, tile vAPTAIN,
ALI, SICHEL, aud LUMIR are s.tt,nll around ib-Just [imshlng
t1iei'r- me4i. ATl1iough. .t >s the middle of the day, the blu,Js
Mvebeen closed and two tall candlesticks are bu,.,..ing on
table.
TURELURE (filling his son's glass). Well, Captain! My dear
Captain! How do you like this old wine of Bouzy'
LOUIS. I know it well. You and I drank a bottle of it the
day I left for Algiers.
TURELURE. The viueyards are on the Mountain of Rheims.
Jean de la Fontaine used to driuk it with Monsieur Pintre],
Lord of Villeneuve. It still has body, see how it hangs to the
glass like Burgundy. It's like a burgher, fat but shrewd.
Lours. Your health, Father!
TURELURE. Here's health to these ladies. (Both. drink.)
Lours. 01, but it's good to be at home again! I'm glad
you closed the blinds, Father; it's cozier.
TURELURE. When a man gets to be my agE, he likes to sip
his glass of wine slowly. There's no telling whether he'll
ever drink another. And I'm not saying I despise Beaune,
but it's a wine a man's got to drink alone when gEts as
old as I am. One of those solemn old bottles that is brought
in after dinner and that needs two hours of judicial thought.
Full of ideas and of vivid recollections.
ALL Only water for me. It's doctor's orders.
[111]
Ii
I
LoUIS. Never mind, Mr. Habenichts! Your health, Sir!
ALI. Your health, Captain. (He drinks his water.)
LoUIS. (with his hand 011i his heart, bowing). "WoW be-
kommen," as the Germans say. Here's to my benefactor.
ALI. Your humble servant, nlways!
LOUIS. Don't worry! Your note will be paid at maturity.
ALI. I'm sure it will; I'm sure it will.
TURELURE. That's right! Nothing like a good dinner to
folks agree! As for me, I'm the happiest of men, sit-
ting here as I am between my father-in-law to-be, and my
daughter-m.-Iaw to-be.
ALI. Have you begun work yetT
TURELUBE. We're working on the pit for the wheel. And
right in the middle of the monks' graveyard at that. You'd
never believe how many bones we've carted off. Two whole
loads, and there's a big pile of them left. II:\ the centre we
found a sort: of Roman well that we've cleaned out. It must
have been one of those sacred we,lls, you know, where they
bred snakes. And at the bottom we found a bronze Mercury.
ALI. Oh, me see it. I like those good old gods.
(potnttng to the Crucifix ). I wish you'd take that
thmg away. It's not an ornament for the home.
LUMm. If I had an estate like this I'd never turn it into
a factory. '
Lours. Why not ' You've got to keep up with the times.
SICHEL. Lumir is right. You can build a factory any-
where. But when you have a complex like this ...
ALI. Don't call it a complex; - sayan estate.
SICHEL. It's funny, whenever I see you, I begin talking
Ge;man. Anyway, if you have an estate like this with its
cloIsters and its and its attics, it's a pity to cut it ,:,p.
You never build another. It's really impressive; it's like
the m novels. Everything of a period. They don't do
that kind of work now.
ALI. Und I hear that the lead nlone you liave off the roof
pulled, you have for ten thousand francs sold.
TuRELUBE. That's not so. (He drinks.)
And now that the railroad has reached Co.nfon-
there's nothing to do but puil the old barn do.wn and
Junk the wh?le thing! It's nothing but damn stupidity to
hold onto thIS plot of old worn-out land when you can get
[112]
fresh soil elsewhere; soil that'll grow anything you want.
ALI. Dates.
TURELURE. You mean debts!
Lours. Oh, it's a fat soil and rich I All you have to do is
to get rid of the palm trees and the other weeds and rubbish.
The plow-share slides through the ground without a sound -
like a sword cutting through a big, fat candy-peddler. It's
a deep soil too. You grow wheat as big as buck-shot and
every vine has a bunch of grapes as big as a bundle.
TURELuRE. There's no soil in the world like French soil.
ALI. A year of wheat and a year of beets. Beets and
wheat; and then beets and wheat; and then wheat and beets,
and forevermore a crop of beets, and then a crop of wheat!
You make three per cent in good years. Taxes to pay, and
the whole plagued Government always after yo.u I Yo,. do.n 't
own the land.; the land owns ...!i.q'L - you're just a beet along
WIth the others.
TURELuRE. What made you want my Dormant land so
badly'
SICHEL. I know of nothing as depressing to look at as a
field of beets.
LUMIR. They make the horses stumble.
LoUIS. You're right, Father Ali. And when nll's said and
done, by Go.d, there's no. land can compare with a piece of
property yo.u've sto.len because you wanted it so badlyl Ex-
cept, perhaps, land you've won by fighting, and that you keep
because you have a gun. Yes, a bitch of a country that slams
you full of fever, but that you're bound to make do some-
thing, because it doesn't want to.
TURELuRE. He, he t That 's the way they took Po.landl
ALI. If yo.u read history, you realize there was nothing
to do but divide Poland.
TURELuRE. Oh, that wretched Poland! She led her neigh-
bors into Temptation. That'8 her great crime, which no. one
will forgive her. Well, dear daughter-in-law, I don't hear
you saying anything'
LUMIR. I'm looking for my bag.
TURELURE. Here it is; it was under my napkin. 01, it's
What have you got in itt (She takes the bag out of
his hands.)
LUMlR. Two loaded pistols.
[113]
!
TURELURE. Please take one out to make room f o ~ my
heart! ... Well, Father Ali, it's time we settled our busIness.
LoUIS. One minute, Father. You know I want to talk to
you.
'l'URELUBE. Now! Can't it wait!
LoUIS. No, it can't.
TUBELURE. I'll be with you just as soon as I have finished
this other business. (TURELURE, ALI and SICHEL go out.)
LoUIS (to LUMm). Good morning.
LUMffi. Good morning, Captain.
LoUIS. I wish you'd tell me what goes on here.
LUMm. Sichel told you to come, didn't she!
LoUIS. She did.
LUMm. I knew she and you wrote to each other.
Lours. Yes. And now you see that it worked to my ad-
vantage.
LUMIB (in a hard voice). Louis, I've asked your father for
the money you owe me, and also for the money you need.
I've attacked the old man front and rear and from both
flanks; and Sichel, I think, did everything she could to help
me. It's no use.
LoUIS. You shouldn't have asked for money. You ought
to have arrauged it so that he offered it to us.
LUMIR. You can't fool him. He knows exactly how our af-
fairs stand.
LoUIS. Is that why you changed your tactics!
LUMm. Yes. Last night he was kind enough to offer to
marry me.
LoUIS. Do you intend to accept!
LUMm. There's no resisting that man.
Loms. What was his proposition t
LUMm. He put his services at my disposal, and offered to
be generalissimo and man of affairs of Poland.
LoUIS (bursting into illughter). Ha! Hal Hal
LUMm. It's funny, isn't itT .
LoUIS. The old rascal has a stock of the noblest senti-
ments tucked up his sleeve; and he's never been able to ~ e
them. It annovs him that he hasn't had the chance to brrng
them out. T h i ~ is his chance. It's a new sensation for hint.
LUMIR. And you think I couldn't bring myself to take ad-
[114]
vantage of the situation T Well, you never can tell I An old
man and a young girl aren't evenly matched. All I have to
do is to smile at him - so. I've tried it, and I know he un-
derstands. An old, old man and a young girl! ... with hands
as delicate and as strong as the hands of death ... !
LoUIS. The old man has taken everything I own, and now
he's going to take my wife too ... !
Lu..UR. Why didn't you protect her, fight for her!
Lours. Oh, come, Lnmir, that's ridiculous! You're not
trying to make me say that I love you, are you! I can't; so
that's that. The words stick in my throat. It's always hard
to tell you what I mean; you have a way of suddenly making
yourself so remote. Our three lives, yours and mine and your
brother's, have been so intimately connected for years and
years. The three of us have faced suffering and struggles
and hope and poverty together. Yes, my dear. And to-
gether we've played the game in a way that, in these parts,
and to men of integrity - like that father of mine - doesn't
seem quite - well, quite honest. My remote angel! I need
and want you by my side, so much that I can't believe we are
to be separated!
LUMIB. It's not my fanlt.
Lours. You saved my life once.
LUMIR. Do you think that should give you full control
over my life!
LoUIS. Perhaps not. But you're always there when I'm
sad, or depressed, or down and out. You're always steady,
always young and strong and resourceful, and you're always
ready to start anywhere on twenty minutes' notice! Every
minute of your time for the last six years you've given up
to me to my welfare. And, what's more, you've always had
faith in the future of the Mitidja. Isn't that a bond between
nst
LUMIR. I even gave you everything I had in the world.
LoUIS. I know it.
LUMIa. And what was not mine - those ten thousand
francs of consecrated money.
LoUIS. Those I'll return to you.
LuMIB. A month from now you'll be foreclosed and that
will be the end.
[115]
LoUIS (with great violence). They shan't foreclose on my
land! .
LUMlR. The note is due the thirtieth.
LoUIS. I tell you, they shan't foreclose!
LUMIR. The country is peaceful and safe; the roads ar.e
built. the soil is ready to yieJd. Oh, yes! It '8 the psychologl-
for your father and Ali to gobble it.
LoUIS. Don't drive me mad! Don't try to make me lose
my head. As it happens, I'm not now: to try to my
property, but to save you, my child, my SIster, my Lu-
mir! Contessina, you little hussard! Never say there s no
one in the world who can't love, unless some personal and
material interest is involved! My mother died rather than
<ee me and from the moment I was born, my father has
, , , b his
hated me wi th every beat of his heart. I can ifemem er
watchful eyes studying me following every move I made.
Oh he was enough! The soul of comtesy. He always
me like an equal. I had a hope that
some time I should find another boy who would be my pa ,
all rune; Just because he loved me better than any one
Some one who would listen to me, and who would have
f
. 't so
in me. Some one with your face - and your ace lsn
very beautiful - but it is the only face that has any charm
for me that to me of so many things I don't under-
, .. ft and low
stand! I wanted a compamon whose vOlce so ai
who would put his arms around me and whisper
was a woman. You and a friend. Just one I One IS eno g
, d lways
LU>lIR (looking down). I know; and that.I am, an a
sball be to you. Don't think I don't appreCIate. t
LOUIS. And vet you're going to sell ourself 0..mY wors
J -_. dd choose
enem - to this ranier who made me! Wh 1:.......YJ...:
0
:;.: u:..;;:o---
t at 0 d no other d07 was
LUMIR Yes Louis but you must remember that I
. , , h before
alive before I met you; and that I, too, had a fat er,
you came into my life.
LoUIS. Did you love your fatherT If
LUMIR. I loved my father, my brother and - myse d all
LoUIS (bitterly). And there endeth the world, an
therein !
LUMIR. Father and brother! Both dead: I'm alone noW;
but they and I are still one.
[1161
LOUIS. It's you I want to marry; not your father or your
brother!
LUMIR. You can't separate us; I am part and parcel of
my father. His arms are about me; his head is on my shoul-
der. He was my country; I had no other. Oh, his eyes, his
face, his complete destitution! I've seen his tears flow I've
seen his anger blaze as on a battlefield; and yet his heart
was the heart of a child. And, oh, that money; that last
handful of soil which was all tha t was left us of Our country,
hidden away under his threadbare coat! He wouldn't touch
it when he was starving. Do you suppose I shall touch it!
Do you suppose I shall lose itT He and I are one. The man
who takes me, takes us both. I have and can have no other
country than the one I used to see in my father's eyes, when
he held me close against him. And now I am alone ...
LOUIS. And I, too, am alone; as alone in the world as you.
Forget the past! There's no country as good as the country
we make for ourselves. What's Poland! We are strong; we
have nothing to fear from the African sun.
LUMIR. There's a trail behind me that even the ocean can-
not obliterate. To me Poland is the gleam of the far horizon
along the snow; the far-away gleam we saw behind us while
we were in flight, driven out by one mightier than we. A
gleam that shines forever across the snow! I was only a lit-
tle child, cuddled up in my father's fur coat, bnt I can re-
member that meeting in the middle of the night, when the
rebellion broke out. My father took me out of my bed and
carried me down to tbe meeting - all gentlemen, and all
armed. He lifted me, as he loved to do, so that I was stand-
ing, one foot in each of his strong hands, perfectly straight,
in my long white nightgown, with my brown hair down my
back - like a little statue of Hope and Victory. And all
those proud men around me, with their swords drawn, ery-
ing, "Hurrah!"
LoUIS. And if their rebellion had been successful - what
thenT You'd have had another country like this one! News-
papers, cabinet ministers, a parliament, and all the other un
speakable and disgusting things I Conflicting interests; pub-
lic opiuion; the play of economic forces; distilleries; sugar
refineries; corporations! Men like Toussaint Turelure and
[117]
.Ali Habenichts in power over you! Do you for a minute be-
lieve that I am the son or fellow countryman of those peo-
plef No one has a country outside of himself! Poland was
a failuref Poland fell' So much the better. It makes one
less country like this one!
LUMIR. You talk like Sichel.
LOUIS. Her father's like mine.
LUMIR (vety sweetly) . When I'm his wife ...
LoUIS. What's thatT
LUMIR. When I am the wife of Count de Coufontaine .. -
your father ...
LoUIS. I shall have a charming mother-in-law; quite
charming!
LUMIR. I began to say: When I have your father,
I 'Il be good to you, Louis! Yes, we 'Il take a real interest in
your affairs; we 'Il put a little money into your agricultural
enterprises; Yes, we'll e"l'en say a good word for you to the
Governor!
Loms. Splendid; and many thanks! But something might
happen before that.
LUMIR. SOloething migl1t happen' Hal You're too much
of a coward to do anything!
LoUIS. I'm not a coward!
LuMIR. You want a woman and you're not able to pro-
tect her. Axe yon a man or aren't yonfAxe you going to let
people walk all over you foreverf Without saying a word f
How much longer are yon going to let that old corpse sit 00
your shoulders and drive yon as he pleases f !y asn't !!.
enou h when he took our ro ert - the roperty that you
oUllt !Ill for your <el an y yourse , Wl on J-.-e puJg-
ou "'mca..lllll)IlY1 Now he your Wife. -Yes, me! He
comes along and takes me away rom under your very nose I
LoUIS. He shan't have vou!
LmnB. Yes, he will! ne's got your farm already! He'll
harvest your crops this very autumn; and as for you ... ob,
some one will pay you three francs a day to dig ditches and
spread manure!
Lours. Don't drive me mad!
LUMIR. And now he's taking your :wife away from youl
And, what's more, I'll go to him!
[118]
LOUIS. He hasn't taken her yet!
LUMIR. Hasn't taken her yet, you sayf Wake up hombre!
Stand up! Stand up and fight. I Fay I '
Loms. help ),011, if I fight'
(unth g:eat scom) . Do you suppose I'm afraidf
Captam. Captam Louis-Napoleon Turelure-Coufontaine
up! Stand up and let me look at you! Confontaine i
Yon. Yon a Confontainef (She laughs loudly and bitterly.)
LOUIS (sombrely) . .ArR.UM! (He gets up.)
!'uMm. Yon coward ... (She spits at him.) That's what I
think of you I (A pause).
. LoUIS (almost in a whisper). Lnmir! Don't! I can't stand
It.
LUMTB (between her teeth). Coward, coward!
LoUIS. Stop it, you little devil!
LUMTB (m the same tone of voice). Give me back my ten
thousand francs, yon thief!
LOUIS. Be quiet, I want to think.
LUMIB. Louis, Caballero! Listen to me von soldier of
the Foreign Legion! You and I have done ;e;"ice in Africa
a flag which was not ours, for a cause in which we had
mterest! Why' for the honor of the Corps! We had no
fnends; we had no money; we had no family, no master and
no God!. We had a sort of sham liberty, and we paid for it,
and Wlllmgly, by making ourselves into slaves. What's leftT
Honorl Yes, Honor! (She looks at the Cr'Ucijix, then speaks
1n great anguUiJo). If there were a God ... yes! ... if there
were a God ... Oh, if there were a God, He would come first
- but all there is, is the dnty to yonr pals, the equaJity of
all men, and of all soldiers of the same rank, the Battery of
the Men Who Axe Not Afraid! But there i.,; lioaor! Are
!OU a coward f When your pal calls on yon to help him, isn't
your first duty to go T You and I ... there's nobody else
In the world ... just yon and I ... ! What is this father of
?,oursf What has he ever done for youT When you were ly-
mg the wall at the breach of Constantine, with three bnl-
III you, how long did my brother stop to think before
tmg yon onto his back and bringing yon in f And when
you were rotting with fever in a stinking hovel, did I let any
one nUlse you or even come near youf When you made
a mess m yonr bed it was I who cleaned you and bathed yon
[119]
li
::
i
'I
II ! r
:
jl'
like a little child. Who was it had faith in you' Who lent
you money! We gave you every penny we had, whether it
was ours or not! And we took no receipts, and charged no
interest. we dealt like brother soldiers, like white men and
pals, like men of the same breed! My brother died working
for you; and now I'm alone.
LOUIS. Good God, womanl A man has the right to think
and to decide what is best to do I
LUMIB. A man has no right to think, and there is no
choice as to what to do.
LOUIS. It turns my stomach to think of laying hands on
the oJ.d man.
LUMIB (softl!y and pleadingly). Louis! Save mel I'm all
alone in the world.
LoUIS. Do you trust met
LUMIB. Yes, I trust you.
LoUIS. Give me your bag. .
LUMIB (opening her bag and taking out the two
Be careful. There are two pistols in it; a big one and a little
one. I loaded them both this morning.
Lo lJIS. Good.
LUMIB. See! The primers are in the flash"'Pans. Now, lis-
ten. The little one has no bullet; it's loaded blank. Do you
hear what I say'
LoUIS. Yes, I hear; the little one has no ball; it is loaded
blank.
LUMIR. The little one, do you understandt Don't make a
mistake. Now. The old man is a coward; I'm sure a sudden
fright will be enough, and you won't have to go the whole
way. He got twenty thonsand francs from Ali. Sichel told
me so. He almost surely has them on him. He's old; he's
worn out. Maybe llie fright will be enough. Sichel
idea into my head. She's in the other wing of the bllIlding
with her fallier. You have nothing to fear from her; and
there's no one in this wing.
LoUIS. And the other pistol t
LUMm. The ollier pistol is loaded with ball
LoUIS. Very well.
LUMm. Both hammers are down, but you can cock them
willi One hand.
LoUIS. I understand.
[120]
LUMIR. I'll put them both blWk into the bag; do you see!
LoUIS. Put the bag here, on my right.
. LUMm. And mind you, no white feather I (She looks at
hun for a moment, and goes out. TURELURE COmes in.)
TUR':LuRE. Now, SIr, my son, having disposed of my busi-
ness Wlth Barkoceba, I am quite at your service. Heavens
above! .What would if I weren't here to keep an eye
on yOUl property! (W ,th a qUICk gestwe he tries to take pos-
sess<o,!, of bag, wlvich she left on the table. LOUIS
l!akes .t away from him. They stare at each other for some
time in silence.)
LOUIS. Father, why are you so set against me' Why do
always fight me, Fallier! Never mind; you have the
whIp-hand, and I'm here to make terms.
TURELURE. You're my only son, and I feel for you the
most loving interest.
Loms. Drop the pose, Father. It doesn't deceive me.
TURELuRE (snarling). As for you, you'd kill me if you
could!
LoUIS. Why is it that, no matter which way I turn, I al-
ways find you blocking my path t
TURELuRE. And why did you demand your mother's
money as Soon as you came of age t I couldn't stand by and
let you squander it. It was just as well to have me on llie
spot, to gather up what you threw away.
Loms. I've never thrown money away; I've had a hard
life. I'm not a rotter.
TURELURE. No, but you're a dreamer. Ready to give what
he has for what he hasn't.
LoUIS. Whatever I've had, I've fought for. And who
drove me to it ' I never had a father or a mother; I've had
to make my own way.
TURELURE. Don't forget the fortune I turned over to you.
LoUIS. Which I barely retrieved by force, and by miles of
legal red tape ...
TURELuRE. Well, then don't be surprised at me for trying
to get it back.
LoUIS. You never had and never will have any right to it.
It was my motner's that she rehabilitated by the
brow.
[121]
I '
II,
i I !
11111
II
,
i
,
'l' U1!ELURE. No right to it, eht I suppose you'll say next
that I have no right in Coufontaine. God Almighty! It's
blood of my blood and bone of my bone I Don't you think I'm
better than all those absentee counts, whose blood was a mix-
ture of all the blood of France and of Europe! They were
nothing but outcroppings of kennels and stud stables. How
I hated to see this dear land of France melting away like
butter on the African desert. Don't worry! I'm more of a
Coufontaine than you are I
LoUIS. I'm neither Coufontaine nor Turelure.
TURELuRE. Yes, you are; you're a Turelure. Yon'v.lLgot
my forebead and my nose. That delicate mouth of vourS3Jill
got from your mouer. Any fool can see It.
LoUIS. And YOU hate me because I.haye her mouth don't
you!
URELURE. No, I hate your forehead and your nose.
LOUIS. A father ought to be glad to have hiS son look like
him.
TURELURE. Whv! There's no need of
lures. What am I !rOod for two! -
!.,OUIS. I'm not a Turelure.
TURELURE. Yes, you are. Your face shows it, and your
soul has the same wrinkles in it. I know you down to the
ground; and I don't say you don' t know me. The two go
together. If I didn't understand you I couldn't read that
look at the back of your eyes. I don't wish you any hard
lnck. What makes bad blood between us is just this: You're
both the competing Turelure of today and the successor
Turelure of tomorrow. It seems to me that's reason enough
not to fall over each other with love and affection. I'm fight-
ing to protect myself, that's all.
LoUIS. I put the ocean between us for that very reason.
TURELURE. Yes, and took my property with you.
Lours. You say yourself you've taken it back.
TURELURE. You'll get it back when I die; and I don't like
people who have an interest in my death.
LoUIS. I have no interest in your death. I come to you
now, while you're alive, in a spirit half sad, half curions.
Why struggle so desperately, as if I had you by the throat!
I'm just looking at you, and I'm interested to watch you and
(122)
see of what sort of stuff I'm made. Tell me, you're the father
that made me, what is there about you that was incomplete
and that could come to life ouly through another person!
That ;vas '!1y mother. It's true enough that I'm like
you. Yes, It s as if I saw you for the first time, and now that
I see you, I see the whole of yon,- every detail!
TURELURE. I can't say that I felt any great desire to see
you.
Loms. After all, a child like a second self; you have
the t? look yourself ill the eyes. It's yourself with
alien, something of an intruder, too. It's like your
conSCIence set free from you; your conscience jumping up
and down, quite independently from you. It's the living
of yourself, over which you have no control. Isn't
It - Dad!
TURELURE. Do you think I ought to have made you the
whole purpose of my life'
LoUIS. What 1w.s been the purpose of your life!
TURELURE. What is a swimmer's purpose! Not to go
under I He .hasn 't time to think of anything else. We didn't
have any life preservers! We didn't have time to float on
our backs and let the sun warm our bellies. There's many a
ha.s drunk his Jittle fill along side of Daddy Turelure. I
didn't Jump overboard; the sea came up and took me and
never let go again. I wanted to live! When the are
running as high as mountains, you've got to ride up with
them. And you've got to take jolly good care they don't come
down on your head, like a ton of bricks I Each for himself
and devil take the hindmost! '
Loms. And now you're sitting comfortably on the
beach ...
TU1!ELURE. . .. Waiting to hear what you've got to say
to me!
Loms. Oh, I know you've got me right there ... in the
hollow of your hand! You've followed me with the patience
of a hunter stalking his game. Every avenue of escape is
blocked. You worked it out carefully, and there's not one left
op,en: You know perfectly well I can't meet my note due the
thirtreth. And if I can't pay, old Uncle Habenichts fore-
closes.
[123j
TUBELURE. You can always go back to the Army. To be
sure, yon did desert. But there's always a place in the army
for men of our rank. You can always count on me to help you
toward promotion-that is, within reason.
LOUIS. Foreclosed! Sold out I
TUBELUBE. Well, you'll still have some expectations.
Loms. Yes, I can still expect and hope.
TUBELUKE (hlumming) .
"When old father bunny dies,
I will get his trou-sers,
When old father bunny dies,
I'll get his broad-cloth trou-sers ...
Loms. Amd I'm turning over to you a new, sweet,
estate! Virgin soil without a root or a weed or a rock as big
as your fist! Yes, I did it ; I made it, and I all died d<>-
fig it I
TUBELURF.. I'll tell you a secret, my boy; I don't give a
damn for your land, or for the work you've put into it either.
You're nothing but a farmer, and all you think about is the
soil and what it will grow. What I see is something much
nicer, and something I'd muel! rather have.
LoUIS. You mean the Contraband t My ten a<ll"es along
the water front near the Louaves Campt
TURELURE. You've said it, my darling boy! Think of the
General Store we can put up with all the duty-free goods I
LOUIS. And you don't propose to do anything with my
Mitidja farm?
TURELURE. Not a thing, my dear Captain! What's the use
of bothering to work when all you have to do is fold your
hands and wait t If the country is opened up, we'll make our
profit out of the other fellow's work.
LoUIS. Look here, Father; I won't ask you for a penny;
just let me stay on as foreman on my farm ... on your farm,
I should say. .
TUBELUBE. No. It's safer to cut the expenses and take no
risks. Let the hal'dy fellows do the developing.
LoUIS. So that' s the way you look at itt
TUBELURE. It is, my boy. That's my idea.
LoUIS. And did it ever occur to you, my Lord, that
driving a man till he's desperate is a dangerous game!
[124]
I
,.
....
TUBELUBE. The only people I'm afraid of are optinrists.
Nobody in the world is less dangerous than a desperate man
- that is, when he can't reach you!
Loms (laying his hand Q>, the bag). You're not out of
my reach!
TUBELURE. Louis, my hoy. You've got too muel! of my
blood in you to get you!self into a mess.
LoUIS. I wouldn't pin too much faith on thatl Now, Sir,
look at me - straight in the eyes. 'l'hat's itt And don't you
daJ'e get up from that table. I forbid you to. Do you under-
stand' Don't you move hand or foot I Not a muscJ.e, I tell
you. There! Ha, Ha, I see a lump under your coatI That's
the money Hahenichts gave you, isn't it!
TUBELURE. Don't be a fool.
Lours. And don't you try to gohble me np. That's my
advice to yon, my lord and father! Do you want to see what
I've got in my little bag here! (He opens the bag
L
takes out
tl.!&. two gistols and co'?.ks them bOpb &Id pJfiCe.sJ1J,em_ care-
fully.!!:!! t Le table ffUront of him.)
TUBELURE. Come, boy; the joke's gone far enough. It's
bad form to go too fa,'. If you shot) everybody would come
running.
Lours. Everybody in the house is in the other wing. Sichel
took care of that.
TUBELURE. So Sichel saw to that, did she! I understand.
Then this isn't a joke!
LoUIS. I can't choose my methods; I have no alternative;
I've got to go ahead. Oh, Father, can't you understand that
I can't yield, that I can't retreat! I'm not a free agent. I've
got to have that money. lowe it! lowe the money, and no
matter what it costs, I've got to pay it back. If I don't I'm
hopelessJy disgraced and rnined. I tell you,. to have
e money. Don't move! Father I You've ta.KenevenLhi!L
L had iilthe wor d.- --
never had anything.
LoUIs. Then keep it.
Tum:LURE. Thank you so muel! I
LoUIS. But give me that ten thousand francs.
TURELUBE. No. And that's finaL I can't give them to you.
I can't give them to you.
[125]
i
LoUIS. Give me the ten thousand francs that don't belong
to yon, nor to me, any more than they do to the girl who lent
them to me.
TUBELUBE. Well, she took her chances.
Lours. I tell you I need the money, and I'm going to have
it. Don't move! It makes me sick to see yon move that way.
TURELUIIE. Yon poor fool! What d 'yon snppose'll happen
if yon give her back her ten thousand francs T
LoUIS. That's none of my business.
TURELURE. D'you think she'll marry yonT Now that
yon've rnined yonrselft
LOUIS. I have no idea.
TURELURE. Never! I tell you she'll never marry you. She
told me so herself.
LoUIS. All the more reason you should let me have the
money.
TURELURE. She'll take the cash and skip, and that'll be
the end of that.
LoUIS. What is that to yon'
TURELURE. Can't you see tliat if we give her the money
we lose all hold on hed That wouldn't serve your purpose
a.ny more than It would mine, you damned selfish pup! If I
were her husband she'd sign a note for every penny I gave
her.
Lours. If you were her husband T
TURELURE. WelJ, what of itt Do yon think you two are
still living all alone among your jujube trees, you wild man T
Lours. So it's really serious, is itt You've said so too I
wif
I
First you steal my land, and then you try to take my e.
TURELURE. It's your fault; you let go of her.
LoUIS. You asked her to marry you, didn't youT
TURELURE. Yes, and was repulsed with heavy losses!
LoUIS. Then leave her alone.
TURELURE. Leave anything alone that I need and want?
I conldn't if I tried! (LoUIS maJces G1II impatient gesture.)
my boy, don't kill me! It won't do you an You
won't get my money. I'll explain it all to you. I've made..
certain arran ments with Sichel She has it all :::: it 's.J!s
a e interest.
LoUIS. Don't goad me any further.
[126]
TURELUBE. I was wrong. I tried to put up a hold front. I
didn't say what I meant. I lost my temper. No, I haven't
done hy you. Just give me a little time, my Iioy. Let
me tlriuk It ont, and I'll do every tiring you want. I'm not a
hrave man. Wait until you're old, and you'll see how you'll
hold on to life. Each day counts. Don't hurt me, Louis!
LOUIS. Give me the ten thousand francs.
TURELURE. I can't, Louis, wait a little while. Have pity
on me, my boy! I can't. It simply ian 't possible.
I'll tell you something, Father. Do you know what
she sard to me! You say you're not free to give me the
money, and I'm not, and she says she isn't either. She's got
to have that money of hers, that you have now. It isn't her
money.
TURELURE. She's welcome to everything I have.
Lours. Then let it go at that. She wants it. If I don't give
her hack the fund of which she's trustee, she's ready to
marry you.
l'uBELuBE. I'm glad you said that Louis and for it I'll
forgive you all the other things you'v'e said. 'She's so young
and charming! She's a ray of sunshine in my oJd life. And
her arms are so white, so white! I saw them at dinner the
other day. I've got to have those arms!
LoUIS. Is it all the same to you if she marries you against
her will'
TUBELUBE. Compulsion is the mother of fear - which is
more than half a woman's love.
LOUIS. ' .. And half the wisdom of an old rascal.
TUBELURE. You made a mistake in telling me she wantet1
to marry me. Do you know that, Louis T
LoUIS. Yes, she wants to. You touched her.
What do you want me to do nowT You rascal!
I d have given you the money, no matter how hard it was for
me. But now ...
LOUIS. It's a good deal harder to die ...
h TURELURE (with a deep sigh.). You're right. It is even
arder to die. But there's no way out.
LoUiS. Be sensible.
!UBELURE. Never! You can make a Frenchman do any-
thmg except turn tail, or give up a woman against Iris will.
[127]
No. It's impossible. Never that! I'm a Frenchman. You
can't ask me to do that. You can kill your father if you
want, but you can't make him do that!
LoUIS. Is that your last word f
'l'URELURE. Kill me if you want ... No, don't lrill me! I'm
afraid!
LoUIS. The money.
'l'URELCRE. I can't! Don't you believe in God, Louis'
LOUIS. I do not.
'rURELURE. That 's the end. Implacable faces on all sides.
llere's my son. and on each side, these two women leading
me to my death with ghastly smiles on their lips!
LOUIS. Do yolt believe in God'
TURELuRE. I do! I do! I'm the only one who does be-
lieve; and your beastly unbelief disgusts me. You don't
understand a man of the old school. I believe in God with all
my heart and soul. I'm a good Catholic, just as Voltaire
was. No, No! I'm not joking. Oh, my boy, my boy, don't
kill me! Don't kill me, my child!
LOUIS (levelmg both pistoLs at hill father). The money.
TURELURE (his teeth chattering, bitt stut tryilng to put on a
bold face). I can't! I can't give it to you. Don't kill me!
LoUIS. The money, you thief!
TURELURE. Never!
LoUIS. Give me my money, you truef! My money, my
money, you robber! Give me the ten thousand francs, you
dirty thief! (TuRELURE makes a negative gesture. LoUIS
shoots bot). pistoLs at once. Both misfire. For a
TURELURE stays ,notionless with starilng eyes; then Ms ,aw
drops and he collapses on the arm of the chair. After.a
mome"t, LOUIS goes over to hi"., opens hiSl coat, feeLs hlS
heart, searches througJo his pockets, takes the money, and
settles the body i .. a sitting position i .. the chair. He stands
with folded arms looking at the old .nan.. LUlIflR e .. ters.)
LUMm. Everything was quiet. .. I couldn't hear anything
... So I came in ...
LoUIS. Were you listening outside the door f
LUllIR. Yes. Almost in _ Did..you ... shoot?
UIS. Yes. Both istols at once.
UMIB.- Wellt ..
[128]
I
LoUIS. oth misfired.
LUMlR. But your ... ?
LOUIS. . . .1s dead. dead just the same. He'M
dead enougn:., ...L!!lisera Ie OTaneart stopped beating.
LUMIR. loon 't understand; the priming was fresh, and
the powder was dry. I know how to load a pistol.
LOUIS. You p]'obably forgot to blow through the vent.
LUMIB. Did you take the mone): from bjm'
LOUIS. I have jt. (Qivi1'g her some money.) Here are ten
thousand francs. No need of a receipt between us.
LUMIR. Louis! What can I say to. you?
LoUIS. I've killed my father.
LeMIR. You killed him. That's as it should be. Yo.u had
no. choice.
LoUIS. I had to. I was not free to choo.se.
. LUMIR. I swear to you that the money was mine, that he
did not have the right to keep it, and that I was not free to.
let him keep it.
LoUIS. The only thing to do is not to. think about it any
more.
LU.Mm .. See ho.W yello.w he is! Oh, see! He's looking at
us WIth hiS old red eyes!
LOUIS. Ne,:er .. Don't be afraid. He can't hurt yo.u.
ft
e
o.ld IS mce and guiet now. I never in all my
I e saw hun loo.k so respectable.
LUMIR. Louis!
ov!':U;' D? you I'm sorry for what I've done' It's
It's . \I here s nothmg more to. do except no.t think about it.
a over. I had no c1lOice!
LUMIR D'd
Lo
. ) you shoot both pistols at once f
DIs. Yes I don't lik h If
Co.unt 'ou e a -way measures. Now then
COUllt/ th; money. I to make sure of something.
rod of on .. Wh./e she is counting he takes the ram-
smaller 1 and sticks it down the barrel of the
and hOlds it: ). u et drops onto the table. He picks it up
Io.aded too 1 "( fingers.) Lumir! The little pistol was
laughs.)' e turns toward him, looks at him, and
CURTAIN
[129]
ACT III.
SCENE
The same "oom as in Acts I and II. As the curtwiln rises
SICHEL and LUMIR (now d"essed in a woman's clothes) are
each seated at separate W"iting as LOUIS dictates to
them. He paces to and fro. At another between. the t.wo
women, sits the lawyer, MORTDEFROID, half h,dden behmd piles
of papers, account books and documents of all sorts. LoUts
dictates and talks to all three at once.
Two days have elapsed since Act II.
LOUIS. Now, then, Sichel, be carefu!. Let's. have your
best copperplate writing; and don't spot! that mce sheet of
paper with a fine gold edge. It's the last one I be
very carefrtl, my girl. Are you Very then, III go
on: "In tlus moment of deep affiIctlOn, I mWlh com-
forI. .. " (To LUMIB.) Are you ready, Lu=' Keller,
f ik "(To SICHEL.) That's my friend out there. He s 11
(To LUMIR. ) "Dear Old Man; I a
draft on Dumont, & Co., for two t!lousand
With the proceeds you WIll make the followmg payu;, (T
Paragraph. "Note due June 30, one . thousand .francs. 0
SICHEL.) ". _ . much comfort fr?m the of
and confidence wlucb Your MaJesty has contmue h dred
LUMIB.) " ... June 30, one thousand. francs. fifty
days' labor at two francs and a half each, tw f miscel-
francs; Lapara's bill, three hundrTed seighty ) to show
. .v "( a ICHEL. . ..
laneous Items, as necessal J. .t"
f h
"(T LUMIR) "Total the 1 ems . . -
to my at er_ . . .0 1 t K II have so much money.
LUMIR. It's a mistake to e e er
He'll drink it all up. . d ink m health. I don't lose a
LOUIS. Oh, weI!, let k I I ,,:r ,thing as it should be,
father every day III the" ee. s e )
Mr. Mortdefroid T tt t straighten things out,
MOBTDEFRom. It's no easy rna er 0
or to know just where st;:rds:o
u
so early, but I
LOUIS. Forgive me for sending f ) I is to be at half-
don't like to have things dr:ag. The. in the church anY
past ten sharp. The bells Will start Sichel. .. "Please
minute now. (Tu1'ning to SICHEL.) G . dear Mr. Secretary,
accept my kindest personal regards, m)
[130]
and I hope you wiLl express to His Majesty, on my be-
half ... " (To LUMIR.) "As to that Maltese fellow who's an:'
noying us ... " (To SICHEL.) " ... the deep gratitude and pro-
found respect which His Majesty's humble servant"-Skip
a line. (To LUMIR.) " ... if you can't get rid of hinl before I
get back. .. " (To SICHEL.) " ... His Majesty's ... "
SICHEL. You've repeated "His Majesty" twice ...
LOUIS. Never mind. He'll like it aU the better. (He throws
a kiss towat'd the pMtrait of KING LOUIS-PHILIPPE) (1'0
SICHEL.) " ... His Majesty's .. "- Skip two lines, and then'
write in small letters : (To LUMIR.) " ... I'll think you worse
than worthless ... " (To SICHEL.) " ... very humble and obe-
dient servant. .. " (To LUMIR.) .' ... 1>ly father's dead, and
I have the cash to meet the note. I'll be there by the twen-
tieth." Now read what I've dictated. (To the la';'yer.) Well,
Mr. Mortdefroid'
MORTDE.'ROlD. I can't say the situation look' very rosy;
but, then again, it is very confused. The late Count appears
to have had a passion for business and speculation, of which
he doesn't seem to have known even the elements. He was as
snspicious as an old man, but sinrple and trnsting as a little
child. He seems to have been forever laying out line' and
then getting himself all tangled up in them. A regrtlar soldier
he was in business matters. And the worst of it is, there's
a panic on 'Change.
LoUIS (speaking through his noSe and 1IIaki"g fUll of MORT-
DEFROlD). Well, then, suppose we put on one side of the
ledger this general discharge and release from all obliga-
tions, debts, commitments, contigent liabilitie, participa-
tions and guarantees of all kinds, which my father obtained
from the father of Miss Habenicht here on the ,'ery day of
his death ...
SICHEL. And also the sum of twentv thousand francs in
cash which my father paid over to him: ..
LoUIS. . .. which sum I found on his person, and of which
I took possession, being in great need of just that amount. ..
MORTD.EFRolD. If, I say, we et up this release ... That was
a happy thought of his! It seems ahno t as if the poor Count
had had a presentiment that he was going to die. Think of
it, on the very day of hi death! Apparently he wanted to
have his affaifs in perfect order_ ..
{131l
LoUIS. . .. And if on the other side of the balance sheet
we set up tbis sort of obligation of three hundred thousand
francs, payable in two installments, six months apart, which
my father aforesaid, and on the same day, executed in favor
of the aforesaid father of Miss Habenichts, why then ...
. MORTDE>'ROID. I think we should strike a balance. Three
hundred thousand is just about the total of your assets, and
that cleans up the situation.
Loms. All square, and an even balance! It's just as I
expected, and quite satisfactory. (To SICHEL.) Congratula-
tions, Miss Habenichts. Let me have all the papers to sign.
(He signs the letters as LUMIR and SICHEL give them to him.)
MORTDEFROID. Of course, one might bring up various allega-
tions. Certain things are rather suspicious; such as falsified
accounts, ant.edated documents. It's easy enough to make
out a case of sorts. The correspondence is full of contradic-
tions. It's all very well to make allegations, bnt its quite
another story to prove your case!
LoUIS. No proofs; no lawsuits, Mr. Mortdefroid I I in-
struct yon to sell everything, and to wind up the whole
matter. (To S,CHEL.) We shall hono)' our signature. (To
MORTDEFRolD.) It's a nice piece of business for your office.
MORTDEFROID. Can I be of any further assistance to you'
LoUIS. We'll talk things over again after the funeral, if
that's agreeable to you.
MORTDEFROlD. At your service, my lord. (He goes 01lt.)
LoUIS to SICHEL}. My father left you a handsome dowryJ
Miss HabemCht .
SICiiEL.' ou have already.bad your share of the 'pro ert)'.
LoUIS. You're uite right. Twenty thousand francs at a
crucial moment, and the whole of Aflica thrown in!
SICHEL. To say nothing of your fiancee ...
Loms. To say nothing of my fiancee. Thunder! I'd for-
gotten all about that. Yes, there are good times ahead for
all of us. And now to business. Is your father awake'
SICHEL. I don't know; I tbink he had a bad night.
Loms. Not awake yetf Well, he must get up. All hands
on deck. I'll need him here in an hour. Give him these funeral
notices from me. Tell bim to amuse himself addressing tbelD
while he's waiting. Here's the list of names. D'you under-
stand' (He hands her the papers. She goes out.)
[132)
LUMIR (laying down her pen). There are tbings I don't
understand.
LOUIS. Things you don't understand! What don't you
understand, sweetheart' .
LUMIR. Your father wa, afraid of you. Why did he agree
to seeing you alone! , .
LOUIS. He had nO choice and-he couldn t resist the temp-
tation! He thought it would be iuteresting to have a heart-
tooheart talk with me' he wanted to see me down and out and
begging. Besides, h; despised me. The idea. of facing me,
with aU that money in his pocket to keep hiS heart warm,
appealed to binI.
LUMIR. Why did he sign the note for three hundred thou-
sand francs' .
LOUIS. That's simple enough. WI,y should he be of
Ali' Each had so many strings round the other fellow S
that neither dared move. It was a sort of Ill-
surance policy. He wanted us to be fond. of hllll for bimseU.
But he couldn't bring bimself to part that. last twenty
thousand francs, could he' His courage faIled him therel
LUMIR. Sichel planned it all.
LOUIS. It does her credit. .
LU'lIR. He must have thought that if he left her bis pro-
perty. . . . ht h . his
LOUIS. . .. It would remove all interest I nug ave III
death, on the one hand. ..
LUMIR. . .. And, on the other hand, when he came to
die... t h I
LOUIS. It would be an inducement for me 0 marry er.
It'8 just the sort of joke he loved.
LUlIlIB. But you don't love her; Louis' Tell me you don't
love her! 1 I (H
Loms. Of course I do, Contessina! And no one e se e
kisses her.) How fresh your cheeks are, and your han?s
are like ice. (He make - a move as though to k,,!s her aga .....
She draws back sligMly !Cith a gesll,re of rePlilswlh) Am I
reJm.lsiYe..io-fOu f f th '
' LuMIR. t seemed as thouO'h I could see_ ),out-
a
er s
cruel ra Eacious face! The snnp e and wicked face of the o.ld
No, you'r;the same that you always were; the same
that you were ... before ...
[133]
LOUIS. Please, Lm;nir! 1 beg you not to mention the old
gentleman to me agam! 1 know I killed him. 1 kiJled my
.. As far as it lay within my power to do so, I killed
him. 1 Intended to. And.l know that to get rid of the painful
to face, each mght, a repetition of the act, and to
rehve In dreams the scene ... It's a matter of will-power and
patience and time.
LUMlR. What are your plans'
I'm going back to Algiers as soon as possible. I'll
start Just as soon as the estate is settled. Then everything
will be left in the hands of that couple of ...
LUMIR. Aren't you sorry'
LoUIS. Sorry' IT Why, it's a relief to have them have
the whole damn property!
LUMIR. And nothing has happened'
LoUIS. Nothing has happened.
LUMIR. Do you want to go back to Algiers with me'
LoUIS. With you, yes. If you want to. (She looks down;
laughs softly and shakes her head.)
LoUIS. You won't go back with me!
LUMIR. No.
LoUIS. You want to go to Poland, don't you'
LUMIR (hall aloud, as though) talking to herself). Yes ...
to Poland ... 1 want to start... .
LoUIS. You never had any intention of going back WIth
meT Tell me, honestly. (She shakes her head; a short pause.)
LoUIS. What is there draws you back to Polandl .
LUMIR (vaguely; as if thinking of sOllie thing else). A SIck
relative ha sent for me.
LoUIS. Why do you try to lie to me!
LUMIR. Why dQ you ask questions' (.4 considerable
pause.)
LoUIS. Lumir I What's the trouble' . n't
LuM11l. Oh what a horrihle place I The ackramd hhauss el
, k And th t empty rans e 0
stopped for a wee . 18 grea , 'L k at that blank
A house without a master; a dead 00 me one to
wall' See the Christ on the floor, waItIng for ars that
eartY it away! And to think for yell;;t
an
Anrnow it's
was the only joy, the only. hope 0 huma;or otten. And in
on the floor; leaning ag.amsih that shin.ing
the place of Jesus ChrlSt, a
[134]
cllromo of an old man with pink cheeks and a wig - nothing
but cheeks and a wig! Oh, I'm so lonely! 0 lonely here!
My God, how lonely 1 am in this house where 1 feel I'm
nothing but a stranger! The very walls, everythlng about me
is antagonistic. I don't belong here. Even the furniture looks
at me, and cries ont that I'm an alien I
LoUIS. Come with me. Come back with me to the life
that's real.
LUMIR. Nothing is real. Life isn't real. I'm awake now,
even if it's only for a passing moment; 1 can ee.
. LoUIS. No; life is here. Life is and so are aU the
many things we can do with life. All the things that only
wait for us to make them live. The past is dead, and the path
of life stretches out before us!
LUMlR. An alien land has no chann for me.
LoUIS. What we have ourselves made is not alien to us.
. LUMIR. Whatever 1 have done, I did from loyalty; only
from loyalty to my father and to my brother. are dead,
and it was my duty to recover that money. And now I'm
free I I have no ties; and 1 am alone in this wide world.
Yes, alone; wholly, absolntely alone I
LoUIS (bitterly). Onr country lies yonder.
. LUMIR. Alone; withont father; witllOut country; withont
God; or tie., or wealth. or future, or love. And about me,
nothing but the never-ending rain, or else a pale, pale sun;
yes, paler and more awful than death! And on all sid s 1 see
nothing but faces as as sand-a people of futile
shadow.! The continuous Bow of people, not of whom
knows me; and alway tl,e never-ending sound of eonntless
lips that chatter, chatter, chatter "enseles Iy in a strange
tongue!
LoUIS. Lnmir, 1 loved you in the old days; and !mew
it; I know vou knew It! -
LUlIUR a faint smile). In the old daybT
Loms. And 1 still love you ...
LUMIR. Oh no, yon dont! Yon don't )o,e me now, and I
have gone from yon. Yon will need your whole heart and
sonl to dream of what you did day before ye>terday!
LoUIS. I shall need it to dream of you. Lnmir.
LUlIIllI (put out her alld tOlJches]"""). You're righl
[1351
Ah, my poor friend; my brotuer! How my heart aches for
you I .
LOUIS. Is it because you loved me, that you led \lie into
this pit-fall!
LUMIR. Are you talking of the .lie I told you' The little
lie I told you about the first pistol, which was loaded with a
bullet after alIT Is that it!
LOUIS. You wanted to be sure of my father's death, au,i
you wanted to make me a criminal who would be sure of the
gallows!
LUMIR.
I'm younger than you; I have a right to what is
mine.
LOUIS. Did you want to kill me!
LUMIB. Do you suppose I was going to let that otuer
woman have you'
LoUIS. I don't Illl!rry Sichel.
UMIR. t Isn't wha you want, but what she wants, that
counts lJJll'i: She has all the money. -
LoUIS. Wbat oesInoney mattert
LUMlR. Much. You and I have seen too hard times not to
know the value of money.
L!'UIS. I've paid..you back--the-money I owed-you.
LUMlR. Yes Yon and I are square. Eacb of us is square
willi fIle otber.
LOUIS. ou made me commit this crime, and now you
desert
LUMTR. - No ... that's not true. You can come with me to
!he,,! I am going.
LOUIS. ou 'now I can't. All the things I ha"e begun tie
me down. I can't leave my work.
LUMIB (softly). Is it such a sad thing to have me go?
LOUIS. No, it's not sad.
LUMIR. You say it's not sadT Come don't try to deceive
me! I can see into those child's eyes of yours that I am so
fond of! And I can see that look that moves me so deeply,
and that unhappy little smile of yours. Yes, I see it all.
LOUIS. Oh, I suppose I can live through that, too!
LUMlR. Tell me, Louis: does life mean so very much to
you without meT
LoUIS. It's hard to stand here and have a scrap of a woo
[136J
man talk to me this way! A scrap of a woman I conld pick
up and break in two! And yet, you know I'm stronger than
you. Then why won't you do what I want you toT Why can't
I make yon' It isn't fair.
L-rrMIR. No. I'm not going back witb you.
LOUIS. Oh, Lumir, there's so mucb for us to live for!
LUMIR. No, there's not so much for us to live for.
LOUIS (tenderly). Then stay here. I can't get on without
you.
LmlIR (with Budde" and growing passion), I s tbat truef
Can't you li,'e without meT Say it again. Is it true that your
life isn't worth anytbing to you without meT Really T All,
it's a very little thing to say, but in it lies every bit of hap-
piness and of joy tbat could ever come to me! .A short-lived
happiness!
LOUIS. It can be long, very long. if you "ish to make it so.
LUMIR. I'm not very beautiful; if I were, life might be
worth living. I don't know how to dress. I have none of a
woman's acts. You see, I've always lived like a boy, and
among men. Look at these clothes, tbrown on to me any old
way 1 Look at me!
LOUIS. I like you that way.
LUMIR. And yet I'm not wholly unattractive. I'd like to
have you see me in a beautiful dress-just once---a beautiful,
red dress-all red.
LOUIS. I love you jllst as you are, ",oj kotku!
LuMIR. Oh, well! There are a thousand women like me.
For me life isn't worth living.
LoUIS. And for me, there's only one woman!
LUMIR. Is it really true that there's ouly one woman for
you! Yes, I know that it's true. Say what you want to!
There's something in you now - at this moment - that un-
derstands me I Something that makes you my brother! It's
a tearing away, an utter weariness, a void which nothing can
fill ! You are no one. and no one is like you. You are you,
unique, alone! And no matter how long you may live, the
time will nevPI' come when You could have done otherwise
than as you did! (ver-y SOftly') You parricide' We're alone;
wholly, completely alone in this desert. Two souls
knocking about in tbe void of life! Two souls which be-
long to each other. Two souls which. in the space of a rngle
(137J
second, like the thundering report of time that is annihilated,
can, through each other and to each other, he all things! How
sweet it is to live without looking ahead. If life were only
longer! It might he worth while to be happy. But life is short;
and there are ways of" making it shorter yet! Yes, so short
that all eternity can he contained therein!
LOUIS. Eternity means nothing to me.
LUMIR. Yes! So short that all eternity can he contained
therein! So short that this world, this life which we scorn
and do not want, could be hidden away in it. This happiness
on which people lay such stress! Ah, life could be so small
and tight and narrow and brief that there would be no room
in it for anything or anyone-except you and me. J ust we
two! What is your Mitidja T What does it amount to I A
harvest which returns to the dust, and leaves behind only a
little gold in your hand! What are all these things! Things
with which we are out of perspective I Come with me! Come
and be my strength and my might! I will be your conntry
close held in your arms. To you I will be happiness foregone,
the land of Dr, the old, old power of Consolation. You and I
only exist; only you and I live in this world, and there will,
throughout all time, be only this moment when we stood face
to face-and saw! And we shall be able to understand-then
-ven that mystery which lies hidden deep within us. Come!
There are ways of drawing our souls out of ourselves, as one
draw a flashing sword-loyal, clean, and with honor un-
smrrched. Y there is a way to break the chain, to batter
down the prison wall. And there's a way of pledging one's
oath and of sacrificing oneself heart and soul to the other-
t.he only other! We can do it like brave men! We can I In spite
of tile horrible night, and the rain, and the awful emptiness
,,:hl.ch surrounds us. Oh, it can be done! There's a way of
glVJDg all of oneself, and having faith, true faith, in the other.
:r'here's a way of so giving oneself that, helieving implicitly
1D the flash of inspiration each shall belon" to the other and
to him alone. ' '"
LoUIS. What do vou want me to do!
LUMIR. I want to come with me where I am going.
LoUIS. To Poland!
LUMIR. Yes! To Poland, and far beyond Poland. To the
[138)
I
Land of Sorrow; to Dr of the Chaldees; to the fountain-head
of tears; t.o the heart of her who is your beart. I want you
to come wlth me to that land of mine, which is nearer, much
nearer, than Poland.
. Loms. No, Lumir; I wi1l not go. (A long silence.)
LUMIR (coldly). Very well. Marry your father's mistress!
LOUIS. DQ you insist T
LUMIR. Haven't you wronged her! Haven't you deprived
her of Turelure, whom she had a right to keep! Yes but
, '
you re a Turelure, too. Oh, I know you! You're a Turelure.
You're a true Frenchman-and what Frenchman can get on
without a woman T
LoUIS. I can get along witbout you.
LUMTR. She's in love witb you! Ha! That makes you grit
your teeth! Ha! Ha!
LOUlS. It's not the pleasantest thing to listen to!
LUMIR. She's in love with you! When you look at her,
she responds and she quivers like a violin string. I could see!
Her bUICk eyes will burn into you, and she will fasten herself
to you like a leech, and will grow onto you like. ivy onto the
trunk of an old oak tree!
LoUIS. Be that as lllay be. I 'm still the stronger of the
two.
LUMIR. Then be happy!
LoUIS. Oh, happy-unhappy-what's the odds !
LUMllI. Good-bye-Brother!
LoUIS. Don't smile at me that way- that smile that makes
a man loathe and despise life!
LUMlR. Go on li\>ing. I don't want rou.
LoUIS. Do you expect to !he Sa\>ior of Poland !
LUMIR. It's the jibe you fline .. my teeth - all of you!
AIi, Sichel, your father and all the other Jews!
LoUIS. You can't rejuvenate Poland all by yourself.
LUMIR. No. I know I can't-not alone. (She looks at the
Crucifix.)
LoUIS. If there were a God, I suppose He could save Po-
land.
LUMlR. It isn't a question of saving Poland.
LoUIS. What is H, then T
(139)
LUMm. It's a question of getting away from TUl'elure
and all that belonged to him. '
LOUIS. That's right! Blame it all on God. Let Poland
.one more !njustice done her I (A pause.) Stop pro-
sCrIptIon for a .time! Let the executioners go back to work.
Yes, the executIoners of Poland! ... Haven't you anything
to sayT (A' pause.)
Lu.uB. That's what you French say.
LOUIS. But why go thereT So far away'
LUMm. I'm "'oin t(} the onl country in this whole wide
wor W C I IS m . own! I have no_othe!,..!t 'uhe only spot
where I do not feel myself an alien. I'm going., to mine own
people, to my hr?thers m ar ess. 11.ugoing to people,,!'ho
liave lieen despoile? of everything they had - everything ex-
cept 10,e--love whicll can be "iven and taken between human
beings. I'm going to mme own people in their utter darkness.
And I. shall to them the love which you scorned, that
thmg which above all else was essential to your life, and
winch you forbade me to give you! That I will take to them I
I like. a prisoner bound hand and foot, whose lips are
seeking hiS brother in the night! Yes, seeking for a human
face to whom he can give, with whom he can share the crust
of bread he holds between his teeth! If I live, I cannot be-
long. to all men; but if I die, then I am all to all, and aU are
one m me.
LoUIS. The people who sent for you are crazy!
Lu:"m. Yes, I, too, think them mad. Poor brothers! What
does It matter'
LoUIS. And even if I had married you I suppose you'd
have left me just the same--Ieft me to go'to people you've
never even seen T
LUMm. I should.
. Then it seems to me I'm doing the sensible thing
m letting you go.
LUMm. No, dear Brothel', not though your life were to be
a thousand years long! Never again shall you have the
cha f" .
nee 0 gIvmg your life in exchange for a life freelv of-
fered. .
LoUIS. I'd rather live.
LUMrB. And I'd rather die! Yes, I'd rather die a vulgar,
[140]
ignoble death, led out between two officials, grumbling blL
cause they had to get up early! With a lantern for light in
a night of rain such as there are in that land; a rain that
falls in sheets, steadily and hopelessly! Oh, it's only a young
girl about to be bung from an iron rod between two prison
walls! - Good-bye!
LOUIS. Good-bye. There is no hope.
LmIlR. Good-bye. Nowhere under the sky or on this world
is there any hope! (She goes 011t. SICHEL enters.)
SICHEL. Here are your papers. Father will be here di-
rectly.
LOUIS. I'm obliged to you.
S'CHEL. Louis! I know you are angry. I am sure you
think that in some way or other I managed to get your for-
tune into my hands.
LocIS. :Keep it - and good riddance! I'm sick to death
of this country!
SICHEL. Louis. I swear to you that I haven't done you
the wrong you think. Those three hundred
are the exact amount vour father owed us-that IS, If you
include the twenty francs which you h.ave
received, and throw in Coufontaine. The total wIll be WIthin
thirty or forty thousand francs, one way or the other. It was
your father who insisted on round figures. I'm tell1ng yon
the exact truth. . . Do you think the price too high for my
years of slaverv T
LOUIS. I'm not in the least angry with you.
SICHEL. No. And it's like you; why should you be angry T
It 's my future that's ruined; it's Illy protector who's
It's I who am dishonored. I suppose you're not angry WIth
me for that, eitherT
LoUIS. It isn't I who killed my father. (A pa1tse.)
SICHEL. It isn't you who killed your fatherT No ...
haps not. You didn' t have to touch him. I suppose the .fught
was enough. What are yeu looking at down there m
courtyard' You might at least look at me when I'm talking
, . .
LoUIS. I'm watching for some one who s Just leavmg.
SICHEL. Who T
LoUIS. Countess Lumir.
SICHEL. Is Lumir goingT
[141]
LoUIS. Yes, she's going. And I don't think she'll comEr
back---<lver. (A pause.)
SICHEL. J..Jouis; I'ln so sorrv!
Lours. Thanks. .
SICHEL. I should have stayed, if I'd been she.
Lours. Undoubtedly!
I koow it's very interesting - what you see down
there III the courtyard - but I have a paper here which is
worth a moment's notice.
What is itT (She hOI/Ids him a paper.) I see. My
father s note and assignment. (He tries to hand it back to
her.) I've already seen it.
the paper he holds toward her). I give
yon. m} oath; thIS IS the one and only original. There are no
copIes.
LOUIS. Take it.
SICHEL. I had a good deal of trouble to get it from my
father.
LOUIS. Take it. (He flips the paper into the ai1.)
SICHEL (catching it as it falls). The world will say I robbed
you!
Lours. Coufontaine and the Dormant properties ought to
help console you!
SICHEL. So you accuse me, toof
Lours. Never mind! I'll send you some dates at New
Year's!
SICHEL. I'm a Jewess, am I nott And there is nothing I
ca.re for but money, is thereT Well. then, see what I do with
thIS money. lShe tears the a eri'lto several .1!.ieces. A long
pause. Both lOok at each other earnestly and in silence. Nei-
ther one 1Il0v.es. ) Them I'v given.yolL back eve enny.
Yes, every penny of yours, and of ours, too. Now.. you see
w a e cnpi i 0 ;is!
.urs. Sichel! my girl; what you've' done wasn't half
stupId! Not a bIt of it! .
SICHEL. Clever, wasn't it! I rob my father; I take
last penny, and I leave myself entirely at your mercy. I sup-
pose you think that clever of me!
. Loms. What an infernal pity that my father should have
died! (Sound of carriage wheels in the courtyard. LOUIS
[142]
goes to the window, and stands for some time leaning against
the side of the window and looking out.)
SICHEL. I don't follow; why are you sorry'
LoUIS. Yes, it's a pity. Now I have no one to make the
customary overtures to your family!
SICHEL. What overtures'
Lours. Must I explain f The situation is one usually ad-
mitted to be embarrassing for young people who have been
properly brought up.
SrcllleL. I don't understand you. Wb.at situation T
LOUTS. You don't really believe that I wQ.llld accept such
a gift from Oll do 'YOU t You on't' . 'd take your
money! The money's "yours; you ve earned it and, further-
more, myJather wished youJ&.J!ave It._yOU must see a I
have a certain responsibility in the matter. Oh yes, I'm
afraid I have! And all the more since an unfortunate occur-
rence has deprived you of your protector! I know I didn't
do quite the right tbing toward the deceased, and s.o, aU the
more, I must carry out his wishes. And so-I am qUIte ready.
as a man of honor, to make'good your loss.
SICHEL. What are you driving at T
LoUIS. tbe honor to_ask you to
Ina!'r . lne!
ICHEL. Louis - I should say Captain ... if you're mak-
ing fun of me! (She stammers.) Cap ... I mean Count ...
mv lord ...
LOUIS. You mean you'll make me pay for my jokeT what
you're trying to say: isn't it!
SICHEL. No, I'm not threatening you.
LOUIS. And I'm not joking.
SICHEL. But Louis, think of the scandal there would be
if you married me.
LOUIS. It doesn't frighten me. In fact, I think it would
be rather funny.
SICHEL. But your father ...
LOUIS. Nothing would give my father more
Don't you see that it creates another bond between ID:m and
me beside that of blood t The heritage and the heredity are
Nothing is lacking. Yes, it is the same man who
lives on and on !
[143]
SICHEL. Then am I to understand that YOU are serious ill
asking me to many you 1 -
LOUIS. Yes, the idea suddenly came into my head.
SICHEL. Suppose I refuse T
LoUIS. You won't refuse! For it must be. Mekhtoub! It
is preordained. We're made for each other. It's all as clear
as if written out on legal paper!
SICHEL Do you think 1 was trying to aCj)omplish this by
tearing up that paper!
LOUIS. I hayen't a doubt of it!
S'CHEL. Well, what if I diM
LoUIS. It would prove how well you know me!
S,CHEL. It would prove how much I love you!
Lours. It merely goes to prove that you want me and my
name and my future and-my fortune!
EVeIything. After all, why should I hate any
thlDg that to you 1 Yes, I want everything-all to-
gether. It will all be mine, and I know how to use it. What
could she have done with it, that absurd little Polish girl of
yours! 'l'hat bit of glowing ice! See how she dropped you!
Oh, I know! I'm a J <,wess and I've planned it all out, just
how to. snare you. Haven't IT You poor, innocent thing!
Y.ou thlDk I arranged each detail long ago--And suppose I
dId. what of itT Have I so manv friends or resources or
weapons on which I can count1 "No one but myself; just
myself-and rm a J ewess! And still that millstone hangs
about our necks and still the curse of the world confronts
us like a jaw set against us; a jaw we must pry open! Re-
member for how many centuries we have been cut off from
humanity. Remember for how many hundred of years we
have. been set apart as a miser sets his gold apart in one side
of h,S purse. When the door is opened, so much the worse
for those that let us loose! So much the worse for you, my
handsome Captain! I love you, and I'll soon sho,,' you t1,at
I am the daughter of Hunger and of Thirst! Oh, but you're
handsome, and we Jews are not spoiled! At last the door is
open! I deuy my race; I deny my blood; I loathe and curse
pas.t; yes, I trample it under my feet, I dance on it, 1
SPit at It! Thy people shall be my people and thy God shall
be my God! To think that I shall be you; wife, oh, my beau-
[l44J
tiful Captain! Wait, and you'll see how useful I shall be to
hl
Be quiet, you J ewess! Don't lick J?lY e
one of those dreadful, affectionate and fawmng lit.tle laP
d
dogs I J'm marrying you because I can't do an
I am not afraid of you. You have drawn agamst me
with my father's letter of credit. Very well; I'll honor
draft. I have no choice! I'll accept the legacy, part
parcel. I repudiate nothing, but - I'll be the one who laug s
in the end.
SICHEL. That's right, insult me!
LOUIS. We might as well define the situation at the outse\
SICHEL. Go on, insult me; trample me under your fee!;
That' s all I expect from you. Insult me aU you -:vant; b
remember that for ages past Israel has swallowed .msults a.
they swallowed water. Water, did I say' No, not hke
llke a strong wine a wine that warms the blood and goes 0
one's head Insult'me as much as you please. I shall be your
wife just the same; and I shall have a child from you; a
child that will be part of my race and part of my blood.
LoUIS. Look me in the eyes. .
SICHEL. There! I'm looking. . .
Lours. No, you're not; you're smilmg.
SICHEL. There, then! . . re blush-
Lours. You're not looking me m the N
d d
t ' to aVOId nune. ever
ing and your eyes wan er an 1) I
I'm the master, and my will is
SICHEL Don't yon suppose I can rea w a
eyes. has happened since the other day, and your
eyes have changed; they're not the same.
LoUIS. Nothing has happened. . . tl> her
SICHEL (in- a low voice. Sh<J her Wt
tongue.) Nothing? Didn't you kIll your father.
LoUIS. I did not kill my father. k B t
SICHEL I ask no questions. I don't have ;0.
your are not the eyes of a man whose sou, IS a .
LoUIS. Who needs a soul; who needs peace find no ODe
SICHEL If your soul is not at peace, you'll, eed
. th II Y u're right there s no n
better able to help you ll:n . be too absurdly easy for
of peace. If there were, It won .
1145J
these corpses around us. They could forever prevent us from
living; but they shan't. Just as you wouldn't let your father
dominate you-just so we shall not be dominated by these
bogies. Just as you know Africa; I know society. I know it
as one knows a map one has studied carefully, where every
river, every road, every hiLl is clearly shown. You and I were
born to rule and to lay down the law to others. The tie that
bound us to society is broken; so much the worse for society;
for on society shall we live!
LoUIS. I shall still have Siche.! Habenichts.
SICHEL. Yes, you will have Sichel Habenichts aud I shall
have a - parricide. Never fear! Your secret is not so deep
or so firmly locked that you wiLl not find me in it with you,
sharing it with you, and with you a part of it. A father's
blood is on your head, and on mine is the blood-yes, of
other father! The sin and the unhappiness in our hearts IS
great enough to take the place of love, and to make love. How
I'll teach vou to know me! And, Louis, never will you hate
me! In with me, your soul is pure and untaiuted
-and you are strong, and you are fine ... ... how 1
love you! Wait, and I'll teach you to know Pans as I know
it!
Lours. I shan't go to Paris. ..
SICHEL. You don't intend to live on in tillS ... this hole!
LOUIS. I do. h ,
SICHEL. What could you do with me in a place like t IS.
LOUIS. The best I can; but you'll have to toe the mark ..
SICHEL. We might go into politics, and represent the dis
trict.
LOUIS. I must see your father.
SICHEL. I told you he was coming directly.
LOUIS. What will he have to say about the way you've
served his interests! ,
SICHEL. We both know how to manage our parents. d
LOUIS I was looking over this matter of the purchase an
sale of the Dormant estate in my father's Appar-
ently it never went beyond a twenty
SICHEL. It was completed, lfi. spIte 0 bind the bar.
thousand francs which your father to
gain. That was the money you found on hIS body.
[146]
LOUIS. I think the price named is too low.
SICHEL. The property is nothing but a few worthless fields
and a tumble-down house.
LOUIS. Yes, but the location is excellent.
SICHEL. Listen, Louis. Sell him the Dormant estate. He's
set his heart on it.
LoUIS. Very well, but he's got to pay my price.
SICHEL. I'll explain it all to you. It was another one of
your father's tricks. Oil, he was full of tricks!
LOUIS. He can't have the property for less than one hun-
dred thousand francs. Dormant is an old family estate.
SICHEL. He'll pay it. But wait till I explain. The junction
of the Rheims line is not going to be at Dormant, nor are the
shops, nor the engine houses. It's all to be at Chalons. Your
father dragged the information out of the Secretary of Pub.
lic Works. It's still a great secret.
LOUIS. Oh, ho! I see!
SICHEL. And as a matter of fact, he had bought up sever-
al parcels near Chalons on his own account. He negotiated
through my uncle, who lives at Epernay. You know, the
champagne merchant, my father's brother. I have all the
papers.
LOUTS. HabenichtsT There's no one named Habenichts at
Epernay.
SICHEL. His name isn't Habenichts. His name' Dumes-
loir, Roger Dumesloir. A fine name. don't you think! (ALI
IlABENICHTS enters.)
ALI. My lord. it's an honor for me to bid you good morn-
ing.
SICHEL. Oh, father, I'm so happy' (She kisses lIim.)
ALI. What's happenedT
LOUIS. Are you wearing mourning for my father'
ALI. I thought the least I could do was to wear such
mourning as I had.
LoUIS. Never mind; don't let that disturb you!
SICHEL. Father! (She kisses him.)
ALI. My child!
LOUIS. Miss Habenichts and I , after looking at the situa-
tion from all angles, have arranged the term of a ettiement,
or perhaps I should say, of a consolidation. In other words,
(147]
she bas turned over to me my father's assignment to you,
and in return I bave agreed to marry ber.
ALI. What's that?
SICHEL. Ob, father! (She kisses him.)
Loms. Mr. Habenichts, I bave the honor to ask you for
your daugbter's band.
ALI. My lord, you undoubtedly consider you are doing me
a great honor ...
Loms. The pleasure and tbe honor are aJ.! mine, Sir I
ALI. ~ y father was a distinguished Rabbi. Do you think
he would deem it a great bonor if he knew his grand-daugh-
ter was marrying a Gentile' Do you think he would like the
idea of mixing Gentile blood with ours? What do you say,
SichelT
SICHEL. Fatber, the ties are broken.
ALI. Yes, I know. All bounds bave been done away with.
SICHEL. Tbe world is just beginning.
Loms (with. a bitter laugh). Yes, yes. Let's all faJ.! into
each other's arms!
ALI. You shall be my son. Your father was my friend;
and the ties tbat existed between your family and mine shall
be made all tbe closer by this new and gentler bond. Hence-
forth we are no longer two, but one.
LOUIS. Well said, Father of minel I can hardly wait to
be the fatber of a fine little Habenichts! On to the Confon-
taine stock we bave already grafted a Turelure, and now
bere's tbe wbole of IsraeJ about to flow through our veins I
Well, well! Tbe name's the essential. It's big enough to
cover everything.
S,CHEL. Don' t worry. I shan't disgrace it. I have brains,
you can make anytbing you want of me. And, what's more,
!'ll accept wbatever religion you prefer t
Loms. Well, then. let's say the Cath2li l!le-thi.nk.I)n
a Catholic.
SICHEL. I'm so glad. I like it best of aJ.!; it's such a pic-
turesque religion.
ALI. Listen to the girl! She's talking of religion and
Catholic as one might of a parlor or dining room, or Renais-
sance style! A lot she cares! It's all grist to her mill.
LoUIS. Then it's settled?
[148]
ALI. I'll ratify everything my daughter has done this
morning. It comes high! Never mind. It shall be her mar-
riage portion.
SICHEL. Father!
ALI. Yes, dear; I know what you refer to.
SICHEL. I've spoken to Louis about it.
ALI. Come, Sir, after all I've doue for you, I'm sure you
won't oppose me. It isn't so much that I care about that
Dorman t parcel, but I hold various options on adjoining
property, and to lose that lot would make me look like a fool.
Besides, your father promised. It was all settled and agreed
to, ouly the formal signature was lacking. You wouldn't go
back on his word, would you?
LoUIS. I haven't agreed to the sale yet.
ALI. Don't for et th rovision that if the ro er is re-
sold at an advance of more than for er cent
tgled 10 par Impate in the profit. .
LOUIS. Dormant is the cradle of mv fami!
ALI. Arid If we lUcorporate, you are to receive twenty
founders' shares.
SICHEL. You know all about it. I showed you the papers.
Do that much for my father! Please sign the deed! Please,
dear, just for my sake!
LoUIS. Oh, very well. Where's the deed'
ALI. Here ... (He. fumbles feverishty m his document
case.)
LOUIS. No h1ll'ry! By the way, Father Ali, how old are
you'
Au. Seventy, my lord.
Lours. And just as bright and cheerfu.l as ever when it
comes to business T
ALl. Oh yes, Sir, just the same. I'd like to live forever.l
What the devil have I done with the deed? (He pulls van-
ous things out of his case.) No, those are samples of ore
from the Saar. Here's the plan of the new fortifications of
Paris ... 'My contract with Blum. .. No .. that's ... (He
takes Ollt a bottle wrapped i 1 ~ a newspaper, which he tries to
hide.)
LOUIS. What's thatt
ALI. Excuse me, Sir, that's for the doctor.
[149]
Loms. A little kidney trouble, eh!
ALI. A touch of albumen. The doctors are always after
me on that score. Some of them say I'll be dead in a year.
Ho, they don't know what they're talking about! I'll show
them! Here's the deed.
Loms (reads the document and signs it. Then he slaps .ALI
on the shoulder). Well, all I can say is you've got a bargain,
and you're lucky to have me for a son-in-law. (All three
shake hands.)
LOUIS. And now there's one more thing I want to ask of
you.
ALI. Anything you please.
LOUIS (pointin to the C1ucifix). They tell me 'ou like
an lques. I wish ou'd take that atrocity jlff my_ hands..
AL,. t' thless The wind and the in have dis-
fi ured"Tt till it isn't worth a penny. . --
LotJls.Ji ther.
AL,. It 's all in heard Sir th . nother
f d it aruLstJlck iCtogether again..
Loms. Yes, she was fond of that sort of thing.
ALI. I couldn't pay anything for it.
LoUIS. It's bronze. Listen, it's as solid as a church hell.
(H e hits it with his finger. ALI hits it, too, but more timid-
ly.) Go ahead; hit it; harder! ITave you something hard in
your pockett
ALI (taking a key Ollt of his pocket) . Here's a key I found
in a pile of rubbish at Dormant.
LoUIS (takes the key and brings it down violently on the
head of the Christ). Listen to the ring.
ALI. Ye, there were lots of good bronze casters in those
days.
LOUIS. What'll you pay for itT
Au. A franc and a half a pound. That's the market
price. Noone 'II pay you a penny more.
LoUIS. Oh (lome now; it's antig.u!\ .bronze! See. (He
makes >a scratch 01' the Ch,' MiL; with. the key.)
aldn't know how to refine their metals ill those days. There. s
a hme 0 everything in it YQu may even find gold and sil-
ver.
ALI. A_franc and a half.
[150]
LoUIS-,- Make it two and a half .
. 'you two, hut it's more than it' worth. It
lsn t busmess, It s tom-foolery. Yes, you've driven me into
a Dad blggain!
Oh, well, I'll take two francs to get rid of the
atroCIty. And at that, I believe I'm getting the best of it.
CURTAIN
[151 J
The Humiliation of the Father
A Drama in Four Acts
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE POPE PIUS
THE COUNT DE COUFONTAINE, FRENCH AMBASSAl)OR TO ROM"
(formerly LOUIS TURELURE)
PlUNCE WRONSKY
ORlAN DE HOMOIMRMES
ORSO DE
SICHEL
PENSEE DE COUFONTAINE
LwyU.
The actim. takes place in Rome during the years 1869, 1870
and 1871.
ACT I
Rome. The Feast o( St. pius, lIlay 5th, 1869, UJhich is
the anniversaw of the death..9.i.Napateo:n . .Li costume ball .n
fhe_gardens ... !!.LJ/lL Vjlkz.JV...r:oJ:l.Sk,y, overlooking the whole
city. A beautif111 evening. The red aftet-glo
w
of sunset. The
foliage of the trees is very dMk. PENSEE OF
(costumed as A1dumn.). SICHEL (costumed as Night), 18 0"
the arm of PRINOE WRONSKY (costumed as the River Tiber).
PENSEE (much perturbed. ' She stands in the middle. of the
scene and as she speaks takes a step forward, thrusttng out
her arm as though about to faU). Mother, are youf
SICHEL (hastening to her). Here I am, my chIld.
[154]
PRINCE WRONSKY (coming up). Are you feeling ill I
PEN SEE. Oh, no!
SICHEL (supporting her). Just a young girl's vapors. Pen-
see! \She her on a bench.) Pray excuse us,
PrlDce; It S nothmg serIOUS, I assure yOU.
PRINCE \VRONSKY. In that case I leave Autumn in the
arms of Night: .(He goes out. A moment of silence.)
PENsr;E (ratStng her head. She smiles faintly). I must
have famted.
SICHEL. It's I, dear child! \Vby do you make me suffer
so?
PENSEE. Now l'Ye come back to life. It's nice to see the
light again.
SICHEL. It breaks my heart when you talk that way!
PEN SEE. But, perhaps if I could see, I shouldn't hear 80
well.
SICHEL. You can hear me; and you know how I love you.
PENSEE. Yes, dear mother; I know.
Slcm:L. Don't look at me that way, with those beautiful
eyes of yours.
PENSEE. A"e my eyes very beautifult
. SICHEL. Other people's eyes absorb light; yours radiate
It.
PENSEE. Do you really think that, just from looking at my
eyeR, people would know I was blind I
SICHEL. Don't say blind.
PENSEE. Can people me, just by looking at mel
SICHEL. As much of you as people's eyes can see.
PENSEE. Then mine must have an extraordinary vision.
SICHEL (patting her hand). Your eyes are blue and beauti-
ful - a pure blue, very dark, and almost black.
PENSEE. "Like grapes in their season."
SICHEL. Yes; "Like grapes in their season." Do you re-
member that I said that very thing the other dayl It was
the morning we went out together so early; when yon wanted
to touch the grapes while they were stm covered with a
sheen of the night-dew, and hiding behind their leaves which
your touch turned to gold, oh, my beautiful Autunm!
(Silence.)
PEN SEE. How sweet you are to make me understand
things! It's very sweet of you to talk to me as you would to
[I55]
a - to an aBlicted person! Blue t Do you suppose that con-
veys nothing to me!
SICHEL. I often think you know everything.
PENSEE. Blue, red, old beautiful shades of reen! Do
ou su ose t e conve' no m to a blind erson! It's all
here, WIt m us; JUs as t e world reall existed be ore it-wRs
create. 1 ill elr own lmits our poor souls have perfect
vision, and can see each color, and can distinguish the most
delicate shades. Yes, and you ought not to forbid my talking
about it.
S'CHEL. What a beautiful evenin !
hNSEE. oli Q er . y- . t as much as YO-Qrlo! A
minute ago I know it must have been the gold of sunset I felt
_ that strange sensation of solemnity, that divine warmth,
the bree.e on my face, on my whole body; I could feel its
slightest changes! Yes, it must have been the golden hour
which tells us night is nearly here! Night, for which people
long, as I long for the day! Think of the grape-vines! They
have no eyes, yet who knows the sun as they do! Aren't
these grapes which I'm wearing on my head maae of sun-
shine! What do all these people know of things! These peo
pIe who take from life only what they think necessary I
Wh.at can people see in quick glance! Just enou$h
theIr way the httl me<!x. in which they lay the!!:.
parts, and whic 1 they caIUit<:. With me it's different;
everything speaks to me; everything touches me to the quick
- like that voice I can hear over there.
SICHEL. I don't hear any voice, child.
PENSEE. You can't hear, Mother, but I can. I can hear it.
He's stopped speaking now, but I can still hear him. Just
the sound of his voice thrills me.
SICHEL. Who is it, dear!
PENSEE. It doesn't matter who it is. He has nO name. I
heard a voice that spoke - nothing more.
SICHEL. Who is it, Pensoo!
PENSKE. Why do you want to know' Even he doesn't
know anything yet. Oh, I'm so happy! Just think; he's
chosen me this evening! Without knowing it, he's chosen rue
from among all the other young girls!
S,CHEL. Was that why you felt faint a few minutes ago!
PENsEE. I lost my bearings for a moment.
[156]
SICHEL. I wasn't far away.
PEN SEE. From now on I'll feel lost everywhere except
when I'm with him.
SICHEL. It's hard for a mother to hear you say that.
PENSEE. Forgive me, Mother! I'm not quite sure what
I'm saying! And even if he were never to be mine, nothing
can ever take away the joy of knowing that I've found him!
I've found him! Yes, but will he ever be able to find me in
the darkness where I live' This joy, and the pain it brings,
both coming sO suddenly, are like a Jmjfe in my heart!
. SICHEL. He'll never love yOl) as I love you.
PENSEE. Lovel' Good Heavens! Who's talking of love'
What are you talking about T And yet. ... Yes, I love him!
He'll never know me as I am. What did I say about dark-
ness T AlI, blessed darkness in which I can hide! I'm no
longer alone in the dark; just this minute I discovered some-
thing that I'll never forget as long as I live! Come; let's
go; yes, far away! I wouldn't have my secret discovered for
the world. What possible interest could he find in a woman
who's blind! And how could I hide my shame if he were to
find me out! He'd only laugh at me. How could I bear it if
he despised me, or even if he so much as suspected my feel-
ings! Am I beautifulT You've always told me I was beauti-
ful, Mama. Am 11
S,CHEL. Too beautiful for some man not to take you away
from me.
PENSEE. An] I as beautiful as the most beautiful woman
in the world! This world I've never seen'
SICHEL. You know you are; your heart tells you so.
PEN SEE. Tell me, did you make me especially beautiful to-
night!
S,CHEL. Didn't you hear what the Prince said a littIe
while ago'
PENSEE. Did you really make me as radiant as Autumn'
The season when people say the SUll is so near to us, that
you can pick the rays in both hands, like grapes on a vine,
so heavy with fruit that it can't cling to tIle wall against
which it Ilas been trained! Autumn, which is so hot that all
the other seasons and the whole world is burned up in its
'heat! I'm like a grape-vine which is so full of fruit that the
bunches fall as soon as the hand touches them, and smother
[1571 .
,ii:
i. J.::
h
the pickers with their weight! I'm like a great branch which
a man's arms are not strong enough to support. Ah, his are
the only eyes which shall never know the full sweetness of its
fruit, for its intoxication shall close them. It isn't enough
just to grasp it, to taste and drink deep of its flowing juice!
S'CHEL. So spoke the Bride of Solomon in our Scriptures.
PENSEE. The same blood flows through my veins that flows
through yours, Mother.
SICHEL. Yes, for you, too, are a Jewess. But there's
something in you which doesn't come from our race, and
which is a constant surprise to me.
PENSEE. Does it come to me from my father'
S'CHEL. Yes. And perhaps from even farther back. You
know that this marriage of your father's and mine was -
well - a marriage of the head, rather than of the heart. It
was something new, something different, both from ourselves
and from Our people.
PENSEE. For whom we were born, not from whom we
were born, is what connts.
SICHEL. Do you know for whom you were born!
PENSEE. Yes, Mother. Now I know.
SICHEL. What makes you think he could ever love you?
PENSEE. Have vou "'uessed who he is !
SICHEL in a low voice). Orso de Homo
darmes'
PEXSEE. I don't know who Orso is.
SICHEL. The man who was talking to you a little while
ago.
PEl<SEE. I don't know. I wasn't listening.
SICHEL. But he was looking at you.
PENSEE. Yery likely. What does it matter'
SICHEL. What am i thinking of! I didn't mean Orso! 1
meant his brother, the one we went to see the other day.
Wllat's his name' It's a qUf'er name ... Orlan de Homo-
darmes ... I remember now.
PENSEE (putting he .. hand on her mother's lips). No! It's
not he.
SICHEL. Dear child! You can't hide anything from me.
PENSEE. No! It's not he!
SICHEL. I knew before you did. I knew the day we
went to see him at his house - that little old palace you
[1581
liked so much that you made us buy it. I had a presentiment,
a warning.
PENSEE. But, Mother, I didn't love him then; I hardly no-
ticed him.
SICHEL. I'm your mother, and I know e,'erything that con-
cerns you, even before you know it yourself.
PENSEE. Then why did you bring me here tonightf
SICHEL. I've already spoken about it to your father.
PENSEE. My fathed Don't you know that they're poor'
SICHEL. Yes, but they're the Pope's nephews. Orian is
his godson.
PENSEE. And you, Mother! Is that important to you'
SICHEL. Dear child, think a moment. How could he ever
fall in love with a blind woman who, furthermore, is a
JewessT
PENSEE. Even that is possible.
SICHEL. The daughter of his sworn enemy. The enemy of
the Pope - for he knows what your father is busy about
here in Rome and in Paris. .
PENSEE. You're right. No; he could never love me.
SICHEL. We've even taken his house; the roof from over
his head.
PENSEE. Poor boy!
SICHEL. Somebodv told me he was going to take orders.
PENSEE. Even so: there'd still be Orso.
SICHEL. As far as I'm concerned, I like him the better of
the two.
PENSEE. I don't.
SICHEL. How can yOU tell them apart! Their voices are
identical. I haye a m:usician's ear, but I can't tell which is
which.
PENSEE. No. Their ,"oices aren't at all similar.
SICHEL. Orso is the finer, handsomer man. He could be
made to amount to something.
PEXSEE. Very likely. Perhaps if I'd been able to see, I
might have falien in love with him instead of with his
brother.
SICHEL. I don't believe Orian's given you a thought.
PENSEE. But if he did ... '
SICHEL. We'll take pains not to see him again.
[159]
:
t
I
r
PEN SEE. It's easy for you to say that I'm not to see him
again.
SICHEL. Forgive me. ,
PENSEE. If he should think of me! But I he doesn t.
You're right. This very minute he's standmg near me -
standing there like a man who's heart-whole and fancy free.
He doesn't know that he isn't. He doesn't know that even
now I'm bound to him, whether he wants Il!e or not.
SICHEL. It's not too late to break the he.
PENSEE. If he should think of me, what could! do' How
could I escape from him' Where could I go, If he begB;"
thinking about me' Just because I'm blind won't prevent hIS
seeing the light that is denied me. I;ve no
isn't the reason he doesn't see me! And It Isn t
ilon't know what my face looks like, doesn't no::
it. Just because I'm deprived of everythmg IS no reason Y
I must forego him too. .
SICHEL. But he can very wel! do wIthout you.
PEN SEE. Who knows? . . . ou
SICHEL. You ought to be afraid ?f making h11ll pIty Y .
PEN SEE. It's for him to be afraId, not for me;oud of hav-
SICHEL. Would you expect a man to very P th h' ,
h
' him fall m love WI lID
ing a woman W 0 s never seen, t b sufficiently
PENSEE. It's for him to see, and fo
l
r
be e
able
to see
beautiful for him to see me. Then s a
through his eyes.
SICHEL. But he'll never love you. d f II in love with
PEN SEE. Do you suppose I wa!1
te
to a .
I'm the only one who loves ymJ.
"PENSEE. es, 0 er, you do. did 't know and who
SICHEL. Think of it! man you I! e I wanted
doesn't know you! Even If there were a, love with hiIn!
you to marry him, I don't now. But y?: re:e Feelings like
Oh, I can see! And what tern es .
that don't have happy endings. b d daughter' Have
PEN SEE. Oh, Mother, ha--:e I 't know what she
I been an unreasonable gIrl, w 0
wanted' od daughter' )'ou're your Mother's
SICHEL. You're a go '
joy, and ller sorrow, too.
[160]
PENSEE. Why her sorrow 1 Do you call the darkness I Jive
;n a sorrow?
SICHEL. Would to God I could take it upon myself I
PENSEE. Do you call it a sorrow' Nol No! Now I know,
for I have just learned, that it is the greatest blessing of my
life. A far greater blessing than I deserve. If I could see,
I shouldn't be as completely his! If I weren't so well con-
cealed, there'd be less happiness in having him find me.
SICHEL. The man's our enemy. I feel it. I know it. Pre-
cious little happiness ,,;]) he bring usl (Sollnd of voices out-
side.)
PENSEE (taking her mother's halld). Come, if you'd rather.
Let's go. We won't see him agajn. Come, we 'Il go now.
SICHEL. Yes, let's go. It terrifies me to have you walk
alone. Why were you so anxious not to have people know
you were blind'
PENSEE. I've only just arrived in Rome. Let people be-
lieve in me just for a few days. Has anyone noticed tonight!
SICHEL. No. one. You walk around this garden, not
perhaps as if you could see perfectly, that would be intpossi-
hIe, but as if you and' all these new places and things had
some sort of an understanding together - as if you and they
had conspired.
PENSEE. It's very sinlple. Didn't we walk about this gar-
den -yesterday, you and IT And didn't you explain everything
to me?
SICHEL. But you only came once! Was once enough'
PENSEE. Come. (They walk toward the back of the stage
slowly, talking as they go. In the mealltilne the stage fills
gradttally with the other characters.) I don't know how to
explain it to' you. I suppose it's like the gift "ome people
have of finding springs. My feet tell me where I am. And
besides tllat, the touch of things, a thousand noises, with as
many tiny variations - variations of sound whicll you can't
even hear - a thousand signal as swift as a glance - they
all tell me. 'And then my perceptions are always keen and
alert; the feeling of movements, the sense of dist:lDce and a
sharpness of wits, all tell me tllings. Bot even WIthout that,
something inside me warns me of everythmg. You see
you read; I know things and I feel things. (E"ter 'rom d'f-
jerent sides: COUFONTAINE (costumed a a glo/t-/tom,), OIl.LL"
[16]]
DE HOMODABMES (as a gardener), OBSO DE HO'lODARMES (as a
Florentine engmeer), PBIKCE WRONSKY, LADY U, (as the City
of Rome.)
COUFONTAlNE. Here he is, ladies; I'm bringing him back
to you. The traitor was trying to escape. And you, Sir, pray
what were you and your brother plotting over there under
the statue of Jupiter Tonansf
S,CHEL. Are you going already!
ORlAN. I'm on duty at the Vatican very early tomorrow
morning.
LAoY U. Please give your God-father many messages
from me.
ORlAN. Your costume is beautiful. What might my Lady
represent!
LAoY U. The City of Rome.
ORlAN. The Holy Father knows very well how dearly
Rome loves him.
COUFONTAlNE. But, my dear Sir, you really must not go.
Pensee, tell him to stay. You know my daughter, don't "you!
ORIAK. I had the pleasure of meeting her the other day.
SICHEL (to COUFONTAlNE). You remember, Louis. The day
we went to buy the palazzino.
PENSEE. Please stay.
PRINCE WRONSKY. There's nothing for you to do now but
surrender. .
ORSO. Stay, Orian. I wish you would.
ORlAN. How can I refuse! Of course I'll stay.
PRINCE WRONSKY. Thank you, Orso. (To ORIA".) Give roe
these last hours, dear boy. 'foroorrow there'll be no Villa
Wronsky and no Prince Wronsky. Tomorrow the sheriff is
coming to attach everything, and so I've asked the whole city
to spend the night with me, and to await with me the advent
of the sun and of the grim minion of the Law accompanied
by his satellites. Every Frenchman, Englishm:m, American,
Scythian, Sarma tian, living in Rome among the true descen-
dants of the She Wolf, and even the partisans of the Vatican
and of His Majesty, the King, are here. Disguised and
masked, they are spending the evening with the poor old
Prmce, and are celt'bra ting in his house and in his garden.
Everywhere you can see intrigues, love, conspiracies; and you
can hear music and peals of laughter. Fair ladies are dreami-
[162]
Iy listening to long and are winding them slow-
ly abont theIr as It were, like silk ribbons. Deep se-
crets are poppmg out like pistol-shots Th h bo I .
fI . . . . e punc - w IS
ammg ill sohtal"Y glory in my diuing room. A rocket flies
heavenwards. Somewhere I hear a lute that is being tuned.
In where the servants sharpen the knives, a lover
hiS IllS tress have sworn to part forever, and are crying
their eyes out. - And one after another, all the servants
have ope.ned the door and then shut it again quickly. They've
all about tcn times! - Under the trees there's a piano
standillg ill a of and a gentleman with flowing
mustaches, smoking a Cigar, is striking C flat with a finger
as long as a walking stick. Down below, there's a whole
mules, prancing about, jingling their bells, all
eqUIpped ,?th cloaks, baskets, lanterns and blunderbusses,
for our fnends who have come to see us from the country
a while ago there was an old fool, who stood look:
at Rome for the last time the top of his
bosco ! The City of a Hundred Domes, hidden in the dark-
ness! Only one spot glowed red like a camp-fire and in that
spot an ancient column stood out, and on the was the
statue of an Apostle.
LADY U. From now on every house in Rome will be your
house, dear Prince!
PRINCE WRONSKY. Thank you, Capitol. Come, let me kiss
you for those kind words! (He takes of! his false beard and
having hung it on a tree, makes a movement toward LA;y U.
as if to kiss her.) ,
LADy U. (laughing). Please 1 Please! Behave yourself, Sir 1
COUFONTAINE. How can the Tiber be without a beard T
SICHEL. He's taken the opportunity of shaving off his real
beard, and then he disguised himself with a false one! How
funny you look! Y onr mouth is kind, but sensual, and as
fresh as a baby's. And the upper lip is long, as if made to
playa clarinet.
LADY U. Why, now I recognize you, Princel We once
crossed on the same ship. That was in the days when I was
starring with the Trombini Company. It nsed to take forty
days to make the trip from Teneriffe to Buenos Ayres.
PRINCE WRONSKY. Cruel woman! Had you forgotten me T
Have you forgotten those glorious sunsets we watched to-
[163]
gether' Don't you remember the douds of flying fishes skim
ming about the bow of our ship, like cupids about the chariot
of Amphitrite' .
ORIAN. Everybody seems to be recognizing each other to-
nigbt. There's nothing like putting on a disguise to be sure
of being recoguized!
PRINCE WRONSKY. Do you really mean you had forgotten
me'
LADy U. Not II But why did you never remind me of
those glorious nights on the Equator'
PRINCE WRONSKY. Why' Because everything's so changed.
You're no longer the fair BetrameJli whose hand I used to
kiss, and who had a bit of the Southern Cross in each of her
black eyes. And now you're some sort of a Lady U ..
LADY U. Not a bit of it! I'm still the "Italian
as the posters on the walls of Pernambuco call.ed me .. 1 m
still the same heroine of the Thirteenth of April, friend
of Mazzini and of Garibaldi!
COUFONTAINE (pointing to ORIAN). Careful!.
ORSO. Never mind. 'fonight's a holiday for all of the
CoUFONTAlNE. Perhaps you're right. It's rather like ro-
last days of school, late in July, when no one ta;es
fessor seriously, or attention to anything. ou ee I
all over - or will be soon. tl
LADy U. (looking at ORSO). As soon as the French gen e-
men have gone. . . Wh nld
ORSO. They'll never go! They've told me so. 0 co
tear himself away from Italy? R me'
PRINCE WRONSKY (waving his hand). Farewell, dear 0 mf
. , wearinO' on your ar
SICHEL. What IS that ou re_ lik tT It's
PRINCE it to 1!:!.r . D,Q yon e I
a channing head isn't it'
. - It inds me of some one.
SICHEL. It's CUrIOus. . rem That's why I al-
PRINCE WRONSKY. And It does !De'C
too
. t s Lumir. poor
- . H was LumIr oun es "
ways wear It. eT name ' .: UIDstances. I left "eT
irl she died under rather tragIc CIrC -
m 'oland just efore lier death. called Posado
w
-
SICHEL- Wasn't she the sister of a man
ski' Very likely. Did yoU know bim'
PRINCE WRONSKY.
[164)
SICIlEL. I think my husband knew him years ago in Al-
gerIa. (To COUFONTAlNE.) Do you remember bim, Louis'
COUFONTAINE. Vaguely. He was a very bard drinker.
PRINCE WRONSKY. Oh well! eke fare. People have to
drink. We've got to find something to take the place of those
two great wings that grew on our backs when we were hus-
sards.
LADY U. (To ORIAN). And you, too, dear Sir, are wearing
a beautiful ring.
ORlAN. It's a family jewel. We've always called it "The
stone that in the dark." Shut your eyes, and your hand
sees and guIdes you through the darkness.
ORSO (taking his hand and leading hint t01wrd PENSEB).
Just look at it, please. You're so fond of jewels, I know you'll
like it. .
. PENSEE. (pretending to look at the jewel, alld touching it
l.ghtly wzth her finger). It's a sapphire, isn't it'
SICHEL. Yes, a very tine sapphire.
PENSEE. And set in diamonds. Those old-fashioned square
brilliants set solidly and whose sparkle has been fixed by age.
SICIlEL. It would be a beautiful engagement ring.
ORIAS. It guides me th rough the darkness.
PENSEE. Do you believe that it's only jewels that have
eyes that see at night'
ORlAN. I know mine can't!
PENSEE. Prince Wronsky, I've never walked about your
garden much, have IT
PRINCE WRONSKY. J nst once, and. that once I was not here.
Only on one occasion have you done me the honor of visiting
my poor house.
PENSEE (To ORIAN.) Will yon wager that I can't lead yon
around the garden and bring yon back here safely f
SICHEL. Pensea, child!
PENSEE. Don't, Mother! See, I've do ed my eyes. Now
give me your hand. .. o! Hide that stone that sees so well.
And now come, Sir Gardener! (They go out.)
COUFONTAINE. I ouly hope they won't talk politic.:;!
LADY U. It's not a bad way of whispering into the proper
person's ear things one mustn't say!
COUFONTAINE. You flick me on the raw!
SICHEL. I'm afraid Pensee will lose her wager.
[165]
COUFONTAlNE. Never mind. They'll always find their way
back. Y ou go a long way before you know it, if you let
yourself be gmde.d by s?me one (To OBSO.)
Wh8:t do you t.hink, SIl' Florentme! What think you, dark
Engmeer'
ORSO. I think I'm going! There are too many secrets and
too treachery hereabouts to suit me! I'm going to tune
mstruments. The.re's something too sudden and too per-
fidIOus about the musIC of these babbling water-jets that I've
scattered around. high time I attended to them, and gave
the control-key a bIt of a turn! No sooner do we think of
something and to talk about it, than they break in, and
then we go on talking, and believe it's still their babbling
we're listening tol (He goes OUlt.)
PRINCE 'VBONSKY. The sound of water falling into water,
and the solemn volume of bells pealing together, I shall not
hear that tomorrow. Alas, I shall not hear the bells when,
they seem to wake all together in the early morn-
mg, and at noon, and again in the evening at the hour of the
Ave Maria. '
. COUFO"TAlNE. And those are the sounds you would like to
silence.
LADy U. Heaven forbid! I'm a good Catholic!
And yet you're anxious to take the Pope's
house from him - the very roof from over his head!
LADY U. Not for the world I I leave it to all of you. How
can one separate the air from the air, the soil from the soil,
flesh from flesh, the heart from the body, or Rome from
It:uy1 'iVhy, even you foreigners, the minute you get to Rome
cling to. Rome as a child to its mother's breasfi How could
w'!.,ltalians .... et along wllliiiri Qur mother? -
QOUFONTAl"E. And the Po e is your father - not?
!ill>y U. Undoubtedlv. 4ni LOu, Mr. Ambassador, are _a
far more dangerous enem of the POl!..e than I I
COUFONTAINE. Oh, what siander! What injustice! The
:S:oly Fathe: has no more devoted son than I. And since I'm
his son, I Wlsh to heaven he'd occasionally listen to me more
favorablv! .
. LADy U. If that's the case, you'd better leave the situa.-
tion for the rest of us to handle.
COUFONTAlNE. Never! I have a horror of violent methods.
[166]
I'm essentially a peaceful man. In fact, it was for that very
reason that I retired from the army. And tell me, pray, why
this unwillingness to compromise, which is so contrary to the
spirit of our times T Why these exorbitant demands, which
are so humiliating to all the true friends of the Papacy, and,
for that matter, I might even say, to all Christians' What's
the real significance of these threats' What's the meaning
of this attitude of infallibility which we arrogate to our-
selves I
LADy U. I've often wondered. It 's all very bad for re-
ligion.
COUFONTAlNE. And just at a time when religion is sorely
needed; when our social foundatious are undermined. Yes,
undernlined. I use the word advisedly. It's the right word,
and I'm not afraid to use it. Excuse me if I speak too warm-
ly. I feel all these matters so keeuly. And yet, at heart, I
stand firmly for peace, hannony, conciliation, compromise,
agreement and mutual goodwill
LADY U. Very true. And I don't forget that there's never
been a single one of those delicate transitions from one form
of govermnent to another - at least, not in France - with
which your family name has not been connected!
. COUFONTAINE. I suppose you refer to my Tous-
saint Ture ure. e se ce wi! es, th'l.. world
grossly misjiidgedhim.:.. I was probably the only man who
really knew and understood llim. Come, Sichel, I see the
Prussian Minister beckoning to us.
PRINCE WRONSKY. Horrid little representatiYc of a horrid
little state! I didn't im-ite hin), but I see he CaIne just the
same! (COUFONTAl"'"E and SICHEL go out.)
LADY U. I think it would be just as well for us to walk on
a bit I have an idea that de Homodannes and his Psyche
have finished tileir tour of the garden: Really, I think
it's curious to see them! Very strange, don t you thmk sol
PRINCE WRONSKY. And isn't she a strange girlT
LADY U. After all, a brirl doesn't introduce herself like
that. It simply isn't done. I suppose it:s shamelessness
of the Jew cropping out. And can you IDIagme her parents
letting it pass without so much as a , .
PRINCE WRONSKY. Besides, Homodarmes Isn t a neh man.
LADY U. No, but he's the godson, and in a way, the
{167J
nephew, of the Pope. MalTying the Pope! That's what it
would be. Think what a triumph for our dear friend Sichel!
PRINCE WRONSKY. Her eyes are very beautiful.
LADY U. Sir, I absolutely forbid you to look at any eyes
except mine!
PRINCE WRONSKY. Why did you hide them from me for so
many years T
LADY U. It's a very short time since Rome and I have
been reunited.
WaONSKY. It isn't very long, is itT But, you know,
you re no more Rome thun those hail squalls are Rome, that
now and again sweep across an open square and are gone in
a flash; no more than the passage of the barbarians from one
gate to another once or twice every hundred years, are
Rome. -
LADy U. I take it you're talking of your hired troops, for;
all, you know, we are not barbarians, Sir Prince. For-
give me, you know I've never been able to pronounce your
name; nor my husband's either, for that matter. Say what
you will, Rome and Italy have something in common.
PRINCE WRONSKY. Rome stands for permanence. And
you're far too young, and your hair is far too black, too like
a of living serpents, too full of life and hope, to per
sonify the city which has never stopped ruling the world and
all therein. A city overflowing with boundless self-confi-
dence; childish, irrespousible, trusting in the hour which, to
morrow, will be the hour of hours, the day of days. These
blustering winds that sometimes rush upon us from the Cam-
pagna are not Rome! Neither are the seasonal peregrina-
tions of the cattle toward the Abruzzi Rome nor the peri-
odical and discordant blasts that the blow on their
conch-shells, while they stand under the Arch of Septimus
Sever us ! It's not the face of Rome I recognize in the face I
see before me, (so full of resolution and of passion) - the
face I once loved so dearly! - But then, no woman becomes
really mteresting until she's passed fifty! - No, it's not the
face of the Sybil reflecting the greenish hue of stagnant wa-
ter, not the face of the witch of the Marsyan River; not the
face of Garibaldi's sutler, nor the piercing cry of the Samni-
an harvesters! Noue of those things are Rome!
U. Well, then, pray what is Rome!

PRINCE i\' RONSKY. Hal You know better thau I! When
I was a child we lived on an estate close bv the falls of the
river. All night and all day, interrup-
tion, we could hear the great stream hurling itself over the
falls - Will you believe it! I was never sufficiently cnrious
go there to look at it! It sounded like a mighty hammer-
on bronze. And ever since, I've lived the life of an ex-
!Ie - dust dancing in a shaft of sunlight! Good Heavens,
how vague aU that past seems! So dark; so confused! Yes,
that's what my life has been. Once in a while there -came mo-
ments of fulfihnent, of love, of success. And, occasionally,
suddenly, without warning, or reason, like an nne>.cpected
favor, a brief period of being a king, master of all; when one
flares up from the Unknown like a flash of phosphorescence.
.And yet, if I listen, I can hear out yonder the roar
of that stream, the crash of its everlasting waterfalls -
thundering, thundering 1 Rome! I'll tell YOU what Rome
means to me. It means something solemn, s'omething secret;
the. silence of something of which we are a part, and
whIch IS not a part of us, of something independent of us ami
of our wishes. And we know, that if we opeu our eyes and
look up, we shall not be swept along, head over heels, by the
hubbub of a crowded street, like the water in a mill-race; that
there'll be no kaleidoscopic whirl of bright colored atoms.
which, when we look closely, turn out to be horses and carri-
ages, and individuals with their noses flatteued against shop-
windows! No I What we shall see will be a shaft of porphyry
wreathed in gold, and rising heavenwards through the smoke
of sacrificial offerings. Rome 1 Yes! That is Rome!
LAoy U. And yet, dear Prince, Rome '8 true function and
purpose surely isn't to take the place in your imagination
and in your memory of a waterfall splashing til rough your
latter years T
PRINCE WRONSKY. Tomorrow. perhaps! Who knOWR! I
bid farewell to Rome tonight.
LADY U. Today may not be as fair as yesterday; but
don't forget that today is always in the wrong! Never mind
We'll get along somehow; and, what's more, we'll all con-
tinue to live. Take my word for it, this race has found a bet-
ter way of being immortal tban dying! I'm perfectly sun'
it's got its part to play in this life, and. furthermore, I'll
[169]
take my oath it's made up its mind to keep on living, whether
people want it to live or not. And, you know, there's some-
thing rather fine about a people and a country that, all. of a
sudden, throughout its length and breadth, wakes up, like a
big man, and discovers that it has a common language; t.hat
from end to end it is part and pm'cel of IClUe same entIty;
that it has one body and one soul!
PRINCE WRO,"SKY. Poland was my country, and Poland
has no hope of salvation.
LADY U. There's always hope! Do you mean to tell me
there's no hope' You, who are over sixty' How in
world have you managed to live as long as you Think
how many things we never thought we could accomphsh, and
that we've accomplished just the same! Think how many
knocks we've taken that didn't really hmt! Think how many
, I '
enemies we've beaten to earth; how many obstac es we ve
overcome!
PRI,"CE WRO,"SKY. Sickness is staring me in the face.
LADY U. Why, failing health, even sickness, is a fascinat-
ing thing! It's always interesting to fight a battle. Could
anything be more thrilling than to discover tllat one has a
heart, or a liver?
PRINCE WRONSKY. Remains death.
LADy U. Death ' Oh, well, by the grace of God, we'll get
the better of death, just as we've got the !>etter of other
things. Yes, by the grace of God, and I say It from the bot-
tom of my heart' I an old woman of fifty, who at last lets
herself enjoy and the glorious daylight of today! At
last I'm heart-whole and fancy free, and unfettered by.the
stupid loves and horrid passions of yesterday. I'm InSPHt
tion! I'm the :Master-mind! Why, I'm the Soul!. I;:U
star surrounded by mv friends, as I used to be m t e u1d
, . li h Ico
days, when the whole house hung on my ps, w en th
see in a thonsand shining eyes iliat an? I a1?ne, w
as
hin
:
moving spiIit. I'm not a mere pebble III thIS suns 0
_ a pebble under a waterfall, that can't keep a smgl
e
dI p
of the silver flood that flows over it. No! My heart's a
wide-mouilied vase-- a heart thrown wide -
which every little while there flow gI'eat waves, wInch are
overflow it is too full to contain!
[170]
PRIN.CE WRONSKY. Like the fountain I showed you just
now, bIg enough for a man to swim in!
LADy U. Yes, and the moon was reBected in it and there
was a little cloud near the brim, like a handkerchief of bright-
colored silk!
PRINCE WBONSKY. Come! I see our lovers. (They go
out.) (PENSEE comes in leading ORlAN by the hand. In ker
otker hand she holds the ring above her head.)
ORIAN. Here we are back again. Thanks to that fairy eye
you're holding over your head, you've guided me perfectly.
You can open your eyes now, Pen see. That's your name,
isn't itT
PENSEE. Yes. I see my mother's no longer here.
ORIAN. Everybody's gone.
PENSEE. They've all gone to watch the fireworks at the
other side of the garden. I can hear the low murmur of
voices, and the hiss of the first rockets.
ORIAN. "EVIVA IL PAPA REI"
PENSEE. It won't be long before that cry will no longer be
heard in Rome I
ORIAN. Let's not talk politics; do you mind' And since
you're Autumn, tell me what you propose to do to this gar-
den I arranged with the help of the engineer's art. I mean
Orso, you know; the man who was talking to you a little
while ago. He laid out the fountains you can hear; he ran
the water-pipes from a long way off. And now they're never
still. All these Bowers, see; and all these other things, I
planned! Tonight they're all turned into roses. Roses for
you, Pensee. Every Bower that May carries in her basket.
You're Autumn; what are you going to do witl) all these
beautiful things that grew up quietly while the earth wa.
sound asleep, until now they fill the whole world' Aren't
you going to spare any of them' Not a single one'
PEN SEE. Everyiliing changes with the season. Only these
few leaves around my head and this little bunch of grapes
above my ear don't change.
ORIAN. Then why did you choose to be Autumn' To me
you're more like Spring. Spring holding a lily in her hand as
she comes toward me!
PENSEE. I prefer Autunmj and I like better.
[171]
Winter so cold and pure' Winter that leaves nothing but the
soul of things, naked ... lli!rity. of its faith!
ORlAN. _ orne ha. 0 merely a time of waiting;
not of death, but an hour of returning and beginning again.
Like a faint smile grown indistinct in the darkness of the
long nights. See, the hand of Autumn has lost its power
here; even you are powerless.
PENSEE. In that case, tell me, Sir Gardener, who will rip-
en your grapes T And who will bend the branch that's heavy
with frnit to the hand that waits to pick itt
ORlAN. We'll find a way of making you a prisoner, you
season of Autumn, who pierces everything with your burn-
ing spear! We'll know how to turn your vanishing gold into
sweet honey! Remember, there's no such thing as time here!
And I've done away with that enemy that was always tor-
menting us, and that men call Chance. Here, in this spot,
which the mind has created as by black magic. our senses
can be quiet. Look at these walls of leaves so dark that they
seem almost black! You can't do anything to them! They're
here to divide us from the world ,vithout. All the beauty
that summer skies can pour down is here. Look at the pine
trees above us, that cover us with their blessed shadow and
point up toward that tiny gleam which we can scarcely see
up there in the sJ.-y, that dizzy star, in the remote land-
slides of darkness! Look at that palm tree behind you - do
you hear it rustle! - Can you say that the gardener who
made that green fountain didn't know anything of things
regal! Isn't it like a proud geyser falling back in a
ous plumeT And yet it bows its head humbly. Doesn't that
cypress tree over there, so straight and slender, whisper to
us of Death T How tremendous is the silent iImuobility of all
these things about us; things which could not possibly be
more beautifulT
PENSEE. Yes. I can see each thing as you describe it.
ORlAN. Long ago, I, too, had a garden.
PENSEE. And we took it away from you.
ORlAN. Yes; you bought it. It's yours now. But I shall
come to look at it sometimes. It was only a little garden, but
I loved it all the same. Small as it was, it was too beautiful
for a poor man.
FE NSEE. I'm mortified! Can you forgive meT
[172]
ORlAN. Don't give it a thought. You did me a favor. It
was a good riddance. What do these old walls amount to!
We must look forward, not back.
PENSEE. I'm surprised to hear you say that. I thought
you were the Knight of the Days Gone By.
ORlAN. The Pope is the only thing which does not pass on.
PENSEE. You'll soon have to do without the Pope.
ORlAN. Isn't your father here to help him keep his
throne'
PENSEE. Any throne which members of my f8lnily sup-
port is threatened with sudden downfall I
ORlAN. I know which way your father's heart leans.
PENSEE. "That can you expect? We have Revolution in
our blood.
ORfAN. And yet, revolution or no revolution, France wants
the Pope firmly on his throne in Rome.
. PENSEE. Do you mean to tell me that to protect the Holy
Father, as you call him. it's necessary to surround hirn with
a forei/,,'Tl police force '
ORlAN. He's my Father, and he will be my Father as long
as I'm his son.
I know th.!!!. he's especially near to you, and that
he 's1l'od- ather to both of you. In .facf he was your guardian
wnen your father and mother died, and you and Or80 were
Orou..g!tt.::iTIun his alace lie still a bishop. I heard
all about it this evening,
- ORlAN. You' re well informed. My family came from Sa-
yoy, but my mother came from Milan.
PENSEE. }{y mother was a Jewess. I suppose you knew.
ORlAN. No, I didn't.
PENSEE. I'd rather you did know. Of course, she has
given up her faith, and has been converted. My father is al-
so a good CatilOlic. He owes his fortune to her. Didn't your
brother Orso tell you all this'
ORIAN_ I don't think he knew any more of it than I did.
PENSEE. Then what has he gained by following me about,
as he has, ever since the first day I met hirn with yon T The
other day, as we were driving through the Campagna, I
could hear him galloping behind our carriage, and while we
let the horses rest a moment, he stood in one of the tombs,
wrapped in his Roman cloak, looking at us. My mother saw
[173]
him. Thi$ person who seems to be so interested in me is very
near to you!
ORlAN. Orso's a good fellow, and does anything I want
him to.
PENSER. I should naturally suppose he cared more for you
than he does for me.
ORlAN. He was mixed up with the "Red Shirts"" for some
time. But I managed to get him out of that, and persuaded
him to enlist in the Papal Forces.
PENSEE. And I can make him lose interest in any place
I'm not in.
ORl,,"". Yes, but you can go where he is.
PENSEE. So I shall, if he is stronger than I.
OllLL'f. How is a man to get the better of you T How is he
to go about itT
PENSEE. The minute I fall in love with him, he'll be the
stronger of the two.
ORlAN. How could anyone help falling in love with OrsoT
PENSEE. Then, if you love him, tell me not to listen to
what he asked you to say to me.
ORIAN. You're right. He was very anxious to have me
tell you something.
PENSEE. You should have refused to do so, Orian.
ORlAN. I tried to.
PENSEE. No one marries a Jewess!
ORlAN. But you're not a Jewess!
PENSEE. If you love him, tell him not to marry a Jewess.
ORlAN. But you've been baptized, haven't youT
PENSEE. It takes a great deal of Holy Water to baptize a
Jew! People don't lose the traditions of so many, many
turies as easily as that. It seems as though all the centurIes,
since the creation of the world, were on my shoulders! And
the habit of misfortune! And the evil and intimate percep-
tion of one's own downfall! We have waited so long, tbat
now we can't change our point of view. We put SO much
faith in the Promise that never materialized, that, whe,:, at
length we were told it had come to pass, we could not belIeve
it. Yon know that we're not of the. same rac;.
we are of the same race, and yet different. No unIOn IS P .
*Garibaldi's Voluntetrs
[174]
sible between us. No, not even if you held out your hand to
me and begged me.
ORlAN. We are the children of the same father.
PENSEE. Father! I have no father! Who are my father
or my mother! Give me eyes that I may see them. I'm alone
in the world. Do you call that man who was talking to me a
little while ago, my fatller! Do you think I love him' Do
you think I love my motherT Yes, poor woman, I do love
her! She loves me so. I'm fond of her; I can't get along
without her. But tbey don't know me. I feel so keenly that
I can't talk to them, and that they've nothing to say to me.
If you only knew wbat a dead weight they are to me I
ORlAN. Oh, Pen see ! I'm close beside you!
PENSEE. Orian I
ORlAN. I should never have agreed to talk to you of my
brother!
FENSEE. No. I'm glad you came.
ORlAN. I can't hear to hear you complain, as if you were
appealing to me.
PENSEE. Why should you care!
ORlAN. Others are nnhappy. I shouldn't bave come. In
fact, I shouldn't he here beside you now.
FENSEE. We all of us do things we shonldn't.
ORlAN. It's beautifnl just to stand and see tbe light.
PENSEE. Yes. I've often been told so.
ORlAN. Beautiful as you are ... (She puts her hand light-
lyon his arm.) WellT
PENSEE. I'm listening.
ORlAN. And even if you were as unhappy as you think
you are, we're youngl Life is wide open ahead of us I Yes,
this life! And the other one stretches behind us endlessly.
Ob, it's good just to be alive and to see! To be alive and to
see the sun.
PENSEE. Yes, it's good just to see the light.
ORlAN. Or even the night; for if there were no night,
there would be no stars.
PENSEE. I see no stars. I can only stand and listen. 1
can't see; I can only hear. Listen I Do you bear that sad
murmur, like the rumpling of a bird's feathers' It 's the
third palm tree on our right. But perhaps, if you were to
[175]
I !
I'
..
say to me: "Pensee, open your eyes," perhaps then I could
open my eyes and see. .
ORlAN. Did you come to Rome to close your eyes!
PENSEE. Show me where there's any Justice, and it will
be worth while to open my eyes. What, after all, is this
Beauty which doesn ' t prevent our being blind' Oh, yes I
I've been led about among your Greek deities, and I've put
my hand onto the burning marhle. That's what we of the An
cient Faith called idols. Anyone who '8 known the great
darkness, needs a brighter sun than that to end the night!
ORlAN. But what is this night, this darkness you talk
about so much'
PENSEE. Was there ever thicker darkness than a darkness
through which no friend has ever been able to reach me! I
am a Jewess like my mother. She thought that the Revolu-
tion had come, and would mix everything together and make
everything equal, and that you would accept her as one of
you. She tries so hard to be friendly! But I know better.
Anything is better than false love, than desire mistaken for
passion, than passion mistaken for acceptance. Anything is
better than slowly to take up the old relationships, than to
have a heart, little by little, torn away and become a stranger
to you. It would be that way with Or80, the man you're so
anxious to have me marry. I'm like the Synagogue, as it
used to be represented in front of the Cathedral doors - a
blindfolded statue. TIle world has blindfolded me, and what-
ever I touch, falls to pieces. (In a low, passionate voice.) But
you, you others who can see, what have you done with your
light! You who at least can see and know, and who are alive;
you who proclaim that you are alive, what have you done
with Life'
ORlAN. The same water which brings us life has moist-
ened your forehead.
PENSEE. Yes! But not my heart! A soul like mine can't
be baptized with mere water, but only with blood!
ORlAN. But the Blood of God bas been mixed with that
water.
PENSEE. Have I asked for that waterT
ORlAN. It was you who shed the blood.
PENSEE. And it was we who gave you the God! I know, 1
[176]
II'
I!
I
I
know! If there is a God of Humanity, he could never have
come, except out of our hearts, if at all.
ORIAN. And didn't he!
PENSEE. But you, what did you do with him' Was it for
that we gave him to you T Was it that the poor might be
poorer, and the rich ridlr1 Was it that landlords might col-
lect their rents, and that men of means might eat and drink!
Was it that half-mad kings might rule over enslaved peo-
plesf Was it that when the old kings fell, their places should
be taken. by horrible lawyers in black trousers, by rogues
and radIcals, by professors, by lantern-jawed hypocrites, by
old women, and by men like my own father! Because all au-
thority comes from God, is it forbidden to make changes or
to correct such a state of affairs'
ORlAN. 'What do you want to changel Whom would you
put in their place!
PENSEE. Good Heavens, it would be something if we could
only get rid of the present rulers, and of this loathsome veil
which blinds us, and smothers us! Who knows but what the
light may exist' :Maybe we should see it, if we could only
break through the ring of corpses which surrounds us and
hems us in like a black forest! There's no acceptance of
wrong; there's no acceptance of lies, and there's but one
thing to do with evil, and that is to destroy it! That's why
I hate this thing - you know what I mean - that divides me
from you. I hate it because it strangles, becau.e it stupefies;
because it seeks to put the idols of humanity beyond tl,e
reach of humanity; and forever to hind tJ'e living to the dead!
I hate it, because it assumes that what has been built up by
violence and trickery cannot be lmdone by violence and
trickery; because it assumes that it, and all these Austrian
maggots, are holy and anointed by God! Apparently it isn't
enough to have seen these long, sallow faces around you for
a day; you want to keep them here forever! That"s why I'm
with Italy heart and soul; this new-born Italy tltat is awak-
ening to herself, and that hopes to be her natural self again;
this Italy who feels she is strong enough to manage hel' own
affairs, without the interference of all these strangers, and
who refuses longer to let these dead things fasten themselves
to her living flesh like leeches - things that are dead and
have no reason or place or necessity to exist! And yet yon,
1177 J
11 I'!
Ip Ii
III
I I,
il:
IiI
I I:
II
if! II
,:J:
It :
who stand before me, yon, who to me are Youth and the Fu-
tnre, yon take sides with the dead against the living!
ORIA...'f. I'm no Anstrian. My father died fighting them.
And as to these princes yon talk about, and all these people
yon insist are so mnch alive, let them settle their own Revo-
lntion! The dead can bnry the dead without my help.
PENSEE. And yet, when yon defend that graven unage you
call the Pope, you're fighting for a dead man. Aren't youT
ORIAN. Ohrist, whose Vicar the Pope is, is a dead man.
Pm,sEE. What has He to do WItl! nsT-Uoes He demand a
place in our lives T - - -
yes i but no larger than His Oross.
PENSEE. Christ nevex.hali a CQuntry of His own.
URIAN. tie had a conn try lar enough for the Oross to be
planted in it. .
ENSEE. The ross is the symbol of suffering.
ORIAN. . .. And of redenlli!ion.
PENSEE. Bnt we want to be rid of snffering!
ORIAN. Then what willl..-ill the mortal in yonT
FENSEE. Bnt, I tell you, we want to be rid of suffering!
. ORlAN. another way of saying that yon wish to be
nd of happmess.
PENSEE. Yon say we. wish to be rid of happiness f Can you
stand there, and tell me that we don't seek and cra,'e joy and
happiness more than anytlling in this world 1 Oh, Orian, how
can you say such a thing'
ORI",",. And tomorrow you 'll marry mv brother!
PENSEE. Do YOU wan t me to vdu wi"h me to T (Si-
lence.) Am I believe you want such'a bond to be created
between nsT
ORIAN. Not a bond, no! But there's got to be something
between you and me that's final; something there's no going
back on.
PENSEE. Is that why you in such a hurry to talk to
me about him'
ORIAN. Tomorrow I shall be stauding here alone; and I
shall hear that same palm tree rustling in the night behind
me ...
FENSEE. And does it, will it, not speak of suffering!
ORIAN. It whispers of triumph.
PENSEE. Will that triumph be sO dear to you! Tell me,
[178J
i.'
Orian, will that triumph be dearer to you than it would be
to accept this other triumph which is offered you, and which
you can have at my expenseT
ORIAN. It's hard for me to hear such things! And yet,
I've heard them from yonr lips. Yes, at last I've heard them
from you! Pensee, you were made for love, but love was
never made for me.
PENSE;:- Why do you think that I want a love which you
refuseT
ORIAN. All the happiness .1 cannot bring you; all the
things J cann(!j; say to you, some one else will.
PENSEE. Do you mean your brother, OrsoT
URIAN. -Vo you t1iin"k, dear Pensee, you ?ould. give me any-
thing I'd rather have! Or what could I grve him that .... T
FENSEE. Yes, what better thing could you give to that for-
tunate brother of yours! What, indeed, better than a thing
you don't want
ORIAN. If you meant nothing to me, I shouldn't have been
willing to come here and talk to you about him.
PENSEE. Tell hiIn not to marry a J ewess ! Do you snp-
pose he is the man who can see his way throngh the darkness
_ the darkness that I representT It was rash of you to
kindle a flame in hun which, perhaps, I shall have to put ont.
And as for me how could I ever bring myself to offer what
has once been 'refused! This darkness, which you refused,
this rebellious spirit, tlils soul, the ouly that was mine,
what of them! This soul - it's a poor thing I know - yet
the only thing which was mine, which, with. my
darkness, I had to give! I'm afraId It will take a very brIght
flame to light the way!
ORIAN. What can I do, Pensee! WhatT
FENSEE. It's only natural that you prefer to sacrifice my
soul rather than yours.
ORIAN. Natural or not; right or wrong, .even though .my
heart speaks otherwise, and in spite of thIS. ghastly thust
for happiness I know! And as long as I still have enough
balance to judge, I know that you couldn't giye me what I
crave and need! .
FENSEE. Tell me, Orian, do you believe there's such"
thing as happiness T
(179]
ORIAN. Isn't it a proof that there is, since I choose it in
p,reference to you' Yes, happiness exists and my sole aim
and duty is to achieve it. '
PENSEE. How about the others!
ORlAN. Will it make them any more alive to have me die!
PENSEE. Then let them die 1
ORlAN. I don't feel any obligation to them.
PENSEE. I should say not 1 Less than none 1 In fact, it
seems to me that yon're taking sides against them. Yes
you're fighting against, not for, this people which is of
same blood as you, and which is struggling to live. Today
,!,hen each of its parts is trying to weld itself to the next'
ke a coming to life, you're doing all you can to
1tl Yes, Just now, when it 's trying, from one end of the
?Ountry. to ot.her, to become a single entity, you're fight-
mg agamst 1t.
ORlAN. I can't stand against my Father 1
PENSEE .. Is that futile old man, to whom time and progress
mean nothmg, forever going to stand between you and life,
between you and meT
ORIA.N. Any state of affairs which is good for him, is good
for me.
PENSEE. And yet, a whole nation st.ands with me, and has
need of you; - and I, too, need you.
ORlAN. The only thing I need is happiness.
th!E{f"::' WherE\. do 'ou expect to find happiness except in
ORlaN. Above this life. And who but the Holy Father
can give itt Who but he, who has been, throughout the ages,
the Father never wrong' And where will you find
peace, except m.mm, who is a part of everything, and who
feel.s hatred .for no oneT Do you think they're right - this
of blind menCrylng aloudf Is that the thing whiCh
gIves true lifef. Unfortunately, I know perfectly well how
weak my heart 18, and that the things that make them cry,
make me cry out too. And yet we shall never enter upon our
heritage by violence.
When you speak of your heritage, do you mean
happmess'
ORIAN. Our heritage is something we can't attain by con-
[180J
quest, nor by desert, lIor by effort. It's something which is
ours by our own right and which comes to us through the act
of some one else.
PENSEE. And what is happiness'
U!!lAN . .-All I 'll'n say: 's thatit's somethin which has no
beginning and no end.
'TENSEE. W1iY 0 you think I'm yonr enemy' Or that I
wish you harm' .
ORlAN. I know you're not my enemy, Pensea.
PENSEE. Do you expect me to believe that you're not my
enemy' If you would only say one kind word to me, you
wouldn't have to look for barriers to put between us. I know
that there's no place for me in your life.
ORIA.c'<. Why not!
PENSEE. Who is there to take me to you' Who will ever
give me what you've refused met
ORlAN. Pen sea, do you believe that making each other hap-
py would be the greatest blessing which could come to us,
PENSEE. The only blessing which can come to me, must
corne to me through you.
ORlAN. But isn't it through me that tlris unhappiness has
corne to you t
PENSEE. And has none come to you through met Oh, say
what you will, I know there's something in you which be-
longs to me, which is mine by right; something that's mine
alone, and is for me alone! Yes, a word spoken for me only,
and which no one else can hear!
ORlAK. What do you expect me to dot
PENSEE. J.ust one thing, and that you can't do; just one
word, and that word you can't speak.
ORlAN. What is it I can't do, dear little girlf
PENSEE. You can't make me see my soul wholly reflected
in yours.
ORlAN. If you'll open yours eyes, Pensee, you will see it.
PENSEE. I won't open my eyes until I know you've for-
given me.
ORlAN. Forgiven you, only, Don't you want more than
thatf (She Pllts out her hand and touches his lips lightly
with her fingers.)
PENSEE. Hnsh, dearest. Keep that word you're going to
say for the time when body and soul shall be divided. Don't
(181)
speak, Beloved; I know that word which wasn't intended for
this earth. Yes, my very own, I've read it on your lips, that
word which you spoke to me so silently.
OIUAN. Come to the light; I want to see your face better.
(He draws her into the light of a lantern.) Why do you keep
your eyelids closed, sweetheart of mine' (She opens her eyes
and looks at him.)
PENSEE. Are my eyes beautiful'
ORlAN. So beautiful that I'd l"emember them and know
them through death and beyond!
PENSEE. As beautiful as that' (Slowly she closes her eye-
lids. )
ORIL'<. Why do you hide your eyes from meT Why so
soon T Please look at me again, my own Beloved!
PENSEE. I'm blind.
CeltTAIN
ACT II
A cloister in a Franciscan monastery in the SllbU1'bs of
Rome. It is built of white marble with antiqlle columns. In
the middle there is a marble 'Ulell flanked by two pillars. The
garden, beyond, is planted with orange t.'ees already covered
with their half-yellow fruit. The POPE PIUS is seated beside
the well, with one arm stretched out 1'pon the curbing. His
attitude is that of a man bu.'dened and ove1'come with grief.
0 .. the other side of the well sits, late.' stands, the MawRITE
BROTHER. He is very young.
MINORlTE BROTHER (in a low voice. He holds hi,s hand above
the POPE in the position of a priest fini,shing a benediction.)
... is now and ever shall be ... (Silence.) Go in peace, my
son. (A pause.) Holy Father, now that I've given you abso-
lution, you mustn't be sad.
POPE. Would you send me away so soon, my little broth-
erT Bear with me a little longer. It is so peaceful here be-
side your well. Let me tell you how weak I am, as I have al-
ready told you of my unhappiness. I'm an old, old man.
M'NORITE BROTHER. Stay, Holy Fatller. Stay as long as
you wish. Here with us you are sheltered, and no one wishes
you any harm. Today's great heat has been too much for
your strength.
[182J
POPE. Night comes apace.
MINORlTE BROTHER. Let me fetch you a jug of cold water,
and a little honey. It's very good honey. I have charge of
the bees. Thev call me the Prior of the Hives.
POPE. No;"stay here with me.
M'NOR'TE BROTHER. If I see you so cast down it will make
me sad, too.
POPE. I don't believe you could ever be sad, Brother
Pecorello.
M'NORITE BROTHER. Who could restrain his tears after
hearing you confess your sins, as if you were a simple little
c11ild'
POPE. You counseled me wisely, little brothel'; and as I
listened to yon, I made some good resolutions. Weren't you
a shepherd once T Was it by caring for sheep that you
learned how to comfort men T
MIKORlTE BROTHER. Many's the time I've brought home
some strayed sheep on my shoulders.
POPE. And am I now the strayed sheep'
M'NORITE BROTHER. Forgive me for saying such a stupid
thing!
POPE. And are you the wise shepherd'
MINORITE BROTHER. The.re are more than two kinds of
suffering, Holy Father; and there are more than two ways
of suffering because some one else is sad.
POPE. Your words are more refreshing than cold water.
M'NORITE BROTHER. Father, I have nothing except my
heart to give you.
POPE. I know that the man has not been born who shall
take your love away from me, little brother.
MINORITE BROTHER. How can anyone help loving you,
Holy Father!
POPE. Many would be glad to see the Pope dead. M ~ n y
would reJ' oice and would !rive banquets, and would send gifts
, " . I P
to their friends, saying: "At last, there IS no onger a ope.
The stubborn old man is dead."
MrNORITE BROTHER. There's certainly no one who feels
that way in our good city of Rome, at least.
POPE. You are wrong, little brother. .
MINORITE BROTHER. If anyone hates you, It must surely
be the Turks, or the Germans, or the Russians, or perhap6
[183]
some of those wicked revolutionary Frenchmen. Or maybe
the Chinamen. Some one told me they had pigtails down
their backs, and that made us all laugh. But we know better;
we know you, we who live near you, almost on the steps of
yoUr house. Except, perhaps, some of the brethren who are
distraught, or who are vexed by devils - God have pity on
their poor, tormented souls!
POPE. Little brother, you must pray earnestly to Saint
Francis and to the Madonna for the Pope. You must offer a
prayer this very evening.
M'NoRrrE BROTHER. Indeed, I will.
POPE. NON RECUSO LABOREM! But, pray God, before
Our children strike the blow, We are expecting He will, in
His goodness, gather Us to Our Fathers! Already have We
outlived Peter. We have done Our task, and have served
longer than any Pope since the days of the son of Cephas.
l\lINORITE BROTHER. What does it matter, Holy Father, if
a man be dead or alive in the Besh, provided he dies in God'
POPE. Alas, We know how great is Our weakness, and
how small Our merit!
MINORITE BROTHER. Many an angel at this very minute is
praying for you on this earth and in Heaven above!
POPE. Is it not written that He shall leave the ninety and
nine in the wilderness and go after that which is lost' What
shall I say, when J appear before the throne of God, leading
such a decimated Bock' What shall it profit me to plead as
my only excuse: "It is not my fault'"
MINORlTE BROTHER. No, it isn't your fault.
POPE. Would to Heaven the entire fault lay on Our
shoulders, not on theirs!
MINORITE BROTHER. Alas, how great is their ignorance!
POPE. I stand defenseless before them, it is too easy for
them to wound me.
l\lINORTTE BROTHER. It's not you they hate, but rather a
senseless image they have created for themselves.
POPE. What weapon can I use against themt It is so easy
to pierce a father's heart! Bitter it is for a father to have
his children ha te him.
MINoRrrE.BROTHER. So wept David for his son, Absalom.
POPE.. LIttle you who are clos to QQd, does
the world hate 0 s ,
(184J
M'NoBrrE BROTHER. The world hated Jesus Christ.
OPE. ere e stana, leaning against this well as once
Our Lord leaned upon Jacob's well, - it seems as though
nothing had changed throughout eighteen hundred
Isn't the sun in the same place in the sky? It is always the
same Samaria, and the Vicar of Christ is no less forsaken
than was the Son of Man. It is as though He who came, had
never come; as if all that has been said, had not been said;
as if all that has been done, had not been done; as if all that
has been heard, had not been heard!
MINORITE BROTHER. Already the Woman of Samaria
draweth nigh.
POPE. May God's blessing be upon this woman, who bears
a vessel.
MINOR[TE BROTHER. When all other well" are gone dry,
this one will still flow.
POPE. 'rhey say that they thirst not; they say that this
is not a well; that this is not water. They say that this is
not a well of water as they have imagined it to be, and they
say there is no water. And all We know is that i.t IPveth
life, and that without it, none can hve. If It be so, It IS not
Our fault. Why, then, should they blame U"' And why do
they say that no man may attain thereto, when tlle Patn-
archs' well is clearly within SIght, even though Its walls be
the color of earth, and that, from afar, it resembles a tomb'
Why do they prefer to die? And why cannot I, a useless old
be put into a cell so na.rrow that .My eyes may not
this wilderness where My chIldren perIsh'
MINORrTE BROTHER. But You, too, Holy Father, have a
Father in whose bosom to hide your face.
POPE. Will they be any happier when they have
FatherT If I am no longer with them, through whom WIll
they be brothers' Will there come among Ulem greater anll-
ty and love' .' .
MINORITE BROTHER. It lies not Wlthm theU" power to stop
being Your children.
POPE. Why do they reproach It.is We who made
Heaven and Earth; nor did We brmg 8m mto the world .. Is
it then Our fault' It is very painful to see hatred gleammg
theU: eyes. It is painful to hear them blaspheme, and the
whole day long say evil things about God. Why do they
(185J
hold Us responsible for their misfortunes - We, who have
nothing to give but life T If only they had faith in Us; if only
they would listen to Us, there is nothing We could not ex-
plain, and make clear to them! Does a child ever grow up
sufficiently to be able to do without his fatherT Can a father
ever grow so old that he has no need of his .children T If even
one of them die, it is so great a misfortune that the love of
all the others sufficeth not to comfort Us. Yet who, but this
thankless people, can appoint my successors, who in turn
shall be the Church of the FutureT
M'NOR'TE BROTIlER. Pray, Holy Father!
POPE. If We could only understand what it is that keeps
them from Us! If only tins thing, which they suggest as a
substitute for what We know is the truth, had something of
beauty about it, somewhat of verisimilitude! Never did
angler take less care to hide his hook! What pleasure is there
in catching them, or in plucking the frmt which makes man
like unto God' It is the nakedness of Death, and the despair
thereof, which has been promised them. They are told that
nothing exists, except the utter void of nothinguess. It is
not within Our power to make that which is true, false!
MINORYl'E BROTHER. Oh, Holy Father, if You draw close
to each of them as you have drawn close to me, surely they
wonld listen to You!
POPE. Where are We, little brother, and whither do We
goT
M'NOR'TE BROTHER. The only way they see You is seated
upon Your throne, surrounded with flaming swords, Your
brow adorned with the triple crown, as You thunder forth
excommunications!
POPE. .And yet, there is another place where We constant-
lyare.
M'NOR'TE BROTHER. Where, Holy Father T
POPE. They would find Us, if they but sought Us there
where We are.
MINORITE BROTHER. .And where is thatT
POPE. At their feet, together with the Lord Jesus Christ.
MINORITE BROTHER. Ay, for is it not written of the Pope
that He shall be a servant unto servants!
POPE. Verily that is Our proper station, the lowliest
among men. And there do We constantly abide, forever be-
[186]
seeching them for the salvation of their souls and for the set-
ting free of Our own I
MINORITE BROTHER. I give humble thanks to God that I'm
but a poor little brother, who has been deemed unworthy to
hold even tlle post of cook I
POPE. Nor are they any longer satisfied to demand of Us
what is Ours; they now clamor for Our heritage, as though
We were dead.
MINoRnE BROTHER. Then give it to them, Holy Father,
for it is very sweet to give, alld it is good to have nothing of
one's own! If anyone wilI take away our coat, let him have
our cloak likewise . .And if one shall ask us to go with him to
Saint Agnes, we will gladly bear him company even unto
Viterbe.
POPE. Little brother, in this matter thy counsel is no
longer that of a wise man.
MDIORITE BROTHER. Is it not so written in the Scriptures'
POPE. When you were a shepherd, were the flocks yours,
and did you have the right to give the sheep away'
l\hNORITE BROTHER. No. It's true; I did not.
POPE. And again, suppose some Englishman asked you
for that copper cauldron over yonder, with a cardinal's coat
of arms on it, and of which you are so proud, and in wllich
the common meals are cooked - would YOIl have the right
to sel! it?
MINORITE BROTHER. It would be a great sin for me to do
so.
POPE. Just so. I have no right to give away what is not
Mine. Nor to give what does not belong to Us, but jointly to
Us and to all Our predecessors, and to all Our successors,
and to the whole Church, and to the whole world.
MINORITE BROTHER. In that case, Jet them take what You
cannot give. .
POPE. To take what does not belong to you is forbIdden.
MINORlTE BROTHER. Once they've taken it, will it not be
theirs' Alas who shall divide up the many things which are
so utterly t h ~ i r s , and the possession of wllich makes them so
happyT Have You not done every tiling You could T You
should be glad that Your bnrden is made that muoh the
lighter, Pray for these poor children of Yours, .but let God
settle His own score with them. Holy Father, this world has
[187]
become too exacting, and is too complicated a machine I To
manage it one must become too much its slave. Never was
the burden so heavy; rejoice that God has lightened it. Now
You al'e like a poor curate in his presbytery. Now You are a
true Franciscan like the rest of us. The Seraph of Assisi
has achieved poverty for the Pope of Rome.
POPE. The only bitterness in poverty is to be impover-
ished of the love of M v children.
MINORITE BROTHER .. What they deprive You of, God will
make good to You. Alas, Holy Father, are these your good
resolutions, are these the promises You just made to your
confessorT You, too, have a Father, and do You think He
will be overjoyed to see You so mournful because He gave
r au the gift of a poverty like His own T These minutes that
to You seem so hard to bear, are yet part of the Year of
Grace and of the Season of Good Tidings. Because of the
blessings which we cannot bestow, shall we forget those
which we have received T What does a man do who has been
relieved of all his sins T He sings. So was it in the case of
Saint Christina the Admirable on her bed of agony. From
her unmoving lips, and from her heart, that within her half-
destroyed body was like a rising sun, there rose a song
which people could recognize as they know the song of one
bird from that of another. And the joyous melody rose
heavenwards without a breathing spell, like the song of a
seraph in ecstasy! And so it was with Brother Pacmcus,
who could make a violin from two sticks of dead wood picked
up in the garden, and who could play it better than a violin-
ist. But only God and he could hear the music he drew out
of it! .
P01?E. What you say is full of wisdom and truth, little
brother.
MINORITE BROTHER. That is the first Article of
as I tell my bees. It's time I went to attend to them. GIve
me Your blessing, Holy Father. I see Your two nephews com
ing here to talk to you. (He goes out.) (ORIAN and ORSO
ter. One after the other they kneel before THE POPE a.nd k/'s$
his ha1ld.)
POPE. I am glad to see you, my children.
ORSO. Father. I'ye no-ht Y QU bbllrn man L want
You to make him see the daylight.
[188]
ORlAN. He's the one. wlto'alost his senses, and You must
make llll 0 Y OUI instructio.ns.
ORSO:-He finally agreed when I suggested leaving the mat-
ter to You to decide.
POPE. I am ready to hear what you have to say.
ORlAN. How shall I begin, Orso T I know what our Holy
Father will decide before I state the case. It was silly even
to come to him.
ORSO. Father, he's twenty-eight, and I'm only a year
younger, but he's far wiser than I. I know more of horses
and arms than I do of books.
ORlAN. What he '8 saying is so stupid that it requires no
answer.
ORSO. He was the man who brought me back to You when
I had gone very much astray.
ORIAN. It wasn't I, Orso; it was the Grace of God, and
our mother '8 prayers and the good sound blood illat flows in
your veins.
ORSO. Look here, Father; he's my older brother. See how
tall he is! I love him; I'm proud of rum. It's for him to de-
cide everything, and I'll follow him wherever he God
made me especially to be his brother, a second edition of
him what was left over after he was made. I'm in the world
to him, to love him, to do what he tell me, not take from
him what is his, and to make him unhappy.
POPE. I know you're a good brother, Orso.
6iiSo. Then do au sUJ!pose I'm ing 0 take the WDwan
he loves away' from iiiiT
- ORlAN. FatherdOn't listen to him.
ORSO. Oh it wa' hard to make him admit it! But I could
see how unhappy he was, how shut up in himself! And, be-
sides, I know she loves him.
ORIAN. It's really painful to hear you talk such nODsen e.
POPE. Is it true, Orian T I can't believe that you are .al-
ready so grown up, my children. I still think ?f you a - bemg
little boys, and here you are about to take wwes unto your-
selves. Your old father is no longer enough for you.
Oaso. Yes, You are, Holy Father. We, at least, shall al-
ways stand firmly by You.
ORlAN. Listen to me, Father. This is the situation. I'll
explain it all to You. On;o l,as fallen desperately in lovp
[189]
with a certain lady. As he didn't dare speak to her himself,
he asked me to tell her how he felt. .And I very foolishly
and largely out of weakness, agreed to do so.' .
ORSO. I c.:
n
never reproach myself enough, Orian. I did
you a wrong m even suggesting it. I should have known that
wherever my heart goes, yours will go too.
ORIAN. .And so, at the entertainment which Prince Wron-
sky gave, I ... I spoke to the young girl. Oh, and I was too
pr?ud, too too of myself! Something in me, the
eXlstence of I dIdn't know, rose up while she talked,
and seemed to smg and to make music. Life shouldn't have
such an easy, superficial thing for me. From now on
I Ii take. better care of Wasn't it curious that just
at the Sight of that beauhful face, without knowing how it
h.appened, something in me should haye suddenly begun to
smg such a sad song, and yet such a bitter and intoxicating
one f A part of me, which I didn't think existed _ because
I was bus! and 't t.hink about it, I suppose _ suddeuly
came to life. Oh, It eXIsts! Good God, it's fearfully alive!
Old f I'm n.ot a older than my age. .And I can't get
what that gIrl saId to me out of my head. But I shall in time.
POPE. Yes, you must.
ORlAN. I didn't want to tell anyone of our conversation.
I wanted to keep it to myself, to be silent, to run away. But
he wonldn't let me alone; he made me tell him everything.
At least, I'm not going to be disloyal to him. .
ORSO. Nor I to you, Brother! Father, tell him his scruples
are.nonsm:se. Do You suppose he really thinks he's going to
force me mto marrying a girl who's in love with him and
who's not in love with mef '
OBIAN. But she will love you, Orso.
Do you think I'm going to take away from you
s yoursT Do you SUppose I'd make the happiness of my
hfe out of the unhappiness of yours' That's not the way we
swor: to treat each other, old man. What would be the sense
of bemg brothers, if we weren:t such good friends, tooT
ORlAN. I could say everythmg you've said just as truth-
fnlly.
ORSO. But, good heavens, I'm not the man she loves! It's
you she's in with! You see 'm not sacrificing anything
o yo!!: BesIdes. I'm a soldier. It's silly to think of my
[190]
raising a family; I, who may not have the use of my legs and
arms fonr days from now! There's something in the air that
makes me think that men like me aren't going to live to Me-
thuselah's ripe old age.
POPE. Is the girl blind T Can't she choose for herselfT
ORlAN. That's exactly it. She is blind.
POPE. Blind T Then she must be the daughter of the
Co ' de Coufonfaine.
ORlAN. Yes, she's the French Ambassador's daughter. . ,Jl-
POPE. tliat years ago, a YOUl}1Lglrl S '<';
of 1TielJOiifontaine family saved Out
ORrAN:" I don't know.
POPE. I suppose you know that her father is Our bitter
enemy, and is secretly in league with those that persecute
Usf
ORlAN. I don't care to hear anything about that man ..
POPE. .And I suppose you also know that her mother IS a
J ewess by birth, and that, probably, t.he daughter has there-
fore been bronght up to hate the Cbrlst!
ORlAN. Holy Father, she's blind!
POPE. Yet you, you who can see, intend to make her your
.
ORSO. 1I0\\' shall I explain it! In some ways I WIsh I had
no sense of honor! There's something about her so utterly
helpless that it seems to give me a duty towa,rd her.. And
there's something about me that I feel she can t do WIthout.
Perhaps it's her eyes - I don't know - they can see me
without knowing what I look like ..
ORlAN. Listen to what he's saymg!
POPE. .And you, what have yon to say! '.
ORlAN. I don't know, Father; what am I to doT It. s not
my fault. Until we find something except women to gI,'e us
children women will keep their hold on the hearts of I.nen.
, uld h . ed urunoved if he
Do You suppose any man co ave ren:
run
.
saw her as I did, tottering, blind, lost ill everlastinf
ness calling to me ... holding out her arms to me a
my iire she's the first person who has called to me, appefed
to me as to some one .And
so far removed so essentIal to me as It I lik
authority ... the two, it was the stronger! t ,e a
man, returning to his native land after a long exile, "ho,
[191]
with heart beating fast in the darkness l'ecognizes that at
last he's at home again! '
POPE. We ]lave no home upon this earth.
ORlAN. You know, Father, that we do nothing without
Y?ur To .both of us, simultaneously, there came this
thmg, WhICh we dId not seek. Now we have come to You' we
have brougllt. this thing to You; tell us what to do. Whot
shall we do wIth this little sister we've found'
POPE. Are you asking my advice1 I cannot read into your
hearts. You well know that marriage is a: sacrament of which
the husband and wife are the only celebrants.
ORlAN. Counsel us, Father.
. POPE. I can see nothing but a desire to gratify your pas-
sJOns yom'. senses in what you tell me. I see nothing of
the SpIrit of wIsdom, or the fear of God. This young girl
please.d you, and you saw nothing beyond. My children,..!!!!!r-
l'1age IS not a matter of leasure' rather is it the sacrijice of
It is two souls w 0, fO; evermore, and for a single
puryose, study how best to be all in all to each other. Mar-
l'1age is like founding a cHy. It requires much thought, and
the ?f th; wisest. It is like the building of fnat sealed
l.!ouse m WhICh, m days gone by, men preserved the fire and
the water.
ORSO. Father, if men stopped to think til ere would be few
marriages world, but a.. great cities would be
foun e .
"'POPE. There speaks the soldier who wants to do every-
thing at the double!
OREO. Remember, Father, it's young men, not old ones,
who marry.
POPE. Am I to understand, then, that if it were not for the
fear of hurting your brother, you would not seek Our coun-
sel; nor would Our counsel deter you T
OR80. Your prohibition would have to be absolute. Or, to
put it otherwise, jt is not You who are getting married. It '8
I, poor fellow; and it'e I who who have to face the conse-
quences.
POPE. The fact that this young girl didn't love you would
not deter you, would it' Come; be honest; don't beat about
the bush.
OR80. You asked for the truth, and You shall Ilave It.
[192J
Well then, no, it wouldn't stop me. I'm in love with her; why
8houldn't she come to love me' Since I can take her, why
ahouldn't IT It might deter Orian, because he hasn't enough
patience, and he isn't as simple-minded as I. Why, Father,
there's nothing you can't accomplish with patience and kind-
ness and sympathy, with a }tit of a show of authority, and a
little tact thrown in!
POPE. Think of a mother who can never see her children.
ORSO. But they'll see her.
POPE. What of the family' You know them; you know
her father and her mother. Don't you consider that side of
the question'
ORSO. Naturally, I'd rather the girl weren't blind, and her
family irreproachable. However, I can't do anything about
it. When you fight a battle, you can't always choose time and
place. When you layout a city, you can't be sure the rail-
road will run through it. But it isn't difficulties that deter a
stout heart. Besides, the man wbo doesn't feel the urge of
the inevitable will never amount to mnch.
POPE.. The girl is rich; you are poor.
ORSO. So much the better for the city we shall build! Her
fortune will never be as great as the uses to which I shall put
it!
POPE. But my boy, you're not going to build anything,
since it's you'r brother, not you, who is going to marry this
girl you're in love with! .
ORSO. That '8 exactly what I want You to Impress upon
him!
POPE. And if he does, you're not going to die of a broken
heart'
ORSO. The only thing that will kill me is a broken head;
and it'll take a hard knock to break it! The armies of
Holy Church arent going to lose an officer becau_" of a chlt
of a girl.' . h '
POPE. Orian, my boy, what can \\'e do Wlth any W 0 s
as stubborn as thatT Nothing, I'm afraid. bnt let hIm have
his way. cd '{" .
ORIAN. That's exactly tile counsel I E':xpeet on, In
Your wisdom, would give.
POl'E. Poor boy! Yon love IlI'r too mnch. Look at your-
self, you who were so proud, so cure of what
f193]
an earthly creature can make of us Qnce God withdraws his
hand from us!
ORSO. He loves her too much, you say? And is that why
you tell him not to marry her? !
POPE. Not because he loves her too much, but because he
doesn't love her enough.
OR80. I don't understand.
POPE. Love is the power to give the best of oneself, and
unles one can, it is not love.
ORSO. And what can be better than a mutualloveT
POPE. Wnat she loves is not this boy Orian, whom I alone
know and love.
ORlAN. You're right, Father! Not him, but one mightier
than he.
POPE. I know, my boy. .
ORSO. And so, in spite of the happiness I want to
to her, You want Me to inflict upon her the greatest
sorrow? You ask Me to snatch from her the thing WhICh IS
dearest to herT
ORlAN. No, Orso; I'm the one, and the only one, who asks
you to do so.
OR o. Then I won't. .
ORlAN. To whom, then, shall I entrust the dearest thmg I
have upon earth T h
ORSO. And I say, are you going to fail the WOD1an w 0
calls you, and who has nobody but you in the worl.d f
ORlAN. Wherever you may be, I.'m you. not
01150. The everlasting shadows ill whICh she lives are
thick enough to mislead her heart.
ORlAN. Don't, Orso; you hurt me: r her!
OR50 There's no question about It; you mar Y
OUf Father, here, advises me otherwIse. fIt is
. . I t ne fob you 0 W la
ORSO. Are you gomg to e some 0 .
yours T . fl .. d her it would
ORlAN. Orso, can't you see tha.t I malT!; ve'her what
end everything between US T Beslddei c!'t give it to
he wants. She wants my soul, an SIIDP .
her; I haven't it to give! . F ther?
ORSO. 1Vllat do you a?vlse me to t a ou needed no one',;
POPE. Have you nut Just told me In y
,,,hicE' or help?
11941
ORSO (TOORiAN). No! No! lcanit wrong you sol
ORIA". You aren't wronging me! So, come, guide this
poor soul through the night as I can't. She isn't asking me
to share my light with her j she wants me to share ner nark-
ness. So, you see.: Can 't unde'rstand that you're not
wrongmg me! All I'm doing is to forego this darkness, while
you, if you willi have the opportunity of brin.nng her light
All, ow crue the lIght can be!
POPE. Light is not cruel.
OR80. Good-bye, Father. (He kisses Ihe POPE'S hand.)
Good-bye,Orian. (He goes 0111 . .d long sile1lce.)
POPE. Don't think hardly of Me, dear boy; there are too
many people who hate Me already.
ORlAN. I don't, Father.
POPE. Tell Me; are these earthly ties so strong!
ORlAN. Oh, Father, Father! I see a face turned to me,
begging! A beautiful face; a face darkened for all time; a
fnce that is blind!
POPE. Anon it shall see; and 'it shall see - yon.
ORIA..'<. I hear a voice that cries: "Orian. Orian, don't yon
know me any longer?"
POPE. Shut your ears to the voice.
ORlAN. And once again, I can see her expression when.
little by little her happiness overcame her doubts and her
fears! I can that appealing desire mingled with confu-
sion and maidenly reserve!
POPE. Be brave, mv boy!
ORlAN. I can see her head, slowly and gently bowed! I
can hear her voice whispering: "Orian!" Whispering it
again .. . nnd again ... and again ... so low that I could
hardh hear it! (Silence.)
PO;E. Weep, dear, dear child. Tears bring comfort un-
told.
ORlAN. No. I have no tears to shed. for I hove nothing to
regret. t beh If
POPE. Forgh-e Me if I have poken to you. no on. a
of M ,-self. but on behalf of what is be t. and deepest yoll.
Very soon now this meddling old man will be KO.ne. Wi!!
not sta, bv Mv side. you most beloved of ;\ly this
hour of t;ibuiation; of spoliation and of de btunon. thlIt
[195J
draws near! Stay with Me in this hour when all others deny
Mel
ORIAN. Yes, Father; I'll stay I I have faith in You, and I
believe that Your advice is wise.
POPE. Is it I alone who have given COIDseU
ORlAN. You're right. Your advice would not have the
weight it does, and would not make me sacrifice so much, if
it were not the echo of what is best and finest in me - in any
man! If it didn't appeal to that for which I was born; to
that which I must accomplish and which is the sole reason
for my existence, to that which drives a man toward action,
not toward happiness! It's that! And yet, I don't yet know
what it's driving me to!
POPE. Isn't God real to you' Don't you know Him'
ORlAN. Shall I guide my steps toward Him directly'
Shall I walk straight to Him?
POPE. You cannot walk 'th GCtd until you have dis-
charged your debts to your fellow men. Bring them light,
Orian! Make them see! There IS moretban one gil' on'1bis
ear w 0 iSl:ilmd. oes nol a certain responslbihly rest on
the shoulders of the man who can see! s lie not artiallyr6-
sponsible for this darkness in which so many poor creatures
stumble around about him, How, then, can you bear the
'Thought of them? Orian, My son, My beloved son do what I
am powerless to do, I who am fettered to this throne listen-
ing to the despairing cry of the world. You do not know the
agony of being bound while all the world suffers, and when
one knows that Salvation is here, in one's very self! Not
that you do not know, for you are not clad in that garment,
which by the Devil's work, makes all men draw back with
hardened hearts. Won't you tell them, you who speak the!r
language, you who are familiar with every twist of theIr
minds and of their natures? Can't you make them under-
stand that their greatest, their only, duty in the world, is to
bring happinesst We know what true happiness is, and We
have been charged to bring them happiness! Make them real-
ize that it isn't merely a meaningless word, a church formu-
la, but a fearful, a glorious, a strange, a dazzling, gripping
reality! Make them see that, in comparison, all else is noth-
ing! It's something very humble, and yet very real and very
[196]
vital. it's like the bread they crave, like the wine they love;
like without which they die; like the fire which buras,
imd like the Voice which raiseth the dead! I have made My
soul a part of yours, Orian. Can't you make them under-
standt .
MINORrrE BROTHER (who entered a few m.nutes befo-:e, and
has been standing, waiting). A whole company of ladies
gentlemen are waiting at the doors .of m?nastery. I thmk
the French Ambassador is there WIth hIS wife and
(To ORIAN.) And Signor Orso is with them. He sent a speCIal
message to you to join them.
ORIAN. I'm sorry. I can't. . .
MINORITE BIiOTHER. He told me to mSlst, and to urge you
very strongly to come. (A 101lg silence.)
- ORIAN .. I can't! No. Tell them I can't come.
- CURTAU.
ACT III
The ruins of the Palatine. Evening. Late
ORSO. Don't be so downhearted, brother., I know It ISn t
. - . t belong to a beaten army! I d never have 00;.
very amusmg 0 t' th t fficer
lieved it would be so unpleasant. Did you nO .ICe a.o
who was picking up our arms' Did see laughmg
inet He recognized me, and I recognIZed him well enoug .
He and I were members of the same lodge. Heavens, man,
don't look so sad! Ro e I
ORlAN. The. Revolution has Rome, even m
The pealing of the bells sounds different to me
iun
t'ts
Osso. Oh, well Rome has lots of t gs en
t d th -'I1't agai - among others, my fu
One revolutiou..going on in
one in Rome "'Wa's too much for that descen n o. Ie
bins When the catastrophe fell, suddenly, WIthout
. . h f d himself out of a job. Nowhere to go, 0
warrung, e oun I no more than a ghost haa
you understand' Not a pace - d ubI' blood
one on tl,e earth. Nevertheless, 01 l'Ck:Ss:dor to
didn't take long to assert itself. HIS br?ther . .
London has just died, I::,
I went to the station WIth himHthlS a to tak'e his
loved me like a son already. e wen
cigar out of his mouth to tell me so.
[1971
gets to Paris ahead of the Prussians
. rUSSIans' What do .
The only thing that matters t h' mean, the Prussiansf
to ndOii nas di d ? lID IS that the Ambassador
blood run faster e C/
ust
th.e Ide.a of the vacancy makes his
lure on hand to o ff jn. you France without a Ture-
. er lIS servIces !
_ ORlAN. Poor France' W j-j .
fMlIer-in-law. . e, we're gomg to help your
t:
0d
idea of yours, to enlist. That little
tingle I h at the Porta Pia made my blood
o . can ar y walt to feel a gun in my hands.
RlAN. How about your wedding'
ORSO You po I' 'di to'
t tak' , .0 1 0, nan! Why, my wedding will have
.:. e care of as best it can. During this last year,
I hile you sunnIng yourself on the shores of Africa and
f was paymg my court Jlere, I haven't managed to get very
:r I I sa that esterda all of a BU she told me
s e was willmg to marry me. - -
ORlAN. Yesterday!
.. Yes, yesterday. Don't look so surprised. Comes out
WIt It Just like that! Can you imagine how I felt? Maybe
the of my approaching departure appealed to her
young gIrl's fancy. Anyway, I had the chance of telling her
that I off for the war. I had an idea it might interest
her a bIt.
ORlAN. What did she say!
ORSO. Wanted to know whether you were going, too.
ORlAN. I never asked you to go with me.
ORSO. You silly ass! Do 'you suppose I was going to let
you go off by yourself? A half-baked soldier like you' So
you have nothing to say to her'
ORlAN. Say good-bye to her for me.
ORSO. Short, but to the point?
ORUN. Oil, well, be as eloquent as you want on my behalf.
<?RSO (putting his hand on ORlA.. ... 's shoulder). She'S here,
Onan, and wants to talk to you.
ORlAN. What's this trap you've laid for me!
ORSO. She asked me to bring her here.
ORlAN. So the two of you arranged it, did yon!
ORSO. Well, what if we did!
ORlAN. I promised not to see her again.
[198)
. ORSO. A week from now we'll both of uS be on the battle
field. (A considerable silence.)
ORlAN. Very well. If you wlsh. I don't care. I can't say
No to anything. You've chosen an appropriate time and
place! These ruins, tms overcast September day, e\'erythmg
goes to prove that all is over and done wllh; that it was use-
less from the very start. Yes, I'll see her. I want to. Let bel'
come. I'm breaklng my promise. But then, why should I be
the only thing in the world that can't be beaten'
ORSO. Well, old man, one tiring's certain, and it is tllat in
a week we'll be on a battle-field, and it's perfectly possible
that in ten days we'll all be dead. In that case, we'll be quiet
enough. You must talk to her before you disappear one way
or another. You and she must say what you've got to say to
each other now. It's got to be done. (He goes Ollt.
enters.)
. PEN SEE. If you are going to speak barshly to me ... if I
must hear from you what I am only too ready to hear ... if
the reason for your silence is what I can readily imagine it to
be ... if your heart, wlrich was opened to me for a moment,
is closed again ... if the voice I heard in the darkness of the
night in which I have been wrapped as in a shroud since the
hour I was born ... if my Beloved, who once, long ago, on
a May evening, mysteriously spoke ODe word to me - only
one word, but ",hlch was all I longed to hear, which .atisfied
the need of my poor sonl, and forever made me yours - just
the one word: ,. Beloved" ... if that man is again before me,
after tll;S interminable sileuce, but only in order that I'm to
hear him pass judgment upon me, and then tllrllst me away
... then ... then ... Oh, Orian, if it's that, spare me! Just
one word, one little gesture will be enough! If it must be
when you speak the word, at least keep the tone of your VOlce
from being too severe! Say the word, which nil forever send
me from you, very softly. When you say "go," whisper it;
wmsper it as softly as if it were iliat other word a woman so
loves to hear. All you need say is: "go away."
ORIA..'''- Am I only to say: "go away'" Kot another word
but that, PensCe T
PEN SEE. Say:" go away from me, go, woman; go
from me, my
ORlAN. No. PensCe, I haven't the power to tell you to go.
{l99]
PENSEB. Why did you forsake me! Why this long silence'
ORlAN. I wen t abroad; I only came back to Rome last
week; just two days before the Piedmontese entered the city
- those friends of your family!
PENSEE. I aud mine took your house from you, and now f
take your city! And we've put the man, whom you called'
Father, in a place from which he cannot come forth.
ORIAN. But you shan't take me! .
PENSER. Would you rather I took your brother away from
yout
QRIAN. The war is taking both of us.
PENSEE. Then it's true t Are you really going!
ORlAN. Should rbe fiere now if I weren't goingt '
PENSEE. No, I suppose not I How could you possibly be
standing close beside me, except in a dream! ' ,
ORlAN. My brother will come back to you.
PENSEE. And do you want me to niarry him!
ORlAN. By that time I shall be where such things don't
hnrt any more. ,
PENSEE. But it was you who almost ordered him to marry
me.
ORlAN. Aside from this parting there'l1 soon be another
parting between us, and that one will be final.
PENSER. Do you mean when I'm dead, Orian!
ORlA.lf viole!!!ly). Can't you realize that the thought of
your belonging to another is far more bitter to me than
death?
PENSEE. It was your wish.
ORlAN. I know.
PENSEE. I have no pride any more! WllO am I that I
should say No? Is my body a thing of such great
Could I ever have refused to give this man anythmg he
asked? (She makes a feeble gesture toward ORlAN.)
ORlAN. Yon 'U love him as soon as you've married him.
(A pause. ) ..
PENSEE. Orian, I wonder whether you know what it is to
be blind t When I raise my hand, I can't see it. I only know
it exists when some one takes hold of it, and so makes me
aware of it. When I'm alone, I'm like a person who has no
body, no face, no ratio to other things. Only if some one
comes to me, and takes me in his arms, and holds me close,
[2001
only then do I exist bodily . . Only throug!l do i kn':;:
him. I know him only by what I have gtven hm1. My e
tence begins in his arms. .' If to
ORlAN. Is that the way you're gotng to glve yourse
hn;!NSEE. Must I, Oriau! (A Tell me; must If
(Silmwe.) 'lust not' My be-
ORlAN (violently). No! No, Pensee, you n " (S'
loved Pensee must never belong to anyone except me. l-
knee.) Have you nothing to sayt
PENSEE. Some words sink in very slowly.
ORlAN. Is your heart deaf? one doesn' t
PENSEE. Wllen one's accustomed to' sorrow,
react as quickly to . th's time forever. If you
ORlAN. say good- ye soon, which is waiting
ask me to grve you sor:ow, the so h for both of us!
around the next corner WIll be great r.t.... Orian t '
PENSEE Is it necessary that we s Otl .a be a happy
O
-' It ." npcpssary_ that I should _ . ' .
R"';N. :- 38 , houl never know satisfaction,
man; It 1S nee mouth should not be
It is necessary that my eyes my h' h kills all longing!
'th tI ki d of happiness w 1C t
stopped WI Ie n w that I'm my own wors
You say vou love me, and I kno d I know that
enemy.' You tell me thail., must s.e!l.or.1.
ou
, a:, -y seem,g and
f mme which .n.reven ,. t
it's these very eyes 0 - t' I ust never let anyone ge
trunT" gramy t:;.ar .r:: are my greatest danger.
contr,,-I over. ":Ie; an. you, ;dventure toward the light
No one can Jom l!' d' tance. I must go alone. A
- that diamond shinmg m e IS t others What others!
year ago my Father told me to go t e!' What good cao
Wllo are theyt Wllat do they can I give them!
I do themt Wllat can I say to em duty toward them, and
I who have nothing! I've only is performed.
that '8 to see that my duty to myse
PENSEE. Wl,at duty! . nd 'et to know that the
ORlAN. Isn't it death to that gleam
sun exists' To know o. hiuing sword" there 8
that everlasting glory, like overcome this incurable
not a single one for us, .to p U! throw ourselves whole-
Death! Not one on we ca to kill forever what-
hearted!y, crying aloud tn our eagerne
[2011
e f .
ver 0 US IS mortal, and what already is twice dead' Can't
you understand'
PEN SEE. I shouldn't be blind if I didn't understand.
ORIAN. True.
I PENSEE .. But is there no path leading slowly and patient-
y to that light you talk about! Is there no way'
ORlAN. I can be stubborn, but not patient; I can strike a
thousand random. blows, but not one methodically; I'm capa-
b1e . of great longmg, but not of intelligent effort of strong
but not of resignation. I'm like a moth -'- a Butter-
mg, loathsome insect - a moth which is nothing but a filthy
worm that h.as sprouted big wings! A thing as unstable as a
breath of wmd, and that knows no better than to hurl itself
over and over again, against the chimney of a lamp,
a!ld go on hurling itself as hard as it can until when it
stops,. it is. nothing but a dead, crawling thing;' a nasty,
creepmg thing, loathsome to the touch.
. PENSEE. But my father used to talk to me - you have no
Idea how enthusiastic he can be - about the times in which
'We live, of the great and wonderful inventions that make this
life of ours a fine thing; of these unbelievable marvels, as he
called them, such as railroads, deep-sea cables, of the su-
premacy of man over nature, of the progress which has swept
all old superstitions, of the years to come, which
estabhsh the triumph of reason and of learning, and
will brmg about universal prospeI'ity ... yes, those were his
very words .. .
ORlAN. Open your eyes and look at all these things for
yourself!
PENSEE. But I'm blind.
OBIAN. Please! Just for a moment! Oh, if you could only
open them for a single minute; only long enough to see what
a facto':J - say phosphorus factory - really looks like, or
eatmg-room m a railroad station! A world devoted en-
tirely to the production of what's useful. And the day will
come when. Rome the Blessed will take pride in her docks and
factorIes! Oh, yeH, t1ley're glorious times in which we
hve!
PE"SEE. Time doesn't exist in the world in which I live.
ORlAN. Yet soon Tim; will be ;-:;;ry real thing to you-
[202]
when you are me to come back, and I don't come.
PENSEE. You're here now; that's all I know.
ORIAN. And you're here, too! Let me realize to the full
that you are here. Ah, your presence is only too reall Dear
one, it's good to hear your voice, to know you're here! Your
voice is like music to me. And I'm jealous! Very jealous.
You're blind because of me. I'm mounting guard at the door-
way of each of your senses. There's one way in which you
could be mine, but which I don't ask. I don't ask it because
I don't want to forego the many others. If I weren't here to
whisper it to yon so secretly, how would you know that you
are beautiful' And, sweetheart, if you were not here, I
shouldn't know the great wretchedness of being bored with
oneself. It wasn't until I tore myself away from you, that
you took complete possession of me. Each day it was the
same thing over and over again, and each night, after the
first hours of sleep, the same dream came to me. And yon
were always the same Pensee. Always I saw, and saw again
and again, the same face, the same expression, the same ges-
ture, the same movement of your body - your body so femi-
nine, so bitterly sweet, so beyond my understanding!
Through the night came the same voice crying aloud - yonr
voice, which I would know from among ten thousand. And,
somewhere in the dark, there was a swaying figure that
stretched its arms toward me; and a blind person who spoke
softly to me; and a silent some ODe who would not an wer
me!
PE"SEE. If I Orian, it' because you're not at
sUPJlort me; and if I'm blind it's only because I
can't s u.
- ORLL';. And tllen, all that was set aside! and between
and me something more direct was estabhshed. orne thing
in me strove to tear itself apart from myself. ! felt a new
desire _ shapeless, "it1JOut face or name, and. m no a
child of the brain; it was simply my whole stramm/!":
yearning toward another. And knew the of
the soul struggling fiercely, hornbly, to Itself out of I
self! _ Not only an inner burning. bnt a erle$ of fe.ar
ful
ef-
forts, one after the other, like the last gasp-. of a mao
r
that exhausted my soul, and left me onts,?e the gales 0
;Nofuingness! But I fought it out, e"en wIllIe I yearned to

come, and the ship on which I could have come, lay at an:
chor ... (A pause.) And even if I had come; and even if you
had been there, as you are here now, I know only too well that
what I was asking of you, you could not give me. What peo-
ple call Love will always remain a sort of vulgar couundrum,
a cup quickly drained; a few nights spent in a hotel, and
after that, back once more into the crowd, the noise, the
hurry of that country fair which is Life! Life, from which;
after love has passed, there is no further escaping. Oh, yes.!
I know all the incomparable bonds which marriage forges!
But I also know that a yearning such as mine craved some-
thing far different, something incompatible with all the rest.
And probably the unquenchable fire which consumed me has
been lighted as a just retribution for my pride and for my
desires! .
PENSEE. Dearest friend! How could you deceive yourself
into thinking you could ever be anywhere where I was nQt
close beside you! It's said that no soul ever came into being
except through the eyes of another person's soul, or through
a secret relation between it and that of others. As between
us, there's even more. .While you talk, I come into being,
and I become a responsive entity between our two personali-
ties. I believe that when you were being made, a little of
what went into you was left over. I think I must be made
of that - that something which was left out of you. And,
what is more, I believe that it was so that my soul should al-
ways, and surely, be able to find yours, the possibili-
ty of its being lured away from the right path, iu order that
what is yours ouly and wholly should be kept intact for you;
I think that's why my eyes were denied the power of seeing.
Aud now that I've found you, won't you eyen listeu to meT
Why did you refuse me? What have I doneT Why did you
give me to some one elseT Don't you think it was cmelT
ORlAN. How often have I heard those same words echoing
through my dreams!
PENSEE. They're true.
ORlAN. What does the pa t matter! I see your face be-
fore me'; I can take your hand in mine, and if I asked you to
kiss me, I don't think you'd refuse me. What more could
we askT We can see each other, speak together, listen to the
other's voice! - Ye , for the brief span of time until we
[204J
have nothing more to say to each other - That, I it, is
all that's necessary to give the illusion of toget er.
PENSEE. Say what you 'will, Orian; in spIte of
ments you can't convince me that there's. not some mg m
, I' here WIth "OU now - as
you that is very happy because m J
much with you as I can be.
ORlAN. In a few minutes I shall have left you.
how llard
it is, Pensee. til you've heard what
PENSEE. And I shan't let you go un s I've been pre-
I have to say. You shall listen to ali and through
paring through these dfYs 0 ly lie awake and weep!
long nights when I couldn t seep, on .
ORlAN. How well I know them! d dear heart! Do
D
t 0 lrnow those wor s, . d
PENSEE. 0 you, o. d d to etherf Never mm ;
you know the words I have threat e for them. Many years
hear them once. then go and try vZd Pope _ a man can
a 0 there was a woman who !ill .- -n can give far more _
. I' rf h t a woma_ _ -
give nothing uE.. 11S I e.U. d CQ jjmtaine, who was
an that woman Jl dau -hter _ her blind
TaUle"'''s motber. And today It s hJr tow';;'d tne man w om
daughter - who stretche an tSh ugh my veins a mlX-
Il I' There flows rO d
the Pope ca s 11S son"fi f the greatest nusformne, IlU
the rea t c ride mingled and mMe one
of the p,:d
e
, i& a complete lack of honor;
with abject htulllliahou,. an _ w d in the same person. You
the Frank and the ew flows in me is the blood
are a Christian, whIle the blood . ch God was made, but
of Jesus Christ, the of bl _ a
I
had to be blind
which today people despIse. h;PPY, I had to live a
you might see; that you tin which it is my destiny
darkness, soundless and ever as g,
to know. wh I'm going!
ORlAN. Come with me 0 is there any room
PENSEE. In that land to gthere room for e!e'
for grief! In that place of light, ed f For the humiliation
which cannot and.will ;'lot 0:;' I was born! A
which has been mme smce e taste of my tears f ve
and blind! Can I ever forget t the t )O'ie me! Can you swear
I wept in vain' No! You mns no
[205)
to me that there's a spot on this earth where these 'tw6
things can live side by side - my yearning for love, and my
utter certainty that I'm unworthy of love'
ORIAN. Do you really mean that I'm not to love you'
PENSEE. No! No! No! Dearest! You must love me! Is
there no path that leads from me to you f I love you too
much! I've waited for you so long ... so long! It's hard to
make me believe that you love me, Orian. A person who can-
not see needs more than the mere words which satisfy other
people. There must be something essentially individual and
personal to him, something wholly his. There must be a
proof that there's no way of backing out; for since he can't
see, his hands must be able to grasp very firmly.
ORIAN. If 1 were to die, Pensee, would that be enough'
Would that convince you'
PENSEE (making a gesture in his direction. If 'ou die ...
if you e, vou WI e vmg or France, not for me. You'll
rue because ou love Franilil more than you love me.
ORlAN. And if I die, I can never reach you.
PENSEE. Then who will speak that word my heart is wait-
ing to hearT It's hard to make me believe yon me, O1'i-
.an; very hard, uuless you'll teli me sol Just say: "I love
you." That's all 1 ask. Just say: "I love YOU," and I'll be'
Iieve you! .
ORIA...... Almost as SOon as I'd said it, it would no longer
be true.
PENSEE. 1 don't understand you. How can you expect me
to understand you' How can it possibly be a good thing for
me that you should dieT How can it be good for anyone to
have the person they love taken a way from them T Do peo-
ple who can see, grow tired of the sun T And I, who have no
sun, do you think I can forego that voice which was the reve-
lation of things - that voice that once spoke to me and
called me, "Beloved"T If 1 were to live to hundred, and
if every second of those hundred years were hundred years
long, 1 shouldn't grow old, for 1 should be ure that I had
something more to say to you, some new name to call you by,
some fresh device that my heart invented for you, something
.of myself to giye you, and which would never fail! Is it my
fault that you are my strength; that it's you whose duty it is
io be wise for me t Is it my fault that everything I n('ed is
[206]
not within me but without; that
ri ht binds me to you - a compellIng g
an form of right could ever bet Oh, If I .In ed a hun-
d d
Y I think I should always to say to
re years, . fi d 't y mto a cor-
you some tender word whlCh would n I s wa. . t e-!
ner'of your heart, which you thought was
Locked fast against. this blInd she
that never stops callmg you name an e g. ,.
loves you! 1 t t Do ,'ou propose , to
ORIA". Do YQu5
ant
Ill! to (ese.r. a 't uld be to
lOCk me up in your house where my only . u beyond
D pect me to have nO ailll m .
caress you, 0 you ex .. - .- except that
youT In IS It unless it be
yery purpose which I wa. born. to s to attain
tllat furthest limit beyond I of myself,
which I was and which IS and bones
and without which I should be no g hed it eyen if r
tl
h h d' When I've reac ,
put ler ap azar . n then shall I have gained
must die first, then, and not un I n then shall I be able to
possession of my soul; and no]t t is whY it is necessary
give it to you. Don't you .see t t
Ja
that duty comes
for you that I should eXIstf P 0 I ow iir;;ent or in,-
d t
tter what I IS nor' <>
first - u y, no m':!..,. . _ l' tne minute it presents it-
media c. u y becomes Impera Ive 'l; ' when...I aUhaye..
self. ""But w len a ast._I sball Orian but a person
ceased Tol:Je this an ction
who has a e ill e con
ne
_ - -
genTcause, then.-:-. 'b satisfies me
iNSiE. The Oriany'!,u de.cfI h: then _hall' I be able to
ORIAY. . . , '!'.hen, a_nd un 'eetllea;t - o:I!en your eyes."
- d "Pensee S'\\i , .
come to you an say:, h' ' hidden for von to see ill my
PENSEE. But tbere s not mg .
eyes. D th waitin .. for llle, for me, who
ORlAN. But there's. ea d ho leave no children.
haye accomplished nothmg, an when 'ou look at me t
PENSEE. Is that what you see w 'd that's what I love
OBIAN. That's what you told me , all
in you. th die for me, than livet
PE"SEE. Would you ra er
ORlAN . Yes, Pellsee, I would.
[207)
PENSEE. What more can I ask!
ORlAN. Didn't you know it, without my telling you!
PENSEE. I knew it all before you spoke a word.
ORlAN. Do you remember what I promised you long ago,
80 long ago that no one knows when it was! That thing
which existed between us since before we were born!
PENSEE. I remember.
ORlAN. That I loved you, and that I should never love
anyone else!
PENSEE. I believe you, Orian.
ORlAN. And I shall put our gold wedding-ring on your
finger ...
PENSEE. Tell me, why did you want to hand me over to
Some one else!
ORlAN. That was long ago, Pen see dear. lrtmg ago, when
I was still alive.
PEN SEE. Is it true that whatever may have been, now at
last, I'm yours'
ORlAN. When I've set my soul free, I shall be able to give
it to vou.
PE;SEE. Is there no way of setting it free except by
brutally tearing it away from your body and from mine!
ORlAN. Happy is the man whose duty is quickly done, and
whose duty is clear to him! 'fhe duty of defending mother,
or country - what could be clearer or more quickly done'
Circumstances have settled my destinies. If only my duty
were the same humble, easy task that others havel What
happiness that would be! What happiness for who would
have my Pensee as a reward! I've been too JmpatJent of
life' I'm too brusque too capricious, too quick! I've been
like' a male insect can be restrained only for an hour.
PENSEE. But my patience has been great enough for both
of us. .
ORlAN. What I asked of yon, what..Lso;ughi to g;'-ye you,
wasin keeping, not with Time but 0 lLwlth EterlU.ty ..
"PENSEE. HTwere to te I yon that I loved you, would It be
easy, then, for you to leave me' . .
ORlAN. I know you love me WIthout your tellmg me.
PENSEE (putting his around herself) . .
it's a sweet thing to hear saId, when you know It s true.
[208)
ORlAN. Don't tempt me, my rose in the darkness! Don:t
put yourself between my arms! A rose is in great danger d'
its only protection is honeysuckle. .
PENSEE. How am I to know that I'm the most beautiful
woman in the world to you, if you don't tell me so!
ORlAN. There's no other for me. .
PENSEE. Where is the most beautiful of all women!
ORlAN. So close to me that I can't see her.
PENSEE. Where is that spot nearest your heart!
ORlAN. My enemy has taken possession of
PEN SEE. If I can find it, it'll be hard to dnve out!
ORlAN. Oh, you're stronger than I! I know It only too
.
PENSEE. If I really wanted you to stay, do you thmk yon
could go! .
ORlAN. I know nothing! Nothing except you! (Stlence.)
PENSEE (she tears herself from his arms). Then, good-bye!
ORlAN. Pen see, dear, is it you who now tell me to go!
PENSEE. It's over, done, finished! Don ' t come near me!
ORlAN. _ Oh,Jensee, Pe!!see! I'll sta with you, if
you wish!
PEN SEE. Don't_sav tbing.s that are unworthv of .
ORlAN. Oh, I'm mad! What does all the rest matter III
comparison with the moment you can give me!
PENSEE. But I need more. A moment isn't enough for me!
ORlAN. You're in my power.
PEN SEE. I know I am. How could I escape from you!
ORlAN . We can't leave each other!
PENSEE. No; it's not impossible. We can.
ORlAN. But I no longer want to leave you! I don't want
to go now.
PENSEE. Can't you do what so many Frenciunen are do-
ing! Don't you think I can bear what so many women are
bearing!
ORlAN. You shouldn't have come so close to me.
PENSEE. Shouldn't I ... Orian!
ORlAN. I shouldn't have taken yon in my anus!
PEN SEE. If you' hadn't felt my heart beating so close to
yours, how could you have known itt
ORlAN. And do Y9U know minet
PENSEE. Yes, you strong-willed man!

ORIAN. When I felt you in my my eyes went blind!
PENSEE. Then I've at least been able to teach you what
blindness is.
ORIAN. Yes, now I know what darkness is.
PENSEE. Tell me, then: do you think it's so dreadfu" And
do you still think people who love each other, have to see1 .
ORIAN. They don't have to do anything.
PENSEE. No, they don'\.
ORIAN. But, now, do you understand what I was telling
you about that other sorrow'
PENSEE. Oh, I'm weak! I should have been satisfied with
what other women find sufficient.
OmAN. Then why do you tell me to go!
PENSEE. Because I'm strong as well as weak. (Silence.)
.;:..,::?,-,--,I:.;.clo ::.; v:.,: e:.,you Pensee. (Silence. )
, rea lze t at you re saying good-bye.
ORIAN. Good-bye!
PENSE."'. Once again let me stretch my hands toward you,
as a dymg person stretches their eager hands to take the
harp an angel holds out to them! (She passes her hands
slowly and lightly over his face.) Let me for the last time
learn your face by heart! Let me take its impress with this
living wax! For my hands and my fin"ers became mv soul
from the moment I touched you. Good-bye, dear, dear' face!
(ORIAN goes 01lt. ORSO comes in,) Orso, we mURt tell mother '
that our enO'a"'ement is !>rokeni quIcK. we mustn't wait!
RSO. Well, then you agree at last, do you! You must ad-
mit my advice was good. Did I bring him to you at the rig\;t
moment' .
PENSEE. 011, you're kind and good, 01'50, and I'm very
fond of you! ' .
ORSO. That's all I need. You'll always have first place in
this old policeman's heart of mine.
PENSEE. You don't feel too sad'
ORSO. Just sad enough. Just enough to acquire that;
touch of melancholy which is so' becoming to a masculil'e
face!
PENSEE. Please don't joke.
ORSO. Well out of it, I am! What in the world would I
have done with a wife who into every piece of furni','
ture in the houseT " ' .
[2\01
PE"SEE. Blind as I am, I ended by getting what I wanted,
and for a man who could see, he wasn't able to get far
enough away to escape me.
ORSO. You can connt on me to make him do his dut\'.
PENSEE. Is he really in such great dangert .
ORSO. You don't waut anyone to damage )-our property,
do youY
PENSEE. He's convinced that he won't come back.
ORSO. And I'm standing here telling you I'll bring him
back to you.
l
PENSEE. I was only able to reach him through death.
ORSO. Why do you, too, talk about his dying' It's upset..
ting. I don't like to hear you talk that way.
PENSEE. Even if he is to die, and even if the one moment
we had together were to be the only one, I love that moment i
it's enough for me, and no one can ever take it away from
me. Love came to me! Through the impenetrable veil of
darkness which surrounds me, love came to me, and nothing
could keep it away! As I believe in God, I think he loves
me. There's no longer any death for me, now; no longer any
darkness. 01 a iness 's - " a thing that it wasn't
within mv er to Jry...to escape..it. Many women are more
beaut1 ul than I, but I'm the one he chose! Many women can
see, but my eyes are blind to everything except his love! Oh,
thank God i thank God, I appealed to him! Thank God, that
among all things he wanted only those which I was able to
give! I, in my darkness, was mistress of these priceless
treasures, and I dida't know it! Since he loved me in my
blindness, I wish I could be even more blind than I am. I
don.'t want to see him, and I don't want him to see me! I
want hin! to see, not this mortal face, but only that thing
which I gave him, which is his, and which neither life nor
death can take from hin!! And since he loved me, destitute
of everything, I want to be eYen poorer; I want to be a pau-
per in his arms, and understood by noue bnt hin!. And in the
eyes of the world, and in terms of those honors which the
world bestows, I want to be less honored than any who bears
a Jewish name! He was able to find me in the darkness in
which I lived, and if now he must disappear from the sight
of men, my night will not terrify me, nor will it be dark
enough to separate me from hin!!
[211 )
ORSO. And I! Pensee, may I always be your friend'
PENSEE (holdvng out hand to him). My greatest friend!
ORSO. Some day, when the war's over you'll have to tell
me why I was once in love with you. '
PENSEE. Why, once' Don't you love me any longer'
ORSO. How am I to answer thatt
PBNSEE. I should be sorry to have you say you didn't.
ORSO. I don't love you the way my brother does. You
were good enough for me as you were. I could have been
with you. You know, some men, who aren'l olher
Wlse affected by sentimentality, cry because a child has never
put its cheek against theirs. Some men can't stand having a
woman grow heavy in their arms; can't stand tlle solemn
disfiguration of a woman from whom another life is in pro-
cess of being made. I began by admiring you; you seemed
so proud and so strong; you walked with SO much grace and
dignity. And then, when I found out you were blind, YOU,
with the air of a queen, and the face of a young goddess ...
well, that touched me! It appealed to me to feel you SO weak
beside me, not knowing where to walk if I wasn't there to
tell you. You could have made me understand life. To have
felt your little hand in mine would have made me strong.
And where could your little hand have been safer than held
tight in mine!
PENSEE. Don't think you've hidden your feelings from
me.
ORSO. Well, never mind. Let's say no more about it. You
know, a man can have a sense of modesty. I'm this
better off than my brother, anyway; I'm as free and light-
hearted as a feather in the wind' he's heavy, slow; he loves
you too much. He isn't going to'the war in the spic!t I
Yon know it's good to feel perfectly free; to be relieved 0
z"-e responsibIlities of life. Oli, it's good to be gay, !o
sing, to have your shirt-co ar open!
Beaven I believe yon'll be able to tell which spmts di ty
the prime and glory of youth. Ha, the soul of a.
year-old! That's what shines bright in God's sunshine asks
ter all it's awfully easy to die, and that's all anYlone-d -
, I'''' th Jive like ow ow
you to do. Better Je1Xe men _an - - ce the
Yon see the flames of all e sunn
ses
SID gh
world began in the first ray of sunlight that flashes thron
[2]2)
the wiudow straight into your heart! That's why dead men
such beautiful expressions. They're like children star-
mg at something. They're not regretting anything. To die
country fine a thing that a smile stays on your
hps, Just from thlDking about it! Well come Lady Mole'
Come, Mistress Bat; take my arm; PI! home. '
CURTAIN
ACT IV
The end of 1871. A in a Palace at Rome.
PEN.SEE .is with one hand on a table; face
buned tn a b.g basket of magnolias and which
on a table in the middle of the '
. . How. delicious these flowers are; their fragrance
IS mtoxlCatmg; It'S almost more than I can bear. The odor
is so strong that it makes me giddy!
SICHEL. I'm sorry they were left here; I gave orders to
have them t<lken away. The least thing up ets yon in these
days.
PENSEE. No; leave them. (SICHEL helps he,. to a chai,..)
SICHEL. Shall I open the window for a few minutes f
PENSEE. Yes. Do. Let this last ray of sunset come to me
with the red glow of twilight. Let Rome come to me.
(SICHEL opens the window. The pealing of bells ca.
be Listen! The AVE MARIA.
SICHEL. There'S sometlling inevitable about the peaJi.og
of bells that grips my heart. What are they saying, as they
ring so loud'
PENSEE. I love them. And I know them all - the little
ones and the big ones; those that are near, and tho that
are far away. The whole Holy City sinks to rest, rocked by
their sweet chimes. The voices of clear-toned bells are far
sweeter than spoken words. How good it would be to ring
as they do, and forevermore to be nothing bat I<J and mit I
wish I could know God as they know Him, even if only for
a passing moment.
SICHEL. If it is ever granted me to know God, it will be
only by seeing HiuJ in your eyes, dear child; in your eyes,
when light shall have been given them.
PENSEB. Will you play me something, Mother!
SICHEL (getting up). What shall I playf
(2131
PENSEE. No! I think I'd rather have you stay here. If
you played, I shouldn't hear the bells.
SICHEL. You seem to be constantly waiting for something'
as though you were listening for something to come froU:
outside.
PENSEE. No one will come. (Silence.) What else would
you do, Mother, if all you had was a sense of touch and of
sound with wmch to see a whole city such as tms T What
would you do, if all you had was the sound of voices coming
from here and there, the clatter of wheels, a woman singing,
some one quarrelling, a hammer beating, the cry of a bird,
the sensation of warmth and of cold, all the vague differ-
ences that one feels in the dark, and the breath of so many
things 1 The power of seeing, which I haven't, is spread over
my whole body. I have to build a city for myself from all
these sounds that are thrown now here, now there, as walls
diffuse the sunlight! Yes, I have to create Rome; Rome the
wonderful, with her flights of steps that Clinlb upward to-
ward her yast gardens; her streets that wait for the passing
of processions; and then, as you once told me, palaces, the
color of dawn, that seem to spring from the midst of deep
shadows! All, how beautiful it must all be! I'm like a little
c1Iild, waking up in an unknown countq, in a room with tbe
shutters closed. To me, this world that is so commonplace
to you, is wholly unknown. I'm in it, and yet I'm not. But
not for long. I must glean all I can while I can. All I know
of it is what you tell me. The eyes that were given me were
probably not meant to see the world; and when, at last, I
shall see it, it'l1 be far away, behind me, fled into vague space,
as a passenger on a ship who wakes too late and who
the shore and the bustling city that people point out h.lID,
not as a town willi stately monuments, but only as a tbm bne,
far off, like foam in the glare of the sun!
. SICHEL. Some one who loves you is standing on the
and is waving to you! (PENSEE presses her h,!,"d to he,' SIde,
as though she felt a sudden pain_) What is Itt Do you feel
badly!
PENSEE. Something seemed to move in me.
SICHEL a low voice). The child.
PENSEE (in a low voice). Yes.
[2141
SICHEL (as though to herself). It's as it should be. 1<'001
months.
PENSEE.
SICHEL.
PEN SEE.
child has stirred within me!
Why-don't you write Orian'
e lasu't written me a single line. Why should
n
S,CHEL. I wTote to him for you two weeks ago. (Silence.)
Yes. I made up my mind to write, even though you had told
me not to. (Silence. ) Are you annoyed with me!
PENSEE. No. It doesn't matter.
SICHEL. But I can't understand wby we have no news
from Or so. We used to get a letter each week. I was told he
was on his way here on a mission. Not a word from him
since New Year ' s.
PEN SEE. 'fhe army has been on the move.
SICHEL. I'm afraid something may have happened.
PENSEE (pointing to basket of flowers). }<othing's come
except these flowers.
SICHEL. I wish I knew who sent them. I'm worried about
your father, too. I'm sure he iED't taking care of himself as
he should. He's so careless! I hope nothing'. happened to
him.
PENSEE.
SICHEL.
PENSEE.
What does it all matter'
What does it mattert
'fhe only thing that mattHs is that my child must
live.
SICHEL. 'Ve shall have to be leaving Rome SOOD.
PENSEE. Why T
SICHEL. We'll go up to ,ery quietly. We can hide
everything there.
PENSEE. But there 's nothing to hide!
SICHEL. I haven't dared say anything to your father.
He's so strict about such things, and he cares so much about
everything that affects our social position. Good Heavens I
i: can just see 1lll1! }<ever mind; just leave it to me, dear
c1Iild! Your mother's pretty shrewd, and knows more than
one way of getting out of a difficulty! We'll find a way to
hide this love-child so that no one will be the wiser.
PENSEE. You don't suppose I'm going to abandon my
child, do you'
SICHEL. Let me suppose wllatever I choo.e. Each day's
[215]
worries are bad enough. What are you talking about' Don't
take away my wits and my courage; I need them, Heaven
knows!
PENSEE. Mother, are you ashamed of me' You, too'
SICHEL. Ashamed of you, dear'
PENSEE. Noone in the world could possibly be prouder
than I am.
SICHEL (putting her hand O1b PENSEE'S knee). Never mind,
child, I know how you feel.
(in a low voice). Yes, Mother; it's hard to bear.
I was born to live without a stain, and all these people who
look at me, hurt me, oh, so much! Remember,I'm
h
blinild
l
; and
how can a blind person defend herself' And w at w peo-
ple think of him'
S,CHEL. I'll stand by you! Don't let that worry you!
What do we care if people look at us askance' I ac
customed to it long ago. The scorn of the world IS !ike a
long-lost country to me. God be with us, poor women, ill our
frailty! . ' And
PENSEE. After all, people can't do to me.
now I have my child to share my darkness wIth me.
SICHEL. You know, now, what it is to be mother.
PENSEE. Isn't it strange to think that at very
eyes are being made out of me, eyes that be able to see,
and that it's I who carry those shining stars 10 me! h hild
SICHEL. What could be more one's own than t e c
made of one's Besh and blood' I' I Other
PENSEE He'n see me, and I shall never see llm'll . de
mothers the footsteps of their childrenlli?ut
mine as I stumble along through the many lOgS steries to
find natural, but that will forever be starts at
me 1 (Oaso appears .,1 the doorway t be silent and
seeing him. He ?notions to her .mpenous y 0
not to move.) . I want to know who
PENSEE. Who came in, (Silence.)
came in! (Silence.) darling wife, it is I!
OBSO. Pensee de H.?modarmes, my
(s1leme.f O ,
PENSEE Is it X,Q.q,- trian
O
";,co Don 'UOTI recognIze me' . d_y&t..ii.il!n.'t.
..., . Ld"'n't know '. QJ:ia.n's VOICe, an .
,.,
[216]
Oa50. His voice jill i heart ..Jiearest! And as much of
him a e can cring you in one short hour of leave. I must
go very soon.
PENSEE. If you're Orian, why don't you come nearer to
me' And why don't I feel myself the happiest of women'
Why am I not close in your arms'
ORSO. If I ever let those arms hold me, they'd never let
me go again!
PENSEE. Going! Going! Always going! But then, I know
I can't hold you!
ORSO. It's only just four months since I saw you, and you
don't know my voice!
PENSEE. My senses must have become dolled, as the
leaves of a plant lose their lustre when it '8 heavy with fruit.
ORSO. Our child, dear'
PENSEE. Yes, today I felt him move! I coold feel binI wake
and move within me. The fragrallce of those flowers nearly
made me faint.
ORSO. I sent them.
PENSEE. Why didn't you send me news of yourself'
ORSO. What could I have told you.in a letter that you
didn't know'
PENSEE. How is your brother'
ORSO. Orso's well. Do you still think of hinI sometinIes'
PENSEE. I love him in the same way you do.
ORSO. You mustn't love anyone but yonr husband. This
fellow Orian is so stingy that he won't let yon spare even a
crumb to anyone else!
PENSEE. It's sweet of you to say that. You know, your
words are kinder than anything you ever said to me in those
few short hours that seem so long ago now. Why do I feel
so sad when I listen to you'
OR50. Because I must go so soon, and you know it. I've
only a very few hours' leave.
PENSEE. Shan't we see each other again after you go'
ORSO. Can you see me so clearly as all thatf .
PENSE. Our intimacy is far beyond anything that mortal
eyes can see.
OR50. I've come to you, Pensee dear, to tell you to take
very good care of that child which I shall probably never
see. Remember, he belongs to his father just as mnch as he
[217]
does to Please never let him forget, as you'll never for-
get, that his father is a real part of him!
PENSEE. I only live for him, and for you!
ORSO. And, Pen see, I've come to tell you something else.
PEN8EE. What is itT I'm listening. .
OR80. In spite of his long silence, you must never allow
yourself to doubt the man who loved you. But then, what's
the use of talking to people who love each otherT There
'wouldn't be much credit in believing iu me, if I were always
here beside you, would there' No oue will ever love you as
he's loved you, and vou must believe it.
PE"SEE. I know, I believe.
. ORSO. How long we've been apart!
PENSEE. But you' re here now!
ORSO. And if we were going to be separated for an even
longer time, do you think you could bear it'
'. PE"SEE. I could bear it-just as bravely as you have asked
me to.
ORSO. Poor child! There's no sacrmce so great that I
may not ask for a greater one I
PE"SEE. It couldn't be greater than my lo,e.
ORSO. If, after such a long separation, you're still close
beside me, who or what could come between us, everT The
only way I want to come together again is not in any way
that time can end, but so that it can put an end to time.
PENSEE. Do you still love me'
ORSO. Once upon a time there was a man who cared only
about himself. Whenever he heard some one calling, he
thought they were calling him. To him life was a very
simple matter. And then you came, Pensee. And the wound
you gave him was so deep that nothing, not even death, can
cure it.
PENSEE. Why speak of death when you're aliv.eT
ORSO. And so, if my absence seemed long, and if your hus-
band doesn't answer when you call him, you mustn't blame
him. Don't think the man who loved you so deeply has
trayed you. I swear he loved you! Yes, I swear it! (SI-
lence.) r - .
PENSEE. Y!ll1!I:e..llot Orian I It iBn't Orian who 's

ORSO. WJIO else could it be' (Silence.)
[218]
Orso! Tell me, what' happened to your brother,
Orian 1 1ieT
ORSO. Be brave, Pen see ! Now's the time to show the
courage you promised me. Everything I've said to you; it
\vas really he who spoke through my lips. We never left
each other's side. He had no secrets from me, and every
time his heal-t beat I could hear it. And now, Pensee de
Homodarmes, you lllust bear without wincing the news I've
come to bring you. Orian is deaJ1. (Silence.)
PENSEE. Yes, Oria" is dead. So be it. I knew it; and my
heart was expecting no other news.
. ORSO. Yes; he's dead. But the message he sent you by me
was that you - yes, you - must Ihe.
PENSE. I shall.
ORSO. The evening before he was killed he and I talked
all night. We talked of you, and of your child. And he a ked
me 'to come to you, and to ask you to forgive him. .
PENSEE. No; because it's 1. who through all EternIty,
must beg him to forgive me.
ORSO. I knew about you and him - the night before he
went away. I understood. I understood tilat hour of blind
madness.
SICHEL. Oh, they met in a sort of despair of hopelessness.
without a word spoken, in utter silence, like two whol-
ly exhausted. and who don't know what the)' are domg I
ORSO. It was lucl ...." YOUI' motiler thought of writing to me.
PEN SEE. And ",'et,' { told her not to write.
ORSO. He was comiug back just as soon as he could. (Si-
lence.) ..'
PENSEE (in a slIdden, agonizing cry). Orlan IS dead! Onan
is dead! He's gone! Where are you, dearest' Why aren't
you here beside me T .,' ,
SICHEL (supporting her). Dearest cllild! Pen see, my child.
(Silence.)
PENSEE. How did he dieT
ORSO. A bullet in the heart, as we were charging the Ger-
mans tlirouo-fi the sialies of a vineyar([ .A1 of a sudden I
saw "him his gun and pifen He jnst
up, and his body caught against a bIt of wall, covered WIt!
dried-up brambles.
PENSEE. And you left him there!
[219]
ORSO. The Prussians were raking us with their rifle-fire.
PENSEE. If I'd been there, I'd have there ... with
him!
ORSO. I'm au officer. My duty wasn't to get myself killed,
but to take charge of my men! We were forced to retreat a
little later, and I had to leave his body where it was.
l'ENSEE. Haven't you brought me anything of him!
ORSO. What use would a dead body be to you!
PENSEE. Oh, I could have held him once again in my
hands - these hands of mine, that are so wise! You can't
tell, perhaps he wouldn't have been quite dead to me! Be-
tween the soul and the body that a soul has brought into be-
ing, there exists a tie so binding that not even death is quite
strong enough to break it - no, no matter where those two
souls may be!
ORSO. His soul is with God! And that God, whom he
loved, nol; as a saint loves his God, but as a savage loves his,
that Goo. he got the better of! His body may have been left
somewhere, hanging on a wall - what does that matter! He
left nothing behind - only a wretched body, tangled in the
briers, bll.t he's passed far beyond the barriers which nor
you nor I could ever pass. And the bodily of him could not
restrain him. He's gained that liberty which was dearer to
him than life itself! Now he stands flooded in that light to-
ward which his whole being yearned. He's with the Father,
whose Son he was!
PENSEE. Those eyes of his that were to see for me, where
are they!
ORSO. Perhaps I've brought them to you.
PENSE]!. What!
. ORSO. I couldn't leave the whole of him to tile Germans I
And from that head which was the captain of his body -
body which, although today it may sleep, shall yet awake -
from that dear, dear head, something is given forth ...
PENSEE. Then ... what do you bring me!
ORSO. I've bron u ills head! Yes, his head..!_I cut if
from s y. And it was heavy, very heayy to ca.rry, as
IIe1a-inm er my cloak!
"ENSEE. Where ifis!
ORSO. In that basket; hidden below those flowers that I
sent yon this morning. (Silence.)
[220]
PEN SEE (slowly getting to her feet and starting toward the
basket). Orian, dearest! My husband! Are yon there!
ORSO. Don't, Pensee! touch him! He's dead. He
belongs to a different order. He's no longer one of us. Let
the fragrance of those deep IjJies in which I've buried him,
be a sufficient message, a sign sufficient in itself!
PENSEE. He didn't shrink from me; why should I shrink
from him, merely because he's dead! r!ght i.s i\ if
not mine! Whose privilege should it be, If not rome, hIS WIfe,
to take his bead between my hands, aud to press it close
against my heart, like my most precious possession!
ORSO. Don't touch what's left of him! Hasn't he been
sufficiently defiled already!
PEN SEE. He didn't shrink fI'om me! He came to me - to
me, the most degraded of women! He came to me, and I was
unhappy, thrust out into the utter darkness, ,when he could
have chosen from many more beautiful than I. It was I
stabbed him to the quick, who inflicted a wound that
could cure! It was I who tore him from tbe arms of
father, his Holy Father! Yes, yes, yes! I know that he died
because of me' and that it is because of me that he's van-
ished from eyes of men. Give me a silken veil in which
I can wrap all that's left to me of him! me linen, the
finest and softest linen, with which to hIde my unworthy
hands!
ORSO. Very soon you 'Il be alone with him!
PENSEE. Yes! But I can bend over him now and I call
breathe in his soul in that wave of fragrance that rises from
his tomb!
ORSO. Orian's dead. He's beyond your reach. None of
your senses can take ou to him. .
l'ENSEE. Oh, Orian, dearest! You're here! Is It true' I
know only too well, too deeply, that there's no part of me
which can't go to you - to you, wherever y.ou be!
ORSO. He lives in you, and because he lives ill your very
innermost, your duty is to live. .
PENSEE. Yes, he lives! ... And I ... I die .... (SICREL
takes her in her arms and leads her back to her . t
ORSO. We've had enough weakness and sentimentality.
Now I'm going to tell you what Orian wanted me to tell you.
He knew he was going to die, and this is what he told me to
[221]
tell you, that last night that we spent together.
PENSEE. Tell me. I'm listening.
ORSO. He knew that your mother had written to me. He
knew of this seed of his which you were carrying, without
the sanction of law or church. Oh, it was a great joy and a
great grief to him! - Do you realize that you gave me no
answer a little while ago when I told vou he asked vou to for-
give him! (PENSEE makes a deprecating gesture.) You for-
give him! Good! 'l'hen there's no weight on his soul any
longer!
SICHEL. And I, too, forgive him.
OBSO. Now, then. The harm's done; it's our duty, as far
as we can, to make amends. It's out of the question that
Orian's child should be born nameless, and that his wife
should go through life branded.
I'll gladly bear the stain which his blood couldn't
wash out!
- OR?O. 're not the only one to be considered; we've got
to thInk of hun, and of this child which is a continuation of
him. You've got to save his name from shame, as a soldier
saves the flag.
PENSEE. I'll do whatever you wish.
Orian's l!!.st wish, his dying request, was that you
should marry me. .
PENSEE. I won't! I won't! I'll never belong to anyone
but to him!
0880. All I...an ans!!!lr is that it's not your JVishes that
count.
- PENSEE. Do yon mean to tell me that I'm not the
of myself - of my soul, my body!
ORSO. Yon are not.
PENSEE. Olt, Orian! Is that what yon ask me to doT How
can yon!
OBSO. Do you believe that the woman who was once my
S, conro:ever be anything except a sister to me T [Si-
lence.}
PENSEE. In that case, I'll marrv von.
0880. Well spoken, sister of niliie! And remember, the
war isn't over! The darkness of the approaching night may
silence those voices, one after the other, between.
wInch you heSItated that evening so long, long ago! It may
[222J
so easily swallow up those two hearts that were above mere
death!
PENSEE. And will death pass me by!
ORSO. Your dntv is to live.
PENSEE. Oh, I shall live! What sort of a weakling do you
think I am? Yes I'll live just for this child, which is the
only heir, me, of his soul and of my sonl! I'll live as
long as anyone wishes me to live - yes, for a whole, never-
ending lifetinle - for two lifetimes - np to the last second
of the last minute will I live! Do you think that I, who cre-
ate life, will refuse to face itT
ORSO. Tomorrow the priest shall marry ns.
PENSEE. I promise to be a true and loyal wife to you.
ORSO. You'll be doing what Orian asked of yon.
PENSEE. Do you think so! All, it's hard for anyone, who
really loves, to do everything that love ask you.! A:nd
that's why the fragrance of these flowers IS more mtoXlcaltng
to me than that of laurel - yes, than of laurel, the emblem
of victory! To be unable to return love for love - for love
completeiy given! Oh, that's what hurts! To love I love,
and to be unable to make him understand; to have hiS task to
do and to be nnable to do it as he was unable! That's the
bitterest part! Therein lies' the fading fragr8;nce of this
world - an,l that is the crystal globes of hfe are shat-
tered!
CURTAIN
[22al