THE
SORROWS OF BELGIUM
A PLAY IN SIX SCENES
By
LEONID ANDREYEV
AUTHOR OF "ANATHEMA" "THE SEVEN WHO WERE HANGED," ETC.
AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY
HERMAN BERNSTEIN
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1915
INTRODUCTION
Leonid Andreyev, the great Russian writer, whose "Anathema," "The Seven Who Were Hanged," "The Life of Man" and "Red Laughter" have attracted universal attention, has now written the story of the sorrows of the Belgian people. He delineates the tragedy of Belgium as reflected in the home of the foremost Belgian poet and thinker—regarded as the conscience of the Belgian nation.
Leonid Andreyev feels deeply and keenly for the oppressed and weaker nationalities. He has depicted the victims of this war with profound sympathy,—the Belgians, and in another literary masterpiece he analyzed the sufferings of the Jews in Russia as a result of this war. He described vividly the sense of shame of the Russian people on account of the Russian official anti-Jewish policies.
In both these works Leonid Andreyev holds German militarism and German influences responsible for the wrongs committed against smaller nationalities.
In his treatise on the tragedy of the Jews in Russia, he writes of "Russian barbarians" and "German barbarians" as follows:
"If for the Jews themselves the Pale of Settlement, the per cent norm and other restrictions were a fatal fact, which distorted all their life, it has been for me, a Russian, something like a hunch on my back, a monstrous growth, which I received I know not when and under what conditions. But wherever I may go and whatever I may do the hunch is always with me; it has disturbed my sleep at night, and in my waking hours, in the presence of people, it has filled me with a sensation of confusion and shame....
"It is necessary for all to understand that the end of Jewish sufferings is the beginning of our self-respect, without which Russia cannot live. The dark days of the war will pass and the German barbarians' of today will once more become cultured Germans whose voice will again be heard throughout the world. And it is essential that neither their voice nor any other voice should call us loudly 'Russian barbarians.'"
Aside from its literary and dramatic value, if this volume on the sorrows of Belgium will tend to arouse a little more sympathy for the sufferings of the victims of the war, or if it will help to call forth in the minds of the people a stronger abhorrence of the horrors of war, it will have served an important and worthy purpose.
HERMAN BERNSTEIN.
May 25, 1915.
THE SORROWS OF BELGIUM
CHARACTERS
Count Clairmont.
Emil Grelieu—A Famous Belgian Author.
Jeanne—His Wife.
Pierre } Their sons.
Maurice}
Lagard—Member of the Cabinet.
General—Adjutant to Count Clairmont.
Insane Girl.
François—Gardener.
Henrietta } Grelieu's Servants.
Silvina }
Commander of the German Armies in Belgium.
Von Blumenfeld.
Von Ritzau }
Von Stein } Officers.
Von Schauss}
Kloetz—Military Engineer.
Zigler—Telegraphist.
Greitzer.
German Officer.
Belgian Peasant.
Doctor Langloi.
A Chauffeur—A Belgian.
SCENE I
The action takes place in Belgium, at the beginning of the war of 1914. The scene represents a garden near the villa of the famous Belgian author, Emil Grelieu. Beyond the tops of low trees, beyond the stone fence which divides Grelieu's estate from the neighboring gardens, are seen the outlines of the red roofs of the houses in the small town, of the Town Hall, and of an ancient church. There the people already know about the war; there the church bells are ringing uneasily, while in the garden there is still peace. A small, splendidly kept flower garden; beautiful and fragrant flowers; shrubbery in bloom; a nook of a hothouse. The glass covers are half open. The sun is shining softly; there is in the air the bluish mist of a warm and quiet day, and all colors seem tenderly soft; only in the foreground the colors of the flowers stand out in sharp relief.
François is sitting and clipping roses at one of the flower beds. He is an old and deaf, stern Belgian, with long, gray hair. He holds in his mouth an earthen pipe. François is working. He does not hear the tolling of the bells. He is alone in the garden, and it seems to him that all is calm and quiet.
But something fills him with faint alarm. He hears an indistinct call. He looks around—but sees no one. He hums to himself a song without words. Suddenly he stops, straightens himself, holding the scissors in his hands, and looks around again.
FRANÇOIS
Who has called me?
He sees no one. He looks at the hothouse—it seems to him that some one is calling him from there.
I hear you, Monsieur Emil, I am here.
He sees no one. He frowns and cries angrily.
Who is calling me? No one here.
He looks at the sky, then at the flowers, and resumes his work quietly.
They say I am deaf. But I heard some one calling me twice: "François!" "François!" No, perhaps it is my blood, making a noise in my ears.
Silence. But his uneasiness does not subside; he listens again.
I can still hear some one calling me: "François!"
Very well; here is François, and if anyone needs me he may call me again. I shall not run. I can't hear the chirping of the birds; the birds have long since become silent for me. What nonsense—these birds! Very well, I am deaf—does anyone think I am going to cry over it?
Twitches his mouth into a smile.
And my eyes? That is another matter. My eyes! Why are you forever silent, François? Why should I speak if I do not hear your foolish answer? It is all nonsense—to talk and to listen. I can see more than you can hear.
Laughs.
Yes, I see this. This does not talk either, but bend down to it and you will learn more than Solomon ever knew. That is what the Bible says—Solomon. To you the earth is noise and prattle, while to me it is like a Madonna in colors upon a picture. Like a Madonna in colors.
The bell is ringing. In the distance a youthful voice calls "Papa!" "Papa!" Then, "François!" Maurice, Emil Grelieu's younger son, a youth of about 17, appears, coming quickly from the house. He calls François once more, but François does not hear. Finally he shouts right next to his ear.
MAURICE
François, what is the matter with you? I am calling you. I am calling you. Haven't you seen papa?
FRANÇOIS
Calmly, without turning around.
Did you call me, Maurice? I heard your call long ago.
MAURICE
You heard me, but did not respond. How obstinate you are! Haven't you seen papa? I am looking for him everywhere. Quick! Where is papa?
FRANÇOIS
Papa?
MAURICE
Shouts.
Where is papa? Haven't you seen him? Silvina says he went to the hothouse. Do you hear?
FRANÇOIS
He is not there. I spoke to Monsieur this morning, but since then I have not seen him. No.
MAURICE
What is to be done? How they are tolling! François, what is to be done—do you hear them tolling?
FRANÇOIS
Ah! I hear. Will you take some roses, my boy?
MAURICE
You don't understand anything—you are beyond endurance! They are running in the streets, they are all running there, and papa is not here. I will run over there, too, at once. Perhaps he is there. What a day!
FRANÇOIS
Who is running?
MAURICE
You don't understand anything!
Shouts.
They have entered Belgium!
FRANÇOIS
Who has entered Belgium?
MAURICE
They—the Prussians. Can't you understand? It's war! War! Imagine what will happen. Pierre will have to go, and so will I go. I will not stay here under any circumstances.
FRANÇOIS
Straightening himself, dropping the scissors.
War? What nonsense, my boy! Who has entered Belgium?
MAURICE
They—the Prussians. Pierre will go now, and I will go—I will not stay away under any circumstances, understand? What will become of Belgium now?—it is hard to conceive it. They entered Belgium yesterday—do you understand—what scoundrels!
In the distance, along the narrow streets of the town, an uneasy sound of footsteps and wheels is growing rapidly. Distinct voices and outcries blend into a dull, suppressed, ominous noise, full of alarm. The tolling, as though tired, now subsides, now turns almost to a shriek. François tries vainly to hear something. Then he takes up the scissors again angrily.
MAURICE
François!
FRANÇOIS
Sternly.
That's all nonsense! What are you prating, my boy? There is no war—that is impossible.
MAURICE
You are a foolish old man, yourself! They have entered Belgium—do you understand—they are here already.
FRANÇOIS
That's not true.
MAURICE
Why isn't it true?
FRANÇOIS
Because that is impossible. The newspapers print nonsense, and they have all gone mad. Fools, and nothing more—madmen. What Prussians? Young man, you have no right to make sport of me like this.
MAURICE
But listen—
FRANÇOIS
Prussians! What Prussians? I don't know any Prussians, and I don't want to know them.
MAURICE
But understand, old man, they are already bombarding Liège!
FRANÇOIS
No!
MAURICE
They have killed many people. What a strange man you are! Don't you hear the tolling of the bells? The people are on the square. They are all running. The women are crying. What is that?
FRANÇOIS
Angrily.
You are stepping on the flower bed. Get off!
MAURICE
Don't bother me! Why are they shouting so loudly? Something has happened there.
The sound of a trumpet is heard in the distance. The shouting of the crowd is growing ever louder. Sounds of the Belgian hymn are heard faintly. Suddenly an ominous silence follows the noise, and then the lone sound of the tolling bells.
MAURICE
Now they are quiet.... What does it mean?
FRANÇOIS
Nonsense, nonsense!
Infuriated.
You are stepping on the flower bed again. Get off! You have all lost your reason! Go, go! The Prussians!...
MAURICE
You have lost your reason!
FRANÇOIS
I am seventy years old, and you tell me about the Prussians. Go!
Again the shouting of the crowd is heard. Silvina, the chambermaid, runs out of the house and calls: "Monsieur Maurice!"
SILVINA
Please, come into the house. Madame Jeanne is calling you. Madame is going away. Please, come.
MAURICE
And papa?
SILVINA
He isn't here yet. Come!
Both move away. François sits down at the flower bed impatiently.
MAURICE
You don't understand, Silvina. He does not believe that there is a war.
SILVINA
It is very dreadful, Monsieur Maurice. I am afraid—
They go out. François looks after them angrily, adjusts his apron, and prepares to resume his work.
FRANÇOIS
Madmen! I am seventy years old. I am seventy years old, and they want me to believe a story about Prussians. Nonsense, they are crazy! Prussians! But it is true that I don't hear anything.
Rising, he listens attentively.
No, not a sound. Or do I hear something? Oh, the devil take it! I can't hear a sound. Impossible! No, no, impossible! But what is that? How could I believe that in this calm sky—in this calm sky—
The din of battle is growing. François listens again and hears it. He grows thoughtful. His eyes express fright. He looks as though he had suddenly solved a terrible problem. He moves to and fro, his head bent down, as though trying to catch the sounds. Suddenly he throws down the scissors. He is seized with a feeling of terror. He raises his hands.
I hear it. No. No. Now I don't hear a sound. Oh, God, give me the power to hear!
He tries again to catch the fleeting sounds, his head bent, his neck outstretched. His hair is disheveled. His eyes stare. Suddenly, by a great effort, he hears the tolling of the bells and voices full of despair. He retreats and raises his hands again.
My God! They are tolling! They are crying! War! What war? What war? Eh, who is there—who is shouting "War!"?
The sound of the bells and the cries grows louder. Emil Grelieu appears, walking quickly in the alley.
EMIL GRELIEU
What are you shouting, François? Where is Maurice? No one is in the house.
FRANÇOIS
Is it war?
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, yes, it is war. The Prussians have entered Belgium. But you don't hear anything.
FRANÇOIS
Painfully trying to catch the sounds.
I hear, I hear; are they killing?
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, they are killing. The Prussians have entered Belgium. Where is Maurice?
FRANÇOIS
But, Monsieur Emil—but, Monsieur, what Prussians? Pardon me; I am seventy years old, and I lost my sense of hearing long ago.
Weeps.
Is it really a war?
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, it is a real war. I can't understand it either. But the fighting has already commenced. I can't realize it myself, but it is war, old man.
FRANÇOIS
Tell me, Monsieur. Tell me about it. I believe you as I believe God. Tell me. I can hear you. Are they killing?
EMIL GRELIEU
It is war! What horror, François. It is very hard to understand it—yes, very hard.
Frowns and rubs his high, pale forehead nervously.
FRANÇOIS
Bent, weeps, his head shaking.
And the flowers? Our flowers?
EMIL GRELIEU
Absentmindedly.
Our flowers? Don't cry, François—ah, what is that?
The tolling of the bells subsides. The crying and the shouting of the crowd changes, into a harmonious volume of sound—somebody is hailed in the distance. An important announcement seems to have been made there.
EMIL GRELIEU
Absentmindedly.
Our people are expecting the King there—he is on his way to Liège! Yes, yes—
Silence. Suddenly there is a sound like the crash of thunder. Then it changes into a song—the crowd is singing the Belgian hymn.
Curtain
SCENE II
The reception hall in Emil Grelieu's villa. Plenty of air, light, and flowers. Large, windows overlooking the garden in bloom. One small window is almost entirely covered with the leaves of vines.
In the room are Emil Grelieu and his elder son, Pierre, a handsome, pale, and frail-looking young man. He is dressed in military uniform. They pace up and down the room slowly. It is evident that Pierre is anxious to walk faster, but out of respect for his father he slackens his pace.
EMIL GRELIEU
How many kilometers?
PIERRE
Twenty-five or thirty kilometers to Tirlemont—and here—
EMIL GRELIEU
Seventy-four or five—
PIERRE
Seventy-five—yes, about a hundred kilometers. It's not far, father.
EMIL GRELIEU
Not far. It seemed to me that I heard cannonading. I heard it last night.
PIERRE
No, it's hardly possible.
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, I was mistaken. But the rays of the searchlights could be seen. They must be very powerful searchlights. Mamma saw them too.
PIERRE
Really? You are suffering from insomnia again, father?
EMIL GRELIEU
I sleep well. A hundred kilometers—a hundred kilometers—
Silence. Pierre looks at his father attentively.
PIERRE
Father!
EMIL GRELIEU
Well? It's too early for you, Pierre—you have three hours yet before your train starts. I am watching the time.
PIERRE
I know, father. No, I am thinking of something else—. Father, tell me, have you still any hopes?
Silence.
I am hesitating, I feel somewhat embarrassed to speak to you—you are so much wiser, so far above me, father.... Yes, yes, it's nonsense, of course, but that which I have learned in the army during these days gives me very little hope. They are coming in such a compact mass of people, of iron, machines, arms and horses, that there is no possibility of stopping them. It seems to me that seismographs must indicate the place over which they pass—they press the ground with such force. And we are so few in number!
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, we are very few in number.
PIERRE
Very, very few, father! Dreadfully few! Even if we were invulnerable and deathless, even if we kept killing them off day and night, day and night, we would drop from fatigue and exhaustion before we stopped them. But we are mortal—and they have terrible guns, father! You are silent? You are thinking of our Maurice—I have caused you pain?
EMIL GRELIEU
There is little of the human in their movements. Do not think of Maurice—he will live. A human being has a face, Pierre. Every human being has his own face, but they have no faces. When I try to picture them to myself, I see only the lights, projectors, automobiles—those terrible guns—and something walking, walking. And those vulgar mustaches of Wilhelm—but that is a mask, an immobile mask, which has stood over Europe for a quarter of a century—what is behind it? Those vulgar mustaches—and suddenly so much misery, so much bloodshed and destruction! It is a mask!
PIERRE
Almost to himself.
If there were only not so many of them, not so many—. Father, I believe that Maurice will live. He is a lucky boy. But what does mamma think about it?
EMIL GRELIEU
What mamma thinks?
Enter François. Sternly, without looking at anyone, he waters the flowers.
And what does he think? Look at him.
PIERRE
He can hardly hear anything. François!
EMIL GRELIEU
I don't know whether he hears anything or not. But there was a time when he did hear. He is silent, Pierre, and he furiously denies war. He denies it by work—he works alone in the garden as if nothing had happened. Our house is full of refugees. Mamma and everyone else in the house are busy, feeding them, washing the children—mamma is washing them—but he does not seem to notice anything. He denies war! Now he is bursting from anxiety to hear or guess what we are saying, but do you see the expression of his face? If you start to talk to him he will go away.
PIERRE
François!
EMIL GRELIEU
Don't bother him. He wants to be crafty. Perhaps he hears us. You ask me what mother is thinking of. Do I know? Who can tell? You see that she is not here, and yet these are your last hours at home. Yes, in this house—I am speaking of the house. She is young and resolute as ever, she walks just as lightly and is just as clear-headed, but she is not here. She is simply not here, Pierre.
PIERRE
Is she concealing something?
EMIL GRELIEU
No, she is not concealing anything, but she has gone into the depths of her own self, where all is silence and mystery. She is living through her motherhood again, from the very beginning—do you understand? when you and Maurice were not yet born—but in this she is crafty, like François. Sometimes I see clearly that she is suffering unbearably, that she is terrified by the war—. But she smiles in answer and then I see something else—I see how there has suddenly awakened in her the prehistoric woman—the woman who handed her husband the fighting club—. Wait, the soldiers are coming again!
Military music is heard in the distance, nearing.
PIERRE
Yes, according to the assignment, it is the Ninth Regiment.
EMIL GRELIEU
Let us hear it, Pierre. I hear this music several times a day. There it starts on the right, and there it dies down. Always there.
They listen.
But they are brave fellows!
PIERRE
Yes.
Both listen attentively at the window. François looks at them askance and tries in vain to hear. The music begins to die out.
EMIL GRELIEU
Walking away from the window.
Yesterday they played the "Marseillaise." But they are brave fellows!
Emil Grelieu's wife enters quickly.
JEANNE
Do you hear it? How beautiful! Even our refugees smiled when they heard it. Emil, I have brought you some telegrams, here. I have read them.
EMIL GRELIEU
What is it? Let me have them!
Reading the telegrams, he staggers to an armchair and sinks into it. He turns pale.
PIERRE
What is it, father?
EMIL GRELIEU
Read!
Pierre reads it over the shoulder of his father. The woman looks at them with an enigmatical expression upon her face. She sits calmly, her beautiful head thrown back. Emil Grelieu rises quickly, and both he and his son start to pace the room in opposite directions.
PIERRE
Do you see?
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes.
PIERRE
Do you see?
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes! Yes!
JEANNE
As though indifferently.
Emil, was that an interesting library which they have destroyed? I don't know.
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, very. But what are you asking me, Jeanne? How can you speak?
JEANNE
Oh, I speak only of those books! Tell me, were there many books there?
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, many, many!
JEANNE
And they've burned them?
She hums softly in afresh, strong voice.
"Only the halo of the arts crowns law, liberty, and the King!—Law—"
EMIL GRELIEU
Books, books.
JEANNE
And there was also a Cathedral there. Oh, I remember it! Isn't it true, Emil, that it was a beautiful structure?
Hums.
"Law, liberty, and the King—"
PIERRE
Father!
What?
EMIL GRELIEU
He walks up and down the room.
JEANNE
Pierre, it will soon be time for you to leave. I'll give you something to eat at once. Pierre, do you think it is true that they are killing women and children? I don't know.
PIERRE
It is true, mother.
EMIL GRELIEU
How can you say it, Jeanne? You don't know?
JEANNE
I say this on account of the children. Yes, there they write that they are killing children, so they write there. And all this was crowded upon that little slip of paper—and the children, as well as the fire—
Rises quickly and walks away, humming.
EMIL GRELIEU