Fifty Contemporary
One-Act Plays

Selected and Edited

BY

FRANK SHAY

AND

PIERRE LOVING

CINCINNATI
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1920, by
STEWART & KIDD COMPANY
All rights reserved
Copyright in England

INTRODUCTION

Tradition in the sphere of books is relentlessly imperious and will not be denied. The present anthology of one-act plays, in defiance of a keen reluctance on the part of the editors, is condemned at birth to the heritage of a title; for this practice, as is well known, has been the unchallenged punctilio of book-making and book-editing from time immemorial. And yet if the truth be told, the editors have found precisely this to be by far the most embarrassing of the various tasks that have arisen in connection with the project. In the selection of a title, the immediate problem was of course to avoid, so far as possible, the slightest pretense or assumption of categorical standards of choice or even the merest intimation that there existed somewhere, attainable or unattainable, an ideal norm according to which one-act plays could be faultlessly assessed and pigeon-holed.

In point of fact, so many tolerably good one-act plays are being written and acted nowadays, that the editors early concluded that the business of editing a volume of fifty one-act pieces implies, so to speak, inviting the devil or the spirit that denies to the feast. Thus all manner of obstinate ribaldries and mischief began to infest our path of progress.

If it were only a naïve question of adjudging a golden apple to one of three lovely women, earthly or divine, the matter would have proved comparatively simple; but the question was more complex: it offered the public a meager book which could never hope to compress within itself the core and quiddity of about a thousand plays, or more, which the editors were privileged to examine from the first moment when they launched upon their task eight months ago, to this. Moreover it frequently happened that when the editors had flattered themselves on having picked a sure winner, the sure winner forthwith got out of hand and no persuasive cajolings availed to allure it back. In other words, not a few plays which the editors sought to include in the book were found unavailable by reason of previous copyrights. In several cases the copyright had passed entirely out of the control of the author or his accredited representative.

On the whole, however, both authors and those commissioned to act for them have responded most sympathetically to the project and have rendered valuable assistance and support, without which, let me hasten to add, the present collection would not have been possible.

The reader will observe that plays by American authors predominate over those of any other single country, and the reason for this is fairly obvious. American plays, besides being most readily available to the anthologist, are beginning to reflect the renascence that is gradually taking place in the American theater. There is growing up in this country a younger generation of dramatists, which is achieving its most notable work outside the beaten path of popular recognition, in small dramatic juntos and in the little theaters. In the main, the form they employ as being most suitable to their needs, is that offered by the concise scaffold of the one-act play. These efforts, we hold, deserve a wider audience.

On the other hand, a mere scrutiny of the table of contents will reveal that the editors have included a number of foreign plays heretofore not accessible to English-speaking readers. This aspect of the task, the effort of pioneer exploration, has indeed been by far the most pleasant, and most pleasant, too, has proved the discovery of several new American writers who have produced original work. Of the foreign writers, such men as Wied and Speenhof, for example, are practically if not totally unknown to American readers, and they, as well as a handful of others, are in the opinion of the editors worthy of an American following.

As concerns the procedure or technic of choice, it goes without saying, surely, that if a congruous method exists at all, it merely embodies a certain permissible viewpoint. This viewpoint will probably find unqualified favor with but a handful of readers; others it will frankly outrage to the extent of their casting it out, lock, stock and barrel. But this is to be looked for in an undertaking of this caliber in which individual bias, after all, plays so leading a part. And titling the volume came to be an arduous process only in virtue of the afore-mentioned viewpoint, cherished but shadowily defined, or to be exact, in virtue of the despair which succeeded upon each persistent attempt to capture what remained perennially elusive. Unfortunately it still remains elusive. If then a rationalization is demanded by the reader—a privilege none will question his right to exercise—he will, I am afraid, have to content himself with something as vague and fantastic as the following:

Imagine a playhouse, perfectly equipped, plastic and infinitely adaptable. Invite Arthur Hopkins, John Williams, Winthrop Ames, Sam Hume and George Cram Cook to manage it; let them run riot on the stage. Clear the wings and the front of the house of all routineers. Fill the seats at each performance with the usual gallery-haunters of the New York theaters. Do not overlook the hosts of experimental playhouse directors—unleash them in the backyard area with a kammerspielhaus to toy with at pleasure. Let the personnel of the play-reading committee consist of such men as Ludwig Lewisohn, Barrett H. Clark, George Jean Nathan and Francis Hackett. The result will take care of itself. This, in brief, is the theatrical ménage for which, in the main, the plays included in this volume were written.

Is this a hair-brained or a frivolous notion? It may be. But, please note, it expresses, no matter how limpingly, some approach to a viewpoint. At all events it is the only touchstone applied by the editors in their choice of fifty contemporary one-act plays.

Pierre Loving.

New York City, Sept., 1920.

CONTENTS

MADONNA DIANORA

A Play in Verse
By Hugo Von Hofmannsthal
Translated from the German by Harriet Betty Boas.

Copyright, 1916, by Richard S. Badger.
Toronto: The Copp Clark Co., Limited.
Copyright, 1920, The Four Seas Co., Boston.

MADONNA DIANORA

A Play in Verse

By Hugo von Hofmannsthal

La Demente: "Conosci la storia di Madonna Dianor?"

Il Medico: "Vagamente. Non ricordo piu."...
Sogno d'un mattino di primavera.

[Scene: The garden of a somber Lombardian Palace. To the right the wall of a house, which is at an angle with the moderately high garden wall that encloses it. The lower portion of the house is built of rough granite, above which rests a strip of plain marble forming a sill, which, under each window, is adorned with a lion's head in repose. Two windows are visible, each one having a small angular balcony with a stone railing, spaced sufficiently to show the feet of those standing there. Both windows are curtained to the floor. The garden is a mere lawn with a few scattered fruit trees. The corner of the garden between the wall and the house is crowded with high box wood bushes. A leafy grapevine, trained over stunted chestnut trees, forms an arbor which completely fills the left side of the stage; only this entrance is visible. The arbor slants irregularly to the left rear. Behind the rear wall there may be seen (by the gallery spectator) a narrow path beyond which is the neighbor's garden wall—no house is visible. In the neighbor's garden and as far as the eye can reach, the tops of the trees are illuminated by the evening glow of a brilliant sunset.]

Dianora [at the window].

A harvester I see, and not the last,
No, not the last, descending from the hill.
There are three more, and there, and there!
Have you no end, you never-ending day?
How have I dragged the hours away from you,
Torn them to shreds and cast them in the flood,
As I do now with these poor tattered blooms!
How have I coaxed each minute of this day.
Each bracelet, and each earring was clasped on,
Ta'en off again, then once more tried, until
'Twas thrown aside, exchanged, and others brought—
I slowly dripped the fountain, drop on drop
All through my tresses, dried them languidly;
With quiet, measured step, out in the sun
I walked me to and fro—oh! to and fro!
But 'twas still damp—the path is narrow there.
I looked among the bushes, for the birds,—
Less than a zephyr's breath I bent them back,
Those swaying branches, sat 'neath rustling trees,
And felt on cheeks and hands in waiting woe
The little flickerings of warm sunshine.
I closed my eyes, and almost thought soft lips
Gently caressing, strayed my clammy brow.
Sometimes hours come when this duplicity,
All this concealment, seems so fruitless, and
I cannot bear it. I can only gaze
With eyes of steel far up into the sky
Where flocks of wild geese float, or bend me low
O'er some mad, rushing plunging waterfall
That tears my weakling shadow with its flow,—
I will be patient—why, I must, I am!—
Madonna—I will climb the steepest mount
And on my knees will count me every stone
With this, my rosary, if only now,
Oh, soon,—this day will sink into the night.
It is so long! I have its measured tread
With these same beads been scanning o'er and o'er.
And now I talk so fev'rishly, instead
Of counting all the leaves upon that tree.
Oh! I have finished much too soon again.
See! See the yeoman, calling to his dog.
The shadows do upon his garden fall,
For him the night has come, but brings no joy;
He fears it, locks his door and is alone.—
See where the maidens wander to the well.
I know the manner in which each of them
Will fill her bucket—that one's prettiest.
Why does the stranger at the cross roads stay?
Distant's his goal, I warrant. He unwinds
And folds again the cloth about his feet.
What an existence! Draw the thorns, yes, draw
Them quickly out. You must speed. We all
Must hurry on, the restless day must down
And with it take this bright and scarlet glow
That's lingering in radiance on my cheeks.
All that is troubling us cast far away,
Fling wide the thorn into the field
Where waters flow and sheaves of brilliant flow'rs
Are bending, glowing, yearning towards the night.—
I draw my rings from off my fingers, and
They're happy as the naked children are
Who scamper quickly to the brook to bathe.—
Now all the girls have gone—
Only one maiden's left. Oh, what lovely hair!
I wonder if she knows its beauty's power?
Perhaps she's vain—but vanity, thou art
A plaything only for the empty years.
When once she has arrived where I am now,
She'll love her hair, she'll let it clasp her close,
Enwrap her round and whisper to her low,
Like echoing harpstrings throbbing with the touch
Of fev'rish fingers straying in the dark.

[She loosens her hair and lets it fall to the left and to the right in front of her.]

What, would you close to me? Down, down with you.—
I bid you greet him. When the dusk has come,
And when his hands hold fast the ladder there
A-sudden he will feel, instead the leaves,
The cool, firm leaves, a gently spraying rain,
A rain that falls at eve from golden clouds.

[She lets her hair fall over the balustrade.]

You are so long, and yet you barely reach
A third the distance; hardly are your ends
Touching the cold, white marble lion's nose.

[She laughs and rises.]

Ah! there's a spider! No, I will not fling
You off; I lay my hand once more
Upon this spot, so you may find again
The road you wish to speed so quickly on.
How I have changed! I am bewitched indeed!
In former days, I could not touch the fruit
Within a basket, if upon its edge
A spider had been seen. Now in my hand
It runs.—Intoxication makes me glad!
Why, I could walk along the very edge
Of narrow walls, and would not totter—no!—
Could I but fall into the waters deep!
In their cool velvet arms I would be well,
Sliding in grottoes of bright sapphire hues
Playing with wondrous beings of the deep
All golden finned, with eyes benignly sad.
Yes, if I were immured in the chestnut woods
Within some ruined walls, my soul were free.
For there the forest's animals would come
And tiny birds. The little weasels would
Brush up against and touch my naked toes
With their soft snouts and lashes of bright eyes
While in the moss I lay and ate wild fruit.—
What's rustling? 'Tis the little porcupine
Of that first night. What, are you there again,
Stepped from the dark? Art going on the hunt?
Oh! If my hunter would but come to me!

[Looking up.]

Now have the shadows vanished! Gone are all
Those of the pines and those of the dolls,
The ones that played about the little huts,
The large ones from the vineyards and the one
Upon the figtree at the crossroads—gone
As though the quiet earth had sucked them in!
The night has really come! The lamp
Is placed upon the table, closely press
The sheep together—close within the fold.
Within the darkest corners of the eaves
Where the dustvine-leaves meet, goblins do crouch,
And on the heights from out the clearing step
The blessed saints to gaze where churches stand
Well pleased at seeing chapels manifold.
Now, sweetest plaything, you may also come,
Finer than spider's web, stronger than steel.

[She fastens one end of the silk ladder to an iron hook on the floor in the balcony.]

Let me now play that it were highest time
And dip you deep down, down into my well,
To bring this parched one a sparkling draught.

[She pulls the ladder up again.]

Night, night has come! And yet how long might be,
Endlessly long, the time until he comes.

[She wrings her hands.]

Might be!

[With shining eyes.]

But must not—yet, it might—

[She puts up her hair. During this time the nurse has stepped to the front window and waters the red flowers there.]

Dianora [much frightened]. Who's there, who's there! Oh, nurse, nurse, is it you? I've ne'er before seen you in here so late. Has ought occurred?—

Nurse. Why nothing, gracious one. Do you not see, I quite forgot my flowers—they've not been watered. On my way from church I suddenly remembered, quickly came.

Dianora. Yes, give the flowers water. But how strange you look, your cheeks are feverish, your eyes are shining—

Nurse [does not answer].

Dianora. Who preached? Tell me, was it that monk, the one—

Nurse [curtly]. Yes, gracious one.

Dianora. The one from Spain, is it not?

Nurse [does not answer—pause].

Dianora [following her own train of thoughts]. Can you recall the kind of child I was?

Nurse. Proud, gracious one, a proud child, very proud.

Dianora [very softly]. How singular! Humanity's so sweet!—What?—

Nurse. I said no word, my gracious Lady, none—

Dianora. Yes, yes, whom does the Spanish monk resemble?

Nurse. He is different from the others.

Dianora. No—his appearance! Does he resemble my husband?

Nurse. No, gracious one.

Dianora. My brother-in-law?

Nurse. No.

Dianora. Ser Antonio Melzi?

Nurse. No.

Dianora. Messer Galeazza Swardi?

Nurse. No.

Dianora. Messer Palla degli Albizzi?

Nurse. His voice is a little like Messer Palla's—yes—I said to my son yesterday, that his voice reminded me a little of Messer Palla's voice.

Dianora. The voice—

Nurse. But his eyes are like Messer Guido Schio, the nephew of our gracious lord.

Dianora [is silent].

Nurse. I met him on the stairs yesterday—he stopped—

Dianora [suddenly flaring up]. Messer Palla?

Nurse. No! Our gracious lord. He ordered me to make some ointment. His wound is not yet entirely healed.

Dianora. Oh, yes! The horse's bite—did he show it to you?

Nurse. Yes—the back of the hand is quite healed, but on the palm there's a small dark spot, a curious spot, such as I've never seen in a wound—

Dianora. What horse did it, I wonder?

Nurse. The big roan, gracious Lady.

Dianora. Yes, yes, I remember. It was on the day of Francesco Chieregati's wedding. [She laughs loudly.]

Nurse [looks at her].

Dianora. I was thinking of something else. He told about it at table—he wore his arm in a sling. How was it, do you remember?

Nurse. What, gracious one?

Dianora. With the horse—

Nurse. Don't you remember, gracious one?

Dianora. He spoke about it at table. But I could not hear it. Messer Palla degli Albizzi sat next to me, and was so merry, and everybody laughed, so I could not hear just what my husband said.

Nurse. When our gracious lord came to the stall, the roan put back his ears, foamed with rage and suddenly snapped at the master's hand.

Dianora. And then?

Nurse. Then the master hit the roan behind the ears with his fist so that the big, strong horse staggered back as though it were a dog—

Dianora [is silent, looks dreamily down].

Nurse. Oh, our gracious lord is strong! He is the strongest gentleman of all the nobility the country 'round, and the cleverest.

Dianora. Yes, indeed. [Attentively now.] Who?

Nurse. Our master.

Dianora. Ah! our master. [Smiles.]—and his voice is so beautiful, and that is why everybody loves to listen to him in the large, dark church.

Nurse. Listen to whom, gracious one?

Dianora. To the Spanish monk, to whom else?

Nurse. No, my Lady, it isn't because of his voice that people listen to him.

Dianora [is again not listening].

Nurse. Gracious one—my Lady—is it true—what people say about the envoy?

Dianora. What envoy?

Nurse. The envoy whom the people of Como sent to our master.

Dianora. What are people saying?

Nurse. They say a shepherd saw it.

Dianora. What did he see?

Nurse. Our gracious lord was angry at the envoy—would not accept the letter that the people of Como had written him. Then he took it anyhow—the letter—read part of it, tore it into bits and held the pieces before the envoy's mouth and demanded that he swallow them. But the envoy went backwards, like a crab, and made stary eyes just like a crab, and everybody laughed, especially Signor Silvio, the master's brother. Then the master sent for the envoy's mule and had it brought to the gates. When the envoy was too slow in mounting, the master whistled for the dogs. The envoy left with his two yeomen. Our master went hunting with seven men and all the dogs. Towards evening, however, they say that our gracious lord, and the envoy met at the bridge over the Adda, there where Verese begins—our master and the envoy met. And the shepherd was passing and drove his sheep next to the bridge into a wheat-field—so that the horses would not kill them. And the shepherd heard our master cry, "There's the one who wouldn't eat, perhaps he'd like to drink." So four of our men seized the two yeomen, two others took the envoy, each one took hold of a leg, lifted him from the saddle—threw him screaming like a madman and struggling fiercely, over the parapet—he tore out a piece of the sleeve of one, together with the flesh. The Adda has very steep banks at that place—the river was dark and swollen from all the snow on the mountains. The envoy did not appear again, said the shepherd.

[Nurse stops, looks questioningly at Dianora.]

Dianora [anxiously]. I do not know.

[She shakes off the worried expression, her face assumes the dreamy, inwardly happy expression.]

Dianora. Tell me something about his preaching—the Spaniard's preaching.

Nurse. I don't know how to express it, gracious one.

Dianora. Just say a little. Does he preach of so many things?

Nurse. No, almost always about one thing.

Dianora. What?

Nurse. Of resignation to the Lord's will.

Dianora [looks at her and nods].

Nurse. Gracious one, you must understand, that is all.

Dianora. What do you mean by—all——

Nurse [while speaking, she is occupied with the flowers]. He says that all of life is in that—there's nothing else. He says everything is inevitable and that's the greatest joy—to realize that everything is inevitable—that is good, and there is no other good. The sun must glow, and stone must be on the dumb earth and every living creature must give utterance to its voice—whether he will or no—we must——

Dianora [is thinking—like a child].

Nurse [goes from window—pause].

Dianora.

As though 'twere mirrored in a placid pool
Self-prisoned lies the world asleep, adream—
The ivy's tendrils clamber through the dusk
Closely embracing thousandfold the wall.
An arbor vitae towers. At its feet
The quiet waters mirror what they see.
And from this window, on this balustrade
Of cool and heavy stones, I bend me o'er
Stretching my arms so they may touch the ground.
I feel as though I were a dual being
Gazing within me at my other self.

[Pause.]

Methinks such thoughts crowd in upon the soul
When grim, inexorable death is near.

[She shudders and crosses herself.]

Nurse [has returned several times to the window; in one hand she carries scissors with which she clips the dry branches from the plants].

Dianora [startled]. What? Good night, nurse, farewell. I'm dizzy, faint.

Nurse [goes off].

Dianora [with a great effort]. Nurse! Nurse!

Nurse [comes back].

Dianora. If the Spanish monk preaches to-morrow, I'll go with you.

Nurse. Yes, to-morrow, my Lady, if the Lord spare us.

Dianora [laughs]. Certainly,—if the Lord spare us. Good night.

[A long pause.]

Dianora.

His voice is all he has, the strange monk,
Yet people flock, hang on his words like bees
Upon the dark sweet blossoms, and they say
"This man is not like others—he
Does shake our souls, his voice melts into space,
Floats down to us, and penetrates our being—
We are all like children when we hear his voice."—
Oh, if a judge could have his lofty brow,
Who would not kneel upon the steps to read
Each sentence from his clear and shining brow.
How sweet to kneel upon the honest step
And know one's fate were safe within that hand,
Within those kingly, good and noble hands.

And oh, his merriment! How exquisite!
To see such people merry is a joy,
—He took me by the hand and drew me on.
My blood ran magic, backward stretched my hand.
The laughing throng upon it closely hung
A sinuous chain, we flew along arbored walks
Down through a deep and steep and narrow path
Cool as a well, and bordered very close
With cypresses that lived a century—
Then down the brightest slope.
Up to my knees the wild, warm flowers kissed
Where we were running like a breeze in May.
Then he released me, and along he leapt
Upon the marble stairs between cascades;
Astride he sat upon the dolphin's back
And held himself up on the arms of fauns,
Upon the dripping Triton's shoulders stood
Mounting always; high, higher still he clomb,
The wildest, handsomest of all the gods!—
Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth,
They sparkled, foamed, and showered the air with spray,
Falling on me. The waves' tumultuous din
Drowned out, engulfed the entire world,
Beneath his feet the waters bubbled forth,
They sparkled, foamed and showered their spray on me.

[Pause—footsteps are heard in the distance.]

Dianora. Sh! Footsteps! No, it is so much too soon—And yet—and yet—[long waiting] they come.

[Pause.]

They do not come—
Oh, no, they do not come—They're shuffling steps,
They shuffle down the vineyard—now they reel—
There are the steps! A drunkard, verily!
Stay in the street, intoxicated one.
What would you do within our garden gates?—
No moon shines here to-night—were there a moon
I were not here—no, no, I were not here.
The little stars are flick'ring restlessly,
They cannot light the way for a drunken one,
But one not drunken from a musty wine.
His footsteps are as light as wind on grass
And surer than the tread of the young lion.

[Pause.]

These hours are martyrdom! No, no, no, no,
They're not—no, they are beautiful and good,
And lovely and so sweet! He comes, he comes;
A long, long way already he has walked—
The last tall tree down there has seen him come—-
It could—if that dark strip of woodland boughs
Did not obscure the road—and 'twere not dark—

[Pause.]

He comes—as certainly as I do now
Upon this hook bend this frail ladder—comes.
As surely as I now do let it down
In rustling murmur in the leaves enmeshed,
As certainly as it now swaying hangs,
Quivering softly as I bend me low,
Myself aquiver with a greater thrill—

[She remains for a long time bent over the balustrade. Suddenly she seems to hear the curtain between her balcony and the room thrown back. She turns her head and her features are distorted in deathly fear and terror. Messer Braccio stands silently in the door. He wears a simple, dark green robe, carries no weapons—his shoes are low. He is very tall and strong. His face resembles the portraits of aristocrats and captains of mercenaries. He has an extremely large forehead and small dark eyes, closely cropped, curly black hair and a small beard that covers his cheeks and chin.]

Dianora [wants to speak, but is unable to utter a sound].

Messer Braccio [beckons to her to pull up the ladder].

Dianora [does so like an automaton and drops the bundle, as in a trance, at her feet].

Braccio [looks at her quietly, reaches with his right hand to his left hip, also with his left hand; notices that he has no dagger. He moves his lips impatiently, glances toward the garden, then over his shoulders. He lifts his right hand for a moment and examines his palm, then walks firmly and quickly back into the room].

Dianora [looks after him incessantly; she cannot take her eyes away from him. As the curtain closes behind his retreating form, she passes her fingers excitedly over her face and through her hair, then folds her hands and murmurs a prayer, her lips wildly convulsed. Then she throws her arms backwards and folds them above the stone pillar, in a gesture that indicates a desperate resolve and a triumphant expectancy].

Braccio [steps into the doorway again, carrying an armchair, which he places in the opening of the door. He seats himself on it, facing his wife. His face does not change. From time to time he raises his right hand mechanically and examines the little wound upon his palm].

Braccio [his tone is cold, rather disdainful. He points with his foot and eyes to the ladder]. Who?

Dianora [raises her shoulders, and drops them slowly].

Braccio. I know!

Dianora [raises her shoulders and drops them slowly. Her teeth are clenched].

Braccio [moves his hand, barely glances at his wife, and looks again into the garden]. Palla degli Albizzi!

Dianora [between her teeth]. How ugly the most beautiful name becomes when uttered by unseemly tongue.

Braccio [looks at her as though he were about to speak, but remains silent. Pause].

Braccio. How old are you?

Dianora [does not answer].

Braccio. Fifteen and five. You are twenty years old.

Dianora [does not answer. Pause].

Dianora [almost screaming]. My father's name was Bartholomeno Colleone—you can let me say the Lord's Prayer and the Hail Mary, and then kill me, but not let me stand here like a fettered beast.

Braccio [looks at her as though surprised; does not answer—glances at his hand].

Dianora [strokes back her hair slowly, folds her elbows over her breast, stares at him, then drops her arms, seems to divine his plan. Her voice is completely changed and is like a string that is stretched to the breaking-point].

One of my women I desire, who will—

[She stops; her voice seems to give out.]

First braid my hair—'tis tangled, disarranged.

Braccio. You often help yourself without a maid.

Dianora [presses her lips together, says nothing, smoothes her hair at the temples, folds her hands].

I have no children. My mother I saw once—
I saw her once, just before she died.
My father led me and my sister to
A vaulted, high, severe and gloomy room.
The suff'rer I saw not; her hand alone
Hung like a greeting to me—that I kissed.
About my father I remember this.
He wore an armor of green burnished gold
With darker clasps—two always helped him mount
Upon his horse, for he was very old—
I hardly knew Medea. Not much joy,
Had she, my sister. Thin of hair,
Her forehead and her temples older seemed,
Much older, than her mouth and her hands to me—
She always held a flower in her hand.—
O Lord, have mercy unto these sweet souls
As unto mine, and bid them welcome me,
Greeting me kindly when I come to Thee.
I cannot kneel—there is no space to kneel.

Braccio [rises, pushes the chair into the room to make space for her. She does not notice him].

Dianora.

There's more—I must remember—Bergamo,
Where I was born—the house in Feltre where
The uncles and the cousins were....
Then they put me upon a gallant steed
Caparisoned most splendidly—they rode,
Cousins and many others by my side.
And so I came here, from whence I now go....

[She has leaned back and looked up at the glittering stars upon the black sky—she shudders].

I wanted something else—

[She searches her memory.]

In Bergamo where I was taught to walk
Upon the path that brought me here, I was
Often—most frequently through pride,—and now
I am contrite and would go to confession
For all those errors, and some graver ones;—
When I [She ponders.]—three days after Saint Magdalen
Was riding homeward from the chase with him.
This man, here, who's my husband—others too—
Upon the bridge an old lame beggar lay.
I knew that he was old and ill and sore
And there was something in his tired eyes
Reminded me of my dead father—but
Nevertheless—only because the one
Riding beside me touched my horse's bridle,
I did not pull aside, but let the dust
My horse kicked up, blind, choke that poor old man.
Yes, so close I rode that with his hands
He had to lift aside his injured leg.
This I remember, this I now regret.

Braccio. The one beside you held your horse's bridle? [He looks at her.]

Dianora [answers his look, understands him, says trenchantly]:

Yes! Then as often since—as often since—
And yet how rarely after all!
How meager is all joy—a shallow stream
In which you're forced to kneel, that it may reach
Up to your shoulders—

Braccio.

Of my servants who,—of all your women,
Who knew of these things?

Dianora [is silent].

Braccio [makes a disdainful gesture].

Dianora.

Falsely, quite falsely, you interpret now
My silence. How can I tell you who might know?—
But if you think that I am one of those
Who hides behind her hireling's her joy,
You know me ill. Now note—note and take heed.
Once may a woman be—yes, once she may
Be as I was for twelve weeks—once she may be
If she had found no need of veil before,
All veiled, protected by her own great pride
As by a shield—she once may rend that veil,
Feel her cheeks crimson, burning in the sun.
Horrible she, who twice could such a thing!
I'm not of these—that surely you must know.
Who knew?—Who guessed? I never hid my thoughts?
Your brother must have known—just as you knew,
Your brother just as you. Ask him, ask him!

[Her voice is strange, almost childlike, yet exalted.]

That day—'twas in July, Saint Magdalen
Francesco Chieregati's wedding day—
That nasty thing upon your hand came then,
Came on that day. Well, I remember too
We dined out in the arbor—near the lake,
And he sat next to me, while opposite
Your brother sat. Then passing me the fruit,
Palla did hold the heavy gold dish
Of luscious peaches so that I might take.
My eyes were fastened on his hands—I longed
To humbly kiss his hands, there,—before all.
Your brother—he's malicious and no fool—
Caught this my glance, and must have guessed my thought.
He paled with anger.—Sudden came a dog,
A tall dark greyhound brushed his slender head
Against my hand—the left one by my side,—
Your stupid brother kicked in furious rage
With all his might, the dog—only because
He could not with a shining dagger pierce
Me and my lover. I but looked at him.
Caressed and stroked the dog, and had to laugh

[She laughs immoderately and shrilly in a way that threatens to be a scream, or to break into tears at any moment.]

Braccio [seems to listen].

Dianora [also listens. Her face expresses horrible tension. Soon she cannot bear it, begins to speak again almost deliriously].

Why whosoever saw me walk would know!
Walked I not differently? Did not I ride
Ecstatically? I could look at you
And at your brother and this gloomy house
And feel as light as air, floating in space.
The myriad trees seemed all to come to me
Filled with the sunlight dancing toward me,
All paths were open in the azure air—
Those sunlit paths were all the roads to him.
To start with fright was sweet—he might appear
From any corner, any bush or tree—

[Her language becomes incoherent from terror, because she sees that Braccio has drawn the curtains behind him close. Her eyes are unnaturally wide open—her lips drawn more constantly.]

Braccio [in a tone that the actor must find for himself, not loud, not low, not strong, nor yet weak, but penetrating].

If I, your husband, had not at this hour
Come to your chamber to fetch me a salve,
An ointment for my wounded hand—
What would—
What had you done, intended, meant to do?

Dianora [looks at him, as though distraught, does not understand his latest question. Her right hand presses her forehead—with the left she shakes the ladder before his face, lets it fall at his feet, one end remains tied, shrieks].

What had I done? What had I done, you ask?
Why, waited thus—I would have waited—

[She sways her open arms before him like one intoxicated, throws herself around, with the upper part of her body over the balustrade, stretches her arms towards the ground—her hair falls over them.]

Braccio [with a hurried gesture tears off a piece of his sleeve and winds it around his right hand. With the sureness of a wild animal on the hunt, he grasps the ladder that is lying there, like a thin, dark rope, with both hands, makes a loop, throws it over his wife's head and pulls her body towards him.]

[During this time the curtain falls.]

LITERATURE

A Comedy
By Arthur Schnitzler
Translated by Pierre Loving.

Copyright, 1917, by Stewart & Kidd Company.
All rights reserved.

Literature is reprinted from "Comedies of Words" by Arthur Schnitzler, by
permission of Messrs. Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Ohio.

LITERATURE

A Comedy

By Arthur Schnitzler

[Scene: Moderately well, but quite inexpensively furnished apartments occupied by Margaret. A small fireplace, a table, a small escritoire, a settee, a wardrobe cabinet, two windows in the back, entrances left and right.

As the curtain rises, Clement, dressed in a modish, tarnished-gray sack suit, is discovered reclining in a fauteuil near the fireplace. He is smoking a cigarette and perusing a newspaper. Margaret is standing at the window. She walks back and forth, finally goes up directly behind Clement, and playfully musses his hair. Evidently she has something troublesome on her mind.]

Clem. [reading, seizes her hand and kisses it]. Horner's certain about his pick and doubly certain about mine; Waterloo five to one; Barometer twenty-one to one; Busserl seven to one; Attila sixteen to one.

Marg. Sixteen to one!

Clem. Lord Byron one and one-half to one—that's us, my dear.

Marg. I know.

Clem. Besides, it's sixteen weeks yet to the Handicap.

Marg. Evidently he looks upon it as a clean "runaway."

Clem. Not quite—but where did you pick up your turf-lingo, Brava?

Marg. Oh, I used this kind of talk before I knew you. Is it settled that you are to ride Lord Byron yourself?

Clem. How absurd to ask! You forget, it's the Damenpreis Handicap. Whom else could I get to ride him? And if Horner thought for a moment that I wasn't going to ride him, he'd never put up one and a half to one. You may stake all you've got on that.

Marg. I'm well aware of that. You are so handsome when you mount a horse—honest and truly, too sweet for anything! I shall never forget that day in Munich, when I first made your acquaintance—

Clem. Please do not remind me of it. I had rotten luck that day. But you can believe me, Windy would never have won if it weren't for the ten lengths he gained at the start. But this time—never! You know, of course, it is decided; we leave town the same day.

Marg. Same evening, you mean.

Clem. If you will—but why?

Marg. Because it's been arranged we're to be married in the morning, hasn't it?

Clem. Quite so.

Marg. I am so happy. [Embraces him.] Now, where shall we spend our honeymoon?

Clem. I take it we're agreed. Aren't we? On the estate.

Marg. Oh, of course, later. Aren't we going to take in the Riviera, as a preliminary tidbit?

Clem. AS for that, it all depends on the Handicap. If we win—

Marg. Surest thing!

Clem. And besides, in April the Riviera's not at all good ton.

Marg. Is that your reason?

Clem. Of course it is, my love. In your former way of life, there were so few opportunities for your getting a clear idea of fashion—Pardon me, but whatever there was, you must admit, really had its origin in the comic journals.

Marg. Clem, please!

Clem. Well, well. We'll see. [Continues reading.] Badegast fifteen to one—

Marg. Badegast? There isn't a ghost of a show for him!

Clem. Where did you get that information?

Marg. Szigrati himself gave me a tip.

Clem. Where—and when?

Marg. Oh, this morning in the Fredenau, while you were talking with Milner.

Clem. Now, look here; Szigrati isn't fit company for you.

Marg. Jealous?

Clem. Not at all. Moreover, let it be understood that from now on I shall introduce you everywhere as my fiancée. [Margaret kisses him.]

Clem. Now, what did Szigrati say?

Marg. That he's not going to enter Badegast in the Handicap at all.

Clem. Well, don't you believe everything Szigrati is likely to say. He's circulating the rumor that Badegast will not be entered so that the odds may be bigger.

Marg. Nonsense! That's too much like an investment.

Clem. So you don't believe there is such a thing as investment in this game? For a great many it's all a commercial enterprise. Do you think that a fellow of Szigrati's ilk cares a fig for sport? He might just as well speculate on the market, and wouldn't realize the difference. Anyway, as far as Badegast is concerned, one hundred to one wouldn't be too much to put up against him.

Marg. Really? I found him in first-rate fettle this morning.

Clem. Then you saw Badegast, too?

Marg. Certainly. Didn't Butters put him through his paces, right behind Busserl?

Clem. But Butters isn't riding for Szigrati. He was only a stableboy. Badegast can be in as fine fettle as he chooses—it's all the same to me. He's nothing but a blind. Some day, Margaret, with the aid of your exceptional talent, you will be able to distinguish the veritable somebodies from the shams. Really, it's remarkable with what proficiency you have, so to speak, insinuated yourself into all these things. You go beyond my expectations.

Marg. [chagrined]. Pray, why do I go beyond your expectations? All this, as you know, is not so new to me. At our house we entertained very good people—Count Libowski and people of that sort—and at my husband's—

Clem. Quite so. No question about that. As a matter of principle, you realize, I've no grudge against the cotton industry.

Marg. Even if my husband happened to be the owner of a cotton mill, that didn't have to effect my personal outlook on life, did it? I always sought culture in my own way. Now, don't let's talk of that period of my life. It's dead and buried, thank heaven!

Clem. Yes. But there's another period which lies nearer.

Marg. I know. But why mention it?

Clem. Well, I simply mean that you couldn't possibly have heard much about sportsmanship from your friends in Munich—at least, as far as I am able to judge.

Marg. I do hope you will stop tormenting me about those friends in whose company you first made my acquaintance.

Clem. Tormenting you? Nonsense! Only it's incomprehensible to me how you ever got amongst those people.

Marg. You speak of them as if they were a gang of criminals.

Clem. Dearest, I'd stake my honor on it, some of them looked the very picture of pickpockets. Tell me, how did you manage to do it? I can't understand how you, with your refined taste—let alone your purity and the scent you used—could have tolerated their society. How could you have sat at the same table with them?

Marg. [laughing]. Didn't you do the same?

Clem. Next to them—not with them. And for your sake—merely for your sake, as you know. To do them justice, however, I will admit that many bettered upon closer acquaintance. There were some interesting people among them. You mustn't for a moment believe, dearest, that I hold myself superior to those who happen to be shabbily dressed. That's nothing against them. But there was something in their conduct, in their manners, which was positively revolting.

Marg. It wasn't quite so bad.

Clem. Don't take offense, dear. I said there were some interesting people among them. But that a lady should feel at ease in their company, for any length of time, I cannot and do not pretend to understand.

Marg. You forget, dear Clem, that in a sense I'm one of them—or was at one time.

Clem. Now, please! For my sake!

Marg. They were artists.

Clem. Thank goodness, we've returned to the old theme.

Marg. Yes, because it hurts me to think you always lose sight of that fact.

Clem. Lose sight of that fact! Nonsense! You know what pained me in your writings—things entirely personal.

Marg. Let me tell you, Clem, there are women who, in my situation, would have done worse than write poetry.

Clem. But what sort of poetry! What sort of poetry! [Takes a slender volume from the mantel-shelf.] That's what repels me. I assure you, every time I see this book lying here; every time I think of it, I blush with shame that it was you who wrote it.

Marg. That's why you fail to understand— Now, don't take offense. If you did understand, you'd be quite perfect, and that, obviously, is impossible. Why does it repel you? You know I didn't live through all the experiences I write about.

Clem. I hope not.

Marg. The poems are only visions.

Clem. That's just it. That's what makes me ask: How can a lady indulge in visions of that character? [Reads.] "Abandoned on thy breast and suckled by thy lips" [shaking his head]. How can a lady write such stuff—how can a lady have such stuff printed? That's what I simply cannot make out. Everybody who reads will inevitably conjure up the person of the authoress, and the particular breast mentioned, and the particular abandonment hinted at.

Marg. But, I'm telling you, no such breast ever existed.

Clem. I can't bring myself to imagine that it did. That's lucky for both of us, Margaret. But where did these visions originate? These glowing passion-poems could not have been inspired by your first husband. Besides, he could never appreciate you, as you yourself always say.

Marg. Certainly not. That's why I brought suit for divorce. You know the story. I just couldn't bear living with a man who had no other interest in life than eating and drinking and cotton.

Clem. I dare say. But that was three years ago. These poems were written later.

Marg. Quite so. But consider the position in which I found myself—

Clem. What do you mean? You didn't have to endure any privation? In this respect you must admit your husband acted very decently toward you. You were not under the necessity of earning your own living. And suppose the publishers did pay you one hundred gulden for a poem—surely they don't pay more than that—still, you were not bound to write a book of this sort.

Marg. I did not refer to position in a material sense. It was the state of my soul. Have you a notion how—when you came to know me—things were considerably improved. I had in many ways found myself again. But in the beginning! I was so friendless, so crushed! I tried my hand at everything; I painted, I gave English lessons in the pension where I lived. Just think of it! A divorcee, having nobody—

Clem. Why didn't you stay in Vienna?

Marg. Because I couldn't get along with my family. No one appreciated me. Oh, what people! Did any one of them realize that a woman of my type asks more of life than a husband, pretty dresses and social position? My God! If I had had a child, probably everything would have ended differently—and maybe not. I'm not quite lacking in accomplishments, you know. Are you still prepared to complain? Was it not for the best that I went to Munich? Would I have made your acquaintance else?

Clem. You didn't go there with that object in view.

Marg. I wanted to be free spiritually, I mean. I wanted to prove to myself whether I could succeed through my own efforts. And, admit, didn't it look as if I was jolly well going to? I had made some headway on the road to fame.

Clem. H'm!

Marg. But you were dearer to me than fame.

Clem [good-naturedly]. And surer.

Marg. I didn't give it a thought. I suppose it's because I loved you from the very start. For in my dreams, I always conjured up a man of your likeness. I always seemed to realize that it could only be a man like you who would make me happy. Blood—is no empty thing. Nothing whatever can weigh in the balance with that. You see, that's why I can't resist the belief—

Clem. What?

Marg. Oh, sometimes I think I must have blue blood in my veins, too.

Clem. How so?

Marg. It's not improbable?

Clem. I'm afraid I don't understand.

Marg. But I told you that members of the nobility were entertained at our house—

Clem. Well, and if they were?

Marg. Who knows—

Clem. Margaret, you're positively shocking. How can you hint at such a thing!

Marg. I can never say what I think in your presence! That's your only shortcoming—otherwise you would be quite perfect. [She smiles up to him.] You've won my heart completely. That very first evening, when you walked into the café with Wangenheim, I had an immediate presentiment: this is he! You came among that group, like a soul from another world.

Clem. I hope so. And I thank heaven that somehow you didn't seem to be altogether one of them, either. No. Whenever I call to mind that junto—the Russian girl, for instance, who because of her close-cropped hair gave the appearance of a student—except that she did not wear a cap—

Marg. Baranzewitsch is a very gifted painter.

Clem. No doubt. You pointed her out to me one day in the picture gallery. She was standing on a ladder at the time, copying. And then the fellow with the Polish name—

Marg. [beginning]. Zrkd—

Clem. Spare yourself the pains. You don't have to use it now any more. He read something at the café while I was there, without putting himself out the least bit.

Marg. He's a man of extraordinary talent. I'll vouch for it.

Clem. Oh, no doubt. Everybody is talented at the café. And then that yokel, that insufferable—

Marg. Who?

Clem. You know whom I mean. That fellow who persisted in making tactless observations about the aristocracy.

Marg. Gilbert. You must mean Gilbert.

Clem. Yes. Of course. I don't feel called upon to make a brief for my class. Profligates crop up everywhere, even among writers, I understand. But, don't you know it was very bad taste on his part while one of us was present?

Marg. That's just like him.

Clem. I had to hold myself in check not to knock him down.

Marg. In spite of that, he was quite interesting. And, then, you mustn't forget he was raving jealous of you.

Clem. I thought I noticed that, too. [Pause.]

Marg. Good heavens, they were all jealous of you. Naturally enough—you were so unlike them. They all paid court to me because I wouldn't discriminate in favor of any one of them. You certainly must have noticed that, eh? Why are you laughing?

Clem. Comical—is no word for it! If some one had prophesied to me that I was going to marry a regular frequenter of the Café Maxmillian—I fancied the two young painters most. They'd have made an incomparable vaudeville team. Do you know, they resembled each other so much and owned everything they possessed in common—and, if I'm not mistaken, the Russian on the ladder along with the rest.

Marg. I didn't bother myself with such things.

Clem. And, then, both must have been Jews?

Marg. Why so?

Clem. Oh, simply because they always jested in such a way. And their enunciation.

Marg. You may spare your anti-Semitic remarks.

Clem. Now, sweetheart, don't be touchy. I know that your blood is not untainted, and I have nothing whatever against the Jews. I once had a tutor in Greek who was a Jew. Upon my word! He was a capital fellow. One meets all sorts and conditions of people. I don't in the least regret having made the acquaintance of your associates in Munich. It's all the weave of our life experience. But I can't help thinking that I must have appeared to you like a hero come to rescue you in the nick of time.

Marg. Yes, so you did. My Clem! Clem! [Embraces him.]

Clem. What are you laughing at?

Marg. Something's just occurred to me.

Clem. What?

Marg. "Abandoned on thy breast and—"

Clem. [vexed]. Please! Must you always shatter my illusions?

Marg. Tell me truly, Clem, wouldn't you be proud if your fiancée, your wife, were to become a great, a famous writer?

Clem. I have already told you. I am rooted in my decision. And I promise you that if you begin scribbling or publishing poems in which you paint your passion for me, and sing to the world the progress of our love—it's all up with our wedding, and off I go.

Marg. You threaten—you, who have had a dozen well-known affairs.

Clem. My dear, well-known or not, I didn't tell anybody. I didn't bring out a book whenever a woman abandoned herself on my breast, so that any Tom, Dick or Harry could buy it for a gulden and a half. There's the rub. I know there are people who thrive by it, but, as for me, I find it extremely coarse. It's more degrading to me than if you were to pose as a Greek goddess in flesh-colored tights at Ronacher's. A Greek statue like that doesn't say "Mew." But a writer who makes copy of everything goes beyond the merely humorous.

Marg. [nervously]. Dearest, you forget that the poet does not always tell the truth.

Clem. And suppose he only vaporizes. Does that make it any better?

Marg. It isn't called vaporizing; it's "distillation."

Clem. What sort of an expression is that?

Marg. We disclose things we never experience, things we dreamed—plainly invented.

Clem. Don't say "we" any more, Margaret. Thank goodness, that is past.

Marg. Who knows?

Clem. What?

Marg. [tenderly]. Clement, I must tell you all.

Clem. What is it?

Marg. It is not past; I haven't given up my writing.

Clem. Why?

Marg. I'm still going on with my writing, or, rather, I've finished writing another book. Yes, the impulse is stronger than most people realize. I really believe I should have gone to pieces if it hadn't been for my writing.

Clem. What have you written now?

Marg. A novel. The weight was too heavy to be borne. It might have dragged me down—down. Until to-day, I tried to hide it from you, but it had to come out at last. Künigel is immensely taken with it.

Clem. Who's Künigel?

Marg. My publisher.

Clem. Then it's been read already.

Marg. Yes, and lots more will read it. Clement, you will have cause to be proud, believe me.

Clem. You're mistaken, my dear. I think—but, tell me, what's it about?

Marg. I can't tell you right off. The novel contains the greatest part, so to speak, and all that can be said of the greatest part.

Clem. My compliments!

Marg. That's why I'm going to promise you never to pick up a pen any more. I don't need to.

Clem. Margaret, do you love me?

Marg. What a question! You and you only. Though I have seen a great deal, though I have gadded about a great deal, I have experienced comparatively little. I have waited all my life for your coming.

Clem. Well, let me have the book.

Marg. Why—why? What do you mean?

Clem. I grant you, there was some excuse in your having written it; but it doesn't follow that it's got to be read. Let me have it, and we'll throw it into the fire.

Marg. Clem!

Clem. I make that request. I have a right to make it.

Marg. Impossible! It simply—

Clem. Why? If I wish it; if I tell you our whole future depends on it. Do you understand? Is it still impossible?

Marg. But, Clement, the novel has already been printed.

Clem. What! Printed?

Marg. Yes. In a few days it will be on sale on all the book-stalls.

Clem. Margaret, you did all that without a word to me—?

Marg. I couldn't do otherwise. When once you see it, you will forgive me. More than that, you will be proud.

Clem. My dear, this has progressed beyond a joke.

Marg. Clement!

Clem. Adieu, Margaret.

Marg. Clement, what does this mean? You are leaving?

Clem. As you see.

Marg. When are you coming back again?

Clem. I can't say just now. Adieu.

Marg. Clement! [Tries to hold him back.]

Clem. Please. [Goes out.]

Marg. [alone]. Clement! What does this mean? He's left me for good. What shall I do? Clement! Is everything between us at an end? No. It can't be. Clement! I'll go after him. [She looks for her hat. The doorbell rings.] Ah, he's coming back. He only wanted to frighten me. Oh, my Clement! [Goes to the door. Gilbert enters.]

Gil. [to the maid]. I told you so. Madame's at home. How do you do, Margaret?

Marg. [astonished]. You?

Gil. It's I—I. Amandus Gilbert.

Marg. I'm so surprised.

Gil. So I see. There's no cause for it. I merely thought I'd stop over. I'm on my way to Italy. I came to offer you my latest book for auld lang syne. [Hands her the book. As she does not take it, he places it on the table.]

Marg. It's very good of you. Thanks!

Gil. You have a certain proprietorship in that book. So you are living here?

Marg. Yes, but—

Gil. Opposite the stadium, I see. As far as furnished rooms go, it's passable enough. But these family portraits on the walls would drive me crazy.

Marg. My housekeeper's the widow of a general.

Gil. Oh, you needn't apologize.

Marg. Apologize! Really, the idea never occurred to me.

Gil. It's wonderful to hark back to it now.

Marg. To what?

Gil. Why shouldn't I say it? To the small room in Steinsdorf street, with its balcony abutting over the Isar. Do you remember, Margaret?

Marg. Suppose we drop the familiar.

Gil. As you please—as you please. [Pause, then suddenly.] You acted shamefully, Margaret.

Marg. What do you mean?

Gil. Would you much rather that I beat around the bush? I can find no other word, to my regret. And it was so uncalled for, too. Straightforwardness would have done just as nicely. It was quite unnecessary to run away from Munich under cover of a foggy night.

Marg. It wasn't night and it wasn't foggy. I left in the morning on the eight-thirty train, in open daylight.

Gil. At all events, you might have said good-by to me before leaving, eh? [Sits.]

Marg. I expect the Baron back any minute.

Gil. What difference does that make? Of course, you didn't tell him that you lay in my arms once and worshiped me. I'm just an old acquaintance from Munich. And there's no harm in an old acquaintance calling to see you?

Marg. Anybody but you.

Gil. Why? Why do you persist in misunderstanding me? I assure you, I come only as an old acquaintance. Everything else is dead and buried, long dead and buried. Here. See for yourself. [Indicates the book.]

Marg. What's that?

Gil. My latest novel.

Marg. Have you taken to writing novels?

Gil. Certainly.

Marg. Since when have you learned the trick?

Gil. What do you mean?

Marg. Heavens, can't I remember? Thumb-nail sketches were your specialty, observation of daily events.

Gil. [excitedly]. My specialty? My specialty is life itself. I write what suits me. I do not allow myself to be circumscribed. I don't see who's to prevent my writing a novel.

Marg. But the opinion of an authority was—

Gil. Pray, who's an authority?

Marg. I call to mind, for instance, an article by Neumann in the "Algemeine"—

Gil. [angrily]. Neumann's a blamed idiot! I boxed his ears for him once.

Marg. You—

Gil. In effigy— But you were quite as much wrought up about the business as I at that time. We were perfectly agreed that Neumann was a blamed idiot. "How can such a numbskull dare"—these were your very words—"to set bounds to your genius? How can he dare to stifle your next work still, so to speak, in the womb?" You said that! And to-day you quote that literary hawker.

Marg. Please do not shout. My housekeeper—

Gil. I don't propose to bother myself about the widows of defunct generals when every nerve in my body is a-tingle.

Marg. What did I say? I can't account for your touchiness.

Gil. Touchiness! You call me touchy? You! Who used to be seized with a violent fit of trembling every time some insignificant booby or some trumpery sheet happened to utter an unfavorable word of criticism.

Marg. I don't remember one word of unfavorable criticism against me.

Gil. H'm! I dare say you may be right. Critics are always chivalrous toward beautiful women.

Marg. Chivalrous? Do you think my poems were praised out of chivalry? What about your own estimate—

Gil. Mine? I'm not going to retract so much as one little word. I simply want to remind you that you composed your sheaf of lovely poems while we were living together.

Marg. And you actually consider yourself worthy of them?

Gil. Would you have written them if it weren't for me? They are addressed to me.

Marg. Never!

Gil. What! Do you mean to deny that they are addressed to me? This is monstrous!

Marg. No. They are not addressed to you.

Gil. I am dumbfounded. I shall remind you of the situations in which some of your loveliest verses had birth?

Marg. They were inscribed to an Ideal—[Gilbert points to himself]—whose representative on earth you happened to be.

Gil. Ha! This is precious. Where did you get that? Do you know what the French would say in a case like that? "C'est de la littérature!"

Marg. [mimicking him]. Ce n'est pas de la littérature! Now, that's the truth, the honest truth! Or do you really fancy that by the "slim boy" I meant you? Or that the curls I hymned belonged to you? At that time you were fat and your hair was never curly. [Runs her fingers through his hair. Gilbert seizes the opportunity to capture her hand and kiss it.] What an idea!

Gil. At that time you pictured it so; or, at all events, that is what you called it. To be sure, a poet is forced to take every sort of license for the sake of the rhythm. Didn't I once apostrophise you in a sonnet as "my canny lass"? In point of fact, you were neither—no, I don't want to be unfair—you were canny, shamefully canny, perversely canny. And it suited you perfectly. Well, I suppose I really oughtn't to wonder at you. You were at all times a snob. And, by Jove! you've attained your end. You have decoyed your blue-blooded boy with his well-manicured hands and his unmanicured brain, your matchless horseman, fencer, marksman, tennis player, heart-trifler—Marlitt could not have invented him more revolting than he actually is. Yes, what more can you wish? Whether he will satisfy you—who are acquainted with something nobler—is, of course, another question. I can only say that, in my view, you are degenerate in love.

Marg. That must have struck you on the train.

Gil. Not at all. It struck me this very moment.

Marg. Make a note of it then; it's an apt phrase.

Gil. I've another quite as apt. Formerly you were a woman; now you're a "sweet thing." Yes, that's it. What attracted you to a man of that type? Passion—frank and filthy passion—

Marg. Stop! You have a motive—

Gil. My dear, I still lay claim to the possession of a soul.

Marg. Except now and then.

Gil. Please don't try to disparage our former relations. It's no use. They are the noblest experiences you've ever had.

Marg. Heavens, when I think that I endured this twaddle for one whole year I—

Gil. Endure? You were intoxicated with joy. Don't try to be ungrateful. I'm not. Admitting that you behaved never so execrably at the end, yet I can't bring myself to look upon it with bitterness. It had to come just that way.

Marg. Indeed!

Gil. I owe you an explanation. This: at the moment when you were beginning to drift away from me, when homesickness for the stables gripped you—la nostalgie de l'écurie—at that moment I was done with you.

Marg. Impossible.

Gil. You failed to notice the least sign in your characteristic way. I was done with you. To be plain, I didn't need you any longer. What you had to give you gave me. Your uses were fulfilled. In the depths of your soul you knew, unconsciously you knew—

Marg. Please don't get so hot.

Gil. [unruffled]. That our day was over. Our relations had served their purpose. I don't regret having loved you.

Marg. I do!

Gil. Capital! This measly outburst must reveal to a person of any insight just one thing: the essential line of difference between the artist and the dilettante. To you, Margaret, our liaison means nothing more than the memory of a few abandoned nights, a few heart-to-heart talks in the winding ways of the English gardens. But I have made it over into a work of art.

Marg. So have I!

Gil. Eh? What do you mean?

Marg. I have done what you have done. I, too, have written a novel in which our relations are depicted. I, too, have embalmed our love—or what we thought was our love—for all time.

Gil. If I were you, I wouldn't talk of "for all time" before the appearance of the second edition.

Marg. Your writing a novel and my writing a novel are two different things.

Gil. Maybe.

Marg. You are a free man. You don't have to steal your hours devoted to artistic labor. And your future doesn't depend on the throw.

Gil. And you?

Marg. That's what I've done. Only a half hour ago Clement left me because I confessed to him that I had written a novel.

Gil. Left you—for good?

Marg. I don't know. But it isn't unlikely. He went away in a fit of anger. What he'll decide to do I can't say.

Gil. So he objects to your writing, does he? He can't bear to see his mistress put her intelligence to some use. Capital! And he represents the blood of the country! H'm! And you, you're not ashamed to give yourself up to the arms of an idiot of this sort, whom you once—

Marg. Don't you speak of him like that. You don't know him.

Gil. Ah!

Marg. You don't know why he objects to my writing. Purely out of love. He feels that if I go on I will be living in a world entirely apart from him. He blushes at the thought that I should make copy of the most sacred feelings of my soul for unknown people to read. It is his wish that I belong to him only, and that is why he dashed out—no, not dashed out—for Clement doesn't belong to the class that dashes out.

Gil. Your observation is well taken. In any case, he went away. We will not undertake to discuss the tempo of his going forth. And he went away because he could not bear to see you surrender yourself to the creative impulse.

Marg. Ah, if he could only understand that! But, of course, that can never be! I could be the best, the faithfulest, the noblest woman in the world if the right man only existed.

Gil. At all events, you admit he is not the right man.

Marg. I never said that!

Gil. But you ought to realize that he's fettering you, undoing you utterly, seeking through egotism, to destroy your inalienable self. Look back for a moment at the Margaret you were; at the freedom that was yours while you loved me. Think of the younger set who gathered about me and who belonged no whit less to you? Do you never long for those days? Do you never call to mind the small room with its balcony—Beneath us plunged the Isar—[He seizes her hand and presses her near.]

Marg. Ah!

Gil. All's not beyond recall. It need not be the Isar, need it? I have something to propose to you, Margaret. Tell him, when he returns, that you still have some important matters to arrange at Munich, and spend the time with me. Margaret, you are so lovely! We shall be happy again as then. Do you remember [very near her] "Abandoned on thy breast and—"

Marg. [retreating brusquely from him]. Go, go away. No, no. Please go away. I don't love you any more.

Gil. Oh, h'm—indeed! Oh, in that case I beg your pardon. [Pause.] Adieu, Margaret.

Marg. Adieu.

Gil. Won't you present me with a copy of your novel as a parting gift, as I have done?

Marg. It hasn't come out yet. It won't be on sale before next week.

Gil. Pardon my inquisitiveness, what kind of a story is it?

Marg. The story of my life. So veiled, to be sure, that I am in no danger of being recognized.

Gil. I see. How did you manage to do it?

Marg. Very simple. For one thing, the heroine is not a writer but a painter.

Gil. Very clever.

Marg. Her first husband is not a cotton manufacturer, but a big financier, and, of course, it wouldn't do to deceive him with a tenor—

Gil. Ha! Ha!

Marg. What strikes you so funny?

Gil. So you deceived him with a tenor? I didn't know that.

Marg. Whoever said so?

Gil. Why, you yourself, just now.

Marg. How so? I say the heroine of the book deceives her husband with a baritone.

Gil. Bass would have been more sublime, mezzo-soprano more piquant.

Marg. Then she doesn't go to Munich, but to Dresden; and there, has an affair with a sculptor.

Gil. That's me—veiled.

Marg. Very much veiled, I rather fear. The sculptor, as it happens, is young, handsome and a genius. In spite of that she leaves him.

Gil. For—

Marg. Guess?

Gil. A jockey, I fancy.

Marg. Wretch!

Gil. A count, a prince of the empire?

Marg. Wrong. An archduke.

Gil. I must say you have spared no costs.

Marg. Yes, an archduke, who gave up the court for her sake, married her and emigrated with her to the Canary Islands.

Gil. The Canary Islands! Splendid! And then—

Marg. With the disembarkation—

Gil. In Canaryland.

Marg. The story ends.

Gil. Good. I'm very much interested, especially in the veiling.

Marg. You yourself wouldn't recognize me were it not for—

Gil. What?

Marg. The third chapter from the end, where our correspondence is published entire.

Gil. What?

Marg. Yes, all the letters you sent me and those I sent you are included in the novel.

Gil. I see, but may I ask where you got those you sent me? I thought I had them.

Marg. I know. But, you see, I had the habit of always making a rough draft.

Gil. A rough draft?

Marg. Yes.

Gil. A rough draft? Those letters which seemed to have been dashed off in such tremendous haste. "Just one word, dearest, before I go to bed. My eyelids are heavy—" and when your eyelids were closed you wrote the whole thing over again.

Marg. Are you piqued about it?

Gil. I might have expected as much. I ought to be glad, however, that they weren't bought from a professional love-letter writer. Oh, how everything begins to crumble! The whole past is nothing but a heap of ruins. She made a rough draft of her letters!

Marg. Be content. Maybe my letters will be all that will remain immortal of your memory.

Gil. And along with them will remain the fatal story.

Marg. Why?

Gil. [indicating his book]. Because they also appear in my book.

Marg. In where?

Gil. In my novel.

Marg. What?

Gil. Our letters—yours and mine.

Marg. Where did you get your own? I've got them in my possession. Ah, so you, too, made a rough draft?

Gil. Nothing of the kind! I only copied them before mailing. I didn't want to lose them. There are some in my book which you didn't even get. They were, in my opinion, too beautiful for you. You wouldn't have understood them at all.

Marg. Merciful heavens! If this is so—[turning the leaves of Gilbert's book]. Yes, yes, it is so. Why, it's just like telling the world that we two—Merciful heavens! [Feverishly turning the leaves.] Is the letter you sent me the morning after the first night also—

Gil. Surely. That was brilliant.

Marg. This is horrible. Why, this is going to create a European sensation. And Clement—My God; I'm beginning to hope that he will not come back. I am ruined! And you along with me. Wherever you are, he'll be sure to find you and blow your brains out like a mad dog.

Gil. [pocketing his book]. Insipid comparison!

Marg. How did you hit upon such an insane idea? To publish the correspondence of a woman whom, in all sincerity, you professed to have loved! Oh, you're no gentleman.

Gil. Quite charming. Haven't you done the same?

Marg. I'm a woman.

Gil. Do you take refuge in that now?

Marg. Oh, it's true. I have nothing to reproach you with. We were made for one another. Yes, Clement was right. We're worse than those women who appear in flesh-colored tights. Our most sacred feelings, our pangs—everything—we make copy of everything. Pfui! Pfui! It's sickening. We two belong to one another. Clement would only be doing what is right if he drove me away. [Suddenly.] Come, Amandus.

Gil. What is it?

Marg. I accept your proposal.

Gil. What proposal?

Marg. I'm going to cut it with you. [Looks for her hat and cloak.]

Gil. Eh? What do you mean?

Marg. [very much excited; puts her hat on tightly]. Everything can be as it was. You've said it. It needn't be the Isar—well, I'm ready.

Gil. Sheer madness! Cut it—what's the meaning of this? Didn't you yourself say a minute ago that he'd find me anywhere. If you're with me, he'll have no difficulty in finding you, too. Wouldn't it be better if each—

Marg. Wretch! Now you want to leave me in a lurch! Why, only a few minutes ago you were on your knees before me. Have you no conscience?

Gil. What's the use? I am a sick, nervous man, suffering from hypochondria. [Margaret at the window utters a cry.]

Gil. What's up? What will the general's widow think?

Marg. It's he. He's coming back.

Gil. Well, then—

Marg. What? You intend to go?

Gil. I didn't come here to pay the baron a visit.

Marg. He'll encounter you on the stairs. That would be worse. Stay. I refuse to be sacrificed alone.

Gil. Now, don't lose your senses. Why do you tremble like that? It's quite absurd to believe that he's already gone through both novels. Calm yourself. Remove your hat. Off with your cloak. [Assists her.] If he catches you in this frame of mind he can't help but suspect.

Marg. It's all the same to me. Better now than later. I can't bear waiting and waiting for the horrible event. I'm going to tell him everything right away.

Gil. Everything?

Marg. Yes. And while you are still here. If I make a clean breast of everything now maybe he'll forgive me.

Gil. And me—what about me? I have a higher mission in the world, I think, than to suffer myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous baron. [The bell rings.]

Marg. It's he! It's he.

Gil. Understand, you're not to breathe a word.

Marg. I've made up my mind.

Gil. Indeed, have a care. For, if you do, I shall sell my hide at a good price. I shall hurl such naked truths at him that he'll swear no baron heard the like of them.

Clem. [entering, somewhat surprised, but quite cool and courteous]. Oh, Mr. Gilbert! Am I right?

Gil. The very same, Baron. I'm traveling south, and I couldn't repress the desire to pay my respects to madame.

Clem. Ah, indeed. [Pause.] Pardon me, it seems I've interrupted your conversation. Pray, don't let me disturb you.

Gil. What were we talking about just now?

Clem. Perhaps I can assist your memory. In Munich, if I recall correctly, you always talked about your books.

Gil. Quite so. As a matter of fact, I was speaking about my new novel.

Clem. Pray, continue. Nowadays, I find that I, too, can talk literature. Eh, Margaret? Is it naturalistic? Symbolic? Autobiographical? Or—let me see—is it distilled?

Gil. Oh, in a certain sense we all write about our life-experiences.

Clem. H'm. That's good to know.

Gil. Yes, if you're painting the character of Nero, in my opinion it's absolutely necessary that you should have set fire to Rome—

Clem. Naturally.

Gil. From what source should a writer derive his inspiration if not from himself? Where should he go for his models if not to the life which is nearest to him? [Margaret becomes more and more uneasy.]

Clem. Isn't it a pity, though, that the models are so rarely consulted? But I must say, if I were a woman, I'd think twice before I'd let such people know anything—[Sharply.] In decent society, sir, that's the same as compromising a woman!

Gil. I don't know whether I belong to decent society or not, but, in my humble opinion, it's the same as ennobling a woman.

Clem. Indeed.

Gil. The essential thing is, does it really hit the mark! In a higher sense, what does it matter if the public does know that a woman was happy in this bed or that?

Clem. Mr. Gilbert, allow me to remind you that you are speaking in the presence of a lady.

Gil. I'm speaking in the presence of a comrade, Baron, who, perhaps, shares my views in these matters.

Clem. Oh!

Marg. Clement! [Throws herself at his feet.] Clement.

Clem. [staggered]. But—Margaret.

Marg. Your forgiveness, Clement!

Clem. But, Margaret. [To Gilbert.] It's very painful to me, Mr. Gilbert. Now, get up, Margaret. Get up, everything's all right; everything's arranged. Yes, yes. You have but to call up Künigel. I have already arranged everything with him. We are going to put it out for sale. Is that suitable to you?

Gil. What are you going to put out for sale, if I may be so bold as to ask? The novel madame has written?

Clem. Ah, so you know already. At all events, Mr. Gilbert, it seems that your camaraderie is not required any further.

Gil. Yes. There's really nothing left for me but to beg to be excused. I'm sorry.

Clem. I very much regret, Mr. Gilbert, that you had to witness a scene which might almost be called domestic.

Gil. Oh, I do not wish to intrude any further.

Gil. Madame—Baron, may I offer you a copy of my book as a token that all ill-feeling between us has vanished? As a feeble sign of my sympathy, Baron?

Clem. You're very good, Mr. Gilbert. I must, however, tell you that this is going to be the last, or the one before the last, that I ever intend to read.

Gil. The one before the last?

Clem. Yes.

Marg. And what's the last going to be?

Clem. Yours, my love. [Draws an advanced copy from his pocket.] I wheedled an advance copy from Künigel to bring to you, or, rather, to both of us. [Margaret and Gilbert exchange scared glances.]

Marg. How good of you! [Taking the book.] Yes, it's mine.

Clem. We will read it together.

Marg. No, Clement, no. I cannot accept so much kindness. [She throws the book into the fireplace.] I don't want to hear of this sort of thing any more.

Gil. [very joyful]. But, dear madame—

Clem. [going toward the fireplace]. Margaret, what have you done?

Marg. [in front of the fireplace, throwing her arms about Clement]. Now, do you believe that I love you!

Gil. [most gleeful]. It appears that I'm entirely de trop here. Dear Madame—Baron—[To himself.] Pity, though, I can't stay for the last chapter. [Goes out.]

[Curtain.]

THE INTRUDER

A Play
By Maurice Maeterlinck

The present translation of The Intruder is the anonymous version published by Mr. Heinemann in 1892, the editor having, however, made some slight alterations in order to bring it into conformity with the current French text. The particular edition used for this purpose was the 1911 (twenty-third) reprint of Vol. I of M. Maeterlinck's "Théâtre."

A. L. G.

Reprinted from "A Miracle of St. Antony and Five Other Plays" in the Modern
Library, by permission of Messrs. Boni & Liveright, Inc.

THE INTRUDER

A Play

By Maurice Maeterlinck

[A sombre room in an old Château. A door on the right, a door on the left, and a small concealed door in a corner. At the back, stained-glass windows, in which green is the dominant color, and a glass door giving on to a terrace. A big Dutch clock in one corner. A lighted lamp.]

The Three Daughters. Come here, grandfather. Sit down under the lamp.

The Grandfather. There does not seem to me to be much light here.

The Father. Shall we go out on the terrace, or stay in this room?

The Uncle. Would it not be better to stay here? It has rained the whole week, and the nights are damp and cold.

The Eldest Daughter. But the stars are shining.

The Uncle. Oh the stars—that's nothing.

The Grandfather. We had better stay here. One never knows what may happen.

The Father. There is no longer any cause for anxiety. The danger is over, and she is saved....

The Grandfather. I believe she is not doing so well....

The Father. Why do you say that?

The Grandfather. I have heard her voice.

The Father. But since the doctors assure us we may be easy....

The Uncle. You know quite well that your father-in-law likes to alarm us needlessly.

The Grandfather. I don't see things as you do.

The Uncle. You ought to rely on us, then, who can see. She looked very well this afternoon. She is sleeping quietly now; and we are not going to mar, needlessly, the first pleasant evening that chance has put in our way.... It seems to me we have a perfect right to peace, and even to laugh a little, this evening, without fear.

The Father. That's true; this is the first time I have felt at home with my family since this terrible confinement.

The Uncle. When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a stranger had forced himself into the family circle.

The Father. And then you understand, too, that you can count on no one outside the family.

The Uncle. You are quite right.

The Grandfather. Why couldn't I see my poor daughter to-day?

The Uncle. You know quite well—the doctor forbade it.

The Grandfather. I do not know what to think....

The Uncle. It is useless to worry.

The Grandfather [pointing to the door on the left]. She cannot hear us?

The Father. We will not talk too loud; besides, the door is very thick, and the Sister of Mercy is with her, and she is sure to warn us if we are making too much noise.

The Grandfather [pointing to the door on the right]. He cannot hear us?

The Father. No, no.

The Grandfather. He is asleep?

The Father. I suppose so.

The Grandfather. Some one had better go and see.

The Uncle. The little one would cause me more anxiety than your wife. It is now several weeks since he was born, and he has scarcely stirred. He has not cried once all the time! He is like a wax doll.

The Grandfather. I think he will be deaf—dumb too, perhaps—the usual result of a marriage between cousins.... [A reproving silence.]

The Father. I could almost wish him ill for the suffering he has caused his mother.

The Uncle. Do be reasonable; it is not the poor little thing's fault. He is quite alone in the room?

The Father. Yes; the doctor does not wish him to stay in his mother's room any longer.

The Uncle. But the nurse is with him?

The Father. No; she has gone to rest a little; she has well deserved it these last few days. Ursula, just go and see if he is asleep.

The Eldest Daughter. Yes, father. [The Three Sisters get up, and go into the room on the right, hand in hand.]

The Father. When will your sister come?

The Uncle. I think she will come about nine.

The Father. It is past nine. I hope she will come this evening, my wife is so anxious to see her.

The Uncle. She is sure to come. This will be the first time she has been here?

The Father. She has never been in the house.

The Uncle. It is very difficult for her to leave her convent.

The Father. Will she be alone?

The Uncle. I expect one of the nuns will come with her. They are not allowed to go out alone.

The Father. But she is the Superior.

The Uncle. The rule is the same for all.

The Grandfather. Do you not feel anxious?

The Uncle. Why should we feel anxious? What's the good of harping on that? There is nothing more to fear.

The Grandfather. Your sister is older than you?

The Uncle. She is the eldest.

The Grandfather. I do not know what ails me; I feel uneasy. I wish your sister were here.

The Uncle. She will come; she promised to.

The Grandfather. Ah, if this evening were only over!

[The three daughters come in again.]

The Father. He is asleep?

The Eldest Daughter. Yes, father; he is sleeping soundly.

The Uncle. What shall we do while we are waiting?

The Grandfather. Waiting for what?

The Uncle. Waiting for our sister.

The Father. You see nothing coming, Ursula?

The Eldest Daughter [at the window]. Nothing, father.

The Father. Not in the avenue? Can you see the avenue?

The Daughter. Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I can see the avenue as far as the cypress wood.

The Grandfather. And you do not see any one?

The Daughter. No one, grandfather.

The Uncle. What sort of a night is it?

The Daughter. Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales?

The Uncle. Yes, yes.

The Daughter. A little wind is rising in the avenue.

The Grandfather. A little wind in the avenue?

The Daughter. Yes; the trees are trembling a little.

The Uncle. I am surprised that my sister is not here yet.

The Grandfather. I cannot hear the nightingales any longer.

The Daughter. I think some one has come into the garden, grandfather.

The Grandfather. Who is it?

The Daughter. I do not know; I can see no one.

The Uncle. Because there is no one there.

The Daughter. There must be some one in the garden; the nightingales have suddenly ceased singing.

The Grandfather. But I do not hear any one coming.

The Daughter. Some one must be passing by the pond, because the swans are ruffled.

Another Daughter. All the fishes in the pond are diving suddenly.

The Father. You cannot see any one.

The Daughter. No one, father.

The Father. But the pond lies in the moonlight....

The Daughter. Yes; I can see that the swans are ruffled.

The Uncle. I am sure it is my sister who is scaring them. She must have come in by the little gate.

The Father. I cannot understand why the dogs do not bark.

The Daughter. I can see the watchdog right at the back of his kennel. The swans are crossing to the other bank!...

The Uncle. They are afraid of my sister. I will go and see. [He calls.] Sister! sister! Is that you?... There is no one there.

The Daughter. I am sure that some one has come into the garden. You will see.

The Uncle. But she would answer me!

The Grandfather. Are not the nightingales beginning to sing again, Ursula?

The Daughter. I cannot hear one anywhere.

The Grandfather. But there is no noise.

The Father. There is a silence of the grave.

The Grandfather. It must be a stranger that is frightening them, for if it were one of the family they would not be silent.

The Uncle. How much longer are you going to discuss these nightingales?

The Grandfather. Are all the windows open, Ursula?

The Daughter. The glass door is open, grandfather.

The Grandfather. It seems to me that the cold is penetrating into the room.

The Daughter. There is a little wind in the garden, grandfather, and the rose-leaves are falling.

The Father. Well, shut the door. It is late.

The Daughter. Yes, father.... I cannot shut the door.

The Two Other Daughters. We cannot shut the door.

The Grandfather. Why, what is the matter with the door, my children?

The Uncle. You need not say that in such an extraordinary voice. I will go and help them.

The Eldest Daughter. We cannot manage to shut it quite.

The Uncle. It is because of the damp. Let us all push together. There must be something in the way.

The Father. The carpenter will set it right to-morrow.

The Grandfather. Is the carpenter coming to-morrow.

The Daughter. Yes, grandfather; he is coming to do some work in the cellar.

The Grandfather. He will make a noise in the house.

The Daughter. I will tell him to work quietly.

[Suddenly the sound of a scythe being sharpened is heard outside.]

The Grandfather [with a shudder]. Oh!

The Uncle. What is that?

The Daughter. I don't quite know; I think it is the gardener. I cannot quite see; he is in the shadow of the house.

The Father. It is the gardener going to mow.

The Uncle. He mows by night?

The Father. Is not to-morrow Sunday?—Yes.—I noticed that the grass was very long round the house.

The Grandfather. It seems to me that his scythe makes as much noise....

The Daughter. He is mowing near the house.

The Grandfather. Can you see him, Ursula?

The Daughter. No, grandfather. He is standing in the dark.

The Grandfather. I am afraid he will wake my daughter.

The Uncle. We can scarcely hear him.

The Grandfather. It sounds as if he were mowing inside the house.

The Uncle. The invalid will not hear it; there is no danger.

The Father. It seems to me that the lamp is not burning well this evening.

The Uncle. It wants filling.

The Father. I saw it filled this morning. It has burnt badly since the window was shut.

The Uncle. I fancy the chimney is dirty.

The Father. It will burn better presently.

The Daughter. Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept for three nights.

The Father. He has been so much worried.

The Uncle. He always worries too much. At times he will not listen to reason.

The Father. It is quite excusable at his age.

The Uncle. God knows what we shall be like at his age!

The Father. He is nearly eighty.

The Uncle. Then he has a right to be strange.

The Father. He is like all blind people.

The Uncle. They think too much.

The Father. They have too much time to spare.

The Uncle. They have nothing else to do.

The Father. And, besides, they have no distractions.

The Uncle. That must be terrible.

The Father. Apparently one gets used to it.

The Uncle. I cannot imagine it.

The Father. They are certainly to be pitied.

The Uncle. Not to know where one is, not to know where one has come from, not to know whither one is going, not to be able to distinguish midday from midnight, or summer from winter—and always darkness, darkness! I would rather not live. Is it absolutely incurable?

The Father. Apparently so.

The Uncle. But he is not absolutely blind?

The Father. He can perceive a strong light.

The Uncle. Let us take care of our poor eyes.

The Father. He often has strange ideas.

The Uncle. At times he is not at all amusing.

The Father. He says absolutely everything he thinks.

The Uncle. But he was not always like this?

The Father. No; once he was as rational as we are; he never said anything extraordinary. I am afraid Ursula encourages him a little too much; she answers all his questions....

The Uncle. It would be better not to answer them. It's a mistaken kindness to him.

[Ten o'clock strikes.]

The Grandfather [waking up]. Am I facing the glass door?

The Daughter. You have had a nice sleep, grandfather?

The Grandfather. Am I facing the glass door?

The Daughter. Yes, grandfather.

The Grandfather. There is nobody at the glass door?

The Daughter. No, grandfather; I do not see any one.

The Grandfather. I thought some one was waiting. No one has come?

The Daughter. No one, grandfather.

The Grandfather [to the Uncle and Father]. And your sister has not come?

The Uncle. It is too late; she will not come now. It is not nice of her.

The Father. I'm beginning to be anxious about her. [A noise, as of some one coming into the house.]

The Uncle. She is here! Did you hear?

The Father. Yes; some one has come in at the basement.

The Uncle. It must be our sister. I recognized her step.

The Grandfather. I heard slow footsteps.

The Father. She came in very quietly.

The Uncle. She knows there is an invalid.

The Grandfather. I hear nothing now.

The Uncle. She will come up directly; they will tell her we are here.

The Father. I am glad she has come.

The Uncle. I was sure she would come this evening.

The Grandfather. She is a very long time coming up.

The Uncle. It must be she.

The Father. We are not expecting any other visitors.

The Grandfather. I cannot hear any noise in the basement.

The Father. I will call the servant. We shall know how things stand. [He pulls a bell-rope.]

The Grandfather. I can hear a noise on the stairs already.

The Father. It is the servant coming up.

The Grandfather. To me it sounds as if she were not alone.

The Father. She is coming up slowly....

The Grandfather. I hear your sister's step!

The Father. I can only hear the servant.

The Grandfather. It is your sister! It is your sister! [There is a knock at the little door.]

The Uncle. She is knocking at the door of the back stairs.

The Father. I will go and open it myself. [He opens the little door partly; the Servant remains outside in the opening.] Where are you?

The Servant. Here, sir.

The Grandfather. Your sister is at the door?

The Uncle. I can only see the servant.

The Father. It is only the servant. [To the Servant.] Who was that, that came into the house?

The Servant. Came into the house?

The Father. Yes; some one came in just now?

The Servant. No one came in, sir.

The Grandfather. Who is it sighing like that?

The Uncle. It is the servant; she is out of breath.

The Grandfather. Is she crying?

The Uncle. No; why should she be crying?

The Father [to the Servant]. No one came in just now?

The Servant. No, sir.

The Father. But we heard some one open the door!

The Servant. It was I shutting the door.

The Father. It was open?

The Servant. Yes, sir.

The Father. Why was it open at this time of night?

The Servant. I do not know, sir. I had shut it myself.

The Father. Then who was it that opened it?

The Servant. I do not know, sir. Some one must have gone out after me, sir....

The Father. You must be careful.—Don't push the door; you know what a noise it makes!

The Servant. But, sir, I am not touching the door.

The Father. But you are. You are pushing as if you were trying to get into the room.

The Servant. But, sir, I am three yards away from the door.

The Father. Don't talk so loud....

The Grandfather. Are they putting out the light?

The Eldest Daughter. No, grandfather.

The Grandfather. It seems to me it has grown pitch dark all at once.

The Father [to the Servant]. You can go down again now; but do not make so much noise on the stairs.

The Servant. I did not make any noise on the stairs.

The Father. I tell you that you did make a noise. Go down quietly; you will wake your mistress. And if any one comes now, say that we are not at home.

The Uncle. Yes; say that we are not at home.

The Grandfather [shuddering]. You must not say that!

The Father. ... Except to my sister and the doctor.

The Uncle. When will the doctor come?

The Father. He will not be able to come before midnight. [He shuts the door. A clock is heard striking eleven.]

The Grandfather. She has come in?

The Father. Who?

The Grandfather. The servant.

The Father. No, she has gone downstairs.

The Grandfather. I thought that she was sitting at the table.

The Uncle. The servant?

The Grandfather. Yes.

The Uncle. That would complete one's happiness!

The Grandfather. No one has come into the room?

The Father. No; no one has come in.

The Grandfather. And your sister is not here?

The Uncle. Our sister has not come.

The Grandfather. You want to deceive me.

The Uncle. Deceive you?

The Grandfather. Ursula, tell me the truth, for the love of God!

The Eldest Daughter. Grandfather! Grandfather! what is the matter with you?

The Grandfather. Something has happened! I am sure my daughter is worse!...

The Uncle. Are you dreaming?

The Grandfather. You do not want to tell me!... I can see quite well there is something....

The Uncle. In that case you can see better than we can.

The Grandfather. Ursula, tell me the truth!

The Daughter. But we have told you the truth, grandfather!

The Grandfather. You do not speak in your ordinary voice.

The Father. That is because you frighten her.

The Grandfather. Your voice is changed, too.

The Father. You are going mad! [He and the Uncle make signs to each other to signify the Grandfather has lost his reason.]

The Grandfather. I can hear quite well that you are afraid.

The Father. But what should we be afraid of?

The Grandfather. Why do you want to deceive me?

The Uncle. Who is thinking of deceiving you?

The Grandfather. Why have you put out the light?

The Uncle. But the light has not been put out; there is as much light as there was before.

The Daughter. It seems to me that the lamp has gone down.

The Father. I see as well now as ever.

The Grandfather. I have millstones on my eyes! Tell me, girls, what is going on here! Tell me, for the love of God, you who can see! I am here, all alone, in darkness without end! I do not know who seats himself beside me! I do not know what is happening a yard from me!... Why were you talking under your breath just now?

The Father. No one was talking under his breath.

The Grandfather. You did talk in a low voice at the door.

The Father. You heard all I said.

The Grandfather. You brought some one into the room!...

The Father. But I tell you no one has come in!

The Grandfather. Is it your sister or a priest?—You should not try to deceive me.—Ursula, who was it that came in?

The Daughter. No one, grandfather.

The Grandfather. You must not try to deceive me; I know what I know.—How many of us are there here?

The Daughter. There are six of us round the table, grandfather.

The Grandfather. You are all round the table?

The Daughter. Yes, grandfather.

The Grandfather. You are there, Paul?

The Father. Yes.

The Grandfather. You are there, Oliver?

The Uncle. Yes, of course I am here, in my usual place. That's not alarming, is it?

The Grandfather. You are there, Geneviève?

One of the Daughters. Yes, grandfather.

The Grandfather. You are there, Gertrude?

Another Daughter. Yes, grandfather.

The Grandfather. You are here, Ursula?

The Eldest Daughter. Yes, grandfather; next to you.

The Grandfather. And who is that sitting there?

The Daughter. Where do you mean, grandfather?—There is no one.

The Grandfather. There, there—in the midst of us!

The Daughter. But there is no one, grandfather!

The Father. We tell you there is no one!

The Grandfather. But you cannot see—any of you!

The Uncle. Pshaw! You are joking.

The Grandfather. I do not feel inclined for joking, I can assure you.

The Uncle. Then believe those who can see.

The Grandfather [undecidedly]. I thought there was some one.... I believe I shall not live long....

The Uncle. Why should we deceive you? What use would there be in that?

The Father. It would be our duty to tell you the truth....

The Uncle. What would be the good of deceiving each other?

The Father. You could not live in error long.

The Grandfather [trying to rise]. I should like to pierce this darkness!...

The Father. Where do you want to go?

The Grandfather. Over there....

The Father. Don't be so anxious.

The Uncle. You are strange this evening.

The Grandfather. It is all of you who seem to me to be strange!

The Father. Do you want anything?

The Grandfather. I do not know what ails me.

The Eldest Daughter. Grandfather! grandfather! What do you want, grandfather?

The Grandfather. Give me your little hands, my children.

The Three Daughters. Yes, grandfather.

The Grandfather. Why are you all three trembling, girls?

The Eldest Daughter. We are scarcely trembling at all, grandfather.

The Grandfather. I fancy you are all three pale.

The Eldest Daughter. It is late, grandfather, and we are tired.

The Father. You must go to bed, and grandfather himself would do well to take a little rest.

The Grandfather. I could not sleep to-night!

The Uncle. We will wait for the doctor.

The Grandfather. Prepare for the truth.

The Uncle. But there is no truth!

The Grandfather. Then I do not know what there is!

The Uncle. I tell you there is nothing at all!

The Grandfather. I wish I could see my poor daughter!

The Father. But you know quite well it is impossible; she must not be awakened unnecessarily.

The Uncle. You will see her to-morrow.

The Grandfather. There is no sound in her room.

The Uncle. I should be uneasy if I heard any sound.

The Grandfather. It is a very long time since I saw my daughter!... I took her hands yesterday evening, but I could not see her!... I do not know what has become of her.... I do not know how she is.... I do not know what her face is like now.... She must have changed these weeks!... I felt the little bones of her cheeks under my hands.... There is nothing but the darkness between her and me, and the rest of you!... I cannot go on living like this ... this is not living.... You sit there, all of you, looking with open eyes at my dead eyes, and not one of you has pity on me!... I do not know what ails me.... No one tells me what ought to be told me.... And everything is terrifying when one's dreams dwell upon it.... But why are you not speaking?

The Uncle. What should we say, since you will not believe us?

The Grandfather. You are afraid of betraying yourselves!

The Father. Come now, be rational!

The Grandfather. You have been hiding something from me for a long time!... Something has happened in the house.... But I am beginning to understand now.... You have been deceiving me too long!—You fancy that I shall never know anything?—There are moments when I am less blind than you, you know!... Do you think I have not heard you whispering—for days and days—as if you were in the house of some one who had been hanged—I dare not say what I know this evening.... But I shall know the truth!... I shall wait for you to tell me the truth; but I have known it for a long time, in spite of you!—And now, I feel that you are all paler than the dead!

The Three Daughters. Grandfather! grandfather! What is the matter, grandfather?

The Grandfather. It is not you that I am speaking of, girls. No; it is not you that I am speaking of.... I know quite well you would tell me the truth—if they were not by!... And besides, I feel sure that they are deceiving you as well.... You will see, children—you will see!... Do not I hear you all sobbing?

The Father. Is my wife really so ill?

The Grandfather. It is no good trying to deceive me any longer; it is too late now, and I know the truth better than you!...

The Uncle. But we are not blind; we are not.

The Father. Would you like to go into your daughter's room? This misunderstanding must be put an end to.—Would you?

The Grandfather [becoming suddenly undecided]. No, no, not now—not yet.

The Uncle. You see, you are not reasonable.

The Grandfather. One never knows how much a man has been unable to express in his life!... Who made that noise?

The Eldest Daughter. It is the lamp flickering, grandfather.

The Grandfather. It seems to me to be very unsteady—very!

The Daughter. It is the cold wind troubling it....

The Uncle. There is no cold wind, the windows are shut.

The Daughter. I think it is going out.

The Father. There is no more oil.

The Daughter. It has gone right out.

The Father. We cannot stay like this in the dark.

The Uncle. Why not?—I am quite accustomed to it.

The Father. There is a light in my wife's room.

The Uncle. We will take it from there presently, when the doctor has been.

The Father. Well, we can see enough here; there is the light from outside.

The Grandfather. Is it light outside?