Part 23

SONG. _I stood beside the lilac bush While all its blossoms rained on me, I watched the white wraith of a moon Turn to pale gold above the sea._

_I held a wand of almond bough And waved it three times circlewise, I whispered words of faery lore With beating heart and close shut eyes._

_I oped them on a forest scene Of summer-land; the open glade Lay shining like a tourmaline Set in a ring of duller jade._

_I saw three queens with shining crowns Go riding by on palfreys gray; I saw three knights that followed close, And dreams were in their eyes that day._

_I saw a minstrel with his harp, His cloak was green and patched and torn; I saw a hunter with his bow, I heard the winding of his horn._

_I saw a bush of lavender With clouds of fluttering butterflies, Then I looked backward to the earth And broke my faery spell with sighs._

DOUCE-COEUR. I cannot bear thy music. In my heart No answering chords respond. The past is dead. I hear the tears of thousands in thy voice. When Sorrow speaks--I hear no tones but hers.

SORROW. No, thou art mine, Princess. I hold thee fast.

POETRY. Douce-coeur, I bid thee raise thy heavy eyes. Dance is the eldest daughter of my heart. Born when the rhythm of the stars was voiced, The past and future meet alike in her. Let her bring back the sunshine to thy face.

DANCE. With flying feet we chased the hours away. I used to make thee clap thy hands in glee And thought to go with thee along the years.

DOUCE-COEUR. My feet are lead, but dance on if thou wilt, What can the future hold for me and thee?

[_As the Dance ends, she cries:_]

Ah, Sorrow, bid them cease and drive them hence. Send Joy and Laughter, Song and Dance away. Call Silence here who is thy foster-child. I am afraid of all this mocking world And fain would live alone, alone with thee.

SORROW. Go forth, go forth into the wilderness. Here is no room for ye. Go forth into the void that lies beyond. Here I in majesty Henceforth shall reign, veiling the sun and stars to all eternity. Go forth. Let wide-eyed Silence take the place ye occupied before Where flowers ye scattered he henceforth shall strew ashes upon the floor. Twilight shall fall upon this Court of Youth now and for evermore.

[_Exeunt SONG, DANCE, JOY, and LAUGHTER._]

POETRY. Douce-coeur, thine eyes are bound. Thou dost but see With vision warped by her who holds thy hand. I, who have watched the web of Life unfold And hold the secrets of a million lives, Can tell thee from the heights whereon I dwell, It is not thus that thou wilt help the world. Thou canst not right the wrong with further wrong. But now thine ears are dulled; thou wilt not hear What I might teach thee.

[_During this speech enter HERALD who speaks to SERVICE. Exit HERALD._]

SERVICE. Three suitors, Fame, Riches, and Power are at the gate, Princess, and claim an audience. They have banished the Gray Woman from the side of others and seek to do this for thee. With them they bring charms that have before broken the spells of Sorrow; these are beyond price but each asks in exchange thy hand in marriage as promised in the proclamation cried by the heralds.

DOUCE-COEUR [_turning to SORROW_]. What must I do?

SORROW. Bid them approach, my child; It may be their rich gifts will pleasure thee.

[_Enter HERALD followed by FAME._]

HERALD. Fame, Lord of the Marches of the East, salutes thee.

[_Exit HERALD._]

FAME. Fame am I called, Princess. I bring thee this Crown of Unfading Leaves for which men pray And toil throughout their lives--unsatisfied. It shall be thine unsought. Grant me thy hand, And thou shalt live in glamour of high destiny. Thy name shall sound in honor through the world; Thy words shall set the hearts of men aflame. Let me but place the wreath about thy head, Thus shalt thou strike this lyre with deathless notes Which shall, vibrating through the fields of space, Ring on, and on, nor ever find a goal.

SORROW. Deaf are the ears on which thy phrases fall. With one so young what are thy spells to mine?

DOUCE-COEUR. I see thy wreath of leaves, entwined with asps Whose forked tongues whisper "jealousy and hate." Thy harp is out of tune with Sorrow's voice.

POETRY. She is too tender for thine upward way. The solitude of those who follow thee Is not for her. Pass on, my lord, pass on.

[_Enter HERALD, followed by RICHES._]

HERALD. Riches, Lord of the Marches of the West, salutes thee.

[_Exit HERALD._]

RICHES. My name is Riches, and I offer thee A store of wealth exhaustless as the sand. This is the symbol of my opulence, A casket in whose depths gold never fails. Grant me thy hand, and thou, Princess, shalt gain All that the world contains of happiness. Thy palace shall be built of precious stones, And thou shalt walk on rose-leaves every day. Sorrow shall be forgotten in my arms, Nothing shall be denied thee wealth can buy. All things--all men yield to the touch of gold.

SORROW. Blind are the eyes on which thy visions rise. My spells have turned thy glories into dust.

DOUCE-COEUR. The gold thou offerest me is stained with blood; Thy precious stones were won with tears and toil; The sum of all thy wealth could not reflower The arid wastes that Sorrow has laid bare.

POETRY. She is too simple for thy promises; To one who knows not Sister Poverty Thy lures, my lord, appear as idle words.

[_Enter HERALD, followed by POWER._]

HERALD. Power, Lord of the Marches North and South, salutes thee.

[_Exit HERALD._]

POWER. My name, Princess, is Power and this my gift. My brothers brought thee fair renown and gold With freedom from the spells that Sorrow weaves. All these I offer thee. If thou accept, Together we will sway men's destinies, Together we may rule their hearts--their souls-- Together turn the very universe. Our throne shall rise a monument of might, Its steps shall mount from the green land of earth, Its canopy shall scrape the stars of Heaven.

SORROW. I have set that about her like a net Thou canst not deal with. Never yet, O Power, Hast thou been known to cut through cords of fear.

DOUCE-COEUR. I would not wield thy scepter for an hour. The burden of its weight would bear me down.

POETRY. She is too young, too gentle for the heights Where thou wouldst raise her. Be content, my lords; What ye have done is well, but One alone Can break the spell, and he is at the gates. Already Hope returns. He comes, he comes.

[_Enter HOPE running._]

HOPE. The stranger comes; he whom I went to seek.

FAME. The Stranger comes whose music fills the world.

RICHES. The Stranger comes, whose treasure gilds the world.

POWER. The Stranger comes, whose scepter rules the world.

POETRY [_to SORROW_]. Now shall thy spell be broken. Dost thou hear The measured footsteps of approaching Fate? The one who comes clad in a Pilgrim's garb Has ever proved thy silent conqueror.

SORROW. I yield to him who is the greatest here, But those who have not met me by the way Can never know him as he may be known. They only who have trod the dark abyss May dare to stand upon the topmost height. For they whose eyes were blindfold for awhile Alone can bear that blaze of brilliant light. Thus have I brought thee more than all thy Court. Learn from his lips to see the world anew. I drew that gray veil all about thy head Thinking perchance to keep thee for my own, But thou wert made for sunlight, not for gloom. Thus do I leave thee. Fare thee well, Princess!

[_Enter LOVE._]

DOUCE-COEUR [_starts up and tries to hold SORROW back_]. Ah, stay with me, thou art my only friend!

[_LOVE and SORROW look at each other, she draws her veil across her face and exit._]

DOUCE-COEUR. Who art thou, Stranger, in a pilgrim's guise Who comest unattended, unannounced?

LOVE. I may not tell thee that. Thou first must learn Out of thine own heart to recall my name.

DOUCE-COEUR. Fame, Power, and Riches brought me costly gifts Which I refused.

LOVE. I come with empty hands.

DOUCE-COEUR. Thy coming caused Queen Sorrow to depart; What right hast thou to drive my friends from me?

LOVE. I came to bring thee swift deliverance, She laid a spell upon thee which in time Had turned thy heart to unresponsive stone.

DOUCE-COEUR. She brought me peace and sure oblivion Of all this dark and weary world around.

LOVE. Art thou so sure, Princess, the world is dark?

DOUCE-COEUR. So sure? Have I not heard the children weep? Is not my heart torn with their piteous cries? We live, and round us lies their sea of tears, A mighty sea that could engulf a realm.

LOVE. I met a Child outside thy Palace once. His dress was ragged, but he smiled at me, And in his hand he held a purple flower. I knew it for the magic flower of Dream. I asked him "Art thou happy?" and he said "I'm mostly hungry; sometimes I am cold; And there are stones and thorns that hurt my feet, But while my Flower lives I am quite content. And I have friends too, in the Palace there; Laughter and Dance they come and play with me." I met that Child to-day, Princess. His face Was white and pinched, and down his baby cheeks The tears were running, "See, my Flower has died, And Dance and Laughter have been sent away. Joy too is gone. Queen Sorrow reigns at Court." Even the children now can play no more. He never knew before the world was dark. Art thou so sure, Princess, the Child was wrong?

DOUCE-COEUR. Have I not heard bereaved mothers weep?

LOVE. There thou dost touch a chord in ignorance. Thou canst not guess the strength of Motherhood, The hopes, the joys, the passionate regrets. She who has borne her child close to her heart Has lit a star in Heaven that lights her way. I kneel by them in their Gethsemane And teach them how to weave immortal wreaths Out of the sweetest flowers of Memory; For them the sun still shines behind the clouds, Art thou so sure the world is wholly dark?

DOUCE-COEUR. There echo in my ears the groans of Toil, Of those who labor on from year to year Until they sink beneath their weary lot.

LOVE. Toil is the destiny of man, Princess, And none may question the Supreme Decree. Perchance through toil alone man may redeem A past that is forgotten. Who can tell? And there is still some aftermath of joy In labor well achieved, some dignity In toil accomplished. If the way is hard And seeming endless, those who seek for me Will often find me singing at their side. Mine is the Brotherhood of Sympathy. But thou hast banished Song, in silence now The toilers have to go upon their way. Art thou so sure, it was all dark before?

DOUCE-COEUR. What light is there for those who strive and fail?

LOVE. One only fails. He whom some term Success, He who gives heart and soul and youth and strength To an unworthy cause. Failure is he Who sacrifices me before the world, Who prostitutes the God in him for what Will turn to dust and ashes in his hand. 'Tis he alone is outcast though he thinks Himself the sun of all the universe. To those, Princess, who striving seem to fail, It is not failure, for none see the end, And they who sigh are only those who seek An earlier consummation than is just; If they cling fast to me they still behold The white star-flowers Hope plants about the world. Who knows to what fair land rough seas may lead?

DOUCE-COEUR. Lo! over all I see the cruel hand Of Death outstretched, certain and pitiless.

LOVE. The hand of Death is full of tenderness. He leads men through that dark mysterious gate-- That all must pass into another life-- To other lives that through the cycles bring The souls of men upward from step to step, Uniting those for ever who are one. Death hushes them like children on his breast. Setting his own smile on their silent lips-- That tender smile of strange triumphant peace. Death is my Brother, and I say to thee, Learn to know me, thou wilt not fear his hand.

DOUCE-COEUR. Another hand is knocking at my heart Whose touch I know not, and I feel afraid-- Afraid to listen. Yet I long to hear. Stranger, who art thou? Let me see thy face.

LOVE. Learn to know me and thou shalt nothing fear.

DOUCE-COEUR. Who art thou? Let me look into thine eyes.

LOVE. Learn to know me and thou wilt find the Light.

DOUCE-COEUR. Pilgrim, who art thou? Let me know thy name.

LOVE. Dost thou not know me, Douce-coeur?

DOUCE-COEUR [_slowly_]. Thou art Love!

LOVE. And dost thou know the meaning of my name? Tell me thou art not fearful any more.

DOUCE-COEUR. The darkness that was bound about mine eyes Is falling from me. In the growing light The answer to Life's riddle is made clear. I seem to stand upon a height, caught up In ecstasy of rapture near the sun. The day is dawning; far before my eyes I see the earth spread out there like a map. Shadow and sunshine traveling on the road O'ertake each other, mingle--and are one.

FAME. O Love, all hail! What is my crown to thine? Thy music is the song of all the stars Which rings through every heart attune to thine.

RICHES. O Love, all hail! What is my wealth to thine? Thy treasures are the moons of happiness, Thy boundless gold the sunshine of the world.

POWER. O Love, all hail! Thine is the greater rule, The force predominating. Thou alone Art the unvanquished King who conquers all.

POETRY. O Love, whose face is sought by all the world, Bid her go forth out of her Palace gates Into her kingdom that lies all around, Teach her what means to use to right the wrong And ease the burden man has laid on man. My voice that once could rouse men's sleeping souls Grows weary, and men often heed me not, Turning deaf ears that will not hear my words; 'Tis thou alone canst wind that mystic horn Which wakes alike the sleeping and the dead.

DOUCE-COEUR. O Love, I pray thee call the children back, I am ashamed to think I drove them forth, I erred in ignorance. Forgive me, lord.

[_Enter JOY, LAUGHTER, SONG and DANCE._]

LOVE. All ye who came to battle Sorrow's spell, Be with her now. And ye who hold in fee Her happy days, go with her through the years. I all unseen will guide her destiny. And when, Princess, I come again to thee, A worshiper will follow in my train. From other lips than mine thou then shalt learn The sweetest and the tenderest tale of all.

MUSIC. Now let us join with Song. In merry mirth Draw to a fitting close our Interlude.

SONG. Sorrow reigned her little day Love has driven her far away Brought the sunshine back to Court Thus we end in merry sport.

[_Exeunt ALL._]

_EPILOGUE_

[_Enter JESTER._]

The Tale is over and their parts are done, And Love again has proved the strongest one. I wonder has it pleased you now to see The oldest tale told thus in phantasy. And let your answer be whate'er it may, Whether your thumbs be up or down to-day Will hurt not me. I did not write the play.

[THE CURTAIN.]

THE INTRUDER

By MAURICE MAETERLINCK

Maurice Polydore Marie Bernard Maeterlinck, to give him his full baptismal name, was born in Ghent on August 29, 1862. He was sent to the Jesuit College de Sainte-Barbe, the institution which another great Belgian, Emile Verhaeren, also attended. In 1885, Maeterlinck entered the University of Ghent to study law, but his practice of this profession was confined to a scant year or two. Maeterlinck's chief interest in his college years seems to have been the modern movement in Belgian literature. But the frequency of his visits to Paris increased in the years between 1886 and 1896, and finally in the latter year he settled there.

The following word picture supplements the photographs of Maeterlinck that are so frequently reproduced in our magazines and newspapers: "Maeterlinck is easily described: a man of about five feet nine in height, inclined to be stout; silver hair lends distinction to the large round head and boyish fresh complexion; blue-gray eyes, now thoughtful, now merry, and an unaffected off-hand manner. The features are not cut, left rather 'in the rough,' as sculptors say, even the heavy jaw and chin are drowned in fat; the forehead bulges and the eyes lose color in the light and seem hard; still, an interesting and attractive personality."

Maeterlinck's fame rests on his poetry and his essays no less than on his plays. _L'Intruse_, _The Intruder_, reprinted here, belongs to the early years of his activity as a playwright. It was printed in 1890 in a Belgian periodical, _La Wallonie_, and was acted for the first time a year later at Paul Fort's Theatre d'Art in Paris, at a performance given for the benefit of the poet, Paul Verlaine, and the painter, Paul Gauguin. Maeterlinck, though publishing volumes of essays from time to time, continues to write for the theatre.[52] In 1908 _The Blue Bird_, dramatizing the quest for Truth, one of the most popular of modern plays, was given for the first time in Moscow, to be followed ten years later by the premiere in New York of a sequel, _The Betrothal_, similarly dramatizing the search for Beauty. In 1910 came his translation of _Macbeth_ into French. A year later he was awarded the Nobel prize for literature.

[Footnote 52: For bibliography, see Jethro Bithell, _Life and Writings of Maurice Maeterlinck_, London and New York, 1913.]

_The Intruder_, the theme of which is the mysterious coming of death, is an illustration of one of Maeterlinck's pet theories in regard to the subject matter of the drama. He expresses it in this way in his famous essay on _The Tragic in Daily Life_: "An old man, seated in his armchair, waiting patiently with his lamp beside him--submitting with bent head to the presence of his soul and his destiny--motionless as he is, does yet live in reality a deeper, more human, more universal life than ... the captain who conquers in battle." To plays based on this theory has been given the name "static drama." _The Intruder_ illustrates also Maeterlinck's use of symbols. The Grandfather in the play is blind, for instance; blind characters in Maeterlinck's plays are symbols of the spiritual blindness of the human race; the gardener sharpening his scythe stands for death; the mysterious quenching of the lamp--it may have gone out because there was no oil in it--signifies the going out of life.

The problem in the staging of this play is the "creation of a mood or atmosphere, rather than the unfolding of an action." One of the settings used in this country is here reproduced. It was designed for the Arts & Crafts Theatre of Detroit. Sheldon Cheney, whose description of Sam Hume's plastic units for the stage of this Little Theatre is given in the Introduction on page xxxi, has described the rearrangement of this equipment and the additions that can be made to it for the production of this play as follows: "For Maeterlinck's _The Intruder_, which demanded a room in an old chateau, one important addition was made, a flat with a door. At the left was the arch, then a pylon and curtain, and then the Gothic window with practicable casements added. The rest of the back wall was made up of the new door-piece flanked by curtains, while the third wall consisted of two pylons and curtains. Stairs and platforms were utilized before the window and under the arch. A small two-stair unit was added, leading to the new door. This arrangement afforded exactly that suggestion of spaciousness and mystery for which the play calls." When the play was given at the Independent Theatre in London in 1895, it was played behind a blue gauze curtain.

On one of Maeterlinck's visits to London, he was taken by Alfred Sutro, the dramatist, to call on Barrie in his flat at the Adelphi. Maeterlinck was asked to write his name on the whitewashed wall of Barrie's studio. He did so and added above the signature: "_Au pere de Peter Pan, et au grandpere de L'Oiseau Bleu._"

THE INTRUDER

CHARACTERS

THE THREE DAUGHTERS. THE GRANDFATHER. THE FATHER. THE UNCLE. THE SERVANT.

_A dimly lighted room in an old country-house. 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 the color green predominates, and a glass door opening on to a terrace. A Dutch clock in one corner. A lamp lighted._

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 on to 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. Still the stars are shining.

THE UNCLE. Ah! 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 past, and she is saved....

THE GRANDFATHER. I fancy she is not going on well....

THE FATHER. Why do you say that?

THE GRANDFATHER. I have heard her speak.

THE FATHER. But 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 look at these things as you others 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 spoil, without any reason, the first comfortable evening that luck has thrown in our way.... It seems to me we have a perfect right to be easy, and even to laugh a little, this evening, without apprehension.

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 understood, too, that you should count on no one outside the family.

THE UNCLE. You are quite right.

THE GRANDFATHER. Why could I not 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 absurd to worry.

THE GRANDFATHER [_pointing to the door on the left_]. She cannot hear us?

THE FATHER. We shall 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. Someone 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.