Chapter 10

The garden of the rich merchant. The high wall runs from the right foreground backward toward the left. Steps lead to a small latticed gate in the wall. To the left a winding path is lost among the trees. It is early morning. The shrubs are laden with blossoms, and the meadows are full of flowers. In the foreground the gardener and his wife are engaged in taking delicate blooming shrubs from an open barrow and setting them in prepared holes.

GARDENER. The rest are coming now. But no, that is A single man ... The master!

WIFE. What? He's up Ere dawn, and yesterday his wedding-day? Alone he walks the garden--that's no man Like other men.

GARDENER. Be still, he's coming hither.

MERCHANT (walks up slowly from the left). The hour of morn, before the sun is up, When all the branches in the lifeless light Hang dead and dull, is terrible. I feel As if I saw the whole world in a frightful And vacant glass, as dreary as my mind's eye. O would all flowers might wither! Would my garden Were poisonous morass, filled to the full With rotted corpses of these blooming trees, And my corpse in their midst.

[He is pulling to pieces a blossoming twig, stops short and drops it.]

Ah, what a fool! A gray-haired fool, as old as melancholy, Ridiculous as old! I'll sit me down And bind up wreaths and weep into the water.

[He walks on a few paces, lifts his hand as if involuntarily to his heart.]

GARDENER. Thy servant Sheriar, lord; third gardener I.

MERCHANT. What? Sheriar, Oh yes. And this thy wife?

GARDENER. Aye, lord.

MERCHANT. But she is younger far than thou, And once thou cam'st to me to make complaint That she and some young lad,--I can't recall ...

GARDENER. It was the donkey-driver.

MERCHANT. So I chased Him from my service, and she ran away.

GARDENER (bowing low). Thou know'st the sacred courses of the stars, Yet thou rememberest the worm as well, That in the dust once crawled beside thy feet. 'Tis so, my lord. But she returned to me, And lives with me thenceforth.

MERCHANT. And lives with thee? The fellow beat her, doubtless! Thou dost not.

[He turns away, his tone becomes bitter.]

Why, let us seat ourselves here in the grass, And each will tell his story to the other. He lives with her thenceforth. Why yes, he has her! Possession is the end of all! And folly It were to scorn the common, when our life Is made up of the common through and through.

[Exit to the right with vigorous strides.]

WIFE (to the gardener). What did he say to thee?

GARDENER. Oh, nothing, nothing.

[SOBEIDE and the camel-driver appear at the latticed gate.]

WIFE. I'll tell thee something. [Draws near him.] Look, look there! The bride! That is our master's bride! And see how pale and overwrought.

GARDENER. Pay heed To thine affairs.

WIFE. Look there, she has no veil, And see who's with her. Look. Why, that is none Of master's servants, is it?

GARDENER. I don't know.

[SOBEIDE puts her arm, through the lattice, seeking the lock.]

WIFE. She wants to enter. Hast thou not the key!

GARDENER (looking up). Aye, that I have, and since she is the mistress, She must be served before she opes her lips.

[He goes to the gate and unlocks it. SOBEIDE enters, the old slave behind her. The gardener locks the gate. SOBEIDE walks forward with absent look, the old slave following. The gardener walks past her, takes off his straw hat, and is about to return to his work. The wife stands a few paces to the rear, parts the bushes curiously.]

SOBEIDE. Pray tell me, is the pond not here at hand, The big one, with the willows on its banks?

GARDENER (pointing to the right). Down there it lies, my mistress, thou canst see it. But shall I guide thee?

SOBEIDE (with a vehement gesture). No, no, leave me, go!

[She is about to go off toward the right; the old slave catches her dress and holds her back. She turns. OLD SLAVE holds out his hand like a beggar, but withdraws it at once in embarrassment.]

SOBEIDE. What?

OLD SLAVE. Thou art at home, I'm going back again.

SOBEIDE. Oh yes, and I have robbed thee of thy sleep, And give thee naught for it. And thou art old And poor. But I have nothing, less than nothing! As poor as I no beggar ever was.

[OLD SLAVE screws up his face to laugh, holds out his hand again.]

SOBEIDE (looks helplessly about her, puts her hand to her hair, feels her pearl pendants, takes them off, and gives them to him).

Take this, and this, and go!

OLD SLAVE (shakes his head). Oh no, not that!

SOBEIDE (in a torment of haste). I give them gladly, only go, I beg of thee!

[Starts away.]

OLD SLAVE (holds them in his hand). No, take them back. Give me some little coin. I'm but a poor old fool. And they would come, Shalnassar and the others, down upon me, And take the pearls away. For I am old And such a beggar. This would be my ruin.

SOBEIDE. I have naught else. But come again tonight And bring them to the master here, my husband. He'll give thee money for them.

OLD SLAVE. Thou'lt be here? Ask but for him; go now and let me go.

[Starts away.]

OLD SLAVE (holds her back). If he is kind, oh do thou pray for me, That he may take me as a servant. He Is rich and has so many. I am eager, Need little sleep. But in Shalnassar's house I always have such hunger in the evening. I will--

SOBEIDE (frees herself). Just come tonight and speak to him, And say I wanted him to hear thy prayer. Now go, I beg thee, for I have no time.

[The old slave goes toward the gate, but stands still in the shrubbery. The gardener's wife has approached SOBEIDE from the left. SOBEIDE takes a few steps, then lets her vacant glance wander about, strikes her brow as if she had forgotten something. She suddenly stands still before the gardener's wife, looks at her absently, then inquires hastily:]

The pond is there, I hear? The pond?

[Points to the left.]

WIFE. No, here.

[Points to the right.]

Here down this winding path. It turns right there. Wouldst overtake my lord? He's walking slowly: When thou art at the crossways, thou wilt see him. Thou canst not miss him.

SOBEIDE (more agitated). I, the master?

WIFE. Why yes, dost thou not seek him?

SOBEIDE. Him?--Yes, yes, Then--I'll--go--there.

[Her glance roves anxiously, suddenly is fixed upon an invisible object at the left rear.]

The tower, is it locked?

WIFE. The tower?

SOBEIDE. Yes, the steps to mount it.

WIFE. No, The tower's never locked, by day or night. Dost thou not know?

SOBEIDE. Oh yes.

WIFE. Wilt thou go up it?

SOBEIDE (smiling painfully). No, no, not now. Perhaps another time.

(Smiling with a friendly gesture.)

Go, then. Go, go.

(Alone.)

The tower, the tower! And quick. He comes from there. Soon 'tis too late.

[She looks searchingly about her, walks slowly at first to the left, then runs through the shrubbery. The old slave, who has watched her attentively, slowly follows her.]

GARDENER (through with his work). Come here and help me, wife.

WIFE. Yes, right away.

[They take up the barrow and carry it along toward the right.]

MERCHANT (enters from the right.) I loved her so! Ah, how this life of ours Resembles dreams illusory. Today I might have had her, here and always, I! Possession is the whole: slow-growing power That sifts down through the soul's unseen and hidden Interstices, feeds thus the wondrous lamp Within the spirit, and soon from such eyes There bursts a mightier, sweeter gleam than moonlight. Oh, I have loved her so! I fain would see her, See her once more. My eye sees naught but death: The flowers wilt before my eyes like candles, When they begin to run: all, all is dying, And all dies to no purpose, for she is Not here--

[The old camel-driver comes running from the left across the stage to the gardener and shows him something that seems to be happening rather high in the air to the left; the gardener calls his wife's attention to it, and all look.]

MERCHANT (becomes aware of this, follows the direction of their glances, grows deathly pale). God, God! Give answer! There, there, there! The woman on the tower, bending forward, Why does she so bend forward? Look, look there! [WIFE shrieks and covers her face.]

GARDENER (runs to the left, looks, calls back). She lives and moves! Come, master, come this way.

[The merchant runs out, the gardener's wife following. Immediately thereafter the merchant, the gardener, and his wife come carrying SOBEIDE, and lay her down in the grass. The gardener takes off his outer garment and lays it under her head. The old camel-driver stands at some distance.]

MERCHANT (kneeling). Thou breathest, thou wilt live for me, thou must! Thou art too fair to die!

SOBEIDE (opens her eyes). Forbear, I'm dying; hush, I know it well. Dear husband, hush, I beg thee. Thee I had Not thought to see again-- I need to crave thy pardon.

MERCHANT. (tenderly). Thou!

SOBEIDE. Not this. This had to be.--No, what took place last night: I did to thee what should become no woman, And all my destiny I grasped and treated As I in dancing used to treat my veils. With fingers vain I tampered with my Self. Speak not, but understand.

MERCHANT. What happened--then?

SOBEIDE. Ask not what happened; ask me not, I beg thee. I had before been weary: 'twas the same Up to the end. But now 'tis easy. Thou Art good, I'll tell thee something else: my parents-- Thou knowest how they are--I bid thee take them To live with thee.

MERCHANT. Yes, yes, but thou wilt live.

SOBEIDE. No, say not so; but mark, I fain would tell thee A many things. Oh yes, that graybeard man. He's very poor, take him into thy house At my request.

MERCHANT. Now thou shalt bide with me. I will thy every wish divine: breathe softly As e'er thou wilt, yet I will be the lyre To answer every breath with harmony, Until thou weary and bid it be still.

SOBEIDE. Say not such words, for I am dizzy and They flicker in my eyes. Lament not much, I beg of thee. If I remained alive, All mangled as I am, I never could Bring children into life for thee; my body Would be so ugly, whereas formerly I know I had some beauty. This would be So hard for thee to bear and hide from me. But I shall die at once, I know, my dear. This is so strange: our spirits dwell in us Like captive birds. And when the cage is shattered, It flies away. No, no, thou must not smile: I feel it is so. Look, the flowers know it, And shine the brighter since I know it too. Canst thou not understand? Mark well my words.

[Pause.]

Art thou still there, and I too, all this while? Oh, now I see thy face, and it is other Than e'er I saw till now. Art thou my husband?

MERCHANT. My child!

SOBEIDE. Thy spirit seems to bend and lean Out of thine eyes, and oh, the words thou speakest! They quiver in the air, because the heart So quivers, whence they come. Weep not, I can Not bear it, for I love thee so. O let Me see as last of all thine eyes. We should Have lived together long and had our children. But now 'tis fearful--for my parents.

[Dies.]

MERCHANT (half bowed). Thus noiseless falls a star. Meseems, her heart Was never close united with the world. And what have I of her, except this glance, Whose closing was involved in rigid Lethe, And in such words as by false breath of life Were made to sound so strong, e'en while they faded, Just as the wind, ere he lies down to sleep, Deceitful swells the sails as ne'er before.

[He rises.]

Aye, lift her up. So bitter is this life: A wish was granted her, and that one door At which she lay with longing and desire Was oped--and back she came in such distress, Death-stricken, that but issued forth the evening prior-- As fishers, cheeks with sun and moon afire, Prepare their nets--in hopes of great success.

[They lift up the body to carry it in.]

ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

* * * * * *

THE GREEN COCKATOO

A Grotesque in One Act

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

EMILE, Duc de Cadignan

FRANCOIS, Vicomte de Nogeant

ALBIN, Chevalier de la Tremouille

MARQUIS DE LANSAC

SEVERINE, his wife

ROLLIN, Poet

PROSPER (formerly Theatre Manager), HOST

HENRI | | BALTHASAR | | GUILLAUME | | SCAEVOLA | | JULES | \ ETIENNE > His troupe / MAURICE | | GEORGETTE | | MICHETTE | | FLIPOTTE |

LEOCADIE, Actress, wife of Henri

GRASSET, Philosopher

LEBRET, Tailor

GRAIN, a vagabond

THE COMMISSAIRE OF POLICE

Nobles, Actors, Actresses, Citizens, and Citizens? Wives

The Action takes place in Paris in the evening of the 14th July, 1789, in the underground tavern of PROSPER.

THE GREEN COCKATOO (1899)

TRANSLATED BY HORACE SAMUEL

SCENE.--THE TAVERN OF THE GREEN COCKATOO

A medium-sized underground room. Seven steps lead down to it on the Right (rather far back). The stairs are shut off by a door on top. A second door which is barely visible is in the background on the Left. A number of simple wooden tables with chairs around them fill nearly the whole room. On the Left in the Centre is a bar; behind the bar a number of barrels with pipes. The room is lighted by small oil lamps which hang from the ceiling.

The HOST, PROSPER. Enter the citizens LEBRET and GRASSET.

GRASSET (coming down the steps). Come in, Lebret. I know the tap. My old friend and chief has always got a cask of wine smuggled away somewhere or other, even when all the rest of Paris is perishing of thirst.

HOST. Good evening, Grasset. So you show your face again, do you? Away with Philosophy! Have you a wish to take an engagement with me again?

GRASSET. The idea! Bring some wine rather. I am the guest--you the host.

HOST. Wine? Where shall I get wine from, Grasset? They've sacked all the wine-shops in Paris this very night. And I would lieve wager that you had a hand therein.

GRASSET. Out with the wine. The mob who are coming an hour after us are bound-- (Listening.) Do you hear anything, Labret?

LEBRET. It is like slight thunder.

GRASSET. Good!--Citizens of Paris-- (To HOST.) You're sure to have another barrel in reserve for the mob--so out with our wine; my friend and admirer, the Citizen Labret, tailor of the Rue St. Honore, will pay for everything.

LEBRET Certainly, certainly, I will pay.

[HOST hesitates.]

GRASSET. Show him that you have money, Labret.

[LEBRET draws out his purse.]

HOST. Now I will see if I-- (He opens the cock of a barrel and fills two glasses.) Where do yon come from, Grasset? The Palais-Royal?

GRASSET. For sure--I made a speech there. Ay, my good friend, it is my turn now. Do you know whom I spoke after?

HOST. Well?

GRASSET. After Camille Desmoulins. Yes, indeed, I dared to do it. And tell me, Labret, who had the greater applause--Desmoulins or I?

LEBRET. You--without a doubt.

GRASSET. And how did I bear myself?

LEBRET. Splendidly.

GRASSET. Do you hear, Prosper? I placed myself on the table--I looked like a monument--indeed I did--and all the thousands--five thousands, ten thousands, assembled round me--just as they had done before round Camille Desmoulins--and cheered me.

LEBRET. It was a louder cheer,

GRASSET. Indeed it was ... not much louder, but it was louder. And now they're all moving toward the Bastille ... and I make bold to say they have followed my call. I swear to you before the evening is out we shall have it.

HOST. Yes, to be sure, if the walls fall down before your speeches!

GRASSET. What--speeches--are you deaf? 'Tis a case of shooting now. Our valiant soldiers are there. They have the same hellish fury against the accursed prison as we have. They know that their brothers and fathers sit imprisoned behind those walls.... But there would have been no shooting if we had not spoken. My dear Prosper, great is the power of intellect. There--(to LEBRET) where are the papers?

LEBRET. Here! (Pulls pamphlets out of his pocket.)

GRASSET. Here are the latest pamphlets which have just been distributed in the Palais-Royal. Here is one by my friend Cerutti--"Memorial for the French People;" here is one by Desmoulins, who certainly speaks better than he writes--"Free France."

HOST. When's your own pamphlet going to appear--the one you're always talking about, you know?

GRASSET. We need no more. The time has come for deeds. Anyone who sits within his four walls today is a knave. Every real man must go out into the streets.

LEBRET. Bravo!--Bravo!

GRASSET. In Toulon they have killed the mayor; in Brignolles they have sacked a dozen houses; but we in Paris are always sluggards and will put up with anything.

HOST. You can scarcely say that now.

LEBRET. (who has been drinking steadily). Up, you citizens, up!

GRASSET. Up! Lock up your shop and come with us now.

HOST. I'll come right enough, when the time comes.

GRASSET. Ay, to be sure, when there is no more danger.

HOST. My good friend, I love Liberty as well as you do, but my calling comes before everything.

GRASSET. There is only one calling now for citizens of Paris--freeing their brothers.

HOST. Yes, for those who have nothing else to do!

LEBRET. What says he? He makes game of us.

HOST. Never dreamt of it. But now, my friends, look to it that you go away--my performance will begin in a minute, and I can't find you a job in it.

LEBRET. What performance? Is this a theatre?

HOST. Certainly, 'tis a theatre. Why, only a fortnight ago your friend was playing here.

LEBRET. Were you playing here, Grasset?... Why do you let the fellow jeer at you like that without punishing him?

GRASSET. Calm yourself--it is true; I did play here. This is no ordinary tavern: 'tis a den of thieves. Come.

HOST. You'll pay first.

LEBRET. If this is a den of thieves I won't pay a single sou.

HOST. Explain to your friend where he is.

GRASSET. This is a strange place. People who play criminals come here--and others who are criminals without suspecting it.

LEBRET. Indeed?

GRASSET. I would have you mark that what I just said was very witty; it is positively capable of making the substance of a whole speech.

LEBRET. I don't understand a word of all you say.

GRASSET. I was simply telling you that Prosper was my manager. And he is still playing comedy with his actors, but a different kind from before. My former gentlemen and lady colleagues sit around and behave as though they were criminals. Do you understand! They tell blood-curdling stories of things that have never happened to them--speak of crimes they have never committed ... and the audience that comes here enjoys the pleasant titillation of hobnobbing with the most dangerous rabble in Paris--swindlers, burglars, murderers--and--

LEBRET. What kind of an audience?

HOST. The most elegant people in Paris.

GRASSET. Noble--

HOST. Gentlemen of the Court.

LEBRET. Down with them!

GRASSET. It does 'em good. It gives a fillip to their jaded senses. 'Twas here that I made my start, Labret--here that I delivered my first speech as though for a joke; here it was that I first began to hate the dogs who sat amongst us with all their fine clothes and perfumes and rottenness ... and I am very glad indeed, my good Labret, that you, too, should see just for once the place from which your great friend raised himself. (In another tone.) I say, Prosper, supposing the business doesn't come off--

HOST. What business?

GRASSET. Why, my political career--will you engage me again?

HOST. Not for anything!

GRASSET (lightly). Why--I thought there might be still room for somebody besides your Henri.

HOST. Apart from that ... I should be afraid that you might forget yourself one fine day and fall foul in earnest of one of my paying customers.

GRASSET (flattered). That would certainly be possible--

HOST. I--I have control over myself--

GRASSET. Frankly, Prosper, I must say that I would admire you for your self-control, if I happened not to know that you are a poltroon.

HOST. Ah! my friend, I am satisfied with what I can do in my own line. I get enough pleasure out of being able to tell the fellows my opinion of them to their faces and to insult them to my heart's content--while they take it for a joke. That, too, is a way of venting one's wrath. (Draws a dagger and makes it flash.)

LEBRET. Citizen Prosper, what is the meaning of this?

GRASSET. Have no fear. I wager that the dagger is not even sharpened.

HOST. In that, my friend, you may be making a mistake. One fine day the jest may turn to earnest--and so I am ready for all emergencies.

GRASSET. The day is nigh. We live in great times. Come, Citizen Labret, we will go to our comrades. Farewell, Prosper; you will see me either a great man or never again.

Labret (giddily). As a great man--or--not at all.

[Exeunt. HOST remains behind, sits on a table, opens a pamphlet, and reads aloud.]

HOST. "Now that the beast is in the noose, throttle it." He doesn't write badly, that little Desmoulins. "Never was richer booty offered to the victors. Forty thousand palaces and castles, two-fifths of all the property in France, will be the reward of valor. Those who plume themselves on being conquerors will be put beneath the yoke, the nation will be purged."

Enter the COMMISSAIRE.

HOST (sizing him up). Hallo--the rabble's beginning to come in pretty early tonight.

COMMISSAIRE. My dear Prosper, don't start any of your jokes on me; I am the Commissaire of your district.

HOST. And how can I be of any service?

COMMISSAIRE. I have orders to attend the performance in your tavern this evening.

HOST. It will be an especial honor for me.

COMMISSAIRE. 'Tis nothing of that, my excellent Prosper. The authorities wish to have definite information as to what really goes on in your place. For some weeks--

HOST. This is a place of amusement, M. le Commissaire--nothing more.

COMMISSAIRE. Let me finish what I was saying. For some weeks past this place is said to have been the theatre of wild orgies.

HOST. You are falsely informed, M. le Commissaire. We make jokes here, nothing more.

COMMISSAIRE. It begins with that, I know. But it finishes up in another way, so I am informed. You have been an actor.

HOST. A manager, sir--manager of a first-class troupe who last played in Denis.

COMMISSAIRE. That is immaterial. Then you came into a small legacy.

HOST. Not worth speaking about, M. le Commissaire.

COMMISSAIRE. Your troupe split up.

HOST. And my legacy as well.

COMMISSAIRE (smiling). Very well! (Both smile. Suddenly serious.) You started a tavern.

HOST. That fared wretchedly.

COMMISSAIRE. After which you had an idea that, which, as one must admit, possesses a certain quantum of originality.

HOST. You make me quite proud, sir.

COMMISSAIRE. You gathered your troupe together again, and have a comedy played here which is of a peculiar and by no means harmless character.

HOST. If it were harmful, M. le Commissaire, I should not have my audience--the most aristocratic audience in Paris, I'm in a position to say. The Vicomte de Nogeant is my daily customer. The Marquis de Lansac often comes, and the Duc de Cadignan, M. le Commissaire, is the most enthusiastic admirer of my leading actor, the celebrated Henri Baston.

COMMISSAIRE. As well as of the art or arts of your actresses.

HOST. When you get to know my little actresses, M. le Commissaire, you won't blame anybody in the whole world for that.

COMMISSAIRE. Enough. The authorities have been informed that the entertainments which your--what shall I say--?

HOST. The word "artists" ought to suffice.

COMMISSAIRE. I will decide on the word "subjects"--that the entertainments which your subjects provide transgress in every sense the limits the laws allow. Speeches are said to be delivered by your--what shall I say?--by your artist-criminals which--what does my information say?--(he reads from a notebook, as he had been doing previously) which are calculated to produce not only an immoral effect, which would bother us but little, but a highly seditious effect--a matter to which the authorities absolutely cannot be indifferent, at a time so agitated as the one in which we live.

HOST. M. le Commissaire, I can only answer that accusation by politely inviting you to see the thing just once for yourself. You will observe that nothing of a seditious nature takes place here, if only because my audience will not permit itself to be made seditious. There is simply a theatrical performance here, that is all.

COMMISSAIRE. I naturally cannot accept your invitation, but I will stay here by virtue of my office.

HOST. I think I can promise you a first-class entertainment, M. le Commissaire; but I will take the liberty of advising you to doff your official garb and to appear here in civilian clothes. If people actually saw a Commissaire in uniform here, both the spontaneity of my artists and the mood of my audience would suffer thereby.

COMMISSAIRE. You are right, M. Prosper; I will go away and come back as an elegant young man.

HOST. You will have no difficulty about that, M. le Commissaire. You would be welcomed here even as a vagabond--that would not excite attention--but not as a Commissaire.

COMMISSAIRE. Good-by. (Starts to go.)

HOST (bowing). When will the blessed day come when I can treat you and your damned likes--?

[The COMMISSAIRE meets GRAIN in the doorway. GRAIN is in absolute rags and gives a start when he sees the COMMISSAIRE. The latter looks at him first, smiles, and then turns courteously to HOST.]

COMMISSAIRE. One of your artists already? [Exit.]

GRAIN (whining pathetically). Good evening.

HOST (after looking at him for a long time). If you're one of my troupe, I won't grudge you my recognition ... of your art, because I don't recognize you.

GRAIN. What do you mean?

HOST. No jests now; take off your wig; I'd rather like to know who you are. (He pulls at his hair.)

GRAIN. Oh, dear!

HOST. But 'tis genuine! Heavens--who are you? You appear to be a real ragamuffin.

GRAIN. I am!

HOST. What do you want of me?

GRAIN. Have I the honor of speaking to Citizen Prosper?--the host of The Green Cockatoo?

HOST. I am he.

GRAIN. My name is Grain, sometimes Carniche--very often Shrieking Pumice-stone; but I was sent to prison, Citizen Prosper, under the name of Grain, and that is the real point.

HOST. Ah, I understand. You want to play in my establishment and start off with playing me. Good. Go on.

GRAIN. Citizen Prosper, don't look upon me as a swindler. I am a man of honor. If I tell you that I was imprisoned, 'tis the complete truth.

[HOST looks at him suspiciously.]

GRAIN (pulling a paper out of his pocket). Here, Citizen Prosper, you can see from this that I was let out yesterday afternoon at four o'clock.

HOST. After two years' imprisonment! Zounds, 'tis genuine!

GRAIN. Were you all the time doubting it, then. Citizen Prosper?

HOST. What did you do to get two years?

GRAIN. I would have been hanged; but I was lucky enough to be still half a child when I killed my poor aunt.

HOST. Nay, fellow, how can a man kill his own aunt?

GRAIN. Citizen Prosper, I would never have done it if my aunt had not deceived me with my best friend.

HOST. Your aunt?

GRAIN. That's it--she was dearer to me than aunts usually are to their nephews. The family relations were peculiar--it made me embittered, most embittered. May I tell you about it?

HOST. Go on telling--perhaps you and I will be able to do business together.

GRAIN. My sister was but half a child when she ran away from home--and whom do you think she went with?

HOST. 'Tis difficult to guess.

GRAIN. With her uncle. And he left her in the lurch--with a child--

HOST. A whole one, I hope.

GRAIN. 'Tis indelicate of you, Citizen Prosper, to jest about such things.

HOST. I'll tell you what, Shrieking Pumice-stone, you--your family history bores me. Do you think I'm here to listen to every Tom, Dick, or Harry o' a ragamuffin telling me whom he has killed? What's all that go to do with me? I take it you wish something of me.

GRAIN. Ay, truly. Citizen Prosper; I've come to ask you for work.

HOST (sarcastically). I would have you mark that there are no aunts to murder in my place--this is a house of entertainment.

GRAIN. Oh, I found the once quite enough. I want to become a respectable member of society--I was recommended to come to you.

HOST. By whom, if I may ask?

GRAIN. A charming young man whom they put in my cell three days ago. Now he's alone. His name's Gaston!... and you know him.

HOST. Gaston! Now I know why I've missed him for three evenings. One of my best interpreters of pickpockets. He told yarns--ah! it made 'em split their sides.

GRAIN. Quite so. And now they've nabbed him.

HOST. Nabbed--what do you mean? He didn't really steal I suppose.

GRAIN. Yes, he did. But it must have been the first time, for he seems to have gone about it with incredible clumsiness. Just think of it--(confidentially)--just made a grab at the pocket of a lady in the Boulevard des Capucines, and pulled out her purse--an absolute amateur. You inspire me with confidence, Citizen Prosper, and so I'll make a confession to you. There was a time when I, too, transacted little bits of business of that sort, but never without my dear father. When I was still a child, when we all lived together, when my poor aunt was still alive--

HOST. What are you moaning for! I think 'tis in bad taste. You ought not to have killed her.

GRAIN. Too late. But the point I was coming to is--take me on here. I will do just the opposite of Gaston. He played the thief and became one--

HOST. I will give you a trial. You will produce a fine effect with your make-up. And at a given moment you'll just describe the aunt matter--how it all happened--someone or other will be sure to ask you.

GRAIN. I thank you, Citizen Prosper. And with regard to my wages--

HOST. Tonight you will play on trial, and I am, therefore, not yet in a position to pay you wages. But you will get good stuff to eat and drink; and I shall not mind a franc or so for a night's lodging.

GRAIN. I thank you. And just introduce me to your other colleagues as a visitor from the provinces.

HOST. Oh, no. We will tell them right away that you are a real murderer. They will much prefer that.

GRAIN. Pardon me. I don't wish to do anything against my interests, but I don't see why--

HOST. When you have been on the boards a bit longer, you will understand.

Enter SCAEVOLA and JULES.

SCAEVOLA. Good evening, Chief.

HOST. How many times have I got to tell you that the whole joke falls flat if you call me Chief?

SCAEVOLA. Well, whatever you are, I don't think we shall play tonight.

HOST. And why?

SCAEVOLA. The people won't be in the mood. There's a hellish uproar in the streets, and in front of the Bastille especially they are yelling like men possessed.

HOST. What matters that to us? The shouting has been going on for months, and our audience hasn't stayed away from us. It goes on diverting itself just as it did before.

SCAEVOLA. Ay, it has the gaiety of people who are shortly going to be hanged.

HOST. If only I live to see it!

SCAEVOLA. In the meanwhile, give us something to drink to get me into the vein. I don't feel at all in the vein tonight.

HOST. That's often the case with you, my friend. I must tell you that I was most dissatisfied with you last night.

SCAEVOLA. Why so, if I may ask?

HOST. The story about the burglary was simply babyish.

SCAEVOLA. Babyish?

HOST. To be sure. Absolutely incredible. Mere roaring is of no avail.

SCAEVOLA. I didn't roar.

HOST. You are always roaring. It will really be necessary for me to rehearse things with you. One can never rely on your inspirations. Henri is the only one.

SCAEVOLA. Henri--never anything but Henri! Henri simply plays to the gallery. My burglary of last night was a masterpiece. Henri will never do anything as good as that as long as he lives. If I don't satisfy you, my friend, then I'll just go to a proper theatre. Anyhow, yours is nothing but a cheap-jack establishment. Hallo! (Notices GRAIN.) Who is this! He isn't one of our lot, is he? Perhaps you've just engaged someone? But what a make-up the fellow has!

HOST. Calm yourself. 'Tis not a professional actor. 'Tis a real murderer.

SCAEVOLA. Oh, indeed. (Goes up to him.) Very glad to know you. My name is Scaevola.

GRAIN. My name is Grain.

[JULES has been walking around in the room the whole time, frequently standing still, like a man tortured inwardly.]

HOST. What ails you, Jules?

JULES. I am learning my part.

HOST. What?

JULES. Remorse. Tonight I am playing a man who is a prey to remorse. Look at me. What do you think of the furrow in the forehead here? Do I not look as though all the furies of hell--(Walks up and down.)

SCAEVOLA (roars). Wine--wine, here!

HOST. Calm yourself.... There is no audience yet.

Enter HENRI and LEOCADIE.

HENRI. Good evening. (He greets those sitting at the back with a light wave of his hand.) Good evening, gentlemen.

HOST. Good evening, Henri. What do I see?--you and Leocadie together?

GRAIN (who has noticed LEOCADIE, to SCAEVOLA). Why, I know her. (Speaks softly with the others.)

LEOCADIE. Yes, my dear Prosper, it is I.

HOST. I have not seen you for a year on end. Let me greet you. (He tries to kiss her.)

HENRI. Stop that. (His eyes often rest on LEOCADIE with pride and passion, but also a certain anxiety.)

HOST. But, Henri--as between old comrades--your old chief Leocadie!

LEOCADIE. Oh, the good old times. Prosper!

HOST. What are you sighing about? When a wench has made her way in the way you have! No doubt about it, a pretty young woman has always a much easier time of it than we have.

HENRI (wild with rage). Stop it.

HOST. Why the deuce do you keep on shouting at me like that? Because you've picked up with her once more?

HENRI. Hold your tongue--she became my wife yesterday.

HOST. Your ...? (To LEOCADIE.) Is he joking?

LEOCADIE. He has really married me. Yes.

HOST. Then I congratulate you.... I say, Scaevola, Jules, Henri is married.

SCAEVOLA (comes to the front). I wish you joy (winks at LEOCADIE).

[JULES shakes hands with them both.]

GRAIN (to HOST). Ah! How strange! I saw that woman--a few minutes after I was let out.

HOST. What do you mean?

GRAIN. She was the first pretty woman I'd seen for two years. I was very moved. But it was another gentleman with whom-- (Goes on speaking to HOST.)

HENRI (in an exalted tone as though inspired, but not theatrically). Leocadie, my love, my wife ... all the past is over now. A great deal is blotted out on an occasion like this.

[SCAEVOLA and JULES have gone to the back. HOST comes forward again.]

HOST. What sort of occasion?

HENRI. We are united now by a holy sacrament. That means more than any human oath. God is now watching over us, and one ought to forget everything which has happened before. Leocadie, a new age is dawning. Everything becomes holy now, Leocadie. Our kisses, however wild they may be, are holy from henceforth. Leocadie, my love, my wife! (He contemplates her with an ardent glance.) Isn't her expression quite different. Prosper, from what you ever knew her to have before? Is not her forehead pure! What has been is blotted out--not so, Leocadie?

LEOCADIE. Surely, Henri.

HENRI. And all is well. We leave Paris tomorrow. Leocadie makes her last appearance tonight at the Porte St. Martin, and I am placing here tonight for the last time.

HOST. Are you mad, Henri? Do you want to desert me? Besides, the manager of the Porte St. Martin will never think of letting Leocadie go away. Why, she makes the fortune of his house. The young gentlemen stream thither, so they say.

HENRI. Hold your peace. Leocadie will go with me. She will never desert me. Tell me that you will never desert me, Leocadie. (Brutally.) Tell me.

LEOCADIE. I will never desert you.

HENRI. If you did, I would ... (pause). I am sick of this life. I want quiet--I wish to have quiet.

HOST. But what do you want to do then, Henri? It is quite ridiculous. I will make you a proposition. So far as I am concerned, take Leocadie from the Porte St. Martin, but let her stay here with me. I will engage her. Anyway, I have rather a dearth of talented women characters.

HENRI. My mind is made up. Prosper. We are leaving town. We are going into the country.

HOST. Into the country? But where?

HENRI. To my old father, who lives alone in our poor village--I haven't seen him for seven years. He has almost given up hope of ever seeing his lost son again. He will welcome me with joy.

PROSPER. What will you do in the country? In the country they all starve. People are a thousand times worse off there than in town. What on earth will you do there? You are not the man to till the fields. Don't imagine you are.

HENRI. Time will prove that I am the man to do even that.

HOST. Soon there won't be any corn growing in any part of France. You are going to certain misery.

HENRI. To happiness. Prosper. Not so, Leocadie? We have often dreamt of it. I yearn for the peace of the wide plains. Yes, Prosper, I have seen myself in my dreams going over the fields with her, in an infinite stillness with the wonderful placid heavens over us. Ay, we will flee from this awful and dangerous town; the great peace will come over us. Is it not true, Leocadie, that we have often had such dreams?

LEOCADIE. Yes, we have often had such dreams.

HOST. Look here, Henri, you should consider it. I will gladly raise your wages and I will give Leocadie quite as much as you.

LEOCADIE. Hear you that, Henri?

HOST. I really don't know who's to take your place here. Not a single one of my people has such precious inspirations as you have, not one of them is so popular with my audience as you ... don't go away.

HENRI. I can quite believe that no one will take my place.

HOST. Stay by me, Henri. (Throws LEOCADIE a look; she intimates that she will arrange matters.)

HENRI. And I can promise you that they will take my departure to heart--they, not I. For tonight--for my final appearance I have reserved something that will make them all shudder ... a foreboding of the end of this world will come over them ... for the end of their world is nigh. But I shall only experience it from a safe distance ... they will tell us about it out there, Leocadie, many days after it has happened.... But I tell you, they will shudder. And you yourself will say, "Henri has never played so well."

HOST. What are you going to play? What? Do you know what, Leocadie?

LEOCADIE. I never know anything.

HENRI. But has anyone any idea of what an artist lies hidden within me?

HOST. They certainly have an idea, and that's why I tell you that a man with a talent such as yours doesn't go and bury himself in the country. What an injustice to yourself! and to Art!

HENRI. I don't care a straw about Art. I wish for quiet. You don't understand that, Prosper; you have never loved--

HOST. Oh!

HENRI. As I love. I want to be alone with her--that's the only way ... that's the only way, Leocadie, of forgetting everything. But then we shall be happier than human beings have ever been before. We shall have children; you will be a good mother, Leocadie, and a true wife. All the past, all the past will be blotted out. (Great pause.)

LEOCADIE. 'Tis getting late, Henri. I must go to the theatre. Farewell, Prosper; I am glad at last to have seen your famous den, the place where Henri scores such triumphs.

HOST. But why did you never come?

LEOCADIE. Henri would not let me--because I should have to sit next to the young men, you know.

HENRI (has gone to the back). Give me a drink, Scaevola. (He drinks.)

HOST (to LEOCADIE, when HENRI is out of hearing). Henri is an arrant fool--if you had only sat next to them!

LEOCADIE. Now then! no remarks of that sort.

HOST. Take my tip and be careful, you silly gutter-brat. He will kill you one of these days.

LEOCADIE. What's up, then?

HOST. You were seen only yesterday with one of your fellows.

LEOCADIE. That was not a fellow, you blockhead; that was--

HENRI (turns round quickly). What's the matter with you? No jokes, if you don't mind. No more whispering. No more secrets now. She is my wife.

HOST. What did you give her for a wedding present?

LEOCADIE. Heavens! he never thinks about such things.

HENRI. Well, you shall have one this very night.

LEOCADIE. What?

SCAEVOLA and JULES. What are you going to give her?

HENRI (quite seriously). When you have finished your scene, you must come here and see me act. (They laugh.)

HENRI. No woman ever had a more glorious wedding present. Come, Leocadie. Good-by for the present, Prosper. I shall soon be back again.

[Exeunt HENRI and LEOCADIE.]

Enter together FRANCOIS, Vicomte de Nogeant, and ALBIN, Chevalier de la Tremouille.

SCAEVOLA. What a contemptible braggart!

HOST. Good evening, you swine. [ALBIN starts back.]

FRANCOIS (without taking any notice). Was not that the little Leocadie of the Porte St. Martin, who went away with Henri?

HOST. Of course it was.--If she really took great trouble she could eventually make you remember that even you are something of a man, eh?

FRANCOIS (laughing). That is not impossible. It seems we are rather early tonight.

HOST. In the meanwhile you can amuse yourself with your minion.

[ALBIN is on the point of flying into a passion.]

FRANCOIS. Let it pass. I told you what went on here. Bring us wine.

HOST. Ay, that I will. The time will soon come when you will be very satisfied with Seine water.

FRANCOIS. Quite so, quite so ... but tonight I would fain ask for wine, and the best wine into the bargain.

[HOST goes to the bar.]

ALBIN. That is really a dreadful fellow.

FRANCOIS. But just think, it's all a joke. And, withal, there are places where you can hear similar things in real earnest.

ALBIN. Is it not forbidden?

FRANCOIS (laughs). One sees that you come from the provinces.

ALBIN. Ah! we, too, are having a bad time of it nowadays. The peasants are getting so insolent ... one doesn't know what to do any more....

FRANCOIS. What would you have? The poor devils are hungry--that is the secret.

ALBIN. How can I help it? How can my great-uncle help it?

FRANCOIS. Why do you mention your great-uncle?

ALBIN. Well, I do so because they actually held a meeting in our village--quite openly--and at the meeting they actually called my great-uncle, the Comte de Tremouille, a corn-usurer.

FRANCOIS. Is that all?

ALBIN. Nay, is that not enough!

FRANCOIS. We will go to the Palais-Royal tomorrow, and there you will have a chance of hearing the monstrous speeches the fellows make. But we let them speak--it is the best thing to do. They are good people at bottom; one must let them bawl themselves out in that way.

ALBIN (pointing to SCAEVOLA, etc.). What suspicious characters those are! Just see how they look at one. (He feels for his sword.)

FRANCOIS (draws his hand away). Don't be ridiculous. (To the three others.) You need not begin yet; wait till there is more audience. (To ALBIN.) They're the most respectable people in the world, actors are. I will warrant you have already sat at table with worse knaves.

ALBIN. But they were better attired. [HOST brings wine.]

Enter MICHETTE and FLIPOTTE.

FRANCOIS. God be with you, children! Come and sit down by us.

MICHETTE. Here we are. Come along, Flipotte. She is still somewhat shy.

FLIPOTTE. Good evening, young gentleman.

ALBIN. Good evening, ladies.

MICHETTE. The little one is a dear. (She sits on ALBIN'S lap.)

ALBIN. But, Francois, please explain, are these respectable ladies?

MICHETTE. What does he say?

FRANCOIS. No, that's not quite the word for the ladies who come here. Odds life, you are silly, Albin!

HOST. What shall I bring for their Graces?

MICHETTE. Bring me a very sweet wine.

FRANCOIS (pointing to FLIPOTTE). A friend of yours?

MICHETTE. We live together. Yes, we have only one bed between us.

FLIPOTTE (blushing). Would you find it a very great nuisance should you come and see her! (Sits on FRANCOIS'S lap.)

ALBIN. She is not at all shy.

SCAEVOLA (stands up; gloomily turning to the table where the young people are). At last I've found you. (To ALBIN.) And you, you miserable seducer, aren't you ashamed that you ... She is mine.

[HOST looks on.]

FRANCOIS (to ALBIN). a joke--a joke....

ALBIN. She isn't his--

MICHETTE. Go away. You let me sit where I want to.

[SCAEVOLA stands there with clenched fists.]

HOST (behind). Now, now?

SCAEVOLA. Ha, ha!

HOST (takes him by the collar). Ha, ha! (By his side.) You have not a farthing's worth of talent. Roaring, that's the only thing you can do.

MICHETTE (to FRANCOIS). Recently he did it much better.

SCAEVOLA (to HOST). I'm not in the vein. I'll make a better show later on, when more people are here; you see. Prosper, I need an audience.

Enter the DUC DE CADIGNAN.

DUKE. Already in full swing!

[MICHETTE and FLIPOTTE go up to him.]

MICHETTE. My sweet Duke.

FRANCOIS. Good evening, EMILE ... (introducing) My young friend, Albin, Chevalier de Tremouille--the Duc de Cadignan.

DUKE. I am delighted to make your acquaintance. (To the girls, who are hanging on to him.) Leave me alone, children! (To ALBIN.) So you, too, are having a look at this droll tavern?

ALBIN. It bewilders me in the extreme.

FRANCOIS. The Chevalier has only been in Paris a few days.

DUKE (laughing). Then you have certainly chosen a nice time.

ALBIN. How so?

MICHETTE. He still has that delicious perfume! There isn't another man in Paris who has such a pleasant smell. (To ALBIN.) ... You can't perceive it like that.

DUKE. She speaks of the seven or eight hundred whom she knows as well as me.

FLIPOTTE. Will you let me play with your sword, dear?

[She draws his sword out of its sheath and flashes it about.]

GRAIN (to Host). He's the man--'twas him I saw her with--

[HOST lets him go on, seems astonished.]

DUKE. Henri is not here yet, then? (To ALBIN.) If you see him, you will not regret having come here.

HOST (to DUKE). Oh, so you're here again, are you? I am glad. We shall not have the pleasure much longer.

DUKE. Why? I find it very nice at your place.

HOST. I believe that. But since in any case you will be one of the first ...

ALBIN. What does that mean!

HOST. You understand me well enough. The favorites of fortune will be the first! (Goes to the back.)

DUKE (after reflection). If I were king, I would make him my Court Fool; I mean to say, I should have many Court Fools, but he would be one of them.

ALBIN. What did he mean by saying that you were too fortunate?

DUKE. He means, Chevalier ...

ALBIN. Please, don't call me Chevalier. Everybody calls me Albin, simply Albin, just because I look so young.

DUKE (smiling). Good.... But you must call me Emile--eh?

ALBIN. With pleasure, if you allow it, Emile.

_Permission Albert Langen, Munich_ FROM OLAF GULBRANSSON'S "FAMOUS CONTEMPORARIES"

DUKE. They have a sinister wit, have these people.

FRANCOIS. Why sinister? I find it quite reassuring. So long as the mob is in the mood for jests, it will never come to anything serious.

DUKE. Only the jests are much too strange. I learnt a thing today that gives food for thought.

FRANCOIS. Tell us.

FLIPOTTE and MICHETTE. Ay, tell us, sweet Duke!

DUKE. Do you know Lelange?

FRANCOIS. Of course--the village ... the Marquis de Montferrat has one of his finest hunts there.

DUKE. Quite right; my brother is now at the castle with him, and he has written home about the things I am going to tell you. They have a mayor at Lelange who is very unpopular.

FRANCOIS. If you can tell me the name of one who is popular--

DUKE. Just listen. The women of the village paraded in front of the mayor's house with a coffin.

FLIPOTTE. What? Did they carry it? Carry a coffin? I wouldn't like to carry a coffin for anything in the world.

FRANCOIS. Hold your tongue. Nobody is asking you to carry a coffin. (To the DUKE.) Well?

DUKE. And one or two of the women went into the mayor's house and explained to him that he must die, but they would do him the honor of burying him.

FRANCOIS. Well, have they killed him?

DUKE. No; at least, my brother doesn't write anything about it.

FRANCOIS. Well then ... blusterers, talkers, clowns--that's what they are. Today they're roaring in Paris at the Bastille for a change, just as they've already done half a dozen times before ...

DUKE. Well, if I were king I should have made an end of it long ago.

ALBIN. Is it true that the king is so good-natured?

DUKE. You have not yet been presented to His Majesty?

FRANCOIS. This is the first time the Chevalier has been in Paris.

DUKE. Yes, you are incredibly young. How old, if I may ask?

ALBIN. I only look so young; I am already seventeen.

DUKE. Seventeen!--how much is still in front of you! I am already four-and-twenty!... I am beginning to regret how much of my youth I have missed!

FRANCOIS (laughs). That is good. You, Duke--you count every day lost in which you have not conquered a woman or killed a man.

DUKE. Only the unfortunate thing is that one never makes a conquest of the right woman, and always kills the wrong man. And that as a matter of fact is how one misses one's youth. You know what Rollin says?

FRANCOIS. What does Rollin say?

DUKE. I was thinking of his new piece that they are playing at the Comedie--there is such a pretty simile in it. Don't you remember?

FRANCOIS. I have no memory for verses.

DUKE. Nor have I, unfortunately ... I only remember the sense. He says, youth which a man does not enjoy is like a feather-ball, which you leave lying in the sand instead of throwing it up into the air.

ALBIN (like a wiseacre). I think that is quite right.

DUKE. Is it not true? The feathers gradually lose their color and fall out. 'Tis better for it to fall into a bush where it cannot be found.

ALBIN. How should one understand that, Emile?

DUKE. 'Tis more a matter of feeling than of understanding. If I could repeat the verses, you would understand it at once.

ALBIN. I have an idea, Emile, that you, too, could make verses if you wished.

DUKE. Why?

ALBIN. Since you have been here, it seems to me as though life were flaming up.

DUKE (smiling). Yes? Is life flaming up?

FRANCOIS. Won't you come and sit with us after all?

[Meanwhile, two nobles come in and sit down at a distant table. HOST appears to be addressing insults to them.]

DUKE. I cannot stay here. But in any case I will come back again.

MICHETTE. Stay with me.

FLIPOTTE. Take me with you. (They try to hold him.)

HOST (coming to the front). Just you leave him alone. You're not bad enough for him by a long way. He's got to run after a whore off the streets--that's where he feels most in his element.

DUKE. I shall certainly come back, if only not to miss Henri.

FRANCOIS. What do you think, when we came, Henri was just going out with Leocadie.

DUKE. Really--he has married her. Did you know that?

FRANCOIS. Is that so? What will the others have to say to it?

ALBIN. What others?

FRANCOIS. She is loved all around, you know.

DUKE. And he wants to go away with her ... what do I know about it?... Somebody told me.

HOST. Indeed? Did they tell you? (Glances at the DUKE.)

DUKE (having first looked at HOST). It is too silly. Leocadie was made to be the greatest, the most splendid whore in the world.

FRANCOIS. Who doesn't know that?

DUKE. Could anything be more unreasonable than to take people away from their true calling? (As FRANCOIS laughs.) I am not joking. Whores are born, not made--just as conquerors and poets are.

FRANCOIS. You are paradoxical.

DUKE. I am sorry for her, and for Henri. He should stay here--no, not here--I should like to bring him to the Comedie--though even there--I always feel as though nobody understood him as well as I do. Of course, that may be an illusion, since I have the same feeling in regard to most artists. But I must say if I were not the Duc de Cadignan, I should really like to be a comedian like him--like him, I say ...

ALBIN. Like Alexander the Great.

DUKE (smiling). Yes, Alexander the Great.... (To FLIPOTTE.) Give me my sword. (He puts it in the sheath. Slowly.) It is the finest way of making fun of the world; a man who can play any part and at the same time play us is greater than all of us. (ALBIN looks at him in astonishment.) Don't you reflect on what I say. 'Tis all only true at the actual moment. Good-by.

MICHETTE. Give me a kiss before you go.

FLIPOTTE. Me too!

[They hang on to him, the Duke kisses them both at once and goes. In the meanwhile:]

ALBIN. a wonderful man!

FRANCOIS. That is quite true; ... but the existence of men like that is almost a reason for not marrying.

ALBIN. But do explain; what are those girls?

FRANCOIS. Actresses. They, too, belong to the troupe of Prosper, who is at present the host of the tavern. No doubt they've done in the past much the same as they're doing now.

[GUILLAUME rushes in apparently breathless.]

GUILLAUME (making toward the table where the actors are sitting, with his hand on his heart--speaking with difficulty--supporting himself). Saved--ay, saved!

SCAEVOLA. What is it? What ails you?

ALBIN. What has happened to the man?

FRANCOIS. That is part of the acting now. Mark you.

ALBIN. Ah!

MICHETTE and FLIPOTTE (going quickly to GUILLAUME). What is it? What ails you?

SCAEVOLA. Sit down. Take a draught!

GUILLAUME. More!--more! Prosper, more wine! I have been running. My tongue cleaves to my mouth. They were right at my heels.

JULES (gives a start). Ah! be careful; they really are at our heels.

HOST. Come, tell us, what happened then? (To the actors.) Movement!--more movement!

GUILLAUME. Women here ... women--ah! (Embraces FLIPOTTE.) That brings one back to life again! (To ALBIN, who is highly impressed.) The Devil take me, my boy, if I thought I would ever see you alive again. (As though he were listening.) They come!--they come! (Goes to the door.) No, it is nothing ... They ...

ALBIN. How strange! There really is a noise, as though people outside were pressing forward very quickly. Is that part of the stage effects as well?

SCAEVOLA. He goes in for such damned subtleties every blessed time. (To JULES.) 'Tis too silly--

HOST. Come now, tell us why they are at your heels again?

GUILLAUME. Oh, nothing special. But if they got me, it would cost me my head. I've set fire to a house.

[During this in and sit down at the tables.]

HOST (softly). Go on!--go on!

GUILLAUME (in the same tone). What more do you want? Isn't it enough for you if I've set fire to a house?

FRANCOIS. But tell me, my friend, why you set fire to the house.

GUILLAUME. Because the President of the Supreme Court lived in it. We wanted to make a beginning with him. We wanted to keep the good Parisian householders from taking folk into their houses so lightly who send us poor devils to the prison.

GRAIN. That's good! That's good!

GUILLAUME (looks at GRAIN and is surprised; then goes on speaking). All the houses must be fired. Three more fellows like me and there won't be any more judges in Paris.

GRAIN. Death to the judges!

JULES. Yes ... but there may be one whom we can't annihilate.

GUILLAUME. I should like to know who he is.

JULES. The judge within us.

HOST (softly). That's tasteless. Leave off. Scaevola, roar! Now's the time.

SCAEVOLA. Wine here, Prosper; we want to drink to the death of all the judges in France.

[During the last words enter the MARQUIS DE LANSAC, with his wife, SEVERINE, and ROLLIN, the poet.]

SCAEVOLA. Death to all who have the power in their hands today!

MARQUIS. See you, Severine, that is how they greet us.

ROLLIN. Marquise, I warned you.

SEVERINE. Why?

FRANCOIS. Whom do I see? The Marquise! Allow me to kiss your hand. Good evening. Marquis. Well met to you, Rollin. And you, Marquise, you dare to venture into this place!

SEVERINE. I heard such a lot about it. And besides, we are having a day of adventures already--eh, Rollin?

MARQUIS. Yes. Just think of it, Vicomte; you would never believe where we come from--from the Bastille.

FRANCOIS. Are they still keeping up the tumult there?

SEVERINE. Ay, indeed! It looks as though they meant to storm it.

ROLLIN (declaiming). Like to a flood that seethes against its banks, And rages deep that its own child, the Earth, Resists it.--

SEVERINE. Don't, Rollin! We left our carriages there in the neighborhood. It is a magnificent spectacle--there is always something so grand about crowds.

FRANCOIS. Yes, yes, if they only did not smell so vilely.

MARQUIS. And my wife would not leave me in peace--I had to bring her here.

SEVERINE. Well, what is there so very special here?

HOST (to LANSAC). Well, so you're here, are you, you dried-up old scoundrel? Did you bring your wife along because she wasn't safe enough for you at home?

MARQUIS (with a forced laugh). He's quite a character.

HOST. But take heed that she is not snatched away from under your nose in this very place. Aristocratic ladies like her very often get a deuce of a fancy to try what a real rogue is like.

ROLLIN. I suffer unspeakably, Severine.

MARQUIS. My child, I prepared you for this--it is high time that we went.

SEVERINE. What ails you? I think it's charming. Nay, let us seat ourselves.

FRANCOIS. Would you allow me. Marquise, to present to you the Chevalier de la Tremouille. He is here for the first time, too. The Marquis de Lansac; Rollin, our celebrated poet.

ALBIN. Delighted. (Compliments; they sit down.) (To FRANCOIS.) Is that one of those that are playing, or--I can't make it out--

FRANCOIS. Don't be so stupid. That is the lawful wife of the Marquis de Lansac ... a lady of extreme propriety.

ROLLIN (to SEVERINE). Say that thou lovest me.

SEVERINE. Yes, yes; but ask me not every minute.

MARQUIS. Have we missed a scene already?

FRANCOIS. Nothing much. An incendiary's playing over there, 'twould appear.

SEVERINE. Chevalier, you must be the cousin of the little Lydia de la Tremouille who was married today.

ALBIN. Quite so, Marquise; that was one of the reasons why I came to Paris.

SEVERINE. I remember having seen you in the church.

ALBIN (embarrassed). I am highly flattered, Marquise.

SEVERINE (to ROLLIN). What a dear little boy!

ROLLIN. My dear Severine, you have never yet managed to know a man without his pleasing you.

SEVERINE. Indeed I did; and what is more, I married him straight away.

ROLLIN. I am always so afraid, Severine--I am sure there are moments when it's not safe for you to be with your own husband.

HOST (brings wine). There you are. I wish it were poison; but for the time being, the law won't let us serve it to you, you scum.

FRANCOIS. The time'll soon come, Prosper.

SEVERINE (to ROLLIN). What is the matter with both those pretty girls? Why don't they come nearer? Now that we once are here, I want to join in everything. I really think that everything is extremely moral here.

MARQUIS. Have patience, Severine.

SEVERINE. I think nowadays one diverts oneself best in the streets. Do you know what happened to us yesterday when we went for a drive in the Promenade de Longchamps?

MARQUIS. Please, please, my dear Severine, why--

SEVERINE. A fellow jumped onto the footboard of our carriage and shouted, "Next year you will stand behind your coachman and we shall be sitting in the carriages."

FRANCOIS. Hm! That is rather strong.

MARQUIS. Odds life! I don't think one ought to talk of such things. Paris is now somewhat feverish, but that will soon pass off again.

GUILLAUME (suddenly). I see flames--flames everywhere I look--red, high flames.

HOST (to him). You're playing a madman, not a criminal.

SEVERINE. Does he see flames?

FRANCOIS. But all this is still not the real thing. Marquise.

ALBIN (to ROLLIN). I cannot tell you how bewildered I feel already with everything.

MICHETTE (comes to the MARQUIS). I have not yet greeted you, darling, you dear old pig.

MARQUIS (embarrassed). She jests, dear Severine.

SEVERINE. It does not look that way. Tell me, little one, how many love-affairs have you had so far?

MARQUIS (to FRANCOIS). It is really wonderful how well my wife the Marquise knows how to adapt herself to every situation.

ROLLIN. Yes, it is wonderful.

MICHETTE. Have you counted yours?

SEVERINE. When I was still as young as you ... of course ...

ALBIN (to ROLLIN). Tell me, M. Rollin, is the Marquise joking, or is she really like--? I positively can't make it out.

ROLLIN. Reality ... playing ... do you know the difference so exactly. Chevalier?

ALBIN. At any rate ...

ROLLIN. I don't. And what I find so peculiar here is that all apparent distinctions, so to speak, are taken away. Reality passes into play-- play into reality. Just look now at the Marquise. How she gossips with those creatures as though she were one of them. At the same time she is--

ALBIN. Something quite different.

ROLLIN. I thank you, Chevalier.

HOST (to GRAIN). Well, how did it all happen?

GRAIN. What?

HOST. Why, the affair with your aunt, for which you went to prison for two years.

GRAIN. I told you, I strangled her.

FRANCOIS. That is feeble. He is an amateur. I have never seen him before.

GEORGETTE (comes quickly in, dressed like a prostitute of the lowest class). Good evening, children. Is my Balthasar not here yet?

SCAEVOLA. Georgette, sit by me. Your Balthasar will yet be here in time.

GEORGETTE. If he is not here in ten minutes, he won't bring off anything again--he won't come back at all then.

FRANCOIS. Watch her, Marquise. She is the wife of that Balthasar of whom she has just been speaking, and who will soon come in. She represents just a common street-jade, while Balthasar is her bully. All the same, she is the truest wife to be found in the whole of Paris.

BALTHASAR comes in.

GEORGETTE. My Balthasar! (She runs toward him and embraces him). So there you are.

BALTHASAR. It is all in order. (Silence around him.) It was not worth the trouble. I was almost sorry for him. You should size up your customers better, Georgette. I am sick of killing promising youths for the sake of a few francs.

FRANCOIS. Splendid!

ALBIN. What--?

FRANCOIS. He brings out the points so well.

Enter the COMMISSAIRE, disguised; sits down at table.

HOST (to him). You come at a good time, M. le Commissaire. This is one of my best exponents.

BALTHASAR. One should really try and find another profession. On my soul, I am not a craven, but this kind of bread is hard earned.

SCAEVOLA. I can well believe so.

GEORGETTE. What's the matter with you today?

BALTHASAR. I will tell you what. Georgette--I think you're a trifle too tender with the young gentlemen.

GEORGETTE. See what a child he is! But be reasonable, Balthasar. I must needs be very tender so as to inspire them with confidence.

ROLLIN. What she says is really deep.

BALTHASAR. If I thought for a moment that you felt anything when another--

GEORGETTE. What do you say to that? Dumb jealousy will yet bring him to his grave.

BALTHASAR. I have already heard one sigh, Georgette, and that was at a moment when one of them was already giving sufficient proofs of his confidence.

GEORGETTE. One can't leave off playing a woman in love so suddenly.

BALTHASAR. Be careful, Georgette--the Seine is deep. (Wildly.) Should you ever deceive me--

GEORGETTE. Never, never.

ALBIN. I positively can't make it out.

SEVERINE. Rollin, that is the right interpretation!

ROLLIN. You think so?

MARQUIS (to SEVERINE). It is time we were going, Severine.

SEVERINE. Why? I am beginning to enjoy it.

GEORGETTE. My Balthasar, I adore you. (Embrace.)

FRANCOIS. Bravo! bravo!

BALTHASAR. What loony is that?

COMMISSAIRE. This is unquestionably too strong; this is--

Enter MAURICE and ETIENNE. They are dressed like young nobles, but one can see that they are only disguised in dilapidated theatrical costumes.

FROM THE ACTORS' TABLE. Who are they?

SCAEVOLA. May the devil take me if it ain't Maurice and Etienne.

GEORGETTE. Of course it is they!

BALTHASAR. Georgette!

SEVERINE. Heavens! what monstrously pretty young persons.

ROLLIN. It is painful, Severine, to see you so violently excited by every pretty face.

SEVERINE. What did I come here for, then?

ROLLIN. Tell me, at any rate, that you love me.

SEVERINE (with a peculiar look). You have a short memory.

ETIENNE. Well, where do you think we have come from?

FRANCOIS. Listen, Marquis; they're a couple of quite witty youths.

MAURICE. A wedding.

ETIENNE. One has got to dress up a bit in places like this. Otherwise one of those damned secret police gets on one's track at once.

SCAEVOLA. At any rate, have you made a good haul?

HOST. Let's have a look.

MAURICE (drawing watches out of his waistcoat). What'll you give me for this?

HOST. For that there? A louis.

MAURICE. Indeed?

SCAEVOLA. It is not worth more.

MICHETTE. That is a lady's watch. Give it to me, Maurice.

MAURICE. What will you give me for't?

MICHETTE. Look at me--isn't that enough?

FLIPOTTE. No, give it to me; look at me--

MAURICE. My dear children, I can have that without risking my head.

MICHETTE. You are a conceited ape.

SEVERINE. I swear that's no acting.

ROLLIN. Of course not; there is a flash of reality running through the whole thing. That is the chief charm.

SCAEVOLA. What wedding was it, then?

MAURICE. The wedding of Mademoiselle de la Tremouille; she was married to the Comte de Banville.

ALBIN. Do you hear that, Francois? I assure you they are real knaves.

FRANCOIS. Calm yourself, Albin. I know the two. I have seen them play a dozen times already. Their specialty is the portrayal of pickpockets.

[MAURICE draws some purses out of his waistcoat.]

SCAEVOLA. Well, you can do the handsome tonight.

ETIENNE. It was a very magnificent wedding. All the nobility of France was there. Even the King was represented.

ALBIN (excited). All that is true.

MAURICE (rolls some money over the table). That is for you, my friends, so that you can see that we all stick to one another.

FRANCOIS. Properties, dear Albin. (He stands up and takes a few coins.) We, too, you see, come in for a share.

HOST. You take it--you have never earned anything so honestly in your life.

MAURICE (holds in the air a garter set with diamonds). And to whom shall I give this? (GEORGETTE, MICHETTE, and FLIPOTTE make a rush after it.) Patience, you sweet pusses. We will speak about that later on. I will give it to the one who devises a new caress.

SEVERINE (to ROLLIN). Would you not like to let me join in the competition!

ROLLIN. I protest you will drive me mad, Severine.

MARQUIS. Severine, had we not better be going now? I think--

SEVERINE. Oh, no. I am enjoying myself excellently. (To ROLLIN.) Ah well, my mood is getting so--

MICHETTE. How did you get hold of the garter?

MAURICE. There was such a crush in the church--and when a lady thinks one is courting her-- (All laugh.)

[GRAIN has stolen FRANCOIS'S purse.]

FRANCOIS (showing the money to ALBIN). Mere counters. Are you satisfied now?

[GRAIN wants to get away.]

HOST (going after him softly). Give me the purse at once which you took from this gentleman.

GRAIN. I--

HOST. Straightaway ... or it will be the worse for you.

GRAIN. You need not be churlish. (Gives it to him.)

HOST. And stay here. I have no time to search you now. Who knows what else you have pouched. Go back to your place.

FLIPOTTE. I shall win the garter.

HOST (throwing the purse to FRANCOIS). Here's your purse. You lost it out of your pocket.

FRANCOIS. I thank you, Prosper. (To ALBIN.) You see, we are in reality in the company of most respectable people.

[HENRI, who has already been present for some time and has sat behind, suddenly stands up.]

ROLLIN. Henri--there is Henri.

SEVERINE. Is he the one you told me so much about?

MARQUIS. Assuredly. The man one really comes here to see.

[HENRI comes to the front of the stage, very theatrically; is silent.]

THE ACTORS. Henri, what ails you?

ROLLIN. Observe the look. A world of passion. You see, he is playing the man who commits a crime of passion.

SEVERINE. I prize that highly.

ALBIN. But why does he not speak?

ROLLIN. He is beside himself. Just watch. Pay attention.... He has wrought a fearful deed somewhere.

FRANCOIS. He is somewhat theatrical. It looks as though he were going to get ready for a monologue.

HOST. Henri, Henri, where do you come from?

HENRI. I have murdered.

ROLLIN. What did I say?

SCAEVOLA. Whom?

HENRI. The lover of my wife.

[PROSPER looks at him; at this moment he obviously has the feeling that it might be true.]

HENRI (looks up). Well, yes, I've done it. What are you looking at me like that for? That's how the matter stands. Is it, then, so wonderful after all? You all know what kind of a creature my wife is; it was bound to end like that.

HOST. And she--where is she?

FRANCOIS. See, the host takes it seriously. You notice how realistic that makes the thing.

[Noise outside--not too loud.]

JULES. What noise is that outside?

MARQUIS. Do you hear, Severine?

ROLLIN. It sounds as though troops were marching by.

FRANCOIS. Oh, no; it is our dear people of Paris. Just listen how they bawl. (Uneasiness in the cellar; it grows quiet outside.) Go on, Henri--go on.

HOST. Yes, do tell us, Henri--where is your wife? Where have you left her?

HENRI. Oh, I have no qualms about her. She will not die of it. Whether it is this man or that man, what do the women care? There are still a thousand other handsome men running about Paris--whether it is this man or that man--

BALTHASAR. May it fare thus with all who take our wives from us.

SCAEVOLA. All who take from us what belongs to us.

COMMISSAIRE (to HOST). These are seditious speeches.

ALBIN. It is dreadful ... the people mean it seriously.

SCAEVOLA. Down with the usurers of France! We would fain wager that the fellow whom he caught with his wife was another again of those accursed hounds who rob us of our bread as well.

ALBIN. I propose we go.

SEVERINE. Henri!--Henri!

MARQUIS. But, Marquise--

SEVERINE. Please, dear Marquis, ask the man how he caught his wife--or I will ask him myself.

MARQUIS (after resisting). Tell us, Henri, how did you manage to catch the pair?

HENRI (who has been for a long while sunk in reverie). Know you my wife, then? She is the fairest and vilest creature under the sun. And I loved her! We have known one another for seven years--but it is only yesterday that she became my wife. In those seven years there was not one day, nay, not one day, in which she did not lie to me, for everything about her is a lie--her eyes and her lips, her kisses and her smiles.

FRANCOIS. He rants a little.

HENRI. Every boy and every old man, every one who excited her and every one who paid her--every one, I think, who wanted her--has possessed her, and I have known it!

SEVERINE. Not every one can boast as much.

HENRI. And all the same she loved me, my friends. Can any one of you understand that? She always came back to me again--from all quarters back again to me--from the handsome and from the ugly, from the shrewd and from the foolish, from ragamuffins and from courtiers--always came back to me.

SEVERINE (to ROLLIN). Now, if only you had an inkling that it is just this coming back which is really love.

HENRI. What I suffered ... tortures, tortures!

ROLLIN. It is harrowing.

HENRI. And yesterday I married her. We had a dream--nay, I had a dream. I wanted to get away with her from here. Into solitude, into the country, into the great peace. We wished to live like other happy married couples--we dreamt also of having a child---

ROLLIN (softly). Severine.

SEVERINE. Very good!

ALBIN. Francois, that man is speaking the truth.

FRANCOIS. Quite so; the love-story is true, but the real pith is the murder-story.

HENRI. I was just one day too late.... There was just one man whom she had forgotten, otherwise--I believe--she wouldn't have wanted any one else.... But I caught them together ... it is all over with him.

ACTORS. Who?--who? How did it happen? Where does he lie? Are you pursued? How did it happen? Where is she?

HENRI (with growing excitement). I escorted her ... to the theatre ... today was to be the last time.... I kissed her ... at the door ... and she went to her dressing-room ... and I went off like a man who has nothing to fear. But when I had gone a hundred yards, I began ... to have ... within me--do you understand? ... a terrible unrest ... and it was as though something forced me to turn round ... and I turned round and went back. But once there I felt ashamed and went away again ... and again I walked a hundred yards away from the theatre ... and then something gripped me ... again I went back. Her scene was at an end--she hasn't got much to do, she just stands awhile on the stage half naked--and then she has finished. I stood in front of her dressing-room, put my ear to the door, and heard whispers. I could not make out a word ... the whispering ceased ... I pushed open the door ... (he roars like a lion) it was the Duc de Cadignan, and I murdered him.

HOST (who now at last takes it for the truth). Madman!

[HENRI looks up, gazes fixedly at HOST.]

SEVERINE. Bravo!--bravo!

ROLLIN. What are you doing. Marquise? The moment you call out "bravo!" you make it all acting again--and the pleasant shudder is past.

MARQUIS. I do not find the shudder so pleasant. Let us applaud, my friends; that is the only way we can throw off the spell.

[A gentle bravo, growing continually louder; all applaud.]

HOST (to HENRI, during the noise). Save yourself--flee, Henri.

HENRI. What!--what!

HOST. Let this be enough, and see that you get away.

FRANCOIS. Hush!... Let us hear what the host says.

HOST (after a short reflection). I am telling him that he ought to get away before the watch at the city gates are informed. The handsome Duke was a favorite of the King--they will break you on the wheel. Far better had it been had you stabbed that scum, your wife.

FRANCOIS. What playing up to each other!... Splendid!

HENRI. Prosper, which of us is mad, you or I! (He stands there and tries to read in PROSPER'S eyes.)

ROLLIN. It is wonderful; we all know that he is acting, and yet if the Duc de Cadignan were to enter now, it would be like a ghost appearing.

[Noise outside--growing stronger and stronger. People come in; shrieks are heard. Right at their head GRASSET. Others, among them LEBRET, force their way over the steps. Cries of "Liberty! Liberty!" are heard.]

GRASSET. Here we are, my boys--in here!

ALBIN. What is that? Is that part of the performance?

FRANCOIS. No.

MARQUIS. What means it?

SEVERINE. What people are those?

GRASSET. In here! I tell you, my friend Prosper has still got a barrel of wine left, and we have earned it. (Noise from the streets.) Friend! Brother! We have them!--we have them!

SHOUTS (from outside). Liberty! Liberty!

SEVERINE. What has happened?

MARQUIS. Let us get away--let us get away; the mob approaches.

ROLLIN. How do you propose to get away?

GRASSET. It has fallen; the Bastille has fallen!

HOST. What say you? Speaks he the truth?

GRASSET. Hear you not?

[ALBIN wants to draw his sword.]

FRANCOIS. Stop that at once, or we are all lost.

GRASSET (reeling in down the stairs). And if you hasten, you will still be in time to see quite a merry sight ... the head of our dear Delaunay stuck on a very high pole.

MARQUIS. Is the fellow mad?

SHOUTS. Liberty! Liberty!

GRASSET. We have cut off a dozen heads; the Bastille belongs to us; the prisoners are free! Paris belongs to the people!

HOST. Hear you?--hear you? Paris belongs to us!

GRASSET. See you how he gains courage now. Yes, shout away, Prosper; naught more can happen to you now.

HOST (to the nobles). What say you to it, you rabble? The joke is at an end.

ALBIN. Said I not so?

HOST. The people of Paris have conquered.

COMMISSAIRE. Silence! (They laugh.) Silence! I forbid the continuance of the performance!

GRASSET. Who is that nincompoop?

COMMISSAIRE. Prosper, I regard you as responsible for all these seditious speeches.

GRASSET. Is the fellow mad?

HOST. The joke is at an end. Don't you understand? Henri, do tell them--now you can tell them. We will protect you--the people of Paris will protect you.

GRASSET. Yea, the people of Paris.

[HENRI stands there with a fixed stare.]

HOST. Henri has really murdered the Duc de Cadignan.

ALBIN, FRANCOIS, and MARQUIS. What says he?

ALBIN and others. What means all this, Henri?

FRANCOIS. Henri, pray speak.

HOST. He found him with his wife and he has killed him.

HENRI. 'Tis not true!

HOST. You need fear naught more now; now you can shout it to all the world. I could have told you an hour past that sue was the Duke's mistress. By God, I was nigh telling you--is't not true, you, Shrieking Pumice-stone?--did we not know it?

HENRI. Who has seen her? Where has she been seen?

HOST. What matters that to you now? The man's mad ... you have killed him; of a truth you cannot do more.

FRANCOIS. In heaven's name, is't really true or not?

HOST. Ay, it is true.

GRASSET. Henri, from henceforth you must be my friend. Vive la Liberte!--Vive la Liberte!

FRANCOIS. Henri, speak, man!

HENRI. She was his mistress? She was the mistress of the Duke? I knew it not ... he lives ... he lives ... (Tremendous sensation.)

SEVERINE (to the others). Well, where's the truth now?

ALBIN. My God!

[The DUKE forces his way through the crowd on the steps.]

SEVERINE (who sees him first). The Duke!

SOME VOICES. The Duke.

DUKE. Well, well, what is it?

HOST. Is it a ghost?

DUKE. Not that I know of. Let me through!

ROLLIN. What won't we wager that it is all arranged! The fellows yonder belong to Prosper's troupe. Bravo, Prosper! This is a real success.

DUKE. What is it? Is the playing still going on here, while outside ... but don't you know what manner of things are taking place outside? I have seen Delaunay's head carried past on a pole. Nay, why do you look at me like that? (Steps down.) Henri--

FRANCOIS. Guard yourself from Henri.

[Henri rushes like a madman on the Duke and plunges a dagger into his neck.]

COMMISSAIRE (stands up). This goes too far!

ALL. He bleeds.

ROLLIN. A murder has been done here.

SEVERINE. The Duke is dying.

MARQUIS. I am distracted, dear Severine, to think that today of all days I should have brought you to this place.

SEVERINE. Why not? (In a strained tone.) It is a wonderful success. One does not see a real duke really murdered every day.

ROLLIN. I cannot grasp it yet.

COMMISSAIRE. Silence! Let no one leave the place!

GRASSET. What does he want?

_Permission Albert Langen, Munich_ From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous Contemporaries"

COMMISSAIRE. I arrest this man in the name of the law.

GRASSET (laughs). It is we who make the laws, you blockheads! Out with the rabble! He who kills a duke is a friend of the people. Vive la Liberte!

ALBIN (draws his sword). Make way! Follow me, my friends! [Leocadie rushes in over the steps.]

VOICES. His wife!

LEOCADIE. Let me in here. I want my husband! (She comes to the front, sees, and shrieks out.) Who has done this? Henri! [HENRI looks at her.]

LEOCADIE. Why have you done this?

HENRI. Why?

LEOCADIE. I know why. Because of me. Nay, nay, say not 'twas because of me. Never in all my life have I been worth that.

GRASSET (begins a speech). Citizens of Paris, we will celebrate our victory. Chance has led us on our way through the streets of Paris to this amiable host. It could not have fitted in more prettily. Nowhere can the cry "Vive la Liberte!" ring sweeter than over the corpse of a duke.

VOICES. Vive la Liberte! Vive la Liberte!

FRANCOIS. I think we might go. The people have gone mad. Let us go.

ALBIN. Shall we leave the corpse here?

SEVERINE. Vive la Liberte! Vive la Liberte!

MARQUIS. Are you mad?

CITIZENS _and_ ACTORS. Vive la Liberte! Vive la Liberte!

SEVERINE (leading the nobles to the exit). Rollin, wait you tonight outside my window. I will throw the key down like t'other night. We will pass a pretty hour--I feel quite pleasurably excited.

SHOUTS. Vive la Liberte! Vive Henri! Vive Henri!

LEBRET. Look at the fellows--they are running away from us.

GRASSET. Let them for tonight--let them; they will not escape us.

LITERATURE

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT

* * * * *

CHARACTERS

MARGARET

CLEMENT

GILBERT

LITERATURE (1902)

BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

TRANSLATED BY A. I. DU P. COLEMAN, A.M. Professor of English Literature, College of the City of New York

Scene, a decently but not richly furnished room, belonging to MARGARET. Table, small writing-desk, chairs, a cupboard, two windows up stage, doors right and left. At rise of curtain, CLEMENT is discovered leaning against mantelpiece, in a very elegant dark gray morning suit, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. MARGARET stands by window, then walks up and down, finally comes behind CLEMENT and runs her hands through his hair. She seems rather restless. CLEMENT goes on reading, then seizes her hand and kisses it.

CLEMENT. Horner is sure of his game--or rather my game. Waterloo five to one, Barometer twenty to one, Busserl seven to one, Attila sixteen to one.

MARGARET. Sixteen to one!

CLEMENT. Lord Byron six to four--that's us, darling!

MARGARET. I know.

CLEMENT. Besides, it's still six weeks to the race.

MARGARET. Apparently he thinks it's a dead certainty.

CLEMENT. The way she knows all the terms ...!

MARGARET. I've known these terms longer than I have you. And is it quite settled that you'll ride Lord Byron yourself?

CLEMENT. How can you ask? The Ladies' Plate! Whom else should I put up? If Horner didn't know I was going to ride him myself, he wouldn't be standing at six to four, you may be sure of that.

MARGARET. I believe you. You're so handsome on horseback--simply fit to take one's breath away! I shall never forget how you looked at Munich, the day I got to know you ...

CLEMENT. Don't remind me of it! I had awful luck that day. Windisch would never have won the race if he hadn't got ten lengths start. But this time--ah ...! And the next day we go away.

MARGARET. In the evening.

CLEMENT. Yes ... But why?

MARGARET. Because in the morning we shall be getting married, I suppose.

CLEMENT. Yes, yes, darling.

MARGARET. I'm so happy! (Embraces him.) And where shall we go?

CLEMENT. I thought we'd agreed about that--to my place in the country.

MARGARET. Yes, later. But can't we have a little while on the Riviera first?

CLEMENT. That'll depend on the Ladies' Plate; if I win it ...

MARGARET. Dead certainty!

CLEMENT. And anyhow, in April the Riviera really isn't the thing any more.

MARGARET. Oh, that's it, is it?

CLEMENT. Of course that's it, child. You've retained from your old life certain conceptions of what's the thing which are--you'll forgive me for saying it--just a little like those of the comic papers.

MARGARET. Really, Clement ...

CLEMENT. Oh well, we'll see. (Goes on reading.) Badegast fifteen to one ...

MARGARET. Badegast? He won't be in it.

CLEMENT. How do you know that?

MARGARET. Szigrati himself told me.

CLEMENT. How was that? Where?

MARGARET. Why, yesterday up at the Freudenau, while you were talking to Milner.

CLEMENT. To my way of thinking, Szigrati isn't the right sort of company for you.

MARGARET. Jealous?

CLEMENT. Nonsense! Anyhow, after this I shall introduce you everywhere as my fiancee. (She kisses him.) Well, what did Szigrati tell you?

MARGARET. That he wasn't going to enter Badegast for the Ladies' Plate.

CLEMENT. Oh, you mustn't believe everything Szigrati tells you. He's spreading the report that Badegast won't run just in order that the odds may be longer.

MARGARET. Why, that's just like speculation.

CLEMENT. Well, don't you suppose we've got any speculators among us? For many men the whole thing is a business. Do you suppose a man like Szigrati has the slightest feeling for sport? He might just as well be on the stock exchange. But for the matter of that, as far as Badegast is concerned, people might well lay a hundred to one against him.

MARGARET. Oh? I thought he looked splendid this morning.

CLEMENT. Oh, she's seen Badegast too!

MARGARET. To be sure--didn't Butters give him a gallop this morning after Busserl?

CLEMENT. But Butters doesn't ride for Szigrati. That must have been a stable-boy. Well, anyhow, Badegast may look as splendid as you like, it makes no difference--he's no good. Ah, Margaret, with your brains you'll soon learn to distinguish real greatness from false. It's really incredible, the quickness with which you've already--what shall I say?--initiated yourself into all these things--it surpasses my boldest expectations.

MARGARET (annoyed). Why does it surpass your expectations? You know very well that all these things are not so new to me. Some very good people used to visit my parents' house--Count Libowski and various others; and also at my husband's ...

CLEMENT. Oh, of course--I know ... At bottom I've really got nothing against the cotton business.

MARGARET. What has it to do with my personal views that my husband had a cotton factory? I always continued my education in my own fashion. But let's not talk any further about those days--they're far enough away, thank God!

CLEMENT. But there are others that are nearer.

MARGARET. To be sure. But what does that mean?

CLEMENT. Oh, I only mean that in your Munich surroundings you can't have heard much of sporting matters, as far as I am able to judge.

MARGARET. I wish you'd stop reproaching me with the surroundings in which you learned to know me.

CLEMENT. Reproaching you? There can't be any question of that. But it has always been and still is incomprehensible to me how you got in with those people.

MARGARET. You talk exactly as if they had been a gang of criminals!

CLEMENT. Child, I give you my word, there were some of them that looked exactly like highway-robbers. What I can't understand is how you, with your well-developed sense of ... Well, I won't say anything more than your taste for ... cleanliness and nice perfumes ... could bear living among those people, sitting down at the table with them.

MARGARET (smiling). Didn't you do it too?

CLEMENT. I sat down near them--not with them. And you know it was for your sake, exclusively for your sake, that I did it. I won't deny that some of them improved on closer acquaintance; there were some really interesting people among them. And you mustn't get the idea, darling, that when I'm among ill-dressed people I have a feeling of conscious superiority. It's not that--but there's something in their whole bearing, in their very nature, that makes one nervous.

MARGARET. Oh, I think that's rather a sweeping statement.

CLEMENT. Now don't get offended with me, darling. I've just said there were some very interesting people among them. But how a _lady_ can feel at home with them for any length of time, I shall never be able to understand.

MARGARET. You forget one thing, my dear Clement--that in a certain sense I belong to their circle, or did belong to it.

CLEMENT. You--I beg your pardon!

MARGARET. They were artists.

CLEMENT. Ah good--we're back on that subject again!

MARGARET. Yes--and that's the thing that always hurts me, that you can't feel with me there.

CLEMENT. "Can't feel with you" ... I like that! I can feel with you all right--but you know what it was I always disliked about your scribbling, and you know that it's a very personal thing.

MARGARET. Well, there are women who in my situation at that time would have done worse things than write poetry.

CLEMENT. But such poetry! (He picks up a little book on the mantelpiece.) That's the whole question. I can assure you, every time I see it lying there, everytime I even think of it, I'm ashamed to think it's yours.

MARGARET. You simply don't understand it. No, you mustn't be vexed with me; if you had just that one thing more, you'd be perfect--and that probably is not to be. But what is it that disturbs you in the verses? You surely know that I haven't experienced anything like that.

CLEMENT. I hope not!

MARGARET. You know it's all imagination.

CLEMENT. But then I can't help asking myself ... how comes a lady to have such an imagination? (Reads.)

"So, drunk with bliss, I hang upon thy neck And suck thy lips' drained sweetness ..."

(Shakes his head.) How can a lady write such stuff, or allow it to be printed? Everybody who reads it must call up a picture of the authoress and the neck and ... the intoxication.

MARGARET. When I give you my word that such a neck has never existed ...

CLEMENT. No, I can't believe that it has. Lucky for me that I can't--and ... for you too, Margaret. But how did you ever come by such fancies? All these glowing emotions can't possibly be referred to your first husband--you told me yourself he never understood you.

MARGARET. Of course he didn't--that's why I got a divorce from him. You know all about that. I simply couldn't exist by the side of a man who had no ideas beyond eating and drinking and cotton.

CLEMENT. Yes, I know. But all that's three years ago--and you wrote the verses later.

MARGARET. Yes ... But just think of the position in which I found myself ...

CLEMENT. What sort of a position? You hadn't any privations to put up with, had you? From that point of view your husband, to give him his due, behaved really very well. You weren't forced to earn your own living. And even if they gave you a hundred florins for a poem--they certainly wouldn't give more--you weren't obliged to write a book like that.

MARGARET. Clement, dear, I didn't mean the word "position" in a material sense; I meant the position in which my soul was. Haven't you any conception ...? When you first met me, it was much better--to a certain extent I had found myself; but at first ...! I was so helpless and distracted. I did everything I could--I painted, I even gave English lessons in the boardinghouse where I was living. Just think what it was like, to be there as a divorced woman at twenty-two, to have no one ...

CLEMENT. Why didn't you stay quietly in Vienna?

MARGARET. Because I was not on good terms with my family. No one has really understood me. Oh, these people ...! Do you suppose any of my relations could conceive that one should want anything else from life except a husband and pretty clothes and a position in society! Oh, good heavens ...! If I had had a child, things might have been very different--and again they might not. I am a very complex creature. But after all, what have you to complain of! Wasn't my going to Munich the best thing I could have done? How else should I ever have known you!

CLEMENT. That's all right--but you didn't go there with that purpose in view.

MARGARET. I went because I wanted to be free--inwardly free. I wanted to see if I could make the thing go on my own resources. And you must admit that it looked as if I should be able to. I was on the road to becoming famous. (CLEMENT looks at her dubiously.) But I cared more for you than even for fame.

CLEMENT (good-naturedly). And I'm a bit more dependable.

MARGARET. I wasn't thinking about that. I loved you from the very first moment--that was the thing that counted. I had always dreamed of some one just like you; I had always known that no other sort of man could make me happy. Blood isn't a mere empty word; it's the only thing that counts. Do you know, that's why I always have a kind of idea ...

CLEMENT. What?

MARGARET. At least now and then the thought comes to me that there may be some noble blood in my veins too.

CLEMENT. How so?

MARGARET. Well, it would be a possibility.

CLEMENT. I don't understand.

MARGARET. I told you that there used to be aristocratic visitors at my parents' house ...

CLEMENT. Well, and if there were ...?

MARGARET. Who knows ...?

CLEMENT. Oh, I say, Margaret! How can you talk of such things!

MARGARET. Oh, when you're about one can never say what one thinks! That's the only thing the matter with you--if it weren't for that you'd be perfect. (She nestles up to him.) I do love you so tremendously. The very first evening, when you came into the cafe with Wangenheim, I knew it at once--knew that you were the man for me. You know you strode in among those people like a being from another world.

CLEMENT. I hope so. And you, thank goodness, didn't look as if you belonged to that one. No ... when I remember that crowd--the Russian girl, for example, who looked like a student with her close-cropped hair, only that she didn't wear the cap ...

MARGARET. She's a very talented artist, the Baranzewich.

CLEMENT. I know--you showed her to me in the Pinakothek, standing on a ladder, copying pictures. And then the fellow with the Polish name ...

MARGARET (begins to recall the name). Zrkd ...

CLEMENT. Oh, don't bother--you won't need to pronounce it any more. Once he delivered a lecture in the cafe, when I was there, without seeming in the least embarrassed.

MARGARET. He's a great genius--you may take my word for it.

CLEMENT. Oh, of course--they're all great geniuses at the cafe. And then there was that insufferable cub ...

MARGARET. Who?

CLEMENT. Oh, you know the fellow I mean--the one that was always making tactless remarks about the aristocracy.

MARGARET. Gilbert--you must mean Gilbert.

CLEMENT. That's the one. Of course I don't undertake to defend everybody in my station of life; there are clowns and boobies in every rank, even among poets, I've been told. But it's unmannerly of the fellow, one of us being there ...

MARGARET. Oh, that was his way.

CLEMENT. I had to take myself sharply in hand, or I should have said something rude.

_Permission Albert Langen, Munich_ FROM OLAF GULBRANSSON'S "FAMOUS CONTEMPORARIES"

MARGARET. He was an interesting man for all that ... yes. And besides--he was fearfully jealous of you.

CLEMENT. So I thought I noticed. (Pause.)

MARGARET. Oh, they were all jealous of you. Naturally ... you were so different. And then they all paid court to me, just because they were all quite indifferent to me. You must have noticed that, too, didn't you? What are you laughing at?

CLEMENT. It's comical ... If any one had prophesied to me that I should marry one of the crowd at the Cafe Maximilian! The ones I liked best were the two young painters--they were really just as if they'd stepped out of a farce at the theatre. You know, those two that looked so much alike, and shared everything together--I fancy even the Russian girl on the step-ladder.

MARGARET. I never troubled my head about such things.

CLEMENT. Those two must have been Jews, weren't they?

MARGARET. What makes you think so?

CLEMENT. Oh ... because they were always cutting jokes--and then their pronunciation ...

MARGARET. I think you might dispense with anti-Semitic remarks.

CLEMENT. Come, child, don't be so sensitive. I know you're half-Jewish. And really, you know, I've nothing against the Jews. I even had an instructor once, who put me through my Greek for my final exam. He was a Jew, if you like--and a splendid fellow. One meets all kinds of people ... And I'm not sorry to have had a chance to see your Munich circle--it's all a bit of experience.--But, you admit, I must have appeared to you as a kind of life-saver.

MARGARET. Yes, indeed you did. Oh, Clement, Clement ...! (She embraces him.)

CLEMENT. What are you laughing at?

MARGARET. Oh, a thought struck me ...

CLEMENT. Well ...?

MARGARET. "So, drunk with bliss, I hang upon thy neck ..."

Clement (annoyed). I don't know why you always have to spoil a fellow's illusions!

MARGARET. Tell me honestly, Clement--wouldn't you be proud if your girl--if your wife--were a great, famous authoress?

CLEMENT. I've told you already what I think. You may call me narrow if you like, but I assure you that if you began writing poems again, or, even more, having them printed, in which you gushed about me or told the world all about our happiness, there'd be an end of the marriage--I should be up and off.

MARGARET. And you say that--you, a man who has had a dozen notorious affairs!

CLEMENT. Notorious or not, my dear, _I_ never told anybody about them; I never rushed into print when a girl hung, drunk with bliss, about my neck, so that anybody could buy it for a gulden and a half. That's the thing, you see. I know that there are people who get their living that way--but I don't consider it the thing to do. I tell you it seems worse to me than for a girl to show herself off in tights as a Greek statue at the Ronacher. At least she keeps her mouth shut--but the things that one of your poets blabs out, well, they're past a joke!

MARGARET (uneasily). Dearest, you forget that a poet doesn't always tell the truth. We tell things which we haven't experienced at all, but what we've dreamed, invented.

CLEMENT. My dear Margaret, I wish you wouldn't always keep saying "we." Thank heaven, you're out of that sort of thing now!

MARGARET. Who knows?

CLEMENT. What do you mean by that?

MARGARET (tenderly). Clem, I really must tell you?

CLEMENT. Why, what's up now?

MARGARET. Well, I'm not out of it--I haven't given up writing.

CLEMENT. You mean by that ...?

MARGARET. Just what I say--that I'm still writing, or at least that I have written something. Yes, this impulse is stronger than other people can conceive. I believe I should have gone to pieces if I hadn't written.

CLEMENT. Well, what have you been writing this time?

MARGARET. A novel. I had too much in my breast that wanted to be said--I should have choked if I hadn't got it out. I haven't said anything about it before--but of course I had to tell you sooner or later. Kuenigel is delighted with it.

CLEMENT. Who is Kuenigel?

MARGARET. My publisher.

CLEMENT. Then somebody's read the thing already?

MARGARET. Yes--and many more will read it. Clement, you'll be proud--believe me!

CLEMENT. You're mistaken, my dear child. I think you have ... Well, what sort of things have you put into it?

MARGARET. That's not so easy to explain in one word. The book contains, so to say, the best of what is to be said about things.

CLEMENT. Brava!

MARGARET. And so I am able to promise you that from this time on I shan't touch a pen. There's no more need.

CLEMENT. Margaret, do you love me or not?

MARGARET. How can you ask? I love you, and you alone. Much as I have seen, much as I have observed, I have felt nothing--I waited for you.

CLEMENT. Then bring it here, your novel.

MARGARET. Bring it here? How do you mean?

CLEMENT. That you felt you had to write it--may be; but at least no one shall read it. Bring it here--we'll throw it in the fire.

MARGARET. Clement ...!

CLEMENT. I ask that much of you--I have a right to ask it.

MARGARET. Oh, it isn't possible! It's ...

CLEMENT. Not possible! When I wish it--when I explain that I make everything else dependent on it ... you understand me ... it may perhaps turn out to be possible.

MARGARET. But, Clement, it's already printed.

CLEMENT. What--printed?

MARGARET. Yes ... in a few days it'll be for sale everywhere.

CLEMENT. Margaret ...! And all this without a word to me ...

MARGARET. I couldn't help it, Clement. When you see it, you'll forgive me--more than that, you'll be proud of me.

CLEMENT. My dear girl, this is past a joke.

MARGARET. Clement ...!

CLEMENT. Good-by, Margaret.

MARGARET. Clement ...! What does this mean? You are going?

CLEMENT. As you see.

MARGARET. When will you be back?

CLEMENT. That I can't at the present moment say. Good-by.

MARGARET. Clement ...! (Tries to restrain him.)

CLEMENT. If you please ... [Exit.]

MARGARET (alone). Clement ...! What does this mean! He's leaving me? Oh, what shall I do?--Clement!--Can he mean that all is over ...? No--it's impossible! Clement! I must follow him ... (Looks about for her hat. The bell rings.) Ah ...he's coming back! He was only trying to frighten me ... Oh, my Clement! (Goes toward door. Enter GILBERT.)

GILBERT (to maid, who has opened door for him). I told you I was sure she was at home. Good morning, Margaret.

MARGARET (taken aback). You ...?

GILBERT. Yes, I--Amandus Gilbert.

MARGARET. I ... I'm so surprised ...

GILBERT. That is evident. But there's no reason why you should be. I am only passing through--I'm on my way to Italy. And really I've come to see you just for the purpose of bringing you a copy of my latest work in remembrance of our old friendship. (Hands her the book. As she does not take it at once, he lays it on the table.)

MARGARET. You're very kind ... thank you.

GILBERT. Oh, not at all. You have a certain right to this book. So this is where you live ...

MARGARET. Yes. But ...

GILBERT. Oh, it's only temporary, I know. For furnished rooms they aren't bad. To be sure, these family portraits on the walls would drive me to distraction.

MARGARET. My landlady is the widow of a general.

GILBERT. Oh, you needn't apologize.

MARGARET. Apologize ...? I wasn't thinking of it.

GILBERT. It's very queer, when one comes to think ...

MARGARET. To think of what?

GILBERT. Why shouldn't I say it? Of the little room in the Steinsdorfer Strasse, with the balcony looking out on the Isar. Do you remember it, Margaret?

MARGARET. Do you think you'd better call me Margaret ... now?

GILBERT. As you please ... (Pause. Suddenly.) You know really you behaved very badly ...

MARGARET. What?

GILBERT. Or do you prefer that I should speak in paraphrases? Unfortunately I can't find any other expression for your conduct. And it was all so unnecessary--it would have been just as well to be honest with me. There was nothing to be gained by stealing away from Munich in the dead of night.

MARGARET. It wasn't the dead of night--I left Munich by the express at 8.30 A. M., in bright sunshine.

GILBERT. Well, anyhow, you might just as well have said good-by, mightn't you? (Sits.)

MARGARET. The Baron may come in at any moment.

GILBERT. Well, what if he does? You surely haven't told him that once upon a time you lay in my arms and adored me. I am just an old acquaintance from Munich--and as such I have surely the right to call on you!

MARGARET. Any other old acquaintance--not you.

GILBERT. Why? You persist in misunderstanding me. I am really here only as an old acquaintance. Everything else is over--long ago over ... Well, you'll see there. (Points to his book.)

MARGARET. What book is that?

GILBERT. My latest novel.

MARGARET. Oh, you're writing novels?

GILBERT. To be sure.

MARGARET. Since when have you risen to that?

GILBERT. What do you mean?

MARGARET. Oh, I remember that your real field was the small sketch, the observation of trivial daily occurrences ...

GILBERT (excitedly). My field ...? My field is the world! I write what I choose to write--I don't allow any bounds to be set to my genius. I don't know what should prevent me from writing a novel.

MARGARET. Well, the standard critics used to say ...

GILBERT. What standard critic do you mean?

MARGARET. I remember, for example, a feuilleton of Neumann's in the _Allgemeine_ ...

GILBERT (angrily). Neumann is an idiot! I've given him a blow in the face.

MARGARET. You've given him ...?

GILBERT. Oh, not literally ... Margaret, you used to be as disgusted with him as I was--we agreed entirely in the view that Neumann was an idiot. "How can that mere cipher dare ..."--those were your very words, Margaret, "How can he dare to set limits to you--to strangle your next book before its birth?" That's what you said! And now you appeal to that charlatan!

MARGARET. Please don't shout so. My landlady ...

GILBERT. I can't bother with thinking about generals' widows when ray nerves are on edge.

MARGARET, But what did I say? I really can't understand your being so sensitive.

GILBERT. Sensitive? You call it being sensitive? You, who used to quiver from head to foot if the merest scribbler in the most obscure rag ventured to say a word of criticism!

MARGARET. I don't remember that ever any disparaging words have been written about me.

GILBERT. Oh ...? Well, you may be right. People are usually gallant to a pretty woman.

MARGARET. Gallant ...? So they used to praise my poems only out of gallantry? And your own verdict ...

GILBERT. Mine ...? I needn't take back anything that I said--I may confine myself to remarking that your few really beautiful poems were written in _our_ time.

MARGARET. And so you think the credit of them is really yours?

GILBERT. Would you have written them if I had never existed? Weren't they written to _me_?

MARGARET. No.

GILBERT. What? Not written to me? Oh, that's monstrous!

MARGARET. No, they were not written to you.

GILBERT. You take my breath away! Shall I remind you of the situations in which your finest verses had their origin?

MARGARET. They were addressed to an ideal ... (GILBERT points to himself.) ... whose earthly representative you happened to be.

GILBERT. Ha! That's fine! Where did you get it? Do you know what the French say in such circumstances? "That is literature!"

MARGARET (imitating his tone). "That is _not_ literature!" That is the truth--the absolute truth. Or do you really believe that I meant you by the slender youth--that I sang hymns of praise to your locks? Even in those days you were ... well, not slender; and I shouldn't call this locks. (Passes her hand over his hair. Taking the opportunity, he seizes her hand and kisses it. In a softer voice.) What are you thinking of?

GILBERT. You thought so in those days--or at least that was your name for it. Ah, what won't poets say for the sake of a smooth verse, a sounding rhyme? Didn't I call you once, in a sonnet, "my wise maiden?" And all the time you were neither ... No, I mustn't be unjust to you--you _were_ wise, confoundedly wise, revoltingly wise! And it has paid you. But one oughtn't to be surprised; you were always a snob at heart. Well, now you've got what you wanted. You caught your prey, your blue-blooded youth with the well-kept hands and the neglected brain, the splendid rider, fencer, shot, tennis-player, heart-breaker--Marlitt couldn't have invented anything more disgusting. What more do you want? Whether it will always content you, that knew something higher once, is of course another question. I can only say this one thing to you--in my eyes you are a renegade from love.

MARGARET. You thought that up in the train.

GILBERT. I thought it up just now--just a moment ago!

MARGARET. Write it down, then--it's good.

GILBERT. What was it that attracted you to a man of this sort? Nothing but the old instinct, the common instinct!

MARGARET. I don't think _you've_ got any right ...

GILBERT. My dear child, in the old days I had a soul too to offer you.

MARGARET. Oh, at times, only this ...

GILBERT. Don't try now to depreciate our relation--you won't succeed. It will remain always your most splendid experience.

MARGARET. Bah ... when I think that I tolerated that rubbish for a whole year!

GILBERT. Tolerated? You were entranced with it. Don't be ungrateful-- I'm not. Miserably as you behaved at the last, for me it can't poison my memories. And anyhow, that was part of the whole.

MARGARET. You don't mean it!

GILBERT. Yes ... And now listen to this one statement I owe to you: at the very time when you were beginning to turn away from me, when you felt this drawing toward the stable--_la nostalgie de l'ecurie_--I was realizing that at heart I was done with you.

MARGARET. No ...!

GILBERT. It's quite characteristic, Margaret, that you hadn't the least perception of it. Yes, I was done with you. I simply didn't need you any more. What you could give me, you had given me; you had fulfilled your function. You knew in the depths of your heart, you knew unconsciously ... that your day was over. Our relation had achieved its purpose; I do not regret having loved you.

MARGARET. _I_ do!

GILBERT. That's splendid! In that one small observation lies, for the connoisseur, the whole deep distinction between the true artist and the dilettante. To you, Margaret, our relation is today nothing more than the recollection of a few mad nights, a few deep talks of an evening in the alleys of the English Garden; I have made of it a work of art.

MARGARET. So have I.

GILBERT. How so? What do you mean?

MARGARET. What you've succeeded in doing, if you please, I've succeeded in doing too. I also have written a novel in which our former relations play a part, in which our former love--or what we called by that name--is preserved to eternity.

GILBERT. If I were in your place, I wouldn't say anything about eternity until the second edition was out.

MARGARET. Well, anyhow, it means something different when _I_ write a novel from what it does when you write one.

GILBERT. Yes ...?

MARGARET. You see, you're a free man--you haven't got to steal the hours in which you can be an artist; and you don't risk your whole future.

GILBERT. Oh ... do you?

MARGARET. I have! Half an hour ago Clement left me because I owned up to him that I had written a novel.

GILBERT. Left you? For ever?

MARGARET. I don't know. It is possible. He went away in anger. He is unaccountable--I can't tell beforehand what he will decide about me.

GILBERT. Ah ... so he forbids you to write! He won't allow the girl he loves to make any use of her brains--oh, that's splendid! That's the fine flower of the nation! Ah ... yes. And you--aren't you ashamed to experience the same sensations in the arms of such an idiot that you once ...

MARGARET. I forbid you to talk like that about him! You don't understand him.

GILBERT. Ha ...!

MARGARET. You don't know why he objects to my writing--it's only out of love. He feels that I live in a world which is closed to him; he blushes to see me exposing the innermost secrets of my soul to strangers. He wants me for himself, for himself alone. And that's why he rushed off ... no, not rushed; Clement isn't the sort of person who rushes off ...

_Permission Albert Langen, Munich_ From Olaf Gulbransson's "Famous Contemporaries"

GILBERT. An admirable bit of observation. But at any rate he's gone. We needn't discuss the tempo of his departure. And he's gone because he won't allow you to yield to your desire to create.

MARGARET. Oh, if he could only understand that! I could be the best, the truest, the noblest wife in the world, if the right man existed!

GILBERT. You admit by that expression that he isn't the right one.

MARGARET. I didn't say that!

GILBERT. I want you to realize that he is simply enslaving you, ruining you, seeking to crush your personality out of sheer egoism. Oh, think of the Margaret you were in the old days! Think of the freedom you had to develop your ego when you loved me! Think of the choice spirits who were your associates then, of the disciples who gathered round me and were your disciples too. Don't you sometimes long to be back again? Don't you sometimes think of the little room with the balcony ... and the Isar flowing beneath the window ... (He seizes her hands and draws near to her.)

MARGARET. O God ...!

GILBERT. It can all be so again--it needn't be the Isar. I'll tell you what to do, Margaret. If he comes back, tell him that you have some important business to see to in Munich, and spend the time with me. Oh, Margaret, you're so lovely! We'll be happy once again, Margaret, as we used to be. You remember, don't you? (Very close to her.) "So, drunk with bliss, I hang upon thy neck ..."

MARGARET (retreats quickly from him). Go--go! No... no ... go, I tell you! You know I don't love you any more.

GILBERT. Oh, ... h'm ... Really? Well, then I can only beg your pardon. (Pause.) Good-by, Margaret ... good-by.

MARGARET. Good-by.

GILBERT. Good-by ... (Turns back once more.) Won't you at least, as a parting gift, let me have a copy of your novel? I gave you mine.

MARGARET. It isn't out yet--it won't be till next week.

GILBERT. If you don't mind telling me ... what sort of a story is it?

MARGARET. It is the story of my life--of course disguised, so that no one can recognize me.

GILBERT. Oh ...? How did you manage that?

MARGARET. It was quite simple. The heroine, to begin with, is not a writer but a painter ...

GILBERT. Very clever of you.

MARGARET. Her first husband was not a cotton-manufacturer but a great speculator--and she deceived him not with a tenor ...

GILBERT. Aha!

MARGARET. What are you laughing at?

GILBERT. So you deceived him with a tenor? That's something I didn't know.

MARGARET. How do you know I did?

GILBERT. Why, you've just informed me yourself.

MARGARET. I ...? How? I said the heroine of my novel betrays her husband with a baritone.

GILBERT. A basso would have been grander--a mezzo-soprano more piquant.

MARGARET. Then she goes not to Munich but to Dresden, and there has a relation with a sculptor.

GILBERT. Myself, I suppose ... disguised?

MARGARET. Oh, very much disguised. The sculptor is young, handsome, and a genius. In spite of all that, she leaves him.

GILBERT. For ...?

MARGARET. Guess!

GILBERT. Presumably a jockey.

MARGARET. Silly!

GILBERT. A count, then? A prince?

MARGARET. No--an archduke!

GILBERT (with a bow). Ah, you've spared no expense.

MARGARET. Yes--an archduke, who abandons his position at court for her sake, marries her, and goes away with her to the Canary Islands.

GILBERT. The Canary Islands! That's fine. And then ...?

MARGARET. With their landing in ...

GILBERT. ... the Canaries ...

MARGARET. ... the novel ends.

GILBERT. Oh, I see ... I'm very curious--especially about the disguise.

MARGARET. Even you would not be able to recognize me, if it were not ...

GILBERT. Well ...?

MARGARET. If it were not that in the last chapter but two I've reproduced all our correspondence!

GILBERT. What?

MARGARET. Yes--all the letters you wrote me, and all those I wrote you are included.

GILBERT. Excuse me ... but how did you get yours to me? I've got them all.

MARGARET. Ah, but I kept the rough drafts of them all.

GILBERT. Rough drafts?

MARGARET. Yes.

GILBERT. Rough drafts ...! Of those letters to me that seemed to be dashed off in quivering haste? "Just one word more, dearest, before I sleep--my eyes are closing already ..." and then, when your eyes had quite closed, you wrote me off a fair copy?

MARGARET. Well, have you anything to complain of?

GILBERT. I might have suspected it. I suppose I ought to congratulate myself that they weren't borrowed from a Lover's Manual. Oh, how everything crumbles around me ... the whole past is in ruins! She kept rough drafts of her letters!

MARGARET. You ought to be glad. Who knows whether my letters to you will not be the only thing people will remember about you?

GILBERT. But it's an extremely awkward situation for another reason ...

MARGARET. What is that?

GILBERT (points to his book). You see, they're all in there too.

MARGARET. What? Where?

GILBERT. In my novel.

MARGARET. What's in your novel?

GILBERT. Our letters ... yours and mine.

MARGARET. How did you get yours, then, since I have them? Ah, you see you wrote rough drafts too!

GILBERT. Oh no--I only made copies of them before I sent them to you. I didn't want them to be lost. There are some in the book that you never got; they were too good for you--you'd never have understood them.

MARGARET. For heaven's sake, is that true? (Quickly turns over the leaves of GILBERT'S book.) Yes, it is! Oh, it's just as if we told the whole world that we had ... Oh, good gracious ...! (Excitedly turning over the leaves.) You don't mean to tell me you put in the one I wrote you the morning after the first night ...

GILBERT. Of course I did--it was really brilliant.

MARGARET. But that's too dreadful! It'll be a European scandal. And Clement ... heavens! I'm beginning to wish that he may not come back. I'm lost--and you with me! Wherever you go, he'll know how to find you--he'll shoot you down like a mad dog!

GILBERT (puts his book in his pocket). A comparison in very poor taste.

MARGARET. How came you by that insane idea? The letters of a woman whom you professed to love ...! It's easy to see that you are no gentleman.

GILBERT. Oh, that's too amusing! Didn't you do exactly the same thing?

MARGARET. I am a woman.

GILBERT. You remember it now!

MARGARET. It is true--I have nothing to boast of over you. We are worthy of each other. Yes ... Clement was right; we are worse than the women at the Ronacher who exhibit themselves in tights. Our most hidden bliss, our sorrows, all ... given to the world ... Bah! I loathe myself! Yes, we two belong together--Clement would be quite right to drive me from him. (Suddenly.) Come, Amandus!

GILBERT. What are you going to do?

MARGARET. I accept your proposal.

GILBERT. Proposal? What proposal?

MARGARET. I'll fly with you! (Looks about for her hat and cloak.)

GILBERT. What are you thinking of?

MARGARET (very much excited, puts her hat on with decision). It may all be as it was before--so you said just now. It needn't be the Isar ... Well, I'm ready.

GILBERT. But this is perfectly crazy! Fly with me ...? What would be the use of that? Didn't you say yourself that he would know how to find me wherever I went? If you were with me, he would find you too. It would be a great deal more sensible for each of us alone ...

MARGARET. You wretch! Would you abandon me now? And a few minutes ago you were on your knees to me! Have you no shame?

GILBERT. What is there to be ashamed of? I am an ailing, nervous man ... I am subject to moods ... (MARGARET, at window, utters a loud cry.) What's the matter? What will the general's widow think of me?

MARGARET. There he is! He's coming!

GILBERT. In that case ...

MARGARET. What--you're going?

GILBERT. I didn't come hero with the intention of calling on the Baron.

MARGARET. He'll meet you on the stairs--that would be worse still! Stay where you are--I refuse to be the only victim.

GILBERT. Don't be a fool! Why are you trembling so? He can't have read both novels. Control yourself--take off your hat. Put your cloak away. (Helps her to take her things off.) If he finds you in this state, he'll be bound to suspect ...

MARGARET. It's all one to me--as well now as later. I can't endure to wait for the horror--I'll tell him everything at once.

GILBERT. Everything?

MARGARET. Yes, as long as you're here. If I come out honestly and confess everything, he may forgive me.

GILBERT. And what about me? I have better things to do in the world than to allow myself to be shot down like a mad dog by a jealous baron! (Bell rings.)

MARGARET. There he is--there he is!

GILBERT. You won't say anything!

MARGARET. Yes, I mean to speak out.

GILBERT. Oh, you will, will you? Have a care, then! I'll sell my skin dearly.

MARGARET. What will you do?

GILBERT. I'll hurl such truths into his very face as no baron ever heard before. (Enter CLEMENT; rather surprised at finding him, very cool and polite.)

CLEMENT. Oh ... Herr Gilbert, if I'm not mistaken?

GILBERT. Yes, Baron. Happening to pass this way on a journey to the south, I could not refrain from coming to pay my respects ...

CLEMENT. Ah, I see ... (Pause.) I'm afraid I have interrupted a conversation--I should be sorry to do that. Please don't let me be in the way.

GILBERT (to MARGARET). Ah ... what _were_ we talking about?

CLEMENT. Perhaps I may be able to assist your memory. In Munich you always used to be talking about your books ...

GILBERT. Ah ... precisely. As a matter of fact, I _was_ speaking of my new novel ...

CLEMENT. Oh ... then please go on. It's quite possible to discuss literature with me--isn't it, Margaret? What is your novel? Naturalist! Symbolist? A chapter of experience?

GILBERT. Oh, in a certain sense we all write but of things we have lived.

CLEMENT. That's very interesting.

GILBERT. Even when one writes a Nero, it's absolutely indispensable that at least in his heart he shall have set fire to Rome ...

CLEMENT. Of course.

GILBERT. Where else is one to get inspiration except from oneself? Where is one to find models except in the life around one? (MARGARET is growing more and more uneasy.)

CLEMENT. The trouble is that the model's consent is so seldom asked. I'm bound to say, if I were a woman, I shouldn't thank a man for telling the world ... (Sharply.) In decent society we call that ... compromising a woman.

GILBERT. I don't know whether I may include myself in "decent society"--but I call that doing honor to a woman.

CLEMENT. Oh!

GILBERT. The essential thing is to hit the mark. What, in the higher sense, does it matter whether a woman has been happy in one man's arms or another's?

CLEMENT. Herr Gilbert, I will call your attention to the fact that you are speaking in the presence of a lady!

GILBERT. I am speaking in the presence of an old comrade who may be supposed to share my views on these matters.

CLEMENT. Oh ...!

MARGARET (suddenly). Clement ...! (Throws herself at his feet.) Clement ...!

Clement (taken aback). Really ... really, Margaret!

MARGARET. Forgive me, Clement!

CLEMENT. But--Margaret ...! (To GILBERT.) It is extremely unpleasant for me, Herr Gilbert ... Get up, Margaret--get up! It's all right. (MARGARET looks up at him inquiringly.) Yes--get up! (She rises.) It's all right--it's all settled. You may believe me when I tell you. All you've got to do is to telephone a single word to Kuenigel. I've arranged everything with him. We'll call it in--you agree to that?

GILBERT. What are you going to call in, may I ask? Her novel?

CLEMENT. Oh, you know about it? It would seem, Herr Gilbert, that the comradeship you speak of has been brought pretty well up to date.

GILBERT. Yes ... There is really nothing for me to do but to ask your pardon. I am really in a very embarrassing position ...

CLEMENT. I regret very much, Herr Gilbert, that you have been forced to be a spectator of a scene which I may almost describe as domestic ...

GILBERT. Ah ... well, I do not wish to intrude any further--I will wish you good day. May I, as a tangible token that all misunderstanding between us has been cleared up, as a feeble evidence of my good wishes, present you, Baron, with a copy of my latest novel?

CLEMENT. You are very kind, Herr Gilbert. I must own, to be sure, that German novels are not my pet weakness. Well, this is probably the last I shall read--or the next to the last ...

MARGARET, GILBERT. The next to the last ...?

CLEMENT. Yes.

MARGARET. And the last to be ...?

CLEMENT. Yours, my dear. (Takes a book from his pocket.) You see, I begged Kuenigel for a single copy, in order to present it to you--or rather to both of us. (MARGARET and GILBERT exchange distracted glances.)

MARGARET. How good you are! (Takes the book from him.) Yes ... that's it!

CLEMENT. We'll read it together.

MARGARET. No, Clement ... no ... I can't let you be so good! There ...! (Throws the book into the fire.) I don't want to hear any more of all that.

GILBERT (delighted). Oh, but ...!

CLEMENT (goes toward the chimney). Margaret ...! What are you doing?

MARGARET (stands in front of fire, throws her arms round CLEMENT). _Now_ will you believe that I love you?

GILBERT (much relieved). I think I am rather in the way ... Good-by ... good day, Baron ... (Aside.) To think that I should have to miss a climax like that ...! [Exit.]

FRANK WEDEKIND

* * * * * *

THE COURT SINGER

A Play in One Act

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

GERARDO, Imperial and Royal Court Singer

MRS. HELEN MAROWA

PROFESSOR DUeHRING

MISS ISABEL COEURNE

MULLER, hotel proprietor

A valet

An elevator boy

A piano teacher

THE COURT SINGER (1900)

TRANSLATED BY ALBERT WILHELM BOESCHE, PH.D. Assistant Professor of German, Cornell University

SCENERY

Pretentiously furnished room in a hotel. Entrance from the corridor in the centre; also side doors. In front to the right a window with heavy closed curtains. To the left a grand piano. Behind the piano a Japanese screen covering the fireplace. Big open trunks are standing around. Enormous laurel wreaths on several upholstered armchairs. A mass of bouquets are distributed about the room, some of them being piled up on the piano.