IPS 3525 0125 1 113 1917 iCopy 1 MADAME SAND mmmstiKfmmmammmmmmmm Mli9il»a.'l Class Y?)?if>Ll Book ^— l^o CopyrightN«._llH CGEiBlGm DEPOSni MADAME SAND A Biographical Comedy SOME BORZOI PLAYS AND BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE WAR by Michael Artzibashef MOLOCH by Beulah Marie Dix "MORAL" by Liidwig Thoma THE INSPECTOR-GENERAL by Nicolay Gogol HADDA PADDA by Godmimdur Kamban NJU by Ossip Dymow THE ART THEATRE by Sheldon Cheney FOUR PLAYS BY AUGIER Preface by Brieux MR. GEORGE JEAN NATHAN PRESENTS by George Jean Nathan MADAME SAND A Biographical Comedy BY PHILIP MOELLER I!- IVITH A FOREWORD BY MRS. FISKE AND AN INTRODUCTION BY ARTHUR HOPKINS "As I have never loved before . . . " NEW YORK : ALFRED A. KNOPF : 1917 COPYRIGHT, 19 1 7, BY PHILIP MOELLER Published November ,1917 >► -51318 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OJ AMERICA ©CI.A4798U9 To MRS, FISKE for whom the play was written and to ARTHUR HOPKINS for whom I wrote the play KLAW & ERLANGER AND GEORGE C. TYLER Present S. FISKE —IN— A Three- Act Comedy by Philip Moeller. Under the direction of ARTHUR HOPKINS. THE PLAYERS (In the order of their appearance.) Rosalie , Jean Robb j Madame de Musset — Muriel Hope Paul de Musset ; Harold Hendee Casimir Dudevant , „..*.... Ben Lewin Euloz Walter Kingsford Heinrich Heine Ferdinand Gottschalk Alfred de Musset ...Jose Ruben Madame Julie Aurore Lucille Amandine Dudevant (George Sand) Mrs. Fiske Doctor Guiseppi Pagello .John Davidson Lucretia Violente. .Olin Field Mile. De Fleury Marjorie Hollis Mile. Rolande Imogen Fairchild Milt. De Latour Caroline Kohl Franz Liszt Owen Meech Frederic Chopin Alfred Cross Guests at the Reception of the Baron de Rothschild — PROGRAM OF FIRST PERFORMANCE AT THE ACADEMY OF MUSIC, BALTIMORE, OCTOBER 29, 1917 FOREWORD Onli^ one man has had the wit to paint Aurore Dudevant in a few swift words — Matthew Arnold. ''She was like one of the early gods,^^ he said — or something like it. Only her own hundred odd hooks can give even a faint understanding of this amazing woman. Among all women — this creature of a thou- sand colors — grande dame and Bohemian — gamine and daughter of kings, souhrette and philosopher, pagan and religieuse, housefrau and mad lover, everyday hard worker and impassioned dreamer, simpleton and sage, po sense and farm woman, trag- edy queen and imp of mischief, Sihyl and "big child," everything that lives and burns and flames i/n man or woman, George Sand the generous, the kind, the simple. What she loved best in aU the world was kindness. Your incorrigibly brilliant and funny play, dear Mr. Moeller, reached me in the North Woods and I laughed and laughed and then when I had quite fin- ished laughing I set out to learn something of George Sand — something that would give me better understanding than my superficial knowledge of the earlier flamboyant novels — or the beautiful peasant stories. But to study your astonishing heroine is [7] FOREWORD like swimming in the ocean. Gather into yourself all your knowledge of all men, women and children — unfold your entire ''comedie humaine" and George will play every part for you. Something of all mankind is hers and in splendor. George who could cut the hair from her head to offer it at the feet of her lover. George who could mend furniture at four vn the morning. George who, cigar in hand, could "slip from the balcony window" and swagger along the darkened road for twenty odd miles in the summer storm. George who could harangue a nation as well as any man. George who could wait with her kind eyes watching for the '^little cat that comes to us over the roofs" — wonderful, wonderful George with the friendly smile almost al- ways playing around her lips. The friendly smile that Heine loved — ridiculous, priceless George. And as I came to know her more and love her more and more as the most flagrantly human crea- ture in history, I began to feel that we, you and I, were party to an act of unforgivable impertinence in our conspiracy to reveal your Aurora as we have revealed her. But this feeli/ng passed — and passed because I continued to know her more and more and love her more and more and in this ever increasing love and knowledge I know that in no other way can she be revealed. Minnie Maddern Fiske [8] INTRODUCTION In "Madame Sand" the author has brought us past lives free from the odor of camphor and the rattle of moth balls. His resurrection of famous characters is worked with a touch that brings them really to life. It is not the efficacy of the embalming fluid but the glow of life that he has breathed into them. The biographical drama usually has the vigor of an obituary. Instead of "Here Is" it is invariably "Here Lies." But not so with George and Alfred and Pagello and Chopin and all the others. They live and breathe and seek. And in their seeking we find all that is at once human and tragic. Can one feel that George is seeking liberty or is it liberation .f* Is it not the hungry reaching-out for some new con- tact that will explain all the mysteries of life.? Is it not the dissatisfied soul — not dissatisfied with what it has but with what it feels.? Is not the same quest for the unknown to be found in Alfred and Chopin and to a less degree in Pagello.? Are these not souls between mediocrity and great- ness who scoff at the conventions of one and are lost in the mazes of the other.? Is it not a form of growth, of casting off, of revolution? [9] INTRODUCTION In the sunset — by the sea — at the mountain peak — in a stranger's arms George is seeking — seeking what ? Perhaps Zoe Akins has found the answer. In her play "Baby Bunting" the deserted mother sings to her child, "Bye Bye, Baby Bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting." The child asks "what for." The mother answers "God knows." God knows what tormented the restless George. Only a sensualist would think her scourge a physi- cal one. Only an angel would think it a spiritual one. So perhaps she hung half way between, a battle ground of conflicting desires, and in the con- flict was born all the expression she left behind. To the author rare credit must be accorded for bringing out so vividly the struggles — pathetic and comic — of George Sand, one of the great dissatis- fied. Arthub Hopkins [10] CHARACTERS Rosalie, Maid at Mme. Sand's. Paul de Musset, Alfred's brother. Mme. de Musset, Alfred's mother. Casimir Dudevant, Mme. Sand's husband. BuLOz, Editor of the Revue des Deux Mondes. Heinrich Heine, Alfred de Musset, Mme. Julie Aurore Lucille Amandine Dudevant — George Sand. Dr. Giuseppe Pietro Pagello, Mme.'s Italian Physician. LucREZiA VioLENTE, His Mistress. Mlle. de Fleury, Mlle. Rolande, Mlle. de Latour, Franz Liszt, Frederick Chopin, and Guests at the reception of Baron de Rothschild. The scenes are: Act I ^ The farewell supper at Mme. Sand's apartment in the Quartier, Paris, 183S. Act 11 Mme. Sand's apartment in Venice, 183^. Act in The reception for Chopin at Baron de Roths- child's, Paris. ACT I Rosalie's Omelet ACT I The Scene Mme. Sand's apartment in the Qwartier, Paris, 1833. It is a large studio-like room. Through a long window in the rear one sees the roofs of the city and the streets beyond with the first lamps lit. In the far distance are the twin towers of Notre Dame. The room is a shrine of literary Bohemia. The fur- nishings are of bizarre incongruity. An ornate Japanese screen barely hides an old-fashioned rub- ber bathtub, an India chest shows its design of arabesque in the shadow of a bed couch near a piano of the period. In the window are several cages in which canaries are asleep. On the balcony is a sort of little conservatory enclosed in glass. About the place are truMks, half finished in the packing and clothes, hats and shawls are scattered about. Books are everywhere. In the center a table is set for sup- per. The place is dvm with candle light and shad- ows. The atmosphere is confused, that of an im- promptu feast on the brink of a sudden farewell, Rosalie, Mme. Sand's servant, a pretty blunt coun- try woman of about thirty, does not know that the curtain has risen. She is seated at Madame's writing desk and at the moment is deeply puzzled, attempt- [15] MADAME SAND [Act I] ing to read the fifth chapter of Madame's new novel which is piled in manuscript before her. She turns the leaves, one hy one, and is bored. The bell of the concierge jangles. She reads on. Again the jang- ling of the bell. The girl is oblivious. The canaries wake to a little shower of song^ then silence, then footsteps below im^ the streets. Rosalie mystified, turns another page. Madame doesn't write for such as she. A knock at the door. She jumps up, pushes the manuscript into the rear of the desk and opens the door to Paul and Mme. de Musset. Mme. DE Musset is an aristocrat, a mother of the old regime who never loses the quiet dignity of her man- ner even under the stress of intense emotion. Paul, the elder brother of a more famous brother, exists only in his own estimation. He hopes he is some- thi/ng of a gallant and doesn't for a moment doubt that he is a wit. Mme. de Musset. (Sinking into a chair) Those stairs ! Ah, my poor heart ! Paul. You took the four flights without stop- ping. Mme. de Musset. Do you think a mother ever stops when her son is in peril? Rosalie. {To Paul) Good evening, monsieur. Mme. de Musset. I am Mme. de Musset. Is Mme. Sand in? (She glances about the room) Rosalie. No. Madame is not at home. Mme. de Musset. (To Paul) Home! Why there is actually a bed in the dining room ! [16] [Act I] MADAME SAND Paul. These artists think it is a waste of time to live in more than one room. Mme. de Musset- You might spare me these dis- gusting details. (Then to Rosalie) What time will Mme. Sand return? Rosalie. I do not know, Madame. Mme. de Musset. But you must know. I am Alfred de Musset's mother. Rosalie. He is kind to me. He gave me a hun- dred francs when my sister was careless — and — Mme. de Musset. Alfred! Paul. Mother, Alfred is not the papa of every bambino in Paris. (Then to Rosalie) You don't know when they are coming back? Rosalie. These days I know nothing. Every- thing is up-side down now that Madame is leaving. Mme. de Musset. Ah, my mother's instinct. I was right. So she is going when — -when? Rosalie. I do not know, because Madame does not know. On Monday I pack because Madame is leaving on Wednesday. On Wednesday I unpack because Madame is staying till Friday. On Friday I pack because Madame leaves on Saturday and on Sunday I unpack because Madame isn't going at all. Paul. You see, mother, there is no need to worry. Rosalie. And while I pack and unpack Madame sits writing, writing all the time. She never stops. I go to bed. At four in the morning I hear a noise. Madame wishes me, I say to myself. I come in. In- [17] MADAME SAND [Act I] stead of writing she is mending furniture. And then she goes out. One night I followed her. She leans on the walls of quays watching the river till the washer women come out and the sun's up. She's a queer one. All that scribbling has gone to her head. Mme. de Musset. Alone at five in the morning? Paul. Well, anyway, she is alone. Rosalie. Sometimes I try to read what she's written. I can't make it out. The words are too long. Sometimes she cries when she writes. (Mme. de Musset has been examining the room and at this moment she reaches the table) Mme. de Musset. The table is set. At what time do they dine.? Paul. They never dine in the Quartier. They only eat. (He enjoys this immensely) Mme. de Musset. Paul, how can you waste your time trying to be witty when Alfred is in danger. {Then to Rosalie) At what time is supper? Rosalie. Whenever Madame gets back. She or- ders dinner at six and it turns into supper at eleven. It makes no difference, nothing matters. Madame is busy writing. All the time writing, ex- cept when the gentlemen come. Dinner for break- fast, breakfast for lunch. She'll let her omelet cool while she scrawls her ten pages. Nothing matters as long as there's ink for Madame and plenty of cigars. It wasn't like this in the country. [18] [Act I] MADAME SAND Mme. de Musset. (Amazed) Cigars! Rosalie. Black and long, twenty-five centimes. Now I must see to my tarts. Mons. Alfred likes theni. Call if you want me. (She goes out) Mme. de Musset. Except when the gentlemen come ! Cigars ! Five o'clock in the morning ! God help my boy. (She is walking in agitation about the room. She stops in front of the screen) Heavens, isn't this a bathtub.^ Paul. What could be more innocent than an empty bathtub .? Ha! Ha! Mme. de Musset. So this is her lair. (She runs her fingers over the top of the desk and lifts them covered with dust) She isn't very clean. So! In such a dusty place as this she snares men with her smiles. (She has reached the window) And look! (A tone of deep shame in her voice) In sight of Notre Dame. (She grows more excited) God grant I'm in time. Paul. You must keep calm, mother. Mme. de Musset. I am calm, Paul. I've been trained to control myself. Only peasants and lit- erary people give w^ay to their emotions. Paul. You shouldn't have come. Mme. de Musset. I do not regret it, even after having seen the place. I'll do my duty. She sha'n't take him with her. God give me strength. Paul. Hasn't he promised you he wouldn't go.^^ Mme. de Musset. Yes, but he will, unless I am by [19] MADAME SAND [Act I] to save him. She is his mistress — and I — am only his mother. Paul. If you had left it all to me. Mme. de Musset. As I did from the beginning and what has happened? Were you blind? When I asked you what was going on, you told me Alfred was looking well — my poor Alfred — and that Madame was only more intelligent than charming. Paul. You might think so yourself if you knew her. Mme. de Musset. Paul! Paul. Sometimes I envy Alfred. Mme. de Musset. My son! Have you forgot- ten I'm your mother? Paul. I don't think you'd better stay. Mme. de Musset. You were the elder. You should have known what would come of this. He was a most sensitive baby, a most fragile boy; and now at the beginning of his career, just when the great Hugo has praised his verses — she! she! My boy, my poor boy ! Paul. Why, you've never even seen the lady. Mme. de Musset. Yes, once in the Bois. She was driving with Alfred. I hid behind my sun- shade. She's a dragon decked in ribbons. God help him! Paul. Well — er — do you think she is the first woman that Alfred has — shall I say known? Mme. de Musset. (Defending her darling) No, Paul. How could one expect that from Alfred. [20] [Actt] MADAME SAND I can understand my son's having a mistress but let my son's mistress belong to my son. When my son belongs to his mistress it is time for his mother to descend from modesty and reticence. Paul. If you'd only given me a little longer. Mme. de Musset. They might have been on their way to Egypt and those dreadful crocodiles. My poor boy! (She weeps) Paul. What are you going to do.'' Mme. de Musset. Plead with her as a mother. She is a mother, isn't she? Paul. Heine says she was born a mother and that her dolls were her lovers. Mme. de Musset. Don't you ever bring that man to my house. These artists have been the ruin of Alfred. Are you to be the next.? Paul. You can't understand their sort. Mme. de Musset. Thank God for that. Paul. Mother, you're no match for her. Mme. de Musset. (Proudly) Why not, my son.? Paul. Because you're a lady and she's a woman. Mme. de Musset. I can descend. You think, don't you, that I know of nothing but my flowers and my old laces, — but life has taught me many things. Paul. A man must love, mother. Does it mat- ter whom? Love is only an affair of good evening, good morning — and good-bye. Mme. de Musset. Then he must say good-bye. {She sits down) [21] MADAME SAND [Act I] Paul. Do jou find it so pleasant here? Mme. de Musset. Pleasant ! Why the place reeks of Bohemia. Paul. (Taking up his hat) Then let's drive in the Bois. It will calm you. Mme. de Musset. For a little while. Perhaps the air will do me good. (Paul gives her his arm. They turn to- wards the door, Sudderdy she stops) But if they leave before we get back — Paul. Don't you see the table is set for supper? They are spiritual but they still have stomachs. (They have reached the door. Suddenly it flies open and Casimir Dudevant bursts in. He is ''fresh come^' from, Nohant and has been paying his respects to the Parisian cafes. He is rather handsome but not of an unusual sort, a mixture of the military and the country squire. At the moment he is a trifle unsteady) Casimir. (Politely but swayingly to Mme. de Musset) Good evening, Madame. Mme. de Musset. (Drawing back, half in dig- nity and half in fright) Another friend of Madame Sand ? Casimir. (With a deep tho tippling bow) No, Madame, not a friend. I am her husband. (And Paul and Madame de Musset are gone and Casimir from the top of the land- ing is waving them farewells. Then Rosalie [22] [Act I] MADAME SAND enters from the Mtchen with her dish of tarts. She doesnH see Dudevant who is now leaning against the wall in a corner near the door. A minute later and the girl is again engrossed vn the manuscript of Madame's Tiew booky "Valentine'') Casimir. (As he recognizes Rosalie) Good even- ing, my girl. Rosalie. How did you get in without ringing the bell? Casimir. I slipped by, my dear; because this morning when I asked below for Madame, my wife, he said no one was at home. And this afternoon again no one was at home, and when I said are you sure, he said he was sure, because Madame was never at home; and when I came again this evening (He sways a little) I couldn't bear to hear him re- peat himself, so I came right up. The door was open and here I am. Rosalie. Well, what do you want.? {He has been eyeing her as he used to at Nohant ) Casimir. First, I want to sit down. (And he does so) And now, have you a nice little glass of wine for my nice little stomach .^^ Rosalie. Another drop and you might spill over. Casimir. You haven't learned to talk like a Pari- sian. (He leans against the table) Rosalie. No, and I never wish to. Don't lean on that table cloth. It was clean three days ago. [23] MADAME SAND [Act I] Casimir. So then I'm in time for dinner — Ah, my poor little stomach. RosA]LiE. Get away from there. Casimir. If I weren't a gentleman, I mightn't like your tone. But I don't mind, I'm used to it. (Ro- salie turns away from hivi) I always like the swing of your hips, so I came up from Berri to get you. You can tell a horse by its flanks and a woman by the swing of her hips. (He comes nearer) RosAME. (More hotly) Get away! Casimir. So, so, and your hot little temper, too. Come here, my dear, I think I'd like to burn myself. (He steps nearer) Rosalie. None of that, I wasn't born yesterday. Casimir. Then thank God for to-day. Don't you like me-f^ Rosalie. No, I don't, and I never did. I wouldn't come within ten feet of you by choice. Casimir. Then I must take the first step. (Biit he -finds this difficult to do) Why don't you have sawdust on the floor? I can move much better in a stable. The city always makes me thirsty. (He begins singing) ''Horn sweet are the fields, the fields of clover." Stop looking at me like that. Rosalie. (Dodging him) What did you come here for.^^ Casimir. To tell Madame I don't like the way she's carrying on. Ain't I her husband.'^ I've come to take the census of her lovers, [24] [Act I] MADAME SAND Rosalie. {Resentmg this) Get out of here or I'll call the concierge. Casimir. Is he one of them too? Ha! ha! Call until all the pretty angels listen, you can't budge me. (He tries to take her in his arms. She runs from him) Casimir. (Reeling a little) Come over here and kiss me. (He tries to get her into a corner) I've always wanted you. (He has crossed the room and is in front of George's desk) So here's where she scribbles. Fine, very fine. But she never thinks of me. (He takes up some sheets of the new manuscript) Rosalie. Let that alone. (She pushes him away from the desk and stands on guard) That cost Madame five sleepless nights. Casimir. And how many sleepless nights do you think Madame has cost me.^^ (He sings ''Your teeth are like dew in the roses.'*) I haven't forgotten you, my pet. (He lurches towards her and slips his arm around lier waist) Rosalie. (Shoving him away) You'd better get out of here before the gentlemen come. Casimir. Maybe I will and maybe I won't. I'll stay to see my darling. (And then very maudlin) I'm the father of her children, she's the mother of [25] MADAME SAND [Act I] mine. Nature, how wonderful is nature. She, me, then — they. One and one make — many. She is ill she writes to her mother, and I come up to Paris to see her and you, my pet. If she's ill, she needs me. (He weeps) Look at me, I'm a very worried hus- band. Kiss me, before my heart breaks. Rosalie. Get away, I'm too old for that sort of nonsense. I told you that long ago. Casimir. How do you know, my darling, until you've tried.? (He hums) "How innocent are the fields, the fields." Rosalie. Sh — be quiet! (His voice grows loud- er) Sh — some of the guests are coming. Casimir. Maybe they'll pity a poor wronged hus- band. Rosalie. They mustn't see you like this ; get out. Casimir. You want me to leave without seeing her.? What gentleman would do that.? (He again busts into melody) ''How sweet are the fields.''^ Rosalie. (Pushing him toward the kitchen) Sleep it off in my room, behind there. Casimir. Sleep, gentle sleep, how sweet are the fields. (He stops) But I must see Madame. Rosalie. Yes, yes, I'll tell her. She'll come in to you. Get out ! Get out ! (There is a sownd of footsteps on the stairs and Casimir barely tumbles into the kitchen as Rosalie opens the door for Buloz and Heine. Buloz is a sort of sublimated jour- nalist, terse, pat, with his eyes perpetually on [26] [Act I] MADAME SAND the literary chance. He is editor of The Re- vue des Deua? Mondes and finds Madame's '*stuff*^ an attractive feature. Heine is a tense, wanderi/ng soul who has drifted to the spiritual haven of Paris. Distinguished, keen, — he is dynamic even in unessentials. BuLoz. I almost knocked you over, Heine. Heine. I was finishing this on the last landing. I've been half an hour coming up. Each floor I read a few pages. {He looks at an open book in his hand) She writes like water tumbling from a pump. Some day her words will flood the boulevards and Paris will be drowned. Rosalie. Good evening, gentlemen, Madame will be back soon. BuLoz. Good evening, Rosalie. ( Then to Heine) Whenever George finishes a new book, I kiss Rosalie and sometimes she kisses me. It's a sensible arrange- ment. (Then to Rosalie) When Madame leaves, would you like to come and cook for me? Rosalie. No, sir; I'm a respectable girl. BuLOZ. (Ana:iously) They're leaving to-night, aren't they? Rosalie. I don't know. One day she's going, the next she ain't. (Casimir's voice is heard singing in the kitchen) Rosalie. Ah! I haven't washed the endive. {The voice becomes more distinct — "The field of cl — o — ver^*) [27] MADAME SAND [Actl] Heine. How sweetly the salad sings. (Rosalie exits. Heine has reached the table) Heine. Seven candles. That's for luck, but I thought George was giving this farewell supper to commemorate her parting from Alfred. BuLOZ. The bulletins differ. But we'll surely know before morning. Heine. If his mother interferes it will be difficult for George. A woman can do what she wants with a man until another woman knocks at the door. Then the Gods bend down to listen, knowing the odds are even. BuLoz. There's the real danger. Tho he doesn't know it, he still obeys his mother. She has written George threatening to prevent it. Heine. And George.? BuLOZ. She's distracted with uncertainty. I've had five letters since noon. The first dark despair. Alfred has again given his word to his mother. He won't go. (He takes a packet of letters from his pocket) The third is cryptic. What do you make of this.? (He reads) ''Night, Nubian night, but a skylark still soars in my heart." Heine. Rather confining for the skylark. BuLOZ. Then the fourth — again abject misery. Written on the back of a menu of the Cafe de Soleil. She contemplates suicide. Heine. Everybody does since "Werther." She'll probably live till ninety. [28] [Act I] MADAME SAND BuLoz. (Glancing at the paper) She regrets the river is frozen near the quays. Every week, every hour, they decide to part — but the fire of hope bums eternal. Heine. (An echo of bitterness in his voice) Till fate chokes the flame with the douche of disillusion. BuLOZ. You're still young enough to be a pessi- mist ? Heine. Pessimism is my spiritual purge. How else can I keep my soul clean in this filthy world.'' My faith is the faith of to-morrow. I'm a Jew by birth, a Christian by necessity and an atheist by conviction. (He glances at the table) Changeably religious — but always hungry. When will they be back .? BuLoz. Here's her last note. They are going to- gether to the top of Notre Dame, to say farewell in the sunset. Heine. Pinnacles are her obsessions. But she'll come down. Bed's the great leveler. Can't you see them, Buloz.'' Here's Madame preparing for the lover's leap. The last farewell has driven them to madness. There's de Musset peeping over the para- pets, — wondering just where they'll bump first. And the gargoyles with their granite hearts, — hideous be- cause they are doomed to grin forever, — ^leer in silence lest their laughter should shake the turrets when George again nobly renounces death. (Then bitterly) Ah, Buloz, beware of this love of ours. It is our enemy, most selfish, most subtle, and most [29] MADAME SAND [Act I] sinister. What time does the coach start for Lyons ? BuLoz. At nine from the Post Hotel. Heine. (Looking at his watch) Nearly eight. They'll be here in ten minutes. Supper in fifteen. Haste may outwit his loving and too watchful moth- er. They've tasted love and drunken, they know not they are drunk. Then, Italy — Italy, where golden youth lies sleeping in the shadow of the centuries. Italy and dreams — and then some rainy morning, — the awakening. BuLoz. They must go. Think what it means to me. Heine. You ? BuLOz. I've signed with her for five years. My subscriptions have been falling off. I needed just her sort of copy to boost them. Nothing sells like love. Heine. Except a liaison. BuLOZ. Exactly. Heine. (Musimgly) And if they should awake too soon and suffer BuLoz. (Laconic alii/) I count on that. Pa- thetic relief — the contrast of tears. Heine. There's a thought to make an essay. BuLoz. Send it to me fjrst. I'll print it in The Revue. Heine. (Half to himself) Some must suffer that others may sup. Socially, spiritually, everywhere, [30] [Act I] MADAME SAND always true — paying the toll to life — that others may sup. BuLoz. That ought to make, say, seven thousand words. Large type that means, shall we say — er — twenty pages? Heine. (Tempering his scorn with a smile) You journalistic Judas. For thirty new subscriptions you would sell your soul. BuLoz. (Oblivious) Or perhaps twenty-two pages. We can expect something from de Musset, too. Heine. Of course. He has a splendid past ahead of him, and besides he's a poet — a poet soaked in absinthe and dried in moonshine. But he needs more rust in his blood. BuLOz. (Dryly) And you.? Heine. I'm perfect where I am, Buloz, but not quite finished. Don't misjudge me. I'm not as mod- est as I sound, — ^but hungrier. (Rosalie rushes in from the kitchen) Rosalie. A cab has stopped in the courtyard. (She begins lighting the candles. Then to Buloz) Don't let her start writing again till dinner's served. Buloz. (Aruciously) Not if we can help it. Heine. But if Calliope descends Rosalie. Another of those actor people.? Put her out and remember the omelet. (She leans out of the window) Yes, it's them, it's them. Madame is helping Monsieur out. Madame is paying the driver. Monsieur Alfred is coming up. He'll be so [31] MADAME SAND [Act I] tired and so hungry. She's most likely been telling him novels all day. He's been so good to me. (And she rums into the hitchen) Heine. And how long do you think this affair will last, my friend? BuLoz. How long? Does that matter if the copy is good? {And Alfred stands m the doorway, a poety an aristocrat and something of a dandy. His glance is firm, his red lips half open. He is fragile and fine with that exquisite delicacy of virility, so irresistible to women) Alfred. {In the doorway) My friends! My friends ! So you have come to say good-bye and I have come to say good-bye. I am giving up forever (BuLoz starts) the most beautiful companion that man has ever known. (Rosalie enters) Rosalie, a glass of wine. {He drinks it and sinks into a chair) See my people for me. I cain't face them now. I might' curse my mother whom I would die to save from suffering. {His head drops in his hands) Buloz, you see my brother and say good-bye for me, and you, Heine, because your style is rarer, you see my mother and tell her I bless her and will pray for her and will write her when my wound is healed. BuLoz. {Low, to Rosalie) Bring the soup. Alfred. I'm so tired. George almost carried me up the last turn of the tower. Paris was like a fading print below us. Half-way up we saw two lovers embracing in a window. [32] [Act I] MADAME SAND Heine. Life is a see-saw and love swings the plank. Up and down, up and down. Alfred. Till we slip, and the blind little worms are waiting. On the top of the tower verses came to me. I called them "The Blind." Where's the ab- sinthe.? Listen. (He pulls out his cuff and hegms reading the lines he has composed and which he has scrawled on his linen) "The nightingale empassioned wounds his heart to sing. Whilst in the perfumed shade of roses mating. Love bursts to blossom each new bud of spring. But death, dim death, with scythe in hand stands waiting." (RosAME, enraptured in spite of herself, stands in the door to the kitchen. Heine looks at BuLOz, who, on tiptoes, goes over to her) BuiiOZ. {Whispering aside to RosAiiiE) I told you to bring the soup. (And she goes out) Alfred. That's death's victory and life's defeat. We are the blind. Heine. We ostriches sticking our heads in the* sands of hope. (And at this moment enters George — the hrilliant, sumptuous, ridiculous hut conquer- ing George. Sh^ is never sentimental, never I sententious, never conscious of her exuher- [33] MADAME SAND [Act I] ance or her exaggerations ; mistress of every- thing hut her emotions which, tho she thinks she masters, master her. The men listenmg to Alfred do not see her) Alfred. {Turning over his cuff, goes on with his reading) "Upon the moon-white waters glides the lonely swan, The willows bend — (He stops, looks at the other side of his cuff, then back, then to the other cuff) Alfred. {Slightly embarrassed repeats the last lime) "The willows bend" — ahem — eh — ( There is a pause) I must have stopped writing. {And then George steps forward and speaks very simply in spite of her emotion) George. You did, Alfred, because at that very moment we said good-bye forever. {Again Buloz starts) We were born but to say good-bye. {There is a danger that the moment may become unbearably sublime, but Rosalie op- portunely arrives with the steaming tureen) Rosalie. Here's the cream of onions, Madame. BuLOz. {Sniffing) Supper at last. George. {To Buloz) Is your stomach more important than our souls .^^ Heine. No ! But emptier. {And the romantic spell is broken, and greetings are exchanged) George. {To Buloz) Did you get all my let- ters? {Then to Heine) Don't be too bitter to- [34] [Act I] MADAME SAND night. I always mistrust you pessimists. Far down you're apt to be so sweet. Look deep enough in tears there's laughter, and deep enough in laughter, tears. Ah, well! Let's be gay. Tho we feast on the brink of a precipice I shall smile. One must either smile — or die. {During this speech they have taken their places at the table) Alfred. Where's the absinthe .f^ George. Not too much, Freddo, you'll get drowsy and I can't let you sleep here to-night. I've got to unpack and finish five chapters. BuLOZ. (Eagerly) Five chapters to-night.'' George. Perhaps six. I'm very tired. (She looks lovingly at Alfred) My soul has been sapped to-day but I must work. That's the one way of for- getting. Six chapters — and I haven't yet planned the fourth. (She sits for a moment in deep thought eating radishes) I'll bring in this farewell supper. Why not, why not, I ask you.'' My stories are the mirror of my life. Tho I write with my heart's blood, still I must write. This supper will make chapter five. (She starts improvising) After the opera this little farewell feast. Bitter herbs and tears. (She begins eating the onion soup as she talks) For weeks, Olivia has refused to see Ray- mond, but that night at the opera to the divine strains of Donizetti their eyes have met. (She leans towards Heine) Have you ever tasted such superb onion soup.'' Where was I? (A moment and then [35] MADAME SAiSfD [Act I] she recaptures her theme) Ah ! jes ! Raymond has left his box and come over to Olivia's. Her hair is dark as night in the Apennines. (Then very sadly) We might have seen the Apennines, Freddo — if Alfred. "If" is the epitaph on the tomb of op- portunity. George. {Patting his hand) Never mind, dear. We must be brave. (Another loving glance and then she goes on with her story) There in the shadow of her box, whilst the melting music woos the stars. (Suddenly she jumps up from the table and brings paper, ink and pen from her writing desk. Writing, she repeats) Whilst the melting music woos the stars — charming phrase, isn't it.f' — There is a hur- ried conversation. Yes, she will go to his apart- ments, that very night for their last supper together. Theirs and — ours, Freddo, — ours. (She chokes back a sob) Heine. (The tension getting on his nerves) You might open the window, Rosalie. George. (Continuing) She has ordered her coachman to drive thru the Bois. She must think, her brain pulses like Vesuvius. (She gives a quick glance in Alfred's direction. He sits sadly examin/- ing the bottom of his empty glass. She goes on) Vesuvius. Passion masters her. Where are the olives, Rosalie.'' (She continues) It has begun to rain. She leans from the window. The great drops wound her brow. (She makes a note of this) Yes, [36] [Act I] MADAME SAND she will go to Raymond, but^ — to say farewell. That ought to be a good ending for chapter four. Heine. Yes, very. If it ends there. George. Chapter five. Her husband has been hunting tigers in the Pyrenees. BuLoz. But are there any tigers in the Pyrenees.? George. What difference does that make.? Aren't there giraffes in the zoo.? (Bui.oz consoles himself with his fish) George. ( Unruffled) Her husband, whilst hunt- ing tigers — (A glance at Buloz) Is the salmon nice and fresh ? ( Then she goes on) Whilst hunting tigers has been wounded. Chapter five brings him back to Paris. At an inn on the way he has seduced Carmella, a peasant girl. BuLOz. {Methodically) Of course 1 Heine. Is there a peasant girl in Europe that hasn't been seduced.? George. (Undisturhed) He brings with him a Spanish dagger, bought at Burgos. A1.FRED. (Catching her spirit) From a stall near the sunburnt cathedral. George. Sunburnt cathedral — that's a charming phrase, Freddo. (She jots it down) Alfred. (Playfully) Plagiarist. George. (Fatting his hand) Darling. He ar- rives at his home. It is past midnight. Madame is out. In her boudoir he finds Raymond's handker- chief. He recognizes the crest. Meanwhile, the lov- ers are at supper. How do you like it, Buloz.? [37] MADAME SAND [Act I] BuLoz. That's just the place to announce the next instalment. Alfred. Why have we decided to part.? George. We ? Alfred. I might have persuaded you to give up writing novels. BuLoz. Nonsense ! Alfred. Then think of the blissful life we might have led together philosophising under all the chest- nut trees in Europe. {He takes her hand) George. {Looking deep into his eyes) We must learn to live alone, Freddo — alone. {She presses his hand to her lips) (BuLOz sits watching them) Heine. {Aside to Buloz) Don't worry, she won't stop writing. Every novel to George is a new love aifair. She always sees them thru to the end. George. But you mustn't interrupt me, Freddo. {Then choking back her sobs) I call him Freddo because we were going to Italy together. Where was I? {Recalling) The rain has ceased. {There is a slight disturbance in the kitchen^ Buloz. {At the door) Sh — be quiet. Madame is composing. Rosalie. {Sticking her head in, rather excited) I'm beating the eggs for the omelet. {She closes the door) George. {By mistake sprinkling her salmon with [38] [Act I] MADAME SAND sugar) They are out on the veranda together in the moonlight. Alfred. What would the romantic movement do, if it weren't for the moonlight. BuLoz. That's sugar, George, not salt. George. (Oblivious) She has come to say fare- well, but poor, weak woman, she has forgotten the feud twixt flesh and spirit. — ^We are but marionettes hung from the nimble fingers of the Gods. Heine. (Looking up quickly as he breaks his bread) Yes, all of us! We jig at the end of the wires, poets and cooks, saints and grisettes — hung from the nimble fingers of the Gods. All, all of us — even you, George, — even you! George. You mustn't break in with your Ger- manic philosophies. (Then as she turns to Alfred, slightly wetting her lips with her tongue) There in the pungent odors of the night they melt into each other's arms. And Olivia turns only to see her hus- band standing in the room. (And this is only too true, for the noise outside has im^cr eased, and at the next mo- ment, Casimir bursts vn from the kitchen^ bot- tle in hand. The men jump up) George. (Quite calmly) Oh, you! Wait a min- ute, please. (Then unperturbed, she goes on with her story) Olivia, trembling like a lily in the wind (She is writing this all down) throws herself between the men as the Burgos blade (A loving glance at Alfred) bought from a stall near the sunburnt [39] MADAME SAND [Act I] cathedral, — ^flashes in the moonlight. (She dots the sentence and turns to Casimie) George. And now, what do you want.? Casimir. (Leering) You. I want you to come back to the country, my dear. I've no one to talk to, your mother's too old and the servants each has each. (He comes towards her. Alfred inter- cepts hvm) Alfred. Don't you dare come near this lady. Casimir. Eh.? (Heine goes over to the window and stands there calmly smoJdng. The others are all excited except George, who sits quietly fin- ishing her salmon. Rosalie peeps thru the^ door) Alfred. Get out of here, you're drunk. Casimir. (Lurching forward) Ain't I her bro- ken-hearted husband? (He begins to weep) She's mine by law. George. Have you come up from Nohant to teach me the law? Casimir. You still talk just like a man, Aurora. You haven't changed at all, but you're a wee bit fatter, my dear, — a wee bit fatter. George. (Really resenting this) Nonsense, Cas- imir. (And then very significantly, as she glances towards the door) Good-evening, now. These three gentlemen are my friends. [40] [Act I] MADAME SAND Casimir. Friends, Aurora? Isn't that a fancy way of putting it? (He pats Rosalie on the cheek and begins singing ''How sweet are the fields'' ) Rosalie. (To George) He was after me at No- hant, too. That's why I came with you. He was awful bad and tho you're kind of queer, I knew it would be better with you and anyhow I'd be safe in Paris. Casimir. (Lyricallif) "The — fields — of — cl — oo — o — ^ver." Heine. So he was the singing salad ! Rosalie. I tried to keep him in there till you'd gone, because you told me this morning you'd surely be leaving for Venice to-night. (There is a quick glance exchanged he- tmeen Heine and Buloz. General consterna- tion is imminent, but George is ready) George. (Sweetly and with a swooning look at Alfred) But since then so much has happened. (Trustingly he takes her hand. Heine comes down to Buloz) Heine. (Aside to Buloz) I can't let these do- . mestic scenes spoil my supper. (He sits down and "begins to eat) Casimir. (To Alfred) Let go that lady's hand. Alfred. Keep away or I'll throw you out of the window. Casimir. You will? (He roars with laughter) You will, — you, with your pale face and your hair [41] MADAME SAND [Act I] like a woman's? I'm a soldier, young man, do you know I'm a soldier? (Alfred steps threateningly towards hvm) George. {Calmly) You'd better go now, Casi- mir, — {And then pointing it with smiling delicacy) before these gentlemen show you the way. The stairs are very steep, my friend. {Then she turns to Heine) Have some more salmon, do. Casimir. {Nastily) Look here, I've had enough of your cooing voice! Ain't you my wife? George. I have as much respect for our mar- riage contract as I have for you. The day you took the whip into your hands, I took the law into mine. Casimir. {Cowering) Wives don't talk that way. George. Then it's time they did. I don't want you, I don't need you. {And then ever so sweetly) Are you going now? Casimir. {Reaching the door and stopping) I can't leave, I can't. (BuLoz«7z J Alfred step forward, George, with a gentle smile on her face, sits watchimg the scene) Casimir. You see — well — er — I George. Is it money, my dear? Casimir. {Brightening) Just like you, Lucy. Sooner or later you get to the point. The fact is — {He reels) I lost a few francs at my inn. He had cross-eyes, Lucy. Never gamble with a cross-eyed man, — and now I've nothing to take me to Nohant. George. {Going to her desk) Here are twenty [42] [Act I] MADAME SAND francs. (And then to Bui.oz) Advance me a hun- dred, Buloz. So, — a hundred and twenty and you — (She turns to Heine) What do you add to get rid of this nuisance? That makes nearly two hundred. Rosalie, lend me ten francs. (Which the girl takes from her stocking) Alfred. And I.'' George. (Modestly/) No, no; not that. Could I borrow from 2/ou to get rid of a husband .^^ Alfred. If it means your happiness. George. (Melting) Well, since you put it so beautifully. (And unwillingly she takes the money and gives it to Casimir) George. Good-bye. Don't stop to thank us. (Casimir takes the money, and stuffing it vn his pocket, agavn reaches the door, and again stops) Casimir. I might have forgotten, Aurora, if my hand hadn't got to my pocket. (He takes out a crumpled piece of paper) Maurice sent you this. (He gives her a little water-color drawing) (George's whole manner changes. All the mother in her weUing up at the thought of Maurice) George. My little darling. How is he, Casimir.'' Is he well.f^ Does he blow his nose nicely.'' Is he kind to mother.'' Kiss him for me. (Casimir steps towards her, Alfred again threateningly intercept- ing him) [43] MADAME SAND {Act I] Casimlr. {StuTTihling hack) To think that I should live to see the day when my wife sits at table with murderers and long-haired swine. You've broken my heart, Aurora. (^And singing "Horn fair are the fields,''^ he reels down the stairs. There is am,< embar- rassed silence) George. {Lifting the gloom) My friends, don't take this too seriously. What does a husband mat- ter? He is an incident all married women should forget. {Then reminiscently) My marriage began what might have ended happily. {She smiles wanly at Alfred) What might have ended happily, Freddo, if fate had willed it. Alfred. Fate is our enemv. We are born to defeat. George. {Fervidly) What have I now to live for, but my children and my dreams? To-day I have lacerated my soul on the altars of renuncia- tions. {A poignant glance at Alfred) Life called us and we turned away. Alfred. How can I leave you to face the possi- bilities of such another scene? You have suffered and you have borne in silence. There are tears in your eyes. George. {Resignedly) My friend, do not hope to dry them. I must weep lest my heart break. {She looks imploringly thru the ceiling as tho trying to see Gody then she rushes over to the piano y she begins to play a sad lament , [44] [Act I] MADAME SAND m a desolate minor key. Then a few chords^ arpeggios y and she begins chanting) "The nightingale impassioned wounds his heart to sing, Whilst in the perfumed shade of roses mating." BuLoz. {To Rosalie, who stands listening) Go and get the omelet. Rosalie. The eggs are beat. Heine. (With an apprehensive glance towards the piano as Rosalie goes out) And put plenty of rum in it. (And then to Buloz) You shouldn't have brought me here. I can't stand music while I'm eating. BuLOz. Honestly, I didn't count on this sort of thing. Alfred. {Tenderly to George) You have re- membered my poor verses. George. Are they not seared in my soul.'' {More arpeggios. Then thru her sohs she continues her chant) "Love burst to blossom each new bud of spring. But death — {a chord, two chords, three chords) Dim death with scythe in hand stands " {She can't finish the line. She throws her- self into Alfred's arms. A passionate ern- brace. Then she rushes from him over to the window. It is nicely timed, the moon is ris- ing. Swiftly she opens one of the bird cages and takes out one of the canaries) [45] MADAME SAND [Act I] George. (In an ecstasy) At least there shall be one free thing answering the winds of desire. (She sets the bird free) Let him fly into the dawn. BuLOZ. Him? How does she know it's a him.^ Heine. In such matters she is infallible. (There is a tableau at the window. The music f the moonlight and the flight of the bird have been too much for Alfred. He leans sobbing against the window frame. George is watching him. Then suddenly he reels about) Alfred. No ! no ! I shall not sacrifice two souls to duty. Heine. (Dryly) As I thought. He is begin- ning to realize that virtue is its own disappointment. (George and Alfred are vn each o therms arms. A passionate embrace thru which Heine and Buloz speak) Heine. Don't you think we had better go into the kitchen .f^ Buloz. Why.? Heine. I am being pushed into the corner. Nothing fills a room like love. (A sigh from the lovers) When do you think it will be finished? Buloz. (With an apprehensive glance towards George and Alfred) What? The kiss? Heine. (With an eager look in the direction of the kitchen) No. The omelette. (A moment later and Alfred in a rapture swings George toward the open imndow) [46] [Act I] MADAME SAND Alfred. Listen, over the rumble of the city love is calling ! Beyond the roofs of Paris lie the radiant valleys of the south! Heine. Splendid eye-sight, hasn't he? The heart sees all. Aleeed. You love me, George.'' George. (Mysteriously/) As I have never loved before. Alfred. (^Lyrically) There is a higher right than duty, my adored one. Let us not hesitate. Love is calling. Italy and the waiting years. Italy,, where one drinks oblivion in a moment's ecstasy. George. {In a sort of vision) Italy! — The moon is rising in my heart. {A trill of song from the canaries.) Listen! That is the music of the serenata. The night is waiting. We are at the gates of Eden. Alfred. Then let us enter in. Heine. At the very gates. What if they should slip ? {A sound comes up from the street. Voices, laughter. It is Paris, not Italy. Suddenly George awakes) George. (Her voice gone gray) And your mother? Alfred. She is dead to me. Let us escape from the shadow of her tomb. George. (Barely controlling her triwmphant satisfaction) Alfred, my own, I have been waiting. [47] MADAME SAND [Act I] {A gam they are in each other's arms as Rosalie arrives with the omelet) George. Quick! My bags, my trunks, my shawls, my manuscripts ! {Then foUows a scene of intense confusion, all of them running about to get the traps ready while Heine, undisturbed, sits eating) George. Hurry, Rosalie, my bonnet! Rosalie. The new one with the broad brim which you bought for Italy? George. Yes, hurry, hurry. (BuLOz is out of breath strapping the bags. Supper is forgotten. Alfred is no help. He is in the way; every moment insist- ing on clasping George to his bosom. Soon, however, they are ready) BuLOZ. You go by way of Avignon.^ George. Yes — but first a stop at Lyons to see Stendahl. Alfred. (Remonstratingly) But he will talk to us all night. George. No. He will dance for us in his Rus- sian boots. And then the sea. Heine. (As he takes the last olive) Yes. We are all of us afloat. George. (Her voice aflame) Ah, my friends, life is meant to be squandered. Buloz, Heine, fare- well, farewell. I'll write — I'll write. (Then general embracing. For a moment the lovers stand bathed in the moonlight that [48] [Act I] MADAME SAND floods the room. Confused voices: ''Good- bye, farewell, Italy, life, love, etc., etcJ** They turn to leave. Suddenly there is a knock at the door. Rosalie looks up. She hesitates. Then she goes to the door. In a moment she is back) Rosalie. (Furtively) There is a lady to see you, Madame. George. (Gayly) Tell her I am dying of love and can see no one. RosAiiiE. She's been here before. George. I never turn a beggar from my doors. Buloz, give me twenty francs. Rosalie. ( Vainly trying to warn her) She came in a carriage. George. I've no objection. Let her drive back in it. (The knock is repeated. Timidly Rosalie opens the door and Mme. de Musset and Paul enter.) Alfred. Mother ! Mme. de Musset. (Who with quiet dignity has arisen to the occasion) Alfred! Buloz. (Under his breath) Mme. de Musset! Mme. de Musset. (With gentle courtesy) Par- don this late intrusion, Madame. I see I disturb you at dinner. (And then, pointing the facts with delicacy, but with a will behind it) I thought my son might be leaving and would care to drive home- with me. [49] MADAME SAND [Act I] (A tense moment. The literary history of France hangs in the balance, and then Mme. DE MussET hrilUantly comss to the rescue) Mme. de Musset. {With sudden inspiration) Delightful weather for December? Heine. {Dryly) It always is. BuLoz. {Clearing his throat) Hem! Mme. de Musset. {Quietly hut -firmly) Well, Alfred.? AiiFRED. Please, mother, let's avoid a scene. Mme. de Musset. I've spent most of my life do- ing that, my son. {She glances at George) Are you coming, Alfred.? Alfred. I — I must speak to you. Mme. de Musset. It will be very quiet in the car- riage. Paul can take a cab. {And then, with a note of graceful condescension, she turns to George) Madame, I hope I find you well.? {And then equally sweetly, George, who mentally has been aiding destiny, answers her) George. I'm well, Madame, I thank you, very, but won't you and your son finish supper with us.? We've but just begun. RosAME. {Cheerily) Yes, the omelet just fin- ished. Have some. Monsieur Paul. It's the kind you like. {Paul involuntarily steps towards the table) [50] [Act I] MADAME SAND Mme. de Musset. Paul! (Then to George) Thank you, Madame, but I've already supped. But we are keeping you so long from table. Come, Al- fred, have you forgotten that you promised to read your new verses to your sister's friends, this even- ing.'' (She steps towards the door) A thousand apologies for my intrusion. Good-evening, Madame ; good-evening, gentlemen. Come, my sons. (Paul is at his mother's side. All eyes are on Alfred. He steps towards the rack where he has hung his cape and hat. A pause. Then George takes the reins) George. Madame, will you permit me to speak to you alone .P Mme. de Musset. I doubt, Madame, if there is anything that we have to say to each other. George. (Significantly) Butterflies are fragile. Shall we bruise them on the anvils of our rashness? Mme. de Musset. (Slightly mystified) Pardon me, Madame, but George. Gentlemen, you will excuse us. There are things that we women say to each other that you men can never know. Don't go into my bedroom, if you please. The bed is tossed. (And Rosalie and the gentlemen go off leaving the candle-lit battle-field to George. Throughout the following scene her tone varies. One moment she is soft and feminine, the next masculine and dominant! [51] MADAME SAND [Act I] George. And now we can have a nice cozy chat together. Do sit down. Mme. de Musset. (Stiffly) Thank you. (Bwt she remains standing) George. (Lightly) As you please. (And George, turning a chair about, seats herself at the table) George. (Offering Mme. de Musset a cigarette) Will you smoke? Mme. de Musset. That is one of the things, Ma- dame, that I leave to men. George. (Pleasantly) That's the mistake we women make. We leave too much to the men. We bury our souls in satin, and they take advantage of our weakness. Perhaps you would prefer a cigar, Madame. Mme. de Musset. (A gasp) No, Madame. George. After breakfast I cannot live without my cigar. The odor is so delicious mixed with my rose geraniums. (She sniffs) Is there anything in the world so redolent as the odor of rose geraniums, — or perhaps you prefer jasmine.'^ But it's too late for jasmine. Mme. de Musset. (Involuntarily sitting down) Madame, do you think I came here to talk botany .f' George. (Tensely) No, Madame. You came to do what God alone can do, to command two peo- ple to cease loving each other. Do you think you can do that, Madame.^ Since the beginning of time all nature has been preparing for this love of ours — [52] [Act I] MADAME SAND Alfred's and mine. The stars are in their allotted places so that we might love. Mme. de Musset. I know nothing about astron- omy. George. (Oblivious) Eden first bloomed so that we might love. (She has stretched across the table and has reached her ink and pen and paper, and in the shadow of the sugar bowl, is jotting down the phrases that particularly appeal to her) Abel slew Cain — er — er — so that we might love. Since the re- motest hint of time, fate has willed it. Are you God, Madame.? Can you toy with destiny.? Mme. de Musset. Pardon me, but I cannot un- derstand this literature you speak. George. You call my words literature.? No, in- deed, Madame, they are the burning truth, — a truth you cannot understand. You have lived too long in your damask-dusty world where the blinds are al- ways drawn whilst I, — I have cut my flesh on the thorns. Do you know what my life has been? Mme. de Musset. No, that I do not presume to know. I do not wish to know. It will not move me ; my son shall not go with you. What would become of him? George. He would enter the glorious kingdom hand in hand with the woman he loves. Do you dare deny him that? Can God,— God who is love be watching this? Mme. de Musset. Madame, spare me this melo- [53] MADAME SAND [Act I] drama. You are right. I have lived a guarded and what you would call a narrow life, but in that old- fashioned, ridiculous seclusion at which you scofF I have learned to respect tradition. George. (Tensely/) Need is the only tradition I acknowledge. Mme. de Musset. Alfred will not go with you. He has given me his word. He is a gentleman. George. Ah, yes. It takes generations to make a gentleman, but it takes only one man to make a generation. I am helping to make mine because I am free. He, too, must be free. Do not fetter a falcon lest he break his chains. Mme. de Musset. {Not qwite sure that she iwr derstands George's elaborate simile) If you mean that I restrain Alfred, you are wrong. George. Ah, that's what you would have him think. But you mothers have a way of holding on. I tell you he must be free to sing. I have bought my freedom with my heart's blood. I have suffered. Mme. de Musset. And we mothers, do you think we mothers do not suffer .^^ {This is a superb moment for George. She snatches from her bosom the little water- color drawing which Casimir has brought her) George. I too am a mother, Madame! Look what my darling son has sent me! This poor little painting of roses. {She is sobbing) Do you think I do not know a mother's heart? [54] [Act I] MADAME SAND Mme. de Musset. Then give my son back to me. George. I have not taken him. God has sent him. Ah, my friend, he has made me so happy. Every day finds me more attached to him. Every day the beauty of Hfe shines more briUiantly. Would you shatter this love of ours? He is my universe, my all. Mme. de Musset. (Slowly) Pardon me, Ma- dame, but you force me to be cruel. George. Go on, go on, life has not spared me, why should you? Mme. de Musset. You say you are his universe, but, Madame, are you sure you are all of this to hmi? George. Ask him and his tears will answer you. (She jots this down) After the desolation of my past he has come like a new dawn into my life. I was a mere girl when I married, young, furtive, reti- cent, romantic. I adored my husband. I gave him my faith, my life. And what did he make of them? Mme. de Musset. Spare me. George. (Leaning towards her) He tossed them to the first chambermaid that smiled on him. I suf- fered this because I still loved him. Men, — Madame, men never know what agony we women hush in our hearts. Mme. de Musset. (In spite of herself) Yes — that is true. George. I bore this. My baby came. I still preserve his first wee darling shoes. Mme. de Musset. (Off her guard) And I've [55] MADAME SAND [Act I] kept Alfred's curls. There's still a glint of gold in them. (Her voice softens) George. (Makmg the most of the moment) I bore this till the day he struck me. Mme. de Musset. (More gently) Struck you? George. Then I left him forever to find refuge in Paris and consolation in my work. Ah, Madame, do you begin to understand.^ (Then Mme. de Musset speaks very quick- ly attempting to cover a softening emotion which she canH suppress) Mme. de Musset. But why, — why have you chosen my boy from all the men you (She stops short) George. Because he has come as my first love, when I thought that love was over forever. You must not, you cannot take him from me. (Mme. de Musset is half -consciously be- ginning to pity her and she fights against it) Mme. de Musset. I am taking him away to save him. George. Save him? Is he not a man? Would you fling him to the grisettes of the boulevard as the Philistines flung Daniel to the lions? (Again the Bible. The Scriptures mere ever her "present help in trouble") No ! no ! I will be a mother to him. A mother and a mistress. That combination is unique, Madame, unique, but none the less sublime. Mme. de Musset. I George. (In a last beautiful effort) You are [56] [Act I] MADAME SAND his mother. You gave him life. He drank in love at your breasts. You have reared and tendered him and in gratitude he would give back some of this love you have given him. He would pay heaven by lov- ing in return. There are tears in your eyes. There are tears in the hearts of each of us. You have taught him love and now he would bring an offering of love to lay on the altar of my heart. Mme. de Musset. (Almost won) Your elo- quence, Madame George. No ! No ! It is not my eloquence, it is your mother's love, understanding the love of an unfortunate sister. (She throws herself on her knees before her, then with dulcet sweetness) May I call you mother.'' Mme. de Musset. I have misjudged you, Ma- dame. I ask your pardon. There is much good in your heart. George. I have opened it to you. (And then from a sublimated height of spirituality/) You will tell him to go with me. Mme. de Musset. (On the verge of a collapse) I— I George. (Veri/ gentle/) You will, mother? Mme. de Musset. (Slowly) Yes, he shall go with you. (And George sprvngs up and rushes tri- umphantly to the door of the kitchen) [57] MADAME SAND [Act I] George. (Calling) Alfred, Alfred. Madame, you have chosen well. {But the emotional strain has been too much for Mme. de Musset and she is weep- ing when Alfred enters) Alfred. Mother, my mother, do not weep. If one of us must suffer, it shall not be you. Mme. de Musset. My son, my son. Alfred. You have suffered agony to give me life, shall I not suffer agony to bring you peace.? Come, mother, I renounce my love, and will go with you. (And Mme. de Musset is so swept away by her son's nobility that she forgets her words to George) Mme. de Musset. (Throwing her arms about him) Then come, my Alfred, and your mother will help you to forget. (They move towards the door. A pause. George is almost swooning. But a moment later and she is ready even for this seeming defeat on the brink of victory. She bars their way) George. (Darkly) He loves me with his life. (And then very tragically) He will not hesitate if you come between us. He is a genius, and geniuses do not stop to think. (In horror Mme. de Musset looks at Al- fred. Dejectedly he turns away, his head fallen) [58] [Act I] MADAME SAND Mme. de Musset. (In terror) No! No! Not that ! Not that ! (The Tnen crowd vn at the doorway) AiiFRED. I am but a poor reed, broken in the wind of destiny. (George watches Mme. de Musset. Her last thrust has gone home) Heine. (With a quick glance at George as she puts on the new bonnet bought for Italy) The wind has changed. Ai^FRED. I am ready, mother. I shall go with you, tho I leave my life behind me. (Candle-light and pathos crown, the scene. Then Mme. de Musset speaks) Mme. de Musset. (Her voice trembling) No, Alfred, you shall go to Italy. I am your mother and I wish it. I have misjudged this lady. Her heart is noble. My blessings follow you. (She sinks into a chair at the table and Alfred throws himself on his knees before her) Alfred. My mother, my noble mother. (Pause. Tableau, then Buloz bustles in) BuLOZ. (Briskly) You haven't much time, if you're leaving to-night. The diligence starts from the Post in ten minutes. George. Quick, Rosalie, a cab, a cab. (Rosalie rushes out) Alfred, when Elysium beckons we'll not wait for baggage. Buloz, give Rosalie two hundred francs and send my trunks to Genoa and twenty [59] MADAME SAND [Act I] reams of Weynan paper. My pen adores it. Al- fred, Alfred, the world is kind. (Alfred has got up and braced himself with half a bottle of claret) Alfred. {Gayly) I'll write five comedies, a tragedy and three books of poems. BuLOz. Hurry ! Hurry ! (jOne or two wraps and a few small bags are hustled into the hall) Heine. Good-bye, fond lovers, the Gods have made you artists. (RosAME comes rushing in) George. (Rapturously) And love will make us Gods! Rosalie. There was a cab in the courtyard. (Then to George) He said you told him to wait all evening. (George from her pinnacle, disregardim^g this last blatant proof of her campaigning) George. Good-bye, — farewell, my friends. (And then beautifully to Mme. de Musset) Madame, God looks down on us. Love is all. Mme. de Musset. (Suddenly succumbing to the practical) Be sure that Alfred wears his heaviest flannels in that drafty diligence. George. Trust me! Love is all! (And snatching her half-finished manu- script from the desk, she and Alfred ru^h from the room, followed by Buloz and Heine. Mme. de Musset sits silently, quite overcome, [60] [Act I] MADAME SAND as Paul rvms over to the wmdow to watch the departure; and Rosalie begins clearing the table. She sees the omelet) Rosalie. (Laconically) And all those ten eggs wasted. ( Voices sound up from the courtyard. The noise has again wakened the canaries. There is a shower of song and the curtavn falls) END or ACT I [61] ACT II Nothing but Time Lasts Forever ACT U It is six months later. The scene is George's apartment in, the Hotel Danieli, Venice. It is even- vng. Through a great Venetian window, back center, vn the distance across the Grand Co/nal, can he seen the Island of San Giorgio with its Campanile sil- houetted against the moon. The room is huge tiled and gloomy. Deep shadows are everywhere. A few chairs are about, Madame's writing desk piled high with manuscripts is vn a corner, and to the right a great four-poster bed with the curtains drawn. But the hand of the occupant hangs below them and is just visible in the dim light of a night lamp which stands on a little bottle-covered table near the bed. There is a suggestion of the atmosphere of a sick- room, but somehow the idea of gloom is not too per- vasive. Outside on the Grand Canal a "serenata" is vn fuU swing. One hears the call of the gondoliers, the bump of the boats, the chatter of voices, the beating of tambourines and the shrill laughter of women, like little rockets shooting up vn the shifting hum of sovMd. A sudden stillness and then a man^s voice sings, lusciously, meltingly, a Venetian love song with an accompaniment like a Barcarole of Mendelssohn, [65] MADAME SAND [Act II] Italy — night — and love — and this sick-room. But still the background is fitting for in the deep, dark embrasure of the Venetian window in the rear which opens on a balcony over the canal, two figures are leaning, listening to their hearts and the music. They are George and her lover. George. No ! No ! Don't answer. The stillness is too eloquent. Listen ! Listen ! {The voice of the singer at the serenata, lifts in poignant ecstasy) George. Listen, his voice has reached the stars that bend down to hear. Ah, my beloved, love is the end and the beginning. {They are smoking in the shadows of the deep window. The fumes float out) George. Do jou know what my life has been until you came bearing a light in the darkness .^^ Nights of despair and dawns of disillusionment. Life was but a sorry riddle whose answer was death. {She is almost sobbing) That thought came to me yesterday in the Hebrew cemetery. All was over and now love again sings in my heart. Let silence be our prayer of thanksgiving. {A moment's attempt at this ^'silence,'' but the crowd outside do not understand its beau- tiful necessity and the next second the song is over and a tumultuous burst of applause lifts from the waters) George. And now we'll have tea. How beauti- fully he sang. Music is perpetual passion yearning [66] [Act II} MADAME SAND forever. Sli! — i^ou mustn't speak so loudly or our patient may awake. {She comes from the window. Her lover stops in the shadow watching her as she glides about. She dips a taper into the night- lamp and at the end of the room farthest from, the bed lights a candle standing in a bracket hanging on the wall. The stage grows a little lighter. She is dressed in man^s clothing and is smoking a hmge cigar. She leans over a little brazier George. Yes — it's bubbling. I adore cooking. Even making tea fascinates me. That's why Dumas would never come to see me in Paris — ah, Paris — he was jealous of my sauces. {She pours a little water into a tea-pot) Come, dear, it's ready. {And Dr. Pagei^lo steps out of the shadow of the window. He is George's deep-eyed, hesitant, but none too brilliant Italian doc- tor. He has no mental distinction, no au- thority, no particular magnetism,, but he is charmingly simple and George has discov- ered in him a latent talent for the tender one- syllabled sort of love which at the moment of the threatening ''debacW' of her affair with DE Musset, her soul needs; and withal though he is not too masterful he is extraor- dinarily handsome) George. Sh — You mustn't speak too loudly. He [67] MADAME SAND lAct TI] may awake. (Sh^ glances toward the bed) Though he has outraged our love, still I pity him. Pageli.0. He needs sleep badly. George. Ah, my friend, we must heal him. France needs him. He is weak, weak — his imagina- tion has sapped his will. {And then rather myste- riously) But he must not pass beyond. Pagello. No. He will live, but I do not see why you say pass beyond. It is very difficult for a phy- sician to understand how you other people feel about that sort of thing. George. {Half playfully) You ponderous sci- entist. You wicked, wicked materialist, don't you believe the soul goes on forever? {Then beautifully) Isn't love, — our love — an earthly symbol of the soul's eternity. Don't you understand that Pietro.'' Pagello. I — I used to understand only what I saw, but you somehow, you make me understand what I do not see. I cannot explain you to myself. George. I thought nothing was hidden from you doctors. Pa6ei.i.o. Most of the women I know are differ- ent from you. You are very unlike my mother. George. No, no, Pietro, perhaps you misjudge me. I, too, am only a woman. pAGEiii.0. I carry my mother's picture with me. See. {He shows her a little locket, which hangs from a chain about his neck) She is very dear to me. George. {Looking at the miniature) Your eyes — your brow — and that look of trust. Some day [68] [Act II) MADAME SAND you must tell me all about her. You will have a little rum? Yes — some day we'll go to her — you and I. (Pagello starts slightly) I'll read her part of my latest novel. I wrote for six hours last night. Pagello. (Deeply concerned) That's too much. George. And for seven again this morning be- fore breakfast. I've gotten used to it. (She glances toward the hed, and then with a note of genuine sad- ness in her voice) It helps me to forget. Pageli.0. (Professionally) Work like that is bad for you, you cannot keep it up, — or George. Is it can or cannot.'' I must live and to live I must write. Pagello. Why, even we physicians George. Yes, yes, I know. (She is smiling gently at him) Your mother will like my book and you too, Pietro. It is written out of my heart. Pagello. I think my father would care more to hear it. He is a scholar, you know. He has come up from Castelfranco to read some books in the library here. He is waiting for me in the Piazetta ; we are to have ices together. All day he is busy with his books, and in the evening I meet him. George. You are a dutiful son. Do not believe the cynics, Pietro. The world is full of dutiful sons. (A h^lf glance towards the bed) Pagello. He is writing a history of Castel- franco. He loves our home. George. Yes, yes, I too love the scenes of my childhood. Dear, secluded Nohant — but lately I [69] MADAME SAND [Act 11] have been dreaming (She leans a little toward him) of the Alpine hills. Why, even here in Venice I smell the scent of the almond flowers. (Then very ten- derly) You know the Alpine valleys, Pietro — it is spring (^And into the last word she crowds all the essence of the sweet hegmning of things) — spring. Pagello. I have seen very little. Venice and the country about my home. George. Yes, we will go there some day. Pagello. George! (He leans towards her, then stops) George George. You have an adorable way of hesitating and then a lovely worried smile comes into your eyes. You must ever stay what I know you are rather than what you may be. Pagello. What I am, what I have done, does that matter now? George. You must tell me nothing. (She glances towards the bed) Once before I thought I knew the heart of a man. Ah, well! (She sadly shahes her head) But now — now — (She leans towards him,) You must remain a mystery. Pagello. Why.? Why.? George. Because my love for you is beyond un- derstanding. It is part of myself. You have come to me (Again a pathetic glance at the patient) when my heart was broken. Pagello. Before I knew you nothing used to in- terest me so much as gall-stones. But now George. You droll darling. Sh — Sh — We [70] [Act II} MADAME SAND mustnH talk so loud. (There is a movement and a sigh from the sleeper behind the curtains) God grant he is quiet to-night. I cannot stand this ter- rible life much longer. Pagello. I pity you, you have nursed him like a mother. George. What has he not done to break my heart ^ {She steps towards the bed and mournfully looks in at the sleeper. Then she is bach at the table) George. May God — who is love — some day give me the strength to forgive him. Pagello. He is better, almost well again — if he can give up this drinking — George, li^ Think of it, Pietro. The other night I had to call up two of the stoutest porters to hold him down. Pie wept and sang and without a stitch of clothing danced about the room shrieking that the place was full of demons with vipers in their hair. It was terrible. Pagei.i.0. {Attempting to quiet her) Don't speak of these things, George. {The memory of it is too much for her, but the old instinct conquers) George. Some day I shall put that scene into a novel. Why not — ^life is my theme. He has come reeling home. He has squandered his money and mine, Pietro. He has lost thousands of francs at the tables. I sent to Paris, Buloz advanced me more. [71] MADAME SAND [Act II] Pagello. What? This money that you earn, writing day and night, — George. Yes ! Yes ! — By the sweat of my soul — I should say brow. It is true, my friend. The French Consul has taken him to these gambling houses and other places — other places, Pietro. Pagello. And aU the while you sat there. (He points to the desk) George. Do you think he minded that? One night in the pocket of his coat I found a slipper — a slipper of a ballerina. It was soaked with cham- pagne. Pagello. (The extravagance rather than the im- propriety getting the better of hvm) No ! Cham- pagne. That cost two lires a bottle! George. The toe was stuifed. That's how these people seem to dance on nothing. Ah — I have borne much. Pagei^lo. Yes, yes. George. Sh — he is awake. (A mo7nent's pause, then again quiet. The hand below the curtain falls a little lower in exhausted relaxation) Pagello. George, George, my noble friend, how you have suffered. George. I have borne all. The gold he flung about him, that mattered little. I could write, write. The incessant drink — I forgave him that. Pagello. And the ballet dancer? George. (Bitterly) That, too, my friend. Do [72] [Act 11] MADAME SAND you think that mattered? No. All that is nothing — nothing; but he has committed the one sin a woman cannot forgive. {And then with a sincerity that sounds through the romance of it all) He has ceased to love me. (She is weeping) Pagello. And you, George, you no longer love him.? George. Pietro, how can you ask me that.^* No, that is over. Pagello. No mother could have nursed him more tenderly than you. George. No, no. Pagello. I loved you for your care of him. George. (Getting up) Perhaps his pillow needs turning. Pagello. No, do not disturb him. George. I would give my life rather than see him suffer. Pagello. The world will never know what you have done for him. George. (For the moment forgetting her itch- ing pen) Never, never, Pietro, but does that mat- ter.? (She is over at the bedside, a symbol of sac- rificial duty) I at least have kept my faith. (Then reminiscently) How he urged me to go with him to Italy, when I hesitated. ( Then she is back at the table, weeping and slicing a lemon as she speaks) George. (With deep meaning) You came just in time, Pietro. [73] MADAME SAND [Act II] PAGEiiLO. (Again with a tinge of professional pride) I hope I have helped him, the case wasn't easy. George. (Dramatically) It is me whom you have lifted from the grave. Pagello. You? George. (Darkly) I had decided to die. Pagello. You? George. The day before you came into my life. I had planned to leap from the Campanile in the afternoon just when the band was playing so that all the world might know what he had done to me. Pagello. (Stirred) You must stop writing — you're tired, overstrained. George. (Tenderly) Ah! Pietro. Now I am better. God has sent you. Can you know what you mean to me? Help me to be strong. Pageli.0. I too thank God for the day I chanced to pass your window. George. (Suddenly, her hand on his) Chance! Chance! And in that little word lies all the joy and sorrow of the world. (Pause. Farther in the distance can be heard the sound of the serenata. Pagello goes to the window.) Pagei.i.0. (Pointing to the balcony) It was here you stood. De Musset was next you. There was something strange about you, as you flecked the ashes from your cigar. I looked up. (He is back from the window) [74] [ActllJ MADAME SAND George. I remember, Pietro. (She gleams up at Jiim) Pagello. Was it a sort of mesmerism? George. Older than Mesmer, Pietro, man call- ing unto woman. It began in Eden. Pageleo. It was as if we spoke. George. (Lyrically) Our hearts were answer- ing one another. (The tenor's song lifts in the distance) Pageeeo. All day I thought of the beauty of your sad eyes. George. {Gently) Beauty ,^ — no, my friend. They were dim with weeping. Pageeeo. All my visits seemed dull to me. Even my most serious case — a fat Turk dying of typhus didn't interest me. Whilst I bled him, I thought of you. George. {Sweetly, accepting the compliment) Yes, Pietro? Pageleo. Back in m}^ office, I could think of nothing but you. {There is a restless move from the sleeper behind the curtain's, hut George, — who for a long while has heard no such tenderness as this, — doesn't notice it) Pageleo. You — you. George. And I, Pietro, I of you. As I leaned over my writing, I saw you. Do you remember Dante? — your Dante — Paola, Francesca, — only I must change the words a little. {She smiles faintly) [75] MADAME SAND [Act 11] I must saj; that day I wrote no more. (She drifts over to the window. She learn out) Ah! Pietro, the night is like a drawn sword. Listen, the very stars are singing. Pagello. (A little confused) No, that's the tenor at the serenata. Ah, how I love you! That day even Dr. Ganetti's book on gall-stones couldn't interest me. George. No, Pietro.? (She is back at the table, he follows her) Pagello. Always across the page I saw the scar- let of the scarf that you wore about your head. (They are leaning across the table, their hands clasped together) Pagello. (Passionately) You love me, George .^^ — George. (Sweetly, simply, all that is deepest in her welling up) I love you, Pietro. Why I do not know. I love you as I have never loved before. All my other love has been but as a preparation for this love of ours which shall last forever. (Another sigh from the bed) Sh — he is awake. Pagello. No, if he has taken the powder he will sleep till morning. (He is around the table next to her) George, George, how grateful I am to God that so beautiful a soul as yours has bent down to me. George. Bent, my darling.? No! It is you who have lifted me from despair. (They are about to embrace. The sleeper is again restless. She whis- pers) Sh — we are much too loud. [76] [ActllJ MADAME SAND (^Love in the shadow of the patienfs bed is two incongruous even for her artistes na- ture) George. {With an attempt at readjustment) Let's finish our tea. It's from India. Alfred bought it in the Rialto. It cost four lire. Pagello. What ! That's a lot of money. George. Nothing is too fine for Alfred. {Then with a sad little laugh in her voice) It was my money. (aS^^^ pours out the tea. There is only one cup. Pagel-lo not noticing this, takes it up) Pagello. {Sipping his tea) It tastes strange. George. {Fantastically/) Nude girls gathered it. Pagello. It certainly does taste different. George. {Continuvng) It's what the jeweled and drowsy nabobs sip whilst they loll in their ham- mocks of spun silk. {She goes over to her desk and makes a note on the back of one of the sheets of her manuscript paper) George. ( Writing) That's a beautiful sentence. It has the odor of twilights in the East. Pagello. The tea.? George. No, darling, my words. You mustn't be too literal. That's what too much science does. {As she passes him on her way hack to the table, she lovingly taps his head) George, {Smiling) All the night is in your eyes, [77] MADAME SAND [Act II] Pagello. (Slipping his arm about her) Let's go out on the balcony. By now the crowds are far beyond the Piazzetta. (He takes a step towards her) George. (Admonishing him, as she glances to- ward the bed) No, no, Pietro, you are too impet- uous. Our poor Alfred might need something. Pagello. He is almost well, to-morrow he can get up. (He takes up his tea-cup) George. I am waiting till he is strong again. (She glances at the doctor) Then he must be told. Pagello. He has my pity. Sooner or later he would find out. George. Yes — ^we are above subterfuge. Pagello. (Sipping his tea) But you aren't drinking. (He looks down at the table to hand her the other cup) Why look, — there is only one. George. Isn't one enough, Pietro? (She is over newt to him) I shall sup from yours. Pagello. (Tenderly) Then you must bend down. . (And she does so, and his arm goes about her waist. And the next moment she is in his lap. And their mouths are almost touching as they press the cup to their lips. And at this moment Alfred's night-capped head pops out through the curtains of the bed be- hind them. Tableau. He chokes back an exclamation of amazement and the curtains hanging about him tremble) [78] [Act 11} MADAME SAND George. ( Wistfully/) There now — I have had my tea. Pagello. (Ardently/) And I shall have my kiss. George. (Faintly) Pietro! Pietro ! (And Alfred, pale as the curtains about him, leans forward, matching them. And passionately they embrace and then suddenly she jumips up and as suddenly Alfred drops hack behind the curtains) George. (The ^' eclaircissement'' has come) Now I understand everything. I see it all clearly. Pagello. (Quite taken by surprise) What's the matter? George. We must go away, and at once. Pagello. What — George. We cannot stay. It is a desecration, no not here, not here. It is an insult to this love of ours. We dare not hesitate. Pagello. I — George — George. Life is calling us. This room stifles me. Pagello. (Practical as ever) Then let's go out on the balcony. George. No, no, come, come away, away. Pagello. (Quite misunderstanding her dynamic impetuosity) Shall we go to the Lido? Shall I call a gondola? George. No, no, to the Alpine valleys. I am dressed for climbing. Pagello. (Completely stupefed) What! George! George. It is spring — spring. (The thought [79] MADAME SAND [Act II] gives a buoyant ring to her voice) We will wander hand in hand like innocent, laughing children, and we will love to the sound of the tumbling cascades. (Pagello stands looking at her in wonder) George. And then — Paris. We've got to be in time, Pietro, to see my little darlings, Solange, Maurice, take their prizes at school. Pagello. ( Who can scarcely gasp) To Paris — George. And to freedom! Come! (She glances toward the bed. Alfred, his head poked out on the other side, is listening) Let us not hesitate. A moment may shatter — all. Pagello. (Completely at a loss) But — George. For weeks, weeks I have known this would come. I have prophetic visions. To-mor- row, the day after, it will be the same. I cannot live in the shadow of these memories. pAGELiiO. (Not quite keyed to such speed) And — de Musset — .? George. He shall be told. But now, now we can- not wait. We must leave together. Destiny has spoken. (She is in his arms, and Alfred is leaning half out of bed. His intentions are patently to have something to do with this destiny, but as George sweeps forward, he involuntarily slips back) George. Come, Pietro. Pagello. (Not knowing what to say) And leave Venice? — George — [80] [Act II] MADAME SAND George. I have been sent to save you, you must go lest your future sink in the mud of these lan- guorous lagoons. The world is waiting to receive you. Pagello. And my patients.? George. {Inspirationallif) Your patients — why emperors shall call you in for gall-stones. Pagello. {Still unpersuaded) And my mother? George. {Involuntarily) Mother, mother. No, no. That mustn't happen again. {But in a moment she has recovered) You must be free to realize yourself. I have done that. I am free. Pagello. {Still doubtful) And my father? George. Have you any aunts or uncles? Your father, what of him? Pagello. He will never consent to this. George. I shall persuade him. Pagello. {In amazement) You? George. He is eating ices in the Piazzetta. He is a scholar. You told me this. A scholar who is eating ices — the combination proves him gentle. He will understand. He will bless you and send you with me. Pagello. But — George. Again but — nothing but buts. Come, Pietro. Come. {They are at the door) Pagello. {Pointing to her trousers) Can you go like that? George. Yes. Venice has got used to me. [81] MADAME SAND {Act II] Pagel-lo. This is madness. George. Love has spoken. Pagello. But my father will never consent to this. George. ( Undaunted) I know a parent's heart. (Alfred is about to call out) I have not lived my life for nothing. Come! The scent of the almond bloom is calling. (And half dragging him after her they are gone. Alfred gazes after them in speechless astonishment. Then he tries to get up to follow. He is too weak. He falls back on the bed. Very far in the distance the noise of the serenata can be heard. Slowly he rouses himself. He pours out some brandy which stands on the little table near the bed. Half swooning he reaches the window. He tries to call out. His strength fails him. He leans against the window frame. Sud- denly there is a knock at the door and he turns to see Paul at the threshold) Alfred. Paul ! Paul. Good God, Alfred, what's the matter? You look half dead. Alfred. {Faintly) Help me back to bed. Paul. Where's George? (Alfred leaning on him reaches the bed) Alfred. Eating ices on the Piazzetta. Paul. She leaves you alone like this? Alfred. She must have her ices. {He pours [82] [Act 11] MADAME SAND out another glass of brands/) You didn't write you were coming. What brings you to Venice? Paul. Mother sent me. She was uneasy. Alfred. Uneasy.? Paul. Yes. You and George. Your letters came less frequently. Alfred. Pve been busy. I've started three trag- edies, four comedies and a book of poems. How's mother ? Paul. She sends her kindliest greetings to George. Alfred. {Smiling faintly) Yes — Paul. When will George be back? Alfred . When ? Paul. Mother is so grateful to her. Buloz says she's taken such good care of you. Alfred. And — Paul. But lately he's been silent. Mother drove to his office every day. Alfred. Poor Buloz — Paul. And all he would do was to sit there look- ing at her strangely thru his monocle. Alfred. And mother, I suppose, would stare back thru her lorgnon. Curious, isn't it, Paul? Sometimes the harder people look the less they see. Paul. Of course I told her everything was all right. Alfred. (On the verge of laughter) Of course. Paul. I saw Heine. Alfred. Yes ? [83] MADAME SAND [Act II] Paul. Said he knew nothing but he advised me to leave it all to George. Said that she would man- age somehow. Alfred. She has managed, — somehow. {He is laughing to himself) Paul. I told Heine I was going to Venice. Alfred. Yes. Paul. He sent you a message Alfred. A blessing that sneers.? Paul. No, he told me to tell you that Hell is the place where the satisfied compare disappointments. Alfred. He knows. Paul. You're so white, Alfred, what's the mat- ter.? Alfred. Pve been ill. Sunstroke, lying on the beach at the Lido. Paul. You should have known better. Alfred. I couldn't get away. George insisted on reading me her last six chapters. Such rubbish! Perhaps it was the book and not the sun. Paul. You're better now.? Alfred. To-morrow Pll be about again. Paul. Mother sent you this. {He hands himi a letter) Alfred. {Slipping it under his pillow) How much .? Paul. A thousand francs. Alfred. {Petulantly flinging himself hack on the pillow) But I needed fifteen hundred. Has she forgiven my going.? [84] [Act II] MADAME SAND Paul. A week after and she was glad you'd gone. Alfred. Glad? Paul. Said it would do you good to see life. Alfred. Yes — ^Yes — It's done me good. Have a bit of brandy, Paul. (He sits up and pours out a little in a glass) Paul. As I came by two men raced past me. They almost knocked me over. Alfred. (Sipping his brandy) You're not easily bowled over, are you, Paul.^ Paul. These Italians have such brutal manners. But just the same I was amused. Alfred. Yes. Paul. One of them bore the strangest resem- blance to George. Alfred. Naturally. Paul. What.? Alfred. Have a bit of brandy. Paul. Why did you say naturally.? Alfred. (Speaking slowly and rather amused watching the effect on Paul) It was George. Paul. What? George? Running thru the streets with another man dressed like that. Alfred. (A twinMe in his voice) To hesitate is to hinder history. Paul. Can't you be serious? Where were they running to ? Alfred. As far as their trousered legs can carry them. Paul. What? [85] MADAME SAND {Act II] Alfeed. If something doesn't stop them they'll reach the end of the earth and then drop off. Paul. You mean the Grand Canal? Alfred. Not exactly. But something will stop them. Paul. I hope so. Can she swim ? Alfred. In any waters. But she'll be stopped unless I am mistaken and by something she doesn't quite expect. The old man's a scholar. Paul. (In the dark) What.? Alfred. She'll bump into his papa. Paul. {Mystified) Papa? Alfred. Yes. The papa of the other man who nearly knocked you over. Paul. I— Alfred. {Shedding the light) She is planning to elope with him. Paul. {Springing up) Then it's ended? Alfred. How swiftly you deduce. A great phi- losopher lies buried deep — very deep, in you. Paul. If ever again I believe in a woman I'll cease to believe in God. I've come just in time. Mother was right to send me. Perhaps I can patch it up. Alfred. No, leave it torn. That's how the light soaks thru. Paul. {Sympathetically/ coming towards him) My poor, poor Alfred. Don't let it hurt too much. Paris is crowded with women. They mayn't all know literature but nearly all know love. [86] [Act II] MADAME SAND Alfred. Yes, Paul. Paul. My poor, poor brother. Alfred. My poor, poor imbecile. Thank God it's over ! I wish she were in Hell ! (And Paul flops hack into his chair and then Alfred lets loose what has been stor- ing up in him for months) Alfred. I can't bear her about me. She's like a noisy old clock that can't stop ticking. Why, she actually had the indelicacy when I lay here recov- ering from my sunstroke (He takes a gulp of brandy) to sit next to my bed scratching away all night at her endless novels. She writes as a cow gives milk. All she has to do is to jerk at her mind. Sometimes I drank a little to forget. (Paul in silent astonishment sits listening) There are two ways to get to know a person, Paul. Gambling with them or travelling with them. The first is better, it's over sooner. {His pent-up vehemence comes pouring out) She has the soul of a bour- goise. One day I sat there trying to write and what do you think I heard in the next room? She was telling the chambermaid— the chambermaid, Paul, how her mother was dancing at a ball a month before her marriage and how she stopped in the middle of the quadrille and five minutes afterwards gave birth to George. Paul. My God — no — Alfred. I called her in. I remonstrated with her and she sneered at my hypocritical breeding. [87] MADAME SAND lAct II] Paul. And could you expect her to understand that? Alfred. She laughed at me and said that many of the best family trees bore the worst fruit. I rushed away and drank, drank, drank {And he does so) to forget the vulgarity of it all. Paul. {CoTnmiseratingly) My poor Alfred! Alfred. And when I got back, there she sat scribbling. All my beautiful, glorious ideas deserted me. There she sat — scribbling, scribbling all the night long, scratching away like a rusty old file. {He is exhausted and falls weahly hack on the hed) Paul. {Leaning over him) My poor brother, what you have lived thru. Alfred. Think of it, Paul. Only a few minutes ago I caught them kissing, actually kissing, in the shadow of my bed, — ^my bed of torture. Paul. {Slowly) What will mother say? Alfred. She must never know. Paul. Two weeks and the boulevards will be gabbing. George tells everything to Buloz. Alfred. She tells everything to everybody. {Then half bitterly, half humorowsly) Copy — copy. Paul. But I'll defend you now that I know the truth. Alfred. {Suddenly sitting up) What? Paul. I'll answer her. Leave it to me ; wait and see. Alfred. {Making the most of the moment by [88] [Actli;! MADAME SAND adding to the data) There she lay in his arms, Paul, drinking my tea from the one cup, both of them, whilst she mumbled something about haste and almond blossoms. Paul. And so George the untiring, weary of the de Musset doll, tosses the broken puppet into a comer. Alfred. God knows how kind, how gentle, I have been with her. {And then he too begins think- ing of the beginning of their love in Paris) How she urged me to go to Italy when I hesitated. I at least have been faithful. Paul. And now she's leaving you.? Alfred. If fate is kind and the old father is a fool. If he can't stop her nothing will. Listen, they are coming back. (He points to a door beyond the bed) Quick, wait in there. (And he is about to crawl back into bed but the next instant the door flies open and LucREZiA VioLENTE, Pagello's mistress, rushes into the room. She is tense, dark, scented, a colorful combination of a languor- ous poppy when happy and an angry fire- cracker when stirred. She slams the door behind her and leans against it) LucREZiA. (Panting) I must speak with you, you. (She glares at Alfred) You! (And Paul with a sly, knowing glance at his brother, begins to whistle a sprightly snatch of a love song and then trips over to [89] MADAME SAND lAct II] ewamme more closely the beautiful, though tempestuous Lucrezia) Alfred. (To Paul) What are you doing? What's the matter with you? Paul. (Smilmg significantly) So! So! My naughty, naughty brother. And this is why the George gets on your poor nerves. But I don't blame you, Alfred, really I don't. (Very intimately he begins ogli/ng Lucre- zia and whistling even louder. He steps with a swaggering familiarity closer to her) Alfred. {Coming between them) I tell you to wait in the next room. Paul. {Laughing) All right. Two's company, three's a chaperon. {And he enjoys his wit immensely^ to the intense discomfort of Alfred and the as- tonishment of Lucrezia) Alfred. Get out. I tell you Pve never seen the girl before. Paul. Then thank the dear gods who sent her. {And Paul backs out of the room, still whistling, with an intimate wave of his hand to Lucrezia) Alfred. Who are you? Lucrezia. {With terrific speed as she speaks throughout) Lucrezia Maria Camilla Elvira Vio- lente. Alfred. {Rather gallantly but a bit uncertain) And what do you wish with me, my dear? [90] [Act II} MADAME SAND LucREZiA. {Resenting his tone) What do you think? Alfred. {Taking her in) Well — er — er — (LucREZiA with a slight swagger steps to- wards him) LucREziA. Well ! Alfred. (Smiling at her) Did the French Con- sul send you to me? LucREZiA. No one has sent me. Alfred. I haven't seen you at the serenatas. LUCREZIA. No. Alfred. Nor at the opera. LUCREZLA.. No. Alfred. Nor in the Piazzetta, watching the fire- works. LijcREZiA. (As he steps a little nearer) No. No. Alfred. (Not quite sure of his ground hut he is Alfred and she is beautiful) Well, you see (And then very sweetly), my dear — (He is closer to her) LucREZiA. (Starting bach) My dear! How dare you ! How dare you ! Dio Mio, Dio Mio, how dare you? Alfred. Forgive me, my dear, but you see I am a man — it is night — ^You come to my room — Lucrezia. Yes, yes, I come to your room. (She looks about her) Alfred. Well, then, who are you? Lucrezia. Lucrezia, Maria — Alfred. (Stemming the tide) Yes, yes — ^but where do you come from? [91] MADAME SAND lAct II] LucREZiA. From Castelfranco. AiiFRED. And what do you want with me? LucREziA. (Not tempering her disdam) You — I want nothing with you. Alfred. (Resenting this, his tone a mixture of surprise and disappointment) Then why do you come here.f^ LucREziA. (Almost spitting the words in his face) It is your woman, your woman that I want. Alfred. (In the dark) What — why, I've never even seen you before. Lucrezia. You! Bah! (With a gesture as though wiping him off her hands) I am an Italian. I want to see this George Sand. (She has a curi- ous way of sounding the e in George) Alfred. (Baching into a chair at the table) Yes. I see that you're an Italian. And what do you want with Mme. Sand.^^ Lucrezia. (Mysteriously handling something which is in her belt under her shawl and speahvng very simply like a wide eyed child) I wish to kill her. Alfred. (Darting back) Good God! Who are you? What are j^ou? Lucrezia. (Coming close to him> and leaning in his face as she speaks the words slowly and with intense significance) I am a friend — a good friend — of Dr. Pietro Pagello. Do you understand me, you Frenchman? [92] [Act II] MADAME SAND Alfred. (The light hreakmg) How did you get in here? LucREZiA. I said I had come to nurse the invalid. Bah! {She glares at him in abject disgust) And now where is this Signora George Sand? Alfred. She has gone out with — {He stops short, LucREZiA watching him) With a friend — a friend. They have gone to — to (And then with in- spiration) to see the Punch and Judy show. Madame adores to watch the puppets dance. LucREZiA. So. Then they will soon be back. (She steps towards a chair) Alfred. (Fencing) No. No. That was last night. To-night — to-night they — she — LucREZiA. (Pointing it) They — Yes — Alfred. (A hit at a loss) She — they, — yes, they — have gone by moonlight to the open sea be- yond Murano. Yes — yes (His imagination begins to work) Madame couldn't stand the noise of the serenata. Listen, it's coming back. (The boats on the Canal have shifted and are coming nearer) Listen ! LucREziA. So ! So ! (She draws a chair away from the table and sits watching Alfred) Then I will wait till she comes back from this open sea beyond Murano with this friend. (Her breath comes in little panting gasps) Madonna mia, this friend — this friend. Alfred. (At his wit's end) They may stay away all night. [93] MADAME SAND [Act II] LucREZiA. (Her eyes aflame) Madonna mia. So it has come to that, — all night. Alfred. That is — Madame sometimes waits to see the dawn rise over the sea — the Adriatic, you know. LucREZiA. (Less imagmative perhaps but quite Ms match) Then I will stay till morning till Madame has seen this dawn rise over this Adriatic. Alfred. You can't do that, Madame. Can't you see I'm in my dressing gown.'' LucREZiA. If you are so modest, my little French- man, then go back to bed. I didn't come to talk with you. Alfred. But see here — people don't do that sort of thing. Stop and think. LucREZiA. My heart speaks. I do not stop to think. Alfred. No. I can see that. LucREziA. What do I care what you see.'' I have come to save my Pietro. I shall take him from this George Sand. (This is too much for Alfred. Suddenly he realizes how she may entangle the chances of his own happy and imminent release) Alfred. (With intense conviction) No, you mustn't, you mustn't do that. LucREZiA. (Jumping up) What — you say that.'' Alfred. (Rushing along) It will do him good. Let him see life. Madame will teach him much. LucREZiA. Madonna, Madonna. You tell me [94] lActll'i MADAME SAND that. You dead little dove of a man ! Are you not her lover? • i Alfred. (At a loss) Yes — ^was — that is — yes — yes, of course I am. (His emotions are mixed) Now you just go away and I'll have a nice little talk with George and she'll send him back to you. LucEEZiA. (The hand under her shawl nervously twitching) If — I — no, no — there is nothing but milk in your veins. Alfred. (Vainly groping for a way out) Yes, yes, lots of milk. Goat's milk. I've been sick, sun- stroke. He makes me take milk, gallons of milk. He's a wonderful doctor, this Dr. Pagello. LucREZiA. (Her hand at her heart) My Pietro, — my Pietro. He gives you milk.'' Alfred. (Grasping the straw) It's time for it now. You'll excuse me, good evening. I've got to go out for my milk. (He hopefully glances towards the door hut LucREZiA is unhudgeable. He tries to take a step but he i^ too weak and slips hack into his chair) LucREZiA. Go back to your bed lest you faint like a woman. Alfred. (Weakly) But you can't sit there all night long. LucREZiA. (Firmly) No? Alfred. Look here. I'll — (He turns to move towards her. He is exhausted) [96] MADAME SAND [Act II] LucREZiA. (The hand under her shawl twitchvng) Yes— ( The sound of the serenata comes up from the maters — tambourines, the laughter of women, the song of the tenor) Alfred. Listen! That's a song of love. (He falters towards the bed) LucREziA. (With a sneer) Love! What do you know of love, you little Frenchman? Alfred. (Throwing himself down) This — only this. Life lays the trap of love and we, poor human fools, are crowding, crowding and waiting to be caught. (He lies back a moment in thought. Then suddenly) Ah! No sooner is she out of the way than it comes back to me. (Then to Lucrezia) Bring me some paper, quick. Lucrezia. (Marvelling) What.? Alfred. From that desk. There in the corner. (Lucrezia resents his sudden, shifting imr petuosity. Her experience with poets has been limited) Lucrezia. What! You dare to order me — Alfred. Oh, don't mind that. Women always do what I ask them. My mother began it. (He tries to get up but sinks back on the pillow) Quick ! Some verses have come to me, beautiful verses. The first in months. (There is something pathetic in his voice. Lucrezia goes towards the desk) Alfred. Yes. That's it. Several sheets. [96] [Act II] MADAME SAND LucREZiA. (Lifting up some of the pages of George's latest romance) This? Alfred. Yes, yes. It's her new novel. But she'll never miss it. Never. {Angrily Lucrezia is about to crush the papers in her hand) And dip a pen for me. As soon as she's out. Of course, of course, I might have known. One room isn't big enough for two muses. Lucrezia. {Bringing the paper and pen to his bedside) Here. Alfred. {Propping himself up) Won't you go now.'' Lucrezia. What.? Alfred. You mustn't stand there watching me when I write. It makes me nervous. (Lucrezia glares at him in astonishment) Go, please, please. {For a moment he forgets her. He begins writing whilst she backs to the table and sits watching him) Lucrezia. {Under her breath) 1 cannot under- stand these Frenchmen. They are mad. {And in her deep disgust she goes to the window and stands looJcing out) Alfred. {Fanning his inspiration) Yes — yes — yes — {His pen glides over the paper. Silence for a moment, only the scratching of the quill is heard. Then suddenly voices sound just outside the door. Lucrezia leaps up like a smoldering flame that is hit by the [97] MADAME SAND [Act II] wind, and instinctively glides into the deep embrasure of the window. The papers fall from Alfred's hand to the floor as swiftly he draws the curtains together and slips back into the bed. A moment and George triumphantly enters smoking a huge cigar and at her heels is Pagello, his big eyes filled with love) Pagello. Ah, my beloved, how you spoke to him. There were tears in his eyes. Such eloquence. (LucREziA is watching them. She is mys- tified. Pagello is Pagello but who is George? The man's costume baffles her, the room< is but dimly lit. But then George speaks) George. No, Pietro, it was not my eloquence. {Then the girl recognizes her. She is about to spring forward but George goes on) George. (Lyrically) He understood my sor- row. I will bless and remember him forever. His heart is gentle. There is only one wound that hurts my happiness. Pagello. There is much perhaps that I should tell you. George. No, no, not you. (Then sadly she glances towards the bed) He must be told. Pagello. Wait until to-morrow. George. To-morrow we may die. Life has spoken. What must be, must be. [98] [Act II} MADAME SAND (She goes towards the bed. She draws hack the curtains. Tenderly she leans over the patient) George. Alfred! Alfred! {A moment's quiet. Then Alfred stirs in his slumber. Then he awakes) Alfred. {With a far-away voice) Ah! You, George. What time is it? You've been gone so long. {He leans out of bed and looks about him,) Ah! She is gone. (LucREZiA is too deep in the window for him to see her, but she too is leaning for- ward listening) George. {At a loss) Who? Who? Alfred. That's well. That is well. She is gone. George. {Mystified) Who? Who? Alfred. Perhaps I've been dreaming. I'm so tired. Pagello. Yes. Lie down. {Then softly to George) He still is weak and imagines that he sees things. {He draws her away from, the bed) Wait until to-morrow. George. Sooner or later we must tell him. Alfred. {Trying to overhear them) What are you two whispering about? Don't tell me that I've got to take one of those nasty powders and more milk. I'll fling it out of the window. George. Yes. He's better. Much better. It is time. [99] MADAME SAND [Act 11] (She goes towards the bed and stands for a moment looking at hvm. Her hesitancy worries him) Alfred. {Encouragingly) I'm well again. Strong as a porter. (He glances at George) Look. (And expectantly he sits holt upright in the hed) My sunstroke's over. George. Ah, my friend, you must beware of this sun that comes in bottles. Alfred. Strong as two porters that I've seen somewheres. George. (Putting her hand on his shoulder. Her tone is simple hut deeply fraught) Alfred, I have something to say to you. Alfred. (Eagerly) Yes — yes — George. (Almost philosophically) Life is so different from literature. Alfred. (Not expecting the digression) What.? George. Some day I must use this scene and I must be careful to keep it unelaborate. Alfred. (Lest her commentary go on too long) Doctor, do you think I'm strong enough to talk literature ? George. No, my friend, I haven't come to speak of literature — but life. But I was thinking after all how very simple reality really is. Be brave, Al- fred, I have something to say to you. Alfred. Yes ? George. We are at the cross-roads. Even as [100] [Act II) MADAME SAND Ruth (A puff at her cigar) and Naomi. (As always God and the Bible are her refuge) AiiFRED. {Impatiently) Yes — yes. George. {Very simply) I can no longer be your mistress, Alfred. I can only be your friend. I love Dr. Pagello. {A pause. Four hearts are for a moment still. From the water lifts the sound of the serenata. The girl in the window starts for- ward but the next instant out of the bed comes what is meant to be a heart-broken wail of despair) Alfred. (From among the pillows) George, George, why do you tell me this, George.? George. {Beautifully) Be brave, be brave, my friend. (Pagello stands looking at her in rap- ture) I tell you this because I cannot let the shadow of a lie dim the fading memory of what once we were to one another. {And she takes a long deep pull at her cigar) Alfred. George, George, how can I bear this.? George. We are but born to bear. We poor pil- grims. {And she smiles tenderly at the doctor) Life is our cross. {Then she turns to Alfred) I shall remember that once I loved you. Alfred. {Taking her hand and pressing it to his lips) Though I weep I shall remember {He is perhaps sobbing a little) what you have done for me. [101] MADAME SAND lAct II] (LucREZiA in hlank-eyed amazement leans forward listening to their beautiful pathos. George. It is over, over. Our poor romance is ended. Time has written (Then she turns gracious- ly to Pagello) finito. Come, Pietro, this place is no longer holy. This shrine of love has been defiled. {And then in mysterious metaphor) Something has entered in. {And the something in the window is al- most convulsed with passionate hate) George. Come, my beloved. (And then she turns to Alfred, speaking with childlike frankness) We must go from here. Out into the light. We are go- ing high into the mountains where the air shall purify. There, there perhaps I shall be able to for- get. (She turns to the doctor) Come, my beloved. (She is almost in his arms hut suddenly from the window there is a mad little yelp of rage and the next instant Lucrezia springs forward confronting her, burning in- domitable) Alfred. (As the beautiful structure of similes tumbles) She! She! I thought she'd gone. Pagello. (As tho shot) Lucrezia, you! You! George. (Quite calmly) Good evening, Madame. Did you climb up the columns to the balcony .? Lucrezia. You shall not take him. You shall not. George. What, Madame .^^ Lucrezia. I shall kill you. [102] [ActWi MADAME SAND George. (Oblivious) I can't see how you ever did it in those skirts. LucREZiA. (A mixture of temper and tears) Pietro, Pietronini, caro mio, caro mio — you no longer love me — me. (She is shrieking) Dio, — Ma- donna — you no longer love me. George. I beg you, Madame, not to shout. My friend Monsieur de Musset is none too strong. Won't you be seated? (And George sits down at the table unbut- toning the lowest button of her vest) LucREZiA. Who are you.^^ What are you.'' You crazy woman ! (Her fingers are twitching) You woman in breeches dressed like that. Pagello. Lucrezia, be still, be still. LucREZiA. (Poco fortissimo) No! No! She must listen. No ! No ! George. I am trying to, Madame, but you make so much noise. I cannot hear you. Lucrezia. (Piu forte) I make noise! No! No! I make no noise! (She is almost dancing in her rage) George. What a fascinating personality! (And she goes over to her desk and brings over some manuscript paper and a pen) Lucrezia. I spit at you. George. No, I wouldn't do that. It isn't nice. Lucrezia. Nice ! Nice ! I dig my nails in your heart. George. (Sweetly) My dear girl, save up all [103] MADAME SAND [Act II] that energy and one of these days you'll bring beau- tiful children into this ugly world. I am a mother and I know. (LucREziA suddenly whips the stiletto from under her shawl and springs towards Geoege) LucREZiA. You sneer, you short-haired French one. {And she makes a dash towards her, Pa- GEiiLo catches her hy the wrist and the knife falls to the floor) Pagello. For God's sake, what are you doing .'^ George. {Calmly taking notes) Ah! What a place to end a chapter. Pageli.0. {Struggling with the girl) Do you know who she is.'' Lucrezia. {Trying to get away) What do I care who, what she is. Pagello. {With a sort of awe) She is the great George Sand. {And George glances up from her writ- ing smilingly to accept the compliment) Pagello. She is a famous woman. A great writer. (AiiFRED is leaning far out of bed clutch- ing one of the posts) Alfred. Have you no respect for literature? Lucrezia. {In blinding scorn, sizzling over like a miniature Vesuvius) Literature! What do I care — literature, lies, lies. I too know literature. {And then in her rage she flings out all the names she can remember y mixing geography with letters to justify [104] [Act II] MADAME SAND her claim) Dante, Dante, Alighieri, Tasso, Cam- panile, San Marco, Venezia, Ariosto, Petrarca, Laura. Literature, Bah! bah! — ^lies, lies! I spit at them. I spit at you. {She is again going for' George wildly gesticulating and Pagello again intercepts her. Suddenly in a wild paroxysm of passion she clutches him to her breast. By this time Alfred is almost tumhlvng out of bed and George sits quietly writing) LucREZiA. {Clingvng to him, her voice hot with passion and rage) I love you. I hate you. I love you. I speak your name when I sleep; when I go to the well the water says, Pietro, and I drink, and drink, and drink. George. ( Writing as quickly as she can) Charm- ing, charming. Do you mind repeating that? How many times did you say drink .^^ Alfred, what does fiction know of life.^^ (LucREZiA clings to Pagello as to a spar in this tossvng sea of passion) LucREZiA. Pietro ! Pietronini ! Alfred. {Looking at George and speakvng into the curtain of his bed) God! That woman, even now she can write. George. Ah! What a scene this will make when I'm thru with it. Such fervor, such reality. Buloz will be delighted. (Pagello has forced Lucrezia into a chair. In a frenzy her fists beat the table) [105] MADAME SAND [Act II] George. Don't do that, my dear, or I can't write. (And then Lucrezia, her passion for the moment spent, goes forward, her head in her arms, shaken with conmilsive weeping. And then George springs up and goes over to her. Her whole manner changes. She speaks to her as she would to an angry child) George. You have my pity, Madame. I speak to you out of my soul. I too have loved and lost. (Sorrowfully she glances at Alfred) That is the lot of us poor women. We give our love only to be forsaken. Pagei.i.0. (Half in a whisper, half stupidly) I wanted to tell you, tell you all. George. No, no, don't speak. I understand. (And then with a tone of universal pity) We are but human. (By a glance she even includes Alfred in her deep love for humanity. Then sympathetically to Lucrezia) Life has spoken and life must be an- swered. He has come to save me when my nature faltered and he shall go with me — eventually — to Paris. (And at this Lucrezia springs up. This is the last straw. Again her rage begins to bubble) Lucrezia. No. No. George. Not right away. After we have found love in the Alpine valleys. Ah, the scent of the al- mond blossoms. [106] [Act 11^ MADAME SAND LucREZiA. (Turning on Pageli^o) You have de- ceived me. Dio ! Dio ! You have lied to me. You have deserted me. George. (Gliding between them) Madame, you are wrong. He has not deserted you. God has sent him. LucREziA. No ! No ! George. Who can change the choice of love.'' It is as blind as we. LucREZiA. (Bi/ this time strident) No! No! You shall not take him. You shall not take him. George. Love is our master. (This is almost to herself. A sad little smile plays about her lips) LucREziA. (Glaring at her) You! You oil your words with lies. (George is standing in a sort of subli- mated ecstasy lit by the light from the night lamp. The music sounds from the serenata. Alfred on the bed's edge sits matching her in wonder) George. (Her head shaking slowly) Love gives us power^ — power but to obey. Lucrezia. (Almost frightened) Pietro! Look! The devil's speaking to her. Come away. Her heart is black. (A moment's pause. They all look at her. Then she takes a deep pull at her cigar and goes over to her desk to make a note of this power of love) George. (To Lucrezia. From the farthest [107] MADAME SAND {Act II] heights of sisterly sympathy) Madame, you have my love. (LucREZiA makes another dash for the knife, Pagello stops her) George. Take her to her gondola, Pietro. (Ai.- FRED starts) I shall watch from the window. {And Pagello attempts to lead the strug- gling LucREZiA from the room) LucREziA. {In a last wild frenzy) You shall not take him. No! No! George. {Quietly) Love has spoken. (Pagello and the girl have almost reached the door) LucREziA. I'll follow him. I'll save him. He will come back to me. Ai^ERED. {Involuntarily) I wonder. LucREZiA. I will follow you to Paris or^ — to Hell. {She is half kissing^ half beating the doc- tor as he leads her from the room) George. {At her desk making a last note or so) What a wonderful girl. The most splendid type I have seen in Italy. Ah, I shall be sad to go. {And then she glides over to the wi/ndow and leans out to see that no harm comes to Pietro ) Alfred. {Lifting up the sheets of manuscript near the bed) Look, George, I have been reading your last few pages. They are wonderful. How you have moved me. If I could write as you — George. I'll do even better after to-night. Ah! [108] [Act II] MADAME SAND There they are! She is weeping. How gently he helps her into her gondola. (Alfred braces himself with another swal- low of brandy and steps towards her) Alfred. There is something besides farewell that I must say to you. George. (^Oblivious) He shall be the hero of my next romance. Alfred. {With a strange note of seriousness in his voice) Some day, George, this love of yours will break your heart. George. {Almost tragically) You say that af- ter what you have doiie to me. {Then again at the window^ her voice low and tender) Look, Freddo, they are weeping. Alfred. {For a moment succumbing to her mood) You will never know what you have meant to me. George. {Almost sobbing) Ah, my friend, do not let the sorrow of our parting break your heart. Some day you will forget me. Alfred. {Sadly) If such is fate. George. {Almost sternly) Our fate is what we make it. Alfred. {With a note of bitterness) Do you remember that night in Paris ? "We are but marion- ettes," you said. George. {Her voice soft again) Pietro — my Pietro — [109] MADAME SAND \[Act II] Alfred. "Hung from the fingers of the gods." Heine stopped you as he broke his bread. George. He eats too much. Besides Heine is a German and I mistrust him. Alfred. That is true of all of us, he echoed. George. ( Again leaning out) Look at his pro- file in the moonlight. Worthy of Giorgione. I shall love him forever. Alfred. You too, George — even you — must jig to this music of fate. George. (Lyric, dominant, speaking as a priest- ess with a prophecy) There is no such thing as fate. That is what life has still to teach you. Fate is the death cry of the coward. I at least am mis- tress of my destiny. Alfred. {With a touch of cynicism, perhaps of anger in his voice) We shall see. George. {In glory) Look! He is coming back. Yes, we shall see. {And she rushes over to the door and stands anwiously waiting, and in a moment she is in Pietro's arms) George. Ah! How noble you were, my Pietro, and she, — she will forget. Alfred. {Sotto voce) Perhaps. George. {Sadly to Alfred) It is time to say farewell. Once our love was noble. May our friend- ship still be beautiful. {And she gives him her hand. Alfred bends over it) [110] [ActW} MADAME SAND Pagello. {Catching the mood) Alfred, will we, — we still be friends? A1.FRED. {Magni^cently rising to the beauty of the moment) George, — Pagello, — my companions, my saviors, and my friends! {Then to Pagello) You have given life back to me. {And then to George) You have taught me the nobility of love. In my silence read my gratitude. How shall we seal our trinity of trust? {Their three hands are almost touching. Suddenly he sees Lucrezia's stiletto at their feet. He cannot resist the romantic effect. He takes it up) Alfred. On this let us pledge our faith! George. Yes ! On this symbol of death we shall pledge our love that shall survive the tomb. Pagello. {Not quite liking the sight of Lucre- zia's stiletto) No! No! Not on that! On this. It has never known hate ! {And he tears out from under his shirt his mother^s picture. Their hands close about it. The light in the night lamp flickers. George. {Solemnly — lyrically) Forever friends. Alfred. {Echoing) Friends. Pagello. {On the verge of tears) Friends. George. And now farewell. Come, we shall see the sun rise, Pietro, and then to Padua. {They are about to move. Then Pagello stops embarrassed) [111] MADAME SAND {Act II] Pagello. But — I — George. What? What? Pagello. I have but (His hand comes out of his pocket) I'm but a poor practitioner — ^look, seven lires. (And he holds them out) I have a little money in my office but most of what I make goes to my mother. (George rushes over to her desk and flings the drawer open) George. (On the brink of disaster) Only yes- terday the bill was paid. There is no money. (A pause. Imminent tragedy/. Pagello is in despair, George for the second time i/n> siw months is on the verge of szaooning. Al- fred sees his freedom tumbling; but sud- denly he ju/mps into the breach and to the rescue. He rushes over and snatches from under his pillow the money that his mother has sent him) Alfred. Here, my friends, go, go. Love must be obeyed. Here are a thousand francs. (He forces the money into Pagello's hand) George. (Gazing at him in admiring wonder) Alfred ! Alfred ! You have redeemed our love. (And again their three hands are clasped^ this time over the money) George. Come, love has saved us. We will see the sun rise after all. And then to Padua. Al- [112] [Act II] MADAME SAND fred, see Pietro's papa and have his things and my other trousers sent there, poste restante. {And she snatches her new manuscript from her writing desk and they are gone, and the door slams behind them and in the reverberating echoes Alfred is heard laugh- ing softly. Then he calls) Alfred. Paul. Paul. Paul. (Rushing in) You've kept me waiting. Alfred. (Significantly) History was in the making. Paul. And? Alfred. (Leaning against the bed post) They're gone. Paul. If you had only left it to me (Alfred laughs ) Aren't you laughing to hide something that hurts ? Alfred. Hurts! I am healed. (Gayly) I haven't felt better since Paris. Paul. And what will mother say to this? Alfred. God bless her. She has saved me. Paul. Mother? Alfred. Yes. The thousand francs she sent me. Her money pays their way. She's bought me back. (But the emotional strain has been too much for him. Then weakly) God help Pagello. Who's next? History will complete the catalogue. San- deau — Merimee — ^De Musset — Pa^ — (The curtain is descending as he speaks. The list is incompleted, whilst from the [113] MADAME SAND [[Act II] Canal the tenor^s voice again singing of love for a little moment, lifts in poignant ecstasy and then dies away in the starlit stillness of the night) [114] ACT III . . . and Liszt plays on. ACT III The scene is a reception at Baron de Rothschild*s, The room is a typical drawing-room of the period, panelled, severe, dignified, with a sense of quiet spaciousness. The furniture does not clutter the stage. What there is should he exquisite in design and lend to the general air of distinction. Down left is a fireplace, and below this is a door with a smaller drawing-room beyond. Down right is the entrance to the conservatory. Towards the rear is the en- trance from the hall of the house and to the right of this a great door beyond which is the music room. If practical throughout the act, the guests should be seen coming and going, because, while not abso- lutely necessary, this will add to the refinedly expec- tant atmosphere of this soiree of tuft-hunters and celebrities. Later on a charming effect could be realized if the people in the picturesque costumes of the period could be seen, rapt and ecstatic, listen- ing to the playing of the virtuosi. I leave the pos- sible arrangement of the room beyond to the genius of the scene designer. It is not inevitably essential to the action of the play. The lighting is candle light, low, soft, rather too little than too glaringly distinct. ThrougJiout the act a sound of admiring [117] MADAME SAND [Act III] murmurs and subdued applause should he heard from the music room. The curtain lifts on three pretty chattering girls, quaint, beruffled, heribboned. Two are on a long sofa and one is opposite or vice versa, rearranged as best accords with the charm of the decoration. It is the first great reception for these three demoiselles and their hearts and tongues are aflutter; hut now the curtain is lifted and you can see and hear for yourself. They are Mlle. de Latour, Mlle. Ro- LANDE and Mlle. de Fleury. Mlle. de Fleury. I think we are too early. Mlle Rolande. I am afraid I exasperated mamma. She's in the little drawing-room. I couldn't wait until we'd started. Mlle. de Fleury. How adorable of the Baron to ask us. Mlle. Rolande. It was surely the idea of the Baroness. Mlle. de Fleury. What matter! We're here. And as every one is going to be so important, there may as well be a few who are pretty. {And they laugh like children) Do you like my new gown? Mlle. Rolande. Quite adorable but I think I like you in gray better. Mlle. de Fleury. Nonsense! {And she turns to Mlle. de Latour to ash her opinion^ but Mlle. DE Latour siis deep in thought) Elise, don't try to hide your excitement by attempting to look bored. [118] [Act III] MADAME SAND Mlle. de Latour. I was just wondering how many pages of my diary I would need to write about everything to-night. (She looks at a huge hook she holds in her lap) Mlle. de Fleury. a hundred at least. (Then with ill-concealed excitement) Do you know who is coming .f^ Mlle. Rolande. De Musset and Heine. The Other Girls. Yes ! Yes ! Mlle. Rolande. And the great Franz Liszt. Mljle. de Fleury. And his rival Thalberg? Mlle. Rolande. I do not think so. They are seldom seen together. Mlle. de Fleury. Who else? Who else.? Mlle. Rolande. Surely the Italian, Pagello. I saw him in the Palais Royal leaning on her arm (She gives a quivering stress to the "her*^) Mlle. de Fleury. Is *he a blond.? I think blonds are so wonderful. Mlle. Rolande. No, he is more wonderful than any blond. He looks like Paris of Troy. Mlle. de Latour. How do you know that? Mlle. de Fleury. Elise, you have the silliest way of asking things. (And again they laugh merrily) Mlle. Rolande. And Chopin, imagine, Chopin! Mlle. de Fleury. Will he play? Mlle. Rolande. If the whim moves him. Of course the Baroness would never ask him. Mlle. de Latour. I don't see why not. [119] MADAME SAND [Act III] Mlle. de Fleury. Elise, you are too absurd. How could one have the atrocious taste to ask a guest to perform? These artists are not trained monkeys who will run up a stick when you want them to. Mlle. Rolande. I do not suppose we can ever understand them. Ah! these artists — they are so different from us ordinary mortals. Mlle. de Latour. Yes? Mlle. Rolande. They are not moved by human passions as you and I. Mli.e. de Fleury. No. No. Mlle. Rolande. Their life is aloof, — removed — they do not suffer as we suffer. Mlle. de Fleury. No. No. Mlle. de Latour. (Quite unsentimentally) I do not suffer. Mlle. Rolande. Wait till you are a little older, Elise. Ah, have you seen this Pagello? I have been dreaming of him every night. Mlle. de Fleury. I would give all the world if I could be a great artist, — a writer. There are only four things I love: literature, art, music and nature. Ah! — imagine what it would mean to see one's name in the Revue of the great Buloz. Mlle. Rolande. He's coming too. Mlle. de Latour. I am more anxious to see her than any of the others. Mlle. Rolande. {With awed voice) Her! [120] [Act III] MADAME SAND Mlle. de Fleury. {As though addressing God) Her! Mlle. Rolande. She is removed from earthly passions. She lives in a sphere apart. Mli.e. de Latour. What do you mean by that? Mlle. de Fleury. Elise, you ask as many ques- tions as a hungry parrot. (And they all hurst into ripples of laugh- ter. Some guests pass through the room be- yond) Mlle. R01.ANDE. She is the greatest woman in France. Mli.e. de Fleury. {In astonished contradiction) In France, Mathilde.P Why in the whole, whole world. Mli.e. de Latour. I do not see how you can de- cide that. Mele. de Fleury. ( To silence her forever) No ? Have you ever read {She lowers her voice) "Leha".? Mele. de Latour. No. Meee. Roeande. Mamma forbids me to read any books of hers {Again the religious intonation^ Meee. Feeury. So does mine but my maid bought "Lelia" for me. I sat up all night reading it and I wept and wept and wept. I never enjoyed myself so much. Meee. de Latour. Because you wept? Meee. Roeande. Of course. Elise, you are too funny. [121] MADAME SAND [Act III] (And the two girls laugh together) Mlle. de Latour. I shall ask her to write in my album. I brought it with me. Mlle. de Fleury. (Springing to her feet as though shot) Elise, my dear, you wouldn't do that! One can see that you went to school in the country. Why, I'd rather cut off my little finger than even dare speak to her. Mi.le. de Latour. I can't see why not. (Some guests preceded hy a lackey pass through the room) Mlle. Rolande. (Over at the door) Quick, my dears, quick, some one has arrived. Mlle. de Fleury. We mustn't miss anything. Who.? Who.? Mlle. de Latour. (Laconically) It oughtn't take more than three pages of my diary. (Some people pass into the conservatory and the three girls -flutter after them. And then the door is opened hy a lachey and BuLoz enters. He is somewhat nervous. With him is Pageleo and at their heels is Heine ) BuEoz. (To Pagello, pointing to the little room on the left) You can wait in there, Doctor, if you wish to. Pageleo. But I do not understand. What has happened? I was to meet Mme. Sand and she was to present me to the Baron. BuLOz. I don't think she has arrived yet. The [122] [Act III] MADAME SAND moment she comes I will send for you. You will excuse me — I should say us. I have something im- portant to say to Heine. Pagello. Of course. {He steps towards the door) BuLOZ. Business, you know, literary business. It's terrible being the editor of a magazine. You will find some charming books on the table in there. Heine. Nothing medical. Doctor, I'm afraid, but perhaps something of Mme. Sand's. (And BuLOz almost pushes Pagello out of the room and quickly closes the door he- hind him. Then he turns very excitedly to Heine) BuLoz. But, good God, what are we to do.'' Heine. Don't talk so quickly. Give me a mo- ment to think. BuLOz, In a moment that girl will be up. Noth- ing will stop her. I asked her to wait. I told her I'd bring Pagello down. George will be here any second. She's dining with Liszt. He's bringing her here. Heine. We've a moment then. That means they'll talk late. BuLoz. Yes — Heine. How did you prevent Pagello seeing this Italian ? BuLOZ. Whilst he was leaving his cloak I man- aged to get her into the picture gallery. It was [123] MADAME SAND [Act III] by the merest chance I was at the door. As soon as she asked for him I knew something was wrong. Heine. Who is she? BuLoz. His mistress. She had a letter with her. Some enemy of George has sent the girl money to come from Venice. Heine. Our enemies are the price we pay for fame. BuLoz. What shall we do.^* Heine. (Is silent for a moment in thought and then) It would be best to wait until to-morrow. BuiiOZ. By to-morrow they may be gone. Heine. She will be able to bear it better when he is no longer in Paris. BuLoz. It will break her heart if she is separated from him. Heine. I wonder — BuLOz. She has never loved like this before. There is something mysterious, something hidden about it. Heine. The hidden is not always the mysterious. But when you say hidden perhaps you are right. BuLoz. It's not as it was with de Musset. It's deeper, more profound. Heine. How do you know that.? BuLoz. Because she doesn't find time to write me letters telling me about her heart. Heine. (Slowly) Perhaps she's reading it and hasn't time to write. BuLoz. {Thinking it out) If we don't tell her [124] [Act III] MADAME SAND the girl has come she'll never forgive us for not warning her and if we do it may kill her. Heine. Think of the Remie. Don't tell her. BuLoz. I must. Heine. Why ? BuLOZ. Because she's the one woman in Paris who would know how to find a way to prevent it. What shall we do? Heine. First find our chessman, if we're to play the game. I'll see if George is in the music room. Keep Pagello in there until I warn you. Then we must get him home. (And as he goes into the music room and BuLoz m to guard Pagello some guests cross the stage on their way to the conserv- atory. As they enter the chatter of voices is heard and a moment later a lackey opens the door and Fuanz Liszt comes in, and with him is George. She is in an elaborate even- ing gown. Perhaps it is a little unusual, the conventional might even say a bit bizarre but nevertheless she looJcs extraordinarily hand- some and though her soul is sad she has made the most of the beautiful shoulders which Heine so much adTnired. Liszt is thin, pale, distinguished, cesthetic, but not of the exquisite fragility of Chopin, who is also on his way to the reception. He is a queer mix- ture of impetuosity and method. A surpris- ing streak of practicality governs his pyro- [125] MADAME SAND [Act III] technic nature. George's manner is fraught with melancholy and deep intentions) Liszt. These Parisian dinners, George — George. I'm telling you this, Franz, because you know the human heart. Liszt. If I do it is because I do not try to. But why haven't you told Buloz? George. Because he wouldn't understand. Liszt. And Heine .? George. Because he would understand too well. It's you I may need as I did this morning. He has come. He wouldn't stay at home. Liszt. Your Pagello is a fool. George. Poor boy, he never wants to leave me. He's afraid of being alone. He's insensible. Liszt. Quite ! Quite ! George. Weeks ago it was over and he still stays on. Liszt. Seeking the oasis in the desert of your heart. George. I can still respect his simplicity, but I can no longer love his naivete. Liszt. He needed his background of lagoons. George. (Sadly, reminiscently) Perhaps, per- haps. Liszt. Alas, "Leila" — how circumstances alter love. George. Can you expect me to be untrue to my soul? [126] [Act III] MADAME SAND Liszt. {Subtly) If jou mean by that your in- stincts — no, never! George. I was blind. What I thought was his purity I have found to be his emptiness. Liszt. Lelia, I too have learned from life that nothing is so unlovely as the thing one used to love. Some day I shall write, shall I call it a symphonic poem with that idea for theme? Three movements, hope, — love — disillusion. Disillusion in the violins struggling against love in the wood-winds. Write the program for me, Lelia. George. {Disregardmg the digression) He has cost me dearly. Liszt. Yes, spending emotion leaves one poor. George. I have ceased to love him and ( With a tone like a funeral knell) ceasing to love him I have ceased to love forever. Liszt. When one says forever one is apt to for- get to-morrow. Something must be done. He can't spend the rest of his life going from hospital to hospital studying these diseases. It isn't healthy. George. No, you are right. Liszt. Heine hasn't decided which is dearer to Pagello, you or these gall-stones. George. Do not speak unkindly of him, Franz. Liszt. Why, all you had to do was to look at his perfect profile to realize his limitations. George. That is the way a man reasons. A woman only feels and knows she is right. Liszt. And when the feelings change? [127] MADAME SAND [Act III] George. (Sadly) Life is calling us to school. Liszt. Paris has soon wearied of this moony medico. George. He was once dear to me. (And then almost tenderly) He still imagines that he loves me. Liszt. Poor Pagello ! Why, any man knows that love is over the day the woman begins telling herself that it will last forever. George. (Very melancholy, thinhing perhaps more of herself than Pagello) Yes, yes. Liszt. And when will this be over? George. (Quite simply) If things happen as I plan, to-night. Liszt. And how.'' George. (As though she might he saying ^^good morning^') I am sending him back to Venice. (And Liszt loolcs up barely concealing his astonishment) Liszt. What.? George. (In explanation) It breaks my heart to see the poor boy suffer. Liszt. (With a smile) So, so, — and that is why you're out of mourning. George. (In the dark) Mourning.? Liszt. Yes, this is the first time since Italy that Paris has seen your shoulders. And how does Lelia manage this with Pietro.? George. He will leave to-night for Lyons.. Liszt. (Smiling ever so little) Poor Pagello! [128] [Act III} MADAME SAND Poor poodle! He entered Paris a triumphant cap- tive of love and now he goes back alone. George. No, not alone. A month ago a letter arrived from Castelfranco and with that letter my salvation. Liszt. Salvation by post? George. {Ohlivious) Yes, yes. Liszt. Why not, salvation is such a little thing. Just what one wants at the moment. George. ( Continuing) Suddenly everything was clear to me. I got money from Buloz on my new book. Pagello is the hero. {And then quite uncon- scious of the subtle truth she is speaking) The book is almost finished. Liszt. So is Pagello. George. Of this money I sent her enough to come to Paris. Liszt. Ah! His mother .^^ George. No ! No ! I am done with fathers and with mothers. Liszt. If not his mother, then — (He looks at her questioningly) George. Yes, you are right. His mistress. The letter came as from any anonymous sympathetic friend of Pietro's here in Paris. Liszt. {In admiration) So.^^ George. Ah, I can tell you, Franz, that friend did not spare George Sand. Liszt. Then his mistress is the woman I met at the coach this morning? [129] MADAME SAND [Act III] George. Yes, she will follow him here. Liszt. Here? George. I came to-night because my soul needed the consolation of the music. As I tell you, he would not stay at home; but I left word where he was going. Liszt. Swift as my technic, Lelia. You act as quickly as I play my scales. (And he runs his fin- gers through the air) George. If I know her, and I think I do, she will come to-night and fetch him. I cannot stand the strain a moment longer. It must end at once. I am saving him, Franz. His sadness breaks my heart. Liszt. Alas, we poor men are but threads be- tween the shears. (And he makes a snapping little movement as though cutting the thread in two. Then suddenly) Ah! That would make a splendid finger exercise. (And he begins trying it over and over) Do you know that Chopin is going to play to-night .^^ George. (Looking up) Why has he refused to meet me? Liszt. Because being an artist he has little time for art. Besides I don't think he likes you. He's very shy. George. (As though trying to explain it to her- self) There is something in his music as of desire, chained. Liszt. He is the greatest artist in the world, save one. [130] [Act III} MADAME SAND George. Thalberg? Liszt. (Angrily/) No, no, one Liszt. Franz Liszt. If the women keep away long enough to allow him to practice the world will hear of him. George. And what of Chopin? Do the women bother him? These Poles are so romantic. Liszt. Poor Frederick, he has just recovered. He and the Wodzinska. They loved as children and because she was a woman she has married some one else. It nearly broke his heart. George. (Deeply) Life is cruel and the most sensitive to beauty are those who suffer most. The other night at de Custines when he was playing it was as though a soul were singing — seeking. (And at this moment the three girls appear in the doorway whispering together and try- ing not to seem too rudely interested in the celebrities ) George. Ah, we are early, Franz. But it is just as well. I shall come back here and sit alone to listen to the music. Sorrow is but unwelcome com- pany. (And she sighs deeply as she glances at the three girls) Come, Franz, where is the Baron? I must say good evening. LiszT. They are receiving in the conservatory. George. Come. (And she goes into the conservatory, fol- lowed by Liszt) Mlle. Rolande. That was she. Mlle. de Fleury. (Breathless) Yes, yes! [131] MADAME SAND [Act III] Mlle. de Latour. Was that Pagello? Mlle. Rolande. Nonsense, that was Chopin. Mlle. de Fleury. No, my dear, I'm sure it was de Musset. Chopin is taller. Mlle. Rolande. Did you notice how she glanced at us.f^ Let us follow them. Mlle. de Fleury. Do you think we ought.? Mlle. de Latour. Why not.? Mlle. Rolande. We can stay at the other side of the room and seem not to be watching them. Mlle. de Fleury. Isn't it all just wonderful.? Did you like her dress.? Mlle. Rolande. That certainly was last year's bodice. Mlle. de Latour. Let's go after them. The Other Girls. Yes ! Yes ! (And they follow George aw^ Liszt into the conservatory as Heine comes in from the mwsic room. He goes over to the door of the little drawing-room and calls Buloz) BuLoz. (Entering) Well.? Heine. She's come. They are in the conserv- atory. Only a few are ahead of them. They'll be back in a second. BuLoz. They mustn't see each other. God knows what'll happen to George if that woman takes Pa- gello away from her. She mustn't break down for my sake. Heine. Your sake? BuLoz. She's promised me three chapters before [132] [Act III] MADAME SAND morning. We go to press at ten. Did you see how that Italian woman looked? Heine. Silent as a pool before the storm. BuLOZ. If it were the old George she'd meet her match. Heine. George is unmatchable. BuLoz. (At his wifs end) Well, what will come of it.? Heine. I can hear Olympus rumbling with al- mighty laughter. {And indeed at this moment there is a sound of voices from the hall) BuLoz. Chopin has arrived. Hear them buzz. Heine. (Mischievously/, with a sort of impish prophecy) The toy box is too crowded. Some of the dolls will be broken. Pagello — George — this girl — and Chopin come in the nick of time, perhaps, to play an obligate to their parting. (He begins laugh- ing quietly to himself) The gods are busy at the strings. Come, Buloz, let us dance, dance! (And at this moment from one side of the stage enters Chopin escorted by a lackey and from the conservatory opposite comes George followed by Liszt. And as they come forward George and Frederick stop and look at each other even as Tristan and Isolde and as all other mortals who are doomed to love have looked since the begin- ning of time when Adam — or was it Eve — looked and thus began the trouble) [133] MADAME SAND [Act III] Liszt. (RuMng forward to Chofin) Frederick! (And Chopin speaks. He is fragile, ex- quisite, spiritual. There is something about him as of flame and sleep. He is simple and profound, childlike and dominant, his whims are emotional necessities. He is part reticent reserve and part sudden irritability. Withal he is a genius mho in the words of Balzac was less a musician than a soul which makes itself audible) Chopin. Good evening, Franz. Ah, Heine, — Buloz — Heine. ( With elaborate and fantastic ceremony) May it be my privilege to present the matchless composer of the B Minor Scherzo to the peerless creator of the immortal Lelia. (And George gives Chopin her hand and he bends over to press it to his lips) Chopin. (Kissing her fingers) Madame. George. (As their eyes meet as he straightens up) You have suffered, that is why you can sing. You must come some time with Franz to see me. Chopin. Madame. (He again bows and she turns to Heine) Liszt. (To Chopin) Shall I present you to the Baron ? (And as Liszt and Chopin cross to the right of the stage Heine and George cross to the left) [134] [Act III] MADAME SAND Liszt. (Low to Chopin) What do you think of her? Chopin. (Lorn to Liszt) Her eyes are too large but she is less impossible than I thought. Heine. (Low to George) What do you think of him.f^ George. (Low to Heine) His chin is weak but he is more of a man than I had imagined. (And at this moment the three girls ap- pear, still hunting the celebrities, and as Chopin and Liszt go in to the conservator^/ Liszt stops to chat with them and then he and the adoring girls exit to follow Chopin) George. (Sitting down) Chopin alone can make this party bearable. The Baron is a charming gentleman, but his guests are too wealthy to be any- thing but stupid. BuLoz. (Aside to Heine) What shall I do.? Heine. Tell her now. BuLOZ. (Coming forward — nervously) Good evening, George. George. Ah, Buloz. Now I know what you're going to say. (BuLoz starts) Heine. Not this time, George. George. Heine, please don't begin quoting Faust in that horrid guttural German, and you, Buloz, don't jump at my throat and shriek for those last two chapters. You shall have them by to-morrow. [135] MADAME SAND [Act III] Heine. (Tricing to lead up) Perhaps you mayn't write to-night, George. George. Nothing but death can stop me. BuLoz. (Desperately) Why should we beat about the bush.'^ George. (Lightly) Why not.^^ That's one way of stirring the birds to sing. Heine. To sing.? First they may fly away. George. Questing the eternal fires of the dawn. Ah, that's a fine phrase. (And she takes a tiny pencil fro7n> a little bag hanging at her waist and jots down the words on one of the panels of her fan) BuLoz. (Guardedly, darkly, attempting to he- gin^ George, I believe in you. George. (Lightly) Of course you do. Don't you print me.^^ BuLoz. (Lugubriously) George — George. You sound as if you were reciting Cor- neille. (He hesitates and looks across the room for help from Heine, but Heine is deep in a book he has lifted from the table) BuLOz. (Clearing his throat and attempting to go on) You are strong, you can control — (Embarrassed he stops short) George. Are you writing my obituary.? BuLoz. Be brave. Remember you have children. (And George springs up and for a sec- [186] [Act III] MADAME SAND ond goes white and leans half fainting against her chair) George. My God ! My children ! Maurice, So- lange. Have they fever? Are they dead? BuLOZ. No, George, it is not your children, but— {And the next second the light breaks in George's face and she can hardly suppress an exclamation of long hoped for relief. And all the while Heine stands scrutinizing her) George. What is it? Tell me. Tell me. BuLoz. (Speaking very slowly. He is doing his stumbling best to keep from hurting her too sud- denly) Remember, France, the world, has need of you. George. Is it all preface? Begin — Begin. BuiiOz. (He stops and wipes his monocle) Well — George. Yes. BuLoz. (Carefully, with deep pity for her, watching the effect) Pagello's mistress has come from Italy. (And to his amazement she takes the news quite calmly. Indeed in a way that puzzles him. But Heine's eyes^ never leave her face) George. Lucrezia ? BuLOz. She is waiting in the hall for him. George. (Solemnly, as though she felt Heine's eyes) It is the hand of heaven. Fate doesn't mean that I should keep him from her any longer. (And a sound of voices is heard beyond in [1373 MADAME SAND [Act III] the hall — A lachey''s and a woman's voice m remonstrance and the door is thrown open and LucREziA rushes in) LucREZiA. He is here, I tell you. I will wait no longer. (Then she sees Geoege) You! You! Where are your breeches .f^ BuLoz. Not so loud, Madame. The greatest pian- ist in the world is about to improvise in the music room. Heine. Whilst fate is improvising here. {And then almost inaudibly) Fate — or George. LucREZiA. (Threateningly to George) Once be- fore you drove him dumb with your words. This time I shall speak. George. (Quite unflustered) Yes, apparently, apparently. And how is Venice? Do tame nightin- gales still sing on every balcony and are there still fresh oysters on every doorstep? LucREZiA. (Pointing to the letter in her hand) I know all, all. Heine. Rivalling the Omnipotent. Does she mean George or God? LucREZiA. Madonna, what have you done to him? George. What have I done to him? Perhaps the greatest thing any woman can do for any man. I have given him his soul. LucREZiA. It is all written here. (And she waves her letter in George's face) This friend of Pietro's knows the lies your heart hides and has told me all. [138] [Act III] MADAME SAND Caro mio Pietro. (And to stifle back her tears her voice goes louder) Pietro I (And the door of the little drawing-room opens and Pagello enters, an open hook in his hand) Pagello. (On the threshold^ not seeing Lucre- zia) Did some one call me? Heine. Yes, Doctor, a voice from beyond the Alps. Pagello. I do not understand this poetical way you have of saying things. Ah, George, good even- ing. George. (A hit mournfully but nevertheless leading in the right direction) "Good evening"? — No, my friend, not good evening but alas, good-bye. Pagei^lo. (As usual a hit mystified) What? George. (Unable to resist the cadence) Good- bye — forever. (And in a second all is clear because as he looks up for an explanation he sees Lu- CREZiA and he stumbles back against the sofa and the booh falls from his hand) Pagello. San Giovanni, — San Pietro, — San Paolo, — San Luichele — Heine. (Low to Buloz) This is a splendid chance to learn the Italian calendar. BuiiOz. (His eyes on George) Will she be strong enough to bear it? Pagello. Santa Maria, you — you — Where have you come from? [139] MADAME SAND [Act III] George. From Italy, Pietro, moonlit Italy. (And in the next room Chopin can he heard improvising) George. Ah, Madame, life has taught me much. I have wronged you, wronged you deeply. Lucrezia. {To Pagello) Come away, she is beginning to talk. Pagello. {Hardly recovered from the shocJc) How did you get here, Lucrezia? Lucrezia. You have a friend in Paris, Pietro- ninni. One who hates this George Sand. {And she again points to the letter) George. Madame, alas, there are many such. The rich because I would enrich the poor, the wise because I pity fools. BuLOZ. {Aside to Heine). She is magnificent. Heine. Yes, perhaps more so than you think. George. In Venice, Madame, I wronged you. In Paris I ask your pardon. {She steps toward Lucre- zia but the girl, protecting Pagello, hacks into a corner) Ah, Madame, do not shrink from me. Love has taught me humility. Though it breaks my heart I give him back to you. Lucrezia. {Shrieking) You do not give him. He comes. He comes. {And at this moment Liszt's head pops in at the door) Liszt. Shhh ! my dears ! If you are playing cha- rades be a little quieter. You're disturbing the music Chopin is improvising. {And then he lowers [140] [Act III] MADAME SAND his voice to a whisper and hushes them with his lifted finger) Piano! Piano! (Then he sees Lu- CREZiA a7id begins thoughtlessly to bubble over) Ah — so, George, — she — you — {But George is ready and suddenly she turns to him and speaks as though nothing but the answer to her question mattered) George. Isn't that Thalberg playing? It's like his touch. Liszt. (Swiftly, almost angrily) No, no. Cho- pin. Only Chopin can play like that. Listen, ah, that phrasing — such delicacy, such nuance. Listen that modulation. George. And can you modulate so beautifully, my friend .f^ (And the message has registered not un- seen by Heine) Liszt. (His whole manner changing looking at Lucrezia) What a beautiful girl! Is she an artist come to dance the Tarantula.? Heine. No, she is an avenging fury whose wings are clipped. George. (Peering through him) That is very cryptic, Heine. Heine. (Smiling back) Perhaps, George, but not too deep for you to read. (There is a pause. Chopin has reached a brilliant passage and instinctively they all stop to listen) [141] MADAME SAND [Act III] Liszt. Ah ! Beauty made audible. Singing star- light. LucREZiA. (In utter disgust) Monkey! Liszt. Ah ! (His hand lifted in ecstatic admira- tion) The moment's inspiration — George. (As the music swells and dies) The heritage of all the years. (And Liszt, softli/ closing the door behind him, goes back into the music room) LucREZiA. (To Pagello) Come away, Pietro, these people are all crazy. They rattle in their heads. Pagello. (At a loss. It is all too much for him) George — George. Go, Pietro, I shall be brave. My bless- ings follow you, my friend. Life must be answered — youth be heard. She is Sarah come from the South to call you. I am as Hagar cast without. But in the wilderness I shall find my peace. My little Ishmaels are calling me. Heine. She's a little mixed, but what difference does it make — they're Italians. George. Under the trees at Nohant I shall find forgetfulness and rest. Do not forget me, Pietro. (And she bends over to kiss him a last farewell) LucREZiA. (In a corner, her hands twitching) Madonna mia. She's a witch. George. No, no, Pietro. (Thru habit and not knowing what to do he is about to kiss her on the [142] [Act III] MADAME SAND lips) No, no, not on the lips — the brow, my friend, the brow, as you would kiss a sister. (And thus nobly and sadly they embrace) Good-bye, my brother. {And then Lucrezia is over next to hirriy her arms thru his and they are moving to- wards the door) Pagello. (Suddenly stopping) But — (And in- stinctively his hand goes to his pocket) I — I (And at a loss just how to put it) I am but a poor prac- titioner. George. (Thoughtfully) Pietro, it seems to me I've heard you say that same thing once before. (There is an embarrassed pause but in an instant she is ready) George. Of course, of course. Buloz, advance me a thousand francs. They may need it. You shall have two books for it instead of one. The writ- ing will help me to forget. Go with them, remem- ber they are strangers in this whirling world of Paris. Heine. (With significance) Strange as two babies at a ball. (And as Pagello comes over tenderly to shake her hand in gratitude, Lucrezia keeps hold of his other hand with a sort of instinc- tive feeling that he won*t be safe until out of sight of George) Heine. (Aside to Buloz) Michael Angelo alone could do justice to that group. [143] MADAME SAND [Act III] George. Come, Buloz, see these two children on their way. You remember the coach for Lyons leaves the Post Hotel at nine. (And she is over at the door with Pagello and Lucrezia) Heine. (Sotto voce to Buloz as he moves to- wards them) It was on this very coach that she started with de Musset. Buloz. Well, what of it.? Heine. If this sort of thing goes on the people of the diligence should make her an allowance. George. Good-bye, my brother. (And then even more beautifully) Good-bye, my new-found sister. (And at this moment the Chopin improvi- sation is over and a hurst of applause sounds from the next room) George. (Unperturbed) Love will protect you. (And she stretches out her hand to Pietro and he bends over and hisses it. And she of- fers her hand to Lucrezia but the girl re- fuses it and suddenly turns and faces her) Lucrezia. (All the passion in her spilling over) Corpo di Cristo, I will not take your hand. I am an Italian and I do not forget. Dio ! And I do not forgive. What you have stolen I have taken back. Maladetta! What you have taught him I shall profit by. (And half dragging, half embracing her re- captured Doctor, they are gone and Buloz with them. George for a moment stands [144] [Act III] MADAME SAND looking after them a sad little smile in her eyes. Then she turns to Heine) George. Ah, Heine, youth is the one thing worth having longest. She is glorious. Mark my words, my friend, the world shall yet be saved by women. Heine. Then as their first priestess let me ten- der you my homage. {And he gallantly kisses her hand) If you ever cease writing, George, go on the stage. Melpomene herself could not have played it better. George. Yes — I wrote that letter, Heine. Heine. Ah, my prophetic soul. George. Poor Pietro could never have managed it alone. Heine. (Seriously) George, I have ever loved you. George. (Lightly) Too late, too late, my Ger- man. My soul is turning gray. Heine. That is why my admiration for you means the more. Tell them to carve upon your tombstone: "Here lies George the indefatigable." George. That doesn't interest me. I won't be there to read it. Heine. You'll probably outlive us all. George. No, Heine, you are wrong. (And then as irrefutable proof) Fve just had my old mat- tresses recovered and I regret it. It wasn't worth while for the little time I still contemplate living. I am going to an island in the Mediterranean to die. Wait and see, time will tell. [145] MADAME SAND [Act III] Heine. Time tells nothing. Leave it to your biographers. George. (TJwugh a minute ago life was over) What! Never! I'll forestall their lies and some day, like Rousseau, I'll confess in twenty volumes. (Then sadly) My heart is a graveyard. Heine. Don't you mean a cemetery, George.-^ {And at this moment a lackey opens the door from the hall and Alfred de Musset enters, his mother leaning on his arm. It is their first meeting since Italy) Mme. de Musset. (Stepping forward and cor- dially taking George's hand) Alfred has told me all. (And George is as near hysterical surprise as she has ever come in her life) Mme. de Musset. A mother's thanks for all that you have done for him. Yes, I know how patiently you nursed him thru his sunstroke and sat at his bedside bathing his brow and giving him his milk. George. (Equal even to this) I promised you that I would care for him. Mme. de Musset. And you have, you have. A mother's gratitude goes out to you. (And in her enthusiasm she hends over and kisses George, and Heine, who has been watching Alfred — who stands like a monu- ment trying to solve a riddle — comes to the rescue) Heine. (Bowing to Mme. de Musset) May I have the honor of escorting you to the Baron .^^ [146] [Act III] MADAME SAND Mme. de Musset. (Taking his arm) We are very late. (Again the piano sounds from the music room) George. (A little more enthusiastically than she realizes) Ah, that is Chopin. Liszt is to play later in the evening. Mme. de Musset. Are you coming in, Madame? George. No, I shall sit here alone to listen. I am not well, Madame. I do not like the crowd. Mme. de Musset. (As she reaches the door) I shall see you later then, at supper? Heine. At supper, — of course. George. If I stay, but alas, Madame, I am so spent. (And she heaves a deep sigh) I do not know what will happen to me. (As indeed she doesnH. And George and Alfred are left alone) George. (Sadly) That was kind of Heine. I wanted to see you, Alfred, once before I left Paris. I'm very tired. Alfred. You're overworking. You should break with Buloz. " He expects too much of you. George. No, it isn't that. (And then slowly) I have just sent Pietro back to Venice. Alfred. (As the memories stir) Ah — George. All is over. It is the end, — the end. Alfred. Go down to the country, you will rest there out in the open. It is quiet under the trees. [M7] MADAME SAND [Act III] George. {Wearily) It is a quiet deeper than the silence of Nohant that I seek. Alfred. You mean — George. Yes, my friend. I welcome it as a long rest after a too long journey. I can no longer live with dignity. Alfred. You've been like this before. Why, by to-morrow — George. No. No. That was long ago. (A nocturne of exquisite melancholy sounds from the music room) To-morrow bears but the same sad burden as to-day. I shall miss only the sound of my children's voices. Solange is so sweet — you should see her, Alfred. I can hardly keep from weeping when I kiss her. I shall miss my children and the feel of the wind in my face. I adore the wind. It is the symbol of perpetual energy. Alfred. Blowing nowhere and forever — ^but such is life. George. {Sadly. It is her tragic moment) And such is love. We are like leaves tossed in the wind of desire. Do you remember that night in Venice in the window? I laughed at you and your fear of fate. But you were right, Alfred. Destiny has piped and I have danced — and now I'm tired. Alfred. And love.-^ George. {And from her heart comes a cry of bit- terness) Love, alas, I have called to love and it has answered me with lies. I am done with that delusion. It is nature's trick to make us fools. [148] [Act III] MADAME SAND It is empty, empty. You remember you gave me a message at parting in Venice. Now I shall give you one. (And she holds out her hand to him) Store up the gold of life in youth, my friend, whilst you can still believe this lie that men call love. Alfred. (Bending over her hand and kissing it) Good-bye. (And he goes into the conservatory and as George is about to sit down on the long sofa near the fireplace she sees the hook that PiETRO has dropped and she picks it up) George. (Perhaps she is weeping a little. She read the title) "Lelia." Faithful to the last. Finis. Finis. (And she glances toward the little room through which Pagello and Lucrezia have gone) Adieu, Pagello! (And she lets the little book fall to the table and then she looks toward the conservatory through which de Musset has gone) Adieu, Freddo. (And then she looks into the fire as though bidding a last farewell) Adieu, love ! (And she sits gazing for a moment vnto the flame. A pause. And a little later a tremen- dous burst of applause sounds from the music room. The nocturne is finished. Another sound of voices^ then more applause and then Chopin bursts in from the music room fol- lowed by Liszt ; and the three young girls all aflutter are crowded in the doorway. From her deep seat next the fireplace George is al- most invisible) [149] MADAME SAND [Act III] Chopin. (Irritable, excited) No, no. No more. I'm tired. Liszt. The humming fools. Give them the B Mi- nor Scherzo, Frederick. Chopin. No, no. No more. No more. Mlle. de R01.ANDE and Mlle. de Fleury. Ah! Ah! MiiLE. DE Latour. He's probably tired. Look how white he is. Mlle. de Fleury. Have you ever heard any- thing so divine.? MiiiiE. Rolande. Positively beguiling, my dear. I— Chopin. (Low to Liszt) Get them away. Get them away. Liszt. (With exaggerated politeness) Ladies, your pardon. (And he slowly closes the door. And the three desmoiselles sink hack into the music room. Chopin. It distresses me to play before a crowd like that. Liszt. Do you know that in the middle of your most beautiful pianissimi one of those fat hyenas sneezed .f^ Chopin. I didn't notice it. Liszt. (Amazed) What, why I hear everything when I perform. Chopin. I like best playing for my beloved Poles. They are breathless when an artist plays. [150] [Act III] MADAME SAND (More applause from the next room. Then Mlle. de Fleury and Mlle. Rolande are hack) Mlle. de Fleuuy (To Chopin) Monsieur, the people are clamoring for you. Chopin. Ladies, you must excuse me. Mlle. Rolande. But we beseech you. Chopin. You must pardon me. I am sorry to refuse. {And as he turm away he unknowingly drops his handkerchief. The applause sounds again) Franz, for God's sake go in and appease them. I want to be alone. Alone. {And the two girls flutter up to Liszt with exclamations of admiration. And as Chopin turn^ from them barely concealing his irrita- tion, Mlle. de Fleuuy swiftly lifts his hand- kerchief from the floor and with a look as though she were robbing a shrine of the sa- cred ''bambino,'' she stuffs the precious relic into her bodice and George who is watching smiles. This is unseen by all the others, MLI.E. RoLANDE and Liszt are at the door. Then Mlle. de Fleury joins them, and as they enter the music room Liszt is greeted with a salm of approval. The door is closed and then Chopin begins walking up and down. He is warm. He wants to mop his brow. He is nervous. He looks at a picture. Then again for his handkerchief. It is gone. This increases his irritation. He sits down, [1511 MADAME SAND [Act III] still feeling in his pockets; and then — and it sounds as if it came from nowheres — George speaks. And as she does so Chopin jumps up not knowing from whence it came) George. Here, take mine. {And she hands him her handkerchief) Chopin. {Taking it) Ah, you. Thank you, Madame. George. Sit down, you must be very tired. Sit down and rest. Chopin. Yes. Yes. George. I can't imagine anything more fright- ful than having to face a room of people like that. It must be so much more wonderful to play for two or three. Chopin. I like best to play for only one. That is when I can "speak." George. Yes — Chopin. I always choose some one to whom I play. To-night there was no one in there who in- terested me. George. Your art is the most fragile of all the arts. It is born of the moment and as it lives it dies. Chopin. Yes. Yes. {He begins walking about again) George. Oh, don't be alarmed, I'm not going to talk music. Would you like some champagne.? Shall I call a lackey.? Chopin. No. Let us sit quietly for a while. {And they do so^ listening to the music) [152] [Act III] MADAME SAND Chopin. (After a moment) That is a beautiful melody but in a second he will spoil it with his fire- works. (George doesn't answer. Then after a little while he goes on) Chopin. I have never read any of your books. George. (Unconcerned) No? Chopin. No. Listen! Music should have more soul and less speed. (A pause) You do not answer me. (Another pause) You are so different from other women. You seem to know how to be still. George. (Smiling) I am listening to you. Chopin. Some day I will come and play for you. George. (Unmoved) Yes.^^ Chopin. (A bit piqued at her lack of enthusi- asm) I do not do that often. George. No, I am sure of that. (There is another pause. Then George speaks. Something stirs in the ashes of her heart) George. Why have you avoided me since you've been in Paris .^^ Chopin. I was afraid of you. George. Afraid .^^ If that is a compliment it is too roundabout. Chopin. From a distance you seemed, shall I say — (He hesitates for a word) George. (Lightly) Formidable. Chopin. No — er — (Then he gets it) compli- cated. [153] MADAME SAND [Act III] George. You have chosen badly. I am really very simple. (Then with a shake of her head be- cause she really means it) Too shuple for my good. {And he looJcs at her and she turns away and gazes into the fire. Another pause) Chopin. Weren't you at the Marquis de Custine's last Saturday.'' George. (Almost carelessly) Yes. Chopin. I didn't meet you. George. No, I left early. Chopin. But women always want to meet me. George. You're very shy. Chopin. I thought I saw you looking at me when I was playing. George. And so beautifully — Chopin. I was dreaming of some one long ago. George. Yes. Chopin. Why did you leave so early.? George. I went home to work. Chopin. At night. George. Yes. Till four in the morning. Chopin. My art too is exacting. Sometimes I practice ten hours a day. George. (As she glances at him, she is thinking of her writing but, alas, how often people mean one thing and say another) I have been practicing all my life. Chopin. One of these days I must read some- thing you've written. George. Why? [154] [Act III] MADAME SAND Chopin. I do not read much. George. There are too many books. It is life that really matters. (A note of sadness comes into her voice) Life! Chopin. You are sad, Madame? George. Alas, my friend, I have suffered. (She looks at him tenderly, then hack into the flames) Chopin. {Slowly. It is to very few he would say this, hut she is different) I understand, Madame. I too have lived. George. {Expectantly) Yes? {A pause. She waits for him to go on hut he is silent) George. Some day, perhaps, you will care to tell me? Chopin. {Perhaps he is a little embarrassed) Listen! Liszt is playing the "Libestraum." Less than Beethoven — but 'twill serve. Listen! George. Yes. You are right. I too cannot abide these people who are an iEohan harp thru which their grief is forever moaning. {She is in danger. She is heginning to forget herself. She glances at him. He is listening to the music) It is a love that has lasted long, my friend? {Her hand is on his) Chopin. Since my boyhood. I do not know why I tell you this. George. {Very tenderly) That is the only love that matters. So you too have been lonely. [155] MADAME SAND [Act III] Chopin. I've been alone for all my life. George. That is the sad melody that runs through life. We are forever seeking companion- ship whilst in reality we are forever alone, alone. (And her voice drifts away on the sweet sadness of the word) Chopin. Yes. I must come and play for you. George. I shall listen with my soul. {A little flame stirs in the ashes. Is it the spell of the music that moves her?) Chopin. You are not like what I thought. George. No ? Chopin. I imagined you were always talking philosophy. George. That's what the world thinks of liter- ary people. The truth is I seldom mention books. Chopin. Franz told me that you were the clev- erest woman in Paris. George. I thought he was my friend. Chopin. There are days when I cannot abide Paris and these crowds of brilliant people. (He looks towards the music room) George. Yes, I know what you mean. I too have felt that. Why don't you go away? Chopin. I would but though I dislike people, I don't like being all alone. It gives me a feeling of peace to know there is some one to whom I can go — some one who will understand. George. (For the first time looking him straight in the eyes) Yes. That is the perfect companion. [156] [Act III] MADAME SAND Some one you know is there and still never feel about you. I have tried many but all have failed, even Alfred. Chopin. Does such a one exist .^^ George. In dreams perhaps. {And she is languorously fanning herself whilst in the music room Liszt plays *'The Lorelei') Chopin. What a delicious odor. George. "Lily of Japan." Pagello bought it for me in the Palais Royal with his last two francs. But the odor was too strong for him. That's why he's run away to Venice. Chopin. (Looking at her) With such a person far away — George. {Lightly but still with a faint sense of suggestion) In a blue isle in the Mediterranean shall we say? I too have been dreaming of the South. Chopin. {Smiling hack at her fantasy) Yes. Why not? The Mediterranean — George. {Leaning back a little, her tongue wet- ting her lips goes on with the delicious nonsense) Where the tropic palms droop in the odorous shad- ows and the scarlet flamingoes sleep in the sun. {She likes this and begins jotting it down on her fan) Chopin. What are you doing? George. {Almost sprightly) I just thought of [157] MADAME SAND [Act III] what I must order for luncheon to-morrow. (And she repeats as she writes) — scarlet flamingoes. Chopin. Flamingoes for lunch? George. Why not? Perhaps you will come and dine with me. Chopin. Perhaps. You are the one woman in Paris who doesn't bore me. George. (Laughing) What! Go back to your island, my friend. Chopin. No. Do not think I am jesting. If for a while I could break away from all this clever- ness. (And again he waves his hand with a gesture of disgust towards the music room) There in this mythical island I could realize my dreams and give to the world all the music that struggles and mounts in my heart. George. (Whimsically/) And if you go I shall follow you and lie quietly listening among the ferns. (He looks at her. She looks back. There is a pause. Then jestingly/, laughingly) Or perhaps we might go together. Chopin. (Slowly) Why not? Why not? George. (Her hand agaiji touching his. Her voice low) Why not? (The light of the fire shines about them) Some day, perhaps. (Half propheti- cally, half in subconscious hope) Some day. (And Chopin sits looking at her and she leans back, her eyes slightly closed) Chopin. I am so tired. [158] [Act III] MADAME SAND George. (Leaning towards him) Shall I drive you home? Chopin. Would you? (And he smiles at her wanly, sweetly) George. Poor boy, you are very tired, aren't you? (A pause, she is closer to him) There is something about you so like my little son. Chopin. Yes ? George. And do you know what I should do if you were he? Chopin. No. George. This, my poor tired child — this. (And like a mother — indeed love and the mother in her are mixed beyond comprehen- sion — she takes him in her arms and kisses him and the next instant she awakes to the calamitous rashness of her deed) George. What have I done? What have I done? Can you ever forgive me? Chopin. (Bending towards her) Why not? George. (Springing up as once before she has done in Venice) Now I realize it all. For weeks the ecstasy of your music has sustained my fainting spirit. All the while I have loved you, loved you as I have never loved before, loved when I thought that love was over forever — and I haven't known. And now that I have told you, good-bye. (She rushes from him) Chopin. (His voice low) Wait! Wait! You mustn't leave me now, now at the beginning. [159] MADAME SAND [Act III] George. (Struggling with her heart) No, no. I am done with love. I have prayed to love and it has come to hurt me. No, no. Not again, not again. I am through with love forever. Chopin. (His arm is about her) This is the be- ginning. We have found each other in our loneli- ness. You have brought peace to mj heart. (His lips are close to hers) George! George, nothing else matters. This is the beginning. (And he kisses her. A pause. And then she breaks from him. There are tears in her eyes. For a moment she stands watching him, the old wonder ever new breaks in her heart. He comes over to her. His voice is very gentle) Chopin. You know you said that you would drive me home. George. (And all that she has forgotten and all that she hopes are in the words) You mean.^^ Chopin. If you are willing — yes. (And again they are in each other* s arms. Tableau! From beyond sounds the music. She has lost her head. This is rash. Some one may come in. She breaks away from him. He follows her) George. (She looks about her) No, no. This is not the Mediterranean, There are too many lackeys. (She steps towards the door) Chopin. But aren't you going to drive me home.'' [160] [Act III] MADAME SAND George. And if I shoufd tell the coachman to drive to this island in the sea? Chopin. I should follow you. There is too much art in Paris. Come. George. {Swiftly) A moment. A word to Buloz lest he wait for me. {And impetuously she tears out the fly leaf from the copy of "Lelia" lying on the table and scrawls some words and then) George. Chopin, we may be driving to the world's end. Chopin. To the sound of music. Come. {And they rush out as very cautiously from the music room enters Mlle. de La- tour with her autograph album in her hand followed by Mlle. Rolande) Mi>LE. DE Latour. {LooMng about) Why, I thought she was in here. MI.LE. RoLANDE. Probably they're in the supper room. M1.1.E. DE Latour. I'm going to ask her. I may never see her again. I don't care what Agnes says. {And they run out through the little draw- ing-room to the applause which sounds from the music room as Heine opens the door and comes in) Heine. {Calling) Frederick! Where is he? {And BuLOZ bustles in from the hall) Heine. Where's Chopin? Buloz. Gone! , [161] MADAME SAND [Act III] Heine. Gone! The Baroness was hoping he would play again. Liszt seems tied to the piano. Nothing c-vn budge him. BuiiOZ. No. Heine. I'll ask George to read a chapter of "Lelia" ( He takes the hook from the table) ; that will quiet liim. BuiiOz. She's gone. Heine. What? She too. BuiiOZ. I saw them leave together. ! Heine. Together? (He looks surprised) BuLoz. Yes. Why not? Can't a man and a woman dri e from a party without the world com- ing to an end? She left me this. (He points to the note i:-: his hand) It's written on the half title of "Lelia." Heine. Perhaps you can print it in the Revue. BuLoz. (With a quick look) Not yet. Read it, Heine. (And Heine does so and in his amazement he lets the note flutter to the floor) BuLOZ. iVnd how long this time, Heine? Heine. How long? How long? Does it matter? Think of the copy it will make and how the world will revel in it. And now — diet's go in to supper. (And as they exit Mlle. de Fleury comes in from the music room on her way to join Mlle. de Latour and Mlle. Rolande. Suddenly she sees the note which Heine has let fcdii (She picks it up) ri62] [Act III] MADAME SAND Mlle. de Fleury. (With swimming eyes as she reads it) "Good-night, Buloz, don't wait for me. Life is love. That's all that matters. I've taken Chopin home to put the poor, tired boy to bed." {And she clutches the note to her trem- bling heart) Mli.e. de Fleury. (Tenderly, lit with the thrill- ing romance of it all) How beautiful ! How beau- tiful! (And the curtain falls as Liszt, the untir- ing, thunders from the music room the be- ginning of a brilliant Polonaise) [163] A NOTE ON THE MUSIC FOR "MADAME SAND" All the entr'acte music should be of the period of the play but the overture must be Mozart's "Cosi Fan Tutte." The Italian title of this sparkling music when rendered into the balder English and reading, "Thus Do All Women," delicately sug- gests that George is not the only member of her gentler sex who might have acted as she did. In fact, given her "talent" perhaps any woman would, that is, if she could. Chopin, by his music, is to be subtly anticipated throughout the comedy. After each entr'acte group, in that wonderful moment, when the lights are dim, echoes of his music should be heard; for the beginning of Act I the gay little Posthumous Ma- zurka in F Major, for the beginning of Act II the languorous Prelude in B Flat, Opus 28, No. 21 ; and for Act III the curtain lifts on the three prat- tling demoiselles to the charming strains of the little A Major Prelude. One number of the entr'acte music for Act II should be an arrangement of a group of the tink- ling tunes heard throughout the Venice episode at the "serenata" which is supposed to be in full swing [165] MADAME SAND under the lovers' window on the Grand Canal. For Mrs. Fiske's production authentic melodies, such as one hears at these floating concerts in Italy, were used. Throughout Act III Liszt and Chopin are heiard in the music room improvising on themes which later in their careers they are to use for some of their most famous compositions. During George's first meeting with Alfred, after the ending of their love affair in Venice, we hear Chopin playing the second theme of the Posthumous Valse in G Flat, Opus 70, No. 1. During her farewell scene with de Musset, in which, out of her broken heart she speaks of the disillusionment of love, Chopin is heard playing the G Major Nocturn, Opus 37, No. 2. The sudden break, as it actually occurs in the music, is used to denote Chopin's distress and comes just at the moment before he rushes from the piano quite unknowingly into George's arms. For the opening of George's love scene with Chopin, Jiszt, unconscious of what is taking place in the little drawing-room, is accompanying the dawning love of Chopin and George to the romantic strains of the third "Liebestraum" in A Flat. Chopin's words: "but in a moment he will spoil it with his fireworks," are spoken just before the famous pyrotechnic fig- uration which is the despair of all amateurs who lovingly flay the "Liebestraum." When Chopin and George, in this crowded world of Paris, find each other in their loneliness, Liszt is playing the theme [166] MADAME SAND which later in life he is to use for his song arrange- ment of Heine's ''Lorelei" ; and as the comedy ends and Mile, de Fleury presses George's tell-tale note to her trembling heart, Liszt, "because no one has been able to drag him from the piano," is still heard playing, at this moment, the dazzling opening phrases of his second Polonaise in E Major. [167] LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 926 851 2