MiipJiipilisiit^^^ * -oy, PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND / jvy^ ° THE MACMILLAN COMPANY ZmW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO MACMILLAN & CO., Limited LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA MELBOURNB THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA. Ltd. TOEONTO :^E[yii]cotrrEPir) raiRanHPiGuiscn PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND TRANSLATED BY HENDERSON DAINGERFIELD NORMAN ILLUSTRATED BY IVAN GLIDDEN VOLUME ONE NEW YORK THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1921 All rights reserved Copyright, 1921, By the MACMILLAN COMPANY Setup and clectrotyped. Published October, 1921 Dramatic and all other rights reserved rniNTI I> IN THE LNITEU STATES Or AMERIOA. — u. V, 1 Translator s Dedication. to FOREWORD For twenty-five years, till in December, 1918, he himself en- tered into light perpetual, Edmond Rostand was the poet of light, from the April starlight of Romantics to the full summer sun- shine of Chanticleer. Because his genius is true to the genius of his people, and because the French language is a most lucid medium, his plays have suffered little from misinterpretation. Chanticleer is the one exception. Readers and spectators have been so dazzled by its rays, they have been, for the most part, unable to see the sun. If Kipling had written a play called The Lion, and its scene were laid in his own home county of England, people would, I think, have inferred a patriotic meaning. Yet when Rostand, having written Cyrano of Bergerac and The Eaglet, completed the triology with Chanticleer, the critics, heedless of the fact that the Cock is the emblem of France, acclaimed it as a society satire, and disregarded its larger significance as a patriotic parable. The reader's enjoyment of the play will be enhanced by careful observation of the lines that introduce the leading characters. Our attention is directed to The Old Hen in the Basket as that ancient France that is the mother of France, the wise old mother whose one concern is the growth of her splendid Cock : "A Gascon Hen, Pau is her native place." Patou is Peasant France, "Guardian of homestead, garden and of farm," vii viii PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND the peasant who loves the soil and the sunshine of home, and who is first to scent danger to the farmyard; the French peasant, "Son of all the races, Artois, Saintonge" ; his soul "the dreaming circle of the pack." The Pheasant Hen's own lines declare her a child of all ages and all countries, the recurrent feminist and the eternal feminine, yet after all a feminist distinctly French, who "makes a toilet of a uniform." The Blackbird's cynical sketch, which introduces Chanticleer on his first appearance, as plainly as the Pigeon's praise shows him, made up of all her provinces, the very Cock of France. From Chanticleer's own beak we have his command to the Magpie at the Guinea's Tea: "Announce, — without addition, please, — the Cock." And when the foreign cock asks ironically: "The Gallic Cock?" Chanticleer answers: "None needs to use that name If native-born and certain of his claim; But that good name you take upon your beak, When one says just 'The Cock,' — of him you speak." Nevertheless, like so much great poetry, its application is at once local and universal, — a light set in the home window, but shining far. Blackbird, Guinea Hen, Peacock and Night Birds of the Play, all have a definite relation to Chanticleer's own poultry yard, yet they and their kin make trouble in every flock. Chan- ticleer is always Cock of France, but for us all he Is the Cock of Dawn. And wherever his cry pierces the blackness, the Night Birds believe and tremble, and seek his life to take it away. For, mind you, the Secret of Chanticleer is very truth. It is work and faith in one's work that makes the world go round. It is loving the light and calling for it that brings the Light at last. FOREWORD ix As to the translator's share, in all the Plays, but especially in Chanticleer, there is only this to say, in words found in a certain old edition of Ossian: "Uncertain, — in an alien speech, — While wandering here, some child of cliance Through pangs of keen delight may reach The power of utterance." Henderson Daingerfield Norman. CONTENTS Romantics (1894) 1 The Princess Far Away (1895) 59 The Woman OF Samaria (1897) 141 Cyrano of Bergerac (1897) 207 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS See, I Am Coiffed in Fairer, Fitter Guise! . . Frontispiece FACING PAGE Sir Percinet, How Beautiful and Wise! 28 The Dream Is the Soul's One Star 66 And Yet I Think It True 146 So Be It! Climb! 214 ROMANTICS A Comedy in Three Acts In Verse TO ROSEMONDE ROMANTICS LIST OF CHARACTERS Sylvette. Percinet. Straforel. Bergamin, father of Percinet. Pasquinot, father of Sylvette. Blaise, the gardener. A Wall, a mute personage. Bravoes, Musicians, Moors, Torch-Bearers, a Notary, Four Neighbors, etc. The action may take place anywhere, provided the costumes are pretty. ACT I The scene is cut in tivo by an old, moss-grown wall, engar- landed with a riot of climbing vines. Right, a corner of Ber- GAMIn's park. Left, a corner of Pasquinot's park. On each side a bench against the wall. When the curtain rises, Percinet is sitting on top of the wall, with a book on his knees, from which he is reading aloud to Sylvette, who is standing up on the bench on her side of the wall. She is resting her elbows on the zvall and listening enrapt while Percinet reads. SCENE I Sylvette, Percinet Sylvette: Sir Percinet, how beautiful and wise! Percinet: Is it not? Hear what Romeo replies: "It is the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone." Sylvette {hurriedly, listening) : 'Sh! . . . Percinet : No one. Your heart stops, Then starts, is like a fluttering bird, Ready to fly with the first breeze that stirred. Hear the Immortal Lovers, Juliet's cry: "Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I: It is some meteor that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, 3 4 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND And light thee on thy way to Mantua. Therefore, stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone. Romeo: Let me be ta'en ... be put to death. I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say yond gray is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow. Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven, high above our heads. I have more care to stay, than will to go. Come, Death, and welcome." Sylvette: If Lord Romeo Say that, 'twill make me cry. Percinet: Too mighty book, I cannot bear so dolorous a look! So, till to-morrow, I will close its cover, And make of Romeo a living lover. (He shuts the book and looks about him.) Adorable, this place, and made to fill The part of Setting for the Immortal Will. Sylvette: The play is beautiful, and how divine The wind's accompaniment that sways this vine; And the scene suits it, — all these shadows green, Sir Percinet, . . . the poem and the scene Are lovely, . . . but less beautiful indeed Than is your voice, half singing while jou read. Percinet: O naughty flatterer! Sylvette: Unhappy lovers! How terrible their fate, when one discovers! {With a sigh.) Ah me, I think. . . . Percinet: What? Sylvette (hastily): Nothing! Percinet: What you think Has made you, on a sudden, very pink. Sylvette (repeating earnestly) : Nothing! Percinet (shaking his finger at her): Sweet liar! Yet your clear eyes say ROMANTICS 5 That which you think. I know! {Lowering his voice.) Our parents, eh? Sylvette: Maybe. Percinet: Your father and my own; the hate That sunders them! Sylvette: Yes! Oh, mysterious fate! Often I weep beneath my father's rule. Last month, returning from my convent school, My father led me to this grassy space, And said: "My child, behold tlic dwelling place Of Bergamin, mine ancient enemy. Father and son thine eyes must never see. Promise me well, — or lose a daughter's place, — Thou, too, wilt be the foe of all his race. Twixt mine and his there can be no accord." I promised. . . . See how well I keep my word ! Percinet: Have I not sworn by all high heaven above you That I will hate you always? And I love you. Sylvette: O holy Virgin! Percinet: Love thee. Sylvette: It is sin! Percinet: Oh, very great! But if a man begin By being warned, — it makes him seek that wife. Kiss me, Sylvette. Sylvette: But, never in my life! {She jumps down from the bench and goes a little distance away.) Percinet: Nevertheless, you love me. Sylvette: You think so? Percinet: Little one, I tell the truth your heart would shyly shun. Let's doubt no longer what our hearts both know. I say . . . just what you said a while ago, — Yes, you yourself, Sylvette, comparing thus The Lovers of Verona to ... to ... us. Sylvette: I didn't, either! 6 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Percinet: Yes, you did, Sylvette. Thy father seemed like that of Juliet, Mine was like Romeo's ; — a fate as sad, Parents as cruel, — and a love as mad! And I will brave them both for love of you, Pasquintot-Capulet, Pa-Montague. Sylvette (comiitg a little closer to the wall) : Then we're in love! How quickly it came on. Sir Percinet, how could it? Percinet: Love is born. One knows not how or why, when first it flutters. I saw you pass, — peeped through my window shutters. Sylvette : And I saw you. . . . Percinet: Our shy eyes seemed to call. Sylvette : One day, I gathered nuts hard by the wall. By chance, . . . Percinet: By chance I read Will Shakespeare here. Ah, see how Destiny aids souls mates, dear! Sylvette: A bold breeze flung my fillet at your feet. Percinet: To give it thee, I climbed this bench, my sweet. Sylvette {climbmg) : And I climbed this one. Percinet: Every day since then Darling, I wait thee here, most blest of men. With throbbing heart, I hear thy laughter call, — Bird twittering in its nest, — below the wall. Light laughter rising, till thy bright hair shines A glint of glory in the verdant vines. Sylvette: Since we are in love, we ought to plight our troth. Percinet: You read my very thought, upon my oath! Sylvette: Last of the Bergamins, — how melancholy! — The last Pasquinot plights thee. Percinet: Noble folly! Sylvette: They'll talk of us when future ages gather. Percinet: Each tender lover and each cruel father. Sylvette: But, dear, who knows, — perhaps God wills it so, — Healing of hatred from our love may flow. ROMANTICS 1 Percinet: I'm not so sure. Sylvette: Me, I have faith in Fate. I know at least five ways to do it. Wait! Six splendid ways. Percinet; Truly? Oh, what? Sylvette : Suppose, — In romances one reads such things as those, — The Heir Apparent with his Court might move, — Might pass our house. I'd tell our hapless love, And of our fathers' hatred, — the whole thing; — Don Roderick and Chimene and the King, — The Prince would call our fathers. His command Would make them friends and . . . Percinet: Give me thy dear hand ! Sylvette: Or it might happen like another tale: Thou wouldst fall ill. All mortal aid would fail. Percinet: Madly my father'd cry, "What wouldst thou, boy?" Sylvette: Thou wouldst say, "Sylvette!" Percinet: His heart would melt, with joy; And I'd recover . . . thee! Sylvette: Or this romance, — An old Duke sees my portrait by some chance. He loves me, — sends his squire to tell me so, And begs to make me duchess. . . . Percinet: You say. No! Sylvette: He foams with rage. One evening after dark, I dream of thee, all lonely, in the park; I am seized, — I shriek. . . . Percinet: I hear . . . divine his guilt! Twice — thrice I plunge my dagger to the hilt In his vile breast . . . fight like a lion . . . slay . , . Sylvette : Three or four men. My father comes. "Now say Who is this hero?" And he learns thy name. "He who has saved my daughter well may claim Her hand in marriage." Oh, he quite relents! Thy father sees thy valor and consents. 8 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Percinet: And we live long and happy ever after. Sylvette: That's not impossible, or food for laughter? Percinet {hearing a noise) : Some one . . . Sylvette (losing her head) : Let's embrace . . . Percinet (embracing her) : Thou wilt come, confess. Thou wilt not fail this evening at . . . Sylvette : N-no. Percinet: Yes. Sylvette (disappearing behind the wall) : Thy father! (Percinet leaps quickly from the wall.) SCENE II Sylvette (who has come down from the wall, and is consequently invisible to Bergamin), Percinet, Bergamin Bergamin : In this corner ! More and more You moon here. Why? Percinet: My father, I adore This corner of the park . . . the bench . . . the shades The vine filings on the wall ... its free cascades. Gracious and graceful, is it not, this vine? See these festoons. An arabesque each line. One feels at peace where these soft breezes call. Bergamin: How does the wall help? Percinet: I adore . . . this wall! Bergamin: Nothing that I can see here to adore. Sylvette (hidden, aside) : No, he can't see! Percinet: I love it always more, This old wall, crowned with grass, engarlanded Here, with green ivy, there, with woodbine red; Aristolochia, glycin beautiful, Its lovely clusters like a fleece of wool ; Dear ancient wall, half crumbling, in whose spaces Eyes lifted to the sun, are rosy daisies, And honeysuckle, — all these starry flowers, And moss so thick upon this wall of ours, ROMANTICS 9 Even tlie bench that hard beneath must cling Is robed with velvet, throne for any king! Bergamin: You fhghty boy, shall I believe that all Thy sheep's eyes seek the bright eyes of a wall? Percinet: The bright eyes of a wall! {He turns to the wall.) Ah, lovely eyes, Astonishingly blue as smiling skies, Dear flowers, clear eyes, you are the soul's delight. If tears empearl these chalices of light, We'll kiss that dew off, — change that mournful story. Bergamin : Wall's got no eyes. Percinet: It has a morning glory! {Gracefully he plucks one and hands it to Bergamin.) Sylvette: Dear Jesus, what a soul! Bergamin: The boy's an ass! I know right well what brought you to this pass. (Percinet and Sylvette both give a start of alarm.) You come to read in secret! {He takes the book that is sticking out of Percinet's pocket and looks at the cover.) Plays! ( He opens the book and lets it drop, horrified.) In verse! Poetry! That's why you get worse and worse. Mooning! And hiding! It's enough to shock you, — Your grown son talk about "aristolochia," — And blue eyes of a wall. You go along! Walls ain't for pretty, but they must be strong. I'll cut away this foolish greenery, Might be weak places hid that I can't see. Better to guard us from our hateful neighbor A new white wall is worth the price o' labor. White, clean and bare, and no aristolochia But bits of broken bottles. That will block you. Aye, that will keep you off, you old rapscallion! Those bottles In array, a sharp battalion ; {He shakes his fist in the direction of Pasquinot's park.) 10 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Percinet: Mercy! Bergamin : No mercy, I'll show none at all. Bottles shall bristle all along the wall! Sylvette and Percinet: Oh! Bergamin {sitting down on the bench) : Let's have a chat. {He gets up, and walks back a few steps, eying the wall sus- piciously.) But, if walls haven't eyes, Still, walls have ears! {He makes a motion as if to climb up on the bench. Panic seizes Percinet. Sylvette crouches behind the wall, a tiny figure; but Bergamin, with a wry face, abandons his notion, having felt a rheumatic twinge. He signs to his son to climb and look.) See, Son, if someone spies. Percinet {readily, climbing on the bench and leaning down to Sylvette, who is already on tiptoe again) : This evening! Sylvette {giving him her finger tips, which he kisses) : Oh, before the hour can toll. Percinet {ivhispering) : I'll be there. . . . Sylvette: I adore. . . . Bergamin : Eh ? Percinet {jumping down) : Not a soul. Bergamin {reassured, sits down again) : My son, I want a wife for you, so I . . . Sylvette: Ah! Bergamin: What's that? Percinet: Nothing. Bergamin : Yes, a feeble cry. Percinet {looking into the air) : A wounded bird . . . Sylvette: Alas! Percinet: Caught in the branches. Bergamin : After reflexion, for I take no chances, I have made my choice. Percinet {walks away, whistling) : Dear! Dear! Bergamin : 'Twill cost you dear If you rebel. ROMANTICS 11 Terci'SET (coming back) : Dear! Dear! Dear! Dear! Bergamin: Don't whistle like a torn-tit, silly jay, — She's rich, still fairly young, a pearl, I say. Percinet: If I won't have your pearl? Bergamin: You say this thing? Wretch! Rebel! Wait, I'll show you, sir. . . . Percinet {pushing aside the cane his father raises) : The Spring Fills all the hedge-rows with the sound of wings. The forest sees, fluttering above her springs, Her mating birds caress. Bergamin: Indecent! Chaff! Percinet (still dodging the uplifted stick) : All Nature smiles. Hark! 'Tis young April's laugh. The butterflies. . . . Bergamin: Clean daft! Percinet: In green fields rove To find and wed the wild flowers of their love. Love . . . Bergamin: Bandit! Percinet: Bids hearts blossom In their season, — You'd have me make a marriage, sir, of reason! Bergamin : That shall you, scapegrace ! Percinet: Never! By my word, I swear, by this wall, which I hope has heard, That I will marry so romantically Never was marriage such as mine will be, — A marriage madly, royally romantic! (He dodges and runs off.) Bergamin (running after him) : I'll stop your antics! SCENE III Sylvette; later, Pasquinot Sylvette: It is not so frantic, Pa's hatred. I quite share it now. Pasquinot (coming in, Left) : What's this? What are you doing In this corner, miss? 12 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Sylvette : Nothing. Just walking ! Pasquinot: Here? Near foes so spiteful? Are you not frightened? Sylvette: N-no, I am not . . . frightful. Pasquinot: Thou, near this wall alone! Thou art forbidden To approach this wall. You know what there is hidden. Look on that park. On yonder side, they gather, Mine ancient foemen! Sylvette: Oh, I know it, Father. Pasquinot: Expose thyself to words outrageous, To . . . What affronts might they not heap on us If that old scoundrel or his whelp should find You day-dream near this wall! It chills my mind, — Sets me a-shaking, just the very thought! Aha, their wicked plans shall come to naught. I'll make this top bristle with iron spikes. — That will impale the fellow and his likes! They'll run him through if he so much as touch. Sylvette (aside) : He will not do it. It would cost too much; A little close, papa. Pasquinot: Now run away. (Sylvette goes out; her father watches her with a satisfied expression.) SCENE IV Bergamin, Pasquinot Bergamin {speaking off stage) : This note to Straforel, without delay. Pasquinot {runs quickly to the wall and climbs up on it) : Bergamin ! Bergamin {same business) : Pasquinot! {They embrace.) Pasquinot: How goes it? Bergamin : Fairly. Pasquinot: Thy gout? ROMANTICS 13 Bergamin: Better. Thy cold? Pasquinot: Thou knowst I'm rarely Free from that plague. Bergamin: Well, well, the match is made! Pasquinot: Hein? Bergamin : I heard all, hidden in this leafy shade. They adore each other! Pasquinot: Bravo! Bergamin {rubbing his hands together) : All our doing! Widowers, fathers, we arranged their wooing. Me with a son his mother willy nilly Would christen Percinet. . . . Pasquinot: The name is silly. Bergamin: Thou with Sylvette, dreamy blue eyes and all, We with one aim. ... • Pasquinot: To take away the wall. . . . Bergamin : And live together . . . Pasquinot: Join our boundaries, man. . . . Bergamin: Old neighbor's hobby . . . Pasquinot: And old landlord's plan! Bergamin : For that we needed . . . Pasquinot : Marry our two children ! Bergamin: Marry those two. ... At first, 'twas quite bewil- derin' If they suspected what we two desire, The goose was cooked. Their fancy must be fired, Two young folks, both chock-full of poetn,. With them at school, we made our plans, y' see, And married them to suit ourselves, but here College and convent turned them loose this year. I saj's, says I, "Oppose it, and no doubt We'll make those children seek each other out." To love in secret, guilty and pursued, Would please 'em ; so I cooked up this here feud. My plan ! You always questioned its success. Now all that's lacking is a father's yes. 14 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Pasquinot: Maybe. But how? Careful, is what I say. Consenting now would give our game away. I have called you rascal, knave, gump . . . Bergamin: Gump, indeed? Rascal's enough. Don't go beyond the need. Pasquinot: What pretext? Bergamin : Hear. I got the hint from them. Thy daughter's prattle planned our stratagem. They babbled, and I listened, heard them say, This evening they'll meet here. My Percinet Comes first, of course. The moment thy Sylvette Appears, — masked bandits leap from hiding, set On and kidnap her. She shrieks! My boy Rushes to her assistance ! Rescue ! Joy ! , The bravos flee ! You come. I have arrived. Thy daughter, saved. My hero son, survived. Thou givest thy blessing. Tears paternal flow. My heart relents. We bless the pair. Tableau. Pasquinot: Ah, that is genius. That's a true example Of genius! Bergamin {modest and judicial): Talent, say — yes — talent's ample. 'Sh ! Look who comes. The bravo, Straforel. I wrote him fully. Little's left to tell. He has the outline. Details must be painted For the abduction, (Straforel in a grand bandit costume appears at the back, centre, and advances majestically.) SCENE V The Same. Straforel Bergamin {coming doiun from the wall, and greeting Stra- forel) : Hum! Make you acquainted With my friend, Pasquinot. Straforel {bowing) : Sir . . .^ {Straightening up, he is surprised not to see Pasquinot.) ROMANTICS 15 Bercamin {pointing to Pasquinot, still sitting astride the wall) : On tlie wall. Straforel {aside) : Astonishing! He's ripe enough to fall. Bergamin: Master, my scheme appeared . . . Straforel: Elementary. Bergamin: You understand, act quick . . . Straforei, : Am silent, very. Bergamin: A feigned abduction. Duel feigned. Be sure . . . Straforel: Aye. . . . Bergamin : Choose skilled fencers. I could not endure A wound for my joung cock, — my only son. Straforel: I'll handle him myself. 'Twill be well done. Bergamin: Ah, well, that bridge is safe before it's crossed. Pasquinot {whispering to Bergamin) : Say . . . better ask him what it's going to cost. Bergamin: What do you ask, dear sir, for an abduction? Straforel : Sometimes there's extras, sometimes a reduction. Abductions, sir, have quite a range of prices. But in this case according to advices, We need not count the cost. Your lad and lass Are worth, one fancies, one of the first class. Bergamin {dazzled) : Ah, you have classes? Straforel: From a common ruction To the highest, sir. Imagine an abduction, Two men in black, vulgar kidnappers, creep Up in a cab. That kind comes very cheap. Next, night abductions. Those by day cost more. Pompous abduction with a coach and four. And lackeys curled and powdered. — Wigs, I figure, Are always extra. — Eunuch, mute or negro, Sbirro, brigand, musquetaire, — in courses; There's post abductions, two horse; three, four horses, One can augment ad libitum the number ; — Top-chaise abduction^;, always rather sombre; Abductions in a bag, — burlesque. Then take Romantic ones in boats. — Calls for a lake. 16 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Venetian gondola takes a lagoon ! Abductions by the pale light of the moon! — Moonlight comes high, sirs, but it is good form. — Abduction sinister lit by a storm, Flashing of lightning and of steel, — quite grim. Mantels dark-hued, plumed hats with spreading brim; Abduction, country-style, one for the city; Torch-light abduction, — that one's rather pretty! The masked abduction, strictly classical; There's one to music, suited to a ball : The sedan-chair abduction makes a stir. That's gayest, newest, most distinguished, sir. Bergamin {nodding to Pasquinot) : Well? Pasquinot: Hon . . . well? Bergamin : I think, 'twill charm their senses To go the whole hog — never mind expenses. I say, let's have a little of each one. Make an abduction. . . . Straforel: Plumed? It could be done. Bergamin : Let's give the children the romance they ask,— Sedan chair, torches, music, plume and mask. Straforel (making ?nemoranda) : Let's see . . . to make these varied groupings dextrous, Abduction of the highest class . . . with extras. Bergamin: Done! Straforel: Soon I will return. But it behooves You leave the gate unbarred, and oil the groves. Bergamin : Open and noiseless. Straforel {boiving) : Now, my best respect, sirs. (As he goes out.) Abduction of the highest class, with extras. SCENE VI Bergamin, Pasquinot Pasquinot: With his grand air, he goes, the honest one, And never named the price. ROMANTICS 17 Bergamin : As good as done ! We will pull down the wall ; have one fireside ! . . . Pasquinot: Winters in Paris in one house, beside! Bergamin : Make all those charming changes we have planned. Pasquinot: We'll shape the yews. Bergamin : Whiten the walks with sand. . . . Pasquinot: Set out round flower beds, finer than a fiddle, — Our monograms in posies in the middle! Bergamin: It's too severe and plain, this stretch of grass. Pasquinot: We'll liven it with bowls of colored glass. Bergamin: Buy a new fountain for the gold fish, hey? Pasquinot: Yes, with an egg that dances in the spray. We'll have a rookery! Old son, say whether . . . Bergamin : We've got our wish ! Pasquinot: Our old age, spent together. Bergamin : Thy girl is settled ! Pasquinot: And thy boy, also! Together: Ah, my old Bergamin! Ah, my old Pasquinot! {They fall into each other's arms.) SCENE VII The Same: Sylvette, Percinet, ivho enter suddenly from dif- ferent sides of the wall Sylvette {seeing her father hold Bergamin) : Ah! Bergamin {seeing Sylvette, to Pasquinot) : Thy daughter! Percinet {seeing his father hold Pasquinot) : Ah! Pasquinot {seeing Percinet, to Bergamin) : Thy son! Bergamin {ivhispcring, to Pasquinot): Let's fight! {They change the embrace to a clinch.) Take that! Pasquinot : Villain ! Sylvette {catching her father's coat tail): Papa! Percinet {same business) : Papa! Bergamin: Let go, you brat ! Pasquinot: 'Twas he insulted me! 18 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Bergamin : He hit me ! Hah ! Pasquinot : Coward ! Sylvette : Pa ! Bergamin : Knave ! Percinet: Pa! Pasquinot: Liar! Wretch! Sylvette : Papa ! {They separate the combatants.) Percinet {leading his father away) : Come in. It's late. Bergamin {struggling to turn back): This rage! This par- oxysm ! Pasquinot {same busi?iess, with Sylvette) : I foam. . . . Sylvette {coaxing him into the house) : The night air, and your rheumatism. SCENE vni Daylight fades softly. For a moment, the stage is empty. Later, in Pasquinot's park, enter Straforel and his Bravoes, Musicians, etc. Straforel: A single star enstars the heavens fair. Day dies. {He places his men.) You there. . . . You, there. . . . You, there. The sacring bell will sound. The hour is near. White, glimmering through the dusk, she will appear. I'll whistle. Then . . . {He looks up at the sky.) The moon ! Could heart expect A fitter setting for a fine effect? {Looking at the extravagant cloaks of the Bravoes.) The cloaks are excellent. Toss back that cape. . . . That's better. . . . You, on guard, and mind your shape! {'J he sedan chair is carried in.) Chair in the shadows. . . . {Looking at the bearers, who are black.) ROMANTICS 19 Moors! Good! . . . That will do. {Calling into the wings.) Torches, keep hidden till you get your cue. {One sees, dimly, in the background, the pink reflection of the torches, hidden among the trees. Enter the Musicians.) Musicians, — there, where torch-lights cast pink roses. Be graceful, — pliant, — varied, — in your poses. Mandolin, stand! Alto, be seated! So! Look like The Woodland Concert of Watteau. {Severely, to one of the Bravoes.) First-Bravo-in-a-Mask, what's that? You twist? There, that's much better. Fine! Soft music. Hist! Oh, will you get together? . . . Do, me, re. . . . {He puts on his mask.) SCENE IX The Same. Percinet Percinet {enters slowly. As he declaims the following lines the shadows deepen and the sky grows bright with stars) : Father is quiet. I could steal away. Dusk wraps the world. Ghost-dim, the elder flower Adds subtle sweetness to this magic hour. Straforel {whispering to the Musicians) : Music! {The Musicians play softly till the end of the act.) Percinet: I tremble like a reed. I grow so Faint with delight. She's coming! Straforel {to the Musicians) : Amoroso. Percinet: This evening, my first tryst. O hour to bless, The soft breeze rustles like a silken dress . . . Gray twilight hides the flowers . . . tears fill my eyes. Oh, hidden blooms, your perfumes sweeter rise! Tall tree, a star ensilvers thy great dome! Whence is this music? Lo, the night has come. 20 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Sweet night has come. Dear day, you die. The deepening azure of the sky Brightens with lamps, serene and high, Lit one by one. While in the pools the hylas call, The stars shine out, encircling all The moon's slim crescent. Pale beams fall. I wait, alone. O gleams of sapphire! Diamond rays! Stars, — I, your lover all my days. In ardent twilights sang your praise Lost in a mist. My song has found a new theme now. Sweet, whispered words claim all my vow. Short curls bedeck a star-white brow. Sylvette keeps tyrst! Dear stars of heaven, high astral light, Millions on millions, blue and bright. Yet shall be put to shame this night, At high heaven's bars. She will appear. From your clear skies You suddenly shall see her eyes. And ye yourselves your rays despise, My poor, dimmed stars ! (In the distance a bell rings.) SCENE X The Same, Sylvette, later, Bergamin, Pasquinot Sylvette (appearing at the stroke of the clock) : The sacring bell! He waits! . . . (A signal is given. Straforel rushes up to her; torches appear. ) Ah ! ROMANTICS 21 ( The Bravoes seize her and bear her swiftly to the sedan chair.) To my aid! Percinet: Just heaven! Sylvette: Percinet! Percinet: Be not afraid! I come! {He scrambles over the wall, draws his sword and clashes with the Bravoes.) Take that! That! That! Straforel (to the Musicians) : Tremolo. {The violins strike up a dramatic tremolo. The Bravoes flee.) Straforel {in a theatrical voice) : Per Baccho! This youth fights like the devil! {Duel between Percinet and Straforel. Straforel sud- denly puts his hand to his breast.) The fatal blovv^! {He falls.) Percinet {rushes to Sylvette) : Sylvette! {Tableau. She is in the sedan chair, the curtain drawn back; he kneels.) Sylvette: My rescuer! Pasquinot {rushing in) : Bergamin's son! My child's deliverer! Take her! Thou hast won! Sylvette and Percinet: Heaven! (Bergamin enters precipitately from his side, followed by servants zvith torches.) Pasquinot {to Bergamin, as he appears on the top of the wall) : Thy son, sir, is a hero! Bless the pair And pardon me! Percinet {whispering) : Sylvette, we're dreaming. Whisper, darling, so Lest our own voices bid the dear dream go. Bergamin: Hate dies at Hymen's altar. Love is all. The Peace is made. {He points dramatically to the wall.) The Pyrenees must fall. 22 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Percinet: Who would have dreamed Father could be so changed? Sylvette: I told you so. I knew it would be arranged. (While they go up, uith Pasquinot, Straforel lifts him- self, and hands a paper to Bergamin.) Bergamin {ivhispering) : This paper, signed, and this blank space to fill. . . . What is this, if you please? Straforel: Sir, it's my bill. {He falls back.) {Curtain) ACT II The setting is the same. The wall has disappeared. The benches that were set against the wall now are placed on the Right hand and the Left. The grounds are altered as to details. There arc flower beds, summer houses, plaster statues, a rustic table, chairs. As the cur- tain rises, Pasquinot, sitting on the bench at the Right, reads his Gazette. Blaise is raking the flower beds. SCENE I Pasquinot; Blaise; later, Bergamin Blaise: This evening, sir, the notary comes, you say? A month ago, they took the wall away. And you all live together. Time, I vow. Our little lovers must be happy now. Pasquinot {raising his head and looking around) : It's fine without the wall — eh, Blaise? Blaise: Superb, sir. Pasquinot : Yes, My park has gained cent per cent. {He leans doivn and touches a tuft of grass.) Here, here, this grass Is damp. It has been watered ! It's my rule {furious) Never to water before sundown, fool! Blaise {placidly) : 'Twas Mr. Bergamin that gave the order. Pasquinot: Ah! Our good Bergamin does seem to border On stubbornness. He waters out of reason. Good gardeners water little, but in season. Oh, well I 23 24 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND {To Blaise) Make haste. Set out the potted plants. (Blaise goes back, and begins to carry in the potted plants from the green house. Pasquinot reads. Bergamin ap- pears, C.) Bergamin {watering the shrubbery from a huge watering pot) : Ouf! Give a flower the drenching that it wants. Enough is not enough, as some folks think. {To a tree) Thirsty, old fellow? Come and have a drink. Here's water for you. Dry! I told you! Very! {Putting his watering pot down and looking around compla- cently.) My park has gained. I like this statuary. {Seeing Pasquinot.) Good day. {No answer.) Good day. {No answer.) Good day. {No answer.) Well, I attend. Pasquinot: We see each other all the time, my friend. Bergamin: Eh? Well? {Seeing the plants Blaise is setting out.) Put those plants back! (Blaise, flustered, carries them away precipitately. Pasqui- not raises his eyes to heaven, shrugs his shoulders, and reads. Bergamin walks idly up and down and at last sits down by Pasquinot on the bench. Suddenly, mel- ancholy) — Bergamin : Soft as a mouse, At this hour I would sally from my house . . . Pasquinot {musingly, lowering his paper) : And I, from mine, like some marauding stranger. It was amusing. Bergamin : Secrecy ! Pasquinot: And danger! ROMANTICS 25 Bergamin: We stalked the boy and girl as hunters stalk Tiieir game, before we had a dish of talk. Pasquinot: One risked, each time he climbed tiie wall alone A fall, a bruise perhaps a broken bone. Bergamin: And yet our friendly gossip did not fail. We hunted it like Indians on the trail. Pasquinot: I'd steal along just where the hedge was thickest — It was amusing. Bergamin : If to crawl was quickest My breeches at the knees were stained with green. Pasquinot: What lies we told! And that there fighting scene! Bergamin: Our talk of grudge and hate. Pasquinot: It was amusing! {Yawning.) Bergamin? Bergamin {yaivning) : Pasquinot? Pasquinot: Think what we are losing. Bergamin: Pshaw, no! {After a reflective pause.) That's funny. We do miss those antics. Can this be the revenge of our Romantics? {Silence. He looks at Pasquinot, who reads) : His waistcoat lacks a button. A reproach To a man's raising. {He gets up, walks azvay, comes back, walks up and down.) Pasquinot {looking at him over the edge of his paper) : Like some huge cockroach, Scuttling about, coat tails like shards, but thicker. Bergamin {looking at him) : Squints when he reads, — looks like a goollylicker After a butterfly. {He ivalks back, whistling.) Pasquinot {aside, nervously) : A trick. Whistling to beat the piper. {Aloud.) Oh, quit that! Whistling like a blowing viper. Bergamin: Motes are apparent in our brother's eyes. Concerning beams, we are not half so wise. You have your ways ! 26 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Pasquinot: I? Bergamin : Yes. You can't sit still. You sniffle all the time, — it makes me ill, — You King of Colds, or sneezing that-a-waj'. You tell one story twenty times a day. Pasquinot {ivho, still seated, has crossed his legs and is swing- ing one foot) : But . . . Bergamin: Always you sit, — it shows a lack of sense, sir, — Swinging j-our foot before you like a censer. At table, you roll bread crumbs in a ball. It's you have ways to make a man's flesh crawl ! Pasquinot: Blue-moldy for excitement! That's the story! You've leisure now to make an inventory. You count my ways, my tricks, tell all the list. Communal life is a great oculist. My blindness, too, is cured. I see your pride. Your meanness, your bad manners, magnified. A fly is pretty and amusing both, — But it becomes a monster in the broth. Bergamin : I have suspected, — now I see it all. Pasquinot: What? Bergamin: The wall flattered you! Pasquinot: You, too, need wall! Bergamin: Together, we can't want to see each other. Pasquinot {explosively) : We have not lived, since we have lived together! Bergamin {smugly) : Oh, well, sir. Very well. But this our plight Was not done for ourselves, eh? Pasquinot: You are right. Bergamin : 'Twas for our children. Pasquinot: For our children. Then Let's sufifer silently, endure like men Our common loss. It must not be apparent. Bergamin: Denial is the lot of every parent. (Sylvette and Percinet appear, Left, back, among the ROMANTICS 27 trees. They walk slowly across the lawn, arms entwined; they make lofty gestures.) Pasquinot: 'Sh! here are the lovers. Bergamin (zvatchinff them) : Do you see those poses? They think they're acting out apotheoses, Pasquinot: Since their adventure, each, upon my soul, Sees on the other's head an aureole. Bergamin: This is the hour that, copying pose and looks From 'Tilgrim Lovers" in the picture books, They come each day, as punctual as the dial, To make the stations of their "True Love's Trial." (Sylvette and Percinet, who had disappeared for a mo- ment. Right, reappear a little nearer and corne down.) Here are our pilgrims. Pasquinot: If their prattle prove Like it has been, 'twill be worth hearing. (Bergamin and Pasquinot slip behind a clump of bushes.) SCENE II Sylvette, Percinet; Bergamin, Pasquinot {hidden) Percinet: Love! Sylvette: I love thee. {They stop.) The illustrious spot we near. Percinet: Right here the deed was done. Aye, it was here! The brute fell heavily, transfixed, thus. Sylvette: There, I, Andromeda . . . Percinet: I, Perseus! Sylvette: How many foes opposed thee? Percinet: Ten. Sylvette: Twice ten! Twenty, without the leader of the men. Thou did'st correct the fury of that beast! Percinet: Yes, you are right. . . . Aye, thirty men at least. Sylvette: Tell me how, dagger drawn, eyes like the sun, You smote them to the earth, my Glorious One ! 28 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Percinet: I can't recall the cuts, the thrusts, the guards. I know they tumbled like a pack of cards. Sylvette : Wert thou less fair, I had believed, — I tremble Remembering it, — I saw the Cid himself. Percixet: We do resemble. Sylvette: Our love lacks but a poem, that should prove thee Hero of heroes. Percinet: There shall be one. Sylvette and Percinet {together) : I love thee. Sylvette: My dream come true! So often I had vowed To wed a hero, noble, reckless, proud ; Not the " safe match" of common families. Percinet : Ah ? Sylvette : Girls are always offered things like these ; The mild young man for sisterly affection ; — One older, like a priest, — "Youth needs direction." Percinet: Thou wouldst not wed, on this I can depend, The inevitable "son of father's friend." Sylvette {laughing) : No! . . . Hast thou marked, — to come to lower levels, — Our fathers, in one mood? Percinet {nodding) : And that, the devil's. Bergamin {behind the hushes): Hum! . . . Percinet: Yes, I know just what has taken place. Bergamin {hidden): Hah! Percinet: Yes, our flights disturb their humdrum pace. I do respect our parents' simple nature. But, — men of middle class and middle stature, — Our fame o'ershadows them, indeed, quite covers. . . . Pasquinot {behind the bushes): Hein? Sylvette: Yes, — just "Fathers of the immortal lovers!" Percinet {laughing) : My crest is raised too high for men like these. SylvI'Ttr: Thy father seems a little ill at ease, Like — dare I say it? . . . Percinet: Yes, thy will is regal. SiriiOEl'Hi-BEfiaTiPaL-^nD ROMANTICS 29 Sylvette: Then . . . like a duck that finds she's hatched an eagle. Bergamin {hidden): Ho! Ho! Sylveti'E {laughing more gaily) : Poor parents, how our love in secrecy Made sport of them ! Pasquinot {behind the shrubbery) : He! He! Percinet: Yes, Destiny Marks true love's path however it meanders. Still Scapins are the servants of Leanders. Bergamin {behind the shrubbery) : Ha! ha! Sylvette: This evening our betrothal, love, begins, The contract. . . . Percinet {starting down) : I must tell the violins. Sylvette: Be fleet! Percinet: I fly. Sylvette {recalling him) : I grow so kind of late. My lord, I will conduct you to the gate. {They go down, arms interlaced, Sylvette mincing as she walks. ) We'll equal, I am sure, the greatest Lovers. Percinet: Eternal glory round our romance hovers; Romeo, Juliet — Aide, Roland, Sylvette : Pyramus And Thisbe. Percinet: Aminta and her Shepherd. Sylvette: All like Us. All of them, {They have disappeared; but one hears their voices among the trees.) Voice of Percinet: Francesca of Rimini, Thou knowest. . . . Voice of Sylvette: Petrarch . . . Laura . . . Bergamin {coming from behind the shrubbery) : Well, by Gemini! 30 . PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND SCENE III Pasquinot, Bergamin Pasquinot {coming out, also; mockingly) : Smarty, thy plan of which thou wast so fond Has met thy hopes, and, maybe, gone beyond. We know now how it works, and, lackadaisy! Our son and daughter are completely crazy, Bergamin : Thy girl does make me fidgety enough, — Rape of Lucrece and all that sickening stuff! Pasquinot: Thy son, with all that hero-talk he serves, Is just as racking to a fellow's nerves. Bergamin: What makes me fractious is, we're represented As dupes, and dull old parents who relented. Our voluntary blindness, they are sure. Was genuine; their meetings quite secure. My feeling may be silly, — but it's hearty. Pasquinot: Foresaw that, too, I reckon, Mr. Smarty? The duel left thy musketeer so flustered He thinks he's the sole soldier ever mustered. Bergamin : Mustard gets up my nose, but, anyway, It doesn't make him smart. Pasquinot: I'm going to tell! Bergamin: Delay! Delay's the word. The time for our confessing Is — after they receive the marriage blessing. Till the last strain of wedding bell and harp, We must be silent, — dumb as any carp. Pasquinot: So be it. We are caught in our own net, Thanks to your famous plan. Bergamin : Eh, don't forget You praised it. Pasquinot: Great plan! Great! Bergamin {aside) : The fellow grates on me. ROMANTICS 31 SCENE IV The Same. Sylvette {She enters ffnily, a spray of flowers in her hand; ivith this she gesticulates and ivaves to Percinet, who has just dis- appeared; then she comes doiun to the two fathers.) Sylvette: Greeting, Papa. Greeting, Papa-to-be! Bergamin: Howdy, child. Sylvette {mimicking him): How grumpy! "Howdy, child." You seem . . . wliat would you call it? . . . I know. "Riled." . Bergamin: It's Pasquinot who makes . . . Sylvette {luaving her spray of floivers under his nose) : 'Sh, 'sh! Becalm! I come as Peace; as Peace I wave my palm! You two still sulk a bit! That's understood; Of course you can't behave as old friends should. Pasquinot {aside) : The irony! Bergamin {aloud, mockingly): 'Tis true! Our earlier state Was such. . . . Sylvette: Just think! It was a deadly hate. What dreadful things you said! When I recall The words I heard, safe sheltered by the wall, The good, wise wall! So perfect a defense, You never dreamed of . . . Bergamin {aside) : Not a lick of sense! Sylvette {to Pasquinot) : For every day I came, — you know, at last ! — To meet my Percinet. The sweet days passed And you, — confess, — knew naught ! Pasquinot {sarcastically) : I knew a power! Sylvette: Yet we kept tryst at the appointed hour. {To Bergamin) : I hear my lover still that time he said, — 'Tvvas just before the Event, — "Nay, I will wed 32 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Most royally romanticly!" I heard, And, by our Lady, he has kept his word ! Bergamin (exasperated) : Truly? And you believe that I was led. . . . Sylvette: Tut! Tut! I knoiu! A hundred times I've read That always, always. Lovers' dreams come true; That soon or late, stern parents such as you, Ruled by events in which they have no share. Give in the end their blessing to the pair. Pasquinot: "Ruled by events." . . . No, no, just let me laugh ! Sylvette: But we have proved it! Bergamin : If we told you half. . . . Sylvette: What? Bergamin : Nothing. Sylvette {to Bergamin) : Why, why this mysterious air? Bergamin: Because . . . {Walking away .) Her airs are more than I can bear. Pasquinot: When with a word one could. . . . {He walks away.) We must keep mum! Sylvette : Nothing-to-say can easily be dumb ! Pasquinot {explosively): "Nothing to say!" You think, you silly lass, That what has passed has not been brought to pass? Was the park entered by a fast-barred gate? Bergamin: For girls nowadays do bravoes lie in wait? Sylvette: Do I think. . . . What is this? Bergamin {coming back and marching up to her) : Why, it's enough. 'Tis time you understood your parents' bluff. Aye, since the world was on its way set spinning, 'Twas always blonde perukes that did the winning. Bartholo, while his hate consumed his liver, Must always bow at last to Almaviva; We've triumphed over all the story books, And white wigs have outwitted blonde perukes. ROMANTICS 33 Sylvette: But . . . Pasquinot: Once upon a time, papas in stories, Cassander, Orgon, Argante, won no glories. You think real life is like your silly rhymes. They don't describe papas of modern times! Duped become dupers, for the world does move. If we had said: "You two must fall in love," Would you have done it? No. Our v/ish was hidden. To make you do our will, it was forbidden! Sylvette: But then . . , you knew, perhaps. . . . Pasquinot: You'd best say, surely! Sylvette: Our meetings? Bergamin: When you whispered most demurely! Sylvette: The benches? . . . Pasquinot: Set expressly for such comers! Sylvette: The duel. . . . Bergamin: Acting! Sylvette: And the bravoes. . . . Pasquinot: Mummers! Sylvette: My capture. . . . Oh, 'tis false! Bergamin {fumbling in his pocket) : False? I'll instruct you! The bill's right here — 'twas costly to abduct you! Sylvette {snatching it from him) : Give it. . . . {She reads.) "Straforel, confidential agent. Abduction . . . to secure betrothal. . . . Pageant." Ah ! "Eight men in mantles, fifteen francs a cloak." Ah ! "Masks." . . . Bergamin {to Pasquinot) : I'm feared it was too soon we spoke. Sylvette {reading) : "A sedan chair, pink cushioned. . . . Moonlight . . . mist. . . . A new creation. . . ." {She tosses the bill on the table and laughs.) Really, quite a list! Pasquinot {surprised): She isn't vexed? Sylvette : A clever trick, indeed ! 34 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND But ... so much effort for so little need ! Dear sir, do you believe that if I love My Percinet, 'tis for the web you wove? Pasquinot : She takes it well. Bergamin {to Sylvette) : You take it mighty well. Pasquinot: But still . . . shall Percinet? . . . Sylvette {hurriedly) : Oh, never tell. . . . Men are so silly. . . . Nothing must be said ! Bergamin: Plenty of good sense in that little head. And I who thought . . . {He looks at his watch.) The notary's nearly due. We must make ready. {Holding out his hand to Sylvette) : Not cross? Sylvette: Cross? With you? Bergamin {turning back once more after he has started to leave the park) : You feel no grudge? Sylvette: Ah, set your mind at rest. (Pasquinot and Bergamin go out.) Sylvette {with icy fury) : I hate the old thing! Hate him and detest! SCENE V Sylvette, Percinet Percinet {entering hastily) : Still lingering here? I understand it well. Chained to this spot where great events befell, Adventures all unknown. ... Sylvette {aside, seated on the bench. Left) : Unknown — I say! Unknown. . . . Percinet: Just there you almost swooning lay, — And saw me conquer, — like Amadls then, — Thirty assassins. Sylvette: There were only ten. Percinet {coming nearer) : Dearest, thou'rt troubled. At our secret tryst, ROMANTICS 35 Your sapphire eyes, deepening to amethyst, — In their blue depths a shadow I have detected. Sylvette {aside) : Sometimes, his language seems a bit affected. Percinet: But hold! I comprehend what dims those rays. A wistful memory of perfect days! . . . You mourn the wall, weiglited with vines and flowers, Witness of those first hopes and fears of ours. Destroyed, that wall? Nay, that could never be! Has Romance lost Verona's balcony? Sylvette {impatiently): Ah! Percinet: Does it not hang where breezes ever play. That moonlit balcony; — forever sway The ladder, mid the blossoms of that night. Haloed forever with supernal light? Sylvette : Oh ! Percinet {more and more lyrical) : The eternal lovers make the immortal scene. Our wall, demolished, stands in living green, On which has grown, a mad romantic riot, — Flower of our wondrous love. Sylvette {aside) : He won't keep quiet! Percinet {ivith a siiiile full of promise) : The wish that you an hour ago expressed To see our love in lyric verses dressed, . . . Ah, well, this poem. ... Sylvette {uncomfortably): Well? Percinet: I've written it. Sylvette: Can you make verses? Percinet: Huh! I rhyme a bit! Here's what I made up as I walked along: "The Foeman Fathers: Epic." Sylvette : Oh ! Percinet {posing, ready to declaim) : "First Song:" Sylvette: Oh! . . . Percinet: What ails thee? Sylvette: Gladness — nerves. ... 36 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND {Bursting into tears) I — I believe you Had better leave me to compose . . . {She turns her back, and buries her face in her handkerchief .) Percinet {amazed, for a motrient) : I leave you. {Then, aside J siniVmg, reassured.) This day of days, emotion's natural. {He sees the table. Right, and the sheet of paper on which the bill is written. He sits down.) I'll just jot down my lines. {He takes the paper, is about to write, hut stops, his pencil poised, and reads) : "I, Straforel, Pretended fall, from sword-thrust weak and shifty; Damage to coat, ten francs: to self love, fifty." {Smiliftg.) What's this? {He continues in a whisper; the smile disappears; his eyes bulge.) Sylvette {still sitting on the bench, drying her eyes) : 'T would take him down if he should know I nearly told ! I must take care ! Percinet {standing up): Ho! Ho! Sylvette {turning toward him) : You said? . . . Percinet {concealing the bill) : I? Naught. Sylvette {aside) : It makes it all so shoddy! Percinet {aside) : So that is why we never found the body! Sylvette : He looks so cross. . . . Suppose — suppose he'd guess. {She turns toward him, then, seeing that he doesn't move, says coquettishly) : You haven't told me how you like my dress. Percinet {indifferently) : Blue's not becoming. I prefer the rose. Sylvette {aside j overcome) : Blue not becoming! I believe he knows. {She looks at the table.) The agent's bill . . . the account. ... I put it there. Percinet {seeing that she is looking for something) : What on earth ails you, turning cverywiiere? Sylvette: Oh, nothing. {Aside.) If the wind has blown it down. . . . ROMANTICS 37 {Aloud, fluffing out her skirt.) Nothing. I was just prinking out my gown. {Aside.) If he has found. . . . I'll see. {Aloud.) Hum. . . . You meant to say Your verses on our love, (Percinet starts; she takes his arm, saying gaily) : Recite them, pray. Percinet: Ah, no! Sylvette : Thy poem of . . . Percinet: No! Sylvette : Come ! Recount The great . . . Percinet: They're poor. They are of no . . . Sylvette : Account ? Percinet: I haven't the account. . . . {IVhirling and looking at her.) Pardon, I am so . . . Sylvette : Pardon, but . . . Percinet: She knows? Sylvette : He knows ? Both {together) : You know? {After a minute, they burst out laughing.) Ha! Ha! Percinet: Is it not droll? Sylvette: Oh, very droll! Percinet: Truly, they made us play a role. Sylvette: A role! Percinet: Our fathers were good friends? Sylvette: The best of neighbors! Percinet: They might be kinsmen, sharing land and labors. Sylvette {making a curtsey) : I espouse my cousin. Percinet: I espouse my cousin. Sylvette: Pretty! Percinet: Quite classic ! Sylvette: Ordered by the dozen, Such marriages. True, for the loss of beauty, We have a love that's docile, — and a duty! Percinet: The lands are joined, by this our intervention. 38 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Sylvette : We make, we two, a marriage of convention. Dead, our poor little idyll of the wall ! Percixet: Don't speak of idylls. Let's forget it all. Sylvette: "A sweet young girl." Yes, I am one of these. Percinet: I'm the "safe match," to please our families. And 'twas as Romeo, Sylvette, I won thee ! Sylvette : Now Romeo sheds no romance upon thee. Percinet: And do you think you still play Juliet's part? Sylvette: You're acrimonious. Percinet: You are rather tart. Sylvette: If j^ou were made ridiculous, God knows It wasn't my fault. Percinet: If I had that pose, I didn't pose alone, Sylvette: It's all . . . revolting! Ah, my poor Blue Bird, your fine plumes are moulting! Percinet {mockingly): Simili-capture! Sylvette: Pseudo-swordsman factor. Percinet: Huh, feigned abduction! Sylvette: Huh, a rescue-actor! Our poetry's a joke, for all our trouble! It grew before our eyes, a rainbow bubble, Bright-hued, and lovelier than summer roses. It bursts, and soapsuds sprinkle on our noses! Percinet: So, Lover whom I mimicked, silly wretch; Lady, whose slippers she might meekly fetch, Shakespearean couple, so divinely wrought. We have in common with you naught, naught! Sylvette: Naught! Percinet: Thinking to make diviner harmony, We plajed . . . not Shakespeare . . . but a parody! Sylvette : Our nightingale was but a caged canary ! Prrcinet: Our wall, a puppet stage by some vagary. And when we met there every day, — appearing With bated breath, despairing, hoping, fearing, ROMANTICS 39 Brave lovers whose immortal fame would linger, — Puppets we were, on the paternal finger! Sylvette: True. But we'll seem still sillier if found To love each other less. Percinet: Let love abound ! They bid us love. We will not do them wrong! Sylvette: Oh, let's adore! ... Percinet: "Adore" is not too strong! Sylvette: Love could console disaster greater far. Am I right, Treasure? Percinet: It is true, my Star! Sylvette: Good bye, my Soul! Percinet: Good evening. O my bride! Sylvette: I'll think of thee, my Heart ... on my own side! Percinet: I, here on mine. Farewell. Sylvette: Good evening. {She goes out.) Percinet: Made a joke! I, so deceived ! Who comes in this wide cloak, Which yet permits the doublet strange to show? This bearded fellow, whom I do not know? (Straforel, entering at these words, stalks majestically across the scene.) SCENE VI Percinet, Straforel Percinet: What is it? Straforel: It concerns a modest sum. Percinet: A tradesman? Straforel: Yes. Run tell your pa I've come. That's a good boy. Percinet: Your name before I go? Straforel: My name is Straforel. Percinet {starting back): He — here? Ah. no! Oh, no! That would be quite intolerable! 40 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Straforel {smiling) : Come, come! You know, young man? Percinet {flinging at him the crumpled bill which he takes from his pocket): Ah! Miserable! 'Twas thou! Straforel: Lord, yes! Per Baccho, it was me. Percinet: Met face to face! I'd seek this enemy To the world's end! Straforel : You find me fat and hearty As could have been expected of a party You killed. The other men you slew are . . . Percinet {rushing at him, sword in hand) : Thou shalt see! Straforel {parrying with his arm, like a fencing master who is giving a lesson) : Hand high — foot well advanced. To be Untaught, at your age! Time you were commencing! {With a turn of his wrist, he makes Percinet's sword fly out of his hand, and, returning it to him with a bow) : What! Learned, so soon, the elements of fencing? Percinet {frantic, taking up his sword) : I'm gone! I won't be treated like a child! I'll be avenged. I'm going to be wild! Romance, affairs, duels, so fast shall come, Don Juan, sir, shall turn over in his tomb! I'll kidnap actresses! I'll have my fill. . . {He dashes out, brandishing his sword.) Straforel : All very well, ... but who will pay my bill ? . . . SCENE VII Straforel, Bergamin, Pasquinot Straforel {calling to Percinet, who is out of sight) : Hey, J ou, there ! Stop ! Here something else is shown. {Enter Bergamin and Pasquinot, wigs off, coats torn, as if they had been in a fight.) Pasquinot {pulling down his vest, and handing Bergamin his wig) : Here's your peruke. Bergamin {out of breath) : Woof! Here, sir, is your own. ROMANTICS 41 Pasquinot: It must be plain that after this proceeding . . . Here is your stock. . . . Bergamin {choking and wheezing) '. It's time you were conceding To live with you is too much sacrifice Even for my son, sir . . . not at any price. Pasquinot {seeing Sylvette, ivho comes in) : My daughter! . . . Best not tell her right away! SCENE VIII The Same: Sylvette; later, Blaise; the Notary, Witnesses, Violins, and Guests Sylvette {throwing her arms: about her father s neck) : Papa, I will not marry Percinet! {Enter the Witnesses and the Notary, in their Sunday best.) Bergamin: Notary! Witnesses! Plague take you! Witnesses {aghast): Hein? Notary {with official dignity) : This sounds . . . Straforel {in the midst of the tumult, having picked up the bill Percinet flung at him) : My bill! You pay my bill! It's eighty pounds! {Enter the guests and three violins, playing a minuet.) Bergamin {in a frenzy, hustling them out): Violins! Devil fetch you! {The Violins autornatically continue playing the minuet.) Straforel {impatient, to Bergamin) : My bill . . . before I go. Pasquinot {together) : Speak to Bergamin. Bergamin: Speak to Pasquinot. Straforel {emphasizing the ivords of the bill, pointing them out one by one with his finger) : Straforel {reading) : "Abduction to secure betrothal. . . . Rout Of . . ." Bergamin: They're un-betrothed. Aha, that let's me out! I will not pay. Straforel {to Pasquinot) : But, sir . . . 42 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Pasquinot: Well, you are cool! You think I'll paj^ a copper? You're a fool! Bergamin (to whom Blaise, enteringj has whispered something) : My boy! He is gone! Sylvette (overivhelmed) : Gone! Straforel (who has started back, stops and looks at her) : Come, come ! Bergamin: Run! Stop my child! (He goes out, running, followed by the Notary, luitnesses, and guests.) Sylvette (trembling with emotioyi) : Gone! Straforel (coTtiing doivn, and ivatching her attentively) : If those young things could be reconciled, . . . Be brought again together. . . . Sylvette (suddenly furious): Gone! He had The heart to leave me! (She goes out, and Pasquinot follows her.) Straforel (triumphantly) : Straforel, my lad, To earn thy eighty pounds, beyond a doubt This lovers' quarrel must be straightened out. (He goes off. The three Violins remain in the middle of the scene, still playing their minuet.) (Curtain) ACT III Same setting. One sees material for rebuilding the wall; the foundations are already laid. Sacks of plaster, wheelbarrows, hods, troiuels. When the curtain rises, a Mason is discovered, at work; he is sitting on his heels, his back to the audience. Bergamin and Pasquinot, each on his own side, inspect the work. SCENE I _ Bergamin; Pasquinot; a Mason The Mason {singing as he works) : Tra lai dclu. . . . Bergamin: Workmen are never quick! The Mason: Delurio . . . delu . . . Pasquinot {ivatching every motion) : There goes a brick! Bergamin (same): Pouf! Slap the mortar! Pasquinot: Paf! Goes the trowel! The Mason {trilling) : Delurio delurio derowel . . . Pasquinot {coming down): Fine voice, but slow! Bergamin {coming down, aggressively cheerful) : Fine sight for the beholder ! A good bit done ! Pasquinot {touching with his foot the rising wall) : Before we're one day older 'Twill stand two feet above the turf! O rapture! Bergamin {also growing poetical) : Dear wall, my eyes thy outline will recapture! Pasquinot: What did you say, sir? Bergamin: Nothing. Not to you, {A pause.) After your dinner, eh? What do you do? 43 44 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Pasquinot: Nothing. And you? Bergamin : The same. {A pause. They bow and each paces up and down on his own side.) Pasquinot {stopping) : No news, sir, of your son? Bergamin: Not any. Straying still. Pasquinot (politely) : He soon will run, — Thanks to the ladies, — out of money. Then He will return. Bergamin: Thank you. (They bow and pro?nenade as before.) Pasquinot (stopping) : The wall again Is rising, sir. I therefore will agree To let 3'ou come sometimes to call. Bergamin: Maybe I will do you that honour. Pasquinot (abruptly) : Ah, now, say, — Come for a game of piquet? Bergamin (hemming and hawing) : Ah . . . oh . . . hey . . . I don't know that I . . . Pasquinot: Come, since I invite. Bergamin: Lord! Say, begs I besique! Pasquinot: Come on! All right! Bergamin (going out, behind him) : You owe me tenpence from last time. . . . My choice! (Turning.) Mason, work well! Mason (singing with all his might) : Tra la! Pasquinot: A charming voice! (They go out.) SCENE n StrAFOREL; later, Sylvette (The moment they disappear, the Mason turns, takes off his hat; it is Straforel.) Straforel: I am the mason. Since the late event, Not walls alone I'm seeking to cement. ROMANTICS 45 {He sits down on the loiv curbing made by the rebuilding.) Romance! Young fellows will pursue that fancy; Hut one can guess, not needing necromancy, He'll come back wiser. Yes, when youth's at large, Life takes the youngster's discipline in charge. A wholesome bath of fact meets those who roam. Aye, Life will trim our little cockerel's comb. He will return, trailing his wing a bit. I, by a method parallel and fit, Must cure Sylvette. It calls for all my arts, Hut, Straforel, thou man of many parts, Thou hast played marquis or prince or what may chance, Been hissed in half the provinces of France! This ought to serve. {He takes from his mason s smock a letter ivhich he slips into a hollow tree.) If you knew all it meant, You would be grateful, fathers. {Seeing Sylvette, who enters.) My cement! {He picks up his hod and disappears behind the wall.) (Sylvette appears, looking cautiously about her, then) : No, no one! {She throws her veil on the bench at the Left.) Does my letter wait to-day? An unknown gallant daily comes this way And slips one in this lightning-riven tree, Green mail box Nature painted just for me. {She puts her hand into the crevice in the tree.) Yes, faithful postman! {She reads.) "Sylvette, heart of marble, Hear the last love-song this hid bird shall icarble. From the cleft tree. Tigress, you make no sign. Though daily letters tell you hoiv I pine." What style he has! "Love is eternal strife." {She nervously crumples the letter in her hand.) Ah, Mr. Percinet is seeing life, — He claimed that right! Well, I will see it, too! 46 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND I won't stay here, with not a thing to do, And bored to death. Would the Unknown, whose words Come from the branches full of mating birds, Could suddenly spring forth ! Just as I stand, — Not going for my hat, — I'd take his hand And follow, follow! I must have Romance. Appear, O Stranger! Even now perchance I love him. Hands outstretched, I stand and say, Come. . . • Straforel {appearing, calls in a ringing voice) : I am here ! Sylvette : Help ! Help me, Percinet ! {She retreats as Straforel advances.) j\Ian, don't come near me! Straforel {ejnotionally) : Hostile! And so moved! Yet I am he whose style you so approved, A moment since! I am the favored mortal Whose messages you sought at yon green portal, He on whose love you count to take your hand And lead you forth to some idyllic land ! Sylvette {not knoiving tvhat to say, nor whither to turn) : Man. . . . Straforel: You take me for the mason. Darling jest! Exquisite ! I am Marquis — 'tis confessed — Of Astafiorquercita, whose persistence Still seeks to flavor a too flat existence With deeds of daring, like an errant knight, Ready to dream, make poetrj^ or fight. I could not penetrate with rhyme or rowel Your garden, Cold One, — so I took a trowel I {With a grandiose gesture, he flings his troicel away, and siL'iftly casting off his mason's smock, and doffing his hat, which is white with plaster, he appears in a glittering Almaviva costume, blonde peruke, conquering mustache.) Sylvette: My lord! Straforel: From one called Straforel I learned ROMANTICS 47 Your history. Mad love within me burned For the poor victim, innocent and tender, Deceived so basely. Yearning to defend her. . . . Sylvette: Marquis! . . . Straforel : Look not so like a startled ghost ! Of his base part the rascal dared to boast. I killed him. Sylvette: Killed him? Straforel: With a single whack! I've always had the headsman's happy knack. Sylvette: My lord . . . Straforel: I understand, heart dear and lonely, You wish Romance, at any price and only. Sylvette: But, Marquis! Straforel: 'Tis decreed. This night I take . . . Sylvette: Oh, sir . . . Straforel: Carry you off for good ! Sylvette : Sir . . . Straforel : Do not awake, Dream on, my heart! Sylvette consents! To-night We take, together, our mad, glorious flight. If your papa is crazed, delirious, So much the worse ! Sylvette: Sir . . . Straforel: If they follow us, — For they pursue elopers with severity — So much the better ! Sylvette: But, my lord . . . Straforel: In verity. So much the better! Pursuers left behind. We'll bare our brows to rain, — to storm, — to wind. Sylvette: Sir . . . Straforel: To gain a continent romantic, dark, Incontinently, lady, we'll embark ! Sylvette: Sir . . . 48 PLAYS OF EDMUND ROSTAND Straforel: In that land where lovers' paths converge, Happy ^^ e'U go in sackcloth and in serge. . . . Sylvette: Ah, but . . . Straforel: For I am penniless! I feel You'd scorn a prosperous lover! Sylvette: Y . . .yes! Straforel: Each meal Shall be of bread . . . bread moistened by sweet tears. Sylvette: Yet . . . Straforel: Exile brings us flowers instead of fears. Sylvette: Sir . . . Straforel: Misfortune is our fortune. For our part, No hearthstone, — but a tent-flap, and thy heart! Sylvette: A tent? . . . Straforel: Four pegs, canvas, supporting bars, Or, if you choose. Love, — nothing but the stars! Sylvette: Oh, but . .. . Straforel: What! Seized with sudden quaking? Is it too far, this journey we are taking? So be it! Hidden, dear Divinity, We'll live alone, shunned by society! Intoxicating thought ! Sylvette : Sir, you're misled . . . Straforel: People will pass us with averted head. Sylvette : My God ! Straforel: Conventions for the vulgar herd! Happy, to be misprized by folks absurd! Sylvette: O, sir . . . Straforel: No task shall carry me away, — I'll tell my passion all the livelong day! Sylvette: Sir . . . Straforel: We will live a life all poesy. I shall have mad attacks of jealousy. . . . Sylvette: O, sir . . . Straforel: When jealous, this you may rely on, I'm a jackal, — a wolf, — a raging lion! Sylvette {falling, half fainting, on the bench): Sir . . . ROMANTICS 49 Straforel: If you break our bond — Lo, I have said Immediately you shall be massacred ! Sylvette: Sir . . . Straforel: Ha, you tremble? Sylvette: Dear God, what a lesson! Straforel: Is blood, by Bacchus! your full veins' possession, Or but a sound that murmurs? What is this? Are you a common bread-and-butter miss? Dare you attempt this dashing destiny ? Go I alone, or goest thou with me? Sylvette: O, sir. . . . Straforel: I understand. My voice availed. And you are strong. For the last time, you've quailed. I'll come and seize you soon . . . upon my horse, Across my saddle ... ill at ease, of course ! But sedan chairs, though pretty and commodious, Fit false abductions, and are therefore odious. Sylvette: But, sir . . . Straforel {going up) : Soon! . . . Sylvette: Sir . . . Straforel: Soon! Ere the clock's next stroke! I only go to seek a horse, a cloak. . . . Sylvette {beside herself with fright) : Sir! Straforel {with a wide gesture) : Still pursued, from land to land, we'll flee! {Coming down once more.) O yearning dreams! O sweet reality! My soul to thy soul, "sister," shall repeat, Soon, and forever! Sylvette {in a faint voice) : Forever! Straforel: Oh, how sweet! You will live always with the cherished being For whom you sighed without so much as seeing. And who, not knowing you, for you could burn! {Before going out, he looks at Sylvette swooning on the bench, and says softly) : 50 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Now, Master Percinet, you may return! (He goes out.) SCENE III Sylvette (alonej opening her eyes) : O, sir . , . Marquis, . . . not cross the saddle, sir ! Have pity on me ! I am not like her. . . . Oh, not at all! Let me go home! {With a shudder.) To-night! I am a bread-and-butter miss. O, you are right! He's gone! . . . Marquis! . . . Dear God! A dream! . . , None spoke! {A pause. She recovers herself.) I'd rather be abducted in a joke! {She stands up.) Ah, well, Sylvette, my child, you've had your chance! You called aloud, and loudly, for romance, And romance came, and you were not content? . . . The stars, the serge, the exile, and the tent! . . . I don't want romance served me with a scoop. Oh, just a taste, like bay leaves in the soup! It is too much! I won't cross any oceans. I'll be content with "sweet young girl" emotions. ( The twilight makes vague, violet shadows on the lawn. She picks up the veil she has thrown on the bench and en- velops her head and shoulders in its light folds, and dreamily) : Who knows. . . (Percinet appears. He is in rags. His arm in its tattered sleeve hangs limply at his side. A hat, with a soiled and broken plume, hides his face at first.) SCENE IV Percinet (not yet seen by Sylvette) : I have had no food since yesterday. T reel with weariness. Pride? Manhood? Nay, ROMANTICS 51 Sillj' intrigues such as all goodness censures! They're not at all amusing, — wild adventures. {He sits down on the low wall; his hat falls off and Syl- VETTE sees him.) Sylvette : You ! {He starts up, trembling. She looks at him.) In such plight! Can it be? Percinet {piteously) : Yes, It can. Sylvette {chisping her hands) : My God! Percinet: I look a little, don't I, like the man The artist poses as The Prodigal? {He trembles.) Sylvette : But he can scarcely stand ! Percinet: I'm tired — that's all. Sylvette {looking at his arm, with a cry) : Wounded! Percinet: You pity an ingrate? Can half . . . Sylvette {severe and distant) : Fathers alone, sir, killed the fatted calf ! (Percinet makes a motion and the pain in his arm forces a ivry face. — Sylvette, in spite of herself, distressed.) Nevertheless . . . that wound. , . . Percinet: Don't turn so white! The wound is nothing. It will be all right. Sylvette: Sir Vagabond, on great adventures set, What did you do? Percinet: Nothing of good, Sylvette. {He coughs.) Sylvette: You cough? Percinkt: We walked on ways adventurous Night after night. Sylvette: Night air is dangerous. What funny clothes you have! Percinet: Some highwaymen Took mine, Sylvette, and gave me theirs again. Sylvette: Of course you found the fortune you were seeking? Percinet: Let's not indulge, Sylvette, in tactless speaking. 52 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Sylvette : Of climbing ladders little would you reck, To balconies? Percinet (aside) : I nearly broke my neck. Sylvette: You have memories of many a sweet success? Percinet (aside) : I nearly smothered, hidden in a press. Sylvette: You have won great wagers since your quest began? Percinet: Yes. (Aside.) Won a thrashing from a married man. Sylvette: Guitar in hand, sung many a serenade? Percinet (aside) : Learned to dodge duckings better than I played. Sylvette : With a real sword-wound you have surely thrilled me. Percinet (aside) : It would have served me right if it had killed me. Sylvette: And you come home? . . . Percinet: Footsore, ashamed, in tatters. Sylvette : But you found poetry ? That's all that matters. Percinet: I went in search of what I left behind! O, do not taunt me! I adore you! Sylvette: Blind To all our disillusionment? Percinet: Let be! Sylvette: Our fathers did deceive us dreadfully! Percinet: No matter. Sunshine floods my heart! I rove No more. Sylvette: They feigned hate! Percinet: Did we two feign love? Sylvette: The wall, a Guignol, — you said that to me! Percinet: I did, Sylvette, — but it was blasphemy. At least, old wall, thy puppet stage, 'tis certain, Has fresh green branches festooned for a curtain, The park for centre, skyline for a frieze; For hidden orchestra, the April breeze; For properties, her blossoms every one; Shakespeare for prompter, and for lights, the sun! Like marionettes, on finger and on thumb, Our fathers made the actors go and come, ROMANTICS 53 But on that mimic stage this glory shines: 'Twas Love himself who spoke the puppets' lines! Sylvette {sighing) : But, oh, we thought we shared a guilty love! Percinet {earnestly): We did! That sweet remorse none can remove. For our intentions were so bad we need No proof to make us criminals indeed! Sylvette {uncertainly): Is it so, truly? Percinet: Truly! Don't you see? Our love, Sylvette, was really infamy. I swear by all thy grace and loveliness, Our love was wickedness, pure . . . Sylvette {sitting down beside him) : Wickedness? {Changing her tone and icithdrawing a tiny bit) : 'Tis true . . . and yet ... I still regret our glory, For all our danger was a trumped-up story. Percinet: 'Twas real to us who thought so, on my oath! Sylvette: No. My abduction and your duel, both, Were false. Percinet: False, sweetheart, was your fear? What passes in your soul has happened, dear. To think yourself abducted, then, may be Just as veracious as plain verity. Sylvette : No, the dear memory is gone ; wild lights, Masks, mantles, music, — all the dazzling sights. The charm, the combat. Oh, it is too cruel To think it was all made by Straforel ! Percinet: That Night of Spring, was that too made by him? The feast of love, the cup of youth abrim, April, who bade us eat and drink thereof? Did he bestar the starry heaven above? Did he make dusk that dimmed the rose-tree's line, Till every rose seemed ghostly and divine, Suspended in the air, mysterious, dim? Gray mists, blue shadows, were they made by him? ; / 54 PLJYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND His the sweet languors? Was he near or far In the pink silver of the Evening Star? Sylvette: No, surely. . . . Percinet: His deed, there were flowers a-plenty? That it was Spring; that you and I were twenty; And that we loved each other? O my dear, There's all the magic. Sylvette: All . . . 'tis true . . . Percinet: A tear? Can you forgive the vagabond his crime? Sylvette: O my poor dear, I've loved you all the time. Percinet: I see again thy brow, the curls that cling, Thy fragrant youth, like the first breath of Spring, One with, yet sweeter than, the wind-kissed clover. No angel can claim kinship with thy lover! (He toys with Sylvette's veil.) Oh, let me kiss thy veil's hem. 'Tis so blest That on thy lovely forehead it can rest. Ah, how this tissue cools my lips! O fool. That left this muslin veil, so sweet, so cool, Forsaking this for silks and velvets drabbled. Sylvette: What silks? What velvets? Percinet (hastily) : Nothing! Oh, I babbled! My little girl in dotted muslin, pray Let me but touch . . . Sylvette: It's linon, Percinet. Percinet (kneeling) : Trembling, I bend to kiss it, yet I feel My lips might soil it, knowing as I kneel, O airy linon. Soft enfolding her, All bliss to win, on Holding her; Ah, linon airy. Fragrant, fragile thing. Did some good fairy Lend her wing: ROMANTICS 55 Ah, airy linon, Scarce the evening dew Dares to begin on Starring you ; Ah, linon airy, Lightly shelter her, Dear Virgin Mary Gossamer. O airy linon, Light as maiden fancy, To weave and spin on Necromancy ; Ah, linon airy. Floating flame of snow, Fancies vary; Love must grow. O airy linon, Her counterpart, White rose to pin on My sweetheart. Sylvette {in his arms) : See, poetry is in the hearts of lovers; Not in adventures only, nor for rovers. Percinet: 'Tis true; for my adventures were authentic. And, O Sylvette, they weren't at all poetic. . . . Sylvette: And those our crafty fathers made arise, They were poetic, though they were just lies. Percinet: They built the framework, but our spirits know On a false trellis still true flowers may grow. Sylvette: Poetry, love, but we were crazy, dear. To seek it elsewhere. It was always here ! (Straforel appears, cnnducting the tzvo fathers, and shows them Sylvette and Percinet in each other's arms.) 56 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND SCENE V The same. Straforel; Bergamin ; Pasquinot Straforel : They're re-betrothed ! . . . Bergamin : My son ! Straforel : So pay my bill. Pasquinot {to his daughter) : Thou lovest him anew? Sylvette : Yes. Pasquinot: Flighty still! Straforel {to Bergamin) : Do I get my money? Bergamin : That you do, my master. Sylvette {startled, trembling) : That voice ... it is — it is — Marquis of Asta. . . . Straforel {bowing) : Fiorquercita? It was I, dear Miss, I, Straforel. Forgive my zeal in this. There's this advantage, surely, in my venture ; — You missed the hardships of a real adventure. Romantic life, as I have let you know it. With its real pangs, you willingly forego it. Doubtless you could . . . {He indicates Percinet) like this young citizen. Have seen real life, but girls aren't just like men, The course might be a little rough to go, So I devised a magic lantern show. Percinet: What's this? Sylvette {hastily): Nothing. I love thee! . . . Bergamin {pointing to the half-built icall) : Let it fall To-morrow, with one blow, that rising wall ! Pasquinot: Dividing walls are wholly reprehensible. Straforel: No, build the wall. The wall is indispensable! Sylvette {gathering all the actors around her) : And now we four and Master Straforel Make for an Epilogue a rare rondel. {She comes down to the audience.) Sylvette: Dainty dresses and rippling rhymes, And Lo\c, with flute and dart and bow. . . . ROMANTICS 57 Bergamin: Flowery foolishness, all Cwc know. . . . Pasquinot: Sudden tempests . . . but stilled betimes. . . . Straforel: Ringing rowels and clanging chimes, A good, kind bravo abroad doth go. . ... Sylvette: Dainty dresses and rippling rhymes, And Love with flute and dart and bow. . . . Percinet: Home, a harbor from hateful times; A little music, a scene Watteau, A pretty playlet, not long nor slow; Sires, — lovers, — a wall where sweet-brier climbs. . . . Sylvette {with a curtsey) : Dainty dresses and rippling rhymes. ( Curtain ) THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY A Play in Four Acts In Verse TO Madam Sarah Bernhardt May I not dedicate this Flay. — E. Rostand. THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY LIST OF CHARACTERS Melissinde, Princess of the East, Countess of Tripoli. Kertrand of Allamanon, Chevalier and Provencial Trouba- dour. JoFFROY RuDEL, Prince of Blaye, Troubadour of Aqtiitaine. Fra Trophimus, Chaplain to the Prince. Erasmus, his Physician. Squarciafico, Genoese Merchant. The Chevalier in Emerald Mail, adventurer in the service of Emperor Manuel Comnenus. SoRlSMONDE, Maid of Honour to Melissinde. The Master of the Ship. Trobaldo. Francois, Pegofat, Bruno, Bistagne, Sailors. Juan, the Portingalais. Marrias, of Aiguss Mortes. The Pilot. The First Pilgrim. Second Pilgrim. Third Pilgrim. Fourth Pilgrim. Fifth Pilgrim. NicoLOSE, Servant to Squarciafico. A Cabin Boy, Sailors, Musicians, and Slaves. XII Century FIRST ACT The deck of a ship which has evidently had a long and terrible voyage. One sees that there have been tempests; sails are tat- tered, yards broken, rigging tangled; a mended mainmast leans perilously. One sees that there has been a battle; bloodstains; scattered weapons. Night is waning. Gray, translucent shadows; a paling sky. Stars that disappear. A violet sea, in wreaths of mist. An horizon lost in fog. During the Act, insensibly Light comes. SCENE I The Mariners: Bruno, Bistagne, Marrias, Pegofat, Trobaldo, Francois, etc.; the Pilot; later, the Coxswain, and Fra Trophimus. {When the curtain rises one may see lying or sitting in every position. Mariners with tragic faces and of ghastly appear- ance; pale, fleshless; they seem overwhelmed with iveariness and privation. Some of them bear wounds, which have been rudely bound up ivith rags. Two of their number, in the background, near the deck-rail, balance between them, by feet and head, a third, inert.) The Two Mariners, Pegofat and Bruno {in the background) : One . . . two . . . three! {They heave the body over the rail. One hears a thud as it strikes the water.) Pegofat: Done! Bruno: Another mate at sea, Who will not ride thy roadstead, Tripoli I Pegofat {taking off his bonnet to the vanished comrade) : Good-bye, lad. 65 66 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Bruno (looking out to sea) : Soon the dawn. The East shines redly. Francois {luaking and stretching): Who was thrown over- board ? Bruno: Audriu the Deadly. Francois: Accursed fever! {He looks at the devastation about him.) Waves have hit her hard. BiSTAGNE {raising his head) : Aye, and the wind. Sheets torn away. Bruno: And yard! Francois : The mast leans, parlous. Better were it cleft. BiSTAGNE : Oh, I want food! Bruno: Naught in the hold is left. Francois {trying to stand) : Ai! Ai! . . . my wound! {He reels.) Ho! One can scarcely stand. If we should meet a new barbarian band We would lack fighting men. Bruno: We would not lack! We must arrive! Nothing can hold us back! Ill, ill shall fare the sloop that would delay. BiSTAGNE : When shall we sail the Sarracenic Bay? The Pilot: Soon, as I hope. The sea has been full wroth! O for the needle that can tell the North, The stone one rubs it with ! BiSTAGNE {shrugging his shoulders)'. A silly fable! The Pilot: Nay, they exist, ... in gourds, to keep them stable. One rubs; the iron is enamoured of the stone; The needle turns due North. The thing is known. All the Mariners: Ha-ha! He is daft! A needle! Hear him tell! Pegofat: Forget the needle! Row our cockle shell! Hold I . . . Our woes end ! The weather is less curst. Bruno: Woes end, eh? Docs our hunger? Francois: And our thirst? THE PRINCESS FAR A IV AY 67 Bistagne: Aye, we have suffered! Pegofat: Heaven will hear our call. Trobaldo {appearing astride a yard) : But what if she were ugly after all? All the Mariners: Oh, no! She is beautiful! She is! Trobaldo: Now by our Lord, She needs must be, Bistagne! Bistagne: And, by my word, More than a little! For our voyage is full Of hardships! Bruno: So, She must be beautiful! All: She is! She is! Marrias : I am sure 1 A Rower: It must be so! 'Tis not to reach a monster that I row! Pegofat {laughing) : Rowing, he thinks of Her! The Rower: The night long, yes! Bistagne: Becalm. She's always pretty, — a princess! The Pilot {shrugging his shoulders) : Your talk is all of her. Pegofat : One is so weary ; Lo, speak of Her, and one is almost cheery! The Pilot: Will she be shown to you, this Faire Ladye? Bruno: The Prince has promised it. Our eyes shall see; If we arrive through all these boisterous seas, He'll tell her we have brought him to her knees. The Pilot: Think you she'll have a word for rovers rough? Pegofat: No. We shall see her. That is meed enough. Oh, she is sung through all of Christendom. A Cabin Boy: Her eyes . . . The Pilot {turning to him) : Thou wouldst see her eyes? The Cabin Boy: That's why I've come. Pegofat: The Master! {The Skipper has entered and has been listening for a moment.) The Master: It behooves us first t' arrive, And that Joffroy Rudel, our Prince, survive! 68 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Mariners: It yet goes ill? Alas! Poor Prince! Bruno: Woe's me! The Master: They keep the castle always closed, ye see; Watched by his friends, belike he's slumbering. Pegofat: He sang at sundown. Bistagne: Troth, a wondrous thing, How easily he makes his lover's lays. Francois: What do you call that thing whereon he plays? The Pilot {with a learned air) : 'Tis called a lyre. Francois: A lyre? Our Lady knows It has a pretty sound. Bistagne: Helps when one rows! Pegofat: When sails are spread, it gives them breath, that lyre! The Coxswain: Our Liege's almoner! Pegofat: Hist! Yes, the Friar! (Fra Trophimus, his goiun mended and full of threadbare places and holes, leaves the Prince's cabin, looks at the sky, and kneels in the background.) Bruno: An easy priest! Francois: Simple, and brave beside. Bistagne: I would all Brothers cut their sleeves as wide! The Master: The lanthorns of the sky grow dim. There stirs A breath ... Bistagne: Dawn comes . . . Fra Trophimus {kneeling) : Virgin of mariners, Who makest the fierce sea gentle in the dawn. Guide thou our ship to port like some great swan ; And, Lady, if he live, our Sire Rudel Vows to Tortosa's shrine, thy grace to tell, A ship like this that brought us to those shores, — A silver ship with helm and sails and oars. The Pilot: Pouh! All that . . . huh! Had I that needle . . . Bistagne: Beast In any case, he does no harm, that priest! (Erasmus comes out in his turn. His doctor's robe in rags; THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 69 he wears no wig; his expression is piteous. The sailors chuckle.) Bruno: Now our physician shows again his phiz. Francois: The medico! Bistagne: Weak . . . Trobaldo {shrugging his shoulders) : As his physic is. SCENE II Fra Trophimus; Erasmus; The Mariners in the background. Fra Trophimus {going to Erasmus) : Master, the sick man? Erasmus: Always worse. He sleeps, While Messire Bertrand constant vigil keeps. {Looking toivard the horizon) Fra Trophimus, the best one can discern, ah? Is fog? {Furiously) I, I, physician of Salerna, What do I mid such perils? Answer, thou. — My school my books, my hearth, where are they now? The sea winds tear my robe. If sails grow big, Those same gusts ravish from me every wig! Fra Trophimus: The prince? . . . Erasmus: Prince of all triflers born, Why need he set forth on a quest forlorn? I joined the prince's household, — but when he, Gentle and feeble, yet lived tranquilly; — Beneath a roof, sir, not beneath a mast. I find this voyage bitter, first and last. {He paces the deck, with increasing rage.) Now may hell roast and may the devil impale The cursed pilgrims who first brought the tale! Coming from Antioch ; they reached the palace At evening as we supped. By Satan's malice! — Th' equerry carved a turkey, knife in hand — They were the first who told of Melissinde! They sang, with zeal wholly importunate, 70 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND This child of Hodierne and Raymond the Great; Deliriously they sang this flower of Asia; — One rolling eye is printed past erasure Upon my brain. Neither to hold nor bind, The prince, this poet, son of shade and wind, Uprising straight, proclaimed her for his She. He serves her since with all fidelity; Two years, exalting her in speech and song. His frame grew weaker as his love grew strong. At last, — set sail, knowing his end was near, Lest he see Death, not having seen his dear! Fra Trophimus: Master Erasmus . . . Erasmus: Foam will be his shroud! And Sir Bertrand, when all men disallowed, All those about Rudel, — this crazy thing, He praised his love, approved his offering. Avowed this venture very fair and fit And must embark, bearing his share in it! And you, a priest, shipped with this crazy horde! One comprehends how I could be on board, But you, the prince's almoner, I charge Have nonnc business on this fatal barge. Your master's the sole son of chivalrj' Who seeks not Syria 'neath the Cross. Not he ! Light love songs to the lute tell all his soul! The Holy Sepulchre is not his goal ! Fra Trophimus: Who knows God's secret end, His hid design? Erasmus: We seek a lady's eyes, in Palestine. Fra Trophimus: Be sure the Lord has pleasure in this thing. Erasmus: What can the Lord gain? Tell me! Fra Trophimus: Everything. Erasmus: Oh! Era Trophimus: For He gains all, or so I understand, By any deed disinterested, grand. Not less His own than the Crusade will prove, Or so I think, this beautiful, pure love. THE PRINCESS FAR A IV AY 71 Erasmus: You'd liken then this rash adventure, sir, To rescue of the Holy Sepulchre? Fra Trophimus: Is His desire just that His tomb be free? Were that His very care, resistlessly He'd drive the infidel, — believe this thing, — Forth on the great sweep of an angel's wing. But no. He wanted to set free His own, Who lived, proud, idle, drowsy and alone. Selfish, lukewarm, the slaves of circumstances, And set them splendid, singing, midst the lances, Drunk with devotion, glad to die in deed. In self-forgetfulness, the soul's chief need! Erasmus: So, what the Prince does for his ladye's dole? . . . Era Trophimus: Is very wholesome for the Prince's soul. For it was dead in him, gay, idle, roving; It wakes within him, suffering, willing, loving. By such means comes, I think th' important part — That in man's body beat an ardent heart. The prince's lesser life had hemmed him round; By petty vices petty courts are bound. Doubt not, his quest obeys more worthy laws. All true love's travail serves High Heaven's cause. Erasmus: Mayhap . . . Fra Trophimus {lowering his voice): Look only! Rowers in their banks. The mariners, — what w^ere they? Reckless ranks Of fighting seamen. Let your mind speak true. It was a pirate ship, a robber crew! But they were hired, as oft thou knowst it fares, — Travellers to the Levant must hire Corsairs, — To take him to his Princess far away. What time the Captain signed the pact, I say Her name was less than nothing to these rovers. Behold, now, all the sailors are her lovers! Erasmus: You are pleased? Era Trophimus: Enchanted! An ennobled galley 72 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Makes, not for hire, but for a dream, this sally. They hope to see Her when their task is done, And their ferocities drop one by one; — The Prince's Lady, Lady of all those; One ends by loving that toward which one rows! They'd have the Prince attain his heart's desire. His love enchants them, thing of wind and fire. For, mark you, little spirits love the grand And feel the force they cannot understand. This noble folly which none comprehends Shines out, all clear, to these his simple friends. Erasmus: The pilot thinks the Prince is lunatic. Fra Trophimus: Less simple, he. Erasmus: What good? What? There I stick. Fra Trophimus: Much. For each ray of the ideal that enters Man's soul wrest ground from evil at its centres. Each noble aim a nobler aim will bear. No dream gives place to any dream less fair. The heart, expanding, has more room for truth. The words I speak astonish you, in sooth? Fm partisan of all adventure high. What were the Argonauts, our ship being nigh? This epic-lyric ship? Ah, ever faster Urge on, its sails song-filled, a poet master, With starving pirates, who will not rebel, To a pure, beautiful, far damozel, Having no other hope than this emprise, To see Her for one moment, ere he dies. Master, indifference is the soul's one chasm And the sole virtue . . . Erasmus: What? Fra Trophimus: Enthusiasm! (lie goes bock.) Erasmus: Ho — hum! It's droll at least, and it may be . . . {After reflection) That Friar will be tried for heresy. THE PRINCESS FAR A IV AY 73 (Bertrand, whose garments, like the others, are in rags, comes from the ship's castle.) Bertrand {to Erasmus) : The Prince awakes. Erasmus: Sir, you do well to tell me, {He re-enters the cabin.) SCENE III Fra Trophimus; Bertrand; The Mariners The Master {to Pegofat, who has dropped his oar) : Row, then! Pegofat: Three days, I've rowed with nothing in my belly. I can no more. Bruno {his voice rattling in his throat) : I thirst! I . . . Fra Trophimus {to Bertrand) : My son, it is heart-warming Thy love for our poor Prince. Thy heart is charming. Bertrand: My heart is weak. It has no barriers grim. A hero passes and I follow him ! Were I Proven9al, were I troubadour, Seeing such love, if I did not adore? {To the sailors) Courage, my lads! Advance, and still advance! {To Fra Trophimus) I never knew contentment in Provence. I ate my heart out, playing games with words Chiselled like gems, or made to fiy like birds. I tired of life whose gravest task was naught, — Polish a thumb nail, juggle with a thought. Some use at last my light life may evince. Fra Trophimus: Brave heart, thy care for this our dying Prince . . . Bertrand: I am a poet. All this love I show him May be but the seduction of a poem. Fra Trophimus: What matter? Thou wert brave. Son, it is ill, If thou dost nobly, to deny it still ! 74 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Bertrand: My holj^ friend, thy praise constraineth me, For in my heart is strange diversity! Capable . . . yes ... of action, of devotion. Still at the mercy of each new emotion. It frights me, Father, that I left the rest So easily for this alluring quest. Less quick to good, mayhap to ill more slow! Praise not the moods that toss me to and fro. I am a poet. A Mariner (lying prone zvhile the Master tries to make him get tip) : I can no more! The Master {to Bertrand) : Messire, To light new courage, kindle you the fire. {The 7nariners drag themselves toward Bertrand.) Pegofat: I starve. Sir Bertrand. Tell me of her hair. Bruno: My lord, I thirst. Her lovely eyes declare. Francois : Thou hast so often during our distress Told us the beauty of the far Princess! {They are all about him, foredone, supplicating.) Bertrand: Oh, well, good seamen, I declare In one more song the magic deep; The sun laughs in her yellow hair. And in her eyes the moonbeams sleep. If her sweet features be displayed. Between the fountain of her tresses, All lovers then are renegade, Forsaken all mistresses. I know not what of secret grace Is hers alone and wholly hers, — Grace of the saints, which yet has space For grace of sorcerers. Her air is gentle, subtle, light ; Her charm, compounded of all powers; Her voice, a fountain in its flight; Her attitudes, all flowers. I THE PRINCESS EAR AWAY 75 Such in her loveliness is She, The French maid who is Moabite, Fair Melissinde of Tripoli, In her great palace built of light. Such is the Princess we shall see, If it be sooth the pilgrims tell Who wander still from sea to sea With tinkling shallop shell: {During these verses, the mariners, one at a time, and little by little, rise, refreshed.) Pegofat: Hein? How he talks! Can't make it out in full, But it is plain that She is beautiful. Bruno: I am better. (They all go to luork.) Francois {rowing): Hardil\ ! The Pilot: P'ools, by my word! This comes of having troubadours aboard. Bertrand: Rudel and I, thou sayst, make madmen thus? Yet if they labour on, 'tis grace to us. Aboard each ship, if waves and wreckage strow it. One needs, before a pilot's self, a poet. Pegofat {jeering at the Pilot) : Above all, when the pilot loves to shift. Bertrand: When will the mist upon the water lift? The Coxswain: Wait for the sun. Bruno {pointing to the Pilot) : He rages! The Pilot: Huh! There might be some reliance Had I my needle! Pegofat: Oh, a fig for science! It wouldn't tell you much. To know the North Would not drive weariness and sickness forth. Bruno: It wouldn't m.ake the victuals everlasting. Francois: Or make a sailor drunk while he was fasting. Bist.agne: Nor show the homesick men their native skies. 76 PLAYS OF EDMOND RO STAND Trobaldo : Nor make appear before their dazzled eyes The fabled country full of plenteousness. Pegofat: Nor tell them any more of the Princess. Fra Trophimus: They bring the Prince. (JoFFROY RuDEL, his face terribly ernaciated, his body lost, so thin it is, in his worn robes, is carried on a pallet. He is wracked luith fever and his eyes shine unnaturally.) Bertrand: Ye rowers, set her flying! JoFFROY RuDEL {in feeble voice) : As we draw near, I feel the more I am dying. SCENE IV The Same. Joffroy Rudel Joffroy: Day, I salute thee as thou dost appear! . . . Ere thou hast died, shall 1 have seen my Dear? O honied name, O Princess of the East, O Melissinde ! An Emperor has not ceased To woo thee from his proud Constantinople. Betwixt us lies the ocean green and opal. O Flower supreme of glorious Baldwin's blood, Ah, shall I not behold, beyond its flood. Its golden sands, its silver tides complaining, That happy Tripoli where thou art reigning? Only the fog builds, 'gainst the horizon pale, A cloudy city. Prison, floating gaol, Am I to die not having even breathed The wind of hope that round her shores has wreathed? Alas! nor recognize across the seas The fragrant breath of Moab's myrtle trees? Pilot: Wait! By the Lord, the fog less sullen seems! Joffroy: To see her ere I die! Then death, and dreams! Pegofat: You'll see her. Joffroy: Grace, rude voice with valiant chime! What ails me? God! Despair? p^or the first time Shall I despair, to-day? O dear my Ladj ! My soul would fly! Rowers, row fast and steady! THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 77 Bruno: You'll see her. •Joffroy: Bistagne, Pegofat, Bruno, Francois, tlie Victualler, Calker Trobaldo, Ye who have suffered pains of every sort For me, — Juan Portingalais, Marrias of Aigues-Mortes, Grimoart, . . . Luke, . . . grace, and grace to all the rest. Pegofat: Let be. We're proud. Tlu's voyage is our best. Bruno: An illustrious voyage! Francois: So I hold! Joffroy: Ali, yes; you bear not Ca-sar and his gold, But Rudel and his love illustrious. Fra Trophimus {approaching) : Hope on, my son. Joffroy (smiling faintly) : Greeting, Saint Trophimus! (Turning to Erasmus.) Lacking your robe and wig and such disguise. Doctor, I love to see you look less wise. Erasmus: Monseigneur . . . Joffroy (holding out his hand) : Ah, no offense! (To Bertrand) Draw near, sweet friend, Generous to follow to my journey's end. Brother more brotherly than flesh and blood. All thought me mad ; you shared my every mood ! Ah, I must die afar. My sun is set. Bertrand: Regret it not. . . . Joffroy: Nay, I have no regret! Hearth, kindred, emerald Aquitaine, Oh, nay! Dying, I love my Princess far away. Erasmus: The cause of all our ills. Joffroy: Most blest is She. I love great hopes, dreams of infinity. Nothing I envy save Icarus' fate. His flight to like high goal Pd emulate. Falling like him, Ell praise with my last breath The love that brought so beautiful a death! 78 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Erasmus : This passion is a thesis hard to prove. — What man knows not, how is a man to love? Joffroy: Nay, to a heart impatient, nobly planned, That is not love which lies too close at hand. (He lifts himself on his pallet.) Have I in vain ta'en pilgrim's pouch and scarp, Taken the staff in vain? Still to my harp, Though each faint breath the air more faintly stir, Though I see not, I'll die still singing her. (He takes the harp that hangs from the head of his pallet and touches its strings.) I hesitate, I muse, I touch each string. For the last time I sing. What shall I sing? O verses that first sought my love to tell, Be thou my song in dying. Sing, Rudel! (He recites, accompanying himself.) It is common everywhere To sigh, true love to bear, To an auburn, dark or fair Mistress. Eyes hazel or brown or gray Love's pains with a smile repay. I — I love the far away Princess ! Less lovely by far is this; — Though faithful one w^ait for bliss, — The hem of her gown to kiss, One day; A touch that would scarcely mar; A hand clasp she would not bar. . . , T, I love the Princess far Away ! 'Tis love supremely proved To love though not beloved, THE PRINCESS FAR A IV AY 79 To love for aye, unmoved, Nathless. A love that no doubts dismay, More noble if vain, I say. And I love the far away Princess! For, Love, thou art divinest When for a dream thou pinest, When through a mist thou shinest, Sw^eet ray. For the dream is the soul's one star. Life is what its visions are. And I love the Princess far Away ! {He falls back, exhausted.) I am foredone! Alas, my fingers quiver And lose the chords! Tears like a sudden river Smother my voice. It fails! O Melissinde, Perchance, forever fails, for hope. . . . A Voice {high in the shrouds) : Land! Land! {Mad tumult. Joffroy springs up, standing on his couch, his arms outstretched.) Marrias : Yes, look ! Bruno: It's true! Land! Land! Francois: Noel! Row, still! Bistagne: The fog hid all! Juan : A golden land ! Trobaldo: a hill Of violet! Pegofat: Tripoli! Bruno {running about like a crazy man) : Be calm! Francois: Land! Tripoli! Marrias : Ho ! I can see a palm ! Bistagne: Not yet! 80 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Francois: Yes, many palms! Trobaldo: a halcyon! Pegofat : Sand like a lion's pelt beneath the sun ! The Pilot : Aye, Tripoli ! My reckonings were right. Lo! The slim bushes! Long walls gleaming white! All: Praise to the pilot! Pegofat : Look, 'neath the morning glow The town is red ! Bruno: Oh, that pink bird! Francois: Aye, 'tis a flamingo! Bistagne: Let's all embrace. Trobaldo : Let's sing ! Pegofat: O sight to bless! Trobaldo : Land ! Juan : Land ! Pegofat : Tripoli ! Joffroy: The Princess! (He falls fainting into Bertrand's arms.) The Coxswain: Now cast the anchors out! Bertrand {whoj aided by Erasmus and Fra Trophimus, has gently laid RuDEL on his pallet) : O, he is dying! Ah, we must land ! The Coxswain: No, no! No use in trying! The ship's a shell ! Sharp reefs along this slope. A scratch would sink her. We must lower the rope. They'll send feluccas soon to take us ofiF. Bertrand: His eyes Are closed ! (To Erasmus, who bends above the Prince.) He breathes? . . . Erasmus: A little. I cannot disguise, The Prince is very weak. Bertrand: We can't delay! Joffroy: Thou spcakst too loud. I hear the thing you say . . . — Beside, I knew. I die. I will not drift! Take me to land 1 Be swift! Be very swift! THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 81 Let me not die like Moses! Spare this pain! Let me not see the Promised Land in vain ! Bertraxd {loiVj to Erasmus) : Could he be moved? Erasmus: Not to be thought of, sir! JoFFROY {siruggling) : I want to see her! Erasmus {holding a phial to him) : Prince, you must not stir. Drink this. And rest. And then, . . . JoFFROY {to Bertrand) : Hear what I say . . . Bertrand, carry me cost what it may! And if I perish, thou shalt not regret. I'll die attaining where my heart is set. 1 am a man. Speak truth, I shall not wince. Would I die ere I reached her? Erasmus: Yes, my Prince. Joffroy: O Bertrand, help me! Erasmus : But, if you will yield, Rest, without speaking, calm, you will be healed And you will see the Lady you desire. . . . Joffroy: O, the physician must be still the liar! Bertrand, I want to see her. Bertrand: Thou shalt see her! Joffroy: How? Bertrand: I say, thou shalt behold her! 'Tis my vow! I'll see her, tell her, bring her here to thee. Joffroy : Bertrand ! Bertrand: Denial were inhumanity. Yea, she will come before the daylight dies. I'll tell her of thy love and thy emprise. . . . Joffroy : Bertrand ! Bertrand: Of a French poet so possessed With love of her, — tempests and Turks oppressed; Yet still, like pilgrims of the Cross who leave All else behind, you sought her. Joffroy: You believe? . . . Bertrand : That she will come ! I know it ! 'Tis my charge ! Quick ho ! Find for me boat . . . felucca . . . barge . . . 82 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Ah, the ship's skiff! That's it! O friendly shores, Ye hold her answer ! And she comes ! ( To the sailors. ) The oars ! Myself will row. The passage is not wide. Be patient, Prince. Thou'lt see her at thy side! Joffroy; O Bertrand, if thou dost that ! Bertrand: Yea! I will. Will she or nil she, I will fetch her still! Joffroy: If only to her presence thou attain! . . . Seeing you so accoutred, canst thou gain An entrance, past the guard? . . . Bertrand: True! . . . {To a sailor.) In yon shell, Place thou my coffer — jewels — arms ! Work well ! Joffroy: Attend . . . and join this casket to thy coffer, — My dearest joyaunces. . . . To thee I offer My clasp, my collar, and my spurs of gold, Envoy of Poet-Lover, . . . manifold Greater than King's Ambassador, go splendidly! Speed ! Let naught stay thee ! The Coxswain {to Bertrand) : You will need, may be, A guide. They say the palace lies afar; Now, since you cannot enter as you are. At the first house, ask for a guide. No doubt Your host will offer. Dress. And sally out. Joffroy: Bid her come swiftly. Else I cannot staJ^ Erasmus: Prince, if you talk, your strength will ebb away. Joffroy: I will be silent. . . . (To Bertrand.) Listen . . . Bertrand: Nay, thou must repose. Joffroy: Move her, ... be eloquent — embroider — gloze! Nay, tell her rather, on plain sooth relying, That I adore her, tell her I am dying, And, dying, sing her, my all-beauteous one, As cicadas in dying sing the sun ; THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 83 That ere he die, her lover will know heaven If for two years of love, two moments be but given. Bertrand: Yes, yes; be still. Joffroy: I am silent. . . . Not — I adore her — Nor — all I said — when first you come before her. Thou must prepare her. ... I am still, I hush. . . . Look you — couldst thou recite, at that first blush. The verses that I sang, but now. IVIy passion Thou couldst not tell in any fitter fashion, May be? . . . Bertrand: Ah, hush! Fear naught. And I will tell Tliy love in those thy words. Joffroy: Thou'lt sing them well? Bertrand {with forced gaiety) : If I stressed one amiss, catastrophe! I'll chant each strophe well and tenderly. Joffroy: Once more thy arms about me I would feel! {They clasp each other in a long embrace.) Fra Trophimus: Throughout thy embassy, in prayer I'll kneel. Erasmus {low, to Bertrand) : The Prince may last two days. No mortal power Can tell. Or he may die this evening, or this hour. The Master {also whispering) : Sir, if he die while you are in the Gulf. We'll hoist the signal rovers call the Wolf, The black sail which we Corsairs after dark Fly, when a white sail were too fair a mark. Fra Trophimus {going doivn with Bertrand) : Ah, bid her come! Fail not to bring her back! Insist! Persist! Bertrand {pointing) : Till yon white sail is black! {lie leaps over the deck rail and lowers himself into the boat. One hears the noise of chains.) Joffroy: Now bear my pallet closer to the rail. I know that she will come. 84 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Voice of Bertrand {from beloiv) : She will not fail! I do engage. Be quiet! Joffroy: Tender warning! Yea, he will bring her. Oh, the golden morning. The barque glides on . , . pink waves upon its wake. Ah, if Bertrand engage for true love's sake! . . . Bruno : She will come ! Francois : We'll see her ! Pegofat: On our boat! Our shell! Trobaldo: Hard by! {As he disappears calling after Bertrand) : Good luck! The Princess! Bring her soon! Plead well! Joffroy : The bark speeds on ! The smooth sea gently rocks ! Fainter the oars sound, grating in the locks. . . . Leave me, alone. Here I will meet my fate. Lo, I am whist. ... I watch the sea ... I wait. {Curtain) SECOND ACT The hall of a Palace, whose luxury is half Romanic, half Ori- ental. At the back a great window of stained glass opens on the terraces, beyond which the sea seems to meet the sky. Right, second entrance, a great open door permits a glimpse of a retreating gallery, luith slender columns and sparkling fountains. Left, a stairway of porphyry ascends to a heavy door of gold. The glittering marble floor and the steps of this stairway are both streivn ivith lilies freshly gathered. A divan is heaped with cush- ions. Hung upon the wall near the door an enormous battle axe whose enamelled hilt is embossed with green uncut gems. SCENE I The Pilgrims {When the curtain rises, the great window is closed. A group of pilgrims, wearing the pilgrims' gown with border of shallop shells; each having in his hand a staff and a long green palm branch. They stand in the foreground. The pilgrims talk in whispers, like men dazzled and over-awed by what they see.) First Pilgrim : The dame who met us does not reappear. Second Pilgrim : Silence so perfect that a man can hear The rustle of the lilies in the hall. Third Pilgrim : 'Sh ! . . . Listen ! No . . . only the foun- tains' fall. Fourth Pilgrim : All sense of place from me is wholly driven. We've crossed how many halls and galleries? First Pilgrim : Seven. Second Pilgrim: What strange mosaics! Third Pilgrim: Sumptuous drolleries! Those golden birds in jewelled voleries! 85 86 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Fourth Pilgrim: Carpets for feet; cushions to rest the back! Secoxd Pilgrim {to Third) : Hast seen the grim colossus? Third Pilgrim: Aye, alack! He who so stared at us? I could not fail. First Pilgrim : 'Sh ! 'Tis the Chevalier in Emerald Mail. Foreign adventurer. ... (At this moment, one sees pass along the gallery a knight of mighty stature, luhose armour is enamelled with green.) Second Pilgrim {to the First, whispering, and nudging with his elbow): Whist! . . . Behind you — but in sight. Third Pilgrim {in a low voice, covertly staring at The Cheva- lier) : The circlet of his casque is chrysolite. Fourth Pilgrim: On his glaive's hilt, see how the emeralds blaze ! (The Chevalier disappears.) Second Pilgrim {shivering) : I do not like this phantom's prowl- ing ways. First Pilgrim {taking up his interrupted story) : This Chevalier, magnificent and cruel, Here represents the Emperor Manuel, Affianced to the Princess. . . . Second Pilgrim : Then, that rumor Is true? She weds him? First Pilgrim : He's of jealous humour. Knowing this marriage is affair of state, Byzantium's Caesar fears a power more great. Lest Love should conquer the Most Lovely One, That warrior watches her from sun to sun. The way is barred to youths. He guards her snugly. At least. . . . Third Pilgrim: But I am young. First Pilgrim: —They must be ugly. Fourth Pilgrim : He must be strong as . . . First Pilgrim: All the powers of evil! {Indicating the battle axe on the wall.) No man can lift his battle axe. THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 87 Second Pilgrim: The devil! That comely youth who, late, upon the strand Leapt from his skiff, impetuous, to land. Calling upon the Moors and Genoese To take him to the Princess, courts not case. Third Pilgrim : Madly he cried, not Beelzebub could bend His will nor bar his way! He'd gain his end! — I think he's one who'll do the thing he planned. {A moment before in the doorway leading to the gallery, The Chevalier has reappeared. At the last word, he makes a gesture and moves away very siviftly. At the sound, the Pilgrims turn.) First Pilgrim : He heard ! Second Pilgrim : He has gone to issue some command To bar the way 'gainst our Unknown. First Pilgrim {to Second Pilgrim) : Old fool! You talked too much. Third Pilgrim : Ah ! Bah ! We can keep cool. The youth went, first, to furbish up his arms, With that old Genoese. Spare thy alarms! Squarciafico, merchant shrewd, will know The peril ; very cunningly, will show Means to outwit it. He fears the Emperor's laws, And will befriend his rival, for good cause. First Pilgrim : Accord of viol and of lute aloft ! The lady comes who first received us. . . . Soft! SCENE n The aforementioned; Sorismonde; later, Melissinde SoRlSMONDE (appearing at the head of the stainvay) : Pilgrims, who fare to-morrow to fair France, I have told the Princess of the circumstance That led you here, from Antioch or Tyre ; That sight of her was j'our supreme desire. First Pilgrim : Her image lured through all our errantry. 88 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Sorismonde: The Princess learned, and not indifferently, Of this, the hope that led you here, I ween; She, graciously, will let herself be seen. She hears her morning Mass. . . . Ere long, nathless . . . {A bell, sounding above.) The Mass is said. She is coming! A Herald: The Princess! (The golden door swings open. Melissinde appears. She wears a heavy cope, weighted with gems. Her brow is bound with pearls. Children attend her, carrying sheaves of lilies.) First Pilgrim: 'Tis She! Second Pilgrim: What grace beyond our outmost dreams! Third Pilgrim: Here, a great pearl and there, a lily gleams! Fourth Pilgrim: The tales told true. She is so beautiful Lilies are dimmed and India's pearls are dull ! First Pilgrim : She's like to Helen of whom the old tale spoke ! Melissinde {high on the stairs) : So you will soon see France, ye happy folk ! So you believe your bark will soon advance Through a blue mist to lovely, blue Provence! I envy you. I am like to these, my flowers. We blossom, both, 'neath skies that are not ours. Lacking the homeland where true souls are plighted, We seem to blossom, feeling we are blighted. {She comes down a few steps.) Ye will behold the very sun of home. I love a land whither I may not come: And have regret, — who have not memory. . . . {She comes down the last steps and comes among the Pil- grims.) Already, Christian Pilgrims, fittingly Each has his palm ere parting. {Taking the lilies from the children's hands.) If 'tis meet, Let each join to his palm a lily sweet, THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 89 Bearing this reliquary to Provence, — Frail token of an exiled maid of France, {She distributes the lilies among them.) A Pilgrim : The Palm will tell the pains the Flower effaces, — The desert, — and thy beauty, its oasis! Second Pilgrim: Tiie Palm will speak of many a toilsome mile; The Lily tell us of a fairy's smile! Third Pilgrim: Farewell, Princess! A lily is thy face! Fourth Pilgrim: A lily's self, in graciousness and grace! {The Pilgrims retire, one by one.) Melissinde: Farewell! ( The Pilgrims go out; one hears them as they pass below the great open window. The children have put the remaining lilies in a great sheaf on a table; and they renew on the mar- ble pavement the flowers which the Pilgrims' feet have stirred or crushed.) Voices of the Pilgrims {below the window) : Noel! Noel! (Melissinde, with a gesture of farewell, closes the window and comes down. The children go out.) SCENE III . • Melissinde ; Sorismonde Sorismonde: What fine amenity, What condescension! . . . The divinity Was kind to-day with a new prettiness. Melissinde: Thou knowest I am kind for idleness! {She nervously unclasps her rnantle.) Mantle, embroidered, gemmed, thou crushest me With beryl, corindon, chalcedony, Jaspers and garnets from Assyria brought, With senseless pebbles, riches good for naught; O mantle, mass 'neath which I, pallid, bow, O sumptuous mantle, emblem fit art thou Of that still heavier weight, unseen of all, Which I must bear. . . . 90 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND (She lets her cope slip from her shoulders to the floor.) when I have let thee fall! {She emerges, sheathed in white. Sorismonde picks up the mantle. She hands her the crown as well.) Take my pearls, also! Take my whole disguise! Ouf! {With a few lilies quickly plucked from the sheaf, she decks her hair.) See, I am coiffed in fairer, fitter guise, With these my flowers which night's pearls still caress. {Throwing herself in the great chair.) Thou knowest I am kind for idleness! {An interval of silence.) Is it for idleness that I am kind ? Nay, 'tis self interest. I seek to bind The palmers' hearts with lilies as with thongs. Sorismonde: What, Madam, do you hope from them? Melissinde: Their songs! Grace to the pilgrims' songs, — 'tis so one hears, — I am to-day the dearest of all dears, Loved of Joffroy Rudel the Troubadour, As never maiden hath been loved afore! Yes, this my poet, troubadour of France, Kindled to love at breath of their romance! Thou knowest how my lonely heart is lit By this bright love whose rays have stolen to it; How necessary has become that love. Piercing the straitened round wherein I move. {With a gesture, she indicates the window.) Ah, well, these pilgrims, having paid their vow. Returned to France, will sing my eyes, my brow ; Enkindling dreams in hearts of youths afar. SoRiSMOKOE : And Rudel know It! That's the way we are! Melissinde: Perhaps, ah, truly, Prince Rudel will hear. By this device my heart, in exile here, THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 91 Can hold sweet converse 'cross the sea's vast waste With my true lover. Sorismonde: 'Tis a fashion chaste. Melissinde: I would exalt in him alway the pride So to adore me. 'Twas this hope supplied The palmers with my lilies as they wended Toward France. It was my legend that I tended! Sorismonde: Again to this vain dreaming you succumb! I'd love Rudel . . . but he would have to come! Melissinde: I love his love; I love his soul; I love . . . Sorismonde: I cannot understand. If you could move Some sorcerer's magic ring and make to pass His face before you in a crystal glass . . . Melissinde: Thou'dst have all things too clear. Sorismonde: Too misty, thou. There's no such ring mid all thy gems, I trow Thy spirit wanders in sweet errantry. Melissinde: Yes, in my garden gleaming mistily, I hear the wind in myrtle trees repining; I sail o'er Syrtes' waters supple, shining, Where my proud galley, carven, gold-bedight. Mirrors its flowers by day, its gleams, by night. And my soft lute, buoyed by the plectrum's chords. Inspires my verses and the wave accords. Or in these halls, in solitude's completeness, • My soul grows sad, — and sorrow has its sweetness ! Here where my lilies press, on pave and plinth, My dream leads through a misty labyrinth; Little by little, leads to paths supernal; Reason sleeps in the tinkle sempiternal. In the tinkle sempiternal of the water in the vases. Sorismonde: Oh, we need casques and spurs to clear these mazes! We need young chevaliers and mirth and chaff. Your dreadful guardian keeps them far. . . . You laugh! This man is placed near you that none may win 92 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The palace Treasure, guarded by the Djinn. Since he has come, no hand knocks at our portal ! Melissinde {laughing) : A guard of honor, scare-crow for a mortal ! Sorismonde: The Emperor is jealous. Melissinde {shrugging her shoulders) : And would screen us? Sorismonde {sitting down on a cushion at her feet) : And truly, will you wed him, this Comnenus? Melissinde: Why not? A consort's not a lover, certainly. Sorismonde: You find him tiresome? Melissinde: Oh, imperially. Sorismonde: This Turk will never know jou. Melissinde : Sorismonde, One who knows not, — who will not go beyond The shallow surface, — to that spouse I'm vowed ! I told him, once, my mood. He laughed aloud! Ah, well, I'll find, — 'tis oft the woman's role, — Ironic pleasure in my unguessed soul. Could better choice than Manuel be above her Who wills to keep an incorporeal lover? Sorismonde: But if, some day, a lover veritable, Glutton, should come to thy heart's empty table? Melissinde: My Love Invisible my heart would cover. Sorismonde: For guardian angel, lo, a guardian lover. Melissinde: He seems so near, at evening, on the beach When thoughts sweep in as though a dream had speech, That to the breeze cry, "I give you grace." Sorismonde: You owe this poet nothing? Melissinde: Yes, my praise Is due him; for my scruples, pride and cares, Heart stirrings, shadowy hopes half unawares, Delicate trembling, rush of tears that frees Some hidden impulse, new nobilities, — The whiteness of my robes; — all are his dole. In some dim way, to him I owe my soul! THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 93 SoRiSMONDE {shaking her head) : And for those things you cry, "I give you grace?" I fear this love. Melissinde: I, too, in diverse ways . . . It is too cahn. . . . {She rises.) A storm weighs on the air. I suffocate. . . . (SoRlSMONDE seeks to remove the sheaf of lilies lying on the table.) Nay, leave my lilies there. SoRiSMONDE : Your lilies hem you in, your dreams redoubling. Lilies are pale and proud. Lilies are troubling. Melissinde: Perchance thou'rt right. Flowers foreign and afar, Can ye be false, who angels' sceptres are? With thyrses luminous as seraphim? Cloudy their perfume hangs, like incense dim. (She lifts the sheaf of lilies and gazes at it.) Perchance thou'rt right and these be evil flowers. I touch them, trembling, drawn by ghostly powers; Their lonely pride chills a more lonely one ; And laughter loves red roses in the sun. {Breathing in their fragrance.) Ah, this perfume! My brow bends to its chrism. Is it perverse, its subtle mysticism ? {With forced gaiety.) So be it ! Let us live, play, be at ease ! I've bid my merchant come, the Genoese, Squarciafico, he who ever brings Pale silks, cut jewels, curious, lovely things. It whiles away long hours; to look; to choose; On colours and designs and fabrics muse. Sorismonde: This wily Genoese displays his ware And you see not, your heart being otherwhere, What he extorts from you by guileful play For all the merchants' quarter, day by day. . . . Right dear to thieves are beauty-loving princes. 94 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The whole bazaar uneasiness evinces Lest at thy marriage, they be all deposed, — Princess with open hand and eyelids closed! "Her marriage," say they, "puts a wall between us." They know what master waits them in Comnenus! A Lady-ix-Waiting {entering) : The Chevalier in Emerald Mail seeks room And audience of the Princess. Melissinde {shrugging her shoulders) : Let him come. SCENE IV Melissinde, Sorismonde, The Chevalier in Emerald Mail The Chevalier {he has a preocccupied air and looks often to- luard the gallery or the great window) : Princess, forgive me that I so retard Coming for your commands. God be your guard. Melissinde {smiling) : Is it not rather you who guard me, sir? The Chevalier: Madam . . . Melissinde : I know. It is your fashion to demur. But . . . my commands? . . . I'd sail upon the bay. The Chevalier: 'Tis well. Melissinde : My ship's in festival array, Flowers, music? The Chevalier {gallantly) : Madam, it is always so. Melissinde: In that case, I fare forth at once. {To Sorismonde.) Swift. Go! Fetch me a veil. . . . The Chevalier {hurriedly) : Oh, not at once! (Melissinde gives a start of surprise.) Madame . . . I act because I must. In truth I am Plunged in despair. Tlu's journey must delay. Melissinde: Hein? What means this? The Chevalier: Not long. Till close of day. rilE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 95 Melissinde: Then it was true? The Chevalier: Alas! I am but fief To m)' liege lord, — oath-bounden to my chief. For thii; one day I must redouble . . . Melissinde ((7H/f /?•/)') : Why? The Chevalier: Forgive me. ... I have set armed men hard by To guard the palace doors. But I prefer Myself to guard this last. Melissinde: A prisoner! Sorismonde {at the window) : Heavens ! Armed slaves surround us everywhere ! Melissinde: My men? . . . The Chevalier: Imprisoned, by my watchful care, {Shoiiing the gallery.) Just for an hour. Since here / watch, not one Can have your orders, Madam. Melissinde: Featly done! I am a chatelaine enchanted, losing Her power at a wand's touch. . . . It is amusing; A romance, Sorismonde. . . . But what has come? Why this strange act? The Chevalier {bowing) : Princess, I must be dumb! {He goes back, then stops, before going out.) I had forgot. This merchant who lends gold. The Genoese, more Jewish than a Jew, old. . . . Melissinde: Squarciafico ! The Chevalier: I may advise Admitting, if you wish his merchandise. Melissinde: Truly? You condescend so far? You will Permit my seeing Squarciafico still? . . . The Chevalier: Yes, Madam. I shall watch his every glance. {IJe goes out.) Sorismonde: Charming, — to wed the Emperor of Byzance! Melissinde: But what has chanced? 96 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND SCENE V Melissinde ; Sorismonde ; Squarciafico, followed by his servant NiCHOLOSE, who carries bales of merchandise. The Chevalier in Emerald Mail, arms folded, on the threshold. Squarciafico {obsequious, voluble, and watching The Cheva- lier out of the corner of his eyes) : Fairer she always proves! More beautiful, that smile of all the Loves! {To his servant, who opens the bales and caskets.) Nicholose, all our wares. Dispose them fairly. {To Melissinde^ with an obeisance.) Princess, these beauteous things will please you rarely! Melissinde: You still grow richer? Squarciafico: Jesus! I am poor! Melissinde: Old liar! You are rich, like all Genoa. You, who seek gold in Palestine the blest. Should wear, not cross, but sequins, on your breast ! Enriched by the Crusade! Fi! AH men scofi it. Squarciafico: The glory is the Franks'! Melissinde: And yours the profit? Squarciafico: Nay, all goes ill, despite our Patron George. Tolls, everywhere. Princess! They feed, they gorge! Our mills, our ovens, have been confiscated. {Slyly.) You'll give them back? Melissinde: We'll see. Squarciafico {showing his bags) : Sacks freighted With perfumes exquisite. {Unrolling a carpet.) A Persian woof. {Tapping the rug impressively.) Ascalon gives, In honest trade's behoof, To the Genoese, a hundred byzants yearly. {Slyly.) Does Tripoli hold commerce, then, less dearly? Melissinde: We'll see. Squarciafico {displaying a little chest) : You like this? THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 97 Melissinde: It is beautiful. Squarciafico: Pearls of the Gulf; gold tissue of Mossoul ! Myrrh of Arabia . . . ivory, African. . . . {Low.) 'Sh! I've a secret. Listen, as you can. (Melissinde starts. Aloud) : Splendid brocade . . . (Loic.) A young man roams . . . (Aloud.) Prismatic . . . (Lou.) Witiiout the palace . . . Melissinde (aside) : I see all! Squarciafico (aloud): Aromatic! (Loiv.) Forbidden to enter . . . (Aloud.) Amber. . . . Pray admire! (Low.) He seeks an audience. . . . (Aloud.) Tapistry of Tyre! Melissinde (loiv) : His name? Squarciafico (low) : I know not. . . . Poet, I surmise. Melissinde (with a little cry which she checks immediately) : Ah! . . . Ah, that scarlet! It delights the eyes! Squarciafico (low) : By stratagem can you not bring him in? Melissinde (low) : But no! Squarciafico: Linen of Egypt, wondrous fine and thin. Melissinde (low) : Whence comes he? Squarciafico (low) : France! Out of a boat he springs. Fair as Greek shepherds, prouder than all kings . . . This guardian never takes himself afar? . . . (Aloud.) These spices come from Kiss-Ben-Omira. Melissinde (low) : The dragon of the myths, who ne'er re- lents. Squarciafico (aloud) : The Axumites ruler gave me this in- cense. (Low.) This young man said his audience must be won. To see you, he would fight, five score to one! Melissinde (low) : Then . . . Squarciafico (aloud) : Calamus! (Low.) If, when he winds his horn, None answer his appeal, he will set on! 98 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND (Aloud.) Balm of Arabia, . . . potent balm and good. Placed on a wound, it staunches flowing blood ! {Rising and offering her a little sack.) And last, from far Provence, for teeth pearl white Blanched filberts make a morsel of delight. Melissinde : 'Tis well. Enough. I buy all. Leave me, thou. (Aside.) Meseems, without, I almost hear him now! Squarciafico (folding his fabrics) : The next load that I bring will be the best. (At an impatient gesture from Melissinde.) I'm going. . . . (Slyly.) You will have the tolls suppressed? Melissinde: Yes. Squarciafico (loiu) : Comely as Paris! 'Tis a dizzmess To see him. (Aloud, craftily) : You'll grant the subsidy? Melissinde: Ah, yes! Squarciafico (to himself) : I knew I'd struck the trail when I began To aid the fortunes of this fair young man! He, he! This should dishearten Manuel. (He turns on the threshold before going out, and, with a pro- found bow) : 'Tis said! A hundred byzants annual! (The Chevalier stalks out behind him.) SCENE VI Melissinde, Sorismonde; later The Chevalier in Emerald Mail Melissinde (to Sorismonde) : Hast thou heard all? (Sorismonde makes a gesture of assent.) A youth! A poet ! Oh ! Sorismonde: You are perturbed! Melissinde: Perturbed? I? Surely no! Sorismonde (teasingly) : You are less wearied than an hour agone ? THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 99 Melissinde {throu'ing herself on the divan) '. Why not? Ah, don't say silly things! {One hears the winding of a horn without.) The horn ! SoRlSMONDE {at the great window) : 'Tis he! The challenge! He winds his horn! 'Tis he! Melissinde {lying stretched on the couch; indifferently) : What matters it? Sorismonde: He's personable to see! Melissinde {shrugging her shoulders) : How can you see so far? Sorismonde: I see him plain. He calls! And armed men sally forth amain! At the first portal, now! Melissinde: What's that to mortal? {An interval) Ah, well, what does he at the farthest portal? Sorismonde : The Emperor's men at arms won't let him through. Melissinde: Poor callow youth! He turns? Sorismonde: He fights! Melissinde {sitting up) : Is't true? Sorismonde: He hurls them back! He's past! O Virgin blest! I see him! To the second gate he has pressed! He fights! He fights! Melissinde {rising) : Is it true? Sorismonde : O courage grand ! {The horn sounds nearer.) Hark how he winds his horn! Melissinde {standing): Like to Roland! Sorismonde: He will pass! Melissinde {at the ivindozu, behind her) : He comes! Sorismonde: He falls! Melissinde: He is restored! Sorismonde: His lance is broken! Melissinde: He has seized his sword! Ah! {She shrinks back.) 100 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Sorismonde: What is it? Melissinde : Oh, his eyes! I met his eyes! He raised them and he saw me! Sorismonde: His emprise Is like a tourney. Throw him, then, your sleeve! Melissinde {going to the window, tears off her sleeve and holds it high ) : Sir Knight, strike hard! My favour white receive! I charge you, change its colour! Heed my prayers; Defend your blood ! And dye my sleeve with theirs. This silver samite, back to me you'll bear it, But not till 'tis encarnadined ! {She throws the sleeve.) Voice of Bertrand: I swear it! {Tumult and clash of steel, then silence.) Melissinde {coming down) : He's gained the palace. (Sorismonde closes the window. Silence.) Deathly silence fell . . . Silent. . . . What did he wish to say? Sorismonde {pointing to the gallery) : Look! {A slave enters the gallery. He is covered with blood; his vestments in ribbons. He speaks to The Chevalier.) The Chevalier: 'Tis well. {He takes his battle axe from the wall, and to Melissinde, with cold formality) Princess, I close the door, — with your permission. {He shuts it. One hears the bolts shoot home.) Melissinde: Ah, what will fall? How dreadful is the vision! {One hears a noise in the palace, a noise that comes nearer and nearer.) He comes! . . . The Chevalier in Emerald Mail Will kill him, with that axe swung like a flail! Poor youth! . . . With such a brute he cannot battle! {Sound of footsteps, close to the door. Then, ring of steel.) THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 101 Ah, they engage! . . . How long it is! . . . Hark! Rattle Of steel on steel! {A dull, heavy sound.) A fall! (Silence again. Then the door is opened. She shrinks back.) The bolt reverses! . . . (Bertrand appears on the threshold, sword in hand; wounded in the forehead; he throws at Melissin'de's feet the ensanguined sleeve.) Melissinde {still retreating) : Sir Knight, what would you say to me? Bertrand: Some verses. SCENE VH Melissinde ; Bertrand ; Sorismonde Bertrand {falling on one knee) : It is common everywhere To sigh, true love to bear, To an auburn, dark or fair Mistress. Eyes hazel or brown or gray Love's pains with a smile repay. I, I love the far away Princess! Less lovely by far is this; — Though faithful one wait for bliss, — The hem of her gown to kiss One day; A touch that would scarcery mar! A hand-clasp she would not bar. . . . I, I love the Princess far Away ! 102 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND IMelissixde {continuing) : 'Tis love supremely proved To love though not beloved To love, for aye, unmoved, Nathless ! A love that no doubts dismay, More noble if vain, I say, And I love the far away Princess ! For, Love, thou art divinest When for a dream thou pinest, When through a mist thou shinest, Sweet ray. For the dream is the soul's one star. Life is what its visions are. And I love the Princess far Away ! Bertrand: You know these words? Melissinde: From more than one minstrel. Bertraxd: And whose they are? Melissinde: Yes, — Prince Joffroy Rudel. Bertrand: And this strange love has won so great a boon? ^Melissinde: Ah, tell me of that love, 'Tis opportune! Bertrand: You know the constancy, the fervent zeal Of this great love? Melissinde: I hive this love! ... I feel, Sometimes, when soft tides whisper on the strand. This love walks close beside mc on the sand; 111 tile liluc stillness of the dusk I move And feci the very essence of this love! . . . Br;RTRAND: Heaven! {lie tumbles.) Melissinde {bending above him) : You arc happy? Bertrand: Happy . . . for, cftsoons . . . Ill bring. . . . The blood ebbs . . . I . . . I . . . THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 103 Melissinde: God! He swoons! Sorismonde ! SoRiSMONDE {running): Wait! He must He prostrate ... So! {Together they lay him gently on some cushions.) Melissinde: Oh, run! Fetch water! Ah, the cruise! Quick, ho! Sorismonde {bringing the ewer and kneeling with Melissinde beside Bertrand) : Beautiful as a god, ... but deathly pale! Melissinde: His brow bleeds! Linen! Wait! I have . . . {She tears the scarf from about her throat.) Sorismonde: Your veil! Melissinde: 'Tis naught! ... His heart beats, 'neath his ciclatoun ! The balm of Araby! It is . . . Ah, run! . . . All potent, said he! Oh! we must determine . . . Nay, do not mar with stains his doublet's ermine, . . . Not to recover him by two swift chance. — He wears the curly locks of fair Provence! Ah, see! A little red dawns in his cheek! His eyelids flutter! And he tries to speak! He clasps my hand . . . Sorismonde: He is better. See, he tries . . . Melissinde: His eyelids lift. He opens wide his eyes! Bertrand {opening his eyes and seeing Melissinde) : I dream . . . I'm Flore. And Blanchcfleur is she. Or else ... I have been wounded mortally. And wake with angels in God's paradise. Melissinde: Hearest thou, Sorismonde? Sorismonde: Better! I told no lies! Bertrand {his head on Melissinde's arm, whence the sleeve has been torn) : I recall naught ... I, weak? Could man believe it? . . . This arm against my check . . . (Melissinde moves) O, leave it! Melissinde: I will leave it. 104 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Bertrand: O burning coolness of this arm so fair, Of this unknown, bare arm! Melissinde (quickly withdrawing her arm) : True! It is bare! Bertrand {making an effort to rise, to Melissinde) : But who art thou? Melissinde: Sir Knight, you know full well, I am she for who you had some word to tell. But you have swooned. It brought forgetfulness. Bertrand {starting back) : But you are not the Princess? Melissinde {smiling) : Certes, yes! Bertrand: You, . . . but then! . . . you, the Princess! . . . Oh, Alas! And I! . . . Great God! . . . The precious hours pass! Oh, haste! {He tries to rush to the window, but totters.) Open the window! Look, and tell me plain! (Melissinde opens the great window that opens toward the sea.) What do you see? Melissinde: Terrace, flower-strewn . . . Bertrand: Beyond? Ah, look again! Melissinde: The sea. Bertrand: And there . . . Great God, what may betide! . . . See you a Frankish ship at anchor ride? Melissinde: A little, battered ship, still far away, Anchored — I saw no ship there yesterday. Bertrand: And high upon the mast? Melissinde: A swallow clings! Bertrand: No black sail at the yards? Melissinde: Nay, halcyon wings, Wide spread, white wings! Bertrand: There still is tune! My fear Was false! O lady, haste! O Virgin, hear! Prolong his life! He is so faint, so fond! He would die so content! THE PRINCESS FAR A IV AY 105 Melissinde: Look, Sorismondc, His splendid eyes are full of desperate tears! Bertrand: He would die so content! For she appears The flower of flowers, the star beyond all stars, The dream beyond the dream ! Griefs, hazards, wars, His bitter pains were clean forgot I trow, If he behold the wliiteness of her brow, — If he behold, beneath the tawny lashes The blue eyes, that are gray, where emerald flashes! See her who long, not seeing, he has served! — Well might he worship, at all cost, unswerved ! — Alas, they dare not carry him to sliore! Come! Let a dying man see and adore; Let his last moments know new ecstasies! On your sweet image let him close his eyes! Do not recoil with haughty mien, I pray! Be not again the Princess far away! Princess, to whom a honied name is given. Come, that, ere dying, he may enter Heaven. Come that he have, on his ship miserable, Of deaths the sweetest . . . the most enviable! Melissinde {wJio retreats as he advances) : Of what man do you speak? Bertrand: Joffroy Rudel, Whose last hour is at hand, — whose love I tell, — Whose love you said you loved ! Be expedite ! He dies! And I have promised! Melissinde: But, Sir Knight, Who, then, are you? Bertrand: Bertrand of Allamanon, know, His friend and brother! Ah, come quickly! Melissinde : No ! ( Curtain ) THIRD ACT Same setting as the Second Act. In the background, the great U'indoiv is open. It is afternoon, sparkling and brilliant. The marble pavement is strewn not with lilies but with red roses. SCENE I Bertrand; Sorismonde Sorismonde: I told her you would see her, at all cost. Will she, or no? . . . She hesitates, doubt-tossed. Hope still. Bertraxd: Time presses so! Sorismonde {shaking her head and going toward the casement) : A strange emprise! Bertrand {in a dull voice): The sail? Sorismonde: Still white from the masthead it flies. Lo, at the gate below, black robed and pale, Folk of the Chevalier with Emerald Mail! His household takes its leave. His galley's oars Beat dully the bright waters of our shores. When, with a bloody corpse for chief, they come, Bringing that ship to proud Byzantium, And mourning janissaries tell that tale. The Emperor's rage will make the stoutest quail! Bertrand {sunk in reverie) : All suddenly, so hard her sweet eyes gleamed. This liarsh refusal! Why? {To Sorismonde) To you it seemed As strange? Sorismonde {with an evasive gesture) : Ah! Bertrand: Why did she refuse? I beg you . . . Sorismonde {seeing the golden door open): She! 106 THE PRINCESS FAR /Uf'AY 107 Bertrand: Entreat her! SORISMONDE {making him go out) : Haste! Here, bj- this gallery! (Melissinde appears and slowly, listlessly descends the stairs. ) SCENE II Melissinde ; Sorismonde Melissinde: Sorismonde, damsel, come, and tell me true What has my strange behaviour meant to you ? Sorismonde {ivith a vague gesture): Ah! Melissinde: Why this refusal? Why this gust of wrath? Did the storm stir me . . . as so oft it hath? I have burned a candle. I have said a prayer. But . . . this refusal took me, unaware. Was it pettishness? or did I so resent Such a deception? . . . Tell me what it meant. Certes, it lacked a reason. That you know. Sorismonde: You know there is a reason. Melissinde (terrified): Ah! Speak low! Sorismonde {smiling, after a pause) : Be reassured, 'Tis this that I devine: That which was dear, which dreams had made divine, You feared to see, — most natural recoil, — In very flesh and marred by pain and moil. His eyes are haggard. Purple are his lips; Fevered the clammy hand that feebly grips. You wished to keep, through all the days to be, A noble love in noble memory, No funest vision, boding, new, unknown. Melissinde: Gramercy! 'Tis the reason! That, alone! Yes, the sole reason for my No. Haste, thou! Tell Sir Bertrand that he may enter, now. Sorismonde (smiling): Since you refuse, to what end? Melissinde: I refuse . . . But . . . cowardice the spirit doth bemuse. 108 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND I owe this dying man by Christ His laws At least to let Sir Bertrand plead his cause. Sorismonde: You owe it? jMelissinde: Yes. Let selfishness resist. ]VIy lord may conquer it, if he persist. (Sorismonde ffoes to the gallery and makes a sign. Ber- trand comes in and Sorismonde disappears.) SCENE III Bertrand; Melissinde Bertrand: Ah, grace, that you receive me once again! Persist! Persist! My duty calls so plain. For still the sail is white, and Rudel lives. Melissinde (sitting among her cushions) : Less ill, mayhap, than this report one gives. Bertrand: Do not speak so. A respite — heaven's meed — Space to convince you. Princess, hear me! Melissinde : Plead. Bertrand: A moment since, I stood so stupidly! . . . The vision fled away so rapidly, She hurled her 'No' against me like a blow, — She who had been so kind a breath ago! I was as one deluded, one who dreamed. On the deserted air, a fragrance streamed, Light witness, as your floating veil fled by, Like to the perfumes, drifting ceaselessly, That will haunt Tarsus to the very last, Because once that way Cleopatra passed. Melissinde (smiling and holding cut her slim wrists from which depend tiny boxes of perfumes) : The fragrance was this perfume of the East, Amber, a whiff of sandal, O the least, Least bit. I wear it in this tiny golden flask, THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 109 (Bertrand kneels and kisses her hand.) Here on my wrist. Is it the same, I ask? Bertrand {in a slightly changed voice) : The same, . . . but added, measureless, I feel Thy very self. Melissinde (as he is about to rise) : Since you, are pleading, kneel. Bertrand (kneeling) : Rudel's report I am too vile to render! A spirit sweet, a soul sad, true and tender; His love for you! Nay, all words were too weak! I am not fit to tell this romance. Melissinde: Speak! You love him then so much? Bertrand: Admire and love him. When first he came to Aigues-Mortes, plain above him Death hovered; his physician told him this; Unflinching, facing death, he thought it bliss Just to set sail, to see his dear Unknown And die! This lover, with this aim alone, Kindled my spirit and my heart approved him; I sought him, saw him . . . Melissinde: And at once you loved him? Bertrand: At once I loved him. Dreams the spirit blend. I am his disciple, brother and his friend. They all condemned! None understood him, none! But I, I wished to follow . . . Melissinde: Oh, well done! Bertrand: At first the ocean showed us clemency. While billows rocked us softly, dreamily. He bade me, from pink morn to twilight blue, Repeat the lovely songs he made for you. Melissinde: You said them well, I think, with that warm voice. Bertrand: Roland loved Aide, the lady of his choice, Tristan adored Iseult; Flore, Blancefior; no PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND But Oh, Rudel loved Melisslnde still more! Rudel pressed love beyond the last extreme! Ah, his complaints, his tears, his prayers, his dream! Night-long I watched, I know each tear he shed. Melissixde : Then, it was you who watched beside his bed? Bertran'D {standing, lyrically declaiming) : The voyage, — how. Lady, tell it, mile by mile? This agony, still straining toward your smile? O, we believed wind-driven endlessly We'd wander always on a boundless sea! The shattering shell, the mounting wave we saw! Our prince was like the King of Ithaca. Through all, he, dying, lived, by faith alone. The dream that won me, all the others won! Sometimes the weather cleared. A port was sighted. Some smiling island beckoned and invited; And we were fain to rest amid its flowers. Still he refused ; and breezes from its bowers Freshened our sail. . . . And then, a calm. . . . And, hark, Rattle of oars! To meet a Turkish barque! We engage! We sink her! Onward! And we row! Now stalks gaunt famine, deadliest, grizzliest foe! Our men are spectres terrible to see; Masts, stumps; sails, rags that fluttered helplessly. Hope gone; Prince dying. . . . Then . . . Land! Com- prehend . . . Melissixde {shuddering) : Thy awful perils, danger without end ! Bertrand {surprised) : Mine? Melissixde {hurriedly, trying to recall the words): Thine . . . for thy Prince . . . whose cause you under- take. I • • • I . . . am grateful, ... for the Prince's sake. . . . Bertraxd: Madam . . . Melissixde: Are you so modest j'ou must stand apart, Deny your service to your very heart? THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 111 A friend so loyal, love so pure and steady! I go! My galley! Bid my men make ready! I come ! (Bertrand seems about to speak.) But . . . not another word ! O God ! {She goes out, much moved and precipitately.) SCENE IV Bertrand; later, Squarciafico Bertrand: She comes. — Her "No" was but a lady's nod, — A cruel jest. Even when men are dying. They play the woman still. Lightly denying; Dallying, from habit; barbarous for art; Withholding solace from a dying heart. {He turns to the ivindoiu.) Poor friend, who waitest the vision. . . . She is near. Thou'lt die content, Rudel! Squarciafico {who enters at these words) : What is it I hear? You are not Jofifroy Rudel? Bertrand: I! Squarciafico: Diavolo! All my fair hopes in smoke and water go! Bertrand: Your hopes? Squarciafico: Yes, when I saw your proud, brown head, I said, "That's he!" "Our fortune's made," I said. Bertrand: Your fortune? Squarciafico: Yes. "There," says I, "past a doubt. The poet lover puts the rest to rout. He comes as conqueror. He slew the giant: He'll be her spouse. The Princess will be pliant." Bertrand: Hein? Squarciafico: Oh, it was perfect! Manuel, one sees, Detests Venetians and the Genoese. Ah, if he reign, ill shall we merchants fare; — Yet what we ask is but a small affair ! 112 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND To let us work as we have always wrought; A poet was the very king we sought. Each in his own sphere, fitly occupied, He could make poems while our crafts we plied. Perfect! Just perfect! Lovers on the throne; Through deputies their royal will made known, They would not steel their wills to sudden zeal, Forbidding trade . . . Bertrand: You'd have the . . . will to steal? Squarciafico: Y . . . no. Oh, come. You understand. . . . Bertraxd: I do, indeed. Squarciafico: Rudel must die. This journey serves no need. Bertrand: No need! Adventure of the spirit, fire and flame, You must fulfill some need, some purpose! Squarciafico : Dame ! Bertrand (to himself) : They understood, — sailors before the mast! But this, this treachour, meanest, least of last, In his vile brain, for tricks and trading fit. Dishonours the Idea . . . makes use of it! Naught is so noble . . . better foul abuse ! . . . But there be some to ask. What is the use? Must all be soiled by reckonings infamous? — Would thou couldst hear this wretch, Fra Trophimus! Squarciafico : To think this Manuel, — he be damned forever ! — Will soon espouse the Princess. Bertrand (vehemently) : Never! Never! Squarciafico (aside): A-ha! Bertrand: Never shall that barbarian, I swear Take to himself that creature, fragile, rare! Squarciafico (to himself) : Another tack and all may yet be well ! (Aloud) Untimely in his death, this Lord Rudel. (Bertrand, sunk in his thoughts, seems not to hear; Squar- ciafico comes closer.) THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 113 She would have wed him ; loving poets, who Loves also Franks, and he is both ; — like you ! This voyage too its part had surely played, This voyage romantic, — which you, too, have made. But he is dying. 'Tis the way of fate, — Death comes too soon, and profit comes too late. His hand outstretched to touch the goal, he dies . . . And leaves a second man to seize the prize. Bertrand: Always the mast! If, floating from its peak, I saw Death's signal! . . . Squarciafico {coming closer): Child! Sir Baby! Speak! Ho! For a dying man this fervor giving! When you could plead so blithely for the liv'ng! (Bertrand turns and looks at him; he shrinks back.) Bertrand: Thou sayest? . . . Squarciafico: Naught! Bertrand {seizing him by the throat): Wretch! Squarciafico {freeing himself): Ho! I admire your plan Of thanking me for good advice, young man! Bertrand: Ah, I will crush thee! . . . SCENE V The Same. Melissinde, Sorismonde, Ladies-in-Waiting. car- rying the cope, the diadem and the sceptre of the Princess Melissinde: What is this? Bertrand {to Squarciafico): Serpent! Hush! Squarciafico: So be it, — serpent! One that's ill to crush ! Bertrand: Thy poison bruise my heel? A trifling thing! Squarciafico: 'Tis in thy heart that I will leave my sting! Melissinde {advancing, trembling) : My guest thus menaced by a knavish wight? Leave my domain before to-morrow's light! For if dawn find thee still in Tripoli, Sunrise shall find thee nailed upon a tree! 114 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Squarciafico: Banished! This is ruin! (To Bertrand.) I give thee thanks! Thou'lt see ! I'll be avenged ! {As he goes out.) These ingrate Franks! Melissinde: Banished! To please you I have said that word! Bertrand: That man had . . . had . . . Melissixde: Had angered you, my lord. It is enough. This instant we depart. Go see if all is ready for the start ; Galley and rowers, — go! (Bertrand gazes at her a moment as if bewildered and then goes out abruptly.) SCENE VI Melissinde; Sorismonde; for a moment, the Ladies-in- Waiting Melissinde (nervously, to Sorismonde) : My diadem! He knows not me, — so he must love this gem — Whatever makes me Princess. So I've planned To go as Princess, sceptre in my hand. Give me my sceptre! Hah, a woeful weight! {She tries to put on her cope, but gives it back to one of the ladies-in-waiting . ) Carry this mantle, — prison garb I hate! — Down to the galley ! Go ! Make haste ! Bestir ! Heavy these gems, — this gold ; still heavier ! When we arrive, ye'U deck me queenly-wise! {Her ladies go out carrying all her ensignia of rank.) {To Sorismonde.) Dost thou think I will have to close his eyes? Sorismonde: You are overwrought, fearing this grizzly vision! Ah, Madam, send your priest or your physician! Melissinde: Nay, all were simple if one heeded you. I suffer an obscure revolt, 'tis true, Seeking one, pale, with dying eyes grown dull, — Forsaking him who is living, beautiful! THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 115 SoRiSMONDE : Forswear, my lady, this fantastic goal ! BicJe here. Reclaim your liberty of soul ! You love the other. Who then can forbid? Melissinde: I love? — I told you, and I thought 'twas hid! Sorismonde: You are disconsolate. I, ravished quite. Forsaking dreams, you'll turn to life and light! Melissinde: And shall the lilies' sister give her token To the first comer, virile, young, fair-spoken? Sorismonde : Nature, my Lady, such revenge may wreak. Melissinde: Because I placed my arm beneath his cheek, — And his cold hand grew warm within my own, . . . Sorismonde: Because on his pale brow sucji beauty shone. . . . Melissinde: Because his sigh. . . . Oh, no! In vain declare False reasons! I mistook him. . . . Thou wouldst dare Make reasons for thyself, O Fool? . . . 'Twas Love That so abused me, so made haste to prove When his voice, grave and tender, named the friend For whom I longed, yet dared not to attend. Love whispered, 'twas himself! My heart took fire; Desired it so, and hearkened to desire! Sorismonde : 'Tis clear. Melissinde: For I had heard, with what excess Of joy, my dreamer sought his far princess! And now he comes, this brave, unhappy prince, Through deadly pains, his worship to evince; He comes, and gave his life to come ; — and she Whom he would see and die, waits tremblingly. And seeks delays, and on her doubts would dwell, Because he chose his messenger too well! Sorismonde: Eh, yes. Melissinde: Too well! Secst thou, Sorismonde, How one so brov.n can have a voice so blonde? And one so proud, all conquering, be so mild, With all the charming shyness of a child? To wound the proud one, thou wert swift, O cupid ! Sorismonde: You love him. Then bide here. Reason . . . 116 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Melissinde: Is stupid, Stupid, and flat, still living at one level! — The good all good and evil wholly evil ! 'Tis their commingling that makes all our trouble, So many hearts are desperately double ! One held so long the cup of dreams a-brim, — He who lies sick, — I love and pity him. The other, I adore ! Both loves I rue ! My heart between them has been riven in two ! Sorismonde: Then, seek the ship; delight the dying eyes; And afterwards you could. . . . Melissinde : Base compromise ! Fit for thy Reason. All unworthy scheme ! Shall I descend to this, who loved the Dream? Joffroy Rudel die happy in my arms, — His friend, surviving, then enjoy my charms? Ah! worldly counsel, very fit and fond! Not that ! No middle courses, Sorismonde ! Not happiness bought with a compromise ! I have dreamed of love sublime, not otherwise! If I forswear love mystic and sublime. Proudly at least I'll plunge in splendid crime! Sorismonde : You seek new subtilities wherein to rove ? Melissinde: If Lord Bertrand should know of this my love? . . . Sorismonde: I understand. . . . Melissinde: 'Tis this that tempteth me. Sorismonde: To . . . break resistance . . . conquer loyalty ? Melissinde: It were in truth a very vile success. Who thinks not on such cruelties, natheless? Ah, what true woman in the list of us? One needs must love whom one makes Infamous; Console the pangs if one have caused the grief. Of all sweet victories, hearts find it chief To put beneath our feet that foe we hate. That wretched Honour ye so proudly prate. Wliat woman lias not sought, as I seek now, THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 117 To break man's march triumphal, wilfully, — Not quite Delilah, no, but Omphale? To hold a hero with a strand of hair? What woman doth not seek, if she but dare, To hold Orestes bounden as with chains, While his Pylades dies, he knows, — and he remains! SCENE VII Melissinde; Bertrand Bertrand: Your glittering galley waits in expectation, The rowers ready. . . . Melissinde {to herself) : Horrible temptation! (SORISMONDE withdraws quickly, and goes quietly out.) Bertrand: Why this strange gaze that long upon me lingers? Why do you twist your rings with fevered fingers? Melissinde: Mayhap new motives in my fancy run, Forbidding me to follow. . . . Bertrand {earnestly): Surely none! Melissinde : Yet . . . still I doubt . . . and tremble at your plan. If I love someone . . . Bertrand {vehemently) : Nay, you love no man! Melissinde: 'Tis he says this! . . .Alas! 'Tis even so. I love. 'Tis Love that bids me not to go. Bertrand {starting violently) : You love another? Wliom? . . . That I may slay! . . . Melissinde: You'd kill him? Ah, you know not what you say. Bertrand {beside himself) : Tell me his name! Melissinde: Must I? Bertrand : Yes ! Melissinde {going toward him, languorously) : Must I? Bertrand {recoiling): No! Ah, tell me not his name! I will not know! For if 'tis he . . . {Draiving his sword) him above all I'll slay! Melissinde: Ah, do not strike! The name I did not say! 118 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Bertrand : I am a knight forsworn ! Melissixde: Nay, still your honour Is safe. Bertrand {half to himself) : Lost! For with joy I heard, and looked upon her! A throb of joy! Melissinde: I am proud past all belief! Bertrand: Steal from a dying man! O cursed thief! O, haste! Thou art not cruel! O relent! Melissinde: 'Tis for that cause I go not. If we went, I'd tremble lest my heart prove false to me, Seized with some madness of nobility! Could I myself against myself defend? — Long have I loved him. Try to comprehend. He was, — I sigh because I knovv^ 'tis true, — My better soul, and my worse soul is you ! To be yours . . . thine. I must not look ... I know Into Rudel's eyes! Ah, I will not go! You'll cease to plead, lest my will bow before you! Bertrand: What shall I do? . . . Rudel . . . I . . . I adore you ! Ah, turn your lovely, languorous look on me! . . . I fear that window open on the sea! Melissinde {flies to the zvindoiv, closes it quickly and turns atvay from it) : Ah, now 'tis closed! I have thee, and will keep! 'Tis closed, I tell thee! From that casement deep None shall look out. And all within is fair. {She comes down to him.) Ah! Let us breathe the perfumes on the air! From this my palace never be thou led ! See, they have strewn the hall with roses red, — This hall where erst cold lilies were displayed. — The window's shut, I say ! Be not afraid ! — I have renounced pale flowers with mystic wile For amorous crimson roses! Prithee, smile! Nay, we know nothing. How then should we know? THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 119 We'll ask nobody. Always kneeling so, Thou'lt live. And find my arms alone are near. What is remorse? And what is there to fear? Who told us of a ship? Of a Rvidcl? Beside our love there's naught that's real to tell ! Beyond the window, gold sands woo tlie tides Of a blue gulf . . . all blue . . . where no ship rides! Some day we'll open it, — in after years, — This window, and we'll mock at all our fears . . . For we'll see nothing! What is this silly fable? A white wing changing to a wing of sable? An idle tale, Bertrand ! — The window's fast! — Naught there, Bertrand, naught! Only love can last! Why then imagine something grim and dread Beyond the window? Soft its light is shed; Gold and enamel all its spaces fill . . . Bertrand: Ah, must you talk but of this window still? Melissinde: Oh, it is false! I only speak ... of thee And of my love, and of thy love for me. . . . Nay, but thy collar's clasp becomes thee well. Bertrand, who gave it thee? Bertrand: Joffroy Rudel. Melissinde: Ah, well ! 'Tis naught! Throw it away! Bertrand: My brother, I pleased her with thy joyaunces! Melissinde: No other Bedizement you needed to display Than thy brown jerkin, stained with foam and fray! Bold young adventurer, what were garb uncouth? For clasp upon thy throat thou'd have my mouth. Do not shrink back ! Nay, when thy heart deniest Thine eyes the sight of me, look, love, thou licst! Thou knowest . . . Bertrand: That thy voice thrilled me and my heart replied I {The iviniloiv is flung open by a gust of tvlnd.) Melissinde: Ah! The sea breeze has flung the window wide! 120 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Bertrand: The window is opened. jVIelissixde: Haste thee! Close it! Bertrand : " No ! I fear the horizon, — a black sail below ! Melissinde: Then turn thy eyes and swiftly it is done! Bertrand: No! I would look! — would feel it! Melissinde (rising to go to the windoiv; moving close along the wall) : Let us shun Facing the window. . . . So, I can approach. . . . {At the moment of reaching the casement, she hesitates, not /iaring to close the window; slowly she draws back, ahvays moving close against the wall; and she falls beside Ber- trand on the divan.) Ah, well ! We'll bide here ! Nothing can encroach ; Wrapped in our love profound that shields and covers, And be like all the world of happy lovers! Bertrand: How sayest thou? Melissinde: I say that all mankind Has still some window, fears to look behind, Feeling a secret chill in heart and hand. Hearing, behind, the Window's shrill demand! And all bide, cowering. None will turn and know, Lest dolorous Duty's ship be seen below, Calling them far from joys they long to broach. Or, if it were too late, the dark reproach Of thy black folds, Remorse, float overhead ! All cower among their cushions like the dead ! All, all would keep the dear desire, the joy That one glance toward the Window could destroy. None dare to see black sails above the billows! Let us, like them, crouch in the coward pillows! (She puts her arms about him and they both hide their faces in the cushions.) Bertrand: Aye, let us bide! Alas! The bitter dole! Can wc ? Woe's nic ! I have, thou hast, a soul ! THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 121 Can souls in such a pli^lit know happiness? We are not like those others! Melissinde: Certcs, yes! I love thee! {A noise of cheerful voices is heard through the window.) Bertrand {trembling) : What is that? Melissinde : 'Tis naught. My pages And lackeys, and some folly that engages. Voices {without) : One . . .three . . . eight . . . Melissinde: Naught! A favourite device; They often gather there to cast their dice, To play . . . The Voices: Tra la! — It's fair! Bertrand: O Melissinde, I love thee! What fairy at thy christening bent above thee? To tell thy golden hair thy name was given, Thy honied lips . . . The Voices: The sea! Look! Look! Bertrand {trembling): Just Heaven! What do they look at? Melissinde: Something far away! A Voice: See you that ship? Bertrand: "See you that ship?" they say! Melissinde: Ah, well, don't listen! Bertrand : Nay, I must. That voice . . . Melissinde: / heed not, , , , What says he? Bertrand {with a hopeless gesture) : We have no choice. Melissinde: Is there but one ship? Why, believe? alack! . . . A Voice: They hoist a sail! Look! Look! The sail is black! (Melissinde and Bertrand recoil.) A Voice: I'm going to the beach! You others, come! {A sound of voices and of retreating footsteps. Bertrand and Melissinde, not daring to look at each other, move sloii'ly aivay from each other. A long, long silence.) Melissinde {at last in a voice that is hardly audible) : Ah, well? 122 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Bertraxd: Well? Naught! {Mechanically he lifts Melissinde's scarf which lies among the cushions, and breathes its fragrance.) This perfume fills the room! What did you say it was? The memory slips . . . Melissixde: Yes. . . . I . . . amber. . . . Bertraxd: Thy veil. . . . O, with my lips I drink its fragrance. . . . (He falls doii'n in a heap, ivith terrible rending sobs.) Oh! oh! oh! It is the end! Dead! He is dead! My brother! Oh, my friend! The end ! What have I done ! Unsatisfied ! And you, what have you done? Betrayed he died! Melissixde: Horrible! But I still have thee . . . thy vows. Bertraxd: Thou hast the traitor! Oh, a worthy spouse! Melissixde: But treachery, if Love be its creator . . . Bertraxd: I lack the beauty of a daring traitor! I am no hero whom a proud crime frees. I am a child led by a passing breeze; A feeble heart, whose life when all is said Is treason, good or bad as it is led ! A facile thing, — to move me to betray! I belong wholly to the mood, the day, Why, but this morning I was madly brave, — And now . . . and now ... I am a perfume's slave ! The moment wins me ! Of the mood I am wrought ! You have me? Truly who has me has naught! Poet unstable, toy of every breeze, A pool that still reflects the thing it sees! Melissixde: Bertrand, remorse misleads you! Bertraxd: Aye, its length Proves that I lack even the wretched strength To wear a crime accomplished like a crest! Yea, my remorse is weakness like the rest! I, least of wretches, if I love or grieve, Do good or evil, — never I achieve! THE PRINCESS EAR AWAY 123 Yea, I know fair impulsions. I can thrill Making the promise I will not fulfill ! — His long devotion cozened at the end! crime repentance never can amend ! Melissinde: Bcrtrand . . , Bertrand: Couldst thou, who scest naked before thy ejes My shame, despise as I myself despise; Enchantress whose Circean arts have led To this my doom for a caprice . . • Melissinde: He said? . . . He saw me as a woman bold to woo? For crime, remorse, and honour lost, he knew, No compensation of heroic fashion. Saw no exalted, all-embracing passion? Did I alone dream only Love was king? — For this we did so horrible a thing! Bertrand {frenzied) : Yes, she has slain my soul! {He falls on his knees, weeping.) No, as I live 1 said it not! Thy pardon! O, forgive! Since what is done, I need thy lips! Forever! It is impossible we two should sever! Let thy hair shroud the shame none can atone! I dare not . . . Oh, I cannot ... be alone! Melissinde : No. Leave me I 'Tis too late. In vain you cling. — For this we did so horrible a thing! — Unhappy, can I scorn thee, when in me Myself is more deceived than I in thee? Forgetting in my arms! No task supreme! I was divided 'twixt desire and dream. O vast unrest! Alas, alas, my soul, Where shall I find the good that makes thee whole? Immortally thirst and famished, Where is thy spring, O thirst? Where, hunger, is thy bread? Bertrand: All's ended. Melissinde: Ended. 124 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Bertrand: Melissinde. . . . Melissixde: Bertrand . . . Bertrand: Oh, what he suffered, dying! . . . At my hand! Melissinde {going to the window) : dear betrayed, I come! To seek the sight Of thy dear corpse ! {With a great cry.) Bertrand! The sail is white! Bertrand: God! Melissinde: But they said . . . we heard . . . Bertrand {who has rushed to the window) : The gloomy sail Was hoisted for the Knight in Emerald Mail; Yonder his ship speeds for Byzantium! But our ship whitely beckons us to come! The sail is white ! Melissinde : White under the blue heaven ! White as the hope of pardon ! God ! Forgiven I Prolong, dear God, this whiteness seen afar. For that white sail becomes my highest star! The duty I denied rings like a bell! 1 come to thee! I come, Joffroy Rudel! I come! And dying thou art dear to me By all the ill I almost did to thee! {Curtain) FOURTH ACT Same setting as for the First Act. The hour of rose and gold that precedes the sunset. Joffrey Rudel, in the same place, on his pallet. More ghastly than in the morning, his eyes still fixed upon the shore, completely immobile. At his side, watchful, Erasmus. Kneeling, his head sunk in his hands, Fra Trophi- MUS, at the foot of the pallet. To Left and Right, the Mariners, much incensed against Squarciafico, who, arms crossed, stands in the centre of the scene; he turns, head bared, toward Joffrey Rudel; he is concluding a speech. An angry murmur runs through the group. The Master restrains the Mariners, who want to set upon him. SCENE I JoFFROY Rudel, Fra Trophimus, Erasmus, Squarciafico, The Mariners, Bruno, Bistagne, Pegofat, Tro- baldo, Francois, etc. Squarciafico: So I have told you what I came to say. She loves him; he loves her. So both delay. The Mariners: Enough! Let's throw him over! The Master {to the sailors) : Hear him through! The Mariners: Coward! He'll kill the Prince! What would he do? Squarciafico (addressing the Prince) : Your friend Bertrand . . . Pegofat: Thou liest! Squarciafico: The Princess .. . . Bruno: The Princess! Never! Francois: 'Tis false! He lies! The Master: No less Let him say on. (JoFFROY Rudel has not moved a muscle and his eyes still seek the shore.) US 126 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Squarciafico {more loudly and defiantly) '. This knave . . . Bistagne: 'Tis thou! Squarciafico : My word ! The two are mad for love. Prince, have you heard? While still your heart awaits your messenger . . . Erasmus : The Prince is weak. He does not hear you, sir. Squarciafico: To torture this Sir Bertrand, I have tried To make the Prince hear all before he died. That were the sweetest vengeance I could wreak! Erasmus: The Prince no longer hears, nor can he speak. Only his eyes are living. Squarciafico: He must know! Oh, but he must! Erasmus: He hears not. Era Trophimus {lifting his eyes to heaven) : Better so! Squarciafico {to The Master): Hell's fury! — You at least need not be dumb. If, weeping, this vile hypocrite should come Kneeling beside the dead man he betrayed. Tell him his punishment was not delayed ; — That Rudel cursed him, having heard this thing! The Master {to The Mariners, indicating Squarciafico) : Now you can take this man and let him swing. Squarciafico: What? The Mariners: Kill him! Blasphemer! Liar! Pegofat: The caitiff puts Evil upon the Princess. Squarciafico: But . . . Bruno: No "buts!" No man shall live who touches the Princess. Francois: She will come! Bistagne: 'Tis sure. Troraldo: We have his word, no less; Sir Bcrtrand's word! Squarciafico: Listen ... ye do mistake! . . . THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 127 Pecofat: You must have weighty interests at stake To make this lie! Squarciafico: Hotheatls without a brain! Bruno: You'll never bring bad news aboard again! Squarciafico: But . . . Marrias : You'd snatch hope from the dying agony ? Squarciafico: But . . . Francois : Thou'dst tell him he will never live to see Her whom he lives to see? Squarciafico: But . . . Squarciafico: Thy malice hopes So to besmirch our idol? Squarciafico: 'Tis a friend who opes Your eyes! Trobaldo: And if we want 'em closed? We make tlic rules. Squarciafico: But you are fools! Juan: And if we would be fools? Francois: Thou'dst take away our Princess far away? Good ! At the yard-arm let his body sway ! Pegofat: No! Chop his head off! Bruno: No! Slow tortures, man! Francois: Let's hack his feet off! Ho, my Catalan! Squarciafico: Oh! Oh! Bistagne: Tear out his tongue! Squarciafico {in a faint voice) : Ah! Trobaldo: Slit his nose! Squarciafico: No! Pegofat: Let's try the trick the Northern seaman knows; — Clout his hand to the mask, by sticking through A knife, well ground; you pierce it straight and true. Then he himself, beneath the lash, must free His hand, — and not too gently, so, you'll see! — 'Twill slit clear to the fingers! Squarciafico: I\Iy hand! Woe! Pegofat {tranquilly) : Sometimes, they leave a piece that won't let go. 128 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Squarciafico : I am citizen of Genoa! (All the Mariners let go of him and fall back.) Bruno: Hein! What? Fr.'^ncois : Oh ! Bistagxe: Ah! Trobaldo; The devil! Pegofat: We nearly wrought irremediable evil! My lord is Genoese! {All bow before Squarciafico.) Squarciafico {reassured and insolent once more) : Ah-hah! {Looking about with mocking confidence.) Genoese! {All bow once more.) Bruno {straightening himself up) : But . . . {Changing his tone, and laying hold on Squarciafico) I care no more than for a rotten nut! Squarciafico {aghast): Hein? Francois {shoving him toward the rail) : Swim to Genoa, then, thou Genoese! Squarciafico: Help! Help! Fra Trophimus {running): Enough! Pegofat : No prayer helps such as these I Nay, let him swim! He's not sewed in a sack! Squarciafico {clawing the rail madly) : I have money! . . . The Mariners: Heave him in! Squarciafico: Gold! Red gold! Marrias : Whack ! (Squarciafico hits the ivater.) Fra Trophimus: What have you done? Bruno: Drowned! That's the last of him! Francois {to Fra Trophimus): Let be! A rascal! Let him swim ! Voice of Squarciafico {taunting from the water) : I swim! Bistagne: Good! Wait! {lie seizes a bow. tightens and aims it.) Fra Trophimus: No! No! The Mariners: Yes! Take good aim! THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 129 {Everybody has crowded close to the rail. R'lglit, and leans over, watching Squarciafico, as he swims toivard shore. Erasmus alone stays at the Prince's side. Joi-froy Rudel has not seemed conscious of what has passed.) Erasmus: Hilloa! The Prince! Look at him! What has changed him so? (Everybody turns and sees Joffroy Rudel, who slowly raises his hand, pointing to something very far away.) Fra Trophimus: He has seen something? Pegofat: What is it he shows? Bruno: Oh! He is right! Look, yonder! Something rose, — Rose-pink and gold! It moves! Francois: He is right, by all the powers! Look! Out at sea, ... a garden full of flowers! {A burst of music reaches them.) Bistagne: Noel! The Genoese lied mightily! No doubt! No doubt! . . . That music! It is She! Pegofat: A golden galley shedding golden light! Bruno (running madly about and embracing everybody) : 'Tis She, I tell you! She! Almost in sight! (The Mariners crowd the gunwales, they climb the masts, they perch in the rigging and wave wildly.) Fra Trophimus (falling on his knees) : Father, we thank Thee, Who hast heard our prayer That Thy child, dying, should not taste despair! Pegofat: She comes! 'Tis She! The purple pennants float! Bruno: Sail of vermillion samite! Francois : All the boat Is wreathed with bloom ! Bistagne: No pinnancc but a bower! See, the maintop, a garden all in flower! Trobaldo: Hark to the viols! Bruno: All her canvas spread! And, look! the very oars engarlanded ! Pegofat: When from the blades the shining drops they shake A shower of petals follow in their wake ! 130 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Mariners: Seest thou the Princess? Where? Where? Yes, 'tis She, Erect, beneath that scarlet canopy! Juan : Ah, beautiful ! The Master: Swift, swift the galley glides! Foam sprays the Persian rugs along its sides. Erasmus: Lute, harp, and dulcimer ... I make them out. Fra Trophimus: The Queen of Sheba. Marrias: Let's wave our arms! And shout! All {waving frantically) : Melissinde! Princess! Glory! It is She! The Princess! Noel! Erasmus: What has come over me? It takes me by the gorge ! {He shouts.) Noel! {He turns to Fra Trophimus.) I cried! Fra Trophimus {pressing his hand) : And like the rest, tears in your eyes, undried! The Master: Their three-banked galley grapples us! Be wary! Widen that bulwark, — entrance for our Fairy! {With axes the men fall to work, enlarging the opening in the bulwark.) Fra Trophimus: The Prince! His mantle! Swift! We must prepare him. {Low.) And that we may prepare her, let us bear him A little further back. . . . For our poor Prince, Livid . . . eyes glazed . . . might make the bravest wince! The Master: There She is! Pegofat: Quick! Our cloaks beneath her feet! {On the deck, they make a path for her with the tattered gar- ments torn from their shoulders.) All {their voices husky) : Don't crowd! Stand back! You'd touch her! 'Tis not meet! Silence! — Line up! — Kneel! — She! {A great silence. The violins are hushed. The Galley stops THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 131 noiselessly ; clouds of incense rise; and under the scarlet canopy, Melissinde appears. She stands for a moment, motionless.) A Sailor (in the silence, says softly) : The Virgin Blest! {Two Sarracen slaves come fonvard to unroll before Melis- sinde a rich carpet. She checks them with a gesture, — and in a voice, full of emotion) : SCENE II The Same. Melissixde, Sorismonde, Ladies-in-Waiting, Chil- dren, Slaves, etc.; later, Bertrand Melissinde : No ! No ! This tattered serge is far the best ! {She advances very slowly ; looking about her with stupefac- tion. The Ladies of her Househould range themselves noiselessly in the background; the musicians remain on the galley; Erasmus and Era Trophimus stand so that they conceal from her JoiTROY RuDEL, icho seems unconscious; his eyes are closed.) Melissinde {ovenvhelmed by all that she sees) : This ship! These kneeling people! Are we dreaming? These poor ones kneel! And oh, their tears are streaming! Could I imagine such great misery? {To the Mariners.) O, my Friends! Pegofat : It was She who said that ! She ! Melissinde {advancing) : Oh, all these poor ones, tattered, sick, forlorn, — Joy! — joy for me! — in their hurt eyes is born! Sweeten such sorrow? Me? . . . My heart must break! Could I have guessed, though Bertrand for their sake, Told all their story? Could it waken me? What's told is nothing! We must come and see! {With an involuntary shudder.) But he . . . Joffroy Rudcl? Fra Trophimus; Madam, be brave! 132 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND He is so ill — he looks so ill. — We crave Time to prepare you . . . Melissinde : Ah ! . . . I am calm, you see ! Fra Trophimus {standing aside and signing to Erasmus to do likewise): Then, Princess, come! Melissinde (seeing Rudel) : Oh, God! (She falls on her knees, sobbing.) For me! For me! (She weeps silently. RuDEL opens his eyes; seeing her, they widen and grow bright, and a smile illumines his face.) Erasmus: Oh, look! Melissinde: That smile! He waited all that weary while! To think — to think — I might have missed that smile! Fra Trophimus : See, we have dressed him in his robes of state. He knew that you would come or soon or late. He neither hears nor speaks; we hardly durst Believe he saw. And yet, he saw you first! Melissinde (still kneeling, and gazing at him) : During the dire delay, he trusted me! He never doubted ! Pegofat: No! Bruno: No more than we! Melissinde: No more than you ? The Master : Damn you to flame undying. Be still! Francois (emphatically) : Not all the time the Genoese was lying! Melissinde (terrified): The Genoese? Before him? Bertrand (who a mornent before has appeared on deck) : Wretch ! . . . Could such woe befall ? . . . ' Fra Trophimus (to Melissinde) : But he heard nothing. JoFFROY Rudel (in a weak voice) : Yea, I heard it all. Melissinde (wringing her hands): O God! What could you think? My anguish mounts! . . . JoFFROY (gently) : I thought: what is't this wicked fool recounts? — But I spoke not a word, not even low, — For you were coming! It behooved me, so, THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 133 — For words are counted when the breaths oppress, — To keep my words, each one, for the Princess. Melissinde: God! JoFFROY Rudel: Though I heard him that was only part. I looked to land. 1 felt, deep in my heart, That if I looked to land, always, always, My mute regard a clarion voice would raise; That its sole fixity, its strength of faith, Would surely draw you to me ere my death. Aye, though a charm had held you in jour home! Melissinde: Oh! JoFFROY : And you see ! You see that you have come ! {He sees Bertrand.) Grace, Bertrand ! Where's thy hand ? (Bertrand, pushed by Fra Trophimus. comes forivard and trembling puts his hand in that of Rudel.) Thou knewest ... no danger . . . That the . . . false witness of an evil stranger Would make me wrong thee by a single thought ? Melissinde: O, noble trust! Joffroy: Repaid! The rest is naught! For j'ou are here ! ]\Iy dream ! It did not fail ! {With a smile.) The Princess comes! O thou my Princess, hail! {He closes his eyes, exhausted.) Erasmus: His strength is spent, but he will rally. Wait! Bertrand {in a heavy voice to Fra Trophimus) : God! I must tell him ere it is too late! Fra Trophimus: Tell what, my son? (Bertrand hangs his head.) Thou seekst thine own relief! Coward confession, to assuage thy grief! Trouble his dying, for thy shame's surcease? Nay, be thou silent; let him die in peace! Bertrand: But soon he'll know I have betrayed his faith! Fra Trophimus: His soul, wrapt in the solemn peace of death, 134 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Knowing, but full of Christian tenderness, Will know thy soul, pity its wretchedness. Melissixde: Let him come back, my God ! For he has shown My soul true faith. His dream becomes my own. Trusting a flower, its bloom we sooner see: The lady he believes me, I will be! I'll soothe his dying for a penance fit ; — So much the better if I shrink from it! This poet, O I swear it by the rood. Gently shall slip from life's inquietude; My smile shall hold him in a golden mesh The while he treads the dark path of all flesh. Beauty shall strive against Death's brutal powers. If his eyes open, petals, fall in showers ; Perfumes, in misty vapors soft ascend; Ye songs of harps, 'neath harpers' fingers, blend With our pure love ; and yet be thou no less A drug to lull to chastest drunkenness. Erasmus: The Prince's eyes are open. {Flower petals fall in soft shoivcrs about him; the music sounds; censers swing.) Melissinde {leaning above him) : Prince Joffroy Rudcl . . . JoFFROY : 'Twas not a dream. Melissinde: I came. You called me well. I knew your love and its long constancy ! Long since, I knew it! It was sung to me By pilgrims; — aye and jonglers told the tale! Thy love was like our palm trees, when a gale Blows to a blossoming tree from some far beach Its mating blossom. ... So your thoughts could reach My own, borne on the winds. The tears that seemed most vain Fell, warm, upon my hands. ... I felt them plain ! But, since you wished to know the loved Unknown, And since you called, I came; — so strong has grown Your love's dominion : I have come, among THE PRINCESS FAR A IV AY 135 The perfumes of this censer slowly swung, Perfumes compact of every summer flower, While chimes the bell from far Tortosa's tower, And dulcimer and lute unite to say, "Rejoice! Rejoice! It is their wedding day!" JoFFROY {dazzled) : Can this life hold this perfect happiness? Melissinde: How do you find the far away Princess? Joffroy: I look at her, all dazzled ! Every prayer . . . Every least wish, come true! Her shining hair Escapes its bonds, bright waves that float and cling! My last sun laughs, reflected in her ring! O slender throat, trembling 'neath gems the while ! O unknown, well-known magic of her smile! Her voice, the tumult of a hidden spring, Fresh water after weary wandering! Her eyes, whose gaze I came so far to win, So deep they are that I am drowned therein! Melissinde {putting her ring on his finger) : See, on your hand my ring of amethyst, — Fit emblem of our mournful, happy tryst. {Putting her necklace about his throat.) And on thy neck, my collar with its blason. {Loosing all her hair around him.) And here, love, is my hair, O thou new Jason, The Golden Fleece you sought, at such a price Of struggle, anguish, sighs and sacrifice! Pilgrim of love, who sang in far off lands. Here are the hands you praised. Hold thou my hands! And since such tones thy dreams perchance would lend her. Hark to thy Lady's voice, submissive, tender! . . . Joffroy: You fear my eyes, their glassy, dull disguise? Melissinde: Here are my lips, dear love, upon your eyes. Joffroy: My lips affright you, parched by fever's drought? IMelissinde: And now, here is my mouth upon your mouth. {Silence.) Joffroy {calling): Bertrand! 136 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND (As Bertrand draws near; to Melissinde, indicating the Mariners who surround Bertrand) : I made these friends, these mariners, a vow, — I'd tell thee of their hearts towards me. {Too weak to continue, he signs to Bertrand.) Speak thou! Bertrand: Couldst thou but know these men, uncouth and wild, See 'neath their tan, the spirit of a child! Ah, love these simple conquerors of the ocean. Who won the Prince his dream by sheer devotion! They are like blossoms on rude thistles borne, — An azure heart bestead with many a thorn. Melissinde : 1 smile on them . . . JoFFROY : I quake with cold ! Melissinde : Joffroy, You are in my arms, held close . . . Joffroy : No chills annoy ! . . . By mortal agony I am oppressed ! Are you there? Melissinde: You are cradled on my breast, Soft, like a little child! Joffroy: I am not afraid. Melissinde: Dream of our love; its holy height displayed Above all love; the glory we command; That I am here; that I am Melissinde. Tell me again you love me, and how far! Joffroy: I die! Melissinde: My pearls, above you, like a star! Joffroy: Your heavenly throat! Oh, darkness! Dizziness! I see naught . . . and I go . . . Melissinde: Cling to my dress. Hold fast! My tresses all about you flow! Joffroy: Your hair! Ah, still your hair! I'll not let go! Its fragrance wraps me round. . . . Melissinde {to Fra Trophimus) : Good Priest, Alas! Ought 30U, alone, to watch his spirit pass? THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 137 Fra Trophimus: No, Lady. Love is holy. 'Tis God's road. Who dies for love dies in the grace of God. Melissinde: Joffroy Rudel, our love knew heavenly things. Our meeting souls have touched each other's wings! Joffroy: Your cope, bedecked with gold and many a stone, I wish to touch it! . . . Icy to the bone, My fingers feel not jewel nor orfray; My hands are dead already. . . . Fra Trophimus: Let us pray! {Everybody gathers around him.) Melissinde (dolorously): Ho! Fra Trophimus: Profiscere an'ima . . . {The prayer is heard in quiet murmurs.) Joffroy: I am dying! Melissinde: Harp, softly sing and soothe his spirit's sighing. (Soft music.) Joffroy: Speak, for your voice is music, and to prove you Are near. Dying, I have my dream. Melissinde {her arms about him) : I love you. Fra Trophimus: Deus clemens . . . {Murmurs of the prayers and soft whisperings of the harps.) Joffroy: Speak on, lest I should hear The stealthy step . . . the step that draws so near . . . Speak on, and I will die and never flinch. Fra Trophimus: Libera, Domine . . . {Murmur of harps.) Melissinde : Among my terebinths. Dear love, at twilight, dreaming, — it was you My spirit yearned for. Mid my blossoms blue At morning, seated 'neath my myrtle tree, *Twas you to whom I whispered silently. Joffroy: Speak! Speak! Fra Trophimus: Ex omjiibus periculis . . . Melissinde: Tall lilies led me where my garden is, — And when one bent, it seemed to me a sign 138 PLAYS OF EDMUND ROSTAND That I could trust that confidant divine, ... That love so royal need not be dissembled To my pure lilies who bent low and trembled ! Joffroy: Speak, for your voice is music ! "Bent above you" . . . Speak on. . . . JVIelissinde: I told my lilies that I love you. Joffroy: I go. My Dream was truth. I found my Star. Grace, Lord of life! Grace, Melissinde! . . . There are So many whom the froward fates betray, ... Who never find their Princess far away! Melissinde {cradling him in her arms) : How many see too closely and too long, — Die disenchanted, — a more cruel wrong! Better to part when hearts are fresh and fond Than see it fade, — the freshness of the bond. And my embrace has strangeness in its sweetness ; — The Stranger with the Sister, there's completeness! We two will never know a graying glory ; The Adored will never be an oft told story. Still, still afar, who could from far adore, When thy eyes close to open nevermore Thou'lt see me always, wrapt in light sublime, For the first time, — forever the first time! Joffroy: Hail and farewell, Princess, my one desire! Fra Trophimus: Libera, Domine . . . Melissinde {standing, lifts him up in her arms, toward the glory that shines upon the sea with the crimson and purple of the setting sun) : The heavens are on fire! Poet and Prince, right fitting is thy death; Upheld by her you loved with your last breath ; In love, in grace, in majesty, my Prince, Thou diest, blest of God! Thou nccdst not wince At wax and phials, symbols sinister. Nay! Thou hast flowers and strains of dulcimer THE PRINCESS FAR AWAY 139 To sweeten death, and speed tliy spirit free While the sun sinks in splendour on the sea! (JoiFROY RuDEL is dead. His head sinks on his breast. Gently she lays him down. Fra Trophimus comes for- ward. ) Melissinde: Close not his eyes. He sees me in his sleep. SoRiSMONDE {affrighted) : He holds thy hair. ... He keeps it! Melissinde : And shall keep ! {With a dagger drawn from the dead man's girdle, she cuts off her long, shining locks and Rudel's hands fall back and gather it about him.) Bertrand: It is too much! Melissinde {without turning toward him) : Who speaks thus? Bertrand : 'Tis too much ! Melissinde: You, Bertrand? All we owe! Naught must we clutch ! W^arp with the weaving, I abjure the whole! My soul at last has served another's soul And I am different. What I would reject, What hold, attest this single deed's effect! Love's roses, dreams' white lilies, all are less Than the soul's springtime, self-forgetfulness! And lest this springtime fail in summer's heat. Mount Carmel's path shall know my climbing feet! Bertrand: Alas! Melissinde {to the Mariners) : Your task, O Sailors, is achieved. Your rags, your hunger, swift must be relieved ! You must have raiment, bread! O, take ye them! {She tears handsful of jeicels from her mantle.) Take rubies, sapphires, beryl, every gem ! See, I tear off these jewels, heavy, vain ! — Gather them ! Not in payment for your pain, Ah, ye can take them, friends! I shall repay Your love with love. There is no other way! And here is chrysolite; here, opals shine! 140 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND My heart is there, among these gems of mine! A snow of pearls! A rain of diamonds bright! — Ah! Now my mantle is divinely light! Bertrand: And I? What shall I do? Melissinde : With these men, go Fight for the Cross! All the Mariners: For the Cross! Onward! Ho! The Master: To-morrow, we will burn on yonder reef Our glorious ship. Trobaldo {pointing to Bertrand) : And follow this our Chief! Bertrand: Upon the Sepulchre we'll pluck our Palm. Melissinde {going back toward her galley) : God guard you! Weep not! Peace shall be my balm. I have learned at last why life to souls is given . . . Fra Trophimus {kneeling by the body of Joffroy) : Yes, true love's travail does the work of heaven. {Curtain) THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA An Evangel in Three Parts In Verse THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA LIST OF CHARACTERS Jesus. Photine, The Three Spectres. Peter. John. James. Andrew. Nathaniel. Bartholomew. Judas, AZRIEL. The Centurion. The Priest. A Shepherd, A Merchant. Another. The Keeper of the Gate. Young Men. The Ancients. Young Girls. Women. Courtesans. Children. Disciples, Roman Soldiers, Merchants, Artisans. All the Samaritan People. FIRST PART Jacob's Well At the intersection of two highways which go, the one toward Mesopotamia, the other toward the Great Sea, Jacob's Well, not far from the town of Sichem in Samaria. A huge, oblong well. A low curb on which one may sit. A half-ruinous vault of stone still makes an arch over this well, A rude well-sweep, with a cord by which water pots are low' ered and raised. A huge wild fig tree spreads its branches above it. There is also one of those olive trees whose leaves are more silvery in Samaria than anywhere else. Farther away, there are pine trees and the slim outlines of cypress trees. At the back is a dust-besprinkled, grassy slope where the roads fork. A crooked footpath leads downward to the well, and behind the slope of the hill, the valley of Sichem is blue. Mount Ebal and Mount Gerizim bound the horizon. Gerizim lifts toward heaven the ruins of a temple. In the gap that divides the mountains , Sichem shows the square outlines of its houses. Such will be the scene, when day breaks. But when the cur- tain rises, it is night. Beautiful, clear darkness. Stars. Near the well, in the black darkness of the vaulted arch, a vast phantom, with the white beard of a centenarian, leans, whitely, on a staff. A second phantom as huge, as white, stands motionless on a step. A third, like the other two, with the same white beard, the same shepherd's staff, advances mysteriously. 145 146 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND SCENE I The Phantoms First Shade (gliding toward the well) : Borne upon the night wind's swell, Vagabond till dawn of day, What strange power do I obey, — , Ghost that can a ghost impell ? I come, I glimmer, and away. Noiselessly my sandals fell. . . . Great I AM to Whom I pray, Who is this so ghostly gray, Standing silent at the well? Second Shade (to the first) : White beard, in this night of dread. Wanderer from the shores of hell, Where a moonless sky guards well Meadows that know no lily bell, — Art thou a spectre? First Shade: Thou hast said! Second Shade: My son, thy voice, — I know it well. First Shade: Another shadow by those stones Spectral and white, I dimly see. Immobile phantom, hearest thou me? Third Shadow: Father, I know my father's tones. Second Shade: The younger son I love so well, Surely I know that voice, O hark! Third Shadow: Beloved Father. First Shade: Patriarch! Third Shade: Abraham! Second Shade: Isaac! First Shade: Israel! Jacob: By what sublime command Do our dead feet now firmly stand On the good earth once more? N THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 147 Isaac: Some mighty thing is planned. An angel, darkly winged and grand, Loosed with an all-compelling hand Pale Sheol's door. Jacob {to Abraham) : What newer hope is born? Speak, thou, who late hast trod Mamre's star-guarded plain. Have messengers again To thy wise age made plain Plans of Almighty God ? Abraham {to Isaac) : Why do you kiss the dust That lies along the way? Isaac: I kneel because I must. Strange dreams my spirit sway. Abraham {to Jacob) : You kiss the rocky rim Your own hands placed of yore. Jacob: A Presence, wondrous, dim. Compels me to adore. You breathe the very air As 'twere a holy thing. Abraham : I meet, — and kiss it there, — The Voice that makes it ring. Isaac: A Voice, thou sayest, sire? Abraham: He comes, — the world's Desire. Believe the token. This night on Sheol's shore, I passed his couch before, And he who speaks no more, Moses — has spoken. Jacob {prostrating himself, with Isaac) : Softly our hearts sing psalms. Abraham: Ere o'er the sun-gilt palms, Again the night hangs blue, Sichem, will come to you Sighs sweeter than all balms, 148 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Gifts beyond royal alms, The power that stirred death's calms Declares it true. Jacob (to Isaac) : My Father, can it be Of all wells built by hands, This that I built in days of dearth Obtains of God this awful worth, — That by its brink He stands? Isaac: Rejoice, rejoice with holy mirth, Son, to whose happy lot it fell To build salvation's hallowed well Where future ages come to draw. Hither will thirsting thousands crowd. Thy sire and grandsire may be proud. A robe of glory is thy shroud Whose like man never saw. {The stage is full of Phantoms.) Jacob: Look now what hosts arise And hither come to draw. Broken its builder's pitcher lies. And yet I see, in wistful guise. Drawn by some wondrous law, Greater than death can be, Throngs kiss its stones with awe! Marvel without a flaw. The grave has set its prisoners free: Joseph and Joshua, O see. Abraham : Shadows who fill the misty way. Kneel, ghostly ranks, kneel, kneel and pray. Here at the Fount of Love! (A light dawns in the east) The day star now begins to burn And shades to shadow must return. When glows that light above. Jacob: Soon of our shadows will remain Less than a cloud bereft of rain. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 149 Less than a waking dream, Three floating beards, three wreaths of mist, Dew-silver by the sunbeams kissed, A vanished whiff of steam, Isaac: A crowd comes from afar. Samaritans these are. Weighted, yet driven, by fears. Abraham : Ages have looked in woe on them, Samaritans who through the years Tell still at dawn beneath these trees The gnawing hate that knows no ease Against Jerusalem. Jacob: Soft, let us disappear! ... But witness, earth and skies, Land full of mysteries, Heaven with thy myriad eyes, Hills, He is near. Winds, hold your breath to hear. Well, gush His draught to bear. Skies, whose wise stars must know, Searching my well below, Who draws so near its rim; Breezes that lightly skim Paths whose young pine trees slim Bend where His feet will tread, — Ye saw the waiting Dead. Now, living men instead Wait upon Him. SCENE n The Priest, Azriel, Young Men, Old Men. Merchants, etc. They come slowly, like a mourning train, and, stopping at the Well, they lament. A Man : Here is the well, the step, the curb, that mark The labor of the hallowed patriarch, 150 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The son of Isaac and of Abraham, Whose work was honored of the Great I AM. Another: Sadness of Leah, — these flowers breathe of it. Another: In this dear dust did Rachael's shadow flit. Another: This mountain bore God's ark upon its crest, The while its bearers, breathless, stopped to rest. Another: Caught in this thicket was the very ram The angel showed to Father Abraham. Another: This incense-laden breeze, this sweet perfume. Comes from the flowers that grow at Joseph's tomb. An Old Man : Here Joshua and the Tribes set up their stones. Another Old Man : That scent of immortelles our history owns. A Young Man : The sun is golden with our glories here. The Priest : So, day by day and patient year on year, Samaritans and men of Sichem, still Hither we come to mourn our country's ill. A Man {turning toward the ruins that crown Gerizim; all, fol- lowing his example, prostrate themselves) '. Gerizim's temple, whose destruction dire Filled Zion's courts with satisfied desire, Still to their hatred are its stones misprized! Another: Always they see in us a sect despised. Another: To the true faith, say they with malice grim, We hold false doctrines, strange to Elohim, — Idols grotesque, and doctrines full of lies Soukkoth-Benoth, . . . Another: And Zeboub, god of flies. First Old Man; Liars! 'tis we alone who keep the faith. Second Old Man : We guard the very word, as Moses saith, True pentateuch, confined in faithful brass. The Priest: Upon the threshold that no man may pass, Writ upon sheepskin, faithful to the least Pen stroke, by Abischouah . . . First Old Man: Son of the high priest . . . He, son of Aaron. . . . THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 151 Second Old Man: Moses' very brother. A Young Man: Why are we, then, despised below all other? Another: Burdened and hounded by the public scorn, Hated beyond the veriest reptile born. The Priest: In a mean hovel we must house our cult. First Old Man : Romans oppress us, and the Jews insult. A Max : The Pharisee his cleansing bowl demands If, on his walks, our wild Howers brush his hands. Another: A ceremonial bath his body frees From the polluting shadow of our trees. A Young Man: 'Tis past endurance! Another: Added to this thing Is the foul shadow of the Eagle's wing. Another: Let us revolt. A Man: Ah, cultivate our vines! First Old Man {to the speaker) : While shame our very nation undermines? The Man: Well, . . . First Old Man: Does your spirit not rebel or shrink? The Man : I try to drown my troubles ... First Old Man : Yes, in drink. The Man : Why has Mount Ebal on its noble slopes So many vines, if not to feed man's hopes And drown his cares? I am like Father Noah. The pagans taught me how to shout "Evo ha!" AzRiEL {who Ufiiil this moment has rr/naincd silent and dreamy) : He's right. To strive is vain. First Old Man: Ah, no, not vain, But difficult. Far sweeter, it is plain, To lie in perfumed, supple arms. My son, By noble anger human rights are won. To seek Photine, bewitched by all the tricks That won five other fools! Azriel: Then count me six. I love her, yes, — and what remains but love? 152 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Endless and hopeless all our struggles prove. If one true leader come, — here is my sword; Meantime {indicating the drunkard) our drowsy friend has given the word. He finds forgetfulness in sleepy wine; A subtler draught of lips and eyes is mine. First Old Man : Always we meet and always 'tis the same. None has a plan. A Merchant: Aye, but I have a game; Flatter the Romans; gain them bit by bit, — And then the Jews. Try if that coat will fit. A Man {violently thrusting himself forward out of the crowd) : You fear disorder. War's an ugly word. It ruins trade. You love the Roman's sword; It guards the dirty gold upon your tray. What though its flat about your shoulders play! The Merchant: Oh, come . . . The Man: Enough, I cry, revolt, without delay! Judas the Gaulonite has led the way. Pay no more taxes, render tithes no more, — Salt, anise cumin, — all the silly store. The Priest: Thief and blasphemer! rioting for gain! . . . You and your pack, get you to heel again ! This is my plan ; bring gold and still more gold, Rebuild our temple as it was of old. To our long history add this splendid page. The Jews would storm, Caiaphas die of rage. We were avenged if on Gerizim's height The feast of Purim once were held aright. Rebuild tiie temple, friends. Greatest and least Can join in this and choose a great High Priest. Let golden stars above Gerizim's height In hammered sihcr domes reflect their light. The Merchant: 'Neath that soft paw a glimpse of claws I caught. IVhat priest will set Caiaphas so at naught? THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 153 You want to wear the ephod, fold on fold, The broidered purple heavy with its gold, Pomegranates swaying 'twixt the golden bells, The people pay, — if he the people sells. The Priest: Silence, vile huckster! To your counter! Go! The Man {icho zvas talking to the merchant) : Angry, because you dealt so true a blow; You read his heart. The Priest: Bravo, I read your own. The Man: Hypocrite! The Priest: Thief! First Old Man (turninff his face away) : My very soul makes moan. Azriel: 'Tis as I said. Where is there room for hope? Blind with self-seeking, in the dark they grope. Ashes like these have cooled my heart's young fire. 'Tis done. The country's dead. A Voice (from the crowd) : And the Messiah? All: What . . . what is that? A Shepherd {advancing): I said . . . "And the Messiah?" The Priest: Ah, well . . . The Shepherd: You think He's coming? . . . What a silence fell. The Priest {smiling) : Why, 5'es . . . The Shepherd: What say the prophets of our land's Desire? The Priest: Oh, surely, He will come, this great Messiah. First He will tell the prophets and their sons. And we'll prepare you. {Aside, to the priests about him.) Oh, the simple ones! Through all the ages, some are hoping still. The Shepherd: When will He come? The Priest: Why, surely, . . . When He will. The Shepherd: Vague promises that mean . . . not anything! Now, what like will He be? A Young Man : A warrior. The Prifst: . . . Priest. 154 PLJYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND First Old Man: He'll ride upon the clouds . . . Another Young Man: Some fabled beast. Another: There'll be two Christs. Another: One. Diverse Voices: Two! . . . But one, I claim! A Man : Christ has already come. Many Voices: What is His name? A Young Man : Judas the Gaulonite. Another: No, surely. John! The Priest: Christ will be strong and joyous! An Old Man : Weak and wan ! A Young Man : He will come if . . . The Merchant: 'Tis false. He will come, but . . . The Shepherd [{While he speaks, on the footpath, at the top of the hill, Jesus appears with his Disciples) :] You don't believe in Christ. There's just a rut Where, in your minds, you roll the old dispute. I speak his name. You quarrel or are mute. I tell you, He is coming. Learned minds See not. The heart sees. What it seeks, it finds. What will He be? I know not. That is dim. I care not. He will be what pleases Him. By what right do you speak, who gather here To preach what interest bids you hope or fear? We seek surcease of bitter suffering. What idle crumbs of comfort do ye fling? He comes, I tell you. Oh, Samaritans, The shepherd knows the skies he nightly scans, He comes, — to breathe on you His breath of wrath And make you less than stubble in His path. — Your empt)' boasting, and your lusty greed. His feet are on the threshold. At our need, — Our bitter need — He comes. And watching so. What need have we of signs. His own will know. The Prikst: How, then? THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 155 The Shepherd: A word ... a gesture. Who can say? Jesus {above on the hill, pointing to Sichem) : Sir, is this Sichem? The Shepherd {turning) : Stranger, go thy way! SCENE III The Same, Jesus and His Disciples The Priest: Jews! They are Jews! All {shouting): Infidels! Let's give chase! The Priest: Ignore them. The Merchant: With disdain let's give them place. Azriel: I shall remain. A Young Man: Why? Azriel: She is coming here. To fill her water pot. The Young Man : Come, man, and make it clear Not one will stay. Another: Let's take him. Peter {to the Samaritans, as they withdraw): What, you go Without an answer? Andrew: We are hungry. A Samaritan: So? Find berries in the briers. The Drunkard: If prices bar, No Jew should trade in Sichem. Peter {insultingly) : In Sichar. An Old Man: My city, how that name dishonors thee! A Young Man: Take heed, you boasters, lest some day you see Your ancient temple full of rotting bones. Peter {angrily) : Oh . . . The Priest {restraining the youth) : Leave them alone. A Samaritan : God hates its very stones. 156 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Peter: Thou Hest. (Calling after them.) There is but one. The Voice of a Samaritan {from afar) : And that one, ours. SCENE IV Jesus and His Disciples Peter (coming down): Curses upon this land; till plague de- vours What grasshoppers refuse to eat thereof! James (the same) : Their crops be killed with hailstones from above, And maggots at their roots, by heaven sent! Andrew (the same) : Their wives be barren, young men impotent. O may they know all hunger and all thirst. May enemies invade them as at first. Where Sichar stands, let reeking ruins be! Peter: Never again beneath an almond tree Let one of them lie mumbling and at ease. Curse rocks and fields and houses, crops and trees! Curse all my eyes behold ! Curse this whole area ! Curse root and stock and branch! Jesus: God bless Samaria. [He comes down.] Peter: What, Rabbi? But your rules for us began, "Go not to gentiles nor Samaritan, But to the wandering sheep of Israel." Andrew: You hate these heathen. Jesus: Nay, I love them well. Peter: But your words, Rabbi, — telling us to win Israel's lost sheep? Jesus: I bade you to begin With those, your brethren. For I know your heart. Not finding room for all, I gave you part. If I had said, "Ivovc all my Father's sons," Ye too had been offended, little ones. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 157 Ye groped, aye, bravely, on your shadowed way. I might have blinded you with sudden day. And could I feed your weakness on My wine, So new, so strong? Nay, children, ye are mine, But light must filter in, and I must spare To give too much at first. Hut now, I dare. Andrew: What, not to be a Jew, and yet to be . . . Jesus: Elisha healed the Syrian's leprosy. Peter: We've got to love them? Can it ever be? Jesus: You will love all men, having first loved Me. Peter: What is it you ask? Jesus: Perfection, Simon! Oh, It is no easy road on which 3'e go. I bid you love your neighbors, Peter: If we can. Who is my neighbor, Lord ? Jesus: A certain man Went from Jerusalem to Jericho. Robbers waylaid him, stripped his raiment off, Wounded, and left him so. The echoes seemed to scoff. He lay, half dead. His wounds gaped sore and wide. A priest came by. Seeing the ground so red, He chose the other side. A Levite came. He saw the dimming eye. He, too, passed by. By the same road, came a Samaritan, He saw the man : Filled with compassion, hastened to his side; Poured oil and wine to stanch the wound so wide; Lifted him gently, set him on his beast. And let him ride, And lest his mule should stumble in the least, He walked beside. 158 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND He brought him to an inn, put him to bed, And when the dawn was red, Said to the good man there, "Let him have every care When I go hence. Here are two pence. And what thou spendest more, will I repay." And so this — heathen — went upon his way. Which, think you, of these three, Look in your hearts and see, — Was, in God's sight A neighbor to this man, — The priest, the Levite, The Samaritan? Peter: But, . . . Jesus : Have ye understood ? James: Yes, Lord. John {to Jesus^ leading him to the well-curb) : Come, rest. The way was long and rough. Andrew : And sore oppressed, They say, with robbers bands. They keep the pass; One, — I forget his name, — Jesus {gently) : 'Tis Barabbas. John {kneeling beside him) : You stopped yourself to ask that man the way. When you were telling us, — speak on, we pray, — The parable of him who sowed the grain. Jesus {smiling) : What must I tell you? John : None of it was plain. Jesus: I sow the seed. Peter {sitting at His feet) : The field . . . Jesus: Is everywhere. Andrew {seating himself as close to His feet as he can) : The crop? Jesus: My cliildren make the harvest fair. James: {the same): The other grain . . .? THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 159 Jesus: The wicked one has sown, And while ye sleep, among you it is strown. Bartholomew: The harvesters . . . ? Jesus: The angels, O my sheaves, AVill fill my Father's storehouse to the eaves. Peter: I'll guard my field! Oh, 1 will never sleep! Jesus: Thou wilt sleep, Simon. But this lesson keep Well in your hearts; the husbandman forbears To weed his iield in haste, lest, gathering tares. He kill the wheat, as oft the foolisli do. At harvest time he separates the two. Nathaniel {witli melancholy fervor) : How good wheat smells, fresh taken from the mill ! I'm hungry. Jesus: Ask of heaven what you will. That cloud could drop down manna honey-sweet. Peter: You believe that? Jesus: Ask, Cephas. Peter : At my feet ? . . . Jesus: Yes. Peter: Manna for us? Jesus : As fresh as dew in May. Peter: But . . . Jesus : Pray. Peter: Still . . . Jesus: Pray . . . Peter: I . . . Jesus: Pray. Peter (without conviction) : Kind Heaven, rain, from out they vast blue dome The Hebrew's ancient food. (After an interval) It doesn't come. Jesus: Because you prayed and doubted. That is death, The life of every prayer is only faith Speak to its massy rock undoubtingly And Mount Gerizim marches to the sea. 160 PLJYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Go, ye of little faith, and buy your bread. I will read here a book no eye hath read. Go, James, Nathanasl, Peter, Judas, John . . . {They go off.) Jesus (to Peter, who lingers, altogether discomfited) : Simon, the angels who today look on, Will feed your hunger with their wide-spread wings, Assuage your thirst with harps of myriad strings. By winds and harmonies the soul is fed, — But now, beloved, go, . . . and buy your bread. {The Disciples go off, some toward the town, others toward the field. Jesus is left alone.) Jesus: I am weary. Yes, but therefore was I born. My hands are torn by many a wayside thorn ; , My feet are blistered by the rocks they pressed, But from my bruised body is exprest Some wine of healing, as from trodden grapes. In the winepress poured, the purple juice escapes. From willing weariness some help will flow To these, my brethren, While I walk below, Each pang I bear has some result divine. And I, O Father, conquer by this sign. Now that I almost faint from weariness, Thy love will send some token of success . . . Straight fall the sunbeams. 'Tis the bright sixth hour. A flute-like voice drifts like a breeze-tossed flower. A woman comes from Sichem. Past the turn. Hither she comes to draw. . . . The sun's rays burn. {He has sat down again on the well-curb.) So near she is that I can see her plain. The silken girdle and the golden chain. The veil enshadows, but hides not her grace, — My Father's gift to all the Hebrew race. I hear her silvern anklets softly ring. Jacob, thy daughters, coming to this spring. Always, advancing with unhurried tread. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 161 Poising the jar on nobly lifted head, Come, with grave smiles and half mysterious air; Conforming to the graceful urns they bear, Their bodies, slender vases; handle-wise Their curved arms lifted to the brooding skies, {At this moment, the Samaritan Woman appears at the top of the hill, on the footpath.) Immortal splendour of this gesture free! Always it seems most beautiful to Me, This gesture every Hebrew woman learns, Bearing to wayside wells the heavy urns, For with that very gesture, — Ah, I know, — A Hebrew maid came, thirty years ago, The little, gentle handmaid of the Lord, As yet untroubled by the wondrous word That Gabriel bore her, in the Almighty's name. So with her cruise my lovely Mother came. This woman is a sinner. Carelessly, — — A vase that knows not the divinity Her bare arms raised to Heaven yet dimly proves, — She sings, while dreaming of unworthy loves. SCENE V Jesus; Photine Photine {coming down the footpath) : O take ye the foxes that ravage the vines . . . This love is a weight on the heart. Bring me grapes, O my love . . . We will perish, aparl All gifts are my true lover's signs. Oh, take ye the foxes that ravage the vines. At my lattice at eve he has spoken to me; "Arise up, my fair one, and come, O my love. The winter is past, clouds are lost in the sea; 'Tis the time, 'tis the time of the dove. 162 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Then come, O my dear, to the meadows with me And there I will show you a dove. A fig tree drops sweetness and all is for thee. Arise, O my fair one, my love. The winter is past, clouds are drowned in the sea." Jesus: A soul light as a wreath that withereth. Photine {She has reached the well, and, without seeing Jesus, she fastens the amphora to the windlass and slowly lets. it down) : / slept. But sometimes when I sleep My heart awakes with every breath. "Open, my soul, my flower, I keep Vigil for thee," my lover saith. Oh, but I spake forbiddingly, — Dear, well-known voice! — "Who makes such dinf My robe's cast off. It cannot be. Naked I cannot let you in." My feet are bathed with mountain snow, My feet are laved with perfumes sweet. How can I come to open so, — The black, black stone! My white, white feet! How, — But I opened wide the door. Against his might I am so weak! Gone, — gone! I cannot find him more. Nightlong for my lost love I seek. ('Gainst the locked door, in fierce despair My hands brat, dropping doivn their myrrh.) I weep in my wild, roughened hair, And tear the lips that dared demur. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 163 Jesus: Not for a moment has she turned to Me. Photine : Like a roe, like a hart, icill my love ever flee? Jesus: Slowly the heavy jar begins to rise. Photine ( Turning the heavy ivooJen ivindlass that draws up the rope) : My well beloved — afar I roved — ivhen daun ivas clear, A-seeking thee. Thou earnest to me. And daylight dies. Yet in this night — a magic light — my need supplies. I hold thee here. Here in my eyes. Balsam and myrrh my senses stir. Lo, 'tis thy sighs. Thy name, my lord, as ointment poured, is sweet to me; Thy lightest word with honey stored, my almond tree. And thy clear eyes Hold heaven for me. Like lute unstrung, like fruit wind-flung, my heart lies low, Loiu at thy feet. Ah, lift it, sweet! and let me rest. Spikenard and balm my bosom calm, so light you pressed. Ah, be a signet On my breast! Jesus: The water jar is looking glass for her. Photine: Like a signet of brass, like a bundle of myrrh. Jesus: In the cool water, empty smiles she flashes, Admires the dye upon her sweeping lashes, Looks at her nails whereon a few drops fell, — And the world's Saviour waits beside the well ! (Photine lifts her water jar and moves away) She is going — type of poor humanity That almost finds the Way, but heedlessly Chooses the by-path. (Photine goes up the footpath, humming her broken song.) If I make no sign, She too will go away. Yet all are mine — 164 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND (Photine is nearly out of sight.) O Woman, — I am athirst. The sun is very hot! Give me to drink, I pray. Photixe : The Jews deal not, — He is a Jew, this thirsty, wayworn man, — With Sichemite or with Samaritan. Little or large, all dealings they decline. Our bread, they say, smells of the flesh of swine. Honey from Sichem hives the Jews refuse; They say it tastes of blood. My dripping cruise Came from Samaria's tainted well but now. A heathen bears it on her unclean brow. You should refuse it, finding it to stink. Instead of asking for . . . Jesus : Give Me to drink ! Photine: Has your great thirst your teaching so refuted? Know, Jew, that you would be the less polluted Handling foul vermin, reptiles poisonous, Than being succoured so by one of us. (fVith quarrelsome volubility.) Stay till tomorrow. Either sit or stand. I'll not let down my pitcher to my hand. 'Tis on my shoulder. There it will remain. Ho, Eleazar, lacking gifts and train! I'm not Rebecca, as you seem to think. Be thirsty if you will. You shall not drink. {Coming back a little way.) You see this water, — clear, so pure, so clear. The cruise seems empty, though I filled it here. So cool one sees the moisture on the cruise; Silver and pearl this draught — which I refuse. O Beggar, hear the thirst-provoking sound. The tinkle, tinkle, in its depths profound, — Light as a draught distilled of summer air! No water is so cool, so clear, so fair. Ah, well, for you, the Law, be very sure, Says that this purest water is Impure! THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 165 Jesus: Woman . . . Photine: I'd rather pour it on the sod Than give . . . Jesus: If you but knew the gift of God, And Who brings h'ght when in the dark you shrink — And Who He is that says Give me to drink; Who sitteth here upon the well's wide rim, He would not ask of thee, but thou of Him. Photine : You speak in riddles just to make me heed. Jesus : I would give living waters to thy need. Photine: Stranger, I listen, for I have no choice, Some Influence masters me, — your eyes, your voice. You speak of living waters. Yet you keep Nothing to draw with, and the well is deep. Whence hast thou then that water, wondrous Jew? — It must be false and yet I think it true, — Is there, in all the sources of Judea, Water as limpid as this water here? People an hour away come here to draw. Our father Jacob built it, when he saw The land athirst. Here drank his mighty sons, Their wives, their servants, and their little ones. Most famous of all famous springs and wells. What is it this mysterious stranger tells? Here Jacob's cattle ages since were fed, Art greater then than Jacob? Jesus: Thou has said. Photine: In your cupped hands a little I will pour Then you will see . . . Jesus : He thirsteth nevermore Whom I have given to drink. With how much pain You come to draw again and yet again. But whoso drinks the living draught I give Within himself shall welling fountains live, And life eternal from those waters brim. If he but drink the draught I bring to him. 166 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Photine: What! For eternity to have no thirst? A good thing to believe, — if one but durst. Elijah's draught lasted a wondrous while When he was in the desert. Ah, you smile? Some learning to this woman you must grant, — He went for forty days and did not want. You've learned his secret in your wandering? O Master, lead me to that hidden spring. Show me this wonder that your wanderings saw, That I thirst not, nor hither come to draw. Jesus : Hearing, thou hearest not, nor givest heed To any thirst but that of fleshly need. Photine: Give me this water. Stranger, I implore, — This living water, that I thirst no more. Jesus: Go, call thy husband and return to Me. Photine: My husband? Jesus: Go. Photine: But I . . . but I Jesus: I see, Thou art ashamed. Photine: I have no husband. Jesus : Verily, Thou saidest truly. Five men by that name Were called, and thou wouldst call this sixth the same. Photine: Master . . . Jesus : Thou saidest truly, yea, and well. Thou hast no husband, it is truth you tell. That holy name thou hast no right to speak. Photine: Master. Jesus : Five men have had thee. Didst thou seek God's blessing, or the blessing of God's priest? Troops of young friends and wholesome marriage feast? Torches? . . . Photine: O Master. Ji'SUs: Merry dulcimer, Jests gay and tender ; tremblings sweet, to stir Thf myrtle crown set on thy drooping head? . . . THE JVOMAN OF SAMARIA 107 Photine: Lord, Lord! a proplict surely, who hast read . . . Jesus: Tiiou callest Me prophet since I know thy heart. It is but part, and such a little part, If thou wilt learn, of things that I can show. Photine: O Master, canst thou tell? . . . Jesus: What wouldst thou know? Photine: 'Tis this: You Jews our whole religion spurn Because we worship here, and yet wc learn That your forefathers, — who are also ours, — Worshipped here only. Have the heavenly powers So changed? The priests and doctors understand. Wc common folk, beset on cither hand, Wishing to kneel upon the holy mount. Are told of two, that two high priests account Holy, — yet each declares there is but one, Ancient and chosen of God, beneath the sun. "Pray on this mountain." "No, pray on the other," And so, we climb not neither one nor t'other. . . . So, always in the valley I have trod. . . . And . . . plucking flowers there ... I forgot my God. Jesus: Be of good comfort, for the hour is nigh When all will worship God, both low and high, Not at Gerizim, or Jerusalem. In little Sichem, little Bethlehem, Wherever any humble soul finds space To speak to God. He dwells not in one place. God is a Spirit. They who worship Him Will never reach Him at the horizon's rim. The Spirit goes where never foot has trod. Nowhere, and Everywhere, man finds his God. Photine: I have lived far from God. I can receive Only a little, but I do believe Three things: the dead will some day come again; Angels \ya\c visited this mortal plain. And — fairest, surest hope beneath the sun, — I wait the coming of the Promised One, Await and love Him, L'Ha-Schaab, Christ, Messiah! 168 PLAYS OF EDMOND RO STAND Jesus {lifting His eyes to heaven) : The humblest, always! At my deep desire! I thank Thee, Father! {To Photine.) What thinkst thou of Christ? Photine: That He will come. Jesus: And then? Photine : Why that sufficed. He is coming. Jesus: Coming . . . j'es. . . . What will He bring? Photine: I think He comes to teach us everything. Jesus: Hear her, O Father! Woman, have no fear. Thou sayest the words that I have longed to hear. Lift up thy head. Behold thy soul's Desire. I — I that speak — am He. I am Messiah. Photine (starts back, then, stammering, sinks to her knees) : Thou! . . . I . . . Ha-Schaab! . . . Messiah! . . . Emanuel ! Jesus: Jesus. Photine {on her knees) : Thou well-beloved. Jesus {icatching her) : A hush of silence fell. Photine {sings suddenly) : My well-beloved, long, long I roved, when dawn was clear, A-seeking Thee. Thou came to vie. The old day dies. Into my night, a magic Light my need supplies. I have Thee here. Before tny eyes. Balsam and myrrh my spirit stir. Lo, 'tis Thy sighs. Thy name, my Lord, as ointment poured, is balm to me. Thy gentle word with perfume stored. Thou Myrtle tree. Thy clear eyes Open Heaven for me. My heart lies low; THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 169 My God, what have I done? For Him the same song, Oh, the very one! Oh, sacrilege! The idle words and free! Jesus: All words of love must speak at last of Me. One must to Me the halting words address To know the fullness of their tenderness. Photine: Master, adoring, I could but repeat The words I knew. . . . Jesus: I know. The gift was sweet. I have received it. Photine: Oh, the old words came With this new Love! Oh, shame! Jesus: Nay, feel no shame. The love of Me comes always to a heart Where lesser, human loves have had a part. In the old lamp, a newer light discloses. Makes fadeless garlands from life's fading roses: Lo, I make all things new. Let none retard Breaking the box of aloes or of narl. The merchant sold it for its savour sweet, But penitents expend it at my feet. My feet are rested, where this gift is spread, Wiped with the tresses of an humbled head. Think not thy song is shameful in My eyes. The soul that finds Me, in its first surprise, Knows not its new song, though it stirs within. Trembling, confused, rejoiced, it must begin Some fragment of the song it learned elsewhere, And, lo! the love-song has become a prayer! Photine: "Who drinks the living water that I give Shall never thirst." I thirst no more ! I live, . . . I'd weep upon Thy hands. Ah, thought, too, free! How good He is! He holds them out to me! . . . Lord, for the first time — O the very first, I thirst no more, who was devoured with thirst! I sought the broken cisterns every one. 170 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND I drank, — and thirsted ere the draught was done! Sometimes 1 thought I loved. To love, I knew, Would slake my thirst. That love was never true. It left me parched and dry, — a tortured thing. Someone would tell me of another spring. Hope of new cisterns sunk in newer lands Drove me, my empty pitcher in my hands. Always I found the old, old, weary road, Cattle that browsed or drew their heavy load, The stunted olive trees along the way, A sky of azure or a sky of gray; With the old gesture, though my soul would tire, I lowered the empty cruise of my desire; Always I found the same deceitful thing, — Roiled, brackish waters from a troubled spring. From my hot lips the faithless pitcher fell. Always my cruise was broken at the well ! Jesus: What need, Photine, to tell Me? For I knew. Photine: And now my soul seems bathed with morning dew. Out of my shadows I have caught the gleam, The rainbow arc above the living stream. Gush, Spring of Love, and mount in jets of faith And fall in drops of hope, dispelling death. Sing, Living Water. Cast upon my soul And all its dust, the flood that makes me whole! Jesus: Thou scekest new words for the new thoughts that rise, But I rejoice to see thy tear-dimmed eyes. Photine: My worthless words! My eyes not fit to see! Jesus: All tear-dimmed eyes are beautiful to me. Strive not for words. I understand your tear. Photine: O teach me. Jesus: For that cause, I waited here. When my disciples come, who went to buy Food in the village, leave me. Pjiotine {u'ith a gesture tou'ard the cruise) : Master, I Gave you no water, — Thou who givest Salvation ! THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 171 Jesus: I thirsted only for your salutation. Photine: 'Tis true. I offer water to the River. Jesus: I quench my thirst if I a soul deliver. Photine: Here at Thy feet, I wait. Jesus: The air is blue. Silence enfolds us. I will speak to you Of Mj' new Kingdom; how man grows divine; The wheat and tares; the branches and the vine. Photine: I listen. Jesus : I will tell you of the seed ; The leavened meal; the pearl; and, if you heed, — Photine: I listen! Jesus: — I will teach you how to pray; Tell of the flock left for one lamb astray, Until the Shepherd found and brought it home. Photine: I listen! Jesus: How the King again will come; Of roads, one safe, and small, one wide and broad, And of My Father. Photine: O, I listen, Lord. {Curtain) SECOND PART The Gate of Sichem Behind the curtain, a tumult of gay voices, strange cries, songs, laughter. When the curtain rises, one sees the Market Place at the Gate of Sichem. A wide space upon which many narrow streets converge. Flat- roofed houses, narrow little staircases in the outer walls. Right, the house of Photine. At the back, the city gate; a vaulted arch dark and deep behind zvhich one has a glimpse of open country, and surmounting ii'hich is the house of ScHOER, the gate-keeper; a turret whence he can see the surrounding country. Rumble of caravansary, flutter of bright colours, innumerable tradesmen; stalls, booths; piles of sacks, boxes and jars. In the background, the Elders are gravely grouped. They sit in the gates for their business. Children play about. Young men amuse themselves trying to lift the heavy stones. Women and young girls chatter at the stalls. Peter and the Disciples are there to buy food, repulsed and railed at by the tradesfolk. The Priest in the background with the Elders. SCENE I Peter, the Disciples, the Crowd Cries of the Merchants: Wheat! Honey! Milk! Fruit! Rice! Fresh rckikim. Peter: It makes me hungrier to follow him. Andrew : Let's go away. Peter: No, try again! 172 THE WOMA}^ OF SAMARIA 173 Andrew: No use; They mock at us. A Merchant: Oil cakes; fresh lemon juice! Andrew {eagerly): How much? A Young Man {in passing) : They're Jews. Get from them all you can. {Tlie Disciples turn away.) Another Merchant {to the passing crowd) : Dye for eyelashes! Another: Arrow shafts! Young man, Strong reeds of Merom ! Arrow shafts ! Who'll buy ? Peter {to Nathanael) : There is a good old man. Perhaps — you try, — He'll sell his figs . . . Another Merqhant: FarJ for the nails, young maid! Andrew {ivhile Nathanael talks to the old vender) : I am faint with hunger. Peter {to Nathanael, who rejoins them) : Tell us, would he trade ? Nathanael: He said, "Go shake the trees, you Jewish fool." John : I die of thirst. A Merchant {crying his ivares) : Cucumbers! Fresh and cool! Peter {resignedly) : Let's try to buy a fish. A Young Girl {questioning another of her group) : O Noemi, What will your lover give you? Noemi : Guess. The Girl: A cap? Noemi {shaking her head) : Uh-um. Another Girl: A wooden shoe to make a clap? Noemi: You tease! Another: Better than that? A brazen mirror? Noemi: Guess! Another: A ring? Noemi: An ivory nose ring, nothing less! All {dazzled) : Oh! Peter {back; to the fishmonger) : Tliree shekels for this tunny? 174 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Merchant: Four is right. A Man {with a couple of birds on his shoulder) : Who wants to see my pretty finches fight? {A circle is quickly formed around hirn.) Peter (to the Disciples) : Let's go. Andrew: What have we bought? Nathanael: Some rice, — a little bit. Peter: Dusty. James: A cheese. Peter : Mouldy. Andrew: Some fruit. Peter: Not fit To eat. John {showing a straggly bunch of dried-up grapes) '. This bunch of grapes. Peter: And none supposes That these are Eachol's famous grapes, by Moses! It wouldn't take two spies to bring them back. {To a Disciple.) And, Judas, how much silver in the sack? The Disciple {showing an empty sack) : Nothing. {They all gather around and look.) Peter: Already? Andrew {shaking his head) : Hum! James {whispering) : I know his wiles. He is a thief. John : The Master says, and smiles, "He must love money if the work be done." Peter: Come! The Crowd {yelling as the Disciples go through the Gate) : They are running! Dogs! Thieves! Swine! Peter {softly to John) : O, John, It's my belief one finds . . . The Crowd: The scurvy Jews! Peter : Since time began — Only in parables, the good Samaritan. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 175 SCENE II The Same, lacking the Disciples (AZRIEL has stopped in front of PnoTlNii's house. Right.) AZRIEL {to a servant who appears on the threshold) : She is still at Jacob's well? The Serving Woman: She's still tlure, master. One Woman {to another) : Watch Azriel. He thinks it great disaster Because Photine . . . The Other: Oh, speak not of Photine! The First: The world is honey for that libertine! A Third: Our honest days before the dawn begin, And while we cook and scrub and mend and spin, There are soft words for women of that ilk. Almonds for food and dresses all of silk. Azriel: When will she come back? {Calling to the Gate-keeper.) O! What ho, Schoer! You on your turret, who can see so far, Is Photine coming? Tell me what you see. Schoer: She isn't coming. First Woman {to the second) : Listen, honey bee! Isn't it vexing? The Second {whispering) : Olive branch, they say The end is near. She waxes every day More wanton. They will drive her from tiie city? The Third: Who? The First: Why, the Elders. The Third: Truly? The First: Without pity. You see, they're whispering now. Of her. The Second: I think it's time! All Sichem stinks with that bold harlot's crime. Isn't it so, dear Palm tree? The First: Yes, my pearl! 176 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Third: If God His wrath against us all should hurl, Photine would be to blame — her ogling eyes! Another: Her clothes might call down lightning from the skies. Another: A shameless hussy! Another: Child of Lucifer! The First: And God may punish us to punish her! The Second: I'd kill the strumpet if a look could blast! AzRiEL {to the servant) : I'll go to meet her. ScHOER {leaning from the tower) : Here she comes at last! Azriel: You see her? ScHOER : Yes. She makes the strangest signs. She has left the path. She is running through the vines, And the young wheat. I see her. How she flies! Azriel: It can't be she! Schoer: It is! I still have eyes! Her hair is flying. She is very near. How pale she is ! Azriel: It isn't she! Schoer: She is here. (Photine appears in the gate, running; she stops in the gateway, panting.) SCENE III The Same. Photine Azriel: 'Tis thou! Oh, I trembled, I feared, I can't tell What I suffered ! Where wast thou ? 'Twas not at the well. For thou bearest no cruise, not a jar, not a thing, To hold water. Photine: And yet it is water I bring. Azriel: Dear, why did thou run so? Photine: They perish of thirst. Azriel: So thou camest . . . Photine: From the Well. Azriel: Jacob's Well? THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 177 Photine: So they called it at first. They used that name once. AzRiEL {laughing) : And today they still use. Photine: No. Azriel: Where is thy veil? Photine; Fallen off! Azriel: And thy cruise? Photine: And my cruise? Azriel: Sweet, what wast thou doing? I sought . . . Photine: • I was found. Azriel: Didst thou carry thy pitcher? Photine: Why, yes, I was bound For the Well. Azriel: But 'twas left . . . Photine: Where my old self was left. Azriel: More riddles. I seem of my senses bereft. Photine: Poor Azriel! Azriel : I love thee ! Photine: No, no. I had gleams, As you lay in my arms, of your thoughts, of your dreams, — When lip touches lip, souls are meeting instead. And the breast where it lies knows the thoughts of the head ! — I bid you remember and every hope set On all that you hoped I could make you forget! The dream you rejected for me, I restore. {She cries aloud.) O People. Azriel: What sayst thou? Photine: Like waves on the shore You ebb and you flow, noisy, heedless and gay! A Man: Photine! It's improper to hear what you say. Photine: O women, who chaffer and laugh as you trade! A Woman : She accosts honest women and is not afraid. Azriel: Hush! Take care, dear. Photine: Ye Elders, ye Scribes of the Law, Ye Doctors, ye Priests. An Elder: You are judged by that Law. 178 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Photine: Ye IVIerchants. A Merchant {maliciously) : Photine will be marked if she can. Photine : By the gray Well of Jacob, there sits a young man, A pale Nazarene with a wonderful word. He spoke — to me — gently. My spirit is stirred. New joy, and new grief, He can rouse or assuage. His gesture is one that sets open a cage! The Crowd {laughing) : Ha! ha! Photine: I believe 'tis that Prophet. He knew All that ever I did! All my sins! I speak true. And deep in my heart, He has read a desire For holier things. Is not this the Messiah? A Man : The woman is mad ! Another: What trick will she try? Another {laughing) : Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! A Merchant: My pigeons! Who'll buy? Another Merchant: Two sparrows! A bargain! A cheap sacrifice ! Photine: Have pity and listen! A Purchaser: How much for this spice? The Merchant: Twelve sekels. Purchaser: At that price, you never can sell. Photine: A young Man is sitting by Jacob's gray well. He calls His name Jesus. He comes from Judea. He asked me for water. — And I would not hear. Then, gracious and lovely, He stood by the brink, And, having no pitcher, He gave me to drink. A Woman {to a vender) : A fine necklace. Another: Phoenician? The Merchant: You ladies admire Fine work. Photine: Don't you wish that it might be Messiah? A Young Man: Messiah? He will come after you and I rot. Another {catching up with a group) : Better come see the bird fight. I almost forgot! THE irOMJN OF SAMARIA 179 Photine: O listen, ye wretched! Ye people, 1 bring Such wonderful news! A Merchant: I am tired of this thing! Another Merchant: Be silent. Photine: I cannot keep silence! First Merchant: Here, go! That's enough. Photine: I cannot. I must speak what I know. I must cry the good news. Ye reject, ye despise. Yet still through the crowd there will echo my cries. Near the gray Well of Jacob there sits a young man. A glory is about His head. The eyebrows o'er His clear eyes spread Are like the rainbow's span. Meek, yet He seems to hold a palm Shadowed by royal state. One knows Him by His royal calm. 'Tis He whom we await ! A far-oflF song comes on a breeze Across Engcddi's bowers — New beauty wakes in flute and flowers. His grace is like to these. And oh, His heavenly gentleness. New milk, ... a sun-bright dove, . . . In purity, in loveliness, Are shadows of His love. A Merchant: She makes them listen. Another Merchant: She is hurting trade! A Man {bitterly to the merchants) : Yes, — and why tell new hopes to souls afraid When sweets and gewgaws might be bought and sold? 180 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Another (to the High Priest, who draws near, attracted by the noise) : She speaks of Christ. The Priest: Who? Photine : I ! The Priest: 'Tis very bold. You speak of Christ? Do you know Who He is? No man may speak of him who has not this, Piety, learning, — skill to learn by rote All teachers once declared and prophets wrote About Messiah. No woman has this learning. Photine: I have a word, here in my memory burning. 'Tis written, "When Emanuel shall come The blind will see the lame in dances turning; The deaf will hear Hosannahs of the dumb." The Priest: She caught some text that I have used myself. An Old Man: This ignorant? A Young Man : She seems beside herself ! Another: Surely her lips are touched with altar fire! Photine: "I give you hearts of flesh in this new day; Your hearts of stone will melt with pure desire, And ye will walk with Me the Living Way, One people with one God, . . . with one Messiah!" The Priest: Ezekiel's vision. She who quotes indeed Has read his words. Azriel: She has not learned to read. The Priest: Whence has she then these scriptures to repeat? Photine: "How fair upon the mountains are the feet Of those who bring good tidings! Hail to them!" The Priest: Isaiah said that. Photine: "Little Bethlehem, Thou who wast least, the greatest thou shalt be." The Priest: Silence! Photine: "O Nazareth, nations look to thee." The Priest: In Moses' books the deepest meaning slumbers! Photine: Hear what is written in the Book of Numbers: THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 181 The words of Balaam-ben-beor I tell, — "O Star of Jacob, Rod of Israel!" . . . The Priest: Whence comes this learning or this memory? Photine: And hear the words of Deuteronomy . . . Many Voices: A miracle! Magic! 'Tis Christ! Can it be? No! Photine: If only it might be! Oh, come, come and see! A Voice {from the Crowd) : False prophecy a falser faith inspires. Another: And we have seen so many "true Messiahs." Photine: If it might be! A Merchant: But no. Photine: If it but might! A Young Man : 'Twill do no harm to go. The Priest: If she were right. How could the soul of Christ, give heed, O friends, Speak to this harlot's soul? Photine: He condescends. The Priest: Go, pour your perfumes on your secret stairs, Go, paint your face and set your evening snares. Photine: You hurt, — but vex me not. Your taunt is just. Rightly my sins have robbed me of your trust. Azriel: My proud Photine so humble! There must be In this strange story some divinity. Photine {kneeling in the market place) : I do confess that I was all unclean. I ask forgiveness of you all. A Woman {raising her up): Photine! Photine: A messenger unworthy of her gift. But He delighteth humble souls to lift, Loves the unlovely, quenches bitterest thirst, — ^This gracious Lord, — and blesses the accurst, Pities the helpless, looks upon the least, Loves the poor man, the child, the bird, the beast — The small, sad donkey, — wistful dogs we beat. And publicans . . . and women of the street. 182 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Diverse Cries: Make her hush! Shameless sinner! Before she begins Further blasphemous speech! Photine: I am cleansed from my sins. A Woman {starting from the crowd and running to her) : Will He cleanse me of mine, — of all mine? Photine: Yes, indeed! He will not break, not He, the bruised reed. The dimmest smoking flax He will not quench. With living waters the hurt reed He'll drench, Till on that reed in the sweet breeze of spring, His happy birds may safely sway and sing. And He the smoking flaxen wick will trim Till it will glow and flame, and shine for Him. The Priest: Ah, to man's soul are these pernicious lies Like vinegar to teeth, like smoke to eyes. A Young Man: How beautiful she is! Another: I see my duty. The Spirit calls through her! Another : You see her beauty. Another {trying to draw Photine away, indicating a little group who seem interested and even convinced) : Come! These will go with you! Photine: Ah, no! Not without half the city! A Child: I will go! Photine {moving through the crowd): O ye, whose dwelling not a Jewish child May enter in except he be defiled, Ye, who are counted in the shameful ranks Of tricksters, jugglers, thieves and mountebanks, Excluded by tiu- Law from holy feasts, Vile gluttons, drunkards, pagans, unclean beasts, — Samaritans, — for that dishonored name Holds all of misery and all of shame! — THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 183 Rabble of this world, outcasts of the other, Come to this Christ who calls Himself >our Brother! But they who know not sins nor pains nor cares, — The strong, the proud, — this Christ is none of theirs. The Priest: Christ is a King to make the boldest shrink! Photine: a wayworn man who asked me for a drink. The Priest: Endiamonded with star and winged with light From Heaven's blue dome He takes His awful (light. Photine: He choose the little footpath that we tread. His stars arc in His soul, not on His head. The Priest: He cries "To disobey the Law is death." Photine: He says, — so quietly, — "All life is faith." The Priest: A Warrior whose sword smites near and far! Photine: He is the peaceful Enemy of war, — Ruin of ruin and the Death of death ! The Priest: Whence comes this prophet? Every scripture saith Christ is the Son of David's royal line. Photine: Then surely Jesus has this seal and sign. He did not tell me; that is for the schools. I know His hands have handled workman's tools. The angels, in a little shop somewhere. Have kissed the shaving tangled in His hair! Docile, He fashioned balances and yokes. The Son of God, He toiled like simple folks. And making yokes, He thought of all we bear, And dreamied of justice, making balance fair. A Man: Let's go to Him! The Priest: 'Tis a false Christ! The Man: I'd rue If, fearing false Christs, I should miss the true! A Woman: Oh, lead us to Him! Leave these blind and dumb! Photine: I will not move till all the city come! A Man {laughing derisively) : A Christ that pardons sinners! Watch mo start! Photine: His words bring silence to a clamorous heart! Another (scornfully) : A gossiper with women at a well! 184 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Photine : White shadows on my soul from His soul fell. A Merchant: He's beautiful when talking? Photine: Oh, He shines! Never man spoke like this Man. Hear the signs That make His Kingdom; there the first are last, The sad learn laughter, pain is overpast. Blessed are they that mourn, the weary, blest; Those shall be comforted and these shall rest. A Merchant: The crowd believes. Her triumph seems com- plete. Photine: I'll cry what He has said from street to street. {She goes out, followed by the crowd.) First Old Man : She is gone ! A Merchant {watching) : The city will go mad before she stops! Another Merchant {calling to the wings): Why don't you fools come back and mind your shops? Another: What can one do? One needs must hear her speak. Photine's Voice {without) : He says, "Ye shall be very strong, ye weak!" First Merchant: That is most subversive. That must never be. Photine's Voice {farther aivay) : "And ye shall judge your judges." An Elder {horrified) : Anarchy! Another: What's to be done? The Priest: Call out the Romans. {To a Merchant) Quick. {He explains in a whisper what is to be said. One catches the word.) Disturbs the public peace ... a mob ... a trick. Photine's Voice {ivithout) : "Verily, verily," this Saviour said, "My gifts are for the disinherited." A Merchant {terror-stricken) : Hark to the words that echo through the town! THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 185 The Priest {to his messenger) : Call out the soldiers! Strike this woman down! This leads to civil war! Photine's Voice {icithout, nearer) : He says, though hard, The narrow way is best. The Priest {to the merchant) : Call out the guard! {The messenger goes off, running.) Photine {re-enters, folloived by a larger cron'il) : He says, again, mere learning is a wraith, "Blest are the poor in spirit," and He saith His Kingdom is . . . A Man {who follows her, trembling, ecstatic) : Hear ye, and follow her! These are not mortal words. Too deep they stir. Only a God could paint these words of dawn. What said He more, Photine? Photine, say on! Photine: He said, "Be gentle, meek, admit, confess. Be of good cheer. Love peace and cheerfulness. Do unto others as ye would that they Should do to you. All Law ye thus obey. Blessed are ye when all men shall revile" . . . What can I tell? New words. And all the while One word comes back the other words to prove, Love, love, love always. Heaven is only love. "My Father loves the loving." And He said, "Give all things for love." "Give the half of your bread To the tiresomest neighbor's untimeliest demand." "If ye come to my altar, a gift in your hand, And remember a wrong you have failed to appease, Leave your gift and come not before God on your knees Till your brother forgives you, and then, reconciled, You may come before God like His confident child." "Loving brothers is easy. That much heathen do! 'Tis a light thing to love who has first loved you. But love your oppressors, the cruel, the strong. And seventy times seven forgive every wrong." 186 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND "I love them thathate Me;" — that sin against love. "If any hurt you, let your patience reprove. If one snatches thy coat, give him also thy cloak. Love ingrates. Let injuries vanish in smoke. Love your enemies, so shall ye be of My friends. Love freely. The love ye receive never ends. Love more! And love always! Whatever befall. Ah, love one another as I have loved all ! Love much. When one loves, life is little to pay. What that love truly means, I will show you some day. Love greatly, Love only can conquer the world. Love forever!" All {falling on their knees) : O, where is His banner unfurled? Take us to Him. Tumultuous Cries: The Christ! Son of David. Our King! {At this inoment, all, enthusiastically form a column behind Photine, and start to go out through the city gate. They are roughly forced back by the Roman soldiers, who pour in at the gate. The centurion appears.) SCENE IV The Same. The Centurion, the Soldiers The Centurion: Open sedition! We have heard this thing. Disperse ! What king is he whom you acclaim ? Who is that woman ? Let us know her name. Seize her at once! Photine {as the soldiers bind her hands) : All's lost! Oh, all is lost! I cannot lead them! . . . The Cexturion {angrily to the crowd) : Shall my will be crossed? No groups! ... no whispering! Be well afraid! {To the Merchants.) Ye simple merchants, ply your little trade! THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 187 {To Photine.) Leader of mobs, — you'd teach them to withstand Caesar, his laws, his taxes on the land. What did you speak of? Photine: Only . . . The Centurion {to the soldier uho is tightiuo the cords about Photine's urists) : Make it press! Photine: Only of mercy and of gentleness, Of pity and of love. The Centurion: What else? A Man {earnestly) : That's all. Another {earnestly) : No more. The Priest: She spoke of the Messiah. The Crowd {with indignation): Oh! The Centurion {to Photine, ironically) : Ah, you'd restore The kingdom, then? Rome, be assured, is grateful. {To the soldiers, laughing.) She speaks of their Messiah, that vision fateful Whom Hebrews seek as their Deliverer To free them from Rome's rule. Lay hold of her! Pilate shall hear of her Messiah's giory. Forward ! Photine {aside) : All's lost. The Priest {to the Centurion) : She tells a stirring story To move the mob, — that Christ is near to us. And the poor fool has dared to honor thus An unknown fellow, who no doubt conspires, A man of Nazareth. The Centurion: Now by my household fires, A man of Nazareth ? Why, I know the Man. {To the soldiers.) We heard of him before this stir began, — The fellow with a cure for leprosy, A carpenter, the Man of Galilee. The Priest: From such disturbers Caesar swiftly frees us. The Centurion: Joshua the fellow's called, — or is it Jesus? The Priest: 'Tis he. 188 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Centurion: What, Jesus? Wh)-, I little thought That I was going. . . . After all, 'tis naught. . , . He will not work us harm, so much I know. {To the soldiers.) Twas only Jesus! Let the woman go ! Photine {delivered from her bonds) : Heaven! The Centurion : A Jew, just touched with melancholy. I myself saw Him do an act of folly. 'Twas at Jerusalem a month ago. Of Fort Antonia's guard, I watched below The temple, and the folk, and all they did, I marked a figure that could not be hid. So very white his robe; His gestures free Spoke of some Essene out of En-Gaddi, Preacher or prophet, — I cared not to probe. Twelve black robes followed close the linen robe. And so this group, still talking, shortly trod Close to the place where Jews, to serve their God, Make change, installed at many a little table, On weights, which, rumor says, are never stable. In this amazing temple, merchants vend Salt, oil, sheep, cattle, wares without an end. The beasts were tied with bits of cord and strings. All suddenly this Man a strong arm flings Free of his mantle takes those broken strands. Twists them together, and with mighty hands Drives all before him like a herd, — in short, Left not a gouty merchant in the court. He overthrew their stalls, — quite furious Yet quite serene; the thing was very curious. The people cheered. We Romans laughed aloud. That Man will never lead a lawless crowd. The temple's cleanser will not harm the throne. He says: "Give Caesar what is Caesar's own." The Priest: You have not heard the woman. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 189 The Centuriox {laughing and remounting) : I prefer To lose that pleasure. The Priest {trying to detain him): Listen! The Centurion: My good sir, I've better things to do. The Priest: What things? The Centurion: To lie beneath a tree, — For choice, a fig-tree, — and to take with me Horace, best underscored, as I have planned, By the blue finger of a leafy hand. The Priest: But ... The Centurion {drily) : Breaking my leisure may be fraught with danger. {To the people.) Keep your Messiah, this Galilean stranger. {To the soldiers, as he goes out.) I think this quiet blond young carpenter Is not the man to set the world astir. SCENE V The Same, without The Centurion and the Soldiers Photine: Now, let us hasten. {Murmurs.) A Man : I'll do no such thing. Photine: Why? Another: He fawns on Cassar, He is not my king. Another: The true Messiah will win the throne for us. Another: He pays the tax? Another: Accepts Tiberius? Photine: I^ord, Lord they want what is so little worth! — The Kingdom that He brings is not of earth. You think of who shall govern in the land. Oh, try to listen, trj' to understand ! This Kingdom is eternal. We shall be Hidden and safe and glorious and free. 190 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Samaritans, we know what ages since Began our buffetings from prince to prince! We are the quarry, hunted through the rocks Whether by Roman wolf or Jewish fox. What does it matter? Give with just disdain, His own to Caesar. And our own retain. All: But yes ... A Man: The Kingdom? Photine: It is not of earth. Since not a king, but God, has given it birth. Another: How will we know the kingdom, — this new leaven? Photine: First in yourselves, and afterwards, in heaven. Several Voices: Ourselves? Photine {going from one to another) : The tree will grow, if but the seed be in. Wish only, and the Kingdom will begin. For all! For all! Be loving. And be true. And you will find the Kingdom. You! — and you! Stonecutter, you will work, in happy wise, For through the shade that guards, and blinds, your eyes, Will filter in some rays of this new Light ! Carver of jewels and of silver bright, Your fingers will be fanned, to cool their aching, By wings of silver cherubs you are making! Woodworker, sawing countless panels thin, Acacia, cedar, fir — to set them in The rich man's alcoves, — you will bless the toil That makes the forest's balms your daily spoil! Weavers, you'll pity those for wliom ye weave ! Lacemakers, you no longer will believe That they are happier who wear your laces! Gladness will find you in the darkest places. Potter, the finest glaze is made of love! Sliepherds, ye'll gladly seek the sheep that rove! Each will be liappy at his useful trade. You'll whistle, basket makers, as ye braid! THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 191 The Priest: 'Tis but a hope, this kingdom in the cloud! Photine: Have you a better hope, to feed this crowd? Cries from All: Yes! Follow her! She'll take us to the King. A dulcimer! A lute! Come, let us sing! A Merchant: I go, but not believing, just to see! Photine: Come, just the same! Azriel: I go but hupclessly, Only to act. Photine: Come, just the same! A Young Man {boldly) : Well, blame Your beauty if I go. Photine: Come, just the same! Come, gathering branches from the olive tree, No matter why ye come! But come and see! The Priest: Ah, well, I'll go. For it may be at least Her Christ will found a cult and make me priest. Photine: Oh, come! March on and sing His psalms! "Oh, come with trumpet and with shawms." All the Crowd {taking up the Psalm with a mighty cry of en- thusiasm) : Oh, come with shawms all blazoned o'er With pearl, with coral, and with gold. Oh, come with trumpets manifold And sing His praise Whom we adore. { The Crowd, led by Photine, is engulfed in the great gate- way, and the Psalm re-echoes from the open country.) Be joyful, earth, before your King, Ye seas, O clap your hands and sing. Ye floods . . . ye hills . . . ( Curtain ) THIRD PART Salvator Mundi Again Jacob's Well. Jesus is sitting on the well-curb. The sun is low in the west. The sky is gold and pink. The Disciples are grouped at a little distance from the Master. They are finish- ing the poor meal they secured by their random purchases. Seated, or lying on their stomachs, they tnake a circle around a little fire, which smolders- and then sends up, very straight in the still air, a thin thread of blue. They whisper and look furtively, from time to time, at Jesus. They are troubled. Jesus is in a dream. SCENE I Jesus and His disciples Peter {in a low voice, indignantly) : He spoke to her! Andrew {same manner) : That woman! James {same manner) : Spoke to her! Peter: I dare not blame Him, but one must demur . Strangely imprudent, — that we must declare. Andrew: Why does he fast? This is not greedy fare. Peter: 'Tis to astonish us, I'll stake my word! Jesus : Not for that reason, Simon. John: Oh, He heard! Peter: I spoke too loud. Nathanael: Then, Master, why? 192 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 193 Peter {in a low tone) : I think It is to prove He needs not meat nor drink! Jesus: Nay, I have meat that yet ye know not of. Peter {lowering his voice) : Who could have brought it? From the hill above? John: Perhaps the angels bring Him nourishment! Jesus: To do the work whercunto I was sent, — This is my secret food that never fails. Peter {still lower, captiously) : That will that took us by these hills and vales, Valley of Sichar! John: But it had to be . . . Peter: Better a longer walk to Galilee By w^ay of Sharon. Nathanael: Or of Jordan's plain. Andrew: Just taste this bread ! Rock! I'll not come again {He throws the loaf away.) Into Samaria! Curse it mile by mile! Peter: Do you believe that it can be worth while Thus to seek out the mean, the vile, the low? Jesus: It is the scattered sheep to whom I go. John: Speak lower. James: That's His plan. 'Twill be a snare That gets us killed. John: The Master bears His share. Peter: But what good is it? And whom seek we here? What does He at this well, where none draws near To listen but this woman with her cruise? Ye know I doubt Him not, but He might choose. To win the people, — if that be His end, — Some fitter ally and some worthier friend ! James: Clean hands alone are fit to sow good seed. Peter: A harlot! James: Moses' law has taught indeed Such women should be stoned, so black their sin. Peter: If T would win a citv . . . 194 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND James : You'd begin ? . . . Peter: I'd choose the prosperous, the proud, the stable, — Priest at his altar, changer at his table. One, who has influence, can lead the rest. I'd try to win one soul, but that the best. That is the way I'd take to win a city. Andrew {shaking his head) : To waste such time as His seems such a pity. Peter: Sometimes the iMaster seems to mock, almost, — The meanest city of the meanest coast Of the last people, and among these last To choose a woman, — and that one outcast. Jesus: O children, water is for those who thirst. For Me, the first are last, the last are first ! Peter (aside) : I'll speak no more. Our lowest word is caught. (He gets up and stands looking at a field of young wheat.) (Silence.) Jesus: No. James: To what didst Thou say no? Jesus: To Peter's thought. Peter (turning, astonished) : Master! John (crying out suddenly) : I die of thirst! Andrew: 'Tis all their fault. The cruel pagans filled the rice with salt! Nathanael: How can we drink? Andrew : We have no cruise. John : That one. You know . . . has left . . . James: What? John : Her cruise. Peter: It can't be done; 'Tis infamy to touch, by all our school. Oh, keep your hands away! John (his two hands on the water-pot) : It feels so cool. I am so thirsty. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 195 Peter: It is not for us, — Poison, uncleanness ! . . . John: Is it poisonous? Peter: Doubly, — for in this cruise, as well we know, Are vice and infamy. John : So much the worse. I . . . {He drinks.) Oh! Nathanael: What is it? John {handing him the pitcher) : Taste! Nathanael {having tasted): Oh! Andrew: What is it? Nathanael {handing it to him) : Taste! Andrew {same play) : Oh! James: What? What is it? Andrew : Taste ! James: What pearl from heaven is in this pitcher placed? Nathanael: Tis honey! Andrew : Flowers distilled ! John: One weeps in tasting! Peter: What left she here, forth on her errand hasting? Jesus: She has left within this cruise Lightness of an idle heart; Cruel pride that bade her choose Snares and every subtle art. She has left her heavy sins, Evil dreams and wishes wrong, Mirth that ends ere it begins, Empty laughter, soulless song. Sighs for every worthless cause, All the darkness of her soul. Peter: Master, by what wondrous laws . Can such parts compose this whole? Jesus: The sweetness ye find in a draught from this cruise Comes not from lilies the distillers bruise, Nor honey-comb all golden-sweet. The sweetness ye find I alone can distill, 196 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND From weakness, from sin, from all harm, from all ill, Left, clean forsaken, at My feet. Peter {drinking) : Divine refreshment from this earthen brink, — My lips can listen and my ears can drink! {He puts down the pitcher.) Master, when Thou saidst No, and seemed so plain To read my thought, 'twas of ? . . . Jesus: The ripened grain. You thought about my story, and this field And the long months before the fruitful yield. Peter: Yes, four long months before the bending skies Will see the harvest. Jesus : No. Peter: What? Jesus: Lift thine eyes! Peter: Why, Master? Jesus: Lift thine eyes! The field is white! Put in j'our sickle! Harvest it aright! Now, 'twixt the wheat and tares make ye your choice. One sows, another reaps, and all rejoice! Blessed injustice! Nearer brother grows To brother, he who reaps and he who sows. The Harvester has sent you to the fields. Lift up your eyes and see the grain it yields. Peter: Truly, one sees, where the last pink cloud roves, The fields look white to harvest. John : Look ! It moves ! The Crowd (in the distance) : O come with trumpets! Nathanael: And it sings! Peter: What is this harvest that so rings With gladness? ( 71iey have all climbed the little hill and look across the fields.) Andrew: All the city comes! John: And see THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 197 How, like white foam upon a darker sea, Througli the black gate . . . Peter: As if a mighty Hand, Pressing the walls, forbids them to withstand. The Crowd: O come with dulcimers . . . Peter: Ah, say, What form so grandly lead the way? Jesus {sitting motionless at the well) : They seek the well, who know the bitterest thirst; So shall the first be last, the last be first. The Crowd {drawing nearer) : To honor Ilim If'ho comes . . . John : O hark! Peter {to Jesus) : Forgive me. Lord, who was so slow to mark . . . The Crowd: Earth, thy salvation draweth nigh. John: Lord, come and see! Nathanael: The meadows cry! Peter: Where have they found such myriad roses? James: Come, Lord! Jesus: I see. Peter: To see, His eyes He closes. Jesus: I saw them in my heart so long ago! The Crowd: Floods, clap your hands. Ye seas, your trumpets blow. Andrew: They are nearly here. Photine's Voice {singing, very near) : Ye oceans, move. Rejoice together, all ye lands. Hills, shout aloud to Him we love, Ye ivater floods, clap, clap your hands. Peter: This voice that sings? Jesus : Photine's. For Me. Photine {appearing at the top of the hill, breathless, dishev- elled, her arms full of flowers gathered as she ran. her eyes splendid) : Master, the city comes to Thee. (She is preceded by a throng of excited children, ii'ho turn- 198 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND ble recklessly down the footpath, sliding down the hill, waving olive branches. She is followed by a throng that fills the stage, a throng that rushes to throw itself upon Jesus. Jesus rises. The crowd checks itself. There is silence. ) SCENE II The Same. All the Samaritans Jesus: Photine! . . . Photine {in an ecstacy) : They come, a throng entranced. I know not what I said, not how it chanced. — I lost my bracelet, running through the field, — Is it not true the lepers shall be healed? — I told them all. He heals whate'er He touches. Lord, see the lame, with garlands on their crutches! See the young maids! Their singing was so sweet! The soldiers checked us on the city street, But we came running. — Take this wild rose, Lord. . . . You palsied man, draw near and be restored. The children danced and sang. They understood. Why, look ! My hands are scratched and stained with blood, I broke so many branches on the way. All Sichem is deserted for a day. This baby was the first who wished to start. This young man came, though doubting in his heart. And just in coming, he has lost his doubt. The very starting put them all to rout! The merchants only thought I injured trade; The priest condemned. But I was not afraid. I spoke Thy Word, scarce knowing whence it was. — Oh, let me breathe the perfume of this grass, — Some power from God in my poor voice was vested. In vain the merchants threatened and protested. I think the women gladly heard my story. I laugh for joy! Whence comes this inner glory? Lord, let them kiss Thy robe! Thy people came THE JVOMAN OF SAMARIA 199 To worship! I will call them all by name. Thou Who knowest all, Thou knowest all have come, And thou wouldst know their names, though I were dumb. This one is Thamar. Pcninah is here. New people come. O look ! Both far and near, The field is white with multitudes that press. I choke with sobs, — but all for happiness. Jesus: You won the town for Me. Photine: Nay, it was thine own. I only told them where to find Thy throne. Daughter of folly, made a prophetess, I bore Thy word to these Thou camest to bless. But it was Thou, O Silent One divine, Who looked upon the town and made it Thine. O white-robed Warrior, the soul's true Liege, Thou girdest Sichem with an unseen siege. Conqueror divine, O Foeman tender, 1 won it not! Thine own to Thee we render! I have no strength, no might, nor any share, Except my joy, that I am chosen to bear The keys of this Thy city. My sole part, Keys of these hearts to give Thee, on my heart! A Man : The crowd stands motionless, by some strange law. 'Tis like a lion whose enormous paw Scarce dares to hold the snowy lamb it felled. Another: This shouting, crazy crowd in silence held Dares hardly breathe. A WoiMan: It is fitting to be dumb Before a King. Photine: I hear a scarab hum. A Woman: Give us this living water, Lord, we pray! Photine: See, in their hands the olive branches sway Though not a breath is stirring in the trees. Azriel: Who is this man who sways me like a breeze, — This Harvester whose fan is in His hand? My soul seems waking at some loud command. 200 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND A Man : We are vile folk, deserving everj' fling The Jews can cast ! Jesus: Ye need my shepherding. Another: Black sheep, O Shepherd, thin, and used to keep To rocky ridges ! Jesus: Still ye are My sheep. I know my sheep in whatsoever fold. The shepherd loves the lamb, strayed, bleating, cold. Though all but one be folded, I no less Will seek that lost one in the wilderness. Will call until it hears and knows My voice, Then lay it on my shoulders and rejoice. Oh, I will seek untiring, day and night. Till all My flock, the black sheep and the white, By My light crook all tenderly controlled, Obey one Shepherd, happy in one fold. A Young Man : I feel baptismal waters on my brow. A Woman: Oh, touch my tears! Another Woman: Oh, bless my child! An Old Man: - Lord, now Thy servant could depart in peace to Thee ! A Young Girl: I never hoped that He would look at me! A Man: How graciously His lovely head is bowed! A Woman (coming forward out of the throng) : Lord, I sought to hide me in the crowd, 1 feared Thine ej'es that see the stain within ! Jesus : I raised thy sister taken in her sin. A Merchant: Canst Thou forgive me, Scourger of my kind, That to true riches I have been so blind. — Loving all gold but that laid up above? Jesus: 'Twas only from the temple that I drove The merchants. The Drunkard: Couldst Tiiou even pardon me. Giver of water, living, lasting, free. That I have mingled stronger drink with mine? Jesus {smiling) : In Galilee, I made the water wine. THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 201 The Priest: For such a Christ, no blow I'll ever strike, Forgiving drunkards, harlots and the like. Jesus {with angir) : I tell thee, hjpocrite . . . (At this moment, the children begin to dance and sing.) Peter {severely, to a woman) : Take them away. Jesus {turning quickly) : Forbid them not. V'ou know not what jou say. I love their happy songs, their motions free. Suffer the little ones to come to Me. Bring here, Photine, those two who, all dismayed, Hide in thy gown. Photine: Come, loves, be not afraid! The Priest: You answer not. Jesus: The answer is prepared. Photine: Ye see this Lord Whom David lord declared, — The children play He bids us not forbid ; He calls no bears, as once Elisha did. One nestles in His arms, all comforted. His hand is on the other's curly head. Jesus: O beautiful new eyes. Have ye such eyes! So shall ye enter into paradise! {To the children) Will you repeat — let no one say them nay, — The words you sang as you began to play? A Child: fVe piped a dance; You wouldn't play; Another Child: fVe bade you cry; You said us nay. Jesus: Simon, your frowns your tender heart belie. The little song has furnished my reply. Does it not fit the people of this time Whose thoughts \vith other's never seem to chime ? First, John the Baptist with his message stern. Dark, lonely, roughly clad and taciturn. Burning with zeal, denouncing, scourging evil Ye said of him "the fellow hath a devil." 202 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Eating and drinking came the Son of Man, And ye who hated John this time began, "A glutton, who is everybody's friend." The child's song answers all who thus contend. Watch but that baby singing as she skips, And hark to wisdom from an infant's lips. A Merchant: He Who so loves, yet so superbly hurled That challenge, ic the Saviour of the World. A Man: Saviour and Master! Photine: And a King to give Courage to die! Azriel: He gives me cause to live! A Young AIan: His finger graves gold letters on my heart! Another: From His heart to my own, there seems to start A rainbow bridge, an endless, perfect arch ! — A Man {guided by Photine to Jesus) : I am blind. Jesus: Receive thy sight! A Man {carried by attendants) : I am lame. Jesus: ' Arise and march! The Crowd: A miracle! Jesus {to another) : Ask what thou wilt? Speak! A Man: I . . . was . . . dumb. A Man {advancing) : I had a heart deadened and hard and numb. I longed to weep, a moment gone, — but now I cannot weep. . . . 'Tis diflicult. Jesus: Weep, thou. Peter: How blest we are, who sees the works you do, — Such marvels. Master! Jesus: Ye shall do them, too. Andrew: Who? We? Jesus: Yes, some day I must speed you on your way To do my works. Peter: Ourselves? O glorious day! Jesus: Set not your heart on any earthly prize. But that your names are written in the skies. THE PFOMAN OF SAMARIA 203 Photine: It will be midnight when Thou goest away. Bring not that darkness yet. Ah, Master, stay. Stay, O Lord ; a little rest ; Lighten us with this new light. What ! God's Son has been our guest, Going hence when dawn is bright? An Old Man : Come to my house a while and stay To rest Thee from Thy kind fatigues. Surely Thou must not go away Till Thou hast tasted of my figs! A Courtesan: Stay, Lord, and speak! Here are the flowers Thy look has shaken from my head. Chains decked these painted cheeks of ours. Here, Lord, are streaming tears instead. A Woman: Returning from Thy tasks divine, When all the sick are visited, Thou'lt drink of my pomegranate wine And learn what perfume it can shed. Photine: Reverently, O Lord, we will Every wish of Thine obey. All the city will be still At the hour when Thou wouldst pray. A Woman: At evening, Lord, when every tone Is sweet, mysterious and clear, At each low threshold seek Thine own And we will heed Thee, drawing near. A Little Girl: If Thy white cloak fall to the ground, — Our evening breeze might chill Thee, Lord. — We girls would wrap it softly round, But never interrupt a word. 204 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Photine : Speaking to our souls' distresses, Thou shall feel, among us there, 'Neath Thy hand, a baby's tresses, At Thy feet a woman's hair. (Each one, speaking, has come to kneel before Jesus^ letting fall the bunch of olive or the garland of roses. At Pho- TINe's last word, they kneel and unbind their hair.) Jesus: Two daj-s with you I'll rest, I can do no more. Be all men's guest and knock at every door. A Woman: , . . And then, set forth, more straying lambs to seek! Photine: And when, departing, Thou wilt climb a peak Of Ephraim's mountains, cutting our blue skies, About whose feet Jezreel's flowered mantle lies. Thine eyes will find a little, hidden place. Like a small flock, safe huddled in one space, — The synagogue its fold, one not too clean — First home of Him they call the Nazarene. Jesus: O cruel Nazareth, whose smallest street Has known the pressure of my infant feet. Thou wilt not hear the words of. such an one, — "The carpenter; — the carpenter's young son," Always 'tis true, — mine own receive me not; I seek my brothers and behold my lot, — O wondrous earnest of my Father's plans! — My brothers, sisters, are Samaritans! In his own land no prophet is esteemed. — To do my Father's will is all I dreamed. Cries: Hosannah! Praise to Christ! Take up the song! Jesus: Seeking these . . . heathen . . . Simon, was I wrong? Photine {pointing to the twilight sky) : The evening falls. This dear day seeks to die. It cannot die. When Jacob's well is dry, When yonder olive tree is dust again With yonder fig; — renewing all the plain THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA 205 And every hill, forth from this valley green, The living flood shall bathe the world. Jesus : Photine, Thy Image, too, the world will never lose, Treading the footpath with thy lifted cruise. When future ages see the Son of Man, With Magdalene or Samaritan, Magdala, Sichem, these two will compete To bring its woman closest to My feet; So close allied, that this shall be your glory, Blonde hair and brown shall mingle in the story. The Priest: So be it! Thou art Christ! We trust Thy word. Then surely thou'lt rebuild the temple. Lord ? Jesus: No! The Priest: Rabbi, Thou wilt choose Thy priest? Jesus: Not yet. The Priest: Surely a high priest? Jesus: No, The Priest: Ah, I forget, Thou'lt keep that title? Jesus: No. The Priest: Change Thy robe of white For purple, scarlet, gold and all delight? Jesus: No. The Priest: In Ophir's mines already slaves must delve For Thy twelve jewels? {He points to his breast.) Jesus : Nay, I have my Twelve. A Young Man: What temple shall we choose Him? 'Tis his due! Photine: The flowery slope, the mountain's changing blue! Another: What throne for Him of Whom the prophets wrote? Photine: The well's rough rim; a little, rocking boat. The Priest: What, then, is worship? Jesus: 'Tis to do God's will! Priest: But one must pray. 206 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Jesus : A little, . . . low and still. Be not like those who, standing on the street, Say the long prayers they endlessly repeat, Prayer's not a grindstone ; 'tis the song of birds ! My Father hears the spirit, not the words. They who repeat the rhythms of the schools Are like to riders drowsing on their mules. Short, trusting prayer a better faith had proved. Not like a beggar, but a child beloved. The best prayer is in secret, day by daj'. Pray ye as I have taught Photine to pray. {As He speaks. He lays His hatid very gently upon Photine's shoulder, jnaking her kneel.) Pray wheresoe'er ye are, — in Galilee, Samaria, or lands beyond the sea; Not beating on your breast, with garments torn, — Lifting a cheerful face, not one forlorn. Jehovah listens not alone to them Who on Gerizim, at Jerusalem, Call upon Him Who dwelleth everywhere. Photine: With closed eyes, softly, then begin your prayer, Wherever and whenever is your need, Feeling yourself God's child in very deed. 'Tather in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, the same On this Thy earth as that, Thy heaven. Give The daily bread whereby Thy children live. Forgive our many trespasses, as we Forgive each other. From temptations free Thy children, kept from evil. Take Thou then Thy kingdom, power and glory." The Crowd: Yea, amen. ( Curtain ) CYRANO OF BERGERAC Heroic Comedy in Five Acts In Verse // is to the soul of Cyrano that I wished to dedicate this poem. But since it has entered into you, Coquelin, it is to you that 1 dedi- cate it. E. R. CYRANO OF BERGERAC LIST OF CHARACTERS Cyrano of Bergerac. -^ Christian of Neuvillette. ' Count of Guiche, Ragueneau,' Le Bret. ' Captain Carbon of Castel-Jaloux. The Cadets. LiGNIERE. Valvert. A Marquis. Second Marquis. Third Marquis, montfleury. Bellerose. JODELET. CUIGY. Brissaille. A Churl,' A Musketeer, Another Musketeer. A Spanish Officer, A Lighthorseman. The Porter. A Citizen. His Son. A Cut-Purse, A Spectator. A Guard. Bertrandou the Fifer. A Capuchin. Two Musicians. The Poets. The Pastry Cooks. ROXANE. " Sister Martha. LiSE. The Vender of Light Wines. Mother Margaret of Jesus. The Duenna. Sister Claire. An Actress. Second Actress. The Pages. The Waitress. The Crowd, Plain Citizens, Marquises, Musketeers, Pick-pockets, Pastry Cooks, Poets, Cadets of Gascony, the Cardinal, the AcadeTnicians, Comedians, Violins, Pages, Children, Spanish Soldiers, Spectators, Euphuists, Nuns, etc. (First four acts in 1640, the fifth in 1655.) ACT I A Play at the Hotel of Burgundy The hall of the Hotel of Burgundy in 1640. A sort of tennis court arranged and decorated for theatrical productions. The hall is an oblong; it is seen obliquely, in such a way that one side of it makes the background, which begins at the front wing on the right and runs to the rear luing on the left, making an angle with the stage which is seen cantwise. The stage is encumbered on both sides with benches placed along the wings. The curtain is made of two lengths of tapestry which can be draivn apart. Above a harlequin s mask, the royal arms. Broad steps lead from the stage to the hall floor. 0?i cither side of these steps is a place for the musicians. A row of candles. There are two ranks of side galleries; the upper tier is divided into boxes. There are no seats in the pit, which is the real stage of this play; but at he back of the pit on the right some benches are ranged and uttdcr a siaij'way which leads to the better seats, — a stairway of which only the lower steps can be seen, there is a sort of refreshment booth, decorated with little tapers, vases of floivers, glasses of crystal, plates of cakes, flagons, etc. At the back, under the gallery, is the entrance. A great door is partly opened to admit the spectators. On a panel of this door, as well as in various corners and above the refreshment stand, are red placards, on ivhich one may read, CLORISE. As the curtain rises, the hall is in semi-darkness, and quite empty. The lustres are lowered to the middle of the pit, ready to be lighted. 213 214 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND SCENE I The Public, arriving a few at a time. Cavaliers, Lackeys, Pages, Cut-Purses, the Porter, etc. Later the Marquises, Cuigy, Brissaille, the Serving Maid, the Musicians, etc. {One hears, behind the door, a tumult of voices; then a trooper enters, abruptly.) The Porter {pursuing him) : Hola. Your fifteen pence. The Trooper: I enter gratis. The Porter: Why? The Trooper: I'm of the King's Horse, — of the Household, I. The Porter {to another who comes in) : You? Second Trooper: I don't pay. The Porter: But . . . Second Trooper: I'm a musketeer. First Trooper {to second) : They don't begin till two. The pit is clear. Let's have a bout at fencing. A Lackey {coming in): Flanquin, . . . hey! Another {already arrived) : Wine? First {disclosing a pack of cards, hidden in his doublet) : Cards, dice. {He scats himself on the floor.) Yes, my bully boy. Second Lackey {same play) : Let's play. First Lackey {feels in his pocket for a candle end, which he lights and sets on the floor) : I like a light, and so I filched this bit. A Guard {to a flower girl zvho comes in) : How sweet, to come before the lamps are lit. One of the Fencers: Touch! One of the Gamblers: Clubs! The Guard {pursuing the girl) : A kiss! The Flower Girl {freeing herself) : They'll see! The Guard: Oh, never fear. A Man. {seating himself on the ground, icith others who have brought provisions) : When one comes early, one has com- fort here. 20 BE IT! Ckl (TIB! CYRANO OF BERGERAC 215 A Citizen {directing his son) : Let us sit here. A Player: Aces! A Man {who takes a bottle from under his coat, as he sits down) : 1 droughtily Drink burgundy at the Hotel of Burgundy. {He drinks.) Citizen {to his son) : A man might take this for a wicked place. {He points to the drunkard with the tip of his ivalking stick.) Sots! {One of the fencers jostles him as he lunges.) Brawlers! {FJe sprawls into the group of card-players.) Gamblers! The Guard {behind him, still coaxing the flower girl) : Kiss me! Citizen {hastily dragging his son aivay) : God of grace! And in a hall like this, where brigands gather, They played Rotrou, my son. The Young Man: And Corneille, Father. A Group of Pages {holding hands enter singing a roundelay) : Tra la la la la la la la la lere. The Porter {severely) : No nonsense, pages. First Page {with wounded dignity) : Sir, we have some pride. {Whispers, as the porter turns his back.) Have you a string? Second Page : Yes, and a hook, beside. First Page {giggling) : Let's fish for wigs. I know a likely station. A Cut-Purse {grouping around him several evil looking fel- lows) : Come, pay attention to your education : Your first attempt to steal from folk like these. Second Page {calling cautiously to other pages already in the upper gallery) : Have you a blow gun? Third Page {from the gallery) : Aye, and lots of peas. {He shoots the pea-shooter in proof.) Young Man {to his father) : What will they play? Citizen : Clorise. Young Man: Who is it by? 216 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Citizen : Balthazar Baro. That's a piece, say I . . . {They go up.) The Cut-Purse {to his acolytes) : Cut all knee ruffles close. Don't spoil the lace.- A Spectator (to his coTnpanion, pointing to a high corner seat) : I saw The Cid first played from just that place. The Cut-Purse {making swift play with his fingers) : Watches. . . . Old Citizen {coming back with his son) : You'll see great actors. The Cut-Purse {with little, furtive movements of his hands) : He Avho handles Handkerchiefs deft . . . Old Citizen: Montfleury, . . . Somebody {calling from the gallery) : Light the candles! Old Citizen : Bellerose, I'Epy, Jodelet, men of that ilk. A Page {from the pit) : Here is the waitress. Waitress {appearing behind the refreshment booth) : Oranges! New milk! Shrub! Cedar bitters! {A noise at the door.) A Falsetto Voice: Rascals, knaves, give place. A Lackey {astonished) : Marquises ... in the pit? Another Lackey: A moment's space. {Enter a party of fashionable lordlings.) A Marquis {seeing the place half empty) : What's this? Arriving with the linen drapers? Step on no toes? It gives a man the vapors; Lud me! {He confronts other new arrivals.) Cuigy; Brissaille! {Effusive greetings.) Cuigy: True friends, — to face this scandal, — Arrived with us before they light a candle. The Marquis: I am in a plaguey humor. Shadows! Glooms! Another: Console yourself. The candle lighter comes. The Hall {greeting the candle lighter): Ah! . . . CYRANO OF BERGERAC 217 {They crowd around the lustres as he lights therii. Some people have taken seals in the galleries. LiGNlHRE enters the pit, arm in arm ivith CHRISTIAN OF NeuVILLETTE. LiGNlERE, his dress a little disordered, looks distinguished, but dissipated and self-indulgent. CHRISTIAN, d ressed elegantly, but a little unfashionably, seems preoccupied; his attention is fixed on the boxes, which he scans carefully.) SCENE II The Same. Christian, Ligniere; later, Ragueneau and Le Bret Cuigy: Ligniere! Brissaille (laughing) : Not fuddled yet? Ligniere (aside to Christian) : I may, you said? . . . (Christian nods assent.) Baron of Neuvillette (Bows acknowledgments.) The Hall (acclaiming the drawing up of the first lighted chan- delier) : Ah ! . . . Cuigy (to Brissaille, looking at Christian) : A charming head. First Marquis (who has heard) : Peuh! Ligniere (presenting to Christian): My lords of Cuig>', of Brissaille. Christian (boning): Enchanted! First Marquis (to Second): Handsomr enough, — but fashion somewhat scanted. Not the last word. ; Ligniere (to Cuigy) : Touraine, his native place. Christian : I have hardly been in Paris twenty days. I join the guards to-morrow as . . . First Marquis (giving his attention to the people who are com- ing into the boxes) : See there, — The wife of the Justice . . . The Waitress: Oranges! Milk! The Violins (tuning) : La lere. Cuigy (to Christian, indicating the rapidly filling room) : A rout. 218 PLJYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Christian: A goodly crowd. First Marquis : The world entire. (They name the ladies as they enter their boxes, dressed in the height of the fashion. There are greetings, smiles and bows.) Second AIarquis: Guemenee . . . Cuigy: Bois-Dauphin . . . First Marquis: Whom all admire. Brissaille: Chavigny . . . Second Marquis: Toys with all hearts,— the elf. Ligniere: Hola,— from Rouen, here's Corneille himself. The Young Man {to his father) : The Academy is here? Citizen: More than one member; Boudu, Boissat, and Cureau of the Chamber, Porcheres, Colomby, Bourdon and Arbaud, — All those immortals almost in a row. First Marquis: Attention! Look! Our Euphuists take their place, — Barthenoide, Felixerie, Cassandace. Second Marquis: Ah, how melodiously the surnames fall! You know them all, Marquis? First Marquis: Marquis, I know them all! Ligniere {taking Christian aside) : My boy, I came to render you a favor The lady lacks. So I will seek the savor Of my old vice. — Christian {appealing): Not yet! Ah, stay, to prove,— ^ — ■ You know the town, — for whom I die of love. First Violin {rapping on his rack with his bow) : Violins, all. {He lifts his bow.) Waitress: Citrons! Macaroons! Christian: Stay yet! She may be a fine lady; a coquette, — I dare not speak, I am not quick, — not bright; ; I get confused when smart folk talk or write. CYRANO OF BERGERAC 219 I'm just a timid soldier, — that is all. She sits there always, — 30nder empty stall. LiGNlERE {trying to break away) : I'm going. Christian {restraining him) : O, prithee, stay. LiGNiii'RE {laughing but determined) : O, you be cursed. Assoucy waits me. Here, one dies of thirst. The Waitress {passing with her tray) : Orangeade! LiGNiiiRE: Fie! Waitress: Milk! LiGNiiiRE: Pou-ee! Waitress ; Rivesalte ! LiGNiiiRE: Halt! (To Christian.) I'll stay a little. See you this rivesalte? {He sits down near the serving stand. The waitress pours the rivesalte for him.) Cries {as the audience recognizes a beaming, fat little man who enters): Ah, Ragueneau! LiGNiERE {to Christian) : The famous bake-shop master, Ra- gueneau. Ragueneau {dressed like a pastry cook in his Sunday-best, com- ing hurriedly up to Ligniere) : Sir, have you seen our master Cyrano? LiGNiiiRE {presenting Ragueneau to Christian) : The pastry cook of playwright and of poet. Ragueneau: You flatter, sir. Lignie:re: Maecenas! — all men know it! Ragueneau : These gentlemen do let me serve their need. Ligniere: On credit. He is poet, too. Ragueneau: Indeed They tell . . . LiGNii{RE: Daft over rhymes. Ragueneau: True, for an roundelay . . . Ligniere: You'd give a tart. Ragueneau: Oh, a plain tartlet, say! Ligniere: Good soul, he makes excuses. On my soul, For a triolet, he gives . . . 220 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Ragueneau {apologetically) : A roll . . . LiGNiERE {severely) : Milk roll. You love the theatre? Ragueneau : I idolize it. Ligniere: You pay your way, — ^Ah, I shall advertise it, — With pastry always. Tell us . . . what was mustered For to-day's entrance? Raguexeau: Fifteen puffs, with custard. My lord Cyrano lacks. I am surprised. Ligniere: But why? Ragueneau : Montfleury plays. Ligniere: I am advised That tun plaj's Phedon for us. Even so, What's that to Cyrano? Ragueneau: You did not know? He hates Montfleury, sir, and doth engage To keep him for four weeks from any stage. Ligniere {who is drinking his fourth little glass of rivesalte) : Ah, well? . . . Ragueneau : Montfleury plays. CuiGY {coining up with his party) : He can't help that. Ragueneau: Oh, oh, I've come to see. Christian: Who is this Cyrano? Cuigy: When 't comes to fencing, he knows all the cards. Second Marquis: Noble? Cuigy: Enough . . . commission in the Guards. {He indicates a gentleman ivho enters the hall, apparently looking for someone.) His friend, Le Bret, can tell you. {He calls.) LeBret! (Le Bret comes toivard them.) One sees You seek, — is it for Bergerac? Le Bret: Yes; I am not at ease. Cuigy: Am I not right, — he's not like everyone? Le Bret {tenderly) : The rarest, finest spirit 'neath the sun. Ragueneau: Rhymer . . . CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 221 Cuigy: And duellist . . . Brissaille: Physicist . . . Le Bret: Musician. Ligniere: What visage hetroclitical is his'n. Ragueneau: Certes, I think grave Philip of Champaigne Could never limn for us his portrait plain. Extravagant, eccentric, sensitive, droll, The great Jacque Callot, calling all the roll Of his mad fighters, could not rival him. Broad hat witli triple plume ; doublet a-trim, Six-pointed; cape uplifted by his sword, — Cocked like a rooster's tail upon my w^ord, — Prouder, i' faith, than any Artaban Of Gascony since Gascony began. His Punch's ruff surmounting, wondrous, shows A nose. O, sirs, what nose is that there nose! One can't see such a nose in any station, Not crying, "No, that's pure exaggeration." One thinks, "He'll dol¥ it. 'Tis a thing to doi?."— My lord of Bergerac don't take it off. Le Bret (shaking his head) : He wears, — and who remarks it, dares his hate. Ragueneau (proudly) : His rapier looks like half the shears of Fate. First Marquis (shrugging his shoulders) : He will not come. Ragueneau: Yes ... I will bet a hen Roasted by Ragueneau. The Marquis (laughing) : Done. (A jnurmur of admiration runs through the Hall. RoXANE enters her box. She sits dozen at the front, her chaperone takes the seat in the back of the box. Christian, occu- pied with paying the ivaitress, doesn't see her.) Second Marquis (with little affected cries) : Gentlemen! She's dreadfully delicious. First Marquis : Like a peach That smiles upon a cherry. 222 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Second Marquis: She can reach, — She is so fresh, — all hearts, — give each a cold. i^Christian (raising his head, sees RoxANE and grips Ligniere's // arms excitedly) : 'Tis she. LiGNlERE {sipping his rivesalte) : She, is it? Christian: Yes. Speak quick. I am overbold . . . Ligniere: Magdeleine Robin, whom they style Roxane, Euphuist, . . . Christian : Alas ! Ligniere: Orphan, unmarried, — cousin to the man Of whom we spoke, Cyrano. {At this 7noment a very elegant nobleman, wearing the order of the Holy Ghost on his breast, enters the box and, stand- ing, chats a moment with RoXANE.) Christian {trembling): Who is that? Ligniere {who is getting decidedly drunk, winking): Tee-hee! The Count of Guiche, but married, do you see, To the niece of Richelieu. His heart's desire Is to wed Roxane to a gloomy squire, — My Lord of Valvert, — viconte, — feeble stuff. It irks her, yet this Guiche has power enough To persecute a simple citizen, I watched his sly manoeuvering, — and then, I put it in a ballad, — Oh, my eye, It's naughty! — Lemme shing it. {He rises, staggering, glass lifted, ready to sing.) Christian : No. Good-bye. Ligniere: Going? Christian : To seek this Valvert. Ligniere: Have a care. He'll kill you. . . . Stay. Somebody's looking. There. {He just indicates RoXANE.) Christian: It is true. {He stands, gazing. The group of cut-purses, seeing him stand, head lifted, lips parted, draw closer.) LiGNiiiRE: 'Tis I who go. I'm thirsty. Frien's 'II get CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 223 Tired, waitin' round in taverns. . . . {lie goes out, staggering.) Le Bret {ivho has made the rounds of the hall, returning to Ragueneau, and speaking cheerfully) : No Cyrano, Ragueneau (incredulous) : And yet . . . Le Bret: I almost hope he hasn't seen the board. The Hall: Begin! Begin! SCENE III The Same, without Ligniere; The Count of Guiche; Valvert; later, Montfleury A Marquis (seeing the Count of Guiche, who leaves Rox- ane's box and crosses the pit, surrounded by obsequious noblemen, among whom is the Viscount of Valvert) : He has his court, my word! Another: Ff . . . Still a Gascon. First Marquis: But adroit, and cold, — That kind succeeds. Come, let us join the fold. (They go toward the Count of Guiche.) Second Marquis : My Lord, your ribbons make a goodly show, — Is the shade "Kiss-me-love," or "flank-of-doe"? Guiche: The shade is called "Dying-Spaniard." First Marquis: Good. The shade Lies not, — because, sir, with your doughty aid We drive the foe in Flanders, Guiche: I am ready To mount the stage. Coming? (He goes toward the stage, folloived by the marquises and other noblemen. He turns and calls) : Valvert! Christian (who has heard and watched the party, trembles at hearing that name) : Valvert, said he? Oh, in his face I'll hurl . . . (He puts his hand in his pocket and meets the hand of a cut- purse, in the act of robbing him.) What's this? I planned To pluck my glove out . . . 224 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Cut-Purse {ruefully) : And you plucked a hand. {In a different tone and speaking quick and low.) Loose me, — I'll tell a secret. Christian {still holding him) : What? The Cut-Purse: Ligniere, Who left you . . . Christian : Eh ? Cut-Purse : Best patter his last prayer. He made a song, touching great folk. He blundered. A hundred men, — I'm one — will lie in wait . . . Christian: A hundred? Who plots this thing? The Cut-Purse: Sir, one must use discretion. Christian {shrugging his shoulders) : Oh! . . . The Cut-Purse {with dignity) : One has the ethics, sir, of one's profession. Christian: Where do they lurk? Cut-Purse: Nesle Gate; dark as a cavern. Best warn him, sir. Christian {loosing his hold of the fellow's wrist) : Where find him? The Cut-Purse: Why, at any tavern. Gold Wine-Press, Fir-Cone, Bursting-Belt, Two-Links. Leave warning in them all. In all, he drinks. A written word would be the safest plan. Christian: I go. The knaves! A hundred, 'gainst one man! {He looks longingly at RoxANE.) To leave her, . . . her! {Furiously, looking at Valvert.) And him. But I must save Ligniere. {He goes out, running. The Count of Guiche, the vis- count, the marquises and all the fashionable gentlemen have disappeared behind the curtain of the stage, to take their places on the benches ranged along the wings. The pit is completely filled. Not an empty place in stalls or galleries. ) CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 225 The Hall: Begin! A Citizen (whose wig is suddenly lifted on a hook from a line thrown by one of the pages in the gallery): My wig! Cries of Mirth: A rather sudden shave. Bravo! Ha-ha-ha! The Citizen {raging and shaking his fist) : Theft! Rapine! Violence ! (Laughter and shouting, which begins noisily and then dies azvay.) Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha! (Silence.) Le Bret (mystified) : This sudden silence? (A spectator whispers something in his ear) : Ah? The Spectator (importantly) : I have it on the best authority. (Whispers run through the hall) : No. Yes. Box with the grill. Yes — no — 'tis he. The Cardinal! Cardinal? The Cardinal! A Page : The devil, — now we'll have no fun at all ! (A rap upon the stage. Everybody is quiet.) Voice of a Marquis (in the stillness, behind the curtain) : Snuff that candle. Another (poking his head between the curtain folds) : Fetch a chair. (A chair is handed from hand to hand above the heads of the audience. The marquis takes it and his head disappears, not before he has thrown a few kisses toward the boxes.) A Spectator (testily): Silence. Si-lence! (The three strokes are heard. The curtains are drawn apart. The marquises are sitting along the sides of the stage in studied poses. The setting shows a pastoral scene in soft tones of blue. Four little crystal lustres light the scene. The violins play softly.) Le Bret (whispering to Ragueneau) : Montfleury enters? Ragueneau (low) : Yes; he will commence. Le Bret: Cyrano is not here. Ragueneau: I lose, you see! 226 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Le Bret : So much the better ! (Sound of shepherds' pipes. Montfleury appears, enor- mous, in a shepherd's costume, a choplet of roses tipped over one ear, and bloiving be-ribboned pipes.) The Pit {applauding): Montfleury! Montfleury! IVIoNTFLEURY : How happy he who lives out all his days Far from the court, — akin to Nature's ways, JVho hears the voice of Zephyr when she speaks. A Voice {from the middle of the pit) : Knave, you were interdicted for four weeks, {Stupefaction. Everybody turns. Murmurs.) Divers Voices: Hey? What? What's that? Cuigy: 'Tis he. Le Bret {terrified): Cyrano! The Voice: King of clowns, I tell You, leave the stage. All THE Hall {indignant) : Oh! Montfleury: But . . . but . . . The Voice: You rebel? Divers Voices {from pit and stalls) : '*'^'' Tut tut! Montfleury, play! You have no need To be afraid! Montfleury {in a voice that lacks conviction) : How happy he who lives out all . . . The Voice {more menacing) : . Indeed? Do you desire, in face of these beholders. To feel my stick about your padded shoulders? {A cane upheld by a long arm waves above the heads in the pit.) Montfleury {in a voice that grows ever feebler): How hap . . . The Voice: Begone! The Pit: Oh! Montfleury {choking) : Lives out, unafraid . . . Cyrano {rising from the pit, stands on his chair, erect, arms CYRANO OF BERGERAC 227 folded, plumed hat in battle array, moustache bristling, nose terrible) : I shall be angry soon. {Sensation when the hall sees him.) SCENE IV The Same. Cyrano; later, Bellerose, Jodelet MoNTFLEURY (/o the marquises) : Sirs, to nij' aid! Good sirs! . . . A Marquis (coolly) : Go on and play. Cyrano: Begone! You pause? Fat friend, I may be forced to box your jawS. Marquises: Enough! Cyrano: If any Marquis speak again, His ribbon shall be fluttered by my cane. All the Marquises (rising) : This is too much! Montfleury! Cyrano : Montfleury goes, — Lest I cut off his ears and slash his nose. A Voice: But . . . Cyrano: He goes . . . Another Voice: Really . . . Cyrano: He dares to stop? (With a gesture as if rolling up his sleeves.) I'll set the stage, then, as a cleaver's shop. I'll carve this sausage, stuffed in Italy. Montfleury: You insult Thalia, in insulting me. Cyrano (very politely) : If the Muse knew^ you, sir, — who knows you not, — I think you'd wish yourself once more forgot. Seeing you shaped so like an upturned bowl. She would chastise you with her buskin's sole. The Pit: Montfleury! O, Montfleury! Baro's play! Cyrano (to those about him) : Have pity on my scabbard, friends, T pray. He's clinging to his mistress, but I fear . . . (The circle widens.) 22S PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Crowd {recoiling)'. He! La! Cyrano {to Montfleury) : Begone! The Crowd {surging closer, angrily) : Oh! Oh! Cyrano {turning quickly) : Who is that I hear? {A fresh retreat.) A Voice {in the back of the hall, singing) : Cyrano of Bergerac Bully and tease; Though his permission lack, We'll have Clorise! All the Hall {singing) : We'll have Clorise! Cyrano: Unless that song immediately is dumb, I'll slay you all. A Citizen: Aha, has Samson come? Cyrano: To make the test, lend me your jaw-bone, friend. A Lady {from her stall) : Unheard of . . . A Gentleman : Scandalous . . . A Citizen: This thing must end. A Page: A lovely time! . . . The Pit: K . . s . . s! Montfleury! Cyrano! Cyrano: Silence! The Pit {deliriously): Hew-haw! buzz-z-z! S-s-st! Cocorico! Cyrano: I bid . . . A Page: Miauw! Cyrano: I bid you hold your tongue. I challenge all the pit, both old and young. I'll write the names and take the numbers here. Heroes, approach. You see . . . the way is clear. You, sir? No? You? To the first duellist, The honour due to him who heads a list. All who seek death have but to speak the word. {Silence.) Too modest, eh — to see a naked sword? Well, to my task. A swelling, inflammation. Infects the stage. . . . Perhaps . . . {He fingers his sword.) ... an operation. . . . Montfleury: I . . . CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 229 Cyrano {coming down off his chair, scats himself as if he were at his own fireside, in the middle of the circle that has formed around him) : I shall clap thrice, Full Moon. When I have done, Eclipse yourself. The Pit {amused) : Ah, ho, ho, ho, ho! Cyrano {clapping his hands) : One. Montfleury: I . . . A Voice {from the stalls) : Stay! The Pit: He'll stay! ... He won't! . . . Montfleury: Woe's me! I thinic, sirs, . . . Cyrano : Two. Montfleury: 'Twere really wiser . . . Cyrano: Three! (Montfleury disappears as if the floor had opened and swallowed him. A storm of laughter, howls and hisses.) Ho, ho ! Coward ! Come back ! Cyrano {turns and crosses his arms) : If he should dare re- turn . . . A Citizen: Our orator! (Bellerose comes forward and bows.) The Boxes: Bellerose! Bellerose {with elegance) : Sirs, you shall learn . . . The Pit: No! Jodclct! Go back! JoDELET {comes forward; he speaks with a nasal drawl) : You flock of sheep . . . The Pit: Ah, ha! Bravo! Bravo! Jodelet: Aye, now you cheep! ' Our paunchy actor, whom you love, — Alack, Is driven . . . The Pit: Coward! Jodelet: Forced . . . The Pit: Let him come back! Voices: Come back! Some: No! 230 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Others : Yes ! A Young Man (to Cyrano) : It's all so puzzling; Why do you hate Montfleur? Cyrano: Why, young gosling? I have two reasons. Either would suffice. Primo, an actor having every vice Of manner, breathing, voice. He mouths his words; Heaves up on winches Avhat should fly like birds. Secundo, — that's my secret! The Old Citizen (ivith the son) : Have you not any Shame, — to deprive us of Clorisef Cyrano {turning, respectfully) : Old jennet, Old Baro's verses are not worth a — zero. Ruthless, I interrupt. The Euphuists {from the stall) : Ah, shame! Our Baro! My dear. . . . Could any one . . . Cyrano {turning his chair toiuard the boxes, gallantly) : Ye radiant ones. Cup-bearers of our dreams, — flowers, stars, and suns, Beneath whose smiles, death's pangs were all forgot, Inspire our verses still, — but judge them not! Bellerose: What of the money? Cyrano {turning his chair toward the stage) : Bellerose, I say, That's the first word of sense I've heard to-day. Tear not the Thespian robe to which we clung! {lie stands up and tosses a bag to the stage.) So catch this as it flies, and hold your tongue. The Hall (^rtzz/^r/): Oh! Ah! JoDELET {catching it and feeling its weight) : At this rate, sir, be quite at ease. Come every evening to forbid Clorise. The Hall: Ho! Ha! Jodelet: Though none of us should be allowed to start. Bellerose: Well, well, let's clear the hall. Jodelet: Let all depart. CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 231 ( The audience drifts away, Cyrano watching contentedly. But the dispersing crowd is checked by the episode uhich follows, and their departure is arrested. The ladies in the stalls, already standing and putting on their wraps, stop to listen and finally take their seats again.) Le Bret {to Cyrano) : What folly! A Churl {approaching Cyrano): Our comedian! What a scandal ! He is protected by the Duke of Candal. Have you a patron? Cyrano: No. Churl: You haven't? Cyrano : No. Churl: What, no great nobleman to shield you? So? Cyrano {exasperated) : No, I've twice told you. You'd have thrice, no less? Nay, — no protector. {Ele puts his hand on his sword) But a protectress. The Churl: But you will quit the town? Cyrano: That's as I will. The Churl: The great Duke's arm is long. Cyrano: But longer still Is mine when {he touches his sword) I have made it so extreme. The Churl: You would not dream of daring . . . Cyrano: I would dream. The Churl: But . . . Cyrano: Turn on your heel and march. The Churl: But . . . Cyrano: Turn your toes. — Or tell me why you are looking at my nose. The Churl {panic-stricken) : I . . . Cyrano {marching up to him) : Is it amazing? The Churl {shrinking back) : Your grace mistook my glance. Cyrano: Is it pliant, wavering, — like an elephant's? The Churl {same) : N-n-no. 232 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano : Or like an owl's beak do you see it bend ? The Churl: But . . . Cyrano : You discern a wart upon its end ? The Churl: Nay . . . Cyrano: Perchance, a fly that promenades withal? Is't hetrolitic? The Churl: Oh! . . . Cyrano : Phenomenal ? The Churl: I was so careful not to look, God knows. Cyrano: And why, sir, if you please, not see my nose? The Churl: I have . . . Cyrano : Then it disgusts you? The Churl: Sir . . . Cyrano: In doubtful taste You find its colour? The Churl: Sir . . . Cyrano: Its form debased? The Churl: Oh, not at all. Cyrano: Then what's the fault you charge? You find my nose, belike, a little large? The Churl {gibbering) : I find it very little, — small and wee. Cyrano : Hey ? What ? Accuse me of such idiocy ? Little? My nose? Hola! The Churl: 'Faith! . . . Cyrano: My enormous nose. Vile flat-nose, flat-head, man-wlthout-a-nose, Learn, — this appendage fills my heart with pride, For in a large nose always, is descried A nature affable and wise and good Liberal, courageous. Be it understood, — Of all the qualities you dare not claim, — You filthy knave, face dedicate to shame That should be grateful if I make it smart. Equally void . . . {He cuffs him.) The Churl: Ouch! . . . Cyrano: Of grace, of lyric art, CYRANO OF BERGERAC 233 Of vividness, — of all that shines or glows, Of richness, glory, — in a word of Nose — {He whirls him about by the shoulders, fitting the action to the ivord.) As . . . what my booted foot shall swiftly find. The Churl: Help! Help! The Guard! Cyrano: Let churls keep that in mind, Who find the middle of my face a joke. To noble jesters, — unlike meaner folk, — I give, e'er knight and knave escape together, — An inch of steel, and not a foot of leather. The Count of Guiche {coming down with the marquises) : He tires one, in the end. Viscount of Valvert {shrugging his shoulders) : The fellow blusters. Guiche: None musters wit to answer, Valvert: No one musters So much of spirit? Watch me. Let's make merry. {He goes toward Cyrano and stares at him with a fatuous air. ) You have a nose ... a nose ... a big nose. Cyrano {gravely): Very. The Viscount {laughing) : Hee-hee! Cyrano {imperturbable) : Is that all? The Viscount: Well . . . Cyrano: You are curtailed, young man. One might say . . . Oh, good Lord, if one began, — Varying the tone; come, let us just suppose, — Aggressive: "Sir, if I had such a nose, I'd cut it off, so much 'twould cut me up." Friendly: "It oft must plunge, sir, in your cup; — Best make a goblet of a special shape." Descriptive : " 'Tis a rock, — a cliff, — a cape. A cape, quotha? Surely a promontory." Curious: "What is that thing, — let's have the story, — 234 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND A tool box, or, perhaps a writing case?" Gracious: "You must love birds to have a place Paternally prepared, — I call it sweet, — To make a safe perch for their tiny feet." Truculent: "Sir, be careful when you smoke, Lest you make trouble for all honest folk, — Lest neighbors run and cry, 'A chimney fire !' " Careful: "Pray hold your head a little higher, Else such a weight will surely make you fall." Solicitous: "Sir, take a parasol. Lest its bright hue be faded by the sun." Pedantic: "Aristophanes knew one, — H ippocampelephantecamelos Was made to carry, certes, such a nose." Lightly: "Why, friend, a most commodious rack To hang one's hat, — where space will never lack." Emphatic: "Fierce Euroclydon, behold, Needs all his power to give that nose a cold." Dramatic: " 'Tis the Red Sea when it bleeds." Admiring: " 'Tis the sign the chemist needs." Lyric: "A conche and you a triton, say?" Simple: "A monument. When's visiting day?" Respectful: "Come, the landed gentry greet. Here's one who has a gable on the street." Rustic: "Why look-a-here. A nose? I tell 'un 'Tis a prize turnip, — or a stunted melon." Soldierly: "Charge, heavy artillery." Practical : "Put it in the lottery. Assuredly 'twould be, sir, the Grand Prize." Or, last, like Pyramus, with streaming eyes: "No wonder that nose blushes; — wicked traitor Who mars his master, shaming his Creator." Here are a few things, sir, you might have said, Had you or wit or learning. But instead. You wretched fop who trifle with your betters, You have no spark of wit; — and as for letters, CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 235 You have just four, to write you down a fool. Had you one grain, from n.iturc or from school, Before these galleries 30U might have played With some such fancies as myself displayed ; — — But not the fourth part of them all have spoke, Nay, nor the half of one, — for I may joke. Jest, as my mood or mockery may nerve me, — But as I serve myself let no man serve me. GuiCHE {seeking to lead the petrified viscount away) : Viscount, come away. Valvert: But, heavens above. This ruffian . . . why ... he hasn't even a glove; He has no ribbons, ... no rosettes ... no laces. Cyrano: Sir, it is on my soul I wear my graces. I'm not bedizened like a silly lad. I go, less gaily, but more nobly, clad. I walk not forth in garments carelessly Cleaned of affronts or stains. There walks with me No conscience blear-eyed, blinking at the day, No honour frayed, no scruples in decay. When I go forth all sparkles in the light. I am beplumed with freedom and my right. Not my pinched waist must make my best appeal. It is my soul that goes locked up in steel. Exploits I wear, not ribbons for my part, No curled moustaches, but uplifted heart. One man who walks among you still prefers Music of ringing truth to ringing spurs. The Viscount: But, sir . . . Cyrano: I have no gloves? A great affair! I still have one, sir, of an ancient pair. I found its fellow useful in like case. I threw it, for a cause, in someone's face. The Viscount: Braggart and rascal! Flat foot! Head of cheese ! 236 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano {taking off his hat and bowing low, as if acknowledging an introduction) : Ah? . . . And I, Cyrano Savien Hercules Of Bergerac. (Laughter.) The Viscount (exasperated) : Buffoon. Cyrano (crying out as if something hurt him): Ouch! Ouch! The Viscount (who had turned and was walking away, turn- ing to Cyrano) : What? Is there more to come? Cyrano (ivith grimaces of pain) : I've got to help her out. She has grown numb. That shows you it's a foolish thing to keep . . . Ouch! . . . The Viscount: What's amiss? Cyrano: My sword has gone to sleep! The Viscount (draiving his own) : So be it. Cyrano: I've a stroke, — a charming thing. Viscount (scornfully): Poet! Cyrano: Yes, poet, fencing as I sing. While the steel clashes, I shall improvise A ballad. The Viscount: A ballad. Cyrano : You show surprise ? You don't know what that is? Viscount: But . . . Cyrano (like a pedagogue) : A ballad, know, Must have three stanzas of eight lines; also The rule requires an envoy, having four. Viscount (stamping with rage) : You ... Cyrano: I'll make a ballad, fighting you; and more, I'll pink you on the last line. Viscount: No. Cyrano: No? Let's see;— (Declaiming) The Ballad of the Battle of the Hotel Bur- gundy,— My Lord Cyrano lends a braggart fame. CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 237 Viscount: What do you think that is? Cyrano: The ballad's name. The Hall {excited to the highest pitch) : Give place! Oh, most amusinj^! . . . Make a ring! {A circle of curious onlookers; marquises and officers min- gling with citizens and simple folk; pages climbing on shoulders to see better; all the ladies standing in their stalls. On the right, the Count of Guiche and his followers. Left, Le Bret, Ragueneau, Cuigy, etc.) Cyrano {closing his eyes for a second) : Wait. ... I must choose my rhymes. . . . The very thing. . . . {He fits action to rhyme and rhythm.) My plumed hat aside I throw; Swiftly my mantle is undone; Lightly I cast it from me, so ; And I unsheath my espadon. Graceful, superb, as Celadon ; Agile as Scaramouch, I scutch. I warn you fairly, mirmydon. At the envoy's end, I touch. Better that unprovoked I go. Where were the pinking best begun? The brave, slashed sleeve above, . . . below? The heart, beneath the blue cordon? The merry music has begun. A pretty volt, — not overmuch. That drum it would resound upon. There, at the envoy, I touch. O for a rhyme, a rhyme in O. Your cheek is white. Its colours run. My rhyme, this pallor that you show. You thought to thrust, thou hapless one? 238 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND I parry, — broach, — the trick is done. Thy needle hold in careful clutch, — Thy basting needle, Laridon. At the envoy's end, I touch, (He announces solemnly) : Prince, be thy latest prayer begun. I shift in carte. . . . My feint is such. And such my lunge. . . . Hola, 'tis done. (The viscount reels. Cyrano salutes.) At the envoy's end, I touch. (Accla/nation. Applause from the boxes. Flowers and handkerchiefs flutter down. Officers crowd around and felicitate Cyrano. Ragueneau dances with enthusiasm. Le Bret is happy, but uneasy. The friends of the vis- count support him and lead him away.) The Crowd (with a long breath) : Ah! A Trooper : Superb ! A Lady: Pretty! Ragueneau : Phenomarvelous ! A Marquis: New! Le Bret: Madness! {A throng about Cyrano. One catches the words) : Felicitations! . . . Bravo! . . . You Are splendid ! A Woman's Voice: A hero! A Musketeer {advancing toward Cyrano, his hand extended eagerly) : Sir, if you permit, 'Twas well done. And I know the game a bit. I never stamped so hard. It made me cheer. {He goes off.) Cyrano {to Cuigy) : Who's that? Cuigy: That? That's Artagnan, the Musketeer. Le Bret {to Cyrano, taking his arm) : A talk. . . . Cyrano: Wait till the rabble leaves. I tire of this. {To Bellerose) : May I stay? CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 239 Bellerose {respectfully) : Yes ... {One hears a tiunult and cries without.) JODELET {looking out): Montflcury . . . whom they hiss! Bellerose {solemnly) : Sic transit. {Changing his tone, as he speaks to the porter, the candle- snuffer) Sweep. Lock up. But leave the light. There is a new farce to rehearse to-night. Just long enough to dine we toilers pause. (Jodelet and Bellerose go out, after having bowed pro- foundly to Cyrano.) Porter {to Cyrano) : You do not dine, sir? Cyrano : I ? No. {The porter goes out.) Le Bret {to Cyrano) : Why? Cyrano {haughtily) : Because . . . {Seeing that the porter is out of hearing.) I have no money. Le Bret {making a gesture of tossing something) : What you tossed away? Cyrano: Paternal pension perished in a day. Le Bret: How will you live this month? Ah, do arrest your Folly. Thrown away! What madness! Cyrano: What a gesture! The Waitress {coughing, behind her little counter) : Hum . . . (Cyrano and Le Bret turn. She comes forward shyly.) Sir ... to know you fast ... it makes me wild. . . . {Showing her stand.) Here, sir, is all you want. . . . Please . . . Cyrano: You dear child. Although my Gascon pride forbids my taking From your kind hands one morsel of your making, I fear lest I should wound your generous heart. I shall accept, then . . . {He goes to the booth and makes his selection.) Of these grapes, a part. {She urges htm to take the cluster. He takes a grape.) 240 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Just one. . . . This glass of water. {She tries to pour ivine in the glass, he checks her.) . . . Clear. And, willy nilly, Half of this macaroon. {She tries to rnake him take a plate of cakes; he breaks one in half and puts part of it back on the plate.) Le Bret: But this is silly! The Waitress: Oh, something more ... Cyrano: Yes, — your kind hand to kiss. {He kisses, as if it had been that of a princess, the hand she holds out to him.) The Waitress: I thank you, sir. {She curtsies.) Good night. {She goes out.) SCENE V Cyrano; Le Bret; later, the Porter Cyrano : While eating this, I'll hear thy scolding. {He sits down at the booth and arranges before him his maC' aroon.) Dinner. {The glass of water.) Refreshment. {The grape.) Dessert. I shall dine . . . O Lord, this giant appetite of mine. Thou sayst? . . . Le Bret: I say, thou dost thy nature wrong, Being swayed by such a swaggering, braggart throng. If we sought men of sense, they could inform us The true effect of acts like this. Cyrano {finishing his macaroon) : Enormous. Le Bret: The Cardinal . . . Cyrano {beaming) : The Cardinal was there? Le Bret: He must have found . . . Cyrano: The entertainment fair. Le Bret: But . . . CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 241 Cyrano: He is an author. 'Tis no playwright's way To mind the ruin of another's play. Le Bret: Truly, thou mak'st too many enemies. Cyrano {beginning to eat his grape) : How many for this evening, an it please? Le Bret: Forty, — without the ladies. Cyrano: Come, the count. Le Bret: Montfleury, the old man, son, Guiche, the Count, Baro, the Academy . . . Cyrano: Enough I am satisfied. Le Bret: Where will it lead at last, this foolish pride? What is tliy aim? Cyrano : In labyrinths I wandered ; On diverse parts my divers gifts were squandered. I choose . . . Le Bret: Eh, which? Cyrano: This; — Let what will befall Always I will be admirable, in all. Le Bret {shrugging his shoulders) : So be it. But, in confidence between us, Why do you hate Montfleury? Cyrano : That Silenus Thinks he's a lady-killer. And he tries To cast carp's eyes, with his popped bull-frog's eyes. I hate him since he dared to let them seek One day . . . one moment . . . my dear lady's cheek. Methought I saw a loathly fat slug move Upon a rose. Le Bret {stupefied) : Can it be . . . Cyrano {ivith a bitter laugh) : That I love? {Changing his tone, and gravely.) I love. Le Bret: And may thy friend know what thou hast so hidden? Cyrano: Whom I love? Nay. . . . Look! think! I am for- bidden To dream of love how plain soe'er she be, — My nose arrives so long ahead of me. 242 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Whom do I love then? 'Tis in vain I strive, — I love, — even I, — the loveliest maid alive. Le Bret: The loveliest? . . . Cyrano: Quite simply, 'neath the sun. Most brilliant, finest, {With deep dejection) And the fairest one. Le Bret: Ah, God, who is this lady? Cyrano: Mortal danger, Unwitting; fair; to vanity a stranger; Nature's own snare ; a moss rose, set apart Whence love in ambush wings his deadliest dart. Who sees her smile has seen a perfect thing. She gives a grace to nothing, — everything; Divinities in her least gesture dwell. Not thou, O Venus, rising from thy shell, Nor thou, Diana, in thy woodland, fair As she in Paris in her sedan chair. Le Bret: Sapristi! It is clear. Cyrano: Transparent man. Le Bret: Thy cousin, Magdeleine Robin? Cyrano: Yes, Roxane. Le Bret: Thou lovest her? Tell her! For I do surmise Thou art to-day a hero in her eyes. Cyrano: Nay. Shall I woo the loveliest maid in France, — Look at me, friend, — with this protuberance? Ah, I have no illusions. Though in faith. Sometimes, enchanted by the twilight's breath I walk in gardens; smell the dew-wet rose — Yes, with my poor big devil of a nose, — I breathe Spring's magic. 'Neath a silver ray I watch a lover and a maiden stray; I dream, even I, of walking 'neath that beam, Loving, beloved, scarce moving. As I dream My soul expands, exults, — but soars to fall. I see my profile shadowed on the wall. Le Bret {moved) : My friend. CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 243 Cyrano: I have bad moments, friend. Sometimes I keep Apart, knowing myself so ugly and . . . Le Bret {tenderly, seizing his hand) : You weep? Cyrano: No, never that. Ah, how could you suppose I would let a tear roll down this length of nose? Never will I, so long as I am master, Let beauty so divine meet such disaster, — Ugliness mar perfection. There appears Upon this earth naught more sublime than tears, I would submit to torture, on my word, Rather than make a single tear absurd. Le Bret: Love is a hazard always. Wiiy despair? Cyrano: Loving Nile's sorceress, have I Caesar's air? Adoring Berenice, am I Titus? Le Bret: Thy courage, man! Thy wit! Say, — did she slight us The little one who spread your modest feast? Thou art not hateful in her eyes at least. Cyrano {impressed) : That's true. Le Bret: Well, then. I, too, saw Roxane quail, Turn pale to watch thy duel. Cyrano: Roxane . . . pale? Le Bret: Hearts follow oft where admiration goes. Speak to her. Speak. Cyrano: If she should mock my nose? No! That's the only thing on earth I fear. The Porter {who admits someone, to Cyrano) : Sir, someone seeks . . . Cyrano {seeing Roxane's duenna): God! Her duenna, here! SCENE VI Cyrano, Le Bret, the Duenna The Duenna {zcith a profound curtsey) : To her brave cousin, one sends greeting, who Wishes in secret to see him. Cyrano {overwhelmed) : See me? 244 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Duenna {with another curtsey) : Yes, jou. Since one has things to tell you. Cyrano: Th . . . things? The Duenna {bobbing another curtsey) : To say. Cyrano {trembling) : Lord God! The Duenna: One goes to-morrow at the first pink ray Of dawn, to hear mass at St. Roche. Cyrano {leaning on Le Bret for support) : Lord Godi . . . to pray. . . . Duenna: On coming out, where may one speak a word? Cyrano {babbling) -. '\N\\tr^'^. . . . I . . . God . . . where? O my Lord! ... Duenna : Say quickly. Cyrano: I . . . am thinking . . . I . . . am bound . . . Duenna: Where? Cyrano: . . . Ragueneau, . . . the . . . pastry cook's. . . . Duenna: And he is found? . . . Cyrano: What street? — St. Honore. — My God! I swear . . . The Duenna {withdrawing) : At seven, then. Be there. Cyrano: Yes . . . I'll be there. {The duenna goes out.) SCENE VII Cyrano, Le Bret; later, the Actors, Cuigy, Brissaille, LiGNiERE; Porter, Violins Cyrano {falling into Le Bret's arms) : Me ... to meet her ! Le Bret: Eh did I not insist? Cyrano : She knows, — at least she knows, that I exist. Le Bret: And now thou wilt be calm? Cyrano: Now I will be Frantic and fulminating, fearless, free. A bannered army could not fright me now. I have ten hearts and twenty arms I vow. Give me not dwarfs . . . CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 245 (He cries aloud.) Give giants to disperse. (In the background, the stage has been filling with players, who move about, zvhispering; they begin reciting their lines; the violins take their places.) A Voice: Silence, in front. We're going to rehearse. Cyrano (laughing) : We are going, (He goes up, just as the great door at the back partly opens and admits CuiGY, Brissaille^ and a number of officers, who support LiGNlERE, who is helplessly, completely, drunk.) Cuigy: CjTano! Cyrano: What's this? Cuigy: Well may'st thou stare, — Drunk as an owl. Cyrano (recognizing him): Hola! What's wrong, Ligniere? Cuigy: He sought thee. Brissaille : For he can't go home. Cyrano: Why not? Ligniere (thickly, and displaying a crumpled bit of paper) : Thish letter sash ... a hundred ... a great lot, Lyin' in wait; . . . don't like that song of mine. At the Nesle Gate. . . .I'm sleepy. Can't get mine, So I'll take thy bed, if thou'lt gimme room. Cyrano: A hundred men? Nay, thou shalt sleep at home! Ligniere (startled) : But . . . Cyrano (in a terrible voice, pointing to the link held by the por- ter, who has stopped to listen) : Take that light. (Ligniere seizes it precipitately.) And march. For I have said I'll be your shelter. I will make your bed. (To the officers.) Come ye, as witnesses. But do not press. Cuigy: A hundred! Cyrano: I to-night could meet no less. (The players, coming doivn from the stage, in divers cos- tumes, crowd around.) 246 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Le Bret: But why protect . . . Cyrano : Le Bret, who scolds at once ! Le Bret: This drunken fool? Cyrano : Because this drunken dunce, This keg of wine, this sodden liquor tun, Once, in my sight, a pretty thing has done. Coming from Mass, he saw his mistress take Some holy water, and for her sweet sake. He, — who fears water, — to the font did fly And bravely bent his head and drank it dry. An Actress (costumed as an Abigail) : Ah, that was gentle. Cyrano: Was 't not, Abigail? The Actress {to the others) : But why five score to make one poet quail? Cyrano : Forward ! And you, sirs, who shall see me fight, I charge you come not nigh, whate'er my plight. Another Actress {jumping from the stage) : I am going to see. Cyrano: Come. Another {leaping from the stage, to an older actor) : Come thou, Cassander. Cyrano: Come all, the Doctor, Isabelle, Leander. Come, charming, motley multitude! We'll see Italian farce with Spanish tragedy. To our alarums add your raptures keen, As tinkling bells surround a tambourine. All the Actresses {in a joyful flurry) : A mantle! Quick, my hood! The play begins. Jodelet: We'll go. Cyrano {to the orchestra) : Come, play an air, ye violins. ( The violins join the procession that is forming. Somebody snatches the lighted candles from the sconces that make the footlights. It becomes a torchlight parade.) Bravo. The soldiers, players in costume, And twenty paces in advance . . . {He goes forward as he speaks) My plume. Above my brow let flames of glory flicker, — CYRANO OF BERGERAC 247 Prouder than Scipio and thrice Nasica! 'Tis understood ? No man shall aid me, more Than by his presence. Now . . , fling wide the door. ( The porter throws the great door open. A corner of old Paris is seen in the dim moonlight.) Paris before us, wrapped in veils of mist, Her sloping roofs by passing moonbeams kissed. Exquisite frame for our heroic scene. The Seine below, though mists may intervene, Lies like a magic mirror, tremblingly Waiting, like you, to see — what you shall see! All: To the Nesle Gate! Cyrano {erect on the threshold) : To the Nesle Gate! All: Nesle Gate! Cyrano (before starting, he turns to the actress, Abigail) : I think, my dear, 'twas you who asked of late Why five score cut-throats on one many attend ? (He draws his sword, and, tranquilly) : 'Twas known the rhymer had me for a friend. (He goes out. The procession, with LlGNiiiRE zigzagging at the head, then the actresses on the arms of the officers, then the actors pranking as they go, marches into the night, to the music of the violins and illuminated by the flickering brightness of the candles.) (Curtain) ACT II The Poet's Bake Shop The shop of Ragueneau, roaster and pastry cook. A great kitchen at the intersection of St. Honor e and Abre Sec. Seen through the glass panes in the door, at the back, the streets are gray in the first light of dawn. In the foreground, at the left, a counter is surmounted by a stand of wrought iron, from which depend geese, ducks, and white peacocks. In big crockery vases are cojnmon garden flowers, chiefly sunfloivers. On the same side, farther back, a huge fireplace, in front of which, between ?nonstrous andirons on each of ivhich is a small kettle, roasts turn and sizzle into dripping-pans. At the right, front, a door. Farther back, a staircase leads to a tiny dining-room under the roof, a little room ivhose interior is seen through the open shutters; a table is set and a tiny Flemish lustre is lighted. A wooden gallery, folloiuing the staircase, seems to lead to other little dining-rooms. In the middle of the shop, an iron ring hung with game may be lifted or lowered, by a chain. The ovens glow in the shadows under the staircase. Copper gleams. The spits turn. Pastries in pyramids. Hams hung from hooks. It is the busy hour when the ovens arc heated hottest. A swarm of scared scullions, fat cooks and little 'prentices. A sea of caps bedecked with chicken feathers or guinea ivings. On great pieces of sheet iron, or in wicker trays, are quantities of pastries and fancy dishes of all kinds. Tables are spread with platters of cakes and rolls. Some, with chairs placed, await their guests. A little table in a corner is covered with a mass of papers. Ragueneau is discovered there, as the curtain rises. He is writing. 248 CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 249 SCENE I Ragueneau; Cooks and 'Prentices; later, LiSE. Ragueneau, at the little table, writing with a rapt air and counting on his fingers. First Cook {shoiving a mounted piece) : Almond cakes! Second Cook {bringing a mold) : Custard. Third Cook {bringing a roast dish decked with feathers) : Peacock. Fourth Cook {carrying a tray) : Brown roast. Fifth Cook {bringing an earthenware dish) : Stew. Ragueneau {quits writing and raises his head) : Upon the saucepans gleams the dawn anew. Stifle, my soul, thy song, the gods' best dower. The lute's hour passes, — 'tis the oven's hour. {He stands up. To a cook.) A dust of flour. That pastry is too short. The Cook: How much? Ragueneau: Two feet. {He passes, leaving the cook staring after him and saying) : Huh? First Pastry Cook: A tartlet. Second Cook: A new sort. Ragueneau {standing in front of the fireplace) : Depart, my Muse. I pray thee now retire, Lest thy sweet eyes be reddened by my fire. {To a pastry cook, pointing to some fancy pastry) You have misplaced the dent in all these dishes. Ceasura falls between the hemistiches. {To another, showing an imperfect tart.) This pasty palace lacks, as yet, a roof. {To a small apprentice who, sitting on the floor, is stringing poultry on a spit) Place thou on this long rod, at my behoof, The modest pullet, turkey cock superb; — Alternate them, my son, as old Malherbe Used measures long, then short. So I discern My roasts like strophes on the spit shall turn. 250 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Another Apprentice (advancing with a dish carefully covered) : Master, I've made, because of my desire To please j'ou this . . . this pastry. {He uncovers the dish and proudly displays a great pastry model of . . . ) Ragueneau {dazzled): It's a lyre! The Apprentice : All of puff pastry. Ragueneau {touched) : And of sugared fruit. The Apprentice: See, sir, I made spun sugar cords, to boot. Ragueneau {giving him a piece of silver) : Go drink my health. {He sees LiSE, who enters.) My wife. 'Sh. Make no fuss. And hide the coin! {To LiSE, shoiving the lyre with some embarrassment) Handsome? Lise: Ridiculous. {She puts a pile of paper sacks on the table.) Ragueneau: Sacks? Thank you. That is good. {He examines them.) My precious books! To hold the biscuit some apprentice cooks ! The verses of my friends, dismembered thus ! So the bacchantes dealt with Orpheus. Lise {acidly) : I couldn't make them into coin nor raiment, — And that was all them poets left in payment. Yes, every poet left some limping line. Ragueneau: Ant, who insult my cicacas divine! Lise: Before they came, though praise was always scanty, You never called me ant, — nor yet bacchante! Ragueneau: To use poems so! Lise: To find a use for those! Ragueneau: Woman, I wonder what you'd do to prose. SCENE II The Same. Two Children who have entered Ragueneau : What do you want, dears? First Child: Three pies. CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 251 Ragueneau {serving them) : Well-browned, see? And smoking hot. Second Child: Please wrap 'em up for me. Ragueneau {nside, distressed) : Alas, my bags (To the child) Huh? Wrap them up? Let's see. {He takes a sack and as he is about to put the pics in it, he reads) : "Even as Ulysses left Penelope ..." Not that one. {He puts it asifle and takes another. As he is putting the cakes in it, he reads) : "Ah, fair Phoebus," Oh, not this. LiSE {impatiently) : What makes you dally so? Ragueneau {takes a third, resignedly) : Child, here it is. "Sonnet to Phyllis.^' All the same, I warn ye It's hard. LiSE {shrugging her shoulders) : Well, well, at last ! . . . The silly Sawny ! {She climbs on a chair and begins to arrange the china on a plate rail.) Ragueneau {profiting by the fact that her back is turned, recalls the children who are at the door) : 'Pst, dears. Bring back the sonnet on the sack. I'll make it six pies, if you bring it back. {The children hand hack the bag with avidity, clutch the six pies and go out. Ragueneau, ripping the bag open with his thumb, begins to read, declaiming) : "Phyllis!" That sweet name buttered! And a smudge of flour. "Phyllis!" (Cyrano enters hurriedly.) SCENE III Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano ; later, the Trooper Cyrano: What time is it? Ragueneau {bowing profoundly) : Six o'clock. 252 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano (with emotion) : In one hour! Ragueneau {foUoiving him): Bravo! I saw . . . Cyrano : Eh ? What ? Ragueneau : Your combat. Cyrano : Combat ? Ragueneau: At the Hotel of Burgundy. Cyrano {disdainfully) : Oh, that! Ragueneau (admiringly) : Duel in verse. LiSE : He just can't say too much. Cyrano: Come now. That's good. * Ragueneau (fencing with a basting needle which he seizes) : "At the envoy's end, I touch." "At the envoy's end I touch." And done just so. (With mounting enthusiasm) At the envoy's end. . . . Cyrano: What time is it, Ragueneau? Ragueneau (still on guard, basting needle poised, looks at the clock) : Five minutes past. "I touch." That's hard to match. LiSE (to Cyrano, who in passing the counter has absent-mind- edly pressed his hand) : What is the matter with your hand ? Cyrano: A scratch. Ragueneau: You've been in peril. Cyrano : No. None. Be at ease. LiSE (shaking her finger at hi/n) : I think you're lying. Cyrano: Does my nose blush, Lise? I must have told a most enormous lie. . . . I . . . (Changing his manner.) I expect some one. And if . . . they . . • . pass not by. You will leave us quite alone. Ragueneau : Alone I That chance has passed. My rhymers come. LiSE (ironically) : And come to break their fast. Cyrano: Take them away, when I shall give the sign. What time is it? Ragueneau: Ten minutes past. CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 253 Cyrano {nervously, seating himself at Ragueneau's table, and taking a sheet of paper) : A quill. Ragueneau {offering him the one stuck above his own ear) : Sir, honour mine! This swan's quill. A Trooper {u'ith splendid moustaches, and very resplendent, en- ters and in a stentorian voice calls) : Greeting. Cyrano {turning and looking) : Who's that? Ragueneau: Friend of my wife's. I'm told — By him, — a famous warrior, Cyrano {taking the quill and dismissing Ragueneau with a ges- ture) : To write ... to fold . . . {To himself) To give it to her and to fly. {He throws down the pen) Poltroon! I cannot, for my life . . . {To Ragueneau) What time is it? Ragueneau: Soon 'Twill be a quarter past. Cyrano {striking his breast) : Speak one word of all My heart says ceaselessly . . . Whate'er befall, I'll write this letter, written in my heart A hundred times already, so my part. Putting my soul upon this paper fair, Is but to copy what is graven there. {He writes. Through the glass panes in the door one sees thin, hesitating shadow's.) SCENE IV Ragueneau, Lise, the trooper; Cyrano, zcriting at the little table; the poets, dressed in black, ungartered, stockings muddy. LiSE {to Ragueneau) : There is your crew. First Poet {entering, to Ragueneau) : Brother! Second Poet {grasping Ragueneau's hand) : Fellow, beyond compare! 254 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Third Poet: Eagle of Pastry Cooks. (He snuffs the air) Your -erie's air Is sweet. Fourth Poet: O Phoebus Roaster! Fifth Poet: Cook of harmonies Ragueneau (surrounded, embracedj patted on the shoulder) : How these great men do make you feel at ease ! First Poet: We were retarded by the swarming crowd About the Nesle Gate. Second Poet: There, without a shroud, Eight bloody brigands on the stones below. Cyrano (raising his head for a moment): Eight? I thought, seven. Ragueneau: Master, do you know The hero of this combat? Cyka^O (indifferently): I? No. LiSE (to the trooper): You? The Trooper (tiuirling his moustaches) : Maybe. Cyrano (writing, apart. From time to time one hears a mur- inured word) : / love you. First Poet: One, they say, — a sight to see, — Put all the band to flight. Second Poet: A strange heap lies There on the stone, — pikes, bludgeons . . . Cyrano (writing) : Your sweet eyes . . . Third Poet: They have found hats clean to the dockyard slips. First Poet: Gad, he must be ferocious. Cyrano: Your dear lips. First Poet: Giant and hero must that man appear. Cyrano (writing) : Beholding you, I almost swoon with fear. Second Poet (to Ragueneau, while he snaps up a cake) : What new rhymes have you written? Cyrano: How divine . . . (He zvritcs a ferv words more, is about to sign the letter, but checks himself, and rising, thrusts it into his doublet.) I'll give it her myself. What need to sign? CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 255 Ragueneau (to the Second Poet) : A recipe in verse. Third Poet {installing himself near a plate of cream puffs) : Let's hear, say I. Fourth Poet {looking at a tart he has taken) : This sweet thing has her bonnet quite awry. {He removes it with one bite.) First Poet: This gingerbread pursues a famished lover With ahnond eyes angelic eyebrows cover. {He breaks off a piece.) Second Poet: We listen . . . Third Poet {lightly pinching a cream puff) : The puff's already touched, you see. Second Poet {eating a piece of the puff -paste lyre) : For the first time, the lyre has nourished me. Ragueneau {ready to recite, coughs, straightens his cap, strikes an attitude) : A Recipe in Verse. Second Poet {nudging First Poet) : You breakfast? First Poet {to Second Poet) : On your part, You dine? Ragueneau : The Way To Make An Almond Tart. Stir, but do not beat, one begs, Certain eggs. Beat into the yelky batter Lemons sour. Then you pour Sweet milk of almonds, later. Now, puff paste lightly fold Into a mold. With skillful touch Put apricots to hide The paste inside. Haste not too much As custard fills each well ; — Yet, e'er they swell 256 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Be sure the baking starts. They troop out light and fair. See them there, — Lovely almond tarts. Poets {talking with their ?nouths full) : Exquisite! Oh, deli- cious! A Poet {choking) : Humph. {They go back, eating. Cyrano, who has been watching them, goes to Ragueneau.) Cyrano: Lulled by thy voice, Seest thou not how they pilfer? Ragueneau {whispering and smiling) : It's my choice. I see but look away, to save them trouble. And, so to say, my verses serve me double. I have my weakness, sir. I find it sweet To read my rhymes and let the hungry eat. Cyrano {clapping him on the shoulder) : Thou pleasest me. (Ragueneau goes to rejoin his friends. Cyrano follows him with his eyes, and then, rather sternly) : Ho, Lise. (Lise, in tender conversation with the trooper, starts, and comes forward to Cyrano) This Captain here Lays siege? . . . Lise {with injured dignity) : I can protect my virtue, — never fear. My downcast eyes can lift and flash, and so . . . Cyrano: I find your downcast eyes look somewhat low. Your husband pleases me, so . . . mind your eyes. Let no one wrong him, and no man despise. Lise: But . . . Cyrano {zvho has raised his voice so the gallant can hear) : To a wise listener, . . . {He salutes the trooper, and goes to watch near the door, having looked at the clock.) Lise: I'm surprised. Suppose {To the trooper, who has merely returned Cyrano's salute) You call him! . . . Make remarks . . . about his nose. CYRANO OF BERGERAC 257 The Trooper: His nose. . . . His nose . . . {He hastens farther off, LiSE follouing.) Cyrano {at the door motions to Raguexeau to take his poets away) : 'Pst . . . Ragueneau {showing the poets the door at the left) : We shall have quiet here. Cyrano {impatiently) : 'Pst. . . . Tst . . . Ragueneau: To read Our poems. First Poet {despairingly, with his mouth full) : But the pastry? Second Poet: Take it along. {They troop after Ragueneau, having rifled the platters.) SCENE V Cyrano, Roxane, the Duenna Cyrano: Indeed I'll draw the letter out if there appear One ray of hope. (Roxane, masked, followed by the duenna, appears at the panes in the door. lie hurriedly throws it open.) Come in ! . . . {He marches up to the duenna) Two words, duenna, hear. The Duenna: Four. Cyrano: Do you love eating? Duenna : Aye, to make me ill. Cyrano {hastily taking some paper bags from the counter) : Good. Here's a sonneL . . . Duenna: Huh? Cyrano: Which I dared to fill With cream cakes. The Duenna {her expression changing) : Oh! Cyrano: Perhaps you haven't seen The little cake they call an almandine? The Duenna: Oh, I adore them. No word is too strong. Cyrano: I plunge six in the bosom of a song, — 258 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND One by Saint-Amand. Chapelain's verses soon Shall seem less heavy for this macaroon. Do you like fruit cakes? Duenna: I could sit and eat Forever . . . Cyrano {piling her arms with the bulging bags) : Kindly do it, in the street. Duenna: But . . . Cyrano {pushing her out) : And don't come back, while there's a dust of flour. {He closes the door, and comes down toward Roxane, and stops, his head bared, at a respectful distance.) SCENE VI Cyrano, Roxane, the Duenna for an instant Cyrano: Blessed above its fellows be the hour, When you remembered that I breathe, — the day Thrice blest when from so far you came to say . . . To say . . . ? Roxane: First of all, — thank you, that a man I hated Was by your valor utterly checkmated. 'Tis he ... a certain lord . . . Cyrano: Of Guiche? Roxane: . . . Had planned To impose as husband ... Cyrano : Whom he could command. {Bowing) My fight becomes a worthier emprise, — Not for my ugly nose, but your sweet eyes. Roxane: And then ... I wanted . . . Oh, to tell this other I must recall in you the almost brother When we were playmates . . . call our childhood back. Cyrano: You spent the summers, then, at Bergerac. Roxane: You fashioned swords of reeds down by the lake. Cyrano: And corn silk gave your puppets curls to shake. Roxane: That was our playtime. CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 259 Cyrano: There wild berries grew. Roxane: And you did everything I asked you to. Cyrano: Roxane in pinafores was Madeleine. Roxane: And was I pretty, then? Cyrano: You were not plain! Roxane: Sometimes, in climbing, you would scratch your fingers. Then, playing mother, — how the memory lingers, — I'd tell you, in a voice that tried to scold {She takes his lumd) "Now how did you do that? ... A boy so old." {She stops, distressed) Oh, mercy! This is dreadful. This . . . {He tries to take his hand away.) No. Bring It close. A great, big boy like you! A pretty thing! Where didst thou do it? Cyrano: At the Nesle Gate where I went to play. Roxane {sitting down at a table and moistening her handkerchief in a glass of water) : Give it to me. Cyrano {sitting down, too) : So gentle and so gay! Roxane: And while I wash the blood off, tell me then There were against you . . . ? Cyrano : Not quite five score men. Roxane: Tell me! Cyrano: Nay, let that go. Can you declare The thing but now you dared not say . . . ? Roxane: But now, I dare. {She is still wiping the blood from his ivounded hand) Winds from the past have given me strength to prove My courage. . . . There is someone . . . that ... I love. Cyrano: Ah! Roxane: One who does not know it. Cyrano: Ah! Roxane: Not yet. Cyrano : Ah ! Roxane: Who soon shall know on whom my heart is set. 260 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano: Ah! Roxane: a poor boy who loves me timidly, Humbly, . . . afar . . . and dares not speak to me. Cyrano : Ah ! Roxane: Leave me your hand. 'Tis fevered. But I read The vows that trembled on his lips unsaid. Cyrano: Ah! Roxane {finishing the little bandage she has made for the wounded hand) : And ... I must say it quick . . . lest I repent, — He serves, my cousin, in your regiment. Cyrano : Ah ! Roxane {laughing) : And is cadet in your own company. Cyrano : Ah ! Roxane: His brow shows genius all the world must see. Brave, proud, young, beautiful . . . Cyrano {rising, deathly pale) : Beautiful? Roxane: You spring Up, pale. What is it? Cyrano: Naught, This . . . this . . . {He indicates his hand and smiles) . . . this . . . pretty thing. Roxane : I love him. . . . But ... I should confess, maybe, . . . I've only seen him at the Comedy. Cyrano: You have not talked? Roxane: No. . . . Only with our eyes. Cyrano: How do you know, then . . . ? Roxane: Under evening skies, Under the limes, one speaks . . . and gossips tell. One listens, if tlie heart declare as well. Cyrano: He is of the Guards? Roxane: He enters as cadet. Cyrano: His name? Roxane: Christian, Baron of Neuvillette. Cyrano: He isn't of the Guards. Roxane: Yes, since this morning. CYRANO OF DERGERAC 261 Cyrano: 'Twill wound her heart, yet must I speak this warninj;. Poor dear. . . . The Duenna {opening the door at the back) : I ate them, Sieur of Bcrgerac. Cyrano: Then read the sonnets writ upon the sack! {The duenna disappears.) Cyrano {to Roxane) : Poor little one, — You who devote your youth To lovely thoughts, what if he prove uncouth? Roxane: He is curled like Urfe's heroes, for the world! Cyrano: A man may be ill spoken though well curled! Roxane: Nay, all his words are perfect, I devine! Cyrano: All words are fine, if the moustache be fine! — But if he prove a dullard . . . ? Roxane: I shall die! Cyrano {after a pause) : You brought me here to tell me this? But why? . . . Your object, madam, — that eludes me still. Roxane: Oh, yesternight a chance word sent a chill Into my soul. . . . You're all of Gascony . . . And . . . Cyrano: They say we try the mettle, — Ah, I see, — Of all outsiders who, by God His grace Find with us sons of Gascony a place. Is it that they told you? Roxane: Yes. Ah, you can see I tremble for him. Cyrano {between his teeth) : And not causelessly! Roxane: So, when so splendidly but yesternight I saw your sword-play; — saw you put to flight All who opposed, — I thought. If he befriend him . . . Cyrano: Your little baron's safe. I will defend him. Roxane: Oh, truly? Will you be my love's defender? Our friendship always has been strong and tender. Cyrano: Yes, yes. Roxane: You'll be his friend? 262 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano: I'll be his friend. Roxane: No duels? Cyrano: I have sworn. You may depend. Roxane: Oh, I do love you. ... I must take my flight. (She hurriedly puts on her mask, adjusts her lace scarf, and absent-mindedly) You haven't told me of your famous fight At the Nesle Gate. . . . Surely a time of stress . . . — Tell him to write . . . (She throws him a kiss with the tips of her finders.) O, I love you! Cyrano: Yes, yes. Roxane: A hundred men against you? . . . Good-bye, then. We are such friends. Cyrano: Yes, yes! Roxane : Tell him ! . . . A hundred men ! You'll tell me, some day. . . . Hero, to evince Such courage. Oh, superb ! Cyrano (saluting her) : I have done better since. (She goes out. Cyrano remains motionless, his eyes on the ground. Silence. The door on the Right opens. Rag- UENEAU puts his head in.) SCENE VII Cyrano, Ragueneau, the Poets, Carbon of Castel-Jaloux, the Cadets, the Crowd of Admirers; later, the Count of GUICHE Ragueneau: May we come back? Cyrano (motionless) : Yes. (Ragueneau beckons and his friends the poets re-enter. At the same time, by the door at the back, appears Carbon OF Castel-Jaloux in Captain's uniform. He comes in, de- lighted at having found Cyrano) : Here he is! Cyrano (raising his head) : Captain. Carbon (exulting) : Ho, Our hero! We know all! And you must go, — Thirty cadets await you . . . CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 263 Cyrano: But . . . {He draws back.) Carbon {trying to take him) : Just across The corner jonder. Cyrano : No. Carbon: At the Traitor's Cross. Cyrano: I . . . Carbon {goes to the door and calls in a voice of thunder) : Hero refuses. In the devil's own humor. {Tumult without. Clatter of swords and boots, coming closer.) Carbon {rubbing his hands together) : Crossing the street. Maybe you heard a rumor? The Cadets {pouring into the kitchen) : Zounds! 'Sdeath! Thousand Devils! Caputdedius! Ragueneau {shrinking back before this onslaught) : Sirs, be ye Gascons all? The Cadets: Aye, all of us. A Cadet {to Cyrano) : Bravo! Cyrano: Baron! . . . Another {wringing his hand) : Vivat! Cyrano: Baron! . . . Third Cadet: I must embrace . . . Cyrano: Baron! . . . A Number of Cadets: Let's all embrace him! Cyrano {not knowing to whom to speak first) : Barons . . . give you grace. Ragueneau : Sirs, are ye barons all ? The Cadets: All. Ragueneau: Each that breathes? First Cadet: Could build a tower of our baronial wreaths. Le Bret {entering and rushing up to Cyrano) : They seek for you, — a crowd, delirious, led By those who saw last night the blood you shed. Cyrano {horrified) : You told them where to find me? Le Bret {rubbing his hands together contentedly) : But, indeed! 264 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND A Citizen {entering, followed by a group) : The world of fashion follows, and we lead ! {Without, the street is filled with the fashionable world. Sedan chairs and coaches stop in front of the shop.) Le Bret {low, smiling, to Cyrano) : And Roxane? Cyrano {tensely) : Ah, be still! Ragueneau {on a table, as a mob bursts into the pastry shop) : Hey! My stand Is wrecked, my molds are broken! Ain't it grand! Various People {surrounding Cyrano) : My friend . . . My friend . . . My friend . . . Cyrano: I had not, yesterday, So many friends. A Little Marquis {running up, hands outstretched) : If thou knewst, ... if, I say, . . . Cyrano: If thou? If thouf Did we herd goats together? Another Marquis: I'd have you meet some ladies who . . . Cyrano {icily) : What other Will first present you to me? Le Bret {confounded) : Thou dost ill. What ails thee, Cyrano? Cyrano: Ah, thou be still! A Man of Letters {with a writing board) : May I have details . . . ? Cyrano: No, Le Bret {nudging Cyrano) : That is Renaudot. Inventor of the new gazette. Cyrano : Just so. Le Bret: The sheet that tells what all men do or hear, — They say it has a future, that idea. A Poet {advancing) : Sir . . . Cyrano: More! . . . 7"he Poet: Your name in pentacrostic, sir. I wish To read to . . . Another: Sir . . . Cyrano: Enough! . . . CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 265 {A stir in the crowded room. The crowd ranges itself in two rows. The Count of Guiche appears with an escort of officers. CuiGY, Brissaille, and the officers who went ivith Cyrano at the end of the first act. CuiGY conies hurriedly to Cyrano.) Cuigy: The Count of Guiche! {A murmur of excitement. Everybody makes way.) Marshall of Gassion bade him take occasion . . . The Count of Guiche {saluting Cyrano) : He bade me bear to you his admiration Of the new exploit whose report has run . . . The Crowd: Bravo! Cyrano (bowing) : No better judge of courage could be won. Guiche : He could not have believed your enterprise, But they who told had seen it. Cuigy: With our eyes! Le Bret (aside, to Cyrano, whose thoughts seem far away) : But . . . Cyrano: Ah, be still. Le Bret: Thou seem'st to suffer. Cyrano (trembling and turning quickly): Zounds! Before the world? Watcli! (His moustache bristles; his chest heaves.) Guiche (to whom Cuigy has whispered something) : Your career abounds In exploits, and you serve, they tell me thus, With these mad Gascons? Cyrano : Yes. A Cadet (in a huge voice) : He is one of Us. Guiche (looking at the Gascons ranged behind Cyrano) : Ha ! AH these gentlemen in haughty rows. Are they the famous . . . Carbon of Castel-Jaloux: Cyrano! Cyrano: Captain? Carbon : I propose, — 266 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Company's all present, as for mount, — Pray you, present the Gascons to the Count. Cyrano {taking two steps toward the Count of Guiche and presenting the Cadets) : These are Gascony's darling cadets Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux ; Brazen braggarts, each man of them bets, — These are Gascony's darling cadets, — That for blasons and chevrons and frets No kingling can rank with our crew. These are Gascony's darling cadets Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux. Stork's leg, eagle eye, none forgets, Cat's moustache with wolf fangs showing too. If a cur snarls, no quarter he gets. Stork's leg, eagle eye, none forgets. On his head an old beaver each sets, — Plume acock though the wind whistles through! — Stork's leg, eagle eye, none forgets, Cat's moustache with wolf fangs showing too! Crack-pates and slash-bellies, these pets, No tenderer name is their due; A glutton for glory, none lets, — Crack-pates and slash-bellies, these pets, — Till with blood and with battle he sweats Wherever there's fighting to do. — Crack-pates and slash-bellies, these pets, No tenderer name is their due! These are Gascony's darling cadets Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux. All rivals their dominance rue, Such love their wild wooing begets. CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 267 Every husband must sliake in his shoe. Sound the fife! Sound the drum! Sing Cuckoo! These are Gascony's darh'ng cadets. Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! GuiCHE (coolly, seated in an armchair uliich Ragueneau has hastened to fetch) : A poet is the fashion, I infer. Will you be mine? Cyrano: I will be no man's, sir. Guiche: My uncle, Richelieu, who went abroad Last night, was entertained. 'Tis he . . . Le Bret (dazzled) : Good Lord! Guiche: You've rhymed at least five acts, I will engage? Le Bret (whispering) : You'll see your Agrippina on the stage! Guiche: Bring them to him . . . Cyrano (tempted , a little charmed) : Truly . . . Guiche: He is most learned. Your lines will be corrected, newly turned . . . Cyrano (whose face changes instantly) : Impossible, my lord. My blood is frozen To think of one least comma newly chosen. Guiche: But if a poem please him, you shall hear How well he pays. Cyrano: Nay, he would pay less dear Than L When I have made a verse I find well made, I sing it to myself and am repaid. Guiche : Sir, you are proud. Cyrano: Sir, you are not mistaken. A Cadet (coming in with his sword strung with hats, with plumes bedraggled, battered and broken) : See, Cyrano, the bag of game we've taken, Down by the wharf. The fox escaped the toils But left his brush. Carbon: So, to the victor, spoils. Everybody (laughing): Ah, ha-ha! Cuigy: The man who hired that rabble, made that plan, Must rage to-day. 268 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Brissaille: Is't known? Guiche: I am the man. (The laughter ceases.) I charged them to chastise, — one must forego it, Though tempted, for oneself, — a drunken poet. {An embarrassed silence.) The Cadet {whispering to Cyrano, showing him the hats) : Shall we try out the lard, — or — it depends . . . A hare-stew? . . . Cyrano {taking the sword on which the hats are impaled, and with a flourish and a salute letting them slide off at the feet of the Count of Guiche) : Pray, return them to your friends. Guiche {rising and calling angrily) : My porter and my chair, at once. 1 wish To ride. (To Cyrano, violently) You, sir . . . A Voice {in the street, calling) : Chair for my lord, the Count of Guiche. Guiche {who has mastered himself, smiling) : Have you read Don Quixote? Cyrano: I make that claim, And stand uncovered at the mad knight's name. Guiche: Then meditate upon . . . A Porter {at the door) : Your chair . . . Guiche: The scene That tells of wind-mills, sir. Cyrano: Chapter thirteen. Guiche: When one attacks them, one may alwajs find . . . Cyrano: One has a foe that veers with every wind? Guiche: That wind-mills have long arms and may make scars, Thrusting you to the mire. Cyrano: Or to the stars! {The Count of Guiche goes out. He is seen mounting his chair. The gentlemen go out, zvhispering. Le Bret escorts them. The crowd melts away.) CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 269 SCENE VIII Cyraxo, Le Bret, The Cadets tvho have taken places at the tables on both sides of the room and are ordering food and wine. Cyrano {mockingly saluting those who go out without daring to look toward him) : Gentlemen . . . Gentlemen . . . Le Bret {desolated, coming back to CvRAXo, his arms uplifted to heaven) : So richly clad . . . Cyrano: Ah, thou. Thou'rt going to scold. LeBret: It is so mad! Some men woo Fortune, — you assassinate. Exaggeration ! Cyrano: I exaggerate. Le Bret {triumphantly): Ah! Cyrano: On principle. And for a good example, I find exaggeration none too ample. Le Bret: Ah, leave this pose of musketeer, my friend. Fortune and glory woo thee. Cyrano: To what end? — Find a great patron? Fawn on noble folk? Cling, as the ivy twines about the oak, And feeding on its bark, creeps up at length? To crawl by cunning, not to rise by strength? I thank you, no ! Inscribe, as rhymster do Verses to financiers? Crack jokes to woo To lips of ministers a passing smile, — Half fearing it is sinister, the while? I thank you, no! To eat toad every day? Crawl on your belly till it's thin? And praj^ Shall one's skin first grow dirty at the knees? One's back grow hooped, bending with fatal ease? I thank you, no! Sit always on the fence. Lest this or that side give the great offense? Howl always with the pack? Still live afeard Swinging your censer always in some beard? I thank you, no! Tread spindles in a coop? Become a big man in a little group? 270 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Paddle in ponds, — the oar a madrigal, And spinsters' sighs to swell the sails withal? I thank you, no ! To the good Sercy go And pay him if he publish? Thank you, no! To be named pope by that convention's will Whose every bishop is an imbecile? I thank you, no! — Strive still that none outrank you, Not striving to perfect your work? I thank you, No! Discover talent only where it lacks? Be terrorized by pamphleteer attacks? To have ambition, thus, — "If only I Can hope for mention in the Mercury"? I thank you, no! Seek still to serve the time, And make a visit rather than a rhyme? To frame petitions asking — anything? I thank you, no ! I thank you, no ! But, . . . sing, Dream, laugh, and wander — be alone and free. — A voice that vibrates; eyes that clearly see, — To set your hat awry if so you'd don it; For yes, or no, to fight, — or make a sonnet ! Careless of fame to do one's work, and soon To make that long-dreamed journey to the moon! Only to write what in your heart began. Modest, to tell yourself, "My little man Be satisfied with fruit, flowers, leaves or stem, If in your garden, — yours, — you gather them." Then if, perchance, a little triumph come, There is no tribute to be paid at Rome. Wrought in your soul let all your merit be. Be not the ivy. Be yourself, the tree. What though no oak, no linden, there is grown. To rise, — not high, perhaps, — but rise alone! Le Bret: Alone, but not against all. Why the devil Have you this mania just to seem uncivil? Make always enemies, without an end? CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 271 Cyrano: I see you make so many friends, my friend! I tread more freely where salutes are fewer, And a new foeman makes me feel secure. Le Bret: What folly! Cyrano: 'Tis my weakness, I have stated I please to displease; love to be well hated. One walks so freely, in such cheerful guise, Under a fusillade of angry eyes. I like my doublet doubly to adorn With angry glances and with upstart's scorn. You with your friends remind me past belief Of one enswathed in a soft neckerchief, Rich with Italian lace. One's head must be At ease therein, — but held less loftily. The brow that's not compelled and lifted high, May lean too low; the neck may bend, awry. For me, my Hate makes, many a time and oft, A full starched ruff that holds my head aloft; New enemies make fresh frills every day, A new discomfort and an added ray, Till, a great Spanish ruff, one sees the whole, A band of iron, — but an aureole! Le Bret (after a pause, putting his arm through his friend's arm) : Be proud and fierce to others. 'Twill not move me. To me, say simply this: "She does not love me." Cyrano (sharply): Be still! (A moment before. Christian has entered. He mingles with the Cadets. None of them speak a ivord to him. At last he sits down alone at a little table, and LiSE serves him.) SCENE IX Cyrano, Le Bret, The Cadets, Christian of Neuvillette A Cadet (seated at a table, centre, back, glass in hand) : Ho, Cyrano ! (Cyrano turns) Your story. Cyrano: In good time. 272 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND {He goes up, arm-in-arm with Le Bret. They talk in low tones.) The Cadet {rising and coming down) : 'Twill be a lesson useful as sublime . . . A lesson {He stops near the table at which Christian is seated) an apprentice best learn quickly. Christiax {raising his head) : Apprentice? Another: Sickly Northerner . . . Christian : Eh ? Sickly ? First Cadet {jeeringly) : My lord of Neuvillette, you shall be coached. One subject in our ranks is never broached. In his home who was hung let none say, "Rope." Christian: What mean you? Another Cadet {in a menacing voice, laying his finger mysteri- ously aside of his nose) : Look. {He repeats the gesture thrice.) You understand, I hope. Christian: Oh . . . it's ... Another: Pst! . . . The word is never spoken. {He points to Cyrano, ivho is in conversation with Le Bret.) Else, someone's sword and head alike were broken. Another {who, while Christian talked to the others, has slipped up behind him in his place at the table) '. Two men w^ho whined were killed as dead as Moses, — They made him angry, talking through their noses. Another {in a sepulchral voice, appearing from under the table, where he has crawled on all fours) '. None makes, who lives to see a ripe old age. The least allusion to that cartilage. Another {putting his hand on Christian's shoulder) : A word . . . nay, but a gesture. 'Tis avowed A handkerchief drawn out may prove a shroud. {Silence. All with folded arms sit in a circle around him, staring and saying nothing. He rises and goes to Carbon of Castel-Jaloux, who, talking to a fellow officer, appears to have noticed none of this.) CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 27 i Christian: Captain . . . Carbon {turning and surveying him from head to heels) : Sir? Christian: What's done, sir, if one find Some Southerners too boastful? Carbon: If inclined One proves the North may have its share of glory. {He turns his back.) Christian : I thank you. First Cadet {to Cyrano) : Thy story, now. All: His story! Cyrano {coming dozen) : Ah, my story? {All bring their stools and group themselves around him. Christian sits astride a chair.) Ah, well, I marched alone to the Nesle hatch. The moon above shone like a silvern watch, When some celestial watch-maker, with care. Wrapped it in fleecy cloths, and left me there, Its silver case thus wholly hid from sif^ht. In the black darkness of a moonless night. The wharves unlighted stood in pitchy rows. 'Sdeath, one couldn't see beyond Christian: His nose. {Silence. Every one gets up slowly. They look at Cyrano, aghast. He has stopped, transfixed. A pause.) Cyrano: Who is that fellow? A Cadet {in a choking u-hisper) : He is one who came This morning. Cyrano {taking a step tozvard Christian) : This morning? First Cadet {to Cyrano) : Thy story, now. Is Baron of Neuvil . . . Cyrano {suddenly restraining himself) : Ah, very well . . . {He turns pale, then red, starts to hurl himself upon CHRIS- TIAN, then masters himself . and in a toneless voice) : I mean . . . {He takes up his story) As I was saying . . . {In a suddenly fierce voice) 'Sdeath ! . . . 274 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND (Then in an ordinary voice) Nothing could be seen. (Stupefaction. They all sit down, furtively looking at one another.) I marched on, thinking, "For a worthless wight I have offended some great prince or knight Who will surely have me . . . Christian : By the nose. (Everybody starts up. Christian balances himself on his chair. ) Cyrano (in a strangled voice) : Between his teeth, . . . Have me between his teeth. . . . that so, beneath That clouded moon, I'd thrust . . . Christian: Your nose. Cyrano: My fingers . . . 'twixt the bark and tree. That great one well may crush a man like me . . . At least might pinch Christian : Your nose. Cyrano (wiping the sweat from his forehead) : My prying fingers. But added, "Forward! For no Gascon lingers When duty calls. Forward Cyrano goes!" When from the shadow someone Christian : Punched your nose. Cyrano: I parried, — found myself set . - . Christian : Nose to nose . . . Cyrano (making a bound toward him): 'Odsbody! (All the Gascons crowd forward to see. At Christian's side^ Cyrano checks himself, and takes up his story) : . . . On by five score drunken foes, Who stank . . . Christian : A noscfull. Cyrano (white and smiling) : Garlic and litharge. I hurled myself . . . Christian : Nose to the wind. Cyrano: I charge! I ripped two open, — put a third to rout; One lunged. I parried. Paf. Christian: Pif! On the snout. CYRANO OF BERG ER AC 275 Cyrano {leaplny up): Now, thunder! Clear tlic room. {All the Cadets rush pell-mell for the doors.) First Cadet : The tiger wakes ! Second Cadet: We'll find mincemeat. Ragueneau: Huh? Another Cadet: For your smallest pie. Ragueneau: Fm white and crumpled as a napkin, — aye. And not as starchy. Carbon : Everybody come. Another: He isn't going to leave the smallest crumb. Another: FU die of fright. Hey! Help! Somebody brace me! Another {closing the door on the right) : There'll be a scene of horror. {They all go out, by the door at the back or the one on the right. Some have disappeared by the stairway. Cyrano and Christian stand face to face and look at each other for a moment.) SCENE X Cyrano, Christian Cyrano: My boy, embrace me. Christian: Sir . . . Cyrano: Brave. Christian: Ah, that! But . . . Cyrano: Brave beyond another. Christian: You speak thus? Cyrano : Boy, embrace me. I am her brother. Christian: Whose? Cyrano: But . . . hers! Christian: Hers? Cyrano : Roxane's. Christian {running to him) : In Heaven's name! Her brother? Cyrano: Fraternal cousin, — just the same. Christian: She told you . . . ? Cyrano: All. 276 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Christian : She loves me ? Cyrano : As I show you. Christian {seizing his hand) : O, Sir . . . O, Sir . . . I'm very glad to know 5'ou! Cyrano : A sudden sentiment. Christian: Sir . . . I am full Of shame. Cyrano {looking at him and putting his hand on his shoulder) : 'Tis true. The rascal's beautiful. Christian: Sir, I admire you, oh, so much. . . . Good lack! Cyrano: But all those noses? Christian: Oh, I take them back! Cyrano: Roxane awaits a letter. Christian: Lackaday! Cyrano: How now? Christian : I am undone if I must frame my vow. I am such a dullard that I die of shame. Cyrano: Thou didst attack me with right good acclaim. He was no fool that made that sharp attack. Christian : Bah ! When a man can fight, words do not lack. With men and soldiers, facile words may come. With ladies I am ever dull and dumb. Oh, when I pass their eyes are always kind . . . Cyrano : And if you tarry, gentler hearts you find ? Christian: Nay, for I am of those, — I know and grieve, — Who cannot speak of love. Cyrano: Taith, I believe If heavenly powers had modelled me more fit, I am of those who well could speak of it. Christian: Oh, to be one whose words have wit and grace! Cyrano: To win soft glances for a comely face! Christian : Roxane is Euphuistic, wise and fine. She will be disillusioned. Cyrano: Were it mine On such a subject freely to expend it . . . Christian: I lack but eloquence. CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 277 Cyrano {abruptly) : And I will lend it! Thou wilt supply the beauty : by this chance, We'll make, we two, a hero of romance! Christian: What? Cyrano: Canst thou learn by heart in verse or prose What every day I'll teach? Christian : Dost thou propose . . . Cyrano: That nothing ever disappoint Roxane! Consent that we together try this plan. Wilt thou feel pass from my hufi doublet's fold To thy gay doublet all my heart may hold? Christian : But Cyrano . . . Cyrano: Choose, Christian! Christian: Oh, I fear! Cyrano: Thou fearest, left alone, to chill thy dear. Wilt thou, — Ah, soon to win her sweet embraces, — That we collaborate, — thy lips, my phrases? Christian : Thine eyes burn . . . Cyrano: Wilt thou? Christian : Can a man refuse thee ? 'Twould give thee pleasure? Cyrano (fervently) : It . . . would . . . {Recalling himself and speaking as an artist) : would amuse me! 'Tis an experiment in artistry. Wilt thou complete, me, — I fulfilling thee? Thou'lt walk and in the shadow I will press: I'll be thy wit, and thou, my comeliness. Christian: But, oh, the letter! Would she find it better, Fair spoken words, ill-written? Cyrano {taking from his doublet the letter he has luritten) : Here's thy letter. Christian: What's this? Cyrano: It only waits to be addressed. Christian : I . . . 278 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano: Send it. Send it. Put thy mind at rest. 'Tis a good letter. Christian : You have had ? . . . Cyrano: We have — no poet waits Till Chloris comes — in pouches and in pates, Love letters. Poets' sweethearts are but gleams. We blow soap bubbles for a maid o' dreams. Take it, and change my dream to verity. Tossed at a venture, idle vows and free, Thou'lt find a nest for all these errant birds. Thou'lt see, — nay, take the letter, — all my words — Take it, — are eloquent, as insincere. Take it and let's ha' done ! Christian : But to appear 'Twas writ for her . . . some changes might improve . . . Will it fit Roxane? Cyrano: 'Twill fit her like a glove! Christian: But . . . Cyrano: Self love is credulous. Make no demur. Roxane will think the letter writ for her. Christian {throiving himself into Cyrano's arms) : Ah, my friend! {They embrace.) SCENE XI Cyrano, Christian, The Gascons, The Trooper, Lise A Cadet {opening the door a crack) : No sound. All still as death. The latch I'll clutch . . . I dare not look. {He pokes his head in.) Hein? All the Cadets {entering and seeing Cyrano and Christian locked in an embrace) : Ah . . . Oh . . . Oh! A Cadet: This is too much. The Trooper: Ah-ah! Carbon: Our demon mork as any saint-apostlc? Smite him on one, he turns the otlicr nostril? CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 279 The Trooper: Now one can talk about his nose, surmising His spirit broken? {Calling to LiSE, with a swaggering air) : Watch me! (He sniffs the air, affectedly) : How surprising . . . This smell of spice. (He goes up to Cyrano.) Vou smelt it, sir, you said — This spicy smell? What is it? Cyrano (buffeting him) : It's clove head! (Joy. The Cadets have found the lost Cyrano. They turn handsprings. ( Curtain ) ACT III Roxane's Kiss A little square in the old Marais. Old houses; a glimpse of narrow streets. Right, Roxane's home and the wall of her gar- den, tall shrubbery reaching above it. Above the door, a balcony and a window. Beside the door, a bench. Ivy clings to the walls; jessamine engarlands the balcony and cascades from its railing. With the aid of the bench and the jutting stones of the wall, one can easily climb to the balcony. Opposite, an old house of the same style, brick and stone, with a massive entrance door. The knocker is swathed in linen, like a sore thumb. When the curtain rises, the duenna is discovered, sitting on the bench. Above, the ivindow on Roxane's balcony is open. Near the duenna stands Ragueneau, dressed in livery of a sort. He is finishing a story, wiping his eyes the while. SCENE I Ragueneau, the Duenna; later, Roxane, Cyrano, and two pages Ragueneau : She left me, — for a trooper. Life was worth Nothing. I hung myself. I quit the earth. My lord Cyrano found me so . . . dependent, And got this place for me as superintendent To his fair cousin. The Duenna: But what wrought this ruin? Ragueneau: Soldiers and poets were the shop's undoin'! Mars ate some cakes; Apollo cleared the plate; You understand . . . there wasn't long to wait! 280 CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 281 The Duenna {risuuj and cuIUikj toward the open window) : Readj, Roxane? They wait us! Haste, I pray! Roxane's Voice {through the window) : I don my cape. The Duenna {to Ragueneau, indicating the door across the street) : In Clomire's chaste retreat, across the way. We pore upon the Realm of Tenderness. Ragueneau: The Realm of Tender . . . The Duenna: Of Pure Passion, yes. {Calling once more.) Roxane, make haste ! To dally in this fashion May cost the Discourse on the Tender Passion. Voice OF Roxane: Coming! {One hears the strumming of stringed instruments drawing near.) Voice of Cyrano {singing, in the wings) : La, la, la, la! The Duenna {surprised) : They're singing for our favour. Cyrano {followed by two pages who carry archlutes) : You three-fold fool, 'tis demi-semi-quaver ! First Page {sarcastically) : You know then, sir, the quavers and the scruples? Cyrano : Music I know, like all Gassendi's pupils. The Page {playing and singing) : La, la! Cyrano {snatching the lute and taking up the ?neasure) : Enough. 'Tis I who will repeat. La, la, la, la! Roxane {appearing on the balcony) : You? Cyrano {singing, to the air already begun) : I, who come to greet Your lilies and to bow before your ro . . . ses! Roxane: I'm coming down. {She leaves the balcony.) Duenna: Who are these virtuosos? Cyrano: They are a wager won from Assoucy. — A point of grammar. "I'll engage," quoth he, — Suddenly pointing to these lanky brutes. Who twang by trade their torture-proof archlutes, His escort, always, — "one whole day of song." 282 PLJYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND He lost. So at my heels these two belong Till Phoebus takes anew his golden round. Charming at first, it palls, as I have found. {To the Musicians) Hep! Go and play for me a grave pavane For Montfleury. (To the Duenna) I come to ask Roxane, As every evening. ... (To the Pages, as they ffo out) Long . . . and off the key ! (To the Duenna) If her beloved is all she'd have him be? Roxane (coming out of the house) : Beautiful, gifted, — Oh, how I adore him! Cyrano (smiling) : Gifted . . . and wise? . . . Roxane: Even you come not before him! Cyrano : Oh, I admit . . . Roxane: No tongue so skilled to bring The pretty nothings that are everything. Sometimes he hesitates, his muse has flown, Then lovely phrases for the lapse atone. Cyrano (incredulous): No! Roxane: You men are all alike! He must be dull, So you all say, being so beautiful! Cyrano: In facile fashion then the rascal prates? Roxane: Prates, quotha? Talks? My cousin, he orates! Cyrano: He writes? Roxane: Ever better. Hear this line: (Declaiming) "The more thou takest my heart, the more 'tis mine." (Triumphantly, to Cyrano) Ah, well? . . . Cyrano: Pshaw! Roxane: This one: "Since I must ha-ve a heart to yearn for thee, And thou hast mine^ give thou thine own to me." Cyrano: Always too much, or not enough. 'Tis curious. Just what lacks he, in hearts? CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 283 Roxane: You make me furious! 'Tis jealousy. Cyrano {trenibling) : Hein? Roxane: Author's jealousy. This one: — Could anything more perfect be? — "My heart before you is one longing cry. Ah, since my kisses in my letters lie, Read, Lady, with thy lips thy lover's letters." Cyrano {smiling with satisfaction in spite of himself) : Aha, those lines . . . (Recollecting, disdainfully) Alliterative fetters! Roxane: And this , . . Cyrano (entranced) : You know these missives, then, by heart? Roxane: All. Cyrano: I am dumb. You flatter well his art. Roxane: He is a master. Cyrano (modestly) : Oh, a . . . Roxane (peremptorily) : A master. Cyrano: So be it,— master. The Duenna (who has gone back, coming forward hurriedly) : The Count of Guiche! (To Cyrano, pushing him toward the house) Go inside. Oh, go faster. He must not find you here. 'Twould be a clew . . . He would guess . . . Roxane: ... My secret, now so safe with 3'ou. He loves me! He has power! He must not know! He might destroy my hopes with one fierce blow! Cyrano (going into the house) : Well, well, well! (The Count of Guiche appears.) SCENE H Roxane, The Count of Guiche; at a little distance, the Duenna Roxane (to the Count, making a reverence) : I am going out. 284 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Guiche: I come to say good-bye. Roxane: You go away? Guiche: To war. Roxane: Ah! Guiche: This night. Roxane : ' Ah ! Guiche: I Have orders. Siege of Arras. Roxane: Is it so? Guiche: Aye, and this parting leaves you cold as snow. Roxane: Oh . . . Guiche: And me, heart-broken. When shall we two meet? I am made commander. Roxane {indifferent) : Bravo! Guiche: I repeat. Commander of the Guards. Roxane {arrested) : The Guards? Guiche: Where serves Your braggart cousin who so well deserves The vengeance I shall know how to take. Roxane {suffocating) : You meant The Guards would go? Guiche {laughing) : One takes one's regiment. Roxane {sinking down on the bench; aside) : Christian! Guiche: What troubles you ? Roxane {shaken): Togo . . . so far! To . . . care . . . and have the dear one go to war ! Guiche {surprised and charmed) : For the first time you whisper words so kind, — — And I must leave you! Roxane {her tone changes, she toys with her fan) : You . . . you have in mind Revenge . . . ? Guiche {smiling) : You take your cousin's part? Roxane: Nay, I oppose. Guiche: You see him? CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 285 Roxane: Rarely. Guiche; Everywhere one goes, One sees him with {He tries to recall the name) This Neuviller . . . villain . . . Roxane: Tall? Guiche: Blonde. Roxane: Red . . . Guiche; Handsome . . . Roxane: Tut I Guiche: But dull. Roxane: That's plain . . . {Changing her tone) Your vengeance 'gainst Cyrano. You had thought To set him in the forefront? That were naught, He who loves fighting. Find a fitter plan. Guiche: How? Roxane: Take the Regiment, and leave this man With his cadets, throughout the livelong war. Arms folded, here in Paris. Better far. Because more subtle, crueller, and stranger, To punish him, deprive him, Sir, of danger! Guiche: O, woman, woman! Cruel, aye, and droll. A woman's trick. Roxane : He would eat out his soul. His friends would gnaw their fingers. Yes, and you Would be avenged ! Guiche {drawing closer) : You care, then? Is it true? You espouse my cause. Roxane, I wish to prove It is for love . , . Roxane: It is . . . it is . . . for love. Guiche {shoiuing some sealed papers) : I have the orders here, to be transmitted Without delay. But one shall be omitted. {He detaches one.) This . . . this of the Cadets. {He puts it in his pocket.) I'll keep it safe. 286 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Ah, how the boaster, Cyrano, will chafe! You play such pranks, even you? Roxane: Sometimes one falls, Being tempted! Guiche: I am mad! My duty calls, — But — go when you are yielding? — Listen well . . . Hard by, the good Capuchin brothers dwell; Fra Athanasius is the Abbot. There, No layman is admitted. Yet I'll swear They'll find a way to hide me in their sleeves. They have not quite forgotten, one believes, One is nephew of one's uncle at the least, — And Richelieu's shadow may affright a priest. They'll think me gone. Masked, I will come. Ah, pray. Lady Caprice, let me but wait one day! Roxane : If it leaked out ! . . . Your glory, . . . Guiche: Pah! Roxane: Your vow! The siege! Guiche: Forgot! Pray you . . . Roxane: No, no! Guiche: Pray . . . thou! Roxane (tenderly): I must forbid! Guiche: Ah! Roxane: Go! (Aside) And Christian stays with me. (Aloud) I bid you be my hero . . , Anthony! Guiche: Celestial sound! Then you love him . . . Roxane: For whom I fear! Guiche (transported, kisses her hand): I go! . . . Are you content? Roxane: Oh, yes . . . my dear! (He goes out.) The Duenna {curtseying derisively, behind his back) : Oh, yes, my dear! CYRANO OF BERGERAC 287 RoxANE (to tlic Duenna): 'Sli! Not a word, fie would owe me much despite. I have robbed Cyrano of a chance to fight. {She calls toward the house) : Cousin! SCENE III RoxANE, the Duenna, Cyrano Roxane: They wait us at Clomire's. We must not linger. Alcandre speaks and . . . The Duenna {putting her finger in her ear) : And my little finger Says we will miss it. Cyrano: Do not miss those . . . apes. The Duenna {entranced) : Behold the knocker, which fair linen drapes. {To the knocker.) One sees you shrouded lest your careless clamor Trouble sweet discourse with its brazen hammer. {She lifts it with infinite precaution and knocks softly.) Roxane {seeing the door is opened) : Let us go in. {On the threshold, to Cyrano) : If Christian come, of course I know that he will wait. Cyrano {hurriedly, as she is disappearing) : Ah . . . {She turns.) His discourse. As is your wont, you'll question him . . . ? Roxane: About . . . Cyrano {eagerly) : About? . . . Roxane: Cyrano, you'll be dumb? Cyrano: How can you doubt? Roxane: Then . . . about nothing. "Take free rein," I'll cry. "Improvise! Speak of love! Be splendid! Fly!" Cyrano {smiling) : Good. Roxane: 'Sh! Cyrano: Whist! 288 PLJYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Roxane: Not a word. (She enterSj and the door is closed.) Cyrano {bowing low, as soon as the door is safely shut) : Thank you. {The door opens, and Roxane puts her head out.) Roxane : Be dumb, Lest he prepare! Cyrano: The devil! Never! The Two {speaking at once) : 'Sh! {The door is shut.) Cyrano {calling softly) : Ho, Christian! Come! SCENE IV Cyrano, Christian Cyrano : Prepare thy memory to grave the story. This is the night to win immortal glory. Don't look so glum. I know the theme. Let's go, — Quick ! to thy quarters. Let me teach thee. Christian: No! Cyrano: Hein? Christian: Here I'll wait Roxane. Cyrano: What's this dismay ?- What madness? Come, prepare ! Christian : I won't, I say ! I'm tired of borrowing every word and thought. Playing a role and fearing to be caught. 'Twas well at first. I know she loves me now. I fear no more. I'll be myself, I vow. Cyrano : Ah — well — now ! Christian : Who said I could not speak? Thou'lt see, my friend, my wit is not so weak. Thy lessons helped. Now, I know how to tell My story. . . . And by all tlie devils of hell. The way to take her in my arms I know ! CYRANO OF BERGERAC 289 {Seeing Roxane, ivho comes out of Clomire's house.) She's coming! Oh, don't leave me, C3'rano! Cyrano {bowing low) : Speak for yourself, Sir. {He disappears behind the garden wall.) SCENE V Christian, Roxane; for a moment, the Duenna Roxane {coming out of Clomire's house with a fashionable group; there are leave-takings, curtseys, farewells) : Barthcnoide ! Gremione ! The Duenna {disconsolate) : We missed the Discourse. Ah, I might have known! Roxane {still saluting the Euphuists) : Urimedonte. Farewell. {All, boiuing to Roxane, curtseying, saluting one another, go off by different streets. RoxANE sees Christian.) Roxane: You came! {She goes toward him.) The night is sweet. Wait. . . . Tliey have gone . . . No footfall in the street. . . . Let us sit here. Speak. I will hear . . . and dream. Christian {sits down near her on the bench. A silence, then) : I love you. Roxane {closing her eyes) : Speak of love. Christian : I love thee. Roxane: 'Tis the theme. Gild it! Christian: I . . . Roxane: Broider it! Christian: I love thee so. Roxane: Doubtless. And then . . . Christian: And then I want to know If you love me. Tell me, Roxane. Roxane {pouting) : You seem To give me gruel, when I hoped for cream. Tell me a little how you love me. 290 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Christian : Much. Roxane: Elaborate your love! Christian : I want to touch . . . To kiss . . . thy neck. Roxane : Christian ! Christian: I love . . . Roxane {trying to rise) : Once more! Christian (eagerly, restraining her) : Nay, I don't love . . . Roxane (sitting down again) : That is better. Christian: I adore! Roxane (rising and moving away) : Oh! Christian : I grow^ dull. Roxane: And win my just disdain. 'Twould please me hardly less had you grown plain. Christian: But . . . Roxane (severely) : Rally the eloquence so put to flight. Christian: I . . . Roxane: I know, you love me. Go! (She goes toward the house.) Christian : Don't quit my sight ! I want to say . . . Roxane (her hand on the latch) : That you adore me? Yes. Leave me ! Christian: But I . . . (She goes in and shuts the door in his face.) Cyrano (who has come hack and stands for a moment unseen) : A most pronounced success. SCENE VI Cyrano, Christian ; a moment, the Pages Christian: Succor me! Cyrano : No. Christian: I die, lest I reclaim Her favour, instantly. Cyrano: I' the devil's name, How shall I teach you, instantly? CYRANO OF BERGERAC 291 Christian {seizing his arm): Look, Cyrano! {A light shines out from Roxane's chamber.) Cyrano (moved): Her window! Christian : I shall die. Cyrano : You fool, speak low. Christian {whispering): Shall die! . . . Cyrano: The night is dark. Christian: Well, what? Cyrano: 'Tis not too late. Stand there, you ass, though you deserve your fate, There, by the balcony. I'll hide beneath, And whisper thee thy words. Christian: But . . . Cyrano: Save thy breath! The Pages {reappearing, present themselves to Cyrano) : Hep! Cyrano: Whist! {He signs to them to speak softly.) First Page {whispering) : My lord, we gave the serenade To Montfleury, Cyrano {hurriedly and loiu) : Now, lie in ambuscade, One at this corner; one on t'other stay; And if a stroller chance to pass this way. Play me an air. Second Page: What air, Sir Gassendist? Cyrano: Sad, for a man; gay, for a lady. {The Pages vanish, each taking his station at the corner of the street.) Cyrano {to Christian): Whist! Call her. Christian : Roxane ! Cyrano {gathering a handful of pebbles zvhich he tosses against the ivindoiv) : Wait. These are what we need. Roxane {half opening her window) : Who called me? Christian : I. Roxane: Who is I? Christian: Christian. 292 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND RoXANE {disdainfully)'. Indeed? Christian : I must speak to you. Cyrano {under the balcony, to Christian) : Whisper, man. Speak low. RoxANE : Nay, you speak stupidly. I bid you go. Christian : Pray hear . . . Roxane: You love no more. Christian {to whom Cyrano whispers the words) : No more, — just heaven! — I who love always more! Roxane {who, going to close the window, pauses) : He is half forgiven. Christian {still repeating the words with which Cyrano sup- plies him) : Love sways my soul. Always new tremors start. The imp has made a cradle of my heart. Roxane {coming out on the balcony) : Since Love is cruel, you, if you are wise, Will kill him in this cradle where he lies. Christian {same business) : Nay, I have striven, but. Lady, an' it please, This new-born infant is a Hercules. Roxane: That's better. Christian {same business) : With ease he strangles, — it is truth I tell,— The serpents. Pride and Doubt. Roxane: Nay, this is well. {She leans on the balcony railing.) Why do you hesitate? Begin, and stop? Your spring of fancy trickles, drop by drop. Cyrano {drawing Christian under the balcony and slipping into his place) : 'Sh! This becomes too hard. . . . Roxane: What is your plight? Your words come slowly. Why? Cyrano {speaking in a whisper, as Christian has done) : Because 'tis night. Groping in shadow, they must seek your ear. CYRANO OF BERGERAC 293 Roxane: Mine do not stumble, yet you seem to hear. Cyrano: They find their place at once, because they rest, Where I receive them always, in my breast. My heart is large. Your ear is very small. Beside, your words descend. They quickly fall, — But mine must mount, my Lady. That is slow. Roxane: They climbed not half so well, a while ago. Cyrano: In these gymnastics, they have gained some skill. Roxane: My voice falls from a height. Cyrano: A height to kill A listening lover if, thus set apart, You let a harsh word fall upon his heart. Roxane {moving) : I am coming down. Cyrano {earnestly) : No. Roxane {shoiL'ing the bench beneath the balcony) : Climb on the settle, then. Cyrano {starting back, trembling, in the darkness) : No. Roxane: How . . .No? Cyrano {more and more carried away by emotion) : Oh, let me have it, — sweet beyond thy ken, — This hour when I may speak the truth I w^en, — Pour out my pent-up love, unseen. Roxane: Unseen? Cyrano : Yes. It is heaven. Dimly one devines. You see my mantle but as shadowy lines. I see your summer gown, a gleam of white. I am a shadow. You are living light. You know not what it means to me, this hour. Have I been eloquent? Roxane: You had that dower! Cyrano: My speech has never flowed, as now it flows From my full heart. Roxane: Why? Cyrano: Why? I must oppose My words against a peril. • Roxane: What? 294 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano: The dizziness Of those who look in your deep eyes. I bless This darkness whence I speak to you alone For the first time! RoXANE : And with a strange, new tone. Cyrano {coming nearer, passionately) : A new tone? Yes. For in the dark delaying, I dare to be myself. {He stops and with bewilderment.) What am I saying? I do not know. Forgive ! To speak to you Is so delicious, and for me so new. Roxane: So new? Cyrano {overwhelmed, trying to recapture his words) : So new . . . but yes ! To be sincere, Not fearing mockery, — that damned fear! Roxane : Mockery ? Cyrano: Yes, for my heart's leaping flame. I clothed myself in robes of wit, for shame. I reach, to touch the stars, but, 'neath the power Of mockery, I stoop, — and pluck a flower! Roxane: Flowers in the grass, and flowers of speech, are sweet. Cyrano: To-night, we will trample both beneath our feet. Quivers and arrows, links, and such like toys We'll toss them to the winds of fresher joys Dull is the water — though the deed be nimble, — Drunk, softly sipping, from a lady's thimble. Ah, let the soul be free, speed on its course, And quench its craving at the fountain's source! Roxane: Your intellect . . . Cyrano: Found favour in your sight In the beginning. 'Twould affront this night, — This hour, these perfumes, Nature's very self! — To prate like pretty books from Voiture's shelf — Ah, let the sky with its clear star-bright eyes Shine in our hearts, rid them of all disguise. I fear lest euphuistic alchemists CYRANO OF BERGERAC 295 Let all true sentiment be lost in mists; Lest in its crucible, the dross should shine, — And fining leave the fine less fine, in fine! Roxane: But intellect . . . Cyrano: In love it is a crime! Fencing and parrying with things sublime! The moment comes, — inevitably comes, — Woe to the heart that never thus succumbs! — When in the soul a flame so pure arises That every well-turned phrase the heart despises. Roxane: Ah, well, if that time come to us, disclose What words you would have for mc. Cyrano: All those, all those, all those That come to me, I'll toss them at your feet, — Not bind them in a nosegay! O, my sweet, I suffocate! I love thee, Ah, so well! Thy name at my heart's gate is like a bell. And all the time, Roxane, as that heart beats, That swaying bell thy lovely name repeats. Dear, I remember all you do or say. A year ago. one morn, the twelfth of May, You changed the way you dress your shining hair. Its blondness makes the day I see it fair. One who has faced the sun with fearless gaze Sees every^vhere the orb's vermillion raj'S, — So, when I see thy hair, agleam and curled, A golden blur bedazzles all my world ! Roxane {in a troubled voice) : Yes, this is truly love. Cyrano: Certes, this feeling. Jealous and terrible and all-revealing Is love. It has the sadness and the might Of love. Yet selfless. Self drops out of sight. For thy least good I would give all my own ; — Aye, though thou knewst it not, — content alone If some day, from afar, I heard arise 296 PLAYS OF ED MONO ROSTAND Thy lovely laughter from my sacrifice. Thy glances fire me holier heights to win, New valor, higher truths. Dost thou begin To comprehend my love? Ah, canst thou mark How my soul reaches . . . reaches . . . through the dark? Truly this evening is too fair, too sweet! I speak, you listen, and our spirits meet. It is too much. My hopes leapt not so high, — Not in my maddest moments. Let me die! My life is perfected! My spoken word Has made you tremble like a swaying bird Among the boughs, — a leaf among the leaves. For thou dost tremble! Lo, my heart perceives The trembling of thy white hand on the vine. The jasmine bears it. See, it reaches mine! (He kisses passionately the tips of one of the swaying sprays of jasmine.) Roxane: I tremble, yes, and weep, and catch my breath, And love thee, and am thine. Cyrano: Then, come, sweet death! This pure intoxication, — I wrought this! I ask but one thing more of life . . . Christian (under the balcony) : A kiss! Roxane (retreating) : What? Cyrano : Oh ! Roxane: You ask . . . Cyrano: Yes, I . . . (To Christian) Thou goest too fast. Christian: She is moved. I'll profit while the mood shall last. Cyrano (to Roxane) : Yes, . . « I . . . I . . . plead . . . because you seemed so gracious. God knows, I know I have been too audacious. Roxane (a little chilled) : Then you do not insist? Cyrano: Yea, I insist, Insisting not. . . . Your shyness would resist . . . And yet . . . this kiss. . . . Refuse, refuse it, dear! CYRANO OF BERGEUAC 297 Christian {to Cyrano, twitching his cloak): Why? Why? Cyrano {to Christian) : Thou, be still, Christian. RoxANE {leaning from her balcony) : What? I cannot hear. Cyrano: I rate myself, for that I was too bold. I tell myself, "Christian, be still." {The archlutes sound.) Hark! Hold! Somebody comes. (Roxane shuts the window. Cyrano listens to the arch- lutes, one playing a merry measure, the other a dirge.) Cyrano: A dance? A dirge? What do the knaves desire To say? A man? A woman? . . . Oh, ... A friar! {Enter a Capuchin brother who goes from house to house, lantern in hand.) SCENE vn Cyrano, Christian, a Capuchin Friar Cyrano {to the monk) : Whom have we here, playing Diogenes? The Friar: I seek the home of . . . Christian : He makes us ill at ease. The Friar: Of Magdeleine Robin. Christian: Huh? Cyrano : Here she does not dwell, — Ahead . . . keep straight ahead. The Friar: Thank you. And I will tell My chaplet for you, to the final Pater. Cyrano: Good luck. And blessings on your cowl, kind f rater. {He comes down, near Christian.) SCENE VIII Cyrano, Christian Christian : Get me that kiss ! Cyrano : No. Christian : Soon or late . . . 298 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano: 'Tistrue! That maddening, perfect draught will brim for you. Your lips will meet. Strange cause two souls to link, — Thou hast a blond mustache; her lips are pink. And I prefer that it should be for . . . SCENE IX Cyrano, Christian, Roxane RoXANE {coming out on the balcony) : You? We spoke of ... of ... a .. . Cyrano: Of a kiss? 'Tis true. I see, — but see not why, — your voice should tremble. If the word burn, what will itself resemble? 'Tis not a thing your maiden thoughts should flee. Have you not sometimes, half insensibly. Quitted a jesting mood, yet free from fears, Changed from a smile to sighs, from sighs to tears? A change as gentle and more sweet is this, — From tears and tremblings, to a lover's kiss. Roxane: Ah, hush! Cyrano: A kiss, what is it, after all? Promise more perfect, vows that closer fall. A troth deep plighted seeking form to prove; — A rosy o writ in the verb to love ; Whispers for lips, not ears; infinity Set to the harping of a honey bee. A chalice like the dew-drop in a flower. Hearts learn to breathe; Love gives them this new power. And rising to the lips, the soul can drink. Roxane: Ah, hush! Cyrano: A kiss is crowned, — Nay, Lady, think! The Queen of France leaned to a lucky lord And gave him one , . . the Queen ! Roxane: Then . . . ? Cyrano {uplifted) : My adored, I am like Buckingham, whose love was dumb; CYRANO OF BERGERAC 299 Like him, I love a Queen; like him I come As sad, as faithful. . . . Roxane; Though thou sayst it not, — As beautiful ! Cyrano {dashed, and speaking aside) : True, I am beautiful, I had forgot! Roxane: So be it ! Climb! Pluck this flower you praise for me. Cyrano (pushing Christian toivard the balcony): Climb! Roxane: This heart's breath . . . Cyrano: Climb! Roxane: This harping of the bee. Cyrano: Climb! Christian : I . . . think . . . this not the moment! Let it pass! . . . Roxane: This moment of infini ... Cyrano {pushing) : Climb, you ass! Christian {overcoming his panic, eagerly scrambles up, by the bench, the jutting stones the vines, and steps over the rail- ing into the balcony.) Christian: Ah, Roxane! {He puts his arms about her and bends his head to her lips.) Cyrano: Aie, heart that suffers thus! O, feast of love where I am Lazarus! A single crumb falls from the rich man's board. My hungry heart devours it. 'Twas my word, — Even mine, — that won that kiss. Her dear lips seek His lips for words that I ... I only . . . speak! {The arch lutes sound.) A dance? A dirge? The friar again. {He pretends to run, as if he had just come up, and calls) : Ho, there! Roxane: Who is it? Cyrano: It is L Christian still there? Christian {much astonished) : What, Cyrano? Roxane: Greeting, my cousin. Cyrano: Greeting. 300 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Roxane: I come ... (She disappears into the house. Re-enter the Capuchin at the back.) Christian (seeing him) : Oh! (He follows Roxane.) SCENE X Cyrano, Christian, Roxane, the Capuchin, Ragueneau The Friar: It's here, I keep repeating, Magdeleine Robin. Cyrano: Why, you said Ro-lin! The Friar: No, I said bin, sir, b-i-n, sir, bin. Roxane (appearing on the threshold, followed by Ragueneau, who carries a lantern, and by Christian) : What is it? The Friar: A letter. Christian: Hein? The Friar: Some good affair From a most worthy lord. Roxane (to Christian) : Of Guiche. Christian: He'd dare? Roxane: He importunes me, . . . but our moment comes, I love thee and ... (She takes the letter and breaks the seal. By the light of the lantern Ragueneau holds for her, she reads in a low voice) : "My lady, the rude drums Beat loud. The Regiinent has donned its mail. It leaves, and thinks I led the way. I fail. And from the monastery send this friar To tell my disobedience, — my desire To come to you, — and that I come. No goat Is simple as the monk who bears this note. He suspects nothing. Wait for me, alone. Your smiles have made me mad. Let this atone For my audacity, forgiven the rather That I am one . . . et cetera. ..." My father, CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 301 Hear what is written by this holy scribe: "Madam: 'Tis needful to subscribe To th' Cardinal's will, however hearts rebel. So I have chosen a friar known wide and well For holiness, discretion, intellect. To bring you this command. You must respect The bearer and the message. He ivill give . . . (She turns a page.) The nuptial benediction, — where you live. And secretly. Christian becomes your spouse. Resign yourself. You suffer. But your vows Will please High Heaven Who will bless your zeal. Let me express the deep respect I feel For your obedience, knowing that there are Few harder duties. Yours . . . et cetera." The Friar {beaming) : O worthy gentleman! I had no fear. It was a good affair that brought me here. RoxANE (aside, to Christian): Don't I read letters well? Tell me. Christian: Ah . . . hum. RoXANE (aloud, despairingly) : Oh, woe! The Friar (who has flashed the light of his lantern on Cyrano) : 'Tis you? Christian : It's me. The Friar (turning the light of his lantern on him and, as if a doubt assailed him, seeing Christian's beauty) : But . . . Roxane (hurriedly) : "Post scriptum; Give five-score pistoles to the brotherhood." The Friar: Ah, worthy lord! (To Roxane) Submit. Roxane (meekly) : I will be good. (While Ragueneau opens the door to the Capuchin, whom Christian ushers into the house, Roxane says in a ivhis- per to Cyrano) : You'll keep the Count of Guiche? Cyrano: Yes, on my oath! 302 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Roxane: He will soon be here. Keep him. Cyrano (to the Friar) : To plight their troth You need? . . . The Friar: A quarter of an hour. Cyrano (hurrying them all into the house) : Now what known power . . . Roxane (to Christian): Come! (They go in.) Cyrano: . . , Will hold the Count a quarter of an hour? (He springs up on the bench and climbs to the balcony.) Come, climb ! I have my plan ! (The archlutes play a lugubrious strain.) Hola! A man draws nigh, — This time, a real one. {He is on the balcony; he pulls his hat down over his eyes; takes off his sword; ivraps his cloak about him; then leans and looks down from the balcony.) No ; that is not too high, {He steps over the railing, and pulls toiuard him a long branch of one of the trees ivhich grow along the garden wall; then grasps it with both hands, ready to let himself drop.) I'm going to trouble this calm evening air. SCENE XI Cyrano, the Count of Guiche GuiCHE {who enters, masked, stumbling in the dark) : Where is that damned Capuchin, curse him? Where? Cyrano: The devil! What about my voice? {Freeing the branch with one hand, he seems to turn an in- visible key): Cric, crac ! (Solemnly) Resume the accent, lad, of Bergerac! Guiche (looking at the house) : Oh, damn this mask! A light would be a boon. (Ife assures himself about the door he seeks, and is about to enter. Cyrano leaps from the balcony, holding on by the CYRANO OF BERGERAC 303 branch uhich, binding, lets him fall beticecn the door and the Count of Guiche. lie pretends to fall heavily as if from a great height. Flat upon the ground, he lies mo- tionless as if stunned. The Count leaps back.) Guiche: Hcin? What? {When he looks up, the branch has sprung back; he sees only the sky; he is mystified.) Wlience came this fellow? Cyrano (sitting up and speaking ivith the Gascon accent) : From the Moon! Guiche: From the . . . Cyrano (still speaking in a far-away voice) : What is the hour? Guiche: He's reft of reason. Cyrano : What hour ? What land ? What day ? What season ? Guiche: But . . . Cyrano: I'm dizzy. Guiche: Sir . . . Cyrano: Giddy ... for like a bomb I hurtled from the moon. Guiche (impatiently) : Nonsense, man. Cyrano (standing up and speaking in a terrible voice) : Thence I come! Guiche (recoiling) : So be it. You fell. (Aside) A lunatic, of course. Cyrano: Not metaphorically but with force. Guiche: But . . . Cyrano: Centuries agone ... or else, a minute, . . . How long I fell. I know not. I was In it. . . . That saffron ball up yonder in the sky ! Guiche (shrugging his shoulders) : Yes. Let me pass. Cyrano (intercepting him) : Be candid. Where am I? Keep nothing from me. On what earthly site Have I descended like an aerolite? Guiche: 'Sdeath! Cyrano: Falling, T had no choice, nor time to tell What should befall me, — nor where I be fell. 304 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Guiche: I tell you, sir . . . Cyrano (with a shriek of terror which makes the Count fall back): Good Lord! Alack! Alack! In this new country all the men are black ! Guiche {putting his hand to his face) : What? Cyrano (with every evidence of panic) : Am I in Algiers? Are all the men Black as . . . Guiche (who has felt his mask) : This mask! Cyrano (feigning assurance) : I am in Venice then. Guiche (trying to pass) : I came to meet a lady. Cyrano (completely reassured) : I'm in Paris! Guiche (laughing in spite of himself) : The droll is fairly droll. Cyrano: You laugh? . . . Guiche: Yes . . . there is No less desire to pass. Cyrano: Paris, no doubt. (He is quite at ease, now; he laughs, brushes off the dust of his fall, bows.) Cyrano: I came, — your pardon, — through a waterspout, Cloudburst, that left its spray. I have journeyed, sir. My eyes are full of Stardust. Ha, . . . this spur Caught in a comet's tail. This golden tinge. (He brushes his sleeve delicately.) Here, on my doublet, is a meteor's fringe. (He blows it away, daintily.) Guiche (beside himself) : Sir . . . Cyrano (as the Count tries to pass, stops him by thrusting out his leg, as if to show him something) : See, there, on my calf, — mark of a tooth? The Great Bear bit me. As I dodged, forsooth I missed the Trident but I fell ker-plunk! Into the Balances. See, they are simk ! They mark my weight. Look how the record lingers. (He buttonholes the Count, who tries to pass him.) If you should tweak my nose between your fingers, 'Twould prove a fount of milk. CYRANO OF BERGERJC 305 Guiche: Milk? Cyrano : Even From the Milky Way. Guiche: Oh, go to hell! Cyrano: I came from Heaven. {He crosses his arms.) Would you believe, Sirius, — I saw this sight, — Puts on a cloudy nightcap every night? {Confidentially) The Little Bear can't bite; — he tries to nip. {Laughing) I broke a string in Lyra by a slip. {Superbly) I mean to write my travels in a book. These stars entangled in my mantle, — look, — When I've recorded all my diverse risks, These captured stars shall serve as asterisks. Guiche: Nevertheless, I wish . . . Cyrano: I get you now! Guiche: Sir . . . Cyrano: You would learn, — 'tis reasonable enow, — From one who has been there, if it's made of cheese, Or if folk live there natural as you please. Guiche {storming) : But no! I wish . . . Cyrano: To hear of my ascension? 'Twas by a method of my own invention. Guiche {discouraged): Fool! Cyrano: Regiomontanus tried an eagle's wings; Archytas made a pigeon, — silly things! Guiche: A fool, of course, and yet a learned fool. Cyrano: I never imitate, — I make the rule. {The Count has succeeded in passing him and he strides tn Roxane's door. Cyrano follous him, ready to lay hold on him.) By six sure methods I can rise like vapor. Guiche {turning) : Six? 306 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano : I could stand naked like a waxen taper, Caparisoned with crystal phials clear, Unstoppled, filled with summer's earliest tear, — My body to the sunlight I'd expose, And it were lifted as the dew arose. GuiCHE (his attention engaged, taking a step toward Cyrano) : Ho ! That makes one way. (Cyrano draws back as Guiche approaches.) Cyrano: And again, I might Draw winds into a vacuum, — keep it tight, — Rarify them, by glowing mirrors, pressed Isosahedron-wise within a chest. Guiche {coming another step) : Two! Cyrano: Then, both mechanic and inventor, I Make a steel grasshopper and let it fly By swift explosions, till it fire me far To the blue pastures of the farthest star. Guiche {following him, unsuspectingly, as Cyrano leads him to the other side of the way, always farther from Rox- ane's door) : Three! Cyrano: Or, since smoke rises in its natural state, I'd catch a globeful, equal to my weight. Guiche {same business, always more and more astonished) : Four I Cyrano: Luna loves, what time her bow is narrow. To suck beef-marrow, so I'd smear with marrow. Guiche {amazed) : Five! Cyrano {who as he talks has led him to the other side of the square, near a bench): On an iron disc I'd stand with care, And toss a lodestone lightly in the air. That is a good way. When the iron flew, Drawn by the magnet, as we nearer drew, I'd catch the magnet, — toss it up! You sec, One might keep climbing through eternity. CYRANO OF BKRGERAC 307 Guiche: Six! And all excellent. Now, t«ll me, pray, Which method did you choose? Cyrano: A seventh way! Guiche: Indeed! And what? Cyrano: Give up! You'd never guess! Guiche: Stark mad, but most ingenious none the less. Cyrano {making a sound like waves on the shore, and wide, mysterious gestures) : Woosh ! Woosh ! Guiche: What's that? Cyrano: You've guessed it? Guiche: No. Cyrano: It is the ocean! When the moon moved the yearning tide to motion I lay out on the sands, wave-wet, and so My head was moved, and lifted . . . lifted slow, — Hair holds the water, sir, — and very slowly, I rose, just like an angel, stifiF and holy. Effortless, splendid, high above all men I rose ... I rose ... I felt a shock. . . . Guiche {engulfed in curiosity and sitting dozen on the bench) : And then? . . . Cyrano: Then . . . {Taking his natural voice once more.) The time is up, Sir, and I set you free. The wedding's over. Guiche {leaping to his feet) : What has come over me? That voice! {The house door sicings open; lackeys appear carrying lighted sconces. A flood of light. Cyrano, ivith a sweep- ing boiv, doffs his plumed hat.) Guiche: That nose! Cyrano {saluting) : Sir, while we spoke of wings. Exchanging fancies, they exchanged their wings. Guiche: Who? {They turn. Behind the lackeys, RoxANE and Christian, hand in hand. The Friar follows them, smiling benignly. 308 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Ragueneau holds a torch high. The Duenna brings up the rear of the procession, a bewildered figure in a short bed gown.) SCENE XII The Same, Roxane, Christian^ the Friar, Ragueneau, Lackeys, the Duenna, GuiCHE {to Roxane): You? {Recognizing Christian with stupefaction)'. He! {Bowing loiu to Roxane): Most artfully contrived! {To Cyrano) : My compliments. The perils you survived, And your inventions, would arrest a mortal. Though he were saint, at heaven's very portal. Pray, sir, record them, for the future's sake. Cyrano {bowing) : Sir, 'tis a counsel I engage to take. The Friar {pointing to the lovers, wagging his long white beard and addressing the Count with great satisfaction) : A handsome couple I They obeyed you well. GuiCHE {looking at him stonily) : Yes. {To Roxane) : Madam kindly bid your spouse farewell. Roxane: What? Why? GuiCHE {to Christian) : The Regiment already marches out. Join it. Roxane: To go to war? Quiche: Aye, past all doubt. Roxane: But the Cadets go not. Quiche: They go, indeed. {He takes a paper from his pocket.) The orders. {To Christian) Take them, Baron, and with speed. Roxane {throwing herself into Christian's arms): Christian! Quiche {chuckling, to Cyrano) : The nuptial niglit is far ofif, still. Cyrano {aside) : He thinks that thought has done me mortal ill. CYRANO OF BERGERAC 309 Christian [to Roxane) : Thy lips, . . . once more, . . . once more! Cyrano: Enough. Ah, go! Christian {still embracing Roxane) : 'Tis hard to give her up. Thou knowst not. Cyrano: Aye, I know! {Far away, drums arc heard, sounding a march.) GuiCHE {coming forward) : The Regiment departs. Roxane {to Cyrano, while she holds Christian back, as Cyrano tries to lead him away) : I trust you. Oh, Don't let him be in danger, Cyrano! Promise ! Cyrano: I'll try. And yet, however prayerful, One cannot always . . . Roxane: Promise he'll be careful! Cyrano: I'll do my utmost. . . . Roxane : Make him take some rest. And not get chilled. Cyrano: I'll do my very best. But . . . Roxane: That he will be faithful. Cyrano: I declare I arn sure . . . Roxane : That he'll write often ! Cyrano {standing suddenly motionless) : That, I swear! ( Curtain ) ACT IV Cadets of Gascony The post occupied by the company of Carbon of Castel- Jaloux at the Siege of Arras. In the background breastworks traverse the entire scene. Be- yond, a plain stretches to, the horizon. The ground is furrowed with earthworks. Far away, against the sky line, the walls and roofs of Arras. Tents; scattered arms; drums, etc. It is near daybreak. The East is pale gold. Sentinels are posted at intervals. Camp fires burn low. Rolled in their cloaks, the Cadets of Gascony sleep. Carbon of Castel- Jaloux and Le Bret watch. They are pale and very thin. In the foreground, wrapped in his cloak. Christian sleeps among the rest, his face lit by the firelight. Silence. SCENE I Christian, Carbon of Castel-Jaloux, Le Bret, the Cadets; later, Cyrano Le Bret; Horrible! Carbon : Nothing is left ! Le Bret: 'Sdeath! Carbon {signing to him to speak softly) : Soft ! Lest thou wake them ! Swear beneath thy breath. {To the Cadets) 'Shsh ! Sleep. Who sleeps dines. Le Bret: And who wakes, dines not. What dearth ! What famine ! {A gunshot is heard in the distance.) Carbon: Curse that noisy shot! They'll wake my children. {To some Cadets, who stir) Sleep! 310 CYRANO OF BERGERAC 311 A Cadet {moving uneasily) : Damn it! They begin Again. Carbon : It's nothing. Cyrano comes in, (The lifted heads fall back; the Cadets sleep again.) A Sentinel (without) : Zounds! Who goes there? The Voice of Cyrano: Bergcrac! The Sentinel (on the ramparts) : Give the word. Cyrano (appearing on the crest of the ramparts) : Bergerac, you fool. Le Bret (going to meet him, disgusted) : Good Lord! Cyrano (signing to him not to wake the Cadets) : Sh! Le Bret: Wounded? Cyrano: Nay! Thou knowst it is their rule To miss me every morning. Le Bret: Such a fool! Each day! To take a letter! . . . Nearly light. . . . Always this risk . . . ! Cyrano (stopping at Christian's side) : I promised he would write. (He looks at him.) He sleeps. He is pale. Poor child, she does not know He is starving. . . . But still beautiful. Le Bret: Oh, go And get some sleep. Cyrano: Don't scold, Le Bret. I have found A way to cross their lines both safe and sound. A post that's guarded, — but by drunken men. Le Bret: I wish you brought some victuals with you, then! Cyrano: One must tread lightly! But, being near their trench, I got an inkling that ere night the French Will eat or die. Le Bret: Quick . . . tell! Cyrano: Nay, wait and see. I am not sure. , . . Carbon : What shame, what infamy Besiegers die of hunger ! 312 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Le Bret: Aye, alas! Never was siege like this siege of Arras. We compass Arras. Cardinal Infant Of Spain besieges us, — and brings this want. Cyrano: Now, someone should besiege the Heir of Spain. Le Bret: I do not laugh. Cyrano: Oh, oh! Le Bret: Large risk, — small gain. Thy life against a letter. Oh, I smother With rage. Where now? (Seeing him go toward a tent.) Cyrano: I go to write another. {He raises the tent flap and disappears.) SCENE II The Same, without Cyrano The dawn brightens. There are rosy streaks along the eastern sky. The city of Arras is gold on the horizon. A cannon shot is heard; followed by the sound of distant drums on the left. Other drums sound nearer. They come closer, as if they were at hand, and then go farther away on the right, going through the whole camp. The camp is waking. Officers' voices are heard in the dis- tance. Carbon : The bugle-call. Alas, it is so fleet Succulent sleep ! I know what they will cry. A Cadet {sitting up): Something to eat! Another: I starve. Carbon: Get up. Third Cadet: I cannot move. Fourth Cadet: No good. The First {using his cuirass as a mirror) : My tongue is coated. Wind's unwholesome food. Another: I'd give my baron's wreath for bread and cheese. Achilles sulked when far less ill at ease. CYRANO OF BERGERAC 313 Another: Is his wind-pipe a fellow's only pipe? I want some food. I'm tired of eating tripe! Another: Bread! Carbon {going to the tent into which Cyrano disappeared, and whispering): Cyrano! Other Cadets: We die! Carbon {still in a whisper, at the tent flap) : Come to our aid. They feed upon thy banter. I am dismayed. . . . Rally them, thou ! Second Cadet {rushing up to the first, who is chewing some- thing) : Hey, there, what is't you munch? First Cadet: I have a bit of greasy tow for lunch. It's soaked in axle grease for cannon wheels. Outskirts of Arras furnish luscious meals. Another {entering) : I have been hunting. Another {corning in at the same moment) : I fished in the Scarp. All {getting up and rushing toward the newcomers) : What did you get? A pheasant? You? A carp? Quick! Show us, quick! The Fisher: A gudgeon. The Hunter: Sparrow. All {exasperated): Oh! Enough. Let's mutiny! Carbon: Help, Cyrano! (// is bright daylight.) SCENE ITT The Same, Cyrano Cyrano {coming out of his tent; calm; a pen behind his ear, a book in his hand) : Hein? {To the First Cadet) : Why dost thou tread with such a halting gait? The Cadet: I've something in my shoe, — a dragging weight. Cyrano: Why, what is that? 314 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND The Cadet: A stomach. Cyrano: So have I. The Cadet: It must impede you. Cyrano : No, it lifts me high. Another: My teeth feel long. Cyrano: Hold fast, with teeth so large. A Third: My belly rumbles. Cyrano: It will sound the charge. Another: My ears are ringing. Cyrano: 'Tis a lie he hears. Who rang a breakfast bell in that man's ears? Another: Something to eat, with oil! Cyrano {snatching his helmet off and thrusting it into his hands) : Thy salad, lad. Another: What is there to devour? Cyrano (tossing him the book he had in his hand) : The Iliad. Another: The minister at Paris richly dines. Cyrano: Shall he send grouse, or quail? The Cadet: Why not? And wines! Cyrano: Burgundy, Richelieu! This delay is rude. The Cadet: By what Capuchin? Cyrano: Oh, some friar, — stewed. Another: I'm hungry as a hound! Cyrano: Then eat thy hair. The First Cadet: Absurd! Always the word, the point ! Cyrano: Always the point, the word! And I would die, at eve 'neath rosy skies, Making a brave jest for a high emprise! Pierced by the only noble weapon made. And by a knightly foeman ; unafraid ; On glory's field, — not deathbed's dull eclipse; A point within my heart, — and on my lips! A Cry from All the Cadets: I am himgry! Cyrano (folding his arms): What? You talk of food again? Come, Bertrandou the fifor, ancient swain, CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 315 Take from its leathern case thy ebon fife. These greedy-guts think meat is more than life. Play to them, . . . country airs, . . . the soft notes faUing Like little sisters' voices, calling, calling; Songs of our land ; echoes of our own folk, Airs that rise gently like the wreaths of smoke That from the hearthfires of our birthplace come, — Old airs that seem the very voice of home! ( The old fifer sits down and draws out his fife.) Now^ let thy fife, a soldier tried and good, Recall, a moment, feeling on her wood Thy fingers move like song birds, light and free, She was a reed, ere she was ebony ! Let her own voice surprise her soul in sooth, Call back her rustic peace, her heart of youth! {The old man begins to play Langucdocian airs.) Oh, listen, Gascons! The shrill fife is mute. Under his fingers, 'tis a woodland flute. No breath of battle echoes in these notes. It is the galoubet that calls the goats ! Hark . . . 'tis the vale, the wood, the land outspread ; The small brown goatherd, with his bonnet red ; . . . Green twilight . . . rivers whispering to the lea. Ah, listen, Gascons. It is Gascony. (All the heads are bowed; all the eyes dream; tears are fur- tively dried on sleeves or hems of cloaks.) Carbon {to Cyrano) : You make them weep. Cyrano: Nostalgia is an ill Nobler than hunger.- Man is spirit still! I love the change the airs of home could make. The heart-ache helps to heal their belly-ache. Carbon: Making them tender, thou wilt make them weak. Cyrano {luho signs to a drummer to approach) : No fear! Their heroes' blood is swift to speak. Quick to awaken. {He gives a signal. The drum sounds.) 316 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND All {springing up and seizing their arms) : Hein? What? What's that? Cyrano: That soul Wakes to one drum beat, to a single roll. Farewell, dreams, tears, regrets, old scenes! And come All the flute banished, — wakened by the drum! A Cadet {who has been looking toivard the background) : Ah, hah I The Count of Guiche. All the Cadets {grumbling) : Huh! Cyrano {smiling) : How that charmer Is welcomed, here. A Cadet : He makes us tired ! Another: His armor Decked with lace collars, — man you can't rely on. Another: Linen wa'n't made to wear atop of iron! First Cadet: Good if you have a boil, a fat feruncle! Second Cadet: The courtier, alwajs. Another: Nephew of his uncle. Carbon : Still he's a Gascon. First Cadet: Title's rather hazy. Because . . . why, Gascons . . . Gascons must be crazy. A sober Gascon is too dangerous. Le Bret: He is pale. Another: Hungry, poor devil, like the rest of us! But, since his breastplate is with silver dight. His cramping belly twinkles in the light! Cyrano {hurriedly) : Dice! Cards! He mustn't find us in the dumps! {In a moment, they all begin to play cards, to throiv dice, sitting on drums or camp stools or their cloaks on the ground; they light long pipes.) Cyrano {taking a slim volume out of his pocket) : Discard Descartes? No, books arc alwaj's trumps! {He walks up and down, reading. The Count of Guiche enters. Everybody seems occupied and cheerful. He is very pale. He goes to Carbon.) CYRJXO OF BERG ERA C 317 SCENE IV The Same, the Count of Cuiche GuiCHE (ifj Carbon): Good morning. {They scrutinize each other. Aside, with satisfaction) : He is green. Carbon {aside) : He is all eyes. Quiche {looking at the Cadets) : Here are my critics, then? Yes, I am wise, — I have reports of the abuse one hears ; That the Cadets, — these lofty mountaineers, — These rowdy squires, — barons of Perigord, — Have for their Colonel not a decent word ; That I am called courtier, schemer; that I fail To please them wearing lace above my mail; That it offends them, in good sooth, to see A Gascon, who yet goes not beggarly. {Silence. They play. They smoke.) Pray, shall I have your captain punish you? No. Carbon ; It is, moreover, what I will not do. Quiche: Ah? Carbon: I pay my Company; 'tis mine, till death. I obey field orders only. Quiche: Ah? My faith, That settles it. {Addressing himself to the Cadets) : I can despise your folly; The world knows how I face the muskets' volley. At Baupaume yesterday, they hailed with joy The way I met and put to rout Bucquoi. Ah, there was action lessers fights to dwarf! Three times I charged ! Cyrano {without raising his eyes from his book) : And what about your scarf? Quiche {surprised and gratified) : 318 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND You know that detail? Thus it came about, — 'Twas as I wheeled to follow up the rout. Assembling my command for this third charge, Some fleeing foemen swept me to the marge Of their main force. I saw I might be hit, Or captured surely. So I had the wit To loose the scarf of white that told the woi Of such a capture, — let it slip to earth ; Without insignia to attract their aim, I dodged the Spaniards. When once more I came, I led the Regiment! Ah, that is war! What do you say? (The Cadets have appeared not to listen; but nozv cards and dice boxes are held suspended; the pipe smoke is held in their cheeks. Attention.) Cyraxo: That Henry of Navarre Had not consented, — to give safety room, — To lower himself by doffing his white plume. (Silent joy. The cards are loiuered; dice rattle; smoke ex- hales.) Guiche: The dodge succeeded well. (Same expectancy; cards, dice and pipes held in suspense.) Cyrano: Though that may be. To be a target for the enemy Is not an honour one would lightly yield. (Cards are shuffled; dice are thrown; smoke wreaths rise; waxing satisfaction.) Had I been present, sir, upon that field, — Our courage differs thus,— I should have raised And worn it. Guiche: Still Gascon, still self-praised! Cyraxo : Self-praised ! Lend it to me! This morning under fire, I'll lead the assault and wear it in snltire! Guiche: A Gascon's offer, knowing well the scarp Lies with the enemy along the Scarpe, CYRANO OF BERGERAC 319 In a place hotly raked by canister. No one can fetch it. Cyrano {taking the white military scarp from his pocket and handing it to him) : I have brought it, sir. (Silence. The Cadets cover their laughter in the hands dealt them and in dice-boxes. The Count turns to look at them. Immediately they are grave again; they resume their play; one whistles the air the fifer played.) Guiche: I thank you. Having this fair scarp to shake, I'll make a signal I was loathe to make. (JJe climbs to the top of the breastworks and waves the scarf repeatedly.) The Sentinel (on the breastworks) : That man down there, who saves himself by running! . . . Guiche (coming down) : A traitor spy. I've matched the Span- iard's cunning. He serves us well, bearing them information — Which I supply. You see, by this gradation I influence the game that they are playing. Cyrano: A scurvy knave! Guiche (carelessly, knotting his scarf) : But useful. . . . We were saying? . . . Ah, yes! I meant to tell you this. Last night, — A desperate hazard for our desperate plight, — The Marshall marched to Dourlens, on the chance Of joining there the sutlers' stores of France, To revictual us. But, since supplies encumber. He drew upon the troops to such a number The foe would find an easy task, attacking Our camp to-day. Why, half the army's lacking. Carbon: That might be serious if our friends the foe Knew of that sortie. But they don't? Guiche: They know. They will attack. Carbon: Ah! Guiche: Their false spy's . . . indiscretion 320 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Enabled me to learn of their aggression. He added, "My report when I go back Decides it. At what point shall they attack? I shall report that place as least defended. There they will concentrate." So, when he ended, I answered, "Good. Go, watch along the line. Bid them attack where you descry my sign!" Carbon {to the Cadets) : Make ready, gentlemen! {They all rise. Clatter of sivords and buckling on of belts.) Guiche: One hour hence. . . . First Cadet: Oh! . . . Play! ( They all sit down again and resurne the interrupted game.^ Guiche {to Carbon) : We must gain time. The Marshall's on the way. Carbon : And to gain time . . . ? Guiche: Why, you will have the kindness To let yourselves be killed. Cyrano : And you, avenged ? Guiche: 'Twere blindness To think I love you. I pretend naught. Still, While choosing you and yours suits me not ill, Your crazy courage is a far-famed thing, And serving my revenge, I serve my King. Cyrano: I am your debtor for this thing you've done. Guiche: You like to fight a hundred to your one. I'll not withhold the opportunity. {He goes toward Carbon.) Cyrano: We'll deck her blazon, lads of Gascony! Six chevrons, gold and azure, make it gay; — We'll add a crimson chevron, boys, to-day. (Guiche speaks in a low voice to Carbon of CasteL' Jaloux. Orders are given. The defense is prepared. Cyrano goes toward Christian, who stands motionless, his arms crossed on his breast.) Cyrano {putting his hand on Christian's shoulder) : Christian ? CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 321 Christian {mournfully shaking his head): Roxane! Cyrano: Alas! Christian: I could bear it better If I could say good-bye in one fair letter. Cyrano: I thought 'twould be to-day — Oh, just a guess . . . {He takes a letter from his breast.) I wrote thy farewell. Christian: Show me. Cyrano: Show . . . ? Christian: Why, yes! (Christian opens it, begins to read, stops suddenly.) Hold . . . ! Cyrano: What? Christian: This little ring . . . ? Cyrano {hastily seizes the letter, and looks at it with an inno- cent air) : A ring? Christian: A tear! Cyrano: Yes . . . Yes ... A poet finds his work so dear . . . He is enwrapt. . . . This was ... a moving theme. I moved myself to tears, with this, thy dream. Christian: Tears . . . ? Cyrano: Yes . . . because . . . death is not terrible, But . . . never see her more! That's horrible! For nevermore will I . . . (Christian stares at him.) . . . will we . . . {Hastily) wilt thou . . . Christian {snatching the letter from him) : Give it to me! {Afar, one hears a noise in the camp.) Voice of the Sentinel: 'Odsbody, who comes now? {Musket shots. Voices. Jingle of harness.) Carbon: What's this? Sentinel {on the ramparts): A coach! {Everybody rushes to sec.) Cries: A coach in camp! A wonder! And from the Spaniard's side! Blood, death and thunder! 322 PLJYS OF EDMOXD ROSTAXD Fire ! No ! The coachman's calling. . . . What's this thing? He is crying, "Service of the King!" Guiche: The King? {Everybody falls back and forms in line.) Carbon : Heads bared ! Guiche (calling) : Fall in, there! 'Tis the King he serves. Give place. With due pomp let him make the curves. {The coach comes on at a full trot. It is covered with mud and dust. The curtains are draicn. Two footmen ride behind. It comes sharply to a halt.) Carbon { calling) : Sound the salute! (The drums roll. All the Cadets stand ivith bared heads.) Guiche: Let down the steps! (Tiio men leap to obey. The door is opened.) RoxANE (springing from the coach): Good day! (The sound of a woman's voice brings up in a flash all the heads that were so profoundly bowed. Stupefaction.) SCENE V The Same, RoxAXE Guiche: King's business. . . . You? . . . Roxase: King Love! WTiat other, pray? CvR-ANO : Great God ! Christian (rushing forward) : You! Why? Rox.4Ne: The siege went slowly, sir. Christian: Why? . . . Roxane: I will tell thee. . . . Cyr-ANO (who, at the sound of her voice, has stood, head bared, immobile, not daring to lift his eyes): God! To look on her! Guiche: You cannot stay here. Roxane: But I will, you know. Will you bring up that drum? CYRANO OF BERGERAC 323 {She seats herself on the drum which somebody hastens to bring for her.) Ah, thank you! So! {She laughs.) My coach was fired on! Truly! {Proudly.) A patrol! 'Tis like the pumpkin coach, upon my soul — Now, isn't it? Just like the fairy tale, With the rat footmen. {Throwing a kiss to Christian with the tips of her fingers.) Greeting! {She looks at everybody.) You are pale. Do you know 'tis far, to Arras? {Seeing Cyrano): Greeting, Cousin. La me! Cyrano {coming forward) : How could you. . . . Oh . . . ? Roxane: How could I find the Army? My friend, it was too simple. We drove straight Where all the land was ravaged, — desolate. Ah, God! the horror! No one could believe, Not having seen. Sirs, if your king receive Such service, — mine's a better king! Cyrano : 'Tis mad ! Now^ how the devil could you pass? Roxane: We had To come by the Spanish lines. First Cadet: The subtle Shes! Guiche: How could you pass their lines and come to these? Le Bret: Surely, most difficult. Roxane: Why, no, not very. We just drove through, my coach with my equerry. If some hidalgo showed a visage grim. Through parted curtains, I just smiled at him. Those greatest gallants of the world, — I say So much to Frenchmen, — sped me on my way. Carbon : Certes, it is a passport, — Roxane's smile ! And yet, they must have asked you, mile by mile. Whither you went? Roxane: Oh, that? Yes, oft and over! 324 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND I answered, "Sirs, I go to see my lover." At that, the Spaniard of the fiercest mien Would close the door, as if he served a queen, And with a gesture worthy of a king, Wave back the guns already threatening, — With all the haughty grandeur of his race Stand, so the wind would ruffle his sleeve lace And show his plumes like breeze-blown pampas grass; Then — "Senorita," bowing, "you may pass." Christian: But Roxane . . . Roxane: I said, "my lover," spite our vows. Thou knowest, love, if I had said, "my spouse," They wouldn't let me pass. Christian: But . . . Roxane GuiCHE Roxane : Cyrano : Le Bret: Christian Roxane : What is wrong? You must go. I? With speed! Oh, go along ! Yes! Why; Christian (embarrassed) : Because because Cyrano (same) GuiCHE (same) Carbon (same) Le Bret (same) Roxane : I shall stay. All: Roxane: Oh, while we prattle The hour speeds . . . You'd best . . You might . . No! A battle! My husband ! (She throws herself into Christian's arms) Together. Christian: How your eyes shine! Roxane: Knowst thou why? Guiche (frantic) : This is a fearful post! Roxane (turning/): Fearful? We will die CYRANO OF BERGERAC 325 Cyrano: Needs but to state He gave it us. Roxane: You'd have me desolate, — Widowed . . . ? Guiche: I swear! . . . Roxane: Nay, I am mad! Refusing To leave, I please myself. It is . . . amusing. Cyrano: What's here? The Euphuist is heroine? Roxane: My lord of Bergerac, we two are kin. A Cadet: We will defend you well! Roxane {more and more feverishly excited) : My friends, I know it! Another {intoxicated ivith joy) ; The whole camp smells of orris! Roxane: I can show it, — How well this hat becomes me in a fight. {Looking at the CouNT OF Guiche) : Perhaps 'tis time the Count were taking flight ; The action might begin. Guiche: This is too much. I am gone To inspect the guns. I shall return anon. 'Tis not too late. Give up this frantic plan. Ah, come away. Roxane: Never! (Guiche goes out.) SCENE VI The Same, ivithout the Count of Guiche Christian {imploring): Roxane, Roxane! Roxane: No. First Cadet {to the others): She stays! All {rushing about, jostling, snatching) : My soap! A razor! Ass, Where is my comb? A pin! A looking glass! Roxane {to Cyrano, who tries to move her) : No power on earth can budge me from this place. 326 PLAYS OF ED MONO ROSTAND Carbon (after having, like the rest, brushed his uniform, dusted his wide hat, pranked his plume, and settled his cuffs, advances toward Roxane) : Will you permit, of your exceeding grace, That I present these barons who adore you. Who'll have the honour soon to die before you? Roxane {boivs assent and standing waiting, her hand on Chris- tian's arm.) Carbon {presents) : Baron of Peyrescous of Colignac. The Cadet {saluting) : Madam . . . Carbon {continuing) : Of Casterac of Cahuzac, Vidame of Malgouvre of Escarabiot, — Chevalier of Antignac, Baron Hillot Of Castel-Crabioules of Salechan. . . . Roxane: How many names has each? Baron Hillot: Crowds, — every man! Carbon : Open the hand that holds your handkerchief. (Roxane opens her hand and the handkerchief drops.) Roxane: Why? {Every man in the Company stoops to pick it up.) Carbon {quickly picking it up himself, ahead of them all) : We lacked a banner. Now, 'tis my belief, We have the bonniest in all this place. Roxane {smiling) : 'Tis rather tiny. Carbon: But already lace! {He attaches the little handkerchief to his Captain's lance.) A Cadet {to the others) : I could die happy with that face in sight. If I could hand my stomach just one bite! Carbon (who has heard; indignant) : Shame! "Talk of eating, when a lovely woman ..." Roxane: Camp air whets appetite. And, being human, I too am hungry. Pastry, meat and wine, — Bring me my breakfast, please. (Consternation.) CYRANO OF BERGERAC 327 A Cadet: She wants to dine! Another: Good God, where will we get it? RoxANE {serenely) : In my coach. All: Hein? Roxane: You must carve and serve. As you approach, Observe the coachman closely, gentlemen ; — A man of many arts, you meet again. Ask him, if you would have the sauces vary! The Cadets {running to the coach) : It is Ragueneau! {Acclamations) : Oh, oh! Roxane {following them with her eyes) : Poor lads! Cyrano {kissing her hand) : Good fairy! Ragueneau {standing up on the coachman's box like a mounte- bank at a fair) : Gentlemen. . . . The Cadets {wild enthusiasm) : Bravo! Ragueneau: As the foe we passed, He knew we passed, — but knew not what repast! {Great applause.) Cyrano {whispering to Christian) : Hum . . . Christian . . . Ragueneau: Asked our aim, — learned the same, — {He draivs from under the box-seat a great platter of game.) — Yes, heard our aim, nor knew it brought down game! {Applause. The platter is handed from hand to hand.) Cyrano {to Christian, whispering) : One word, I beg. . . . Ragueneau : Venus so moved his heart, He quite forgot . . . {He waves a haunch of venison.) Diana had a hart. {Waxing enthusiasm. The roast is seized by twenty out- stretched hands.) Cyrano {whispering to Christian) : I want to tell thee . . . Roxane {to the Cadets who are coming dou'n, their arms full of provisions) : Put it on the ground. {She spreads a tablecloth on the grass, aided by tu'o imper- turbable footmen from the coach.) Roxane {to Christian, as Cyrano tries to take him aside) : Come and be useful. 328 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Ragueneau : A peacock. First Cadet (coming down, carving a great dish of ham as he comes) : I'll be bound We will not die without the recollection Of one great gorge. . . . Oh, hell! . . . {Checking himself at sight of Roxane.) I mean, refrection. Ragueneau {tossing doiun the carriage cushions) ; Cushions full of ortolans. {Tumult. They empty the cushions. Laughter. Joy.) Third Cadet: Aha, my boobies! Ragueneau {producing white wine) : Flagons of topaz! {Flasks of red wine.) Flagons of rubies! Roxane {tossing a folded cloth to Cyrano) : Unfold this tablecloth. Quick! Show more ardor! Ragueneau {flourishing one of the coach lamps) : Each lantern is a tiny kitchen larder. Cyrano {whispering to Christian as they spread the cloth, to- gether) : A word with thee, before Roxane has hers! Ragueneau {more and more lyrical, cracking his whip) : No cracker, but an Arlesne sausage, sirs! Roxane {pouring wine and serving) : Since we must die for all, 'tis fair, you see, To feast for all, Cadets of Gascony. If the Count comes, let's offer him no share. {Going from one to another.) There still is time. . . . Don't eat so fast . . . There, there ! A little wine? You weep! Why? First Cadet: I am fed! Roxane: Tut . . . Red or white wine? Hand the Captain bread. A knife! Your plate! A bit of crust? I'll pour you Champagne? Ah, just tliis wing? Please! Cyrano {who follows her, his arms piled high, helping her serve, aside) : I adore you! Roxane {going toward Christian) : You? Christian: Nothing! CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 329 Roxane: This biscuit? Muscatelle, — Two fingers? Christian: Tell me why you came? Roxane: I'll tell You presently. These poor lads need me now. Le Bret {who has gone back, to reach the sentinel on the ram- part with half a loaf of bread impaled on his lance) : The Count of Guiche! Cyrano: Hide the game-basket, flagon, platter, dish! Quick ! Now, look innocent. No trace of food ! {To Ragueneau) : Climb to thy seat. All's hid? {In the twinkling of an eye, the food is thrust under tent flaps, stuffed into doublets; under capes; into hats. The Count of Guiche enters hastily, and stops suddenly, sniffing the air. Silence.) SCENE VII The Same, the Count of Guiche Guiche: Something smells good. A Cadet {humming with an absent-minded air) : To lo lo . . . Guiche {looking at him critically): What ails you? You look red. The Cadet: Me? Scent of battle. Joy goes to my head. Another: Poum . . . poum . . . poum. Guiche {turning) : What's that? The Cadet {a little affected by the wine) : That's a ballade, A little . . . Guiche: You are strangely gay, my lad. The Cadet: Approach of danger. Guiche {calling Carbon of Castel-Jaloux to give an order) Captain . . . {He is arrested by Carbon's appearance) Damn my soul, You look well, too. 330 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Carbon (flushed, and hiding a bottle behind him, with an evasive gesture) : Oh , . . Guiche: I ordered them to roll A cannon 5'onder. . . . 'Tis a surplus one. Your men may find a use for such a gun. A Cadet (bowing profoundly) : Charming solicitude! Another (smiling graciously upon him) : Oh, sweet attention! Guiche: They are lunatics! (Dryly.) It may be well to mention The danger of recoil. First Cadet: Ah, pfftt! Guiche (taking a step toward him, furious) : If I would soil My hands . . . The Cadet: The Gascons' cannon won't recoil. Guiche (seizing him by the arm) : You are drunk! On what? The Cadet: Powder's approaching smell. Guiche (shrugging his shoulders, pushes him away and goes eagerly to Roxane) : Your resolution, Mistress? Deign to tell You will go. Roxane: I stay. Guiche: Oh, fly! Roxane: No. Guiche: Be it so. Give me a musket. Carbon: What? Guiche: I shall not go. Cyrano: At last, my lord, you give true courage place. First Cadet: Is there a Gascon, underneath his lace? Roxane: What? Guiche: I'll not quit a lady in such need. Second Cadet (to the first) : Say, boy! I move we ask him to our feed. (All the food reappears as if by 7nagic.) Guiche (whose eyes brighten) : Victuals! CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 331 A Third Cadet: All doublets sheltered things to eat. GuiCHE {mastering himself, — haughtily) : You think that I will touch your broken meat? Cyrano {saluting) : Sir, you progress! Guiche: Fastin', I'll carry on. {A slight trace of the Gascon accent escapes him.) First Cadet (exulting): Fastin' I The accent! Quiche (laughing): Me? The Cadet: A Gascon born! (They all begin a war dance of delight.) Carbon of Castel-Jaloux (who has disappeared behind the breastivorks for a moment, reappears on the crest.) I have placed my pikemen, trusty men and true. (hie points to a line of pikes passing, beyond the ridge.) Guiche (to Roxane, boning low) : Will you come with me, for this last review? (She takes his hand and they go tip toward the breastworks. Everybody doffs his hat and follows.) Christian (going to Cyrano, hurriedly) : Speak quickly! (As Roxane appears on the crest of the ramparts, the lances disappear, lowered in salute. A cheer arises. She bows.) The Pikemen (ivithout) : Vivat! Christian : Tell thy secret, then. Cyrano: In case Roxane . . . Christian: Well, what? Cyrano: Should speak again Of . . . letters . . . Christian: Yes . . . Cyrano: Don't show thy foolishness Being surprised. . . . Christian : At what ? Cyrano: O Lord! I must confess! It is quite simple ... I just thought . . . to-day . . . Seeing her . . . thou hast . . . Christian: Hurrv! 332 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano: Thou hast, I say . . . Written more often than thou knowest. Christian: What? Cyrano: Damn it! I swore you'd write! Hast thou forgot? I wrote for thee, — sometimes not telling thee. Christian: Ah! Cyrano : It was simple. Christian: But . . . how could it be? There's the blockade. Cyrano: Oh, before dawn ... I knew A place to cross their ... Christian (crossing his arms on his breast) : That was simple, too? How often did I write? Each week? Twice? Thrice? Four times? Cyrano : More. Christian: Every day? Cyrano: Why . . . each day . . . twice. Christian (violently) : And they so moved thee, — were so strong to stir, They made thee face death . . . ? Cyrano (seeing Roxane, who comes down) : 'Sh. Not before her! (He hurriedly re-enters his tent.) SCENE vni Roxane, Christian; in the background, passing and repassing, the Cadets; GuiCHE and Carbon of Castel-Jaloux, who give orders. Roxane (running to Christian): Christian! Oh, now . . . Christian (taking her hands in his) : And now, Oh tell me why Thou earnest . . . found the boldness to defy The cruel road, the ranks of rowdy reiters, And come to me. Ah, why? Roxane: It was . . . the letters! CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 333 Christian : Thou sayst . . . ? Roxane: Thy letters made me reckless, bold; They made me face these perils manifold. Ah, think how many you have sent, my love. Always more beautiful. Christian : Could letters move Thee so ? . . . Roxane: Thou knowest not their power. I have adored tliee since that magic hour Under my window, when a new voice cried And showed the soul thou wast so fain to hide. Ah, well, — thy letters for a month all breathe The sweetness of that night, — the jasmine wreathe — The enfolding tenderness! My lover, — see, I could not choose but come! Penelope Would not have tarried at her tapistry Had Lord Ulysses writ, as thou to me. She would have tossed her woollen balls aside, And sped, like Helen, to her lover's side! Christian: But . . . Roxane: I read and read again. Joy mixed with grief; I was with thee. And every written leaf Was like a petal wafted from thy soul; — Each word, a flame ; — a living fire, the whole. Of love, sincere and strong! Christian: Strong? . . . And sincere? That could be felt, Roxane? Roxane: Ah, yes, my dear! Christian : And so you came. . . . Roxane: I came! (Christian, my king, My love, you'd lift me up if I should fling Myself low at your feet. So there I lay My soul which always at your feet shall stay.) I come to seek thy pardon. (Meet and right To ask forgiveness, having death in sight!) 334 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND That at the first, in my frivolity, I loved thy beauty, so insulting thee. Christian (horrified): Ah, Roxane! Roxane: Later, learning greater things, — A bird that flutters, ere it trusts its wings, — Thy beauty bound me, and thy spirit drew. I loved thee, then, for both. Christian: And now? Speak true! Roxane: Ah, now thyself thyself has overthrown. At last I love thee for thy soul alone ! Christian {starting back) \ Ah! Roxane! Roxane: So, be happy. To be loved For fleshly garments that can be removed. To a great spirit were a conquest mean. I have forgot thy face, thy soul being seen. Thy beauty won me. . . . It is all forgot! I see thee better, — and I see thee not. Christian : Oh ! Roxane: Dost thou doubt a triumph so complete? Christian {dolorously): Roxane! Roxane: I know! Is such a love too sweet For thy belief? Christian: I do not want such love! I want to be loved just for . . . Roxane: Just to prove All women love alike a handsome face? Mourn not the old love ! Give a better, place ! Christian: The old love was the best. Roxane: Nay, nay, I tell Now I love better, — now T first love well! 'Tis what thy soul has built that I adore. Less beautiful. . . . Christian: Hush! Roxane: T sliould love thee more! Though all thy beauty in the flesh were gone. . . . Christian: Oli, don't say tliat! CYRANO OF BERGERAC 335 Roxane: Nay, but I must say on! Christian: Ugly? Roxane: I swear it! Christian: God! Roxane: Is joy so great? Christian {in a choking voice) : Yes. . . . Roxane: What ails thee? Christian : Naught. A word to someone. Wait. Roxane: But . . . Christian {pointing to a group of Cadets in the background) : I took thee from them, — and they need thee so, — Thy smile to light their dying, Roxane, — Go! Roxane {deeply moved) : Dear Christian! (She goes toward the Gascons, who respectfully crowd around her.) SCENE IX Christian, Cyrano; in the background, Roxane talking gaily to Carbon and some of the Cadets Christian {toward Cyrano's tent) : Cyrano? Cyrano {comes out, equipped for the approaching battle) : Thou art pale. What moves Thee, lad? Christian : She doesn't love me ! Cyrano: What! Christian: 'Tis thee she loves. Cyrano : No ! Christian: She only loves my soul! Cyrano : No ! Christian: Yes, sir! 'Tis thee she loves, . . . and thou, thou lovest her! Cyrano : I ? Christian: I know it. Cyrano : Truth. Christian: To madness. 336 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano : More. Christian : God His grace, Tell her! Cyrano: No! Christian: Why, why not? Cyrano: Look at my face! Christian : She would love me ugly ! Cyrano: She said that? Christian: Just that. Cyrano : Ah, I am glad that she could tell you that ! But don't believe this madness. It is naught. — God ! I am glad that she has had that thought ! — — Could say that ! — But go, lad, for words are light. Don't become plain. She'd owe me much despite. Christian : I am going to see ! Cyrano: No! Christian : — Learn what she really meant. Thou shalt tell her all. Cyrano: Oh, not this punishment! Christian: I, kill thy happiness, — because I come To earth well-favoured ? Cyrano: Put thine in the tomb, I, — being favoured by this circumstance I can express . . . what thou canst feel, perchance? Christian : Tell her. Cyrano: He tempts me still, the devil or his elf! Christian: I am tired of being rival to myself! Cyrano: Christian! Christian : Our secret union scarce exists, — If we live, can be broken. . . . Cyrano: He persists! Christian : I will be loved myself, or not at all. We've got to see. Stay here. I am going to call Roxane. Then I'll walk to the end Of the guard-station. Speak to her, my friend. CYRANO OF BERGERAC 337 I shall return. And so, at last, we'll know Which of us two. Cyrano: 'Tis thou! Christian : But ... I hope so. {He calls.) Roxane! Cyrano: No! No! Roxane {running): What? Christian: Cyrano will say Something you ought to hear. {She goes eagerly to Cyrano. Christian goes out.) SCENE X Roxane, Cyrano; later, Le Bret, Carbon of Castel-Jaloux, the Cadets, Ragueneau, the Count of Guiche, etc. Roxane: Something? . . . Cyrano {wildly) : He's gone away! {To Roxane) Nothing. He gives . . . You know him, so you know He gives importance to just nothing. Roxane: Oh! He doubts what I have told him? I could see . . . Cyrano {taking her hand) : Roxane, was what you told him verity? Roxane: Yes, I would love him were he . . . {She hesitates.) Cyrano {smiling sorrowfully) : You are fain ,To shirk that word. ... Roxane: But . . . Cyrano: It will not give me pain. Even ugly? Roxane: Even ugly! {A sound of musket fire, without.) Hark! We are stormed! Cykaso {ardently) : Frightful? Roxane: Frightful. 338 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano: Even deformed? RoxANE : Deformed. Cyrano : Grotesque ? RoxANE : Never grotesque to me. Cyrano: You would love him still? Roxane: And still more ardently! Cyrano (aside j madly): My God! 'Tis true! And happiness has come! (Aloud, to Roxane) : Listen, Roxane . . . Le Bret (entering hastily and speaking in a whisper) : Cyrano! Cyrano (turning)'. Hein? Le Bret (putting his finger on his lips) : Be dumb. (He speaks a few words in a whisper.) Cyrano (letting go of Roxane's hand and uttering a cry) : Ah! Roxane: What troubles you? Cyrano (stupefied; aside) : 'Tis finished! (New volleys of musketry and detonation of artillery.) Roxane: Firing! The din! The reek Of smoke! (She goes up to see what is taking place.) Cyrano : Aye, it is finished ! I can never speak ! Roxane (trying to press forward) : What passes? Cyrano (holding her back) : Nothing! (The Cadets enter, carrying something which they conceal from Roxane, standing closely in a group about this bur- den.) Roxane: These men . . . ? Cyrano (leading her aside) : Come away! Roxane: What were you going to say? Cyrano: I . . . going to say? Nothing. I swear it. I abjure the whole. (Solemnly) I swear that Christian' s spirit, that his soul . . . Was . . . (He catches himself, terrified.) is . . . the noblest . . . Roxane: Was? (PFith a wild cry) Ah! CYRANO OF BERGERAC 339 {She rushes forivard, scattering the group that tries to inter- cept her.) Cyrano: It is done! RoxANE {seeing Christian, lying on his cloak): Christian! Le Bret {to Cyrano) : Their first shot . . . .'uui the only one. (RoxANE throws herself on Christian's body. There is re- newed firing. Clank of arms. Rattle of guns. Drums.) Carbon of Castel-Jaloux {sword in hand) : 'Tis the attack. To arms! {Followed by the Cadets he goes over the top of the breast- works.) Roxane: Christian! Voice of Carbon {beyond the fortifications) : Double time! Roxane: Christian! Carbon: Fall in! Roxane: Christian! Carbon: Measure! Prime! (Ragueneau has run in, carrying water in a helmet.) Christian {in a dying voice) : Roxane! Cyrano {quick and low in Christian's ear, zvhile Roxane frantically tears a bit of linen from her breast and dampens it in the water Ragueneau has brought) : 'Tis thee she loves, thee only! She has said! (Christian closes his eyes.) Roxane: Ah, what, my love? Carbon : Ramrods! Roxane {to Cyrano) : He is not . . . dead? Carbon: Load! Ready! Aim! Roxane: Cold, to the touch His cheek against my own! Cold, cold to . . . Carbon: Touch! Roxane: A letter here . . . (She opens it.) For me! Cyrano {aside) : My letter ! 340 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Carbon : Fire! {Musket fire. Shouts. Clash of battle.) Cyrano {tries to free his hand, which Roxane clutches, as she kneels) : Roxane, they are fighting! Roxane {clinging to him) : Pity my desire, One moment ! He is dead. You knew his heart ! {She weeps gently.) Was he not exquisite, — a soul apart, Marvelous? Cyrano {standing, head uncovered) : Yes, Roxane. Roxane: More than words can express, A poet . . . ? Cyrano: Yes, Roxane. Roxane: Pure spirit? Cyrano : Yes, Roxane ! Roxane : A heart profound, beyond earth's common span, A soul sublime and charming? Cyrano {earnestly): Yes, Roxane! Roxane {throwing herself on Christian's body) : He is dead! Cyrano {aside, drawing his sword) : I'd die ere day grows dim, Since all unknowing she mourns me in him. {Trufnpets in the distance.) The Count of Guiche {appears on the ramparts, bareheaded, wounded in the forehead; calling in a ringing voice) : Fanfare of brasses ! 'Tis the signal sealed ! The French with food returning to the field! Hold the line, yet ! Roxane: Upon his letter, stains, Blood, — tears! A Voice {without): Surrender! Voices OF THE Cadets: No! Ragueneau {who has climbed on the coachman's box and is watching the engagement) : The Spaniard gains! Cyrano {to the Count, indicating Roxane) : Take her! I am going to charge! CYRANO OF BERGERAC 341 RoXANE (kissing the letter and speaking in a faint voice) : His letter, sealed With tears and blood ! Ragueneau (leaping from his high seat to run to her) : She's fainting! GuiCHE (on the ramparts, to the Cadets, raging) : Hold hard! A Voice (without) : Yield! Voices of Cadets: No! Cyrano (to Guiche) : You have proved your valour, sir. Take her away! Guiche (who runs to Roxane and lifts her in his arms) : So be it. Hold them! We have gained the day If you gain time! Cyrano: Why, good! (Crying out to RoxANE, as the CouNT OF GuiCHE, aided by Ragueneau, carries her off, fainting) : Farewell, Roxane! (A deafening din. Cries. Tumult. Cadets appear, wounded, falling. Cyrano, rushing to the battle, is arrested on the crest of the earthworks by Castel-Jaloux, who is cov- ered with blood.) Carbon: We waver! I've two gun-shots, partisan. Cyrano (calling to the Cadets) : Hardily, lads! No budging! (To Carbon, whom he supports in his arms) : Have no fear! I have tvvo deaths to avenge, to-day and here, — Christian's . . . My happiness! (They come down. Cyrano seizes the lance to ivhich is fas- tened Roxane's handkerchief.) Float, little flag! (He plants it in the ground, and calls to the Cadets.) Rally, boys! Smash them! (To the Fifer) Play! The fife! (To the Cadets) Don't lag! ( The Fifer plays. The wounded struggle to their feet. The Cadets swarming up the ramparts group themselves around Cyrano and the little flag. The Coach is covered with 342 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND men; it bristles with arquebuses; it is transformed into a redoubt.) A Cadet {retreating, appears on the crest of the fortification, still fighting; he cries) : They climb the ramparts! (He falls, dead.) Cyrano: We'll salute our guests! ( The ramparts are suddenly croiufied with terrible ranks of the enemy. The great Imperial standard is raised.) Cyrano : Fire ! (Firing all along the ragged line.) Orders in the Enemy's Ranks: Fire! (A murderous ripost. The Cadets fall on every side.) A Spanish Officer (uncovering) : What men are these who hug death to their breasts? Cyrano (declaiming, erect amid a storm of lead) : These are Gascony's darling Cadets Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux ; Brazen braggarts, each man of them bets . . . (He hurls himself forward, followed by a handful of sur- vivors. ) They are Gascony's darling . . . (The rest is lost in the tumult of battle.) (Curtain) ACT V Cyrano's Gazette Fifteen years later. 1635. Park of the Convent occupied by the Ladies of the Cross, at Paris. Superb shadoivs. On the Left, the house, with a vast fligJit of steps, several doors opening upon it. In the middle of the scene stands a huge tree, solitary in the centre of a little oval space. On the Right, among tall box trees, a semi-circular stone bench. The background is traversed by a walk overarched by chestnut trees; this leads to a chapel door. Right, seen through the branches of the trees. Beyond the double curtain of these trees, there are glimpses of lawn, Tnore shaded walks, thickets, the reaches of the park; the sky. A little side door of the chapel opens upon a colonnade en- garlanded with reddening Autumn vines. In the Right foreground, this is lost behind the box hedge. It is Autumn. Above the pure green of the turf, all the leafage is sere and brown. The evergreen masses of box and yeiu stand out darkly. A heap of yellow leaves lies under each tree. Leaves are falling everywhere. They rustle under foot. They half cover the en- trance steps and lie on the stone benches. Between the bench on the Right and the Tree is a tall em- broidery frame, in front of zchich a liitle sewing chair has been placed. There are baskets full of silken skeins and woollen balls. A piece of tapistry begun. As the curtain rises, the sisters come and go in the park. Some of them are sitting on the stone bench, around an older nun. The leaves fall alzuays. 343 344 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND SCENE I Mother Margaret, Sister Martha, Sister Claire, the Sisters Sister Martha (to Mother Margaret) : She looked twice — Sister Claire did — in the glass To set her cornet straight. Mother Margaret (to Sister Claire) : That's wrong. Alas! Sister Claire: But I saw Sister Martha take a plum Out of the tart. Mother Margaret (to Sister Martha) : Oh, that was ugly. Come! Sister Claire: A little glance! Sister Martha: The littlest of plums! Mother Margaret: Sir Cyrano shall hear it when he comes. Sister Claire (dismayed) : No! He would tease us, Mother, if you should ! Sister Martha: "Nuns are so vain," Sister Claire: "So greedy," Mother Margaret (smiling) : "And so good." Sister Claire : Is it true, Mother Margaret, of Jesus, He has come these ten years . . . ? Mother Margaret : More than that. He sees us Each week since first his cousin came to wear Her sable mourning midst our linen fair, Seeking this shelter fourteen years ago, A stately blackbird midst my birds of snow. Sister Martha : He only, since she came to be our guest. Lightens the grief that never quits her breast. All the Sisters : He is so droll ! So merry ! He can tell Such tales! He teases us I We love him well! We make him tartlets. Oh, I love to stick Them full of plums! CYRANO Of BERGERAC 345 Sister Martha: He's a poor Catholic. Sister Claire: We will convert him! The Sisters: Yes! Yes! Mother Margaret: Children, no. I must forbid you to torment him so. He might come less. Remember this command. Sister Martha: But . . . God . . . jM other Margaret {tranquilly) : God knows him. God will understand. Sister Martha: But every Saturday to hear him say, "Sister, A-ha, I ate flesh yesterday." Mother Margaret: He tells you that? Well, when he said it last For two whole days he had not broken fast. Sister IVIartha: Mother! Mother Margaret: Yes, he is poor. Sister Martha: Who told you? Mother Margaret: His good friend My lord Le Bret. Sister Martha: Nobody helps him? Mother Margaret: None. It would offend. {In a shaded walk in the background, Roxane appears, robed in black and wearing a widow's cap and long veil. The Count of Guiche, magnificent, and aging, icalks at her side. They come down slowly. Mother Margaret rises) : Let us go in. The Lady ALideleine Walks in the park with visitors. Sister Martha (whispering to Sister Claire) : I'd fain Know is't the Marshall Duke of Gramont? Sister Claire {looking and nodding) : So. Sister Martha: The last time that he came was months ago. Sister Claire: He is so busy, — court, — camp . . . Sister Martha: Worldly care! ( They go out. Guiche and Roxane come down in silence. They stop near the tapistry frame. A pause.) 346 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND SCENE II RoxANE, the Duke of Gramont, once Count of Guiche; later, Le Bret, Ragueneau The Duke: So j^ou abide here, always, vainly fair, Still mourning? Roxane: Always. The Duke: Faithful still? Roxane : Always. The Duke (after a tnoment's silence) : You have pardoned me? Roxane: Yes, in this holy place. {Silence again falls between them.) The Duke: Was he in truth a being . . . ? Roxane : Could you know I The Duke: Could I . . . Perhaps I failed there, long ago. Still his last letter next j^our heart is stored? Roxane: Sweet scapulary on this velvet cord. The Duke: Even dead, you love him? Roxane: Sometimes. Oh, meseems He is but half dead. Through my life it beams, His living love, a shelter, a caress. The Duke {after another interval of silence) : Cyrano come to see you ? Roxane: Often, yes. This old friend takes the place of my gazettes. — And is as regular. A Sister sets His armchair where j'ou stand, beneath this tree. I sew, and wait. The hour strikes. There will be — I do not even turn my head ! — his cane Upon the steps. He sits down, mocks again My endless tapistry; then day by day Gives the weeks' chronicle. (Le Bret appears on the steps.) Ah, see! Le Bret! (Le Bret comes down.) How fares our friend? Le Bret: 111. The Duke: Oh! Roxane {to the Duke) : Exaggerated! CYRANO OF BERCERAC 347 Le Bret: I told him so! Abandoned, poor, and hated, — Still his epistles make new enemies. He fights the world entire, — hypocrisies. — Pietists, — plagiarists, — all earthly error. Roxane: Ahvajs his sword inspires such mortal terror No man will face it. He is safe. The Duke {shakuKj his head) : Who knows? Le Bret: I fear not men but those more subtle foes, Solitude, Famine, graying gaunt December, Entering with wolfish tread his dismal chamber. By these assassins deadliest blows are dealt. — Each day he takes a hole up in his belt. His poor big nose looks like old ivory. One thin black suit of serge on earth has he. The Duke: Not Fortune's favourite, truly, but — Gadzook Pity him not too much. Le Bret (luitli a hitter smile) : My Lord, the Duke . . . The Duke: Pity him not too much! Unbound by pacts, He keeps his freedom, — thoughts no less than acts. Le Bret: Lord Marshall . . , The Duke {haughtily) : Yes, he has naught; I, all ;— I under- stand, — Yet I were very fain to take his hand. (Bowing to Roxane.) Good-bye. Roxane : Let me conduct you . . . (The Duke bows to Le Bret and with Roxane walks towards the steps.) The Duke: Envious . . . Yes! Sometimes, when one has made his life's success, One feels, — not finding, God knows, much amiss, — A thousand small distastes, whose sum is this; Not quite remorse, but an obscure disorder. One's ducal robes drag always on their border. While on life's stair a mounting foot one sets, A stir of lost illusions, dry regrets. As, while you mount these steps, the ear perceives Your robes of mourning rustle dying leaves. 348 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND RoXANE (ironically): You, — become dreamer? The Duke: Eh . . . Yes! (As he is going out, he turns abruptly.) Le Bret! {To Roxane) : With your consent . . . One word. {He goes to Le Bret and speaks in a low voice.) True, no one dares to meet him, yet I've heard How many hate your friend. And yesterday I caught this bit, at Court, — we were at play, — "An accident might kill this Cyrano." Le Bret; Ah? The Duke: Bid him keep close at home ... be prudent. Le Bret {raising his arms to heaven) : Oh! Prudent! I'll go to warn him, but . . . Roxane {who has remained on the steps, to a Sister zvho comes to her) : What is it? The Sister: IMay Ragueneau see you, Madame? Roxane : Yes. {To the Duke and Le Bret.) This visit Will be a tale of woe. Once on a time Ragueneau was poet. Since that role sublime He has been . . . Le Bret: Beadle . . . Roxane: Actor . , . Le Bret: Bath-house-man . . . Roxane: Wig-maker . . . LeBret: Archlute teacher . . . Roxane: What new plan Brings him to-day? Ragueneau {enters precipitately) : Madam . . . {He sees Le Bret.) Sir ... I Roxane {smiling) : Recount your woes To him. I shall return. Ragueneau: But Madam . . . (Roxane does not hear him; she goes out with the Duke. Ragueneau goes down to Le Bret.) CYRANO OF BERGERAC 349 SCENE III Le Bret, Ragueneau Ragueneau: I suppose You being here, it's best she shouldn't know. — I went to see your friend a while ago. Not twenty paces from his house, I spied Him coming out. I meant to reach his side. He turned the corner, and I ran. A glance Showed from a window . . , accident, — perchance, — A lackey dropped a heavy chunk of wood. Le Bret: The cowards! Cyrano! Ragueneau : I came ... I stood . . . Le Bret: Oh! Ragueneau: By our friend, our poet. Running red Upon the ground, blood streamed from his poor head. Le Bret: He is . . . dead? Ragueneau: No, but . . . God! I got him home, — Lord ! what a place for such a man to come. Le Bret: He suffers? Ragueneau : No, no, sir . . . He didn't wake. Le Bret: A leech? . . . Ragueneau : One came, sir, for sweet pity's sake. Le Bret : Oh, my poor Cyrano ! We must not tell Roxane too suddenly. This doctor . . . ? Ragueneau: Well, He talked ... of fever . . . and of meninges . . . — Oh, his poor head in linen bandages! Come! Let us run! His pillow's all untended. And if he tries to move . , . then all is ended. Le Bret {leading him to the Right) : This way is shortest . . . by the chapel. . , . See. Roxane (appearing on the steps and seeing Le Bret disappear- ing by the colonnade which leads to the side door of the chapel) : My lord Le Bret! 350 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND (Le Bret and Ragueneau run on, without answering.) Dear me ! Our Ragueneau must have a woeful story. {She comes down the steps.) SCENE IV Roxane, alone; later, tivo Sisters for a moment Roxane: September's closing day Is full of glory. My sadness smiles. April too dazzling beams. Autumn more gently blends with wistful dreams. {She sits doivn to her embroidery. Two Sisters coming out of the house carry a large armchair and put it under the big tree.) Here is the classic armchair, where shall rest My old friend. Sister Martha: It's the parlour's very best. Roxane: Thank you, my Sister. {The Sisters go out.) He comes. . . . The hour sounds. . . . — My skeins. — The hour has struck. Nay, this astounds, What! For the first time will he now be late? My thimble. . . . There ! . . . The Sister at the gate Must be exhorting him. . . . {Time passes.) Past all belief. . . . He'll not delay. . . . Hist! No ... a falling leaf. {She brushes aivay a dead leaf that has fallen on her work.) . . . My scissors? In my bag! What holds him back? Nothing could keep . . . A Sister {appearing on the steps) : My lord of Bergerac. SCENE V Roxane, Cyrano, and for a moment, Sister Martha Roxane {unthout turning): What did I say? {She works at her tapistry. Cyrano, very pale, his plumed hat pulled down over his eyes, enters. The Sister ivho an- CYRJNO OF BERG ERA C 351 nounced him disappears. He begins to come doivn the steps, sloivly and making an evident effort to hold himself erect. He bears heavily on his cane. RoXANE works dili- gently.) Roxane: Tut! This shade appears Too light . . . 'tis faded. {To Cyrano, in a tone of amicable reproach.) After four- teen years, Late, for the first time! Cyrano {who has reached his armchair and sat down, speaking in a cheerful voice that contrasts sharply with his appearance) : Yes. Lord, I am vexed. Delayed . , . and bless my soul, on what pretext! Roxane: By ... ? Cyrano: By a visitor most loath to wait. Roxane {absent-mindedly; working) : Unwelcome? Cyrano: No . . . but too importunate. Roxane: You sent him off? Cyrano : Yes. I was bold to say, Your pardon but to-day is Saturday. I am expected. 'Tis not in your power To make me fail her. Meet me in an hour! Roxane {lightly) : We'll keep him waiting if so soon he calls. I shall not let you go till evening falls. Cyrano: It may be, he will not so long delay. {He closes his eyes and is silent for a rnoment.) (Sister Martha crosses the turf from the chapel. She is going toward the steps.) Roxane {to Cyrano) : Not teasing Sister Martha? Cyrano {starting, and opening his eyes) : Yes. {Calling in a jocular voice.) Sister! Hey! (Sister Martha comes softly up.) Those pretty eyes still looking at your feet? Sister Martha {raising her eyes and smiling) : But . . , {She looks at him and makes a startled gesture.) Oh ! . . . Cyrano {putting his finger on his lips and indicating Roxane) : 352 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND 'Sh, it is nothing, {In a loud voice.) Friday, I ate meat. Sister Martha: I know. (Aside) That's why he looks so pale. (Aloud) I think I'll make a hot tissane for you to drink, In the refrectory. Don't say me nay. You will come? Cyrano: Yes, yes. Sister Martha: Ah, you are good to-day. RoxANE (who hears them whispering) : Is she trying to convert you? Sister Martha : Oh, so hard I am trying not to! Cyrano: Is my saint ofE guard ? My sermon's missing. Now, here is a wonder! (With serio-comic intensity) Now it's my turn to startle you, by thunder! Hark ! I permit you. , . . (He seems to be searching for a very teasing jest and to have hit upon it.) — You'll recall it long — To . . . pray for me to-night at evensong! Roxane: Oh, oh! Cyrano (laughing) : Sister doubts her hearing and her vision. Sister Martha (softly) : I have not waited, sir, for your per- mission. (She goes out.) Cyrano (turning once more to Roxane bent over her work) : The devil fetch me if I hope to see That labour finished. Roxane: Still that pleasantry! (A passing breeze shakes down a shower of leaves.) Cyrano: Dead leaves! Roxane: Pale golden, all, Yellow Venetian gold ! Cyrano: How well they fall! On the short journey from the branch to earth, Dying they bring one beauty more to birth. CYRANO OF BERGERAC 353 Though dreading dusty death tliat looms in sight, They give their fall the loveliness of flight. RoXANii: You, melancholy? Cyrano {recallincj hinntlf, quickly) : Roxanc! Not at all. Roxane: Come, let us leave the dead leaves where they fall, And talk of news. What new thing have you seen? Read my Gazette! Cyrano: Hear. Roxane: Ah. Cyrano {who is groiving paler and paler and struggling against mortal agony) : Saturday, nineteen, After eight helpings of his pet conserve, A fever seized the King. His leeches serve Death notice on the traitorous attack. It is repulsed. The royal pulse runs slack. On Sunday, at the great ball of the Queen, Seven hundred tapers and three score were seen; Our troops, they said, met John the Austrian; They hung four sorcerers. The story ran Lady Athis' lapdog had a dose and pack. Roxane: Ah, hold your tongue, my lord of Bergerac! Cyrano: On Monday, naught. Lygdamirc's changed favorites. Roxane : Oh ! Cyrano: Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainbleau Wednesday, the Monglat told Fiesque nay. Thursday, Mancini's nearly queen, — they say. The twenty-fifth, the Monglat quite relented. The twenty-sixth . . . (He closes his eyes. His head falls on his breast. Silence.) Roxane (surprised by the silence, turns, looks at him, and rises, in alarm) : Oh, Heaven! Has he fainted? (She runs to him, crying.) Cyrano! Cyrano (opening his eyes, his voice vague) : What is it? Where . . . ? (He sees RoXANE bending over him and, hurriedly pressing his hat more firmly down on his forehead, and pulling himself up in his chair with an effort, speaks more clearly.) 354 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND No . . . No ... I have not swooned . . . Naught is the matter. Roxane: Oh, but . . . Cyrano: My old wound . . . Of Arras . . . sometimes . . . Ah . . . you know ! Roxane: Poor friend! Cyrano: But it is naught. 'Twill pass . . . (He smiles with an effort.) It has an end. Roxane (standing near him) : Each of us wears a wound. My heart must hold Always the old wound, that is never old. (She puts her hand on her heart.) Here, 'neath his letter. You have understood! That yellowing page, still stained with tears and blood. (Twilight begins to fall.) Cyrano: His letter. You have said . . . perhaps some day, You would let me read it. Roxane: Read his letter? Cyrano : Pray You . . . to-day ... I would . . . Roxane (giving him the little bag, from the cord) : Take it. Cyrano: You bid me? I . . . Roxane: Open it. Read. (She goes back to her work, and begins to sort and fold the silks.) Cyrano (reading) : "Roxane, farewell. I am about to die." Roxane (pausing, astonished) : Aloud? Cyrano: "This evening as I think, beloved; My soul, weighed down with love untold, unproved. And I am dying. Never more, indeed My dazzled eyes shall quaff . . . Roxane: Ah, how j^ou read His letter! Cyrano (reading) : "Quaff your beauty's wine. Nor kiss, in flight, your gestures, all divine. I see again one that so charmed my eye, You touch your lovely brow. I strive to cry. . . . CYRANO OF BERGRRAC 355 Roxane: How you read it . . . this letter! Cyrano: "So you may hear, Fareivell!" Roxane: You read it. . . . Cyrano: "O, my dear, fny dear, Aly treasure." Roxane: In a voice . . . Cyrano: "My love!" Roxane: Whose chime Rings in my Jieart . . . and not for the first time! (She co?nes near, very quietly. Unseen, she goes behind the armchair, and, leaning silently above him, she looks at the letter. The shadoius deepen.) Cyrano : "Aly heart will never leave you, O my dear! I am . . . will be on ivhatsoever sphere. Always your lover, O my heart's one light." Roxane {touching him gently on the shoulder) : How can you read this letter? It is night. {He trembles, turns, sees her near him, makes a startled gesture; boivs his head. A long silence. Then, in the deep shadows that have fallen, she says slowly, clasping her hands.) For fourteen years he has played out this part, Being the old friend, come to cheer my heart! Cyrano : Roxane ! Roxane: 'Twas you! Cyrano: No, Roxane! Roxane: Why disclaim? I should have known it when he spoke my name! Cyrano: It was not I! Roxane: 'Twas you! Cyrano: No! No! I vow . . . 1 Roxane: Generous imposture! I perceive it now. . . . The letters, — jours! Cyrano: No! Roxane: Yours each dear, mad word! Yours ! 356 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND Cyrano: No! RoxANE : And yours the voice that magic night I heard ! Cyrano: I swear, not mine! Roxane: And your soul called to me . . . Cyrano: I did not love . . . Roxane: You loved me! Cyrano: It was he! Roxane: You loved me! Cyrano : No. Roxane: You whisper! I have moved you! Cyrano: O, my dear love, I never, never loved you! Roxane: How many things are dead. What life appears! Ah, why have you been silent fourteen years? When it was all your letter, — even this, The stain of tears! Cyrano {holding the letter out to her) : Aye, — but the blood was his. Roxane: Then why permit this silence so sublime To end today? Cyrano : Why ? (Le Bret and Ragueneau entering, running.) SCENE VI The Same; Le Bret and Ragueneau Le Bret: It was fully time We found ... I knew we'd find him here! Cyrano {smiling, and trying to sit more erect) : Is that so odd? Le Bret: He has killed himself by coming! Roxane : Gracious God ! The weakness . . . the half swoon . . . Dear God! And yet . . . Cyrano: 'Tis true, I had not finished my Gazette. Died, Saturday the twenty-sixth, the hour not stated. My lord of Bergerac, assassinated. CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 357 (He lifts his hat. His head is seen covered with linen bandages. ) Roxane: What says he? Cyrano! This bandaged head 1 Oh, what? . . . Cyrano: "The only noble weapon," so I said . . . "A knightly foeman," . . . and "on glory's field." — The fullness of Fate's mockery revealed, Here am I, killed from ambush where I stood, By a hid lackey, with a block of wood. Well done! I have missed in all things, even in Death. Ragueneau: Ah, sir . . . Cyrano: Don't weep, old friend, with shuddering breath. (He holds out his hand to him.) What hast thou now become, my poet brother? Ragueneau {through his tears) : I'm . . . candle snuffer . . . at . . . Moliere's ... I smother The . . . lights . . . Cyrano: IMoliere's! Ragueneau : But I shall quit to-morrow. They played Scapin last night, and stooped to borrow One of your scenes entire. I saw ! Le Bret: I, too. Ragueneau: The famous "What the devil would he do?" Le Bret: Moliere has filched it. Cyrano: Tut! tut! He does well. It ought to take, that scene. And did it tell ? Ragueneau {sobbing): Oh, Sir, they laughed and laughed! Cyrano: My part is yet To be the prompter whom all men forget. {To Roxane) Think of the balcony, the dusk-sweet air, And Christian speaking. All my life is there; I, telling in the dark my yearning story, While others climb to take the kiss of glory! At the tomb's edge, Fate's justice I declare, Moliere has genius, — Christian was so fair! 358 PLAYS OF EDMOND ROSTAND {The chapel bells have rung. And in the background along the shaded walks the Sisters are seen, going to Even- song.) Cyrano: Let them go pray. For now the hour is near. RoxANE {rising to call): Sister! Oh, Sister! Cyrano: No, call no one here. Ere you come back, I should have gone away. ! {The nuns enter the chapel. The organ is heard.) i I longed for harmony to end my day. Roxane : I love you ! Live ! Cyrano: In fairy tales, long since, The princess said that, and the ugly prince Lost all his plainness in that sudden sun. But, see! I finish as I was begun. Roxane: I made jour grief, I, I! Cyrano: You made my bliss. I lacked all woman's kindness, . . . even this . . . My mother found me ugly. And I had No sister. Lest they mock an ugly lad, I shunned all women. You became my friend. One soft gown brushed my path before the end. Le Bret {shoiving him the moonlight that filters through the branches): Thy other love! Cyrano {smiling at the moon): Welcome, fair friend above! Roxane: I loved but once, and twice I lose my love! Cyrano {to Le Bret) : I'll journey to that moonland opaHne, Unhampered, — eh, Le Bret? — by a machine. Roxane: What are you saying? Cyrano: I shall have one prize. They'll let me have the moon for paradise. In yonder sphere, we shall hold converse high, Galileo, and Socrates and I. Le Bret {suddenly rebellious): No! No! It is too stupid, too unjust! A hero and a poet in the dust! To die! and so to die! CYRANO OF BERG ERA C 359 Cyrano: Lc Bret, who scolds! Le Bret {bursting into uncontrollable sobbing) : Woe's me! My friend! Aly friend! Cyrano {standing erect, his eyes roving) : Cadets of Gascony! The elementary mass . . . the hie falls thus. Le Bret: Still science, though he rave . . . Cyrano: Copernicus Said . . . Roxane: Oh! Cyrano: "What the devil vv^ould he do. And w^hat a plague was his business to?" Physicist and dreamer . . . these, Rhymer, musician, fighter an it please, And sailor of aerial seas; Swordsman whose parry was attack; Lover, lacking all love's keys; Here he lies, this Hercules Savien Cyrano Bergerac, — All and nothing. Rest in peace. I cry your pardon. I cannot delay. This moonbeam comes to light me on my way. {He falls back into the chair. Roxane's tears recall him to reality; he looks at her, and, caressing the folds of her veil. ) All, I would have you mourn him never less, This beautiful, brave Christian! Yet 'twould bless My passing, warm the coldness of my tomb. If in your mourning both of us found room. If in your veils, I had a little share! Roxane: I swear to you . . . Cyrano {seized ivith deadly trembling, rises with sudden vio- lence) : No! No! Not in a chair! {They spring to his side.) Let no man hold me up. None! {He leans against the tree.) Save this tree. {Silence.) He comes. With marble I am shod. And, see, 360 PLAYS OF ED MONO ROSTAND I am gloved with lead. (He draws himself erect.) So here I make my stand. {He draivs his sword.) I'll meet him on my feet, and sword in hand ! Le Bret: Cyrano! Roxane: Cyrano! {They all start back, affrighted.) Cyrano: Your presumption grows! Featureless Death, thou art leering at my nose! {He lifts his sword.) How say you? It is futile? Futile, yes! Man does not battle only for success! Nay! It is nobler if it be in vain! Who are ye? Thousands, rushing in amain! I know ye now, — mine ancient enemies! Lies! Prejudice! {He lays about him with his sword.) Aha, Hypocrisies! Compromise ! Cowardice ! Surrender? I? Never! Ah, never! Thou, Stupidity! I know I shall be beaten by your might. What matters it ! I fight ! I fight ! I fight ! {He sweeps a great circle with his sivord and stops, panting.) Yes, you take all, the laurel with the rose. Take them ! One thing I have guarded to the close. I'll make obeisance to my God this night. Sweep the blue threshold of immortal light. With that you may not touch. Let none presume! {He lifts his sword high.) Stainless, unbent, I have kept ... {His sword falls from his hand; he shudders and falls into the arms of Le Bret and Ragueneau.) Roxane {bending over him and kissing his forehead) : Ah! What? Cyrano {opens his eyes, knows her and smiles) : My plume! ( Curtain ) K UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. R HLU'D LD-ori. 4-WEE» S J-' I . L 10 URL DEC^ 7 1988 .