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THREE PLAYS 
 
 SIX CHARACTERS 
 IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR 
 
 HENRY IV 
 
 RIGHT you ARE! (IF yOU THINK SO) 
 
 By 
 
 LUIGI 
 
 PIRANDELLO 
 
 AWARDED NOBEL PRIZE IN LITERATURE, 1934 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 TTON & 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & CO., INC. 
 
Copyright, 1922, 
 By E. P. Dutton & Company 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Firsi Printing, December, 1922 
 Second Printing, January, 1923 
 Third Printing, November, 1923 
 Fourth Printing. June, 192? 
 Fifth Printing, December, 1925 
 Sixth Printing, February, 1927 
 
 Seventh Printing, June, 1928 
 Eighth Printing, February, 1929 
 
 Ninth Printing, July, 1931 
 
 Tenth Printing, December, 1934 
 
 • 
 
 Nobel Prize Edition: 
 
 December, 1934 
 
 't,^^>^^,t:ha '^^'i:]f^^ 
 
 Performance forbidden and rights of representation re- 
 served. Application for amateur or professional rights of 
 performance of any of these plays must be addressed to the 
 Publishers. 
 
 Attention is drawn to the penalties provided by law for 
 any infringement of rights under Section 4966, United States 
 Revised Statutes, Title 60, Chapter 3. 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED 
 STATES OF AMERICA 
 
PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 No apology is necessary for offering to American readers 
 a play which critics, with singular unanimity, have called 
 one of the most original productions seen on the modern 
 stage. In less than a year's time, "Six Characters in Search 
 of an Author" has won a distinguished place in the dramatic 
 literature of the Western world, attracting audiences and 
 engaging intellects far removed from the particular influences 
 which made of it a season's sensation in Italy. 
 
 Yet the word "original" is not enough, unless we embrace 
 under that characterization qualities far richer than those 
 normally credited to the "trick" play. The "Six Characters" 
 is something more than an unusually ingenious variation of 
 the "play within a play." It is something more than a new 
 twist given to the "dream character" made familiar by the 
 contemporary Italian grotesques. It is a dramatization of 
 the artistic process itself, in relation to the problem of reality 
 and unreality, which has engaged Pirandello in one way or 
 another for more than twenty years. 
 
 I venture to insist upon this point as against those observ- 
 ers who have tried to see in the "Six Characters" an ironical 
 satire of the commercial drama, as we know it today, mixed, 
 more or less artificially, with a rather obvious philosophy of 
 neo-idealism. No such mixture exists. The blend is organic. 
 The object of Pirandello's bitter irony is not the stage-mana- 
 ger, nor the theatrical producer, nor even the dramatic critic : 
 it is the dramatist; it is the artist; it is, in the end, life itself. 
 
 I suppose the human soul presents no mysteries to those 
 
 V 
 
 M49480 
 
^ 
 
 vi PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 who have been thoroughly grounded in the science of Freud. 
 But in spite of psycho-analysis a few Hamlets still survive. 
 Pirandello is one of them. 
 
 \yhat are people really like? In the business of every- 
 day life, nothing is commoner than the categorical judgment 
 sweeping and assured in its affirmatives. But as we cut a 
 little deeply into the living matter of the spirit, the problem 
 becomes more complicated. Do we ever understand the 
 whole motivation of an action — not in others only but even 
 in ourselves? 
 
 Oh, yes, there are people who know. . . . The State 
 knows, with its laws and its procedures. And society knows, 
 with its conventions. And individuals know, with their 
 formulas for conduct often cannily applied with reference 
 to interest. — ^The ironical element, as everyone has noted, is 
 fundamental in Pirandello! 
 
 Apart from works in his earlier manner (realistic pic- 
 tures from Southern Italian life, including such gems as 
 ^'Sicilian Limes"), Pirandello's most distinctive productions 
 have dealt with this general theme. No one of them, indeed, 
 exhausts it. And how could this be otherwise? Pirandello, 
 approaching the sixties, to be sure, is nevertheless in spirit a 
 man of the younger Italian generation, which, trained by 
 Croce and Gentile, has "learned how to think." But how- 
 ever great his delight in playing with "actual idealism," he 
 knows the difference between a drama and a philosophical 
 dissertation. His plays are situations embodying conclusions, 
 simple, or indeed "obvious" in their convincingness. They 
 m.ust be taken as a whole — if one would look for a full state- 
 ment of Pirandello's "thought." 
 
 A "thought," moreover, which may or may not invite us 
 to profound reflection. Enough for the lover of the theatre 
 is the fact that Pirandello derives the most interesting dra- 
 matic possibilities from it. Sometimes it is the "reality" 
 
PREFATORY NOTE vii 
 
 which society sees brought into contrast with the reality 
 which action proves (// piacere dell'onesta) . Again, it is 
 the "reality" which a man sees in himself thwarted by the 
 reality which actually controls C'Ma non e una cosa seria"). 
 In "Right You Are" (Cost e, se vi pare) we have a general 
 satire of the "cocksure," who, placed in the presence of real- 
 ity and unreality, are unable to distinguish one from the 
 other. 
 
 In the "Six Characters" it is the turn of the artist. Can 
 art — creative art, where the spirit would seem most autono- 
 mous — itself determine reality? No, because once "a char- 
 acter is born, he acquires such an independence, even of 
 his own author, that he can be imagined by everybody in 
 situations where the author never dreamed of placing him, 
 and so acquires a meaning which the author never thought 
 of giving him," In this lies the great originality of this very 
 original play — the discovery (so Italian, when one thinks of 
 it, and so novel, as one compares it with the traditional role 
 of the "artist" in the European play) that the laborious effort 
 of artistic creation is itself a dramatic theme — so unruly, so 
 assertive, is this thing called "life" ever rising to harass and 
 defeat anyone who would interpret, crystalh'ze, devitalize it. 
 
 And beyond the drama lies the poetry, a poetry oT mys- 
 terious symbolism made up of terror, and rebellion, anH pity, 
 and human kindliness. Let us not miss the latter, especially, 
 in the complex mood of all Pirandello's theatre. 
 
 The three plays of Pirandello, here offered in translations 
 that do not hope to be adequate, are famous specimens of the 
 "new" theatre in Italy. The term "new" is much contested, 
 not only in Italy but abroad. In using the word here it is 
 not necessary to claim that this young, impulsive, fascinat- 
 ingly boisterous after-the-war Italy is doing things that no 
 
vui PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 one else ever thought of doing. We remain on safe ground 
 if we assert that Pirandello and his associates have broken the 
 bounds set to the old fashioned "sentimental" Latin play. 
 
 The motivations of the "old" theatre were largely ethical 
 in character, developing spiritual crises from the conflict of 
 impulses with a rigid framework of law and convention. 
 Dramatic art was, so to speak, a department of geometry, 
 dealing with this or that projection or modification of the 
 triangle. Husbands tearing their hair as wives proved un- 
 faithful; disappointed lovers pining in eternal fidelity to 
 mates beyond their social sphere; cuckolds heroically sheath- 
 ing the stiletto in deference to a higher law of respectability ; 
 widows sending second-hand aspirants to suicide that the sac- 
 rament of marriage might remain inviolate: — such were the 
 themes. 
 
 And there is no doubt, besides, that this "old" theatre pro- 
 duced works of great beauty and intenseness; since the will 
 in conflict with impulse and triumphing over impulse always 
 presents a subject entrancing in human interest and noble in 
 moral implications. 
 
 But the potentialities of drama are more numerous than 
 the permutations of three. The "new" theatre in Italy Is 
 "new" in this discovery at least. 
 
 " 'Henry IV.,' " an equally strong and original variation 
 of the insanity motive, is the first of two plays by Pirandello 
 dealing with a special aspect of the problem of reality and 
 unreality. The second, not yet given to the public, is Vestire 
 gli ingnudi (". . . And ye clothed me!"). In the former 
 Pirandello studies a situation where an individual finds a 
 .world of unreality thrust upon him, voluntarily reassuming 
 it later on, when tragedy springs from the deeper reality. 
 In "And ye clothed me!" we have a girl who, to fill an 
 
PREFATORY NOTE ix 
 
 o*mpty life of no importance, creates a fiction for herself, only 
 to find it torn violently from her and to be left in a naked 
 reality that is, after all, so unreal. 
 
 These two plays indicate the present tendency of Piran- 
 dello's rapid production — a tendency that promises even 
 richer results as this interesting author delves more exten- 
 sively into the mysteries of individual psychology. 
 
 '' 'Henry IV.,' " meanwhile, is before us. It can speak for 
 
 itself. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 All of Pirandello's plays are built for acting, and only 
 incidentally for reading. We make this observation with 
 "Right You Are" especially in mind, since that play, above 
 all, is a test for the actor. It is typical of Pirandello for its 
 rapidity, its harshness and its violence — the skill with which 
 the tense tableau is drawn out of pure dialectic, pure "con- 
 versation." Moreover, it states a fundamental preoccupa- 
 tion of Pirandello in peculiarly lucid and striking fashion. 
 Perhaps a better rendering of the title Cosi e (se vi pare) 
 will occur to many. Ludwig Lewisohn (happily, I thought) 
 suggested "As You Like It," no less. A possibility, quite in 
 the spirit of Pirandello's title in general, would have been 
 another Shakespearean reminiscence: ". . . and Thinking 
 Makes It So." We have kept something approximating the 
 literal, which would be: "So it is (if you think so)." 
 
 The text of the "Six Characters" is that of the translation 
 designated by the author and which was used in the sensa- 
 tional productions of the play given in London and New 
 York. 
 
 A. L. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prefatory Note v 
 
 Six Characters in Search of an Author — A 
 
 Comedy in the Making 1 
 
 "Henry IV." 73 
 
 Right You Are (If You Think So!) .... 149 
 
THREE PLAYS 
 
SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF 
 AN AUTHOR 
 
 (Set personaggi in cerca d'autore) 
 A COMEDY IN THE MAKING 
 
 BY 
 
 LUIGI PIRANDELLO 
 
 translated by 
 Edward Storer 
 
CHARACTERS OF THE COMEDY IN THE 
 MAKING: 
 
 THE FATHER. THE MOTHER. THE STEP-DAUGHTER. THE 
 SON. THE BOY. THE CHILD. {The last tWQ do not 
 Speak.) MADAME PACE. 
 
 ACTORS OF THE COMPANY 
 
 THE MANAGER. LEADING LADY. LEADING MAN. SECOND 
 LADY. LEAD. l'iNGENUE. JUVENILE LEAD. OTHER 
 ACTORS AND ACTRESSES. PROPERTY MAN. PROMPTER. 
 machinist. manager's secretary. DOOR-KEEPER. 
 
 scene-shifters. 
 
 Daytime. The Stage of a Theatre. 
 
SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF 
 AN AUTHOR 
 
 A COMEDY IN THE MAKING 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 N. B. The Comedy is without acts or scenes. The per- 
 formance is interrupted once, without the curtain being 
 lowered, when the manager and the chief characters with- 
 draw to arrange the scenario. A second interruption of the 
 action takes place when, by mistake, the stage hands let the 
 curtain down. 
 
 The spectators will find the curtain raised and the stage as 
 it usually is during the day time. It will be half dark, and 
 empty, so that from the beginning the public may have the 
 impression of an impromptu performance. 
 
 Prompter s box and a small table and chair for the 
 manager. 
 
 Two other small tables and several chairs scattered about 
 as during rehearsals. 
 
 The actors and actresses of the company enter from the 
 back of the stage: 
 
 first one, then another, then two together: nine or ten in all. 
 They are about to rehearse a Pirandello play: Mixing It Up. 
 Some of the company move off towards their dressing rooms. 
 The prompter who has the "book" under his arm, is waiting 
 for the manager in order to begin the rehearsal. 
 
 The actors and actresses, some standing, some sitting, chat 
 and smoke. One perhaps reads a paper; another cons 
 his part, 
 
 3 
 
SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 Finellyj the Manager enters and goes to the table prepared 
 for him. His secretary brings him his mail, through which he 
 glances. The prompter takes his seat, turns on a light, and 
 opens the "book." 
 
 The Manager {throwing a letter down on the table), 
 I can't see {to Property Man). Let's have a little light, 
 please ! 
 
 Property Man. Yes sir, yes, at once {a light comes 
 down on to the stage). 
 
 The Manager {clapping his hands). Come along! 
 Come along! Second act of "Mixing it Up" {sits down). 
 
 {The actors and actresses go from the front of the stdge 
 to the wings, all except the three who are to begin the 
 rehearsal) . 
 
 The Prompter {reading the "book"). "Leo Gala's 
 house. A curious room serving as dining-room and study." 
 
 The Manager {to Property Man). Fix up the old 
 red room. 
 
 Property Man {noting it down). Red set. All right! 
 
 The Prompter {continuing to read from the "book"). 
 "Table already laid and v^riting desk w^ith books and papers. 
 Book-shelves. Exit rear to Leo's bedroom. Exit left to 
 kitchen. Principal exit to right." 
 
 The Manager {energetically) . Well, you understand: 
 The principal exit over there; here, the kitchen. {Turning 
 to actor who is to play the part of Socrates). You make 
 your entrances and exits here. {To Property Man) The 
 baize doors at the rear, and curtains. 
 
 Property Man {noting it down). Right oh! 
 
 Prompter {reading as before). "When the curtain rises, 
 Leo Gala, dressed in cook's cap and apron is busy beating an 
 egg in a cup. Philip, also dressed as a cook, is beating an- 
 other egg. Guido Venanzi is seated and listening." 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 5 
 
 Leading Man (to manager). Excuse mc, but must I 
 absolutely wear a cook's cap? 
 
 The Manager (annoyed). I imagine so. It says so 
 there anyway (pointing to the "book''). 
 
 Leading Man. But it's ridiculous! 
 
 The Manager (jumping up in a rage). Ridiculous? 
 Ridiculous? Is it my fault if France won't send us any more 
 good comedies, and we are reduced to putting on Pirandello's 
 works, where nobody understands anything, and where the 
 author plays the fool with us all? (The actors grin. The 
 Manager goes to Leading Man and shouts). Yes sir, you 
 put on the cook's cap and beat eggs. Do you suppose that 
 with all this egg-beating business you are on an ordinary 
 stage? Get that out of your head. You represent the shell 
 of the eggs you are beating! (Laughter and comments 
 among the actors). Silence! and listen to my explanations, 
 please! (To Leading Man): "The empty form of reason 
 without the fullness of instinct, which is blind." — You stand 
 for reason, your wife is instinct. It's a mixing up of the 
 parts, according to which you who act your own part become 
 the puppet of yourself. Do you understand? 
 
 Leading Man. I'm hanged if I do. 
 
 The Manager. Neither do I. But let's get on with it. 
 It's sure to be a glorious failure anyway. (Confidentially) : 
 But I say, please face three-quarters. Otherwise, what with 
 the abstruseness of the dialogue, and the public that won't 
 be able to hear you, the whole thing will go to hell. Come 
 on ! come on ! 
 
 Prompter. Pardon sir, may I get into my box ? There's 
 a bit of a draught. 
 
 The Manager. Yes, yes, of course! 
 
 At this point, the door-keeper has entered from the stage 
 
6 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 door and advances towards the manager s table, taking off his 
 braided cap. During this manoeuvre, the Six Characters 
 enter, and stop by the door at back of stage, so that when the 
 door-keeper is about to announce their coming to the Man- 
 ager, they are already on the stage. A tenuous light surrounds 
 them, almost as if irradiated by them — the faint breath of 
 their fantastic reality. 
 
 This light will disappear when they come forward towards 
 the actors. They preserve, however, something of the dream 
 lightness in which they seem almost suspended; but this does 
 not detract from the essential reality of their forms and ex- 
 pressions. 
 
 He who is known as The Father is a man of about 50; 
 hair, reddish in colour, thin at the temples; he is not bald, 
 however; thick moustaches, falling over his still fresh mouth, 
 which often opens in an empty and uncertain smile. He is 
 fattish, pale; with an especially wide forehead. He has blue, 
 oval-shaped eyes, very clear and piercing. Wears light 
 trousers and a dark jacket. He is alternatively mellifluous 
 and violent in his manner. 
 
 The Mother seems crushed and terrified as if by an in- 
 tolerable weight of shame and abasement. She is dressed in 
 modest black and wears a thick widow's veil of crepe. When 
 she lifts this, she reveals a wax-like face. She always keeps 
 her eyes downcast. 
 
 The Step-Daughter, is dashing, almost impudent, 
 beautiful. She wears mourning too, but with great elegance. 
 She shows contempt for the timid half-frightened manner of 
 the vjretched BoY (14 years old, and also dressed in black) ; 
 on the other hand, she displays a lively tenderness for her 
 little sister. The Child {about four), who is dressed in 
 white, with a black silk sash at the waist. 
 
 The Son (22) tall, severe in his attitude of contempt for 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 7 
 
 The Father, supercilious and indifferent to the Mother, 
 He looks as if he had come on the stage against his will. 
 
 Door-keeper {cap in hand). Excuse me, sir . . . 
 
 The Manager {rudely). Eh? What is it? 
 
 Door-keeper {timidly). These people are asking for 
 you, sir. 
 
 The Manager {furioui). I am rehearsing, and you 
 know perfectly well no one's allowed to come in during re- 
 hearsals! {Turning to the Characters): Who are you, 
 please ? What do you want ? 
 
 The Father {coming forward a little, followed by the 
 others who seem embarrassed). As a matter of fact . . . 
 we have come here in search of an author . . . 
 
 The Manager {half angry, half am.azed). An author? 
 What author? 
 
 The Father. Any author, sir. 
 
 The Manager. But there's no author here. We are 
 not rehearsing a new piece. 
 
 The Step-Daughter {vivaciously) . So much the better, 
 so much the better! We can be your new piece. 
 
 An Actor {coming forward from the others). Oh, do 
 you hear that ? 
 
 The Father {to Step-Daughter). Yes, but if the author 
 isn't here . . .{To Manager) . . . unless you would be 
 willing . . . 
 
 The Manager. You are trj^ing to be funny. 
 
 The Father. No, for Heaven's sake, what are you say- 
 ing? We bring you a drama, sir. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. We may be your fortune. 
 
 The Manager. Will you oblige me by going away? Wc 
 haven't time to waste with mad people. 
 
 The Father {mellifluously). Oh sir, you know well 
 that life is full of infinite absurdities, which, strangely 
 
8 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 enough, do not even need to appear plausible, since they are 
 true. 
 
 The Manager. What the devil is he talking about? 
 
 The Father. I say that to reverse the ordinary process 
 may well be considered a madness: that is, to create credible 
 situations, in order that they may appear true. But permit 
 me to observe that if this be madness, it is the sole raison 
 d'etre of your profession, gentlemen. ( The actors look hurt 
 and preplexed) . 
 
 The Manager {getting up and looking at him). So our 
 profession seems to you one worthy of madmen then? 
 
 The Father. Well, to make seem true that which isn't 
 true . . . without any need . . . for a joke as it w^re . . . 
 Isn't that your mission, gentlemen: to give life to fantastic 
 characters on the stage ? 
 
 The Manager (interpreting the rising anger of the 
 Company). But I would beg you to believe, my dear sir, 
 that the profession of the comedian is a noble one. If today, 
 as things go, the playwrights give us stupid comedies to play 
 and puppets to represent instead of men, remember we are 
 proud to have given life to immortal works here on these 
 very boards! {The actors, satisfied, applaud their Manager), 
 
 The Father {interrupting furiously). Exactly, per- 
 fectly, to living beings more alive than those who breath.e 
 and wear clothes: beings less real perhaps, but truer! I 
 agree with you entirely. {The actors look at one another 
 in amazement). 
 
 The Manager. But what do you mean? Before, you 
 said ... 
 
 The Father. No, excuse me, I meant it for you, sir, 
 who were crying out that you had no time to lose with mad- 
 men, while no one better than yourself knows that nature 
 uses the instrument of human fantasy in order to pursue her 
 high creative purpose. 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 9 
 
 The Manager. Very well, — but where does all this take 
 us? 
 
 The Father. Nowhere! It is merely to show you that 
 one is born to life in many forms, in many shapes, as tree, 
 or as stone, as water, as butterfly, or as woman. So one 
 may also be born a character in a play. 
 
 The Manager (with feigned comic dismay). So you 
 and these other friends of yours have been born characters? 
 
 The Father. Exactly, and alive as you see! {Manager 
 and actors burst out laughing). 
 
 The Father {hurt). I am sorry you laugh, because we 
 carry in us a drama, as you can guess from this woman here 
 veiled in black. 
 
 The Manager {losing patience at last and almost in- 
 dignant). Oh, chuck it! Get away please! Clear out of 
 here! {to Property Man). For Heaven's sake, turn them 
 out! 
 
 The Father {resisting). No, no, look here, we . , . 
 
 The Manager {roaring). We come here to work, you 
 know. 
 
 Leading Actor. One cannot let oneself be made such a 
 fool of. 
 
 The Father {determined, coming forward). I marvel 
 at your incredulity, gentlemen. Are you not accustomed to 
 see the characters created by an author spring to life in 
 yourselves and face each other? Just because there is no 
 ^'book" {pointing to the Prompter s box) which contains us, 
 you refuse to believe . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter {advances towards Manager, smil- 
 ing and coquettish). Believe me, we are really six most 
 interesting characters, sir; side-tracked however. 
 
 The Father. Yes, that is the word! {To Manager all 
 at once) : In the sense, that is, that the author who created 
 us alive no longer wished, or was no longer able, materially 
 
10 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 to put us Into a work of art. And this was a real crime, 
 sir ; because he who has had the luck to be born a character 
 can laugh even at death. He cannot die. The man, the 
 writer, the instrument of the creation will die, but his crea- 
 tion does not die. And to live for ever, it does not need to 
 liave extraordinary gifts or to be able to work wonders. 
 Who was Sancho Panza? Who was Don Abbondio? Yet 
 they live eternally because — live germs as they were — they 
 had the fortune to find a fecundating matrix, a fantasy 
 which could raise and nourish them: make them live for 
 ever! 
 
 The Manager. That is quite all right. But what do 
 you want here, all of you ? 
 
 The Father. We want to live. 
 
 The Manager (ironically). For Eternity? 
 
 The Father. No, sir, only for a moment ... in you. 
 
 An Actor. Just listen to him! 
 Reading Lady. They want to live, in us . . . I 
 
 Juvenile Lead {pointing to the Step-Daughter). I've 
 no objection, as far as that one is concerned! 
 
 The Father. Look here! look here! The comedy ha? 
 to be made. {To the Manager) : But if yoxi and your actors 
 are willing, we can soon concert it among ourselves. 
 
 The Manager {annoyed). But w^hat do you want to 
 concert? We don't go in for concerts here. Here we play 
 dramas and comedies! 
 
 The Father. Exactly! That is just why we have come 
 to you. 
 
 The Manager. And where is the "book"? 
 
 The Father. It is in us! {The actors laugh). The 
 drama is in us, and we are the drama. We are impatient 
 to play it. Our inner passion drives us on to this. 
 
 The Step-Daughter {disdainful, alluring, treacherous, 
 full of impudence). My passion, sir! Ah, If you only 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 11 
 
 knew! My passion for him! (Points to the Father and 
 makes a pretence of embracing him. Then she breaks out 
 into a loud laugh). 
 
 The Father {angrily). Behave yourself! And please 
 don't laugh in that fashion. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. With your permission, gentle- 
 men, I, who am a two months' orphan, will show you how I 
 can dance and sing. 
 
 (Sings and then dances Prenez garde a Tchou-Thin- 
 Tchou ) . 
 
 Les chinois sont un peuple malin, 
 De Shangai a Pekin, 
 lis ont mis des ecriteux partout: 
 Prenez garde a Tchou-Thin-Tchou. 
 
 Actors and Actresses. Bravo! Well done! Tip-top! 
 
 The Manager. Silence! This isn't a cafe concert, you 
 know! (Turning to the Father in consternation) : Is she 
 mad? 
 
 The Father. Mad ? No, she's worse than mad. ^ 
 
 The Step-Daughter (to Manager). Worse? Worse? ^ 
 Listen! Stage this drama for us at once! Then you will 
 see that at a certain moment I . . . when this little darling 
 here . . . ( Takes the Child by the hand and leads her to 
 the Manager) : Isn't she a dear? (Takes her up and kisses 
 her). Darling! Darling! (Puts her down again and adds 
 feelingly) : Well, when God suddenly takes this dear little 
 child away from that poor mother there; and this imbecile 
 here (seizing hold of the Boy roughly and pushing him for- 
 ward) does the stupidest things, like the fool he is, you will 
 see me run away. Yes, gentleman, I shall be off. But the 
 moment hasn't arrived yet. After what has taken place 
 between him and me (indicates the Father with a horrible 
 wink), I can't remain any longer in this society, to have to 
 
12 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 witness the anguish of this mother here for that fool . . . 
 {indicates the Son). Look at him! Look at him! See how 
 indifferent, how frigid he is, because he is the legitimate son. 
 He despises me, despises him (pointing to the Boy), despises 
 this baby here; because . . . we are bastards (goes to the 
 Mother and embraces her). And he doesn't want to recog- 
 nize her as his mother — she who is the common mother of 
 us all. He looks down upon her as if she were only the 
 mother of us three bastards. Wretch! {She says all this 
 very rapidly j excitedly. At the word ''bastards'' she raises 
 her voice, and almost spits out the final ''Wretch!'') . 
 
 The Mother {to the Manager, in anguish). In the 
 name of these two little children, I beg you . . . {She grows 
 faint and is about to fall). Oh God! 
 
 The Father {coming forward to support her as do some 
 of the actors). Quick a chair, a chair for this poor widow! 
 
 The Actors. Is it true? Has she really fainted ? 
 
 The Manager. Quick, a chair ! Here ! 
 
 {One of the actors brings a chair, the others proffer assist- 
 ance. The Mother tries to prevent the Father from lifting 
 the veil ivhich covers her face). 
 
 The Father. Look at her! Look at her! 
 
 The Mother. No, no; stop it please! 
 
 The Father {raising her veil). Let them see you! 
 
 The Mother {rising and covering her face with her 
 hands, in desperation) . I beg you, sir, to prevent this man 
 from carrying out his plan which is loathsome to me. 
 
 The Manager {dumbfounded). I don't understand at 
 all. What is the situation? Is this lady your wife? {to the 
 Father). 
 
 The Father. Yes, gentlemen: my wife! 
 
 The Manager. But how can she be a widow if you are 
 alive? {The actors find relief for their astonishment in a 
 loud laugh). 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 13 
 
 The Father. Don't laugh! Don't laugh like that, for 
 Heaven's sake. Her drama lies just here in this: she has had 
 a lover, a man who ought to be here. 
 
 The Mother {with a cry). No! No! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Fortunately for her, he is dead. 
 Tw^o months ago as I said. We are in mourning, as you 
 see. 
 
 The Father. He isn't here you see, not because he is 
 dead. He isn't here — look at her a moment and you will 
 understand — because her drama isn't a drama of the love of 
 two men for w^hom she was incapable of feeling anything 
 except possibly a little gratitude — gratitude not for me but 
 for the other. She isn't a woman, she is a mother, and her 
 drama — powerful sir, I assure you — lies, as a matter of fact, 
 all in these four children she has had by two men. 
 
 The Mother. I had them? Have you got the courage 
 to say that I w^anted them? {To the company). It was his 
 doing. It was he who gave me that other man, who forced 
 me to go away with him. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. It isn't true. 
 
 The Mother {startled). Not true, isn't it? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. No, it isn't true, it just isn't 
 true. 
 
 The Mother. And what can you know about it? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. It isn't true. Don't believe it. 
 {To Manager). Do you know why she says so? For that 
 fellow there {indicates the Son). She tortures herself, de- 
 stroys herself on account of the neglect of that son there; 
 and she wants him to believe that if she abandoned him when 
 he was only two years old, it was because he {indicates the 
 Father) made her do so. 
 
 The Mother {vigorously) . He forced me to it, and I 
 call God to witness it {to the Manager). Ask him {in- 
 
14 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 dicates husband) if It isn't true. Let him speak. You {to 
 daughter) are not in a position to know anything about it. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. I know you lived in peace and 
 happiness with my father while he lived. Can you deny it? 
 
 The Mother. No, I don't deny it . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter. He was always full of affection 
 and kindness for you {to the Boy, angrily). It's true, isn't 
 it? Tell them! Why don't you speak, you little fool? 
 
 The Mother. Leave the poor boy alone. Why do you 
 want to make me appear ungrateful, daughter? I don't 
 want to offend your father. I have answered him that I 
 didn't abandon my house and my son through any fault of 
 mine, nor from any wilful passion. 
 
 The Father. It is true. It was my doing. 
 
 Leading Man {to the Company), What a spectacle! 
 
 Leading Lady. We are the audience this time. 
 
 Juvenile Lead. For once, in a way. 
 
 The Manager {beginning to get really interested). 
 Let's hear them out. Listen ! 
 
 The Son. Oh yes, you're going to hear a fine bit now. 
 He will talk to you of the Demon of Experiment. 
 
 The Father. You are a cynical imbecile. I've told you 
 so already a hundred times {to the Manager). He tries to 
 make fun of me on account of this expression which I have 
 found to excuse myself with. 
 
 The Son {with disgust). Yes, phrases! phrases! 
 
 The Father. Phrases! Isn't everyone consoled when 
 faced with a trouble or fact he doesn't understand, by a 
 word, some simple word, which tells us nothing and yet 
 calms us ? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Even in the case of remorse. In 
 fact, especially then. 
 
 The Father. Remorse? No, that isn't true. I've done 
 more than use words to quieten the remorse in me. 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 15 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Yes, there was a bit of money 
 too. Yes, yes, a bit of money. There were the hundred lire 
 he was about to offer me in payment, gentlemen . . . (sen- 
 sation of horror among the actors). 
 
 The Son {to the Step-Daughter). This is vile. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Vile? There they were in a 
 pale blue envelope on a little mahogany table in the back of 
 Madame Pace's shop. You know Madame Pace — one of 
 those ladies who attract poor girls of good family into their 
 ateliers, under the pretext of their selling robes et manteaux. 
 
 The Son. And he thinks he has bought the right to 
 tyrannise over us all with those hundred lire he was going to 
 pay; but which, fortunately — note this, gentlemen — he had 
 no chance of paying. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. It was a near thing, though, 
 you know! {laughs ironically) . 
 
 The Mother {protesting.) Shame, my daughter, shame! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Shame indeed! This is my re- 
 venge! I am dying to live that scene . . . The room . . . 
 I see it . . . Here is the window with the mantles exposed, 
 there the divan, the looking-glass, a screen, there in front of 
 the window the little mahogany table with the blue envelope 
 containing one hundred lire. I see it. I see it. I could take 
 hold of it . . . But you, gentlemen, you ought to turn your 
 backs now : I am almost nude, you know. But I don't blush : 
 I leave that to him {indicating Father). 
 
 The Manager. I don't understand this at all. 
 
 The Father. Naturally enough. I would ask you, sir, 
 to exercise your authority a little here, and let me speak be- 
 fore you believe all she is trying to blame me with. Let me 
 explain. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Ah yes, explain it in your own 
 way. 
 
 The Father. But don't you see that the whole trouble 
 
16 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 lies here. In words, words. Each one of us has within him 
 a whole world of things, each man of us his own special 
 world. And how can we ever come to an understanding if 
 I put in the words I utter the sense and value of things as I 
 see them ; while you who listen to me must inevitably trans- 
 late them according to the conception of things each one of 
 you has within himself. We think we understand each other, 
 but we never really do. Look here! This woman (indicat- 
 ing the Mother) takes all my pity for her as a specially 
 ferocious form of cruelty. 
 
 The Mother. But you drove me away. 
 
 The Father. Do you hear her? I drove her away! 
 She believes I really sent her away. 
 
 The Mother. You know how to talk, and I don't; 
 but, believe me sir, (to Manager) after he had married 
 me . . . who knows why? ... I was a poor insignificant 
 woman . . . 
 
 The Father. But, good Heavens! it was just for your 
 humility that I married you. I loved this simplicity in you 
 (He stops when he sees she makes signs to contradict him, 
 opens his arms wide in sign of desperation, seeing how hope- 
 less it is to make himself understood). You see she denies 
 it. Her mental deafness, believe me, is phenomenal, the 
 limit (touches his forehead) : deaf, deaf, mentally deaf! 
 She has plenty of feeling. Oh yes, a good heart for the 
 children; but the brain — deaf, to the point of despera- 
 tion ! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Yes, but ask him how his intelli- 
 gence has helped us. 
 
 The Father. If we could see all the evil that may 
 spring from good, what should we do? (At this point the 
 Leading Lady who is biting her lips with rage at seeing the 
 Leading Man flirting with the Step-Daughter, comes for- 
 ward and says to the Manager) . 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 17 
 
 / 
 
 Leading Lady. Excuse me, but are we going to rehearse 
 today ? 
 
 Manager. Of course, of course; but let's hear them out. 
 
 Juvenile Lead. This is something quite new. 
 
 L'Ingenue. Most interesting! 
 
 f/£ADiNG Lady. Yes, for the people who like that kind of 
 thing {casts a glance at Leading Man). 
 
 The Manager {to Father.) You must please explain 
 yourself quite clearly {sits down). 
 
 The Father. Very well then: listen! I had in my 
 service a poor man, a clerk, a secretary of mine, full of 
 devotion, who became friends with her {indicating the 
 Mother). They understood one another, were kindred souls 
 in fact, without, however, the least suspicion of any evil 
 existing. They were incapable even of thinking of it. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. So he thought of it — for them! 
 
 The Father. That's not true. I meant to do good to 
 them — and to myself, I confess, at the same time. Things 
 had come to the point that I could not say a word to either 
 of them without their making a mute appeal, one to the 
 other, with their eyes. I could see them silently asking each 
 other how I was to be kept in countenance, how I was to be 
 kept quiet. And this, believe me, was just about enough of 
 itself to keep me in a constant rage, to exasperate me beyond 
 measure. 
 
 The Manager. And why didn't you send him away- 
 then — this secretary of yours? 
 
 The Father. Precisely what I did, sir. And then I 
 had to watch this poor woman drifting forlornly about the 
 house like an animal without a master, like an animal one has 
 taken in out of pity. * 
 
 The Mother. Ah yes . . . ! 
 
 The Father {suddenly turning to the Mother). It's 
 true about the son anyway, isn't it ? 
 
18 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 The Mother. He took my son away from me first of 
 all. 
 
 The Father. But not from cruelty. I did it so that 
 he should grow up healthy and strong by living in the 
 country. 
 
 The Step-Daughter {pointing to him ironically). As 
 one can see. 
 
 The Father (quickly). Is it my fault if he has grown 
 up like this? I sent him to a wet nurse in the country, a 
 peasant, as she did not seem to me strong enough, though she 
 is of humble origin. That was, anyway, the reason I married 
 her. Unpleasant all this maybe, but how can it be helped? 
 My mistake possibly, but there we are! All my life I have 
 had these confounded aspirations towards a certain moral 
 sanity. (At this point the Step-Daughter bursts out into a 
 noisy laugh). Oh, stop, it! Stop it! I can't stand it. 
 
 The Manager. Yes, please stop it, for Heaven's sake. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. But imagine moral sanity from 
 him, if you please — the client of certain ateliers like that of 
 Madame Pace! 
 
 The Father. Fool ! That is the proof that I am a man ! 
 This seeming contradiction, gentlemen, is the strongest proof 
 that I stand here a live man before you. Why, it is just for 
 this very incongruity in my nature that I have had to suffer 
 what I have. I could not live by the side of that woman 
 {indicating the Mother) any longer; but not so much for the 
 boredom she inspired me with as for the pity I felt for her. 
 
 The Mother. And so he turned me out — . 
 
 The Father. — well provided for ! Yes, I sent her to 
 that man, gentlemen ... to let her go free of me. 
 
 The Mother. And to free himself. 
 
 The Father. Yes, I admit it. It was also a liberation 
 for me. But great evil has come of it. I meant well when 
 I did it ; and I did it more for her sake than mine. I swear 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 19 
 
 it {crosses his arms on his chest; then turns suddenly to the 
 Mother). Did I ever lose sight of you until that other man 
 carried you off to another town, like the angry fool he was? 
 And on account of my pure interest in you . . . my pure 
 interest, I repeat, that had no base motive in it ... I 
 watched with the tenderest concern the new family that 
 grew up around her. She can bear witness to this {points to 
 the Step-Daughter). 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Oh yes, that's true enough. When 
 I was a kiddie, so so high, you know, with plaits over my 
 shoulders and knickers longer than my skirts, I used to see 
 him w^aiting outside the school for me to come out. He 
 came to see how I was growing up. 
 
 The Father. This is infamous, shameful! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. No, Why? 
 
 The Father. Infamous! infamous! {Then excitedly 
 to Manager explaining). After she {indicating Mother) 
 went away, my house seemed suddenly empty. She was my 
 incubus, but she filled my house. I was like a dazed fly 
 alone in the empty rooms. This boy here {indicating the 
 Son) was educated away from home, and w^hen he came 
 back, he seemed to me to be no more mine. With no mother 
 to stand between him and me, he grew up entirely for 
 himself, on his own, apart, with no tie of intellect or affection 
 binding him to me. And then — strange but true — I was 
 driven, by curiosity at first and then by some tender senti- 
 ment, towards her family, which had come into being through 
 my will. The thought of her began gradually to fill up the 
 emptiness I felt all around me. I wanted to know if she 
 were happy in living out the simple daily duties of life. I 
 wanted to think of her as fortunate and happy because far 
 away from the complicated torments of my spirit. And so, 
 to have proof of this, I used to watch that child coming 
 out of school. 
 
20 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Yes, yes. True. He used to 
 follow me in the street and smiled at me, waved his hand, 
 like this. I would look at him with interest, wondering who 
 he might be. I told my mother, who guessed at once (the 
 Mother agrees with a nod). Then she didn't want to send 
 me to school for some days; and when I finally went back, 
 there he was again — looking so ridiculous — with a paper 
 parcel in his hands. He came close to me, caressed me, and 
 drew out a fine straw hat from the parcel, with a bouquet 
 of flowers — all for me! 
 
 The Manager. A bit discursive this, you know! 
 
 The Son {contemptuously). Literature! Literature! 
 
 The Father. Literature indeed! This is life, this is 
 passion ! 
 
 The Manager. It may be, but it won't act. 
 
 The Father. I agree. This is only the part leading up. 
 I don't suggest this should be staged. She {pointing to the 
 Step-Daughter), as you see, is no longer the flapper with 
 plaits down her back — . 
 
 The Step-Daughter. — and the knickers showing be- 
 low the skirt! 
 
 The Father. The drama is coming now, sir; some- 
 thing new, complex, most interesting. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. As soon as my father died . . . 
 
 The Father. — there was absolute misery for them. 
 They came back here, unknown to me. Through her stu- 
 pidity {pointing to the Mother) \ It is true she can barely 
 write her own name; but she could anyhow have got her 
 daughter to write to me that they were in need . . . 
 
 The Mother. And how was I to divine all this senti- 
 ment in him? 
 
 The Father. That is exactly your mistake, never to 
 have guessed any of my sentiments. 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 21 
 
 The ]\1other. After so many years apart, and all that 
 had happened . . . 
 
 The Father. Was it my fault if that fellow carried 
 you away? It happened quite suddenly; for after he had 
 obtained some job or other, I could find no trace of them; 
 and so, not unnaturally, my interest in them dwindled. But 
 the drama culminated unforeseen and violent on their re- 
 turn, when I was impelled by my miserable flesh that still 
 lives . . . Ah! what misery, what wretchedness is that of 
 the man w^ho is alone and disdains debasing liaisons! Not 
 old enough to do without women, and not young enough to 
 go and look for one without shame. Misery? It's worse 
 than misery; it's a horror; for no woman can any longer 
 give him love; and when a man feels this . . . One ought 
 to do without, you say? Yes, yes, I know. Each of us when 
 he appears before his fellows is clothed in a certain dignity. 
 But every man knows what unconfessable things pass within 
 the secrecy of his own heart. One gives way to the tempta- 
 tion, only to rise from it again, afterwards, with a great 
 eagerness to reestablish one's dignity, as if it were a tomb- 
 stone to place on the grave of one's shame, and a monument 
 to hide and sign the memory of our w^eaknesses. Everybody's 
 in the same case. Some folks haven't the courage to say 
 certain things, that's all! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. All appear to have the courage 
 to do them though. 
 
 The Father. Yes, but in secret. Therefore, you want 
 more courage to say these things. Let a man but speak these 
 things out, and folks at once label him a cynic. But it 
 isn't true. He is like all the others, better indeed, because 
 he isn't afraid to reveal with the light of the intelligence the 
 red shame of human bestiality on which most men close their 
 eyes so as not to see it. 
 
 Woman — for example, look at her case! She turns tant- 
 
22 SIX CHARACTERS [Act Ij 
 
 allzing inviting glances on you. You seize her. No sooner 
 does she feel herself in your grasp than she closes her eyes. 
 It is the sign of her mission, the sign by which she says to 
 man: "Blind yourself, for I am blind." 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Sometimes she can close them no 
 more : when she no longer feels the need of hiding her shame 
 to herself, but dry-eyed and dispassionately, sees only that of 
 the man who has blinded himself without love. Oh, all these 
 intellectual complications make me sick, disgust me — all this 
 philosophy that uncovers the beast in man, and then seeks to 
 save him, excuse him ... I can't stand it, sir. When a 
 man seeks to "simplify" life bestially, throwing aside every 
 relic of humanity, every chaste aspiration, every pure feeling, 
 all sense of ideality, duty, modesty, shame . . . then nothing 
 is more revolting and nauseous than a certain kind of re- 
 morse — crocodiles' tears, that's what it is. 
 
 The Manager. Let's come to the point. This is only 
 discussion. 
 
 The Father. Very good, sir! But a fact is like a sack 
 which won't stand up when it is empty. In order that it 
 may stand up, one has to put into it the reason and sentiment 
 which have caused it to exist. I couldn't possibly know that 
 after the death of that man, they had decided to return here, 
 that they were in misery, and that she (pointing to the 
 Mother) had gone to work as a modiste, and at a shop of 
 the type of that of Madame Pace. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. A real high-class modiste, you 
 must know, gentlemen. In appearance, she works for the 
 leaders of the best society; but she arranges matters so that 
 these elegant ladies serve her purpose . . . without prejudice 
 to other ladies who are . . . well . . . only so so. 
 
 The Mother. You will believe me, gentlemen, that it 
 never entered my mind that the old hag offered me work 
 because she had her eye on my daughter. 
 
[Act IJ SIX CHARACTERS 23 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Poor mamma! Do you know, 
 sir, what that woman did when I brought her back the work 
 my mother had finished ? She would point out to me that I 
 had torn one of my frocks, and she would give it back to my 
 mother to mend. It was I who paid for it, always I ; while 
 this poor creature here believed she was sacrificing herself 
 for me and these two children here, sitting up at night sew- 
 ing Madame Pace's robes. 
 
 The Manager. And one day you met there . . . 
 The Step-Daughter. Him, him. Yes sir, an old 
 client. There's a scene for you to play! Superb! 
 
 The Father. She, the Mother arrived just then . . . 
 The Step-Daughter (treacherously). Almost in time! 
 The Father {crying out). No, in time! in time! 
 Fortunately I recognized her ... in time. And I took 
 them back home with me to my house. You can imagine 
 now her position and mine: she, as you see her; and I who 
 cannot look her in the face. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Absurd! How can I possibly 
 be expected — after that — to be a modest young miss, a fit 
 person to go with his confounded aspirations for "a solid 
 moral sanity"? 
 
 The Father. For the drama lies all in this — in the 
 conscience that I have, that each one of us has. We believe 
 this conscience to be a single thing, but it is many-sided. 
 There is one for this person, and another for that. Diverse 
 consciences. So we have this illusion of being one person for 
 all, of having a personality that is unique in all our acts. But 
 it isn't true. We perceive this when, tragically perhaps, in 
 something we do, we are as it were, suspended, caught up 
 in the air on a kind of hook. Then we perceive that all of us 
 was not in that act, and that it would be an atrocious in- 
 justice to judge us by that action alone, as if all our exist- 
 ence were summed up in that one deed. Now do you under- 
 
24 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 stand the perfidy of this girl? She surprised me in a place, 
 where she ought not to have known me, just as I could not 
 exist for her ; and she now seeks to attach to me a reality such 
 as I could never suppose I should have to assume for her in 
 a shameful and fleeting moment of my life. I feel this above 
 all else. And the drama, you will see, acquires a tremendous 
 value from this point. Then there is the position of the 
 others . . . his . . . {indicating the Son). 
 
 The Son {shrugging his shoulders scornfully). Leave 
 me alone ! I don't come into this. 
 
 The Father. What? You don't come into this? 
 
 The Son. I've got nothing to do with it, and don't want 
 to have ; because you know well enough I wasn't made to be 
 mixed up in all this with the rest of you. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. We are only vulgar folk! He 
 is the fine gentleman. You may have noticed, Mr. Manager, 
 that I fix him now and again with a look of scorn while he 
 low^ers his eyes — for he knows the evil he has done me. 
 
 The Son {scarcely looking at her). I? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. You! you! I owe my life on 
 the streets to you. Did you or did you not deny us, with 
 your behaviour, I won't say the intimacy of home, but even 
 that mere hospitality which makes guests feel at their ease? 
 We were intruders who had come to disturb the kingdom 
 of your legitimacy. I should like to have you witness, Mr. 
 Manager, certain scenes between him and m_e. He says 1 
 have tyrannized over everyone. But it was just his be- 
 haviour which made me insist on the reason for which I had 
 come into the house, — this reason he calls "vile" — into his 
 house, with my mother who is his mother too. And I came 
 as mistress of the house. 
 
 The Son. It's easy for them to put me always in the 
 wrong. But imagine, gentlemen, the position of a son, w^hosc 
 fate it is to see arrive one day at his home a young woman 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 25 
 
 of impudent bearing, a young woman who inquires for hii> 
 father, with whom who knows what business she has. This 
 young man has then to witness her return bolder than ever, 
 accompanied by that child there. He is obliged to watch her 
 treat his father in an equivocal and confidential manner. 
 She asks money of him in a way that lets one suppose he 
 must give it her, must, do you understand, because he has 
 every obligation to do so. 
 
 The Father. But I have, as a matter of fact, this 
 obligation. I owe it to your mother. 
 
 The Son. How should I know? When had I ever seen 
 or heard of her? One day there arrive with her {indicating 
 Step-Daughter) that lad and this baby here. I am told: 
 "This is your mother too, you know." I divine from her 
 manner {indicating Step-Daughter again) why it is they 
 have come home. I had rather not say what I feel and 
 think about it. I shouldn't even care to confess to myself. 
 No action can therefore be hoped for from me in this affair. 
 Believe me, Mr. Manager, I am an "unrealized" character, 
 dramatically speaking; and I find myself not at all at ease 
 in their company. Leave me out of it, I beg you. 
 
 The Father. What? It is just because you are so 
 that . . . 
 
 The Son. How do you know what I am like? When 
 did you ever bother your head about me ? 
 
 The Father. I admit it. I admit it. But isn't that a 
 situation in itself ? This aloofness of yours which is so cruel 
 to me and to your mother, who returns home and sees you 
 almost for the first time grown up, who doesn't recognize 
 you but knows you are her son . . . {pointing out the 
 Mother to the Manager). See, she's crying! 
 
 The Step-Daughter {angrily, stamping her foot). Like 
 a fool! 
 
 The Father {indicating Step-Daughter). She can't 
 
 ^ 
 
26 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 stand him you know. {Then referring again to the Son) : 
 He says he doesn't come into the affair, whereas he is really 
 the hinge of the whole action. Look at that lad who is 
 always clinging to his mother, frightened and humiliated. It 
 is on account of this fellow here. Possibly his situation is 
 the most painful of all. He feels himself a stranger more 
 than the others. The poor little chap feels mortified, 
 humiliated at being brought into a home out of charity as 
 it were. (In confidence) — : He is the image of his father. 
 Hardly talks at all. Humble and quiet. 
 
 The Manager. Oh, we'll cut him out. You've no 
 notion what a nuisance boys are on the stage . . . 
 
 The Father. He disappears soon, you know. And the 
 baby too. She is the first to vanish from the scene. The 
 drama consists finally in this: when that mother re-enters 
 my house, her family born outside of it, and shall w^e say 
 superimposed on the original, ends with the death of the 
 little girl, the tragedy of the boy and the flight of the elder 
 daughter. It cannot go on, because it is foreign to its sur- 
 roundings. So after much torment, we three remain: I, 
 the mother, that son. Then, owing to the disappearance 
 of that extraneous family, we too find ourselves strange to 
 one another. We find we are living in an atmosphere of 
 mortal desolation which is the revenge, as he {indicating 
 Son) scornfully said of the Demon of Experiment, that un- 
 fortunately hides in me. Thus, sir, you see when faith is 
 lacking, it becomes impossible to create certain states of hap- 
 piness, for we lack the necessary humility. Vaingloriously, 
 we try to substitute ourselves for this faith, creating thus for 
 the rest of the world a reality which we believe after their 
 fashion, while, actually, it doesn't exist. For each one of 
 us has his own reality to be respected before God, even when 
 it is harmful to one's very self. 
 
 The Manager. There is something in what you say. 
 
 i 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 27 
 
 I assure you all this Interests me very much. I begin to 
 think there's the stuff for a drama in all this, and not a bad 
 drama either. 
 
 The Step-Daughter {coming forward). When you've 
 got a character like me. 
 
 The Father (shutting! her up, all excited to learn the 
 decision of the Manager) . You be quiet! 
 
 The Manager {reflecting, heedless of interruption) . It's 
 new . . . hem . . . yes . . . 
 
 The Father. Absolutely new! 
 
 The Manager. You've got a nerve though, I must say, 
 to come here and fling it at me like this . . . 
 
 The Father. You will understand, sir, born as we are 
 for the stage . . . 
 
 The Manager. Are you amateur actors then ? 
 
 The Father. No. I say born for the stage, be- 
 cause . . . 
 
 The Manager. Oh, nonsense. You're an old hand, 
 you know. 
 
 The Father. No sir, no. We act that role for which 
 we have been cast, that role which we are given in life. And 
 in my own case, passion itself, as usually happens, becomes a 
 trifle theatrical when it is exalted. 
 
 The Manager. Well, well, that will do. But you see, 
 without an author ... I could give you the address of an 
 author if you like . . . 
 
 The Father. No, no. Look here! You must be the 
 author. 
 
 The Manager. I? What are you talking about? 
 
 The Father. Yes, you, you! Why not? 
 
 The Manager. Because I have never been an author: 
 that's why. 
 
 The Father. Then why not turn author now? Every- 
 body does it. You don't want any special qualities. Your 
 
28 SIX CHARACTERS [Act I] 
 
 task is made much easier by the fact that we are all here 
 alive before you . . . 
 
 The Manager. It won't do. 
 
 The Father. What? When you see us live our 
 drama . . . 
 
 The Manager. Yes, that's all right. But you want 
 someone to write it. 
 
 The Father. No, no. Someone to take it down, pos- 
 sibly, while we play it, scene by scene! It will be enough 
 to sketch it out at first, and then try it over. 
 
 The Manager. Well ... I am almost tempted. It's 
 a bit of an idea. One might have a shot at it. 
 
 The Father. Of course. You'll see what scenes will 
 come out of it. I can give you one, at once . . . 
 
 The Manager. By Jove, it tempts me. I'd like to have 
 a go at it. Let's try it out. Come with me to my office 
 (turning to the Actors). You are at liberty for a bit, but 
 don't stop out of the theatre for long. In a quarter of an 
 hour, twenty minutes, all back here again ! ( To the Father) : 
 We'll see what can be done. Who knows if we don't get 
 something really extraordinary out of it? 
 
 The Father. There's no doubt about It. They {in- 
 dicating the Characters) had better come with us too, hadn't 
 they? 
 
 The Manager. Yes, yes. Come on! come on! {Moves 
 away and then turning to the actors) : Be punctual, please! 
 {Manager and the Six Characters cross the stage and go 
 off. The other actors remain, looking at one another in 
 astonishment) . 
 
 Leading Man. Is he serious? WTiat the devil does he 
 want to do? 
 
 Juvenile Lead. This is rank madness. 
 
 Third Actor. Does he expect to knock up a drama in 
 five minutes? 
 
[Act I] SIX CHARACTERS 29 
 
 Juvenile Lead. Like the improvisers! 
 i#Leading Lady. If he thinks I'm going to take part in 
 a joke like this . . . 
 
 Juvenile Lead. I'm out of it anyway. 
 
 Fourth Actor. I should like to know who they are 
 (alludes to Characters). 
 
 Third Actor. What do you suppose? Madmen or 
 rascals! 
 
 Juvenile Lead. And he takes them seriously ! 
 
 L'Ingenue. Vanity! He fancies himself as an author 
 now. 
 
 Leading Man. It's absolutely unheard of. If the stage 
 has come to this . . . well I'm . . . 
 
 Fifth Actor. It's rather a joke. 
 
 Third Actor. Well, we'll see what's going to happen 
 next. 
 
 (Thus talking^ the actors leave the stage; some going out 
 by the little door at the back; others retiring to their dressing- 
 rooms. 
 
 The curtain remains up. 
 
 The action of the play is suspended for twenty minutes),, 
 
ACT II. 
 
 The stage call-bells ring to warn the company that the 
 play is about to begin again. 
 
 The Step-Daughter comes out of the Manager s office 
 along with The Child and The Boy. As she comes out of 
 the office J she cries: — 
 
 Nonsense! nonsense! Do it yourselves! I'm not going to 
 mix myself up in this mess. {Turning to the Child and 
 coming quickly with her on to the stage) : Come on, 
 Rosetta, let's run ! 
 
 (The Boy follows them slowly, remaining a little behind 
 and seeming perplexed) . 
 
 The Step-Daughter. {Stops, bends over the Child and 
 takes the latter s face between her hands). My little darling! 
 You're frightened, aren't you? You don't know where we 
 are, do you? {Pretending to reply to a question of the 
 Child) : What is the stage? It's a place, baby, you know, 
 where people play at being serious, a place where they act 
 comedies. We've got to act a comedy now, dead serious, 
 you know; and you're in it also, little one. {Embraces her. 
 pressing the little head to her breast, and rocking the child 
 for a moment). Oh darling, darling, what a horrid comedy 
 you've got to play ! What a wretched part they've found for 
 you! A garden ... a fountain . . . look . . . just sup- 
 pose, kiddie, it's here. Where, you say? Why, right here 
 in the middle. It's all pretence you know. That's the 
 trouble, my pet: it's all make-believe here. It's better to 
 imagine it though, because if they fix it up for you, it'll only 
 
 30 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 31 
 
 be painted cardboard, painted cardboard for the rockery, the 
 water, the plants . . . Ah, but I think a baby like this one 
 would sooner have a make-believe fountain than a real one, 
 so she could play with it. What a joke it'll be for the 
 others! But for you, alas! not quite such a joke: you who are 
 real, baby dear, and really play by a real fountain that is big 
 and green and beautiful, with ever so many bamboos around 
 it that are reflected in the v/ater, and a whole lot of little 
 ducks swimming about . . . No, Rosetta, no, your mother 
 doesn't bother about you on account of that wretch of a 
 son there. I'm in the devil of a temper, and as for that 
 lad . . . {Seizes Boy by the arm to force him to take one of 
 his hands out of his pockets). What have you got there? 
 What are you hiding? {Pulls his hand out of his pocket, 
 looks into it and catches the glint of a revolver). Ah! where 
 did you get this? 
 
 (The Boy, very pale in the face, Iboks at her, but does 
 not answer). 
 
 Idiot! If I'd been in your place, instead of killing myself, 
 I'd have shot one of those two, or both of them: father and 
 son. 
 
 (The Father enters from the office j all excited from his 
 work. The Manager follows him). 
 
 The Father. Come on, come on dear! Come here for 
 a minute! We've arranged everything. It's all fixed up. 
 
 The Manager {also excited). If you please, young 
 lady, there are one or two points to settle still. Will you 
 come along? 
 
 The Step-Daughter {following him towards the 
 office). Ouff! what's the good, if you've arranged every- 
 thing. 
 
 (The Father, Manager and Step-Daughter go back 
 into the office again {off) for a moment. At the same time. 
 The Son followed by The Mother, comes out). 
 
32 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 The Son (looking at the three entering office). Oh this 
 is fine, fine! And to think I can't even get away! 
 
 (The Mother attempts to look at him, but lowers her 
 eyes immediately ivhen he turns away from her. She then 
 sits down. The Boy and The Child approach her. She 
 casts a glance again at the Son, and speaks with humble tones, 
 trying to draw hiin into conversation). 
 
 The Mother. And isn't my punishment tlie worst of 
 all? {Then seeing from the Sons manner that he will not 
 bother himself about her). My God! Why are you so 
 cruel? Isn't it enough for one person to support all this 
 torment? Must you then insist on others seeing it also? 
 
 The Son {half to himself, meaning the Mother to hear, 
 however). And they want to put it on the stage! If there 
 was at least a reason for it! He thinks he has got at the 
 meaning of it all. Just as if each one of us in every circum- 
 stance of life couldn't find his own explanation of it! 
 {Pauses). He complains he was discovered in a place where 
 he ought not to have been seen, in a moment of his life which 
 ought to have remained hidden and kept out of the reach of 
 that convention which he has to maintain for other people. 
 And what about my case ? Haven't I had to reveal what no 
 son ought ever to reveal: how father and mother live and 
 are man and wife for themselves quite apart from that idea 
 of father and mother w^hich we give them ? When this idea 
 is revealed, our life is then linked at one point only to that 
 man and that woman; and as such it should shame them, 
 shouldn't it? 
 
 The Mother hides her face in her hands. From the 
 dressing-rooms and the little door at the back of the stage the 
 actors and Stage Manager return, followed by the Prop- 
 erty Man, and the Prompter. At the same moment. The 
 Manager comes out of his office, accompanied by the 
 Father and the Step-Daughter. 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 33 
 
 The Manager. Come on, come on, ladies and gentle- 
 men! Heh! you there, machinist! 
 
 Machinist. Yes sir ? 
 
 The Manager. Fix up the white parlor with the floral 
 decorations. Two wings and a drop with a door will do. 
 Hurry up! 
 
 (The Machinist runs off at once to prepare the scene, 
 and arranges it while The Manager talks with the Stage 
 Manager^ the Property Man, and the Prompter on 
 matters of detail). 
 
 The Manager {to Property Man). Just have a look, 
 and see if there isn't a sofa or divan in the wardrobe . . . 
 
 Property Man. There's the green one. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. No no) Green won't do. It 
 was yellow, ornamented with flowers — very large ! and most 
 comfortable ! 
 
 Property Man. There isn't one like that. 
 
 The Manager. It doesn't matter. Use the one we've 
 got. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Doesn't matter? It's most im- 
 portant! 
 
 The Manager. We're only trying it now. Please don't 
 interfere. (To Property Man) : See if ^ve've got a shop 
 window — long and narrowish. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. And the little table! The little 
 mahogany table for the pale blue envelope ! 
 
 Property Man {To Manager). There's that little gilt 
 one. 
 
 The Manager. That'll do fine. 
 
 The Father. A mirror. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. And the screen ! We must have 
 a screen. Otherwise how can I manage? 
 
 Property Man. That's all right, Miss. We've got 
 any amount of them. 
 
34 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 The Manager {to the Step-Daughter). We want some 
 clothes pegs too, don't we? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Yes, several, several! 
 
 The Manager. See how many we've got and bring 
 them all. 
 
 Property Man. All right! 
 
 (The Property Man hurries ojf to obey his orders. 
 While he is putting the things in their places, the Manager 
 talks to the Prompter and then with the Characters and the 
 actors). 
 
 The Manager {to Prompter). Take your seat. Look 
 here: this is the outline of the scenes, act by act {hands him 
 some sheets of paper). And now I'm going to ask you to do 
 something out of the ordinary. 
 
 Prompter. Take it down in shorthand? 
 
 The Manager {pleasantly surprised). Exactly! Can 
 you do shorthand? 
 
 Prompter. Yes, a little. 
 
 Manager. Good ! ( Turning to a stage hand) : Go 
 and get some paper from my office, plenty, as much as you 
 can find. 
 
 {The stage hand goes ojf, and soon returns with a handful 
 of paper which he gives to the Prompter) . 
 
 The Manager {To Prompter). You follow the scenes 
 as we play them, and try and get the points down, at any 
 rate the most important ones. {Then addressing the actors) : 
 Clear the stage, ladies and gentlemen! Come over here 
 {pointing to the Left) and listen attentively. 
 -^.-Xeading Lady. But, excuse me, we . . . 
 
 The Manager {guessing her thought). Don*t worry! 
 You won't have to improvise. 
 
 Leading Man. What have we to do then ? 
 
 The Manager. Nothing. For the moment you just 
 watch and listen. Everybody will get his part written out 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 35 
 
 afterwards. At present we're going to try the thing as best 
 wc can. They're going to act now. 
 
 The Father {as if fallen from the clouds into the con- 
 fusion of the stage). We? What do you mean, if you 
 please, by a rehearsal? 
 
 The Manager. A rehearsal for them {points to the 
 actors). 
 
 The Father. But since we are the characters . . . 
 
 The Manager. All right: "characters" then, if you 
 insist on calling yourselves such. But here, my dear sir, 
 the characters don't act. Here the actors do the acting. The 
 characters are there, in the "book" {pointing towards 
 Prompter s box) — when there is a "book"! 
 
 The Father. I won't contradict you; but excuse me, 
 the actors aren't the characters. They want to be, they pre- 
 tend to be, don't they? Now if these gentlemen here are 
 fortunate enough to have us alive before them . . . 
 
 The Manager. Oh this is grand! You want to come 
 before the public yourselves then? 
 
 The Father. As we are . . . 
 
 The Manager. I can assure you it would be a mag- 
 nificent spectacle! 
 
 Leading Man. What's the use of us here anjrway 
 then? 
 
 The Manager. You're not going to pretend that you 
 can act? It makes me laugh ! {The actors laugh). There, 
 you see, they are laughing at the notion. But, by the way, 
 I must cast the parts. That won't be difficult. They cast 
 themselves. ( To the Second Lady Lead) : You play the 
 Mother. {To the Father) : We must find her a name. 
 
 The Father. Amalia, sir. 
 
 The Manager. But that is the real name of your wife 
 We don't want to call her by her real name. 
 
 The Father. Why ever not, if it is her name? . • • 
 
36 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 Still, perhaps, If that lady must . . . {makes a slight motion 
 of the hand to indicate the Second Lady Lead) . I see this 
 woman here {means the Mother) as Amalla. But do as 
 you like {gets more and more confused). I don't know what 
 to say to you. Already, I begin to hear my own words ring 
 false, as if they had another sound . . . 
 
 The Manager. Don't you worry about it. It'll be our 
 job to find the right tones. And as for her name, if you want 
 her Amalla, Amalia it shall be; and if you don't like it, we'll 
 find another! For the moment though, we'll call the char- 
 acters In this way: {to Juvenile Lead) You are the Son; 
 {to the Leading Lady) You naturally are the Step-Daugh- 
 ter .. . 
 
 The Step-Daughter (excitedly). W^at? what? I, 
 that woman there? {Bursts out laughing). 
 
 The Manager {angry). What is there to laugh at? 
 ^Leading Lady {indignant). Nobody has ever dared to 
 laugh at me. I Insist on being treated with respect; other- 
 wise I go away. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. No, no, excuse me . . . I am 
 not laughing at you . . . 
 
 The Manager {to Step-Daughter) . You ought to feel 
 honoured to be played by . . . 
 
 ^Leading Lady {at once, contemptuously) . "That woman 
 there" . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter. But I wasn't speaking of you, 
 you know. I was speaking of myself — whom I can't see at 
 all In you! That is all. I don't know . . . but . . . 
 you . . . aren't In the least like me . . . 
 
 The Father. True. Here's the point. Look here, sir, 
 our temperaments, our souls . . . 
 
 The Manager. Temperament, soul, be hanged! Do 
 you suppose the spirit of the piece Is In you ? Nothing of the 
 kind! 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 37 
 
 The Father. What, haven't we our own temperaments, 
 our own souls? 
 
 The Manager. Not at all. Your soul or whatever you 
 like to call it takes shape here. The actors give body and 
 form to it, voice and gesture. And my actors — I may tell 
 you — have given expression to much more lofty material than 
 this little drama of yours, which may or may not hold up 
 on the stage. But if it does, the merit of it, believe me, will 
 be due to my actors. 
 
 The Father. I don't dare contradict you, sir; but, 
 believe me, it is a terrible suffering for us who are as we arc, 
 with these bodies of ours, these features to see . . . 
 
 The Manager (cutting him short and out of patience). 
 Good heavens! The make-up will remedy all that, man, 
 the make-up . . . 
 
 The Father. Maybe. But the voice, the gestures . . . 
 
 The Manager. Now, look here! On the stage, you 
 as yourself, cannot exist. The actor here acts you, and that's 
 an end to it! 
 
 The Father. I understand. And now I think I see why 
 our author who conceived us as we are, all alive, didn't want 
 to put us on the stage after all. I haven't the least desire to 
 offend your actors. Far from it ! But when I think that I 
 am to be acted by ... I don't know by whom . . . 
 
 Leading Man {on his dignity). By me, if you've no 
 objection! 
 
 The Father {humbly, mellifluously) , Honoured, I 
 assure you, sir. {Bows). Still, I must say that try as this 
 gentleman may, with all his good will and wonderful art, to 
 absorb me into himself . . . 
 
 Leading Man. Oh chuck it! ^'Wonderful art!" With- 
 draw that, please ! 
 
 The Father. The performance he will give, even doing 
 his best with make-up to look like me . . . 
 
38 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 Leading Man. It will certainly be a wt difficult ! ( The 
 actors laugh.) 
 
 The Father, Exactly! It will be difficult to act me as 
 I really am. j The effect will be rather — apart from the 
 make-up — according as to how he supposes I am, as he senses 
 me — if he does sense me — and not as I inside of myself feel 
 myself to be. ^t seems to me then that account should be 
 taken of this by everyone whose duty it may become to 
 criticize us . . . 
 
 The Manager. Heavens ! The man's starting to think 
 about the critics now! Let them say what they like. It's 
 up to us to put on the play if we can (looking around). 
 Come on! come on! Is the stage set? {To the actors and 
 Characters) : Stand back — stand back! Let me see, and 
 don't let's lose any more time ' ( To the Step-Daughter) : 
 Is it all right as it is now? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Well, to tell the truth, I don't 
 recognize the scene. 
 
 The Manager. My dear lady, you can't possibly sup- 
 pose that we can construct that shop of Madame Pace piec^ 
 by piece here? {To the Father) : You said a white room 
 with flowered wall paper, didn't you? 
 
 The Father. Yes. 
 
 The Manager. Well then. We've got the furniture 
 right more or less. Bring that little table a bit further for- 
 ward. {The stage hands obey the order. To Property 
 Alan) : You go and find an envelope, if possible, a pale blue 
 one; and give it to that gentleman {indicates Father). 
 
 Property Man. An ordinary envelope? 
 
 Manager and Father. Yes, yes, an ordinary envelope. 
 
 Property Man. At once, sir {exit). 
 
 The Manager. Ready, everyone! First scene — the 
 *^"oung Lady. (The Leading Lady comes forward). No, 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 39 
 
 no, you must wait. I meant her {indicating the Step- 
 Daughter). You just watch — 
 
 The Step-Daughter {adding at once). How I shall 
 play it, how I shall live it! . . . 
 
 •'Leading Lady {offended). I shall live it also, you may 
 be sure, as soon as I begin! 
 
 The Manager {with his hands to his head). Ladies 
 and gentlemen, if you please! No more useless discussions! 
 Scene I: the young lady with Madame Pace: Oh! {looks 
 4iround as if lost). And this Madame Pace, where is she? 
 
 The Father. She isn't with us, sir. 
 
 The Manager. Then what the devil's to be done? 
 
 The Father. But she is alive too. 
 
 The Manager. Yes, but where is she? 
 
 The Father. One minute. Let me speak! {turning to 
 the actresses). If these ladies would be so good as to give 
 me their hats for a moment . . . 
 
 The Actresses {half surprised, half laughing j in chorus). 
 What? 
 
 Why? 
 
 Our hats? 
 
 What does he say? 
 
 The Manager. What are you going to do with the 
 ladies' hats? {The actors laugh). 
 
 The Father. Oh nothing. I just want to put them 
 on these pegs for a moment. And one of the ladies will be 
 so kind as to take ofi her mantle . . . 
 
 The Actors. Oh, what d'you think of that? 
 
 Only the mantle? 
 
 He must be mad. 
 
 Some Actresses. But why? 
 
 Mantles as well? 
 
 The Father. To hang them up here for a moment 
 Please be so kind, will you ? 
 
40 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 The Actresses {taking off their hats, one or two also 
 their cloaks, and going to hang them on the racks). After 
 all, why not? 
 
 There you are! 
 
 This is really funny. 
 
 We've got to put them on show. 
 
 The Father. Exactly; just like that, on show. 
 
 The Manager. May we know why? 
 
 The Father. I'll tell you. Who knows if, by ar- 
 ranging the stage for her, she does not come here herself, 
 attracted by the very articles of her trade? {Inviting the 
 actors to look towards the exit at back of stage): Look! 
 Look! 
 
 {The door at the back of stage opens and Madame Pacl 
 enters and takes a few steps forward. She is a fat, oldish 
 woman with puffy oxygenated hair. She is rouged and 
 powdered, dressed with a comical elegance in black silk. 
 Round her waist is a long silver chain from which hangs a 
 pair of scissors. The Step-Daughter runs over to her at 
 once amid the stupor of the actors). 
 
 The Step-Daughter {turning towards her). There 
 she is! There she is! 
 
 The Father {radiant). It's she! I said so, didn't I? 
 There she is! 
 
 The Manager {conquering his surprise, and then be- 
 coming indignant) . What sort of a trick is this? 
 
 Leading Man {almost at the same time). What's going 
 to happen next? 
 
 Juvenile Lead. Where does she come from? 
 
 L'Ingenue. They've been holding her in reserve, I 
 guess. 
 
 Leading Lady. A vulgar trick! 
 
 The Father {dominating the protests). Excuse me, all 
 ^f you! Why are you so anxious to destroy in the name 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 41 
 
 of a vulgar, commonplace sense of truth, this reality which 
 comes to birth attracted and formed by the magic of the 
 stage itself, which has indeed more right to live here than 
 you, since it is much truer than you — if you don't mind my 
 saying so? Which is the actress among you who is to play 
 Madame Pace? Well, here is Madame Pace herself. And 
 you will allow, I fancy, that the actress who acts her will be 
 less true than this woman here, who is herself in person. You 
 see my daughter recognized her and went over to her at once. 
 Now you're going to witness the scene ! 
 
 But the scejie between the Step-Daughter and Madame 
 Pace has already begun despite the protest of the actors and 
 the reply of The Father. It has begun quietly, naturally, 
 in a manner impossible for the stage. So when the actors, 
 called to attention by The Father, turn round and see 
 Madame Pace, who has placed one hand under the Step- 
 Daughter's chin to raise her head, they observe her at first 
 with great attention, but hearing her speak in an unintelligible 
 manner their interest begins to wane. 
 
 The Manager. W^ell? well? 
 
 Leading Man. What does she say? 
 
 Leading Lady. One can't hear a word. . 
 
 Juvenile Lead. Louder! Louder please! ^ 
 
 The Step-Daughter (leaving Madame Pace, who 
 smiles a Sphinx-like smile, and advancing towards the actors) . 
 Louder? Louder? What are you talking about? These 
 aren't matters w^hich can be shouted at the top of one's 
 voice. If I have spoken them out loud, it was to shame 
 him and have my revenge {indicates Father). But for 
 Madame it's quite a different matter. 
 
 The Manager. Indeed? indeed? But here, you know, 
 people have got to make themselves heard, my dear. Even 
 we who are on the stage can't hear you. What will it be 
 when the public's in the theatre ? And anyway, you can very 
 
42 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 well speak up now among yourselves, since we shan't be 
 present to listen to you as we are now. You've got to pre- 
 tend to be alone in a room at the back of a shop where no one 
 can hear you. 
 
 (The Step-Daughter coquettishly and with a touch of 
 malice makes a sign of disagreement two or three times with 
 her finger) . 
 
 The Manager. What do you mean by no? 
 
 The Step-Daughter {sotto voce, mysteriously). There's 
 someone who will hear us if she {indicating Madame Pace) 
 speaks out loud. 
 
 The Manager {in consternation). What? Have you 
 got someone else to spring on us now? {The actors burst 
 out laughing). 
 
 The Father. No, no sir. She is alluding to me. I've 
 got to be here — there behind that door, in waiting; and 
 Madame Pace knows it. In fact, if you will allow me, I'll 
 go there at once, so I can be quite ready. {Moves away). 
 
 The Manager {stopping him). No! Wait! wait! We 
 must observe the conventions of the theatre. Before you are 
 ready . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter {interrupting him). No, get on 
 with it at once! I'm just dying, I tell you, to act this scene. 
 If he's ready, J'm more than ready. 
 
 The Manager {shouting) . But, my dear young lady, 
 first of all, we must have the scene between you and this 
 lady . . . {indicates Madame Pace). Do you under- 
 stand? . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Good Heavens ! She's been tell- 
 ing me what you know already : that mamma's work is badly 
 done again, that the material's ruined ; and that if I want her 
 to continue to help us in our misery I must be patient . . . 
 
 Madame Pace {coming forward with an air of great im' 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 43 
 
 portance). Yes Indeed, sir, I no wanta take advantage of 
 her, I no wanta be hard . . . 
 
 (Note. MadaTiie Pace is supposed to talk in a jargon half 
 Italian, half Spanish). 
 
 The Manager {alarmed). What? What? She talks 
 like that? {The actors burst out laughing again). 
 
 The Step-Daughter {also laughing). Yes yes, that's 
 the way she talks, half English, half Italian! Most comical 
 it is! 
 
 Madame Pace. Itta seem not verra polite gentlemen 
 laugha atta me eef I trya best speaka English. 
 
 The Manager. Diamine! Of course! Of course! Let 
 her talk like that! Just what we want. Talk just like that, 
 Madam, if you please! The effect will be certain. Exactly 
 what w^as wanted to put a little comic relief into the crudity 
 of the situation. Of course she talks like that! Magnificent! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Magnificent? Certainly! When 
 certain suggestions are made to one in language of that kind, 
 the effect is certain, since it seems almost a joke. One feels 
 inclined to laugh when one hears her talk about an **old 
 signore" *'who wanta talka nicely with you." Nice old 
 signore, eh, Madame? 
 
 Madame Pace. Not so old my dear, not so old! And 
 even if 5'ou no lika him, he won't make any scandal ! 
 
 The Mother {jumping up amid the amazement and con- 
 sternation of the actors who had not been noticing her. They 
 move to restrain her). You old devil! You murderess! 
 
 The Step-Daughter {running over to calm her 
 Mother) . Calm yourself, mother, calm yourself! Please 
 don't . . . 
 
 The Father {going to her also at the same time). Calm 
 yourself! Don't get excited ! Sit down now! 
 
 The Mother. Well then, take that woman away out 
 of my sight ! 
 
44 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 The Step-Daughter {to Manager). It is impossible 
 for my mother to remain here. 
 
 The Father {to Manager). They can't be here to- 
 gether. And for this reason, you see : that woman there was 
 not with us when we came ... If they are on together, the 
 whole thing is given away inevitably, as you see. 
 
 The Manager. It doesn't matter. This is only a first 
 rough sketch — ^just to get an idea of the various points of the 
 scene, even confusedly . . . {Turning to the Mother and 
 leading her to her chair) : Come along, my dear lady, sit 
 down now, and let's get on with the scene . . . 
 
 {Meanwhile, the Step-Daughter, coming forward again ^ 
 turns to Madame Pace). 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Come on, Madame, come on ! 
 
 Madame Pace {offended). No, no, grazie. I not do 
 anything witha your mother present. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Nonsense! Introduce this "old 
 signore" who wants to talk nicely to me {addressing the 
 company imperiously) . We've got to do this scene one way 
 or another, haven't we? Come on! {to Madame Pace). 
 You can go! 
 
 Madame Pace. Ah yes! I go'way! I go'w^ay! Cer- 
 tainly! {Exist furious). 
 
 The Step-Daughter {to the Father). Now you make 
 your entry. No, you needn't go over here. Come here. 
 Let's suppose you've already come in. Like that, yes! I'nj 
 here with bowed head, modest like. Come on! Out with 
 your voice! Say "Good morning. Miss" in that peculiar 
 tone, that special tone . . . 
 
 The Manager. Excuse me, but are you the Manager, 
 or am I? {To the Father, who looks undecided and per- 
 plexed) : Get on with it, man ! Go down there to the back 
 of the stage. You needn't go off. Then come right forward 
 hert. 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 45 
 
 (The Father does as he is told, looking troubled and 
 perplexed at first. But as soon as he begins to move, the 
 reality of the action affects him, and he begins to smile and to 
 be more natural. The actors watch intently). 
 
 The Manager {sottovoce, quickly to the Prompter in his 
 box). Ready! ready? Get ready to write now. 
 
 The Father {coming forward and speaking in a differ- 
 ent tone). Good afternoon, Miss! 
 
 The Step-Daughter {head bowed down slightly, with 
 restrained disgust). Good afternoon! 
 
 The Father {looks under her hat which partly covers 
 her face. Perceiving she is very young, he makes an exclama- 
 tion, partly of surprise, partly of fear lest he compromise 
 himself in a risky adveniurej Ah . . . but . . . ah . . . 
 I say . . . this is not the first time that you have come here, 
 is it? 
 
 The Step-Daughter {modestly). No sir. 
 
 The Father. YouVe been here before, eh? {Then 
 seeing her nod agreement) : More than once? {Waits for 
 her to answer, looks under her hat, smiles, and then says) : 
 Well then, there's no need to be so shy, is there? May I 
 take oft your hat? 
 
 The Step-Daughter {anticipating him and with veiled 
 disgust). No sir . . . I'll do it myself. {Takes it off 
 quickly) . 
 
 (The Mother, who watches the progress of the scene 
 with The Son and the other two children who cling to her, 
 is on thorns; and follows with varying expressions of sorrow, 
 indignation, anxiety, and horror the words and actions of the 
 other two. From time to time she hides her face in her hands 
 and sobs). 
 
 The Mother. Oh, my God, my God ! 
 
 The Father {playing his part with a touch of gallantry). 
 Give it to me! I'll put it down {takes hat from her hands). 
 
46 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 But a dear little head like yours ought to have a smarter hat. 
 Come and help me choose one from the stock, won't you? 
 
 L'Ingenue {interrupting). I say . . . those are our 
 hats you know. 
 
 The Manager {furious). Silence! silence! Don't try 
 and be funny, if you please . . . We're playing the scene 
 now I'd have you notice. {To the Step-Daughtei). Begin 
 again, please! 
 
 The Step-Daughter {continuing) . No thank you, sir. 
 
 The Father. Oh, come now. Don't talk like that. 
 You must take it. I shall be upset if you don't. There arc 
 some lovely little hats here; and then — Madame will be 
 pleased. She expects it, anyway, you know. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. No, no! I couldn't wear it! 
 
 The Father. Oh, you're thinking about what they'd 
 say at home if they saw you come in with a new hat ? My 
 dear girl, there's always a way round these little matters, you 
 know. 
 
 The Step-Daughter {all keyed up). No, it's not that. 
 I couldn't wear it because I am ... as you see . , . you 
 might have noticed . . . {showing her black dress). 
 
 The Father. ... in mourning! Of course: I beg 
 your pardon: I'm frightfully sorry . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter {forcing herself to conquer her 
 indignation and nausea). Stop! Stop! It's I who must 
 thank you. There's no need for you to feel mortified or 
 specially sorry. Don't think any more of what I've said. 
 {Tries to smile). I must forget that I am dressed so . . . 
 
 The Manager {interrupting and turning to the Promp- 
 ter). Stop a minute! Stop! Don't write that down. Cut 
 out that last bit. {Then to the Father and Step-Daughter). 
 Fine! it's going fine! {To the Father only). And now you 
 can go on as we arranged. {To the actors). Pretty good 
 that scene, where he offers her the hat, eh? 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 47 
 
 The Step-Daughter. The best's coming now. Why 
 can't we go on? 
 
 The Manager. Have a little patience! {To the actors) : 
 Of course, it must be treated rather lightly. 
 
 Leading Man. Still, with a bit of go in it! 
 
 Leading Lady. Of course! It's easy enough! (To 
 Leading Man ) : Shall you and I try it now ? 
 
 Leading Man. Why, yes! I'll prepare my entrance. 
 (Exit in order to make his entrance). 
 
 The Manager {to Leading Lady). See here! The 
 scene between you and Madame Pace is finished. I'll have 
 it written out properly after. You remain here . . . oh, 
 where are you going ? 
 
 Leading Lady. One minute. I want to put my hat on 
 again {goes over to hat-rack and puts her hat on her head). 
 
 The Manager. Good! You stay here with your head 
 bowed down a bit. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. But she isn't dressed in black. 
 
 Leading Lady. But I shall be, and much more effec- 
 tively than you. 
 
 The Manager {to Step-Daughter). Be quiet please, 
 and watch! You'll be able to learn something. {Clapping 
 his hands) Come on! come on! Entrance, please! 
 
 ( The door at rear of stage opens, and the Leading Man 
 enters with the lively manner of an old gallant. The render- 
 ing of the scene by the actors from the very first words is 
 seen to be quite a different thing, though it has not in any way 
 the air of a parody. Naturally, the Step-Daughter and the 
 Father, not being able to recognize themselves in the Leading 
 Lady and the Leading Man, who deliver their words in dif- 
 ferent tones and with a different psychology, express, some- 
 times with smiles, sometimes with gestures, the impression 
 they receive). 
 
 Leading Man. Good afternoon, Miss . . . 
 
48 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 The Father {at once unable to contain himself). No! 
 no! 
 
 (The Step-Daughter noticing the way the Leading 
 Man enters, bursts out laughing). 
 
 The Manager {furious). Silence! And you please 
 just stop that laughing. If we go on like this, we shall 
 never finish. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Forgive me, sir, but it's natural 
 enough. This lady {indicating Leading Lady) stands there 
 still ; but if she is supposed to be me, I can assure you that if 
 I heard anyone say "Good afternoon" in that manner and in 
 that tone, I should burst out laughing as I did. 
 
 The Father. Yes, yes, the manner, the tone . . . 
 
 The Manager. Nonsense! Rubbish! Stand aside 
 and let me see the action. 
 
 Leading Man. If I've got to represent an old fellow 
 who's coming into a house of an equivocal character . . . 
 
 The Manager. Don't listen to them, for Heaven's 
 sake! Do it again! It goes fine. {Waiting for the actors 
 to begin again ) : Well ? 
 
 Leading Man. Good afternoon, Miss. 
 
 Leading Lady. Good afternoon. 
 
 Leading Man {imitating the gesture of the Father when 
 he looked under the hat, and then expressing quite clearly 
 first satisfaction and then fear). Ah, but ... I say . . . 
 this is not the first time that you have come here, is it? 
 
 The Manager. Good, but not quite so heavily. Like 
 this {acts himself) : "This isn't the first time that you have 
 come here" ... {To Leading Lady) And you say: "No, 
 sir." 
 
 Leading Lady. No, sir. 
 
 Leading Man. You've been here before, more than 
 once. 
 
 The Manager. No, no, stop! Let her nod "yes" first. 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 49 
 
 "YouVe been here before, eh?" {The Leading Lady lifts 
 up her head slightly and closes her eyes as though in disgust. 
 Then she inclines her head twice). 
 
 The Step-Daughter {unable to contain herself). Oh 
 my God ! {Puts a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from 
 laughing). 
 
 The Manager {turning round). What's the matter? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Nothing, nothing! 
 
 The Manager {to Leading Man). Go on! 
 
 Leading Man. You've been here before, eh? Well 
 then, there's no need to be so shy, is there? May I take off 
 your hat? 
 
 (The Leading Man says this last speech in such a tone 
 and with such gestures that the Step-Daughter, though she 
 has her hand to her mouth, cannot keep from laughing) , 
 
 Leading Lady {indignant) . I'm not going to stop here 
 to be made a fool of by that woman there. 
 
 Leading Man. Neither am I! I'm through with it! 
 
 The Manager {shouting to Step-Daughter) , Silence! 
 for once and all, I tell you! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Forgive me! forgive me! 
 
 The Manager. You haven't any manners: that's what 
 it is! You go too far. 
 
 The Father {endeavouring to intervene). Yes, it's 
 true, but excuse her . . . 
 
 The Manager. Excuse what? It's absolutely dis- 
 gusting. 
 
 The Father. Yes, sir, but believe me, it has such a 
 strange effect when . . . 
 
 The Manager. Strange? Why strange? Where is it 
 strange ? 
 
 The Father. No, sir; I admire your actors — this gentle- 
 man here, this lady ; but they are certainly not us ! 
 
50 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 The Manager. I should hope not. Evidently they can- 
 not be you, if they are actors. 
 
 The Father. Just so: actors! Both of them act our 
 parts exceedingly well. But, believe me, it produces quite 
 a different effect on us. They want to be us, but they 
 aren't, all the same. 
 
 The Manager. What is it then anyway? 
 
 The Father. Something that is . . . that is theirs — 
 and no longer ours . . . 
 
 The Manager. But naturally, inevitably. Fve told you 
 so already. 
 
 The Father. Yes, I understand ... I understand . . . 
 
 The Manager. Well then, let's have no more of it! 
 {Turning to the actors) : We'll have the rehearsals by our- 
 selves, afterwards, in the ordinary way. I never could stand 
 rehearsing with the author present. He's never satisfied! 
 {Turning to Father and Step-Daughter) : Come on! Let's 
 get on with it again ; and try and see if you can't keep from 
 laughing. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Oh, I shan't laugh any more. 
 There's a nice little bit coming for me now: you'll see. 
 
 The Manager. Well then: when she says "Don't think 
 any more of what I've said. I must forget, etc.," you {ad- 
 dressing the Father) come in sharp with **I understand, I 
 understand"; and then you ask her . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter {interrupting) . What? 
 
 The Manager. Why she is in mourning. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Not at all! See here: when I 
 told him that it was useless for me to be thinking about my 
 wearing mourning, do you know how he answered me? "Ah 
 well," he said "then let's take off this little frock." 
 
 The Manager. Great ! Just what we want, to make a 
 riot in the theatre! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. But it's the truth! 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 51 
 
 The Manager. What does that matter? Acting Is our 
 business here. Truth up to a certain point, but no further. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. What do you want to do then? 
 
 The Manager. You'll see, you'll see! Leave it to me. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. No sir! What you want to do 
 is to piece together a little romantic sentimental scene out of 
 my disgust, out of all the reasons, each more cruel and viler 
 than the other, why I am what I am. He is to ask me why 
 I'm in mourning; and I'm to answer with tears in my eyes, 
 that it is just two months since papa died. No sir, no! He's 
 got to say to me; as he did say: "Well, let's take off this 
 little dress at once." And I ; with my two months' mourning 
 in my heart, went there behind that screen, and with these 
 fingers tingling with shame . . . 
 
 The Manager {running his hands through his hair). 
 For Heaven's sake! What are you saying? 
 
 The Step-Daughter {crying out excitedly). The truth! 
 The truth! 
 
 The Manager. It may be. I don't deny It, and I can 
 understand all your horror; but you must surely see that 
 you can't have this kind of thing on the stage. It won't go. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Not possible, eh? Very well! 
 I'm much obliged to you — but I'm off! 
 
 The Manager. Now be reasonable! Don't lose your 
 temper ! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. I won't stop here! I won't! I 
 can see you've fixed it all up with him in your office. All 
 this talk about what is possible for the stage ... I under- 
 stand ! He wants to get at his complicated "cerebral drama," 
 to have his famous remorses and torments acted ; but I want 
 to act my part, my part! 
 
 The Manager {annoyed, shaking his shoulders). Ah! 
 Just your part! But, if you will pardon me, there are other 
 parts than yours: His {indicating the Father) and hers (in- 
 
52 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 dicating the Mother) \ On the stage you can't have a char- 
 acter becoming too prominent and overshadowing all the 
 others. The thing is to pack them all into a neat little frame- 
 vt^ork and then act what is actable. I am aware of the fact that 
 everyone has his own interior life which he wants very much 
 to put forward. But the difficulty lies in this fact: to set 
 out just so much as is necessary for the stage, taking the other 
 characters into consideration, and at the same time hint at 
 the unrevealed interior life of each. I am willing to admit, 
 xny dear young lady, that from your point of view it would 
 be a fine idea if each character could tell the public all his 
 troubles in a nice monologue or a regular one hour lecture 
 {good humoredly) , You must restrain yourself, my dear, 
 and in your own interest, too ; because this fury of yours, this 
 exaggerated disgust you show, may make a bad impression, 
 you know. After you have confessed to me that there were 
 others before him at Madame Pace's and more than 
 once . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter {bowing her head, impressed). 
 It's true. But remember those others mean him for me all 
 the same. 
 
 The Manager {not understanding). What? The 
 others? What do you mean? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. For one who has gone wrong, 
 sir, he who was responsible for the first fault is responsible for 
 all that follow. He is responsible for my faults, was, even 
 tefore I was born. Look at him, and see if it isn't true ! 
 
 The Manager. Well, well ! And does the weight of so 
 much responsibility seem nothing to you ? Give him a chance 
 to act it, to get it over ! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. How? How can he act all his 
 **noble remorses" all his "moral torments," if you want to 
 spare him the horror of being discovered one day — after he 
 had asked her what he did ask her — in the arms of her, that 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 53 
 
 already fallen woman, that child, sir, that child he used to 
 watch come out of school? {She is moved). 
 
 (The Mother at this point is overcome with emotion, 
 and breaks out into a fit of crying. All are touched. A 
 long pause) . 
 
 The Step-Daughter {as soon as the Mother becomes 
 a little quieter J adds resolutely and gravely). At present, 
 we are unknown to the public. Tomorrow, you will act us 
 »s you wish, treating us in your own manner. But do you 
 really want to see drama, do you want to see it flash out as 
 it really did? 
 
 The Manager. Of course! That's just what I do 
 want, so I can use as much of it as is possible. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Well then, ask that Mother there 
 to leave us. 
 
 The Mother {changing her lozv plaint into a sharp cry). 
 No! No! Don't permit it, sir, don't permit it! 
 
 The Manager. But it's only to try it. 
 
 The Mother. I can't bear ft. I can't. 
 
 The Manager. But since it has happened already . . . 
 I don't understand! 
 
 The Mother. It's taking place now. It happens all the 
 time. My torment isn't a pretended one. I live and feel 
 every minute of my torture. Those two children there — 
 have you heard them speak? They can't speak any more. 
 They cling to me to keep my torment actual and vivid for 
 me. But for themselves, they do not exist, they aren't any 
 more. And she {indicating Step-Daughter) has run away, 
 she has left me, and is lost. If I now see her here before 
 me, it is only to renew for me the tortures I have suffered 
 for her too. 
 
 The Father. The eternal moment! She {indicating 
 the Step-Daughter) is here to catch me, fix me, and hold me 
 eternally in the stocks for that one fleeting and shameful 
 
54 SIX CHARACTERS [Act II] 
 
 moment of my life. She can't give it up! And you sir, 
 cannot either fairly spare me it. 
 
 The Manager. I never said I didn't want to act it. 
 It vi^ill form, as a matter of fact, the nucleus of the whole 
 first act right up to her surprise {indicates the (Mother). 
 
 The Father. Just so! This is my punishment: the 
 passion in all of us that must culminate in her final cry. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. I can hear it still in my ears. 
 It's driven me mad, that cry! — You can put me on as you 
 like; it doesn't matter. Fully dressed, if you like — pro- 
 vided I have at least the arm bare; because, standing like 
 this {she goes close to the Father and leans her head on his 
 breast) with my head so, and my arms round his neck, I saw 
 a vein pulsing in my arm here ; and then, as if that live vein 
 had awakened disgust in me, I closed my eyes like this, and 
 let my head sink on his breast. {Turning to the Mother), 
 Cry out mother! Cry out! {Buries head in Father s breast, 
 and with her shoulders raised as if to prevent her hearing the 
 cry, adds in tones of intense emotion) : Cry out as you did 
 then! 
 
 The Mother {coming forward to separate them). No! 
 My daughter, my daughter! {And after having pulled her 
 away from him) : You brute! you brute! She is my 
 daughter ! Don't you see she's my daughter ? 
 
 The Manager {walking backwards towards footlights). 
 Fine! fine! Damned good! And then, of course — curtain! 
 
 The Father {going towards hi?n excitedly). Yes, of 
 course, because that's the way it really happened. 
 I The Manager {convinced and pleased). Oh, yes, no 
 doubt about it. Curtain here, curtain! 
 
 {At the reiterated cry of The Manager, The Ma- 
 chinist lets the curtain down, leaving The Manager and 
 The Father in front of it before the footlights). 
 
 The Manager. The darned idiot! I said "curtain" to 
 
 I 
 
[Act II] SIX CHARACTERS 55 
 
 show the act should end there, and he goes and lets it down 
 in earnest {to the Father, while he pulls the curtain back to 
 go on to the stage again). Yes, yes, it's all right. Effect 
 certain! That's the right ending. I'll guarantee the first 
 act at any rate. 
 
ACT III. 
 
 When the curtain goes up again, it is seen that the stage 
 hands have shifted the bit of scenery used in the last part, and 
 have rigged up instead at the back of the stage a drop, with 
 some trees, and one or two wings. A portion of a fountain 
 basin is visible. The Mother is sitting on the Right with the 
 two children by her side. The Son is on the same side, but 
 away from the others. He seems bored, angry, and full of 
 shame. The Father and The Step-Daughter are also seated 
 towards the Right front. On the other side {Left) are the 
 actors, much in the positions they occupied before the curtain 
 was lowered. Only the Manager is standing up in the 
 middle of the stage, with his hand closed over his mouth in 
 the act of meditating. 
 
 The Manager {shaking his shoulders after a brief 
 pause). Ah yes: the second act! Leave it to me, leave it 
 all to me as wt arranged, and you'll see! It'll go fine! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Our entry into his house {indi- 
 cates Father) in spite of him {indicates the Son) . . . 
 
 The Manager {out of patience). Leave it to me, I tell 
 you! 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Do let it be clear, at any rate, 
 that it is in spite of my w^ishes. 
 
 The Mother {from her corner, shaking her head). For 
 all the good that's come of it . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter {turning towards her quickly). 
 It doesn't matter. The more harm done us, the more re- 
 morse for him. 
 
 The Manager {impatiently). I understand! Good 
 Heavens! I understand! I'm taking it into account. 
 
 56 
 
[Act III] SIX CHARACTERS 57 
 
 The Mother {suppUcatingly) . I beg you, sir, to let it 
 appear quite plain that for conscience sake I did try in every 
 way . . . 
 
 The Step-Daughter {interrupting indignantly and con- 
 tinuing for the Mother). ... to pacify me, to dissuade me 
 from spiting him. ( To Manager) . Do as she wants : satisfy 
 her, because it is true! I enjoy it immensely. Anyhow, as 
 you can see, the meeker she is, the more she tries to get at 
 his heart, the more distant and aloof does he become. 
 
 The Manager. Are we going to begin this second act 
 or not? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. I'm not going to talk any more 
 now. But I must tell you this: you can't have the whole 
 action take place in the garden, as you suggest. It isn't 
 possible ! 
 
 The Manager. Why not? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Because he {indicates the Son 
 again) is always shut up alone in his room. And then there's 
 all the part of that poor dazed-looking boy there which takes 
 place indoors. 
 
 The Manager. Maybe! On the other hand, you will 
 understand — we can't change scenes three or four times in 
 one act. 
 
 The Leading Man. They used to once. 
 
 The Manager. Yes, when the public was up to the 
 level of that child there. 
 
 The Leading Lady. It makes the illusion easier. 
 
 The Father {irritated). The illusion! For Heaven's 
 sake, don't say illusion. Please don't use that word, which is 
 particularly painful for us. 
 
 The Manager {astounded). And why, if you please? 
 
 The Father. It's painful, cruel, really cruel; and you 
 ought to understand that. 
 
 The Manager. But why? What ought we to say 
 
58 SIX CHARACTERS LAct lllj 
 
 then? The illusion, I tell you, sir, which we've got to 
 create for the audience . . . 
 
 The Leading Man. With our acting. 
 
 The Manager. The illusion of a reality. 
 
 The Father. I understand; but you, perhaps, do not 
 understand us. Forgive me! You see . . . here for you 
 and your actors, the thing is only — and rightly so . . . 
 a kind of game . . . 
 
 The Leading Lady {interrupting indignantly). A 
 game! We're not children here, if you please! We are 
 serious actors. 
 
 The Father. I don't deny it. What I mean is the 
 game, or play, of your art, which has to give, as the gentle- 
 man says, a perfect illusion of reality. 
 
 The Manager. Precisely — ! 
 
 The Father. Now, if you consider the fact that we 
 {indicates himself and the other five Characters) , as we are, 
 have no other reality outside of this illusion . . . 
 
 The Manager {astonished, looking at his actors, who 
 are also amazed) . And what does that mean ? 
 
 The Father {after watching them for a moment with a 
 wan smile). As I say, sir, that which is a game of art for 
 you is our sole reality. {BHef pause. He goes a step or two 
 nearer the Manager and adds) : But not only for us, you 
 know, by the way. Just you think it over well. {Looks him 
 in the eyes). Can you tell me who you are? 
 
 The Manager {perplexed, half smiling) . What? Who 
 am I ? I am myself. 
 
 The Father. And if I were to tell you that that isn't 
 true, because you are I . . . ? 
 
 The Manager. I should say you were mad — ! {The 
 Mtors laugh). 
 
 The Father. You're quite right to laugh: because we 
 are all making believe here {to Manager). And you can 
 
[Act III] SIX CHARACTERS 59 
 
 therefore object that it's only for a joke that that gentle- 
 man there {indicates the Leading Man), who naturally is 
 himself, has to be me, who am on the contrary myself — this 
 thing you see here. You see I've caught you in a trap ! ( The 
 actors laugh). 
 
 The Manager {annoyed). But we've had all this over 
 once before. Do you want to begin again? 
 
 The Father. No, no! That wasn't my meaning! In 
 fact, I should like to request you to abandon this game of art 
 {looking at the Leading Lady as if anticipating her) which 
 you are accustomed to play here with your actors, and to 
 ask you seriously once again: who are you? 
 
 The Manager {astonished and irritated, turning to his 
 actors). If this fellow here hasn't got a nerve! A man who 
 calls himself a character comes and asks me who I am ! 
 
 The Father {with dignity, but not offended). A char- 
 acter, sir, may always asks a man who he is. Because a 
 character has really a life of his own, marked with his 
 especial characteristics; for which reason he is always "some- 
 body." But a man — I'm not speaking of you now- — may 
 very well be "nobody." 
 
 The Manager. Yes, but you are asking these questions 
 of me, the boss, the manager ! Do you understand ? 
 
 The Father. But only in order to know if you, as you 
 really are now, see yourself as you once were with all the 
 illusions that were yours then, with all the things both inside 
 and outside of you as they seemed to you — as they were then 
 indeed for you. Well, sir, if you think of all those illusions 
 that mean nothing to you now, of all those things which 
 don't even seem to you to exist any more, while once they 
 were for you, don't you feel that — I won't say these boards — 
 but the very earth under your feet is sinking away from you 
 when you reflect that in the same way this you as you feel it 
 
60 SIX CHARACTERS [Act IIIj 
 
 today — all this present reality of yours — is fated to seem a 
 mere illusion to you tomorrow ? 
 
 The Manager (without having understood much, but 
 astonished by the specious argument). Well, well! And 
 where does all this take us anyway? 
 
 The Father. Oh, nowhere! It's only to show you that 
 if we {indicating the Characters) have no other reality be- 
 yond the illusion, you too must not count overmuch on your 
 reality as you feel it today, since, like that of yesterday, it 
 may prove an illusion for you tomorrow. 
 
 The Manager {determining to make fun of him). Ah, 
 excellent! Then you'll be saying next that you, wuth this 
 comedy of yours that you brought here to act, are truer and 
 more real than I am. 
 
 The Father {with the greatest seriousness). But of 
 course ; without doubt ! 
 
 The Manager. Ah, really? 
 
 The Father. Why, I thought you'd understand that 
 from the beginning. 
 
 The Manager. More real than I ? 
 
 The Father. If your reality can change from one day 
 to another . . . 
 
 The Manager. But everyone knows it can change. It 
 is always changing, the same as anyone else's. 
 
 The Father {with a cry). No, sir, not ours! Look 
 here! That is the very difference! Our reality doesn't 
 change: it can't change! It can't be other than w^hat it is, 
 because it is already fixed for ever. It's terrible. Ours is 
 an immutable reality which should make you shudder when 
 you approach us if you are really conscious of the fact that 
 your reality is a mere transitory and fleeting illusion, taking 
 this form today and that tomorrow, according to the condi- 
 tions, according to your will, your sentiments, which in turn 
 are controlled by an intellect that shows them to you today 
 
[Act III] SIX CHARACTERS 61 
 
 in one manner and tomorrow . . . who knows how? . . . 
 Illusions of reality represented in this fatuous comedy of life 
 that never ends, nor can ever end! Because if tomorrow it 
 were to end . . . then why, all would be finished. 
 
 The Manager. Oh for God's sake, will you at least 
 finish with this philosophizing and let us try and shape this 
 comedy which you yourself have brought me here? You 
 argue and philosophize a bit too much, my dear sir. You 
 know you seem to me almost, almost . . . {Stops and looks 
 him over from head to foot). Ah, by the way, I think you 
 introduced yourself to me as a — what shall ... we say — 
 a ''character," created by an author who did not afterward 
 care to make a drama of his own creations. 
 
 The Father. It is the simple truth, sir. 
 
 The Manager. Nonsense! Cut that out, please! None 
 of us believes it, because it isn't a thing, as you must recognize 
 yourself, which one can believe seriously. If you want to 
 know, it seems to me you are tr>^ing to imitate the manner 
 of a certain author whom I heartily detest — I warn you — 
 although I have unfortunately bound myself to put on one 
 of his works. As a matter of fact, I was just starting to 
 rehearse it, when you arrived. {Turning to the actors): 
 And this is what we've gained — out of the frying-pan into 
 the fire! 
 
 The Father. I don't know to what author you may be 
 alluding, but believe me I feel what I think; and I seem to 
 be philosophizing only for those who do not think what they 
 feel, because they blind themselves with their own sentiment. 
 I know that for many people this self-blinding seems much 
 more "human"; but the contrary is really true. For man 
 never reasons so much and becomes so introspective as when 
 he suffers ; since he is anxious to get at the cause of his suffer- 
 ings, to learn who has produced them, and whether it is just 
 or unjust that he should have to bear them. On the other 
 
62 SIX CHARACTERS [Act III] 
 
 hand, when he is happy, he takes his happiness as It comes 
 and doesn't analyse it, just as if happiness were his right. 
 The animals suffer without reasoning about their sufferings. 
 But take the case of a man who suffers and begins to reason 
 about it. Oh no ! it can't be allowed ! Let him suffer like 
 an animal, and then — ah yes, he is "human!" 
 
 The Manager. Look here! Look here! You're off 
 again, philosophizing worse than ever. 
 
 The Father. Because I suffer, sir! I'm not philosophiz- 
 ing: I'm crying aloud the reason of my sufferings. 
 
 The Manager {makes brusque movement as he is taken 
 with a new idea). I should like to know if anyone has ever 
 heard of a character who gets right out of his part and 
 perorates and speechifies as you do. Have you ever heard of 
 a case? I haven't. 
 
 The Father. You have never met such a case, sir, 
 because authors, as a rule, hide the labour of their creations. 
 When the characters are really alive before their author, the 
 latter does nothing but follow them in their action, in their 
 words, in the situations which they suggest to him; and he 
 has to will them the way they will themselves — for there's 
 trouble if he doesn't. When a character is born, he acquires 
 at once such an independence, even of his own author, that 
 he can be imagined by everybody even in many other situa- 
 tions where the author never dreamed of placing him; and 
 so he acquires for himself a meaning which the author never 
 thought of giving him. 
 
 The Manager. Yes, yes, I know this. 
 
 The Father. What is there then to marvel at in us? 
 Imagine such a misfortune for characters as I have described 
 to you : to be born of an author's fantasy, and be denied life 
 by him; and then answer me if these characters left alive, 
 and yet without life, weren't right in doing what they did 
 do and are doing now, after they have attempted everything 
 
 I 
 
[Act III] SIX CHARACTERS 63 
 
 in their power to persuade him to give them their stage 
 life. We've all tried him in turn, I, she {indicating the 
 Step-Daughter) and she (indicating the Mother). 
 
 The Step-Daughter. It's true. I too have sought 
 to tempt him, many, many times, w^hen he has been sitting 
 at his writing table, feeling a bit melancholy, at the twilight 
 hour. He would sit in his armchair too lazy to switch 
 on the light, and all the shadows that crept into his room 
 were full of our presence coming to tempt him. {As if she 
 saw herself still there by the writing table^ and was annoyed 
 by the presence of the actors) : Oh, if you would only go 
 away, go away and leave us alone — mother here with that 
 son of hers — I with that Child — that Boy there always alone 
 — and then I with him {just hints at the Father) — and then 
 I alone, alone ... in those shadows! {Makes a sudden 
 movement as if in the vision she has of herself illuminating 
 those shadows she wanted to seize hold of herself). Ah! my 
 life! my life! Oh, what scenes we proposed to him — and 
 I tempted him more than any of the others! 
 
 The Father. Maybe. But perhaps it was your fault 
 that he refused to give us life: because you were too insistent, 
 too troublesome. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Nonsense! Didn't he make me 
 so himself? {Goes close to the Manager to tell him as if in 
 confidence). In my opinion he abandoned us in a fit of 
 depression, of disgust for the ordinary theatre as the public 
 knows it and likes it. 
 
 The Son. Exactly what it was, sir ; exactly that ! 
 
 The Father. Not at all! Don't believe it for a minute. 
 Listen to me! You'll be doing quite right to modify, as 
 you suggest, the excesses both of this girl here, who wants 
 to do too much, and of this young man, who won't do any- 
 thing at all. 
 
 The Son. No, nothing! 
 
64 SIX CHARACTERS [Act III] 
 
 The Manager. You too get over the mark occasionally, 
 my dear sir, if I may say so. 
 
 The Father. I? When? Where? 
 
 The Manager. Always! Continuously! Then there's 
 this insistence of yours in trying to make us believe you arc 
 a character. And then too, you must really argue and 
 philosophize less, you know, much less. 
 
 The Father. Well, if you want to take away from me 
 the possibility of representing the torment of my spirit which 
 never gives me peace, you will be suppressing me : that's all. 
 Every true man, sir, who is a little above the level of the 
 beasts and plants does not live for the sake of living, without 
 knowing how to live; but he lives so as to give a meaning 
 and a value of his own to life. For me this is everything. I 
 cannot give up this, just to represent a mere fact as she 
 {indicating the Step-Daughter) wants. It's all very well for 
 her, since her "vendetta" lies in the "fact." Fm not going 
 to do it. It destroys my raison d'etre. 
 
 The Manager. Your raison d'etre! Oh, we're going 
 ahead fine! First she starts off, and then you jump in. At 
 this rate, we'll never finish. 
 
 The Father. Now, don't be offended! Have it your 
 own way — provided, however, that within the limits of the 
 parts you assign us each one's sacrifice isn't too great. 
 
 The Manager. You've got to understand that you can't 
 go on arguing at your own pleasure. Drama is action, sir, 
 action and not confounded philosophy. 
 
 The Father. All right. I'll do just as much arguing 
 and philosophizing as everybody does when he is considering 
 his own torments. 
 
 The Manager. If the drama permits! But for Heaven's 
 sake, man, let's get along and come to the scene. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. It seems to me we've got too 
 much action with our coming into his. house {indicating 
 
[Act III] SIX CHARACTERS 65 
 
 Father) » You said, before, you couldn't change the scene 
 every five minutes. 
 
 The Manager. Of course not. What vre've got to do 
 is to combine and group up all the facts in one simultane- 
 ous, close-knit, action. We can't have it as you want, with 
 your little brother wandering like a ghost from room to 
 room, hiding behind doors and meditating a project which — 
 what did you say it did to him ? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Consumes him, sir, wastes him 
 away! 
 
 The Manager. Well, it may be. And then at the 
 same time, you want the little girl there to be playing in the 
 garden . . . one in the house, and the other in the garden: 
 isn't that it? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Yes, in the sun, in the sun ! That 
 is my only pleasure: to see her happy and careless in the 
 garden after the misery and squalor of the horrible room 
 where we all four slept together. And I had to sleep with 
 her — I, do you understand? — with my vile contaminated 
 body next to hers; with her folding me fast in her loving 
 little arms. In the garden, whenever she spied me, she 
 would run to take me by the hand. She didn't care for the 
 big flowers, only the little ones; and she loved to show me 
 them and pet me. 
 
 The Manager. Well then, we'll have it in the garden. 
 Everything shall happen in the garden; and we'll group the 
 other scenes there. {Calls a stage hand). Here, a back- 
 cloth with trees and something to do as a fountain basin. 
 {Turning round to look at the back of the stage). Ah, 
 you've fixed it up. Good! {To Step-Daughter). This is 
 just to give an idea, of course. The Boy, instead of hiding 
 behind the doors, will wander about here in the garden, 
 hiding behind the trees. But it's going to be rather difficult 
 to find a child to do that scene with you where she shows 
 
66 SIX CHARACTERS [Act III] 
 
 you the flowers. {Turning to the Youth). Come forward 
 a little, will you please? Let's try it now! Come along! 
 come along! (Then seeing him come shyly forward, full of 
 fear and looking lost). It's a nice business, this lad here* 
 What's the matter with him? We'll have to give him a 
 word or two to say. {Goes close to him, puts a hand on his 
 shoulders, and leads him behind one of the trees). Come 
 on ! come on ! Let me see you a little ! Hide here . . . yes, 
 like that. Try and show your head just a little as if you 
 were looking for someone . . . {Goes back to observe the 
 effect, when the Boy at once goes through the action). Ex- 
 cellent! fine! {Turning to Step-Daughter). Suppose the 
 little girl there were to surprise him as he looks round, and 
 run over to him, so we could give him a word or two to 
 say? 
 
 The Step-Daughter. It's useless to hope he will speak, 
 as long as that fellow there is here . . . {Indicates the Son), 
 You must send him away first. 
 
 The Son {jumping up.) Delighted! delighted! I don't 
 ask for anything better. {Begins to move away). 
 
 The Manager {at once stopping him). No! No! 
 Where are you going ? Wait a bit ! 
 
 ( The Mother gets up alarmed and terrified at the thought 
 that he is really about to go away. Instinctively she lifts her 
 arms to prevent him, without, however, leaving her seat). 
 
 The Son {to Manager who stops him). I've got nothing 
 to do with this affair. Let me go please ! Let me go ! 
 
 The Manager. What do you mean by saying you've 
 got nothing to do with this? 
 
 The Step-Daughter (calmly, with irony). Don't 
 bother to stop him : he won't go away. 
 
 The Father. He has to act the terrible scene in the 
 garden with his mother. 
 
 The Son (suddenly resolute and with dignity). I shall 
 
[Act III] SIX CHARACTERS 67 
 
 act nothing at all. I've said so from the very beginning {to 
 the Manager). Let me go! 
 
 The Step-Daughter {going over to the Manager), 
 Allow me? {Puts down the Managers arm which is re- 
 straining the Son). Well, go away then, if you want to! 
 ( The Son looks at her with contempt and hatred. She laughs 
 and says). You see, he can't, he can't go away! He is 
 obliged to stay here, indissolubly bound to the chain. If I, 
 who fly off when that happens which has to happen, because 
 I can't bear him — if I am still here and support that face 
 and expression of his, you can well imagine that he is unable 
 to move. He has to remain here, has to stop with that nice 
 father of his, and that mother whose only son he is. ( Turn- 
 ing to the Mother). Come on, mother, come along! {Turn- 
 ing to Manager to indicate her). You see, she was getting 
 up to keep him back. {To the Mother, beckoning her with 
 her hand) . Come on ! come on ! ( Then to Manager) . You 
 can imagine how little she wants to show these actors of 
 yours what she really feels; but so eager is she to get near 
 him that . . . There, you see? She is willing to act her 
 part. {And in fact, the Mother approaches him; and as soon 
 as the Step-Daughter has finished speaking, opens her arms 
 to signify that she consents). 
 
 The Son {suddenly) . No! no! If I can't go away, then 
 I'll stop here; but I repeat: I act nothing! 
 
 The Father {to Manager excitedly). You can force 
 him, sir. 
 
 The Son. Nobody can force me. 
 
 The Father. I can. 
 
 The Step-Daughter. Wait a minute, wait . . . First 
 of all, the baby has to go to the fountain . . . {Runs to take 
 the Child and leads her to the fountain). 
 
 The Manager. Yes, yes of course; that's it. Both at. 
 the same time. 
 
68 SIX CHARACTERS [Act III] 
 
 {The second Lady Lead and the Juvenile Lead at this 
 point separate themselves from the group of actors. One 
 watches the Mother attentively ; the other moves about study- 
 ing the movements and manner of the Son whom he will 
 have to act). 
 
 The Son {to Manager). What do you mean by both at 
 the same time? It isn't right. There was no scene between 
 me and her. {Indicates the Mother). Ask her how it was ! 
 
 The Mother. Yes, it's true. I had come into his 
 room . . . 
 
 The Son. Into my room, do you understand? Nothing 
 to do with the garden. 
 
 The Manager. It doesn't matter. Haven't I told you 
 we've got to group the action? 
 
 The Son {observing the Juvenile Lead studying him). 
 What do you want ? 
 
 The Juvenile Lead. Nothing! I was just looking at 
 you. 
 
 The Son {turning towards the second Lady Lead). Ah! 
 she's at it too: to re-act her part {indicating the Mother) I 
 
 The Manager. Exactly! And it seems to me that you 
 ought to be grateful to them for their interest. 
 
 The Son. Yes, but haven't you yet perceived that it 
 isn't possible to live in front of a mirror which not only 
 freezes us with the image of ourselves, but throws our like- 
 ness back at us with a horrible grimace ? 
 
 The Father. That is true, absolutely true. You must 
 see that. 
 
 The Manager {to second Lady Lead and Juvenile 
 Lead). He's right! Move away from them! 
 
 The Son. Do as you like. I'm out of this! 
 
 The Manager. Be quiet, you, will yon? And let me 
 hear your mother! {To Mother), You were saying you 
 had entered . . . 
 
tAcT III] SIX CHARACTERS 69 
 
 The Mother. Yes, into his room, because I couldn't 
 stand it any longer. I went to empty my heart to him of 
 all the anguish that tortures me . . . But as soon as he 
 saw me come in . . . 
 
 The Son. Nothing happened! There was no scene. I 
 went away, that's all ! I don't care for scenes ! 
 
 The Mother. It's true, true. That's how it was. 
 
 The Manager. Well now, we've got to do this bit 
 between you and him. It's indispensable. 
 
 The Mother. I'm ready . . . when you are ready. If 
 you could only find a chance for me to tell him what I feel 
 here in my heart. 
 
 The Father {going to Son in a great rage). You'll do 
 this for your mother, for your mother, do you understand ? 
 
 The Son {quite determined) . I do nothing! 
 
 The Father {taking hold of him and shaking him). For 
 God's sake, do as I tell you! Don't you hear your mother 
 asking you for a favour? Haven't you even got the guts to 
 be a son? 
 
 The Son {taking hold of the Father). No! No! And 
 for God's sake stop it, or else . . . {General agitation. The 
 Mother J frightened, tries to separate them). 
 
 The Mother {pleading). Please! please! 
 
 The Father {not leaving hold of the Son). You've got 
 to obey, do you hear ? 
 
 The Son {almost crying from rage). What does it mean, 
 this madness you've got? {They separate). Have you no 
 decency, that you insist on showing everyone our shame? I 
 won't do it! I won't! And I stand for the will of our 
 author in this. He didn't want to put us on the stage, after 
 all! 
 
 The Manager. Man alive! You came here . . . 
 
 The Son {indicating Father). He did! I didn't! 
 
 The Manager. Aren't you here now? 
 
70 SIX CHARACTERS [Act III] 
 
 The Son. It was his wish, and he dragged us along with 
 him. He's told you not only the things that did happen, but 
 also things that have never happened at all. 
 
 The Manager. Well, tell me then what did happen. 
 You went out of your room without saying a word? 
 
 The Son. Without a word, so as to avoid a scene! 
 
 The Manager. And then what did you do? 
 
 The Son. Nothing . . . walking in the garden . . , 
 (hesitates for a moment with expression of gloom). 
 
 The Manager {coming closer to him, interested by his 
 extraordinary reserve). Well, well . . . walking in the 
 garden . . . 
 
 The Son {exasperated). Why on earth do you insist? It's 
 horrible! {The Mother trembles j sobs, and looks towards 
 the fountain). 
 
 The Manager {slowly observing the glance and turning 
 towards the Son with increasing apprehension) . The baby? 
 
 The Son. There in the fountain . . . 
 
 The Father {pointing with tender pity to the Mother). 
 She was following him at the moment . . . 
 
 The Manager {to the Son anxiously). And then 
 you . . . 
 
 The Son. I ran over to her ; I was jumping in to drag her 
 out when I saw something that froze my blood . . . the boy 
 there standing stock still, with eyes like a madman's, watching 
 his little drowned sister, in the fountain ! ( The Step-Daughter 
 bends over the fountain to hide the Child. She sobs). Then 
 . . . {A revolver shot rings out behind the trees where the 
 Boy is hidden). 
 
 The Mother. {With a cry of terror runs over in that 
 direction together with several of the actors amid general 
 confusion) . 
 
 My son! My son! {Then amid the cries and exclama- 
 tions one hears her voice). Help! Help! 
 
' [Act III] SIX CHARACTERS 71 
 
 The Manager {pushing the actors aside while they lift 
 up the Boy and carry him off). Is he really wounded? 
 
 Some Actors. He's dead! dead! 
 
 Other Actors. No, no, it's only make believe, it's only 
 pretence ! 
 
 The Father {with a terrible cry). Pretence? Reality, 
 sir, reality! 
 
 The Manager. Pretence? Reality? To hell with it 
 all! Never in my life has such a thing happened to me. 
 I Ve lost a whole day over these people, a whole day 1 
 
 Curtain. 
 
"HENRY IV." 
 
 (Enrico Quarto) 
 A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 LUIGI PIRANDELLO 
 
 translated by 
 Edward Storir 
 
CHARACTERS. 
 
 **HENRY IV." THE MARCHIONESS MATILDA SPINA. HER 
 DAUGHTER FRIDA. THE YOUNG MARQUIS CHARLES DI 
 NOLLI. BARON TITO BELCREDI. DOCTOR DIONYSIUS 
 GENONI. THE FOUR PRIVATE COUNSELLORS I HAROLD 
 
 (frank), landolph (lolo), ordulph (momo), 
 BERTHOLD (fino). {The names in brackets are nick- 
 names). JOHN, THE OLD WAITER. THE TWO VALETS 
 IN COSTUME. 
 
 A Solitary Villa in Italy in Our Own Time. 
 
"HENRY I V.'' 
 A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Salon in the villa^ furnished and decorated so as to look 
 exactly like the throne room of Henry IV. in the royal resi- 
 dence at Goslar. Among the antique decorations there are 
 two modern life-size portraits in oil painting. They are 
 placed against the back wall, and mounted in a wooden stand 
 that runs the zvhole length of the wall. (It is wide and pro- 
 trudes, so that it is like a large bench). One of the paintings 
 is on the right; the other on the left of the throne, which is 
 in the middle of the wall and divides the stand. 
 
 The Imperial chair and Baldachin. 
 
 The two portraits represent a lady and a gentleman, both 
 young, dressed up in carnival costumes: one as "Henry 
 IV.,'' the other as the "Marchioness Matilda of Tuscany.'' 
 Exits to Right and Left. . 
 
 {When the curtain goes up, the two valets jump down, as \ 
 if surprised, from the stand on which they have been lying, 
 and go and take their positions, as rigid as statues, on either 
 side below the throne with their halberds in their hands. 
 Soon after, from the second exit, right, enter Harold, Lan- 
 dolph, Ordulph and Berthold, young men employed by the 
 Marquis Charles Di Nolli to play the part of "Secret Coun- 
 sellors" at the court of "Henry IV." They are, therefore^ 
 dressed like German knights of the Xlth century. Berthold, 
 
 75 
 
76 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 nicknamed Fino, is just entering on his duties for the first 
 time. His companions are telling him what he has to do and 
 amusing themselves at his expense. The scene is to be played 
 rapidly and vivaciously) . 
 
 Landolph {to Berthold as if explaining). And this is 
 the throne room. 
 
 Harold. At Goslar. 
 
 Ordulph. Or at the castle in the Hartz, if 3 ou prefer. 
 
 Harold. Or at Wurms. 
 
 Landolph. According as to what's doing, it jumps about 
 with us, now here, now there. 
 
 Ordulph. In Saxony. 
 
 Harold. In Lombardy. 
 
 Landolph. On the Rhine. 
 
 One of the Valets {without moving, just cpening his 
 lips). I say ... 
 
 Harold {turning round). What is it? 
 
 First Valet {like a statue). Is he coming in or not? 
 {He alludes to Henry W .) 
 
 Ordulph. No, no, he's asleep. You needn't worry. 
 
 Second Valet {releasing his pose, taking a long breath 
 and going to lie down again on the stand). You might have 
 told us at once. 
 
 First Valet {going over to Harold). Have you got a 
 match, please? 
 
 Landolph. What? You can't smoke a pipe here, you 
 know. 
 
 First Valet {while Harold offers him a light). No; a 
 cigarette. {Lights his cigarette and lies down again on the 
 stand). 
 
 Berthold {who has been looking on in amazement, walk- 
 ing round the room, regarding the costumes of the others), I 
 say . . . this room . . . these costumes . . . Which Henry 
 IV. is it ? I don't quite get it. Is he Henry IV. of France 
 
[Act I] "HENRY IVr 77 
 
 or not? {At this Landolph, Harold, and Ordulph, burst out 
 laughing) . 
 
 Landolph {still laughing; and pointing to Berthold as if 
 inviting the others to make fun of him). Henry of France 
 he says: ha! ha! 
 
 Ordulph. He thought it was the king of France ! 
 
 Harold. Henry IV. of Germany, my boy: the Salian 
 dynasty! 
 
 Ordulph. The great and tragic Emperor! 
 
 Landolph. He of Canossa. Every day we carry on here 
 the terrible war between Church and State, by Jove. 
 
 Ordulph. The Empire against the Papacy! 
 
 Harold. Antipopes against the Pope! 
 
 Landolph. Kings against antikings! 
 
 Ordulph. War on the Saxons! 
 
 Harold. And all the rebels Princes! 
 
 Landolph. Against the Emporer's own sons! 
 
 Berthold {covering his head with his hands to protect 
 himself against this avalanche of information). I under- 
 stand I I understand! Naturally, I didn't get the idea at 
 first. Vm right then: these aren't costumes of the XVIth 
 century ? 
 
 Harold. XVIth century be hanged I 
 
 Ordulph. We're somewhere between a thousand and 
 eleven hundred. 
 
 Landolph. Work it out for yourself: if we are before 
 Canossa on the 25th of January, 1071 . . . 
 
 Berthold {more confused than ever). Oh my God! 
 What a mess I've made of it! 
 
 Ordulph. Well, just slightly, if you supposed you were 
 at the French court. 
 
 Berthold. All that historical stuff I've swatted up! 
 
 Landolph. My dear boy, it's four hundred years earlier. 
 
 Berthold {getting angry). Good Heavens! You ought 
 
78 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 to have told me it was Germany and not France. I can't 
 tell you how many books I've read in the last fifteen days. 
 
 Harold. But I say, surely you knew that poor Tito was 
 Adalbert of Bremen, here? 
 
 Berthold. Not a damned bit! 
 
 Landolph. Well, don't you see how it is? When Tito 
 died, the Marquis Di Nolli . . . 
 
 Berthold. Oh, it was he, was it? He might have told 
 me. 
 
 Harold. Perhaps he thought you knew. 
 
 Landolph. He didn't want to engage anyone else in 
 substitution. He thought the remaining three of us would 
 do. But he began to cry out: "With Adalbert driven away 
 . . . ": because, you see, he didn't imagine poor Tito was 
 dead; but that, as Bishop Adalbert, the rival bishops of 
 Cologne and Mayence had driven him of¥ . . . 
 
 Berthold {taking his head in his hand). But I don't 
 know a word of what you're talking about. 
 
 Ordulph. So much the worse for you, my boy! 
 
 Harold. But the trouble is that not even we know who 
 YOU are. 
 
 Berthold. What? Not even you? You don't know 
 who I'm supposed to be? 
 
 Ordulph. Hum! "Berthold." 
 
 Berthold. But which Berthold? And why Berthold •* 
 
 Landolph {solemnly imitating Henry IV.). "They've 
 driven Adalbert away from me. Well then, I want Bert- 
 hold! I want Berthold!" That's what he said. 
 
 Harold. We three looked one another in the eyes : who's 
 got to be Berthold? 
 
 Ordulph. And so here you are, "Berthold," my dear 
 fellow ! 
 
 Landolph. I'm afraid you will make a bit of a mess 
 of it. 
 
[Act I] "HENRY IVr 79 
 
 Berthold {indignant j getting ready to go). Ah, no! 
 Thanks very much, but I'm off! I'm out of this! 
 
 Harold {restraining him with the other two, amid laugh- 
 ter). Steady now! Don't get excited! 
 
 Landolph. Cheer up, my dear fellow! We don't any 
 of us know who we are really. He's Harold; he's Ordulph; 
 I'm Landolph ! That's the way he calls us. We've got used I 
 to it. But who are we ? Names of the period ! Yours, too, \ 
 is a name of the period: Berthold! Only one of us, poor 
 Tito, had got a really decent part, as you can read in history: 
 that of the Bishop of Bremen. He was just like a real 
 bishop. Tito did it awfully well, poor chap! 
 
 Harold. Look at the study he put into it! 
 
 Landolph. Why, he even ordered his Majesty about, 
 opposed his views, guided and counselled him. We're "secret 
 counsellors" — in a manner of speaking only; because it is 
 written in history that Henry IV. was hated by the upper 
 aristocracy for surrounding himself at court with young men 
 of the bourgeoise. 
 
 Ordulph. Us, that is. 
 
 Landolph. Yes, small devoted vassals, a bit dissolute 
 and very gay . . . 
 
 Berthold. So I've got to be gay as well? 
 
 Harold. I should say so ! Same as we are ! 
 
 Ordulph. And it isn't too easy, you know. 
 
 Landolph. It's a pity; because the way we're got up, 
 we could do a fine historical reconstruction. There's any 
 amount of material in the story of Henry IV. But, as a l1 
 matter of fact, we do nothing. We've have the form without 
 t he content. We're worse than the real secret counsellors 
 oi Henry IV.; because certainly no one had given them a 
 part to play — at any rate, they didn't feel they had a part 
 to play. It was their hfe. They looked after their own 
 interests at the expense of others, sold investitures and — 
 
80 ''HENRY IV," [Act I] 
 
 what not! We stop here in this magnificent court — for 
 what? — Just doing nothing. We're like so many puppets 
 hung on the wall, waiting for some one to come and move us 
 or make us talk. 
 
 Harold. Ah no, old sport, not quite that! We've got 
 >^ to give the proper answer, you know. There's trouble if he 
 ( asks you something and you don't chip in with the cue. 
 
 Landolph. Yes, that's true. 
 
 Berthold. Don't rub it in too hard! How the devil 
 am I to give him the proper answer, if I've swatted up 
 Henry IV. of France, and now he turns out to be Henry 
 IV. of Germany? {The other three laugh). 
 
 Harold. You'd better start and prepare yourself at once. 
 
 Ordulph. We'll help you out. 
 
 Harold. We've got any amount of books on the sub- 
 ject. A brief run through the main points will do to begin 
 with. 
 
 Ordulph. At any rate, you must have got some sort of 
 general idea. 
 
 Harold. Look here! {Turns him around and shows 
 
 him the portrait of the Marchioness Matilda on the wall). 
 
 Who's that? 
 
 \\ Berthold {looking at it). That? Well, the thing seems 
 
 to me somewhat out of place, anyway : two modern paintings 
 
 ^ in the midst of all this respectable antiquity ! 
 
 Harold. You're right! They weren't there in the be- 
 ginning. There are two niches there behind the pictures. 
 They were going to put up two statues in the style of the 
 period. Then the places were covered w^ith those canvasses 
 there. 
 
 Landolph {interrupting and continuing) . They would 
 certainly be out of place if they really were paintings! 
 
 Berthold. What are they, if they aren't paintings? 
 
 Landolph. Go and touch them! Pictures all right . . . 
 
[Act I] ''HENRY IV r 81 
 
 but for him! {Makes a mysterious gesture to the right, al- 
 luding to Henry IV.) . . . who never touches them! . . . 
 
 Berthold. No? What are they for him ? 
 
 Landolph. Well, I'm only supposing, you know; but 
 I imagine I'm about right. They're images such as . . . 
 well — such as a mirror might throw back. Do you under- 
 stand? That one there represents himself, as he is in this 
 throne room, which is all in the style of the period. What's 
 there to marvel at? If we put you before a mirror, won't 
 you see yourself, alive, but dressed up in ancient costume? 
 Well, it's as if there were two mirrors there, which cast 
 back living images in the midst of a world which, as you 
 will see, when you have lived with us, comes to life too. 
 
 Berthold. I say, look here . . . I've no particular de- 
 sire to go mad here. 
 
 Harold. Go mad, be hanged ! You'll have a fine time ! 
 
 Berthold. Tell me this: how have you all managed to 
 become so learned? 
 
 Landolph. My dear fellow, you can't go back over 800 
 years of history without picking up a bit of experience. 
 
 Harold. Come on ! Come on ! You'll see how quickly 
 you get into it! 
 
 Ordulph. You'll learn wisdom, too, at this school. 
 
 Berthold. Well, for Heaven's sake, help me a bit! 
 Give me the main lines, anj^^aj^ 
 
 Harold. Leave it to us. We'll do it all between us. 
 
 Landolph. We'll put your wires on you and fix you 
 up like a first class marionette. Come along! {They take 
 him by the arm to lead him away). 
 
 Berthold {stopping and looking at the portrait on the 
 zvall). Wait a minute! You haven't told me who that is. 
 The Emperor's wife? 
 
 Harold. No! The Emperor's wife is Bertha of Susa, 
 the sister of Amadeus 11. of Savoy. 
 
82 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 Ordulph. And the Emperor, who wants to be young 
 with us, can't stand her, and wants to put her away. 
 
 Landolph. That is his most ferocious enemy: Matilda, 
 Marchioness of Tuscany. 
 
 Berthold. Ah, I've got it: the one who gave hospitality 
 to the Pope! 
 
 Landolph. Exactly: at Canossa! 
 
 Ordulph. Pope Gregory VII. ! 
 
 Harold. Our bete noir! Come on! come on! {All four 
 move toward the right to go out, when, from the left, *he old 
 servant John enters in evening dress). 
 
 John {quickly, anxiously). Hss! Hss! Frank! Lolo! 
 
 Harold {turning round). What is it? 
 
 Berthold {marvelling at seeing a man in modern clothes 
 enter the throne room). Oh! I say, this is a bit too much, 
 this chap here ! 
 
 Landolph. A man of the XXth century, here! Oh, go 
 away ! ( They run over to him, pretending to menace him 
 and throw him out). 
 
 Ordulph {heroically). Messenger of Gregory VII., 
 away ! 
 
 Harold. Away ! Away ! 
 
 John {annoyed, defending himself). Oh, stop it! Stop 
 it, I tell you ! 
 
 Ordulph. No, you can't set foot here ! 
 
 Harold. Out with him! 
 
 Landolph {to Berthold). Magic, you know! He's a 
 demon conjured up by the Wizard of Rome! Out with 
 your swords! {Makes as if to draw a sword). 
 
 John {shouting). Stop it, will you? Don't play the 
 fool with me! The Marquis has arrived with some 
 friends . . . 
 
 Landolph. Good! Good! Are there ladies too? 
 
 Ordulph. Old or young? 
 
[Act I] "HENRY lyr 83 
 
 John. There are two gentlemen. 
 
 Harold. But the ladies, the ladies, who are they? 
 
 John. The Marchioness and her daughter. 
 
 Landolph (surprised) . What do you say? 
 
 Ordulph. The Marchioness? 
 
 John. The Marchioness! The Marchioness! 
 
 Harold. Who are the gentlemen? 
 
 John. I don't know. 
 
 Harold {to Berthold). They're coming to bring us a 
 message from the Pope, do you see? 
 
 Ordulph. All messengers of Gregory VH.! What 
 fun! 
 
 John. Will you let me speak, or not? 
 
 Harold. Go on, then! 
 
 John. One of the two gentlemen is a doctor, I fancy. 
 
 Landolph. Oh, I see, one of the usual doctors. 
 
 Harold. Bravo Berthold, you'll bring us luck! 
 
 Landolph. You wait and see how we'll manage this 
 doctor ! 
 
 Berthold. It looks as if I were going to get into a 
 nice mess right away. 
 
 John. If the gentlemen would allow me to speak . . f 
 they want to come here into the throne room. 
 
 Landolph (surprised). What? She? The Marchioness 
 here? 
 
 Harold. Then this is something quite different! No 
 play-acting this time! 
 
 Landolph. We'll have a real tragedy : that's what ! 
 
 Berthold (curious). Why? Why? 
 
 Ordulph (pointing to the portrait). She is that person 
 there, don't you understand? 
 
 Landolph. The daughter is the fiancee of the Marquis. 
 But what have they come for, I should like to know? 
 
 Ordulph. If he sees her, there'll be trouble. 
 
84 ''HENRY IF/' [Act I] 
 
 Landolph. Perhaps he won't recognize her any more. 
 
 John. You must keep him there, if he should wake 
 up . . . 
 
 Ordulph. Easier said than done, by Jove ! 
 
 Harold. You know what he's like ! 
 
 John. — even by force, if necessary ! Those are my 
 orders. Go on ! Go on ! 
 
 Harold. Yes, because who knows if he hasn't already 
 wakened up? 
 
 Ordulph. Come on then! 
 
 Landolph {going towards John with the others). You'll 
 tell us later what it all means. 
 
 John {shouting after them). Close the door there, and 
 hide the key! That other door too. {Pointing to the other 
 door on right). 
 
 John {to the two valets). Be off, you two! There {point- 
 ing to exit right) 1 Close the door after you, and hide the 
 key! 
 
 {The two valets go out by the first door on right. John 
 moves over to the left to show in: Donna Matilda Spina, the 
 young Marchioness Frida, Dr. Dionysius Genoni, the Baron 
 Tito Belcredi and the young Marquis Charles Di Nolli, who, 
 as master of the house, enters last. 
 
 Donna Matilda Spina is about 45, still handsome, al- 
 though there are too patent signs of her attempts to remedy 
 the ravages of time with make-up. Her head is thus rather 
 like a Walkyrie. This facial make-up contrasts with her 
 beautiful sad mouth. A widow for many years, she now has 
 as her friend the Baron Tito Belcredi, whom neither she nor 
 anyone else takes seriously — at least so it zvould appear. 
 
 What Tito Belcredi really is for her at bottom, he alone 
 knows; and he is, therefore, entitled to laugh, if his friend 
 feels the need of pretending not to know. He can always 
 laugh at the jests which the beautiful Marchioness makes 
 
[Act I] "HENRY IF/' 85 
 
 with the others at his expense. He is slim, prematurely gray, 
 and younger than she is. His head is bird-like in shape. He 
 would be a very vivacious person^ if his ductile agility {which 
 among other things makes him a redoubtable swordsman^ 
 were not enclosed in a sheath of Arab-like laziness, which is 
 revealed in his strange, nasal drawn-out voice. 
 
 Frida, the daughter of the Marchioness is 19. She is sad; 
 because her imperious and too beautiful mother puts her in 
 the shade, and provokes facile gossip against her daughter as 
 well as against herself. Fortunately for her, she is engaged 
 to the Marquis Charles Di Nolli. 
 
 Charles Di Nolli is a stiff young man, very indulgent 
 towards others, but sure of himself for what he amounts to in 
 the world. He is worried about all the responsibilities which 
 he believes weigh on him. He is dressed in deep mourning 
 for the recent death of his mother. 
 
 Dr. Dionysius Genoni has a bold rubicund Satyr-like 
 face, prominent eyes, a pointed beard {which is silvery and 
 shiny) and elegant manners. He is nearly bald. All enter 
 in a state of perturbation, almost as if afraid, and all {except 
 Di Nolli) looking curiously about the room. At first, they 
 speak sotto voce. 
 
 Di Nolli {to John) . Have you given the orders properly? 
 
 John. Yes, my Lord ; don't be anxious about that. 
 
 Belcredi. Ah, magnificent! magnificent! 
 
 Doctor. How extremely interesting! Even in the sur- 
 roundings his raving madness — is perfectly taken into ac- 
 jcount ! 
 
 Donna Matilda {glancing round for her portrait, dis- 
 covers it, and goes up close to it). Ah! Here it is! {Going 
 back to admire it, while mixed emotions stir within her). 
 Yes . . . yes . . . {Calls her daughter Frida), 
 
 Frida. Ah, your portrait! 
 
S6 "HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 Donna Matilda. No, no . . . look again ; It's you, not 
 I, there ! 
 
 Di NoLLi. Yes, it's quite true. I told you so, I . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. But I would never have believed it! 
 (Shaking as if with a chill). What a strange feeling it gives 
 one! {Then looking at her daughter). Frida, what's the 
 matter? {She pulls her to her side, and slips an arm round 
 her waist). Come: don't you see yourself in me there? 
 
 Frida. Well, I really . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. Don't you think so? Don't you, 
 really? {Turning to Belcredi). Look at it, Tito! Speak 
 
 up, man 
 
 Belcredi {without looking). Ah, no! I shan't look at 
 it. For me, a priori, certainly not! 
 
 Donna Matilda. Stupid! You think you are paying 
 me a compliment! {Turing to Doctor Genoni). What do 
 you say, Doctor ? Do say something, please ! 
 
 Doctor {makes a movement to go near to the picture) » 
 
 Belcredi {with his back turned, pretending to attract his 
 attention secretely). — Hss! No, doctor! For the love of 
 Heaven, have nothing to do with it! 
 
 Doctor {getting bewildered and smiling). And why 
 shouldn't I ? 
 
 Donna Matilda. Don't listen to him! Come here! 
 He's Insufferable! 
 
 Frida. He acts the fool by profession, didn't you know 
 that? 
 
 Belcredi {to the Doctor, seeing him go over). Look at 
 your feet, doctor! Mind where you're going! 
 
 Doctor. Why ? 
 
 Belcredi. Be careful you don't put your foot in it! 
 
 Doctor {laughing feebly). No, no. After all, it seems 
 to me there's no reason to be astonished at the fact that a 
 daughter should resemble her mother ! 
 
[Act I] ''HENRY IVr 87 
 
 Belcredi. Hullo! Hullo! He's done it now; he's said it. 
 
 Donna Matilda {with exaggerated anger, advancing 
 towards Belcredi) . What's the matter ? What has he said ? 
 What has he done ? 
 
 Doctor (candidly). Well, isn't it so? 
 
 Belcredi (answering the Marchioness) . I said there was 
 nothing to be astounded at — and you are astounded! And 
 why so, then, if the thing is so simple and natural for you 
 now? 
 
 Donna Matilda (still more angry). Fool! fool! It's 
 just because it is so natural ! Just because it isn't my daugh- 
 ter who is there. (Pointing to the canvass). That is my 
 portrait; and to find my daughter there instead of me fills 
 me with astonishment, an astonishment which, I beg you to 
 believe, is sincere. I forbid you to cast doubts on it. 
 
 Frlda (slowly and wearily). My God! It's always like 
 this . . . rows over nothing. . . 
 
 Belcredi (also slowly, looking dejected, in accents of 
 apology). I cast no doubt on anything! I noticed from the 
 beginning that you haven't shared your mother's astonish- 
 ment; or, if something did astonish you, it was because the 
 likeness between you and the portrait seemed so strong. 
 
 Donna Matilda. Naturally! She cannot recognize 
 herself in me as I was at her age; while I, there, can very 
 well recognize myself in her as she is now! 
 
 Doctor. Quite right! Because a portrait is always there 
 fixed in the twinkling of an eye: for the young lady some- 
 thing far away and without memories, while, for the Mar- 
 chioness, it can bring back everything: movements, gestures, 
 looks, smiles, a whole heap of things . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. Exactly! 
 
 Doctor (continuing, turning towards her). Naturally \ 
 enough, you can live all these old sensations again in your j 
 daughter. 
 
88 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 Donna Matilda. He always spoils every innocent 
 pleasure for me, every touch I have of spontaneous senti- 
 ment! He does it merely to annoy me. 
 
 Doctor {frightened at the disturbance he has caused, 
 adopts a professorial tone). Likeness, dear Baron, is often 
 the result of imponderable things. So one explains that . . . 
 
 Belcredi {interrupting the discourse). Somebody will 
 soon be finding a likeness between you and me, my dear 
 professor ! 
 
 Di NoLLi. Oh! let's finish with this, please! {Points to 
 the two doors on the Right, as a warning that there is some- 
 one there who may be listening). We've wasted too much 
 time as it is ! 
 
 Frida. As one might expect when he's present {alludes 
 to Belcredi). 
 
 Di NoLLi. Enough! The doctor is here; and we have 
 come for a very serious purpose which you all know is im- 
 portant for me. 
 
 Doctor. Yes, that is so! But now, first of all, let's try 
 to get some points down exactly. Excuse me, Marchioness, 
 will you tell me why your portrait is here ? Did you present 
 it to him then? 
 
 Donna Matilda. No, not at all. How could I have 
 given it to him? I was just like Frida then — and not even 
 engaged. I gave it to him three or four years after the 
 accident. I gave it to him because his mother wished it so 
 much {points to Di Nolli) . . . 
 
 Doci^OR. She was his sister {alludes to Henry IF.) ? 
 
 Di Nolli. Yes, doctor; and our coming here is a debt 
 we pay to my mother who has been dead for more than a 
 month. Instead of being here, she and I {indicating Frida) 
 ought to be traveling together . . . 
 
 Doctor. . . . taking a cure of quite a different kind ! 
 
[Act I] "HENRY IVr 89 
 
 Di NoLLi. — Hum ! Mother died in the firm conviction 
 that her adored brother was just about to be cured. 
 
 Doctor. And can't you tell me, if you please, how she 
 inferred this? 
 
 Di NoLLi. The conviction would appear to have derived 
 from certain strange remarks which he made, a little before 
 mother died. 
 
 Doctor. Oh, remarks! . . . Ah! ... It would be ex- 
 tremely useful for me to have those remarks, w^ord for word, 
 if possible. 
 
 Di Nolli. I can't remember them. I know that mother 
 returned awfully upset from her last visit with him. On 
 her death-bed, she made me promise that I would never 
 neglect him, that I w^ould have doctors see him, and examine 
 him. 
 
 Doctor. Um! Um! Let me see! let me see! Some- 
 times very small reasons determine . . . and this portrait 
 here then? . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. For Heaven's sake, doctor, don't at- 
 tach excessive importance to this. It made an impression on 
 me because I had not seen it for so many years ! 
 
 Doctor. If you please, quietly, quietly . . . 
 
 Di Nolli. — Well, yes, it must be about fifteen years 
 ago. 
 
 Donna Matilda. More, more: eighteen! 
 
 Doctor. Forgive me, but you don't quite know what 
 I'm trying to get at. I attach a very great importance to 
 these tw^o portraits . . . They were painted, naturally, 
 prior to the famous — and most regretable pageant, weren't 
 they? 
 
 Donna Matilda. Of course! 
 
 Doctor. That is . . . when he was quite in his right 
 mind — that's what I've been trying to say. Was it his 
 suggestion that they should be painted? 
 
90 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 Donna Matilda. Lxjts of the people who took part in 
 the pageant had theirs done as a souvenir . . . 
 
 Belcredi. I had mine done — as "Charles of Anjou!" 
 
 Donna Matilda. ... as soon as the costumes were 
 ready. 
 
 Belcredi. As a matter of fact, it was proposed that the 
 whole lot of us should be hung together in a gallery of the 
 villa where the pageant took place. But in the end, every- 
 body wanted to keep his own portrait. 
 
 Donna Matilda. And I gave him this portrait of me 
 without very much regret . . . since his mother . . . {in- 
 dicates Di Nolli) . 
 
 Doctor. You don't remember if it was he who asked 
 for it ? 
 
 Donna Matilda. Ah, that I don't remember . . . 
 Maybe it was his sister, wanting to help out . . . 
 
 Doctor. One other thing: was it his idea, this pageant? 
 
 Belcredi {at once). No, no, it was mine! 
 
 Doctor. If you please . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. Don't listen to him! It was poor* 
 Belassi's idea. 
 
 Belcredi. Belassi! What had he got to do with it? 
 
 Donna Matilda. Count Belassi, who died, poor fellow, 
 two or three months after . . . 
 
 Belcredi. But if Belassi wasn't there when . . . 
 
 Di Nolli. Excuse me, doctor; but is it really necessary 
 to establish whose the original idea was? 
 
 Doctor. It would help me, certainly! 
 
 Belcredi. I tell you the idea was mine! There's noth- 
 ing to be proud of in it, seeing what the result's been. Look 
 here, doctor, it was like this. One evening, in the first days 
 of November, I was looking at an illustrated German review 
 in the club. I was merely glancing at the pictures, because 
 I can't read German. There was a picture of the Kaiser, 
 
[Act I] ''HENRY IVr 91 
 
 at some University town where he had been a student . . . 
 I don't remember which. 
 
 Doctor. Bonn, Bonn! 
 
 Belcredi. — You are right: Bonn! He was on horse- 
 back, dressed up in one of those ancient German student 
 guild-costumes, followed by a procession of noble students, 
 also in costume. The picture gave me the idea. Already 
 some one at the club had spoken of a pageant for the forth- 
 coming carnival. So I had the notion that each of us should 
 choose for this Tower of Babel pageant to represent some 
 character : a king, an emperor, a prince, with his queen, em- 
 press, or lady, alongside of him — and all on horseback. The 
 suggestion was at once accepted. 
 
 Donna Matilda. I had my invitation from Belassi. 
 
 Belcredi. Well, he w^asn't speaking the truth! That's 
 all I can say, if he told you the idea was his. He wasn't even 
 at the club the evening I made the suggestion, just as he 
 (meaning Henry IV.) wasn't there either. 
 
 Doctor. So he chose the character of Henry IV.? 
 
 Donna Matilda. Because I . . . thinking of my name, 
 and not giving the choice any importance, said I would be 
 the Marchioness Matilda of Tuscany. 
 
 Doctor. I . . . don't understand the relation between 
 the two. 
 
 Donna Matilda. — Neither did I, to begin with, when 
 he said that in that case he would be at my feet like Henry 
 IV. at Canossa. I had heard of Canossa of course; but to 
 tell the truth, I'd forgotten most of the story; and I re- 
 member I received a curious impression when I had to get 
 up my part, and found that I was the faithful and zealous 
 friend of Pope Gregory VII. in deadly enmity with the Em- 
 peror of Germany. Then I understood why, since I had 
 chosen to represent his implacable enemy, he wanted to be 
 near me in the pageant as Henry IV. 
 
92 ''HENRY IF" [Act I] 
 
 Doctor. Ah, perhaps because . . . 
 
 Belcredi. — Good Heavens, doctor, because he was then 
 paying furious court to her {indicates the Marchioness)! 
 And she, naturally . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. Naturally? Not naturally at all . . . 
 
 Belcredi (pointing to her). She couldn't stand him . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. — No, that isn't true! I didn't dis- 
 like him. Not at all ! But for me, when a jna n begins to 
 want to be taken seriously, well . . . 
 
 BELCREDr (continuing for her). He gi ves you the clear - 
 est^roof of his stupid] ty._. 
 
 Donna Matilda. No dear ; not in this case ; because he 
 was never a fool like you. 
 
 Belcredi. Anyway, I've never asked you to take me 
 seriously. 
 
 Donna Matilda. Yes, I know. But with him one 
 couldn't joke (changing her tone and speaking to the Doc- 
 tor). One of the many misfortunes which happen to us 
 women. Doctor, is to see before us every now and again a 
 pair of eyes glaring at us with a contained intense promise 
 of eternal devotion. (Bursts out laughing). There is noth- 
 ing quite so funny. If men could only see themselves with 
 that eternal fidelity look in their faces! I've always thought 
 it comic; then more even than now. But I want to make a 
 confession — I can do so after twenty years or more. When 
 I laughed at him then, it was partly out of fear. One might 
 have almost believed a promise from those eyes of his. But 
 it would have been very dangerous. 
 
 Doctor (with lively interest). Ah! ah! This is most 
 interesting! Very dangerous, you say? 
 
 Donna Matilda. Yes, because he was very different 
 from the others. And then, I am . . . well . . . what shall 
 I say? ... a little impatient of all that is pondered, or 
 tedious. But I was too young then, and a woman. I had 
 
[Act I] ''HENRY ^Vt 93 
 
 the bit between my teeth. It would have required more 
 courage than I felt I possessed. So I laughed at him too — 
 with remorse, to spite myself, indeed; since I saw that my 
 own laugh mingled with those of all the others — the other 
 fools — who made fun of him. 
 
 Belcredi. My own case, more or less! 
 
 Donna Matilda. You make people laugh at you, my 
 dear, with your trick of always humiliating yourself. It was 
 quite a different affair with him. There's a vast difference. 
 And you — you know — people laugh in your face! 
 
 Belcredi. AVell, that's better than behind one's back! 
 
 Doctor. Let's get to the facts. He was then already 
 somewhat exalted, if I understand rightly. 
 
 Belcredi. Yes, but in a curious fashion, doctor. 
 
 Doctor. How? 
 
 Belcredi. Well, cold-bloodedly so to speak. 
 
 Donna Matilda. Not at all! It was like this, doctor! 
 He was a bit strange, certainly ; but only because he was fond 
 of life : eccentric, there ! 
 
 Belcredi. I don't say he simulated exaltation. On the 
 contrary, he was often genuinely exalted. But I could 
 swear, doctor, that he saw himself at once in his own exalta- 
 tion. Moreover, I'm certain it made him suffer. Sometimes 
 he had the most comical fits of rage against himself. 
 
 Doctor. Yes ? 
 
 Donna Matilda. That is true. 
 
 Belcredi {to Donna Matilda). And why? (To the 
 doctor). Evidently, because that immediate lucidity that 
 comes from acting, assuming a part, at once put him out of 
 key with his own feelings, which seemed to him not exactly 
 false, but like something he was obliged to valorize there and 
 then as — what shall I say — as an act of intelligence, to 
 make up for that sincere cordial warmth he felt lacking. So 
 he improvised, exaggerated, let himself go, so as to distract 
 
94 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 and forget himself. He appeared inconstant, fatuous, and — 
 yes — even ridiculous, sometimes. 
 
 Doctor. And may we say unsociable ? 
 
 Belcredi. No, not at all. He was famous for getting up 
 things: tableaux vivants, dances, theatrical performances for 
 charity: all for the fun of the thing, of course. He was a 
 jolly good actor, you know! 
 
 Di NoLLi. Madness has made a superb actor of him. 
 
 Belcredi. — Why, so he was even in the old days. When 
 the accident happened, after the horse fell . . . 
 
 Doctor. Hit the back of his head, didn't he? 
 
 Donna Matilda. Oh, it was horrible ! He was beside 
 me! I saw him between the horse's hoofs! It was rearing! 
 
 Belcredi. None of us thought it was anything serious 
 at first. There was a stop in the pageant, a bit of disorder. 
 People wanted to know what had happened. But they'd 
 already taken him off to the villa. 
 
 Donna Matilda. There wasn't the least sign of a 
 wound, not a drop of blood. 
 
 Belcredi. We thought he had merely fainted. 
 
 Donna Matilda. But two hours afterwards . . . 
 
 Belcredi. He reappeared in the drawing-room of the 
 villa . . . that is what I wanted to say . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. My God! What a face he had. I 
 saw the whole thing at once! 
 
 Belcredi. No, no! that isn't true. Nobody saw it, 
 doctor, believe me! 
 
 Donna Matilda. Doubtless, because you were all like 
 mad folk. 
 
 Belcredi. Everybody was pretending to act his part for 
 a joke. It was a regular Babel. 
 
 Donna Matilda. And you can imagine, doctor, what 
 terror struck into us when we understood that he, on the 
 contrary, was playing his part in deadly earnest . . . 
 
[Act I] "HENRY IVr 95 
 
 Doctor. Oh, he was there too, was he? 
 
 Belcredi. Of course! He came straight Into the midst 
 of us. We thought he'd quite recovered, and was pretend- 
 ing, fooling, like all the rest of us . . .only doing it rather 
 better; because, as I say, he knew how to act. 
 
 Donna Matilda. Some of them began to hit him with 
 their whips and fans and sticks. 
 
 Belcredi. And then — as a king, he was armed, of course 
 — he drew out his sword and menaced two or three of us 
 ... It was a terrible moment, I can assure you ! 
 
 Donna Matilda. I shall never forget that scene — all 
 our masked faces hideous and terrified gazing at him, at that 
 terrible mask of his face, which was no longer a mask, but 
 madness, madness personified. 
 
 Belcredi. He was Henry IV., Henry IV. in person, in 
 a moment of fury. 
 
 Donna Matilda. He'd got into it all the detail and 
 minute preparation of a month's careful study. And it all 
 burned and blazed there in the terrible obsession which lit 
 his face. 
 
 Doctor. Yes, that is quite natural, of course. The 
 momentary obsession of a dilettante became fixed, owing to 
 the fall and the damage to the brain. 
 
 Belcredi {to Frida and Di Nolli). You see the kind of 
 jokes life can play on us. (To Di Nolli) : You were four 
 or five years old. ( To Frida) : Your mother imagines you've 
 taken her place there in that portrait; when, at the time, 
 she had not the remotest idea that she would bring you into 
 the world. My hair is already grey ; and he — look at him — 
 {points to portrait) — ha! A smack on the head, and he 
 never moves again : Henry IV. for ever ! 
 
 Doctor {seeking to draw the attention of the others, look- 
 ing learned and imposing). — Well, well, then it comes, we 
 may say, to this . . . 
 
96 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 {Suddenly the first exit to right, the one nearest footlights, 
 opens, and Berthold enters all excited). 
 
 Berthold {rushing in). I say! I say! {Stops for a 
 moment, arrested by the astonishment which his appearance 
 has caused in the others). 
 
 Frida {running away terrified). Oh dear! oh dear! it's 
 he, it's . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda {covering her face with her hands so 
 as not to see). Is it, is it he? 
 
 Di NoLLi. No, no, what are you talking about? Be 
 calm! 
 
 Doctor. Who is it then? 
 
 Belcredi. One of our masqueraders. 
 
 Di NoLLl. He is one of the four youths we keep here to 
 help him out in his madness . . . 
 
 Berthold. I beg your pardon. Marquis . . . 
 
 Dl NoLLi. Pardon be damned! I gave orders that the 
 doors were to be closed, and that nobody should be allowed 
 to enter. 
 
 Berthold. Yes, sir, but I can't stand it any longer, and 
 I ask you to let me go away this very minute. 
 
 Di Nolli. Oh, you're the new valet, are you ? You were 
 supposed to begin this morning, weren't you ? 
 
 Berthold. Yes, sir, and I can't stand it, I can't bear it. 
 
 'Doi<ii<i A ^Iatii^ha {to Di Nolli excitedly). What? Then 
 he's not so calm as you said ? 
 
 Berthold {quickly). — No, no, my lady, it isn't he; 
 1 it's my companions. You say "help him out with his mad- 
 l ness," Marquis; but they don't do anything of the kind. 
 ■ They're the real madmen. I come here for the first time, 
 ' and instead of helping me . . . 
 
 {Landolph and Harold come in from the same door, but 
 hesitate on the threshold). 
 
 Landolph. Excuse me? 
 
 I 
 
[Act I] ''HENRY IVr 97 
 
 Harold. May I come in, my Lord? 
 
 Di NoLLi. Come in! What's the matter? What are 
 you all doing? 
 
 Frida. Oh God! I'm frightened! I'm going to run 
 away. {Makes towards exit at Left). 
 
 Dl NoLLi {restraining her at once). No, no, Frida! 
 
 Landolph. My Lord, this fool here . . . {indicates 
 Berthold). 
 
 Berthold {protesting) . Ah, no thanks, my friends, no 
 thanks! I'm not stopping here! I'm off! 
 
 Landolph. What do you mean — you're not stopping 
 here ? 
 
 Harold. He's ruined everything, my Lord, running away 
 in here! 
 
 Landolph. He's made him quite mad. We can't keep 
 him in there any longer. He's given orders that he's to be 
 arrested; and he wants to "judge" him at once from, the 
 throne: What is to be done? 
 
 Di Nolli. Shut the door, man! Shut the door! Go 
 and close that door! {Landolph goes over to close it). 
 
 Harold. Ordulph, alone, won't be able to keep him 
 there. 
 
 Landolph. — My Lord, perhaps if we could announce 
 the visitors at once, it would turn his thoughts. Have the 
 gentlemen thought under what pretext they will present 
 themselves to him? 
 
 Dl NoLLL — It's all been arranged! {To the Doctor) : 
 If you, doctor, think it well to see him at once. . . . 
 
 Frida. I'm not coming! I'm not coming! I'll keep 
 out of this. You too, mother, for Heaven's sake, come away 
 with me! 
 
 Doctor. — I say ... I suppose he's not armed, is 
 he? 
 
 Di Nolli. — Nonsense! Of course not. {To Frida): 
 
98 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 Frida, you know this Is childish of you. You wanted to 
 come! 
 
 Frida. I didn't at all. It was mother's idea. 
 
 Donna Matilda. And Fm quite ready to see him. 
 What are we going to do? 
 
 Belcredi. Must we absolutely dress up in some fashion 
 or other? 
 
 Landolph. — Absolutely essential, indispensable, sir. 
 Alas! as you see . . . {shows his costume), there'd be awful 
 trouble if he saw you gentlemen in modern dress. 
 I Harold. He would think it was some diabolical mas- 
 l querade. 
 
 Di NoLLi. As these men seem to be in costume to you, 
 so we appear to be in costume to him, in these modern clothes 
 of ours. 
 
 Landolph. It wouldn't matter so much if he wouldn't 
 suppose it to be the work of his mortal enemy. 
 
 Belcredi. Pope Gregory VII.? 
 
 Landolph. Precisely. He calls him "a pagan." 
 
 Belcredi. The Pope a pagan? Not bad that! 
 
 Landolph. — Yes, sir, — and a man who calls up the 
 dead! He accuses him of all the diabolical arts. He's 
 terribly afraid of him. 
 
 Doctor. Persecution mania! 
 
 Harold. He'd be simply furious. 
 
 Di NoLLi {to Belcredi). But there's no need for you to 
 be there, you know. It's sufficient for the doctor to see him. 
 
 Doctor. — What do you mean ? . . . I ? Alone ? 
 
 Di Nolli. — But they are there {indicates the three 
 young men). 
 
 Doctor. I don't mean that ... I mean if the Mar- 
 chioness . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. Of course. I mean to see him too, 
 naturally. I want to see him again. 
 
tAcT I] ''HENRY IVr 99 
 
 Frida. Oh, why, mother, why ? Do come away with me, 
 I implore you ! 
 
 Donna Matilda {imperiously). Let me do as I wish! 
 I came here for this purpose! {To Landolph) : I shall be 
 ''Adelaide," the mother. 
 
 Landolph. Excellent! The mother of the Empress 
 Bertha. Good! It will be enough if her Ladyship wears 
 the ducal crown and puts on a mantle that will hide her 
 other clothes entirely. {To Harold) : Off you go, Harold! 
 
 Harold. Wait a moment! And this gentleman here 
 {alludes to the Doctor) f . . . 
 
 Doctor. — Ah yes ... we decided I was to be . . . 
 the Bishop of Cluny, Hugh of Cluny ! 
 
 Harold. The gentleman means the Abbot. Very good I 
 Hugh of Cluny. 
 
 Landolph. — He's often been here before! 
 
 Doctor {amazed). — What? Been here before? 
 
 Landolph. — Don't be alarmed! I mean that it's an 
 easily prepared disguise . . . 
 
 Harold. We've made use of it on other occasions, you 
 see! 
 
 Doctor. But . . , 
 
 Landolph. Oh no, there's no risk of his remembering. 
 He pays more attention to the dress than to the person. 
 
 Donna Matilda. That's fortunate for me too then. 
 
 Di NoLLi. Frida, you and I'll get along. Come on 
 Tito! 
 
 Belcredi. Ah no. If she {indicates the Marchioness) 
 stops here, so do I ! 
 
 DoNNA Matilda. But I don't need you at all. 
 
 Belcredi. You may not need me, but I should like to 
 see him again myself. Mayn't I? 
 
 Landolph. Well, perhaps it would be better if there 
 were three. 
 
100 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 Harold. How is the gentleman to be dressed then? 
 
 Belcredi. Oh, try and find some easy costume for me. 
 
 Landolph (to Harold). Hum! Yes . . . he'd better 
 be from Cluny too. 
 
 Belcredi. What do you mean — from Cluny? 
 
 Landolph. A Benedictine's habit of the Abbey of Cluny. 
 He can be in attendance on Monsignor. ( To Harold) : 
 Off you go! (To Berthold). And you too get away and 
 keep out of sight all today. No, wait a bit! (To Bert- 
 hold) : You bring here the costumes he will give you. (To 
 Harold) : You go at once and announce the visit of the 
 ''Duchess Adelaide" and "Monsignor Hugh of Cluny." Do 
 you understand? (Harold and Berthold go off by the first 
 door on the Right). 
 
 Di NoLLi. We'll retire now. (Goes off with Frida, 
 left). 
 
 Doctor. Shall I be a persona grata to him, as Hugh of 
 Cluny ? 
 
 Landolph. Oh, rather! Don't worry about that! Mon- 
 signor has always been received here with great respect. 
 You too, my Lady, he will be glad to see. He never forgets 
 that it was owing to the intercession of you two that he was 
 admitted to the Castle of Canossa and the presence of 
 Gregory VII., who didn't want to receive him. 
 
 Belcredl And what do I do? 
 
 Landolph. You stand a little apart, respectfully: that's 
 all. 
 
 Donna Matilda (irritated,, nervous). You would do 
 well to go away, you know. 
 
 Belcredi (slowly, spitefully). How upset you seem ! . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda (proudly). I am as I am. Leave me 
 alone ! 
 
 (Berthold comes in with the costumes). 
 
[Act I] "HENRY IV." 101 
 
 Landolph {seeing him enter). Ah, the costumes: here 
 they are. This mantle is for the Marchioness . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. Wait a minute! I'll take off my 
 hat. {Does so and gives it to Berthold). 
 
 Landolph. Put it down there! {Then to the Mar- 
 chioness, while he offers to put the ducal crown on her head). 
 Allow me! 
 
 Donna Matilda. Dear, dear! Isn't there a mirror 
 here? 
 
 Landolph. Yes, there's one there {points to the door 
 on the Left). If the Marchioness would rather put it on 
 herself . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. Yes, yes, that will be better. Give 
 it to me! {Takes up her hat and goes off with Berthold, 
 who carries the cloak and the crown). 
 
 Belcredi. Well, I must say, I nerer thought I should 
 be a Benedictine monk ! By the way, this business must cost 
 an awful lot of money. 
 
 The Doctor. Likp any other fa ntasy, naturally 1_ ^ 
 
 Belcredi. Well, there's a fortune to go upon. 
 
 Landolph. We have got there a whole wardrobe of 
 costumes of the period, copied to perfection from old models. 
 This is my special job. I get them from the best theatrical 
 costumers. They cost lots of money. {Donna Matilda re- 
 enters, wearing mantle and crown). 
 
 Belcredi {at once, in admiration). Oh magnificent! 
 Oh, truly regal! 
 
 Donna Matilda {looking at Belcredi and bursting out 
 into laughter). Oh no, no! Take it off! You're impos- 
 sible. You look like an ostrich dressed up as a monk. 
 
 Belcredi. Well, how about the doctor ? 
 
 The Doctor. I don't think I look so bad, do I? 
 
 Donna Matilda. No; the doctor's all right . . . but 
 you are too funny for words. 
 
102 .. ; ;..'/; ''henry ivr [Act I] 
 
 The Doctor. Do you have many receptions here then" 
 
 Landolph. It depends. He often gives orders that such 
 and such a person appear before him. Then v^^e have to 
 find someone vi^ho vv^ill take the part. Women too . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda {hurt, but trying to hide the fact). 
 Ah, women too? 
 
 Landolph. Oh, yes; many at first. 
 
 Belcredi (laughing). Oh, that's great! In costume, 
 like the Marchioness? 
 
 Landolph. Oh well, you know, women of the kind tha 
 lend themselves to . . . 
 
 Belcredl Ah, I see! {Perfidiously to the Marchioness) 
 Look out, you know he's becoming dangerous for you. 
 
 ( The second door on the right opens, and Harold appear^ 
 making first of all a discreet sign that all conversation should 
 cease). 
 
 Harold. His Majesty, the Emperor! 
 
 ( The two valets enter first, and go and stand on e'^jher sid( 
 of the throne. Then Henry IV, comes in between Ordulpl 
 and Harold, who keep a little in the rear respectfully. 
 
 Henry IV. is about 50 and very pale. The hair on thi 
 back of his head is already grey; over the temples and fore- 
 head it appears blond, owing to its having been tinted in an 
 evident and puerile fashion. On his cheek bones he has two 
 small, doll-like dabs of colour, that stand out prominently 
 against the rest of his tragic pallor. He is wearing a peni- 
 tent's sack over his regal habit, as at Canossa. His eyes have 
 a fixed look which is dreadful to see, and this expression is 
 in strained contrast with the sackcloth. Ordulph carries the 
 Imperial crown; Harold, the sceptre with the eagle, and the 
 globe with the cross). 
 
 Henry IV. {bowing first to Donna Matilda and after- 
 wards to the doctor). My lady . . . Monsignor . . . 
 
[Act I] "HENRY IVr 103 
 
 ( Then he looks at Belcredi and seems about to greet him too; 
 when, suddenly J he turns to Landolph, who has approached 
 him, and asks him sotto voce and with diffidence) : Is that 
 Peter Damiani? 
 
 Landolph. No, Sire. He is a monk from Cluny who 
 is accompanying the Abbot. 
 
 Henry IV. {looks again at Belcredi with increasing mis- 
 trust, and then noticing that he appears embarrassed and 
 keeps glancing at Donna Matilda and the doctor, stands up- 
 right and cries out). No, it's Peter Damiani! It's no use, 
 father, your looking at the Duchess. ( Then turning quickly 
 to Donna Matilda and the doctor as though to ward off a 
 danger) : I swear it! I swear that my heart is changed towards 
 your daughter. I confess that if he {indicates Belcredi) 
 hadn't come to forbid it in the name of Pope Alexander, I'd 
 have repudiated her. Yes, yes, there were people ready to 
 favour the repudiation: the Bishop of Mayence would have 
 done it for a matter of one hundred and twenty farms. 
 {Looks at Landolph a little perplexed and adds) : But I 
 mustn't speak ill of the bishops at this moment! {More hum- 
 bly to Belcredi) : I am grateful to you, believe me, I am grate- 
 ful to you for the hindrance you put in my way ! — God knows, 
 my life's been all made of humiliations: my mother, Adal- 
 bert, Tribur, Goslar! And now this sackcloth you see me 
 wearing! {Changes tone suddenly and speaks like one who 
 goes over his part in a parenthesis of astuteness) . It doesn't 
 matter: clarity of ideas, perspicacity, firmness and patience 
 under adversity that's the thing. {Then turning to all and \ 
 speaking solemnly). I know how to make amend for the \, 
 ..mistakes I have made; and I can humiliate myself even | 
 _before you, Peter Damiani. {Bows profoundly to him and \ 
 remains curved. Then a suspicion is born in him which he 
 is obliged to utter in menacing tones, almost against his will). 
 Was it not perhaps you who started that obscene rumour that 
 
104 ''HENRY IV r [Act I] 
 
 my holy mother had illicit relations with the Bishop of 
 Augusta? 
 
 Belcredi {since Henry IV. has his finger pointed at him). 
 No, no, it wasn't I . . . 
 
 Henry IV. {straightening up). Not true, not true? 
 Infamy! {Looks at him and then adds) : I didn't think you 
 capable of it! {Goes to the doctor and plucks his sleeve,, 
 while winking at him knowingly) : Always the same, Mon- 
 signor, those bishops, always the same! 
 
 Harold {softly, whispering as if to help out the doctor). 
 Yes, 3^es, the rapacious bishops! 
 
 The Doctor {to Harold, trying to keep it up). Ah, yes, 
 those fellows ... ah yes . . . 
 
 Henry IV. Nothing satisfies them! I was a little boy, ' 
 Monsignor . . . One passes the time, playing even, when, 
 without knowing it, one is a king. — I was six years old; 
 and they tore me away from my mother, and made use of 
 me against her without my knowing anything about it . . . 
 always profaning, always stealing, stealing! . . . One 
 greedier than the other . . . Hanno worse than Stephen! 
 Stephen worse than Hanno! 
 
 Landolph {sotto voce, persuasively, to call his attention). 
 Majesty! 
 
 Henry IV. {turning round quickly). Ah yes . . . this 
 isn't the moment to speak ill of the bishops. But this infamy 
 against my mother, Monsignor, is too much. {Looks at the 
 Marchioness and grows tender). And I can't even weep 
 for her. Lady ... I appeal to you who have a mother's 
 heart! She came here to see me from her convent a month 
 ago . . . They had told me she was dead! {Sustained 
 pause full of feeling. Then smiling sadly) : I can't weep 
 for her; because if you are here now, and I am like this 
 {shows the sack<;loth he is wearing) ^ it means I am twenty- 
 six years old ! 
 
[Act I] "HENRY IVr 105 
 
 Harold. And that she is therefore alive, Majesty! . . . 
 
 Ordulph. Still in her convent! 
 
 Henry IV. {looking at them). Ah yes! And I can 
 postpone my grief to another time. {Shows the Marchioness a', 
 almost with coquetery the tint he has given to his hair). I; 
 Look! I am still fair . . . {Then slowly as if in confid- "' 
 ence). For you . . . there's no need! But little exterior 
 details do help! A matter of time, Monsignor, do you 
 understand me? {Turns to the Marchioness and notices 
 her hair). Ah, but I see that you too, Duchess . . . Italian, v -^ 
 ch {as much as to say "false'' ; but without any indignation,^^ / 
 indeed rather with malicious admiration)? Heaven forbid 
 that I should show disgust or surprise! Nobody cares to 
 recognize that obscure and fatal power which sets limits to 
 pur will. But I say, if one is born and one dies . . . Did 
 you want to be born, Monsignor? I didn't! And in both 
 cases, independently of our wills, so many things happen we '| 
 would wish didn't happen, and to which we resign ourselves V 
 as best we can! . . . 
 
 Doctor {merely to make a remark, while studying Henry 
 IV. carefully). Alas! Yes, alas! 
 
 Henry IV. It's like this: When we are not resigned, 
 out come our desires. A woman wants to be a man ... ^ 
 an old man would be young again. Desires, ridiculous fixed ^ 
 ideas of course — But reflect! Monsignor, those other de- 
 sires are not less ridiculous : I mean, those desires where the 
 will is kept within the limits of the possible. Not one of us 
 can lie or pretend. We're all fixed in good faith in a certain 
 concept of ourselves. However, Monsignor, while you keep 
 yourself in order, holding on with both your hands to your 
 holy habit, there slips down from your sleeves, there peels 
 off from you like . . . like a serpent . . . something you 
 don't notice: life, Monsignor! {Turns to the Marchioness) : 
 Has it never happened to you, my Lady, to find a different 
 
106 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 self in yourself? Have you always been the same? My 
 God! One day . . . how was it, how was it you were 
 able to commit this or that action? (Fixes her so intently in 
 the eyes as almost to make her blanch) : Yes, that particular 
 action, that very one : we understand each other ! But don't 
 be afraid : I shall reveal it to none. And you, Peter Damiani, 
 how could you be a friend of that man ? . . . 
 
 Landolph. Majesty! 
 
 Henry IV. {at once). No, I won't name him! {Turn- 
 ing to Belcredi) : What did you think of him? But we all 
 of us cling tight to our conceptions of ourselves, just as he 
 who is growing old dyes his hair. What does it matter that 
 this dyed hair of mine isn't a reality for you, if it is, to some 
 extent, for me? — you, you, my Lady, certainly don't dye 
 your hair to deceive the others, nor even yourself; but only 
 to cheat your own image a little before the looking-glass, 
 I do it for a joke! You do it seriously! But I assure you 
 that you too, Madam, are in masquerade, though it be in all 
 seriousness; and I am not speaking of the venerable crown 
 on your brows or the ducal mantle. I am speaking only of 
 the memory you wish to fix in yourself of your fair com- 
 plexion one day when it pleased you — or of your dark com- 
 plexion, if you were dark: the fading image of your youth! 
 For you, Peter Damiani, on the contrary, the memory of 
 what you have been, of what you have done, seems to you a 
 recognition of past realities that remain within you like a 
 dream. I'm in the same case too : with so many inexplicable 
 memories — like dreams! Ah! . . . There's nothing to mar- 
 vel at in it, Peter Damiani! Tomorrow it will be the 
 same thing with our life of today! {Suddenly getting excited 
 and taking hold of his sackcloth). This sackcloth here . . . 
 {Beginning to take it off with a gesture of almost ferocious 
 joy while the three valets run over to him, frightened, as 
 if to prevent his doing so) I Ah, my God! {Draws back 
 
[Act I] ''HENRY IVr 107 
 
 and throws off sackcloth). Tomorrow, at Bressanone, 
 twenty-seven German and Lombard bishops will sign with 
 me the act of deposition of Gregory VII.! No Pope at all! 
 Just a false monk ! 
 
 Ordulph {with the other three). Majesty! Majesty! 
 In God's name! . . . 
 
 Harold {inviting him to put on the sackcloth again). 
 Listen to what he says, Majesty! 
 
 Landolph. Monsignor is here with the Duchess to in- 
 tercede in your favor. {Makes secret signs to the Doctor to 
 say something at once). 
 
 Doctor {foolishly). Ah yes . . . yes ... we are here 
 to intercede . . . 
 
 Henry IV. {repeating at once, almost terrified, allowing 
 the three to put on the sackcloth again, and pulling it down 
 over him with his own hands). Pardon . . . yes , . . yes 
 . . . pardon, Monsignor: forgive me, my Lady ... I 
 swear to you I feel the whole weight of the anathema. 
 {Bends himself, takes his face between his hands, as though 
 waiting for something to crush him. Then changing tone, 
 but without moving, says softly to Landolph, Harold and 
 Ordulph) : But I don't know why I cannot be humble be- 
 fore that man there! {indicates Belcredi). 
 
 Landolph {sottovoce) . But why, Majesty, do you insist 
 on believing he is Peter Damiani, when he isn't, at all? 
 
 Henry IV. {looking at him timorously). He isn't Peter 
 Damiani ? 
 
 Harold. No, no, he is a poor monk. Majesty. 
 
 Henry IV. {sadly with a touch of exasperation). Ah! 
 None of us can estimate what w^e do when we do it from 
 instinct . . . You perhaps. Madam, can understand me 
 better than the others, since you are a woman and a Duchess. 
 This is a solemn and decisive moment. I could, you know, 
 accept the assistance of the Lombard bishops, arrest the Pope, 
 
108 ''HENRY IVr [Act I] 
 
 lock him up here in the c?astle, run to Rome and elect an 
 anti-Pope; offer alliance to Robert Guiscard — and Gregory 
 VII. would be lost! I resist the temptation; and, believe 
 me, I am wise in doing so. I feel the atmosphere of our 
 times and the majesty of one who know^s how to be what he 
 ought to be! a Pope! Do you feel inclined to laugh at me, 
 seeing me like this? You would be foolish to do so; for you 
 don't understand the political wisdom which makes this 
 penitent's sack advisable. The parts may be changed tomor- 
 row. What would you do then? Would you laugh to see 
 the Pope a prisoner? No! It would come to the same 
 thing: I dressed as a penitent, today; he, as prisoner to- 
 morrow! But woe to him who doesn't know how to wear 
 his mask, be he king or Pope! — Perhaps he is a bit too 
 cruel! No! Yes, yes, maybe! — You remember, my Lady, 
 how your daughter Bertha, for whom, I repeat, my feelings 
 have changed {turns to Belcredi and shouts to his face as if 
 he were being contradicted by him) — yes, changed on account 
 of the affection and devotion she showed me in that terrible 
 moment . . . {then once again to the Marchioness) . . . 
 you remember how she came with me, my Lady, followed 
 me like a beggar and passed two nights out in the open, in 
 the snow? You are her mother! Doesn't this touch your 
 mother's heart? Doesn't this urge you to pity, so that you 
 will beg His Holiness for pardon, beg him to receive us? 
 
 Donna Matilda {trembling, with feeble voice). Yes, 
 yes, at once . . . 
 
 Doctor. It shall be done! 
 
 Henry IV. And one thing more! {Draws them in to 
 listen to him). It isn't enough that he should receive me! 
 You know he can do everything — everything I tell you ! He 
 can even call up the dead. {Touches his chest): Behold 
 me! Do you see me? There is no magic art unknown to 
 him. Well, Monsignor, my Lady, my torment is really this : 
 
[Act I] "HENRY IVr 109 
 
 that whether here or there {pointing to his portrait almost 
 in fear) I can't free myself from this magic. I am a penitent 
 now, you see; and I swear to you I shall remain so until 
 he receives me. But you two, when the excommunication is 
 taken off, must ask the Pope to do this thing he can so 
 easily do: to take me away from that {indicating the por- 
 trait again ) ; and let me live wholly and freely my miserable 
 life. A man can't always be twenty-six, my Lady. I ask 
 this of you for your daughter's sake too; that I may love 
 her as she deserves to be loved, well disposed as I am now, 
 all tender towards her for her pity. There: it's all there! 
 I am in your hands! {Bows). My Lady! Monsignor! 
 
 {He goes off, bowing grandly, through the door by which 
 he entered, leaving everyone stupefied, and the Marchioness 
 so profoundly touched, that no sooner has he gone than she 
 breaks out into sobs and sits down almost fainting). 
 
ACT II 
 
 {Another room of the villa, adjoining the throne room. 
 Its furniture is antique and severe. Principal exit at rear in 
 the background. To the left, two windows looking on the 
 garden. To the right, d door opening into the throne room. 
 
 Late afternoon of the same day. 
 
 Donna Matilda, the doctor and Belcredi are on the stage 
 engaged in conversation; hut Donna Matilda stands to one 
 side, evidently annoyed at what the other two are saying; 
 although she cannot help listening, because, in her agitated 
 state, everything interests her in spite of herself. The talk of 
 the other two attracts her attention, because she instinctively 
 feels the need for calm at the moment). 
 
 Belcredi. It may be as you say, doctor, but that was my 
 impression. 
 
 Doctor. I won't contradict you; but, believe me, it is 
 only ... an impression. 
 
 Belcredi. Pardon me, but he even said so, and quite 
 clearly {turning to the Marchioness). Didn't he, Mar- 
 chioness ? 
 
 Donna Matilda {turning round). What did he say? 
 . . . {Then not agreeing). Oh yes . . . but not for the 
 reason you think! 
 
 Doctor. He was alluding to the costumes we had 
 slipped on . . . Your cloak {indicating the Marchioness) y 
 our Benedictine habits . . . But all this is childish! 
 
 Donna Matilda {turning quickly, indignant). Child- 
 ish ? What do you mean, doctor ? 
 
 110 
 
[Act II] "HENRY IV ^ \U 
 
 Doctor. From one point of view, It Is — I beg you to 
 let me say so, Marchioness! Yet, on the other hand, It is 
 much more complicated than you can imagine. 
 
 Donna Matilda. To me, on the contrary, it Is perfectly 
 clear ! 
 
 Doctor {with a smile of pity of the competent persort 
 towards those who do not understand) . We must take into 
 account the peculiar psychology of madmen ; which, you must 
 know, enables us to be certain that they observe things and 
 can, for instance, easily detect people who are disguised ; can 
 in fact recognize the disguise and yet believe in it; just as 
 children do, for whom disguise is both play and reality. 
 That Is why I used the word childish. But the thing is 
 extremely complicated. Inasmuch as he must be perfectly 
 aware of being an image to himself and for himself — that 
 Image there, in fact {alluding to the portrait in the throne 
 room, and pointing to the left) ! 
 
 Belcredi. That's what he said ! 
 
 Doctor. Very well then — An Image before which other 
 images, ours, have appeared: understand? Now he, in his 
 acute and perfectly lucid delirium, was able to detect at once 
 a difference between his image and ours: that is, he saw 
 that ours were make-believes. So he suspected us; because 
 all madmen are armed with a special diffidence. But that's 
 all there Is to it! Our make-believe, built up all round his, 
 did not seem pitiful to him. While his seemed all the more 
 tragic to us, in that he, as if In defiance — understand ? — and 
 induced by his suspicion, wanted to show us up merely as 
 a joke. That was also partly the case with him, in coming 
 before us with painted cheeks and hair, and saying he had 
 done it on purpose for a jest. 
 
 Donna Matilda {impatiently) . No, it's not that, doo 
 tor. It's not like that! It's not like that! 
 
 Doctor. Why isn't it, may I ask? 
 
112 "HENRY IV r [Act II] 
 
 Donna Matilda {with decision but trembling). I am 
 perfectly certain he recognized me! 
 
 Doctor. It's not possible . . . it's not possible! 
 
 Belcredi {at the same time). Of course not! 
 
 Donna Matilda {more than ever determined, almost 
 convulsively ) . I tell you, he recognized me ! When he came 
 close up to speak to me — looking in my eyes, right into my 
 eyes — he recognized me! 
 
 Belcredl But he was talking of your daughter! 
 
 Donna Matilda. That's not true ! He was talking of 
 me! Of me! 
 
 Belcredi. Yes, perhaps, when he said . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda {letting herself go). About my dyed 
 hair! But didn't you notice that he added at once; "or the 
 memory of your dark hair, if you were dark" ? He remem- 
 bered perfectly well that I was dark — then! 
 
 Belcredi. Nonsense! nonsense! 
 
 Donna Matilda {not listening to him, turning to the 
 doctor). My hair, doctor, is really dark — like my daugh- 
 ter's ! That's why he spoke of her. 
 
 Belcredi. But he doesn't even know your daughter! 
 He's never seen her! 
 
 Donna Matilda. Exactly! Oh, you never understand 
 anything! By my daughter, stupid, he meant me — as I was 
 then! 
 
 Belcredi. Oh, this is catching! This is catching, this 
 madness ! 
 
 Donna Matilda {softly, with contempt). Fool! 
 
 Belcredi. Excuse me, were you ever his wife? Your 
 daughter is his wife — in his delirium: Bertha of Susa. 
 
 Donna Matilda. Exactly! Because I, no longer dark 
 — as he remembered me — but fair, introduced myself as 
 "Adelaide," the mother. My daughter doesn't exist for him: 
 
[Act II] "HENRY IV r 113 
 
 he's never seen her — you said so yourself! So how can he 
 know whether she's fair or dark? 
 
 Belcredi. But he said dark, speaking generally, just as 
 anyone who wants to recall, whether fair or dark, a memory 
 of youth in the color of the hair! And you, as usual, begin 
 to imagine things! Doctor, you said I ought not to have 
 come! It's she who ought not to have come! 
 
 Donna Matilda {upset for a moment by Belcredi s re- 
 mark, recovers herself. Then with a touch of anger, because 
 doubtful). No, no ... he spoke of me . . . He spoke all 
 the time to me, with me, of me . . . 
 
 Belcredi. That's not bad! He didn't leave me a 
 moment's breathing space; and you say he was talking all 
 the time to you? Unless you think he was alluding to you 
 too, when he was talking to Peter Damiani ! 
 
 Donna Matilda {defiantly, almost exceeding the limits 
 of courteous discussion) . Who knows? Can you tell me 
 why, from the outset, he showed a strong dislike for you, 
 for you alone? {From the tone of the question, the expected 
 answer must almost explicitly be: "because he understands 
 you are my lover.'' Belcredi feels this so well that he remains 
 silent and can say nothing). 
 
 Doctor. The reason may also be found in the fact that 
 only the visit of the Duchess Adelaide and the abbot of 
 Cluny was announced to him. Finding a third person 
 present, who had not been announced, at once his sus- 
 picions . . . 
 
 Belcredi. Yes, exactly! His suspicion made him see an 
 enemy in me: Peter Damiani! But she's got it into her 
 head, that he recognized her . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. There's no doubt about it! I could 
 see it from his eyes, doctor. You know, there's a way of 
 looking that leaves no doubt whatever . . . Perhaps it was 
 only for an instant, but I am sure! 
 
114 ''HENRY IV r [Act II] 
 
 Doctor. It is not impossible : a lucid moment . . . 
 h Donna Matilda. Yes, perhaps . . . And then his 
 I speech seemed to me full of regret for his and my youth — 
 [ for the horrible thing that happened to him, that has held 
 1 him in that disguise from which he has never been able to 
 free himself, and from which he longs to be free — ^he said so 
 himself ! 
 
 Belcredi. Yes, so as to be able to make love to your 
 daughter, or you, as you believe — having been touched by 
 your pity. 
 
 Donna Matilda. Which is very great, I would ask you 
 to believe. 
 
 Belcredi. As one can see. Marchioness; so much so that 
 a miracle-worker might expect a miracle from it! 
 
 Doctor. Will you let me speak ? I don't work miracles, 
 because I am a doctor and not a miracle-worker. I listened 
 very intently to all he said; and I repeat that that certain 
 analogical elasticity, common to all symptomatised delirium, 
 is evidently with him much . . . what shall I say? — much 
 relaxed! The elements, that is, of his delirium no longer 
 hold together. It seems to me he has lost the equilibrium 
 of his second personality and sudden recollections drag him 
 — and this is very comforting — not from a state of incipient 
 apathy, but rather from a morbid inclination to reflective 
 melancholy, which shows a ... a very considerable cerebral 
 activity. Very comforting, I repeat! Now if, by this 
 violent trick we've planned . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda {turning to the window , in the tone 
 e/ a sick person complaining) . But how is it that the motor 
 has not returned ? It's three hours and a half since . . , 
 
 Doctor. What do you say? 
 
 Donna Matilda. The motor, doctor! It's more than 
 three hours and a half . . . 
 
[Act II] ''HENRY IV r 115 
 
 Doctor {taking out his watch and looking at it). Yes, 
 more than four hours, by this! 
 
 Donna Matilda. It could have reached here an hour 
 ago at least! But, as usual . . . 
 
 Belcredi. Perhaps they can't find the dress . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. But I explained exactly where it was! 
 (impatiently). And Frida . . . where is Frida? 
 
 Belcredi (looking out of the window). Perhaps she is 
 in the garden with Charles . . . 
 
 Doctor. He'll talk her out of her fright. 
 
 Belcredi. She's not afraid, doctor; don't you believe 
 it: the thing bores her rather . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. Just don't ask anything of her! I 
 know what she's like. 
 
 Doctor. Let's wait patiently. Anyhow, it will soon be 
 over, and it has to be in the evening ... It will only be 
 the matter of a moment! If we can succeed in rousing him, 
 as I was saying, and in breaking at one go the threads — 
 already slack — which still bind him to this fiction of his, 
 giving him back what he himself asks for — you remem- 
 ber, he said : "one cannot always be twenty-six years old, 
 madam!" if we can give him freedom from this torment, 
 which even he feels is a torment, then if he is able to re- 
 cover at one bound the sensation of the distance of time . . . 
 
 Belcredi (quickly). He'll be cured! (then emphatically 
 with irony). We'll pull him out of it all! 
 
 Doctor. Yes, we may hope to set him going again, like 
 a watch which has stopped at a certain hour . . . just as if 
 we had our watches in our hands and were waiting for that 
 other watch to go again. — A shake — so — and let's hope itll 
 tell the time again after its long stop. (At this point ike 
 Marquis Charlies Di Nolli enters from the principal en- 
 trance). 
 
116 "HENRY IV r [Act II] 
 
 Donna Matilda. Oh, Charles! . . . And Frida? 
 Where is she ? 
 
 Di NoLLi. She'll be here in a moment. 
 
 Doctor. Has the motor arrived? 
 
 Di NoLLi. Yes. 
 
 Donna Matilda. Yes? Has the dress come? 
 
 Di Nolli. It's been here some time. 
 
 Doctor. Good ! Good ! 
 
 Donna Matilda (/r^w^/m^). Where is she? Where's 
 Frida? 
 
 Di Nolli {shrugging his shoulders and siniling sadly, like 
 one lending himself unwillingly to an untimely joke). You'll 
 see, you'll see! . . . {pointing towards the hall). Here she 
 is! . . . {Berthold appears at the threshold of the hall, and 
 announces with solemnity) . 
 
 Berthold. Her Highness the Countess Matilda of 
 Canossa! {Frida enters, magnificent and beautiful, arrayed 
 in the robes of her mother as ''Countess Matilda of Tuscany,'* 
 so that she is a living copy of the portrait in the throne 
 room). 
 
 Frida {passing Berthold, who is bowing, says to him with 
 disdain). Of Tuscany, of Tuscany! Canossa is just one of 
 my castles ! 
 
 Belcredi {in admiration). Look! Look! She seems an- 
 other person . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. One would say it were I! Look! — 
 Why, Frida, look! She's exactly my portrait, alive! 
 
 Doctor. Yes, yes . . . Perfect! Perfect! The por- 
 trait, to the life. 
 
 Belcredi. Yes, there's no question about it. She is the 
 portrait ! Magnificent ! 
 
 Frida. Don't make me laugh, or I shall burst! I say, 
 mother, what a tiny waist you had? I had to squeeze so to 
 get into this! 
 
[Act II] ''HENRY IV." 117 
 
 Donna Matilda {arranging her dress a little). Wait! 
 . . . Keep still! , . . These pleats ... is it really so 
 tight? 
 
 Frida. I'm suffocating ! I implore you, to be quick ! . . . 
 
 Doctor. But we must wait till it's evening! 
 
 Frida. No, no, I can't hold out till evening! 
 
 Donna Matilda. Why did you put it on so soon ? 
 
 Frida. The moment I saw it, the temptation was irre- 
 sistible . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. At least you could have called me, 
 or have had someone help you! It's still all crumpled. 
 
 Frida. So I saw, mother; but they are old creases; they 
 won't come out. 
 
 Doctor. It doesn't matter. Marchioness! The illusion 
 is perfect. ( Then coming nearer and asking her to come in 
 front of her daughter, without hiding her). If you please, 
 stay there, there ... at a certain distance . . . now a little 
 more forward . . . 
 
 Belcredi. For the feeling of the distance of time . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda {slightly turning to him). Twenty 
 years after ! A disaster ! A tragedy ! 
 
 Belcredi. Now don't let's exaggerate! 
 
 Doctor {embarrassed, trying to save the situation). No, 
 no ! I meant the dress ... so as to see .. . You know . . . 
 
 Belcredi {laughing). Oh, as for the dress, doctor, it 
 isn't a matter of twenty years! It's eight hundred! An 
 abyss! Do you really want to shove him across it {point- 
 ing first to Frida and then to Marchioness) from there to 
 here? But you'll have to pick him up in pieces with a 
 basket! Just think now: for us it is a matter of twenty 
 years, a couple of dresses, and a masquerade. But, if, as 
 you say, doctor, time has stopped for and around him: if he 
 lives there {pointing to Frida) with her, eight hundred 
 years ago ... I repeat: the giddiness of the jump will be 
 
118 "HENRY IV r [Act II] 
 
 such, that finding himself suddenly among us . . . {The 
 doctor shakes his head in dissent). You don't think so? 
 
 Doctor. No, because life, my dear baron, can take up 
 its rhythms. This — our life — will at once become real also 
 to him; and will pull him up directly, wresting from him 
 suddenly the illusion, and showing him that the eight hundred 
 years, as you say, are only twenty! It will be like one of 
 those tricks, such as the leap into space, for instance, of the 
 Masonic rite, which appears to be heaven knows how far, 
 and is only a step down the stairs. 
 
 Belcredi. Ah! An idea! Yes! Look at Frida and the 
 Marchioness, doctor! Which is more advanced in time? 
 We old people, doctor ! The young ones think they are more 
 ahead; but it isn't true: we are more ahead, because time 
 "belongs to us more than to them. 
 
 Doctor. If the past didn't alienate us . . . 
 
 Belcredi. It doesn't matter at all! How does it alien- 
 ate us? They {pointing to Frida and Di Nolli) have still 
 to do what we have accomplished, doctor : to grow old, doing 
 the same foolish things, more or less, as we did . . , This 
 , is the illusion: that one comes forward through a door to 
 life. It isn't so! As soon as one is born, one starts dying; 
 therefore, he who started first is the most advanced of all. 
 The youngest of us is father Adam! Look there: {point- 
 ing to Frida) eight hundred years younger than all of us — 
 the Countess Matilda of Tuscany. {He makes her a deep 
 how), 
 
 Di Nolli. I say, Tito, don't start joking. 
 
 Belcredi. Oh, you think I am joking? , . . 
 
 Di Nolli. Of course, of course ... all the time. 
 
 Belcredi. Impossible! I've even dressed up as a Bene- 
 dictine . . . 
 
 Di Nolli. Yes, but for a serious purpose. 
 
 Belcredi. Well, exactly. If it has been serious for the 
 
[Act II] "HENRY IV r 119 
 
 others ... for Frida, now, for instance. ( Then turning to 
 the doctor) : I swear, doctor, I don't yet understand what 
 you want to do. 
 
 Doctor {annoyed). You'll see! Let me do as I wish 
 ... At present you see the Marchioness still dressed as . . . 
 
 Belcredi. Oh, she also . . . has to masquerade? 
 
 Doctor. Of course! of course! In another dress that's 
 in there ready to be used when it comes into his head he sees 
 the Countess Matilda of Canossa before him. 
 
 Frida {while talking quietly to Di Nolli notices the doc- 
 tor's mistake). Of Tuscany, of Tuscany! 
 
 Doctor. It's all the same! 
 
 Belcredi. Oh, I see ! He'll be faced by two of them . . . 
 
 Doctor. Two, precisely! And then . . . 
 
 Frida {calling him aside). Come here, doctor! Listen! 
 
 Doctor. Here I am! {Goes near the two young people 
 and pretends to give some explanations to them). 
 
 Belcredi {softly to Donna Matilda). I say, this is get- 
 ting rather strong, you know! 
 
 Donna Matilda {looking him firmly in the face). 
 What? 
 
 Belcredi. Does it really interest you as much as all that 
 — to make you willing to take part in . . . ? For a woman 
 this is simply enormous! . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. Yes, for an ordinary woman. 
 
 Belcredi. Oh, no, my dear, for all women, — in a ques^ 
 tion like this! It's an abnegation. 
 
 Donna Matilda. I owe it to him. 
 
 Belcredi. Don't lie! You know well enough it's not 
 hurting you ! 
 
 Donna Matilda. Well then, where does the abnega- 
 tion come in ? 
 
 Belcredi. Just enough to prevent you losing caste in 
 other people's eyes — and just enough to offend me! . . . 
 
120 ''HENRY IVr [Act II] 
 
 Donna Matilda. But who is worrying about you 
 now? 
 
 Di NoLLi {coming forward) . It's all right. It's all right. 
 That's what we'll do! {Turning towards Berthold) : Here 
 you, go and call one of those fellows! 
 
 Berthold. At once! {Exit). 
 
 Donna Matilda. But first of all we've got to pretend 
 that we are going away. 
 
 Di Nolli. Exactly! I'll see to that . , . {to Belcredi) 
 you don't mind staying here ? 
 
 Belcredi {ironically). Oh, no, I don't mind, I don't 
 mind! . . . 
 
 Di Nolli. We must look out not to make him suspicious 
 again, you know. 
 
 Belcredi. Oh, Lord! He doesn't amount to anything! 
 
 Doctor. He must believe absolutely that we've gone 
 away. {Landolph followed by Berthold enters from the 
 right). 
 
 Landolph. May I come in? 
 
 Di Nolli. Come in! Come in! I say — your name's 
 Lolo, isn't it? 
 
 Landolph. Lolo, or Landolph, just as you like! 
 
 Di Nolli. Well, look here: the doctor and the Mar- 
 chioness are leaving, at once. 
 
 Landolph. Very well. All we've got to say is that they 
 have been able to obtain the permission for the reception 
 from His Holiness. He's in there in his own apartments 
 repenting of all he said — and in an awful state to have the 
 pardon! Would you mind coming a minute? ... If you 
 would, just for a minute . . . put on the dress again . . . 
 
 Doctor. Why, of course, with pleasure . . . 
 
 Landolph. Might I be allowed to make a suggestion? 
 Why not add that the Marchioness of Tuscany has inter- 
 ceded with the Pope that he should be received ? 
 
[Act [I] "HENRY IV. " 121 
 
 Donna Matilda. You see, he has recognized me! 
 
 Landolph. Forgive me ... I don't know my history 
 very well. I am sure you gentlemen know It much better! 
 But I thought it was believed that Henry IV. had a secret 
 passion for the Marchioness of Tuscany. 
 
 Donna Matilda {at once). Nothing of the kind! Noth- 
 ing of the kind I 
 
 Landolph. That's what I thought! But he says he's 
 loved her . . . he's always saying it . . . And now he fears 
 that her indignation for this secret love of his will work him 
 harm with the Pope. 
 
 Belcredi. We must let him understand that this aversion 
 no longer exists. 
 
 Landolph. Exactly! Of course! 
 
 Donna Matilda {to Belcredi). History says — I don't 
 know whether you know it or not — that the Pope gave way 
 to the supplications of the Marchioness Matilda and the 
 Abbot of Cluny. And I may say, my dear Belcredi, that I 
 intended to take advantage of this fact — at the time of the 
 pageant — to show him my feelings were not so hostile to him 
 as he supposed. 
 
 Belcredi. You are most faithful to history. Marchion- 
 ess .. . 
 
 Landolph. Well then, the Marchioness could spare her- 
 self a double disguise and present herself with Monslgnor 
 {indicating the doctor) as the Marchioness of Tuscany. 
 
 Doctor {quickly, energetically). No, no! That won't 
 do at all. It would ruin everything. The impression from 
 the confrontation must be a sudden one, give a shock! No, 
 no. Marchioness, you will appear again as the Duchess Ade- 
 laide, the mother of the Empress. And then we'll go away. 
 This is most necessary: that he should know we've gone 
 away. Come on ! Don't let's waste any more time ! There's 
 a lot to prepare. 
 
122 ''HENRY IV r [^ct II] 
 
 {Exeunt the doctor. Donna Matilda, and Landolph, 
 right). 
 
 Frida. I am beginning to feel afraid again. 
 
 Di NoLLi. Again, Frida? 
 
 Frida. It would have been better if I had seen him be- 
 fore. 
 
 Di NoLLi. There's nothing to be frightened of, really. 
 
 Frida. He isn't furious, is he? 
 
 Di Nolli. Of course not! he's quite calm. 
 
 Belcredi {with ironic sentimental affectation). Melan- 
 choly! Didn't you hear that he loves you? 
 
 Frida. Thanks! That's just w^hy I am afjraid. 
 
 Belcredi. He won't do you any harm. 
 
 Di Nolli. It'll only last a minute . . . 
 
 Frida. Yes, but there in the dark with him . - . 
 
 Di Nolli. Only for a moment; and I will be near you, 
 and all the others behind the door ready to run in. As soon 
 as you see your mother, your part will be finished . . . 
 
 Belcredi. I'm afraid of a different thing: that w^e're 
 wasting our time . . . 
 
 Di Nolli. Don't begin again! The remedy seems a 
 sound one to me. 
 
 Frida. I think so too! I feel it! I'm all trembling! 
 
 Belcredi. But, mad people, my dear friends — though 
 they don't know it, alas — have this felicity w^hich w^e don't 
 take into account . . . 
 
 Dl Nolli {interrupting, annoyed). What felicity? Non- 
 sense ! 
 
 Belcredi {forcefully). They don't reason ! 
 
 Di Nolli. What's reasoning got to do with it, anj^way? 
 
 Belcredi. Don't you call it reasoning that he will have 
 to do — according to us-^when he sees her {indicates Frida) 
 and her mother ? We've reasoned it all out, surely ! 
 
 Di Nolli. Nothing of the kind: no reasoning at all! 
 
{Act II] "HENRY IF." 123 
 
 We put before him a double image of his own fantasy, or 
 fiction, as the doctor says. 
 
 Belcredi {suddenly) . I say, I've never understood why 
 they take degrees in medicine. 
 
 Dl NoLLi (amazed). Who? 
 
 Belcredi. The alienists! 
 
 Di NoLLi. What ought they to take degrees in, then? 
 
 Frida. If they are alienists, in what else should they take 
 degrees ? 
 
 Belcredi. In law, of course! All a matter of talk! The 
 more they talk, the more highly they are considered. "Anal- 
 ogous elasticity," *'the sensation of distance in time!" And 
 the first thing they tell you is that they don't work miracles — 
 when a miracle's just what is wanted! But they know that 
 the more they say they are not miracle-workers, the more 
 folk believe in their seriousness! 
 
 Berthold {who has been looking through the keyhole of 
 the door on right). There they are! There they are! 
 They're coming in here. 
 
 Di NoLLl. Are they? 
 
 Berthold. He wants to come with them . . . Yes! 
 . . . He's coming too! 
 
 Di Nolli. Let's get away, then! Let's get away, at 
 once! {To Berthold) : You stop here! 
 
 Berthold. Must I ? 
 
 {Without answering hinij Di Nolli, Frida, and Belcredi 
 go out by the main exit, leaving Berthold surprised. The 
 door on the right opens, and Landolph enters first, bowing. 
 Then Donna Matilda comes in, with mantle and ducal crovjn 
 as in the first act; also the doctor as the abbot of Cluny. 
 Henry IV. is among them in royal dress. Ordulph and 
 Harold enter last of all). 
 
 Henry IV. {following up what he has been saying in the 
 
124 "HENRY IVr [Act II] 
 
 other room). And now I will ask you a question: how can 
 I be astute, if you think me obstinate? 
 
 Doctor. No, no, not obstinate! 
 
 Henry IV. {smiling, pleased). Then you think me really 
 astute ? 
 
 Doctor. No, no, neither obstinate, nor astute. 
 
 Henry IV. {with benevolent irony). Monsignor, if 
 obstinacy is not a vice which can go with astuteness, I hoped 
 that in denying me the former, you would at least allow me 
 a little of the latter. I can assure you I have great need of 
 it. But if you want to keep it all for yourself . . . 
 
 Doctor. I ? I ? Do I seem astute to you ? 
 
 Henry IV. No. Monsignor! What do you say? Not 
 in the least! Perhaps in this case, I may seem a little ob- 
 stinate to you {cutting short to speak to Donna Matilda). 
 With your permission : a word in confidence to the Duchess. 
 {Leads her aside and asks her very earnestly) : Is your daugh- 
 ter really dear to you ? 
 
 Donna Matilda {dismayed). Why, yes, certainly . . . 
 
 Henry IV. Do you wish me to compensate her with all 
 my love, with all my devotion, for the grave wrongs I have 
 done her — though you must not believe all the stories my 
 enemies tell about my dissoluteness! 
 
 Donna Matilda. No, no, I don't believe them. I never 
 have believed such stories. 
 
 Henry IV. Well, then are you willing? 
 
 Donna Matilda {confused). What? 
 
 Henry IV. That I return to love your daughter again? 
 {Looks at her and adds, in a mysterious tone of warning). 
 You mustn't be a friend of the Marchioness of Tuscany! 
 
 Donna Matilda. I tell you again that she has begged 
 and tried not less than ourselves to obtain your pardon . . . 
 
 Henry IV. {softly, but excitedly). Don't tell me that! 
 
[Act II] ''HENRY IV." 125 
 
 Don't say that to me! Don't you see the effect it has on 
 me, my Lady? 
 
 Donna Matilda {looks at him; then very softly as if in 
 confidence). You love her still? 
 
 Henry IV. {puzzled). Still? Still, you say? You 
 know, then? But nobody knows! Nobody must know! 
 
 Donna Matilda. But perhaps she knows, if she has 
 begged so hard for you! 
 
 Henry IV. {looks at her and says) : And you love your 
 daughter? {Brief pause. He turns to the doctor with laugh- 
 in ff accents). Ah, Monsignor, it's strange how little I think 
 of my w^ife! It may be a sin, but I swear to you that I 
 hardly feel her at all in my heart. What is stranger is that 
 her own mother scarcely feels her in her heart. Confess., 
 my Lady, that she amounts to very little for you. {Turn- 
 ing to Doctor) : She talks to me of that other woman, in- 
 sistently, insistently, I don't know why! . . . 
 
 Landolph {humbly). Maybe, Majesty, it is to disabuse 
 you of some ideas you have had about the Marchioness of 
 Tuscany. {Then, dismayed at having allowed himself this 
 observation, adds) : I mean just now, of course . . . 
 
 Henry IV. You too maintain that she has been friendly 
 to me? 
 
 Landolph. Yes, at the moment, Majesty. 
 
 Donna Matilda. Exactly! Exactly! . . . 
 
 Henry IV. I understand. That is to say, you don't be- 
 lieve I love her. I see! I see! Nobody's ever believed it, 
 nobody's ever thought it. Better so, then! But enough, 
 enough! {Turns to the doctor with changed expression) I 
 Monsignor, you see ? The reasons the Pope has had for re- 
 voking the excommunication have got nothing at all to do 
 with the reasons for which he excommunicated me originally. 
 Tell Pope Gregory we shall meet again at Brixen. And you, 
 Madame, should you chance to meet your daughter in the 
 
126 "HENRY IV." [Act II] 
 
 courtyard of the castle of your friend the Marchioness, ask 
 her to visit me. We shall see if I succeed in keeping her 
 close beside me as wife and Empress. Many women have 
 presented themselves here already assuring me that they were 
 she. But they all, even while they told me they came from 
 Susa — I don't know why — began to laugh ! And then in the 
 bedroom . . . Well a man is a man, and a woman is a 
 woman. Undressed, we don't bother much about who we 
 are. And one's dress is like a phantom that hovers always 
 near one. Oh, Monsignor, phantoms in general are nothing 
 more than trifling disorders of the spirit: images we cannot 
 contain within the bounds of sleep. They reveal themselves 
 even when we are awake, and they frighten us. I ... ah 
 ... I am always afraid when, at night time, I see dis- 
 ordered images before me. Sometimes I am even afraid of 
 my own blood pulsing loudly in my arteries in the silence of 
 night, like the sound of a distant step in a lonely corridor! 
 . . . But, forgive me! I have kept you standing too long 
 already. I thank you, my Lady, I thank you, Monsignor. 
 {Donna Matilda and the Doctor go ojf boiving. As soon as 
 they have gone, Henry IV. suddenly changes his tone). 
 Buffoons, buffoons! One can play any tune on them! And 
 that other fellow . . . Pietro Damiani ! . . . Caught him 
 out perfectly! He's afraid to appear before me again. {Moves 
 up and down excitedly while saying this; then sees Berthold, 
 and points him out to the other three valets). Oh, look at 
 this imbecile watching me with his mouth w^ide open! 
 {Shakes him). Don't you understand? Don't you see, 
 idiot, how I treat them, how I play the fool with them, make 
 them appear before me just as I wish? Miserable, fright- 
 ened clowns that they are! And you {addressing the valets) 
 are amazed that I tear off their ridiculous masks now, just 
 as if it wasn't I who had made them mask themselves to 
 satisfy this taste of mine for playing the madman ! 
 
[Act II] ''HENRY IVr 127 
 
 Landolph — Harold — Ordulph {bewildered, looking 
 at one another). What? What does he say? What? 
 
 Henry IV. {answers them imperiously) . Enough! enough! 
 Let's stop it. Vm tired of it . {Then as if the thought left 
 him no peace) : By God! The impudence! To come here 
 along with her lover! . . . And pretending to do it out of 
 pity ! So as not to infuriate a poor devil already out of the 
 world, out of time, out of life! If it hadn't been supposed 
 to be done out of pity, one can well imagine that fellow 
 wouldn't have allowed it. Those people expect others to 
 behave as they wish all the time. And, of course, there's 
 nothing arrogant in that! Oh, no! Oh, no! It's merely 
 their way of thinking, of feeling, of seeing. Everybody has 
 his own way of thinking; you fellows, too. Yours is that 
 of a flock of sheep — miserable, feeble, uncertain . . . But 
 those others take advantage of this and make you accept their 
 wa">Mof thinking; or, at least, they suppose they do; Because, 
 after all, what do they succeed in imposing on you ? Worifs 
 words which anyone can interpret in his own manner ! That's 
 the way public opinion is formed ! And it's a bad look out 
 for a man who finds himself labelled one day with one of 
 these words which everyone repeats; for example "madman," 
 or "imbecile." Don't you think is rather hard for a man 
 to keep quiet, when he knows that there is a fellow going 
 about trying to persuade everybody that he is as he sees him, 
 trying to fix him in other people's opinion as a "madman" — 
 according to him? Now I am' talking seriously! Before I 
 hurt my head, falling from my horse . . . {stops suddenly, 
 noticing the dismay of the four young men). What's the 
 matter with you? {Imitates their amazed looks). What? 
 Am I, or am I not, mad? Oh, yes! I'm mad all right! {He 
 becomes terrible). Well, then, by God, down on your knees, 
 down on your knees! {Makes them go down on their knees 
 one by one). I order you to go down on your knees be- 
 
128 ''HENRY IVr [Act II] 
 
 fore me! And touch the ground three times with j^our 
 foreheads! Down, down! That's the way you've got 
 to be before madmen! {Then annoyed with their facile 
 humiliation): Get up, sheep! You obeyed me, didn't 
 you? You might have put the straight jacket on me! 
 . . . Crush a man with the weight of a word — it's nothing 
 — a fly! all our life Is crushed by the weight of words: the 
 weight of the dead. Look at me here: can you really sup- 
 pose that Henry IV. is still alive? All the same, I speak, 
 and order you live men about! Do you think it's a joke that 
 the dead continue to live? — ^Yes, here it's a joke! But get 
 out into the live world ! — Ah, jou say : what a beautiful 
 sunrise — for us! All time is before us! — Dawn! We will do 
 what we llkejwi th this day — . Ah, yesT To Hell with tradi- 
 tion, the old conventions ! Well, go on ! You will do noth- 
 ing but repeat the old, old w^ords, while you Imagme yoiTare~ 
 tivtrigl J^Qoes'Up~t(r-B-erth<>l^^trhcrfiaT'now become quite 
 stupMy. You don't understand a word of this, do yon? 
 What's your name ? 
 
 Berthold. I? . . . What? . . . Berthold . . . 
 
 Henry IV. Poor Berthold! What's your name here? 
 
 Berthold. I . . . I . . . my name in Fino. 
 
 Henry IV. {feeling the warning and critical glances of 
 the others, turns to them to reduce them to silence). Fino? 
 
 Berthold. Fino Pagliuca, sire. 
 
 Henry IV. {turning to Landolph) . I've heard you call 
 each other by your nick-names often enough ! Your name is 
 Lolo, isn't it ? 
 
 Landolph. Yes, sire . . . {then with a sense of im- 
 mense joy). Oh, Lord! Oh Lord! Then he is not 
 mad . . . 
 
 Hetsiry YV. {brusquely). What? 
 
 Landolph {hesitating) . No ... I said . . . 
 
 Henry IV. Not mad, eh ? We're having a joke on thos© 
 
[Act II] "HENRY IVr 129 
 
 that think I am mad! {To Harold) — I say, boy, your 
 name's Franco ... {to Ordulph) And yours . . . 
 
 Ordulph. Momo. 
 
 Henry IV. Momo, Momo ... A nice name that! 
 
 Landolph. So he isn't . . . 
 
 Henry IV. What are you talking about? Of course 
 not! Let's have a jolly, good laugh! . . . {Laughs) : Ah! 
 . . . Ah! . . . Ah! . . . 
 
 Landolph — Harold — Ordulph {looking at each other 
 half happy and half dismayed) . Then he's cured ! . . . he's 
 all right! . . . 
 
 Henry IV. Silence! Silence! ... {To Berthold) : 
 Why don't you laugh? Are you offended? I didn't mean 
 it especially for you. It's convenient for everybody to insist 
 that certain people are mad, so they can be shut up. Do 
 you know why? Because it's impossible to hear them speak! 
 What shall I say of these people who've just gone away? 
 That one is a whore, another a libertine, another a swindler 
 . . . don't you think so? You can't believe a word he says 
 . . . don't you think so? — By the way, they all listen to me 
 terrified. And why are they terrified, if what I say isn't 
 true? Of course, you can't believe what madmen say — yet, 
 at the same time, they stand there with their eyes wide open 
 with terror! — Why? Tell me, tell me, why? — You see I'm 
 quite calm now! 
 
 Berthold. But, perhaps, they think that . . . 
 
 Henry IV. No, no, my dear fellow ! Look me well in 
 the eyes! ... I don't say that it's true — nothing is true, 
 Berthold! But . . . look me in the eyes! 
 
 Berthold. Well . . . 
 
 Henry IV. You see? You see? . . . You have terror 
 in your own eyes now because I seem mad to you ! There's 
 the oroof of it ilaughs) ! 
 
130 "HENRY IV:' [Act II] 
 
 Landolph {coming forward in the name of the others, 
 exasperated) . What proof ? 
 
 Henry IV. Your being so dismayed because now I seem 
 again mad to you. You have thought me mad up to now, 
 haven't you ? You feel that this dismay of yours can become 
 terror too — something to dash away the ground from under 
 your feet and deprive you of the air you breathe! Do you 
 know what it means to find yourselves face to face with a 
 madman — with one who shakes the foundations of all you 
 have built up in yourselves, your logic, the logic of all your 
 constructions? Madmen, lucky folk! construct without logic, 
 or rather with a logic that flies like a feather. Voluble! 
 Voluble! Today like this and tomorrow — who knows? 
 You say: "This cannot be"; but for them everything can 
 be. You say: ''This isn't true!" And why? Because it 
 doesn't seem true to you, or you, or you . . . {indicates the 
 three of them in succession) . . . and to a hundred thou- 
 sand others ! One must see ^vhat seems true to these hundred 
 thousand others who are not supposed to be mad! What a 
 magnificent spectacle they afford, when they reason! What 
 flowers of logic they scatter! I know that when I was a 
 child, I thought the moon in the pond was real. How many 
 things I thought real! I believed everything I was told — 
 and I was happy! Because it's a terrible thing if you don't 
 hold on to that which seems true to you today — to that 
 which will seem true to you tomorrow, even if it is the 
 opposite of that which seemed true to you yesterday. I would 
 never wish you to think, as I have done, on this horrible thing 
 which really drives one mad : that if you were beside another 
 and looking into his eyes — as I one day looked into some- 
 body's eyes — you might as well be a beggar before a door 
 never to be opened to you; for he who does enter there will 
 never be you, but someone unknown to you with his own 
 different and impenetrable woM . . . {Long pause. Dark' 
 
[Act II] ''HENRY IVr 131 
 
 ness gathers in the room, increasing the sense of strangeness 
 and consternation in which the four young men are involved. 
 Henry IV remains aloof, pondering on the misery which is 
 not only his, but everybody's. Then he pulls himself up, and 
 says in an ordinary tone) : It's getting dark here . . . 
 
 Ordulph. Shall I go for a lamp? 
 
 Henry IV. {Ironically) . The lamp, yes the lamp! . . „ 
 Do you suppose I don't know that as soon as I turn my back 
 with my oil lamp to go to bed, you turn on the electric light 
 for yourselves, here, and even there, in the throne room? 
 I pretend not to see it! 
 
 Ordulph. Well, then, shall I turn it on now? 
 
 Henry IV. No, it would blind me! I want my lamp! 
 
 Ordulph. It's ready here behind the door. {Goes to 
 the main exit, opens the door, goes out for a moment, and 
 returns with an ancient lamp which is held by a ring at the 
 top). 
 
 Henry IV. Ah, a little light! Sit there around the 
 table, no, not like that; in an elegant, easy, manner! . . . 
 {To Harold) : Yes, you, like that {poses him) ! {Then to 
 Berthold) : You, so! . . , and I, here {sits opposite them) ! 
 We could do with a little decorative moonlight. It's very- 
 useful for us, the moonlight. I feel a real necessity for it, 
 and pass a lot of time looking up at the moon from my 
 window. Who would think, to look at her that she knows 
 that eight hundred years have passed, and that I, seated at 
 the window, cannot really be Henry IV gazing at the 
 moon like any poor devil? But, look, look! See what a 
 magnificent night scene we have here: the emperor sur- 
 rounded by his faithful counsellors! . . . How do you 
 like it? 
 
 Landolph {softly to Harold, so as not to break the enr 
 chantment). And to think it wasn't true! . . . 
 
132 "HENRY IF/' [Act II] 
 
 Henry IV. True? What wasn't true? 
 
 Landolph (timidly as if to excuse himself). No . . . 
 I mean ... I was saying this morning to him (indicates 
 Bert hold) — ^he has just entered on service here — I was, 
 saying: what a pity that dressed like this and with so many 
 beautiful costumes in the wardrobe . . . and with a room 
 like that (indicates the throne room) . . . 
 
 Henry IV. Well? what's the pity? 
 
 Landolph. Well . . . that we didn't know . . . 
 
 Henry IV. That it was all done in jest, this comedy? 
 
 Landolph. Because we thought that . . . 
 
 Harold (coming to his assistance) . Yes . . . that it was 
 done seriously ! 
 
 Henry IV. What do you say? Doesn't it seem serious 
 to you? 
 
 Landolph. But if you say that . . . 
 
 Henry IV. I say that — you are fools! You ought to have 
 known how to create a fantasy for yourselves, not to act it 
 for me, or anyone coming to see me; but naturally, simply, 
 day by day, before nobody, feeling yourselves alive in the 
 history of the eleventh century, here at the court of your 
 emperor, Henry IV! You Ordulph (taking him by the 
 arm) J alive in the castle of Goslar, waking up in the morn- 
 ing, getting out of bed, and entering straightway into the 
 dream, clothing yourself in the dream that would be no 
 more a dream, because you would have lived it, felt it all 
 alive in you. You would have drunk it in with the air you 
 breathed; yet knowing all the time that it was a dream, so 
 you could better enjoy the privilege afforded you of having 
 to do nothing else but live this dream, this far off and yet 
 actual dream! And to think that at a distance of eight 
 centuries from this remote age of ours, so coloured and so 
 sepulchral, the men of the twentieth century are torturing 
 themselves in ceaseless anxiety to know how their fates and 
 
[Act II] ''HENRY IV r 133 
 
 fortunes will work out ! Whereas you are already in history 
 with me . . . 
 
 Landolph. Yes, yes, very good! 
 
 Henry IV. . . . Everything determined, everything 
 settled ! ^ ■" ' ^ 
 
 Ordulph. Yes, yes! 
 
 Henry IV. And sad as is my lot, hideous as some of the 
 events are, bitter the struggles and troublous the time — still 
 all history! An_ history that cannot change, understand? 
 ^A1j_ fYPrl fjT rpver! And ynii rnnld have admired at your 
 ease how every'^efFEtt followed obediently its cause with 
 perfect logic, how every event took place precisely and 
 coherently in each minute particular! The pleasure, the 
 pleasure of history, in fact, which is so great, was yours. 
 
 Landolph. tJeautitul, beautiful ! ~ ~ — 
 
 :lHenrylJ5^. Beautiful, but it's finished! Now that you 
 know, I could not do it any more! {Takes his lamp to go 
 to bed). Neither could you, if up to now you haven't under- 
 stood the reason of it! I am sick of it now. {Almost to him- 
 self with violent contained rage) : B.^ __God, I'll m ake hej:^ 
 sorry she came here! Dressed herself up as a mother-in-law 
 forTne~7~r'ri~^Arid~1re as an abbot . . . ! And they bring a 
 doctor with them to study me ... ! Who knows if they 
 don't hope to cure me? . . . Clowns . . . ! I'd like to 
 smack one of them at least in the face: yes, that one — a 
 famous swordsman, they say! . . . He'll kill me . . . Well, 
 we'll see, we'll see! . . . {A knock at the door). Who 
 is it? 
 
 The Voice of John. Deo Gratias! 
 
 Harold {very pleased at the chance for another joke). 
 Oh, it's John, it's old John, who comes every night to play 
 the monk. 
 
 Ordulph {rubbing his hands). Yes, yes! Let's make 
 him do it! 
 
134 "HENRY IF/' [Act II] 
 
 r^, 
 
 ^ 
 
 ENRY IV. {at once, severely). Fool, why? Just to play 
 V a j oke on a poor old man who does it for love of me? 
 
 Landolph {to Ordulph). It has to be as if it were true. 
 
 Henry IV. Exactly, as if true! Because, only so, truth 
 is not a jest {opens the door and admits John dressed as a 
 humble friar with a roll of parchment under his arm). Come 
 in, come in, father ! ( Then assuming a tone of tragic gravity 
 and deep resentment) : All the documents of my life and 
 reign favorable to me were destroyed deliberately by my 
 enemies. One only has escaped destruction, this, my life, 
 written by a humble monk who is devoted to me. And you 
 would laugh at him! {Turns affectionately to John, and 
 invites him to sit down at the table). Sit down, father, sit 
 dow^n! Have tlie lamp near you {puts the lamp near him) I 
 Write! Write! 
 
 John {opens the parchment and prepares to write from 
 dictation). I am ready, your Majesty! 
 
 Henry IV. {dictating). "The decree of peace proclaimed 
 at Mayence helped the poor and humble, while it damaged the 
 weak- and the powerful {curtain begins to fall) : It brought 
 wealth to the former, hunger and misery to the latter . . »" 
 
 Curtain, 
 
ACT III 
 
 The throne room so dark that the wall at the bottom is 
 hardly seen. The canvasses of the two portraits have been 
 taken away; andj within their frames, Frida, dressed as the 
 "Marchioness of Tuscany'' and Charles Di Nolli, as "Henry 
 IF./' have taken the exact positions of the portraits. 
 
 For a moment, after the raising of curtain, the stage is 
 empty. Then the door on the left opens; and Henry IV., 
 holding the lamp by the ring on top of it, enters. He looks 
 back to speak to th^ four young men who, with John, are 
 presumedly in the adjoining hall, as at the end of the second 
 act. 
 
 Henry IV. No: stay where you are, stay where you arc. 
 I shall manage all right by myself. Good night! {Closes the 
 door and walks, very sad and tired, across the hall towards 
 the second door on the right, which leads into his apart- 
 ments). 
 
 Frida {as soon as she sees that he has just passed the 
 throne, whispers from the niche like one who is on the point 
 of fainting away with fright). Henry . . . 
 
 Henry IV. {stopping at the voice, as if someone had 
 stabbed him traitorously in the back, turns a terror-stricken 
 face towards the wall at the bottom of the room; raising an 
 arm instinctively, as if to defend himself and ward off a 
 blow). V^ho is calling me? (// is not a question, but an 
 exclamation vibrating with terror, which does not expect a 
 reply from the darkness and the terrible silence of the hall, 
 which suddenly fills him with the suspicion that he is really 
 mad). 
 
 Frida {at his shudder of terror, is herself not less 
 
 135 
 
136 ''HENRY IVr [Act III] 
 
 frightened at the part she is playing, and repeats a little more 
 loudly). Henry! . . . {But, although she wishes to act the 
 part as they have given it to her, she stretches her head a little 
 out of the frame towards the other frame). 
 
 Henry IV. {Gives a dreadful cry ; lets the lamp fall from 
 his hands to cover his head with his arms, and makes a move- 
 ment as if to run away). 
 
 Frida {jumping from the frame on to the stand and shout- 
 ing like a mad woman). Henry! . . . Henry! . . . I'm 
 afraid! . . . I'm terrified! . . . 
 
 {And while Di Nolli jumps in turn on to the stand and 
 thence to the floor and runs to Frida who, on the verge of 
 fainting, continues to cry out, the Doctor, Donna Matilda^ 
 also dressed as "Matilda of Tuscany,'' Tito Belcredi, Lan- 
 dolph, Berthold and John enter the hall from the doors on 
 the right and on the left. One of them turns on the light: a 
 strange light coming from lamps hidden in the ceiling so that 
 only the upper part of the stdge is well lighted. The others 
 without taking notice of Henry IF, who looks on astonished 
 by the unexpected inrush, after the moment of terror which 
 still causes him to tremble, run anxiously to support and com- 
 fort the still shaking Frida, who is moaning in the arms of 
 her fiance. All are speaking at the same time.) 
 
 Di NoLLi. No, no, Frida . . . Here I am . . . I am 
 beside you ! 
 
 Doctor {coming with the others). Enough! Enough! 
 There's nothing more to be done! . . . 
 
 Donna Matilda. He is cured, Frida. Look! He is 
 cured! Don't you see? 
 
 Di Nolli {astonished). Cured? 
 
 Belcredi. It was only for fun ! Be calm ! 
 
 Frida. No! I am afraid! I am afraid! 
 
 Donna Matilda. Afraid of what? Look at him! He 
 was nev^r mad at all! . . . 
 
[Act III] "HENRY IVr 137 
 
 Di NoLLi. That isn't true! What are you saying? 
 Cured ? 
 
 Doctor. It appears so. I should say so . . . 
 
 Belcredi. Yes, yes! They have told us so {pointing to 
 the four young men). 
 
 Donna Matilda. Yes, for a long time ! He has confided 
 in them, told them the truth! 
 
 Dl NoLLi {now more indignant than astonished). But 
 what does it mean? If, up to a short time ago . . . ? 
 
 Belcredi. Hum ! He was acting, to take you in and also 
 us, who in good faith . . . 
 
 Di NoLLi. Is it possible ? To deceive his sister, also, right 
 up to the time of her death ? 
 
 Henry IV. {Remains apart, peering at one and now at 
 the other under the accusation and the mockery of what all 
 believe to be a cruel joke of his, which is now revealed. He 
 has shown by the flashing of his eyes that he is meditating a 
 revenge, which his violent contempt prevents him from defin- 
 ing clearly, as yet. Stung to the quick and with a clear idea 
 of accepting the fiction they have insidiously worked up as 
 true, he bursts forth at this point) : Go on, I say ! Go on ! 
 
 Dl NoLLi {astonished at the cry). Go on! What do you 
 mean? 
 
 Henry IV. It isn't your sister only that is dead! 
 
 Di Nolli. My sister ? Yours, I say, whom you compelled 
 up to the last moment, to present herself here as your mother 
 Agnes ! 
 
 Henry IV. And was she not your mother? 
 
 Di Nolli. My mother? Certainly my mother! 
 
 Henry IV. But your mother is dead for me, old and far 
 awayl You have just got down now from there {pointing 
 to the frame from which he jumped down) . And how do you 
 know whether I have not wept her long in secret, dressed 
 even as I am? 
 
138 ''HENRY IVr [Act III] 
 
 Donna Matilda {dismayed, looking at the others). 
 What does he say? {Much impressed, observing him). 
 Quietly ! quietly, for Heaven's sake ! 
 
 Henry IV. What do I say? I ask all of you if Agnes 
 was not the mother of Henry IV? {Turns to Frida as if she 
 were really the Marchioness of Tuscany) : You, Marchion- 
 ess, it seems to me, ought to know. 
 
 Frida {still frightened, draws closer to Di Nolli). No, 
 no, I don't know. Not I ! 
 
 Doctor. It's the madness returning. . . . Quiet now, 
 everybody ! 
 
 Belcredi {indignant). Madness indeed, doctor! He's 
 acting again! . . . 
 
 Henry IV. {suddenly). I? You have emptied those two 
 frames ovei there, and he stands before my eyes as Henry 
 IV. . . . 
 
 Belcredi. We've had enough of this joke now. 
 
 Henry IV. Who said joke? 
 
 Doctor {loudly to Belcredi). Don't excite him, for the 
 love of God! 
 
 Belcredi {without lending an ear to him, but speaking 
 louder). But they have said so {pointing again to the four 
 young men), they, they! 
 
 Henry IV. {turning round and looking at them). You? 
 Did you say it was all a joke? 
 
 Landolph {timid and embarrassed) . No . . . really we 
 said that you were cured. 
 
 Belcredi. Look here! Enough of this! {To Donna 
 Matilda) : Doesn't it seem to you that the sight of him 
 {pointing to Di Nolli) y Marchioness and that of your 
 daughter dressed so, is becoming an intolerable puerility? 
 
 Donna Matilda. Oh, be quiet! What does the dress 
 matter, if he is cured ? 
 
 Henry IV. Cured, yes! I am cured! {To Belcredi) ah. 
 
 i 
 
[Act III] "HENRY IVr 139 
 
 but not to let it end this way all at once, as you suppose! 
 {Attacks him). Do you know that for twenty years nobody* 
 has ever dared to appear before me here like you and that I 
 gentleman (pointing to the doctor)? * 
 
 Belcredi. Of course I know it. As a matter of fact, I too 
 appeared before you this morning dressed . . . 
 
 Henry IV. As a monk, yes! 
 
 Belcredi. And you took me for Peter Damiani ! And I 
 didn't even laugh, believing, in fact, that . . . 
 
 Henry IV. That I was mad! Does it make 5^ou laugh 
 seeing her like that, now that I am cured? And yet you 
 might have remembered that in my eyes her appearance 
 now . . . {interrupts himself with a gesture of contempt) 
 Ah! {Suddenly turns to the doctor) : You are a doctor, 
 aren't you? 
 
 Doctor. Yes. 
 
 Henry IV. And you also took part in dressing her up as 
 the Marchioness of Tuscany? To prepare a counter-joke 
 for me here, eh? 
 
 Donna Matilda {impetuously) . No, no! What do you 
 say ? It was done for you ! I did it for your sake. 
 
 Doctor {quickly). To attempt, to try, not knowing . . . 
 
 Henry IV. {cutting him short). I understand. I say 
 counter-joke, in his case {indicates Belcredi), because he 
 believes that I have been carrying on a jest . . . 
 
 Belcredi. But excuse me, what do you mean? You say 
 yourself you are cured. 
 
 Henry IV. Let me speak! {To the doctor): Do you 
 know, doctor, that for a moment you ran the risk of making 
 me mad again? By God, to make the portraits speak; to 
 make them jump alive out of their frames . . . 
 
 Doctor. But you saw that all of us ran in at once, as soon 
 as they told us . . . 
 
 Henry IV. Certainly! {Contemplates Frida and Di 
 
140 "HENRY IF/' [Act III] 
 
 Nollij and then looks at the Marchioness, and finally at his 
 own costume) . The combination is very beautiful . . . Two 
 couples . . . Very good, very good, doctor ! For a madman, 
 not bad! . . . {With a slight wave of his hand to Belcredi) : 
 It seems to him now to be a carnival out of season, eh? 
 {Turns to look at him). We'll get rid now of this mas- 
 querade costume of mine, so that I may come away with you. 
 What do you say? 
 
 Belcredi. With me? With us? 
 
 Henry IV. Where shall we go? To the Club? In dress 
 coats and with white ties? Or shall both of us go to the 
 Marchioness' house? 
 
 Belcredi. Wherever you like! Do you want to remain 
 here still, to continue — alone — what was nothing but the un- 
 fortunate joke of a day of carnival? It is really incredible, 
 incredible how you have been able to do all this, freed from 
 the disaster that befell you! 
 
 Henry IV. Yes, you see how it was! The fact is that 
 falling from my horse and striking my head as I did, I was 
 really mad for I know not how long . . . 
 
 Doctor. Ah! Did it last long? 
 
 Henry IV. {very quickly to the doctor). Yes, doctor, a 
 long time! I think it must have been about twelve years. 
 {Then suddenly turning to speak to Belcredi) : Thus I saw 
 nothing, my dear fellow, of all that, after that day of carni- 
 val, happened for you but not for me: how things changed, 
 how my friends deceived me, how my place was taken by 
 another, and all the rest of it! And suppose my place had 
 been taken in the heart of the woman I loved? . . . And 
 how should I know who was dead or who had disappeared ? 
 . . . All this, you know, wasn't exactly a jest for me, as it 
 seems to you . . . 
 
 Belcredi. No, no! I don't mean that if you please. I 
 mean after . . , 
 
[Act III] ''HENRY IF/' 141 
 
 Henry IV. Ah, yes? After? One day (stops and ad- 
 dresses the doctor) — A most interesting case, doctor! Study 
 me well! Study me carefully {tretnbles while speaking)! 
 All by itself, who knows how, one day the trouble here 
 {touches his forehead) mended. Little by little, I open my 
 eyes, and at first I don't know whether I am asleep or awake. 
 Then I know I am awake. I touch this thing and that ; 1 see 
 clearly again . . . Ah! — then, as he says {alludes to Bel- 
 credi) away, away with this masquerade, this incubus! Let's 
 open the windows, breathe life once again ! Away ! Away ! 
 Let's run out! {Suddenly pulling himself up). But where? 
 And to do what? To show myself to all, secretly, as Henry 
 IV., not like this, but arm in arm with you, among my dear 
 friends ? 
 
 Belcredi. What are you saying? 
 
 Donna Matilda. Who could think it? It's not to be 
 imagined. It was an accident. 
 
 Henry IV. They all said I was mad before. {To Bel- 
 credi) : And you know it! You were more ferocious than 
 any one against those who tried to defend me. 
 
 Belcredi. Oh, that was only a joke! 
 
 Henry IV. Look at my hair! {Shows him the hair on 
 the nape of his neck). 
 
 Belcredi. But mine is grey too! 
 
 Henry IV. Yes, with this difference: that mine went 
 grey here, as Henry IV., do you understand? And I never 
 knew it! I perceived it all of a sudden, one day, when I 
 opened my eyes; and I was terrified because I understood at 
 once that not only had my hair gone grey, but that I was all 
 grey, inside; that everything had fallen to pieces, that every- 
 thing was finished; and I was going to arrive, hungry as a 
 wolf, at a banquet which had already been cleared away . . . 
 
 Belcredi. Yes, but, what about the others? . . . 
 
 Henry IV. {quickly). Ah, yes, I know! They couldn't 
 
142 "HENRY IVr [Act III] 
 
 wait until I was cured, not even those, who, behind my back, 
 pricked my saddled horse till it bled. . . . 
 
 Di NoLLi {agitated). What, what? 
 
 Henry IV. Yes, treacherously, to make it rear and cause 
 me to fall. 
 
 Donna Matilda {quickly, in horror). This is the first 
 time I knew that. 
 
 Henry IV. That was also a joke, probably! 
 
 Donna Matilda. But who did it ? Who was behind us, 
 then? 
 
 Henry IV. It doesn't matter who it was. All those 
 that went on feasting and were ready to leave me their scrap- 
 ings, Marchioness, of miserable pity, or some dirty remnant 
 of remorse in the filthy plate! Thanks! {Turning quickly 
 to the doctor) : Now doctor, the case must be absolutel;/ 
 new in the history of madness; I preferred to remain mqd — . 
 since I found everything ready and at my disposal for this 
 new exquisite fantasy. I would live it — this madness of 
 mine — with the most lucid consciousness; and thus revenge 
 myself on the brutality of a stone which had dinted my head. 
 The solitude — this solitude — squalid and empty as it ap- 
 • peared to me when I opened my eyes again — I determined to 
 deck it out with all the colours and splendors of that far off 
 day of carnival, when you {looks at Donna Matilda and 
 points Frida out to her) when you. Marchioness, triumphed. 
 I So I v/ould oblige all those who were around me to follovv^, 
 -[ by God, at my orders that famous pageant which had been — 
 j for you and not for me — the jest of a day. I would make it 
 I become — for ever — no more a joke but a reality, the reality 
 of a real madness: here, all in masquerade, with throne 
 ' room, and these my four secret counsellors: secret and, of 
 course, traitors. {He turns quickly towards them). I 
 should like to know what you have gained by revealing the 
 fact that I was cured! If I am cured, there's no longer any 
 
[Act III] ''HENRY IVr 143 
 
 need of you, a nd you will be discharged ! To give anyone 
 ^^one^s confidence . . . that is really the act of a madmah- But 
 now ^-^ccnse you'iiT~fiTy turn {turning to the others)! Do 
 you know? They thought {alludes to the valets) they could 
 make fun of me too with you {bursts out laughing. The 
 others laugh, but shamefacedly, except Donna Matilda). 
 
 Belcredi {to Di Nolli). Well, imagine that . . . That's 
 not bad . . . 
 
 Di Nolli {to the four young men). You? 
 
 Henry IV. We must pardon them. This dress {pluck- 
 ing his dress) which is for me the evident, involuntary cari- 
 cature of that other continuous, everlasting masquerade, of 
 which we arc the involuntary puppets {indicates Belcredi), 
 when, without knowing it, we mask ourselves with that 
 which we appear to be . . . ah, that dress of theirs. _this 
 masquerrirl e of theirs, of course, we must for give it them, 
 since the y do not ye^ ^eeit is identical with themselves TT . 
 ( Turning again to Belcredi) :"Tou know, it is quite^easy to 
 get accustomed to it. One walks about as a tragic character, 
 just as if it were nothing . . . {Imitates the tragic manner) 
 in a room like this . . . Look here, doctor ! I remember a 
 priest, certainly Irish, a nice-looking priest, who was sleeping 
 in the sun one November day, with his arm on the corner of 
 the bench of a public garden. He was lost in the golden de- 
 light of the mild sunny air which must have seemed for him 
 almost summery. One may be sure that in that moment he 
 did not know any more that he was a priest, or even where 
 he was. He was dreaming ... A little boy passed with a 
 flower in his hand. He touched the priest with it here on 
 the neck. I saw him open his laughing eyes, while all his 
 mouth smiled with the beauty of his dream. He was forget- 
 1 '1 of ever>'thing . . . But all at once, he pulled himself 
 together, and stretched out his priest's cassock; and there 
 came back to his eyes the same seriousness which you have 
 
144 "HENRY IVr [Act III] 
 
 seen in mine; because the Irish priests defend the seriousness 
 of their Catholic faith with the same zeal with which I 
 defend the secret rights of hereditary monarchy ! I am cured, 
 gentlemen: because I can act the mad man to perfection, 
 here; and I do it very quietly, I'm only sorry for you that 
 have to live your madness so agitatedly, without knowing it 
 or seeing it. 
 
 Belcredi. It comes to this, then, that it is we who are 
 mad. That's what it is! 
 
 Henry IV. {containing his irritation). But if you 
 weren't mad, both you and she {indicating the Marchioness) 
 would you have come here to see me? 
 
 Belcredi. To tell the truth, I came here believing that 
 you were the madman. 
 
 Henry IV. {suddenly indicating the Marchioness). And 
 she? 
 
 Belcredi. Ah, as for her ... I can't say. I see she is 
 all fascinated by your words, by this conscious madness of 
 yours. {Turns to her). Dressed as you are {speaking to 
 her), you could even remain here to live it out. Marchioness. 
 
 Donna Matilda. You are insolent! 
 
 Henry IV. {conciliatingly) . No, Marchioness, what he 
 means to say is that the miracle would be complete, according 
 to him, with you here, who — as the Marchioness of Tuscany, 
 you well know, — could not be my friend, save, as at Canossa, 
 to give me a little pity . . . 
 
 Belcredl Or even more than a little I She said so her- 
 self! 
 
 Henry IV. {to the Marchioness, continuing) . And even, 
 shall we say, a little remorse! . . . 
 
 Belcredi. Yes, that too she has admitted. 
 
 Donna Matilda {angry). Now look here . . . 
 
 Henry IV. {quickly, to placate her). Don't bother about 
 him! Don't mind him! Let him go Oii infuriating me—' 
 
[Act III] ''HENRY IVr 145 
 
 though the doctor's told him not to. {Turns to Belcredi.) : 
 But do you suppose I am going to trouble myself any more 
 about what happened between us — the share you had in my 
 misfortune with her (indicates the Marchioness to hi?n and, 
 pointing Belcredi out to her) : the part he has now in 
 your life? This is my life! Quite a different thing from 
 your life! Your life, the life in which you have grown old 
 — I have not lived that life {to Donna Matilda). Was this 
 what you wanted to show me with this sacrifice of yours, 
 dressing yourself up like this, according to the Doctor's idea? 
 Excellently done, doctor! Oh, an excellent idea: — '*As we 
 were then, eh? and as we are now?" But I am not a mad- 
 man according to your way of thinking, doctor. I know 
 very well that that man there {indicates Di Nolli) cannot be 
 me; because I am Henry IV., and have been, these twenty 
 years, cast in this eternal masquerade. She has lived these 
 years {indicates the Marchioness) ! She has enjoyed them 
 and has become — look at her! — a woman I can no longer 
 recognize. It is so that I knew her {points to Frida and 
 draws near her) I This is the Marchioness I know, always 
 this one! . . . You seem a lot of children to be so easily 
 frightened by me ... (To Frida) : And you're frightened 
 too, little girl, aren't you, by the jest that they made you 
 take part in — though they didn't understand it wouldn't be 
 the jest they meant it to be, for me? Oh miracle of miracles! 
 Prodigy of prodigies ! The dream alive in you ! More than 
 alive in you! It was an image that wavered there and 
 they've made you come to life! Oh, mine! You're mine, 
 mine, mine, in my own right! {He holds her in his arms, 
 laughing like a madman, while all stand still terrified. Then 
 as they advance to tear Frida from his arms, he becomes 
 furious, terrible and cries imperiously to his valets) : Hold 
 them ! Hold them ! I order you to hold them ! 
 
 {The four young men amazed, yet fascinated, move to 
 
146 ''HENRY IV" [Act III] 
 
 execute his orders, automatically, and seize Di Nolli, the 
 doctor, and Belcredi.) 
 
 Belcredi {freeing hi?nself) . Leave her alone! Leave 
 her alone ! You're no madman ! 
 
 Henry IV. {In a flash draws the sword from the side of 
 Landolph, who is close to him). I'm not mad, eh! Take 
 that, you! . . . {Drives sword into him. A cry of horror 
 goes up. All rush over to assist Belcredi, crying out to- 
 gether) : 
 
 Di NoLLi. Has he wounded you? 
 
 Berthold. Yes, yes, seriously! 
 
 Doctor. I told you so! 
 
 Frida. Oh God, oh God ! 
 
 Di Nolli. Frida, come here! 
 
 Donna Matilda. He's mad, mad! 
 
 Di Nolli. Hold him! 
 
 Belcredi {while they take him away by the left exit, he 
 protests as he is borne out). No, no, you're not mad! You're 
 not mad. He's not mad! 
 
 {They go out by the left amid cries and excitement. After 
 a moment, one hears a still sharper, more piercing cry from 
 Donna Matilda, and then, silence). 
 
 Henry IV. {zuho has remained on the stage between Lan- 
 dolph, Harold and Ordulph, with his eyes almost starting 
 out of his head, terrified by the life of his own masquerade 
 which has driven him to crime). Ah now . . . yes now . . . 
 inevitably {calls his valets around him as if to protect him) 
 here together . . . here together . . . for ever . . . for 
 ever. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 1 
 
 ^4 
 
[Act III] "HENRY IVr 147 
 
 NOTE TO ''HENRY IV." 
 
 With the author's consent and approval, the translator 
 has omitted a few lines from the original Italian where their 
 highly parenthetical character made the English version 
 unnecessarily complex. One or two allusions have also been 
 suppressed since they have not the same value in English as in 
 Italian. — E. S. 
 
RIGHT YOU ARE! (IF YOU THINK SO) 
 
 (Cost e, se vi pare!) 
 A PARABLE IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 LUIGI PIRANDELLO 
 
 translated by 
 Arthur Livingston 
 
CHARACTERS, ,, 
 
 LAMBERTO LAUDISI. SIGNORA FROLA. PONZA, SON-IN-LAW 
 OF SIGNORA FROLA. SIGNORA PONZA, PONZa's WIFE. 
 i^^COMMENDATORE AGAZZI, A PROVINCIAL COUNCILLOR. 
 AMALIA, HIS WIFE. DINA, THEIR DAUGHTER. SIRELLI. 
 (b'-SIGNORA SIRELLI, HIS WIFE. ^^HE PREFECT. j^ CENTURI, 
 A POLICE COMMISSIONER. SIGNORA CINI. if^GNORA 
 NENNI. A BUTLER. A NUMBER OF GENTLEMEN AND 
 LADIES. 
 
 Our Own Times, in a Small Italian Town, the 
 Capital of a Province. 
 
RIGHT YOU ARE! (IF YOU THINK SO) 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The parlor in the house of Commendatore Agazzi. 
 
 A door, the general entrance, at the hack; doors leading to 
 the wings, left and right. 
 
 Laudisi is a man nearing the forties, quick and energetic 
 in his movements. He is smartly dressed, in good taste. At 
 this moment he is wearing a semi-formal street suit', a sack 
 coat, of a violet cast, with black lapels, and with black braid 
 around the edges; trousers of a light but different color' 
 Laudisi has a keen, analytical mind, but is impatient and ir- 
 ritable in argument. Nevertheless, hoivever angry he gets 
 momentarily , his good humor soon coines to prevail. Then 
 he laughs and lets people have their way, enjoying, mean-i 
 while, the spectacle of the stupidity and gullibility of others. 
 
 Amalia^ Agazzi s zuife, is Laudisi s sister. She is a woman 
 of forty-five more or less. Her hair is already quite grey. 
 Signora Agazzi is always showing a certain sense of her own 
 importance from the position occupied by her husband in the 
 community ; but she gives you to understand that if she had a 
 free rein she zuould be quite capable of playing her own part 
 in the world and, perhaps, do it somewhat better than Com- 
 mendatore Agazzi. 
 
 DiNA is the daughter of Amalia and Agazzi. She is nine- 
 teen. Her general manner is that of a young person conscious 
 of understanding everything better than papa and mamma; 
 but this defect must not be exaggerated to the extent of con- 
 
 151 
 
152 - RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 cealing her attractiveness and charm as a good-looking win- 
 some girl. 
 
 As the curtain rises Laudisi is walking briskly up and 
 down the parlor to give vent to his irritation. 
 
 Laudisi. I see, I see! So he did take the matter up 
 with the prefect! 
 
 Amalia. But Lamberto dear, please remember that the 
 man is a subordinate of his. 
 
 Laudisi. A subordinate of his . . . very well! But a 
 subordinate in the office, not at home nor in society ! 
 
 DiNA. And he hired an apartment for that woman, his 
 mother-in-law, right here in this very building, and on our 
 floor. 
 
 Laudisi. And why not, pray? He was looking for an 
 apartment; the apartment was for rent, so he leased it — for 
 his mother-in-law. You mean to say that a mother-in-law is 
 in duty bound to make advances to the wife and daughter of 
 the man who happens to be her son-in-law's superior on his 
 job? 
 
 Amalia. That is not the way it is, Lamberto. We didn't 
 ask her to call on us. Dina and I took the first step by calling 
 on her and — she refused to receive us! 
 
 Laudisi. Well, is that any reason why your husband 
 should go and lodge a complaint with the man's boss? Do 
 you expect the government to order him to invite you to 
 tea? 
 
 Amalia. I tliink he deserves all he gets ! That is not the 
 way to treat two ladies. I hope he gets fired ! The idea ! 
 
 Laudisi. Oh, you women ! I say, making that complaint 
 is a dirty trick. By Jove! If people see fit to keep to them- 
 selves in their own houses, haven't they a right to? 
 
 Amalia. Yes, but you don't understand ! We were try- 
 ing to do her a favor. She is new in the town. We wanted 
 to make her feel at home. 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 153 
 
 DiNA. Now, now, Nunky dear, don't be so cross! Per- 
 haps we did go there out of curiosity more than anything 
 else; but it's all so funny, isn't it! Don't you think it was 
 natural to feel just a little bit curious? 
 
 Laudisi. Natural be damned ! It was none of your busi- 
 ness! 
 
 DiNA. Now, see here, Nunky, let's suppose — here you are 
 right here minding your own business and quite indifferent 
 to what other people are doing all around you. Very well! 
 I come into the room and right here on this table, under your 
 very nose, and with a long face like an undertaker's, or, 
 rather, with the long face of that jailbird you are defending, 
 I set down — well, what? — anything — a pair of dirty old 
 shoes! 
 
 Laudisi. I don't see the connection. 
 
 DiNA. Wait, don't interrupt me! I said a pair of old 
 shoes. Well, no, not a pair of old shoes — a flat iron, a roll- 
 ing pin, or your shaving brush for instance — and I walk out 
 again without saying a word to anybody ! Now I leave it to 
 you, wouldn't you feel justified in wondering just a little, 
 little, bit as to what in the world I meant by it? 
 
 Laudisi. Oh, you're irresistible, Dina! And you're 
 clever, aren't you? But you're talking with old Nunky, 
 remember ! You see, you have been putting all sorts of crazy 
 things on the table here; and you dlJ 't with the idea of 
 making me ask what it's all about; and, of course, since you 
 were doing all that on purpose, you can't blame me if I do 
 ask, why those old shoes just there, on that table, dearie? 
 But what's all that got to do with it? You'll have to show 
 me now that this Mr. Ponza of ours, that jail-bird as you say, 
 or that rascal, that boor, as your father calls him, brought 
 his mother-in-law to the apartment next to ours with the 
 idea of stringing us all ! You've got to show me that he did 
 it on purpose! 
 
154 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 DiNA. I don't say that he did it nn purpose — not at all! 
 But you can't deny that this famous Mr. Ponza has come to 
 this town and done a number of things which are unusual, 
 to say the least; and which he must have known were likely 
 to arouse a very natural curiosity in everybody. Look Nunky, 
 here is a man: he comes to town to fill an important public 
 position, and— what does he do ? Where does he go to live ? 
 He hires an apartment on the top floor, if you please, of that j 
 dirty old tenement out there on the very outskirts of the I 
 town. Now, I ask you — did you ever see the place? Inside? | 
 
 Laudisi. I suppose you went and had a look at it? 
 
 DiNA. Yes, Nunky dear, I went — with mamma! And 
 we weren't the only ones, you know. The whole town has 
 been to have a look at it. It's a five story tenement with an 
 interior court so dark at noontime you can hardly see your 
 hand before your face. Well, there is an iron balcony built 
 out from the fifth story around the courtyard. A basket is 
 hanging from the railing . . . They let it up and down — on 
 a rope ! 
 
 Laudisi. Well, what of it? 
 
 DiNA {looking at him with astonished indigjiation). What 
 of it? Well, there, if you please, is where he keeps his wife! 
 
 Amalia. While her mother lives here next door to us ! 
 
 Laudisi. A fashionable apartment, for his mother-in-law, 
 in the residential district! 
 
 Amalia. Generous to the old lady, eh ? But he does that 
 to keep her from seeing her daughter ! 
 
 Laudisi. How do you know that? How do you know 
 that the old lady, rather, does not prefer this arrangement, 
 just to have more elbow room for herself? 
 
 DiNA. No, no, Nunky, you're wrong. Everybody knows _^ 
 that it is he who is doing it. . . / "* 
 
 Amalia. See here, Lamberto, everybody understands, 4?" 
 a girl, when she marries, goes away from her mother to live 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE I 155 
 
 with her husband in some other town. But supposing this 
 poor mother can't stand being separated from her daughter 
 and follows her to the place, where she herself is also a com- 
 plete stranger. And supposing now she not only does not 
 live with her daughter, but is not even allowed to see her? 
 I leave it to you ... is that so easy to understand? 
 
 Laudisi. Oh say, you have about as much imagination as 
 so many mud turtles. A mother-in-law and a son-in-law ! Is 
 it so hard to suppose that either through her fault or his fault 
 or the fault of both, they should find it hard to get along 
 together and should therefore consider it wiser to live apart? 
 
 DiNA {ivith another look of pitying astonishment at her 
 uncle). How stupid of you, Nunky! The trouble is not 
 between the mother-in-law and the son-in-law, but between 
 the mother and the daughter. 
 
 Laudisi. How do you know that? 
 
 DiNA. Because he is as thick as pudding with the old 
 lady; because they are always together, arm in arm, and as 
 loving as can be. Mother-in-law and son-in-law, if you 
 please I Whoever heard the like of that? 
 
 Amalia. And he comes here every evening to see how 
 the old lady is getting on ! 
 
 DiNA. And that is not the worst of it! Sometimes he 
 comes during the daytime, once or twice! 
 
 Laudisi. How scandalous! Do you think he is making 
 love to the old woman? 
 
 DiNA. Now don't be improper, uncle. No, we will 
 acquit him of that. She is a poor old lady, quite on her last 
 legs. 
 
 Amalia. But he never, never, never brings his wife! A 
 daughter kept from seeing her mother! The idea! 
 
 Laudisi. Perhaps the young lady is not well; perhaps 
 she isn't able to go out. 
 
156 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 DiNA. Nonsense ! The old lady goes to see her I 
 
 Amalia. Exactly! And she never gets in! She can see 
 her only from a distance. Now will yo\i explain to me why, 
 in the name of common sense, that poor mother should be 
 forbidden ever to enter her daughter's house ? 
 
 DiNA. And if she wants to talk to her she has to shout 
 up from the courtyard! 
 
 Amalia. Five stories, if you please! . . . And her 
 daughter comes out and looks down from the balcony up 
 there. The poor old woman goes into the courtyard and 
 pulls a string that leads up to the balcony ; a bell rings ; the 
 girl comes out and her mother talks up at her, her head 
 thrown back, just as though she were shouting from out of 
 a well. . . . 
 
 {There is a knock at the door and the butler enters). 
 
 Butler. Callers, madam! 
 
 Amalia. Who is it, please? 
 
 Butler. Signor Sirelli, and the Signora with another 
 lady, madam. 
 
 Amalia. Very well, show them in. 
 
 {The butler bows and withdraws). 
 
 Sirellij Signora Sirelli, Signora Cini appear in the door- 
 way, rear. 
 
 Sirelli^ also a man of about forty, is a bald, fat gentle- 
 man with some pretensions to stylish appearance that do not 
 quite succeed: the overdressed provincial. 
 
 Signora Sirelli, his wife, plump, petite, a faded blonde, 
 still young and girlishly pleasing. She, too, is somewhat 
 overdressed with the provincial's fondness for display. She 
 has the aggressive curiosity of the small-town gossip. She 
 is chiefly occupied in keeping her husband in his place. 
 
 Signora Cini is the old provincial lady of affected man- 
 ners, who takes malicious delight in the failings of others, all 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 157 
 
 the while ajfecting innocence and inexperience regarding the 
 waywardness of mankind. 
 
 Amalia {as the visitors enter , and taking Signora Sirelli's 
 hands effusively). Dearest! Dearest! 
 
 Signora Sirelli. I took the liberty of bringing my good 
 friend, Signora Cini, along. She was so anxious to know 
 you! 
 
 Amalia. So good of you to come, Signora! Please make 
 yourself at home! My daughter Dina, Signora Cini, and 
 this is my brother, Lamberto Laudisi. 
 
 Sirelli {bowing to the ladies). Signora, Signorina. {He 
 goes over and shakes hands with Laudisi.) 
 
 Signora Sirelli. Amalia dearest, we have come here 
 as to the fountain of knowledge. We are two pilgrims 
 athirst for the truth ! 
 
 Amalia. The truth ? Truth about what ? 
 
 Signora Sirelli. Why . . . about this blessed Mr. 
 Ponza of ours, the new secretary at the prefecture. He is 
 the talk of the town, take my word for it, Amalia. 
 
 Signora Cini. And we are all just dying to find out! 
 
 Amalia. But we are as much in the dark as the rest of 
 you, I assure you, madam. 
 
 Sirelli {to his wife). What did I tell you? They know 
 no more about it than I do. In fact, I think they know less 
 about it than I do. Why is it this poor woman is not 
 allowed to see her daughter ? Do you know the reason, you 
 people, the real reason? 
 
 Amalia. Why, I was just discussing the matter with my 
 brother. 
 
 Laudisi. And my view of it is that you're all a pack of 
 gossips ! 
 
 Dina. The reason is, they say, that Ponza will not allow 
 her to. 
 
158 filGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. Not a sufficient reason, if I may say so, 
 Signorina. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Quite insufficient! There's more to 
 it than that! 
 
 SiRELLi. I have a new item for you, fresh, right off the 
 ice: he keeps her locked up at home! 
 
 Amalia. His mother-in-law? 
 
 SiRELLi. No, no, his wife! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. Under lock and key! 
 
 DiNA. There, Nunky, what have you to say to that? 
 And you've been trying to defend him all along! 
 
 SiRELLi {staring in astonishment at Laudisi) . Trying to 
 defend that man? Really . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Defending him? No! I am not defending 
 anybody. All I'm saying, if you ladies will excuse me, is 
 that all this gossip is not worthy of you. More than that, 
 you are just wasting your breath; because, so far as I can 
 see, you're not getting anywhere at all. 
 
 SiRELLi. I don't follow you, sir ! 
 
 Laudisi. You're getting nowhere, my charming ladies! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. But we're trying to get somewhere — we 
 are trying to find out ! 
 
 Laudisi. Excuse me, what can you find out? What can 
 we really know about other people — who they are — what 
 they are — what they are doing, and why they are doing it ? 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. How Can we know? Why not? By 
 asking, of course! You tell me what you know, and I tell 
 you what I know. 
 
 Laudisi. In that case, madam, you ought to be the best 
 informed person in the world. Why, your husband knows 
 more about what others are doing than any other man — or 
 woman, for that matter — in this neighborhood. 
 
 SiRELLi {deprecatingly but pleased). Oh I say, I say . . . 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi {to her husband) . No dear, he's rights 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 159 
 
 he's right. {Then turning to Amalia) '. The real truth, 
 Amalia, is this: for all my husband says he knows, I never 
 manage to keep posted on anything! 
 
 SiRELLi. And no wonder! The trouble is — that woman 
 never trusts me! The moment I tell her something she is 
 convinced it is not quite as I say. Then, sooner or later, 
 she claims that it cant be as I say. And at last she is certain 
 it is the exact opposite of what I say ! 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Well, you ought to hear all he tells 
 me! 
 
 Laudisi {laughing aloud). Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah! 
 Hah! Hah! Hah! May I speak, madam ? Let me answer 
 your husband. My dear Sirelli, how do you expect your 
 wife to be satisfied with things as you explain them to her, 
 if you, as is natural, represent them as they seem to you ? 
 
 SiGNORA Sirelli. And that means — as they cannot pos- 
 sibly be! 
 
 Laudisi. Why no, Signora, now you are wrong. From 
 your husband's point of view things are, I assure you, exactly 
 as he represents them. 
 
 Sirelli. As they are in reality ! 
 
 SiGNORA Sirelli. Not at all ! You are always wrong. 
 
 Sirelli. No, not a bit of it! It is you who are always 
 wrong. I am always right. 
 
 Laudisi. The fact is that neither of you is wrong. May 
 I explain ? I will prove it to you. Now here you are, you, 
 Sirelli, and Signora Sirelli, your wife, there; and here I am. 
 You see me, don't you ? 
 
 Sirelli. Well . . . er . . . yes. 
 
 Laudisi. Do you see me, or do you not? 
 
 Sirelli. Oh, I'll bite! Of course I see you. 
 
 Laudisi. So you see me! But that's not enough. Come 
 here ! 
 
 Sirelli {smiling, he obeys, but with a puzzled expression 
 
160 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 on his face as though he fails to understand what Laudisi is 
 driving at). Well, here I am! 
 
 Laudisi. Yes! Now take a better look at me . . 
 Touch me ! That's it — that's It ! Now you are touching mer 
 are you not? And you see me! You're sure you see me? 
 
 SiRELLi. Why, I should say . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Yes, but the point is, you're sure! Of course 
 you're sure! Now if you please, Signora Sirelli, you come 
 here — or rather . . . no . . . (gallantly) it is my place to 
 come to you! {He goes over to Signora Sirelli and kneels 
 chivalrously on one knee). You see me, do you not, madam? 
 Now that hand of yours . . . touch me ! A pretty hand, on 
 my word! {He pats her hand). 
 
 Sirelli. Easy ! Easy ! 
 
 Laudisi. Never mind your husband, madam ! Now, you 
 have touched me, have you not ? And you see me ? And you 
 are absolutely sure about me, are you not? Well now, 
 madam, I beg of you ; do not tell your husband, nor my sister, 
 nor my niece, nor Signora Cini here, what you think of me ; 
 because, if you were to do that, they would all tell you that 
 you are completely wrong. But, you see, you are really 
 right ; because I am really what you take me to be ; though, 
 my dear madam, that does not prevent me from also being 
 really what your husband, my sister, my niece, and Signora 
 Cini take me to be — because they also are absolutely right! 
 
 Signora Sirelli. In other words you are a different 
 person for each of us. 
 
 Laudisi. Of course I'm a different person! And you, 
 madam, pretty as you are, aren't you a different person, too? 
 
 Signora Sirelli {hastily). No siree! I assure you, as 
 far as I'm concerned, I'm always the same always, yester- 
 day, today, and forever! 
 
 Laudisi. Ah, but so am I, from my point of view, be- 
 lieve me! And, I would say that you are all mistaken un- 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 161 
 
 l<^s you see me as I see myself; but that would be an inex- 
 cusable presumption on my part — as it would be on yours, 
 my dear madam! 
 
 SiRELLi. And what has all this rigmarole got to do with 
 it, may I ask? 
 
 Laudisi. What has it got to do with it? Why . . . I ^ 
 find all you people here at your wits' ends trying to find out 
 who and what other people are; just as though other people j 
 had to be this, or that, and nothing else. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. All you are saying is that we can never 
 find out the truth! A dreadful idea! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. I give up ! I give up ! If we can't be- 
 lieve even what we see with our eyes and feel with our 
 fingers . . . 
 
 Laudisi. But you must understand, madam ! Of course 
 you can believe what you see with your eyes and feel with 
 your fingers. All I'm saying is that you should show some 
 respect for what other people see with their eyes and feel ( 
 with their fingers, even though it be the exact opposite of * 
 what you see and feel. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLl. The way to answer you is to refuse to 
 talk with you. See, I turn my back on you! I am going 
 to move my chair around and pretend you aren't in the 
 room. Why, you're driving me crazy, crazy! 
 
 Laudisi. Oh, I beg your pardon. Don't let me inter- 
 fere with your party. Please go on! Pray continue your 
 argument about Signora Frola and Signor Ponza — I promise 
 not to interrupt again ! 
 
 Amalia. You're right for once, Lamberto; and I think 
 it would be even better if you should go into the other 
 room. 
 
 Dina. Serves you right, Nunky! Into the other room 
 with you, into the other room ! 
 
 Laudisi. No, I refuse to budge! Fact is, I enjoy hearing 
 
162 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 ,VOu gossip; but I promise not to say anything more, don't 
 fear! At the very most, with your permission, I shall in- 
 dulge in a laugh or two. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. How funny . . . and our idea in com- 
 ing here was to find out . . . But really, Amalia, I thought 
 this Ponza man was 5 our husband's secretary at the Provin- 
 cial building. 
 
 Amalia. He is his secretary — in the office. But here at 
 home what authority has Agazzi over the fellow? 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Of course! I understand! But may 
 I ask . . . haven't you even tried to see Signora Frola, next 
 door? 
 
 DiNA. Tried? I should say we had! Twice, Signora! 
 SiGNORA CiNi. Well ... so then . . . you have probably 
 talked to her . . . 
 
 DiNA. We were not received, if you please ! 
 
 Signora Sirelli, Sirelli, Signora Cini {in chorus). 
 Not received? Why! WTiy! Why! 
 
 Dina. This very forenoon! 
 
 Amalia. The first time we waited fully fifteen minutes 
 at the door. We rang and rang and rang, and no one came. 
 Why, we weren't even able to leave our cards ! So we went 
 back today . . . 
 
 Dina {throwing up her hands in an expression of horror). 
 And he came to the door. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. Why yes, with that face of his . . . 
 you can tell by just looking at the man . . . Such a face! 
 Such a face! You can't blame people for talking! And 
 then, with that black suit of his . . , Why, they all dress 
 in black. Did you ever notice? Even the old lady! And 
 the man's eyes, too ! . . . 
 
 Sirelli {with a glance of pitying disgust at his wife). 
 What do you know about his eyes ? You never saw his eyes ! 
 And you never saw the woman. How do you know she 
 
 J 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 163 
 
 dresses in black? Probably she dresses in black ... By the 
 way, they come from a little town in the next county. Had 
 you heard that? A village called Marsica! 
 
 Amalia. Yes, the village that was destroyed a short time 
 ago. 
 
 SiRELLi. Exactly ! By an earthquake ! Not a house left 
 standing in the place. 
 
 DiNA. And all their relatives were lost, I have heard. 
 Mot one of them left in the world ! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNl {impatient to get on with the story). 
 Very well, very well, so then ... he came to the door . . . 
 
 Amalia. Yes . . . And the moment I saw him in front 
 of me with that weird face of his I had hardly enough gump- 
 tion left to tell him that we had just come to call on his 
 mother-in-law, and he . . . well . . . not a word, not a 
 word . . . not even a "thank you," if you please! 
 
 DiNA. That is not quite fair, mama: ... he did bow! 
 
 Amalia. Well, yes, a bow ... if you want to call it 
 fhat. Something like this! . . . 
 
 DiNA. And his eyes! You ought to see his eyes — the 
 eyes of a devil, and then some! You never saw a man with 
 eyes like that! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. Very well, what did he say, finally? 
 
 DiNA. He seemed quite taken aback. 
 
 Amalia. He was all confused like ; He hitched about for 
 a time; and at last he said that Signora Frola was not feeling 
 well, but that she would appreciate our kindness in having 
 come; and then he just stood there, and stood there, appar- 
 ently waiting for us to go away. 
 
 DiNA. I never was more mortified in my life ! 
 
 SiRELLi. A boor, a plain boor, I say! Oh, it's his fault, 
 I am telling you. And . . . who knows? Perhaps he has 
 got the old lady also under lock and key. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Well, I think something should be 
 
164 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 done about it ! . . . After all, you are the wife of a superior 
 of his. You can refuse to be treated like that. 
 
 Amalia. As far as that goes, my husband did take it 
 rather badly — as a lack of courtesy on the man's part; and 
 he went straight to the prefect with the matter, insisting on 
 an apology. 
 
 Signor Agazzi, commendatore and provincial councillor, 
 appears in the doorway rear. 
 
 DiNA. Oh goody, here's papa now ! 
 
 Agazzi is well on toward fifty. He has the harsh, au- 
 thoritarian manner of the provincial of importance. Red 
 hair and beard, rather unkempt; gold-rimmed eyeglasses. 
 
 Agazzi. Oh Sirelli, glad to see you! {He steps forward 
 and bows to the company). 
 
 Agazzi. Signora! . . . {He shakes hands with Signora 
 Sirelli). 
 
 Amalia {introducing Signora Cini). My husband, Sig' 
 nora Cini! 
 
 Agazzi {with a bow and taking her hand). A great 
 pleasure, madam! {Then turning to his wife and daughter 
 in a mysterious voice) : I have come back from the office to 
 give you some real news ! Signora Frola will be here shortly. 
 
 Signora Sirelli {clapping her hands delightedly). Oh, 
 the mother-in-law ! She is coming? Really? Coming here? 
 
 Sirelli {going over to Agazzi and pressing his hand 
 warmly as an expression of admiration). That's the talk, 
 old man, that's the talk! What's needed here is some show 
 of authority. 
 
 Agazzi. Why I had to, you see, I had to! ... I can't 
 let a man treat my wife and daughter that way ! . . . 
 
 Sirelli. I should say not! I was just expressing myself 
 to that effect right here. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. And it would have been entirely proper 
 to inform the prefect also ... 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 165 
 
 Agazzi {anticipating) . ... of all the talk that is going 
 around on this fine gentleman's account? Oh, leave that to 
 me! I didn't miss the opportunity. 
 
 SiRELLi. Fine! Fine! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. And such talk! 
 
 Amalia. For my part, I never heard of such a thing. 
 Why, do you know^, he has them both under lock and key! 
 
 DiNA. No, mama, we are not quite sure of that. We are 
 not quite sure about the old lady, yet. 
 
 Amalia. Well, we know it about his wife, anj^way. 
 
 SiRELLi. And what did the prefect have to say? 
 
 Agazzi. Oh the prefect . . . well, the prefect ... he 
 was very much impressed, very much impressed, with what I 
 had to say. 
 
 SiRELLi. I should hope so! 
 
 Agazzi. You see, some of the talk had reached his ears 
 already. And he agrees that it is better, as a matter of his 
 own official prestige, for all this mystery in connection with 
 one of his assistants to be cleared up, so that once and for 
 all we shall know the truth. 
 
 Laudisi. Hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah! 
 
 Amalia. That is Lamberto's usual contribution. He 
 laughs ! 
 
 Agazzi. And what is there to laugh about? 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Why he says that no one can ever 
 know the truth. 
 
 (The butler appears at the door in back set). 
 
 The Butler. Excuse me, Signora Frola! 
 
 SiRELLi. Ah, here she is now! 
 
 Agazzi. Now we'll see if we can settle it! 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Splendid! Oh, I am so glad I came. 
 
 Amalia {rising). Shall we have her come in? 
 
 Agazzi. Wait, you keep your seat, Amalia! Let's have 
 
166 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 her come right in here. {Turning to the butler). Show h^r 
 in! 
 
 Exit butler. 
 
 A moment later all rise as Signora Frola enters, and 
 Amalia steps forward, holding out her hand in greeting. 
 
 Signora Frola is a slight, modestly but neatly dressed 
 old lady, very eager to talk and apparently fond of people. 
 There is a world of sadness in her eyes, tempered however, 
 by a gentle smile that is constantly playing about her lips. 
 
 Amalia. Come right in, Signora Frola! {She takes the 
 old lady's hand and begins the introductions) . Mrs. Sirelli, 
 a good friend of mine; Signora Cini; my husband; Mr. 
 Sirelli ; and this is my daughter, Dina ; my brother Lamberto 
 Laudisi. Please take a chair, Signora! 
 
 Signora Frola. Oh, I am so very, very sorry! I have 
 come to excuse myself for having been so negligent of my 
 social duties. You, Signora Agazzi, were so kind, so very 
 kind, to have honored me with a first call — when really it 
 was my place to leave my card with you ! 
 
 Amalia. Oh, we are just neighbors, Signora Frola! Why 
 stand on ceremony? I just thought that you, being new in 
 town and all alone by yourself, would perhaps like to have 
 a little company. 
 
 Signora Frola. Oh, how very kind of you it was! 
 
 Signora Sirelli. And you are quite alone, aren't you ? 
 
 Signora Frola. Oh no! No! I have a daughter, 
 married, though she hasn't been here very long, either. 
 
 Sirelli. And your daughter's husband is the new secre- 
 tary at the prefecture, Signor Ponza, I believe? 
 
 Signora Frola. Yes, yes, exactly! And I hope that 
 Signor Agazzi, as his superior, will be good enough to ex- 
 cuse me — and him, too ! 
 
 Agazzi. I will be quite frank with you, madam ! I was 
 a bit put out. 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 167 
 
 SiGNORA Frola {interrupting). And you were quite 
 right! But I do hope you will forgive him. You see, we 
 are still — what shall I say — still so upset by the terrible 
 things that have happened to us . . . 
 
 Amalia. You went through the earthquake, didn't you ? 
 SiGNORA SiRELLl. And you lost all your relatives? 
 SiGXORA Frola. Every one of them! All our family — 
 yes, madam. And our village was left just a miserable ruin, 
 a pile of bricks and stones and mortar. 
 SiRELLl. Yes, we heard about it. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. It wasn't so bad for me, I suppose. I 
 had only one sister and her daughter, and my niece had no 
 family. But my poor son-in-law had a much harder time of 
 it. He lost his mother, two brothers, and their wives, a 
 sister and her husband, and there were two little ones, his 
 nephew^s. 
 
 SiRELLi. A massacre! 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Oh, one doesn't forget such things! 
 You see, it sort of leaves you with your feet off the ground. 
 Amalia. I can imagine. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. And all over-night with no warning at 
 Jill! It's a wonder you didn't go mad. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Well, yoii see, we haven't quite gotten 
 »iur bearings yet; and we do things that may seem impoHte, 
 without in the least intending to. I hope you understand ! 
 Agazzi. Oh please, Signora Frola, of course ! 
 Amalia. In fact it was partly on account of your trouble 
 that my daughter and I thought w^e ought to go to see you 
 first. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi {literally writhing with curiosity). Yes, 
 of course, since they saw you all alone by yourself, and yet 
 . . . excuse me, Signora Frola ... if the question doesn't 
 seem impertinent . . . how is it that when you have a 
 
168 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 daughter here in town and after a disaster like the one you 
 have been through ... I should think you people would 
 all stand together, that you would need one another. 
 
 SiGNORA Fro LA. Whereas I am left here all by myself ? 
 
 SiRELLi. Yes, exactly. I]t does seem strange, to tell the 
 honest truth. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Oh, I understand — of course ! But you 
 know, I have a feeling that a young man and a young woman 
 who have married should be left a good deal to themselves. 
 
 Laudisi. Quite so, quite so! They should be left to 
 themselves. They are beginning a life of their own, a 
 life different from anything they have led before. One 
 should not interfere in these relations between a husband and 
 a wife ! 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLl. But there are limits to everything, 
 Laudisi, if you will excuse me! And when it comes to 
 shutting one's own mother out of one's life . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Who is shutting her out of the girl's life? 
 Here, if I have understood the lady, we see a mother who 
 understands that her daughter cannot and must not remain 
 so closely associated with her as she was before, for now the 
 young woman must begin a new life on her own account. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola {with evidence of keen gratitude and re- 
 lief). You have hit the point exactly, sir. You have said 
 what I would like to have said. You are exactly right! 
 Thank you ! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. But your daughter, I imagine, often 
 comes to see you . . . 
 
 SiGNORA Frola {hesitating, and manifestly ill at ease). 
 Why yes ... I ... I ... we do see each other, of 
 
 course 
 
 Sirelli {quickly pressing the advantage). But your 
 daughter never goes out of her house! At least no one in 
 town has ever seen her. 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 165 
 
 SiGNORA CiNl. Oh, she probably has her little ones to 
 take care of. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola {speaking up quickly). No, there are no 
 children yet, and perhaps there won't be any, now. You see, 
 she has been married seven years. Oh, of course, she has 
 a lot to do about the house ; but that is not the reason, really. 
 You know, we women who come from the little towns in 
 the country — we are used to staying indoors much of the 
 time. 
 
 Agazzi. Even when your mothers are living in the same 
 town, but not in your house? You prefer staying indoors to 
 going and visiting your mothers? 
 
 Amalia. But it's Signora Frola probably who visits her 
 daughter. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola (quickly). Of course, of course, why 
 not! I go there once or twice a day. 
 
 SiRELLi. And once or twice a day you climb all those 
 stairs up to the fifth story of that tenement, eh ? 
 
 SiGNORA Frola {growing pale and trying to conceal under 
 a laugh the torture of that cross-examination). Why . . . 
 er . . . to tell the truth, I don't go up. You're right, five 
 flights would be quite too much for me. No, I don't go up. 
 My daughter comes out on the balcony in the courtyard and 
 . . . well . . . we see each other . . . and we talk! 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. And that's all, eh? How terrible! 
 You never see each other more intimately than that? 
 
 DiNA. I have a mama and certainly I wouldn't expect 
 her to go up five flights of stairs to see me, either; but 
 at the same time I could never stand talking to her that way, 
 shouting at the top of my lungs from a balcony on the fifth 
 story. I am sure I should want a kiss from her occasionally, 
 and feel her near me, at least. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola {with evident signs of embarrassment 
 and confusion) , And you're right ! Yes, exactly . . . quite 
 
170 RIGHT YOU ARE! {Act I] 
 
 right! I must explain. Yes ... I hope you people are not 
 going to think that my daughter is something she really is 
 not. You must not suspect her of having so little regard for 
 me and for my years, and you mustn't believe that I, her 
 mother, am . . . v^ell . . . five, six, even more stories to 
 climb would never prevent a real mother, even if she were 
 as old and infirm as I am, from going to her daughter's side 
 and pressing her to her heart with a real mother's love . . . 
 oh no! 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi {triumphantly). There you have it, 
 there you have it, just as we were saying! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. But there must be a reason, there must 
 be a reason! 
 
 Amalia {poifitedly to her brother). Aha, Lamberto, now 
 you see, there is a reason, after all ! 
 
 SiRELLi (insisting). Your son-in-law, I suppose? 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Oh please, please, please, don't think 
 badly of him. He is such a very good boy. Good is no 
 name for it, my dear sir. You can't imagine all he does for 
 me! Kind, attentive, solicitous for my comfort, everything! 
 And as for my daughter — I doubt if any girl ever had a more 
 affectionate and well-intentioned husband. No, on that point 
 I am proud of myself ! I could not have found a better man 
 for her. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Well then . . . What? What? 
 fVhatf 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. So your son-in-law is not the reason ? 
 
 Agazzi. I never thought it was his fault. Can you 
 imagine a man forbidding his wife to call on her mother, 
 or preventing the mother from paying an occasional visit 
 to her daughter ? 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Oh, it's not a case of forbidding! Who 
 ever dreamed of such a thing! No, it's we, Commendatorc, 
 I and my daughter, that is. Oh, please, believe me! We 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! ' 171 
 
 refrain from visiting each other of our own accord, out of 
 consideration for him, you understand. 
 
 Agazzi. But excuse me . . . how in the world could 
 he be offended by such a thing? I dont understand. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Oh, please don't be angry, Signor 
 Agazzi. You see it's a . . . what shall I say ... a feel- 
 ing . . . that's it, a feeling, which it would perhaps be very 
 hard for anyone else to understand; and yet, when you do 
 understand it, it's all so simple, I am sure ... so simple 
 . . . and believe me, my dear friends, it is no slight sacrifice 
 that I am making, and that my daughter is making, too. 
 
 Agazzi. Well, one thing you will admit, madam. This 
 is a very, very unusual situation. 
 
 SiRELLi. Unusual, indeed! And such as to justify a 
 curiosity even more persistent than ours. 
 
 Agazzi. It is not only unusual, madam. I might even 
 say it is suspicious. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Suspicious? You mean you suspect 
 Signor Ponza? Oh please, Commendatore, don't say th^t. 
 What fault can you possibly find with him, Signor Agazzi? 
 
 Agazzi. I didn't say just that . . . Please don't mis- 
 understand! I said simply that the situation is so very 
 strange that people might legitimately suspect . . . 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Oh, no, no, no! What could they 
 suspect. We are in perfect agreement, all of us; and we are 
 really quite happy, very happy, I might even say . . . both 
 I and my daughter. 
 
 SiGNORA Sirelli. Perhaps it's a case of jealousy? 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Jealousy of me? It would be hardly 
 fair to say that, although . . . really ... oh, it is so hard 
 to explain! . . . You see, he is in love with my daughter 
 ... so much so that he wants her whole heart, her every 
 thought, as it were, for himself; so much so that he insists 
 that the affections which my daughter must have for me, her 
 
172 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 mother — he finds that love quite natural of course, why not ? 
 Of course he does! — should reach me through him — that's 
 it, through him — don't you understand ? 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, that is going pretty strong! No, I don't 
 understand. In fact it seems to me a case of downright 
 cruelty ! 
 
 SiGNORA Fro LA. Cruelty? No, no, please don't call it 
 cruelty, Commendatore. It is something else, believe me! 
 You see it's so hard for me to explain the matter. Nature, 
 perhaps . . . but no, that's hardly the word. What shall I 
 call it? Perhaps a sort of disease. It's a fullness of love, of 
 a love shut off from the world. There, I guess that's it . . . 
 a fullness ... a completeness of devotion in which his wife 
 must live without ever departing from it, and into which no 
 other person must ever be allowed to enter. 
 
 DiNA. Not even her mother, I suppose? 
 
 SiRELLi. It is the worst case of selfishness I ever heard 
 of, if you want my opinion ! 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Selfishness? Perhaps! But a selfishness, 
 after all, which offers itself wholly in sacrifice. A case where 
 the selfish person gives all he has in the world to the one he 
 loves. Perhaps it would be fairer to call me selfish ; for selfish 
 it surely is for me to be always trying to break into this closed 
 world of theirs, break in by force if necessary ; when I know 
 that my daughter is really so happy, so passionately adored — ■ 
 you ladies understand, don't you ? A true mother should be 
 satisfied when she knows her daughter is happy, oughtn't she? 
 Besides I'm not completely separated from my daughter, am 
 I? I see her and I speak to her {She assumes a more con- 
 fidential tone). You see, when she lets down the basket 
 there in the courtyard I always find a letter in it — a short 
 note, which keeps me posted on the news of the day; and I 
 put in a little letter that I have written. That is some con- 
 solation, a great consolation indeed, and now, in course of 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 173 
 
 time, I've grown used to it. I am resigned, there! Re- 
 signation, that's it! And I've ceased really to suffer from it 
 at all. 
 
 Amalia. Oh well then, after all, if you people are satis- 
 fied, why should . . . 
 
 SiGNORA Frola (rising). Oh yes, yes! But, remember, 
 I told you he is such a good man ! Believe me, he couldn't be 
 better, really! We all have our weaknesses in this world, 
 haven't we ! And we get along best by having a little charity, 
 a little indulgence, for one another. (She holds out her hand 
 to Amalia). Thank you for calling, madam. (She bows to 
 Signora Sirelli, Signora Cini, and Dina; then turning to 
 Agazzi, she continues) : And I do hope you have forgiven 
 me! 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, my dear madam, please, please! And we 
 are extremely grateful for your having come to call on us. 
 
 Signora Frola (offering her hand to Sirelli and Laudisi 
 and again turning to Amalia who has risen to show her out). 
 Oh no, please, Signora Agazzi, please stay here with your 
 friends! Don't put yourself to any trouble! 
 
 Amalia. No, no, I will go with you; and believe me, 
 we w^ere very, very glad to see you! 
 
 (Exit Signora Frola with Amalia showing her the way. 
 Amalia returns immediately) . 
 
 Sirelli. Well, there you have the story, ladies and gentle- 
 men ! Are you satisfied with the explanation ? 
 
 Agazzi. An explanation, you call it? So far as I can 
 see she has explained nothing. I tell you there is some big 
 mystery in all this business. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. That poor woman ! Who knows what 
 torment she must be suffering? 
 
 Dina. And to think of that poor girl ! 
 
 Signora Cini. She could hardly keep in her tears as she 
 talked. 
 
174 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 Amalia. Yes, and did you notice when I CDentioned all 
 those stairs she would have to climb before really being able 
 to see her daughter ? 
 
 Laudisi. What impressed me was her concern, which 
 amounted to a steadfast determination, to protect her son- 
 in-law from the slightest suspicion. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Not at all, not at all! What could 
 she say for him? She couldn't really find a single word to 
 say for him. 
 
 SiRELLi. And I would like to know how anyone could 
 condone such violence, such downright cruelty ! 
 
 The Butler {appearing again in the doorway). Beg 
 pardon, sir! Signor Ponza calling. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. The man himself, upon my word ! 
 
 {An animated ripple of surprise and curiosity, not to say 
 of guilty self-consciousnesSj sweeps over the company). 
 
 Agazzi. Did he ask to see me? 
 
 Butler. He asked simply if he might be received. That 
 was all he said. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. Oh please, Signor Agazzi, please let 
 him come in ! I am really afraid of the man ; but I confess 
 the greatest curiosity to have a close look at the monster. 
 
 Amalia. But what in the world can he be wanting? 
 
 Agazzl The way to find that out is to have him come 
 in. {To the butler) : Show him in, please. 
 
 ( The butler bows and goes out. A second later Ponza 
 appears J aggressively, in the doorway). 
 
 Ponza is a short, thick set, dark complexioned man of a 
 distinctly unprepossessing appearance ; black hair, very thick 
 and coming down low over his forehead; a black mustache 
 upcurling at the ends, giving his face a certain ferocity of ex- 
 pression. He is dressed entirely in black. From time to 
 time he draws a black-bordered handkerchief and wipes the 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 175 
 
 perspiration from his brow. When he speaks his eyes are in- 
 variably hard, fixed, sinister. 
 
 Agazzi. This way please, Ponza, come right in! {intro- 
 ducing him) : Signor Ponza, our new provincial secretary; 
 my wife; Signora Sirelli; Signora Cini, my daughter Dina. 
 This is Signor Sirelli; and here is Laudisi, my brother-in- 
 law. Please join our party, won't you, Ponza? 
 
 Ponza. So kind of you! You will pardon the intrusion. 
 I shall disturb you only a moment, I hope. 
 
 Agazzi. You had some private business to discuss with 
 me? 
 
 Ponza. Why yes, but I could discuss it right here. In 
 fact, perhaps as many people as possible should hear what I 
 have to say. You see it is a declaration that I owe, in a 
 certain sense, to the general pubHc. 
 
 Agazzi. Oh my dear Ponza, if it is that little matter of 
 your mother-in-law's not calling on us, it is quite all right; 
 because you see . . . 
 
 Ponza. No, that was not what I came for, Commenda- 
 tore. It was not to apologize for her. Indeed I may say that 
 Signora Frola, my wife's mother, w^ould certainly have left 
 her cards with Signora Agazzi, your w^ife, and Signorina 
 Agazzi, your daughter, long before they were so kind as to 
 honor her with their call, had I not exerted myself to the 
 utmost to prevent her coming, since I am absolutely unable 
 to consent to her paying or receiving visits ! 
 
 Agazzi (drawing up into an authoritative attitude and 
 speaking with some severity). Why? if you will be so kind 
 as to explain, Ponza? j 
 
 Ponza {with evidences of increasing excitement in spite 
 of his efforts to preserve his self-control) . I suppose my 
 mother-in-law has been talking to you people about her 
 daughter, ray w^ife. Am I mistaken? And I imagine she 
 
176 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 told you further that I have forbidden her entering my house 
 and seeing her daughter intimately. 
 
 Amalia. Oh not at all, not at all, Signor Ponza! Signora 
 Frola had only the nicest things to say about you. She could 
 not have spoken of you with greater respect and kindness. 
 
 DiNA. She seems to be very fond of you indeed. 
 
 Agazzi. She says that she refrains from visiting your 
 house of her own accord, out of regard for feelings of yours 
 which we frankly confess we are unable to understand. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. Indeed, if we were to express our 
 honest opinion . . . 
 
 Agazzi. Well, yes, why not be honest? We think you 
 are extremely harsh with the woman, extremely harsh, per- 
 haps cruel would be an exacter word. 
 
 Ponza. Yes, that is what I thought ; and I came here for 
 the express purpose of clearing the matter up. The condi- 
 tion this poor woman is in is a pitiable one indeed — not less 
 pitiable than my own perhaps; because, as you see, I am com- 
 pelled to come here and make apologies — a public declaration 
 — which only such violence as has just been used upon me 
 could ever bring me to make in the world . . . {He stops 
 and looks about the room. Then he says slowly with em' 
 jphatic emphasis on the important syllables) : My mother-in- 
 law, Signora Frola, is not in her right mind ! She is insane . 
 
 The Company. Insane! A lunatic! Oh my! Really I 
 No ! Impossible ! 
 
 Ponza. And she has been insane for four years. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. Dear me, who would ever have sus- 
 pected it ! She doesn't show it in the least. 
 
 Agazzi. Insane? Are you sure? 
 
 Ponza. She doesn't show it, does she? But she is in- 
 sane, nevertheless; and her delusion consists precisely in be- 
 lieving that I am forbidding her to see her daughter. {His 
 face takes on an expression of cruel suffering mingled with a 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 177 
 
 sort of ferocious excitement). What daughter, for God's 
 sake? Why her daughter died four years ago! {A general 
 sensation) . 
 
 Everyone at Once. Died? She is dead? What do 
 you mean? Oh, really? Four years ago? Why! Why! 
 
 PoNZA. Four years ago ! In fact it was the death of the 
 poor girl that drove her mad. 
 
 SiRELLi. Are we to understand that the wife with whom 
 you are now living . . . 
 
 PoNZA. Exactly! She is my second wife. I married 
 her two years ago. 
 
 Amalia. And Signora Frola believes that her daughter 
 is still living, that she is your wife still ? 
 
 PoNZA. Perhaps it was best for her that way. She was 
 in^^harge of a nurse in her own room, you see. Well, when 
 she chanced to see me passing by inadvertence on her street 
 one day, with this woman, my second wife, she suddenly 
 began to laugh and cry and tremble all over in an extreme 
 of happiness. She was sure her daughter, whom she had 
 believed dead, was alive and well ; and from a condition of 
 desperate despondency which was the first form of her 
 mental disturbance, she entered on a second obsession, be- 
 lieving steadily that her daughter was not dead at all; but 
 that I, the poor girl's husband, am so completely in love 
 with her tllat I want her wholly for myself and will not 
 allow anyone to approach her. She became otherwise quite 
 well, you might say. Her nervousness disappeared. Her 
 physical condition improved, and her powers of reasoning 
 returned quite clear. Judge for yourself, ladies and gentle- 
 men ! You have seen her and talked with her. You would 
 never suspect in the w^orld that she is crazy. 
 
 Amalia. Never in the world! Never! 
 
 Signora Sirelli. And the poor woman says she is so 
 happy, so happy! 
 
178 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 PoNZA. That is what she says to everybody ; and for that 
 matter she really has a wealth of afEection and gratitude for 
 me; because, as you may well suppose, I do my very best, 
 in spite of the sacrifices entailed, to keep up this benefical 
 illusion in her. The sacrifices you can readily understand. 
 In the first place I have to maintain two homes on my 
 small salary. Then it is very hard on my wife, isn't it? 
 But she, poor thing, does the very best she can to help 
 me out! She comes to the window when the old lady ap- 
 pears. She talks to her from the balcony. She writes letters 
 to her. But you people will understand that there are 
 limits to what I can ask of my poor wife. Signora Frola, 
 meanwhile, lives practically in confinement. We have to 
 keep a pretty close watch on her. We have to lock her up, 
 virtually. Otherwise, some fine day she would be walking 
 right into my house. She is of a gentle, placid disposition 
 fortunately; but you understand that my wife, good as she 
 is, could never bring herself to accepting caresses intended 
 for another woman, a dead woman! That would be a tor- 
 ment beyond conception. 
 
 Amalia. Oh, of course! Poor woman! Just imagine! 
 
 Signora Sirelli. And the old lady herself consents to 
 being locked up all the time? 
 
 PoNZA. You, Commendatore, will understand that I 
 couldn't permit her calling here except under absolute con- 
 straint. 
 
 Agazzi. I understand perfectly, my dear Ponza, and 
 you have my deepest sympathy. 
 
 Ponza. When a man has a misfortune like this fall 
 upon him he must not go about in society; but of course 
 when, by complaining to the prefect, you practically com- 
 pelled me to have Signora Frola call, it was my duty to 
 volunteer this further information ; because, as a public 
 official, and with due regard for the post of responsibility I 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 179 
 
 occup)', I could not allow any discredible suspicions to re- 
 main attached tc my reputation. I could not have you good 
 people suppose 1 ^r a moment that, out of jealousy or for 
 any other reasoi , I could ever prevent a poor suffering 
 mother from seeing her own daughter. {He rises). Again 
 my apologies for having intruded my personal troubles upon 
 your party. {He bows). My compliments, Commendatore. 
 Good afternoon, good afternoon! Thank you! {Bowing to 
 Laudisi, Sirelli, and the others in turn, he goes out through 
 the door, rear). 
 
 Amalia {with a sigh of sympathy and astonishment). 
 Uhh! Crazy! What do you think of that? 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. The poor old thing! But you 
 wouldn't have believed it, would you? 
 
 DiNA. I always knew there was som.ething under it 
 all. 
 
 SiGNORA CiNl. But who could ever have guessed . . . 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, I don't know, I don't know! You could 
 tell from the way she talked . . . 
 
 Laudisi. You mean to say that you thought . . . ? 
 
 Agazzi. No, I can't say that. But at the same time, if 
 you remember, she could never quite find her words. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. How could she, poor thing, out of her 
 head like that? 
 
 SiRELLi. And yet, if I may raise the question, it seems 
 strange to m^e that an insane person . . . oh, I admit that 
 she couldn't really talk rationally . . . but what surprises 
 me is her trying to find a reason to explain why her son-in- 
 law should be keeping her away from her daughter. This 
 effort of hers to justify it and then to adapt herself to 
 excuses of her own invention . . . 
 
 Agazzi. Yes, but that is only another proof that she's 
 insane. You see, she kept ofiEering excuses for Ponza that 
 really were not excuses at all. 
 
ISO RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 Amalia. Yes, that's so. She would sa; a thing without 
 really saying it, taking it back almost in tie next words. 
 
 Agazzi. But there is one more thinr.. If she weren't 
 a downright lunatic, how could she or my other woman 
 ever accept such a situation from a man? How could she 
 ever consent to talk with her own daughter only by shouting 
 up from the bottom of a well five stories deep? 
 
 SiRELLi. But if I remember rightly she has you there! 
 Notice, she doesn't accept the situation. She says she is 
 resigned to it. That's different! No, I tell you, there is 
 still something funny about this business. What do you say, 
 Laudisi ? 
 
 Laudisi. Why, I say nothing, nothing at all! 
 
 The Butler {appearing at the door and visibly excited). 
 Beg pardon, Signora Frola is here again! 
 
 Amalia {with a start). Oh dear me, again? Do you 
 suppose she'll be pestering us all the time now? 
 
 Signora Sirelli. I understand how you feel now that 
 you know she's a lunatic. 
 
 Signora Cini. My, my, what do you suppose she is 
 agoing to say now? 
 
 Sirelli. For my part I'd really like to hear what she's 
 got to say. 
 
 DiNA. Oh yes, mamma, don't be afraid! Ponza said she 
 was quite harmless. Let's have her come in. 
 
 Agazzai. Of course, we can't send her away. Let's 
 have her come in; and, if she makes any trouble, why . . , 
 {Turning to the butler) : Show her in. {The butler bows 
 and withdraws). 
 
 Amalia. You people stand by me, please ! Why, I don't 
 know what I am ever going to say to her now! 
 
 {Signora Frola appears at the door. Amalia rises and 
 steps forward to welcome her. The others look on in 
 astonished silence). 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 181 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. May I please . . . ? 
 
 Amalia. Do come in, Signora Frola, do come in! You 
 know all these ladies. They were here when you came 
 before. 
 
 Signora Frola {with an expression of sadness on her 
 features, but still smiling gently). How you all look at me 
 — and even you, Signora Agazzi ! I am sure you think I am 
 a lunatic, don't you! 
 
 Amalia. My dear Signora Frola, what in the world 
 are you talking about? 
 
 Signora Frola. But I am sure you will forgive me if 
 I disturb you for a moment. {Bitterly) : Oh, my dear 
 Signora Agazzi, I wish I had left things as they were. It 
 was hard to feel that I had been impolite to you by not 
 answering the bell when you called that first time; but I 
 could never have supposed that you would come back and 
 force me to call upon you. I could foresee the consequences 
 of such a visit from the very first. 
 
 Amalia. Why, not at all, not at all! I don't under- 
 stand. Why ? 
 
 DiNA. What consequences could you foresee, madam? 
 
 Signora Frola. Why, my son-in-law, Signor Ponza, 
 has just been here, hasn't he? 
 
 Agazzi. Why, yes, he was here! He came to discuss 
 certain office matters with me . . .just ordinary business, 
 you understand! 
 
 Signora Frola {visibly hurt and quite dismayed). Oh, 
 I know you are saying that just to spare me, just in order 
 not to hurt my feelings. 
 
 Agazzi. Not at all, not at all ! That was really why he 
 came. 
 
 Signora Frola {with some alarm). But he was quite 
 calm, I hope, quite calm? 
 
182 RIGHT YOU AHE! [Act I] 
 
 Agazzi. Calm? As calm as could be! Why not? Of 
 course ! 
 
 {The members of the company all nod in confirmation) . 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Oh, my dear friends, I am sure you 
 are trying to reassure me; but as a matter of fact I came to 
 set you right about my son-in-law. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Why no, Signora, what's the trouble? 
 
 Agazzi. Really, it was just a matter of politics we 
 talked about . . . 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. But I can tell from the way you all 
 look at me . . . Please excuse me, but it is not a question 
 of me at all. From the way you all look at me I can tell 
 that he came here to prove something that I would never 
 have confessed for all the money in the world. You will all 
 bear me out, won't you ? When I came here a few moments 
 ago you all asked me questions that were very cruel questions 
 to me, as I hope you will understand. And they were ques- 
 tions that I couldn't answer very well; but anyhow I gave 
 an explanation of our manner of living vvhich can be satis- 
 factory to nobody, I am well aware. But how could I give 
 you the real reason? How could I tell you people, as he's 
 doing, that my daughter has been dead for four years and 
 that I'm a poor, insane mother who believes that her daughter 
 is still living and that her husband will not allow me to see 
 her? 
 
 Agazzi (quite upset by the ring of deep sincerity he finds 
 in Signora Froh^s manner of speaking). What do you 
 mean, your daughter? 
 
 Signora Frola (hastily and with anguished dismay 
 written on her features). You know that's so. Why do you 
 try to deny it ? He did say that to you, didn't he ? 
 
 Sirelli (with some hesitation and studying her features 
 warily). Yes ... in fact ... he did say that. 
 
 Signora Frola. I know he did; and I also know how 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 183 
 
 it pained him to be obliged to say such a thing of me. It is 
 a great pity, Commendatore! We have made continual 
 sacrifices, involving unheard of suffering, I assure you; and 
 we could endure them only by living as we are living now. 
 Unfortunately, as I well understand, it must look very 
 strange to people, seem even scandalous, arouse no end of 
 gossip ! But after all, if he is an excellent secretary, scrupu- 
 lously honest, attentive to his work, why should people com- 
 plain? You have seen him in the office, haven't you? He is 
 a good worker, isn't he? 
 
 Agazzi. To tell the truth, I have not watched him 
 particularly, as yet. 
 
 SiGNORA Fro LA. Oh he really is, he really is! All the 
 men he ever worked for say he's most reliable ; and I beg of 
 you, please don't let this other matter interfere. And why 
 then should people go tormenting him with all this prying 
 into his private life, laying bare once more a misfortune 
 which he has succeeded in mastering and which, if it were 
 widely talked about, might upset him again personally, and 
 even hurt him in his career ? 
 
 Agazzi. Oh no, no, Signora, no one is trying to hurt 
 him. It is nothing to his disgrace that I can see. Nor would 
 we hurt you either. 
 
 Signora Frola. But my dear sir, how can you help 
 hurting me when you force him to give almost publicly an 
 explanation which is quite absurd — ridiculous I might even 
 say! Surely people like you can't seriously believe what he 
 says? You can't possibly be taking me for a lunatic? You 
 don't really think that this woman is his second wife? And 
 yet it is all so necessary! He needs to have it that way. It 
 is the only way he can pull himself together ; get down to his 
 work again . . . the only way . . . the only way ! Why he 
 gets all wrought up, all excited, when he is forced to talk of 
 
184 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 this other matter; because he knows himself how hard it is 
 for him to say certain things. You may have noticed it . . . 
 , Agazzi. Yes, that is quite true. He did seem very much 
 excited. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Well, well, well, so then it's he! 
 
 SiRELLi {triumphantly) . I always said it was he. 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, I say! Is that really possible? {He motions 
 to the company to be quiet) ^ 
 
 SiGNORA Frola {joining her hqnds beseechingly). My 
 dear friends, what are you really thinking? It is only on this 
 subject that he is a little queer. The point is, you must 
 simply not mention this particular matter to him. Why, 
 really now, you could never suppose that I would leave m> 
 daughter shut up with him all alone like that? And yet 
 just watch him at his work and in the office. He does every- 
 thing he is expected to do and no one in the world could do 
 it better. 
 
 Agazzi. But this is not enough, madam, as you will 
 understand. Do you mean to say that Signor Ponza, your 
 son-in-law, came here and made up a story out of whole 
 cloth? 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Yes, sir, yes sir, exactly . . . only I 
 will explain. You must understand — you must look at things 
 from his point of view. 
 
 Agazzi. What do you mean? Do you mean that your 
 daughter is not dead? 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. God forbid! Of course she is not 
 dead! 
 
 Agazzi. Well, then, he is the lunatic! 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. No, no, look, look! . . . 
 
 SiRELLi. I always said it w^as he! . . . 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. No, look, look, not that, not that ! Let 
 me explain . . . You have noticed him, haven't you ? Fine, 
 strong looking man. Well, when he married my daughter 
 
[Act I] RIGHT YOU ARE! 185 
 
 you can imagine how fond he was of her. But alas, she fell 
 «ick with a contagious disease; and the doctors had to 
 separate her from him. Not only from him, of course, but 
 from all her relatives. They're all dead now, poor things, 
 in the earthquake, you understand. Well, he just refused 
 to hove her taken to the hospital; and he got so over-wrought 
 that they actually had to put him under restraint; and he 
 broke down nervously as the result of it all and he was sent 
 to a sanatorium. But my daughter got better very soon, 
 while he got worse and worse. 'He had a sort of obsession 
 that his wife had died in the hospital, that perhaps they had 
 killed her there; and you couldn't get that idea out of his 
 head. 
 
 Just imagine when we brought my daughter back to him 
 quite recovered from her illness — and a pretty thing she was 
 to look at, too — he began to scream and say, no, no, no, she 
 wasn't his wife, his wife was dead! He looked at her: No, 
 no, no, not at all! She wasn't the woman! Imagine my 
 dear friends, how terrible it all was. Finally he came 
 up close to her and for a moment it seemed that he was 
 going to recognize her again ; but once more it was "No, no, 
 no, she is not my wife!" And do you know, to get him to 
 accept my daughter at all again, we were obliged to pretend 
 having a second wedding, with the collusion of his doctors 
 and his friends, you understand! 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Ah, SO that is why he says that . . . 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Yes, but he doesn't really believe it, 
 you know ; and he hasn't for a long time, I am sure. But he 
 seems to feel a need for maintaining the pretense. He can't 
 do without it. He feels surer of himself that way. He is 
 seized with a terrible fear, from time to time, that this little 
 wife he loves may be taken from him again. {Smiiing and 
 in a low, confidential tone) : So he keeps her locked up at 
 home where he can have her all for himself. But he wor- 
 
186 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 ships her — he worships her; and I am really quite convinced 
 that my daughter is one of the happiest women in the world. 
 {She gets up). And now I must be going. You see, my 
 son-in-law is in a terrible state of mind at present. I 
 wouldn't like to have him call, and find me not at home. 
 {With a sigh, and gesturing with her joined hands) : Well, 
 I suppose we must get along as best we can ; but it is hard 
 on my poor girl. She has to pretend all along that she is 
 not herself, but another, his second wife; and I . . . oh, 
 as for me, I have to pretend that I am a lunatic when he's 
 around, my dear friends; but I'm glad to, I'm glad to, really, 
 so long as it does him some good. {The ladies rise as she 
 steps nearer to the door). No, no, don't let me interrupt 
 your party. I know the way out! Good afternoon! Good 
 afternoon ! 
 
 {Bowing and smiling , she goes out through the rear door. 
 The others stands there in silence, looking at each other with 
 blank astonishment on their faces). 
 
 Laudisi {coming forward). So you want the truth, eh? 
 The truth! The truth! Hah! hah! hah! hah! hah! hah! 
 hah! 
 
 Curtain. 
 
ACT 
 
 Tjr^ 
 
 Councillor Agazzi's study in the same house. Antique 
 furnishings with old paintings on the walls. A portiere 
 over the rear entrance and over the door to the left which 
 opens into the draiving room shown in the first act. To the 
 right a substantial fireplace with a big mirror above the 
 mantel. A fiat top desk with a telephone. A sofa, armchairs, 
 straight back chairs, etc. 
 
 As the curtain rises Agazzi is shown standing beside his 
 desk with the telephone receiver pressed to his ear. Laudisi 
 and Sirelli sit looking at him expectantly. 
 
 Agazzi. Yes, I want Centuri. Hello . . . hello . . . 
 Centuri? Yes, Agazzi speaking. That you, Centuri? It's 
 me, Agazzi. Well? {He listens for some time). What's 
 that? Really? (Again he listens at length). I understand, 
 but you might go at the matter with a little more speed . . . 
 {Another long pause). Well, I give up! How can that pos- 
 sibly be? {A pause). Oh, I see, I see . . . {Another 
 pause). Well, never mind, I'll look into it myself. Good- 
 bye, Centuri, goodbye! {He lays down the receiver and 
 steps fonrard on the stage). 
 
 Sirelli {eagerly). Well? 
 
 Agazzi. Nothing! Absolutely nothing! 
 
 SirelLI. Nothing at all? 
 
 Agazzi. You see the whole blamed village was wiped 
 out. Not a house left standing! In the collapse of the town 
 hall, followed by a fire, all the records of the place seem to 
 have been lost — births, deaths, marriages, everything. 
 
 Sirelli. But not everybody was killed. They ought to 
 be able to find somebody who knows them. 
 
 187 
 
188 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act I] 
 
 Agazzi. Yes, but you see they didn't rebuild the plice. 
 Everybody moved away, and no record was ever kept of the 
 people, of course. So far they have found nobody who knows 
 the Ponzas. To be sure, if the police really went at it, they 
 might find somebody; but it would be a tough job. 
 
 SiRELLi. So we can't get anywhere along that line! We 
 have got to take what they say and let it go at that. 
 
 Agazzi. That, unfortunately, is the situation. 
 
 Laudisi {rising). Well, you fellows take a piece of advice 
 from me: believe them both! 
 
 Agazzi. What do you mean — ''believe them both" ? . . . 
 
 SiRELLi. But if she says one thing, and he says an- 
 other . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Well, in that case, you needn't believe either 
 of them! 
 
 SiRELLi. Oh, you're just joking. We may not be able 
 to verify the stories; but that doesn't prove that either one 
 or the other m.ay not be telling the truth. Some document 
 or other . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Oh, documents ! Documents ! Suppose you had 
 them? What good would they do you? 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, I say! Perhaps we can't get them now, 
 but there were such documents once. If the old lady is the 
 lunatic, there was, as there still may be somew^here, the death 
 certificate of the daughter. Or look at it from the other 
 angle: if we found all the records, and the death certificate 
 were not there for the simple reason that it never existed, 
 why then, it's Ponza, the son-in-law. He would be the 
 lunatic. 
 
 SiRELLl. You mean to say you wouldn't give in if we 
 stuck that certificate under your nose to-morrow or the next 
 day? Would you still deny . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Deny? Why . . . why . . . I'm not denying 
 anything! In fact, I'm very careful not to be denying any- 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE! 189 
 
 thing. You're the people who are looking up the records to 
 be able to affirm or deny something. Personally, I don't 
 give a rap for the documents ; for the truth in my eyes is not 
 a matter of black and white, but a matter of those two people. 
 And into their minds I can penetrate only through what they 
 say to me of themselves. 
 
 SiRELLi. Very well — She says he's crazy and he says 
 she's crazy. Now one of them must be crazy. You can't get 
 away from that. Well w^hich is it, she or he? 
 
 Agazzi. There, that's the way to put it! 
 
 Laudisi. But just observe; in the first place, it isn't true 
 that they are accusing each other of insanity. Ponza, to be 
 sure, says his mother-in-law is insane. She denies this, not 
 only of herself, but also of him. At the most, she says that he 
 was a little off once, when they took her daughter from him ; 
 but that now he is quite all right. 
 
 SiRELLi. I see! So you're rather inclined, as I am, to 
 trust what the old lady says. 
 
 Agazzi. The fact is, indeed, that if you accept his story, 
 all the facts in the case are explained. 
 
 Laudisi. But all the facts in the case are explained if 
 you take her story, aren't they? 
 
 SiRELLi. Oh, nonsense! In that case neither of them 
 would be crazy ! Why, one of them must be, damn it all ! 
 
 Laudisi. Well, which one? You can't tell, can you? 
 Neither can anybody else! And it is not because those docu- 
 ments you are looking for have been destroyed in an accident 
 — a fire, an earthquake — what you will; but because those 
 people have concealed those documents in themselves, in 
 their own souls. Can't you understand that ? She has created 
 for him, or he for her, a w^orld of fancy which has all the 
 earmarks of reality itself. And in this fictitious realit}^ they 
 get along perfectly well, and in full accord with each other ; 
 and this world of fancy, this reality of theirs, no document 
 
190 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act II] 
 
 can possibly destroy because the air they breathe is of that 
 world. For them it is something they can see with their 
 eyes, hear with their ears, and touch with their fingers. Oh, 
 I grant you — if you could get a death certificate or a mar- 
 riage certificate or something of the kind, you might be able 
 to satisfy that stupid curiosity of yours. Unfortunately, you 
 can't get it. And the result is that you are in the extraor- 
 dinary fix of having before you, on the one hand, a world of 
 fancy, and on the other, a world of reality, and you, for the 
 life of you, are not able to distinguish one from the other. 
 
 Agazzi. Philosophy, my dear boy, philosophy! And I 
 have no use for philosophy. Give me facts, if you please! 
 Facts! So, I say, keep at it; and I'll bet you we get to the 
 bottom of it sooner or later. 
 
 SiRELLi. First we got her story and rhen we got his ; and 
 then we got a new one from her. Let's bring the two of them 
 together — and you think that then we won't be able to tell 
 the false from the true? 
 
 Laudisi. Well, bring them together if you want to! 
 All I ask is permission to laugh when you're through. 
 
 Agazzi. Well, we'll let you laugh all you want. In the 
 meantime let's see . . . {He steps to the door at the left and 
 calls) : Amalia, Signora Sirelli, won't you come in here a 
 moment? 
 
 {The ladies enter with Dina). 
 
 Signora Sirellli (catching sight of Laudisi and shaking 
 a finger at him). But how is it a man like you, in the 
 presence of such an extraordinary situation, can escape the 
 curiosity we all feel to get at the bottom of this mystery? 
 Why, I lie awake nights thinking of it! 
 
 Agazzi. As your husband says, that man's impossible! 
 Don't bother about him, Signora Sirelli. 
 
 Laudisi. No, don't bother with me; you just listen to 
 Agazzi ! He'll keep you from lying awake tonight. 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE! 191 
 
 Agazzi. Look here, ladies. This is what I want — I have 
 an idea: won't you just step across the hall to Signora 
 Frola's ? 
 
 Amalia. But will she come to the door? 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, I imagine she will! 
 
 DiNA. We're just returning the call, you see . . . 
 
 Amalia. But didn't he ask us not to call on his mother- 
 in-law? Hasn't he forbidden her to receive visits? 
 
 SiRELLi. No, not exactly! That's how he explained what 
 had happened; but at that time nothing was known. Now 
 that the old lady, through force of circumstance, has spoken, 
 giving her version at least of her strange conduct, I should 
 think that . . . 
 
 Signora Sirelli. I have a feeling that she'll be awfully 
 glad to see us, if for nothing else, for the chance of talking 
 about her daughter. 
 
 DiNA. And she really is a jolly old lady. There is no 
 doubt in my mind, not the slightest: Ponza is the lunatic! 
 
 Agazzi. Now, let's not go too fast. You just listen to 
 me {he looks at his' wife) : don't stay too long — five or ten 
 minutes at the outside! 
 
 Sirelli (to his wife). And for heaven's sake, keep your 
 mouth shut! 
 
 Signora Sirelli. And why such considerate advice to 
 me? 
 
 Sirelli. Once you get going . . . 
 
 DiNA (with the idea of preventing a scene). Oh, we are 
 not going to stay very long, ten minutes — fifteen, at the 
 outside. I'll see that no breaks are made. 
 
 Agazzi. And I'll just drop around to the office, and be 
 back at eleven o'clock — ten or twenty minutes at the most. 
 
 Sirelli. And what can I do? 
 
 Agazzi. Wait! {Turning to the ladies). Now, here's 
 
192 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act II] 
 
 the plan! You people invent some excuse or other so as to 
 get Signora Frola in here. 
 
 Amalia. What? How can we possibly do that? 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, find some excuse! You'll think of some- 
 thing in the course of your talk; and if you don't, there's 
 Dina and Signora Sirelli. But when you come back, you 
 understand, go into the drawing room. {He steps to the 
 door on the left, makes sure that it is wide open, and draws 
 aside the portiere). This door must stay open, wide open, 
 so that we can hear you talking from in here. Now, here are 
 some papers that I ought to take with me to the office. How- 
 ever, I forget them here. It is a brief that requires Ponza's 
 immediate personal attention. So then, I forget it. And 
 when I get to the office I have to bring him back here to find 
 them — See ? 
 
 Sirelli. But just a moment. Where do I come in? 
 When am I expected to appear? 
 
 Agazzl Oh, yes! ... A moment or two after eleven, 
 when the ladies are again in the drawing room, and I am 
 back here, you just drop in — to take your wife home, see? 
 You ring the bell and ask for me, and I'll have you brought 
 in here. Then I'll invite the whole crowd in! That's natural 
 enough, isn't it? — into my office? . . . 
 
 Laudisi {interrupting) . And we'll have the Truth, the 
 whole Truth with a capital T! 
 
 Dina. But look, Nunky, of course we'll have the truth 
 — once we get them together face to face — capital T and all! 
 
 Agazzi. Don't get into an argument with that man. 
 Besides, it's time you ladies were going. None of us has any 
 too much leeway. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. Come, Amalia, come Dina! And as 
 for you, sir {turning to Laudisi) y I won't even shake hands 
 with you. 
 
 Laudisi. Permit me to do it for you, madam. {He shakes 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE! 193 
 
 one hand with the other). Good luck to you, my dear 
 ladies. 
 
 {Exit Dindj Amalia, Signora Sirelli) . 
 
 Agazzi {to Sirelli). And now we'd better go, too. Sup- 
 pose we hurry! 
 
 Sirelli. Yes, right away. Goodbye, Lamberto! 
 
 Laudisi. Goodbye, good luck, good luck! {Agazzi and 
 Sirelli leave. Laudisi, left alone, walks up and down the study 
 a number of times, nodding his head and occasionally smil- 
 ing. Finally he draws up in front of the big mirror that is 
 hanging over the mantelpiece. He sees himself in the glass, 
 stops, and addresses his image). 
 
 Laudisi. So there you are! {He bows to himself and 
 salutes, touching his forehead with his fingers). I say, old 
 man, who is the lunatic, you or I? {He levels a finger 
 menacingly at his image in the glass; and, of course, the:, 
 image in turn levels a finger at him. As he smiles, his image 
 smiles). Of course, I understand! I say it's you, and you 
 say it's me. You — you are the lunatic ! No ? It's me ? Very 
 well! It's me! Have it your way. Between you and me, 
 w^e get along very well, don't we ! But the trouble is, others 
 don't think of you just as I do; and that being the case, old 
 man, what a fix you're in ! As for me, I say that here, right 
 in front of you, I can see myself with my eyes and touch 
 myself with my fingers. But what are you for other people? 
 What are you in their eyes? An image, my dear sir, just an 
 image in the glass! "What fools these mortals be!" as old 
 Shakespeare said. They're all carrying just such a phantom 
 around inside themselves, and here they are racking their 
 brains about the phantoms in other people; and they think 
 all that is quite another thing! 
 
 ( The butler has entered the room in time to catch Laudisi 
 gesticulating at himself in the glass. He wonders if the man 
 is crazy. Finally he speaks up) : 
 
194 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act II] 
 
 Butler. Ahem! . . . Signor Laudisi, if you please . . . 
 
 Laudisi {coming to himself). CJff! 
 
 Butler. Two ladies calling, sir! Signora Cini and an- 
 other lady ! 
 
 Laudisi. Calling to see me? 
 
 Butler. Really, they asked for the signora; but I saiA 
 that she was out — on a call next door ; and then . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Well, w^hat then? 
 
 Butler. They looked at each other and said, "Really! 
 Really!" and finally they asked me if anybody else was at 
 home. 
 
 Laudisi. And of course you said that everyone was 
 out! 
 
 Butler. I said that you were in! 
 
 Laudisi. Why, not at all! I'm miles and miles away! 
 Perhaps that fellow they call Laudisi is here ! 
 
 Butler. I don't understand, sir. 
 
 Laudisi. Why? You think the Laudisi they know is 
 the Laudisi I am? 
 
 Butler. I don't understand, sir. 
 
 Laudisi. Whom are you talking to? 
 
 Butler. Who am I talking to? I thought I was talking 
 to you. 
 
 Laudisi. Are you really sure the Laudisi you are talking 
 to is the Laudisi the ladies want to see? 
 
 Butler. Why, I think so, sir. They said they were look- 
 ing for the brother of Signora Agazzi. 
 
 Laudisi. Ah, in that case you are right! {Turning to 
 the image in the glass) : You are not the brother of Signora 
 Agazzi? No, it's me! {To the butler): Right you are! 
 Tell them I am in. And show them in here, won't you? 
 {The butler retires). 
 
 Signora Cini. May I come in 
 
 Laudisi. Please, please, this way, madam! 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE! 195 
 
 SiGNORA CiNl. I was told SIgnora Agazzi was not at 
 home, and I brought Signora Nenni along. Signora Nenni 
 is a friend of mine, and she was most anxious to make the 
 acquaintance of . . . 
 
 Laudisi. ... of Signora Frola? 
 
 Signora Cixi. Of Signora Agazzi, your sister ! 
 
 Laudisi. Oh, she will be back very soon, and Signora 
 Frola will be here, too. 
 
 Signora Cini. Yes, we thought as much. 
 
 Signora Nenni is an oldish woman of the type of Signora 
 Cini, but with the mannerisms of the latter somewhat more 
 pronounced. She, too, is a bundle of concentrated curiosity, 
 but of the sly, cautious type, ready to find something fright- 
 ful under everything. 
 
 Laudisi. Well, it's all planned in advance! It will be a 
 most interesting scene! The curtain rises at eleven, precisely! 
 
 Signora Cini. Planned in advance? What is planned 
 in advance? 
 
 Laudisi {mysteriously, first with a gesture of his finger 
 and then aloud). Why, bringing the two of them together! 
 (A gesture of admiration) : Great idea, I tell you! 
 
 Signora Cini. The two of them — together — who? 
 
 Laudisi. Why, the two of them. He — in here! {Point- 
 ing to the room about him). 
 
 Signora Cini. Ponza, you mean? 
 
 Laudisi. And she — in there! {He points toward the 
 drawing roorn) . 
 
 Signora Cini. Signora Frola? 
 
 Laudisi. Exactly! {With an expressive gesture of his 
 hands and even more mysteriously) : But afterwards, all of 
 them — in here! Oh, a great idea, a great idea! 
 
 Signora Cini. In order to get . . . 
 
 Laudisi. The truth! Precisely: the truth! 
 
 Signora Cini. But the truth is known already! 
 
196 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act II] 
 
 Laudisi. Of course! The only question is stripping it 
 bare, so that everyone can see It! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNl {with the greatest surprise). Oh, really? 
 So they know the truth! And which is it — He or she? 
 
 Laudisi. Well, I'll tell you . . . you just guess! Who 
 do you think it is? 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi {ahemming) . Well ... I say . . . 
 really . . . you see . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Is It she or is it he? You don't mean to say 
 you don't know! Come now, give a guess! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNl. Why, for my part I should say . . . 
 well, I'd say .... it's he. 
 
 Laudisi {looks at her admiringly) . Right you are! It 
 is he! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. Really? I always thought so! Of course, 
 it was perfectly plain all along. It had to be he ! 
 
 SiGNORA Nenni. All of US womcn in town said It was 
 he. We always said so! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. But how did you get at it? I suppose 
 Signor AgazzI ran down the documents, didn't he — the birth 
 certificate, or something? 
 
 SiGNORA Nenni. Through the prefect, of course! There 
 was no getting away from those people. Once the police 
 start investigating . . . ! 
 
 Laudisi {motions to them to come closer to him; then in 
 a low voice and in the same mysterious manner, and stressing 
 each syllable). The certificate! — Of the second marriage! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNl {starting 'back with astonishment). What? 
 
 SiGNORA Nenni {likeivise taken aback). What did you 
 say? The second marriage? 
 
 SiGNORA Cini. Well, In that case he was right. 
 
 Laudisi. Oh, documents, ladies, documents! This cer- 
 tificate of the second marriage, so it seems, talks as plain as 
 day. 
 
 1 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE! 197> 
 
 SiGNORA Nenni. Well, then, she is the lunatic. 
 
 Laudisi. Right you are ! She it is ! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. But I thought you said . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Yes, I did say . . . but this certificate of the 
 second marriage may very well be, as Signora Frola said, a 
 fictitious document, gotten up through the influence of Pon- 
 za's doctors and friends to pamper him in the notion that 
 his wife was not his first wife, but another woman. 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. But it's a public document. You mean 
 to say a public document can be a fraud? 
 
 Laudisi. I mean to say — well, it has just the value that 
 each of you chooses to give it. For instance, one could find 
 somewhere, possibly, those letters that Signora Frola said 
 she gets from her daughter, who lets tliem down in the 
 basket in the courtyard. There are such letters, aren't there ? 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. Yes, of course! 
 
 Laudisi. They are documents, aren't they? Aren't 
 letters documents? But it all depends on how you read them. 
 Here comes Ponza, and he says they are just made up to 
 pamper his mother-in-law in her obsession . . . 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. Oh, dear, dear, so then we're never sure 
 about anything? 
 
 Laudisi. Never sure about anything? Why not at all, 
 not at all! Let's be exact. We are sure of many things, 
 aren't we? How many days are there in the week? Seven 
 — Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday . . . How many 
 months in the year are there? Twelve: January, February, 
 March . . . 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. Oh, I see, you're just joking! You're 
 just joking! {Dina appears, breathless, in the doorway, at 
 the rear). 
 
 DiNA. Oh, Nunky, w^on't you please . . . {She stops at 
 the sight of Signora Cini) . Oh, Signora Cini, you here? 
 
 SiGNORA Cini. Why, I just came to make a call! . . . 
 
198 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act II] 
 
 Laudisi. . . . with Slgnora Cenni. 
 
 SiGNORA Nenni. No, my name is Nenni. 
 
 Laudisi. Oh yes, pardon me! She was anxious to make 
 Signora Frola's acquaintance . . . 
 
 SiGNORA Nenni. Why, not at all! 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. He has just been making fun of us! You 
 ought to see what fools he made of us ! 
 
 DiNA. Oh, he's perfectly insufferable, even with mamma 
 and me. Will you excuse me for just a moment? No, every- 
 thing is all right. I'll just run back and tell mamma that 
 you people are here and I think that will be enough. Oh, 
 Nunky, if you had only heard her talk ! Why, she is a perfect 
 dear J and what a good, kind soul! . . . She showed us all 
 those letters her daughter wrote . . . 
 
 SiGNORA CiNi. Yes, but as Signor Laudisi was just say- 
 ing .. . 
 
 DiNA. He hasn't even seen them! 
 
 SiGNORA Nenni. You mean they are not really fic- 
 titious ? 
 
 DiNA. Fictitious nothing! They talk as plain as day. 
 And such things! You can't fool a mother when her own 
 daughter talks to her. And you know — the letter she got 
 yesterday! . . . {She stops at the sound of voices corning 
 into the study from the drawing room). Oh, here they are, 
 here they are, already! {She goes to the door and peeps into 
 the room) . 
 
 SiGNORA CiNl {.following her to the door). Is she there, 
 too? 
 
 DiNA. Yes, but you had better come into the other room. 
 All of us women must be in the drawing room. And it is 
 just eleven o'clock, Nunky! 
 
 Amalia {entering with decision from the door on the 
 left). I think this whole business is quite unnecessary! We 
 have absolutely no further need of proofs . . . 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE/ 199 
 
 DiNA. Quite so! I thought of that myself. Why bring 
 Ponza here? 
 
 Amalia {taken someivhat aback by Signora Cints 
 presence). Oh, my dear Signora Cini! . . . 
 
 Signora Cini {introducing Signora Nenni). A friend 
 of mine, Signora Nenni! I ventured to bring her with 
 me . . . 
 
 Amalia {bowing, but somewhat coolly, to the visitor), 
 A great pleasure, Signora! {After a pause). There is not 
 the slightest doubt in the world: . . . it's he! 
 
 Signora Cini. It's he? Are you sure it's he? 
 
 DiNA. And such a trick on the poor old lady ! 
 
 Amalia. Trick is not the name for it! It is downright 
 dishonest ! 
 
 Laudisi. Oh, I agree with you: it's outrageous! Quite! 
 So much so, I'm quite convinced it must be she! 
 
 Amalia. She? What do you mean? How can you say 
 that? 
 
 Laudisi. I say, it is she, it is she, it's ^hel 
 
 Amalia. Oh, I say! If you had heard her talk ... I 
 
 DiNA. It is absolutely clear to us now. 
 
 Signora Cini and Signora Nenni {swallowing). 
 Really? You are sure? 
 
 Laudisi. Exactly! Now that you are sure it's he, why, 
 obviously — it must be she. 
 
 DiNA. Oh dear me, why talk to that man? He is just 
 impossible ! 
 
 Amalia. Well, we must go into the other room . . . 
 This way, if you please ! 
 
 {Signora Cini, Signora Nenni and Amalia withdraw 
 through the door on the left. Dina starts to follow, wheii 
 Laudisi calls her back). 
 
 Laudisi. Dina! 
 
 DiNA. I refuse to listen to you! I refuse/ 
 
200 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act II] 
 
 Laudisi. I was going to suggest that, since the whole 
 matter is closed, you might close the door also. 
 
 DiNA. But papa ... he told us to leave it open. Ponza 
 will be here soon; and if papa finds it closed — well, you 
 know how papa is! 
 
 Laudisi. But you can convince him! ... You 
 especially. You can show him that there really was no need 
 of going any further. You are convinced yourself, aren't 
 you? 
 
 Dina. I am as sure of it, as I am that I'm alive! 
 
 Laudisi {putting her to the test with a smile). Well, 
 close the door then! 
 
 Dina. I see, you're trying to make me say that I'm aot 
 really sure. Well, I won't close the door, but it's just on 
 account of papa. 
 
 Laudisi. Shall I close it for you? 
 
 Dina. If you take the responsibility yourself! . . , 
 
 Laudisi. But you see, / am sure! I know that Ponza is 
 the lunatic! 
 
 Dina. The thing for you to do is to come into the other 
 Toom and just hear her talk a while. Then you'll be sure, 
 absolutely sure. Coming? 
 
 Laudisi. Yes, I'm coming, and I'll close the door behind 
 me — on my own responsibility, of course. 
 
 Dina. Ah, 1 S€e. So you're convinced even before you 
 hear her talk. 
 
 Laudisi. No, dear, it's because I'm sure that your papa, 
 who has been with Ponza, is just as certain as you are that 
 any further investigation is unnecessary. 
 
 Dina. How can you say that? 
 
 Laudisi. Why, of course, if you talk with Ponza, you're 
 sure the old lady is crazy. (He walks resolutely to the 
 door). I am going to shut this door. 
 
 Dina {restraining him nervously, then hesitating a mo- 
 
 ^ 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE/ 201 
 
 ment). Well, why not ... if you're really sure? What 
 do you say — let's leave it open! 
 
 Laudisi. Hah! hah! hah! hah! hah! hah! hah! 
 
 DiNA. But just because papa told us to! 
 
 Laudisi. And papa will tell you something else by and 
 by. Say . . . let's leave it open! 
 
 {A piano starts playing in the adjoining room — an ancient 
 tune, full of soft and solemn melody; the "Nina" of Per- 
 golesi). 
 
 DiNA. Oh, there she is. She's playing! Do you hear? 
 Actually playing the piano! 
 
 Laudisi. The old lady? 
 
 DiNA. Yes! And you know? She told us that her 
 daughter used to play this tune, always the same tune. How 
 well she plays! Come! Com.e! 
 
 {They hurry through the door). 
 
 The stage, after the exit of Laudisi and Dina, remains 
 empty for a space of time while the music continues from 
 the other room. Ponza, appearing at the door with Agazzi, 
 catches the concluding notes and his face changes to an ex- 
 pression of deep einotion — an emotion that will develop into 
 a virtual frenzy as the scene proceeds. 
 
 Agazzi {in the doorway). After you, after you, please! 
 {He takes Ponza's elbow and motions him into the room. 
 He goes over to his desk, looks about for the papers which 
 he pretends he had forgotten, finds them eventually and 
 says). Why, here they are! I was sure I had left them 
 here. Won't you take a chair, Ponza? {Ponza seems not 
 to hear. He stands looking excitedly at the door into th^ 
 drawing room, through which the sound of the piano is still 
 coming). 
 
 Agazzi. Yes, they are the ones! {He takes the papers 
 
202 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act II] 
 
 and steps to Ponzas side, opening the fold). It is an old 
 case, you see. Been running now for years and years! To 
 tell you the truth I haven't made head or tail of the stufE 
 myself. I imagine you'll find it one big mess. {He, too, 
 becomes aware of the music and seems somewhat irritated 
 by it. His eyes also rest on the door to the drawing room). 
 That noise, just at this moment! {He zualks with a show 
 of anger to the door). Who is that at the piano anyway? 
 (7;z the doorway he stops and looks, and an expression of 
 astonishment comes into his face). Ah! 
 
 PoNZA {going to the door also. On looking into the 
 next room he can hardly restrain his emotion). In the name 
 of God, is she playing? 
 
 Agazzi. Yes — Signora Frola! And how well she does 
 play! 
 
 PoNZA. How is this? You people have brought her in 
 here, again ! And you're letting her play ! 
 
 Agazzi. Why not? What's the harm? 
 
 PoNZA. Oh, please, please, no, not that song! It is the 
 one her daughter used to play. 
 
 Agazzi. Ah, I see! And it hurts you? 
 
 PoNZA. Oh, no, not me — but her — it hurts her — and 
 you don't know how much ! I thought I had made you and 
 those women understand just how that poor old lady was! 
 
 Agazzi. Yes, you did . . . quite true! But you see 
 . . . but see here, Ponza! {trying to pacify the mans grow- 
 ing emotion). 
 
 Ponza {continuing). But you must leave her alone! 
 You must not go to her house! She must not come in here! 
 I am the only person who can deal with her. You are kill- 
 ing her . . . killing her! 
 
 Agazzi. No, I don't think so. It is not so bad as that. 
 My wife and daughter are surely tactful enough . . . {Sud- 
 denly the music ceases. There is a burst of applause). 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE/ 203 
 
 Agazzi. There, you see. Listen! Listen! 
 
 {From the next room the following conversation is dis- 
 tinctly heard). 
 
 DiNA. Why, Signora Frola, you are perfectly marvellous 
 at the piano! 
 
 Signora Frola. But you should hear how my Lena 
 plays ! 
 
 {Ponza digs his nails into his hands), 
 
 Agazzi. Her daughter, of course! 
 
 Ponza. Didn't you hear? "How my Lena plays! How 
 my Lena plays'' ! 
 
 {Again from the inside). 
 
 Signora Frola. Oh, no, not now! . . . She hasn't 
 played for a long time — since that happened. And you know, 
 it is what she takes hardest, poor girl ! 
 
 Agazzi. Why, that seems quite natural to me! Of 
 course, she thinks the girl is still alive! 
 
 Ponza. But she shouldn't be allowed to say such things. 
 She must not — she must not say such things! Didn't you 
 hear? "She hasn't played since that happened"! She said 
 "she hasn't played since that happened" ! Talking of the 
 piano, you understand! Oh, you don't understand, no, of 
 course! My first wife had a piano and played that tune. 
 Oh, oh, oh! You people are determined to ruin me! 
 
 {Sirelli appears at the back door at this moment, anS> 
 hearing the concluding words of Ponza and noticing his ex- 
 treme exasperation, stops short, uncertain as to what to do. 
 Agazzi is himself very much affected and motions to Sirelli 
 to come in). 
 
 Agazzi. Why, no, my dear fellow, I don't see any reason 
 . . . {To Sirelli). Won't you just tell the ladies to come 
 in here? 
 
 {Sirelli, keeping at a safe distance from Ponza, goes to the 
 door at the left and calls). 
 
204 RIGHT YOU A RE I [Act II] 
 
 PoNZA. The ladies in here? In here with me? Oh, no, 
 no, please, rather . . . 
 
 (At a signal from Sirelli, who stands in the doorway to 
 the left, his face taut with intense emotion, the ladies enter. 
 They all show various kinds and degrees of excitement and 
 emotion. Signora Frola appears, and catching sight of Ponza 
 in the condition he is in, stops, quite overwhelmed. As he 
 assails her during the lines that follow, she exchanges glances 
 of understanding from time to time with the ladies about her. 
 The action here is rapid, nervous, tense with excitement, and 
 extremely violent). 
 
 Ponza. You? Here? How is this? You! Here! 
 Again! What are you doing here? 
 
 Signora Frola. Why, I just came . . . don't be cross! 
 
 Ponza. You came here to tell these ladies . . . What 
 did you tell these ladies? 
 
 Signora Frola. Nothing! I swear to God, nothing! 
 
 Ponza. Nothing? What do you mean, nothing? I 
 heard you with my own ears, and this gentleman here heard 
 you also. You said "she plays". Who plays? Lena plays! 
 And you know very well that Lena has been dead for four 
 years. Dead, do you hear! Your daughter has been dead 
 — for four years! 
 
 Signora Frola. Yes, yes, I know . . . Don't get ex- 
 cited, my dear . , . Oh, yes, oh yes. I know . . . 
 
 Ponza. And you said "she hasn't been able to play since 
 that happened". Of course she hasn't been able to play since 
 that happened. How could she, if she's dead? 
 
 Signora Frola. Why, of course, certainly. Isn't that 
 what I said? Ask these ladies. I said that she hasn't been 
 able to play since that happened. Of course. How could 
 she, if she's dead ? 
 
 Ponza. And why were you worrying about that piano, 
 then? 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE! 205 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. No, no! I'm not worrying about any 
 piano . . . 
 
 PoNZA. I broke that piano up and destroyed it. You 
 know that, the moment your daughter died, to keep this 
 second wife of mine from playing on it. For that matter 
 you know that this second woman never plays. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Why, of course, dear ! Of course ! She 
 doesn't know how to play! 
 
 PoNZA. And one thing more: Your daughter was Lena, 
 wasn't she? Her name was Lena. Now, see yere! You 
 just tell these people what my second wife's name is. Speak 
 up! You know very well what her name is! What is it? 
 What is it ? 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Her name is Julia ! Yes, yes, of course, 
 my dear friends, her name is Julia! {Winks at someone in 
 the company). 
 
 PoNZA. Exactly! Her name is Julia, and not Lena! 
 Who are you winking at? Don't you go trying to suggest 
 by those winks of yours that she's not Julia! 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Why, what do you mean? I wasn't 
 winking! Of course I wasn't! 
 
 PoNZA. I saw you! I saw you very distinctly! You 
 are trying to ruin me! You are trying to make these people 
 think that I am keeping your daughter all to myself, just 
 as though she were not dead. {He breaks into convulsive 
 sobbing) . . . just as though she were not dead! 
 
 SiGNORA Frola {hurrying forward and speaking with 
 infinite kindness and sympathy) . Oh no! Come, come, my 
 poor boy. Come! Don't take it so hard. I never said 
 any such thing, did I, madam ! 
 
 Amalia, Signora Sirelli, Dina. Of course she never 
 said such a thing! She always said the girl was dead! 
 Yes! Of course! No! 
 
 Signora Frola. I did, didn't I? I said she's dead, 
 
206 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act II] 
 
 didn't I ? And that you are so very good to me. Didn't I, 
 didn't I? I, trying to ruin you? I, trying to get you into 
 trouble ? 
 
 PoNZA. And you, going into other people's houses where 
 there are pianos, playing your daughter's tunes on them! 
 Saying that Lena plays them that way, or even better ! 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. No, it was . . . why . . . you see 
 o . . it was . . . well . . . just to see whether . . . 
 
 PoNZA. But you can't . . . you mustnt! How could 
 you ever dream of trying to play a tune that your dead 
 daughter played! 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. You are quite right! . . . Oh, yes! 
 Poor boy! Poor boy! {She also begins to weep), I'll 
 never do it again : Never, never, never again ! 
 
 PoNZA {advancing upon her threateningly). What are 
 you doing here? Get out of here! Go home at once! 
 Home! Home! Go home! 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Yes, Yes ! Home ! I am going home ! 
 Oh dear, oh dear! 
 
 {She backs out the rear door, looking beseechingly at the 
 company, as though urging everyone to have pity on her son- 
 in-law. She retires, sobbing. The others stand there looking 
 at Ponza with pity and terror; but the moment Signora 
 Frola has left the room, he regains his normal composure, 
 an air of despairing melancholy , and he says coolly, but with 
 profound seriousness) : 
 
 Ponza. I hope you good people will excuse me for this 
 scene. A scene it really was, I suppose! But how could I 
 avoid it ? I had to rave like that to repair the damage which 
 you good people, with the best of intentions, and surely with- 
 out dreaming what you are really doing, have done to this 
 unfortunate woman. 
 
 Agazzi {in astonishment). What do you mean? That 
 you were just acting? You were pretending all that? 
 
[Act II] RIGHT YOU ARE! 207 
 
 PoNZA. Of course I was! Don't you people understand 
 that I had to? The only way to keep her in her obsession 
 is for me to shout the truth that way, as though I myself 
 had gone mad, as though I were the lunatic! Understand? 
 But please forgive me. I must be going now. I must go in 
 and see how she is. {He hurries out through the rear door. 
 The others stand where they are in blank amazement) . 
 
 Laudisi {corning forward). And there, ladies and gentle- 
 men, you have the truth! Hah! hah! hah; hah; hah; hah! 
 hah! 
 
 Curtain. 
 
ACT III 
 
 The same scene. As the curtain rises, Laudisi is sprawling 
 in an easy chair, reading a book. Through the door that 
 leads into the parlor on the left comes the confused murmur 
 of many voices. 
 
 The butler appears in the rear door, introducing the police 
 commissioner, Centuri. Centuri is a tall, stiff, scowling 
 official, with a decidedly professional air. He is in the neigh- 
 borhood of forty. 
 
 The Butler. This way, sir. I will call SIgnor Agazzi 
 at once. 
 
 Laudisi {drawing himself up in his chair and looking 
 around). Oh, it's you, Commissioner! {He rises hastily 
 and recalls the butler, who has stepped out through the 
 door). One moment, please ! Wait! {To Centuri). Any- 
 thing new, Commissioner ? 
 
 Commissioner {stiffly). Yes, something new! 
 
 Laudisi. Ah! Very well. {To the butler): Never 
 mind. I'll call him myself. {He motions with his hand 
 toward the door on the left. The butler bows and with- 
 draws). 
 
 You have worked miracles. Commissioner! You're the 
 savior of this town. Listen! Do you hear them! You 
 are the lion of the place! How does it feel to be the father 
 of your country? But say, what you've discovered is all 
 solid fact? 
 
 Commissioner. We've managed to unearth a few people. 
 
 Laudisi. From Ponza's town? People who know all 
 about him? 
 
 208 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 209 
 
 Commissioner. Yes ! And we have gathered from them 
 a few facts, — not many, perhaps, but well authenticated. 
 
 Laudisi. Ah, that's nice. Congratulations! For ex- 
 ample . . . 
 
 CoMMissisoNER. For example? Why, for instance, here 
 . . . well, here are all the communications I have received. 
 Read 'em yourself ! 
 
 {From an inner pocket he draws a yellow envelope, opened 
 at one end, from which he takes a document and hands it to 
 Laudisi). 
 
 Laudisi. Interesting, I am sure. Very interesting! .. 
 
 {He stands, reading the document carefully, commenting 
 from time to time with exclamations in different tones. First 
 an "ah" of satisfaction, then another "ah" which attenuates 
 this enthusiasm very much. Finally an~ "eh" of disappoint- 
 ment, which leads to another "eh" of complete disgust). 
 Why, no, what's all this amount to. Commissioner? 
 
 CoxViMissiONER. Well, it's what we were able to find 
 out. 
 
 Laudisi. But this doesn't prove anything, you under- 
 stand! It leaves everything just where it was. There's 
 nothing of any significance whatever here. {He looks at 
 the co?nmissioner for a moment and then, as though suddenly 
 making up his mind, he says) : I wonder, Commissioner, 
 would you like to do something really great — render a really 
 distinguished service to this town; and meanwhile lay up a 
 treasure in heaven? 
 
 Commissioner {looking at him in perplexity). What 
 are you thinking of sir? 
 
 Laudisi. I'll explain. Here, please, take this chair 1 {He 
 sets the chair in front of Agazzis desk). I advise you, Mr. 
 Commissioner, to tear up this sheet of paper that you've 
 brought and which has absolutely no significance at all. But 
 
210 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 here on this other piece of paper, why don't you write down 
 something that will be precise and clear? 
 
 Commissioner. Why . . . why . . . myself? What do 
 you mean ? What should I write ? 
 
 Laudisi. Anything, anything at all! Anything that 
 comes into your head, provided, however, it be precise and 
 clear! Say, for instance, that Signora Frola is a lunatic, or, 
 if you will, if you prefer, that the second marriage of 
 Ponza's was a frame-up ! 
 
 Commissioner. I don't get you, Signor Laudisi. What 
 are you driving at? I forge the document? 
 
 Laudisi {insisting). Forge? Just say something — any- 
 thing — that these two* old acquaintances of Ponza's whom 
 you managed to get hold of might have said. Come, Com- 
 missioner, rise to the occasion! Do something for the com- 
 monwealth! Bring this town back to normal again! Don't 
 you see w^hat they are after? They all want the truth — a 
 truth, that is : Something specific ; something concrete ! They 
 don't care what it is. All they want is something categorical, 
 something that speaks plainly! Then they'll quiet down. 
 
 Commissioner. The truth — a truth? Excuse me, have 
 I understood you clearly? You were suggesting that I 
 commit a forgery? I am astonished that you dare propose 
 such a thing, and when I say I am astonished, I'm not 
 saying half what I actually feel. Be so good as to tell the 
 Commendatore that I am here! 
 
 Laudisi {dropping his arms dejectedly). As you will, 
 Commissioner ! 
 
 {He steps over to the door on the left. As he draws the 
 portieres and swings the door more widely open, the voices 
 become louder and more confused. As he steps through, 
 there is a sudden silence. The police commissioner stands 
 waiting with a satisfied air, twirling one of the points of his 
 mustache. All of a sudden, thtre is commotion and cheer* 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 211 
 
 ing in the next room. Cries of delight and applause, mixed 
 with hand-clapping. The police commissioner comes out of 
 his reverie and looks up with an expression of surprise on hh 
 features, as though not understanding what it's all about. 
 Through the door to the left come Agazzi, Sirelli, Laudisi, 
 Amalia, Dina, Signora Sirelli, Signora Cini, Signora Nenni, 
 and many other ladies and gentlemen. Agazzi leads the 
 procession. They are all still talking and laughing excitedly, 
 clapping their hands, and crying "I told you so! Fine! Fine! 
 Good! How wonderful! Now we'll know!'' etc.), 
 
 Agazzi (stepping forward cordially). Ah, my dear 
 Centuri, I was sure you could! Nothing ever gets by our 
 chief ! 
 
 Company. Fine! Good! What did you find out! 
 Have you brought something? Is it she? Is it he? Tell 
 us? 
 
 Commissioner (who doesn't yet understand what all the 
 excitement is about. For him it has been a mere matter of 
 routine). Why, no . . . why, Commendatore, simply . . . 
 you understand . . . 
 
 Agazzi. Hush! Give him a chance! . . . 
 
 Commissioner. I have done my best. I . . . but w^hat 
 did Signor Laudisi tell you? 
 
 Agazzi. He told us that you have brought news, real 
 news! 
 
 SiRELLi. Specific data, clear, precise! . . . 
 
 Laudisi {amplifying) . . , . not many, perhaps, but well 
 authenticated ! The best they've managed to trace ! Old 
 neighbors of Ponza, you see; people well acquainted with 
 him . . . 
 
 Everybody. Ah! At last! At last! Now we'll know I 
 At last ! 
 
 (The Commissioner hands the document to Agazzi). 
 
 Commissioner. There you have it, Commendatore 1 
 
212 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 Agazzi {opening the sheet j as all crowd around him). 
 Let's have a look at it! 
 
 Commissioner. But you, Signor Laudisi . . . 
 
 Laudisi. Don't interrupt, please, the document speaks for 
 itself! Agazzi, you read it. 
 
 Agazzi {to Laudisi). But give me a chance, w^on't you? 
 Please! Please! Now! There you are! 
 
 Laudisi. Oh, I don't care. I've read the thing already. 
 
 Everybody {crowding around him). You've read it al- 
 ready? What did it say? Is it he? Is it she? 
 
 Laudisi {speaking very formally). There is no doubt 
 whatever, as a former neighbor of Ponza's testifies, that the 
 woman Frola was once in a sanatorium! 
 
 The Group {cries of disappointment) . Oh really! Too 
 bad! Too bad! 
 
 SiGNORA Sirelli. Signora Frola, did you say? 
 
 DiNA. Are you sure it was she? 
 
 Agazzi. Why, no! Why, no, it doesn't say anything of 
 the kind! {Coming forward and tvaving the document 
 triumphantly) . It doesn't say anything of the kind! {Gen- 
 eral excitement). 
 
 Everybody. Well, what does it say ? What does it say ? 
 
 Laudisi {insisting). It does too! It says ''the Frola 
 woman" — the Frola woman, categorically. 
 
 Agazzi. Nothing of the kind ! The witness says that he 
 thinks she was in a sanatorium. He does not assert that she 
 was. Besides, there is another point. He doesn't know 
 whether this Frola woman who was in a sanatorium was 
 the mother or the daughter, the first wife, that is! 
 
 Everybody {with relief). Ah! 
 
 Laudisi {insistingly) . But I say he does. It must be the 
 mother! Who else could it be . 
 
 Sirelli. No, of course, it's the daughter! It's the 
 daughter ! 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE I 213 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. Just as the old lady said herself! 
 
 Amalia. Exactly! That time when they took her away 
 by force from her husband ! . . . 
 
 DiNA. Yes, she says that her daughter was taken to a 
 sanatorium on account of a contagious disease. 
 
 Agazzi. Furthermore, observe another thing. The wit- 
 ness does not really belong to their town. He says that he 
 used to go there frequently, but that he does not remember 
 particularly. He remembers that he heard something or 
 other! . . . 
 
 SiRELLi. Ah! How can you depend on such a man's 
 testimony? Nothing but hearsay! 
 
 Laudisi. But, excuse me! If all you people are so 
 sure that Signora Frola is right, what more do you want? 
 Why do you go looking for documents? This is all non- 
 jense ! 
 
 SiRELLi. If it weren't for the fact that the prefect has 
 accepted Ponza's side of the story, I'll tell you . . . 
 
 Commissioner. Yes, that's true. The prefect said as 
 much to me . c . 
 
 Agazzi. Yes, but that's because the prefect has never 
 talked with the old lady who lives next door. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. You bet he hasn't. He talked only 
 *vith Ponza. 
 
 Sirelli. But, for that matter, there are other people of 
 the same mind as the prefect. 
 
 A Gentleman. That is my situation, my situation ex- 
 actly. Yes sir! Because I know of just such as case where 
 a mother went insane over the death of her daughter and 
 insists that the daughter's husband will not allow her to see 
 the girl. The same case to a T. 
 
 A Second Gentleman. Not exactly to a T ! Not ex- 
 actly to a T ! In the case you mention the man didn't marry 
 
214 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 again. Here, this man Ponza is living with another wo- 
 man . . . 
 
 Laudisi {his face brightening with a new idea that has 
 suddenly come to him). I have it, ladies and gentlemen! 
 Did you hear that? It's perfectly simple. Dear me, as 
 simple as Columbus's egg! 
 
 Everybody. What? What? What? What? 
 
 The Second Gentleman. What did I say? I didn't 
 realize it was important. 
 
 Laudisi. Just a moment, ladies and gentlemen ! ( Turn- 
 ing to Agazzi) : Is the prefect coming here, by chance? 
 
 Agazzi. Yes, we were expecting him. But what's the 
 new idea? 
 
 Laudisi. Why, you were bringing him here to talk 
 with Signora Frola. So far, he is standing by Ponza. When 
 he has talked with the old lady, he'll know whether to be- 
 lieve Ponza or her. That's your idea! Well, I've thought 
 of something better that the prefect can do. Something that 
 he only can do. 
 
 Everybody. What is it? What is it? What is it? 
 
 Laudisi (triumphantly) . Why, this wife of Ponza's, of 
 course ... at least, the woman he is living with! What 
 this gentleman said suggested the idea to me. 
 
 SiRELLi. Get the second woman to talk? Of course! 
 Of course ! 
 
 DiNA. But how can we, when she is kept under lock 
 and key? 
 
 Laudisi. Why, the prefect can use his authority — order 
 her to speak! 
 
 Amalia. Certainly, she is the one who can clear up the 
 whole mystery. 
 
 Signora Sirelli. I don't believe it. She'll say just 
 what her husband tells her to say. 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 215 
 
 Laudisi. Of course, if she were to speak in his presence 
 ... of course! 
 
 SiRELLi. She must speak with the prefect privately, all 
 by himself. 
 
 Agazzi. And the prefect, as the final authority over the 
 man, will insist that the wife make a formal explicit state- 
 ment before him. Of course, of course! What do you say, 
 Commissioner ? 
 
 Commissioner. Why certainly, there's no doubt that if 
 the prefect were so inclined . . . 
 
 Agazzi. It is the only way out of it, after all. We ought 
 to 'phone him and explain that he needn't go to the trouble 
 of coming here. You attend to that, will you. Commis- 
 sioner ? 
 
 Commissioner. Very glad to! My compliments, ladies! 
 Good afternoon, gentlemen! 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. A good idea for once, Laudisi. 
 
 DiNA. Oh, Nunky, how clever of you! Wise old 
 NunkyI 
 
 The Company. The only way out of it! Yes! Yes! 
 Fine ! At last ! 
 
 Agazzi. Curious none of us thought of that before! 
 
 Sirelli. Not so curious! None of us ever set eyes on 
 the woman. She might as well be in another world, poor 
 girl. 
 
 Laudisi {as though suddenly impressed by this latter re- 
 ftection). In another world? Why yes, — are you really sure 
 there is such a \voman? 
 
 Amalia. Oh I say! Please, please, Lamberto! 
 
 Sirelli (with a laugh). You mean to say you think 
 there is no such woman? 
 
 Laudisi. How can you be sure there is? You can't 
 guarantee it! 
 
216 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 DiNA. But the old lady sees her and talks with her every 
 day. 
 
 SiGNORA SiRELLi. And Ponza says that, too. They both 
 agree on that point! 
 
 Laudisi. Yes, yes, I don't deny that. But just a moment! 
 If you think of it, isn't Signora Frola right? Well, in that 
 case who is the woman in Ponza's eyes? The phantom of a 
 second wife, of course ! Or else Ponza himself is right, and 
 in that case you have the phantom of a daughter in the 
 old lady's eyes! Two phantoms, in other words! Now 
 we've got to find out, ladies and gentlemen, whether this 
 woman, who must be a mere phantom for the one or for 
 the other, is a person, after all for herself. In the situa- 
 tion we are in, I should say there was very good ground 
 for doubting. 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, you make me tired! If we listen to 
 you . . . 
 
 Laudisi. No, ladies and gentlemen, notice! It may be 
 that she is nothing but a phantom in her own eyes. 
 
 Signora Nenni. Why, this is getting to be almost 
 spooky ! 
 
 Signora Cini. You mean to say it's a ghost, a real ghost ? 
 How can you frighten us so? 
 
 Everybody. Nonsense! He's only joking! He's only 
 joking! 
 
 Laudisi. Not a bit of it! I'm not joking at all! Who 
 ever saw the woman? No one ever set eyes on her. He 
 talks of her, to be sure; and she, the old woman that is, 
 says that she often sees her. 
 
 Sirelli. Nonsense! Any number of people have seen 
 her; she comes to the balcony of the courtyard. 
 
 Laudisi. Who comes to the balcony ? 
 
 Sirelli. A woman in flesh and bones — in skirts, for that 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 217 
 
 matter. People have seen her and people have heard her 
 talk. For heaven's sake, man! 
 
 Laudisi. Are you sure of that? 
 
 Agazzi. And why not, pray? You said so yourself a 
 moment ago! 
 
 Laudisi. Why yes, I did say so! I did say that the 
 prefect ought to have a talk with whatever woman is there. 
 But notice one thing, it is certain that no ordinary woman is 
 there. No ordinary woman ! Of that much we can be sure ! 
 And I, for my part, have come to doubt whether she is in 
 any sense of the term, a woman. 
 
 Signora Sirelli Dear me, dear me! That man simply 
 drives me crazy. 
 
 Laudisi. Well, supposing we wait and see! 
 
 Everybody. Well, who is she then? But people have 
 seen her! His wife! On the balcony! She writes letters! 
 
 Police Commissioner {in the heat of the confusion 
 comes into the room, excitedly announcing) . The prefect is 
 coming! The prefect! 
 
 Agazzi. What do you mean? Coming here? But you 
 went to . . . 
 
 Commissioner. Why yes, but I met him hardly a block 
 away. He was coming here; and Ponza is with him. 
 
 Sirelli. Ah, Ponza! 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, if Ponza is with him, I doubt whether he 
 is coming here. They are probably on their way to the old 
 lady's. Please, Centuri, you just wait on the landing tliere 
 and ask him if he won't step in here as he promised ? 
 
 Commissioner. Very well! I'll do so! {He withdraws 
 hurriedly through the door in the rear). 
 
 Agazzi. Won't you people just step into the other room? 
 
 Signora Sirelli. But remember now, be sure to make 
 him see the point ! It's the only way out, the only way. 
 
218 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 Amalia {at the door to the left). This way, ladies, if 
 you please ! 
 
 Agazzi. Won't you just stay here, Sirelli ; and you, too, 
 Lamberto ? 
 
 {All the others go out through the door to the left). 
 
 Agazzi {to Laudisi). But let me do the talking, won't 
 you! 
 
 Laudisi. Oh, as for that, don't worry. In fact, if you 
 prefer, I'll go into the other room . . . 
 
 Agazzi. No, no, it's better for you to be here. Ah, 
 here he is now! 
 
 The Prefect is a man of about sixty, tall, thick set, good 
 naturedy affable. 
 
 Prefect. Ah, Agazzi, glad to see you. How goes it, 
 Sirelli? Good to see you again, Laudisi. {He shakes 
 hands all around). 
 
 Agazzi {motioning toward a chair). I hope you won't 
 mind my having asked you to come here. 
 
 Prefect. No, I was coming, just as I promised you! 
 
 Agazzi {noticing the police commissioner at the door). 
 Oh, I'm sorry. Commissioner! Please come in! Here, 
 have a chair ! 
 
 Prefect {good-naturedly to Sirelli). By the way, Sirelli, 
 they tell me that you've gone half nutty over this blessed 
 affair of our new secretary. 
 
 Sirelli. Oh, no, governor, believe me. I'm no" ^^^ '^nlv 
 one ! The whole village is worked up. 
 
 Agazzi. And that's putting it very mildly. 
 
 Prefect. What's it all about? What's it all about? 
 Good heavens! 
 
 Agazzi. Of course, governor, you're probably not posted 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 219 
 
 on the whole business. The old lady lives here next 
 door. . . . 
 
 Prefect. Yes, I understand so. 
 
 SiRELLi. No, one moment, please, governor. You haven't 
 talked with the poor old lady yet. 
 
 Prefect. I was on my way to see her. {Turning to 
 Agazzi). I had promised you to see her here, but Ponza 
 came and begged me, almost on my knees, to see her in her 
 own house. His idea was to put an end to all this talk 
 that's going around. Do you think he would have done such 
 a thing if he weren't absolutely sure? 
 
 Agazzi. Of course, he's sure! Because when she's talk- 
 ing in front of him, the poor woman . . . 
 
 Sirelli {suddenly getting in his oar). She says just what 
 he wants her to say, governor; which proves that she is far 
 from being as insane as he claims. 
 
 Agazzi. We had a sample of that, here, yesterday, all 
 of us. 
 
 Prefect. Why, I understand so. You see he's trying 
 all the time to make her believe he's crazy. He warned me 
 of that. And how else could he keep the poor woman in 
 her illusion? Do you see any way? All this talk of yours 
 is simply torture to the poor fellow! Believe me, pure 
 torture I 
 
 Sirelli. Very well, governor! But supposing she is the 
 one who is trying to keep him in the idea that her daughter 
 is dead ; so as to reassure him that his wife will not be taken 
 from him again. In that case, you see, governor, it's the old 
 lady who is being tortured, and not Ponza! 
 
 Agazzi. The moment you see the possibility of that, 
 governor . . . Well, you ought to hear her talk ; but all by 
 herself, when he's not around. Then you'd see the possibil- 
 ity all right . . . 
 
 Sirelli. Just as we all see it I 
 
220 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 Prefect. Oh, I wonder! You don't seem to me so 
 awfully sure; and for my part, I'm quite willing to con- 
 fess that I'm not so sure myself. How about you, Laudisi? 
 
 Laudisi. Sorry, governor, I promised Agazzi here to 
 keep my mouth shut. 
 
 Agazzi {protesting angrily). Nothing of the kind! 
 How dare you say that? When the governor asks you a 
 plain question . . . It's true I told him not to talk, but 
 do you know why? He's been doing his best for tlie past 
 two days to keep us all rattled so that we can't find out 
 anything. 
 
 Laudisi. Don't you believe him, governor. On the 
 contrary. I've been doing my best to bring these people to 
 common sense. 
 
 SiRELLi. Common sense! And do you know what he 
 calls common sense ? According to him it is not possible to 
 discover the truth ; and now he's been suggesting that Ponza 
 is living not with a woman, but with a ghost ! 
 
 Prefect {enjoying the situation). That's a new one! 
 Quite an idea ! How do you make that out, Laudisi ? 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, I say ! . . . You know how he is. There's 
 no getting an^^where with him! 
 
 Laudisi. I leave it to you, governor. I was the one who 
 first suggested bringing the woman here. 
 
 Prefect. And do you think, Laudisi, I ought to see 
 the old lady next door? 
 
 Laudisi. No, I advise no such thing, governor. In my 
 judgment you are doing very well in depending on what 
 Ponza tells you. 
 
 Prefect. Ah, I see! Because you, too, think that 
 Ponza . . . 
 
 Laudisi. No, not at all . . . because I'm also satisfied 
 to have all these people stand on what Signora Frola says, 
 if that does them any good. 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 221 
 
 Agazzi. So you see, eh, governor? That's what you 
 call arguing, eh? 
 
 Prefect. Just a moment ! Let me understand ! ( Turn- 
 ing to Laudisi) : So you say we can also trust what the old 
 lady says? 
 
 Laudisi. Of course you can! Implicitly! And so you 
 can depend upon what Ponza says. Implicitly! 
 
 Prefect. Excuse me, I don't follow you! 
 
 SiRELLi. But man alive, if they both say the exact op- 
 posite of each other! . . . 
 
 Agazzi {angrily and with heat). Listen to me, gov- 
 ernor, please. I am prejudiced neither in favor of the old 
 lady nor in favor of Ponza. I recognize that he may be 
 right and that she may be right. But we ought to settle the 
 matter, and there is only one way to do it. 
 
 SiRELLi. The way that Laudisi here suggested. 
 
 Prefect. He suggested it? That's interesting? What 
 is it? 
 
 Agazzi. Since we haven't been able to get any positive 
 proof, there is only one thing left. You, as Ponza's final 
 superior, as the man who can fire him if need be, can obtain 
 a statement from his wife. 
 
 Prefect. Make his wife talk, you mean? 
 
 SiRELLi. But not in the presence of her husband, you 
 understand. 
 
 Agazzi. Yes, making sure she tells the truth ! 
 
 SiRELLi. . . . tell whether she's the daughter of Signora 
 Frola, that is, as we think she must be . . . 
 
 Agazzi. ... or a second wife who is consenting to im- 
 personate the daughter of Signora Frola, as Ponza claims. 
 
 Prefect. . . . and as I believe myself, without a shadow 
 of doubt! {Thinking a moment), Why, I don't see any 
 objection to having her talk. Who could object? Ponza? 
 But Ponza, as I know very well, is more eager than anybody 
 
222 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 else to have this talk quieted down. He's all upset over 
 tliis whole business, and said he was willing to do anything 
 I proposed. I'm sure he will raise no objection. So if it 
 will ease the minds of you people here . . . Say, Centuri 
 {the police commissioner rises), won't you just ask Ponza to 
 step in here a moment ? He's next door with his mother-in- 
 law. 
 
 Commissioner. At once, Your Excellency! (He bows 
 and withdraws through the door at the rear), 
 
 Agazzi. Oh well, if he consents . Jf*. 
 
 Prefect. He'll consent, all right. And we'll be through 
 with it in a jiffy. We'll bring her right in here so that you 
 people . . . 
 
 Agazzi. Here, in my house? 
 
 SiRELLi. You think he'll let his wife come in here? 
 
 Prefect. Just leave it to me, just leave it to me! I 
 prefer to have her right here because, otherwise you see, you 
 people would always suppose that I and Ponza had . . . 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, please, governor, no! That's not fair! 
 
 SiRELLi. Oh, no, governor, we trust you implicitly! 
 
 Prefect. Oh, I'm not offended, not at all! But you 
 know very well that I'm on his side in this matter; and 
 you'd always be thinking that to hush up any possible scandal 
 in connection with a man in my office . . . No, you see. I 
 must insist on having the interview here . . . Where's your 
 wife, Agazzi? 
 
 Agazzi. In the other room, governor, with some other 
 ladies. 
 
 Prefect. Other ladies? Aha, I see! {Laughing). You 
 have a regular detective bureau here, eh? {The police com- 
 missiont • enters with Ponza), 
 
 Commissioner. May I come in? Signor Ponza is here. 
 
 Prefect. Thanks, Centuri. This way, Ponza, come 
 right in! {Ponza bows). 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 223 
 
 Agazzi. Have a chair, Ponza. (Ponza bows and sits 
 down ) . 
 
 Prefect. I believe you knovir these gentlemen? (Ponza 
 rises and bows). 
 
 Agazzi. Yes, I introduced them yesterday. And this is 
 Laudisi, my wife's brother. {Ponza bows). 
 
 Prefect. I venture to disturb you, my dear Ponza, just 
 to tell you that here with these friends of mine ... {At the 
 first words of the prefect, Ponza evinces the greatest nerv- 
 ousness and agitation). 
 
 Prefect. Was there something you wanted to say, 
 Ponza ? 
 
 Ponza. Yes, there is something I want to say, governor. 
 I want to present my resignation here and now. 
 
 Prefect. Oh, my dear fellow, I'm so sorry! But just a 
 few moments ago down at the office you were talking . . . 
 
 Ponza. Oh, really, this is an outrage, governor! This 
 is just plain persecution, plain persecution! 
 
 Prefect. Oh, now, don't take it that way, old man. See 
 here. These good people . . . 
 
 Agazzi. Persecution, did you say? On my part? . . . 
 
 Ponza. On the part of all of you! And I am sick and 
 tired of it! I am going to resign, governor. I refuse to 
 submit to this ferocious prying into my private affairs which 
 will end by undoing a work of love that has cost me untold 
 sacrifice these past two years. You don't know, governor! 
 Why, I've treated that dear old lady in there just as tenderly 
 as though she were my own mother. And yesterday I had 
 to shout at her in the most cruel and terrible way! Why, 
 I found her just now so worked up and excited that . . . 
 
 Agazzi. That's queer! While she was in here Signora 
 Frola was quite mistress of herself. If anybody was worked 
 up, Ponza, it was you. And even now, if I might say . . , 
 
224 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 PoNZA. But you people don't know what you're making 
 me go through! 
 
 Prefect. Oh, come, come, my dear fellows, don't take 
 it so hard. After all, I'm here, am I not? And you know 
 I've always stood by you! And I always will! 
 
 PoNZA. Yes, governor, and I appreciate your kindness, 
 really ! 
 
 Prefect. And then you say that you're as fond of this 
 poor old lady as you would be if she were your own mother. 
 Well, now, just remember that these good people here seem 
 to be prying into your affairs because they, too, are fond of 
 her! . . . 
 
 PoNZA. But they're killing her, I tell you, governor! 
 They're killing her, and I warned them in advance. 
 
 Prefect. Very well, Ponza, very well! Now we'll get 
 through with this matter in no time. See here, it is all very 
 simple. There is one way that you can convince these people 
 without the least doubt in the world. Oh, not me — I don't 
 need convincing. I believe you. 
 
 Ponza. But they won't believe me, no matter what I 
 say. 
 
 Agazzi. That's not so ! When you came here after your 
 mother-in-law's first visit and told us that she was insane, 
 all of us . . . well, we were surprised, but we believed you. 
 {Turning to the prefect) : But after he left, you understand, 
 the old lady came back . . . 
 
 Prefect. Yes, yes, I know. He told me. {Turning 
 to Ponza again). She came back here and said that she was 
 trying to do with you exactly what you say you were trying 
 to do with her. It's natural, isn't it, that people hearing both 
 stories, should be somewhat confused. Now you see that 
 these good people, in view of what your mother-in-law says, 
 can't possibly be sure of what you say. So there you are. 
 Now, such being the case, you and your mother-in-law — 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 225 
 
 why, it's perfectly simple — you two just step aside. Now 
 you know you're telling the truth, don't you ? So do I ! So 
 you can't possibly object to their hearing the testimony of 
 the only person who does know, aside from you two. 
 
 PoNZA. And who may that be, pray? 
 
 Prefect. Why, your wife ! 
 
 PoNZA. My wife! (Decisively and angrily). Ah, no! 
 I refuse! Never in the world! Never! 
 
 Prefect. And why not, old man? 
 
 PoNZA. Bring my wife here to satisfy the curiosity of 
 these strangers? 
 
 Prefect {sharply). And my curiosity, too, if you don't 
 mind! What objection can you have? 
 
 PoNZA. Oh, but governor, no ! My wife! Here? No! 
 Why drag my wife in? These people ought to believe 
 me! 
 
 Prefect. But don't you see, my dear fellow, that the 
 course you're taking now is just calculated to discredit what 
 you say? 
 
 Agazzi. His mistake in the first place, governor, was 
 trying to prevent his mother-in-law from coming here and 
 calling — a double discourtesy, mark you, to my wife and to 
 my daughter! 
 
 PoNZA. But what in the name of God do you people 
 want of me? You've been nagging and nagging at that 
 poor old woman next door; and now you want to get your 
 clutches on my wife! No, governor! I refuse to submit to 
 such an indignity! She owes nothing to anybody. My wife 
 is not making visits in this town. You say you believe me, 
 governor? That's enough for me! Here's my resignation! 
 I'll go out and look for another job! 
 
 Prefect. No, no, Ponza, I must speak plainly. In the 
 first place I have always treated you on the square ; and you 
 have no right to speak in that tone of voice to me. In the 
 
226 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 second place you are beginning to make me doubt your word 
 by refusing to furnish me — not other people — but me, the 
 evidence that I have asked for in your interest, evidence, 
 moreover, that so far as I can see, cannot possibly do you 
 any harm. It seems to me that my colleague here, Signer 
 Agazzi, can ask a lady to come to his house ! But no, if you 
 prefer, we'll go and see her. 
 
 PoNZA. So you really insist, governor? 
 
 Prefect. I insist, but as I told you, in your own interest. 
 You realize, besides, that I might have the legal right to 
 question her . . . 
 
 PoNZA. I see, I see! So that's it! An official investiga- 
 tion ! Well, why not, after all ? I will bring my wife here, 
 just to end the whole matter. But how can you guarantee 
 me that this poor old lady next door will not catch sight of 
 her? 
 
 Prefect. Why, I hadn't thought of that ! She does live 
 right next door. 
 
 Agazzi {speaking up). We are perfectly willing to go to 
 Signor Ponza's house. 
 
 PoNZA. No, no, I was just thinking of you people. I 
 don't want you to play any more tricks on me. Any mistakes 
 might have the most frightful consequences, set her going 
 again ! 
 
 Agazzi. You're not very fair to us, Ponza, it seems to 
 me. 
 
 Prefect. Or you might bring your wife to my office, 
 rather . . . 
 
 PoNZA. No, no! Since you're going to question her any- 
 way, we might as well get through with it. We'll bring her 
 here, right here. I'll keep an eye on my mother-in-law my- 
 self. We'll have her here right away, governor, and get an 
 end of this nonsense once and for all, once and for all! (He 
 hurries away through the rear exit.) 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 227 
 
 Prefect. I confess I was not expecting so much opposi- 
 tion on his part. 
 
 Agazzi. Ah, you'll see. He'll go and cook up with his 
 wife just what she's to say! 
 
 Prefect. Oh, don't worry as to that! I'll question the 
 woman myself. 
 
 SiRELLi. But he's more excited than he's ever been before. 
 
 Prefect. Well, I confess I never saw him just in this 
 state of mind. Perhaps it is the sense of outrage he feels 
 in having to bring his wife . . . 
 
 SiRELLl. In having to let her loose for once, you ought to 
 say! 
 
 Prefect. A man isn't necessarily crazy because he wants 
 to keep an eye on his wife. 
 
 Agazzi. Of course he sa)^s it's to protect her from the 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 Prefect. I wasn't thinking of just that — he may be 
 jealous of the woman! 
 
 SiRELLi. Jealous to the extent of refusing her a servant ? 
 For you know, don't you, he makes his wife do all the 
 housework ? 
 
 Agazzi. And he does all the marketing himself every 
 morning. 
 
 Commissioner. That's right, governor! I've had him 
 shadowed. An errand boy from the market carries the stuff 
 as far as the door. 
 
 Sirelli. But he never lets the boy inside. 
 
 Prefect. Dear me, dear me! He excused himself for 
 that servant business when I took the matter up with him. 
 
 Laudisi. And that's information right from the source I 
 
 Prefect. He says he does it to save money. 
 
 Laudisi. He has to keep two establishments on one 
 salary. 
 
 Sirelli. Oh, we weren't criticising how he runs his 
 
228 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 house; but I ask you as a matter of common sense: he is a 
 man of some position, and do you think that this second wife 
 of his, as he calls her, who ought to be a lady, would consent 
 to do all the work about the house? . . . 
 
 Agazzi. The hardest and most disagreeable work, you 
 understand . . . 
 
 SiRELLi. . . . just out of consideration for the mother 
 of her husband's first wife? 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, I say, governor, be honest now! That 
 doesn't seem probable, does it? 
 
 Prefect. I confess it does seem queer . . . 
 
 Laudisi. ... in case this second woman is an ordinary 
 woman ! 
 
 Prefect. Yes, but let's be frank. It doesn't seem 
 reasonable. But yet, one might say — well, you could explain 
 it as generosity on her part, and even better, as jealousy on 
 his part. Lunatic or no lunatic, there is no denying that 
 he's jealous! 
 
 (A confused clamor of voices is heard from the next door) . 
 
 Agazzi. My, I wonder what's going on in there ! 
 
 {Amalia enters from the door on the left in a state of 
 great excitement) . 
 
 Amalia. Signora Frola is here! 
 
 Agazzi. Impossible! How in the world did she get in? 
 Who sent for her? 
 
 Amalia. Nobody! She came of her own accord! 
 
 Prefect. Oh, no, please — ^just a moment! No! Send 
 her away, madam, please! 
 
 Agazzi. We've got to get rid of her. Don't let her in 
 here! We must absolutely keep her out! 
 
 {Signora Frola appears at the door on the left, trembling, 
 besseching, weeping, a handkerchief in her hand. The people 
 in the next room are crowding around behind her). 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE! 229 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Oh, please, please! You tell them, 
 Signer Agazzi! Don't let them send me away! 
 
 Agazzi. But you must go away, madam! We simply 
 can't allow you to be here now! 
 
 SiGNORA Frola {desperately). Why? Why? {Turn- 
 ing to Amalia). I appeal to you, Signora Agazzi. 
 
 Amalia. But don't you see? The prefect is there! 
 They're having an important meeting. 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Oh, the prefect! Please, governor, 
 please! I was intending to go and see you. 
 
 Prefect. No, I am so sorry, madam. I can't see you 
 just now! You must go away! 
 
 Signora Frola. Yes, I am going away. I am going 
 to leave town this very day! I am going to leave town and 
 never come back again! 
 
 Agazzi. Oh, we didn't mean that, my dear Signora 
 Frola. We meant that we couldn't see you here, just now, 
 in this room. Do me a favor, please! You can see the 
 governor by and by. 
 
 Signora Frola. But why? I don't understand ! What's 
 happened! 
 
 Agazzi. Why, your son-in-law will soon be here ! There, 
 now do you see? 
 
 Signora Frola. Oh, he's coming here? Oh, yes, in 
 that case . . . Yes, yes, . . . Fll go! But there was some- 
 thing I wanted to say to you people. You must stop all this. 
 You must let us alone. You think you are helping me. You 
 are trying to do me a favor ; but really, what you're doing is 
 working me a great wrong. Fve got to leave town this very 
 day because he must not be aroused. What do you want of 
 him anyway? What are you trying to do to him? Why 
 are you having him come here? Oh, Mr. Governor . . . 
 
 Prefect. Come, Signora Frola, don't worry, don't 
 
230 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 worry. I'll see you by and by and explain everything. You 
 just step out now, won't you? 
 
 Am ALIA. Please, Signora Frola . . . yes, that's right! 
 Come with me! 
 
 Signora Frola. Oh, my dear Signora Agazzi, you are 
 trying to rob me of the one comfort I had in life, the chance 
 of seeing my daughter once in a while, at least from a 
 distance! (She begins to weep) . 
 
 Prefect. What in the world are you thinking of? We 
 are not asking you to leave town. We just want you to leave 
 this room, for the time being. There, now do you under- 
 stand ? 
 
 Signora Frola. But it's on his account, governor . . . 
 it's on his account I was coming to ask you to help him ! It 
 was on his account, not on mine! 
 
 Prefect. There, there, everything will be all right. 
 We'll take care of him. And we'll have this whole business 
 settled in a jiffy. 
 
 Signora Frola. But how . . . how can I be sure? 
 I can see that ever}'body here hates him. They are trying 
 to do something to him. 
 
 Prefect. No, no, not at all! And even if they were, 
 I would look after him. There, there, don't worry, don't 
 
 worry 
 
 Signora Frola. Oh, so you believe him? Oh, thank 
 you; thank you, sir! That means that at least you under- 
 stand ! 
 
 Prefect. Yes, yes, madam, I understand, I understand! 
 And I cautioned all these people here. It's a misfortune 
 that came to him long, long ago. He's all right now ! He's 
 all right now! 
 
 Signora Frola. . . . Only he must not go back to all 
 those things. 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU ARE/ 231 
 
 Frefect. You're right, you're quite right, Signora Frola, 
 but as I told you, I understand! 
 
 Signora Frola. Yes, governor, that's it! If he compels 
 us to live this way — well, what does it matter. That 
 doesn't do anybody any harm so long as we're satisfied, and 
 my daughter is happy this way. That's enough for me, 
 and for her! But you'll look after us, governor. They 
 mustn't spoil anything. Otherwise there's nothing left for 
 me except to leave town and never see her again — never, 
 not even from a distance. You must not irritate him. 
 You must leave him alone. Oh, please! 
 
 (At this moment a wave of surprise, anxiety, dismay}, 
 sweeps over the company. Everybody falls silent and turns 
 to the door. Suppressed exclamations are audible,) 
 
 Voices. Oh! Oh! Look! There she is! Oh! Oh! 
 
 Signora Frola {noticing the change in people, and groan- 
 ing, all of a tremble). What's the matter? What's the 
 matter ? 
 
 {The company divides to either hand. A lady has ap- 
 peared at the door in back. She is dressed in deep mourn- 
 ing and her face is concealed with a thick, black, impenetrable 
 veil) . 
 
 Signora Frola {uttering a piercing shriek of joy). Oh, 
 Lena! Lena! Lena! Lena! 
 
 {She dashes forward and throws her arms about the veiled 
 woman ivith the passionate hysteria of a mother who has not 
 embraced her daughter for years and years. But at the same 
 time from beyond the door in the rear another piercing cry 
 comes. Ponza dashes into the room). 
 
 PoNZA. No! Julia! Julia! Julia! 
 
 {At his voice Signora Ponza draws up stiffly in the arms 
 of Signora Frola who is clasping her tightly. Ponza notices 
 that his mother-in-law is thus desperately entwined about 
 his wife and he shrieks desperately). 
 
232 RIGHT YOU ARE! [Act III] 
 
 PoNZA. Cowards ! Liars ! I knew you would ! I knew 
 you would! It is just like the lot of you! 
 
 SiGNORA PoNZA {turning her veiled head with a certain 
 austere solemnity toward her husband). Never mind! 
 Don't be afraid! Just take her away, just take her away! 
 Please go away, now, both of you! Please go away! 
 
 {Signora Frola, at these words, turns to her son-in-law 
 and humbly, tremblingly, goes over and embraces him). 
 
 SiGNORA Frola. Yes, yes, you poor boy, come with me, 
 come with me ! 
 
 {Their arms about each other s waists, and holding each 
 other up affectionately, Ponza and his mother-in-law with- 
 draw through the rear door. They are both weeping. Pro- 
 found silence in the company. All those present stand there 
 zvith their eyes fixed upon the departing couple. As Signora 
 Frola and Ponza are lost from view, all eyes turn expect- 
 antly upon the veiled lady. Some of the women are weeping). 
 
 Signora Ponza. And what can you want of me now, 
 after all this, ladies and gentlemen? In our lives, as you 
 see, there is something which must remain concealed. Other- 
 wise the remedy which our love for each other has found 
 cannot avail. 
 
 Prefect {with tears in his eyes). We surely are anxious 
 to respect your sorrow, madam, but we must know, and wc 
 want you to tell . . . 
 
 Signora Ponza. What? The truth? The truth is 
 simply this. I am the daughter of Signora Frola, and I am 
 the second wife of Signor Ponza. Yes, and — for myself, I 
 am nobody, I am nobody . . . 
 
 Prefect. Ah, but no, madam, for yourself . . . you 
 must be . . . either the one or the other. 
 
 Signora Ponza. Not at all, not at all, sir! No, for 
 myself I am . . . whoever you choose to have me. {With- 
 out removing her veil, she proudly casts a sweeping glance 
 
[Act III] RIGHT YOU AREl 233 
 
 around at the company, and withdraws. They all stand 
 looking after her. Profound silence on the stage). 
 
 Laudisi. Well, and there, my friends, you have the 
 truth! But are you satisfied? Hah! hah! hah! hah! hah! 
 hah! hah! 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 NOTE TO "RIGHT YOU ARE!" 
 
 A slight adaptation has been introduced into Signora Frola's 
 explanation of her son-in-law's mania. Act I, p. 184, beginning 
 "No, look, look, not that . . . etc." The Italian text reads: 
 
 Signora Frola. No guardino . . . guardino . . . Non 
 e neanche lui! . . . Mi lascino dire. Lo hanno vcduto — 
 e cosi forte di complessione . . . violento . . . Sposando, fu 
 preso da una vera frenesia d'amore . . . Rischio di distrug- 
 gere, quasi, la mia figliuola, ch'era delicatina . . . Per con- 
 siglio dei medici e di tutti i parenti anche dei suoi (che ora 
 poverini non ci sono piii) — gli si dovette sottrarre la moglie 
 di nascosto, per chiuderla in una casa di salute . . . ecc." 
 
 A. L. 
 
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