 |
ROXANE: Are you content at last?
CHRISTIAN (in a choked voice): Ay!. . .
ROXANE: What is wrong?
CHRISTIAN (gently pushing her away): Nothing. . .I have two words to say:—one second. . .
ROXANE: But?. . .
CHRISTIAN (pointing to the cadets): Those poor fellows, shortly doomed to death,— My love deprives them of the sight of you: Go,—speak to them—smile on them ere they die!
ROXANE (deeply affected): Dear Christian!. . .
(She goes up to the cadets, who respectfully crowd round her.)
Scene 4.IX.
Christian, Cyrano. At back Roxane talking to Carbon and some cadets.
CHRISTIAN (calling toward Cyrano's tent): Cyrano!
CYRANO (reappearing, fully armed): What? Why so pale?
CHRISTIAN: She does not love me!
CYRANO: What?
CHRISTIAN: 'Tis you she loves!
CYRANO: No!
CHRISTIAN: —For she loves me only for my soul!
CYRANO: Truly?
CHRISTIAN: Yes! Thus—you see, that soul is you,. . . Therefore, 'tis you she loves!—And you—love her!
CYRANO: I?
CHRISTIAN: Oh, I know it!
CYRANO: Ay, 'tis true!
CHRISTIAN: You love To madness!
CYRANO: Ay! and worse!
CHRISTIAN: Then tell her so!
CYRANO: No!
CHRISTIAN: And why not?
CYRANO: Look at my face!—be answered!
CHRISTIAN: She'd love me—were I ugly.
CYRANO: Said she so?
CHRISTIAN: Ay! in those words!
CYRANO: I'm glad she told you that! But pooh!—believe it not! I am well pleased She thought to tell you. Take it not for truth. Never grow ugly:—she'd reproach me then!
CHRISTIAN: That I intend discovering!
CYRANO: No! I beg!
CHRISTIAN: Ay! she shall choose between us!—Tell her all!
CYRANO: No! no! I will not have it! Spare me this!
CHRISTIAN: Because my face is haply fair, shall I Destroy your happiness? 'Twere too unjust!
CYRANO: And I,—because by Nature's freak I have The gift to say—all that perchance you feel. Shall I be fatal to your happiness?
CHRISTIAN: Tell all!
CYRANO: It is ill done to tempt me thus!
CHRISTIAN: Too long I've borne about within myself A rival to myself—I'll make an end!
CYRANO: Christian!
CHRISTIAN: Or union, without witness—secret— Clandestine—can be easily dissolved If we survive.
CYRANO: My God!—he still persists!
CHRISTIAN: I will be loved myself—or not at all! —I'll go see what they do—there, at the end Of the post: speak to her, and then let her choose One of us two!
CYRANO: It will be you.
CHRISTIAN: Pray God! (He calls): Roxane!
CYRANO: No! no!
ROXANE (coming up quickly): What?
CHRISTIAN: Cyrano has things Important for your ear. . .
(She hastens to Cyrano. Christian goes out.)
Scene 4.X.
Roxane, Cyrano. Then Le Bret, Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, the cadets, Ragueneau, De Guiche, etc.
ROXANE: Important, how?
CYRANO (in despair. to Roxane): He's gone! 'Tis naught!—Oh, you know how he sees Importance in a trifle!
ROXANE (warmly): Did he doubt Of what I said?—Ah, yes, I saw he doubted!
CYRANO (taking her hand): But are you sure you told him all the truth?
ROXANE: Yes, I would love him were he. . .
(She hesitates.)
CYRANO: Does that word Embarrass you before my face, Roxane?
ROXANE: I. . .
CYRANO (smiling sadly): 'Twill not hurt me! Say it! If he were Ugly!. . .
ROXANE: Yes, ugly! (Musket report outside): Hark! I hear a shot!
CYRANO (ardently): Hideous!
ROXANE: Hideous! yes!
CYRANO: Disfigured.
ROXANE: Ay!
CYRANO: Grotesque?
ROXANE: He could not be grotesque to me!
CYRANO: You'd love the same?. . .
ROXANE: The same—nay, even more!
CYRANO (losing command over himself—aside): My God! it's true, perchance, love waits me there! (To Roxane): I. . .Roxane. . .listen. . .
LE BRET (entering hurriedly—to Cyrano): Cyrano!
CYRANO (turning round): What?
LE BRET: Hush!
(He whispers something to him.)
CYRANO (letting go Roxane's hand and exclaiming): Ah, God!
ROXANE: What is it?
CYRANO (to himself—stunned): All is over now.
(Renewed reports.)
ROXANE: What is the matter? Hark! another shot!
(She goes up to look outside.)
CYRANO: It is too late, now I can never tell!
ROXANE (trying to rush out): What has chanced?
CYRANO (rushing to stop her): Nothing!
(Some cadets enter, trying to hide something they are carrying, and close round it to prevent Roxane approaching.)
ROXANE: And those men? (Cyrano draws her away): What were you just about to say before. . .?
CYRANO: What was I saying? Nothing now, I swear! (Solemnly): I swear that Christian's soul, his nature, were. . . (Hastily correcting himself): Nay, that they are, the noblest, greatest. . .
ROXANE: Were? (With a loud scream): Oh!
(She rushes up, pushing every one aside.)
CYRANO: All is over now!
ROXANE (seeing Christian lying on the ground, wrapped in his cloak): O Christian!
LE BRET (to Cyrano): Struck by first shot of the enemy!
(Roxane flings herself down by Christian. Fresh reports of cannon—clash of arms—clamor—beating of drums.)
CARBON (with sword in the air): O come! Your muskets.
(Followed by the cadets, he passes to the other side of the ramparts.)
ROXANE: Christian!
THE VOICE OF CARBON (from the other side): Ho! make haste!
ROXANE: Christian!
CARBON: FORM LINE!
ROXANE: Christian!
CARBON: HANDLE YOUR MATCH!
(Ragueneau rushes up, bringing water in a helmet.)
CHRISTIAN (in a dying voice): Roxane!
CYRANO (quickly, whispering into Christian's ear, while Roxane distractedly tears a piece of linen from his breast, which she dips into the water, trying to stanch the bleeding): I told her all. She loves you still.
(Christian closes his eyes.)
ROXANE: How, my sweet love?
CARBON: DRAW RAMRODS!
ROXANE (to Cyrano): He is not dead?
CARBON: OPEN YOUR CHARGES WITH YOUR TEETH!
ROXANE: His cheek Grows cold against my own!
CARBON: READY! PRESENT!
ROXANE (seeing a letter in Christian's doublet): A letter!. . . 'Tis for me!
(She opens it.)
CYRANO (aside): My letter!
CARBON: FIRE!
(Musket reports—shouts—noise of battle.)
CYRANO (trying to disengage his hand, which Roxane on her knees is holding): But, Roxane, hark, they fight!
ROXANE (detaining him): Stay yet awhile. For he is dead. You knew him, you alone. (Weeping quietly): Ah, was not his a beauteous soul, a soul Wondrous!
CYRANO (standing up—bareheaded): Ay, Roxane.
ROXANE: An inspired poet?
CYRANO: Ay, Roxane.
ROXANE: And a mind sublime?
CYRANO: Oh, yes!
ROXANE: A heart too deep for common minds to plumb, A spirit subtle, charming?
CYRANO (firmly): Ay, Roxane.
ROXANE (flinging herself on the dead body): Dead, my love!
CYRANO (aside—drawing his sword): Ay, and let me die to-day, Since, all unconscious, she mourns me—in him!
(Sounds of trumpets in the distance.)
DE GUICHE (appearing on the ramparts—bareheaded—with a wound on his forehead—in a voice of thunder): It is the signal! Trumpet flourishes! The French bring the provisions into camp! Hold but the place awhile!
ROXANE: See, there is blood Upon the letter—tears!
A VOICE (outside—shouting): Surrender!
VOICE OF CADETS: No!
RAGUENEAU (standing on the top of his carriage, watches the battle over the edge of the ramparts): The danger's ever greater!
CYRANO (to De Guiche—pointing to Roxane): I will charge! Take her away!
ROXANE (kissing the letter—in a half-extinguished voice): O God! his tears! his blood!. . .
RAGUENEAU (jumping down from the carriage and rushing toward her): She's swooned away!
DE GUICHE (on the rampart—to the cadets—with fury): Stand fast!
A VOICE (outside): Lay down your arms!
THE CADETS: No!
CYRANO (to De Guiche): Now that you have proved your valor, Sir, (Pointing to Roxane): Fly, and save her!
DE GUICHE (rushing to Roxane, and carrying her away in his arms): So be it! Gain but time, The victory's ours!
CYRANO: Good. (Calling out to Roxane, whom De Guiche, aided by Ragueneau, is bearing away in a fainting condition): Farewell, Roxane!
(Tumult. Shouts. Cadets reappear, wounded, falling on the scene. Cyrano, rushing to the battle, is stopped by Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is streaming with blood.)
CARBON: We are breaking! I am wounded—wounded twice!
CYRANO (shouting to the Gascons): GASCONS! HO, GASCONS! NEVER TURN YOUR BACKS! (To Carbon, whom he is supporting): Have no fear! I have two deaths to avenge: My friend who's slain;—and my dead happiness! (They come down, Cyrano brandishing the lance to which is attached Roxane's handkerchief): Float there! laced kerchief broidered with her name! (He sticks it in the ground and shouts to the cadets): FALL ON THEM, GASCONS! CRUSH THEM! (To the fifer): Fifer, play!
(The fife plays. The wounded try to rise. Some cadets, falling one over the other down the slope, group themselves round Cyrano and the little flag. The carriage is crowded with men inside and outside, and, bristling with arquebuses, is turned into a fortress.)
A CADET (appearing on the crest, beaten backward, but still fighting, cries): They're climbing the redoubt! (and falls dead.)
CYRANO: Let us salute them! (The rampart is covered instantly by a formidable row of enemies. The standards of the Imperialists are raised): Fire!
(General discharge.)
A CRY IN THE ENEMY'S RANKS: Fire!
(A deadly answering volley. The cadets fall on all sides.)
A SPANISH OFFICER (uncovering): Who are these men who rush on death?
CYRANO (reciting, erect, amid a storm of bullets): The bold Cadets of Gascony, Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux! Brawling, swaggering boastfully, (He rushes forward, followed by a few survivors): The bold Cadets. . .
(His voice is drowned in the battle.)
Curtain.
Act V.
Cyrano's Gazette.
Fifteen years later, in 1655. Park of the Sisters of the Holy Cross in Paris. Magnificent trees. On the left the house: broad steps on to which open several doors. An enormous plane tree in the middle of the stage, standing alone. On the right, among big boxwood trees, a semicircular stone bench.
The whole background of the stage is crossed by an alley of chestnut trees leading on the right hand to the door of a chapel seen through the branches. Through the double row of trees of this alley are seen lawns, other alleys, clusters of trees, winding of the park, the sky.
The chapel opens by a little side door on to a colonnade which is wreathed with autumn leaves, and is lost to view a little farther on in the right-hand foreground behind the boxwood.
It is autumn. All the foliage is red against the fresh green of the lawns. The green boxwood and yews stand out dark.
Under each tree a patch of yellow leaves.
The stage is strewn with dead leaves, which rustle under foot in the alleys, and half cover the steps and benches.
Between the benches on the right hand and the tree a large embroidery frame, in front of which a little chair has been set.
Baskets full of skeins and balls of wool. A tapestry begun.
At the rising of the curtains nuns are walking to and fro in the park; some are seated on the bench around an older Sister.
The leaves are falling.
Scene 5.I.
Mother Marguerite, Sister Martha, Sister Claire, other sisters.
SISTER MARTHA (to Mother Marguerite): Sister Claire glanced in the mirror, once—nay, twice, to see if her coif suited.
MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Claire): 'Tis not well.
SISTER CLAIRE: But I saw Sister Martha take a plum Out of the tart.
MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Martha): That was ill done, my sister.
SISTER CLAIRE: A little glance!
SISTER MARTHA: And such a little plum!
MOTHER MARGUERITE: I shall tell this to Monsieur Cyrano.
SISTER CLAIRE: Nay, prithee do not!—he will mock!
SISTER MARTHA: He'll say we nuns are vain!
SISTER CLAIRE: And greedy!
MOTHER MARGUERITE (smiling): Ay, and kind!
SISTER CLAIRE: Is it not true, pray, Mother Marguerite, That he has come, each week, on Saturday For ten years, to the convent?
MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ay! and more! Ever since—fourteen years ago—the day His cousin brought here, 'midst our woolen coifs, The worldly mourning of her widow's veil, Like a blackbird's wing among the convent doves!
SISTER MARTHA: He only has the skill to turn her mind From grief—unsoftened yet by Time—unhealed!
ALL THE SISTERS: He is so droll!—It's cheerful when he comes!— He teases us!—But we all like him well!— —We make him pasties of angelica!
SISTER MARTHA: But, he is not a faithful Catholic!
SISTER CLAIRE: We will convert him!
THE SISTERS: Yes! Yes!
MOTHER MARGUERITE: I forbid, My daughters, you attempt that subject. Nay, Weary him not—he might less oft come here!
SISTER MARTHA: But. . .God. . .
MOTHER MARGUERITE: Nay, never fear! God knows him well!
SISTER MARTHA: But—every Saturday, when he arrives, He tells me, 'Sister, I eat meat on Friday!'
MOTHER MARGUERITE: Ah! says he so? Well, the last time he came Food had not passed his lips for two whole days!
SISTER MARTHA: Mother!
MOTHER MARGUERITE: He's poor.
SISTER MARTHA: Who told you so, dear Mother?
MOTHER MARGUERITE: Monsieur Le Bret.
SISTER MARTHA: None help him?
MOTHER MARGUERITE: He permits not. (In an alley at the back Roxane appears, dressed in black, with a widow's coif and veil. De Guiche, imposing-looking and visibly aged, walks by her side. They saunter slowly. Mother Marguerite rises): 'Tis time we go in; Madame Madeleine Walks in the garden with a visitor.
SISTER MARTHA (to Sister Claire, in a low voice): The Marshal of Grammont?
SISTER CLAIRE (looking at him): 'Tis he, I think.
SISTER MARTHA: 'Tis many months now since he came to see her.
THE SISTERS: He is so busy!—The Court,—the camp!. . .
SISTER CLAIRE: The world!
(They go out. De Guiche and Roxane come forward in silence, and stop close to the embroidery frame.)
Scene 5.II.
Roxane; the Duke de Grammont, formerly Count de Guiche. Then Le Bret and Ragueneau.
THE DUKE: And you stay here still—ever vainly fair, Ever in weeds?
ROXANE: Ever.
THE DUKE: Still faithful?
ROXANE: Still.
THE DUKE (after a pause): Am I forgiven?
ROXANE: Ay, since I am here.
(Another pause.)
THE DUKE: His was a soul, you say?. . .
ROXANE: Ah!—when you knew him!
THE DUKE: Ah, may be!. . .I, perchance, too little knew him! . . .And his last letter, ever next your heart?
ROXANE: Hung from this chain, a gentle scapulary.
THE DUKE: And, dead, you love him still?
ROXANE: At times,—meseems He is but partly dead—our hearts still speak, As if his love, still living, wrapped me round!
THE DUKE (after another pause): Cyrano comes to see you?
ROXANE: Often, ay. Dear, kind old friend! We call him my 'Gazette.' He never fails to come: beneath this tree They place his chair, if it be fine:—I wait, I broider;—the clock strikes;—at the last stroke I hear,—for now I never turn to look— Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps; He seats himself:—with gentle raillery He mocks my tapestry that's never done; He tells me all the gossip of the week. . . (Le Bret appears on the steps): Why, here's Le Bret! (Le Bret descends): How goes it with our friend?
LE BRET: Ill!—very ill.
THE DUKE: How?
ROXANE (to the Duke): He exaggerates!
LE BRET: All that I prophesied: desertion, want!. . . His letters now make him fresh enemies!— Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout, Sham brave,—the thieving authors,—all the world!
ROXANE: Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check; None get the better of him.
THE DUKE (shaking his head): Time will show!
LE BRET: Ah, but I fear for him—not man's attack,— Solitude—hunger—cold December days, That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:— Lo! the assassins that I fear for him! Each day he tightens by one hole his belt: That poor nose—tinted like old ivory: He has retained one shabby suit of serge.
THE DUKE: Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!— Yet is not to be pitied!
LE BRET (with a bitter smile): My Lord Marshal!. . .
THE DUKE: Pity him not! He has lived out his vows, Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free!
LE BRET (in the same tone): My Lord!. . .
THE DUKE (haughtily): True! I have all, and he has naught;. . . Yet I were proud to take his hand! (Bowing to Roxane): Adieu!
ROXANE: I go with you.
(The Duke bows to Le Bret, and goes with Roxane toward the steps.)
THE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up): Ay, true,—I envy him. Look you, when life is brimful of success —Though the past hold no action foul—one feels A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest; And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame, The Duke's furred mantles trail within their folds A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets, A rustle—scarce a whisper—like as when, Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves.
ROXANE (ironically): You are pensive?
THE DUKE: True! I am! (As he is going out, suddenly): Monsieur Le Bret! (To Roxane): A word, with your permission? (He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice): True, that none Dare to attack your friend;—but many hate him; Yesterday, at the Queen's card-play, 'twas said 'That Cyrano may die—by accident!' Let him stay in—be prudent!
LE BRET (raising his arms to heaven): Prudent! He!. . . He's coming here. I'll warn him—but!. . .
ROXANE (who has stayed on the steps, to a sister who comes toward her): What is it?
THE SISTER: Ragueneau would see you, Madame.
ROXANE: Let him come. (To the Duke and Le Bret): He comes to tell his troubles. Having been An author (save the mark!)—poor fellow—now By turns he's singer. . .
LE BRET: Bathing-man. . .
ROXANE: Then actor. . .
LE BRET: Beadle. . .
ROXANE: Wig-maker. . .
LE BRET: Teacher of the lute. . .
ROXANE: What will he be to-day, by chance?
RAGUENEAU (entering hurriedly): Ah! Madame! (He sees Le Bret): Ah! you here, Sir!
ROXANE (smiling): Tell all your miseries To him; I will return anon.
RAGUENEAU: But, Madame. . .
(Roxane goes out with the Duke. Ragueneau goes toward Le Bret.)
Scene 5.III.
Le Bret, Ragueneau.
RAGUENEAU: Since you are here, 'tis best she should not know! I was going to your friend just now—was but A few steps from the house, when I saw him Go out. I hurried to him. Saw him turn The corner. . .suddenly, from out a window Where he was passing—was it chance?. . .may be! A lackey let fall a large piece of wood.
LE BRET: Cowards! O Cyrano!
RAGUENEAU: I ran—I saw. . .
LE BRET: 'Tis hideous!
RAGUENEAU: Saw our poet, Sir—our friend— Struck to the ground—a large wound in his head!
LE BRET: He's dead?
RAGUENEAU: No—but—I bore him to his room. . . Ah! his room! What a thing to see!—that garret!
LE BRET: He suffers?
RAGUENEAU: No, his consciousness has flown.
LE BRET: Saw you a doctor?
RAGUENEAU: One was kind—he came.
LE BRET: My poor Cyrano!—We must not tell this To Roxane suddenly.—What said this leech?—
RAGUENEAU: Said,—what, I know not—fever, meningitis!— Ah! could you see him—all his head bound up!— But let us haste!—There's no one by his bed!— And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die!
LE BRET (dragging him toward the right): Come! Through the chapel! 'Tis the quickest way!
ROXANE (appearing on the steps, and seeing Le Bret go away by the colonnade leading to the chapel door): Monsieur le Bret! (Le Bret and Ragueneau disappear without answering): Le Bret goes—when I call! 'Tis some new trouble of good Ragueneau's.
(She descends the steps.)
Scene 5.IV.
Roxane alone. Two sisters, for a moment.
ROXANE: Ah! what a beauty in September's close! My sorrow's eased. April's joy dazzled it, But autumn wins it with her dying calm. (She seats herself at the embroidery frame. Two sisters come out of the house, and bring a large armchair under the tree): There comes the famous armchair where he sits, Dear faithful friend!
SISTER MARTHA: It is the parlor's best!
ROXANE: Thanks, sister. (The sisters go): He'll be here now. (She seats herself. A clock strikes): The hour strikes. —My silks?—Why, now, the hour's struck! How strange To be behind his time, at last, to-day! Perhaps the portress—where's my thimble?. . . Here!—Is preaching to him. (A pause): Yes, she must be preaching! Surely he must come soon!—Ah, a dead leaf!— (She brushes off the leaf from her work): Nothing, besides, could—scissors?—In my bag! —Could hinder him. . .
A SISTER (coming to the steps): Monsieur de Bergerac.
Scene 5.V.
Roxane, Cyrano and, for a moment, Sister Martha.
ROXANE (without turning round): What was I saying?. . . (She embroiders. Cyrano, very pale, his hat pulled down over his eyes, appears. The sister who had announced him retires. He descends the steps slowly, with a visible difficulty in holding himself upright, bearing heavily on his cane. Roxane still works at her tapestry): Time has dimmed the tints. . . How harmonize them now? (To Cyrano, with playful reproach): For the first time Late!—For the first time, all these fourteen years!
CYRANO (who has succeeded in reaching the chair, and has seated himself—in a lively voice, which is in great contrast with his pale face): Ay! It is villainous! I raged—was stayed. . .
ROXANE: By?. . .
CYRANO: By a bold, unwelcome visitor.
ROXANE (absently, working): Some creditor?
CYRANO: Ay, cousin,—the last creditor Who has a debt to claim from me.
ROXANE: And you Have paid it?
CYRANO: No, not yet! I put it off; —Said, 'Cry you mercy; this is Saturday, When I have get a standing rendezvous That naught defers. Call in an hour's time!'
ROXANE (carelessly): Oh, well, a creditor can always wait! I shall not let you go ere twilight falls.
CYRANO: Haply, perforce, I quit you ere it falls!
(He shuts his eyes, and is silent for a moment. Sister Martha crosses the park from the chapel to the flight of steps. Roxane, seeing her, signs to her to approach.)
ROXANE (to Cyrano): How now? You have not teased the Sister?
CYRANO (hastily opening his eyes): True! (In a comically loud voice): Sister! come here! (The sister glides up to him): Ha! ha! What? Those bright eyes Bent ever on the ground?
SISTER MARTHA (who makes a movement of astonishment on seeing his face): Oh!
CYRANO (in a whisper, pointing to Roxane): Hush! 'tis naught!— (Loudly, in a blustering voice): I broke fast yesterday!
SISTER MARTHA (aside): I know, I know! That's how he is so pale! Come presently To the refectory, I'll make you drink A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come?
CYRANO: Ay, ay!
SISTER MARTHA: There, see! You are more reasonable to-day!
ROXANE (who hears them whispering): The Sister would convert you?
SISTER MARTHA: Nay, not I!
CYRANO: Hold! but it's true! You preach to me no more, You, once so glib with holy words! I am Astonished!. . . (With burlesque fury): Stay, I will surprise you too! Hark! I permit you. . . (He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found it): . . .It is something new!— To—pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time!
ROXANE: Oh! oh!
CYRANO (laughing): Good Sister Martha is struck dumb!
SISTER MARTHA (gently): I did not wait your leave to pray for you.
(She goes out.)
CYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work): That tapestry! Beshrew me if my eyes Will ever see it finished!
ROXANE: I was sure To hear that well-known jest!
(A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.)
CYRANO: The autumn leaves!
ROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley): Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair. —See how they fall!
CYRANO: Ay, see how brave they fall, In their last journey downward from the bough, To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still, Hiding the horror of the last decay, With all the wayward grace of careless flight!
ROXANE: What, melancholy—you?
CYRANO (collecting himself): Nay, nay, Roxane!
ROXANE: Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . . And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell, My Court Gazette?
CYRANO: Listen.
ROXANE: Ah!
CYRANO (growing whiter and whiter): Saturday The nineteenth: having eaten to excess Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish; The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt, And the august pulse beats at normal pace. At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score Of best white waxen tapers were consumed. Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians. Four sorcerers were hanged. The little dog Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . .
ROXANE: I bid You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac!
CYRANO: Monday—not much—Claire changed protector.
ROXANE: Oh!
CYRANO (whose face changes more and more): Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau. Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesque. . . No! Thursday—Mancini, Queen of France! (almost!) Friday, the Monglat to Count Fiesque said—'Yes!' And Saturday the twenty-sixth. . .
(He closes his eyes. His head falls forward. Silence.)
ROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising, terrified): He swoons! (She runs toward him crying): Cyrano!
CYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice): What is this? (He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head, and shrinking back in his chair): Nay, on my word 'Tis nothing! Let me be!
ROXANE: But. . .
CYRANO: That old wound Of Arras, sometimes,—as you know. . .
ROXANE: Dear friend!
CYRANO: 'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon; (He smiles with an effort): See!—it has passed!
ROXANE: Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,— Never healed up—not healed yet, my old wound! (She puts her hand on her breast): 'Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age, All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood.
(Twilight begins to fall.)
CYRANO: His letter! Ah! you promised me one day That I should read it.
ROXANE: What would you?—His letter?
CYRANO: Yes, I would fain,—to-day. . .
ROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck): See! here it is!
CYRANO (taking it): Have I your leave to open?
ROXANE: Open—read!
(She comes back to her tapestry frame, folds it up, sorts her wools.)
CYRANO (reading): 'Roxane, adieu! I soon must die! This very night, beloved; and I Feel my soul heavy with love untold. I die! No more, as in days of old, My loving, longing eyes will feast On your least gesture—ay, the least! I mind me the way you touch your cheek With your finger, softly, as you speak! Ah me! I know that gesture well! My heart cries out!—I cry "Farewell"!'
ROXANE: But how you read that letter! One would think. . .
CYRANO (continuing to read): 'My life, my love, my jewel, my sweet, My heart has been yours in every beat!'
(The shades of evening fall imperceptibly.)
ROXANE: You read in such a voice—so strange—and yet— It is not the first time I hear that voice!
(She comes nearer very softly, without his perceiving it, passes behind his chair, and, noiselessly leaning over him, looks at the letter. The darkness deepens.)
CYRANO: 'Here, dying, and there, in the land on high, I am he who loved, who loves you,—I. . .'
ROXANE (putting her hand on his shoulder): How can you read? It is too dark to see! (He starts, turns, sees her close to him. Suddenly alarmed, he holds his head down. Then in the dusk, which has now completely enfolded them, she says, very slowly, with clasped hands): And, fourteen years long, he has played this part Of the kind old friend who comes to laugh and chat.
CYRANO: Roxane!
ROXANE: 'Twas you!
CYRANO: No, never; Roxane, no!
ROXANE: I should have guessed, each time he said my name!
CYRANO: No, it was not I!
ROXANE: It was you!
CYRANO: I swear!
ROXANE: I see through all the generous counterfeit— The letters—you!
CYRANO: No.
ROXANE: The sweet, mad love-words! You!
CYRANO: No!
ROXANE: The voice that thrilled the night—you, you!
CYRANO: I swear you err.
ROXANE: The soul—it was your soul!
CYRANO: I loved you not.
ROXANE: You loved me not?
CYRANO: 'Twas he!
ROXANE: You loved me!
CYRANO: No!
ROXANE: See! how you falter now!
CYRANO: No, my sweet love, I never loved you!
ROXANE: Ah! Things dead, long dead, see! how they rise again! —Why, why keep silence all these fourteen years, When, on this letter, which he never wrote, The tears were your tears?
CYRANO (holding out the letter to her): The bloodstains were his.
ROXANE: Why, then, that noble silence,—kept so long— Broken to-day for the first time—why?
CYRANO: Why?. . .
(Le Bret and Ragueneau enter running.)
Scene 5.VI.
The same. Le Bret and Ragueneau.
LE BRET: What madness! Here? I knew it well!
CYRANO (smiling and sitting up): What now?
LE BRET: He has brought his death by coming, Madame.
ROXANE: God! Ah, then! that faintness of a moment since. . .?
CYRANO: Why, true! It interrupted the 'Gazette:' . . .Saturday, twenty-sixth, at dinner-time, Assassination of De Bergerac.
(He takes off his hat; they see his head bandaged.)
ROXANE: What says he? Cyrano!—His head all bound! Ah, what has chanced? How?—Who?. . .
CYRANO: 'To be struck down, Pierced by sword i' the heart, from a hero's hand!' That I had dreamed. O mockery of Fate! —Killed, I! of all men—in an ambuscade! Struck from behind, and by a lackey's hand! 'Tis very well. I am foiled, foiled in all, Even in my death.
RAGUENEAU: Ah, Monsieur!. . .
CYRANO (holding out his hand to him): Ragueneau, Weep not so bitterly!. . .What do you now, Old comrade?
RAGUENEAU (amid his tears): Trim the lights for Moliere's stage.
CYRANO: Moliere!
RAGUENEAU: Yes; but I shall leave to-morrow. I cannot bear it!—Yesterday, they played 'Scapin'—I saw he'd thieved a scene from you!
LE BRET: What! a whole scene?
RAGUENEAU: Oh, yes, indeed, Monsieur, The famous one, 'Que Diable allait-il faire?'
LE BRET: Moliere has stolen that?
CYRANO: Tut! He did well!. . . (to Ragueneau): How went the scene? It told—I think it told?
RAGUENEAU (sobbing): Ah! how they laughed!
CYRANO: Look you, it was my life To be the prompter every one forgets! (To Roxane): That night when 'neath your window Christian spoke —Under your balcony, you remember? Well! There was the allegory of my whole life: I, in the shadow, at the ladder's foot, While others lightly mount to Love and Fame! Just! very just! Here on the threshold drear Of death, I pay my tribute with the rest, To Moliere's genius,—Christian's fair face! (The chapel-bell chimes. The nuns are seen passing down the alley at the back, to say their office): Let them go pray, go pray, when the bell rings!
ROXANE (rising and calling): Sister! Sister!
CYRANO (holding her fast): Call no one. Leave me not; When you come back, I should be gone for aye. (The nuns have all entered the chapel. The organ sounds): I was somewhat fain for music—hark! 'tis come.
ROXANE: Live, for I love you!
CYRANO: No, In fairy tales When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast— But I remain the same, up to the last!
ROXANE: I have marred your life—I, I!
CYRANO: You blessed my life! Never on me had rested woman's love. My mother even could not find me fair: I had no sister; and, when grown a man, I feared the mistress who would mock at me. But I have had your friendship—grace to you A woman's charm has passed across my path.
LE BRET (pointing to the moon, which is seen between the trees): Your other lady-love is come.
CYRANO (smiling): I see.
ROXANE: I loved but once, yet twice I lose my love!
CYRANO: Hark you, Le Bret! I soon shall reach the moon. To-night, alone, with no projectile's aid!. . .
LE BRET: What are you saying?
CYRANO: I tell you, it is there, There, that they send me for my Paradise, There I shall find at last the souls I love, In exile,—Galileo—Socrates!
LE BRET (rebelliously): No, no! It is too clumsy, too unjust! So great a heart! So great a poet! Die Like this? what, die. . .?
CYRANO: Hark to Le Bret, who scolds!
LE BRET (weeping): Dear friend. . .
CYRANO (starting up, his eyes wild): What ho! Cadets of Gascony! The elemental mass—ah yes! The hic. . .
LE BRET: His science still—he raves!
CYRANO: Copernicus Said. . .
ROXANE: Oh!
CYRANO: Mais que diable allait-il faire, Mais que diable allait-il faire dans cette galere?. . . Philosopher, metaphysician, Rhymer, brawler, and musician, Famed for his lunar expedition, And the unnumbered duels he fought,— And lover also,—by interposition!— Here lies Hercule Savinien De Cyrano de Bergerac, Who was everything, yet was naught. I cry you pardon, but I may not stay; See, the moon-ray that comes to call me hence! (He has fallen back in his chair; the sobs of Roxane recall him to reality; he looks long at her, and, touching her veil): I would not bid you mourn less faithfully That good, brave Christian: I would only ask That when my body shall be cold in clay You wear those sable mourning weeds for two, And mourn awhile for me, in mourning him.
ROXANE: I swear it you!. . .
CYRANO (shivering violently, then suddenly rising): Not there! what, seated?—no! (They spring toward him): Let no one hold me up— (He props himself against the tree): Only the tree! (Silence): It comes. E'en now my feet have turned to stone, My hands are gloved with lead! (He stands erect): But since Death comes, I meet him still afoot, (He draws his sword): And sword in hand!
LE BRET: Cyrano!
ROXANE (half fainting): Cyrano!
(All shrink back in terror.)
CYRANO: Why, I well believe He dares to mock my nose? Ho! insolent! (He raises his sword): What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know But who fights ever hoping for success? I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest! You there, who are you!—You are thousands! Ah! I know you now, old enemies of mine! Falsehood! (He strikes in air with his sword): Have at you! Ha! and Compromise! Prejudice, Treachery!. . . (He strikes): Surrender, I? Parley? No, never! You too, Folly,—you? I know that you will lay me low at last; Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still! (He makes passes in the air, and stops, breathless): You strip from me the laurel and the rose! Take all! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all, and when, to-night, I enter Christ's fair courts, and, lowly bowed, Sweep with doffed casque the heavens' threshold blue, One thing is left, that, void of stain or smutch, I bear away despite you.
(He springs forward, his sword raised; it falls from his hand; he staggers, falls back into the arms of Le Bret and Ragueneau.)
ROXANE (bending and kissing his forehead): 'Tis?. . .
CYRANO (opening his eyes, recognizing her, and smiling): MY PANACHE.
Curtain.
THE END |
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