[With forced liveliness.]

Ganem will come, and then all will be well!

[She breathes the scent of oil of roses and becomes aware of the precious objects.]

How all this is perfumed, and how it sparkles!

[With alarmed astonishment.]

And there! Woe's me, this is the house of wealth, Deluded, foolish eyes, look here and here!

[She rouses her memory feverishly.]

And that old man was fain with strings of pearls To bind my arms and hands—why, they are rich! And "poor" was every second word he uttered. He lied then, lied not once but many times! I saw him smiling when he lied, I feel it, It chokes me here!

[She tries to calm herself.]

Oh, if he lied—but there are certain things That can constrain a spirit. And his father I have done much for my old father's sake— His father this? That chokes me more than ever. Inglorious heart, he comes, and something, something Will be revealed, all this I then shall grasp, I then shall grasp—

[She hears steps, looks about her wildly, then cries in fear.]

Come, leave me not alone!

[GUeLISTANE and an old serving-woman come down the stairs and go to the presents by the table.]

SOBEIDE (starting). Ganem, is it not thou?

GUeLISTANE (in an undertone). Why, she is mad.

[She lays one present after another on the servant's arms.]

SOBEIDE (standing at some distance from her). No, no, I am not mad. Oh, be not angry. The dogs are after me! But first a man. I'm almost dead with fear. He is my friend, Will tell you who I am. Ye do not know How terror can transform a human being. I ask you, are not all of us in terror Of even drunken men? This was a murd'rer. I am not brave, but with a lie that sped Into my wretched head I held him off Awhile—then he came on, and I could feel His hands. Take pity on me, be not angry! Ye sit there at the table fair with candles, And I disturb. But if ye are his friends, Ask him to tell you all. And later on, When we shall meet and ye shall know me better, We both will laugh about it. But as yet

(Shuddering.)

I could not laugh at it.

GUeLISTANE (turning to her). Who is thy friend, and who will tell us all?

SOBEIDE (with innocent friendliness). Why, Ganem.

GUeLISTANE. Oh, what business hast thou here?

SOBEIDE (steps closer, looks fixedly at her). What, art thou not the widow Of Kamkar, the ship-captain?

GUeLISTANE. And thou the daughter Of Bachtjar, the gem-dealer?

[They regard each other attentively.]

SOBEIDE. It is long since We saw each other.

GUeLISTANE. What com'st thou here To do?

SOBEIDE. Then thou liv'st here?—I come to question Ganem

(Faltering.)

About a matter—on which much depends— Both for my father—

GUeLISTANE. Hast not seen him lately? Ganem, I mean.

SOBEIDE. Nay, 'tis almost a year. Since Kamkar died, thy husband, 'tis four years. I know the day he died. How long hast thou Lived here?

GUeLISTANE. They are my kin. What is't to thee, How long? But then, what odds? Why then, three years. [SOBEIDE is silent.]

GUeLISTANE (to the slave). Look to't that nothing fall. Hast thou the mats?

(To SOBEIDE.)

For it may be, if one were left to lie And Ganem found it, he would take the notion To bed his cheek on it, because my foot Had trodden it, and then whate'er thou spokest, He would be deaf to thine affair. Or if He found the pin that's fallen from my hair And breathing still its perfume: then his senses Would fasten on that trinket, and he never Would know thy presence.

(To the slave.)

Pick it up for me. Come, bend thy back.

[She pushes the slave. SOBEIDE bends quickly and holds out the pin to the slave. GUeLISTANE takes it out of her hand and thrusts with it at SOBEIDE.]

SOBEIDE Alas, why prickst thou me?

GUeLISTANE. That I may circumvent thee, little serpent. Go, for thy face is such a silly void That one can see what thou wouldst hide in it. Go home again, I counsel thee.—Come thou And carry all thou canst.

(To SOBEIDE.)

Mark thou my words: What's mine I will preserve and keep from thieves!

[She goes up the stairs with the slave.]

SOBEIDE (alone). What's left for me? How can this turn to good, That so begins? No, no, my destiny Would try me. What should mean to him this woman? This is not love, it is but lust, a thing That men find needful to their lives. He comes,

(In feverish haste.)

And he will cast this from him with a word And laugh at me. Arise, my recollections, For now I need you or shall never need you! Woe, woe, that I must call you in this hour! Will not one loving glance return to me? One unambiguous word? Ah, words and glances, Deceitful woof of air. A heavy heart Would cling to you, and ye are rent like cobwebs. Away, fond recollection! My old life Today is cast behind me, and I stand Upon a sphere that rolls I know not whither.

(With increasing agitation.)

Ganem will come to me, and his first word Will rend the noose that tightens on my throat. He comes, will take me in his arms—all dripping With fear and horror, stead of oils and perfumes,— I'll say no word, I'll hang upon his neck And drink the words he speaks. For his first word, The very first will lull all fears to sleep ... He'll smile all doubt away ... and put to flight ... But if he fail?... I will not think it, will not!

[GANEM comes up the stairs.]

SOBEIDE (cries out).

Ganem!

[She runs to him, feels his hair, his face, falls before him, presses her head against him, at once laughing and weeping convulsively.]

I'm here, Oh take me, take me, hold me fast! Be good to me, thou knowst not all as yet. I cannot yet ... How lookest thou upon me?

[She stands up again, steps back, and looks at him in fearful suspense.]

GANEM (stands motionless before her.) Thou!

SOBEIDE (in breathless haste). I belong to thee, am thine, my Ganem! Ask me not now how this has come to pass: This is the centre of a labyrinth, But now we stand here. Wilt thou not behold me! He gave me freedom, he himself, my husband ... Why does thy countenance show such a change?

GANEM. No cause. Come hither, they may overhear us ...

SOBEIDE. I feel that there is something in me now Displeases thee. Why dost thou keep it from me?

GANEM. What wouldst thou?

SOBEIDE. Nothing, if I may but please thee. Ah, be indulgent. Tell me my shortcomings. I will be so obedient. Was I bold? Look thou, 'tis not my nature so; I feel As if this night had gripped me with its fists And flung me hither, aye, my spirit shudders At all that I had power there to say, And that I then had strength to walk this road. Art sorry that I had it?

GANEM. Why this weeping?

SOBEIDE. Thou hast the power to change me so. I cannot But laugh or weep, or blush or pale again As thou wouldst have it.

[GANEM kisses her.]

SOBEIDE. When thou kissest me, O look not thus! But no, I am thy slave. Do as thou wilt. Here let me rest. I will Be clay unto thy hands, and think no more. And now thy brow is wrinkled?

GANEM. Aye, for soon Thou must return. Thou smilest?

SOBEIDE. Should I not? I know thou wouldst but try me.

GANEM. No, in earnest, Thou art in error. Thinkest thou perhaps That I can keep thee here? Say, has thy husband Gone over land, that thou art not afraid?

SOBEIDE. I beg thee cease, I cannot laugh just now.

GANEM. No, seriously, when shall I come to thee?

SOBEIDE. To me, what for? Thou seest, I am here: Look, here before thy feet I sit me down; I have no other home except the straw Beside thy hound, if thou wilt not provide A bed for me; and none will come to fetch me.

[He raises her, then claps his hands delightedly.]

GANEM. O splendid! How thou playst a seeming part When opportunity demands. And it becomes thee, Oh, most superbly! We'll draw profit from it. There'll be no lack of further free occasion, To yield ourselves to pleasure undismayed— When shall I come to thee?

SOBEIDE (stepping back). Oh, I am raving! My head's to blame, for that I hear thee speaking Quite other words than those thou really utter'st. O Ganem, help me! Have thou patience with me, What day is this today?

GANEM. Why ask that now?

SOBEIDE. 'Twill not be always so, 'tis but from fear, And then because I've had to feel too much In this one fleeting night; that has confused me. This was my wedding-day: then when alone With him, my husband, I did weep and said It was because of thee. He oped the door And let me out.—

GANEM. He has the epilepsy, I'll wager, sought fresh air. Thou art too foolish! Let me undo thy hair and kiss thy neck. But then go quickly home: what happens later Shall be much better than this first beginning.

[He tries to draw her to him.]

SOBEIDE (frees herself, steps back). Ganem, he oped the door for me, and said I was no more his wife, and I might go Where'er I would ... My father free of debt ... And he would let me go where'er I would ... To thee, to thee! [She bursts into sobs.] I ran, there was the man who took away My pearls and would have slain me— And then the dogs—

(With the pitiable expression of one forsaken.)

And now I'm here with thee!

GANEM (inattentively, listening intently up stage).

I think I hear some music, hear'st it thou?— 'Tis from below.

SOBEIDE. Thy face and something else, Ganem, fill me with a mighty fear— Hark not to that, hear me! hear me, I beg thee! Hear me, that here beneath thy glance am lying With open soul, whose ebb and flow of blood Proceeds but from the changes of thy mien. Thou once didst love me—that, I think, is past— For what came then, I only am to blame: Thy brightness waxed within my gloomy soul Like moons in fog—

[GANEM listens as before. SOBEIDE with growing wildness.]

Suppose thou loved me not: Why didst thou lie? If I was aught to thee, Why hast thou lied to me? O speak to me— Am I not worth an answer?

[Weird music and voices are heard outside.]

GANEM. Yes, by heaven. It is the old man's voice and Guelistane's!

[Down the stairs come a fluting dwarf and an effeminate-looking slave playing a lute, preceded by others with lights; then SHALNASSAR, leaning on GUeLISTANE; finally a eunuch with a whip stuck in his belt. GUeLISTANE frees herself and comes forward, seeming to search the floor for something; the others come forward also. The music ceases.]

GUeLISTANE (over her shoulder, to SHALNASSAR). I miss a tiny jar, of swarthy onyx And filled with ointment. Art thou ling'ring still, Thou Bachtjar's daughter? Bend thy lazy back And try to find it.

[SOBEIDE is silent, looking at GANEM.]

SHALNASS. Let it be and come! I'll give thee hundreds more.

GUeLISTANE. It was a secret, The ointment in it.

GANEM (close to GUeLISTANE). What means this procession?

SHALNASS. Come on, why not? The aged cannot wait. And ye, advance! Bear lights and make an uproar! Be drunken: what has night to do with sleep! Advance up to the door, then stay behind!

[The slaves form in order again.]

GANEM (furious). Door, door? What door?

SHALNASS. (to GUeLISTANE, who leans against him). Say, shall I give an answer? If so, I'll do 't to flatter thee. If not, 'Twill be to show thee that my happiness Requireth not old envy's flattery.

GANEM (to GUeLISTANE). Say no, say he is lying!

GUeLISTANE. Go, good Ganem, And let us pass. Thy father is recovered, And we are glad of it. Why stand so gloomy? One must be merry with the living, eh, While yet they live? [She looks into his eyes.]

GANEM (snatches the whip from the eunuch). Old woman, for what purpose is this whip? Now flee and scatter, crippled, halting folly!

[He strikes at the musicians and the lights, then casts down the whip.]

Out, shameful lights, and thou, to bed with thee, Puffed, swollen body; and ye bursting veins, Ye reddened eyes, and thou putrescent mouth, Off to a solitary bed, and night, Dark, noiseless night instead of brazen torches And blaring horns!

[He motions the old man out.]

SHALNASS. (bends with an effort to take the whip). Mine is the whip, not thine!

SOBEIDE (cries out). His father! Son and father for one woman!

GUeLISTANE (wrests the whip out of SHALNASSAR'S hand). Go thou to bed thyself, hot-headed Ganem, And leave together them that would be joined. Rebuke thy father not. An older man Can pass a sounder judgment, is more faithful Than wanton youth. Hast thou not company? Old Bachtjar's daughter stands there in the darkness, And often I've been told that she is fair. I know right well, thou wast in love with her. So then good night. [They all turn to go.]

GANEM (wildly). Go not with him!

GUeLISTANE (speaking backward over her shoulder). I go Where'er my heart commands.

GANEM (beseechingly). Go not with him!

GUeLISTANE. Oh, let us through: there will be other days.

GANEM (lying before her on the stairs). Go not with him!

GUeLISTANE (turning around). Thou daughter of old Bachtjar, Keep him, I say, I want him not, I trample Upon his fingers with my feet! Seest thou?

SOBEIDE (as if demented). Aye, aye, now let us dance a merry round! Take thou my hand and Ganem's; I Shalnassar's. Our hair we'll loosen, and that one of us That has the longer hair shall have the young one Tonight—tomorrow just the other way! King Baseness sits enthroned! And from our faces Lies drip like poison from the salamander! I claim my share in your high revelry.

(To GANEM, who angrily watches them mount the stairs.)

Go up and steal her from thy father's bed And choke him sleeping: drunken men are helpless! I see how fain thou art to lie with her. When thou are sated or wouldst have a change, Then come to me, but softly we will tread, For heavy sleep comes not to my old husband, Such as they have, who can give ear to this, And then sleep through it!

[She casts herself on the floor.]

But with grievous howling I will arouse this house to shame and wrath And lamentation ...

(She lies groaning.)

... I have loved thee so, And so thou tramplest on me!

[An old slave appears in the background, putting out the lights; he picks up a fallen fruit and eats it.]

GANEM (claps his hands in sudden anger). Come, take her out! Here is a shrieking woman, I scarcely know her, says she weeps for me. Her father fain would wed her to the merchant, The wealthy one, but she perverts the whole, And says her husband is a similar pander, But he's no more than fool, for aught I see.

(He steps close to her, mockingly sympathetic.)

O ye, too credulous by far. But then, Your nature's more to blame than skill of ours. No, get thee up. I will no more torment thee.

SOBEIDE (raises herself up. Her voice is hard). Then naught was true, and back of all is naught. From this I cannot cleanse myself again: What came into my soul today, remaineth. Another might dispel it: I'm too weary.

(Stands up.)

Away! I know my course, but now away From here!

[The old slave has gone slowly down the stairs.]

GANEM. I will not hold thee. Yet the road— How wilt thou find it? Still, thou foundst it once.

SOBEIDE. The road, the self-same road! (She shudders.) Yon aged man Shall go with me. I have no fear, but still I would not be alone: until the dawn—

[GANEM goes up stage to fetch the slave.]

SOBEIDE. Meseems I wear a robe to which the pest And horrid traces of wild drunkenness And wilder nights are clinging, and I cannot Put off the robe, but all my flesh goes too. Now I must die, and all will then be well. But speedily, before this shadow-thinking About my father gathers blood again: Else 'twill grow stronger, drag me back to life, And I must travel onward in this body.

GANEM (slowly leads the old slave forward). Give heed. This is rich Chorab's wife, the merchant. Hast understood?

OLD SLAVE (nods). The rich one.

GANEM. Aye, thou shalt Escort her.

OLD SLAVE. What?

GANEM. I say, thou art to lead her Back to her house.

(OLD SLAVE nods.)

SOBEIDE. Just to the garden wall. From there I only know how I must go. Will he do that? I thank thee. That is good, Most good. Come, aged man, I go with thee.

GANEM. Go out this door, the old man knows the path.

SOBEIDE. He knows it, that is good, most good. We go.

[They go out through the door at the right. GANEM turns to mount the stairs.]



SCENE III

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

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

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

GARDENER. Be still, he's coming hither.

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

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

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

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

From the Painting by Walter Leistikow

O how like glass this is, and how the finger With which fate raps upon it, like to iron! Years form no rings on men as on the trees, Nor fashion breast-plates to protect the heart.

[Again he walks a few paces, and so comes upon the gardener, who takes off his straw hat; he starts up out of his revery, and looks inquiringly at the gardener.]

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

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

GARDENER. Aye, lord.

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

GARDENER. It was the donkey-driver.

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

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

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

[He turns away, his tone becomes bitter.]

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

[Exit to the right with vigorous strides.]

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

GARDENER. Oh, nothing, nothing.

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

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

GARDENER. Pay heed To thine affairs.

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

GARDENER. I don't know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SOBEIDE. What?

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

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

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

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

Take this, and this, and go!

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

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

[Starts away.]

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

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

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

[Starts away.]

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

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

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

The pond is there, I hear? The pond?

[Points to the left.]

WIFE. No, here.

[Points to the right.]

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

SOBEIDE (more agitated). I, the master?

WIFE. Why yes, dost thou not seek him?

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

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

The tower, is it locked?

WIFE. The tower?

SOBEIDE. Yes, the steps to mount it.

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

SOBEIDE. Oh yes.

WIFE. Wilt thou go up it?

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

(Smiling with a friendly gesture.)

Go, then. Go, go.

(Alone.)

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

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

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

WIFE. Yes, right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MERCHANT. (tenderly). Thou!

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

MERCHANT. What happened—then?

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

MERCHANT. Yes, yes, but thou wilt live.

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

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

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

[Pause.]

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

MERCHANT. My child!

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

[Dies.]

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

[He rises.]

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

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



ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

* * * * * *

THE GREEN COCKATOO

A Grotesque in One Act

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

EMILE, Duc de Cadignan

FRANCOIS, Vicomte de Nogeant

ALBIN, Chevalier de la Tremouille

MARQUIS DE LANSAC

SEVERINE, his wife

ROLLIN, Poet

PROSPER (formerly Theatre Manager), HOST

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

LEOCADIE, Actress, wife of Henri

GRASSET, Philosopher

LEBRET, Tailor

GRAIN, a vagabond

THE COMMISSAIRE OF POLICE

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

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



THE GREEN COCKATOO (1899)

TRANSLATED BY HORACE SAMUEL

SCENE.—THE TAVERN OF THE GREEN COCKATOO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LEBRET. It is like slight thunder.

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



LEBRET Certainly, certainly, I will pay.

[HOST hesitates.]

GRASSET. Show him that you have money, Labret.

[LEBRET draws out his purse.]

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

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

HOST. Well?

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

LEBRET. You—without a doubt.

GRASSET. And how did I bear myself?

LEBRET. Splendidly.

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

LEBRET. It was a louder cheer,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LEBRET. Bravo!—Bravo!

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

HOST. You can scarcely say that now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LEBRET. What performance? Is this a theatre?

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

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

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

HOST. You'll pay first.

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

HOST. Explain to your friend where he is.

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

LEBRET. Indeed?

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

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

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

LEBRET. What kind of an audience?

HOST. The most elegant people in Paris.

GRASSET. Noble—

HOST. Gentlemen of the Court.

LEBRET. Down with them!

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

HOST. What business?

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

HOST. Not for anything!

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

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

GRASSET (flattered). That would certainly be possible—

HOST. I—I have control over myself—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter the COMMISSAIRE.

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

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

HOST. And how can I be of any service?

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

HOST. It will be an especial honor for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COMMISSAIRE. Your troupe split up.

HOST. And my legacy as well.

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

HOST. That fared wretchedly.

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

HOST. You make me quite proud, sir.

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

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

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

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

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

HOST. The word "artists" ought to suffice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GRAIN (whining pathetically). Good evening.

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

GRAIN. What do you mean?

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

GRAIN. Oh, dear!

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

GRAIN. I am!

HOST. What do you want of me?

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

HOST. I am he.

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

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

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

[HOST looks at him suspiciously.]

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

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

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

HOST. What did you do to get two years?

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

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

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

HOST. Your aunt?

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

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

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

HOST. 'Tis difficult to guess.

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

HOST. A whole one, I hope.

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

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

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

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

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

HOST. By whom, if I may ask?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter SCAEVOLA and JULES.

SCAEVOLA. Good evening, Chief.

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

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

HOST. And why?

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

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

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

HOST. If only I live to see it!

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

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

SCAEVOLA. Why so, if I may ask?

HOST. The story about the burglary was simply babyish.

SCAEVOLA. Babyish?

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

SCAEVOLA. I didn't roar.

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

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

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

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

GRAIN. My name is Grain.

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

HOST. What ails you, Jules?

JULES. I am learning my part.

HOST. What?

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

SCAEVOLA (roars). Wine—wine, here!

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

Enter HENRI and LEOCADIE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LEOCADIE. Oh, the good old times. Prosper!

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

HENRI (wild with rage). Stop it.

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

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

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

LEOCADIE. He has really married me. Yes.

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

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

[JULES shakes hands with them both.]

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

HOST. What do you mean?

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

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

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

HOST. What sort of occasion?

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

LEOCADIE. Surely, Henri.

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

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

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

LEOCADIE. I will never desert you.

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

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

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

HOST. Into the country? But where?

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

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

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

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

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

LEOCADIE. Yes, we have often had such dreams.

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

LEOCADIE. Hear you that, Henri?

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

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

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

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

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

LEOCADIE. I never know anything.

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

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

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

HOST. Oh!

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

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

HOST. But why did you never come?

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

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

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

LEOCADIE. Now then! no remarks of that sort.

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

LEOCADIE. What's up, then?

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

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

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

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

LEOCADIE. Heavens! he never thinks about such things.

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

LEOCADIE. What?

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

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

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

[Exeunt HENRI and LEOCADIE.]

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

SCAEVOLA. What a contemptible braggart!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[HOST goes to the bar.]

ALBIN. That is really a dreadful fellow.

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

ALBIN. Is it not forbidden?

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

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

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

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

FRANCOIS. Why do you mention your great-uncle?

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

FRANCOIS. Is that all?

ALBIN. Nay, is that not enough!

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

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

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

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

Enter MICHETTE and FLIPOTTE.

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

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

FLIPOTTE. Good evening, young gentleman.

ALBIN. Good evening, ladies.

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

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

MICHETTE. What does he say?

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

HOST. What shall I bring for their Graces?

MICHETTE. Bring me a very sweet wine.

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

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

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

ALBIN. She is not at all shy.

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

[HOST looks on.]

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

ALBIN. She isn't his—

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

[SCAEVOLA stands there with clenched fists.]

HOST (behind). Now, now?

SCAEVOLA. Ha, ha!

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

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

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

Enter the DUC DE CADIGNAN.

DUKE. Already in full swing!

[MICHETTE and FLIPOTTE go up to him.]

MICHETTE. My sweet Duke.

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

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

ALBIN. It bewilders me in the extreme.

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

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

ALBIN. How so?

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

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

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

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

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

[HOST lets him go on, seems astonished.]

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

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

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

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

ALBIN. What does that mean!

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

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

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

DUKE. He means, Chevalier ...

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

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

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



Permission Albert Langen, Munich FROM OLAF GULBRANSSON'S "FAMOUS CONTEMPORARIES"

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

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

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

FRANCOIS. Tell us.

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

DUKE. Do you know Lelange?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRANCOIS. Well, have they killed him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRANCOIS. What does Rollin say?

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

FRANCOIS. I have no memory for verses.

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

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

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

ALBIN. How should one understand that, Emile?

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

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

DUKE. Why?

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

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

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

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

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

MICHETTE. Stay with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALBIN. What others?

FRANCOIS. She is loved all around, you know.

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

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

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

FRANCOIS. Who doesn't know that?

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

FRANCOIS. You are paradoxical.

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

ALBIN. Like Alexander the Great.

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

MICHETTE. Give me a kiss before you go.

FLIPOTTE. Me too!

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

ALBIN. a wonderful man!

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

ALBIN. But do explain; what are those girls?

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

[GUILLAUME rushes in apparently breathless.]

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

SCAEVOLA. What is it? What ails you?

ALBIN. What has happened to the man?

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

ALBIN. Ah!

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

SCAEVOLA. Sit down. Take a draught!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOST (softly). Go on!—go on!

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

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

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

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

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

GRAIN. Death to the judges!

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

GUILLAUME. I should like to know who he is.

JULES. The judge within us.

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

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

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

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

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

ROLLIN. Marquise, I warned you.

SEVERINE. Why?

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

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

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

FRANCOIS. Are they still keeping up the tumult there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ROLLIN. I suffer unspeakably, Severine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MARQUIS. Have we missed a scene already?

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

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

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

SEVERINE. I remember having seen you in the church.

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRANCOIS. The time'll soon come, Prosper.

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

MARQUIS. Have patience, Severine.

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

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

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

FRANCOIS. Hm! That is rather strong.

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

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

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

SEVERINE. Does he see flames?

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

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

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

MARQUIS (embarrassed). She jests, dear Severine.

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

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

ROLLIN. Yes, it is wonderful.

MICHETTE. Have you counted yours?

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

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

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

ALBIN. At any rate ...

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

ALBIN. Something quite different.

ROLLIN. I thank you, Chevalier.

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

GRAIN. What?

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

GRAIN. I told you, I strangled her.

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

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

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

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

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

BALTHASAR comes in.

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

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

FRANCOIS. Splendid!

ALBIN. What—?

FRANCOIS. He brings out the points so well.

Enter the COMMISSAIRE, disguised; sits down at table.

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

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

SCAEVOLA. I can well believe so.

GEORGETTE. What's the matter with you today?

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

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

ROLLIN. What she says is really deep.

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

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

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

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

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

GEORGETTE. Never, never.

ALBIN. I positively can't make it out.

SEVERINE. Rollin, that is the right interpretation!

ROLLIN. You think so?

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

SEVERINE. Why? I am beginning to enjoy it.

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

FRANCOIS. Bravo! bravo!

BALTHASAR. What loony is that?

COMMISSAIRE. This is unquestionably too strong; this is—

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

FROM THE ACTORS' TABLE. Who are they?

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

GEORGETTE. Of course it is they!

BALTHASAR. Georgette!

SEVERINE. Heavens! what monstrously pretty young persons.

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

SEVERINE. What did I come here for, then?

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

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

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

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

MAURICE. A wedding.

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

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

HOST. Let's have a look.

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

HOST. For that there? A louis.

MAURICE. Indeed?

SCAEVOLA. It is not worth more.

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

MAURICE. What will you give me for't?

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

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

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

MICHETTE. You are a conceited ape.

SEVERINE. I swear that's no acting.

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

SCAEVOLA. What wedding was it, then?

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

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

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

[MAURICE draws some purses out of his waistcoat.]

SCAEVOLA. Well, you can do the handsome tonight.

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

ALBIN (excited). All that is true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MICHETTE. How did you get hold of the garter?

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

[GRAIN has stolen FRANCOIS'S purse.]

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

[GRAIN wants to get away.]

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

GRAIN. I—

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

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

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

FLIPOTTE. I shall win the garter.

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

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

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

ROLLIN. Henri—there is Henri.

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

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

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

THE ACTORS. Henri, what ails you?

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

SEVERINE. I prize that highly.

ALBIN. But why does he not speak?

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

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

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

HENRI. I have murdered.

ROLLIN. What did I say?

SCAEVOLA. Whom?

HENRI. The lover of my wife.

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

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