THREE PLAYS
SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR
HENRY IV
RIGHT YOU ARE! (IF YOU THINK SO)
BY
LUIGI PIRANDELLO
AWARDED NOBEL PRIZE IN LITERATURE, 1934
NEW YORK
E.P. DUTTON & CO., INC.
PUBLISHERS
1922
PREFATORY NOTE
No apology is necessary for offering to American readers a play which
critics, with singular unanimity, have called one of the most original
productions seen on the modern stage. In less than a year's time, "Six
Characters in Search of an Author" has won a distinguished place in the
dramatic literature of the Western world, attracting audiences and
engaging intellects far removed from the particular influences which
made of it a season's sensation in Italy.
Yet the word "original" is not enough, unless we embrace under that
characterization qualities far richer than those normally credited to
the "trick" play. The "Six Characters" is something more than an
unusually ingenious variation of the "play within a play." It is
something more than a new twist given to the "dream character" made
familiar by the contemporary Italian grotesques. It is a dramatization
of the artistic process itself, in relation to the problem of reality
and unreality, which has engaged Pirandello in one way or another for
more than twenty years.
I venture to insist upon this point as against those observers who have
tried to see in the "Six Characters" an ironical satire of the
commercial drama, as we know it today, mixed, more or less artificially,
with a rather obvious philosophy of neo-idealism. No such mixture
exists. The blend is organic. The object of Pirandello's bitter irony is
not the stage-manager, nor the theatrical producer, nor even the
dramatic critic: it is the dramatist; it is the artist; it is, in the
end, life itself.
I suppose the human soul presents no mysteries to those who have been
thoroughly grounded in the science of Freud. But in spite of
psycho-analysis a few Hamlets still survive. Pirandello is one of them.
What are people really like? In the business of everyday life, nothing
is commoner than the categorical judgment sweeping and assured in its
affirmatives. But as we cut a little deeply into the living matter of
the spirit, the problem becomes more complicated. Do we ever understand
the whole motivation of an action--not in others only but even in
ourselves?
Oh, yes, there are people who _know_.... The State knows, with its laws
and its procedures. And society knows, with its conventions. And
individuals know, with their formulas for conduct often cannily applied
with reference to interest.--The ironical element, as everyone has
noted, is fundamental in Pirandello!
Apart from works in his earlier manner (realistic pictures from Southern
Italian life, including such gems as "Sicilian Limes"), Pirandello's
most distinctive productions have dealt with this general theme. No one
of them, indeed, exhausts it. And how could this be otherwise?
Pirandello, approaching the sixties, to be sure, is nevertheless in
spirit a man of the younger Italian generation, which, trained by Croce
and Gentile, has "learned how to think." But however great his delight
in playing with "actual idealism," he knows the difference between a
drama and a philosophical dissertation. His plays are situations
embodying conclusions, simple, or indeed "obvious" in their
convincingness. They must be taken as a whole--if one would look for a
full statement of Pirandello's "thought."
A "thought," moreover, which may or may not invite us to profound
reflection. Enough for the lover of the theatre is the fact that
Pirandello derives the most interesting dramatic possibilities from it.
Sometimes it is the "reality" which society sees brought into contrast
with the reality which action proves (_Il piacere dell'onestà_). Again,
it is the "reality" which a man sees in himself thwarted by the reality
which actually controls (_"Ma non è una cosa seria"_). In "Right You
Are" (_Così è, se vi pare_) we have a general satire of the "cocksure,"
who, placed in the presence of reality and unreality, are unable to
distinguish one from the other.
In the "Six Characters" it is the turn of the artist. Can art--creative
art, where the spirit would seem most autonomous--itself determine
reality? No, because once "a character is born, he acquires such an
independence, even of his own author, that he can be imagined by
everybody in situations where the author never dreamed of placing him,
and so acquires a meaning which the author never thought of giving him."
In this lies the great originality of this very original play--the
discovery (so Italian, when one thinks of it, and so novel, as one
compares it with the traditional rôle of the "artist" in the European
play) that the laborious effort of artistic creation is itself a
dramatic theme--so unruly, so assertive, is this thing called "life"
ever rising to harass and defeat anyone who would interpret,
crystallize, devitalize it.
And beyond the drama lies the poetry, a poetry of mysterious symbolism
made up of terror, and rebellion, and pity, and human kindliness. Let us
not miss the latter, especially, in the complex mood of all Pirandello's
theatre.
* * * * *
The three plays of Pirandello, here offered in translations that do not
hope to be adequate, are famous specimens of the "new" theatre in Italy.
The term "new" is much contested, not only in Italy but abroad. In using
the word here it is not necessary to claim that this young, impulsive,
fascinatingly boisterous after-the-war Italy is doing things that no one
else ever thought of doing. We remain on safe ground if we assert that
Pirandello and his associates have broken the bounds set to the old
fashioned "sentimental" Latin play.
The motivations of the "old" theatre were largely ethical in character,
developing spiritual crises from the conflict of impulses with a rigid
framework of law and convention. Dramatic art was, so to speak, a
department of geometry, dealing with this or that projection or
modification of the triangle. Husbands tearing their hair as wives
proved unfaithful; disappointed lovers pining in eternal fidelity to
mates beyond their social sphere; cuckolds heroically sheathing the
stiletto in deference to a higher law of respectability; widows sending
second-hand aspirants to suicide that the sacrament of marriage might
remain inviolate:--such were the themes.
And there is no doubt, besides, that this "old" theatre produced works
of great beauty and intenseness; since the will in conflict with impulse
and triumphing over impulse always presents a subject entrancing in
human interest and noble in moral implications.
But the potentialities of drama are more numerous than the permutations
of three. The "new" theatre in Italy is "new" in this discovery at
least.
* * * * *
"'Henry IV.,'" an equally strong and original variation of the insanity
motive, is the first of two plays by Pirandello dealing with a special
aspect of the problem of reality and unreality. The second, not yet
given to the public, is _Vestire gli ingnudi_ ("... And ye clothed
me!"). In the former Pirandello studies a situation where an individual
finds a world of unreality thrust upon him, voluntarily reassuming it
later on, when tragedy springs from the deeper reality. In "And ye
clothed me!" we have a girl who, to fill an empty life of no importance,
creates a fiction for herself, only to find it torn violently from her
and to be left in a naked reality that is, after all, so unreal.
These two plays indicate the present tendency of Pirandello's rapid
production--a tendency that promises even richer results as this
interesting author delves more extensively into the mysteries of
individual psychology.
"'Henry IV.,'" meanwhile, is before us. It can speak for itself.
* * * * *
All of Pirandello's plays are built for acting, and only incidentally
for reading. We make this observation with "Right You Are" especially in
mind, since that play, above all, is a test for the actor. It is typical
of Pirandello for its rapidity, its harshness and its violence--the
skill with which the tense tableau is drawn out of pure dialectic, pure
"conversation." Moreover, it states a fundamental preoccupation of
Pirandello in peculiarly lucid and striking fashion. Perhaps a better
rendering of the title _Così è (se vi pare)_ will occur to many. Ludwig
Lewisohn (happily, I thought) suggested "As You Like It," no less. A
possibility, quite in the spirit of Pirandello's title in general, would
have been another Shakespearean reminiscence: "... and Thinking Makes It
So." We have kept something approximating the literal, which would be:
"So it is (if you think so)."
The text of the "Six Characters" is that of the translation designated
by the author and which was used in the sensational productions of the
play given in London and New York.
A.L.
CONTENTS
PREFATORY NOTE
SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR--A COMEDY IN THE MAKING
"HENRY IV."
RIGHT YOU ARE (IF YOU THINK SO!)
THREE PLAYS
SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR
(_Sei personaggi in cerca d'autore_)
A COMEDY IN THE MAKING
BY
LUIGI PIRANDELLO
TRANSLATED BY EDWARD STORER
CHARACTERS OF THE COMEDY IN THE MAKING:
THE FATHER. THE MOTHER. THE STEP-DAUGHTER.
THE SON. THE BOY. THE CHILD. (_The last
two do not speak_.) MADAME PACE.
ACTORS OF THE COMPANY
THE MANAGER. LEADING LADY. LEADING MAN.
SECOND LADY. LEAD. L'INGÉNUE. JUVENILE
LEAD. OTHER ACTORS AND ACTRESSES.
PROPERTY MAN. PROMPTER. MACHINIST.
MANAGER'S SECRETARY. DOOR-KEEPER.
SCENE-SHIFTERS.
DAYTIME. THE STAGE OF A THEATRE.
SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR
A COMEDY IN THE MAKING
ACT I.
_N.B. The Comedy is without acts or scenes. The performance
is interrupted once, without the curtain being lowered, when
the manager and the chief characters withdraw to arrange the
scenario. A second interruption of the action takes place
when, by mistake, the stage hands let the curtain down._
_The spectators will find the curtain raised and the stage
as it usually is during the day time. It will be half dark,
and empty, so that from the beginning the public may have
the impression of an impromptu performance._
_Prompter's box and a small table and chair for the
manager._
_Two other small tables and several chairs scattered about
as during rehearsals._
_The actors and actresses of the company enter from the back
of the stage:_
_first one, then another, then two together: nine or ten in
all. They are about to rehearse a Pirandello play_: Mixing
It Up. _Some of the company move off towards their dressing
rooms. The prompter who has the "book" under his arm, is
waiting for the manager in order to begin the rehearsal._
_The actors and actresses, some standing, some sitting, chat
and smoke. One perhaps reads a paper; another cons his
part._
_Finally, the Manager enters and goes to the table prepared
for him: His secretary brings him his mail, through which he
glances. The prompter takes his seat, turns on a light, and
opens the "book."_
THE MANAGER (_throwing a letter down on the table_). I can't
see (_to Property Man_). Let's have a little light, please!
PROPERTY MAN. Yes sir, yes, at once (_a light comes down on
to the stage_).
THE MANAGER (_clapping his hands_). Come along! Come along!
Second act of "Mixing it Up" (_sits down_).
(_The actors and actresses go from the front of the stage to
the wings, all except the three who are to begin the
rehearsal_).
THE PROMPTER (_reading the "book"_). "Leo Gala's house. A
curious room serving as dining-room and study."
THE MANAGER (_to Property Man_). Fix up the old red room.
PROPERTY MAN (_noting it down_). Red set. All right!
THE PROMPTER (_continuing to read from the "book"_). "Table
already laid and writing desk with books and papers.
Book-shelves. Exit rear to Leo's bedroom. Exit left to
kitchen. Principal exit to right."
THE MANAGER (_energetically_). Well, you understand: The
principal exit over there; here, the kitchen. (_Turning to
actor who is to play the part of Socrates_). You make your
entrances and exits here. (_To Property Man_) The baize
doors at the rear, and curtains.
PROPERTY MAN (_noting it down_). Right oh!
PROMPTER (_reading as before_). "When the curtain rises, Leo
Gala, dressed in cook's cap and apron is busy beating an egg
in a cup. Philip, also dressed as a cook, is beating another
egg. Guido Venanzi is seated and listening."
LEADING MAN (_to manager_). Excuse me, but must I absolutely
wear a cook's cap?
THE MANAGER (_annoyed_). I imagine so. It says so there
anyway (_pointing to the "book"_).
LEADING MAN. But it's ridiculous!
THE MANAGER (_jumping up in a rage_). Ridiculous?
Ridiculous? Is it my fault if France won't send us any more
good comedies, and we are reduced to putting on Pirandello's
works, where nobody understands anything, and where the
author plays the fool with us all? (_The actors grin. The
Manager goes to Leading Man and shouts_). Yes sir, you put
on the cook's cap and beat eggs. Do you suppose that with
all this egg-beating business you are on an ordinary stage?
Get that out of your head. You represent the shell of the
eggs you are beating! (_Laughter and comments among the
actors_). Silence! and listen to my explanations, please!
(_To Leading Man_): "The empty form of reason without the
fullness of instinct, which is blind."--You stand for
reason, your wife is instinct. It's a mixing up of the
parts, according to which you who act your own part become
the puppet of yourself. Do you understand?
LEADING MAN. I'm hanged if I do.
THE MANAGER. Neither do I. But let's get on with it. It's
sure to be a glorious failure anyway. (_Confidentially_):
But I say, please face three-quarters. Otherwise, what with
the abstruseness of the dialogue, and the public that won't
be able to hear you, the whole thing will go to hell. Come
on! come on!
PROMPTER. Pardon sir, may I get into my box? There's a bit
of a draught.
THE MANAGER. Yes, yes, of course!
_At this point, the door-keeper has entered from the stage
door and advances towards the manager's table, taking off
his braided cap. During this manoeuvre, the Six Characters
enter, and stop by the door at back of stage, so that when
the door-keeper is about to announce their coming to the
Manager, they are already on the stage. A tenuous light
surrounds them, almost as if irradiated by them--the faint
breath of their fantastic reality._
_This light will disappear when they come forward towards
the actors. They preserve, however, something of the dream
lightness in which they seem almost suspended; but this does
not detract from the essential reality of their forms and
expressions._
_He who is known as_ THE FATHER _is a man of about_ 50:
_hair, reddish in colour, thin at the temples; he is not
bald, however; thick moustaches, falling over his still
fresh mouth, which often opens in an empty and uncertain
smile. He is fattish, pale; with an especially wide
forehead. He has blue, oval-shaped eyes, very clear and
piercing. Wears light trousers and a dark jacket. He is
alternatively mellifluous and violent in his manner._
THE MOTHER _seems crushed and terrified as if by an
intolerable weight of shame and abasement. She is dressed in
modest black and wears a thick widow's veil of crêpe. When
she lifts this, she reveals a wax-like face. She always
keeps her eyes downcast._
THE STEP-DAUGHTER, _is dashing, almost impudent, beautiful.
She wears mourning too, but with great elegance. She shows
contempt for the timid half-frightened manner of the
wretched_ BOY (14 _years old, and also dressed in black_);
on the other hand, she displays a lively tenderness for her
_little sister_, THE CHILD _(about four), who is dressed in
white, with a black silk sash at the waist_.
THE SON (22) _tall, severe in his attitude of contempt for_
THE FATHER, _supercilious and indifferent to the_ MOTHER.
_He looks as if he had come on the stage against his will_.
DOOR-KEEPER (_cap in hand_). Excuse me, sir....
THE MANAGER (_rudely_). Eh? What is it?
DOOR-KEEPER (_timidly_). These people are asking for you,
sir.
THE MANAGER (_furious_). I am rehearsing, and you know
perfectly well no one's allowed to come in during
rehearsals! (_Turning to the Characters_): Who are you,
please? What do you want?
THE FATHER (_coming forward a little, followed by the others
who seem embarrassed_). As a matter of fact ... we have come
here in search of an author....
THE MANAGER (_half angry, half amazed_). An author? What
author?
THE FATHER. Any author, sir.
THE MANAGER. But there's no author here. We are not
rehearsing a new piece.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_vivaciously_). So much the better, so
much the better! We can be your new piece.
AN ACTOR (_coming forward from the others_). Oh, do you hear
that?
THE FATHER (_to Step-Daughter_). Yes, but if the author
isn't here ... (_To Manager_) ... unless you would be
willing....
THE MANAGER. You are trying to be funny.
THE FATHER. No, for Heaven's sake, what are you saying? We
bring you a drama, sir.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. We may be your fortune.
THE MANAGER. Will you oblige me by going away? We haven't
time to waste with mad people.
THE FATHER (_mellifluously_). Oh sir, you know well that
life is full of infinite absurdities, which, strangely
enough, do not even need to appear plausible, since they are
true.
THE MANAGER. What the devil is he talking about?
THE FATHER. I say that to reverse the ordinary process may
well be considered a madness: that is, to create credible
situations, in order that they may appear true. But permit
me to observe that if this be madness, it is the sole
_raison d'être_ of your profession, gentlemen. (_The actors
look hurt and perplexed_).
THE MANAGER (_getting up and looking at him_). So our
profession seems to you one worthy of madmen then?
THE FATHER. Well, to make seem true that which isn't true
... without any need ... for a joke as it were.... Isn't
that your mission, gentlemen: to give life to fantastic
characters on the stage?
THE MANAGER (_interpreting the rising anger of the
Company_). But I would beg you to believe, my dear sir, that
the profession of the comedian is a noble one. If today, as
things go, the playwrights give us stupid comedies to play
and puppets to represent instead of men, remember we are
proud to have given life to immortal works here on these
very boards! (_The actors, satisfied, applaud their
Manager_).
THE FATHER (_interrupting furiously_). Exactly, perfectly,
to living beings more alive than those who breathe and wear
clothes: beings less real perhaps, but truer! I agree with
you entirely. (_The actors look at one another in
amazement_).
THE MANAGER. But what do you mean? Before, you said....
THE FATHER. No, excuse me, I meant it for you, sir, who were
crying out that you had no time to lose with madmen, while
no one better than yourself knows that nature uses the
instrument of human fantasy in order to pursue her high
creative purpose.
THE MANAGER. Very well,--but where does all this take us?
THE FATHER. Nowhere! It is merely to show you that one is
born to life in many forms, in many shapes, as tree, or as
stone, as water, as butterfly, or as woman. So one may also
be born a character in a play.
THE MANAGER (_with feigned comic dismay_). So you and these
other friends of yours have been born characters?
THE FATHER. Exactly, and alive as you see! (_Manager and
actors burst out laughing_).
THE FATHER (_hurt_). I am sorry you laugh, because we carry
in us a drama, as you can guess from this woman here veiled
in black.
THE MANAGER (_losing patience at last and almost
indignant_). Oh, chuck it! Get away please! Clear out of
here! (_to Property Man_). For Heaven's sake, turn them out!
THE FATHER (_resisting_). No, no, look here, we....
THE MANAGER (_roaring_). We come here to work, you know.
LEADING ACTOR. One cannot let oneself be made such a fool
of.
THE FATHER (_determined, coming forward_). I marvel at your
incredulity, gentlemen. Are you not accustomed to see the
characters created by an author spring to life in yourselves
and face each other? Just because there is no "book"
(_pointing to the Prompter's box_) which contains us, you
refuse to believe....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_advances towards Manager, smiling and
coquettish_). Believe me, we are really six most interesting
characters, sir; side-tracked however.
THE FATHER. Yes, that is the word! (_To Manager all at
once_): In the sense, that is, that the author who created
us alive no longer wished, or was no longer able, materially
to put us into a work of art. And this was a real crime,
sir; because he who has had the luck to be born a character
can laugh even at death. He cannot die. The man, the writer,
the instrument of the creation will die, but his creation
does not die. And to live for ever, it does not need to have
extraordinary gifts or to be able to work wonders. Who was
Sancho Panza? Who was Don Abbondio? Yet they live eternally
because--live germs as they were--they had the fortune to
find a fecundating matrix, a fantasy which could raise and
nourish them: make them live for ever!
THE MANAGER. That is quite all right. But what do you want
here, all of you?
THE FATHER. We want to live.
THE MANAGER (_ironically_). For Eternity?
THE FATHER. No, sir, only for a moment ... in you.
AN ACTOR. Just listen to him!
LEADING LADY. They want to live, in us...!
JUVENILE LEAD (_pointing to the Step-Daughter_). I've no
objection, as far as that one is concerned!
THE FATHER. Look here! look here! The comedy has to be made.
(_To the Manager_): But if you and your actors are willing,
we can soon concert it among ourselves.
THE MANAGER (_annoyed_). But what do you want to concert? We
don't go in for concerts here. Here we play dramas and
comedies!
THE FATHER. Exactly! That is just why we have come to you.
THE MANAGER. And where is the "book"?
THE FATHER. It is in us! (_The actors laugh_). The drama is
in us, and we are the drama. We are impatient to play it.
Our inner passion drives us on to this.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_disdainful, alluring, treacherous, full
of impudence_). My passion, sir! Ah, if you only knew! My
passion for him! (_Points to the Father and makes a pretence
of embracing him. Then she breaks out into a loud laugh_).
THE FATHER (_angrily_). Behave yourself! And please don't
laugh in that fashion.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. With your permission, gentlemen, I, who
am a two months' orphan, will show you how I can dance and
sing.
(_Sings and then dances_). Prenez garde a Tchou-Thin-Tchou.
Les chinois sont un peuple malin,
De Shangaî à Pekin,
Ils ont mis des écriteux partout:
Prenez garde à Tchou-Thin-Tchou.
ACTORS and ACTRESSES. Bravo! Well done! Tip-top!
THE MANAGER. Silence! This isn't a café concert, you know!
(_Turning to the Father in consternation_): Is she mad?
THE FATHER. Mad? No, she's worse than mad.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_to Manager_). Worse? Worse? Listen!
Stage this drama for us at once! Then you will see that at a
certain moment I ... when this little darling here ...
(_Takes the Child by the hand and leads her to the
Manager_): Isn't she a dear? (_Takes her up and kisses
her_). Darling! Darling! (_Puts her down again and adds
feelingly_): Well, when God suddenly takes this dear little
child away from that poor mother there; and this imbecile
here (_seizing hold of the Boy roughly and pushing him
forward_) does the stupidest things, like the fool he is,
you will see me run away. Yes, gentleman, I shall be off.
But the moment hasn't arrived yet. After what has taken
place between him and me (_indicates the Father with a
horrible wink_), I can't remain any longer in this society,
to have to witness the anguish of this mother here for that
fool.... (_indicates the Son_). Look at him! Look at him!
See how indifferent, how frigid he is, because he is the
legitimate son. He despises me, despises him (_pointing to
the Boy_), despises this baby here; because ... we are
bastards (_goes to the Mother and embraces her_). And he
doesn't want to recognize her as his mother--she who is the
common mother of us all. He looks down upon her as if she
were only the mother of us three bastards. Wretch! (_She
says all this very rapidly, excitedly. At the word
"bastards" she raises her voice, and almost spits out the
final "Wretch!"_).
THE MOTHER (_to the Manager, in anguish_). In the name of
these two little children, I beg you.... (_She grows faint
and is about to fall_). Oh God!
THE FATHER (_coming forward to support her as do some of the
actors_). Quick a chair, a chair for this poor widow!
THE ACTORS. Is it true? Has she really fainted?
THE MANAGER. Quick, a chair! Here!
(_One of the actors brings a chair, the others proffer
assistance. The Mother tries to prevent the Father from
lifting the veil which covers her face_).
THE FATHER. Look at her! Look at her!
THE MOTHER. No, no; stop it please!
THE FATHER (_raising her veil_). Let them see you!
THE MOTHER (_rising and covering her face with her hands, in
desperation_). I beg you, sir, to prevent this man from
carrying out his plan which is loathsome to me.
THE MANAGER (_dumbfounded_). I don't understand at all. What
is the situation? Is this lady your wife? (_to the Father_).
THE FATHER. Yes, gentlemen: my wife!
THE MANAGER. But how can she be a widow if you are alive?
(_The actors find relief for their astonishment in a loud
laugh_).
THE FATHER. Don't laugh! Don't laugh like that, for Heaven's
sake. Her drama lies just here in this: she has had a lover,
a man who ought to be here.
THE MOTHER (_with a cry_). No! No!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Fortunately for her, he is dead. Two
months ago as I said. We are in mourning, as you see.
THE FATHER. He isn't here you see, not because he is dead.
He isn't here--look at her a moment and you will
understand--because her drama isn't a drama of the love of
two men for whom she was incapable of feeling anything
except possibly a little gratitude--gratitude not for me but
for the other. She isn't a woman, she is a mother, and her
drama--powerful sir, I assure you--lies, as a matter of
fact, all in these four children she has had by two men.
THE MOTHER. I had them? Have you got the courage to say that
I wanted them? (_To the company_). It was his doing. It was
he who gave me that other man, who forced me to go away with
him.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It isn't true.
THE MOTHER (_startled_). Not true, isn't it?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. No, it isn't true, it just isn't true.
THE MOTHER. And what can you know about it?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It isn't true. Don't believe it. (_To
Manager_). Do you know why she says so? For that fellow
there (_indicates the Son_). She tortures herself, destroys
herself on account of the neglect of that son there; and she
wants him to believe that if she abandoned him when he was
only two years old, it was because he (_indicates the
Father_) made her do so.
THE MOTHER (_vigorously_). He forced me to it, and I call
God to witness it (_to the Manager_). Ask him (_indicates
husband_) if it isn't true. Let him speak. You (_to
daughter_) are not in a position to know anything about it.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. I know you lived in peace and happiness
with my father while he lived. Can you deny it?
THE MOTHER. No, I don't deny it....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. He was always full of affection and
kindness for you (_to the Boy, angrily_). It's true, isn't
it? Tell them! Why don't you speak, you little fool?
THE MOTHER. Leave the poor boy alone. Why do you want to
make me appear ungrateful, daughter? I don't want to offend
your father. I have answered him that I didn't abandon my
house and my son through any fault of mine, nor from any
wilful passion.
THE FATHER. It is true. It was my doing.
LEADING MAN (_to the Company_). What a spectacle!
LEADING LADY. We are the audience this time.
JUVENILE LEAD. For once, in a way.
THE MANAGER (_beginning to get really interested_). Let's
hear them out. Listen!
THE SON. Oh yes, you're going to hear a fine bit now. He
will talk to you of the Demon of Experiment.
THE FATHER. You are a cynical imbecile. I've told you so
already a hundred times (_to the Manager_). He tries to make
fun of me on account of this expression which I have found
to excuse myself with.
THE SON (_with disgust_). Yes, phrases! phrases!
THE FATHER. Phrases! Isn't everyone consoled when faced with
a trouble or fact he doesn't understand, by a word, some
simple word, which tells us nothing and yet calms us?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Even in the case of remorse. In fact,
especially then.
THE FATHER. Remorse? No, that isn't true. I've done more
than use words to quieten the remorse in me.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, there was a bit of money too. Yes,
yes, a bit of money. There were the hundred lire he was
about to offer me in payment, gentlemen.... (_sensation of
horror among the actors_).
THE SON (_to the Step-Daughter_). This is vile.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Vile? There they were in a pale blue
envelope on a little mahogany table in the back of Madame
Pace's shop. You know Madame Pace--one of those ladies who
attract poor girls of good family into their ateliers, under
the pretext of their selling _robes et manteaux_.
THE SON. And he thinks he has bought the right to tyrannise
over us all with those hundred lire he was going to pay; but
which, fortunately--note this, gentlemen--he had no chance
of paying.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It was a near thing, though, you know!
(_laughs ironically_).
THE MOTHER (_protesting_.) Shame, my daughter, shame!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Shame indeed! This is my revenge! I am
dying to live that scene.... The room ... I see it.... Here
is the window with the mantles exposed, there the divan, the
looking-glass, a screen, there in front of the window the
little mahogany table with the blue envelope containing one
hundred lire. I see it. I see it. I could take hold of
it.... But you, gentlemen, you ought to turn your backs now:
I am almost nude, you know. But I don't blush: I leave that
to him (_indicating Father_).
THE MANAGER. I don't understand this at all.
THE FATHER. Naturally enough. I would ask you, sir, to
exercise your authority a little here, and let me speak
before you believe all she is trying to blame me with. Let
me explain.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Ah yes, explain it in your own way.
THE FATHER. But don't you see that the whole trouble lies
here. In words, words. Each one of us has within him a whole
world of things, each man of us his own special world. And
how can we ever come to an understanding if I put in the
words I utter the sense and value of things as I see them;
while you who listen to me must inevitably translate them
according to the conception of things each one of you has
within himself. We think we understand each other, but we
never really do! Look here! This woman (_indicating the
Mother_) takes all my pity for her as a specially ferocious
form of cruelty.
THE MOTHER. But you drove me away.
THE FATHER. Do you hear her? I drove her away! She believes
I really sent her away.
THE MOTHER. You know how to talk, and I don't; but, believe
me sir, (_to Manager_) after he had married me ... who knows
why? ... I was a poor insignificant woman....
THE FATHER. But, good Heavens! it was just for your humility
that I married you. I loved this simplicity in you (_He
stops when he sees she makes signs to contradict him, opens
his arms wide in sign of desperation, seeing how hopeless it
is to make himself understood_). You see she denies it. Her
mental deafness, believe me, is phenomenal, the limit
(_touches his forehead_): deaf, deaf, mentally deaf! She has
plenty of feeling. Oh yes, a good heart for the children;
but the brain--deaf, to the point of desperation--!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, but ask him how his intelligence has
helped us.
THE FATHER. If we could see all the evil that may spring
from good, what should we do? (_At this point the Leading
Lady who is biting her lips with rage at seeing the Leading
Man flirting with the Step-Daughter, comes forward and says
to the Manager_).
LEADING LADY. Excuse me, but are we going to rehearse today?
MANAGER. Of course, of course; but let's hear them out.
JUVENILE LEAD. This is something quite new.
L'INGÉNUE. Most interesting!
LEADING LADY. Yes, for the people who like that kind of
thing (_casts a glance at Leading Man_).
THE MANAGER (_to Father_.) You must please explain yourself
quite clearly (_sits down_).
THE FATHER. Very well then: listen! I had in my service a
poor man, a clerk, a secretary of mine, full of devotion,
who became friends with her (_indicating the Mother_). They
understood one another, were kindred souls in fact, without,
however, the least suspicion of any evil existing. They were
incapable even of thinking of it.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. So he thought of it--for them!
THE FATHER. That's not true. I meant to do good to them--and
to myself, I confess, at the same time. Things had come to
the point that I could not say a word to either of them
without their making a mute appeal, one to the other, with
their eyes. I could see them silently asking each other how
I was to be kept in countenance, how I was to be kept quiet.
And this, believe me, was just about enough of itself to
keep me in a constant rage, to exasperate me beyond measure.
THE MANAGER. And why didn't you send him away then--this
secretary of yours?
THE FATHER. Precisely what I did, sir. And then I had to
watch this poor woman drifting forlornly about the house
like an animal without a master, like an animal one has
taken in out of pity.
THE MOTHER. Ah yes...!
THE FATHER (_suddenly turning to the Mother_). It's true
about the son anyway, isn't it?
THE MOTHER. He took my son away from me first of all.
THE FATHER. But not from cruelty. I did it so that he should
grow up healthy and strong by living in the country.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_pointing to him ironically_). As one can
see.
THE FATHER (_quickly_). Is it my fault if he has grown up
like this? I sent him to a wet nurse in the country, a
peasant, as _she_ did not seem to me strong enough, though
she is of humble origin. That was, anyway, the reason I
married her. Unpleasant all this maybe, but how can it be
helped? My mistake possibly, but there we are! All my life I
have had these confounded aspirations towards a certain
moral sanity. (_At this point the Step-Daughter bursts out
into a noisy laugh_). Oh, stop, it! Stop it! I can't stand
it.
THE MANAGER. Yes, please stop it, for Heaven's sake.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. But imagine moral sanity from him, if you
please--the client of certain ateliers like that of Madame
Pace!
THE FATHER. Fool! That is the proof that I am a man! This
seeming contradiction, gentlemen, is the strongest proof
that I stand here a live man before you. Why, it is just for
this very incongruity in my nature that I have had to suffer
what I have. I could not live by the side of that woman
(_indicating the Mother_) any longer; but not so much for
the boredom she inspired me with as for the pity I felt for
her.
THE MOTHER. And so he turned me out--.
THE FATHER. --well provided for! Yes, I sent her to that
man, gentlemen ... to let her go free of me.
THE MOTHER. And to free himself.
THE FATHER. Yes, I admit it. It was also a liberation for
me. But great evil has come of it. I meant well when I did
it; and I did it more for her sake than mine. I swear it
(_crosses his arms on his chest; then turns suddenly to the
Mother_). Did I ever lose sight of you until that other man
carried you off to another town, like the angry fool he was?
And on account of my pure interest in you ... my pure
interest, I repeat, that had no base motive in it ... I
watched with the tenderest concern the new family that grew
up around her. She can bear witness to this (_points to the
Step-Daughter_).
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Oh yes, that's true enough. When I was a
kiddie, so so high, you know, with plaits over my shoulders
and knickers longer than my skirts, I used to see him
waiting outside the school for me to come out. He came to
see how I was growing up.
THE FATHER. This is infamous, shameful!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. No, why?
THE FATHER. Infamous! infamous! (_Then excitedly to Manager
explaining_). After she (_indicating Mother_) went away, my
house seemed suddenly empty. She was my incubus, but she
filled my house. I was like a dazed fly alone in the empty
rooms. This boy here (_indicating the Son_) was educated
away from home, and when he came back, he seemed to me to be
no more mine. With no mother to stand between him and me, he
grew up entirely for himself, on his own, apart, with no tie
of intellect or affection binding him to me. And
then--strange but true--I was driven, by curiosity at first
and then by some tender sentiment, towards her family, which
had come into being through my will. The thought of her
began gradually to fill up the emptiness I felt all around
me. I wanted to know if she were happy in living out the
simple daily duties of life. I wanted to think of her as
fortunate and happy because far away from the complicated
torments of my spirit. And so, to have proof of this, I used
to watch that child coming out of school.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, yes. True. He used to follow me in
the street and smiled at me, waved his hand, like this. I
would look at him with interest, wondering who he might be.
I told my mother, who guessed at once (_the Mother agrees
with a nod_). Then she didn't want to send me to school for
some days; and when I finally went back, there he was
again--looking so ridiculous--with a paper parcel in his
hands. He came close to me, caressed me, and drew out a fine
straw hat from the parcel, with a bouquet of flowers--all
for me!
THE MANAGER. A bit discursive this, you know!
THE SON (_contemptuously_). Literature! Literature!
THE FATHER. Literature indeed! This is life, this is
passion!
THE MANAGER. It may be, but it won't act.
THE FATHER. I agree. This is only the part leading up. I
don't suggest this should be staged. She (_pointing to the
Step-Daughter_), as you see, is no longer the flapper with
plaits down her back--.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. --and the knickers showing below the
skirt!
THE FATHER. The drama is coming now, sir; something new,
complex, most interesting.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. As soon as my father died....
THE FATHER. --there was absolute misery for them. They came
back here, unknown to me. Through her stupidity (_pointing
to the Mother_)! It is true she can barely write her own
name; but she could anyhow have got her daughter to write to
me that they were in need....
THE MOTHER. And how was I to divine all this sentiment in
him?
THE FATHER. That is exactly your mistake, never to have
guessed any of my sentiments.
THE MOTHER. After so many years apart, and all that had
happened....
THE FATHER. Was it my fault if that fellow carried you away?
It happened quite suddenly; for after he had obtained some
job or other, I could find no trace of them; and so, not
unnaturally, my interest in them dwindled. But the drama
culminated unforeseen and violent on their return, when I
was impelled by my miserable flesh that still lives.... Ah!
what misery, what wretchedness is that of the man who is
alone and disdains debasing _liaisons_! Not old enough to do
without women, and not young enough to go and look for one
without shame. Misery? It's worse than misery; it's a
horror; for no woman can any longer give him love; and when
a man feels this ... One ought to do without, you say? Yes,
yes, I know. Each of us when he appears before his fellows
is clothed in a certain dignity. But every man knows what
unconfessable things pass within the secrecy of his own
heart. One gives way to the temptation, only to rise from it
again, afterwards, with a great eagerness to reestablish
one's dignity, as if it were a tomb-stone to place on the
grave of one's shame, and a monument to hide and sign the
memory of our weaknesses. Everybody's in the same case. Some
folks haven't the courage to say certain things, that's all!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. All appear to have the courage to do them
though.
THE FATHER. Yes, but in secret. Therefore, you want more
courage to say these things. Let a man but speak these
things out, and folks at once label him a cynic. But it
isn't true. He is like all the others, better indeed,
because he isn't afraid to reveal with the light of the
intelligence the red shame of human bestiality on which most
men close their eyes so as not to see it.
Woman--for example, look at her case! She turns tantalizing
inviting glances on you. You seize her. No sooner does she
feel herself in your grasp than she closes her eyes. It is
the sign of her mission, the sign by which she says to man:
"Blind yourself, for I am blind."
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Sometimes she can close them no more:
when she no longer feels the need of hiding her shame to
herself, but dry-eyed and dispassionately, sees only that of
the man who has blinded himself without love. Oh, all these
intellectual complications make me sick, disgust me--all
this philosophy that uncovers the beast in man, and then
seeks to save him, excuse him ... I can't stand it, sir.
When a man seeks to "simplify" life bestially, throwing
aside every relic of humanity, every chaste aspiration,
every pure feeling, all sense of ideality, duty, modesty,
shame ... then nothing is more revolting and nauseous than a
certain kind of remorse--crocodiles' tears, that's what it
is.
THE MANAGER. Let's come to the point. This is only
discussion.
THE FATHER. Very good, sir! But a fact is like a sack which
won't stand up when it is empty. In order that it may stand
up, one has to put into it the reason and sentiment which
have caused it to exist. I couldn't possibly know that after
the death of that man, they had decided to return here, that
they were in misery, and that she (_pointing to the Mother_)
had gone to work as a modiste, and at a shop of the type of
that of Madame Pace.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. A real high-class modiste, you must know,
gentlemen. In appearance, she works for the leaders of the
best society; but she arranges matters so that these elegant
ladies serve her purpose ... without prejudice to other
ladies who are ... well ... only so so.
THE MOTHER. You will believe me, gentlemen, that it never
entered my mind that the old hag offered me work because she
had her eye on my daughter.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Poor mamma! Do you know, sir, what that
woman did when I brought her back the work my mother had
finished? She would point out to me that I had torn one of
my frocks, and she would give it back to my mother to mend.
It was I who paid for it, always I; while this poor creature
here believed she was sacrificing herself for me and these
two children here, sitting up at night sewing Madame Pace's
robes.
THE MANAGER. And one day you met there....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Him, him. Yes sir, an old client. There's
a scene for you to play! Superb!
THE FATHER. She, the Mother arrived just then....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_treacherously_). Almost in time!
THE FATHER (_crying out_). No, in time! in time! Fortunately
I recognized her ... in time. And I took them back home with
me to my house. You can imagine now her position and mine:
she, as you see her; and I who cannot look her in the face.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Absurd! How can I possibly be
expected--after that--to be a modest young miss, a fit
person to go with his confounded aspirations for "a solid
moral sanity"?
THE FATHER. For the drama lies all in this--in the
conscience that I have, that each one of us has. We believe
this conscience to be a single thing, but it is many-sided.
There is one for this person, and another for that. Diverse
consciences. So we have this illusion of being one person
for all, of having a personality that is unique in all our
acts. But it isn't true. We perceive this when, tragically
perhaps, in something we do, we are as it were, suspended,
caught up in the air on a kind of hook. Then we perceive
that all of us was not in that act, and that it would be an
atrocious injustice to judge us by that action alone, as if
all our existence were summed up in that one deed. Now do
you understand the perfidy of this girl? She surprised me in
a place, where she ought not to have known me, just as I
could not exist for her; and she now seeks to attach to me a
reality such as I could never suppose I should have to
assume for her in a shameful and fleeting moment of my life.
I feel this above all else. And the drama, you will see,
acquires a tremendous value from this point. Then there is
the position of the others ... his.... (_indicating the
Son_).
THE SON (_shrugging his shoulders scornfully_). Leave me
alone! I don't come into this.
THE FATHER. What? You don't come into this?
THE SON. I've got nothing to do with it, and don't want to
have; because you know well enough I wasn't made to be mixed
up in all this with the rest of you.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. We are only vulgar folk! He is the fine
gentleman. You may have noticed, Mr. Manager, that I fix him
now and again with a look of scorn while he lowers his
eyes--for he knows the evil he has done me.
THE SON (_scarcely looking at her_). I?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. You! you! I owe my life on the streets to
you. Did you or did you not deny us, with your behaviour, I
won't say the intimacy of home, but even that mere
hospitality which makes guests feel at their ease? We were
intruders who had come to disturb the kingdom of your
legitimacy. I should like to have you witness, Mr. Manager,
certain scenes between him and me. He says I have tyrannized
over everyone. But it was just his behaviour which made me
insist on the reason for which I had come into the
house,--this reason he calls "vile"--into his house, with my
mother who is his mother too. And I came as mistress of the
house.
THE SON. It's easy for them to put me always in the wrong.
But imagine, gentlemen, the position of a son, whose fate it
is to see arrive one day at his home a young woman of
impudent bearing, a young woman who inquires for his>
father, with whom who knows what business she has. This
young man has then to witness her return bolder than ever,
accompanied by that child there. He is obliged to watch her
treat his father in an equivocal and confidential manner.
She asks money of him in a way that lets one suppose he must
give it her, _must_, do you understand, because he has every
obligation to do so.
THE FATHER. But I have, as a matter of fact, this
obligation. I owe it to your mother.
THE SON. How should I know? When had I ever seen or heard of
her? One day there arrive with her (_indicating
Step-Daughter_) that lad and this baby here. I am told:
"This is _your_ mother too, you know." I divine from her
manner (_indicating Step-Daughter again_) why it is they
have come home. I had rather not say what I feel and think
about it. I shouldn't even care to confess to myself. No
action can therefore be hoped for from me in this affair.
Believe me, Mr. Manager, I am an "unrealized" character,
dramatically speaking; and I find myself not at all at ease
in their company. Leave me out of it, I beg you.
THE FATHER. What? It is just because you are so that....
THE SON. How do you know what I am like? When did you ever
bother your head about me?
THE FATHER. I admit it. I admit it. But isn't that a
situation in itself? This aloofness of yours which is so
cruel to me and to your mother, who returns home and sees
you almost for the first time grown up, who doesn't
recognize you but knows you are her son.... (_pointing out
the Mother to the Manager_). See, she's crying!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_angrily, stamping her foot_). Like a
fool!
THE FATHER (_indicating Step-Daughter_). She can't stand him
you know. (_Then referring again to the Son_): He says he
doesn't come into the affair, whereas he is really the hinge
of the whole action. Look at that lad who is always clinging
to his mother, frightened and humiliated. It is on account
of this fellow here. Possibly his situation is the most
painful of all. He feels himself a stranger more than the
others. The poor little chap feels mortified, humiliated at
being brought into a home out of charity as it were. (_In
confidence_)--: He is the image of his father. Hardly talks
at all. Humble and quiet.
THE MANAGER. Oh, we'll cut him out. You've no notion what a
nuisance boys are on the stage....
THE FATHER. He disappears soon, you know. And the baby too.
She is the first to vanish from the scene. The drama
consists finally in this: when that mother re-enters my
house, her family born outside of it, and shall we say
superimposed on the original, ends with the death of the
little girl, the tragedy of the boy and the flight of the
elder daughter. It cannot go on, because it is foreign to
its surroundings. So after much torment, we three remain: I,
the mother, that son. Then, owing to the disappearance of
that extraneous family, we too find ourselves strange to one
another. We find we are living in an atmosphere of mortal
desolation which is the revenge, as he (_indicating Son_)
scornfully said of the Demon of Experiment, that
unfortunately hides in me. Thus, sir, you see when faith is
lacking, it becomes impossible to create certain states of
happiness, for we lack the necessary humility.
Vaingloriously, we try to substitute ourselves for this
faith, creating thus for the rest of the world a reality
which we believe after their fashion, while, actually, it
doesn't exist. For each one of us has his own reality to be
respected before God, even when it is harmful to one's very
self.
THE MANAGER. There is something in what you say. I assure
you all this interests me very much. I begin to think
there's the stuff for a drama in all this, and not a bad
drama either.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_coming forward_). When you've got a
character like me.
THE FATHER (_shutting her up, all excited to learn the
decision of the Manager_). You be quiet!
THE MANAGER (_reflecting, heedless of interruption_). It's
new ... hem ... yes....
THE FATHER. Absolutely new!
THE MANAGER. You've got a nerve though, I must say, to come
here and fling it at me like this....
THE FATHER. You will understand, sir, born as we are for the
stage....
THE MANAGER. Are you amateur actors then?
THE FATHER. No. I say born for the stage, because....
THE MANAGER. Oh, nonsense. You're an old hand, you know.
THE FATHER. No sir, no. We act that rôle for which we have
been cast, that rôle which we are given in life. And in my
own case, passion itself, as usually happens, becomes a
trifle theatrical when it is exalted.
THE MANAGER. Well, well, that will do. But you see, without
an author ... I could give you the address of an author if
you like....
THE FATHER. No, no. Look here! You must be the author.
THE MANAGER. I? What are you talking about?
THE FATHER. Yes, you, you! Why not?
THE MANAGER. Because I have never been an author: that's
why.
THE FATHER. Then why not turn author now? Everybody does it.
You don't want any special qualities. Your task is made much
easier by the fact that we are all here alive before you....
THE MANAGER. It won't do.
THE FATHER. What? When you see us live our drama....
THE MANAGER. Yes, that's all right. But you want someone to
write it.
THE FATHER. No, no. Someone to take it down, possibly, while
we play it, scene by scene! It will be enough to sketch it
out at first, and then try it over.
THE MANAGER. Well ... I am almost tempted. It's a bit of an
idea. One might have a shot at it.
THE FATHER. Of course. You'll see what scenes will come out
of it. I can give you one, at once....
THE MANAGER. By Jove, it tempts me. I'd like to have a go at
it. Let's try it out. Come with me to my office (_turning to
the Actors_). You are at liberty for a bit, but don't stop
out of the theatre for long. In a quarter of an hour, twenty
minutes, all back here again! (_To the Father_): We'll see
what can be done. Who knows if we don't get something really
extraordinary out of it?
THE FATHER. There's no doubt about it. They (_indicating the
Characters_) had better come with us too, hadn't they?
THE MANAGER. Yes, yes. Come on! come on! (_Moves away and
then turning to the actors_): Be punctual, please! (_Manager
and the Six Characters cross the stage and go off. The other
actors remain, looking at one another in astonishment_).
LEADING MAN. Is he serious? What the devil does he want to
do?
JUVENILE LEAD. This is rank madness.
THIRD ACTOR. Does he expect to knock up a drama in five
minutes?
JUVENILE LEAD. Like the improvisers!
LEADING LADY. If he thinks I'm going to take part in a joke
like this....
JUVENILE LEAD. I'm out of it anyway.
FOURTH ACTOR. I should like to know who they are (_alludes
to Characters_).
THIRD ACTOR. What do you suppose? Madmen or rascals!
JUVENILE LEAD. And he takes them seriously!
L'INGÉNUE. Vanity! He fancies himself as an author now.
LEADING MAN. It's absolutely unheard of. If the stage has
come to this ... well I'm....
FIFTH ACTOR. It's rather a joke.
THIRD ACTOR. Well, we'll see what's going to happen next.
(_Thus talking, the actors leave the stage; some going out
by the little door at the back; others retiring to their
dressing-rooms._
_The curtain remains up._
_The action of the play is suspended for twenty minutes_).
ACT II.
_The stage call-bells ring to warn the company that the play
is about to begin again._
THE STEP-DAUGHTER _comes out of the Manager's office along
with_ THE CHILD _and_ THE BOY. _As she comes out of the
office, she cries_:--
Nonsense! nonsense! Do it yourselves! I'm not going to mix
myself up in this mess. (_Turning to the Child and coming
quickly with her on to the stage_): Come on, Rosetta, let's
run!
(THE BOY _follows them slowly, remaining a little behind and
seeming perplexed_).
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. (_Stops, bends over the Child and takes
the latter's face between her hands_). My little darling!
You're frightened, aren't you? You don't know where we are,
do you? (_Pretending to reply to a question of the Child_):
What is the stage? It's a place, baby, you know, where
people play at being serious, a place where they act
comedies. We've got to act a comedy now, dead serious, you
know; and you're in it also, little one. (_Embraces her,
pressing the little head to her breast, and rocking the
child for a moment_). Oh darling, darling, what a horrid
comedy you've got to play! What a wretched part they've
found for you! A garden ... a fountain ... look ... just
suppose, kiddie, it's here. Where, you say? Why, right here
in the middle. It's all pretence you know. That's the
trouble, my pet: it's all make-believe here. It's better to
imagine it though, because if they fix it up for you, it'll
only be painted cardboard, painted cardboard for the
rockery, the water, the plants.... Ah, but I think a baby
like this one would sooner have a make-believe fountain than
a real one, so she could play with it. What a joke it'll be
for the others! But for you, alas! not quite such a joke:
you who are real, baby dear, and really play by a real
fountain this big and green and beautiful, with ever so many
bamboos around it that are reflected in the water, and a
whole lot of little ducks swimming about.... No, Rosetta,
no, your mother doesn't bother about you on account of that
wretch of a son there. I'm in the devil of a temper, and as
for that lad.... (_Seizes Boy by the arm to force him to
take one of his hands out of his pockets_). What have you
got there? What are you hiding? (_Pulls his hand out of his
pocket, looks into it and catches the glint of a revolver_).
Ah! where did you get this?
(THE BOY, _very pale in the face, looks at her, but does not
answer_).
Idiot! If I'd been in your place, instead of killing myself,
I'd have shot one of those two, or both of them: father and
son.
(THE FATHER _enters from the office, all excited from his
work_. THE MANAGER _follows him_).
THE FATHER. Come on, come on dear! Come here for a minute!
We've arranged everything. It's all fixed up.
THE MANAGER (_also excited_). If you please, young lady,
there are one or two points to settle still. Will you come
along?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_following him towards the office_).
Ouff! what's the good, if you've arranged everything.
(THE FATHER, MANAGER _and_ STEP-DAUGHTER _go back into the
office again (off) for a moment. At the same time,_ THE SON
_followed by_ THE MOTHER, _comes out_).
THE SON (_looking at the three entering office_). Oh this is
fine, fine! And to think I can't even get away!
(THE MOTHER _attempts to look at him, but lowers her eyes
immediately when he turns away from her. She then sits
down_. THE BOY _and_ THE CHILD _approach her. She casts a
glance again at the Son, and speaks with humble tones,
trying to draw him into conversation_).
THE MOTHER. And isn't my punishment the worst of all? (_Then
seeing from the Sons manner that he will not bother himself
about her_). My God! Why are you so cruel? Isn't it enough
for one person to support all this torment? Must you then
insist on others seeing it also?
THE SON (_half to himself, meaning the Mother to hear,
however_). And they want to put it on the stage! If there
was at least a reason for it! He thinks he has got at the
meaning of it all. Just as if each one of us in every
circumstance of life couldn't find his own explanation of
it! (_Pauses_). He complains he was discovered in a place
where he ought not to have been seen, in a moment of his
life which ought to have remained hidden and kept out of the
reach of that convention which he has to maintain for other
people. And what about my case? Haven't I had to reveal what
no son ought ever to reveal: how father and mother live and
are man and wife for themselves quite apart from that idea
of father and mother which we give them? When this idea is
revealed, our life is then linked at one point only to that
man and that woman; and as such it should shame them,
shouldn't it?
THE MOTHER _hides her face in her hands. From the
dressing-rooms and the little door at the back of the stage
the actors and_ STAGE MANAGER _return, followed by the_
PROPERTY MAN, _and the_ PROMPTER. _At the same moment_, THE
MANAGER _comes out of his office, accompanied by the_ FATHER
_and the_ STEP-DAUGHTER.
THE MANAGER. Come on, come on, ladies and gentlemen! Heh!
you there, machinist!
MACHINIST. Yes sir?
THE MANAGER. Fix up the white parlor with the floral
decorations. Two wings and a drop with a door will do. Hurry
up!
(THE MACHINIST _runs off at once to prepare the scene, and
arranges it while_ THE MANAGER _talks with the_ STAGE
MANAGER, _the_ PROPERTY MAN, _and the_ PROMPTER _on matters
of detail_).
THE MANAGER (_to Property Man_). Just have a look, and see
if there isn't a sofa or divan in the wardrobe....
PROPERTY MAN. There's the green one.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. No no! Green won't do. It was yellow,
ornamented with flowers--very large! and most comfortable!
PROPERTY MAN. There isn't one like that.
THE MANAGER. It doesn't matter. Use the one we've got.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Doesn't matter? It's most important!
THE MANAGER. We're only trying it now. Please don't
interfere. (_To Property Man_): See if we've got a shop
window--long and narrowish.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. And the little table! The little mahogany
table for the pale blue envelope!
PROPERTY MAN (_To Manager_). There's that little gilt one.
THE MANAGER. That'll do fine.
THE FATHER. A mirror.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. And the screen! We must have a screen.
Otherwise how can I manage?
PROPERTY MAN. That's all right, Miss. We've got any amount
of them.
THE MANAGER (_to the Step-Daughter_). We want some clothes
pegs too, don't we?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, several, several!
THE MANAGER. See how many we've got and bring them all.
PROPERTY MAN. All right!
(THE PROPERTY MAN _hurries off to obey his orders. While he
is putting the things in their places, the_ MANAGER _talks
to the_ PROMPTER _and then with the Characters and the
actors_).
THE MANAGER (_to Prompter_). Take your seat. Look here: this
is the outline of the scenes, act by act (_hands him some
sheets of paper_). And now I'm going to ask you to do
something out of the ordinary.
PROMPTER. Take it down in shorthand?
THE MANAGER (_pleasantly surprised_). Exactly! Can you do
shorthand?
PROMPTER. Yes, a little.
MANAGER. Good! (_Turning to a stage hand_): Go and get some
paper from my office, plenty, as much as you can find.
(_The stage hand goes off, and soon returns with a handful
of paper which he gives to the Prompter_).
THE MANAGER (_To Prompter_). You follow the scenes as we
play them, and try and get the points down, at any rate the
most important ones. (_Then addressing the actors_): Clear
the stage, ladies and gentlemen! Come over here (_pointing
to the Left_) and listen attentively.
LEADING LADY. But, excuse me, we....
THE MANAGER (_guessing her thought_). Don't worry! You won't
have to improvise.
LEADING MAN. What have we to do then?
THE MANAGER. Nothing. For the moment you just watch and
listen. Everybody will get his part written out afterwards.
At present we're going to try the thing as best we can.
They're going to act now.
THE FATHER (_as if fallen from the clouds into the confusion
of the stage_). We? What do you mean, if you please, by a
rehearsal?
THE MANAGER. A rehearsal for them (_points to the actors_).
THE FATHER. But since we are the characters....
THE MANAGER. All right: "characters" then, if you insist on
calling yourselves such. But here, my dear sir, the
characters don't act. Here the actors do the acting. The
characters are there, in the "book" (_pointing towards
Prompter's box_)--when there is a "book"!
THE FATHER. I won't contradict you; but excuse me, the
actors aren't the characters. They want to be, they pretend
to be, don't they? Now if these gentlemen here are fortunate
enough to have us alive before them....
THE MANAGER. Oh this is grand! You want to come before the
public yourselves then?
THE FATHER. As we are....
THE MANAGER. I can assure you it would be a magnificent
spectacle!
LEADING MAN. What's the use of us here anyway then?
THE MANAGER. You're not going to pretend that you can act?
It makes me laugh! (_The actors laugh_). There, you see,
they are laughing at the notion. But, by the way, I must
cast the parts. That won't be difficult. They cast
themselves. (_To the Second Lady Lead_): You play the
Mother. (_To the Father_): We must find her a name.
THE FATHER. Amalia, sir.
THE MANAGER. But that is the real name of your wife. We
don't want to call her by her real name.
THE FATHER. Why ever not, if it is her name? Still, perhaps,
if that lady must.... (_makes a slight motion of the hand to
indicate the Second Lady Lead_). I see this woman here
(_means the Mother_) as Amalia. But do as you like (_gets
more and more confused_). I don't know what to say to you.
Already, I begin to hear my own words ring false, as if they
had another sound....
THE MANAGER. Don't you worry about it. It'll be our job to
find the right tones. And as for her name, if you want her
Amalia, Amalia it shall be; and if you don't like it, we'll
find another! For the moment though, we'll call the
characters in this way: (_to Juvenile Lead_) You are the
Son; (_to the Leading Lady_) You naturally are the
Step-Daughter.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_excitedly_). What? what? I, that woman
there? (_Bursts out laughing_).
THE MANAGER (_angry_). What is there to laugh at?
LEADING LADY (_indignant_). Nobody has ever dared to laugh
at me. I insist on being treated with respect; otherwise I
go away.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. No, no, excuse me ... I am not laughing
at you....
THE MANAGER (_to Step-Daughter_). You ought to feel honoured
to be played by....
LEADING LADY (_at once, contemptuously_). "That woman
there"....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. But I wasn't speaking of you, you know. I
was speaking of myself--whom I can't see at all in you! That
is all. I don't know ... but ... you ... aren't in the least
like me....
THE FATHER. True. Here's the point. Look here, sir, our
temperaments, our souls....
THE MANAGER. Temperament, soul, be hanged! Do you suppose
the spirit of the piece is in you? Nothing of the kind!
THE FATHER. What, haven't we our own temperaments, our own
souls?
THE MANAGER. Not at all. Your soul or whatever you like to
call it takes shape here. The actors give body and form to
it, voice and gesture. And my actors--I may tell you--have
given expression to much more lofty material than this
little drama of yours, which may or may not hold up on the
stage. But if it does, the merit of it, believe me, will be
due to my actors.
THE FATHER. I don't dare contradict you, sir; but, believe
me, it is a terrible suffering for us who are as we are,
with these bodies of ours, these features to see....
THE MANAGER (_cutting him short and out of patience_). Good
heavens! The make-up will remedy all that, man, the
make-up....
THE FATHER. Maybe. But the voice, the gestures....
THE MANAGER. Now, look here! On the stage, you as yourself,
cannot exist. The actor here acts you, and that's an end to
it!
THE FATHER. I understand. And now I think I see why our
author who conceived us as we are, all alive, didn't want to
put us on the stage after all. I haven't the least desire to
offend your actors. Far from it! But when I think that I am
to be acted by ... I don't know by whom....
LEADING MAN (_on his dignity_). By me, if you've no
objection!
THE FATHER (_humbly, mellifluously_). Honoured, I assure
you, sir. (_Bows_). Still, I must say that try as this
gentleman may, with all his good will and wonderful art, to
absorb me into himself....
LEADING MAN. Oh chuck it! "Wonderful art!" Withdraw that,
please!
THE FATHER. The performance he will give, even doing his
best with make-up to look like me....
LEADING MAN. It will certainly be a rat difficult! (_The
actors laugh_.)
THE FATHER, Exactly! It will be difficult to act me as I
really am. The effect will be rather--apart from the
make-up--according as to how he supposes I am, as he senses
me--if he does sense me--and not as I inside of myself feel
myself to be. It seems to me then that account should be
taken of this by everyone whose duty it may become to
criticize us....
THE MANAGER. Heavens! The man's starting to think about the
critics now! Let them say what they like. It's up to us to
put on the play if we can (_looking around_). Come on! come
on! Is the stage set? (_To the actors and Characters_):
Stand back--stand back! Let me see, and don't let's lose any
more time! (_To the Step-Daughter_): Is it all right as it
is now?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Well, to tell the truth, I don't
recognize the scene.
THE MANAGER. My dear lady, you can't possibly suppose that
we can construct that shop of Madame Pace piece by piece
here? (_To the Father_): You said a white room with flowered
wall paper, didn't you?
THE FATHER. Yes.
THE MANAGER. Well then. We've got the furniture right more
or less. Bring that little table a bit further forward.
(_The stage hands obey the order. To Property Man_): You go
and find an envelope, if possible, a pale blue one; and give
it to that gentleman (_indicates Father_).
PROPERTY MAN. An ordinary envelope?
MANAGER _and_ FATHER. Yes, yes, an ordinary envelope.
PROPERTY MAN. At once, sir (_exit_).
THE MANAGER. Ready, everyone! First scene--the Young Lady.
(_The Leading Lady comes forward_). No, no, you must wait. I
meant her (_indicating the Step-Daughter_). You just watch--
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_adding at once_). How I shall play it,
how I shall live it!...
LEADING LADY (_offended_). I shall live it also, you may be
sure, as soon as I begin!
THE MANAGER (_with his hands to his head_). Ladies and
gentlemen, if you please! No more useless discussions! Scene
I: the young lady with Madame Pace: Oh! (_looks around as if
lost_). And this Madame Pace, where is she?
THE FATHER. She isn't with us, sir.
THE MANAGER. Then what the devil's to be done?
THE FATHER. But she is alive too.
THE MANAGER. Yes, but where is she?
THE FATHER. One minute. Let me speak! (_turning to the
actresses_). If these ladies would be so good as to give me
their hats for a moment....
THE ACTRESSES (_half surprised, half laughing, in chorus_).
What?
Why?
Our hats?
What does he say?
THE MANAGER. What are you going to do with the ladies' hats?
(_The actors laugh_).
THE FATHER. Oh nothing. I just want to put them on these
pegs for a moment. And one of the ladies will be so kind as
to take off her mantle....
THE ACTORS. Oh, what d'you think of that?
Only the mantle?
He must be mad.
SOME ACTRESSES. But why?
Mantles as well?
THE FATHER. To hang them up here for a moment Please be so
kind, will you?
THE ACTRESSES (_taking off their hats, one or two also their
cloaks, and going to hang them on the racks_). After all,
why not?
There you are!
This is really funny.
We've got to put them on show.
THE FATHER. Exactly; just like that, on show.
THE MANAGER. May we know why?
THE FATHER. I'll tell you. Who knows if, by arranging the
stage for her, she does not come here herself, attracted by
the very articles of her trade? (_Inviting the actors to
look towards the exit at back of stage_): Look! Look!
(_The door at the back of stage opens and_ MADAME PACE
_enters and takes a few steps forward. She is a fat, oldish
woman with puffy oxygenated hair. She is rouged and
powdered, dressed with a comical elegance in black silk.
Round her waist is a long silver chain from which hangs a
pair of scissors. The Step-Daughter runs over to her at once
amid the stupor of the actors_).
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_turning towards her_). There she is!
There she is!
THE FATHER (_radiant_). It's she! I said so, didn't I? There
she is!
THE MANAGER (_conquering his surprise, and then becoming
indignant_). What sort of a trick is this?
LEADING MAN (_almost at the same time_). What's going to
happen next?
JUVENILE LEAD. Where does _she_ come from?
L'INGÉNUE. They've been holding her in reserve, I guess.
LEADING LADY. A vulgar trick!
THE FATHER (_dominating the protests_). Excuse me, all of
you! Why are you so anxious to destroy in the name of a
vulgar, commonplace sense of truth, this reality which comes
to birth attracted and formed by the magic of the stage
itself, which has indeed more right to live here than you,
since it is much truer than you--if you don't mind my saying
so? Which is the actress among you who is to play Madame
Pace? Well, here is Madame Pace herself. And you will allow,
I fancy, that the actress who acts her will be less true
than this woman here, who is herself in person. You see my
daughter recognized her and went over to her at once. Now
you're going to witness the scene!
_But the scene between the_ STEP-DAUGHTER _and_ MADAME PACE
_has already begun despite the protest of the actors and the
reply of_ THE FATHER. _It has begun quietly, naturally, in a
manner impossible for the stage. So when the actors, called
to attention by_ THE FATHER, _turn round and see_ MADAME
PACE, _who has placed one hand under the_ STEP-DAUGHTER'S
_chin to raise her head, they observe her at first with
great attention, but hearing her speak in an unintelligible
manner their interest begins to wane._
THE MANAGER. Well? well?
LEADING MAN. What does she say?
LEADING LADY. One can't hear a word.
JUVENILE LEAD. Louder! Louder please!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_leaving Madame Pace, who smiles a
Sphinx-like smile, and advancing towards the actors_).
Louder? Louder? What are you talking about? These aren't
matters which can be shouted at the top of one's voice. If I
have spoken them out loud, it was to shame him and have my
revenge (_indicates Father_). But for Madame it's quite a
different matter.
THE MANAGER. Indeed? indeed? But here, you know, people have
got to make themselves heard, my dear. Even we who are on
the stage can't hear you. What will it be when the public's
in the theatre? And anyway, you can very well speak up now
among yourselves, since we shan't be present to listen to
you as we are now. You've got to pretend to be alone in a
room at the back of a shop where no one can hear you.
(THE STEP-DAUGHTER _coquettishly and with a touch of malice
makes a sign of disagreement two or three times with her
finger_).
THE MANAGER. What do you mean by no?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_sotto voce, mysteriously_). There's
someone who will hear us if she (_indicating Madame Pace_)
speaks out loud.
THE MANAGER (_in consternation_). What? Have you got someone
else to spring on us now? (_The actors burst out laughing_).
THE FATHER. No, no sir. She is alluding to me. I've got to
be here--there behind that door, in waiting; and Madame Pace
knows it. In fact, if you will allow me, I'll go there at
once, so I can be quite ready. (_Moves away_).
THE MANAGER (_stopping him_). No! Wait! wait! We must
observe the conventions of the theatre. Before you are
ready....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_interrupting him_). No, get on with it
at once! I'm just dying, I tell you, to act this scene. If
he's ready, I'm more than ready.
THE MANAGER (_shouting_). But, my dear young lady, first of
all, we must have the scene between you and this lady ...
(_indicates Madame Pace_). Do you understand?...
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Good Heavens! She's been telling me what
you know already: that mamma's work is badly done again,
that the material's ruined; and that if I want her to
continue to help us in our misery I must be patient....
MADAME PACE (_coming forward with an air of great
importance_). Yes indeed, sir, I no wanta take advantage of
her, I no wanta be hard....
(_Note. Madame Face is supposed to talk in a jargon half
Italian, half Spanish_).
THE MANAGER (_alarmed_). What? What? She talks like that?
(_The actors burst out laughing again_).
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_also laughing_). Yes yes, that's the way
she talks, half English, half Italian! Most comical it is!
MADAME PACE. Itta seem not verra polite gentlemen laugha
atta me eef I trya best speaka English.
THE MANAGER. _Diamine_! Of course! Of course! Let her talk
like that! Just what we want. Talk just like that, Madam, if
you please! The effect will be certain. Exactly what was
wanted to put a little comic relief into the crudity of the
situation. Of course she talks like that! Magnificent!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Magnificent? Certainly! When certain
suggestions are made to one in language of that kind, the
effect is certain, since it seems almost a joke. One feels
inclined to laugh when one hears her talk about an "old
signore" "who wanta talka nicely with you." Nice old
signore, eh, Madame?
MADAME PACE. Not so old my dear, not so old! And even if you
no lika him, he won't make any scandal!
THE MOTHER (_jumping up amid the amazement and consternation
of the actors who had not been noticing her. They move to
restrain her_). You old devil! You murderess!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_running over to calm her Mother_). Calm
yourself, mother, calm yourself! Please don't....
THE FATHER (_going to her also at the same time_). Calm
yourself! Don't get excited! Sit down now!
THE MOTHER. Well then, take that woman away out of my sight!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_to Manager_). It is impossible for my
mother to remain here.
THE FATHER (_to Manager_). They can't be here together. And
for this reason, you see: that woman there was not with us
when we came.... If they are on together, the whole thing is
given away inevitably, as you see.
THE MANAGER. It doesn't matter. This is only a first rough
sketch--just to get an idea of the various points of the
scene, even confusedly.... (_Turning to the Mother and
leading her to her chair_): Come along, my dear lady, sit
down now, and let's get on with the scene....
(_Meanwhile, the_ STEP-DAUGHTER, _coming forward again,
turns to Madame Pace_).
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Come on, Madame, come on!
MADAME PACE (_offended_). No, no, _grazie_. I not do
anything witha your mother present.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Nonsense! Introduce this "old signore"
who wants to talk nicely to me (_addressing the company
imperiously_). We've got to do this scene one way or
another, haven't we? Come on! (_to Madame Pace_). You can
go!
MADAME PACE. Ah yes! I go'way! I go'way! Certainly! (_Exits
furious_).
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_to the Father_). Now you make your
entry. No, you needn't go over here. Come here. Let's
suppose you've already come in. Like that, yes! I'm here
with bowed head, modest like. Come on! Out with your voice!
Say "Good morning, Miss" in that peculiar tone, that special
tone....
THE MANAGER. Excuse me, but are you the Manager, or am I?
(_To the Father, who looks undecided and perplexed_): Get on
with it, man! Go down there to the back of the stage. You
needn't go off. Then come right forward here.
(THE FATHER _does as he is told, looking troubled and
perplexed at first. But as soon as he begins to move, the
reality of the action affects him, and he begins to smile
and to be more natural. The actors watch intently_).
THE MANAGER (_sottovoce, quickly to the Prompter in his
box_). Ready! ready? Get ready to write now.
THE FATHER (_coming forward and speaking in a different
tone_). Good afternoon, Miss!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_head bowed down slightly, with
restrained disgust_). Good afternoon!
THE FATHER (_looks under her hat which partly covers her
face. Perceiving she is very young, he makes an exclamation,
partly of surprise, partly of fear lest he compromise
himself in a risky adventure_) "Ah ... but ... ah ... I say
... this is not the first time that you have come here, is
it?"
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_modestly_). No sir.
THE FATHER. You've been here before, eh? (_Then seeing her
nod agreement_): More than once? (_Waits for her to answer,
looks under her hat, smiles, and then says_): Well then,
there's no need to be so shy, is there? May I take off your
hat?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_anticipating him and with veiled
disgust_). No sir ... I'll do it myself. (_Takes it off
quickly_).
(THE MOTHER, _who watches the progress of the scene with_
THE SON _and the other two children who cling to her, is on
thorns; and follows with varying expressions of sorrow,
indignation, anxiety, and horror the words and actions of
the other two. From time to time she hides her face in her
hands and sobs_).
THE MOTHER. Oh, my God, my God!
THE FATHER (_playing his part with a touch of gallantry_).
Give it to me! I'll put it down (_takes hat from her
hands_). But a dear little head like yours ought to have a
smarter hat. Come and help me choose one from the stock,
won't you?
L'INGÉNUE (_interrupting_). I say ... those are our hats you
know.
THE MANAGER (_furious_). Silence! silence! Don't try and be
funny, if you please.... We're playing the scene now I'd
have you notice. (_To the Step-Daughter_). Begin again,
please!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_continuing_). No thank you, sir.
THE FATHER. Oh, come now. Don't talk like that. You must
take it. I shall be upset if you don't. There are some
lovely little hats here; and then--Madame will be pleased.
She expects it, anyway, you know.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. No, no! I couldn't wear it!
THE FATHER. Oh, you're thinking about what they'd say at
home if they saw you come in with a new hat? My dear girl,
there's always a way round these little matters, you know.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_all keyed up_). No, it's not that. I
couldn't wear it because I am ... as you see ... you might
have noticed.... (_showing her black dress_).
THE FATHER. ... in mourning! Of course: I beg your pardon:
I'm frightfully sorry....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_forcing herself to conquer her
indignation and nausea_). Stop! Stop! It's I who must thank
you. There's no need for you to feel mortified or specially
sorry. Don't think any more of what I've said. (_Tries to
smile_). I must forget that I am dressed so....
THE MANAGER (_interrupting and turning to the Prompter_).
Stop a minute! Stop! Don't write that down. Cut out that
last bit. (_Then to the Father and Step-Daughter_). Fine!
it's going fine! (_To the Father only_). And now you can go
on as we arranged. (_To the actors_). Pretty good that
scene, where he offers her the hat, eh?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. The best's coming now. Why can't we go
on?
THE MANAGER. Have a little patience! (_To the actors_): Of
course, it must be treated rather lightly.
LEADING MAN. Still, with a bit of go in it!
LEADING LADY. Of course! It's easy enough! (_To Leading
Man_): Shall you and I try it now?
LEADING MAN. Why, yes! I'll prepare my entrance. (_Exit in
order to make his entrance_).
THE MANAGER (_to Leading Lady_). See here! The scene between
you and Madame Pace is finished. I'll have it written out
properly after. You remain here ... oh, where are you going?
LEADING LADY. One minute. I want to put my hat on again
(_goes over to hat-rack and puts her hat on her head_).
THE MANAGER. Good! You stay here with your head bowed down a
bit.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. But she isn't dressed in black.
LEADING LADY. But I shall be, and much more effectively than
you.
THE MANAGER (_to Step-Daughter_). Be quiet please, and
watch! You'll be able to learn something. (_Clapping his
hands_) Come on! come on! Entrance, please!
(_The door at rear of stage opens, and the Leading Man
enters with the lively manner of an old gallant. The
rendering of the scene by the actors from the very first
words is seen to be quite a different thing, though it has
not in any way the air of a parody. Naturally, the
Step-Daughter and the Father, not being able to recognize
themselves in the Leading Lady and the Leading Man, who
deliver their words in different tones and with a different
psychology, express, sometimes with smiles, sometimes with
gestures, the impression they receive_).
LEADING MAN. Good afternoon, Miss....
THE FATHER (_at once unable to contain himself_). No! no!
(THE STEP-DAUGHTER _noticing the way the_ LEADING MAN
_enters, bursts out laughing_).
THE MANAGER (_furious_). Silence! And you please just stop
that laughing. If we go on like this, we shall never finish.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Forgive me, sir, but it's natural enough.
This lady (_indicating Leading Lady_) stands there still;
but if she is supposed to be me, I can assure you that if I
heard anyone say "Good afternoon" in that manner and in that
tone, I should burst out laughing as I did.
THE FATHER. Yes, yes, the manner, the tone....
THE MANAGER. Nonsense! Rubbish! Stand aside and let me see
the action.
LEADING MAN. If I've got to represent an old fellow who's
coming into a house of an equivocal character....
THE MANAGER. Don't listen to them, for Heaven's sake! Do it
again! It goes fine. (_Waiting for the actors to begin
again_): Well?
LEADING MAN. Good afternoon, Miss.
LEADING LADY. Good afternoon.
LEADING MAN (_imitating the gesture of the Father when he
looked under the hat, and then expressing quite clearly
first satisfaction and then fear_). Ah, but ... I say ...
this is not the first time that you have come here, is it?
THE MANAGER. Good, but not quite so heavily. Like this
(_acts himself_): "This isn't the first time that you have
come here".... (_To Leading Lady_) And you say: "No, sir."
LEADING LADY. No, sir.
LEADING MAN. You've been here before, more than once.
THE MANAGER. No, no, stop! Let her nod "yes" first.
"You've been here before, eh?" (_The Leading Lady lifts up
her head slightly and closes her eyes as though in disgust.
Then she inclines her head twice_).
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_unable to contain herself_). Oh my God!
(_Puts a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from
laughing_).
THE MANAGER (_turning round_). What's the matter?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Nothing, nothing!
THE MANAGER (_to Leading Man_). Go on!
LEADING MAN. You've been here before, eh? Well then, there's
no need to be so shy, is there? May I take off your hat?
(THE LEADING MAN _says this last speech in such a tone and
with such gestures that the_ STEP-DAUGHTER, _though she has
her hand to her mouth, cannot keep from laughing_).
LEADING LADY (_indignant_). I'm not going to stop here to be
made a fool of by that woman there.
LEADING MAN. Neither am I! I'm through with it!
THE MANAGER (_shouting to Step-Daughter_). Silence! for once
and all, I tell you!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Forgive me! forgive me!
THE MANAGER. You haven't any manners: that's what it is! You
go too far.
THE FATHER (_endeavouring to intervene_). Yes, it's true,
but excuse her....
THE MANAGER. Excuse what? It's absolutely disgusting.
THE FATHER. Yes, sir, but believe me, it has such a strange
effect when....
THE MANAGER. Strange? Why strange? Where is it strange?
THE FATHER. No, sir; I admire your actors--this gentleman
here, this lady; but they are certainly not us!
THE MANAGER. I should hope not. Evidently they cannot be
you, if they are actors.
THE FATHER. Just so: actors! Both of them act our parts
exceedingly well. But, believe me, it produces quite a
different effect on us. They want to be us, but they aren't,
all the same.
THE MANAGER. What is it then anyway?
THE FATHER. Something that is ... that is theirs--and no
longer ours....
THE MANAGER. But naturally, inevitably. I've told you so
already.
THE FATHER. Yes, I understand ... I understand....
THE MANAGER. Well then, let's have no more of it! (_Turning
to the actors_): We'll have the rehearsals by ourselves,
afterwards, in the ordinary way. I never could stand
rehearsing with the author present. He's never satisfied!
(_Turning to Father and Step-Daughter_): Come on! Let's get
on with it again; and try and see if you can't keep from
laughing.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Oh, I shan't laugh any more. There's a
nice little bit coming for me now: you'll see.
THE MANAGER. Well then: when she says "Don't think any more
of what I've said. I must forget, etc.," you (_addressing
the Father_) come in sharp with "I understand, I
understand"; and then you ask her....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_interrupting_). What?
THE MANAGER. Why she is in mourning.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Not at all! See here: when I told him
that it was useless for me to be thinking about my wearing
mourning, do you know how he answered me? "Ah well," he said
"then let's take off this little frock."
THE MANAGER. Great! Just what we want, to make a riot in the
theatre!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. But it's the truth!
THE MANAGER. What does that matter? Acting is our business
here. Truth up to a certain point, but no further.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. What do you want to do then?
THE MANAGER. You'll see, you'll see! Leave it to me.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. No sir! What you want to do is to piece
together a little romantic sentimental scene out of my
disgust, out of all the reasons, each more cruel and viler
than the other, why I am what I am. He is to ask me why I'm
in mourning; and I'm to answer with tears in my eyes, that
it is just two months since papa died. No sir, no! He's got
to say to me; as he did say: "Well, let's take off this
little dress at once." And I; with my two months' mourning
in my heart, went there behind that screen, and with these
fingers tingling with shame....
THE MANAGER (_running his hands through his hair_). For
Heaven's sake! What are you saying?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_crying out excitedly_). The truth! The
truth!
THE MANAGER. It may be. I don't deny it, and I can
understand all your horror; but you must surely see that you
can't have this kind of thing on the stage. It won't go.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Not possible, eh? Very well! I'm much
obliged to you--but I'm off!
THE MANAGER. Now be reasonable! Don't lose your temper!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. I won't stop here! I won't! I can see
you've fixed it all up with him in your office. All this
talk about what is possible for the stage ... I understand!
He wants to get at his complicated "cerebral drama," to have
his famous remorses and torments acted; but I want to act my
part, _my part_!
THE MANAGER (_annoyed, shaking his shoulders_). Ah! Just
_your_ part! But, if you will pardon me, there are other
parts than yours: His (_indicating the Father_) and hers
(_indicating the Mother_)! On the stage you can't have a
character becoming too prominent and overshadowing all the
others. The thing is to pack them all into a neat little
framework and then act what is actable. I am aware of the
fact that everyone has his own interior life which he wants
very much to put forward. But the difficulty lies in this
fact: to set out just so much as is necessary for the stage,
taking the other characters into consideration, and at the
same time hint at the unrevealed interior life of each. I am
willing to admit, my dear young lady, that from your point
of view it would be a fine idea if each character could tell
the public all his troubles in a nice monologue or a regular
one hour lecture (_good humoredly_). You must restrain
yourself, my dear, and in your own interest, too; because
this fury of yours, this exaggerated disgust you show, may
make a bad impression, you know. After you have confessed to
me that there were others before him at Madame Pace's and
more than once....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_bowing her head, impressed_). It's true.
But remember those others mean him for me all the same.
THE MANAGER (_not understanding_). What? The others? What do
you mean?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. For one who has gone wrong, sir, he who
was responsible for the first fault is responsible for all
that follow. He is responsible for my faults, was, even
before I was born. Look at him, and see if it isn't true!
THE MANAGER. Well, well! And does the weight of so much
responsibility seem nothing to you? Give him a chance to act
it, to get it over!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. How? How can he act all his "noble
remorses" all his "moral torments," if you want to spare him
the horror of being discovered one day--after he had asked
her what he did ask her--in the arms of her, that already
fallen woman, that child, sir, that child he used to watch
come out of school? (_She is moved_).
(THE MOTHER _at this point is overcome with emotion, and
breaks out into a fit of crying. All are touched. A long
pause_).
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_as soon as the Mother becomes a little
quieter, adds resolutely and gravely_). At present, we are
unknown to the public. Tomorrow, you will act us as you
wish, treating us in your own manner. But do you really want
to see drama, do you want to see it flash out as it really
did?
THE MANAGER. Of course! That's just what I do want, so I can
use as much of it as is possible.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Well then, ask that Mother there to leave
us.
THE MOTHER (_changing her low plaint into a sharp cry_). No!
No! Don't permit it, sir, don't permit it!
THE MANAGER. But it's only to try it.
THE MOTHER. I can't bear it. I can't.
THE MANAGER. But since it has happened already ... I don't
understand!
THE MOTHER. It's taking place now. It happens all the time.
My torment isn't a pretended one. I live and feel every
minute of my torture. Those two children there--have you
heard them speak? They can't speak any more. They cling to
me to keep my torment actual and vivid for me. But for
themselves, they do not exist, they aren't any more. And she
(_indicating Step-Daughter_) has run away, she has left me,
and is lost. If I now see her here before me, it is only to
renew for me the tortures I have suffered for her too.
THE FATHER. The eternal moment! She (_indicating the
Step-Daughter_) is here to catch me, fix me, and hold me
eternally in the stocks for that one fleeting and shameful
moment of my life. She can't give it up! And you sir, cannot
either fairly spare me it.
THE MANAGER. I never said I didn't want to act it. It will
form, as a matter of fact, the nucleus of the whole first
act right up to her surprise (_indicates the Mother_).
THE FATHER. Just so! This is my punishment: the passion in
all of us that must culminate in her final cry.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. I can hear it still in my ears. It's
driven me mad, that cry!--You can put me on as you like; it
doesn't matter. Fully dressed, if you like--provided I have
at least the arm bare; because, standing like this (_she
goes close to the Father and leans her head on his breast_)
with my head so, and my arms round his neck, I saw a vein
pulsing in my arm here; and then, as if that live vein had
awakened disgust in me, I closed my eyes like this, and let
my head sink on his breast. (_Turning to the Mother_). Cry
out mother! Cry out! (_Buries head in Fathers breast, and
with her shoulders raised as if to prevent her hearing the
cry, adds in tones of intense emotion_): Cry out as you did
then!
THE MOTHER (_coming forward to separate them_). No! My
daughter, my daughter! (_And after having pulled her away
from him_): You brute! you brute! She is my daughter! Don't
you see she's my daughter?
THE MANAGER (_walking backwards towards footlights_). Fine!
fine! Damned good! And then, of course--curtain!
THE FATHER (_going towards him excitedly_). Yes, of course,
because that's the way it really happened.
THE MANAGER (_convinced and pleased_). Oh, yes, no doubt
about it. Curtain here, curtain!
(_At the reiterated cry of_ THE MANAGER, THE MACHINIST _lets
the curtain down, leaving_ THE MANAGER _and_ THE FATHER _in
front of it before the footlights_).
THE MANAGER. The darned idiot! I said "curtain" to show the
act should end there, and he goes and lets it down in
earnest (_to the Father, while he pulls the curtain back to
go on to the stage again_). Yes, yes, it's all right. Effect
certain! That's the right ending. I'll guarantee the first
act at any rate.
ACT III.
_When the curtain goes up again, it is seen that the stage
hands have shifted the bit of scenery used in the last part,
and have rigged up instead at the back of the stage a drop,
with some trees, and one or two wings. A portion of a
fountain basin is visible. The Mother is sitting on the
Right with the two children by her side. The Son is on the
same side, but away from the others. He seems bored, angry,
and full of shame. The Father and The Step-Daughter are also
seated towards the Right front. On the other side (Left) are
the actors, much in the positions they occupied before the
curtain was lowered. Only the Manager is standing up in the
middle of the stage, with his hand closed over his mouth in
the act of meditating._
THE MANAGER (_shaking his shoulders after a brief pause_).
Ah yes: the second act! Leave it to me, leave it all to me
as we arranged, and you'll see! It'll go fine!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Our entry into his house (_indicates
Father_) in spite of him (_indicates the Son_)....
THE MANAGER (_out of patience_). Leave it to me, I tell you!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Do let it be clear, at any rate, that it
is in spite of my wishes.
THE MOTHER (_from her corner, shaking her head_). For all
the good that's come of it....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_turning towards her quickly_). It
doesn't matter. The more harm done us, the more remorse for
him.
THE MANAGER (_impatiently_). I understand! Good Heavens! I
understand! I'm taking it into account.
THE MOTHER (_supplicatingly_). I beg you, sir, to let it
appear quite plain that for conscience sake I did try in
every way....
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_interrupting indignantly and continuing
for the Mother_) ... to pacify me, to dissuade me from
spiting him. (_To Manager_). Do as she wants: satisfy her,
because it is true! I enjoy it immensely. Anyhow, as you can
see, the meeker she is, the more she tries to get at his
heart, the more distant and aloof does he become.
THE MANAGER. Are we going to begin this second act or not?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. I'm not going to talk any more now. But I
must tell you this: you can't have the whole action take
place in the garden, as you suggest. It isn't possible!
THE MANAGER. Why not?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Because he (_indicates the Son again_) is
always shut up alone in his room. And then there's all the
part of that poor dazed-looking boy there which takes place
indoors.
THE MANAGER. Maybe! On the other hand, you will
understand--we can't change scenes three or four times in
one act.
THE LEADING MAN. They used to once.
THE MANAGER. Yes, when the public was up to the level of
that child there.
THE LEADING LADY. It makes the illusion easier.
THE FATHER (_irritated_). The illusion! For Heaven's sake,
don't say illusion. Please don't use that word, which is
particularly painful for us.
THE MANAGER (_astounded_). And why, if you please?
THE FATHER. It's painful, cruel, really cruel; and you ought
to understand that.
THE MANAGER. But why? What ought we to say then? The
illusion, I tell you, sir, which we've got to create for the
audience....
THE LEADING MAN. With our acting.
THE MANAGER. The illusion of a reality.
THE FATHER. I understand; but you, perhaps, do not
understand us. Forgive me! You see ... here for you and your
actors, the thing is only--and rightly so ... a kind of
game....
THE LEADING LADY (_interrupting indignantly_). A game! We're
not children here, if you please! We are serious actors.
THE FATHER. I don't deny it. What I mean is the game, or
play, of your art, which has to give, as the gentleman says,
a perfect illusion of reality.
THE MANAGER. Precisely--!
THE FATHER. Now, if you consider the fact that we
(_indicates himself and the other five Characters_), as we
are, have no other reality outside of this illusion....
THE MANAGER (_astonished, looking at his actors, who are
also amazed_). And what does that mean?
THE FATHER (_after watching them for a moment with a wan
smile_). As I say, sir, that which is a game of art for you
is our sole reality. (_Brief pause. He goes a step or two
nearer the Manager and adds_): But not only for us, you
know, by the way. Just you think it over well. (_Looks him
in the eyes_). Can you tell me who you are?
THE MANAGER (_perplexed, half smiling_). What? Who am I? I
am myself.
THE FATHER. And if I were to tell you that that isn't true,
because you are I...?
THE MANAGER. I should say you were mad--! (_The actors
laugh_).
THE FATHER. You're quite right to laugh: because we are all
making believe here (_to Manager_). And you can therefore
object that it's only for a joke that that gentleman there
(_indicates the Leading Man_), who naturally is himself, has
to be me, who am on the contrary myself--this thing you see
here. You see I've caught you in a trap! (_The actors
laugh_).
THE MANAGER (_annoyed_). But we've had all this over once
before. Do you want to begin again?
THE FATHER. No, no! That wasn't my meaning! In fact, I
should like to request you to abandon this game of art
(_looking at the Leading Lady as if anticipating her_) which
you are accustomed to play here with your actors, and to ask
you seriously once again: who are you?
THE MANAGER (_astonished and irritated, turning to his
actors_). If this fellow here hasn't got a nerve! A man who
calls himself a character comes and asks me who I am!
THE FATHER (_with dignity, but not offended_). A character,
sir, may always asks a man who he is. Because a character
has really a life of his own, marked with his especial
characteristics; for which reason he is always "somebody."
But a man--I'm not speaking of you now--may very well be
"nobody."
THE MANAGER. Yes, but you are asking these questions of me,
the boss, the manager! Do you understand?
THE FATHER. But only in order to know if you, as you really
are now, see yourself as you once were with all the
illusions that were yours then, with all the things both
inside and outside of you as they seemed to you--as they
were then indeed for you. Well, sir, if you think of all
those illusions that mean nothing to you now, of all those
things which don't even _seem_ to you to exist any more,
while once they _were_ for you, don't you feel that--I won't
say these boards--but the very earth under your feet is
sinking away from you when you reflect that in the same way
this _you_ as you feel it today--all this present reality of
yours--is fated to seem a mere illusion to you tomorrow?
THE MANAGER (_without having understood much, but astonished
by the specious argument_). Well, well! And where does all
this take us anyway?
THE FATHER. Oh, nowhere! It's only to show you that if we
(_indicating the Characters_) have no other reality beyond
the illusion, you too must not count overmuch on your
reality as you feel it today, since, like that of yesterday,
it may prove an illusion for you tomorrow.
THE MANAGER (_determining to make fun of him_). Ah,
excellent! Then you'll be saying next that you, with this
comedy of yours that you brought here to act, are truer and
more real than I am.
THE FATHER (_with the greatest seriousness_). But of course;
without doubt!
THE MANAGER. Ah, really?
THE FATHER. Why, I thought you'd understand that from the
beginning.
THE MANAGER. More real than I?
THE FATHER. If your reality can change from one day to
another....
THE MANAGER. But everyone knows it can change. It is always
changing, the same as anyone else's.
THE FATHER (_with a cry_). No, sir, not ours! Look here!
That is the very difference! Our reality doesn't change: it
can't change! It can't be other than what it is, because it
is already fixed for ever. It's terrible. Ours is an
immutable reality which should make you shudder when you
approach us if you are really conscious of the fact that
your reality is a mere transitory and fleeting illusion,
taking this form today and that tomorrow, according to the
conditions, according to your will, your sentiments, which
in turn are controlled by an intellect that shows them to
you today in one manner and tomorrow ... who knows how?...
Illusions of reality represented in this fatuous comedy of
life that never ends, nor can ever end! Because if tomorrow
it were to end ... then why, all would be finished.
THE MANAGER. Oh for God's sake, will you _at least_ finish
with this philosophizing and let us try and shape this
comedy which you yourself have brought me here? You argue
and philosophize a bit too much, my dear sir. You know you
seem to me almost, almost.... (_Stops and looks him over
from head to foot_). Ah, by the way, I think you introduced
yourself to me as a--what shall ... we say--a "character,"
created by an author who did not afterward care to make a
drama of his own creations.
THE FATHER. It is the simple truth, sir.
THE MANAGER. Nonsense! Cut that out, please! None of us
believes it, because it isn't a thing, as you must recognize
yourself, which one can believe seriously. If you want to
know, it seems to me you are trying to imitate the manner of
a certain author whom I heartily detest--I warn
you--although I have unfortunately bound myself to put on
one of his works. As a matter of fact, I was just starting
to rehearse it, when you arrived. (_Turning to the actors_):
And this is what we've gained--out of the frying-pan into
the fire!
THE FATHER. I don't know to what author you may be alluding,
but believe me I feel what I think; and I seem to be
philosophizing only for those who do not think what they
feel, because they blind themselves with their own
sentiment. I know that for many people this self-blinding
seems much more "human"; but the contrary is really true.
For man never reasons so much and becomes so introspective
as when he suffers; since he is anxious to get at the cause
of his sufferings, to learn who has produced them, and
whether it is just or unjust that he should have to bear
them. On the other hand, when he is happy, he takes his
happiness as it comes and doesn't analyse it, just as if
happiness were his right. The animals suffer without
reasoning about their sufferings. But take the case of a man
who suffers and begins to reason about it. Oh no! it can't
be allowed! Let him suffer like an animal, and then--ah yes,
he is "human!"
THE MANAGER. Look here! Look here! You're off again,
philosophizing worse than ever.
THE FATHER. Because I suffer, sir! I'm not philosophizing:
I'm crying aloud the reason of my sufferings.
THE MANAGER (_makes brusque movement as he is taken with a
new idea_). I should like to know if anyone has ever heard
of a character who gets right out of his part and perorates
and speechifies as you do. Have you ever heard of a case? I
haven't.
THE FATHER. You have never met such a case, sir, because
authors, as a rule, hide the labour of their creations. When
the characters are really alive before their author, the
latter does nothing but follow them in their action, in
their words, in the situations which they suggest to him;
and he has to will them the way they will themselves--for
there's trouble if he doesn't. When a character is born, he
acquires at once such an independence, even of his own
author, that he can be imagined by everybody even in many
other situations where the author never dreamed of placing
him; and so he acquires for himself a meaning which the
author never thought of giving him.
THE MANAGER. Yes, yes, I know this.
THE FATHER. What is there then to marvel at in us? Imagine
such a misfortune for characters as I have described to you:
to be born of an author's fantasy, and be denied life by
him; and then answer me if these characters left alive, and
yet without life, weren't right in doing what they did do
and are doing now, after they have attempted everything in
their power to persuade him to give them their stage life.
We've all tried him in turn, I, she (_indicating the
Step-Daughter_) and she (_indicating the Mother_).
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It's true. I too have sought to tempt
him, many, many times, when he has been sitting at his
writing table, feeling a bit melancholy, at the twilight
hour. He would sit in his armchair too lazy to switch on the
light, and all the shadows that crept into his room were
full of our presence coming to tempt him. (_As if she saw
herself still there by the writing table, and was annoyed by
the presence of the actors_): Oh, if you would only go away,
go away and leave us alone--mother here with that son of
hers--I with that Child--that Boy there always alone--and
then I with him (_just hints at the Father_)--and then I
alone, alone ... in those shadows! (_Makes a sudden movement
as if in the vision she has of herself illuminating those
shadows she wanted to seize hold of herself_). Ah! my life!
my life! Oh, what scenes we proposed to him--and I tempted
him more than any of the others!
THE FATHER. Maybe. But perhaps it was your fault that he
refused to give us life: because you were too insistent, too
troublesome.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Nonsense! Didn't he make me so himself?
(_Goes close to the Manager to tell him as if in
confidence_). In my opinion he abandoned us in a fit of
depression, of disgust for the ordinary theatre as the
public knows it and likes it.
THE SON. Exactly what it was, sir; exactly that!
THE FATHER. Not at all! Don't believe it for a minute.
Listen to me! You'll be doing quite right to modify, as you
suggest, the excesses both of this girl here, who wants to
do too much, and of this young man, who won't do anything at
all.
THE SON. No, nothing!
THE MANAGER. You too get over the mark occasionally, my dear
sir, if I may say so.
THE FATHER. I? When? Where?
THE MANAGER. Always! Continuously! Then there's this
insistence of yours in trying to make us believe you are a
character. And then too, you must really argue and
philosophize less, you know, much less.
THE FATHER. Well, if you want to take away from me the
possibility of representing the torment of my spirit which
never gives me peace, you will be suppressing me: that's
all. Every true man, sir, who is a little above the level of
the beasts and plants does not live for the sake of living,
without knowing how to live; but he lives so as to give a
meaning and a value of his own to life. For me this is
_everything_. I cannot give up this, just to represent a
mere fact as she (_indicating the Step-Daughter_) wants.
It's all very well for her, since her "vendetta" lies in the
"fact." I'm not going to do it. It destroys my _raison
d'être_.
THE MANAGER. Your _raison d'être!_ Oh, we're going ahead
fine! First she starts off, and then you jump in. At this
rate, we'll never finish.
THE FATHER. Now, don't be offended! Have it your own
way--provided, however, that within the limits of the parts
you assign us each one's sacrifice isn't too great.
THE MANAGER. You've got to understand that you can't go on
arguing at your own pleasure. Drama is action, sir, action
and not confounded philosophy.
THE FATHER. All right. I'll do just as much arguing and
philosophizing as everybody does when he is considering his
own torments.
THE MANAGER. If the drama permits! But for Heaven's sake,
man, let's get along and come to the scene.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It seems to me we've got too much action
with our coming into his house (_indicating Father_). You
said, before, you couldn't change the scene every five
minutes.
THE MANAGER. Of course not. What we've got to do is to
combine and group up all the facts in one simultaneous,
close-knit, action. We can't have it as you want, with your
little brother wandering like a ghost from room to room,
hiding behind doors and meditating a project which--what did
you say it did to him?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Consumes him, sir, wastes him away!
THE MANAGER. Well, it may be, And then at the same time, you
want the little girl there to be playing in the garden ...
one in the house, and the other in the garden: isn't that
it?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, in the sun, in the sun! That is my
only pleasure: to see her happy and careless in the garden
after the misery and squalor of the horrible room where we
all four slept together. And I had to sleep with her--I, do
you understand?--with my vile contaminated body next to
hers; with her folding me fast in her loving little arms. In
the garden, whenever she spied me, she would run to take me
by the hand. She didn't care for the big flowers, only the
little ones; and she loved to show me them and pet me.
THE MANAGER. Well then, we'll have it in the garden.
Everything shall happen in the garden; and we'll group the
other scenes there. (_Calls a stage hand_). Here, a
back-cloth with trees and something to do as a fountain
basin. (_Turning round to look at the back of the stage_).
Ah, you've fixed it up. Good! (_To Step-Daughter_). This is
just to give an idea, of course. The Boy, instead of hiding
behind the doors, will wander about here in the garden,
hiding behind the trees. But it's going to be rather
difficult to find a child to do that scene with you where
she shows you the flowers. (_Turning to the Youth_). Come
forward a little, will you please? Let's try it now! Come
along! come along! (_Then seeing him come shyly forward,
full of fear and looking lost_). It's a nice business, this
lad here. What's the matter with him? We'll have to give him
a word or two to say. (_Goes close to him, puts a hand on
his shoulders, and leads him behind one of the trees_). Come
on! come on! Let me see you a little! Hide here ... yes,
like that. Try and show your head just a little as if you
were looking for someone.... (_Goes back to observe the
effect, when the Boy at once goes through the action_).
Excellent! fine! (_Turning to Step-Daughter_). Suppose the
little girl there were to surprise him as he looks round,
and run over to him, so we could give him a word or two to
say?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It's useless to hope he will speak, as
long as that fellow there is here.... (_Indicates the Son_).
You must send him away first.
THE SON (_jumping up_.) Delighted! delighted! I don't ask
for anything better. (_Begins to move away_).
THE MANAGER (_at once stopping him_). No! No! Where are you
going? Wait a bit!
(_The Mother gets up alarmed and terrified at the thought
that he is really about to go away. Instinctively she lifts
her arms to prevent him, without, however, leaving her
seat_).
THE SON (_to Manager who stops him_). I've got nothing to do
with this affair. Let me go please! Let me go!
THE MANAGER. What do you mean by saying you've got nothing
to do with this?
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_calmly, with irony_). Don't bother to
stop him: he won't go away.
THE FATHER. He has to act the terrible scene in the garden
with his mother.
THE SON (_suddenly resolute and with dignity_). I shall act
nothing at all. I've said so from the very beginning (_to
the Manager_). Let me go!
THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_going over to the Manager_). Allow me?
(_Puts down the Manager's arm which is restraining the
Son_). Well, go away then, if you want to! (_The Son looks
at her with contempt and hatred. She laughs and says_). You
see, he can't, he can't go away! He is obliged to stay here,
indissolubly bound to the chain. If I, who fly off when that
happens which has to happen, because I can't bear him--if I
am still here and support that face and expression of his,
you can well imagine that he is unable to move. He has to
remain here, has to stop with that nice father of his, and
that mother whose only son he is. (_Turning to the Mother_).
Come on, mother, come along! (_Turning to Manager to
indicate her_). You see, she was getting up to keep him
back. (_To the Mother, beckoning her with her hand_). Come
on! come on! (_Then to Manager_). You can imagine how little
she wants to show these actors of yours what she really
feels; but so eager is she to get near him that.... There,
you see? She is willing to act her part. (_And in fact, the
Mother approaches him; and as soon as the Step-Daughter has
finished speaking, opens her arms to signify that she
consents_).
THE SON (_suddenly_). No! no! If I can't go away, then I'll
stop here; but I repeat: I act nothing!
THE FATHER (_to Manager excitedly_). You can force him, sir.
THE SON. Nobody can force me.
THE FATHER. I can.
THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Wait a minute, wait.... First of all, the
baby has to go to the fountain.... (_Runs to take the Child
and leads her to the fountain_).
THE MANAGER. Yes, yes of course; that's it. Both at the same
time.
(_The second Lady Lead and the Juvenile Lead at this point
separate themselves from the group of actors. One watches
the Mother attentively; the other moves about studying the
movements and manner of the Son whom he will have to act_).
THE SON (_to Manager_). What do you mean by both at the same
time? It isn't right. There was no scene between me and her.
(_Indicates the Mother_). Ask her how it was!
THE MOTHER. Yes, it's true. I had come into his room....
THE SON. Into my room, do you understand? Nothing to do with
the garden.
THE MANAGER. It doesn't matter. Haven't I told you we've got
to group the action?
THE SON (_observing the Juvenile Lead studying him_). What
do you want?
THE JUVENILE LEAD. Nothing! I was just looking at you.
THE SON (_turning towards the second Lady Lead_). Ah! she's
at it too: to re-act her part (_indicating the Mother_)!
THE MANAGER. Exactly! And it seems to me that you ought to
be grateful to them for their interest.
THE SON. Yes, but haven't you yet perceived that it isn't
possible to live in front of a mirror which not only freezes
us with the image of ourselves, but throws our likeness back
at us with a horrible grimace?
THE FATHER. That is true, absolutely true. You must see
that.
THE MANAGER (_to second Lady Lead and Juvenile Lead_). He's
right! Move away from them!
THE SON. Do as you like. I'm out of this!
THE MANAGER. Be quiet, you, will you? And let me hear your
mother! (_To Mother_). You were saying you had entered....
THE MOTHER. Yes, into his room, because I couldn't stand it
any longer. I went to empty my heart to him of all the
anguish that tortures me.... But as soon as he saw me come
in....
THE SON. Nothing happened! There was no scene. I went away,
that's all! I don't care for scenes!
THE MOTHER. It's true, true. That's how it was.
THE MANAGER. Well now, we've got to do this bit between you
and him. It's indispensable.
THE MOTHER. I'm ready ... when you are ready. If you could
only find a chance for me to tell him what I feel here in my
heart.
THE FATHER (_going to Son in a great rage_). You'll do this
for your mother, for your mother, do you understand?
THE SON (_quite determined_). I do nothing!
THE FATHER (_taking hold of him and shaking him_). For God's
sake, do as I tell you! Don't you hear your mother asking
you for a favour? Haven't you even got the guts to be a son?
THE SON (_taking hold of the Father_). No! No! And for God's
sake stop it, or else ... (_General agitation. The Mother,
frightened, tries to separate them_).
THE MOTHER (_pleading_). Please! please!
THE FATHER (_not leaving hold of the Son_). You've got to
obey, do you hear?
THE SON (_almost crying from rage_). What does it mean, this
madness you've got? (_They separate_). Have you no decency,
that you insist on showing everyone our shame? I won't do
it! I won't! And I stand for the will of our author in this.
He didn't want to put us on the stage, after all!
THE MANAGER. Man alive! You came here....
THE SON (_indicating Father_). _He_ did! I didn't!
THE MANAGER. Aren't you here now?
THE SON. It was his wish, and he dragged us along with him.
He's told you not only the things that did happen, but also
things that have never happened at all.
THE MANAGER. Well, tell me then what did happen. You went
out of your room without saying a word?
THE SON. Without a word, so as to avoid a scene!
THE MANAGER. And then what did you do?
THE SON. Nothing ... walking in the garden.... (_hesitates
for a moment with expression of gloom_).
THE MANAGER (_coming closer to him, interested by his
extraordinary reserve_). Well, well ... walking in the
garden....
THE SON (_exasperated_). Why on earth do you insist? It's
horrible! (_The Mother trembles, sobs, and looks towards the
fountain_).
THE MANAGER (_slowly observing the glance and turning
towards the Son with increasing apprehension_). The baby?
THE SON. There in the fountain....
THE FATHER (_pointing with tender pity to the Mother_). She
was following him at the moment....
THE MANAGER (_to the Son anxiously_). And then you....
THE SON. I ran over to her; I was jumping in to drag her out
when I saw something that froze my blood ... the boy there
standing stock still, with eyes like a madman's, watching
his little drowned sister, in the fountain! (_The
Step-Daughter bends over the fountain to hide the Child. She
sobs_). Then.... (_A revolver shot rings out behind the
trees where the Boy is hidden_).
THE MOTHER. (_With a cry of terror runs over in that
direction together with several of the actors amid general
confusion_).
My son! My son! (_Then amid the cries and exclamations one
hears her voice_). Help! Help!
THE MANAGER (_pushing the actors aside while they lift up
the Boy and carry him off_). Is he really wounded?
SOME ACTORS. He's dead! dead!
OTHER ACTORS. No, no, it's only make believe, it's only
pretence!
THE FATHER (_with a terrible cry_). Pretence? Reality, sir,
reality!
THE MANAGER. Pretence? Reality? To hell with it all! Never
in my life has such a thing happened to me. I've lost a
whole day over these people, a whole day!
_Curtain._
"HENRY IV."
(_Enrico Quarto_)
A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS
BY
LUIGI PIRANDELLO
TRANSLATED BY
EDWARD STORER
CHARACTERS.
"HENRY IV." THE MARCHIONESS MATILDA
SPINA, HER DAUGHTER FRIDA. THE YOUNG
MARQUIS CHARLES DI NOLLI. BARON TITO
BELCREDI. DOCTOR DIONYSIUS GENONI. THE
FOUR PRIVATE COUNSELLORS: HAROLD
(FRANK), LANDOLPH (LOLO), ORDULPH
(MOMO), BERTHOLD (FINO). (_The names in
brackets are nick-names_). JOHN, THE
OLD WAITER. THE TWO VALETS IN COSTUME.
A SOLITARY VILLA IN ITALY IN OUR OWN
TIME.
"HENRY IV."
A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS
ACT I
_Salon in the villa, furnished and decorated so as to look
exactly like the throne room of Henry IV. in the royal
residence at Goslar. Among the antique decorations there are
two modern life-size portraits in oil painting. They are
placed against the back wall, and mounted in a wooden stand
that runs the whole length of the wall. (It is wide and
protrudes, so that it is like a large bench). One of the
paintings is on the right; the other on the left of the
throne, which is in the middle of the wall and divides the
stand._
_The Imperial chair and Baldachin._
_The two portraits represent a lady and a gentleman, both
young, dressed up in carnival costumes: one as "Henry IV."
the other as the "Marchioness Matilda of Tuscany." Exits to
Right and Left._
(_When the curtain goes up, the two valets jump down, as if
surprised, from the stand on which they have been lying, and
go and take their positions, as rigid as statues, on either
side below the throne with their halberds in their hands.
Soon after, from the second exit, right, enter Harold,
Landolph, Ordulph and Berthold, young men employed by the
Marquis Charles Di Nolli to play the part of "Secret
Counsellors" at the court of "Henry IV." They are,
therefore, dressed like German knights of the XIth century.
Berthold, nicknamed Fino, is just entering on his duties for
the first time. His companions are telling him what he has
to do and amusing themselves at his expense. The scene is to
be played rapidly and vivaciously_).
LANDOLPH (_to Berthold as if explaining_). And this is the
throne room.
HAROLD. At Goslar.
ORDULPH. Or at the castle in the Hartz, if you prefer.
HAROLD. Or at Wurms.
LANDOLPH. According as to what's doing, it jumps about with
us, now here, now there.
ORDULPH. In Saxony.
HAROLD. In Lombardy.
LANDOLPH. On the Rhine.
ONE OF THE VALETS (_without moving, just opening his lips_).
I say....
HAROLD (_turning round_). What is it?
FIRST VALET (_like a statue_). Is he coming in or not? (_He
alludes to Henry IV._)
ORDULPH. No, no, he's asleep. You needn't worry.
SECOND VALET (_releasing his pose, taking a long breath and
going to lie down again on the stand_). You might have told
us at once.
FIRST VALET (_going over to Harold_). Have you got a match,
please?
LANDOLPH. What? You can't smoke a pipe here, you know.
FIRST VALET (_while Harold offers him a light_). No; a
cigarette. (_Lights his cigarette and lies down again on the
stand_).
BERTHOLD (_who has been looking on in amazement, walking
round the room, regarding the costumes of the others_). I
say ... this room ... these costumes.... Which Henry IV. is
it? I don't quite get it. Is he Henry IV. of France or not?
(_At this Landolph, Harold, and Ordulph, burst out
laughing_).
LANDOLPH (_still laughing; and pointing to Berthold as if
inviting the others to make fun of him_). Henry of France he
says: ha! ha!
ORDULPH. He thought it was the king of France!
HAROLD. Henry IV. of Germany, my boy: the Salian dynasty!
ORDULPH. The great and tragic Emperor!
LANDOLPH. He of Canossa. Every day we carry on here the
terrible war between Church and State, by Jove.
ORDULPH. The Empire against the Papacy!
HAROLD. Antipopes against the Pope!
LANDOLPH. Kings against antikings!
ORDULPH. War on the Saxons!
HAROLD. And all the rebels Princes!
LANDOLPH. Against the Emperor's own sons!
BERTHOLD (_covering his head with his hands to protect
himself against this avalanche of information_). I
understand! I understand! Naturally, I didn't get the idea
at first. I'm right then: these aren't costumes of the XVIth
century?
HAROLD. XVIth century be hanged!
ORDULPH. We're somewhere between a thousand and eleven
hundred.
LANDOLPH. Work it out for yourself: if we are before Canossa
on the 25th of January, 1071....
BERTHOLD (_more confused than ever_). Oh my God! What a mess
I've made of it!
ORDULPH. Well, just slightly, if you supposed you were at
the French court.
BERTHOLD. All that historical stuff I've swatted up!
LANDOLPH. My dear boy, it's four hundred years earlier.
BERTHOLD (_getting angry_). Good Heavens! You ought to have
told me it was Germany and not France. I can't tell you how
many books I've read in the last fifteen days.
HAROLD. But I say, surely you knew that poor Tito was
Adalbert of Bremen, here?
BERTHOLD. Not a damned bit!
LANDOLPH. Well, don't you see how it is? When Tito died, the
Marquis Di Nolli....
BERTHOLD. Oh, it was he, was it? He might have told me.
HAROLD. Perhaps he thought you knew.
LANDOLPH. He didn't want to engage anyone else in
substitution. He thought the remaining three of us would do.
But _he_ began to cry out: "With Adalbert driven away....":
because, you see, he didn't imagine poor Tito was dead; but
that, as Bishop Adalbert, the rival bishops of Cologne and
Mayence had driven him off....
BERTHOLD (_taking his head in his hand_). But I don't know a
word of what you're talking about.
ORDULPH. So much the worse for you, my boy!
HAROLD. But the trouble is that not even we know who you
are.
BERTHOLD. What? Not even you? You don't know who I'm
supposed to be?
ORDULPH. Hum! "Berthold."
BERTHOLD. But which Berthold? And why Berthold?
LANDOLPH (_solemnly imitating Henry IV._). "They've driven
Adalbert away from me. Well then, I want Berthold! I want
Berthold!" That's what he said.
HAROLD. We three looked one another in the eyes: who's got
to be Berthold?
ORDULPH. And so here you are, "Berthold," my dear fellow!
LANDOLPH. I'm afraid you will make a bit of a mess of it.
BERTHOLD (_indignant, getting ready to go_). Ah, no! Thanks
very much, but I'm off! I'm out of this!
HAROLD (_restraining him with the other two, amid
laughter_). Steady now! Don't get excited!
LANDOLPH. Cheer up, my dear fellow! We don't any of us know
who we are really. He's Harold; he's Ordulph; I'm Landolph!
That's the way he calls us. We've got used to it. But who
are we? Names of the period! Yours, too, is a name of the
period: Berthold! Only one of us, poor Tito, had got a
really decent part, as you can read in history: that of the
Bishop of Bremen. He was just like a real bishop. Tito did
it awfully well, poor chap!
HAROLD. Look at the study he put into it!
LANDOLPH. Why, he even ordered his Majesty about, opposed
his views, guided and counselled him. We're "secret
counsellors"--in a manner of speaking only; because it is
written in history that Henry IV. was hated by the upper
aristocracy for surrounding himself at court with young men
of the bourgeoise.
ORDULPH. Us, that is.
LANDOLPH. Yes, small devoted vassals, a bit dissolute and
very gay....
BERTHOLD. So I've got to be gay as well?
HAROLD. I should say so! Same as we are!
ORDULPH. And it isn't too easy, you know.
LANDOLPH. It's a pity; because the way we're got up, we
could do a fine historical reconstruction. There's any
amount of material in the story of Henry IV. But, as a
matter of fact, we do nothing. We have the form without the
content. We're worse than the real secret counsellors of
Henry IV.; because certainly no one had given them a part to
play--at any rate, they didn't feel they had a part to play.
It was their life. They looked after their own interests at
the expense of others, sold investitures and--what not! We
stop here in this magnificent court--for what?--Just doing
nothing. We're like so many puppets hung on the wall,
waiting for some one to come and move us or make us talk.
HAROLD. Ah no, old sport, not quite that! We've got to give
the proper answer, you know. There's trouble if he asks you
something and you don't chip in with the cue.
LANDOLPH. Yes, that's true.
BERTHOLD. Don't rub it in too hard! How the devil am I to
give him the proper answer, if I've swatted up Henry IV. of
France, and now he turns out to be Henry IV. of Germany?
(_The other three laugh_).
HAROLD. You'd better start and prepare yourself at once.
ORDULPH. We'll help you out.
HAROLD. We've got any amount of books on the subject. A
brief run through the main points will do to begin with.
ORDULPH. At any rate, you must have got some sort of general
idea.
HAROLD. Look here! (_Turns him around and shows him the
portrait of the Marchioness Matilda on the wall_). Who's
that?
BERTHOLD (_looking at it_). That? Well, the thing seems to
me somewhat out of place, anyway: two modern paintings in
the midst of all this respectable antiquity!
HAROLD. You're right! They weren't there in the beginning.
There are two niches there behind the pictures. They were
going to put up two statues in the style of the period. Then
the places were covered with those canvasses there.
LANDOLPH (_interrupting and continuing_). They would
certainly be out of place if they really were paintings!
BERTHOLD. What are they, if they aren't paintings?
LANDOLPH. Go and touch them! Pictures all right ... but for
him! (_Makes a mysterious gesture to the right, alluding to
Henry IV._.) ... who never touches them!...
BERTHOLD. No? What are they for him?
LANDOLPH. Well, I'm only supposing, you know; but I imagine
I'm about right. They're images such as ... well--such as a
mirror might throw back. Do you understand? That one there
represents himself, as he is in this throne room, which is
all in the style of the period. What's there to marvel at?
If we put you before a mirror, won't you see yourself,
alive, but dressed up in ancient costume? Well, it's as if
there were two mirrors there, which cast back living images
in the midst of a world which, as you will see, when you
have lived with us, comes to life too.
BERTHOLD. I say, look here ... I've no particular desire to
go mad here.
HAROLD. Go mad, be hanged! You'll have a fine time!
BERTHOLD. Tell me this: how have you all managed to become
so learned?
LANDOLPH. My dear fellow, you can't go back over 800 years
of history without picking up a bit of experience.
HAROLD. Come on! Come on! You'll see how quickly you get
into it!
ORDULPH. You'll learn wisdom, too, at this school.
BERTHOLD. Well, for Heaven's sake, help me a bit! Give me
the main lines, anyway.
HAROLD. Leave it to us. We'll do it all between us.
LANDOLPH. We'll put your wires on you and fix you up like a
first class marionette. Come along! (_They take him by the
arm to lead him away_).
BERTHOLD (_stopping and looking at the portrait on the
wall_). Wait a minute! You haven't told me who that is. The
Emperor's wife?
HAROLD. No! The Emperor's wife is Bertha of Susa, the sister
of Amadeus II. of Savoy.
ORDULPH. And the Emperor, who wants to be young with us,
can't stand her, and wants to put her away.
LANDOLPH. That is his most ferocious enemy: Matilda,
Marchioness of Tuscany.
BERTHOLD. Ah, I've got it: the one who gave hospitality to
the Pope!
LANDOLPH. Exactly: at Canossa!
ORDULPH. Pope Gregory VII.!
HAROLD. Our _bête noir_! Come on! come oh! (_All four move
toward the right to go out, when, from the left, the old
servant John enters in evening dress_).
JOHN (_quickly, anxiously_). Hss! Hss! Frank! Lolo!
HAROLD (_turning round_). What is it?
BERTHOLD (_marvelling at seeing a man in modern clothes
enter the throne room_). Oh! I say, this is a bit too much,
this chap here!
LANDOLPH. A man of the XXth century, here! Oh, go away!
(_They run over to him, pretending to menace him and throw
him out_).
ORDULPH (_heroically_). Messenger of Gregory VII., away!
HAROLD. Away! Away!
JOHN (_annoyed, defending himself_). Oh, stop it! Stop it, I
tell you!
ORDULPH. No, you can't set foot here!
HAROLD. Out with him!
LANDOLPH (_to Berthold_). Magic, you know! He's a demon
conjured up by the Wizard of Rome! Out with your swords!
(_Makes as if to draw a sword_).
JOHN (_shouting_). Stop it, will you? Don't play the fool
with me! The Marquis has arrived with some friends....
LANDOLPH. Good! Good! Are there ladies too?
ORDULPH. Old or young?
JOHN. There are two gentlemen.
HAROLD. But the ladies, the ladies, who are they?
JOHN. The Marchioness and her daughter.
LANDOLPH (_surprised_). What do you say?
ORDULPH. The Marchioness?
JOHN. The Marchioness! The Marchioness!
HAROLD. Who are the gentlemen?
JOHN. I don't know.
HAROLD (_to Berthold_). They're coming to bring us a message
from the Pope, do you see?
ORDULPH. All messengers of Gregory VII.! What fun!
JOHN. Will you let me speak, or not?
HAROLD. Go on, then!
JOHN. One of the two gentlemen is a doctor, I fancy.
LANDOLPH. Oh, I see, one of the usual doctors.
HAROLD. Bravo Berthold, you'll bring us luck!
LANDOLPH. You wait and see how we'll manage this doctor!
BERTHOLD. It looks as if I were going to get into a nice
mess right away.
JOHN. If the gentlemen would allow me to speak ... they want
to come here into the throne room.
LANDOLPH (_surprised_). What? She? The Marchioness here?
HAROLD. Then this is something quite different! No
play-acting this time!
LANDOLPH. We'll have a real tragedy: that's what!
BERTHOLD (_curious_). Why? Why?
ORDULPH (_pointing to the portrait_). She is that person
there, don't you understand?
LANDOLPH. The daughter is the fiancée of the Marquis. But
what have they come for, I should like to know?
ORDULPH. If he sees her, there'll be trouble.
LANDOLPH. Perhaps he won't recognize her any more.
JOHN. You must keep him there, if he should wake up....
ORDULPH. Easier said than done, by Jove!
HAROLD. You know what he's like!
JOHN. --even by force, if necessary! Those are my orders. Go
on! Go on!
HAROLD. Yes, because who knows if he hasn't already wakened
up?
ORDULPH. Come on then!
LANDOLPH (_going towards John with the others_). You'll tell
us later what it all means.
JOHN (_shouting after them_). Close the door there, and hide
the key! That other door too. (_Pointing to the other door
on right_).
JOHN (_to the two valets_). Be off, you two! There
(_pointing to exit right_)! Close the door after you, and
hide the key!
(_The two valets go out by the first door on right. John
moves over to the left to show in: Donna Matilda Spina, the
young Marchioness Frida, Dr. Dionysius Genoni, the Baron
Tito Belcredi and the young Marquis Charles Di Nolli, who,
as master of the house, enters last._)
DONNA MATILDA SPINA _is about_ 45, _still handsome, although
there are too patent signs of her attempts to remedy the
ravages of time with make-up. Her head is thus rather like a
Walkyrie. This facial make-up contrasts with her beautiful
sad mouth. A widow for many years, she now has as her friend
the Baron Tito Belcredi, whom neither she nor anyone else
takes seriously--at least so it would appear._
_What_ TITO BELCREDI _really is for her at bottom, he alone
knows; and he is, therefore, entitled to laugh, if his
friend feels the need of pretending not to know. He can
always laugh at the jests which the beautiful Marchioness
makes with the others at his expense. He is slim,
prematurely gray, and younger than she is. His head is
bird-like in shape. He would be a very vivacious person, if
his ductile agility (which among other things makes him a
redoubtable swordsman) were not enclosed in a sheath of
Arab-like laziness, which is revealed in his strange, nasal
drawn-out voice._
FRIDA, _the daughter of the Marchioness is_ 19. _She is sad;
because her imperious and too beautiful mother puts her in
the shade, and provokes facile gossip against her daughter
as well as against herself. Fortunately for her, she is
engaged to the Marquis Charles Di Nolli._
CHARLES DI NOLLI _is a stiff young man, very indulgent
towards others, but sure of himself for what he amounts to
in the world. He is worried about all the responsibilities
which he believes weigh on him. He is dressed in deep
mourning for the recent death of his mother._
DR. DIONYSIUS GENONI _has a bold rubicund Satyr-like face,
prominent eyes, a pointed beard (which is silvery and shiny)
and elegant manners. He is nearly bald. All enter in a state
of perturbation, almost as if afraid, and all (except Di
Nolli) looking curiously about the room. At first, they
speak sotto voce._
DI NOLLI (_to John_). Have you given the orders properly?
JOHN. Yes, my Lord; don't be anxious about that.
BELCREDI. Ah, magnificent! magnificent!
DOCTOR. How extremely interesting! Even in the surroundings
his raving madness--is perfectly taken into account!
DONNA MATILDA (_glancing round for her portrait, discovers
it, and goes up close to it_). Ah! Here it is! (_Going back
to admire it, while mixed emotions stir within her_). Yes
... yes ... (_Calls her daughter Frida_).
FRIDA. Ah, your portrait!
DONNA MATILDA. No, no ... look again; it's you, not I,
there!
DI NOLLI. Yes, it's quite true. I told you so, I....
DONNA MATILDA. But I would never have believed it! (_Shaking
as if with a chili_). What a strange feeling it gives one!
(_Then looking at her daughter_). Frida, what's the matter?
(_She pulls her to her side, and slips an arm round her
waist_). Come: don't you see yourself in me there?
FRIDA. Well, I really....
DONNA MATILDA. Don't you think so? Don't you, really?
(_Turning to Belcredi_). Look at it, Tito! Speak up, man!
BELCREDI (_without looking_). Ah, no! I shan't look at it.
For me, _a priori_, certainly not!
DONNA MATILDA. Stupid! You think you are paying me a
compliment! (_Turing to Doctor Genoni_). What do you say,
Doctor? Do say something, please!
DOCTOR (_makes a movement to go near to the picture_).
BELCREDI (_with his back turned, pretending to attract his
attention secretly_).--Hss! No, doctor! For the love of
Heaven, have nothing to do with it!
DOCTOR (_getting bewildered and smiling_). And why shouldn't
I?
DONNA MATILDA. Don't listen to him! Come here! He's
insufferable!
FRIDA. He acts the fool by profession, didn't you know that?
BELCREDI (_to the Doctor, seeing him go over_). Look at your
feet, doctor! Mind where you're going!
DOCTOR. Why?
BELCREDI. Be careful you don't put your foot in it!
DOCTOR (_laughing feebly_). No, no. After all, it seems to
me there's no reason to be astonished at the fact that a
daughter should resemble her mother!
BELCREDI. Hullo! Hullo! He's done it now; he's said it.
DONNA MATILDA (_with exaggerated anger, advancing towards
Belcredi_). What's the matter? What has he said? What has he
done?
DOCTOR (_candidly_). Well, isn't it so?
BELCREDI (_answering the Marchioness_). I said there was
nothing to be astounded at--and you are astounded! And why
so, then, if the thing is so simple and natural for you now?
DONNA MATILDA (_still more angry_). Fool! fool! It's just
because it is so natural! Just because it isn't my daughter
who is there. (_Pointing to the canvass_). That is my
portrait; and to find my daughter there instead of me fills
me with astonishment, an astonishment which, I beg you to
believe, is sincere. I forbid you to cast doubts on it.
FRIDA (_slowly and wearily_). My God! It's always like this
... rows over nothing....
BELCREDI (_also slowly, looking dejected, in accents of
apology_). I cast no doubt on anything! I noticed from the
beginning that you haven't shared your mother's
astonishment; or, if something did astonish you, it was
because the likeness between you and the portrait seemed so
strong.
DONNA MATILDA. Naturally! She cannot recognize herself in me
as I was at her age; while I, there, can very well recognize
myself in her as she is now!
DOCTOR. Quite right! Because a portrait is always there
fixed in the twinkling of an eye: for the young lady
something far away and without memories, while, for the
Marchioness, it can bring back everything: movements,
gestures, looks, smiles, a whole heap of things....
DONNA MATILDA. Exactly!
DOCTOR (_continuing, turning towards her_). Naturally
enough, you can live all these old sensations again in your
daughter.
DONNA MATILDA. He always spoils every innocent pleasure for
me, every touch I have of spontaneous sentiment! He does it
merely to annoy me.
DOCTOR (_frightened at the disturbance he has caused, adopts
a professorial tone_). Likeness, dear Baron, is often the
result of imponderable things. So one explains that....
BELCREDI (_interrupting the discourse_). Somebody will soon
be finding a likeness between you and me, my dear professor!
DI NOLLI. Oh! let's finish with this, please! (_Points to
the two doors on the Right, as a warning that there is
someone there who may be listening_). We've wasted too much
time as it is!
FRIDA. As one might expect when _he's_ present (_alludes to
Belcredi_).
DI NOLLI. Enough! The doctor is here; and we have come for a
very serious purpose which you all know is important for me.
DOCTOR. Yes, that is so! But now, first of all, let's try to
get some points down exactly. Excuse me, Marchioness, will
you tell me why your portrait is here? Did you present it to
him then?
DONNA MATILDA. No, not at all. How could I have given it to
him? I was just like Frida then--and not even engaged. I
gave it to him three or four years after the accident. I
gave it to him because his mother wished it so much (_points
to Di Nolli_)....
DOCTOR. She was his sister (_alludes to Henry IV._)?
DI NOLLI. Yes, doctor; and our coming here is a debt we pay
to my mother who has been dead for more than a month.
Instead of being here, she and I (_indicating Frida_) ought
to be traveling together....
DOCTOR. ... taking a cure of quite a different kind!
DI NOLLI. --Hum! Mother died in the firm conviction that her
adored brother was just about to be cured.
DOCTOR. And can't you tell me, if you please, how she
inferred this?
DI NOLLI. The conviction would appear to have derived from
certain strange remarks which he made, a little before
mother died.
DOCTOR. Oh, remarks!... Ah!... It would be extremely useful
for me to have those remarks, word for word, if possible.
DI NOLLI. I can't remember them. I know that mother returned
awfully upset from her last visit with him. On her
death-bed, she made me promise that I would never neglect
him, that I would have doctors see him, and examine him.
DOCTOR. Um! Um! Let me see! let me see! Sometimes very small
reasons determine ... and this portrait here then?...
DONNA MATILDA. For Heaven's sake, doctor, don't attach
excessive importance to this. It made an impression on me
because I had not seen it for so many years!
DOCTOR. If you please, quietly, quietly....
DI NOLLI. --Well, yes, it must be about fifteen years ago.
DONNA MATILDA. More, more: eighteen!
DOCTOR. Forgive me, but you don't quite know what I'm trying
to get at. I attach a very great importance to these two
portraits.... They were painted, naturally, prior to the
famous--and most regretable pageant, weren't they?
DONNA MATILDA. Of course!
DOCTOR. That is ... when he was quite in his right
mind--that's what I've been trying to say. Was it his
suggestion that they should be painted?
DONNA MATILDA. Lots of the people who took part in the
pageant had theirs done as a souvenir....
BELCREDI. I had mine done--as "Charles of Anjou!"
DONNA MATILDA. ...as soon as the costumes were ready.
BELCREDI. As a matter of fact, it was proposed that the
whole lot of us should be hung together in a gallery of the
villa where the pageant took place. But in the end,
everybody wanted to keep his own portrait.
DONNA MATILDA. And I gave him this portrait of me without
very much regret ... since his mother.... (_indicates Di
Nolli_).
DOCTOR. You don't remember if it was he who asked for it?
DONNA MATILDA. Ah, that I don't remember ... Maybe it was
his sister, wanting to help out....
DOCTOR. One other thing: was it his idea, this pageant?
BELCREDI (_at once_). No, no, it was mine!
DOCTOR. If you please....
DONNA MATILDA. Don't listen to him! It was poor Belassi's
idea.
BELCREDI. Belassi! What had he got to do with it?
DONNA MATILDA. Count Belassi, who died, poor fellow, two or
three months after....
BELCREDI. But if Belassi wasn't there when....
DI NOLLI. Excuse me, doctor; but is it really necessary to
establish whose the original idea was?
DOCTOR. It would help me, certainly!
BELCREDI. I tell you the idea was mine! There's nothing to
be proud of in it, seeing what the result's been. Look here,
doctor, it was like this. One evening, in the first days of
November, I was looking at an illustrated German review in
the club. I was merely glancing at the pictures, because I
can't read German. There was a picture of the Kaiser, at
some University town where he had been a student ... I don't
remember which.
DOCTOR. Bonn, Bonn!
BELCREDI. --You are right: Bonn! He was on horseback,
dressed up in one of those ancient German student
guild-costumes, followed by a procession of noble students,
also in costume. The picture gave me the idea. Already some
one at the club had spoken of a pageant for the forthcoming
carnival. So I had the notion that each of us should choose
for this Tower of Babel pageant to represent some character:
a king, an emperor, a prince, with his queen, empress, or
lady, alongside of him--and all on horseback. The suggestion
was at once accepted.
DONNA MATILDA. I had my invitation from Belassi.
BELCREDI. Well, he wasn't speaking the truth! That's all I
can say, if he told you the idea was his. He wasn't even at
the club the evening I made the suggestion, just as he
(_meaning Henry IV._) wasn't there either.
DOCTOR. So he chose the character of Henry IV.?
DONNA MATILDA. Because I ... thinking of my name, and not
giving the choice any importance, said I would be the
Marchioness Matilda of Tuscany.
DOCTOR. I ... don't understand the relation between the two.
DONNA MATILDA. --Neither did I, to begin with, when he said
that in that case he would be at my feet like Henry IV. at
Canossa. I had heard of Canossa of course; but to tell the
truth, I'd forgotten most of the story; and I remember I
received a curious impression when I had to get up my part,
and found that I was the faithful and zealous friend of Pope
Gregory VII. in deadly enmity with the Emperor of Germany.
Then I understood why, since I had chosen to represent his
implacable enemy, he wanted to be near me in the pageant as
Henry IV.
DOCTOR. Ah, perhaps because....
BELCREDI. --Good Heavens, doctor, because he was then paying
furious court to her (_indicates the Marchioness_)! And she,
naturally....
DONNA MATILDA. Naturally? Not naturally at all....
BELCREDI (_pointing to her_). She couldn't stand him....
DONNA MATILDA. --No, that isn't true! I didn't dislike him.
Not at all! But for me, when a man begins to want to be
taken seriously, well....
BELCREDI (_continuing for her_). He gives you the clearest
proof of his stupidity.
DONNA MATILDA. No dear; not in this case; because he was
never a fool like you.
BELCREDI. Anyway, I've never asked you to take me seriously.
DONNA MATILDA. Yes, I know. But with him one couldn't joke
(_changing her tone and speaking to the Doctor_). One of the
many misfortunes which happen to us women, Doctor, is to see
before us every now and again a pair of eyes glaring at us
with a contained intense promise of eternal devotion.
(_Bursts out laughing_). There is nothing quite so funny. If
men could only see themselves with that eternal fidelity
look in their faces! I've always thought it comic; then more
even than now. But I want to make a confession--I can do so
after twenty years or more. When I laughed at him then, it
was partly out of fear. One might have almost believed a
promise from those eyes of his. But it would have been very
dangerous.
DOCTOR (_with lively interest_). Ah! ah! This is most
interesting! Very dangerous, you say?
DONNA MATILDA. Yes, because he was very different from the
others. And then, I am ... well ... what shall I say?... a
little impatient of all that is pondered, or tedious. But I
was too young then, and a woman. I had the bit between my
teeth. It would have required more courage than I felt I
possessed. So I laughed at him too--with remorse, to spite
myself, indeed; since I saw that my own laugh mingled with
those of all the others--the other fools--who made fun of
him.
BELCREDI. My own case, more or less!
DONNA MATILDA. You make people laugh at you, my dear, with
your trick of always humiliating yourself. It was quite a
different affair with him. There's a vast difference. And
you--you know--people laugh in your face!
BELCREDI. Well, that's better than behind one's back!
DOCTOR. Let's get to the facts. He was then already somewhat
exalted, if I understand rightly.
BELCREDI. Yes, but in a curious fashion, doctor.
DOCTOR. How?
BELCREDI. Well, cold-bloodedly so to speak.
DONNA MATILDA. Not at all! It was like this, doctor! He was
a bit strange, certainly; but only because he was fond of
life: eccentric, there!
BELCREDI. I don't say he simulated exaltation. On the
contrary, he was often genuinely exalted. But I could swear,
doctor, that he saw himself at once in his own exaltation.
Moreover, I'm certain it made him suffer. Sometimes he had
the most comical fits of rage against himself.
DOCTOR. Yes?
DONNA MATILDA. That is true.
BELCREDI (_to Donna Matilda_). And why? (_To the doctor_).
Evidently, because that immediate lucidity that comes from
acting, assuming a part, at once put him out of key with his
own feelings, which seemed to him not exactly false, but
like something he was obliged to valorize there and then
as--what shall I say--as an act of intelligence, to make, up
for that sincere cordial warmth he felt lacking. So he
improvised, exaggerated, let himself go, so as to distract
and forget himself. He appeared inconstant, fatuous,
and--yes--even ridiculous, sometimes.
DOCTOR. And may we say unsociable?
BELCREDI. No, not at all. He was famous for getting up
things: _tableaux vivants_, dances, theatrical performances
for charity: all for the fun of the thing, of course. He was
a jolly good actor, you know!
DI NOLLI. Madness has made a superb actor of him.
BELCREDI.--Why, so he was even in the old days. When the
accident happened, after the horse fell....
DOCTOR. Hit the back of his head, didn't he?
DONNA MATILDA. Oh, it was horrible! He was beside me! I saw
him between the horse's hoofs! It was rearing!
BELCREDI. None of us thought it was anything serious at
first. There was a stop in the pageant, a bit of disorder.
People wanted to know what had happened. But they'd already
taken him off to the villa.
DONNA MATILDA. There wasn't the least sign of a wound, not a
drop of blood.
BELCREDI. We thought he had merely fainted.
DONNA MATILDA. But two hours afterwards....
BELCREDI. He reappeared in the drawing-room of the villa ...
that is what I wanted to say....
DONNA MATILDA. My God! What a face he had. I saw the whole
thing at once!
BELCREDI. No, no! that isn't true. Nobody saw it, doctor,
believe me!
DONNA MATILDA. Doubtless, because you were all like mad
folk.
BELCREDI. Everybody was pretending to act his part for a
joke. It was a regular Babel.
DONNA MATILDA. And you can imagine, doctor, what terror
struck into us when we understood that he, on the contrary,
was playing his part in deadly earnest....
DOCTOR. Oh, he was there too, was he?
BELCREDI. Of course! He came straight into the midst of us.
We thought he'd quite recovered, and was pretending,
fooling, like all the rest of us ... only doing it rather
better; because, as I say, he knew how to act.
DONNA MATILDA. Some of them began to hit him with their
whips and fans and sticks.
BELCREDI. And then--as a king, he was armed, of course--he
drew out his sword and menaced two or three of us.... It was
a terrible moment, I can assure you!
DONNA MATILDA. I shall never forget that scene--all our
masked faces hideous and terrified gazing at him, at that
terrible mask of his face, which was no longer a mask, but
madness, madness personified.
BELCREDI. He was Henry IV., Henry IV. in person, in a moment
of fury.
DONNA MATILDA. He'd got into it all the detail and minute
preparation of a month's careful study. And it all burned
and blazed there in the terrible obsession which lit his
face.
DOCTOR. Yes, that is quite natural, of course. The momentary
obsession of a dilettante became fixed, owing to the fall
and the damage to the brain.
BELCREDI (_to Frida and Di Nolli_). You see the kind of
jokes life can play on us. (_To Di Nolli_): You were four or
five years old. (_To Frida_): Your mother imagines you've
taken her place there in that portrait; when, at the time,
she had not the remotest idea that she would bring you into
the world. My hair is already grey; and he--look at
him--(_points to portrait_)--ha! A smack on the head, and he
never moves again: Henry IV. for ever!
DOCTOR (_seeking to draw the attention of the others,
looking learned and imposing_).--Well, well, then it comes,
we may say, to this....
(_Suddenly the first exit to right, the one nearest
footlights, opens, and Berthold enters all excited_).
BERTHOLD (_rushing in_). I say! I say! (_Stops for a moment,
arrested by the astonishment which his appearance has caused
in the others_).
FRIDA (_running away terrified_). Oh dear! oh dear! it's he,
it's....
DONNA MATILDA (_covering her face with her hands so as not
to see_). Is it, is it he?
DI NOLLI. No, no, what are you talking about? Be calm!
DOCTOR. Who is it then?
BELCREDI. One of our masqueraders.
DI NOLLI. He is one of the four youths we keep here to help
him out in his madness....
BERTHOLD. I beg your pardon, Marquis....
DI NOLLI. Pardon be damned! I gave orders that the doors
were to be closed, and that nobody should be allowed to
enter.
BERTHOLD. Yes, sir, but I can't stand it any longer, and I
ask you to let me go away this very minute.
DI NOLLI. Oh, you're the new valet, are you? You were
supposed to begin this morning, weren't you?
BERTHOLD. Yes, sir, and I can't stand it, I can't bear it.
DONNA MATILDA (_to Di Nolli excitedly_). What? Then he's not
so calm as you said?
BERTHOLD (_quickly_).--No, no, my lady, it isn't he; it's my
companions. You say "help him out with his madness,"
Marquis; but they don't do anything of the kind. They're the
real madmen. I come here for the first time, and instead of
helping me....
(_Landolph and Harold come in from the same door, but
hesitate on the threshold_).
LANDOLPH. Excuse me?
HAROLD. May I come in, my Lord?
DI NOLLI. Come in! What's the matter? What are you all
doing?
FRIDA. Oh God! I'm frightened! I'm going to run away.
(_Makes towards exit at Left_).
DI NOLLI (_restraining her at once_). No, no, Frida!
LANDOLPH. My Lord, this fool here ... (_indicates
Berthold_).
BERTHOLD (_protesting_). Ah, no thanks, my friends, no
thanks! I'm not stopping here! I'm off!
LANDOLPH. What do you mean--you're not stopping here?
HAROLD. He's ruined everything, my Lord, running away in
here!
LANDOLPH. He's made him quite mad. We can't keep him in
there any longer. He's given orders that he's to be
arrested; and he wants to "judge" him at once from the
throne: What is to be done?
DI NOLLI. Shut the door, man! Shut the door! Go and close
that door! (_Landolph goes over to close it_).
HAROLD. Ordulph, alone, won't be able to keep him there.
LANDOLPH. --My Lord, perhaps if we could announce the
visitors at once, it would turn his thoughts. Have the
gentlemen thought under what pretext they will present
themselves to him?
DI NOLLI. --It's all been arranged! (_To the Doctor_): If
you, doctor, think it well to see him at once....
FRIDA. I'm not coming! I'm not coming! I'll keep out of
this. You too, mother, for Heaven's sake, come away with me!
DOCTOR. --I say ... I suppose he's not armed, is he?
DI NOLLI. --Nonsense! Of course not. (_To Frida_): Frida,
you know this is childish of you. You wanted to come!
FRIDA. I didn't at all. It was mother's idea.
DONNA MATILDA. And I'm quite ready to see him. What are we
going to do?
BELCREDI. Must we absolutely dress up in some fashion or
other?
LANDOLPH. --Absolutely essential, indispensable, sir. Alas!
as you see ... (_shows his costume_), there'd be awful
trouble if he saw you gentlemen in modern dress.
HAROLD. He would think it was some diabolical masquerade.
DI NOLLI. As these men seem to be in costume to you, so we
appear to be in costume to him, in these modern clothes of
ours.
LANDOLPH. It wouldn't matter so much if he wouldn't suppose
it to be the work of his mortal enemy.
BELCREDI. Pope Gregory VII.?
LANDOLPH. Precisely. He calls him "a pagan."
BELCREDI. The Pope a pagan? Not bad that!
LANDOLPH. --Yes, sir,--and a man who calls up the dead! He
accuses him of all the diabolical arts. He's terribly afraid
of him.
DOCTOR. Persecution mania!
HAROLD. He'd be simply furious.
DI NOLLI (_to Belcredi_). But there's no need for you to be
there, you know. It's sufficient for the doctor to see him.
DOCTOR. --What do you mean?... I? Alone?
DI NOLLI.--But they are there (_indicates the three young
men_).
DOCTOR. I don't mean that ... I mean if the Marchioness....
DONNA MATILDA. Of course. I mean to see him too, naturally.
I want to see him again.
FRIDA. Oh, why, mother, why? Do come away with me, I implore
you!
DONNA MATILDA (_imperiously_). Let me do as I wish! I came
here for this purpose! (_To Landolph_): I shall be
"Adelaide," the mother.
LANDOLPH. Excellent! The mother of the Empress Bertha. Good!
It will be enough if her Ladyship wears the ducal crown and
puts on a mantle that will hide her other clothes entirely.
(_To Harold_): Off you go, Harold!
HAROLD. Wait a moment! And this gentleman here (_alludes to
the Doctor_)?...
DOCTOR. --Ah yes ... we decided I was to be ... the Bishop
of Cluny, Hugh of Cluny!
HAROLD. The gentleman means the Abbot. Very good! Hugh of
Cluny.
LANDOLPH. --He's often been here before!
DOCTOR (_amazed_). --What? Been here before?
LANDOLPH. --Don't be alarmed! I mean that it's an easily
prepared disguise....
HAROLD. We've made use of it on other occasions, you see!
DOCTOR. But....
LANDOLPH. Oh no, there's no risk of his remembering. He pays
more attention to the dress than to the person.
DONNA MATILDA. That's fortunate for me too then.
DI NOLLI. Frida, you and I'll get along. Come on Tito!
BELCREDI. Ah no. If she (_indicates the Marchioness_) stops
here, so do I!
DONNA MATILDA. But I don't need you at all.
BELCREDI. You may not need me, but I should like to see him
again myself. Mayn't I?
LANDOLPH. Well, perhaps it would be better if there were
three.
HAROLD. How is the gentleman to be dressed then?
BELCREDI. Oh, try and find some easy costume for me.
LANDOLPH (_to Harold_). Hum! Yes ... he'd better be from
Cluny too.
BELCREDI. What do you mean--from Cluny?
LANDOLPH. A Benedictine's habit of the Abbey of Cluny. He
can be in attendance on Monsignor. (_To Harold_): Off you
go! (_To Berthold_). And you too get away and keep out of
sight all today. No, wait a bit! (_To Berthold_): You bring
here the costumes he will give you. (_To Harold_): You go at
once and announce the visit of the "Duchess Adelaide" and
"Monsignor Hugh of Cluny." Do you understand? (_Harold and
Berthold go off by the first door on the Right_).
DI NOLLI. We'll retire now. (_Goes off with Frida, left_).
DOCTOR. Shall I be a _persona grata_ to him, as Hugh of
Cluny?
LANDOLPH. Oh, rather! Don't worry about that! Monsignor has
always been received here with great respect. You too, my
Lady, he will be glad to see. He never forgets that it was
owing to the intercession of you two that he was admitted to
the Castle of Canossa and the presence of Gregory VII., who
didn't want to receive him.
BELCREDI. And what do I do?
LANDOLPH. You stand a little apart, respectfully: that's
all.
DONNA MATILDA (_irritated, nervous_). You would do well to
go away, you know.
BELCREDI (_slowly, spitefully_). How upset you seem!...
DONNA MATILDA (_proudly_). I am as I am. Leave me alone!
(_Berthold comes in with the costumes_).
LANDOLPH (_seeing him enter_). Ah, the costumes: here they
are. This mantle is for the Marchioness....
DONNA MATILDA. Wait a minute! I'll take off my hat. (_Does
so and gives it to Berthold_).
LANDOLPH. Put it down there! (_Then to the Marchioness,
while he offers to put the ducal crown on her head_). Allow
me!
DONNA MATILDA. Dear, dear! Isn't there a mirror here?
LANDOLPH. Yes, there's one there (_points to the door on the
Left_). If the Marchioness would rather put it on
herself....
DONNA MATILDA. Yes, yes, that will be better. Give it to me!
(_Takes up her hat and goes off with Berthold, who carries
the cloak and the crown_).
BELCREDI. Well, I must say, I never thought I should be a
Benedictine monk! By the way, this business must cost an
awful lot of money.
THE DOCTOR. Like any other fantasy, naturally!
BELCREDI. Well, there's a fortune to go upon.
LANDOLPH. We have got there a whole wardrobe of costumes of
the period, copied to perfection from old models. This is my
special job. I get them from the best theatrical costumers.
They cost lots of money. (_Donna Matilda re-enters, wearing
mantle and crown_).
BELCREDI (_at once, in admiration_). Oh magnificent! Oh,
truly regal!
DONNA MATILDA (_looking at Belcredi and bursting out into
laughter_). Oh no, no! Take it off! You're impossible. You
look like an ostrich dressed up as a monk.
BELCREDI. Well, how about the doctor?
THE DOCTOR. I don't think I look so bad, do I?
DONNA MATILDA. No; the doctor's all right ... but you are
too funny for words.
THE DOCTOR. Do you have many receptions here then?
LANDOLPH. It depends. He often gives orders that such and
such a person appear before him. Then we have to find
someone who will take the part. Women too....
DONNA MATILDA (_hurt, but trying to hide the fact_). Ah,
women too?
LANDOLPH. Oh, yes; many at first.
BELCREDI (_laughing_). Oh, that's great! In costume, like
the Marchioness?
LANDOLPH. Oh well, you know, women of the kind that lend
themselves to....
BELCREDI. Ah, I see! (_Perfidiously to the Marchioness_)
Look out, you know he's becoming dangerous for you.
(_The second door on the right opens, and Harold appears,
making first of all a discreet sign that all conversation
should cease_).
HAROLD. His Majesty, the Emperor!
(_The two valets enter first, and go and stand on either
side of the throne. Then Henry IV. comes in between Ordulph
and Harold, who keep a little in the rear respectfully._
HENRY IV. _is about_ 50 _and very pale. The hair on the back
of his head is already grey; over the temples and forehead
it appears blond, owing to its having been tinted in an
evident and puerile fashion. On his cheek bones he has two
small, doll-like dabs of colour, that stand out prominently
against the rest of his tragic pallor. He is wearing a
penitent's sack over his regal habit, as at Canossa. His
eyes have a fixed look which is dreadful to see, and this
expression is in strained contrast with the sackcloth.
Ordulph carries the Imperial crown; Harold, the sceptre with
the eagle, and the globe with the cross_).
HENRY IV. (_bowing first to Donna Matilda and afterwards to
the doctor_). My lady ... Monsignor....
(_Then he looks at Belcredi and seems about to greet him
too; when, suddenly, he turns to Landolph, who has
approached him, and asks him sotto voce and with
diffidence_): Is that Peter Damiani?
LANDOLPH. No, Sire. He is a monk from Cluny who is
accompanying the Abbot.
HENRY IV. (_looks again at Belcredi with increasing
mistrust, and then noticing that he appears embarrassed and
keeps glancing at Donna Matilda and the doctor, stands
upright and cries out_). No, it's Peter Damiani! It's no
use, father, your looking at the Duchess. (_Then turning
quickly to Donna Matilda and the doctor as though to ward
off a danger_): I swear it! I swear that my heart is changed
towards your daughter. I confess that if he (_indicates
Belcredi_) hadn't come to forbid it in the name of Pope
Alexander, I'd have repudiated her. Yes, yes, there were
people ready to favour the repudiation: the Bishop of
Mayence would have done it for a matter of one hundred and
twenty farms. (_Looks at Landolph a little perplexed and
adds_): But I mustn't speak ill of the bishops at this
moment! (_More humbly to Belcredi_): I am grateful to you,
believe me, I am grateful to you for the hindrance you put
in my way!--God knows, my life's been all made of
humiliations: my mother, Adalbert, Tribur, Goslar! And now
this sackcloth you see me wearing! (_Changes tone suddenly
and speaks like one who goes over his part in a parenthesis
of astuteness_). It doesn't matter: clarity of ideas,
perspicacity, firmness and patience under adversity that's
the thing. (_Then turning to all and speaking solemnly_). I
know how to make amend for the mistakes I have made; and I
can humiliate myself even before you, Peter Damiani. (_Bows
profoundly to him and remains curved. Then a suspicion is
born in him which he is obliged to utter in menacing tones,
almost against his will_). Was it not perhaps you who
started that obscene rumour that my holy mother had illicit
relations with the Bishop of Augusta?
BELCREDI (_since Henry IV. has his finger pointed at him_).
No, no, it wasn't I....
HENRY IV. (_straightening up_). Not true, not true? Infamy!
(_Looks at him and then adds_): I didn't think you capable
of it! (_Goes to the doctor and plucks his sleeve, while
winking at him knowingly_): Always the same, Monsignor,
those bishops, always the same!
HAROLD (_softly, whispering as if to help out the doctor_).
Yes, yes, the rapacious bishops!
THE DOCTOR (_to Harold, trying to keep it up_). Ah, yes,
those fellows ... ah yes....
HENRY IV. Nothing satisfies them! I was a little boy,
Monsignor.... One passes the time, playing even, when,
without knowing it, one is a king.--I was six years old; and
they tore me away from my mother, and made use of me against
her without my knowing anything about it ... always
profaning, always stealing, stealing!... One greedier than
the other ... Hanno worse than Stephen! Stephen worse than
Hanno!
LANDOLPH (_sotto voce, persuasively, to call his
attention_). Majesty!
HENRY IV. (_turning round quickly_). Ah yes ... this isn't
the moment to speak ill of the bishops. But this infamy
against my mother, Monsignor, is too much. (_Looks at the
Marchioness and grows tender_). And I can't even weep for
her, Lady ... I appeal to you who have a mother's heart! She
came here to see me from her convent a month ago.... They
had told me she was dead! (_Sustained pause full of feeling.
Then smiling sadly_): I can't weep for her; because if you
are here now, and I am like this (_shows the sackcloth he is
wearing_), it means I am twenty-six years old!
HAROLD. And that she is therefore alive, Majesty!...
ORDULPH. Still in her convent!
HENRY IV. (_looking at them_). Ah yes! And I can postpone my
grief to another time. (_Shows the Marchioness almost with
coquetery the tint he has given to his hair_). Look! I am
still fair.... (_Then slowly as if in confidence_). For you
... there's no need! But little exterior details do help! A
matter of time, Monsignor, do you understand me? (_Turns to
the Marchioness and notices her hair_). Ah, but I see that
you too, Duchess ... Italian, eh (_as much as to say
"false"; but without any indignation, indeed rather with
malicious admiration_)? Heaven forbid that I should show
disgust or surprise! Nobody cares to recognize that obscure
and fatal power which sets limits to pure will. But I say,
if one is born and one dies.... Did you want to be born,
Monsignor? I didn't! And in both cases, independently of our
wills, so many things happen we would wish didn't happen,
and to which we resign ourselves as best we can!...
DOCTOR (_merely to make a remark, while studying Henry IV.
carefully_). Alas! Yes, alas!
HENRY IV. It's like this: When we are not resigned, out come
our desires. A woman wants to be a man ... an old man would
be young again. Desires, ridiculous fixed ideas of
course--But reflect! Monsignor, those other desires are not
less ridiculous: I mean, those desires where the will is
kept within the limits of the possible. Not one of us can
lie or pretend. We're all fixed in good faith in a certain
concept of ourselves. However, Monsignor, while you keep
yourself in order, holding on with both your hands to your
holy habit, there slips down from your sleeves, there peels
off from you like ... like a serpent ... something you don't
notice: life, Monsignor! (_Turns to the Marchioness_): Has
it never happened to you, my Lady, to find a different self
in yourself? Have you always been the same? My God! One day
... how was it, how was it you were able to commit this or
that action? (_Fixes her so intently in the eyes as almost
to make her blanch_): Yes, that particular action, that very
one: we understand each other! But don't be afraid: I shall
reveal it to none. And you, Peter Damiani, how could you be
a friend of that man?...
LANDOLPH. Majesty!
HENRY IV. (_at once_). No, I won't name him! (_Turning to
Belcredi_): What did you think of him? But we all of us
cling tight to our conceptions of ourselves, just as he who
is growing old dyes his hair. What does it matter that this
dyed hair of mine isn't a reality for you, if it _is_, to
some extent, for me?--you, you, my Lady, certainly don't dye
your hair to deceive the others, nor even yourself; but only
to cheat your own image a little before the looking-glass. I
do it for a joke! You do it seriously! But I assure you that
you too, Madam, are in masquerade, though it be in all
seriousness; and I am not speaking of the venerable crown on
your brows or the ducal mantle. I am speaking only of the
memory you wish to fix in yourself of your fair complexion
one day when it pleased you--or of your dark complexion, if
you were dark: the fading image of your youth! For you,
Peter Damiani, on the contrary, the memory of what you have
been, of what you have done, seems to you a recognition of
past realities that remain within you like a dream. I'm in
the same case too: with so many inexplicable memories--like
dreams! Ah!... There's nothing to marvel at in it, Peter
Damiani! Tomorrow it will be the same thing with our life of
today! (_Suddenly getting excited and taking hold of his
sackcloth_). This sackcloth here.... (_Beginning to take it
off with a gesture of almost ferocious joy while the three
valets run over to him, frightened, as if to prevent his
doing so_)! Ah, my God! (_Draws back and throws off
sackcloth_). Tomorrow, at Bressanone, twenty-seven German
and Lombard bishops will sign with me the act of deposition
of Gregory VII.! No Pope at all! Just a false monk!
ORDULPH (_with the other three_). Majesty! Majesty! In God's
name!...
HAROLD (_inviting him to put on the sackcloth again_).
Listen to what he says, Majesty!
LANDOLPH. Monsignor is here with the Duchess to intercede in
your favor. (_Makes secret signs to the Doctor to say
something at once_).
DOCTOR (_foolishly_). Ah yes ... yes ... we are here to
intercede....
HENRY IV. (_repeating at once, almost terrified, allowing
the three to put on the sackcloth again, and pulling it down
over him with his own hands_). Pardon ... yes ... yes ...
pardon, Monsignor: forgive me, my Lady ... I swear to you I
feel the whole weight of the anathema. (_Bends himself,
takes his face between his hands, as though waiting for
something to crush him. Then changing tone, but without
moving, says softly to Landolph, Harold and Ordulph_): But I
don't know why I cannot be humble before that man there!
(_indicates Belcredi_).
LANDOLPH (_sottovoce_). But why, Majesty, do you insist on
believing he is Peter Damiani, when he isn't, at all?
HENRY IV. (_looking at him timorously_). He isn't Peter
Damiani?
HAROLD. No, no, he is a poor monk, Majesty.
HENRY IV. (_sadly with a touch of exasperation_). Ah! None
of us can estimate what we do when we do it from
instinct.... You perhaps, Madam, can understand me better
than the others, since you are a woman and a Duchess. This
is a solemn and decisive moment. I could, you know, accept
the assistance of the Lombard bishops, arrest the Pope, lock
him up here in the castle, run to Rome and elect an
anti-Pope; offer alliance to Robert Guiscard--and Gregory
VII. would be lost! I resist the temptation; and, believe
me, I am wise in doing so. I feel the atmosphere of our
times and the majesty of one who knows how to be what he
ought to be! a Pope! Do you feel inclined to laugh at me,
seeing me like this? You would be foolish to do so; for you
don't understand the political wisdom which makes this
penitent's sack advisable. The parts may be changed
tomorrow. What would you do then? Would you laugh to see the
Pope a prisoner? No! It would come to the same thing: I
dressed as a penitent, today; he, as prisoner tomorrow! But
woe to him who doesn't know how to wear his mask, be he king
or Pope!--Perhaps he is a bit too cruel! No! Yes, yes,
maybe!--You remember, my Lady, how your daughter Bertha, for
whom, I repeat, my feelings have changed (_turns to Belcredi
and shouts to his face as if he were being contradicted by
him_)--yes, changed on account of the affection and devotion
she showed me in that terrible moment ... (_then once again
to the Marchioness_) ... you remember how she came with me,
my Lady, followed me like a beggar and passed two nights out
in the open, in the snow? You are her mother! Doesn't this
touch your mother's heart? Doesn't this urge you to pity, so
that you will beg His Holiness for pardon, beg him to
receive us?
DONNA MATILDA (_trembling, with feeble voice_). Yes, yes, at
once....
DOCTOR. It shall be done!
HENRY IV. And one thing more! (_Draws them in to listen to
him_). It isn't enough that he should receive me! You know
he can do _everything_--_everything_ I tell you! He can even
call up the dead. (_Touches his chest_): Behold me! Do you
see me? There is no magic art unknown to him. Well,
Monsignor, my Lady, my torment is really this: that whether
here or there (_pointing to his portrait almost in fear_) I
can't free myself from this magic. I am a penitent now, you
see; and I swear to you I shall remain so until he receives
me. But you two, when the excommunication is taken off, must
ask the Pope to do this thing he can so easily do: to take
me away from that (_indicating the portrait again_); and let
me live wholly and freely my miserable life. A man can't
always be twenty-six, my Lady. I ask this of you for your
daughter's sake too; that I may love her as she deserves to
be loved, well disposed as I am now, all tender towards her
for her pity. There: it's all there! I am in your hands!
(_Bows_). My Lady! Monsignor!
(_He goes off, bowing grandly, through the door by which he
entered, leaving everyone stupefied, and the Marchioness so
profoundly touched, that no sooner has he gone than she
breaks out into sobs and sits down almost fainting_).
ACT II
(_Another room of the villa, adjoining the throne room. Its
furniture is antique and severe. Principal exit at rear in
the background. To the left, two windows looking on the
garden. To the right, a door opening into the throne room._
_Late afternoon of the same day._
_Donna Matilda, the doctor and Belcredi are on the stage
engaged in conversation; but Donna Matilda stands to one
side, evidently annoyed at what the other two are saying;
although she cannot help listening, because, in her agitated
state, everything interests her in spite of herself. The
talk of the other two attracts her attention, because she
instinctively feels the need for calm at the moment_).
BELCREDI. It may be as you say, doctor, but that was my
impression.
DOCTOR. I won't contradict you; but, believe me, it is only
... an impression.
BELCREDI. Pardon me, but he even said so, and quite clearly
(_turning to the Marchioness_). Didn't he, Marchioness?
DONNA MATILDA (_turning round_). What did he say?... (_Then
not agreeing_). Oh yes ... but not for the reason you think!
DOCTOR. He was alluding to the costumes we had slipped
on.... Your cloak (_indicating the Marchioness_), our
Benedictine habits.... But all this is childish!
DONNA MATILDA (_turning quickly, indignant_). Childish? What
do you mean, doctor?
DOCTOR. From one point of view, it is--I beg you to let me
say so, Marchioness! Yet, on the other hand, it is much more
complicated than you can imagine.
DONNA MATILDA. To me, on the contrary, it is perfectly
clear!
DOCTOR (_with a smile of pity of the competent person
towards those who do not understand_). We must take into
account the peculiar psychology of madmen; which, you must
know, enables us to be certain that they observe things and
can, for instance, easily detect people who are disguised;
can in fact recognize the disguise and yet believe in it;
just as children do, for whom disguise is both play and
reality. That is why I used the word childish. But the thing
is extremely complicated, inasmuch as he must be perfectly
aware of being an image to himself and for himself--that
image there, in fact (_alluding to the portrait in the
throne room, and pointing to the left_)!
BELCREDI. That's what he said!
DOCTOR. Very well then--An image before which other images,
ours, have appeared: understand? Now he, in his acute and
perfectly lucid delirium, was able to detect at once a
difference between his image and ours: that is, he saw that
ours were make-believes. So he suspected us; because all
madmen are armed with a special diffidence. But that's all
there is to it! Our make-believe, built up all round his,
did not seem pitiful to him. While his seemed all the more
tragic to us, in that he, as if in
defiance--understand?--and induced by his suspicion, wanted
to show us up merely as a joke. That was also partly the
case with him, in coming before us with painted cheeks and
hair, and saying he had done it on purpose for a jest.
DONNA MATILDA (_impatiently_). No, it's not that, doctor.
It's not like that! It's not like that!
DOCTOR. Why isn't it, may I ask?
DONNA MATILDA (_with decision but trembling_). I am
perfectly certain he recognized me!
DOCTOR. It's not possible ... it's not possible!
BELCREDI (_at the same time_). Of course not!
DONNA MATILDA (_more than ever determined, almost
convulsively_). I tell you, he recognized me! When he came
close up to speak to me--looking in my eyes, right into my
eyes--he recognized me!
BELCREDI. But he was talking of your daughter!
DONNA MATILDA. That's not true! He was talking of me! Of me!
BELCREDI. Yes, perhaps, when he said....
DONNA MATILDA (_letting herself go_). About my dyed hair!
But didn't you notice that he added at once: "or the memory
of your dark hair, if you were dark"? He remembered
perfectly well that I was dark--then!
BELCREDI. Nonsense! nonsense!
DONNA MATILDA (_not listening to him, turning to the
doctor_). My hair, doctor, is really dark--like my
daughter's! That's why he spoke of her.
BELCREDI. But he doesn't even know your daughter! He's never
seen her!
DONNA MATILDA. Exactly! Oh, you never understand anything!
By my daughter, stupid, he meant me--as I was then!
BELCREDI. Oh, this is catching! This is catching, this
madness!
DONNA MATILDA (_softly, with contempt_). Fool!
BELCREDI. Excuse me, were you ever his wife? Your daughter
is his wife--in his delirium: Bertha of Susa.
DONNA MATILDA. Exactly! Because I, no longer dark--as he
remembered me--but _fair_, introduced myself as "Adelaide,"
the mother. My daughter doesn't exist for him: he's never
seen her--you said so yourself! So how can he know whether
she's fair or dark?
BELCREDI. But he said dark, speaking generally, just as
anyone who wants to recall, whether fair or dark, a memory
of youth in the color of the hair! And you, as usual, begin
to imagine things! Doctor, you said I ought not to have
come! It's she who ought not to have come!
DONNA MATILDA (_upset for a moment by Belcredi's remark,
recovers herself. Then with a touch of anger, because
doubtful_). No, no ... he spoke of me... He spoke all the
time to me, with me, of me....
BELCREDI. That's not bad! He didn't leave me a moment's
breathing space; and you say he was talking all the time to
you? Unless you think he was alluding to you too, when he
was talking to Peter Damiani!
DONNA MATILDA (_defiantly, almost exceeding the limits of
courteous discussion_). Who knows? Can you tell me why, from
the outset, he showed a strong dislike for you, for you
alone? (_From the tone of the question, the expected answer
must almost explicitly be: "because he understands you are
my lover." Belcredi feels this so well that he remains
silent and can say nothing_).
DOCTOR. The reason may also be found in the fact that only
the visit of the Duchess Adelaide and the abbot of Cluny was
announced to him. Finding a third person present, who had
not been announced, at once his suspicions....
BELCREDI. Yes, exactly! His suspicion made him see an enemy
in me: Peter Damiani! But she's got it into her head, that
he recognized her....
DONNA MATILDA. There's no doubt about it! I could see it
from his eyes, doctor. You know, there's a way of looking
that leaves no doubt whatever.... Perhaps it was only for an
instant, but I am sure!
DOCTOR. It is not impossible: a lucid moment....
DONNA MATILDA. Yes, perhaps ... And then his speech seemed
to me full of regret for his and my youth--for the horrible
thing that happened to him, that has held him in that
disguise from which he has never been able to free himself,
and from which he longs to be free--he said so himself!
BELCREDI. Yes, so as to be able to make love to your
daughter, or you, as you believe--having been touched by
your pity.
DONNA MATILDA. Which is very great, I would ask you to
believe.
BELCREDI. As one can see, Marchioness; so much so that a
miracle-worker might expect a miracle from it!
DOCTOR. Will you let me speak? I don't work miracles,
because I am a doctor and not a miracle-worker. I listened
very intently to all he said; and I repeat that that certain
analogical elasticity, common to all symptomatised delirium,
is evidently with him much ... what shall I say?--much
relaxed! The elements, that is, of his delirium no longer
hold together. It seems to me he has lost the equilibrium of
his second personality and sudden recollections drag
him--and this is very comforting--not from a state of
incipient apathy, but rather from a morbid inclination to
reflective melancholy, which shows a ... a very considerable
cerebral activity. Very comforting, I repeat! Now if, by
this violent trick we've planned....
DONNA MATILDA (_turning to the window, in the tone of a sick
person complaining_). But how is it that the motor has not
returned? It's three hours and a half since....
DOCTOR. What do you say?
DONNA MATILDA. The motor, doctor! It's more than three hours
and a half....
DOCTOR (_taking out his watch and looking at it_). Yes, more
than four hours, by this!
DONNA MATILDA. It could have reached here an hour ago at
least! But, as usual....
BELCREDI. Perhaps they can't find the dress....
DONNA MATILDA. But I explained exactly where it was!
(_impatiently_). And Frida ... where is Frida?
BELCREDI (_looking out of the window_). Perhaps she is in
the garden with Charles....
DOCTOR. He'll talk her out of her fright.
BELCREDI. She's not afraid, doctor; don't you believe it:
the thing bores her rather....
DONNA MATILDA. Just don't ask anything of her! I know what
she's like.
DOCTOR. Let's wait patiently. Anyhow, it will soon be over,
and it has to be in the evening.... It will only be the
matter of a moment! If we can succeed in rousing him, as I
was saying, and in breaking at one go the threads--already
slack--which still bind him to this fiction of his, giving
him back what he himself asks for--you remember, he said:
"one cannot always be twenty-six years old, madam!" if we
can give him freedom from this torment, which even _he_
feels is a torment, then if he is able to recover at one
bound the sensation of the distance of time....
BELCREDI (_quickly_). He'll be cured! (_then emphatically
with irony_). We'll pull him out of it all!
DOCTOR. Yes, we may hope to set him going again, like a
watch which has stopped at a certain hour ... just as if we
had our watches in our hands and were waiting for that other
watch to go again.--A shake--so--and let's hope it'll tell
the time again after its long stop. (_At this point the
Marquis Charles Di Nolli enters from the principal
entrance_).
DONNA MATILDA. Oh, Charles!... And Frida? Where is she?
DI NOLLI. She'll be here in a moment.
DOCTOR. Has the motor arrived?
DI NOLLI. Yes.
DONNA MATILDA. Yes? Has the dress come?
DI NOLLI. It's been here some time.
DOCTOR. Good! Good!
DONNA MATILDA (_trembling_). Where is she? Where's Frida?
DI NOLLI (_shrugging his shoulders and smiling sadly, like
one lending himself unwillingly to an untimely joke_).
You'll see, you'll see!... (_pointing towards the hall_).
Here she is!... (_Berthold appears at the threshold of the
hall, and announces with solemnity_).
BERTHOLD. Her Highness the Countess Matilda of Canossa!
(_Frida enters, magnificent and beautiful, arrayed in the
robes of her mother as "Countess Matilda of Tuscany," so
that she is a living copy of the portrait in the throne
room_).
FRIDA (_passing Berthold, who is bowing, says to him with
disdain_). Of Tuscany, of Tuscany! Canossa is just one of my
castles!
BELCREDI (_in admiration_). Look! Look! She seems another
person....
DONNA MATILDA. One would say it were I! Look!--Why, Frida,
look! She's exactly my portrait, alive!
DOCTOR. Yes, yes.... Perfect! Perfect! The portrait, to the
life.
BELCREDI. Yes, there's no question about it. She _is_ the
portrait! Magnificent!
FRIDA. Don't make me laugh, or I shall burst! I say, mother,
what a tiny waist you had? I had to squeeze so to get into
this!
DONNA MATILDA (_arranging her dress a little_). Wait!...
Keep still!... These pleats ... is it really so tight?
FRIDA. I'm suffocating! I implore you, to be quick!...
DOCTOR. But we must wait till it's evening!
FRIDA. No, no, I can't hold out till evening!
DONNA MATILDA. Why did you put it on so soon?
FRIDA. The moment I saw it, the temptation was
irresistible....
DONNA MATILDA. At least you could have called me, or have
had someone help you! It's still all crumpled.
FRIDA. So I saw, mother; but they are old creases; they
won't come out.
DOCTOR. It doesn't matter, Marchioness! The illusion is
perfect. (_Then coming nearer and asking her to come in
front of her daughter, without hiding her_). If you please,
stay there, there ... at a certain distance ... now a little
more forward....
BELCREDI. For the feeling of the distance of time....
DONNA MATILDA (_slightly turning to him_). Twenty years
after! A disaster! A tragedy!
BELCREDI. Now don't let's exaggerate!
DOCTOR (_embarrassed, trying to save the situation_). No,
no! I meant the dress ... so as to see ... You know....
BELCREDI (_laughing_). Oh, as for the dress, doctor, it
isn't a matter of twenty years! It's eight hundred! An
abyss! Do you really want to shove him across it (_pointing
first to Frida and then to Marchioness_) from there to here?
But you'll have to pick him up in pieces with a basket! Just
think now: for us it is a matter of twenty years, a couple
of dresses, and a masquerade. But, if, as you say, doctor,
time has stopped for and around him: if he lives there
(_pointing to Frida_) with her, eight hundred years ago....
I repeat: the giddiness of the jump will be such, that
finding himself suddenly among us.... (_The doctor shakes
his head in dissent_). You don't think so?
DOCTOR. No, because life, my dear baron, can take up its
rhythms. This--our life--will at once become real also to
him; and will pull him up directly, wresting from him
suddenly the illusion, and showing him that the eight
hundred years, as you say, are only twenty! It will be like
one of those tricks, such as the leap into space, for
instance, of the Masonic rite, which appears to be heaven
knows how far, and is only a step down the stairs.
BELCREDI. Ah! An idea! Yes! Look at Frida and the
Marchioness, doctor! Which is more advanced in time? We old
people, doctor! The young ones think they are more ahead;
but it isn't true: we are more ahead, because time belongs
to us more than to them.
DOCTOR. If the past didn't alienate us....
BELCREDI. It doesn't matter at all! How does it alienate us?
They (_pointing to Frida and Di Nolli_) have still to do
what we have accomplished, doctor: to grow old, doing the
same foolish things, more or less, as we did.... This is the
illusion: that one comes forward through a door to life. It
isn't so! As soon as one is born, one starts dying;
therefore, he who started first is the most advanced of all.
The youngest of us is father Adam! Look there: (_pointing to
Frida_) eight hundred years younger than all of us--the
Countess Matilda of Tuscany. (_He makes her a deep bow_).
DI NOLLI. I say, Tito, don't start joking.
BELCREDI. Oh, you think I am joking?...
DI NOLLI. Of course, of course ... all the time.
BELCREDI. Impossible! I've even dressed up as a
Benedictine....
DI NOLLI. Yes, but for a serious purpose.
BELCREDI. Well, exactly. If it has been serious for the
others ... for Frida, now, for instance. (_Then turning to
the doctor_): I swear, doctor, I don't yet understand what
you want to do.
DOCTOR (_annoyed_). You'll see! Let me do as I wish.... At
present you see the Marchioness still dressed as....
BELCREDI. Oh, she also ... has to masquerade?
DOCTOR. Of course! of course! In another dress that's in
there ready to be used when it comes into his head he sees
the Countess Matilda of Canossa before him.
FRIDA (_while talking quietly to Di Nolli notices the
doctor's mistake_). Of Tuscany, of Tuscany!
DOCTOR. It's all the same!
BELCREDI. Oh, I see! He'll be faced by two of them....
DOCTOR. Two, precisely! And then....
FRIDA (_calling him aside_). Come here, doctor! Listen!
DOCTOR. Here I am! (_Goes near the two young people and
pretends to give some explanations to them_).
BELCREDI (_softly to Donna Matilda_). I say, this is getting
rather strong, you know!
DONNA MATILDA (_looking him firmly in the face_). What?
BELCREDI. Does it really interest you as much as all
that--to make you willing to take part in...? For a woman
this is simply enormous!...
DONNA MATILDA. Yes, for an ordinary woman.
BELCREDI. Oh, no, my dear, for all women,--in a question
like this! It's an abnegation.
DONNA MATILDA. I owe it to him.
BELCREDI. Don't lie! You know well enough it's not hurting
you!
DONNA MATILDA. Well then, where does the abnegation come in?
BELCREDI. Just enough to prevent you losing caste in other
people's eyes--and just enough to offend me!...
DONNA MATILDA. But who is worrying about you now?
DI NOLLI (_coming forward_). It's all right. It's all right.
That's what we'll do! (_Turning towards Berthold_): Here
you, go and call one of those fellows!
BERTHOLD. At once! (_Exit_).
DONNA MATILDA. But first of all we've got to pretend that we
are going away.
DI NOLLI. Exactly! I'll see to that ... (_to Belcredi_) you
don't mind staying here?
BELCREDI (_ironically_). Oh, no, I don't mind, I don't
mind!...
DI NOLLI. We must look out not to make him suspicious again,
you know.
BELCREDI. Oh, Lord! _He_ doesn't amount to anything!
DOCTOR. He must believe absolutely that we've gone away.
(_Landolph followed by Berthold enters from the right_).
LANDOLPH. May I come in?
DI NOLLI. Come in! Come in! I say--your name's Lolo, isn't
it?
LANDOLPH. Lolo, or Landolph, just as you like!
DI NOLLI. Well, look here: the doctor and the Marchioness
are leaving, at once.
LANDOLPH. Very well. All we've got to say is that they have
been able to obtain the permission for the reception from
His Holiness. He's in there in his own apartments repenting
of all he said--and in an awful state to have the pardon!
Would you mind coming a minute?... If you would, just for a
minute ... put on the dress again....
DOCTOR. Why, of course, with pleasure....
LANDOLPH. Might I be allowed to make a suggestion? Why not
add that the Marchioness of Tuscany has interceded with the
Pope that he should be received?
DONNA MATILDA. You see, he has recognized me!
LANDOLPH. Forgive me ... I don't know my history very well.
I am sure you gentlemen know it much better! But I thought
it was believed that Henry IV. had a secret passion for the
Marchioness of Tuscany.
DONNA MATILDA (_at once_). Nothing of the kind! Nothing of
the kind!
LANDOLPH. That's what I thought! But he says he's loved her
... he's always saying it.... And now he fears that her
indignation for this secret love of his will work him harm
with the Pope.
BELCREDI. We must let him understand that this aversion no
longer exists.
LANDOLPH. Exactly! Of course!
DONNA MATILDA (_to Belcredi_). History says--I don't know
whether you know it or not--that the Pope gave way to the
supplications of the Marchioness Matilda and the Abbot of
Cluny. And I may say, my dear Belcredi, that I intended to
take advantage of this fact--at the time of the pageant--to
show him my feelings were not so hostile to him as he
supposed.
BELCREDI. You are most faithful to history, Marchioness....
LANDOLPH. Well then, the Marchioness could spare herself a
double disguise and present herself with Monsignor
(_indicating the doctor_) as the Marchioness of Tuscany.
DOCTOR (_quickly, energetically_). No, no! That won't do at
all. It would ruin everything. The impression from the
confrontation must be a sudden one, give a shock! No, no,
Marchioness, you will appear again as the Duchess Adelaide,
the mother of the Empress. And then we'll go away. This is
most necessary: that he should know we've gone away. Come
on! Don't let's waste any more time! There's a lot to
prepare.
(_Exeunt the doctor. Donna Matilda, and Landolph, Right_).
FRIDA. I am beginning to feel afraid again.
DI NOLLI. Again, Frida?
FRIDA. It would have been better if I had seen him before.
DI NOLLI. There's nothing to be frightened of, really.
FRIDA. He isn't furious, is he?
DI NOLLI. Of course not! he's quite calm.
BELCREDI (_with ironic sentimental affectation_).
Melancholy! Didn't you hear that he loves you?
FRIDA. Thanks! That's just why I am afraid.
BELCREDI. He won't do you any harm.
DI NOLLI. It'll only last a minute....
FRIDA. Yes, but there in the dark with him....
DI NOLLI. Only for a moment; and I will be near you, and all
the others behind the door ready to run in. As soon as you
see your mother, your part will be finished....
BELCREDI. I'm afraid of a different thing: that we're
wasting our time....
DI NOLLI. Don't begin again! The remedy seems a sound one to
me.
FRIDA. I think so too! I feel it! I'm all trembling!
BELCREDI. But, mad people, my dear friends--though they
don't know it, alas--have this felicity which we don't take
into account....
DI NOLLI (_interrupting, annoyed_). What felicity? Nonsense!
BELCREDI (_forcefully_). They don't reason!
DI NOLLI. What's reasoning got to do with it, anyway?
BELCREDI. Don't you call it reasoning that he will have to
do--according to us--when he sees her (_indicates Frida_)
and her mother? We've reasoned it all out, surely!
DI NOLLI. Nothing of the kind: no reasoning at all. We put
before him a double image of his own fantasy, or fiction, as
the doctor says.
BELCREDI (_suddenly_). I say, I've never understood why they
take degrees in medicine.
DI NOLLI (_amazed_). Who?
BELCREDI. The alienists!
DI NOLLI. What ought they to take degrees in, then?
FRIDA. If they are alienists, in what else should they take
degrees?
BELCREDI. In law, of course! All a matter of talk! The more
they talk, the more highly they are considered. "Analogous
elasticity," "the sensation of distance in time!" And the
first thing they tell you is that they don't work
miracles--when a miracle's just what is wanted! But they
know that the more they say they are not miracle-workers,
the more folk believe in their seriousness!
BERTHOLD (_who has been looking through the keyhole of the
door on right_). There they are! There they are! They're
coming in here.
DI NOLLI. Are they?
BERTHOLD. He wants to come with them.... Yes!... He's coming
too!
DI NOLLI. Let's get away, then! Let's get away, at once!
(_To Berthold_): You stop here!
BERTHOLD. Must I?
(_Without answering him, Di Nolli, Frida, and Belcredi go
out by the main exit, leaving Berthold surprised. The door
on the right opens, and Landolph enters first, bowing. Then
Donna Matilda comes in, with mantle and ducal crown as in
the first act; also the doctor as the abbot of Cluny. Henry
IV. is among them in royal dress. Ordulph and Harold enter
last of all_).
HENRY IV. (_following up what he has been saying in the
other room_). And now I will ask you a question: how can I
be astute, if you think me obstinate?
DOCTOR. No, no, not obstinate!
HENRY IV. (_smiling, pleased_). Then you think me really
astute?
DOCTOR. No, no, neither obstinate, nor astute.
HENRY IV. (_with benevolent irony_). Monsignor, if obstinacy
is not a vice which can go with astuteness, I hoped that in
denying me the former, you would at least allow me a little
of the latter. I can assure you I have great need of it. But
if you want to keep it all for yourself....
DOCTOR. I? I? Do I seem astute to you?
HENRY IV. No. Monsignor! What do you say? Not in the least!
Perhaps in this case, I may seem a little obstinate to you
(_cutting short to speak to Donna Matilda_). With your
permission: a word in confidence to the Duchess. (_Leads her
aside and asks her very earnestly_): Is your daughter really
dear to you?
DONNA MATILDA (_dismayed_). Why, yes, certainly....
HENRY IV. Do you wish me to compensate her with all my love,
with all my devotion, for the grave wrongs I have done
her--though you must not believe all the stories my enemies
tell about my dissoluteness!
DONNA MATILDA. No, no, I don't believe them. I never have
believed such stories.
HENRY IV. Well, then are you willing?
DONNA MATILDA (_confused_). What?
HENRY IV. That I return to love your daughter again? (_Looks
at her and adds, in a mysterious tone of warning_). You
mustn't be a friend of the Marchioness of Tuscany!
DONNA MATILDA. I tell you again that she has begged and
tried not less than ourselves to obtain your pardon....
HENRY IV. (_softly, but excitedly_). Don't tell me that!
Don't say that to me! Don't you see the effect it has on me,
my Lady?
DONNA MATILDA (_looks at him; then very softly as if in
confidence_). You love her still?
HENRY IV. (_puzzled_). Still? Still, you say? You know,
then? But nobody knows! Nobody must know!
DONNA MATILDA. But perhaps she knows, if she has begged so
hard for you!
HENRY IV. (_looks at her and says_): And you love your
daughter? (_Brief pause. He turns to the doctor with
laughing accents_). Ah, Monsignor, it's strange how little I
think of my wife! It may be a sin, but I swear to you that I
hardly feel her at all in my heart. What is stranger is that
her own mother scarcely feels her in her heart. Confess, my
Lady, that she amounts to very little for you. (_Turning to
Doctor_): She talks to me of that other woman, insistently,
insistently, I don't know why!...
LANDOLPH (_humbly_). Maybe, Majesty, it is to disabuse you
of some ideas you have had about the Marchioness of Tuscany.
(_Then, dismayed at having allowed himself this observation,
adds_): I mean just now, of course....
HENRY IV. You too maintain that she has been friendly to me?
LANDOLPH. Yes, at the moment, Majesty.
DONNA MATILDA. Exactly! Exactly!...
HENRY IV. I understand. That is to say, you don't believe I
love her. I see! I see! Nobody's ever believed it, nobody's
ever thought it. Better so, then! But enough, enough!
(_Turns to the doctor with changed expression_): Monsignor,
you see? The reasons the Pope has had for revoking the
excommunication have got nothing at all to do with the
reasons for which he excommunicated me originally. Tell Pope
Gregory we shall meet again at Brixen. And you, Madame,
should you chance to meet your daughter in the courtyard of
the castle of your friend the Marchioness, ask her to visit
me. We shall see if I succeed in keeping her close beside me
as wife and Empress. Many women have presented themselves
here already assuring me that they were she. But they all,
even while they told me they came from Susa--I don't know
why--began to laugh! And then in the bedroom.... Well a man
is a man, and a woman is a woman. Undressed, we don't bother
much about who we are. And one's dress is like a phantom
that hovers, always near one. Oh, Monsignor, phantoms in
general are nothing more than trifling disorders of the
spirit: images we cannot contain within the bounds of sleep.
They reveal themselves even when we are awake, and they
frighten us. I ... ah ... I am always afraid when, at night
time, I see disordered images before me. Sometimes I am even
afraid of my own blood pulsing loudly in my arteries in the
silence of night, like the sound of a distant step in a
lonely corridor!... But, forgive me! I have kept you
standing too long already. I thank you, my Lady, I thank
you, Monsignor. (_Donna Matilda and the Doctor go off
bowing. As soon as they have gone, Henry IV. suddenly
changes his tone_). Buffoons, buffoons! One can play any
tune on them! And that other fellow ... Pietro Damiani!...
Caught him out perfectly! He's afraid to appear before me
again. (_Moves up and down excitedly while saying this; then
sees Berthold, and points him out to the other three
valets_). Oh, look at this imbecile watching me with his
mouth wide open! (_Shakes him_). Don't you understand? Don't
you see, idiot, how I treat them, how I play the fool with
them, make them appear before me just as I wish? Miserable,
frightened clowns that they are! And you (_addressing the
valets_) are amazed that I tear off their ridiculous masks
now, just as if it wasn't I who had made them mask
themselves to satisfy this taste of mine for playing the
madman!
LANDOLPH--HAROLD--ORDULPH (_bewildered, looking at one
another_). What? What does he say? What?
HENRY IV. (_answers them imperiously_). Enough! enough!
Let's stop it. I'm tired of it. (_Then as if the thought
left him no peace_): By God! The impudence! To come here
along with her lover!... And pretending to do it out of
pity! So as not to infuriate a poor devil already out of the
world, out of time, out of life! If it hadn't been supposed
to be done out of pity, one can well imagine that fellow
wouldn't have allowed it. Those people expect others to
behave as they wish all the time. And of course, there's
nothing arrogant in that! Oh, no! Oh, no! It's merely their
way of thinking, of feeling, of seeing. Everybody has his
own way of thinking; you fellows, too. Yours is that of a
flock of sheep--miserable, feeble, uncertain.... But those
others take advantage of this and make you accept their way
of thinking; or, at least, they suppose they do; Because,
after all, what do they succeed in imposing on you? Words,
words which anyone can interpret in his own manner! That's
the way public opinion is formed! And it's a bad look out
for a man who finds himself labelled one day with one of
these words which everyone repeats; for example "madman," or
"imbecile." Don't you think is rather hard for a man to keep
quiet, when he knows that there is a fellow going about
trying to persuade everybody that he is as he sees him, than
to fix him in other people's opinion as a
"madman"--according to him? Now I am talking seriously!
Before I hurt my head, falling from my horse.... (_stops
suddenly, noticing the dismay of the four young men_).
What's the matter with you? (_Imitates their amazed looks_).
What? Am I, or am I not, mad? Oh, yes! I'm mad all right!
(_He becomes terrible_). Well, then, by God, down on your
knees, down on your knees! (_Makes them go down on their
knees one by one_). I order you to go down on your knees
before me! And touch the ground three times with your
foreheads! Down, down! That's the way you've got to be
before madmen! (_Then annoyed with their facile
humiliation_): Get up, sheep! You obeyed me, didn't you? You
might have put the straight jacket on me!... Crush a man
with the weight of a word--it's nothing--a fly! all our life
is crushed by the weigh of words: the weight of the dead.
Look at me here: can you really suppose that Henry IV. is
still alive? All the same, I speak, and order you live men
about! Do you think it's a joke that the dead continue to
live?--Yes, _here_ it's a joke! But get out into the live
world!--Ah, you say: what a beautiful sunrise--for us! All
time is before us!--Dawn! We will do what we like with this
day--. Ah, yes! To tell with tradition, the old conventions!
Well, go on! You will do nothing but repeat the old, old
words, while you imagine you are living! (_Goes up to
Berthold who has now become quite stupid_.) You don't
understand a word of this, do you? What's your name?
BERTHOLD. I?... What?... Berthold....
HENRY IV. Poor Berthold! What's your name here?
BERTHOLD. I ... I ... my name in Fino.
HENRY IV. (_feeling the warning and critical glances of the
others, turns to them to reduce them to silence_). Fino?
BERTHOLD. Fino Pagliuca, sire.
HENRY IV. (_turning to Landolph_). I've heard you call each
other by your nick-names often enough! Your name is Lolo,
isn't it?
LANDOLPH. Yes, sire.... (_then with a sense of immense
joy_). Oh, Lord! Oh Lord! Then he is not mad....
HENRY IV. (_brusquely_). What?
LANDOLPH (_hesitating_). No ... I said....
HENRY IV. Not mad, eh? We're having a joke on those that
think I am mad! (_To Harold_)--I say, boy, your name's
Franco.... (_to Ordulph_) And yours....
ORDULPH. Momo.
HENRY IV. Momo, Momo.... A nice name that!
LANDOLPH. So he isn't....
HENRY IV. What are you talking about? Of course not! Let's
have a jolly, good laugh!... (_Laughs_): Ah!... Ah!...
Ah!...
LANDOLPH--HAROLD--ORDULPH (_looking at each other half happy
and half dismayed_). Then he's cured!... he's all right!...
HENRY IV. Silence! Silence!... (_To Berthold_): Why don't
you laugh? Are you offended? I didn't mean it especially for
you. It's convenient for everybody to insist that certain
people are mad, so they can be shut up. Do you know why?
Because it's impossible to hear them speak! What shall I say
of these people who've just gone away? That one is a whore,
another a libertine, another a swindler ... don't you think
so? You can't believe a word he says ... don't you think
so?--By the way, they all listen to me terrified. And why
are they terrified, if what I say isn't true? Of course, you
can't believe what madmen say--yet, at the same time, they
stand there with their eyes wide open with terror!--Why?
Tell me, tell me, why?--You see I'm quite calm now!
BERTHOLD. But, perhaps, they think that....
HENRY IV. No, no, my dear fellow! Look me well in the
eyes!... I don't say that it's true--nothing is true,
Berthold! But ... look me in the eyes!
BERTHOLD. Well....
HENRY IV. You see? You see?... You have terror in your own
eyes now because I seem mad to you! There's the proof of it
(_laughs_)!
LANDOLPH (_coming forward in the name of the others,
exasperated_). What proof?
HENRY IV. Your being so dismayed because now I seem again
mad to you. You have thought me mad up to now, haven't you?
You feel that this dismay of yours can become terror
too--something to dash away the ground from under your feet
and deprive you of the air you breathe! Do you know what it
means to find yourselves face to face with a madman--with
one who shakes the foundations of all you have built up in
yourselves, your logic, the logic of all your constructions?
Madmen, lucky folk! construct without logic, or rather with
a logic that flies like a feather. Voluble! Voluble! Today
like this and tomorrow--who knows? You say: "This cannot
be"; but for them everything can be. You say: "This isn't
true!" And why? Because it doesn't seem true to you, or you,
or you ... (_indicates the three of them in succession_) ...
and to a hundred thousand others! One must see what seems
true to these hundred thousand others who are not supposed
to be mad! What a magnificent spectacle they afford, when
they reason! What flowers of logic they scatter! I know that
when I was a child, I thought the moon in the pond was real.
How many things I thought real! I believed everything I was
told--and I was happy! Because it's a terrible thing if you
don't hold on to that which seems true to you today--to that
which will seem true to you tomorrow, even if it is the
opposite of that which seemed true to you yesterday. I would
never wish you to think, as I have done, on this horrible
thing which really drives one mad: that if you were beside
another and looking into his eyes--as I one day looked into
somebody's eyes--you might as well be a beggar before a door
never to be opened to you; for he who does enter there will
never be you, but someone unknown to you with his own
indifferent and impenetrable world.... (_Long pause.
Darkness gathers in the room, increasing the sense of
strangeness and consternation in which the four young men
are involved. Henry IV. remains aloof, pondering on the
misery which is not only his, but everybody's. Then he pulls
himself up, and says in an ordinary tone_): It's getting
dark here....
ORDULPH. Shall I go for a lamp?
HENRY IV. (_Ironically_). The lamp, yes the lamp!... Do you
suppose I don't know that as soon as I turn my back with my
oil lamp to go to bed, you turn on the electric light for
yourselves, here, and even there, in the throne room? I
pretend not to see it!
ORDULPH. Well, then, shall I turn it on now?
HENRY IV. No, it would blind me! I want my lamp!
ORDULPH. It's ready here behind the door. (_Goes to the main
exit, opens the door, goes out for a moment, and returns
with an ancient lamp which is held by a ring at the top_).
HENRY IV. Ah, a little light! Sit there around the table,
no, not like that; in an elegant, easy, manner!... (_To
Harold_): Yes, you, like that (poses him)! (_Then to
Berthold_): You, so!... and I, here (_sits opposite them_)!
We could do with a little decorative moonlight. It's very
useful for us, the moonlight. I feel a real necessity for
it, and pass a lot of time looking up at the moon from my
window. Who would think, to look at her that she knows that
eight hundred years have passed, and that I, seated at the
window, cannot really be Henry IV. gazing at the moon like
any poor devil? But, look, look! See what a magnificent
night scene we have here: the emperor surrounded by his
faithful counsellors!... How do you like it?
LANDOLPH (_softly to Harold, so as not to break the
enchantment_). And to think it wasn't true!...
HENRY IV. True? What wasn't true?
LANDOLPH (_timidly as if to excuse himself_). No ... I mean
... I was saying this morning to him (_indicates
Berthold_)--he has just entered on service here--I was
saying: what a pity that dressed like this and with so many
beautiful costumes in the wardrobe ... and with a room like
that (_indicates the throne room_)....
HENRY IV. Well? what's the pity?
LANDOLPH. Well ... that we didn't know....
HENRY IV. That it was all done in jest, this comedy?
LANDOLPH. Because we thought that....
HAROLD (_coming to his assistance_). Yes ... that it was
done seriously!
HENRY IV. What do you say? Doesn't it seem serious to you?
LANDOLPH. But if you say that....
HENRY IV. I say that--you are fools! You ought to have known
how to create a fantasy for yourselves, not to act it for
me, or anyone coming to see me; but naturally, simply, day
by day, before nobody, feeling yourselves alive in the
history of the eleventh century, here at the court of your
emperor, Henry IV.! You Ordulph (_taking him by the arm_),
alive in the castle of Goslar, waking up in the morning,
getting out of bed, and entering straightway into the dream,
clothing yourself in the dream that would be no more a
dream, because you would have lived it, felt it all alive in
you. You would have drunk it in with the air you breathed;
yet knowing all the time that it was a dream, so you could
better enjoy the privilege afforded you of having to do
nothing else but live this dream, this far off and yet
actual dream! And to think that at a distance of eight
centuries from this remote age of ours, so coloured and so
sepulchral, the men of the twentieth century are torturing
themselves in ceaseless anxiety to know how their fates and
fortunes will work out! Whereas you are already in history
with me....
LANDOLPH. Yes, yes, very good!
HENRY IV. ... Everything determined, everything settled!
ORDULPH. Yes, yes!
HENRY IV. And sad as is my lot, hideous as some of the
events are, bitter the struggles and troublous the
time--still all history! All history that cannot change,
understand? All fixed forever! And you could have admired at
your ease how every effect followed obediently its cause
with perfect logic, how every event took place precisely and
coherently in each minute particular! The pleasure, the
pleasure of history, in fact, which is so great, was yours.
LANDOLPH. Beautiful, beautiful!
HENRY IV. Beautiful, but it's finished! Now that you know, I
could not do it any more! (_Takes his lamp to go to bed_).
Neither could you, if up to now you haven't understood the
reason of it! I am sick of it now. (_Almost to himself with
violent contained rage_): By God, I'll make her sorry she
came here! Dressed herself up as a mother-in-law for me...!
And he as an abbot...! And they bring a doctor with them to
study me...! Who knows if they don't hope to cure me?...
Clowns...! I'd like to smack one of them at least in the
face: yes, that one--a famous swordsman, they say!... He'll
kill me.... Well, we'll see, we'll see!... (_A knock at the
door_). Who is it?
THE VOICE OF JOHN. Deo Gratias!
HAROLD (_very pleased at the chance for another joke_). Oh,
it's John, it's old John, who comes every night to play the
monk.
ORDULPH (_rubbing his hands_). Yes, yes! Let's make him do
it!
HENRY IV. (_at once, severely_). Fool, why? Just to play a
joke on a poor old man who does it for love of me?
LANDOLPH (_to Ordulph_). It has to be as if it were true.
HENRY IV. Exactly, as if true! Because, only so, truth is
not a jest (_opens the door and admits John dressed as a
humble friar with a roll of parchment under his arm_). Come
in, come in, father! (_Then assuming a tone of tragic
gravity and deep resentment_): All the documents of my life
and reign favorable to me were destroyed deliberately by my
enemies. One only has escaped destruction, this, my life,
written by a humble monk who is devoted to me. And you would
laugh at him! (_Turns affectionately to John, and invites
him to sit down at the table_). Sit down, father, sit down!
Have the lamp near you (_puts the lamp near him_)! Write!
Write!
JOHN (_opens the parchment and prepares to write from
dictation_). I am ready, your Majesty!
HENRY IV. (_dictating_). "The decree of peace proclaimed at
Mayence helped the poor and humble, while it damaged the
weak and the powerful (_curtain begins to fall_): It brought
wealth to the former, hunger and misery to the latter...."
_Curtain._
ACT III
_The throne room so dark that the wall at the bottom is
hardly seen. The canvasses of the two portraits have been
taken away; and, within their frames, Frida, dressed as the
"Marchioness of Tuscany" and Charles Di Nolli, as "Henry
IV." have taken the exact positions of the portraits._
_For a moment, after the raising of curtain, the stage is
empty. Then the door on the left opens; and Henry IV.,
holding the lamp by the ring on top of it, enters. He looks
back to speak to the four young men who, with John, are
presumedly in the adjoining hall, as at the end of the
second act._
HENRY IV. No: stay where you are, stay where you are. I
shall manage all right by myself. Good night! (_Closes the
door and walks, very sad and tired, across the hall towards
the second door on the right, which leads into his
apartments_).
FRIDA (_as soon as she sees that he has just passed the
throne, whispers from the niche like one who is on the point
of fainting away with fright_). Henry....
HENRY IV. (_stopping at the voice, as if someone had stabbed
him traitorously in the back, turns a terror-stricken face
towards the wall at the bottom of the room; raising an arm
instinctively, as if to defend himself and ward off a
blow_). Who is calling me? (_It is not a question, but an
exclamation vibrating with terror, which does not expect a
reply from the darkness and the terrible silence of the
hall, which suddenly fills him with the suspicion that he is
really mad_).
FRIDA (_at his shudder of terror, is herself not less
frightened at the part she is playing, and repeats a little
more loudly_). Henry!... (_But, although she wishes to act
the part as they have given it to her, she stretches her
head a little out of the frame towards the other frame_).
HENRY IV. (_Gives a dreadful cry; lets the lamp fall from
his hands to cover his head with his arms, and makes a
movement as if to run away_).
FRIDA (_jumping from the frame on to the stand and shouting
like a mad woman_). Henry!... Henry!... I'm afraid!... I'm
terrified!...
(_And while Di Nolli jumps in turn on to the stand and
thence to the floor and runs to Frida who, on the verge of
fainting, continues to cry out, the Doctor, Donna Matilda,
also dressed as "Matilda of Tuscany," Tito Belcredi,
Landolph, Berthold and John enter the hall from the doors on
the right and on the left. One of them turns on the light: a
strange light coming from lamps hidden in the ceiling so
that only the upper part of the stage is well lighted. The
others without taking notice of Henry IV., who looks on
astonished by the unexpected inrush, after the moment of
terror which still causes him to tremble, run anxiously to
support and comfort the still shaking Frida, who is moaning
in the arms of her fiance. All are speaking at the same
time._)
DI NOLLI. No, no, Frida.... Here I am.... I am beside you!
DOCTOR (_coming with the others_). Enough! Enough! There's
nothing more to be done!...
DONNA MATILDA. He is cured, Frida. Look! He is cured! Don't
you see?
DI NOLLI (_astonished_). Cured?
BELCREDI. It was only for fun! Be calm!
FRIDA. No! I am afraid! I am afraid!
DONNA MATILDA. Afraid of what? Look at him! He was never mad
at all!...
DI NOLLI. That isn't true! What are you saying? Cured?
DOCTOR. It appears so. I should say so....
BELCREDI. Yes, yes! They have told us so (_pointing to the
four young men_).
DONNA MATILDA. Yes, for a long time! He has confided in
them, told them the truth!
DI NOLLI (_now more indignant than astonished_). But what
does it mean? If, up to a short time ago...?
BELCREDI. Hum! He was acting, to take you in and also us,
who in good faith....
DI NOLLI. Is it possible? To deceive his sister, also, right
up to the time of her death?
HENRY IV. (_Remains apart, peering at one and now at the
other under the accusation and the mockery of what all
believe to be a cruel joke of his, which is now revealed. He
has shown by the flashing of his eyes that he is meditating
a revenge, which his violent contempt prevents him from
defining clearly, as yet. Stung to the quick and with a
clear idea of accepting the fiction they have insidiously
worked up as true, he bursts forth at this point_): Go on, I
say! Go on!
DI NOLLI (_astonished at the cry_). Go on! What do you mean?
HENRY IV. It isn't _your_ sister only that is dead!
DI NOLLI. My sister? Yours, I say, whom you compelled up to
the last moment, to present herself here as your mother
Agnes!
HENRY IV. And was she not _your_ mother?
DI NOLLI. My mother? Certainly my mother!
HENRY IV. But your mother is dead for me, _old and far
away_! You have just got down now from there (_pointing to
the frame from which he jumped down_). And how do you know
whether I have not wept her long in secret, dressed even as
I am?
DONNA MATILDA (_dismayed, looking at the others_). What does
he say? (_Much impressed, observing him_). Quietly! quietly,
for Heaven's sake!
HENRY IV. What do I say? I ask all of you if Agnes was not
the mother of Henry IV.? (_Turns to Frida as if she were
really the Marchioness of Tuscany_): You, Marchioness, it
seems to me, ought to know.
FRIDA (_still frightened, draws closer to Di Nolli_). No,
no, I don't know. Not I!
DOCTOR. It's the madness returning.... Quiet now, everybody!
BELCREDI (_indignant_). Madness indeed, doctor! He's acting
again!...
HENRY IV. (_suddenly_). I? You have emptied those two frames
over there, and he stands before my eyes as Henry IV....
BELCREDI. We've had enough of this joke now.
HENRY IV. Who said joke?
DOCTOR (_loudly to Belcredi_). Don't excite him, for the
love of God!
BELCREDI (_without lending an ear to him, but speaking
louder_). But they have said so (_pointing again to the four
young men_), they, they!
HENRY IV. (_turning round and looking at them_). You? Did
you say it was all a joke?
LANDOLPH (_timid and embarrassed_). No ... really we said
that you were cured.
BELCREDI. Look here! Enough of this! (_To Donna Matilda_):
Doesn't it seem to you that the sight of him (_pointing to
Di Nolli_), Marchioness and that of your daughter dressed
so, is becoming an intolerable puerility?
DONNA MATILDA. Oh, be quiet! What does the dress matter, if
he is cured?
HENRY IV. Cured, yes! I am cured! (_To Belcredi_) ah, but
not to let it end this way all at once, as you suppose!
(_Attacks him_). Do you know that for twenty years nobody
has ever dared to appear before me here like you and that
gentleman (_pointing to the doctor_)?
BELCREDI. Of course I know it. As a matter of fact, I too
appeared before you this morning dressed....
HENRY IV. As a monk, yes!
BELCREDI. And you took me for Peter Damiani! And I didn't
even laugh, believing, in fact, that....
HENRY IV. That I was mad! Does it make you laugh seeing her
like that, now that I am cured? And yet you might have
remembered that in my eyes her appearance now....
(_interrupts himself with a gesture of contempt_) Ah!
(_Suddenly turns to the doctor_): You are a doctor, aren't
you?
DOCTOR. Yes.
HENRY IV. And you also took part in dressing her up as the
Marchioness of Tuscany? To prepare a counter-joke for me
here, eh?
DONNA MATILDA (_impetuously_). No, no! What do you say? It
was done for you! I did it for your sake.
DOCTOR (_quickly_). To attempt, to try, not knowing....
HENRY IV. (_cutting him short_). I understand. I say
counter-joke, in his case (_indicates Belcredi_), because he
believes that I have been carrying on a jest....
BELCREDI. But excuse me, what do you mean? You say yourself
you are cured.
HENRY IV. Let me speak! (_To the doctor_): Do you know,
doctor, that for a moment you ran the risk of making me mad
again? By God, to make the portraits speak; to make them
jump alive out of their frames....
DOCTOR. But you saw that all of us ran in at once, as soon
as they told us....
HENRY IV. Certainly! (_Contemplates Frida and Di Nolli, and
then looks at the Marchioness, and finally at his own
costume_). The combination is very beautiful.... Two
couples.... Very good, very good, doctor! For a madman, not
bad!... (_With a slight wave of his hand to Belcredi_): It
seems to him now to be a carnival out of season, eh? (_Turns
to look at him_). We'll get rid now of this masquerade
costume of mine, so that I may come away with you. What do
you say?
BELCREDI. With me? With us?
HENRY IV. Where shall we go? To the Club? In dress coats and
with white ties? Or shall both of us go to the Marchioness'
house?
BELCREDI. Wherever you like! Do you want to remain here
still, to continue--alone--what was nothing but the
unfortunate joke of a day of carnival? It is really
incredible, incredible how you have been able to do all
this, freed from the disaster that befell you!
HENRY IV. Yes, you see how it was! The fact is that falling
from my horse and striking my head as I did, I was really
mad for I know not how long....
DOCTOR. Ah! Did it last long?
HENRY IV. (_very quickly to the doctor_). Yes, doctor, a
long time! I think it must have been about twelve years.
(_Then suddenly turning to speak to Belcredi_): Thus I saw
nothing, my dear fellow, of all that, after that day of
carnival, happened for you but not for me: how things
changed, how my friends deceived me, how my place was taken
by another, and all the rest of it! And suppose my place had
been taken in the heart of the woman I loved?... And how
should I know who was dead or who had disappeared?... All
this, you know, wasn't exactly a jest for me, as it seems to
you....
BELCREDI. No, no! I don't mean that if you please. I mean
after....
HENRY IV. Ah, yes? After? One day (_stops and addresses the
doctor_)--A most interesting case, doctor! Study me well!
Study me carefully (_trembles while speaking_)! All by
itself, who knows how, one day the trouble here (_touches
his forehead_) mended. Little by little, I open my eyes, and
at first I don't know whether I am asleep or awake. Then I
know I am awake. I touch this thing and that; I see clearly
again.... Ah!--then, as _he_ says (_alludes to Belcredi_)
away, away with this masquerade, this incubus! Let's open
the windows, breathe life once again! Away! Away! Let's run
out! (_Suddenly pulling himself up_). But where? And to do
what? To show myself to all, secretly, as Henry IV., not
like this, but arm in arm with you, among my dear friends?
BELCREDI. What are you saying?
DONNA MATILDA. Who could think it? It's not to be imagined.
It was an accident.
HENRY IV. They all said I was mad before. (_To Belcredi_):
And you know it! You were more ferocious than any one
against those who tried to defend me.
BELCREDI. Oh, that was only a joke!
HENRY IV. Look at my hair! (_Shows him the hair on the nape
of his neck_).
BELCREDI. But mine is grey too!
HENRY IV. Yes, with this difference: that mine went grey
here, as Henry IV., do you understand? And I never knew it!
I perceived it all of a sudden, one day, when I opened my
eyes; and I was terrified because I understood at once that
not only had my hair gone grey, but that I was all grey,
inside; that everything had fallen to pieces, that
everything was finished; and I was going to arrive, hungry
as a wolf, at a banquet which had already been cleared
away....
BELCREDI. Yes, but, what about the others?...
HENRY IV. (_quickly_). Ah, yes, I know! They couldn't wait
until I was cured, not even those, who, behind my back,
pricked my saddled horse till it bled....
DI NOLLI (_agitated_). What, what?
HENRY IV. Yes, treacherously, to make it rear and cause me
to fall.
DONNA MATILDA (_quickly, in horror_). This is the first time
I knew that.
HENRY IV. That was also a joke, probably!
DONNA MATILDA. But who did it? Who was behind us, then?
HENRY IV. It doesn't matter who it was. All those that went
on feasting and were ready to leave me their scrapings,
Marchioness, of miserable pity, or some dirty remnant of
remorse in the filthy plate! Thanks! (_Turning quickly to
the doctor_): Now doctor, the case must be absolutely new in
the history of madness; I preferred to remain mad--since I
found everything ready and at my disposal for this new
exquisite fantasy. I would live it--this madness of
mine--with the most lucid consciousness; and thus revenge
myself on the brutality of a stone which had dinted my head.
The solitude--this solitude--squalid and empty as it
appeared to me when I opened my eyes again--I determined to
deck it out with all the colours and splendors of that far
off day of carnival, when you (_looks at Donna Matilda and
points Frida out to her_) when you, Marchioness, triumphed.
So I would oblige all those who were around me to follow, by
God, at my orders that famous pageant which had been--for
you and not for me--the jest of a day. I would make it
become--for ever--no more a joke but a reality, the reality
of a real madness: here, all in masquerade, with throne
room, and these my four secret counsellors: secret and, of
course, traitors. (_He turns quickly towards them_). I
should like to know what you have gained by revealing the
fact that I was cured! If I am cured, there's no longer any
need of_you_, and you will be discharged! To give anyone
one's confidence ... that is really the act of a madman. But
now I accuse you in my turn (_turning to the others_)! Do
you know? They thought (_alludes to the valets_) they could
make fun of me too with you (_bursts out laughing. The
others laugh, but shamefacedly, except Donna Matilda_).
BELCREDI (_to Di Nolli_). Well, imagine that.... That's not
bad....
DI NOLLI (_to the four young men_). You?
HENRY IV. We must pardon them. This dress (_plucking his
dress_) which is for me the evident, involuntary caricature
of that other continuous, everlasting masquerade, of which
we are the involuntary puppets (_indicates Belcredi_) when,
without knowing it, we mask ourselves with that which we
appear to be ... ah, that dress of theirs, this masquerade
of theirs, of course, we must forgive it them, since they do
not yet see it is identical with themselves. (_Turning again
to Belcredi_): You know, it is quite easy to get accustomed
to it. One walks about as a tragic character, just as if it
were nothing ... (_Imitates the tragic manner_) in a room
like this.... Look here, doctor! I remember a priest,
certainly Irish, a nice-looking priest, who was sleeping in
the sun one November day, with his arm on the corner of the
bench of a public garden. He was lost in the golden delight
of the mild sunny air which must have seemed for him almost
summery. One may be sure that in that moment he did not know
any more that he was a priest, or even where he was. He was
dreaming... A little boy passed with a flower in his hand.
He touched the priest with it here on the neck. I saw him
open his laughing eyes, while all his mouth smiled with the
beauty of his dream. He was forgetful of everything.... But
all at once, he pulled himself together, and stretched out
his priest's cassock; and there came back to his eyes the
same seriousness which you have seen in mine; because the
Irish priests defend the seriousness of their Catholic faith
with the same zeal with which I defend the secret rights of
hereditary monarchy! I am cured, gentlemen: because I can
act the mad man to perfection, here; and I do it very
quietly, I'm only sorry for you that have to live your
madness so agitatedly, without knowing it or seeing it.
BELCREDI. It comes to this, then, that it is we who are mad.
That's what it is!
HENRY IV. (_containing his irritation_). But if you weren't
mad, both you and she (_indicating the Marchioness_) would
you have come here to see me?
BELCREDI. To tell the truth, I came here believing that you
were the madman.
HENRY IV. (_suddenly indicating the Marchioness_). And she?
BELCREDI. Ah, as for her ... I can't say. I see she is all
fascinated by your words, by this _conscious_ madness of
yours. (_Turns to her_). Dressed as you are (_speaking to
her_), you could even remain here to live it out,
Marchioness.
DONNA MATILDA. You are insolent!
HENRY IV. (_conciliatingly_). No, Marchioness, what he means
to say is that the miracle would be complete, according to
him, with you here, who--as the Marchioness of Tuscany, you
well know,--could not be my friend, save, as at Canossa, to
give me a little pity....
BELCREDI. Or even more than a little! She said so herself!
HENRY IV. (_to the Marchioness, continuing_). And even,
shall we say, a little remorse!...
BELCREDI. Yes, that too she has admitted.
DONNA MATILDA (_angry_). Now look here....
HENRY IV. (_quickly, to placate her_). Don't bother about
him! Don't mind him! Let him go on infuriating me--though
the doctor's told him not to. (_Turns to Belcredi._): But do
you suppose I am going to trouble myself any more about what
happened between us--the share you had in my misfortune with
her (_indicates the Marchioness to him and, pointing
Belcredi out to her_): the part he has now in your life?
This is my life! Quite a different thing from your life!
Your life, the life in which you have grown old--I have not
lived that life (_to Donna Matilda_). Was this what you
wanted to show me with this sacrifice of yours, dressing
yourself up like this, according to the Doctor's idea?
Excellently done, doctor! Oh, an excellent idea:--"As we
were then, eh? and as we are now?" But I am not a madman
according to your way of thinking, doctor. I know very well
that that man there (_indicates Di Nolli_) cannot be me;
because I am Henry IV., and have been, these twenty years,
cast in this eternal masquerade. She has lived these years
(_indicates the Marchioness_)! She has enjoyed them and has
become--look at her!--a woman I can no longer recognize. It
is so that I knew her (_points to Frida and draws near
her_)! This is the Marchioness I know, always this one!...
You seem a lot of children to be so easily frightened by
me.... (_To Frida_): And you're frightened too, little girl,
aren't you, by the jest that they made you take part
in--though they didn't understand it wouldn't be the jest
they meant it to be, for me? Oh miracle of miracles! Prodigy
of prodigies! The dream alive in you! More than alive in
you! It was an image that wavered there and they've made you
come to life! Oh, mine! You're mine, mine, mine, in my own
right! (_He holds her in his arms, laughing like a madman,
while all stand still terrified. Then as they advance to
tear Frida from his arms, he becomes furious, terrible and
cries imperiously to his valets_): Hold them! Hold them! I
order you to hold them!
(_The four young men amazed, yet fascinated, move to execute
his orders, automatically, and seize Di Nolli, the doctor,
and Belcredi._)
BELCREDI (_freeing himself_). Leave her alone! Leave her
alone! You're no madman!
HENRY IV. (_In a flash draws the sword from the side of
Landolph, who is close to him_). I'm not mad, eh! Take that,
you!... (_Drives sword into him. A cry of horror goes up.
All rush over to assist Belcredi, crying out together_):
DI NOLLI. Has he wounded you?
BERTHOLD. Yes, yes, seriously!
DOCTOR. I told you so!
FRIDA. Oh God, oh God!
DI NOLLI. Frida, come here!
DONNA MATILDA. He's mad, mad!
DI NOLLI. Hold him!
BELCREDI (_while they take him away by the left exit, he
protests as he is borne out_). No, no, you're not mad!
You're not mad. He's not mad!
(_They go out by the left amid cries and excitement. After a
moment, one hears a still sharper, more piercing cry from
Donna Matilda, and then, silence_).
HENRY IV. (_who has remained on the stage between Landolph,
Harold and Ordulph, with his eyes almost starting out of his
head, terrified by the life of his own masquerade which has
driven him to crime_). Ah now ... yes now ... inevitably
(_calls his valets around him as if to protect him_) here
together ... here together ... for ever ... for ever.
_Curtain._
NOTE TO "HENRY IV."
With the author's consent and approval, the translator has
omitted a few lines from the original Italian where their
highly parenthetical character made the English version
unnecessarily complex. One or two allusions have also been
suppressed since they have not the same value in English as
in Italian.--E.S.
RIGHT YOU ARE! (IF YOU THINK SO)
(_Così è, se vi pare!_)
A PARABLE IN THREE ACTS
BY
LUIGI PIRANDELLO
TRANSLATED BY
ARTHUR LIVINGSTON
CHARACTERS
LAMBERTO LAUDISI. SIGNORA FROLA. PONZA,
SON-IN-LAW OF SIGNORA FROLA. SIGNORA
PONZA, PONZA'S WIFE. COMMENDATORE
AGAZZI, A PROVINCIAL COUNCILLOR.
AMALIA, HIS WIFE. DINA, THEIR DAUGHTER.
SIRELLI. SIGNORA SIRELLI, HIS WIFE. THE
PREFECT. CENTURI, A POLICE
COMMISSIONER. SIGNORA CINI. SIGNORA
NENNI. A BUTLER. A NUMBER OF GENTLEMEN
AND LADIES.
OUR OWN TIMES, IN A SMALL ITALIAN TOWN,
THE CAPITAL OF A PROVINCE.
RIGHT YOU ARE! (IF YOU THINK SO)
ACT I
_The parlor in the house of Commendatore Agazzi._
_A door, the general entrance, at the back; doors leading to
the wings, left and right._
LAUDISI _is a man nearing the forties, quick and energetic
in his movements. He is smartly dressed, in good taste. At
this moment he is wearing a semi-formal street suit: a sack
coat, of a violet cast, with black lapels, and with black
braid around the edges; trousers of a light but different
color. Laudisi has a keen, analytical mind, but is impatient
and irritable in argument. Nevertheless, however angry he
gets momentarily, his good humor soon comes to prevail. Then
he laughs and lets people have their way, enjoying,
meanwhile, the spectacle of the stupidity and gullibility of
others._
AMALIA, _Agazzi's wife, is Laudisi's sister. She is a woman
of forty-five more or less. Her hair is already quite grey.
Signora Agazzi is always showing a certain sense of her own
importance from the position occupied by her husband in the
community; but she gives you to understand that if she had a
free rein she would be quite capable of playing her own part
in the world and, perhaps, do it somewhat better than
Commendatore Agazzi._
DINA _is the daughter of Amalia and Agazzi. She is nineteen.
Her general manner is that of a young person conscious of
understanding everything better than papa and mamma; but
this defect must not be exaggerated to the extent of
concealing her attractiveness and charm as a good-looking
winsome girl_.
_As the curtain rises Laudisi is walking briskly up and down
the parlor to give vent to his irritation._
LAUDISI. I see, I see! So he did take the matter up with the
prefect!
AMALIA. But Lamberto _dear_, please remember that the man is
a subordinate of his.
LAUDISI. A subordinate of his ... very well! But a
subordinate in the office, not at home nor in society!
DINA. And he hired an apartment for that woman, his
mother-in-law, right here in this very building, and on our
floor.
LAUDISI. And why not, pray? He was looking for an apartment;
the apartment was for rent, so he leased it--for his
mother-in-law. You mean to say that a mother-in-law is in
duty bound to make advances to the wife and daughter of the
man who happens to be her son-in-law's superior on his job?
AMALIA. That is not the way it is, Lamberto. We didn't ask
her to call on us. Dina and I took the first step by calling
on her and--she _refused_ to _receive_ us!
LAUDISI. Well, is that any reason why your husband should go
and lodge a complaint with the man's boss? Do you expect the
government to order him to invite you to tea?
AMALIA. I think he deserves all he gets! That is not the way
to treat two ladies. I hope he gets fired! The idea!
LAUDISI. Oh, you women! I say, making that complaint is a
dirty trick. By Jove! If people see fit to keep to
themselves in their own houses, haven't they a right to?
AMALIA. Yes, but you don't understand! We were trying to do
her a favor. She is new in the town. We wanted to make her
feel at home.
DINA. Now, now, Nunky dear, don't be so cross! Perhaps we
did go there out of curiosity more than anything else; but
it's all so funny, isn't it! Don't you think it was natural
to feel just a little bit curious?
LAUDISI. Natural be damned! It was none of your business!
DINA. Now, see here, Nunky, let's suppose--here you are
right here minding your own business and quite indifferent
to what other people are doing all around you. Very well! I
come into the room and right here on this table, under your
very nose, and with a long face like an undertaker's, or,
rather, with the long face of that jailbird you are
defending, I set down--well, what?--anything--a pair of
dirty old shoes!
LAUDISI. I don't see the connection.
DINA. Wait, don't interrupt me! I said a pair of old shoes.
Well, no, not a pair of old shoes--a flat iron, a rolling
pin, or your shaving brush for instance--and I walk out
again without saying a word to anybody! Now I leave it to
you, wouldn't you feel justified in wondering just a little,
little, bit as to what in the world I meant by it?
LAUDISI. Oh, you're irresistible, Dina! And you're clever,
aren't you? But you're talking with old Nunky, remember! You
see, you have been putting all sorts of crazy things on the
table here; and you did it with the idea of making me ask
what it's all about; and, of course, since you were doing
all that on purpose, you can't blame me if I do ask, why
those old shoes just there, on that table, dearie? But
what's all that got to do with it? You'll have to show me
now that this Mr. Ponza of ours, that jailbird as you say,
or that rascal, that boor, as your father calls him, brought
his mother-in-law to the apartment next to ours with the
idea of stringing us all! You've got to show me that he did
it on purpose!
DINA. I don't say that he did it on purpose--not at all! But
you can't deny that this famous Mr. Ponza has come to this
town and done a number of things which are unusual, to say
the least; and which he must have known were likely to
arouse a very natural curiosity in everybody. Look Nunky,
here is a man: he comes to town to fill an important public
position, and--what does he do? Where does he go to live? He
hires an apartment on the _top_ floor, if you please, of
that dirty old tenement out there on the very outskirts of
the town. Now, I ask you--did you ever see the place?
Inside?
LAUDISI. I suppose you went and had a look at it?
DINA. Yes, Nunky dear, I went--with mamma! And we weren't
the only ones, you know. The whole town has been to have a
look at it. It's a five story tenement with an interior
court so dark at noontime you can hardly see your hand
before your face. Well, there is an iron balcony built out
from the fifth story around the courtyard. A basket is
hanging from the railing ... They let it up and down--on a
rope!
LAUDISI. Well, what of it?
DINA (_looking at him with astonished indignation_). What of
it? Well, there, if you please, is where he keeps his wife!
AMALIA. While her mother lives here next door to us!
LAUDISI. A fashionable apartment, for his mother-in-law, in
the residential district!
AMALIA. Generous to the old lady, eh? But he does that to
keep her from seeing her daughter!
LAUDISI. How do you know that? How do you know that the old
lady, rather, does not prefer this arrangement, just to have
more elbow room for herself?
DINA. No, no, Nunky, you're wrong. Everybody knows that it
is he who is doing it.
AMALIA. See here, Lamberto, everybody understands, if a
girl, when she marries, goes away from her mother to live
with her husband in some other town. But supposing this poor
mother can't stand being separated from her daughter and
follows her to the place, where she herself is also a
complete stranger. And supposing now she not only does not
live with her daughter, but is not even allowed to see her?
I leave it to you ... is that so easy to understand?
LAUDISI. Oh say, you have about as much imagination as so
many mud turtles. A mother-in-law and a son-in-law! Is it so
hard to suppose that either through her fault or his fault
or the fault of both, they should find it hard to get along
together and should therefore consider it wiser to live
apart?
DINA (_with another look of pitying astonishment at her
uncle_). How stupid of you, Nunky! The trouble is not
between the mother-in-law and the son-in-law, but between
the mother and the daughter.
LAUDISI. How do you know that?
DINA. Because he is as thick as pudding with the old lady;
because they are always together, arm in arm, and as loving
as can be. Mother-in-law and son-in-law, if you please!
Whoever heard the like of that?
AMALIA. And he comes here every evening to see how the old
lady is getting on!
DINA. And that is not the worst of it! Sometimes he comes
during the daytime, once or twice!
LAUDISI. How scandalous! Do you think he is making love to
the old woman?
DINA. Now don't be improper, uncle. No, we will acquit him
of that. She is a poor old lady, quite on her last legs.
AMALIA. But he never, never, never brings his wife! A
daughter kept from seeing her mother! The idea!
LAUDISI. Perhaps the young lady is not well; perhaps she
isn't able to go out.
DINA. Nonsense! The old lady goes to see _her!_
AMALIA. Exactly! And she never gets in! She can see her only
from a distance. Now will you explain to me why, in the name
of common sense, that poor mother should be forbidden ever
to enter her daughter's house?
DINA. And if she wants to talk to her she has to shout up
from the courtyard!
AMALIA. Five stories, if you please!... And her daughter
comes out and looks down from the balcony up there. The poor
old woman goes into the courtyard and pulls a string that
leads up to the balcony; a bell rings; the girl comes out
and her mother talks up at her, her head thrown back, just
as though she were shouting from out of a well....
(_There is a knock at the door and the butler enters_).
BUTLER. Callers, madam!
AMALIA. Who is it, please?
BUTLER. Signor Sirelli, and the Signora with another lady,
madam.
AMALIA. Very well, show them in.
(_The butler bows and withdraws_).
_Sirelli, Signora Sirelli, Signora Cini appear in the
doorway, rear._
SIRELLI, _also a man of about forty, is a bald, fat
gentleman with some pretensions to stylish appearance that
do not quite succeed: the overdressed provincial_.
SIGNORA SIRELLI, _his wife, plump, petite, a faded blonde,
still young and girlishly pleasing. She, too, is somewhat
overdressed with the provincial's fondness for display. She
has the aggressive curiosity of the small-town gossip. She
is chiefly occupied in keeping her husband in his place_.
SIGNORA CINI _is the old provincial lady of affected
manners, who takes malicious delight in the failings of
others, all the while affecting innocence and inexperience
regarding the waywardness of mankind_.
AMALIA (_as the visitors enter, and taking Signora Sirelli's
hands effusively_). Dearest! Dearest!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. I took the liberty of bringing my good
friend, Signora Cini, along. She was so anxious to know you!
AMALIA. So good of you to come, Signora! Please make
yourself at home! My daughter Dina, Signora Cini, and this
is my brother, Lamberto Laudisi.
SIRELLI (_bowing to the ladies_). Signora, Signorina. (_He
goes over and shakes hands with Laudisi._)
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Amalia dearest, we have come here as to the
fountain of knowledge. We are two pilgrims athirst for the
truth!
AMALIA. The truth? Truth about what?
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Why ... about this blessed Mr. Ponza of
ours, the new secretary at the prefecture. He is the talk of
the town, take my word for it, Amalia.
SIGNORA CINI. And we are all just dying to find out!
AMALIA. But we are as much in the dark as the rest of you, I
assure you, madam.
SIRELLI (_to his wife_). What did I tell you? They know no
more about it than I do. In fact, I think they know less
about it than I do. Why is it this poor woman is not allowed
to see her daughter? Do you know the reason, you people, the
real reason?
AMALIA. Why, I was just discussing the matter with my
brother.
LAUDISI. And my view of it is that you're all a pack of
gossips!
DINA. The reason is, they say, that Ponza will not allow her
to.
SIGNORA CINI. Not a sufficient reason, if I may say so,
Signorina.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Quite insufficient! There's more to it than
that!
SIRELLI. I have a new item for you, fresh, right off the
ice: he keeps her locked up at home!
AMALIA. His mother-in-law?
SIRELLI. No, no, his wife!
SIGNORA CINI. Under lock and key!
DINA. There, Nunky, what have you to say to that? And you've
been trying to defend him all along!
SIRELLI (_staring in astonishment at Laudisi_). Trying to
defend that man? Really....
LAUDISI. Defending him? No! I am not defending anybody. All
I'm saying, if you ladies will excuse me, is that all this
gossip is not worthy of you. More than that, you are just
wasting your breath; because, so far as I can see, you're
not getting anywhere at all.
SIRELLI. I don't follow you, sir!
LAUDISI. You're getting nowhere, my charming ladies!
SIGNORA CINI. But we're trying to get somewhere--we are
trying to find out!
LAUDISI. Excuse me, what can you find out? What can we
really know about other people--who they are--what they
are--what they are doing, and why they are doing it?
SIGNORA SIRELLI. How can we know? Why not? By asking, of
course! You tell me what you know, and I tell you what I
know.
LAUDISI. In that case, madam, you ought to be the best
informed person in the world. Why, your husband knows more
about what others are doing than any other man--or woman,
for that matter--in this neighborhood.
SIRELLI (_deprecatingly but pleased_). Oh I say, I say....
SIGNORA SIRELLI (_to her husband_). No dear, he's right,
he's right. (_Then turning to Amalia_): The real truth,
Amalia, is this: for all my husband says he knows, I never
manage to keep posted on anything!
SIRELLI. And no wonder! The trouble is--that woman never
trusts me! The moment I tell her something she is convinced
it is not _quite_ as I say. Then, sooner or later, she
claims that it _can't_ be as I say. And at last she is
certain it is the exact opposite of what I say!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Well, you ought to hear all he tells me!
LAUDISI (_laughing aloud_). Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah!
Hah! May I speak, madam? Let me answer your husband. My dear
Sirelli, how do you expect your wife to be satisfied with
things as you explain them to her, if you, as is natural,
represent them as they seem to you?
SIGNORA SIRELLI. And that means--as they cannot possibly be!
LAUDISI. Why no, Signora, now you are wrong. From your
husband's point of view things are, I assure you, exactly as
he represents them.
SIRELLI. As they are in reality!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Not at all! You are always wrong.
SIRELLI. No, not a bit of it! It is you who are always
wrong. I am always right.
LAUDISI. The fact is that neither of you is wrong. May I
explain? I will prove it to you. Now here you are, you,
Sirelli, and Signora Sirelli, your wife, there; and here I
am. You see me, don't you?
SIRELLI. Well ... er ... yes.
LAUDISI. Do you see me, or do you not?
SIRELLI. Oh, I'll bite! Of course I see you.
LAUDISI. So you see me! But that's not enough. Come here!
SIRELLI (_smiling, he obeys, but with a puzzled expression
on his face as though he fails to understand what Laudisi is
driving at_). Well, here I am!
LAUDISI. Yes! Now take a better look at me.... Touch me!
That's it--that's it! Now you are touching me, are you not?
And you see me! You're sure you see me?
SIRELLI. Why, I should say....
LAUDISI. Yes, but the point is, you're sure! Of course
you're sure! Now if you please, Signora Sirelli, you come
here--or rather ... no ... (_gallantly_) it is my place to
come to you! (_He goes over to Signora Sirelli and kneels
chivalrously on one knee_). You see me, do you not, madam?
Now that hand of yours ... touch me! A pretty hand, on my
word! (_He pats her hand_).
SIRELLI. Easy! Easy!
LAUDISI. Never mind your husband, madam! Now, you have
touched me, have you not? And you see me? And you are
absolutely sure about me, are you not? Well now, madam, I
beg of you; do not tell your husband, nor my sister, nor my
niece, nor Signora Cini here, what you think of me; because,
if you were to do that, they would all tell you that you are
completely wrong. But, you see, you are really right;
because I am really what you take me to be; though, my dear
madam, that does not prevent me from also being really what
your husband, my sister, my niece, and Signora Cini take me
to be--because they also are absolutely right!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. In other words you are a different person
for each of us.
LAUDISI. Of course I'm a different person! And you, madam,
pretty as you are, aren't you a different person, too?
SIGNORA SIRELLI (_hastily_). No siree! I assure you, as far
as I'm concerned, I'm always the same always, yesterday,
today, and forever!
LAUDISI. Ah, but so am I, from my point of view, believe me!
And, I would say that you are all mistaken unless you see me
as I see myself; but that would be an inexcusable
presumption on my part--as it would be on yours, my dear
madam!
SIRELLI. And what has all this rigmarole got to do with it,
may I ask?
LAUDISI. What has it got to do with it? Why ... I find all
you people here at your wits' ends trying to find out who
and what other people are; just as though other people had
to be this, or that, and nothing else.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. All you are saying is that we can never
find out the truth! A dreadful idea!
SIGNORA CINI. I give up! I give up! If we can't believe even
what we see with our eyes and feel with our fingers....
LAUDISI. But you must understand, madam! Of course you can
believe what you see with _your_ eyes and feel with _your_
fingers. All I'm saying is that you should show some respect
for what other people see with their eyes and feel with
their fingers, even though it be the exact opposite of what
you see and feel.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. The way to answer you is to refuse to talk
with you. See, I turn my back on you! I am going to move my
chair around and pretend you aren't in the room. Why, you're
driving me crazy, crazy!
LAUDISI. Oh, I beg your pardon. Don't let me interfere with
your party. Please go on! Pray continue your argument about
Signora Frola and Signor Ponza--I promise not to interrupt
again!
AMALIA. You're right for once, Lamberto; and I think it
would be even better if you should go into the other room.
DINA. Serves you right, Nunky! Into the other room with you,
into the other room!
LAUDISI. No, I refuse to budge! Fact is, I enjoy hearing you
gossip; but I promise not to say anything more, don't fear!
At the very most, with your permission, I shall indulge in a
laugh or two.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. How funny ... and our idea in coming here
was to find out.... But really, Amalia, I thought this Ponza
man was your husband's secretary at the Provincial building.
AMALIA. He is his secretary--in the office. But here at home
what authority has Agazzi over the fellow?
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Of course! I understand! But may I ask ...
haven't you even tried to see Signora Frola, next door?
DINA. Tried? I should say we had! Twice, Signora!
SIGNORA CINI. Well ... so then ... you have probably talked
to her....
DINA. We were not _received_, if you please!
SIGNORA SIRELLI, SIRELLI, SIGNORA CINI (_in chorus_). Not
received? Why! Why! Why!
DINA. This very forenoon!
AMALIA. The first time we waited fully fifteen minutes at
the door. We rang and rang and rang, and no one came. Why,
we weren't even able to leave our cards! So we went back
today....
DINA (_throwing up her hands in an expression of horror_).
And _he_ came to the door.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Why yes, with that face of his ... you can
tell by just looking at the man.... Such a face! Such a
face! You can't blame people for talking! And then, with
that black suit of his.... Why, they all dress in black. Did
you ever notice? Even the old lady! And the man's eyes,
too!...
SIRELLI (_with a glance of pitying disgust at his wife_).
What do you know about his eyes? You never saw his eyes! And
you never saw the woman. How do you know she dresses in
black? _Probably_ she dresses in black.... By the way, they
come from a little town in the next county. Had you heard
that? A village called Marsica!
AMALIA. Yes, the village that was destroyed a short time
ago.
SIRELLI. Exactly! By an earthquake! Not a house left
standing in the place.
DINA. And all their relatives were lost, I have heard. Not
one of them left in the world!
SIGNORA CINI (_impatient to get on with the story_). Very
well, very well, so then ... he came to the door....
AMALIA. Yes.... And the moment I saw him in front of me with
that weird face of his I had hardly enough gumption left to
tell him that we had just come to call on his mother-in-law,
and he ... well ... not a word, not a word ... not even a
"thank you," if you please!
DINA. That is not quite fair, mama: ... he did bow!
AMALIA. Well, yes, a bow ... if you want to call it that.
Something like this!...
DINA. And his eyes! You ought to see his eyes--the eyes of a
devil, and then some! You never saw a man with eyes like
that!
SIGNORA CINI. Very well, what did he say, finally?
DINA. He seemed quite taken aback.
AMALIA. He was all confused like; He hitched about for a
time; and at last he said that Signora Frola was not feeling
well, but that she would appreciate our kindness in having
come; and then he just stood there, and stood there,
apparently waiting for us to go away.
DINA. I never was more mortified in my life!
SIRELLI. A boor, a plain boor, I say! Oh, it's his fault, I
am telling you. And ... who knows? Perhaps he has got the
old lady also under lock and key.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Well, I think something should be done
about it!... After all, you are the wife of a superior of
his. You can _refuse_ to be treated like that.
AMALIA. As far as that goes, my husband did take it rather
badly--as a lack of courtesy on the man's part; and he went
straight to the prefect with the matter, insisting on an
apology.
_Signor Agazzi, commendatore and provincial councillor,
appears in the doorway rear._
DINA. Oh goody, here's papa now!
AGAZZI _is well on toward fifty. He has the harsh,
authoritarian manner of the provincial of importance. Red
hair and beard, rather unkempt; gold-rimmed eyeglasses_.
AGAZZI. Oh Sirelli, glad to see you! (_He steps forward and
bows to the company_).
AGAZZI. Signora!... (_He shakes hands with Signora
Sirelli_).
AMALIA (_introducing Signora Cini_). My husband, Signora
Cini!
AGAZZI (_with a bow and taking her hand_). A great pleasure,
madam! (_Then turning to his wife and daughter in a
mysterious voice_): I have come back from the office to give
you some real news! Signora Frola will be here shortly.
SIGNORA SIRELLI (_clapping her hands delightedly_). Oh, the
mother-in-law! She is coming? Really? Coming here?
SIRELLI (_going over to Agazzi and pressing his hand warmly
as an expression of admiration_). That's the talk, old man,
that's the talk! What's needed here is some show of
authority.
AGAZZI. Why I had to, you see, I had to!... I can't let a
man treat my wife and daughter that way!...
SIRELLI. I should say not! I was just expressing myself to
that effect right here.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. And it would have been entirely proper to
inform the prefect also....
AGAZZI (_anticipating_). ... of all the talk that is going
around on this fine gentleman's account? Oh, leave that to
me! I didn't miss the opportunity.
SIRELLI. Fine! Fine!
SIGNORA CINI. And such talk!
AMALIA. For my part, I never heard of such a thing. Why, do
you know, he has them both under lock and key!
DINA. No, mama, we are not _quite_ sure of that. We are not
_quite_ sure about the old lady, yet.
AMALIA. Well, we know it about his wife, anyway.
SIRELLI. And what did the prefect have to say?
AGAZZI. Oh the prefect ... well, the prefect ... he was very
much impressed, _very_ much impressed, with what I had to
say.
SIRELLI. I should hope so!
AGAZZI. You see, some of the talk had reached his ears
already. And he agrees that it is better, as a matter of his
own official prestige, for all this mystery in connection
with one of his assistants to be cleared up, so that once
and for all we shall know the truth.
LAUDISI. Hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah!
AMALIA. That is Lamberto's usual contribution. He laughs!
AGAZZI. And what is there to laugh about?
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Why he says that no one can ever know the
truth.
(_The butler appears at the door in back set_).
THE BUTLER. Excuse me, Signora Frola!
SIRELLI. Ah, here she is now!
AGAZZI. Now we'll see if we can settle it!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Splendid! Oh, I am so glad I came.
AMALIA (_rising_). Shall we have her come in?
AGAZZI. Wait, you keep your seat, Amalia! Let's have her
come right in here. (_Turning to the butler_). Show her in!
_Exit butler._
_A moment later all rise as Signora Frola enters, and Amalia
steps forward, holding out her hand in greeting._
SIGNORA FROLA _is a slight, modestly but neatly dressed old
lady, very eager to talk and apparently fond of people.
There is a world of sadness in her eyes, tempered however,
by a gentle smile that is constantly playing about her
lips._
AMALIA. Come right in, Signora Frola! (_She takes the old
lady's hand and begins the introductions_). Mrs. Sirelli, a
good friend of mine; Signora Cini; my husband; Mr. Sirelli;
and this is my daughter, Dina; my brother Lamberto Laudisi.
Please take a chair, Signora!
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh, I am so very, very sorry! I have come to
excuse myself for having been so negligent of my social
duties. You, Signora Agazzi, were so kind, so very kind, to
have honored me with a first call--when really it was my
place to leave my card with you!
AMALIA. Oh, we are just neighbors, Signora Frola! Why stand
on ceremony? I just thought that you, being new in town and
all alone by yourself, would perhaps like to have a little
company.
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh, how very kind of you it was!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. And you are quite alone, aren't you?
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh no! No! I have a daughter, married, though
she hasn't been here very long, either.
SIRELLI. And your daughter's husband is the new secretary at
the prefecture, Signor Ponza, I believe?
SIGNORA FROLA. Yes, yes, exactly! And I hope that Signor
Agazzi, as his superior, will be good enough to excuse
me--and him, too!
AGAZZI. I will be quite frank with you, madam! I was a bit
put out.
SIGNORA FROLA (_interrupting_). And you were quite right!
But I do hope you will forgive him. You see, we are
still--what shall I say--still so upset by the terrible
things that have happened to us....
AMALIA. You went through the earthquake, didn't you?
SIGNORA SIRELLI. And you lost all your relatives?
SIGNORA FROLA. Every one of them! All our family--yes,
madam. And our village was left just a miserable ruin, a
pile of bricks and stones and mortar.
SIRELLI. Yes, we heard about it.
SIGNORA FROLA. It wasn't so bad for me, I suppose. I had
only one sister and her daughter, and my niece had no
family. But my poor son-in-law had a much harder time of it.
He lost his mother, two brothers, and their wives, a sister
and her husband, and there were two little ones, his
nephews.
SIRELLI. A massacre!
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh, one doesn't forget such things! You see,
it sort of leaves you with your feet off the ground.
AMALIA. I can imagine.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. And all over-night with no warning at all!
It's a wonder you didn't go mad.
SIGNORA FROLA. Well, you see, we haven't quite gotten our
bearings yet; and we do things that may seem impolite,
without in the least intending to. I hope you understand!
AGAZZI. Oh please, Signora Frola, of course!
AMALIA. In fact it was partly on account of your trouble
that my daughter and I thought we ought to go to see you
first.
SIGNORA SIRELLI (_literally writhing with curiosity_). Yes,
of course, since they saw you all alone by yourself, and yet
... excuse me, Signora Frola ... if the question doesn't
seem impertinent ... how is it that when you have a daughter
here in town and after a disaster like the one you have been
through ... I should think you people would all stand
together, that you would need one another.
SIGNORA FROLA. Whereas I am left here all by myself?
SIRELLI. Yes, exactly. If does seem strange, to tell the
honest truth.
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh, I understand--of course! But you know, I
have a feeling that a young man and a young woman who have
married should be left a good deal to themselves.
LAUDISI. Quite so, quite so! They should be left to
themselves. They are beginning a life of their own, a life
different from anything they have led before. One should not
interfere in these relations between a husband and a wife!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. But there are limits to everything,
Laudisi, if you will excuse me! And when it comes to
shutting one's own mother out of one's life....
LAUDISI. Who is shutting her out of the girl's life? Here,
if I have understood the lady, we see a mother who
understands that her daughter cannot and must not remain so
closely associated with her as she was before, for now the
young woman must begin a new life on her own account.
SIGNORA FROLA (_with evidence of keen gratitude and
relief_). You have hit the point exactly, sir. You have said
what I would like to have said. You are exactly right! Thank
you!
SIGNORA CINI. But your daughter, I imagine, often comes to
see you....
SIGNORA FROLA (_hesitating, and manifestly ill at ease_).
Why yes ... I ... I ... we do see each other, of course!
SIRELLI (_quickly pressing the advantage_). But your
daughter never goes out of her house! At least no one in
town has ever seen her.
SIGNORA CINI. Oh, she probably has her little ones to take
care of.
SIGNORA FROLA (_speaking up quickly_). No, there are no
children yet, and perhaps there won't be any, now. You see,
she has been married seven years. Oh, of course, she has a
lot to do about the house; but that is not the reason,
really. You know, we women who come from the little towns in
the country--we are used to staying indoors much of the
time.
AGAZZI. Even when your mothers are living in the same town,
but not in your house? You prefer staying indoors to going
and visiting your mothers?
AMALIA. But it's Signora Frola probably who visits her
daughter.
SIGNORA FROLA (_quickly_). Of course, of course, why not! I
go there once or twice a day.
SIRELLI. And once or twice a day you climb all those stairs
up to the fifth story of that tenement, eh?
SIGNORA FROLA (_growing pale and trying to conceal under a
laugh the torture of that cross-examination_). Why ... er
... to tell the truth, I don't go up. You're right, five
flights would be quite too much for me. No, I don't go up.
My daughter comes out on the balcony in the courtyard and
... well ... we see each other ... and we talk!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. And that's all, eh? How terrible! You never
see each other more intimately than that?
DINA. I have a mama and certainly I wouldn't expect her to
go up five flights of stairs to see me, either; but at the
same time I could never stand talking to her that way,
shouting at the top of my lungs from a balcony on the fifth
story. I am sure I should want a kiss from her occasionally,
and feel her near me, at least.
SIGNORA FROLA (_with evident signs of embarrassment and
confusion_). And you're right! Yes, exactly ... quite right!
I must explain. Yes ... I hope you people are not going to
think that my daughter is something she really is not. You
must not suspect her of having so little regard for me and
for my years, and you mustn't believe that I, her mother, am
... well ... five, six, even more stories to climb would
never prevent a real mother, even if she were as old and
infirm as I am, from going to her daughter's side and
pressing her to her heart with a real mother's love ... oh
no!
SIGNORA SIRELLI (_triumphantly_). There you have it, there
you have it, just as we were saying!
SIGNORA CINI. But there must be a reason, there must be a
reason!
AMALIA (_pointedly to her brother_). Aha, Lamberto, now you
see, there _is_ a reason, after all!
SIRELLI (_insisting_). Your son-in-law, I suppose?
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh please, please, please, don't think badly
of _him_. He is such a very good boy. Good is no name for
it, my dear sir. You can't imagine all he does for me! Kind,
attentive, solicitous for my comfort, everything! And as for
my daughter--I doubt if any girl ever had a more
affectionate and well-intentioned husband. No, on that point
I am proud of myself! I could not have found a better man
for her.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Well then.... What? What? _What?_
SIGNORA CINI. So your son-in-law is not the reason?
AGAZZI. I never thought it was his fault. Can you imagine a
man forbidding his wife to call on her mother, or preventing
the mother from paying an occasional visit to her daughter?
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh, it's not a case of forbidding! Who ever
dreamed of such a thing! No, it's we, Commendatore, I and my
daughter, that is. Oh, please, believe me! We refrain from
visiting each other of our own accord, out of consideration
for him, you understand.
AGAZZI. But excuse me ... how in the world could he be
offended by such a thing? I _don't_ understand.
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh, please don't be angry, Signor Agazzi. You
see it's a ... what shall I say ... a feeling ... that's it,
a feeling, which it would perhaps be very hard for anyone
else to understand; and yet, when you do understand it, it's
all so simple, I am sure ... so simple ... and believe me,
my dear friends, it is no slight sacrifice that I am making,
and that my daughter is making, too.
AGAZZI. Well, one thing you will admit, madam. This is a
very, very unusual situation.
SIRELLI. Unusual, indeed! And such as to justify a curiosity
even more persistent than ours.
AGAZZI. It is not only unusual, madam. I might even say it
is suspicious.
SIGNORA FROLA. Suspicious? You mean you suspect Signor
Ponza? Oh please, Commendatore, don't say that. What fault
can you possibly find with him, Signor Agazzi?
AGAZZI. I didn't say just that.... Please don't
misunderstand! I said simply that the situation is so very
strange that people might legitimately suspect....
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh, no, no, no! What could they suspect. We
are in perfect agreement, all of us; and we are really quite
happy, very happy, I might even say ... both I and my
daughter.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Perhaps it's a case of jealousy?
SIGNORA FROLA. Jealousy of me? It would be hardly fair to
say that, although ... really ... oh, it is so hard to
explain!... You see, he is in love with my daughter, so much
so that he wants her whole heart, her every thought, as it
were, for himself; so much so that he insists that the
affections which my daughter must have for me, her
mother--he finds that love quite natural of course, why not?
Of course he does!--should reach me through him--that's it,
through him--don't you understand?
AGAZZI. Oh, that is going pretty strong! No, I don't
understand. In fact it seems to me a case of downright
cruelty!
SIGNORA FROLA. Cruelty? No, no, please don't call it
cruelty, Commendatore. It is something else, believe me! You
see it's so hard for me to explain the matter. Nature,
perhaps ... but no, that's hardly the word. What shall I
call it? Perhaps a sort of disease. It's a fullness of love,
of a love shut off from the world. There, I guess that's it
... a fullness ... a completeness of devotion in which his
wife must live without ever departing from it, and into
which no other person must ever be allowed to enter.
DINA. Not even her mother, I suppose?
SIRELLI. It is the worst case of selfishness I ever heard
of, if you want my opinion!
SIGNORA FROLA. Selfishness? Perhaps! But a selfishness,
after all, which offers itself wholly in sacrifice. A case
where the selfish person gives all he has in the world to
the one he loves. Perhaps it would be fairer to call me
selfish; for selfish it surely is for me to be always trying
to break into this closed world of theirs, break in by force
if necessary; when I know that my daughter is really so
happy, so passionately adored--you ladies understand, don't
you? A true mother should be satisfied when she knows her
daughter is happy, oughtn't she? Besides I'm not completely
separated from my daughter, am I? I see her and I speak to
her (_She assumes a more confidential tone_). You see, when
she lets down the basket there in the courtyard I always
find a letter in it--a short note, which keeps me posted on
the news of the day; and I put in a little letter that I
have written. That is some consolation, a great consolation
indeed, and now, in course of time, I've grown used to it. I
am resigned, there! Resignation, that's it! And I've ceased
really to suffer from it at all.
AMALIA. Oh well then, after all, if you people are
satisfied, why should....
SIGNORA FROLA (_rising_). Oh yes, yes! But, remember, I told
you he is such a good man! Believe me, he couldn't be
better, really! We all have our weaknesses in this world,
haven't we! And we get along best by having a little
charity, a little indulgence, for one another. (_She holds
out her hand to Amalia_). Thank you for calling, madam.
(_She bows to Signora Sirelli, Signora Cini, and Dina; then
turning to Agazzi, she continues_): And I do hope you have
forgiven me!
AGAZZI. Oh, my dear madam, please, please! And we are
extremely grateful for your having come to call on us.
SIGNORA FROLA (_offering her hand to Sirelli and Laudisi and
again turning to Amalia who has risen to show her out_). Oh
no, please, Signora Agazzi, please stay here with your
friends! Don't put yourself to any trouble!
AMALIA. No, no, I will go with you; and believe me, we were
very, very glad to see you!
(_Exit Signora Frola with Amalia showing her the way. Amalia
returns immediately_).
SIRELLI. Well, there you have the story, ladies and
gentlemen! Are you satisfied with the explanation?
AGAZZI. An explanation, you call it? So far as I can see she
has explained nothing. I tell you there is some big mystery
in all this business.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. That poor woman! Who knows what torment she
must be suffering?
DINA. And to think of that poor girl!
SIGNORA CINI. She could hardly keep in her tears as she
talked.
AMALIA. Yes, and did you notice when I mentioned all those
stairs she would have to climb before really being able to
see her daughter?
LAUDISI. What impressed me was her concern, which amounted
to a steadfast determination, to protect her son-in-law from
the slightest suspicion.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Not at all, not at all! What could she say
for him? She couldn't really find a single word to say for
him.
SIRELLI. And I would like to know how anyone could condone
such violence, such downright cruelty!
THE BUTLER (_appearing again in the doorway_). Beg pardon,
sir! Signor Ponza calling.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. The man himself, upon my word!
(_An animated ripple of surprise and curiosity, not to say
of guilty self-consciousness, sweeps over the company_).
AGAZZI. Did he ask to see me?
BUTLER. He asked simply if he might be received. That was
all he said.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Oh please, Signor Agazzi, please let him
come in! I am really afraid of the man; but I confess the
greatest curiosity to have a close look at the monster.
AMALIA. But what in the world can he be wanting?
AGAZZI. The way to find that out is to have him come in.
(_To the butler_): Show him in, please.
(_The butler bows and goes out. A second later Ponza
appears, aggressively, in the doorway_.
PONZA _is a short, thick set, dark complexioned man of a
distinctly unprepossessing appearance; black hair, very
thick and coming down low over his forehead; a black
mustache upcurling at the ends, giving his face a certain
ferocity of expression. He is dressed entirely in black.
From time to time he draws a black-bordered handkerchief and
wipes the perspiration from his brow. When he speaks his
eyes are invariably hard, fixed, sinister_.)
AGAZZI. This way please, Ponza, come right in! (_introducing
him_): Signor Ponza, our new provincial secretary; my wife;
Signora Sirelli; Signora Cini, my daughter Dina. This is
Signor Sirelli; and here is Laudisi, my brother-in-law.
Please join our party, won't you, Ponza?
PONZA. So kind of you! You will pardon the intrusion. I
shall disturb you only a moment, I hope.
AGAZZI. You had some private business to discuss with me?
PONZA. Why yes, but I could discuss it right here. In fact,
perhaps as many people as possible should hear what I have
to say. You see it is a declaration that I owe, in a certain
sense, to the general public.
AGAZZI. Oh my dear Ponza, if it is that little matter of
your mother-in-law's not calling on us, it is quite all
right; because you see....
PONZA. No, that was not what I came for, Commendatore. It
was not to apologize for her. Indeed I may say that Signora
Frola, my wife's mother, would certainly have left her cards
with Signora Agazzi, your wife, and Signorina Agazzi, your
daughter, long before they were so kind as to honor her with
their call, had I not exerted myself to the utmost to
prevent her coming, since I am absolutely unable to consent
to her passing or receiving visits!
AGAZZI (_drawing up into an authoritative attitude and
speaking with some severity_). Why? if you will be so kind
as to explain, Ponza?
PONZA (_with evidences of increasing excitement in spite of
his efforts to preserve his self-control_). I suppose my
mother-in-law has been talking to you people about her
daughter, my wife. Am I mistaken? And I imagine she told you
further that I have forbidden her entering my house and
seeing her daughter intimately.
AMALIA. Oh not at all, not at all, Signor Ponza! Signora
Frola had only the nicest things to say about you. She could
not have spoken of you with greater respect and kindness.
DINA. She seems to be very fond of you indeed.
AGAZZI. She says that she refrains from visiting your house
of her own accord, out of regard for feelings of yours which
we frankly confess we are unable to understand.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Indeed, if we were to express our honest
opinion....
AGAZZI. Well, yes, why not be honest? We think you are
extremely harsh with the woman, extremely harsh, perhaps
cruel would be an exacter word.
PONZA. Yes, that is what I thought; and I came here for the
express purpose of clearing the matter up. The condition
this poor woman is in is a pitiable one indeed--not less
pitiable than my own perhaps; because, as you see, I am
compelled to come here and make apologies--a public
declaration--which only such violence as has just been used
upon me could ever bring me to make in the world.... (_He
stops and looks about the room. Then he says slowly with
emphatic emphasis on the important syllables_): My
mother-in-law, Signora Frola, is not in her right mind! She
is insane.
THE COMPANY. Insane! A lunatic! Oh my! Really! No!
Impossible!
PONZA. And she has been insane for four years.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Dear me, who would ever have suspected it!
She doesn't show it in the least.
AGAZZI. Insane? Are you sure?
PONZA. She doesn't show it, does she? But she is insane,
nevertheless; and her delusion consists precisely in
believing that I am forbidding her to see her daughter.
(_His face takes on an expression of cruel suffering mingled
with a sort of ferocious excitement_). What daughter, for
God's sake? Why her daughter died four years ago! (_A
general sensation_).
EVERYONE AT ONCE. Died? She is dead? What do you mean? Oh,
really? Four years ago? Why! Why!
PONZA. Four years ago! In fact it was the death of the poor
girl that drove her mad.
SIRELLI. Are we to understand that the wife with whom you
are now living....
PONZA. Exactly! She is my second wife. I married her two
years ago.
AMALIA. And Signora Frola believes that her daughter is
still living, that she is your wife still?
PONZA. Perhaps it was best for her that way. She was in
charge of a nurse in her own room, you see. Well, when she
chanced to see me passing by inadvertence on her street one
day, with this woman, my second wife, she suddenly began to
laugh and cry and tremble all over in an extreme of
happiness. She was sure her daughter, whom she had believed
dead, was alive and well; and from a condition of desperate
despondency which was the first form of her mental
disturbance, she entered on a second obsession, believing
steadily that her daughter was not dead at all; but that I,
the poor girl's husband, am so completely in love with her
that I want her wholly for myself and will not allow anyone
to approach her. She became otherwise quite well, you might
say. Her nervousness disappeared. Her physical condition
improved, and her powers of reasoning returned quite clear.
Judge for yourself, ladies and gentlemen! You have seen her
and talked with her. You would never suspect in the world
that she is crazy.
AMALIA. Never in the world! Never!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. And the poor woman says she is so happy, so
happy!
PONZA. That is what she says to everybody; and for that
matter she really has a wealth of affection and gratitude
for me; because, as you may well suppose, I do my very best,
in spite of the sacrifices entailed, to keep up this
beneficial illusion in her. The sacrifices you can readily
understand. In the first place I have to maintain two homes
on my small salary. Then it is very hard on my wife, isn't
it? But she, poor thing, does the very best she can to help
me out! She comes to the window when the old lady appears.
She talks to her from the balcony. She writes letters to
her. But you people will understand that there are limits to
what I can ask of my poor wife. Signora Frola, meanwhile,
lives practically in confinement. We have to keep a pretty
close watch on her. We have to lock her up, virtually.
Otherwise, some fine day she would be walking right into my
house. She is of a gentle, placid disposition fortunately;
but you understand that my wife, good as she is, could never
bring herself to accepting caresses intended for another
woman, a dead woman! That would be a torment beyond
conception.
AMALIA. Oh, of course! Poor woman! Just imagine!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. And the old lady herself consents to being
locked up all the time?
PONZA. You, Commendatore, will understand that I couldn't
permit her calling here except under absolute constraint.
AGAZZI. I understand perfectly, my dear Ponza, and you have
my deepest sympathy.
PONZA. When a man has a misfortune like this fall upon him
he must not go about in society; but of course when, by
complaining to the prefect, you practically compelled me to
have Signora Frola call, it was my duty to volunteer this
further information; because, as a public official, and with
due regard for the post of responsibility I occupy, I could
not allow any discredible suspicions to remain attached to
my reputation. I could not have you good people suppose for
a moment that, out of jealousy or for any other reason, I
could ever prevent a poor suffering mother from seeing her
own daughter. (_He rises_). Again my apologies for having
intruded my personal troubles upon your party. (_He bows_).
My compliments, Commendatore. Good afternoon, good
afternoon! Thank you! (_Bowing to Laudisi, Sirelli, and the
others in turn, he goes out through the door, rear_).
AMALIA (_with a sigh of sympathy and astonishment_). Uhh!
Crazy! What do you think of that?
SIGNORA SIRELLI. The poor old thing! But you wouldn't have
believed it, would you?
DINA. I always knew there was something under it all.
SIGNORA CINI. But who could ever have guessed....
AGAZZI. Oh, I don't know, I don't know! You could tell from
the way she talked....
LAUDISI. You mean to say that you thought...?
AGAZZI. No, I can't say that. But at the same time, if you
remember, she could never quite find her words.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. How could she, poor thing, out of her head
like that?
SIRELLI. And yet, if I may raise the question, it seems
strange to me that an insane person ... oh, I admit that she
couldn't really talk rationally ... but what surprises me is
her trying to find a reason to explain why her son-in-law
should be keeping her away from her daughter. This effort of
hers to justify it and then to adapt herself to excuses of
her own invention....
AGAZZI. Yes, but that is only another proof that she's
insane. You see, she kept offering excuses for Ponza that
really were not excuses at all.
AMALIA. Yes, that's so. She would say a thing without really
saying it, taking it back almost in the next words.
AGAZZI. But there is one more thing. If she weren't a
downright lunatic, how could she or my other woman ever
accept such a situation from a man? How could she ever
consent to talk with her own daughter only by shouting up
from the bottom of a well five stories deep?
SIRELLI. But if I remember rightly she has you there!
Notice, she doesn't accept the situation. She says she is
resigned to it. That's different! No, I tell you, there is
still something funny about this business. What do you say,
Laudisi?
LAUDISI. Why, I say nothing, nothing at all!
THE BUTLER (_appearing at the door and visibly excited_).
Beg pardon, Signora Frola is here again!
AMALIA (_with a start_). Oh dear me, again? Do you suppose
she'll be pestering us all the time now?
SIGNORA SIRELLI. I understand how you feel now that you know
she's a lunatic.
SIGNORA CINI. My, my, what do you suppose she is going to
say now?
SIRELLI. For my part I'd really like to hear what she's got
to say.
DINA. Oh yes, mamma, don't be afraid! Ponza said she was
quite harmless. Let's have her come in.
AGAZZI. Of course, we can't send her away. Let's have her
come in; and, if she makes any trouble, why ... (_Turning to
the butler_): Show her in. (_The butler bows and
withdraws_).
AMALIA. You people stand by me, please! Why, I don't know
what I am ever going to say to her now!
(_Signora Frola appears at the door. Amalia rises and steps
forward to welcome her. The others look on in astonished
silence_).
SIGNORA FROLA. May I please...?
AMALIA. Do come in, Signora Frola, do come in! You know all
these ladies. They were here when you came before.
SIGNORA FROLA (_with an expression of sadness on her
features, but still smiling gently_). How you all look at
me--and even you, Signora Agazzi! I am sure you think I am a
lunatic, don't you!
AMALIA. My dear Signora Frola, what in the world are you
talking about?
SIGNORA FROLA. But I am sure you will forgive me if I
disturb you for a moment. (_Bitterly_): Oh, my dear Signora
Agazzi, I wish I had left things as they were. It was hard
to feel that I had been impolite to you by not answering the
bell when you called that first time; but I could never have
supposed that you would come back and force me to call upon
you. I could foresee the consequences of such a visit from
the very first.
AMALIA. Why, not at all, not at all! I don't understand.
Why?
DINA. What consequences could you foresee, madam?
SIGNORA FROLA. Why, my son-in-law, Signor Ponza, has just
been here, hasn't he?
AGAZZI. Why, yes, he was here! He came to discuss certain
office matters with me ... just ordinary business, you
understand!
SIGNORA FROLA (_visibly hurt and quite dismayed_). Oh, I
know you are saying that just to spare me, just in order not
to hurt my feelings.
AGAZZI. Not at all, not at all! That was really why he came.
SIGNORA FROLA (_with some alarm_). But he was quite calm, I
hope, quite calm?
AGAZZI. Calm? As calm as could be! Why not? Of course!
(_The members of the company all nod in confirmation_).
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh, my dear friends, I am sure you are trying
to reassure me; but as a matter of fact I came to set you
right about my son-in-law.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Why no, Signora, what's the trouble?
AGAZZI. Really, it was just a matter of politics we talked
about....
SIGNORA FROLA. But I can tell from the way you all look at
me.... Please excuse me, but it is not a question of me at
all. From the way you all look at me I can tell that he came
here to prove something that I would never have confessed
for all the money in the world. You will all bear me out,
won't you? When I came here a few moments ago you all asked
me questions that were very cruel questions to me, as I hope
you will understand. And they were questions that I couldn't
answer very well; but anyhow I gave an explanation of our
manner of living which can be satisfactory to nobody, I am
well aware. But how could I give you the real reason? How
could I tell you people, as he's doing, that my daughter has
been dead for four years and that I'm a poor, insane mother
who believes that her daughter is still living and that her
husband will not allow me to see her?
AGAZZI (_quite upset by the ring of deep sincerity he finds
in Signora Frola's manner of speaking_). What do you mean,
your daughter?
SIGNORA FROLA (_hastily and with anguished dismay written on
her features_). You know that's so. Why do you try to deny
it? He did say that to you, didn't he?
SIRELLI (_with some hesitation and studying her features
warily_). Yes ... in fact ... he did say that.
SIGNORA FROLA. I know he did; and I also know how it pained
him to be obliged to say such a thing of me. It is a great
pity, Commendatore! We have made continual sacrifices,
involving unheard of suffering, I assure you; and we could
endure them only by living as we are living now.
Unfortunately, as I well understand, it must look very
strange to people, seem even scandalous, arouse no end of
gossip! But after all, if he is an excellent secretary,
scrupulously honest, attentive to his work, why should
people complain? You have seen him in the office, haven't
you? He is a good worker, isn't he?
AGAZZI. To tell the truth, I have not watched him
particularly, as yet.
SIGNORA FROLA. Oh he really is, he really is! All the men he
ever worked for say he's most reliable; and I beg of you,
please don't let this other matter interfere. And why then
should people go tormenting him with all this prying into
his private life, laying bare once more a misfortune which
he has succeeded in mastering and which, if it were widely
talked about, might upset him again personally, and even
hurt him in his career?
AGAZZI. Oh no, no, Signora, no one is trying to hurt him. It
is nothing to his disgrace that I can see. Nor would we hurt
you either.
SIGNORA FROLA. But my dear sir, how can you help hurting me
when you force him to give almost publicly an explanation
which is quite absurd--ridiculous I might even say! Surely
people like you can't seriously believe what he says? You
can't possibly be taking me for a lunatic? You don't really
think that this woman is his second wife? And yet it is all
so necessary! He needs to have it that way. It is the only
way he can pull himself together; get down to his work again
... the only way ... the only way! Why he gets all wrought
up, all excited, when he is forced to talk of this other
matter; because he knows himself how hard it is for him to
say certain things. You may have noticed it....
AGAZZI. Yes, that is quite true. He did seem very much
excited.
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Well, well, well, so then it's he!
SIRELLI (_triumphantly_). I always said it was he.
AGAZZI. Oh, I say! Is that really possible? (_He motions to
the company to be quiet_).
SIGNORA FROLA (_joining her hands beseechingly_). My dear
friends, what are you really thinking? It is only on this
subject that he is a little queer. The point is, you must
simply not mention this particular matter to him. Why,
really now, you could never suppose that I would leave my
daughter shut up with him all alone like that? And yet just
watch him at his work and in the office. He does everything
he is expected to do and no one in the world could do it
better.
AGAZZI. But this is not enough, madam, as you will
understand. Do you mean to say that Signor Ponza, your
son-in-law, came here and made up a story out of whole
cloth?
SIGNORA FROLA. Yes, sir, yes sir, exactly ... only I will
explain. You must understand--you must look at things from
his point of view.
AGAZZI. What do you mean? Do you mean that your daughter is
not dead?
SIGNORA FROLA. God forbid! Of course she is not dead!
AGAZZI. Well, then, he is the lunatic!
SIGNORA FROLA. No, no, look, look!...
SIRELLI. I always said it was he!...
SIGNORA FROLA. No, look, look, not that, not that! Let me
explain.... You have noticed him, haven't you? Fine, strong
looking man. Well, when he married my daughter you can
imagine how fond he was of her. But alas, she fell sick with
a contagious disease; and the doctors had to separate her
from him. Not only from him, of course, but from all her
relatives. They're all dead now, poor things, in the
earthquake, you understand. Well, he just refused to have
her taken to the hospital; and he got so over-wrought that
they actually had to put him under restraint; and he broke
down nervously as the result of it all and he was sent to a
sanatorium. But my daughter got better very soon, while he
got worse and worse. He had a sort of obsession that his
wife had died in the hospital, that perhaps they had killed
her there; and you couldn't get that idea out of his head.
Just imagine when we brought my daughter back to him quite
recovered from her illness--and a pretty thing she was to
look at, too--he began to scream and say, no, no, no, she
wasn't his wife, his wife was dead! He looked at her: No,
no, no, not at all! She wasn't the woman! Imagine my dear
friends, how terrible it all was. Finally he came up close
to her and for a moment it seemed that he was going to
recognize her again; but once more it was "No, no, no, she
is not my wife!" And do you know, to get him to accept my
daughter at all again, we were obliged to pretend having a
second wedding, with the collusion of his doctors and his
friends, you understand!
SIGNORA SIRELLI. Ah, so that is why he says that....
SIGNORA FROLA. Yes, but he doesn't really believe it, you
know; and he hasn't for a long time, I am sure. But he seems
to feel a need for maintaining the pretense. He can't do
without it. He feels surer of himself that way. He is seized
with a terrible fear, from time to time, that this little
wife he loves may be taken from him again. (_Smiling and in
a low, confidential tone_): So he keeps her locked up at
home where he can have her all for himself. But he worships
her--he worships her; and I am really quite convinced that
my daughter is one of the happiest women in the world. (_She
gets up_). And now I must be going. You see, my son-in-law
is in a terrible state of mind at present. I wouldn't like
to have him call, and find me not at home. (_With a sigh,
and gesturing with her joined hands_): Well, I suppose we
must get along as best we can; but it is hard on my poor
girl. She has to pretend all along that she is not herself,
but another, his second wife; and I ... oh, as for me, I
have to pretend that I am a lunatic when he's around, my
dear friends; but I'm glad to, I'm glad to, really, so long
as it does him some good. (_The ladies rise as she steps
nearer to the door_). No, no, don't let me interrupt your
party. I know the way out! Good afternoon! Good afternoon!
(_Bowing and smiling, she goes out through the rear door.
The others stands there in silence, looking at each other
with blank astonishment on their faces_).
LAUDISI (_coming forward_). So you want the truth, eh? The
truth! The truth! Hah! hah! hah! hah! hah! hah! hah!
_Curtain._