[_The music salon of the Chateau D’Or. A handsome room, most luxuriously
furnished in white and gold. The grand piano at the left is also
finished in white and gold. The central entrance leads to a wide
corridor which runs parallel with the room. The furniture and hangings
are over-ornate, showing plainly the triumph of wealth over good taste
in their selection. The guests of_ M. D’OR _are seated about the room in
fashionable morning toilettes. On a sofa right are seated_ MME.
CYPRIENNE DACIER _and_ MME. LUCETTE CLARY. _Before the curtain rises,
the Prelude in C sharp minor by Sergei Rachmaninoff is played at the
piano. As it concludes, the curtain rises and_ HENRI VAUX _is seen
standing at the piano, bowing to the applause of the assembled guests.
(If practicable, the curtain might rise before_ VAUX _has completed his
solo.) As the scene begins, the anonymous guests chat in groups._]
LUCETTE. Bravo, M. Vaux! You played that prelude beautifully.
VAUX. Thank you, Mme. Clary. It is a favorite of mine, but perhaps a bit
too depressing for such a pleasant occasion as this.
LUCETTE. Not at all. We must remember that there is a serious side to
life—don’t you think so, Cyprienne?
CYPRIENNE. Of course. We can’t have dance music all the time.
VAUX. But life—at least, life as the artist usually knows it—is apt to
be sad enough; perhaps it is natural that he should prefer a melancholy
theme for subjective interpretation.
CYPRIENNE. Speaking of melancholy themes reminds me that Adolphe Lemaire
is to be here.
LUCETTE. Why do you call this M. Lemaire a melancholy theme?
CYPRIENNE. Don’t you know him? He exhibited that remarkable painting
called ‘Death in Life’ in the recent _Salon_.
LUCETTE. I did not get to Paris this spring.
CYPRIENNE. You surely saw a reproduction of the picture—it was copied in
all the illustrated papers—a young girl wandering through a sun-lit
grove and intercepted by a shrouded figure of Death.
LUCETTE. Oh! I recall it! I shall be delighted to meet the artist.
VAUX. M. D’Or usually brings together the most interesting people at his
musicales. I believe the poet Moreau is also expected. You know him,
Mme. Clary? A brilliant but eccentric genius! [LUCETTE _shakes her
head_.]
CYPRIENNE. You have surely heard of Jean Moreau. He writes those
stinging verses against the government. M. Dacier says that the
Opposition would be helpless without him. Of course, he pretends that
his satires refer to the middle ages or to some other country, but every
one knows what he means!
LUCETTE. Have you brought your daughter along, M. Vaux?
VAUX. Yes; she was in the corridor a few moments ago.
LUCETTE. She is a most charming girl—so modest, so refined, and so very
reticent! She seems almost afraid to express an opinion of her own.
VAUX. Is there any wonder? The sort of opinions that society likes to
hear are not the sort that a young girl can express with any
self-respect.
CYPRIENNE. Oh! what a cynical remark! Could anything be more attractive
than the sincere thoughts of a sweet girl who has not yet lost her
illusions, who is still a stranger to the bitter realities of life?
[_She sighs._]
LUCETTE. My dear Cyprienne! Do not seem so vividly reminiscent! It makes
me feel like an old woman to hear you talk in that strain. It isn’t ages
since we felt that way ourselves.
CYPRIENNE. It isn’t ages, Lucette, in the number of years, but I feel
that I have lived ages since then.
VAUX. So you regret those days?
CYPRIENNE. They were sweet; but life has been so varied since—I have
enjoyed so much—that I cannot say that I regret the passing of
impossible ideals. We must all awaken from the vain dreams of youth!
VAUX. I would have Hélène dream while the mystic charm still pervades
her soul; I would not have her crushed to earth by the revelation of the
deep-seated miseries of existence. I would foster her love for art, her
devotion to music—in short, her taste for such ideals as are cherished
by our genial and accomplished host, M. D’Or. [_Enter_ D’OR, _at the
centre, in a frock coat, gold waistcoat, wearing a conspicuous scarfpin
and rings_.]
D’OR. My good friends! You have just enjoyed a treat! I heard the
Rachmaninoff prelude from the corridor, M. Vaux. Your interpretation is
masterful; it is the grip of despair itself tugging at the heartstrings
of humanity. We are all indebted to you and pay homage to your art. I am
having some light refreshment served in the corridor. Won’t you kindly
step that way? M. Vaux, may I entrust Mme. Clary to you? [VAUX _leads
with_ LUCETTE, _the rest follow_. CYPRIENNE _takes_ D’OR’S _arm. When
the others are out, he stops short._]
D’OR. We need not hurry after the others, Mme. Dacier. I have not had a
chance to chat with you this morning; you will not deny me the pleasure
of a few words. I do not see your husband among the guests.
CYPRIENNE. He is very busy at the bank just now. He finds it impossible
to get away—even for such a splendid affair as you are giving us to-day.
D’OR. It is right that M. Dacier should regard his business as his first
consideration. He is becoming one of our best known bankers.
CYPRIENNE. Ah! you are trying to flatter me. My husband is like many
others who are engaged in the money game—a good enough fellow in the
ranks, but not likely to become a leader. He is somewhat envious of you!
D’OR. _He_ envious of me?
CYPRIENNE. Yes—your close association with the house of Blaustein. He
has sought for years to acquire the good will of that firm, but
evidently his talents and resources are not sufficient to command their
attention. I also am envious, M. D’Or.
D’OR. Surely not.
CYPRIENNE. I am envious of your future wife. Think of the unlimited
wealth you will place at her disposal—the unfailing resource of gold.
D’OR. [_Sentimentally._] I shall never marry.
CYPRIENNE. And why not?
D’OR. Because the one charming woman whom I know is already married.
[CYPRIENNE _affects indifference_.] Her name is—Cyprienne! [_He takes
her hand._]
CYPRIENNE. [_Starts, but does not withdraw her hand._] Hush, M. D’Or—you
should not say such things! You should not call me Cyprienne. M. Dacier
would not like it.
D’OR. Do you think there is the remotest possibility of my saying it in
his hearing, Cyprienne?
CYPRIENNE. [_Archly._] You are an irresistible man. How many hearts have
you broken?
D’OR. None, I assure you. My own heart is more likely to be broken,
unless—
CYPRIENNE. [_Coming closer._] M. D’Or, you might say a favorable word or
two about Dacier to the Blausteins—you have such great influence!
D’OR. [_Eagerly._] I shall be delighted to do so, Cyprienne. We must
talk it over some time. When can I see you?
CYPRIENNE. You are always welcome at our chateau.
D’OR. But I would see you alone!
CYPRIENNE. [_With feigned surprise._] Alone?
D’OR. Surely, our plan is to arrange a surprise for M. Dacier. At what
hour does he reach home?
CYPRIENNE. At four or later.
D’OR. Then I may call some afternoon—say at two? [CYPRIENNE _starts_.]
We can talk things over quite by ourselves. And then—[_Enter_ BAPTISTE.]
BAPTISTE. [_Announcing._] M. Moreau! [BAPTISTE _retires_.]
D’OR. [_To_ CYPRIENNE.] Confound the poet! I’d rather chat with you.
[_Enter_ MOREAU.] Welcome, my dear M. Moreau! I’m delighted to see you.
MOREAU. Pardon my lateness, M. D’Or. I have been attending a conclave of
the Opposition.
D’OR. Still denouncing the government, eh? I hope you will find it more
agreeable here. Mme. Dacier, may I present M. Moreau?
CYPRIENNE. [_Extending her hand._] M. Moreau is an old friends of ours.
[_Enter_ BAPTISTE.]
BAPTISTE. [_Announcing._] M. Lemaire! [_He retires._]
MOREAU. Ah! so Lemaire is also late. Evidently we poets and artists are
an unreliable class. [_Enter_ LEMAIRE.]
D’OR. My best greetings, my dear Lemaire. [LEMAIRE _greets_ CYPRIENNE
_and_ MOREAU.] We feared you were going to disappoint us this time—and
every one is anxious to learn what work you have undertaken since your
successful painting ‘Death in Life.’
LEMAIRE. [_Staring vacantly and nervously._] I’ve done very little
lately. Heaven knows, I should be working, but that picture seems to
have exhausted every vestige of inspiration in my being. I find it
impossible to pull myself together.
MOREAU. I know the sensation—a great vital utterance leaves the
inventive power paralyzed and one gropes about in vain for support.
D’OR. Gentlemen, if you will pardon me, I shall escort Mme. Dacier to
the corridor for some refreshment. Pray make yourselves at home; I shall
rejoin you shortly. [_Exeunt_ D’OR _and_ CYPRIENNE.]
LEMAIRE. [_Looking about._] What a palace! What wonderful appointments!
Is it conceivable that the pen or the brush could ever earn such luxury
for either of us? D’Or’s supply of gold seems inexhaustible—and he
spends with a knowing hand.
MOREAU. A pleasant fellow, our host! My only regret is that he
sympathizes with the scoundrels who constitute the present ministry. If
I could only get him to support the Opposition, we should have the
Premier’s resignation within a week!
LEMAIRE. Try him, Moreau! It’s worth working for! I believe that the
mere mention of D’Or’s name as an adherent of our party would overturn
the authority of the Premier. Try to have a quiet talk with him before
you go—and let me know how you succeed.
MOREAU. I shall do it; with D’Or on our side the cause is as good as
won! And then, Lemaire, a brighter day shall dawn for our country. We
shall once more lead the way to higher and nobler achievement. [_Enter_
D’OR.]
D’OR. You see, my friends, I have not kept you waiting long. Perhaps you
would care to partake of some refreshment?
MOREAU. No, thank you. Like most poets, I think most clearly on an empty
stomach.
D’OR. With many poets compulsion and not choice develops that opinion.
And you, M. Lemaire?
LEMAIRE. [_With a significant look at_ MOREAU.] I think I shall cater a
bit to the inner man. I shall rejoin you later. _Au revoir!_ [_Exit_
LEMAIRE.]
D’OR. Well, my dear Moreau, on what are you working now? I hope you are
not as destitute of plans as our good friend Lemaire?
MOREAU. No; I am writing a new poem which I hope to finish shortly.
D’OR. May I enquire the nature of your subject?
MOREAU. Certainly. I am seeking to glorify the future of our country and
to blaze the way toward the realization of its noblest ideals.
[_Slowly._] Of course, such a dream is impossible under existing
conditions.
D’OR. You mean the present ministry?
MOREAU. Yes. They are a group of detestable politicians who make all
great questions of state subservient to their own schemes for personal
power and profit.
D’OR. I think you are a little unfair to the Premier and his associates.
You must not forget that every party when out of office rails against
those in control.
MOREAU. But the Opposition stands upon a firm foundation of integrity
and high moral purpose.
D’OR. Mere vaporing, my dear Moreau. The minority is always respectable.
It’s their only chance to regain the ascendancy. If your Opposition
should triumph they would soon be drunk with power and the present party
could successfully parade its manifold virtues before the public.
MOREAU. So you really believe that in the long run there can be no
improvement in government?
D’OR. Yes, if you choose to put it thus; and my advice to you is that
you join the party in power. You have too much talent to squander your
life in the service of a hopeless Opposition.
MOREAU. Hopeless? I thought that possibly you might be induced to join
our cause—to become the patron of a new and better order of things.
D’OR. [_Apparently ignoring the remark._] Of course, the ministry has
antagonized the visionaries—idealists like yourself, who dream of
Utopian governments, but who have little or no experience in practical
affairs.
MOREAU. An instinctive sense of right and wrong is the best equipment
for a statesman.
D’OR. There speaks the poet! Now, may I tell you in confidence what
really does constitute the best equipment for a statesman?
MOREAU. [_Curiously._] What is it?
D’OR. [_Deliberately._] Knowledge of the fact that his party has the
approval of the Blausteins!
MOREAU. [_Astounded._] The approval of a banking-house!
D’OR. The approval of the greatest power in the world—unlimited gold.
MOREAU. It seems hardly credible! The utter corruption of the existing
state of affairs is beyond my comprehension.
D’OR. M. Moreau, let us talk sensibly about these things. I like your
poetry very much; I admire everything about you except your political
sentiments. Why do you not put your fine talent to better use?
MOREAU. What better use is there than devotion to the popular welfare?
D’OR. Nonsense. The people for whom you write cannot appreciate the
subtlety of your thought nor the nobility of your inspired poetic
nights. They place a scant value upon your efforts. The present
government honors its friends more highly. A poem in praise of the
ministry would bring you greater material reward and more renown than
ten years of labor for the ungrateful Opposition.
MOREAU. M. D’Or, I am devoted to our cause; I would not write a poem in
commendation of the present ministry for fifty thousand francs.
D’OR. [_Alert._] You would not?
MOREAU. No. It would be treason to the people.
D’OR. How long would you labor for the popular cause before you earned
fifty thousand francs with your pen?
MOREAU. Five years at least.
D’OR. And you are unwilling to purchase a release from five years of
drudgery by a single effort because of a conscientious scruple? You are
indeed a patriot.
MOREAU. I wish merely to be true to myself.
D’OR. [_Slowly._] M. Moreau, what would you do if some one were to offer
you—say one hundred thousand francs for a poem over your signature
addressed to the Premier and commending the present government?
MOREAU. [_Aghast._] One hundred thousand francs! The question is
ridiculous. You are trying to entrap me.
D’OR. The question is not ridiculous. I offer you that sum!
MOREAU. Are you serious?
D’OR. I shall not mince words. The government seeks the support of its
most intelligent and most gifted people. You are one of these. The
government would not, however, pay you such an amount as I have
mentioned; that sum represents my personal gratification at the prospect
of numbering M. Moreau among the champions of the ministry.
MOREAU. You are bribing me!
D’OR. I am not. I am telling you that there is fame and substantial
reward for the adherents of the government; there is futile effort and
wasted opportunity for the Opposition. You are a sane man; which do you
choose?
MOREAU. But to write such a poem is a manifest renunciation of my high
principles of conduct.
D’OR. To write such a poem is a declaration to the world that you have
become a conservative. Are you familiar with that word ‘conservative’?
It is a word of excellent savor and of good repute. A man who betrays a
cause is justly styled a renegade or a traitor; but a man who has held
visionary views concerning government or society, and who as a result of
maturer deliberation rejects such fallacies and becomes an adherent of
the existing social order may properly be styled a conservative. That’s
the worst they can say about you—and the reward is the price of ten
years’ hard labor with the pen.
MOREAU. [_Bewildered._] One hundred thousand francs! I can see it in
every journal in Paris! ‘M. Moreau joins the conservatives!’ One hundred
thousand francs!
D’OR. [_Jestingly._] You will note that there is nothing conservative in
the sum I am offering you. I should call it liberal—decidedly liberal!
MOREAU. [_Brokenly._] After all, perhaps you’re right. Lemaire will
think I’m a cur—but I accept your offer. I may live to regret this step,
but I cannot resist you. I shall write your poem and I shall mean every
word that I say. Henceforth I am one of your party. There is no future
for me elsewhere. I want you to understand that I am completely within
your ranks. I will not be a hireling, to puff the Premier in a single
insincere poem. You have not bought a poem, M. D’Or—you have bought me,
body and soul. Do you understand?
D’OR. [_Quietly._] Yes. It was you I was bidding for.
MOREAU. [_More wildly._] It’s a serious matter, this tearing one’s self
out by the roots. I must have time for reflection. Pardon me, M. D’Or,
it is growing oppressive here—I must have fresh air. I cannot meet
Lemaire just now. You shall have your poem—a poem from the depths of my
heart. It’s fresh air I need—fresh air! [_He staggers out with a groan._
D’OR _looks after him and smiles strangely. He draws a handful of gold
coins from his pocket and is about to jingle them when_ LEMAIRE
_enters_. D’OR _replaces the coins quickly_.]
LEMAIRE. You are alone! I expected to find M. Moreau with you.
D’OR. [_Coolly._] He left me only a moment ago. Have you partaken of the
luncheon?
LEMAIRE. Yes, and chatted with some of your delightful guests. I am
grateful to find so many recognized Liberals among them. Are you being
converted?
D’OR. By no means—but I like to know intimately all points of view. It’s
part of one’s education, after all. I try to make these gatherings as
varied as possible and to give free rein to the expression of opinion.
Did you hear nothing that might arouse renewed inspiration for another
great painting?
LEMAIRE. [_Gloomily._] I shall probably grope long in the dark before I
find another subject as striking as ‘Death in Life’!
D’OR. Surely, there are many themes available?
LEMAIRE. Few that I should care to depict. I shall paint nothing
ignoble, nothing degrading. If my brush is not destined to uplift and to
glorify mankind, I shall cast it aside.
D’OR. A noble ideal, indeed; but ideals are evanescent in this corrupt
old world of ours.
LEMAIRE. Are they not about all that is worth while?
D’OR. Rather too unsubstantial, I should say. After all, an artist must
labor for his bread and butter. Of course, he may be so absorbed in his
ideals that he ignores the gross commercial value of his inspiration and
its product. I am told you sold your ‘Death in Life’ for a trifle—yet it
is your finest picture.
LEMAIRE. I have no regrets. The ‘Death in Life’ was sold to a collector
while it still hung in my studio. He offered two thousand francs—I
needed the money and accepted. Had I anticipated the success of the
picture in the _Salon_, I might have asked more.
D’OR. That picture would have been cheap at ten thousand francs. Perhaps
you do not know that I offered your lucky purchaser twice that sum—and
it was refused!
LEMAIRE. Twenty thousand francs for my painting!
D’OR. Yes, and it was refused. [_After a pause._] I have an idea, M.
Lemaire—a good one. Will you paint me a companion piece to ‘Death in
Life’?
LEMAIRE. A companion piece?
D’OR. Yes. You might call it ‘Life in Death’ by way of contrast. I will
give you thirty thousand francs for such a painting, if you permit me to
suggest the subject.
LEMAIRE. You are willing to pay that price for a painting of mine?
D’OR. I have an object in view. I wish to make the other painting
ridiculous, so that the purchaser may be willing to part with it.
LEMAIRE. I do not quite understand—
D’OR. Why should you? It is but necessary that you accept my offer.
LEMAIRE. Of course I accept! It is many times more than I have ever
received for a painting, but you are a rich man, a noble patron of the
arts. Have you chosen your subject?
D’OR. You agree to be bound to it?
LEMAIRE. Yes. It is to be called ‘Life in Death,’ I understand, and is
to represent—
D’OR. [_Slowly._] A dead rat lying in a foul gutter!
LEMAIRE. [_With a cry._] You are mad, M. D’Or!
D’OR. Not at all. I think it’s a rather good subject to accomplish my
purpose. I would like you to represent the rat as putrescent—
LEMAIRE. [_Horrified._] Stop, monsieur! You are insulting me. I shall
hear no more of that.
D’OR. You gave your promise.
LEMAIRE. Yes, to paint a picture—not to execute a mad vagary of yours.
D’OR. I don’t expect my realistic theme to conform with your airy
ideals, but think of the money I intend to pay you for this painting.
LEMAIRE. It won’t do. I must refuse.
D’OR. [_Firmly._] I intend to have that dead rat, M. Lemaire!
LEMAIRE. Then you must get some one else to paint it.
D’OR. I intend that you shall paint it. Perhaps I estimate realism too
cheaply. I offer you forty thousand francs for the rat!
LEMAIRE. [_Almost in a whisper._] Forty thousand francs! To drag my
reputation as an artist through the slime?
D’OR. No. To initiate you into a new and profitable school of art. Do
you not realize that mankind has a natural craving for the unclean and
the depraved? Mine will not be your last commission in the realistic
style. Remember that I am offering you twenty times as much as you
received for your ‘Death in Life.’ If any one asks you why you painted
‘Life in Death,’ tell them it is a parody on the original, executed at
my order.
LEMAIRE. [_Hesitating._] If I did not need the money so badly, I
would—[_Suddenly._] I’ll do it—I’ll do it for you, M. D’Or. I cannot
help myself. [_Beating his forehead._] A dead rat—Great Heavens!—a dead
rat! [_He rushes out wildly._ D’OR _is about to jingle the gold as
before, but feels that he cannot. He mops his brow with his handkerchief
and seems somewhat distracted. Meanwhile_ HÉLÈNE VAUX, _a charming girl
of eighteen, dressed simply in white, enters quietly and gazes strangely
at_ D’OR _as if to fathom his thoughts_.]
D’OR. [_Observing her._] Mlle. Vaux! I did not hear you come in.
HÉLÈNE. [_Timidly._] Pardon me, M. D’Or. I am looking for my father.
D’OR. Surely you will not deny me the pleasure of a few words with you.
I am always glad to see you here with your father, but you seem desirous
of avoiding me.
HÉLÈNE. [_Nervously._] No!—I—
D’OR. My sole object on such occasions as this is to make my guests
happy—to entertain them in a way that will ever be a pleasant memory in
the days to come; yet you always seem apprehensive of harm—
HÉLÈNE. I cannot explain. It seems so strange that you—[_She stops
helplessly. They gaze fixedly at each other._]
D’OR. [_After a pause._] Eleanor! [_He seems entranced._]
HÉLÈNE. Why do you call me Eleanor? My name is Hélène.
D’OR. [_Embarrassed._] Pardon me, Mlle. Vaux. I once knew some one of
that name. You resemble her—you bring back fleeting memories of the
past.
HÉLÈNE. [_Ill at ease._] I do not understand—I must find my father.
[_She goes off hastily._ D’OR _sits down at the right and rests his head
on his hand as if dazed. He does not notice_ BAPTISTE _who enters_.]
BAPTISTE. M. D’Or! [_Louder._] M. D’Or! [_A pause._]
D’OR. [_Recovering himself._] Baptiste!
BAPTISTE. Mme. Dacier asked me to give you this note.
D’OR. [_Takes it._] Very well. [BAPTISTE _bows himself out_. D’OR _opens
the envelope and draws out a card which he reads_.] ‘To-morrow at
two—Cyprienne.’ [_He quickly thrusts the card into his waistcoat pocket.
His demeanor instantly changes. He is completely aroused from his
trance._ VAUX _enters at the centre_.] Ah! M. Vaux, your daughter is
looking for you!
VAUX. I have been neglecting her all morning. I thought she was talking
to Mme. Clary a few moments ago.
D’OR. Your daughter is a most attractive girl—one in a thousand. I
congratulate you, M. Vaux, on the possession of such a jewel.
VAUX. [_Pleased._] Yes, Hélène is a good girl—my chief consolation since
her mother was taken away. It is my one regret that I cannot give her
the musical training that her talents merit.
D’OR. Surely she has teachers?
VAUX. The best that my purse allows, but not the best to be had. We
musicians cannot hope to win great wealth, yet I still have hopes that
when my new symphonic poem is brought out—
D’OR. A new composition! I am glad to hear of it.
VAUX. It is almost completed. I have been laboring on it for many years.
It was begun in the first hours of grief after the loss of Hélène’s
mother. I have put my very soul into that score!
D’OR. Have you a program in mind?
VAUX. I shall call it ‘The Conqueror’—the record of a storm-tossed soul
that works its way through peril and temptation to the triumphant
heights of its ideal. You see how much of a dreamer I am, but I love the
idea of the conquering soul—the personality that dominates and directs.
D’OR. [_Much interested._] That is a very fascinating idea—the
personality that dominates! I am sure you will win fame with ‘The
Conqueror.’ Have you sought to glorify a particular hero in your
composition?
VAUX. No. It would be difficult to find a man who represents my ideal
conqueror—who reaches the heights unspotted with the stains of the
battle.
D’OR. The more I think of your idea, the more it pleases me. I always
have sought to be such a conqueror as you have in mind—a man of
commanding position and so equipped as to become a directing
intelligence in the affairs of the world. This may sound boastful, M.
Vaux, but I have a reason for speaking thus.
VAUX. [_Bewildered._] I do not understand—
D’OR. You say that you have no particular hero in mind to whom you are
addressing your symphonic poem. Would it be presumptuous on my part to
say that I should feel honored to have such a composition dedicated to
me? Let me explain more fully, M. Vaux—there need be no reserve. I have
abundance of the wealth that you in common with others find so useful;
you have a talent that can immortalize the man to whom your compositions
are addressed. If you were to honor me with the dedication of ‘The
Conqueror’ I should see that every resource were at the disposal of
Mlle. Vaux for her thorough musical training.
VAUX. For Hélène’s education?
D’OR. It would be a trifle for me, M. Vaux; to you it would represent
long hours of arduous toil. Thus each of us can serve the other.
VAUX. [_Anxious not to offend._] I must confess that I had a very
different ideal of ‘The Conqueror’—pardon my bluntness, but my hero
typified spiritual achievement, not the conquests of material wealth.
D’OR. Of course—I understand. Spiritual achievement has a pleasant sound
and at one time in the world’s history it probably meant something; but
we are living in a very different age. The real conquerors of to-day are
the men who act as stewards of the world’s great wealth. I can buy you
any man you may name, heart and soul. It is merely a question of price—
VAUX. [_Horrified._] M. D’Or!
D’OR. I know it sounds scandalous, but it is true—I have demonstrated my
power. There are no conquests in this world like the conquests of
material wealth.
VAUX. [_Sadly._] I have lived in this world many more years than you, M.
D’Or—I know the weakness of humanity. There is much truth in what you
say; but we artists have not done our duty if we are content to depict
the world as we find it—if we do not point the way to higher ideals—
D’OR. [_Impatiently._] A truce to your ideals! I have heard more than
enough this morning about ideals! I have just made you a substantial and
flattering offer; you seem inclined to treat me in turn to a
conventional discussion on the nature of the artistic impulse. You are a
poor man, M. Vaux, though a talented one. You have a daughter whose
future welfare is largely concerned in your answer to my offer. Are you
foolish enough to hesitate?
VAUX. I appreciate fully what your offer means, but people will
understand by my dedication that I desire to uphold you as the type of
‘The Conqueror’—
D’OR. And why not?
VAUX. Because I had a very different conqueror in mind—one whose career
typified a conquest by spiritual resource, by unfailing courage—
D’OR. [_Suddenly but with deliberation._] M. Vaux, do you love your
daughter Hélène? Are you mindful of her future—of the years when you
will no longer be here to protect her?
VAUX. [_Completely broken._] I can struggle against you no longer. You
have triumphed! ‘The Conqueror’ shall be dedicated to you!
D’OR. [_Smoothly._] I appreciate the honor, especially since there was
no haggling over terms. Rest assured, M. Vaux, you will have no occasion
to regret your trust in my generosity.
VAUX. [_Subdued._] I have done it for my Hélène. [_He sits on the sofa,
right, and seems overcome with emotion._ HÉLÈNE _enters and takes a half
kneeling position on the mat at his feet. She places a small autograph
album on his lap._]
HÉLÈNE. Father, I have been searching for you. Mme. Clary wishes your
autograph. Isn’t it an honor! Just look at the famous names—artists,
poets, musicians—
VAUX. [_Takes a fountain pen from his pocket and writes._] Mme. Clary is
very kind to ask your father to enroll himself in this record of genius.
[_Turning the pages._] What is this? M. D’Or, I find your name here!
D’OR. [_With a smile._] Indeed! Does it appear out of place among your
brilliant assemblage of earth’s talented sons?
VAUX. No, no! Do not misunderstand me! I thought it was merely a
collection of artists’ autographs. I am pleased to see it includes at
least one generous patron of the arts. [_To_ HÉLÈNE.] Hélène, we are
much indebted to M. D’Or. He will make it possible for me to give you
the best masters for your musical training.
HÉLÈNE. [_Rising._] You could not accept such an offer?
VAUX. [_Embarrassed._] I am dedicating ‘The Conqueror’ to M. D’Or. It
has pleased him to express his generous intentions in return.
HÉLÈNE. [_Turning on_ D’OR _with unexpected energy_.] ‘The Conqueror’!
[_Reproachfully._] M. D’Or, you have taken advantage of an old man.
D’OR. Taken advantage! Those are hard words for one who has your welfare
at heart. I am enabling your father to provide amply for you; indirectly
I am helping you to make the most of life, to win fame and position if
the talent abides within you. This you call taking advantage of your
father!
HÉLÈNE. M. D’Or, we are here as your guests. I cannot speak frankly.
D’OR. If I have offended you, my roof shall not save me from your
reproaches. Speak as freely as you will and tell me honestly why you
despise my offer.
VAUX. Hélène, I beseech you, be careful how you answer.
HÉLÈNE. [_To_ D’OR.] You see how thoroughly you have subdued my poor
father! He fears that my frankness will forfeit the bounty you are
disposed to heap upon us. You wish me to speak freely?
D’OR. By all means.
HÉLÈNE. Very well. M. D’Or, I fear the intention of your apparent
kindness.
D’OR. Why do you say that?
HÉLÈNE. A few moments ago I passed M. Moreau in the corridor—Moreau, the
brave champion of the people—and I heard him say that he had changed his
political views, and now felt morally obliged to support the ministry!
VAUX. [_Astonished._] Moreau a conservative! Impossible!
D’OR. What have I to do with Moreau’s politics?
HÉLÈNE. [_Watching him closely._] I cannot help thinking that you had a
hand in his sudden change of faith.
D’OR. [_Carelessly._] Why should I deny it? You would not believe me.
HÉLÈNE. [_Coming closer._] M. D’Or, I would believe you, if I heard you
deny it! Do you deny it?
D’OR. [_Without flinching, looking steadily at her._] Mlle. Vaux, I
admire your courage; I marvel at your penetration. I shall tell you the
truth. I bought that fellow Moreau for so much gold. He’s my man now and
he’ll take my orders when I give them. [VAUX _groans_.]
HÉLÈNE. Father, do you hear what M. D’Or says? [_To_ D’OR.] Is there
nothing else on your conscience? Are you aware that M. Lemaire is
astonishing your guests by incoherent ravings about dead rats and
foul-smelling gutters?
D’OR. [_Steadily._] It’s the subject for his next painting. The fellow
is executing it at my commission. I chose the subject, and I pay him his
price. [VAUX _groans again_.]
HÉLÈNE. [_To_ VAUX.] Are you still inclined to dedicate ‘The Conqueror’
to M. D’Or?
VAUX. I have given my promise.
D’OR. I shall release you from that promise if Mlle. Vaux requests it.
HÉLÈNE. I do not request it. After all, you are a conqueror—you have
triumphed over my unhappy father just as you overcame those other frail
souls and dragged them to the earth.
D’OR. I release your father from his promise. His conqueror is a vain
seeker after empty ideals. M. Vaux, you may dedicate your symphonic
flight to whom you will, but I beg you to let me carry out at least my
part of our compact. [VAUX _looks eagerly at_ HÉLÈNE _to reply_.]
HÉLÈNE. You have made that impossible for us, M. D’Or. We cannot accept
your generosity. [_To_ VAUX.] We must not stay here any longer. Let us
go home.
D’OR. Can we not remain friends? Will you not permit the resources of my
wealth to prove my friendship?
HÉLÈNE. [_More softly._] The best way to befriend you, M. D’Or, is to
prove to you the futility of your wealth. Come, father.
VAUX. Good-bye, M. D’Or. [_He offers his hand._]
D’OR. Good-bye. [_He looks at_ HÉLÈNE.]
HÉLÈNE. [_After a pause extends her hand._] Good-bye. Are you not
convinced?
D’OR. Not yet—but you are very kind to me. [_He kisses her hand._]
VAUX. [_Near the entrance, as if inspired._] M. D’Or, at last I know to
whom I shall dedicate ‘The Conqueror.’
D’OR. To whom?
VAUX. [_Taking_ HÉLÈNE’S _hand_.] To my daughter Hélène! [_They go out
quickly._]
D’OR. [_Somewhat seriously, after a pause._] Perhaps the old man is
right—and perhaps he is not! [_Laughs cynically and puts his hand as if
by instinct to his waistcoat pocket. He draws out_ CYPRIENNE’S _card and
reads it again_.] ‘To-morrow at two—Cyprienne.’ [_He kisses the card as
the curtain falls._]