SCENE I:--_The recorder, then the doorkeeper, then Mouzon. When the

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WOMAN ON HER OWN, FALSE

GODS AND THE RED ROBE:

THREE PLAYS BY BRIEUX.

THE ENGLISH VERSIONS BY MRS.

BERNARD SHAW, J. F. FAGAN,

AND A. BERNARD MIALL. WITH

AN INTRODUCTION BY BRIEUX

BRENTANO'S NEW YORK

MCMXVI

_Copyright, 1916, by Brentano's_

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

Preface vii

Woman On Her Own 1

False Gods 127

The Red Robe 219

PREFACE

We are confronted at the present time by the woman who is anxious to lay

by means for her own support irrespective of the protection of her

husband. In this play I have indicated the tendency of this difficulty

and the consequent troubles which the older civilizations will bring

upon themselves when the woman's standing as a worker is generally

acknowledged. My conclusion, namely, that all these complications and

troubles are, at present at any rate, owing to the education of the man,

points to the remedy, as far as I can see it.

I must inform my readers that the version of LA FEMME SEULE, a

translation of which is now published in this volume, has, so far, not

appeared in France and is unknown there; at least as regards the larger

part of the third act. I might, did I think it advisable, reproduce in

its entirety a text which certain timidities have led me to emasculate.

As between the man and the woman the ideal situation would, no doubt, be

a rehabilitation of the old custom--the man at the workshop and the

woman in the home; thus reserving for her the holiest and most important

of all missions--the one which insures the future of the race by her

enlightened care of the moral and physical health of her children.

Unfortunately it happens that the wages of the working-man are

insufficient for the support of a family, and the poor woman is

therefore compelled to go to the factory. The results are deplorable.

The child is either entirely abandoned, or given to the State, and the

solidarity of the family suffers in consequence.

Then again a generation of women with new ideas has arisen, who think

they should have, if they wish it, the right to live alone and by

themselves, without a husband's protection. However much some of us may

regret this attitude, it is one which must be accepted, since I cannot

believe that the worst tyrants would dare to make marriage obligatory.

These women have a right to live, and consequently a right to work. Also

there are the widows and the abandoned women.

Women first took places which seemed best fit for them, and which the

men turned over to them because the work appeared to be of a character

suitable to the feminine sex. But the modern woman has had enough of the

meagre salary which is to be obtained by means of needle-work, and she

has invaded the shop, the office, the desks of the banks and post

office. In industry also she has taken her place by the side of the

working-man, who has made room for her first with ironical grace, then

with grumbling, and sometimes with anger. I believe that in Europe at

least this kind of difficulty will have to be faced in the future.

As to the rich woman (and in LA FEMME SEULE I have treated this subject

only slightly because it is one to which I expect to come back), they

have been driven from the home where the progress of domestic science

has left them very little to do. We have reached a kind of hypocritical

form of State Socialism, or perhaps it would be better to say

Collectivism, and this will profoundly change the moral outlook. All, or

nearly all, of the work of the home seems to be done by people from the

outside--from the cleaning of the windows to the education of the

children. The modern home is but a fireside around which one hardly sees

the family gathered for intimate talk.

It has thus happened that the woman who finds herself without work, and

with several children, looks out of the windows of her home away from it

for the employment of her activities. The future will tell us whether or

no this is good. In my opinion I believe it will be good, and I believe

that man will gain, through this new intelligence, in the direction of

the larger life which has come to women from this necessity of theirs.

Unquestionably there will have to be a new education, and this will

certainly come.

LA FOI.--This play is, without doubt, of all my plays the one which has

cost me the most labor and the one upon which I have expended the most

thought and time. The impulse to write it came to me at Lourdes in view

of the excited, suffering, and praying crowds of people. When the

thought of writing it came to me I hesitated, but during many years I

added notes upon notes. And it was while on a trip to Egypt that I saw

the possibility for discussing such questions in the theatre without

giving offence to various consciences. My true and illustrious friend,

Camille Saint-Saens, has been kind enough to underline my prose with his

admirable music. In this way LA FOI has been produced on the stage at

Monte Carlo for the first time under the auspices of His Royal Highness

the Prince of Monaco, whom I now beg to thank.

English readers of LA ROBE ROUGE would, I think, be somewhat misled, if

they did not understand the difference between the procedure in criminal

cases in France and in Great Britain. My purpose in this preface is to

attempt to show that difference in a few words.

With you, a criminal trial is conducted publicly and before a jury; with

us in France it is carried on in the Chambers of the Judge with only the

lawyer present. There sometimes result from this latter method dramas of

the kind of which my play LA ROBE ROUGE is one. The judge, too directly

interested and free of the criticism which might fall on him from the

general public, is liable to the danger of forming for himself an

opinion as to the guilt of the accused. He may do this in perfect good

faith, but sometimes runs the risk of falling into grave error. It thus

occasionally happens that he is anxious not so much to know the truth as

to prove that he was right in his own, often rash, opinion.

LA ROBE ROUGE is a criticism of certain judicial proceedings which

obtain in France; but it is also a study of an individual case of

professional crookedness. We should be greatly mistaken were we to draw

the dangerous conclusion that all French judges resemble Mouzon, and we

should be equally wrong were we to condemn too hastily the French code

relating to criminal trials.

In the struggle of society with the criminal it is very difficult,

perhaps impossible, for the legislator to hold in equal balance the

rights of the individual as against the interests of society. The

balance sometimes leans one way and sometimes the other; and had I been

an English citizen, instead of writing a play against the abuse of

justice by a judge, I might have had to illustrate the same abuse by the

lawyer.

I wish most sincerely that these three plays may interest the people of

England and America. The problems which I have studied I am sure I have

not brought to their final solutions. My ambition was to draw and keep

the attention of honest people on them by means of the theatre.

BRIEUX.

WOMAN ON HER OWN

[LA FEMME SEULE]

TRANSLATED BY MRS. BERNARD SHAW

CHARACTERS

THERESE

MADAME NERISSE

MADAME GUERET

MOTHER BOUGNE

CAROLINE LEGRAND

MADAME CHANTEUIL

LUCIENNE

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE

MADEMOISELLE BARON

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT

ANTOINETTE

BERTHE

CONSTANCe

MAID

WORKWOMEN

NERISSE

FELIAT

RENE CHARTON

GUERET

MAFFLU

VINCENT

A DELEGATE

PAGE BOY

GIRARD

CHARPIN

DESCHAUME

WORKMEN

WOMAN ON HER OWN

ACT I

SCENE:--_A Louis XV sitting-room. To the right a large

recessed window with small panes of glass which forms a

partition dividing the sitting-room from an inner room. A

heavy curtain on the further side shuts out this other room.

There are a table and piano and doors to the right and at the

back. The place is in disorder. One of the panes in the large

window has been taken out and replaced by a movable panel. It

is October._

_Madame Gueret is sitting at a table. She is a woman of

forty-five, dressed for the afternoon, cold and distinguished

looking. Monsieur Gueret, who is with her, is about

fifty-five and is wearing a frock coat. He is standing beside

his wife._

GUERET. Then you really don't want me to go and hear the third act?

MADAME GUERET [_dryly_] I think as I've been let in for these

theatricals solely to please your goddaughter you may very well keep me

company. Besides, my brother is coming back and he has something to say

to you.

GUERET [_resignedly_] Very well, my dear.

_A pause._

MADAME GUERET. I can't get over it.

GUERET. Over what?

MADAME GUERET. What we're doing. What _are_ we doing?

GUERET. We're giving a performance of _Barberine_ for the amusement of

our friends. There's nothing very extraordinary in that.

MADAME GUERET. Don't make fun of me, please. What we are doing is simply

madness. Madness, do you hear? And it was the day before yesterday--only

the day before yesterday--we heard the news.

GUERET. We--

MADAME GUERET [_Who has seen Lucienne come in_] Hush!

_Lucienne comes in, a girl of twenty, dressed as Barberine from Musset's

play; then Maud, Nadia, and Antoinette [eighteen to twenty-two], dressed

as followers of the queen. Lucienne goes to the piano, takes a piece of

music, and comes to Madame Gueret._

LUCIENNE. You'll help me along, won't you, dear Madame Gueret? You'll

give me my note when it comes to "Voyez vous pas que la nuit est

profonde"?

MADAME GUERET. Now don't be nervous.

MAUD [_coming in_] We're ready.

ANTOINETTE. If the third act only goes as well as the first two--

MAUD. We'll listen until we have to go on.

ANTOINETTE. Won't you come with us, Madame?

MADAME GUERET. No, I can't. I've had to undertake the noises behind the

scenes. _That_ job might have been given to someone else, I think.

LUCIENNE. Oh, Madame, please don't be angry with us. Madame Chain let us

know too late. And you're helping us so much.

MADAME GUERET. Well, I've invited the people, and I suppose I must

entertain them. As I gave in to Therese about getting up this play, I

don't want to do anything to spoil the evening.

LUCIENNE. How pretty she is as Kalekairi.

MADAME GUERET. You don't think people are shocked by her frock?

LUCIENNE. Oh, Madame!

MADAME GUERET. Well!

LUCIENNE. I shall have to go in a moment. Therese has come out; I can

hear her sequins rattling.

MADAME GUERET. Yes; so can I. But Rene will let us know. Never mind.

_She goes to the piano. Rene appears at the door at the back._

RENE. Are you ready, Lucienne?

LUCIENNE. Yes.

RENE. You've only two lines to say.

LUCIENNE. Only one. [_She speaks low to Rene_] No end of a success,

wasn't it, for your Therese?

RENE [_low_] Wasn't it? I _am_ so happy, Lucienne. I love her so.

LUCIENNE. Listen. That's for me, I think.

RENE. Yes, that's for you. Wait. [_He goes to the door at the back,

listens, and returns_] Come. Turn this way so as to make it sound as if

you were at a distance. Now then.

_Madame Gueret accompanies Lucienne on the piano._

LUCIENNE [_sings_]

Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre,

Qu'allez vous faire

Si loin d'ici?

Voyez-vous pas que la nuit est profonde

Et que le monde

N'est que souci.

MADAME GUERET [_civilly_] You have a delightful voice, Mademoiselle

Lucienne.

_Lucienne places her music on the piano with a smile to Madame Gueret._

RENE [_to Lucienne, drawing her to the partition window and showing her

where a pane has been removed_] And your little window! Have you seen

your little window? It was not there at the dress rehearsal. You lift

it like this. It's supposed to be an opening in the wall. It ought to

have been different; we were obliged to take out a pane. May I show her,

Madame Gueret?

MADAME GUERET [_resigned_] Yes, yes, of course.

RENE. You lift it like this; and to speak you'll lean forward, won't

you, so that they may see you?

LUCIENNE. I will, yes.

RENE. Don't touch it now. [_To Madame Gueret_] You won't forget the

bell, will you, Madame? There's plenty of time--ten minutes at least.

I'll let you know. Mademoiselle Lucienne, now, time to go on.

LUCIENNE. Yes, yes. [_She goes out_]

MADAME GUERET [_with a sigh_] To have a play being acted in the

circumstances we're in--it's beyond everything! I cannot think how I

came to allow it.

GUERET. You see they'd been rehearsing for a week. And Therese--

MADAME GUERET. And I not only allowed it, but I'm almost taking part in

it.

GUERET. We couldn't put off all these people at twenty-four hours'

notice. And it's our last party. It's really a farewell party. Besides,

we should have had to tell Therese everything.

MADAME GUERET. Well, you asked me to keep it all from her until

to-morrow--though it concerns her as much as it does us. [_Monsieur

Feliat comes in, a man of sixty, correct without being elegant_] Here's

my brother.

FELIAT. I've something to tell you. Shall we be interrupted?

MADAME GUERET. Yes, constantly.

FELIAT. Let's go into another room.

MADAME GUERET. I can't. And all the rooms are full of people.

GUERET. Marguerite has been good enough to help here by taking the place

of Madame Chain, who's ill.

MADAME GUERET [_angrily_] Yes, I've got to do the noises heard off! At

my age! [_A sigh_] Tell us, Etienne, what is it?

GUERET. We can wait until the play is over.

MADAME GUERET. So like you! You don't care a bit about what my brother

has to tell us. Who'd ever believe this is all your fault! [_To her

brother_] What is it?

FELIAT. I have seen the lawyer. Your goddaughter will have to sign this

power of attorney so that it may get to Lyons to-morrow morning.

GUERET [_who has glanced at the paper_] But we can't get her to sign

that without telling her all about it.

MADAME GUERET. Well, goodness me, she'll have to know sometime! I must

say I cannot understand the way you've kept this dreadful thing from

her. It's pure sentimentality.

GUERET. The poor child!

MADAME GUERET. You really are ridiculous. One would think that it was

only _her_ money the lawyer took. It's gone, of course; but so is ours.

GUERET. We still have La Tremblaye.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, thank goodness, because La Tremblaye belongs to me.

_Rene comes in in great excitement._

RENE. Where is Mademoiselle Therese? She'll keep the stage waiting!

[_Listening_] No, she's coming, I hear her. Nice fright she's given me!

[_To Madame Gueret_] Above all, Madame, don't forget the bell, almost

the moment that Mademoiselle Therese comes off the stage.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, yes.

RENE. And my properties! [_He runs out_]

FELIAT. Now we can talk for a minute.

MADAME GUERET. Yes.

FELIAT. You've quite made up your minds to come to Evreux?

GUERET. Quite.

FELIAT. Are you sure you won't regret Paris?

MADAME GUERET. Oh, no.

GUERET. For the last two years I've hated Paris.

MADAME GUERET. Since you began to play cards.

GUERET. For the last two years we've had the greatest difficulty in

keeping up appearances. This lawyer absconding is the last blow.

FELIAT. Aren't you afraid you will be horribly bored at La Tremblaye?

GUERET [_rising_] What are we to do?

FELIAT. Well, now listen to me. I told you--

_Rene comes in and takes something off a table. Feliat stops suddenly._

RENE. Good-morning, uncle. [_He hurries out_]

FELIAT. Good-morning, Rene.

GUERET. He knows nothing about it yet?

FELIAT. No; and my sister-in-law asked me to tell him.

MADAME GUERET. Well, why shouldn't you? If they _are_ engaged, we know

nothing about it.

GUERET. Oh!

MADAME GUERET. We know nothing officially, because in these days young

people don't condescend to consult their parents.

FELIAT. Rene told his people and they gave their consent.

MADAME GUERET. Unwillingly.

FELIAT. Oh certainly, unwillingly. Then I'm to tell him?

MADAME GUERET. The sooner the better.

FELIAT. I'll tell him to-night.

GUERET. I'm afraid it'll be an awful blow to the poor chap.

MADAME GUERET. Oh, he's young. He'll get over it.

FELIAT. What was I saying when he came in? Ah, yes; you know I've

decided to add a bindery to my printing works at Evreux; you saw the

building started when you were down there. If things go as I want them

to, I shall try to do some cheap artistic binding. I want to get hold of

a man who won't rob me to manage this new branch and look after it; a

man who won't be too set in his ideas, because I want him to adopt mine;

and, at the same time, I'd like him to be not altogether a stranger. I

thought I'd found him; but I saw the man yesterday and I don't like him.

Now will _you_ take on the job? Would it suit you?

GUERET. Would it suit me! Oh, my dear Feliat, how can I possibly thank

you? To tell you the truth, I've been wondering what in the world I

should do with myself now; and I was dreading the future. What you offer

me is better than anything I could have dreamt of. What do you say,

Marguerite?

MADAME GUERET. I am delighted.

FELIAT. Then that's all right.

GUERET [_to his brother-in-law_] I think you won't regret having

confidence in me.

FELIAT. And your goddaughter?

MADAME GUERET. Therese?

FELIAT. Yes; how is _she_ going to face this double news of her ruin and

the breaking off of her engagement?

MADAME GUERET. I think she ought to have sense enough to understand that

one is the consequence of the other. She can hardly expect Rene's

parents to give their son to a girl without money.

FELIAT. I suppose not. But what's to become of her?

GUERET. She will live with us, of course.

MADAME GUERET. "Of course"! I like that.

GUERET. She has no other relations, and her father left her in my care.

MADAME GUERET. He left her in _your_ care, and it's _I_ who have been

rushed into all the trouble of a child who is nothing to me.

GUERET. Child! She was nineteen when her father died.

FELIAT. To look after a young girl of nineteen is a very great

responsibility.

MADAME GUERET [_laughing bitterly_] Ho! Ho! Look after! Look after

Mademoiselle Therese! You think she's a person who allows herself to be

looked after! And yet you've seen her more or less every holidays.

GUERET. You've not had to look after her; she has been at the Lycee.

_Therese comes in dressed as Kalekairi from "Barberine." She is a pretty

girl of twenty-three, healthy, and bright._

THERESE. The bell, the bell, godmother! You're forgetting the bell!

Good-evening, Monsieur Feliat.

_Therese takes up the bell, which is on the table._

MADAME GUERET. I was going to forget it! Oh, what a nuisance! All this

is so new to me.

FELIAT. Excuse me! I really didn't recognize you for the moment.

THERESE [_laughing_] Ah, my dress. Startling, isn't it?

MADAME GUERET [_with meaning_] Startling is the right word.

RENE [_appearing at the back, disappearing again immediately, and

calling_] The bell! And you, on the stage, Mademoiselle Therese!

THERESE. I'm coming. [_She rings_] Here I am!

_She goes out._

MADAME GUERET [_with a sigh_] And I had it let down!

FELIAT. What?

MADAME GUERET. Her dress. [_To her husband_] What I see most clearly in

all this is that she must stay with us.

_Rene comes fussing in._

RENE. Where's the queen? Where's Madame Nerisse?

MADAME GUERET. I've not seen her.

RENE. But goodness gracious--! [_He goes to the door on the left and

calls_] Madame Nerisse!

MADAME NERISSE [_from outside_] Yes, yes, I'm ready.

_Madame Nerisse comes in. She is about forty, flighty, and a little

affected._

RENE. I wanted to warn you that Ulric will be on your right, and if he

plays the fool--

MADAME NERISSE. Very well. Is it time?

RENE. Yes, come. [_To Madame Gueret_] You won't forget the trumpets?

MADAME GUERET. No, no. All the same, you'd better help me.

RENE. I will, I will.

_He goes out with Madame Nerisse._

FELIAT. You know, if she wants one, she'll find a husband at Evreux.

MADAME GUERET. Without a penny!

FELIAT. Without a penny! She made a sensation at the ball at the

sous-prefecture. She's extremely pretty.

MADAME GUERET. She's young.

FELIAT. Monsieur Gambard sounded me about her.

MADAME GUERET. Monsieur Gambard! The Monsieur Gambard who has the house

with the big garden?

FELIAT. Yes.

MADAME GUERET. But he's very rich.

FELIAT. He's forty-nine.

MADAME GUERET. She'll have to take what she can get now.

FELIAT. And I think that Monsieur Beaudoin----

GUERET. But he's almost a cripple!

MADAME GUERET. She wouldn't do so well in Paris.

GUERET. She wouldn't look at either of them.

FELIAT. We must try and make her see reason.

_Rene enters busily. Lucienne follows him. Feliat is standing across the

guichet through which Barberine is to speak. Rene pulls him away without

ceremony._

RENE. Excuse me, Uncle; don't stand there before the little window.

FELIAT. Beg pardon. I didn't know.

RENE. I haven't a moment.

FELIAT. I've never seen you so busy. At your office they say you're a

lazy dog.

MADAME GUERET. Probably Rene has more taste for the stage than for

business.

RENE [_laughing_] Rather! [_To Lucienne_] Now, it's time. Come. Lift it.

Not yet! There! _Now!_

LUCIENNE [_speaking through the guichet_] "If you want food and drink,

you must do like those old women you despise--you must spin."

RENE. Capital!

LUCIENNE [_to Feliat_] Please forgive me, Monsieur, I've not had time to

speak to you.

FELIAT. Why, it's Mademoiselle Lucienne, Therese's friend, who came and

stayed in the holidays! Fancy my not recognizing you!

LUCIENNE. It's my dress. I _do_ like playing this part. I have to say

that lovely bit--you know--the bit that describes the day of the ideal

wife. [_She recites, sentimentally_] "I rise and go to prayers, to the

farmyard, to the kitchen. I prepare your meal; I go with you to church;

I read a page or two; I sew a while; and then I fall asleep happy upon

your breast."

FELIAT. That's good, oh, that's very good! _Barberine_--now, who wrote

that?

LUCIENNE. Alfred de Musset.

FELIAT. Ah, yes; to be sure, Alfred de Musset. I read him when I was

young. You often find his works lying about in pretty bindings.

RENE. Uncle, Uncle; I beg your pardon, but don't speak so loud. We can

hardly hear what they're saying on the stage.

FELIAT [_very politely_] Sorry, I'm sure.

RENE [_to Lucienne_] You. _Now._

LUCIENNE [_speaking through the guichet_] "My lord, these cries are

useless. It grows late. If you wish to sup--you must spin." [_turning to

the others_] There! Now I must go over the rest with Ulric.

_She runs out, with a little wave of adieu to Feliat._

RENE [_to Madame Gueret_] The trumpets, Madame. Don't forget.

MADAME GUERET. No, no. Don't worry.

_Rene goes out._

FELIAT. You blow trumpets?

MADAME GUERET. Yes; on the piano.

FELIAT. I don't know what to do with myself. I don't want to be in the

way. I'm not accustomed to being behind the scenes.

MADAME GUERET. Nor am I.

_Therese comes in in the Kalekairi dress, followed by Rene._

THERESE. It's time for me now.

FELIAT [_to Madame Gueret_] She really looks like a professional

actress.

RENE [_to Therese_] Now!

THERESE [_speaking through the little window_] "My lady says, as you

will not spin, you cannot sup. She thinks you are not hungry, and I

wish you good-night." [_She closes the little window and says gayly_]

Good-evening, Monsieur Feliat.

RENE. Now then, come along. You go on in one minute.

THERESE [_to Feliat_] I'll come back soon.

_She goes out._

RENE [_to Madame Gueret_] Now, Madame, _you_, Quick, Madame!

MADAME GUERET. Yes, yes. All right.

_She plays a flourish of trumpets on the piano._

RENE. Splendid!

MADAME GUERET. Ouf! It's over. At last we can have peace! If she's such

a fool as to refuse both these men--

GUERET [_interrupting_] She won't refuse, you may be sure.

MADAME GUERET [_continuing_]--we shall have to keep her with us. But I

shall insist upon certain conditions.

GUERET. What conditions?

MADAME GUERET. I won't have any scandals at Evreux.

GUERET. There won't be any scandals.

MADAME GUERET. No; because she'll have to behave very differently, I can

tell you. She'll have to leave all these fine airs of independence

behind her in Paris.

GUERET. What airs?

MADAME GUERET. Well, for instance, getting letters and answering them

without any sort of supervision! [_To her brother_] She manages in such

a way that I don't even see the envelopes! [_To her husband_] I object

very much, too, to her student ways.

GUERET. She goes to classes and lectures with her girl friends.

MADAME GUERET. Well, she won't go to any more. And she will have to give

up going out alone.

GUERET. She's of age.

MADAME GUERET. A properly brought up young lady is never of age.

FELIAT. Perfectly true.

MADAME GUERET. And there must be a change in her way of dressing.

GUERET. There will. She'll have to dress simply, for she won't have a

rap.

MADAME GUERET. That has nothing to do with it. I shall make her

understand that she will have to behave like the other girls in good

society.

FELIAT. Of course.

MADAME GUERET. I shall also put a veto on certain books she reads. [_To

her brother_] It's really dreadful, Etienne. You've no idea! One day I

found a shocking book upon her table--a horror! What do you suppose she

said when I remonstrated? That that disgraceful book was necessary in

preparing for her examination. And the worst of it is, it was true. She

showed me the syllabus.

FELIAT. I'm afraid they're bringing up our girls in a way that'll make

unhappy women of them.

MADAME GUERET. Don't let's talk about it; you'll start on politics, and

then you and Henri will begin to argue. All the same I mean to be very

good to her. As soon as she knows what's happened her poor little

pretensions will come tumbling about her ears. I won't leave her in

uncertainty, and even before she asks I'll tell her she may stay with

us; but I shall tell her, too, what I expect from her in return.

GUERET. Wouldn't it be better--

MADAME GUERET. My dear, I shall go my own way. See what we're suffering

now in consequence of going _yours_. Here's Madame Nerisse. Then the

play is over. [_To her husband_] You must go and look after the people

at the supper table. I'll join you in a minute.

GUERET. All right.

_He goes out._

MADAME NERISSE. I've hardly ever been at such a successful party. I

wanted to congratulate dear Therese, but she's gone to change her dress.

MADAME GUERET [_absently_] So glad. Were you speaking of having a notice

of it in your paper?

MADAME NERISSE. Of your play! If I was going to notice it! I should

think so! The photographs we had taken at the dress rehearsal are being

developed. We shall have a wonderful description.

MADAME GUERET [_imploring_] Could it be stopped?

MADAME NERISSE. It's not possible! Just think how amazed the subscribers

to _Feminine Art_ would be if they found nothing in their paper about

your lovely performance of _Barberine_, even if the editress of the

paper hadn't taken a part in the play. If it only depended on me,

perhaps I could find some way out--explain it in some way, just to

please you. But then there's your charming Therese--one of our

contributors. I can't tell you what a wonderful success she's had with

her two stories, illustrated by herself. People adore her.

MADAME GUERET. Nobody would know anything about it--

MADAME NERISSE. Nobody know! There are at least ten people among your

guests who will send descriptions of this party to the biggest morning

papers, simply for the sake of getting their own names into print. If

_Feminine Art_ had nothing about it, it would be thought extremely odd,

I assure you. [_She turns to Feliat_] Wouldn't it, Monsieur?

FELIAT. Pardon me, Madame, I know nothing about these things.

MADAME GUERET. Well, we'll say no more about it.

MADAME NERISSE. But what's the matter? You must have some very good

reason for not wanting me to put in anything about your delightful

party.

MADAME GUERET. No----only----[_Hesitating_] Some of our family are

country people, you know. It would take me too long to explain it all to

you. It doesn't matter. [_With a change of tone_] Then honestly you

think Therese has some little talent?

MADAME NERISSE. Little talent! No, but very great talent. Haven't you

read her two articles?

MADAME GUERET. Oh, I? I belong to another century. In my days it would

have been considered a very curious thing if a young girl wrote novels.

My brother feels this too. By the way, I have not introduced my brother

to you. Monsieur Feliat, of Evreux--Madame Nerisse, editress of

_Feminine Art_. Madame Nerisse has been kind enough to help us with our

little party. [_To Madame Nerisse_] Yes--you were speaking about--what

was it--this story that Therese has written. No doubt your readers were

indulgent to the work of a little amateur.

MADAME NERISSE. I wish I could find professionals who'd do half as well.

I'm perfectly certain the number her photograph is going to be in will

have a good sale.

FELIAT. You'll publish her photograph?

MADAME NERISSE. In her dress as Kalekairi.

MADAME GUERET. In her dress as Kalekairi!

MADAME NERISSE. On the front page. They tell me it's a first-rate

likeness. I'll bring you one of them before long, and your country

relations will be delighted. If you'll excuse me, I'll hurry away and

change my dress.

MADAME GUERET. Oh, please excuse me for keeping you.

MADAME NERISSE. Good-bye for the present. [_She goes to the door_] I was

looking for Maud and Nadia to take them away with me. I see them over

there having a little flirtation. [_She looks through the door and

speaks pleasantly to Maud and Nadia, who are just outside_] All right,

all right; I won't interrupt. [_To Madame Gueret_] They'd much rather

come home alone. Good-bye. [_She bows to Feliat_] Good-bye, Monsieur.

[_Turning again to Madame Gueret_] Don't look so upset because you have

a goddaughter who can be a great writer or a great painter if she

chooses; just as she would have been a great actress if she had taken a

fancy for that. Good-bye again and many congratulations.

_She goes out._

MADAME GUERET. Well! Anyway, she's not _my_ daughter! I must go and say

good-bye to everybody. When I've got rid of them, I'll come back and see

Therese. Will you wait for me? You'll find some papers on that little

table. Oh, goodness, what times we live in!

_Madame Gueret goes out. Feliat, left alone, strolls to the

door and looks in the direction in which Madame Nerisse had

seen Maud and Nadia. After a moment he shows signs of

indignation._

FELIAT [_shocked_] Oh, I say, this is really--I must cough or something,

and let them know I'm here. [_He coughs_] They've seen me. They're

waving their hands--and--they 're going on just the same!

_Lucienne and Therese in ordinary dress come in and notice

what Feliat is doing._

THERESE [_to Lucienne_] What is he doing?

LUCIENNE. What's the matter?

_They advance to see what has caused his perturbation. He

hears them and turns._

FELIAT. It is incredible!

THERESE. You seem rather upset. What's the matter?

FELIAT. What's the matter? Those girls are behaving in such a scandalous

way with those young men.

LUCIENNE. Let's see.

FELIAT. Oh, don't look! [_Suddenly stopping, half to himself_] Though I

must say--

THERESE [_laughing_] What must you say?

FELIAT. Nothing.

LUCIENNE. I know. You mean that we're just as bad.

FELIAT. No, no, not as bad.

LUCIENNE. Yes, yes; well--almost. [_Feliat makes a sign of protest_] I

saw you watching us yesterday after the rehearsal! You saw I was

flirting, and I know you imagined all sorts of horrid things. Our little

flirtations are not what you think. When we flirt we play at love-making

with our best boys, just as once upon a time we played at mothering with

our dolls.

FELIAT. But that doesn't justify--

THERESE. You don't understand. People spoil us while we're children, and

then look after us so tremendously carefully when we grow up that we

guess there must be delightful and dangerous possibilities about us.

Flirting is our way of feeling for these possibilities.

LUCIENNE. We're sharpening our weapons.

THERESE. But the foils have buttons on them, and the pistols are only

loaded with powder.

LUCIENNE. And it's extremely amusing and does no harm to anybody.

THERESE. Monsieur Feliat, you've read bad books. Nowadays girls like us

are neither bread-and-butter misses nor demi-vierges. We're perfectly

respectable young people. Quite capable and self-possessed and, at the

same time, quite straight and very happy.

FELIAT. I'm perfectly sure of it, my dear young ladies. But you know

I've had a great deal of experience.

THERESE. Oh, _experience_! Well, you know--

LUCIENNE. Oh, _experience_!

THERESE. You say you have experience; that only means you know about the

past better than we do. But we know much better than you do about the

present.

FELIAT. I think those girls there are playing a dangerous game.

THERESE. You needn't have the smallest anxiety about them.

FELIAT. That way of going on might get them into great trouble.

THERESE. It won't, I assure you. Monsieur Feliat, believe me, you know

nothing about it.

LUCIENNE. We're clever enough to be able to take care of ourselves.

FELIAT. But there are certain things that take you by storm.

LUCIENNE. Not us. Flirting is an amusement, a distraction, a game.

THERESE. Shall we say a safety valve?

LUCIENNE. There's not a single one of us who doesn't understand the

importance of running straight. And, to do them justice, these boys have

no idea of tempting us to do anything else. What they want, what we all

really want, is a quite conventional, satisfactory marriage.

FELIAT. I most heartily approve; but in my days so much wisdom didn't

usually come from such fascinating little mouths.

THERESE. Now how can you blame us when you see that really we think

exactly as you do yourself?

FELIAT. In my days girls went neither to the Lycee nor to have

gymnastic lessons, and they were none the less straight.

LUCIENNE [_reflectively_] And yet they grew up into the women of to-day.

I get educated and try to keep myself healthy, with exercises and

things, because I want to develop morally and physically, and be fit to

marry a man a little bit out of the ordinary either in fortune or

brains.

THERESE. You see our whole lives depend upon the man we marry.

FELIAT. I seem to have heard that before.

LUCIENNE. Yes; so've I. But it's none the less true for that.

THERESE. Isn't it funny that we seem to be saying the most shocking

things when we're only repeating what our grandfathers and grandmothers

preached to their children?

LUCIENNE. They were quite right. Love doesn't make happiness by itself.

One has to consider the future. We do consider it; in fact we do nothing

else but consider it. We want to get the best position for ourselves in

the future that we possibly can. We're not giddy little fools, and we're

not selfish egotists. We want our children to grow up happy and capable

as we've done ourselves. We're really quite reasonable.

FELIAT [_hardly able to contain himself_] You are; indeed you are. It

makes one shudder. Excuse me, I'm going to supper.

LUCIENNE. Let's all go together.

FELIAT. Thanks, I can find my way.

LUCIENNE. It's down that passage to the right.

FELIAT. Yes, I shall find it, thank you.

_He goes out._

THERESE. You shocked the poor old boy.

LUCIENNE. I only flavored the truth just enough to make it tasty. But

I've something frightfully important to tell you. It's settled.

THERESE. What's settled?

LUCIENNE. I'm engaged.

THERESE. You don't say so.

LUCIENNE. It's done. Armand has been to his people and they've come to

see mine. So I needn't play any more piano, nor sing any more

sentimental songs; I needn't be clever any more, nor flirt any more, nor

languish at young men any more. And how do you suppose it was settled?

Just what one wouldn't have ever expected. You know my people were doing

all they could to dress me up, and show me off, and seem to be richer

than they are, so as to attract the men. On my side I was giving myself

the smartest of airs and pretending to despise money and to think of

nothing but making a splash. Everything went quite differently from what

I expected. I wanted to attract Armand, and I was only frightening him

off. He thought such a woman as I was pretending to be too expensive. It

was just through a chance conversation, some sudden confidence on my

part, that he found out that I really like quite simple things. He was

delighted, and he proposed at once.

THERESE. Dear Lucienne, I'm so glad. I hope you'll be very, very happy.

LUCIENNE. Ah, that's another story. Armand is not by any means perfect.

But what can one do? The important thing is to marry, isn't it?

THERESE. Of course. Well, if your engagement is on, mine's off.

LUCIENNE. Therese! Why I've just been talking to Rene. I never saw him

so happy, nor so much in love.

THERESE. He doesn't know yet. Or perhaps they're telling him now.

LUCIENNE. Telling him what?

THERESE. I've lost all my money, my dear.

LUCIENNE. Lost all your money!

THERESE. Yes. The lawyer who had my securities has gone off with them.

LUCIENNE. When?

THERESE. I heard about it the day before yesterday. Godpapa and godmamma

were so awfully good they never said anything to me about it, though

they're losing a lot of money too. They thought I hadn't heard, and I

expect they wanted me to have this last evening's fun. I said nothing,

and so nobody knows anything except you, now, and probably Rene.

LUCIENNE. What will you do?

THERESE. What can I do? It's impossible for him to marry me without a

penny. Of course I shall release him from his promise.

LUCIENNE. You think he'll give you up?

THERESE. His people will make him. If they cut off his allowance, he'll

be at their mercy. He earns about twenty dollars a month in that

lawyer's office. So, you see--

LUCIENNE. Oh! poor Therese! And you could play Barberine with a secret

like that!

THERESE [_sadly_] I've had a real bad time since I heard. It's awful at

night!

LUCIENNE. My dearest! And you love him so!

THERESE [_much moved_] Yes--oh! don't make me cry.

LUCIENNE. It might do you good!

THERESE. You know--[_She breaks down a little_]

LUCIENNE [_tenderly_] Yes--I know that you're good and brave.

THERESE. I shall have to be.

LUCIENNE. Then you'll break off the engagement?

THERESE. Yes. I shall never see him again.

LUCIENNE. Never see him again!

THERESE. I shall write to him. If I saw him I should probably break

down. If I write I shall be more likely to be able to make him feel that

we must resign ourselves to the inevitable.

LUCIENNE. He'll be horribly unhappy.

THERESE. So shall I. [_Low and urgently_] Oh, if he only understood me!

If he was able to believe that I can earn my own living and that he

could earn his. If he would dare to do without his people's consent!

LUCIENNE. Persuade him to!

THERESE. It's quite impossible. His people are rich. Only just think

what they'd suspect me of. No; I shall tell him all the things his

father will tell him. But oh! Lucienne, if he had an answer for them! If

he had an answer! [_She cries a little_] But, my poor Rene, he won't

make any stand.

LUCIENNE. How you love him!

THERESE. Oh, yes; I love him. He's rather weak, but he's so loyal and

good and [_in a very low voice_] loving.

LUCIENNE. Oh, my dear, I do pity you so.

THERESE. I am to be pitied, really. [_Pulling herself together_] There's

one thing. I shall take advantage of this business to separate from

godpapa and godmamma.

LUCIENNE. But you have no money--

THERESE. I've not been any too happy here. You know they're--[_She sees

Madame Gueret and whispers to Lucienne_] Go now. I'll tell you all about

it to-morrow. [_Louder and gayly_] Well, good-night, my dear. See you

to-morrow at the Palais de Glace or at the Sorbonne! Good-night.

LUCIENNE. Good-night, Therese.

_She goes out._

MADAME GUERET [_speaking through the door_] Yes, she's here. Come in.

[_Gueret and Feliat come in_] Therese, we have something to say to you.

THERESE. Yes, godmamma.

MADAME GUERET. It's about something important; something very serious.

Let us sit down.

GUERET. You'll have to be brave, Therese.

MADAME GUERET. We are ruined, and you are ruined too.

THERESE. Yes.

MADAME GUERET. Is that all you have to say?

THERESE. I knew it already.

MADAME GUERET. You _knew_ it? Who told you?

THERESE. The lawyer told me himself. I had a long letter from him

yesterday. He begs me to forgive him.

MADAME GUERET. Well, I declare!

THERESE. I'll show it to you. He's been gambling. To get a bigger

fortune for his girls, he says.

MADAME GUERET. You _knew_ it! And you've had the strength,

the--duplicity?

THERESE [_smiling_] Just as you had yourself, godmamma. And I'm so much

obliged to both of you for saying nothing to me, because I'm sure you

wanted me to have my play to-night and enjoy myself; and that was why

you tried to keep the news from me.

MADAME GUERET. And you were able to laugh and to _act_!

THERESE. I've always tried to keep myself in hand.

MADAME GUERET. Oh, I know. All the same--And I was so careful about

breaking this news to you, and you knew it all the time!

THERESE. I'm very sorry. But you--

MADAME GUERET. All right, all right. Well, then, we have nothing to

tell. But do you understand that you've not a penny left?

GUERET. You're to go on living with us, of course.

MADAME GUERET [_to her husband_] You really might have given her time to

ask us. [_To Therese_] We take it that you have asked us, and we answer

that we will keep you with us.

GUERET. We are going to Evreux. My brother-in-law is giving me work in

his factory.

MADAME GUERET. We will keep you with us, but on certain conditions.

THERESE. Thank you very much, godmamma, but I mean to stay in Paris.

GUERET. You don't understand. We are going to live at Evreux.

THERESE. But _I_ am going to live in Paris.

GUERET. Then it is I who do not understand.

THERESE. All the same--[_A silence_]

MADAME GUERET. I can hardly believe that you propose to live in Paris by

yourself.

THERESE [_simply_] I do, godmamma.

FELIAT. Alone!

GUERET. Alone! I repeat, I don't understand.

FELIAT. Nor do I. But no doubt you have reasons to give to your

godfather and godmother. [_He moves to go_]

THERESE. There's no secret about my reasons. All the world may know

them. When I've explained you'll see that it's all right.

MADAME GUERET. I must confess to being extremely curious to hear these

reasons.

THERESE. I do hope my decision won't make you angry with me.

MADAME GUERET. Angry! When have I ever been angry with you?

THERESE [_protesting_] You've both been--you've all three been--_most_

good and kind to me, and I shall always remember it and be grateful. You

may be sure I shan't love you any the less because I shall live in

Paris and you at Evreux. And I do beg of you to feel the same to me. I

shall never forget what I owe to you. Father was only your friend; we're

not related in any way: but you took me in, and for four years you've

treated me as if I was your daughter. From my very heart I'm grateful to

you.

GUERET [_affectionately_] You don't owe us much, you know. For two years

you were a boarder at the Lycee Maintenon, and we saw nothing of you but

your letters. You've only actually lived with us for two years, and

you've been like sunshine in the house.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, indeed.

THERESE. I've thought this carefully over. I'm twenty-three. I won't be

a burden to you any longer.

GUERET. Is that because you are too proud and independent?

THERESE. If I thought I could really be of use to you, I would stay with

you. If I could help you to face your troubles, I would stay with you.

But I can't, and I mean to shift for myself.

MADAME GUERET. And you think you can "shift for yourself," as you call

it, all alone?

THERESE. Yes, godmamma.

MADAME GUERET. A young girl, all alone, in Paris! The thing is

inconceivable.

GUERET. But, my poor child, how do you propose to live?

THERESE. I'll work.

MADAME GUERET. You don't mean that seriously?

THERESE. Yes, godmamma.

GUERET. You think you have only to ask for work and it will fall from

the skies!

THERESE. I have a few dollars in my purse which will keep me until I

have found something.

FELIAT. Your purse will be empty before you've made a cent.

THERESE. I'm sure it won't.

GUERET. Now, my dear, you're tired, and nervous, and upset. You can't

look at things calmly. We can talk about this again to-morrow.

THERESE. Yes, godpapa. But I shan't have changed my mind.

MADAME GUERET. I know you have a strong will of your own.

FELIAT. Let us talk sensibly and reasonably. You propose to live all

alone in Paris. Good. Where will you live?

THERESE. I shall hire a little flat--or a room somewhere.

MADAME GUERET. Like a workgirl.

THERESE. Like a workgirl. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that.

FELIAT. And you are going to earn your own living. How?

THERESE. I shall work. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that, either.

GUERET. I see. But a properly brought up young lady doesn't work for her

living if she can possibly avoid it.

MADAME GUERET. And above all, a properly brought up young lady doesn't

live all alone.

THERESE. All the same--

MADAME GUERET. You are perfectly free. There's no doubt about that. We

have no power to prevent you from doing exactly as you choose.

GUERET. But your father left you in my care.

THERESE. Please, godmamma, don't be hard upon me. I feel you think I'm

ungrateful, though you don't say so. I know that often and often I shall

long for your kindness and for the home where you've given me a place.

I've shocked you. Do please forgive me. I'm made like that, and made

differently from you. I don't say you're not right; I only say I'm

different. Certain ideas have come to me from being educated at the

Lycee and from all these books I've read. I think I'm able to earn my

own living, and so I look upon it as my bounden duty not to trespass

upon your charity. It's a question of personal dignity. Don't you think

that I'm right, godfather? [_With a change of tone_] Besides, if I did

go to Evreux with you, what should I do there?

GUERET. It's pretty easy to guess.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, indeed.

GUERET. You would live with us.

MADAME GUERET [_not very kindly_] You would have a home.

THERESE. Yes, yes, I know all that; and it would be a great happiness.

But what should I _do_?

GUERET. You would do what all well brought up young girls in your

position do.

THERESE. You mean I should do nothing.

GUERET. Nothing! No, not nothing.

THERESE. Pay visits, practise a bit; some crochet and a little

photography? That's to say, nothing.

GUERET. You were brought up to that.

THERESE. I should never have dared to put it into words. But afterwards?

GUERET. Afterwards?

THERESE. How long would that last?

GUERET. Until you marry.

THERESE. I shall never marry.

GUERET. Why not?

THERESE [_very gently_] Oh, godfather, you know why not. I have no

money. [_A silence_] So I'm going to try and get work.

FELIAT. Work! Now, Therese, you know what women are like who try to earn

their own living. You think you can support yourself. How?

THERESE. Perhaps I'm mistaken, but I think I can support myself by my

pen.

FELIAT. Be a bluestocking?

THERESE. Yes.

MADAME GUERET. That means a Bohemian life, with everything upside down,

and a cigarette always between your lips.

THERESE [_laughing_] Neither Bohemia, nor the upside down, nor the

cigarette are indispensable, godmother. Your information is neither

firsthand nor up-to-date.

FELIAT. In a month's time you'll want to give it up.

THERESE. Under those circumstances there's no harm in letting me make

the experiment.

GUERET. Now, my dear child, don't you know that even with your

cleverness you may have to wait years before you make a penny. I've been

an editor. I know what I'm talking about.

MADAME GUERET. She's made up her mind, there's no use saying any more.

FELIAT. But _I_ want to talk to her now. Will you be so good as to

listen to me, Mademoiselle Therese? [_To Madame Gueret_] I wonder if I

might be allowed to have a few minutes with her alone.

MADAME GUERET. Most willingly.

GUERET [_to his wife_] Come, Marguerite.

MADAME GUERET. It's no use making up your mind to the worst in these

days; life always keeps a surprise for you. Let's go. [_She goes out

with her husband_]

FELIAT. My child, I have undertaken to say something to you that I fear

will hurt you, and it's very difficult. You know that I'm only Rene's

uncle by marriage. So it's not on my own account that I speak. I speak

for his parents.

THERESE. Don't say another word, Monsieur Feliat. I perfectly

understand. I'm going to release him from his engagement. I shall write

to him this very night.

FELIAT. My sister-in-law and her husband are most unhappy about all

this.

THERESE. I'm grateful to you all.

FELIAT. Their affection for you is not in any way diminished.

THERESE. I know.

FELIAT. And--

THERESE [_imploringly_] Please, _please_, Monsieur Feliat, don't say any

more; what's the good of it?

FELIAT. I beg your pardon, my dear. I am a little upset. I was

expecting--er, er--

THERESE. Expecting what?

FELIAT. I expected some resistance on your part, perhaps indignation. It

must be very hard for you; you were very fond of Rene.

THERESE. What's the good of talking about that? Of course he can't marry

me now that I've not got a penny.

FELIAT. You know--as a matter of fact--I--my old-fashioned ideas--well,

you go on surprising me. But this time my surprise is accompanied

by--shall I say respect?--and by sympathy. I expected tears, which would

have been very natural, because I know that your affection for Rene was

very great.

THERESE. I can keep my tears to myself.

FELIAT. Yes----Oh, I----at least----

THERESE. Let's consider it settled. Please don't talk to me about it any

more.

FELIAT. Very well. Now will you allow me to say one word to you about

your future?

THERESE. I shan't change my mind.

FELIAT. Perhaps not; all the same I want to advise you like--well, like

an old uncle. For several years you have been spending your holidays

with me at La Tremblaye. And I have a real affection for you. So you'll

listen to me?

THERESE. With all my heart.

FELIAT. You're making a mistake. Your ideas do you credit, but believe

me, you're laying up trouble for yourself in the future. [_She makes a

movement to interrupt him_] Wait. I don't want to argue. I want you to

listen to me, and I want to persuade you to follow my advice. Come to

Evreux and you may be perfectly certain that you won't be left an old

maid all your life. Even without money you'll find a husband there.

You're too pretty, too charming, too well educated not to turn the head

of some worthy gentleman. You made a sensation at the reception at the

Prefecture. If you don't know that already, I tell you so.

THERESE. I'm extremely flattered.

FELIAT. Do you know that if--well, if you decide to marry--I might--

THERESE. But I've _not_ decided to marry.

FELIAT. All right, all right, I am speaking about later on. Well, you've

seen Monsieur Baudoin and Monsieur Gambard--

THERESE. I haven't the slightest intention of--

FELIAT [_interrupting_] There's no question of anything immediate. But

for a person as wise and sensible as you are, the position of both the

one and the other deserves--

THERESE. I know them both.

FELIAT. Yes; but--

THERESE. Now look here. If I had two hundred thousand francs, would you

suggest that I should marry either of them?

FELIAT. Certainly not.

THERESE. There, you see.

FELIAT. But you've _not_ got two hundred thousand francs.

THERESE [_without showing any anger or annoyance_] The last thing I want

is to be exacting. But really, Monsieur Feliat, think for a minute. If I

were to marry a man I could not possibly love, I should marry him for

his money. [_Looking straight at him_] And in that case the only

difference between me and the women I am not supposed to know anything

about would be that a little ceremony had been performed over me and not

over them. Don't you agree with me?

FELIAT. But, my dear, you say such extraordinary things.

THERESE. Well, do you consider that less dishonoring than working?

Honestly now, do you? I think that the best thing about women earning

their living is that it'll save them from being put into exactly that

position.

FELIAT. The right thing for woman is marriage. That's her proper

position.

THERESE. It's sometimes an unhappy one. [_A maid comes in bringing a

card to Therese, who says_] Ask the lady kindly to wait a moment.

MAID. Yes, Mademoiselle. [_The maid goes out_]

FELIAT. Well, I'm off. I shall go and see Rene. Then you'll write to

him?

THERESE. This very evening.

FELIAT. He'll want to see you. My child, will you have the courage to

resist him?

THERESE. You needn't trouble about that.

FELIAT. If he was mad enough to want to do without his parents' consent,

they wish me to tell you that they would never speak to him again.

THERESE. I see.

FELIAT. That he would be a stranger to them. You understand all that

that means?

THERESE [_discouraged_] Yes, yes; oh yes.

FELIAT. If you are not strong enough to stand out against his

entreaties, you will be his ruin.

THERESE. I quite understand.

FELIAT. People would think very badly of you.

THERESE. Please don't say any more, I quite understand.

FELIAT. Then I may trust you?

THERESE. You may trust me.

FELIAT [_fatherly and approving_] Thank you. [_He holds out his hand_]

Therese, you're--well--you're splendid. I like courage. I wish you

success with all my heart. I really wish you success. But if, in the

future, you should want a friend--the very strongest may find themselves

in that position--let me be that friend.

THERESE [_taking the hand which Feliat holds out to her_] I'm grateful,

very grateful, Monsieur. Thank you. But I hope I shall be able to earn

my own living. That is all I want.

FELIAT. I wish you every success. Good-bye, Mademoiselle.

THERESE. Good-bye, Monsieur. [_He goes out. She crosses to another door

and brings in Madame Nerisse_] How good of you to come, dear Madame. Too

bad you should have the trouble.

MADAME NERISSE. Nonsense, my dear. I wanted to come. I'm so anxious to

show you these two photographs and consult you about which we're to

publish. I expected to find you very tired.

THERESE. I am not the least tired, and I'm delighted to see you.

MADAME NERISSE [_showing Therese the photographs_] This is more

brilliant, that's more dreamy. I like this one. What do you think?

THERESE. I like this one too.

MADAME NERISSE. Then that's settled. [_Putting down the photographs_]

What a success you had this evening.

THERESE. Yes; people are very kind. [_Seriously_] I'm so glad you've

come just now, dear Madame, so that we can have a few minutes' quiet

talk. I have something most important to say to you.

MADAME NERISSE. Anything I can do for you?

THERESE. Well, I'll explain. And please do talk to me quite openly and

frankly.

MADAME NERISSE. I will indeed.

THERESE. You told me that my article was very much liked. I can quite

believe that you may have exaggerated a little out of kindness to me. I

want to know really whether you think I write well.

MADAME NERISSE. Dear Therese, ask Madame Gueret to tell you what I said

to her just now about that very thing.

THERESE. Then you think my collaboration might be really useful to

_Feminine Art_?

MADAME NERISSE. There's nothing more useful to a paper like ours than

the collaboration of girls in society.

THERESE. Would you like me to send you some more stories like the first?

MADAME NERISSE. As many as you can.

THERESE. And--[_She hesitates a moment_] and would you pay me the same

price for them as for the one you've just published?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, exactly the same; and I shall be very glad to get

them. I like your work; you have an exceptionally light touch; people

won't get tired of reading your stuff.

THERESE. Oh, I hope that's true! I'm going to tell you some bad news.

For family reasons my godfather and godmother are going to leave Paris.

I shall stay here by myself, and I shall have to live by my pen.

MADAME NERISSE. What an idea!

THERESE. It's not an idea, it's a necessity.

MADAME NERISSE. What do you mean? A necessity? Monsieur Gueret--. But I

mustn't be inquisitive.

THERESE. You're not inquisitive, and I'll tell you all about it very

soon; we haven't got time now. Can you promise to take a weekly article

from me?

MADAME NERISSE [_with less confidence_] Certainly.

THERESE [_joyfully_] You can! Oh, thank you, thank you! I can't tell you

how you've relieved my mind.

MADAME NERISSE. My dear child. I am glad you've spoken to me plainly. I

will do everything I possibly can. I'm extremely fond of you. I don't

think the Directors will object.

THERESE. Why should they have anything to do with it?

MADAME NERISSE [_doubtfully_] Perhaps not, but--the Directors like to

give each number a character of its own. It's a thing they're very

particular about.

THERESE. I could write about very different subjects.

MADAME NERISSE. I know you could, but it would be always the same

signature.

THERESE. Well, every now and then I might sign a fancy name.

MADAME NERISSE. That would be quite easy, and I don't think the

Directors would mind. They might say it was a fresh name to make itself

known and liked.

THERESE. We'll try and manage it.

MADAME NERISSE. We shall have to fight against some jealousy. The

Directors have protegees. The wife of one of them has been waiting to

get an innings for more than two months. There are so many girls and

women who write nowadays.

THERESE. Yes; but generally speaking their work is not worth much, I

think.

MADAME NERISSE. Oh, I don't know that. There are a great many who have

real talent. People don't realize what a lot of girls there are who have

talent. But, still, if I'm not able to take an article every week, you

may rely upon me to take one as often as I possibly can. Oh, I shall

make myself some enemies for your sake.

THERESE [_in consternation_] Enemies? How do you mean enemies?

MADAME NERISSE. My dear, it alters everything if you become a

professional. Let me see if I can explain. We have our regular

contributors. The editor makes them understand that they must expect to

run the gantlet of the occasional competition of society women; because,

if these women are allowed to write, it interests them and their

families in the paper, and it's an excellent advertisement for us.

That'll explain to you, by the way, why we sometimes publish articles

not quite up to our standard. But if it's a matter of regular,

professional work, we have to be more careful. We have to respect

established rights and consider people who've been with us a long time.

There is only a limited space in each number, and a lot of people have

to live out of that.

THERESE [_who has gone quite white_] Yes, I see.

MADAME NERISSE [_who sees Therese's emotion_] How sorry I am for you! If

you only knew how I feel for you! Don't look so unhappy. [_Therese makes

a gesture of despair_] You're not an ordinary girl, Therese, and it

shall never be said that I didn't do all I could for you. Listen. I told

you just now that I had some big projects in my mind. You shall know

what they are. My husband and I are going to start an important weekly

feminist paper on absolutely new lines. It's going to leave everything

that's been done up to now miles behind. My husband shall explain his

ideas to you himself. It'll be advanced and superior and all that, and

at the same time most practical. Even to think of it has been a touch of

genius. When you meet my husband you'll find that he's altogether out of

the common. He's so clever, and he'd be in the very first rank in

journalism if it wasn't for the envy and jealousy of other men who've

intrigued against him and kept him down. I don't believe he has his

equal in Paris as a journalist, I'll read you some of his verses, and

you'll see that he's a great poet too. But I shall run on forever. Only

yesterday he got the last of the capital that's needed for founding the

paper; it's been definitely promised. We're ready to set about

collecting our staff. We shall have leading articles, of course, and

literary articles. Do you want me to talk to him about you?

THERESE. Of course I do. But--

MADAME NERISSE. We want to start a really smart, respectable woman's

paper; of course without sacrificing our principles. Our title by itself

proves that. It's to be called _Woman Free_.

THERESE. I'll give you my answer to-morrow--or this evening, if you

like.

MADAME NERISSE [_hesitatingly_] Before I go--as we're to be thrown a

good deal together--I must tell you something about myself--a secret. I

hope you won't care for me less when you know it. I call myself Madame

Nerisse. But I have no legal right to the name. That's why I've always

found some reason for not introducing Monsieur Nerisse to you and your

people. He's married--married to a woman who's not worthy of him. She

lives in an out-of-the-way place in the country and will not consent to

a divorce. My dear Therese, it makes me very unhappy. I live only for

him. I don't think a woman can be fonder of a man than I am of him. He's

so superior to other men. But unfortunately I met him too late. I felt I

ought to tell you this.

THERESE. Your telling me has added to my friendship for you. I can guess

how unhappy you are. Probably I'll go this very evening to your house

and see your husband and hear from him if he thinks I can be of use.

Anyway, thank you very much.

MADAME NERISSE. And thank _you_ for the way you take this. Good-bye for

the present.

_She goes out. Therese stands thinking for a moment, then

Rene comes in. He is very much upset._

THERESE. Rene!

RENE. Therese, it can't be true! It's not possible! It's not all

over--our love?

THERESE. We must be brave.

RENE. But I can't give you up.

THERESE. I've lost every penny, Rene dear.

RENE. But I don't love you any the less for that. I can't give you up,

Therese. I _can't_ give you up. I love you, I love you.

THERESE. Oh, Rene, don't! I need all my courage to face this. Help me.

Don't you see, your people will never consent now.

RENE. My uncle told me so. But I'll see them. I'll persuade them. I'll

explain to them.

THERESE. You know very well they never really liked me, and that they'll

be glad of this opportunity of breaking it off.

RENE. I don't know what to do. But I _cannot_ give you up. What would

become of me without you? You're everything to me, everything. And

suddenly--because of this dreadful thing--I must give up my whole life's

happiness.

THERESE. Your people are quite right, Rene.

RENE. And you, _you_ say that!

_He hides his face in his hands. A silence._

THERESE [_gently removing his hands_] Look at me, Rene. You're crying.

Oh, my dear love!

RENE [_taking her in his arms_] I love you, I love you!

THERESE. And I love you. Oh, please don't cry any more! [_She kisses

him_] Rene, dear, don't cry any more! You break my heart. I can't bear

it, I'm forgetting all I ought to say to you. [_Breaking down_] Oh, how

dreadful this is! [_They cry together. Then she draws herself away from

him, saying_] This is madness.

RENE. Ah, stay, Therese.

THERESE. No. We mustn't do this; we must be brave. Oh, why did you come

here? I was going to write to you. We're quite helpless against this

dreadful misfortune.

RENE. I don't know what to do! But I _can't_ give you up.

THERESE [_to herself_] I must do the right thing. [_To him_] Rene, stop

crying. Listen to me.

RENE. I love you.

THERESE. Yes; there's our love. But besides that there's life, and life

is cruel and too strong for our love. There is your future, my dearest.

RENE. My future is to love you. My future is nothing if I lose you. [_He

buries his face in his hands_]

THERESE. You can't marry a girl without any money. That's a dreadful

fact, like a stone wall. We shall only break ourselves to pieces if we

dash ourselves against it. Listen, oh, please listen to me. Don't you

hear what I'm saying? Rene--dear.

RENE. I'm listening.

THERESE. I give you your freedom without any bitterness or hardness.

RENE. I don't want it!

THERESE. Now listen. You mustn't sacrifice your whole life for a love

affair, no matter how great the love is.

RENE. It's by losing you I shall sacrifice my life.

THERESE. Try and be brave; control yourself. Let us face this quietly.

Suppose we do without your people's consent. What will become of us? Try

to look the thing in the face. How should we live? Rene, it's horrible

to bring our love down to the level of these miserable realities, but

facts are facts. You know very well that if you marry me without your

father and mother's consent, they won't give you any money. Isn't that

so?

RENE. Oh! father is hard.

THERESE. He's quite right, my dear, quite right. If I was your sister, I

should advise you not to give up the position you have been brought up

in and the profession you've been educated for.

RENE. But I love you.

THERESE [_moved_] And I love you. Well, we've got to forget one another.

RENE. That's impossible.

THERESE. We must be wise enough to--[_She stops, her voice breaks_]

RENE. Oh! how unhappy I am.

THERESE [_controlling herself_] Don't let yourself go. We're not in

dreamland. If you keep on saying "I am unhappy," you'll be unhappy.

RENE. I love you so. Oh, Therese, how I love you!

THERESE [_softly_] You'll forget me.

RENE. Never.

THERESE. Yes. You'll remember me in a way, of course. But you're young.

Very soon you'll be able to live, to laugh, to love, to work.

RENE. My dearest! I don't know what to say. I can't talk of it. I only

know one thing--I can't let you go.

THERESE. But we should be miserable, Rene.

RENE. Miserable _together_!

THERESE. Think, dear, think. It will be years before you can earn your

own living, won't it?

RENE. But I--

THERESE. Now you know you've tried already. Only last year you wanted to

leave home and be independent, and you had to go back because you were

starving. Isn't that true?

RENE. It's dreadful, dreadful! [_He is overcome, terrified_]

THERESE. So we must look at life as it is, practically, mustn't we? We

have to have lodging and furniture and clothes. How are we to manage?

RENE. It's dreadful!

THERESE. How would you bear to see me going about in rags? [_He is

silent. She waits, looking at him, hoping for a word of strength or

courage. It does not come. She draws herself up slowly, her face

hardening_] You can't face that, can you? Tell me. Can you face that?

RENE. No.

THERESE [_humiliated by his want of courage and infected by his

weakness_] So you see, I'm right.

RENE [_sobbing_] Oh! Oh!

THERESE [_setting her teeth_] Oh, can you do nothing but cry?

RENE. What a useless creature I am.

THERESE. There, now, you see you're better!

RENE. I'm ashamed of being so good-for-nothing.

THERESE [_hopeless_] You're just like all the others. Now, don't be

miserable. I'm not angry with you; you are doing what I told you we must

do, and you agree. Go, Rene. Say good-bye. Good-bye, Rene.

RENE. Therese!

THERESE [_her nerves on edge_] Everything we can say is useless, and

it'll only torture and humiliate us. We must end this--now--at once.

RENE. I shall always love you, Therese.

THERESE. Yes--exactly--now go.

RENE. Oh, my God!

THERESE. Go.

RENE. I'll go and see my people. They'll never be so cruel--

THERESE. Yes, yes, all right.

RENE. I'll write you.

THERESE. Yes--that's it--you'll write.

RENE. I shall see you again, Therese? [_He goes slowly to the door_]

THERESE [_ashamed for him, covers her face with her hands. Then, all of

a sudden, she bursts out into passionate sobs, having lost all control

of herself, and cries wildly_] Rene!

RENE [_returning, shocked_] Therese! Oh, what is it?

THERESE [_completely at the mercy of her feelings_] Suppose--suppose

after all, we _did_ it? Listen. I love you far more than you know, more

than I have ever let you know. A foolish feeling of self-respect made me

hide a lot from you. Trust me. Trust your future to me. Marry me all the

same. Believe in me. Marry me. You don't know how strong I am and all

the things I can do. I will work, and you will work. You didn't get on

when you were alone, but you will when you have me with you. I'll keep

you brave when things go badly, and I'll be happy with you when they go

right. Rene, I'll be content with so little! The simplest, humblest,

hardest life, until we've made our way together--_together_, Rene, and

conquered a place in the world for ourselves, that we'll owe to no one

but ourselves. Let us have courage--[_At this point she looks at him,

and having looked she ceases to speak_]

RENE. Therese, I'm sure my people will give in.

THERESE [_after a very long silence, inarticulately_] Go, go; poor Rene.

Forget what I said. Good-bye.

RENE. Oh, no! not good-bye. I'll make my father help us.

THERESE [_sharply_] Too late, my friend, I don't want you now.

_She leaves the room. Rene sinks into a chair and covers his

face with his hands._

ACT II

SCENE:--_A sitting-room at the offices of "Woman Free." The

door at the back opens into an entrance hall. The general

editorial office is to the right, Monsieur Nerisse's room to

the left. At the back, also to the left, is another door

opening into a smaller sitting-room. There are papers and

periodicals upon the tables._

_The curtain rises upon Monsieur Mafflu. He is a man of

about fifty, dressed for ease rather than elegance, and a

little vulgar. He turns over the papers on the tables,

studies himself in the mirror, and readjusts his tie. Madame

Nerisse then comes in. She has Monsieur Mafflu's visiting

card in her hand. They bow to each other._

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. My card will have informed you that I am Monsieur

Mafflu.

MADAME NERISSE. Yes. Won't you sit down?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. I am your new landlord, Madame. I have just bought this

house. I've retired from business. I was afraid I shouldn't have enough

to do, so I've bought some houses. I am my own agent. It gives me

something to do. If a tenant wants repairs done, I go and see him. I

love a bit of a gossip; it passes away an hour or so. In that way I make

people's acquaintance--nice people. I didn't buy any of the houses where

poor people live, though they're better business. I should never have

had the heart to turn out the ones that didn't pay, and I should have

been obliged to start an agent, and all my plan would have been upset.

[_A pause_] Now, Madame, for what brought me here. I hope you'll forgive

me for the trouble I'm giving you--and I'm sorry--but I've come to give

you notice.

MADAME NERISSE. Indeed! May I ask what your reason is?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. I am just on the point of letting the second floor. My

future tenant has young daughters.

MADAME NERISSE. I'm afraid I don't see what that has got to do with it.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Well--he'll live only in a house in which all the

tenants are private families.

MADAME NERISSE. But we make no noise. We are not in any way

objectionable.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, no, no; not at all.

MADAME NERISSE. Well, then?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. How shall I explain? I'm certain you're perfectly all

right, and all the ladies who are with you here too, but I've had to

give in that house property is depreciated by people that work; all the

more if the people are ladies, and most of all if they're ladies who

write books or bring out a newspaper with such a name as _Woman Free_.

People who know nothing about it think from such a name--oh, bless you,

I understand all that's rubbish, but--well--the letting value of the

house, you see. [_He laughs_]

MADAME NERISSE. The sight of women who work for their living offends

these people, does it?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Yes, that's the idea. A woman who works is always a

little--hum--well--you know what I mean. Of course I mean nothing to

annoy you.

MADAME NERISSE. You mean that your future tenants don't want their young

ladies to have our example before them.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. No! That's just what they don't. Having independent

sort of people like you about makes 'em uneasy. For me, you know, I

wouldn't bother about it--only--of course you don't see it this way, but

you're odd--off the common somehow. You make one feel queer.

MADAME NERISSE. But there are plenty of women who work.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, common women, yes; oh, that's all right.

MADAME NERISSE. If you have children, they have nurses and governesses.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, those. They work, of course. They work for me,

that's quite different. But you--What bothers these ladies, Madame

Mafflu and all the others, is that you're in our own class. As for me I

stick to the old saying, "Woman's place is the home."

MADAME NERISSE. But there are women who have got no home.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. That's their own fault.

MADAME NERISSE. Very often it's not at all their own fault. Where are

they to go? Into the streets?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. I know, I know. There's all that. Still women can work

without being feminists.

MADAME NERISSE. Have you any idea what you mean by "feminist"?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Not very clear. I know the people I live among don't

know everything. I grant you all that. But _Woman Free! Woman Free!_

Madame Mafflu wants to know what liberty--or what liberties--singular or

plural; do you take me?--ha! ha! There might be questions asked.

MADAME NERISSE [_laughing_] You must do me the honor of introducing me

to Madame Mafflu. She must be an interesting woman. I'll go and see

her.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, do! But not on a Wednesday.

MADAME NERISSE. Why not?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. 'Cos Wednesday's her day.

MADAME NERISSE [_gayly_] I must give it up, then, as I'm free only on

Wednesdays.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. I should like her to see for herself how nice you are.

Her friends have been talking to her. They thought that you--well--they

say feminist women are like the women were in the time of the Commune.

They said perhaps you'd even go on a deputation!

MADAME NERISSE. You wouldn't approve of that?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, talkin' of that, one of my friends has an argument

nobody can answer. "Let these women," he says, "let 'em do their

military service."

MADAME NERISSE. Well, you tell him that if men make wars, women make

soldiers; and get killed at that work too, sometimes.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU [_after reflecting for some moments_] I'll tell him, but

he won't understand.

MADAME NERISSE. Well, no matter. I won't detain you any longer, Monsieur

Mafflu.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh! Madame. I should like to stay and talk to you for

hours.

MADAME NERISSE [_laughing_] You're too kind.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Then you forgive me?

MADAME NERISSE [_going to the door with him_] What would one not forgive

you?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU [_turning back_] I say--

MADAME NERISSE. No, no. Good-bye, Monsieur.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Good-bye, Madame.

_He goes out._

MADAME NERISSE [_to herself_] One really couldn't be angry!

_Therese comes in with a little moleskin bag on her arm. She

is in a light dress, is very gay, and looks younger._

THERESE. Good-morning, Madame. I'm so sorry to be late. I met Monsieur

Feliat, my godmother's brother.

MADAME NERISSE. How is Madame Gueret?

THERESE. Very well, he says.

MADAME NERISSE. And does Monsieur Gueret like his new home?

THERESE. Yes, very much.

MADAME NERISSE. And Madame Gueret?

THERESE. She seems to be quite happy.

MADAME NERISSE. What a good thing. Here's the letter Monsieur Nerisse

has written for you to that editor. [_She hands her an unsealed letter_]

THERESE. Oh, thank you!

MADAME NERISSE. Did you find out when he could see you?

THERESE. To-morrow at Two O'clock. Can you spare me then?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, certainly.

THERESE. Thank you.

MADAME NERISSE. Why don't you read your letter? You see it's open.

THERESE. I'll shut it up.

MADAME NERISSE. Read it.

THERESE. Shall I?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, do.

THERESE [_reading_] Oh, it's too much. This is too kind. With a letter

like this my article is certain to be read. Monsieur Nerisse _is_ kind!

Will you tell him how very grateful I am?

MADAME NERISSE [_coldly_] Yes. [_She makes an effort to be kind_] I'll

tell him, of course. But I dictated the letter myself. Monsieur Nerisse

only signed it. [_She rings_]

THERESE. Then I have one more kindness to thank you for.

MADAME NERISSE [_to the page boy_] I expect Monsieur Cazares.

BOY. Monsieur--?

MADAME NERISSE. Our old editor--Monsieur Cazares. You know him very

well.

BOY. Oh, yes, Madame, yes!

MADAME NERISSE. He will have another gentleman with him. You must show

them straight into Monsieur Nerisse's room and let me know.

BOY. Yes, Madame.

_During this conversation Therese has taken off her hat and

put it into a cupboard. She has opened a green cardboard box

and put her gloves and veil into it--folding the latter

carefully--also Monsieur Nerisse's letter. She has taken out

a little mirror, given some touches to her hair, and has put

it back. Finally she closes the box._

MADAME NERISSE. Monsieur Cazares is bringing us a new backer. We're

going to make changes in the paper. I'll tell you all about it

presently. [_With a change of tone_] Tell me, what was there between you

and Monsieur Cazares?

THERESE [_simply_] Nothing at all.

MADAME NERISSE. Isn't he just a wee bit in love with you?

THERESE. I haven't the least idea. He's said nothing to me about it, if

he is.

MADAME NERISSE. He's always behaved quite nicely to you?

THERESE. Always.

MADAME NERISSE. And Monsieur Nerisse?

THERESE. Monsieur Nerisse? I don't understand.

MADAME NERISSE. Oh, yes, you do. Has he ever made love to you?

THERESE. [_hurt_] Oh, Madame!

MADAME NERISSE. [_looking closely at her and then taking both her hands

affectionately_] Forgive me, dear child. I know how good and straight

you are. You mustn't mind the things I say. Sometimes I'm horrid I know.

I have an idea that Monsieur Nerisse is not as fond of me as he used to

be.

THERESE. Oh, indeed that's only your fancy.

MADAME NERISSE. I hope so. I'm a bit nervous I think. I've such a lot of

trouble with the paper just now. It's not going well. [_Gesture of

Therese_] We're going to try something fresh. This time I think it'll be

all right. You'll see it will. [_A pause_] What's that? Did he call? I'm

sure that idiot of a boy hasn't made up his fire, and he'd never think

of it. He's like a great baby. [_As she goes towards Monsieur Nerisse's

door--the door on the left--the door on the right opens, and

Mademoiselle Gregoire comes in. She has taken off her hat. Madame

Nerisse turns to her_] Why, it's Mademoiselle Gregoire! You know, _Dr._

Gregoire! [_To Mademoiselle Gregoire_] This is Mademoiselle Therese.

[_They shake hands_] I spoke to you about her. She'll explain everything

to you in no time. I'll come back very soon and introduce you to the

others. Excuse me for a minute. [_She goes out to the left_]

THERESE. [_pleasantly_] I really don't know what Madame Nerisse wants me

to explain to you. You know our paper?

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. No, I've never seen it.

THERESE. Never seen it! Never seen _Woman Free_?

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Never. I only know it by name.

THERESE. How odd! Well, here's a copy. It's in two parts, you see, and

they're quite different from each other. Here the doctrine, there the

attractions. Madame Nerisse thought of that.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_reading as she turns over the leaves_] "Votes

for Women."

THERESE [_reading with her_] "Votes for Women," "An End of Slavery." And

then, on here, lighter things.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Frivolities?

THERESE. Frivolities. A story. "Beauty Notes."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_reading and laughing a little_] "The Doctor's

Page."

THERESE. Oh, too bad! But it wasn't I who first said frivolities!

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_still laughing_] I shall bear up. And what comes

after "The Doctor's Page"?

THERESE. "Beauty Notes" and "Gleanings."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Gleanings?

THERESE. Yes. It's a column where real and imaginary subscribers

exchange notes about cookery receipts, and housekeeping tips, and hair

lotions, and that sort of thing.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Quite a good thing.

THERESE. I most confess it's the best read part.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. I'm not at all surprised.

THERESE. I'm afraid we can't conceal from ourselves that Monsieur

Nerisse has not altogether succeeded. Each of us is inclined to like

only her own section. We've a girl here, Caroline Legrand, one of the

staff, who's tremendously go-a-head. You should hear her on the subject

of "Soap of the Sylphs" and "Oriental Balm."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. It makes her furious?

THERESE. She's a sort of rampageous saint; ferocious and affectionate by

turns, a bit ridiculous perhaps, but delightful and generous. She's so

simple nasty people could easily make a fool of her, but all nice people

like her.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Shall I have much to do with her?

THERESE. Not much. You'll be under Mademoiselle de Meuriot, and you'll

be lucky. She's a dear. She's been sacrificing herself all her life.

She's my great friend--the only one I have.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_taking up the paper again_] But how's this? Your

contributors are all men. Gabriel de--, Camille de--, Claud de--, Rene

de--, Marcel de--.

THERESE. Well! I never noticed that before. They're the pen-names of our

writers.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. All men's names?

THERESE. Yes. People still think more of men as writers. You see they

are names that might be either a man's or a woman's. Camille, Rene,

Gabriel.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. There's only one woman's name--Vicomtesse de

Renneville.

THERESE. That's snobbery! It's Madame Nerisse's pen-name.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Well, I suppose it's good business.

_Mademoiselle de Meuriot comes in at the back, bringing a

packet of letters._

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. The post's come, Therese.

THERESE. This is Mademoiselle de Meuriot. [_Introducing Mademoiselle

Gregoire_] Our new contributor.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You're welcome, Mademoiselle.

_The door on the left opens and Madame Nerisse appears

backwards, still talking to Monsieur Nerisse, who is

invisible in the inner room._

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest.

_Mademoiselle Gregoire looks up at Madame Nerisse._

_Mademoiselle de Meuriot and Therese turn away their heads

to hide their smiles; finally Madame Nerisse shuts the door,

not having noticed anything, and comes forward. She speaks

to Mademoiselle Gregoire._

MADAME NERISSE. Come, my dear. I'll introduce you to the others. [_To

Mademoiselle de Meuriot_] Ah! the post has come. Open the letters,

Therese, will you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Yes, we will.

MADAME NERISSE [_at the door on the right, to Mademoiselle Gregoire_]

You first. [_They go out_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_smiling_] I think our new friend was a bit

amused. She's pretty.

THERESE. Yes, and she looks capable.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Let's get to work.

_She sits down, at a desk. Therese sits near her at the end

of the same desk. During all that follows Therese opens

envelopes with a letter opener and passes them to

Mademoiselle de Meuriot, who takes the letters out, glances

at them, and makes three or four little piles of them._

THERESE. Here! [_Holding out the first letter_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_as she works_] And you? How are you this

morning? [_Looking closely at her and shaking a finger_] You're tired,

little girl. You sat up working last night.

THERESE. I wanted to finish copying out my manuscript. It took me ages,

because I wanted to make it as clear as print.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_gravely_] You know you mustn't be ill,

Therese.

THERESE. How good you are, Mademoiselle, and how lucky I am to have you

for a friend. What should I do without you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. How about your godmother?

THERESE. I didn't get on with her. She never could hide her dislike for

me, and it burst out in the end. When she saw that in spite of

everything she could say I was going to leave her, she let herself go

and made a dreadful scene. And, what was worse, my good, kind godfather

joined in! It seemed as if they thought my wanting to be independent was

a direct insult to them. What a lot of letters there are to-day.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. It's the renewal of the subscriptions.

THERESE. Oh, is that it? So you see we parted, not exactly enemies--but,

well--on our dignity. We write little letters to one another now, half

cold and half affectionate. I tell you, without you I should be quite

alone.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Not more alone than I am.

THERESE. I have someone to talk to now and tell my little worries to.

It's not that, even. One always finds people ready to listen to you and

pity you, but what one doesn't find is people one can tell one's most

impossible dreams to and feel sure one won't be laughed at. That's real

friendship. [_She stops working as she continues_] To dare to think out

loud before another person and let her see the gods of one's secret

idolatry, and to be sure one's not exposing one's precious things to

blasphemy. How I love you for being like you are and for caring for me a

little. [_She resumes her work_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. I don't care for you a little, Therese! I care

for you very much indeed. I like you because you're brave and hurl

yourself against obstacles like a little battering ram, and because

you're straight and honest and one can depend on you.

THERESE [_who can't get open the letter she holds_] Please pass me the

scissors. Thanks. [_She cuts open the envelope_] I might have been all

those things, and it would have been no good at all, if you hadn't been

able to see them.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Remember that in being friends with you I get

as much as I give. My people were very religious and very proud of their

title. I made up my mind to leave home, but since then I've been quite

alone--alone for thirty years. I'm selfish in my love for you now. I've

had so little of that sort of happiness.

THERESE. You've done so much for women. You've helped so many.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_touching her piles of letters_] Here's another

who won't renew.

THERESE. What will Madame Nerisse say? [_Continuing_] You know,

Mademoiselle, it's not only success that I want. I have a great

ambition. I should like to think that because I've lived there might be

a little less suffering in the world. That's the sort of thing that I

can say to nobody but you.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_tenderly_] Therese has an ardent soul.

THERESE. Yes, Therese has an ardent soul. It was you who said that about

me first, and I think I deserve it. [_Changing her tone_] Here's the

subscriber's book. [_She hands the book and continues in her former

voice_] Like Guyan, I have more tears than I need to spend on my own

sufferings, so I can give the spare ones to other people. And not only

tears, but courage and consolation that I have no opportunity of using

up myself. Do you understand what I mean?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Yes, I understand, my dear. I see my own youth

over again. [_Sadly_] Oh, I hope that you--but I don't want to rouse up

those old ghosts; I should only distress you. Perhaps lives like mine

are necessary, if it's only to throw into relief lives that are more

beautiful than mine. Keep your lovely dreams. [_A silence_] When I think

that instead of being an old maid I might have been the mother of a girl

like you!

THERESE [_leaning towards her and kissing her hair_] Don't cry.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_tears in her eyes and a smile upon her lips_]

No, no, I won't; and when I think that somewhere or other there's a man

you love!

THERESE [_smiling_] Some day or other I must tell you a whole lot of

things about Rene.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Have you seen him again?

THERESE. Yes.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. But you were supposed not to meet any more.

THERESE [_with a mutinous little smile_] Yes, we were supposed not to

meet any more. One says those things and then one meets all the same. If

Rene had gone on being the feeble and lamentable young man that I parted

from the _Barberine_ evening, I should perhaps have never seen him

again. You don't know what my Rene has done, do you now?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. No.

THERESE. I've been looking forward so to telling you. [_Eagerly_] Well,

he's quite changed. He's become a different man. Oh, he's not a marvel

of energy even yet, but he's not the helpless youth who was still

feeding out of his father's hands at twenty-five.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. And how has this great improvement come about?

THERESE [_looking at her knowingly_] You'll make me blush.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Was it for love of you?

THERESE. I think it _was_ for love of me. Let me tell you. He wanted to

see me again, and he waited at the door when I was coming out from my

work, just as if I was a little milliner's assistant. And then he came

back another evening, and then another. While we were walking from here

to my place we chattered, and chattered, and chattered. We had more to

say to each other than we'd ever had before, and I began to realize that

his want of will and energy was more the result of always hanging on to

his people than anything else. Then there came a crash. [_She laughs_] A

most fortunate crash. His father formally ordered him not to see me

again; threatened, if he did, to stop his allowance. What do you think

my Rene did? He sent back the cheque his people had just given him with

quite a nice, civil, respectful letter. Then he left his office and got

a place in a business house at an absurdly small salary, and he's been

working there ever since. [_Laughing_] He shocked all the other young

men in the office by the way he stuck to it. He got gradually interested

in what he had to do. He read it all up; the heads of the firm noticed

him and were civil to him, and now they've sent him on important

business to Tunis. And that's what he's done all for love of me! Now,

don't you think I ought to care for him a little? Don't you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Yes, my dear. But then if he's in Tunis?

THERESE. Oh, he'll come back.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. And when will the wedding be?

THERESE. He's sure his people will give in in the end if he can make

some money. We shall wait.

_The page boy comes in with seven or eight round parcels in

his arms._

BOY. Here are this morning's manuscripts.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Put them with the others.

BOY. There was one lady was quite determined to see you herself. She

said her article was most particular. It's among that lot.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Very well.

BOY. Mademoiselle Caroline Legrand is coming.

_He opens the door and stands back to allow Caroline Legrand

to come in. She is dressed in a long brown tailor-made

overcoat and a white waistcoat, with a yellow necktie._

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Good-morning, Meuriot.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Good-morning, Caroline Legrand. [_They shake

hands_]

CAROLINE LEGRAND. It seems there's something new going on here.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. I believe there is, but I know nothing about

it.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. I expect the paper's not going well, the jam hasn't

hidden the pill. Even Madame Nerisse's thirtieth article upon divorce at

the desire of one party hasn't succeeded in stirring up enthusiasm this

time. She's been preaching up free love, but she really started the

paper only because she thought it would help her to get the law changed

and allow her to marry her "dearest."

THERESE. Mademoiselle Legrand, I have some news that will please you.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Are all the men dead?

THERESE. No, not yet; but I've heard that in a small country town

they're starting a Woman's Trade Union.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. It won't succeed. Women are too stupid.

THERESE. They've opened a special workshop there, and they're going to

have work that's always been done by men done by women.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. That's splendid! A woman worker the more is a slave

the less.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_gravely_] Are you quite sure of that?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Oh, don't you misunderstand me! [_Forcibly_] Listen to

this. A time will come when people will be as ashamed of having made

women work as they are ashamed now of having kept slaves. But, until

then--

THERESE. The employer is rather disturbed about it.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. He's quite right. Very soon there'll be a fierce

reaction among the men about this cheap women's labor. There's going to

be a new sex struggle--the struggle for bread. Man will use all his

strength and all his cruelty to defend himself. There's a time coming

when gallantry and chivalry will go by the board, _I_ can tell you.

_Madame Nerisse comes in._

MADAME NERISSE. Oh, good-morning, Legrand. I'm glad you're here, I've

been wanting to ask your advice about a new idea I want to start in

_Woman Free_. A correspondence about getting up a league of society

women--

CAROLINE LEGRAND. What about the others?

MADAME NERISSE [_continuing, without attending to her_]--and smart

people, who will undertake not to wear ornaments in their hats made of

the wings or the plumage of birds.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. You're giving up _Woman Free_ for _Birds Free_, then?

MADAME NERISSE. What do you mean?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. You'd better make a league to do away with hats

altogether as a protest against the sweating of the women who stitch the

straw at famine prices and make the ribbon at next to nothing. I shall

be more concerned for the fate of the sparrows when I haven't got to

concern myself about the fate of sweated women.

MADAME NERISSE. Well, of course. That's the article we've got to write.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Of course.

MADAME NERISSE. We'll write it in the form of a letter to a member of

parliament--it had better be a man, because we're going to put him in

the wrong--a member of parliament who wants to form the league I

suggested. What you said about the sparrows will be a splendid tag at

the end. Will you write it?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Rather! It's lucky you don't stick to your ideas very

obstinately, because they can sometimes be improved upon. I think I

shall write your paper for you in future.

MADAME NERISSE. Go along and send me in Mademoiselle Gregoire and Madame

Chanteuil. They'll bother you, and I want them here.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. To write about "Soap of the Sylphs." _I_ know.

_She goes out to the right._

MADAME NERISSE. She's a little mad, but she really has good ideas

sometimes.

_The page boy comes in._

BOY [_to Madame Nerisse_] The gentlemen are there, Monsieur Cazares and

another gentleman.

MADAME NERISSE. Are they with Monsieur Nerisse?

BOY. Yes, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. Very well, I'll go. [_The boy goes out. She speaks to

the others_] Divide the work between you. [_To Madame Chanteuil and

Mademoiselle Gregoire, who come in from the right_] There's lots of work

to be done. [_She goes out to the left_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. We'd better sit down. [_She sits down and says

what follows whilst they are taking their places round the table. She

takes up the first letter_] This is for the advertising department. Is

Mademoiselle Baron here?

THERESE. No, poor little thing. She's trudging round Paris to try and

get hold of a few advertisements.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. It's a dreadful job, trying to get advertisements for

a paper that three-quarters of the people she goes to have never heard

of. It gives me the shivers to remember what I had to go through myself

over that job.

THERESE. And poor little Baron is so shy!

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. She earned only fifty francs all last month.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. I know her, I met her lately; she told me she was

in luck, that she had an appointment with the manager of the Institut de

Jouvence.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. And she thinks she's in luck!

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. It appears that that's a place where you can do

quite good business.

MADAME CHANTEUIL [_gravely_] Yes, young women can do business there if

they're pretty; but have you any idea what price they pay? Nothing would

induce me to put my foot inside the place again.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Oh, the poor little girl! Oh, dear! [_A pause.

She begins to sort the letters_]

THERESE [_half to herself_] It seems to me our name _Woman Free_ is

horrible irony.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_holding a letter in her hand_] Oh, Chanteuil,

what _have_ you done? Here's somebody perfectly furious. She says she

asked you to give her some information in the beauty column. [_Reading_]

It was something she was mistaken about. She wrote under the name of

"Always Young," and apparently you've answered "Always Young is a

mistake." She thinks you did it to insult her. You must write her a

letter of apologies.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Yes, Mademoiselle.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_holding up another letter_] "Little Questions

of Sentiment." This is for you, Therese. [_She reads_] "I feel so sad

because I am getting old," etc. Answer, "Why this sadness--"

THERESE. "White hairs are a crown of--" [_She writes a few words in

pencil upon the letter which Mademoiselle de Meuriot has passed to her_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. "Astral Influences." [_Looking round_] Who is

"Astral Influences"?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. I am.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_passing her letters_] Here are two, three--one

without a post office order. Put that one straight into the waste paper

basket. Remember that you must always promise them luck, with little

difficulties to give success more flavor. And be sure to tell them

they're full of good qualities, with some little amiable weaknesses and

the sort of defects one enjoys boasting about. [_Going on reading_]

"About using whites of eggs to take the sharpness out of sorrel," "To

take out ink-stains." These are for you, dear.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Yes. [_She takes the letters_] I didn't think of

that when I took my degree.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_continuing_] "Stoutness"; that's for you too.

[_Glancing again at the letter_] What does this one want? [_Fluttering

the leaves_] Four pages; ah, here we are--"A slender figure--smaller

hips--am not too stout anywhere else." That's for the doctor. [_She

gives the letter to Mademoiselle Gregoire with several others_]

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Iodiform soap.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. My dear, not at all, "Soap of the Sylphs."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. But that's exactly the same thing.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. I know that. But it sounds so different.

[_Taking another letter_] "A red nose"--

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Lemon juice.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_continuing_] "Superfluous hairs." Be sure to

recommend the cream that gives us advertisements; don't make any mistake

about that. "Black specks on the chin," "Wrinkles round the eyes."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. There's no cure for that.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Tell her to go to bed early and alone.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. That's too easy, she wouldn't believe in it.

Find something else. [_Continuing to read_] "To make them firm without

enlarging them"; that's for you too. And all the rest I think. "To

whiten the teeth," "To make the hair lighter," "To give firmness to the

bust."

MADAME CHANTEUIL. They're always asking that.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_reading_] "To enlarge the eyes," "get rid of

wrinkles"--"and double chins"--"a clear complexion"--"to keep

young"--ouf! That's all. No, here's one that wants white arms. They're

all alike, poor women!

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. And all that to please men.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. To please a man more than some other woman, and so to

be fed, lodged, and kept by him.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_between her teeth_] _Kept_ is the right word.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Ah, here's Mademoiselle Baron. [_To

Mademoiselle Baron_] Well? What luck?

MADEMOISELLE BARON [_miserably_] There's no one in the office. I've got

the signed contract for the advertisements of the Institut de Jouvence.

Now I must go on to the printers. Here it is. Good-bye. [_A silence_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_in a suffocated voice_] Good-bye, my dear.

_They watch her go sadly. A long silence._

THERESE [_speaking with great emotion_] Poor, _poor_ little thing!

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_also quite overcome, slowly_] Perhaps she has

someone at home who's hungry.

_They each respond by a sigh or an ouf! Mademoiselle

Gregoire, Madame Chanteuil, and Mademoiselle de Meuriot

rise, picking up their papers._

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. I must go and see to the "Doctor's Page."

MADAME CHANTEUIL. And I to the "Gleaner's Column."

_They go out to the right. Therese rests her chin on her two

hands and reflects profoundly. Monsieur Nerisse comes in at

the back._

NERISSE [_speaking back to the people he has left in his office in an

irritated voice_] Do as you like. I've told you my opinion. I wash my

hands of it. When your draft is ready show it to me. [_He shuts the

door. Therese, when she hears his voice, has gathered up her papers and

is making for the door on the right. He calls her back_] Mademoiselle!

THERESE. Monsieur!

NERISSE. Listen. I have something to say to you. [_Therese returns_] Did

Madame Nerisse give you the letter of introduction I wrote for you?

THERESE. Yes, Monsieur. Please forgive me for not having thanked you

before.

NERISSE. It's nothing.

THERESE. Indeed it's a great deal.

NERISSE. Nothing.

THERESE. Yes, I'm sure to be received quite differently with that letter

from what I should be without it.

NERISSE. I can give you any number of letters like that. May I?

THERESE [_coldly_] No, thank you.

NERISSE. You won't let me?

THERESE. No.

NERISSE. Why?

THERESE. You know very well why.

NERISSE. You're still angry with me. You do yourself harm by the way you

treat me, you do indeed. Listen, this is the sort of thing. Moranville,

the editor of the review I was talking about, is going to meet me at my

restaurant after dinner. I know he wants just such stories as you write.

But Moranville reads only the manuscripts of people he knows--he has a

craze about it. Well, I hardly dare propose to you a thing which

nevertheless is perfectly natural among colleagues, to come and dine

with me first and meet him after. I hardly like--[_Therese draws herself

up_] You see, I'm right. You don't trust me.

THERESE. On the contrary, I'll go gladly. Madame Nerisse will be with

you of course?

NERISSE [_annoyed_] Madame Nerisse! Nonsense! Do you suppose I drag her

everywhere I go? Say no more about it. Whatever I say will only make you

suspicious. [_With a sigh_] All this misunderstanding and suspicion is

horrible to me. How stupid the world is! There are times when I feel

disgusted with everything, myself included! I'm getting old. I'm a

failure. I'm losing my time and wasting my life over this ridiculous

paper, which will never be anything but an obscure rag. I shall have

done for myself soon.

THERESE [_awkwardly, for something to say_] Don't say that.

NERISSE. Yes, I shall. I might have a chance of saving myself yet if I

took things energetically and got free of the whole thing. But I should

have to be quick about it. [_A silence. Therese does not know what to

say and does not dare to leave the room_] I'm so low--so unhappy!

THERESE. So unhappy?

NERISSE. Yes. [_Another silence. Madame Nerisse comes in and looks at

them pointedly_] Are they gone?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, they're gone.

NERISSE. Is it all settled?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes. I am to meet them at the bank at four. But they

wouldn't give way on the question of reducing expenses as regards the

contributors.

NERISSE. And the dates of publication?

MADAME NERISSE. We are to come out fortnightly instead of weekly.

[_Indicating the door on the right_] You must go and speak to them.

NERISSE. Is Therese's salary to be reduced too?

MADAME NERISSE. It would be impossible to make distinctions.

NERISSE. Difficult, yes. Still--I think one might have managed to do

something for her.

MADAME NERISSE. I cannot see how she differs from the others. Can you?

NERISSE. Oh, well--say no more about it.

MADAME NERISSE. That will be best. [_He goes out to the right. To

herself_] I should think so indeed! [_To Therese_] While Monsieur

Nerisse was talking to the other man I had a chat with Monsieur Cazares.

He was talking about you. He's a nice fellow, and it's quite a good

family you know. He's steady and fairly well off--very well off.

THERESE [_laughing_] You talk as if you were offering me a husband!

NERISSE. And what would you say supposing he had asked me to sound you?

THERESE. I should say that I was very much obliged, but that I decline

the honor.

NERISSE. What's wrong with him?

THERESE. Nothing.

MADAME NERISSE. Well then?

THERESE. You can't marry upon that.

MADAME NERISSE. Have you absolutely made up your mind?

THERESE. Absolutely.

MADAME NERISSE. I think you're making a mistake. I think it all the more

because this chance comes just at a time--well, you'll understand what I

mean when I've told you something that I have to say to you as

manageress of _Woman Free_. It's this. You know that in spite of all we

could do we've had to hunt about for more capital. We've found some, but

we've had to submit to very severe conditions. The most important is

that they insist upon a stringent cutting down of expenses. Instead of

coming out every week, _Woman Free_ will be a fortnightly in future, and

we've been obliged to consent to reducing the salaries of the

contributors in proportion.

THERESE. How much will they be reduced?

MADAME NERISSE. In proportion I tell you. They'll be cut down by one

half.

THERESE. And I shall not have enough to live upon even in the simplest

way.

MADAME NERISSE. That was exactly what I said to them. And the work will

not be the same.

THERESE. My work will not be the same?

MADAME NERISSE. No; you will be obliged to work at night.

THERESE. At night?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes.

THERESE. But then I shall be free all day.

MADAME NERISSE. No, you won't. In the daytime you will have to take

charge of the business part of the paper, and in the evening too your

work will not be purely literary, but more of an administrative

character.

THERESE. It appears to me that I'm asked to accept a smaller salary and

to do double work for it.

MADAME NERISSE. I am conveying to you the offers of the new Directors;

if they don't suit you, you have only to refuse them.

THERESE. Of course I refuse them, and you may say to the people who have

made them that they must be shameful sweaters to dare to offer women

salaries that leave them no choice between starvation and degradation.

MADAME NERISSE. Those are strong words, my dear, and you seem to forget

very quickly--

THERESE [_softening_] Yes. Oh, I beg your pardon. But think for a

minute, Madame, and you'll forgive me for being angry. I hardly know

what I'm saying. [_Madame Nerisse half turns away_] Listen, oh listen!

Forget what I said just now; I'll explain to you. I accept the reduction

of salary. I'll manage. I'll get my expenses down. Only I can't consent

to give up all my time. You know I have some work in hand; you know I

have a big undertaking to which I've given all my life. I've told you

about it, you know about that. You know I can only stand my loneliness

and everything because of the hope I have about this. If people take all

my time, it's the same as if they killed me. I beg you, I implore you,

get them to leave me my evenings free.

MADAME NERISSE. It can't be done.

THERESE [_pulling herself together_] Very well, that's settled. I will

go at the end of the month; that's to say to-morrow.

MADAME NERISSE. Take a little time to consider it.

THERESE. I have considered it. They propose that I should commit

suicide. I say no!

MADAME NERISSE. I'm sorry, truly sorry. [_She rings. While she waits for

the bell to be answered, she looks searchingly at Therese, who does not

notice it. To the page boy who comes in_] Go and call me a taxi, but

first say to Monsieur Nerisse--

BOY. Monsieur Nerisse has just gone out, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. Are you quite sure?

BOY. I called him a taxi.

MADAME NERISSE. Very well, you can go. [_To Therese_] I'll ask you for

your final answer this evening. [_She hands her two large books_] If you

make up your mind to stay, make me these two bibliographies.

_Therese does not answer. Madame Nerisse goes out to the

left. Left alone Therese begins to sort the papers on her

bureau rather violently. She seizes a paper knife, flings it

upon the couch, and afterwards walks up and down the room in

great agitation. The door on the right opens and there come

in such exclamations as No! Never! It's monstrous! I shall

leave! It's an insult!_

_Caroline Legrand, Mademoiselle Gregoire, Madame Chanteuil,

and Mademoiselle de Meuriot come in. Mademoiselle de Meuriot

is the only one who has kept her self-possession._

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_speaking above the din_] Good-bye, all. [_She

goes to the small salon from which she originally came in, and during

the conversation that follows comes in putting on her hat, and goes out

unnoticed at the back_]

THERESE. Well, what do you think of this?

MADAME CHANTEUIL AND CAROLINE LEGRAND [_together_] It's an insult.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You must try and keep quiet. [_To Therese_]

What shall you do?

THERESE. I shall leave.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You ought to stay.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. No, Therese is right. We must all leave.

THERESE. We must leave to-morrow--no, this evening.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_quietly_] Do you think that you'll be able to

make better terms anywhere else?

THERESE. That won't be difficult.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You think so?

THERESE. Rather.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Where, for instance?

THERESE. There are other papers in Paris besides this one.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Then you know a lot of others that pay better?

THERESE. One will be enough for me.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. And you think you'll find a place straight off? You

know there are other people--

THERESE. I'll give lessons. I took my degree.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Much good may it do you.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You think you'll be a governess? At one time a

governess could get 1,200 francs, now it's 650 francs--less than the

cook. And if you were to be a companion--

THERESE. Why not a lady's maid at once?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Yes; lady's maid. That's not a bad idea. It's the only

occupation a girl brought up as rich people bring up their daughters can

be certain to get and to keep, if she's only humble enough.

THERESE. I shall manage to get along without taking to that.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. But, Therese, have you really been blind to all

that's been going on here? Haven't you constantly seen unfortunate

women, as well brought up and as well educated as yourself, coming

hunting for work? Don't you remember that advertisement of the girl that

Caroline Legrand was interested in? That advertisement has been

appearing in the paper for the last three months. I'll read it to you.

[_Caroline Legrand takes up a number of "Women Free" and passes it to

Mademoiselle de Meuriot_] Here it is. [_Reading_] "A young lady of

distinguished appearance, who has taken a high certificate for teaching.

Good musician. Drawing, English, shorthand, etc." I know that girl. She

told me all about her life. D'you know what she's offered? She asked two

francs an hour for teaching the piano. They laughed in her face, because

for that they could get a girl who'd taken first prize at the

Conservatoire. They gave her seventy-five centimes. Deduct from that

seventy-five centimes the price of the journey in that underground, the

wear and tear of clothes, the time lost in going and coming, and then

what do you think is left?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Let's be just. She got answers from doubtful places

abroad, letters from old satyrs, and invitations to pose for the

"movies."

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. What's left then? The stage. It's quite natural

you should think of the stage.

THERESE. If one must.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. If one must! You'd condescend to it, wouldn't you? You

poor child!

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You can't get into the Conservatoire after

twenty-one. Are you under that? No. Are you a genius? No. Well then?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Have you a rich lover who will back you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. No. Then you'll get nothing at all in the

theatres except by making friends with half a dozen men or selling

yourself to one.

THERESE. I'll go into a shop. At any rate, when it shuts I shall be

free.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. You think they're longing for you, don't you? You

forget you'd have to know things for that one doesn't learn by taking a

degree; things like shorthand and typewriting. Do you know there are

twenty thousand women in Paris who want to get into shops and offices

and can't find places?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. I know exactly what's going to become of _me_.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Now you're going to say something silly.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. You think so, you've guessed. Well, I tell you, middle

class girls thrown on the world as we are can't get along without a

man--a husband or a lover. We haven't got the key of the prison door.

We've not learned a trade. We've learned to smile, and dance, and

sing--parlor tricks. All that's only of use in a love affair or a

marriage. Without a man we're stranded. Our parents have brought us all

up for one career and one only--the man. I was a fool not to understand

before. Now I see.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Look here, you're not going to take a lover?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Suppose I am?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. My dear, you came here full of indignation, clamoring

against the state of society. You called yourself a feminist, but you,

and women like you, are feminists only when it's convenient. There are

no real feminists except ugly women like me or old ones like Meuriot.

You others come about us in a swarm and then drop away one after

another to go off to some man. As soon as a lover condescends to throw

the handkerchief you're up and off to him. You _want_ to be slaves. Go,

my dear, and take your lover. That's your fate. Good-night. [_She goes

out_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_to Madame Chanteuil_] Don't listen to her, you

poor child. Don't ruin all your life in a fit of despair.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. I can't stay here. I'm not a saint and I'm not a fool.

How can I live on what they offer to pay me?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Stay for a little, while you're looking for

something else.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Look for something else! Never! That means all the

horrors I went through, before I came here, over again! No! _no! no!_

Never! Looking for work means trailing through the mud, toiling up

stairs, ringing bells, being told to call again, calling again to get

more snubs. And then when one thinks one's found something one comes up

against a door guarded by a man who's watching you, and who's got to be

satisfied before you can get into the workroom, or the office, or the

shop, or whatever it may be. And then you've got to begin again with

somebody else and be snubbed again. No. Since it's an accepted, settled,

decided thing that the only career for a woman is to satisfy the

passions of a man, I prefer the one I've chosen myself.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. And what if he goes off and leaves you with a

baby?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Well, I'll bring it up. I shan't be the first. Women

do it. It happens to one in every five in Paris. Ask Mademoiselle de

Meuriot, the old maid, if she wouldn't be glad to have one now? When one

grows old it's better to have had a child in that way than not to have

had one at all. Ask her if I'm not telling the truth. Ask her if she's

happy in her loneliness.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Oh, it's true--it's true! Sometimes--

_She bursts into tears. Therese goes to her and takes her in

her arms._

THERESE. Oh, Mademoiselle, dear Mademoiselle!

MADAME CHANTEUIL [_between her teeth_] Good-bye, Mademoiselle. Good-bye,

Therese.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_to Madame Chanteuil_] Wait, wait. I'm going

with you. I am not going to leave you just now.

_Mademoiselle de Meuriot goes out with Madame Chanteuil.

Therese, left alone, buries her head in her hands and

thinks. Then she takes the two books that Madame Nerisse has

handed her, and with a determined swing sits down and starts

working. After a moment Monsieur Nerisse comes in._

NERISSE. My dear child, I have news for you. Pleasant news, I think.

THERESE [_rather grimly_] Have you?

NERISSE. One little smile, please, or I shall tell you nothing.

THERESE. I assure you smiling is the last thing I feel like.

NERISSE. If you only knew what I've been doing for you, you wouldn't

receive me so unkindly.

THERESE. _You_ can do nothing for me. Will you please leave me alone?

NERISSE. I don't deserve to be spoken to like that, Therese. Listen; we

must come to an understanding. I know you're angry with me still about

what happened last month. I promised you then I would say no more. Have

I kept my word?

THERESE. Yes, you have.

NERISSE. Will you always be angry? Is it quite impossible for us to be

friends? I am constantly giving you proofs of my friendship. I've done

two things for you quite lately. The first was that letter to the editor

you're going to see to-morrow, and the second is what I've done now with

our new backer. It's this. They wanted to sack you or to offer you

humiliating conditions. I said if you didn't stay I wouldn't stay

either. I gave in on other points to get my way about this. I shall have

their final answer to-morrow, and I know I shall succeed if I stick to

my point.

THERESE. But what right had you to do such a thing? We agreed to forget

altogether that you had dared to make love to me. D'you really not

understand how that makes it impossible I should ever accept either

assistance or protection from you?

NERISSE. I have still the right to love you in secret.

THERESE. Indeed you have not, and you've kept your secret precious

badly. Madame Nerisse suspects, and I can see quite well that she's

jealous of me. I owe her a great deal; she gave me my first start and

got me my place here. I wouldn't make her unhappy for anything in the

world. As soon as she hears of what you've done what d'you suppose

she'll think?

NERISSE. I don't care a rap what she thinks.

THERESE. But I care very much. You've compromised me seriously.

NERISSE [_sincerely contemptuous_] Compromised you! Aha, yes, there's

the word! Oh, you middle class girls! Always the same! What are you

doing here then? What d'you know about life? Nothing. Compromised! Then

all your dreams of elevating humanity, all your ambitions, your career,

the realization of yourself--you'll give up all that before you'll be

what you describe by that stupid, imbecile, middle class word,

compromised. When you shook yourself free of your family you behaved

like a capable woman. Now you're behaving and thinking like a

fashionable doll. Isn't that true? I appeal to your intelligence, to

your mind, to everything in you that lifts you out of the ordinary ruck.

Your precious word compromised is only the twaddle of a countrified

miss. Don't you see that yourself?

THERESE [_very much out of countenance_] Ah, if I were only certain that

you are hiding nothing behind your friendship and your sympathy!

NERISSE [_with perfectly genuine indignation_] Hiding? You said hiding?

Is that what you throw in my face? You insult me? What d'you take me

for?

THERESE. I beg your pardon.

NERISSE. What kind of assurance do you want me to give you? Do you

believe in nothing? Is it quite impossible for you to feel frankly and

naturally, and to say "I have confidence in you, and I accept your

friendship"--a friendship offered to you perfectly honestly and loyally?

It really drives one to despair.

THERESE [_without enthusiasm_] Well, yes. I say it.

_She puts her hands into the hands Monsieur Nerisse holds

out to her._

NERISSE. Thank you. [_A silence. Then he says in a low voice_] Oh,

Therese, I love you, how I love you!

THERESE [_snatching her hands away_] Oh, this is abominable. You set a

trap for me, and my vanity made me fall into it.

NERISSE. I implore you to let me tell you about myself. I'm so miserable

and lonely when you're away.

THERESE [_trying to speak reasonably_] I know quite well what you want

to say to me, and it all amounts to this: you love me. It's quite clear,

and I answer you just as clearly: I do _not_ love you.

NERISSE. I'm so unhappy!

THERESE. If it's true that you're unhappy because I don't love you, that

is a misfortune for you; a misfortune for which I am not in any way

responsible, because you certainly cannot accuse me of having encouraged

you.

NERISSE. I don't ask you to love me--yet. I ask you to allow me to try

and win your love.

THERESE [_almost desperate_] Don't dare to say that again. If you were

an honorable man, you couldn't possibly have said these things to me

to-day when my living depends upon you. You know the position I'm in,

and you know that if I don't stay here, there are only two courses open

to me--to go and live at the expense of my godmother, which I will _not_

do, or to take the chances of a woman alone looking for work in Paris.

Don't you understand that speaking about your love for me to-day is the

same as driving me into the street?

NERISSE. If you go into the street, it is by your own choice.

THERESE. Exactly. There's the old, everlasting, scandalous bargain. Sell

yourself or you shall starve. If I give in, I can stay; if I don't--

NERISSE. _I_ didn't say so. But clearly my efforts to help you will be

greater if I know that I'm working for my friend.

THERESE. You actually confess it! You think yourself an honorable man,

and you don't see that what you're doing is the vilest of crimes.

NERISSE. Now I ask you. Did I wait for your answer before I began to

defend you and to help you?

THERESE. No, but you believe I shall give in through gratitude or fear.

Well, don't count upon it. Even if I have to kill myself in the end, I

shall never sell myself, either to you or to anyone else. [_In despair_]

Then that's what it comes to. Wherever we want to make our way, to have

the right to work and to live, we find the door barred by a man who

says, Give yourself or starve. Because one's on one's own, because they

know that there's not another man to start up and defend his _property_!

It's almost impossible to believe human beings can be so vile to one

another. For food! Just for food! Because they know we shall starve if

we don't give in. Because we have old people, or children at home who

are waiting for us to bring them food, men put this vile condition to

us, to do like the girls in the streets. It's shameful, shameful,

shameful. It's enough to make one shriek out loud with rage and despair.

NERISSE [_speaking sternly_] I've never asked you to sell yourself. I

ask you to love me.

THERESE. I shall never love you.

NERISSE [_as before_] You'll never love. Neither me nor others. Listen--

THERESE [_interrupting_] I--

NERISSE [_preventing her from speaking_] Wait; I insist upon speaking.

You will never love, you say. You will live alone all your life. You're

foolish and self-confident enough to think that you can do without a

man's affection.

THERESE. But I--

NERISSE [_continuing_] I must try to make you understand your folly.

These efforts you're making to escape from the ordinary life of

affection are useless, and it's lucky for you they are useless. You

can't live without love.

THERESE. Why?

NERISSE. All lonely people are wretched. But the lonely woman is twice,

a hundred times more wretched than the man. You've no idea what it is.

It's to pass all your life under suspicion, yes, suspicion. The world

never believes that people live differently from others unless they have

secret reasons, and the world always says that secret reasons are

shameful reasons. And that's not all. Think of the lonely room where you

may cry without anyone to hear you. Think of illness where to your

bodily pain is added the mental torture of the fear of dying all alone.

Think of the empty heart, the empty arms always, always. And in old age,

more wretchedness in the regret for a wasted life. And for what and for

whom are you making this sacrifice? For a convention; for a morality

that nobody really believes in. Who'll think the better of you for it?

People won't even believe in your honesty. They will find explanations

for it that would make you die of shame if you knew them. Is that what

you want, Therese? I am unhappy. Love me. Oh, if you only--

THERESE. Please spare me your confidences.

NERISSE. You think this is only a caprice on my part. You are mistaken.

I ask you to share my life.

THERESE. I will never be your mistress.

NERISSE. You're proud and you're strong. You insist upon marriage. Very

well. I agree.

THERESE. I will not have you! I will not have you!

NERISSE. Why? Tell me why.

THERESE. I _will_ tell you why; and then, I hope, I shall have done with

you. You're right in one way. I believe I should not be able to live all

alone. I should be too unhappy. But at least I'll keep my right of

choice. If ever I give myself to anyone, it will be to someone I love.

[_With vehemence_] And I love him, I love him!

NERISSE [_violently_] You have a lover! If that's true--

THERESE [_with a cry of triumph_] Oh, have I got to the bottom of your

vulgar, hateful little soul? If there ever was any danger of my giving

in, your expression then would have saved me. You never thought there

could be anything better. A lover! No, I have no lover. I have a love.

NERISSE. I don't see so very much difference.

THERESE [_proudly_] I know you don't, and that shows what you are. This

is the one love of my life, my love for my betrothed. I lost my money

and that separated us, but we found each other again. It's unhappy to be

separated, but we bear our unhappiness out of respect for what you call

prejudices, because we know how our defying them would hurt those we

love. You think me ridiculous, but you cannot imagine how utterly

indifferent I am. I am waiting, we are waiting, with perfect trust and

love. Now d'you understand that I'm perfectly safe from you? Go!

NERISSE [_in a low voice which trembles with anger and jealousy_] How

dare you say that to me, Therese? How dare you bring such a picture

before me? I will not allow you to belong to another man. [_He advances

towards her_]

THERESE [_in violent excitement_] No, no, don't dare! Don't touch me!

don't dare to touch me!

_She cries out those words with such violence and in a voice

of such authority that Nerisse stops and drops into a

chair._

NERISSE. Forgive me. I'm out of my mind. I don't know what I'm doing.

THERESE [_in a low, forced voice_] Will you go? I've work to do.

NERISSE. Yes, I'll go. [_He rises and says humbly_] I want to ask

you--you won't leave us?

THERESE. You dare to say that? You think I'll expose myself a second

time to a scene like this. Yes! I shall leave, and leave to-night!

_Will_ you go?

NERISSE. I implore you. [_Hearing a noise outside, suddenly alarmed_]

Here she is! Control yourself, I beg of you. Don't tell her.

THERESE. You needn't be afraid.

_Madame Nerisse comes in._

MADAME NERISSE [_looking from one to the other_] What's going on here?

NERISSE. Mademoiselle Therese says that she's going to leave us, and I

tried to make her understand--perhaps you could do something--I must go

out.

MADAME NERISSE. Yes. Go.

_He takes his hat and goes out at the back._

MADAME NERISSE. You wish to leave us?

THERESE. Yes, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. Because Monsieur Nerisse--?

THERESE. Yes, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE [_troubled and sad_] What can I say to you?

THERESE. Nothing, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. My poor child.

THERESE. I don't want pity. Don't be unhappy about me. I shall be able

to manage for myself. I have plenty of courage.

MADAME NERISSE. I'm so ashamed to let you go like this. How honest and

loyal you are! [_To herself_] I was honest too, once.

THERESE. Good-bye, Madame. [_She begins to tidy her papers_]

MADAME NERISSE. Good-bye, Therese.

_Madame Nerisse goes out._

_When Therese is left alone she breaks down and bursts out

crying like a little child. Then she wipes her eyes, puts

her hat on, goes to the cardboard box, and takes out her

veil, which she slips into her little bag. She takes out

Monsieur Nerisse's letter; still crying she puts the letter

into another envelope, which she closes and leaves well in

sight upon the table. Then she takes her little black

moleskin bag and her umbrella and goes out slowly. She is

worn out, almost stooping; and, as the curtain falls, one

sees the poor little figure departing, its shoulders shaken

by sobs._

ACT III

SCENE:--_Therese's studio at the bookbinding workshops of

Messrs. Feliat and Gueret at Evreux. Strewn about are

materials for binding books: patterns, tools, and silks. A

glazed door on the right opens into the general women's

workshops, and there is a door leading into a small office on

the left. In the middle, towards the back, is a large drawing

table; several easels stand about. There are some chairs and

a small bureau. Cards hang upon the walls, on which are

printed the text of the Factory Laws. There is a door at the

back._

_It is October._

_Monsieur Gueret and Monsieur Feliat come in excitedly._

GUERET. I tell you Duriot's men are coming out on strike.

FELIAT. And I ask you, what's that to me?

GUERET. Ours will do the same.

FELIAT. Oh no, they won't.

GUERET. You'll see.

FELIAT. Duriot's men are furious with the women because of what happened

last year.

GUERET. They say woman's the enemy in business.

FELIAT. Let 'em talk.

GUERET. They want Duriot to sack all his women.

FELIAT. And I've told you why. There's no danger of anything like that

happening here.

GUERET. You think so, do you? Well, you'll see.

FELIAT. We shall see.

GUERET. You'll give in only after they've broken two or three of your

machines as they did Duriot's, or done something worse, perhaps.

FELIAT. My dear Gueret, I get out of the women for a cent what I have to

pay the men three cents for. And as long as I can economize ten cents on

the piece I shall go on.

GUERET. You'll regret it. If I was in your place--[_He stops_]

FELIAT. Well, what would you do if you were in my place?

GUERET. What should I do?

FELIAT. Yes, what?

GUERET. I shouldn't take long to think. I'd cut off a finger to save my

hand, I'd turn out every one of the women to-morrow.

FELIAT. You're mad. You've always objected to my employing women, and I

know very well why.

GUERET. Well, let's hear why.

FELIAT. You want to know. Well, because you've been jealous of Therese

ever since she came here six months ago.

GUERET. Oh, I say!

FELIAT. That's it; my sister can't endure her.

GUERET. Marguerite--

FELIAT. You know she wouldn't even see her when she came down from

Paris; and if Therese got work here, it was in spite of Marguerite. I

was wiser than you about this. The girl's courage appealed to me. She's

plucky and intelligent. Oh, I don't want to make myself out cleverer

than I am. I took her a bit out of pity, and I thought she'd draw me a

few designs; that was all I expected. But she has energy and initiative.

She organized the two workrooms, and now she's got the whole thing into

order by starting this Union.

GUERET. The Hen's Union.

FELIAT. What?

GUERET. That's what the men call her Union. You should hear the things

they say about it.

FELIAT. Well, long live the Hen's Union! A hen's plucky when it has to

be.

GUERET. Seriously, it's just this Union which has annoyed the men. They

feel it's dangerous.

FELIAT. Very well. I'll be ready for them.

_Therese comes in._

GUERET. I'll go and find out what's going on.

FELIAT. Yes, do.

_Monsieur Gueret goes out._

THERESE. I've just been seeing the man who makes our finishing tools. He

says it's perfectly easy to make a tool from the drawing I did that

won't be more expensive than the old one. [_Looking for a paper and

finding it on the table_] Here's the drawing. You see I've thought of

cheapness, but I've not sacrificed utility. After all, it's only a copy

of a Grolier, just a little altered.

FELIAT. Very good, but what will the price come out at?

THERESE. How much do you think.

FELIAT. I can easily do it. [_He calculates during what follows_]

THERESE. The beating won't be done with a hammer, but in the rolling

machine; the sawing-in and the covering will be done as usual.

FELIAT [_having finished his sum_] Two francs forty.

THERESE [_triumphantly_] One franc seventy. You've calculated on the

basis of men's work. But, if you approve, I'll open a new workroom for

women in the old shop. Lucienne can manage it. I could let Madame

Princeteau take Lucienne's present place, and I'll turn out the stuff at

the price I quoted.

FELIAT. But that's first-rate. I give you an absolutely free hand.

THERESE. Thank you, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. How do you think the men will take it? You know that last year,

before you came here, a strike of the workmen was broken by the women

taking the work the men were asking a rise for--taking it at lower

wages, too. Since then the men feel very strongly against the women.

Your godfather is anxious about it.

THERESE. Oh, leave it to me, I'm not afraid.

FELIAT. Well done. I like pluck. Go ahead. How lucky I was to get you

here.

THERESE. How grateful I am to you for believing in me. [_Lucienne

appears at the door on the right. She is speaking to a workwoman who is

not visible, while the following conversation goes on_] And how good you

are, too, to have given work to poor Lucienne. When I think what you

saved her from! She really owes her life to you. At any rate she owes it

to you that she's living respectably.

FELIAT. Well, I owe _you_ ten per cent reduction on my general expenses.

[_With a change of tone_] Then that's agreed? You're going ahead?

THERESE. Yes, Monsieur.

FELIAT. I'll go and give the necessary orders. [_He goes out_]

THERESE. It's all right. It's done. He's agreed! I'm to have my new

workroom, and you're to be the head of it.

LUCIENNE. Oh, splendid! Then I'm really of some importance here at last.

[_A long happy sigh_] Oh dear, how happy I am. I'd never have believed I

could have enjoyed the smell of a bindery so. [_Sniffing_] Glue, and

white of egg, and old leather; it's lovely! Oh, Therese, what you did

for me in bringing me here! What I owe you! That's what a woman's being

free means; it means a woman who earns her own living.

THERESE. Oh, you're right! Isn't it splendid, Lucienne, ten wretched

women saved, thanks to our new workshop. I've seen Duriot's forewoman.

At any moment fifty women from there may be out of work. I can take on

only ten at present, and I've had to choose. That was dreadful! Thirty

of them are near starvation. I took the worst cases: the old maids, the

girls with babies, the ones whose husbands have gone off and left them,

the widows. Every one of those, but for me, would have been starved or

gone on the streets. I used to want to write books and realize my dreams

that way. Now I can realize them by work. I wish Caroline Legrand could

know what I'm doing. It was she who helped me to get over my silly

pride, and come and ask for work here.

LUCIENNE. Dear Caroline Legrand! Without her! Without you! [_With a

change of tone_] What d'you suppose happened to me this morning? I had a

visit from Monsieur Gambard.

THERESE [_laughing_] Another visit! I shall be jealous!

LUCIENNE. You've reason. For the last week that excellent old man has

come every single morning with a book for me to bind. I begged him not

to take so much trouble, and I told him that if he had more work for us

to do, we could send for the books to his house. What d'you think he did

to-day?

THERESE. I've no idea.

LUCIENNE. He asked me to marry him.

THERESE. My dear! What then?

LUCIENNE. Why, then I told him that I was married and separated from my

husband.

THERESE. There's such a thing as divorce.

LUCIENNE. Naughty girl! That's exactly what he said. I told him that my

first experience of marriage was not calculated to make me run the

chances of a second. And then he asked me to be his mistress.

THERESE. Indignation of Lucienne!

LUCIENNE. No! I really couldn't be angry. He offered so naively to

settle part of his fortune upon me that I was disarmed. I simply told

him I was able to earn my own living, so I was not obliged to sell

myself.

THERESE. And he went off?

LUCIENNE. And he went off.

THERESE [_starting suddenly_] Was that three o'clock that struck.

LUCIENNE. Yes, but there's nothing very extraordinary in that.

THERESE. Not for you, perhaps. But I made up my mind not to think about

a certain thing until it was three o'clock. I stuck to it--almost--not

very easily. Well, my dear, three o'clock to-day is a most solemn hour

in my life.

LUCIENNE. You don't say so!

THERESE. _I do._ Lucienne, I am so happy. I don't know how I can have

deserved to be as happy as I am.

LUCIENNE. Good gracious, what's happened in the last five minutes?

THERESE. I'll tell you. One hour ago Rene arrived at Evreux. He's come

back from Tunis. Come back a success and a somebody. And now--

_Vincent, a workman, comes in._

VINCENT. Good-morning, Mademoiselle Therese. I want a word with you,

because it's you who engages--

THERESE. Not the workmen.

VINCENT. I know. But it's about a woman, about my wife.

THERESE [_sharply_] Your wife? But I don't want your wife.

VINCENT. I heard as how you were taking on hands.

THERESE. Yes, but I choose them carefully. First of all I take the ones

who need work or are not wanted at home.

VINCENT. You're quite right--but I ain't asking you to pay my old woman

very much--not as much as a man.

THERESE. Why not, if she does the same work?

VINCENT [_with male superiority_] Well, in the first place, she's only a

woman; and, besides, if you didn't make a bit out of it, you wouldn't

take her in the place of a man.

THERESE. But you get excellent wages here yourself. You can live without

forcing your wife to work.

VINCENT. Well, anyhow, her few halfpence would be enough to pay for my

tobacco.

LUCIENNE [_laughing_] Come, you don't smoke as much as all that.

VINCENT. Besides, it'll put a bit more butter on the bread.

THERESE. But your wife will take the place of another woman who hasn't

even dry bread perhaps.

VINCENT. Oh, if one was bothering all the time about other people's

troubles, you'd have enough to do!

THERESE. Now will you forgive me if I meddle a little in what isn't

exactly my business?

VINCENT. Oh, go on, you won't upset me.

THERESE. What d'you do when you leave the works? You go to the saloon?

VINCENT [_losing control of himself and becoming violent and coarse_]

That's yer game, is it! You take me for a regler soaker. That's a bit

too thick, that is. You can go and ask for yourself in all the saloons

round here. Blimey, sometimes I don't drink nothing but water for

a week on end! Can you find anybody as has ever seen me

blue-blind-paralytic--eh? I'm one of the steady ones, I am. I has a

tiddley in the morning, like every man as is a man, to keep out the

fog; then I has a Vermouth before lunch, and a drop of something short

after, just to oil the works like--and that's the bloomin' lot. Of

course you're bound to have a Pernod before dinner to get your appetite

up; and if I go for a smoke and a wet after supper, well, it's for the

sake of a bit of company.

THERESE [_who has been jotting down figures with a pencil while he has

been talking_] Well, that's a franc a day you might have saved.

VINCENT. A franc.

THERESE [_holding out the paper to him_] Add it up.

VINCENT [_a little confused_] Oh, I'll take your word for it. I ain't

much good at sums.

THERESE. With that franc you might have put a fine lot of butter on

every round of bread.

VINCENT. Well, look here, I want a bicycle.

THERESE. Why? You live five minutes' walk from here.

VINCENT. Yes, but I want to get about a bit on Sundays.

THERESE. There's one thing you haven't thought of. You have two little

children. Who'll look after them if your wife comes to work here?

VINCENT. Don't you worry about that. You takes 'em all dirty to the

creche every morning and gets 'em back in the evenin' all tidied up.

THERESE. And who's going to get supper ready?

VINCENT [_naively_] Why, the old woman when she comes back from work.

THERESE. While you take your little drink?

VINCENT [_the same tone_] Oh, yes; I shan't hurry her up too much.

THERESE. Who'll mend your clothes?

VINCENT. Why, the old woman of course.

THERESE. When?

VINCENT. On Sundays.

THERESE. While you go off for a run on the bicycle?

VINCENT. Yes; it'll be a change for her. And at night I'll take her to

see me play billiards. [_With a change of tone_] That's all settled,

ain't it?

THERESE. Indeed, it's not.

VINCENT. Why not? Aren't you going to open a new workroom?

THERESE. Your wife has no need to work.

VINCENT. What's that got to do with you? You're taking on the others.

THERESE. The others are in want.

VINCENT. That's nothing to me. You ought to take the wives of the chaps

as works here first.

THERESE. All I can do is to mention her name at the next meeting of our

Union.

VINCENT. Oh, damn your Union--it's a fair nuisance!

THERESE. A Union is always a nuisance to somebody.

VINCENT. And you'll ask your Union not to take my old woman?

THERESE. I certainly shall.

VINCENT [_rather threateningly_] Very well. Things was more comfortable

here before you come from Paris, you know.

THERESE [_quietly_] I'm sorry.

VINCENT. And they'll be more comfortable when you take your hook back.

THERESE. That won't be for a good while yet.

VINCENT. I ain't so damned sure about that! Good-afternoon.

THERESE. Good-afternoon.

_He goes out._

LUCIENNE. You've made an enemy, my dear.

THERESE. I don't care as long as I'm able to prevent women being driven

to work to pay for their husbands' idleness and drunkenness.

_Feliat and Gueret come in. Lucienne goes out._

FELIAT. Tell me, Mademoiselle, if there was a strike here, could you

count upon your workwomen?

THERESE. I'm sure I could.

FELIAT. Are you certain none of them would go back on you?

THERESE. Two or three married women might if their husbands threatened

them.

FELIAT. Will you try, in a quiet way, to find out about that?

THERESE. Yes, certainly. [_She makes a movement to go out_]

FELIAT. Look here, it seems that Duriot has just had a visit from two

delegates from the Central Committee in Paris, who were sent down to

protest against the engagement of women. I'm afraid we're going to have

trouble here.

THERESE. The conditions here are very different from those at Duriot's.

FELIAT. All the same, find out what you can.

THERESE. I will, at once. [_She goes towards the door_]

FELIAT. Whatever happens we must send off that Brazilian order. How is

it getting on?

THERESE. We shall have everything ready in three days. I'll go and

inquire about the other thing.

[_She goes out_]

FELIAT. Good.

GUERET. Three days isn't the end of the world. I think I can promise you

to keep my men as long as that.

FELIAT. If it's absolutely necessary, one might make them some little

concessions.

GUERET. I'll do all I can.

FELIAT. Yes. And if they're too exacting, we'll let them go, and the

women shall get the stuff finished up for us. [_There is a knock at the

door_] Come in.

_Rene comes in._

GUERET. Hullo!

FELIAT. Rene!

GUERET. You or your ghost?

FELIAT. Where do you come from? Nobody's heard of you for a hundred

years.

RENE. Come now, only six months, and you've had some news.

FELIAT. Where are you from last?

RENE. From Tunis.

GUERET. And what are you doing here?

RENE. I'll tell you all about it. I want to have a bit of a talk with

you.

FELIAT. Well, we're listening.

GUERET. You're mighty solemn about it.

RENE. It's extremely serious business.

FELIAT. Don't be tragic. You're here safe and sound; and you've not lost

money, because you'd none to lose.

RENE. I've come to marry Therese.

GUERET. Well, I must say you don't beat about the bush.

FELIAT. But it's to your own people you've got to say that. What the

devil--! Therese has no more money than she had a year ago. So--

RENE. I'll marry her in spite of them.

GUERET. Well, we've nothing to do with it.

RENE. Yes, but I don't want to marry her in spite of you.

FELIAT. Nor in spite of herself.

RENE. I'm certain she won't say no.

FELIAT. But a year ago you solemnly separated; you both agreed

everything was over.

RENE. Nothing was over. A year ago I was a fool.

GUERET. To the point again.

FELIAT. And what are you now?

RENE. At any rate I am not quite useless any longer. I'm not a boy now,

obliged to do what he's told because he's perfectly incapable of doing

for himself.

FELIAT. Have you found something to do?

RENE. I'm in phosphates.

FELIAT. And what the devil are you in phosphates?

RENE. Representative.

FELIAT. How do you mean?

RENE. A commercial traveller, as father said with great contempt.

GUERET. Well, it was not with a view to that sort of future that he had

you called to the Bar.

RENE. At the Bar I could have earned my own living in about ten

years--possibly. When I had to give up marrying Therese I saw how

useless I was. Thanks to her I found myself out. She gave me a bit of

her own courage. She woke up my self-respect. Besides, after that I had

something to work for, an aim, and I seemed to understand why I was

alive. I worked and read a lot; my firm noticed me; they sent me to

Tunis. I asked them to let me give up clerk work and have a try on my

own. Over there I got into touch with three small firms. I placed their

goods. I earn four hundred francs a month. Next year I mean to start a

little branch in this district where we will manufacture

superphosphates. From now until then I shall travel about the district

and try and get customers; and my wife--and Therese--will go on with her

work here, if you will be so good as to keep her.

GUERET. Ouf! Think of a young man who can talk as long as that, without

taking breath, giving up the Bar. What a pity!

FELIAT [_to Rene_] Have you told all that to your people?

RENE. Yes. They're not at all proud of my business. And after refusing

to let me marry Therese because she had no money they won't let me marry

her now because she works for her living. To be directress of a bindery,

even of your bindery, uncle, is not distinguished enough for them.

FELIAT. Well, my boy, you certainly couldn't have stood up to things

like that a year ago. What d'you want us to do for you? Therese doesn't

want our consent to marry; nor do you.

_While Monsieur Feliat has been speaking, old Mother Bougne

has come in from the right. She is a poor old workwoman who

walks with difficulty, leaning on a broom, from which one

feels that she never parts. She has a bunch of keys at her

waistbelt; her apron is turned up and makes a sort of pocket

into which she slips pieces of paper and scraps that she

picks up from the floor. Rene looks at her with surprise._

FELIAT. You're looking at Mother Bougne. Good-morning, Mother Bougne.

MOTHER BOUGNE. Good-morning, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. When does the Committee of your Union sit?

MOTHER BOUGNE. On Wednesday, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. You won't miss it, will you?

MOTHER BOUGNE. I haven't missed one up to now, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. That's right. [_She goes out at the back during what follows.

Monsieur Feliat turns to Rene and says_] We call Mother Bougne our

Minister of the Interior, because she tries to keep the place tidy.

She's been a weaver near Rouen since she was eight years old; she's been

stranded here.

RENE. And she's a member of the Committee of the Union?

GUERET. Yes, she's a member. Therese insisted on it. When Therese

founded a Woman's Trade Union here she had the nice idea of including

among them this poor old creature, wrecked by misery and hard work. Our

Therese has ideas like that. [_With a change of tone_] But business,

business. What do you want us to do for you?

RENE. I've come to ask you two things. The first is to try to get round

my people.

FELIAT. Well, I'll try. But I know your father. He's even more obstinate

than I am myself. I shan't make the smallest impression upon him. What

else?

RENE. I want to have a talk with Therese in your presence.

FELIAT. In our presence! Now listen, my boy. Our presence will be much

more useful in the work rooms. We have our hands full here. You've

dropped in just at the point of a split between workmen and employers.

Besides, to tell you the truth, I think I know pretty well what you have

to say to Therese. I'll send her to you. And, look here, don't keep her

too long, because she's got her hands full too. [_To Gueret_] Will you

go and telephone to Duriot's?

GUERET [_looking at his watch_] Yes, there might be some news. [_He goes

out_]

FELIAT [_to Rene_] And I'll send Therese here.

_He goes out and Rene is alone for a few moments. Then

Therese comes in. They advance towards each other quietly._

THERESE. How do you do, Rene?

RENE. How are you, Therese?

_They shake hands, then, giving way to their feelings, they

kiss each other tenderly and passionately._

THERESE [_in a low voice_] That'll do; don't, Rene dear. [_She withdraws

gently from his embrace_] Don't. Let's talk. Have you seen your people?

RENE. Yes.

THERESE. Well?

RENE. Well, Therese, they won't come to our wedding.

THERESE. They still refuse their consent?

RENE. We can do without it.

THERESE. But they refuse it?

RENE. Yes. Forgive me, my dearest, for asking you to take just my own

self. Do you love me enough to marry me quite simply, without any

relations, since I leave my relations for your sake?

THERESE. My dear, we mustn't do that; we must wait.

RENE. No, I won't wait. I won't lose the best time of my life, and years

of happiness, for the sake of prejudices I don't believe in. Do you

remember what you said to me the night we played _Barberine_? You were

splendid. You said: "Marry me all the same, in spite of my poverty."

[_She makes a movement to stop him_] Oh, let me--please let me go on! I

was only a miserable weakling then, I was frightened about the future.

But you roused me and set me going. If I'm a man now, it's to you I owe

it. Thanks to you I know how splendid it is to trust one's self and

struggle, and hope, and succeed. Now I can come to you and say: "I am

the man you wanted me to be, let us marry and live together." Oh,

together, together! How splendid it sounds! Do you remember how you said

that night long ago: "Let us conquer our place in the world together"?

THERESE. Oh, Rene! Rene! We must wait!

RENE. Why? Why must we wait? What possible reason can you have for not

doing now what you wanted me to do a year ago? Don't you believe in me?

THERESE. Oh yes, yes. It's not that!

RENE. What is it then? Therese, you frighten me. It seems as if you were

hiding something from me.

THERESE. No, no. What an idea!

RENE. Is it--oh, can it be that you don't love me so much?

THERESE. Oh, Rene, no, no. Don't think that for a moment.

RENE. But you're not being straight with me. You're hiding something.

THERESE. Don't ask me.

RENE. Therese!

THERESE. Oh, please don't ask me!

RENE. Now, you know very well that's impossible. How can there be

secrets between us? You and I are the sort of people who are straight

with one another. I must have my share in everything that makes you

unhappy.

THERESE. Well, then, I must tell you. It's about your father and mother.

Oh, how I wish I needn't tell you. Rene, while you've been away your

people have been dreadful to me. Your father came here to see me. He

wanted me to swear never to see you again--never. Of course I wouldn't.

When I refused to give in he said it was through worldly wisdom. He

said: "If he wasn't going to inherit my money, you wouldn't hang on to

him like this." He dared to say that to me, Rene--your father whom I

have always wanted to respect and love. He thought that of me. And then

I swore to him, and I've sworn to myself, that I'll never marry you,

never, without his consent. I cannot be suspected of _that_. You

understand, don't you? The poorer I am the prouder I ought to be. [_She

bursts into tears_] My dear--my dear! How unhappy I am! How dreadfully

unhappy I am!

RENE. My darling! [_He kisses her_]

THERESE. Don't, Rene! I couldn't help telling you. But you understand,

my dearest, that we've got to wait until he knows me better.

RENE [_forcibly_] No. We will _not_ wait.

THERESE. I'll never break my word.

RENE. What d'you want us to wait for? A change of opinion that'll

probably never come. And our youth will go, we shall have spoilt our

lives. You want to send me back to Paris all alone and unhappy, to spend

long silent evenings thinking about you and suffering from not being

with you, while you, here, will be suffering in the same way, in the

same loneliness. And we love each other, and it absolutely depends only

on ourselves whether we shall change our double unhappiness for a double

joy. [_Changing his tone_] I can't stand it, Therese. I've loved you for

two years, and all this last year I've toiled and slaved to win you.

[_Low and ardently_] I want you.

THERESE. Oh, hush, hush!

RENE. I want you. You're the one woman I've loved in my life. My love

for you _is_ my life. I can't give up my life. Listen: I have to be in

Paris this evening; are you going to let me leave you broken-hearted?

THERESE. Do you think that I'm not broken-hearted?

RENE. I shan't suffer any the less because I know that you're suffering

too.

THERESE. It doesn't depend upon us.

RENE. It depends entirely upon us. Look here, if people refuse to let us

marry, our love for each other is strong enough to do without marriage.

Therese, come with me!

THERESE. Oh, Rene, Rene! What are you asking me to do?

RENE. Have you faith in me? Look at me. Do you think I'm sincere? Do you

think I'm an honest man? Do you think that, if people refuse to let us

go through a ridiculous ceremony together, our union will be any the

less durable? Is it the ceremony that makes it real? Therese, come with

me. Come this evening; let's go together; let's love each other. Oh, if

you loved me as much as I love you, you wouldn't hesitate for a second.

THERESE. Oh, don't say that, I implore you!

RENE. Then you don't trust me?

THERESE. I won't do it. I won't do it.

RENE. What prevents you? You're absolutely alone, you have no relations.

You owe nothing to anybody. No one will suffer for your action. You've

already given a year of your life to the foolish prejudices of society.

You've shown them respect enough. First they prevented our marriage

because you were poor; now they want to prevent it because you work.

Thanks to you I have been able to assert myself and get free. My father

and mother can keep their money. I don't want it. Come.

THERESE [_in tears_] You're torturing me. Oh, my dear, you're making me

most unhappy. I could never do that, never. Don't be angry with me. I

love you. I swear that I love you.

RENE. I love you, Therese. I swear that I love you. All my life is

yours. [_He breaks down_] Don't make me so unhappy. The more unhappy,

the more I love you.

THERESE. I couldn't do it.

_Monsieur Feliat comes in._

FELIAT. Hullo! Was it to make her cry like that that you wanted to see

her? Is that what you've learnt "in phosphates"? [_To Therese_] Don't,

my dear. [_In a tone of kindly remonstrance_] You! Is it you I find

crying like a little schoolgirl? [_Therese wipes her eyes_] Oh, I

understand all about it. But his father will give in in the end. And

you, Rene, be reasonable, don't hurry things.

RENE. But I want--

FELIAT [_interrupting him_] No, no, for goodness' sake, not just now.

We'll talk about it later on. Just now we have other fish to fry. We're

in a fix, my young lover. We've got to face some very serious

difficulties. Go along with you.

_Monsieur Gueret comes in._

GUERET [_to Monsieur Feliat_] One of the delegates of the Central

Committee is outside.

FELIAT. And what does the brute want?

GUERET [_makes a gesture of caution and points to the door_] He wishes

to speak to the Chairman of the Women's Union.

FELIAT. Oh, ask the gentleman in. [_To Rene_] My boy, you must be off.

I'll see you presently.

RENE. Yes, presently.

THERESE [_aside to Rene_] Be at the station half an hour before the

train goes. I'll be there to say good-bye.

_Rene goes out. Monsieur Gueret brings in the delegate and

goes out again himself._

FELIAT. Good-morning. What can I do for you?

DELEGATE. I am a delegate from the Central Committee in Paris.

FELIAT. I am Monsieur Feliat, the owner of these works. I'm at your

service.

DELEGATE. It's not to you I wish to speak. This is a question which

doesn't concern you.

FELIAT. Which doesn't concern _me_!

DELEGATE. Not at present, at any rate. Will you kindly tell me where I

can find the person I have come to see?

FELIAT [_furious_] I--[_controlling himself_] She is here. [_He

indicates Therese_]

_Monsieur Feliat goes out to the right._

DELEGATE. Mademoiselle, I'm here as the representative of the Central

Committee in Paris to request you to break up your Women's Union.

THERESE. So that's it.

DELEGATE. That's it.

THERESE. What harm does it do you?

DELEGATE. It strengthens you too much against us.

THERESE. If I asked you to break up yours for the same reason, what

would you say to me?

DELEGATE. Our union is to fight the masters; yours is to fight us.

THERESE. It does you no harm whatever.

DELEGATE. Your union supports a movement we've decided to fight.

THERESE. What movement?

DELEGATE. The movement of the competition of women, the invasion of the

labor market by female labor.

THERESE. Not a very dangerous invasion.

DELEGATE. You think not. Listen. I've just come down from Paris. Who

gave me my railway ticket? A woman. Who did I find behind the counter at

the Post Office? A woman. Who was at the end of the telephone wire? A

woman. I had to get some money; it was a woman who gave it to me at the

bank. I don't even speak of the women doctors and lawyers. And in

industry, like everywhere else, women want to supplant us. There are

women now even in the metal-working shops. Everyone has the right to

defend himself against competition. The workmen are going to defend

themselves.

THERESE. Without troubling about the consequences. To take away a

woman's right to work is to condemn her to starvation or prostitution.

You're not competitors, you're enemies.

DELEGATE. You're mistaken. We're so little the enemies of the women

that in asking you to do away with your Union we're speaking in your own

interest.

THERESE. Bah!

DELEGATE. We don't want women to take lower wages than ours.

THERESE. I know the phrase. "Equal wages for equal work."

DELEGATE. That's absolutely just.

THERESE. The masters won't give those equal wages.

DELEGATE. The women have a means of forcing them to; they can strike.

THERESE. We don't wish to employ those means.

DELEGATE. I beg your pardon, the women would consent at once. It's you

that prevent them, through the Union that you've started. Isn't that so?

THERESE. That is so. But you know why.

DELEGATE. No, I do not know why.

THERESE. Then I will tell you why. It is because the phrase only seems

to be just and generous. You know very well that here, at any rate, the

owner would not employ any more women if he had to pay them the same

wages he pays the men. And if they struck, he'd replace them by men.

Your apparent solicitude is only hypocrisy. In reality you want to get

rid of the women.

DELEGATE. Well, I admit that. The women are not competitors; they're

enemies. In every dispute they'll take the side of the masters.

THERESE. How d'you know that?

DELEGATE. They've always done it, because women take orders by instinct.

They're humble, and docile, and easily frightened.

THERESE. Why don't you say inferiors, at once?

DELEGATE. Well, yes; inferiors, the majority of them.

THERESE. If they're inferiors, it's only right that they should take

lower wages.

DELEGATE. Oh, I didn't mean to say--

THERESE [_interrupting him_] But it's not true--they are _not_ your

inferiors. If they believe they are, it's because of the wrongs and

humiliations you've imposed on them for centuries. You men stick

together. Why are we not to do the same? If you start trade unions, why

may not we? As a matter of fact, as regards work, we're your equals. We

need our wages; and to get hold of the jobs that we're able to do we

offer our work at a cheaper rate than you do. That is competition; you

must protect yourselves from it. If you want no more competition, keep

your women at home and support them.

DELEGATE. But that's precisely what we want: "The man in the workshop,

the woman in the home."

THERESE. If the mother is not at home nowadays, it's because the man is

in the saloon.

DELEGATE. The men go to the saloons because they're tired of finding the

place badly kept and the supper not ready when they go home, and instead

of a wife a tired-out factory hand.

THERESE. D'you think it's to amuse themselves the women go to work?

Don't you suppose they prefer a quiet life in their own homes?

DELEGATE. They've only got to stay there.

THERESE. And who's to support them?

DELEGATE. Their husbands!

THERESE. First they've got to have husbands. What about the ones who

have no husbands--the girls, the widows, the abandoned? Isn't it better

to give them a trade than to force them to take a lover? Some of them

want to leave off being obliged to beg for the help of a man. Can't you

see that for a lot of women work means freedom? Can you blame them for

demanding the right to work? That's the victory they're fighting for.

DELEGATE. I'm not at all sure that that victory is a desirable one.

Indeed, I'm sure it is not. When you've succeeded in giving the woman

complete independence through hard work; when you have taken her

children from her and handed them over to a creche; when you've severed

her from her domestic duties and also from all domestic happiness and

joy, how d'you know she won't turn round and demand to have her old

slavery back again? The quietness and peace of her own home? The right

to care for her own husband and nurse her own child?

THERESE. But can't you see that it's just that that the immense majority

of women are demanding now? We want the women to stay at home just as

much as you do. But how are you going to make that possible? At present

the money spent on drink equals the total of the salaries paid to women.

So the problem is to get rid of drunkenness. But the middle classes

refuse to meet this evil straightforwardly because the votes which keep

them in power are in the pockets of the publicans; and you socialist

leaders refuse just as much as the middle classes really to tackle the

drink question because you're as keen for votes as they are. You've got

to look the situation in the face. We're on the threshold of a new era.

In every civilized country, in the towns and in the rural districts,

from the destitute and from the poor, from every home that a man has

deserted for drink or left empty because men have no longer the courage

to marry, a woman will appear, who comes out from that home and will sit

down by your side in the workshop, in the factory, at the office, in the

counting house. You don't want her as housewife; and as she refuses to

be a prostitute, she will become a woman-worker, a competitor; and

finally, because she has more energy than you have, and because _she_

is not a drunkard, she will take your places.

DELEGATE [_brutally_] Well, before another hour's gone over our heads

you'll find that she won't start that game here.

_Monsieur Feliat comes in._

FELIAT [_to the delegate_] My dear sir, a thousand pardons for

interrupting you, but as I've just turned your friend out of my house

because he took advantage of being in it to start a propaganda against

me, what's the use of your going on talking to this lady about a course

of action she will no more consent to than I shall?

DELEGATE. Very well, Monsieur. I shall telephone to Paris for

instructions. Probably you will refuse to let me use your instrument.

FELIAT. I most certainly shall.

DELEGATE. So I shall go to the Post Office, and in ten minutes--

FELIAT. Go, my dear sir, go. But let me tell you in a friendly way that

it'll take you more than ten minutes to get on to Paris.

DELEGATE. It takes you more, perhaps, but not me. Good-morning. [_The

delegate goes out_]

FELIAT [_to Therese_] The low brute! Things are not going well. What

happened at Duriot's has made a very unfortunate impression here. The

news that you were going to open a new workshop for the women has been

twisted and distorted by gossip and chatter, and my men have been worked

up by the other brute to come and threaten me.

THERESE. What d'you mean?

FELIAT. They threaten me with a strike and with blacklisting me if I

don't give up the idea.

THERESE. You can't give up absolutely certain profits.

FELIAT. If I am too obstinate, it may result in much larger losses which

will be equally certain.

THERESE. But what then?

FELIAT. I've had to promise that for the present at any rate there's no

question of taking on any more women.

THERESE. Oh!

FELIAT. What could I do?

_Monsieur Gueret comes in._

FELIAT [_to Gueret_] Well?

GUERET. They wouldn't listen.

FELIAT. I was afraid they wouldn't. [_To Therese_] That's not all. Your

godfather has been trying something else, and I understand he's not

succeeded. I shall have to take the mending away from your workshop.

THERESE. The women won't agree to that.

GUERET. Perhaps that would be the best solution of the difficulty.

THERESE [_startled_] Don't say that. You can't mean it. Think!

GUERET. What's more, the men refuse to finish the work the women have

begun.

THERESE. We'll finish it.

GUERET. Then they'll strike.

THERESE. Let them strike. Monsieur Feliat, you can fight now and get

terms for yourself. Just at this moment we have only one very urgent

order. If the men strike, I can find you women to replace them. Every

day I am refusing people who want to be taken on.

GUERET [_suddenly_] I have an idea.

THERESE. What's that?

GUERET. I know my men; they're not bad fellows.

THERESE. My workers are splendid women.

GUERET. Of course they are. As a matter of fact we're face to face now,

not with a fight between men and masters, but with a fight between

men-workers and women-workers. The men have their trade union, and the

women have theirs. Both unions have a President and two Vice-Presidents.

Both have their office. We must have a meeting between the two here at

once, in a friendly, sensible way, before they've all had time to excite

themselves; and let them find some way out that'll please 'em all.

FELIAT. But, my dear fellow, if you bring them together, they'll tear

one another's eyes out.

GUERET. Oh, we know you don't believe the working classes have any

sense.

FELIAT [_between his teeth_] I don't. I've been an employer too long.

THERESE [_to Monsieur Feliat_] Why not try what my godfather suggests?

What do you risk?

FELIAT. I don't mind. But I will have nothing to do with it personally.

GUERET. Neither will I.

THERESE. I'll go and see if Berthe and Constance are here. [_To Gueret_]

You go and fetch your men. [_She goes out to the left_]

GUERET. I give you my word that, if there's any possible way out, this

is the only chance of getting at it.

FELIAT. Very well, go and fetch them.

_Gueret goes out. Therese comes in with Berthe and

Constance. They are wearing large aprons and have scissors

attached to their waistbelts. Berthe is a fat, ordinary

woman. Constance is tall, dry, and ugly._

BERTHE [_respectfully_] Good-morning, Monsieur Feliat.

CONSTANCE [_the same_] Good-morning, Monsieur Feliat.

THERESE. I want Berthe and Constance to tell you themselves whether you

can count upon them in case of the men striking.

CONSTANCE. Oh yes, Monsieur Feliat. We'll do anything you want us to.

BERTHE. Oh, Monsieur Feliat, don't send us away!

CONSTANCE [_imploringly_] Oh, Monsieur Feliat, you won't send us away,

will you?

BERTHE. We do want the work so, Monsieur.

CONSTANCE. It's God's truth we do.

FELIAT. I'll do everything possible on my side, but it all depends on

yourselves and the men. Try to come to some understanding.

CONSTANCE. Yes, Monsieur.

BERTHE [_lowering her voice_] If you can't pay us quite as much for the

mending, we don't mind taking a little less. You'd keep it dark,

wouldn't you?

FELIAT. We'll see about it.

_Girard, Charpin, Deschaume, and Vincent come in._

WORKMEN [_very civil and speaking together_] Good-morning, ladies and

gents.

FELIAT. Has my brother explained to you why he asked you to meet the

representatives of the Women's Union and to try to come to an

understanding with them?

GIRARD. Yes, Monsieur Feliat.

CHARPIN. That's all we want. All friends together, like.

DESCHAUME. That's the hammer, mate!

FELIAT. Then I'll go. Do try and keep your tempers.

ALL [_speaking together_] Oh yes. To be sure, sir. You needn't trouble,

sir.

_Feliat goes out. The workmen and workwomen left together

shake hands all round without any particular courtesy or

cordiality._

CHARPIN. Well, what d'you say to a sit down?

DESCHAUME [_speaking of Charpin_] That lazy swine's only comfortable

when he's sittin' down.

CHARPIN. I ain't agoing to tire meself for nix, not 'arf!

_Berthe and Constance have mechanically brought chairs for

the workmen, who take them without any thanks, accustomed as

they are to be waited upon. When all are seated they see

that Therese has been left standing._

CONSTANCE [_rising_] Have my chair, Mademoiselle.

THERESE. No, thank you, I prefer to stand.

CHARPIN. I see that all our little lot's here. There's four on us, but

only three 'er you.

DESCHAUME [_meaningly_] One of the hens ain't turned up yet.

CHARPIN [_sniggering_] Perhaps she's a bit shy, like.

THERESE. You mean Mother Bougne. You, workmen yourselves, mock at an old

woman wrecked by work. But you're right. She ought to be here. I'll go

and fetch her. Only to look at her would be an argument on our side.

[_She goes out to the right_]

DESCHAUME. Mademoiselle Therese needn't kick up such a dust about a

little thing like that. There's four on us; so there must be four on

you, in case we have to take a vote.

_Therese comes back with Mother Bougne._

THERESE [_to the workmen_] Give me a chair. [_They do so_] Sit down,

Mother Bougne. [_Insisting_] Mother Bougne, sit down.

MOTHER BOUGNE. Oh, don't trouble, miss, I'm not used to--

THERESE [_sharply_] Sit down.

_Mother Bougne sits down._

CHARPIN. Well, here's the bloomin' bunch of us.

DESCHAUME. We'd best fix up a chairman.

GIRARD. What's the good of that?

DESCHAUME. We'd best have you, Girard. You've education, and you're up

to all the dodges about public meetings.

GIRARD. It's not worth while.

DESCHAUME. Well, I only put it forrard because it's the usual. But have

it your own way! [_A silence_] Only don't all jaw at once. You'll see

you'll want a chairman, I tell you that, but I don't care. It ain't my

show.

CHARPIN. Get a move on you, Girard, and speak up.

GIRARD. Well, ladies--

VINCENT [_interrupting_] Now look here. I want to get at an

understandin'.

THERESE. Monsieur Girard, will you be kind enough to speak for your

friends? We have nothing to say on our part. We're asking for nothing.

GIRARD. Well, that's true. We want to have the mending back.

THERESE. And we don't mean to give it up.

GIRARD. Well, we expected that. Now, to show you that we're not such a

bad lot as you think, we'll share it with you on two conditions. The

first is that you're paid the same wages as we are.

DESCHAUME. Look here, that won't suit me at all, that won't. If my old

woman gets as much as me, how am I to keep her under? Blimey, she'll

think she's my bloomin' equal!

GIRARD [_impatiently_] Oh, bung her into some other berth. Let me go on.

The second condition is that you aren't to have a separate workshop.

We'll all work together as we used to.

THERESE. Why?

DESCHAUME. You women do a damned sight too much for your ha'pence.

GIRARD. Yes, it's all in the interests of the masters. It's against

solidarity.

THERESE. Will you allow me to express my astonishment that you should

make conditions with us when you wish to take something from us?

CHARPIN. We're ony tellin' you our terms for sharing the work with you.

THERESE. I quite understand; but we have no desire to share it with you.

We mean to keep it. And I'm greatly surprised to hear you suggest that

we should all work together.

CONSTANCE. Indeed we won't.

DESCHAUME. Why not, Mademoiselle? When we worked together--

CONSTANCE [_interrupting_] When we worked with you before, you played

all sorts of dirty tricks on us to make us leave.

DESCHAUME. What tricks? Did you hear anything about that, Charpin?

CHARPIN. I dunnow what she's talkin' about. D'you Vincent?

VINCENT. Look here, I only want to get to an understandin'.

CONSTANCE. You never stopped sayin' beastly things.

DESCHAUME AND CHARPIN [_protesting together_] Oh! O-ho!

DESCHAUME. Well, if we can't have a bit of chippin' in a friendly way

like!

BERTHE. Beastly things like that ain't jokes. I didn't know where to

look meself; and I've sat for a sculptor, so I ain't too particular.

CHARPIN. He! He! I thought she was talkin' about that old joke of the

rats.

_The men laugh together._

THERESE. Yes, you're laughing about it still! About shutting up live

rats in our desks before we came to work.

GIRARD. He! He! We didn't mean any harm.

THERESE. You didn't mean any harm! The little apprentice was ill for a

week, and Madame Dumont had a bad fall. You thought of dozens of things

of that kind, like the typists who mixed up all the letters on the

women's desks. When we went away to get our lunch, you came and spoilt

our work and made the women lose a great part of their day's pay or work

hours of overtime. We don't want any more of that. You agreed we should

have a separate workshop. We'll keep it.

GIRARD. If Monsieur Feliat sticks to you, we'll have to come out on

strike.

THERESE. We don't want Monsieur Feliat to get into trouble because of

us.

GIRARD. Well, what are you going to do about it?

THERESE. We'll take your places.

CHARPIN [_bringing his fist down with a bang upon the table_] Well, I'm

damned!

DESCHAUME [_threateningly_] If you do, we'll have to put you through it!

CONSTANCE. We'll do it!

GIRARD [_to Therese_] D'you understand now, Mademoiselle, why we

socialists don't want women in the factory or in the workshop? The

woman's the devil because of the low salary she has to take. She's a

victim, and she likes to be a victim, and so she's the best card the

employer has to play against a strike. The women are too weak, and if I

might say so, too slavish--

DESCHAUME. Yes, that's the word, mate, slavish.

BERTHE [_very angry_] Look at that man there, my husband, and hear what

he's saying before me, his wife, that he makes obey him like a dog. He

beats me, he does. You don't trouble about my being what you call

slavish when it's you that profits by it! I'd like to know who taught

women to be slavish but husbands like you.

THERESE. You've so impressed it upon women that they're inferior to men,

that they've ended by believing it.

GIRARD. Well, maybe there's exceptions, but it's true in the main.

DESCHAUME. Let 'em stay at home, I says, and cook the bloomin' dinner.

BERTHE. And what'll they cook the days when you spend all your wages in

booze.

GIRARD. It's the people that started you working that you ought to

curse.

BERTHE. I like that! It was my husband himself that brought me to the

workshop.

THERESE. She's not the only one, eh, Vincent?

VINCENT. But I ain't sayin' nothin', I ain't. What are you turnin' on me

for? I ain't sayin' nothin'.

BERTHE. We'd like nothing better than to stay at home. Why don't you

support us there?

CONSTANCE. It's because you don't support us there that you've got to

let us work.

DESCHAUME. We ain't going to.

BERTHE. We won't give in to you.

GIRARD. If you don't, we'll turn the job in.

THERESE. And I tell you that we shall take your places.

DESCHAUME. Rats! You can't do it.

THERESE. We couldn't at one time, that's true. But now we've got the

machines. The machines drove the women from their homes. Up to lately

one had to have a man's strength for the work; now, by just pulling a

lever, a woman can do as much and more than the strongest man. The

machines revenge us.

DESCHAUME. We'll smash the things.

GIRARD. She's right. By God, she's right! It's them machines has done

it. If any one had told my grandfather a time would come when one chap

could keep thousands of spindles running and make hundreds of pairs of

stockings in a day, and yards and yards of woollen stuff, and socks and

shirts and all, why grandfather'd've thought everybody'd have shirts and

socks and comforters and shoes, and there'd be no more hard work and

empty bellies. Curse the damned things! We works longer hours, and

there's just as many bare feet and poor devils shivering for want of

clothes. The machines were to give us everything, blast 'em! The workers

are rotten fools! The damned machines have made nothing but hate between

them that own them and them that work them. They've used up the women

and even the children; and it's all to sell the things they make to

niggers or Chinamen; and maybe we'll have war about it. They've made the

middle classes rich, and they're the starvation of all of us; and after

they've done all that, here are the women, our own women, want to help

'em to best us!

MOTHER BOUGNE. You're right, Girard. When I was a kid, and there was no

machines--leastways, not to speak of--we was all better off. Women

stayed at home, and they'd got enough to do. Why, my old grandmother

used to fetch water from the well and be out pickin' up sticks before it

was light of a mornin'! Yes, and women made their own bread, and did

their washin', and made their bits of things themselves! Now it's

machines for everythin', and they say to us: "Come into the factory and

you'll earn big money." And we come, like silly kids! Why, fancy me,

eight years old, taken out of the village and bunged into a spinnin'

mill! Then, when I was married, there was me in a workman's dwellin'.

You turn a tap for your water, don't fetch it; baker's bread, and your

bit of dinner from the cookshop, or preserved meat out of a tin. You

don't make a fire, you turn on the gas; your stockin's and togs all

fetched out of a shop. There ain't no need for the women to stay at home

no longer, so they cuts down the men's wages and puts us in the

factories. We ain't got time to suckle our kids; and now they don't want

young 'uns any more! But when you're in the factory, they make yer pay

through the nose for yer gas and yer water, and baker's bread and

ready-made togs; and you've got nothin' left out of yer bit of wages,

and you're as poor as ever; and you're only a "hand" at machines in the

damp and smoke, instead of bein' in your own house an' decent like. What

are you fussin' about, Girard? Don't you see that we _can't_ go back to

the old times now? A woman ain't got a house now, only a little room

with nothin' but a dirty bed to sleep on! And I tell you, Girard, you've

got to let us earn our livin' like that now, because it's you and the

likes of you that's brought us to it.

GIRARD. Well, after all, we've got to look after our living. The women

want to take it from us.

MOTHER BOUGNE. It's because they haven't got any themselves, my lad.

They've got to live as well as you, you see.

GIRARD. And supposing there isn't enough living for everybody?

MOTHER BOUGNE. The strongest'll get it and the weak 'uns'll be done in.

GIRARD. Well, we've not made the world, and we're not going to have our

work taken away from us.

CONSTANCE. And we're not, either.

DESCHAUME. Damn it all, we've got to live.

BERTHE. Well, we've got to live too. The kids has got to live and we've

got to live. One would think we was brute beasts.

CONSTANCE. We say just the same as you. We've not made the world, it

ain't our fault.

_During the last few speeches women have appeared at the

door to the right and have remained on the threshold,

becoming excited by the conversation._

A WOMAN [_at the door_] It ain't our fault.

_Some men show themselves at the door at the back._

A MAN. So much the worse for you.

ANOTHER WOMAN. We've got to live, we've got to live!

ANOTHER MAN. Ain't we got to live too?

THERESE. Well, don't drink so much.

_The women applaud this speech with enthusiasm._

A WOMAN [_bursting out laughing_] Ha! Ha! Ha!

WOMEN. Right, Mademoiselle! Well done! Good!

_They come further forward._

BERTHE. You won't get our work away from us.

DESCHAUME. It's _our_ work; you took it.

BERTHE. You gave it up to us.

A MAN. Well, we'll take it back from you.

ANOTHER MAN. We were wrong.

ANOTHER MAN. Drive out the Hens.

ANOTHER MAN. The strike! Long live the strike! We'll come out!

A WOMAN. We'll take your places; we've got to live.

A MAN. There's no living for you here.

A WOMAN. Yes there is; we'll take yours.

THERESE. Yes, we'll take yours. And your wife that you brought here

yourself will take your place, Vincent. And you the same, Deschaume.

She'll take your place, and it'll serve you right. You can stay at home

and do the mending to amuse yourself.

GIRARD [_to the women_] This woman from Paris is turning the heads of

the lot of you.

CHARPIN. Yes, that's about the size of it.

VINCENT. She don't play the game. She does as she bloomin' well likes.

She wouldn't engage my old woman. She took women from Duriot's.

GIRARD [_to Therese_] That's it. It's you that's doing it. [_To the

women_] You've got to ask the same wages as us.

THERESE. You know very well--

GIRARD [_interrupting_] It's all along of your damned Union.

VINCENT. There wasn't any ructions till you come.

CHARPIN. We'll smash the Hens' Union.

_A row begins and increases._

A MAN. Put 'em through it! Down 'em! Smash the Hens! Smash 'em!

A WOMAN. Turn out the lazy swines!

A WOMAN [_half mad with excitement_] We're fightin' for our kids. [_She

shrieks this phrase continuously during the noise which follows_]

BERTHE. Turn out the lazy swines!

DESCHAUME [_shaking his wife_] Shut up, blast you, shut up!

ANOTHER MAN [_holding him back_] Don't strike her!

DESCHAUME. It's my wife; can't I do as I like? [_To Berthe_] Get out,

you!

BERTHE. I won't!

_Deschaume tries to seize hold of his wife; this starts a

general fight between the men and women, during which one

distinguishes various cries, finally a man's voice._

A MAN. Damn her, she's hurt me!

ANOTHER MAN. It's her scissors! Get hold of her scissors.

_Berthe screams._

THERESE. They'll kill one another! [_To the women_] Go home, go home;

they'll kill you. Go home at once.

_The women are suddenly taken with a panic; they scream and

run away, followed by the men._

A WOMAN. Oh, you brutes! Oh, you brutes!

_Therese goes out to the right with the women. The men go

off with Deschaume, whose hand is bleeding. Girard, who was

following them, meets Monsieur Feliat at the door._

GIRARD [_to Feliat_] Deschaume's bin hurt, sir.

FELIAT. He must be taken to the Infirmary.

DESCHAUME [_excitedly_] With her scissors she did it, blast 'er!

CHARPIN. The police, send for the police!

GIRARD. Don't be a bally fool. We can take care of ourselves, can't we,

without the bloomin' coppers.

DESCHAUME [_shouting_] The police, send for the police! To protect the

right to work. Send for 'em.

GIRARD [_to Monsieur Feliat_] If 't was to bully us, you'd have sent for

'em long ago. What are you waiting for?

FELIAT. I'm waiting till you kindly allow me to speak. I can't believe

my ears. Is it you, Girard, and you, Deschaume, who want to have the

police sent for to save you from a pack of women? Ha! Ha!

CHARPIN. Oh, it makes you laugh, does it?

GIRARD. You defend the cats because they're against us. Well, we won't

have it. Duriot's men came out--

CHARPIN. Yes, and we'll do the same.

DESCHAUME. We will. Look out for the strike!

GIRARD. We're agreed; ain't we, mates?

CHARPIN AND DESCHAUME [_together_] Yes, yes. We'll strike. Let's strike.

FELIAT. You don't really mean that you're going on strike?

GIRARD. Don't we, though!

FELIAT. How can you? I've given everything you've asked for.

CHARPIN [_growling_] That's just the reason.

GIRARD. If you've given in, that shows we were right. You'll have to

give in some more.

FELIAT. Good God, what d'you want now?

CHARPIN. We want you to sack all the women.

DESCHAUME. No we don't. We want you to sack Mademoiselle Therese.

FELIAT. You're mad! What harm has she done you?

GIRARD. The harm she's done us? Well, she's on your side.

DESCHAUME. She's turned the women's heads. They want to take our places.

CHARPIN. And we won't have it.

FELIAT. Come! Be reasonable. You can't ask me that.

GIRARD. We _do_ ask you that.

FELIAT. It will upset my whole business.

CHARPIN. What's that to us?

FELIAT. Well, I must have time to think about it.

GIRARD. There's nothing to think about. Sack the Paris woman or we go on

strike.

FELIAT. You can't put a pistol to my head like this. I've got orders in

hand.

GIRARD. What's that to us?

FELIAT. Well then, I won't give in this time. You demanded that I should

not open a new workshop. I gave in. I won't go further than that.

GIRARD. Then out we go.

FELIAT. Well go, and be damned to you. [_Pause_] The women will take

your places.

GIRARD. You think so, do you? You think it's as easy as that. Well, try.

Just you try to fill up our places. Have you forgot there's two

delegates here from the Central Committee? A phone to Paris and your

bally show is done for.

FELIAT. It's damnable.

GIRARD. And if that doesn't choke you off, there's other things.

CHARPIN. We'll set the whole bloomin' place on fire.

GIRARD. Don't you try to bully us.

FELIAT. Well, look here. We won't quarrel. I'll send away Mademoiselle

Therese. But give me a little time to settle things up.

CHARPIN. No; out she goes.

FELIAT. Give me a month. I ask only a month.

GIRARD. An hour, that's all you'll get, an hour.

CHARPIN. An hour, not more.

GIRARD. We're going off to meet the delegates at the Hotel de la Poste;

you can send your answer there. The Parisian goes out sharp now, or else

look out for trouble. Come on, boys, let's go and tell the others.

There's nothing more to do here.

FELIAT. But stop, listen--

CHARPIN [_to Feliat_] That's our last word. [_To the others_] Hurry on.

_The workmen go out. Therese has come in a moment before and

is standing on the threshold._

FELIAT [_to Therese_] How much did you hear?

THERESE. Oh, please, please, don't give in. Don't abandon these women.

It's dreadful in the workroom. They're in despair. I've just been with

them, talking to them. They get desperate when they think of their

children.

FELIAT. The men are not asking me now to get rid of them. What they're

asking for is the break-up of your Union, and that you yourself should

go.

THERESE. Oh, they say that now. But if you give in, they'll see that

they can get anything they like from your weakness, and they'll make you

turn out all these wretched women.

FELIAT. But I can't help myself! You didn't hear the brutal threats of

these men. If I don't give in, I shall be blacklisted, and they'll set

the place on fire; they said so. Where will your women's work be then?

And I shall be ruined.

THERESE. Then you mean to give in without a struggle?

FELIAT. Would _you_ like to take the responsibility for what will happen

if I resist? There'll be violence. Just think what it'll mean. In the

state the men are in anything may happen. There's a wounded man already.

How many would there be to-morrow?

THERESE. You think only of being beaten. But suppose you win? Suppose

you act energetically and get the best of it.

FELIAT. My energy would be my ruin.

THERESE [_with a change of tone_] Then you wish me to go?

FELIAT. I have only made up my mind to it to prevent something worse.

THERESE [_very much moved_] It's impossible you can sacrifice me in this

way at the first threat. Look here, Monsieur Feliat; perhaps it doesn't

come very well from me, but I can't help reminding you that you've said

repeatedly yourself that I've been extremely useful to you. Don't throw

me overboard without making one try to save me.

FELIAT. It would be no use.

THERESE. How can you tell? It's your own interest to keep me. The

delegate said that if I go they'll break up the Women's Union and make

the women take the same wages as the men.

FELIAT. They won't do that because they know I wouldn't keep them.

THERESE. You see! If you give in, it means the break-up of the whole

thing and the loss to you of the saving I've made for you. And you have

obligations to these women who have been working for you for years.

FELIAT. If I have to part with them, I will see they are provided for.

THERESE. Yes, for a day--a week, perhaps. But afterwards? What then?

Little children will be holding out their hands for food to mothers who

have none to give them.

FELIAT. But, good God, what have _I_ to do with that? Is it my fault?

Don't you see that I'm quite powerless in the matter?

THERESE. No, you're not quite powerless. You can choose which you will

sacrifice, the women who have been perfectly loyal to you, or the men

who want to wring from your weakness freedom from competition which

frightens them.

FELIAT. They're fighting for their daily bread.

THERESE. Yes, fighting the woman because she works for lower wages. She

can do that because she is sober and self-controlled. Is it because of

her virtues that you condemn her?

FELIAT. I know all that as well as you do, and I tell you again the

women can go on working just as they were working before you came.

THERESE. You'll be made to part with them.

FELIAT. We shall see. But at present that's not the question. The

present thing is about you. One of us has to be sacrificed, you or me. I

can see only one thing. If I stick to you, my machinery will be smashed

and my works will be burned. I'm deeply sorry this has happened, and I

don't deny for a moment the great value of your services; but, after

all, I can't ruin myself for your sake.

THERESE [_urgently_] But you _wouldn't_ be ruined. Defend yourself,

take measures. Ask for assistance from the Government.

FELIAT. The Government can't prevent the strike.

THERESE. But the women will do the work.

FELIAT. You think of nothing but your women. And the men? They'll be

starving, won't they? And their women and their children will starve

with them.

THERESE [_almost in tears_] And me, you have no pity for me. What's to

become of me? If you abandon me, I'm done for. I'd made a career for

myself. I had realized my dreams. I was doing a little good. And I was

so deeply grateful to you for giving me my chance. I'm all alone in the

world, you know that very well. Before I came here I tried every

possible way to earn my living. Oh, please don't send me away. Don't

drive me back into that. Try once again, do something. Let me speak to

the men. It's all my life that's at stake. If you drive me out, I don't

know where to go to.

_Monsieur Gueret comes in._

GUERET [_greatly excited_] Feliat, we mustn't wait a moment; we must

give in at once. They're exciting themselves; they're mad; they're

getting worse; they may do anything. They've gone to the women's

workroom and they're driving them out.

_From the adjoining workshop there comes a crash of glass

and the sound of women screaming._

THERESE [_desperately_] Go, Monsieur! Go quickly! Don't let anything

dreadful happen. You're right. I'll leave at once. Go!

_Monsieur Gueret and Monsieur Feliat rush into the women's

workshop. The noise increases; there is a sound of furniture

overthrown and the loud screams of women._

THERESE [_alone, clasping her hands_] Oh, God! Oh, God!

_Therese stands as if hypnotized by terror, her eyes wide

open and fixed upon the door of the workshop. The noise

still increases; there is a revolver shot, then a silence.

Finally the voice of Monsieur Feliat is heard speaking,

though the words are not intelligible, and a shout of men's

voices. Then Monsieur Gueret comes in very pale._

GUERET. Don't be frightened, it's all over. The shot was fired in the

air. The men have gone out; there are only the women now--crying in the

workshop.

THERESE. Are you sure nobody is killed? Is it true, oh, tell me, is it

really true?

_Monsieur Feliat comes in._

FELIAT. Poor Therese! Don't be frightened.

THERESE. Oh, those screams! Those dreadful screams! Is it true, really,

nobody was hurt?

FELIAT. Nobody, I assure you.

THERESE. The shot?

FELIAT. Fired in the air, to frighten the women. The men broke in the

door, and upset a bench, and made a great row. I got there just in time.

As soon as they were promised what they want they were quiet.

THERESE [_after a pause, slowly_] They were promised what they want. So

it's done. [_A silence_] Then there's nothing left for me but to go.

GUERET. Where are you going to?

FELIAT. You needn't go at once.

THERESE. Yes, I'm going at once. [_A silence_] I'm going where I'm

forced to go.

FELIAT. You can leave to-morrow or the day after.

THERESE. No, I leave by train, this evening, for Paris.

CURTAIN.

FALSE GODS

CHARACTERS

THE PHARAOH

THE HIGH PRIEST

RHEOU

SATNI

PAKH

SOKITI

BITIOU, the dwarf

NOURM

THE STEWARD

THE EXORCIST

A PRIEST

THE PARALYZED YOUTH

THE MAN WITH THE BANDAGED HEAD

THE TWO SONS OF THE MAD WOMAN

MIERIS

YAOUMA

KIRJIPA

ZAYA

DELETHI

NAGAOU

HANOU

NAHASI

SITSINIT

MOUENE

NAZIT

THE YOUNG WOMAN

THE MOTHER

THE BLIND GIRL

FIVE MOURNERS

The Scene is laid in Upper Egypt during the Middle Empire.

ACT I

SCENE:--_The first inner court of the house of Rheou. At the

back between two lofty pylons the entrance leading up from

below. Through the columns supporting the hanging garden

which stretches across the back can be seen the Nile. A high

terrace occupies the left of the scene. Steps lead up to it,

and from there to the hanging garden. Along the side of the

terrace a small delicately carved wooden statue of Isis

stands on a sacrificial table. On the right is the peristyle

leading to the inner dwelling of Akhounti. The bases of the

columns are in the form of lotus buds, the shafts like lotus

stems, the capitals full blown flowers. In the spaces between

the columns are wooden statues of the gods._

_Delethi is playing a harp. Nagaou dances before her. Nahasi

is juggling with oranges, while Mouene sits watching a little

bird in a cage. Yaouma reclines on the terrace supporting her

head on her elbows and gazing out at the Nile. Zaya is beside

her. On a carpet Sitsinit, lying flat upon her stomach with a

writing box by her side, is busy painting an ibis on the left

hand of Hanou, who lies in a similar attitude._

SITSI. Did you not know? She, on whose left hand a black ibis has been

painted, is certain of a happy day.

HANOU. A happy day! Why then, 'tis I, perhaps, who will be chosen

to-night!

DELETHI [_playing the harp while Nagaou dances before her_] More

slowly!--more slowly!... you must make them think of the swaying of a

lotus flower, that the Nile's slow-moving current would bear away, and

that raises itself to kiss again the waters of the stream.

NAGAOU. Yes, yes.... Begin again!

NAHASI [_juggling with oranges_] Nagaou would let herself be borne away

without a struggle. [_She laughs_].

MOUENE [_hopping on one foot_] We know that she goes to the bank of the

Nile, at the hour when the palm-trees grow black against the evening

sky, to listen to a basket maker's songs.

HANOU [_to Sitsinit_] And this morning I anointed my whole body with

Kyphli, mixed with cinnamon and terrabine and myrrh.

DELETHI [_to Nagaou_] 'Tis well ... you may dance the great prayer to

Isis with the rest.

NAGAOU [_to Mouene_] Yes! I do go to listen to songs at dark. You are

still too little for anyone, basket maker or any other, to take notice

of you.

MOUENE. You think so!... who gave me this little bird? [_She draws the

bird from the cage by a string attached to its leg_] Who caught thee,

flower-of-the-air, who gave thee to me? [_Holding up a finger_] Do not

tell! Do not tell....

HANOU [_looking at herself in a metal mirror_] Sitsinit ... the black

line that lengthens this eye is too short ... make it longer with your

reed. I think the more beautiful I am, the more chance I shall have to

be chosen for the sacrifice.... Is it not so, Zaya?... What are you

doing there without a word?

ZAYA. I was watching the flight of a crane with hanging feet, that

melted away in the distant blue of heaven.... Do not hope to be chosen

by the gods, Hanou.

HANOU. Wherefore should I not be chosen?

ZAYA. Neither you nor any who are here. The gods never demand the

sacrifice two years together from the same village.

HANOU. Never?

ZAYA. Rarely.

HANOU. 'Tis a pity. Is it not, Nagaou?

NAGAOU. I know not.

SITSI. Would it not make you proud?

NAGAOU. Yes. But it makes me proud, too, to lean on the breast of him

whose words still the beating of my heart.

DELETHI. To be taken by a god! By the Nile!

HANOU. Preferred to all the others!

MOUENE [_the youngest_] For my part I should prefer to live....

SITSI. Still, if the God desired you....

ZAYA. Oh! one can refuse....

DELETHI. Yes, but one must leave the country, then.... None of the

daughters of Haka-Phtah could bring themselves to that.

_A pause._

YAOUMA [_to herself_] Perhaps!

NAHASI. What do you say, Yaouma?

YAOUMA. Nothing. I was speaking to my soul.

MOUENE. Yaouma's eyes weep for weariness because they watch far off for

him, who comes not.

YAOUMA. Peace, child.

ZAYA [_to Delethi_] One thing is certain, someone must go upon the

sacred barge?

DELETHI. Without the sacrifice the Nile would not overflow, and all the

land would remain barren.

HANOU. And the corn would not sprout, nor the beans, nor the maize, nor

the lotus.

DELETHI. And all the people would perish miserably.

HANOU. So that she who dies, sacrificed to the Nile, saves the lives of

a whole people. That is a better thing, Nagaou, than to make one man's

happiness.

_A pause._

YAOUMA [_to herself_] Perhaps.

HANOU. And on the appointed day one is borne from the house of the god

to the Nile, surrounded by all the dwellers in the town.... The

Pharaoh--health and strength be unto him!...

DELETHI. You do not know, Hanou, you tell us what you do not know.

HANOU. But it is so, is it not, Zaya? Zaya knows about the ceremony,

because last year it was her sister who was chosen.

MOUENE. Tell us, Zaya.

NAHASI. Yes, tell us the manner of it.

ZAYA. On the fifth day of the month of Paophi....

MOUENE. To-day--that is to-day?

NAHASI. Yes. What will happen.... The prayer of Isis.... But afterwards?

Before?

_They gather round Zaya._

ZAYA. Before the sun has ended his day's journey, the people, summoned

to the terraces by a call from the Temple, will intone the great hymn to

Isis, which is sung but once a year. Within the house of the god the

assembled priests will await the sign that shall reveal the virgin to be

offered to the Nile to obtain its yearly flood. The name of the chosen

will be cried from the doorway on high, caught up by those who hear it

first, cried out to others, who in turn will cry it running towards the

house that Ammon has favored with his choice. Then shall the happy

victim of the year stand forth alone, amid her kinsfolk bowed before

her, and to her ears shall rise the shoutings of the multitude.

ALL. Oh!

DELETHI. And after a month of purification she will be borne to the

house of the god!

ZAYA. And on the day of Prodigies....

NAHASI. Oh, the day of Prodigies!

ZAYA. She will be the foremost nearer to the Sanctuary than all the

rest. She will pray with the praying crowd, she will behold the lowering

of the stone that hides the face of Isis....

DELETHI. She will behold Isis--face to face....

ALL. Oh!

ZAYA. She will beg the goddess graciously to incline her head, in sign

that, yet another year, Egypt shall be protected. And when the fervor of

the crowd's united prayer is great enough, the head of the Goddess of

Stone will bow. That will be the first prodigy.

DELETHI. The head of the Goddess of Stone will bow--that will be the

first prodigy.

ZAYA. And in the crowd there will be blind who shall see, and deaf who

shall hear, and dumb who shall speak.

DELETHI. Perhaps Mieris, our good mistress, will be cured of her

blindness at last.

HANOU. And when she who is chosen goes forth from the house of the

God.... Tell us, Zaya, tell us the manner of her going forth.

ZAYA. Three days before the appointed day, in the town and throughout

the land, they will begin the preparations for the festival. When the

moment comes, the crowd will surge before the temple, guarded by Lybian

soldiers. And she, she, the elect, the saviour, will come forth, ringed

by the high priests of Ammon in purple and in gold, and aloft on a

chariot where perfumes burn, deafened by sound of trumpet and cries of

joy, she will behold the people stretch unnumbered arms to her....

ALL. Oh!

DELETHI. And she will be borne to the Nile....

ZAYA. And she will be borne to the Nile. She will board the barge of

Ammon....

DELETHI. And the barge will glide from the bank....

ZAYA. And the barge will glide from the bank where all the crowd will

bow their faces to the dust. [_She stops, greatly moved_] And when the

barge returns she will be gone.

ALL [_in low tones_] And when the barge returns she will be gone.

ZAYA. And after two days the waters of the Nile will rise.

ALL. The waters of the Nile will rise....

DELETHI. And as far as the waters flow they will speak her name, who

made the sacrifice, with blessings and with tears.

HANOU. If it were I!...

ALL [_save Yaouma_] If it were I!...

_Yaouma rises to a sitting posture._

ZAYA. If it were you, Yaouma?

YAOUMA. Perhaps I should refuse.

ALL. Oh!

MOUENE [_mischievously_] I know why! I know why!

DELETHI. We know why.

ZAYA. Tell us....

YAOUMA. Tell them....

DELETHI. 'Tis the same reason that has held you there this many a day.

YAOUMA. Yes.

MOUENE. She watches for the coming of the galley with twenty oars,

bearing the travellers from the North. There is a young priest among

them, the potter's son.

DELETHI. A young priest, the potter's son, who went away two years ago.

YAOUMA. He is my betrothed.

NAHASI. But you know what they say?

ZAYA. They say that on the same boat there comes a scribe who preaches

of new gods....

YAOUMA. I know.

DELETHI. Of false gods.

MOUENE. The priests will stop the boat, and eight days hence, perhaps,

Yaouma will still be awaiting her betrothed.

YAOUMA. I shall wait.

_The Steward enters and whispers to Delethi._

DELETHI. The mistress sends word the hour is come to go indoors.

_They go out L, Sitsinit picking up the writing box, Nahasi

juggling with oranges, Mouene carrying her cage and dancing

about, Delethi plays her harp singing with Hanou and

Nagaou._

Black is the hair of my love,

More black than the brows of the night,

Than the fruit of the plum tree.

_The Steward, who had gone out, returns at once, whip in

hand, followed by a poor old man, half naked, and covered

with mud, who carries a hod._

STEWARD [_stopping before the statue of Thoueris_] There. Draw near,

potter, and look. By some mischance, the horn and the plume of Goddess

Thoueris have been broken. The master must not see them when he comes

back for the feast of the Nomination. There is the horn--there is the

plume. Replace them.

PAKH [_with terror_] I--must I ... to-day when my son is coming home?

STEWARD. Are you not our servant?

PAKH. I am.

STEWARD. And a potter?

PAKH. I am.

STEWARD. Did you not say you knew how to do what I ask?

PAKH. I did not know that I must lay hands on the Goddess Thoueris.

STEWARD. Obey.

PAKH [_throwing himself on his knees_] I pray you! I pray you ... I

should never dare. And then ... my son ... my son who is coming back

from a long, long journey....

STEWARD. You shall have twenty blows of the stick for having tired my

tongue. If you refuse to obey me you shall have two hundred.

PAKH. I pray you.

STEWARD. Bid Sokiti help you.

_He goes out at the back; as he passes he gives Sokiti a

blow with his whip, making a sign to him to go and join

Pakh._

_Sokiti obeys without manifesting sorrow or surprise._

PAKH. He says we must lift down the Goddess.

SOKITI. I?

PAKH. You and I.

SOKITI [_beginning to tremble. After a pause_] I am afraid.

PAKH. I too--I am afraid.

SOKITI. If you touch her you die.

PAKH. You will die of the stick if you do not obey.

SOKITI. Why cannot they leave me at my work. I was happy.

PAKH. We must--we must tell her that it is in order to repair her crown.

SOKITI. Yes. We must let her know.

_They prostrate themselves before the goddess._

PAKH. Oh, Mighty One!--thou who hast given birth to the gods, pardon if

our miserable hands dare to touch thee! Thy horn and thy right plume

have fallen off. 'Tis to replace them.

SOKITI. We are forced to obey--O breath divine--creator of the

universe.... It is to mend thee.

PAKH [_rising, to Sokiti_] Come!

_Bitiou, the dwarf, enters; he is a poor deformed creature.

When he sees Pakh and Sokiti touching the statue, he tries

to run away. He falls, picks himself up, and hides in a

corner. By degrees he watches and draws near during what

follows. Pakh and Sokiti take the statue from its pedestal

and set it upright on the ground._

SOKITI. She has not said anything.

PAKH. She must be laid on her belly.

SOKITI. Gently....

_They lay her flat._

PAKH [_giving him the horn_] Hold that. [_He goes to his hod, takes a

handful of cement, and proceeds to mend the statue_] Here ... the plume

... so ... there ... we must let her dry. In the meantime let us go look

upon the Nile; we may see the boat that brings my son.

SOKITI. You will not see him.

PAKH. I shall not see him?

SOKITI. He is a priest.

PAKH. Not yet.

SOKITI. But he was brought up in the temple ... 'tis to the temple he

will go.

PAKH. He will come here ... because he would see his father and mother

once more.

SOKITI. And Yaouma his betrothed.

PAKH. And Yaouma his betrothed.

_He goes R. Bitiou approaches the statue timidly, and stops

some way off._

SOKITI. There is nothing in sight.

PAKH. No.... [_suddenly_] You saw the crocodile?

SOKITI. Yes.... There is a woman going to the Nile with her pitcher on

her head.

PAKH. That is my wife, that is Kirjipa, that is mine. She seeks with her

eyes the boat that bears her son--Satni.

SOKITI. She is going into the stream.

PAKH. How else can she draw clear water?

SOKITI. But at the very spot where the crocodile plunged.

PAKH. What matter? She wears the feather of an ibis ... and I know a

magic spell. [_He begins to chant_] Back, son of Sitou! Dare not! Seize

not! Open not thy jaws! Let the water become a sheet of flame before

thee! The spell of thirty-seven gods is in thine eye. Thou art bound,

thou art bound! Stay, son of Sitou! Ammon, spouse of thy mother, protect

her!

SOKITI [_without surprise_] It is gone.

PAKH [_without surprise_] It could not do otherwise.

_Bitiou, now close to the statue, touches it furtively with

a finger tip, then runs, falls, and picks himself up. He

comes up to Pakh and Sokiti._

SOKITI [_pointing to the statue_] She is dry now, perhaps?

PAKH. Yes, come.

SOKITI. I am afraid still.

PAKH. So am I, but come and help me.

_They replace the statue on its pedestal, then step back to

look at it._

SOKITI. She has done us no harm.

PAKH. No.

SOKITI. Ha! ha!

PAKH. Ha! ha! ha! ha! [_Bitiou laughs with them. A distant sound of

trumpets is heard. Sokiti and Pakh go to the terrace to look_] It is the

chief of the Nome. They are bearing him to the city of the dead. At this

moment his soul is before the tribunal, where Osiris sits with the two

and forty judges.

SOKITI. May they render unto him all the evil he has done!...

PAKH. The evil he has done will be rendered unto him a thousand fold....

He will pass first into the lake of fire.

SOKITI [_laughing_] Pakh! Pakh! picture him in Amenti--in the hidden

place--

PAKH. I see him ... the pivot of the gate of Amenti set upon his eye,

turns upon his right eye, and turns on that eye whether in opening or in

shutting, and his mouth utters loud cries.

SOKITI [_doubling up with delight_] And he who ate so much!... He who

ate so much! He will have his food, bread and water, hung above his

head, and he will leap to get it down, whilst others will dig holes

beneath his feet to prevent his touching it.

PAKH. Because his crimes are found to outnumber his merits....

SOKITI. And we--we--say--what will happen to us?

PAKH. We shall be found innocent by the two and forty judges.

SOKITI. And after?--after?

PAKH. We shall go to the island of the souls--in Amenti--

SOKITI. Yes, where there will be.... Speak. What shall we have in the

island of the souls?

PAKH. Baths of clear water....

SOKITI [_with loud laughter_] What else ... what else?

PAKH. Ears of corn of two arms' length.... [_Laughing_].

SOKITI [_laughing_] Yes, ears of corn, of two arms' length.

PAKH. And bread of maize, and beans....

SOKITI. And blows of the stick--say, will there be blows of the stick?

PAKH. Never again.

SOKITI. Never again....

PAKH. I shall forget all I have endured.

SOKITI. I shall be famished; and I shall be able to eat until my hunger

is gone ... every day!

BITIOU. And I--I shall be tall, with straight strong legs, like the rest

of the world.

PAKH. That will be better than having been prince on the earth.

_They laugh. The Steward appears._

STEWARD. What are you doing there? [_Striking them with the whip_] Your

mistress comes! Begone!

_They go out._

_The Steward bows low before Mieris who is blind, and who

enters with her arms full of flowers and led by Yaouma._

_The Steward retires._

MIERIS [_gently_] Leave me, Yaouma--I shall be able to find my way to

her, alone.

YAOUMA. Yes mistress.... [_Nevertheless, she goes with her

noiselessly_].

MIERIS [_smiling_] I can feel you do not obey. Be not afraid. [_She has

come as far as the little statue of Isis_] You see, I do not lose my

way. I have come every day to bring her flowers, a long, long time....

Leave me.

YAOUMA. Yes, mistress.

_She withdraws._

MIERIS [_touching the statue in the manner of the blind_] Yes, thou art

Isis. I know thy face, and I can guess thy smile. [_She takes some of

the flowers which she has laid beside her and lays them one by one on

the pedestal of the statue_] Behold my daily offering! I know this for a

white lotus flower. It is for thee. I am not wrong, this one, longer,

and with the heavier scent, is the pink lotus. It is for thee. And here

are yet two more of these sacred flowers. At dawn, they come from out

the water, little by little. At midday they open wide. And when the sun

sinks they, too, hide themselves, letting the waters of the Nile cover

them like a veil. Men say they are fair to see. Alas, I know not the

beauty of the gifts I bring! Here is a typha ... here an alisma; and by

the overpowering perfume, this, I know, is the acacia flower. I have

had them tell me how the light, playing through the filmy petals, tints

them with color sweet unto the eyes. May the sight gladden thine! I know

not the beauty of the gifts I bring! But all the days of my life, a

suppliant I shall come, and weary not to ply thee with my prayers, until

in the end thou absolve me, until thou grant me the boon that all save I

enjoy, to behold the rays of the shining God, of Ammon-Ra, the Sun

divine. O Isis, remember the cruel blow that did befall me! I had a

little child. Unto him sight was given, and when he first could speak,

it was life's sweetest joy, to hear him tell the color and the form of

things. He is dead, Isis! And I have never seen him--Take thou my

tears and my prayer, bid this perpetual night, wherein I scarce

can breathe, to cease--And if thou wilt not, deliver me to

death--She-who-loves-the-silence, and after the judgment I may go to

Amenti, and find my well-beloved child--find him, and there at last

behold his face. Isis, I give thee all these flowers. [_She rises_]

Come, Yaouma. [_As she is about to go, she stops, suddenly radiant_]

Stay--I hear--yes! Go, bring the ewer and the lustral water. It is the

master--He is here.

_Yaouma goes out, but returns quickly. Enter Rheou._

MIERIS. Be welcome unto your house, master!

_Yaouma pours water over the hands of Rheou and gives him a

towel._

RHEOU. Gladly I greet you once more in your house, mistress! [_Pakh

appears, returning to look for his hod_] [_To Pakh_] Well! potter, do

you not go to meet your son?

PAKH. I would fain go, master, but I looked upon the Nile a while ago;

there is nothing in sight.

RHEOU. The galley came last night at dusk, and, by order of the priests,

was kept at the bend of the river till now. Go!

PAKH. I thank you, master.

_He goes out._

RHEOU. Is all made ready for the solemn prayer to Isis? The Sun is

nearing the horizon.

MIERIS. Yaouma, go and warn them all.

YAOUMA [_kneeling in supplication_] Mistress--

MIERIS [_laying her hand on Yaouma's head_] What is it?

YAOUMA. The galley.

MIERIS. Well?--Ah, yes! you were betrothed to the potter's son--But

to-day you must not go forth. Who shall say you are not she whom the God

Ammon will choose?

YAOUMA. The God Ammon knows not me.

MIERIS. Did he choose you, he must know you.

YAOUMA. Me! Me! A poor handmaiden--Is it then possible--truly?

MIERIS. Truly--Yaouma, go.

YAOUMA [_to herself as she goes_] The God Ammon--the God of Gods--

MIERIS. Rheou, what ails you?

RHEOU [_angered_] It was a fresh insult that awaited me--

MIERIS. Insult?

RHEOU. When I came into the audience chamber I prostrated myself before

the Pharaoh. "What would you?" he cried in that hard voice of his. You

know 'tis the custom to make no reply, that one may seem half dead with

fear before his majesty--

MIERIS. Did you not so?

RHEOU. I did, but he--

MIERIS. Have a care! Is no one there who might overhear you?

RHEOU. No one--but he, in place of ordering them to raise me up, in

place of bidding me speak--Oh, the dog of an Ethiopian!--he feigned not

to see me--for a long while, a long, long while--At length, when he

remembered I was there, anger was choking me; he saw it; he declared an

evil spirit was in me, and having ridiculed me with his pity, he bade me

then withdraw. He forgets that if I wished--

MIERIS. Be still! Be still! Know you not that there, beside you, are the

Gods who hear you!

RHEOU [_derisively_] Oh! the Gods!

MIERIS. What mean you?

RHEOU [_derisively_] I am the son of a high priest; I know the Gods--The

Pharaoh forgets that were I to remind the people of my father's

services, were I to arm all those who work for me, and let them loose

against him--

MIERIS. Rheou! Rheou!

RHEOU. Think you they would not obey me? I am son of that high priest,

the Pharaoh's friend who wished to replace the Gods of Egypt, by one

only God. The court cannot forgive me for that. Little they dream, that

were I to declare my father had appeared to me, all those who know me,

all the poor folk whose backs are blistered by the tax-gatherer's whip,

all who are terrorized by schemes of foreign war--all, all would take my

orders as inspired, divine.

MIERIS. The fear of the Gods would hold them back.

RHEOU. How long--I wonder!

MIERIS. I hear them coming for the prayer.

RHEOU. Yes. Let us pray--that they may have nothing to reproach me with

before I choose my hour.

MIERIS. What hour?

RHEOU. Could I but realize the work my father dreamed of--and at the

same stroke be avenged--avenged for all the humiliations--

MIERIS. Be silent--I hear--

_The singers and the dancers and all the women and servants

come on gradually._

RHEOU [_going to the terrace_] The sun is not yet down upon the hill.

But look--upon the Nile--see, Yaouma! 'tis the galley that bears your

betrothed.

YAOUMA. 'Tis there! 'Tis there!--See--it has stopped--they take the

mallet, and drive in the stake. The boat's prow is aground. Now they

have prayed--they disembark. Look, there is the strange scribe!

RHEOU [_looking_] A stranger--he--I do not think it.

YAOUMA. I thought, from his garments, perhaps--

_Pakh returns._

RHEOU. Did you not wait for your son?

PAKH [_terrified_] Master, on the road that leads to the Nile, I beheld

two dead scarabs--

RHEOU. None, then, save the High Priest, may pass till the road be

purified.

PAKH. I have warned the travellers they must go a long way round.

RHEOU. Did you not recognize your son?

PAKH. No, he will be among the last to land, perhaps.

YAOUMA. But look--look! Behold that man--the stranger who comes this way

alone--Pakh! where were they, Pakh--the scarabs?

PAKH. Near to the fig tree.

YAOUMA [_terrified_] He is about to pass them--Oh! He does not

know--[_Relieved_] Ah! at last, they warn him.

RHEOU. He stays.

YAOUMA. Near to the fig tree, said you! But he is going on--He moves--he

comes--He is past them--[_To Mieris_] Come, mistress, come! Oh Ammon!

Ammon!

_Hiding her face she leads Mieris quickly away._

RHEOU. 'Tis to our gates he comes--he is here.

_Satni enters._

SATNI [_bowing before Rheou_] Rheou, I salute you!

RHEOU. What do I behold! Satni--'tis you--

PAKH. My son!

SATNI [_kneeling_] Father!

PAKH. 'Twas you!--you, who came that way, despite the scarabs?

SATNI. It was I.

PAKH. You know then some magic words, I do not doubt; but I--I who saw

them--I must needs go purify myself before the prayer--to-day is the

feast of the Nomination--did you know?

SATNI. I knew--and Yaouma?

PAKH. She is here--in a little you shall see her.

RHEOU. Satni!

SATNI. You called me?

RHEOU. Yes. Did not you see the two scarabs that lay upon your path?

SATNI. I saw them.

RHEOU. And you did not stop?

SATNI. No.

RHEOU. Why?

SATNI. I have learned many things in the countries whence I come.

RHEOU. You are a priest. Was not your duty to go unto the temple, even

before you knelt at your father's feet?

SATNI. Never again shall I enter the temple.

_A long trumpet call is heard far off._

RHEOU. It is the signal for the prayer.

_He mounts the terrace and stretches his arms to the setting

sun. Women play upon the harp and upon drums, and the double

flute. Others clash cymbals and shake the sistrum. Dancers

advance, slowly swaying their bodies. The rest mark the

rhythm by the beating of hands._

_Music._

RHEOU. O Isis! Isis! Isis! Three times do I pronounce thy name.

ALL [_murmuring_] O Isis! Isis! Isis! Three times do I pronounce thy

name.

RHEOU. O Isis! thou who preservest the grain from the destroying winds,

and the bodies of our fathers from the ruinous work of time.

ALL [_murmuring_] O Isis! thou who preservest the grain from the

destroying winds, and the bodies of our fathers from the ruinous work of

time.

RHEOU. O Isis! preserve us.

ALL [_murmuring_] O Isis! preserve us.

RHEOU. By the three times thy name is spoken.

ALL [_murmuring_] By the three times thy name is spoken.

RHEOU. Both here, and there, and there.

ALL [_murmuring_] Both here, and there, and there.

RHEOU. And to-day, and all days, and throughout the ages, as long as our

temples are mirrored in the waters of the Nile.

ALL [_murmuring_] And to-day, and all days, and throughout the ages, as

long as our temples are mirrored in the waters of the Nile.

RHEOU. Isis!

ALL [_murmuring_] Isis!

RHEOU. Isis!

ALL [_murmuring_] Isis!

RHEOU. Isis!

ALL [_murmuring_] Isis!

_All prostrate themselves save the singers and the dancers._

RHEOU. We beseech thee, Ammon! Deign to make known the virgin who will

be offered to the Nile. Ammon, deign to make her known!

ALL [_murmuring_] Deign to make her known.

_The music stops. A long pause in silence. Then far off a

trumpet call._

RHEOU. Rise! The God has made his choice.

_All rise, and begin chattering and laughing gaily._

RHEOU [_to Satni_] You, alone, did not pray, and stood the while.

Wherefore?

SATNI. I have come from a land where I learned wisdom.

RHEOU. You!--You who were to be priest of Ammon!

SATNI. I shall never be priest of Ammon.

VOICES. Listen! Listen!--The name! They begin to cry the name!

_The distant sound of voices is heard. Every one in the

scene save Satni is listening intently._

RHEOU. The name! The name!

_He mounts the terrace. The setting sun reddens the

heavens._

SATNI [_to Yaouma_] At last I find you again, Yaouma. And you wear still

the chain of maidenhood. You have waited for me?

YAOUMA. Yes, Satni, I have waited for you.

SATNI. The memory of you went with me always.

YAOUMA. Listen!--[_Distant sound of voices_].

A WOMAN. Methinks 'tis Raouit of the next village.

A MAN. No! No! 'Tis not that name.

SATNI [_to Yaouma_] What matter their cries to you. Have you forgot our

promises?

YAOUMA. No--Listen!--[_Voices nearer_].

A WOMAN. 'Tis Amterra! 'Tis Amterra!

ANOTHER. No! 'Tis Hihourr!

ANOTHER. No! Amterra lives the other way.

ANOTHER. One can hear nothing clearly now.

ANOTHER. They are passing behind the palm grove.

SATNI [_to Yaouma_] Answer me--you have ears only for their clamor--I

love you, Yaouma.

A VOICE. They are coming! They are coming!

ANOTHER. Then 'tis Karma, of the next house.

ANOTHER. No! 'tis Hene. Ahou, I tell you--or Karma! Karma!

SATNI [_to Yaouma_] Have you, then, ceased to love me?

YAOUMA [_distracted_] No, no, I love you--Satni--but I seem to hear my

name amid the cries--

SATNI. Let them cry your name--I will watch over you.

YAOUMA. Oh, Satni! If the God have chosen me?

SATNI. What God? It is the priests who make him speak.

_The sounds come nearer._

A VOICE. 'Tis Yaouma! they come here! Quick, quick, let us do them honor

on their coming.

ANOTHER. No!

ANOTHER. Yes!

ANOTHER. 'Tis she!

ANOTHER. No!

ANOTHER. Yes! yes! Yaouma!

SATNI [_to Yaouma_] Do not be fooled. The God is but a stone.

YAOUMA [_who no longer listens_] I have heard. It is my name--my name!

A VOICE. They are coming!--

ANOTHER. They are here!

_Every one begins to go out._

ANOTHER [_going_] 'Tis Yaouma!

_Loud shouts without--"'Tis Yaouma--'Tis Yaouma--"_

STEWARD [_to Rheou_] Master, it is Yaouma.

RHEOU. Go, as 'tis custom, let all go forth to meet those who come.

_All go out save Yaouma and Satni._

SATNI. 'Tis you--

YAOUMA [_radiant_] 'Tis I!

SATNI. You may refuse.

YAOUMA. And leave Egypt--

SATNI. We will leave it together.

YAOUMA. 'Tis I! Think of it, Satni! The God, out of all my companions,

the God has chosen me!

SATNI. Do not stay here. Come with me.

YAOUMA [_listening_] Yes--yes--You hear them? It is I!

SATNI. You are going to refuse!

YAOUMA [_with a radiant smile_] You would love me no longer, if I

refused.

SATNI. But know you not, it is death?

YAOUMA [_in ecstasy_] Yes, Satni, it is death!

SATNI. You are mine--You are plighted to me--Come--Come!

YAOUMA. Satni--Satni--you would not have me refuse?

SATNI. I would. I love you.

YAOUMA. Refuse to answer the call of the Gods.

SATNI. The call of the Gods is death.

YAOUMA. The God has chosen me, before all he has preferred me. He has

preferred me to those who are fairer, to those who are richer. And I

should hide myself!

SATNI. It is out of pride then that you would die?

YAOUMA. I die to bring the flooding of the Nile--to make fertile all the

Egyptian fields. If I answer not to the voices that call me, my name

will be a byword wherever the rays of the sun-God fall. Another than I

will go clothed in the dazzling robe. Another will hear the shouting of

the multitude. Another will be given to the Nile.

SATNI. Another will die, and you, you will live, for your own joy and

for mine.

YAOUMA. For my own shame and for yours.

SATNI. Light the world with your beauty. Live, Yaouma, live with me!

Bright shall your breast be with the flower of the persea, and your

tresses anointed heavy with sweet odor.

YAOUMA. The waves of the Nile will be my head-dress. Oh! fair green

robe, with flowers yet more fair.

SATNI. Yaouma, you loved me--[_She bends her head_] Remember, remember

my going away, but two years since, how you did weep when I embarked.

You ran by the bank, you followed the boat that bore me. I see you

still, the slim form, the swift lank limbs; I can hear still the sound

of your little naked feet upon the sand. And when the boat grounded--do

you remember? For hours the oarsmen pushed with long poles, singing the

while, and you clapping your hands and crying out my name. And when at

length we floated, there was laughter and cries of joy--but you, you did

stand all on a sudden still, and I knew then that you wept. You climbed

to a hillock, and you waved your arms, you grew smaller, smaller,

smaller, till we turned by a cluster of palms. Oh, how you promised to

wait for me!

YAOUMA. Have I not waited?

SATNI. We had chosen the place to build our home. Do you remember?

YAOUMA. Yes.

SATNI. And dreamed of nights when you should sleep with your head upon

my breast--[_Yaouma bends her head_] And now you seek a grave in the

slime of the river.

YAOUMA [_with fervor_] The slime of the river is holy, the river is

holy. The Nile is nine times holy. It makes grow the pasture that feeds

our flocks. It drinks the tears of all our eyes.

SATNI. Listen, Yaouma, I will reveal the truth to you. The Gods who

claim your sacrifice--the Gods are false.

YAOUMA. The Gods are true--

SATNI. They are powerless.

YAOUMA. It is their power that subdues me--it is stronger than love.

Until to-day I loved you more than all the living things upon the

earth--the breath of your mouth alone gave life to my heart. Even this

very day, I dreaded being chosen of the Gods. But now, who has so

utterly transformed me if it be not the Gods? You are to me as nothing,

now. And I who trembled at a scorpion, who wept at the pricking of a

thorn, I am all joy at the thought of dying soon. How could this be if

the Gods had not willed it?

SATNI. Hear me a little--and I can prove to you--

YAOUMA. No words can take away the glory of being chosen by the Gods.

SATNI. By the priests.

YAOUMA. 'Tis the same, the priests are the voice of the Gods.

SATNI. 'Tis they who say so. The Gods of Egypt exist only because men

have invented them.

YAOUMA. The peoples from whose lands you come have made you lose your

reason. [_With a smile of pity_] Say that our Gods exist not! Think,

Satni!

SATNI. Neither the Gods, nor the happy fields, nor the world to come,

nor hell.

YAOUMA. Ah! Ah! I will prove you mad--you say there is no hell--But we

know, we know that it exists, look there! [_Pointing to the sunset_]

When the sun grows red at evening, is it not because the glow of hell is

thrown upon it from below? You have but to open your eyes. [_Laughing_]

The Gods not exist!

SATNI. They do not. In the sanctuaries of our temples is nothing save

beasts, unclean, absurd, and lifeless images; believe me, Yaouma--I

love you--I will not see you die. Your sacrifice is useless. Not because

you are offered up will the waters of the Nile rise! Refuse, hide

yourself, the waters will still rise. Ah, to lose you for a lie! To lose

you--you! How can I convince you?--I know! Yaouma, you saw me cross the

dead scarabs on my path. And yet I live! Oh! it angers me to see my

words move you not. Your reason, your reason! Awaken your reason--

YAOUMA. I am listening to my heart.

SATNI. I will save you in spite of you--I will keep you by force--

YAOUMA. If you do, I shall hate you--

SATNI. What matter I shall have saved you.

YAOUMA. And I shall kill myself.

SATNI [_seizing her_] Will you not understand! The God-bull, the

God-hippopotamus, the God-jackal--they are naught but idols!

YAOUMA. My father worshipped them.

_Every one comes back. Rheou, who during all the preceding

scene was hidden behind a pillar, goes to meet them._

SOME MEN. Yaouma! Yaouma!

ANOTHER. Up to the terrace!

OTHERS. Up to the terrace! Let her go up to the terrace!

ANOTHER. And let her lift her arms to heaven!

ANOTHER. Let her show that she will give herself to the Nile.

SATNI [_to Yaouma_] Stay! Stay with me! Then together--

YAOUMA [_in ecstasy_] He has chosen me from among all others!

ALL. Yaouma!

SATNI. She has refused! She has refused! And I will take her away.

ALL. No! No! To the terrace! The prayer! The prayer!

RHEOU. Yaouma, go and pray.

SATNI. She has refused!

MIERIS. Choose, Yaouma, between our Gods and a man.

RHEOU. Between the glory of sacrifice--

SATNI. Between falsehood and me, Yaouma--

YAOUMA. The God has called me to save my brothers!

SATNI. You are going to death!

YAOUMA. To life--the real life--the life with the Gods. [_Going to the

terrace_].

SATNI. They lie!

YAOUMA. Peace!

SATNI. In spite of you, I will save you. [_Yaouma goes up the stairway

leading to the terrace. Satni stands on a bench and shouts to the

crowd_] Hear me, my brothers, I know of better Gods, of Gods who ask for

no victims--

THE PEOPLE. They are false Gods!

SATNI. They are better Gods--

STEWARD. Rheou! Rheou! bid him cease!

RHEOU. No--let him speak.

SATNI. I come to save you from error, to overthrow the idols, to teach

you eternal truths--

_An immense shout of acclamation drowns the rest of Satni's

words, as Yaouma, who has appeared on the terrace above,

stands with her arms raised to the setting sun. Mieris

kneels and crosses her hands in prayer._

CURTAIN

ACT II

SCENE: _Same as Act I._

_Rheou discovered alone. After a few moments the Steward

enters through the gates._

RHEOU. What have you seen?

STEWARD. The preparations for the festival continue.

RHEOU. At the Temple?

STEWARD. At the Temple.

RHEOU. For the Feast of Prodigies?

STEWARD. For the Feast of Prodigies.

RHEOU. And the priests believe they can celebrate it to-morrow?

STEWARD. I have seen no reason to doubt of it.

RHEOU. Without Yaouma?

STEWARD. I do not know.

RHEOU. You are mistaken perhaps. Did you go down as far as the Nile?

STEWARD. Yes, master.

RHEOU. Well?

STEWARD. They have finished the decoration of the sacred barge.

RHEOU. I do not understand it.

STEWARD. Nor I, for I know that a certain number of the soldiers have

refused to renew the attempt of yesterday--

RHEOU. They have refused?

STEWARD. Yes.

RHEOU. What did they say?

STEWARD. That they were afraid.

RHEOU. Of what--of whom?

STEWARD. Of Satni.

RHEOU. Of Satni?

STEWARD. Yes. They say it was he who caused the miracle of yesterday.

RHEOU. What--what do they say? Their words--tell me?

STEWARD. That it was he--

RHEOU. He, Satni?--

STEWARD. Yes.

RHEOU. Who caused the miracle of yesterday?

STEWARD. Yes.

RHEOU. The miracle that prevented them from carrying out the order of

the High Priest?

STEWARD. Yes.

RHEOU. The order to come here and seize Yaouma?

STEWARD. Yes.

RHEOU. So that is what they say?

STEWARD. Every one says it.

RHEOU [_after some reflection_] Come, it is time you learned the truth,

that you may repeat it all. In the countries whither he went Satni

learned many things--great things. Come hither, lend your ear. He

declares there be other gods than the gods of Egypt--and more powerful.

If you remember, my father and the Pharaoh Amenotep likewise declared

this, and would have made these gods known to us. How they were

frustrated you know. It seems--for my own part I know not, 'tis Satni

says so, ceaselessly, these two months since his return--it seems then,

the time is come when these Gods would make them known to us. They have

endowed Satni with superhuman power. That I _know_, and none may doubt

it now. Satni is resolved to keep his betrothed, and the Lybian Guards

were not deceived, it was he who yesterday called down the thunder and

the floods from Heaven upon the soldiers sent here to seize Yaouma.

STEWARD. The oldest remember but one such prodigy.

RHEOU. What I have told you, tell to all; and this, besides, say to

them: each time that any would cross the will of Satni--they who dare

the attempt will be scattered, even as the guards were scattered

yesterday. Add this, that Satni is guided by the spirit of the dead

Pharaoh, that I last night beheld my father's spirit, and that great

events will come to pass in Egypt.

STEWARD. I shall tell them.

RHEOU. Behold, the envoy of the new gods! Leave me to speak with him.

Go, repeat my words.

_The Steward goes out._

_Satni enters from the back. Rheou prostrates himself before

Satni._

SATNI [_looking behind him_] Before which God do you still bow down?

RHEOU. Before you. If you be not a God, you are the spirit of a God.

SATNI. I do not understand your words.

RHEOU. Who can call down thunderbolts from heaven, unless he be an envoy

of the Gods?

SATNI. I am no--

RHEOU. 'Tis well, 'tis well. You would have us blind to your power of

working miracles. After yesterday you can hide it no more. Henceforth,

Satni, you must no longer confine your teaching to Mieris, to me, to

your parents, Yaouma, to a few--henceforth you may speak to all, all

ears are opened by this miracle.

SATNI. Let us leave that! I pray you rise and tell me rather what has

befallen Yaouma.

RHEOU. Yaouma!--Did she not at first interpret the thunderclap as sign

of the wrath of Ammon against her?

SATNI. She believes still in Ammon, then, despite all I have said to

her.

RHEOU. Happily I undeceived her. I made her understand that 'twas you

the elements obeyed, that the thunder that frighted her, was but a sign

of your power.

SATNI. Why should you lie to her?

RHEOU. It was not wholly lying. Besides, it was fortunate I could thus

explain the event. Had you but seen her--

SATNI. All my efforts of these two months past, in vain!

RHEOU. You remember when you left us yesterday. You might have thought

that all her superstitions were banished at last. She no longer answered

you, she questioned you no more, and at your last words her silence

confirmed the belief that at length you had won her away from Ammon. Yet

after you were gone, at the moment of entering her hiding place, she was

swept with sudden fury as though an evil spirit had entered her, wept,

cried and tore her hair--

SATNI. What said she?

RHEOU. "To the temple! to the temple! I would go to the temple! The God

has chosen me! The God awaits me! Egypt will perish!" In short, words of

madness. She would have killed herself!

SATNI. Killed herself!

RHEOU. We had to put constraint on her. And 'twas only when I led her to

this terrace, after the thunderbolt, and pointed out the scattered

soldiery, that she came to herself, that at length she perceived that

your God was the most powerful. "What," she cried, "'tis he, he, my

Satni, who shakes the heavens and the earth for me! For me!" she

murmured, "for me!" She would have kissed your sandals, offered you a

sacrifice, worshipped, adored you. See where she comes, with Mieris!

Stay.

SATNI. No.

_He goes. Rheou accompanies him. Mieris enters, bearing

flowers and led by Yaouma._

MIERIS [_listening_] Is he there?

YAOUMA. No.

MIERIS. Leave me.

_Yaouma goes out. Mieris left alone makes several hesitating

steps toward the statue of Isis, then goes up to it and

touches it. A pause._

MIERIS. If it be only of wood!

_A gesture of disillusion. She draws slowly away from the

statue, letting her flowers fall, broken-hearted, and begins

to weep. Rheou returns._

RHEOU. Why, Mieris--do you bring flowers to Isis still?

MIERIS. It is the last time. Listen, Rheou--We mast ask Satni to heal

me. Do not tell me it is not possible; he has healed Ahmarsti.

RHEOU. Healed Ahmarsti?

MIERIS, Yes. He made her drink a liquid wherein no doubt a good genius

was hidden, and the evil spirit that tormented her was driven forth.

RHEOU [_credulously_] Is't possible?

MIERIS. Every one saw it. And Kitoui--

RHEOU. Well?

MIERIS. Kitoui, the cripple, went this morning to draw water from the

Nile, before all her neighbors who marvelled and cried with joy. And she

had merely touched the hem of his garment, even without his knowing it.

He has healed the child of Riti, too, he knows gods more powerful than

ours--younger gods, perhaps, our gods are so old--If it were not so, how

could he have walked unscathed the road where the scarabs lay, that day

when he came home? Since then, men have seen him do a thousand forbidden

things, have seen him defy our gods by disrespect. Without the

protection of a higher power, how could he escape the chastisement

whereof another had died? Who are his gods? Rheou, he must make them

known to you.

RHEOU. He refuses.

MIERIS. For what reason?

RHEOU. The reason he gives is absurd--he says there are no gods--

MIERIS. No gods! no gods!--he is mocking you.

RHEOU. He is bound to secrecy, perhaps.

MIERIS. Rheou, know you that this Ahmarsti--these two years now, on the

day of Prodigies, have I heard her at my side howling prayers at the

goddess that were never answered.

RHEOU. I know. Satni declares he could have healed all whom the goddess

has relieved.

MIERIS [_to herself_] He relieves even those women whom she

abandons--[_After a pause_] He must teach you the words that work these

miracles.

RHEOU. He refuses.

MIERIS. Force him!

RHEOU. He says there are none.

MIERIS. Threaten him with death--he will speak.

RHEOU. No.

MIERIS [_with excitement_] But you do not understand me!--he has healed

Ahmarsti, he has healed Kitoui, wherefore should he not heal me?

RHEOU [_sadly_] Ah! Mieris, Mieris, think you I waited for your prayer,

to ask him that?

MIERIS. Well--Well--?

RHEOU. I could gain nothing but these words from him: "Could I overcome

the evil Mieris suffers from, even now should she rejoice in the

splendor of day."

MIERIS. Nothing is impossible to the gods, even to ours; how much more

then to his!--He did not yield to your prayers!--Insist, order,

threaten! Force him to speak. You have the right to command him. He is

but the son of a potter after all. Let him be whipped till he yield. Do

anything, have him whipped to the point of death--or better, offer him

fields, the hill of date-trees that is ours; offer him our flocks, and

my jewels and precious stones--tell him we know him for a living

god--but I would be healed. I would be healed! I would see! See! [_With

anger_] Ah! you know not the worth of the light, you whose eyes are

filled with it! You cannot picture my misery, you who suffer it not! You

grieve for me, I doubt not, but you think you have done enough, having

given me pity!--No, no, I am wrong--I am unjust. But forgive me; this

thought that I might be healed has made me mad. Rheou!--Think, Rheou,

what it means to be blind, to have been so always, and to know that

beside one are those who see--who see!--The humblest of our shepherds,

the most wretched of the women at our looms, I envy them. And when, at

times, I hear them complain, I curb myself lest I should strike them,

wretches that know not their good fortune. I feel that all you, you who

see, should never cease from songs of joy, and hymns of thanksgiving to

the gods--[_With an outburst_] I speak of sight! Think, Rheou, I have

not even a clear idea of what it means "to see." To recognize without

touch, to know without need to listen. To perceive the sun another way

than by the heat of its rays!--They say the flowers are so beautiful!--I

would see _you_, my well-beloved. Oh! the day when I shall see your

eyes!--I would see, that you may show me some likeness of the little

child we lost. You shall point out, among the rest, those that are most

like to him. This misery--O my beloved!--I do not often speak of it--but

I suffer it! I suffer it! [_She is in his arms_] They have taken from me

the hope that our gods will heal me, if they give me nothing in its

place, know you what I shall do?--I shall go away, alone, one night,

touching the walls, and the trees--and the trees, with my arms

outstretched; I shall go down as far as the Nile and there, gently, I

shall glide away to death.

RHEOU. Peace, O my best beloved!

MIERIS [_listening_] I hear him--he comes. I leave you with him! Lead

him to my door--love me--save me!

_She attempts to go out, he leads her. Satni enters followed

by Nourm, Sokiti, and Bitiou._

NOURM. Yes! Thou who art mighty!--Yes! Yes! Make me rich--I have had

blows of the stick so long! I would be rich to be able to give them in

my turn!--You have but to speak the magic words.

SATNI [_somewhat brutally_] Leave me! I am no magician.

SOKITI. I, I do not ask for money. Listen not to him; he is bad. I, I

only ask that you make Khames die; he has taken from me the girl I would

have wed. [_Satni pushes him away. Sokiti, weeping, clings to his

garments_] Grant it, I implore you--I implore you!--My life is gone with

her--make him die, I pray you.

SATNI. Leave me!

SOKITI. Hear me.

BITIOU [_coming between them and striking Sokiti_] Begone! Begone! He

would not hear you! [_Sokiti goes out_] Listen--listen--you see I made

him go. All--all whom you will, I shall beat them for you. Listen--if

you could make me tall like you, and steady on my legs--See--here--I

have hidden away, safe, three gold rings, that I stole a while since; I

will give them you.

SATNI. Go, take them to the high priest--

BITIOU [_pitiably_] I have given four to him already.

_Sokiti and Nourm are conferring together. Enter Rheou.

They run away, Bitiou follows, falling and picking himself

up._

RHEOU. What do they want of you?

SATNI. They came here, following me. They believe me gifted with

supernatural power, and crave miracles of me, as though I were a God, or

a juggler. I am neither, and I work no miracles.

RHEOU. None the less you have worked two miracles.

SATNI. Not one.

RHEOU. And you will work yet one more.

SATNI. Never. I came hither not to perform miracles, but to prevent

them.

RHEOU. You will heal Mieris.

SATNI. No one can heal her, nor I, nor any other.

RHEOU. Give her a little hope.

SATNI. How can I?

RHEOU. Tell her you will invoke your God, and that some day perhaps--

SATNI. I have no God. If there be a god, he is so great, so far from as,

so utterly beyond our comprehension, that for us it is as though he did

not exist. To believe that one of our actions, to believe that a prayer

could act upon the will of God, is to belittle him, to deny him. He is

himself incapable of a miracle; it would be to belie himself. Could he

improve his work, he would not then have created it perfect from the

first. He could not do it.

RHEOU. Our ancient gods at least permitted hope.

SATNI. Keep them.

RHEOU. In the heart of Mieris, you have destroyed them.

SATNI. Do you regret it?

RHEOU. Not yet.

SATNI. What would you say?

RHEOU. Even if it be true that sight will never be given her, do not

tell her so. Far better promise that she will be healed.

SATNI. And to all the others, must I promise healing too? Because in a

house I relieved a child, whose illness sprang from a cause I could

remove; because a woman, ill in imagination, did cure herself by

touching my garment's hem; must I then descend to play the part of

sorcerer? I had behind me there, but now, a rabble of the wretched

imploring me, believing me all powerful, begging for them and theirs

unrealizable miracles. Should I then cheat them too, all those poor

wretches, promising what I know I cannot give? I came hither to make an

end of lies, not to replace them with others.

RHEOU [_with passion_] Ah! You would not lie. You would not lie to the

wretched. You would not lie to Mieris. You would lie to no one, is it

so?

SATNI. To no one.

RHEOU. We shall see! [_Calling right_] Yaouma!--Let them send Yaouma!

[_To Satni_] Not to her either, then? Good; if you speak the truth to

her, if you deny that you have supernatural power, if you force her to

believe you had no hand in the miracle that saved her yesterday, she

will give herself to the priests, or she will kill herself! What will

you do?

_Yaouma enters, she tries to prostrate herself before Satni,

who prevents her. In the meantime the Steward greatly moved

has come to whisper to Rheou._

RHEOU [_deeply moved_] He is there!

STEWARD. In person.

RHEOU. 'Tis an order of the Pharaoh then?

STEWARD. Yes.

RHEOU. I am troubled.

_He goes out with the Steward._

SATNI [_to Yaouma_] What is it ails you? Why are you so sad?

YAOUMA. You will want nothing more of me, now that you are a god.

SATNI. Be not afraid: I am not a god.

YAOUMA. Almost. 'Tis a daughter of the Pharaoh you will marry now.

SATNI. I will marry you.

YAOUMA. You will swear to.

SATNI. Yes.

YAOUMA. By Ammon?--[_Recollecting_] By your god?

SATNI. My god is not concerned with us.

YAOUMA. Who then is concerned with us?

SATNI. No one.

YAOUMA. You do not want to tell me. You treat me as a child--mocking me.

SATNI. Why do you need an oath? I love you, and you shall be my wife.

YAOUMA [_radiant_] I shall be your wife!--I, little Yaouma, I shall be

wife to a man whom the heavens obey!--[_A pause_] When I think that you

loosed the thunder for my sake--

SATNI. No, vain child, I did not loose the thunder.

YAOUMA. Yes, yes, yes--I understand. You want no one to know that you

have found the book of Thoth--fear not, I know how to hold my peace.

[_Coaxingly she puts her arms round Satni's neck and rubs her cheek

against his_] Tell me, how did you find it?

SATNI. I have not found the book of magic spells; besides, it would have

profited me nothing.

YAOUMA. Sit--you would not sit? They say 'tis shut up in three caskets,

hidden at the bottom of the sea.

SATNI. I tell you again I neither sought, nor found it.

YAOUMA. What do you do then, to strike fire from heaven?

SATNI. I did not strike fire from heaven.

YAOUMA [_crossly_] Oh! I do not love you now!--Yes, yes, yes, I love

you! [_A pause_] So it pleased you then, when you were going away in the

galley, to see me run barefoot on the bank--?

SATNI. Yes.

YAOUMA [_angry_] But speak! speak! [_Checking herself, then more coaxing

still_] You wanted to weep? No? You said you did. For my part I know

not, then, I could see nothing. But the day of your return, when you

learned I was chosen for the sacrifice, then, then I saw your eyes--You

love me--You said to me you would prevent me going to the Nile. I

believed you not--you remember--Why! even yesterday, yes, yesterday

again, in spite of all your words, I was resolved to escape and go to

the temple. It needed this proof of your power!--tell me, it was you who

shook the heavens and the earth for me.

SATNI. No.

YAOUMA. Again!--You must think but little of me, to believe I should

reveal what you bade me keep secret. [_She lays her hands on Satni's

cheeks_] It _was_ you, was it not?

SATNI. No, no, no! a thousand times no!

YAOUMA. It was your gods then, your gods whom I know not.

SATNI. No.

YAOUMA. Who was it then?

SATNI. No one.

YAOUMA [_out of countenance_] No one! [_A pause_] You possess no power

that other men have not?

SATNI. No.

YAOUMA [_the same_] You seem as one speaking truth.

SATNI. I speak the truth.

YAOUMA. 'Tis a pity!

SATNI. Why?

YAOUMA. It would have been more beautiful. [_A long grave pause_] To go

in the barge, on the Nile, that too had been more beautiful.

_Rheou and the Steward enter_

RHEOU [_agitated_] Go in, Yaouma. [_To the Steward_] Conduct her to her

mistress--and make known to her what has passed. [_Yaouma and the

Steward go out_] Satni, terrible news has come to me: the Pharaoh,

finding the people's enmity increase against him, has taken fright, and

striking first, the blow has fallen on me. My goods are confiscated. I

am sent to exile. The palace Chamberlain, but now, brought me the order

to quit my house to-day, and deliver myself to the army leaving for

Ethiopia.

SATNI. Can you do nothing against this order?

RHEOU. Yes. I can kill those who gave it.

SATNI. Kill!

RHEOU. Listen. I bring you the means to win the triumph of your ideas,

and at the same time serve my cause. I can arm all the dwellers on my

lands. We two must lead them. They will follow you, knowing you all

powerful. Nay, hear me--wait. The soldiers, who fear you, will not dare

resist us, we shall kill the high priest, the Pharaoh if need be--we

shall be masters of Egypt.

SATNI. I would not kill.

RHEOU. So be it. Enough that you declare yourself ready to repeat the

miracle of yesterday.

SATNI. I would not lie.

RHEOU. If you would neither kill nor lie, you will never succeed in

governing men.

SATNI. I would fight the priests of Ammon, not imitate them.

RHEOU. You will never triumph without doing so. Profit by events. Do not

deny the power they believe to be yours. Men will not follow you, if you

speak only to their reason. You are above the crowd by your learning;

that gives you rights. You would lead them to the summits; to get there,

one must blindfold those who suffer from dizziness.

SATNI. I refuse.

RHEOU. One would think you were afraid of victory!

SATNI. Rheou, 'tis not the victory of my ideas you seek, 'tis your own

vengeance, your own ambition.

RHEOU. They wish to rush the people of Egypt into an unjust and useless

war. They hesitate; they feel the people lacking zest, that is why they

have delayed the going of the army till the feast of Prodigies.

To-morrow they will make the goddess speak, and all those poor creatures

will be led away. You can save thousands of lives by sacrificing a few.

SATNI. I refuse. The truth will prevail without help from cruelty or

falsehood.

RHEOU. Never. The crowd is not a woman to be won by loud wooing, but one

who must be taken by force, whom you must dominate before you can

persuade.

SATNI. Say no more, Rheou, I refuse.

RHEOU. Blind! Fool! Coward!

_Mieris enters, led by Yaouma. A moment later some

men--Bitiou, Sokiti, Nourm._

MIERIS. Rheou!--where are you? where are you? [_Yaouma leads her toward

him_] It is true, this that I hear?--Exile--Misery?

RHEOU. It is true.

MIERIS. Courage--As for me, a palace or a cottage--I know not the one

from the other.

RHEOU. [_to Satni_] Satni, can you still refuse?

SATNI. You torture me! No, I will not be credited with power that is not

mine; to stir men up against their fellows--I would not kill, I tell

you.

MIERIS. I understand you, Satni--it is wrong to kill!--But look once

more upon me--I am poor now, I am going away, will you not consent to

heal me?

SATNI [_anguished_] Mieris--Could I have healed you, would it not be

done already?

MIERIS. You can do it! I know you can do it! Work a miracle.

YAOUMA. A miracle! Show that your god is more powerful than our gods.

A MAN [_who has just entered_] Heal us!

SATNI. I am not able.

ANOTHER. Work a miracle.

SATNI. There are no miracles!

A MAN. Then your gods are less mighty than ours.

SATNI. Yours do not exist.

THE PEOPLE [_terrified at the blasphemy_] Oh!

A MAN. Why do you lead us away from our gods, if you have no others to

give us?

ANOTHER. You shall not insult our gods!

ANOTHER. We will hand you over to the priests lest the gods smite us for

hearing you!

ANOTHER. Ammon will chastise us!

SATNI. No.

A MAN. Isis will abandon us!

SATNI. It will not make you more wretched.

ANOTHER. Then show us you are stronger than our gods.

MIERIS. A miracle!

RHEOU. He is stronger than our gods! } [_Together_]

YAOUMA. A miracle or I die! }

SATNI. You demand it! You demand a miracle. Well, then, you shall have

one, I will do this, but in the presence of all! Go! go! go throughout

the domains--bring hither those you find bowed on the earth, or hung to

poles for drawing water. Go you others, summon the slaves, the piteous

workers--call hither the drawers of stones, bid them drop the ropes

that flay their shoulders, bid them come.

MIERIS. What would you do?

SATNI. Convince them.

MIERIS. Now of a sudden, brutally?

SATNI. Brutally.

RHEOU. Do you believe them ready?

SATNI. You are afraid.

RHEOU. Day comes not suddenly on night, between them is the dawn.

_Delethi leads Mieris right under the peristyle._

SATNI. I would have day, broad daylight--Now, at once, for all! 'Tis a

crime to _promise_ them reward for their suffering. How do we know that

they will ever be paid?

RHEOU. They are so miserable--

SATNI. The truth--is the truth good only for the rich? Will you add that

injustice to all the others? Behold them! [_Gradually the slaves and

workers of all kinds have entered till they fill the stage. Amongst them

Pakh, Sokiti, Bitiou the Dwarf_] Yes, behold them, the victims, behold

the wretched! I know you all. You, you are shepherd, you are worse

nourished than your flocks, and your beasts, at least, are not given

blows. They do not beat the cows nor the sheep. You, you sow and you

reap; beneath the sun, tortured by flies, you gather abundant crops. You

sleep in a hole. Others eat the corn you made grow, and sleep on

precious stuffs. You, you are forever drawing water from the Nile;

betwixt you and the ox they harness to another machine, there is no

difference, and yet you are a man. You, you are one of those who drag

great stones, to build the monuments of pride. You are a digger in the

tombs, you live a month or more without sight of day. To glorify the

death of others, you give your life. You are a trainer of lions for war;

your father was eaten--they would have wept had the lion died--How can

it be that you accept all this, when you see beside you happiness

without work, and abundance without effort? I will tell you. 'Tis

because, in the name of the god Ammon-Ra, they have said to you: "Have

patience, this injustice will last but a life-time." Fools! nothing but

that! All the time you are on earth, suffer, produce for others. Content

ye with hunger, you who produce food. Content ye with worse usage than

the swine, you who have guard of them. Content ye to sleep in the open,

you who build palaces and temples. Content ye with all miseries, you

carvers of gold, and setters of precious stones. Look without envy,

without anger, on the welfare of those who do nothing, all this will

last only the whole of your lives! After, in another world, you shall

have the fulness of all the crops, and the joy of all the pleasures.

Well, they lied to you: there is no island of souls, there are no happy

fields, there is no life of atonement after this. [_Loud murmurs_] They

have set up these gods for your servile adoration; they have counselled

you: "Bow down, these gods will avenge you." They have said: "Prostrate

yourselves, these gods are just." They have said: "Throw yourselves to

earth, these gods are good." They have declared them all powerful; shut

them in sanctuaries of awful gloom, whence you are shown them once a

year, to keep alive your terror of the Gods; and last, they have made

you believe no man may touch these images and live. I tell you they

lied--I will show you they lied to you. Behold the most mighty

Ammon--the father of the gods--I spit my hate at him! Thou art but an

idol; I curse thee for evil men have done in thy name! I curse thee in

the name of all the enslaved, in the name of all those they have cheated

with hopes of an avenging life; in the name of all who for thousands of

years have groaned and wept; suffered insult, outrage, blows, death,

without thought of revolt, because promises made in thy name had

soothed their rage to sleep! And I curse thee for the sorrow that now

fills me, and for the ills that must come even of thy going! Die! [_He

throws a stool in the face of the statue_] You others do as I. Go, climb

their pedestals! Lay hold of their hands, they are lifeless! Strike,

'tis but an image! Spit in their faces, they are senseless! Strike!

Ruin! All this is nothing but hardened mud!

_The crowd which had punctuated the words of Satni with

cries and murmurs has approached the statues behind him and

followed his example, blaspheming, and howling with fury.

The more courageous begin, being hoisted to the pedestals,

the rest follow suit. The gods are overthrown._

RHEOU. Now, let them open my granaries, that each may help himself; and

take from my flocks to sate you all.

_Cries of joy, they go out slowly. Bitiou in the meantime

approaches an overthrown statue and still half-afraid, kicks

it. He tries to run, falls, picks himself up, then seeing

that decidedly there is no danger, seats himself on the

stomach of the goddess Thoueris and bursts into a peal of

triumphant bestial laughter._

BITIOU. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!

_Then he perceives the little statue of Isis which Mieris

shields with her arms, points it out to a couple of men who

advance to it._

DELETHI. Mistress, they would take Isis!

MIERIS [_in tears_] Let me keep her--

RHEOU. No, Mieris.

MIERIS [_letting go_] Take her--[_Then_] Stay!

RHEOU. Wherefore?

MIERIS. Can you part from her, and feel nothing? Even now, Satni, in

denouncing the gods to the fury of the crowd, you did not say

everything--You, who can see her, behold this little image, think how

many tears were shed before her, in the years since she was made. She

has been ours for generations. Call up the countless crowds of those who

have fixed their anxious looks upon her eyes, dead even as mine are. It

is for all the anguish she has looked upon, we must respect her. Tears

make holy. I doubt not you are right: she must be broken too--but not

without farewell. [_To Yaouma_] Where is she, Yaouma? I would say my

last prayer to her. [_To the statue_] Oh, them who didst not heal, but

didst console me; O thou who hast heard so many entreaties and

thanksgivings, thou art but clay! Yet men have given thee life; thy life

was not in thee, it was in them--and the proof is that thou diest, now

they have taken their soul from thee. I give thee over to those who

would break thee, but I revere thee, I salute thee, and I thank thee for

all the hope thou hast given me; and I thank thee in the name of all the

sorrows that thou hast sent to sleep. [To the men] Take her hence--let

them destroy her with respect.

_They take Isis away._

SATNI. There is nothing so sad or so great as the death of a god! [_A

pause. To Yaouma, who comes through the crowd_] Behold, Yaouma! The gods

are dead and I live--behold them! Do you believe me--do you believe me?

_Sadly Yaouma looks at the broken statues, then bursts into

tears before Satni, who stands amazed._

CURTAIN

ACT III

SCENE:--_The yard in front of the potter's hut. On the right

from the middle of the back of the scene to the footlights,

the walls of the dwelling made of beaten clay. Two unequal

doors. The wall is slightly raised supporting a terrace where

pottery of all kinds is drying in the sun. Left, a wall of

loose stones high enough to lean on. Between the wall and the

house an opening leading to an invisible inclined plane that

descends to the Nile, the water and opposite bank of which

are visible. Behind the house and on the right groups of

lofty palms. The whole is abject misery beneath the splendor

of a heaven blazing with light._

_Kirjipa, crouching down, is grinding corn between a large

and a small stone. Satni is seated on the wall dreaming._

KIRJIPA. Son.

SATNI. Mother.

KIRJIPA. And so you do not believe that when the moon grows little by

little less, 'tis because it is eaten by a pig?

SATNI. No, mother.

KIRJIPA. Then what beast eats it?

SATNI. None.

KIRJIPA [_laughing_] You have ideas that are not reasonable. What makes

me marvel, is that your father seems to understand them. I must haste to

make the bread, that he find it when he returns.

SATNI. Here comes the messenger from Rheou.

KIRJIPA [_horrified_] The messenger of him who kills the gods.

SATNI. We do not kill what has no life.

KIRJIPA. I would not see him. [_She picks up her corn_].

SATNI. Why?

KIRJIPA. Brrr!--[_To herself_] To-morrow I shall burn some sacred herbs

here. [_She goes out_].

_The Steward enters._

STEWARD. Satni, I have been seeking you. Since this morning unhappy

things have come to pass--

SATNI. Yaouma is not in danger, or Mieris, of Rheou?

STEWARD. No. All three are safe in the palace.

SATNI. Well?

STEWARD. You remember the order the master gave me this morning, after

the death of the gods?

SATNI. No.

STEWARD. Yes, to open his granaries to all.

SATNI. Yes, yes, well?

STEWARD. When I went to obey, to my amazement I beheld the men stand by

the door in earnest converse, then without entering they withdrew. This

is what happened. They went to the house of the neighboring master,

roused his servants and laborers, and strove to force them to overthrow

the statues of his gods, and rob him of his corn. They killed his

steward. Soldiers came--Nepk had been killed, others too. Then all were

scattered. The master sent me to bid you reason with those whom you

might find. Look! there are some who have taken refuge here! [_To some

men who are outside_] Enter--come--Satni would speak with you!

_Bitiou, Sokiti, and Nourm appear behind the wall. Bitiou

comes in._

SATNI [_To Bitiou_] Whither go you?

STEWARD. Whither go you? Whence come you?

BITIOU. I followed the others--

STEWARD. Whence come you?

BITIOU. I came back with the others, Sokiti and Nourm.

SATNI. Where are they?

BITIOU. There.

STEWARD. Bid them enter.

SATNI [_going to the door_] Sokiti, Nourm, come.

_Sokiti and Nourm enter awkwardly._

STEWARD. Why do you hide yourselves?

NOURM. We do not hide from you, but from the Lybian soldiers.

SATNI. Why do you fear them?

SOKITI. Because they are chasing us.

STEWARD. And why are they chasing you?

_The three men look at each other._

SATNI. Bitiou, answer.

BITIOU. Bitiou knows not.

STEWARD [_to the others_] You know it, you.

NOURM. They took us for the others.

SATNI. What others?

NOURM. Perhaps they took us for the servants of the neighboring master.

STEWARD. They have done mischief, then, the servants of the neighboring

master? [_Pause_] Answer--you!

NOURM [_to Satni_] They did that at his house, that you made us do at

yours.

STEWARD. The priests heard of it?

NOURM. No, but the master sent for the soldiers.

SATNI. Only for that!

NOURM. I know not.

SATNI. Had there been nothing else, he would not have sent for the

Lybian soldiers. He knew our projects--he is with us. There is something

else, eh!--

_Bitiou yawns loudly._

SOKITI. Yes.

SATNI. What?

SOKITI [_to Nourm_] Tell.

NOURM. They were angered with the master. He was bad, the master.

STEWARD. He is hard, but he gives much to those who have nothing.

SOKITI. He gave here, that he might receive hereafter.

NOURM. After his death.

SATNI. And now he gives no more?

NOURM. Nothing.

SATNI. Ah!

BITIOU. Nothing--and so, all stomachs empty, very much. [_He laughs_].

NOURM. He gives only blows of the stick now.

SOKITI [_with conviction_] One cannot live on that alone.

NOURM. And so his servants asked him for corn?

BITIOU. No good--only blows of the stick.

STEWARD. They _took_ the corn that was refused them?

BITIOU [_laughing_] Hunger! [_A gesture_].

SATNI. You knew they were going to do that?

SOKITI. Yes.

SATNI. It was for that you went to join them?

NOURM. Yes.

STEWARD. Why?

NOURM. It came into our heads like this: better not take corn from the

good master, but take it from the bad one.

SOKITI. Justice!

BITIOU [_to the Steward_] You content. You still got all your corn.

_He laughs, his comrades laugh with him._

NOURM. You, we like you.

BITIOU. You--good! We--good!

SOKITI. See!

BITIOU [_collecting two ideas_] Wait: neighboring master bad. They bad.

[_To the others_] Heh?--Heh?--you see--Heh? Heh? [_All three draw

themselves up proudly and laugh_] And the steward he bad, he dead--well

done!

SATNI. What would he say?

SOKITI [_laughing_] They took the steward and then--[_Chokes with

laughter_].

NOURM. They gave him back all the blows of the stick they had had from

him.

SATNI. You saw that?

NOURM. Yes.

SOKITI [_proudly_] Me too, me too--

BITIOU. I laugh very much--because--because--Steward, very big, strong,

and then when very much beaten, fell down--fell on the ground--like me!

like me! He, big, he fell down just the same--he like Bitiou--I very

glad. [_During what follows he plays with his foot_].

STEWARD. What they have done is bad.

NOURM. No. The steward had been happy all his life. He was old.

SOKITI. He was old. So 'tis not bad to have killed him--He had

finished--He was fat--and he had lost his appetite--

NOURM. Only just, he should leave his place to another.

SATNI. We must not kill.

SOKITI. What does that mean?

NOURM. Yes, kill a good one, that is bad. But kill a bad one, that is

good.

SATNI. And if you are mistaken?

SOKITI. No, he is bad, I kill him.

SATNI. What if he be not bad, and you think him so?

SOKITI. If he were not bad, I should not think it.

STEWARD. You do not understand--Listen, I am not bad, am I?

SOKITI. But we do not want to kill you.

STEWARD. Let me speak. You remember Kob the black. He thought me bad.

NOURM. Yes.

STEWARD. And if he had killed me?

SOKITI. We are not blacks--

STEWARD. You do not understand me. Consider. He thought me bad. I am not

bad. What you were saying, would justify him if he had killed me.

_They consider._

SOKITI. I understand. You say: If the slave had killed me--no, it is not

that.

SATNI. Human life must be respected.

_Gravely they make sign of acquiescence, to escape further

torment. Nourm picks up a package he had brought and turns

to go out unobserved._

STEWARD. What are you carrying there?

NOURM. Nothing, 'tis mine--

BITIOU. That is a necklace--show. [_Begins to open the package_].

NOURM. Yes, a necklace.

SATNI. From whom did you take it?

NOURM. From the neighboring master.

SATNI. Do you think you did well?

NOURM [_hesitating_] Why--yes.

SATNI. You are wrong.

NOURM. Be not afraid, no one saw me.

SATNI. It is wrong.

NOURM. No. What can wrong me, is wrong. Since no one saw me, they will

not punish me. So it is not wrong.

SATNI. Wrong not to you, but to the neighboring master.

NOURM. He has many others.

SOKITI. Has had them for years, he has! Nourm never had one. Not just.

I, I never had, this--[_He holds up a bracelet_].

SATNI. You have taken this bracelet!

SOKITI [_delighted_] It is mine.

SATNI. We are content.

_They laugh._

NOURM. And Bitiou--

SATNI AND SOKITI. Yes, Bitiou--

NOURM. He took the best thing.

STEWARD. What?

BITIOU. A woman.

STEWARD. By force?

BITIOU. No woman would come willingly with Bitiou.

SOKITI. But she escaped from him.

BITIOU. Yes. [_He weeps_].

SATNI. You must give back the necklace and this bracelet to the

neighboring master.

NOURM. Give back, but he has others!

SATNI. You cannot make yourself the judge of that. If you were selling

perfumes, for instance, would you think it natural that a man should

come and take them from you, because you had plenty and he had none?

NOURM. You tell me hard things.

SATNI. You must give back this bracelet, Sokiti.

SOKITI. Yes, master.

SATNI. And you the necklace.

NOURM. Yes, master.

_A sorrowful pause._

SATNI. See, you are sad. You perceive that you did wrong.

SOKITI. Yes, we did wrong--

SATNI. Ah!

SOKITI. We did wrong to tell you what we did, because you are not

pleased.

SATNI. 'Tis for your sake I am grieved.

NOURM. Then you have not told the truth; there is a hell, and there is

an island of souls.

SATNI. No.

NOURM. If the gods do not punish, and men, not having seen, do not

punish either--[_Pause_] Well--I shall give it back.

SOKITI. I, I shall not give back. Not stolen. Another, a servant of the

neighboring master stole the bracelet, not I!

STEWARD. Yet 'tis you who have it.

SOKITI. I took it from the other.

STEWARD. He let you do it?

SOKITI. Yes. Could not help it, he was wounded.

SATNI. You should have succored him.

SOKITI. I did not know him.

SATNI. He was a man like you.

SOKITI. There are plenty of them.

SATNI. We must do good to others.

SOKITI. What good will that do to me?

SATNI. You will be content with yourself.

SOKITI. I would rather have the bracelet--

SATNI. It is only by refraining from doing one another harm that mankind

may hope to gain happiness; nay more, only by lending one another aid.

Do you understand?

SOKITI [_gloomily_] Yes.

SATNI. And you, and you--

NOURM AND BITIOU [_in different tones_] Yes, yes.

STEWARD [_to Sokiti_] Repeat it then.

SOKITI. If men did not steal bracelets--

STEWARD. Well?

SOKITI. Bracelets--[_He laughs_].

SATNI [_to Nourm_] And you?

NOURM. He was wrong to take the bracelet.

SATNI. Why?

NOURM. Because you are not pleased.

SATNI. No, no, 'tis not for that.

SOKITI. I was not wrong--

NOURM. Yes! wait! I understand--If you steal, another may steal from

you. Likewise if you kill--

SATNI. Right. And why is it necessary to be good?

NOURM. Wait [_To Sokiti_] If you do good to one whom you know not,

another who knows you not, may do good to you.

STEWARD. Ah!--Do you understand, Sokiti?

SOKITI. I think so.

SATNI. Explain.

SOKITI [_after a great effort_] You do not want us to steal bracelets

from you--

SATNI. I do not want you to steal from any one--Do you understand?

SOKITI. No.

STEWARD [_to Bitiou, who listens open-mouthed_] And you?

BITIOU. I--I have a pain in my head--

_Satni comes to the Steward. Bitiou and Sokiti slip off._

STEWARD. Look at them--

SATNI. The tree that was bent from its birth, not in one day can you

make it straight?

STEWARD. We must leave it what it is, or tear it down?

SATNI. No, we must seek patiently to straighten it. [_With feeling_] And

above all we must keep straight those that are young.

_Cries are heard outside._

STEWARD. What cries are those?

SATNI. Women in distress.

_Yaouma enters, leading Mieris. Both are agitated._

YAOUMA. Come, mistress--come--We are at the house of the potter, the

father of Satni--Satni help--quick! quick! Run! your father, Satni!

SATNI. Mieris, Yaouma, how come you here?

YAOUMA. They will tell you--go!

MIERIS. Fly to the rescue, he is wounded!--I have sent to the palace for

those who drive out the evil spirits.

YAOUMA. We were set upon by some men.

MIERIS. He defended us--But they will kill him--go!

_Satni and the Steward seize some arms left by Nourm and run

out._

MIERIS. Yaouma! He is wounded! Wounded in saving us--

YAOUMA. Alas!

MIERIS [_listening_] Who is there?

NOURM. I, mistress.

MIERIS. Nourm! Run to the palace, bid them send hither those who drive

forth the evil spirits--

YAOUMA. Alas! mistress, I do fear--already he has fallen--struck to

earth.

MIERIS. They will save him, they will bear him hither--

YAOUMA. Will they bear him hither alive?

MIERIS [_to Nourm_] Run!--You hear!--Run to the palace, bid those who

assist at the last hour be ready to come. If he have died defending us,

the same honors shall be paid him as though ourselves were dead! Go!

[_Nourm goes out. A pause_] Now, Yaouma, lead me out upon the road to

the Nile.

YAOUMA. Mistress, you seek to die? Many then must be your sorrows!

MIERIS. Alas! Alas! Why did you discover my flight? Why did you seek me,

find me, and bring me back--

YAOUMA. Had I not guessed your purpose?

MIERIS. What have I left to live for?

YAOUMA. You have lived all these years in spite of your affliction, what

is there that is changed?

MIERIS. What is there that is changed! You ask me what is changed! Until

now I lived in the hope of a miracle.

YAOUMA. Perhaps it would never have come.

MIERIS. Even at my last hour I should have still looked for it.

YAOUMA. Then you would have died believing in a lie--if what they say be

true.

MIERIS. What matter, I had smiled as I died, thinking death but the

journey to a land where my lost child was waiting for me. The death of a

child! No mother ever can believe, at heart, in that. It is too

unjust--too cruel to be possible. One says to oneself: it is but a

separation! Oh! Satni, thy doctrines may be the truth. But they declare

this separation eternal; they make the death of our loved ones final,

irreparable, horrible, therefore I foretell thee this: Women will never

believe them! What is there that is changed?--Yesterday, children came

playing close to us. You know how their cries and laughter made me

glad--the voice of one of them was like the voice of mine. I made him

come, I put out my hand, in the old way. I felt, at the old height,

tossed hair, and the warmth of a living body. And I did not weep, but my

voice spoke in my heart and said: "Little child, thy years are as many

as his, whom she-who-loves-the-silence took from me. But in Amenti,

where he is, in the island of souls, he is happier than thou, for he is

safe from all the ills that threaten thee. He is happier than thou. He

lives beneath a sun of gold, amid flowers of strange beauty, and

perfumed baths refresh him. And when she-who-loves-the-silence takes me

in my turn, _I shall see him, I shall see him_ for the first time--and

I shall fondle him as I fondle thee, and none, then, may put us asunder.

Go, little child, the happy ones are not on this side of the earth!" Now

have I lost the hope of a better life before death, and the hope of a

better life beyond as well. If you took both crutches from a cripple, he

would fall. Only this twofold hope sustained me. They have taken it from

me. And so, it is the end, it is the end--'tis as though I were fallen

from a height, I am broken, I have no strength left to bear with life: I

tell you, it is the end, it is the end!

YAOUMA [_with intense fervor_] Mistress, they speak not the truth!

MIERIS. Our gods, did they exist, would already have taken vengeance.

YAOUMA. Before the outrage, already, they had taken vengeance on you.

MIERIS. Good Yaouma, you would give me back my faith, you who could not

keep your own.

YAOUMA. Mistress, I lied to you; nothing is destroyed in me.

MIERIS. You refuse to give yourself in sacrifice!--Oh, you are right....

YAOUMA. I do not refuse.

MIERIS. You do not?

YAOUMA. No. Know you how I learned, a while ago, that you were gone?

MIERIS. How?

YAOUMA. I, too, was seeking to escape.

MIERIS. You?

YAOUMA. To go to the temple, to place myself in hands of the priests, to

give to Ammon the victim he has chosen.

MIERIS. Do you believe in all these fables still?

YAOUMA [_in a low voice_] Mistress, I have _seen_ Isis.

MIERIS. Has one of her images been spared then?

YAOUMA. It was not an image that I saw. It was Isis herself, the

goddess--I have _seen_ her.

MIERIS. You--you have seen--what is it? I know not what you say--to

see--that word has no clear sense for me.

YAOUMA. She has spoken to me--

MIERIS. You have heard her voice--

YAOUMA. I have heard her voice.

MIERIS. How! How!--You were sleeping--'twas in a dream--

YAOUMA. I did not sleep. I did not dream. I saw her. I heard her. I was

alone, and I wept. A great sound filled me with terror. A great light

blinded me. Perfumes unknown ravished my senses. And I beheld the

goddess, more beauteous than a queen. Then all was gone--

MIERIS. But her voice--

YAOUMA. The next day she came again, she spoke to me, she called me by

name and said to me: "Egypt will be saved by thee."

MIERIS. Why did you not speak of it?

YAOUMA. I feared they would not believe me.

MIERIS. Oh, Yaouma, how I envy you! If you but knew the ill they have

done me. They have half killed me, killing all the legends and all the

memories that were mine. They made me blush at my simplicity. I felt

shamed to have been so easily fooled by such gross make-believes. And

now, what have I gained by this revelation? My soul is a house after the

burning, black, ruined, empty. Nothing is left but ruins, ruins one

might laugh at. [_In tears_] I am parched with thirst, I hunger, I

tremble with cold. They have made my soul blind, too. I cry out for

help, for consolation. Oh! for a lie, some other lie, to replace the one

they have taken away from me!

YAOUMA. Why ask a lie? Why not forget what they have said. Why not

recall what you learned at your mother's knee--Why not, yourself, set up

in your heart again, those images which they threw down--

MIERIS. Yes! Yes! I will do it. They have awakened my reason, and killed

my faith. I shall kill my reason, to revive our gods. Though I no longer

believe, I shall do the actions of believers--and, if my god be false, I

shall believe so firmly in him that I shall make him true!--Yes, the

lowest, the most senseless superstitions, I venerate them, I exalt--I

glory in them! The ugliest, the most deformed, the most unreal of our

gods, I adore them, and I bow down before their impossibility. [_She

kneels_] Oh, I stifle in their petty narrow world, sad as a forest

without birds! Air! Air! Singing! The sound of wings! Things that fly!

YAOUMA [_kneeling_] Let me be sacrificed!

MIERIS. Let me have a reason for living!

YAOUMA. I would give my life to the gods who gave me birth!

MIERIS. I would believe that there is some one above men!

YAOUMA. Some one who watches over us!

MIERIS. Who will console as with his justice!

YAOUMA. Some one to cry our sorrows to!

MIERIS. Yes, some one to pray to, and to thank!

YAOUMA [_sobbing_] Oh! the pity of it, to feel we were abandoned!

MIERIS [_throwing herself in Yaouma's arms_] I would not be abandoned!

YAOUMA. We are not! Gods! Gods!

MIERIS. Gods! We need gods! There are too many sorrows, it is not

possible this earth should groan as it groans beneath a pitiless

heaven--Ammon, reveal thyself.

YAOUMA. Isis, show thyself! Have pity! [_A pause. Then in a

hushed voice_] Mistress, I think she is going to appear to me

again!--Isis!--mistress--do you hear--

MIERIS [_listening_] I hear nothing.

YAOUMA. Singing--the sound of harps--'tis she--

MIERIS. I do not hear--

YAOUMA. She speaks! Yes--goddess!

MIERIS. Do you see her?

YAOUMA [_in ecstasy_] I see her! She is bending down above us--

MIERIS. O goddess!--

YAOUMA. She is gone--Mistress, you could not see her, but did you hear

the sound of her feet?

MIERIS. Yes, I believe I heard it--I believe and I am comforted.

YAOUMA. I am happy! To the temple! She beckoned me! To the temple! Come!

_They go up. Rheou meets them and leads them away. Satni

enters with some men bearing Pakh, who is wounded. Kirjipa

almost swooning follows, supported by some women who lead

her into the house. The Exorcist, who with his two

assistants follows Pakh, takes some clay from a coffer

carried by one of his men, shapes it into a ball, and

begins, then, the incantation._

EXORCIST. Pakh! Son of Ritii! Through thy wound an evil spirit has

entered thee. I am about to speak the words that shall drive him out:

"The virtues of him who lies there, and who suffers, are the virtues of

the father of the gods. The virtues of his brow are the virtues of the

brow of Thoumen. The virtues of his eye are the virtues of the eye of

Horus, who destroys all creatures."

_A pause._

PAKH. Begone!

EXORCIST. His upper lip is Isis. His lower lip is Neptes, his neck is

the goddess, his teeth are swords, his flesh is Osiris, his hands are

divine souls, his fingers are blue serpents, snakes, sons of the

goddess Sekhet--

PAKH. Begone! I no longer believe in your power!

EXORCIST [_taking a doll from the coffer_] Horus is there! Ra is there!

Let them cry to the chiefs of Heliopolis--

PAKH. Have done!

_He knocks down the doll which the Exorcist holds over him.

The music stops suddenly._

EXORCIST. The evil spirits are strongest in him. He will die. Only his

son has the right to be with him at death.

_All go out save Pakh and Satni._

SATNI. My father--

PAKH. You are there, my son--'tis well--I am glad--that that maker of

spells is gone. [_Simply_] Heal me.

SATNI. Yes, father, you shall be healed. But you must have patience.

PAKH [_simply_] Heal me, now, at once.

SATNI. I cannot.

PAKH. Why do you not want to heal me?--See you not that I am wounded--I

suffer--come, give me ease--

SATNI. I would give all, that it were in my power to do so.

PAKH. You know prayers that our priests know not--

SATNI. I know no prayers.

PAKH [_in anguish_] You are not going to let me die?

SATNI. You will not die--have confidence.

PAKH. Confidence? In what? [_A pause_] You cannot heal me?

SATNI. I cannot.

PAKH. All your knowledge, then, is but knowledge of how to destroy--My

son!--I pray you--my blood goes out with my life--I do not want to die!

I pray you--give me your hand. I seem to be sinking into night--hold me

back--you will not let me die--your father! I am your father. I gave you

life--hold me back--all grows dim around me--But at least do

something--speak--say the incantations--[_He raises himself_] No! No! I

refuse to die! I am not old. [_Strongly_] I will not! I will not! Do not

let go my hand! I would live, live--All my life, I have worked, I have

sorrowed, I have suffered--Satni--will you let me go before I share the

peace and happiness you promised--

SATNI. Oh! My father!

PAKH. You weep--I am lost, then--Yes--I have seen it in your eyes. And

the silence deepens around me. To die--to die--[_A long pause_] And

after? [_Pause_] And so this is a poor man's life! Work from childhood,

blows. Then work, always, without profit. Only for bread. And still

work. For others. Not one pleasure. We die. And 'tis finished! You came

back to teach me that--Work--blows--misery--the end. [_A silence_] What

did you come here to do? Is that your work? [_Strongly_] Satni, Satni!

Give me back my faith! I want it! Ah! Why were you born a destroyer? Is

that your truth? You are evil--you were able to prove that all was

false. Prove to me now that you lied! I demand it! Give me back my

faith, give me back the simple mind that will comfort me.

SATNI. Do not despair--

PAKH. I despair because the happy fields do not exist--

SATNI. Yes, father, yes, they exist--

PAKH. You lied, then!

SATNI. I lied.

PAKH. They exist--and if I die--

SATNI. If you die, you will go to Osiris, you will become Osiris.

PAKH. It is not true. 'Tis now you lie--There is no Osiris! There is no

Osiris! Nothing! there is nothing--but life. I curse you, you who taught

me that [_He almost falls from his litter, Satni reverently lifts him

up_] Ah! accursed! Accursed! I die in hate, in rage, in fear. Bad son!

Bad man! I curse you, come near. [_Seizing him by the throat_] Oh! If I

were strong enough!--I would my nails might pierce your throat--Ah! Ah!

accursed [_He lets him go_] All my life lost! All my suffering

useless!--Forever--Never! Never! shall I know--Pity! [_He holds out his

arms to Satni and falls dead_].

SATNI [_horror-stricken_] He is dead!--[_He lifts him reverently and

lays him on the litter_] Father! For me, too, at this moment there would

have been comfort in a lie--

_He weeps, kneeling by the body with his arms stretched over

it. Kirjipa appears at the door of the house. She comes

near, then standing upright cries out to the four points of

the horizon, tearing her hair._

KIRJIPA. The master is dead! The master is dead! The master is dead! The

master is dead!

_The five mourners appear outside, Delethi, Nazit, Hanou,

Zaya, and Nagaou._

KIRJIPA [_with cries that are calls_] The master is dead! The master is

dead!

MOURNERS [_entering_] The master is dead! The master is dead!

_Music till the end of the scene._

KIRJIPA. O my father!

MOURNERS [_louder and in a chant_] O my master! O my father!

KIRJIPA. O my beloved!

MOURNERS. The she-wolf, death; the she-wolf, death; the she-wolf, death,

has taken him!

_They rush at the body, kissing it with piercing cries. They

beat their breasts, uttering long cries, after silent

pauses. Kirjipa and another woman dance a hieratic dance,

their feet gliding slowly over the ground. They bend to

gather handfuls of earth, which they scatter on their heads

as they dance. The cries are redoubled._

KIRJIPA [_after bowing before the corpse_] Go in peace towards Abydos!

Go in peace towards Osiris!

ALL. Towards Abydos! Towards Osiris! To the West, thou who wast the best

of men!

KIRJIPA. If it please the gods, when the day of eternity comes, we shall

see thee, for behold thou goest towards the earth that mixeth men.

ALL. Towards Abydos! Towards Osiris!

_They make believe to bear away the corpse; ritual

movements._

KIRJIPA. O my husband! O my brother! O my beloved! Stay, live in thy

place. Pass not away from the earthly spot where thou art! Leave him!

Leave him! Wherefore are ye come to take him who abandons me.

MOURNERS [_in a fury of despair_] Groans! Groans! Tears! Sobs! Sobs!

Make, make lamentation without end, with all the strength that is given

you.

_The music stops._

KIRJIPA [_to the corpse_] Despair not. Thy son is there!

_They point to Satni._

ALL. Despair not. Thy son is there!

DELETHI. When I have spoken, and after me Hanou, and after her Nazit,

thy son will speak the magic words, whose power shall make thee go even

unto Osiris, before the two and forty judges. They shall place thy heart

in the balance, and thou shalt say: "I have done wrong to no man, I have

done nothing that is abominable in the sight of the gods."

SATNI [_to himself_] No, I will not speak the magic words.

_The music begins again._

ALL. Despair not! Thy son is there!

HANOU. Despair not, thy son is there. When I have spoken and after me

Nazit, thy son will say the magic prayers whose power shall bring thee

even unto Osiris, and thou shalt say: "I have starved none, I have made

none weep, I have not killed, I have not robbed the goods of the

temples."

SATNI [_to himself_] No, I will say no useless words.

ALL. Despair not! Thy son is there!

NAZIT. Despair not! Thy son is there! When I have spoken he will say the

sacred words whose power shall bring thee even unto Osiris and thou

shalt say: "I did not filch the fillets from the mummies, I did not use

false weights, I did not snare the sacred birds. I am pure--"

ALL. I am pure! I am pure!--

KIRJIPA [_continuing_] Give to me what is my due, to me who am pure.

Give me all that heaven gives, all that the earth brings forth, all that

the Nile bears down from its mysterious springs. Despair not! Thy son is

there! Thy son will say the sacred words!

_A pause. All look at Satni._

SATNI. No, I will not say words that are lies!

_General consternation. Kirjipa comes to him and lays her

hands on his shoulders._

KIRJIPA. Speak the sacred words!

SATNI. No!

KIRJIPA. Accursed!

_She falls in a swoon. The women press round her. Satni

bursts into sobs._

CURTAIN

ACT IV

SCENE:--_The interior of a temple._

_Columns, huge as towers and covered with hieroglyphics. On

the left the Sanctuary; in the foreground in a little nook,

invisible to the faithful, but visible to the audience is

installed the machinery for the miracle, a lever, and ropes.

Against the central pillar two thrones, one magnificent, that

of the Pharaoh; the other simple, that of the High Priest._

_The Pharaoh, the High Priest, an officer, an old man, and

six priests discovered. When the curtain rises all are

seated, the priests on little chairs between the two

thrones._

THE OFFICER [_prostrated before the Pharaoh_] Pharaoh! may Ammon-Ra

preserve thy life in health and strength!

THE PHARAOH. [_with fury_] My orders! My orders!

THE OFFICER. Lord of the two Egypts, friend of Ra, favorite of Mentu,

may Ammon--

THE PHARAOH. Enough! my orders!

THE OFFICER. I would have died--

THE PHARAOH. The wish shall be granted, be assured, and soon! My orders!

Dog, why did you not carry out my orders?

THE OFFICER. Satni--

THE PHARAOH. Satni! Yes, Satni, the impostor! Where is he?

THE OFFICER. Pharaoh--may Ammon, Soukou Ra, Horus--

THE PHARAOH. I will have you whipped till your blood run--Satni! Where

is Satni! I sent you to seize him! Where is he?

THE OFFICER. No one knows.

THE PHARAOH. Scoundrel! You are his accomplice!

THE OFFICER. O Ammon!

THE PHARAOH. Did you go to the house of his father, to Rheou?

THE OFFICER. We searched them in vain.

THE PHARAOH. He has taken flight, then?

THE OFFICER. I know not.

THE PHARAOH. You are a traitor! You shall die! Take him out! And you

others, hear the commands of the High Priest and begone.

HIGH PRIEST. Let each fulfil the mission he is charged with. Let the

young priests mix with the crowd, the moment it enters the Temple. Let

them excite the people's fervor, that as many prodigies as possible may

be won from the goddess. Now when you are gone the stones that screen

the sanctuary will roll away before the Pharaoh and the High Priest;

and, first by right, they shall behold the goddess face to face. Humbly

prostrated we shall speak to her the mysterious words that other men

have never heard. Bow down before the Pharaoh, may he live in health and

strength [_All kneel and remain with their faces on the ground during

what follows, save an old man whom the High Priest calls to his side by

a sign; and to whom he says in low tones_] Let the man Satni be taken

from the crypt where he is imprisoned [_The old man bows_] When I give

the signal let them bring him here. While the Pharaoh goes in procession

through the town let them do what I have told you [_The old man bows_]

[_To the others_] Rise! [_To the Pharaoh_] Son of Ammon-Ra, bow down

before him who represents the god. [_The Pharaoh rises and after a

slight hesitation bows down before the High Priest_] Withdraw, we would

pray. [_Motionless the High Priest and the Pharaoh wait till the last of

the assistants are gone_].

THE PHARAOH [_giving up his hieratic pose, angrily_] I would all the

flies of Egypt might eat thy tongue.

HIGH PRIEST [_without feeling_] The flies of Egypt are too many and my

tongue is too small, for your wish to be realized, Pharaoh.

THE PHARAOH. This is the result of my weakness!

HIGH PRIEST [_with flattering unction_] The Pharaoh, Son of

Ammon-Ra--Lord of the two Egypts--Friend of Ra--

THE PHARAOH. Enough! Enough! We are alone. There are none whom your

words may deceive. And your mock-reverence fools not me. You would not

let me put Satni to death, your subtleties confused my mind, I gave in

to you, and now Satni escapes us.

HIGH PRIEST. You should not let anger master you for that.

THE PHARAOH. Satni has foretold to thousands of ears that there will be

no miracle.

HIGH PRIEST. The miracle will be.

THE PHARAOH. Who knows that?

HIGH PRIEST. I.

THE PHARAOH. Satni has declared he will enter the temple--

HIGH PRIEST. 'Tis possible.

THE PHARAOH. He has declared he knows the secret recess, whence one of

your priests makes the head of the image move.

HIGH PRIEST. Most like he speaks the truth.

THE PHARAOH. He declares the miracle will not take place. If the people

suffer this disappointment, tell me what chance can there be for the war

of conquest I would wage in Ethiopia?

HIGH PRIEST. Why wage a war of conquest in Ethiopia?

THE PHARAOH. I need gold. I need women. I need slaves. There will be a

share of the spoil for your temple.

HIGH PRIEST. I like not bloodshed.

THE PHARAOH. The treasury is empty. Our whippings are useless now. Our

blows no longer bring forth taxes. If the people lose confidence in the

gods, what will happen to-morrow? Who will follow me, unless they

believe the gods confirm my orders?

HIGH PRIEST. Satni will not prevent the miracle.

THE PHARAOH. What do you know of it?

HIGH PRIEST. I know.

THE PHARAOH. Is Satni dead?

HIGH PRIEST. He lives.

THE PHARAOH [_suddenly guessing_] You are hiding him!

HIGH PRIEST. Yes.

THE PHARAOH. You knew I was about to rid me of him, and you took him to

prevent me?

HIGH PRIEST. Yes.

THE PHARAOH. What do you intend?

HIGH PRIEST. It shall be done with him as I wish, not as you wish.

THE PHARAOH. His crime is a crime against Egypt.

HIGH PRIEST. A crime against me. That is still more grave. Therefore be

satisfied.

THE PHARAOH. Why then all these ceremonies before you kill him?

HIGH PRIEST. That all may know his faults.

THE PHARAOH. Satni was one of yours, and you defend him.

HIGH PRIEST. We must not make martyrs--if we can avoid it. In killing

Satni you would have killed only a man. If what I dream succeed, I

shall kill his work. That is a better thing.

THE PHARAOH. What will you make of him?

HIGH PRIEST. A priest.

THE PHARAOH. A priest?

HIGH PRIEST. He was initiated before he went away. He was then a young

man, pious and wise. On his travels he lost some piety, and gained some

wisdom.

THE PHARAOH. Have I not always said: "it is not good to travel."

HIGH PRIEST. I think like you. Travellers learn too much. Yet am I

hopeful. I shall bring him back to our gods.

THE PHARAOH. You will fail.

HIGH PRIEST. He who for long has breathed the air of temples can never

wholly clear his breast of it. If he give way, he shall never leave the

house of the Gods again, if he be still rebellious, he shall leave to go

to his death.

THE PHARAOH. I order you to give Satni up to me.

HIGH PRIEST. I would I might bow to your will. But he is a priest: his

life is sacred. And I may not transgress the orders given me by the

Gods.

THE PHARAOH. Prate not of these follies to me--do you take me for one of

your priests? Obey! I command you!

HIGH PRIEST. Do you take me for one of your soldiers?

THE PHARAOH. I command it.

HIGH PRIEST. The gods forbid.

THE PHARAOH. I laugh at your gods.

HIGH PRIEST. Beware lest your people hear.

THE PHARAOH. I would be master, in truth. And more, I refuse to submit

to the humiliation that again you put on me a while ago.

HIGH PRIEST. How should that humiliate you? Before you, the highest bow

down.

THE PHARAOH. Yes. And straightway, then, I must bow me down before you.

HIGH PRIEST. You salute, not me, but the god whom I represent.

THE PHARAOH. I pay homage to the god, it is the priest who receives it.

HIGH PRIEST [_faintly smiling_] Rest assured! I pass it on to him.

THE PHARAOH. And you mock me, besides! Oh! if I but dared to kill you,

hypocrite!

HIGH PRIEST. Vain man!

THE PHARAOH. You tremble at sight of a sword, coward!

HIGH PRIEST. Being a butcher, you know only how to kill.

THE PHARAOH. Liar!

HIGH PRIEST. Who made you Pharaoh?

THE PHARAOH. Beware lest one day I have you thrown to my lions!

HIGH PRIEST. Beware lest one day I strike the crown of the two Egypts

from your head, telling the people the god has set his face against you!

[_A pause_] Come, we must work together. We complete each other. To

govern men, we have both the reality of the evils you inflict on them,

and the hope of the good I promise them. Believe me, we must work

together. The day that one of us disappears, the fate of the other will

be in jeopardy--I perceive they make sign to me. They think our prayers

are long and fervent. The hour is come for you to receive the

acclamation of your people, and follow them to the shrine of Isis--when

Satni will not prevent the miracle, I pledge my word to that.

_The cortege comes on and goes out with Pharaoh. Satni is

led before the High Priest._

HIGH PRIEST. You know me again!

SATNI [_troubled_] Yes, you are the High Priest.

HIGH PRIEST [_with sweet gentleness_] I, too, I know you again. Your

father is a potter. You were brought up and taught by us. In the crowd

of neophytes I singled you out by your gentleness, your great

intelligence; and I saw you destined for the highest dignities. I

esteemed you, I was fond of you. We took you from wretchedness. What you

know, for the most part, you owe to us. This thing that you have done

should anger me--I am only sad, my son. [_A pause_] You are troubled.

SATNI. Yes, I looked for threats, for torture. The kindness of your

voice unmans me.

HIGH PRIEST. Be not distressed. Forget who I am. None hear us. Let us

talk together as father and son. Or better, since your learning makes

you worthy, as two men. You have proclaimed broadcast that the miracle

will not come to pass.

SATNI. The goddess is stone. Stone does not move itself. The image will

not bow its head unless man intervene.

HIGH PRIEST. That is evident.

SATNI. You admit it?

HIGH PRIEST. To you, yes. We give to each one the faith he deserves. Had

you remained with us, at each step in the priesthood you would have

beheld the gods rise with you, become more immaterial, more noble, as

you became more learned. We give to the people the gods they can

understand. Our god is different. He is the one who exists in essence.

The one who lives in substance, the sole procreator who was not

engendered, the father of the fathers, the mother of mothers. The one

and only. And we crave his pardon for belittling him by miracles. But

they are part of that faith which alone contents the simple-minded. You

are above them--I admit freely that the miracle could be prevented. You

declared it would not take place--you have found the means to make it

impossible?

SATNI [_suspecting the trap_] I said that, left to herself, the goddess

would not move.

HIGH PRIEST. To say only that, would not have served you. You intended

to prevent the miracle. Come, admit it--it is so.

SATNI. Perhaps.

HIGH PRIEST. By seizing you, I prevent your committing the sacrilege.

Your purpose will not be realized. In an hour the festival of the

Prodigy will take place, and you are my prisoner. It follows then, the

miracle will be performed--you believe that, do you not?

SATNI [_after a pause_] Yes, I believe it.

HIGH PRIEST. And so your cause is lost. [_A pause_] Listen to me; the

priests who have taken their final vows are as wise and as little

credulous as you. I offer you a place among them. Return to us. A little

wisdom banishes the gods--great wisdom brings them back.

SATNI. I refuse.

HIGH PRIEST. My son, my son, you will not cause me this sorrow. Think

what you will drive me to, if you refuse--Satni, do not force me to send

you before the tribunal, whose sentence must be death. Death, for you,

so young, whose future is so bright!

SATNI. I do not fear death.

HIGH PRIEST. Besides--I mind me--you were betrothed to that little

Yaouma whom the god has chosen as victim. You know she may be saved from

the sacrifice, if she become the wife of a priest. They guarded her but

ill at Rheou's house, she is here. I have seen her; she is kind and

gentle, and you would lead a happy life with her.

SATNI. Yaouma! Yaouma! [_He hides his face_]

HIGH PRIEST [_laying a hand on his shoulder_] So that on one side is

Yaouma's death and yours; on the other, happiness with her--and power.

Say nothing. I speak as a father might, you can see. I say besides, that

you will better serve the crowd in leaving them their gods. I wish to

convince you of it, and you will stay with us--weep no more. You will

stay, will you not? Wait! Hear me, before you answer. You seek happiness

for the lower orders? There is no happiness for them without religion.

Already you have seen what they become, when it is taken from them. The

riots of yesterday cost your father his life. He suffered much, they

tell me. Is it true? I do not know the details. You saw him die, did you

not? Tell me how it happened.

SATNI. Ah! I was right. It was in truth torture that awaited me here.

You have guessed you would gain nothing racking my body--you keep your

torments for my heart.

HIGH PRIEST. Have I said other than what is true? The conversions that

your preaching made were followed by disorders--was it not then that

your father was wounded? I knew him. He was a man, simple and good. You

are the cause of his death, as you will be the cause of Yaouma's.

SATNI. Peace! You would have my sorrows crush my will!

HIGH PRIEST. I shall speak of them no more. But think of the people of

Egypt, what evils you would bring on them! If you take away their

religion, what will keep them virtuous?

SATNI. What you call their virtue, is only their submission.

HIGH PRIEST. You let loose their vilest instincts, if you remove the

fear of the gods.

SATNI. The fear of the gods has prevented fewer crimes than were needed

to create it.

HIGH PRIEST. Be it so. But it exists.

SATNI. It is your interest to spread the belief, that the fear of the

gods is a restraint. And you know that it is not. You do not leave the

punishment of crime to the gods. You have the lash, hard labor in the

mines; you have scaffolds, you have executioners. No one believes

sincerely in the happy life beyond the grave. If we believed, we should

kill ourselves, the sooner to reach the Island of the Souls, the fields

of Yalou.

HIGH PRIEST. By what then are the appetites restrained?

SATNI. By the laws, by the need of the esteem of others--

HIGH PRIEST. We have just seen that, in sooth. So then it was virtue

that the people showed yesterday, after you made them break their gods?

They seemed to care little for the esteem of others, for they stole,

they pillaged, they killed. Do you approve of that? Have they gained

your esteem, those who have done what they have done?

SATNI. Oh, I know! I know! That is your strongest argument. Creatures

degraded by centuries of slavery, drunk with the first hours of freedom,

commit crimes. You argue from this, that they were meant for slaves.

Yes, it is true that if you take a child from the leading strings that

upheld it, the child falls down. But you who watch over it, you rejoice

at the fall, for then you can assert that the child must go back to its

leading strings--and be kept in them till death.

HIGH PRIEST. Then you declare that all supports must be suppressed? [_A

pause_] Religion is a prop. It soothes--consoles. He does evil who

disturbs it.

SATNI. Many religions died before ours. The passing of each caused the

sorrows you foresee. Should we then have kept the first, to prevent some

suffering?

HIGH PRIEST. Ours is yet young, though so old; look in the halls of our

temples, behold the countless thank-offerings brought there for prayers

that were granted.

SATNI. Your temples could not hold the offerings, unthinkable in number,

that those whose prayers were not granted might have made, and who none

the less prayed as well as the others.

HIGH PRIEST. Even unanswered their prayers were recompensed. They had

hope, and it is likewise a boon to the poor to promise them welfare in

the world to come.

SATNI. You promise them welfare in the world to come, to make them

forget that all the welfare in this world is yours.

HIGH PRIEST. Can you give happiness to all who are on earth? We are more

generous than you; at least we give them consolation.

SATNI. You make them pay dear for it.

HIGH PRIEST. In truth the granaries of our temples are full to

overflowing. Left to themselves, the people would not think of the lean

years, in the years of abundance. We think for them, and they bring us,

gladly, what they would refuse did they not believe they gave to the

gods. We proclaim the Nile sacred; it is forbidden to sully its waters.

Is that to honor it as a god? Not so, it is to avoid the plague. And all

the animals we deified are those man has need of. You did not learn all

things on your travels--

SATNI. You would have the peasant remain a child, because you fear the

reckoning he would demand of you, if you let him grow up. You know you

could not stay him then by showing him the god-jackal, the god-ram, the

god-bull, and the rest that do not exist.

HIGH PRIEST. Are you certain they do not exist?

SATNI. Yes.

HIGH PRIEST. Know you where you are?

SATNI. In the temple.

HIGH PRIEST. In the temple; where you were brought up. There was a time

when you dared not have crossed the first sacred enclosure. You are in

the third. Look round! There is the holy of holies. At my will the

stones that mask the entrance will roll back, and the goddess will be

unveiled. Except the High Priest and the Pharaoh, no mortal, if he be

not priest himself, may look on her and live--save at the hour of the

annual Festival of Prodigies, which is upon us now. Do you believe that

you can endure to be alone in her presence?

SATNI. I do believe it.

HIGH PRIEST. We shall see. If you be afraid, call and prostrate

yourself. Afterwards you shall go and tell what you have seen, to those

whom you deceived.

_The High Priest makes a sign. Total darkness. A peal of

thunder._

SATNI. Ah! [_Terrified, he leaps forward. A faint light returns slowly,

the temple is empty_] I am alone! [_He is terrified, standing erect

against a pillar facing the audience_] Alone in the temple, within sight

of the goddess almost. I know 'tis but an image--yet am I steeped in

terror, even to the marrow of my bones. [_He utters an agonized cry_]

Ah!--I thought I beheld in the darkness--No--I know that there is

nothing--Oh! coward nature! Because I was cradled amid tales of

religion, because I grew up in the fear of the gods, because my father

and my father's father, and all those from whom I come, were crushed by

this terror even from the blackest night of time, I tremble, and my

reason totters. All this is false, I know--the god obeys the priest.

Yet, from these towering columns, horror and mystery descend upon

me--[_A thunder clap brings him to his knees. The stones that mask the

entrance to the sanctuary roll slowly back. He tries to look_] The holy

of holies opens--I am afraid--I am afraid--[_He mutters words, wipes the

sweat from his brow with his hand. He trembles and falls sobbing to the

ground. A long pause_] 'Tis the beast in me that is afraid--Ah! coward

flesh! [_Biting his hands_] I shall conquer thee--I would chastise my

weakness. I am shamed--I am shamed--In spite of all I will look her in

the face. I have the will! but I must fight against so many memories,

against all the dead whose spirits stir in mine. I shall conquer the

dead. My life, and my will--courage!

_With great effort and after many struggles he gains the

mastery of himself, goes to the shrine and looks upon the

goddess. The High Priest reappears touching him on the

shoulder._

HIGH PRIEST. Terror does not move you. Let us see if you be proof

against pity. Come--[_He leads him to the side of the shrine, presses a

spring and a door opens, revealing in the interior of the shrine the

machinery of the miracle, a lever and cordage_] Look! 'Tis by pressing

this lever that one of ours, in a little while, will bring about the

miracle. I leave you in his place. At my signal the doors of the sacred

enclosure will open, and the people draw near the sanctuary. Listen to

them. And if you are moved to pity by their prayers, you--_you_ shall

give them the consoling lie for which they pray.

SATNI. There will be no miracle.

HIGH PRIEST. Watch and hear. [_He leaves Satni, who remains visible to

the audience. The stones roll back over the shrine. The High Priest

makes a sign, other priests appear_] All is ready?

A PRIEST. All.

HIGH PRIEST [_to another_] Listen.

_He whispers to him. The Priest bows and goes out. While

the crowd comes in later, this priest is seen to enter the

hiding-place right, where he stands watching Satni, dagger

in hand._

HIGH PRIEST. Now, let them come in.

_He makes a gesture and all disappear. A pitiable crowd

bursts into the temple, bustling, running, filling all the

empty spaces. Four men carry a litter on which is a

beautiful young woman clothed in precious stuffs. Mieris,

Yaouma, and all the characters of the play come on._

YOUNG WOMAN. Nearer, lay me nearer the goddess! She will drive forth the

evil spirit that will not let me move my legs.

_Cripples, people on crutches, creatures with hands or feet

wrapped in bandages crowd past her._

A BLIND GIRL [_to him who leads her_] When the stone rolls back and the

goddess appears, watch well her face, to tell me if she will not give me

back my sight.

_A paralytic drags himself in on his hands._

THE PARALYTIC. I would be quite near, quite near! In a little while I

shall walk.

_Two sons lead in their mother, who is mad, striving to calm

her. A mother, with her child in her arms, begs the crowd to

let her get near. A man, whose head is bandaged, and whose

eyes and mouth are mere holes, hustles his neighbors. Many

blind, and people borne on chairs._

A WOMAN. She will speak, she will say "yes." She will reveal herself

again as protectress of Egypt.

ANOTHER. They say not. They say that great calamities are in store for

us.

ANOTHER. If she answer not?

ANOTHER. Silence!

_Music. The Pharaoh's procession enters. He is conducted

down left where he remains invisible to the spectators. The

High Priest mounts his throne. The people prostrate

themselves._

HIGH PRIEST. Ammon is great!

_A pause._

THE PEOPLE. Ammon is great!

HIGH PRIEST. The sanctuary is about to open.

VOICES. The stones will roll back! I am afraid! The goddess will appear!

We shall behold her! Hush! Hush!

_The High Priest lifts his hands to heaven._

A PRIEST [_in the recess, to some men ready to work the ropes, in a low

voice_] Now!

_The men pull the ropes, the stones roll back. The crowd bow

themselves flat on the ground. Those who cannot, hide their

faces on their arms._

HIGH PRIEST. Rise! Behold and pray! [_A smothered cry of terror rises,

women mad with terror are seized with nervous fits. They are carried

out_] O goddess! Thy people adore thee, and humble themselves before

thee!

ALL. Isis, we adore thee!

HIGH PRIEST. This year, once more, show to us by that miraculous sign of

thy divine head, that still thou art our protectress. [_The people

repeat the incantation in a murmur_] O goddess, if thou hast pity on

those who suffer, thou wilt bend thy head. Pity! Pity! we suffer! The

evil spirits torment us.

THE PEOPLE. We suffer! Drive forth the evil spirits!

HIGH PRIEST. Neith! Mother of the Universe! The evil spirits torment us!

Neith! Virgin genetrix! Isis, sacred earth of Egypt, bend thy head!

Sati, queen of the heavens! Bend thy head!

THE MOTHER. The soul of a dead man has entered the body of my child, O

Isis! And he is dying. I hold him towards thee, Isis. Behold how he is

fair, behold how he suffers. Look, he is so little. Let me keep him!

Isis! Isis! Let me keep him!

ALL. Pity! Pity!

HIGH PRIEST. Show us that thou dost consent to hear us! Isis, bend thy

head!

BLIND GIRL. Open my eyes! Ever since I was born a demon held them

closed. Let me see the skies of whose splendor they tell me. I am

unhappy, Isis! He whom I love, he who loves me, I have not looked upon

his countenance! I am unhappy, Isis!

ALL. Pity! Pity!

HIGH PRIEST. Anouke! Soul of the Universe! Pity! We are before thee like

little children who are lost.

THE PEOPLE. Yes! Yes! like little children who are lost!

THE SON. For my father who is blind, Isis, I implore thee!

ALL. Isis! Father! Pity!

HIGH PRIEST. Thmei, Queen of Justice! Mirror of truth! Bend thy head!

THE YOUNG PARALYTIC. I have offered up ten lambs to thee. Let me get up

and walk!

THE MAN [_with the bandaged head_] An unseen monster devours my face

making me howl with pain.

PARALYZED MAN. I drag through the mire, like a beast unclean. Let me

walk upright like a god.

THE TWO SONS [_of the mad woman_] Behold our mother, Isis, behold our

mother, who knows us no more, who knows not herself even, and who

laughs!--

THE MOTHER. Isis! Thou art a mother. Isis, in the name of thine own

child, save mine. Let me not go with empty arms, bereft of my tender

burden. Thou art a mother, Isis!

HIGH PRIEST. All! All! Pray! Supplicate! Fling you with your faces to

the ground--yes! yes! again! Silence! She is about to answer. [_A long

pause_] Your prayers are lukewarm. Your supplications need fervor! Pray!

Weep! Cry out! Cry out!

ALL. Isis! Drive out the evil spirits! Answer us! Answer us!

HIGH PRIEST. Louder! Louder!

THE PEOPLE. Sorrows! Tears! Sobs! Cries! Have pity!

HIGH PRIEST. Once more, though you die!

THE PEOPLE. Thou dost abandon Egypt! What ills will overwhelm us! Help!

Help us! Have pity!

HIGH PRIEST. Have pity! Have pity! [_bursting into sobs_] Oh! unhappy

people, Isis, if thou dost abandon them.

VOICES [_amid the sobs of the others_] She hears us not! She answers

not. Evil is upon us! Evil overwhelms us!

HIGH PRIEST. Desperate! We are desperate!

ALL. We are desperate!

A CRY. Her head is bending! No! Yes!

_Silence. Then a great cry of distress and disappointment._

HIGH PRIEST. O mother! O goddess!

THE MOTHER. O Isis! mother of Horus! the child god! Wilt thou let die my

child? Behold him! Behold him!

YOUNG PARALYTIC. Thy heart is hard, O goddess!

PARALYZED MAN. Thou hast but to will it, Isis, and I walk!

THE MAN [_with the bandaged head_] Heal my sores! I sow horror around

me! Heal my sores!

HIGH PRIEST. Answer us! Bend thy head!

ALL. Pity!

_The crowd, delirious, cries and sobs in a paroxysm of

despair._

SATNI. Oh! the poor wretched souls!

_He presses the lever. As the head of the statue bows, the

people respond with one wild roar of acclamation._

CURTAIN

ACT V

SCENE:--_Same as Acts I and II._

_The statues of the gods are set up again, in their places,

facing them a throne has been erected on which the High

Priest is seated. Rheou, Satni, Mieris, Yaouma, Sokiti,

Nourm, Bitiou, the Steward and all the women and servants of

the household, and the laborers. When the curtain rises all

are prostrate with their faces to the ground._

HIGH PRIEST [_after a pause_] Rise! [_All rise to their knees. A pause_]

The divine images are again in their places. You have shown that you

repent. You have begged for pardon. You have testified your horror of

the terrible crime you were driven to commit. You await your

chastisement. The gods now permit that we proceed to the sacrifice, that

will bring about the overflowing of the Nile, and give for yet another

year, life to the land of Egypt. She who has chosen, the elect, the

savior, is she here?

YAOUMA [_rising to her feet, radiant_] I am here!

HIGH PRIEST. Let her go to clothe her in the sacred robe. Form the

procession to bear her to the threshold of the abode of the glorious and

the immortal.

YAOUMA. Come!

_A number of the women rise and go out right with Yaouma._

HIGH PRIEST. To-day, at the hour when Ammon-Ra came forth from the

underworld, I entered the sanctuary. Face to face with the god, I heard

his words, which now you shall hear from me. These are the commands of

the God. Rheou! [_Rheou stands up_] You have been to make submission to

the Pharaoh--Light of Ra--you have implored his mercy. You have sworn on

the body of your father, to serve him faithfully, and you have given

that body to him in pledge of your obedience. You have denounced to his

anger and justice those who conceived the impious plot to dethrone the

Lord of Egypt. You have declared that if you did permit the images of

the gods to be thrown down before you, it was because the spells of

Satni had clouded your reason. Ammon has proclaimed to me that you are

sincere! You are pardoned, on conditions which I shall presently impart.

[_Rheou bows and kneels down_] Satni! [_Satni stands up. He casts down

his eyes, he is steeped in sorrow and shame_] Satni, you have admitted

and proclaimed the power of the gods, whom you dared to deny. You have

bowed you down before them. Once, in the temple, you took the first

priestly vows; your life is therefore sacred. But you stand now

reproved. This very day you will quit Egypt. Withdraw from the Gods!

[_Satni, with eyes on the ground, withdraws, the people shrink aside to

let him pass, abusing him in whispers, shaking their fists, and some

even striking him. He goes to the terrace down left where he stands,

hiding his face on his arm_] Ammon has spoken other words. [_The people

turn from Satni_] All you who are here, you are guilty of the most

odious, the most monstrous of crimes. You are all deserving of death.

Such is the decree of the God.

ALL. O Ammon! Pity! Pity! Ammon!

HIGH PRIEST. Cease your sobs! Cease your cries! Cease your useless

prayers! Hear the God who speaks through my mouth.

ALL. Be kind! Thou! Thou! Have pity! Beseech the God for us, we implore

thee! We would not die. Not death! not death! not death!

HIGH PRIEST. Yes--I--I have pity on you. But your crime is so great!

Have you considered well the enormity of your sin? None can remember to

have seen the like. The Gods! To overthrow the Gods! And such Gods!

Ammon and Thoueris! I would I might disarm their wrath. But what shall I

offer them in your name that may equal your offence?

PEOPLE. All! Take all we possess, but spare our lives.

HIGH PRIEST. All you possess! 'Tis little enough.

PEOPLE. Take our crops.

HIGH PRIEST. And who then will feed you? Already you pay tithes. I will

offer a fourth of your harvests for ten years. But 'tis little. Even did

I say you would give half of all that is in your homes, should I

succeed? And would you give it me?

PEOPLE. Yes! Yes!

HIGH PRIEST. Still it will not be enough. Hear what the God hath

breathed to me. There must be prayers, ceaseless prayers in the temple.

Every year ten of your daughters must enter the house of the God to be

consecrated.

PEOPLE. Our daughters! Ammon! Our daughters!

HIGH PRIEST. The God is good! The God is good! Lo! I hear him pronounce

the words of pardon. But further, you must needs assist the Pharaoh to

carry out the divine commands. Ammon wills that the Ethiopian infidels

be chastised. All who are of an age to fight will join the army, that is

on the eve of departure.

PEOPLE [_in consternation_] Oh! the war! the war!

HIGH PRIEST. Proud Ethiopia threatens invasion to Egypt. You must defend

your tombs, your homes, and your women. Would you become slaves of the

blacks?

PEOPLE. No, no, we would not!

HIGH PRIEST. You will go to punish the foes of your kings?

PEOPLE. We will go.

HIGH PRIEST. And what will be your reward? Know you not that victory

will be yours, because the god is with you. And if some fall in battle,

should we not all envy their fate, since they leave this world to go

towards Osiris. The arrows of your foes will fall harmless at your feet,

like wounded birds. Their swords shall bend on your invulnerable bodies.

The fire they light against you will become as perfumed water. All this

you know to be true. You know that your gods protect you. You know they

are all-powerful, because, yesterday, you all did see how the stone

image of the goddess Isis did bow, to show you she protects you.

PEOPLE. To the war! To the war! To Ethiopia!

SATNI [_leaping up to the terrace_] I have been coward too long! [_To

the crowd_] The miracle of yesterday--'twas I--'twas I who worked it.

_General uproar._

HIGH PRIEST. I deliver this man to you, and I deliver you to him. You

will not let him deceive you twice.

_Execrations of the people, Satni cannot speak. The High

Priest is borne out on his throne accompanied by Rheou._

SATNI [_when the uproar subsides_] I was in the temple--

PEOPLE. That is a lie!

SATNI. It was I who made the head of the image bow.

PEOPLE. He blasphemes. Have done! Have done! Let him not blaspheme!

SATNI. It was I! And I ask your forgiveness.

A MAN. Why should you do it, if you despise our gods?

SATNI. I did it out of pity.

PEOPLE. We have no need of your pity.

SATNI. That is true. You have need only of my courage. And I failed you.

I was touched by your tears. I was weak, thinking to be kind.

A MAN. You are not kind. You would have handed us over to foreign gods.

PEOPLE. Yes! yes! that is true!

SATNI. I gave you the lie that you begged for. I wanted to lull your

sorrows to sleep.

A MAN. You have brought down on us the anger of the gods.

ANOTHER. The evils that crush us, 'tis you have let them loose on us.

ALL. Yes, yes! Liar! Curse you! Let him be accursed!

SATNI. Curse me. You are right. I am guilty. I had not the strength to

persevere; to lead you, in spite of your tears, to the summits I would

lead you to. To still a few sobs, to give hope to some who were

stricken, I worked the miracle; and, beholding that false miracle, you

made submission. I have confirmed, I have strengthened the empire of the

lie.

A MAN. 'Twas you who lied.

SATNI. I have given back your minds, for another age, to slavery and

debasement. I have given back to the priests their power that was

endangered. I have given them means to increase your burdens, to take

your daughters, to send you to a war, covetous, murderous, and unjust.

A MAN. You are a spy from Ethiopia!

ANOTHER. You are a traitor to your country!

ALL. Yes! a traitor! Death to the traitor!

SATNI. And to defend your tyrants, you will kill men as wretched as

yourselves, dupes like you, and like you enslaved.

A MAN. We know you are paid to betray Egypt!

ALL. Yes, we know it! We know the price of your treason!

ANOTHER. You would sell Egypt, and 'tis to weaken us you would overthrow

our gods.

ALL. Traitor! Traitor!

SATNI. If I am a traitor, 'tis to my own cause! But a while ago I was

proud of my deed, thinking I had sacrificed myself to you. Alas! I only

sacrificed your future to my pity. I wept for you; to weep for

misfortune--what is that but an easy escape from the duty of fighting

its cause? I pitied you. Pity is but a weakness, a submission--To

perpetuate the falsehood of the miracle, and the life of atonement to

come is to drug misery to sleep.

A MAN. Misery!--can you give us anything to cure it?

_They laugh._

SATNI. They have implanted in you, the belief that misery is immortal,

invincible. By my falsehood, I too have seemed to admit this; and thus I

have helped those, in whose interest it is that misery should last for

ever.

A MAN. He insults the Pharaoh!

ANOTHER. Do not insult our priests!

SATNI. Had there been no miracle, you would have despaired--you would

have sorrowed. I ought to have faced that. I ought to have faced the

death of a few, to save the future of all. We go forward only by

destroying. What matter blood and pain! Pain and blood--never a child is

born without them! I would--

_An angry outburst._

A WOMAN. Kill him! Kill him! He says we must put our children to death!

SATNI. All are glorious who preach new efforts--

PEOPLE. Death! Death to the traitor!

SATNI. All are infamous who preach resignation--

PEOPLE. Enough! Kill him! Death!

SATNI. It is in this world that the wretched must find their paradise,

it is here that every one's good must be sought with a zeal that knows

no limit, save respect for the good of others.

_A burst of laughter._

PEOPLE. He is mad! He knows not what he says! He is mad!

_Yaouma is borne on right on a litter carried by young

girls. She is decked out like an idol; she stands erect,

half in ecstasy._

PEOPLE. Yaouma! The chosen of Ammon-Ra! Glory to her who goes to save

Egypt!

_With jubilant cries the procession goes slowly towards the

gates at the back, preceded and surrounded by musicians and

dancers._

SATNI. Yaouma! Yaouma! One word! One look of farewell! Yaouma! 'Tis I,

Satni! Look on me!

_The acclamations drown his voice. Yaouma is wrapped in her

soul's dream. She passes without hearing Satni's voice. The

crowd follows her._

MIERIS [_to Delethi who supports her_] Lead me to Satni--go--[_To

Satni_] Satni, your words have sunk deep in my heart--Yaouma, they tell

me, did not hear your voice. She is lost in the joy of sacrifice. The

need to make sacrifice is in us all. If the gods are not, to whom shall

we sacrifice ourselves?

SATNI. To those who suffer.

MIERIS. To those who suffer.

_During this Bitiou has come slowly down behind Satni._

BITIOU. Look! He too, he will fall down!

_He plunges a dagger in Satni's back. Delethi draws Mieris

away. Satni falls._

SATNI [_raising himself slightly_] It was you who struck me,

Bitiou--[_He looks long and sadly at him_] I pity you with all my

heart--with all my heart. [_He dies_]

_Bitiou looks at the blood on the dagger, and flings it away

in horror. Then he crouches down by Satni and begins to cry

softly._

DELETHI [_to Mieris_] Mistress, come and pray!

MIERIS. No, I do not believe in gods in whose name men kill.

_Outside are heard the trumpets and acclamations that

accompany Yaouma to the Nile._

CURTAIN

THE RED ROBE

CHARACTERS

MOUZON

VAGRET

ETCHEPARE

MONDOUBLEAU

LA BOUZOLE

BUNERAT

ATTORNEY-GENERAL

PRESIDENT OF ASSIZES

DELORME

ARDEUIL

BRIDET

POLICE SERGEANT

RECORDER

PLACAT

DOORKEEPER

YANETTA

ETCHEPARE'S MOTHER

MADAME VAGRET

MADAME BUNERAT

BERTHA

CATIALENA

_Time--The present._

ACT I

SCENE I:--_A small reception-room in an old house at

Mauleon._

_The curtain rises, revealing Madame Vagret in evening

dress; she is altering the position of the chairs to her own

satisfaction. Enter Bertha, also in evening dress, a

newspaper in her hand._

BERTHA. Here's the local paper, the _Journal_. I sent the _Official

Gazette_ to father; he has just come home from the Court. He's dressing.

MADAME VAGRET. Is the sitting over?

BERTHA. No, not yet.

MADAME VAGRET [_taking the newspaper_] Are they still discussing the

case?

BERTHA. As usual.

MADAME VAGRET. One doesn't need to search long. There's a big head-line

at the top of the page: "The Irissary Murder." They're attacking your

father now! [_She reads_] "Monsieur Vagret, our District Attorney."

[_She continues to read to herself_] And there are sub-headings too:

"The murderer still at large." As if that was our fault! "Justice

asleep!" Justice asleep indeed! How can they say such things when your

father hasn't closed his eyes for a fortnight! Can they complain that he

hasn't done his duty? Or that Monsieur Delorme, the examining

magistrate, isn't doing his? He has made himself quite ill, poor man!

Only the day before yesterday he had a tramp arrested because his

movements were ever so little suspicious! So you see! No! I tell you

these journalists are crazy!

BERTHA. It seems they are going to have an article in the Basque paper

too.

MADAME VAGRET. The _Eskual Herria_!

BERTHA. So the chemist told me.

MADAME VAGRET. I don't care a sou for that. The Attorney-General doesn't

read it.

BERTHA. On the contrary, father was saying the other day that the

Attorney-General has translations sent him of every article dealing with

the magistracy.

MADAME VAGRET. The Attorney-General has translations sent him! Oh well,

never mind. Anyhow, let's change the subject! How many shall we be this

evening? You've got the list?

BERTHA [_She takes the list from the over-mantel_] The President of

Assizes--the President of the Court--

MADAME VAGRET. Yes. Yes, that's all right; nine in all, isn't it?

BERTHA. Nine.

MADAME VAGRET. Nine! To have nine people coming to dinner, and not to

know the exact hour at which they'll arrive! That's what's so trying

about these dinners we have to give at the end of a session--in honor of

the President of Assizes. One dines when the Court rises. When the Court

rises! Well, we'll await the good pleasure of these gentlemen! [_She

sighs_] Well, child!

BERTHA. Mother?

MADAME VAGRET. Are you still anxious to marry a magistrate?

BERTHA [_with conviction_] I am not!

MADAME VAGRET. But you were two years ago!

BERTHA. I am not now!

MADAME VAGRET. Look at us! There's your father. Procurator of the

Republic--Public Prosecutor--State Attorney; in a court of the third

class, it's true, because he's not a wire-puller, because he hasn't

played the political game. And yet he's a valuable man--no one can deny

that. Since he's been District Attorney he has secured three sentences

of penal servitude for life! And in a country like this, where crimes

are so frightfully rare! That's pretty good, don't you think? Of course,

I know he'll have had three acquittals in the session that ends to-day.

Granted. But that was mere bad luck. And for protecting society as he

does--what do they pay him? Have you any idea?

BERTHA. Yes, I know; you've often told me, mother.

MADAME VAGRET. And I'll tell you again. Counting the stoppages for the

pension, he gets altogether, and for everything, three hundred and

ninety-five francs and eighty-three centimes a month. And then we are

obliged to give a dinner for nine persons in honor of the President of

Assizes, a Councillor! Well, at all events, I suppose everything is

ready? Let's see. My _Revue des Deux Mondes_--is it there? Yes. And my

armchair--is that in the right place? [_She sits in it_] Yes. [_As

though receiving a guest_] Pray be seated, Monsieur le President. I hope

that's right. And Monsieur Dufour, who was an ordinary magistrate when

your father was the same, when we were living at Castelnaudery, he's now

President of the second class at Douai, and he was only at Brest before

he was promoted!

BERTHA. Really!

MADAME VAGRET [_searching for a book on the over-mantel_] Look in the

Year Book.

BERTHA. I'll take your word for it.

MADAME VAGRET. You may! The Judicial Year Book. I know it by heart!

BERTHA. But then father may be appointed Councillor any day now.

MADAME VAGRET. He's been waiting a long time for his appointment as

Councillor.

BERTHA. But it's as good as settled now. He was promised the first

vacancy, and Monsieur Lefevre has just died.

MADAME VAGRET. I hope to God you are right. If we fail this time, we're

done for. We shall be left at Mauleon until he's pensioned off. What a

misfortune it is that they can't put their hands on that wretched

murderer! Such a beautiful crime too! We really had some reason for

hoping for a death sentence this time! The first, remember!

BERTHA. Don't worry, motherkins. There's still a chance.

MADAME VAGRET. It's easy for you to talk. You see the newspapers are

beginning to grumble. They reproach us, they say we are slack. My dear

child, you don't realize--there 's a question of sending a detective

down from Paris! It would be such a disgrace! And everything promised so

well! You can't imagine how excited your father was when they waked him

up to tell him that an old man of eighty-seven had been murdered in his

district! He dressed himself in less than five minutes. He was very

quiet about it. But he gripped my hands. "I think," he said, "I think we

can count on my nomination this time!" [_She sighs_] And now everything

is spoilt, and all through this ruffian who won't let them arrest him!

[_Another sigh_] What's the time?

BERTHA. It has just struck six.

MADAME VAGRET. Write out the _menus_. Don't forget. You must write only

their titles--his Honor the President of Assizes, his Honor the

President of the High Court of Mauleon, and so forth. It's the preamble

to the _menu_. Don't forget. Here is your father. Go and take a look

round the kitchen and appear as if you were busy. [_Bertha leaves the

room. Vagret enters in evening dress_]

SCENE II:--_Vagret, Madame Vagret._

MADAME VAGRET. Hasn't the Court risen yet?

VAGRET. When I left my substitute was just getting up to ask for the

adjournment.

MADAME VAGRET. Nothing new?

VAGRET. About the murder? Nothing.

MADAME VAGRET. But your Monsieur Delorme--the examining magistrate--is

he really looking for the murderer?

VAGRET. He's doing what he can.

MADAME VAGRET. Well, if I were in his place, it seems to me--Oh, they

ought to have women for examining magistrates! [_Distractedly_] Is there

nothing in the _Official Gazette_?

VAGRET [_dispirited and anxious_] Yes.

MADAME VAGRET. And you never told me. Anything that affects us?

VAGRET. No. Nanteuil has been appointed Advocate-General.

MADAME VAGRET. Nanteuil?

VAGRET. Yes.

MADAME VAGRET. Oh, that's too bad! Why, he was only an assistant at

Luneville when you were substitute there!

VAGRET. Yes. But he has a cousin who's a deputy. You can't compete with

men like that. [_A pause. Madame Vagret sits down and begins to cry_]

MADAME VAGRET. We haven't a chance.

VAGRET. My dearest! Come, come, you are wrong there.

MADAME VAGRET [_still tearful_] My poor darling! I know very well it

isn't your fault; you do your best. Your only failing is that you are

too scrupulous, and I am not the one to reproach you for that. But what

can you expect? It's no use talking; everybody gets ahead of us. Soon

you'll be the oldest District Attorney in France.

VAGRET. Come, come! Where's the Year Book?

MADAME VAGRET [_still in the same tone_] It's there--the dates, the

length of service. See further on, dear.

VAGRET [_throwing the Year Book aside_] Don't cry like that! Remember

I'm chosen to succeed Lefevre.

MADAME VAGRET. I know that.

VAGRET. I'm on the list for promotion.

MADAME VAGRET. So is everybody.

VAGRET. And I have the Attorney-General's definite promise--and the

presiding judge's too.

MADAME VAGRET. It's the deputy's promise you ought to have.

VAGRET. What?

MADAME VAGRET. Yes, the deputy's. Up to now you've waited for promotion

to come to you. My dear, you've got to run after it! If you don't do as

the others do, you'll simply get left behind.

VAGRET. I am still an honest man.

MADAME VAGRET. It is because you are an honest man that you ought to try

to get a better appointment. If the able and independent magistrates

allow the others to pass them by, what will become of the magistracy?

VAGRET. There's some truth in what you say.

MADAME VAGRET. If, while remaining scrupulously honest, you can better

our position by getting a deputy to push you, you are to blame if you

don't do so. After all, what do they ask you to do? Merely that you

should support the Ministry.

VAGRET. I can do that honestly. Its opinions are my own.

MADAME VAGRET. Then you'd better make haste--for a ministry doesn't

last long! To support the Ministry is to support the Government--that

is, the State--that is, Society. It's to do your duty.

VAGRET. You are ambitious.

MADAME VAGRET. No, my dear--but we must think of the future. If you knew

the trouble I have to make both ends meet! We ought to get Bertha

married. And the boys will cost us more and more as time goes on. And in

our position we are bound to incur certain useless expenses which we

could very well do without; but we have to keep up appearances; we have

to "keep up our position." We want Georges to enter the Polytechnique,

and that'll cost a lot of money. And Henri, if he's going to study

law--you'd be able to help him on all the better if you held a better

position.

VAGRET [_after a brief silence_] I haven't told you everything.

MADAME VAGRET. What is it?

VAGRET [_timidly_] Cortan has been appointed Councillor at Amiens.

MADAME VAGRET [_exasperated_] Cortan! That idiot of a Cortan?

VAGRET. Yes.

MADAME VAGRET. This is too much!

VAGRET. What can you expect? The new Keeper of the Seals is in his

department. You can't fight against that!

MADAME VAGRET. There's always something--Cortan! Won't she be making a

show of herself--Madame Cortan--who spells "indictment" i-n-d-i-t-e?

She'll be showing off her yellow hat! Don't you remember her famous

yellow hat?

VAGRET. No.

MADAME VAGRET. It's her husband who ought to wear that color!

VAGRET. Rosa, that's unjust.

MADAME VAGRET [_painfully excited_] I know it--but it does me good!

_Enter Catialena._

CATIALENA. Madame, where shall I put the parcel we took from the

linen-closet this morning?

MADAME VAGRET. What parcel?

CATIALENA. The parcel--you know, Madame--when we were arranging the

things in the linen-closet.

MADAME VAGRET [_suddenly_] Oh--yes, yes. Take it to my room.

CATIALENA. Where shall I put it there?

MADAME VAGRET. Oh well, put it down here. I will put it away myself.

CATIALENA. Very good, Madame. [_She leaves the room_]

MADAME VAGRET [_snipping at the parcel and speaking to herself_] It's no

use stuffing it with moth-balls--it'll all be moth-eaten before ever you

wear it.

VAGRET. What is it?

MADAME VAGRET [_placing the parcel on the table and opening the

wrapper_] Look!

VAGRET. Ah, yes--my red robe--the one you bought for me--in advance--two

years ago.

MADAME VAGRET. Yes. That time it was Gamard who was appointed instead of

you.

VAGRET. What could you expect? Gamard had a deputy for his

brother-in-law; there's no getting over that. The Ministry has to assure

itself of a majority.

MADAME VAGRET. And to think that in spite of all my searching I haven't

been able to discover so much as a municipal councillor among our

relations!

VAGRET. Well--hide this thing. It torments me. [_He returns the gown,

which he had unfolded, to his wife_] In any case I dare say it wouldn't

fit me now.

MADAME VAGRET. Oh, they fit anybody, these things!

VAGRET. Let's see--[_He takes off his coat_]

MADAME VAGRET. And it means a thousand francs more a year!

VAGRET. It isn't faded. [_At this moment Bertha enters. Vagret hides the

red gown_] What is it?

BERTHA. It's only me.

VAGRET. You startled me.

BERTHA [_catching sight of the gown_] You've been appointed! You've been

appointed!

VAGRET. Do be quiet! Turn the key in the door!

BERTHA. Papa has been appointed!

MADAME VAGRET. Do as you're told! No, he hasn't been appointed.

VAGRET. It's really as good as new. [_He slips it on_]

MADAME VAGRET. Well, I should hope so! I took care to get the very best

silk.

VAGRET. Ah, if I could only wear this on my back when I'm demanding the

conviction of the Irissary murderer! Say what you like, the man who

devised this costume was no fool! It's this sort of thing that impresses

the jury. And the prisoner too! I've seen him unable to tear his eyes

from the gown of the State Attorney! And you feel a stronger man when

you wear it. It gives one a better presence, and one's gestures are more

dignified: "Gentlemen of the court, gentlemen of the jury!" Couldn't I

make an impressive indictment? "Gentlemen of the court, gentlemen of the

jury! In the name of society, of which I am the avenging voice--in the

name of the sacred interests of humanity--in the name of the eternal

principles of morality--fortified by the consciousness of my duty and my

right--I rise--[_He repeats his gesture_] I rise to demand the head of

the wretched man who stands before you!"

MADAME VAGRET. How well you speak!

_Vagret, with a shrug of the shoulders and a sigh, slowly

and silently removes the gown and hands it to his wife._

VAGRET. Here--put it away.

MADAME VAGRET. There's the bell.

BERTHA. Yes.

MADAME VAGRET [_to her daughter_] Take it.

BERTHA. Yes, mother. [_She makes a parcel of the gown and is about to

leave the room_]

MADAME VAGRET. Bertha!

BERTHA. Yes, mother!

MADAME VAGRET [_tearfully_] Put some more moth-balls in it--poor child!

_Bertha goes out. Catialena enters._

SCENE III:--_Vagret, Madame Vagret, Catialena._

CATIALENA [_holding out an envelope_] This has just come for you, sir.

[_She goes out again_]

VAGRET. What's this? The Basque paper--the _Eskual Herria_--an article

marked with blue pencil. [_He reads_] "Eskual herri guzia hamabartz egun

huntan--" How's one to make head or tail of such a barbarian language!

MADAME VAGRET [_reading over his shoulder_] It's about you--

VAGRET. No!

MADAME VAGRET. Yes. There! "Vagret procuradoreak galdegin--" Wait a

minute. [_Calling through the further doorway_] Catialena! Catialena!

VAGRET. What is it?

MADAME VAGRET. Catialena will translate it for us. [_To Catialena, who

has entered_] Here, Catialena, just read this bit for us, will you?

CATIALENA. _Why, yes, Madame._ [_She reads_] "Eta gaitzegilia ozda

oraino gakpoian Irrysaryko."

VAGRET. And what does that mean?

CATIALENA. That means--they haven't arrested the Irissary murderer yet.

VAGRET. We know that. And then?

CATIALENA. "Baginakien yadanik dona Mauleano tribunala yuye arin edo

tzarrenda berechiazela." That means there are no magistrates at Mauleon

except those they've got rid of from other places, and who don't know

their business--empty heads they've got.

VAGRET. Thanks--that's enough.

MADAME VAGRET. No, no! Go on, Catialena!

CATIALENA. "Yaun hoyen Biribi--"

MADAME VAGRET. Biribi?

CATIALENA. Yes, Madame.

MADAME VAGRET. Well, what does Biribi mean in Basque?

CATIALENA. I don't know.

MADAME VAGRET. What? You don't know? You mean you don't want to say? Is

it a bad word?

CATIALENA. Oh no, Madame, I should know it then.

VAGRET. Biribi--

BERTHA. Perhaps it's a nickname they give you.

MADAME VAGRET. Perhaps that's it. [_A pause_] Well?

CATIALENA. They're speaking of the master.

MADAME VAGRET [_to her husband_] I told you so. [_To Catialena_] Abusing

him?

VAGRET. I tell you that's enough! [_He snatches the paper from Catialena

and puts it in his pocket_] Go back to the kitchen. Hurry now--quicker

than that!

CATIALENA. Well, sir, I swear I won't tell you the rest of it.

VAGRET. No one's asking you to. Be off.

CATIALENA. I knew the master would be angry. [_She turns to go_]

MADAME VAGRET. Catialena!

CATIALENA. Yes, Madame?

MADAME VAGRET. Really now, you don't know what Biribi means?

CATIALENA. No, Madame, I swear I don't.

MADAME VAGRET. That's all right. There's the bell--go and see who it is.

[_Catialena goes_] I shall give that woman a week's notice, and no later

than to-morrow.

VAGRET. But really--

CATIALENA [_returning_] If you please, sir, it's Monsieur Delorme.

MADAME VAGRET. Your examining magistrate?

VAGRET. Yes. He's come to give me his reply. [_To Catialena_] Show him

in.

MADAME VAGRET. What reply?

VAGRET. He has come to return me his brief.

MADAME VAGRET. The brief?

VAGRET. Yes. I asked him to think it over until this evening.

MADAME VAGRET. He'll have to stay to dinner.

VAGRET. No. You know perfectly well his health--Here he is. Run away.

MADAME VAGRET [_amiably, as she goes out_] Good-evening, Monsieur

Delorme.

DELORME. Madame!

SCENE IV:--_Vagret, Delorme._

VAGRET. Well, my dear fellow, what is it?

DELORME. Well, it's no--positively no.

VAGRET. Why?

DELORME. I've told you. [_A pause_]

VAGRET. And the _alibi_ of your accused?

DELORME. I've verified it.

VAGRET. Does it hold water?

DELORME. Incontestably.

VAGRET [_dejectedly_] Then you've set your man at liberty?

DELORME [_regretfully_] I simply had to.

VAGRET [_the same_] Obviously. [_A pause_] There is not a chance?

DELORME. No.

VAGRET. Well, then?

DELORME. Well, I beg you to give the brief to someone else.

VAGRET. Is that final?

DELORME. Yes. You see, my dear fellow, I'm too old to adapt myself to

the customs of the day. I'm a magistrate of the old school, just as you

are. I inherited from my father certain scruples which are no longer the

fashion. These daily attacks in the press get on my nerves.

VAGRET. They would cease at the news of an arrest.

DELORME. Precisely. I should end by doing something foolish. Well, I

have done something foolish already. I should not have arrested that man

if I had not been badgered as I was.

VAGRET. He was a tramp. You gave him shelter for a few days. There's no

great harm done there.

DELORME. All the same--

VAGRET. You let yourself be too easily discouraged. To-night or

to-morrow something may turn up to put you on a new scent.

DELORME. Even then--Do you know what they are saying? They are saying

that Maitre Placat, the Bordeaux advocate, is coming to defend the

prisoner.

VAGRET. I don't see what he has to gain by that.

DELORME. He wants to come forward at the next election in our

arrondissement--and he counts on attacking certain persons in his plea,

so as to gain a little popularity.

VAGRET. How can that affect you?

DELORME. Why, he can be present at all the interrogations of the

accused. The law allows it--and as he is ravenous for publicity, he

would tell the newspapers just what he pleased, and if my proceedings

didn't suit him, I'd be vilified in the papers day after day.

VAGRET. You are exaggerating.

DELORME. I'm not. Nowadays an examination takes place in the

market-place or the editorial offices of the newspapers rather than in

the magistrate's office.

VAGRET. That is true where notorious criminals are concerned. In reality

the new law benefits them and them only--you know as well as I do that

for the general run of accused persons--

DELORME. Seriously, I beg you to take the brief back.

VAGRET. Come! You can't imagine that Maitre Placat, who has a hundred

cases to plead, can be present at all your interrogations. You know what

usually happens. He'll send some little secretary--if he sends anyone.

DELORME. I beg you not to insist, my dear Vagret. My decision is

irrevocable.

VAGRET. Then--

DELORME. Allow me to take my leave. I don't want to meet my colleagues

who are dining with you.

VAGRET. Then I'll see you to-morrow. I'm sorry--

DELORME. Good-night.

_He goes out. Madame Vagret at once enters by another door._

SCENE V:--_Vagret, Madame Vagret, then Bertha, Bunerat, La Bouzole,

Mouzon._

MADAME VAGRET. Well, I heard--he gave you back the brief.

VAGRET. Yes--his health--the newspapers--

MADAME VAGRET. And now?

VAGRET. Be careful. No one suspects anything yet.

MADAME VAGRET. Make your mind easy. [_She listens_] This time it is our

guests.

BERTHA. [_entering_] Here they are.

MADAME VAGRET. To your work, Bertha! And for me the _Revue des Deux

Mondes_.

_They sit down. A pause._

BERTHA. They are a long time.

MADAME VAGRET. It's Madame Bunerat. Her manners always take time.

THE MANSERVANT. His Honor the President of the Court and Madame Bunerat.

MADAME VAGRET. How do you do, dear Madame Bunerat? [_They exchange

greetings_]

THE MANSERVANT. His Honor Judge La Bouzole. His worship Judge Mouzon.

_Salutations; the guests seat themselves._

MADAME VAGRET [_to Madame Bunerat_] Well, Madame, so another session's

finished!

MADAME BUNERAT. Yes, at last!

MADAME VAGRET. Your husband, I imagine, is not sorry.

MADAME BUNERAT. Nor yours, I'm sure.

MADAME VAGRET. And the President of Assizes?

BUNERAT. He will be a little late. He wants to get away early to-morrow

morning, and he has a mass of documents to sign. You must remember the

Court has barely risen. When we saw that we should be sitting so late we

sent for our evening clothes, and we changed while the jury was

deliberating; then we put our robes on over them to pronounce sentence.

MADAME VAGRET. And the sentence was?

BUNERAT. An acquittal.

MADAME VAGRET. Again! Oh, the juries are crazy!

VAGRET. My dear, you express yourself just a little freely.

MADAME BUNERAT. Now, my dear Madame Vagret, you mustn't worry yourself.

_She leads her up the stage._

BUNERAT [_to Vagret_] Yes, my dear colleague, an acquittal. That makes

three this session.

MOUZON [_a man of forty, whiskered and foppish_] Three prisoners whom we

have had to set at liberty because we couldn't hold them for other

causes.

BUNERAT. A regular run on the black!

LA BOUZOLE [_a man of seventy_] My dear colleagues would prefer a run on

the red.

BUNERAT. La Bouzole, you are a cynic! I do not understand how you can

have the courage to joke on such a subject.

LA BOUZOLE. I shouldn't joke if your prisoners were condemned.

MOUZON. I'm not thinking of our prisoners--I'm thinking of ourselves. If

you imagine we shall receive the congratulations of the Chancellery, you

are mistaken.

BUNERAT. He doesn't care a straw if the Mauleon Court does earn a black

mark in Paris.

LA BOUZOLE. You have said it, Bunerat; I don't care a straw! I have

nothing more to look for. I shall be seventy years old next week, and I

retire automatically. Nothing more to hope for; I have a right to judge

matters according to my own conscience. I'm out of school! [_He gives a

little skip_] Don't get your backs up--I've done--I see the Year Book

over there; I'm going to look out the dates of the coming vacation for

you. [_He takes a seat to the left_]

BUNERAT. Well, there it is. [_To Vagret_] The President of Assizes is

furious.

MOUZON. It won't do him any good either.

VAGRET. And my substitute?

BUNERAT. You may well say "your substitute"!

MOUZON. It's all his fault. He pleaded extenuating circumstances. He!

BUNERAT. Where does the idiot hail from?

VAGRET. He's far from being an idiot, I assure you. He was secretary to

the Conference in Paris; he is a doctor of laws and full of talent.

BUNERAT. Talent!

VAGRET. I assure you he has a real talent for speaking.

BUNERAT. So we observed.

VAGRET. He's a very distinguished young fellow.

BUNERAT [_with emphasis_] Well! When a man has such talent as that he

becomes an advocate; he doesn't enter the magistracy.

MADAME VAGRET [_to La Bouzole, who approaches her_] So really, Monsieur

La Bouzole, it seems it's the fault of the new substitute.

MADAME BUNERAT. Tell us all about it.

LA BOUZOLE. It was like this. [_He turns towards the ladies and

continues in a low tone. Bertha, who has entered the room, joins the

group, of which Vagret also forms one_]

MOUZON [_to Bunerat_] All this won't hasten our poor Vagret's

nomination.

BUNERAT [_smiling_] The fact is he hasn't a chance at the present

moment, poor chap!

MOUZON. Is it true that they were really seriously thinking of him when

there is a certain other magistrate in the same court?

BUNERAT [_with false modesty_] I don't think I--Of whom are you

speaking?

MOUZON. Of yourself, my dear President.

BUNERAT. They have indeed mentioned my name at the Ministry.

MOUZON. When you preside at Assizes the proceedings will be far more

interesting than they are at present.

BUNERAT. Now how can you tell that, my dear Mouzon?

MOUZON. Because I have seen you preside over the Correctional Court.

[_He laughs_]

BUNERAT. Why do you laugh?

MOUZON. I just remembered that witty remark of yours the other day.

BUNERAT [_delighted_] I don't recall it.

MOUZON. It really was very witty! [_He laughs_]

BUNERAT. What was it? Did I say anything witty? I don't remember.

MOUZON. Anything? A dozen things--a score. You were in form that day!

What a figure he cut--the prisoner. You know, the fellow who was so

badly dressed. Cock his name was.

BUNERAT. Ah, yes! When I said: "Cock, turn yourself on and let your

confession trickle out!"

MOUZON [_laughing_] That was it! That was it! And the witness for the

defence--that idiot. Didn't you make him look a fool? He couldn't finish

his evidence, they laughed so when you said: "If you wish to conduct the

case, only say so. Perhaps you'd like to take my place?"

BUNERAT. Ah, yes! Ladies, my good friend here reminds me of a rather

amusing anecdote. The other day--it was in the Correctional Court--

THE MANSERVANT [_announcing_] Monsieur Gabriel Ardeuil.

SCENE VI:--_The same, with Ardeuil._

ARDEUIL [_to Madame Vagret_] I hope you'll forgive me for coming so

late. I was detained until now.

MADAME VAGRET. I will forgive you all the more readily since I'm told

you have had such a success to-day as will make all the advocates of the

district jealous of you.

_Ardeuil is left to himself._

LA BOUZOLE [_touching him on the shoulder_] Young man--come, sit down by

me--as a favor. Do you realize that it won't take many trials like

to-day's to get you struck off the rolls?

ARDEUIL. I couldn't be struck off the rolls because--

LA BOUZOLE. Hang it all--a man does himself no good by appearing

singular.

ARDEUIL. Singular! But you yourself--Well, the deliberations are secret,

but for all that I know you stand for independence and goodness of heart

in this Court.

LA BOUZOLE. Yes, I've permitted myself that luxury--lately.

ARDEUIL. Lately?

LA BOUZOLE. Yes, yes, my young friend, for some little time. Because for

some little time I've been cured of the disease which turns so many

honest fellows into bad magistrates. That disease is the fever of

promotion. Look at those men there. If they weren't infected by this

microbe, they would be just, kindly gentlemen, instead of cruel and

servile magistrates.

ARDEUIL. You exaggerate, sir. The French magistracy is not--

LA BOUZOLE. It is not venal--that's the truth. Among our four thousand

magistrates you might perhaps not find one--you hear me, not one--even

among the poorest and most obscure--who would accept a money bribe in

order to modify his judgment. That is the glory of our country's

magistracy and its special virtue. But a great number of our magistrates

are ready to be complaisant--even to give way--when it is a question of

making themselves agreeable to an influential elector, or to the deputy,

or to the minister who distributes appointments and favors. Universal

suffrage is the god and the tyrant of the magistrate. So you are

right--and I am not wrong.

ARDEUIL. Nothing can deprive us of our independence.

LA BOUZOLE. That is so. But, as Monsieur de Tocqueville once remarked,

we can offer it up as a sacrifice.

ARDEUIL. You are a misanthrope. There are magistrates whom no promise of

any kind--

LA BOUZOLE. Yes, there are. Those who are not needy or who have no

ambitions. Yes, there are obscure persons who devote their whole lives

to their professions and who never ask for anything for themselves. But

you can take my word for it that they are the exceptions, and that our

Court of Mauleon, which you yourself have seen, represents about the

average of our judicial morality. I exaggerate, you think? Well! Let us

suppose that in all France there are only fifty Courts like this.

Suppose there are only twenty--suppose there is only one. It is still

one too many! Why, my young friend, what sort of an idea have you got of

the magistracy?

ARDEUIL. It frightens me.

LA BOUZOLE. You are speaking seriously?

ARDEUIL. Certainly.

LA BOUZOLE. Then why did you become a substitute?

ARDEUIL. Through no choice of my own! My people pushed me into the

profession.

LA BOUZOLE. Yes. People look on the magistracy as a career. That is to

say, from the moment you enter it you have only one object--to get on.

[_A pause_]

ARDEUIL. Yet it would be a noble thing--to dispense justice tempered

with mercy.

LA BOUZOLE. Yes--it should be. [_A pause_] Do you want the advice of a

man who has for forty years been a judge of the third class?

ARDEUIL. I should value it.

LA BOUZOLE. Send in your resignation. You have mistaken your vocation.

You wear the wrong robe. The man who attempts to put into practice the

ideas you have expressed must wear the priest's cassock.

ARDEUIL [_as though to himself_] Yes--but for that one must have a

simple heart--a heart open to faith.

BUNERAT [_who is with the others_] If only we had the luck to have a

deputy of the department for Keeper of the Seals! Just for a week!

LA BOUZOLE [_to Ardeuil_] There, my boy, that's the sort of thing one

has to think about.

THE MANSERVANT [_entering_] From his Honor the President of Assizes.

[_He gives Vagret a letter_]

VAGRET. He isn't coming?

MADAME VAGRET [_after reading the note_] He isn't coming.

BUNERAT. I hardly expected him.

MADAME VAGRET. A nervous headache he says. He left by the 6:49 train.

MOUZON. That's significant!

MADAME BUNERAT. It would be impossible to mark his disapproval more

clearly.

BUNERAT. Three acquittals too!

MADAME BUNERAT. If it had been a question of celebrated pleaders! But

newly fledged advocates!

BUNERAT. Nobodies!

MADAME VAGRET [_to her daughter_] My poor child! What will his report be

like?

BERTHA. What report?

MADAME VAGRET. Don't you know? At the close of each session the

President submits a report to the Minister--Ah, my dear Madame Bunerat!

[_The three women seat themselves at the back of the stage_]

MOUZON. Three acquittals--and the Irissary murder. A deplorable record!

A pretty pickle we're in.

BUNERAT. You know, my dear Vagret, I'm a plain speaker. No

shilly-shallying about me. When I hunt the boar I charge right down on

him. I speak plainly--anyone can know what's in my mind. I'm the son of

a peasant, I am, and I make no bones about it. Well, it seems to me that

your Bar--I know, of course, that you lead it with distinguished

integrity and honesty--but it seems to me--how shall I put it?--that

it's getting weak. Mouzon, you will remember, said the same thing when

he was consulting the statistics.

MOUZON. It really is a very bad year.

BUNERAT. You know it was a question of making ourselves an exception to

the general rule--of getting our Court raised to a higher class. Well,

Mauleon won't be raised from the third class to the second if the number

of causes diminishes.

MOUZON. We should have to prove that we had been extremely busy.

BUNERAT. And many of the cases you settled by arrangement might well

have been the subject of proceedings.

MOUZON. Just reflect that this year we have awarded a hundred and

eighteen years less imprisonment than we did last year!

BUNERAT. And yet the Court has not been to blame. We safeguard the

interests of society with the greatest vigilance.

MOUZON. But before we can punish you must give us prisoners.

VAGRET. I have recently issued the strictest orders respecting the

repression of smuggling offences, which are so common in these parts.

BUNERAT. Well, that's something. You understand the point of view we

take. It's a question of the safety of the public, my dear fellow.

MOUZON. We are falling behind other Courts of the same class. See, I've

worked out the figures. [_He takes a paper from his pocket-book and

accidentally drops other papers, which La Bouzole picks up_] I see--

LA BOUZOLE. You are dropping your papers, Mouzon. Is this yours--this

envelope? [_He reads_] "Monsieur Benoit, Officer of the Navy, Railway

Hotel, Bordeaux." A nice scent--

MOUZON [_flurried, taking the letter from La Bouzole_] Yes--a letter

belonging to a friend of mine.

LA BOUZOLE. And this? The Irissary murder?

MOUZON. Ah, yes--it's--I was going to explain--it's--oh, the Irissary

murder, yes--it's the translation Bunerat gave me of the article which

appeared in the _Eskual Herria_ to-day. It is extremely unpleasant. They

say Mauleon is a sort of penal Court--something like a Biribi of the

magistracy.

VAGRET. But, after all, I can't invent a murderer for you just because

the fellow is so pig-headed that he won't allow himself to be taken!

Delorme has sent the description they gave us to the offices of all the

magistrates.

MOUZON. Delorme! Shall I tell you what I think? Well, our colleague

Delorme is making a mistake in sticking to the idea that the criminal is

a tramp.

VAGRET. But there is a witness.

MOUZON. The witness is lying, or he's mistaken.

BUNERAT. A witness who saw gipsies leaving the victim's house that

morning.

MOUZON. I repeat, the witness is lying, or he is mistaken.

VAGRET. Why so?

MOUZON. I'm certain of it.

BUNERAT. Why?

MOUZON. Because I'm certain the murderer wasn't a gipsy.

VAGRET. But explain--

MOUZON. It's of no use, my dear friend. I know my duty to my colleague

Delorme too well to insist. I've said too much already.

VAGRET. Not at all.

BUNERAT. By no means.

MOUZON. It was with the greatest delicacy that I warned our colleague

Delorme--he was good enough to consult me and show me day by day the

information which he had elicited--I warned him that he was on a false

scent. He would listen to nothing; he persisted in searching for his

tramp. Well, let him search! There are fifty thousand tramps in France.

After all, I am probably wrong. Yet I should be surprised, for in the

big towns in which I have served as magistrate, and in which I found

myself confronted, not merely now and again, but every day, so to speak,

with difficulties of this sort, I was able to acquire a certain practice

in criminal cases and a certain degree of perspicacity.

VAGRET. Obviously. As for Delorme, it is the first time he has had to

deal with such a big crime.

MOUZON. In the case of that pretty woman from Toulouse, at Bordeaux, a

case which made a good deal of stir at the time, it was I who forced the

accused to make the confession that led her to the guillotine.

BUNERAT [_admiringly_] Was it really?

VAGRET. My dear friend, I ask you most seriously--and if I am insistent,

it is because I have reasons for being so--between ourselves, I beg you

to tell us on what you base your opinion.

MOUZON. Well, I don't want to hide my light under a bushel--I'll tell

you.

BUNERAT. We are listening.

MOUZON. Recall the facts. In a house isolated as are most of our Basque

houses they find, one morning, an old man of eighty-seven murdered in

his bed. Servants who slept in the adjacent building had heard nothing.

The dogs did not bark. There was robbery, it is true, but the criminal

did not confine himself to stealing hard cash; he stole family papers as

well. Remember that point. And I will call your attention to another

detail. It had rained on the previous evening. In the garden footprints

were discovered which were immediately attributed to the murderer, who

was so badly shod that the big toe of his right foot protruded from his

boot. Monsieur Delorme proceeds along the trail; he obtains a piece of

evidence that encourages him, and he declares that the murderer is a

vagrant. I say this is a mistake. The murderer is not a vagrant. Now the

house in which the crime was committed is an isolated house, and we know

that within a radius of six to ten miles there was no tramp begging

before the crime. So this tramp, if there was one, would have eaten and

drunk on the scene of the crime, either before or after striking the

blow. Now no traces have been discovered which permit us to suppose that

he did anything of the kind. So--here is a man who arrives in a state of

exhaustion. He begs; he is refused. He then hides himself, and, when it

is night, he robs and assassinates. There is wine and bread and other

food at hand; but he goes his way without touching them. Is this

probable? No. Don't tell me that he was disturbed and so ran off; it is

not true; their own witness declares that he saw him in the morning, a

few yards from the house, whereas the crime was committed before

midnight. If Monsieur Delorme, in addition to his distinguished

qualities, had a little experience of cases of this kind, he would

realize that empty bottles, dirty glasses, and scraps of food left on

the table constitute, so to speak, the sign manual which the criminal

vagrant leaves behind him on the scene of his crime.

BUNERAT. True; I was familiar with that detail.

LA BOUZOLE [_under his breath to Ardeuil_] That fellow would send a man

to the scaffold for the sake of seeming to know something.

VAGRET. Go on--go on.

MOUZON. Monsieur Delorme ought to have known this also: in the life of

the vagrant there is one necessity which comes next to hunger and

thirst--it is the need of footwear. This is so true that they have

sometimes been known to make this need a pretext for demanding an

appeal, because the journey to the Court of Appeal is generally made on

foot, so that the administration is obliged to furnish shoes, and, as

these are scarcely worn during the period of detention, they are in good

condition when the man leaves prison. Now the supposed vagrant has a

foot very nearly the same size as that of his victim. He has--you

yourself have told us--boots which are in a very bad condition. Well,

gentlemen, this badly shod vagrant does not take the good strong boots

which are in the house! I will add but one word more. If the crime had

been committed by a passing stranger--by a professional mendicant--will

you tell me why this remarkable murderer follows the road which passes

in front of the victim's house--a road on which he would find no

resources--a road on which houses are met with only at intervals of two

or three miles--when there is, close at hand, another road which runs

through various villages and passes numbers of farmhouses, in which it

is a tradition never to refuse hospitality to one of his kind? One word

more. Why does this vagrant steal family papers which will betray him as

the criminal the very first time he comes into contact with the police?

No, gentlemen, the criminal is not a vagrant. If you want to find him,

you must not look for a man wandering along the highway; you must look

for him among those relatives or debtors or friends, who had an interest

in his death.

VAGRET. This is very true.

BUNERAT. I call that admirably logical and extremely lucid.

MOUZON. Believe me, the matter is quite simple. If I were intrusted with

the examination, I guarantee that within three days the criminal would

be under lock and key.

VAGRET. Well, my dear colleague, I have a piece of news for you.

Monsieur Delorme, who is very unwell, has returned me his brief this

afternoon, and it will be intrusted to you. Henceforth the preliminary

examination of the Irissary murder will be in your hands.

MOUZON. I have only to say that I accept. My duty is to obey. I withdraw

nothing of what I have said; within three days the murderer will be

arrested.

BUNERAT. Bravo!

VAGRET. I thank you for that promise in the name of all concerned. I

declare that you relieve us of a great anxiety. [_To his wife_] Listen,

my dear. Monsieur Mouzon is undertaking the preliminary examination, and

he promises us a result before three days are up.

MADAME VAGRET. We shall be grateful, Monsieur Mouzon.

MADAME BUNERAT. Oh, thank you!

VAGRET. Bertha! Tell them to serve dinner--and to send up that old

Irrouleguy wine! I will drink to your success, my dear fellow.

THE MANSERVANT. Dinner is served.

_The gentlemen offer their arms to the ladies preparatory to

going in to dinner._

CURTAIN.

ACT II

_In the office of Mouzon, the examining magistrate. A door

at the back and in the wall to the right. On the left are

two desks. Portfolios, armchairs, and one ordinary chair._

SCENE I:--_The recorder, then the doorkeeper, then Mouzon. When the

curtain rises the recorder, seated in the magistrate's armchair, is

drinking his coffee. The doorkeeper enters._

RECORDER. Ah! Here's our friend the doorkeeper of the courthouse! Well,

what's the news?

DOORKEEPER. Here's your boss.

RECORDER. Already!

DOORKEEPER. He got back from Bordeaux last night. Fagged out he looked.

RECORDER [_loftily_] A Mauleon magistrate is always fatigued when he

returns from Bordeaux!

DOORKEEPER. Why?

RECORDER [_after a pause_] I do not know.

DOORKEEPER. It's the Irissary murder that has brought him here so early.

RECORDER. Probably. [_While speaking he arranges his cup, saucer, sugar

basin, etc., in a drawer. He then goes to his own place, the desk at the

back. Mouzon enters. The doorkeeper pretends to have completed some

errand and leaves the room. The recorder rises, with a low bow_]

Good-morning, your worship.

MOUZON. Good-morning. You haven't made any engagements, have you, except

in the case of the Irissary murder?

RECORDER. I have cited the officer of the gendarmerie, the accused, and

the wife of the accused.

MOUZON. I am tired, my good fellow. I have a nervous headache! Any

letters for me?

RECORDER. No, your worship.

MOUZON. His Honor the State Attorney hasn't asked for me?

RECORDER. No, your worship. But all the same I have something for you.

[_He hands him an envelope_]

MOUZON [_opening the envelope_] Stamps for my collection! I say, Benoit,

that's good! Now let's see. Let's see. [_He unlocks the drawer of his

desk and takes out a stamp album_] Uruguay. I have it! Well, it will do

to exchange. And this one too. Oh! Oh! I say, Benoit! A George Albert,

first edition! But where did you get this, my dear fellow?

RECORDER. A solicitor's clerk found it in a brief.

MOUZON. Splendid! I must stick that in at once! Pass me the paste, will

you? [_He delicately trims the edges of the stamp with a pair of

scissors and pastes it in the album with the greatest care, while still

talking_] It is rare, extremely rare! According to the _Philatelist_ it

will exchange for three blue Amadei or a '67 Khedive, obliterated.

There! [_Turning over the leaves of his album_] Really, you know, it

begins to look something like. It's beginning to fill up, eh? You know I

believe I shall soon be able to get that Hayti example. Look! See here!

[_In great delight_] There's a whole page-full! And all splendid

examples. [_He closes the album and sighs_] O Lord!

RECORDER. You don't feel well?

MOUZON. It's not that. I was rather worried at Bordeaux.

RECORDER. About your stamps?

MOUZON. No, no. [_A sigh to himself_] Damn the women! The very thing I

didn't want. [_He takes his album again_] When I've got that Hayti

specimen I shall need only three more to fill this page too. Yes. [_He

closes the album_] Well, what's the post? Ah! Here is the information

from Paris in respect of the woman Etchepare and her husband's judicial

record. [_The doorkeeper enters with a visiting-card_] Who is coming to

disturb me now? [_More agreeably, having read the name_] Ah! Ah! [_To

the recorder_] I shall see him alone.

RECORDER. Yes, your worship. [_He goes out_]

MOUZON [_to the doorkeeper_] Show him in. [_He hides his album, picks up

a brief, and affects to be reading it with the utmost attention_]