THE
SORROWS OF BELGIUM
A PLAY IN SIX SCENES
LEONID ANDREYEV
AUTHOR OF "ANATHEMA" "THE SEVEN WHO WERE HANGED," ETC.
AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY
HERMAN BERNSTEIN
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1915
INTRODUCTION
Leonid Andreyev, the great Russian writer, whose "Anathema,"
"The Seven Who Were Hanged," "The Life of Man" and "Red
Laughter" have attracted universal attention, has now written
the story of the sorrows of the Belgian people. He delineates
the tragedy of Belgium as reflected in the home of the foremost
Belgian poet and thinker--regarded as the conscience of the
Belgian nation.
Leonid Andreyev feels deeply and keenly for the oppressed and
weaker nationalities. He has depicted the victims of this war
with profound sympathy,--the Belgians, and in another literary
masterpiece he analyzed the sufferings of the Jews in Russia
as a result of this war. He described vividly the sense of
shame of the Russian people on account of the Russian official
anti-Jewish policies.
In both these works Leonid Andreyev holds German militarism and
German influences responsible for the wrongs committed against
smaller nationalities.
In his treatise on the tragedy of the Jews in Russia, he writes
of "Russian barbarians" and "German barbarians" as follows:
"If for the Jews themselves the Pale of Settlement, the per cent
norm and other restrictions were a fatal fact, which distorted
all their life, it has been for me, a Russian, something like a
hunch on my back, a monstrous growth, which I received I know
not when and under what conditions. But wherever I may go and
whatever I may do the hunch is always with me; it has disturbed
my sleep at night, and in my waking hours, in the presence of
people, it has filled me with a sensation of confusion and
shame....
"It is necessary for all to understand that the end of Jewish
sufferings is the beginning of our self-respect, without which
Russia cannot live. The dark days of the war will pass and the
German barbarians' of today will once more become cultured
Germans whose voice will again be heard throughout the world.
And it is essential that neither their voice nor any other voice
should call us loudly 'Russian barbarians.'"
Aside from its literary and dramatic value, if this volume
on the sorrows of Belgium will tend to arouse a little more
sympathy for the sufferings of the victims of the war, or if it
will help to call forth in the minds of the people a stronger
abhorrence of the horrors of war, it will have served an
important and worthy purpose.
HERMAN BERNSTEIN.
_May 25, 1915._
THE SORROWS OF BELGIUM
CHARACTERS
_Count Clairmont._
_Emil Grelieu_--A Famous Belgian Author.
_Jeanne_--His Wife.
_Pierre_ } Their sons.
_Maurice_ }
_Lagard_--Member of the Cabinet.
_General_--Adjutant to Count Clairmont.
_Insane Girl._
_François_--Gardener.
_Henrietta_ } Grelieu's Servants.
_Silvina_ }
_Commander of the German Armies in Belgium_.
_Von Blumenfeld._
_Von Ritzau_ }
_Von Stein_ } Officers.
_Von Schauss_ }
_Kloetz_--Military Engineer.
_Zigler_--Telegraphist.
_Greitzer._
_German Officer._
_Belgian Peasant_.
_Doctor Langloi._
_A Chauffeur_--A Belgian.
SCENE I
_The action takes place in Belgium, at the beginning of the war
of 1914. The scene represents a garden near the villa of the
famous Belgian author, Emil Grelieu. Beyond the tops of low
trees, beyond the stone fence which divides Grelieu's estate
from the neighboring gardens, are seen the outlines of the red
roofs of the houses in the small town, of the Town Hall, and of
an ancient church. There the people already know about the war;
there the church bells are ringing uneasily, while in the garden
there is still peace. A small, splendidly kept flower garden;
beautiful and fragrant flowers; shrubbery in bloom; a nook of
a hothouse. The glass covers are half open. The sun is shining
softly; there is in the air the bluish mist of a warm and quiet
day, and all colors seem tenderly soft; only in the foreground
the colors of the flowers stand out in sharp relief._
_François is sitting and clipping roses at one of the flower
beds. He is an old and deaf, stern Belgian, with long, gray
hair. He holds in his mouth an earthen pipe. François is
working. He does not hear the tolling of the bells. He is alone
in the garden, and it seems to him that all is calm and quiet._
_But something fills him with faint alarm. He hears an
indistinct call. He looks around--but sees no one. He hums to
himself a song without words. Suddenly he stops, straightens
himself, holding the scissors in his hands, and looks around
again_.
FRANÇOIS
Who has called me?
_He sees no one. He looks at the hothouse--it seems to him that
some one is calling him from there._
I hear you, Monsieur Emil, I am here.
_He sees no one. He frowns and cries angrily._
Who is calling me? No one here.
_He looks at the sky, then at the flowers, and resumes his work
quietly._
They say I am deaf. But I heard some one calling
me twice: "François!" "François!" No, perhaps
it is my blood, making a noise in my ears.
_Silence. But his uneasiness does not subside; he listens again._
I can still hear some one calling me: "François!"
Very well; here is François, and if anyone needs me he may
call me again. I shall not run. I can't hear the chirping of
the birds; the birds have long since become silent for me. What
nonsense--these birds! Very well, I am deaf--does anyone think I
am going to cry over it?
_Twitches his mouth into a smile._
And my eyes? That is another matter. My eyes! Why are you
forever silent, François? Why should I speak if I do not hear
your foolish answer? It is all nonsense--to talk and to listen.
I can see more than you can hear.
_Laughs._
Yes, I see this. This does not talk either, but bend down to it
and you will learn more than Solomon ever knew. That is what
the Bible says--Solomon. To you the earth is noise and prattle,
while to me it is like a Madonna in colors upon a picture. Like
a Madonna in colors.
_The bell is ringing. In the distance a youthful voice calls
"Papa!" "Papa!" Then, "François!" Maurice, Emil Grelieu's
younger son, a youth of about 17, appears, coming quickly from
the house. He calls François once more, but François does not
hear. Finally he shouts right next to his ear._
MAURICE
François, what is the matter with you? I am calling you. I am
calling you. Haven't you seen papa?
FRANÇOIS
_Calmly, without turning around._
Did you call me, Maurice? I heard your call long ago.
MAURICE
You heard me, but did not respond. How obstinate you are!
Haven't you seen papa? I am looking for him everywhere. Quick!
Where is papa?
FRANÇOIS
Papa?
MAURICE
_Shouts._
Where is papa? Haven't you seen him? Silvina says he went to the
hothouse. Do you hear?
FRANÇOIS
He is not there. I spoke to Monsieur this morning, but since
then I have not seen him. No.
MAURICE
What is to be done? How they are tolling! François, what is to
be done--do you hear them tolling?
FRANÇOIS
Ah! I hear. Will you take some roses, my boy?
MAURICE
You don't understand anything--you are beyond endurance! They
are running in the streets, they are all running there, and papa
is not here. I will run over there, too, at once. Perhaps he is
there. What a day!
FRANÇOIS
Who is running?
MAURICE
You don't understand anything!
_Shouts._
They have entered Belgium!
FRANÇOIS
Who has entered Belgium?
MAURICE
They--the Prussians. Can't you understand? It's war! War!
Imagine what will happen. Pierre will have to go, and so will I
go. I will not stay here under any circumstances.
FRANÇOIS
_Straightening himself, dropping the scissors._
War? What nonsense, my boy! Who has entered Belgium?
MAURICE
They--the Prussians. Pierre will go now, and I will go--I will
not stay away under any circumstances, understand? What will
become of Belgium now?--it is hard to conceive it. They entered
Belgium yesterday--do you understand--what scoundrels!
_In the distance, along the narrow streets of the town, an
uneasy sound of footsteps and wheels is growing rapidly.
Distinct voices and outcries blend into a dull, suppressed,
ominous noise, full of alarm. The tolling, as though tired, now
subsides, now turns almost to a shriek. François tries vainly to
hear something. Then he takes up the scissors again angrily._
MAURICE
François!
FRANÇOIS
_Sternly._
That's all nonsense! What are you prating, my boy? There is no
war--that is impossible.
MAURICE
You are a foolish old man, yourself! They have entered
Belgium--do you understand--they are here already.
FRANÇOIS
That's not true.
MAURICE
Why isn't it true?
FRANÇOIS
Because that is impossible. The newspapers print nonsense, and
they have all gone mad. Fools, and nothing more--madmen. What
Prussians? Young man, you have no right to make sport of me like
this.
MAURICE
But listen--
FRANÇOIS
Prussians! What Prussians? I don't know any Prussians, and I
don't want to know them.
MAURICE
But understand, old man, they are already bombarding Liège!
FRANÇOIS
No!
MAURICE
They have killed many people. What a strange man you are! Don't
you hear the tolling of the bells? The people are on the square.
They are all running. The women are crying. What is that?
FRANÇOIS
_Angrily._
You are stepping on the flower bed. Get off!
MAURICE
Don't bother me! Why are they shouting so loudly? Something has
happened there.
_The sound of a trumpet is heard in the distance. The shouting
of the crowd is growing ever louder. Sounds of the Belgian hymn
are heard faintly. Suddenly an ominous silence follows the
noise, and then the lone sound of the tolling bells._
MAURICE
Now they are quiet.... What does it mean?
FRANÇOIS
Nonsense, nonsense!
_Infuriated._
You are stepping on the flower bed again. Get off! You have all
lost your reason! Go, go! The Prussians!...
MAURICE
You have lost your reason!
FRANÇOIS
I am seventy years old, and you tell me about the Prussians. Go!
_Again the shouting of the crowd is heard. Silvina, the
chambermaid, runs out of the house and calls: "Monsieur
Maurice!"_
SILVINA
Please, come into the house. Madame Jeanne is calling you.
Madame is going away. Please, come.
MAURICE
And papa?
SILVINA
He isn't here yet. Come!
_Both move away. François sits down at the flower bed
impatiently._
MAURICE
You don't understand, Silvina. He does not believe that there is
a war.
SILVINA
It is very dreadful, Monsieur Maurice. I am afraid--
_They go out. François looks after them angrily, adjusts his
apron, and prepares to resume his work._
FRANÇOIS
Madmen! I am seventy years old. I am seventy years old, and they
want me to believe a story about Prussians. Nonsense, they are
crazy! Prussians! But it is true that I don't hear anything.
_Rising, he listens attentively._
No, not a sound. Or do I hear something? Oh, the devil take it!
I can't hear a sound. Impossible! No, no, impossible! But what
is that? How could I believe that in this calm sky--in this calm
sky--
_The din of battle is growing. François listens again and hears
it. He grows thoughtful. His eyes express fright. He looks as
though he had suddenly solved a terrible problem. He moves
to and fro, his head bent down, as though trying to catch the
sounds. Suddenly he throws down the scissors. He is seized with
a feeling of terror. He raises his hands._
I hear it. No. No. Now I don't hear a sound. Oh, God, give me
the power to hear!
_He tries again to catch the fleeting sounds, his head bent,
his neck outstretched. His hair is disheveled. His eyes stare.
Suddenly, by a great effort, he hears the tolling of the bells
and voices full of despair. He retreats and raises his hands
again._
My God! They are tolling! They are crying! War! What war? What
war? Eh, who is there--who is shouting "War!"?
_The sound of the bells and the cries grows louder. Emil Grelieu
appears, walking quickly in the alley_.
EMIL GRELIEU
What are you shouting, François? Where is Maurice? No one is in
the house.
FRANÇOIS
Is it war?
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, yes, it is war. The Prussians have entered Belgium. But you
don't hear anything.
FRANÇOIS
_Painfully trying to catch the sounds._
I hear, I hear; are they killing?
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, they are killing. The Prussians have entered Belgium. Where
is Maurice?
FRANÇOIS
But, Monsieur Emil--but, Monsieur, what Prussians? Pardon me; I
am seventy years old, and I lost my sense of hearing long ago.
_Weeps._
Is it really a war?
EMIL GRELIEU
Yes, it is a real war. I can't understand it either. But the
fighting has already commenced. I can't realize it myself, but
it is war, old man.
FRANÇOIS
Tell me, Monsieur. Tell me about it. I believe you as I believe
God. Tell me. I can hear you. Are they killing?
EMIL GRELIEU
It is war! What horror, François. It is very hard to understand
it--yes, very hard.
_Frowns and rubs his high, pale forehead nervously_.
FRANÇOIS
_Bent, weeps, his head shaking._
And the flowers? Our flowers?
EMIL GRELIEU
_Absentmindedly._
Our flowers? Don't cry, François--ah, what is that?
_The tolling of the bells subsides. The crying and the
shouting of the crowd changes, into a harmonious volume of
sound--somebody is hailed in the distance. An important
announcement seems to have been made there_.
EMIL GRELIEU
_Absentmindedly._
Our people are expecting the King there--he is on his way to
Liège! Yes, yes--
_Silence. Suddenly there is a sound like the crash of thunder.
Then it changes into a song--the crowd is singing the Belgian
hymn._
_Curtain_