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Title: There are Crimes and Crimes
A Comedy
Author: August Strindberg
Translator: Edwin Bjorkman
Release Date: January, 2004 [EBook #4970]
This file was first posted on April 8, 2002
Last Updated: May 5, 2013
Language: English
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THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES
A Comedy
By August Strindberg
Translated from the Swedish with an Introduction by Edwin Bjorkman
INTRODUCTION
Strindberg was fifty years old when he wrote "There Are Crimes and
Crimes." In the same year, 1899, he produced three of his finest
historical dramas: "The Saga of the Folkungs," "Gustavus Vasa," and
"Eric XIV." Just before, he had finished "Advent," which he described as
"A Mystery," and which was published together with "There Are Crimes
and Crimes" under the common title of "In a Higher Court." Back of these
dramas lay his strange confessional works, "Inferno" and "Legends,"
and the first two parts of his autobiographical dream-play, "Toward
Damascus"--all of which were finished between May, 1897, and some time
in the latter part of 1898. And back of these again lay that period of
mental crisis, when, at Paris, in 1895 and 1896, he strove to make gold
by the transmutation of baser metals, while at the same time his spirit
was travelling through all the seven hells in its search for the heaven
promised by the great mystics of the past.
"There Are Crimes and Crimes" may, in fact, be regarded as his first
definite step beyond that crisis, of which the preceding works were
at once the record and closing chord. When, in 1909, he issued "The
Author," being a long withheld fourth part of his first autobiographical
series, "The Bondwoman's Son," he prefixed to it an analytical summary
of the entire body of his work. Opposite the works from 1897-8 appears
in this summary the following passage: "The great crisis at the age
of fifty; revolutions in the life of the soul, desert wanderings,
Swedenborgian Heavens and Hells." But concerning "There Are Crimes and
Crimes" and the three historical dramas from the same year he writes
triumphantly: "Light after darkness; new productivity, with recovered
Faith, Hope and Love--and with full, rock-firm Certitude."
In its German version the play is named "Rausch," or "Intoxication,"
which indicates the part played by the champagne in the plunge of
Maurice from the pinnacles of success to the depths of misfortune.
Strindberg has more and more come to see that a moderation verging
closely on asceticism is wise for most men and essential to the man of
genius who wants to fulfil his divine mission. And he does not scorn
to press home even this comparatively humble lesson with the naive
directness and fiery zeal which form such conspicuous features of all
his work.
But in the title which bound it to "Advent" at their joint publication
we have a better clue to what the author himself undoubtedly regards
as the most important element of his work--its religious tendency. The
"higher court," in which are tried the crimes of Maurice, Adolphe, and
Henriette, is, of course, the highest one that man can imagine. And the
crimes of which they have all become guilty are those which, as Adolphe
remarks, "are not mentioned in the criminal code"--in a word, crimes
against the spirit, against the impalpable power that moves us, against
God. The play, seen in this light, pictures a deep-reaching spiritual
change, leading us step by step from the soul adrift on the waters of
life to the state where it is definitely oriented and impelled.
There are two distinct currents discernible in this dramatic revelation
of progress from spiritual chaos to spiritual order--for to order
the play must be said to lead, and progress is implied in its onward
movement, if there be anything at all in our growing modern conviction
that ANY vital faith is better than none at all. One of the currents
in question refers to the means rather than the end, to the road rather
than the goal. It brings us back to those uncanny soul-adventures by
which Strindberg himself won his way to the "full, rock-firm Certitude"
of which the play in its entirety is the first tangible expression. The
elements entering into this current are not only mystical, but occult.
They are derived in part from Swedenborg, and in part from that
picturesque French dreamer who signs himself "Sar Peladan"; but mostly
they have sprung out of Strindberg's own experiences in moments of
abnormal tension.
What happened, or seemed to happen, to himself at Paris in 1895,
and what he later described with such bewildering exactitude in his
"Inferno" and "Legends," all this is here presented in dramatic form,
but a little toned down, both to suit the needs of the stage and the
calmer mood of the author. Coincidence is law. It is the finger-point
of Providence, the signal to man that he must beware. Mystery is the
gospel: the secret knitting of man to man, of fact to fact, deep beneath
the surface of visible and audible existence. Few writers could take
us into such a realm of probable impossibilities and possible
improbabilities without losing all claim to serious consideration. If
Strindberg has thus ventured to our gain and no loss of his own, his
success can be explained only by the presence in the play of that
second, parallel current of thought and feeling.
This deeper current is as simple as the one nearer the surface is
fantastic. It is the manifestation of that "rock-firm Certitude" to
which I have already referred. And nothing will bring us nearer to it
than Strindberg's own confession of faith, given in his "Speeches to
the Swedish Nation" two years ago. In that pamphlet there is a chapter
headed "Religion," in which occurs this passage: "Since 1896 I have been
calling myself a Christian. I am not a Catholic, and have never been,
but during a stay of seven years in Catholic countries and among
Catholic relatives, I discovered that the difference between Catholic
and Protestant tenets is either none at all, or else wholly superficial,
and that the division which once occurred was merely political or else
concerned with theological problems not fundamentally germane to the
religion itself. A registered Protestant I am and will remain, but I can
hardly be called orthodox or evangelistic, but come nearest to being a
Swedenborgian. I use my Bible Christianity internally and privately
to tame my somewhat decivilized nature--decivilised by that veterinary
philosophy and animal science (Darwinism) in which, as student at the
university, I was reared. And I assure my fellow-beings that they have
no right to complain because, according to my ability, I practise the
Christian teachings. For only through religion, or the hope of something
better, and the recognition of the innermost meaning of life as that of
an ordeal, a school, or perhaps a penitentiary, will it be possible to
bear the burden of life with sufficient resignation."
Here, as elsewhere, it is made patent that Strindberg's religiosity
always, on closer analysis, reduces itself to morality. At bottom he
is first and last, and has always been, a moralist--a man passionately
craving to know what is RIGHT and to do it. During the middle,
naturalistic period of his creative career, this fundamental tendency
was in part obscured, and he engaged in the game of intellectual
curiosity known as "truth for truth's own sake." One of the chief marks
of his final and mystical period is his greater courage to "be himself"
in this respect--and this means necessarily a return, or an advance,
to a position which the late William James undoubtedly would have
acknowledged as "pragmatic." To combat the assertion of over-developed
individualism that we are ends in ourselves, that we have certain
inalienable personal "rights" to pleasure and happiness merely because
we happen to appear here in human shape, this is one of Strindberg's
most ardent aims in all his later works.
As to the higher and more inclusive object to which our lives must be
held subservient, he is not dogmatic. It may be another life. He calls
it God. And the code of service he finds in the tenets of all the
Christian churches, but principally in the Commandments. The plain
and primitive virtues, the faith that implies little more than square
dealing between man and man--these figure foremost in Strindberg's
ideals. In an age of supreme self-seeking like ours, such an outlook
would seem to have small chance of popularity, but that it embodies
just what the time most needs is, perhaps, made evident by the reception
which the public almost invariably grants "There Are Crimes and Crimes"
when it is staged.
With all its apparent disregard of what is commonly called realism, and
with its occasional, but quite unblushing, use of methods generally held
superseded--such as the casual introduction of characters at whatever
moment they happen to be needed on the stage--it has, from the start,
been among the most frequently played and most enthusiastically received
of Strindberg's later dramas. At Stockholm it was first taken up by
the Royal Dramatic Theatre, and was later seen on the tiny stage of the
Intimate Theatre, then devoted exclusively to Strindberg's works. It
was one of the earliest plays staged by Reinhardt while he was still
experimenting with his Little Theatre at Berlin, and it has also been
given in numerous German cities, as well as in Vienna.
Concerning my own version of the play I wish to add a word of
explanation. Strindberg has laid the scene in Paris. Not only the
scenery, but the people and the circumstances are French. Yet he has
made no attempt whatever to make the dialogue reflect French manners
of speaking or ways of thinking. As he has given it to us, the play is
French only in its most superficial aspect, in its setting--and this
setting he has chosen simply because he needed a certain machinery
offered him by the Catholic, but not by the Protestant, churches. The
rest of the play is purely human in its note and wholly universal in its
spirit. For this reason I have retained the French names and titles, but
have otherwise striven to bring everything as close as possible to our
own modes of expression. Should apparent incongruities result from this
manner of treatment, I think they will disappear if only the reader will
try to remember that the characters of the play move in an existence
cunningly woven by the author out of scraps of ephemeral reality in
order that he may show us the mirage of a more enduring one.
THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES
A COMEDY
1899
CHARACTERS
MAURICE, a playwright
JEANNE, his mistress
MARION, their daughter, five years old
ADOLPHE, a painter
HENRIETTE, his mistress
EMILE, a workman, brother of Jeanne
MADAME CATHERINE
THE ABBE
A WATCHMAN
A HEAD WAITER
A COMMISSAIRE
TWO DETECTIVES
A WAITER
A GUARD
A SERVANT GIRL
ACT I, SCENE 1. THE CEMETERY
2. THE CREMERIE
ACT II, SCENE 1. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS
2. THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE
ACT III, SCENE 1. THE CREMERIE
2. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS
ACT IV, SCENE 1. THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS
2. THE CREMERIE
(All the scenes are laid in Paris)
THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES
ACT I
FIRST SCENE
(The upper avenue of cypresses in the Montparnasse Cemetery at Paris.
The background shows mortuary chapels, stone crosses on which are
inscribed "O Crux! Ave Spes Unica!" and the ruins of a wind-mill covered
with ivy.)
(A well-dressed woman in widow's weeds is kneeling and muttering prayers
in front of a grave decorated with flowers.)
(JEANNE is walking back and forth as if expecting somebody.)
(MARION is playing with some withered flowers picked from a rubbish heap
on the ground.)
(The ABBE is reading his breviary while walking along the further end of
the avenue.)
WATCHMAN. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Look here, this is no
playground.
JEANNE. [Submissively] I am only waiting for somebody who'll soon be
here--
WATCHMAN. All right, but you're not allowed to pick any flowers.
JEANNE. [To MARION] Drop the flowers, dear.
ABBE. [Comes forward and is saluted by the WATCHMAN] Can't the child
play with the flowers that have been thrown away?
WATCHMAN. The regulations don't permit anybody to touch even the flowers
that have been thrown away, because it's believed they may spread
infection--which I don't know if it's true.
ABBE. [To MARION] In that case we have to obey, of course. What's your
name, my little girl?
MARION. My name is Marion.
ABBE. And who is your father?
(MARION begins to bite one of her fingers and does not answer.)
ABBE. Pardon my question, madame. I had no intention--I was just talking
to keep the little one quiet.
(The WATCHMAN has gone out.)
JEANNE. I understood it, Reverend Father, and I wish you would say
something to quiet me also. I feel very much disturbed after having
waited here two hours.
ABBE. Two hours--for him! How these human beings torture each other! O
Crux! Ave spes unica!
JEANNE. What do they mean, those words you read all around here?
ABBE. They mean: O cross, our only hope!
JEANNE. Is it the only one?
ABBE. The only certain one.
JEANNE. I shall soon believe that you are right, Father.
ABBE. May I ask why?
JEANNE. You have already guessed it. When he lets the woman and the
child wait two hours in a cemetery, then the end is not far off.
ABBE. And when he has left you, what then?
JEANNE. Then we have to go into the river.
ABBE. Oh, no, no!
JEANNE. Yes, yes!
MARION. Mamma, I want to go home, for I am hungry.
JEANNE. Just a little longer, dear, and we'll go home.
ABBE. Woe unto those who call evil good and good evil.
JEANNE. What is that woman doing at the grave over there?
ABBE. She seems to be talking to the dead.
JEANNE. But you cannot do that?
ABBE. She seems to know how.
JEANNE. This would mean that the end of life is not the end of our
misery?
ABBE. And you don't know it?
JEANNE. Where can I find out?
ABBE. Hm! The next time you feel as if you wanted to learn about this
well-known matter, you can look me up in Our Lady's Chapel at the Church
of St. Germain--Here comes the one you are waiting for, I guess.
JEANNE. [Embarrassed] No, he is not the one, but I know him.
ABBE. [To MARION] Good-bye, little Marion! May God take care of you!
[Kisses the child and goes out] At St. Germain des Pres.
EMILE. [Enters] Good morning, sister. What are you doing here?
JEANNE. I am waiting for Maurice.
EMILE. Then I guess you'll have a lot of waiting to do, for I saw him on
the boulevard an hour ago, taking breakfast with some friends. [Kissing
the child] Good morning, Marion.
JEANNE. Ladies also?
EMILE. Of course. But that doesn't mean anything. He writes plays, and
his latest one has its first performance tonight. I suppose he had with
him some of the actresses.
JEANNE. Did he recognise you?
EMILE. No, he doesn't know who I am, and it is just as well. I know my
place as a workman, and I don't care for any condescension from those
that are above me.
JEANNE. But if he leaves us without anything to live on?
EMILE. Well, you see, when it gets that far, then I suppose I shall
have to introduce myself. But you don't expect anything of the kind, do
you--seeing that he is fond of you and very much attached to the child?
JEANNE. I don't know, but I have a feeling that something dreadful is in
store for me.
EMILE. Has he promised to marry you?
JEANNE. No, not promised exactly, but he has held out hopes.
EMILE. Hopes, yes! Do you remember my words at the start: don't hope for
anything, for those above us don't marry downward.
JEANNE. But such things have happened.
EMILE. Yes, they have happened. But, would you feel at home in his
world? I can't believe it, for you wouldn't even understand what they
were talking of. Now and then I take my meals where he is eating--out in
the kitchen is my place, of course--and I don't make out a word of what
they say.
JEANNE. So you take your meals at that place?
EMILE. Yes, in the kitchen.
JEANNE. And think of it, he has never asked me to come with him.
EMILE. Well, that's rather to his credit, and it shows he has some
respect for the mother of his child. The women over there are a queer
lot.
JEANNE. Is that so?
EMILE. But Maurice never pays any attention to the women. There is
something SQUARE about that fellow.
JEANNE. That's what I feel about him, too, but as soon as there is a
woman in it, a man isn't himself any longer.
EMILE. [Smiling] You don't tell me! But listen: are you hard up for
money?
JEANNE. No, nothing of that kind.
EMILE. Well, then the worst hasn't come yet--Look! Over there! There he
comes. And I'll leave you. Good-bye, little girl.
JEANNE. Is he coming? Yes, that's him.
EMILE. Don't make him mad now--with your jealousy, Jeanne! [Goes out.]
JEANNE. No, I won't.
(MAURICE enters.)
MARION. [Runs up to him and is lifted up into his arms] Papa, papa!
MAURICE. My little girl! [Greets JEANNE] Can you forgive me, Jeanne,
that I have kept you waiting so long?
JEANNE. Of course I can.
MAURICE. But say it in such a way that I can hear that you are forgiving
me.
JEANNE. Come here and let me whisper it to you.
(MAURICE goes up close to her.)
(JEANNE kisses him on the cheek.)
MAURICE. I didn't hear.
(JEANNE kisses him on the mouth.)
MAURICE. Now I heard! Well--you know, I suppose that this is the day
that will settle my fate? My play is on for tonight, and there is every
chance that it will succeed--or fail.
JEANNE. I'll make sure of success by praying for you.
MAURICE. Thank you. If it doesn't help, it can at least do no harm--Look
over there, down there in the valley, where the haze is thickest: there
lies Paris. Today Paris doesn't know who Maurice is, but it is going to
know within twenty-four hours. The haze, which has kept me obscured for
thirty years, will vanish before my breath, and I shall become
visible, I shall assume definite shape and begin to be somebody. My
enemies--which means all who would like to do what I have done--will be
writhing in pains that shall be my pleasures, for they will be suffering
all that I have suffered.
JEANNE. Don't talk that way, don't!
MAURICE. But that's the way it is.
JEANNE. Yes, but don't speak of it--And then?
MAURICE. Then we are on firm ground, and then you and Marion will bear
the name I have made famous.
JEANNE. You love me then?
MAURICE. I love both of you, equally much, or perhaps Marion a little
more.
JEANNE. I am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but not of her.
MAURICE. Have you no confidence in my feelings toward you?
JEANNE. I don't know, but I am afraid of something, afraid of something
terrible--
MAURICE. You are tired out and depressed by your long wait, which once
more I ask you to forgive. What have you to be afraid of?
JEANNE. The unexpected: that which you may foresee without having any
particular reason to do so.
MAURICE. But I foresee only success, and I have particular reasons for
doing so: the keen instincts of the management and their knowledge
of the public, not to speak of their personal acquaintance with the
critics. So now you must be in good spirits--
JEANNE. I can't, I can't! Do you know, there was an Abbe here a while
ago, who talked so beautifully to us. My faith--which you haven't
destroyed, but just covered up, as when you put chalk on a window to
clean it--I couldn't lay hold on it for that reason, but this old man
just passed his hand over the chalk, and the light came through, and it
was possible again to see that the people within were at home--To-night
I will pray for you at St. Germain.
MAURICE. Now I am getting scared.
JEANNE. Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom.
MAURICE. God? What is that? Who is he?
JEANNE. It was he who gave joy to your youth and strength to your
manhood. And it is he who will carry us through the terrors that lie
ahead of us.
MAURICE. What is lying ahead of us? What do you know? Where have you
learned of this? This thing that I don't know?
JEANNE. I can't tell. I have dreamt nothing, seen nothing, heard
nothing. But during these two dreadful hours I have experienced such an
infinity of pain that I am ready for the worst.
MARION. Now I want to go home, mamma, for I am hungry.
MAURICE. Yes, you'll go home now, my little darling. [Takes her into his
arms.]
MARION. [Shrinking] Oh, you hurt me, papa!
JEANNE. Yes, we must get home for dinner. Good-bye then, Maurice. And
good luck to you!
MAURICE. [To MARION] How did I hurt you? Doesn't my little girl know
that I always want to be nice to her?
MARION. If you are nice, you'll come home with us.
MAURICE. [To JEANNE] When I hear the child talk like that, you know,
I feel as if I ought to do what she says. But then reason and duty
protest--Good-bye, my dear little girl! [He kisses the child, who puts
her arms around his neck.]
JEANNE. When do we meet again?
MAURICE. We'll meet tomorrow, dear. And then we'll never part again.
JEANNE. [Embraces him] Never, never to part again! [She makes the sign
of the cross on his forehead] May God protect you!
MAURICE. [Moved against his own will] My dear, beloved Jeanne!
(JEANNE and MARION go toward the right; MAURICE toward the left. Both
turn around simultaneously and throw kisses at each other.)
MAURICE. [Comes back] Jeanne, I am ashamed of myself. I am always
forgetting you, and you are the last one to remind me of it. Here are
the tickets for tonight.
JEANNE. Thank you, dear, but--you have to take up your post of duty
alone, and so I have to take up mine--with Marion.
MAURICE. Your wisdom is as great as the goodness of your heart. Yes,
I am sure no other woman would have sacrificed a pleasure to serve her
husband--I must have my hands free tonight, and there is no place for
women and children on the battle-field--and this you understood!
JEANNE. Don't think too highly of a poor woman like myself, and then
you'll have no illusions to lose. And now you'll see that I can be as
forgetful as you--I have bought you a tie and a pair of gloves which I
thought you might wear for my sake on your day of honour.
MAURICE. [Kissing her hand] Thank you, dear.
JEANNE. And then, Maurice, don't forget to have your hair fixed, as you
do all the time. I want you to be good-looking, so that others will like
you too.
MAURICE. There is no jealousy in YOU!
JEANNE. Don't mention that word, for evil thoughts spring from it.
MAURICE. Just now I feel as if I could give up this evening's
victory--for I am going to win--
JEANNE. Hush, hush!
MAURICE. And go home with you instead.
JEANNE. But you mustn't do that! Go now: your destiny is waiting for
you.
MAURICE. Good-bye then! And may that happen which must happen! [Goes
out.]
JEANNE. [Alone with MARION] O Crux! Ave spes unica!
Curtain.
SECOND SCENE
(The Cremerie. On the right stands a buffet, on which are placed
an aquarium with goldfish and dishes containing vegetables, fruit,
preserves, etc. In the background is a door leading to the kitchen,
where workmen are taking their meals. At the other end of the kitchen
can be seen a door leading out to a garden. On the left, in the
background, stands a counter on a raised platform, and back of it are
shelves containing all sorts of bottles. On the right, a long table
with a marble top is placed along the wall, and another table is placed
parallel to the first further out on the floor. Straw-bottomed chairs
stand around the tables. The walls are covered with oil-paintings.)
(MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter.)
(MAURICE stands leaning against it. He has his hat on and is smoking a
cigarette.)
MME. CATHERINE. So it's tonight the great event comes off, Monsieur
Maurice?
MAURICE. Yes, tonight.
MME. CATHERINE. Do you feel upset?
MAURICE. Cool as a cucumber.
MME. CATHERINE. Well, I wish you luck anyhow, and you have deserved it,
Monsieur Maurice, after having had to fight against such difficulties as
yours.
MAURICE. Thank you, Madame Catherine. You have been very kind to me, and
without your help I should probably have been down and out by this time.
MME. CATHERINE. Don't let us talk of that now. I help along where I
see hard work and the right kind of will, but I don't want to be
exploited--Can we trust you to come back here after the play and let us
drink a glass with you?
MAURICE. Yes, you can--of course, you can, as I have already promised
you.
(HENRIETTE enters from the right.)
(MAURICE turns around, raises his hat, and stares at HENRIETTE, who
looks him over carefully.)
HENRIETTE. Monsieur Adolphe is not here yet?
MME. CATHERINE. No, madame. But he'll soon be here now. Won't you sit
down?
HENRIETTE. No, thank you, I'll rather wait for him outside. [Goes out.]
MAURICE. Who--was--that?
MME. CATHERINE. Why, that's Monsieur Adolphe's friend.
MAURICE. Was--that--her?
MME. CATHERINE. Have you never seen her before?
MAURICE. No, he has been hiding her from me, just as if he was afraid I
might take her away from him.
MME. CATHERINE. Ha-ha!--Well, how did you think she looked?
MAURICE. How she looked? Let me see: I can't tell--I didn't see her, for
it was as if she had rushed straight into my arms at once and come so
close to me that I couldn't make out her features at all. And she left
her impression on the air behind her. I can still see her standing
there. [He goes toward the door and makes a gesture as if putting his
arm around somebody] Whew! [He makes a gesture as if he had pricked his
finger] There are pins in her waist. She is of the kind that stings!
MME. CATHERINE. Oh, you are crazy, you with your ladies!
MAURICE. Yes, it's craziness, that's what it is. But do you know, Madame
Catherine, I am going before she comes back, or else, or else--Oh, that
woman is horrible!
MME. CATHERINE. Are you afraid?
MAURICE. Yes, I am afraid for myself, and also for some others.
MME. CATHERINE. Well, go then.
MAURICE. She seemed to suck herself out through the door, and in her
wake rose a little whirlwind that dragged me along--Yes, you may laugh,
but can't you see that the palm over there on the buffet is still
shaking? She's the very devil of a woman!
MME. CATHERINE. Oh, get out of here, man, before you lose all your
reason.
MAURICE. I want to go, but I cannot--Do you believe in fate, Madame
Catherine?
MME. CATHERINE. No, I believe in a good God, who protects us against
evil powers if we ask Him in the right way.
MAURICE. So there are evil powers after all! I think I can hear them in
the hallway now.
MME. CATHERINE. Yes, her clothes rustle as when the clerk tears off a
piece of linen for you. Get away now--through the kitchen.
(MAURICE rushes toward the kitchen door, where he bumps into EMILE.)
EMILE. I beg your pardon. [He retires the way he came.]
ADOLPHE. [Comes in first; after him HENRIETTE] Why, there's Maurice. How
are you? Let me introduce this lady here to my oldest and best friend.
Mademoiselle Henriette--Monsieur Maurice.
MAURICE. [Saluting stiffly] Pleased to meet you.
HENRIETTA. We have seen each other before.
ADOLPHE. Is that so? When, if I may ask?
MAURICE. A moment ago. Right here.
ADOLPHE. O-oh!--But now you must stay and have a chat with us.
MAURICE. [After a glance at MME. CATHERINE] If I only had time.
ADOLPHE. Take the time. And we won't be sitting here very long.
HENRIETTE. I won't interrupt, if you have to talk business.
MAURICE. The only business we have is so bad that we don't want to talk
of it.
HENRIETTE. Then we'll talk of something else. [Takes the hat away from
MAURICE and hangs it up] Now be nice, and let me become acquainted with
the great author.
MME. CATHERINE signals to MAURICE, who doesn't notice her.
ADOLPHE. That's right, Henriette, you take charge of him. [They seat
themselves at one of the tables.]
HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] You certainly have a good friend in Adolphe,
Monsieur Maurice. He never talks of anything but you, and in such a way
that I feel myself rather thrown in the background.
ADOLPHE. You don't say so! Well, Henriette on her side never leaves me
in peace about you, Maurice. She has read your works, and she is
always wanting to know where you got this and where that. She has been
questioning me about your looks, your age, your tastes. I have, in a
word, had you for breakfast, dinner, and supper. It has almost seemed as
if the three of us were living together.
MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Heavens, why didn't you come over here and have
a look at this wonder of wonders? Then your curiosity could have been
satisfied in a trice.
HENRIETTE. Adolphe didn't want it.
(ADOLPHE looks embarrassed.)
HENRIETTE. Not that he was jealous--
MAURICE. And why should he be, when he knows that my feelings are tied
up elsewhere?
HENRIETTE. Perhaps he didn't trust the stability of your feelings.
MAURICE. I can't understand that, seeing that I am notorious for my
constancy.
ADOLPHE. Well, it wasn't that--
HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him] Perhaps that is because you have not faced
the fiery ordeal--
ADOLPHE. Oh, you don't know--
HENRIETTE. [Interrupting]--for the world has not yet beheld a faithful
man.
MAURICE. Then it's going to behold one.
HENRIETTE. Where?
MAURICE. Here.
(HENRIETTE laughs.)
ADOLPHE. Well, that's going it--
HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him and directing herself continuously to
MAURICE] Do you think I ever trust my dear Adolphe more than a month at
a time?
MAURICE. I have no right to question your lack of confidence, but I can
guarantee that Adolphe is faithful.
HENRIETTE. You don't need to do so--my tongue is just running away with
me, and I have to take back a lot--not only for fear of feeling less
generous than you, but because it is the truth. It is a bad habit I have
of only seeing the ugly side of things, and I keep it up although I know
better. But if I had a chance to be with you two for some time, then
your company would make me good once more. Pardon me, Adolphe! [She puts
her hand against his cheek.]
ADOLPHE. You are always wrong in your talk and right in your actions.
What you really think--that I don't know.
HENRIETTE. Who does know that kind of thing?
MAURICE. Well, if we had to answer for our thoughts, who could then
clear himself?
HENRIETTE. Do you also have evil thoughts?
MAURICE. Certainly; just as I commit the worst kind of cruelties in my
dreams.
HENRIETTE. Oh, when you are dreaming, of course--Just think of it--No, I
am ashamed of telling--
MAURICE. Go on, go on!
HENRIETTE. Last night I dreamt that I was coolly dissecting the muscles
on Adolphe's breast--you see, I am a sculptor--and he, with his usual
kindness, made no resistance, but helped me instead with the worst
places, as he knows more anatomy than I.
MAURICE. Was he dead?
HENRIETTE. No, he was living.
MAURICE. But that's horrible! And didn't it make YOU suffer?
HENRIETTE. Not at all, and that astonished me most, for I am rather
sensitive to other people's sufferings. Isn't that so, Adolphe?
ADOLPHE. That's right. Rather abnormally so, in fact, and not the least
when animals are concerned.
MAURICE. And I, on the other hand, am rather callous toward the
sufferings both of myself and others.
ADOLPHE. Now he is not telling the truth about himself. Or what do you
say, Madame Catherine?
MME. CATHERINE. I don't know of anybody with a softer heart than
Monsieur Maurice. He came near calling in the police because I didn't
give the goldfish fresh water--those over there on the buffet. Just look
at them: it is as if they could hear what I am saying.
MAURICE. Yes, here we are making ourselves out as white as angels, and
yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any kind of polite atrocity
the moment glory, gold, or women are concerned--So you are a sculptor,
Mademoiselle Henriette?
HENRIETTE. A bit of one. Enough to do a bust. And to do one of
you--which has long been my cherished dream--I hold myself quite
capable.
MAURICE. Go ahead! That dream at least need not be long in coming true.
HENRIETTE. But I don't want to fix your features in my mind until this
evening's success is over. Not until then will you have become what you
should be.
MAURICE. How sure you are of victory!
HENRIETTE. Yes, it is written on your face that you are going to win
this battle, and I think you must feel that yourself.
MAURICE. Why do you think so?
HENRIETTE. Because I can feel it. This morning I was ill, you know, and
now I am well.
(ADOLPHE begins to look depressed.)
MAURICE. [Embarrassed] Listen, I have a single ticket left--only one. I
place it at your disposal, Adolphe.
ADOLPHE. Thank you, but I surrender it to Henriette.
HENRIETTE. But that wouldn't do?
ADOLPHE. Why not? And I never go to the theatre anyhow, as I cannot
stand the heat.
HENRIETTE. But you will come and take us home at least after the show is
over.
ADOLPHE. If you insist on it. Otherwise Maurice has to come back here,
where we shall all be waiting for him.
MAURICE. You can just as well take the trouble of meeting us. In fact,
I ask, I beg you to do so--And if you don't want to wait outside the
theatre, you can meet us at the Auberge des Adrets--That's settled then,
isn't it?
ADOLPHE. Wait a little. You have a way of settling things to suit
yourself, before other people have a chance to consider them.
MAURICE. What is there to consider--whether you are to see your lady
home or not?
ADOLPHE. You never know what may be involved in a simple act like that,
but I have a sort of premonition.
HENRIETTE. Hush, hush, hush! Don't talk of spooks while the sun is
shining. Let him come or not, as it pleases him. We can always find our
way back here.
ADOLPHE. [Rising] Well, now I have to leave you--model, you know.
Good-bye, both of you. And good luck to you, Maurice. To-morrow you will
be out on the right side. Good-bye, Henriette.
HENRIETTE. Do you really have to go?
ADOLPHE. I must.
MAURICE. Good-bye then. We'll meet later.
(ADOLPHE goes out, saluting MME. CATHERINE in passing.)
HENRIETTE. Think of it, that we should meet at last!
MAURICE. Do you find anything remarkable in that?
HENRIETTE. It looks as if it had to happen, for Adolphe has done his
best to prevent it.
MAURICE. Has he?
HENRIETTE. Oh, you must have noticed it.
MAURICE. I have noticed it, but why should you mention it?
HENRIETTE. I had to.
MAURICE. No, and I don't have to tell you that I wanted to run away
through the kitchen in order to avoid meeting you and was stopped by a
guest who closed the door in front of me.
HENRIETTE. Why do you tell me about it now?
MAURICE. I don't know.
(MME. CATHERINE upsets a number of glasses and bottles.)
MAURICE. That's all right, Madame Catherine. There's nothing to be
afraid of.
HENRIETTE. Was that meant as a signal or a warning?
MAURICE. Probably both.
HENRIETTE. Do they take me for a locomotive that has to have flagmen
ahead of it?
MAURICE. And switchmen! The danger is always greatest at the switches.
HENRIETTE. How nasty you can be!
MME. CATHERINE. Monsieur Maurice isn't nasty at all. So far nobody has
been kinder than he to those that love him and trust in him.
MAURICE. Sh, sh, sh!
HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] The old lady is rather impertinent.
MAURICE. We can walk over to the boulevard, if you care to do so.
HENRIETTE. With pleasure. This is not the place for me. I can just feel
their hatred clawing at me. [Goes out.]
MAURICE. [Starts after her] Good-bye, Madame Catherine.
MME. CATHERINE. A moment! May I speak a word to you, Monsieur Maurice?
MAURICE. [Stops unwillingly] What is it?
MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! Don't do it!
MAURICE. What?
MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it!
MAURICE. Don't be scared. This lady is not my kind, but she interests
me. Or hardly that even.
MME. CATHERINE, Don't trust yourself!
MAURICE. Yes, I do trust myself. Good-bye. [Goes out.]
(Curtain.)
ACT II
FIRST SCENE
(The Auberge des Adrets: a cafe in sixteenth century style, with a
suggestion of stage effect. Tables and easy-chairs are scattered in
corners and nooks. The walls are decorated with armour and weapons.
Along the ledge of the wainscoting stand glasses and jugs.)
(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are in evening dress and sit facing each other at
a table on which stands a bottle of champagne and three filled glasses.
The third glass is placed at that side of the table which is nearest the
background, and there an easy-chair is kept ready for the still missing
"third man.")
MAURICE. [Puts his watch in front of himself on the table] If he doesn't
get here within the next five minutes, he isn't coming at all. And
suppose in the meantime we drink with his ghost. [Touches the third
glass with the rim of his own.]
HENRIETTE. [Doing the same] Here's to you, Adolphe!
MAURICE. He won't come.
HENRIETTE. He will come.
MAURICE. He won't.
HENRIETTE. He will.
MAURICE. What an evening! What a wonderful day! I can hardly grasp that
a new life has begun. Think only: the manager believes that I may count
on no less than one hundred thousand francs. I'll spend twenty thousand
on a villa outside the city. That leaves me eighty thousand. I won't be
able to take it all in until to-morrow, for I am tired, tired, tired.
[Sinks back into the chair] Have you ever felt really happy?
HENRIETTE. Never. How does it feel?
MAURICE. I don't quite know how to put it. I cannot express it, but I
seem chiefly to be thinking of the chagrin of my enemies. It isn't nice,
but that's the way it is.
HENRIETTE. Is it happiness to be thinking of one's enemies?
MAURICE. Why, the victor has to count his killed and wounded enemies in
order to gauge the extent of his victory.
HENRIETTE. Are you as bloodthirsty as all that?
MAURICE. Perhaps not. But when you have felt the pressure of other
people's heels on your chest for years, it must be pleasant to shake off
the enemy and draw a full breath at last.
HENRIETTE. Don't you find it strange that you are sitting here, alone
with me, an insignificant girl practically unknown to you--and on an
evening like this, when you ought to have a craving to show yourself
like a triumphant hero to all the people, on the boulevards, in the big
restaurants?
MAURICE. Of course, it's rather funny, but it feels good to be here, and
your company is all I care for.
HENRIETTE. You don't look very hilarious.
MAURICE. No, I feel rather sad, and I should like to weep a little.
HENRIETTE. What is the meaning of that?
MAURICE. It is fortune conscious of its own nothingness and waiting for
misfortune to appear.
HENRIETTE. Oh my, how sad! What is it you are missing anyhow?
MAURICE. I miss the only thing that gives value to life.
HENRIETTE. So you love her no longer then?
MAURICE. Not in the way I understand love. Do you think she has read
my play, or that she wants to see it? Oh, she is so good, so
self-sacrificing and considerate, but to go out with me for a night's
fun she would regard as sinful. Once I treated her to champagne, you
know, and instead of feeling happy over it, she picked up the wine list
to see what it cost. And when she read the price, she wept--wept because
Marion was in need of new stockings. It is beautiful, of course: it is
touching, if you please. But I can get no pleasure out of it. And I do
want a little pleasure before life runs out. So far I have had nothing
but privation, but now, now--life is beginning for me. [The clock
strikes twelve] Now begins a new day, a new era!
HENRIETTE. Adolphe is not coming.
MAURICE. No, now he won't, come. And now it is too late to go back to
the Cremerie.
HENRIETTE. But they are waiting for you.
MAURICE. Let them wait. They have made me promise to come, and I take
back my promise. Are you longing to go there?
HENRIETTE. On the contrary!
MAURICE. Will you keep me company then?
HENRIETTE. With pleasure, if you care to have me.
MAURICE. Otherwise I shouldn't be asking you. It is strange, you know,
that the victor's wreath seems worthless if you can't place it at the
feet of some woman--that everything seems worthless when you have not a
woman.
HENRIETTE. You don't need to be without a woman--you?
MAURICE. Well, that's the question.
HENRIETTE. Don't you know that a man is irresistible in his hour of
success and fame?
MAURICE. No, I don't know, for I have had no experience of it.
HENRIETTE. You are a queer sort! At this moment, when you are the most
envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood. Perhaps your conscience
is troubling you because you have neglected that invitation to drink
chicory coffee with the old lady over at the milk shop?
MAURICE. Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, and even here
I am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings, their well-grounded
anger. My comrades in distress had the right to demand my presence this
evening. The good Madame Catherine had a privileged claim on my success,
from which a glimmer of hope was to spread over the poor fellows who
have not yet succeeded. And I have robbed them of their faith in me. I
can hear the vows they have been making: "Maurice will come, for he is
a good fellow; he doesn't despise us, and he never fails to keep his
word." Now I have made them forswear themselves.
(While he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has begun to
play the finale of Beethoven's Sonata in D-minor (Op. 31, No. 3).
The allegretto is first played piano, then more forte, and at last
passionately, violently, with complete abandon.)
MAURICE. Who can be playing at this time of the night?
HENRIETTE. Probably some nightbirds of the same kind as we. But listen!
Your presentation of the case is not correct. Remember that Adolphe
promised to meet us here. We waited for him, and he failed to keep his
promise. So that you are not to blame--
MAURICE. You think so? While you are speaking, I believe you, but when
you stop, my conscience begins again. What have you in that package?
HENRIETTE. Oh, it is only a laurel wreath that I meant to send up to the
stage, but I had no chance to do so. Let me give it to you now--it
is said to have a cooling effect on burning foreheads. [She rises and
crowns him with the wreath; then she kisses him on the forehead] Hail to
the victor!
MAURICE. Don't!
HENRIETTE. [Kneeling] Hail to the King!
MAURICE. [Rising] No, now you scare me.
HENRIETTE. You timid man! You of little faith who are afraid of fortune
even! Who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned you into a dwarf?
MAURICE. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not working up in the clouds,
like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge my weapons deep
down in the silent heart of the mountain. You think that my modesty
shrinks before the victor's wreath. On the contrary, I despise it: it is
not enough for me. You think I am afraid of that ghost with its jealous
green eyes which sits over there and keeps watch on my feelings--the
strength of which you don't suspect. Away, ghost! [He brushes the third,
untouched glass off the table] Away with you, you superfluous third
person--you absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any.
You stayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourself
already beaten. As I crush this glass under my foot, so I will crush the
image of yourself which you have reared in a temple no longer yours.
HENRIETTE. Good! That's the way! Well spoken, my hero!
MAURICE. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithful helper,
on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied?
HENRIETTE. Astarte is a pretty name, and I'll keep it--I think you love
me, Maurice.
MAURICE. Of course I do--Woman of evil omen, you who stir up man's
courage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where do you
lead me? I loved you before I saw you, for I trembled when I heard them
speak of you. And when I saw you in the doorway, your soul poured itself
into mine. And when you left, I could still feel your presence in my
arms. I wanted to flee from you, but something held me back, and this
evening we have been driven together as the prey is driven into the
hunter's net. Whose is the fault? Your friend's, who pandered for us!
HENRIETTE. Fault or no fault: what does it matter, and what does it
mean?--Adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us together before. He
is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, to which he had
no right himself. I am jealous of him on your behalf. I hate him because
he has cheated you out of your mistress. I should like to blot him from
the host of the living, and his memory with him--wipe him out of the
past even, make him unmade, unborn!
MAURICE. Well, we'll bury him beneath our own memories. We'll cover him
with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, and then we'll pile
stone on top of the mound so that he will never look up again. [Raising
his glass] Our fate is sealed. Woe unto us! What will come next?
HENRIETTE. Next comes the new era--What have you in that package?
MAURICE. I cannot remember.
HENRIETTE. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair of gloves]
That tie is a fright! It must have cost at least fifty centimes.
MAURICE. [Snatching the things away from her] Don't you touch them!
HENRIETTE. They are from her?
MAURICE. Yes, they are.
HENRIETTE. Give them to me.
MAURICE. No, she's better than we, better than everybody else.
HENRIETTE. I don't believe it. She is simply stupider and stingier. One
who weeps because you order champagne--
MAURICE. When the child was without stockings. Yes, she is a good woman.
HENRIETTE. Philistine! You'll never be an artist. But I am an artist,
and I'll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper's cap instead of the
laurel wreath--Her name is Jeanne?
MAURICE. How do you know?
HENRIETTE. Why, that's the name of all housekeepers.
MAURICE. Henriette!
(HENRIETTE takes the tie and the gloves and throws them into the
fireplace.)
MAURICE. [Weakly] Astarte, now you demand the sacrifice of women. You
shall have them, but if you ask for innocent children, too, then I'll
send you packing.
HENRIETTE. Can you tell me what it is that binds you to me?
MAURICE. If I only knew, I should be able to tear myself away. But I
believe it must be those qualities which you have and I lack. I believe
that the evil within you draws me with the irresistible lure of novelty.
HENRIETTE. Have you ever committed a crime?
MAURICE. No real one. Have you?
HENRIETTE. Yes.
MAURICE. Well, how did you find it?
HENRIETTE. It was greater than to perform a good deed, for by that we
are placed on equality with others; it was greater than to perform some
act of heroism, for by that we are raised above others and rewarded.
That crime placed me outside and beyond life, society, and my
fellow-beings. Since then I am living only a partial life, a sort of
dream life, and that's why reality never gets a hold on me.
MAURICE. What was it you did?
HENRIETTE. I won't tell, for then you would get scared again.
MAURICE. Can you never be found out?
HENRIETTE. Never. But that does not prevent me from seeing, frequently,
the five stones at the Place de Roquette, where the scaffold used to
stand; and for this reason I never dare to open a pack of cards, as I
always turn up the five-spot of diamonds.
MAURICE. Was it that kind of a crime?
HENRIETTE. Yes, it was that kind.
MAURICE. Of course, it's horrible, but it is interesting. Have you no
conscience?
HENRIETTE. None, but I should be grateful if you would talk of something
else.
MAURICE. Suppose we talk of--love?
HENRIETTE. Of that you don't talk until it is over.
MAURICE. Have you been in love with Adolphe?
HENRIETTE. I don't know. The goodness of his nature drew me like some
beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood. Yet there was much
about his person that offended my eye, so that I had to spend a long
time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, before I could make a
presentable figure of him. When he talked, I could notice that he had
learned from you, and the lesson was often badly digested and awkwardly
applied. You can imagine then how miserable the copy must appear now,
when I am permitted to study the original. That's why he was afraid of
having us two meet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that
his time was up.
MAURICE. Poor Adolphe!
HENRIETTE. I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must be suffering
beyond all bounds--
MAURICE. Sh! Somebody is coming.
HENRIETTE. I wonder if it could be he?
MAURICE. That would be unbearable.
HENRIETTE. No, it isn't he, but if it had been, how do you think the
situation would have shaped itself?
MAURICE. At first he would have been a little sore at you because he had
made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place--and tried to find us in
several other cafes--but his soreness would have changed into pleasure
at finding us--and seeing that we had not deceived him. And in the joy
at having wronged us by his suspicions, he would love both of us. And so
it would make him happy to notice that we had become such good friends.
It had always been his dream--hm! he is making the speech now--his dream
that the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set the world
a great example of friendship asking for nothing--"Yes, I trust you,
Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partly because your
feelings are tied up elsewhere."
HENRIETTE. Bravo! You must have been in a similar situation before,
or you couldn't give such a lifelike picture of it. Do you know that
Adolphe is just that kind of a third person who cannot enjoy his
mistress without having his friend along?
MAURICE. That's why I had to be called in to entertain you--Hush! There
is somebody outside--It must be he.
HENRIETTE. No, don't you know these are the hours when ghosts walk, and
then you can see so many things, and hear them also. To keep awake at
night, when you ought to be sleeping, has for me the same charm as a
crime: it is to place oneself above and beyond the laws of nature.
MAURICE. But the punishment is fearful--I am shivering or quivering,
with cold or with fear.
HENRIETTE. [Wraps her opera cloak about him] Put this on. It will make
you warm.
MAURICE. That's nice. It is as if I were inside of your skin, as if my
body had been melted up by lack of sleep and were being remoulded in
your shape. I can feel the moulding process going on. But I am also
growing a new soul, new thoughts, and here, where your bosom has left an
impression, I can feel my own beginning to bulge.
(During this entire scene, the pianist in the next room has been
practicing the Sonata in D-minor, sometimes pianissimo, sometimes wildly
fortissimo; now and then he has kept silent for a little while, and at
other times nothing has been heard but a part of the finale: bars 96 to
107.)
MAURICE. What a monster, to sit there all night practicing on the piano.
It gives me a sick feeling. Do you know what I propose? Let us drive out
to the Bois de Boulogne and take breakfast in the Pavilion, and see the
sun rise over the lakes.
HENRIETTE. Bully!
MAURICE. But first of all I must arrange to have my mail and the morning
papers sent out by messenger to the Pavilion. Tell me, Henriette: shall
we invite Adolphe?
HENRIETTE. Oh, that's going too far! But why not? The ass can also be
harnessed to the triumphal chariot. Let him come. [They get up.]
MAURICE. [Taking off the cloak] Then I'll ring.
HENRIETTE. Wait a moment! [Throws herself into his arms.]
(Curtain.)
SECOND SCENE
(A large, splendidly furnished restaurant room in the Bois de Boulogne.
It is richly carpeted and full of mirrors, easy-chairs, and divans.
There are glass doors in the background, and beside them windows
overlooking the lakes. In the foreground a table is spread, with flowers
in the centre, bowls full of fruit, wine in decanters, oysters on
platters, many different kinds of wine glasses, and two lighted
candelabra. On the right there is a round table full of newspapers and
telegrams.)
(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are sitting opposite each other at this small
table.)
(The sun is just rising outside.)
MAURICE. There is no longer any doubt about it. The newspapers tell me
it is so, and these telegrams congratulate me on my success. This is the
beginning of a new life, and my fate is wedded to yours by this night,
when you were the only one to share my hopes and my triumph. From your
hand I received the laurel, and it seems to me as if everything had come
from you.
HENRIETTE. What a wonderful night! Have we been dreaming, or is this
something we have really lived through?
MAURICE. [Rising] And what a morning after such a night! I feel as if
it were the world's first day that is now being illumined by the rising
sun. Only this minute was the earth created and stripped of those white
films that are now floating off into space. There lies the Garden of
Eden in the rosy light of dawn, and here is the first human couple--Do
you know, I am so happy I could cry at the thought that all mankind is
not equally happy--Do you hear that distant murmur as of ocean waves
beating against a rocky shore, as of winds sweeping through a forest?
Do you know what it is? It is Paris whispering my name. Do you see the
columns of smoke that rise skyward in thousands and tens of thousands?
They are the fires burning on my altars, and if that be not so, then
it must become so, for I will it. At this moment all the telegraph
instruments of Europe are clicking out my name. The Oriental Express is
carrying the newspapers to the Far East, toward the rising sun; and the
ocean steamers are carrying them to the utmost West. The earth is mine,
and for that reason it is beautiful. Now I should like to have wings for
us two, so that we might rise from here and fly far, far away, before
anybody can soil my happiness, before envy has a chance to wake me out
of my dream--for it is probably a dream!
HENRIETTE. [Holding out her hand to him] Here you can feel that you are
not dreaming.
MAURICE. It is not a dream, but it has been one. As a poor young man,
you know, when I was walking in the woods down there, and looked up
to this Pavilion, it looked to me like a fairy castle, and always my
thoughts carried me up to this room, with the balcony outside and the
heavy curtains, as to a place of supreme bliss. To be sitting here in
company with a beloved woman and see the sun rise while the candles were
still burning in the candelabra: that was the most audacious dream of my
youth. Now it has come true, and now I have no more to ask of life--Do
you want to die now, together with me?
HENRIETTE. No, you fool! Now I want to begin living.
MAURICE. [Rising] To live: that is to suffer! Now comes reality. I can
hear his steps on the stairs. He is panting with alarm, and his heart is
beating with dread of having lost what it holds most precious. Can
you believe me if I tell you that Adolphe is under this roof? Within a
minute he will be standing in the middle of this floor.
HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] It was a stupid trick to ask him to come here, and
I am already regretting it--Well, we shall see anyhow if your forecast
of the situation proves correct.
MAURICE. Oh, it is easy to be mistaken about a person's feelings.
(The HEAD WAITER enters with a card.)
MAURICE. Ask the gentleman to step in. [To HENRIETTE] I am afraid we'll
regret this.
HENRIETTE. Too late to think of that now--Hush!
(ADOLPHE enters, pale and hollow-eyed.)
MAURICE. [Trying to speak unconcernedly] There you are! What became of
you last night?
ADOLPHE. I looked for you at the Hotel des Arrets and waited a whole
hour.
MAURICE. So you went to the wrong place. We were waiting several hours
for you at the Auberge des Adrets, and we are still waiting for you, as
you see.
ADOLPHE. [Relieved] Thank heaven!
HENRIETTE. Good morning, Adolphe. You are always expecting the worst and
worrying yourself needlessly. I suppose you imagined that we wanted to
avoid your company. And though you see that we sent for you, you are
still thinking yourself superfluous.
ADOLPHE. Pardon me: I was wrong, but the night was dreadful.
(They sit down. Embarrassed silence follows.)
HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Well, are you not going to congratulate Maurice
on his great success?
ADOLPHE. Oh, yes! Your success is the real thing, and envy itself cannot
deny it. Everything is giving way before you, and even I have a sense of
my own smallness in your presence.
MAURICE. Nonsense!--Henriette, are you not going to offer Adolphe a
glass of wine?
ADOLPHE. Thank you, not for me--nothing at all!
HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] What's the matter with you? Are you ill?
ADOLPHE. Not yet, but--
HENRIETTE. Your eyes--
ADOLPHE. What of them?
MAURICE. What happened at the Cremerie last night? I suppose they are
angry with me?
ADOLPHE. Nobody is angry with you, but your absence caused a depression
which it hurt me to watch. But nobody was angry with you, believe me.
Your friends understood, and they regarded your failure to come with
sympathetic forbearance. Madame Catherine herself defended you and
proposed your health. We all rejoiced in your success as if it had been
our own.
HENRIETTE. Well, those are nice people! What good friends you have,
Maurice.
MAURICE. Yes, better than I deserve.
ADOLPHE. Nobody has better friends than he deserves, and you are a man
greatly blessed in his friends--Can't you feel how the air is softened
to-day by all the kind thoughts and wishes that stream toward you from a
thousand breasts?
(MAURICE rises in order to hide his emotion.)
ADOLPHE. From a thousand breasts that you have rid of the nightmare
that had been crushing them during a lifetime. Humanity had been
slandered--and you have exonerated it: that's why men feel grateful
toward you. To-day they are once more holding their heads high and
saying: You see, we are a little better than our reputation after all.
And that thought makes them better.
(HENRIETTE tries to hide her emotion.)
ADOLPHE. Am I in the way? Just let me warm myself a little in your
sunshine, Maurice, and then I'll go.
MAURICE. Why should you go when you have only just arrived?
ADOLPHE. Why? Because I have seen what I need not have seen; because I
know now that my hour is past. [Pause] That you sent for me, I take
as an expression of thoughtfulness, a notice of what has happened, a
frankness that hurts less than deceit. You hear that I think well of my
fellow-beings, and this I have learned from you, Maurice. [Pause] But,
my friend, a few moments ago I passed through the Church of St. Germain,
and there I saw a woman and a child. I am not wishing that you had seen
them, for what has happened cannot be altered, but if you gave a thought
or a word to them before you set them adrift on the waters of the great
city, then you could enjoy your happiness undisturbed. And now I bid you
good-by.
HENRIETTE. Why must you go?
ADOLPHE. And you ask that? Do you want me to tell you?
HENRIETTE. No, I don't.
ADOLPHE. Good-by then! [Goes out.]
MAURICE. The Fall: and lo! "they knew that they were naked."
HENRIETTE. What a difference between this scene and the one we imagined!
He is better than we.
MAURICE. It seems to me now as if all the rest were better than we.
HENRIETTE. Do you see that the sun has vanished behind clouds, and that
the woods have lost their rose colour?
MAURICE. Yes, I see, and the blue lake has turned black. Let us flee to
some place where the sky is always blue and the trees are always green.
HENRIETTE. Yes, let us--but without any farewells.
MAURICE. No, with farewells.
HENRIETTE. We were to fly. You spoke of wings--and your feet are of
lead. I am not jealous, but if you go to say farewell and get two pairs
of arms around your neck--then you can't tear yourself away.
MAURICE. Perhaps you are right, but only one pair of little arms is
needed to hold me fast.
HENRIETTE. It is the child that holds you then, and not the woman?
MAURICE. It is the child.
HENRIETTE. The child! Another woman's child! And for the sake of it I am
to suffer. Why must that child block the way where I want to pass, and
must pass?
MAURICE. Yes, why? It would be better if it had never existed.
HENRIETTE. [Walks excitedly back and forth] Indeed! But now it does
exist. Like a rock on the road, a rock set firmly in the ground,
immovable, so that it upsets the carriage.
MAURICE. The triumphal chariot!--The ass is driven to death, but the
rock remains. Curse it! [Pause.]
HENRIETTE. There is nothing to do.
MAURICE. Yes, we must get married, and then our child will make us
forget the other one.
HENRIETTE. This will kill this!
MAURICE. Kill! What kind of word is that?
HENRIETTE. [Changing tone] Your child will kill our love.
MAURICE. No, girl, our love will kill whatever stands in its way, but it
will not be killed.
HENRIETTE. [Opens a deck of cards lying on the mantlepiece] Look at it!
Five-spot of diamonds--the scaffold! Can it be possible that our fates
are determined in advance? That our thoughts are guided as if through
pipes to the spot for which they are bound, without chance for us to
stop them? But I don't want it, I don't want it!--Do you realise that I
must go to the scaffold if my crime should be discovered?
MAURICE. Tell me about your crime. Now is the time for it.
HENRIETTE. No, I should regret it afterward, and you would despise
me--no, no, no!--Have you ever heard that a person could be hated to
death? Well, my father incurred the hatred of my mother and my sisters,
and he melted away like wax before a fire. Ugh! Let us talk of something
else. And, above all, let us get away. The air is poisoned here.
To-morrow your laurels will be withered, the triumph will be forgotten,
and in a week another triumphant hero will hold the public attention.
Away from here, to work for new victories! But first of all, Maurice,
you must embrace your child and provide for its immediate future. You
don't have to see the mother at all.
MAURICE. Thank you! Your good heart does you honour, and I love you
doubly when you show the kindness you generally hide.
HENRIETTE. And then you go to the Cremerie and say good-by to the old
lady and your friends. Leave no unsettled business behind to make your
mind heavy on our trip.
MAURICE. I'll clear up everything, and to-night we meet at the railroad
station.
HENRIETTE. Agreed! And then: away from here--away toward the sea and the
sun!
(Curtain.)
ACT III
FIRST SCENE
(In the Cremerie. The gas is lit. MME. CATHERINE is seated at the
counter, ADOLPHE at a table.)
MME. CATHERINE. Such is life, Monseiur Adolphe. But you young ones are
always demanding too much, and then you come here and blubber over it
afterward.
ADOLPHE. No, it isn't that. I reproach nobody, and I am as fond as ever
of both of them. But there is one thing that makes me sick at heart.
You see, I thought more of Maurice than of anybody else; so much that I
wouldn't have grudged him anything that could give him pleasure--but now
I have lost him, and it hurts me worse than the loss of her. I have
lost both of them, and so my loneliness is made doubly painful. And then
there is still something else which I have not yet been able to clear
up.
MME. CATHERINE. Don't brood so much. Work and divert yourself. Now, for
instance, do you ever go to church?
ADOLPHE. What should I do there?
MME. CATHERINE. Oh, there's so much to look at, and then there is the
music. There is nothing commonplace about it, at least.
ADOLPHE. Perhaps not. But I don't belong to that fold, I guess, for it
never stirs me to any devotion. And then, Madame Catherine, faith is a
gift, they tell me, and I haven't got it yet.
MME. CATHERINE. Well, wait till you get it--But what is this I heard a
while ago? Is it true that you have sold a picture in London for a high
price, and that you have got a medal?
ADOLPHE. Yes, it's true.
MME. CATHERINE. Merciful heavens!--and not a word do you say about it?
ADOLPHE. I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almost worthless
to me at this moment. I am afraid of it as of a spectre: it brings
disaster to speak of having seen it.
MME. CATHERINE. You're a queer fellow, and that's what you have always
been.
ADOLPHE. Not queer at all, but I have seen so much misfortune come
in the wake of fortune, and I have seen how adversity brings out true
friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour of success--You
asked me if I ever went to church, and I answered evasively. This
morning I stepped into the Church of St. Germain without really
knowing why I did so. It seemed as if I were looking for somebody in
there--somebody to whom I could silently offer my gratitude. But I found
nobody. Then I dropped a gold coin in the poor-box. It was all I could
get out of my church-going, and that was rather commonplace, I should
say.
MME. CATHERINE. It was always something; and then it was fine to think
of the poor after having heard good news.
ADOLPHE. It was neither fine nor anything else: it was something I did
because I couldn't help myself. But something more occurred while I
was in the church. I saw Maurice's girl friend, Jeanne, and her child.
Struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, they seemed aware of the
full extent of their misfortune.
MME. CATHERINE. Well, children, I don't know in what kind of shape
you keep your consciences. But how a decent fellow, a careful and
considerate man like Monsieur Maurice, can all of a sudden desert a
woman and her child, that is something I cannot explain.
ADOLPHE. Nor can I explain it, and he doesn't seem to understand it
himself. I met them this morning, and everything appeared quite natural
to them, quite proper, as if they couldn't imagine anything else. It
was as if they had been enjoying the satisfaction of a good deed or the
fulfilment of a sacred duty. There are things, Madame Catherine, that
we cannot explain, and for this reason it is not for us to judge. And
besides, you saw how it happened. Maurice felt the danger in the air.
I foresaw it and tried to prevent their meeting. Maurice wanted to run
away from it, but nothing helped. Why, it was as if a plot had been laid
by some invisible power, and as if they had been driven by guile into
each other's arms. Of course, I am disqualified in this case, but I
wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "not guilty."
MME. CATHERINE. Well, now, to be able to forgive as you do, that's what
I call religion.
ADOLPHE. Heavens, could it be that I am religious without knowing it.
MME. CATHERINE. But then, to LET oneself be driven or tempted into evil,
as Monsieur Maurice has done, means weakness or bad character. And if
you feel your strength failing you, then you ask for help, and then you
get it. But he was too conceited to do that--Who is this coming? The
Abbe, I think.
ADOLPHE. What does he want here?
ABBE. [Enters] Good evening, madame. Good evening, Monsieur.
MME. CATHERINE. Can I be of any service?
ABBE. Has Monsieur Maurice, the author, been here to-day?
MME. CATHERINE. Not to-day. His play has just been put on, and that is
probably keeping him busy.
ABBE. I have--sad news to bring him. Sad in several respects.
MME. CATHERINE. May I ask of what kind?
ABBE. Yes, it's no secret. The daughter he had with that girl, Jeanne,
is dead.
MME. CATHERINE. Dead!
ADOLPHE. Marion dead!
ABBE. Yes, she died suddenly this morning without any previous illness.
MME. CATHERINE. O Lord, who can tell Thy ways!
ABBE. The mother's grief makes it necessary that Monsieur Maurice
look after her, so we must try to find him. But first a question in
confidence: do you know whether Monsieur Maurice was fond of the child,
or was indifferent to it?
MME. CATHERINE. If he was fond of Marion? Why, all of us know how he
loved her.
ADOLPHE. There's no doubt about that.
ABBE. I am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far as I am
concerned.
MME. CATHERINE. Has there been any doubt about it?
ABBE. Yes, unfortunately. It has even been rumoured in the neighbourhood
that he had abandoned the child and its mother in order to go away with
a strange woman. In a few hours this rumour has grown into definite
accusations, and at the same time the feeling against him has risen
to such a point that his life is threatened and he is being called a
murderer.
MME. CATHERINE. Good God, what is THIS? What does it mean?
ABBE. Now I'll tell you my opinion--I am convinced that the man is
innocent on this score, and the mother feels as certain about it as I
do. But appearances are against Monsieur Maurice, and I think he will
find it rather hard to clear himself when the police come to question
him.
ADOLPHE. Have the police got hold of the matter?
ABBE. Yea, the police have had to step in to protect him against all
those ugly rumours and the rage of the people. Probably the Commissaire
will be here soon.
MME. CATHERINE. [To ADOLPHE] There you see what happens when a man
cannot tell the difference between good and evil, and when he trifles
with vice. God will punish!
ADOLPHE. Then he is more merciless than man.
ABBE. What do you know about that?
ADOLPHE. Not very much, but I keep an eye on what happens--
ABBE. And you understand it also?
ADOLPHE. Not yet perhaps.
ABBE. Let us look more closely at the matter--Oh, here comes the
Commissaire.
COMMISSAIRE. [Enters] Gentlemen--Madame Catherine--I have to trouble you
for a moment with a few questions concerning Monsieur Maurice. As you
have probably heard, he has become the object of a hideous rumour,
which, by the by, I don't believe in.
MME. CATHERINE. None of us believes in it either.
COMMISSAIRE. That strengthens my own opinion, but for his own sake I
must give him a chance to defend himself.
ABBE. That's right, and I guess he will find justice, although it may
come hard.
COMMISSAIRE. Appearances are very much against him, but I have
seen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their innocence was
discovered. Let me tell you what there is against him. The little girl,
Marion, being left alone by her mother, was secretly visited by the
father, who seems to have made sure of the time when the child was to
be found alone. Fifteen minutes after his visit the mother returned home
and found the child dead. All this makes the position of the accused
man very unpleasant--The post-mortem examination brought out no signs
of violence or of poison, but the physicians admit the existence of
new poisons that leave no traces behind them. To me all this is mere
coincidence of the kind I frequently come across. But here's something
that looks worse. Last night Monsieur Maurice was seen at the Auberge
des Adrets in company with a strange lady. According to the waiter, they
were talking about crimes. The Place de Roquette and the scaffold were
both mentioned. A queer topic of conversation for a pair of lovers of
good breeding and good social position! But even this may be passed
over, as we know by experience that people who have been drinking and
losing a lot of sleep seem inclined to dig up all the worst that lies at
the bottom of their souls. Far more serious is the evidence given by the
head waiter as to their champagne breakfast in the Bois de Boulogne this
morning. He says that he heard them wish the life out of a child. The
man is said to have remarked that, "It would be better if it had never
existed." To which the woman replied: "Indeed! But now it does exist."
And as they went on talking, these words occurred: "This will kill
this!" And the answer was: "Kill! What kind of word is that?" And also:
"The five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold, the Place de Roquette." All
this, you see, will be hard to get out of, and so will the foreign
journey planned for this evening. These are serious matters.
ADOLPHE. He is lost!
MME. CATHERINE. That's a dreadful story. One doesn't know what to
believe.
ABBE. This is not the work of man. God have mercy on him!
ADOLPHE. He is in the net, and he will never get out of it.
MME. CATHERINE. He had no business to get in.
ADOLPHE. Do you begin to suspect him also, Madame Catherine?
MME. CATHERINE. Yes and no. I have got beyond having an opinion in this
matter. Have you not seen angels turn into devils just as you turn your
hand, and then become angels again?
COMMISSAIRE. It certainly does look queer. However, we'll have to wait
and hear what explanations he can give. No one will be judged unheard.
Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Madame Catherine. [Goes out.]
ABBE. This is not the work of man.
ADOLPHE. No, it looks as if demons had been at work for the undoing of
man.
ABBE. It is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it is a terrible
test.
JEANNE. [Enters, dressed in mourning] Good evening. Pardon me for
asking, but have you seen Monsieur Maurice?
MME. CATHERINE. No, madame, but I think he may be here any minute. You
haven't met him then since--
JEANNE. Not since this morning.
MME. CATHERINE. Let me tell you that I share in your great sorrow.
JEANNE. Thank you, madame. [To the ABBE] So you are here, Father.
ABBE. Yes, my child. I thought I might be of some use to you. And it was
fortunate, as it gave me a chance to speak to the Commissaire.
JEANNE. The Commissaire! He doesn't suspect Maurice also, does he?
ABBE. No, he doesn't, and none of us here do. But appearances are
against him in a most appalling manner.
JEANNE. You mean on account of the talk the waiters overheard--it means
nothing to me, who has heard such things before when Maurice had had
a few drinks. Then it is his custom to speculate on crimes and their
punishment. Besides it seems to have been the woman in his company who
dropped the most dangerous remarks. I should like to have a look into
that woman's eyes.
ADOLPHE. My dear Jeanne, no matter how much harm that woman may have
done you, she did nothing with evil intention--in fact, she had no
intention whatever, but just followed the promptings of her nature. I
know her to be a good soul and one who can very well bear being looked
straight in the eye.
JEANNE. Your judgment in this matter, Adolphe, has great value to me,
and I believe what you say. It means that I cannot hold anybody but
myself responsible for what has happened. It is my carelessness that is
now being punished. [She begins to cry.]
ABBE. Don't accuse yourself unjustly! I know you, and the serious spirit
in which you have regarded your motherhood. That your assumption of this
responsibility had not been sanctioned by religion and the civil law was
not your fault. No, we are here facing something quite different.
ADOLPHE. What then?
ABBE. Who can tell?
(HENRIETTE enters, dressed in travelling suit.)
ADOLPHE. [Rises with an air of determination and goes to meet HENRIETTE]
You here?
HENRIETTE. Yes, where is Maurice?
ADOLPHE. Do you know--or don't you?
HENRIETTE. I know everything. Excuse me, Madame Catherine, but I was
ready to start and absolutely had to step in here a moment. [To ADOLPHE]
Who is that woman?--Oh!
(HENRIETTE and JEANNE stare at each other.)
(EMILE appears in the kitchen door.)
HENRIETTE. [To JEANNE] I ought to say something, but it matters very
little, for anything I can say must sound like an insult or a mockery.
But if I ask you simply to believe that I share your deep sorrow as much
as anybody standing closer to you, then you must not turn away from me.
You mustn't, for I deserve your pity if not your forbearance. [Holds out
her hand.]
JEANNE. [Looks hard at her] I believe you now--and in the next moment I
don't. [Takes HENRIETTE'S hand.]
HENRIETTE. [Kisses JEANNE'S hand] Thank you!
JEANNE. [Drawing back her hand] Oh, don't! I don't deserve it! I don't
deserve it!
ABBE. Pardon me, but while we are gathered here and peace seems to
prevail temporarily at least, won't you, Mademoiselle Henriette, shed
some light into all the uncertainty and darkness surrounding the main
point of accusation? I ask you, as a friend among friends, to tell us
what you meant with all that talk about killing, and crime, and the
Place de Roquette. That your words had no connection with the death
of the child, we have reason to believe, but it would give us added
assurance to hear what you were really talking about. Won't you tell us?
HENRIETTE. [After a pause] That I cannot tell! No, I cannot!
ADOLPHE. Henriette, do tell! Give us the word that will relieve us all.
HENRIETTE. I cannot! Don't ask me!
ABBE. This is not the work of man!
HENRIETTE. Oh, that this moment had to come! And in this manner! [To
JEANNE] Madame, I swear that I am not guilty of your child's death. Is
that enough?
JEANNE. Enough for us, but not for Justice.
HENRIETTE. Justice! If you knew how true your words are!
ABBE. [To HENRIETTE] And if you knew what you were saying just now!
HENRIETTE. Do you know that better than I?
ABBE. Yes, I do.
(HENRIETTE looks fixedly at the ABBE.)
ABBE. Have no fear, for even if I guess your secret, it will not be
exposed. Besides, I have nothing to do with human justice, but a great
deal with divine mercy.
MAURICE. [Enters hastily, dressed for travelling. He doesn't look at the
others, who are standing in the background, but goes straight up to
the counter, where MME. CATHERINE is sitting.] You are not angry at me,
Madame Catherine, because I didn't show up. I have come now to apologise
to you before I start for the South at eight o'clock this evening.
(MME. CATHERINE is too startled to say a word.)
MAURICE. Then you are angry at me? [Looks around] What does all this
mean? Is it a dream, or what is it? Of course, I can see that it is all
real, but it looks like a wax cabinet--There is Jeanne, looking like a
statue and dressed in black--And Henriette looking like a corpse--What
does it mean?
(All remain silent.)
MAURICE. Nobody answers. It must mean something dreadful. [Silence]
But speak, please! Adolphe, you are my friend, what is it? [Pointing to
EMILE] And there is a detective!
ADOLPHE. [Comes forward] You don't know then?
MAURICE. Nothing at all. But I must know!
ADOLPHE. Well, then--Marion is dead.
MAURICE. Marion--dead?
ADOLPHE. Yes, she died this morning.
MAURICE. [To JEANNE] So that's why you are in mourning. Jeanne, Jeanne,
who has done this to us?
JEANNE. He who holds life and death in his hand.
MAURICE. But I saw her looking well and happy this morning. How did
it happen? Who did it? Somebody must have done it? [His eyes seek
HENRIETTE.]
ADOLPHE. Don't look for the guilty one here, for there is none to
he found. Unfortunately the police have turned their suspicion in a
direction where none ought to exist.
MAURICE. What direction is that?
ADOLPHE. Well--you may as well know that, your reckless talk last
night and this morning has placed you in a light that is anything but
favourable.
MAURICE, So they were listening to us. Let me see, what were we
saying--I remember!--Then I am lost!
ADOLPHE. But if you explain your thoughtless words we will believe you.
MAURICE. I cannot! And I will not! I shall be sent to prison, but it
doesn't matter. Marion is dead! Dead! And I have killed her!
(General consternation.)
ADOLPHE. Think of what you are saying! Weigh your words! Do you realise
what you said just now?
MAURICE. What did I say?
ADOLPHE. You said that you had killed Marion.
MAURICE. Is there a human being here who could believe me a murderer,
and who could hold me capable of taking my own child's life? You who
know me, Madame Catherine, tell me: do you believe, can you believe--
MME. CATHERINE. I don't know any longer what to believe. What the heart
thinketh the tongue speaketh. And your tongue has spoken evil words.
MAURICE. She doesn't believe me!
ADOLPHE. But explain your words, man! Explain what you meant by saying
that "your love would kill everything that stood in its way."
MAURICE. So they know that too--Are you willing to explain it,
Henriette?
HENRIETTE. No, I cannot do that.
ABBE. There is something wrong behind all this and you have lost our
sympathy, my friend. A while ago I could have sworn that you were
innocent, and I wouldn't do that now.
MAURICE. [To JEANNE] What you have to say means more to me than anything
else. JEANNE. [Coldly] Answer a question first: who was it you cursed
during that orgie out there?
MAURICE. Have I done that too? Maybe. Yes, I am guilty, and yet I am
guiltless. Let me go away from here, for I am ashamed of myself, and I
have done more wrong than I can forgive myself.
HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Go with him and see that he doesn't do himself
any harm.
ADOLPHE. Shall I--?
HENRIETTE. Who else?
ADOLPHE. [Without bitterness] You are nearest to it--Sh! A carriage is
stopping outside.
MME. CATHERINE. It's the Commissaire. Well, much as I have seen of life,
I could never have believed that success and fame were such short-lived
things.
MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] From the triumphal chariot to the patrol wagon!
JEANNE. [Simply] And the ass--who was that?
ADOLPHE. Oh, that must have been me.
COMMISSAIRE. [Enters with a paper in his hand] A summons to Police
Headquarters--to-night, at once--for Monsieur Maurice Gerard--and for
Mademoiselle Henrietta Mauclerc--both here?
MAURICE and HENRIETTE. Yes.
MAURICE. Is this an arrest?
COMMISSAIRE. Not yet. Only a summons.
MAURICE. And then?
COMMISSAIRE. We don't know yet.
(MAURICE and HENRIETTE go toward the door.)
MAURICE. Good-bye to all!
(Everybody shows emotion. The COMMISSAIRE, MAURICE, and HENRIETTE go
out.)
EMILE. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Now I'll take you home, sister.
JEANNE. And what do you think of all this?
EMILE. The man is innocent.
ABBE. But as I see it, it is, and must always be, something despicable
to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardonable when a woman and her
child are involved.
EMILE. Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when it concerns
my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented from throwing the first
stone because I have done the same thing myself.
ABBE. Although I am free from blame in that respect, I am not throwing
any stones either, but the act condemns itself and is punished by its
consequences.
JEANNE. Pray for him! For both of them!
ABBE. No, I'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinence to
want to change the counsels of the Lord. And what has happened here is,
indeed, not the work of man.
(Curtain.)
SECOND SCENE
(The Auberge des Adrets. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at the same
table where MAURICE and HENRIETTE were sitting in the second act. A cup
of coffee stands in front of ADOLPHE. HENRIETTE has ordered nothing.)
ADOLPHE. You believe then that he will come here?
HENRIETTE. I am sure. He was released this noon for lack of evidence,
but he didn't want to show himself in the streets before it was dark.
ADOLPHE. Poor fellow! Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible to me since
yesterday.
HENRIETTE. And what about me? I am afraid to live, dare hardly breathe,
dare hardly think even, since I know that somebody is spying not only on
my words but on my thoughts.
ADOLPHE. So it was here you sat that night when I couldn't find you?
HENRIETTE. Yes, but don't talk of it. I could die from shame when I
think of it. Adolphe, you are made of a different, a better, stuff than
he or I---
ADOLPHE. Sh, sh, sh!
HENRIETTE. Yes, indeed! And what was it that made me stay here? I was
lazy; I was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitched me--I cannot
explain it. But if you had come, it would never have happened. And
to-day you are great, and he is small--less than the least of all.
Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. To-day he has nothing,
because his play has been withdrawn. And public opinion will never
excuse him, for his lack of faith will be judged as harshly as if he
were the murderer, and those that see farthest hold that the child died
from sorrow, so that he was responsible for it anyhow.
ADOLPHE. You know what my thoughts are in this matter, Henriette, but
I should like to know that both of you are spotless. Won't you tell me
what those dreadful words of yours meant? It cannot be a chance that
your talk in a festive moment like that dealt so largely with killing
and the scaffold.
HENRIETTE. It was no chance. It was something that had to be said,
something I cannot tell you--probably because I have no right to appear
spotless in your eyes, seeing that I am not spotless.
ADOLPHE. All this is beyond me.
HENRIETTE. Let us talk of something else--Do you believe there are many
unpunished criminals at large among us, some of whom may even be our
intimate friends?
ADOLPHE. [Nervously] Why? What do you mean?
HENRIETTE. Don't you believe that every human being at some time or
another has been guilty of some kind of act which would fall under the
law if it were discovered?
ADOLPHE. Yes, I believe that is true, but no evil act escapes being
punished by one's own conscience at least. [Rises and unbuttons his
coat] And--nobody is really good who has not erred. [Breathing heavily]
For in order to know how to forgive, one must have been in need of
forgiveness--I had a friend whom we used to regard as a model man. He
never spoke a hard word to anybody; he forgave everything and everybody;
and he suffered insults with a strange satisfaction that we couldn't
explain. At last, late in life, he gave me his secret in a single word:
I am a penitent! [He sits down again.]
(HENRIETTE remains silent, looking at him with surprise.)
ADOLPHE. [As if speaking to himself] There are crimes not mentioned in
the Criminal Code, and these are the worse ones, for they have to be
punished by ourselves, and no judge could be more severe than we are
against our own selves.
HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Well, that friend of yours, did he find
peace?
ADOLPHE. After endless self-torture he reached a certain degree of
composure, but life had never any real pleasures to offer him. He never
dared to accept any kind of distinction; he never dared to feel himself
entitled to a kind word or even well-earned praise: in a word, he could
never quite forgive himself.
HENRIETTE. Never? What had he done then?
ADOLPHE. He had wished the life out of his father. And when his father
suddenly died, the son imagined himself to have killed him. Those
imaginations were regarded as signs of some mental disease, and he was
sent to an asylum. From this he was discharged after a time as wholly
recovered--as they put it. But the sense of guilt remained with him, and
so he continued to punish himself for his evil thoughts.
HENRIETTE. Are you sure the evil will cannot kill?
ADOLPHE. You mean in some mystic way?
HENRIETTE. As you please. Let it go at mystic. In my own family--I am
sure that my mother and my sisters killed my father with their hatred.
You see, he had the awful idea that he must oppose all our tastes and
inclinations. Wherever he discovered a natural gift, he tried to root
it out. In that way he aroused a resistance that accumulated until it
became like an electrical battery charged with hatred. At last it
grew so powerful that he languished away, became depolarised, lost his
will-power, and, in the end, came to wish himself dead.
ADOLPHE. And your conscience never troubled you?
HENRIETTE. No, and furthermore, I don't know what conscience is.
ADOLPHE. You don't? Well, then you'll soon learn. [Pause] How do you
believe Maurice will look when he gets here? What do you think he will
say?
HENRIETTE. Yesterday morning, you know, he and I tried to make the same
kind of guess about you while we were waiting for you.
ADOLPHE. Well?
HENRIETTE. We guessed entirely wrong.
ADOLPHE. Can you tell me why you sent for me?
HENRIETTE. Malice, arrogance, outright cruelty!
ADOLPHE. How strange it is that you can admit your faults and yet not
repent of them.
HENRIETTE. It must be because I don't feel quite responsible for them.
They are like the dirt left behind by things handled during the day
and washed off at night. But tell me one thing: do you really think so
highly of humanity as you profess to do?
ADOLPHE. Yes, we are a little better than our reputation--and a little
worse.
HENRIETTE. That is not a straightforward answer.
ADOLPHE. No, it isn't. But are you willing to answer me frankly when I
ask you: do you still love Maurice?
HENRIETTE. I cannot tell until I see him. But at this moment I feel no
longing for him, and it seems as if I could very well live without him.
ADOLPHE. It's likely you could, but I fear you have become chained to
his fate--Sh! Here he comes.
HENRIETTE. How everything repeats itself. The situation is the same, the
very words are the same, as when we were expecting you yesterday.
MAURICE. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] Here I am, my
dear friends, if this be me. For that last night in a cell changed me
into a new sort of being. [Notices HENRIETTE and ADOLPHE.]
ADOLPHE. Sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talk
things over.
MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Perhaps I am in the way?
ADOLPHE. Now, don't get bitter.
MAURICE. I have grown bad in these twenty-four hours, and suspicious
also, so I guess I'll soon be left to myself. And who wants to keep
company with a murderer?
HENRIETTE. But you have been cleared of the charge.
MAURICE. [Picks up a newspaper] By the police, yes, but not by public
opinion. Here you see the murderer Maurice Gerard, once a playwright,
and his mistress, Henriette Mauclerc--
HENRIETTE. O my mother and my sisters--my mother! Jesus have mercy!
MAURICE. And can you see that I actually look like a murderer? And then
it is suggested that my play was stolen. So there isn't a vestige left
of the victorious hero from yesterday. In place of my own, the name of
Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and he is going to collect
my one hundred thousand francs. O Solon, Solon! Such is fortune, and
such is fame! You are fortunate, Adolphe, because you have not yet
succeeded.
HENRIETTE. So you don't know that Adolphe has made a great success in
London and carried off the first prize?
MAURICE. [Darkly] No, I didn't know that. Is it true, Adolphe?
ADOLPHE. It is true, but I have returned the prize.
HENRIETTE. [With emphasis] That I didn't know! So you are also prevented
from accepting any distinctions--like your friend?
ADOLPHE. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes!
MAURICE. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us still farther
apart.
ADOLPHE. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be as lonely with my
success as you with your adversity. Think of it--that people feel hurt
by your fortune! Oh, it's ghastly to be alive!
MAURICE. You say that! What am I then to say? It is as if my eyes had
been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shape of
all life had been changed by it. This room looks like the room I saw
yesterday, and yet it is quite different. I recognise both of you, of
course, but your faces are new to me. I sit here and search for words
because I don't know what to say to you. I ought to defend myself, but
I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for it protected me, at least,
against the curious glances that pass right through me. The murderer
Maurice and his mistress! You don't love me any longer, Henriette,
and no more do I care for you. To-day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid,
repulsive.
(Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at a table
in the background.)
ADOLPHE. Wait a little and get your thoughts together. That you have
been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear in some of the
evening papers. And that puts an end to the whole matter. Your play will
be put on again, and if it comes to the worst, you can write a new one.
Leave Paris for a year and let everything become forgotten. You who have
exonerated mankind will be exonerated yourself.
MAURICE. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha!
ADOLPHE. You have ceased to believe in goodness? MAURICE. Yes, if I ever
did believe in it. Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner of looking at
things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. When I, who was held
among the best, can be so rotten to the core, what must then be the
wretchedness of the rest?
ADOLPHE. Now I'll go out and get all the evening papers, and then we'll
undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a different way.
MAURICE. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives!--It means that
I am released under surveillance, so that I can give myself away by
careless talking.
ADOLPHE. Those are not detectives. That's only your imagination. I
recognise both of them. [Goes toward the door.]
MAURICE. Don't leave us alone, Adolphe. I fear that Henriette and I may
come to open explanations.
ADOLPHE. Oh, be sensible, Maurice, and think of your future. Try to keep
him quiet, Henriette. I'll be back in a moment. [Goes out.]
HENRIETTE. Well, Maurice, what do you think now of our guilt or
guiltlessness?
MAURICE. I have killed nobody. All I did was to talk a lot of nonsense
while I was drunk. But it is your crime that comes back, and that crime
you have grafted on to me.
HENRIETTE. Oh, that's the tone you talk in now!--Was it not you who
cursed your own child, and wished the life out of it, and wanted to go
away without saying good-bye to anybody? And was it not I who made you
visit Marion and show yourself to Madame Catherine?
MAURICE. Yes, you are right. Forgive me! You proved yourself more human
than I, and the guilt is wholly my own. Forgive me! But all the same
I am without guilt. Who has tied this net from which I can never free
myself? Guilty and guiltless; guiltless and yet guilty! Oh, it is
driving me mad--Look, now they sit over there and listen to us--And no
waiter comes to take our order. I'll go out and order a cup of tea. Do
you want anything?
HENRIETTE. Nothing.
(MAURICE goes out.)
FIRST DETECTIVE. [Goes up to HENRIETTE] Let me look at your papers.
HENRIETTE. How dare you speak to me?
DETECTIVE. Dare? I'll show you!
HENRIETTE. What do you mean?
DETECTIVE. It's my job to keep an eye on street-walkers. Yesterday
you came here with one man, and today with another. That's as good as
walking the streets. And unescorted ladies don't get anything here. So
you'd better get out and come along with me.
HENRIETTE. My escort will be back in a moment.
DETECTIVE. Yes, and a pretty kind of escort you've got--the kind that
doesn't help a girl a bit!
HENRIETTE. O God! My mother, my sisters!--I am of good family, I tell
you.
DETECTIVE. Yes, first-rate family, I am sure. But you are too well known
through the papers. Come along!
HENRIETTE. Where? What do you mean?
DETECTIVE. Oh, to the Bureau, of course. There you'll get a nice little
card and a license that brings you free medical care.
HENRIETTE. O Lord Jesus, you don't mean it!
DETECTIVE. [Grabbing HENRIETTE by the arm] Don't I mean it?
HENRIETTE. [Falling on her knees] Save me, Maurice! Help!
DETECTIVE. Shut up, you fool!
(MAURICE enters, followed by WAITER.)
WAITER. Gentlemen of that kind are not served here. You just pay and get
out! And take the girl along!
MAURICE. [Crushed, searches his pocket-book for money] Henriette, pay
for me, and let us get away from this place. I haven't a sou left.
WAITER. So the lady has to put up for her Alphonse! Alphonse! Do you
know what that is?
HENRIETTE. [Looking through her pocket-book] Oh, merciful heavens! I
have no money either!--Why doesn't Adolphe come back?
DETECTIVE. Well, did you ever see such rotters! Get out of here, and
put up something as security. That kind of ladies generally have their
fingers full of rings.
MAURICE. Can it be possible that we have sunk so low?
HENRIETTE. [Takes off a ring and hands it to the WAITER] The Abbe was
right: this is not the work of man.
MAURICE. No, it's the devil's!--But if we leave before Adolphe returns,
he will think that we have deceived him and run away.
HENRIETTE. That would be in keeping with the rest--But we'll go into the
river now, won't we?
MAURICE. [Takes HENRIETTE by the hand as they walk out together] Into
the river--yes!
(Curtain.)
ACT IV
FIRST SCENE
(In the Luxembourg Gardens, at the group of Adam and Eve. The wind is
shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves, straws, and pieces of
paper from the ground.)
(MAURICE and HENRIETTE are seated on a bench.)
HENRIETTE. So you don't want to die?
MAURICE. No, I am afraid. I imagine that I am going to be very cold down
there in the grave, with only a sheet to cover me and a few shavings
to lie on. And besides that, it seems to me as if there were still some
task waiting for me, but I cannot make out what it is.
HENRIETTE. But I can guess what it is.
MAURICE. Tell me.
HENRIETTE. It is revenge. You, like me, must have suspected Jeanne and
Emile of sending the detectives after me yesterday. Such a revenge on a
rival none but a woman could devise.
MAURICE. Exactly what I was thinking. But let me tell you that my
suspicions go even further. It seems as if my sufferings during these
last few days had sharpened my wits. Can you explain, for instance,
why the waiter from the Auberge des Adrets and the head waiter from the
Pavilion were not called to testify at the hearing?
HENRIETTE. I never thought of it before. But now I know why. They had
nothing to tell, because they had not been listening.
MAURICE. But how could the Commissaire then know what we had been
saying?
HENRIETTE. He didn't know, but he figured it out. He was guessing, and
he guessed right. Perhaps he had had to deal with some similar case
before.
MAURICE. Or else he concluded from our looks what we had been saying.
There are those who can read other people's thoughts--Adolphe being the
dupe, it seemed quite natural that we should have called him an ass.
It's the rule, I understand, although it's varied at times by the use of
"idiot" instead. But ass was nearer at hand in this case, as we had
been talking of carriages and triumphal chariots. It is quite simple to
figure out a fourth fact, when you have three known ones to start from.
HENRIETTE. Just think that we have let ourselves be taken in so
completely.
MAURICE. That's the result of thinking too well of one's fellow beings.
This is all you get out of it. But do you know, _I_ suspect somebody
else back of the Commissaire, who, by-the-bye, must be a full-fledged
scoundrel.
HENRIETTE. You mean the Abbe, who was taking the part of a private
detective.
MAURICE. That's what I mean. That man has to receive all kinds of
confessions. And note you: Adolphe himself told us he had been at the
Church of St. Germain that morning. What was he doing there? He was
blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate. And then the priest put the
questions together for the Commissaire.
HENRIETTE. Tell me something: do you trust Adolphe?
MAURICE. I trust no human being any longer.
HENRIETTE. Not even Adolphe?
MAURICE. Him least of all. How could I trust an enemy--a man from whom I
have taken away his mistress?
HENRIETTE. Well, as you were the first one to speak of this, I'll give
you some data about our friend. You heard he had returned that medal
from London. Do you know his reason for doing so?
MAURICE. No.
HENRIETTE. He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken a
penitential vow never to receive any kind of distinction.
MAURICE. Can that he possible? But what has he done?
HENRIETTE. He has committed a crime of the kind that is not punishable
under the law. That's what he gave me to understand indirectly.
MAURICE. He, too! He, the best one of all, the model man, who never
speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything.
HENRIETTE. Well, there you can see that we are no worse than others. And
yet we are being hounded day and night as if devils were after us.
MAURICE. He, also! Then mankind has not been slandered--But if he has
been capable of ONE crime, then you may expect anything of him. Perhaps
it was he who sent the police after you yesterday. Coming to think of it
now, it was he who sneaked away from us when he saw that we were in
the papers, and he lied when he insisted that those fellows were not
detectives. But, of course, you may expect anything from a deceived
lover.
HENRIETTE. Could he be as mean as that? No, it is impossible,
impossible!
MAURICE. Why so? If he is a scoundrel?--What were you two talking of
yesterday, before I came?
HENRIETTE. He had nothing but good to say of you.
MAURICE. That's a lie!
HENRIETTE. [Controlling herself and changing her tone] Listen. There is
one person on whom you have cast no suspicion whatever--for what reason,
I don't know. Have you thought of Madame Catherine's wavering attitude
in this matter? Didn't she say finally that she believed you capable of
anything?
MAURICE. Yes, she did, and that shows what kind of person she is.
To think evil of other people without reason, you must be a villain
yourself.
(HENRIETTE looks hard at him. Pause.)
HENRIETTE. To think evil of others, you must be a villain yourself.
MAURICE. What do you mean?
HENRIETTE. What I said.
MAURICE. Do you mean that I--?
HENRIETTE. Yes, that's what I mean now! Look here! Did you meet anybody
but Marion when you called there yesterday morning?
MAURICE. Why do you ask?
HENRIETTE. Guess!
MAURICE. Well, as you seem to know--I met Jeanne, too.
HENRIETTE. Why did you lie to me?
MAURICE. I wanted to spare you.
HENRIETTE. And now you want me to believe in one who has been lying to
me? No, my boy, now I believe you guilty of that murder.
MAURICE. Wait a moment! We have now reached the place for which my
thoughts have been heading all the time, though I resisted as long as
possible. It's queer that what lies next to one is seen last of all, and
what one doesn't WANT to believe cannot be believed--Tell me something:
where did you go yesterday morning, after we parted in the Bois?
HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] Why?
MAURICE. You went either to Adolphe--which you couldn't do, as he was
attending a lesson--or you went to--Marion!
HENRIETTE. Now I am convinced that you are the murderer.
MAURICE. And I, that you are the murderess! You alone had an interest in
getting the child out of the way--to get rid of the rock on the road, as
you so aptly put it.
HENRIETTE. It was you who said that.
MAURICE. And the one who had an interest in it must have committed the
crime.
HENRIETTE. Now, Maurice, we have been running around and around in this
tread-mill, scourging each other. Let us quit before we get to the point
of sheer madness.
MAURICE. You have reached that point already.
HENRIETTE. Don't you think it's time for us to part, before we drive
each other insane?
MAURICE. Yes, I think so.
HENRIETTE. [Rising] Good-bye then!
(Two men in civilian clothes become visible in the background.)
HENRIETTE. [Turns and comes back to MAURICE] There they are again!
MAURICE. The dark angels that want to drive us out of the garden.
HENRIETTE. And force us back upon each other as if we were chained
together.
MAURICE. Or as if we were condemned to lifelong marriage. Are we really
to marry? To settle down in the same place? To be able to close the door
behind us and perhaps get peace at last?
HENRIETTE. And shut ourselves up in order to torture each other to
death; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriage portion;
you torturing me with the memory of Adolphe, and I getting back at you
with Jeanne--and Marion.
MAURICE. Never mention the name of Marion again! Don't you know that she
was to be buried today--at this very moment perhaps?
HENRIETTE. And you are not there? What does that mean?
MAURICE. It means that both Jeanne and the police have warned me against
the rage of the people.
HENRIETTE. A coward, too?
MAURICE. All the vices! How could you ever have cared for me?
HENRIETTE. Because two days ago you were another person, well worthy of
being loved---
MAURICE. And now sunk to such a depth!
HENRIETTE. It isn't that. But you are beginning to flaunt bad qualities
which are not your own.
MAURICE. But yours?
HENRIETTE. Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse I feel myself at
once a little better.
MAURICE. It's like passing on a disease to save one's self-respect.
HENRIETTE. And how vulgar you have become, too!
MAURICE. Yes, I notice it myself, and I hardly recognise myself since
that night in the cell. They put in one person and let out another
through that gate which separates us from the rest of society. And now
I feel myself the enemy of all mankind: I should like to set fire to
the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothing less than a universal
conflagration can wipe out my dishonour.
HENRIETTE. I had a letter from my mother today. She is the widow of a
major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas of honour and
that kind of thing. Do you want to read the letter? No, you don't!--Do
you know that I am an outcast? My respectable acquaintances will have
nothing to do with me, and if I show myself on the streets alone the
police will take me. Do you realise now that we have to get married?
MAURICE. We despise each other, and yet we have to marry: that is hell
pure and simple! But, Henriette, before we unite our destinies you must
tell me your secret, so that we may be on more equal terms.
HENRIETTE. All right, I'll tell you. I had a friend who got into
trouble--you understand. I wanted to help her, as her whole future was
at stake--and she died!
MAURICE. That was reckless, but one might almost call it noble, too.
HENRIETTE. You say so now, but the next time you lose your temper you
will accuse me of it.
MAURICE. No, I won't. But I cannot deny that it has shaken my faith
in you and that it makes me afraid of you. Tell me, is her lover still
alive, and does he know to what extent you were responsible?
HENRIETTE. He was as guilty as I.
MAURICE. And if his conscience should begin to trouble him--such things
do happen--and if he should feel inclined to confess: then you would be
lost.
HENRIETTE. I know it, and it is this constant dread which has made me
rush from one dissipation to another--so that I should never have time
to wake up to full consciousness.
MAURICE. And now you want me to take my marriage portion out of your
dread. That's asking a little too much.
HENRIETTE. But when I shared the shame of Maurice the murderer---
MAURICE. Oh, let's come to an end with it!
HENRIETTE. No, the end is not yet, and I'll not let go my hold until I
have put you where you belong. For you can't go around thinking yourself
better than I am.
MAURICE. So you want to fight me then? All right, as you please!
HENRIETTE. A fight on life and death!
(The rolling of drums is heard in the distance.)
MAURICE. The garden is to be closed. "Cursed is the ground for thy sake;
thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee."
HENRIETTE. "And the Lord God said unto the woman---"
A GUARD. [In uniform, speaking very politely] Sorry, but the garden has
to be closed.
(Curtain.)
SECOND SCENE
(The Cremerie. MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter making entries
into an account book. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at a table.)
ADOLPHE. [Calmly and kindly] But if I give you my final assurance that I
didn't run away, but that, on the contrary, I thought you had played me
false, this ought to convince you.
HENRIETTE. But why did you fool us by saying that those fellows were not
policemen?
ADOLPHE. I didn't think myself that they were, and then I wanted to
reassure you.
HENRIETTE. When you say it, I believe you. But then you must also
believe me, if I reveal my innermost thoughts to you.
ADOLPHE. Go on.
HENRIETTE. But you mustn't come back with your usual talk of fancies and
delusions.
ADOLPHE. You seem to have reason to fear that I may.
HENRIETTE. I fear nothing, but I know you and your scepticism--Well, and
then you mustn't tell this to anybody--promise me!
ADOLPHE. I promise.
HENRIETTE. Now think of it, although I must say it's something terrible:
I have partial evidence that Maurice is guilty, or at least, I have
reasonable suspicions---
ADOLPHE. You don't mean it!
HENRIETTE. Listen, and judge for yourself. When Maurice left me in the
Bois, he said he was going to see Marion alone, as the mother was out.
And now I have discovered afterward that he did meet the mother. So that
he has been lying to me.
ADOLPHE. That's possible, and his motive for doing so may have been
the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he is guilty of a
murder?
HENRIETTE. Can't you see that?--Don't you understand?
ADOLPHE. Not at all.
HENRIETTE. Because you don't want to!--Then there is nothing left for me
but to report him, and we'll see whether he can prove an alibi.
ADOLPHE. Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. You, like he, have
reached the border line of--insanity. The demons of distrust have got
hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense of partial guilt to
wound the other with. Let me see if I can make a straight guess: he has
also come to suspect you of killing his child?
HENRIETTE. Yes, he's mad enough to do so.
ADOLPHE. You call his suspicions mad, but not your own.
HENRIETTE. You have first to prove the contrary, or that I suspect him
unjustly.
ADOLPHE. Yes, that's easy. A new autopsy has proved that Marion died of
a well-known disease, the queer name of which I cannot recall just now.
HENRIETTE. Is it true?
ADOLPHE. The official report is printed in today's paper.
HENRIETTE. I don't take any stock in it. They can make up that kind of
thing.
ADOLPHE. Beware, Henriette--or you may, without knowing it, pass across
that border line. Beware especially of throwing out accusations that may
put you into prison. Beware! [He places his hand on her head] You hate
Maurice?
HENRIETTE. Beyond all bounds!
ADOLPHE. When love turns into hatred, it means that it was tainted from
the start.
HENRIETTE. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do? Tell me, you who are the
only one that understands me.
ADOLPHE. But you don't want any sermons.
HENRIETTE. Have you nothing else to offer me?
ADOLPHE. Nothing else. But they have helped me.
HENRIETTE. Preach away then!
ADOLPHE. Try to turn your hatred against yourself. Put the knife to the
evil spot in yourself, for it is there that YOUR trouble roots.
HENRIETTE. Explain yourself.
ADOLPHE. Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurse your
qualms of conscience together. Break off your career as an artist,
for the only thing that led you into it was a craving for freedom and
fun--as they call it. And you have seen now how much fun there is in it.
Then go home to your mother.
HENRIETTE. Never!
ADOLPHE. Some other place then.
HENRIETTE. I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have guessed your secret
and why you wouldn't accept the prize?
ADOLPHE. Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-told story.
HENRIETTE. Well--what did you do to get peace?
ADOLPHE. What I have suggested: I became conscious of my guilt,
repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and arranged my life like
that of a penitent.
HENRIETTE. How can you repent when, like me, you have no conscience? Is
repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faith is?
ADOLPHE. Everything is a grace, but it isn't granted unless you seek
it--Seek!
(HENRIETTE remains silent.)
ADOLPHE. But don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you may harden
yourself until you tumble down into the irretrievable.
HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Is conscience fear of punishment?
ADOLPHE. No, it is the horror inspired in our better selves by the
misdeeds of our lower selves.
HENRIETTE. Then I must have a conscience also?
ADOLPHE. Of course you have, but--
HENRIETTE, Tell me, Adolphe, are you what they call religious?
ADOLPHE. Not the least bit.
HENRIETTE. It's all so queer--What is religion?
ADOLPHE. Frankly speaking, I don't know! And I don't think anybody else
can tell you. Sometimes it appears to me like a punishment, for nobody
becomes religious without having a bad conscience.
HENRIETTE. Yes, it is a punishment. Now I know what to do. Good-bye,
Adolphe!
ADOLPHE. You'll go away from here?
HENRIETTE. Yes, I am going--to where you said. Good-bye my friend!
Good-bye, Madame Catherine!
MME. CATHERINE. Have you to go in such a hurry?
HENRIETTE. Yes.
ADOLPHE. Do you want me to go with you?
HENRIETTE. No, it wouldn't do. I am going alone, alone as I came here,
one day in Spring, thinking that I belonged where I don't belong, and
believing there was something called freedom, which does not exist.
Good-bye! [Goes out.]
MME. CATHERINE. I hope that lady never comes back, and I wish she had
never come here at all!
ADOLPHE. Who knows but that she may have had some mission to fill here?
And at any rate she deserves pity, endless pity.
MME. CATHERINE. I don't, deny it, for all of us deserve that.
ADOLPHE. And she has even done less wrong than the rest of us.
MME. CATHERINE. That's possible, but not probable.
ADOLPHE. You are always so severe, Madame Catherine. Tell me: have you
never done anything wrong?
MME. CATHERINE. [Startled] Of course, as I am a sinful human creature.
But if you have been on thin ice and fallen in, you have a right to
tell others to keep away. And you may do so without being held severe
or uncharitable. Didn't I say to Monsieur Maurice the moment that lady
entered here: Look out! Keep away! And he didn't, and so he fell in.
Just like a naughty, self-willed child. And when a man acts like that he
has to have a spanking, like any disobedient youngster.
ADOLPHE. Well, hasn't he had his spanking?
MME. CATHERINE. Yes, but it does not seem to have been enough, as he is
still going around complaining.
ADOLPHE. That's a very popular interpretation of the whole intricate
question.
MME. CATHERINE. Oh, pish! You do nothing but philosophise about your
vices, and while you are still at it the police come along and solve the
riddle. Now please leave me alone with my accounts!
ADOLPHE. There's Maurice now.
MME. CATHERINE. Yes, God bless him!
MAURICE. [Enters, his face very flushed, and takes a seat near ADOLPHE]
Good evening.
(MME. CATHERINE nods and goes on figuring.)
ADOLPHE. Well, how's everything with you?
MAURICE. Oh, beginning to clear up.
ADOLPHE. [Hands him a newspaper, which MAURICE does not take] So you
have read the paper?
MAURICE. No, I don't read the papers any longer. There's nothing but
infamies in them.
ADOLPHE. But you had better read it first---
MAURICE. No, I won't! It's nothing but lies--But listen: I have found a
new clue. Can you guess who committed that murder?
ADOLPHE. Nobody, nobody!
MAURICE. Do you know where Henriette was during that quarter hour when
the child was left alone?--She was THERE! And it is she who has done it!
ADOLPHE. You are crazy, man.
MAURICE. Not I, but Henriette, is crazy. She suspects me and has
threatened to report me.
ADOLPHE. Henriette was here a while ago, and she used the self-same
words as you. Both of you are crazy, for it has been proved by a second
autopsy that the child died from a well-known disease, the name of which
I have forgotten.
MAURICE. It isn't true!
ADOLPHE. That's what she said also. But the official report is printed
in the paper.
MAURICE. A report? Then they have made it up!
ADOLPHE. And that's also what she said. The two of you are suffering
from the same mental trouble. But with her I got far enough to make her
realise her own condition.
MAURICE. Where did she go?
ADOLPHE. She went far away from here to begin a new life.
MAURICE. Hm, hm!--Did you go to the funeral? ADOLPHE. I did.
MAURICE. Well?
ADOLPHE. Well, Jeanne seemed resigned and didn't have a hard word to say
about you.
MAURICE. She is a good woman.
ADOLPHE. Why did you desert her then?
MAURICE. Because I WAS crazy--blown up with pride especially--and then
we had been drinking champagne---
ADOLPHE. Can you understand now why Jeanne wept when you drank
champagne?
MAURICE. Yes, I understand now--And for that reason I have already
written to her and asked her to forgive me--Do you think she will
forgive me?
ADOLPHE. I think so, for it's not like her to hate anybody.
MAURICE. Do you think she will forgive me completely, so that she will
come back to me?
ADOLPHE. Well, I don't know about THAT. You have shown yourself so poor
in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trust her fate to
you any longer.
MAURICE. But I can feel that her fondness for me has not ceased, and I
know she will come back to me.
ADOLPHE. How can you know that? How can you believe it? Didn't you even
suspect her and that decent brother of hers of having sent the police
after Henriette out of revenge?
MAURICE. But I don't believe it any longer--that is to say, I guess that
fellow Emile is a pretty slick customer.
MME. CATHERINE. Now look here! What are you saying of Monsieur Emile? Of
course, he is nothing but a workman, but if everybody kept as straight
as he--There is no flaw in him, but a lot of sense and tact.
EMILE. [Enters] Monsieur Gerard?
MAURICE. That's me.
EMILE. Pardon me, but I have something to say to you in private.
MAURICE. Go right on. We are all friends here.
(The ABBE enters and sits down.)
EMILE. [With a glance at the ABBE] Perhaps after---
MAURICE. Never mind. The Abbe is also a friend, although he and I
differ.
EMILE. You know who I am, Monsieur Gerard? My sister has asked me to
give you this package as an answer to your letter.
(MAURICE takes the package and opens it.)
EMILE. And now I have only to add, seeing as I am in a way my sister's
guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, I acknowledge you free
of all obligations, now when the natural tie between you does not exist
any longer.
MAURICE. But you must have a grudge against me?
EMILE. Must I? I can't see why. On the other hand, I should like to have
a declaration from you, here in the presence of your friends, that you
don't think either me or my sister capable of such a meanness as to send
the police after Mademoiselle Henriette.
MAURICE. I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you my apology, if
you will accept it.
EMILE. It is accepted. And I wish all of you a good evening. [Goes out.]
EVERYBODY. Good evening!
MAURICE. The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me for the opening
night of my play, and which I let Henrietta throw into the fireplace.
Who can have picked them up? Everything is dug up; everything comes
back!--And when she gave them to me in the cemetery, she said she
wanted me to look fine and handsome, so that other people would like me
also--And she herself stayed at home--This hurt her too deeply, and well
it might. I have no right to keep company with decent human beings. Oh,
have I done this? Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a
sacrifice offered to my own welfare. This was what I threw away in order
to get--a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust that
would have belonged in the pillory--Abbe, now I come over to you.
ABBE. Welcome!
MAURICE. Give me the word that I need.
ABBE. Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations and inform
you that you have done nothing wrong?
MAURICE. Speak the right word!
ABBE. With your leave, I'll say then that I have found your behaviour
just as abominable as you have found it yourself.
MAURICE. What can I do, what can I do, to get out of this?
ABBE. You know as well as I do.
MAURICE. No, I know only that I am lost, that my life is spoiled, my
career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever.
ABBE. And so you are looking for a new existence in some better world,
which you are now beginning to believe in?
MAURICE. Yes, that's it.
ABBE. You have been living in the flesh and you want now to live in the
spirit. Are you then so sure that this world has no more attractions for
you?
MAURICE. None whatever! Honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dry
leaves; women, mere intoxicants. Let me hide myself behind your
consecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filled two
days and lasted two eternities.
ABBE. All right! But this is not the place to go into the matter more
closely. Let us make an appointment for this evening at nine o'clock in
the Church of St. Germain. For I am going to preach to the inmates
of St. Lazare, and that may be your first step along the hard road of
penitence.
MAURICE. Penitence?
ABBE. Well, didn't you wish---
MAURICE. Yes, yes!
ABBE. Then we have vigils between midnight and two o'clock.
MAURICE. That will be splendid!
ABBE. Give me your hand that you will not look back.
MAURICE. [Rising, holds out his hand] Here is my hand, and my will goes
with it.
SERVANT GIRL. [Enters from the kitchen] A telephone call for Monsieur
Maurice.
MAURICE. From whom?
SERVANT GIRL. From the theatre.
(MAURICE tries to get away, but the ABBE holds on to his hand.)
ABBE. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Find out what it is.
SERVANT GIRL. They want to know if Monsieur Maurice is going to attend
the performance tonight.
ABBE. [To MAURICE, who is trying to get away] No, I won't let you go.
MAURICE. What performance is that?
ADOLPHE. Why don't you read the paper?
MME. CATHERINE and the ABBE. He hasn't read the paper?
MAURICE. It's all lies and slander. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Tell them that
I am engaged for this evening: I am going to church.
(The SERVANT GIRL goes out into the kitchen.)
ADOLPHE. As you don't want to read the paper, I shall have to tell you
that your play has been put on again, now when you are exonerated. And
your literary friends have planned a demonstration for this evening in
recognition of your indisputable talent.
MAURICE. It isn't true.
EVERYBODY. It is true.
MAURICE. [After a pause] I have not deserved it!
ABBE. Good!
ADOLPHE. And furthermore, Maurice---
MAURICE. [Hiding his face in his hands] Furthermore!
MME. CATHERINE. One hundred thousand francs! Do you see now that they
come back to you? And the villa outside the city. Everything is coming
back except Mademoiselle Henriette.
ABBE. [Smiling] You ought to take this matter a little more seriously,
Madame Catherine.
MME. CATHERINE. Oh, I cannot--I just can't keep serious any longer!
[She breaks into open laughter, which she vainly tries to smother with
her handkerchief.]
ADOLPHE. Say, Maurice, the play begins at eight.
ABBE. But the church services are at nine.
ADOLPHE. Maurice!
MME. CATHERINE. Let us hear what the end is going to be, Monsieur
Maurice.
(MAURICE drops his head on the table, in his arms.)
ADOLPHE. Loose him, Abbe!
ABBE. No, it is not for me to loose or bind. He must do that himself.
MAURICE. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbe.
ABBE. No, my young friend. I have nothing to give you but a scolding,
which you can give yourself. And you owe a duty to yourself and to your
good name. That you have got through with this as quickly as you have is
to me a sign that you have suffered your punishment as intensely as if
it had lasted an eternity. And when Providence absolves you there is
nothing for me to add.
MAURICE. But why did the punishment have to be so hard when I was
innocent?
ABBE. Hard? Only two days! And you were not innocent. For we have to
stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. And in
your thought you became a murderer when your evil self wished the life
out of your child.
MAURICE. You are right. But my decision is made. To-night I will
meet you at the church in order to have a reckoning with myself--but
to-morrow evening I go to the theatre.
MME. CATHERINE. A good solution, Monsieur Maurice.
ADOLPHE. Yes, that is the solution. Whew!
ABBE. Yes, so it is!
(Curtain.)
End of Project Gutenberg's There are Crimes and Crimes, by August Strindberg
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