The Plays of Maurice Maeterlinck SECOND SERIES THE PLAYS OF Maurice Maeterlinck SECOND SERIES ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES • PEL- LEAS AND MELISANDE • HOME • THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES TRANSLATED BV RICHARD HOVEY New York DUFFIELD & COMPANY 1906 J\j-J V '• COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY STONE AND KIMBALL TA/s edition published igob by Duffield df Company K>A>U-Ot-v-ij /^f//r The Trow Press, N. Y. Hi Contents » PAGE PREFACE (by Maurice Maeterlinck) ... ix ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES 5 piSllieas and MELISANDE 6l HOME ... 167 THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES I97 845852 Preface. /^N m'a demand^ plus d'une fois si mes ^-^ drames, de La Prinasse Maleine a La Mortde Tintagiles^ avaient ^t^ r^ellement Merits pour un theatre de marionettes, ainsi que je Tavais affirm^ dans I'^dition originale de cette sauvage petite l^gende des malheurs de Maleine. En v^rit^, ils ne furent pas Merits pour des acteurs ordinaires. II n'y avait la nul d^sir ironique et pas la moindre humility non plus. Je croyais sincerement et je crois encore au- jourd'hui, que les po^mes meurent lorsque des etres vivants s'y introduisent. Un jour, dans, un ^crit dont je ne retrouve plus que quelques fragments mutiMs, j^ai essay^ d'expliquer ces choses qui dorment, sans doute, au fond de notre instinct et qu'il est bien difficile de r^- veiller compl^teraent. J'y constatais d'abord, qu'une inquietude nous attendait a tout spec- tacle auquel nous assistions et qu'une deception a peu pr^s ineffable accompagnait toujours la chute du rideau. N'est-il pas evident que le Macbeth ou T Hamlet que nous voyons sur la scene ne ressemble pas au Macbeth ou a X Preface. r Hamlet du livre? Qu'il a visiblement retro- grade dans le sublime? Qu'une grande partie des eiforts du poete qui voulait cr^er avant tout une vie sup^rieure, une vie plus proche de notre ame, a ^t^ annul^e par une force ennemie qui ne peut se manifester qu'en ramenant cette vie sup^rieure au niveau de la vie ordinaire? II y a peut-etre, lAe disais-je, aux sources de ce malaise, un tres ancien malentendu, a la suite duquel le theatre ne fut jamais exactement ce qu'il est dans I'instinct de la foule, a savoir : le temple du Reve, II faut admettre, ajoutai-je, que le theatre, du moins en ses tendances, est un art. Mais je n'y trouve pas la marque des autres arts. L'art use toujours d'un detour et n'agit pas directement. II a pour mission supreme la revelation de I'infini et de la gran- deur ainsi que la beauts secrete, de Thomme. Mais montrer au doigt a F enfant qui nous ac- compagne, les ^toiles d'une nuit de Juillet, ce n'est pas faire une oeuvre d'art. H faut que Tart agisse comme les abeilles. Elles n'ap- portent pas aux larves de la ruche les fleurs des champs qui renferment leur avenir et leur vie. Les larves mourraient sous ces fleurs sans se douter de rien. II faut que les abeilles nour- ricieres apportent a ces nymphes aveugles Tame meme de ces fleurs, et c'est alors seulement qu'elles trouveront sans le savoir en ce miel mys- Preface. xi t^rieux la substance des ailes qui un jour les emporteront a leur tour dans I'espace. Or, le poeme ^tait une oeuvre d'art et portait ces obliques et admirables marques. Mais la repre- sentation vient le contredire. Elle chasse vrai- ment les cygnes du grand lac, et elle rejette les perles dans I'abime. Elle remet les choses exactement au point ou elles ^talent avant la venue du poete. La density mystique de I'oeuvre d'art a disparue. Elle verse dans la meme erreur que celui qui apr^s avoir vant6 a ses auditeurs Tadmirable Annonciation de Vinci, par exemple, s'imaginerait qu'il a fait p^n^trer dans leurs ames la beauts surnaturelle de oette peinture en reproduisant, en un tableau vivant, tous les details du grand chef-d'oeuvre florentin. Qui sait si ce n'est pas pour ces raisons cach^es que Ton est oblige de s'avouer que la plupart des grands poemes de Thumanit^ ne sont pas sc^niques? Lear, Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Antoine et Cleopdtre, ne peuvent etre repr^sent^s, et il est dangereux de les voir sur la scene. Quelque chose d' Hamlet est mort pour nous du jour ou nous I'avons vu mourir sous nos yeux. Le spectre d'un acteur I'a d^tron^, et nous ne pouvons plus ^carter I'usur- pateur de nos reves. Ouvrez les portes, ouvrez le livre, le prince ant^rieur ne re vient plus. II xii Preface. a perdu la faculty de vivre selon la beauts la plus secrete de notre ame. Parfois son ombre passe encore en tremblaiit sur le seuil, mais d^sormais il n'ose plus, il ne pent plus entrer ; et bien des voix sont mortes qui Tacclamaient en nous. Je me souviens de cette mort de THamlet de mes reves. Un soir j'ouvris la porte a Tusur- pateur du poeme. L'acteur ^tait illustre. II entra. Un seul de ses regards me montra qu'il n'etait pas Hamlet. II ne le fut pas un seul instant pour moi. Je le vis s'agiter durant trois heures dans le mensonge. Je voyais claire- ment qu^il avait ses propres destinies; et celles qu'il voulait repr^senter m'^taient indi- ciblement indiff<^rentes a cot^ des siennes. Je voyais sa sant6 et ses habitudes, ses passions et ses tristesses, ses pens^es et ses oeuvres, et il essayait vainement de m'int^resser a une vie qui n'etait pas la sienne et que sa seule pre- sence avait rendue factice. Depuis je le revois lorsque j'ouvre le livre et Elsinore n'est plus le palais d'autrefois. . . . *^La v^rit^/' dit quelque part Charles Lamb, " la v^rite est que les caract^res de Shakespeare sont tellement des objets de meditation plutot que d*interet ou de curiosity relativement a leurs actes, que, tandis que nous lisons Tun de ses grands caracteres criminels, — Mac- beth, Richard, lago meme, — nous ne songeons Preface. xiii pas tant aux crimes quails commettent, qu'^ Tambition, k Tesprit d^aspiration, a Tactivit^ intellectuelle qui les poussent a franchir ces barri^res morales. Les actions nous affectent si peu, que, tandis que les impulsions, I'esprit int^rieur en toute sa perverse grandeur, pa- raissent seuls r^els et appellent seuls I'attention, le crime n'est comparativement rien. Mais lorsque nous voyons repr^senter ces choses, les actes sont comparativement tout, et les mobiles ne sont plus rien. L'^motion sublime ou nous sommes entrain^s par ces images de nuit et d'horreur qu'exprime Macbeth; ce solennel prelude ou il s'oublie jusqu'a ce que Thorloge Sonne Pheure qui doit Tappeler au meurtre de Duncan ; lorsque nous ne lisons plus cela dans un livre, lorsque nous avons abandonn^ ce poste avantageux de I'abstraction d'ou la lecture domine la vision, et lorsque nous voyons sous nos yeux, un homme en sa forme corporelle se preparer actuellement au meurtre ; si le jeu de Tacteur est vrai et puissant, la p^nible anxi^t^ au sujet de Tacte, le naturel d^sir de le pr^venir tout qu'il ne semble pas accompli, la trop puis- sante apparence de r^alit^, provoquent un mal- aise et une inquietude qui d^truisent totalement le plaisir que les mots apportent dans le livre, ou Tacte ne nous oppresse jamais de la p^nible sensation de sa presence, et semble plutot appar- XIV Preface. tenir a Thistoire ; a quelque chose de pass^ et d'in^vitable." Charles Lamb a raison, et pour mille raisons bien plus profondes encore que celles qu'il nous donne. Le theatre est le lieu ou meurent la plu- part des chefs-d'oeuvre, parce que la represen- tation d'un chef-d'oeuvre a Taide d'^l^ments accidentels et humains est antinomique. Tout chef-d'oeuvre est un symbole, et le symbole ne supporte pas la presence active de I'homme. II suffit que le coq chante, dit Hamlet, pour que les spectres de la nuit s'^vanouissent. Et de meme, le poeme perd sa vie " de la seconde sphere " lorsqu'un etre de la sphere inf^rieure s'y introduit. L'accident ramene le symbole a Taccident ; et le chef-d'oeuvre, en son essence, est mort durant le temps de cette presence et de ses traces. Les Grecs n'ignorerent pas cette antinomic, et leurs masques que nous ne comprenons plus, ne servaient probablement qu'a att^nuer la presence de I'homme et a soulager le symbole. Aux ^poques ou le theatre eut une vie veritable, il la dut peut-etre uniquement a quelque cir- constance ou a quelque artifice qui venait en aide du poeme dans sa lutte contre I'homme. Ainsi, sous Elisabeth, par exemple, la declama- tion etait une sorte de m^lop^e, le jeu ^tait conventionnel, et la scene aussi. II en ^tait a Preface. xv peu pr^s de meme sous Louis XIV. Le poeme se retire a mesure que rhomme s'avance. Le poeme veut nous arracher du pouvoir de nos sens et faire predominer le passe et I'avenir; rhomme, au contraire, n'agit que sur nos sens et n'existe que pour autant qu*il puisse effacer cette predomination. S'il entre en scene avec toutes ses puissances, et libre comme s'il entrait dans une foret ; si sa voix, ses gestes, et son attitude ne sont pas voil^es par un grand nombre de con- ventions synth^tiques ; si Ton apergoit un seul instant I'etre vivant qu'il est et Tame qu'il possede, — il n'y a pas de poeme au monde qui ne recule devant lui. A ce moment precis, le spectacle du poeme s'interrompt et nous assis- tons a une scene de la vie ext^rieure, qui, de meme qu'une scene de la rue, de la riviere, ou du champ de bataille, a ses beaut^s ^ternelles et secretes, mais qui est n^anmoins impuissante a nous arracher du present, parce qu'en cet instant nous n'avons pas la quality pour aperce- voir ces beaut^s invisibles, qui ne sont que ** des fleurs offertes aux vers aveugles." Et c'est pour ces raisons, et pour d'autres encore qu*on pourrait rechercher dans les memes parages, que j 'avals destin^ mes petits drames a des etres indulgents aux poemes, et que, faute de mieux, j'appelle " Marionettes." Maurice Maeterlinck. Alladine and Palomides. To Camille Mauclab Persons. Ablamore. AsTOLAiNE, daughter of Ablamore. Alladine. Palomides. The Sisters of Palomides. A Physician. [Note : The translation of Ablamore's song is taken from the version of this play made by the editors of " Poet-lore." R. H.] Alladine and Palomides. ACT FIRST. A wild part of the gardens, Ablamore dis^ covered leaning over Alladine, who is asleep. ABLAMORE. Methinks sleep reigns day and night beneath these trees. Each time she comes here with me toward nightfall, she is hardly seated when she falls asleep. Alas ! I must be glad even of that. . . . During the day, whene'er I speak to her and her look happens to encounter mine, it is hard as a slave's to whom a thing impossi- ble has just been bidden. . . . Yet that is not her customary look. ... I have seen her many times resting her beautiful eyes on children, on the forest, the sea, or her surroundings. She smiles at me as one smiles on a foe; and I dare not bend over her save at times when her eyes can no longer see me. ... I have a few moments every evening ; and all the rest of the day I live beside her with my eyes cast down. • . . It is sad to love too late. . . . Maids 6 Aliadine and Palomides. cannot understand that years do not separate hearts. . . . They have called me "The wise King/* ... I was wise because till now nothing had happened to me. . . . There are men who seem to turn events aside. It was enough that I should be about for nothing to be able to have birth. ... I had suspected it of old. . . . In the time oi my youth, I had many friends whose presence seemed to attract every adven- ture ; but the days when I went forth with them, for the encounter of joys or sorrows, they came back again with empty hands. ... I think I palsied fate ; and I long took pride in this gift. One lived under cover in my reign. . . . But now I have recognized that misfortune itself is better worth than sleep, and that there must be a life more active and higher than waiting. . . . They shall see that I too have strength to trouble, when I will, the water that seems dead at the bottom of the great caldrons of the future. . . . Aliadine, Aliadine ! . . . Oh ! she is lovely so, her hair over the flowers and over her pet lamb, her lips apart and fresher than the morn. ... I will kiss her without her knowing, holding back my poor white beard. . . . ^Z/e kisses herJ] — She smiled. . . . Should I pity her? For the few years she gives me, she will some day be queen ; and I shall have done a little good before I go away. . . . They will be astonished. . . . She herself does not know. ... Ah ! here she wakes with a start. . . . Where are you coming from, Aliadine? Alladine and Palomides. 7 ALLADINE. I have had a bad dream. ... ABLAMORE. What is the matter ? Why do you look yonder ? ALLADINE. Some one went by upon the road. ABLAMORE. I heard nothing. ALLADINE. I tell you some one is coming. . . . There he is ! \^She points out a young knight coming forward through the trees and holding his horse by the bridle, '\ Do not take me by the hand ; I am not afraid. ... He has not seen us. . . . ABLAMORE. Who dares come here? ... If I did not know ... I believe it is Palomides. ... It is Astolaine's betrothed. . . . He has raised his head. ... Is it you, Palomides? Enter Palomides. PALOMIDES. Yes, my father ... If I am suffered yet to call you by that name ... I come hither be- fore the day and the hour Alladine and Palomides. ABLAMORE. You are a welcome guest, whatever hour it be. . . . But what has happened? We did not expect you for two days yet. ... Is Astolaine here, too ? . . . PALOMIDES. No; she will come to-morrow. We have journeyed day and night. She was tired and begged me to come on before. . . . Are my sisters come? ABLAMORE. They have been here three days waiting for your wedding. — You look very happy, Palomides. . . . PALOMIDES. Who would not be happy, to have found what he sought? I was sad of old. But now the days seem lighter and more sweet than harmless birds in the hand. . . . And if old moments come again by chance, I draw near Astolaine, and you would think I threw a window open on the dawn. . . . She has a soul that can be seen around her, — that takes you in its arms like an ailing child and without say- ing anything to you consoles you for everything. ... I shall never understand it at all. — I do not know how it can all be ; but my knees bend in spite of me when I speak of it. . . . AUadine and Palomides. 9 ALLADINE. I want to go in again. ABLAMORE. \_Seeing that Alladine and Palomides look at each other stealthily, '\ This is little Alladine who has come hither from the heart of Arcady. . . . Take hands. . . Does that astonish you, Palomides? . . . palomides. My father . . . [Palomides* horse starts aside ^ frightening Alladine's lamb,'\ ABLAMORE. Take care. . . . Your horse has frightened Alladine' s lamb. . . . He will run away. . . . ALLADINE. No ; he never runs away. . . . He has been startled, but he will not run away. . . . It is a lamb my godmother gave me. . . . He is not like others. . . . He stays beside me night and day. \Caressing it, PALOMIDES {also caresstng ii) . He looks at me with the eyes of a child. . . . ALLADINE. He understands everything that happens. . . . lo AUadine and Palomides. ABLAMORE. It is time to go find your sisters, Palomides. . . . They will be astonished to see you. . . . ALLADINK. They have gone every day to the turning of the road. ... I have gone with them; but they did not hope yet. . . . ABLAMORE. Come ; Palomides is covered with dust, and he must be weary. . . . We have too many things to say to each other to talk here. . . . We will say them to-morrow. . . . They claim the morn is wiser than the evening. ... I see the palace gates are open and seem to wait for us. . . . ALLADINE. I cannot help being uneasy when I go back into the palace. ... It is so big, and I am so little, and I get lost there still. . . . And then all those windows on the sea. . . . You cannot . count them. . . . And the corridors that turn without reason, and others that never turn, but lose themselves between the walls. . . . And the halls I dare not go into. . . . PALOMIDES. We will go in everywhere. . . • ALLADINE. You would think I was not made to dwell there, — that it was not built for me. . . . Alladine and Palomides. 1 1 Once I lost my way there. ... I pushed open thirty doors, before I found the Hght of day again. . . . And I could not go out ; the last door opened on a pool. . . . And the vaults that are cold all summer; and the galleries that bend back on themselves endlessly. . . . There are stairways that lead nowhere and terraces from which nothing can be seen ABLAMORE. You who were not wont to talk, how you talk to-night ! • . . \Exeunt ACT SECOND. Scene I. — Alladine discovered^ her forehead against one of the windows that open on the park. Enter Ablamore. ABLAMORE. Alladine. . . . alladine {turning abruptly) . What is it? ABLAMORE. Oh, how pale you are ! . . . Are you ill ? ALLADINE. No. ABLAMORE. What is it in the park ? — Were you looking at the avenue of fountains that unfolds before your windows ? — They are wonderful and weariless. They were raised there one by one, at the death of each of my daughters. ... At night I hear them singing in the garden. . . . They bring to mind the lives they represent, and I can tell their voices apart. ... ALLADINE. I know. Alladine and Palomides. 13 ABLAMORE. You must pardon me ; I sometimes repeat the same things and my memory is less trust- worthy. ... It is not age ; I am not an old man yet, thank God ! but kings have a thou- sand cares. Palomides has been telling me his adventures. . . . ALLADINE. Ah! ABLAMORE. He has not done what he would ; young people have no will any more. — He astonishes me. I had chosen him among a thousand for my daughter. He should have had a soul as deep as hers. — He has done nothing which may not be excusable, but I had hoped more. • . . What do you say of him ? ALLADINE. Who? ABLAMORE. Palomides ? ALLADINE. I have only seen him one evening. . • . ABLAMORE. He astonishes me. — Everything has suc- ceeded with him till now. He would under- take a thing and accomplish it without a word. — He would get out of danger without an effort, while others could not open a door without \ 14 Alladine and Palomides. finding death behind it. — He was of those whom events seem to await on their knees. But a little while ago something snapped. You would say he has no longer the same star, and every step he takes carries him further from himself. — I don't know what it is. — He does not seem to be at all aware, but others can re- mark it. . . . Let us speak of something else : look ! the night comes ; I see it rise along the walls. Would you like to go together to the wood of Astolat, as we do other evenings ? ALLADINE. I am not going out to-night. ABLAMORE. We will stay here, since you prefer it so. Yet the air is sweet and the evening very fair. [Alladine starts without his noticing itJ] I have had flowers set along the hedges, and I should like to show them to you. . . . ALLADINE. No, not to-night. ... If you wish me to . . . I like to go there with you . . . the air is pure and the trees . . . but not to-night. . . . [ Cowers y weeping, against the old man^s breast^ I do not feel quite well. ... ABLAMORE. What is the matter? You are going to fall. ... I will call. . . . Alladine and Palomides. 15 ALLADINE. No, no. . . . It is nothing. ... It is over. . . . ABLAMORE. Sit down. Wait. ... [He runs to the folding-doors at the back and opens both. Palomides is seen, seated on a bench. He has not had time to turn away his eyes. Ablamore looks fixedly at him, without a word, then re-enters the room. Palomides rises and retreats in the corridor, stifling the sound of his footsteps. The pet lamb leaves the room, unperceived.] Scene II. — A drawbridge over the moats of the palace, Palomides a7id Alladine, with her pet lamb^ appear at the two ends of the bridge. King Ablamore leans out from a window of the tower, PALOMIDES. Were you going out, Alladine ? — I was com- ing in. I am coming back from the chase. — It rained. alladine. I have never passed this bridge. PALOMIDES. It leads to the forest. It is seldom passed. People had rather go a long way around. I think they are afraid because the moats are deeper at this place than elsewhere, and the black water that comes down from the moun- 1 6 AUadine and Palomides. tains boils horribly between the walls before it goes hurling itself into the sea. It roars there always : but the quays are so high you hardly notice it. It is the most deserted wing of the palace. But on this side the forest is more beautiful, more ancient, and greater than any you have seen. It is full of unusual trees and flowers that have sprung up of themselves. — Will you come? ALLADINE. I do not know. ... I am afraid of the roaring water. PALOMIDES. Come, come ; it roars without reason. Look at your lamb ; he looks at me as if he wished to come. . . . Come, come. . . . ALLADINE. Don't call him. . . . He will get away. PALOMIDES. Come, come. [The lamb escapes from Alladine*s hands, and ^ comes leaping toward Palomides, but slips on the inclined plane of the drawbridge and goes rolling into the moat.] ALLADINE. What has he done ? — Where is he ? PALOMIDES. He slipped. He is struggling in the heart of the eddy. Do not look at him ; there is noth- ing to be done. . . . Alladine and Palomides. 17 ALLADINE. You are going to save him ? PALOMIDES. Save him? But look! he is already in the tunnel. One moment more, and he will be under the vaults ; and God himself will never see him more. . . . ALLADINE. Go away 1 Go away ! PALOMIDES. What is the matter? ALLADINE. Go away ! — I do not want to see you any more ! . . . [Ablamore enters precipitately, seizes Alladine, and draws her away brusquely without speaking.] Scene III. — A room in the palace, Abla- more and Alladine discovered, ABLAMORE. You see, Alladine, my hands do not tremble, my heart beats like a sleeping child's, and my voice has not once been stirred with wrath. 1 bear no ill-will to Palomides, although what he has done might seem unpardonable. And as for thee, who could bear thee ill-will? You obey laws you do not know, and you could not 2 1 8 Alladlne and Palomides. act otherwise. I will not speak to you of what took place the other day along the palace moats, nor of all the unforeseen death of the lamb might have revealed to me, had I believed in omens for an instant. But last night I sur- prised the kiss you gave each other under the windows of Astolaine. At that moment I was with her in her room. She has a soul that fears so much to trouble, with a tear or with a simple movement of her eyelids, the happiness of those about her, that I shall never know if she, as I, surprised that wretched kiss. But I know what she has the power to suffer. I shall not ask you anything you cannot avow to me, but I would know if you had any secret design in following Palomides under the window where you must have seen us. Answer me without fear; you know beforehand I will pardon everything, ALLADINE. I did not kiss him. ABLAMORE. What? You did not kiss Palomides, and Palomides did not kiss you ? ALLADINE. Na ABLAMORE. Ah ! . . . Listen : I came here to forgive you everything. ... I thought you had acted as we almost all act, without aught of our soul in- Alladine and Palomides, 19 tervening. . . . But now I will know all that passed. . . . You love Palomides, and you have kissed him under my eyes. . . . ALLADINE. No. ABLAMORE. Don't go away. I am only an old man. Do not flee. ... ALLADINE. I am not fleeing. ABLAMORE. Ah ! ah ! You do not flee, because you think my old hands harmless ! They have yet the strength to tear a secret out in spite of all \He, seizes her armsJ] And they could wrestle with all those you prefer. . . . \_He twists her arms behind her head,'] Ah ! you will not speak ! . . . There will yet come a time when all your soul shall spirt out like a clear spring, for woe. . . . No, no ! ALLADINE. ABLAMORE. Again, ... we are not at the end, the journey is very long — and naked truth is hid among the rocks. . . . Will she come forth? ... I see her gestures in your eyes already, and her cool breath will lave my visage soon. ... Ah ! . . . Al^ ;4ine ! Alladine 1 . . . \^He releases her suddenlyi^ I heard your bones cry out like 20 AUadine and Palomides. little children. , . . I have not hurt you? . . . Do not stay thus, upon your knees before me. ... It is I who go down on my knees. \_IIe does as he says^^ I am a wretch. . . . You must have pity. ... It is not for myself alone I pray. ... I have only one poor daughter. ... All the rest are dead. ... I had seven of them about me. . . . They were fair and full of happiness ; and I saw them no more. . . . The only one left to me is going to die, too. . . . She did not love life. . . . But one day she encountered something she no longer looked for, and I saw she had lost the desire to die. ... I do not ask a thing impossible. . . . [Alladine weeps and makes no answer. Scene IV. — The apartment of Astolaine. AsTOLAiNE and Palomides discovered, PALOMIDES. Astolaine, when I met you several months ago by chance, it seemed to me that I had found at last what I had sought for during many years. . . . Till you, I did not know all that the ever tenderer goodness and complete sim- plicity of a high soul might be. I was so deeply stirred by it that it seemed to me the first time I had met a human being. You would have said that I had lived till then in a closed cham- ber which you opened for me ; and all at once I knew what must be the soul of other men and Alladine and Palomides. 21 what mine might become. . . . Since then, I have known you further. I have seen you act, and others too have taught me all that you have been. There have been evenings when I quitted you without a word, and went to weep for won- der in a corner of the palace, because you had simply raised your eyes, made a little uncon- scious gesture, or smiled for no apparent cause, yet at the moment when all the souls about you asked it and would be satisfied. There is but you who know these moments, because you are, it seems, the soul of all, and I do not beheve those who have not drawn near you can know what true life is. To-day I come to say all this to you, because I feel that I shall never be he whom I hoped once to become. ... A chance has come — or haply I myself have come ; for you can never tell if you have made a movement of yourself, or if it be chance that has met with you — a chance has come, which has opened my eyes, just as we were about to make each other unhappy ; and I have recog- nized there must be something more incompre- hensible than the beauty of the most beautiful soul or the most beautiful face ; and mightier, too, since I must needs obey it. ... I do not know if you have understood me. If you understand, have pity on me. ... I have said to myself all that could be said. ... I know what I shall lose, for I know her soul is a child's soul, a poor strengthless child's, beside yours, and yet I cannot resist it. . . . 22 Alladine and Palomides. ASTOLAINE. Do not weep. ... I know too that one does not do what one would do . . . nor was I igno- rant that you would come. . . . There must indeed be laws mightier than those of our souls, of which we always speak. . . . \_Kissing him abruptly\ . — But I love thee the more, my poor Palomides. PALOMIDES. I love thee, too . . . more than her I love. . . . Thou weepest, as I do ? ASTOLAINE. They are little tears. . . . Do not be sad for them. ... I weep so, because I am woman, but they say our tears are not painful. . . . You see I can dry them already. ... I knew well what it was. ... I waited for the waken- ing. ... It has come, and I can breathe with less disquietude, being no longer happy. . . . There ! . . . We must see clearly now for you and her. For I beheve my father already has suspicions. \Exeunt, ACT THIRD. Scene I. — A room in the palace, Ablamore discovered, Astolaine stands on the step oj a half-open door at the back of the hall, ASTOLAINE. Father, I have come because a voice that I no longer can resist, commands me to. I told you all that happened in my soul when I met Palomides. He was not like other men. . . . To-day I come to ask your help ... for I do not know what should be said to him. . . . I have become aware I cannot love him. . . . He has remained the same, and I alone have changed, or have not understood. . . . And since it is impossible for me to love, as I have dreamed of love, him I had chosen among all, it must be that my heart is shut to these things. ... I know it to-day. ... I shall look no more toward love ; and you will see me living on about you without sadness and with- out unrest. ... I feel that I am going to be happy. . . • ABLAMORE. Come hither, Astolaine. It is not so that you were wont to speak in the old days to your father. You wait there, on the threshold of a door hardly ajar, as if you were ready to 24 Alladine and Palomides. flee ; and with your hand upon the key, as if you would close from me forever the secret of your heart. You know quite well I have not under- stood what you have just said, and that words have no sense when souls are not within reach of each other. Draw nearer still, and speak no more to me. [Astolaine approaches slowly^ There is a moment when souls touch each other, and know all without need that one should move the lips. Draw nearer. . . . They do not reach each other yet, and their radiance is so slight about us ! . . . [Astolaine sfops.'] Thou darest not? — Thou knowest too how fer one can go? — It is I who must. . . . [^He approaches Astolaine with slow steps, theft stops and looks long at her,'\ I see thee, Astolaine. . . . ASTOLAINE. Father ! . . . \She sobs as she kisses the old man,'] ABLAMORE. You see well it was- useless. ... Scene II. — A chamber in the palace. Enter Alladine and Palomides. PALOMIDES. All will be ready to-morrow. We cannot wait longer. He prowls like a madman through the corridors of the palace ; I met him even Alladine and Palomides. 25 now. He looked at me without a word. I passed ; and as I turned, I sa^v him slyly laugh, shaking his keys. When he perceived that I was looking at him, he smiled at me, making signs of friendship. He must have some secret project, and we are in the hands of a master whose reason begins to totter. . . . To-morrow we shall be far away. . . . Yonder there are wonderful countries that resemble thine. . . . Astolaine has already provided for our flight and for my sisters\ . . . ALLADINE. What has she said? PALOMroES. Nothing, nothing. . . . You will see every- thing about my father's castle, — after days of sea and days of forests — you will see lakes and mountains . . . not like these, under a sky that looks like the vault of a cave, with black trees that the storms destroy . . . but a sky beneath which there is nothing more to fear, — forests that are always awake, flowers that do not close. . . . ALLADINE. She wept? PALOMIDES. What are you asking ? . . . There is something there of which we have no right to speak, do you understand ? . . . There is a life there that does not belong to our poor life, and which love has no right to approach except in silence. . . . We i6 Alladine and Palomides. are here, like two beggars in rags, when I think of it. .. Go ! go ! ... I could tell you things. . . . ALLADINE. Palomides ! . . . What is the matter? PALOMIDES. Go ! go ! ... I have seen tears that came from further than the eyes. . . . There is some- thing else. ... It may be, nevertheless, that we are right . . . but how I regret being right so, my God ! ... Go ! ... I will tell you to- morrow . , . to-morrow . . . to-morrow. . . . \Exeunt severally. Scene III. — A corridor before the apartmefit of Alladine. Enter Astolaine and tne Sis- ters OF Palomides. astolaine. The horses wait in the forest, but Palomides will not flee; and yet your lives and his are in danger. I do not know my poor father any longer. He has a fixed idea that troubles his reason. This is the third day I have fol- lowed him step by step, hiding myself behind the pillars and the walls, for he suffers no one to companion him. To-day, as the other days, and from the first gleams of the morning he has gone wandering through the corridors and halls of the palace, and along the moats and Alladine and Palomides. 27 ramparts, shaking the great golden keys he has had made and singing at the top of his voice the strange song whose refrain, Go follow what your eyes have seen, has perhaps pierced even to the depths of your chambers. I have con- cealed from you till now all that has come to pass, because such things must not be spoken of without reason. He must have shut up Alladine in this apartment, but no one knows what he has done with her. I have listened at the doors every night and whenever he has been away a moment, but I have never heard any noise in the room. . . . Do you hear anything? ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. No ; I hear only the murmur of the air pass- ing through the little chinks of the wood. . . • ANOTHER SISTER. It seems to me, when I listen hard, that I hear the great pendulum of the clock. A THIRD SISTER. But what is this little Alladine, then, and why does he bear such ill-will to her? ASTOLAINE. It is a little Greek slave that cairie from the heart of Arcady. ... He bears her no ill-will, but . . . Do you hear ? — It is my father. . . . \_Singing heard in the distance, '\ Hide your- selves behind the pillars. . . He will have no one pass by this corridor. — \They hide!\ 28 Alladine and Palomides. Enter Ablamore, singing and shaking a bunch of great keys, ABLAMORE {sings) , Misfortune had three golden keys. — He has no rescue for the Queen ! — Misfortune had three golden keys. Go follow what your eyes have seen. [Sits dejected on a bench, beside the door of Alladine's apartment, hums a little while longer, and soon goes to sleep, his arms hanging down and his head fallen.] ASTOLAINE. Come, come ! make no noise. He has fal- len asleep on the bench. — Oh, my poor old father ! How white his hair has grown during these days ! He is so weak, he is so unhappy, that sleep itself no longer brings him peace. It is three whole days now since I have dared to look upon his face. . . . ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. He sleeps profoundly. . . . ASTOLAINE. He sleeps profoundly, but you can see his soul has no rest. . . . The sunlight here will vex his eyelids. ... I am going to draw his cloak over his face. . . • Alladine and Palomides. 29 ANOTHER SISTER. No, no; do not touch it. . . . He might wake with a start. . . . ASTOLAINE. Some one is coming in the corridor. Come, come ! put yourselves before him. . . . Hide him. ... A stranger must not see him in this state. . . . A SISTER OF PALOMIDES. It is Palomides. . . . ASTOLAINE. I am going to cover his poor eyes. . . . \_She covers Ablamore's/^^:^.] — I would not have Pa- lomides see him thus. . . . He is too miserable. Enter Palomides. PALOMIDES. What is the matter? ONE OF THE SISTERS. He has fallen asleep on the bench. PALOMIDES. I have followed him without his seeing me. . . . He said nothing? ... ASTOLAINE. No; but see all he has suffered. . . . 30 Alladine and Palomides. PALOMIDES. Has he the keys? ANOTHER SISTER. He holds them in his hand. . • . PALOMIDES. I am going to take them. ASTOLAINE. What are you going to do? Oh, do not wake him ! . . . For three nights now he has wandered through the palace. . . . PALOMIDES. I will open his hand a little without his notic- ing it. . . . We have no right to wait any longer. . . . God knows what he has done. . . . He will forgive us when he has his reason back. . . . Oh ! oh ! his hand has no strength any more. . . . ASTOLAINE. Take care ! Take care ! PALOMIDES. I have the keys. — Which is it? I am going to open the room. ONE OF THE SISTERS. Oh, I am afraid ! ... Do not open it at once. . . . Palomides ! . . . Alladine and Palomides. 3 1 PALOMIDES. Stay here. ... I do not know what I shall find. . . . \He goes to the door, opens it, and enters the apartment, ASTOLAINE. Is she there? PALOMIDES {in the apartment) . I cannot see. . . . The shutters are closed. . . • ASTOLAINE. Have a care, Palomides. . . . Wilt thou that I go first ? . . . Thy voice is trembling. . . . PALOMIDES {in the apartment). No, no. ... I see a ray of sunlight falling through the chinks of the shutters. ONE OF TIE SISTERS. Yes ; it is broad day out of doors. PALOMIDES. \_Rushing headlong from the room^ Come ! Come ! . . . I think she . . . ASTOLAINE. Thou hast seen her? ... PALOMIDES. She is stretched out on the bed ! . . . She does not stir ! . . . I do not think she . . . Come ! Come ! \_They all go into the room. 32 Alladine and Palomides. ASTOLAINE AND THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. \_In the room,~\ She is here. . . . No, no, she is not dead. . . . Alladine ! Alladine 1 . . . Oh ! oh ! The poor child ! . . . Do not cry out so. . . . She has fainted. . . . Her hair is tied across her mouth. . . . And her hands are bound behind her back. . . . They are bound with the help of her hair. . . . Alladine ! Alla- dine ! . . . Fetch some water. . . . [Ablamore, who has waked, appears on the step of the door. ASTOLAINE. There is my father ! . . . ABLAMORE {goiflg tO PALOMIDES) . Was it you who opened the door of the room ? PALOMIDES. Yes, it was I. ... I did it — well, then? — well, then? ... I could not let her die under my eyes. . . . See what you have done. Alladine ! . . . Fear nothing. . . . She opens her eyes a little. ... I will not . . . ABLAMORE. Do not cry out. ... Do not cry out so. . . . Come, we will open the shutters. . . . You can- not see here. Alladine ! . . . She is already sitting up. Alladine, come too. . . .. Do you see, my children, it is dark in the room. It is as dark here as if we were a thousand feet under the ground. But I open one of the shutters, Alladine and Palomides. 33 and behold ! All the light of the sky and the sun ! ... It does not need much effort ; the light is full of good-will. ... It suffices that one call it ; it always obeys. . . . Have you seen the river with its little islands between the meadows in flower? . . . The sky is a crystal ring to-day. . . . Alladine ! Palomides, come see. . . . Draw both of you near Paradise. ... You must kiss each other in the new light. ... I bear you no ill-will. You did what was ordained ; and so did I. . . . Lean out a mo- ment from the open window, and look once more at the sweet green things. . . . [^ silence. He closes the shutter without a word. 34 Alladine and Palomides. ACT FOURTH. Vasf subterranean crypts, Alladine and Palomides. palomides. They have bound my eyes with bands ; they have tied my hands with cords. ALLADINE. They have tied my hands with cords; they have bound my eyes with bands. ... I think my hands are bleeding. . . . PALOMIDES. Wait. To-day I bless my strength. ... I feel the knots beginning to give way. . . . One struggle more, and let my fists burst ! One struggle more ! I have my hands ! \Tearing away the bandage,"] And my eyes ! . . . ALLADINE. You see now? PALOMIDES. Yes. ALLADINE. Where are we? Alladine and Palomides. 35 PALOMIDES. Where are you? ALLADINE. Here ; can you not see me ? PALOMIDES, My eyes weep still where the band has left its trace. . . . We are not in darkness. . . • Is it you I hear toward where I can just see ? ALLADINE. I am here ; come. PALOMIDES. You are at the edge of that which gives us light. Do not stir ; I cannot see all that there is about you. My eyes have not forgot the bandage yet. They bound it tight enough to burst my eyelids. ALLADINE. Come ; the knots stifle me. I can wait no longer. . . . PALOMIDES. I hear only a voice coming out of the light. ... ALLADINE. Where are you? PALOMIDES. I have no idea myself. I walk still in dark- ness. . . . Speak again, that I may find you. 36 Alladine and Palomides. You seem to be on the edge of an unbounded light. ... ALLADINE. Come ! come ! I have borne without a word, but I can bear no more. . . . PALOMIDES {groping forward^ . You are there ? I thought you so far away ! . . . My tears deceived me. I am here, and I see you. Oh, your hands are wounded ! They have bled upon your gown, and the knots have entered into the flesh. I have no longer any weapons. They have taken away my pon- iard. I will tear them off. Wait ! wait ! I have the knots. ALLADINE. Take off the bandage first that makes me blind. . . . PALOMIDES. I cannot. ... I do not see. ... It seems to be surrounded by a net of golden threads. . . ALLADINE. My hands, then, my hands ! PALOMIDES. They have taken silken cords. . . . Wait, the knots come undone. The cord has thirty turns. . . . There, there ! — Oh, your hands are all blood ! . . . You would say they were dead. ... Alladine and Palomides. 37 ALLADINE. No, no ! . . . They are alive ! they are alive ! See! . . . [With her hands hardly yet unbound, she clasps Palomides about the neck and kisses him passionately.] PALOMIDES. Alladine ! ALLADINE. Palomides ! PALOMIDES. Alladine, Alladine ! . . . ALLADINE. I am happy ! . . . I have waited a long while ! . . . PALOMIDES. I was afraid to come. . . . ALLADINE. I am happy . . . and I would that I could see thee. . . . PALOMIDES. They have tied down the 4)andage like a casque. - . . . — Do not turn round ; I have found the golden threads. . . . ALLADINE. Yes, yes, I will turn round. . . . \She turns about, to kiss him again. 38 AUadine and Palomides. PALOMIDES. Have a care. Do not stir. I am afraid of wounding thee. . . . ALLADINE. Tear it away ! Fear nothing. I can bear no more ! . . . PALOMIDES. I would see thee too. ... ALLADINE. Tear it away ! Tear it away : I am no longer within reach of woe ! . . . Tear it away 1 . . . Thou dost not .know that one could wish to die. . . . Where are we ? PALOMIDES. Thou 'It see, thou 'It see. ... It is innumer- able crypts . . . great blue halls, gleaming pil- krs, and deep vaults. ... ALLADINE. Why dost thpu answer when I question thee ? PALOMIDES. What matter where we be, if we be but together? . . . ALLADINE. Thou lovest me less already? AUadine and Palomides. 39 PALOMIDES. Why, what ails thee ? ALLADINE. I know well where I am when I am on thy heart. . . . Oh, tear the bandage off ! ... I would not enter blind into thy soul. . . , What doest thou, Palomides? Thou dost not laugh when I laugh. Thou dost not. weep when I weep. Thou dost not clap thy hands when I clap mine ; and thou tremblest not when I speak trembling to the bottom of my soul. . . . The band ! The band ! . . . I will see ! . . . There, there, above my hair ! . . . [She tears away the bandage^ Oh ! . . . PALOMIDES. Seest thou ? ALLADINE. Yes. ... I see thee only. . . . PALOMIDES. What is it, Alladine ? Thou kissest me as if thou wert already sad. . . . ALLADINE. Where are we? PALOMIDES. Why dost thou ask so sadly? ALLADINE. No, I am not sad ; but my eyes will hardly open. ... 40 Alladine and Palomides. PALOMIDES. One would say your joy had fallen on my lips like a child at the threshold of the house. . . . Do not turn away. ... I fear lest you should flee, and I fear lest I dream.. . • . ALLADINE. Where are we ? PALOMIDES. We are in crypts that I have never seen. . . . Doth it not seem to thee the light increases? When I unclosed my eyes, I could distinguish nothing ; now little by little it is all revealed. I have been often told of wondrous caverns whereon the halls of Ablamore were built. It must be these. No one descends here ever ; and the king only has the keys. I knew the sea flooded the lowest vaults ; and it is proba- bly the reflex of the sea which thus illumines us. . . . They thought to bury us in night. They came dpwn here with torches and flam- beaus and saw the darkness only, while the light came out to meet us, seeing we had none. ... It brightens without ceasing. ... I am sure the dawn pierces the ocean and sends down to us through all its greening waves the purest of its child- soul. . . . ALLADINE. How long have we been here? Alladine and Palomides. 41 PALOMIDES. I have no idea. ... I made no effort till I heard thee speak. . . . ALLADINE. I do not know how this took place. I was asleep in the room where thou didst find me ; and when I waked, my eyes were bound across, and both my hands were pinioned in my girdle. . . . PALOMIDES. I too was sleeping. I heard nothing, and I had a band across my eyes ere I could open them. I struggled in the darkness ; but they were stronger than I. ... I must have passed under deep vaults, for I felt the cold fall on my shoulders ; and I went down so far I could not count the steps. . . . Did no one speak to thee ? ALLADINE. No ; no one spoke. I heard some one weep- ing as he walked ; and then I fainted. . . . PALOMIDES (kissing her) . Alladine ! ALLADINE. How gravely thou dost kiss me I . . . PALOMIDES. Close not thine eyes when I do kiss thee so. ... I would see the kisses trembling in 42 Alladine and Palomides. thy heart, and all the dew that rises in thy soul. . . , We shall not find such kisses any more. ... ALLADINE. Always, always 1 PALOMroES, No, no ; there is no kissing twice upon the heart of death. . . . How fair thou art so ! . . . It is the first time I have seen thee near. . . . It is strange, we think that we have seen each other because we have gone by two steps apart ; but everything changes the moment the lips touch. . . . There, thou must be let to have thy will. ... I stretch my arms wide to admire thee, as if thou wert no longer mine ; and then I draw them nearer till I touch thy kisses and perceive only eternal bliss. . . . There needed us this supernatural light ! . . . [He kisses her again.'] Ah ! What hast thou done? Take care ! we are upon a crest of rock that over- hangs the water that gives us light. Do not step back. It was time. . . . Do not turn too abruptly. I was dazzled. . . . ALLADINE. [Turning and looking at the blue water that illuminates themJ] Oh 1 . . . PALOMIDES. It is as if the sky had flowed hither. • • . Alladine and Palomides. 43 ALLADINE. It is full of moveless flowers. • • • PALOMIDES. It is full of moveless flowers and strange. . . . Hast thou seen the largest there that blooms beneath the others? It seems to live a cadenced Hfe. . . . And the water ... Is it water? ... It seems more beautiful, more pure, more blue than all the water in the world. . . . ALLADINE. I dare not look upon it longer. . • . PALOMIDES. See how about us all is luminous. . . . The light dares hesitate no longer, and we kiss each other in the vestibules of heaven. . . . Seest thou the precious stones that gem the vaults, drunken with life, that seem to smile on us ; and the thousands and thousands of glowing, blue roses that climb along the pillars? . . . ALLADINE. Oh I ... I heard ! . • • PALOMIDES. What? ALLADINE. Some one striking the rocks. • • • 44 Alladine and Palomides. PALOMIDES. No, no; it is the golden gates of a new Paradise, that open in our souls and sing upon their hinges ! . . . ALLADINE. Listen . . . again, again ! . . . PALOMIDES {with voice suddenly changed^ . Yes ; it is there. ... It is at the bottom of the bluest vaults. . . . ALLADINE. They are coming to. . . . PALOMIDES. I hear the sound of iron on the rock. . . . They have walled up the door or cannot open it. . . . It is the picks grating against the stone. . . , His soul has told him we were happy. . . . * [A silence ; then a stone is detached at the very end of the vault, and a ray of daylight breaks into the cavern.] ALLADINE. Oh ! . . . PALOMIDES. It is another light. . . . [Motionless and anxious, they watch other stones detach themselves slowly in an insuf- ferable light, and fall one by one ; while the light, entering in more and more resistless floods, reveals to them little by little the gloom of the cavern they had thought mar- Alladine and Palomides. 45 vellous. The miraculous lake becomes wan and sinister ; the precious stones about them are extinguished, and the glowing roses ap- pear as the stains and rotten rubbish that they are. At last, the whole side of rock falls abruptly into the crypt. The sunlight enters, dazzling. Calls and songs are heard with- out. Alladine and Palomides recoil.] PALOMIDES. Where are we? ALLADINE (embracing Mm). I love thee still, Palomides. . . . PALOMIDES. I love thee too, my Alladine. . . . ALLADINE. They come. . . . PALOMIDES. \_Looking behind him as they still recoiL'] Have a care. ... ALLADINE. No, no ; have no more care. . . . PALOMIDES (looking at her). Alladine ? ALLADINE. Yes. [They still recoil before the invasion of light or peril, until they lose their footing ; and they fall and disappear behind the rock that over- hangs the underground and now gloomy water. — A silence. Astolaine and the sisters of Palomides enter the crypt.] 46 Alladine and Palomides. ASTOLAINE. Where are they? ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. Palomides ! . . . ASTOLAINE. Alladine ! Alladine ! . . . ANOTHER SISTER. Palomides ! . . . It is we ! . . . THIRD SISTER. Fear nothing ; we are alone ! . . . ASTOLAINE. Come ! come ! we have come to rescue you ! , . . FOURTH SISTER. Ablamore has fled. . . . FIFTH SISTER. He is no longer in the palace. ... SDCTH SISTER. They do not answer. ... ASTOLAINE. I heard the water stirred ! . . . This way, this way 1 \They run to the rock that overlooks the underground waterJ] Alladine and Palomides. 47 ONE (3F THE SISTERS. They are there ! . . . ANOTHER SISTER. Yes, yes; at the very bottom of the black water. . . . They embrace. THIRD SISTER. They are dead. FOURTH SISTER. No, no ; they are alive ! they are alive ! . . . See. . . . THE OTHER SISTERS. Help ! help ! . . . Call ! . . . ASTOLAINE. They make no effort to save themselves ! . . . 48 Alladine and Palomides. ACT FIFTH. [A corridor, so long that its furthest arches seem to lose themselves in a kind of indoor horizon. The sisters of Palomides wait be- fore one of the innumerable closed doors that open into this corridor. They seem to be guarding it. A little further down, on the opposite side, Astolaine and the Physician converse before another door, also closed.] ASTOLAINE. [71? the Physician.'] Nothing has ever hap- pened until now in this palace, where all things have seemed to be asleep since my sisters died ; and my poor old father, pursued by a strange restlessness, has fretted without reason at this calm, which seems, for all that, the least dan- gerous form of happiness. Some time ago, — his reason beginning to totter even then, — he went up to the top of a high tower ; and as he stretched his arms out timidly toward the forests and toward the sea, he said to me — smiling a little fearfully at his words, as if to disarm my incredulous smile — that he called about us events which had long been hidden beneath the horizon. They have come, alas ! sooner and more in number than he expected, and a few days have sufficed for them to reign in his stead. He has been their first victim. He fled Alladine and Palomides. 49 to the meadows, singing, all in tears, the even- ing when he had Httle Alladine and luckless Palomides taken down into the crypts. He has not since been seen. I have had search made everywhere throughout the country and even on the sea. He has not been found. At least, I had hoped to save those he made suffer unwit- tingly, for he has always been the tenderest of men and the best of fathers ; but there, too, I think I came too late. I do not know what happened. They have not spoken yet. They doubtless must have thought, hearing the sound of the iron and seeing all at once the light again, that my father had regretted the kind of surcease he had granted them, and that some one came to bring them death. Or else they slipped as they drew back, upon the rock that overhangs the lake ; and so must have fallen through heedlessness. But the water is not deep in that spot, and we succeeded in saving them without difficulty. To-day it is you alone who can do the rest. [The Sisters of Palomides have drawn nearer, THE PHYSICIAN. They are both ailing with the same disease, and it is a disease I do not know. — But I have little hope left. They were seized perhaps with the cold of the underground waters ; or else those waters may be poisonous. The decom- posed body of Alladine's lamb was found there. — I will come back to-night. — Meanwhile they 4 50 Alladine and Palomides. must have silence. . . . The level of life is very low ill their hearts. . . . Do not go into their rooms and do not speak to them, for the least word, in the state they are in, might cause their death. . . . They must succeed in forgetting one another. \_Exit, ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. I see that he will die. ASTOLAINE. No, no. ... Do not weep ; , . . one does not die so, at his age. . . . ANOTHER SISTER. But why is your father angry without reason at my poor brother ? THIRD SISTER. I think your father loved Alladine. ASTOLAINE. Do not speak so of it. . . . He thought I suffered. He thought to have done good, and he did evil unwittingly. . . . That often hap- pens to us. . . . It is my fault, perhaps. . . . I recall it to-day. . . . One night I was asleep. I was weeping in a dream. . . . We have little courage when we dream. I waked. . . . He was beside my bed, looking at me. . . . Per- haps he was deceived. . . . 51 Alladine and Palomides. FOURTH SISTER {running). Alladine has stirred a little in her room. . . . ASTOLAINE. Go to the door . . . listen. . . . Perhaps it was the nurse rising. . . . FIFTH SISTER {listening at the door) . No, no; I hear the nurse walking. . . . There is another noise. SIXTH SISTER {also running). I think Palomides has moved too ; I hear the murmur of a voice seeking. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. \yery feebly y within the room.'\ Palomi- des ! . . . ONE OF THE SISTERS. She is calling him ! . . . ASTOLAINE. Let us be careful ! . . . Go, go in front of the door, that Palomides may not hear. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Palomides ! ASTOLAINE. My God ! My God ! Silence that voice ! . . . Palomides will die of it if he hear it ! . . . 52 Alladine and Palomides. THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. \yery feebly, within the other room,'] Alla- dine ! . . . ONE OF THE SISTERS. He answers ! . . . ASTOLAINE. Three among you remain here . . . and we will go to the other door. Come, come quickly. We will surround them. We will try to defend them. . . . Lie back against the doors. . . . Perhaps they will hear no longer. . . . ONE OF THE SISTERS. I shall go into Alladine's room. ... SECOND SISTER. Yes, yes ; prevent her from crying out again. THIRD SISTER. She is already cause of all this evil. . . . ASTOLAINE. Do not go in, or I go in to Palomides. . . . She also had a right to life ; and she has done nought but to live. . . . But that we cannot stifle in their passage their deadly words ! . . . We are without help, my poor sisters, my poor sisters, and hands cannot stop souls ! . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Palomides, is it thou ? Alladine and Palomides. 53 THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Where art thou, Alladine? THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Is it thou whom I hear far from me making moan? THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Is it thou whom I hear calling, and see thee not? THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. One would believe thy voice had lost ther last of hope. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. One would believe that thine had crossed the winds of death. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. It goes hard with thy voice to pierce into my room. ... THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. And I no longer hear thy voice as of old time. THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I have been woe for thee ! . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. They have divided us, but I do love thee ever. ... 54 Alladine and Palomides. THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I have been woe for thee. . . . Art thou still suffering ? THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. No ; I no longer suffer, but I fain would see thee. ... THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. We shall not see each other more ; the doors are shut. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Thy voice would make one say thou lovedst me no more, . c . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Yes, yes ; I love thee still, but it is mournful now. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Whither is thy face turned ? I hardly under- stand thee. ... THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. We seem to be an hundred leagues from one another. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. I try to rise in vain ; my spirit is too he^vy. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I too would come, — I too, — but still my head falls back. . . . Alladine and Palomides. 55 THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Thou seemest almost to speak in tears despite thyself. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. No; I wept long ago ; it is no longer tears. THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. There *s something in thy thoughts thou dost not tell me of. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. They were not precious stones. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. And the flowers were not real. . . . ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. They rave. ... ASTOLAINE. No, no ; they know what they are saying. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. It was the light that had no pity on us. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Where goest thou, Alladine ? Thou 'rt being borne away. . . . 56 Alladine and Palomides. THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I have no more regret to lose the Hght o' the sun. ... THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Yes, yes; we shall behold the sweet green things again ! . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I have lost desire to live. . . . [^A silence ; then more and more faintly : ] THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Alladine ! . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Palomides ! . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Alia . . . dine ! . . . [A silence. — Astolaine and the sisters of Pa- lomides listen, in anguish. Then the nurse opens, from the inside, the door of Palomides' room, appears on the sill, makes a sign, and all enter the room. The door closes behind them. A new silence. A little afterwards, the door of Alladine's room opens in its turn; the other nurse comes out in like manner, looks about in the corridor, and, seeing no one, re-enters the room, leaving the door wide open.] [Curtain.] Pell6as and Melisande. To Octave Mirbeau. In witness of deep friendship, admiration, and gratitude. M. M. Persons. Arkel, King of Allemonde. GENEVifeVE, mother of Pelleas and Golaud. Pi:LL]&AS, ) > grandsons of Arkel, Golaud, ) m^lisande. Little Yniold, son of Golaud (by a former marriage). A Physician. The Porter. Servants^ Beggars^ etc. Pelleas and Melisande. ACT FIRST. Scene I. — The gate of the castle. MAIDSERVANTS {withifl) . Open the gate ! Open the gate ! PORTER {within). Who is there ? Why do you come and wake me up ? Go out by the little gates ; there are enough of them ! . . . A MAIDSERVANT (withifl) . We have come to wash the threshold, the gate, and the steps ; open, then ! open ! ANOTHER MAIDSERVANT {withiu) . There are going to be great happenings ! THIRD MAIDSERVANT {tvithtfl) , There are going to be great fetes ! Open quickly ! . . . 62 Pelleas and Melisande. THE MAIDSERVANTS. Open ! open ! PORTER. Wait ! wait ! I do not know whether I shall be able to open it ; ... it is never opened. . . . Wait till it is light FIRST MAIDSERVANT. It is light enough without ; I see the sunhght through the chinks. . . . PORTER. Here are the great keys. . . . Oh! oh ! how the bolts and the locks grate ! . . . Help me ! help me 1 . . . MAIDSERVANTS. We are pulling ; we are pulling. . . . SECOND MAIDSERVANT. It will not open. ... FIRST MAIDSERVANT. Ah ! ah ! It is opening ! it is opening slowly ! PORTER. How it shrieks ! how it shrieks ! It will wake up everybody. . . . SECOND MAIDSERVANT. \_Appearing on the threshold?^ Oh, how light it is already out-of-doors ! Pelleas and Melisande. 63 FIRST MAIDSERVANT. The sun is rising on the sea ! PORTER. It is open. ... It is wide open ! . . . \^All the maidservants appear on the thresh-^ old and pass over it^ FIRST MAIDSERVANT. I am going to wash the sill first. . . . SECOND MAIDSERVANT. We shall never be able to clean all this. OTHER MAIDSERVANTS. Fetch the water ! fetch the water ! J>0RTER. Yes, yes ; pour on water ; pour on water ; pour on all the water of the Flood ! You will never come to the end of it. . . . Scene II. — A forest, Melisande discovered at the brink of a spring. Enter Golaud. GOLAUD. I shall never be able to get out of this forest again. — God knows where that beast has led me. And yet I thought I had wounded him to 64 Pelleas and Melisande. death ; and here are traces of blood. But now I have lost sight of him ; I believe I am lost myself — my dogs can no longer find me — I shall retrace my steps. ... — I hear weeping ... Oh ! oh ! what is there yonder by the water's edge ? . . . A little girl weeping by the water's edge ? [^He coughs. ~\ — She does not hear me. I cannot see her face. [He approaches and touches Melisande on the shoulder,'] Why weepest thou? [Melisande trembles, starts up, and would flee^ — Do not be afraid. You have nothing to fear. Why are you weeping here all alone? MlfeLISANDE. Do not touch me ! do not touch me 1 GOLAUD. Do not be afraid. ... I will not do you any. . . . Oh, you are beautiful ! melisande. Do not touch me ! do not touch me ! or I throw myself in the water ! . . . GOLAUD. I will not touch you. . . . See, I will stay here, against the tree. Do not be afraid. Has any one hurt you? melisande. Oh ! yes ! yes ! yes ! . . . \^She sobs pro- foundly^ Pelleas and Melisande. 65 GOLAUD. Who has hurt you? M^USANDE, Every one ! every one ! GOLAUD. What hurt have they done you? MELISANDE. I will not tell ! I cannot tell ! . . . GOLAUD. Come; do not weep so. Whence come you? MiUSANDE. I have fled ! . . . fled . . . fled. . . . GOLAUD. Yes ; but whence have you fled? M^USANDE. I am lost ! . . . lost ! . . , Oh ! oh ! lost here. ... I am not of this place. ... I was not born there. . . . GOLAUD. Whence are you? Where were you bom? MELISANDE. Oh ! oh ! far away from here ! ... far away ... far away. . . . 66 Pelleas and Melisande. GOLAUD. What is it shining so at the bottom of the water? Mi:LISANDE. Where ? — Ah ! it is the crown he gave me. It fell as I was weeping. ... GOLAUD. A crown ? — Who was it gave you a crown ? — I will try to get it. . . . MELISANDE. No, no ; I will have no more of it ! I will have no more of it ! ... I had rather die . . . die at once. . . . GOLAUD. I could easily pull it out. The water is not very deep. MELISANDE. I will have no more of it ! If you take it out, I throw myself in its place I . . . GOLAUD. No, no ; I will leave it there. It could be reached without difficulty, nevertheless. It seems very beautiful. — Is it long since you fled? MELISANDE. Yes, yes ! . . . Who are you ? Pelleas and Melisande. 67 GOLAUD. I am Prince Golaud, — grandson of Arkel, the old King of AUemonde. . . . - MELISANDE. Oh, you have gray hairs already. . . • GOLAUD. Yes ; some, here, by the temples . . . MELISANDE. And in your beard, too. . . . Why do you look at me so? GOLAUD. I am looking at your eyes. — Do you never shut your eyes? MELISANDE. Oh, yes ; I shut them at night. . . . GOLAUD. Why do you look so astonished? MELISANDE. You are a giant? GOLAUD. I am a man like the rest. . . • MELISANDE. Why have you come here ? 68 Pelleas and Melisande. GOLAUD. I do not know, myself. I was hunting in the forest. I was chasing a wild boar. I mistook the road. — You look very young. How old are you? Ml&LISANDE. I am beginning to be cold. . . . GOLAUD. Will you come with m^ MELISANDE. No, no ; I will stay here. . . . GOLAUD. You cannot stay here all alone. You cannot stay here all night long. . . . What is your name? MELISANDE. Melisande. GOLAUD. You cannot stay here, Melisande. Come with me. ... Ml&LISANDE. I will stay here. . . . GOLAUD. You will be afraid, all alone. We do not know what there may be here ... all night long ... all alone ... it is impossible. Me- lisande, come, give me your hand. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 69 MIELISANDE. Oh, do not touch me ! . . . GOLAUD. Do not scream. ... I will not touch you again. But come with me. The night will be very dark and very cold. Come with me. . . . MELISANDE. Where are you going ? ... GOLAUD. I do not know. ... I am lost too. . . . \Exeunt Scene III. — A hall in the castle, Arkel and GENEVit:vE discovered, GENEVIEVE. Here is what he writes to his brother P^ll^as : " I found her all in tears one evening, beside a spring in the forest where I had lost myself. I do not know her age, nor who she is, nor whence she comes, and I dare not question her, for she must have had a sore fright ; and when you ask her what has happened to her, she falls at once a-weeping like a child, and sobs so heavily you are afraid. Just as I found her by the springs, a crown of gold had slipped from her hair and fallen to the bottom of the water. She was clad, besides, like a princess, though her gar- yo Pelleas and Melisande. ments had been torn by the briers. It is now six months since I married her and I know no more about it than on the day of our meeting. Meanwhile, dear Pelleas, thou whom I love more than a brother, although we were not born of the same father; meanwhile make ready for my return. ... I know my mother will willingly forgive me. But I am afraid of the King, our venerable grandsire, I am afraid of Arkel, in spite of all his kindness, for I have undone by this strange marriage all his plans of state, and I fear the beauty of Melisande will not excuse my folly to eyes so wise as his. If he consents nevertheless to receive her as he would receive his own daughter, the third night following this letter, light a lamp at the top of the tower that overlooks the sea. I shall per- ceive it from the bridge of our ship ; otherwise I shall go far away again and come back no more. ..." What say you of it? ARKEL. Nothing. He has done what he probably must have done. I am very old, and neverthe- less I have not yet seen clearly for one moment into myself; how would you that I judge what others have done? I am not far from the tomb and do not succeed in judging myself. . . . One always mistakes when one does not close his eyes. -^ That may seem strange to us ; but that is all. He is past the age to marry and he weds, like a child, a little girl he finds by a spring. . • . That may seem strange to us. Pelleas and Melisande. 71 because we never see but the reverse of desti- nies . . . the reverse even of our own. ... He has always followed my counsels hitherto; I had thought to make him happy in send- ing him to ask the hand of Princess Ursula. . . . He could not remain alone ; since the death of his wife he has been sad to be alone ; and that marriage would have put an end to long wars and old hatreds. ... He would not have it so. Let it be as he would have it; I have never put myself athwart a destiny ; and he knows better than I his future. There ?* happen perhaps no useless events. . . . "**'*^^ GENEVIEVE. He has always been so prudent, so grave and so firm. ... If it were P^Mas, I should under- stand. . . . But he ... at his age. . . . Who is it he is going to introduce here? — An un- known found along the roads. . . . Since his wife's death, he has no longer lived for aught but his son, the little Yniold, and if he were about to marry again, it was because you had wished it. . . . And now ... a little girl in the forest. . . . He has forgotten everything. . . . — What shall we do? . . . Enter PiiLL^AS. ARKEL. Who is coming in there ? GENEVltVE. It is P^ll^as. He has been weeping. 72 Pelleas and Melisande. ARKEL. Is it thou, Pelleas? — Come a little nearer, that I may see thee in the light. . . . PELLEAS. Grandfather, I received another letter at the same time as my brother's ; a letter from my friend Marcellus. . . . He is about to die and calls for me. He would see me before dying. . . . ^ ARKEL. Thou wouldst leave before thy brother's return ? — Perhaps thy friend is less ill than he thinks. . * . P^LL^AS. His letter is so sad you can see death between the lines. . . . He says he knows the very day when death must come. . . . He tells me I can arrive before it if I will, but that there is no more time to lose. The journey is very long, and if I await Golaud's return, it will be per- haps too late. . . . ARKEL. Thou must wait a little while, nevertheless. . . . We do not know what this return has in store for us. And besides, is not thy father here, above us, more sick perhaps than thy friend. . . . Couldst thou choose between the father and the friend? . . • [Exit, Pelleas and Melisande. 73 GENEVlt:VE. } Have a care to keep the lamp lit from this evening, P^ll^as. . . . [Exeunt severally. Scene IV. — Before the castle. Enter Gene- vieve and MELISANDE. MELISANDE. It is gloomy in the gardens. And what forests, what forests all about the palaces ! . . . GENEVIEVE. Yes; that astonished me too when I came hither; it astonishes everybody. There are places where you never see the sun. But one gets used to it so quickly. . o . It is long ago, it is long ago. ... It is nearly lorty years that I have lived here. . . . Look toward the other side, you will have the light of the sea. . . . MELISANDE. I hear a noise below us. . . . GENEVli:VE. Yes; it is some one coming up toward us. ... Ah ! it is Pelleas. . . . He seems still tired from having waited so long for you. . . . MELISANDE. He has not seen us. 74 Pelleas and Melisande. GENEVlfeVE. I think he has seen us but does not know what he should do. . . . P^ll^as, Pelleas, is it thou? . . . Enter Pelleas. , P^LL^AS. Yes ! . . . I was coming toward the sea. . . . GENEVlfeVE. So were we ; we were seeking the Hght. It is a Httle Hghter here than elsewhere ; and yet the sea is gloomy, PlfeLL^AS. We shall have a storm to-night. There has been one every night for some time, and yet it is so calm now. . . . One might embark un- wittingly and come back no more. MlfeLISANDE. Something is leaving the port. . . . P^LLl&AS. It must be a big ship. . . . The lights are very high, we shall see it in a moment, when it enters the band of light. . • . GENEVlfeVE. I do not know whether we shall be able to see it . . . there is still a fog on the sea. . . . P^LLl&AS. The fog seems to be rising slowly. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 75 M^LISANDE. Yes ; I see a little light down there, which I had not seen. . . . It is a lighthouse ; there are others we can- not see yet. MELISANDE. The ship is in the light. ... It is already very far away. . . . I>±IA±AS. It is a foreign ship. It looks larger than ours. . . . MELISANDE. It is the ship that brought me here ! . . . IPthhtAS, It flies away under full sail. . . . MELISANDE. It is the ship that brought me here. It has great sails. ... I recognized it by its sails. Pi:LL]feAS. There will be a rough sea to-night. MlfcLISANDE. Why does it go away to-night? . . . You can hardly see it any longer. . . . Perhaps it will be wrecked. ... *]6 Pelleas and Melisande. P^LLEAS. The night falls very quickly. GENEVIEVE. [^A silence. No one speaks any more? . . . You have nothing more to say to each other? ... It is time to go in. P^ll^as, show M^Hsande the way. I must go see little Yniold a moment. \_Exit P^LL^AS. Nothing can be seen any longer on the sea. • • • MELISANDE. I see more lights. P^LL^AS. It is the other lighthouses. . . . Do you hear the sea ? ... It is the wind rising. . . . Let us go down this way. Will you give me your hand ? Mi:LISANDE. See, see, my hands are full. . . . PlfcLL^AS. I will hold you by the arm, the road is steep and it is very gloomy there. ... I am going away perhaps to-morrow. . . . MELISANDE. Oh ! . . . why do you go away ? [^Exeunf, ACT SECOND. Scene I. — A fountain in the park. Enter Pi:LL]fcAS and Melisande. P^LL^AS. You do not know where I have brought you? — I often come to sit here, toward noon, when it is too hot in the gardens. It is stifling to-day, even in the shade of the trees. Mi:LISANDE. Oh, how clear the water is ! . • . P^LL^AS. It is as cool as winter. It is an old aban- doned spring. It seems to have been a miracu- g lous spring, — it opened the eyes of the blind, \ — they still call it ".Blind Man's Spring." '"^ Mi:LISANDE. It no longer opens the eyes of the blind ? Since the King has been nearly blind himself, no one comes any more. . . . 78 Pelleas and Melisande. MELISANDE. How alone one is here 1 . . . There is no sound. P]i:LL6AS. 1 here is always a wonderful silence here. . . . One could hear the water sleep. . . . Will you sit down on the edge of the marble basin? There is one linden where the sun never comes. . . . MELISANDE. I am going to lie down on the marble. — I should like to see the bottom of the water. . . . P^LL^AS. No one has ever seen it. — It is as deep, perhaps, as the sea. — It is not known whence it comes. — Perhaps it comes from the bottom of the earth. . . . MELISANDE. If there were anything shining at the bottom, perhaps one could see it. . . . p6LLi:AS. Do not lean over so. . . . MELISANDE. I would like to touch the water. . . • P^LL^AS. Have, a care of slipping. ... I will hold your hand. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 79 Ml&LISANDE. No, no, I would plunge both hands in it. . . . You would say my hands were sick to-day. . . . PlfeLLEAS. Oh ! oh ! take care ! take care ! Melisande ! . . . Melisande ! . . . — Oh ! your hair ! . . . MELISANDE {starting upright^ . I cannot, « . • I cannot reach it. . . . Pl^LL^AS. Your hair dipped in the water. • . . MELISANDE. Yes, it is longer than my arms. ... It is longer than I. . . . \A silence, p6ll6as. It was at the brink of a spring, too, that he found you? MELISANDE. Yes. . . . PELLEAS. What did he say to you? MlfeLISANDE. Nothing ; — I no longer remember. . . • PlfeLL^AS. Was he quite near you ? 8o Pelleas and Melisande. mi:lisande. Yes ; he would have kissed me. PlfeLL^AS. And you would not? MELISANDE. No. PlfcLL^AS. Why would you not? MELISANDE. Oh ! oh ! I saw something pass at the bottom of the water. . . . PlfcLLlfcAS. Take care ! take care ! — You will fall ! What are you playing with? MELISANDE. With the ring he gave me. . . . PlELLl^AS. Take care ; you will lose it. . . . MlfcLISANDE. No, no j I am sure of my hands. . . . PlfeLLl&AS. Do not play so, over so deep a water. . • . MELISANDE. My hands do not tremble. Pelleas and Melisande. 8i PiiLL^AS. How it shines in the sunlight ! — Do not throw it so high in the air. . . . MlfcLISANDE. Oh! . . . Pi:LL]fcAS. It has fallen? MlfcLISANDE. It has fallen into the water ! . . . P^LL^AS. Where is it? where is it? . . , MlfeLISANDE. I do not see it sink^ . . . p6ll6as. I think I see it shine. . . . MELISANDE. My ring? P^LL^AS. Yes, yes ; down yonder. . . . MELISANDE. Oh ! oh ! It is so far away from us ! . . . no, no, that is not it . . . that is not it ... * It is lost . . . lost. . . . There is nothing any ' more but a great circle on the water. . . . What shall we do? What shall we do now? . . . 6 82 Pelleas and Melisande. You need not be so troubled for a ring. It is nothing. . . . We shall find it again, perhaps. Or else we will find another. . . . MELISANDE. No, no ; we shall never find it again ; we shall never find any others either. . . . And yet I thought I had it in my hands. ... I had already shut my hands, and it is fallen in spite of all. ... I threw it too high, toward the sun. . . . P^LL^AS. Come, come, we will come back another day ; . . . come, it is time. They will come to meet us. It was striking noon at the moment the ring fell. MELISANDE. What shall we say to Golaud if he ask where it is? The truth, the truth, the truth. . . . Scene II. — An apartment in the castle. Go- laud discovered, stretched upon his bed; MiiLiSANDE, by his bedside. golaud. Ah ! ah ! all goes well ; it will amount to nothing. But I cannot understand how it Pelleas and Melisande. 83 came to pass. I was hunting quietly in the forest. All at once my horse ran away, with- out cause. Did he see anything unusual ? . . . I had just heard the twelve strokes of noon. At the twelfth stroke he suddenly took fright and ran like a blind madman against a tree. I heard no more. I do not yet know what happened. I fell, and he must have fallen on me. I thought I had the whole forest on my breast ; I thought my heart was crushed. But my heart is sound. It is nothing, apparently. . . . Ml^LISANDE. Would you like a little water? GOLAUD. Thanks, thanks ; I am not thirsty. MELISANDE. Would you like another pillow? • . . There is a little spot of blood on this. GOLAUD. No, no ; it is not worth while. I bled at the mouth just now. I shall bleed again perhaps. . . . MELISANDE. Are you quite sure? . . . You are not suf- fering too much? GOLAUD. No, no ; I have seen a good many more like this. I was made of iron and blood. . . . These 84 Pelleas and Melisande. are not the little bones of a child; do not alarm yourself. . . . MELISANDE. Close your eyes and try to sleep. I shall stay here all night. . . . GOLAUD. No, no ; I do not wish you to tire yourself so. I do not need anything ; I shall sleep like a child. . . . What is the matter, Melisande? Why do you weep all at once ? . . . . MELISANDE {bursHfig ifito tcars) . I am ... I am ill too. . . . GOLAUD. Thou art ill? . . . What ails thee, then; what ails thee, Melisande? ... MELISANDE. I do not know. ... I am ill here. . . . I had rather tell you to-day ; my lord, my lord, I am not happy here. ... GOLAUD. Why, what has happened, Melisande ? What is it? . . . And I suspecting nothing. . . . What has happened? . . . Some one has done thee harm? . . . Some one has given thee offence? MELISANDE. No, no ; no one has done me the least harm. . . . It is not that. . . . It is not that. . . . But Pelleas and Melisande. 85 I can live here no longer. I do not know why. ... I would go away, go away ! . . . I shall die if I am left here. . . . GOLAUD. But something has happened? You must be hiding something from me? . . . Tell me the whole truth, Melisande. ... Is it the King ? ... Is it my mother ? ... Is it P^ll^as ? . . . MELISANDE. No, no ; it is not P^ll^as. It is not anybody. . . . You could not understand me. . . . GOLAUD. Why should I not understand? ... If you tell me nothing, what will you have me do ? . . . Tell me everything and I shall understand everything. MELISANDE. I do not know myself what it is. ... I do not know just what it is. ... If I could tell you, I would tell you. ... It is something stronger than I. . . . GOLAUD. Come ; be reasonable, Melisande. — What would you have me do ? — You are no longer a child. — Is it I whom you would leave ? MELISANDE. Oh ! no, no ; it is not that. ... I would go away with you. ... It is here that I can live no 86 Pelleas and Melisande. longer. ... I feel that I shall not live a long while. ... GOLAUD. But there must be a reason nevertheless. You will be thought mad. It will be thought child's dreams. — Come, is it P^ll^as, perhaps ? — I think he does not often speak to you. M]ELISANDE. Yes, yes; he speaks to me sometimes. I think he does not like me ; I have seen it in his eyes. . . . But he speaks to me when he meets me. . . . GOLAUD. You must not take it ill of him. He has always been so. He is a little strange. And just now he is sad; he thinks of his friend Marcellus, who is at the point of death, and whom he cannot go to see. . . . He will change, he will change, you will see ; he is young. ... M^LISANDE. But it is not that ... it is not that. . . . GOLAUD. What is it, then? — Can you not get used to the life one leads here ? Is it too gloomy here ? — It is true the castle is very old and very sombre. ... It is very cold, and very deep. And all those who dwell in it, are already old. And the country may seem gloomy too, with all its forests, all its old forests without light. But Pelleas and Melisande. 87 that may all be enlivened if we will. And then, joy, joy, one does not have it every day ; we must take things as they come. But tell me something; no matter what; I will do everything you could wish. . . ,. Ml^LISANDE. Yes, yes ; it is true. . . . You never see the sky here. I saw it for the first time this morning. ... GOLAUD. It is that, then, that makes you weep, my poor M^Hsande? — It is only that, then? — You weep, not to see the sky? — Come, come, you are no longer at the age when one may weep for such things. . . . And then, is not the sum- -«ier yonder? You will see the sky every day. — And then, next year. . . . Come, give me your hand ; give me both your little hands. [He takes her hands. '\ Oh ! oh ! these little hands that I could crush like flowers. ... — Hold ! where is the ring I gave you ? MELISANDE. The ring? GOLAUD. Yes; our wedding-ring, where is it? MELISANDE. I think ... I think it has fallen. . . • GOLAUD. Fallen? — Where has it fallen? — You have not lost it? 88 Pelleas and Melisande. MELISANDE. No, no ; it fell ... it must have fallen . . . but I know where it is. . . . GOLAUD. Where is it? You know . . . you know well . , . the grotto by the seashore ? . . . GOLAUD. Yes. MlfeLISANDE. Well then, it is there. ... It must be it is there. . . . Yes, yes ; I remember. ... I went there this morning to pick up shells for little Yniold. . . . There were some very fine ones. ... It slipped from my finger . . . then the sea came in ; and I had to go out before I had found it. GOLAUD. Are you sure it is there ? MlfcLlSANDE. Yes, yes ; quite sure. ... I felt it slip . . • then, all at once, the noise of the waves. . . . GOLAUD. You must go look for it at once. Pelleas and Melisande. 89 MlfeLISANDE. I must go look for it at once ? GOLAUD. Yes. MlfeLISANDE. Now? — at once ? — in the dark? GOLAUD. Now, at once, in the dark. You must go look for it at once. I had rather have lost all I have than have lost that ring. You do not know what it is. You do not know whence it came. The sea will be very high to-night. The sea will come to take it before you. . . . Make haste. You must go look for it at once. . . . Mi:LISANDE. I dare not. ... I dare not go alone. . . . GOLAUD. Go, go with no matter whom. But you must go at once, do you understand ? — Make haste ; ask P^ll^as to go with you. MELISANDE. Pelleas ? — With Pelleas ? — But P^ll^as would not. ... GOLAUD. P^ll^as will do all you ask of him. I know P^ll^as better than you do. Go, go ; hurry ! I shall not sleep until I have the ring. ^o Pelleas and Melisande. MlfcLISANDE. Oh ! oh ! I am not happy ! ... I am not happy ! . . . [^Exit, weeping. Scene III. — Before a grotto. Enter Pelleas and Melisande. P^LL^AS. \Speaking with great agitation^ Yes ; it is here ; we are there. It is so dark you cannot tell the entrance of the grotto from the rest of the night. . . . There are no stars on this side. Let us wait till the moon has torn through that great cloud ; it will light up the w^hole grotto, and then we can enter without danger. There are dangerous places, and the path is very nar- row between two lakes whose bottom has not yet been found. I did not think to bring a torch or a lantern, but I think the light of the sky will be enough for us. — You have never gone into this grotto? MELISANDE. No. . . . PlfcLL^AS. Let us go in ; let us go in. . . . You must be able to describe the place where you lost the ring, if he questions you. ... It is very big Pelleas and Melisande. 91 and very beautiful. There are stalactites that look like plants and men. It is full of blue darks. It has not yet been explored to the end. There are great treasures hidden there, it seems. You will see the remains of ancient shipwrecks there. But you must not go far in it without a guide. There have been some who never have come back. I myself dare not go forward too far. We will stop the moment we no longer see the light of the sea or the sky. When you strike a little light there, you would aay the vault was covered with stars like the sky. It is bits of crystal or salt, they say, that shine so in the rock. — Look, look, I think the sky is going to clear. . . . Give me your hand ; do not tremble, do not tremble so. There is no danger ; we will stop the moment we no longer see the light of the sea. ... Is it the noise of the grotto that frightens you? It is the noise of night or the noise of silence. . . . Do you hear the sea behind us? — It does not seem happy to-night. ... Ah ! look, the light! . . . [The moon lights up abundantly the entrance and part of the darkness of the grotto ; and at a certain depth are seen three old beggars with white hair, seated side by side, lean- ing upon each other aad asleep against a bowlder.] Ah! What is it? M<SANDE. pfeLLlfcAS. 92 Pelleas and Melisande. me:lisande. There are . . . there are. . . . [She points out the three beggars. P^LLlfeAS. Yes, yes ; I have seen them too. • . . Ml^LISANDE. Let us go ! . . . Let us go ! . . . P]&ll£as. Yes ... it is three old poor men fallen asleep. . . . There is a famine in the country. . . . Why have they come to sleep here ? . . . MELISANDE. Let us go ! ... Come, come. . . . Let us go ! . . . P^IX^AS. Take care ; do not speak so loud. . . . Let us not wake them. . . . They are still sleeping heavily. . . . Come. MELISANDE. Leave me, leave me ; I prefer to walk alone. . . . PlfcLL^AS. We will come back another day. . . . [Exeunt. Pelleas and Melisande. 93 Scene IV. — An apartment in the castle, Arkel and Pelleas discovered, ARKEL. You see that everything retains you here just now and forbids you this useless journey. We have concealed your father's condition from you until now ; but it is perhaps hopeless ; and that alone should suffice to stop you on the threshold. But there are so many other rea- sons. . . . And it is not in the day when our enemies awake, and when the people are dying of hunger and murmur about us, that you have the right to desert us. And why this journey? Marcellus is dead ; and life has graver duties than the visit to a tomb. You are weary, you say, of your inactive life ; but activity and duty are not found on the highways. They must be waited for upon the threshold, and let in as they go by ; and they go by every day. You have never seen them ? I hardly see them any more myself; but I will teach you to see them, and I will point them out to you the day when you would make them a sign. Nevertheless, listen to me ; if you believe it is from the depths of your life this journey is exacted, I do not for- bid your undertaking it, fox you must know b etter than I the events yo u must offer to yoiiF* bei ng o7 your <^(atg> I shall ask you only to^ wait untiT'w^ntfiow what musj take place ere long. . . . 94 Pelleas and Melisande. PELLEAS. How long must I wait ? ARKEL. A few weeks ; perhaps a few days. . . I wfll wait. . . . ACT THIRD. Scene I. — An apartment in the castle. Pel- leas a7id Melisande discovered, Melisande plies her distaff at the back of the room. P^LL^AS. Yniold does not come back; where has he gone? melisande. He had heard something in the corridor ; he has gone to see what it is. M^Usande. What is it? vt\A±k^, MELISANDE. P^LL^AS. . . . Can you see still to work there ? . . . melisande. I work as well in the dark. . . . P^LLlfeAS. I think everybody is already asleep in the castle. Golaud does not come back from the chase. It is late, nevertheless. ... He no longer suffers from his fall? . . . 96 Pelleas and Melisande. MELISANDE. He said he no longer suffered from it. PfiLL^AS. He must be more prudent ; his body is no longer as supple as at twenty years. ... I see the stars through the window and the light of the moon on the trees. It is late ; he will not come back now. \Knocking at the doorJ\ Who is there ? . . . Come in ! . . . Little Yniold opens the door and enters the 7'oom, It was you knocking so? . . . That is not the way to knock at doors. It is as if a mis- fortune had arrived \ look, you have frightened little mother. LITTLE YNIOLD. I only knocked a tiny little bit, PELLEAS. It is late ; little father will not come back to-night ; it is time for you to go to bed. LITTLE YNIOLD. I shall not go to bed before you do. Pl^LLEAS. What? . . . What is that you are saying? Pelleas and Melisande. 97 LITTLE YNIOLD. I say . . . not before you . . , not before you . . . [^Bursts into sobs and takes refuge by Melisande.] melisande. What is it, Yniold? . . . What is it? . . . why do you weep all at once ? YNIOLD (sobbing). Because ... oh ! oh ! because . . . MELISANDE. Because what? . . . Because what? . . . Tell me . . . YNIOLD. Little mother . . . little mother . . . you are going away. . . . MlfcLISANDE. But what has taken hold of you, Yniold? . . . I have never dreamed of going away. . . . YNIOLD. Yes, you have ; yes, you have ; little father has gone away. . . . Little father does not come back, and you are going to go away too. ... I have seen it ... I have seen it. . • . 7 98 Pelleas and Melisande. M^LISANDE. But there has never been any idea of that, Yniold. . . . Why, what makes you think that I would go away? . . . YNIOLD. I have seen it ... I have seen it. . . . You have said things to uncle that I could not hear . . . p6ll6as. He is sleepy. . . . He has been dreaming. . . . Come here, Yniold; asleep already? . . » Come and look out at the window ; the swans are fighting with the dogs. . . . YNIOLD {at the windoiu) . Oh ! oh ! they are chasing the dogs ! . . . They are chasing them ! . . . Oh ! oh ! the water ! . . . the wings ! . . the wings 1 . . . they are afraid. . . . p^LL^AS (coming back by melisande) . He is sleepy ; he is struggling against sleep ; his eyes were closing. . . . \ MifcLiSANDE {singing softly as she spins) . Saint Daniel and Saint Michael. . . . Saint Michael and Saint Raphael. . . . YNIOLD {at the zmndoTv). Oh ! oh ! litde mother ! . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 99 mi:lisande {rising abruptly) . What is it, Yniold? . . . What is it? . . • YNIOLD. I sav/ something at the window? . . . [Pelleas afid Melisande run to the window. PELLEAS. What is there at the window? . . . What have you seen? ... YNIOLD. Oh ! oh ! I saw something ! . . . p6ll6as. But there is nothing. I see nothing. . . . MELISANDE. Nor I. . . . PELLEAS. Where did you see something? Which way? . . . YNIOLD. Down there, down there ! ... It is no longer there. . . . p]6ll6as. He does not know what he is saying. He must have seen the hght of the moon on the forest. There are often strange reflections, ... or else something must have passed on the lOO Pelleas and Melisande. highway ... or in his sleep. For see, see, I believe he is quite asleep. . . . YNiOLD (at the window) . Little father is there ! little father is there ! PELLEAS {going to the window). He is right; Golaud is coming into the courtyard. . . . YNIOLD. Little father ! . . ; little father ! ... I am going to meet him ! . . . \_Exit, running, — A silence. PELLEAS. They are coming up the stair. . . . Enter Golaud and little Yniold with a lamp. GOLAUD. You are still waiting in the dark? YNIOLD. I have brought a light, little mother, a big light ! . . . \He lifts the lamp and looks at Mi:lisande.] You have been weeping, little mother? . . . You have been weeping? . . . \_He lifts the lamp toward Pelleas and looks in turn at him.~\ You too, you too, you have been weeping? . . . Little father, look, little father ; they have both been weeping. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. loi GOLAUD. Do not hold the Hght under their eyes so. Scene II. — One of the towers of the castle, — A watchman'' s round passes under a window in the tower, Melisande (at the window^ combing her unbound hair). CC ^ onrC^Vnal Enter Pelleas by the watchman's round. PELLEAS. Hola ! Hola 1 ho ! . . . MELISANDE. WJio is there ? P^LLl&AS. I, I, and I ! . . . What art thou doing there at the window, singing Uke a bird that is not native here? I02 Pejleas and Melisande. MELISANDE. I am doing my hair for the night. . . • PELLEAS. Is it that I see upon the wall? ... I thought you had some light. . . . MELISANDE. I have opened the window ; it is too hot in the tower. . . . It is beautiful to-night. . . . P^LLlfcAS. There are innumerable stars; I have never seen so many as to-night; . . . but the moon is still upon the sea. ... Do not stay in the shadow, Melisande ; lean forward a little till I see your unbound hair. ... M^XISANDE. I am frightful so. . . . [She leans out at the window, Pl&LLEAS. Oh ! oh ! Melisande ! ... oh, thou art beautiful ! . . . thou art beautiful so ! . . . Lean out ! lean out ! . . . Let me come nearer thee . . . MELISANDE. I cannot come nearer thee. ... I am lean- ing out as far as I can. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 103 F±U±AS. I cannot come up higher ; . . . give me at least thy hand to-night . . . before I go away. ... I leave to-morrow. . . . MELISANDE. No, no, no ! . . . P^LLlfcAS. Yes, yes, yes ; I leave, I shall leave to- morrow. . . . Give me thy hand, thy hand, thy little hand upon my lips. . . . MELISANDE. I give thee not my hand if thou wilt leave. . . . PELLEAS. Give, give, give ! . . . MELISANDE. Thou wilt not leave ? . . . PjfeLLlfcAS. * I will wait ; I will wait. . . • MELISANDE. I see a rose in the shadows. ... P^LLi:AS. Where ? ... I see only the boughs of the willow hanging over the wall. . . . I04 Pelleas and Melisande. M^LISANDE. Further down, further down, in the garden ; further down, in the sombre green. . . . P:feLLEAS. It is not a rose. ... I will go see by and by, but give me thy hand first; first thy hand. ... MELISANDE. There, there; ... I cannot lean out further. . . . PlfcLL^AS. I cannot reach thy hand with my lips. . . . MELISANDE. I cannot lean out further. ... I am on the point of falling. . . . — Oh ! oh ! my hair is fall- ing down the tower ! . . . \Her tresses fall suddenly over her head, as she is leaning out so, and stream over P^LL^AS.] P^LLlfcAS. Oh ! oh ! what is it? . . . Thy hair, thy hair is falling down to me ! . . . All thy locks, M^Usande, all thy locks have fallen down the tower ! . . . I hold them in my hands ; I hold them in my mouth. ... I hold them in my arms ; I put them about my neck. ... I will not open my hands again to-night. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. • 105 MELISANDE. Let me go ! let me go ! . . . Thou wilt make me fall ! . . . PELLlfcAS. No, no, no; ... I have never seen such hair as thine, M^Hsande ! . . . See, see, see ; it cpmes from so high and yet it floods me to the heart! . . . And yet it floods me to the knees ! . . . And it is sweet, sweet as if it fell from heaven ! . . . I see the sky no longer through thy locks. Thou seest, thou seest? ... I can no longer hold them with both hands ; there are some on the boughs of the willow. . . . They are alive like birds in my hands, . . . and they love me, they love me more than thou ! . . . MELISANDE. Let me go ; let me go ! . . . Some one might come. . . . P^LLlfcAS. No, no, no ; I shall not set thee free to-night. . . . Thou art my prisoner to-night ; all night, all night J • • • •^ MELISANDE. P^ll^as! P^U^as! . . . P^LL^AS. I tie them, I tie them to the willow boughs. . . . Thou shalt not go away now ; . . . thou shalt not go away now. . . . Look, look, I am io6 Pelleas and Melisande. kissing thy hair. „ . . I suffer no more in the midst of thy hair. . . . Hearest thou my kisses along thy hair? . . . They mount along thy hair. . . . Each hair must bring thee some. . . . Thou seest, thou seest, I can open my hands. . . . My hands are free, and thou canst not leave me now. ... MELISANDE. Oh ! oh ! thou hurt est me. . . . [Doves come out of the tower and fly about them in the m^>^/.]— What is that, P^ll^as ? — What is it flying about me ? P^LLlfeAS. It is the doves coming out of the tower. . . . I have frightened them ; they are flying away. . . . MELISANDE. It is my doves, P^Ueas. — Let us go away, let me go ; they will not come back again. . . . PlfcLL^AS. Why will they not come back again? MELISANDE. They will be lost in the dark. . . . Let me go ; let me Hft my head. ... I hear a noise of footstep?. . . . Let me go! — ItisGolaud! . . . I believe it is Golaud 1 . . . He has heard us. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 107 PELLEAS. Wait ! Wait ! . . . Thy hair is about the boughs. ... It is caught there in the dark- ness. . . . Wait, wait ! ... It is dark. . . . Enter GoiA\jD, by the watchman'' s round. GOLAUD. What do you here ? PELLEAS. What do I here ? . . . I . . . GOLAUD. You are children. . . . Melisande, do not lean out so at the window ; you will fall. . . . Do you not know it is late ? — It is nearly mid- night. — Do not play so in the darkness, — You are children. . . . \_Laughing nervously ,'\ What children ! . . . What children ! . . . \Exit^ with Pj&ll^as. Scene III. — The vaults of the castle. Enter Golaud and PiiLL^AS. GOLAUD. Take care ; this way, this way. — You have never penetrated into these vaults? P^LL^AS. Yes ; once, of old ; but it was long ago. . . . io8 Pelleas and Melisande. GOLAUD. They are prodigious great ; it is a succession of enormous crypts that end, God knows where. The whole castle is builded on these crypts. Do you smell the deathly odor that reigns here ? — That is what I wished to show you. In my opinion, it comes from the little underground lake I am going to have you see. Take care ; walk before me, in the hght of my lantern. I will warn you when we are there. \They con- tinue to walk in silence. '\ Hey! hey! P^ll^as ! stop 1 stop 1 — \He seizes him by the armJ] For God's sake I ... Do you not see ? — One step more, and you had been in the gulf! . . . P^LLlfeAS. But I did not see it 1 . . . The lantern no longer lighted me. ... GOLAUD. I made a misstep, . . . but if I had not held you by the arm . . . Well, this is the stagnant water that I spoke of to you. ... Do you per- ceive the smell of death that rises ? — Let us go to the end of this overhanging rock, and do you lean over a little. It will strike you in the face. PlfcLL^AS. I smell it already ; . . . you would say a smell of the tomb. Pelleas and Melisande. 109 GOLAtJD. Farther, further. ... It is this that on cer- tain days has poisoned the castle. The King will not believe it comes from here. — The crypt should be walled up in which this stand- ing water is found. It is time, besides, to examine these vaults a little. Have you noticed those lizards on the walls and pillars of the vaults ? — There is a labor hidden here you would not suspect ; and the whole castle will be swallowed up one of these nights, if it is not looked out for. But what will you have ? no- body likes to come down this far. . . . There are strange lizards in many of the walls. . . . Oh ! here ... do you perceive the smell of death that rises? P^LL^AS. Yes ; there is a smell of death rising about us. . . . GOLAUD. Lean over; have no fear. ... I will hold you . . . give me . . . no, no, not your hand ... it might slip . . . your arm, your arm ! ... Do you see the gulf? \_Moved,'] — P^l- l^as? P^ir^as? ... P^LL^AS. Yes ; I think I see the bottom of the gulf. ... Is it the light that trembles so? . . . You, ... [He straightens up, turns, and looks at GOLAUD.] no Pelleas and Melisande. GOLAUD {with a trembling voice) . Yes ; it is the lantern. . . . See, I shook it to lighten the walls. ... P^LL^AS. I stifle here ; ... let us go out. ... GOLAUD. Yes ; let us go out. . \Exeunt in silence. Scene IV. — A terrace at the exit of the vaults. Enter Golaud and Pi^ll^as. p6ll6as. Ah ! I breathe at last ! . . . I thought, one moment, I was going to be ill in those enormous crypts; I was on the point of falling. . . . There is a damp air there, heavy as a leaden dew, and darkness thick as a poisoned paste. . . . And now, all the air of all the sea ! . . . There is a fresh wind, see ; fresh as a leaf that has just opened, over the little green waves. . . . Hold ! the flowers have just been watered at the foot of the terrace, and the smell of the verdure and the wet roses comes up to us. . . . It must be nearly noon ; they are already in the shadow of the tower. ... It is noon ; I hear the bells ringing, and the children are going down to the beach to bathe. ... I did not Pelleas and Melisande. 1 1 1 know that we had stayed so long in the caverns. ... , GOLAUD. We went down towards eleven o*clock. . • . P^LLlfcAS. Earlier; it must have been earlier; I heard it strike half-past ten. GOLAUD. Half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. . • . P^LL^AS. They have opened all the windows of the castle. It will be unusually hot this afternoon. . . . Look, there is mother with Melisande at a window of the tower. . . . GOLAUD. Yes; they have taken refuge on the shady side. — Speaking of Mdisande, I heard what passed and what was said last night. I am quite aware all that is but child's play ; but it need not be repeated. Melisande is very young and very impressionable ; and she must be treated the more circumspectly that she is perhaps with child at this moment. . . . She is very delicate, hardly woman; and the least emotion might bring on a mishap. It is not the first time I have noticed there might be something between you. . . . You are older than she ; it will suffice to have told you. . . . Avoid her as much as 112 Pelleas and Mellsande. possible ; without affectation moreover ; without aifectation. ... — What is it I see yonder on the highway toward the forest? . . . P^LL^AS. el Some herds they Zq leading to the city. . . . GOLAUD. They cry like lost children ; you would say they smelt the butcher already. — It will be time for dinner. — What a fine day ! What a capital day for the harvest ! . . . \_£xeun^. Scene V. — Before the castle. Enter Golaud and little Yniold. GOLAUD. Come, we are going to sit down here, Yniold ; sit on my knee ; we shall see from here what passes in the forest. I do not see you any more at all now. You abandon me too; you are always at little mother's. . . . Why, we are sit- ting just under little mother's windows. — Per- haps she is saying her evening prayer at this moment. . . . But tell me, Yniold, she is often with your uncle Pdll^as, is n't she? YNIOLD. Yes, yes ; always, little father ; when you are not there, Uttle father. . . . Pelieas and Melisande. 113 GOLAUD. Ah ! — look ; some one is going by with a lantern in the garden. — But I have been told they did not like each other. ... It seems they often quarrel ; . . . no ? it true ? YNIOLD. Yes, yes ; it is true. GOLAUD. Yes ? — Ah ! ah ! — But what do they quarrel about ? YNIOLD. About the door. GOLAUD. What? about the door? — What are you talking about? — No, come, explain yourself; why do they quarrel about the door? YNIOLD. Because it won't stay open. GOLAUD. Who wants it to stay open ? — Come, why do they quarrel? YNIOLD. I don't know, little father ; about the light. GOLAUD. I am not talking tg )i»u about the light ; we will talk of that by and by. I am talking to 8 1 14 Pelleas and Melisande. -^Qik about the door. Answer what I ask you ; you must learn to talk; it is time. . . . Do not put y^f hand in your mouth so ; . . . come. ... YNIOLD. Little father ! little father ! . . . I won't do it any more. . . . \He cries.'] GOLAUD. Come ; wJb^afe'ari6 you crying fear now? What has happened? YNIOLD. Oh ! oh ! little father, you hurt me. ... GOLAUD. 1 hurt yeu ? — Where did I hurt you ? I did not mean to. . . . YNIOLD. Here, here ; on my little arm. ... GOLAUD. I did not mean to; come, don't cry any more, and I will give y@u something to-morrow. YNIOLD. What, little father? GOLAUD. .-^^^jtA quiverand some arrows ; but tell me what yetT know^^about the door. Pelleas and Melisande. 115 YNIOLD. Big arrows? GOLAUD. Yes, yes ; very big arrows. — But why don't they want the door to be open? — Come, answer me sometime ! — no, no ; do not open ye^rmouth to cry. I am not angry. We are going to have a quiet talk, like Pelleas and little mother when they are together. What do they talk about when they are together? YNIOLD. P^ll^as and little mother? GOLAUD. Yes; what do they talk about? YNIOLD. About me ; always about me. GOLAUD. rrkJU And what do they say about y«ii? YNIOLD. They say I am going to be very big. GOLAUD. Oh, plague of my life ! ... I am here like a blind man searching for his treasure at liie bottom of the ocean ! . . . I am here Ijke a new-born child lost in the forest, and vmi !*'. . Come, come, Yniold, I was wandering ; we are ii6 Pelleas and Melisande. going to talk seriously. Do P^ll^as and little mother never speak of me when I am not there? . . . YNIOLD. Yes, yes, little father; they-are -always speak- ing of you. GOLAUD. Ah ! . . . And what do they say of me ? YNIOLD. They say I shall grow as big as you are. GOLAUD. You are always by them? YNIOLD. Yes, yes, always, always, little father. GOLAUD. They never tell you to go play somewhere else? YNIOLD. No, little father ; they are afraid when I am not there. GOLAUD. . They are afraid? . . . What makes )4u think they are afraid? YNIOLD. Little mother always says, ^' Don't go away ; don't go away ! " . . . They are unhappy, but they laugh. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 117 GOLAUD. But that does not prove they are afraid. YNIOLD. Yes, yes, little father ; she is afraid. . • . GOLAUD. Why do you say she is afraid? YNIOLD. They always weep in the dark. GOLAUD. Ah ! ah ! . . . YNIOLD. That makes one weep too. GOLAUD. Yes, yes ! . . . YNIOLD. She is pale, little father. GOLAUD. Ah ! ah ! . . . patience, my God, patience ! . . . YNIOLD. What, little father? GOLAUD. Nothing, nothing, my child. — I saw a wolf go by in the forest. — Then they get on well together? — I am glad to learn they are on ii8 Pelleas and Melisande. good terms. — They kiss each other sometimes? — No?. . . YNIOLD. Kiss each other, little father? — No, no, — ah ! yes, little father, yes, yes ; once . . 1 once when it rained. ... GOLAUD. They kissed? — But how, how did they kiss? YNIOLD. So, little father, so ! . . . \He gives him a kiss on the mouth, laughing.^ Ah 1 ah ! your beard, little father ! ... It pricks ! it pricks ! it pricks ! It is getting all gray, little father, and your hair, too ; all gray, all gray, all gray. . . . [ The window under which they are sitting is lighted up at this moment, and the light falls upon them,'] Ah ! ah ! little mother has lit her lamp. It is hght, little father ; it is light. . . . GOLAUD. Yes ; it is beginning to be light. . . . YNIOLD. Let us go there too, Httle father ; let us go there too. ... GOLAUD. Where do you want to go? YNIOLD. Where it is light, little father. Pelleas and Melisande. 119 GOLAUD. No, no, my child ; let us stay in the dark a little longer. . . . One cannot tell, one cannot tell yet. . . . Do you see those poor people down there trying to kindle a little fire in the forest? — It has rained. And over there, do you see the old gardener trying to lift that tree the wind has blown down across the road? — He cannot ; the tree is too big ; the tree is too heavy, and it will lie where it fell. All that cannot be helped. ... I think P^ll^as is mad. ... YNIOLD. No, little father, he is not mad ; he is very good. GOLAUD. Do you want to see little mother? YNIOLD. Yes, yes ; I want to see her ! GOLAUD. Don't make any noise ; I am going to hoist you up to the window. It is too high for me, for all I am so big. . . . \^He lifts the child, '\ Do not make the least noise ; little mother would be terribly afraid. . . . DotjJ^'^see her? — Is she in the room ? YNIOLD. Yes. . . . Oh, how light it is ! 120 Pelleas and Melisande. GOLAUD. She is alone ? YNIOLD. Yes ; . . . no, no ; Uncle P^ll^as is there, too. GOLAUD. He— . . . ! YNIOLD. Ah ! ah ! little father ! you have hurt me ! . . . GOLAUD. It is nothing ; be still ; I will not do it any more ; look, look, Yniold ! . . . I stumbled ; speak lower. What are they doing? — YNIOLD. They are not doing anything, little father; they are waiting for something. GOLAUD. Are they near each other? YNIOLD. No, little father. GOLAUD. And ... and the bed? are they near the bed? YNIOLD. The bed, little father? — I can't see the bed. GOLAUD. Lower, lower ; they will hear you. Are they speaking ? Felleas and Melisande. ill YNIOLD. No, little father ; they do not speak. GOLAUD. But what are they doing? — They must be doing something. ... YNIOLD. They are looking at the light. GOLAUD. Both? YNIOLD. Yes, little father. GOLAUD. They do not say anything? YNIOLD. No, little father; they do not close their eyes. GOLAUD. They do not come near each other? YNIOLD. No, little father ; they do not stir. GOLAUD. They are sitting down ? YNIOLD. No, little father; they are standing upright ai^^ainst the wall. 122 Pelleas and Melisande. GOLAUD. They make no gestures ? — They do not look at each other? — They make no signs? . . . YNIOLD. No, little father. — Oh ! oh ! little father ; they never close their eyes. ... I am terribly afraid. . . . GOLAUD. Be still. They do not stir yet ? YNIOLD. No, little father. — I am afraid, little father ; let me come down ! . . . GOLAUD. Why, what are you afraid of? — Look ! look ! . . . YNIOLD. I dare not look any more, little father ! . . . Let me come down ! . . . GOLAUD. Look ! look ! . . . YNIOLD. Oh ! oh ! I am going to cry, little father ! — Let me come down ! let me come down ! . . . GOLAUD. Come ; we will go see what has happened. \Exeunt, ACT FOURTH. Scene I. — A corridor in the castk. Enter P^lli^as and M^lisande, meeting. P^LLlfcAS. Where goest thou? I must speak to thee to-night. Shall I see thee? Yes. M^LISANDE. p]£ll6as. I have just left my father's room. He is getting better. The physician has told us he is saved. . . . And yet this morning I had a pre- sentiment this day would end ill. I have had a rumor of misfortune in my ears for some tin e. . . . Then, all at once there was a great change ; to-day it is no longer anything but a question of time. All the windows in his room have been thrown open. He speaks; he seems happy. He does not speak yet like an ordi- nary man, but already his ideas no lonp^er all come from Jthe other world. . . . He recog- nized me. JTe lo5k my hand and said with that strange air he has had since he fell sick : ^as it thou, P^lleas? Why, why, I had not noticed it before, but thou hast the grave and 124 Pelleas and Melisande. friendly look of those who will not live long. ... You must travel; you must travel. . . .'* It is strange ; I- shall ■ ob ey him. . . . My mother listened to him and wept for joy. — Hast thou not been aware of it? — The whole house seems already to revive, you hear breath- ing, you hear speaking, you hear walking. . . . Listen ; I hear some one speaking behind that door. Quick, quick ! answer quickly ! where shall I see thee? MELISANDE. Where wouldst thou? P^LL^AS. In the park; near "Blind Man's Spring.'' — Wilt thou? — Wilf thou come? MELISANDE. Yes. PELLEAS. It will be the last night ; — I am going to travel, as my father said. Thou wilt not see me more. ... MELISANDE. Do not say that, Pelleas. ... I shall see thee always ; I shall look upon thee always. . . . PlfcLL^AS. Thou wilt look in vain. ... I shall be so far away thou couldst no longer see me. . . . I shall try to go very far away. ... I am full Pelleas and Melisande. 125 of joy, and you would say I had all the weight oriTeaven and earth on my body to-day. . . . MELISANDE. What has happened, P^ll^as? — I no longer understand what you say. . . . PELLEAS. Go, go; let us separate. I hear some one speaking behind that door. ... It is the strangers who came to the castle this morning. . . . They are going out. . . . Let us go ; it is the strangers. . . . \Exeunt severally. Scene II. — An apartment in the castle, Arkel and Melisande discovered, ARKEL. Now that P^ll^as's father is saved, and sick- ness, the old handmaid of Death, has left the castle, a little joy and a little sunlight will at last come into the house again. ... It was time ! — For, since thy coming, we have only lived here whispering about a closed room. . . . And truly I have pitied thee, Melisande. . . . Thou camest here all joyous, like a child seek- ing a gala-day, and at the moment thou en- teredst in the vestibule I saw thy face change, and probably thy soul, as the face changes in spite of us when we enter at noon into a grotto too gloomy and too cold. . . . And 126 Pelleas and Melisande. since, — since, on account of all that, I have often no longer understood thee. ... I observed thee, thou wert there, listless perhaps, but with the strange, astray look of one awaiting ever a great trouble, in the sunlight, in a beautiful garden. ... I cannot explain. . . . But I was sad to see thee so ; for thou art too young and too beautiful to live already day and night under the breath of death. . . . But now all that will change. At my age, — and there perhaps is the surest fruit of my life, — at my age I have gained I know not what faith in the fidelity of events, and I have always seen that every young and beautiful being creates about itself young, beautiful, and happy events. . . . And it is thou who wilt now open the door for the new era I have glimpses of. . . . Come here ; why dost thou stay there without answering and without lifting thine eyes ? — I have kissed thee but once only hitherto, — the day of thy coming ; and yet old men need sometimes to touch with their lips a woman's forehead or a child's cheek, to believe still in the freshness of life and avert awhile the menaces. . . ., Art thou afraid of my old lips? How I have pitied thee these months ! . . . MELISANDE. Grandfather, I have not been unhappy. . . . ARKEL. Perhaps you were of those who are unhappy without knowing it, . . . and they are the most Pelleas and Melisande. 127 unhappy. . . . Let me look at thee, so, quite near, a moment ; ... we have such need of beauty beside Death. . . . Enter Golaud. GOLAUD, P^ll^as leaves to-night. ARKEL. Thou hast blood on thy forehead. — What hast thou done? GOLAUD. Nothing, nothing. ... I have passed through a hedge of thorns. MEUSANDE. Bend down your head a little, my lord. . . . I will wipe your forehead. . . . GOLAUD {repulsing her) , I will not that you touch me, do you under- stand ? Go, go ! — I am not speaking to you. — Where is my sword? — I came to seek my sword. . . . MELISANDE. Here ; on the praying-stool. GOLAUD. Bring it. \To Arkel.] — They have just found another peasant dead of hunger, along by the sea. You would say they all meant to die 128 Pelleas and Melisande, Wider our eyes. — [To M^xisande.] Well, my sword? — Why do you tremble so? — I am not going to kill you. I would simply examine the blade. I do not employ the sword for these uses. Why do you examine me like a beggar? — I do not come to ask alms of you. You hope to see something in my eyes without my seeing anything in yours ? — Do you think I may know something ? — [71? Arkel.] — Do you see those great eyes ? — It is as if they were proud of their richness. . . . ARKEL. I see there only a great innocence. ... GOLAUD. A great innocence ! . . . They are greater than innocence ! . . . They are purer than the eyes of a lamb. . . . They would give God les- sons in innocence ! A great innocence ! Listen : I am so near them I feel the freshness of their lashes when they wink ; and yet I am less far away from the great secrets of the other world than from the smallest secret of those eyes ! ... A great innocence ! . . . More than inno- cence ! You would say the angels of heaven celebrated there an eternal baptism ! . . . I know those eyes ! I have seen them at their work ! Close them ! close them ! or I shall close them for a long while ! . . . — Do not put your right hand to your throat so ; I am saying a very simple thing. ... 1 have no under- thought. ... If I had an under-thought, why Pelleas and Melisande. 129 should I not say it ? Ah ! ah ! — do not at- tempt to flee ! — Here ! — Give me that hand ! — Ah ! your hands are too hot. ... Go away ! Your flesh disgusts me ! . . . Here ! — There is no more question of fleeing now ! — \_He seizes her by the hair.~\ — You shall follow me on your knees ! — On your knees ! — On your knees before me ! — Ah ! ah ! your long hair serves some purpose at last ! . . . Right, . . . left ! — Left, . . . right ! — Absalom ! Absalom. — For- ward ! back ! To the ground ! to the ground ! . . . You see, you see ; I laugh already like an old man. ... ARKEL (^running up) . Golaud! . . . GOLAUD {affecting a sudden calni). You will do as you may please, look you. — I attach no importance to that. — I am too old ; and, besides, I am not a spy. I shall await chance ; and then ... Oh ! then ! . . . simply because it is the custom ; simply because it is the custom. ... \Exit, ARKEL. What ails him? — He is drunk? MELISANDE {in tears). No, no ; he does not love me any more. . . . I am not happy ! . . . I am not happy ! . . . ARKEL. If I were God, I would have pity on men|s_ hearts. ... ( ijo Pelleas and Melisande, Scene III. — A terrace of the castle. Little Yniold discovered, trying to lift a bowlder, LITTLE YNIOLD. Oh, this stone is heavy ! ... It is heavier than I am. ... It is heavier than everybody. ... It is heavier than everything that ever happened. ... I can see my golden ball between the rock and this naughty stone, and I cannot reach it. . . . My little arm is not long enough, . . . and this stone won't be lifted. ... I can't lift it, . . . and nobody could lift it. . . . It is heavier than the whole house ; . . . you would think it had roots in the earth. ... [ The bleatings of a flock heard far away, 2 — Oh ! oh ! I hear the sheep crying. . . . [He goes to look, at the edge of the terrace^ Why ! there is no more sun. . . . They are coming . . . the little sheep . . . they are coming. . . . There is a lot of them ! . . . There is a lot of them ! . . . They are afraid of the dark. . . . They crowd together ! they crowd to- gether ! . . . They can hardly walk any more. . . . They are crying ! they are crying ! and they go quick ! . . . They go quick 1 . . . They are already at the great crossroads. Ah ! ah ! They don't know where they ought to go any more. . . .~nrh"ey donVcry-aiiyiTiare. . . . They" wait. . . . Some of them want to go to the right. . . . They all want to go to the right. . . . They cannot ! . . . The shepherd is throw- ing earth at them. ... Ah ! ah ! They are going to pass by here. . . . They obey ! They Pelleas and Melisande. 131 obey ! They are going to pass under the ter- race. . . . They are going to pass under the rocks. ... I am going to see them near by. ... Oh ! oh ! what a lot of them ! . . . What a lot of them ! . . . The whole road is full of them. . . . They all keep still now. . . Shep- herd ! shepherd ! why don't they speak any more? THE SHEPHERD {who is OUt of Sight) , Because it is no longer the road to the stable. . . . YNIOLD. Where are they going? — Shepherd! shep- herd ! — where are they going ? — He does n't hear me any more. They are too far away already. . . . They go quick. . . . They are not making a noise any more. ... It is no longer the road to the stable. . . . Where are they going to sleep to-night ? — Oh ! oh ! — It is too dark. ... I am going to tell some- thing to somebody. . . . [Exit, Scene IV. — A fountain in the park. Enter Pelleas. P^LLjfcAS. It is the last evening . . . the last evening. It must all end. J >>hflyfi pjayfid like, a child aiit a thing I didnpt«^»@ss. ... I have 132 Pelleas and Melisande. played a- dream about the snares of fate. . . . Who has awakened me all at once ? I shall flee, crying out for joy and woe like a blind man fleeing from his burning house. ... I am going to tell her I shall flee.^. . . My father is out of danger ; and I have no more reason to lie to myself. ... It is late ; she does not come. ... I should do better to go away without seeing her again. ... I must look well at her this time. . . . There are some things that I no longer recall. ... It seems at times as if I had not seen her for a hundred years. ... And I have not yet looked upon her look. . . . There remains nought to me if I go away thus. And all those memories ... it is as if I were to take away a little water in a muslin bag. . . . I must see her one last time, to the bottom of her heart. . . . 4*aaiji^LJ:ell her all that I h ave, never told he r. Enter Melisande, MELISANDE. P^U^as ! P&LL^AS. Melisande ! — Is it thou, Melisande ? MELISANDE. Yes. / P^LLlfcAS. Come hither ; do not stay at the edge of the moonlight. — Come hi^eri^'^We have so many things to teU each other. . . . Come l^ither in the shadow of the linden.^'v^ *'^*'^ Pelleas and Mellsande. 133 M^LISANDE. Let me stay in the light. . . . P^LLi^AS. We might be seen from the windows of the tower. Come 4k^er ; here, we have nothing to fear. — Take care ; we might be seen. . . . MELISANDE. I wish to be seen. . . . PELLl^AS. Why, what doth ail thee? — Thou wert able to come out without being seen? MELISANDE. Yes ; your brother slept. . . . PlfeLLEAS. It is late. — In an hour they will close the gates. We must be careful. Why art thou come so late? MlfcLISANDE. Your brother had a bad dream. And then my gown was caught on the nails of the gate. See, it is torn. I lost all this time, and ran. , . . Pl^LL^AS. My poor M^lisande ! . . . I should almost be afraid to touch thee. . . . Thou art still out of breath, like a hunted bird. ... It is for me. 134 Pelleas and Melisande. for me, thou doest all that? ... I hear thy heart beat as if it were mine. . . . Come hither . . . nearer, nearer me. . . . Ml^LISANDE. Why do you laugh ? Pl&LLlfeAS. I do not laugh; — or else I laugh for joy, unwittingly. ... It were a weeping matter, rather. . . . MELISANDE. We have come here before. ... I recol- lect. . . . P^LL^AS. Yes . . . yes. . . . Long months ago. — I knew not then. . . . Knowest thou why I asked thee to come here to-night? MELISANDE. No. PlfcLLl^AS. It is perhaps the last time I shall see thee. ... I must go away forever. . . , MlfcLISANDE. Why sayest thou always thou wilt go away? . . . p:^ll6as. I must tell thee what thou knowest already ? — Thou knowest not what I am going to tell thee? Pelleas and Melisande. 135 M^LISANDE. Why, no ; why, no ; I know nothing — ... PELLIEAS. Thou knowest not why I must go afar. . . . Thou knowest not it is because . . . \He kisses her abruptly, '\ I love thee. . . . MELISANDE {in a low voice) . I love thee too. . . . PELLEAS. Oh ! oh ! What saidst thou, M^Hsande? . . . I hardly heard it ! . . . . Thou sayest that in a voice coming from the end of the world ! . . . I hardly heard thee. . . . Thou lovest me ? — Thou lovest me too? . . . Since when lovest thou me? . . . MELISANDE. Since always. . . . Since I saw thee. . . . P^LL^AS. Oh, how thou sayest that ! . . . Thy voice seems to have blown across the sea in spring ! ... I have never heard it until now ; . . . one would say it had rained on my heart ! . . . Thou sayest that so frankly 1 ... Like an angel questioned ! . . . I cannot beHeve it, Melisande ! . . . Why shouldst thou love me ? — Nay, why dost thou love me ? — Is what thou sayest true ? — Thou dost not mock me ? — 136 Pelleas and Melisande. Thou dost not lie a little, to make me smile? . . . MELISANDE. No; I never lie; I lie but to thy brother. ... PELLEAS. Oh, how thou say est that ! . . . Thy voice ! thy voice ! ... It is cooler and more frank tharf';the water is ! ... It is like pure water on my lips ! ... It is like pure water on my hands. . . . Give me, give me thy hands ! . . . Oh, how small thy hands are ! ... I did not- know thou wert so beautiful ! . . . I have never seen anything so beautiful before thee. ... I was full of unrest; I sought throughout the house. ... I sought throughout the country. . . . And I found not beauty. . . . And now I have found thee ! . . . I have found thee ! . . . I do not think there could be on the earth a fairer woman! . . . Where art thou? — I no longer hear thee breathe. . . . Ml^LISANDE. Because I look on thee. . . . PlfcLL^AS. Why dost thou look so gravely on me? — We are already in the shadow. — It is too dark under this tree. Come into the light. We cannot see how happy we are. Come, come ; so little time remains to us. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 137 M^LISANDE. No, no j let us stay here. ... I am nearer thee in the dark. . . . PELL]&AS. Where are thine eyes ? — Thou art not going to fly me? — Thou dost not think of me just now. MJ&LISANDE. Oh, yes ; oh, yes ; I only think of thee. . . . P^LL^AS. Thou wert looking elsewhere. . . . MlfcLISANDE. I saw thee elsewhere. . . • P^LL^AS. Thy soul is far away. . . . What ails thee, then? — Meseems thou art not happy. . . . MELISANDE. Yes, yes ; I am happy, but I am sad. . . . P^LL^AS. One is sad often when one loves. . . • MELISANDE. I weep always when I think of thee. . . . ijS Pelleas and Melisande. P^LLEAS. I too. ... I too, Melisande. ... I am quite near thee ; I weep for joy, and yet . . . \^He kisses her again,'] — Thou art strange when I kiss thee so. . . . Thou art so beautiful that one would think thou wert about to die. . • . Mi:USANDE. Thou too. ... PELLEAS. There, there. . . . We do not what v/e will. ... I did not love thee the first time I saw thee. ... MELISANDE. Nor I. • . . nor I. ... I was afraid. . . . PlfeLL^AS. I could not admit thine eyes. ... I would have gone away at once . . . and then . . . MELISANDE. And I, — I would not have come. ... I do not yet know why, — I was afraid to come. . . . PELLEAS. There are so many things one never knows. We are ever waiting ; and then. . . . What is that noise? — They are closing the gates ! . . . M]e:LISANDE. Yes, they have closed the gates. . . ^ Pelleas and Melisande. 139 PlfeLLl&AS. We cannot go back now? — Hearest thou the bolts ? — Listen ! listen ! . . . the great chains ! . . . the great chains 1 ... It is too late ; it is too late ! . . . MELISANDE. All the better! all the better! all the better 1 . . . PELLEAS. Thou — . . . ? Behold, behold ! ... It is no longer we who will it so ! . . . All's lost, all h saved ! all is saved to-night ! — Come, come. . . . My heart beats hke a madman, — up to my very throat. . . . [^T/iey efnbrace?^ Listen ! listen ! my heart is almost strangling me. . . . Come ! come ! . . . Ah . how beau tiful it is in the shadows ! . . . MELISANDE. There is some one behind us ! . . • PiiLLEAS. I see no one. . . • MELISANDE. I heard a noise. ... P^LL^AS. I hear only thy heart in the dark. . . MELISANDE. I heard the crackling of dead leaves. 140 Pelleas and Melisande. PELL^AS. Because the wind is silent all at once. . . . It fell as we were kissing. . . . MlfcLISANDE. How long our shadows are to-night ! . . . P^LL^AS. They embrace to the very end of the garden. Oh, how they kiss far away from us ! . . . Look 1 look ! . . . M]fcLiSANDE {in a stifled voice). A-a-h ! — He is behind a tree ! PELLEAS. Who? MELISANDE. Golaud ! PfeLL^AS. Golaud ! - — where ? — I see nothing. . . . MELISANDE. There . . . at the end of our shadows. . . . P^LLlfcAS. Yes, yes; abruptly. . . I saw him. . . . Let us not turn • MELISANDE. He has his sword. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 141 P^LlilAS. I have not mine. ... MELISANDE. He saw us kiss. . . . PELLEAS. He does not know we have seen him. . . . Do not stir ; do not turn your head. . . . He would rush headlong on us. . . . He will re- main there while he thinks we do not know. He watches us. . . . He is still motionless. . . . Go, go at once this way. ... I will wait for him. ... I will stop him. . . . MELISANDE. No, no, no ! . . . p6ll6as. Go ! go ! he has seen all ! ... He will kill us ! . . . MlfcLISANDE. All the better! all the better! all the better 1 . . . p6ll6as. He comes ! he comes ! . . . Thy moi^n ! . . Thy mouth ! . . . MELISANDE. Yes ! . o . yes 1 yes ! . . • \_They kiss desperately. ^ 142 Pelleas and Melisande. PELLEAS. Oh ! oh ! All the stars are falling ! . . . MELISANDE. Upon me too ! upon me too ! . . . PliLLEAS. Again ! Again ! . . . Give ! give ! • . . MELISANDE. All! all! all! . . . [Golaud rushes upon them, sword in hand, and strikes Pelleas, who falls at the brink of the fountain. Melisande flees terrified.] MELISANDE {fleeing). Oh ! oh ! I have no courage ! . . . I have no courage ! . . . [Golaud pursues her through the wood in silence. ACT FIFTH. Scene I. — A lower hall in the castle. The women servants discovered^ gathered together^ while without children are playing before one of the ventilators of the hall. AN OLD SERVANT. You will see, you will see, my daughters ; it will be to-night. — Some one will come to tell us by and by. . . . ANOTHER SERVANT. They will not come to tell us . . . They don^t know what they are doing any longer. . . . THIRD SERVANT. Let us wait here. . . . FOURTH SERVANT. We shall know well enough when we must go up. . . . FIFTH SERVANT. When the time is come, we shall go up of ourselves. . . . 144 Pelleas and Melisande. SIXTH SERVANT. There is no longer a sound heard in the house. . . . SEVENTH SERVANT. We ought to make the children keep still, who are playing before the ventilator. EIGHTH SERVANT. They will be still of themselves by and by. NINTH SERVANT. The time has not yet come. . . . Enter an old Servant, THE OLD SERVANT. No one can go in the room any longer. I have listened more than an hour. . . . You could hear the flies walk on the doors. ... I heard nothing. ... FIRST SERVANT. Has she been left alone in the room ? THE OLD SERVANT. No, no ; I think the room is full of people. FIRST SERVANT. They will come, they will come, by and by Pelleas and Melisande. 145 THE OLD SERVANT. Lord ! Lord ! It is not happiness that has come into the house. . . . One may not speak, but if I could say what I know . . . SECOND SERVANT. It was you who found them before the gate ? THE OLD SERVANT. Why, yes ! why, yes ! it was I who found them. The porter says it was he who saw them first; but it was I who waked them. He was sleeping on his face and would not get up. — And now he comes saying, " It was I who saw them first." Is that just? — See, I burned myself lighting a lamp to go down cellar. — Now what was I going to do down cellar ? — I can^t re- member any more what I was going to do down cellar. — At any rate I got up very early ; it was not yet very light ; I said to myself, I will go across the courtyard, and then I will open the gate. Good ; I go down the stairs on tiptoe, and I open the gate as if it were an ordinary gate. ... My God ! My God ! What do I see ? Divine a little what I see ! . . . FIRST SERVANT. They were before the gate ? THE OLD SERVANT. They were both stretched out before the gate 1 . . . Exactly like poor folk that are too 146 Pelleas and Melisande. hungry. . . . They were huddled together like little children who are afraid. . . . The little princess was nearly dead, and the great Golaud had still his sword in his side. . . . There was blood on the sill. . . . SECOND SERVANT. We ought to make the children keep still. . . . They are screaming with all their might before the ventilator. . . . THIRD SERVANT. You can't hear yourself speak. . . . FOURTH SERVANT. There is nothing to be done : I have tried already; they won't keep still. . . . FIRST SERVANT. It seems he is nearly cured? THE OLD SERVANT. Who? FIRST SERVANT. The great Golaud. THIRD SERVANT. Yes, yes ; they have taken him to his wife's room. I met them just now, in the corridor. They were holding him up as if he were drunk. He cannot yet walk alone. Pelleas and Melisande. 147 THE OLD SERVANT. He could not kill himself; he is too big. But she is hardly wounded, and it is she who is going to die. . . . Can you understand that? FIRST SERVANT. You have seen the wound? THE OLD SERVANT. As I see you, my daughter. — I saw every- thing, you understand. ... I saw it before all the others. ... A tiny little wound under her little left breast, — a little wound that would n't kill a pigeon. Is it natural ? FIRST SERVANT. Yes, yes ; there is something underneath. . . . SECOND SERVANT. Yes ; but she was delivered of her babe three days ago. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Exactly ! . . . She was delivered on her death-bed ; is that a little sign ? — And what a child ! Have you seen it? — A wee little girl a beggar would not bring into the world. . . . A Httle wax figure that came much too soon ; . . . a little wax figure that must live in lambs' wool. . . . Yes, yes ; it is not happiness that has come into the house. . . . 148 Pelleas and Melisande. FIRST SERVANT. Yes, yes ; it is the hand of God that has been stirring. . . . SECOND SERVANT. Yes, yes; all that did not happen without reason. ., . . THIRD SERVANT. It is as good lord Pdlleas . . . where is he? — No one knows. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Yes, yes ; everybody knows. . . . But nobody dare speak of it. . . . One does not speak of this ; . . . one does not speak of that ; . . . one speaks no more of anything ; . . . one no longer speaks truth. . . . But / know he .was found at the bo ttom of Bl i nd Man's Sp ring ^ . . . but no one, no one coura see him. . . . Well, well, we shall only know all that at the last day. . . . FIRST SERVANT. I dare not sleep here any longer. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Yes, yes ; once ill-fortune is in the house, one keeps silence in vain. . . . THIRD SERVANT. Yes ; it finds you all the same. . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 149 THE OLD SERVANT. Yes, yes; but we do not go where we would. . . . . FOURTH SERVANT. Yes, yes ; we do not do what we would. . . • FIRST SERVANT. They are afraid of us now. . . . SECOND SERVj^NT. They all keep silence. . . . THIRD SERVANT. They cast down their eyes in the corridors. FOURTH SERVANT. They do not speak any more except in a low voice. FIFTH SERVANT. You would think they had all done it to- gether. SIXTH SERVANT. One does n't know what they have done. . . . SEVENTH SERVANT. What is to be done when the masters are afraid? ... ^A silence, FIRST SERVANT. I no longer hear the children screaming. 150 Pelleas and Melisande. SECOND SERVANT. They are sitting down before the ventilator. THIRD SERVANT. They are huddled against each other. THE OLD SERVANT. I no longer hear anything in the house. . . . FIRST SERVANT. You no longer even hear the children breathe. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Come, come ; it is time to go up. . . . [^Exeunt, in silence. Scene II. — An apartment in the castle. Arkel, Golaud, and the Physician dis-^^red in one corner of the room. Melisande is stretched upon her bed, THE PHYSICLVN. It cannot be of that little wound she is dying ; a bird would not have died of it. . . . It is not you, then, who have killed her, good my lord ; do not be so disconsolate. . . . She could not have lived. . . . She was born without reason ... to die ; and she dies without reason. . . . And then, it is not sure we shall not save her. . . . Pelleas and Mellsande. 151 ARKEL. No, no ; it seems to me we keep too silent, in spite of ourselves, in her room. ... It is not a good sign. . . . Look how she sleeps . . . slowly, slowly ; . . . it is as if her soul was cold forever. . . . GOLAUD. I have killed her without cause ! I have killed her without cause ! ... Is it not enough to make-the stones weep ? . . . They had kissed like little children. . . . They had simply kissed. . . . They were brother and sister. . . . And I, and I at once ! . . . I did it in spite of myself, loak-^you. ... I did it in spite of .jpa^mvii* • • • THE PHYSICIAN. Stop ; I think she is waking. . . . MjfeLISANDE. Open the window ; . . . open the window. . . . ARKEL Shall I open this one, M^lisande ? M^LISANDE. No, no; the great window . . . the great window. ... It is to see .. . ARKEL. Is not the sea air too cold to-night? 152 Pelleas and Melisande. THE PHYSICIAN. Do it ; do it. . . . MELISANDE. Thanks. ... Is it sunset? ARKEL. Yes ; it is sunset on the sea ; it is late. — How are you, MdHsande ? MlfcLISANDE. Well, well. — Why do you ask that ? I have never been better. — And yet it seems to me I know something. . . . ARKEL. What sayest thou? — I do 'not understand thee. . . . MELISANDE. Neither do I understand all I say, you see. ... I do not know what I am saying. . . . I do not know what I know. ... I no longer say what I would. . . . ARKEL. Why, yes ! why, yes ! . . . I am quite happy to hear thee speak so ; thou hast raved a little these last days, and one no longer understood thee. . . . But now all that is far away. ... Pelleas and Melisande. 153 MELISANDE. I do not know. ... — Are you all alone in the room, grandfather? ARKEL. No; there is the physician, besides, who cured thee. . . . MJiLISANDE. Ah ! . . . ARKEL. And then there is still some one else. . . . MELISANDE. Who is it? ARKEL. It is . . . thou must not be frightened. . . . He does not wish thee the least harm, be sure, ... If thou 'rt afraid, he will go away. . . , He is very unhappy. . . . MELISANDE. Who is it? ARKEL. It is thy . . . thy husband. ... It is Golaud. . . . MELISANDE. Golaud is here ? Why does he not come by me? GOLAUD {dragging himself toward the ded) , M^Hsande . . . M^Hsande. . . . 154 Pelleas and Melisande. M^LISANDE. Is it you, Golaud? I should hardly recog- nize you any more. ... It is the evening sun- light in my eyes. . . . Why look you on the walls? You have grown thin and old. ... Is it a long while since we saw each other ? GOLAUD {to Arkel and the Physician). Will you withdraw a moment, if you please, if you please ? . . . I will leave the door wide^ open. . . . One moment only. ... I would^aj^ something to her ; else I could not die. . . . Will you ? — Go clear to the end of the corridor ; you can come back at once, at once. . . . Do not refuse me this. ... I am a wretch. . . . \_Exit Arkel Ofid the Physician.] — Melisande, hast thou pity on me, as I have pity on thee? . . . Melisande? . . . Dost thou forgive me, Melisande? . . . melisande. Yes, yes, I do forgive thee. . . . What must I forgive? . . . GOLAUD. I have wrought thee so much ill, Melisande. ... I cannot tell thee the ill I have wrought thee. . . . But I see it, I see it so clearly to-day . . . since the first day. . . . And all I did not know till now leaps in my eyes to-night. . . . And it is all my fault, all that has hap- pened, all that will happen. ... If I could tell it, thou wouldst see as I do ! ... I see all ! I Pelleas and Melisande. 155 see all ! . . . But I loved thee so ! ... I loved thee so ! . . . But now there is someone dymg. ... It is I who am dying. . . . And I would know ... I would ask thee. . . . Thou 'It bear me no ill-will ... I would . . . The truth must be told to a dying man. ... He must know the truth, or else he could not sleep. . . . Swearest thou to tell me the truth ? MELISANDE. Yes. GOLAUD. Didst thou love Pell(§as? MELISANDE. Why, yes ; I loved him. — Where is he ? GOLAUD. Thou dost not understand me? — Thou wilt not understand me? — It seems to me . . . it seems to me . . . Well, then, here : I ask thee if thou lovedst him with a forbidden love ? . . . Wert thou . . . were you guilty? Say, say, yes, yes, yes ! . . . MELISANDE. No, no ; we were not guilty. — Why do you ask that? GOLAUD. M(§lisande ! . . . tell me the truth, for the love of God ! MELISANDE. Why have I not told the truth? 156 Pelleas and Melisande. GOLAUD. Do not lie so any more, at the moment of death ! MELISANDE. Who is dying? — Is it I? GOLAUD. Thou, thou ! and I, I too, after thee ! . . . And we must have the truth. . . . We must have the truth at last, dost thou understand? . . . Tell me all ! Tell me all ! I forgive thee all! . . . Mi:LISANDE. Why am I going to die ? — I did not know it. . . . GOLAUD. Thou knowest it now ! ... It is time ! It is time ! . . . Quick ! quick ! . . . The truth 1 the truth ! . . . MELISANDE. The truth . . . the truth . . • GOLAUD. Where art thou? — Melisande! — Where art thou ? — It is not natural ! Melisande ! Where art thou? — Where goest thou? [^Perceiving Arkel and the Physician at the door of the room,'] — Yes, yes; you may come in. ... I know nothing ; it is useless. ... It is too late ; she is already too far away from us. ... I shall never know! ... I shall die here like a blind man ! . . . Pelleas and Melisande. 157 ARKEL. What have you done ? You will kill her. . . • GOLAUD. I have already killed her. . . . ARKEL. Melisande. . . . MELISANDE. Is it you, grandfather? ARKEL. Yes, my daughter. . . . What would you have me do? MELISANDE. Is it true that the winter is beginning? . . . ARKEL. Why dost thou ask? MELISANDE. Because it is cold, and there are no more leaves. . . . ARKEL. Thou art cold? — Wilt thou have the windows closed ? MlfcLISANDE. No, no, . . . not till the sun be at the bottom of the sea. — It sinks slowly ; then it is the winter beginning? 158 Pelleas and Melisande. ARKEL. Yes. — Thou dost not like the winter? MELISANDE. Oh ! no. I am afraid of the cold. — I am so afraid of the great cold. . . . ARKEL. Dost thou feel better? MELISANDE. Yes, yes; I have no longer all those qualms. ... ARKEL. Wouldst thou see thy child? ^ . MELISANDE. What child? ARKEL. Thy child. — Thou art a mother. . . . Thou hast brought a little daughter into the world. . . . MELISANDE. Where is she ? ARKEL. Here. . . . MELISANDE. It is strange. ... I cannot lift my arms to take her, » • • Pelleas and Melisande. 159 ARKEL. Because you are still very weak. ... I will hold her myself; look. . . . MELISANDE. She does not laugh. . . . She is little. . . . She is going to weep too. ... I pity her. . . . [The room has been invaded, little by little, by the women servants of the castle, who range themselves in silenc^ along the walls and wait.] GOLAUD {risi7ig abruptly). What is the matter? — What are all these women coming here for? . . . THE PHYSICIAN. It is the servants. . . . ARKEL. Who was it called them? THE PHYSICIAN. It was not I. . . . GOLAUD. Why do you come here ? — No one has asked for you. . . . What come you here to do ? — But what is it, then ? — Answer me ! . . . \The servants make no answer, ARKEL. Do not speak too loud. . . . She is going to sleep; she has closed her eyes. . . ,. i6o Pelleas and Melisande. GOLAUD. It is not . . . ? THE PHYSICIAN. No, no j see, she breathes. . . . ARKEL. Her eyes are full of tears. — It is her soul weeping now. . . . Why does she stretch her arms out so ? — What would she ? THE PHYSICIAN. It is toward the child, without doubt. . . . It is the struggle of motherhood against . . . GOLAUD. At this moment ? — At this moment ? — You must say. Say 1 Say ! . . . THE PHYSICIAN. Perhaps. GOLAUD. At once ? . . . Oh ! oh ! I must tell her. - . . — Melisande ! Melisande ! . . . Leave me alone 1 leave me alone with her ! . . . ARKEL. No, no; do not come near. . . . Trouble her not. . . . Speak no more to her. . . . You know not what the soul is. . . . GOLAUD. It is not my fault ! ... It is not my fault ! Pelleas and Melisande. i6i ARKEL. Hush ! . . . Hush ! . . . We must speak softly now. — She must not be disturbed. . . , The human soul is very silent. . . . The human soul likes to depart alone. ... It suffers so timo- rously. . . . But the sadness, Golaud . . . the sadness of all we see ! . . . Oh ! oh ! oh ! . . . [_Af this moment^ all the servants fall sud- denly on their knees at the back of the chamber^ ARKEL {turning). What is the matter? THE PHYSICIAN {approachfk^ the bed and feeling the body). They are right. . . . \A long silence. I saw nothing. — Are you sure? . . . THE PHYSICIAN. Yes, yes. ARKEL. I heard nothing. ... So quick, so quick ! ... All at once ! . . . She goes without a word. . . . GOLAUD {sobbing). Oh! oh! oh! II 1 62 Pelleas and Melisande. ARKEL. Do not stay here, Golaud. . . . She must have silence now. . . . Come, come. ... It is terrible, but it is not your fault. . . . 'T was a little being, so quiet, so fearful, and so silent. . . . 'T was a poor little mysterious being, like everybody. . . . She lies there as if she were the big sister of her child. . . . Come, come. ... My God ! My God ! . . . I shall never understand it at all. . . . Let us not stay here. — Come ; the child must not stay here in this room. . . . She must live now in her place. ... It is the poor little one's turn. . . . -""■^ ' [TWey^^rvuf in silence. [Curtain.] Home. To Mademoiselle Sara de Swart. Persons. IN THE GARDEN. The Old Man. The Stranger. Martha AND Mary A Peasant. The Crowd, I granddaughters of the old man. IN THE HOUSE. The Father, The Mother, The Two Daughters, The Child, Silent characters. Home. [An old garden, planted with willows. At the back, a house in which three windows on the ground-floor are lighted. A family, sitting up under the lamp, is seen rather distinctly. The father is seated by the fireside. The mother, one elbow on the table, is staring into space. Two young girls, clad in white, embroider, dream, and smile in the quiet of the room. A child lies asleep with his head under the mother's left arm. Whenever one of them rises, walks, or makes a gesture, his movements seem to be grave, slow, rare, and, as it were, spiritualized by the distance, the light, and the vague veil of the windows. The old man and the stranger enter the garden cautiously.] THE OLD MAN. We are in the part of the garden behind the house. They never come here. The doors are on the other side. — They are closed, and the shutters are up. But there are no shutters on this side, and I saw a light. . . . Yes ; they are sitting up still under the lamp. It is fortu- nate they have not heard us ; the mother or the young girls would have come out, perhaps, and then what should we have done ? . . . i68 H ome. THE STRANGER, What are we going to do ? THE OLD MAN. I should like to see, first, if they are all in the room. Yes, I see the father sitting in the chimney-corner. He waits, with his hands on his knees ; . . . the mother is resting her elbow on the table. THE STRANGER. She is looking at us. . . . I THE OLD MAN. [No; i \ I rN^Q I she does n't know where she is looking ; j ' her eyes do not wink.( She cannot see us ; we are in the shade of great trees. But do not go any nearer. . . . The two sisters of the dead girl are in the room too. They are embroider- ing slowly ; and the little child is asleep. It is nine by the clock in the corner. . . . They suspect nothing, and they do not speak. THE STRANGER. If one could draw the father's attention, and make him some sign? He has turned his head this way. Would you Hke me to knock at one of the windows ? One of them ought to be told before the others. ... THE OLD MAN. I don't know which one to choose. . . . We must take great precautions. . . . The father is Home. 169 old and ailing. ... So is the mother ; and the sisters are too young. . . . And they all loved her with such love as will never be again. . . . I never saw a happier household. . . . No, no, do not go near the window; that would be worse than anything else. ... It is better to announce it as simply as possible, — as if it were an ordinary event, — and not to look too sad ; for otherwise their grief will wish to be greater than yours and will know of nothing more that it can do. . . . Let us go on the other side of the garden. We will knock at the door and go in as if nothing had happened. I will go in first : they will not be surprised to see me ; I come sometimes in the evening, to bring them flowers or fruit, and pass a few hours with them. THE STRANGER. Why must I go with you ? Go alone ; I will wait till I am called. . . . They have never seen me. ... I am only a passer-by ; I am a stranger. ... THE OLD MAN. It is better not to be alone. A sorrow that one does not bring alone is not so unmixed nor so heavy. ... I was thinking of that as we were coming here. ... If I go in alone, I shall have to be speaking from the first minute ; in a few words they will know everything, and I shall have nothing more to say; and I am /' afraid of the silence following the last words j X, that announce a woe. ... It is then the heart L 170 Home. is rent. ... If we go in together, I shall tell them, for example, after going a long way about, ^' She was found so. . . . She was floating in the river, and her hands were clasped." ... ^ THE STRANGER. Her hands were not clasped ; her arms were hanging down along her body. THE OLD MAN. You see, one speaks in spite of oneself. . . . And the sorrow is lost in the details ; . . . but otherwise, if I go in alone, at the first words, knowing them as I do, it would be dreadful, and God knows what might happen. . . . But if we speak in turn, they will listen to us and not think to look the ill news in the face. . . . Do not forget the mother will be there, and that her life hangs by a thread. ... It is good that the first wave break on some unnecessary words. . . . There should be a little talking around the unhappy, and they should have people about them. . . . The most indifferent bear unW wittingly a part, of the grief. ... So, without noise or effort, it divides, like air or light. . . . \ THE STRANGER. Your clothes are wet through; they are dripping on the flagstones. THE OLD MAN. It is only the bottom of my cloak that dipped in the water. — You seem to be cold. Your Home. 171 chest is covered with earth. ... I did not notice it on the road on account of the darkness. . . . THE STRANGER. I went into the water up to my waist. THE OLD MAN. Was it long after you found her when I came? THE STRANGER. A few minutes, barely. I was going toward the village ; it was already late, and the bank was getting dark. I was walking with my eyes fixed on the river because it was lighter than the road, when I saw something strange a step or two from a clump of reeds. ... I drew near and made out her h§,ir, which had risen almost in a circle above her head, and whirled round, so, in the current. i \_In the room, the two young girls turn their ^ heads toward the window^ \ n. THE OLD MAN. Did you see the two sisters' hair quiver on their shoulders? THE STRANGER. They turned their heads this way. . . . They simply turned their heads. Perhaps I spoke too loud. \The two young girls resume their former position^ But they are already looking no longer. ... I went into the water up to my 172 Home. waist and I was able to take her by the hand and pull her without effort to the shore. . . . She was as beautiful as her sisters are. THE OLD MAN. She was perhaps more beautiful. ... I do not know why I have lost all courage. . . . THE STRANGER. What courage are you talking of ? We have done all man could do. . . . She was dead more than an hour ago. . . . THE OLD MAN. She was alive this morning ! . . . I met her coming out of church. . . . She told me she was going away; she was going to see her grandmother on the other side of the river where you found her. , . . She did not know when I should see her again. . . . She must have been on the point of asking me something ; then she dared not and left me abruptly. But I think of it now. . . . And I saw nothing ! ... She smiled as they smile who choose to be silent, or who are afraid they will not be understood. . . . She seemed hardly to hope. . . . Her eyes were not clear and hardly looked at me. . . . THE STRANGER. Some peasants told me they had seen her wandering on the river-bank until nightfall. . . . They thought she was looking for flowers. . . . It may be that her death . . . Home. 173 THE OLD MAN. We cannot tell. . . . What is there we can tell? . . . She was perhaps of those who do not wish to speak, and every one of us bears in himself more than one reason for no longer living. . . . We cannot see in the soul as we see in that room. They are all like that. . . . They only say trite things ; and no one suspects aught. . . . You live for months by some one who is no longer of this world and whose soul can bend no longer ; you answer without think- ing ; and you see what happens. . . . They look Hke motionless dolls, and, oh, the events that take place in their souls ! . . . They do not know themselves what they are. . . . She would have lived as the rest live. . . . She would have said up to her death : " Monsieur, Madame, we shall have rain this morning," or else, " We are going to breakfast ; we shall be thirteen at table," or else : *' The fruits are not yet ripe." 1 Tfcey speak with a smile of the flowers thatHCave fallen, and weep in the darjij ... An angel even would not see what should be seen ; and man only understands when it is too late. . . . Yesterday evening she was there, under the lamp like her sisters, and you would not see them as they should be seen, if this had not occurred. ... I seem to see her now for the first time. . . . Something must be added to common life before we can understand it. . . . | They are beside you day and night, and you perceive them only at the moment when they 174 Home. depart forever. . . . And yet the strange little soul she must have had ; the poor, naive, exhaustless little soul she had, my son, if she said what she must have said, if she did what she must have done ! . . . THE STRANGER. Just now they are smiling in silence in the room. ... THE OLD MAN. They are at peace. . . . They did not ex- pect her to-night. ... THE STRANGER. They smile without stirring ; . . . and see, the father is putting his finger on his lips. . . . THE OLD MAN. He is calling attention to the child asleep on its mother's heart. . . . THE STRANGER. She dares not raise her eyes lest she disturb its sleep. . . . THE OLD MAN, They are no longer working. ... A great silence reigns. . . . THE STRANGER. They have let fall the skein of white silk. . . . Home, 175 THE OLD MAN. They are watching the child. . . . THE STRANGER. They do not know that others are watching them. , . . THE OLD MAN. We are watched too. . . . THE STRANGER. They have lifted their eyes. . . . THE OLD MAN. And yet they can see nothing. . . . THE STRANGER. They seem happy; and yet nobody knows what may be — ... THE OLD MAN. They think themselves in safety. . . . They have shut the doors; and the windows have iron bars. . . . They have mended the walls of the old house ; they have put bolts upon the oaken doors. . . . They have foreseen all that could be foreseen. . . . THE STRANGER. We must end by telling them. . . . Some one might come and let them know abruptly. . . . There was a crowd of peasants in the 1^6 Home. meadow where the dead girl was found. . . . If one of them knocked at the door . . . THE OLD MAN. Martha and Mary are beside the poor dead child. The peasants were to make a litter of leaves ; and I told the elder to come warn us in all haste, the moment they began their march. Let us wait till she comes ; she will go in with me. . . . We should not have looked on them so. ... I thought it would be only to knock upon the door ; to go in simply, find a phrase or two, and tell. . . . But I have seen them live too long under their lamp. . . • Enter Mary. MARY. They are coming, grandfather. THE OLD MAN. Is it you? — Where are they? MARY. They are at the foot of the last hills. THE OLD MAN. They will come in silence? MARY. I told them to pray in a low voice. Martha is with them. . . . Home. 177 THE OLD MAN. Are they many ? MARY. The whole village is about the bearers. They had brought lights. I told them to put them out. . . . THE OLD MAN. Which way are they coming? MARY. They are coming by the footpaths. They are walking slowly. . . . THE OLD MAN. It is time. . . . MARY. You have told them, grandfather? THE OLD MAN. You see plainly we have told them nothing. . . . They are waiting still under the lamp. . . . Look, my child, look ! You will see something of life. . . . MARY. Oh, how at peace they seem ! . . . You would say I saw them in a dream. . . . THE STRANGER. Take care, I saw both sisters give a start. . . . 12 178 Home. THE OLD MAN. They are getting up. . . . THE STRANGER. I think they are coming to the windows. . . . [At this moment, one of the two sisters of whom they speak draws near the first window, the other near the third, and, pressing their hands at the same time against the panes, look a long while into the darkness.] i THE OLD MAN. No one comes to the window in the middle. . . . MARY. They are looking. . . . They are listening. • . . THE OLD MAN. The elder smiles at what she does not see. THE STRANGER. And the other has eyes full of fearfulness. . . . l^.^^_^ THE OLD MAN. ^ / Take care ; we do not know how far the soul /extends about men. ... . L " [A long silence, Mary cowers agaiij^sf^ the old man's breast and kisses him J] MARY. Grandfather ! . . . Home. 179 THE OLD MAN. Do not weep, my child. . . . We shall have our turn. ... \ / [^A silence, THE STRANGER. They are looking a long while. . . . THE OLD MAN. They might look a hundred thousand years and not perceive anything, the poor little sis- ters. . . . The night is too dark. . . . They are looking this way ; and it is from that way the misfortune is coming. . . . THE STRANGER. It is fortunate they look this way. . . . I do not know what that is coming toward us, over by the meadows. MARY. I think it is the crowd. . . . They are so far away you can hardly make them out. . . • THE STRANGER. They follow the undulations of the path. . . . Now they appear again on a hillside in the moonlight. . . MARY. Oh, how many they seem ! . . . They had already run up from the suburbs of the city when I came. . . . They are going a long way around. . . . :/ i8o Home. THE OLD MAN. They will come in spite of all ; I see them too. . . . They are on the march across the meadow lands. . . . They seem so small you hardly make them out among the grasses. . . . They look like children playing in the moonlight ; and if the girls should see them, they would not understand. ... In vain they turn their backs ; those yonder draw near with every step they take, and the sorrow has been growing these two hours already. They cannot hinder it from growing ; and they that bear it there no longer can arrest it. . . . It is their master too, and they must serve it. . . . It has its end and follows its own road. ... It is unwearying and has but one idea. . . . Needs must they lend their strength. They are sad, but they come. . . . They have pity, but they must go forward. . . . MARY. The elder smiles no longer, grandfather. . . . THE STRANGER. They leave the windows. ... MARY. They kiss their mother. . . • THE STRANGER. The elder has caressed the curls of the child without waking him. . . . • Home. i8i MARY. Oh ! the father wants to be kissed too. . . . THE STRANGER. ^ And now silence. . . . MARY. They come back beside the mother. . . . THE STRANGER. And the father follows the great pendulum of the clock with his eyes. . . . % MARY. You would say they were praying without knowing what they did. . . . THE STRANGER. -^ You would say that they were listening to their 1 souls. ... \ [^A silerKTK^ MARY. Grandfather, don^t tell them to-night ! . . . THE OLD MAN. You see, you too lose courage. ... I knew well that we must not look. I am nearly eighty-three years old, and this is the first time the sight of life has struck me. I do not know why everything they do seems so strange and grave to me. . . . They wait for night quite simply, under their lamp, as we might have been waiting under ours ; "^ 182 Home. and yet I seem to see them from the height of another world, because I know a little truth which they do not know yet. ... Is it that, my children? Tell me, then, why you are pale, too ? Is there " something else, perhaps, that cannot be told and causes us to weep ? I did not know there was anything so sad in life, nor that it frightened those who looked upon it. . . . And nothing can have occurred that I should be afraid to see them so at peace. . . . They have too much confidence in this world. . . . There they are, separated from the enemy by a poor window. . . . They think nothing will happen because they have shut the door, and do not know that something is always happening in our souls, and that the world does not end at the doors of our houses. . . . They are so sure of their little hfe and do not suspect how many others know more of it than they ; and that I, poor old man, — I hold here, two steps from their door, all their little happiness, like a sick bird, in my old hands I do hot dare to open. . . . MARY. Have pity, grandfather. . . . THE OLD MAN. We have pity on them, my child, but no one has pity on us. . . . MARY. Tell them to-morrow, grandfather ; tell them when it is light. . . . They will not be so sorrow- ful. ... Home. 183 THE OLD MAN. Perhaps you are right, my child. ... It would be better to leave all this in the night. And the light is sweet to sorrow. . . . But what would they say to us to-morrow? Misfortune renders jealous ; they whom it strikes, wish to be told before strangers ; they do not like to have it left in the hands of those they do not know. . . . We should look as if we had stolen something. . . . THE STRANGER. There is no more time, besides ; I hear the murmur of prayers already. . . . MARY. There they are. . . . They are passing behind the hedges. . . . Enter Martha. MARTHA. Here I am. I have brought them this far. I have told them to wait on the road. S^Cries of children heard,~\ Ah ! the children are crying again. ... I forbade their coming. . . . But they wanted to see too, and the mothers would not obey. ... I will go tell them. ... No ; they are silent. — Is everything ready ? — I have brought the little ring that was found on her. ... I have some fruit, too, for the child. . . . I laid her out myself on the litter. She looks as if she were asleep. ... I had a good deal of trouble; her hair would not obey. ... I 184 Home. had some marguerites plucked. ... It is sad, there were no other flowers. . . . What are you doing here ? Why are you not by them ? . . . \She looks at the windows^ They do not weep ? . . . They . . . you have not told them? THE OLD MAN. I Martha, Martha, there is too much life in your soul ; you cannot understand. . . . MARTHA. Why should I not understand ? . . . \Afte7' a silence and in a tone of very grave reproach^ You cannot have done that, grandfather. . . . THE OLD MAN. Martha, you do not know. . . . MARTHA. / will tell them. THE OLD MAN. Stay here, my child, and look at them a moment. MARTHA. Oh, how unhappy they are ! . . . They can wait no longer. THE OLD MAN. Why? MARTHA. I do not know ; ... it is no longer possi- ble !.. . Home. 185 THE OLD MAN. Come here, my child. ... MARTHA. How patient they are ! THE OLD MAN. Come here, my child. ... MARTHA. [^TurningJ] Where are you, grandfather? I am so unhappy I cannot see you any more. ... I do not know what to do myself -any more. . . . THE OLD MAN. Do not look at them any more ; till they know all. . . . MARTHA. I will go in with you. . . . THE OLD MAN. No, Martha, stay here. ... Sit beside your sister, on this old stone bench, against the wall of the house, and do not look. . . . You are too young ; you never could forget. . . . You cannot know what a face is like at the moment when death passes before its eyes. . . . There will be cries, perhaps. . . . Do not turn round. . . . Perhaps there will be nothing. . . . Above all, do not turn if you hear nothing. . . . One does not know the course of grief beforehand ... A fewhttle deep-rooted sobs, and that is all. 1 86 Home. usually. ... I do not know myself what I may do when I shall hear them. . . . That belongs no longer to this life. . . . Kiss me, my child, before I go away. . . . [The murmur of prayers has gradually drawn nearer. Part of the crowd invades the garden. Dull steps heard, running, and low voices speaking.] THE STRANGER (tO the CrOWd) . Stay here ; ... do not go near the windows. . . . Where is she ? . . . A PEASANT. Who? THE STRANGER. The rest . . . the bearers? . . . THE PEASANT. They are coming by the walk that leads to the door. [The old man goes away. Martha and Mary are seated on the bench, with their backs turned to the windows. Murmurs in the crowd.] THE STRANGER.^ S — t ! . . . Do not speak. \^The elder of the two sisters rises and goes to bolt the door. . . .] MARTHA. She opens it? Home. 187 THE STRANGER. On the contrary, she is shutting it. [A silence, MARTHA. Grandfather has not entered? THE STRANGER. No. . • . She returns and sits down by her mother. . . . The others do not stir, and the child sleeps all the time. . . . \A silence. MARTHA. Sister, give me your hands. . . . MARY. Martha ! . . . \They embrace and give each other a kiss, THE STRANGER. He must have knocked. . . . They have all raised their heads at the same time ; . . . they look at each other. . . . MARTHA. Oh ! oh ! my poor little sister ! . . . I shall cry too ! . . . \She stifles her sobs on her sister's shoulder, THE STRANGER. He must be knocking again. . . . The father looks at the clock. He rises. K i88 Home. MARTHA. Sister, sister, I want to go in too. . . . They cannot be alone any longer. . . . MARY. Martha ! Martha 1 . . . \_She holds her back, THE STRANGER. The father is at the door. . . . He draws the bolts. ... He opens the door prudently. . . . MARTHA. Oh ! . . . you do not see the . . . THE STRANGER. What? "" MARTHA. Those who bear. . . . THE STRANGER. He hardly opens it. ... I can only see a corner of the lawn ; and the fountain. . . . He does not let go the door ; ... he steps back. . . . He looks as if he were saying : '' Ah, it 's you ! " . . . He raises his arms. . . . He shuts the door again carefully. . . . Your grandfather has come into the room. . . . [The crowd has drawn nearer the windows. Martha and Mary half rise at first, then draw near also, clasping each other tightly. The old man is seen advancing into the room. The two sisters of the dead girl rise ; the Home. 189 mother rises as well, after laying the child carefully in the armchair she has just aban- doned; in such a way that from without the little one may be seen asleep, with his head hanging a little to one side, in the centre of the room. The mother advances to meet the old man and extends her hand to him, but draws it back before he has had time to take it. One of the young girls offers to take off the visitor*s cloak and the other brings forward a chair for him ; but the old man makes a slight gesture of re- fusal. The father smiles with a surprised look. The old man looks toward the windows. THE STRANGER. He dares not tell them. ... He has looked at us. • . . [Rumors in the crowd, THE STRANGER. S . .. t! . . . [The old man, seeing their faces at the win- dows, has quickly turned his eyes away. As one of the young girls continues to offer him the same armchair, he ends by sitting down and passes his right hand across his forehead several times.] THE STRANGER. He sits down. . . . [The other people in the room sit down also, while the father talks volubly. At last the old man opens his mouth, and the tone of his voice seems to attract attention. But the father interrupts him. The old man begins to speak again, and little by little the others become motionless. All at once, the mother starts and rises] 190 Home. MARTHA. Oh ! the mother is going to understand ! . . . [She turns away and hides her face in her hands. New murmurs in the crowd. They elbow each other. Children cry to be lifted up, so that they may see too. Most of the mothers obey.] THE STRANGER. S . . . t ! . . . He has not told them yet. . . . [The mother is seen to question the old man in anguish. He says a few words more; then abruptly all the rest rise too and seem to question him. He makes a slow sign of affirmation with his head.] THE STRANGER. He has told them. ... He has told them all at once 1 . • . VOICES IN THE CROWD. He has told them ! ... He has told them 1 . . . THE STRANGER. You hear nothing. . . . [The pld man rises too, and, without turning, points with his finger to the door behind him. The mother, the father, and the two young girls throw themselves on this door, which the father cannot at once succeed in open- ing. The old man tries to prevent the mother from going out. VOICES IN THE CROWD. They are going out 1 They are going out ! . . . [Jostling in the garden. All rush to the other side of the house and disappear, with the Home. 191 exception of the stranger, who remains at the windows. In the room, both sides of the folding-door at last open ; all go out at the same time. Beyond can be seen a starry sky, the lawn and the fountain in the moon- light, while in the middle of the abandoned room the child continues to sleep peacefully in the armchair. — Silence.] THE STRANGER. The child has not waked ! . . • \He goes out also. 1 [Curtain.] The Death of Tintagiles. To A. F. Lugn^-Poe. 13 Persons. TiNTAGILES. Ygraine, ^ BELLANGtRE, \ '"'"'' "f TintagiUs. Aglovale. Three Servants of the Queen. The Death of Tintagiles, ACT FIRST. At the top of a hill, overlooking the castle. Enter Ygraine, holding Tintagiles by the hand, YGRAINE. Thy first night will be troubled, Tintagiles. Already the sea howls about us ; and the trees are moaning. It is late. The moon is just setting behind the poplars that stifle the palace. . . . We are alone, perhaps, for all that here we have to live on guard. There seems to be a watch set for the approach of the slightest happiness. I said to myself one day, in the very depths of my soul, — and God himself could hardly hear it, — I said to myself one day I should be happy. . . . There needed nothing further ; in a little while our old father died, and both our brothers vanished without a single human being able since to tell us where they are. Now I am all alone, with my poor sister and thee, my little Tintagiles ; and I have no 198 The Death of Tintagiles. faith in the future. . . . Come here ; sit on my knee. Kiss me first ; and put thy Httle arms, there, all the way around my neck ; . . . per- haps they will not be able to undo them. . . . Rememberest thou the time when it was I that carried thee at night when bedtime came : and when thou fearedst the shadows of my lamp in the long windowless corridors ? — I felt my soul tremble upon my lips when I saw thee, sud- denly, this morning. ... I thought thee so far away, and so secure. . . . Who was it made thee come here? TINTAGILES. I do not know, little sister. YGRAINE. Thou dost not know any longer what was said? TINTAGILES. They said I had to leave. YGRAINE. But why hadst thou to leave ? TINTAGILES. Because it was the Queen's will. YGRAINE. They did not say why it was her will? — I am sure they said many things. . . . The Death of Tintagiles. 199 TINTAGILES. I heard nothing, little sister. YGRAINE. When they spoke among themselves, what did they say? TINTAGILES. They spoke in a low voice, little sister. YGRAINE. All the time? TINTAGILES. All the time, sister Ygraine; except when they looked at me. YGRAINE. They did not speak of the Queen ? TINl'AGILES. They said she was never seen, sister Ygraine. YGRAINE. And those who were with thee, on the bridge of the ship, said nothing ? TINTAGILES. They minded nothing but the wind and the sails, sister Ygraine. YGRAINE. Ah ! . . . That does not astonish me, my child. . . . 200 The Death of Tintagiles. TINTAGILES. They left me all alone, little sister. YGRAINE. Listen, Tintagiles, I will tell thee what I know. . . . TINTAGILES. What dOi'^t thou know, sister Ygraine? YGRAINE. Not much, my child. . . . My sister and I have crept along here, since our birth, without daring to understand a whit of all that happens. . . . For a long while indeed, I lived like a blind woman on this island ; and it all seemed natural to me. ... I saw no other events than the flying of a bird, the trembling of a leaf, the opening of a rose. . . . There reigned such a silence that the falling of a ripe fruit in the park called faces to the windows. . . . And no one seemed to have the least suspicion; . . . but one night I learned there must be some- thing else. ... I would have fled, and could not. . . . Hast thou understood what I have said? TINTAGILES. Yes, yes, little sister ; I understand whatever you will. ... YGRAINE. Well, then, let us speak no more of things that are not known. . . . Thou seest yonder, The Death of Tintagiles. 201 behind the dead trees that poison the horizon, — thou seest the castle yonder, in the depth of the valley ? TINTAGILES. That which is so black, sister Ygraine ? YGRAINE. It is black indeed. ... It is at the very depth of an amphitheatre of shadows. . . . We have to live there. ... It might have been built on the summit of the great mountains that surround it. . . . The mountains are blue all day. . . . We should have breathed. We should have seen the sea and the meadows on the other side of the rocks. . . . But they pre- ferred to put it in the depth of the valley ; and the very air does not go down so low. ... It is falling in ruins, and nobody bewares. . . . The walls are cracking ; you would say it was dissolving in the shadows. . . . There is only one tower unassailed by the weather. ... It is enormous ; and the house never comes out of its shadow. . . . - TINTAGILES. There is something shining, sister Ygraine. . . . See, see, the gr^at red windows 1 . . . YGRAINE. They are those of the tower, Tintagiles : they are the only ones where you will see light ; it is there the throne of the Queen is set. 202 The Death of Tintagiles. TINTAGILES. I shall not see the Queen? YGRAINE. No one can see her. ... TINTAGILES. Why can't one see her? YGRAINE. Come nearer, Tintagiles. . . . Not a bird nor a blade of grass must hear us. . . . TINTAGILES. There is no grass, little sister. . . . [^ sik?2ce.'] — What does the Queen do? YGRAINE. No one knows, my child. She does not show herself. . . . She lives there, all alone in her tower ; and they that serve her do not go out by day. . . . She is very old ; she is the mother of our mother ; and she would reign alone. . . . She is jealous and suspicious, and they say that she is mad. . . . She fears lest some one rise into her place ; and it was doubt- less because of that fear that she had thee brought hither. . . . Her orders are carried out no one knows how. . . . She never comes down; and all the doors of the tower are closed night and day. ... I never caught a glimpse of her ; but others have seen her, it seems, in the past, when she was young. . . . The Death of Tintagiles. 2( TINTAGILES. Is she very ugly, sister Ygraine ? YGRAINE. They say she is not beautiful, and that she is growing huge. . . . But they that have seen her dare never speak of it. . . . Who knows, indeed, if they have seen her? . . . She has a power not to be understood ; and we live here with a great unpitying weight upon our souls. . . . Thou must not be frightened beyond measure, nor have bad dreams ; we shall watch over thee, my little Tintagiles, and no evil will be able to reach thee ; but do not go far from me, your sister Bellangere, nor our old master Aglovale. . . . TINTAGILES. Not from Aglovale either, sister Ygraine ? YGRAINE. Not from Aglovale either. . . . He loves us. . . . TINTAGILES. He is so old, little sister ! YGRAINE. He is old, but very wise. ... He is the only friend we have left ; and he knows many things. ... It is strange ; she has made thee come hither without letting any one know. . . . I do not know what there is in my heart. ... I was 204 The Death of Tintagiles. sorry and glad to know thou wert so far away, beyond the sea. . . . And now ... I was astonished. ... I went out this morning to see if the sun was rising over the mountains ; and it is thou I see upon the threshold. ... I knew thee at once. ... TINTAGILES. No, no, little sister; it was I that laughed first. . . . YGRAINE. I could not laugh at once. . . . Thou wilt understand. ... It is time, Tintagiles, and the wind is growing black upon the sea. . . . Kiss me harder, again, again, before thou stand'st upright. . . . Thou knowest not how we love. . . . Give me thy little hand. ... I shall guard it well ; and we will go back into the sickening castle. [Exeunt. ACT SECOND. An apartment in the castle, Aglovale and Ygraine discovered. Enter Bellang^re. BELLANG^RE. Where is Tintagiles ? YGRAINE. Here ; do not speak too loud. He sleeps in the other room. He seems a little pale, a little ailing too. He was tired by the journey and the long sea-voyage. Or else the atmosphere of the castle has startled his little soul. He cried for no cause. I rocked him to sleep on my knees ; come, see. . . . He sleeps in our bed. . . . He sleeps very gravely, with one hand on his forehead, like a little sad king. . . . BELLANG^RE {bursting suddenly into tears) . My sister ! my sister ! ... my poor sister ! . . . YGRAINE. What is the matter? 2o6 The Death of Tintagiles. BELLANG^RE. I dare not say what I know, . . . and I am not sure that I know anything, . . . and yet I heard that which one could not hear. . . . YGRAINE. What didst thou hear? BELLANG^RE. I was passing near the corridors of the tower. . . . YGRAINE. Ah! /. . BELLANGi:RE. A door there was ajar. I pushed it very softly. ... I went in. . . . YGRAINE. In where? BELLANGfeRE. I had never seen the place. . . . There were other corridors lighted with lamps ; then low galleries that had no outlet. ... I knew it was forbidden to go on. ... I was afraid, and I was going to return upon my steps, when I heard a sound of voices one could hardly hear. . . • YGRAINE. It must have been the handmaids of the Queen ; they dwell at the foot of the tower. . . . The Death of Tintagiles. 207 BELLANGERE. I do not know just what it was. . . . There must have been more than one door between us ; and the voices came to me Hke the voice of some one who was being smothered. ... I drew as near as I could. ... I am not sure of anything, but I think they spoke of a child that came to-day and of a crown of gold. . . . They seemed to be laughing. . . . YGRAINE. They laughed ? BELLANGERE. Yes, I think they laughed . . . unless they were weeping, or unless it was something I did not understand ; for it was hard to hear, and their voices were sweet. . . . They seemed to echo in a crowd under the arches. . . . They spoke of the child the Queen would see. . . . They will probably come up this evening. . . . YGRAINE. What? . . . This evening? . . . BELLANGERE. Yes. . . . Yes. ... I think so. . . . YGRAINE. They spoke no one's name ? bellangEre. They spoke of a child, of a very little child. . . . 2o8 The Death of Tintagiles. YGRAINE. There is no other child. . . . BELLANGERE. They raised their voices a little at that moment, because one of them had said the day seemed not yet come. . . . YGRAINE. I know what that means ; it is not the first time they have issued from the tower. ... I knew well why she made him come ; . . . but I could not believe she would hasten so ! . . . We shall see ; ... we are three, and we have time. . . . BELLANGERE. What wilt thou do? YGRAINE. I do not know yet what I shall do, but I will astonish her. . . . Do you know how you tremble? ... I will tell you. , . . BELLANGERE. What? YGRAINE. She shall not take him without trouble. . . . BELLANGERE. We are alone, sister Ygraine. . . • The Death of Tintagiles. 209 YGRAINE. Ah ! it is true, we are alone ! . . . There is but one remedy, the one with which we have always succeeded ! . . . Let us wait upon our knees as the other times. . . . Perhaps she will have pity ! . . . She allows herself to be dis- armed by tears. . , . We must grant her all she asks us ; haply she will smile ; and she is wont to spare all those who kneel. . . . She has been there for years in her huge tower, devouring our j beloved, and none, not one, has dared to strike i her in the face. . . . She is there, upon our / souls, like the stone of a tomb, and no one dare/ put forth his arm. ... In the time when there were men here, they feared too, and fell upon their faces. . . . To-day it is the woman's turn ; ... we shall see. ... It is time to rise at last. . . . We know not upon what her power rests, and I will live no longer in the shadow of her tower. . . . Go, — go, both of you, and leave me more alone still, if you tremble too. ... I shall await her. . . . BELLANG^RE. Sister, I do not know what must be done, but I stay with thee. . . . AGLOVALE. I too stay, my daughter. For a long time my soul has been restless. . . . You are going to try: . . . We have tried more than once. . . . 2IO The Death of Tintagiles. YGRAINE. You have tried . . . you too ? AGLOVALE. They have all tried. . . . But at the last moment they have lost their strength. . . . You will see, you too. . . . Should she order me to come up to her this very night, I should clasp both my hands without a word ; and my tired feet would climb the stair, without delay and without haste, well as I know no one comes down again with open eyes. ... I have no more courage against her. . . . Our hands are of no use and reach no one. . . . They are not the hands we need, and all is useless. . . . But I would help you, be- cause you hope. . . . Shut the doors, my child. Wake Tintagiles ; encircle him with your little naked arms and take him on your knees. . . . We have no other defence. . . . ACT THIRD. The same, Ygraine and Kgijov ky:^ discovered. YGRAINE. I have been to all the doors. There are three. We will guard the largest. . . . The other two are thick and low. Tliey never open. Their keys were lost long ago, and the iron bars are bedded fast in the walls. Help me shut this ; it is heavier than the gate of a city. ... It is strong, too, and the thunder itself could not enter. . . Are you ready for everything? AGLOVALE {seating himself on the threshold) . I shall sit on the steps of the threshold, with the sword on my knees. . . . Methinks it is not the first time I have watched and waited here, my child ; and there are moments when we do not understand all we remember. ... I have done these things, I know not when ; . . . but I never dared draw my sword. . . . To-day it is there, before me, although my arms have no more strength ; but I will try. . . . Perhaps it is time to defend ourselves, although we do not understand. . . . 212 The Death of Tintagiles. Bellangere, carrying Tintagiles, enters from the adjoining room, BELlANGERE. He was awake. ... YGRAINE. He is pale. . . . Why, what is the matter? BELLANGERE. I do not know. . . . He was crying silently. . . . YGRAINE. Tintagiles. . . . BELLANGERE. He looks the other way. . . . YGRAINE. He does not recognize me. . . . Tintagiles, where art thou? — It is thy sister speaking to thee. . . . What lookest thou at there ? — Turn back this way. . . . Come, we will play. . . . TINTAGILES. No. . . . No. . . . YGRAINE. Thou wouldst not play ? TINTAGILES. I can no longer walk, sister Ygraine. • . • The Death of Tintagiles. 213 YGRAINE. Thou canst no longer walk ? . . . Come, come, what ails thee ? — Art thou in pain a little ? . . . TINTAGILES. Yes. ... YGRAINE. Where is the pain, then ? — Tell me, Tintagiles, and I will cure thee. . . . TINTAGILES. I can't tell, sister Ygraine, it is everywhere. . . . YGRAINE. Come here, Tintagiles. . . . Thou knowest my arms are gentler, and one is cured quickly there. . . . Give him to me, Bellangere. . . . He shall sit on my knees, and it will go away. . . . There, thou seest how it is ! . . . Thy great sisters are here. . . . They are about thee ; ... we will defend thee, and no harm can come. . . . TINTAGILES. It is there, sister Ygraine. . . . Why is there no light, sister Ygraine ? YGRAINE. There is, my child. . . . Thou dost not see the lamp that hangs down from the vault? TINTAGILES. Yes, yes. ... It is not big. . . . There are no others? 214 The Death of Tintagiles. YGRAINE. Why should there be others ? We can see all we need see. . . . TINTAGILES. Ah! . • . YGRAINE. Oh, thine eyes are deep ! . , . TINTAGILES. Thine too, sister Ygraine. . . . YGRAINE. I had not noticed it this morning. ... I saw arise . . . one never knows just what the soul believes it sees. . . . TINTAGILES. I have not seen the soul, sister Ygraine. . . . Why is Aglovale there on the threshold ? YGRAINE. He is resting a little. . . . He wanted to kiss thee before he went to bed. . . . He was wait- ing for thee to wake. ... TINTAGILES. What is that on his knees? YGRAINE. On his knees? I see nothing on his knees. . . • The Death of Tintagiles. 2 1 5 TINTAGILES. Yes, yes, there is something. , . . AGLOVALE. Nothing much, my child. ... I was looking at my old sword ; and I hardly recognized it. . . . It has served me many years ; but for some time I have lost all faith in it, and I think it will soon break. . . . There, by the hilt, there is a little spot. ... I have observed the steel was growing paler, and I asked myself ... I know not any longer what I asked. . . . My soul is very heavy to-day. . . . How can it be helped ? . . . We have to live in expectation of the unexpected. . . . And then we^ha^e to act as if we hoped. . . . There are those heavy evenings when the use- lessness of life rises in the throat ; and you would like to close your eyes. ... It is late, and I am tired. . . . TINTAGILES. He is wounded, sister Ygraine. . . <> YGRAINE. Where? TINTAGILES. On the forehead and the hands. . . . AGLOVALE. Those are very old wounds that do not hurt me any more, my child. ... It must be the light faUing on them to-night. . . . Thou hast never noticed them till now ? 21 6 The Death of Tintagiles. TINTAGILES. He looks sad, sister Ygraine, . . . YGRAINE. No, no ; he is not sad, but very weary. . . • TINTAGILES. Thou art sad too, sister Ygraine. . . . YGRAINE. Why, no; why, no; you see, I am smil- ing. . . . TINTAGILES. And my other sister, too. . . . YGRAINE. Why, no ; she is smiling, too. ... TINTAGILES. That is not smiling. ... I know. . . . YGRAINE. Come ; kiss me and think of something else. . . . [^Ske kisses him!\ TINTAGILES. What else, sister Ygraine ? — Why dost thou hurt me when thou dost kiss me so? YGRAINE. I hurt thee ? The Death of Tintagiles. 217 TINTAGILES. Yes. ... I don't know why I hear thy heart beat, sister Ygraine. . . . YGRAINE. Thou hearest it beat? TINTAGILES. Oh ! oh ! it beats, it beats, as if it would . . • YGRAINE. What? TINTAGILES. I don't know, sister Ygraine. . . . YGRAINE. Thou must not be alarmed without reason, nor speak in riddles. . . . Stop ! thine eyes are wet. . . . Why art thou troubled? I hear thy heart beat, too. . . . You always hear it when you kiss so. . . . It is then it speaks and says things the tongue knows not of. . . . TINTAGILES. I did not hear it just now. . . . YGRAINE. Because then . . . Oh ! but thine ! . . . Why, what ails it ? . . . It is bursting ! . . . TINTAGILES (^Crying) . Sister Ygraine ! sister Ygraine ! 21 8 The Death of Tintagiles. YGRAINE. What? TINTAGILES. I heard ! . . . They . . . they are coming ! YGRAINE. They, who? . . . Why, what's the matter? . . . TINTAGILES. The door ! the door ! They were there ! . . . [He falls backward on Ygraine's knees. YGRAINE. Why, what 's the matter? . . . He has . . . he has fainted. . . . BELLANG^RE. Take care ; . . . take care ! . . . He will fall.- . . . AGLOVALE. \_Rising abruptly, sword in handJ] I hear too ; . . . some one is walking in the corridor. YGRAINE. Oh ! . . . \_A silence — they listen, AGLOVALE. I hear. . . . There is a crowd of them. . . . YGRAINE. A crowd! . . . What crowd? The Death of Tintagiles, 219 AGLOVALE. I do not know ; . . . you hear and you do not hear. . . . They do not walk like other beings, but they come. . . . They are touching the door. . . . YGRAINE. \_Clasping Tintagiles convulsively in her arms,~\ Tintagiles ! . . . Tintagiles ! . . . ■ BELLANG^RE. [Kissing him at the same time^ I too I • • • I too ! . . . Tintagiles ! . . . AGLOVALE. They are shaking the door . . . listen • . . soft ! . . . They are whispering. . . . \A key is heard grating in the lock. YGRAINE. They have the key ! . . . AGLOVALE. Yes ; . . . yes. ... I was sure of it. , . . Wait. . . . \He posts himself y with raised sword, on the last step, — To the two sisters .•] Come ! . . . come, too ! . . . [A silence. The door opens a little. Trem- bling like the needle of a compass, Aglovale puts his sword across the opening, sticking the point of it between the beams of the door-case. The sword breaks with a crash under the ominous pressure of the folding- 220 The Death of Tintaglles. door, and its fragments roll echoing down the steps. Ygraine leaps up with Tintagiles, still in a faint, in her arms ; and she, Bel- langere and Aglovale, with vain and mighty efforts, try to push back the door, which con- tinues to open slowly, although no one is heard or seen. Only a brightness, cold and calm, pierces into the room. At this mo- ment, Tintagiles, suddenly straightening up, comes to himself, utters a long cry of deliv- erance and kisses his sister, while at the very moment of this cry, the door, resisting no longer, shuts abruptly under their pressure, which they have not had time to interrupt.] YGRAINE. Tintagiles ! . . . \They look at each other in amazement, AGLOVALE {listening at the door) . I no longer hear a sound. . . . YGRAINE (wild with joy) . Tintagiles ! Tintagiles ! . . . See ! See ! . . . He is saved 1 . . . See his eyes ! . . . you can see the blue. ; . . He is going to speak. . . . They saw we were watching. . . . They did not dare ! . . . Kiss us ! ... Kiss us, I tell thee ! . . . Kiss us ! . . . All ! all ! . . . To the very depths of our souls ! . ^ . \^All four, with eyes filled with tears^ remain closely embraced^ ACT FOURTH. [A corridor before the apartment of the pre- ceding act. Enter, veiled, three handmaids of the Queen.] FIRST HANDMAID {listening at the door) • They watch no longer. . . . SECOND HANDMAID. It was useless to wait. . . • THIRD HANDMAID. She preferred that it should be done in silence. ... FIRST HANDMAID. I knew that they must sleep. ... SECOND HANDMAID. Open quickly. . . . THIRD HANDMAID. It is time. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. Wait at the door. I will go in alone. It is needless to be three. . . . 222 The Death of Tintagiles. SECOND HANDMAID. It is true, he is very little. ... THIRD HANDMAID. You must be on your guard for the elder sister. . . . SECOND HANDMAID. You know the Queen would not that they should know. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. Fear nothing ; I am never easily heard. • . . SECOND HANDMAID. Go in, then ; it is time. \The first handmaid opens the door pru^ dently and enters the room,'\ It is nearly midnight. . . . THIRD HANDMAID. Ah ! . . . \A silence. The first handmaid comes back from the apartment^ SECOND HANDMAID. Where is he ? FIRST HANDMAID. He is asleep between his sisters. His arms are about their necks ; and their arms are about him, too. ... I could not do it alone. . . . The Death of Tintagiles. 2.23 SECOND HANDMAID. I will go help you. . . . THIRD HANDMAID. Yes; go in together. ... I will watch here. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. Take care : they are aware of something. . . . They are all three struggling with a bad dream, ... \The two handmaids enter the room, THIRD HANDMAID. Tfaey are always aware; but they do not understaiKl- . . . \A silence. The first two handmaids come back again from the apartment^ Well? SECOND HANDMAID. You must come too ; ... we cannot detach them. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. As fast as we undo their arms, they close them on the child again. . . . SECOND HANDMAID. And the child clings to them harder and harder. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. lie is resting with his forehead on the elaer sister's heart. . . . 224 The Death of Tintagiles. SECOND HANDMAID. And his head rises and falls on her breasts. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. We shall not succeed in opening his hands the least. . . . SECOND HANDMAID. They plunge to the very depths of his sisters' hair. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. He clenches a golden curl between his Httle teeth. . . . SECOND HANDMAID. The hair of the elder will have to be cut off. . • • FIRST HANDMAID. The other sister's as well, you will see. • . • SECOND HANDMAID. Have you your shears? THIRD HANDMAID. Yes. ... FIRST HANDMAID. Come quick ; they stir already. SECOND HANDMAID. Their hearts and eyelids beat in the same time. . • . The Death of Tintagiles. 225 FIRST HANDMAID. It is true; I caught a glimpse of the blue eyes of the elder. ... SECOND HANDMAID. She looked at us, but saw us not. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. When one of them is touched, the other two start. . . . SECOND HANDMAID. They struggle without being able to move. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. The elder would have cried out, but she could not. . . . SECOND HANDMAID. Come quickly ; they look warned. . . . THIRD HANDMAID. The old man is not there ? FIRST HANDMAID. Yes; but he sleeps in a corner. . . . SECOND HANDMAID. He sleeps with his forehead on the pommel of his sword. FIRST HANDMAID. He is aware of nothing; and he does not dream. . . . 15 226 The Death of Tintagiles. THIRD HANDMAID. Come, come ; we must have done with it. . . . FIRST HANDMAID. You will have trouble untangling their limbs. . . . SECOND HANDMAID. True; they are intertwined like those of the drowned. . . . THIRD HANDMAID. Come, come. . . . [They enter the room. A great silence, broken by sighs and dull murmurs of an anguish smothered by sleep. Afterwards, the three handmaids come out in all haste from the sombre apartment. One of them carries Tintagiles asleep in her arms, his little hands and mouth shrivelled with sleep and agony, and flooding him all over with the flowing of long golden locks ravished from the two sisters' hair. They flee in silence until, when they come to the end of the corridor, Tin- tagiles, suddenly waking, utters a great cry of supreme distress.] TINTAGILES {froM the depths of the corridor) . A-ah! . . . [New silence. Then the two sisters are heard, in the next room, waking and rising un- easily.] YGRAiNE {in the room). Tintagiles ! . . . Where is he? . . . The Death of Tintagiles. 227 BELLANG^RE. He is no longer here. . . . YGRAiNE {with increasing anguish) . Tintagiles ! . . . A lamp 1 a lamp ! . . . Light it ! . . . BELLANG^RE. Yes . . . yes ! . . . YGRAINE. [She is seen, through the open door, coming forward within the room, with a lamp in her hand.] The door is wide open ! THE VOICE OF TINTAGILES {almost inaudible in the distance). Sister Ygraine ! . . . YGRAINE. He cries ! ... he cries ! . . . Tintagiles ! Tintagiles ! . . . [She rushes headlong into the corridor. Bel- langere tries to follow her, but faints on the steps of the threshold.] ACT FIFTH. I A great iron door beneath gloomy arches. Enter Ygraine, haggard^ dishevelled^ with a lamp in her ha7id, YGRAINE. \Turning back wildly^ They have not fol- lowed me. . . . Bellangere ! . . . Bellangere ! . . . Aglovale ! . . . Where are they ? — They said they loved him, and they have left me all alone ! . . . Tintagiles ! . . . Tintagiles ! . . . Oh ! it is true. ... I have climbed up, I have climbed up innumerable steps between great pitiless walls, and my heart can no longer sustain me. . . . The arches seem to stir, . . . \_She leans against the pillars of an archJ] I shall fall. . . . Oh ! oh ! my poor life ! I feel it. . . . It is at the very edge of my lips, trying to get away. ... I do not know what I have done. ... I have seen nothing ; I have heard nothing- . . . Oh, the silence ! . . . I found all these golden curls along the steps and along the walls ; and I followed them. I picked them up. . . . Oh ! oh ! they are very beautiful ! Little thumbkin ! . . . little thumbkin ! . . . What did I say ? I remember. ... I do not believe in it, either ; . . . one can sleep. ... All that is of no consequence, and it is not possible. ... I do not know what I think any longer. . . . One is waked up, and then ... At bottom, come, at bottom, The Death of Tintagiles. 229 one must reflect. . . . They say this, they say that ; but the soul — that follows another road altogether. You do not know all you unloose. I came here with my little lamp. ... It was not blown out in spite of the wind in the stairway. . . . At bottom, what must be thought of it? There are too many things unsettled. . . .And yet there are some who should know them ; but why do they not speak ? \Looking about herJ] I have never seen all this. . . . One may not climb so high ; everything is forbidden. ... It is cold. . . . It is so dark, too, one might fear to breathe. . . . They say the shadows poison. . . . Yonder door is fearful. . . . \_She approaches the door and g7'opes over it^ Oh ! it is cold ! . . . It is of smooth iron ; all smooth, and has no lock. . . . Where does it open, then ? I see no hinges. . . . I believe it is embedded in the wall. . . . One can go no higher ; . . . there are no more steps. . . . \Uttermg a terrible C7'y,'\ Ah! . . . still more golden curls, shut in the door ! . . . Tintagiles ! Tintagiles ! . . . I heard the door fall to just now ! . . . I remember ! I remember ! ... It must ! . . . \_She beats frantically with fist and feet on the doorJ\ Oh ! the monster ! the mon- ster ! . . . You are here ! . . . Listen ! I blas- pheme ! I blaspheme and spit at you ! . . . [Knocking, in tiny strokes, heard on the other side of the door ; then the voice of Tintagiles pierces, very feebly, through the iron barriers.] TINTAGILES. Sister Ygraine, sister Ygraine ! 230 The Death of Tintagiles. YGRAINE. Tintagiles! . . . What? . . . What? . . . Tintagiles, is it thou ? . . . TINTAGILES. Open quickly, open quickly ! . . . She is there ! . . . YGRAINE. Oh ! oh ! . . . Who ? . . . Tintagiles, my little Tintagiles ! . . . dost thou hear me ? . . . What is it ! . . . What has happened ? . . . Tintagiles ! . . . Thou hast not been hurt ? . . . Where art thou ? . . . Art thou there ? . . . TINTAGILES. Sister Ygraine, sister Ygraine ! . . . I shall die if thou dost not open me the door. . . . YGRAINE. Wait ; I am tryiftg ; wait. ... I am opening it, I am opening it. . . . TINTAGILES. But thou dost not understand me ! . . . Sister Ygraine ! . . . There is no time ! . . . She could not hold me. ... I struck her, struck her. . . . I ran. . . . Quick, quick, she is here ! . . . YGRAINE. I am coming, I am coming. . . . Where is she ? The Death of Tintagiles. 231 TINTAGILES. I see nothing, . . . but I hear . . . oh ! I am afraid, sister Ygraine, I am afraid f . . . Quick, quick ! . . . Open quickly ! ... for the love of the dear God, sister Ygraine ! . . . YGRAINE {groping over the door anxiously) . I am sure to find . . . wait a Httle ... a min- ute ... a moment ... TINTAGILES. I cannot wait any longer, sister Ygraine. . . . She is breathing behind me. . . . YGRAINE. It is nothing, Tintagiles ; my little Tintagiles, don't be afraid. ... It is because I cannot see. . . . TINTAGILES. Yes, thou canst ; I see thy light plainly. . . . It is light by thee, sister Ygraine. . . . Here I can see no longer. . . . YGRAINE. Thou seest me, Tintagiles? Where can one see ? There is no chink. . . . TINTAGILES. Yes, yes, there is one, but it is so little ! . . . YGRAINE Which side? Here? . . . Tell me, tell me ! . . . There, perhaps? •232 The Death of Tintagiles. TINTAGILES. Here, h^re. . . . Dost thou not hear ? lam knocking. . . . YGRAINE. Here? TINTAGILES. Higher. . . . But it is so httle ! . . . One could not pass a needle through it ! . . . YGRAINE. Don't be afraid ; I shall be there. . . . TINTAGILES. Oh, I hear, sister Ygraine ! . . . Pull ! Pull ! Thou must pull ! She is here ! . . . if thou couldst open it a little . . . just a little. ... I am so tiny ! . . . YGRAINE. I have no nails left, Tintagiles. ... I have pulled, I have pushed, I have pounded ! . . . I have pounded ! . . . \She pou7ids again and tries to shake the immovable door.~\ Two of my fingers are numb. . . . Do not weep ; ... it is iron. . . . TINTAGILES {sobbing desperately) . Thou hast nothing to open it with, sister Ygraine ? . . . Nothing at all, nothing at all ; . . . and I could go through ; . . . for I am so little, so little. . . . Thou knowest well. . . . YGRAINE. I have nothing but my lamp, Tintagiles. . . . There ! There 1 . . . \_She beats hard on the The Death of Tintagiles. 233 door^ with the help of her lamp of clay, which goes out and is broken.'] Oh ! . . . Everything is dark all at once ! . . . Tintagiles, where art thou? . . . Oh, listen, listen! . . .Thou canst not open it from within? . . . TINTAGILES. No, no ; there is n't anything. ... I can't feel anything at all. ... I can't see the little bright chink any longer. ... YGRAINE. What ails thee, Tintagiles? ... I hardly hear any longer. . . . TINTAGILES. Little sister, sister Ygraine. ... It is no longer possible. . . . YGRAINE. What is it, Tintagiles? . . . Where goest thou? . . . TINTAGILES. She is there 1 ... I have no more courage. — Sister Ygraine, sister Ygraine ! . . . I feel her ! . . . YGRAINE. Who? . . . Who? . . . TINTAGILES. I do not know. ... I do not see. . . . But it is no longer possible ! . . . She . . . she is taking me by the throat. . . . She has put her hand on my throat. . . .Oh! oh I sister Ygraine, come here. . . , 234 The Death of Tintagiles. YGRAINE. Yes, yes. . . . TINTAGILES. It is so dark ! . . . YGRAINE. Struggle, defend thyself, tear her ! . . . Don't be afraid. . . . One moment ! . . . I shall be there. . . . Tintagiles ! . . . Tintagiles ! answer me ! . . . Help ! . . . Where art thou ? . . . I am going to help thee. . . . Kiss me . . . through the door . . . here . . . here. . . . TINTAGILES (very feebly). Here . . . here . . . sister Ygraine. . . . YGRAINE. It is here, it is here I am giving kisses, hearest thou? Again! again! . . . TINTAGILES (niore and more feebly) . I am giving them, too . . . here . . . sister Ygraine 1 . . . sister Ygraine ! . . . Oh ! . . . \The fall of a little body is heard behind the iron doorJ] YGRAINE. Tintagiles 1 . . . Tintagiles ! . . . What hast thou done ? . . . Give him up ! give him up ! . . . for the love of God, give him up ! ... I no longer hear. ... — What have you done with him? ... Do him no harm, will you? ... It The Death of Tintagiles. 235 is only a poor child ! . . . He does not resist. . . . See, see. ... I am not wicked. ... I have gone down on both knees. . . . Give him up, I pray thee. ... It is not for myself alone, thou knowest. .... I will do all one could wish. . . . I am not bad, you see. ... I beseech you with clasped hands. ... I was wrong. ... 1 sub- mit utterly, thou seest well. ... I have lost all I had. . . . Let me be punished some other way. . . . There are so many things that could give me more pain ... if thou lovest to give pain .... Thou wilt see. . . . But this poor child has done nothing. . . . What I said vvas not true . . . but I did not know. ... I know well you are very good. . . . One must forgive in the end ! . . . He is so young, he is so beau- tiful, and he is so little ! . . . You see, it is not pos- sible ! . . . He puts his little arms about your neck, his little mouth on your mouth ; and God himself could not resist any longer. . . . You will open, will you not? ... I ask almost noth- ing. ... I should only have him a moment, one little moment. ... I do not remember ... thou understandest. ... I did not have time. . . . There needs hardly anything to let him pass. . . . It is not hard. . . ,\_A long inexorable silence, 1^ — Monster ! . . . Monster ! . . . I spit — . . . ! \_She sinks down and continues to sob softly^ with her arms stretched up on the doory in the darkness,"] [Curtain.] -roj^y^^ ^ 1 — > r- 09 o St, o m rn X 7D to So •< m CI OB , m Cn NJ > ^ r- m O > 3 m 9D N4 O > •< «/» O CJ If > H m Z H < i U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES CD71D3Mbfl3 THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY