)rnia 
 al 
 
 r
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Kitchy Williams
 
 THREE PLAYS BY BRIEUX
 
 THREE PLAYS BY L BRIEUX 
 MEMBER OF THE FRENCH 
 ACADEMY WITH PREFACE 
 BY BERNARD SHAW ENGLISH 
 VERSIONS BY M* s BERNARD 
 SHAW, ST JOHN HANKIN AND 
 JOHN POLLOCK 
 
 BRENTANO'S NEW YORK 
 MCMXI
 
 Copyright, 1907, by G. Bernard Shaw 
 Copyright, 1910, by G. Bernard Shaw 
 Copyright, 1911, by Charlotte Frances Shaw 
 
 Third Edition 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. 8. A.
 
 ZZ.OI 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Preface by Bernard Shaw ..... vii 
 Maternity. Translated by Mrs. Bernard Shaw . 1 
 
 The Three Daughters of M. Dupont. Trans- 
 lated by St. John Hank in . . . .77 
 
 Damaged Goods. Translated by John Pollock . 185 
 
 Maternity (new version). Translated bv John 
 
 Pollock 255
 
 viii Preface 
 
 How the Nineteenth Century found itself 
 out 
 
 It is reserved for some great critic to give us a study 
 of the psychology of the nineteenth century. Those of 
 us who as adults saw it face to face in that last moiety 
 of its days when one fierce hand after another Marx's, 
 Zola's, Ibsen's, Strindberg's, Turgenief 's, Tolstoy's 
 stripped its masks off and revealed it as, on the whole, 
 perhaps the most villainous page of recorded human his- 
 tory, can also recall the strange confidence with which it 
 regarded itself as the very summit of civilization, and 
 talked of the past as a cruel gloom that had been dis- 
 pelled for ever by the railway and the electric telegraph. 
 But centuries, like men, begin to find themselves out in 
 middle age. The youthful conceit of the nineteenth had 
 a splendid exponent in Macaulay, and, for a time, a glo- 
 riously jolly one during the nonage of Dickens. There 
 was certainly nothing morbid in the air then: Dickens 
 and Macaulay are as free from morbidity as Dumas 
 pere and Guizot. Even Stendhal and Prosper Merimee, 
 though by no means burgess optimists, are quite sane. 
 When you come to Zola and Maupassant, Flaubert and 
 the Goncourts, to Ibsen and Strindberg, to Aubrey 
 Beardsley and George Moore, to D'Annunzio and Eche- 
 garay, you are in a new and morbid atmosphere. French 
 literature up to the middle of the nineteenth century was 
 still all of one piece with Rabelais, Montaigne and 
 Moliere. Zola breaks that tradition completely : he is as 
 different as Karl Marx from Turgot or Darwin from 
 Cuvier. 
 
 In this new phase we see the bourgeoisie, after a cen- 
 tury and a half of complacent vaunting of its own prob- 
 ity and modest happiness (begun by Daniel Defoe in 
 Robinson Crusoe's praises of " the middle station of
 
 Preface ix 
 
 life "), suddenly turning bitterly on itself with accusa- 
 tions of hideous sexual and commercial corruption. 
 Thackeray's campaign against snobbery and Dickens's 
 against hypocrisy were directed against the vices of re- 
 spectable men; but now even the respectability was pas- 
 sionately denied: the bourgeois was depicted as a thief, 
 a tyrant, a sweater, a selfish voluptuary whose marriages 
 were simple legalizations of unbridled licentiousness. 
 Sexual irregularities began to be attributed to the sym- 
 pathetic characters in fiction not as the blackest spots in 
 their portraits, but positively as redeeming humanities 
 in them. 
 
 Jack the Ripper 
 
 I am by no means going here either to revive the old 
 outcry against this school of iconoclasts and disillu- 
 sioners, or to join the new reaction against it. It told 
 the world many truths: it brought romance back to its 
 senses. Its very repudiation of the graces and enchant- 
 ments of fine art was necessary; for the artistic morbid- 
 ezza of Byron and Victor Hugo was too imaginative to 
 allow the Victorian bourgeoisie to accept them as chron- 
 iclers of real facts and real people. The justification of 
 Zola's comparative coarseness is that bis work could not 
 have been done in any other way. If Zola had had a 
 sense of humor, or a great artist's delight in playing with 
 his ideas, his materials, and his readers, he would have 
 become either as unreadable to the very people he came 
 to wake up as Anatole France is, or as incredible as 
 Victor Hugo was. He would also have incurred the mis- 
 trust and hatred of the majority of Frenchmen, who, 
 like the majority of men of all nations, are not merely 
 incapable of fine art, but resent it furiously. A wit is to 
 them a man who is laughing at them: an artist is a man 
 of loose character who lives by telling lying stories and
 
 x Preface 
 
 pandering to the voluptuous passions. What they like to 
 read is the police intelligence, especially the murder 
 cases and divorce cases. The invented murders and di- 
 vorces of the novelists and playwrights do not satisfy 
 them, because they cannot believe in them ; and belief 
 that the horror or scandal actually occurred, that real 
 people are shedding real blood and real tears, is indis- 
 pensable to their enjoyment. To produce this belief by 
 works of fiction, the writer must disguise and even dis- 
 card the arts of the man of letters and assume the style 
 of the descriptive reporter of the criminal courts. As an 
 example of how to cater for such readers, we may take 
 Zola's Bete Humaine. It is in all its essentials a simple 
 and touching story, like Prevost's Manon Lescaut. But 
 into it Zola has violently thrust the greatest police sensa- 
 tion of the nineteenth century: the episode of Jack the 
 Ripper. Jack's hideous neurosis is no more a part of 
 human nature than Caesar's epilepsy or Gladstone's miss- 
 ing finger. One is tempted to accuse Zola of having bor- 
 rowed it from the newspapers to please his customers 
 just as Shakespear used to borrow stories of murder and 
 jealousy from the tales and chronicles of his time, and 
 heap them on the head of convivial humorists like lago 
 and Richard III, or gentle poets like Macbeth and Ham- 
 let. Without such allurements, Shakespear could not 
 have lived by his plays. And if he had been rich enough 
 to disregard this consideration, he would still have had to 
 provide sensation enough to induce people to listen to 
 what he was inspired to say. It is only the man who has 
 no message who is too fastidious to beat the drum at the 
 door of his booth.
 
 Preface xi 
 
 Rise of the Scientific Spirit 
 
 Still, the Shakesperean murders were romantic mur- 
 ders: the Zolaesque ones were police reports. The old 
 mad heroines, the Ophelias and Lucies of Lammermoor, 
 were rhapsodists with flowers in their hands: the new 
 ones were clinical studies of mental disease. The new 
 note was as conspicuous in the sensational chapters as in 
 the dull chapters, of which there were many. This was 
 the punishment of the middle class for hypocrisy. It had 
 carried the conspiracy of silence which we call decorum 
 to such lengths that when young men discovered the sup- 
 pressed truths, they felt bound to shout them in the 
 streets. I well remember how when I was a youth in my 
 teens I happened to obtain access to the papers of an 
 Irish crown solicitor through a colleague who had some 
 clerical work to do upon them. The county concerned 
 was not one of the crimeless counties : there was a large 
 camp in it; and the soldier of that day was not the re- 
 spectable, rather pious, and very low-spirited youth who 
 now makes the King's uniform what the curate's black 
 coat was then. There were not only cases which were 
 tried and not reported: there were cases which could not 
 even be tried, the offenders having secured impunity by 
 pushing their follies to lengths too grotesque to be bear- 
 able even in a criminal court also because of the silly 
 ferocity of the law, which punished the negligible inde- 
 cencies of drunken young soldiers as atrocious crimes. 
 The effect produced by these revelations on my raw 
 youth was a sense of heavy responsibility for conniving 
 at their concealment. I felt that if camp and barrack 
 life involved these things, they ought to be known. I 
 had been caught by the great wave of scientific enthusi- 
 asm which was then passing over Europe as a result of 
 the discovery of Natural Selection by Darwin, and of
 
 xii Preface 
 
 the blow it dealt to the vulgar Bible worship and re- 
 demption mongering which had hitherto passed among 
 us for religion. I wanted to get at the facts. I was pre- 
 pared for the facts being unflattering: had I not already 
 faced the fact that instead of being a fallen angel I was 
 first cousin to a monkey ? Long afterwards, when I was 
 a well-known writer, I said that what we wanted as the 
 basis of our plays and novels was not romance, but a 
 really scientific natural history. Scientific natural his- 
 tory is not compatible with taboo; and as everything 
 connected with sex was tabooed, I felt the need for men- 
 tioning the forbidden subjects, not only because of their 
 own importance, but for the sake of destroying taboo 
 by giving it the most violent possible shocks. The same 
 impulse is unmistakably active in Zola and his contem- 
 poraries. He also wanted, not works of literary art, but 
 stories he could believe in as records of things that really 
 happen. He imposed Jack the Ripper on his idyll of 
 the railwayman's wife to make it scientific. To all 
 artists and Platonists he made it thereby very unreal; 
 for to the Platonist all accidents are unreal and negli- 
 gible ; but to the people he wanted to get at the anti- 
 artistic people he made it readable. 
 
 The scientific spirit was unintelligible to the Philis- 
 tines and repulsive to the dilettanti, who said to Zola: 
 "If you must tell us stories about agricultural laborers, 
 why tell us dirty ones ? " But Zola did not want, like 
 the old romancers, to tell a story. He wanted to tell 
 the world the scientific truth about itself. His view was 
 that if you were going to legislate for agricultural la- 
 borers, or deal with them or their business in any way, 
 you had better know what they are really like; and in 
 supplying you with the necessary information he did not 
 tell you what you already knew, which included pretty 
 nearly all that could be decorously mentioned, but what 
 you did not know, which was that part of the truth that
 
 Preface xiii 
 
 was tabooed. For the same reason, when he found a 
 generation whose literary notions of Parisian cocotterie 
 were founded on Marguerite Gauthier, he felt it to be a 
 duty to show them Nana. And it was a very necessary 
 thing to do. If some Irish writer of the seventies had 
 got himself banished from all decent society, and perhaps 
 convicted of obscene libel, by writing a novel showing the 
 side of camp life that was never mentioned except in the 
 papers of the Crown Solicitor, we should be nearer to a 
 rational military system than we are to-day. 
 
 Jl 
 
 Zolaism as a Superstition 
 
 It is, unfortunately, much easier to throw the forces 
 of art into a reaction than to recall them when the re- 
 action has gone far enough. A case which came under 
 my own notice years ago illustrates the difficulty. The 
 wife of an eminent surgeon had some talent for drawing. 
 Her husband wrote a treatise on cancer; and she drew 
 the illustrations. It was the first time she had used her 
 gift for a serious purpose; and she worked hard enough 
 at it to acquire considerable skill in depicting cancerous 
 proliferation. The book being finished and published, 
 she resumed her ordinary practice of sketching for pleas- 
 ure. But all her work now had an uncanny look. When 
 she drew a landscape, it was like a cancer that acciden- 
 tally looked like a landscape. She had acquired a can- 
 cerous technique; and she could not get rid of it. 
 
 This happens as easily in literature as in the other 
 arts. The men who trained themselves as writers by 
 dragging the unmentionable to light, presently found 
 that they could do that so much better than anything else 
 that they gave up dealing with the other subjects. Even 
 their quite mentionable episodes had an unmentionable 
 air. Their imitators assumed that unmentionability was 
 an end in itself that to be decent was to be out of the
 
 xiv Preface 
 
 movement. Zola and Ibsen could not, of course, be con- 
 fined to mere reaction against taboo. Ibsen was to the 
 last fascinating and full of a strange moving beauty ; 
 and Zola often broke into sentimental romance. But 
 neither Ibsen nor Zola, after they once took in hand the 
 work of unmasking the idols of the bourgeoisie, ever 
 again wrote a happy or pleasant play or novel. Ibsen's 
 suicides and catastrophes at last produced the cry of 
 " People don't do such things," which he ridiculed 
 through Judge Brack in Hedda Gabler. This was easy 
 enough: Brack was so far wrong that people do do such 
 things occasionally. But on the whole Brack was right. 
 The tragedy of Hedda in real life is not that she commits 
 suicide but that she continues to live. If such acts of 
 violent rebellion as those of Hedda and Nora and Re- 
 becca and the rest were the inevitable or even the prob- 
 able consequences of their unfitness to be wives and 
 mothers, or of their contracting repugnant marriages to 
 avoid being left on the shelf, social reform would be very 
 rapid ; and we should hear less nonsense as to women 
 like Nora and Hedda being mere figments of Ibsen's 
 imagination. Our real difficulty is the almost boundless 
 docility and submission to social convention which is 
 characteristic of the human race. What balks the social 
 reformer everywhere is that the victims of social evils do 
 not complain, and even strongly resent being treated as 
 victims. The more a dog suffers from being chained the 
 more dangerous it is to release him: he bites savagely 
 at the hand that dares touch his collar. Our Rougon- 
 Macquart families are usually enormously proud of 
 themselves; and though they have to put up with their 
 share of drunkards and madmen, they do not proliferate 
 into Jack-the-Rippers. Nothing that is admittedly and 
 unmistakably horrible matters very much, because it 
 frightens people into seeking a remedy: the serious 
 horrors are those which seem entirely respectable and
 
 Preface xv 
 
 normal to respectable and normal men. Now the for- 
 mula of tragedy had come down to the nineteenth century 
 from days in which this was not recognized, and when 
 life was so thoroughly accepted as a divine institution 
 that in order to make it seem tragic, something dreadful 
 had to happen and somebody had to die. But the tragedy 
 of modern life is that nothing happens, and that the 
 resultant dulness does not kill. Maupassant's Une Vie 
 is infinitely more tragic than the death of Juliet. 
 
 In Ibsen's works we find the old traditions and the 
 new conditions struggling in the same play, like a gud- 
 geon half swallowed by a pike. Almost all the sorrow 
 and the weariness which makes his plays so poignant are 
 the sorrow and weariness of the mean dull life in which 
 nothing happens; but none the less he provides a final 
 catastrophe of the approved fifth-act-blank-verse type. 
 Hedwig and Hedda shoot themselves: Rosmer and Re- 
 becca throw themselves into the mill-race: Solness and 
 Rubeck are dashed to pieces: Borkman dies of acute 
 stage tragedy without discoverable lesions. I will not 
 again say, as I have said before, that these catastrophes 
 are forced, because a fortunate performance often makes 
 them seem inevitable; but I do submit that the omission 
 of them would leave the play sadder and more convincing. 
 
 The Passing of the Tragic Catastrophe and / 
 the Happy Ending 
 
 Not only is the tradition of the catastrophe unsuitable 
 to modern studies of life: the tradition of an ending, 
 happy or the reverse, is equally unworkable. The mo- 
 ment the dramatist gives up accidents and catastrophes, 
 and takes " slices of life " as his material, he finds him- 
 self committed to plays that have no endings. The cur- 
 tain no longer comes down on a hero slain or married: it 
 comes down when the audience has seen enough of the
 
 . 
 
 xvi Preface 
 
 life presented to it to draw the moral, and must either 
 leave the theatre or miss its last train. 
 
 The man who faced France with a drama fulfilling all 
 these conditions was Brieux. He was as scientific, as 
 conscientious, as unflinching as Zola without being in the 
 least morbid. He was no more dependent on horrors 
 than Moliere, and as sane in his temper. He threw over 
 the traditional forced catastrophe uncompromisingly. 
 You do not go away from a Brieux play with the feeling 
 that the affair is finished or the problem solved for you 
 by the dramatist. Still less do you go away in " that 
 happy, easy, ironically indulgent frame of mind that is 
 the true test of comedy," as Mr. Walkley put it in The 
 Times of the 1st October, 1909. You come away with 
 a very disquieting sense that you are involved in the 
 affair, and must find the way out of it for yourself and 
 everybody else if civilization is to be tolerable to your 
 sense of honor. 
 
 The Difference between Brieux and Moliere 
 or Shakespear 
 
 Brieux's task is thus larger than Moliere's. Moliere 
 destroyed the prestige of those conspiracies against 
 society which we call the professions, and which thrive 
 by the exploitation of idolatry. He unmasked the doc- 
 tor, the philosopher, the fencing master, the priest. He 
 ridiculed their dupes: the hypochondriac, the acade- 
 mician, the devotee, the gentleman in search of accom- 
 plishments. He exposed the snob : he showed the gentle- 
 man as the butt and creature of his valet, emphasizing 
 thus the inevitable relation between the man who lives 
 by unearned money and the man who lives by weight of 
 service. Beyond bringing this latter point up to a later 
 date Beaumarchais did nothing. But Moliere never in- 
 dicted society. Burke said that you cannot bring an in-
 
 Preface xvii 
 
 dictment against a nation; yet within a generation from 
 that utterance men began to draw indictments against 
 whole epochs, especially against the capitalistic epoch. 
 It is true that Moliere, like Shakespear, indicted human 
 nature, which would seem to be a broader attack; but 
 such attacks only make thoughtful men melancholy and 
 hopeless, and practical men cynical or murderous. Le 
 Misanthrope, which seems to me, as a foreigner perhaps, 
 to be Moliere's dullest and worst play, is like Hamlet in 
 two respects. The first, which is that it would have been 
 much better if it had been written in prose, is merely 
 technical and need not detain us. The second is that the 
 author does not clearly know what he is driving at. Le 
 Festin de Pierre, Moliere's best philosophic play, is as 
 brilliant and arresting as Le Misanthrope is neither the 
 one nor the other; but here again there is no positive 
 side: the statue is a hollow creature with nothing to 
 say for himself; and Don Juan makes no attempt to 
 take advantage of his weakness. The reason why 
 Shakespear and Moliere are always well spoken of and 
 recommended to the young is that their quarrel is really 
 a quarrel with God for not making men better. If they 
 had quarrelled with a specified class of persons with in- 
 comes of four figures for not doing their work better, or 
 for doing no work at all, they would be denounced as 
 seditious, impious, and profligate corruptors of morality. 
 Brieux wastes neither ink nor indignation on Provi- 
 dence. The idle despair that shakes its fist impotently 
 at the skies, uttering sublime blasphemies, such as 
 
 ' As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods: 
 They kill us for their sport,' 
 
 does not amuse Brieux. His fisticuffs are not aimed 
 heavenward: they fall on human noses for the good of 
 human souls. When he sees human nature in conflict 
 with a political abuse he does not blame human nature,
 
 xviii Preface 
 
 knowing that such blame is the favorite trick of those 
 who wish to perpetuate the abuse without being able 
 to defend it. He does not even blame the abuse: he ex- 
 poses it, and then leaves human nature to tackle it with 
 its eyes open. And his method of exposure is the dra- 
 matic method. He is a born dramatist, differing from 
 the ordinary dramatists only in that he has a large mind 
 and a scientific habit of using it. As a dramatist he must 
 take for his theme a conflict of some sort. As a drama- 
 tist of large mind he cannot be satisfied with the trum- 
 pery conflicts of the Divorce Court and the Criminal 
 Court: of the husband with the seducer, of the police- 
 man with the murderer. Having the scientific conscience 
 in a higher degree than Zola (he has a better head), he 
 cannot be interested in imaginary conflicts which he him- 
 self would have to invent like a child at play. The con- 
 flict which inspires his dramatic genius must be a big one 
 and a real one. To ask an audience to spend three hours 
 hanging on the question of which particular man some 
 particular woman shall mate with does not strike him as 
 a reasonable proceeding; and if the audience does not 
 agree with him, why, it can go to some fashionable 
 dramatist of the boulevard who does agree with it. 
 
 Brieux and the Boulevard 
 
 This involves Brieux in furious conflict with the boule- 
 vard. Up to quite recent times it was impossible for an 
 Englishman to mention Brieux to a Parisian as the only 
 French playwright who really counted in Europe, with- 
 out being met with astonished assurances that Brieux is 
 not a playwright at all ; that his plays are not plays ; that 
 he is not (in Sarcey's sense of the phrase) " du theatre " ; 
 that he is a mere pamphleteer without even literary style. 
 And when you expressed your natural gratification at 
 learning that the general body of Parisian dramatists
 
 Preface xix 
 
 were so highly gifted that Brieux counted for nothing 
 in Paris when you respectfully asked for the names of 
 a few of the most prominent of the geniuses who had 
 eclipsed him., you were given three or four of which you 
 had never heard, and one or two known to you as those of 
 cynically commercial manipulators of the menage a trois, 
 the innocent wife discovered at the villain's rooms at 
 midnight (to beg him to spare the virtue of a sister, the 
 character of a son, or the life of a father), the compro- 
 mising letter, the duel, and all the rest of the claptraps 
 out of which dramatic playthings can be manufactured 
 for the amusement of grown-up children. Not until the 
 Academic Francaise elected Brieux did it occur to the 
 boulevardiers that the enormous difference between him 
 and their pet authors was a difference in which the supe- 
 riority lay with Brieux. 
 
 The Pedantry of Paris 
 
 Indeed it is difficult for the Englishman to understand 
 how bigotedly the Parisians cling to the claptrap theatre. 
 
 The English do not care enough about the theatre to 
 cling to its traditions or persecute anyone for their sake ; 
 but the French do. Besides, in fine art, France is a 
 nation of born pedants. The vulgar English painter 
 paints vulgar pictures, and generally sells them. But the 
 vulgar French painter paints classical ones, though 
 whether he sells them or not I do not know: I hope not. 
 The corresponding infatuation in the theatre is for 
 dramas in alexandrines ; and alexandrines are far worse 
 than English blank verse, which is saying a good deal. 
 Racine and Corneille, who established the alexandrine 
 tradition, deliberately aimed at classicism, taking the 
 Greek drama as their model. Even a foreigner can hear 
 the music of their verse. Corneille wrote alexandrines as 
 Dryden wrote heroic couplets, in a virile, stately, hand-
 
 xx Preface 
 
 some and withal human way ; and Racine had tenderness 
 and beauty as well. This drama of Racine and Corneille, 
 with the music of Gluck, gave the French in the seven- 
 teenth and eighteenth centuries a body of art which was 
 very beautiful, very refined, very delightful for culti- 
 vated people, and very tedious for the ignorant. When, 
 through the spread of elementary education, the ignorant 
 invaded the theatre in overwhelming numbers, this exqui- 
 site body of art became a dead body, and was practised 
 by nobody except the amateurs the people who love 
 what has been already done in art and loathe the real 
 life out of which living art must continually grow afresh. 
 In their hands it passed from being a commercial failure 
 to being an obsolete nuisance. 
 
 Commercially, the classic play was supplanted by a 
 nuisance which was not a failure: to wit, the " well made 
 play " of Scribe and his school. The manufacture of 
 well made plays is not an art: it is an industry. It is 
 not at all hard for a literary mechanic to acquire it: the 
 only difficulty is to find a literary mechanic who is not 
 by nature too much of an artist for the job; for nothing 
 spoils a well made play more infallibly than the least 
 alloy of high art or the least qualm of conscience on the 
 part of the writer. " Art for art's sake " is the formula 
 of the well made play, meaning in practice " Success for 
 money's sake." Now great art is never produced for its 
 own sake. It is too difficult to be worth the effort. All 
 the great artists enter into a terrible struggle with the 
 public, often involving bitter poverty and personal humil- 
 iation, and always involving calumny and persecution, 
 because they believe they are apostles doing what used 
 to be called the Will of God, and is now called by many 
 prosaic names, of which " public work " is the least con- 
 troversial. And when these artists have travailed and 
 brought forth, and at last forced the public to associate 
 keen pleasure and deep interest with their methods and
 
 Preface xxi 
 
 morals, a crowd of smaller men art confectioners, we 
 may call them hasten to make pretty entertainments 
 out of scraps and crumbs from the masterpieces. Offen- 
 bach laid hands on Beethoven's Seventh Symphony and 
 produced J'aime les militaires, to the disgust of Schu- 
 mann, who was nevertheless doing precisely the same 
 thing in a more pretentious way. And these confec- 
 tioners are by no means mere plagiarists. They bring 
 all sorts of engaging qualities to their work: love of 
 beauty, desire to give pleasure, tenderness, humor, every- 
 thing except the high republican conscience, the identi- 
 fication of the artist's purpose with the purpose of the 
 universe, which alone makes an artist great. 
 
 But the well made play was not confectionery: it had 
 not even the derived virtue of being borrowed from the 
 great playwrights. Its formula grew up in the days 
 when the spread of elementary schooling produced a 
 huge mass of playgoers sufficiently educated to want 
 plays instead of dog-fights, but not educated enough to 
 enjoy or understand the masterpieces of dramatic art. 
 Besides, education or no education, one cannot live on 
 masterpieces alone, not only because there are not enough 
 of them, but because new plays as well as great plays are 
 needed, and there are not enough Molieres and Shakes- 
 pears in the world to keep the demand for novelty satis- 
 fied. Hence it has always been necessary to have some 
 formula by which men of mediocre talent and no con- 
 science can turn out plays for the theatrical market. 
 Such men have written melodramas since the theatre 
 existed. It was in the nineteenth century that the de- 
 mand for manufactured plays was extended to drawing 
 room plays in which the Forest of Bondy and the 
 Auberge des Adrets, the Red Barn and the Cave at Mid- 
 night, had to be replaced by Lord Blank's flat in White- 
 hall Court and the Great Hall, Chevy Chace.' Play- 
 goers, being by that time mostly poor playgoers, wanted
 
 xxii Preface 
 
 to see how the rich live; wanted to see them actually 
 drinking champagne and wearing real fashionable dresses 
 and trousers with a neatly ironed crease down the knee. 
 
 How to Write a Popular Play 
 
 The formula for the well made play is so easy that I 
 give it for the benefit of any reader who feels tempted to 
 try his hand at making the fortune that awaits all suc- 
 cessful manufacturers in this line. First, you " have an 
 idea " for a dramatic situation. If it strikes you as a 
 splendidly original idea, whilst it is in fact as old as the 
 hills, so much the better. For instance, the situation of 
 an innocent person convicted by circumstances of a crime 
 may always be depended on. If the person is a woman, 
 she must be convicted of adultery. If a young officer, he 
 must be convicted of selling information to the enemy, 
 though it is really a fascinating female spy who has en- 
 snared him and stolen the incriminating document. If 
 the innocent wife, banished from her home, suffers 
 agonies through her separation from her children, and, 
 when one of them is dying (of any disease the dramatist 
 chooses to inflict), disguises herself as a nurse and at- 
 tends it through its dying convulsion until the doctor, 
 who should be a serio-comic character, and if possible a 
 faithful old admirer of the lady's, simultaneously an- 
 nounces the recovery of the child and the discovery of 
 the wife's innocence, the success of the play may be re- 
 garded as assured if the writer has any sort of knack for 
 his work. Comedy is more difficult, because it requires 
 a sense of humor and a good deal of vivacity; but the 
 process is essentially the same: it is the manufacture of 
 a misunderstanding. Having manufactured it, you place 
 its culmination at the end of the last act but one, which 
 is the point at which the manufacture of the play begins. 
 Then you make your first act out of the necessary intro-
 
 Preface xxiii 
 
 duction of the characters to the audience, after elaborate 
 explanations, mostly conducted by servants, solicitors, 
 and other low life personages (the principals must all 
 be dukes and colonels and millionaires), of how the mis- 
 understanding is going to come about. Your last act 
 consists, of course, of clearing up the misunderstanding, 
 and generally getting the audience out of the theatre as 
 best you can. 
 
 Now please do not misunderstand me as pretending 
 that this process is so mechanical that it offers no oppor- 
 tunity for the exercise of talent. On the contrary, it is 
 so mechanical that without very conspicuous talent no- 
 body can make much reputation by doing it, though some 
 can and do make a living at it. And this often leads the 
 cultivated classes to suppose that all plays are written 
 by authors of talent. As a matter of fact the majority 
 of those who in France and England make a living by 
 writing plays are unknown and, as to education, all but 
 illiterate. Their names are not worth putting on the 
 playbill, because their audiences neither know nor care 
 who the author is, and often believe that the actors im- 
 provise the whole piece, just as they in fact do sometimes 
 improvise the dialogue. To rise out of this obscurity you 
 must be a Scribe or a Sardou, doing essentially the same 
 thing, it is true, but doing it wittily and ingeniously, at 
 moments almost poetically, and giving the persons of the 
 drama some touches of real observed character. 
 
 Why the Critics are always Wrong 
 
 Now it is these strokes of talent that set the critics 
 wrong. For the talent, being all expended on the for- 
 rnula^ at least consecrates the formula in the eyes of the 
 critics. Nay, they become so accustomed to the formula 
 that at last they cannot relish or understand a play that 
 has grown naturally, just as they cannot admire the
 
 xxiv Preface 
 
 Venus of Milo because she has neither a corset nor high 
 heeled shoes. They are like the peasants who are so ac- 
 customed to food reeking with garlic that when food is 
 served to them without it they declare that it has no taste 
 and is not food at all. 
 
 This is the explanation of the refusal of the critics of 
 all nations to accept great original dramatists like Ibsen 
 and Brieux as real dramatists, or their plays as real 
 plays. No writer of the first order needs the formula 
 any more than a sound man needs a crutch. In his 
 simplest mood, when he is only seeking to amuse, he does 
 not manufacture a plot: he tells a story. He finds no 
 difficulty in setting people on the stage to talk and act 
 in an amusing, exciting or touching way. His characters 
 have adventures and ideas which are interesting in them- 
 selves, and need not be fitted into the Chinese puzzle of 
 a plot. 
 
 The Interpreter of Life 
 
 But the great dramatist has something better to do 
 than to amuse either himself or his audience. He has to 
 interpret life. This sounds a mere pious phrase of liter- 
 ary criticism ; but a moment's consideration will discover 
 its meaning and its exactitude. Life as it appears to us 
 in our daily experience is an unintelligible chaos of hap- 
 penings. You pass Othello in the bazaar in Aleppo, lago 
 on the jetty in Cyprus, and Desdemona in the nave of 
 St. Mark's in Venice without the slightest clue to their 
 relations to one another. The man you see stepping into 
 a chemist's shop to buy the means of committing murder 
 or suicide, may, for all you know, want nothing but a 
 liver pill or a toothbrush. The statesman who has no 
 other object than to make you vote for his party at the 
 next election, may be starting you on an incline at the 
 foot of which lies war, or revolution, or a smallpox epi-
 
 Preface xxv 
 
 demic, or five years off your lifetime. The horrible mur- 
 der of a whole family by the father who finishes by kill- 
 ing himself, or the driving of a young girl on to the 
 streets, may be the result of your discharging an em- 
 ployee in a fit of temper a month before. To attempt 
 to understand life from merely looking on at it as it 
 happens in the streets is as hopeless as trying to under- 
 stand public questions by studying snapshots of public 
 demonstrations. If we possessed a series of cinemato- 
 graphs of all the executions during the Reign of Terror, 
 they might be exhibited a thousand times without enlight- 
 ening the audiences in the least as to the meaning of the 
 Revolution : Robespierre would perish as " un mon- 
 sieur " and Marie Antoinette as " une femme." Life as 
 it occurs is senseless : a policeman may watch it and 
 work in it for thirty years in the streets and courts of 
 Paris without learning as much of it or from it as a child 
 or a nun may learn from a single play by Brieux. For it 
 is the business of Brieux to pick out the significant inci- 
 dents from the chaos of daily happenings, and arrange 
 them so that their relation to one another becomes sig- 
 nificant, thus changing us from bewildered spectators of 
 a monstrous confusion to men intelligently conscious of 
 the world and its destinies. This is the highest function 
 that man can perform the greatest work he can set his 
 hand to ; and this is why the great dramatists of the 
 world, from Euripides and Aristophanes to Shakespear 
 and Moliere, and from them to Ibsen and Brieux, take 
 that majestic and pontifical rank which seems so 
 strangely above all the reasonable pretensions of mere 
 strolling actors and theatrical authors. 
 
 How the Great Dramatists torture the Public 
 
 Now if the critics are wrong in supposing that the for- 
 mula of the well made play is not only an indispensable
 
 xxvi Preface 
 
 factor in playwriting, but is actually the essence of the 
 play itself if their delusion is rebuked and confuted 
 by the practice of every great dramatist, even when he is 
 only amusing himself by story telling, what must happen 
 to their poor formula when it impertinently offers its 
 services to a playwright who has taken on his supreme 
 function as the Interpreter of Life? Not only has he no 
 use for it, but he must attack and destroy it; for one 
 of the very first lessons he has to teach to a play-ridden 
 public is that the romantic conventions on which the 
 formula proceeds are all false, and are doing incalculable 
 harm in these days when everybody reads romances and 
 goes to the theatre. Just as the historian can teach no 
 real history until he has cured his readers of the romantic 
 delusion that the greatness of a queen consists in her 
 being a pretty woman and having her head cut off, so 
 the playwright of the first order can do nothing with his 
 audiences until he has cured them of looking at the stage 
 through the keyhole, and sniffing round the theatre as 
 prurient people sniff round the divorce court. The cure 
 is not a popular one. The public suffers from it exactly 
 as a drunkard or a snuff taker suffers from an attempt to 
 conquer the habit. The critics especially, who are forced 
 by their profession to indulge immoderately in plays 
 adulterated with falsehood and vice, suffer so acutely 
 when deprived of them for a whole evening that they 
 hurl disparagements and even abuse and insult at the 
 merciless dramatist who is torturing them. To a bad 
 play of the kind they are accustomed to they can be 
 cruel through superciliousness, irony, impatience, con- 
 tempt, or even a Rochefoucauldian pleasure in a friend's 
 misfortune. But the hatred provoked by deliberately in- 
 flicted pain, the frantic denials as of a prisoner at the 
 bar accused of a disgraceful crime, the clamor for ven- 
 geance thinly disguised as artistic justice, the suspicion 
 that the dramatist is using private information and mak-
 
 Preface xxvii 
 
 ing a personal attack: all these are to be found only 
 when the playwright is no mere marchand de plaisir, but, 
 like Brieux, a ruthless revealer of hidden truth and a 
 mighty destroyer of idols. 
 
 Brieux 's Conquest of London 
 
 So well does Brieux know this that he has written a 
 play, La Foi, showing how truth is terrible to men, and 
 how false religions (theatrical romance, by the way, 
 is the falsest and most fantastically held of all the false 
 religions) are a necessity to them. With this play he 
 achieved, for the first time on record, the feat of winning 
 a success in a fashionable London theatre with a cold- 
 blooded thesis play. Those who witnessed the perform- 
 ance of False Gods at His Majesty's Theatre this year 
 were astonished to see that exceptionally large theatre 
 filled with strangely attentive ordinary playgoers, to 
 whose customary requirements and weaknesses no con- 
 cession was made for a moment by the playwright. They 
 were getting a lesson and nothing else. The same fa- 
 mous acting, the same sumptuous mise en scene, had not 
 always saved other plays from failure. There was no 
 enthusiasm: one might almost say there was no enjoy- 
 ment. The audience for once had something better to 
 do than to amuse themselves. The old playgoers and the 
 critics, who, on the first night, had politely regretted an 
 inevitable failure after waiting, like the maturer ladies 
 at the sack of Ismail in Byron's poem, for the adultery 
 to begin, asked one another incredulously whether there 
 could really be money in this sort of thing. Such feats 
 had been performed before at coterie theatres where the 
 expenses were low arid where the plays were seasoned 
 with a good deal of ordinary amusing comedy; but in 
 this play there was not a j est from beginning to end ; 
 and the size of the theatre and the expenses of produc-
 
 
 xxviii Preface 
 
 tion were on a princely scale. Yet La Foi held its own. 
 The feat was quite unprecedented; and that it should 
 have been achieved for the first time by a Frenchman is 
 about a million times more remarkable than that the first 
 man to fly across the channel (the two events were almost 
 simultaneous) should also have been a Frenchman. 
 
 Parisian Stupidity 
 
 And here I must digress for a moment to remark that 
 though Paris is easily the most prejudiced, old-fashioned, 
 obsolete-minded city in the west of Europe, yet when she 
 produces great men she certainly does not do it by 
 halves. Unfortunately, there is nothing she hates more 
 than a Frenchman of genius. When an Englishman says 
 that you have to go back to Michael Angelo to find a 
 sculptor who can be mentioned in the same breath as 
 Rodin without manifest absurdity, the Parisians indig- 
 nantly exclaim that only an ignorant foreigner could 
 imagine that a man who was not a pupil at the Beaux 
 Arts could possibly be a sculptor at all. And I have 
 already described how they talk about Brieux, the only 
 French dramatist whose fame crosses frontiers and 
 channels, and fills the continent. To be quite frank, I 
 cannot to this day understand why they made him an Aca- 
 demician instead of starving him to death and then giv- 
 ing him a statue. Can it be that in his early days, before 
 he could gain his living by the theatre, he wrote a spell- 
 ing book, or delivered a course of lectures on the use of 
 pure line in Greek design? To suppose that they did it 
 because he is a great man is to imply that they know a 
 great Frenchman when they see him, which is contrary 
 to all experience. They never know until the English 
 tell them.
 
 Preface xxix 
 
 Brieux and the English Theatre 
 
 In England our knowledge of Brieux has been delayed 
 by the childishness of our theatre. This childishness is 
 by no means to be deplored : it means that the theatre is 
 occupied with the elementary education of the masses 
 instead of with the higher education of the classes. 
 Those who desire dramatic performances of the higher 
 sort have procured them only by forming clubs, hiring 
 theatres, engaging performers, and selecting plays for 
 themselves. After 1889, when Ibsen first became known 
 in London through A Doll's House, a succession of these 
 clubs kept what may be called the serious adult drama 
 fitfully alive until 1904, when Messrs. Vedrenne and 
 Barker took the field with a regular theatrical enterprise 
 devoted to this class of work, and maintained it until the 
 National Theatre project was set on foot, and provisional 
 repertory schemes were announced by established com- 
 mercial managements. It was through one of these clubs, 
 the Stage Society, that Brieux reached the English stage 
 with his Bienfaiteurs. Then the first two plays in this 
 volume were performed, and, later on, Les Hannetons. 
 These performances settled for English connoisseurs the 
 question of Brieux's rank among modern playwrights. 
 Later on his Robe Rouge introduced the ordinary play- 
 goers to him ; and he is now no longer one of the curiosi- 
 ties of the coterie theatre, as even Ibsen to some extent 
 still is, but one of the conquerors of the general British 
 public. 
 
 The Censorship in France and England 
 
 Unfortunately, he has not yet been able to conquer 
 our detestable, discredited, but still all-powerful censor- 
 ship. In France he was attacked by the censorship just 
 as in England; but in France the censorship broke itself
 
 xxx Preface 
 
 against him and perished. The same thing would prob- 
 ably have occurred here but for the fact that our Censor, 
 by a grotesque accident of history to be precise, be- 
 cause Henry VIII began the censorship of the theatre 
 by appointing an officer of his own household to do the 
 work remains part of the King's retinue ; and his 
 abolition involves the curtailment of that retinue and 
 therefore the reduction of the King's State, always a very 
 difficult and delicate matter in a monarchical country. In 
 France the censorship was exercised by the Minister of 
 Fine Arts (a portfolio that does not exist in our Cabinet), 
 and was in the hands of two or three examiners of plays, 
 who necessarily behaved exactly like our Mr. Redford; 
 for, as I have so often pointed out, the evils of censor- 
 ship are made compulsory by the nature of the office, and 
 are not really the fault of the individual censor. These 
 gentlemen, then, prohibited the performance of Brieux's 
 best and most useful plays, just as Mr. Redford did here. 
 But as the French Parliament, having nobody to con- 
 sider but themselves and the interests of the nation, pres- 
 ently refused to vote the salaries of the Censors, the 
 institution died a natural death. We have no such sum- 
 mary remedy here. Our Censor's salary is part of the 
 King's civil list, and is therefore sacred. Years ago, our 
 Playgoers' Club asked me how the censorship could be 
 abolished. I replied, to the great scandal of that loyal 
 body, You must begin by abolishing the monarchy. 
 
 Brieux and the English Censorship 
 
 Nevertheless, Brieux has left his mark even on the 
 English censorship. This year (1909) the prohibition 
 of his plays was one of the strongest items in the long list 
 of grievances by which the English playwrights com- 
 pelled the Government to appoint a Select Committee of
 
 Preface xxxi 
 
 both houses of Parliament to enquire into the working 
 of the censorship. The report of that Committee admits 
 the charge brought against the Censor of systematically 
 suppressing plays dealing seriously with social problems 
 whilst allowing frivolous and even pornographic plays to 
 pass unchallenged. It advises that the submission of 
 plays to the Censor shall in future be optional, though it 
 does not dare to omit the customary sycophantic recom- 
 mendation that the Lord Chamberlain shall still retain 
 his privilege of licensing plays; and it proposes that the 
 authors and managers of plays so licensed, though not 
 exempt from prosecution, shall enjoy certain immunities 
 denied in the case of unlicensed plays. There are many 
 other conditions which need not be gone into here; but 
 to a Frenchman the main fact that stands out is that the 
 accident which has made the Censor an officer of the 
 King's Household has prevented a parliamentary com- 
 mittee from recommending the abolition of his control 
 over the theatre in a report which not only has not a 
 word to say in his defence, but expressly declares that his 
 license affords the public no guarantee that the plays he 
 approves are decent, and that authors of serious plays 
 need protection against his unenlightened despotism. 
 
 Taboo 
 
 We may therefore take it on the authority of the 
 Select Committee that the prohibition by the English 
 censorship of the public performances of the three plays 
 in this book does not afford the smallest reasonable 
 ground for condemning them as improper rather the 
 contrary. As a matter of fact, most men, if asked to 
 guess the passages to which the Censor took exception, 
 would guess wrongly. Certainly a Frenchman would. 
 The reason is that though in England as in France what 
 is called decency is not a reasoned discrimination between
 
 xxxii Preface 
 
 what needs to be said and what ought not to be said, but 
 simply the observance of a set of taboos, these taboos are 
 not the same in England as in France. A Frenchman 
 of scrupulously correct behavior will sometimes quite in- 
 nocently make an English lady blush by mentioning 
 something that is unmentionable in polite society in Eng- 
 land though quite mentionable in France. To take a 
 simple illustration, an Englishman, when he first visits 
 France, is always embarrassed, and sometimes shocked, 
 on finding that the person in charge of a public lavatory 
 for men is a woman. I cannot give reciprocal instances 
 of the ways in which Englishmen shock the French na- 
 tion, because I am happily unconscious of all the cochon- 
 neries of which I am no doubt guilty when I am in 
 France. But that I do occasionally shock the brave 
 French bourgeois to the very marrow of his bones by my 
 indelicacy, I have not the smallest doubt. There is only 
 one epithet in universal use for foreigners. That epithet 
 is " dirty." 
 
 The Attitude of the People to the Literary 
 Arts 
 
 These differences between nation and nation also exist 
 between class and class and between town and country. 
 I will not here go into the vexed question of whether the 
 peasant's way of blowing his nose or the squire's is the 
 more cleanly and hygienic, though my experience as a 
 municipal councillor of the way in which epidemics are 
 spread by laundries makes me incline to the side of the 
 peasant. What is beyond all question is that each seems 
 disgusting to the other. And when we come from physi- 
 cal facts to moral views and ethical opinions we find the 
 same antagonisms. To a great section perhaps the 
 largest section of the people of England and France, 
 all novels, plays, and songs are licentious ; and the habit
 
 Preface xxxiii 
 
 of enjoying them is a mark of a worthless character. To 
 these people the distinctions made by the literary classes 
 between books fit for young girls to read and improper 
 books between Paul and Virginia and Mademoiselle 
 de Maupin or Une Vie, between Mrs. Humphry Ward 
 and Ouida have no meaning : all writers of love stories 
 and all readers of them are alike shameless. Cultivated 
 Paris, cultivated London, are apt to overlook people who, 
 as they seldom read and never write, have no means of 
 making themselves heard. But such simple people 
 heavily outnumber the cultivated ; and if they could also 
 outwit them, literature would perish. Yet their intoler- 
 ance of fiction is as nothing to their intolerance of fact. 
 I lately heard an English gentleman state a very simple 
 fact in these terms : " I never could get on with my 
 mother: she did not like me, and I did not like her: 
 my brother was her pet." To an immense number of 
 living English and French people this speech would sug- 
 gest that its utterer ought to be burned alive, though the 
 substitution of stepmother for mother and of half-brother 
 for brother would suffice to make it seem quite probable 
 and natural. And this, observe, not in the least because 
 all these horrified people adore and are adored by their 
 mothers, but simply because they have a fixed conven- 
 tion that the proper name of the relation between mother 
 and son is love. However bitter and hostile it may in 
 fact be in some cases, to call it by any other name is a 
 breach of convention; and by the instinctive logic of 
 timidity they infer that a man to whom convention is not 
 sacred is a dangerous man. To them the ten command- 
 ments are nothing but arbitrary conventions ; and the 
 man who says to-day that he does not love his mother, 
 may, they conclude, to-morrow steal, rob, murder, 
 commit adultery, and bear false witness against his 
 neighbor.
 
 , 
 
 xxxiv Preface 
 
 The Dread of the Original Thinker 
 
 This is the real secret of the terror inspired by an 
 original thinker. In repudiating convention he is repudi- 
 ating that on which his neighbors are relying for their 
 sense of security. But he is usually also doing something 
 even more unpopular. He is proposing new obligations 
 to add to the already heavy burden of duty. When the 
 boy Shelley elaborately and solemnly cursed his father 
 for the entertainment of his friends, he only shocked us. 
 But when the man Shelley told us that we should feed, 
 clothe and educate all the children in the country as care- 
 fully as if they were our immediate own, we lost our tem- 
 pers with him and deprived him of the custody of his 
 own children. 
 
 It is useless to complain that the conventional masses 
 are unintelligent. To begin with, they are not unintelli- 
 gent except in the sense in which all men are unintelli- 
 gent in matters in which they are not experts. I object 
 to be called unintelligent merely because I do not know 
 enough about mechanical construction to be able to judge 
 whether a motor car of new design is an improvement 
 or not, and therefore prefer to buy one of the old type 
 to which I am accustomed. The brave bourgeois whom 
 Brieux scandalizes must not be dismissed with ridicule 
 by the man of letters because, not being an expert in 
 morals, he prefers the old ways and mistrusts the new. 
 His position is a very reasonable one. He says, in effect, 
 " If I am to enjoy any sense of security, I must be able 
 to reckon on other people behaving in a certain ascer- 
 tained way. Never mind whether it is the ideally right 
 way or the ideally wrong way: it will suit me well 
 enough if only it is convenient and, above all, unmistak- 
 able. Lay it down if you like that people are not to 
 pay debts and are to murder one another whenever they
 
 Preface xxxv 
 
 get a chance. In that case I can refuse to give credit, 
 and can carry weapons and learn to use them to defend 
 myself. On the other hand, if you settle that debts are 
 to be enforced and the peace kept by the police, I will 
 give credit and renounce the practice of arms. But the 
 one thing that I cannot stand is not knowing what the 
 social contract is." 
 
 The Justification of Conventionality 
 
 It is a cherished tradition in English politics that at 
 a meeting of Lord Melbourne's Cabinet in the early days 
 of Queen Victoria, the Prime Minister, when the meet- 
 ing threatened to break up in confusion, put his back to 
 the door and said, in the cynically profane manner then 
 fashionable: "Gentlemen: we can tell the House the 
 truth or we can tell it a lie: I do not care a damn which. 
 All I insist on is that we shall all tell the same lie; and 
 you shall not leave the room until you have settled what 
 it is to be." Just so does the bourgeois perceive that the 
 essential thing is not whether a convention is right or 
 wrong, but that everybody shall know what it is and ob- 
 serve it. His cry is always: " I want to know where I 
 stand." Tell him what he may do and what he may not 
 do; and make him feel that he may depend on other 
 people doing or not doing the same; and he feels se- 
 cure, knowing where he stands and where other people 
 stand. His dread and hatred of revolutions and heresies 
 and men with original ideas is his dread of disorientation 
 and insecurity. Those who have felt earthquakes assure 
 us that there is no terror like the terror of the earth 
 swaying under the feet that have always depended on it 
 as the one immovable thing in the world. That is just 
 how the ordinary respectable man feels when some man 
 of genius rocks the moral ground beneath him by denying 
 the validity of a convention. The popular phrases by
 
 xxxvi Preface 
 
 which such innovators are described are always of the 
 same kind. The early Christians were called men who 
 wished to turn the world upside down. The modern 
 critics of morals are reproached for " standing on their 
 heads." There is no pretence of argument, or of any 
 understanding of the proposals of the reformers: there 
 is simply panic and a demand for suppression at all costs. 
 The reformer is not forbidden to advance this or that 
 definite opinion, because his assailants are too frightened 
 to know or care what his opinions are: he is forbidden 
 simply to speak in an unusual way about morals and reli- 
 gion, or to mention any subject that is not usually men- 
 tioned in public. 
 
 This is the terror which the English censorship, like 
 all other censorships, gives effect to. It explains what 
 puzzles most observers of the censorship so much: 
 namely, its scandalous laxity towards and positive en- 
 couragement of the familiar and customary pornographic 
 side of theatrical art simultaneously with its intolerance 
 of the higher drama, which is always unconventional and 
 super-bourgeois in its ethics. jTo illustrate, let me cite" 
 the point on which the Englislrcensorship came into con- 
 flict with Brieux, when Les Hannetons was first per- 
 formed by the Stage Society. 
 
 Why Les Hannetons was Censored 
 
 Les Hannetons is a very powerful and convincing 
 demonstration of the delusiveness of that sort of freedom 
 which men try to secure by refusing to marry, and living 
 with a mistress instead. The play is a comedy : the audi- 
 ence laughs throughout ; but the most dissolute man pres- 
 ent leaves the theatre convinced that the unfortunate 
 hero had better have been married ten times over than 
 fallen into such bondage as his liaison has landed him in. 
 To witness a performance might very wisely be made
 
 Preface xxxvii 
 
 part of the curriculum of every university college and 
 polytechnic in the country. 
 
 Now those who do not know the ways of the censorship 
 may jump to the conclusion that the objection of the 
 Censor was to the exhibition on the stage of two persons 
 living together in immoral relations. They would be 
 greatly mistaken. The Censor made no difficulty what- 
 ever about that. Even the funny but ruthless scene 
 where the woman cajoles the man by kissing him on a 
 certain susceptible spot on his neck a scene from 
 which our shamed conscience shrinks as from a branding 
 iron was licensed without a word of remonstrance. 
 But there is a searching passage in the play where the 
 woman confesses to a girl friend that one of the lies 
 by which she induced the man to enter into relations with 
 her was that he was not her first lover. The friend is 
 simple enough to express surprise, thinking that this, 
 far from being an inducement, would have roused jeal- 
 ousy and disgust. The woman replies that, on the con- 
 trary, no man likes to face the responsibility of tempting 
 a girl to her first step from the beaten path, and that 
 girls take care accordingly not to let them know it. 
 
 This is one of those terrible stripping strokes by which 
 a master of realism suddenly exposes a social sore which 
 has been plastered over with sentimental nonsense about 
 erring Magdalens, vicious nonsense about gaiety, or 
 simply prudish silence. No young man or young woman 
 hearing it, however anarchical their opinions may be as 
 to sexual conduct, can possibly imagine afterwards that 
 the relation between " les hannetons " is honest, charm- 
 ing, sentimentally interesting, or pardonable by the self- 
 respect of either. It is felt instinctively to have some- 
 thing fundamentally dishonorable in it, in spite of the 
 innocence of the natural affection of the pair for one an- 
 other. Yet this is precisely the passage that the Censor 
 refused to pass. All the rest was duly licensed. The
 
 xxxviii Preface 
 
 exhibition of the pretty, scheming, lying, sensual girl 
 fixing herself with triumphant success on the meanly 
 prudent sensual man, and having what many women 
 would consider rather a good time of it, was allowed and 
 encouraged by the court certificate of propriety. But 
 the deadly touch that made it impossible for even the 
 most thoughtless pair in the audience to go and do like- 
 wise without loathing themselves, was forbidden. 
 
 Misadventure of a Frenchman in Westminster 
 Abbey 
 
 In short, the censorship did what it always does : it left 
 the poison on the table and carefully locked up the anti- 
 dote. And it did this, not from a fiendish design to 
 destroy the souls of the people, but solely because the 
 passage involved a reference by a girl to her virginity, 
 which is unusual and therefore tabooed. The Censor 
 never troubled himself as to the meaning or effect of the 
 passage. It represented the woman as doing an unusual 
 thing: therefore a dangerous, possibly subversive thing. 
 In England, when we are scandalized and can give no 
 direct reason why, we exclaim " What next? " That is 
 the continual cry of the Censor's soul. If a girl may 
 refer to her virginity on the stage, what may she not 
 refer to? This instinctive regard to consequences was 
 once impressed painfully on a pious Frenchman who, in 
 Westminster Abbey, knelt down to pray. The verger, 
 who had never seen such a thing happen before, promptly 
 handed him over to the police and charged him with 
 " brawling." Fortunately, the magistrate had compas- 
 sion on the foreigner's ignorance; and even went the 
 length of asking why he should not be allowed to pray 
 in church. The reply of the verger was simple and 
 obvious. " If we allowed that," he said, " we should 
 have people praying all over the place." And to this
 
 Preface xxxix 
 
 day the rule in Westminster Abbey is that you may stroll 
 about and look at the monuments, but you must not 
 on any account pray. Similarly, on the stage you may 
 represent murder, gluttony, sexual vice, and all the 
 crimes in the calendar and out of it, but you must not 
 say anything unusual about them. 
 
 Marriage and Malthus 
 
 If Brieux found himself blocked by the censorship 
 when he was exposing the vice of illicit unions, it will 
 surprise no one to learn that his far more urgently needed 
 exposures of the intemperance and corruption of mar- 
 riage itself was fiercely banned. The vulgar, and con- 
 sequently the official, view of marriage is that it hallows 
 all the sexual relations of the parties to it. That it may 
 mask all the vices of the coarsest libertinage with added 
 elements of slavery and cruelty has always been true to 
 some extent; but during the last forty years it has be- 
 come so serious a matter that conscientious dramatists 
 have to vivisect legal unions as ruthlessly as illegal ones. 
 For it happens that just about forty years ago the propa- 
 ganda of Neo-Malthusianism changed the bearing of 
 children from an involuntary condition of marriage to a 
 voluntary one. From the moment this momentous dis- 
 covery was made, childless marriage became available to 
 male voluptuaries as the cheapest way of keeping a mis- 
 tress, and to female ones as the most convenient and re- 
 spectable way of being kept in idle luxury by a man. 
 The effects of this have already been startling, and will 
 yet be revolutionary as far as marriage is concerned, 
 both in law and custom. The work of keeping the popu- 
 lations of Europe replenished received a sudden check, 
 amounting in France and England to a threat of actual 
 retrogression. The appointment of a Royal Commission 
 to enquire into the decline of the birthrate in the very
 
 xl Preface 
 
 sections of the population which most need to be main- 
 tained, is probably not very far off: the more far-seeing 
 of those who know the facts have prophesied such a step 
 for a long time past. The expectation of the Neo- 
 Malthusians that the regulation of births in our families 
 would give the fewer children born a better chance of 
 survival in greater numbers and in fuller health and 
 efficiency than the children of the old unrestricted fami- 
 lies, and of the mother exhausted by excessive childbear- 
 ing, has no doubt been fulfilled in some cases ; but, on the 
 whole, artificial sterility seems to be beating natural fer- 
 tility; for as far as can be judged by certain sectional 
 but typical private censuses, the average number of chil- 
 dren produced is being dragged down to one and a half 
 per family by the large proportion of intentionally child- 
 less marriages, and the heavy pressure of the cost of 
 private childbearing on the scanty incomes of the masses. 
 That this will force us to a liberal State endowment 
 of parentage, direct or indirect, is not now doubted by 
 people who understand the problem: in fact, as I write, 
 the first open step has already been taken by the Govern- 
 ment's proposal to exempt parents from the full burden 
 of taxation borne by the childless. There has also begun 
 a change in public opinion as to the open abuse of mar- 
 riage as a mere means by which any pair can procure a 
 certificate of respectability by paying for it, which may 
 quite possibly end in the disuse of the ceremony for all 
 except fertile unions. From the point of view of the 
 Church, it is a manifest profanation that couples whose 
 only aim is a comfortable domesticity should obtain for 
 it the sacrament of religious marriage on pretence of 
 unselfish and publicly important purposes which they 
 have not the smallest intention of carrying out. From 
 the secular point of view, there is no reason why couples 
 who do not intend to have children should be allowed to 
 enslave one another by all the complicated legal restric-
 
 Preface xli 
 
 tions of their liberty and property which are attached to 
 marriage solely to secure the responsibility of parents 
 to the State for their children. 
 
 Brieux and the Respectable Married Man 
 
 All these by no means remote prospects, familiar 
 though they are to the statesman and sociologist, are 
 amazing to the bourgeois even when he is personally im- 
 plicated in the change of practice that is creating the 
 necessity for a change in law and in opinion. He has 
 changed his practice privately, without talking about it 
 except in secret, or in passages of unprintable Rabelais- 
 ian jocosity with his friends; and he is not only unable 
 to see why anyone else should talk publicly about the 
 change, but terrified lest what he is doing furtively and 
 hypocritically should be suddenly dragged into the light, 
 and his own case recorded, perhaps, in public statistics in 
 support of innovations which vaguely suggest to him the 
 destruction of morals and the break-up of the family. 
 But both his pruderies and his terrors must give way 
 before the absolute necessity for re-examining the foun- 
 dations of our social structure after the shock they have 
 received from the discovery of artificial sterilization, and 
 their readjustment to the new strains they have to bear 
 as a consequence of that discovery. 
 
 Tolstoy, with his Kreutzer Sonata, was the first to 
 carry the war into the enemy's country by showing that 
 marriage intensified instead of eliminating every element 
 of evil in sexual relations; but Brieux was the first 
 dramatist to see not only the hard facts of the situation, 
 but its political importance. He has seen in particular 
 that a new issue has arisen in that eternal conflict of the 
 sexes which is created by the huge difference between 
 the transient pleasure of the man and the prolonged 
 suffering of the woman in maintaining the population.
 
 xlii Preface 
 
 Malthusianism, when it passed from being the specula- 
 tion of an economist to being the ardent faith of a de- 
 voted band of propagandists, touched our feelings mainly 
 as a protest against the burden of excessive childbearing 
 imposed on married women. It was not then foreseen 
 that the triumph of the propaganda might impose a still 
 worse burden on them, the burden of enforced sterility. 
 Before Malthus was born, cases were familiar enough in 
 which wives who had borne two or three children as an 
 inevitable consequence of their conjugal relations had 
 thereupon rebelled against further travail, and discon- 
 tinued the relations by such a resolute assertion of selfish- 
 ness as is not easy to an amiable woman and practically 
 not possible to a loving or a jealous wife. But the case 
 of a man refusing to fulfil his parental function and 
 thereby denying the right of his wife to motherhood was 
 unknown. Yet it immediately and inevitably arose the 
 moment men became possessed of the means of doing this 
 without self-denial. A wife could thus be put in a posi- 
 tion intolerable to a woman of honor as distinguished 
 from a frank voluptuary. She could be condemned to 
 barren bodily slavery without remedy. To keep silence 
 about so monstrous a wrong as this merely because the 
 subject is a tabooed one was not possible to Brieux. 
 Censorship or no censorship, it had to be said, and in- 
 deed shouted from the housetops, if nothing else would 
 make people attend, that this infamy existed and must be 
 remedied. And Brieux touched the evil at its worst spot, 
 in that section of the middle class in which the need 
 for pecuniary prudence has almost swallowed up every 
 more human feeling. In this most wretched of all classes 
 there is no employment for women except the employ- 
 ment of wife and mother, and no provision for women 
 without employment. The fathers are too poor to pro- 
 vide. The daughter must marry whom she can get: if 
 the first chance, which she dares not refuse, is not that
 
 Preface xliii 
 
 of a man whom she positively dislikes, she may consider 
 herself fortunate. Her real hope of affection and self- 
 respect lies in her children. And yet she above all 
 women is subject to the danger that the dread of poverty, 
 which is the ruling factor in her husband's world, may in- 
 duce him to deny her right and frustrate her function 
 of motherhood, using her simply as a housekeeper and 
 a mistress without paying her the market price of such 
 luxuries or forfeiting his respectability. To make us 
 understand what this horror means, Brieux wrote Les 
 Trois Filles de Monsieur Dupont, or, in equivalent Eng- 
 lish, The Three Daughters of Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, 
 in the person of the Censor, immediately shrieked " You 
 must not mention such things." Mr. Smith was wrong: 
 they are just the things that must be mentioned, and 
 mentioned again and yet again, until they are set right. 
 Surely, of all the anomalies of our marriage law, there 
 is none more mischievously absurd than that a woman 
 can have her marriage annulled for her husband's invol- 
 untary, but not for his voluntary sterility. And the man 
 is in the same predicament, though his wife now has the 
 same power as he of frustrating the public purpose of all 
 marriages. 
 
 Brieux shows the Other Side 
 
 But Brieux is not, as the ordinary man mostly is, a 
 mere reactionist against the latest oversights and mis- 
 takes, becoming an atheist at every flaw discovered in 
 popular theology, and recoiling into the grossest super- 
 stition when some Jesuit who happens by exception to 
 be a clever and subtle man (about the last thing, by the 
 way, that a real live Jesuit ever is) shows him that popu- 
 lar atheism is only theology without mind or purpose. 
 The ordinary man, when Brieux makes him aware of the 
 fact that Malthusianism has produced an unexpected and 
 revolting situation, instantly conceives a violent preju-
 
 xliv Preface 
 
 dice against it, pointing to the declining population as 
 evidence that it is bringing ruin on the human race, and 
 clamoring for the return of the conjugal morality of his 
 grandmother, as Theodore Roosevelt did when he was 
 President of the United States of America. It therefore 
 became necessary for Brieux to head him off in his fran- 
 tic flight by writing another play, Maternity, to remind 
 him of the case for Malthusianism, and to warn him 
 if he is capable of the warning that progress is not 
 achieved by panic-stricken rushes back and forward be- 
 tween one folly and another, but by sifting all move- 
 ments and adding what survives the sifting to the fabric 
 of our morality. For the fact that Malthusianism has 
 made new crimes possible should not discredit it, and 
 cannot stop it, because every step gained by man in his 
 continuous effort to control Nature necessarily does the 
 same. Flying, for instance, which has become practical 
 as a general human art for the first time this year, is 
 capable of such alarming abuse that we are on the eve of 
 a clamor for its restriction, and even for its prohibition, 
 that will speedily make the present clamor against motor 
 cars as completely forgotten as the clamor against 
 bicycles was when motor cars appeared. But the motor 
 car cannot be suppressed: it is improving our roads, im- 
 proving the manners and screwing up the capacity and 
 conduct of all who use them, improving our regulation of 
 traffic, improving both locomotion and character as every 
 victory over Nature finally improves the world and the 
 race. Malthusianism is no exception to the rule: its 
 obvious abuses, and the new need for protecting mar- 
 riage from being made a mere charter of libertinage and 
 slavery by its means, must be dealt with by improve- 
 ments in conduct and law, and not by a hopeless attempt 
 to drive us all back to the time of Mrs. Gamp. The 
 tyranny which denies to the wife the right to become a 
 mother has become possible through the discovery of the
 
 Preface xlv 
 
 means of escape from the no less unbearable tyranny 
 which compelled her to set another child at the table 
 round which those she had already borne were starving 
 because there was not enough food for them. When the 
 French Government, like Colonel Roosevelt, could think 
 of no better cure for the new tyranny than a revival of 
 the old, Brieux added a play on the old tyranny to his 
 play on the new tyranny. 
 
 This is the explanation of what stupid people call the 
 inconsistencies of those modern dramatists who, like 
 Ibsen and Brieux, are prophets as well as playwrights. 
 Ibsen did not write The Wild Duck to ridicule the 
 lesson he had already taught in Pillars of Society and 
 An Enemy of the People: he did it to head off his 
 disciples when, in their stampede from idealism, they 
 forgot the need of ideals and illusions to men not strong 
 enough to bear the truth. Brieux's La Foi has virtu- 
 ally the same theme. It is not an ultramontane tract to 
 defend the Church against the sceptic. It is a solemn 
 warning that you have not, as so many modern sceptics 
 assume, disposed of the doctrine when you have proved 
 that it is false. The miracle of St. Januarius is worked, 
 not by men who believe in it, but by men who know it to 
 be a trick, but know also that men cannot be governed by 
 the truth unless they are capable of the truth, and yet 
 must be governed somehow, truth or no truth. Mater- 
 nity and The Three Daughters of Mr. Smith are 
 not contradictory: they are complementary, like An 
 Enemy of the People and The Wild Duck. I myself 
 have had to introduce into one of my plays a scene in 
 which a young man defends his vices on the ground that 
 he is one of my disciples. I did so because the incident 
 had actually occurred in a criminal court, where a young 
 prisoner gave the same reason and was sentenced to six 
 months' imprisonment, less, I fear, for the offence than 
 for the attempt to justify it.
 
 xlvi Preface 
 
 The Most Unmentionable of All Subjects 
 
 Finally, Brieux attacked the most unmentionable sub- 
 ject of all, the subject of the diseases that are supposed 
 to be the punishment of profligate men and worthless 
 women. Here the taboo acquires double force. Not only 
 must not the improper thing be mentioned, but the evil 
 must not be remedied, because it is a just retribution and 
 a wholesome deterrent. The last point may be dismissed 
 by simply inquiring how a disease can possibly act as a 
 deterrent when people are kept in ignorance of its exist- 
 ence. But the punishment theory is a hideous mistake. 
 It might as well be contended that fires should not be 
 put out because they are the just punishment of the in- 
 cendiary. Most of the victims of these diseases are 
 entirely innocent persons : children who do not know 
 what vice means, and women to whom it is impossible to 
 explain what is the matter with them. Nor are their 
 fathers and husbands necessarily to blame. Even if 
 they were, it would be wicked to leave them unwarned 
 when the consequences can spread so widely beyond 
 themselves ; for there are dozens of indirect ways in 
 which this contagion can take place exactly as any other 
 contagion can. The presence of one infected person 
 in a house may lead to the infection of everybody else 
 in it, even if they have never seen one another. In fact 
 it is impossible to prove in any given case that the 
 sufferer is in any way culpable: every profligate excuses 
 himself or herself to the doctor on this ground; and 
 though the excuse may not be believed, its truth is gen- 
 erally possible. Add to the chances of contagion the 
 hereditary transmission of the disease, and the fact that 
 an innocent person receiving it from a guilty partner 
 without other grounds for divorce has no legal redress; 
 and it becomes at once apparent that every guilty case 
 may produce several innocent ones. Under such cir-
 
 Preface xlvii 
 
 cumstances, even if it were possible in a civilized com- 
 munity to leave misconduct to be checked by its natural 
 or accidental consequences, or by private vengeance in- 
 stead of by carefully considered legal measures, such an 
 anarchical solution must be ruled out in the present 
 case, as the disease strikes blindly at everyone whom it 
 reaches, and there are as many innocent paths for its 
 venom as guilty ones. The taboo actually discriminates 
 heavily against the innocent, because, as taboos are not 
 respected in profligate society, systematic profligates 
 learn the danger in their loose conversations, and take 
 precautions, whereas the innocent expose themselves 
 recklessly in complete ignorance, handling possibly con- 
 taminated articles and entering possibly infected places 
 without the least suspicion that any such danger exists. 
 In Brieux's play the husband alone is culpable; but his 
 misconduct presently involves his wife, his child, and his 
 child's nurse. It requires very little imagination to see 
 that this by no' means exhausts the possibilities. The 
 nurse, wholly guiltless of the original sin, is likely to 
 spread its consequences far more widely than the orig- 
 inal sinner. A grotesque result of this is that there is 
 always a demand, especially in France, for infected 
 nurses, because the doctor, when he knows the child to 
 be infected, feels that he is committing a crime in not 
 warning the nurse ; and the only way out of the diffi- 
 culty is to find a nurse who is already infected and has 
 nothing more to fear. How little the conscience of the 
 family is to be depended on when the interests of a be- 
 loved child are in the scale against a mere cold duty to 
 a domestic servant, has been well shown by Brieux 
 in the second act of his play. But indeed anyone 
 who will take the trouble to read the treatise of Four- 
 nier, or the lectures of Duclaux, or, in English, the 
 chapters in which Havelock Ellis has dealt with this 
 subject, will need no further instruction to convince
 
 xlviii Preface 
 
 him that no play ever written was more needed than 
 Les Avaries. 
 
 It must be added that a startling change in the ur- 
 gency of the question has been produced by recent ad- 
 vances in pathology. Briefly stated, the facts of the 
 change are as follows. In the boyhood of those of us 
 who are now of middle age, the diseases in question were 
 known as mainly of two kinds. One, admittedly very 
 common, was considered transient, easily curable, harm- 
 less to future generations, and, to everyone but the 
 sufferer, dismissible as a ludicrous incident. The other 
 was known to be one of the most formidable scourges of 
 mankind, capable at its worst of hideous disfigurement 
 and ruinous hereditary transmission, but not at all so 
 common as the more trifling ailment, and alleged by some 
 authorities to be dying out like typhus or plague. That is 
 the belief still entertained by the elderly section of the 
 medical profession and those whom it has instructed. 
 
 This easy-going estimate of the situation was alarm- 
 ingly upset in 1879 by Neisser's investigation of the sup- 
 posedly trivial disease, which he associated with a ma- 
 lignant micro-organism called the gonococcus. The 
 physicians who still ridicule its gravity are now con- 
 fronted by an agitation led by medical women and pro- 
 fessional nurses, who cite a formidable array of author- 
 ities for their statements that it is the commonest cause 
 of blindness, and that it is transmitted from father to 
 mother, from mother to child, from child to nurse, pro- 
 ducing evils from which the individual attacked never 
 gets securely free. If half the scientific evidence be 
 true, a marriage contracted by a person actively affected 
 in either way is perhaps the worst crime that can be 
 committed with legal impunity in a civilized community. 
 The danger of becoming the victim of such a crime is 
 the worst danger that lurks in marriage for men and 
 women, and in domestic service for nurses.
 
 Preface xlix 
 
 Stupid people who are forced by these facts to admit 
 that the simple taboo which forbids the subject to be 
 mentioned at all is ruinous, still fall back on the plea 
 that though the public ought to be warned, the theatre 
 is not the proper place for the warning. When asked 
 " What, then is the proper place ? " they plead that the 
 proper place is out of hearing of the general public : that 
 is, not in a school, not in a church, not in a newspaper, 
 not in a public meeting, but in medical text-books which 
 are read only by medical students. This, of course, is 
 the taboo over again, only sufficiently ashamed of itself 
 to resort to subterfuge. The commonsense of the matter 
 is that a public danger needs a public warning, and the 
 more public the place the more effective the warning. 
 
 Why the Unmentionable must be Mentioned 
 on the Stage 
 
 But beyond this general consideration there is a spe- 
 cial need for the warning in the theatre. The best 
 friends of the theatre cannot deny, and need not seek 
 to deny, that a considerable proportion of our theatrical 
 entertainments stimulate the sexual instincts of the spec- 
 tators. Indeed this is so commonly the case that a play 
 which contains no sexual appeal is quite openly and com- 
 monly written of, even by professional critics of high 
 standing, as being " undramatic," or " not a play at all." 
 This is the basis of the prejudice against the theatre 
 shown by that section of English society in which sex is 
 regarded as original sin, and the theatre, consequently, 
 as the gate of hell. The prejudice is thoughtless: sex is 
 a necessary and healthy instinct; and its nurture and 
 education is one of the most important uses of all art; 
 and, for the present at all events, the chief use of the 
 theatre. 
 
 Now it may be an open question whether the theatre
 
 1 Preface 
 
 has proved itself worthy of being entrusted with so 
 serious a function. I can conceive a community passing 
 a law forbidding dramatic authors to deal with sex as a 
 motive at all. Although such a law would consign the 
 great bulk of existing dramatic literature to the waste- 
 paper basket, it would neither destroy it wholly nor 
 paralyze all future playwrights. The bowdlerization of 
 Moliere and Shakespear on the basis of such a law 
 would leave a surprising quantity of their work intact. 
 The novels of Dickens and his contemporaries are before 
 us to prove how independent the imaginative writer is 
 of the theme so often assumed to be indispensable in 
 fiction. The works in which it is dragged in by the ears 
 on this false assumption are far more numerous than the 
 tales and plays Manon Lescaut is an example of 
 which it forms the entire substance. Just as the Euro- 
 pean dramatist is able to write plays without introducing 
 an accouchement, which is regarded as indispensable in 
 all sympathetic Chinese plays, he can, if he is put to 
 it, dispense with any theme that law or custom could 
 conceivably forbid, and still find himself rich in dra- 
 matic material. Let us grant therefore that love might 
 be ruled out by a written law as effectually as cholera is 
 ruled out by an unwritten one without utterly ruining the 
 theatre. 
 
 Still, it is none the less beyond all question by any 
 reasonable and thoughtful person that if we tolerate any 
 subject on the stage we must net tolerate it by halves. 
 It may be questioned whether we should allow war on 
 the stage; but it cannot sanely be questioned that, if we 
 do, we must allow its horrors to be represented as well 
 as its glories. Destruction and murder, pestilence and 
 famine, demoralization and cruelty, robbery and job- 
 bery, must be allowed to contend with patriotism and 
 military heroism on the boards as they do in actual war: 
 otherwise the stage might inflame national hatreds and
 
 Preface li 
 
 lead to their gratification with a recklessness that would 
 make a cockpit of Europe. Again, if unscrupulous 
 authors are to be allowed to make the stage a parade of 
 champagne bottles, syphons, and tantaluses, scrupulous 
 ones must be allowed to write such plays as L'Assommoir, 
 which has, as a matter of simple fact, effectively deterred 
 many young men from drunkenness. Nobody disputes 
 the reasonableness of this freedom to present both sides. 
 But when we come to sex, the taboo steps in, with the 
 result that all the allurements of sex may be exhibited 
 on the stage heightened by every artifice that the imag- 
 ination of the voluptuary can devise, but not one of its 
 dangers and penalties. You may exhibit seduction on 
 the stage, but you must not even mention illegitimate 
 conception and criminal abortion. We may, and do, 
 parade prostitution to the point of intoxicating every 
 young person in the theatre; yet no young person may 
 hear a word as to the diseases that follow prostitution 
 and avenge the prostitute to the third and fourth genera- 
 tion of them that buy her. Our shops and business 
 offices are full of young men living in lonely lodgings, 
 whose only artistic recreation is the theatre. In the 
 theatre we practise upon them every art that can make 
 their loneliness intolerable and heighten the charm of the 
 bait in the snares of the street as they go home. But 
 when a dramatist is enlightened enough to understand 
 the danger, and sympathetic enough to come to the rescue 
 with a play to expose the snare and warn the victim, 
 we forbid the manager to perform it on pain of ruin, and 
 denounce the author as a corrupter of morals. One 
 hardly knows whether to laugh or cry at such perverse 
 stupidity.
 
 lii Preface 
 
 Brieux and Voltaire 
 
 It is a noteworthy fact that when Brieux wrote Les 
 Avaries (Damaged Goods) his experience with it re- 
 called in one particular that of Voltaire. 
 
 It will be remembered that Voltaire, whose religious 
 opinions were almost exactly those of most English Non- 
 conformists to-day, took refuge from the Established 
 Church of France near Geneva, the city of Calvin, where 
 he established himself as the first and the greatest of 
 modern Nonconformist philanthropists. The Genevese 
 ministers found his theology so much to their taste that 
 they were prevented from becoming open Voltaireans 
 only by the scandal he gave by his ridicule of the current 
 Genevese idolatry of the Bible, from which he was as 
 free as any of our prominent Baptists and Congrega- 
 tionalists. In the same way, when Brieux, having had 
 his Les Avaries condemned by the now extinct French 
 censorship, paid a visit to Switzerland, he was invited 
 by a Swiss minister to read the play from the pulpit; 
 and though the reading actually took place in a secular 
 building, it was at the invitation and under the auspices 
 of the minister. The minister knew what the Censor did 
 not know: that what Brieux says in Les Avaries needs 
 saying. The minister believed that when a thing needs 
 saying, a man is in due course inspired to say it, and that 
 such inspiration gives him a divine right to be heard. 
 And this appears to be the simple truth of the matter 
 in terms of the minister's divinity. For most certainly 
 Brieux had every worldly inducement to refrain from 
 writing this play, and no motive for disregarding these 
 inducements except the motive that made Luther tear up 
 the Pope's Bull, and Mahomet tell the idolatrous Arabs 
 of Mecca that they were worshipping stones. 
 
 The reader will now understand why these three great 
 plays have forced themselves upon us in England as they
 
 Preface liii 
 
 forced themselves upon Brieux's own countrymen. Just 
 as Brieux had to write them, cost what it might, so we 
 have had to translate them and perform them and finally 
 publish them for those to read who are out of reach of 
 the theatre. The evils they deal with are as rampant in 
 England and America as they are in France. The go- 
 nococcus is not an exclusively French microbe: the pos- 
 sibility of sterilizing marriage is not bounded by the 
 Channel, the Rhine, or the Alps. The furious revolt of 
 poor women against bringing into the world more mouths 
 to eat the bread that is already insufficient for their first 
 born, rages with us exactly as it does in the final scene 
 of Maternity. Therefore these three plays are given 
 to the English speaking peoples first. There are others 
 to follow of like importance to us. And there are some, 
 like La Francaise, which we may read more lightheart- 
 edly when we have learnt the lesson of the rest. In La 
 Francaise an American (who might just as well be an 
 Englishman) has acquired his ideas of France and 
 French life, not from the plays of Brieux, but from the 
 conventional plays and romances which have only one 
 theme, adultery. Visiting France, he is received as a 
 friend in an ordinary respectable French household, 
 where he conceives himself obliged, as a gallant man of 
 the world, to invite his hostess to commit with him the 
 adultery which he imagines to be a matter of course in 
 every French menage. The ignominious failure of his 
 enterprise makes it much better comedy than his success 
 would have made it in an ordinary fashionable play. 
 
 As Good Fish in the Sea 
 
 The total number of plays produced by Brieux up to 
 the date on which I write these lines is fifteen. The 
 earliest dates as far back as 1890. It is therefore high 
 time for us to begin to read him, as we have already
 
 liv Preface 
 
 begun to act him. The most pitiful sort of ignorance is 
 ignorance of the few great men who are men of our own 
 time. Most of us die without having heard of those 
 contemporaries of ours, for our opportunities of seeing 
 and applauding whom posterity will envy us. Imagine 
 meeting the ghost of an Elizabethan cockney in heaven, 
 and, on asking him eagerly what Shakespear was like, 
 being told either that the cockney had never heard of 
 Shakespear, or knew of him vaguely as an objectionable 
 writer of plays full of regrettable errors of taste. To 
 save our own ghosts from disgracing themselves in this 
 manner when they are asked about Brieux, is one of the 
 secondary uses of this first instalment of his works in 
 English. G. B. S. 
 
 PARKNASILLA AND ATOT ST. LAWRENCE. 
 1909.
 
 MATERNITY 
 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 
 BY BRIEUX 
 
 Translated from the French 
 BY MRS. BERNARD SHAW
 
 Cast of the original production before the Stage 
 Society at the King's Hall, London, on April 8, 9 and 
 10, 1906. 
 
 LUCIE BRIGNAC Suzanne Sheldon 
 
 JULIEN BRIGNAC Dennis Eadie 
 
 LIORET Robert Grey 
 
 ANNETTE Muriel Ashwynne 
 
 CATHERINE Betty Castle 
 
 MME. BERNIN Lilian M. Revell 
 
 PIERRE POIRET Fred Grove 
 
 LAURENT Charles Dodsworth 
 
 LE SOUS-INTENDANT Michael Sherbrooke 
 
 LE COLONEL Frank H. Denton 
 
 M. CHEVILLOT Vincent Sternroyd 
 
 JACQUES POIRET Trevor Lowe 
 
 MME. CHEVILLOT Charles Maltby 
 
 LE PRESIDENT Kenyon Musgrave 
 
 L'AvocAT C. Herbert Hewetson 
 
 MME. THOMAS Claire Greet 
 
 MARIE GAUBERT Italia Conti 
 
 TUPIN Blake Adams 
 
 MME. TUPIN Eily Malyon 
 
 LE PROCUREUR . . Charles A. Dovan
 
 ACT I 
 
 Brignac's drawing-room. Doors right, left, and at the 
 back. Furniture of a government official. When the 
 curtain rises Lucie, a woman of about thirty, is alone. 
 Brignac, a man of thirty-eight, opens a door outside and 
 calls gaily from the anteroom. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Here I am. [He takes off his cloak, gives 
 it to a maid-servant, and enters], 
 
 LUCIE [gaily] Good-morning, sous-prefet. 
 
 BRIGNAC [He is in the uniform of a sous-prefet. A 
 tunic or dolman, with simple embroidery and two rows 
 of buttons; a cap with an embroidered band, a sword 
 with a mother-o' -pearl handle and a silver-plated sheath. 
 His belt is of silk; his trousers blue with a silver stripe; 
 and he wears a black cravat. He comes forward, taking 
 off his sword and belt during the following conversation. 
 He is finishing a large cigar] Have you been bored all 
 alone ? 
 
 LUCIE. With three children one has n't time to be 
 bored. 
 
 BRIGNAC [taking his sword into the anteroom] By 
 Jove, no ! 
 
 LUCIE. Well, how did the luncheon go off? 
 
 BRIGNAC [throwing away his cigar-end] Very well. 
 I 11 tell you all about it in a minute. [Going to the door 
 to the right and calling through] Has M. Mouton come? 
 
 A VOICE [from outside] Yes, monsieur le sous-prefet. 
 Shall I tell him he 's wanted ? 
 
 3
 
 4 Maternity Act I 
 
 BRIGNAC. No. Bring me my letters. [He closes the 
 door and comes back] Shall I never catch that fellow out? 
 
 LUCIE. Why do you want to? 
 
 BRIGNAC. I want to get rid of him, of course, and get 
 a young chap. An unmarried man would n't ask half the 
 salary I give this one. 
 
 A cleric enters bringing letters. 
 
 CLERK. The letters, monsieur le sous-prefet. 
 
 BRIGNAC. All right. 
 
 The clerk goes out. Brignac glances at the addresses 
 and sorts the letters into several piles without opening 
 the envelopes. 
 
 LUCIE. That little ceremony always amuses me. 
 
 BRIGNAC. What ceremony? Sorting my letters? 
 
 LUCIE. Without opening them. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I know what 's inside by looking at them. 
 
 LUCIE. Nonsense ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Don't you believe it ? Well, look. Here 's 
 one from the mayor of St. Sauveur. Something he asks 
 me to forward to the prefet. [He opens it and hands the 
 letter to his wife, who does not take it~\ There! 
 
 LUCIE. Why does n't he send it direct to the prefet? 
 
 BRIGNAC. What would be the use of us then? 
 
 LUCIE [laughing] That 's true. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Now I suppose you '11 make some more 
 jokes about sous-prefets and their work. It 's easy, and 
 not particularly clever. Perhaps some of us don't take 
 our jobs very seriously, but I 'm not like that. If we 
 are useless, our business is to make ourselves indispens- 
 able. Just take to-day for example and see if I 'm not 
 busy enough. This morning I signed thirty documents ; 
 afterwards I went to the meeting of the Council of Re- 
 vision. 1 Then came this luncheon of the mayor's to all 
 these gentlemen. Now I shall have an hour of office- 
 
 1 The Board appointed to inspect conscripts, and see if they are fit 
 for military service. Note by the Translator.
 
 Act I Maternity 5 
 
 work, and then I shall have to go and meet our guests 
 and bring them here, to our own dinner. [Pause] Oh ! 
 and I forgot after dinner there will be that reception 
 at the Club that they put off to suit me. That 's a fairly 
 full official day, is n't it ? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 BRIGNAC. We shall only have part of the Committee 
 at dinner. Some of the members have refused. [With 
 interest] Hullo ! I did n't see this. A letter from the 
 Minister of the Interior. 
 
 LUCIE. Perhaps it 's your promotion. 
 
 BRIGNAC [opening the letter] One never knows 
 No, it 's a circular [pause] upon the decline of the popu- 
 lation. [He runs his eye through the paper] Most im- 
 portant. [He goes to the door on the right] M. Lioret! 
 A clerk comes in. 
 
 CLERK. Yes, monsieur le sous-pref et ? 
 
 BRIGNAC [giving him papers] Give that to M. 
 Mouton. It must be done by five o'clock, and well done. 
 This for M. Lamblin M. Rouge And put this upon 
 my desk. I will see to it myself and give it the attention 
 it requires. 
 
 The clerk goes out. 
 
 LUCIE. Perhaps it 's not worth attention. 
 
 BRIGNAC. It needs an acknowledgment, anyway; and 
 the terms used in the original must be most carefully 
 reproduced in the acknowledgment. 
 
 LUCIE. Now tell me how the luncheon went off. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I have told you. It went off very well. 
 Too well. The mayor wanted to be even with us. All the 
 same, our dinner to-night will be better. [He takes a 
 cigar out of his pocket] I brought away a cigar to show 
 it to you. Are ours as big? 
 
 LUCIE. Pretty much the same. 
 
 BRIGNAC. He does n't give you cigars like that at his 
 big receptions. There 's the menu.
 
 6 Maternity Act I 
 
 LUCIE [glancing at it] Oh ! I say ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. The champagne was decanted ! 
 
 LUCIE. Well, we '11 have ours decanted. [Brightly] 
 Only, you know, it '11 cost money. We should n't have 
 much left if we had to give many dinners to Councils of 
 Revision. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Don't worry about that. You know very 
 well that when Balureau gets back into power he '11 have 
 us out of this dead-alive Chateauneuf, and give us a 
 step up. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes ; but will he get back into power ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Why should n't he ? 
 
 LUCIE. He was in such a short time. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Precisely. They had n't time to find him 
 out. 
 
 LUCIE [laughing] If he heard you ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. You misunderstand me. I have the greatest 
 respect for 
 
 LUCIE [interrupting] I know, I know. I was only 
 joking. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You 're always worrying about the future ; 
 now what makes me the man I am is my persistent confi- 
 dence in the future. If Balureau does n't get into office 
 again we '11 stay quietly at Chateauneuf, that 's all. You 
 can't complain, as you were born here. 
 
 LUCIE. But it 's you who complain. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I complain of the want of spirit in the 
 people. I complain that I cannot get them to love and 
 respect our political institutions. I complain above all of 
 the society of Chateauneuf: a set of officials entertain- 
 ing one another. 
 
 LUCIE. Society in Chateauneuf does n't open its arms 
 to us, certainly. 
 
 BRIGNAC. It does n't think us important enough. 
 
 LUCIE. To have a larger acquaintance we ought to 
 entertain the commercial people. You won't do that.
 
 Act I Maternity 7 
 
 BRIGNAC. I have to consider the dignity of my 
 position. 
 
 LUCIE. As you often say, we are in the enemy's 
 camp. 
 
 BRIGNAC. That 's true. But the fact that people hate 
 me shows that I am a person of some importance. We 
 must look out for the unexpected. How do you know 
 some great opportunity won't come in my way to-morrow, 
 or next month, or in six months ? An opportunity to dis- 
 tinguish myself and force the people in Paris to pay 
 attention to me. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes ; you 've been waiting for that oppor- 
 tunity for eleven years. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Obviously then it is so much the nearer. 
 
 LUCIE. And what will it be? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Some conflict, some incident trouble. 
 
 LUCIE. Trouble at Chateauneuf? 
 
 BRIGNAC. I 'm quite aware that Chateauneuf is most 
 confoundedly peaceable. One gets no chance. I count 
 more upon Balureau than on anything else. [Pause] Is 
 Annette with her friend Gabrielle? 
 
 LUCIE. No. 
 
 BRIGNAC. But this is Tuesday. 
 
 LUCIE. It 's not time for her to go yet. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes, but if she puts it off till too late. 
 
 LUCIE. I 've wanted for some time to speak to you 
 about Annette. Don't you think she goes to the Bernins 
 a little too often? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Not at all. They 're very influential people 
 and may be useful to me. Call her. [He goes to the 
 door to the left and calls himself] Annette! [Coming 
 back] Annette goes three times a week to practise with 
 Mademoiselle Bernin, who goes everywhere. That 's an 
 excellent thing for us, and may be of consequence. [An- 
 nette comes in] Annette, don't forget how late it is. 
 It 's time you were with your friend.
 
 8 Maternity Act I 
 
 ANNETTE [going out] Yes, yes. I '11 go and put on 
 my hat. 
 
 LUCIE [to Brignac] They want Annette to spend a 
 few days with them in the country. Ought we to let her ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Why not? She wants to go. You know 
 how fond she is of Gabrielle. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes ; but Gabrielle has a brother. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Young Jacques. But he 's going to be mar- 
 ried, my dear. 
 
 LUCIE. Is he? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes, yes, of course. [Annette comes in 
 from the left] Make haste, Annette. 
 
 LUCIE. What does it matter if she 's five minutes late? 
 
 ANNETTE. No no Where is my music? 
 
 LUCIE. You look quite upset. Would you rather 
 not go? 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes, yes, I '11 go Good-bye. [She 
 hurries off, forgetting her music], 
 
 LUCIE [calling] Your music ! [She holds out the 
 music-case], 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh, thank you. Good-bye. [She goes 
 out]. 
 
 LUCIE. Don't you think Annette has been a little de- 
 pressed lately? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Eh ? Yes no has she ? Have you 
 found a new parlor-maid? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 BRIGNAC. There, you see ! You were worrying about 
 that. 
 
 LUCIE. I had good reason to worry. I 've been with- 
 out a parlor-maid for a week. I liked a girl who came 
 yesterday very much ; but she would n't take the place. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Why not? 
 
 LUCIE. She said there were too many children here. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Too many children ! Three ! 
 
 LUCIE. Yes : but the eldest is three years old and the 
 youngest two months.
 
 Act I Maternity 9 
 
 BRIGNAC. There 's a nurse. 
 
 LUCIE. I told her that, of course. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Well, I declare! And when you consider 
 that it meant coming to the sous-prefet ! 
 
 LUCIE. I suppose she 's not impressed by titles. 
 
 BRIGNAC. And what about the one you have engaged ? 
 
 LUCIE. She 's elderly. Perhaps she '11 be steady. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes, and have other vices. Still 
 
 LUCIE. The unhappy woman has two children out at 
 nurse, and two older ones at Bordeaux. Her husband 
 deserted her. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Too bad of Celine to force us to turn her 
 out of doors. 
 
 LUCIE. Her conduct was bad, certainly. All the 
 same 
 
 BRIGNAC. Oh, it was not her conduct.' She might 
 have conducted herself ten times worse if only she had 
 had the sense to keep up appearances. Outside her duty 
 to me her life was her own. But we have to draw the 
 line at a confinement in the house. You admit that, don't 
 you? [A pause. Lucie does not answer] It was get- 
 ting quite unmistakable you know it was. Those 
 wretched grocer's boys are a perfect scourge to decent 
 houses. [He takes up a paper] This circular is 
 admirable. 
 
 LUCIE. Is it? 
 
 BRIGNAC. And of the greatest importance. Such style, 
 too. Listen. [He reads] "Our race is diminishing! 
 Such a state of affairs demands the instant attention of 
 the authorities. The Legislature must strenuously en- 
 deavor to devise remedial measures against the disastrous 
 phenomenon now making itself manifest in our midst." 
 The Minister of the Interior has done this very well. 
 The end is really fine quite touching. Listen. " Truth 
 will triumph: reason will prevail: the noble sentiment 
 of nationality and the divine spirit of self-sacrifice will
 
 10 Maternity Act I 
 
 bear us on to victory. We who know the splendid re- 
 cuperative power of our valiant French race look forward 
 with confidence and security to the magnificent moral 
 regeneration of this great and ancient people." [He 
 looks at his wife]. 
 
 LUCIE. It 's well written, certainly. 
 
 BRIGNAC [continuing to read] " Let each one, in his 
 own sphere of action and influence, work with word and 
 pen to point out the peril and urge the immediate neces- 
 sity of a remedy. Committees must be formed all over 
 France to evolve schemes and promote measures by which 
 the birth-rate may be raised." 
 
 LUCIE. Does it suggest any scheme? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes. The rest of the circular is full of the 
 ways and means. I shall read it aloud this evening. 
 
 LUCIE. This evening ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes. [He goes to the right-hand door and 
 calls] Monsieur Lioret ! 
 
 CLERK [coming in] Monsieur le sous-prefet. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Make me two copies of this circular your- 
 self; you will understand its great importance. And 
 bring the original back yourself and place it upon this 
 table. 
 
 CLERK. Yes, monsieur le sous-prefet. [He goes out]. 
 
 BRIGNAC [returning to Lucie] The covering letter 
 from my official superior ends with these words : " Have 
 the goodness, M. le sous-prefet, to send me at once a sta- 
 tistical schedule of all committees or associations of this 
 nature at present existing in your district, and let me 
 know what measures you think of taking in response to 
 the desiderata of the Government." Well, I shall take 
 advantage of the dinner we give to-night to the members 
 of the Council of Revision to set on foot some associa- 
 tions of the sort, and then I can write up to the authori- 
 ties, " There were no associations: / created them! " 
 
 LUCIE. But is the dinner a suitable
 
 Act I Maternity 11 
 
 BRIGNAC. Listen to me. This morning there was a 
 Council of Revision at Chateauneuf. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 BRIGNAC. The mayor invited the members to luncheon 
 and we have invited them to dinner. 
 
 LUCIE. Well? 
 
 BRIGNAC. The Council of Revision is composed of a 
 Councillor to the Prefecture, a general Councillor, a dis- 
 trict Councillor I leave out the doctor and the 
 mayors of the communes concerned the mayors of the 
 communes concerned. I shall profit by the chance of 
 having them all together after dinner to-night after a 
 dinner where the champagne will be decanted, mind you 
 to impress them with my own enthusiasm and convic- 
 tion. They shall create local committees, and / shall 
 presently announce the formation of those committees to 
 the authorities. So even if Balureau does n't get into 
 power, I shall sooner or later force the Minister to say, 
 " But why don't we give a man like Brignac a really 
 active post? " This is a first-rate opening for us: I 
 saw it at a glance. After dinner I shall show them my 
 diagram. You must make my office into a cloak-room, 
 and 
 
 LUCIE [interrupting] Why? There's room in the 
 hall. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I can't put the diagram in the hall, and I 
 want an excuse for bringing them all through the office. 
 Some day the Colonel may meet the Minister of the In- 
 terior and say to him: " I saw in the sous-prefecture at 
 Chateauneuf " 
 
 LUCIE [interrupting again] All right. As you like. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You trust to me. You don't understand 
 anything about it. You did n't even know how a Council 
 of Revision was made up, you, the wife of a sous- 
 prefet. And yet every year we give them a dinner. And 
 we 've been married four years.
 
 12 Maternity Act I 
 
 LUCIE [gently and pleasantly] Now think for a min- 
 ute. We 've been married four years, that 's true. But 
 this time three years was just after Edmee was born: 
 two years ago I was expecting little Louise; and last 
 year after weaning her I was ill. Remember too that if 
 I had nursed the last one myself I could not be at dinner 
 to-night, as she is only two months old. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You complain of that? 
 
 LUCIE [laughing] No: but I am glad to be having a 
 holiday. 
 
 BRIGNAC [gaily] You know what I said: as long as 
 we have n't a boy 
 
 LUCIE [brightly] We ought to have a trip to Switzer- 
 land first. 
 
 BRIGNAC. No, no, no. We have only girls: I want a 
 boy. 
 
 LUCIE [laughing] Is it the Minister's circular that 
 
 BRIGNAC. No, it is not the Minister's circular. 
 
 LUCIE. Then let me have time to breathe. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You can breathe afterwards. 
 
 LUCIE. Before. 
 
 BRIGNAC. After. 
 
 LUCIE. Would n't you rather have a holiday ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. No. 
 
 LUCIE [gently] Listen, Julien, since we 're talking 
 about this. I wanted to tell you I have n't had much 
 leisure since our marriage. We 've not been able to take 
 advantage of a single one of your holidays. And if you 
 don't agree to let [tenderly] Maurice wait another 
 year it will be the same thing this time. [Smiling] I 
 really have a right to a little rest. Consider. We 've 
 not had any time to know one another, or to love one 
 another. Besides, remember that we already have to 
 find dowries for three girls. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I tell you this is going to be a boy. 
 
 LUCIE. A boy is expensive.
 
 Act I Maternity 13 
 
 BRIGNAC. We are going to be rich. 
 
 LUCIE. How? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Luck may come in several ways. I may 
 stay in the Civil Service and get promoted quickly. I 
 may go back to the Bar: I was a fairly successful bar- 
 rister once. I may have some unexpected stroke of luck. 
 Anyway, I 'm certain we shall be rich. [Smiling] After 
 all, it 's not much good you 're saying no, if I say yes. 
 
 LUCIE [hurt] Evidently. My consent was asked for 
 before I was given a husband, but my consent is not asked 
 for before I am given a child. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Are you going to make a scene? 
 
 LUCIE. No. But all the same this slavery 
 
 BRIGNAC. What? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, slavery. After all you are disposing 
 of my health, my sufferings, my life of a year of my 
 existence, calmly, without consulting me. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Do I do it out of selfishness ? Do you sup- 
 pose I am not a most unhappy husband all the time I 
 have a future mother at my side instead of a loving wife? 
 " A father is a man all the same." 
 
 LUCIE [ironically] Oh, you are most unhappy, are n't 
 you? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. Rubbish ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Rubbish? 
 
 LUCIE. You evidently take me for a fool. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I don't understand. 
 
 LUCIE. I know what you do at those times. Now do 
 you understand? 
 
 BRIGNAC. No. 
 
 LUCIE [irritated] Don't deny it. You must see that I 
 know all about it. The best thing you can do is to be 
 silent, as I have pretended so far to know nothing. 
 
 BRIGNAC [coming off his high-horse] I assure you 
 
 LUCIE. Do you want me to tell you the name of the
 
 14 Maternity Act I 
 
 person you go to see over at Villeneuve, while I am 
 nursing, or a " future mother " as you call it? 
 
 BRIGNAC. If you 're going to believe all the gossip 
 you hear 
 
 LUCIE. We had better say no more about it. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I beg to observe that it was not I who 
 started the subj ect. There, there you 're in a bad 
 temper. I shall go and do some work, and then I must 
 join those gentlemen. Only, you know, you 're mistaken. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, yes, of course. 
 
 He goes out to the right, shrugging his shoulders. 
 Lucie rings. Catherine comes in. 
 
 LUCIE. Are Nurse and Josephine out with the 
 children ? 
 
 CATHERINE. Yes, madame. 
 
 LUCIE [beaming] Were my little ones well and happy? 
 
 CATHERINE. Oh, yes, madame. 
 
 LUCIE [sincerely] Aren't my little girls pretty? 
 
 CATHERINE. Yes: pretty and clever. 
 
 LUCIE. The other day Edmee was talking about play- 
 ing horses, and Louise said " 'orses " quite distinctly. 
 It 's wonderful at her age. 
 
 CATHERINE. I 've seen lots of children, but I never 
 saw such nice ones before. 
 
 LUCIE. I 'm so glad. You 're a good creature, 
 Catherine. 
 
 Annette comes in. She pulls off her hat, wild with joy. 
 
 ANNETTE. Lucie ! Sister ! News ! Great news ! 
 Good news ! 
 
 LUCIE. What is it? 
 
 ANNETTE [giving her hat to Catherine] Take this, 
 Catherine, and go. [She pushes her out gently]. 
 
 LUCIE [laughing] Well! 
 
 ANNETTE. I must kiss you, kiss you ! I wanted to 
 kiss the people in the street. [She bursts into a laugh 
 which ends in a sob].
 
 Act I Maternity 15 
 
 LUCIE. Little sister Annette, you 've gone quite mad. 
 
 ANNETTE. No not mad I 'm so happy. 
 
 LUCIE. What is it, little girl? 
 
 ANNETTE [in tears] I 'm happy ! I 'm happy ! 
 
 LUCIE. Why, what 's the matter with the child ? 
 
 ANNETTE. No, no. It 's all right don't speak to 
 me. I shall soon be better. It 's nervous. [She laughs 
 and cries at the same time]. I tell you I'm happy 
 only only How stupid it is to cry like this. I can't 
 help it. [She puts her arms round Lucie's neck]. Oh, 
 little mother, I love you I do love you. [She kisses 
 Lucie: another little sob]. Oh, I am silly. There now, 
 it 's all right I Ve done. [She wipes her eyes] There: 
 now I 'm going to tell you. [With great joy and emo- 
 tion, and very simply] I am going to be married. Mon- 
 sieur and Madame Bernin are coming to see you about 
 it. 
 
 LUCIE. Why ? 
 
 ANNETTE. Because Jacques has told them to. 
 
 LUCIE. Jacques ! 
 
 ANNETTE [very fast, tumbling out the words] Yes, it 
 was when I was practising with Gabrielle. He had 
 guessed it happened this way practising he sings 
 a little oh, nothing very grand once [she laughs] 
 but I '11 tell you about that afterwards it 's because of 
 that we shall be married soon. [Fresh tears. Then 
 she says gravely, embracing Lucy] I do love him so, and 
 if he hadn't asked me to marry him You don't 
 understand ? 
 
 LUCIE [laughing] I guess a little. 
 
 ANNETTE. Do you want me to tell you all about it, 
 from the beginning? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 ANNETTE. I want to so much. If it won't bore you. 
 It would make me so happy. 
 
 LUCIE. Go on.
 
 16 Maternity Act I 
 
 ANNETTE. Well, when I was playing duets with 
 Gabrielle I must tell you that I began by detesting 
 him because he will make fun of everybody. But he 's 
 most kind, really. For instance 
 
 LUCIE. Now keep to the point. When you played 
 duets 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes, I was telling you. When I played 
 duets with Gabrielle he used to come and listen to us. 
 He stood behind us to turn over the leaves : once he put 
 his hand upon my shoulder 
 
 LUCIE. You let him? 
 
 ANNETTE. He had his other hand on Gabrielle's 
 shoulder it would have been priggish to say anything. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, but with Gabrielle it 's different. 
 
 ANNETTE. That 's what I was going to say. My 
 heart began beating so I got so red, and I had no idea 
 what I was playing. And then, another time he 
 could n't see the music he stooped right down. But 
 that 's all nothing. We love each other, that 's the whole 
 thing. 
 
 LUCIE. And has he told you that he loves you? 
 
 ANNETTE [gravely] Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. And you hid all that from me? I 'm sorry, 
 Annette. 
 
 ANNETTE. I 'm so, so sorry. But it all came so grad- 
 ually. I can hardly tell now exactly when it began. I 
 even thought I was mistaken. And then then when 
 we first dared to speak to one another about what we had 
 never spoken of, though we both knew it so well I 
 knew I 'd done wrong. But I was so ashamed I could n't 
 tell you about it then. 
 
 LUCIE [tenderly] All the same it was very naughty 
 of you, darling. 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh, don't scold me ! Please, please don't 
 scold me. If you only knew how I 've repented how 
 unhappy I 've been. Have n't you noticed ?
 
 Act I Maternity 17 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. Then he 's spoken to his father and 
 mother ? 
 
 ANNETTE. Some time ago. 
 
 LUCIE. And they consent? 
 
 ANNETTE. They are coming this afternoon. 
 
 LUCIE. Why did n't they come sooner ? 
 
 ANNETTE. Well Jacques begged them to, but they 
 did n't want it at first. They wanted Gabrielle to be 
 married first. It was even arranged that I should pre- 
 tend I did n't know they had been told. Then, to-day, I 
 met Jacques in the street 
 
 LUCIE. In the street? 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes. Lately he has not been coming to 
 our practices so I meet him 
 
 LUCIE. In the street ! 
 
 ANNETTE. Generally we only bow to one another, and 
 that 's all. But to-day he said to me as he passed, " My 
 mother is going to your house. She 's there behind me." 
 Then I hurried in to tell you. [With a happy smile] He 
 was quite pale. Please don't scold me, I am so happy. 
 Forgive me. 
 
 LUCIE [kissing her] Yes: I forgive you. Then 
 you 're going away from me, you bad thing. 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes, I am bad. Bad and ungrateful. 
 That 's true. 
 
 LUCIE. Marriage is a serious thing. Are you sure 
 you will suit one another? 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh, I 'm certain of it. We 've quarrelled 
 already. 
 
 LUCIE. What about? 
 
 ANNETTE. About a book he lent me. 
 
 LUCIE. What book? 
 
 ANNETTE. Anna Karenina. He liked Vronsky better 
 than Peter Levin. He talked nonsense. He said he 
 did n't believe in Madame Karenina's suicide. You re- 
 member, she throws herself under the wheels of the train
 
 18 Maternity Act I 
 
 Vronsky is going away in. Don't you remember? It 
 does n't matter. 
 
 LUCIE. And then? 
 
 ANNETTE. And then there 's a ring perhaps 
 that 's the Bernins. 
 
 A silence. Catherine appears with a card. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. It 's Madame Bernin. 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh! [Going to her room} You'll come 
 and fetch me presently. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. [To Catherine] Show the lady in. 
 
 ANNETTE. Don't be long. 
 
 She goes out. Lucie tidies herself before a glass. Ma- 
 dame Bernin comes in. 
 
 MME. B. How do you do, Madame Brignac? 
 
 LUCIE. How do you do, madame ? 
 
 MME. B. Are you quite well? 
 
 LUCIE. Very well, madame. And you? 
 
 MME. B. I need not ask after M. Brignac. 
 
 LUCIE. And M. Bernin? 
 
 MME. B. He 's very well, thank you. 
 
 LUCIE. Won't you sit down? 
 
 MME. B. Thank you. [<Sz] What lovely weather. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, is n't it? How lucky you are to be able 
 to get into the country. Annette is so looking forward 
 to her visit to you. 
 
 MME. B. Well, I came to-day first of all to have 
 the pleasure of seeing you and then to have a chat 
 with you about that very matter. 
 
 LUCIE. And about another matter, too, I think. 
 
 MME. B. Another matter? 
 
 LUCIE. Not about another? 
 
 MME. B. No, I don't quite understand 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, then I beg your pardon. Tell me what 
 it is about Annette's visit. 
 
 MME. B. My daughter has just got an invitation to 
 spend some time with her cousins the Guibals, and we
 
 Act I Maternity 19 
 
 can't possibly refuse to let Gabrielle go to them. So 
 I Ve come to beg you to excuse us, because as Gabri- 
 elle won't be there 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, of course, madarae. Will Mademoiselle 
 Gabrielle make a long stay with her cousins ? 
 
 MME. B. Well, that 's just what 's so annoying. We 
 don't know exactly: it might be a week, or it might be 
 a month. And she may stay there all the time we are 
 away from Chateauneuf. 
 
 LUCIE. Poor little Annette ! 
 
 MME. B. But I thought you were going away some- 
 where yourselves this Easter? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 MME. B. [kindly] That relieves my mind a little, and 
 I hope it will make up to Mademoiselle Annette for the 
 disappointment I am obliged to cause her to my very 
 great regret. 
 
 LUCIE [after a silence] Will you excuse me, madame. 
 [Hesitating] Perhaps this is indiscreet. 
 
 MME. B. Oh, I am sure not, Madame Brignac. 
 
 LUCIE. I only wanted to ask you if it is long since 
 Mademoiselle Gabrielle got this invitation from her 
 cousins ? 
 
 MME. B. About a week. 
 
 LUCIE. A week ! 
 
 MME. B. Why does that surprise you? 
 
 LUCIE. Because she did not mention it to Annette. 
 
 MME. B. She was afraid of disappointing her. 
 
 LUCIE. Only yesterday Annette was telling me about 
 all sorts of excursions your daughter was planning for 
 them both. Madame, this invitation is an excuse: please 
 tell me the whole truth. Annette is only my sister, but 
 I love her as if she was my own child, and I speak as a 
 mother to a mother. I 'm not going to try to be clever 
 or to stand on my dignity. This is how it is: Annette 
 believes your son loves her, and when you were an-
 
 20 Maternity Act I 
 
 nounced just now she thought you came to arrange her 
 marriage with him. Now you know all that I know. 
 Tell me the truth, and let us do what we can to prevent 
 unhappiness. 
 
 MME. B. As you speak so simply and feelingly I will 
 tell you candidly exactly what is in my mind. As a mat- 
 ter of fact this invitation to Gabrielle is only a device of 
 ours to prevent Jacques and Annette seeing any more of 
 one another. 
 
 LUCIE. Then you don't want them to see any more 
 of one another? 
 
 MME. B. No, because I don't want them to marry. 
 
 LUCIE. Because Annette is poor? 
 
 MME. B. [after some hesitation] Well since we 're 
 speaking plainly yes, because she is poor. Ah, dear 
 Madame Brignac, we have both been very much to blame 
 for not foreseeing what has happened. 
 
 LUCIE. We have been to blame ? 
 
 MME. B. I know Annette, and I like her very much. 
 I know you too, better than you think, and I have the 
 greatest respect and esteem for you; it has never even 
 occurred to me that in seeking our acquaintance you had 
 any other motive than friendship. But you ought to have 
 feared and foreseen what has happened. 
 
 LUCIE. What should I fear? Annette went to see 
 Gabrielle. How could I know that you let your son be 
 with them? You knew it because it happened at your 
 house, and it is youwho have been wanting in prudence 
 and foresight. You invited this poor child, you exposed 
 her to danger, you let her take a fancy to your son, you 
 allowed them to fall in love with one another, and you 
 come to-day and calmly tell me that this marriage is im- 
 possible, and you are going off to the country leaving it 
 to me to break the poor child's heart. 
 
 MME. B. How do you know I foresaw nothing? And 
 how can one tell the right moment to interfere to prevent
 
 Act I Maternity 21 
 
 playmates becoming lovers? While I was uncertain 
 did n't I run the risk of causing the very thing I was 
 anxious to prevent, by separating them without a good 
 reason? When I really felt sure there was danger I 
 spoke to Jacques. I said to him, " Annette is not a 
 suitable match for you: you must be very careful how 
 you behave to her: don't forget to treat this girl as a 
 sister." 
 
 LUCIE. And he said " It is too late: we love each 
 other." 
 
 MME. B. On the contrary, he said: "You needn't 
 worry, mother. I have been thinking the same thing 
 myself, and I am a man of honor. Besides, though An- 
 nette is charming, she 's not the sort of woman I mean to 
 marry." 
 
 LUCIE. How long ago did he tell you that? 
 
 MME. B. About two months ago. 
 
 LUCIE. Well, at that time he had already spoken of 
 marriage to Annette; or at least he had spoken of love, 
 which from him to her is the same thing. 
 
 MME. B. I can only tell you what I know. 
 
 LUCIE. Well, madame, all this is beside the question. 
 You are opposed to this marriage? 
 
 MME. B. Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. Finally? Irrevocably? 
 
 MME. B. Finally. Irrevocably. 
 
 LUCIE. Because Annette has no money? 
 
 MME. B. Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. Your son knew she had no money when he 
 made her love him. 
 
 MME. B. Believe me, he did n't mean to do the harm 
 he has done. A young girl of his own age was his sister's 
 constant companion, and at first he treated her as he 
 treated his sister. At first, I 'm sure, it was without any 
 special intention that he saw so much of her. After- 
 wards probably he made some pretty speeches to your
 
 22 Maternity Act I 
 
 little Annette, and no doubt he was greatly taken with 
 her. As Annette is more innocent and simple and affec- 
 tionate, and of course more ignorant than he is, she has 
 been more quickly and more deeply touched. But my 
 son is not the worthless fellow you think him, and the 
 proof of that is that he himself came and told me all 
 about it. 
 
 LUCIE. And when you told him he must give up An- 
 nette, he agreed? 
 
 MME. B. Yes, he agreed. He 's reasonable and sen- 
 sible, and he saw the force of my arguments. He saw 
 that this parting, though it will be painful, was an abso- 
 lute necessity. He will certainly suffer; but they are 
 both so young. At that age love troubles don't last. 
 
 LUCIE. I understand. In a week your son will have 
 forgotten all about it. But Annette 
 
 MME. B. She will soon forget it, too. 
 
 LUCIE. I don't know I don't know. Oh, my poor 
 darling! If you had seen her just now when she came 
 to tell me about it! It's not for joy she will cry now. 
 Oh! [she begins to cry]. , 
 
 MME. B. [moved] Don't cry oh, don't cry. I 
 assure you I am most deeply sorry. Oh, if it were only 
 possible, how happy it would make me that my boy 
 should marry Annette. The girl he is engaged to is an 
 affected little thing who annoys me, and I really love 
 your sister. 
 
 LUCIE. But if that is true you can afford to let your 
 son marry a girl without fortune. 
 
 MME. B. No: we 're not so well off as people think. 
 There 's Gabrielle to be provided for. There will be next 
 to nothing left for Jacques. 
 
 LUCIE. But he might work. 
 
 MME. B. He has not been brought up to that. 
 
 LUCIE. That was a mistake. 
 
 MME. B. The professions are overcrowded. Would
 
 Act I Maternity 23 
 
 you have him go into an office and get 200 francs a 
 month ? They would n't be able to keep a servant. 
 
 LUCIE. He could earn more than that. 
 
 MME. B. If he got 500 could he keep up his posi- 
 tion? Could he remain in his present set? It would be 
 a come-down for him ; a come-down he would owe to 
 his wife; and sooner or later he would reproach her for 
 it. And think of their children ! They would have just 
 enough to send their son to a public school, and make 
 their daughter a post office clerk. And even then they 
 would have to pinch and screw to provide for her until 
 she got in. 
 
 LUCIE. It 's true. 
 
 MME. B. You see that I 'm right. I can't say I 'm 
 proud of having to say such things of belonging to a 
 society that forces one to do such things. But we 're not 
 in a land of romance. We live among vain, selfish, hard- 
 headed people. 
 
 LUCIE. You despise them, and yet you sacrifice every- 
 thing to their opinion. 
 
 MME. B. Yes : because everything depends upon their 
 opinion. Social position depends upon it. One must 
 be a very exceptional person to be able to defy public 
 opinion. And Jacques is not exceptional. 
 
 LUCIE. That 's nothing to be proud of. If he was 
 exceptional, I mean if he was different to all these people 
 about, he would find his love would prevent him from 
 troubling about the sneers of worthless idlers. 
 
 MME. B. His love ! Love goes : poverty stays : it is 
 a proverb. Beauty passes : want remains. 
 
 LUCIE. But you, madame, yourself you and your 
 husband are a proof that one can marry poor and make 
 a fortune. Your story is well known. Your husband 
 began in an office, then he started his own business ; and 
 if riches make happiness, you are happy now you and 
 he are n't you?
 
 24 Maternity Act I 
 
 MME. B. No, no, no; we are not happy, because we 
 have worn ourselves out hunting after happiness. We 
 wanted to " get on," and we got on. But what a price 
 we paid for it ! First, when we were both earning wages, 
 our life was one long drudgery of petty economy and 
 meanness. When we set up on our own account we lived 
 in an atmosphere of trickery, of enmity, of lying; flatter- 
 ing the customers, and always in terror of bankruptcy. 
 Oh, I know the road to fortune! It means tears, lies, 
 envy, hate ; one suffers and one makes other people 
 suffer. I 've had to go through it: my children shan't. 
 We 've only had two children : we meant only to have 
 one. Having two we had to be doubly hard upon our- 
 selves. Instead of a husband and wife helping one an- 
 other, we have been partners spying upon one another; 
 calling one another to account for every little expenditure 
 or stupidity; and on our very pillows disputing about 
 our business. That's how we got rich; and now we 
 can't enjoy our money because we don't know how to use 
 it ; and we are n't happy because our old age is made 
 bitter by the memories and the rancor left from the old 
 bad days : because we have suffered too much and hated 
 too much. My children shall not go through this. I en- 
 dured it that they might be spared. Good-bye, madame. 
 
 LUCIE. Good-bye. 
 
 Madame Bernin goes out. After a moment Lucie goes 
 slowly to Annette's door and opens it. 
 
 ANNETTE [coming in] You've been crying! It's 
 because I 'm going away, is n't it ? Not because there 's 
 anything in the way of [with increasing trouble] Tell 
 me, Lucie ! 
 
 LUCIE. You love him so much then? 
 
 ANNETTE. If we were not to be married I should 
 die. 
 
 LUCIE. No, you would n't die. Think of all the girls 
 who have said that : did they die ?
 
 Act I Maternity 25 
 
 ANNETTE. Is there anything to prevent? 
 
 LUCIE. No, no. 
 
 ANNETTE. And when is it to be? Did you talk about 
 that? 
 
 LUCIE. What a state of excitement you are in! An- 
 nette, dear, you must try to control yourself a little. 
 
 ANNETTE [making an effort] Yes. You 're right. 
 I 'm a little off my head. 
 
 LUCIE. You are really. 
 
 ANNETTE [still controlling herself] Well, tell me. 
 What did Madame Bernin say? 
 
 LUCIE. What a hurry you are in to leave me ! You 
 don't care for me any more, then? 
 
 ANNETTE [gravely] Ah, my dear! If I hadn't you 
 what would become of me ! [A silence] But you 're 
 telling me nothing. You don't seem to be telling me the 
 truth you 're hiding something from me there is 
 some difficulty, I 'm certain of it. If there was n't you 'd 
 say there was n't, you would n't put me off you 'd tell 
 me what Madame Bernin said. 
 
 LUCIE. Well there is something. 
 
 ANNETTE [bursting into tears] Oh, my God ! 
 
 LUCIE. You are both very young. It would be better 
 to wait a little a year perhaps more. 
 
 ANNETTE [crying] Wait a year ! 
 
 LUCIE. Come, come, stop crying. There 's really no 
 reason for all this. I am not quite pleased with you, 
 Annette. You 're barely nineteen. If you waited to 
 marry until you are twenty it would be no harm. 
 
 ANNETTE. It 's not possible ! 
 
 LUCIE. Not possible? [She looks searchingly at her]. 
 Annette, you frighten me. If it was n't you [ten- 
 derly and gravely] Have I been wrong to trust you? 
 
 ANNETTE. No! No! What can you be thinking of 
 Oh, indeed 
 
 LUCIE. What is it, then?
 
 26 Maternity Act I 
 
 ANNETTE. Well, I 've been such a fool as to tell some 
 friends I was engaged. 
 
 LUCIE. Before speaking to me about it? 
 
 ANNETTE [confused] Don't, please, ask me any more 
 questions. 
 
 LUCIE. Annette, I must scold you a little. You 've 
 hurt me very much by keeping me in the dark about all 
 this. Nothing would have made me believe that you 'd 
 do such a thing. I thought you were too fond of me not 
 to tell me at once about anybody any man you were 
 interested in. I find I was mistaken. We see one an- 
 other every day, we are never parted, and yet you have 
 managed to conceal from me the one thing your heart was 
 full of. You ought to have told me. Not because I am 
 your elder sister, but because I take mother's place 
 towards you. And for a better reason still because I 
 am your friend. It 's been a kind of treason. A little 
 more, and I should have heard that you were engaged 
 from strangers and not from you. Well, my dear, you 've 
 been wrong: these people are not worth crying about. 
 Now be brave and remember your self-respect: I am 
 going to tell you the whole truth. They don't want 
 you, my poor little girl: you are not rich enough for 
 them. 
 
 ANNETTE [staring blindly at her sister'] They don't 
 want me ! They don't want me ! But Jacques ! Jacques ! 
 Does he know? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, he knows. 
 
 ANNETTE. He means to give me up if they tell him to ? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 ANNETTE [beside herself] I must see him. I will 
 write to him. I must see him. If they don't want me 
 there is nothing left but to kill myself. 
 
 LUCIE [obliging Annette to look her in the face] An- 
 nette, look at me. [Silence. Then tenderly and gravely] 
 I think you have something to tell me.
 
 Act I Maternity 27 
 
 ANNETTE, [tearing herself away] Don't ask me 
 don't [very low] or I shall die of shame. 
 
 Lucie forces her to sit down beside her and takes her 
 in her arms. 
 
 LUCIE. Come into my arms. Put your head on my 
 shoulder as you used when you were little. There now, 
 tell me what the trouble is. [Speaking low]. My dar- 
 ling my little darling I 'm afraid you 're most un- 
 happy. Try and think that it 's mother. 
 
 ANNETTE [very low, crying piteously] Oh, mother! 
 If you knew what I have done ! 
 
 LUCIE [rocking her gently] There tell me. Whis- 
 per it to me. Whisper 
 
 Annette whispers. Lucie rises and separates herself 
 from her sister. She hides her face in her hands. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, Annette ! You! 
 
 ANNETTE [kneeling and stretching out her arms] For- 
 give me ! Forgive me ! Forgive me ! I deserve it all. 
 But I 'm almost mad. 
 
 LUCIE. You, Annette! You! 
 
 ANNETTE. Are you going to make me sorry I did n't 
 kill myself before I told you ! Forgive me 
 
 LUCIE. Get up. It 's too awful. I must forgive you. 
 [She sits down], 
 
 ANNETTE [still kneeling] I did n't know I under- 
 stood nothing. He took me by surprise. I had loved 
 him for a long time. When he was with his regiment I 
 used to look forward for weeks to his coming home on 
 leave. Just the thought of seeing him used to make me 
 tremble. Before I even knew myself that I was in love 
 with him, he guessed it. He made me tell him so when 
 he asked me to marry him. Then one day his father 
 and mother were away, and someone came and called 
 Gabrielle, I don't know why. When we were alone 
 I did n't understand I thought he had suddenly gone 
 mad. But when he kissed me like that I was stunned
 
 28 Maternity Act I 
 
 I could n't do anything happy, and afraid, and 
 ashamed. That was three months ago. The next day 
 I met him in the street. I was in such a state that he 
 said, quite of himself, " I shall speak at once to my people 
 about our marriage." I know he meant it, because really 
 he is honest and good. Only, I suppose he had n't cour- 
 age. Then, when I found they were going away so soon, 
 I said to him yesterday, " You must speak." And now 
 they don't want me ! 
 
 LUCIE. And he knows that ? 
 
 ANNETTE. No. No. Since that day O, that 
 day ! I 've never been alone with him. We say 
 " monsieur " and " mademoiselle " when we meet 
 and [in an awe-struck tone] he is the father of my 
 child. 
 
 LUCIE [after a silence] It 's not a question now of a 
 girl not to be married because she is poor. It 's a ques- 
 tion of atoning for a crime. Julien must speak to M. 
 Bernin. 
 
 ANNETTE. You 're going to tell him? 
 
 LUCIE. I must. Go back to your room. You 're in no 
 fit state to come to dinner. [She looks at the clock] I 
 have only just time to dress. Directly the people 
 are gone I shall speak to Jules. When do they go 
 away? 
 
 ANNETTE. In a fortnight. 
 
 LUCIE. It 's no matter. Jules shall see M. Bernin 
 to-morrow. 
 
 ANNETTE. He won't. He '11 have nothing more to do 
 with me. 
 
 LUCIE. No. He will do all he can to save you. 
 
 ANNETTE. I don't think so. .Dearest, you are 
 mistaken. 
 
 LUCIE. No, I 'm not mistaken. I am certain. Go. 
 [Annette goes out]. I 'm not mistaken. But if I were! 
 If there were no one but me to defend this child and her
 
 Act I Maternity 29 
 
 baby! [A knock at the office door]. Come in. [The 
 clerk enters] What is it? 
 
 CLERK [laying a paper on the table] It is the circular 
 from the Minister of the Interior. M. le sous-prefet told 
 me to put it here.
 
 ACT II 
 
 Same scene. 
 
 Lucie, the colonel, Madame Chevillot, Chevillot, the 
 sous-intendant, Brignac, Jacques Poiret, Pierre Poiret, 
 and Laurent. The last three are provincial mayors. 
 
 Lucie and Madame Chevillot are in smart evening 
 gowns; the colonel and the sous-intendant in uniform; 
 Chevillot and Brignac are in evening dress; Jacques 
 Poiret in a frock coat, and Laurent and Pierre Poiret 
 in morning coats. 
 
 It is after dinner. They are drinking coffee. 
 
 PIERRE [a tall, thin peasant, embarrassed by his coffee 
 cup, speaks aside to Laurent in a strong provincial ac- 
 cent] A fine thing, ain't it, to be so rich and not have 
 enough tables to go round. 
 
 LAURENT [formerly a working man, to Pierre Poiret] 
 At lunch 't was j ust the same. 
 
 JACQUES [a crafty farmer, putting his cup down upon 
 the centre table, and speaking generally] As for 
 me, I 
 
 LAURENT [passing his cup to Jacques] M. le maire, 
 would you mind? 
 
 PIERRE [the same] M. le maire, would you ? 
 
 They get rid of their cups, passing them from one 
 to the other. 
 
 BRIGNAC [to the mayors] Will you take liqueurs? 
 [He points to a bottle and small glasses on a tray]. 
 
 ALL THREE [making too much fuss about it] Thank 
 you, thank you, M. le sous-prefet. 
 
 30
 
 Act II Maternity 31 
 
 BRIGNAC. Delighted. [He passes behind the centre 
 table and pours out liqueur]. 
 
 Sous-lN. [He is small and thin and wears spectacles: 
 a professor disguised as a soldier] Yes, ladies: it is an 
 eccentricity. I acknowledge it and beg you to excuse it: 
 I am a collector. But you must confess that I have not 
 bored you with it. 
 
 COLONEL [very much the fine gentleman] Indeed, 
 no, it was I who let out the secret. But I said also that 
 you are a learned man. 
 
 SOUS-!N. A dabbler only, colonel. 
 
 BRIGNAC [pretending to find upon the table the circu- 
 lar mentioned in the first act] Hullo! what's this? 
 [No one hears him. He puts the circular back again 
 upon the table]. 
 
 LUCIE [to the sous-intendant] And are you also a 
 literary man ? 
 
 SOUS-!N. The Intelligence Department is the literary 
 section of the army. 
 
 LAURENT [to Jacques Poiret, passing him his glass] 
 M. le maire ? 
 
 PIERRE [same thing] M. le maire ? 
 
 BRIGNAC [again taking up the circular: in a louder 
 voice] Hullo! What's this? [They all look at him], 
 It 's that very circular I was talking about at dinner : the 
 one from the Minister of the Interior. 
 
 COL. About the decline of the population? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes, colonel. This is an important official 
 document. It came to-day, and I have been carefully 
 considering what can be done to advance this movement 
 in my own humble sphere of influence. [To Chevillot] 
 As I said to you a short time ago, M. le maire of Chateau- 
 neuf, the Minister desires to see the whole of France 
 covered with associations having the increase of the 
 population for their object; I am certain that you will 
 desire that this town of Chateauneuf, of which you are
 
 32 Maternity Act II 
 
 the chief magistrate and in which I am the representa- 
 tive of the Republic, should have the honor of being 
 among the first to set out upon the road indicated to us. 
 
 CHE v. I 'm with you. I am a manufacturer : I am all 
 for large populations. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You are the very man to be president of 
 the Chateauneuf association. 
 
 COL. I am a soldier: I also am for large populations. 
 
 LUCIE. And you, M. 1'intendant? 
 
 Sous-lN. I, madame, am a bachelor. 
 
 COL. [joking] More shame for you! 
 
 BRIGNAC [also joking] It 's a scandal, monsieur, a 
 perfect scandal. 
 
 MME. CHEV. You don't regret it? 
 
 Sous-lN. Ah, I don't say that, madame. 
 
 BRIGNAC [to the three mayors] You have heard, mes- 
 sieurs les maires: commerce and the army require the 
 increase of the population, and the Government com- 
 mands you, therefore, to further this end to the best of 
 your ability, each one of you in his own commune. 
 
 The three mayors seem annoyed. They look at one 
 another. 
 
 PIERRE [nervelessly] All right, M. le sous-prefet. 
 
 LAUR. [in the same tone] I '11 mention it. 
 
 JACQUES [the same] I '11 think it over. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Oh, but gentlemen, I want something more 
 definite than that. I am a man of action : I am not to be 
 put off with words. " Acta non verba." May I depend 
 on you to set to work? 
 
 LAUR. You see, M. le sous-prefet, this '11 take a bit 
 of thinking over. 
 
 JACQUES. Don't be in a hurry. 
 
 BRIGNAC. We must be men of action. M. Pierre Poi- 
 ret, now is your chance, won't you give them a lead ? 
 
 PIERRE. Me M. le sous-prefet? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes, you, M. le maire !
 
 Act II Maternity 33 
 
 PIERRE. No oh, no not me. If you knew no 
 not me. [Pointing to his neighbor] My brother, 
 Jacques Poiret: he's your man. Ask Jacques, M. le 
 sous-prefet, he can't refuse. But me not me ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Then it is to be you, M. Jacques Poiret? 
 
 JACQUES. If they want to start an association in my 
 commune, M. le sous-prefet, they must get Thierry to 
 see to it. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Who is Thierry ? 
 
 JACQUES. My opponent at the next election. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Why ? 
 
 JACQUES. Why if he goes in for this I 'm certain 
 to get in. But about the next commune, I can't under- 
 stand why my brother Pierre won't. 
 
 PIERRE. Me? 
 
 JACQUES. Yes, you 're the very man. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Why? 
 
 JACQUES. Why? Because he has eight children. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You, M. Pierre Poiret, you have eight chil- 
 dren, and you said nothing about it ! Let these ladies 
 congratulate you. 
 
 PIERRE [resisting] It 's not civil, M. le sous-prefet, 
 it 's not civil. 
 
 BRIGNAC. What d' you mean ? 
 
 PIERRE. When you ask people to dinner it 's not to 
 make fun of them. 
 
 BRIGNAC. But I 'm not making fun of you. 
 
 PIERRE. You 'd be the first that did n't. / can't help 
 it ! It 's real bad luck, that 's what it is. But it 's no 
 reason why I should always be made fun of. 
 
 BRIGNAC. But 
 
 PIERRE. Yes, it 's always the same. In my com- 
 mune 
 
 BRIGNAC [interrupting] But I assure you 
 
 PIERRE. In my commune they 're always joking about 
 me. They say " Hey, Pierre Poiret, there 's a prize for
 
 34 Maternity Act II 
 
 the twelfth ! " Or they say " Pierre Poiret " and 
 there is n't a single day they don't say it, and everyone 
 thinks it 's funny, and they split with laughing they 
 say " Pierre Poiret " only hum not before the 
 ladies. [Jacques Poiret is holding his sides] Just look 
 at that fool ! I 'm sure he brought the talk round to that 
 a' purpose. 
 
 BRIGNAC. No, no. 
 
 PIERRE. I bet you he did. Whenever we 're in com- 
 pany it 's the same thing. I won't go about with him any 
 more. 
 
 BRIGNAC. But your position is most honorable. 
 
 PIERRE. And the worst of it is that he 's right. I call 
 myself a fool myself when I 'm alone. [Jacques Poiret 
 goes on laughing] Look at him grinning look ! 
 because he 's only got two. [To his brother] You 
 puppy ! 
 
 COL. [to Pierre Poiret] You deserve the greatest 
 credit, M. Pierre Poiret. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You do. 
 
 CHEV. You do, indeed, monsieur. 
 
 COL. [to Pierre Poiret] In comparing your conduct 
 with your brother's all men of real worth will blame him 
 and congratulate you, as I do, most sincerely. [He 
 shakes him by the hand]. 
 
 CHEV. [to Pierre Poiret] Bravo, monsieur! You are 
 helping us in our great work. [He shakes him by the 
 hand]. 
 
 JACQUES [looking at his brother] They seem as if 
 they meant it ! 
 
 BRIGNAC [to Jacques Poiret] You, monsieur, have 
 chosen the easier and more agreeable life; don't be sur- 
 prised if we look upon your brother as the more merito- 
 rious, though you may be cleverer. 
 
 PIERRE [striking his thigh] That's the talk. [To his 
 brother] Put that in your pipe, M. Jacques.
 
 Act II Maternity 35 
 
 JACQUES. All right. You are the most meritorious. 
 Is that what you 're going to pay your baker with? 
 
 PIERRE. Shut up ! I 'm the best citizen ! I 'm the 
 most meritorious ! 
 
 JACQUES. H'm yes. What does that bring you in? 
 
 SOUS-!N. I will tell you that, monsieur. It brings in 
 to your brother, as the poet says, " The joy of duty 
 done." 
 
 JACQUES. H'm. That won't put butter on his bread. 
 
 Sous-lN. That is true. But one can't have every- 
 thing. 
 
 PIERRE [to Brignac, pointing to his brother] He 's 
 right, monsieur. For the once that I Ve been compli- 
 mented, I 've had to go through some bad times. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You must n't think of that. 
 
 PIERRE. Oh must n't I? Go along! He 's right. 
 
 BRIGNAC. He 's not. 
 
 PIERRE. Yes, he is. 
 
 CHEV. and COL. No, no. 
 
 PIERRE. Yes, he is. 
 
 BRIGNAC. No. It 's possible that some people might 
 think so now ; but in ten years the tables will be turned. 
 He may die lonely, while you will have a happy old age 
 with your children and your grandchildren. 
 
 PIERRE. Perhaps it was like that once; but nowadays 
 as soon as the children can get along by themselves, off 
 they go ! 
 
 CHEV. Even so they will send you help if you need it. 
 
 JACQUES. They could n't help him, even if they 
 wanted to. 
 
 COL. Why not? 
 
 JACQUES. Because as there were eight he could n't do 
 anything for them, so they '11 only be struggling, hand- 
 to-mouth creatures ; not earning enough to keep them- 
 selves, much less help him. 
 
 PIERRE. And he 's been able to bring up his well.
 
 36 Maternity Act II 
 
 He 's only one girl : he gave her a fortune and she made 
 a fine marriage. He 's only one boy : he was able to send 
 him to Grignon and he '11 earn big money like his father. 
 No: it's no use your talking. They're right when 
 they say " Well, Poiret/' - h'm not before the 
 ladies. 
 
 He goes to the table, pours himself out a glass of cog- 
 nac, and drinks it. 
 
 COL. I regret to say we have become too farseeing a 
 nation. Everyone thinks of his own future: no one 
 thinks of the good of the community. 
 
 BRIGNAC. In former times people troubled less about 
 the future. They had faith, and remembered the words 
 of the Scriptures, " Consider the lilies of the field, how 
 they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet 
 I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was 
 not arrayed like one of these." 
 
 LUCIE. And yet there are little children going about 
 in rags. 
 
 Sous-lN. God must be less interested in them than in 
 the lilies of the field. 
 
 COL. [to Jacques Poiret] But, monsieur, you need 
 hands, too, in harvest-time. 
 
 JACQUES. I have a cutting-and-binding machine. It 
 does the work of twelve men, and only cost a thousand 
 francs. A child costs more. 
 
 CHEV. We must have workmen to make machines. 
 
 JACQUES. We buy the machines ready-made in Amer- 
 ica much cheaper than w. ' can make them in France. 
 
 CHEV. If there were a greater number of workmen 
 we might cut down wages and produce at lower prices. 
 
 JACQUES. Cut down wages ! The workmen are com- 
 plaining already that they can't live on their wages. 
 
 CHEV. Bah ! give them twenty francs a day, and 
 they '11 still complain. 
 
 Sous-lN. You have not tried that yet.
 
 Act II Maternity 37 
 
 COL. My dear fellow, remember that, as a bachelor, 
 you are out of this discussion. 
 
 SOUS-!N. I withdraw. 
 
 CHEV. I did n't mean that for you, Laurent. [To the 
 Colonel] M. Laurent, the mayor of Ste. Genevieve, was 
 formerly a workman of mine, but he came into a little 
 money, and went back to his native place. [To Laurent] 
 No I did n't mean it for you ; but they 're not all like 
 you,^you know. 
 
 BRIGNAC [to Laurent] So you refuse to form an asso- 
 ciation too? 
 
 LAUR. Refuse, M. le sous-prefet? No. 
 
 BRIGNAC. At last ! Here 's a mayor who understands 
 his duties. He '11 start the thing among his people, and 
 before long we shall have the commune of Ste. Gene- 
 vieve setting an example to the whole of France. 
 
 LAUR. Don't get that into your head, monsieur ; you '11 
 be disappointed. 
 
 BRIGNAC. No, no. 
 
 LAUR. Whether you form your association or don't 
 form your association, the people at home are too sen- 
 sible to have more children than they 've cradles for. 
 They know too well they must put a bit by. 
 
 BRIGNAC. If you think that an association will make 
 no difference why do you agree to form one? 
 
 LAUR. Because I want you to get me what you prom- 
 ised me. 
 
 BRIGNAC. What was that? 
 
 LAUR. You know. 
 
 BRIGNAC. No, I don't. 
 
 Laurent touches his buttonhole. 
 
 BRIGNAC [angrily] Is that what we 've come to? We 
 were speaking of the good of the community. 
 
 CHEV. [the same] It 's most discouraging. We point 
 out to you that the trade of the country is in danger. 
 
 BRIGNAC. And you only think of yourself.
 
 38 Maternity Act II 
 
 CHEV. You only think of yourself. 
 
 BRIONAC. What a want of public spirit! 
 
 CHEV. Bad citizenship ! 
 
 LAUR. [getting excited] Oh, yes ! Making the poor 
 do everything ! Go and talk to the middle classes, 
 who 've money enough to rear children by the dozen, and 
 who 've fewer than the workmen. Here 's M. Chevillot: 
 he has twenty thousand francs a year, I have two thou- 
 sand. When he has ten children, then I '11 have one. 
 That '11 be fair and square, won't it now? 
 
 CHEV. These personalities 
 
 LAUR. Is it true that you 've only one son ? 
 
 CHEV. It 's true. But if I had several my works 
 would have to be sold at my death, and 
 
 LAUR. There we are. These gentlemen are too pre- 
 cious careful about the fortunes they leave their own 
 children; but when it's a question of the workmen's 
 children, they think it don't matter if there ain't enough 
 victuals to go round. 
 
 CHEV. It is to the interest of the workmen that my 
 works should be prosperous. 
 
 LAUR. But you only take unmarried men. 
 
 CHEV. I beg your pardon I 
 
 LAUR. Is it true? 
 
 CHEV. It 's because of the Employers' Liability Bill. 
 Let me explain [Laurent turns his back on him. 
 He addresses himself to Brignac] Allow me to 
 [Brignac does not listen. To the sous-intendant~\ If I 
 was allowed to explain you would understand. I 'm per- 
 fectly consistent. 
 
 LAUR. Are we to do as you say, or are we to do 
 as you do? If you believed what you say you'd act 
 accordingly. 
 
 CHEV. But 
 
 BRIGNAC. We should n't indulge in these personali- 
 ties. We must look higher. Lift up your hearts. Sur-
 
 Act II Maternity 39 
 
 sum corda. You have just heard, gentlemen, that com- 
 merce and the army protest against the decline of the 
 population. And I, the representative of the Govern- 
 ment of this country, tell you, in concert with commerce 
 and the army, that there must be more births. 
 
 LAUR. And what 's the Government doing? 
 
 BRIGNAC. What is it doing! well and this 
 circular ? 
 
 SOUS-!N. We must be just. Besides this circular, 
 the Government has appointed a Commission to enquire 
 into the matter. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Various measures are being brought up. 
 
 LAUR. When they 're passed we '11 see. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Those who have a large family will be 
 exempted from taxation. 
 
 LAUR. From what taxes? 
 
 BRIGNAC. What taxes ! The taxes you pay to the 
 collector, of course. 
 
 LAUR. Listen, M. le sous-prefet. The poor pay next 
 to nothing of those taxes. They pay the real taxes : the 
 taxes upon bread, wine, salt, tobacco : and they '11 go on 
 paying them. The more children you have, the more 
 money the State takes from you. 
 
 Sous-lN. Pray do not forget that the State proposes 
 to confer a decoration upon every mother of seven 
 children. 
 
 PIERRE [to Laurent] There you are! 
 
 JACQUES. M. le sous-prefet, we must be off. We 've 
 a long way to go. 
 
 BRIGNAC [to Jacques] Good-night, M. le maire. 
 
 PIERRE [tipsy] I 'm all right here. Why go 'way? 
 
 LAUR. I 'm a fool, M. Brignac. I 'm afraid I 've 
 been setting you against me. I '11 start an association 
 trust me. Good-night. Good-night, madame. 
 
 JACQUES. Good-night, madame. 
 
 LUCIE. Good-night, good-night.
 
 40 Maternity Act II 
 
 PIERRE. Good-night, ladies, gents, and hie the 
 company. 
 
 They go out, accompanied by Brignac. 
 
 COL. [to Lucie and Madame Chevillot] I 'm afraid 
 we 've bored you, ladies, with our discussion. 
 
 LUCIE. Not at all. 
 
 COL. I notice that women are usually a little impa- 
 tient if we talk of these questions. 
 
 Sous-lN. As impatient as we should be if they dis- 
 cussed the recruiting laws without consulting us. 
 
 MME. CHEV. Precisely. 
 
 COL. [to Lucie] Perhaps, too, you don't agree with 
 us. 
 
 LUCIE. You '11 never make women understand why 
 children must be created to be killed in your battles. 
 
 COL. [to the sous-intendant] There, that 's how the 
 military ruin of a country is brought about. 
 
 Sous-lN. You 're right, colonel, if it be true that 
 power is a function of number. 
 
 COL. Well, isn't it? 
 
 Sous-lN. Those who believe the contrary say " There 
 is no evidence in history that supremacy, even military 
 supremacy, has ever belonged to the most numerous 
 peoples." I quote M. de Varigny. General von der Gotz 
 shares this opinion, and our own General Serval says, 
 " All great military operations have been performed by 
 small armies." 
 
 Brignac comes in. 
 
 COL. Oh, ho, Mr. Bachelor, you 've got all the argu- 
 ments on your side at your finger-ends. 
 
 BRIGNAC. We shall make laws against you and your 
 like, M. le sous-intendant. We shall make it impossible 
 for you to receive money by will, as the Romans did. 
 We shall make you pay fines, as the Greeks did. And 
 we '11 invent something new, if necessary. 
 
 Sous-lN. Compulsory paternity !
 
 Act II Maternity 41 
 
 COL. One may fairly ask whether people have the 
 right to shirk these obligations. 
 
 Sous-lN. Some people think it is their duty. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Their duty ! 
 
 Sous-Ix. Are you sure that all men who don't marry 
 are bachelors from pure selfishness? 
 
 COL. Of course, we 're not speaking of you personally. 
 
 Sous-lN. Do so, by all means. It was not out of mere 
 lightness of heart that I deprived myself of the tender- 
 ness of a wife and the caresses of a child. When I 
 was young I was poor and sickly. I did not choose to 
 bring children into the world when I had nothing to 
 leave them but my bad constitution. I said, in the words 
 of a great poet: 
 
 Remain 
 
 In the elusive realm of might-have-been, 
 O son more loved than any ever born! 
 
 I thought it better to be lonely than let the stock go 
 from bad to worse. I believe it is a crime to bring a 
 child into the world if one cannot give it health and bring 
 it up well. We saw one hundred conscripts this morn- 
 ing, colonel, and we passed sixty. Would it not have 
 been better if there had only been eighty and we could 
 have passed them all? 
 
 COL. Perhaps you are right. I said what I said 
 because I 've heard it so constantly repeated. 
 
 Sous-lN. When there are healthy houses and food and 
 clothing for everyone it will be time to think of adding 
 to the number. 
 
 LUCIE. That is very true. 
 
 CHEV. You evidently don't share M. Brignac's ideas, 
 madame. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Oh, indeed she does. Madame Brignac and 
 I have three children, and we don't mean to stop there: 
 so my wife may qualify for that decoration some day. 
 
 LUCIE \to Chevillot] As far as I can see, M. le
 
 42 Maternity Act II 
 
 maire, when children are born now society does not 
 always make them welcome. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I think, my dear, that you had better 
 leave the discussion of this important question to the 
 gentlemen. 
 
 LUCIE. But surely it has some interest for us women ! 
 I hear everyone else consulted about it political people 
 and business people but nobody ever thinks of con- 
 sulting us. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Far from not welcoming the children that 
 are born, society 
 
 LUCIE [to Brignac] Stop! Do you remember what 
 happened lately, not a hundred miles from here ? I mean 
 about the servant who was turned out into the street 
 because she was going to have a baby. She will have 
 to go to some hospital for her confinement. And after 
 that what will happen to her and her child? 
 
 BRIGNAC [to the others] Madame Brignac speaks of 
 something which took place recently in a most respect- 
 able family. The incident has nothing whatever to do 
 with the principles we are defending. It is clear that 
 one cannot have a servant in that condition in a well- 
 kept house. And there are higher considerations which 
 will always prevent a respectable citizen from even ap- 
 pearing to condone immorality by sheltering it. One 
 must not offer a premium to evil-doing. 
 
 CHEV. Very true. 
 
 LUCIE. And the unfortunate girl, who is very likely 
 only the victim of another person, is condemned by 
 everyone. 
 
 BRIGNAC [timidly'] No, no, I don't say that. I myself 
 am very liberal, and I confess that in exceptional 
 circumstances one should be indulgent to her. 
 
 LUCIE. Very well. Don't forget you have said that. 
 
 COL. Good-night, madame. I must be going. Thank 
 you for a charming evening.
 
 Act II Maternity 43 
 
 CHEV. I also, madame charming. 
 
 BRIONAC [pointing to the door into his office] This 
 way. As you go out I want to show you a diagram I have 
 had done, by which you can make yourself acquainted 
 at a single glance with the political conditions of the 
 division. There is an arrangement of pins [They 
 hesitate'] One minute. It will only take a minute. You 
 can go out through the office. One minute while you 
 are putting on your coats. The coats are in there. I 'm 
 going out with you to a reception at the club. You '11 
 see it 's rather curious. [To Lucie, aside] You come 
 too. [Aloud] I think the idea is ingenious. 
 
 He talks them all off. When they are gone there is a 
 short pause, and then Catherine opens the door at the 
 back and steps forward. 
 
 CATHERINE [to Annette, who has come into the ante- 
 room] Yes, mademoiselle, they are all gone. 
 
 Annette comes in. She takes off her hat and cloak 
 and hands them to Catherine, who takes them into the 
 anteroom and comes back to turn out the principal 
 electric lights and to take away the tray. Annette, 
 rvitli fixed, staring eyes, sits rigidly upon the couch. 
 Lucie comes in. 
 
 LUCIE. Annette! Where have you been? 
 
 ANNETTE. I have been to see Jacques Bernin. 
 
 LUCIE. You have seen him ? You have spoken to him ? 
 
 ANNETTE. I went to his father's house. 
 
 LUCIE. Well? 
 
 ANNETTE. There is no hope. 
 
 LUCIE. What did they say to you? 
 
 ANNETTE. I ought n't ever to tell anyone about the 
 two hours I have just lived through. It 's too shameful. 
 Too vile. What I can't believe is that all that really 
 happened to me, and that I am alive still. 
 
 LUCIE [tenderly] Tell me all about it. 
 
 ANNETTE. What 's the good of my telling you? It 's
 
 44 Maternity Act II 
 
 all over. There 's nothing left. He did n't love me : 
 he never loved me. He 's gone. He 's going to marry 
 another woman. 
 
 LUCIE. He 's gone? 
 
 ANNETTE. He went this evening. They all went. M. 
 and Madame Bernin and Gabrielle dined at the station; 
 Jacques dined at a restaurant with some friends. I went 
 there. I sent up for him. From where I was standing, 
 in the vestibule, I heard their jokes when the waiter gave 
 him my message. 
 
 LUCIE [in gentle reproach] Annette! 
 
 ANNETTE. I wanted to know. I was certain his people 
 were taking him away by force, and I was making ex- 
 cuses for him. I was certain he loved me. I should have 
 laughed if anyone had told me he would n't be horrified 
 when he heard what had happened to me. I thought that 
 when he knew, he 'd take my hand, and go with me to 
 his people, and say " Whether you wish it or not, here 
 is my wife." As I was sure it would end like that, I 
 thought it was better it should be over at once. I ex- 
 pected to come back here to beg ycur pardon to kiss 
 you and comfort you. 
 
 LUCIE. And what did he say? 
 
 ANNETTE [without listening] I think I 've gone mad. 
 All that happened, and I 'm here. I 'm quiet: I 'm not 
 crying: it 's as if I was paralyzed. 
 
 LUCIE. You said you sent a message to him at the 
 restaurant ? 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. Did he come? 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes. He said he thought some chorus-girl 
 wanted him. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh! And when he found it was you? 
 
 ANNETTE. He took me out into the street for fear I 
 should be recognized, and I had to explain it to him in 
 the street. [A pause] People passing by stared at us,
 
 Act II Maternity 45 
 
 and some of them laughed. [With passion and pain] 
 Oh ! if I only had no memory ! 
 
 LUCIE. Tell me, darling, tell me. 
 
 ANNETTE [with violence] Oh, I '11 tell you. You '11 
 despise me a little more; but what can that matter to me 
 now? First he pretended not to understand me: he 
 forced me to say it quite plainly : he did it on purpose 
 either to torture me, or to give himself time to think. 
 You '11 never guess what he said that it was n't true. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh ! 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes, that it was n't true. He got angry, 
 and he began to abuse me. He said he guessed what I 
 was up to; that I wanted to make a scandal to force 
 him to marry me oh, he spared me nothing to force 
 him to marry me because he was rich. And when that 
 made me furious, he threatened to call the police ! I 
 ought to have left him, run away, come home, ought n't 
 I ? But I could n't believe it of him all at once, like that ! 
 And I could n't go away while I had any hope. You see, 
 as long as I was with him, nothing was settled: as long 
 as I was holding to his arm it was as if I was engaged. 
 When he was gone I should only be a miserable ruined 
 girl, like dozens of others. Then I was afraid of 
 making him angry: my life was at stake: and to save 
 myself I went down into the very lowest depths of vile- 
 ness and cowardice. I cried, I implored. I lost all 
 shame and I offered to go with him to a doctor to-morrow 
 to prove that what I told him was true. And what he 
 said then I cannot tell you not even you it was too 
 much too much I did n't understand at first. It 
 was only afterwards, coming back, going over all his 
 words, that I made out what he meant. He did n't be- 
 lieve what he said. He could n't have believed what he 
 said. At any rate he knows that I am not a girl out of 
 the streets. But at first I did n't understand. Then 
 where was I ? I don't remember At last he looked at
 
 46 Maternity Act II 
 
 his watch and said he had only just time to catch the 
 train. He said good-bye and started off at a great pace 
 to the station. I followed him imploring and crying. 
 I was so ashamed of my cowardice. It was horrible and 
 absurd ! I could n't believe it was the end of everything. 
 I was all out of breath almost running and I prayed 
 him for the sake of his child, for the sake of my love, of 
 my misery, of my very life; and I took hold of his arm 
 to keep him back. My God ! what must I have looked 
 like ! At the station entrance he said, " Let go your hold 
 of me." I said, " You shall not go." Then he rushed 
 to the train, and jumped into a carriage, and almost 
 crushed my fingers in the door; and he went and hid 
 behind his mother, and she threatened too to have me 
 arrested. And Gabrielle sat there looking white and 
 pretending not to know me. I came back. I have n't 
 had courage enough to kill myself, but I wish I was 
 dead ! [Breaking into sobs, and in a voice of earnest 
 supplication] Lucie, dear, I don't want to go through 
 all that 's coming I 'm too little, I 'm too weak, I 'm 
 too young to bear it. Really, I have n't the strength. 
 
 LUCIE. Annette don't say that. Hush, my darling, 
 hush. In the first place, everything has n't been tried. 
 You have entreated these people ; now we must threaten. 
 
 ANNETTE. It '11 be no use. 
 
 LUCIE. It will be of use. The way they 're hurrying 
 away shows how afraid they are of scandal. As soon as 
 my husband comes in I will tell him all about it. 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh, my God ! 
 
 LUCIE. He will go down and see them. He will 
 threaten them with an action. They will give in. 
 
 ANNETTE. We can't bring an action against them. 
 He told me so. 
 
 LUCIE. Then there are other ways of defending you. 
 Believe me, I 'm sure of it. 
 
 ANNETTE. There are not.
 
 Act II Maternity 47 
 
 LUCIE. There are. And even if there were n't, you 
 mustn't talk of dying at your age. Am I not here? 
 Annette, Annette, my little one, I will help you through 
 this trouble ! You believe me, don't you ? You know how 
 I love you? You know that mother left you in my care? 
 I '11 help you and comfort you and love you so well that 
 you '11 forget. 
 
 ANNETTE. Forget ! 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, yes; people forget. If it weren't for 
 that no one would be alive. 
 
 ANNETTE. I feel as if I had lived a hundred years. 
 Life is hard, hard; too hard. 
 
 LUCIE. Life is hard for all women. 
 
 ANNETTE. It 's worse for me than for anyone else. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, Annette ! If you only knew ! 
 
 ANNETTE. When I 've seen mothers with their little 
 children I 've had such dreams. 
 
 LUCIE. If you only knew! Those mothers had their 
 own troubles. Nearly every woman carries about with 
 her the corpse of the woman she might have been. 
 
 ANNETTE. Ah, Lucie, dear, it 's easy for you to talk. 
 
 LUCIE. Darling, you must n't think you 're alone in 
 your sorrow. I seem to you to be happy with my chil- 
 dren and my husband, and you think my happiness 
 makes light of your distress. But you 're wrong. Your 
 misery makes me so weak, I must tell you what I wanted 
 always to hide from you. My husband does not love me. 
 I don't love him. Can you realize the loneliness of that ? 
 If you knew what it means to live with an enemy and to 
 have to endure his caresses ! 
 
 ANNETTE. My poor dear ! 
 
 LUCIE. So you see, Annette, you must n't think about 
 dying, because perhaps I shall want your help as much 
 as you want mine. I heard the door shut. It 's Julien. 
 
 ANNETTE. Don't tell him: please don't. Spare me 
 the shame.
 
 48 Maternity Act II 
 
 LUCIE. Go away, now. 
 
 ANNETTE. You 've given me back a little hope. Dear- 
 est sister help me, I have nobody else. 
 
 LUCIE. Go ! 
 
 She goes: Brignac comes in. 
 
 BRIGNAC [making for the door of his office] Not gone 
 to bed yet? I had a stroke of luck at the club. I met 
 the editor of the ' Independent ' and I promised to write 
 him an article about the minister's circular for to-mor- 
 row's paper. An official's day is sometimes pretty full, 
 eh? 
 
 LUCIE. Jub'en, I have something very important to 
 tell you. A great misfortune has happened to us. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Good heavens, what is it? The children? 
 
 LUCIE. No, it has to do with Annette. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You said she did n't come to dinner because 
 of a headache. Have you been concealing something? 
 
 LUCIE. She is not ill, but she is cruelly and grievously 
 unhappy. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Nonsense ! Unhappiness at her age ! A 
 love affair. Some marriage she had set her heart on. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, a marriage she had set her heart on. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Ouf ! I breathe again. What a fright you 
 gave me ! That 's not of much consequence. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, it 's of the greatest consequence. Julien, 
 I appeal to your heart, to your kindliness, to your best 
 feelings. 
 
 BRIGNAC. But what 's the matter ? 
 
 LUCIE. Annette made the mistake of trusting entirely 
 to the man she loved, who had promised to marry her. 
 He took advantage of the child's innocent love. She has 
 been seduced. [In a low voice] Understand me, Julien, 
 she 's going to have a baby in six months. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Annette ! 
 
 LUCIE. Annette. 
 
 BRIGNAC. It 's impossible. It 's
 
 Act II Maternity 49 
 
 LUCIE. She is certain of it. She told me about it 
 herself. 
 
 BRIGNAC [after a silence] Who is it? 
 
 LUCIE. Jacques Bernin. 
 
 BRIGNAC [furious] Jacques Bernin! Well, this is a 
 nice piece of work ! She goes it, this little sister of 
 yours, with her innocent airs ! 
 
 LUCIE. Don't accuse her. Don't. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I really cannot compliment her ! I 'm 
 nicely repaid for all I 've done for her, and you may 
 thank her from me for her gratitude. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, don't be angry. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Well, if you are able to hear news like this 
 perfectly calmly, you are certainly endowed with unusual 
 self-control. 
 
 LUCIE. It was the child's innocence that made the 
 thing possible. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I daresay. Go and tell that to the Chateau- 
 neuf people ! Besides, if she was so innocent, why did n't 
 you look after her better ? 
 
 LUCIE. But it was you who were always urging her 
 to go to the Bernins. 
 
 BRIGNAC. In another minute it 's going to be all my 
 fault ! I was glad she should go to their house because 
 I thought old Bernin might be useful to us. How should 
 I know that the girl could n't behave herself ? 
 
 LUCIE. [indignantly] Oh, hush! I tell you Annette 
 is the victim of this wretch. If you are going to do 
 nothing but insult her, we had better stop discussing the 
 matter. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I 'm in a nice fix now ! There 's nothing 
 left for us but to pack our trunks and be off. I 'm done 
 for, ruined ! smashed ! 
 
 LUCIE. You exaggerate. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I exaggerate ! I tell you if she was caught 
 red-handed stealing, the wreck would n't be more com-
 
 50 Maternity Act II 
 
 plete. I even think that would have been better. 
 I should be less definitely compromised, and less 
 disqualified. 
 
 LUCIE. You can abuse her by and by: the business 
 now is to save her. The Bernins have gone away this 
 evening; find them to-morrow; and, if you speak to 
 them as you ought, they '11 understand that their son 
 must marry Annette. 
 
 BRIGNAC. But Jacques Bernin is engaged. 
 
 LUCIE. He must break it off, that 's all. 
 
 BRIGNAC. He won't break it off, because it means lots 
 and lots of money, and because he is the most ferocious 
 little fortune-hunter I ever met. Yes, he is ; I know him, 
 I see him at the club. I 've heard him holding forth 
 about women and money ; his opinions are edifying. By 
 the way, has Annette any letters from him connecting 
 him with this business? 
 
 LUCIE. No. 
 
 BRIGNAC. He 's not such a fool as to compromise him- 
 self. He '11 deny everything. 
 
 LUCIE. You must threaten them with a scandal. 
 
 BRIGNAC. We should be the first to suffer from that. 
 
 LUCIE. But we must do something. We must bring 
 an action. 
 
 BRIGNAC. There is no affiliation law in France. 
 
 LUCIE. You refuse to go and see what can be done 
 with the Bernins ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Not at all. I say that it would be a useless 
 journey. 
 
 LUCIE. Then what are we to do? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Not a soul in Chateauneuf must know what 
 has happened. Fortunately we have a little time. 
 
 LUCIE. What are you going to do ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. We '11 see. We '11 think it over. One 
 does n't come to a decision of this importance in ten 
 minutes.
 
 Act II Maternity 51 
 
 LUCIE. I want to know what you are going to do. 
 Your point of view surprises me so much that I wish to 
 understand it completely. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Understand this, then: if the matter is kept 
 secret, it is only our misfortune; if it becomes public, it 
 will be a scandal. 
 
 LUCIE. How can it be kept secret? 
 
 BRIGNAC. We must pack Annette off before anyone 
 suspects. 
 
 LUCIE. Where is she to go? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Ah! that 's the devil. Where where? 
 If only we had some friends we could trust, in some out- 
 of-the-way place, far away. But we have n't. Still, we 
 must send her somewhere. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, my God! [She sobs]. 
 
 BRIGNAC [irritated] For Heaven's sake don't cry like 
 that. That does n't mend matters. We must make some 
 excuse. We '11 invent an aunt, or a cousin who 's invited 
 her to stay. I will find a decent house in Paris for her 
 to go to. She '11 be all right there. When the time comes 
 she can put the child out to nurse in the country, and 
 come back to us. I shall certainly have got my promo- 
 tion by that time: we shall have left this place, and the 
 situation will be saved as far as it can be saved. 
 
 LUCIE. You propose that to me and you think I shall 
 consent to it ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Why not? 
 
 LUCIE. You 've not stopped to think. That 's your 
 only excuse. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I must say, I don't see 
 
 LUCIE. You seriously propose to send that poor child 
 to Paris, where she does n't know a soul ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. What do you mean by that? I will go to 
 Paris myself, if necessary. There are special boarding- 
 houses : very respectable ones. I '11 inquire : of course 
 without letting out that it is for anyone I know. And
 
 52 Maternity Act II 
 
 I '11 pay what is necessary. What more can you want? 
 We shall be sure of keeping the thing quiet that way. 
 I believe there are houses in Paris subsidized by the 
 State, and the people who stay in them need not even 
 give their names. 
 
 LUCIE. I tell you, you 've not stopped to think. Just 
 when the child is most in need of every care, you propose 
 to send her off alone ; alone, do you understand, alone ! 
 To tear her away from here, put her into a train, and 
 send her off to Paris, like a sick animal you want to 
 get rid of. It would be enough to make her kill 
 herself. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Can you think of anything better ? 
 
 LUCIE. Everything is better than that. If I con- 
 sented to that I should feel that I was as bad as the man 
 who seduced her. Be honest, Julien: remember it is 
 in our interest you propose to sacrifice her. We shall 
 gain peace and quiet at the price of her loneliness and 
 despair. To save ourselves trouble serious trouble, 
 I admit we are to abandon this child to strangers. 
 She does not know the meaning of harshness or unkind- 
 ness ; and we are to drive her away now now, of all 
 times ! Away from all love and care and comfort, with- 
 out a friend to put kind arms round her and let her sob 
 her grief away. I implore you, Julien, I entreat you, 
 for our children's sake, don't keep me from her, don't 
 ask me to do this shameful thing. I will not do it ! We 
 must do something else. Make me suffer if you like, but 
 don't add abandonment and loneliness to the misery of 
 my poor little helpless sister. 
 
 BRIGNAC. There would have been no question of mis- 
 ery if she had behaved herself. 
 
 LUCIE. She is this man's victim ! But she won't go. 
 You '11 have to drive her out as you drove out the servant. 
 Have you the courage? Just think of what her life will 
 be. Try to realize the long months of waiting in that
 
 Act II Maternity 53 
 
 dreadful house: the slow development of the poor little 
 creature that she will know beforehand is condemned to 
 all the risks children run when they are separated from 
 their mothers. And when she is torn with tortures, and 
 cries out in that fearful anguish I know so well, and 
 jealous death seems to be hovering over the bed of 
 martyrdom, waiting for mother and child; just when 
 one is overcome by the terror and amazement of the mys- 
 tery accomplished in oneself ; then, then there '11 be 
 only strangers with her. And if her poor anguished eyes 
 look round for an answering look, perhaps the last; if 
 she feels for a hand to cling to, she will see round her 
 bed only men doing a duty, and women going through 
 a routine. And then after that she 's to let her 
 child go; to stifle her strongest instinct; to silence the 
 cry of love that consoles us all for the tortures we have 
 to go through; to turn away her eyes and say " Take 
 him away, I don't want him." And at that price she 's 
 to be forgiven for another person's crime ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. But what can I do ? I can't alter the world, 
 can I ? The world is made like that. If Annette was ten 
 times more innocent she could n't stay here. 
 
 LUCIE. I 
 
 BRIGNAC [violently] And I don't choose that she shall 
 stay here. Do you understand? I 'm sorry she has to 
 go by herself to Paris. But once more, if she had be- 
 haved respectably she would n't be obliged to do it. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Can't you understand that she would suffer 
 much more here, surrounded by people who know her, 
 than she would there, where she would be unknown? 
 Here she could n't so much as go down the street without 
 exposing herself to insult. Why, if she even went to 
 mass or to a concert after her condition became evident, 
 it would be a kind of provocation; people would avoid 
 her as if she had the plague. Mothers would sneer and
 
 54 Maternity Act II 
 
 tell their daughters not to look at her, and men would 
 smile in a way that would be an outrage. 
 
 LUCIE. If necessary she can stay at home. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Stay at home ! Rubbish ! What would be 
 the good of that? Servants would talk, and the scandal 
 would be all the greater. And you have n't reflected that 
 the consequences would fall upon me. You have n't 
 troubled to consider me, or to remember the drawback 
 this will be to me. I am not alluding to the imbecile j okes 
 people are sure to make about the apostle of re-popula- 
 tion. But our respectability will be called in question. 
 People will remark that there are families in which such 
 things don't happen. Political hatred and social prejudice 
 will help them to invent all sorts of tales. And the allu- 
 sions, the suggestions, the pretended pity ! There would 
 be nothing left for me but to send in my resignation ! 
 
 LUCIE. Send it in. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes, and what should we live upon then? 
 
 LUCIE [after a silence] Then that is society's wel- 
 come to the newborn child ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. To the child born outside marriage, yes. 
 If it was n't for that there would soon be nothing but ille- 
 gitimate births. It is to preserve the family that society 
 condemns the natural child. 
 
 LUCIE. If there is guilt two people are guilty. Why 
 do you only punish the mother? 
 
 BRIGNAC. What am I to say to you ? Because it 's 
 easier. 
 
 LUCIE. And that's your justice! The truth is, you 
 all uphold the conventions of society. You do. And the 
 proof is that if Annette stayed here in the town to have 
 her baby, you 'd all cry shame upon her; but if she goes 
 to Paris and has it secretly and gets rid of it, nobody 
 will blame her. Let 's be honest, and call things by their 
 names: it is not immorality that is condemned, but 
 motherhood. You say you want a larger number of
 
 Act II Maternity 55 
 
 births, and at the same time you say to women " No 
 motherhood without marriage, and no marriage without 
 money." As long as you 've not changed that all your 
 circulars will be met with shouts of derision half from 
 hate, half from pity ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Possibly. Good-night. I 'm going to work. 
 
 LUCIE. Listen Then you drive Annette from your 
 house ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. I don't drive her from my house. I beg her 
 to go elsewhere. 
 
 LUCIE. I shall go with her. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You mean, leave me? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Then you don't love me. 
 
 LUCIE. No. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Ah! Here 's another story. Since when? 
 
 LUCIE. I never loved you. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You married me. 
 
 LUCIE. Not for love. 
 
 BRIGNAC. This is most interesting. Go on. 
 
 LUCIE. You 're another victim of the state of society 
 you are defending. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I don't understand. 
 
 LUCIE. I was a penniless girl, and so I had no offers 
 of marriage. When you proposed to me I was tired of 
 waiting, and I did n't want to be an old maid. I ac- 
 cepted you, but I knew you only came to me because the 
 women with money would n't have you. I made up my 
 mind to love you and be loyal. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Well? 
 
 LUCIE. But when my first baby came you deceived 
 me. Since then I have only endured you, and you owe 
 my submission to my cowardice. It was only my first 
 child I wanted, the others you forced upon me, and 
 when each was coming you left me. It 's true I was 
 unattractive, but that was not my fault. You left me
 
 56 Maternity Act II 
 
 day after day in my ugliness and loneliness, and when 
 you came back to me from those other women, you were 
 full of false solicitude about my health. I begged for 
 a rest after nursing. I asked to be allowed to live a little 
 for myself, to be a mother only with my own consent. 
 You laughed at me in a vain, foolish way. You did not 
 consider the future of your children or the life of your 
 wife, but you forced upon me the danger and the suffer- 
 ing of bringing another child into the world. What was 
 it to you? Just the satisfaction of your vanity. You 
 could jest with your friends and make coarse witticisms 
 about it. Fool ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. That 's enough, thank you. You 're my 
 wife 
 
 LUCIE. I '11 not be your wife any longer, and I won't 
 have another child. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Why ? 
 
 LUCIE. Because I 've just found out what the future 
 of my poor, penniless little girls is to be. It 's to be 
 Annette's fate, or mine. Oh, to think I 've been cruel 
 enough to bring three of them into the world already ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. You 're mad. And be good enough not to 
 put on these independent airs. They 're perfectly 
 useless. 
 
 LUCIE. You think so? 
 
 BRIGNAC. I am sure of it. If you have had enough 
 of me, get a divorce. 
 
 LUCIE. But you would keep the children? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Naturally. And let me tell you that as 
 long as you are my wife before the world, you '11 be my 
 wife really. 
 
 LUCIE. And you will force me to have a child when- 
 ever you please? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Most certainly. 
 
 LUCIE. My God ! They think a woman's body is like 
 the clay of the fields ; they want to drag harvest after
 
 Act II Maternity 57 
 
 harvest from it until it is worn out and done for ! I 
 refuse this slavery, and I shall leave you if you turn out 
 my sister. 
 
 BRIQNAC. And your children ? 
 
 LUCIE. I will take them with me. 
 
 BRIONAC. And their food? 
 
 LUCIE. I will work. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Don't talk nonsense. You could n't earn 
 enough to keep them from starving. It 's late : go to 
 bed. 
 
 LUCIE [her teeth clenched] And wait for you? 
 
 BRIGNAC. And wait for me. Precisely. [He goes 
 out]. 
 
 LUCIE [rushing to the door on the left] Annette! Oh, 
 Annette ! There 's nobody to help us !
 
 ACT III 
 
 A court house, of which only two sides are visible. 
 The footlights would almost correspond with a line drawn 
 from one angle to the opposite one. On the left, to the 
 front, is the raised seat of the public Minister. Further 
 back, to the left, the court. Facing the audience, succes- 
 sively, counsels' bench; the defendants' bench, a little 
 raised; and the police bench. 
 
 In the centre, facing the table on which lie the " pieces 
 a conviction," is the witness-box. 
 
 To the extreme right are three or four benches, of 
 which a part only is visible, reserved for the public. The 
 jury, which is not visible, would be in the prompter's 
 place. 
 
 There are present the advocate-general; the president 
 of the court and his assessors; also the counsel for the 
 defence and some junior barristers. In the dock are 
 Madame Thomas, Marie Caubert, Tupin, Madame Tupin, 
 and several policemen. Madame Chevillot is among the 
 public. 
 
 PRESIDENT [authoritatively, to the counsel for the de- 
 fence] Maitre Verdier, you cannot speak now. I see 
 what line you propose to take for the defence, and I give 
 you fair warning that I shall use my whole power and 
 authority to prevent you from making light of the crim- 
 inal acts attributed to the defendants. 
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. You are mistaken, M. 
 le president. I have no intention of making light of
 
 Act III Maternity 59 
 
 them. On the contrary, I declare definitely that in my 
 eyes abortion is a crime, because it deprives of life a 
 creature already living; and to condone it would lead to 
 condoning infanticide also. But what I propose to 
 demonstrate is that in not permitting affiliation and in not 
 respecting all motherhood, whatever its origin may be, 
 society has lost its right to condemn a crime rendered 
 excusable by the hypocrisy of custom and the indifference 
 of the laws. 
 
 PRES. This is not the time for your address. Let the 
 woman Thomas stand up. [To Madame Thomas] So 
 you hunted up your clients in the provinces? 
 
 MME. THOMAS. No, M. le president. They came and 
 found me. 
 
 PRES. We shall see. Usher, bring forward the wit- 
 ness [he hunts for the name in his notes] Madame 
 Lucie Brignac. 
 
 MME. CHEV. [among the audience, to her neighbor] 
 Must n't Brignac be in a hurry to get his divorce ! 
 
 Lucie has approached the witness-bar. She is thinner 
 and older. 
 
 PRES. [to the usher] Has the witness been sworn? 
 
 USHER. Yes, M. le president. 
 
 PRES. [to Lucie] Was it of her own free will that 
 your sister, the unfortunate Annette Jarras, in conse- 
 quence of whose death the defendants have been arrested, 
 carne to Paris and placed herself in the hands of this 
 woman ? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, M. le president. 
 
 PRES. Very well. Go and sit down. I will call you 
 again presently. [Lucie retires to her place, sobbing] 
 Marie Caubert, come forward. [A small, thin woman 
 rises]. Your name is Marie Caubert? How old are 
 
 you 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. Twenty-seven. 
 PRES. Profession ?
 
 60 Maternity Act III 
 
 SCH. Schoolmistress. 
 
 PEES. You have come from the country, too: do you 
 know what you are accused of? 
 
 SCH. Yes, M. le president. 
 
 PRES. What have you to say in your defence? 
 
 SCH. I did not know I was doing wrong. 
 
 PRES. Your levity amazes me. You are a school- 
 mistress, and you do not realize that the sacred mission 
 with which you are entrusted, the mission of preparing 
 citizens and citizenesses for the glories of the future, 
 demands that your life should be exemplary. You are 
 appointed to give the elementary course of lessons in 
 civic morality : is it thus that you practise that morality ? 
 You have no answer ? According to the notes I have here 
 you insisted upon nursing your two children yourself. 
 Do you love them? 
 
 SCH. It was just because I love them. 
 
 PRES. But you decided that two were enough. You 
 ventured to limit the work of the Creator. 
 
 SCH. I should have liked nothing better than to have 
 four or five children. 
 
 PRES. Indeed! Then allow me to inform you that 
 you 've not taken the best means for arriving at that 
 desirable result. [He laughs, turning to his assessor on 
 the right, who laughs also]. 
 
 SCH. One must have money enough to bring them up. 
 
 PRES. Ah! Stop a moment. If some people were to 
 make that bad excuse I might understand it. But from 
 you, who enjoy the inestimable advantage of being 
 under the protection of the State, I do not understand it. 
 You are never out of work. 
 
 SCH. I earn 83 francs a month, and my husband, who 
 teaches too, earns the same. That makes 166 francs a 
 month to live on and to rear two children. When there 
 were four of us we could just scrape along, but with five 
 we could n't have managed it.
 
 Act III Maternity 61 
 
 PRES. You forget to mention that when your children 
 are coming you have a right to a month's holiday on full 
 salary. 
 
 SCH. Yes, at one time, M. le president, but not now. 
 In 1900 a ministerial circular announced to us that there 
 was not enough money, and we could practically only 
 have holidays at half salary. To get the whole salary 
 we must have a certificate from the inspector, giving 
 reasons. One has to petition for it. 
 
 PRES. Well, then one petitions. 
 
 SCH. It 's hard to seem like a beggar simply because 
 one has children. 
 
 PRES. Oho ! You 're proud. 
 
 SCH. That 's not illegal. 
 
 PRES. And that 's why you went to the woman 
 Thomas ? 
 
 SCH. Yes, monsieur. My husband and I had ar- 
 ranged our expenses carefully. On the evening of the 
 day we were paid our salary we used to divide the money 
 into little portions and put them away. So much for 
 rent, so much for food, so much for clothing. We just 
 managed to get along by being most careful ; and several 
 times we cut down expenses it did n't seem possible to 
 cut down. A third child coming upset everything. We 
 could n't have lived. We should all have starved. Be- 
 sides, the inspectors and directresses don't like us to have 
 many children, especially if we nurse them ourselves. 
 They told me to hide myself when I was suckling the 
 last one. I only had ten minutes to do it in, at the recre- 
 ations at ten o'clock and at two o'clock; and when my 
 mother brought baby to me I had to shut myself up with 
 him in a dark closet. 
 
 PRES. All that 's irrelevant. 
 
 COUN. DEF. No, M. le president, it ought to be known 
 here how the State, which preaches increase of the pop- 
 ulation, treats its employes when they have children.
 
 62 Maternity Act III 
 
 PRES. [furious] You have no right to speak. [To 
 the schoolmistress] Have you anything more to say? 
 
 SCH. No, M. le president. 
 
 PRES. Then sit down. Tupin, stand up. 
 
 TUPIN [a working man, mean and wretched] After 
 you, Calvon. 
 
 PRES. What ! What did you say ? 
 
 TUPIN. I said " After you, Calvon." Calvon 's your 
 name, is n't it ? 
 
 PRES. I warn you I shall not stand any insolence 
 from you. 
 
 TUPIN. I say to you " After you, Calvon," as you say 
 to me " Tupin, stand up." If that 's insolence, I did n't 
 begin it. 
 
 PRES. I shall have you turned out of the court. 
 Stand up. 
 
 TUPIN [standing] There: I'm very glad to. It'll 
 take the stiffness out of my legs. 
 
 PRES. Your profession? 
 
 TUPIN. Electrician. 
 
 PRES. You were once. It is a long time since you 
 worked regularly. 
 
 TUPIN. I can't get work. 
 
 PRES. Because you look for it in the public house. 
 The police reports about you are the most unfavorable. 
 
 TUPIN. I never liked the police: I 'm not surprised 
 they don't like me. [Laughter from the audience] 
 
 PRES. Silence! or I shall clear the court. [To 
 Tupin] The name of your wife, Eugenie Tupin, has 
 been found in the papers of the woman Thomas. Where 
 is the woman Tupin? Stand up. [To Tupin] That 
 will do, sit down. You attempted to conceal her from 
 the police. 
 
 TUPIN. I thought they were not good company for 
 her. 
 
 PRES. [pretending not to hear and consulting his
 
 Act III Maternity 63 
 
 notes] You gave yourself up and declared that you 
 yourself took her to this woman's house. 
 
 TUPIN. You speak like a book. 
 
 PRES. You persistently accused yourself. Did you 
 want to go to prison? 
 
 TUPIN. It 's not a bad place. One 's warm, and 
 there 's food at every meal. 
 
 PRES. It is true that prison diet is better than your 
 everyday fare. 
 
 TUPIN. Now you 're talking. 
 
 PRES. [consulting his notes] When you were arrested 
 you were both completely destitute. What remained of 
 your furniture had been sold, and you were entering upon 
 a state of complete vagabondage. No doubt you also will 
 accuse society. You are an unruly person. You frequent 
 Socialist clubs ; and when you don't affect a cynical care- 
 lessness in your language, as you are doing now, you like 
 to repeat the empty phrases you have picked up from the 
 propagandist pamphlets which are poisoning the minds 
 of the working classes. But we know all about you ; and 
 if you are a victim, you are the victim of your vices. You 
 drink. 
 
 TUPIN. I have taken to it lately. That 's true. 
 
 PRES. You confess it. Most extraordinary. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. What does that prove? 
 
 PRES. Your eldest daughter is on the streets and one 
 of your sons has been sent to prison for a year for theft. 
 Is that true? 
 
 TUPIN. Possibly. 
 
 PRES. Not quite so insolent now. I congratulate you. 
 W T e will proceed. You took your wife to an abortionist. 
 Why? 
 
 TUPIN. Because I considered that bringing seven mis- 
 erable little devils into the world was enough. 
 
 PRES. If you had continued to be the honest and 
 laborious workman that you once were you might have
 
 64 Maternity Act III 
 
 had another child, without that child being necessarily 
 a miserable little devil. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. That is n't true. 
 
 TUPIN. No, monsieur. After four it 's impossible. 
 
 PRES. I don't understand you. 
 
 TUPIN. What I say is that a workman's family, how- 
 ever hard they work and screw, can't get along when 
 there are five children. 
 
 PRES. If that is true there are and this society you 
 despise may be proud of it there are, I say, many 
 charities on the watch, so to speak, for the destitute; 
 and they make it a point of honor to leave none without 
 relief. 
 
 TUPIN [indignant] Oh, and that seems all right to 
 you, does it? You say it's a workman's duty to work 
 and to have a lot of children, and when he does it, fair 
 and square, and it makes a beggar of him, it seems to 
 you all right! 
 
 PRES. Ah, ha ! Here 's the orator of the public house 
 parlor. In the first place, we have only your assertion 
 that a workman's family cannot live when there are five 
 children. But, thank God, there are more than one or 
 two in that condition who have recourse neither to charity 
 nor to an abortionist. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. That 's not true. 
 
 TUPIN. Shall I prove to you that you 're wrong? 
 
 PRES. That has nothing to do with the charge against 
 you. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. Yes, it has. 
 
 TUPIN. I beg your pardon. If I prove it that will 
 explain how I came to do what I did. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. I should think so! 
 
 PRES. Very well, but cut it short. 
 
 TUPIN. I gave my lawyer the month's account. Please 
 let him read it to you. 
 
 PRES. Very well.
 
 Act III Maternity 65 
 
 The counsel for the defence rises. 
 
 COUN. Here it is. 
 
 PRES. Stop. You 're not Tupin's counsel. 
 
 COUN. No, M. le president. But my learned friends, 
 with a confidence which honors me, and for which I 
 thank them, have begged me to take over the conduct of 
 the case as a whole, reserving to themselves the right to 
 discuss important matters affecting their several clients. 
 
 PRES. Then I give you permission just to read this 
 document. But do not attempt to address the court. 
 This is not the time. You can read the paper and that 
 is all. Do you understand? 
 
 COUN. I perfectly understand, M. le president. [He 
 reads]. 1 
 
 DAILY EXPENSES 
 
 FOR THE MOTHER AND CHILDREN 
 
 Breakfast. f. c. 
 
 Milk, 20c., bread, lOc 30 
 
 Dinner. 
 
 Bread 70 
 
 Wine 20 
 
 Vegetables and dripping for soup ... ... ... 20 
 
 Meat 60 
 
 A relish for the children 25 
 
 SUPPER FOR ALL THE FAMILY 
 
 Stew 90 
 
 Potatoes, etc. 20 
 
 Wine 40 
 
 FOR THE HUSBAND 
 
 Tramway return fare ... ... ... ... 30 
 
 Tobacco 15 
 
 Dinner (out) 1 25 
 
 TOTAL 'FOR THE DAY ... ... ... ... ... 5 45 
 
 Comes to 1989f. 25c. per annum 
 
 1 A shorter version of this document, for the theatre, will be found 
 in a note at the end.
 
 66 Maternity Act III 
 
 YEARLY EXPENSES 
 Rent, 300f. 
 
 Dress. Three skirts at St.; three bodices at 3f.; sixteen 
 pairs of boots for the children at 4f. 50c. the pair; four for 
 the parents at 8f . Two hats at 2f . Underclothes for the 
 mother, 5f.; for the father, 15f.; for the children, 30f. Bed- 
 ding and linen, lOf. Clothes of the father, 120f. Total, 
 312f. 
 
 The expenses are therefore 2,600f. a year. Tupin, who 
 was a capable workman, earned 175f. a month, or 2,100f. 
 a year. There was therefore an annual deficit of 500f. 
 As I promised, I abstain from comment. [He sits down] 
 
 MME. CHEV. [to her neighbor] There were three sous 
 a day for tobacco that he might very well have saved. 
 
 COUN. Perhaps this document might be formally put 
 in evidence. 
 
 PRES. It is quite useless. [To Tupin] I am not 
 going to dispute your figures. I admit them, and I repeat 
 there are charities. 
 
 TUPIN. And I repeat that I 'm not a beggar. 
 
 PRES. You prefer to commit what is almost infanti- 
 cide. A man who has a daughter on the streets and a 
 son a thief may accept charity without degradation. 
 
 MME. TUPIN [outraged] Oh ! 
 
 TUPIN [indignant] In those days they were not what 
 they are now. If they fell so low it was because I had 
 too many children and I could n't look after my boy ; and 
 because my girl was deserted and starving. But you 
 must be made of stone to throw that in my teeth. 
 
 And if you took to drinking it 's not your fault either, 
 I suppose? 
 
 TUPIN. I want to explain about that. When we began 
 to get short in the house my wife and I started to quarrel. 
 Every time a child came we were mad at making it worse 
 for the others. And so I need n't make a long story 
 of it I ended up in the saloon. It's warm there, and
 
 Act III Maternity 67 
 
 you can't hear the children crying nor the mother com- 
 plaining. And besides, when you 've drink in you you 
 forget. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. It 's the sort of thing that it 's good to 
 forget. 
 
 TUPIN. And that 's how we got poorer and poorer. 
 My fault if you like. 
 
 PRES. And the last child, what about that? 
 
 MME. TUPIN. Oh, the last. 
 
 TUPIN. The last? He cost us nothing. 
 
 PRES. [carelessly] Eh? 
 
 MME. TUPIN. No. 
 
 TUPIN. No, he was a cripple. He was born in starva- 
 tion, and his mother was worn out. 
 
 PRES. And his father was a drunkard. 
 
 TUPIN. Maybe. Anyway that one, the sickly fellow, 
 wanted for nothing. They took him into the hospital. 
 They would n't let me take him away. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. He was a curiosity for the doctors. 
 
 TUPIN. And they nursed him and they nursed him 
 and they nursed him. They did n't leave him a minute. 
 They made him live in spite of himself. And they let 
 the other children the strong ones go to the bad. 
 With half the money and the fuss they wasted on the 
 cripple they could have made fine fellows of all the 
 others. 
 
 PRES. And was that the reason you did away with the 
 next ? 
 
 MME. TUPIN. For all the good he 'd have got out of 
 this world he might thank me for not letting him come 
 into it. 
 
 PRES. He should never have been created. 
 
 TUPIN. That 's true. 
 
 PRES. If everyone was like you the country would 
 soon go to the dogs. But you don't trouble yourself 
 much about the country, I expect.
 
 68 Maternity Act III 
 
 TUPIN. Someone said " A man's country is the place 
 where he 's well off." I 'm badly off everywhere. 
 
 PRES. You are perfectly indifferent to the good of 
 humanity. 
 
 TUPIN. Humanity had better come to an end if it 
 can't get on without a set of miserable wretches like me. 
 
 PRES. The jury thoroughly appreciate your moral 
 sense. You can sit down. 
 
 Evening has come. The ushers bring lamps. 
 
 PRES. [to Madame Tupin] Have you anything more 
 to say? 
 
 MME. TUPIN. I have to say that all this is not my 
 fault. My husband and I worked like beasts; we did 
 without every kind of pleasure to try and bring up our 
 children. If we had wanted to slave more I declare to 
 you we could n't have done it. And now that we Ve 
 given our lives for them, the oldest is in hospital ruined 
 and done for because he worked in a " dangerous trade " 
 as they call it ! 
 
 PRES. Why did n't you put him into something else ? 
 
 MME. TUPIN. Because there 's no work anywhere else. 
 They 're full up everywhere else. There are too many 
 people in the world. My little girl is a woman now like 
 lots of others in Paris. She had to choose between that 
 and starving. She chose that. I 'm only a poor woman, 
 and I know what it means to have nothing to eat, so I 
 forgave her. The worst of it is that sometimes she 's 
 hungry all the same. 
 
 TUPIN. And they say God blesses large families ! 
 
 PRES. [from his notes] Two others of your children 
 are dead. The two youngest are out at nurse. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. Yes. They were taken away as soon 
 as they were born. All I know about them is the post- 
 office order I send every month to the woman who 's 
 bringing them up. Oh, it 's cruel ! It 's cruel ! It 's 
 cruel ! [She sits dozun]
 
 Act III Maternity 69 
 
 PRES. We have now only to examine the case of An- 
 nette Jarras. Let the woman Thomas stand up. [To 
 Madame Thomas'] This was your victim. She was nine- 
 teen, quite young, and in perfect health. Now she is in 
 her grave. What have you to say? 
 
 MME. THOMAS [quietly] Nothing. 
 
 PRES. You don't excite yourself. Oh, we know you 
 are not easily moved. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. If I told you that it was pity made me 
 do it, you would n't believe me. 
 
 PRES. Probably not. But at any rate you might try. 
 Every accused person has a right to say whatever he can 
 in his own defence: of course under the control of the 
 president of the court. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. It is n't worth while. 
 
 PRES. Oh, yes. Let us hear. The gentlemen of the 
 jury are listening. 
 
 MME. THOMAS [after a sign from her counsel'] A girl 
 came to me one day; she was a servant. She had been 
 seduced by her master. I refused to do what she asked 
 me to do: she went and drowned herself. Another I 
 refused to help was brought up before you here for in- 
 fanticide. Then when the others came, I said Yes. I 've 
 prevented many a suicide and many a crime. 
 
 PRES. So that 's your line of defence. It is in pity, 
 in charity, that you have acted. The prosecution will 
 answer that you have never failed to exact payment for 
 your services, and a high payment. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. And you? Don't they pay you for 
 condemning other people ? 
 
 PRES. Those you condemn to death and execute your- 
 self are all innocent. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. You prosecute me, but you decorate 
 the surgeons who trade in sterility. 
 
 PRES. Be silent. Sit down. Madame Lucie Brignac. 
 [Lucie comes forward, in great emotion} Calm your-
 
 70 Maternity Act III 
 
 self, madame, and tell us what you know. You are called 
 for the defence. 
 
 LUCIE. It was I, monsieur, who asked to be heard. 
 
 PRES. Speak up, madame, I cannot hear what you say. 
 
 LUCIE [louder] It was I, monsieur, who asked to be 
 heard. I wanted to defend the memory of my little one. 
 I fear now I shall not have the strength. [She controls 
 herself] Annette was seduced by the man who had prom- 
 ised to marry her. She lived with us. When my hus- 
 band knew that my sister was in a certain condition, he 
 wished to send her away. I was indignant, and I left his 
 house with her and my children. We went to Bordeaux. 
 We had a few hundred francs, and we thought we could 
 work for our living. [She stops] 
 
 PRES. Well? 
 
 LUCIE. Our money was soon spent. Annette was giv- 
 ing some music lessons ; they guessed her condition and 
 they sent her away. I did some sewing. 
 
 PRES. And earned some money? 
 
 LUCIE. I could n't always get work. When I got it, I 
 was paid fifteen cents for twelve hours. I was not 
 a skilled worker. Some people get twenty-six cents. 
 We were in despair, thinking of the child that was 
 coming. 
 
 PRES. That was not a reason for leading your sister 
 and her child to their deaths ! [Lucie is seised with a 
 nervous trembling and does not answer] Answer ! 
 
 COUN. DEF. Give her a moment to recover, M. le 
 president. 
 
 LUCIE [controlling herself] I wanted to get her into 
 a hospital, but they only take them at the end. It seems 
 there are homes one can go to in Paris, but not in the 
 provinces. 
 
 PRES. You could have applied for charity. 
 
 LUCIE. Six months' residence was necessary. And 
 then, what should we have done with the child?
 
 Act III Maternity 71 
 
 PRES. As it was impossible for you to bring it 
 up, your sister could have taken it to a foundling 
 hospital. 
 
 LUCIE. Abandon it yes, we thought of that. We 
 made inquiries. 
 
 COUN. DBF. It is necessary to get a certificate of 
 indigence, and then make an application to the board of 
 admission. They inquire into the case and admit or re- 
 ject. The child may die meanwhile. 
 
 LUCIE. And they make a condition that the mother 
 shall not know where her child is. That she shall never 
 see it or hear of it again. Only once a month she will be 
 told if it is alive or dead. Nothing more. 
 
 PRES. Proceed, madame. 
 
 LUCIE. Then I brought my children back to my hus- 
 band, because we had nothing left. I went to see the 
 parents of the young man, who is the cause of every- 
 thing. They practically turned me out of doors. The 
 young man is going to be married. 
 
 COUN. DBF. May I say a word, M. le president? 
 
 PRES. You are sure it is only a word ? 
 
 COUN. DBF. Yes, M. le president. All the guilty are 
 not in court. I look in vain for the seducer of this poor 
 girl. He is waiting anxiously in the provinces to hear the 
 result of this trial, fearing his name may come out. I 
 have received from him and from his family an imploring 
 letter, entreating me to spare him and not to mention 
 him by name during the proceedings. Until now, as a 
 matter of fact his name has not been mentioned, and we 
 are at the end of the trial. Well, I am going to make it 
 known at once. I shall have no more pity for the family 
 and the intended wife of this criminal, than he had for 
 the woman who is dead, and for the woman whose life 
 he has ruined. If there is no law in the Code of this 
 country which can reach him, there will be at least indig- 
 nation enough in the hearts of. all honest people to pre-
 
 72 Maternity Act III 
 
 vent Jacques Bernin from enjoying in peace the happi- 
 ness he has stolen ! [Prolonged applause] 
 
 PRES. [to Lucie] Proceed, madame. [Pause] Kindly 
 conclude your evidence. 
 
 LUCIE. I implored my husband to take us back, An- 
 nette and me. He would n't. We came to Paris with a 
 little money he gave me. It was too soon for them to take 
 Annette into one hospital: in another, where they would 
 have taken her, there was no room. My husband filed a 
 petition for divorce. 
 
 PRES. Kindly tell us about what concerns the woman 
 Thomas. 
 
 LUCIE [with growing emotion] Yes, monsieur. An- 
 nette was always reproaching herself with having ac- 
 cepted what she called my sacrifice. She kept saying 
 she was the cause of all my troubles. [A silence] One 
 day they came to fetch me, and I found her dead at this 
 woman's house. [In a burst of sobs, which become 
 hysterical, she cries out] My little sister, my poor little 
 sister ! 
 
 PRES. [kindly, to the usher] Take her back to her 
 place, or, if necessary, take her outside and do all you 
 can for her. [To the defendants] Then none of you 
 has any more to say in your defence? 
 
 TUPIN [excited] Oh, if we said all we 've got to say 
 we should be here until to-morrow morning! 
 
 MME. TUPIN [the same] That we should! 
 
 TUPIN [shouting] We should never stop ! 
 
 PRES. I call upon the counsel for the prosecution for 
 his speech. 
 
 SCH. But, monsieur, you are not going to condemn 
 me ? It 's not possible. I have n't said everything. 
 
 TUPIN. We 're not the guilty ones. 
 
 SCH. I 'm afraid of getting a bad name. And we 
 had n't the means to bring up another. 
 
 MME. TUPIN [violently, much excited] Shut up ! As
 
 Act III Maternity 73 
 
 it 's like that as that 's what they do to our children 
 as men have found nothing to change that we must 
 do it the women must do it. We must start the great 
 strike the strike the strike of the mothers. 
 Cries in the audience, " Yes, yes." 
 
 PRES. Silence. 
 
 M ME. TUPIN [shouting] Why should we kill ourselves 
 to get wage-slaves and harlots for other people? 
 
 TUPIN. We 're not the guilty ones. 
 
 PRES. I did not 
 
 MME. THOMAS. And all the men that seduced the girls 
 I saved have you punished them? 
 
 PRES. Sit down. 
 
 TUPIN. The guilty ones are the people that tell us to 
 have more children when the ones we have are starving. 
 
 COUN. DBF. The seducers are the guilty ones; and 
 social hypocrisy. 
 
 During the proceedings, anger, which rapidly becomes 
 fury, has taken possession of the defendants. They are 
 all on their feet except the schoolmistress, who goes on 
 sobbing and murmuring to herself unintelligibly. The 
 president, also standing, strikes his desk with a paper- 
 knife, trying to impose silence. He shouts, but cannot 
 make himself heard. The tumult increases until the cur- 
 tain falls. The voices of the counsel for the defence and 
 the defendants drown those of the president and the 
 counsel for the prosecution. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. The fine gentlemen that get hold of 
 them and humbug them ! 
 
 PRES. I will have you taken back to prison. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. And the rich young man, and the old 
 satyrs and the men ! The men ! All the men ! 
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. Police, can't you 
 silence these lunatics ? 
 
 COUN. DBF. You have no right to insult the defend- 
 ants.
 
 74 Maternity Act III 
 
 TUPIN. They 've been doing nothing else the whole 
 time. 
 
 COUN. PROS. Keep his rabble quiet ! The defendants 
 must respect the law. 
 
 COUN. DEF. And you, sir, must respect justice. 
 
 COUN. PROS. You sympathize with their crime. I am 
 outraged by it. 
 
 COUN. DEF. They are right. They are not guilty. 
 You must respect 
 
 COUN. PROS. I demand 
 
 COUN. DEF. Our customs are guilty, which denounce 
 the unmarried mother ! 
 
 AUDIENCE. Bravo ! Hear, hear ! 
 
 COUN. PROS. I demand that the counsel for the 
 defence 
 
 COUN. DEF. Every woman with child should be re- 
 spected, no matter what the circumstances are. 
 [Applause} 
 
 PRES. Maitre Verdier, by article forty-three of the 
 regulations 
 
 COUN. DEF. Their crime is not an individual crime, it 
 is a social crime. 
 
 COUN. PROS. It is a crime against nature. 
 
 COUN. DEF. It is not a crime against nature. It is a 
 revolt against nature. 
 
 PRES. Police, remove the defendants. [The police do 
 not understand or do not hear} Maitre Verdier, must 
 we employ force? [Tumult in the whole court} 
 
 COUN. DEF. [rhetorically} It is a revolt against na- 
 ture ! And with all the warmth of a heart melted by pity, 
 with all the indignation of my outraged reason, I look 
 for that glorious hour of liberation when some master 
 mind shall discover for us the means of having only the 
 children we need and desire, release us for ever from the 
 prison of hypocrisy and absolve us from the profanation 
 of love. That would indeed be a conquest of nature
 
 Act III Maternity 75 
 
 savage nature which pours out life with culpable pro- 
 fusion, and sees it disappear with indifference. But, 
 until then 
 
 The tumult recommences. 
 
 PRES. Police, clear the court ! Police police, re- 
 move the defendants. The sitting is suspended. [The 
 magistrates cover their heads and rise], 
 
 MME. THOMAS. It 's not I who massacre the inno- 
 cents ! / 'm not the guilty one ! 
 
 SCH. Mercy, monsieur, mercy ! 
 
 MME. TUPIN. She 's not the guilty one ! 
 
 TUPIN. She 's right. She 's not! 
 
 MME. THOMAS. It 's the men ! the men ! all the men ! 
 
 The magistrates go out by the narrow door reserved 
 for them, the backs of their red robes disappearing 
 slowly during the last words.
 
 TUPIN'S BUDGET (CONDENSED). 
 
 The daily food of the mother and the five children consists of a loaf 
 
 of bread, soup made of dripping and vegetables, and a stew. 
 
 Total cost, 3f . 75c. 
 The husband's expenses are: carfare, 30c.; tobacco, 15c.; lunch, 
 
 If. 25c. 
 General expenses of the family: rent, 300f.; clothing, linen, boots 
 
 (sixteen pairs for the children at 4f . 50c. the pair, four for the 
 
 parents at 8f.), are again 300f. 
 Annual total, 2,600f.
 
 THE THREE DAUGHTERS 
 OF M. DUPONT 
 
 [Les Trois Filles de M. Dupont] 
 
 Translated by 
 ST. JOHN HANKIN
 
 Cast of the original production before the Stage 
 Society at the King's Hall, London, on March 12, 13 
 and 14, 1905. 
 
 MME. DUPONT Kate Bishop 
 
 COURTHEZON Leon M. Lion 
 
 CAROLINE Italia Conti 
 
 JULIE Ethel Irving 
 
 M. DUPONT O. B. Clarence 
 
 JUSTINE Lois Crampton 
 
 M. MAIRAUT Arthur Chesney 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT Agnes Thomas 
 
 ANTONIN MAIRAUT Charles V. France 
 
 LIONOL Lewis Carson 
 
 M. POUCHELET G. M. Graham 
 
 MME. POUCHELET Dora Barton 
 
 FRANC.OISE Florence Adale 
 
 ANGELE Gertrude Burnett
 
 ACT I 
 
 A very undistinguished room in a house in a French 
 country town. The time is February. There is in the 
 centre of the room a table, with chairs round it; a fire- 
 place on the left, and window on the right; a piano; 
 lamps; a bronze statuette of Gutenberg; Holland covers 
 on the furniture. There are doors to right and left and 
 at the back. 
 
 Madame Dupont is discovered alone, darning stock- 
 ings. After a moment or two Courthezon comes in, with 
 some papers in his hand. 
 
 COURTHEZON. Why, you 're all alone, Madame 
 Dupont ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes, M. Courthezon. 
 
 COURTHEZON. Your young ladies are listening to the 
 band? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No: Julie has gone to pay a call, and 
 Caroline is at Benediction. She goes every Sunday. 
 
 COURTHEZON. Oh, yes, of course. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. On Sunday we never see her, except 
 at dejeuner. The rest of the day she 's at church. I be- 
 lieve she never misses a service. And now she is one of 
 the Enfants de Marie. At her age, too ! 
 
 COURTHEZON. How old is she? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Thirty-three. 
 
 COURTHEZON. And still very religious? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Very. 
 
 COURTHEZON. [nodding] Her mother was just the 
 same. 
 
 79
 
 80 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 M ME. DUPONT. You remember my husband's first wife ? 
 
 COURTHEZON. Yes. I came to the printing office two 
 years before she died. [Pause] M. Dupont is at his 
 game at the Cafe du Commerce, no doubt? I should be 
 there myself if I could afford it. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You have your savings. 
 
 COURTHEZON. Precisely; and I don't want to lose 
 them. But you are working, Madame Dupont? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Mending some stockings. One must 
 find something to do. 
 
 COURTHEZON. I 've been hard at it, too, all day. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Still at your invention? 
 
 COURTHEZON. Yes. I tell you it 's splendid. I 've 
 been downstairs to the printing office to see if there were 
 any orders. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Were there any? 
 
 COURTHEZON [looking through papers in his hand] 
 Three hundred visiting cards, a price list, and an 
 announcement. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [stopping her work] Death? Birth? 
 
 COURTHEZON. Neither. A marriage. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Give it me. [Reads paper which 
 Courthezon gives her] M. Jacquemin ! M. Jacquemin ! 
 And who is this Mile. Martha Violet whom he is 
 marrying ? 
 
 COURTHEZON. One of the Violets of the Rue du Pre. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Oh, yes, of course. [To Courthezon, 
 who makes as if to take back the paper] Leave it with 
 me. I will send it down to you. I want to show it to 
 Julie. So you are pleased with your invention? 
 
 COURTHEZON [sitting down] I am delighted with it. 
 Delighted ! I 've been working at it twenty years ! And 
 now it 's finished. What do you think of that? 
 
 Enter Caroline. She is tall, stringy, not pretty, not 
 attractive, but not absurd. She has a prayer-book in her 
 hand.
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 81 
 
 MME. DUPONT [carelessly, to Courthezon, who has 
 stopped] Go on. It 's only Caroline. [Interested] 
 And you still won't tell us what it is ? 
 
 COURTHEZON. Not yet. [Rising, bowing to Caro- 
 line] Good-day, Mile. Caroline. 
 
 CAROLINE [half returning his bow] Good-day, M. 
 Courthezon. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I can imagine how pleased you are. 
 
 COURTHEZON. Of course I am. 
 
 CAROLINE. You have finished your invention? 
 
 COURTHEZON. Yes. How did you guess? 
 
 CAROLINE [a little confused] Oh, only 
 
 COURTHEZON. Only ? 
 
 CAROLINE [in a lower voice] Only that I knew it. 
 
 COURTHEZON. You knew it? 
 
 CAROLINE [confused] Yes. But never mind about 
 that. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [to Courthezon] And now you will 
 become a rich man, eh, M. Courthezon? 
 
 COURTHEZON. Not all at once. I must first find some- 
 one who will buy my invention, or who will advance me 
 money to push it for myself. But there 's plenty of time 
 to think of all that: and whether I succeed or not, I am 
 glad to have given twenty years of my life to inventing 
 something that will make life a little easier for those who 
 will come after me. And now I am going downstairs to 
 the office to do a little work. You '11 send down that an- 
 nouncement, won't you? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I won't forget. 
 
 COURTHEZON. Good-evening, Madame Dupont. Good- 
 evening, Mile. Caroline. 
 
 CAROLINE and MME. DUPONT. Good-evening, M. 
 Courthezon. 
 
 Courthezon goes out. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Why were you so sure he had com- 
 pleted his invention?
 
 82 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 CAROLINE [confused, after a moment's silence] You 
 won't tell anyone, mother? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No. 
 
 CAROLINE. Because I prayed for it. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [not spitefully, but with a slight shrug 
 of the shoulders] I see. 
 
 Julie comes in. 
 
 JULIE. Here I am, maman [she kisses her]. You 
 here, Caro? [She does not kiss her], 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Ah, Julie! Sit down, dear, and tell 
 me what you have been doing and whom you have seen. 
 [Her warm greeting to Julie contrasts markedly with the 
 cold reception she previously gave to Caroline], 
 
 JULIE. I went to see Madame Leseigneur. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I might have guessed that. 
 
 JULIE. Why? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You only go to houses where there 
 are children. And as Madame Leseigneur has six 
 
 JULIE. I wish I were in her place. Only think: 
 Andre, the youngest, you know, the one who is only six 
 months old? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 JULIE. He recognized me. There never was such a 
 baby for taking notice. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You talk as if you were a mother 
 yourself. 
 
 JULIE. Jean laughed till he cried when he saw what 
 I had brought him. Charles and Pierre were in disgrace 
 because they 'd been fighting. But I got their mother to 
 forgive them, so that was all right. To-morrow I shall 
 go to Madame Durand to hear how Jacques is going on. 
 I hear he has the whooping-cough. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [laughing] You ought to have been a 
 nurse. 
 
 JULIE [seriously] No, no. I should have died when 
 I had to leave the first child I had nursed.
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 83 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Then you should marry. 
 
 JULIE. Yes. [Pause], 
 
 MME. DUPONT [to Caroline] Well, Caroline, what are 
 you doing there with your mouth open? 
 
 CAROLINE. I was listening. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Have you finished your painting? 
 
 CAROLINE. No. I still have six of the Marie Antoi- 
 nette figures to do, and a dozen china Cupids to 
 finish. 
 
 JULIE. How funny it is to think of Caro painting 
 Cupids ! 
 
 CAROLINE. Why? 
 
 MME. DUPONT [to Caroline] And you have to send 
 all those off by twelve o'clock to-morrow? 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You will never have them ready. 
 
 CAROLINE. I shall manage. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You might do a little at them now, 
 before dinner, instead of sitting there twiddling your 
 fingers. 
 
 CAROLINE. I shall get up early to-morrow. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Even if you do get up early 
 
 CAROLINE. I shall begin at six, as soon as it is 
 light. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Still, you might do some work on 
 them now. 
 
 CAROLINE. I would rather not. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Because it 's Sunday, I suppose; and 
 one must n't work on Sunday. 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. [Pause] Why should you mind, 
 mother, if I 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I? Not the least in the world. Do 
 as you please. You are old enough to decide for yourself. 
 
 JULIE [who has been reading one of the papers] Is 
 Courthezon down in the office? I should like the next 
 part of this.
 
 84 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You know quite well your father 
 does n't like you to read the proofs of the stories he has 
 to print. 
 
 JULIE. I have no others. Listen to this : is n't it too 
 bad to have to stop there? [Reads] " Solange was still 
 in Robert's arms. At this moment the Count entered, 
 menacing, terrible, his revolver in his hand." I do so 
 want to know what happened next ! 
 
 CAROLINE. The Count will kill them, of course. It is 
 his right. 
 
 JULIE. I wonder. 
 
 CAROLINE. According to law. 
 
 JULIE. That 's no reason. I want to read over again 
 where Robert comes in. It 's lovely. And the meeting 
 with Solange in Italy, one evening in May. Where is it? 
 Ah, here ! [Reads] " Under the deep blue of the sky, 
 picked out by stars, by the shore of the calm sea that a 
 perfumed breeze just ruffled, and in which were reflected 
 with the stars above the many distant lights of Mentone 
 and of Monte Carlo " 
 
 MME. DUPONT [smiling] And your father imagines 
 he has cured you of all such foolishness ! 
 
 JULIE. I am doing no harm. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No matter. I would rather you 
 did n't read any more novels. 
 
 JULIE. Why? Berthe Paillant reads all the stories 
 that come out, and she 's younger than I am. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Berthe Paillant is married. 
 
 JULIE. There it is ! If one is not to remain a child 
 to the end of one's days one must marry. I am twenty- 
 four, and I may n't read the books which Berthe can read 
 at eighteen. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. There 's my thread broken again. I 
 believe you bought it at Lagnier's, Caroline. 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Why did n't you go to Laurent's ?
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 85 
 
 CAROLINE. I thought we ought to deal with those who 
 believe as we do. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. If only one could find a good Catholic 
 who sold good wool ! 
 
 CAROLINE. There is n't one in the town. 
 
 JULIE [with a sigh] Heigho ! You don't know of a 
 husband for me, do you, Caro? 
 
 CAROLINE. What sort of one do you want? 
 
 JULIE [seriously] I am getting to the time of life 
 when a woman accepts the first man who offers himself. 
 Choose whatever sort you think best for me [laughing]. 
 What would be your ideal? Someone in business? A 
 captain in the army? Tell me. 
 
 CAROLINE. No. 
 
 JULIE. Why not? 
 
 CAROLINE. If I were to marry, I should choose a 
 worker, a man with a noble aim, a man who would be 
 ready to sacrifice himself to make life a little easier for 
 those who will come after him. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Oh, don't talk like a sentimental 
 novel, Caroline. 
 
 CAROLINE. I was not. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Well, I 'm sure I 've read that some- 
 where. Besides, at your age one does n't speak of those 
 things any longer. 
 
 JULIE. Talking of that, you know Henriette Longuet? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 JULIE. She is going to be married. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Indeed? 
 
 JULIE. Yes. [Thoughtfully] I 'm the last to go. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. The last go off best. What a week 
 this is for marriages ! Courthezon brought me an an- 
 nouncement just now which I kept to show you. Where 
 is it? Ah, here it is. [Hands it to her], 
 
 JULIE [after looking at it, sadly] That finishes it! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What do you mean?
 
 86 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 CAROLINE. What is it, Julie ? 
 
 JULIE. Nothing. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Were you thinking of M. Jacquemin? 
 
 JULIE. How do I know? He has never said anything 
 to me, of course, but I fancied he had noticed me. I 
 did n't care much about him, but he was better than noth- 
 ing. Better than nothing ! [Sighs] It 's a stupid sort 
 of world for girls nowadays. 
 
 Dupont comes in. 
 
 DUPONT [brimming over with excitement and impor- 
 tance] Ah ! Here are the children. Run away, my 
 dears, for a few minutes. I '11 call you when I want you. 
 
 JULIE [going with Caroline] Caroline ! Do you think 
 it is ? 
 
 CAROLINE [thoughtfully] It does look like it. 
 They go out together. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Well, what is it? 
 
 DUPONT [with an air of importance] M. and Madame 
 Mairaut will be here in an hour, at six o'clock. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes? 
 
 DUPONT [craftily] And do you know why they are 
 coming ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No. 
 
 DUPONT. To ask for Julie's hand in marriage. That 's 
 all! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. For their son? 
 
 DUPONT. Well, my dear, it 's not for the Sultan of 
 Turkey. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. M. Mairaut, the banker. 
 
 DUPONT. M. Mairaut, head of the Banque de 1'Uni- 
 vers, 14 Rue des Trois-Chapeaux, second floor. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes; but 
 
 DUPONT. Now, now, don't excite yourself. Don't lose 
 your head. The thing is n't done yet. Listen. For the 
 last fortnight, at the Merchants' Club, Mairaut has been 
 taking me aside and talking about Julie asking me
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 87 
 
 this, that, and the other. As you may suppose, I let him 
 run on. To-day we were talking together about the diffi- 
 culty of marrying one's children. " I know something 
 of that," said he. " So do I," I said. Then he grinned 
 at me and said: " Supposing Madame Mairaut and I 
 were to come in one of these days to discuss the question 
 with you and Madame Dupont? " You may imagine my 
 delight. I simply let myself go. But no, when I say I 
 let myself go, I do myself an injustice. I kept a hand 
 over myself all the time. " One of these days ? Next 
 week, perhaps ? " I said, carelessly, just like that. 
 " Why not to-day? " said he. "As you please," said I. 
 " Six o'clock? " " Six o'clock." What do you think of 
 that? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But M. Mairaut the son, I mean 
 Monsieur what is his Christian name ? 
 
 DUPONT. Antonin, Antonin Mairaut. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Antonin, of course. I was wondering. 
 Is M. Antonin Mairaut quite the husband we should 
 choose for Julie? 
 
 DUPCNT. I know what you mean. His life is n't all 
 that it should be. There 's that woman 
 
 MME. DUPONT. So people say. 
 
 DUPONT. But we need n't bother about that. There 's 
 another matter, however, that is worth considering 
 though, of course, you have n't thought of it. Women 
 never do think of the really important things. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You mean money? The Mairauts 
 have n't any. They only keep a couple of clerks alto- 
 gether in their bank. They may have to put up the 
 shutters any day. 
 
 DUPONT. Yes : but there 's someone else who may put 
 his shutters up first. Antonin's uncle. The old buffer 
 may die. And he has two hundred thousand francs, and 
 never spends a penny. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. True. But
 
 88 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 DUPONT. But But There you go. You 're de- 
 termined never to see anything that is more than an inch 
 before your nose. I don't blame you for it. Women are 
 like that. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But suppose he disinherits Antonin? 
 
 DUPONT. You forget I shall be there. I flatter myself 
 I shall know how to prevent Uncle Marechal from disin- 
 heriting his nephew. Besides, what is Uncle Marechal? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Antonin's uncle. 
 
 DUPONT. You don't understand. I ask you what 
 he is. What is his position, I mean? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. He 's head clerk at the Prefecture. 
 
 DUPONT. Exactly. And he could get me the contract 
 for all the printing work at his office. Thirty thousand 
 francs a year ! How much profit does that mean ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Five thousand francs. 
 
 DUPONT. Five thousand? Ten thousand! If one is 
 only to make the ordinary trade profit, what 's the good 
 of Government contracts ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I 'm afraid young M. Mairaut's 
 character 
 
 DUPONT. His character ! We know nothing about his 
 character. He has one virtue which nothing can take 
 away from him: he is his uncle's nephew. And his uncle 
 can get me work that will bring in ten thousand francs 
 a year, besides being as rich as Croesus. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Still, are you sure that he is the right 
 sort of husband for Julie? 
 
 DUPONT. He is the right sort of husband for Julie, 
 and the right sort of son-in-law for me. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [dubiously] Well, you know more of 
 these things than I do. 
 
 DUPONT [looks at his watch] Ten minutes past five. 
 Now listen to me. We have very little time, but I feel 
 the ideas surging through my brain with extraordinary 
 clearness. It 's only in moments of emergency that I
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 89 
 
 feel myself master of all my faculties, though I flatter 
 myself I 'm not altogether a fool at the worst of times. 
 [He sits upon a chair, his hands leaning upon the back 
 of it] I will explain everything to you, so that you may 
 make as few blunders as possible. We must get old 
 Mairaut to agree that all the money, Julie's and An- 
 tonin's, shall be the joint property of them both. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But there will be Julie's dot. 
 
 DUPONT [pettishly] If you keep interrupting we 
 shall never be done. The joint property of them both, 
 on account of Uncle Marechal's money. Do you 
 understand ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. That 's a blessing. Well, then we shall ask 
 for 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No settlements. I understand. 
 
 DUPONT. On the contrary, we shall ask for the strict- 
 est settlements on both sides. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But 
 
 DUPONT. You are out of your depth. Better simply 
 listen without trying to understand. [He rises, replaces 
 his chair, and taps her knowingly on the shoulder] In 
 these cases one should never ask for the thing one wants. 
 One must know how to get the other side to offer it, and 
 be quite pleased to get it accepted. Well, then, I am 
 giving Julie fifty thousand francs as her dot. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Fifty thousand ! But Julie has only 
 twenty-five thousand. 
 
 DUPONT. That is so. I shall give her twenty-five 
 thousand down and promise the rest for next year. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You can't mean that. You will never 
 be able to keep such a promise. [She rises] 
 
 DUPONT. Who knows? If I get the contract from 
 the Prefecture. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. We ought to ask Julie what she thinks 
 of this marriage.
 
 90 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 DUPONT. We have n't much time, then. Still, call 
 her; and take off these covers [pointing to the 
 chairs]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [she goes towards the door on the 
 right; then returns] But have you thought 
 
 DUPONT. I have thought of everything. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Of everything? What about Angele 
 and her story? 
 
 DUPONV [pompously] Angele is no longer my 
 daughter. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Still, we shall have to tell them. 
 
 DUPONT. Naturally. Since they know it already. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I am nearly sure it was she I met last 
 time I was in Paris. 
 
 DUPONT. You were mistaken. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I don't think so. 
 
 DUPONT. In any case, in acting as I did I was doing 
 my duty. I can hold my head up and fear nothing. 
 Call Julie. She will help you to put the room tidy. 
 [Madame Dupont goes out], 
 
 DUPONT [rubbing his hands] I think I 've managed 
 things pretty well this time ! I think so ! 
 
 Julie and Madame Dupont come in. 
 
 JULIE. Father, is it someone who wants to marry me ? 
 
 DUPONT. It is. [To Madame Dupont, pointing to 
 the chairs] Take off those covers. [To Julie] You 
 know young M. Mairaut M. Antonin Mairaut? [He 
 sits down] You have danced together several times. 
 
 JULIE. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. What do you think of him? 
 
 JULIE. As a husband? 
 
 DUPONT. As a husband. Don't answer in a hurry. 
 Take off that cover from the chair you are sitting on and 
 give it to your mother. 
 
 JULIE [obeying] Have his parents formally proposed 
 for him?
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 91 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No. But if they should do so your 
 father and I wish to know 
 
 DUPONT [to Madame Dupont, giving her the last chair 
 cover, which he has taken off himself] Take all these 
 away. [Madame Dupont goes out] The formal offer has 
 not been made, but it will be soon, in less than an hour. 
 
 JULIE. Is that why you are taking all this trouble? 
 [She points to the chairs], 
 
 DUPONT. Precisely. We must n't appear to be 
 paupers or people without social position. [He seizes a 
 bowl in which there are some visiting cards] Very old, 
 these cards. Very yellow. And the names, too, common 
 rather. I must put that right. [To his wife, who re- 
 turns] Go down to the printing office and ask Court- 
 hezon to give you some printed specimens of our new 
 visiting cards at three francs no, three francs fifty. 
 And then put that Wagner opera on the piano which 
 someone left to be bound. [Madame Dupont goes. To 
 Julie] I have no desire to influence you, my dear. 
 
 JULIE. Still 
 
 DUPONT [going to the mantelpiece] Still what? 
 Wait until I light the lamp. [He strikes a match], 
 
 JULIE. Why, it 's still quite light. 
 
 DUPONT. When one receives visitors one does n't wait 
 till it is dark before You are old enough to know 
 what the deuce is the matter with the oil ? old enough 
 to know what you are about. Damn the lamps ! When 
 they are never lighted it is the devil's own job to make 
 them burn. Yes, as I was saying, it is for you to weigh 
 the pros and the cons. Marriage There ! [He looks 
 round him] Is there anything else to be done to make 
 things look better? What is that over there? That 
 great stupid Caroline's hat ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT [coming in and bringing visiting cards 
 and a piano score of an opera] Here are the cards and 
 the music book.
 
 92 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 DUPONT. Thanks. [He gives Caroline's hat to Ma- 
 dame Dupont~\ Take this thing away. And these stock- 
 ings. Hide them somewhere. You don't want to appear 
 to do your own darning, confound it ! It 's extraordinary 
 you should n't have thought of that. [Madame Dupont 
 goes out, returning in a moment. Dupont continues me- 
 chanically to Julie] It is for you to weigh the pros and 
 cons. This ij better. Vicomte de Liverolles; M. L'Abbe 
 Candar, Honorary Canon; Ange Nitron, Ex-Municipal 
 Councillor. That will look well enough. The Wagner 
 score on the piano, open, of course. That 's right. 
 There 's something else I want, though. Julie, the box 
 of cigars which M. Gueroult sent me when he was elected 
 to the Chamber. 
 
 JULIE [bringing a box] Here it is. 
 
 DUPONT. Give it me. 
 
 JULIE. You have n't begun it yet. 
 
 DUPONT. Wait. [He rummages in his pocket and 
 takes out a knife, which he opens] We must show them 
 that other people besides deputies smoke cigars at five 
 sous. [He opens the box] Without being proud, one 
 has one's dignity to keep up. There! [He takes a 
 handful of cigars and gives them to his daughter] Put 
 those in the drawer so that the box may n't seem to have 
 been opened on purpose for them. [He arranges the 
 box on the table] A fashion paper? Excellent! And 
 for myself [to Mme. Dupont] Leontine, give me a fresh 
 ribbon of my Order of Christ. This one is faded. [To 
 his daughter] He is twenty-eight. He is good looking 
 and distinguished. He passed his law examination at 
 Bordeaux. [He puts a fresh ribbon in his coat, and looks 
 at himself for a considerable time in the glass] In a 
 town where I was not known this would be as good as 
 the Legion of Honor. [He turns round] Well? Have 
 you made up your mind? 
 
 JULIE. I should like more time to think it over.
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 93 
 
 DUPONT. You have still a quarter of an hour. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. She would like a few days, perhaps. 
 
 DUPONT. That 's it. Shilly shally ! We are to have 
 the story of that great stupid Caroline over again, are 
 we? No! Your sister, whom you see now an old maid, 
 who will never be married, unless her aunt in Calcutta 
 leaves her some money your sister, too, had her chance 
 one day. She hum'd and ha'd ; she wanted to think it 
 over. And you see the result. That 's what thinking it 
 over leads to. Here she is, still on my hands ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You must n't say that. She earns her 
 own living. 
 
 DUPONT. She earns her own living, perhaps ; but she 
 remains on my hands all the same. By the way, we had 
 better not say anything to the Mairauts about Caroline's 
 working for money. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. They are sure to know. 
 
 DUPONT. Not they. What was I saying? Oh, yes. 
 She remains on my hands all the same. And one old 
 maid is quite enough in the family. Two would be in- 
 tolerable. Remember, my child, you have no dot at 
 least, none worth mentioning. And as things go nowa- 
 days, when one has no dot, one must n't be too particular. 
 
 JULIE. To marry nowadays, then, a girl has to buy 
 her husband? 
 
 DUPONT [shrugs] Well 
 
 JULIE. And there 's nothing but misery for girls who 
 have no money. 
 
 DUPONT. It 's not quite as bad as that. But obvi- 
 ously there is a better choice for those who have a good 
 fortune. 
 
 JULIE [bitterly] And the others must be content with 
 damaged goods, much reduced in price ! 
 
 DUPONT. There are exceptions, of course. But, as a 
 rule, husbands are like anything else. If you want a 
 good article, you must be prepared to pay for it.
 
 94 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 MME. DUPONT. And, even so, one is often cheated. 
 
 DUPONT. Possibly. But M. Antonin Mairaut is a 
 very eligible young man. No ? What do you want, then, 
 in Heaven's name? If you are waiting for a royal prince, 
 say so. Are you waiting for a prince? Answer me. 
 Come, my child, this is an opportunity you may never see 
 again : a young man, well brought up, with an uncle who 
 is head clerk at the Prefecture and can double my profits 
 by putting the contract for printing in my way, not to 
 speak of other things. And you raise difficulties ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Think, dear. You are four-and- 
 twenty. 
 
 DUPONT. And you have had the astonishing good 
 luck to captivate this young fellow at a ball, it 
 seems. 
 
 JULIE. I believe so. He wanted to kiss me in one of 
 the passages. I had to put him in his place. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You were quite right. 
 
 DUPONT. I don't say she was n't that is, if she 
 did n't overdo it. In his case I 'm sure it was only 
 playfulness. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Oh, of course. 
 
 JULIE. I only half like him, father. 
 
 DUPONT. Well, if you half like him, that 's always 
 something. Plenty of people marry without even that. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You don't dislike him, do you, Julie? 
 
 JULIE. No. 
 
 DUPONT [triumphantly] Well, then ! 
 
 JULIE. That 's hardly enough, is it? 
 
 DUPONT. Come, come, my dear, we must talk seri- 
 ously. As a child you were full of romantic notions. 
 Thank Heaven, I cured you of that weakness. You 
 know well enough that unhappy marriages are, more 
 often than not, love marriages. 
 
 JULIE [unconvinced] I know, I know. Still, I want 
 to have a husband who loves me.
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 95 
 
 DUPONT. But he does love you, does n't he, since 
 you 've only just told us that he wanted to kiss you at a 
 ball. 
 
 JULIE. I want to be something more than my hus- 
 band's plaything. 
 
 DUPONT. You '11 lead your husband by the nose, 
 never fear. 
 
 JULIE. How do you know? 
 
 DUPONT. Never you mind. I know it. And now 
 really we have had enough of this. You think that a 
 whim of yours is to upset all my plans, prevent me from 
 increasing my printing business and retiring next year, 
 as we intended, your mother and I. You think we 
 have n't I have n't worked enough, I suppose. You 
 don't wish us to have a little rest before we die? You 
 think I have not earned that rest, perhaps ? Answer me ! 
 You think I have not earned it? 
 
 JULIE. Of course you have, father. 
 
 DUPONT [mollified] Very well, then. Still, I don't 
 want to make you uncomfortable. I don't press you for 
 a definite answer to-day. All I ask is that you won't be 
 obstinate, or refuse to let us present Antonin to you as 
 a possible husband, if his parents make any advances. 
 That is all. You will, then, talk with him, ask him 
 questions. Naturally, you must get to know each other. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Think carefully, my child. 
 
 DUPONT. Make up your mind whether you wish to 
 follow the example of that great stupid Caroline. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You are quite old enough to be mar- 
 ried. [A pause]. 
 
 DUPONT. Answer. Are n't you old enough to be 
 married ? 
 
 JULIE. Quite, father. 
 
 DUPONT. Have you any other offers? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Have you any choice? 
 
 JULIE. No.
 
 96 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 DUPONT. You see ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You see ! 
 
 DUPONT. Well, then, it 's all settled. [He looks at 
 his watch] And only just in time ! M. Mairaut is punc- 
 tuality itself. It 's five minutes to six. In five minutes 
 he will be here. [Jtilie is silent, gazing through the 
 open window. The laughter of children is heard outside. 
 To Madame Dupont, irritably] What 's she looking out 
 of that window for? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. It's Madame Brichot. She is just 
 going in with her children. 
 
 JUME [to herself, with a smile of great sweetness, 
 recalling a word which she has just caught while dream- 
 ing] Mam a 11 ! 
 
 DUPONT. Well ? 
 
 JULIE. I will do as you wish. 
 
 DUPONT. Ouf ! Now go and change your dress. 
 
 JULIE. Change my dress? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Of course. You will be supposed to 
 know nothing; but you must be tidy. 
 
 JULIE. What am I to put on? 
 
 MME. DUPONT [reflecting] Let me see. [A sudden 
 inspiration] I know. Is n't there a dance at the Gon- 
 tiers' to-night? 
 
 JULIE. But we said we would n't go. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [rising, briskly] We are going all the 
 same. Put on your ball dress. 
 
 JULIE. Before dinner? Is he marrying my clothes? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No. But you look best in your ball 
 dress. Do as I tell you, dear. 
 
 JULIE. Very well. [She goes out]. 
 
 DUPONT. Are you really going to this ball? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Certainly not. 
 
 DUPONT. Well, then? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. M. Antonin is coming. 
 
 DUPONT [understanding] And Julie looks far better
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 97 
 
 when she is you are quite right. \_A bell rings] 
 There they are ! Come into the next room, quick ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Why? 
 
 DUPONT. We must keep them waiting a little. It 
 creates an impression. [To the maid, who passes to go 
 to open the door, in an undertone] Ask them to wait a 
 moment. 
 
 MAID. Yes, monsieur. 
 
 DUPONT. Now, then. [He bustles Madame Dupont 
 out of the room. After a moment M. and Madame 
 Mairaut enter, followed by the maid. Their faces wear 
 a genial smile, which freezes as soon as they see that the 
 room is empty], 
 
 MAIRAUT. They are not here? 
 
 MAID. I will tell madame. [She goes out], 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Tell madame! [To her husband] 
 They saw us coming. 
 
 MAIRAUT. You think so? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Of course. Why was that lamp 
 lighted ? Not for an empty room, I imagine ! I don't 
 think much of their furniture. Very poor. Very poor. 
 [Lifts up a piece of stuff from the back of an armchair] 
 This chair has been re-covered. 
 
 MAIRAUT [at the bowl with the visiting cards] They 
 know some good people. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Let me see. [She looks at the bowl]. 
 Those cards were put there expressly for us not an hour 
 ago. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Oh, come ! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Look! The top ones are all new. 
 The underneath ones are quite yellow. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Because the underneath ones are older. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Because the underneath ones have 
 been left out ever since New Year's Day, while these are 
 just printed. We must be careful. Above all things, 
 don't you make a fool of yourself.
 
 98 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 MAIRAUT. All right. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Don't let them think you 're set on 
 this marriage. 
 
 MAIRAUT. I understand. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Get them to offer that all moneys 
 shall be held jointly. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Yes. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. And to work this, insist on separate 
 settlements. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Yes. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. For the rest, do as you usually do. 
 Say as little as possible. 
 
 MAIRAUT. But 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. You know well enough that 's the 
 only way you ever do succeed with things. 
 
 MAIRAUT. But there 's something I want to say to 
 you. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Then it 's sure to be something 
 stupid. However, we have nothing better to do. Go on. 
 
 MAIRAUT. It 's what I spoke to you about before. 
 It 's been worrying me a good deal. If the Duponts 
 give us their daughter, who has probably a dot of 
 twenty-five thousand francs 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Twenty or twenty-five thousand, I 
 expect. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Weil, if they give her to us, who have 
 nothing but the bank, it must be because they don't 
 know that Uncle Marechal is ruined. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Obviously. Nobody knows. 
 
 MAIRAUT. It is n't hcnest not to tell them. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Why? 
 
 MAIRAUT. Surely, my dear 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. If you 're going to tell them that, 
 we may as well be off at once. 
 
 MAIRAUT. You see! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. I see that we ought to hold our
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 99 
 
 tongues. Oh, yes, we ought. For if you have scruples 
 about injuring the Duponts I have scruples about in- 
 juring Uncle Marechal. 
 
 MAIRAUT. What do you mean? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. We have no right to betray a secret. 
 I 'm sorry you should n't have seen that I am quite as 
 particular as you are; only I put my duty to my family 
 before my duty to strangers. If I am wrong, say so. 
 
 MAIRAUT. But if they ask us point blank? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Then we must consult Uncle Mare- 
 chal, since he is the principal person concerned. 
 
 MAIRAUT. In spite of all you say it seems to me 
 [He hesitates, A pause] 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Well, my dear, which is it to be? 
 If you want us to go, let us go. You are the master. I 
 have never forgotten it. Shall we go? 
 
 MAIRAUT [giving in, after a moment of painful in- 
 decision] Now that we are here, what would the Du- 
 ponts think of us? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. And then we must remember that 
 the eldest Dupont girl got into trouble and is now living 
 a disreputable life in Paris. That will make them less 
 difficult. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Hush ! 
 
 Madame Dupont and Dupont enter the room. Gen- 
 eral greetings. " How do you do, dear madame? How 
 are you? How good of you to call! Sit down," etc. 
 All sit. Silence. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. My dear Madame Dupont, I will 
 come straight to the point. The object of our visit is 
 this: M. Mairaut and I think we have observed that 
 mademoiselle, your daughter, has made an impression 
 how shall I put it? A certain impression on our 
 son. 
 
 MAIRAUT. A certain impression. Yes. 1 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Antonin will join us here immedi-
 
 100 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 ately, but of course we have said nothing to him about 
 this. 
 
 DUPONT. Julie, of course, has not the least idea 
 
 MME. DUPONT. She is dressing. We are going to 
 the ball at the Gontiers' to-night, and the dear child 
 asked if she might dress before dinner. 
 
 DUPONT. Not that she is vain. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Not the least in the world. 
 
 DUPONT [to his wife, in an off-hand tone] She makes 
 her own dresses, does n't she ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Of course. In this house we don't 
 know what it is to have a bill from the dressmaker. 
 
 DUPONT. Yet with all her other occupations she 's an 
 excellent musician. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Quite excellent. She has a passion 
 for really good music. She knows Wagner thoroughly. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Wagner ! Good Heavens ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. To talk about, I mean. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. I know your daughter is charming. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. And good, too. You would never be- 
 lieve how responsive that poor child is to affection ! 
 
 DUPONT [to Mairaut, offering the box] Have a cigar? 
 
 MAIRAUT. No, thanks. I never smoke before dinner. 
 
 DUPONT. Take one, all the same. You can smoke it 
 afterwards. They are my usual brand, but pretty fair. 
 
 MAIRAUT [taking one] Thank you. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. If Antonin is not married already it 
 is because his father and I wished him to find a wife who 
 is worthy of him. The question of money, with us, is of 
 secondary importance. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. And with us. I 'm so glad we agree 
 about that. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Antonin might have made quite a 
 number of good matches. 
 
 DUPONT. It is just the same with Julie. In spite of 
 that unfortunate affair in the family.
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 101 
 
 MAIRAUT. Yes, we know. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Unfortunate affair? We have heard 
 nothing of any unfortunate affair. What are you say- 
 ing, my dear? 
 
 MAIRAUT [mumbling confusedly] I was saying 
 nothing I was saying No, I was n't saying any- 
 thing. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [to Madame Dupont] Then there 
 has been some unfortunate affair in your family? 
 
 DUPONT. Yes. By my first marriage I had two daugh- 
 ters. One, that great fool of a Caroline whom you know. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Quite well. She remains unmarried, 
 does she not? 
 
 DUPONT. She prefers it. That 's the only reason. 
 The other was called Angele. When she was seventeen 
 she was guilty of an indiscretion which it became impos- 
 sible to hide. I turned her out of my house [Quite sin- 
 cerely] I was deeply distressed at having to do it. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. For three days he refused to eat any- 
 thing. 
 
 DUPONT. Yes, I was terribly distressed. But I knew 
 my duty as a man of honor, and I did it. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. It was noble of you ! [She shakes 
 him warmly by the hand]. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Since you were so fond of her, perhaps it 
 would have been better to keep her with you. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. My dear, you are speaking without 
 thinking. [To Dupont] And what has become of her? 
 
 DUPONT [lying fluently] She 's in India. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. In India? 
 
 DUPONT [to Madame Dupont] Yes, with her aunt, a 
 sister of my first wife's. I have had news of her from 
 time to time. [To Madame Mairaut] Indirectly, of 
 course. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. I repeat, M. Dupont, all this does 
 you honor. [Thoughtfully] Still, some people might
 
 102 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 feel However, I don't think this discovery need 
 make us abandon our project at once. Not at once. [To 
 Mairaut~\ What do you think, my dear? 
 
 MAIRAUT. I ? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. You think, as I do, that we must take 
 time to consider, do you not? [A pause] Without any 
 definite promise on either side, but merely in order to 
 get rid of all money questions, which are most distasteful 
 to me, will you allow me to ask you one question, M. 
 Dupont ? 
 
 DUPONT. Certainly, Madame Mairaut. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Have you ever considered [she hesi- 
 tates] what you would give your daughter? 
 
 DUPONT. Oh, yes roughly, you know. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Just so. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. And the sum is roughly? 
 
 DUPONT. Fifty thousand francs. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Fifty thousand francs. [To her 
 husband] You hear, dear, M. Dupont will give his 
 daughter only fifty thousand francs. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Yes. [A pause]. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. In cash, of course. 
 
 DUPONT. Twenty-five thousand at once. Twenty- 
 five thousand in six months. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [to Mairaut] You hear? 
 
 MAIRAUT. Yes. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. For practical purposes that is only 
 twenty-five thousand francs and a promise. 
 
 DUPONT [with dignity]. Twenty-five thousand francs 
 and my word. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Precisely. That is what I said [look- 
 ing at her husband]. Under these circumstances, we 
 regret very much, but M. Mairaut must decline. It really 
 is not enough. 
 
 DUPONT. How much are you giving M. Antonin? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Not a sou ! On that point we are
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 103 
 
 quite decided and quite frank. As soon as he marries his 
 father will take him into partnership, and his wife's dot 
 will be the capital which he will put into the business. 
 
 MAIRAUT. That is the exact position. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Antonin will have nothing except 
 what may come to him after our death. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. And I am glad to think you are both 
 in excellent health. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [modestly] That is so. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [meditatively] Has n't your son an 
 uncle, by the way? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Yes, madame. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Uncle Marechal. 
 
 DUPONT. People say M. Marechal has a great affec- 
 tion for M. Antonin. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Yes. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Very great. 
 
 DUPONT. He is rich, too, people say. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. So they say. 
 
 MAIRAUT. However, we have n't taken him into ac- 
 count, have we? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Still, M. Marechal would naturally 
 leave everything to his nephew. 
 
 MAIRAUT and MME. MAIRAUT [together] Oh, cer- 
 tainly. We can promise that. He will leave him every- 
 thing he has. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. M. Marechal has considerable influ- 
 ence at the Prefecture, has he not? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. No doubt. But all this is really 
 beside the mark. At twenty-five thousand francs we 
 could not 
 
 DUPONT. I am sorry. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. We are sorry, too. [She rises, saying 
 to her husband] Come, my dear, we must be taking our 
 leave. 
 
 DUPONT. I might, perhaps, go to thirty thousand.
 
 104 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. I am afraid fifty thousand is the 
 lowest. 
 
 DUPONT. Let us split the difference. Thirty thou- 
 sand and my country house at St. Laurent. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. But it is flooded two months out of 
 the twelve. 
 
 DUPONT. Flooded ! Never. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [to her husband] Well, my dear, what 
 do you think? 
 
 MAIRAUT. Antonin is much attached to Mile. Julie. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Ah, yes, if it were not for that! 
 [Seats herself] My poor boy! [She weeps]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. My poor little Julie! [She weeps], 
 
 MAIRAUT [to Dupont] You must excuse her. After 
 all, it is her son. 
 
 DUPONT. My dear sir, I quite understand. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [wiping her eyes] And, of course, there 
 would be the other twenty-five thousand in six months. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Of course. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Have you any views as to settle- 
 ments ? 
 
 DUPONT. On that point I have very definite ideas. 
 
 MAIRAUT. So have I. 
 
 DUPONT. The money on each side must be strictly 
 settled. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Strictly settled? [A silence of astonish- 
 ment], 
 
 DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 MAIRAUT. His and hers? 
 
 DUPONT. Certainly. You agree? 
 
 MAIRAUT. Oh, yes, I agree, I agree. Unless you 
 preferred 
 
 DUPONT. That all moneys should be held jointly? 
 
 MAIRAUT. Perhaps that would be 
 
 DUPONT. Perhaps so. There is something distasteful, 
 I might almost say sordid, about strict settlements.
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 105 
 
 MAIRAUT. That 's it. Something sordid. 
 
 DUPONT. They imply a certain distrust. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Yes, don't they ? Well, that 's agreed, 
 then? 
 
 DUPONT. Quite. The moneys to be held jointly. All 
 moneys, that is, that may come to them in the future. 
 The first twenty-five thousand, of course, will be settled 
 on Julie. They will form the dot. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. The second twenty-five thousand, 
 which you will pay over in six months, to be held jointly. 
 
 DUPONT. Yes. We will draw up a little agreement. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Quite so. 
 
 Antonin Mairaut comes in. He is a handsome youth 
 of twenty-eight, very correct in manner. Greetings are 
 exchanged. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Antonin. [To Dupont and Madame 
 Dupont] You allow me? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. By all means. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [she draws Antonin aside and says to 
 him in a low voice] It 's settled. 
 
 ANTONIN. How much? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Thirty thousand, the house, and 
 twenty-five thousand in six months. 
 
 ANTONIN. Good. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Now you 've only the girl to deal 
 with. 
 
 ANTONIN. Is she romantic or matter of fact? I don't 
 quite know. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Romantic. Raves about Wagner. 
 
 ANTONIN. Good Heavens ! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. So I said. But once she 's married 
 and has children to look after 
 
 ANTONIN. Children! Don't go too fast. Children 
 come pretty expensive nowadays. Troublesome, too. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Never mind. Don't cross her now. 
 Later on, of course, you '11 be master.
 
 106 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 ANTONIN. I rather think so. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [returning to Madame Dupont~\ My 
 dear madame 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. He is afraid he may not please Mile. 
 Julie. 
 
 DUPONT. Absurd ! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. The amount of the dot, too 
 
 DUPONT. It is my last word. [To his wife] But 
 what is Julie about? [He rings], 
 
 MME. DUPONT [rises'] I will go and find her. 
 A maid enters. 
 
 DUPONT. Wait! [To the maid] Ask Mile. Julie to 
 come here if she is ready. 
 
 The maid goes out. 
 
 ANTONIN. I must tell you, monsieur and madame, 
 how flattered I am to find that the preliminaries have 
 been settled between you and my parents on this impor- 
 tant question. I do not know what will be the issue, 
 but- 
 
 MME. DUPONT. It is we, monsieur, who are flattered. 
 But you '11 see Julie in a moment. Of course she knows 
 nothing. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. We might leave them to talk a little 
 together, perhaps ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. By all means. We are going to the 
 ball at the Gontiers'. She asked to be allowed Here 
 she is. [Julie comes in. Madame Dupont advances to 
 meet her] There is a crease in your dress, dear. [She 
 takes her apart, saying to the Mairauts] Will you ex- 
 cuse me? 
 
 JULIE [in a low tone] Well? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. It rests entirely with you. We are 
 going to leave you to talk together. Remember, it may 
 be your last chance. Don't throw it away. 
 
 JULIE. I have thought it over and I don't intend to
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 107 
 
 do as Caroline did. So if, after we have had a 
 talk 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You '11 have to manage him a little. 
 He has a great eye for business. If you could make him 
 think you would be useful in the bank. 
 
 JULIE. But I hate figures. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Once married you will do as you 
 please. Tuck in that lace a bit. It 's a little soiled. 
 [She tucks in the lace of Julie's corsage] And remem- 
 ber, between lovers there may be little things which he 
 considers himself entitled to. 
 
 JULIE. I understand. They can see you whispering. 
 Go to them. [Madame Dupont goes back to Madame 
 Mairaut~\. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. What did she say? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. She has not the least suspicion at 
 present. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Let us leave them together. [Aloud] 
 My dear M. Dupont, I have long wished to go over a 
 printing office. May we? 
 
 DUPONT [delighted] If you will kindly come this way. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Thank you. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. But there really are too many of us. 
 [Carelessly] The children might stay here, don't you 
 think, madame? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. By all means. 
 They go out. 
 
 ANTONIN [looking at the music on the piano] You 
 are fond of Wagner, mademoiselle? 
 
 JULIE. I adore him. 
 
 ANTONIN. So do I. 
 
 JULIE. What a genius he is. 
 
 ANTONIN. Wonderful. 
 
 JULIE. For me he is the only composer. 
 
 ANTONIN. The greatest, certainly. 
 
 JULIE. No: the only one.
 
 108 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 ANTONIN. Perhaps so. How nice it is we should have 
 the same tastes in art! [Pause] Er they have told 
 you nothing, I understand? 
 
 JULIE. About what? 
 
 ANTONIN. Your parents, I mean. Mine have said 
 nothing, either. 
 
 JULIE. They have said nothing, of course, but I 
 guessed. 
 
 ANTONIN. So did I. Then I may consider myself 
 engaged to you? 
 
 JULIE. Oh, not yet. We must know each other better 
 first. 
 
 ANTONIN. We have often danced together. 
 
 JULIE. Yes. But that 's hardly enough. 
 
 ANTONIN. It 's enough for me. Ever since the first 
 time I saw you at the ball at the Prefecture. 
 
 JULIE. No. It was at the band, one Sunday, that 
 your mother first introduced you to me. 
 
 ANTONIN. Was it? I forgot. 
 
 JULIE. I should like to know more about you. Will 
 you will you let me ask you some questions? It is 
 not usual, perhaps, but 
 
 ANTONIN. Certainly. Pray ask them. 
 
 JULIE. Are you fond of children? 
 
 ANTONIN. Passionately. 
 
 JULIE. Really and truly? 
 
 ANTONIN. Really and truly. 
 
 JULIE. I am quite crazy about them. For me chil- 
 dren mean happiness. They are the one thing worth 
 living for [wistfully]. But I think I have a higher idea 
 of marriage than most girls. I want to have my mind 
 satisfied as well as my heart. 
 
 ANTONIN. So do I. 
 
 JULIE. A marriage that is a mere business partner- 
 ship seems to me horrible. 
 
 ANTONIN. Horrible! That's just the word.
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 109 
 
 JULIE. And tell me, are you very fond of society? 
 
 ANTONIN. Not particularly. Are you? 
 
 JULIE. No. 
 
 ANTONIN. I am delighted to hear it. The fact is I 
 am sick to death of parties and balls. Still, if it were 
 necessary for business reasons: if it would help to get 
 business for the bank, you would n't mind ? 
 
 JULIE. Of course not. What kind of business do you 
 do at your bank? 
 
 ANTONIN. Oh, the usual kind. 
 
 JULIE. I have often read what is put up on the wall: 
 Current Accounts, Bourse Quotations. 
 
 ANTONIN. Coupons cashed. 
 
 JULIE. That must be very interesting. 
 
 ANTONIN. Would you take an interest in all 
 that? 
 
 JULIE. Of course. When I was little my father used 
 to make me help him with his books. 
 
 ANTONIN. But now? 
 
 JULIE. Now, unfortunately, he has a clerk. I am 
 sorry. 
 
 ANTONIN. Do you know that you are charming? 
 
 JULIE. So you told me once before. 
 
 ANTONIN. Yes: at that ball. You had on a dress 
 j ust like this one. You are beautiful ! Beautiful ! [He 
 seizes her hand]. 
 
 JULIE [a little troubled] Please ! 
 
 ANTONIN. Come! We are engaged, as good as mar- 
 ried. Give me one kiss. 
 
 JULIE. No ! No ! 
 
 ANTONIN. Won't you? 
 
 JULIE [frightened] No, I tell you. 
 
 ANTONIN. What beautiful arms you have. [He 
 draws her towards him] You remember how I adored 
 you when we were dancing. 
 
 JULIE. Let me go.
 
 110 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 ANTONIN [greatly excited, in a low voice] Don't 
 move. You are entrancing. [He kisses her upon the 
 arm; she pulls it away sharply]. 
 
 JULIE. Monsieur ! 
 
 ANTONIN [angry] I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. 
 A very long silence. 
 
 JULIE [after looking at him for some time] I have 
 vexed you? 
 
 ANTONIN. Well, when I see that you positively dis- 
 like me. [Julie, after a short inward struggle, goes to 
 him]. 
 
 JULIE [putting her arm to his lips with a resigned 
 sadness, which she hides from him] Antonin ! 
 
 ANTONIN [kissing her arm] Oh, I love you! I love 
 you ! 
 
 JULIE. Hush! They are coming back. 
 
 The Mairauts and Duponts come in again. 
 
 DUPONT. And when I have the contract from the 
 Prefecture, I shall double my business. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Excellent ! Excellent ! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. We must be going, dear madame. 
 We have stayed far too long already. Are you coming, 
 Antonin ? 
 
 ANTONIN [to Julie, aloud, bowing profoundly] Ma- 
 demoiselle. [In a low voice] My beloved Julie. [To 
 his mother] She 's charming. I was charming, too, by 
 the way. Wagner children every kind of romantic 
 idiocy. And she believed me. [Aloud to Dupont] M. 
 and Madame Dupont, my parents will have the honor of 
 calling upon you to-morrow to ask on my behalf for the 
 hand of Mile. Julie. 
 
 DUPONT. Till to-morrow, then. Till to-morrow. [To 
 Antonin] All sorts of messages to your uncle, if you see 
 him. 
 
 ANTONIN. I shall not fail. [He bows. The Mairauts 
 take their leave].
 
 Act I Of Monsieur Dupont 111 
 
 DUPONT [to Julie] That's all right, then? 
 
 JULIE. Yes. I really do like him. I think I man- 
 aged him pretty well too. Wagner the bank He 
 thinks I 've a perfect passion for banking. 
 
 DUPONT [laughing] Good. You 're my own daughter. 
 Kiss me. And your father? He managed pretty well, 
 I think. I have arranged that all moneys except your 
 dot shall be held by you both jointly; so that if you are 
 divorced, or if you die after Uncle Marechal, your dot 
 will come back to us, and half whatever he leaves. I call 
 that a good day's work. And at dessert we '11 drink a 
 bottle of the best to the health of Madame Antonin 
 Mairaut. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [embracing her] My poor little 
 daughter. 
 
 DUPONT. Poor, indeed ! She 's a very lucky girl. I 
 wonder where that great stupid Caroline has got to. 
 [He calls] Caroline ! She is never here when one wants 
 her. [He calls again] Caroline ! She is hard at work 
 painting Cupids on plates, I bet. [Caroline appears] 
 Here she is. Great news. Your sister is engaged to be 
 married. 
 
 CAROLINE. Julie! Is it true? 
 
 JULIE. Yes. 
 
 CAROLINE. Ah ! 
 
 DUPONT. Is that all you have to say? 
 
 CAROLINE. I am very glad, very glad. [She bursts 
 into tears], 
 
 DUPONT [astonished] What 's wrong with her? Cry- 
 ing! And she's not even asked who he is. She's to 
 marry M. Antonin Mairaut, nephew of M. Marechal. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Don't cry like that, my dear. 
 
 JULIE. Caroline ! 
 
 CAROLINE [trying to restrain her sobs] Don't mind 
 me. It is only because I love you, dear. Now you at 
 least will be happy.
 
 112 The Three Daughters Act I 
 
 JULIE [musing] Yes. 
 
 DUPONT [to himself] The moral of all this is 
 that that little affair of Angele's is costing me an 
 extra five thousand francs and my house at St. 
 Laurent.
 
 ACT II 
 
 The salon of a house in the country. A July night. 
 At the back, through glass doors, you see the garden bril- 
 liantly lighted by the moon. As you look out you have 
 two doors on your right-hand side, and to your left, in a 
 cross-wall, the door of the bedroom, inside which part of 
 the bed is visible. The fireplace is to your right. When 
 the curtain rises Antonin, Courthezon, and Caroline are 
 on the stage; Caroline is doing up a parcel. 
 
 ANTONIN. That 's settled, then, M. Courthezon. I '11 
 write to the Bordeaux people about your invention this 
 evening. 
 
 COURTHEZON. I am greatly obliged to you, M. Anto- 
 nin. You '11 write this evening without fail, won't you ? 
 M. Smith is leaving to-morrow. 
 
 ANTONIN. Without fail. , 
 
 COURTHEZON. Shall I post the letter for you on my 
 way through the town? 
 
 ANTONIN. Well it 's rather a difficult letter to 
 write. It '11 take a little time. Lignol, whom you met at 
 dinner out in the garden, has to go back to-night. He '11 
 take it. 
 
 COURTHEZON. It 's very good of you. 
 
 ANTONIN. And now let 's go and have our coffee. 
 
 COURTHEZON. Not for me, thanks. I 'm afraid I 
 ought to go by the 8.9 train. I shall be taking some 
 china for Mile. Caroline and the drawings. 
 
 ANTONIN. As you please. Good-bye, then. 
 113
 
 114 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 COURTHEZON. Good-bye, M. Antonin. Thank you 
 again. [Antonin goes out]. 
 
 CAROLINE. I shall not keep you a moment. The 
 parcel is just ready. 
 
 COURTHEZON. There is no hurry, mademoiselle. I 
 can take the next train. It 's of no importance. Indeed 
 I prefer it. It carries third-class passengers. The fact 
 is I did n't want to go back to the others. M. and Ma- 
 dame Mairaut, M. Lignol, all those people frighten me. 
 Besides, I 'm so happy just now I can think of nothing 
 else. 
 
 CAROLINE. M. Antonin is going to do something about 
 your invention? 
 
 COURTHEZON. Yes. I have begun negotiations with 
 a business house at Bordeaux. M. Antonin knows the 
 heads of the firm, and he has been kind enough to say 
 he will write to them about me. But M. Smith goes 
 away to-morrow. That was why I was so anxious the 
 letter should go to-night. 
 
 CAROLINE [giving him the parcel which she has just 
 finished] It 's very kind of you to take charge of this. 
 I have put the china in it and the drawings they asked 
 for. You will make my apologies to the firm, won't you? 
 I have not been very well. 
 
 COURTHEZON. Not well? 
 
 CAROLINE. Nothing serious. But the doctor said a 
 little country air would be good for me, so Julie and her 
 husband asked me here. They have been very kind. I 
 have been with them a week, and I 'm feeling ever so 
 much better. 
 
 COURTHEZON. They would hardly have left you in 
 your lodgings with no one to look after you. [Pause] 
 What a strange idea it was of yours to go off and live 
 by yourself like that ! 
 
 CAROLINE. I thought it better. After Julie's mar- 
 riage I preferred it.
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 115 
 
 COURTHEZON. It must cost more. 
 
 CAROLINE [shrugs] I dare say. [Pause] You are 
 going to have a lovely night for your journey. How 
 bright the moon is ! One can see as clearly as if it were 
 broad daylight. 
 
 COURTHEZON [suddenly remembering] There now ! 
 I was just going to forget! I brought a letter for M. 
 Dupont from the office. It came after he left. It 's 
 about the printing contract for the Prefecture. 
 
 CAROLINE. For the Prefecture ? He '11 want to see 
 that directly he comes in. 
 
 COURTHEZON. And now I really must be off. Good- 
 bye, Mile. Caro. 
 
 CAROLINE. Good-bye, M. Courthezon. [He goes out]. 
 
 After Courthezon's departure Caroline returns to her 
 seat. She makes a slight sign of the cross, closes her 
 eyes, and sits motionless, praying silently. After a few 
 seconds she again crosses herself, but does all this very 
 quietly. Lignol comes in through the glass doors, giving 
 his arm to Julie. Antonin and M. and Madame Mairaut 
 follow. 
 
 ANTONIN. We shall be more comfortable here than in 
 the garden. It's getting rather chilly. [To Lignol] 
 You can smoke. 
 
 LIGNOL. We really could have stayed out quite well. 
 
 ANTONIN. And given Julie cold, eh? 
 
 JULIE. My dear, I assure you 
 
 ANTONIN. Oh, yes, I know. But you are n't wrapped 
 up enough. [He touches her arm] In that thin dress 
 you 've simply nothing on. Just feel, Lignol, feel. 
 
 JULIE [protesting] My dear ! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. What a charming frock you have on, 
 my dear. Quite delightful. 
 
 JULIE. It came from Madame Raimond. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [to Mairaut] From Madame Rai- 
 mond? I thought she made all her own dresses.
 
 116 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 LIGNOL [to Julie] You know, madame, that you have 
 not convinced me yet. 
 
 JULIE. Admitting that I am wrong [They go 
 towards the garden door with Antonin, talking]. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. [to Mairaut] And you urged on that 
 marriage. 
 
 MAIRAUT. I ! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. When she was at home she never 
 went to a dressmaker. And now ! It 's too much ! And 
 we shall have the river in here before long. That wall is 
 bound to go. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Do you think so ? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. We shall have the whole house about 
 our ears. And that fool 
 
 MAIRAUT. What fool? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Your son, of course, who has put in 
 electric light. 
 
 ANTONIN [from the garden door, to Lignol] You 
 did n't know I 'd had electric light put in. We have lots 
 of water power, you see. I ought to have turned it. on 
 before. Look! [He touches a button and turns up the 
 light]. 
 
 LIGNOL. That's better. [They talk on]. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. If the river rises another couple of 
 inches, down will come four hundred feet of that wall. 
 
 MAIRAUT. It 's not as bad as that. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Oh, you have let yourself be nicely 
 done. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Come, come ! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. The girl is utterly useless. She can 
 do nothing. And the house will cost more in repairs than 
 it is worth. When I think I was idiot enough to listen 
 to you. [She listens] What was that? 
 
 MAIRAUT. I hear nothing. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. The wall! Listen! [They listen 
 intently].
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 117 
 
 JULIE [coming forward with Lignol and Antonin] 
 Oh, yes, we 're comfortable enough here, as you see. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Comfortable enough ! [To Mairaut] 
 Come with me. This way. I am certain the wall has 
 fallen. If it has we must have a little talk with the Du- 
 ponts ; and I, for one, shan't mince matters. [Turning 
 to the others] My husband finds the heat a little too 
 much for him. We are going for another turn in the 
 garden. Oh, it 's nothing, nothing at all. 
 
 MAIRAUT [mumbling] Nothing. Giddy, that 's all. 
 
 ANTONIN. Quite right. Get all the fresh air you can 
 while you are in the country. Don't be long. We 're 
 expecting visitors, you know. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. We '11 be back in time. [Madame 
 Mairaut and Mairaut go out into the garden], 
 
 ANTONIN. Here, you see, is the staircase which leads 
 to the upstairs rooms and down to the garden. [He goes 
 to the door on his left] Here is our bedroom. 
 
 JULIE [in a low voice, so as not to be noticed by Lig- 
 nol] Antonin! 
 
 ANTONIN [aloud] Nonsense, dear. Why not? [He 
 opens the door. To Lignol] Look ! 
 
 LIGNOL. Charming. 
 
 ANTONIN. A real nest, eh? A nest for love-birds. 
 That 's what I call it. [To his wife] Kiss me, 
 dear. 
 
 JULIE. But 
 
 ANTONIN. Kiss me! Come! 
 
 JULIE [gently] But we 're not alone. 
 
 ANTONIN. Lignol won't mind. Eh, Lignol? 
 
 LIGNOL [laughs] Don't mention it. You were n't so 
 shy at dinner. 
 
 ANTONIN [to Julie, smiling] Come! Wives must 
 obey, you know. [She kisses him] And now go and 
 see about that beer. 
 
 JULIE. Mayn't I send the servant?,
 
 118 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 ANTONIN. She does n't know where it is. It 's not 
 unpacked yet. [To Lignol] It's a wedding present. 
 We are going to broach it to-night. 
 
 LIGNOL. Not for me. I must go in a moment. 
 
 ANTONIN. I was n't thinking of you, my dear fellow. 
 You 're a friend. These formal entertainments are re- 
 served for acquaintances. For the Pouchelets, in fact. 
 M. Pouchelet has j ust been elected a Departmental Coun- 
 cillor. He and his wife are paying their first visit here 
 to-night. 
 
 LIGNOL. So late? 
 
 ANTONIN. On their way back from the Prefet's. 
 They are dining there, and we are near neighbors. They 
 are very well off, very influential. Useful people alto- 
 gether. What was I saying? [To Julie] Oh, yes, the 
 beer: that girl will never be able to find it. Besides, I 'd 
 rather you went. She would only break the bottles. 
 [Julie pouts] Wives must obey, you know. 
 
 JULIE. Very well. I shall be back before you go, 
 M. Lignol. [She goes out]. 
 
 CAROLINE [to Antonin] You won't forget the letter 
 for M. Courthezon, will you, M. Antonin ? 
 
 ANTONIN. Of course not. 
 
 CAROLINE. If you write I feel sure he will succeed. 
 
 ANTONIN. Yes, yes, I know. 
 
 CAROLINE. I will go to Julie. 
 
 ANTONIN. You 'd much better go and put on another 
 dress or something. Just to smarten yourself up. The 
 Pouchelets are coming. We must all look our best. 
 
 CAROLINE [rather aghast, looking at her clothes] But 
 - [A pause] Very well. [She goes out], 
 
 LIGNOL. Who is that lady? She never spoke a word 
 all through dinner. 
 
 ANTONIN [carelessly] A poor relation. The usual 
 thing; an old maid, always at church. Awfully prim and 
 proper, you know. [Rather shamefaced] In fact
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 119 
 
 I don't mind telling you she really works for her 
 living. 
 
 LIGNOL. Well, why not? There 's nothing dishonor- 
 able about that, is there? 
 
 ANTONIN. I know. But still She paints little 
 Cupids and that kind of thing, on china. [He laughs 
 loudly~\. Enough to make you split! You don't see it? 
 The other day someone offered her some work far better 
 paid than what she 's doing at present. She refused. 
 Guess why. 
 
 LIGNOL [bored] Why? 
 
 ANTONIN [giggling] Because the woman who kept 
 the shop was divorced. [He laughs]. But it is good to 
 see you again, my dear chap. [He claps Lignol on the 
 shoulder]. Awfully good. 
 
 LIGNOL. I 've enjoyed coming immensely. [A pause] 
 Your wife is charming. 
 
 ANTONIN [fatuously] Not bad, eh! 
 
 LIGNOL. And she 's clever, too. 
 
 ANTONIN. Get out ! 
 
 LIGNOL. I 'm quite serious. 
 
 ANTONIN. Oh, yes, I dare say. I know all about that. 
 No use denying it. Julie 's stupid. It was partly for 
 that very reason I married her. 
 
 LIGNOL. I don't think so. She has read a lot. 
 
 ANTONIN. Read ! Oh, yes, she 's read! She reads 
 everything she comes across. Before her marriage she 
 read the proofs of everything her father printed. Here 
 she has unearthed a lot of books left behind by an old 
 fool M. Dupont bought the house from. She 's read 
 them all. 
 
 LIGNOL. But then 
 
 ANTONIN. But she does n't understand a word of 
 what she reads. Not a word ! The other day I looked at 
 the author's name on the book in her hand. It was Mill. 
 You know, John Stuart Mill.
 
 120 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 LIONOL [nods] Yes, I know. 
 
 ANTONIN. So do I, by name. But I 've never read 
 him, thank goodness. No, I tell you Julie 's stupid. But 
 she 's pretty and she knows how to put on her clothes. 
 I knew what I was about when I married her. With a 
 little instruction from me she '11 learn to manage the 
 house well enough. And that 's all I ask of a woman. 
 
 LIGNOL. Indeed ! Well, my dear chap, if you imagine 
 you 've married a stupid woman, you 're mistaken. 
 
 ANTONIN. How do you know? 
 
 LIGNOL. She and I have been talking while you were 
 entertaining your inventor. 
 
 ANTONIN. You got her to talk, did you ? 
 
 LIGNOL. Certainly. 
 
 ANTONIN. Wonders will never cease. When we 're 
 alone she never has a word to say. 
 
 LIGNOL. And you? 
 
 ANTONIN. I have n't either. 
 
 LIGNOL. That 's awkward. 
 
 ANTONIN. I 'm always afraid of putting my foot in it. 
 The fact is I don't understand Julie. 
 
 LIGNOL. And you Ve been married five months. 
 
 ANTONIN. Four months and a week over. But then 
 I 'm at business all the week. Every Saturday her par- 
 ents and mine come down to spend Sunday with us. M. 
 and Madame Dupont could n't get here in time for din- 
 ner to-night, but they '11 be here soon. When we are 
 alone I try to find some subject of conversation, but I 
 tell you it 's like walking on eggshells. Whew ! And 
 so 
 
 LIGNOL. Well ? 
 
 ANTONIN. And so I stop. And then I kiss her. 
 
 LIGNOL. You 're tremendously in love with her. 
 
 ANTONIN. Yes. 
 
 LIGNOL. And she? 
 
 ANTONIN. She 's just the same.
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 121 
 
 LIGNOL. Happy man! 
 
 ANTONIN. For the rest we can only wait and see how 
 things turn out. She knows nothing of my tastes. I 
 know nothing of hers. 
 
 LIGNOL. And what did you talk about while you were 
 engaged ? 
 
 ANTONIN. We were only engaged three weeks. Just 
 long enough to get the money matters settled. 
 
 LIGNOL. You took good care about them, I bet. 
 
 ANTONIN. Rather. In fact it was a precious good 
 stroke of business. [He laughs] If you only knew how 
 we did the Duponts, maman and I ! [He laughs 
 again]. 
 
 LIGNOL. Hush ! Here 's your wife. [Julie comes in, 
 and Lignol rises to go] I am afraid I must be going, 
 madame. 
 
 ANTONIN. But my letter for Courthezon. [He looks 
 at his watch]. You've twenty minutes still. 
 
 LIGNOL. You 're sure ? 
 
 ANTONIN. Certain. Wait a second. I '11 go and write 
 it, and then I '11 see you to the station. It 's only a step. 
 [He goes out]. 
 
 JULIE. Thanks to you, M. Lignol, we have had a de- 
 lightful evening. 
 
 LIGNOL. You flatter me, dear madame. I know quite 
 well I have been in the way. 
 
 JULIE. On the contrary. I have not had such an 
 evening's conversation since I married. 
 
 LIGNOL. Antonin is n't a great talker. 
 
 JULIE. You are old friends, are n't you? 
 
 LIGNOL. Yes. I 've known him fifteen years. We are 
 almost like brothers. 
 
 JULIE. Tell me ! Is he what you would call a religious 
 man? 
 
 LIGNOL. Antonin! [Bursts out laughing]. Why, 
 he 's a materialist. Not much idealism about him.
 
 122 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 JULIE. Indeed ! Not much idealism ! But he 's fond 
 of music ? Good music, I mean : Wagner ? 
 
 LIGNOL. He likes a brass band or a comic opera. 
 [Julie shows surprise] You are astonished? Oh, I for- 
 got. He plays a little on the concertina. My dear 
 madame, Antonin is a good chap but thoroughly matter 
 of fact. Prosaic. 
 
 JULIE [laughing] You are not very complimentary to 
 your friends. 
 
 LIGNOL. What annoys me is that he should possess a 
 treasure like you and should seem quite unconscious of 
 its value. Ah, when I marry 
 
 JULIE. You are going to marry soon? 
 
 LIGNOL. I don't know. [Musingly] If I were to 
 meet a woman like you, a woman with whom I could dis- 
 cuss everything in heaven and earth, everything that 
 raises us, makes us higher, then 
 
 JULIE. Look for her. You '11 find her easily 
 enough. 
 
 LIGNOL. And beautiful, too. Beautiful as you are. 
 For you are beautiful, you know. 
 
 JULIE [still rallying him] Are you making love to 
 me by any chance, M. Lignol ? 
 
 LIGNOL. If making love to you means yielding to an 
 overmastering attraction to a fascination 
 
 JULIE [laughing] You certainly make the most of 
 your time as friend of the family. But I should n't 
 hurry if I were you. You will only be wasting a lot of 
 pretty speeches which you could employ to greater ad- 
 vantage elsewhere. I have old-fashioned views on the 
 subject of marriage. 
 
 LIGNOL. Whatever they are I am sure they will be 
 lofty and noble. 
 
 JULIE. You are too good. But you are mistaken. My 
 view is commonplace enough. All I ask of life is that I 
 may love my children and love my husband.
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 123 
 
 LIGNOL. Your children? 
 
 JULIE [quite simply, with a touch of emotion] Above 
 everything my children. What I am going to say will 
 sound absurd to you, but the day my first child is born 
 will be the happiest day of my life. So you see, M. 
 Lignol 
 
 LIGNOL [insinuatingly] Dear madame, we shall meet 
 again. 
 
 JULIE [smiling] As soon as you please. 
 Antonin comes in. 
 
 ANTONIN. Here 's the letter. You '11 slip it into the 
 post-box, won't you? And now we 've only just time. 
 
 LIGNOL. I 'm ready [rising briskly]. But don't let 
 me drag you to the station. You '11 be leaving madame 
 alone. 
 
 ANTONIN. That 's all right. Come along. I can see 
 if M. and Madame Dupont have arrived at the same 
 time. 
 
 LIGNOL [to Julie] Au revoir, madame. [To An- 
 tonin] I am sorry not to say good-bye to mademoiselle. 
 [Antonin is puzzled] To the lady who dined with us. 
 
 ANTONIN. Oh, Caro. I '11 say it for you. No, here 
 she is. [Caroline comes in; and, as Lignol is saying 
 good-bye to her, M. and Madame Dupont appear. An- 
 tonin hurriedly introduces] My friend Lignol. He has 
 to catch this train. 
 
 LIGNOL. So sorry. [He goes out with Antonin]. 
 
 DUPONT. Ah, Caroline. There you are. I have good 
 news for you. Your aunt is dead. Your aunt in India. 
 She has left all her money to you and Angele. Not much. 
 Sixty thousand francs between you. I get nothing, of 
 course. She never could endure me. My dear girl, 
 what 's the matter ? Come, come, you 're not going to 
 cry because your aunt is dead ! You 've not seen her for 
 five and twenty years. It 's the greatest stroke of luck 
 for you. And I shall have all the trouble, as usual ! [A
 
 124 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 gesture of dissent from Caroline}. Oh, yes, I shall. 
 Your sister will have to come down from Paris. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I thought you said she was in India. 
 
 DUPONT. In India! What are you talking about? 
 She is in Paris. She has never been anywhere except in 
 Paris. What should take her to India? [To Caroline] 
 Your sister Angele will have to come down from Paris 
 because part of the money is in land. It will be sold, of 
 course, but still I shall have to see Angele. And that 
 will set people talking. Lots of people don't even know 
 that I have three daughters. [To Julie] It 's lucky for 
 you this did n't happen before your marriage, Julie. 
 
 CAROLINE. Must she come, father? 
 
 DUPONT. Certainly she must. You must both be 
 present at the lawyer's together to sign the documents. 
 
 CAROLINE. I will not go to the lawyer's. 
 
 DUPONT. If you refuse to go Angele will not be 
 able to get her legacy, and she needs it. 
 
 CAROLINE. Well, perhaps I will go. I will think it 
 over and consult someone. I will give you my answer 
 to-morrow. 
 
 DUPONT. As you please. And not a word about this, 
 remember, either of you. 
 
 JULIE. Very well, father. 
 
 CAROLINE [taking a letter from the mantelpiece] 
 Courthezon brought this letter for you. It is about the 
 printing work for the Prefecture. 
 
 DUPONT [he reads the letter] Done, by Jove ! Du- 
 moulin gets the contract ! Dumoulin ! I expected this. 
 I expected it. Uncle Marechal has done it on purpose, 
 curse him! [To Julie] How long have I been telling 
 you you ought to pay him a visit ? Have you been ? No ! 
 And Antonin? Not he! Nor his father and mother! 
 The old fool is offended, and this is his revenge. And if 
 this goes on we shall never get a halfpenny of his money. 
 Why have n't you been to see him ?
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 125 
 
 JULIE. Antonin's parents did n't wish it. 
 
 DUPONT. Ah ! They did n't wish it ! Well, I have 
 a word or two to say to Antonin's parents, you '11 see. 
 / do my duty. / go and call on Uncle Marechal myself. 
 / amuse the old idiot, though it 's not the pleasantest 
 sort of job to have to do. They didn't wish it! I'll 
 show them the kind of man I am ! And you you were 
 fool enough to do what they told you ! I find a husband 
 for you, a far better match than you could ever have 
 hoped for. I do the Mairauts 
 
 MME. DUPONT [alarmed, looking round her] Hush ! 
 
 DUPONT. Well, have n't I done the Mairauts ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes, yes! But don't say it so 
 loud. 
 
 DUPONT. They are n't here. And if they were, 
 Julie 's married now. [Speaking lower, but with the 
 same fury] I do the Mairauts 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Are you quite sure? 
 
 DUPONT. Am I quite sure? Haven't I done them? 
 I tell you I 've done them brown! 
 
 The maid-servant comes in. 
 
 SERVANT [to Julie] It 's about the beer, madame. 
 
 JULIE. I 'm coming. Will you come, too, Caro? 
 [Julie and Caroline go out], 
 
 DUPONT [fuming] Brown, by Jove ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Hush ! Here they are. 
 
 DUPONT. I 'm glad to hear it. Now you '11 see. 
 M. and Madame Mairaut come in. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Ah, you are here? Well, the wall 
 has come down. 
 
 DUPONT. I 'm not thinking about the wall. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Very likely. You have n't to pay 
 for putting it up again. 
 
 DUPONT. I 'm not thinking about the wall. I 'm 
 thinking of something far more important. M. and 
 Madame Mairaut, I regret to have to inform you that
 
 126 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 you are either deplorably unintelligent or else devoid of 
 all sense of parental duty. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Indeed ! So it 's you who propose 
 to insult us just when 
 
 DUPONT. I am a father and I love my children. 
 When their interests are at stake I have the sense to keep 
 on good terms with those who may be useful to them 
 later on. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [after a moment's thought] I see. 
 Uncle Marechal? 
 
 DUPONT. You knew it? You did it on purpose? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Uncle Marechal! [She bursts out 
 laughing uproariously]. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Charlotte ! My dear ! Don't laugh like that. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Why should n't I laugh ? You are n't 
 going to forbid me, I suppose [looking full at Dupont 
 and laughing more], nor monsieur? 
 
 DUPONT. Well, since you take it like that, I propose 
 to give you my view of the situation. Either you are 
 hopelessly selfish or else you are hopelessly stupid. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Monsieur Dupont ! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. You hold your tongue. Leave me 
 to deal with him. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. My dear 
 
 DUPONT. Be silent. Selfish or stupid? Which? 
 [Madame Mairaut shrugs her shoulders] Is Uncle 
 Marechal a man with money to leave, or is he not? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [decisively, after a moment's thought] 
 He is not! 
 
 DUPONT [staggered] He is not? But 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. I quite understand, and you have 
 your answer. He is not. 
 
 DUPONT. He has not two hundred thousand francs? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. He had them. Somebody else has 
 them now. He has lost them. 
 
 DUPONT. Lost them ! If this is true
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 127 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. That is why we don't waste our time 
 in going to see him. 
 
 DUPONT. But I don't understand. [A pause. He 
 controls himself] How long ago did this happen? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. More than six months ago. 
 
 DUPONT. More than six months? Then you knew? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Yes, we knew. 
 
 DUPONT. And you never told me? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. You did n't ask us. 
 
 DUPONT. You ought to have informed me. It was 
 dishonest. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Monsieur ! 
 
 DUPONT. You have swindled me. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Swindled ! 
 
 DUPONT. Yes ! Swindled ! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Nonsense. We are as well off as 
 you are, I hope. Our bank is worth as much as your 
 printing business. 
 
 DUPONT. Most people would n't say so. As to that, 
 by the way, I should like to ask you 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. No, monsieur. I have nothing 
 further to say to you. And I am now going to inform 
 my son how you have treated us. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Madame Mairaut! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Are you coming, Alfred? 
 
 Mairaut makes a gesture of regret and distress behind 
 his wife's back, and then follows her out. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. This is terrible! 
 
 DUPONT. Eh? [Pulling himself together]. No! On 
 reflection I 'm inclined to think it 's the best thing that 
 could have happened. I regret nothing. Rather the 
 contrary. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I don't understand. 
 
 DUPONT. Naturally ! You don't understand. You 
 will later. [Julie comes in] We were just speaking of 
 you. I hear your husband's business is shaky. Is it?
 
 128 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 JULIE. I know nothing about it. 
 
 DUPONT. You know, I suppose, whether it is true 
 that he got let in by the Bourdin failure? 
 
 JULIE. No. 
 
 DUPONT. Good Heavens ! What on earth do you talk 
 about at meals, and so on? 
 
 JULIE. We don't talk at all. 
 
 DUPONT. Still you must have noticed whether he was 
 anxious and preoccupied, or whether he was in his usual 
 spirits. 
 
 JULIE. I Ve no idea what his usual spirits are. I 've 
 only known him six months. 
 
 DUPONT. You 'd better ask him how things are going, 
 at once. 
 
 JULIE. What '& the good ? 
 
 DUPONT. You must ask him. You will have children 
 some day, I suppose? 
 
 JULIE [with a sigh] If it were n't for that, I think I 
 should go and drown myself. 
 
 DUPONT. That would be absurd. But we need n't 
 discuss that now. Only, if you don't wish your children 
 to be beggars, keep an eye on your husband's business 
 affairs. 
 
 JULIE. Very well. I will. 
 
 Antonin comes in. 
 
 ANTONIN [in a tone of mild reproach] M. Dupont, 
 this is very annoying. Here are my parents coming to 
 me to complain that you have called them swindlers. 
 I must say it 's pretty hard on me if I can't even spend 
 a Sunday in the country in peace. From the moment 
 you arrive on Saturday night you begin quarrelling. And 
 now swindlers ! Come, come, M. Dupont, that 's not 
 the sort of name one calls people, is it? They are very 
 angry, and I don't blame them. 
 
 DUPONT. Oh, it was really nothing. 
 
 ANTONIN. Maman is furious.
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 129 
 
 DUPONT. That 's absurd of her. You know what it is 
 when people begin disputing; one word leads to another, 
 and one says things one only half believes. However, to 
 show how reasonable I am, I will go and make my apol- 
 ogies to Madame Mairaut. [To Madame Dupont] 
 Come, my dear: you must do the talking. 
 
 ANTONIN. If you put yourself in my place, you will 
 see how unpleasant this kind of thing is. 
 
 DUPONT [with dignity] Quite so. [He and Madame 
 Dupont turn towards the door]. 
 
 ANTONIN [calling them back] Here are M. and Ma- 
 dame Pouchelet. Wait ! [He goes to the door and calls 
 to his parents] Maman ! They 're here, and M. Dupont 
 wants to apologize. It was a misunderstanding, and 
 please don't let 's have any quarrelling before visitors. 
 [To Julie] Go and help them to get their things 
 off. 
 
 Julie goes out to welcome the arrivals. M. and Ma- 
 dame Mairaut come in at the same moment as M. and 
 Madame Pouchelet, Julie helping the latter to take off 
 their wraps. M. Pouchelet is in evening dress, Madame 
 Pouchelet in a ball dress. 
 
 JULIE. How good of you to come. My husband and 
 I are so delighted. 
 
 POUCHELET. I promised your husband we would look 
 in. Otherwise we should have gone straight home. The 
 Prefet kept us longer than we wished, and we rieither of 
 us like late hours. We can only stay a moment. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [pushing forward a chair for Madame 
 Pouchelet] Won't you sit down? 
 
 ANTONIN [to Pouchelet] Naturally the Prefet was 
 only too glad to get you to come. 
 
 POUCHELET. Yes. There is a scheme on foot for re- 
 classifying the roads in the Department. 
 
 ANTONIN [with an assumption of great interest] 
 Really !
 
 130 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [following suit] Reclassifying the 
 roads? Most interesting! 
 
 ANTONIN. It is a matter of the greatest importance. 
 And you, of course, are the very man to give him the nec- 
 essary information. 
 
 POUCHELET [pompously] I flatter myself I do know 
 something of the subject. 
 
 DUPONT. It is a question I have also had a great deal 
 to do with. Twelve years ago I printed 
 
 POUCHELET. I intend to make 
 
 DUPONT. No ; it was thirteen 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [to her husband] Listen, dear: M. 
 Pouchelet is speaking. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Yes, yes; I am listening. 
 
 POUCHELET. I intend to make an important speech 
 on the subject at the Council. But you will read the 
 report in the papers. 
 
 ANTONIN. I should think so. We must not miss that, 
 Julie, must we ? 
 
 POUCHELET. Oh, madame, I 'm afraid my speech is 
 not likely to interest you. 
 
 ANTONIN. On the contrary. My wife only likes read- 
 ing about serious subjects. Why the other day I found 
 her reading who was it ? that English writer : what 
 was his name, dearest? 
 
 JULIE. Never mind. 
 
 ANTONIN [going over to Julie, summing up her points] 
 She 's a wonderful little woman, my wife. Are n't you, 
 dearest ? You are n't cold, are you ? I am always tell- 
 ing you you don't wrap up enough. [To Pouchelet] She 
 is charming, is n't she ? And the most devoted wife ! 
 [To Julie] Aren't you a devoted wife, dear? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Antonin, aren't you going to offer 
 M. and Madame Pouchelet a little refreshment? 
 
 ANTONIN. Of course. [To his wife] Will you 
 ring?
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 131 
 
 Julie rings the bell. The maid comes in almost at once 
 with bottles of beer on a tray, and glasses. 
 
 JULIE [to the maid] Put it there. 
 
 ANTONIN [to Madame Pouchelet] My wife is a won- 
 derful manager. We are really hardly settled in here. 
 Yet everything is always ready directly one wants it. 
 May I give you a glass of beer? 
 
 The glasses which Julie has poured out are handed 
 round. Caroline comes in. 
 
 DUPONT. M. Pouchelet, allow me to present to you 
 my second daughter, Caroline. 
 
 POUCHELET [fcows] Madame. 
 
 ANTONIN [correcting him] Mademoiselle. Mile. 
 Caroline has always refused to marry. She prefers to 
 devote her life to her art. 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. You are an artist, mademoiselle? 
 How delightful. I adore artists. 
 
 CAROLINE. I only paint a little on china. 
 
 ANTONIN. And she does it most beautifully. 
 
 POUCHELET. You must send something to our local 
 exhibition. 
 
 ANTONIN. Excellent! M. Pouchelet is right. Why 
 have you never sent anything? 
 
 CAROLINE. I only paint china plates, knick-knacks, 
 and so on. 
 
 ANTONIN. Just for your own amusement. [To Pou- 
 chelet] My sister-in-law just does it to amuse herself. 
 But I am sure if she took the trouble 
 
 CAROLINE. But I don't do it to amuse myself. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Oh, yes, you do. 
 
 ANTONIN. Merely to amuse yourself. 
 
 DUPONT. Just for your own amusement. 
 
 ANTONIN. And the artist can put just as much of his 
 art into small subjects. Look at Meissonier. 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. Of course. They give just as 
 great scope for the imagination.
 
 132 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 CAROLINE. But I only copy what the people at the 
 shop send me. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Another glass of beer, Madame Pou- 
 chelet? It is French beer and can't 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. Not just now, thank you. [To 
 Caroline] The shop people, mademoiselle? 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes, madame, the people who keep the 
 shop I work for. They pay me quite good wages for 
 what I do. 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. I see. [A silence]. 
 
 ANTONIN [sotto voce, talcing Caroline a glass of beer] 
 Be silent, can't you? 
 
 CAROLINE [to him, puzzled] What is it? 
 
 ANTONIN [to Madame Pouchelet, leading her up to a 
 picture] Madame Pouchelet, you understand pictures, 
 I know. What do you think of this ? I paid a long price 
 for it. [They go on talking]. 
 
 CAROLINE [to Madame Mairaut, in a low voice] Have 
 I done anything I should n't? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [drily] Oh, no! Far from it! [She 
 rises and goes over to Madame Pouchelet]. 
 
 MME. POUCHELET [coming down stage with Antonin] 
 I don't care much about pictures unless they tell a story. 
 What is that one about? 
 
 JULIE. It is an engraving of a picture by Gerard Dow. 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. Never heard of him. 
 
 JULIE. He was a Dutch painter. Seventeenth 
 century. 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. Really! But of course you know 
 more about these things than I do. A propos, M. Du- 
 pont, did you go to the lecture the other day on women's 
 right* ? 
 
 POUCHELET [laughing] Oh, yes ; ha ! ha ! 
 
 MME. POUCHELET [to Julie] I should n't be sur- 
 prised if you, madame, had some sympathy with such 
 opinions ?
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 133 
 
 JULIE [evasively'] I don't know. 
 
 ANTONIN [laughing] Come., confess, my dear. Just 
 a little, perhaps ? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Woman the equal of man ! 
 
 JULIE [mildly] Why not? 
 
 MAIRAUT. There are some women who would n't 
 gain much by that. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But not all. 
 
 DUPONT. Women lawyers ! 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. Women doctors ! 
 
 POUCHELET. Women with votes ! 
 
 ANTONIN [laughing] What a joke. 
 
 DUPONT [laughing] Women with votes ! 
 
 POUCHELET. I call that rich. [All three are con- 
 vulsed with merriment], 
 
 DUPONT. Think of it. Women in the Chamber of 
 Deputies ! 
 
 ANTONIN. Women Senators ! 
 
 POUCHELET. Women in the Ministry ! 
 
 DUPONT. In the Chamber they would want to keep 
 their hats on. 
 
 POUCHELET. Yes [to Julie]. Eh, Madame Mairaut? 
 They 'd insist on keeping on their hats as they do at the 
 theatres. 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. And at election times they 'd go 
 from house to house asking for votes. The modern 
 women would enjoy that. 
 
 POUCHELET. And this parliament elected by women, 
 what would it be like? [More laughter] A Chamber of 
 Deputies chosen by women ! 
 
 JULIE [a little annoyed] Really, gentlemen, judging 
 by the results you 've achieved so far by keeping the 
 government to yourselves I don't think you need fear 
 that women will do much worse. [The laughter dies 
 down uneasily]. 
 
 POUCHELET [with pompous solemnity] I know it is
 
 134 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 the fashion nowadays to decry all our elective assemblies. 
 But, as I am myself, in my humble way, one of the 
 people's representatives, I cannot allow such views to 
 pass without protest. [An awful silence]. 
 
 JULIE [apologizing] I had no intention of saying 
 anything that could wound you, M. Pouchelet. 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. We are sure of that, dear madame. 
 
 POUCHELET [to his wife] And now, my dear, it is 
 time for us to be going. 
 
 ANTONIN. You must forgive my wife's little slip, 
 dear monsieur. 
 
 POUCHELET. It is nothing nothing at all. 
 
 ANTONIN. You must n't go like this. Another glass 
 of beer? 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. You are very good. It has been 
 so close to-day. 
 
 ANTONIN. Julie, a glass of beer for Madame Pou- 
 chelet. [To her] Yes; the heat this afternoon has been 
 quite oppressive. [To Julie] Where 's that beer? 
 
 JULIE [who has tried the various bottles, confused] 
 I will send for some more. These are empty. 
 
 ANTONIN. Really ! 
 
 MME. POUCHELET. Oh, please don't trouble. Please ! 
 No; you really must not. We can have something when 
 we get home. [Going] Our things are here, I think. 
 
 JULIE. Let me help you. 
 
 ANTONIN. I will come and put you on your way. 
 
 POUCHELET [declining] Thank you, monsieur. We 
 know the way. 
 
 M. and Madame Pouchelet bow formally and coldly to 
 each in turn and go out: Julie goes with them. There 
 is a silence. Antonin paces the room irritably. Madame 
 Mairaut grins. 
 
 DUPONT [to his wife, in a low voice, after glancing at 
 the others] I think it 's time we went to bed. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Very well, dear.
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 135 
 
 Formal bows, Monsieur, Madame, are exchanged. 
 The Duponts go out and Julie returns. 
 
 ANTONIN [his arms folded, sternly] So there was no 
 more beer? 
 
 JULIE. No, dear. 
 
 ANTONIN. It 's intolerable. 
 
 JULIE. Here are the three bottles. You told me to 
 buy three bottles. There they are. 
 
 ANTONIN. Nonsense ! You make me ridiculous. I 
 press Madame Pouchelet to have another glass and there 
 is n't one. It 's preposterous ! 
 
 JULIE. It is not my fault. 
 
 ANTONIN. I suppose you think it 's mine. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Evidently. 
 
 ANTONIN. Besides, I have no recollection of saying 
 three bottles. 
 
 JULIE. I assure you. 
 
 ANTONIN. I have no recollection whatever of it. On 
 the contrary, I am certain I said buy four or five. 
 
 JULIE. No ! Three ! 
 
 ANTONIN. You make me look like a fool. These 
 people will think I was laughing at them. You make me 
 look like a fool, and that is a thing I won't have. 
 
 CAROLINE. M. Antonin, I was there when you spoke 
 to Julie. You did say three bottles. 
 
 ANTONIN. My dear Caroline, I love you very much, 
 but I can't help pointing out to you that the best possible 
 way to aggravate a dispute between husband and wife is 
 to interfere in it either on one side or on the other. If 
 you don't realize that already, you may take it from me. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. If you spoke less, mademoiselle, it 
 would certainly be better for all parties. 
 
 CAROLINE. Why? What have I said? 
 
 ANTONIN. Among other things you might refrain 
 from proclaiming on the housetops that you are reduced 
 to working for your living.
 
 136 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 CAROLINE. There is nothing dishonorable in that. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Very likely. But one does n't talk 
 about i^. 
 
 ANTONIN. I thought every moment you were going to 
 ask M. Pouchelet for an order. Not very pleasant for 
 us, that. 
 
 CAROLINE. I am sorry. I did n't mean to do anything 
 wrong. [She begins to cry] But I 'm so unfortunate. 
 I always make mistakes. 
 
 ANTONIN [irritably] Oh, for goodness' sake, my dear 
 Caroline, don't begin to cry. There 's no earthly good 
 in that. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. There 's really nothing to cry about. 
 
 JULIE [going to her] Caroline ! Don't cry, dear. 
 [She takes her away]. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Now, my son, we are going to say 
 good-night. 
 
 ANTONIN. Good-night. [He kisses her absently], 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. You 're not angry with us, dear, are 
 you? You wanted to marry Julie, you know. Good- 
 night. 
 
 M. and Madame Mairaut go out. Antonin, left alone, 
 goes to the bell and rings it. The maid comes in. 
 
 ANTONIN [to the servant] Put out the lights. You 
 can leave the two on the mantelpiece. Close those shut- 
 ters. [The maid does so and goes out. Julie returns] 
 I have something to say to you. 
 
 JULIE. I am listening. 
 
 ANTONIN. I do not wish Caroline to remain with us 
 any longer. 
 
 JULIE. Why? What has she done? 
 
 ANTONIN. You know well enough. 
 
 JULIE. No, I do not. 
 
 ANTONIN. She gets on my nerves. 
 
 JULIE. Explain, please. 
 
 ANTONIN. It is not my business to give explanations.
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 137 
 
 I am the master in my own house. I shall be obliged if 
 you will arrange with Caroline to bring her visit to a 
 close on Monday. 
 
 JULIE. But she was to stay till the end of the month. 
 She will want to know why. What am I to say to 
 her? 
 
 ANTONIN. Whatever you please. 
 
 JULIE. She will be hurt. 
 
 ANTONIN. I don't care about that. 
 
 JULIE. But I do care. 
 
 ANTONIN. If you won't tell her, I will, in a way which 
 won't admit of any misunderstanding. 
 
 JULIE. She will be angry. 
 
 ANTONIN. Let her. 
 
 JULIE. But if you two quarrel where shall I be able 
 to see her? Here? 
 
 ANTONIN. No. I forbid you to do so. 
 
 JULIE. Have you the right to forbid me? 
 
 ANTONIN. Certainly. 
 
 JULIE. Why ? 
 
 ANTONIN. Once more, because I am master here : be- 
 cause the husband is the master in his own house. 
 
 JULIE. That was not what you told me while we were 
 engaged. 
 
 ANTONIN. I dare say. 
 
 JULIE. You have nothing more to say to me? 
 
 ANTONIN. Yes; I have. 
 
 JULIE. Well? 
 
 ANTONIN. When you have opinions of the outrageous 
 description you gave vent to this evening, please keep 
 them to yourself. 
 
 JULIE. Haven't I the right to have opinions? 
 
 ANTONIN. Nonsense ! Once for all, I have made up 
 my mind that you shall obey me and not spoil my pros- 
 pects. M. and Madame Pouchelet are people of impor- 
 tance. They might be useful to me, and if you offend
 
 138 The Three Daughters Act II 
 
 them with your absurdities you will be wanting in your 
 duty. Marriage 'is a business partnership. 
 
 JULIE. Then I want to see the accounts. They say 
 you are doing badly at the bank. Is that true ? 
 
 ANTONIN. Women know nothing about such things. 
 You look after your household and leave the rest to me. 
 Under the terms of our marriage the management of our 
 affairs is in my hands. I manage them to the best of my 
 ability. That is all I have to say to you. 
 
 JULIE. In other words, I am a business partner who 
 has to keep her eyes shut and say nothing. 
 
 ANTONIN. My dear, it 's quite useless starting the 
 lecture about women's rights all over again. I heard it 
 the other evening. Leave that sort of thing to old maids 
 with beards. If I were willing to listen to you, you 'd 
 reel off 'the whole catalogue of grievances against the 
 laws which make women slaves. I know. 
 
 JULIE. No: it is not a question of law. It is a ques- 
 tion of social usage. [A pause] What is wrong is not 
 that there is such and such a provision in the Code. The 
 real evil is that our parents married us as they did 
 marry us. 
 
 ANTONIN. They did as most parents do. 
 
 JULIE. And so most marriages are unhappy. 
 
 ANTONIN. If you really loved me 
 
 JULIE. But I don't love you. That is just the point. 
 And you don't love me. And here we are chained to one 
 another. 
 
 ANTONIN". Nonsense! I not love you? 
 
 JULIE. No, indeed. You don't love me. 
 
 ANTONIN. Come, come, you are talking foolishly. 
 It 's late. Let 's go to bed. Things will be all right to- 
 morrow morning. [He goes into the bedroom], 
 
 JULIE [sits staring in front of her for awhile: then 
 she says to herself] No: things will never be all right. 
 Never. Never.
 
 Act II Of Monsieur Dupont 139 
 
 ANTONIN [calls'] Are you coming, Julie? [Julie 
 starts as if she had been dreaming. She looks round her 
 in a dazed way] Come along! 
 
 JULIE [with a deep sigh, her face showing a mingled 
 expression of profound disgust and sorrowful resigna- 
 tion] I am coming. [ She goes slowly towards the door 
 of the bedroom].
 
 ACT III 
 
 The scene is the same as in the first Act. It is Sep- 
 tember. Dupont and his wife are sitting together. 
 There is a pile of account books on the table between 
 them. 
 
 DUPONT [to his wife, who is holding a paper] You 
 see what the accounts say. They are n't brilliant. [To 
 the maid who enters'] As soon as Mile. Caroline comes 
 in ask her to come here. 
 
 SERVANT. Yes, sir. [The maid goes out]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. The turnover is smaller than last 
 year. 
 
 DUPONT. The profits are down to nothing. I 'm 
 wrong. 112 francs 17. Splendid things, accounts! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What 's to happen next? 
 
 DUPONT. I don't know. One thing is certain. Things 
 can't go on like this. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What are we to do, then? 
 
 DUPONT. Next year it will be worse, unless 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Unless? 
 
 DUPONT. The fact is the business wants new plant. 
 At present we are using an old machine worked by hand, 
 which I inherited from my father. We have a gas en- 
 gine not worth twopence. In fact, there 's only one hope 
 for us. 
 
 MME DUPONT. What is that? 
 
 DUPONT. To get fresh capital somehow. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. That 's not very likely. 
 
 DUPONT. Who knows? It 's lucky for you your hus- 
 140
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 141 
 
 band is no fool, 103^ dear. I am going to see if I can get 
 you out of this mess. [Caroline comes in] Here is 
 Caroline. Go and find Julie. I shall want you both in 
 a moment. I will call you. 
 
 Madame Dupont goes out. 
 
 DUPONT [to Caroline] My dear child, I have asked 
 you to come here because I want to have a serious talk 
 with you. After our long arguments you have at last 
 come to see that it is your duty to accept the legacy from 
 your aunt. Your sister Angele is coming here. 
 
 CAROLINE. Coming here? 
 
 DUPONT. But that is another matter. We will dis- 
 cuss that in a moment with Julie and her mother. They 
 are in the next room. At present I am speaking only of 
 you. All difficulties are removed now I had a lot of 
 trouble over it, by the way and to-morrow at four at 
 the lawyer's you will receive the sum of thirty-one thou- 
 sand three hundred and eighteen francs and a few cen- 
 times. Ahem! My dear Caroline, you are old enough 
 to know what you are about. Still you are not one of 
 those undutiful children who throw aside all obedience 
 to their fathers as soon as they are of age. You con- 
 tinue, I am sure, to recognize my right at least to give 
 you advice. I have lived longer than you, I am a man 
 of business, and I can clearly be of use to you when you 
 want to invest your money. Have you any plans as to 
 this so far? 
 
 CAROLINE. I had some idea 
 
 DUPONT. May I know what it is? 
 
 CAROLINE. I would rather not say. 
 
 DUPONT. Not say ! 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. Indeed ! Oh, in that case [shrug] 
 
 CAROLINE. You don't mind, father? 
 
 DUPONT [much put out, but endeavoring to control 
 himself] Not at all. By no means. Then there 's noth-
 
 142 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 ing more to be said. I am a little surprised, of course; 
 hurt even; greatly hurt, in fact. 
 
 CAROLINE. I am sorry, father. 
 
 DUPONT. No matter ! No matter ! 
 
 CAROLINE. You understand 
 
 DUPONT. I understand that you do not trust your 
 father. That is what I understand. But have your own 
 way. I ask nothing. 
 
 CAROLINE. Are you vexed with me ? 
 
 DUPONT. Oh, no. Not the least in the world. Only 
 when you have given everything you possess to some 
 religious community or other, I should like to know what 
 you will have to live upon when you are old. I assume, 
 of course, that it is some community you are thinking of. 
 [Caroline is silent'} You admit it? 
 
 CAROLINE. No. I would rather say nothing about it. 
 
 DUPONT. It is so, all the same? 
 
 CAROLINE. Please, father! 
 
 DUPONT. You won't give me any idea? 
 
 CAROLINE. No. 
 
 DUPONT. You refuse, then? You refuse absolutely? 
 
 CAROLINE. I have the right to do so, have I not? 
 
 DUPONT. Clearly. You are old enough. 
 
 CAROLINE. Don't let us talk about it any more. 
 
 DUPONT. Very well. [After a moment, breaking into 
 a passion] So this is my reward ! This is the result of 
 having sacrificed my whole life for my daughters ! You 
 do not even trust me as much as you would trust any 
 little attorney you consulted. 
 
 CAROLINE. Father ! Of course I trust you. 
 
 DUPONT [furiously] Hold your tongue. You are 
 heartless and undutiful. I did not expect this. 
 
 CAROLINE. Please don't be angry, father. 
 
 DUPONT. Angry? Yes, I am angry, and I have good 
 reason. [Striking the table] Damnation ! This is too 
 much ! To have lived to be sixty-two and be insulted 
 like this [He strides up and down the room].
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 143 
 
 CAROLINE. I thought I could I have only disposed 
 of part of the money. 
 
 DUPONT [stopping short] What? 
 
 CAROLINE. I have only disposed of part of the money. 
 
 DUPONT [mollified, becoming tenderly reproachful 
 and coming to sit by her] My dear child, why did n't 
 you say so at once? 
 
 CAROLINE. You gave me no time. 
 
 DUPONT. How much is gone? 
 
 CAROLINE. Fifteen thousand francs. 
 
 DUPONT. Um ! That is a large sum. But the sixteen 
 thousand that remain? 
 
 CAROLINE. I meant to ask your advice about that. 
 
 DUPONT [rising] Ah, well, my dear, I have been 
 thinking this over. Let 's consider what openings there 
 are for capital. Suppose you invest it? Gilt-edged se- 
 curities bring in two and a half per cent. If you take 
 something rather more speculative, you may get four. 
 Then there are the big industrial companies. But with 
 them, too, there are risks to be faced. Foreign compe- 
 tition is more and more threatening. The struggles be- 
 tween labor and capital are reaching an acute phase. 
 
 CAROLINE. M. Antonin Mairaut has been to see me. 
 
 DUPONT. The scoundrel ! I '11 bet he wanted you to 
 invest the money in his bank. 
 
 CAROLINE. He did suggest it. 
 
 DUPONT. You see ! I guessed as much. You sent him 
 about his business, I hope? 
 
 CAROLINE. I said I would think about it. 
 
 DUPONT. That 's right. But what a fright you gave 
 me. To invest your money in a bank. Nothing could be 
 more risky. Well, as we were saying, no public com- 
 panies, no industrials, no shares in banks. What remains ? 
 
 CAROLINE. I don't know. 
 
 DUPONT. There remains commercial enterprise, trade. 
 But do you know anyone engaged in trade who will let 
 you put capital into his business ?
 
 144 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 CAROLINE. I think not. 
 
 DUPONT. We must put our heads together. I confess 
 I can think of no one. Madame Grand jean? 
 
 CAROLINE. Father! Madame Grandj can is divorced. 
 You know quite well I refused even to accept employ- 
 ment from her. 
 
 DUPONT. That is true. More fool you, by the way. 
 Still M. Darbout? 
 
 CAROLINE. He is a Protestant. 
 
 DUPONT. Well, then, I don't see. There is no one, 
 in fact. 
 
 CAROLINE. But you, father. If you would do it. 
 
 DUPONT. If I would do what? Manage it for 
 
 you 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. It is a great responsibility. I don't know 
 whether What interest would you expect ? 
 
 CAROLINE. Whatever you thought right, father. 
 
 DUPONT. Well, I will speak to your mother about it. 
 [As if suddenly making up his mind] No, I won't. 
 I '11 do it. No one shall say I hesitated to do all I could 
 for my daughter. Kiss me, my dear. I '11 do it. 
 
 CAROLINE. Thank you, father. 
 
 DUPONT. And you would still rather not tell me what 
 you are doing with the other fifteen thousand. 
 
 CAROLINE. Please, father! 
 
 DUPONT. Very well. You are your own mistress. 
 I '11 have the necessary documents prepared. Don't you 
 worry about it. I will arrange everything beforehand. 
 You will have nothing to do but sign. [He looks at his 
 watch] Three o'clock. Now there is that other matter 
 we have to talk of. [He goes to the door and calls] 
 Come in, both of you. [Julie and Madame Dupont 
 enter] Sit down [When they are seated, he says] 
 My dears, I wanted you all to come here that we may 
 decide how we are to receive Angele. It is rather a diffi-
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 145 
 
 cult question. You know her life in Paris is ahem ! 
 highly reprehensible. Ought we to let her come here? 
 Ought we to meet her, for instance, at the station? 
 
 JULIE. Papa, what has Angele done? Now that I 
 am married surely I may know? People always stop 
 talking about her when I come in. I remember her quite 
 well. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But you were only five when she went 
 away. 
 
 DUPONT. You understand, my children, how painful 
 this subject is both for you and for me. I will spare 
 you the details as far as possible. It is enough that you 
 should know, Julie, that when Angele was seventeen she 
 was obliged to leave her home because because 
 
 MME. DUPONT [simply] Because she was about to 
 become a mother. 
 
 JULIE. She went away? 
 
 DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 JULIE. Of her own free will? 
 
 DUPONT. I sent her away. 
 
 JULIE. Ah ! 
 
 DUPONT. As I said, the subject is a very painful one. 
 Let us get it over as quickly as possible. She is coming 
 here to-day. [He looks at his watch] She is on her way 
 now. Her train arrived five minutes ago. Now I hope 
 you will all of you behave with dignity, and neither be 
 too affectionate, which would be out of the question, nor 
 too cold, which would be unkind. 
 
 JULIE. Have you heard anything of her since she 
 left home ? 
 
 DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 JULIE. And her behavior? 
 
 DUPONT. Far from what it should be, I 'm afraid. 
 Still 
 
 CAROLINE. Father, you make too light of all this. We 
 have heard of her three times. First when her baby
 
 146 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 died. Next we were told that she was singing at a music 
 hall and was almost penniless. The third time we heard 
 that she was rich, rich without working. When I think 
 of it all I am sorry I consented to meet her. 
 
 JULIE. But she could n't get her share of the legacy 
 unless you did. You could n't rob her of this money 
 however you feel towards her. 
 
 CAROLINE. That was what decided me. But there is 
 no reason why I should see her here. 
 
 DUPONT. I shall see her. Julie will see her. So will 
 your mother. Why should you do differently from 
 us? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. She was very fond of you, Caroline; 
 and you were fond of her. Come, come, you must not be 
 so hard. One should have compassion for those who 
 have suffered as she has done. 
 
 CAROLINE [after a pause] Very well. I will do as 
 you wish. 
 
 DUPONT. That 's right. At the same time, I have no 
 intention of going from one extreme to the other. There 
 will be no question of asking her to stay, or even of in- 
 viting her to dinner. That is agreed, is it not? 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. And now I am going downstairs to 
 the office [She goes out]. 
 
 DUPONT. You, Julie, had better go to your room. 
 [She goes] In ten minutes she will be here. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Well, I must say if she were my 
 daughter, 1 should have been at the station long 
 ago. 
 
 DUPONT. Do you suppose I have n't wanted to go ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Why did n't you, then ? 
 
 DUPONT. What would people say? Everyone knows 
 me here. On the platform I should have met a dozen 
 people who would have asked me whom I was meeting. 
 And, besides, all things considered, it looks more digni- 
 fied to receive her here. [Pondering] I 've been asking
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 147 
 
 myself for the last fortnight what I should say when we 
 do meet. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Give her a kiss. The rest will come 
 easily. 
 
 DUPONT. You think I should kiss her? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. I think so, too. At the same time we must 
 remember how shall I put it ? her way of life. It is 
 a difficult question. And then what am I to say to her? 
 Ought I to refer to the past ? I must not seem to be for- 
 giving her, of course. I could n't do that. I could n't 
 possibly. On the other hand, since she is coming, I can 
 hardly Confound it, it 's all extremely awkward. 
 Eh? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I can't advise you. 
 
 DUPONT [still thinking it out] Of course, she is my 
 daughter. Still, I have not seen her for eighteen years. 
 [Peevishly] I thought I should never set eyes on her 
 again. In the early days, when she first went away, I 
 was terribly distressed. But that could n't last, could 
 it ? And then, you understand Well, well, you must 
 advise me. I have prepared something to say, so as not 
 to leave everything to the inspiration of the moment. If 
 one does n't think things out beforehand, one always says 
 too much or too little. So, as I said, I have prepared 
 something. I even wrote it out, but I know it by heart. 
 You can imagine how upset I am with all this. Here it is : 
 " My child " I think it best to say " my child." 
 " Angele " would be too familiar and " my daughter " too 
 formal. " My child " [breaking off] And what 
 makes it all the harder is that I 've no idea what she 
 will say to me. Her letters are very properly expressed, 
 very properly. Still, will she cry? Will she break 
 down ? Will she faint ? I don't know. It 's impos- 
 sible to know. Dear me, I wish the next half hour were 
 over. However: "My child, I thank you for having
 
 148 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 come." The fact is I ought to tell you I have n't given 
 Caroline quite a true account of how things stood. I 
 thought it wiser not. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What do you mean? 
 
 DUPONT. It 's this way. Caroline is the one who 
 could not get her legacy without Angele's signature. 
 Not the other way about. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But you said 
 
 DUPONT. Yes ; I did misrepresent matters a little. 
 You see Caroline would never have agreed to meet An- 
 gele if she had known that it was she who needed An- 
 gele's presence, not Angele hers. Angele is the executor 
 under the will. In fact, it is she who is doing us a ser- 
 vice. But if we go into all that we shall never be done. 
 Well, I say to her : " My child, I thank you for having 
 come. Let us not speak of the past. I only wish to re- 
 member one thing, that you have not visited upon your 
 sister Caroline the resentment which doubtless I inspire 
 in you. I am grateful to you." What do you think of 
 that? [The maid comes in] Good heavens, here she is! 
 [Pointing to the papers, account books, etc., which lie 
 on the table] And that fool Courthezon has never taken 
 away the books. [To the maid] Wait a minute. [To 
 Madame Dupont] Come ! Come this way ! You can tell 
 me whether I ought to make any change. [In a low 
 voice to the maid] Ask her to wait a moment. Say I 
 am engaged. [He goes out with Madame Dupont. The 
 maid shows in Angele. She is a woman of thirty- five, 
 dressed in black, very quietly, but fashionably]. 
 
 MAID. Monsieur is engaged, but I don't think he will 
 be long. Whom shall I say, madame? 
 
 ANGELE. Madame Angele Dupont. 
 
 MAID. Madame has the same name as monsieur? 
 
 ANGELE. The same. 
 
 MAID. Will madame please be seated? [She takes 
 some books off a chair and goes out].
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 149 
 
 ANGELE [with a gesture of despondency, to herself] 
 Nothing is as it used to be. Nothing. 
 Courthezon comes in. 
 
 COURTHEZON. M. Dupont asks you to be good enough 
 to wait five minutes, madame. 
 
 ANGELE. Certainly, monsieur. [Courthezon collects 
 the books and papers, looking at Angele the while out of 
 the corner of his eye. He makes as if to go] You are 
 M. Courthezon, are you not? 
 
 COURTHEZON [much embarrassed] Yes, madame 
 Mile. Angele. You remember me? You have a good 
 memory. Especially as I am not quite myself just now. 
 I have many things to worry me. But that is a long 
 story. [He stands facing her, the books and papers 
 under his arm] I recognized you at once. M. Dupont 
 told me. 
 
 ANGELE. My father is well in health? 
 
 COURTHEZON [embarrassed] Quite well. They are 
 all quite well. You, too, if I may judge by your looks? 
 
 ANGELE. Quite, thank you. 
 
 COURTHEZON. And you have come about this legacy? 
 
 ANGELE. Yes. [A silence], 
 
 COURTHEZON. You must find some changes down 
 here ? 
 
 ANGELE. Very many. I hardly know the place. 
 
 COURTHEZON. We have moved since you went away. 
 The house where the press used to be was pulled down 
 when the Rue de 1'Arbre-a-Poires was rebuilt. 
 
 ANGELE [looking round her] They have altered the 
 furniture in the drawing-room. 
 
 COURTHEZON. That was ten years ago. 
 
 ANGELE [sadly] If I had come here without warning, 
 I should n't have known I was in my father's house. 
 
 COURTHEZON. It is so long since you left. You must 
 feel it very much the idea that you are to see him again ? 
 
 ANGELE [very slowly] Yes. But less than I expected.
 
 150 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 When I got my father's letter, I felt as if I should faint. 
 That was two months ago. Since then I have thought of 
 this moment every day. I have wondered so often what 
 my father would say to me and what I should answer 
 now that I no longer feel anything. That is strange, is 
 it not? Strange and sad. [She sighs] After all, M. 
 Courthezon, life is always more commonplace than we 
 expect; simpler, but less beautiful. [A pause. Sadly] 
 And besides, I have seen so much. 
 
 COURTHEZON. You have suffered, too? 
 
 ANGELE. A little. 
 
 COURTHEZON. Eighteen years, is it not? 
 
 ANGELE. Yes. Eighteen years. 
 
 COURTHEZON. I hear M. Dupont. I must be going. 
 Au revoir, madame. 
 
 Courthezon goes out. A moment later the voice of Du- 
 pont is heard without through the half -open door, saying: 
 " Yes, yes; I want you to come with me." Then M. and 
 Madame Dupont come in. There is a long pause, and 
 finally Dupont says, with apparent calm. 
 
 DUPONT. Good-morning, Angele. 
 
 ANGELE. Good-morning, father. 
 
 They hesitate for a moment as to whether they should 
 kiss one another, then make up their minds to do so. Du- 
 pont places a chill salute on either cheek of Angele. Still 
 silent, Angele goes up to Madame Dupont and kisses her 
 with the same frigidity^ 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Good-morning, Angele. 
 
 ANGELE. Good-morning, mother. [They look at one 
 another without a word], 
 
 DUPONT [overcoming a momentary emotion] Let us 
 sit down. [They sit. Then he addresses Angele in the 
 tone he might have used if she had only gone away the 
 previous evening] Thank you for coming. 
 
 ANGELE. I came for my sister's sake. For Caroline. 
 I was very fond of her. [A pause] Is she married?
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 151 
 
 DUPONT. No. She has never wished to marry. 
 
 ANGELE. Yet she is thirty-three. 
 
 DUPONT [to his wife] Thirty-three or thirty- four? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Thirty-three. 
 
 ANGELE. I shall see her? 
 
 DUPONT. Yes. We will let her know you are here. 
 
 ANGELE. And my half-sister? 
 
 DUPONT. Julie? 
 
 ANGELE. Yes, Julie. 
 
 DUPONT. Your half-sister is married. She has made 
 a good match. The son of a banker. The Mairauts. 
 You remember M. Mairaut, the grandfather? 
 
 ANGELE. No. 
 
 DUPONT. Oh, yes ; an old man with a long white 
 beard. 
 
 ANGELE. No. 
 
 DUPONT. Anyhow, he was the grandfather of M. An- 
 tonin Mairaut, Julie's husband. [He points to the door] 
 She is in there. 
 
 ANGELE. There? 
 
 DUPONT [speaking rapidly to hide his mingled emo- 
 tion and embarrassment] Yes. She has come back with 
 her husband to live with us for a time. Their house at 
 St. Laurent is flooded. You remember the house at St. 
 Laurent ? 
 
 ANGELE. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT [as before, his embarrassment growing] I 
 told them they ought to build a little wall along the river 
 bank or their house would be flooded. They would n't 
 listen to me and this is the consequence. Happily the 
 water is going down, and they '11 be able to go home to- 
 morrow. But they should have built a wall like their 
 neighbors. Their neighbors built a wall and and 
 that 's how it was. 
 
 ANGELE [after a pause] How is the business doing? 
 Well?
 
 152 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 DUPONT. Oh, yes. 
 
 ANGELE. And you are all quite well? 
 
 DUPONT. All of us. I had a touch of bronchitis last 
 year, but it passed off. 
 
 ANGELE. I am glad. [A silence]. 
 
 DUPONT [to Angele, who is gazing at him] You find 
 me looking older, eh? 
 
 ANGELE. On the contrary. I was just thinking 
 
 DUPONT. And you? You are well? 
 
 ANGELE. Quite, thank you. [Another silence. Then 
 Angele rises and the Duponts rise too]. 
 
 DUPONT. You can't stay any longer? 
 
 ANGELE. No. I'm afraid I must [Another 
 silence]. 
 
 DUPONT. You came straight from the station? 
 
 ANGELE. No. I had my things taken to the Lion 
 d'Or. 
 
 DUPONT. You are staying at the Lion d'Or? 
 
 ANGELE. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. Just so. Well, until to-morrow. Four 
 o'clock at the lawyer's. His house is just opposite. [He 
 points through the window] You can see his door from 
 here. You can't miss it. 
 
 ANGELE. I understand. [A pause] Julie she is 
 there? [She points to the door]. 
 
 DUPONT. Tut, tut, what am I thinking of? I had 
 forgotten. Yes, she is there. They will take you to 
 her. [To Madame Dupont] Go and see if I '11 tell 
 someone to go and find Caroline. [He rings]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [opening a door and calling through it] 
 Julie: your sister Angele is here. 
 
 JULIE [from her room] Angele? Ask her to come in. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You can go in to her. 
 
 Angele goes. Dupont has rung and says a few words 
 to the maid, who goes out at once. 
 
 DUPONT. Ouf ! [To Madame Dupont] Ah, well, it
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 153 
 
 has all gone off excellently. I did n't say a word of what 
 I had got ready, but still it was all right. Don't you 
 think so? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Quite. Poor girl ! I felt sorry for her. 
 
 DUPONT. She is quite happy. She was very well 
 dressed; quite like a lady, in fact. Who would think to 
 see her Eh? [Madame Dupont nods] And yet 
 But when one has had a good education it always comes 
 out. It is curious. I thought I should be quite upset 
 when I saw her. Instead of which Of course I don't 
 mean that I did n't feel it. Still it was n't so bad as I 
 expected. But now she 's no longer there I feel I feel 
 my legs giving way under me ! [He sits down. A si- 
 lence] If I were not so sure it was my duty to do as I 
 did for it was my duty? [Pause] You don't answer. 
 Was n't it my duty ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I don't know. 
 
 Caroline comes in. 
 
 DUPONT. Angele 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. Courthezon told me. 
 
 DUPONT [with assumed carelessness, after a pause] 
 You understand, Caroline, no reproaches. Don't make 
 any allusion to what you are doing for her sake. 
 
 CAROLINE. I understand. 
 
 DUPONT [to his wife] Tell her that Caroline is wait- 
 ing for her. 
 
 The maid comes in. 
 
 MAID. M. and Madame Mairaut, monsieur. They 
 wish to speak to you. 
 
 DUPONT. Good. Where are they ? In the office? 
 
 MAID. Yes, monsieur. 
 
 DUPONT [to his wife] I know what they want. [To 
 the maid] I will come down with you. [He and the 
 maid go out]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [speaking at the door of Julie's room] 
 Caroline is here.
 
 154 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 Angele comes in and makes a quick movement towards 
 Caroline, but pulls herself up before the coldness of the 
 other's demeanor. 
 
 ANGELE. Caroline ! 
 
 CAROLINE. Angele! [They stand looking fixedly at 
 one another for some moments]. 
 
 ANGELE [sadly] How changed you are! 
 
 CAROLINE. You are changed, too. 
 
 ANGELE. That is because life has not always gone 
 smoothly with me. [Caroline makes a gesture of incre- 
 dulity] You don't believe me ? 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes, if you say so. 
 
 ANGELE. I have just seen Julie. She was kinder 
 than you are. And she was only five when I left home; 
 and she is only my half-sister. You and I have the same 
 father and the same mother. We are almost of an age, 
 and we used to love one another. 
 
 CAROLINE [coldly] That is true. 
 
 ANGELE. If you knew all about it you would for- 
 give me. 
 
 CAROLINE. Are the things that were said about you 
 untrue ? 
 
 ANGELE. No. However bad they were they are true. 
 
 CAROLINE. Since that is so 
 
 ANGELE [without anger] Since that is so, I still think 
 your virtue very proud, and very hard. That is all. [Chang- 
 ing her tone] You understand what has brought me here? 
 
 CAROLINE. I understand that we are to meet at the 
 lawyer's. 
 
 ANGELE. Very well. To-morrow at four. 
 
 CAROLINE. To-morrow at four at the lawyer's. 
 
 ANGELE [turning at the door, greatly moved] You 
 have nothing else to say to me? 
 
 Caroline shakes her head. Angele goes out. A mo- 
 ment after Dupont comes in. 
 
 DUPONT [beaming] She has gone?
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 155 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT [chuckling] Where is your mother? Where 
 is she? [He calls Madame Dupont]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What is it? 
 
 DUPONT. I want you. 
 
 CAROLINE. I will go. 
 
 DUPONT. There 's no need. 
 
 CAROLINE. I have some work to do. 
 
 DUPONT. Very well. Go, my child. Go. [Calling 
 after her] To-morrow, remember. [She goes out as M. 
 Dupont rubs his hands, chuckling] Guess what M. and 
 Madame Mairaut came to ask me. You can't guess ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No. 
 
 DUPONT. No wonder. They came to ask for the 
 twenty-five thousand francs ; the twenty-five thousand 
 francs of Julie's dot, you remember, which I was to pay 
 six months after her marriage. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Well? 
 
 DUPONT. Well. It is six months to-day since Julie 
 was married. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Good heavens ! What did you do ? 
 
 DUPONT. Gave them nothing, of course. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You could n't do otherwise. 
 
 DUPONT. As you say, I could n't. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But they will make us bankrupt. 
 
 DUPONT [still smiling broadly] They can't. They 
 have nothing but my word. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Luckily. 
 
 DUPONT. However, I have n't refused the twenty-five 
 thousand francs. Nor have I disputed the debt. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What did you do then? 
 
 DUPONT. I wish you had been there. You would have 
 laughed. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Well? 
 
 DUPONT. I think I managed pretty well, though I say 
 it who should n't. If you had seen the long faces they
 
 156 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 pulled. Especially Mother Mairaut. [He bursts out 
 laughing] I should have liked a photograph of them. 
 It would have cheered me in moments of depression. 
 Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 
 MME. DUPONT [smiling] Tell me about it. 
 
 DUPONT. Well I 'd have given anything for a pho- 
 tograph. I said to them [solemnly] : " Dear monsieur 
 and dear madame, I admit that I promised to pay you 
 to-day twenty-five thousand francs. Only I am not in 
 a position to pay them." Explosion ! Rage ! Dignified 
 reproaches ! Insults ! Smiling, I let the storm pass 
 by. Mother Mairaut sat there, her husband here, I here. 
 All the time they were speaking I looked at them like this 
 [grins]. As soon as they had finished I took up the tale 
 again. " I do not deny the debt," said I, " only I ask to 
 be allowed to postpone the payment. And this time I 
 am ready to sign an undertaking, a binding undertaking, 
 to pay." Complete change of front ! Smiles. Apolo- 
 gies. Oh, they were devilish civil. Called me a man of 
 honor, etc., etc. I let them run on, still smiling. Then, 
 in the midst of an almost religious silence, I sat down at 
 my desk, I took pen and paper, I wrote, I blotted, so, 
 taking my time about it. Madame Mairaut positively 
 slobbered with delight. I tell you she slobbered. I 
 handed her the paper. On it was written simply: " Good 
 for the sum of twenty-five thousand francs to be paid out 
 of the money to be left by Uncle Marechal." Ha ! Ha ! 
 Ha! 
 
 MME. DUPONT [laughing] Splendid ! 
 
 DUPONT. Funny, eh? Deuced funny ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. You don't think so? You don't? Eh? 
 Was n't it funny ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. When Mother Mairaut took it in I thought 
 she was going to have a fit. " It 's an insult ! " she
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 157 
 
 shrieked. I believe she actually even called me a cad ! 
 As for me, I was almost dying with laughter. They went 
 away swearing they were going straight to the bank to 
 tell Antonin. By Jove! I haven't enjoyed myself so 
 much for ever so long. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [becoming serious again] I hope this 
 won't make any difference to Julie. 
 
 DUPONT. Bah ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Things are not going very well with 
 her, I 'm afraid. Antonin is exacting and tyrannical, 
 and she often locks herself into her room to cry. 
 
 DUPONT. That always happens in the early days of 
 marriage. People's angles need rubbing off. That sort 
 of marriage turns out best in the end. [Julie comes in] 
 Here she is. Speak to her. Tell her these things are n't 
 serious. Make her understand her duty. I must go back 
 to my accounts. [To Julie] Well? What did your 
 sister Angele say to you? 
 
 JULIE. Hardly anything. She did n't know me, and I 
 should n't have known her. 
 
 DUPONT. I told you so. Well, I must be off. Back 
 soon. [He goes out], 
 
 MME. DUPONT. My dear your husband may be 
 rather put out when he comes in. 
 
 JULIE. I am getting used to that. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. More so than usual, I mean. 
 
 JULIE. Why? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Your father has been unable to keep 
 his promise. ' 
 
 JULIE. About the twenty-five thousand francs? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. Antonin will have just heard 
 about it. 
 
 JULIE [depressed] No matter. [Suddenly, alarmed] 
 I do believe I forgot to tell them to get out his grey suit. 
 No: I remember. I did tell them. How angry he would 
 have been if I had n't !
 
 158 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Of course. He is your husband. 
 
 JULIE. You think it quite natural that he should fly 
 into a rage as he did two days ago because something or 
 other had been forgotten ? And that it is only reasonable 
 he should order me to go to Mass merely that Madame 
 So-and-So may see me there? Well, he may order as 
 much as he likes, I shall not go. I will not go ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You make too much of it. My child, 
 are n't you happy ? 
 
 JULIE [ironically] Of course. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Your husband is fond of you, is n't 
 he? 
 
 JULIE. That depends on what you mean by fond. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I mean he 's very much in love with 
 you. 
 
 JULIE. I suppose so. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You're angry with him for that? 
 
 JULIE. No, I 'm angry with myself. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. My dear! What do you mean? 
 
 JULIE. I am ashamed of myself. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I don't understand. 
 
 JULIE. Nor do I. Don't let us talk about it. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Please, dear! 
 
 JULIE [breaking out] Well, I detest him. There! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Tell me why. 
 
 JULIE. There is no why in that sort of dislike. It is 
 born and grows with every moment we are together. 
 Every moment there comes some little point on, which we 
 clash. We have n't the same ideas on a single subject. 
 He and I are strangers. We are apart utterly, miserably. 
 We are as far from one another as two human beings can 
 be. [With a deep sigh] Oh, to realize that slowly, 
 hopelessly. To feel that every fresh glimpse into each 
 other's character only reveals a fresh source of offence. 
 Till at last it has come to this, that I am certain the 
 more we know each other the deeper will be our mutual
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 159 
 
 loathing. Every day, every hour will add a fresh hatred 
 to the accumulated hatreds of the others. Great 
 heavens ! And unless we are divorced this will go on 
 all our lives, [A pause] Why, there are moments when 
 he is sitting there in that chair, and I look at him fixedly, 
 and it seems as if I had never seen him before. And why 
 not? After all, it is only six months since I hardly rec- 
 ognized him when we passed in the street. And then 
 I ask myself what am I doing here? I, in my dressing- 
 gown, with my hair down, shut in with that man. And 
 I long to run away screaming. And we are husband and 
 wife. Oh, mother, I am ashamed. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You must try to be reasonable. An- 
 tonin is a fine fellow. Many girls would have been glad 
 to get him. 
 
 JULIE. Why didn't they then, in Heaven's name? 
 Oh, if you knew how I long to have a child to console me 
 for all this ! If I should never have one ! If I should 
 never have one ! [Shudders] But I must n't even think 
 of that. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. My dear child, you must look at 
 things more calmly. All this will gradually settle down 
 until at last it passes away altogether. 
 
 JULIE. Yes. When I am an old woman. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Exactly; when you are an old woman. 
 
 JULIE. Thank you. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. In any case, you should try to control 
 yourself a little. If only for your father's sake and mine. 
 
 JULIE. I will try. [Antonin comes in~\ Hush! Here 
 he is. Go away, mother. You will only make things 
 worse. [Madame Dupont goes out]. 
 
 ANTONIN [furious] Well ! This is the last straw ! 
 Your father won't keep his word. You have heard? 
 
 JULIE [sitting on the sofa] Yes. 
 
 ANTONIN. It does n't disturb you apparently. 
 
 JULIE. He cannot do otherwise.
 
 160 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 ANTONIN. It will be the ruin of me. But you seem to 
 be all in league together, the whole lot of you. Oh, 
 you 're a pretty family ! Your father owes us twenty- 
 five thousand francs. He won't pay them. The other 
 day your sister promised us fifteen thousand francs. 
 To-day she has changed her mind. As for you, you do 
 everything in your power to compromise my position. 
 
 JULIE. I ? 
 
 ANTONIN. You ! You disobey me ! 
 
 JULIE. In what? 
 
 ANTONIN. Were you at Mass this morning? 
 
 JULIE. No. 
 
 ANTONIN. Why not? 
 
 JULIE. It is not my fault if I no longer believe. 
 
 ANTONIN. I don't ask you to believe. I ask you to go 
 to Mass. The two things are totally different. A woman 
 ought to go to Mass. If she does n't believe she should 
 appear to do so. It is usual among people of good posi- 
 tion. I wish you to do as others do. Do you under- 
 stand? I wish it. I have no desire to pass for a Free- 
 thinker when all my clients are Catholics, confound them ! 
 
 JULIE. I have not been and I do not intend to go. 
 
 ANTONIN. What do you say? 
 
 JULIE. You heard what I said. If you were a be- 
 liever, if you asked me to do this out of respect for your 
 faith, I would do it. But it is a piece of commercial 
 trickery that you want from me. I refuse. 
 
 ANTONIN. You wish to do as you like, you mean? 
 
 JULIE [breaking out] Yes. You are quite right. I 
 wish to do as I like. That is it. That is just it. For 
 once in my life I wish to do as I like ! All the time I was 
 a girl I had to obey ; to submit to authority that was 
 often unreasonable. Now I am to go on obeying, obey- 
 ing. I have had enough of this everlasting obedience. 
 
 ANTONIN. Then you should n't have married. 
 
 JULIE. So that 's it, is it? The sole business of your
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 161 
 
 wife's life is to be your slave, to help the servant to make 
 you comfortable, brush your clothes, taste your soup, and 
 look up to you with admiring homage. 
 
 ANTONIN. That 's all nonsense. 
 
 JULIE. What is nonsense? 
 
 ANTONIN. What you have been saying. You know 
 quite well that you have other duties. You know quite 
 well that it only rests with you to be a happy wife. You 
 know that I love you. 
 
 JULIE. Yes, yes. I forgot. You love me ! Which 
 means that I am to submit to your caresses when the 
 fancy takes you. They used to say of us women, " house- 
 keeper or mistress." But we have moved with the times. 
 Now you want the same woman to play both parts. 
 Housekeeper and mistress. That is the only difference 
 between us and the women you love before you marry us. 
 A wife is a mistress who minds the house. That is not 
 enough for me, thank you. No! No! No! I will not 
 pass my whole life between cooking your dinner and 
 accepting your kisses. 
 
 ANTONIN. That 's right. Off we go on the old story 
 of the wife who is not understood; the poor woman who 
 is a slave and a martyr. If you really love me, if you 
 thought a little more instead of cramming your head with 
 ideas which you don't understand, you would be content 
 with the part, modest no doubt but not dishonorable, with 
 which plenty of women as good as you have contented 
 themselves. 
 
 JULIE. Perhaps you are right. If I loved you, as you 
 say, if we loved one another nothing would matter. But 
 I say again I do not love you. 
 
 ANTONIN. Be silent. 
 
 JULIE. I do not love you. 
 
 ANTONIN. Julie, I shall end by losing my temper. 
 You will force me to say things. 
 
 JULIE. To say things?
 
 162 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 ANTONIN. Never mind. 
 
 JULIE. Oh, you may speak out. A little shame more 
 or less does n't matter. We are alone. Let us speak out 
 and clear up the matter once and for all. We must. It 
 has been weighing on my mind for a long time. Say 
 what you have to say. 
 
 ANTONIN. No. 
 
 JULIE. Then 7 will speak. I tell you that I do not 
 love you, and you" shrug your shoulders with a smile of 
 self-complacency. But it 's no laughing matter, Heaven 
 knows ; and I don't imagine I am the only woman for 
 whom this subject, amusing enough for you men, has 
 meant a whole tragedy of sorrow and disgust. 
 
 ANTONIN. I don't understand you. 
 
 JULIE. Yes, you do! Your vanity makes you try to 
 escape, but you shall understand. You think I dare n't 
 speak, but I will. Do you suppose I will stay dumb and 
 bear the kisses you give me, kisses which I end by re- 
 turning. My lips when you kiss them draw back in re- 
 pulsion and yet in the end they yield and go out to meet 
 yours. Shall I go on? [A pause. She looks him full in 
 the /ace] No! You understand now. You can never 
 again imagine the tears I shed are tears of love. They 
 are tears of remorse and misery. I hate you after your 
 kisses. Our love is a duel in which I am worsted because 
 what is best in me turns traitor. I blush at your vic- 
 tories because you could never have gained them without 
 the help of what is base in me, without the baseness you 
 know how to excite. It is not I who yield. It is the 
 animal in me. It is all that is vile. I hate you for the 
 crime of our loveless marriage, the crime you force me to 
 share. I admit you are not the only guilty one, you are 
 not the only one worthy of contempt. But I have had 
 enough of it. Enough of it. I will no longer spend my 
 days weeping over the shame of my nights. Every even- 
 ing I have said I will regain my freedom. Till now I
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 163 
 
 have not dared to say the words that would release me. 
 Now I have done it. I am free. 
 
 ANTONIN [shrugging his shoulders] You are nothing 
 of the sort. 
 
 JULIE. What do you mean? 
 
 ANTONIN. I mean that I have more common sense 
 than you. I mean that it is my duty to guard you from 
 these exaggerated fancies of yours. The bonds that 
 join us are not to be broken by a whim. You are my 
 wife and my wife you will remain. A divorce is im- 
 possible. I have given you no cause. You may leave 
 me, of course, but you know the life of the woman who 
 lives apart from her husband, a life without respect and 
 without social position. No: you will stay with me. 
 
 JULIE. And it is this prison that we call marriage. 
 [A pause] And when I think that I looked forward 
 with longing to this: that I sighed for it: that all my 
 girlhood I was hoping for it, dreaming of it. When I 
 think that at this very moment there are girls kneeling 
 by their bedsides, young girls whose hearts are yearning 
 for this. [She begins to cry] Ah, poor girls ! Poor 
 girls ! If they only knew ! [She wipes her eyes, after a 
 moment] Just Heaven, what a fool I am ! Here am I, 
 crying when I should be laughing. The thing is ludi- 
 crous. Why, if one dared, one would shake with laughter 
 at it all. You may be tyrants, all of you, but you are 
 so absurd that, when one thinks, one can scarcely hate 
 you for it. What you have made of marriage ! From 
 start to finish: from the wedding morning, with its 
 monkey tricks, its vanity, and its folly. When I think 
 that there are still people who respect such mummery! 
 [She bursts out laughing]. 
 
 ANTONIN. Julie! Don't laugh like that! 
 
 JULIE. Oh, my dear sir, leave me alone. It 's well 
 for you I take it laughing. If I took it seriously, what 
 sort of figure would you cut? Everything about a wed-
 
 164 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 ding is absurd, just because it is so detestable. Yes; 
 everything. From the moment when you set it before 
 us as a duty to hand ourselves over to our lords on such 
 and such a day, at such and such an hour, at a date and 
 a minute fixed beforehand. How is it that brides do not 
 die of shame under the curious eyes of the wedding 
 guests and the thoughts they hide? To think that they 
 are passing the day among people who know. Pah ! Oh, 
 yes ; I am quite aware how ridiculous the bride looks. 
 [She puts her hand familiarly on his shoulder] But 
 don't imagine the bridegroom cuts a very brilliant figure. 
 [She laughs] You all wear a look of stupid compla- 
 cency, like a contented animal sure of its prey. And 
 there must be a dot, and you must be bought, and a price 
 must be paid you in order that you may marry us. Oh, 
 yes. You have arranged things finely among you, with 
 your Deputies' scarves and your music and incense. 
 And you need them. But do you think they impose on 
 anyone nowadays? No. 
 
 ANTONIN. You make out too good a case for yourself. 
 And it 's not fair to make me responsible. All this is as 
 much the result of your acts as of mine. 
 
 JULIE. Indeed ! I am curious to hear what those 
 acts are. 
 
 ANTONIN. I '11 tell you. 
 
 JULIE. Have I ever failed in my duty ? Have n't I 
 been 
 
 ANTONIN [sternly] Be silent. I 'm going to have 
 my say. It 's no good your trying to play the injured 
 victim. You did exactly the same as I did. When I pro- 
 posed for you, I was not in love with you, I admit it. 
 I did n't love you as you want to be loved. Yet you 
 accepted me. 
 
 JULIE. Do you suppose I knew? What did I under- 
 stand about life? How could I have guessed 
 
 ANTONIN. You knew perfectly well the sort of love
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 165 
 
 I felt for you, a sort of love every mother tries to 
 rouse in any young man she wants to catch for her 
 daughter. And the daughters take a hand in the game, 
 too, bless their little hearts ! 
 
 JULIE. Do you mean to say / did such a thing? 
 
 ANTONIN. Yes, I do. You began this plain speak- 
 ing ; I 'm going on with it. You wanted the cards on the 
 table and you shall have them. Let us both own up. 
 We know now what marriage is, our own and every- 
 body else's. We know all the tricks, all the humbug of 
 it. Let 's look it in the face. Your parents deceived 
 mine. 
 
 JULIE. And yours ? 
 
 ANTONIN. They did the same. I 'm not denying it. 
 But did you help them ? Yes or no ? 
 
 JULIE. No. 
 
 ANTONIN. Yes, you did. I remember well enough 
 how you helped them to cajole me, trap me, dupe me. 
 Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous. I know each petty in- 
 cident taken by itself amounts to nothing. But these 
 deceptions of yours have their importance, for you only 
 made use of them to catch me. You played on my weak- 
 nesses. You knew I was fond of money we 're talking 
 straight to each other, remember you knew I was 
 fond of money and you represented yourself as a model 
 young woman who always made her own dresses. You 
 remember that ? And Wagner ! Wagner, whose music 
 you professed to admire so much, when you knew as little 
 about him as I do. According to your own account lots 
 of men had wanted to marry you. That was a lie. You 
 had helped your father in keeping his books and were 
 interested in my banking business. That was a lie, too. 
 
 JULIE. If that is all you have to reproach me with 
 
 ANTONIN. It is not all. There was another lie to 
 which you condescended. And that was a serious one, 
 because you sacrificed your womanly dignity to your in-
 
 166 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 terest. You have forgotten it? I have not. Why it 
 was here, here in this very room where we are at this 
 moment, that you sat dressed for a ball. You were not 
 going to a ball. I knew that later. But they told you 
 to put on that dress, and you know why. Well, that trick 
 came off all right. [Julie, confused, hides her face in 
 her hands] I behaved as most men behave. I wanted 
 to take your arm and kiss it. You objected as any decent 
 woman would. But when you saw I was annoyed you 
 said to yourself that a husband was well worth the sacri- 
 fice of a little modesty, and you came deliberately and let 
 me kiss you as I wished. Isn't it true? Isn't it? I 
 tried to deceive you, I admit it. But if I lied you lied, 
 too. Marriages like ours may be shameful. I don't 
 know. But don't try to thrust the whole responsibility 
 on me when you 're equally guilty. [Julie's head sinks 
 lower. A pause] The other things you say about me 
 I dare say I deserve. I 'm ambitious. I want to suc- 
 ceed. Is it my fault that success is the only road to 
 social consideration nowadays ? In order to succeed 
 I must truckle to people who can be useful to me and I 
 ask you to help me. I 'm not a hero. I 'm like the rest 
 of the world. I did n't make either myself or them. We 
 are to be pitied, both of us. But I 'm more to be pitied 
 than you are, for you don't love me and I can't help lov- 
 ing you. What shall I do if you leave me? My posi- 
 tion will be compromised, my business ruined. And more 
 than all that I shall have lost you. I don't speak as I 
 ought; I am a fool, a dolt. I ought to have told you this 
 at first instead of going over all that wretched business. 
 But it 's true, it 's far worse for me than for you [much 
 moved], for I love you in spite of all you can say, and 
 the idea of losing you is like being told that I am going 
 to die. [He sobs] And what have I done after all? 
 I 've only done as other men do. Why should / be the 
 only one to be punished? Ah, Julie, my little Julie, pity
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 167 
 
 me. I 'm very unhappy. [He weeps, bowed over the 
 table, his head in his hands]. 
 
 JULIE [putting her hand upon his head and speaking 
 in a low expressionless voice] Poor fellow ! 
 
 ANTONIN [still weeping] You are sorry for me, are n't 
 you ? Say you are. 
 
 JULIE. Yes, we are both of us victims. 
 
 ANTONIN. That 's it. Ever since I was born my par- 
 ents have taught me that the great thing in life was to 
 be rich. 
 
 JULIE [nodding sadly] Mine too. 
 
 ANTONIN. Unless one gets on nobody thinks anything 
 of one. 
 
 JULIE. And marriage is one of the ways of getting on. 
 
 ANTONIN. That 's what ruined us. 
 
 JULIE. Yes. It has ruined our lives as it has ruined 
 so many others. 
 
 ANTONIN [recovering his composure] You under- 
 stand, then? You do understand, don't you? 
 
 JULIE [dully] Yes. 
 
 ANTONIN [taking her hand, which she does not draw 
 away] You're not angry? [Julie says nothing] It is 
 all over, is n't it? [patting her hand] All quite over and 
 done with. [She is still silent] You see that I must n't 
 do anything that might damage the business? You see 
 that? 
 
 JULIE. Yes. 
 
 ANTONIN. And that it 's better not to offend people 
 who may be useful to us. Isn't it? 
 
 JULIE. Yes. 
 
 ANTONIN. After all, why should n't one go to Mass ? 
 Come, come. [He smiles] We have been silly, have n't 
 we, to say all that? It's forgotten now, isn't it? Say 
 it 's forgotten ! 
 
 JULIE [relucantly] Yes. 
 
 ANTONIN [recovering his spirits] That 's a good little
 
 168 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 woman. There, there. One disputes, one flies into a 
 passion, one runs on and on, one says terrible things 
 [laughing]. What things you said to me. Oh, it was 
 shocking. But there, we '11 never speak of it again. 
 Never. Never. Let 's make it up. [He takes her in his 
 arms: hesitating, she lets him do so] We're friends 
 again, eh? And now go and wash your face, or people 
 will see you 've been crying. Are my eyes red, too? No, 
 I expect not. Shall I tell you something? You won't 
 believe it. You '11 be shocked. Do you know, I almost 
 think perhaps it 's as well we 've said all these things to 
 each other. You see, now we know each other better. 
 You understand about some of my worries. The business 
 is n't going as I should wish. That makes my temper 
 rather quick at times. No; things might be better. If 
 you would say a word to Caroline, perhaps she would 
 change her mind about that money. 
 
 JULIE [still on her guard] I will try. 
 
 ANTONIN. That 's a good girl. And it 's only for a 
 little while that we shall have to be careful. We are 
 only two and we shall pull through it. Luckily, we Ve 
 only ourselves to think of. Imagine what it would be 
 if we were expecting a baby! 
 
 JULIE. That would give me courage. 
 
 ANTONIN. Nonsense, my dear. We can do very well 
 without that. 
 
 JULIE [alarmed] But we are going to have children, 
 are n't we ? 
 
 ANTONIN [after a moment's hesitation, firmly] No. 
 
 JULIE. Why not? 
 
 ANTONIN. How absurd you are. Because I don't 
 choose, of course. 
 
 JULIE. But we 've often talked of having children. 
 You 've made plans with me about what we should do 
 with them. 
 
 ANTONIN [laughing] I know. You liked it, and it
 
 Act III Of Monsieur Dupont 169 
 
 was something to talk about. But for the future we 're 
 to be perfectly straight with one another. 
 
 JULIE. Do you mean that we are never to have any 
 children ? 
 
 ANTONIN [nods] We can't afford them, my dear, at 
 present. And if we wait till we 're forty [shrugs], 
 people would laugh. 
 
 JULIE. Don't you know what it was that made me 
 willing to marry? Don't you know that it was this 
 thought of having children, this and this alone, that de- 
 cided me ? And you refuse me this ? To be a wife, to be 
 a mother, is the natural end of life for me. And some- 
 thing will be wanting and my life will be incomplete, and 
 I shall not have lived if my arms have never clasped a 
 baby born of my flesh; if I have never suckled it, cried 
 over it, felt all the cares and all the joys that mothers 
 feel. And you would rob me of this? Merely because 
 you love money, because you are self-seeking and ambi- 
 tious. Great Heavens, to think that you should have 
 such power over my life ! People talk of tyranny ; they 
 make revolts against Governments ; there are women 
 who clamor for a vote; who demand that the marriage 
 law should be the same for women as for men; and they 
 don't understand that it is marriage itself they should 
 attack, that they should attack with fury, since it allows 
 such an infamy. 
 
 ANTONIN. For goodness' sake don't begin again. Re- 
 member, we made it up. 
 
 JULIE. Made it up ! Just God ! what name is there 
 vile enough for me to fling in your face? Are you so 
 utterly base that you think now there can be any thought 
 of reconciliation between us? After what you have just 
 told me, do you suppose that I would submit to Think 
 what it means. Think what the thing you men call love 
 means to women if it has neither affection nor children 
 for its justification.
 
 170 The Three Daughters Act III 
 
 ANTONIN. I won't answer you. You don't know what 
 you 're saying. You 're mad, and I shall treat you ac- 
 cordingly. To begin with, go to your room and try to 
 calm yourself. Go! [He tries to take her by the arm]. 
 
 JULIE [shrieking] Don't touch me ! Don't touch me ! 
 [She pushes him violently away], 
 
 ANTONIN [furious] Look here, Julie; I 'm not going 
 to stand this. I tell you to go to your room at once. 
 
 JULIE. Don't touch me ! 
 
 ANTONIN'. I shall touch you if I please. Oh, you may 
 scream if you like. You 're my wife, and I 've the right 
 to do as I choose with you. 
 
 JULIE. Take your hands off me ! I hate you, I say ! 
 I hate you! 
 
 ANTONIN. You hate me ? I dare say. But if you sup- 
 pose that I 'm a genteel husband out of a book, who lets 
 his wife lock her door against him, you 're vastly mis- 
 taken. I 've married you, I love you, and I intend to 
 keep you. Hate me, do you? Very well. Escape from 
 me if you can. [He takes her in his arms. There is a 
 struggle. Furniture is overturned. No word is spoken, 
 but you can hear their deep breathing. Suddenly An- 
 tonin cries out] Curse you, you 've bitten me! 
 
 JULIE. Yes. And I will kill you if you don't let me 
 go! 
 
 ANTONIN [transported with rage] We shall see which 
 of us is master. 
 
 JULIE. We shall see ! 
 
 ANTONIN. We shall! [Antonin goes out in a violent 
 passion], 
 
 Julie, left alone, straightens her hair and dress me- 
 chanically, muttering to herself inaudibly. Suddenly she 
 falls upon a couch, and then upon the ground, where she 
 lies sobbing in an agony of misery.
 
 ACT IV 
 
 The same scene. M. and Madame Dupont are sitting 
 together. 
 
 DUPONT. She's determined to leave him, then? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Quite determined. 
 
 DUPONT. And he? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. After the scene I told you of he went 
 straight out of the house and he has n't come back since. 
 
 DUPONT. He did n't sleep at home last night? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No. 
 
 DUPONT [scornfully] He has gone back to " maman," 
 no doubt. [He goes to the window]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [after a pause] Why do you keep 
 looking out of that window? 
 
 DUPONT. I 'm watching the lawyer's opposite. Caro- 
 line went in five minutes ago. I 'm terribly afraid An- 
 gele won't come. [To himself] Confound Caroline! 
 Who the Dickens can have got hold of that other fifteen 
 thousand francs? [Joyfully] There's Angele. Look! 
 She 's going in now. What did you say? Bless my soul, 
 my daughters give me worry enough. Yes; he has gone 
 back to " maman." And you think this won't blow over, 
 eh? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I 'm certain it won't. Julie will never 
 forgive him. 
 
 DUPONT [almost with triumph] That means a 
 divorce then, eh? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. A divorce. 
 171
 
 172 The Three Daughters Act IV 
 
 DUPONT. Ah ! And who was the clever one this time, 
 too, eh? Who was it? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I don't know. 
 
 DUPONT. Of course not. Well, I was. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. In what way? 
 
 DUPONT. You say she '11 ask for a divorce ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Unless he does. 
 
 DUPONT. Very well, then. Whichever way it is her 
 money was settled on herself, and our good Antonin will 
 have to give back the thirty thousand francs and my 
 house. Thanks to me. Thanks to me. [He rubs his 
 hands] . 
 
 The maid comes in. 
 
 MAID. M. and Madame Mairaut. 
 
 DUPONT. Show them in. [The maid goes out. To his 
 wife] Don't go. 
 
 M. and Madame Mairaut come in. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [turning to the door and speaking to 
 her husband, who hangs back] Are you coming in or are 
 you not? 
 
 MAIRAUT. I 'm coming. [He closes the door]. 
 Formal greetings are exchanged. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [sitting down] After what passed be- 
 tween us yesterday 
 
 DUPONT [with dangerous sweetness] About Uncle 
 Marechal's money? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [appearing not to have heard] After 
 what passed between us yesterday, I intended never to 
 set foot in this house again. 
 
 DUPONT [bowing] It rested entirely with you, 
 madame. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Since then, however, grave differ- 
 ences have arisen between our children. 
 
 DUPONT. Very grave. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. You know, then ? 
 
 DUPONT. Yes.
 
 Act IV Of Monsieur Dupont 173 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. We are come therefore, my husband 
 and I, in the name of our son, formally to request your 
 daughter, Madame Antonin Mairaut, to return to her 
 husband's roof. 
 
 DUPONT. His roof? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. To St. Laurent. My son awaits her 
 there. 
 
 DUPONT. He '11 have to wait some time. My daugh- 
 ter will not return to her husband. You are welcome to 
 bring an officer of the Court to bear witness to the fact. 
 It will provide your son with a ground for his divorce. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [sweetly] There is no question of a 
 divorce. 
 
 DUPONT [astonished] What? No question of a 
 divorce ? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. None, monsieur. 
 
 DUPONT. In spite of my daughter's refusal 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. In spite of her refusal. 
 
 DUPONT. In spite of what she has said to her 
 husband ? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. In spite of that, too. 
 
 DUPONT. In spite of anything she may do in the 
 future ? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. In spite of anything she may do. 
 There is no question of a divorce and there never will be. 
 
 DUPONT. On your part, you mean? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. On yours also. We shall give you no 
 grounds. My son is waiting for his wife to return to 
 him. He is ready to receive her whenever she sees fit to 
 present herself. 
 
 DUPONT. Whatever she does? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Whatever she does. 
 
 DUPONT. Even if 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Even in that case. [Movement of 
 Mairaut]. What is it, my dear? 
 
 MAIRAUT. Nothing.
 
 174 The Three Daughters Act IV 
 
 DUPONT. The truth is you would rather risk your 
 son's honor than give back the thirty thousand francs. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [still very sweetly] After all, thirty 
 thousand francs is a considerable sum. [Mairaut fidgets 
 uneasily], 
 
 DUPONT. Yesterday, when he went away, your son 
 uttered certain threats. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [still sweetly] He has decided not to 
 put them into execution. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You know, of course, that Julie will 
 never agree 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. I can't help that. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. All their lives they will be chained to 
 one another. Young as they are, they must give up the 
 idea of having a home. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Your daughter has only to return to 
 her duty. Antonin will receive her. 
 
 MAIRAUT [breaking out] No! I won't have it! I 
 have a word to say on this. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. What's the matter now? Pray 
 speak if you have anything to say. 
 
 MAIRAUT [loudly] What we are doing is an infamy. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Hold your tongue ! 
 
 MAIRAUT. I won't. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Hold your tongue, I tell you! 
 
 MAIRAUT. No ! And don't you try to shut me down. 
 Do you hear? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. What 's taken the man? I 've never 
 seen him like this before. 
 
 MAIRAUT. I tell you this is infamous ! Infamous ! 
 I 've thought so for a long time, ever since the day you 
 would n't let me speak out about Uncle Marechal. I said 
 nothing because I was afraid of you. For thirty years 
 I have said nothing. But now this is too much, and I 
 say what I think. It 's an infamy ! Come what may, I 
 will say it. Sit down ! I tell you it 's an infamy !
 
 Act IV Of Monsieur Dupont 175 
 
 Rogues have been meddling with these children's lives 
 too long ; it 's time for honest men to take a hand in 
 them. I 'm going to do it. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Pay no attention to him. He 's out 
 of his senses. 
 
 MAIRAUT. Be silent, you ! M. and Madame Dupont 
 this is what I have to say to you. An effort must be 
 made to reconcile Julie and Antonin. If this is im- 
 possible, I will pay you back the thirty thousand 
 francs. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [with a scream] Good Heavens, what 
 is he saying? 
 
 MAIRAUT. I will return the thirty thousand francs, 
 and you '11 see after that if my precious son won't be the 
 first to talk of a divorce. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT [to her husband] You shall pay for 
 this when we get home. 
 
 MAIRAUT. As you please. And now be off, and be 
 quick about it. [Madame Mairaut goes out] Au revoir, 
 M. and Madame Dupont. Do what you can on your side, 
 and I will try and make Antonin come and beg his wife's 
 pardon. 
 
 DUPONT. Good-evening, M. Mairaut. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Count on me, M. Mairaut, and give 
 me your hand. You 're a good man. 
 
 MAIRAUT [a* he goes] That 's all right. [He goes]. 
 
 DUPONT. Are you really going to try? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. But since old Mairaut is willing to give 
 back the money? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I won't make up my mind to a divorce 
 until I 'm absolutely convinced there 's no other way. 
 
 DUPONT. But there is no other way. You said so 
 yourself. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Are you sure you are n't thinking 
 more of your money than of the happiness of your child?
 
 176 The Three Daughters Act IV 
 
 DUPONT. I ! Well, I declare ! Are you taking a leaf 
 out of old Mairaut's book? 
 
 MME. DUPONT [gravely] Perhaps so. 
 Madame Mairaut returns. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. I have come back for two things. 
 First, to advise you not to count too much on my hus- 
 band's promise. Next, to thank you for the fresh insult 
 you have put upon us. 
 
 DUPONT. What insult? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. You don't know, I suppose, to whom 
 Mile. Caroline has given half her legacy? 
 
 DUPONT. No. But I shall be glad to learn. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. To your clerk, Courthezon. 
 
 DUPONT. Courthezon? It's a lie! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Courthezon! 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. She has just told me so herself. 
 Caroline comes in. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. [ Caroline, is it really to Courthezon 
 that you 've given the fifteen thou- 
 sand francs? 
 
 DUPONT. You have given fifteen thousand 
 
 francs to Courthezon? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. Is n't it to Courthezon that you have 
 given the fifteen thousand francs? 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. You are crazy ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What possessed you to do that? 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. For his invention ! An invention not 
 worth twopence, Antonin says. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You think more of strangers than 
 your own flesh and blood. 
 
 DUPONT. Just at the very time when my plant needed 
 renewing. 
 
 MME. MAIRAUT. And when her brother-in-law is on 
 the verge of bankruptcy. Yes, mademoiselle, yes ! And 
 this money, which you give to a crack-brained inventor
 
 Act IV Of Monsieur Dupont 177 
 
 who is nothing to you, might perhaps have saved your 
 sister from penury. That is all I have to say to you. 
 Good-bye. [She goes]. 
 
 DUPONT. Well ! Perhaps now you '11 tell us why you 
 have done this? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What has taken you? How did such 
 an idea come into your head? 
 
 DUPONT. Do you imagine his invention will make 
 your fortune? 
 
 CAROLINE. No. 
 
 DUPONT. Do you know anything at all about it? 
 
 CAROLINE. No. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Did he ask you to lend him money? 
 
 CAROLINE. No. 
 
 DUPONT. Then you ought to be put in an asylum. 
 You 're out of your senses. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I still can't make out how you came 
 to have such an idea. 
 
 CAROLINE [beginning to cry] I was unhappy. 
 
 DUPONT. What ! You give away fifteen thousand 
 francs to the first comer because you are unhappy ! 
 
 CAROLINE. I hope he will be grateful for what I have 
 done for him, and that 
 
 DUPONT. Well? 
 
 CAROLINE. I am no longer young, I know; but he is 
 not young either. 
 
 DUPONT. You think he will marry you! 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. 
 
 DUPONT. Then you don't know 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Hush! 
 
 CAROLINE. I can't go on living alone. I am too 
 wretched. For a long time I have thought when I 
 saw M. Courthezon, so steady and careful and quiet 
 I thought I could be happy with him. But I knew he 
 would never marry me without money, and there was 
 only enough for Julie. The time when I was most un-
 
 178 The Three Daughters Act IV 
 
 happy was when M. Antonin was here. He used to talk 
 to Julie. They took no notice of me. They used to kiss 
 one another. And though I don't think I 'm jealous, it 
 made me very wretched. So when this legacy came, and 
 I knew M. Courthezon needed money for his invention, 
 I thought I would give him some. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You should at least have given him 
 some idea of what you meant. It would have saved you 
 from disappointment, my poor child. 
 
 DUPONT. You should have spoken to me. I could 
 have told you why you had nothing to hope in that 
 quarter. 
 
 CAROLINE. Nothing to hope? But why? Why? 
 
 DUPONT. Because for twenty years Courthezon has 
 been living with a married woman. He does not speak 
 of it, of course, but they have two children. 
 
 CAROLINE [faintly] God have pity on me! [She 
 almost falls], 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Caroline ! My child ! 
 
 DUPONT. My child ! Come, come ! You must be rea- 
 sonable. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You must n't cry like that. 
 
 CAROLINE [sobbing] No. 
 
 DUPONT [to his zvife] This is your fault. We should 
 have told her that Courthezon But you always 
 said no. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. One can't tell things like that to a 
 young girl. And afterwards, when she was grown up, it 
 did n't seem worth while. [To Caroline] Don't cry any 
 more, dear. 
 
 CAROLINE [stifling her sobs by a great effort] I am 
 not crying any more. 
 
 DUPONT. There is only one thing to be done. We 
 must try and get the money back from Courthezon. 
 
 CAROLINE. No ! No ! 
 
 DUPONT. We shall see. [He hurries out].
 
 Act IV Of Monsieur Dupont 179 
 
 CAROLINE. Stop him ! Stop him, mother ! Go at 
 once. Stop him, I beg of you ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Very well, dear. [She follows her 
 husband]. 
 
 Caroline is left alone for a moment. Then Angele 
 comes in. 
 
 ANGELE [very tenderly] Caroline, are you in 
 trouble ? 
 
 CAROLINE [in a low voice] Yes. 
 
 ANGELE. What about? Tell me! 
 
 CAROLINE [in an expressionless voice, but not angrily] 
 No. It is over now. 
 
 ANGELE. You won't tell me? 
 
 CAROLINE [coldly] It would be useless. 
 
 ANGELE. Who knows ? Come ! I can see you have 
 been crying. 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. We are very unfortunate, Julie and I. 
 
 ANGELE. Julie? 
 
 CAROLINE. She is leaving her husband. 
 
 ANGELE. Why ? 
 
 CAROLINE. They cannot go on living together any 
 longer. 
 
 ANGELE. And you? 
 
 CAROLINE. I? [She makes a gesture of hopelessness], 
 Julie comes in. 
 
 JULIE. I was looking for you, Caroline. I am going 
 away sooner than I expected. They say my husband 
 is coming here. I do not wish ever to see him again. 
 So I am going. 
 
 CAROLINE. What will you do? 
 
 JULIE. I shall do as you do; hire a room somewhere 
 and get work. 
 
 CAROLINE. What kind of work? 
 
 JULIE. I don't know. Anything I can get. 
 
 CAROLINE. Don't do that, Julie. Don't! [Deeply 
 distressed] If you only knew!
 
 180 The Three Daughters Act IV 
 
 JULIE. What? 
 
 CAROLINE. The wretchedness of living alone. 
 
 JULIE. I' m not afraid. I shall work so hard that I 
 shall have no time for moping. 
 
 CAROLINE. You will work. [She sighs] It is n't 
 easy for a woman who is alone to earn her living. 
 
 JULIE. Nonsense. 
 
 CAROLINE. I know what I 'm talking about. Some- 
 times when I take my work to the shop they refuse it 
 with an insolent contempt they would never dare to 
 show to a man. It 's true. For I am doubly unpro- 
 tected since I am a woman and I need work. 
 
 JULIE. But in your own room, at least, you are free. 
 
 CAROLINE. Free! [With a mirthless laugh] If 
 that is freedom, give me slavery. 
 
 JULIE. I shall have friends. 
 
 CAROLINE. Do you think so? The women will have 
 nothing to do with you because you '11 be a wife living 
 apart from her husband, and because you will be dull. 
 And the men? What will people say if they visit you? 
 
 JULIE. Little I care what people will say. 
 
 CAROLINE. Still for your own sake you will have to 
 send them away. 
 
 JULIE. What do you advise, then? That I should 
 remain with my husband? 
 
 CAROLINE. Ah, Julie dear, you complain of not 
 being loved as you wish to be. What can / say to 
 that, I whom no man will ever take in his arms? I 
 who feel myself a thing apart, useless, absurd, incom- 
 plete. You don't know what a void that means for a 
 woman: to have no one to forgive, no one to devote 
 herself to. And the world sneers at women for re- 
 maining single. It makes their loneliness a reproach. 
 Look at me, hardly allowed to dispose of my own 
 property, black looks all round me because I have 
 dared to use my own money in my own way.
 
 Act IV Of Monsieur Dupont 181 
 
 JULIE. Poor Caroline ! 
 
 CAROLINE. Yes. You may well pity me. And if 
 I told you all. I turned to religion for consolation. 
 For a while it cheated my craving for love; but it 
 could n't give me peace, and it has only left me more 
 bitter and more disillusioned. For months I buoyed 
 myself up on one last hope. I was a fool. [Weeping] 
 Ah, no one need tell me how absurd it was. I know 
 it well enough. I, at my age and in these clothes, 
 much like everyone else's clothes, only everything looks 
 ridiculous on me. / to fall in love ! I must be crazy. 
 Don't laugh at me. I have suffered so much. I knew 
 he couldn't love me, but I hoped he would be grateful 
 for what I I only wanted his gratitude and his pity ; 
 no more, I swear to you. And now it seems there is 
 some other woman. [A pause] Oh, what good was 
 it to guard my good name as a miser guards his gold 
 if this is all? No, Julie; don't spoil your life a second 
 time. If you cannot resign yourself to living with 
 your husband, at least don't follow my example. Don't 
 try to live my life. One of us is enough. Don't try 
 to earn your bread. It is too hard, and men have 
 made it too humiliating. 
 
 JULIE. But, Caroline, if people see me accepting 
 hardship with courage, living alone deliberately, be- 
 cause I choose, surely the dignity of my life will make 
 them respect me? 
 
 CAROLINE. No one will believe in the dignity of 
 your life. 
 
 JULIE. Then it is monstrous ! That is all I can say. 
 Monstrous ! And since to pay for bread to eat and 
 clothes to wear and a roof to cover me I must either 
 give myself to a husband I hate or to a lover whom, 
 perhaps, I may love, I choose the lover. If I must 
 sell myself to someone, I prefer to choose the buyer.
 
 182 The Three Daughters Act IV 
 
 ANGELE. You are mad! Mad! Be reconciled to 
 your husband. That is the best thing you can do. 
 
 JULIE. So everybody says. Well, I tell you I will 
 not! I will not! 
 
 ANGELE. You would soon be glad enough to have 
 your married life back again, bad as it may be; or 
 even Caroline's poverty. 
 
 JULIE [scornfully] You think so? 
 
 ANGELE [passionately] You don't know what you 
 are saying. You don't understand, Julie. You to talk 
 like that ! You to wish Oh, you don't understand. 
 
 JULIE. You did it, yourself. 
 
 ANGELE [with great emotion] Yes, I did it. But I 
 would strangle myself rather than begin it again. 
 Julie, I entreat you. What am I to say? How am I 
 to stop you? I can't tell you and Caroline all the 
 shame I have endured. Oh, don't make me do that. 
 
 JULIE. Well, you 're happy now, at least. 
 
 ANGELE. Happy ! When I went off with Georges 
 They told you, did n't they ? Well, his people got him 
 away from me. His mother was dying of grief. Yes: 
 I know that is not what you wish to hear, but I must 
 tell you, that you may understand how I came to fall 
 as low as I did. I was left alone with the child. I 
 had to feed it, had n't I ? You can understand that, at 
 least. But how? Work? I tried to get work. But 
 they told me to wait. How was I to wait? And then 
 my God ! that I should have to tell you all this 
 then I let myself go. [She sobs] And afterwards 
 No: I can't speak of it. But you understand, Julie. 
 You can guess. You can imagine what my life was 
 when you see that even now I can't bring myself to 
 tell you about it. [Mastering herself] You think 
 women women like me are happy because you 
 see us laugh. But to laugh is our trade. We are paid 
 for that. And I swear to you often we would ask
 
 Act IV Of Monsieur Dupont 183 
 
 nothing better than just to sit and cry. And you 
 talk of choosing! You poor child! Do you suppose 
 we women choose? Oh, if you could but know how 
 one comes to loathe the whole world, to be wicked, 
 wicked! They despise us so. We have no friends, no 
 pity, no justice. We are robbed, exploited. I tell you 
 all this, anyhow, just as it comes, but you understand, 
 don't you? And once you start downhill you can't 
 stop. That is our life, the life of women like me. 
 That is the slough in which I have struggled ten years. 
 No, no, Julie ! No, little sister ! I implore you don't 
 do as I did. It is too horrible, too abject, too degraded. 
 
 JULIE. Poor Angele. 
 
 ANGELE. You understand, don't you? 
 
 JULIE. Yes. 
 
 ANGELE [rising] I must go. Good-bye. I dare 
 not look either of you in the face again now that you 
 know everything, now that I remember what I once 
 was. I knew you could never have anything more to 
 do with me. But I felt such a craving to be loved 
 that I half fancied you, at least, Caroline I see I 
 was wrong. Well, good-bye, I am going away. Forgive 
 me, both of you, for what I have done. Good-bye. 
 [She turns to the door]. 
 
 CAROLINE. Angele! [A pause. Angele turns at the 
 door] I pity you with all my heart. [Another 
 pause] May I kiss you? [Angele throws herself into 
 her arms]. 
 
 ANGELE. Caroline ! My kind, good Caroline ! 
 The three sisters embrace with tears. 
 Dupont, Antonin, and Mairaut come in. 
 
 ANTONIN [pushed forward by his father. To Julie] 
 My dear wife, I have come to ask you to forgive me. 
 
 JULIE. It is I who ask you to forgive me. I was 
 full of romantic ideas. I thought marriage something 
 quite different from what it is. Now that I understand
 
 184 The Three Daughters Act IV 
 
 I will be reasonable. One must make allowances. I 
 will make some to myself. 
 
 DUPONT. That 's right. 
 
 ANTONIN. That 's right. You can't imagine how 
 glad I am that you understand me at last. It seems to 
 me it 's only from to-day that our marriage really 
 begins. 
 
 JULIE. Perhaps. 
 
 ANTONIN. To celebrate our reconciliation I will give 
 a grand dinner. I will invite the Pouchelets, the 
 Rambourgs, Lignol 
 
 JULIE [sadly and with meaning] Exactly Lignol. 
 
 DUPONT. Ah, my children, everything comes right 
 when once you make up your mind to be like the rest 
 of the world. 
 
 JULIE [slowly] Yes: like the rest of the world. I 
 dreamed of something better. But it seems it was 
 impossible.
 
 DAMAGED GOODS 
 
 [Les A varies] 
 
 Translated by 
 JOHN POLLOCK
 
 Before the play begins the manager appears upon the 
 stage and says : 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen, 
 
 I beg leave to inform you, on behalf of the author and 
 of the management, that the object of this play is a study 
 of the disease of syphilis in its bearing on marriage. 
 
 It contains no scene to provoke scandal or arouse dis- 
 gust, nor is there in it any obscene word ; and it may be 
 witnessed by everyone, unless we must believe that folly 
 and ignorance are necessary conditions of female virtue.
 
 ACT I 
 
 The doctor's consulting room. To the right a large 
 stained-glass window representing a religious subject. 
 In front of this, on pedestals, bronzes and statues. Par- 
 allel to it a large Louis XIF writing-table littered with 
 papers and statuettes. Between the desk and the win- 
 dow the doctor's chair. On the other side an arm-chair 
 nearly facing the footlights and a stool. To the left the 
 entrance door, which, when opened, reveals a corridor 
 lined with tapestries, statues, and paintings. Beyond 
 the door a large glass bookcase, above which hang por- 
 traits of Wallace, Dupuytren, and Ricord. Busts of cel- 
 ebrated physicians. A small table and two chairs. At 
 the back a small door. The room is sumptuously fur- 
 nished and literally encumbered with works of art. 
 
 George Dupont, in great distress and ill at ease, enters 
 by the door at the bach, takes his stick, gloves, and hat 
 from the stool, and sits down on the sofa before the 
 writing-table. He is a big fellow of twenty-six, with 
 large, round eyes, and simple, but not ludicrous appear- 
 ance. A heavy sigh escapes him. The doctor, a man of 
 forty, with the ribbon of the Legion of Honor in the 
 buttonhole of his frock-coat, follows and takes his seat. 
 He gives the impression of a man of strength and 
 intellect. 
 
 GEORGE. Well, doctor? 
 
 DOCTOR. Well ! There is no doubt about your case. 
 GEORGE [wiping his forehead] No doubt How do 
 you mean no doubt? 
 
 187
 
 188 Damaged Goods Act I 
 
 DOCTOR. I mean it in the bad sense. [He writes. 
 George turns pale, and stays silent for a moment in 
 terror. He sighs again] Come, come! You must have 
 thought as much. 
 
 GEORGE. No, no. 
 
 DOCTOR. All the same ! 
 
 GEORGE [utterly prostrated] Good God ! 
 
 DOCTOR [stops writing and observes him] Don't be 
 frightened. Out of every seven men you meet in the 
 street, or in society, or at the theatre, there is at least 
 one who is or has been in your condition. One in seven, 
 fifteen per cent. 
 
 GEORGE [quietly, as if to himself] Anyhow, I know 
 what to do. 
 
 DOCTOR. Certainly. Here is your prescription. You 
 will take it to the chemist's and have it made up. 
 
 GEORGE [taking the prescription] No. 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes: you will do just what everyone else 
 does. 
 
 GEORGE. Everyone else is not in my position. I 
 know what to do. [He raises his hand to his temple]. 
 
 DOCTOR. Five times out of ten the men who sit in 
 that chair before me do that, perfectly sincerely. Every- 
 one thinks himself more unfortunate than the rest. On 
 second thoughts, and after I have talked to them, they 
 realize that this disease is a companion with which one 
 can live; only, as in all households, domestic peace is to 
 be had at the price of mutual concessions. Come now, 
 I repeat, there is nothing in all this beyond the ordinary. 
 It is simply an accident that might happen to anybody. 
 I assure you it is far too common to merit the name 
 " French disease." There is, in fact, none that is more 
 universal. If you wanted to find a motto for the crea- 
 tures who make a trade of selling their love, you could 
 almost take the famous lines, " There is your master. 
 ... It is, it was, or it must be."
 
 Act I Damaged Goods 189 
 
 GEORGE [putting the prescription in the outer 
 pocket of his coat] But I at least ought to have been 
 spared. 
 
 DOCTOR. Why? Because you are a man of good posi- 
 tion? Because you are rich? Look round you. Look 
 at these works of art; five are copies of John of Bo- 
 logna's Mercury, six of Pigallo's, three are reproduc- 
 tions in wax, to be sure of the lost Wounded Love 
 by Paccini; do you think that all these have been pre- 
 sented to me by beggars ? 
 
 GEORGE [groaning] I 'm not a rake, doctor. My life 
 might be held up as an example to all young men. I 
 assure you, no one could possibly have been more pru- 
 dent, no one. See here ; supposing I told you that in all 
 my life I have only had two mistresses, what would you 
 say to that? 
 
 DOCTOR. That one would have been enough to bring 
 you here. 
 
 GEORGE. No, doctor, not one of those two. No one 
 in the world has dreaded this so much as I have ; no one 
 has ever taken such infinite precautions to avoid it. My 
 first mistress was the wife of my best friend. I chose 
 her on account of him; and him, not because I cared 
 most for him, but because I knew he was a man of the 
 most rigid morals, who watched his wife jealously and 
 did n't let her go about forming imprudent connections. 
 As for her, I kept her in absolute terror of this disease. 
 I told her that almost all men were taken with it, so that 
 she might n't dream of being false to me. My friend died 
 in my arms: that was the only thing that could have 
 separated me from her. Then I took up with a young 
 seamstress. 
 
 DOCTOR. None of your other friends had sufficiently 
 reassuring morals ? 
 
 GEORGE. No. You know what morals are nowadays. 
 
 DOCTOR. Better than anyone.
 
 190 Damaged Goods Act I 
 
 GEORGE. Well, this was a decent girl with a family 
 in needy circumstances to support. Her grandmother 
 was an invalid, and there was an ailing father and three 
 little brothers. It was by my means that they all lived. 
 They used to call me Uncle Raoul I was not so green 
 as to give my real name, you see. 
 
 DOCTOR. Oh! Your Christian name, well -besides, 
 it is always safer. 
 
 GEORGE. Why, of course. I told her and I let the 
 others know that if she played me false I should leave 
 her at once. So then they all watched her for me. It 
 became a regular thing that I should spend Sunday with 
 them, and in that sort of way I was able to give her a 
 lift up. Church-going was a respectable kind of outing 
 for her. I rented a pew for them and her mother used 
 to go with her to church; they liked seeing their name 
 engraved on the card. She never left the house alone. 
 Three months ago, when the question of my marriage 
 came up, I had to leave her. They all cried over my 
 going. I 'm not inventing or exaggerating: they all 
 cried. You see, I 'm not a bad sort. People do re- 
 gret me. 
 
 DOCTOR. You were very happy. Why did you want 
 to change? 
 
 GEORGE [surprised at the question] I wanted to settle 
 down. My father was a notary, and before his death 
 he expressed the wish that I should marry my cousin. It 
 was a good match ; her dowry will help to get me a prac- 
 tice. Besides, I simply adore her. She 's fond of me, 
 too. I had everything one could want to make life happy. 
 My acquaintances all envied me. [Miserably] And 
 then a lot of idiots must give me a farewell dinner and 
 make me gad about with them. See what has come of 
 it ! I have n't any luck, I 've never had any luck ! I 
 know fellows who lead the most racketty lives: nothing 
 happens to them, the beasts ! But I for a wretched
 
 Act I Damaged Goods 191 
 
 lark What is there left for a leper like me ? My 
 future is ruined, my whole life poisoned. Well then, 
 is n't it better for me to clear out of it ? Anyway, I shan't 
 suffer any more. You see now, no one could be more 
 wretched than I am. [Crying] No one, doctor, I tell 
 you, no one ! [H e buries his face in his handkerchief] 
 Oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 DOCTOR [rising and going to him with a smile] You 
 must be a man, and not cry like a child. 
 
 GEORGE [still in tears] If I had led a wild life and 
 spent my time in bars and going about with women, I 
 should understand: I should say I deserved it. 
 
 DOCTOR. No. 
 
 GEORGE. No ? 
 
 DOCTOR. No. You would not say so: but it doesn't 
 matter. Go on. 
 
 GEORGE. Yes, I know I should. I should say I de- 
 served it. But for nothing! nothing! I have cut myself 
 off from all pleasures. I have resisted attractions as you 
 would the devil. I would n't go with my friends to 
 places of amusement: ladies I knew actually pointed me 
 out to their boys as an example. I stuck to my work: I 
 forced myself to be more regular in my habits. Why, my 
 two friends helped me to prepare for my law exams. 
 I taught them to make me cram, and it 's thanks to them 
 that I got through. Oh, I should have liked to come 
 home at four o'clock in the morning with my coat-collar 
 turned up, smoking a cigar lit in some ballet-girl's rooms ! 
 I 've longed as much as anyone for the taste of rouged 
 lips and the glitter of blacked eyes and pale faces ! I 
 should have liked larks and jolly suppers and cham- 
 pagne and the rustle of lace and all the rest of it ! I 've 
 sacrificed all that to my health, and see what I 've got 
 for it. Ah, if I had known ! If I had only known ! 
 Then I should have let myself go; yes, altogether! 
 That would have been something to the good, anyway!
 
 192 Damaged Goods Act I 
 
 When I think of it ! When I think of the beastliness, the 
 frightful horrors in store for me! 
 
 DOCTOR. What's all that nonsense? 
 
 GEORGE. Yes, yes, I know hair falling out, camo- 
 mile for a cocktail, and a bath chair for a motor car, with 
 a little handle for the steering wheel and a fellow shov- 
 ing behind instead of the engine; and I shall go, Gug, 
 **> gu&j gug' [C r yi n 9] That's what will be left of 
 handsome Raoul that 's what they called me, hand- 
 some Raoul ! 
 
 DOCTOR. My dear sir, kindly dry your eyes for the 
 last time, blow your nose, put your handkerchief in your 
 pocket, and listen to me without blubbering. 
 
 GEORGE [doing so] Yes, doctor; but I warn you, 
 you are wasting your time. 
 
 DOCTOR. I assure you 
 
 GEORGE. I know what you are going to tell me. 
 
 DOCTOR. In that case you have no business here. Be 
 off with you ! 
 
 GEORGE. As I am here, I 11 listen, doctor. It 's 
 awfully good of you. 
 
 DOCTOR. If you have the will and the perseverance, 
 none of the things you are dreading will happen to you. 
 
 GEORGE. Of course. You are bound to tell me that. 
 
 DOCTOR. I tell you that there are a hundred thousand 
 men in Paris like you, sound and in good health, I give 
 you my word. Come, now ! Bath chairs ! You don't see 
 quite so many as that. 
 
 GEORGE [struck] Nor do you. 
 
 DOCTOR. Besides, those who are in them are not all 
 there for the reason you think. Come, come ! You will 
 not be the victim of a catastrophe any more than the 
 other hundred thousand. The thing is serious: nothing 
 more. 
 
 GEORGE. There, you see. It is a serious disease. 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes.
 
 Act I Damaged Goods 193 
 
 GEORGE. One of the most serious. 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes ; but you have the good luck 
 
 GEORGE. Good luck? 
 
 DOCTOR. Relatively, if you like; but you have the 
 good luck to have contracted just that one among serious 
 diseases which we have the most effective means of 
 combating. 
 
 GEORGE. I know: remedies worse than the disease. 
 
 DOCTOR. You are mistaken. 
 
 GEORGE. You 're not going to tell me that it can -be 
 cured ? 
 
 DOCTOR. It can. 
 
 GEORGE. And that I am not condemned to 
 
 DOCTOR. I give you my word on it. 
 
 GEORGE. You 're not you 're not making some mis- 
 take ? I have been told 
 
 DOCTOR [shrugging his shoulders] You have been 
 told ! You have been told ! No doubt you know all the 
 ins and outs of the law of property. 
 
 GEORGE. Yes, certainly; but I don't see what 
 connection 
 
 DOCTOR. Instead of being taught that, it would have 
 been much better if you had been told the nature of the 
 disease from which you are suffering. Then, perhaps, 
 you would have been sufficiently afraid to avoid con- 
 tracting it. 
 
 GEORGE. But this woman was so well, who could 
 have thought such a thing of her ? I did n't take a 
 woman off the streets, you know. She lives in the Rue 
 de Berne not exactly a low part of the town, is it? 
 
 DOCTOR. The part of the town has nothing to do with 
 it. This disease differs from many others; it has no 
 preference for the unfortunate. 
 
 GEORGE. But this woman lives almost straight. One 
 of my chums has a mistress who 's a married woman. 
 Well, it was a friend of hers. Her mother she lives
 
 194 Damaged Goods Act I 
 
 with her mother was abroad at the time. At first she 
 would n't listen to me : then, finally, after I had spent 
 a whole half-hour persuading her I had to promise her a 
 ring like one of her friend's before she would give way. 
 She even made me take off my boots before going up- 
 stairs so that the porter might n't hear. 
 
 DOCTOR. Well, if you had been taught, you would 
 have known that these circumstances are no guarantee. 
 
 GEORGE. That 's true ; we ought to be taught. 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes. 
 
 GEORGE. At the same time it 's not a subject that can 
 be broached in the papers. 
 
 DOCTOR. Why not? 
 
 GEORGE. I can speak of my own knowledge, for my 
 father used to own a small provincial paper. If we had 
 ever printed that word, the circulation would have 
 dropped like a stone. 
 
 DOCTOR. Yet you would publish novels about adultery. 
 
 GEORGE. Of course. That 's what the public wants. 
 
 DOCTOR. You are right. It is the public that needs 
 to be educated. A respectable man will take his wife 
 and daughters to a music-hall, where they hear things 
 to make a doctor blush. His modesty is only alarmed 
 by serious words. 
 
 GEORGE. And then, after all, what would one gain 
 by being posted up about this disease? 
 
 DOCTOR. If it were better understood it would be 
 more often avoided. 
 
 GEORGE. What one wants is some means of avoiding 
 it altogether. 
 
 DOCTOR. Oh! That is quite simple. 
 
 GEORGE. Tell me. 
 
 DOCTOR. It is no longer any concern of yours; but 
 when you have a son you will be able to tell him what 
 to do. 
 
 GEORGE. What's that?
 
 Act I Damaged Goods 195 
 
 DOCTOR. To love only one woman, to be her first lover, 
 and to love her so well that she will never be false to you. 
 
 GEORGE. That 's easy, is n't it? And if my son does 
 not marry till he is twenty-eight, what then? 
 
 DOCTOR. Then, that he may run the least risk, you 
 will tell him to go to the licensed dealers 
 
 GEORGE. With a guarantee from the government. 
 
 DOCTOR. And to choose them a little stale. 
 
 GEORGE. Why so? 
 
 DOCTOR. Because at a certain age they have all paid 
 their toll. The prettiest girl in the world can give all 
 she has, not what she has no longer. That is what you 
 will tell your sons. 
 
 GEORGE.. But do you mean that I can have children? 
 
 DOCTOR. Certainly. 
 
 GEORGE. Healthy ones? 
 
 DOCTOR. Perfectly healthy. I repeat: if you take 
 proper and reasonable care of yourself for the necessary 
 length of time, you have little to fear. 
 
 GEORGE. Is that certain? 
 
 DOCTOR. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred. 
 
 GEORGE. Then I shall be able to marry? 
 
 DOCTOR. You will be able to marry. 
 
 GEORGE. You 're not deceiving me, are you ? You 
 would n't give me false hopes ? You would n't 
 How soon shall I be able to marry? 
 
 DOCTOR. In three or four years. 
 
 GEORGE. What! three or four years? Not before? 
 
 DOCTOR. Not before. 
 
 GEORGE. W T hy? Am I going to be ill all that time? 
 You said just now 
 
 DOCTOR. The disease will no longer be dangerous to 
 you yourself, but you will be dangerous to others. 
 
 GEORGE. But, doctor, I am going to be married in a 
 month ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Impossible.
 
 196 Damaged Goods Act I 
 
 GEORGE. I can't help it. The contract is all ready: 
 the banns have been published. I have given my word. 
 
 DOCTOR. Here 's a pretty patient ! A moment ago 
 you were feeling for your pistol; now you want to be 
 married in a month ! 
 
 GEORGE. But I must! 
 
 DOCTOR. I forbid you. 
 
 GEORGE. You can't mean that seriously. If this 
 disease is not what I imagined, and if I can be cured, 
 I shan't commit suicide. If I don't kill myself, I must 
 take up the ordinary course of my life. I must fulfill my 
 engagements: I must be married. 
 
 DOCTOR. No. 
 
 GEORGE. If my engagement were broken off it would 
 be absolutely disastrous. You talk of it like that be- 
 cause you don't know. I did n't want to get married. 
 I have told you I had almost a second family ; the 
 children adored me. It is my old aunt, who owns all the 
 property, who has pushed on the match. Then my 
 mother wants to see me " settled " as she says. The only 
 thing in the world she wants is to see her baby grand- 
 children, and she wonders twenty times a day whether 
 she will live long enough. Since the question first came 
 up she simply hasn't thought of anything else; it's 
 the dream of her life. And then I tell you I have begun 
 to adore Henriette. If I draw back now my mother 
 would die of grief, and I should be disinherited by my 
 aunt. Even that is n't all. You don't know my father- 
 in-law's character. He is a man of regular high old 
 principles ; and he has a temper like the devil. What 's 
 more, he simply worships his daughter. It would cost 
 me dear, I can assure you. He would call me to ac- 
 count I don't know what would happen. So there 
 are my mother's health, my aunt's fortune, my future, 
 my honor, perhaps my life, all at stake. Besides, I tell 
 you I have given my word.
 
 Act I Damaged Goods 197 
 
 DOCTOR. You must take it back. 
 
 GEORGE. Well, since you stick to it, even if that were 
 possible, I could not take back my signature to the con- 
 tract for the purchase of a notary's practice in two 
 months' time. 
 
 DOCTOR. All these 
 
 GEORGE. You won't tell me that I have been impru- 
 dent because I have not disposed of my wife's dowry 
 till after the honeymoon 
 
 DOCTOR. All these considerations are foreign to me. 
 I am a physician, nothing but a physician. I can only 
 tell you this: if you marry before three or four years 
 have elapsed you will be a criminal. 
 
 GEORGE. No, no ! You are more than a physician : you 
 are a confessor as well. You are not only a man of 
 science. You can't observe me as you would something 
 in your laboratory and then simply say : " You have this, 
 science says that. Now be off with you ! " My whole 
 life depends upon you. You must listen to me ; because 
 when you know everything you will understand the situ- 
 ation and will find the means to cure me in a month. 
 
 DOCTOR. I can only tell you over and over again that 
 no such means exist. It is impossible to be certain of 
 your cure as far as one can be certain under 
 three or four years. 
 
 GEORGE. I tell you that you must find one. Listen 
 to me: if I am not married, I shall not get the dowry. 
 Will you kindly tell me how I am to carry out the con- 
 tract I have signed? 
 
 DOCTOR. Oh, if that is the question, it is very simple. 
 I can easily show you the way out of the difficulty. Get 
 into touch with some rich man, do everything you can 
 to gain his confidence, and when you have succeeded, 
 rook him of all he has. 
 
 GEORGE. I 'm not in the mood for joking. 
 
 DOCTOR. I am not joking. To rob that man, or even
 
 198 Damaged Goods Act I 
 
 to murder him, would not be a greater crime than you 
 would commit in marrying a young girl in good health 
 to get hold of her dowry, if to do so you exposed her to 
 the terrible consequences of the disease you would give 
 her. 
 
 GEORGE. Terrible? 
 
 DOCTOR. Terrible; and death is not the worst of 
 them. 
 
 GEORGE. But you told me just now 
 
 DOCTOR. Just now I did not tell you everything. This 
 disease, even when it is all but suppressed, still lies below 
 the surface ready to break out again. Taken all round, 
 it is serious enough to make it an infamy to expose a 
 woman to it in order to avoid even the greatest incon- 
 venience. 
 
 GEORGE. But is it certain that she would catch it? 
 
 DOCTOR. Even with the best intentions, I won't tell 
 you lies. No; it is not absolutely certain. It is prob- 
 able. And there is something else I will tell you. Our 
 remedies are not infallible. In a certain number of 
 cases a very small number, scarcely five per cent. 
 they have no effect. You may be one of these exceptions 
 or your wife may be. In that case I will use an ex- 
 pression you used just now in that case the result 
 would be the most frightful horrors. 
 
 GEORGE. Give me your advice. 
 
 DOCTOR. The only advice I can give you is not to 
 marry. To put it in this way, you owe a debt. Perhaps 
 its repayment will not be exacted; but at the same time 
 your creditor may come down on you suddenly, after a 
 long interval, with the most pitiless brutality. Come, 
 come ! You are a man of business. Marriage is a con- 
 tract. If you marry without saying anything, you will 
 be giving an implied warranty for goods which you know 
 to be bad. That is the term, is n't it ? It would be a 
 fraud which ought to be punishable by law.
 
 Act I Damaged Goods 199 
 
 GEORGE. But what can I do? 
 
 DOCTOR. Go to your father-in-law and tell him the un- 
 varnished truth. 
 
 GEORGE. If I do that, it will not be a delay of three 
 or four years that he will impose on me. He will refuse 
 his consent for good. 
 
 DOCTOR. In that case, tell him nothing. 
 
 GEORGE. If I don't give him a reason, I don't know 
 what he won't do. He is a man of the most violent tem- 
 per. Besides, it will be still worse for Henriette than 
 for me. Look here, doctor; from what I have said to 
 you, no doubt you think I simply care for the money. 
 Well, I do think it is one's primary duty to make certain 
 of a reasonable amount of comfort. From my youth 
 upwards I have always been taught that. Nowadays 
 one must think of it, and I should never have engaged 
 myself to a girl without money. It 's perfectly natural. 
 [With emotion] But she is so splendid, she is so much 
 better than I am that I love her as people love one 
 another in books. Of course it would be a frightful dis- 
 appointment not to have the practice that I have bought, 
 but that would not be the worst for me. The worst 
 would be losing her. If you could see her, if you knew 
 her, you would understand. [Taking out his pocket- 
 book] Look here; here 's her photograph. Just look at 
 it. [The doctor gently refuses it] Oh, my darling, to 
 think that I must lose you or else Ah ! [He kisses 
 the photograph, then puts it back in his pocket] I beg 
 your pardon. I am being ridiculous. I know I am some- 
 times. Only put yourself in my place. I love her 
 so. 
 
 DOCTOR. It is on that account that you must not marry 
 her. 
 
 GEORGE. But how can I get out of it? If I draw 
 back without saying anything the truth will leak out and 
 I shall be dishonored.
 
 200 Damaged Goods Act I 
 
 DOCTOR. There is nothing dishonorable about being 
 ill. 
 
 GEORGE. Ah, yes ! But people are such idiots. Even 
 yesterday I myself should have laughed at anyone I 
 knew who was in the position that I am in now. Why, 
 I should have avoided him as if he had the plague. Oh, 
 if I were the only one to suffer ! But she she loves 
 me, I swear she does, she is so good. It will be dreadful 
 for her. 
 
 DOCTOR. Less so than it would be later. 
 
 GEORGE. There '11 be a scandal. 
 
 DOCTOR. You will avoid a bigger one. 
 
 George quietly puts two twenty-franc pieces on the 
 desk, takes his gloves, hat, and stick, and gets up. 
 
 GEORGE. I will think it over. Thank you, doctor. I 
 shall come back next week as you told me to proba- 
 bly. [He goes toward the door]. 
 
 DOCTOR [rising] No: I shall not see you next week, 
 and what is more you will not think it over. You came 
 here knowing what you had, with the express intention 
 of not acting by my advice unless it agreed with your 
 wishes. A flimsy honesty made you take this chance of 
 pacifying your conscience. You wanted to have someone 
 on whom you could afterwards throw the responsibility 
 of an act you knew to be culpable. Don't protest. Many 
 who come here think as you think and do what you 
 want to do. But when they have married in opposition 
 to my advice the results have been for the most part so 
 calamitous that now I am almost afraid of not having 
 been persuasive enough. I feel as though in spite of 
 everything I were in some sort the cause of their misery. 
 I ought to be able to prevent such misery. If only the 
 people who are the cause of it knew what I know and had 
 seen what I have seen, it would be impossible. Give me 
 your word that you will break off your engagement. 
 
 GEORGE. I can't give you my word. I can only repeat: 
 I will think it over.
 
 Act I Damaged Goods 201 
 
 DOCTOR. Think over what? 
 
 GEORGE. What you have told me. 
 
 DOCTOR. But what I have told you is true. You can- 
 not make any fresh objections. I have answered those 
 you have made. You must be convinced. 
 
 GEORGE. Well, of course you are right in thinking that 
 I posted myself up a bit before coming to see you. In 
 the first place, is it certain that I have the disease you 
 think? You say so, and perhaps it is true. But even the 
 greatest doctors are sometimes deceived. Have n't I 
 heard that Ricord, your master, used to maintain that this 
 disease was not always contagious? He produced cases 
 to prove his point. Now you produce fresh cases to 
 disprove it. Very well. But I have the right to think it 
 over. And when I think it over, I realize the results you 
 threaten me with are only probable. In spite of your 
 desire to frighten me, you have been compelled to admit 
 that my marriage will quite possibly produce no ill results 
 for my wife. 
 
 DOCTOR [restraining himself with difficulty] Go on. 
 I will answer you. 
 
 GEORGE. You tell me that your drugs are powerful, 
 and that for the catastrophes you speak of to happen I 
 must be one of the five exceptions per cent, you allow, 
 and that my wife must be an exception too. Now, if a 
 mathematician calculated the probabilities of the case, 
 the chance of a catastrophe would prove so small that, 
 when the slight probability of a disaster was set against 
 the certainty of all the disappointments and the un- 
 happiness and perhaps the tragedies which my break- 
 ing off the match would cause, he would undoubtedly 
 come to the conclusion that I was right and you were 
 wrong. After all, mathematics is more scientific than 
 medicine. 
 
 DOCTOR. Ah, you think so ! Well, you are wrong. 
 Twenty cases identical with yours have been carefully
 
 202 Damaged Goods Act I 
 
 observed from the beginning to the end. Nineteen 
 times you hear, nineteen times in twenty the woman 
 was contaminated by her husband. You think that the 
 danger is negligible: you think you have the right to 
 make your wife take her chance, as you said, of being 
 one of the exceptions for which we can do nothing ! 
 Very well: then you shall know what you are doing. 
 You shall know what sort of disease it is that your wife 
 will have five chances per cent, of contracting without 
 so much as having her leave asked. Take this book 
 it is my master's work here, read for yourself, I 
 have marked the passage. You won't read it? Then I 
 will. [He reads passionately] " I have seen an un- 
 fortunate young woman changed by this disease into the 
 likeness of a beast. The face, or I should rather say, 
 what remained of it, ,was nothing but a flat? surface 
 seamed with scars." 
 
 GEORGE. Stop, for pity's sake, stop ! 
 
 DOCTOR. I shall not stop. I shall read to the end. 
 I shall not refrain from doing right merely for fear 
 of upsetting your nerves. [He goes on] " Of the 
 upper lip, which had been completely eaten away, not 
 a trace remained." There, that will do. And you are 
 willing to run the risk of inflicting that disease on a 
 woman whom you say you love, though you cannot sup- 
 port even the description of it yourself ? And pray, from 
 whom did that woman catch syphilis? It is not I who 
 say all this : it is this book. " From a man whose crimi- 
 nal folly was such that he was not afraid to enter into 
 marriage in an eruption, as was afterwards established, 
 of marked secondary symptoms, and who had further 
 thought fit not to have his wife treated for fear of 
 arousing suspicion." What that man did is what you 
 want to do. 
 
 GEORGE. I should deserve all those names and worse 
 still, if I were to be married with the knowledge that
 
 Act I Damaged Goods 203 
 
 my marriage would bring about such horrors. But I 
 do not believe that it would. You and your masters 
 are specialists. Consequently you fix the whole of your 
 attention on the subject of your studies, and you think 
 that these dreadful, exceptional cases never have enough 
 light thrown on them. They exercise a sort of fascina- 
 tion over you. 
 
 DOCTOR. I know that argument. 
 
 GEORGE. Let me go on, I beg. You have told me 
 that one man in every seven is a syphilitic, and further 
 that there are a hundred thousand such men going about 
 the streets of Paris in perfect health. 
 
 DOCTOR. It is the fact that there are a hundred thou- 
 sand who are not for the moment visibly affected by 
 their complaint. But thousands have passed through 
 our hospitals, victims to the most frightful ravages 
 that our poor bodies can endure. You do not see 
 them: they do not exist for you. Again, if it were 
 only yourself who was in question, you might take that 
 line well enough. But what I affirm, and repeat with all 
 the strength of my conviction, is that you have no right 
 to expose a human being to this appalling chance. The 
 chance is rare, I know: I know still better how terrible 
 it is. What have you to say now? 
 
 GEORGE. Nothing. I suppose you are right. I 
 don't know what to think. 
 
 DOCTOR. Is it as if I were forbidding you ever to 
 marry when I forbid you to marry now? Is it as if I 
 were telling you that you will never be cured? On the 
 contrary, I give you every hope. Only I ask a delay 
 of three or four years, because in that time I shall be 
 able to ascertain whether you are one of those unhappy 
 wretches for whom there is no hope, and because during 
 that time you will be a source of danger to your wife 
 and children. The children: I have not spoken to you 
 about them. [Very gently and persuasively'] Come,
 
 204 Damaged Goods Act I 
 
 my dear sir, you are too young and too generous to be 
 insensible to pity. There are things that cannot fail to 
 move you: it is incredible that I should not be able 
 to touch or to convince you. Indeed, I feel most deeply 
 for you; but on that account I implore you all the more 
 earnestly to consider what I say. You have admitted 
 you have no right to expose your wife to such torture: 
 but there is not only your wife there are her children, 
 your children, whom you may contaminate, too. For 
 the moment I will not think of you or of her: it is in 
 the name of those innocent little ones that I appeal to 
 you; it is the future of the race that I am defending. 
 Listen to me. Of the twenty marriages I spoke of only 
 fifteen produced children. They produced twenty-eight. 
 Do you know how many of them survived ? Three : three 
 out of twenty-eight. Above all else syphilis is a child- 
 murderer. Ah, yes ! Every year produces a fresh massa- 
 cre of the innocents. Herod still reigns in France and 
 all the world over. And though it is my business to 
 preserve life, I tell you that those who die are the 
 lucky ones. If you want to see the children of syphilitic 
 parents, go round the children's hospitals. We know 
 the type: it has become classical. Any doctor can 
 pick them out from the rest; little creatures old from 
 their birth, stamped with the marks of every human 
 infirmity and decay. You will find children with every 
 kind of affliction: hump-backed, deformed, club-footed, 
 hare-lipped, ricketty, with heads too big and bodies too 
 small, with congenital hip-disease. A large proportion 
 of all these are the victims of parents who were married 
 in ignorance of what you now know. If I could, I 
 would cry it aloud from the house-tops. [A slight 
 pause] I have told you all this without the slightest 
 exaggeration. Think it over. Weigh the pro and the 
 con: tot up the sum of possible sxiffering and certain 
 misery. But remember that on the one side is your
 
 Act I Damaged Goods 205 
 
 own suffering and on the other the suffering of other 
 people. Remember that. Distrust yourself. 
 
 GEORGE. Very well. I give in. I will not be mar- 
 ried. I will invent some excuse. I will get it put off 
 for six months. More than that is impossible. 
 
 DOCTOR. I must have three years at least, if not four. 
 
 GEORGE. No, no ! For pity's sake ! You can cure me 
 before that. 
 
 DOCTOR. No, no, no ! 
 
 GEORGE. Yes, you can. I implore you. Science 
 can do everything. 
 
 DOCTOR. Science is not God Almighty. The day of 
 miracles is past. 
 
 GEORGE. Oh, you could if you wanted to. I know 
 you could. Invent something, discover something ! Try 
 some new treatment on me. Double the doses ! Give 
 me ten times the ordinary ones, if you like ! I '11 stand 
 anything, absolutely ! Only there must be some way of 
 curing me in six months. Look here, I can't be respon- 
 sible for myself after that. For the sake of my wife 
 and her children, do something. 
 
 DOCTOR. Nonsense ! 
 
 GEORGE. If only you '11 cure me, I don't know what 
 I won't do for you. I '11 be grateful to you all my life. 
 I '11 give you half my fortune. For God's sake, do some- 
 thing for me ! 
 
 DOCTOR. You want me to do more for you than for 
 all the rest? 
 
 GEORGE. Yes. 
 
 DOCTOR. Let me tell you, sir, that everyone of our 
 patients, whether he is the richest man in the land or 
 the poorest, has everything done for him that we can 
 do. We have no secrets in reserve for the rich or for 
 people who are in a hurry to be cured. 
 
 GEORGE. Good-bye, doctor. 
 
 DOCTOR. Good-day.
 
 ACT II 
 
 George's study. To the left a window. In front of 
 the window a desk of moderate size, facing away from 
 the audience, and a writing-chair. On the desk a tele- 
 phone. To the right of the desk an arm-chair, a small 
 table with a work-box and embroidery, and between the 
 window and the footlights a deep easy-chair. At the 
 back a dainty bookcase, and in front of it a pretty table 
 with flowers. At the back, to the right, a door, and, 
 nearer, a piano and a music-stool. To the left another 
 door. Two small chairs. 
 
 Henriette is sitting by the small table and working 
 at a baby's cap. After a moment she holds it up on her 
 hand. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Another little cap to send to nurse. 
 How sweet my little Germaine will look in it ! Come, 
 sweetheart, laugh at mother ! Oh, my love ! [She 
 kisses the cap and goes on working]. 
 
 George enters at the back. 
 
 GEORGE [opening the door and taking off his coat in 
 the hall] Hullo! Are you there? Are you there? Ha, 
 ha, ha! 
 
 HENRIETTE [rising gaily] Oh, you know I recog- 
 nized your voice. 
 
 GEORGE. What a story ! [Kissing her] Poor little 
 darling ! was she taken in ? poor little woman ! Ha, 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 HENRIETTE [laughing too] Don't laugh like that! 
 
 GEORGE. " Hullo ! Hullo ! Madame George Du- 
 206
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 207 
 
 pont? " [Imitating a woman's timid voice] " Yes, yes; 
 I am here ! " I could feel you blushing at the end of the 
 wire. 
 
 HENRIETTE [laughing] I did n't say " I am here " in 
 that voice. I simply answered " Yes." 
 
 GEORGE. " Hullo ! Madame George Dupont. Is 
 George there? [Laughing'] You were taken in! You 
 can't say you weren't! [ In the woman's voice} 
 "George is out. Who is it speaking to me?" I could 
 hardly keep it up. " Me Gustave." You thought it 
 was, too. 
 
 HENRIETTE. What is there astonishing in your friend 
 Gustave telephoning? 
 
 GEORGE. And when I added [imitating Gustave's 
 voice] " How are you this morning, dearest? " you gave 
 a "What?" all flustered, like that: "What?" 
 
 HENRIETTE. Yes ; but then I guessed it was you. 
 
 GEORGE. I went into fits. What a lark! [He sits 
 down in front of her on the arm of the chair close to 
 the fireplace and watches her happily]. ' 
 
 HENRIETTE [sitting down and returning his glance] 
 What a funny little fellow you are ! 
 
 GEORGE. Me? 
 
 HENRIETTE [gaily] Do you think I don't under- 
 stand you, after knowing you for fifteen years and being 
 married to you a twelvemonth? 
 
 GEORGE [curious] Ah, well! go on. Say what you 
 think of me. 
 
 HENRIETTE. To begin with, you 're anxious. Then 
 you're jealous. And suspicious. You spend all your 
 time in making a tangle of things and then inventing 
 ingenious ways of getting out of it. 
 
 GEORGE [happy to hear himself talked about] So that 's 
 what you think of me? Go on, let us have some 
 more. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Isn't it true?
 
 208 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 GEORGE [admitting it with a laugh] Well? 
 
 HENRIETTE. Was n't it a trap that you set for me 
 this morning? 
 
 GEORGE [in the same tone] No. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Yes; you wanted to be sure that I had 
 not gone out. You asked me not to go to the Louvre 
 to-day. 
 
 GEORGE [innocently] So I did. 
 
 HENRIETTE. See how suspicious you are, even of 
 me. 
 
 GEORGE. No; not of you. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Yes, you are. But you have always 
 been, so I don't mind. And then I know at the bottom 
 you feel things so keenly that it makes you rather 
 afraid. 
 
 GEORGE [seriously] I was laughed at so much when 
 I was a boy. 
 
 HENRIETTE [gaily] Besides, perhaps you have rea- 
 sons for not having too much confidence in men's friend- 
 ships with their friends' wives. Gay deceiver! 
 
 GEORGE [laughing] I should like to know what you 
 mean by that. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Suppose I had thought it was Gustave 
 and answered: " Very well, thanks. How are you, 
 darling? " 
 
 GEORGE [laughing] Well, it is a trick that I should n't 
 like to try on everyone. [Changing the conversation] 
 By the way, as I came in, Justin spoke to me. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Well? 
 
 GEORGE. He says he wants a rise. 
 
 HENRIETTE. He has chosen a likely moment. 
 
 GEORGE. Hasn't he? I asked him if the sale of my 
 cigars was not enough for him. 
 
 HENRIETTE. How did he take that? 
 
 GEORGE. He lost his temper and gave warning. 
 This time I took him at his word. He 's simply furious.
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 209 
 
 HENRIETTE. Good. 
 
 GEORGE. He '11 go at the end of the month, and we 
 shall be well rid of him. Mother will be delighted. I 
 say, she has n't wired, has she ? 
 
 HENRIETTE. No. 
 
 GEORGE. Then she 's not coming back till to-morrow. 
 
 HENRIETTE. If she had her way, she would never 
 leave our little girl. 
 
 GEORGE. You 're not going to be jealous, are you? 
 
 HENRIETTE. I 'm a little anxious. Still, if there had 
 been anything the matter, I know your mother would 
 have telegraphed to us. 
 
 GEORGE. We agreed that she should, if there was 
 anything since yesterday. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Perhaps after all we should have done 
 better to keep baby with us. 
 
 GEORGE. Oh, are you going to begin again? 
 
 HENRIETTE. No, no. Don't scold. I know the air of 
 Paris did n't suit her. 
 
 GEORGE. You still think that the dust of my papers 
 was better for her than the air of the country? 
 
 HENRIETTE [laughing] No; I don't. 
 
 GEORGE. Of course, there is the square, with the smell 
 of fried fish and all the soldiers. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Don't tease. I know you are right. 
 
 GEORGE. Aha ! I 'm glad you admit that for once at 
 least. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Besides, nurse takes good care of her. 
 She is a good girl. 
 
 GEORGE. And how proud she is to nurse the grand- 
 daughter of her deputy. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Father is not deputy for that district. 
 All the same 
 
 GEORGE. All the same he is deputy for the department. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Yes; he is. 
 
 GEORGE. Can't you hear her talking to her friends?
 
 210 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 [Imitating the nurse's voice] " Have n't I had a bit of 
 luck, neither ? Yes, ma'am ; she 's our deputy's daugh- 
 ter's daughter, she is. She 's as fat as a calf, the little 
 duck ; and that clever with it, she understands every- 
 thing. That 's not a bit of luck, neither, is n't it ? " 
 
 HENRIETTE [laughing] You great silly ! She does n't 
 talk like that at all. 
 
 GEORGE. Why not say at once that I can't do imita- 
 tions ? 
 
 HENRIETTE. Now I did n't say that. 
 
 GEORGE. As if mother would have engaged nurse for 
 us if she had not been absolutely certain that baby would 
 be well looked after. Besides, she goes down to see her 
 every week, and she would have brought her back 
 already 
 
 HENRIETTE. Twice a week, sometimes. 
 
 GEORGE. Yes. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Ah, our little Germaine knows what it is 
 to have a granny who dotes on her. 
 
 GEORGE. Doesn't she, though? 
 
 HENRIETTE. Your mother is so good. You know I 
 adore her, too. 
 
 GEORGE. Runs in the family ! 
 
 HENRIETTE. Do you know, the last time we went 
 down there with her you had gone out somewhere or 
 other 
 
 GEORGE. To see that old sixteenth century chest. 
 
 HENRIETTE [laughing] Of course, your wonderful 
 chest. 
 
 GEORGE. Well, what were you going to say? 
 
 HENRIETTE. You were out, and nurse had gone to 
 mass, I think. 
 
 GEORGE. Or to have a drink. Go on. 
 
 HENRIETTE. I was in the little room, and your mother 
 thought she was alone with Germaine. But I could hear 
 her: she was telling baby all sorts of sweet little things
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 211 
 
 silly little things, but so sweet that I felt like laugh- 
 ing and crying at the same moment. 
 
 GEORGE. Did n't she call her " my own little 
 Saviour " ? 
 
 HENRIETTE. Why, were you listening? 
 
 GEORGE. No; but that 's what she used to call me 
 once on a time. 
 
 HENRIETTE. It was that day she said she was sure 
 baby had recognized her and laughed at her. 
 
 GEORGE. One day, too, I went into mother's room 
 here. The door was aj ar, so that she did n't hear me 
 come in; and I found her looking at one of the little 
 christening slippers she wanted baby to have. You 
 know. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Oh, yes. 
 
 GEORGE. And then she took it up and kissed it. 
 
 HENRIETTE. What did you say to her? 
 
 GEORGE. Nothing. I went out as softly as I could 
 and blew a kiss to her from the other side of the door. 
 
 HENRIETTE. When nurse's letter came the other day, 
 it did n't take her long to get ready and catch the 8.59. 
 
 GEORGE. However, there was n't anything the matter. 
 
 HENRIETTE. No; but still perhaps she was right. 
 Perhaps I should have gone with her. 
 
 GEORGE. Poor innocent little Henriette ! You believe 
 everything you are told. Now I saw at once what was 
 up. The nurse simply wanted to humbug us into raising 
 her screw. I bet she did. Look here. Will you bet me 
 she did n't ? Come, what will you have ? Look here. 
 I bet you that lovely necklace you know, the one with 
 the big pearl. 
 
 HENRIETTE. No; I should be too much afraid of 
 winning. 
 
 GEORGE [laughing] Silly! I believe you think I 
 don't care for baby as much as you do. Why, you don't 
 even know how old she is ! No, no, exactly ! Let 's see.
 
 212 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 Aha! Ninety-one days and eight hours, there! [He 
 laughs] . Ah, when she can get on by herself, then we '11 
 have her back with us. Six months more to wait. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Six months is a long time to wait. When 
 I think that if you had not put off our marriage for six 
 months, we should have her back now! 
 
 GEORGE. I have told you over and over again that 
 I only did what was right. Just consider, how could 
 I marry when the doctor told me I had traces of 
 consumption ? 
 
 HENRIETTE. Your doctor is a donkey. As if you 
 looked like a consumptive ! 
 
 GEORGE. Generally speaking, doctors are a bit that 
 way, I grant. 
 
 HENRIETTE. And you actually wanted to wait three 
 or four years. 
 
 GEORGE. Yes; to be quite certain I had nothing 
 wrong with my lungs. 
 
 HENRIETTE. You call me innocent, me! And here 
 were you, just because a doctor 
 
 GEORGE. But you know it seems that I really had the 
 beginning of some bronchial trouble. I used to feel 
 something when I breathed rather hard like that, only 
 a little harder. There, that 's it. There was a sort of 
 heaviness each side of my chest. 
 
 HENRIETTE. It was n't anything to put off our mar- 
 riage for. 
 
 GEORGE [getting up~\ Yes, yes; I assure you I was 
 right. I should have been wrong to expose you to the 
 chance of having a consumptive husband. No; I 'm not 
 at all sorry we waited. Still, those specialists I can 
 afford to laugh at them now. If I knew someone now 
 who was ill, I should tell him: " My dear chap, those 
 bigwigs at forty francs a consultation well, just don't 
 you consult them, you know ! " 
 
 HENRIETTE. That one wanted four years to cure you!
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 213 
 
 GEORGE. Hang it, doctors are only men. After all, 
 they must live; and when their consultations are forty 
 francs apiece, why, the more the merrier. 
 
 HENRIETTE. And some quite unknown little doctor 
 cured you in three months ! 
 
 GEORGE. Yes ; he was quite unknown. The odd thing 
 is I have absolutely forgotten his address. I found it in 
 the paper, I remember. I know vaguely that it was 
 somewhere near the Halles ; but if I was to have my 
 head chopped off for it, I could n't find it again. Idi- 
 otic, is n't it ? 
 
 HENRIETTE. Consequently, Germaine is six months 
 less old than she ought to be. 
 
 GEORGE. What of that? We shall keep her so much 
 the longer. She will be married six months later, that 's 
 all. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Oh, don't speak of it. It 's odious to 
 think even now that we shall lose her some day. 
 
 GEORGE. Ah ! I can see myself going up the steps of 
 the Madeleine with her on my arm. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Why the Madeleine? 
 
 GEORGE. I don't know. She '11 have on a great white 
 veil and I shall have an order in my buttonhole. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Indeed ! Pray what will you have done 
 to get an order? 
 
 GEORGE. I don't know, but I shall have one. Say 
 what you like, I shall. What a glorious crowd there '11 
 be! 
 
 HENRIETTE. That 's all in the dim, distant future. 
 
 GEORGE. Ah, yes. 
 
 HENRIETTE. Yes, happily. [Getting up] Well, do 
 you mind if I go and pay my visits now ? 
 
 GEORGE. Run along, run along. I shall work hard 
 while you are out. Look at all these papers ! I shall be 
 up to my eyes in them before you 're downstairs. Good- 
 bye.
 
 214 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 HENRIETTE. Good-bye. [She kisses him and goes 
 out at the back by the right], 
 
 George lights a cigarette, looks at himself in the 
 glass, and throws himself into the easy-chair to 'the 
 left, humming a tune. By way of being more com- 
 fortable, he moves away the writing-chair and puts 
 his feet on the desk, smoking and humming in perfect 
 contentment. Madame Dupont comes in by the door on 
 the left. 
 
 GEORGE [getting up] Hullo! Why, mother! We 
 had no wire, so we did n't expect you till to-morrow. 
 Henri ette has just gone out. I can call her back. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No; I did not want Henriette to be 
 here when I came. 
 
 GEORGE. What's the matter? 
 
 The conversation that follows is broken by long 
 silences. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I have brought back the child and 
 the nurse. 
 
 GEORGE. Is baby ill? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 GEORGE. What 's wrong with her ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Nothing serious; at least for the 
 moment. 
 
 GEORGE. We must send for the doctor. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I have just come from the doctor's. 
 
 GEORGE. Good. I 'm not going out. I '11 wait for 
 him. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I have seen him. 
 
 GEORGE. Ah, you found him in? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I telegraphed to him from the 
 country. I took the child to see him. 
 
 GEORGE. It was so urgent as that? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. After what the nurse's doctor had 
 told me, I wished to be reassured immediately. 
 
 GEORGE. And after all there is nothing serious?
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 215 
 
 MME. DUPONT. For the moment. 
 
 GEORGE. When you got down there, how did you find 
 baby ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Fairly well, but I sent for the doctor 
 at once. 
 
 GEORGE. What did he say? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. That you must make a change; that 
 the child must be brought up on the bottle. 
 
 GEORGE. What an extraordinary idea. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. He told me that what she was suffer- 
 ing from might become very serious. So without saying 
 anything to nurse, I made her come with me and we took 
 the train back. 
 
 GEORGE. Well, what is the matter with the child? 
 
 MME. DUPONT [after a thoughtful pause] I do not 
 know. 
 
 GEORGE. Didn't you ask him? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 GEORGE [beginning to be anxious] Well? 
 A silence. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. He replied evasively. 
 
 GEORGE [tonelessly] He probably did not know him- 
 self. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [after a silence] Probably. 
 
 During what follows they avoid looking at one another. 
 
 GEORGE. But our own doctor, didn't he say ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. It was not to him that I went. 
 
 GEORGE. Ah ! [A very long silence. Then lower] 
 Why? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. The nurse's doctor had so terrified 
 me. 
 
 GEORGE. Seriously ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes ; it is a disease [Silence] 
 
 GEORGE [in anguish] Well? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I asked him if the matter was too 
 serious for our own doctor to deal with.
 
 216 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 GEORGE. What did he answer? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. That if we had the means it would 
 be preferable to see a specialist. 
 
 GEORGE [trying to pull himself together] And 
 where did he send you ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT [handing him a visiting card] There. 
 
 GEORGE. He sent you to that doctor? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. Do you know him? 
 
 GEORGE. No yes J think I have met him I 
 don't know. [Very low] My God! 
 
 MME. DUPONT [after a silence] He is coming to 
 speak to you. 
 
 GEORGE [scarcely daring to pronounce the words] 
 Then is he anxious ? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No. He wants to speak to you. 
 
 GEORGE. He wants to speak to me? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Yes. 
 
 GEORGE [resigning himself] Very well. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. When he saw the nurse, whom I had 
 left in the waiting room, he called me back and said: 
 " It is impossible for me to continue attending on this 
 child unless I can see its father and speak to him at 
 once." I answered " Very well," and gave him your 
 address. He will not be long. 
 
 GEORGE [to himself in a low voice] My poor little 
 child ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT [looking at him] Yes ; she is a poor 
 little child. 
 
 GEORGE [after a long silence] Mother 
 
 MME. DUPONT [hearing the door opened] Hush! 
 [A maid comes in and speaks to her. To George] It is 
 he! [To the maid] Show him in. [To George] I 
 shall be there if you want me. 
 
 She goes out by the left. The doctor enters by the right. 
 
 DOCTOR [to the maid] You will let me know here 
 when the child wakes up, will you not?
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 217 
 
 MAID. Yes, sir. 
 
 She goes out. 
 
 GEORGE [with the greatest emotion] Good-day, doc- 
 tor: you don't recognize me? 
 
 DOCTOR [simply: more discouraged than angry] You! 
 it is you ! You married and had a child after all I 
 said to you? [Almost to himself] Scoundrel! 
 
 GEORGE. Let me explain. 
 
 DOCTOR. I can listen to no explanation of what you 
 have done. 
 
 A silence. 
 
 GEORGE [imploring him] You will look after my little 
 girl all the same, won't you? 
 
 DOCTOR [shrugging his shoulders. Low] Fool! 
 
 GEORGE [not hearing] I could only get my marriage 
 put off six months. 
 
 DOCTOR. Enough, enough ! That is not my business. 
 I was wrong even to show you my indignation. I should 
 have left you to judge yourself. I am here only con- 
 cerned with the present and the future, with the child 
 and with the nurse. 
 
 GEORGE. She is not in danger? 
 
 DOCTOR. The nurse is in danger of being contami- 
 nated. 
 
 GEORGE. No; but my child? 
 
 DOCTOR. For the moment the symptoms are not dis- 
 quieting. 
 
 GEORGE. Thank you. [More easily] About the 
 nurse you were saying Do you mind if I call my 
 mother? She knows more about these things than I do. 
 
 DOCTOR. As you please. 
 
 GEORGE [going to the door and coming back much 
 moved] There is one thing I should like to ask you. 
 Could you contrive that no one my wife should 
 know what has happened? If my poor wife knew that 
 it was I who was the cause It is for her sake that I 
 beg you. She is not to blame.
 
 218 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 DOCTOR. I promise you that I will do everything in 
 my power to save her from learning the real nature of 
 the child's illness. 
 
 GEORGE. Oh, thank you ! Thank you ! 
 
 DOCTOR. You need not. If I tell lies, it will be for 
 her sake and not for yours. 
 
 GEORGE. And my mother? 
 
 DOCTOR. Your mother knows the truth. 
 
 GEORGE. But 
 
 DOCTOR. Please, please. We have many very serious 
 matters to discuss. 
 
 George goes to the door and brings in his mother. 
 She bows to the doctor, makes a sign to him to be seated 
 in the arm-chair near the fireplace, and sits down herself 
 on the chair near the little table. George takes a seat 
 to the left in front of the desk. 
 
 DOCTOR. I have written a prescription for the child 
 which will, I hope, improve its condition and prevent 
 any fresh disorders. But my duty, and yours, does not 
 stop there. If it is not too late, the health of the nurse 
 must be protected. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Tell us what we must do. 
 
 DOCTOR. She must stop giving milk to the child. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You mean that we must change the 
 nurse ? 
 
 DOCTOR. No. I mean that the child cannot continue 
 to be fed at the breast either by this nurse or by any 
 healthy nurse. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Why? 
 
 DOCTOR. Because the child would communicate its 
 complaint to the person who gave it milk. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But, doctor, if the baby is brought up 
 on the bottle it will die. 
 
 GEORGE [breaking into sobs] Oh, my poor little girl ! 
 Oh, my God ! it 's me ! Oh ! oh ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Careful treatment, with sterilized milk
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 219 
 
 MME. DUPONT. That may succeed with healthy chil- 
 dren, but at the age of three months a sickly child such 
 as ours cannot be fed by hand. Such a child has all the 
 more need of being fed at the breast. That is true? 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes ; but 
 
 MME. DUPONT. In that case you will realize that 
 between the life of the child and the health of a nurse 
 I have no choice. 
 
 GEORGE [sobbing] Oh! oh! oh! 
 
 DOCTOR. Your affection leads you to express an in- 
 credible sentiment. But it is not for you to choose. I 
 shall forbid the child to be brought up at the breast. The 
 health of this woman does not belong to you. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Nor the life of our child to you. If 
 there is one way to save its life, it is to give it every pos- 
 sible attention, and you want me to treat it in a way that 
 you doctors condemn even for healthy children. My little 
 one ! You think I will let her die like that ! Oh, I shall 
 take good care she does not ! Neglect the one single thing 
 that can save her ! It would be criminal ! As for the 
 nurse, we will indemnify her. We will do everything in 
 our power, everything but that. No, no. no ! Whatever 
 can be done for our baby shall be done, cost what it may. 
 But that You don't consider what you are asking. 
 It would be as if I killed my child. [Bursting into 
 tears] Oh, my little angel, my own little Saviour ! 
 
 George has not stopped sobbing since he first began. 
 At his mother's last words his sobs become almost cries. 
 His anguish is pitiable to see. 
 
 GEORGE. Oh, oh, oh! My little child! My little 
 child ! Oh, oh ! [In an undertone] Oh, what a scoun- 
 drel I am ! What a criminal ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Calm yourself, madam, I beg. You will not 
 improve matters in this way. Try to consider them 
 coolly. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You are right. I beg your pardon.
 
 220 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 But if you knew how much this child is to me. I lost one 
 at the same age. I am old and widowed I did not 
 expect to live to see my grandchildren. You are right. 
 George, be calm we will show our love by being calm. 
 Now then, we will talk seriously and coldly. But I warn 
 you that you will not succeed in making me consent to 
 any but the very best conditions for the child. I shall 
 not let her be killed by being taken from the breast. 
 
 DOCTOR. This is not the first time I have found my- 
 self in this situation, and I must begin by telling you 
 that parents who have refused to be guided by my 
 advice have invariably repented of it most bitterly. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. The only thing of which I shall 
 repent 
 
 DOCTOR. You are evidently unaware of what the ra- 
 pacity and malice of peasants such as this nurse are 
 capable, especially against those of superior station. In 
 this case, moreover, her enmity would be legitimate. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Oh! What can she do? 
 
 DOCTOR. She can bring an action against you. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. She is far too stupid to think of such 
 a thing. 
 
 DOCTOR. Others will put it into her head. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. She is too poor to pay the expenses 
 of going to law. 
 
 DOCTOR. Then you propose to profit by her ignorance 
 and her poverty? Besides, she could obtain the assist- 
 ance of the court. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Never! Surely, never! 
 
 DOCTOR. Indeed? For my part I know at least ten 
 such cases. In every case where the fact was proved, 
 judgment was given against the parents. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Not in a case like this ! Not where 
 the life of a poor innocent little child was at stake ! You 
 must be mistaken !
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 221 
 
 DOCTOR. Many of the facts have been identical. I 
 can give you the dates. 
 
 GEORGE [rising] I have the law reports here. [He 
 takes a volume and hands it to the doctor]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. It is needless. 
 
 DOCTOR [to George] You can convince yourself. In 
 one or two cases the parents have been ordered to pay 
 a yearly pension to the nurse; in the others sums of 
 money varying from three to eight thousand francs. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. If we had to fight an action, we 
 should retain the very best lawyer on our side. Thank 
 heaven we are rich enough. No doubt he would make it 
 appear doubtful whether the child had not caught this 
 disease from the nurse, rather than the nurse from the 
 child. 
 
 DOCTOR. Allow me to point out that such conduct 
 would be atrocious. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Oh, it is a lawyer's business to do 
 such things. I should not have to say anything. In any 
 case you may be sure that he would win our suit. 
 
 DOCTOR. And have you considered the scandal that 
 would ensue. 
 
 GEORGE [turning to a page in the reports] Here is 
 the judgment you were speaking of six thousand 
 francs. 
 
 DOCTOR. You can make Madame Dupont read it 
 afterwards. Since you have the reports there, kindly 
 give me the volume before this. [George goes again to 
 the bookcase. To Madame Dupont] Have you thought 
 of the scandal? 
 
 GEORGE [coming back] But, doctor, allow me to point 
 out, in reports of this kind the names are suppressed. 
 
 DOCTOR. They are not suppressed in court. 
 
 GEORGE. True. 
 
 DOCTOR. Are you sure that no paper would publish 
 a full account of the case?
 
 222 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Oh, how infamous ! 
 
 DOCTOR. You see what a horrible scandal it would be 
 for you. [George nods] A catastrophe, absolutely. 
 
 GEORGE. Particularly for a notary like me. [He 
 goes to get the other volume]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. We will prevent her from bringing 
 an action. We will give her what she wants. 
 
 DOCTOR. Then you will expose yourself to be in- 
 definitely blackmailed. I know one family which has 
 paid hush-money of this kind for twelve years. 
 
 GEORGE. We could make her sign a receipt. 
 
 DOCTOR. In full settlement of all claims? 
 
 GEORGE. Exactly so. Here is the volume. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. She would be only too glad to go 
 back to her people with enough money to buy a little 
 house and a plot of land. To a woman of her position 
 it would be wealth. 
 
 The nurse comes in. 
 
 NURSE. Baby 's waked up, sir. 
 
 DOCTOR. I will come and see her. [To Madame Du- 
 pont] We will finish what we were saying presently. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Very well. Do you want the nurse? 
 
 DOCTOR. No, thank you. 
 
 The doctor goes out. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Nurse, just wait a minute. I want to 
 speak to you. [In an undertone to her son] I know 
 how we can manage. If we warn her and she agrees to 
 stay, the doctor will have nothing more to say; will he? 
 
 GEORGE. I suppose not. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I will promise her two thousand 
 francs when she goes if she consents to stay on as wet- 
 nurse. 
 
 GEORGE. Is that enough, do you think? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. At any rate I will try. If she hesi- 
 tates I will make it more. 
 
 GEORGE. All right.
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 223 
 
 MME. DuFOkNT [turning to the nurse} Nurse, you 
 know that baby is a little ill? 
 
 NURSE. Oh, no, ma'am. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Indeed she is. 
 
 NURSE. I 've looked after her as well as possible ; I 
 know I have, ma'am. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I do not say you have not. But she 
 is ill: the doctors say so. 
 
 NURSE. That 's a fine story ! As if doctors were n't 
 always finding something, so that you may n't think they 
 don't know their business ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But our doctor is a great doctor; and 
 you have seen yourself that baby has little pimples. 
 
 NURSE. Oh, ma'am, that 's nothing but the heat of her 
 blood. Don't you worry about it, I tell you it 's only the 
 strength of her blood. It is n't my fault. I 've always 
 done everything for her and kept her that clean and 
 proper. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No one says that it is your fault. 
 
 NURSE. Then what are you finding fault with me 
 about ? Ah, there is n't anything the matter with her. 
 The pretty little darling, she 's a regular town baby she 
 is, just a bit poorly; but she 's all right, I promise you. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I tell you she is ill: she has a cold 
 in her head and there are sores at the back of her throat. 
 
 NURSE. Then that 's because the doctor scratched her 
 with the spoon he put into her mouth by the wrong end. 
 And if she has a little cold, I don't know when she caught 
 it, I 'm sure I don't: I always keep her that well 
 wrapped up, she has three thicknesses of things on. It 
 must have been when you came the time before last and 
 opened all the windows in the house. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But I tell you that nobody is finding 
 fault with you at all. 
 
 NURSE. Oh, yes, I know. That 's all very well. I 'm 
 only a poor country girl.
 
 224 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What do you mean? 
 
 NURSE. Oh, that 's all very well, it is ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But I have told you over and over 
 again that we have no fault to find. 
 
 NURSE [sticking to her idea] I never expected any 
 unpleasantness when I came here. [She begins to 
 whimper]. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. We have no fault to find with you. 
 Only we want to warn you, you may catch the baby's 
 illness 
 
 NURSE [sulkily] Well, if I do catch a cold, it won't 
 be the first time I 've had to blow my nose, I suppose. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Perhaps you may get her pimples. 
 
 NURSE [sneering] Oh, ma'am, we country folks 
 have n't got nice, delicate, white skins like Paris ladies 
 have. When you have to work in the fields all day, 
 rain or shine, you don't need to plaster your face all 
 over with cream, I can tell you. No offence meant, 
 but if you want to find an excuse, that is n't much of 
 a one. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What do you mean? What excuse? 
 
 NURSE. Oh, yes, I know. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What do you know? 
 
 NURSE. I 'm only a poor country girl, I am. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I have not the slightest idea what 
 you mean. 
 
 NURSE. Oh, I know what I mean. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Then tell me what you mean. 
 
 NURSE. Oh, what's the good? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Tell me, please. I insist! 
 
 NURSE. Oh, very well 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Go on. 
 
 NURSE. Oh, all right. I may be only a poor coun- 
 try girl, but I 'm not quite so stupid as that. I know 
 what it is you want. Just because master 's cross at 
 your having promised me thirty francs a month more
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 225 
 
 if I came to Paris. [Turning to George] Well, and 
 what do you expect ? Must n't I have my own little 
 boy looked after? And hasn't his father got to eat 
 and drink ? We 're only poor country folks, we are. 
 
 GEORGE. You 're making a mistake, nurse. There' s 
 nothing at all the matter. My mother was quite right 
 to promise you the thirty francs extra, and the only 
 thing in my mind is that she did not promise you 
 enough. Now I have decided when baby is old enough 
 to have a dry nurse and you leave us, just to show how 
 grateful we are, to give you, er 
 
 MME. DUPONT. We shall make you a present, you 
 understand, over and above your wages. We shall give 
 you five hundred francs, or perhaps a thousand. That 
 is, of course, if baby is in perfectly good health. 
 
 NURSE [stupefied] You '11 give me five hundred 
 francs for myself [Struggling to understand] 
 But you have n't got to. We did n't agree to that. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. No. 
 
 NURSE [to herself] What's up, then? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. It is simply because baby will re- 
 quire more attention. You will have rather more 
 trouble with her. You will have to give her her medi- 
 cine and so on. It may be a little difficult for you. 
 
 NURSE. Ah, I see. So that you may be sure I shall 
 look after her well. You say to yourself: " Nurse has 
 an interest in her." I see. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. That is understood, then? 
 
 NURSE. Yes, ma'am. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Very good. You will not come 
 afterwards and complain of the way we have treated 
 you. We have warned you that the child is ill and 
 that you may catch her illness. To make up for that, 
 and because you will have more trouble with her, we 
 will give you five hundred francs when your time here 
 is over. That is understood?
 
 226 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 NURSE. But you said a thousand francs, ma'am. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Very well; a thousand francs, then. 
 
 GEORGE [passing to the right behind the other two 
 and drawing his mother aside] It 's a pity that we 
 can't get her to sign that. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [to the nurse] So that there may be 
 no misunderstanding about the sum you see I forgot 
 just now that I said a thousand francs we will 
 draw up a little paper which we shall sign on our 
 side and you will sign on your side. 
 
 NURSE. Very good, ma'am; I understand. 
 The doctor comes back. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Here is the doctor. You may go, 
 nurse; that is all right. 
 
 NURSE. Yes, ma'am. [To herself] What's up, 
 then ? A thousand francs ? What 's the matter with 
 the baby? Has she got something bad, I wonder? 
 [She passes to the left, between the desk and window, 
 and goes out], 
 
 DOCTOR. The condition is unchanged. There is 
 no need for anxiety. [He sits down at the desk to 
 write a prescription], 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I am glad to tell you, doctor, that 
 you can now devote yourself to the baby and the nurse 
 without misgiving. While you have been away we 
 have informed the nurse of the circumstances, and 
 agreed with her that she shall stay with us in return 
 for a certain sum of money. 
 
 DOCTOR. The disease which the nurse will almost 
 infallibly contract in giving her milk to the child is, I 
 fear, too serious to be made the subject of a bargain, 
 however large the sum of money. She might be com- 
 pletely crippled, even if she did not die of it. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But she accepts ! 
 
 DOCTOR. It is not only that she would be rendered 
 incapable of serving in future as wet nurse without
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 227 
 
 danger to the infants she suckled. The results of the 
 disease to herself might be inconsiderable; but at the 
 same time, I repeat, they might, in spite of everything 
 we could do, cast a terrible blight upon her life. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But I tell you she accepts ! She has 
 the right to do what she pleases. 
 
 DOCTOR. I am not sure that she has the right to 
 sell her own health, but I am sure that she has not the 
 right to sell the health of her husband and of her chil- 
 dren. If she contracts this disease, she will almost 
 certainly communicate it to both of them; and, further, 
 the life and health of any children she might after- 
 wards have would be gravely endangered. You under- 
 stand now that it is impossible for her to make a 
 bargain of this kind. If the mischief is not already 
 done, every effort must be made to prevent it. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You say: " If the mischief is not 
 done." Can you not be certain? 
 
 DOCTOR. Not as yet. There is a period of five or 
 six weeks between the moment of contracting the 
 disease and the appearance of its first symptoms. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You think of nothing but the nurse. 
 You do not think of our poor little baby. What can 
 we do? We cannot let her die! 
 
 GEORGE. We can't, we can't ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Neither can you endanger the life of this 
 woman. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You are not defending our interests ! 
 
 DOCTOR. I am defending those of the weakest. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. If we had called in our own doctor, 
 he would have taken our side. 
 
 DOCTOR. I doubt it. [Rising] But there is still 
 time to send for him. 
 
 GEORGE. Mother ! I beg you not to go, doctor. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [supplicating him] Oh, don't aban- 
 don us ! You can make allowances If you only knew
 
 228 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 what this child was to me ! I feel as if I had staved off 
 death to wait for it. Have pity on us ! Our poor little 
 girl ! she is the weakest, surely. Have pity on her ! 
 When you saw her tiny, suffering body, did you not 
 feel any pity for her ? Oh, I beseech you ! 
 
 GEORGE. Doctor, we implore you ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Indeed I pity her and I will do everything 
 in my power to save her. But you must not ask me to 
 sacrifice the health of a young and strong woman to 
 that of a sickly infant. I will be no party to giving this 
 woman a disease that would embitter the lives of her 
 whole family, and almost certainly render her sterile. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [in a stifled voice] Oh, are there not 
 enough of these peasants in the world! 
 
 DOCTOR. I beg your pardon? 
 
 MME. DUPONT [in the same tone] I said that if she 
 had no more children, there would only be the fewer to 
 be unhappy. 
 
 DOCTOR. It is useless for us to continue this dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [rousing herself] I shall not take 
 your advice ! I shall not listen to you ! 
 
 DOCTOR. There is one here already who regrets not 
 having done so. 
 
 GEORGE. Yes ; O, God, yes ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT [more and more exalted] I do not care ! 
 I do not care if I am punished for it in this world and 
 the next! If it is a crime, if it is a sin, I accept all the 
 responsibility, however heavy it may be ! Yes, yes ! If 
 it must be, I will lose my soul to save our child's life, 
 our little one's! I know that hell exists for the wicked: 
 that is one of my profoundest convictions. Then let God 
 judge me if I am damned, so much the worse for me! 
 
 DOCTOR. I shall not allow you to take that responsi- 
 bility. To enable you to do so, my consent would be 
 necessary, and I refuse it.
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 229 
 
 MMK. DUPONT. What do you mean? 
 
 DOCTOR. I shall speak to the nurse and give her the 
 fullest particulars, which I am convinced you have not 
 done. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What! you, a doctor, would betray 
 family secrets entrusted to you in the strictest confidence ! 
 Secrets of this kind ! 
 
 DOCTOR. The betrayal, if it is one, is forced on me 
 by the law. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. The law ! I thought you were bound 
 to secrecy? 
 
 DOCTOR [turning the pages of the volume of reports'] 
 Not in this case. Here is a judgment given by the court 
 at Dijon: I thought that I might have to read it to you. 
 [Reading"] " A doctor who knowingly omits to inform a 
 nurse of the dangers incurred by her in giving milk to a 
 syphilitic child may be held responsible in damages for 
 the results caused by her ignorance." You see that the 
 law is against you, as well as your conscience ; and I may 
 add that, even were it not so, I should not allow you to 
 be led by your feelings into committing such a crime. If 
 you do not consent to have the child fed by hand, I shall 
 either speak to the nurse or give up the case. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You dare to threaten us ! Oh, you 
 know the power that your knowledge gives you! You 
 know what need we are in of your services, and that if you 
 abandon us perhaps our child will die ! And if we give 
 way to you, she will die all the same! [Wildly'] O, my 
 God, my God, why cannot I sacrifice myself ? Oh, if only 
 my aged body could take the place of this woman's young 
 flesh, and my poor dry breasts give to our child the milk 
 that would save her life! With what joy I would give 
 myself up to this disease! With what rapture I would 
 suffer the most horrible ravages that it could inflict on 
 me ! Oh, if I could but offer myself, without fear and 
 without regret!
 
 230 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 GEORGE [flings himself into Tier arms vvith sobs and 
 cries of] Mother ! Mother ! Mother ! 
 They weep. 
 
 DOCTOR [to himself, moved] Poor people! Poor 
 people ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT [sitting down with an air of resignation] 
 Tell us what we must do. 
 
 DOCTOR. Keep the nurse here as dry-nurse so that she 
 may not carry the infection elsewhere. We will feed the 
 child by hand, and I beg you in all sincerity not to ex- 
 aggerate the danger that will result from the change. I 
 have every hope of restoring the baby to health in a short 
 space of time; and I assure you that I will use every 
 possible effort to bring about a happy conclusion. I will 
 call again to-morrow. Good-day. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [without moving] Thank you, doctor. 
 
 GEORGE [going to the door and shaking hands] Thank 
 you, thank you! [The doctor goes out. George comes 
 back and goes to his mother with outstretched arms] 
 Mother ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT [repulsing him] Let me be. 
 
 GEORGE [checking himself] Are we not unhappy 
 enough, without hating one another? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. It is God who visits upon your child 
 the sins of its father. 
 
 GEORGE [raising his shoulders gloomily] You believe 
 that, when there is not a man alive so wicked and unjust 
 as to commit such an act ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Oh, I know you believe in nothing. 
 
 GEORGE. Not in that kind of God. 
 
 The nurse, who comes in by the left soon after the 
 doctor has gone out, appears. 
 
 NURSE. If you please, ma'am, I 've been thinking I 
 would rather go away at once, and only have the five hun- 
 dred francs. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What do you say ? You want to leave 
 us?
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 231 
 
 NURSE. Yes, ma'am. 
 
 GEORGE. But ten minutes ago you did n't want to. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What has happened? 
 
 NURSE. I 've been thinking. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Thinking! About what? 
 
 NURSE. Well, I want to go back to my baby and my 
 husband. 
 
 GEORGE. But ten minutes ago There must be 
 something else. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Evidently there is something else. 
 
 NURSE. No, ma'am. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. But there must be ! 
 
 NURSE. Well, then, I 'm afraid that Paris does n't 
 suit me. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. How can you tell without waiting to 
 try? 
 
 NURSE. I 'd rather go back home at once. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. At least tell us why. 
 
 NURSE. I have told you. I 've been tfiinking. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What about? 
 
 NURSE. I 've been thinking. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Oh, don't say that over and over 
 again ! "I 've been thinking, I 've been thinking." 
 What have you been thinking about? 
 
 NURSE. About everything. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Can't you tell us about what? 
 
 NURSE. I tell you, about everything. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Idiot! 
 
 GEORGE [stepping in front of his mother] Let me 
 speak to her. 
 
 NURSE. I know we 're only poor country folk. 
 
 GEORGE. Listen to me, nurse. Just now you were 
 not only satisfied with your wages, but you were afraid 
 we were going to send you away. In addition to your 
 wages we have promised to give you a large sum of 
 money at the end of your time here and now you want
 
 232 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 to leave us, at once ! Come now, you must have some 
 sort of reason. Has anyone been doing anything to 
 you? 
 
 NURSE. No, sir. 
 
 GEORGE. Well, then? 
 
 NURSE. I 've been thinking. 
 
 GEORGE [exasperated] Don't go on repeating that 
 silly thing! What do you mean by it ? [Gently] Come, 
 come ! Tell me why you want to go away. [Silence] Eh? 
 
 NURSE. I have told you. 
 
 GEORGE. One might as well talk to a block of wood. 
 
 MME. DUPONT [coming forward] But you have no 
 right to leave us. 
 
 NURSE. Yes; I want to go away. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I shall not allow you to go ! 
 
 GEORGE. Oh, well, let her go ; after all we can't keep 
 her by force. [To the nurse] Since you want to go, you 
 shall go ; but I can only say that you 're as stupid as a 
 cow. 
 
 NURSE. I don't mind if I am. 
 
 GEORGE. I shall not pay you for the month that has 
 just begun, and you will pay for your own railway ticket. 
 
 NURSE. We '11 see about that. 
 
 GEORGE. Yes ; you will see. You '11 see this moment, 
 too ! Be off with you ! I don't want you any longer. 
 Now, then ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Don't fly into a rage, George. [To 
 the nurse] You don't mean it seriously, nurse, surely? 
 
 NURSE. I would rather go back home at once and only 
 have my five hundred francs. 
 
 GEORGE. What's that? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What are you talking about? 
 
 GEORGE. Five hundred francs? 
 
 MME. DUPONT. What five hundred francs? 
 
 NURSE. The five hundred francs you promised me, to 
 be sure !
 
 Act II Damaged Goods 233 
 
 GEORGE. We never promised you anything of the 
 sort! 
 
 NURSE. Yes, you did. 
 
 MMK. DUPONT. Yes; when you had finished nursing 
 the baby, and if we were satisfied with you. 
 
 NURSE. No; you said you would give me five hundred 
 francs when I left. Now I 'm going away, so I want 
 them. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. You will please not address me in 
 that tone; you understand? 
 
 NURSE. You 've only got to give me my money and I 
 shan't say a word more. 
 
 GEORGE. Oh, that's it, is it? Very well, I discharge 
 you on the spot. Now, then, be off with you ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. I should think so, indeed. 
 
 GEORGE. Off you go ! 
 
 NURSE. Give me my five hundred francs. 
 
 GEORGE [pointing furiously at the door] Take your 
 blasted carcase out of this ! Do you hear ? 
 
 NURSE. Hullo, hullo ! You speak to me a bit more 
 politely; can't you? 
 
 GEORGE. Will you get out of this, or have I got to 
 send for the police ? 
 
 NURSE. The police ! What for, eh, what for ? 
 
 GEORGE. To chuck you out, you 
 
 NURSE. Well, and what am I ? I 'm only a country 
 girl, I am. I may be a bit stupid 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Stupid ! I should think you were. 
 You have no more brains than a mule. 
 
 NURSE. I may be stupid, but I 'm not 
 
 MME. DUPONT [interrupting] You have no more 
 heart than a stone. You are a wicked woman. 
 
 GEORGE. You 're no better than a thief. 
 
 NURSE. Oh, a thief am I ? I should like to know why. 
 
 GEORGE. Because you 're trying to get money that 
 is n't yours.
 
 234 Damaged Goods Act II 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Because you are deserting our baby. 
 You are a wicked woman. 
 
 GEORGE. Do you want me to put you out? [He takes 
 her by the arm]. 
 
 NURSE. Oh, that 's it, is it? So you want me to tell 
 you why I 'm going? 
 
 GEORGE. Now, then, out with it. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Well, why is it? 
 
 Henriette enters at the back. In the noise of the 
 quarrel no one perceives her. 
 
 NURSE. Very well, then. I 'm going away because 
 I don't want to catch your beastly diseases here. 
 
 MME. DUPONT. Be quiet, will you? 
 
 GEORGE. Shut up, can't you? 
 
 NURSE. Oh, you need n't be afraid ; everyone knows 
 about it. Justin listened at the door to what your doctor 
 was saying and told me what was up. Oh, I may be 
 stupid, but I 'm not so stupid as that. I 'm going to have 
 my money and get out of this. 
 
 GEORGE. Shut up ! 
 
 MME. DUPONT. [taking her by the arm] Hold your 
 tongue, I tell you ! 
 
 NURSE. Let me go ! Let me go ! I know your brat 's 
 not going to live. I know it 's rotten through and 
 through because its father 's got a beastly disease that 
 he caught from some woman of the streets. 
 
 Henriette, with two hoarse cries, falls to the ground 
 in a fit of nervous sobbing. 
 
 GEORGE [rushing towards her] My God ! 
 
 Henriette eludes him and pulls herself up with disgust, 
 hatred, and horror depicted all over her. 
 
 HENRIETTE [shrieking like a mad wvman] Don't 
 touch me ! Don't touch me !
 
 ACT III 
 
 The doctor's room in the hospital where he is chief 
 physician. The doctor enters with a medical student, 
 both in their hospital clothes, and takes off his apron 
 while talking. 
 
 DOCTOR. By the way, my dear fellow, is the gentle- 
 man we passed in the passage waiting for you? 
 
 STUDENT. No, not for me. 
 
 DOCTOR. Then it 's my deputy. Do you know this 
 name? Where did I put his card? \_He looks on his 
 desk] Ah, here. " Loches, deputy for Sarthes." 
 
 STUDENT. That 's the famous Loches. 
 
 DOCTOR. Ah, yes, deputy for Sarthes. A regular 
 orator, is n't he ? 
 
 STUDENT. Tremendous, I believe. 
 
 DOCTOR. That 's the man we want then. He busies 
 himself a great deal with social questions? 
 
 STUDENT. Just so. 
 
 DOCTOR. I suppose he wants to start an agitation 
 in the Chamber in favor of the laws for which we have 
 been clamoring so long. No doubt he means to post him- 
 self up first. This is what he writes : " Loches, deputy 
 for Sarthes, presents his compliments," etc. . . . would 
 be much obliged if I would see him to-morrow, Sunday, 
 not for a consultation. 
 
 STUDENT. It 's very likely he has some idea of the sort. 
 
 DOCTOR. Now that I have a deputy I will post him 
 up, I can assure you. That 's why I have had the case 
 from St. Charles' ward and number 28 brought here. 
 
 235
 
 236 Damaged Goods Act III 
 
 STUDENT. Shall you want me? 
 
 DOCTOR. Not at all, my dear fellow. Good-bye. 
 
 STUDENT. Good-bye, sir. 
 
 DOCTOR [calling to the other as he goes out] Would 
 yon mind telling them to show in M. Loches? Thanks 
 very much. Good-bye. 
 
 The student goes out. 
 
 Loches enters and bows. The doctor motions him to be 
 seated. 
 
 LOCHES. I must thank you for being so kind as to 
 receive me out of your regular hours. The business that 
 brings me here is peculiarly distressing. I am the 
 father-in-law of M. George Dupont. After the terrible 
 revelation of yesterday, my daughter has returned to 
 me with her child, and I have come to ask you to be so 
 good as to continue attending on the infant, but at my 
 house. 
 
 DOCTOR. Very good. 
 
 LOCHES. Thank you. Now, as to the scoundrel who 
 is the cause of all these misfortunes. 
 
 DOCTOR [very gently] You must excuse me, but that 
 is a subject on which I cannot enter. My functions are 
 only those of a physician. 
 
 LOCHES [in a thick voice] I ask your pardon, but I 
 think when you have heard me for a moment, you will 
 agree with me. I shall not trouble you with the plans of 
 vengeance I formed yesterday, when my poor daughter 
 fled to me with her child in her arms after the revelation 
 that you know. You will excuse me if I speak to you in 
 this state oh, I can scarce contain my indignation ! I 
 had intended to talk of this calmly: but when J think 
 of that man and of his infamous conduct the brutal, 
 cowardly blow he has struck at me and mine I cannot 
 control myself I I It is abominable ! My 
 daughter! A girl of twenty-two! Twenty-two! 
 A silence.
 
 Act III Damaged Goods 237 
 
 DOCTOR. I understand and respect your feelings; 
 but, believe me, you are not in a fit state to form any 
 decision at this moment. 
 
 LOCHES [with an effort] Yes, yes: I will command 
 myself. All last night I spent in profound reflection; 
 and after rejecting the ideas I mentioned, this is the 
 conclusion to which I have come in conjunction with 
 my daughter: we desire to obtain a divorce as soon as 
 possible. Consequently I have come to ask you for the 
 certificate which will be the basis of our action. 
 
 DOCTOR. What certificate? 
 
 LOCHES. A certificate attesting the nature of the 
 disease which this man has contracted. 
 
 DOCTOR. I regret that I am unable to furnish you 
 with such a certificate. 
 
 LOCHES. How is that? 
 
 DOCTOR. The rule of professional secrecy is absolute. 
 
 LOCHES. It is impossible that it should be your duty 
 to take sides with a criminal against his innocent victims. 
 
 DOCTOR. To avoid all discussion, I may add that even 
 were I free, I should refuse your request. 
 
 LOCHES. May I ask why? 
 
 DOCTOR. I should regret having helped you to obtain 
 a divorce. 
 
 LOCHES. Then just because you hold this or that 
 theory, because your profession has rendered you scep- 
 tical or insensible to the sight of misery like ours, my 
 daughter must bear this man's name to the end of her 
 life! 
 
 DOCTOR. It would be in your daughter's own interest 
 that I should refuse. 
 
 LOCHES. Indeed! You have a strange conception of 
 her interest. 
 
 DOCTOR [very gently] In your present state of ex- 
 citement you will probably begin to abuse me before five 
 minutes are over. That will not disturb a man of my
 
 238 Damaged Goods Act III 
 
 experience, but you see why I refused to discuss these 
 subjects. However, since I have let myself in for it, I 
 may as well explain my position. You ask me for a cer- 
 tificate in order to prove to the court that your son-in- 
 law has contracted syphilis? 
 
 LOCHES. Yes. 
 
 DOCTOR. You do not consider that in doing so you 
 will publicly acknowledge that your daughter has been 
 exposed to the infection. The statement will be officially 
 registered in the papers of the case. Do you suppose 
 that after that your daughter is likely to find a second 
 husband ? 
 
 LOCHES. She will never marry again. 
 
 DOCTOR. She says so now. Can you be sure that she 
 will say so in five or in ten years time? Besides, you 
 will not obtain a divorce, because I shall not furnish you 
 with the necessary proof. 
 
 LOCHES. I shall find other ways to establish it. I 
 shall have the child examined by another doctor. 
 
 DOCTOR. Indeed ! You think that this poor little 
 thing has not been unlucky enough in her start in life? 
 She has been blighted physically: you wish besides to 
 stamp her indelibly with the legal proof of congenital 
 syphilis ? 
 
 LOCHES. So when the victims seek to defend them- 
 selves they are struck still lower ! So the law provides 
 no arms against the man who takes an innocent, con- 
 fiding young girl in sound health, knowingly befouls her 
 with the heritage of his debauchery, and makes her 
 mother of a wretched mite whose future is such that 
 those who love it most do not know whether they had 
 better pray for its life or for its immediate deliverance ! 
 This man has inflicted on his wife the supreme insult, the 
 most odious degradation. He has, as it were, thrust her 
 into contact with the streetwalker with whose vice he 
 is stained, and created between her and that common
 
 Act III Damaged Goods 239 
 
 thing a bond of blood to poison herself and her child. 
 Thanks to him, this abject creature, this prostitute, lives 
 our life, makes one of our family, sits down with us at 
 table. He has smirched my daughter's imagination as he 
 has tarnished her body, and bound up for ever in her 
 mind the ideal of love that she placed so high with 
 heaven knows what horrors of the hospital. He has 
 struck her physically and morally, in her dignity and her 
 modesty, in her love and in her child. He has hurled 
 her into the depths of shame. And the state of law 
 and opinion is such that this woman cannot be separated 
 from this man save at the cost of a scandal which will 
 overwhelm herself and her child. Very well, then, I 
 shall not ask the aid of the law. Last night I wondered 
 if it was not my duty to go and shoot down that brute 
 like a mad dog. It was cowardice that prevented me. 
 Weakly I proposed to invoke the law. Well, since the 
 law will not do justice, I will take it into my own hands. 
 Perhaps his death will serve as a warning to others. 
 
 DOCTOR [putting aside his hat] You will be tried for 
 your life. 
 
 LOCHES. And I shall be acquitted. 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes; but after the public narration of all 
 your troubles. The scandal and the misfortune will be 
 so much the greater, that is all. And how do you know 
 that the day after your acquittal you will not find your- 
 self before another and less lenient judge? When your 
 daughter, realizing that you have rendered her unhappi- 
 ness irreparable, and seized with pity for your victim, 
 demands by what right you have killed the father of her 
 child, what will you say? What will you say when that 
 child one day asks the same question? 
 
 LOCHES [speaking before the other has done] Then 
 what can I do? 
 
 DOCTOR [immediately] Forgive. 
 A silence.
 
 240 
 
 LOCHES [without energy] Never. 
 
 DOCTOR. Are you quite sure that you have the right 
 to be so inflexible? Was it not within your power at a 
 certain moment to spare your daughter the possibility of 
 this misery? 
 
 LOCHES. Within my power ! Do you imply that I am 
 responsible ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes; I do. When the marriage was pro- 
 posed you doubtless made inquiries concerning your 
 future son-in-law's income; you investigated his securi- 
 ties ; you satisfied yourself as to his character. You 
 only omitted one point, but it was the most important 
 of all: you made no inquiries concerning his health. 
 
 LOCHES. No. 
 
 DOCTOR. And why? 
 
 LOCHES. Because it is not the custom. 
 
 DOCTOR. Well, it ought to be made the custom. Be- 
 fore giving his daughter in marriage a father ought to 
 take as much care with regard to her husband as a house 
 of business takes in engaging an employee. 
 
 LOCHES. You are right; a law should be passed. 
 
 DOCTOR. No, no ! We want no new laws : there are 
 too many already. All that is needed is for people to 
 understand the nature of this disease rather better. It 
 would soon become the custom for a man who proposed 
 for a girl's hand to add to the other things for which 
 he is asked a medical statement of bodily fitness, which 
 would make it certain that he did not bring this plague 
 into the family with him. It would be perfectly simple. 
 Once it was the custom, the man would go to his doctor 
 for a certificate of health before he could sign the regis- 
 ter, just as now, before he can be married in church, he 
 goes to his priest for a certificate that he has confessed. 
 As things are, before a marriage is concluded the family 
 lawyers meet to discuss matters: a meeting between the 
 two doctors would be at least as useful and would pre-
 
 Act III Damaged Goods 241 
 
 vent many misfortunes. Your inquiry, you see, was in- 
 complete. Your daughter might well ask you, who are 
 a man and a father, and ought to know these things, why 
 you did not take as much trouble about her health as 
 about her fortune. I tell you that you must forgive. 
 
 LOCHES. Never ! 
 
 DOCTOR. Well, there is one last argument which, 
 since I must, I will put to you. Are you yourself with- 
 out sin, that you are so relentless to others? 
 
 LOCHES. I have never had any shameful disease, sir! 
 
 DOCTOR. I was not asking you that. I was asking 
 you if you had never exposed yourself to catching one. 
 [He pauses. Laches does not reply} Ah, you see! 
 Then it is not virtue that has saved you ; it is luck. Few 
 things exasperate me more than that term " shameful 
 disease," which you used just now. This disease is like 
 all other diseases: it is one of our afflictions. There is 
 no shame in being wretched even if one deserves to 
 be so. [Hotly} Come, come, let us have a little plain 
 speaking ! I should like to know how many of these 
 rigid moralists, who are so choked with their middle- 
 class prudery that they dare not mention the name 
 syphilis, or when they bring themselves to speak of it 
 do so with expressions of every sort of disgust, and treat 
 its victims as criminals, have never run the risk of con- 
 tracting it themselves? It is those alone who have the 
 right to talk. How many do you think there are? Four 
 out of a thousand? Well, leave those four aside: be- 
 tween all the rest and those who catch the disease there 
 is no difference but chance. [Bursting out} And by 
 heavens, those who escape won't get much sympathy 
 from me: the others at least have paid their fine of 
 suffering and remorse, while they have gone scot-free ! 
 [Recovering himself} Let 's have done, if you please, 
 once for all with this sort of hypocrisy. Your son-in- 
 law, like yourself and like the immense majority of men,
 
 242 Damaged Goods Act III 
 
 has had mistresses before he married. He has had the 
 ill-luck to catch syphilis, and married supposing that 
 the disease was no longer dangerous when in fact it still 
 was. It is a misfortune that we must do our best to 
 remedy, and not to aggravate. Perhaps in your youth 
 you deserved what he has got even more than he ; at any 
 rate your position towards him is as that of the culprit 
 who has escaped punishment towards his less fortunate 
 comrade. That is a reflection that should, I think, touch 
 you. 
 
 LOCHES. You put it in such a way 
 
 DOCTOR. Am I not right? 
 
 LOCHES. Perhaps; but I can't tell my daughter all 
 this to persuade her to return to her husband. 
 
 DOCTOR. There are other arguments that you can use. 
 
 LOCHES. What, then, good heavens? 
 
 DOCTOR. Any number. You can tell her that a sep- 
 aration will be a calamity for all parties and that her 
 husband is the only person interested in helping her at 
 any price to save her child. You can tell her that out 
 of the ruins of her first happiness she can construct a 
 life of solid affection that will have every chance of 
 being lasting and most sincerely enviable. There is 
 much truth in the saying that reformed rakes make the 
 best husbands. Take your son-in-law. If your daughter 
 consents to forgive and forget, he will not only respect 
 her, he will be eternally grateful. You can tell her all 
 this and you will find much else to say besides. As for 
 the future, we will make sure that when they are re- 
 united their next child shall be healthy and vigorous. 
 
 LOCHES. Is that possible? 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes, yes ! A thousand times yes ! I have 
 one thing that I always tell my patients: if I could I 
 would paste it up at every street corner. " Syphilis is 
 like a woman whose temper is roused by the feeling that 
 her power is disdained. It is terrible only to those who
 
 Act III Damaged Goods 243 
 
 think it insignificant, not to those who know its dangers." 
 Repeat that to your daughter. Give her back to her hus- 
 band, she has nothing more to fear from him, and 
 in two years' time I guarantee that you will be a happy 
 grandfather. 
 
 LOCHES. Thank you, doctor. I do not know if I can 
 ever forget. But you have made me so uneasy on the 
 score of these responsibilities that I have ignored and 
 given me back so much hope, that I will promise you to 
 do nothing rash. If my poor child can, after a time, 
 bring herself to forgive her husband, I shall not stand in 
 the way. 
 
 DOCTOR. Good ! But if you have another daughter, 
 take care not to make the same mistake that you made 
 over the marriage of your first. 
 
 LOCHES. How was I to know? 
 
 DOCTOR. Ah, there it is. You did n't know ! You are 
 a father and you did n't know ! You are a deputy and 
 have the honor and the burden of making laws for us, 
 and you did n't know ! You did n't know about syphilis, 
 just as you probably do not know about alcoholism and 
 tuberculosis. 
 
 LOCHES. Really, I 
 
 DOCTOR. Well, if you like I will except you. But 
 there are five hundred others, are there not, who sit in 
 the Chamber and style themselves Representatives of the 
 people? Here are the three unspeakable gods to whom 
 every day thousands of human sacrifices are offered up. 
 What single hour do your colleagues find for the organi- 
 zation of our forces against these insatiable monsters ? 
 Take alcoholism. The manufacture of poisonous liquors 
 should be prohibited and the number of licences cut 
 down. But we are afraid of the power of the great dis- 
 tillers and of the voting strength of the trade: conse- 
 quently we deplore the immorality of the working classes 
 and quiet our conscience by writing pamphlets and
 
 244 Damaged Goods Act III 
 
 preaching sermons. Pah! Then take tuberculosis: 
 everyone knows that the real remedy is to pay sufficient 
 wages and have insanitary workmen's dwellings knocked 
 down. But no one will do it, although the working class 
 is the most useful we have as well as the worst rewarded. 
 Instead^ workmen are recommended not to spit. Ad- 
 mirable, is n't it ? Finally, syphilis. Why do you not 
 concern yourselves with that? You create offices of state 
 for all sorts of things: why do you not one day set 
 about creating an office of public health? 
 
 LOCHES. My dear doctor, you are falling into the 
 common French mistake of attributing all the ills in the 
 world to the government. In this case it is for you to 
 show us the way. These are matters for scientific ex- 
 perts. You must begin by pointing out the necessary 
 measures, and then 
 
 DOCTOR. And then what? Ha! It is fifteen 
 years since a scheme of this kind, worked out and ap- 
 proved unanimously by the Academy of Medicine, was 
 submitted to the proper authorities. Since that day it 
 has never been heard of again. 
 
 LOCHES. Then you think that there really are meas- 
 ures to be taken ? 
 
 DOCTOR. You shall answer that question yourself. I 
 must tell you that when I received your card yesterday 
 I imagined that it was in your public capacity that you 
 were about to interest yourself in these matters. Con- 
 sequently, after naming the hour of your visit, I told off 
 two of my hospital patients to show to you. You need 
 not be alarmed. I shall not shock your nerves. To 
 outward appearance they have nothing the matter with 
 them. They are not bad cases; they are simply the 
 damaged goods of our great human cargo. I merely 
 wished to give you food for reflection, not a lesson in 
 pathology. You came on another matter. So much the 
 worse for you. I have you and I shall not let you go.
 
 'Act III Damaged Goods 245 
 
 [A slight pause]. I will ask you, therefore, to raise 
 your mind above your personal sorrow and to conceive 
 in the mass the thousands of beings who suffer from 
 similar causes. Thousands, mark you, from every rank 
 of society. The disease jumps from the hovel into the 
 home, frequently with few intermediate steps; so that 
 to cleanse the gutter, where preventive measures can be 
 taken, means practically to safeguard the family life. 
 Our greatest enemy of all, as you shall see for yourself, 
 is ignorance. Ignorance, I repeat. The refrain is 
 always the same : " I did n't know." Patients, whom 
 we might have saved had they come in time, come too 
 late, in a desperate condition, and after having spread 
 the evil far and wide. And why? "I didn't know." 
 [Going towards the door] What can we do? We can't 
 hunt them out from the highways and hedges. [To a 
 woman in the passage] Come in, please. [The woman 
 enters. She is of the working class. The doctor turns 
 again to Loches] Here is a case. This woman is very 
 seriously ill. I have told her so, and I told her to come 
 here once a week. [To the woman] Is that so? 
 
 WOMAN. Yes, sir. 
 
 DOCTOR [angrily] And how long is it since you came 
 last? 
 
 WOMAN. Three months. 
 
 DOCTOR. Three months ! How do you suppose I can 
 cure you like that ? It is hopeless, do you hear, hopeless ! 
 Well, why did n't you come ? Don't you know that you 
 have a very serious disease? 
 
 WOMAN. Oh, yes, sir. I know it is. My husband 
 died of it. 
 
 DOCTOR [more gently] Your husband died of it? 
 
 WOMAN. Yes, sir. 
 
 DOCTOR. Did he not go to the doctor? 
 
 WOMAN. No, sir. 
 
 DOCTOR. And is n't that a warning to you ?
 
 246 Damaged Goods Act III 
 
 WOMAN. Oh, sir, I 'd come as often as you told me 
 to, only I can't afford it. 
 
 DOCTOR. How do you mean, you can't afford it? 
 
 LOCHES. The consultations are gratis, are they 
 not? 
 
 WOMAN. Yes, sir. But they 're during working hours, 
 and then, it 's a long way to come. One has to wait one's 
 turn with all the others, and sometimes it takes the best 
 part of the day, and I 'm afraid of losing my place if I 
 stop away so much. So I wait till I can't help coming 
 again. And then 
 
 DOCTOR. Well ? 
 
 WOMAN. Oh, it 's nothing, sir. You 're too kind to 
 me. 
 
 DOCTOR. Go on, go on. 
 
 WOMAN. I know I ought n't to mind, but I have n't 
 always been so poor. We were well off before my hus- 
 band fell ill, and I 've always lived by my own work. 
 It 's not as it is for a woman who has n't any self-respect. 
 I know it 's wrong, but having to wait like that with 
 everyone else and to tell all about myself before every- 
 one I know I 'm wrong, but it 's hard all the same, it 's 
 very hard. 
 
 DOCTOR. Poor woman ! [A pause. Then very gently] 
 So it was from your husband that you caught this disease ? 
 
 WOMAN. Yes, sir. We used to live in the country and 
 then my husband caught it and went half mad. He 
 did n't know what he was doing, and used to order all 
 kinds of things we could n't pay for. 
 
 DOCTOR. Why did he not get himself looked after? 
 
 WOMAN. He did n't know. We were sold up and 
 came to Paris ; we had n't any more money. Then he 
 went to the hospital. 
 
 DOCTOR. Well? 
 
 WOMAN. He got looked after there, but they would n't 
 give him any medicines.
 
 Act III Damaged Goods 247 
 
 DOCTOR. How was that? 
 
 WOMAN. Because we had only been three months in 
 Paris. They only give you the medicines free if you 
 have lived here six months. 
 
 LOCHES. Is that so? 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes, that is the rule. 
 
 WOMAN. You see it is n't our fault. 
 
 DOCTOR. You have no children, have you? 
 
 WOMAN. I could n't ever bring one to birth, sir. My 
 husband was taken at the very beginning of our marriage, 
 while he was doing his time as a reservist. There are 
 women that hang about the barracks. 
 A silence. 
 
 DOCTOR. Ah ! Well, this is my private address ; you 
 come to see me there every Sunday morning. [At the 
 door he slips a piece of money into her hand. Roughly] 
 There, just take that and run along. What's that? 
 Tut, tut ! Nonsense ! Nonsense ! I have n't time to 
 listen to you. Run along, now. [He pushes her out. To 
 someone who is invisible to the audience] What can I 
 do for you? 
 
 MAN [outside] I am the father of the young man you 
 saw this morning. I asked leave to speak to you after 
 the consultation was over. 
 
 DOCTOR. Ah, yes, just so, I recognize you. Your son 
 is at college, is n't he ? 
 
 MAN [in the doorway] Yes, sir. 
 
 DOCTOR. Come in, come in. You can talk before this 
 gentleman. 
 
 MAN [entering] You know, sir, the disaster that has 
 befallen us. My son is eighteen; as the result of this 
 disease he is half paralyzed. We are small trades- 
 people; we have regularly bled ourselves in order to 
 send him to college, and now I only wish the same 
 thing may n't happen to others. It was at the very 
 college gates that my poor boy was got hold of by one
 
 248 Damaged Goods Act III 
 
 of these women. Is it right, sir, that that should be al- 
 lowed? Are n't there enough police to prevent children of 
 fifteen from being seduced like that? I ask, is it right? 
 
 DOCTOR. No. 
 
 MAN. Why don't they stop it, then? 
 
 DOCTOR. I don't know. 
 
 MAN. Look at my son. He 'd be better in his grave. 
 He was such a good-looking chap. We were that 
 proud of him. 
 
 DOCTOR. Never despair. We '11 do our best to cure 
 him. [Sadly] But why did you wait so long before 
 bringing him to me? 
 
 MAN. How was I to know what he had? He was 
 afraid to tell me; so he let the thing go on. Then when 
 he felt he was really bad with it, he went, without letting 
 me know, to quacks, who robbed him without curing him. 
 Ah, that too ; is that right ? What 's the government 
 about that it allows that ? Is n't that more important 
 than what they spend their time over? 
 
 DOCTOR. You are right. Their only excuse is that 
 they do not know. You must take courage. We have 
 cured worse cases than your son's. As for the others, 
 perhaps some day they will have a little attention paid 
 them. [He goes with the man to the door. Turning to 
 Loches] You see, the true remedy lies in a change of 
 our ways. Syphilis must cease to be treated like a mys- 
 terious evil the very name of which cannot be pro- 
 nounced. The ignorance in which the public is kept of 
 the real nature and of the consequences of this disease 
 helps to aggravate and to spread it. Generally it is con- 
 tracted because " I did n't know " ; it becomes danger- 
 ous for want of proper care because " I did n't know " ; 
 it is passed on from person to person because " I did n't 
 know." People ought to know. Young men ought to be 
 taught the responsibilities they assume and the mis- 
 fortunes they may bring on themselves.
 
 Act III Damaged Goods 249 
 
 LOCHES. At the same time these things cannot be 
 taught to children at school. 
 
 DOCTOR. Why not, pray? 
 
 LOCHES. There are curiosities which it would be im- 
 prudent to arouse. 
 
 DOCTOR [hotly] So you think that by ignoring those 
 curiosities you stifle them? Why, every boy and girl 
 who has been to a boarding school or through college 
 knows you do not ! So far from stifling them, you drive 
 them to satisfy themselves in secret by any vile means 
 they can. There is nothing immoral in the act that re- 
 produces life by the means of love. But for the benefit 
 of our children we organize round about it a gigantic 
 conspiracy of silence. A respectable man will take his 
 son and daughter to one of these grand music halls, where 
 they will hear things of the most loathsome description; 
 but he won't let them hear a word spoken seriously on 
 the subject of the great act of love. No, no ! Not a word 
 about that without blushing: only, as many barrack room 
 jokes, as many of the foulest music hall suggestions as 
 you like ! Pornography, as much as you please : science, 
 never ! That is what we ought to change. The mystery 
 and humbug in which physical facts are enveloped ought 
 to be swept away and young men be given some pride in 
 the creative power with which each one of us is endowed. 
 They ought to be made to understand that the future of 
 the race is in their hands and to be taught to transmit 
 the great heritage they have received from their ancestors 
 intact with all its possibilities to their descendants. 
 
 LOCHES. Ah, but we should go beyond that ! I realize . 
 now that what is needed is to attack this evil at its source 
 and to suppress prostitution. We ought to hound out 
 these vile women who poison the very life of society. 
 
 DOCTOR. You forget that they themselves have first 
 been poisoned. I am going to show you one of them. 
 I warn you, not that it matters much, that she won't
 
 250 Damaged Goods Act III 
 
 express herself like a duchess. I can make her talk by 
 playing on her vanity: she wants to be a ballet-dancer. 
 
 He opens the door and admits a pretty girl of some 
 twenty years: she is very gay and cheerful. 
 
 DOCTOR. Getting on all right? [Without waiting for 
 an answer] You still want to go on the stage, don't you ? 
 
 GIRL. Rather. 
 
 DOCTOR. Well, this gentleman 's a friend of the man- 
 ager of the opera. He can give you a line to him; will 
 that do? 
 
 GIRL. Why, of course. But if they want character, 
 I 'm done, you know. 
 
 DOCTOR. They won't. You just tell the gentleman 
 about yourself ; what you want to do and what you 've 
 done. Talk to him a bit. 
 
 GIRL. My parents were people of good position. 
 They sent me to a boarding school 
 
 DOCTOR [interrupting] You need n't tell him all that; 
 he won't believe a word of it. 
 
 GIRL. Eh? Well, but if I tell him the truth, it's 
 all up with me. 
 
 DOCTOR. No, no; he won't mind. Now then, you 
 came to Paris 
 
 GIRL. Yes. 
 
 DOCTOR. You got a place as maid-servant? 
 
 GIRL. Well, yes. 
 
 DOCTOR. How old were you then? 
 
 GIRL. Why, I was turned seventeen. 
 
 DOCTOR. And then you had a baby? 
 
 GIRL [astonished at the question] Of course I did; 
 next year. 
 
 DOCTOR. Well, who was its father? 
 
 GIRL [treating it as a matter of course] Why, it was 
 my master, of course. 
 
 DOCTOR. Go on, go on. Tell us about it. Your mis- 
 tress found out. What happened then?
 
 Act III Damaged Goods 251 
 
 GIRL [in the same tone] She sent me packing. I 'd 
 have done the same, if I 'd been her. 
 
 DOCTOR. Go on; what are you stopping for? Talk 
 away. The gentleman 's from the country ; he does n't 
 understand about these things. 
 
 GIRL [gaily] Right oh! I'll tell you all about it. 
 One night the boss comes up to my room in his socks 
 and says: " If you shriek out, off you go! " Then 
 
 DOCTOR. No, no. Begin after you lost your place. 
 
 GIRL. All right, if you think he '11 think it funny. 
 
 DOCTOR. Never mind that. Say what you 're doing 
 now. 
 
 GIRL. Why, I come here every day. 
 
 DOCTOR. But before you come here? 
 
 GIRL. Oh, I do my five hours on the streets. 
 
 DOCTOR. Well, how's that? The gentleman's from 
 the country, I tell you. He wants to know. Go on. 
 
 GIRL. There now, I would n't have thought there was 
 anyone did n't know that. Why, I rig myself out as a 
 work-girl, with a little bag on my arm they make togs 
 special for that, y' know and then I trot along by the 
 shop windows. Pretty hard work, too, 'cause to do it real 
 well you have to walk fast. Then I stops in front of some 
 shop or other. Nine times out of ten that does the trick. 
 It just makes me laugh, I tell you, but you 'd think all 
 the men had learnt what to say out of a book. There 's 
 only two things they say, that 's all. It 's either: " You 
 walk very fast " or else: " Are n't you afraid, all alone? " 
 One knows what that means, eh? Or else I do the 
 " young widow " fake. You 've got to go a bit fast like 
 that, too. I don't know why, but it makes 'em catch on. 
 They find out precious soon I 'm not a young widow, but 
 that does n't make any odds. [Seriously] There 're 
 things like that I don't understand. 
 
 DOCTOR. What sort are they, then? Shopwalkers, 
 commercial travellers ?
 
 252 Damaged Goods Act III 
 
 GIRL. I like that ! Why, I only take real gentlemen. 
 
 DOCTOR. They say that 's what they are. 
 
 GIRL. Oh, I can see well enough. Besides, a whole lot 
 of 'em have orders on. That makes me laugh, too. When 
 they meet you, they 've got their little bits of ribbon stuck 
 in their buttonhole. Then they follow you and they 
 have n't anything. I wanted to find out, so I looked over 
 my shoulder in a glass and saw my man snap the ribbon 
 out with his finger and thumb just as you do when you 're 
 shelling peas. You know ? 
 
 DOCTOR. Yes; I know. Tell us about your child. 
 What became of it? 
 
 GIRL. Oh, I left it at that place in the Rue Denfer. 
 
 DOCTOR [to Loches] The foundlings' hospital. 
 
 LOCHES. Did you not mind doing that? 
 
 GIRL. It was better than dragging it about with me to 
 starve. 
 
 LOCHES. Still, it was your child. 
 
 GIRL. Well, what about its father? It was his child, 
 too, was n't it ? See here, I 'm not going to talk about 
 that again. Anyway, just tell me what I could have 
 done, you two there. Put it out to nurse? Well, of 
 course, I would have, if I 'd been sure of having the 
 money for it. But then I wanted to get another place; 
 and how was I to pay for nursing it with the twenty- 
 five or thirty francs a month I should have got, eh? If 
 I wanted to keep straight, I could n't keep the kid. See ? 
 
 LOCHES. It 's too horrible. 
 
 The doctor stops him with a gesture. 
 
 GIRL [angrily] It 's just as I tell you. What else 
 could I have done, eh ? If you 'd been in my place you 'd 
 have done just the same. [Quieting down] See here, 
 what 's the good of making a fuss about it ? You '11 say : 
 " But you have n't been living straight." No more I 
 have, but how could I help it ? I could n't stay in my 
 places; and then, when you 're hungry and a jolly young
 
 Act III Damaged Goods 253 
 
 chap offers you a dinner, my word, I 'd like to see the 
 girl who 'd say no. I never learnt any trade, you see. 
 So that the end of it all is that I found myself in St. 
 Lazare because I was ill. That 's pretty low down, too. 
 These beastly men give you their foul diseases and it 's 
 me they stick in prison. It 's a bit thick, that is. 
 
 DOCTOR. You gave them as good as you got, did n't 
 you, though? 
 
 GIRL [gaily] Oh, I had my tit for tat! [To Laches] 
 I suppose you 'd like to have that, too ? Before they 
 carted me off there, the day I found out I was in for it, 
 I was going home in a pretty temper when who do you 
 think I met in the street but my old boss ! I was that 
 glad to see him ! Now, thinks I to myself, you 're going 
 to pay me what you owe me with interest, too ! I just 
 winked at him : oh, it did n't take long, I can tell you. 
 [Tragically] Then when I left him, I don't know what 
 came over me I felt half mad. I took on everyone I 
 could, for anything or for nothing ! As many as I could, 
 all the youngest and the best looking well, I only gave 
 'em back what they gave me! Now somehow I don't 
 care any more : where 's the use in pulling long faces 
 about things? It only makes me laugh. Other women, 
 they do just the same; but then they do it for their 
 bread and butter, d' ye see. A girl must live even if 
 she is ill, eh? [A pause] Well, you'll give my name 
 to the chap at the theatre, won't you ? The doc here 11 
 tell you my address. 
 
 LOCHES. I promise you I will. 
 
 GIRL. Thank ye, sir. 
 
 She goes out. 
 
 DOCTOR. Was I not right to keep that confession for 
 the end? This poor girl is typical. The whole problem 
 is summed up in her: she is at once the product and the 
 cause. We set the ball rolling, others keep it up, and it 
 runs back to bruise our own shins. I have nothing more
 
 254 Damaged Goods Act Til 
 
 to say. [He shakes hands with Loches as he conducts 
 him to the door, and adds in a lighter ione\ But if you 
 give a thought or two to what you have just seen when 
 you are sitting in the Chamber, we shall not have wasted 
 our time.
 
 MATERNITY 
 
 [New Version]
 
 A second version of Maternity was lately undertaken 
 by M. Brieux. It differs in so many respects from the 
 original one performed in England by the Stage Society, 
 that it has been decided to include both versions in this 
 volume. That which follows is the later one, and is pre- 
 sented by its author as the final form of the play.
 
 ACT I 
 
 Brignac's drawing-room. An octagonal room, five 
 sides of which are visible. Right, the door of Brignac's 
 study, and beyond it the mantelpiece, in front of which 
 are arm-chairs and a marquetry table with seats round 
 it. At the back the door of the bedroom, which, being 
 opened, shows the bed. Left, the door into the hall, then 
 that of Annette's room, and beyond, a large window with 
 a piano and music-stool in front of it. In the corners, 
 at the back, on both sides, flowers in stands. The room 
 is pretty and comfortable, withoiit being luxurious. At 
 the rise of the curtain the stage is empty. The door, left, 
 opens, and Josephine, the maid, shows in Madeleine, a 
 woman of twenty-eight. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. Madame Brignac must be there. I '11 tell 
 her. 
 
 She goes across to the door at the back and disap- 
 pears. After a moment Lucie enters. She is twenty- 
 five years old, and her simple, but becoming, dress con- 
 trasts zvith her elder sister's exquisite and fashionable 
 appearance. 
 
 LUCIE [going gaily to Madeleine and kissing her'] 
 My dear, how are you? 
 
 MADELEINE. Lucie, sweet ! 
 
 LUCIE. How ravishing you look ! 
 
 MADELEINE. One must, to please one's husband. Tell 
 me but first, how are the children ? 
 
 LUCIE. About as usual. 
 
 257
 
 258 Maternity Act I 
 
 MADELEINE. I 've a piece of good news. You know 
 Dr. Hourtin? 
 
 LUCIE. No, no ; I don't think so. 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes; you do. The famous Hourtin, 
 you know. The man they call Providence for nervous 
 diseases. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, yes, yes. 
 
 MADELEINE. Dr. Bar wanted to have a consultation 
 with him about your children, did n't he? 
 
 LUCIE. Of course ; I know. 
 
 MADELEINE. I 've just met him at the Parmillets'. 
 
 LUCIE. What, he 's at Chartres ! 
 
 MADELEINE. He 's going to see his brother somewhere 
 or other not far off, and so he came through Chartres to 
 visit the wonderful cave. In the one week since they 
 found it he must be at least the twentieth man of science 
 to come and pore over these old prehistoric bones. 
 
 LUCIE. But I thought he was a specialist for 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes; the skeletons are just a relaxation. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh! Well- 
 
 MADELEINE. He 's a great friend of the Parmillets. 
 So, as I had the chance, I asked him to come here, and he 
 said he would. 
 
 LUCIE. But the children are with their granny in the 
 country. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, dear ! Could n't you send for 
 them? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, certainly. But when is Dr. Hourtin 
 going? 
 
 MADELEINE. At five o'clock. He wanted to go to his 
 brother first. 
 
 LUCIE. There 'd hardly be time. 
 
 MADELEINE. No. Suppose we were to ask him to 
 come this evening on his way back? 
 
 LUCIE. Do you think he would? 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, yes ; he 's a charming man.
 
 Act I Maternity 259 
 
 LUCIE. What a piece of luck ! If he could only cure 
 my poor babies ! 
 
 MADELEINE. They say he works wonders. And where 
 is our little Annette ? 
 
 LUCIE. Annette is with the Bernins. Tuesday is her 
 day for going there. 
 
 MADELEINE. And your husband ? 
 
 LUCIE. My husband? Why, he's at his meeting, of 
 course. 
 
 MADELEINE. What, is it this afternoon? 
 
 LUCIE. You naughty woman! Not even to know the 
 date of your brother-in-law's meeting ! 
 
 MADELEINE [making a face] No. To me, you know, 
 all these questions birth-rate, repopulation ugh ! 
 
 LUCIE. France has need of it. 
 
 MADELEINE. I suppose so. [A pause] How is it 
 you 're not at the meeting ? 
 
 LUCIE. It 's only for working-men. 
 
 MADELEINE. M. de Forgeau's constituents ? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes ; but some day they may be Julien's 
 constituents. 
 
 MADELEINE. How do you mean? 
 
 LUCIE. Listen ! It 's a secret, but I can't help telling 
 you. M. de Forgeau has promised Julien to get him 
 adopted by his committee at the election to the Chamber 
 two months from now. 
 
 MADELEINE. Do you find the idea of being wife of a 
 deputy fascinating? 
 
 LUCIE [laughing] He did n't ask my opinion. [Seri- 
 ously] It seems that if he were in the Chamber, Julien 
 might look forward to going very far. 
 
 MADELEINE. It was he who said that? 
 
 LUCIE. He, and M. de Forgeau. You know we 're 
 not rich. My husband's professional income would 
 hardly be enough to secure the future of our two little 
 girls, even if one were not, alas, an invalid.
 
 260 Maternity Act I 
 
 MADELEINE. Are n't you afraid that Julien may be 
 once again letting his imagination run away with him? 
 
 LUCIE [melancholy] What would be the good of my 
 trying to dissuade him? I must make myself try to 
 share his illusions for instance, in the success of his 
 meeting this afternoon. 
 
 MADELEINE. But what can he find to say to working- 
 men about all that? That they ought to have large 
 families ? 
 
 LUCIE. That 's it. 
 
 MADELEINE. Of course, I know nothing about it, but 
 I should think the best way to encourage them was not 
 to let the children they have already perish of want. 
 
 LUCIE. Just what I tell Julien. It 's the rich who 
 ought to have children. 
 
 MADELEINE. So I think. 
 
 LUCIE. You 're rich why have you only got one, 
 then? 
 
 MADELEINE. That 's another question. Don't let 's 
 talk about that. Talk of something cheery. 
 
 JOSEPHINE [entering] If you please, ma'am, Cathe- 
 rine is here. 
 
 LUCIE. Ask her to come in. [To Madeleine] It 's 
 ever so long since I 've seen nursie. 
 
 Josephine shows in Catherine, a working-woman of 
 forty, dressed simply and very neatly in a black cloak 
 and bonnet. 
 
 CATHERINE [to Lucie and Madeleine] Good-day, 
 ma'am. Good-day. 
 
 LUCIE and MADELEINE [shaking hands] How do you 
 do, Catherine? 
 
 CATHERINE. And your sister, ma'am, how's she? 
 
 LUCIE. Annette? Your darling 's very well. 
 
 CATHERINE. That 's good to hear. I thought I 'd just 
 look in to say good-day. 
 
 LUCIE. I 'm glad you came.
 
 Act I Maternity 261 
 
 CATHERINE. And to ask if you haven't any errands 
 for me in Paris. 
 
 MADELEINE [teasing her good humour edit)] Ah! So 
 Catherine 's off to Paris quite the lady ! 
 
 LUCIE. Shall you stay there long? 
 
 CATHERINE. Oh, no. I expect to be back to-morrow. 
 My big boy there is n't very well. So I 'm going to see 
 him, too. 
 
 MADELEINE [in order to say something} This early 
 heat, no doubt. 
 
 CATHERINE. May be. Then you have n't any errands 
 for me? 
 
 LUCIE and MADELEINE. No, no. No, thank you. 
 
 CATHERINE. You don't know what I 'm going for? 
 
 LUCIE. I have no idea. 
 
 CATHERINE. I 'm going to see my eldest girl. 
 
 MADELEINE. You know where she's living, then? 
 
 CATHERINE. Yes, I 've seen someone who met her. 
 
 LUCIE. And why did n't she write to you ? 
 
 CATHERINE. We 'd got angry with one another. 
 
 MADELEINE. Ah ! 
 
 CATHERINE. After she was turned off from the sewing- 
 place she could n't get any work. And what must she do 
 but want money from me? As if we had so much to 
 spare ! 
 
 LUCIE. What 's she doing now ? 
 
 CATHERINE. She 's in work again. It seems she 's 
 got a good place. 
 
 LUCIE. Come and tell us about her, won't you? 
 
 CATHERINE. Yes, indeed I will. 
 
 MADELEINE. And when you 're my way come in to 
 see me, too. I '11 have a little packet of things for your 
 youngsters. 
 
 CATHERINE. Ah, there it is! My husband won't let 
 me take anything more from you or Mme. Brignac. 
 
 LUCIE. Why ?
 
 262 Maternity Act I 
 
 CATHERINE. Because of his politics. He says he 's 
 not going to vote for M. Brignac, so he does n't want to 
 owe him anything. 
 
 MADELEINE. But why not from me? I don't ask him 
 to vote for me ! 
 
 CATHERINE. That 's all one. You see, when you 're 
 in want, it turns a body sulky. 
 
 LUCIE. In want? He's still at the electric works, 
 is n't he ? He makes a good living. 
 
 CATHERINE. So he does. If there were just the two 
 of us, we 'd live like lords. But it 's the little ones, 
 that 's what it is : there are too many of us. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, come, come, Catherine ! 
 
 CATHERINE. Well, ma'am, I ask you. We don't go 
 spending our money at the theatre 
 
 Brignac enters. He is a dark, good-looking fellow of 
 five-and-thirty, rather stout, with a strong, vibrating 
 voice, and a southern accent. 
 
 BRIGNAC [to Josephine] And bring me the biscuits 
 and the bottle I told you to bring up this morning. The 
 one with the green seal. 
 
 JOSEPHINE. Yes, sir. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Aha, Lucie ! A kiss, quick ! Congratulate 
 me! 
 
 LUCIE. It went well? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Splendidly. How are you, Madeleine? 
 Immensely! Ah, Catherine, it's you? How are you? 
 
 CATHERINE. I was just going, sir. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I did n't see your husband at the meeting. 
 
 CATHERINE. He was n't there, sir. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Ah, yes, yes. A regular fire-eater now, 
 is n't he ? Well, I hope his Socialism is profitable. 
 
 CATHERINE. Well, we might 
 
 BRIGNAC. Get along better? I thought so. [In a 
 changed tone] Ah, Catherine, I used to know you and 
 your family when your husband went more to church
 
 Act I Maternity 263 
 
 than to his club. You had faith then to help you bear up 
 against your troubles ! You put your trust in Provi- 
 dence ! Yes, you brought up your children according 
 to the Scriptures : " Consider the lilies of the field, how 
 they grow. They toil not, neither do they spin, and yet 
 I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was 
 not arrayed like one of these." 
 
 MADELEINE [shrugging her shoulders. Low] Don't, 
 Julien. 
 
 CATHERINE. Good-bye, ma'am. Good-bye, sir. [She 
 goes out~\. 
 
 BRIGNAC [to Madeleine] What is it? 
 
 MADELEINE. You should have more tact. 
 
 LUCIE [interposing] Come now, don't quarrel, you 
 two. [To Madeleine] You 're not to get cross again. 
 Tell us about your meeting. 
 
 BRIGNAC. First, just to get back my strength! [He 
 drinks a glass of the wine that Josephine has brought]. 
 My meeting? Well, it was a huge success. On the 
 battlefield Napoleon used to say : " One night of Paris 
 will make up for all this." If he lived now, he'd say: 
 " One night of Paris after an address from Brignac ! " 
 I tell you, I did magnificently. And the audience was 
 by no means only my friends. I know that, because 
 when I said when I was inspired to say " God 
 blesses large families " 
 
 MADELEINE. Someone answered: "But he doesn't 
 support them." 
 
 BRIGNAC. Were you there? 
 
 MADELEINE. No, but the retort is so well known that 
 nowadays people don't allude to blessings from above. 
 There 's too much suffering here below. It looks like a 
 bad joke. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Ah, that spirit of Voltaire ! [He pours out 
 another glass of wine]. 
 
 LUCIE. Don't you think you've had enough, dear?
 
 264 Maternity Act I 
 
 BRIGNAC [holding up the glass] What, of this wine? 
 From a vineyard that my father planted? 
 
 LUCIE. That makes no difference. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Have you ever seen me drunk? 
 
 LUCIE. No. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Well, then! [He drinks] Ah! Pure 
 sunshine! It brightens my heart to drink it! M. de 
 Forgeau was enchanted. Have you told Madeleine that 
 I 'm going to stand? 
 
 LUCIE. Everyone knows about it. 
 
 BRIGNAC. So much the better. After to-day, I have 
 reason to think that there 's every chance of my being 
 elected. At last, we '11 have done with this narrow life 
 of a provincial lawyer ! You '11 see ! And who knows 
 between ourselves, of course who knows that some 
 day I shan't have men on the bench coming to beg favors 
 of the Minister that they used to refuse to the simple 
 lawyer! Aha, and why not? Stranger things have hap- 
 pened. [Walking about and rubbing his hands] Ah, 
 there '11 be some who '11 cut a queer figure then. [He 
 pulls himself up] Well, well. In the meantime the 
 essential thing is the deputation. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 BRIGNAC. We 're working at it. And what could be 
 finer than to advance one's own interest^ in the very act 
 of defending one's country? That is the best defence 
 of it, to help in the production of the human race itself, 
 for it means true morality within and the respect of 
 other countries from without. 
 
 MADELEINE. You did n't forget that in your speech, 
 I hope? 
 
 BRIGNAC [simply] No, no; that was part of my 
 peroration. All Frenchmen ought to do like old Fechain. 
 
 LUCIE. Who 's he? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Old Fechain he was one of the audience. 
 You '11 see him presently. He came to shake hands with
 
 Act I Maternity 265 
 
 me after the meeting. He has twelve children mag- 
 nificent! Magnificent! I repeat. I told him to coine 
 round here. 
 
 MADELEINE. What for? 
 
 BRIGNAC. I don't know, he was so worked up, I 
 wanted to show him a mark of my sympathy. He '11 tell 
 you how it went off; you don't believe me, Madeleine? 
 
 MADELEINE. Indeed I do. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I saw you smiling. Yes, he '11 tell you. 
 [Josephine brings a card in] Dr. Hourtin? I know 
 that name. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, yes, I forgot. It 's Dr. Hourtin, the pro- 
 fessor at Paris. 
 
 MADELEINE. I '11 see him, and explain. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, do. [Madeleine goes out] It 's the doctor 
 we wanted to consult about the children, you know. He 
 happens to be at Chartres, and Madeleine met him at 
 some friends. 
 
 Madeleine returns with Dr. Hourtin. He is a man of 
 thirty-five, with short hair and a pointed beard. 
 
 HOURTIN [to Madeleine, as they come in] No apol- 
 ogy is needed. 
 
 MADELEINE [introducing him] My sister, Madame 
 Brignac ; Monsieur Brignac. Professor Hourtin. [Greet- 
 ings]. 
 
 HOURTIN. I hear that your babies are in the country. 
 If you like, I could come in to see them to-morrow on 
 my way back. But only after dinner, I fear my train 
 gets in late. 
 
 LUCIE. Of course ! We shall be extremely grateful. 
 
 MADELEINE [to Lucie] I shall arrange to come as 
 soon as possible to hear what the doctor says. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Sit down, won't you ? I 'm really delighted. 
 [Ringing] Let me offer you a biscuit and a glass of 
 Alicante. 
 
 HOURTIN. No, thank you.
 
 266 Maternity Act I 
 
 BRIGNAC [speaking first in an undertone to Josephine, 
 who answers the bell] Just for the sake of company ! 
 And so, here you are at Chartres a stroke of luck for 
 the town and for us. 
 
 HOURTIN. I was going to see my brother at Chateau- 
 dun and thought that I would visit the town on the way. 
 
 BRIGNAC. And see our famous cave these pre- 
 historic remains ? 
 
 HOURTIN. Anthropology interests me. 
 
 BRIGNAC. A thoroughly genuine discovery, too. 
 
 HOURTIN. Oh, yes, there is no doubt. 
 
 LUCIE. I saw a photograph of some of the remains. 
 It was horrible. 
 
 HOURTIN. Don't say that! 
 
 LUCIE. I dreamed of it all night. Were they really 
 human beings? 
 
 HOURTIN. The remains are undoubtedly those of a 
 household of the stone age. The man's skeleton is intact, 
 the woman's skull is fractured. 
 
 LUCIE. Poor woman! By a falling rock? 
 
 HOURTIN. Oh, no. The human fist of that date was 
 well able to give such a blow. 
 
 BRIGNAC. In fact, a little domestic difference? 
 
 HOURTIN [laughing] I can't diagnose at such an in- 
 terval. But it is easy to imagine the man trying to drag 
 the woman into his den. She refuses. He raises his 
 fist a blow to stun her, only he hits rather too hard. 
 
 LUCIE. How terrible ! 
 
 HOURTIN. Those were the manners of our ancestor, 
 the cave man. 
 
 BRIGNAC. The world has changed. 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes. Since the cave man hypocrisy has 
 been invented. 
 
 HOURTIN. And we can imagine further. A rival 
 springs on the ravisher, strangles him, and leaves the 
 two corpses in the midst of the flint weapons and the 
 kitchen utensils of polished stone.
 
 Act I Maternity 267 
 
 LUCIE. It 's enough to give one a nightmare. 
 
 HOURTIN [rising, to Lucie] Forgive me. [To Brig- 
 nac] I should have begun instead of ended by congratu- 
 lating you on the success of your meeting. 
 
 Josephine enters with a bottle and glasses on a tray. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You must not go without drinking to it, 
 then. Aha, I 'm not from Chartres ! Montpellier is my 
 native town ; close by Montpellier, at least. Palavas 
 Palavas-les-Flots. In my part of the country an honest 
 man is n't afraid of a glass of wine. Alicante, you know ! 
 
 HOURTIN. No, thank you, really. 
 
 BRIGNAC [filling his glass] I see. You 're afraid 
 that my Alicante comes from the grocer's ? No, no ! My 
 dear sir, I am the son of a wine grower and I can answer 
 for my cellar, I assure you. 
 
 HOURTIN. I only drink water. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Ah! You belong to that school of doctors 
 to whom wine is anathema. Let me tell you you 're ruin- 
 ing at one stroke the stomach of the north and the purse 
 of the south. Pessimists, that 's what you are. It 's 
 nothing short of treason to slander the good wine of 
 France. Here 's to your health, and to mine, and to 
 France! [He drinks], 
 
 HOURTIN [laughing] Allow me to point out that it 's 
 Spanish wine you are drinking. 
 
 BRIGNAC [laughing too] Yes; but I only drink this 
 in a small glass. Look here, I '11 prove to you that 
 you 're wrong. My father you see, I don't need to go 
 far died at seventy-five, as strong as an oak. He kept 
 his vines and his vines kept him. I can promise you he 
 did n't only drink water. I don't say that now and then 
 market day and so on he did n't get a bit lively, 
 a bit too lively, perhaps. Well, did he suffer for it? On 
 the contrary, it gave him strength to support life and 
 made him charitable to other people's little failings. A 
 good glass of wine never hurt anybody there 's my
 
 268 Maternity Act I 
 
 witness you see and my dear father did n't drink by the 
 thimbleful, I can tell you. But nowadays you think you 
 see drunkards everywhere. 
 
 HOURTIN. With good reason. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Well, take me! Do I look healthy? Fit? 
 
 HOURTIN. I don't judge people by their looks. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Well, then, I am fit. Ask my wife if I 've 
 ever been ill ? That 's the result of following my father's 
 example. Never once ill at thirty-five. Only, only 
 mark my words I drink nothing but good wine. You 
 must admit I 'm right, for I 've never been I won't say 
 drunk, but even ordinarily elevated. No, never ! Is n't 
 that so, Lucie? I '11 hold my own with anyone. I 've 
 often won bets about it. 
 
 LUCIE. But you know you sometimes have fits of 
 passion. 
 
 BRIGNAC. That has nothing to do with it. That 's 
 my temperament. I 'm built nervously. 
 
 HOURTIN. Never having been drunk proves nothing. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Oh, come! 
 
 HOURTIN. No. There are a large number of men 
 who drink, perhaps, a glass of vermouth before lunch, a 
 bottle of wine at lunch, and two or three glasses of 
 liqueur after. The same at dinner, after an absinthe and 
 a glass or two of beer in the afternoon. They would be 
 much astonished to learn that they are thoroughly 
 alcoholized. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Well, I do all that, and I 'm as well as can 
 be. What is more, as a baby I was very delicate. I 
 could n't walk till I was eighteen months old or talk 
 before two years. And I 'm from the South. Ha, ha ! 
 You '11 say I 'm making up for lost time ? 
 
 HOURTIN [laughing] I shan't try to convince you. 
 Time will do that. 
 
 BRIGNAC [glass in hand \ In one way I 'm of your 
 mind. I firmly believe that drink is a social evil, and I
 
 Act I Maternity 269 
 
 fight against it. For poor people, who are underfed and 
 drink adulterated stuff. That 's different. There you 're 
 right. But alcohol is only bad on an empty stomach. 
 
 HOURTIN. Poor empty stomachs. But why don't you 
 preach sobriety to them, instead of inciting them to have 
 children ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Don't you approve of that? 
 
 HOURTIN. My own opinion is that the poor and the 
 sick have too many children and the rich not enough. 
 
 BRIGNAC. But [To Josep hine, who enters] What 
 is it? 
 
 HOURTIN. Then I '11 be going. [To Lucie~\ Till to- 
 morrow. 
 
 BRIGNAC [to Josephine] Show him in. [To Hourtin] 
 Wait a moment five minutes two minutes only. I '11 
 show you a workman who has twelve children. Let 's see 
 what you say to that. [To Fechain] Come in, my 
 friend, come in. 
 
 Enter Fechain, a man of fifty, dressed in a workman's 
 Sunday clothes. Where he stands on coming in he is 
 unable to see Hourtin. 
 
 FECHAIN. Good-day, ladies and gentlemen. 
 
 LUCIE [to Madeleine] What a gay old thing! 
 
 MADELEINE. Ha, ha ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. I am glad to see you here in my house and 
 in the midst of my family, and I congratulate you as a 
 living example of the fulfilment of duty. Give me your 
 hand. 
 
 FECHAIN. Here you are, sir. [They shake hands]. 
 
 BRIGNAC. What 's your name ? 
 
 FECHAIN. Fechain. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Do you live at Chartres? 
 
 FECHAIN. Yes, sir, close by, in the valley. 
 
 BRIGNAC. What are you by trade? 
 
 FECHAIN. I do a job here and a job there. 
 
 BRIGNAC. And you have twelve children?
 
 270 Maternity Act I 
 
 FECHAIN. The thirteenth coming, too. 
 
 BRIGNAC. What! My best congratulations. 
 
 MADELEINE. Your wife might have some of the con- 
 gratulations as well. 
 
 FECHAIN. Thank you, ma'am. I '11 tell her what you 
 say. 
 
 MADELEINE. Is she in good health? 
 
 FECHAIN. Perfect. 
 
 BRIGNAC. That 's fine. You 're a grand fellow, a real 
 example of public virtue. 
 
 FECHAIN. It 's just the way I 'm made, so I can't 
 help it. [Laughing with stupid vanity] Aha, if only 
 everyone were like you or me! The way you talked, 
 you know ! Why number thirteen had to be on the way 
 after that. How many have you? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Two. 
 
 FECHAIN [making a face] What! what! Oh, you 
 must make up for lost time. 
 
 MADELEINE [to Lucie, low] Nasty old beast ! 
 
 BRIGNAC [a little awkwardly] There, splendid! 
 You 're the right sort. Come and see me again some 
 day. If you want a recommendation [He takes him 
 to the door]. 
 
 FECHAIN. Thank you kindly. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Good-bye. 
 
 FECHAIN. If I might make so bold, sir, could you lend 
 me twenty-eight francs ? I 'm a bit behind with my rent. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I '11 lay your request before the town au- 
 thority and second it warmly, I promise you. 
 
 MADELEINE. But perhaps he 's in need of it at once. 
 [To Fechain] Give me your address and I '11 bring you 
 the money. I shall be glad to pay my respects to that 
 fine wife of yours. 
 
 FECHAIN. Oh, ma'am ; but you 'd be likely to miss, 
 her. She 's often out of the house. 
 
 MADELEINE. That does n't matter. I shall see the 
 children, anyway. Where do you live?
 
 Act I Maternity 271 
 
 FECHAIN. You 're very kind, but I should n't like a 
 lady like you to come to our sort of place. My land- 
 lord '11 wait so long as he knows that M. Brignac is going 
 to help me. Thank you all the same. 
 
 HOURTIN [to Brignac] Let me say a word to this 
 fellow. I feel sure I Ve seen him somewhere. [Brignac 
 nods. To Fechain] Pardon me 
 
 FECHAIN [starting] Oh ! Good-day, doctor. 
 
 HOURTIN. Ah, I thought so ! I was sure I knew you. 
 You were working at the hospital once? 
 
 FECHAIN. Yes, sir. 
 
 HOURTIN. Quite so. No; you do not live at Chartres. 
 
 FECHAIN [after a silence] No, sir. I live at Paris. 
 Only when I see there 's to be a meeting like this not 
 far away, I go to it. I 'm a poor man, and then 
 
 HOURTIN. Then you get a loan from the chairman? 
 
 FECHAIN. If I can. Sometimes I 'm asked to dinner. 
 
 HOURTIN. Is it true you have twelve children? 
 
 FECHAIN [smiling] That? Oh, yes; I've got the 
 proofs. [He takes some papers from his pocket] Here 
 are their birth certificates, all twelve. I always have 
 them about me never go without them so as I can 
 show them. You can count them. 
 
 HOURTIN [taking the papers] Do all your children 
 live with you? 
 
 FECHAIN. Oh, no. Why there are n't more than seven 
 left. 
 
 HOURTIN. The others are dead? 
 
 FECHAIN. Poor folks can't hope to keep all they have. 
 
 HOURTIN. When you had had five, you must have seen 
 that you could n't support them ? 
 
 FECHAIN. Of course. 
 
 HOURTIN. And you had more all the same? 
 
 FECHAIN. We could n't have been worse off than we 
 were. One more or less makes no odds ; and then, after 
 seven, things are easier.
 
 272 Maternity Act I 
 
 HOURTIN. How 's that ? 
 
 FECHAIN. This way. If you have three or four chil- 
 dren, no one bothers about you, you 're like everyone 
 else; but with seven or eight, then they have to help 
 you. Relief charities, or the authorities, or just people, 
 that 's all one. They dare n't say no. If you have ten, 
 then, it 's first class. Only you must n't mind moving. 
 But there, there 's nothing to be had for nothing, is 
 there ? 
 
 HOURTIN. How many of your children are living 
 with you ? 
 
 FECHAIN. Two. 
 
 HOURTIN. And the other five? 
 
 FECHAIN. The two girls are big enough to do for 
 themselves. The other three are in hospital. [ A 
 silence]. 
 
 HOURTIN [looking at the papers] All your children 
 are not of the same mother, I see. 
 
 FECHAIN. No ; I 've been a widower twice. Oh, yes ; 
 I 've had my troubles. This is my third. It 's her 
 fourth she 's expecting. 
 
 MADELEINE [after a pause, to Lucie] A man like that 
 ought to be shut up. 
 
 HOURTIN [giving him back the papers] Thank you. 
 
 FECHAIN. Good-day, sir. Good-day, ladies. [To 
 Brignac] You couldn't just let me have the money for 
 the railway and my ticket to the meeting? It's only 
 just a trifle. 
 
 HOURTIN [giving him some money] There! 
 
 FECHAIN. Thank you kindly, sir. [He goes out]. 
 
 HOURTIN [taking leave] You see! Children who 
 cannot be kept ought not to be born. And I would add 
 that those who are born ought to be properly kept. 
 
 BRIGNAC. A pretext that would justify the shirking 
 of all duty. It 's impossible to see ahead like that. 
 
 HOURTIN. You don't ask more people to dinner than
 
 Act I Maternity 273 
 
 you have room for, nor before dinner is ready. It will 
 be time to think of increasing our population when our 
 housing and means of livelihood are up to the mark of 
 our existing needs. 
 
 BRIGNAC. But each new generation is itself a means 
 of production. 
 
 HOURTIN. Certainly. I only ask that the poor should 
 have few children and the degenerate none. No child 
 ought to be brought into the world handicapped by ill- 
 ness or want. 
 
 BRIGNAC. And as the result of your precautions our 
 country would fall in point of population to a fifth or a 
 tenth rate power. 
 
 HOURTIN [at the door] History teaches us that not 
 even military supremacy belongs to the largest nations. 
 M. de Marigny's reflection, not mine. [Bowing to the 
 ladies'] Till to-morrow. [Shaking Brignac's hand] And 
 when you have a moment, just consider how society be- 
 haves to the mothers of whom it demands children. 
 You'll find that an entertaining subject unless it 
 makes you cry. Good-bye. 
 
 LUCIE [showing him out] Then you will really come 
 to see my babies ? 
 
 HOURTIN. Most certainly. [Lucie goes out with 
 him], 
 
 MADELEINE. Well, my dear brother-in-law, what do 
 you say to that? 
 
 BRIGNAC [shrugging his shoulders] Oh, if I had 
 wanted to answer him 
 
 MADELEINE. Why didn't you? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Surely you can see that I was not going 
 to annoy a man whom we want to consult professionally. 
 [A pause. He looks at his watch. Lucie returns] Well, 
 five o'clock. I 'm off to the club for my game of domi- 
 noes. Ta, ta ! You dine here, Madeleine, of course ? 
 
 MADELEINE. No; I can't. We 've some official people
 
 274 Maternity Act I 
 
 to go to in the evening. But I '11 look in for news of 
 the chicks. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Very well. I '11 upset all Dr. Hourtin's 
 theories for you in five seconds. You wait and see. 
 
 MADELEINE. All right. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Good-bye. [He goes out]. 
 
 MADELEINE. Annette not back yet? 
 
 LUCIE. She won't be long now. 
 
 MADELEINE. Lucie, don't you think perhaps she goes 
 rather too often to the Bernins? 
 
 LUCIE. Gabrielle 's her best friend. 
 
 MADELEINE. Hm ! yes. 
 
 LUCIE. They 're both so keen on music. Besides, the 
 poor little dear does n't get too much fun. It 's dull for 
 her here. I can see she feels it, particularly lately. She 
 only brightens up when she goes to see Gabrielle. 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes; but that girl has a brother. 
 
 LUCIE. Jacques. 
 
 MADELEINE. Just so; Jacques. 
 
 LUCIE. Have you heard people talking about Annette 
 in connection with him? 
 
 MADELEINE. No. Well, then, yes; I have. Listen, 
 dear. We 're rather peculiarly placed, are n't we ? 
 Three orphan girls. I 'm married twice, though I 'm 
 only twenty-eight, and you 're married for the first 
 time. 
 
 LUCIE. And for the last, I should hope. 
 
 MADELEINE [laughing] Tut, tut! 
 
 LUCIE [laughing too] Monster! 
 
 MADELEINE. Then you took our youngest sister to 
 live with you. A perfect arrangement, so long as you 
 look after her as you would after your own girl, or as 
 mother would have done. 
 
 LUCIE. She 's eighteen. 
 
 MADELEINE. That's just it. 
 
 LUCIE. I don't see what danger there is for Annette.
 
 Act I Maternity 275 
 
 MADELEINE. Nor do I. But we 're not alone in the 
 world. As it is, people look astonished of course it 's 
 a silly little provincial place at her going out alone. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, to see Gabrielle, five minutes off ! 
 
 MADELEINE. I know, I know ! Tell me, do you think 
 that the Bernin boy would be a possible match for 
 Annette ? 
 
 LUCIE. I never thought about it. Well, why not? 
 
 MADELEINE. Hm ! hm ! 
 
 LUCIE. He 's about the right age. He seems to be 
 a good fellow. 
 
 MADELEINE. Oh, yes. 
 
 LUCIE. His family is well enough. 
 
 MADELEINE. And the money ? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes ; that 's true. The Bernins are rich and 
 Annette has nothing. Yes ; you 're right. She was 
 going to spend a week with them in the country. I '11 
 find an excuse for her not going. Perhaps I had better 
 say something to her about it. 
 
 MADELEINE. There 's no hurry; but we must see that 
 no harm happens to our little pet. 
 
 LUCIE. Good heavens ! I should never forgive myself. 
 
 Annette, fair, eighteen years old, runs in, overflowing 
 with joy. 
 
 ANNETTE. What luck ! Madeleine, too ! Here, Jo- 
 sephine ! [She throws her hat to Josephine, who drops 
 it on the floor] Oh, stupid ! [Recovering herself] All 
 right, there ! Don't be cross, Fifine. [She kisses Jo- 
 sephine and shoves her out]. 
 
 LUCIE. What's the matter? 
 
 MADELEINE. Why so radiant? 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes, I am ! I am ! Oh, I 'm so happy ! 
 
 LUCIE. Is that why you kissed Josephine? 
 
 ANNETTE. Josephine! Why, I could have kissed the 
 passers-by in the street! 
 
 MADELEINE [laughing] Our little girl 's gone cracked.
 
 276 Maternity Act I 
 
 ANNETTE. No, no ; only oh, I 'm so happy ! [She 
 bursts into a fit of sobbing]. 
 
 LUCIE. Annette, what's the matter? 
 
 MADELEINE. Annette ! 
 
 ANNETTE [through her tears] Oh, I am happy, 
 happy ! 
 
 LUCIE. She '11 make herself ill. Madeleine, call 
 someone. 
 
 ANNETTE. No, no; don't worry. Don't say any- 
 thing. It 's only my nerves. [Laughing and crying at 
 the same time] Oh, I am happy, only how silly to 
 cry like that! But I can't help it. [She puts her arm 
 round Lucie's neck, who is kneeling beside her, and 
 draws Madeleine's head towards her] Lucie, darling ! 
 Madeleine, dearest ! [She kisses them, then sobs again] 
 How silly ! It 's no good ; I must. There [she dries her 
 eyes], there! Now I can tell you. [With a pure look of 
 deeply felt happiness] I 'm going to be married. M. 
 and Madame Bernin are coming. 
 
 LUCIE. Why? 
 
 ANNETTE. Because they 're going to the country to- 
 morrow. 
 
 MADELEINE. They're going away? 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes; Jacques has told them. 
 
 LUCIE. Jacques ? 
 
 ANNETTE [in a sudden rush] Yes. It all happened 
 like that, with our music Gabrielle and me. That was 
 how, and he guessed everything. He sings tenor oh, 
 not very well. Once [with a laugh] but I '11 tell you 
 later. That was how it came about ; and we 're to be 
 married soon. [Crying again, then gravely pressing 
 Lucie to her] I love him so! Oh, if you only knew! 
 If he had n't married me, it would have been so dread- 
 ful! You don't understand? 
 
 MADELEINE [smiling] Perhaps we can guess. 
 
 ANNETTE. Shall I tell you everything, everything 
 from the beginning?
 
 Act I Maternity 277 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 ANNETTE. I should love to tell you. You won't mind ? 
 
 MADELEINE. Go on. 
 
 ANNETTE. It was like that, when Gabrielle and I 
 were playing duets. At first I hated him because he 
 always laughs at everything, but at bottom he 's good. 
 Do you know what he once 
 
 LUCIE. Never mind that. Go on about the music. 
 
 ANNETTE. Well, as I was saying, Gabrielle and I 
 used to play duets. He used to come and listen to us. 
 He stood behind and turned over the pages. Then once 
 he put his hand on my shoulder 
 
 MADELEINE. And you did n't say anything? 
 
 ANNETTE. He had his other hand on Gabrielle's. I 
 should have looked so idiotic. 
 
 LUCIE. Gabrielle 's not the same thing. 
 
 ANNETTE. Just what I was going to say. My heart 
 beat so hard and I felt my face all scarlet, that I hardly 
 knew what I was playing. Then another time, when he 
 could n't follow, he bent right over. Oh, but I can't tell 
 you everything, little by little. We love one another, 
 that 's all. 
 
 MADELEINE. And he has told you that he loves you? 
 
 ANNETTE [gravely] Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. And you kept all that from me ! That was n't 
 right, Annette. 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh, forgive me; but it came about so 
 gradually, I could hardly say when it began. I said to 
 myself that it could n't be true, and when when we 
 did tell one another what we had n't ever said, though 
 we knew it ourselves, then I knew I 'd done wrong, only 
 I was so ashamed that I could n't tell you about it. 
 
 LUCIE [gently] But it was wrong, my little pet. 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh, don't scold me ! Please, please, don't ! 
 If you knew how I 've been feeling oh, how dreadfully 
 badly ! You did n't notice.
 
 278 Maternity Act I 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, I did. 
 
 MADELEINE. Has he spoken to his parents? 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh, a long time ago. 
 
 LUCIE. They consent? 
 
 ANNETTE. They 're coining here this afternoon. 
 
 MADELEINE. Why didn't they come sooner? 
 
 ANNETTE. Because Jacques told them you see ; but 
 they did n't want it talked about. They wanted Ga- 
 brielle to get married first. So we agreed that I should 
 seem not to think they knew anything about it. Then 
 to-day I met Jacques in the street 
 
 LUCIE. In the street! 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes. He 's given up coming to the music, 
 so I meet him 
 
 LUCIE. In the street! 
 
 ANNETTE. As a rule, we only bow to each other; but 
 to-day, as he passed me he said: " My parents are going 
 to your sister's to-day." He was quite pale. Don't scold 
 me, please ! I 'm so happy ! Do forgive me ! 
 
 MADELEINE [to Lucie, who looks silently at Annette] 
 Come, forgive her. 
 
 LUCIE [kissing her] Oh, yes, I forgive her. So you 
 want to leave us, bad girl? 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes. I am bad and ungrateful, I know. 
 
 LUCIE. Hush, hush! Nonsense! 
 
 MADELEINE. Marriage is a serious thing, Annette. 
 Are you sure that your characters agree together? 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh, yes, yes ! Why, we 've quarrelled 
 already ! 
 
 LUCIE. What about? 
 
 ANNETTE. About a book he lent me. 
 
 MADELEINE. What book? 
 
 ANNETTE. Anna Karenina. He liked Vronsky better 
 than Levine. He said such silly things. And he could n't 
 understand Anna Karenina killing herself you know 
 when she throws herself underneath the train that 
 he 's in. You remember, don't you ?
 
 Act I Maternity 279 
 
 LUCIE. And then? 
 
 ANNETTE. Then there 's the bell. Perhaps it 's 
 them. 
 
 A pause. Josephine enters with a card. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 ANNETTE. Oh, heavens ! 
 
 LUCIE. Madeleine, take Annette. Go through her 
 room. 
 
 MADELEINE. All right. 
 
 LUCIE [to Josephine] Show Madame Bernin in. 
 
 ANNETTE [to Lucie] Don't be long. 
 
 Annette goes out with Madeleine. Lucie arranges her- 
 self before a glass. Josephine shows in Madame Bernin. 
 
 LUCIE. How do you do? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. How are you? 
 
 LUCIE. Very well, thank you. And you? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. I need not ask news of M. Brignac. 
 I know he is busy fighting the good fight. 
 
 LUCIE. And M. Bernin? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. He 's very well, thanks. I hope your 
 children 
 
 LUCIE. About the same. But won't you sit down? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Thank you. What lovely weather! 
 
 LUCIE. Yes; is n't it? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. I hear there was a large audience at 
 M. Brignac's meeting. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, indeed. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. In spite of the heat. 
 
 LUCIE. You are happy to be able to go to the country. 
 Annette was so delighted to get your kind invitation. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. That was precisely my object in call- 
 ing here to-day apart from the pleasure of seeing you 
 to talk about that plan of ours. 
 
 LUCIE. And about another one, I think? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Another? 
 
 LUCIE. No?
 
 280 Maternity Act I 
 
 MME. BERNIN. No; I don't know what you are re- 
 ferring to. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, I beg your pardon, then. Please go on. 
 About Annette? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. My daughter has had an invitation to 
 join our cousins, the Guibals, for some time, and we ab- 
 solutely cannot refuse to send Gabrielle to them. So 
 I came to ask you to excuse us, as Gabrielle will not be 
 there. 
 
 LUCIE. Will you forgive me for being indiscreet? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. I am sure you could n't be. 
 
 LUCIE. I wanted to ask you, is it long since Gabrielle 
 received this invitation? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. About a week. 
 
 LUCIE. Indeed ! 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Why should that surprise you? 
 
 LUCIE. She said nothing about it to Annette. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. She was probably afraid of disap- 
 pointing her. 
 
 LUCIE. Only yesterday Annette was telling me of all 
 the excursions that your daughter had planned to make 
 with her. Please, please, tell me the truth ! This invi- 
 tation is merely an excuse; I feel convinced it is. Please 
 tell me! Annette is only my sister, but I love her as 
 though she were my child. Think it 's her mother who 
 is speaking to you. I won't try to be clever. I 'm not 
 going to stand on my dignity. This is what has hap- 
 pened. Annette believes that your son loves her, and 
 when your card was brought in she imagined that you 
 had come to ask her for him. Now you know every- 
 thing that I know, and I beg you to talk as candidly to 
 me, so that we may avoid as much unhappiness as 
 possible. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. You have spoken to me so simply and 
 feelingly that I can't help answering openly from the 
 bottom of my heart. Yes, then, this invitation to Ga-
 
 Act I Maternity 281 
 
 brielle is only an excuse. We have invented it to prevent 
 Jacques and Annette from meeting again. 
 
 LUCIE. You don't want them to meet again? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. No; because I don't want them to 
 marry. 
 
 LUCIE. Because Annette is poor? 
 
 MME. BERNIN [hesitates, then] Well, since we have 
 agreed to be perfectly candid, that is the reason. 
 
 LUCIE. You would not consent to the idea of their 
 marrying? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. No. 
 
 LUCIE. Is that absolutely final? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Absolutely final. 
 
 LUCIE. Because Annette has no dowry? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. But your son knew that she was poor. It 's 
 monstrous of him to have made her love him. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. If he had acted as you describe, I 
 admit it would be monstrous. But he had no intention 
 of engaging her affections. Annette was a friend of his 
 sister's. I am sure he had no idea in meeting her beyond 
 that of simple good comradeship. Very likely he went 
 on to pay her some attention; indeed he might well have 
 been attracted by her. Your sweet little Annette, who is 
 the most innocent of creatures, has fallen more easily 
 and more deeply, perhaps, in love. Innocence like hers 
 is closely akin to ignorance. But that my son has more 
 to reproach himself with! You can easily see that he 
 has not, because it was he who told me about it himself. 
 
 LUCIE. How long ago? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Just now. He told me that he was in 
 love with Annette, as she, no doubt, thinks herself with 
 him ; and, in fact, he begged me to come and ask for her 
 hand. 
 
 LUCIE. Only to-day? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. A couple of hours since.
 
 282 Maternity Act I 
 
 LUCIE. Annette implored him to tell you. He said he 
 had already done so and that you had given your consent. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Never! 
 
 LUCIE. A month ago. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Until to-day he never said anything 
 to me. 
 
 LUCIE. Annette told me so herself! 
 
 MME. BERNIN. He never said anything to me. 
 
 LUCIE. Do you mean that she lied? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. He never said anything to me. 
 
 LUCIE. Do you think her truthful? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. Candid, honest? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. Well, then? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Well, it is possible that he did not 
 tell her the truth. After all, he 's a man. 
 
 LUCIE. And in love, men have the right to lie? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. They think so. 
 
 LUCIE.. And when you told him to give up Annette, he 
 agreed ? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Yes, he did. He is a sensible, practi- 
 cal fellow, and he could not help seeing the force of what 
 I said. He realizes that however hard it may be for 
 him to break with Annette, it is necessary. I need 
 hardly say he feels it keenly, but at these children's age 
 feelings change. 
 
 LUCIE. I see. A week hence your son won't think 
 of her. But she? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. She will forget him, too. 
 
 LUCIE. I don't know about that. Oh, my poor dar- 
 ling! If you could have seen her here just now when 
 she came to tell us! She cried with joy! It's not for 
 joy that she'll cry now. Oh, my God! [She breaks 
 into tears]. 
 
 MME. BERNIN [moved] Oh, don't! Please, please!
 
 Act I Maternity 283 
 
 I understand your grief; indeed I do. Ah, if it were 
 possible, how happy it would make me for Annette to 
 marry my boy. I tell you I have had to stop myself 
 from loving her. What a contrast to the girl he will 
 have to marry tiresome, affected creature ! 
 
 LUCIE. If what you say is true, are n't you rich 
 enough to let your son marry a poor girl? 
 
 MME. BERNIN. No; we are not so well off as people 
 suppose. And then we must give Gabrielle a dowry. 
 
 LUCIE. You '11 find her a husband who will want her 
 for herself. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Even if we did, which I doubt, I 
 would not desire a man like that for her, because he would 
 be blind to the realities of the situation. Gabrielle has 
 not been brought up to poverty, but to a life of luxurious 
 surroundings. 
 
 LUCIE. Give your children an equal amount, then. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. All that we can give Gabrielle will not 
 be too much. Life is hard, and becomes a harder struggle 
 every day. Young men tend to ask more with their 
 wives, because they know the power of money in the keen 
 competition of modern existence. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, yes; they know it! Their creed is to 
 have enjoyment as soon as possible, without making 
 the least sacrifice for it, and a fig for gentleness or 
 emotion ! 
 
 MME. BERNIN. You may be right. I want Gabri- 
 elle to be rich because riches will attract more bidders 
 for her hand, so that she will have more choice. 
 
 LUCIE. You have to speak of it even like a business 
 transaction. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Consequently there will be little 
 or nothing for Jacques. 
 
 LUCIE. People who have no money work. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. He has not been brought up to 
 work.
 
 284 Maternity Act I 
 
 LUCIE. Then he ought to have been. 
 
 MME. BEUNIN. The professions are already over- 
 stocked. Do you propose that he should become a 
 clerk at two hundred francs a month? He and his 
 wife would n't be able to keep a servant. 
 
 LUCIE. There are clerks who get more than that. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. Even if he got five hundred, would 
 that enable him to keep up his social position? Of 
 course it would not. He would owe his inferiority to 
 his wife, and would soon begin to reproach her with 
 it. And have you thought about their children? They 
 would have just enough to send their son to the prim- 
 ary school and make their daughter a post office clerk. 
 Even for that they would be terribly pinched. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. You see I 'm right. I can't say I 'm 
 proud to confess so much, but what are we to do? Life 
 is ordered by things as they are, not like a novel. We 
 live in a shrewd, vain, selfish world. 
 
 LUCIE. You despise it and yet sacrifice everything 
 to it. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. I know that everybody's happiness 
 practically depends on the consideration he has in it. 
 Only exceptional people can disregard social conven- 
 tions, and Jacques is not an exception. 
 
 LUCIE. If I were you, I don't think I should be 
 proud of it. If he were a little more than common- 
 place, his love would give him strength to stand up 
 against the jeers of the crowd. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. His love! Love passes, poverty 
 stays; you know the proverb. Beauty fades; want 
 grows. 
 
 LUCIE. But you yourself you and your husband 
 are the living proof that one can marry poor and 
 make money ! Everyone knows how your husband 
 began as a small clerk, then started in a small busi-
 
 Act I Maternity 285 
 
 ness of his own, then won success. If that spells hap- 
 piness, you and he must be happy. 
 
 MME. BERNIN. No; we have not been happy, be- 
 cause we have used ourselves up with hunting for hap- 
 piness. We meant to " get there " ; we have " got 
 there," but at what a price! Oh, I know the road to 
 fortune. At first miserable, sordid economy, passion- 
 ate greed; then the fierce struggle of trickery and 
 deceit, always flattering your customers, always living 
 in terror of failure. Tears, lies, envy, contempt. 
 Suffering for yourself and for everyone round you. 
 I 've been through it, and a bitter experience it was. 
 We 're determined that our children shan't. Our chil- 
 dren! We have had only two, but we meant to have 
 only one. That extra one meant double toil and hard- 
 ship. Instead of being a husband and wife helping 
 one another, we have been two business partners, watch- 
 ing each other like enemies, perpetually quarrelling, 
 even on our pillow, over our expenditures or our mis- 
 takes. Finally we succeeded; and now we can't enjoy 
 our wealth because we don't know how to use it, and 
 because our later years are poisoned by memories of 
 the hateful past of suffering and rancor. No; I shall 
 never expose my children to that struggle. I only 
 stood it to preserve them from it. Good-bye. 
 
 LUCIE. Good-bye. 
 
 Madame Bernin goes out. After a moment Lucie 
 goes slowly to Annette's door and opens it. 
 
 ANNETTE [coming in] You 've been crying ! It 's 
 because I 'm going away, is n't it ? There 's nothing 
 to prevent us, is there? [With rising emotion] Lucie, 
 tell me there 's nothing ! 
 
 LUCIE. You love him so much? 
 
 ANNETTE. If we were not to be married, I should 
 die. 
 
 LUCIE. No ; you would n't. Have all the little girls 
 who said that died?
 
 286 Maternity Act I 
 
 ANNETTE. But there is nothing to prevent us, is 
 there ? 
 
 LUCIE. No, no ! 
 
 ANNETTE. And when is it to be? Did you talk of 
 that? 
 
 LUCIE. My dear, my dear, what a state you 're in ! 
 You really must be less nervous. 
 
 ANNETTE [restraining herself] Yes, sweet, yes; 
 I 'm a little crazy. 
 
 LUCIE. I think you are. 
 
 ANNETTE. Tell me, then, everything! How did she 
 begin ? 
 
 LUCIE. Are you in such a hurry to leave me? You 
 don't love me any more? 
 
 ANNETTE [gravely] Oh, if I hadn't got you, what 
 would become of me? [A silence] But you're not 
 telling me anything. There must be something. You 're 
 keeping the truth from me. If there was n't something, 
 you 'd say there was n't you would n't try to put 
 me off you 'd tell me just what Madame Bernin said. 
 
 LUCIE. Well, then, there is something. 
 
 ANNETTE [breaking into tears] Oh, heavens! 
 
 LUCIE. You 're both very young. You must wait. A 
 year, perhaps longer. 
 
 ANNETTE [crying] Wait ! A year ! 
 
 LUCIE. Come, come, you must not be so uncontrolled, 
 Annette. You '11 make me displeased with you. Why, 
 you are barely nineteen. If you wait to be married till 
 you are twenty, there '11 be no great harm. 
 
 ANNETTE. It is n't possible. 
 
 LUCIE. Not possible? [ With a long look at her] 
 Annette, you frighten me ! If it were not you - [ With 
 tender gravity] I can't have been wrong to trust you? 
 
 ANNETTE. No, no! What can you be thinking of? 
 I promise you 
 
 LUCIE. What is it, then?
 
 Act I Maternity 287 
 
 ANNETTE. Well, I 've been foolish enough to tell 
 some of my friends that I was engaged. 
 
 LUCIE. Before telling me about it? 
 
 ANNETTE [confused] Don't ask me any more 
 questions. Please, please don't ! 
 
 LUCIE. Indeed, I must scold you. You deserve it. 
 You have hurt me very much by not letting me know 
 what was going on. I could never have believed that 
 you would keep me so in the dark, whoever had said it 
 of you. I thought you were too fond of me. I was 
 wrong. We see each other every day, all the time, 
 and you could still hide from me what was in your 
 heart. It was very, very wrong of you. Not only 
 because I am your elder sister, but because I am in 
 mother's place towards you. And then, if only that, 
 because I am your friend. A little more, and I should 
 have heard of your engagement from strangers. Well, 
 my dear, you 've made a bad choice, and now you '11 
 need all your courage. These people are n't worth your 
 tears. I 'm going to tell you everything. They don't 
 want you, my poor dear ; you 're too poor for them. 
 
 ANNETTE [staring] They don't want me! They 
 don't want me ! But he Jacques he knows they 
 don't? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes; he knows. 
 
 ANNETTE. He '11 do what they say, if they tell him 
 to give me up? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 ANNETTE [madly] I must see him! I'll write to 
 him ! I must see him ! If they don't want me, I 've 
 nothing but to kill myself! 
 
 LUCIE [forcing Annette to look at her] Look at 
 me, Annette ! [Silence. Then in the same grave, tender 
 voice] Have you not a secret to trust me with? 
 
 ANNETTE [disengaging herself] Don't ask me any- 
 thing [very low], or I shall die of shame at your feet.
 
 288 Maternity Act I 
 
 Lucie forces her to sit down at her side and takes her 
 in her arms. 
 
 LUCIE. Come, come here, in my arms. So! Put 
 your head on my shoulder, as you used when you were 
 tiny. Tell me, what is it? [Quite low] My sweet, 
 my little darling, are you terribly, terribly unhappy? 
 Speak out, from your heart, as you would to our poor 
 mother ! 
 
 ANNETTE [very low, in tears of shame'] Oh, mother, 
 if you knew what your little girl had done ! 
 
 LUCIE [almost nursing her] Tell me; whisper, quite 
 low, in my ear. [She rises and breaks loose, then hides 
 her face in her hands] Oh, you, Annette, you! 
 
 ANNETTE [on her knees, her arms stretched out] For- 
 give me ! Forgive me ! My dear one, forgive me ! Oh, 
 I deserve it all, everything you can say ; but, oh, I am 
 so unhappy ! 
 
 LUCIE. You, Annette, you! 
 
 ANNETTE. Forgive me ! Do you want me to be sorry 
 I did n't kill myself without telling you ? Forgive me ! 
 
 LUCIE [raising her] My dear, my dear! You've 
 suffered too much not to be forgiven.
 
 ACT II 
 
 The same scene. Evening. Electric Light. 
 
 LUCIE. Now you know. I sent for you as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 MADELEINE [who is in evening dress] There is only 
 one thing to do. Tell your husband everything and make 
 him go to the Bernins. 
 
 LUCIE. My God! 
 
 MADELEINE. The doctor is a long time with him. I 
 absolutely must go to this party. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, go. But you '11 come back ? 
 
 MADELEINE. As soon as I can. Don't despair. Poor 
 little Annette! 
 
 LUCIE. Do you think 
 
 MADELEINE. Good-bye for the moment. Don't move. 
 
 Madeleine goes out, and the servant is seen giving her 
 her cloak. Lucie, alone, walks restlessly to and fro. As 
 she comes to the door of Brignac's study, she stops to 
 listen. 
 
 LUCIE [aloud, to herself] How loud the doctor 's 
 speaking. One would think they had quarrelled. 
 
 Fresh pause. The study door opens. Enter Hourtin 
 and Brignac. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I can assure you, Dr. Hourtin, that I have 
 reached years of discretion. 
 
 HOURTIN. It was my duty, sir, to speak to you as I 
 have done. 
 
 289
 
 290 Maternity Act II 
 
 BRIGNAC [showing him to the door, drily] I am 
 obliged to you. 
 
 HOURTIN. I have something else to say to Madame 
 Brignac. 
 
 BRIGNAC. About me? 
 
 HOURTIN. About herself and the children; but if 
 you object 
 
 BRIGNAC. I hardly imagine it is indispensable. 
 
 LUCIE. What is it? Dr. Hourtin, I beg you will tell 
 me what you think I ought to know. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I haven't time to waste over this subject. 
 I repeat I am exceedingly busy, and I have to make a 
 speech this evening. You must excuse my leaving you. 
 Good-bye. 
 
 Hourtin bows. Brignac goes out, slamming the door of 
 his study. 
 
 LUCIE. I trust you will forgive my husband if he has 
 annoyed you. 
 
 HOURTIN. A doctor cannot be annoyed at the symp- 
 toms of a disease. I would no more be indignant at M. 
 Brignac's temper than bear malice against him for having 
 fever in an attack of pneumonia. 
 
 LUCIE. You wanted to speak to him. Is there some- 
 thing about the children? 
 
 HOURTIN. If you see that the children are treated as 
 your own doctor and I have prescribed in our consulta- 
 tion, I am confident that their condition will improve. 
 But I have something more to say to you yourself. Not 
 long ago I was called in to a married couple, one of 
 whom was a victim to morphia and refused to give up 
 the use of the poison. The children of the marriage were 
 degenerate, and there was every reason to think that 
 should others be born they would be even less healthy 
 than the first. I had to inform the other parent con- 
 cerned of the facts, in order, if possible, to discover some 
 means of cure. Towards you I have the same duty. With
 
 Act II Maternity 291 
 
 the difference that here the poison is alcohol instead of 
 morphia, the cases are identical. Like my other patient, 
 M. Brignac refused to listen to me; and although his 
 obstinacy is due to his poisoned condition, I confess I 
 was unable, in spite of a physician's philosophy, to see 
 without irritation the way in which he is rushing to ruin, 
 intellectual and physical. Now your nerves are strong. 
 I was unwilling to go away without speaking to you. 
 
 LUCIE. My children? 
 
 HOURTIN. Your children are suffering from a nervous 
 complaint which was born with them. 
 
 LUCIE. As the result, you mean, of their father's in- 
 temperance? Our own doctor and another besides have 
 already told me the same thing. 
 
 HOURTIN. They should have begun by telling M. 
 Brignac. 
 
 LUCIE. They did. 
 
 HOURTIN. Well ? 
 
 LUCIE. He listened no more to them than he did to 
 you. 
 
 HOURTIN. Is he not fond of the children? 
 
 LUCIE. In his own way he is. But he will never 
 change his way of living. 
 
 HOURTIN. So much the worse for him. 
 
 LUCIE. He did try once. He was incapable of work 
 and became sad, weak, restless. 
 
 HOURTIN. Like a morphiiiomaniac deprived of his 
 drug. 
 
 LUCIE. To his mind the experiment was decisive. 
 He simply cannot study a brief or speak in court with- 
 out the help of his usual stimulant. He thinks it does 
 him no harm. 
 
 HOURTIN. He has only to look at the children. 
 
 LUCIE. What he says is that at their age he had 
 nervous convulsions, and that now he is perfectly well. 
 
 HOURTIN. Precisely. He received from his father a
 
 292 Maternity Act II 
 
 legacy that he has transmitted to them in a graver de- 
 gree. His father drank, but his life was the healthy, 
 active, open life of a peasant, and his power of resis- 
 tance greater because he probably did not inherit a 
 morbid tendency. Your husband's life is sedentary and 
 feverish. Moreover, he does inherit the tendency. You 
 tell me that he had convulsions in infancy; yesterday 
 he said he was a backward child. These are symptoms 
 just as much as his desire for drink and his irritability. 
 He had a taint at birth that he has increased. His 
 children suffer from a cumulative degeneracy. The 
 grandfather drank, the son suffers from alcoholism, the 
 children are nervous invalids. 
 
 LUCIE. Horrible ! 
 
 HOURTIN. You must use your influence with your 
 husband to cure him. 
 
 LUCIE. He won't listen to me. 
 
 HOURTIN. You must insist. You must make him see 
 his duty as a father. 
 
 LUCIE. It would be so useless that I shall not even 
 try. 
 
 HOURTIN [rising] Then I have only one further piece 
 of advice for you both: don't have any more children. 
 
 LUCIE. No more children? 
 
 HOURTIN. No. 
 
 LUCIE. Why not? 
 
 HOURTIN. Because it is to be feared that any you 
 might now have would be more diseased than the first. 
 
 LUCIE. Is that certain? 
 
 HOURTIN. In medicine there are no certainties; only 
 probabilities. The chances are, perhaps, five to one that 
 I am right. Would you venture to give any creature 
 so doubtful an existence? 
 
 LUCIE. I ! No, indeed ! Most likely you have said 
 as much to my husband. Won't he believe you? 
 
 HOURTIN. You must make him realize that the respon-
 
 Act II Maternity 293 
 
 sibility of having a child, great as it always is, becomes 
 terrible when, so far from its being born into normal 
 circumstances, it runs the risk of going into the world 
 worse equipped than usual. To give birth to a child 
 doomed to unhappiness or likely to be an invalid or 
 incapable of growing up is like crippling someone. It 
 is as much a crime as robbery or murder. Children 
 ought to be deliberately and soberly brought into the 
 world by parents healthy enough to give them health 
 and of sufficient means to ensure their complete devel- 
 opment. You must forgive me. When I get on this 
 subject I hardly know how to stop. But really there 
 is so much unavoidable misery and distress that we 
 ought not to add to the sum of general suffering for 
 which there is no remedy. 
 
 Enter Madeleine. She wears an opera cloak and a 
 mantilla over her evening dress. During the following 
 scene Josephine helps her off with her things. 
 
 MADELEINE. How do you do, Dr. Hourtin? I'm so 
 glad to find you still here. I 've only just been able to 
 get away from the party. I had to go. There 's nothing 
 serious the matter with the children, I hope? 
 
 HOURTIN. Nothing serious. With the care of a mother 
 like theirs, I have every confidence. Now I was just 
 going. Good-bye. 
 
 MADELEINE. Good-bye. Thank you. 
 
 LUCIE. I 'm extremely grateful to you, Dr. Hourtin. 
 
 HOURTIN. Don't mention it. Good-bye, good-bye. 
 [He goes out~\. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, Madeleine! 
 
 MADELEINE. What is it? 
 
 LUCIE. Do you know why the children are ill? Be- 
 cause of Julien's intemperance. 
 
 MADELEINE. My poor darling! But you knew that 
 before. Our doctor said so; and when they went to 
 Paris with me, the man there said the same.
 
 294 Maternity Act II 
 
 LUCIE. I tried to make myself believe it was n't true. 
 
 MADELEINE. And Annette? 
 
 LUCIE. Has anything fresh happened? 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes; the Bernins have announced 
 Jacques' engagement to his cousin. They want to put 
 an end to the business. People were talking of the 
 engagement this evening. 
 
 LUCIE. Ah ! And they 're still going away this eve- 
 ning? 
 
 MADELEINE. At ten o'clock. How does she take it? 
 
 LUCIE. She is in her room, waiting as though she 
 expected something. She said just now she knew the 
 Bernins would not go this evening. What can she hope? 
 
 MADELEINE. We must tell her about the engagement. 
 She mustn't be left to hear of it from strangers. 
 
 LUCIE. No, no! 
 
 MADELEINE. And your husband? 
 
 LUCIE. He 's working in there. There 's to be a 
 political meeting, a smoking concert or something, after 
 the dinner at the Prefecture to-night. He heard at 
 the last moment that he was expected to speak, on the 
 budget of the Department, I think. I don't know, ex- 
 actly. Anyway, he 's there. 
 
 MADELEINE. Fetch Annette, then. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. [She goes out. A short silence. Then 
 calls outside] Madeleine! Madeleine! 
 
 MADELEINE [running to the door] What is it? 
 
 LUCIE [returning] She is n't there. 
 
 MADELEINE. Where is she? 
 
 LUCIE. Gone ! She 's left a note. She 's gone to 
 look for him. Quick ! Your carriage is here. Go and 
 find her ! Help her ! 
 
 MADELEINE. Gone ! 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. Quick! Go! 
 
 Madeleine goes out. Enter Brignac. 
 
 BRIONAC. What is all this noise about?
 
 Act II Maternity 295 
 
 LUCIE. Julien, I 've something very serious to say 
 to you. A disaster has fallen on us. 
 
 BRIGNAC. The children! 
 ' LUCIE. No ; it 's about Annette. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Is she ill? 
 
 LUCIE. Not ill, but in cruel, horrible grief. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Grief at her age ! A love affair, eh? She 's 
 been jilted? 
 
 LUCIE. That 's it. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Whew! I breathe again. You frightened 
 me. Not so very serious. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes ; it is. My dear, you must listen with 
 all your heart and with all your mind and be kind. 
 
 BRIGNAC. But what's the matter? 
 
 LUCIE. Annette has fallen in love with a scoundrel 
 who has deceived her. The poor child committed the 
 mistake of trusting him completely. He promised to 
 marry her and took advantage of her innocence to se- 
 duce her. [Z/ow] Understand me, Julien, she is going 
 to have a baby in six months. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Annette ! 
 
 LUCIE. Annette. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Impossible ! It 's 
 
 LUCIE. It was she who confessed to me. She is 
 sure of it. 
 
 BRIGNAC [after a silence] Who's the man? 
 
 LUCIE. Jacques Bernin. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Jacques Bernin! 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 BRIGNAC [furious] Here 's a fine piece of business ! 
 Ha, at the moment of my election, too ! Magnificent ! 
 Oh, she 's done me to rights, your sister has ! All 's 
 up with me now ! We may as well pack our trunks 
 and be off. 
 
 LUCIE. You exaggerate. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Do I? I tell you if she had been caught
 
 296 Maternity Act II 
 
 stealing stealing, do you hear ? it would n't have 
 been worse. Even that would have compromised me 
 less thrown me less absolutely out of the running. 
 
 LUCIE. Leave that till later. Now the thing is to 
 save her. You : 11 go to-morrow morning, won't you, 
 Julien, and find this fellow? Make him see what an 
 abominable crime it would be for him to desert our poor 
 little girl. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Much you know him, M. Jacques Bernin ! 
 But I do ! He '11 laugh in my face. His one idea is 
 to get on in the world. Why, he was talking of his 
 engagement to Mademoiselle Dormance two months ago 
 and chortling over her shekels. Good lord, what a man 
 for your sister to hit upon ! 
 
 LUCIE. But you won't abandon her? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes ; I 'm in a nice place. Who 'd have 
 thought it? So this is the thanks I get for all I 've 
 done for her ! 
 
 LUCIE. Don't fly into a rage ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Her! Her! A child brought up in the 
 strictest principles, brought up at home here by you 
 and me, not allowed to read novels or go to the theatre ! 
 She has n't even the excuse of having been to a boarding 
 school. Why, sometimes we could hardly help laughing 
 at her ignorance of life. 
 
 LUCIE. Perhaps if she had been less ignorant, she 
 would have run less risk. 
 
 BRIGNAC [breaking out] That's right! Now it's all 
 my fault! 
 
 LUCIE. Don't get into a passion! 
 
 BRIGNAC. I shall if I like ! And I think there 's some 
 reason, too ! Annette ! 
 
 LUCIE. Annette is only a victim. 
 
 BRIGNAC [shouting] A victim ! I tell you there 's only 
 one victim here! Only one! And do you know who? 
 
 LUCIE. You, I suppose.
 
 Act II Maternity 297 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes ; it is. Look here ! Can't you see the 
 jokes that will be made about me, the ironical congratu- 
 lations me, the apostle of repopulation ? Ha, they '11 
 say that if I don't give an example myself, my family 
 does! 
 
 LUCIE. Julien, Julien, please! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Just when I thought I had done with veg- 
 etating as a provincial lawyer, when my patience and 
 ability had got me accepted as candidate! 
 
 LUCIE. You might not have been elected. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I should have been ! Even if it were not 
 me, our side would win. Once in the Chamber, I should 
 have done with this wretched obscure existence. 
 
 LUCIE. And then? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Then? A deputy gets any amount of work, 
 and wins his cases, too ! Judges listen very differently 
 to a man who any day may become Minister of Justice. 
 It means something to them. And now this catastrophe ! 
 I tell you that here, at Chartres, it spells ruin ! 
 
 LUCIE. How you exaggerate ! Who 's to know ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Who's to know? Next Sunday every per- 
 son in the town '11 be talking of it. And my political 
 opponents, do you think they '11 scruple ? Not only 
 them, either. M. de Forgeau and his committee won't 
 give the electors the chance to turn me down. Within 
 a week I shall be shown the door. You see ! It '11 be 
 lucky if no one insinuates that I seduced the girl my- 
 self! 
 
 LUCIE. Oh ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. This is a provincial town! This is 
 Chartres ! 
 
 LUCIE. So when an unhappy woman is seduced by 
 a scoundrel, her shame, if shame there is, falls on her 
 whole family ! Is that the system you uphold ? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Society must defend itself against immoral- 
 ity. Without the guarantee of social punishment,
 
 298 Maternity Act II 
 
 there would soon be hardly any except illegitimate 
 children. 
 
 LUCIE. If anyone is guilty, two are. Why do you 
 only punish the mother? 
 
 BRIGNAC. How should I know ? Because it 's easier. 
 
 LUCIE. But you can't sit still and do nothing. You 
 must do something ! You 're the head of the family. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Something ! Something ! What ? The only 
 logical thing I know is to take a pistol 
 
 LUCIE. Julien ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. And go coolly and put a bullet through 
 the man's head. No? A crime, is it? Ah, if we lived 
 in an age with a little more guts ! [^4* if to himself] No; 
 I 'm not sure it 's not my duty to go and do justice 
 myself. 
 
 LUCIE. Julien, you 're not dreaming of that ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. And why not? 
 
 LUCIE. Think of the scandal, and then 
 
 BRIGNAC. And then I should be tried for murder? 
 Well, do you think I 'm afraid of that? What then? 
 I should defend myself, and I can tell you not many 
 people have heard such a speech as I should make ! 
 Think of the effect on the jury! I should be acquitted, 
 and the public would cheer till the court had to be 
 cleared. [A pause]. He's in luck's way, the brute, 
 that I 've too much respect for human life. If I 
 were n't a bit old fashioned ha, so much for him. 
 [A pause]. No, no; the weak point in these folk is 
 their pocket. That 's what I '11 go for. That 's it. 
 We '11 bring an action, an action for the seduction of 
 an infant. 
 
 LUCIE. Publish her shame like that! 
 
 BRIGNAC. He '11 have his share of it. I '11 make him 
 sing another tune, so I will. We '11 ask twenty, fifty, 
 a hundred thousand francs damages ! It '11 be a dowry 
 for Annette. Yes; we can do that, an ordinary civil
 
 Act II Maternity 299 
 
 action, or else, if we like, prosecute him criminally. I 
 could show you the law about it; it 's all in the reports. 
 And besides, the way I '11 conduct the case, the papers 
 will boom it sky high. 
 
 LUCIE. You can't surely want to have the papers 
 talking about us, printing poor Annette's story, discus- 
 sing her honor? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Reflecting on me, too. If only we were n't 
 related ! 
 
 LUCIE. We should be just as much dishonored. 
 
 BRIGNAC. If you had n't made me take Annette to 
 live with us when your parents died, none of this would 
 have happened. 
 
 LUCIE. It was you who suggested it to me ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. I know I did. All the stupid things I 've 
 done in my life not that there have been many 
 come from my having too good a heart. All people 
 from the South have; we can't think twice before doing 
 a kindness. So much the more reason why you should 
 have looked after her carefully. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, it 's too much ! When you yourself wanted 
 her to make friends with the Bernins ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Because I hoped that old Bernin would 
 be useful to us ! 
 
 LUCIE. You always kept urging Annette to go to 
 them. 
 
 BRIGNAC. So it's all my fault, is it? 
 
 LUCIE. I don't say that, but I must show you that 
 I 'm not so culpable as you make out. What are we 
 going to do? 
 
 BRIGNAC. In any case Annette can't stay here. 
 
 LUCIE. Good heavens, where can she go? Madeleine 
 can't have her. Perhaps our old nurse, Catherine 
 
 BRIGNAC. If she went to Madeleine or Catherine, it 
 would be exactly as if we kept her here. The important 
 thing is that no one should know anything about it. She
 
 300 Maternity Act II 
 
 must go to Paris, to some big town, till the birth of her 
 child. 
 
 LUCIE. It 's not possible. 
 
 BRIGNAC. The only thing not possible is to let it be 
 known, to keep her at Chartres. Can't you imagine what 
 it would be like for her if we did? Think of her going 
 to a concert or to Mass when her condition became evi- 
 dent ! She would n't be able to go out of the house with- 
 out being exposed to insult and insolence. And the way 
 our acquaintances would look at her! Why, it would 
 be purgatory ! 
 
 LUCIE. And everyone will welcome M. Jacques 
 Bernin. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Of course they will. And when the child 
 is born, what then? I 'm not thinking of the expense: 
 fortunately for her she has us to fall back on, so she 
 would n't starve. Suppose she put the baby out to 
 nurse ? Afterwards she 'd have to keep it with her 
 imagine what people would say ! She might pay for it to 
 be brought up elsewhere, but that 's only a way of de- 
 serting it. She would never be able to marry. All her 
 life she would be a pariah. No; the only thing is to 
 send her away. 
 
 LUCIE. Send her away where to? 
 
 BRIGNAC. How should I know ? We '11 find some 
 place. There are places for that at Paris. Yes; I 
 remember now, special places. We '11 pay whatever is 
 necessary. Establishments where you 're not required 
 to give your name at all. The difficulty will be to find 
 a plausible reason of Annette's absence. However, 
 we '11 find one. 
 
 LUCIE. And the child? 
 
 BRIGNAC. The child? She can do what she likes 
 with that. You don't suppose I '11 have it back here with 
 her, do you? 
 
 LUCIE. Then that 's what you 're proposing to do ?
 
 Act II Maternity 301 
 
 BRIGNAC. That 's what we must do. 
 
 LUCIE. How does one get into these places you were 
 speaking of? 
 
 BRIGNAC. I don't know, exactly. I '11 find out. Don't 
 worry. If necessary, I '11 go to Paris and take the 
 proper steps. Of course without saying that it 's to do 
 with anyone I know. 
 
 LUCIE. Of course. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Of course. 
 
 LUCIE [rising and touching him on the shoulder as 
 she passes] You are a fine fellow. 
 
 BRIGNAC [modestly] Oh, come; only a little thought 
 was wanted. 
 
 LUCIE. I think you have no conscience at all. 
 
 BRIGNAC. What do you mean? You speak as if I 
 were a monster. 
 
 LUCIE. Nothing but respect for public opinion. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Respect for public opinion is one form of 
 conscience. 
 
 LUCIE. The conscience of people who have n't got 
 any! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Anyway, one can't do anything else. 
 
 LUCIE. Can't you imagine what my poor darling's 
 life would be like if we did what you said? Turned 
 out of here 
 
 BRIGNAC. No, no; not turned out. 
 
 LUCIE. Sent away unwillingly, if you like, coming to 
 this place, suddenly thrust into contact with all the 
 sadness and the misery and the vice of Paris ! Think 
 of her waiting all those months, in the midst of the 
 women there, while a poor little creature is growing 
 into life that she knows beforehand is condemned to 
 all the risks and cruelty suffered by children whom their 
 mothers abandon ! And when she is torn with the tor- 
 turing pain that I know so well, at that moment of 
 martyrdom when a woman feels death hovering over her 
 bed and watching jealously for mother and child, when.
 
 302 Maternity Act II 
 
 the full horror of the sacred mystery she has accom- 
 plished is on her, then she '11 only have strangers round 
 her ! And if her poor eyes look round, like a victim's, 
 perhaps for the last time, for a friendly glance, if she 
 feels for a hand to press, she will only see round her 
 bed unknown men performing a duty and women cany- 
 ing on their trade. And then? Then she must resist 
 her highest instincts, stifle the cry of love that consoles 
 all women for what they have gone through, and say 
 she does n't want her child look aside, and say : " Take 
 him away ! I don't want to see him." That 's the price 
 for which she will be pardoned the crime of someone 
 else! That 's your justice ! Justice! Social hypocrisy, 
 rather that 's what you stand up for. Nothing but 
 that. And that 's why, if Annette stayed to bring up 
 her child here, she would be an object of reproach; 
 whereas, if she is confined secretly in Paris and gets 
 rid of the baby, nobody will say anything. Let 's be 
 frank about it. If she had a lover, but no child, she 
 would be let .off. It is n't immorality that 's condemned, 
 but having children ! You cry out for a higher birth 
 rate, and at the same time you say to women: " No 
 children without marriage, and no marriage without a 
 dowry." Well, so long as you don't change that, all 
 your circulars and your speeches will only succeed in 
 arousing laughter of pity and of rage ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Well, is it my fault? 
 
 LUCIE. No ; it 's not your fault. It 's the fault of 
 all of us, of our prejudice, our silly vanity, our hypoc- 
 risy. But you stand up for it all and justify it. You 
 have the typical window dressing, middle class virtues. 
 You publicly preach the repopulation of France, and 
 then find it in your conscience to get rid of a child whose 
 only fault is that its parents had it without first going 
 through a stupid ceremony, and without the whole town 
 being told that Monsieur X and Mademoiselle Y were
 
 Act II Maternity 303 
 
 going to bed together ! [A pause] Go and make your 
 speech. Go and defend the morals of society. That 's 
 about what you 're worth. 
 
 Enter Madeleine. 
 
 MADELEINE. She 's not come back? 
 
 LUCIE. No. Have n't you seen her ? 
 
 MADELEINE. No. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Since you take it like that, then, you will 
 kindly find another home than my house for your sister 
 from now onwards. 
 
 LUCIE. Ah, yes; say it outright! You long to get 
 rid of her ! 
 
 BRIGNAC [talking all the time while he goes into his 
 study and comes back with his portfolio, hat, and coat] 
 I'm off. It's too much! Yes; I'm off! And for my 
 part, I refuse to be the victim of your sister's pranks ! 
 
 LUCIE [to herself] Wretch! Wretch! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Do what you like, but I won't have that 
 sort of thing here. [He goes out]. 
 
 MADELEINE. I don't know which way she went nor 
 where she is. 
 
 LUCIE. You 've been to the Bernins ? 
 
 MADELEINE. They were dining out. 
 
 LUCIE. Did they leave the town by an afternoon 
 train ? 
 
 MADELEINE. I don't know. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh, I 'm afraid. 
 
 MADELEINE. Annette must have known where they 
 were dining, because I got to their door before she had 
 time to get there herself. 
 
 LUCIE. You should have gone to the station. 
 
 MADELEINE. I made up my mind to, but then I saw 
 that I shouldn't have time before the train went. So 
 I thought she must have come back. 
 
 LUCIE. Here she is ! Thank God ! 
 
 Enter Catherine and Annette.
 
 304 Maternity Act II 
 
 CATHERINE. I will! I will tell! So as they may 
 stop you trying again. 
 
 Annette, her teeth clenched, her eyes fixed, shrugs 
 her shoulders. Throughout the ensuing scene no tear 
 comes to her eyes. 
 
 MADELEINE. In heaven's name what has happened? 
 
 LUCIE. You 're here, you 're here ! [She tries to take 
 Annette in her arms]. 
 
 ANNETTE. Let me go ! Let me go ! [She picks up her 
 hat and coat, which she has thrown on to a chair, and 
 sits down, hard and reticent]. 
 
 LUCIE. What is the matter? What have you done? 
 
 ANNETTE [in a broken voice] I wanted to put an end 
 to myself. Catherine stopped me. 
 
 LUCIE. To kill 
 
 MADELEINE. Annette ! 
 
 LUCIE. And us, had you forgotten us? 
 
 ANNETTE. My death would have brought less trouble 
 on you than my life will. 
 
 MADELEINE. Catherine, what has happened? 
 
 CATHERINE. I was getting out of the train. I saw 
 her start to throw herself under the wheels. 
 
 MADELEINE and LUCIE [terrified] Oh! 
 
 ANNETTE. You '11 be sorry one day you stopped me. 
 
 CATHERINE. You hear her ! That 's the way she 's 
 been going on as we came back, all the time she was 
 telling me her story. 
 
 LUCIE. Swear you 11 never try again, Annette. 
 
 ANNETTE. How can I tell? 
 
 MADELEINE. Was she alone? 
 
 CATHERINE. No. When I saw her, she seemed to 
 be having a dispute with M. Bernin's family. I stopped 
 to watch. Then M. Jacques got into the train and 
 Annette stood there crying; and just as the train went 
 away, she gave a cry and ran to try and throw herself 
 under the wheels. I caught her by the dress and
 
 Act II Maternity 305 
 
 brought her away ; and I would n't leave her till I 
 knew she was back here and I had told you what 
 she 'd done. 
 
 ANNETTE. All right. Don't let 's speak about it. I 
 tried to kill myself and I failed. If they saw me, no 
 doubt they shrugged their shoulders. 
 
 MADELEINE. You went to wait for them at the train? 
 
 ANNETTE. No. I knew where Jacques was dining 
 at a restaurant a farewell party. His parents were 
 having dinner at the station. I went to the restaurant 
 and asked for him, like a girl off the streets. I could 
 hear his friends laughing and joking from where I was, 
 when the waiter took my message. 
 
 LUCIE. Did he come? 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes. He told me afterwards he thought 
 it was some woman from a cafe chantant who sent for 
 him. Oh ! 
 
 MADELEINE. And when he saw that it was you? 
 
 ANNETTE. He took me into the street, so that I 
 should n't be recognized. That 's where we had our 
 talk. The passers-by laughed and made horrible jokes. 
 
 MADELEINE. And then you told him? 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes. 
 
 LUCIE. Well? 
 
 ANNETTE. You couldn't guess what he answered: 
 that it was n't true. 
 
 LUCIE. Oh ! 
 
 ANNETTE [still tearlessly] Then he lost his temper 
 and said he saw through my game; that I wanted to 
 force him to marry me because he was rich. Much 
 he spared me ! I tried to put my arms round him : he 
 threatened to call the police. Then I cried, I implored 
 him I asked him to come with me tomorrow to a 
 doctor to prove I was n't lying. He answered quite 
 coldly that, even if it was true, there was nothing to 
 prove that it was him. Ah, you can't believe it, can
 
 306 Maternity Act II 
 
 you ? It 's too much ! I could n't have, unless I had 
 heard it with my own ears; and how I could without 
 dying, I don't know. You don't know what depths of 
 shame and cowardice I sunk to. Then he looked at 
 his watch, saying he only had time to catch the train. 
 He said good-bye and dashed off to the station. I had 
 to half run to keep up, crying, and begging him not to 
 desert me for the sake of his child, of my happiness, 
 my love, my very life ! Horrible ! Horrible ! Loath- 
 some ! And how ridiculous ! I had him by the arm. 
 I could n't believe that was the end. At the entrance 
 to the station he said, brutally: " Let me go, will you? " 
 I said: " You shan't go." Then he rushed to the train 
 and got into the carriage, nearly crushing my fingers in 
 the door, and hid behind his mother; and she threatened, 
 too, to have me arrested. Gabrielle sat there, looking 
 white, and pretending not to notice and not to know 
 me. Catherine 's told you the rest. 
 A silence. 
 
 LUCIE. You must swear, Annette, never to think 
 again of suicide. 
 
 ANNETTE. I could n't swear sincerely. 
 
 MADELEINE. You must be brave, now that you know 
 what life is, brutally as it has been revealed to you. 
 Almost all the women you think happy have gone 
 through an inner catastrophe. They make themselves 
 forget it because their very tears give out. Suffering 
 is reticent, and they conceal theirs. But there are few 
 women whose lives have not been broken, few who don't 
 carry within them the corpse of the woman they would 
 have wished to be. 
 
 ANNETTE. You say that to console me. I don't be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 MADELEINE. It 's the truth ; and I 've learnt it by 
 experience. 
 
 ANNETTE. I 'm tired of life. I feel as if I were a 
 hundred.
 
 Act II Maternity 307 
 
 LUCIE. Keep up your heart. We won't desert you. 
 
 ANNETTE. What can you do? I shall be turned away 
 from here. 
 
 LUCIE. If you are, I '11 go with you. 
 
 ANNETTE. And your children? 
 
 LUCIE. I '11 take them, too. 
 
 ANNETTE. He '11 fetch them back. Besides, what 
 should we live on? 
 
 LUCIE. Ah ! 
 
 ANNETTE. You see! You can't do anything either, 
 Madeleine, for all your love. Your husband would n't 
 let you take me in. Nor you either, Catherine. You 
 could n't afford to. Well, then ? 
 
 CATHERINE. Eh! eh! 
 
 Fresh silence. 
 
 ANNETTE. What a terrible thing life is! 
 
 MADELEINE. For all women. 
 
 ANNETTE. Not for anyone as much as for me. 
 
 MADELEINE. You think so, and that 's why you think 
 of dying. Well, I 'm alive. You see me laughing now 
 and then. If you only knew ! 
 
 CATHERINE. And what about me, Annette? 
 
 ANNETTE. You have your children to console you. 
 
 CATHERINE. It 's they that make it hard for me. 
 
 ANNETTE. For other women it 's a refuge to have 
 children. What will it be for me? 
 
 MADELEINE. You think that I am happy, Annette? 
 
 ANNETTE. You have a husband who loves you, you 're 
 rich, you can afford to dress beautifully, you go every- 
 where, and everyone wants to have you. That 's some 
 happiness, is n't it? 
 
 MADELEINE. That 's all you see. If you only knew 
 what you don't see ! 
 
 CATHERINE. Do you think being a mother has made 
 me happy? 
 
 ANNETTE. I know you 're poor. You have to work,
 
 308 Maternity Act II 
 
 to work hard, to bring up your children; but you can 
 look the world in the face and love them. 
 
 CATHERINE. If you knew! 
 
 MADELEINE. Then you must know! Even Lucie 
 does n't know what I 'm going to say. You think I 'm 
 happy because the money my godmother left me enabled 
 me to marry the man of my choice, a man who was 
 well off. Listen, then. My husband married me because 
 I was good looking. He wanted a son. I gave him one, 
 but my child cost me his love. You can't be a wife 
 and a mother at the same time. I lost my elegant 
 figure, I was ill, I suffered the woes that woman's flesh 
 is heir to and he left me for another woman ! Don't 
 be too quick to condemn worldly women who shrink 
 from motherhood, Annette. Man's baseness is such that 
 they must often choose between their husbands and their 
 children. And if some choose their husband, let those 
 who have never loved throw the first stone at them ! I 
 felt that if I nursed my baby I should lose my husband 
 for good, and to win him back I put my child out to 
 nurse. He died, Annette; and I have the agony of 
 thinking that if I had kept him with me he would be 
 alive. Do you understand? It's as if I had killed 
 him. Now I don't mean to have another child. I lead 
 a worldly life, laughing, dining out, going to parties, 
 because that 's what my husband wants, and that 's how 
 he loves me. I shall have a lonely old age. My arms 
 are empty mine, whose joy would have been to rock 
 my children to sleep in them and I 'm ashamed of 
 what I 'm doing. I despise myself. You 'd think I 'd 
 paid enough for my husband's love, would n't you ? Oh, 
 no. He 's gone to Paris, ostensibly on business, really 
 to another woman. I know it. I pretend not to know 
 because I 'm afraid of forcing him to choose between 
 her and me. That 's my life, Annette. Many women 
 whom you think happy live like that.
 
 Act II Maternity 309 
 
 ANNETTE. Poor Madeleine ! 
 
 LUCIE. And I. One of my little girls is an invalid, 
 the other is ailing. Perhaps she '11 die. 
 
 CATHERINE. Two of mine died of want. 
 
 MADELEINE. I don't want to have another child for 
 fear that my husband would leave me altogether. A 
 divorce, if I got one, would leave me a kind of half- 
 widow and make my girl an orphan. 
 
 CATHERINE. If I had any more, it would only mean 
 taking away food from those who have n't enough as 
 it is. 
 
 LUCIE. I 'm guilty enough already. Two children of 
 suffering owe their existence to me. 
 
 MADELEINE. Think of my torture ! I adore my hus- 
 band: when he comes back I long to feel myself in his 
 arms and I dread the consequences. 
 
 CATHERINE. Mine will leave me if I have another. 
 And then what would become of me, all alone with all 
 my children? 
 
 LUCIE. Your children who are grown up will support 
 you, Catherine. 
 
 CATHERINE. Those who are grown up ! Grown up ! 
 I 've just been hearing about them. Edmond is in hos- 
 pital, ruined for life by going into what they call " a 
 dangerous trade " because he could n't get work in any 
 other. There are too many workmen. My daughter, 
 she 's on the streets. [Sobbing] Oh, it 's too much ! 
 There 's too much misery in the world ! 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes, there 's too much misery ! 
 
 ANNETTE. And I thought I was the most miserable! 
 
 LUCIE. There 's too much unhappiness ! 
 
 CATHERINE. The children of poor folk are unhappy, 
 all of them, all. 
 
 ANNETTE. The child of an unmarried woman, too, is 
 born only to suffering. 
 
 LUCIE. Children who are born sickly or ill ought not 
 to be born at all.
 
 310 Maternity Act II 
 
 CATHERINE. You see, Annette, we must bear it. God 's 
 given us eyes ; it 's to cry with. 
 
 ANNETTE. To cry with ! 
 
 The four women cry silently, Catherine is in Made- 
 leine's arms. Lucie has her head on Annette's lap. 
 
 CATHERINE [making ready to leave] Please to for- 
 give me. 
 
 MADELEINE. We have the same troubles. 
 
 ANNETTE. Yes; we have the same troubles. 
 
 CATHERINE. Yes; whether one's rich or poor, when 
 one 's a woman 
 
 Annette kisses Catherine. Catherine goes out. 
 
 MADELEINE. I must go, too. Your husband will be 
 coming back. 
 
 LUCIE [to herself, terrified] My husband coming 
 back coming back ! 
 
 ANNETTE. I won't see him. Madeleine, you 're alone ; 
 take me with you ! 
 
 MADELEINE. Yes. You can come to-morrow, Lucie. 
 We '11 talk then. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. [Suddenly] Here he is! Go out that 
 way. 
 
 She pushes them out through Annette's room. After 
 a moment Brignac comes in, flushed and happy. 
 
 BRIGNAC. What, still up ! Aha, my dear, I 'm going 
 to be elected ! Absolutely certain, I tell you. Here, 
 I 've brought you a bunch of roses. 
 
 LUCIE [without listening] Thank you. So you 're 
 going to turn Annette out? 
 
 BRIGNAC. I 'm not turning her out. I simply ask her 
 to go somewhere else. 
 
 LUCIE. I shall go with her. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You 're going to leave me? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You don't love me any more, then? 
 
 LUCIE. No.
 
 Act II Maternity 311 
 
 BRIGNAC. Ha! Another story beginning. Since 
 when? 
 
 LUCIE. I 've never loved you. 
 
 BRIGNAC. All the same you married me. 
 
 LUCIE. I did n't love you. 
 
 BRIGNAC. This is nice news. Go on. 
 
 LUCIE. You 're only another victim of the morals 
 you were championing just now. 
 
 BRIGNAC. I don't know what you mean. 
 
 LUCIE. When you asked me to marry you I was tired 
 of waiting in poverty for the man I could have loved. 
 I did n't want to become an old maid. I took you, but 
 I knew you came to me because the girls with money 
 would n't have you. You were on the shelf, too. I 
 made up my mind to try and love you loyally. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Well, then? 
 
 LUCIE. The first time I was going to have a child you 
 left me for other women. Since then I have only put 
 up with you. I was too cowardly not to. You may 
 as well know it. I wanted my first child; the others 
 I 've had only because you made me. Each time you 
 left me I was so ugly ! Yes ; ugly through you ! 
 You left me at home, alone, dreary, repulsive, to come 
 back from the arms of some prostitute, full of hypo- 
 critical solicitude for my health! After the fatigue of 
 nursing I begged for a rest, to have a breathing space, 
 so that I might have some life of my own; and when 
 I demanded only to have children at my own wish, you 
 laughed like a self-satisfied fool. Oh, your fatuous 
 pride, your base egoism, your utter want of thought 
 for the future of your children and the life of your 
 wife ! So you forced on me the labor and the agony 
 and the danger of having another child. What did it 
 matter to you? It flattered your vanity to make merry 
 with your friends and give yourself the airs of a fine 
 fellow. Idiot ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. I 've had enough of this. You 're my 
 wife !
 
 312 Maternity Act II 
 
 LUCIE. I won't be your wife any more. I won't have 
 any more children. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Pray why? 
 
 LUCIE. Didn't Dr. Hourtin tell you anything? 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes. All right. I '11 do what he said. 
 There, does that content you? Come to bed. 
 
 LUCIE. No. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You have n't looked at my roses. Come, 
 is n't he a loving husband, your little Julien ? 
 
 LUCIE. Leave me alone. You 're drunk. 
 
 BRIGNAC. You know I 'm not. Come and give me a 
 kiss! 
 
 LUCIE. You stink of alcohol. Let me go ! 
 
 BRIGNAC [Zoo>] I want you. [He kisses her]. 
 
 LUCIE [tearing herself away] Faugh! [She wipes 
 her mouth furiously]. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Enough of that, do you hear? [He seizes 
 her brutally]. That's enough! 
 
 LUCIE. You hurt me ! Let me go ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Be kind now. How well you look when 
 your temper 's up ! Pretty pet ! Must n't be naughty ! 
 Come! 
 
 LUCIE. I won't ! 
 
 BRIGNAC. Then I '11 make you! [They struggle, with 
 low cries, panting]. 
 
 LUCIE [at the end of her strength] I can't ! I can't ! 
 
 He puts her on a chair; then goes to open the door 
 of the bedroom and turns on the electric light. The 
 bed is seen, a vision of white sheets. Brignac comes to 
 his wife. 
 
 LUCIE [mad with terror] The cave man! The cave 
 man! 
 
 He seizes her. She gives a cry and faints. He 
 carries her towards the bedroom.
 
 ACT III 
 
 The Cour d'Assises. Only two of the four sides of 
 the hall are visible. The footlights nearly correspond 
 with a line drawn diagonally across it. To the left and 
 in front is the seat of the Ministry of State. Further 
 back, to the left, the Court. 
 
 Facing the audience, successively, are seated counsel, 
 above them the defendants, and, lastly, the gendarmes. 
 In the middle, in front of a table placed for exhibits in 
 the case, the witness stand. 
 
 To the right three or four benches for the accommo- 
 dation of the audience, but only a small part is visible. 
 The jury, which is unseen, is supposed to occupy the 
 place of the prompter's box. 
 
 There are present the Advocate General, the Presi- 
 dent of the Court and his assessors, counsel for the de- 
 fence and his learned friends. In the dock are Madame 
 Thomas, Marie Gaubert, Tupin (Catherine's husband), 
 Lucie, guarded by gendarmes. Among the public, Ma- 
 dame d'Amergueux, Brignac, the clerk. 
 
 At the rise of the curtain Madame Thomas is stand- 
 ing in the dock. 
 
 PRESIDENT [authoritatively, to counsel for the de- 
 fence] Maitre Verdier, this is not the moment for you 
 to address the Court. And I take this occasion to warn 
 you: I tell you plainly I will use all the authority in 
 my power to prevent you from attempting to set up 
 a theory of justification, as I see you are about to do, 
 for the crimes with which the defendants are charged. 
 
 313
 
 314 Maternity Act III 
 
 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. You are mistaken, Presi- 
 dent. I have no intention of the sort. On the con- 
 trary, I declare publicly that in my eyes abortion is a 
 crime because it destroys the existence of a creature 
 virtually in being. To allow it would infallibly lead 
 to allowing infanticide. But what I shall try to show 
 is that by not permitting affiliation, and by not respect- 
 ing all motherhood, however it is caused, Society has 
 lost the right to condemn a crime rendered excusable 
 by the hypocrisy of its morals and the indifference of the 
 law. 
 
 PRESIDENT. This is not the moment for your speech. 
 The defendant Thomas : we shall now pass to the second 
 part of your examination. [He hunts in his notes, says 
 a word or two in an undertone to the assessor on his 
 right, then to Madame Thomas] So you admit the 
 abominable crimes with which you are charged? 
 
 MME. THOMAS. I must admit them, as you have the 
 proofs. 
 
 PRESIDENT. And you feel no remorse for the lives 
 of human beings you have destroyed from the sole 
 motive of gain? The jury will appreciate your attitude. 
 
 COUNSEL. Except that you have spared them the 
 trouble ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. Maitre Verdier, I cannot hear you now. 
 [To Madame Thomas'] You have crippled the work of 
 nature, you have offended against the principle of life, 
 and you never said to yourself that among the beings 
 you stifled before their birth might be one destined to 
 benefit humanity by his greatness! Did you? Well? 
 
 MME. THOMAS. No. 
 
 PRESIDENT. You did not say so ! Very well. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. If I had thought about that, I should 
 have perhaps said that there was as much chance 
 more, perhaps that he might be a thief or a murderer. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Indeed! I will not argue with you; I am
 
 Act III Maternity 315 
 
 not going to give you the chance to expound your 
 criminal ideas here. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. My counsel will do it better than me. 
 
 PRESIDENT. We '11 see about that. 
 
 COUNSEL [with a smile] It might, perhaps, be well 
 for you, President, not to contemn in advance the rights 
 of the defence. 
 
 PRESIDENT [irritated] Maitre Verdier, you have no 
 right to address me ! And you will be good enough to 
 moderate your expressions. I regret to say that from 
 the opening of this case you have adopted an attitude 
 that you can, perhaps, carry off at Paris, but that I shall 
 certainly not countenance here. Pray take notice of 
 that. 
 
 COUNSEL. At the Paris bar 
 
 PRESIDENT. I cannot hear you now. 
 
 COUNSEL. At the Paris 
 
 PRESIDENT. I cannot hear you now! Kindly be 
 seated. 
 
 MME. D'AMERGUEUX [among the public, to her neigh- 
 bor, M. de Forgeau] What an excellent judge M. Calvon 
 is. He is to dine with us to-morrow : I shall congratulate 
 him. 
 
 M. DE FORGEAU. A judge of the old stamp. 
 
 MME. D'AMERGUEUX. He recognizes us. Did you see 
 him give a little nod? [She directs her smilet at the 
 President] . 
 
 M. DE FORGEAU. Yes. Hush! 
 
 PRESIDENT. Marie Gaubert, stand up. [A thin little 
 woman rises to her feet]. Your name is Marie Gaubert? 
 How old are you? 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. Twenty-seven. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Profession? 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. Schoolmistress. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Do you admit the facts with which you 
 are charged.
 
 316 Maternity Act III 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. Yes. 
 
 PRESIDENT. What have you to say in your defence? 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. I did n't think I was doing wrong. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Your levity astounds me. You are a 
 schoolmistress, and you do not understand that the 
 sacred mission entrusted to you of preparing men and 
 women for the glory and responsibility of the future 
 entails on you the duty of giving an example yourself! 
 It is your business to conduct the course of elementary 
 instruction in civic morality, and this is how you prac- 
 tise it ! Have you nothing to answer ? According to my 
 notes you undertook the nursing of your two children 
 yourself. Do you love them? 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. It was just because I loved them. 
 
 PRESIDENT. But you decided that two were enough. 
 You made up your mind to limit the work of the 
 Almighty. 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. I should have asked nothing better 
 than to have four or five children. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Indeed ! Then let me tell you that you 
 did not take the best means to arrive at that result. 
 \He laughs and looks at his assessor on the right, then at 
 Madame d'Amergueux. She signals her congratulations 
 to him]. 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. You have to be able to feed your 
 children. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Ah, there! No! At a pinch I could 
 understand that excuse a very bad one being em- 
 ployed in the case of other women ; but not in yours, who 
 enjoy the incomparable advantage of being protected by 
 the State. You are never out of work. 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. I earn eighty-three francs a month. 
 My husband, who is a teacher, too, gets as much. That 
 makes a hundred and sixty-six francs a month to live on 
 and bring up two children. When there were four of us, 
 we could almost do it; with five it would have been 
 impossible,:
 
 Act III Maternity 317 
 
 PRESIDENT. You omit to say that during your confine- 
 ment you have the right to a month's leave with full 
 salary. 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. That used to be true, President. 
 It is so no longer. A department circular of 1900 in- 
 formed us that the funds were insufficient for more than 
 half salaries to be paid, as a rule, at such times. To 
 obtain the whole salary, a detailed report from the in- 
 spector is required, and you must petition for it. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Then why not petition? 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. It 's hard to seem like a beggar 
 simply because you have feelings. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Proud, are you? 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. There 's no law against that. 
 
 PRESIDENT. So that is why you went to the defendant 
 Thomas ? 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. Yes, sir. My husband and I ar- 
 ranged our little finances so: the evening our salaries 
 were paid we used to divide the money into different 
 parts and put them by; so much for rent, so much for 
 food, so much for clothing. We just managed to get 
 along by calculating carefully, and more than once hav- 
 ing to cut down expenses that seemed inevitable. The 
 prospect of a third child upset everything. It made our 
 existence impossible. We should have all gone hungry. 
 And then the inspectors and the head mistresses don't 
 like you to have many children, especially if you nurse 
 them yourself. The last time I was nursing I was made 
 to hide myself I only had ten minutes during the 
 break at ten o'clock and again at two; and when my 
 mother brought the baby, I had to take him into a dark 
 closet. 
 
 PRESIDENT. That has nothing to do with it. 
 
 COUNSEL. Yes, President, it has. It ought to be 
 known how the State, which preaches the increase of the 
 population, treats its servants when they have children.
 
 318 Maternity Act III 
 
 PRESIDENT [furiously] I can't hear you now! [To 
 the schoolmistress] You have n't anything more to say? 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. No, sir. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Sit down. 
 
 MME. D'AMERGUEUX. I think M. Calvon lets their 
 counsel talk too much. 
 
 M. DE FORGEAU. He 's rather afraid of him. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Tupin, stand up. 
 
 TUPIN [a man of mean and wretched appearance] 
 After you, Calvon. 
 
 PRESIDENT. What's that? 
 
 TUPIN. I said, " After you, Calvon." That 's your 
 name, is n't it? 
 
 PRESIDENT. I warn you I shall not stand the least 
 insolence from you. 
 
 TUPIN. I said, " After you, Calvon," just as you said, 
 " Stand up, Tupin." If that 's insolence, I did n't 
 begin it. 
 
 PRESIDENT. I will have you removed. Stand up. 
 
 TUPIN. All right. It '11 let me stretch my legs a bit. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Your profession? 
 
 TUPIN. Electrician. 
 
 PRESIDENT. You were once. It ' a long time since 
 you worked regularly. 
 
 TUPIN. There 's no work to be had. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Because you look for it at the wineshop. 
 The police give the worst account of you. 
 
 TUPIN. I 'm not surprised they don't like me: I never 
 liked them. [Laughter]. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Silence there, or I shall have the court 
 cleared. [To Tupin] The name of your wife has been 
 found among the papers of the defendant Thomas. 
 Catherine Tupin, maiden name Bidois. Where is Cath- 
 erine Tupin? Stand up. Very well, sit down again. 
 [To Tupin] You tried to conceal your wife from the 
 police.
 
 Act III Maternity 319 
 
 TUPIN. I did n't think they were good company for 
 her. 
 
 PRESIDENT [pretending not to hear'] You then gave 
 yourself up on your own confession that it was you who 
 took her to this abominable woman's house. 
 TUPIN. You speak like a book. 
 
 PRESIDENT. You persisted in the confession of your 
 guilt. Did you want to go to prison? 
 
 TUPIN. Why, that 's an idea ! You get fed and shel- 
 tered there, anyway. 
 
 PRESIDENT. The prison conditions are certainly better 
 than those you are accustomed to. 
 
 TUPIN. Now you 're talking. 
 
 PRESIDENT. When you were arrested you were com- 
 pletely destitute. The remains of your furniture had 
 been sold, and you were on the eve of finding yourself 
 without a roof over your head. Doubtless you will 
 blame Society, too. Your insubordinate character leads 
 you to frequent Socialist clubs; and when you do not 
 affect, as you do now, a cynical carelessness in your 
 speech, you are used to repeat the empty phrases you 
 have learnt from the propagandist pamphlets that poison 
 the minds of the working classes. But we know you. 
 If you are a victim, it is to your own vices. You are a 
 hardened drinker. 
 
 TUPIN. Lately, that 's true. 
 
 PRESIDENT. You admit it. Extraordinary ! 
 
 TUPIN. What 's that prove ? 
 
 PRESIDENT. Your eldest daughter is known to the 
 police of Paris as a prostitute. One of your sons has 
 been sentenced to a year's imprisonment for theft. Is 
 that true? 
 
 TUPIN. Possibly. 
 
 PRESIDENT. A little less proud now ? That 's right. 
 Well, now, you took your wife to this woman. Why? 
 
 TUPIN. Because I thought it was enough to have 
 brought seven wretched creatures into the world.
 
 320 Maternity Act III 
 
 PRESIDENT. If you had continued to be the honest 
 and industrious workman you were once, you might have 
 had another child without its necessarily growing up 
 wretched. 
 
 TUPIN. No, sir. Not with five. It's impossible. 
 
 PRESIDENT. I don't understand. 
 
 TUPIN. I say that a working man's family, however 
 much they work and economize, can't support itself when 
 there are five children. 
 
 PRESIDENT. If that is true, there are and it is to 
 the credit of the Society that you despise there are, I 
 say, numerous charitable organizations which are, so to 
 speak, on the watch for the victims of misfortune and 
 make it a point of honor to leave none without succor. 
 
 TUPIN [excitedly] Oh, and that seems all right to 
 you, that a working man, who has n't any vice and does 
 his duty, which is to work and we 're told, too have 
 plenty of children, it seems all right to you that that 
 should simply lead to beggary. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Yes, yes; I recognize the wineshop 
 orator. So you say that a household can't exist with five 
 children. Thank God, there is more than one in that 
 condition which goes neither to ask for charity nor to an 
 abortionist. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. You 're wrong. 
 
 TUPIN. Shall I prove that you 're wrong ? 
 
 PRESIDENT. That does n't seem to me to have much to 
 do with the case. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. Yes, it has. 
 
 TUPIN. Pardon me. If I prove it, people will under- 
 stand how I came to do what I did. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Very well. But be short. 
 
 TUPIN. I 've given my counsel my accounts for a 
 month. Let him read it to you. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Very well. [The counsel rises], 
 
 COUNSEL. Here it is.
 
 Act III Maternity 321 
 
 PRESIDENT. You are not Tupin's counsel. 
 
 COUNSEL. No, President, but my learned friends 
 have done me the honour for which I thank them 
 to confide to me the task of dealing in my speech with 
 the case as a whole, reserving to themselves to deal with 
 particular aspects of it as they relate to their clients. 
 
 PRESIDENT. I will hear you now solely for the pur- 
 pose of reading these accounts. But this is not the time 
 for you to address the court. You understand? I will 
 hear the accounts and nothing more. 
 
 COUNSEL. Certainly, President. [He reads] The 
 daily nourishment of five children consists of a four- 
 pound loaf, soup of vegetables and dripping, and a 
 stew which costs ninety centimes. Total, 3f. 75c. This 
 is the expenditure of the father: Return ticket for 
 tram, 30c. Tobacco, 15c. Dinner, If. 25c. The rent 
 is 300f . Clothing for the whole family, and boots : 
 sixteen pairs of boots for the children at 4f. 50c. each, 
 four for the parents at 8f. : total again, 300f. Total 
 for the year: 2,600f. The expenditure then must be 
 set down at 2,600f. Tupin, who is an exceptional work- 
 man, earned 160f. a month, that is to say, 2,100f. a 
 year. There is therefore an annual deficit of 500f. As 
 I have promised, I will not add a word. [He sits down]. 
 
 MHE. D'AMERGUEUX [to her husband] He might well 
 have saved the three sous a day for tobacco. 
 
 COUNSEL. Does the Court wish to have this paper 
 put in? 
 
 PRESIDENT. There is no object in that. [To Tupin] 
 I will not quarrel with your figures: I accept them. 
 But I repeat, there are charitable institutions. 
 
 TUPIN. And I repeat that I don't want to beg. 
 
 PRESIDENT. You prefer to commit what is almost 
 infanticide. A man whose daughter is on the streets 
 and whose son is a thief can accept charity without 
 degradation.
 
 322 Maternity Act III 
 
 TUPIN [excited] They were n't then. If they 've 
 fallen to that, it 's because with so many other children 
 besides, I could n't look after my son as rich people 
 look after theirs, and because my daughter was seduced 
 and abandoned because she was hungry ! No, but 
 you must have a heart of stone to bring that up against 
 me! 
 
 PRESIDENT. And it 's not your fault either that you Ve 
 become a drunkard? 
 
 TUPIN. I '11 tell you. You know the proverb: 
 " When there 's no hay in the manger " Well, when 
 the pinch came at home, I and my wife began to quarrel 
 over each new baby. Each of us accused the other of 
 having made things worse for the first ones. Well I'll 
 cut it short. If I went to the wineshop, why, it 's 
 warm there, and you don't hear the brats crying and their 
 mother complaining. And the drink helps you to forget, 
 so it does, to forget! 
 
 MME. TUPIN. It 's good to forget, so it is ! 
 
 TUPIN. It 's my fault if you like, but that 's how we 
 got poorer and poorer. 
 
 PRESIDENT. And when you had your last child, did n't 
 that serve as a lesson to you? 
 
 TUPIN. The last one did n't cost anything. 
 
 PRESIDENT [absently'] Ah! 
 
 TUPIN. He came into the world deformed and sickly. 
 He was conceived in misery, in want his mother was 
 worn out. 
 
 PRESIDENT. And his father a drunkard! 
 
 TUPIN. If you like. Well, he came badly into the 
 world he could never have been anything but a cripple. 
 But he did n't want for anything ! They took him in at 
 the hospital and begged me to let him stay there. 
 
 MME. TUPIN. He was a curiosity for the doctors. 
 
 TUPIN. They looked after him, I tell you. They 
 did n't leave him for a minute. He was made to live in
 
 Act III Maternity 323 
 
 spite of himself, so to speak. The other children, who 
 were strong, they let them perish of want. With half the 
 care and the money that was spent on the sickly one 
 they might have made fine fellows of all the rest. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Then that is why you made away with 
 the next? 
 
 TUPIN. For all the good he 'd have had in the world, 
 if he could, he 'd say, thank you. 
 
 PRESIDENT. You ought not to have had him. 
 
 TUPIN. That 's true. But we poor folk, we don't 
 know the dodges rich people have so as only to have the 
 children they want, and take their fun all the same: 
 worse luck! 
 
 PRESIDENT. If everyone was of your opinion our 
 country would be in a bad way. But your country, doubt- 
 less, is nothing to you? 
 
 TUPIN. I 've heard say: "A man's country is where 
 he is well off." I 'm badly off everywhere. 
 
 PRESIDENT. And you are equally lost to any interest 
 in humanity. 
 
 TUPIN. If humanity can't get on without a set of 
 wretches like me, let it go smash ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. Well, the jury can estimate your sense of 
 morality. You may sit down. 
 
 Night has come. The ushers bring lamps. 
 
 MME. D'AMERGUEUX. I should n't like to meet that 
 man of an evening in a lonely place. 
 
 M. DE FORGEAU. Nor I. Now for Madame Brignac 
 that was. My dear lady, what a dreadful thing ! 
 
 MME. D' AMERGUEUX. Dreadful ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. We have now only to examine the facts 
 concerning Lucie and Annette Jarras. [To the defend- 
 ant Thomas] Stand up ! This girl, Annette Jarras, was 
 your victim. What have you to say? 
 
 MME. THOMAS. Nothing. 
 
 PRESIDENT. You don't trouble yourself about it? 
 Well, we know your heart is not easy to move.
 
 324 Maternity Act III 
 
 MME. THOMAS. If I told you that I was led to do 
 what I did by pity, you would n't believe me. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Probably not. But you can try to make 
 us believe. The defendant has the right to say whatever 
 he thinks fit always under the control of the court, of 
 course. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. It 's not worth while. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Yes, yes; goon. The jury is listening to 
 you. 
 
 MME. THOMAS [on a sign from her counsel] A girl 
 came to me one day. She was a servant. Her master 
 had had her. I refused to do what she asked me: she 
 went away and threw herself into the water. Another, 
 whom I would n't help, was tried here for infanticide. 
 So, since then, when others have come to me, I have 
 agreed; I have prevented more than one suicide and 
 more than one crime. 
 
 PRESIDENT. So it was from pity, out of charity that 
 you acted. The prosecution will reply that you never 
 forgot to exact heavy payment. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. And you, are n't you paid for con- 
 demning others? 
 
 PRESIDENT. Those whom you condemned to death and 
 executed yourself, were innocent. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. You prosecute me; but the surgeons 
 who guarantee sterility get decorated ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. You forget this young girl who died as 
 the result of your action, Annette Jarras. She was 
 eighteen, in the full enjoyment of health; now she is in 
 the grave. [Lucie breaks into sobs] Look at her sister 
 by your side; listen to her crying. Ask her now if she 
 does not curse you. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. She would bless me if I had succeeded. 
 
 PRESIDENT [to Lucie] Defendant Lucie Jarras, stand 
 up! 
 
 M. DE FORGE AU [to his neighbour] Brignac must think 
 himself lucky to have got his divorce.
 
 Act III Maternity 325 
 
 MME. D'AMERGUEUX. Speak lower; he's behind us. 
 I am against divorce, but in this case 
 
 PRESIDENT. You have heard the defendant Thomas. 
 What have you to say ? 
 
 LUCIE [through her sobs] Nothing. Nothing. [She 
 sinks back upon her bench]. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Do you admit 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, yes; I admit everything. I Ve told you 
 so already. 
 
 PRESIDENT. You did not want your child to come into 
 the world? 
 
 LUCIE. I did n't want it to. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Why ? 
 
 LUCIE. Out of pity for him. I knew what sort of a 
 life he would have, and I risked my own to save him from 
 it. I acted like a good mother. 
 
 PRESIDENT. What you say is simply monstrous. [Si- 
 lence]. You, now, have not the excuse of poverty. Your 
 child would not have suffered from want. 
 
 LUCIE. He would have suffered from disease, and that 
 is as bad as want. 
 
 PRESIDENT. No theories, please. Only facts. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes ; facts, nothing but facts. You can see 
 the theory of it yourself. I had two children, two little 
 girls. One is a deaf mute, the other had convulsions. 
 She is dead now. The doctors told me that that was due 
 to the alcoholized condition of my husband, whose father 
 had been in the same state. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Most unfortunate. 
 
 LUCIE. Be pleased to let me speak ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. Very good. I will answer you. 
 
 LUCIE. One of the doctors is famous Dr. Hourtin. 
 
 PRESIDENT. A specialist who sees alcoholism every- 
 where ! 
 
 LUCIE [more vigorously] Those doctors told me that 
 if my husband did not change his mode of life, any
 
 326 Maternity Act III 
 
 further children I had by him would, perhaps, be worse 
 than the first, nervous degenerates. The very evening 
 that Professor Hourtin came to see me, my husband came 
 back from some festivity in a state of excitement [She 
 stops]. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Well? Is that all? 
 
 LUCIE. No; I '11 have the courage to say everything. 
 I have nothing to lose now. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Please take note that it is not I who make 
 you go on. 
 
 LUCIE. No; you would probably prefer if I didn't. 
 [Controlling her voice] During the day something had 
 happened something serious that revealed to me all 
 the hideousness of his moral character. I determined no 
 longer to be his wife. He came in, gay with drinking. 
 In spite of my prayers and resistance, my cries of hatred 
 and disgust, he chose that evening to exercise his rights 
 his rights ! He took me by force ; he outraged me. 
 
 PRESIDENT. He was your husband? 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Then 
 
 LUCIE. Of course. The next morning I left his house. 
 
 PRESIDENT [starting] M. Brignac is not in question. 
 
 LUCIE. I bring him in question ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. I shall not allow you to bring charges 
 against persons unconnected with the case. 
 
 LUCIE. He ought to be in my place. 
 
 PRESIDENT. His name does not figure in the in- 
 dictment. 
 
 LUCIE. Because your justice does n't want to put 
 responsibility on the right shoulders! 
 
 PRESIDENT. I forbid you to speak like that of M. 
 Brignac. 
 
 COUNSEL. Pardon me, President. 
 
 PRESIDENT. I cannot hear you now. 
 
 COUNSEL. That is why I ask to be heard.
 
 Act III Maternity 327 
 
 PRESIDENT. What do you want? 
 
 COUNSEL. M. Brignac is called as a witness. 
 
 PRESIDENT. We have already heard him. 
 
 COUNSEL. Allow me to remind you of the terms of 
 Article 319 of the Criminal Code, which authorizes me 
 to say against him as well as against his evidence what- 
 ever may help the defence. 
 
 PRESIDENT. And let me remind you of Article 311 
 in the same Code, which enjoins you to express yourself 
 with moderation. 
 
 COUNSEL. I ask you, President, kindly to recall M. 
 Brignac to the bar. I have a question to put to him 
 through you. 
 
 PRESIDENT [after consulting with his assessors] 
 Usher, ask M. Brignac kindly to come here. 
 
 BRIGNAC [coming forward to the bar] Here, Presi- 
 dent. 
 
 PRESIDENT. What is your question, Maitre Verdier? 
 
 COUNSEL. M. Brignac has heard all that has just 
 been said?. 
 
 BRIGNAC. Yes. 
 
 COUNSEL. Then I beg M. Brignac to review all the 
 factors in his memory. I make a supreme appeal to his 
 conscience, and I beg you, President, to put this ques- 
 tion to M. Brignac: does M. Brignac not recognize him- 
 self as morally responsible for the crime imputed to 
 Madame Lucie Jarras, his divorced wife? 
 
 PRESIDENT. I shall not put the Question. Is that 
 all? 
 
 COUNSEL. For the moment, yes. 
 
 PRESIDENT [to Brignac] You may return to your 
 place, Deputy. But since the defence, with an assump- 
 tion of excessive liberty, appears desirous of incrimi- 
 nating you, the Court may, perhaps, be permitted to 
 express to you here the high esteem in which it per- 
 sonally holds you. [He half rises from his chair, bow- 
 ing to Brignac].
 
 328 Maternity Act III 
 
 BRIGNAC. I thank you, President. [He goes back 
 to his place]. 
 
 MME. D' AMERGUEUX [to her neighbour] Then it 's 
 true what they say, that Brignac is to be Minister of 
 Justice in the next Government? 
 
 PRESIDENT [to Lucie] Defendant Jarras, have you 
 finished ? 
 
 LUCIE. No, President. 
 
 PRESIDENT [with a gesture of weariness] Go on, 
 then ; I 'm listening. 
 
 LUCIE. When I felt a child coming to life within me 
 of a man who was nothing more to me, whose name 
 even I no longer bore, and whom I hated with my whole 
 soul, I prevented it from being born to a destiny of 
 misery. I consider that I had the right to refuse the 
 task of motherhood when it was forced on me against 
 my will. 
 
 PRESIDENT. I shall not allow you to justify an act 
 which is a crime by law. 
 
 LUCIE. I have nothing on my conscience to reproach 
 myself with. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Then you have a singularly indulgent 
 conscience. All this comes from your pride. If you 
 had not entered into a struggle with your husband, you 
 would still bear a respected name and you would not 
 be there. 
 
 LUCIE. I knew that any child of his would be a de- 
 generate. Had I not the right to refuse? 
 
 PRESIDENT. No. 
 
 LUCIE. I loved him no longer. Had I not the right 
 to refuse? 
 
 PRESIDENT. No. 
 
 LUCIE. Well, then, have the courage to say that 
 woman in the marriage of to-day is a slave whom man 
 can reduce to be the instrument of his pleasure ! Just 
 as he likes he can leave her sterile or give her children
 
 Act III Maternity 329 
 
 imperil her happiness, her life, or her health, and 
 pledge her whole future without having to render more 
 account to her than a bull who is put to a cow! If 
 that 's it, very well ! But say so ! At least, let innocent 
 girls know the shameful bargain that men offer them, 
 with love for a bait and the law for a trap! 
 
 PRESIDENT [coldly] You were the cause of your 
 young sister's death. You took her with you. 
 
 LUCIE [calmer'] Yes. [She stops]. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Well? 
 
 LUCIE. Our money was soon spent. Annette got 
 some music lessons to give, but they sent her away 
 when they found out her condition. I did sewing. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Then you earned some money. 
 
 LUCIE. I could not get work every day. When I 
 did, I earned fifteen sous for twelve hours. It 's true 
 I was not clever; there are women who earn one franc 
 twenty-five. We were seized by despair at the thought 
 of the child that was coming. 
 
 PRESIDENT. That was not a reason to take your sis- 
 ter and her child to their deaths. [Lucie is seized by a 
 nervous shudder and does not answer] Answer me. 
 
 COUNSEL. Let her take a minute, President. 
 
 LUCIE [pulling herself together] I wanted to get 
 her into a hospital, but they only take you in at the 
 end of pregnancy. At Paris there are institutions, it 
 seems, but not in the provinces. 
 
 PRESIDENT. You might have asked for relief. 
 
 LUCIE. We had not been the requisite six months in 
 the town. And afterwards, what could we have done 
 with the child? 
 
 PRESIDENT. If she was unable to bring it up, your 
 sister could have taken it to the " Enfants Assistes." 
 
 LUCIE. Yes, abandoned it. We did think of that. 
 We made inquiries. 
 
 COUNSEL. A certificate is required that the applicant
 
 330 Maternity Act III 
 
 to the society is without means. An inquiry is made and 
 the application may be accepted or refused. In the 
 meantime the child may die. 
 
 LUCIE. They only take in children on condition that 
 the mother shall not know where the child is, that 
 she shall never see it or have news of it. Once a 
 month only she is told if it is alive or dead; nothing 
 more. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Go on, madam. But facts, if you please. 
 
 LUCIE. Yes. I begged my husband to take Annette 
 and me back. He would not. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Kindly come to the defendant Thomas. 
 
 LUCIE [with constantly rising emotion] Annette re- 
 proached herself for having accepted what she called 
 my sacrifice. She said that she was the cause of all my 
 trouble. [Pause] One day I was fetched; I found 
 her dead at this woman's. [A fit of sobbing seizes her: 
 her nerves break down completely. She cries] My 
 little sister! my poor little sister! 
 
 PRESIDENT [Compassionately, to the usher] Take 
 her away. Call the doctor. [Lucie, still crying out, is 
 led away. Her emotion has communicated itself to 
 everyone in court. The President continues to the de- 
 fendants] Has no one else among you anything further 
 to say in his defence? 
 
 TUPIN [excited] Oh, if we said everything we 
 should be here till to-morrow I 
 
 MME. TUPIN [equally excited] Yes, till to-morrow, 
 so we should! 
 
 TUPIN. And then we should n't be done, I can tell 
 you! 
 
 PRESIDENT. Then I will hear the Advocate-General. 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. But you 're not going to condemn 
 us ? It is n't possible. I have n't said everything 
 
 TUPIN. It 's not we who are guilty ! 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. I was afraid of getting a bad
 
 Act III Maternity 331 
 
 name. We hadn't the means, either, to bring up 
 another. 
 
 MME. TUPIN [greatly worked up] So that's it! 
 So that 's all the children that we bring up get by it ! 
 What's the use of talking? The men haven't thought 
 of changing it well then, we must do it ! We wo- 
 men ! We must strike ! We the mothers ! The great 
 strike the strike of the mothers ! 
 
 Cries among the public, " Yes, yes." 
 
 PRESIDENT. Silence ! 
 
 MME. TUPIN. What 's the good of using ourselves 
 up to make more wretched men and gay women! For 
 others to use! 
 
 TUPIN. It 's not that we are guilty ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. Sit down ! 
 
 TUPIN [drowning his voice] It 's the men who Ve not 
 given us enough to feed our children that are guilty ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. Sit down! 
 
 TUPIN. The men who tell us to have other children, 
 while those we have are rotting with hunger ! 
 
 COUNSEL. The criminal is the man who seduced little 
 Annette ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. Silence ! 
 
 MME. THOMAS. Yes, where 's he? Where's he? 
 You have n't taken him up ! Because he 's a man and 
 your laws 
 
 PRESIDENT. Guards ! 
 
 MME. THOMAS. And your laws are made by men ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. Guards ! 
 
 MME. THOMAS. And all the men who got with child 
 the girls I delivered, did you prosecute them? 
 
 During the following an anger which becomes a fury 
 seizes the accused. They are all on their -feet, except 
 the schoolmistress, who continues to sob and utter words 
 that no one hears. The President is also on his feet; 
 he tries vainly to restore silence by knocking on his desk
 
 332 Maternity Act III 
 
 with a paper-knife, but he cannot make himself heard. 
 The tumult increases till the fall of the curtain, the 
 voices of the counsel for the defence and his clients 
 drowning those of the President and the Procurer. 
 
 PRESIDENT. I will have you removed to prison! 
 
 MME. THOMAS. The fine gentlemen who take mis- 
 tresses ! And the young ones who humbug little work- 
 girls ! 
 
 PRESIDENT. I '11 have you removed to prison ! 
 
 PROCUROR. Guards, can't you keep that crowd of 
 fanatics quiet ? 
 
 COUNSEL. You have no right to insult the defendants ! 
 
 TUPIN. That 's all they 've done from the beginning ! 
 
 PROCUROR. Make that howling mob be quiet! The 
 defendants have no respect for the Court ! 
 
 COUNSEL. And you, Advocate-General, have no re- 
 spect for justice! 
 
 PROCUROR. If their crime inspires you with sym- 
 pathy, it only fills me with indignation. 
 
 COUNSEL. They are right. They are not guilty. The 
 respect that you lack 
 
 PROCUROR. I demand 
 
 COUNSEL. The guilt is at the door of the morals that 
 brand the unmarried mother. 
 
 THE PUBLIC. Bravo! 
 
 PROCUROR. I ask that counsel for the defence 
 
 COUNSEL. Every woman with child ought to be re- 
 apected in whatever circumstances her child has come 
 into being. 
 
 Applause. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Maitre Verdier, by virtue of Article 43 
 of the Rules 
 
 COUNSEL. Their crime is not an individual, but a social 
 crime. 
 
 PROCUROR. It is a crime against nature! 
 
 COUNSEL. It is not a crime; it is a revolt against 
 nature!
 
 Act III Maternity 333 
 
 PRESIDENT. Guards, remove the defendants! [The 
 guards do not hear or do not understand]. Maitre Ver- 
 dier, if I have to employ force 
 
 Tumult in court. 
 
 COUNSEL [succeeding by the force of his voice in 
 imposing a short silence"} It is a revolt against nature ! 
 A revolt that fills my heart with pity, at the cause of 
 which all the force of my mind is roused to indignation ! 
 Yes ; I look forward with eagerness to that hour of free- 
 dom when the storehouse of science shall give to every- 
 one the means, without a restraint that is only hypocrisy, 
 without the profanation of love, to have none but the 
 children he wants ! That will be indeed a victory over 
 nature, that cruel nature which sows with criminal pro- 
 fusion the life that she watches die with indifference. 
 But meanwhile 
 
 The tumult begins again. 
 
 PRESIDENT. Guards, clear the court ! Guards ! Guards, 
 remove the defendants! The sitting is adjourned. 
 The judges put on their caps and rise. 
 
 MME. THOMAS. It 's not me who kills the innocents 1 
 I 'm no murderess ! 
 
 SCHOOLMISTRESS. Mercy ! Mercy ! 
 
 MME. TUPIN. She 's no murderess ! 
 
 TUPIN. She 's right. She 's no murderess ! 
 
 MME. THOMAS. It 's the men that are guilty ! The 
 men ! All the men ! 
 
 The judges leave by the narrow door leading to their 
 room. During the last words their red robes are seen 
 gradually disappearing. 
 
 THE END
 
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