Chapter XI: Part 11

POETRY.
I know not who these suitors chance to be
But not by them may Sorrow be cast out.
One only holds a mightier spell than hers,
And I will send my constant messenger
To seek him to the ends of all the Earth.
Come to me, Child, who holdst Eternal Youth.

[_Enter HOPE._]

HOPE. Didst call me, Poetry?

POETRY. Yea, child of my Heart,
Go out into the wilderness for me.
Find me the Stranger in a Pilgrim's garb
Around whose head the song birds pipe their lays,
Beneath whose feet the withered flowers revive.
Say, "In the Court of Youth Queen Sorrow reigns
And shadows lie like night on Douce-coeur's heart."

HOPE.
In the great Court of Youth, Queen Sorrow reigns
And shadows lie like night on Douce-coeur's heart.

POETRY.
Bid him come hither. Haste thee on thy way.

[_Exit HOPE. Trumpet music. Herald heard off. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"_]

SERVICE. Here comes the Herald!

[_Enter HERALD repeating "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"_]

HERALD [_facing audience_]. Know all whom it may concern throughout this realm, that as One has come and brought darkness on the Land, to all good people is this Proclamation made. Whoso can drive the Gray Woman forth, whoso can free the Princess Douce-coeur from her spell, whoso can bring back the sunshine to the Land, unto him will be given the half of the kingdom, and the Hand of the Princess Douce-coeur in marriage. Given on this day of June. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!"

[_Exit HERALD. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" dies away in the distance._]

[_Music. Enter JOY, LAUGHTER, SONG and DANCE, followed by PRINCESS DOUCE-COEUR and SORROW._]

SORROW.
Ye children of the Court, your hour has struck.
Your doom of banishment has been pronounced,
For where I am there can ye never be.

SONG.
Douce-coeur, I pray thee hear me. Let me sing
One of the old songs that we loved--may be
The memory of those happy days will rise
And lift the weight of sadness from thy face.

POETRY.
Douce-coeur, I charge thee, listen. All the past
Of Childhood calls thee in the voice of Song.

DOUCE-COEUR.
Sing if thou wilt. Those days were long ago.

SONG.
_I stood beside the lilac bush
While all its blossoms rained on me,
I watched the white wraith of a moon
Turn to pale gold above the sea._

_I held a wand of almond bough
And waved it three times circlewise,
I whispered words of faery lore
With beating heart and close shut eyes._

_I oped them on a forest scene
Of summer-land; the open glade
Lay shining like a tourmaline
Set in a ring of duller jade._

_I saw three queens with shining crowns
Go riding by on palfreys gray;
I saw three knights that followed close,
And dreams were in their eyes that day._

_I saw a minstrel with his harp,
His cloak was green and patched and torn;
I saw a hunter with his bow,
I heard the winding of his horn._

_I saw a bush of lavender
With clouds of fluttering butterflies,
Then I looked backward to the earth
And broke my faery spell with sighs._

DOUCE-COEUR.
I cannot bear thy music. In my heart
No answering chords respond. The past is dead.
I hear the tears of thousands in thy voice.
When Sorrow speaks--I hear no tones but hers.

SORROW.
No, thou art mine, Princess. I hold thee fast.

POETRY.
Douce-coeur, I bid thee raise thy heavy eyes.
Dance is the eldest daughter of my heart.
Born when the rhythm of the stars was voiced,
The past and future meet alike in her.
Let her bring back the sunshine to thy face.

DANCE.
With flying feet we chased the hours away.
I used to make thee clap thy hands in glee
And thought to go with thee along the years.

DOUCE-COEUR.
My feet are lead, but dance on if thou wilt,
What can the future hold for me and thee?

[_As the Dance ends, she cries:_]

Ah, Sorrow, bid them cease and drive them hence.
Send Joy and Laughter, Song and Dance away.
Call Silence here who is thy foster-child.
I am afraid of all this mocking world
And fain would live alone, alone with thee.

SORROW.
Go forth, go forth into the wilderness. Here is no room for ye.
Go forth into the void that lies beyond. Here I in majesty
Henceforth shall reign, veiling the sun and stars to all eternity.
Go forth. Let wide-eyed Silence take the place ye occupied before
Where flowers ye scattered he henceforth shall strew ashes upon the floor.
Twilight shall fall upon this Court of Youth now and for evermore.

[_Exeunt SONG, DANCE, JOY, and LAUGHTER._]

POETRY.
Douce-coeur, thine eyes are bound. Thou dost but see
With vision warped by her who holds thy hand.
I, who have watched the web of Life unfold
And hold the secrets of a million lives,
Can tell thee from the heights whereon I dwell,
It is not thus that thou wilt help the world.
Thou canst not right the wrong with further wrong.
But now thine ears are dulled; thou wilt not hear
What I might teach thee.

[_During this speech enter HERALD who speaks to SERVICE. Exit HERALD._]

SERVICE. Three suitors, Fame, Riches, and Power are at the gate, Princess, and claim an audience. They have banished the Gray Woman from the side of others and seek to do this for thee. With them they bring charms that have before broken the spells of Sorrow; these are beyond price but each asks in exchange thy hand in marriage as promised in the proclamation cried by the heralds.

DOUCE-COEUR [_turning to SORROW_].
What must I do?

SORROW. Bid them approach, my child;
It may be their rich gifts will pleasure thee.

[_Enter HERALD followed by FAME._]

HERALD. Fame, Lord of the Marches of the East, salutes thee.

[_Exit HERALD._]

FAME.
Fame am I called, Princess. I bring thee this
Crown of Unfading Leaves for which men pray
And toil throughout their lives--unsatisfied.
It shall be thine unsought. Grant me thy hand,
And thou shalt live in glamour of high destiny.
Thy name shall sound in honor through the world;
Thy words shall set the hearts of men aflame.
Let me but place the wreath about thy head,
Thus shalt thou strike this lyre with deathless notes
Which shall, vibrating through the fields of space,
Ring on, and on, nor ever find a goal.

SORROW.
Deaf are the ears on which thy phrases fall.
With one so young what are thy spells to mine?

DOUCE-COEUR.
I see thy wreath of leaves, entwined with asps
Whose forked tongues whisper "jealousy and hate."
Thy harp is out of tune with Sorrow's voice.

POETRY.
She is too tender for thine upward way.
The solitude of those who follow thee
Is not for her. Pass on, my lord, pass on.

[_Enter HERALD, followed by RICHES._]

HERALD.
Riches, Lord of the Marches of the West, salutes thee.

[_Exit HERALD._]

RICHES.
My name is Riches, and I offer thee
A store of wealth exhaustless as the sand.
This is the symbol of my opulence,
A casket in whose depths gold never fails.
Grant me thy hand, and thou, Princess, shalt gain
All that the world contains of happiness.
Thy palace shall be built of precious stones,
And thou shalt walk on rose-leaves every day.
Sorrow shall be forgotten in my arms,
Nothing shall be denied thee wealth can buy.
All things--all men yield to the touch of gold.

SORROW.
Blind are the eyes on which thy visions rise.
My spells have turned thy glories into dust.

DOUCE-COEUR.
The gold thou offerest me is stained with blood;
Thy precious stones were won with tears and toil;
The sum of all thy wealth could not reflower
The arid wastes that Sorrow has laid bare.

POETRY.
She is too simple for thy promises;
To one who knows not Sister Poverty
Thy lures, my lord, appear as idle words.

[_Enter HERALD, followed by POWER._]

HERALD.
Power, Lord of the Marches North and South, salutes thee.

[_Exit HERALD._]

POWER.
My name, Princess, is Power and this my gift.
My brothers brought thee fair renown and gold
With freedom from the spells that Sorrow weaves.
All these I offer thee. If thou accept,
Together we will sway men's destinies,
Together we may rule their hearts--their souls--
Together turn the very universe.
Our throne shall rise a monument of might,
Its steps shall mount from the green land of earth,
Its canopy shall scrape the stars of Heaven.

SORROW.
I have set that about her like a net
Thou canst not deal with. Never yet, O Power,
Hast thou been known to cut through cords of fear.

DOUCE-COEUR.
I would not wield thy scepter for an hour.
The burden of its weight would bear me down.

POETRY.
She is too young, too gentle for the heights
Where thou wouldst raise her. Be content, my lords;
What ye have done is well, but One alone
Can break the spell, and he is at the gates.
Already Hope returns. He comes, he comes.

[_Enter HOPE running._]

HOPE.
The stranger comes; he whom I went to seek.

FAME.
The Stranger comes whose music fills the world.

RICHES.
The Stranger comes, whose treasure gilds the world.

POWER.
The Stranger comes, whose scepter rules the world.

POETRY [_to SORROW_].
Now shall thy spell be broken. Dost thou hear
The measured footsteps of approaching Fate?
The one who comes clad in a Pilgrim's garb
Has ever proved thy silent conqueror.

SORROW.
I yield to him who is the greatest here,
But those who have not met me by the way
Can never know him as he may be known.
They only who have trod the dark abyss
May dare to stand upon the topmost height.
For they whose eyes were blindfold for awhile
Alone can bear that blaze of brilliant light.
Thus have I brought thee more than all thy Court.
Learn from his lips to see the world anew.
I drew that gray veil all about thy head
Thinking perchance to keep thee for my own,
But thou wert made for sunlight, not for gloom.
Thus do I leave thee. Fare thee well, Princess!

[_Enter LOVE._]

DOUCE-COEUR [_starts up and tries to hold SORROW back_].
Ah, stay with me, thou art my only friend!

[_LOVE and SORROW look at each other, she draws her veil across her face and exit._]

DOUCE-COEUR.
Who art thou, Stranger, in a pilgrim's guise
Who comest unattended, unannounced?

LOVE.
I may not tell thee that. Thou first must learn
Out of thine own heart to recall my name.

DOUCE-COEUR.
Fame, Power, and Riches brought me costly gifts
Which I refused.

LOVE. I come with empty hands.

DOUCE-COEUR.
Thy coming caused Queen Sorrow to depart;
What right hast thou to drive my friends from me?

LOVE.
I came to bring thee swift deliverance,
She laid a spell upon thee which in time
Had turned thy heart to unresponsive stone.

DOUCE-COEUR.
She brought me peace and sure oblivion
Of all this dark and weary world around.

LOVE.
Art thou so sure, Princess, the world is dark?

DOUCE-COEUR.
So sure? Have I not heard the children weep?
Is not my heart torn with their piteous cries?
We live, and round us lies their sea of tears,
A mighty sea that could engulf a realm.

LOVE.
I met a Child outside thy Palace once.
His dress was ragged, but he smiled at me,
And in his hand he held a purple flower.
I knew it for the magic flower of Dream.
I asked him "Art thou happy?" and he said
"I'm mostly hungry; sometimes I am cold;
And there are stones and thorns that hurt my feet,
But while my Flower lives I am quite content.
And I have friends too, in the Palace there;
Laughter and Dance they come and play with me."
I met that Child to-day, Princess. His face
Was white and pinched, and down his baby cheeks
The tears were running, "See, my Flower has died,
And Dance and Laughter have been sent away.
Joy too is gone. Queen Sorrow reigns at Court."
Even the children now can play no more.
He never knew before the world was dark.
Art thou so sure, Princess, the Child was wrong?

DOUCE-COEUR.
Have I not heard bereaved mothers weep?

LOVE.
There thou dost touch a chord in ignorance.
Thou canst not guess the strength of Motherhood,
The hopes, the joys, the passionate regrets.
She who has borne her child close to her heart
Has lit a star in Heaven that lights her way.
I kneel by them in their Gethsemane
And teach them how to weave immortal wreaths
Out of the sweetest flowers of Memory;
For them the sun still shines behind the clouds,
Art thou so sure the world is wholly dark?

DOUCE-COEUR.
There echo in my ears the groans of Toil,
Of those who labor on from year to year
Until they sink beneath their weary lot.

LOVE.
Toil is the destiny of man, Princess,
And none may question the Supreme Decree.
Perchance through toil alone man may redeem
A past that is forgotten. Who can tell?
And there is still some aftermath of joy
In labor well achieved, some dignity
In toil accomplished. If the way is hard
And seeming endless, those who seek for me
Will often find me singing at their side.
Mine is the Brotherhood of Sympathy.
But thou hast banished Song, in silence now
The toilers have to go upon their way.
Art thou so sure, it was all dark before?

DOUCE-COEUR.
What light is there for those who strive and fail?

LOVE.
One only fails. He whom some term Success,
He who gives heart and soul and youth and strength
To an unworthy cause. Failure is he
Who sacrifices me before the world,
Who prostitutes the God in him for what
Will turn to dust and ashes in his hand.
'Tis he alone is outcast though he thinks
Himself the sun of all the universe.
To those, Princess, who striving seem to fail,
It is not failure, for none see the end,
And they who sigh are only those who seek
An earlier consummation than is just;
If they cling fast to me they still behold
The white star-flowers Hope plants about the world.
Who knows to what fair land rough seas may lead?

DOUCE-COEUR.
Lo! over all I see the cruel hand
Of Death outstretched, certain and pitiless.

LOVE.
The hand of Death is full of tenderness.
He leads men through that dark mysterious gate--
That all must pass into another life--
To other lives that through the cycles bring
The souls of men upward from step to step,
Uniting those for ever who are one.
Death hushes them like children on his breast.
Setting his own smile on their silent lips--
That tender smile of strange triumphant peace.
Death is my Brother, and I say to thee,
Learn to know me, thou wilt not fear his hand.

DOUCE-COEUR.
Another hand is knocking at my heart
Whose touch I know not, and I feel afraid--
Afraid to listen. Yet I long to hear.
Stranger, who art thou? Let me see thy face.

LOVE.
Learn to know me and thou shalt nothing fear.

DOUCE-COEUR.
Who art thou? Let me look into thine eyes.

LOVE.
Learn to know me and thou wilt find the Light.

DOUCE-COEUR.
Pilgrim, who art thou? Let me know thy name.

LOVE.
Dost thou not know me, Douce-coeur?

DOUCE-COEUR [_slowly_].
Thou art Love!

LOVE.
And dost thou know the meaning of my name?
Tell me thou art not fearful any more.

DOUCE-COEUR.
The darkness that was bound about mine eyes
Is falling from me. In the growing light
The answer to Life's riddle is made clear.
I seem to stand upon a height, caught up
In ecstasy of rapture near the sun.
The day is dawning; far before my eyes
I see the earth spread out there like a map.
Shadow and sunshine traveling on the road
O'ertake each other, mingle--and are one.

FAME.
O Love, all hail! What is my crown to thine?
Thy music is the song of all the stars
Which rings through every heart attune to thine.

RICHES.
O Love, all hail! What is my wealth to thine?
Thy treasures are the moons of happiness,
Thy boundless gold the sunshine of the world.

POWER.
O Love, all hail! Thine is the greater rule,
The force predominating. Thou alone
Art the unvanquished King who conquers all.

POETRY.
O Love, whose face is sought by all the world,
Bid her go forth out of her Palace gates
Into her kingdom that lies all around,
Teach her what means to use to right the wrong
And ease the burden man has laid on man.
My voice that once could rouse men's sleeping souls
Grows weary, and men often heed me not,
Turning deaf ears that will not hear my words;
'Tis thou alone canst wind that mystic horn
Which wakes alike the sleeping and the dead.

DOUCE-COEUR.
O Love, I pray thee call the children back,
I am ashamed to think I drove them forth,
I erred in ignorance. Forgive me, lord.

[_Enter JOY, LAUGHTER, SONG and DANCE._]

LOVE.
All ye who came to battle Sorrow's spell,
Be with her now. And ye who hold in fee
Her happy days, go with her through the years.
I all unseen will guide her destiny.
And when, Princess, I come again to thee,
A worshiper will follow in my train.
From other lips than mine thou then shalt learn
The sweetest and the tenderest tale of all.

MUSIC.
Now let us join with Song. In merry mirth
Draw to a fitting close our Interlude.

SONG.
Sorrow reigned her little day
Love has driven her far away
Brought the sunshine back to Court
Thus we end in merry sport.

[_Exeunt ALL._]

_EPILOGUE_

[_Enter JESTER._]

The Tale is over and their parts are done,
And Love again has proved the strongest one.
I wonder has it pleased you now to see
The oldest tale told thus in phantasy.
And let your answer be whate'er it may,
Whether your thumbs be up or down to-day
Will hurt not me. I did not write the play.

[THE CURTAIN.]

THE INTRUDER

By MAURICE MAETERLINCK

Maurice Polydore Marie Bernard Maeterlinck, to give him his full baptismal name, was born in Ghent on August 29, 1862. He was sent to the Jesuit College de Sainte-Barbe, the institution which another great Belgian, Emile Verhaeren, also attended. In 1885, Maeterlinck entered the University of Ghent to study law, but his practice of this profession was confined to a scant year or two. Maeterlinck's chief interest in his college years seems to have been the modern movement in Belgian literature. But the frequency of his visits to Paris increased in the years between 1886 and 1896, and finally in the latter year he settled there.

The following word picture supplements the photographs of Maeterlinck that are so frequently reproduced in our magazines and newspapers: "Maeterlinck is easily described: a man of about five feet nine in height, inclined to be stout; silver hair lends distinction to the large round head and boyish fresh complexion; blue-gray eyes, now thoughtful, now merry, and an unaffected off-hand manner. The features are not cut, left rather 'in the rough,' as sculptors say, even the heavy jaw and chin are drowned in fat; the forehead bulges and the eyes lose color in the light and seem hard; still, an interesting and attractive personality."

Maeterlinck's fame rests on his poetry and his essays no less than on his plays. _L'Intruse_, _The Intruder_, reprinted here, belongs to the early years of his activity as a playwright. It was printed in 1890 in a Belgian periodical, _La Wallonie_, and was acted for the first time a year later at Paul Fort's Theatre d'Art in Paris, at a performance given for the benefit of the poet, Paul Verlaine, and the painter, Paul Gauguin. Maeterlinck, though publishing volumes of essays from time to time, continues to write for the theatre.[52] In 1908 _The Blue Bird_, dramatizing the quest for Truth, one of the most popular of modern plays, was given for the first time in Moscow, to be followed ten years later by the premiere in New York of a sequel, _The Betrothal_, similarly dramatizing the search for Beauty. In 1910 came his translation of _Macbeth_ into French. A year later he was awarded the Nobel prize for literature.

[Footnote 52: For bibliography, see Jethro Bithell, _Life and
Writings of Maurice Maeterlinck_, London and New York, 1913.]

_The Intruder_, the theme of which is the mysterious coming of death, is an illustration of one of Maeterlinck's pet theories in regard to the subject matter of the drama. He expresses it in this way in his famous essay on _The Tragic in Daily Life_: "An old man, seated in his armchair, waiting patiently with his lamp beside him--submitting with bent head to the presence of his soul and his destiny--motionless as he is, does yet live in reality a deeper, more human, more universal life than ... the captain who conquers in battle." To plays based on this theory has been given the name "static drama." _The Intruder_ illustrates also Maeterlinck's use of symbols. The Grandfather in the play is blind, for instance; blind characters in Maeterlinck's plays are symbols of the spiritual blindness of the human race; the gardener sharpening his scythe stands for death; the mysterious quenching of the lamp--it may have gone out because there was no oil in it--signifies the going out of life.

The problem in the staging of this play is the "creation of a mood or atmosphere, rather than the unfolding of an action." One of the settings used in this country is here reproduced. It was designed for the Arts & Crafts Theatre of Detroit. Sheldon Cheney, whose description of Sam Hume's plastic units for the stage of this Little Theatre is given in the Introduction on page xxxi, has described the rearrangement of this equipment and the additions that can be made to it for the production of this play as follows: "For Maeterlinck's _The Intruder_, which demanded a room in an old chateau, one important addition was made, a flat with a door. At the left was the arch, then a pylon and curtain, and then the Gothic window with practicable casements added. The rest of the back wall was made up of the new door-piece flanked by curtains, while the third wall consisted of two pylons and curtains. Stairs and platforms were utilized before the window and under the arch. A small two-stair unit was added, leading to the new door. This arrangement afforded exactly that suggestion of spaciousness and mystery for which the play calls." When the play was given at the Independent Theatre in London in 1895, it was played behind a blue gauze curtain.

On one of Maeterlinck's visits to London, he was taken by Alfred Sutro, the dramatist, to call on Barrie in his flat at the Adelphi. Maeterlinck was asked to write his name on the whitewashed wall of Barrie's studio. He did so and added above the signature: "_Au pere de Peter Pan, et au grandpere de L'Oiseau Bleu._"

THE INTRUDER

CHARACTERS

THE THREE DAUGHTERS.
THE GRANDFATHER.
THE FATHER.
THE UNCLE.
THE SERVANT.

_A dimly lighted room in an old country-house. A door on the right, a door on the left, and a small concealed door in a corner. At the back, stained-glass windows, in which the color green predominates, and a glass door opening on to a terrace. A Dutch clock in one corner. A lamp lighted._

THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Come here, grandfather. Sit down under the lamp.

THE GRANDFATHER. There does not seem to me to be much light here.

THE FATHER. Shall we go on to the terrace, or stay in this room?

THE UNCLE. Would it not be better to stay here? It has rained the whole week, and the nights are damp and cold.

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Still the stars are shining.

THE UNCLE. Ah! stars--that's nothing.

THE GRANDFATHER. We had better stay here. One never knows what may happen.

THE FATHER. There is no longer any cause for anxiety. The danger is past, and she is saved....

THE GRANDFATHER. I fancy she is not going on well....

THE FATHER. Why do you say that?

THE GRANDFATHER. I have heard her speak.

THE FATHER. But the doctors assure us we may be easy....

THE UNCLE. You know quite well that your father-in-law likes to alarm us needlessly.

Setting for _The Intruder_ composed of plastic units designed by Sam Hume.]

THE GRANDFATHER. I don't look at these things as you others do.

THE UNCLE. You ought to rely on us, then, who can see. She looked very well this afternoon. She is sleeping quietly now; and we are not going to spoil, without any reason, the first comfortable evening that luck has thrown in our way.... It seems to me we have a perfect right to be easy, and even to laugh a little, this evening, without apprehension.

THE FATHER. That's true; this is the first time I have felt at home with my family since this terrible confinement.

THE UNCLE. When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a stranger had forced himself into the family circle.

THE FATHER. And then you understood, too, that you should count on no one outside the family.

THE UNCLE. You are quite right.

THE GRANDFATHER. Why could I not see my poor daughter to-day?

THE UNCLE. You know quite well--the doctor forbade it.

THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what to think....

THE UNCLE. It is absurd to worry.

THE GRANDFATHER [_pointing to the door on the left_]. She cannot hear us?

THE FATHER. We shall not talk too loud; besides, the door is very thick, and the Sister of Mercy is with her, and she is sure to warn us if we are making too much noise.

THE GRANDFATHER [_pointing to the door on the right_]. He cannot hear us?

THE FATHER. No, no.

THE GRANDFATHER. He is asleep?

THE FATHER. I suppose so.

THE GRANDFATHER. Someone had better go and see.

THE UNCLE. The little one would cause _me_ more anxiety than your wife. It is now several weeks since he was born, and he has scarcely stirred. He has not cried once all the time! He is like a wax doll.

THE GRANDFATHER. I think he will be deaf--dumb too, perhaps--the usual result of a marriage between cousins.... [_A reproving silence._]

THE FATHER. I could almost wish him ill for the suffering he has caused his mother.

THE UNCLE. Do be reasonable; it is not the poor little thing's fault. He is quite alone in the room?

THE FATHER. Yes; the doctor does not wish him to stay in his mother's room any longer.

THE UNCLE. But the nurse is with him?

THE FATHER. No; she has gone to rest a little; she has well deserved it these last few days. Ursula, just go and see if he is asleep.

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father. [_THE THREE SISTERS get up, and go into the room on the right, hand in hand._]

THE FATHER. When will your sister come?

THE UNCLE. I think she will come about nine.

THE FATHER. It is past nine. I hope she will come this evening, my wife is so anxious to see her.

THE UNCLE. She is certain to come. This will be the first time she has been here?

THE FATHER. She has never been into the house.

THE UNCLE. It is very difficult for her to leave her convent.

THE FATHER. Will she be alone?

THE UNCLE. I expect one of the nuns will come with her. They are not allowed to go out alone.

THE FATHER. But she is the Superior.

THE UNCLE. The rule is the same for all.

THE GRANDFATHER. Do you not feel anxious?

THE UNCLE. Why should we feel anxious? What's the good of harping on that? There is nothing more to fear.

THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is older than you?

THE UNCLE. She is the eldest of us all.

THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what ails me; I feel uneasy. I wish your sister were here.

THE UNCLE. She will come; she promised to.

THE GRANDFATHER. I wish this evening were over!

[_THE THREE DAUGHTERS come in again._]

THE FATHER. He is asleep?

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, father; very sound.

THE UNCLE. What shall we do while we are waiting?

THE GRANDFATHER. Waiting for what?

THE UNCLE. Waiting for our sister.

THE FATHER. You see nothing coming, Ursula?

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER [_at the window_]. Nothing, father.

THE FATHER. Not in the avenue? Can you see the avenue?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I can see the avenue as far as the cypress wood.

THE GRANDFATHER. And you do not see anyone?

THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather.

THE UNCLE. What sort of a night is it?

THE DAUGHTER. Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales?

THE UNCLE. Yes, yes.

THE DAUGHTER. A little wind is rising in the avenue.

THE GRANDFATHER. A little wind in the avenue?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes; the trees are trembling a little.

THE UNCLE. I am surprised that my sister is not here yet.

THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear the nightingales any longer.

THE DAUGHTER. I think someone has come into the garden, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it?

THE DAUGHTER. I do not know; I can see no one.

THE UNCLE. Because there is no one there.

THE DAUGHTER. There must be someone in the garden; the nightingales have suddenly ceased singing.

THE GRANDFATHER. But I do not hear anyone coming.

THE DAUGHTER. Someone must be passing by the pond, because the swans are scared.

ANOTHER DAUGHTER. All the fishes in the pond are diving suddenly.

THE FATHER. You cannot see anyone?

THE DAUGHTER. No one, father.

THE FATHER. But the pond lies in the moonlight....

THE DAUGHTER. Yes; I can see that the swans are scared.

THE UNCLE. I am sure it is my sister who is scaring them. She must have come in by the little gate.

THE FATHER. I cannot understand why the dogs do not bark.

THE DAUGHTER. I can see the watch-dog right at the back of his kennel. The swans are crossing to the other bank!...

THE UNCLE. They are afraid of my sister. I will go and see. [_He calls._] Sister! sister! Is that you?... There is no one there.

THE DAUGHTER. I am sure that someone has come into the garden. You will see.

THE UNCLE. But she would answer me!

THE GRANDFATHER. Are not the nightingales beginning to sing again, Ursula?

THE DAUGHTER. I cannot hear one anywhere.

THE GRANDFATHER. And yet there is no noise.

THE FATHER. There is a silence of the grave.

THE GRANDFATHER. It must be some stranger that scares them, for if it were one of the family they would not be silent.

THE UNCLE. How much longer are you going to discuss these nightingales.

THE GRANDFATHER. Are all the windows open, Ursula?

THE DAUGHTER. The glass door is open, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that the cold is penetrating into the room.

THE DAUGHTER. There is a little wind in the garden, grandfather, and the rose-leaves are falling.

THE FATHER. Well, shut the door. It is late.

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, father.... I cannot shut the door.

THE TWO OTHER DAUGHTERS. We cannot shut the door.

THE GRANDFATHER. Why, what is the matter with the door, my children?

THE UNCLE. You need not say that in such an extraordinary voice. I will go and help them.

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We cannot manage to shut it quite.

THE UNCLE. It is because of the damp. Let us all push together. There must be something in the way.

THE FATHER. The carpenter will set it right to-morrow.

THE GRANDFATHER. Is the carpenter coming to-morrow?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; he is coming to do some work in the cellar.

THE GRANDFATHER. He will make a noise in the house.

THE DAUGHTER. I will tell him to work quietly. [_Suddenly the sound of a scythe being sharpened is heard outside._]

THE GRANDFATHER [_with a shudder_]. Oh!

THE UNCLE. What is that?

THE DAUGHTER. I don't quite know; I think it is the gardener. I cannot quite see; he is in the shadow of the house.

THE FATHER. It is the gardener going to mow.

THE UNCLE. He mows by night?

THE FATHER. Is not to-morrow Sunday?--Yes.--I noticed that the grass was very long round the house.

THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me that his scythe makes as much noise ...

THE DAUGHTER. He is mowing near the house.

THE GRANDFATHER. Can you see him, Ursula?

THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather. He stands in the dark.

THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid he will wake my daughter.

THE UNCLE. We can scarcely hear him.

THE GRANDFATHER. It sounds to me as if he were mowing inside the house.

THE UNCLE. The invalid will not hear it; there is no danger.

THE FATHER. It seems to me that the lamp is not burning well this evening.

THE UNCLE. It wants filling.

THE FATHER. I saw it filled this morning. It has burnt badly since the window was shut.

THE UNCLE. I fancy the chimney is dirty.

THE FATHER. It will burn better presently.

THE DAUGHTER. Grandfather is asleep. He has not slept for three nights.

THE FATHER. He has been so much worried.

THE UNCLE. He always worries too much. At times he will not listen to reason.

THE FATHER. It is quite excusable at his age.

THE UNCLE. God knows what we shall be like at his age!

THE FATHER. He is nearly eighty.

THE UNCLE. Then he has a right to be strange.

THE FATHER. He is like all blind people.

THE UNCLE. They think too much.

THE FATHER. They have too much time to spare.

THE UNCLE. They have nothing else to do.

THE FATHER. And, besides, they have no distractions.

THE UNCLE. That must be terrible.

THE FATHER. Apparently one gets used to it.

THE UNCLE. I cannot imagine it.

THE FATHER. They are certainly to be pitied.

THE UNCLE. Not to know where one is, not to know where one has come from, not to know whither one is going, not to be able to distinguish midday from midnight, or summer from winter--and always darkness, darkness! I would rather not live. Is it absolutely incurable?

THE FATHER. Apparently so.

THE UNCLE. But he is not absolutely blind?

THE FATHER. He can perceive a strong light.

THE UNCLE. Let us take care of our poor eyes.

THE FATHER. He often has strange ideas.

THE UNCLE. At times he is not at all amusing.

THE FATHER. He says absolutely everything he thinks.

THE UNCLE. But he was not always like this?

THE FATHER. No; once he was as rational as we are; he never said anything extraordinary. I am afraid Ursula encourages him a little too much; she answers all his questions....

THE UNCLE. It would be better not to answer them. It's a mistaken kindness to him. [_Ten o'clock strikes._]

THE GRANDFATHER [_waking up_]. Am I facing the glass door?

THE DAUGHTER. You have had a nice sleep, grandfather?

THE GRANDFATHER. Am I facing the glass door?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. There is nobody at the glass door?

THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; I do not see anyone.

THE GRANDFATHER. I thought someone was waiting. No one has come?

THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER [_to the UNCLE and FATHER_]. And your sister has not come?

THE UNCLE. It is too late; she will not come now. It is not nice of her.

THE FATHER. I'm beginning to be anxious about her. [_A noise, as of someone coming into the house._]

THE UNCLE. She is here! Did you hear?

THE FATHER. Yes; someone has come in at the basement.

THE UNCLE. It must be our sister. I recognized her step.

THE GRANDFATHER. I heard slow footsteps.

THE FATHER. She came in very quietly.

THE UNCLE. She knows there is an invalid.

THE GRANDFATHER. I hear nothing now.

THE UNCLE. She will come up directly; they will tell her we are here.

THE FATHER. I am glad she has come.

THE UNCLE. I was sure she would come this evening.

THE GRANDFATHER. She is a very long time coming up.

THE UNCLE. However, it must be she.

THE FATHER. We are not expecting any other visitors.

THE GRANDFATHER. I cannot hear any noise in the basement.

THE FATHER. I will call the servant. We shall know how things stand. [_He pulls a bell-rope._]

THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear a noise on the stairs already.

THE FATHER. It is the servant coming up.

THE GRANDFATHER. It sounds to me as if she were not alone.

THE FATHER. She is coming up slowly....

THE GRANDFATHER. I hear your sister's step!

THE FATHER. I can only hear the servant.

THE GRANDFATHER. It is your sister! It is your sister! [_There is a knock at the little door._]

THE UNCLE. She is knocking at the door of the back stairs.

THE FATHER. I will go and open myself. [_He partly opens the little door; THE SERVANT remains outside in the opening._] Where are you?

THE SERVANT. Here, sir.

THE GRANDFATHER. Your sister is at the door?

THE UNCLE. I can only see the servant.

THE FATHER. It is only the servant. [_To THE SERVANT._] Who was that, that came into the house?

THE SERVANT. Came into the house?

THE FATHER. Yes; someone came in just now?

THE SERVANT. No one came in, sir.

THE GRANDFATHER. Who is it sighing like that?

THE UNCLE. It is the servant; she is out of breath.

THE GRANDFATHER. Is she crying?

THE UNCLE. No; why should she be crying?

THE FATHER [_to THE SERVANT_]. No one came in just now?

THE SERVANT. No, sir.

THE FATHER. But we heard someone open the door!

THE SERVANT. It was I shutting the door.

THE FATHER. It was open?

THE SERVANT. Yes, sir.

THE FATHER. Why was it open at this time of night?

THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. I had shut it myself.

THE FATHER. Then who was it that opened it?

THE SERVANT. I do not know, sir. Someone must have gone out after me, sir....

THE FATHER. You must be careful.--Don't push the door; you know what a noise it makes!

THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am not touching the door.

THE FATHER. But you are. You are pushing as if you were trying to get into the room.

THE SERVANT. But, sir, I am three yards away from the door.

THE FATHER. Don't talk so loud....

THE GRANDFATHER. Are they putting out the light?

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. No, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me it has grown pitch dark all at once.

THE FATHER [_to THE SERVANT_]. You can go down again now; but do not make so much noise on the stairs.

THE SERVANT. I did not make any noise on the stairs.

THE FATHER. I tell you that you did make a noise. Go down quietly; you will wake your mistress. And if anyone comes now, say that we are not at home.

THE UNCLE. Yes; say that we are not at home.

THE GRANDFATHER [_shuddering_]. You must not say that!

THE FATHER.... Except to my sister and the doctor.

THE UNCLE. When will the doctor come?

THE FATHER. He will not be able to come before midnight. [_He shuts the door. A clock is heard striking eleven._]

THE GRANDFATHER. She has come in?

THE FATHER. Who?

THE GRANDFATHER. The servant.

THE FATHER. No, she has gone downstairs.

THE GRANDFATHER. I thought that she was sitting at the table.

THE UNCLE. The servant?

THE GRANDFATHER. Yes.

THE UNCLE. That would complete one's happiness!

THE GRANDFATHER. No one has come into the room?

THE FATHER. No; no one has come in.

THE GRANDFATHER. And your sister is not here?

THE UNCLE. Our sister has not come.

THE GRANDFATHER. You want to deceive me.

THE UNCLE. Deceive you?

THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth, for the love of God!

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather! Grandfather! what is the matter with you?

THE GRANDFATHER. Something has happened! I am sure my daughter is worse!...

THE UNCLE. Are you dreaming?

THE GRANDFATHER. You do not want to tell me!... I can see quite well there is something....

THE UNCLE. In that case you can see better than we can.

THE GRANDFATHER. Ursula, tell me the truth!

THE DAUGHTER. But we have told you the truth, grandfather!

THE GRANDFATHER. You do not speak in your ordinary voice.

THE FATHER. That is because you frighten her.

THE GRANDFATHER. Your voice is changed too.

THE FATHER. You are going mad! [_He and THE UNCLE make signs to each other to signify THE GRANDFATHER has lost his reason._]

THE GRANDFATHER. I can hear quite well that you are afraid.

THE FATHER. But what should we be afraid of?

THE GRANDFATHER. Why do you want to deceive me?

THE UNCLE. Who is thinking of deceiving you?

THE GRANDFATHER. Why have you put out the light?

THE UNCLE. But the light has not been put out; there is as much light as there was before.

THE DAUGHTER. It seems to me that the lamp has gone down.

THE FATHER. I see as well now as ever.

THE GRANDFATHER. I have millstones on my eyes! Tell me, girls, what is going on here! Tell me, for the love of God, you who can see! I am here, all alone, in darkness without end! I do not know who seats himself beside me! I do not know what is happening a yard from me!... Why were you talking under your breath just now?

THE FATHER. No one was talking under his breath.

THE GRANDFATHER. You did talk in a low voice at the door.

THE FATHER. You heard all I said.

THE GRANDFATHER. You brought someone into the room!...

THE FATHER. But I tell you no one has come in!

THE GRANDFATHER. Is it your sister or a priest?--You should not try to deceive me.--Ursula, who was it that came in?

THE DAUGHTER. No one, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. You must not try to deceive me; I know what I know.--How many of us are there here?

THE DAUGHTER. There are six of us round the table, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. You are all round the table?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Paul?

THE FATHER. Yes.

THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Oliver?

THE UNCLE. Yes, of course I am here, in my usual place. That's not alarming, is it?

THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Genevieve?

ONE OF THE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. You are there, Gertrude?

ANOTHER DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. You are here, Ursula?

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; next to you.

THE GRANDFATHER. And who is that sitting there?

THE DAUGHTER. Where do you mean, grandfather?--There is no one.

THE GRANDFATHER. There, there--in the midst of us!

THE DAUGHTER. But there is no one, grandfather!

THE FATHER. We tell you there is no one!

THE GRANDFATHER. But you cannot see--any of you!

THE UNCLE. Pshaw! You are joking?

THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel inclined for joking, I can assure you.

THE UNCLE. Then believe those who can see.

THE GRANDFATHER [_undecidedly_]. I thought there was someone.... I believe I shall not live long....

THE UNCLE. Why should we deceive you? What use would there be in that?

THE FATHER. It would be our duty to tell you the truth....

THE UNCLE. What would be the good of deceiving each other?

THE FATHER. You could not live in error long.

THE GRANDFATHER [_trying to rise_]. I should like to pierce this darkness!...

THE FATHER. Where do you want to go?

THE GRANDFATHER. Over there....

THE FATHER. Don't be so anxious....

THE UNCLE. You are strange this evening.

THE GRANDFATHER. It is all of you who seem to me to be strange!

THE FATHER. Do you want anything?...

THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know what ails me.

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. Grandfather! grandfather! What do you want, grandfather?

THE GRANDFATHER. Give me your little hands, my children.

THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Yes, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. Why are you all three trembling, girls?

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. We are scarcely trembling at all, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. I fancy you are all three pale.

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is late, grandfather, and we are tired.

THE FATHER. You must go to bed, and grandfather himself would do well to take a little rest.

THE GRANDFATHER. I could not sleep to-night!

THE UNCLE. We will wait for the doctor.

THE GRANDFATHER. Prepare me for the truth.

THE UNCLE. But there is no truth!

THE GRANDFATHER. Then I do not know what there is!

THE UNCLE. I tell you there is nothing at all!

THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could see my poor daughter!

THE FATHER. But you know quite well it is impossible; she must not be awaked unnecessarily.

THE UNCLE. You will see her to-morrow.

THE GRANDFATHER. There is no sound in her room.

THE UNCLE. I should be uneasy if I heard any sound.

THE GRANDFATHER. It is a very long time since I saw my daughter!... I took her hands yesterday evening, but I could not see her!... I do not know what has become of her!... I do not know how she is.... I do not know what her face is like now.... She must have changed these weeks!... I felt the little bones of her cheeks under my hands.... There is nothing but the darkness between her and me, and the rest of you!... I cannot go on living like this ... this is not living.... You sit there, all of you, looking with open eyes at my dead eyes, and not one of you has pity on me!... I do not know what ails me.... No one tells me what ought to be told me.... And everything is terrifying when one's dreams dwell upon it.... But why are you not speaking?

THE UNCLE. What should we say, since you will not believe us?

THE GRANDFATHER. You are afraid of betraying yourselves!

THE FATHER. Come now, be rational!

THE GRANDFATHER. You have been hiding something from me for a long time!... Something has happened in the house.... But I am beginning to understand now.... You have been deceiving me too long!--You fancy that I shall never know anything?--There are moments when I am less blind than you, you know!... Do you think I have not heard you whispering--for days and days--as if you were in the house of someone who had been hanged--I dare not say what I know this evening.... But I shall know the truth!... I shall wait for you to tell me the truth; but I have known it for a long time, in spite of you!--And now, I feel that you are all paler than the dead!

THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Grandfather! grandfather! What is the matter, grandfather?

THE GRANDFATHER. It is not you that I am speaking of, girls. No, it is not you that I am speaking of.... I know quite well you would tell me the truth--if they were not by! ... And besides, I feel sure that they are deceiving you as well.... You will see, children--you will see!... Do not I hear you all sobbing?

THE FATHER. Is my wife really so ill?

THE GRANDFATHER. It is no good trying to deceive me any longer; it is too late now, and I know the truth better than you!...

THE UNCLE. But _we_ are not blind; we are not.

THE FATHER. Would you like to go into your daughter's room? This misunderstanding must be put an end to.--Would you?

THE GRANDFATHER [_becoming suddenly undecided_]. No, no, not now--not yet.

THE UNCLE. You see, you are not reasonable.

THE GRANDFATHER. One never knows how much a man has been unable to express in his life!... Who made that noise?

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. It is the lamp flickering, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me to be very unsteady--very!

THE DAUGHTER. It is the cold wind troubling it....

THE UNCLE. There is no cold wind, the windows are shut.

THE DAUGHTER. I think it is going out.

THE FATHER. There is no more oil.

THE DAUGHTER. It has gone right out.

THE FATHER. We cannot stay like this in the dark.

THE UNCLE. Why not?--I am quite accustomed to it.

THE FATHER. There is a light in my wife's room.

THE UNCLE. We will take it from there presently, when the doctor has been.

THE FATHER. Well, we can see enough here; there is the light from outside.

THE GRANDFATHER. Is it light outside?

THE FATHER. Lighter than here.

THE UNCLE. For my part, I would as soon talk in the dark.

THE FATHER. So would I. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. It seems to me the clock makes a great deal of noise....

THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. That is because we are not talking any more, grandfather.

THE GRANDFATHER. But why are you all silent?

THE UNCLE. What do you want us to talk about?--You are really very peculiar to-night.

THE GRANDFATHER. Is it very dark in this room?

THE UNCLE. There is not much light. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. I do not feel well, Ursula; open the window a little.

THE FATHER. Yes, child; open the window a little. I begin to feel the want of air myself. [_The girl opens the window._]

THE UNCLE. I really believe we have stayed shut up too long.

THE GRANDFATHER. Is the window open?

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather; it is wide open.

THE GRANDFATHER. One would not have thought it was open; there is not a sound outside.

THE DAUGHTER. No, grandfather; there is not the slightest sound.

THE FATHER. The silence is extraordinary!

THE DAUGHTER. One could hear an angel tread!

THE UNCLE. That is why I do not like the country.

THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I could hear some sound. What o'clock is it, Ursula?

THE DAUGHTER. It will soon be midnight, grandfather. [_Here THE UNCLE begins to pace up and down the room._]

THE GRANDFATHER. Who is that walking round us like that?

THE UNCLE. Only I! only I! Do not be frightened! I want to walk about a little. [_Silence._]--But I am going to sit down again;--I cannot see where I am going. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. I wish I were out of this place!

THE DAUGHTER. Where would you like to go, grandfather?

THE GRANDFATHER. I do not know where--into another room, no matter where! no matter where!

THE FATHER. Where could we go?

THE UNCLE. It is too late to go anywhere else. [_Silence. They are sitting, motionless, round the table._]

THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear, Ursula?

THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the leaves falling.--Yes, it is the leaves falling on the terrace.

THE GRANDFATHER. Go and shut the window, Ursula.

THE DAUGHTER. Yes, grandfather. [_She shuts the window, comes back, and sits down._]

THE GRANDFATHER. I am cold. [_Silence. THE THREE SISTERS kiss each other._] What is that I hear now?

THE FATHER. It is the three sisters kissing each other.

THE UNCLE. It seems to me they are very pale this evening. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. What is that I hear now, Ursula?

THE DAUGHTER. Nothing, grandfather; it is the clasping of my hands. [_Silence._]

THE GRANDFATHER. And that?...

THE DAUGHTER. I do not know, grandfather ... perhaps my sisters are trembling a little?...

THE GRANDFATHER. I am afraid, too, my children. [_Here a ray of moonlight penetrates through a corner of the stained glass, and throws strange gleams here and there in the room. A clock strikes midnight; at the last stroke there is a very vague sound, as of someone rising in haste._]

THE GRANDFATHER [_shuddering with peculiar horror_]. Who is that who got up?

THE UNCLE. No one got up!

THE FATHER. I did not get up!

THE THREE DAUGHTERS. Nor I!--Nor I!--Nor I!

THE GRANDFATHER. Someone got up from the table!

THE UNCLE. Light the lamp!... [_Cries of terror are suddenly heard from the child's room, on the right; these cries continue, with gradations of horror, until the end of the scene._]

THE FATHER. Listen to the child!

THE UNCLE. He has never cried before!

THE FATHER. Let us go and see him!

THE UNCLE. The light! The light! [_At this moment, quick and heavy steps are heard in the room on the left.--Then a deathly silence.--They listen in mute terror, until the door of the room opens slowly, the light from it is cast into the room where they are sitting, and the Sister of Mercy appears on the threshold, in her black garments, and bows as she makes the sign of the cross, to announce the death of the wife. They understand, and, after a moment of hesitation and fright, silently enter the chamber of death, while THE UNCLE politely steps aside on the threshold to let the three girls pass. The blind man, left alone, gets up, agitated, and feels his way round the table in the darkness._]

THE GRANDFATHER. Where are you going?--Where are you going?--The girls have left me all alone!

[THE CURTAIN.]

FORTUNE AND MEN'S EYES[53]

_A DRAMA IN ONE ACT_

By JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY