Chapter II: Act I

_N.B. The Comedy is without acts or scenes. The performance
is interrupted once, without the curtain being lowered, when
the manager and the chief characters withdraw to arrange the
scenario. A second interruption of the action takes place
when, by mistake, the stage hands let the curtain down._

_The spectators will find the curtain raised and the stage
as it usually is during the day time. It will be half dark,
and empty, so that from the beginning the public may have
the impression of an impromptu performance._

_Prompter's box and a small table and chair for the
manager._

_Two other small tables and several chairs scattered about
as during rehearsals._

_The actors and actresses of the company enter from the back
of the stage:_

_first one, then another, then two together: nine or ten in
all. They are about to rehearse a Pirandello play_: Mixing
It Up. _Some of the company move off towards their dressing
rooms. The prompter who has the "book" under his arm, is
waiting for the manager in order to begin the rehearsal._

_The actors and actresses, some standing, some sitting, chat
and smoke. One perhaps reads a paper; another cons his
part._

_Finally, the Manager enters and goes to the table prepared
for him: His secretary brings him his mail, through which he
glances. The prompter takes his seat, turns on a light, and
opens the "book."_

THE MANAGER (_throwing a letter down on the table_). I can't
see (_to Property Man_). Let's have a little light, please!

PROPERTY MAN. Yes sir, yes, at once (_a light comes down on
to the stage_).

THE MANAGER (_clapping his hands_). Come along! Come along!
Second act of "Mixing it Up" (_sits down_).

(_The actors and actresses go from the front of the stage to
the wings, all except the three who are to begin the
rehearsal_).

THE PROMPTER (_reading the "book"_). "Leo Gala's house. A
curious room serving as dining-room and study."

THE MANAGER (_to Property Man_). Fix up the old red room.

PROPERTY MAN (_noting it down_). Red set. All right!

THE PROMPTER (_continuing to read from the "book"_). "Table
already laid and writing desk with books and papers.
Book-shelves. Exit rear to Leo's bedroom. Exit left to
kitchen. Principal exit to right."

THE MANAGER (_energetically_). Well, you understand: The
principal exit over there; here, the kitchen. (_Turning to
actor who is to play the part of Socrates_). You make your
entrances and exits here. (_To Property Man_) The baize
doors at the rear, and curtains.

PROPERTY MAN (_noting it down_). Right oh!

PROMPTER (_reading as before_). "When the curtain rises, Leo
Gala, dressed in cook's cap and apron is busy beating an egg
in a cup. Philip, also dressed as a cook, is beating another
egg. Guido Venanzi is seated and listening."

LEADING MAN (_to manager_). Excuse me, but must I absolutely
wear a cook's cap?

THE MANAGER (_annoyed_). I imagine so. It says so there
anyway (_pointing to the "book"_).

LEADING MAN. But it's ridiculous!

THE MANAGER (_jumping up in a rage_). Ridiculous?
Ridiculous? Is it my fault if France won't send us any more
good comedies, and we are reduced to putting on Pirandello's
works, where nobody understands anything, and where the
author plays the fool with us all? (_The actors grin. The
Manager goes to Leading Man and shouts_). Yes sir, you put
on the cook's cap and beat eggs. Do you suppose that with
all this egg-beating business you are on an ordinary stage?
Get that out of your head. You represent the shell of the
eggs you are beating! (_Laughter and comments among the
actors_). Silence! and listen to my explanations, please!
(_To Leading Man_): "The empty form of reason without the
fullness of instinct, which is blind."--You stand for
reason, your wife is instinct. It's a mixing up of the
parts, according to which you who act your own part become
the puppet of yourself. Do you understand?

LEADING MAN. I'm hanged if I do.

THE MANAGER. Neither do I. But let's get on with it. It's
sure to be a glorious failure anyway. (_Confidentially_):
But I say, please face three-quarters. Otherwise, what with
the abstruseness of the dialogue, and the public that won't
be able to hear you, the whole thing will go to hell. Come
on! come on!

PROMPTER. Pardon sir, may I get into my box? There's a bit
of a draught.

THE MANAGER. Yes, yes, of course!

_At this point, the door-keeper has entered from the stage
door and advances towards the manager's table, taking off
his braided cap. During this manoeuvre, the Six Characters
enter, and stop by the door at back of stage, so that when
the door-keeper is about to announce their coming to the
Manager, they are already on the stage. A tenuous light
surrounds them, almost as if irradiated by them--the faint
breath of their fantastic reality._

_This light will disappear when they come forward towards
the actors. They preserve, however, something of the dream
lightness in which they seem almost suspended; but this does
not detract from the essential reality of their forms and
expressions._

_He who is known as_ THE FATHER _is a man of about_ 50:
_hair, reddish in colour, thin at the temples; he is not
bald, however; thick moustaches, falling over his still
fresh mouth, which often opens in an empty and uncertain
smile. He is fattish, pale; with an especially wide
forehead. He has blue, oval-shaped eyes, very clear and
piercing. Wears light trousers and a dark jacket. He is
alternatively mellifluous and violent in his manner._

THE MOTHER _seems crushed and terrified as if by an
intolerable weight of shame and abasement. She is dressed in
modest black and wears a thick widow's veil of crêpe. When
she lifts this, she reveals a wax-like face. She always
keeps her eyes downcast._

THE STEP-DAUGHTER, _is dashing, almost impudent, beautiful.
She wears mourning too, but with great elegance. She shows
contempt for the timid half-frightened manner of the
wretched_ BOY (14 _years old, and also dressed in black_);
on the other hand, she displays a lively tenderness for her
_little sister_, THE CHILD _(about four), who is dressed in
white, with a black silk sash at the waist_.

THE SON (22) _tall, severe in his attitude of contempt for_
THE FATHER, _supercilious and indifferent to the_ MOTHER.
_He looks as if he had come on the stage against his will_.

DOOR-KEEPER (_cap in hand_). Excuse me, sir....

THE MANAGER (_rudely_). Eh? What is it?

DOOR-KEEPER (_timidly_). These people are asking for you,
sir.

THE MANAGER (_furious_). I am rehearsing, and you know
perfectly well no one's allowed to come in during
rehearsals! (_Turning to the Characters_): Who are you,
please? What do you want?

THE FATHER (_coming forward a little, followed by the others
who seem embarrassed_). As a matter of fact ... we have come
here in search of an author....

THE MANAGER (_half angry, half amazed_). An author? What
author?

THE FATHER. Any author, sir.

THE MANAGER. But there's no author here. We are not
rehearsing a new piece.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_vivaciously_). So much the better, so
much the better! We can be your new piece.

AN ACTOR (_coming forward from the others_). Oh, do you hear
that?

THE FATHER (_to Step-Daughter_). Yes, but if the author
isn't here ... (_To Manager_) ... unless you would be
willing....

THE MANAGER. You are trying to be funny.

THE FATHER. No, for Heaven's sake, what are you saying? We
bring you a drama, sir.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. We may be your fortune.

THE MANAGER. Will you oblige me by going away? We haven't
time to waste with mad people.

THE FATHER (_mellifluously_). Oh sir, you know well that
life is full of infinite absurdities, which, strangely
enough, do not even need to appear plausible, since they are
true.

THE MANAGER. What the devil is he talking about?

THE FATHER. I say that to reverse the ordinary process may
well be considered a madness: that is, to create credible
situations, in order that they may appear true. But permit
me to observe that if this be madness, it is the sole
_raison d'être_ of your profession, gentlemen. (_The actors
look hurt and perplexed_).

THE MANAGER (_getting up and looking at him_). So our
profession seems to you one worthy of madmen then?

THE FATHER. Well, to make seem true that which isn't true
... without any need ... for a joke as it were.... Isn't
that your mission, gentlemen: to give life to fantastic
characters on the stage?

THE MANAGER (_interpreting the rising anger of the
Company_). But I would beg you to believe, my dear sir, that
the profession of the comedian is a noble one. If today, as
things go, the playwrights give us stupid comedies to play
and puppets to represent instead of men, remember we are
proud to have given life to immortal works here on these
very boards! (_The actors, satisfied, applaud their
Manager_).

THE FATHER (_interrupting furiously_). Exactly, perfectly,
to living beings more alive than those who breathe and wear
clothes: beings less real perhaps, but truer! I agree with
you entirely. (_The actors look at one another in
amazement_).

THE MANAGER. But what do you mean? Before, you said....

THE FATHER. No, excuse me, I meant it for you, sir, who were
crying out that you had no time to lose with madmen, while
no one better than yourself knows that nature uses the
instrument of human fantasy in order to pursue her high
creative purpose.

THE MANAGER. Very well,--but where does all this take us?

THE FATHER. Nowhere! It is merely to show you that one is
born to life in many forms, in many shapes, as tree, or as
stone, as water, as butterfly, or as woman. So one may also
be born a character in a play.

THE MANAGER (_with feigned comic dismay_). So you and these
other friends of yours have been born characters?

THE FATHER. Exactly, and alive as you see! (_Manager and
actors burst out laughing_).

THE FATHER (_hurt_). I am sorry you laugh, because we carry
in us a drama, as you can guess from this woman here veiled
in black.

THE MANAGER (_losing patience at last and almost
indignant_). Oh, chuck it! Get away please! Clear out of
here! (_to Property Man_). For Heaven's sake, turn them out!

THE FATHER (_resisting_). No, no, look here, we....

THE MANAGER (_roaring_). We come here to work, you know.

LEADING ACTOR. One cannot let oneself be made such a fool
of.

THE FATHER (_determined, coming forward_). I marvel at your
incredulity, gentlemen. Are you not accustomed to see the
characters created by an author spring to life in yourselves
and face each other? Just because there is no "book"
(_pointing to the Prompter's box_) which contains us, you
refuse to believe....

THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_advances towards Manager, smiling and
coquettish_). Believe me, we are really six most interesting
characters, sir; side-tracked however.

THE FATHER. Yes, that is the word! (_To Manager all at
once_): In the sense, that is, that the author who created
us alive no longer wished, or was no longer able, materially
to put us into a work of art. And this was a real crime,
sir; because he who has had the luck to be born a character
can laugh even at death. He cannot die. The man, the writer,
the instrument of the creation will die, but his creation
does not die. And to live for ever, it does not need to have
extraordinary gifts or to be able to work wonders. Who was
Sancho Panza? Who was Don Abbondio? Yet they live eternally
because--live germs as they were--they had the fortune to
find a fecundating matrix, a fantasy which could raise and
nourish them: make them live for ever!

THE MANAGER. That is quite all right. But what do you want
here, all of you?

THE FATHER. We want to live.

THE MANAGER (_ironically_). For Eternity?

THE FATHER. No, sir, only for a moment ... in you.

AN ACTOR. Just listen to him!

LEADING LADY. They want to live, in us...!

JUVENILE LEAD (_pointing to the Step-Daughter_). I've no
objection, as far as that one is concerned!

THE FATHER. Look here! look here! The comedy has to be made.
(_To the Manager_): But if you and your actors are willing,
we can soon concert it among ourselves.

THE MANAGER (_annoyed_). But what do you want to concert? We
don't go in for concerts here. Here we play dramas and
comedies!

THE FATHER. Exactly! That is just why we have come to you.

THE MANAGER. And where is the "book"?

THE FATHER. It is in us! (_The actors laugh_). The drama is
in us, and we are the drama. We are impatient to play it.
Our inner passion drives us on to this.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_disdainful, alluring, treacherous, full
of impudence_). My passion, sir! Ah, if you only knew! My
passion for him! (_Points to the Father and makes a pretence
of embracing him. Then she breaks out into a loud laugh_).

THE FATHER (_angrily_). Behave yourself! And please don't
laugh in that fashion.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. With your permission, gentlemen, I, who
am a two months' orphan, will show you how I can dance and
sing.

(_Sings and then dances_). Prenez garde a Tchou-Thin-Tchou.

Les chinois sont un peuple malin,
De Shangaî à Pekin,
Ils ont mis des écriteux partout:
Prenez garde à Tchou-Thin-Tchou.

ACTORS and ACTRESSES. Bravo! Well done! Tip-top!

THE MANAGER. Silence! This isn't a café concert, you know!
(_Turning to the Father in consternation_): Is she mad?

THE FATHER. Mad? No, she's worse than mad.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_to Manager_). Worse? Worse? Listen!
Stage this drama for us at once! Then you will see that at a
certain moment I ... when this little darling here ...
(_Takes the Child by the hand and leads her to the
Manager_): Isn't she a dear? (_Takes her up and kisses
her_). Darling! Darling! (_Puts her down again and adds
feelingly_): Well, when God suddenly takes this dear little
child away from that poor mother there; and this imbecile
here (_seizing hold of the Boy roughly and pushing him
forward_) does the stupidest things, like the fool he is,
you will see me run away. Yes, gentleman, I shall be off.
But the moment hasn't arrived yet. After what has taken
place between him and me (_indicates the Father with a
horrible wink_), I can't remain any longer in this society,
to have to witness the anguish of this mother here for that
fool.... (_indicates the Son_). Look at him! Look at him!
See how indifferent, how frigid he is, because he is the
legitimate son. He despises me, despises him (_pointing to
the Boy_), despises this baby here; because ... we are
bastards (_goes to the Mother and embraces her_). And he
doesn't want to recognize her as his mother--she who is the
common mother of us all. He looks down upon her as if she
were only the mother of us three bastards. Wretch! (_She
says all this very rapidly, excitedly. At the word
"bastards" she raises her voice, and almost spits out the
final "Wretch!"_).

THE MOTHER (_to the Manager, in anguish_). In the name of
these two little children, I beg you.... (_She grows faint
and is about to fall_). Oh God!

THE FATHER (_coming forward to support her as do some of the
actors_). Quick a chair, a chair for this poor widow!

THE ACTORS. Is it true? Has she really fainted?

THE MANAGER. Quick, a chair! Here!

(_One of the actors brings a chair, the others proffer
assistance. The Mother tries to prevent the Father from
lifting the veil which covers her face_).

THE FATHER. Look at her! Look at her!

THE MOTHER. No, no; stop it please!

THE FATHER (_raising her veil_). Let them see you!

THE MOTHER (_rising and covering her face with her hands, in
desperation_). I beg you, sir, to prevent this man from
carrying out his plan which is loathsome to me.

THE MANAGER (_dumbfounded_). I don't understand at all. What
is the situation? Is this lady your wife? (_to the Father_).

THE FATHER. Yes, gentlemen: my wife!

THE MANAGER. But how can she be a widow if you are alive?
(_The actors find relief for their astonishment in a loud
laugh_).

THE FATHER. Don't laugh! Don't laugh like that, for Heaven's
sake. Her drama lies just here in this: she has had a lover,
a man who ought to be here.

THE MOTHER (_with a cry_). No! No!

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Fortunately for her, he is dead. Two
months ago as I said. We are in mourning, as you see.

THE FATHER. He isn't here you see, not because he is dead.
He isn't here--look at her a moment and you will
understand--because her drama isn't a drama of the love of
two men for whom she was incapable of feeling anything
except possibly a little gratitude--gratitude not for me but
for the other. She isn't a woman, she is a mother, and her
drama--powerful sir, I assure you--lies, as a matter of
fact, all in these four children she has had by two men.

THE MOTHER. I had them? Have you got the courage to say that
I wanted them? (_To the company_). It was his doing. It was
he who gave me that other man, who forced me to go away with
him.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It isn't true.

THE MOTHER (_startled_). Not true, isn't it?

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. No, it isn't true, it just isn't true.

THE MOTHER. And what can you know about it?

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It isn't true. Don't believe it. (_To
Manager_). Do you know why she says so? For that fellow
there (_indicates the Son_). She tortures herself, destroys
herself on account of the neglect of that son there; and she
wants him to believe that if she abandoned him when he was
only two years old, it was because he (_indicates the
Father_) made her do so.

THE MOTHER (_vigorously_). He forced me to it, and I call
God to witness it (_to the Manager_). Ask him (_indicates
husband_) if it isn't true. Let him speak. You (_to
daughter_) are not in a position to know anything about it.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. I know you lived in peace and happiness
with my father while he lived. Can you deny it?

THE MOTHER. No, I don't deny it....

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. He was always full of affection and
kindness for you (_to the Boy, angrily_). It's true, isn't
it? Tell them! Why don't you speak, you little fool?

THE MOTHER. Leave the poor boy alone. Why do you want to
make me appear ungrateful, daughter? I don't want to offend
your father. I have answered him that I didn't abandon my
house and my son through any fault of mine, nor from any
wilful passion.

THE FATHER. It is true. It was my doing.

LEADING MAN (_to the Company_). What a spectacle!

LEADING LADY. We are the audience this time.

JUVENILE LEAD. For once, in a way.

THE MANAGER (_beginning to get really interested_). Let's
hear them out. Listen!

THE SON. Oh yes, you're going to hear a fine bit now. He
will talk to you of the Demon of Experiment.

THE FATHER. You are a cynical imbecile. I've told you so
already a hundred times (_to the Manager_). He tries to make
fun of me on account of this expression which I have found
to excuse myself with.

THE SON (_with disgust_). Yes, phrases! phrases!

THE FATHER. Phrases! Isn't everyone consoled when faced with
a trouble or fact he doesn't understand, by a word, some
simple word, which tells us nothing and yet calms us?

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Even in the case of remorse. In fact,
especially then.

THE FATHER. Remorse? No, that isn't true. I've done more
than use words to quieten the remorse in me.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, there was a bit of money too. Yes,
yes, a bit of money. There were the hundred lire he was
about to offer me in payment, gentlemen.... (_sensation of
horror among the actors_).

THE SON (_to the Step-Daughter_). This is vile.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Vile? There they were in a pale blue
envelope on a little mahogany table in the back of Madame
Pace's shop. You know Madame Pace--one of those ladies who
attract poor girls of good family into their ateliers, under
the pretext of their selling _robes et manteaux_.

THE SON. And he thinks he has bought the right to tyrannise
over us all with those hundred lire he was going to pay; but
which, fortunately--note this, gentlemen--he had no chance
of paying.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It was a near thing, though, you know!
(_laughs ironically_).

THE MOTHER (_protesting_.) Shame, my daughter, shame!

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Shame indeed! This is my revenge! I am
dying to live that scene.... The room ... I see it.... Here
is the window with the mantles exposed, there the divan, the
looking-glass, a screen, there in front of the window the
little mahogany table with the blue envelope containing one
hundred lire. I see it. I see it. I could take hold of
it.... But you, gentlemen, you ought to turn your backs now:
I am almost nude, you know. But I don't blush: I leave that
to him (_indicating Father_).

THE MANAGER. I don't understand this at all.

THE FATHER. Naturally enough. I would ask you, sir, to
exercise your authority a little here, and let me speak
before you believe all she is trying to blame me with. Let
me explain.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Ah yes, explain it in your own way.

THE FATHER. But don't you see that the whole trouble lies
here. In words, words. Each one of us has within him a whole
world of things, each man of us his own special world. And
how can we ever come to an understanding if I put in the
words I utter the sense and value of things as I see them;
while you who listen to me must inevitably translate them
according to the conception of things each one of you has
within himself. We think we understand each other, but we
never really do! Look here! This woman (_indicating the
Mother_) takes all my pity for her as a specially ferocious
form of cruelty.

THE MOTHER. But you drove me away.

THE FATHER. Do you hear her? I drove her away! She believes
I really sent her away.

THE MOTHER. You know how to talk, and I don't; but, believe
me sir, (_to Manager_) after he had married me ... who knows
why? ... I was a poor insignificant woman....

THE FATHER. But, good Heavens! it was just for your humility
that I married you. I loved this simplicity in you (_He
stops when he sees she makes signs to contradict him, opens
his arms wide in sign of desperation, seeing how hopeless it
is to make himself understood_). You see she denies it. Her
mental deafness, believe me, is phenomenal, the limit
(_touches his forehead_): deaf, deaf, mentally deaf! She has
plenty of feeling. Oh yes, a good heart for the children;
but the brain--deaf, to the point of desperation--!

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, but ask him how his intelligence has
helped us.

THE FATHER. If we could see all the evil that may spring
from good, what should we do? (_At this point the Leading
Lady who is biting her lips with rage at seeing the Leading
Man flirting with the Step-Daughter, comes forward and says
to the Manager_).

LEADING LADY. Excuse me, but are we going to rehearse today?

MANAGER. Of course, of course; but let's hear them out.

JUVENILE LEAD. This is something quite new.

L'INGÉNUE. Most interesting!

LEADING LADY. Yes, for the people who like that kind of
thing (_casts a glance at Leading Man_).

THE MANAGER (_to Father_.) You must please explain yourself
quite clearly (_sits down_).

THE FATHER. Very well then: listen! I had in my service a
poor man, a clerk, a secretary of mine, full of devotion,
who became friends with her (_indicating the Mother_). They
understood one another, were kindred souls in fact, without,
however, the least suspicion of any evil existing. They were
incapable even of thinking of it.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. So he thought of it--for them!

THE FATHER. That's not true. I meant to do good to them--and
to myself, I confess, at the same time. Things had come to
the point that I could not say a word to either of them
without their making a mute appeal, one to the other, with
their eyes. I could see them silently asking each other how
I was to be kept in countenance, how I was to be kept quiet.
And this, believe me, was just about enough of itself to
keep me in a constant rage, to exasperate me beyond measure.

THE MANAGER. And why didn't you send him away then--this
secretary of yours?

THE FATHER. Precisely what I did, sir. And then I had to
watch this poor woman drifting forlornly about the house
like an animal without a master, like an animal one has
taken in out of pity.

THE MOTHER. Ah yes...!

THE FATHER (_suddenly turning to the Mother_). It's true
about the son anyway, isn't it?

THE MOTHER. He took my son away from me first of all.

THE FATHER. But not from cruelty. I did it so that he should
grow up healthy and strong by living in the country.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_pointing to him ironically_). As one can
see.

THE FATHER (_quickly_). Is it my fault if he has grown up
like this? I sent him to a wet nurse in the country, a
peasant, as _she_ did not seem to me strong enough, though
she is of humble origin. That was, anyway, the reason I
married her. Unpleasant all this maybe, but how can it be
helped? My mistake possibly, but there we are! All my life I
have had these confounded aspirations towards a certain
moral sanity. (_At this point the Step-Daughter bursts out
into a noisy laugh_). Oh, stop, it! Stop it! I can't stand
it.

THE MANAGER. Yes, please stop it, for Heaven's sake.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. But imagine moral sanity from him, if you
please--the client of certain ateliers like that of Madame
Pace!

THE FATHER. Fool! That is the proof that I am a man! This
seeming contradiction, gentlemen, is the strongest proof
that I stand here a live man before you. Why, it is just for
this very incongruity in my nature that I have had to suffer
what I have. I could not live by the side of that woman
(_indicating the Mother_) any longer; but not so much for
the boredom she inspired me with as for the pity I felt for
her.

THE MOTHER. And so he turned me out--.

THE FATHER. --well provided for! Yes, I sent her to that
man, gentlemen ... to let her go free of me.

THE MOTHER. And to free himself.

THE FATHER. Yes, I admit it. It was also a liberation for
me. But great evil has come of it. I meant well when I did
it; and I did it more for her sake than mine. I swear it
(_crosses his arms on his chest; then turns suddenly to the
Mother_). Did I ever lose sight of you until that other man
carried you off to another town, like the angry fool he was?
And on account of my pure interest in you ... my pure
interest, I repeat, that had no base motive in it ... I
watched with the tenderest concern the new family that grew
up around her. She can bear witness to this (_points to the
Step-Daughter_).

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Oh yes, that's true enough. When I was a
kiddie, so so high, you know, with plaits over my shoulders
and knickers longer than my skirts, I used to see him
waiting outside the school for me to come out. He came to
see how I was growing up.

THE FATHER. This is infamous, shameful!

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. No, why?

THE FATHER. Infamous! infamous! (_Then excitedly to Manager
explaining_). After she (_indicating Mother_) went away, my
house seemed suddenly empty. She was my incubus, but she
filled my house. I was like a dazed fly alone in the empty
rooms. This boy here (_indicating the Son_) was educated
away from home, and when he came back, he seemed to me to be
no more mine. With no mother to stand between him and me, he
grew up entirely for himself, on his own, apart, with no tie
of intellect or affection binding him to me. And
then--strange but true--I was driven, by curiosity at first
and then by some tender sentiment, towards her family, which
had come into being through my will. The thought of her
began gradually to fill up the emptiness I felt all around
me. I wanted to know if she were happy in living out the
simple daily duties of life. I wanted to think of her as
fortunate and happy because far away from the complicated
torments of my spirit. And so, to have proof of this, I used
to watch that child coming out of school.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, yes. True. He used to follow me in
the street and smiled at me, waved his hand, like this. I
would look at him with interest, wondering who he might be.
I told my mother, who guessed at once (_the Mother agrees
with a nod_). Then she didn't want to send me to school for
some days; and when I finally went back, there he was
again--looking so ridiculous--with a paper parcel in his
hands. He came close to me, caressed me, and drew out a fine
straw hat from the parcel, with a bouquet of flowers--all
for me!

THE MANAGER. A bit discursive this, you know!

THE SON (_contemptuously_). Literature! Literature!

THE FATHER. Literature indeed! This is life, this is
passion!

THE MANAGER. It may be, but it won't act.

THE FATHER. I agree. This is only the part leading up. I
don't suggest this should be staged. She (_pointing to the
Step-Daughter_), as you see, is no longer the flapper with
plaits down her back--.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. --and the knickers showing below the
skirt!

THE FATHER. The drama is coming now, sir; something new,
complex, most interesting.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. As soon as my father died....

THE FATHER. --there was absolute misery for them. They came
back here, unknown to me. Through her stupidity (_pointing
to the Mother_)! It is true she can barely write her own
name; but she could anyhow have got her daughter to write to
me that they were in need....

THE MOTHER. And how was I to divine all this sentiment in
him?

THE FATHER. That is exactly your mistake, never to have
guessed any of my sentiments.

THE MOTHER. After so many years apart, and all that had
happened....

THE FATHER. Was it my fault if that fellow carried you away?
It happened quite suddenly; for after he had obtained some
job or other, I could find no trace of them; and so, not
unnaturally, my interest in them dwindled. But the drama
culminated unforeseen and violent on their return, when I
was impelled by my miserable flesh that still lives.... Ah!
what misery, what wretchedness is that of the man who is
alone and disdains debasing _liaisons_! Not old enough to do
without women, and not young enough to go and look for one
without shame. Misery? It's worse than misery; it's a
horror; for no woman can any longer give him love; and when
a man feels this ... One ought to do without, you say? Yes,
yes, I know. Each of us when he appears before his fellows
is clothed in a certain dignity. But every man knows what
unconfessable things pass within the secrecy of his own
heart. One gives way to the temptation, only to rise from it
again, afterwards, with a great eagerness to reestablish
one's dignity, as if it were a tomb-stone to place on the
grave of one's shame, and a monument to hide and sign the
memory of our weaknesses. Everybody's in the same case. Some
folks haven't the courage to say certain things, that's all!

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. All appear to have the courage to do them
though.

THE FATHER. Yes, but in secret. Therefore, you want more
courage to say these things. Let a man but speak these
things out, and folks at once label him a cynic. But it
isn't true. He is like all the others, better indeed,
because he isn't afraid to reveal with the light of the
intelligence the red shame of human bestiality on which most
men close their eyes so as not to see it.

Woman--for example, look at her case! She turns tantalizing
inviting glances on you. You seize her. No sooner does she
feel herself in your grasp than she closes her eyes. It is
the sign of her mission, the sign by which she says to man:
"Blind yourself, for I am blind."

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Sometimes she can close them no more:
when she no longer feels the need of hiding her shame to
herself, but dry-eyed and dispassionately, sees only that of
the man who has blinded himself without love. Oh, all these
intellectual complications make me sick, disgust me--all
this philosophy that uncovers the beast in man, and then
seeks to save him, excuse him ... I can't stand it, sir.
When a man seeks to "simplify" life bestially, throwing
aside every relic of humanity, every chaste aspiration,
every pure feeling, all sense of ideality, duty, modesty,
shame ... then nothing is more revolting and nauseous than a
certain kind of remorse--crocodiles' tears, that's what it
is.

THE MANAGER. Let's come to the point. This is only
discussion.

THE FATHER. Very good, sir! But a fact is like a sack which
won't stand up when it is empty. In order that it may stand
up, one has to put into it the reason and sentiment which
have caused it to exist. I couldn't possibly know that after
the death of that man, they had decided to return here, that
they were in misery, and that she (_pointing to the Mother_)
had gone to work as a modiste, and at a shop of the type of
that of Madame Pace.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. A real high-class modiste, you must know,
gentlemen. In appearance, she works for the leaders of the
best society; but she arranges matters so that these elegant
ladies serve her purpose ... without prejudice to other
ladies who are ... well ... only so so.

THE MOTHER. You will believe me, gentlemen, that it never
entered my mind that the old hag offered me work because she
had her eye on my daughter.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Poor mamma! Do you know, sir, what that
woman did when I brought her back the work my mother had
finished? She would point out to me that I had torn one of
my frocks, and she would give it back to my mother to mend.
It was I who paid for it, always I; while this poor creature
here believed she was sacrificing herself for me and these
two children here, sitting up at night sewing Madame Pace's
robes.

THE MANAGER. And one day you met there....

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Him, him. Yes sir, an old client. There's
a scene for you to play! Superb!

THE FATHER. She, the Mother arrived just then....

THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_treacherously_). Almost in time!

THE FATHER (_crying out_). No, in time! in time! Fortunately
I recognized her ... in time. And I took them back home with
me to my house. You can imagine now her position and mine:
she, as you see her; and I who cannot look her in the face.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Absurd! How can I possibly be
expected--after that--to be a modest young miss, a fit
person to go with his confounded aspirations for "a solid
moral sanity"?

THE FATHER. For the drama lies all in this--in the
conscience that I have, that each one of us has. We believe
this conscience to be a single thing, but it is many-sided.
There is one for this person, and another for that. Diverse
consciences. So we have this illusion of being one person
for all, of having a personality that is unique in all our
acts. But it isn't true. We perceive this when, tragically
perhaps, in something we do, we are as it were, suspended,
caught up in the air on a kind of hook. Then we perceive
that all of us was not in that act, and that it would be an
atrocious injustice to judge us by that action alone, as if
all our existence were summed up in that one deed. Now do
you understand the perfidy of this girl? She surprised me in
a place, where she ought not to have known me, just as I
could not exist for her; and she now seeks to attach to me a
reality such as I could never suppose I should have to
assume for her in a shameful and fleeting moment of my life.
I feel this above all else. And the drama, you will see,
acquires a tremendous value from this point. Then there is
the position of the others ... his.... (_indicating the
Son_).

THE SON (_shrugging his shoulders scornfully_). Leave me
alone! I don't come into this.

THE FATHER. What? You don't come into this?

THE SON. I've got nothing to do with it, and don't want to
have; because you know well enough I wasn't made to be mixed
up in all this with the rest of you.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. We are only vulgar folk! He is the fine
gentleman. You may have noticed, Mr. Manager, that I fix him
now and again with a look of scorn while he lowers his
eyes--for he knows the evil he has done me.

THE SON (_scarcely looking at her_). I?

THE STEP-DAUGHTER. You! you! I owe my life on the streets to
you. Did you or did you not deny us, with your behaviour, I
won't say the intimacy of home, but even that mere
hospitality which makes guests feel at their ease? We were
intruders who had come to disturb the kingdom of your
legitimacy. I should like to have you witness, Mr. Manager,
certain scenes between him and me. He says I have tyrannized
over everyone. But it was just his behaviour which made me
insist on the reason for which I had come into the
house,--this reason he calls "vile"--into his house, with my
mother who is his mother too. And I came as mistress of the
house.

THE SON. It's easy for them to put me always in the wrong.
But imagine, gentlemen, the position of a son, whose fate it
is to see arrive one day at his home a young woman of
impudent bearing, a young woman who inquires for his>
father, with whom who knows what business she has. This
young man has then to witness her return bolder than ever,
accompanied by that child there. He is obliged to watch her
treat his father in an equivocal and confidential manner.
She asks money of him in a way that lets one suppose he must
give it her, _must_, do you understand, because he has every
obligation to do so.

THE FATHER. But I have, as a matter of fact, this
obligation. I owe it to your mother.

THE SON. How should I know? When had I ever seen or heard of
her? One day there arrive with her (_indicating
Step-Daughter_) that lad and this baby here. I am told:
"This is _your_ mother too, you know." I divine from her
manner (_indicating Step-Daughter again_) why it is they
have come home. I had rather not say what I feel and think
about it. I shouldn't even care to confess to myself. No
action can therefore be hoped for from me in this affair.
Believe me, Mr. Manager, I am an "unrealized" character,
dramatically speaking; and I find myself not at all at ease
in their company. Leave me out of it, I beg you.

THE FATHER. What? It is just because you are so that....

THE SON. How do you know what I am like? When did you ever
bother your head about me?

THE FATHER. I admit it. I admit it. But isn't that a
situation in itself? This aloofness of yours which is so
cruel to me and to your mother, who returns home and sees
you almost for the first time grown up, who doesn't
recognize you but knows you are her son.... (_pointing out
the Mother to the Manager_). See, she's crying!

THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_angrily, stamping her foot_). Like a
fool!

THE FATHER (_indicating Step-Daughter_). She can't stand him
you know. (_Then referring again to the Son_): He says he
doesn't come into the affair, whereas he is really the hinge
of the whole action. Look at that lad who is always clinging
to his mother, frightened and humiliated. It is on account
of this fellow here. Possibly his situation is the most
painful of all. He feels himself a stranger more than the
others. The poor little chap feels mortified, humiliated at
being brought into a home out of charity as it were. (_In
confidence_)--: He is the image of his father. Hardly talks
at all. Humble and quiet.

THE MANAGER. Oh, we'll cut him out. You've no notion what a
nuisance boys are on the stage....

THE FATHER. He disappears soon, you know. And the baby too.
She is the first to vanish from the scene. The drama
consists finally in this: when that mother re-enters my
house, her family born outside of it, and shall we say
superimposed on the original, ends with the death of the
little girl, the tragedy of the boy and the flight of the
elder daughter. It cannot go on, because it is foreign to
its surroundings. So after much torment, we three remain: I,
the mother, that son. Then, owing to the disappearance of
that extraneous family, we too find ourselves strange to one
another. We find we are living in an atmosphere of mortal
desolation which is the revenge, as he (_indicating Son_)
scornfully said of the Demon of Experiment, that
unfortunately hides in me. Thus, sir, you see when faith is
lacking, it becomes impossible to create certain states of
happiness, for we lack the necessary humility.
Vaingloriously, we try to substitute ourselves for this
faith, creating thus for the rest of the world a reality
which we believe after their fashion, while, actually, it
doesn't exist. For each one of us has his own reality to be
respected before God, even when it is harmful to one's very
self.

THE MANAGER. There is something in what you say. I assure
you all this interests me very much. I begin to think
there's the stuff for a drama in all this, and not a bad
drama either.

THE STEP-DAUGHTER (_coming forward_). When you've got a
character like me.

THE FATHER (_shutting her up, all excited to learn the
decision of the Manager_). You be quiet!

THE MANAGER (_reflecting, heedless of interruption_). It's
new ... hem ... yes....

THE FATHER. Absolutely new!

THE MANAGER. You've got a nerve though, I must say, to come
here and fling it at me like this....

THE FATHER. You will understand, sir, born as we are for the
stage....

THE MANAGER. Are you amateur actors then?

THE FATHER. No. I say born for the stage, because....

THE MANAGER. Oh, nonsense. You're an old hand, you know.

THE FATHER. No sir, no. We act that rôle for which we have
been cast, that rôle which we are given in life. And in my
own case, passion itself, as usually happens, becomes a
trifle theatrical when it is exalted.

THE MANAGER. Well, well, that will do. But you see, without
an author ... I could give you the address of an author if
you like....

THE FATHER. No, no. Look here! You must be the author.

THE MANAGER. I? What are you talking about?

THE FATHER. Yes, you, you! Why not?

THE MANAGER. Because I have never been an author: that's
why.

THE FATHER. Then why not turn author now? Everybody does it.
You don't want any special qualities. Your task is made much
easier by the fact that we are all here alive before you....

THE MANAGER. It won't do.

THE FATHER. What? When you see us live our drama....

THE MANAGER. Yes, that's all right. But you want someone to
write it.

THE FATHER. No, no. Someone to take it down, possibly, while
we play it, scene by scene! It will be enough to sketch it
out at first, and then try it over.

THE MANAGER. Well ... I am almost tempted. It's a bit of an
idea. One might have a shot at it.

THE FATHER. Of course. You'll see what scenes will come out
of it. I can give you one, at once....

THE MANAGER. By Jove, it tempts me. I'd like to have a go at
it. Let's try it out. Come with me to my office (_turning to
the Actors_). You are at liberty for a bit, but don't stop
out of the theatre for long. In a quarter of an hour, twenty
minutes, all back here again! (_To the Father_): We'll see
what can be done. Who knows if we don't get something really
extraordinary out of it?

THE FATHER. There's no doubt about it. They (_indicating the
Characters_) had better come with us too, hadn't they?

THE MANAGER. Yes, yes. Come on! come on! (_Moves away and
then turning to the actors_): Be punctual, please! (_Manager
and the Six Characters cross the stage and go off. The other
actors remain, looking at one another in astonishment_).

LEADING MAN. Is he serious? What the devil does he want to
do?

JUVENILE LEAD. This is rank madness.

THIRD ACTOR. Does he expect to knock up a drama in five
minutes?

JUVENILE LEAD. Like the improvisers!

LEADING LADY. If he thinks I'm going to take part in a joke
like this....

JUVENILE LEAD. I'm out of it anyway.

FOURTH ACTOR. I should like to know who they are (_alludes
to Characters_).

THIRD ACTOR. What do you suppose? Madmen or rascals!

JUVENILE LEAD. And he takes them seriously!

L'INGÉNUE. Vanity! He fancies himself as an author now.

LEADING MAN. It's absolutely unheard of. If the stage has
come to this ... well I'm....

FIFTH ACTOR. It's rather a joke.

THIRD ACTOR. Well, we'll see what's going to happen next.

(_Thus talking, the actors leave the stage; some going out
by the little door at the back; others retiring to their
dressing-rooms._

_The curtain remains up._

_The action of the play is suspended for twenty minutes_).