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!
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 dresesd 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 snore 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 à Tchou-Tchin-Tchou.]
Les
chinois sont un peuple malin,
De Shangal à Pekin,
Ils ont mis des écriteaux partout:
Prenez garde à Tchou-Tchin-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, gentlemen, 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 loathsorn.e 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 tyrannize 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 may be, 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
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 re-establish one's dignity, as if it were a
tombstone 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"?
