Pélléas and Mélisande ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES HOME BY MAURICE MAETERLINCK _Translated by_ RICHARD HOVEY 1911 1896, BY STONE AND KIMBALL Contents PREFACE (by Maurice Maeterlinck) PÉLLÉAS AND MÉLISANDE ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES HOME Préface. On m'a demande plus d'une fois si mes drames, de _La PrincesseMaleine_ à _La Mort de Tintagiles_, avaient été réellement écrits pourun théâtre de marionettes, ainsi que je l'avais affirmé dans l'editionoriginale de cette sauvage petite légende des malheurs de Maleine. Envérité, ils ne furent pas écrits pour des acteurs ordinaires. Il n'yavait là nul désir ironique et pas la moindre humilité non plus. Jecroyais sincèrement et je crois encore aujourd'hui, que les poèmesmeurent lorsque des êtres vivants s'y introduisent. Un jour, dans unécrit dont je ne retrouve plus que quelques fragments mutilés, j'aiessayé d'expliquer ces choses qui dorment, sans doute, au fond denotre instinct et qu'il est bien difficile de reveiller complètement. J'y constatais d'abord, qu'une inquiètude nous attendait à toutspectacle auquel nous assistions et qu'une déception à peu prèsineffable accompagnait toujours la chute du rideau. N'est-il pasévident que le Macbeth ou l'Hamlet que nous voyons sur la scène neressemble pas au Macbeth ou à l'Hamlet du livre? Qu'il a visiblementretrogradé dans le sublime? Qu'une grande partie des efforts du poètequi voulait créer avant tout une vie supérieure, une vie plus prochede notre âme, a été annulée par une force ennemie qui ne peut semanifester qu'en ramenant cette vie supérieure au niveau de la vieordinaire? Il y a peut-être, me disais-je, aux sources de ce malaise, un très ancien malentendu, à la suite duquel le théâtre ne fut jamaisexactement ce qu'il est dans l'instinct de la foule, à savoir: _letemple du Rêve_. Il faut admettre, ajoutai-je, que le théâtre, dumoins en ses tendances, est un art. Mais je n'y trouve pas lamarque des autres arts. L'art use toujours d'un détour et n'agit pasdirectement. Il a pour mission suprême la révélation de i'infini et dela grandeur ainsi que la beauté secrète, de l'homme. Mais montrerau doigt à l'enfant qui nous accompagne, les étoiles d'une unit deJuillet, ce n'est pas faire une oeuvre d'art. Il faut que l'art agissecomme les abeilles. Elles n'apportent pas aux larves de la ruche lesfleurs des champs qui renferment leur avenir et leur vie. Les larvesmourraient sous ces fleurs sans se douter de rien. Il faut que lesabeilles nourricières apportent à ces nymphes aveugles l'âme mêmede ces fleurs, et c'est alors seulement qu'elles trouveront sans lesavoir en ce miel mystérieux la substance des ailes qui un jour lesemporteront à leur tour dans l'espace. Or, le poème était uneoeuvre d'art et portait ces obliques et admirables marques. Mais lareprésentation vient le contredire. Elle chasse vraiment les cygnesdu grand lac, et elle rejette les perles dans l'abîme. Elle remet leschoses exactement au point où elles étaient avant la venue du poète. La densité mystique de l'oeuvre d'art a disparue. Elle verse dansla même erreur que celui qui après avoir vanté à ses auditeursl'admirable _Annonciation_ de Vinci, par exemple, s'imagineraitqu'il a fait pénétrer dans leurs âmes la beauté surnaturelle de cettepeinture en reproduisant, en un tableau vivant, tous les détails dugrand chef-d'oeuvre florentin. Qui sait si ce n'est pas pour ces raisons cachées que l'on est obligéde s'avouer que la plupart des grands poèmes de l'humanité ne sont passcéniques? _Lear, Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Antoine et Cléopâtre_, ne peuvent être représentés, et il est dangereux de les voir surla scène. Quelque chose d'Hamlet est mort pour nous du jour où nousl'avons vu mourir sous nos yeux. Le spectre d'un acteur l'a détrôné, et nous ne pouvons plus écarter l'usurpateur de nos rêves. Ouvrez lesportes, ouvrez le livre, le prince antérieur ne revient plus. Il aperdu la faculté de vivre selon la beauté la plus secrète de notreâme. Parfois son ombre passe encore en tremblant sur le seuil, maisdésormais il n'ose plus, il ne peut plus entrer; et bien des voix sontmortes qui l'acclamaient en nous. Je me souviens de cette mort de l'Hamlet de mes rêves. Un soirj'ouvris la porte à l'usurpateur du poème. L'acteur était illustre. Ilentra. Un seul de ses regards me montra qu'il n'était pas Hamlet. Il ne le fut pas un seul instant pour moi. Je le vis s'agiter duranttrois heures dans le mensonge. Je voyais clairement qu'il avait sespropres destinées; et celles qu'il voulait représenter m'étaientindiciblement indifférentes à côté des siennes. Je voyais sa santéet ses habitudes, ses passions et ses tristesses, ses pensées etses oeuvres, et il essayait vainement de m'intéresser à une vie quin'était pas la sienne et que sa seule présence avait rendue factice. Depuis je le revois lorsque j'ouvre le livre et Elsinore n'est plus lepalais d'autrefois. . . . "La vérité, " dit quelque part Charles Lamb, "la vérité est que lescaractères de Shakespeare sont tellement des objets de méditationplutôt que d'intérêt ou de curiosité relativement à leurs actes, que, tandis que nous lisons l'un de ses grands caractèrescriminels, --Macbeth, Richard, Iago même, --nous ne songeons pastant aux crimes qu'ils commettent, qu'à l'ambition, à l'espritd'aspiration, à l'activité intellectuelle qui les poussent à franchirces barrières morales. Les actions nous affectent si peu, que, tandisque les impulsions, l'esprit intérieur en toute sa perverse grandeur, paraissent seuls réels et appellent seuls l'attention, le crime n'estcomparativement rien. Mais lorsque nous voyons représenter ces choses, les actes sont comparativement tout, et les mobiles ne sont plus rien. L'émotion sublime où nous sommes entraînés par ces images de nuitet d'horreur qu'exprime Macbeth; ce solennel prélude où il s'oubliejusqu'à ce que l'horloge sonne l'heure qui doit l'appeler au meurtrede Duncan; lorsque nous ne lisons plus cela dans un livre, lorsquenous avons abandonné ce poste avantageux de l'abstraction d'où lalecture domine la vision, et lorsque nous voyons sous nos yeux, unhomme en sa forme corporelle se préparer actuellement au meurtre; sile jeu de l'acteur est vrai et puissant, la pénible anxiété au sujetde l'acte, le naturel désir de le prévenir tout qu'il ne semblepas accompli, la trop puissante apparence de réalité, provoquent unmalaise et une inquiétude qui détruisent totalement le plaisir que lesmots apportent dans le livre, où l'acte ne nous oppresse jamais dela pénible sensation de sa présence, et semble plutôt appartenir àl'histoire; à quelque chose de passé et d'inévitable. " Charles Lamb a raison, et pour mille raisons bien plus profondesencore que celles qu'il nous donne. Le théâtre est le lien où meurentla plupart des chefs-d'oeuvre, parce que la représentation d'unchef-d'oeuvre à l'aide d'éléments accidentels et humains estantinomique. Tout chef-d'oeuvre est un symbole, et le symbole nesupporte pas la présence active de l'homme. Il suffit que le coqchante, dit Hamlet, pour que les spectres de la nuit s'évanouissent. Et de même, le poème perd sa vie "de la seconde sphère" lorsqu'un êtrede la sphère inférieure s'y introduit. L'accident ramène le symboleà l'accident; et le chef-d'oeuvre, en son essence, est mort durant letemps de cette présence et de ses traces. Les Grecs n'ignorèrent pas cette antinomie, et leurs masques que nousne comprenons plus ne servaient probablement qu'à atténuer la présencede l'homme et à soulager le symbole. Aux époques où le théâtre eut unevie véritable, il la dût peut-être uniquement à quelque circonstanceou à quelque artifice qui venait en aide du poème dans sa lutte contrel'homme. Ainsi, sous Elisabeth, par exemple, la déclamation était unesorte de mélopée, le jeu était conventionnel, et la scène aussi. Il enétait à peu près de même sous Louis XIV. Le poème se retire à mesureque l'homme s'avance. Le poème veut nous arracher du pouvoir de nossens et faire prédominer le passé et l'avenir; l'homme, au contraire, n'agit que sur nos sens et n'existe que pour autant qu'il puisseeffacer cette prédomination. S'il entre en scène avec toutes sespuissances, et libre comme s'il entrait dans une forêt; si sa voix, ses gestes, et son attitude ne sont pas voilées par un grand nombrede conventions synthétiques; si l'on aperçoit un seul instant l'êtrevivant qu'il est et l'âme qu'il possède, --il n'y a pas de poème aumonde qui ne recule devant lui. A ce moment précis, le spectacle dupoème s'interrompt et nous assistons à une scène de la vie extérieure, qui, de même qu'une scène de la rue, de la rivière, ou du champ debataille, a ses beautés éternelles et secrètes, mais qui est néanmoinsimpuissante à nous arracher du présent, parce qu'en cet instant nousn'avons pas la qualité pour apercevoir ces beautés invisibles, qui nesont que "des fleurs offertes aux vers aveugles. " Et c'est pour ces raisons, et pour d'autres encore qu'on pourraitrechercher dans les mêmes parages, que j'avais destiné mes petitsdrames à des êtres indulgents aux poèmes, et que, faute de mieux, j'appelle "Marionettes. " MAURICE MAETERLINCK. Pélléas and Mélisande. _To Octave Mirbeau_. In witness of deep friendship, admiration, and gratitude. M. M. PERSONS ARKËL, _King of Allemonde. _ GENEVIÈVE, _mother of Pélléas and Golaud_. PÉLLÉAS, } }_grandsons of Arkël. _GOLAUD, } MÉLISANDE. LITTLE YNIOLD, _son of Golaud (by a former marriage). _ A PHYSICIAN. THE PORTER. _Servants, Beggars, etc. _ Pélléas and Mélisande. * * * * * ACT FIRST. SCENE I. --_The gate of the castle. _ MAIDSERVANTS _(within). _ Open the gate! Open the gate! PORTER _(within). _ Who is there? Why do you come and wake me up? Go out by the littlegates; there are enough of them!. . . A MAIDSERVANT _(within). _ We have come to wash the threshold, the gate, and the steps; open, then! open! ANOTHER MAIDSERVANT _(within). _ There are going to be great happenings! THIRD MAIDSERVANT _(within). _ There are going to be great fêtes! Open quickly!. . . THE MAIDSERVANTS. Open! open! PORTER. Wait! wait! I do not know whether I shall be able to open it;. . . It isnever opened. . . . Wait till it is light. . . . FIRST MAIDSERVANT. It is light enough without; I see the sunlight through the chinks. . . . PORTER. Here are the great keys. . . . Oh! oh! how the bolts and the locksgrate!. . . Help me! help me!. . . MAIDSERVANTS. We are pulling; we are pulling. . . . SECOND MAIDSERVANT. It will not open. . . . FIRST MAIDSERVANT. Ah! ah! It is opening! it is opening slowly! PORTER. How it shrieks! how it shrieks! it will wake up everybody. . . . SECOND MAIDSERVANT. _[Appearing on the threshold. ]_ Oh, how light it is alreadyout-of-doors! FIRST MAIDSERVANT. The sun is rising on the sea! PORTER. It is open. . . . It is wide open!. . . [_All the maidservants appear onthe threshold and pass over it. _] FIRST MAIDSERVANT. I am going to wash the sill first. . . . SECOND MAIDSERVANT. We shall never be able to clean all this. OTHER MAIDSERVANTS. Fetch the water! fetch the water! PORTER. Yes, yes; pour on water; pour on water; pour on all the water of theFlood! You will never come to the end of it. . . . SCENE II. --_A forest. _ MÉLISANDE _discovered at the brink of aspring. _ _Enter_ GOLAUD. GOLAUD. I shall never be able to get out of this forest again. --God knowswhere that beast has led me. And yet I thought I had wounded him todeath; and here are traces of blood. But now I have lost sight of him;I believe I am lost myself--my dogs can no longer find me--I shallretrace my steps. . . . --I hear weeping. . . . Oh! oh! what is there yonderby the water's edge?. . . A little girl weeping by the water's edge?[_He coughs. _]--She does not hear me. I cannot see her face. [_Heapproaches and touches_ MÉLISANDE _on the shoulder. _] Why weepestthou? [MÉLISANDE _trembles, starts up, and would flee. _]--Do not beafraid. You have nothing to fear. Why are you weeping here all alone? MÉLISANDE. Do not touch me! do not touch me! GOLAUD. Do not be afraid. . . . I will not do you any. . . . Oh, you are beautiful! MÉLISANDE. Do not touch me! do not touch me! or I throw myself in the water!. . . GOLAUD. I will not touch you. . . . See, I will stay here, against the tree. Donot be afraid. Has any one hurt you? MÉLISANDE Oh! yes! yes! yes!. . . [_She sobs profoundly. _] GOLAUD. Who has hurt you? MÉLISANDE. Every one! every one! GOLAUD. What hurt have they done you? MÉLISANDE. I will not tell! I cannot tell!. . . GOLAUD. Come; do not weep so. Whence come you? MÉLISANDE. I have fled!. . . Fled . . . Fled. . . . GOLAUD. Yes; but whence have you fled? MÉLISANDE. I am lost!. . . Lost!. . . Oh! oh! lost here. . . . I am not of thisplace. . . . I was not born there. . . . GOLAUD. Whence are you? Where were you born? MÉLISANDE. Oh! oh! far away from here!. . . Far away . . . Far away. . . . GOLAUD. What is it shining so at the bottom of the water? MÉLISANDE. Where?--Ah! it is the crown he gave me. It fell as I was weeping. . . . GOLAUD. A crown?--Who was it gave you a crown?--I will try to get it. . . . MÉLISANDE. No, no; I will have no more of it! I will have no more of it!. . . I hadrather die . . . Die at once. . . . GOLAUD. I could easily pull it out. The water is not very deep. MÉLISANDE. I will have no more of it! If you take it out, I throw myself in itsplace!. . . GOLAUD. No, no; I will leave it there. It could be reached without difficulty, nevertheless. It seems very beautiful. --Is it long since you fled? MÉLISANDE. Yes, yes!. . . Who are you? GOLAUD. I am Prince Golaud, --grandson of Arkël, the old King of Allemonde. . . . MÉLISANDE. Oh, you have gray hairs already. . . . GOLAUD. Yes; some, here, by the temples. . . . MÉLISANDE And in your beard, too. . . . Why do you look at me so? GOLAUD. I am looking at your eyes. --Do you never shut your eyes? MÉLISANDE. Oh, yes; I shut them at night. . . . GOLAUD. Why do you look so astonished? MÉLISANDE. You are a giant? GOLAUD. I am a man like the rest. . . . MÉLISANDE. Why have you come here? GOLAUD. I do not know, myself. I was hunting in the forest, I was chasing awild boar. I mistook the road. --You look very young. How old are you? MÉLISANDE. I am beginning to be cold. . . . GOLAUD. Will you come with me! MÉLISANDE. No, no; I will stay here. . . . GOLAUD. You cannot stay here all alone. You cannot stay here all nightlong. . . . What is your name? MÉLISANDE. Mélisande. GOLAUD. You cannot stay here, Mélisande. Come with me. . . . MÉLISANDE. I will stay here. . . . GOLAUD. You will be afraid, all alone. We do not know what there may be here. . . All night long . . . All alone . . . It is impossible. Mélisande, come, give me your hand. . . . MÉLISANDE. Oh, do not touch me!. . . GOLAUD. Do not scream. . . . I will not touch you again. But come with me. Thenight will be very dark and very cold. Come with me. . . . MÉLISANDE. Where are you going?. . . GOLAUD. I do not know. . . . I am lost too. . . . [_Exeunt. _ SCENE III. --_A hall in the castle_. ARKËL _and_ GENEVIÈVE_discovered_. GENEVIÈVE. Here is what he writes to his brother Pélléas: "I found her all intears one evening, beside a spring in the forest where I had lostmyself. I do not know her age, nor who she is, nor whence she comes, and I dare not question her, for she must have had a sore fright; andwhen you ask her what has happened to her, she falls at once a-weepinglike a child, and sobs so heavily you are afraid. Just as I found herby the springs, a crown of gold had slipped from her hair and fallento the bottom of the water. She was clad, besides, like a princess, though her garments had been torn by the briers. It is now six monthssince I married her and I know no more about it than on the day ofour meeting. Meanwhile, dear Pélléas, thou whom I love more than abrother, although we were not born of the same father; meanwhile makeready for my return. . . . I know my mother will willingly forgive me. But I am afraid of the King, our venerable grandsire, I am afraid ofArkël, in spite of all his kindness, for I have undone by this strangemarriage all his plans of state, and I fear the beauty of Mélisandewill not excuse my folly to eyes so wise as his. If he consentsnevertheless to receive her as he would receive his own daughter, the third night following this letter, light a lamp at the top of thetower that overlooks the sea. I shall perceive it from the bridgeof our ship; otherwise I shall go far away again and come back nomore. . . . " What say you of it? ARKËL. Nothing. He has done what he probably must have done. I am very old, and nevertheless I have not yet seen clearly for one moment intomyself; how would you that I judge what others have done? I am notfar from the tomb and do not succeed in judging myself. . . . One alwaysmistakes when one does not close his eyes. That may seem strange tous; but that is all. He is past the age to marry and he weds like achild, a little girl he finds by a spring. . . . That may seem strange tous, because we never see but the reverse of destinies . . . The reverseeven of our own. . . . He has always followed my counsels hitherto; I hadthought to make him happy in sending him to ask the hand of PrincessUrsula. . . . He could not remain alone; since the death of his wife hehas been sad to be alone; and that marriage would have put an end tolong wars and old hatreds. . . . He would not have it so. Let it be as hewould have it; I have never put myself athwart a destiny; and he knowsbetter than I his future. There happen perhaps no useless events. . . . GENEVIÈVE. He has always been so prudent, so grave and so firm. . . . If it werePélléas, I should understand. . . . But he . . . At his age. . . . Who is ithe is going to introduce here?--An unknown found along the roads. . . . Since his wife's death, he has no longer lived for aught but his son, the little Yniold, and if he were about to marry again, it was becauseyou had wished it. . . . And now . . . A little girl in the forest. . . . Hehas forgotten everything. . . . --What shall we do?. . . _Enter_ PÉLLÉAS. ARKËL. Who is coming in there? GENEVIÈVE. It is Pélléas. He has been weeping. ARKËL. Is it thou, Pélléas?--Come a little nearer, that I may see thee in thelight. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Grandfather, I received another letter at the same time as mybrother's; a letter from my friend Marcellus. . . . He is about to dieand calls for me. He would see me before dying. . . . ARKËL. Thou wouldst leave before thy brother's return?--Perhaps thy friend isless ill than he thinks. . . . PÉLLÉAS His letter is so sad you can see death between the lines. . . . He sayshe knows the very day when death must come. . . . He tells me I canarrive before it if I will, but that there is no more time to lose. The journey is very long, and if I await Golaud's return, it will beperhaps too late. . . . ARKËL. Thou must wait a little while, nevertheless. . . . We do not know whatthis return has in store for us. And besides, is not thy father here, above us, more sick perhaps than thy friend. . . . Couldst thou choosebetween the father and the friend?. . . [_Exit. _ GENEVIÈVE. Have a care to keep the lamp lit from this evening, Pélléas. . . . [_Exeunt severally. _ SCENE IV. --_Before the castle. Enter_ GENEVIÈVE _and_ MÉLISANDE. MÉLISANDE. It is gloomy in the gardens. And what forests, what forests all aboutthe palaces!. . . GENEVIÈVE. Yes; that astonished me too when I came hither; it astonisheseverybody. There are places where you never see the sun. But one getsused to it so quickly. . . . It is long ago, it is long ago. . . . It isnearly forty years that I have lived here. . . . Look toward the otherside, you will have the light of the sea. . . . MÉLISANDE. I hear a noise below us. . . . GENEVIÈVE. Yes; it is some one coming up toward us. . . . Ah! it is Pélléas. . . . Heseems still tired from having waited so long for you. . . . MÉLISANDE. He has not seen us. GENEVIÈVE. I think he has seen us but does not know what he should do. . . . Pélléas, Pélléas, is it thou?. . . _Enter_ PÉLLÉAS PÉLLÉAS. Yes!. . . I was coming toward the sea. . . . GENEVIÈVE. So were we; we were seeking the light. It is a little lighter herethan elsewhere; and yet the sea is gloomy. PÉLLÉAS We shall have a storm to-night. There has been one every night forsome time, and yet it is so calm now. . . . One might embark unwittinglyand come back no more. MÉLISANDE. Something is leaving the port. . . . PÉLLÉAS. It must be a big ship. . . . The lights are very high, we shall see it ina moment, when it enters the band of light. . . . GENEVIÈVE. I do not know whether we shall be able to see it . . . There is still afog on the sea. . . . PÉLLÉAS. The fog seems to be rising slowly. . . . MÉLISANDE. Yes; I see a little light down there, which I had not seen. . . . PÉLLÉAS. It is a lighthouse; there are others we cannot see yet. MÉLISANDE. The ship is in the light. . . . It is already very far away. . . . PÉLLÉAS. It is a foreign ship. It looks larger than ours. . . . MÉLISANDE. It is the ship that brought me here!. . . PÉLLÉAS. It flies away under full sail. . . . MÉLISANDE. It is the ship that brought me here. It has great sails. . . . Irecognized it by its sails. PÉLLÉAS. There will be a rough sea to-night. MÉLISANDE. Why does it go away to-night?. . . You can hardly see it any longer. . . . Perhaps it will be wrecked. . . . PÉLLÉAS. The sight falls very quickly. . . . [_A silence. _ GENEVIÈVE. No one speaks any more?. . . You have nothing more to say to eachother?. . . It is time to go in. Pélléas, show Mélisande the way. I mastgo see little Yniold a moment. [_Exit. _ PÉLLÉAS. Nothing can be seen any longer on the sea. . . . MÉLISANDE. I see more lights. PÉLLÉAS. It is the other lighthouses. . . . Do you hear the sea?. . . It is the windrising. . . . Let us go down this way. Will you give me your hand? MÉLISANDE. See, see, my hands are full. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I will hold you by the arm, the road is steep and it is very gloomythere. . . . I am going away perhaps to-morrow. . . . MÉLISANDE. Oh!. . . Why do you go away? [_Exeunt. _ ACT SECOND. SCENE I. --_A fountain in the park. Enter_ PÉLLÉAS _and_ MÉLISANDE. PÉLLÉAS. You do not know where I have brought you?--I often come to sit here, toward noon, when it is too hot in the gardens. It is stifling to-day, even in the shade of the trees. MÉLISANDE. Oh, how clear the water is!. . . PÉLLÉAS. It is as cool as winter. It is an old abandoned spring. It seems tohave been a miraculous spring, --it opened the eyes of the blind, --theystill call it "Blind Man's Spring. " MÉLISANDE. It no longer opens the eyes of the blind? PÉLLÉAS. Since the King has been nearly blind himself, no one comes anymore. . . . MÉLISANDE. How alone one is here!. . . There is no sound. PÉLLÉAS. There is always a wonderful silence here. . . . One could hear the watersleep. . . . Will you sit down on the edge of the marble basin? There isone linden where the sun never comes. . . . MÉLISANDE. I am going to lie down on the marble. --I should like to see the bottomof the water. . . . PÉLLÉAS. No one has ever seen it. --It is as deep, perhaps, as the sea. --It isnot known whence it comes. --Perhaps it comes from the bottom of theearth. . . . MÉLISANDE. If there were anything shining at the bottom, perhaps one could seeit. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Do not lean over so. . . . MÉLISANDE. I would like to touch the water. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Have a care of slipping. . . . I will hold your hand. . . . MÉLISANDE. No, no, I would plunge both hands in it. . . . You would say my handswere sick to-day. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Oh! oh! take care! take care! Mélisande!. . . Mélisande!. . . --Oh! yourhair!. . . MÉLISANDE _(starting upright). _ I cannot, . . . I cannot reach it. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Your hair dipped in the water. . . . MÉLISANDE. Yes, it is longer than my arms. . . . It is longer than I. . . . [_A silence. _ PÉLLÉAS. It was at the brink of a spring, too, that he found you? MÉLISANDE. Yes. . . . PÉLLÉAS. What did he say to you? MÉLISANDE. Nothing;--I no longer remember. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Was he quite near you? MÉLISANDE. Yes; he would have kissed me. PÉLLÉAS. And you would not? MÉLISANDE. No. PÉLLÉAS. Why would you not? MÉLISANDE. Oh! oh! I saw something pass at the bottom of the water. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Take care! take care!--You will fall! What are you playing with? MÉLISANDE. With the ring he gave me. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Take care; you will lose it. . . . MÉLISANDE. No, no; I am sure of my hands. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Do not play so, over so deep a water. . . . MÉLISANDE. My hands do not tremble. PÉLLÉAS. How it shines in the sunlight I--Do not throw it so high in theair. . . . MÉLISANDE. Oh!. . . PÉLLÉAS. It has fallen? MÉLISANDE. It has fallen into the water!. . . PÉLLÉAS. Where is it? where is it?. . . MÉLISANDE. I do not see it sink?. . . PÉLLÉAS. I think I see it shine. . . . MÉLISANDE. My ring? PÉLLÉAS. Yes, yes; down yonder. . . . MÉLISANDE. Oh! oh! It is so far away from us!. . . No, no, that is not it . . . Thatis not it. . . . It is lost . . . Lost. . . . There is nothing any more buta great circle on the water. . . . What shall we do? What shall we donow?. . . PÉLLÉAS. You need not be so troubled for a ring. It is nothing. . . . We shallfind it again, perhaps. Or else we will find another. . . . MÉLISANDE. No, no; we shall never find it again; we shall never find any otherseither. . . . And yet I thought I had it in my hands. . . . I had alreadyshut my hands, and it is fallen in spite of all. . . . I threw it toohigh, toward the sun. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Come, come, we will come back another day;. . . Come, it is time. Theywill come to meet us. It was striking noon at the moment the ringfell. MÉLISANDE. What shall we say to Golaud if he ask where it is? PÉLLÉAS. The truth, the truth, the truth. . . . [_Exeunt. _ SCENE II. --_An apartment in the castle. _ GOLAUD _discovered, stretchedupon his bed;_ MÉLISANDE, _by his bedside_. GOLAUD. Ah! ah! all goes well; it will amount to nothing. But I cannotunderstand how it came to pass. I was hunting quietly in the forest. All at once my horse ran away, without cause. Did he see anythingunusual?. . . I had just heard the twelve strokes of noon. At thetwelfth stroke he suddenly took fright and ran like a blind madmanagainst a tree. I heard no more. I do not yet know what happened. Ifell, and he must have fallen on me. I thought I had the whole foreston my breast; I thought my heart was crushed. But my heart is sound. It is nothing, apparently. . . . MÉLISANDE. Would you like a little water? GOLAUD. Thanks, thanks; I am not thirsty. MÉLISANDE. Would you like another pillow?. . . There is a little spot of blood onthis. GOLAUD. No, no; it is not worth while. I bled at the mouth just now. I shallbleed again perhaps. . . . MÉLISANDE. Are you quite sure?. . . You are not suffering too much? GOLAUD. No, no; I have seen a good many more like this. I was made of ironand blood. . . . These are not the little bones of a child; do not alarmyourself. . . . MÉLISANDE. Close your eyes and try to sleep. I shall stay here all night. . . . GOLAUD. No, no; I do not wish you to tire yourself so. I do not need anything;I shall sleep like a child. . . . What is the matter, Mélisande? Why doyou weep all at once?. . . MÉLISANDE _(bursting into tears). _ I am . . . I am ill too. . . . GOLAUD. Thou art ill?. . . What ails thee, then; what ails thee, Mélisande?. . . MÉLISANDE. I do not know. . . . I am ill here. . . . I had rather tell you to-day; mylord, my lord, I am not happy here. . . . GOLAUD. Why, what has happened, Mélisande? What is it?. . . And I suspectingnothing. . . . What has happened?. . . Some one has done thee harm?. . . Someone has given thee offence? MÉLISANDE. No, no; no one has done me the least harm. . . . It is not that. . . . Itis not that. . . . But I can live here no longer. I do not know why. . . . Iwould go away, go away!. . . I shall die if I am left here. . . . GOLAUD. But something has happened? You must be hiding something from me?. . . Tell me the whole truth, Mélisande. . . . Is it the King?. . . Is it mymother?. . . Is it Pélléas?. . . MÉLISANDE. No, no; it is not Pélléas. It is not anybody. . . . You could notunderstand me. . . . GOLAUD. Why should I not understand?. . . If you tell me nothing, what will youhave me do?. . . Tell me everything and I shall understand everything. MÉLISANDE. I do not know myself what it is. . . . I do not know just what it is. . . . If I could tell you, I would tell you. . . . It is something strongerthan I. . . . GOLAUD. Come; be reasonable, Mélisande. --What would you have me do?--You areno longer a child. --Is it I whom you would leave? MÉLISANDE. Oh! no, no; it is not that. . . . I would go away with you. . . . It ishere that I can live no longer. . . . I feel that I shall not live a longwhile. . . . GOLAUD. But there must be a reason nevertheless. You will be thought mad. It will be thought child's dreams. --Come, is it Pélléas, perhaps?--Ithink he does not often speak to you. MÉLISANDE. Yes, yes; he speaks to me sometimes. I think he does not like me; Ihave seen it in his eyes. . . . But he speaks to me when he meets me. . . . GOLAUD. You must not take it ill of him. He has always been so. He is a littlestrange. And just now he is sad; he thinks of his friend Marcellus, who is at the point of death, and whom he cannot go to see. . . . He willchange, he will change, you will see; he is young. . . . MÉLISANDE. But it is not that . . . It is not that. . . . GOLAUD. What is it, then?--Can you not get used to the life one leads here?Is it too gloomy here?--It is true the castle is very old and verysombre. . . . It is very cold, and very deep. And all those who dwell init, are already old. And the country may seem gloomy too, with allits forests, all its old forests without light. But that may all beenlivened if we will. And then, joy, joy, one does not have it everyday; we must take things as they come. But tell me something; nomatter what; I will do everything you could wish. . . . MÉLISANDE. Yes, yes; it is true. . . . You never see the sky here. I saw it for thefirst time this morning. . . . GOLAUD. It is that, then, that makes you weep, my poor Mélisande?--It is onlythat, then?--You weep, not to see the sky?--Come, come, you are nolonger at the age when one may weep for such things. . . . And then, isnot the summer yonder? You will see the sky every day. --And then, nextyear. . . . Come, give me your hand; give me both your little hands. [_Hetakes her hands. _] Oh! oh! these little hands that I could crush likeflowers. . . . --Hold! where is the ring I gave you? MÉLISANDE. The ring? GOLAUD. Yes; our wedding-ring, where is it? MÉLISANDE. I think. . . . I think it has fallen. . . . GOLAUD. Fallen?--Where has it fallen?--You have not lost it? MÉLISANDE. No, no; it fell . . . It must have fallen. . . . But I know where it is. . . . GOLAUD. Where is it? MÉLISANDE. You know . . . You know well . . . The grotto by the seashore?. . . GOLAUD. Yes. MÉLISANDE. Well then, it is there. . . . It must be it is there. . . . Yes, yes; Iremember. . . . I went there this morning to pick up shells for littleYniold. . . . There were some very fine ones. . . . It slipped from myfinger . . . Then the sea came in; and I had to go out before I hadfound it. GOLAUD. Are you sure it is there? MÉLISANDE. Yes, yes; quite sure. . . . I felt it slip . . . Then, all at once, thenoise of the waves. . . . GOLAUD. You must go look for it at once. MÉLISANDE. I must go look for it at once? GOLAUD. Yes. MÉLISANDE. Now?--at once?--in the dark? GOLAUD. Now, at once, in the dark. You must go look for it at once. I hadrather have lost all I have than have lost that ring. You do not knowwhat it is. You do not know whence it came. The sea will be very highto-night. The sea will come to take it before you. . . . Make haste. Youmust go look for it at once. . . . MÉLISANDE. I dare not. . . . I dare not go alone. . . . GOLAUD. Go, go with no matter whom. But you must go at once, do youunderstand?--Make haste; ask Pélléas to go with you. MÉLISANDE. Pélléas?--With Pélléas?--But Pélléas would not. . . . GOLAUD. Pélléas will do all you ask of him. I know Pélléas better than you do. Go, go; hurry! I shall not sleep until I have the ring. MÉLISANDE. Oh! oh! I am not happy!. . . I am not happy!. . . [_Exit, weeping. _ SCENE III. --_Before a grotto. _ _Enter_ PÉLLÉAS _and_ MÉLISANDE. [_Speaking with great agitation. _] Yes; it is here; we are there. Itis so dark you cannot tell the entrance of the grotto from the restof the night. . . . There are no stars on this side. Let us wait tillthe moon has torn through that great cloud; it will light up the wholegrotto, and then we can enter without danger. There are dangerousplaces, and the path is very narrow between two lakes whose bottom hasnot yet been found. I did not think to bring a torch or a lantern, butI think the light of the sky will be enough for us. --You have nevergone into this grotto? MÉLISANDE. No. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Let us go in; let us go in. . . . You must be able to describe the placewhere you lost the ring, if he questions you. . . . It is very big andvery beautiful. There are stalactites that look like plants and men. It is full of blue darks. It has not yet been explored to the end. There are great treasures hidden there, it seems. You will see theremains of ancient shipwrecks there. But you must not go far in itwithout a guide. There have been some who never have come back. Imyself dare not go forward too far. We will stop the moment we nolonger see the light of the sea or the sky. When you strike a littlelight there, you would say the vault was covered with stars like thesky. It is bits of crystal or salt, they say, that shine so in therock. --Look, look, I think the sky is going to clear. . . . Give me yourhand; do not tremble, do not tremble so. There is no danger; we willstop the moment we no longer see the light of the sea. . . . Is it thenoise of the grotto that frightens you? It is the noise of night orthe noise of silence. . . . Do you hear the sea behind us?--It does notseem happy to-night. . . . Ah! look, the light!. . . [The moon lights up abundantly the entrance and part of the darkness of the grotto; and at a certain depth are seen three old beggars with white hair, seated side by side, leaning upon each other and asleep against a bowlder. ] MÉLISANDE. Ah! PÉLLÉAS. What is it? MÉLISANDE. There are . . . There are. . . . [_She points out the three Beggars. _ PÉLLÉAS. Yes, yes; I have seen them too. . . . MÉLISANDE. Let us go!. . . Let us go!. . . PÉLLÉAS. Yes . . . It is three old poor men fallen asleep. . . . There is a famine inthe country. . . . Why have they come to sleep here. . . . MÉLISANDE. Let us go!. . . Come, come. . . . Let us go!. . . PÉLLÉAS. Take care; do not speak so loud. . . . Let us not wake them. . . . They arestill sleeping heavily. . . . Come. MÉLISANDE. Leave me, leave me; I prefer to walk alone. . . . PÉLLÉAS. We will come back another day. . . . [_Exeunt. _ SCENE IV. --_An apartment in the castle, _ ARKËL _and_ PÉLLÉAS_discovered. _ ARKËL. You see that everything retains you here just now and forbids you thisuseless journey. We have concealed your father's condition from youuntil now; but it is perhaps hopeless; and that alone should sufficeto stop you on the threshold. But there are so many other reasons. . . . And it is not in the day when our enemies awake, and when the peopleare dying of hunger and murmur about us, that you have the rightto desert us. And why this journey? Marcellus is dead; and life hasgraver duties than the visit to a tomb. You are weary, you say, of your inactive life; but activity and duty are not found on thehighways. They must be waited for upon the threshold, and let in asthey go by; and they go by every day. You have never seen them? Ihardly see them any more myself; but I will teach you to see them, andI will point them out to you the day when you would make them a sign. Nevertheless, listen to me; if you believe it is from the depths ofyour life this journey is exacted, I do not forbid your undertakingit, for you must know better than I the events you must offer to yourbeing or your fate. I shall ask you only to wait until we know whatmust take place ere long. . . . PÉLLÉAS. How long must I wait? ARKËL. A few weeks; perhaps a few days. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I will wait. . . . ACT THIRD SCENE I. --_An apartment in the castle. _ PÉLLÉAS _and_ MÉLISANDE_discovered_, MÉLISANDE _plies her distaff at the back of the room. _ PÉLLÉAS. Yniold does not come back; where has he gone? MÉLISANDE He had heard something in the corridor; he has gone to see what it is. PÉLLÉAS. Mélisande. . . . MÉLISANDE What is it? PÉLLÉAS. . . . Can you see still to work there?. . . MÉLISANDE I work as well in the dark. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I think everybody is already asleep in the castle. Golaud does notcome back from the chase. It is late, nevertheless. . . . He no longersuffers from his fall?. . . MÉLISANDE. He said he no longer suffered from it. PÉLLÉAS. He must be more prudent; his body is no longer as supple as at twentyyears. . . . I see the stars through the window and the light of the moonon the trees. It is late; he will not come back now. [_Knocking at thedoor. _] Who is there?. . . Come in!. . . _Little_ YNIOLD _opens the door and enters the room. _ It was you knocking so?. . . That is not the way to knock at doors. Itis as if a misfortune had arrived; look, you have frightened littlemother. LITTLE YNIOLD. I only knocked a tiny little bit. PÉLLÉAS. It is late; little father will not come back to-night; it is time foryou to go to bed. LITTLE YNIOLD. I shall not go to bed before you do. PÉLLÉAS. What?. . . What is that you are saying? LITTLE YNIOLD. I say . . . Not before you . . . Not before you. . . . [_Bursts into sobs and takes refuge by_ MÉLISANDE. ] MÉLISANDE. What is it, Yniold?. . . What is it?. . . Why do you weep all at once? YNIOLD _(sobbing). _ Because . . . Oh! oh! because . . . MÉLISANDE. Because what?. . . Because what?. . . Tell me . . . YNIOLD. Little mother . . . Little mother . . . You are going away. . . . MÉLISANDE. But what has taken hold of you, Yniold?. . . I have never dreamed ofgoing away. . . . YNIOLD. Yes, you have; yes, you have; little father has gone away. . . . Littlefather does not come back, and you are going to go away too. . . . I haveseen it . . . I have seen it. . . . MÉLISANDE. But there has never been any idea of that, Yniold. . . . Why, what makesyou think that I would go away?. . . YNIOLD. I have seen it . . . I have seen it. . . . You have said things to unclethat I could not hear. . . . PÉLLÉAS. He is sleepy. . . . He has been dreaming. . . . Come here, Yniold; asleepalready?. . . Come and look out at the window; the swans are fightingwith the dogs. . . . YNIOLD _(at the window). _ Oh! oh! they are chasing the dogs!. . . They are chasing them!. . . Oh!oh! the water!. . . The wings!. . . The wings!. . . They are afraid. . . . PÉLLÉAS. _(coming back by_ MÉLISANDE_). _ He is sleepy; he is struggling against sleep; his eyes wereclosing. . . . MÉLISANDE _(singing softly as she spins). _ Saint Daniel and Saint Michaël. . . . Saint Michaël and Saint Raphaël. . . . YNIOLD _(at the window). _ Oh! oh! little mother!. . . MÉLISANDE _(rising abruptly). _ What is it, Yniold?. . . What is it?. . . YNIOLD. I saw something at the window?. . . [PÉLLÉAS _and_ MÉLISANDE _run to the window. _ PÉLLÉAS. What is there at the window?. . . What have you seen?. . . YNIOLD. Oh! oh! I saw something!. . . PÉLLÉAS. But there is nothing. I see nothing. . . . MÉLISANDE. Nor I. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Where did you see something? Which way?. . . YNIOLD. Down there, down there!. . . It is no longer there. . . . PÉLLÉAS. He does not know what he is saying. He must have seen the light of themoon on the forest. There are often strange reflections, . . . Or elsesomething must have passed on the highway . . . Or in his sleep. Forsee, see, I believe he is quite asleep. . . . YNIOLD _(at the window). _ Little father is there! little father is there! PÉLLÉAS _(going to the window). _ He is right; Golaud is coming into the courtyard. . . . YNIOLD. Little father!. . . Little father!. . . I am going to meet him!. . . [_Exit, running, --A silence. _ PÉLLÉAS. They are coming up the stair. . . . _Enter_ GOLAUD _and little_ YNIOLD _with a lamp. _ GOLAUD. You are still waiting in the dark? YNIOLD. I have brought a light, little mother, a big light!. . . [_He liftsthe lamp and looks at_ MÉLISANDE. ] You have been weeping, littlemother?. . . You have been, weeping?. . . [_He lifts the lamp toward_PÉLLÉAS _and looks in turn at him. _] You too, you too, you have beenweeping?. . . Little father, look, little father; they have both beenweeping. . . . GOLAUD. Do not hold the light under their eyes so. . . . SCENE II. --_One of the towers of the castle. --watchman's round passesunder a window in the tower. _ MÉLISANDE _(at the window, combing her unbound hair). _ My long locks fall foaming To the threshold of the tower, -- My locks await your coming All along the tower, And all the long, long hour, And all the long, long hour. _Saint Daniel and Saint Michaël, _ _Saint Michaël and Saint Raphaël. _ I was born on a Sunday, A Sunday at high noon. . . . _Enter_ PÉLLÉAS _by the watchman's round. _ PÉLLÉAS. Holà! Holà! ho!. . . MÉLISANDE. Who is there? PÉLLÉAS. I, I, and I!. . . What art thou doing there at the window, singing likea bird that is not native here? MÉLISANDE. I am doing my hair for the night. . . PÉLLÉAS. Is it that I see upon the wall?. . . I thought you had some light. . . . MÉLISANDE. I have opened the window; it is too hot in the tower. . . . It isbeautiful to-night. . . . PÉLLÉAS. There are innumerable stars; I have never seen so many as to-night;. . . But the moon is still upon the sea. . . . Do not stay in the shadow, Mélisande; lean forward a little till I see your unbound hair. . . . MÉLISANDE. I am frightful so. . . . [_She learn out at the window. _ PÉLLÉAS. Oh! oh! Mélisande!. . . Oh, thou art beautiful!. . . Thou art beautifulso!. . . Lean out! lean out!. . . Let me come nearer thee. . . . MÉLISANDE I cannot come nearer thee. . . . I am leaning out as far as I can. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I cannot come up higher;. . . Give me at least thy hand to-night . . . Before I go away. . . . I leave to-morrow. . . . MÉLISANDE. No, no, no!. . . PÉLLÉAS. Yes, yes, yes; I leave, I shall leave to-morrow. . . . Give me thy hand, thy hand, thy little hand upon my lips. . . . MÉLISANDE. I give thee not my hand if thou wilt leave. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Give, give, give!. . . MÉLISANDE. Thou wilt not leave?. . . PÉLLÉAS. I will wait; I will wait. . . . MÉLISANDE. I see a rose in the shadows. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Where?. . . I see only the boughs of the willow hanging over thewall. . . . MÉLISANDE. Further down, further down, in the garden; further down, in the sombregreen. . . . PÉLLÉAS. It is not a rose. . . . I will go see by and by, but give me thy handfirst; first thy hand. . . . MÉLISANDE. There, there;. . . I cannot lean out further. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I cannot reach thy hand with my lips. . . . MÉLISANDE. I cannot lean out further. . . . I am on the point of falling. . . . --Oh!oh! my hair is falling down the tower!. . . [_Her tresses fall suddenly over her head, as she is leaning out so, and stream over_ PÉLLÉAS] PÉLLÉAS. Oh! oh! what is it?. . . Thy hair, thy hair is falling down to me!. . . All thy locks, Mélisande, all thy locks have fallen down the tower!. . . I hold them in my hands; I hold them in my mouth. . . . I hold them inmy arms; I put them about my neck. . . . I will not open my hands againto-night. . . . MÉLISANDE. Let me go! let me go!. . . Thou wilt make me fall!. . . PÉLLÉAS. No, no, no;. . . I have never seen such hair as thine, Mélisande!. . . See, see, see; it comes from so high and yet it floods me to theheart!. . . And yet it floods me to the knees!. . . And it is sweet, sweetas if it fell from heaven!. . . I see the sky no longer through thylocks. Thou seest, thou seest?. . . I can no longer hold them with bothhands; there are some on the boughs of the willow. . . . They are alivelike birds in my hands, . . . And they love me, they love me more thanthou!. . . MÉLISANDE. Let me go; let me go!. . . Some one might come. . . . PÉLLÉAS. No, no, no; I shall not set thee free to-night. . . . Thou art myprisoner to-night; all night, all night!. . . MÉLISANDE. Pélléas! Pélléas!. . . PÉLLÉAS. I tie them, I tie them to the willow boughs. . . . Thou shalt not go awaynow;. . . Thou shalt not go away now. . . . Look, look, I am kissing thyhair. . . . I suffer no more in the midst of thy hair. . . . Hearest thou mykisses along thy hair?. . . They mount along thy hair. . . . Each hair mustbring thee some. . . . Thou seest, thou seest, I can open my hands. . . . Myhands are free, and thou canst not leave me now. . . . MÉLISANDE. Oh! oh! thou hurtest me. . . . [_Doves come out of the tower and flyabout them in the night. _]--What is that, Pélléas?--What is it flyingabout me? PÉLLÉAS. It is the doves coming oat of the tower. . . . I have frightened them;they are flying away. . . . MÉLISANDE. It is my doves, Pélléas. --Let us go away, let me go; they will notcome back again. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Why will they not come back again? MÉLISANDE They will be lost in the dark. . . . Let me go; let me lift my head. . . . I hear a noise of footsteps. . . . Let me go!--It is Golaud!. . . I believeit is Golaud!. . . He has heard us. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Wait! Wait!. . . Thy hair is about the boughs. . . . It is caught there inthe darkness. . . . Wait, wait!. . . It is dark. . . . _Enter_ GOLAUD, _by the watchman's round. _ GOLAUD. What do you here? PÉLLÉAS. What do I here?. . . I. . . . GOLAUD. You are children. . . . Mélisande, do not lean out so at the window; youwill fall. . . . Do you not know it is late?--It is nearly midnight. --Donot play so in the darkness. --You are children. . . . [_Laughingnervously. _] What children!. . . What children!. . . [_Exit, with_ PÉLLÉAS. SCENE III. --_The-vaults of the castle. Enter_ GOLAUD _and_ PÉLLÉAS. GOLAUD. Take care; this way, this way. --You have never penetrated into thesevaults? PÉLLÉAS. Yes; once, of old; but it was long ago. . . . GOLAUD. They are prodigious great; it is a succession of enormous crypts thatend, God knows where. The whole castle is builded on these crypts. Doyou smell the deathly odor that reigns here?--That is what I wished, to show you. In my opinion, it comes from the little underground lakeI am going to have you see. Take care; walk before me, in the light ofmy lantern. I will warn you when we are there, [_They continue to walkin silence. _] Hey! hey! Pélléas! stop! stop!--[_He seizes him by thearm. _] For God's sake!. . . Do you not see?--One step more, and you hadbeen in the gulf!. . . PÉLLÉAS But I did not see it!. . . The lantern no longer lighted me. . . . GOLAUD. I made a misstep. . . . But if I had not held you by the arm. . . . Well, this is the stagnant water that I spoke of to you. . . . Do youperceive the smell of death that rises?--Let us go to the end of thisoverhanging rock, and do you lean over a little. It will strike you inthe face. PÉLLÉAS. I smell it already;. . . You would say a smell of the tomb. GOLAUD. Further, further. . . . It is this that on certain days has poisonedthe castle. The King will not believe it comes from here. --The cryptshould be walled up in which this standing water is found. It is time, besides, to examine these vaults a little. Have you noticed thoselizards on the walls and pillars of the vaults?--There is a laborhidden here you would not suspect; and the whole castle will beswallowed up one of these nights, if it is not looked out for. Butwhat will you have? nobody likes to come down this far. . . . There arestrange lizards in many of the walls. . . . Oh! here . . . Do you perceivethe smell of death that rises? PÉLLÉAS. Yes; there is a smell of death rising about us. . . . GOLAUD. Lean over; have no fear. . . . I will hold you . . . Give me . . . No, no, not your hand . . . It might slip . . . Your arm, your arm!. . . Do you seethe gulf? [_Moved. _]--Pélléas? Pélléas?. . . PÉLLÉAS. Yes; I think I see the bottom of the gulf. . . . Is it the light thattrembles so?. . . You . . . [_He straightens up, turns, and looks at_GOLAUD. ] GOLAUD (_with a trembling voice_). Yes; it is the lantern. . . . See, I shook it to lighten the walls. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I stifle here;. . . Let us go out. . . . GOLAUD. Yes; let us go out. . . . [_Exeunt in silence. _ SCENE IV. --_A terrace at the exit of the vaults. Enter_ GOLAUD _and_PÉLLÉAS. PÉLLÉAS. Ah! I breathe at last!. . . I thought, one moment, I was going to be illin those enormous crypts; I was on the point of falling. . . . There isa damp air there, heavy as a leaden dew, and darkness thick as apoisoned paste. . . . And now, all the air of all the sea!. . . There is afresh wind, see; fresh as a leaf that has just opened, over the littlegreen waves. . . . Hold! the flowers have just been watered at the footof the terrace, and the smell of the verdure and the wet roses comesup to us. . . . It must be nearly noon; they are already in the shadow ofthe tower. . . . It is noon; I hear the bells ringing, and the childrenare going down to the beach to bathe. . . . I did not know that we hadstayed so long in the caverns. . . . GOLAUD. We went down towards eleven o'clock. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Earlier; it must have been earlier; I heard it strike half-past ten. GOLAUD. Half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. . . . PÉLLÉAS. They have opened all the windows of the castle. It will be unusuallyhot this afternoon. . . . Look, there is mother with Mélisande at awindow of the tower. . . . GOLAUD. Yes; they have taken refuge on the shady side. --Speaking of Mélisande, I heard what passed and what was said last night. I am quite aware allthat is but child's play; but it need not be repeated. Mélisande isvery young and very impressionable; and she must be treated the morecircumspectly that she is perhaps with child at this moment. . . . Sheis very delicate, hardly woman; and the least emotion might bring ona mishap. It is not the first time I have noticed there might besomething between you. . . . You are older than she; it will suffice tohave told you. . . . Avoid her as much as possible; without affectationmoreover; without affectation. . . . --What is it I see yonder on thehighway toward the forest?. . . PÉLLÉAS. Some herds they are leading to the city. . . . GOLAUD. They cry like lost children; you would say they smelt the butcheralready. --It will be time for dinner. --What a fine day! What a capitalday for the harvest!. . . [_Exeunt. _ SCENE V. --_Before the castle. _ _Enter_ GOLAUD _and little_ YNIOLD. GOLAUD. Come, we are going to sit down here, Yniold; sit on my knee; we shallsee from here what passes in the forest. I do not see you any moreat all now. You abandon me too; you are always at little mother's. . . . Why, we are sitting just under little mother's windows. --Perhaps sheis saying her evening prayer at this moment. . . . But tell me, Yniold, she is often with your uncle Pélléas, isn't she? YNIOLD. Yes, yes; always, little father; when you are not there, littlefather. . . . GOLAUD. Ah!--look; some one is going by with a lantern in the garden. --But Ihave been told they did not like each other. . . . It seems they oftenquarrel;. . . No? Is it true? YNIOLD. Yes, yes; it is true. GOLAUD. Yes?--Ah! ah!--But what do they quarrel about? YNIOLD. About the door. GOLAUD. What? about the door?--What are you talking about?--No, come, explainyourself; why do they quarrel about the door? YNIOLD. Because it won't stay open. GOLAUD. Who wants it to stay open?--Come, why do they quarrel? YNIOLD. I don't know, little father; about the light. GOLAUD. I am not talking to you about the light; we will talk of that by andby. I am talking to you about the door. Answer what I ask you; youmust learn to talk; it is time. . . . Do not put your hand in your mouthso;. . . Come. . . . YNIOLD. Little father! little father!. . . I won't do it any more. . . . [_Hecries. _] GOLAUD. Come; what are you crying for now? What has happened? YNIOLD. Oh! oh! little father, you hurt me. . . . GOLAUD. I hurt you?--Where did I hurt you? I did not mean to. . . . YNIOLD. Here, here; on my little arm. . . . GOLAUD. I did not mean to; come, don't cry any more, and I will give yousomething to-morrow. YNIOLD. What, little father? GOLAUD. A quiver and some arrows; but tell me what you know about the door. YNIOLD. Big arrows? GOLAUD. Yes, yes; very big arrows. --But why don't they want the door to beopen?--Come, answer me sometime!--no, no; do not open your mouth tocry. I am not angry. We are going to have a quiet talk, like Pélléasand little mother when they are together. What do they talk about whenthey are together? YNIOLD. Pélléas and little mother? GOLAUD. Yes; what do they talk about? YNIOLD. About me; always about me. GOLAUD. And what do they say about you? YNIOLD. They say I am going to be very big. GOLAUD. Oh, plague of my life!. . . I am here like a blind man searching forhis treasure at the bottom of the ocean!. . . I am here like a new-bornchild lost in the forest, and you . . . Come, come, Yniold, I waswandering; we are going to talk seriously. Do Pélléas and littlemother never speak of me when I am not there?. . . YNIOLD. Yes, yes, little father; they are always speaking of you. GOLAUD. Ah!. . . And what do they say of me? YNIOLD. They say I shall grow as big as you are. GOLAUD. You are always by them? YNIOLD. Yes, yes, always, always, little father. GOLAUD. They never tell you to go play somewhere else? YNIOLD. No, little father; they are afraid when I am not there. GOLAUD. They are afraid?. . . What makes you think they are afraid? YNIOLD. Little mother always says, "Don't go away; don't go away!". . . They areunhappy, but they laugh. . . . GOLAUD. But that does not prove they are afraid. YNIOLD. Yes, yes, little father; she is afraid. . . . GOLAUD. Why do you say she is afraid? YNIOLD. They always weep in the dark. GOLAUD. Ah! ah!. . . YNIOLD. That makes one weep too. GOLAUD. Yes, yes!. . . YNIOLD. She is pale, little father. GOLAUD. Ah! ah!. . . Patience, my God, patience!. . . YNIOLD. What, little father? GOLAUD. Nothing, nothing, my child. --I saw a wolf go by in the forest. --Thenthey get on well together?--I am glad to learn they are on goodterms. --They kiss each other sometimes--No?. . . YNIOLD. Kiss each other, little father?--No, no, --ah! yes, little father, yes;yes; once . . . Once when it rained. . . . GOLAUD. They kissed?--But how, how did they kiss? YNIOLD. So, little father, so!. . . [_He gives him a kiss on the mouth, laughing. _] Ah! ah! your beard, little father!. . . It pricks! itpricks! it pricks! It is getting all gray, little father, and yourhair, too; all gray, all gray, all gray. . . . [_The window under whichthey are sitting is lighted up at this moment, and the light fallsupon them. _] Ah! ah! little mother has lit her lamp. It is light, little father; it is light. . . . GOLAUD. Yes; it is beginning to be light. . . . YNIOLD. Let us go there too, little father; let us go there too. . . . GOLAUD. Where do you want to go? YNIOLD. Where it is light, little father. GOLAUD. No, no, my child; let us stay in the dark a little longer. . . . Onecannot tell, one cannot tell yet. . . . Do you see those poor people downthere trying to kindle a little fire in the forest?--It has rained. And over there, do you see the old gardener trying to lift that treethe wind has blown down across the road?--He cannot; the tree is toobig; the tree is too heavy, and it will lie where it fell. All thatcannot be helped. . . . I think Pélléas is mad. . . . YNIOLD. No, little father, he is not mad; he is very good. GOLAUD. Do you want to see little mother? YNIOLD. Yes, yes; I want to see her! GOLAUD. Don't make any noise; I am going to hoist you up to the window. It istoo high for me, for all I am so big. . . . [_He lifts the child. _] Donot make the least noise; little mother would be terribly afraid. . . . Do you see her?--Is she in the room? YNIOLD. Yes. . . . Oh, how light it is! GOLAUD. She is alone? YNIOLD. Yes;. . . No, no; Uncle Pélléas Is there, too. GOLAUD. He--. . . ! YNIOLD. Ah! ah! little father! you have hurt me!. . . GOLAUD. It is nothing; be still; I will not do it any more; look, look, Yniold!. . . I stumbled; speak lower. What are they doing?-- YNIOLD. They are not doing anything, little father; they are waiting forsomething. GOLAUD. Are they near each other? YNIOLD. No, little father. GOLAUD. And . . . And the bed? are they near the bed? YNIOLD. The bed, little father?--I can't see the bed. GOLAUD. Lower, lower; they will hear you. Are they speaking? YNIOLD. No, little father; they do not speak. GOLAUD. But what are they doing?--They must be doing something. . . . YNIOLD. They are looking at the light. GOLAUD. Both? YNIOLD. Yes, little father. GOLAUD. They do not say anything? YNIOLD. No, little father; they do not close their eyes. GOLAUD. They do not come near each other? YNIOLD. No, little father; they do not stir. GOLAUD. They are sitting down? YNIOLD. No, little father; they are standing upright against the wall. GOLAUD. They make no gestures?--They do not look at each other?--They make nosigns?. . . YNIOLD. No, little father. --Oh! oh! little father; they never close theireyes. . . . I am terribly afraid. . . . GOLAUD. Be still. They do not stir yet? YNIOLD. No, little father. --I am afraid, little father; let me come down!. . . GOLAUD. Why, what are you afraid of?--Look! look!. . . YNIOLD. I dare not look any more, little father!. . . Let me come down!. . . GOLAUD. Look! look!. . . YNIOLD. Oh! oh! I am going to cry, little father!--Let me come down! let mecome down!, . . GOLAUD. Come; we will go see what has happened. [_Exeunt. _ ACT FOURTH SCENE I. --_A corridor in the castle. _ _Enter_ PÉLLÉAS _and_ MÉLISANDE, _meeting_. PÉLLÉAS. Where goest thou? I must speak to thee to-night. Shall I see thee? MÉLISANDE. Yes. PÉLLÉAS. I have just left my father's room. He is getting better. The physicianhas told us he is saved. . . . And yet this morning I had a presentimentthis day would end ill. I have had a rumor of misfortune in my earsfor some time. . . . Then, all at once there was a great change; to-dayit is no longer anything but a question of time. All the windows inhis room have been thrown open. He speaks; he seems happy. He does notspeak yet like an ordinary man, but already his ideas no longer allcome from the other world. . . . He recognized me. He took my hand andsaid with that strange air he has had since he fell sick: "Is it thou, Pélléas? Why, why, I had not noticed it before, but thou hast thegrave and friendly look of those who will not live long. . . . You musttravel; you must travel. . . . " It is strange; I shall obey him. . . . Mymother listened to him and wept for joy. --Hast thou not been aware ofit?--The whole house seems already to revive, you hear breathing, youhear speaking, you hear walking. . . . Listen; I hear some one speakingbehind that door. Quick, quick! answer quickly! where shall I seethee? MÉLISANDE. Where wouldst thou? PÉLLÉAS. In the park; near "Blind Man's Spring. "--Wilt thou?--Wilt thou come? MÉLISANDE. Yes. PÉLLÉAS. It will be the last night;--I am going to travel, as my father said. Thou wilt not see me more. . . . MÉLISANDE. Do not say that, Pélléas. . . . I shall see thee always; I shall lookupon thee always. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Thou wilt look in vain. . . . I shall be so far away thou couldst nolonger see me. . . . I shall try to go very far away. . . . I am full ofjoy, and you would say I had all the weight of heaven and earth on mybody to-day. . . . MÉLISANDE. What has happened, Pélléas?--I no longer understand what you say. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Go, go; let us separate. I hear some one speaking behind that door. . . . It is the strangers who came to the castle this morning. . . . They aregoing out. . . . Let us go; it is the strangers. . . . [_Exeunt severally. _ SCENE II. --_An apartment in the castle. _ ARKËL _and_ MÉLISANDE_discovered. _ ARKËL. Now that Pélléas's father is saved, and sickness, the old handmaid ofDeath, has left the castle, a little joy and a little sunlight willat last come into the house again. . . . It was time!--For, since thycoming, we have only lived here whispering about a closed room. . . . Andtruly I have pitied thee, Mélisande. . . . Thou camest here all joyous, like a child seeking a gala-day, and at the moment thou enteredst inthe vestibule I saw thy face change, and probably thy soul, as theface changes in spite of us when we enter at noon into a grotto toogloomy and too cold. . . . And since, --since, on account of all that, Ihave often no longer understood thee. . . . I observed thee, thou wentthere, listless perhaps, but with the strange, astray look of oneawaiting ever a great trouble, in the sunlight, in a beautifulgarden. . . . I cannot explain. . . . But I was sad to see thee so; for thouart too young and too beautiful to live already day and night underthe breath of death. . . . But now all that will change. At my age, --andthere perhaps is the surest fruit of my life, --at my age I have gainedI know not what faith in the fidelity of events, and I have alwaysseen that every young and beautiful being creates about itself young, beautiful, and happy events. . . . And it is thou who wilt now open thedoor for the new era I have glimpses of. . . . Come here; why dost thoustay there without answering and without lifting thine eyes?--I havekissed thee but once only hitherto, --the day of thy coming; and yetold men need sometimes to touch with their lips a woman's forehead ora child's cheek, to believe still in the freshness of life and avertawhile the menaces. . . . Art thou afraid of my old lips? How I havepitied thee these months!. . . MÉLISANDE. Grandfather, I have not been unhappy. . . . ARKËL. Perhaps you were of those who are unhappy without knowing it, . . . Andthey are the most unhappy. . . . Let me look at thee, so, quite near, amoment;. . . We have such need of beauty beside Death. . . . _Enter_ GOLAUD. GOLAUD. Pélléas leaves to-night. ARKËL. Thou hast blood on thy forehead. --What hast thou done? GOLAUD. Nothing, nothing. . . . I have passed through a hedge of thorns. MÉLISANDE. Bend down your head a little, my lord. . . . I will wipe yourforehead. . . . GOLAUD (_repulsing her_). I will not that you touch me, do you understand? Go, go!--I am notspeaking to you. --Where is my sword?--I came to seek my sword. . . . MÉLISANDE. Here; on the praying-stool. GOLAUD. Bring it. [_To_ ARKËL. ]--They have just found another peasant dead ofhunger, along by the sea. You would say they all meant to die underour eyes. --[_To_ MÉLISANDE. ] Well, my sword?--Why do you trembleso?--I am not going to kill you. I would simply examine the blade. Ido not employ the sword for these uses. Why do you examine me like abeggar?--I do not come to ask alms of you. You hope to see somethingin my eyes without my seeing anything in yours?--Do you think I mayknow something?--[_To_ ARKËL. ]--Do you see those great eyes?--It is asif they were proud of their richness. . . . ARKËL. I see there only a great innocence. . . . GOLAUD. A great innocence!. . . They are greater than innocence!. . . They arepurer than the eyes of a lamb. . . . They would give God lessons ininnocence! A great innocence! Listen: I am so near them I feel thefreshness of their lashes when they wink; and yet I am less far awayfrom the great secrets of the other world than from the smallestsecret of those eyes!. . . A great innocence!. . . More than innocence!You would say the angels of heaven celebrated there an eternalbaptism!. . . I know those eyes! I have seen them at their work! Closethem! close them! or I shall close them for a long while!. . . --Donot put your right hand to your throat so; I am saying a very simplething. . . . I have no under-thought. . . . If I had an under-thought, whyshould I not say it? Ah! ah!--do not attempt to flee!--Here!--Giveme that hand!--Ah! your hands are too hot. . . . Go away! Your fleshdisgusts me!. . . Here!--There is no more question of fleeing now!--[_Heseizes her by the hair. _]--You shall follow me on your knees!--On yourknees!--On your knees before me!--Ah! ah! your long hair servessome purpose at last!. . . Right, . . . Left!--Left, . . . Right!--Absalom!Absalom. --Forward! back! To the ground! to the ground!. . . You see, yousee; I laugh already like an old man. . . . ARKËL (_running up_). Golaud!. . . GOLAUD (_affecting a sudden calm_). You will do as you may please, look you. --I attach no importanceto that. --I am too old; and, besides, I am not a spy. I shall awaitchance; and then . . . Oh! then!. . . Simply because it is the custom;simply because it is the custom. . . . [_Exit. _ ARKËL. What ails him?--He is drunk? MÉLISANDE (_in tears_). No, no; he does not love me any more. . . . I am not happy!. . . I am nothappy!. . . ARKËL. If I were God, I would have pity on men's hearts. . . . SCENE III. --_A terrace of the castle. Little_ YNIOLD _discovered, trying to lift a bowlder. _ LITTLE YNIOLD. Oh, this stone is heavy!. . . It is heavier than I am. . . . It isheavier than everybody. . . . It is heavier than everything that everhappened. . . . I can see my golden ball between the rock and thisnaughty stone, and I cannot reach it. . . . My little arm is not longenough, . . . And this stone won't be lifted. . . . I can't lift it, . . . Andnobody could lift it. . . . It is heavier than the whole house;. . . Youwould think it had roots in the earth. . . . [_The Bleatings of a flockheard far away. _]--Oh! oh! I hear the sheep crying. . . . [_He goes tolook, at the edge of the terrace. _] Why! there is no more sun. . . . Theyare coming . . . The little sheep . . . They are coming. . . . There is a lotof them!. . . There is a lot of them!. . . They are afraid of the dark. . . . They crowd together! they crowd together!. . . They can hardly walk anymore. . . . They are crying! they are crying! and they go quick!. . . Theygo quick!. . . They are already at the great crossroads. Ah! ah! Theydon't know where they ought to go any more. . . . They don't cry anymore. . . . They wait. . . . Some of them want to go to the right. . . . They all want to go to the right. . . . They cannot!. . . The shepherd isthrowing earth at them. . . . Ah! ah! They are going to pass by here. . . . They obey! They obey! They are going to pass under the terrace. . . . They are going to pass under the rocks. . . . I am going to see them nearby. . . . Oh! oh! what a lot of them!. . . What a lot of them!. . . Thewhole road is full of them. . . . They all keep still now . . . Shepherd!shepherd! why don't they speak any more? THE SHEPHERD (_who is out of sight_). Because it is no longer the road to the stable. . . . YNIOLD. Where are they going?--Shepherd! shepherd!--where are they going?--Hedoesn't hear me any more. They are too far away already. . . . They goquick. . . . They are not making a noise any more. . . . It is no longer theroad to the stable. . . . Where are they going to sleep to-night?--Oh!oh!--It is too dark. . . . I am going to tell something to somebody. . . . [_Exit. _ SCENE IV. --_A fountain in the park. _ _Enter_ PÉLLÉAS. PÉLLÉAS. It is the last evening . . . The last evening. It must all end. I haveplayed like a child about a thing I did not guess. . . . I have playeda-dream about the snares of fate. . . . Who has awakened me all at once?I shall flee, crying out for joy and woe like a blind man fleeingfrom his burning house. . . . I am going to tell her I shall flee. . . . My father is out of danger; and I have no more reason to lie tomyself. . . . It is late; she does not come. . . . I should do better togo away without seeing her again. . . . I must look well at her thistime. . . . There are some things that I no longer recall. . . . It seems attimes as if I had not seen her for a hundred years. . . . And I have notyet looked upon her look. . . . There remains nought to me if I go awaythus. And all those memories . . . It is as if I were to take away alittle water in a muslin bag. . . . I must see her one last time, to thebottom of her heart. . . . I must tell her all that I have never toldher. _Enter_ MÉLISANDE. MÉLISANDE. Pélléas! Mélisande!--Is it thou, Mélisande? MÉLISANDE. Yes. PÉLLÉAS. Come hither; do not stay at the edge of the moonlight. --Come hither. We have so many things to tell each other. . . . Come hither in theshadow of the linden. MÉLISANDE. Let me stay in the light. . . . PÉLLÉAS. We might be seen from the windows of the tower. Come hither; here, wehave nothing to fear. --Take care; we might be seen. . . . MÉLISANDE. I wish to be seen. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Why, what doth ail thee?--Thou wert able to come out without beingseen? MÉLISANDE. Yes; your brother slept. . . . PÉLLÉAS. It is late. --In an hour they will close the gates. We must be careful. Why art thou come so late? MÉLISANDE. Your brother had a bad dream. And then my gown was caught on the nailsof the gate. See, it is torn. I lost all this time, and ran. . . . PÉLLÉAS. My poor Mélisande!. . . I should almost be afraid to touch thee. . . . Thouart still out of breath, like a hunted bird. . . . It is for me, for me, thou doest all that?. . . I hear thy heart beat as if it were mine. . . . Come hither . . . Nearer, nearer me. . . . MÉLISANDE. Why do you laugh? PÉLLÉAS. I do not laugh;--or else I laugh for joy, unwittingly. . . . It were aweeping matter, rather. . . . MÉLISANDE. We have come here before. . . . I recollect. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Yes . . . Yes. . . . Long months ago. --I knew not then. . . . Knowest thou whyI asked thee to come here to-night? MÉLISANDE. No. PÉLLÉAS. It is perhaps the last time I shall see thee. . . . I must go awayforever. . . . MÉLISANDE. Why sayest thou always thou wilt go away?. . . PÉLLÉAS. I must tell thee what thou knowest already?--Thou knowest not what Iam going to tell thee? MÉLISANDE. Why, no; why, no; I know nothing--. . . PÉLLÉAS. Thou knowest not why I must go afar. . . . Thou knowest not it isbecause . . . [_He kisses her abruptly. _] I love thee. . . . MÉLISANDE (_in a low voice_). I love thee too. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Oh! oh! What saidst thou, Mélisande?. . . I hardly heard it!. . . Thousayest that in a voice coming from the end of the world!. . . I hardlyheard thee. . . . Thou lovest me?--Thou lovest me too?. . . Since whenlovest thou me?. . . MÉLISANDE. Since always. . . . Since I saw thee. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Oh, how thou sayest that!. . . Thy voice seems to have blown across thesea in spring!. . . I have never heard it until now;. . . One would sayit had rained on my heart!. . . Thou sayest that so frankly!. . . Like anangel questioned!. . . I cannot believe it, Mélisande!. . . Why shouldstthou love me?--Nay, why dost thou love me?--Is what thou sayesttrue?--Thou dost not mock me?--Thou dost not lie a little, to make mesmile?. . . MÉLISANDE. No; I never lie; I lie but to thy brother. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Oh, how thou sayest that!. . . Thy voice! thy voice!. . . It is cooler andmore frank than the water is!. . . It is like pure water on my lips!. . . It is like pure water on my hands. . . . Give me, give me thy hands!. . . Oh, how small thy hands are!. . . I did not know thou wert sobeautiful!. . . I have never seen anything so beautiful before thee. . . . I was fall of unrest; I sought throughout the house. . . . I soughtthroughout the country. . . . And I found not beauty. . . . And now I havefound thee!. . . I have found thee!. , . I do not think there could be onthe earth a fairer woman!. . . Where art thou?--I no longer hear theebreathe. . . . MÉLISANDE. Because I look on thee. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Why dost thou look so gravely on me?--We are already in theshadow. --It is too dark under this tree. Come into the light. Wecannot see how happy we are. Come, come; so little time remains tous. . . . MÉLISANDE. No, no; let us stay here. . . . I am nearer thee in the dark. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Where are thine eyes?--Thou art not going to fly me?--Thou dost notthink of me just now. MÉLISANDE. Oh, yes; oh, yes; I only think of thee. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Thou wert looking elsewhere. . . . MÉLISANDE. I saw thee elsewhere. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Thy soul is far away. . . . What ails thee, then?--Meseems thou art nothappy. . . . MÉLISANDE. Yes, yes; I am happy, but I am sad. . . . PÉLLÉAS. One is sad often when one loves. . . . MÉLISANDE. I weep always when I think of thee. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I too. . . . I too, Mélisande. . . . I am quite near thee; I weep for joy, and yet . . . [_He kisses her again. _]--Thou art strange when I kiss theeso. . . . Thou art so beautiful that one would think thou wert about todie. . . . MÉLISANDE. Thou too. . . . PÉLLÉAS. There, there. . . . We do not what we will. . . . I did not love thee thefirst time I saw thee. . . . MÉLISANDE. Nor I . . . Nor I. . . . I was afraid. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I could not admit thine eyes. . . . I would have gone away at once . . . And then. . . . MÉLISANDE. And I, --I would not have come. . . . I do not yet know why, --I was afraidto come. . . . PÉLLÉAS. There are so many things one never knows. We are ever waiting; andthen. . . . What is that noise?--They are closing the gates!. . . MÉLISANDE. Yes, they have closed the gates. . . . PÉLLÉAS. We cannot go back now?--Hearest thou the bolts?--Listen! listen!. . . The great chains!. . . The great chains!. . . It is too late; it is toolate!. . . MÉLISANDE. All the better! all the better! all the better!. . . PÉLLÉAS. Thou--. . . ? Behold, behold!. . . It is no longer we who will it so!. . . All's lost, all's saved! all is saved to-night!--Come, come. . . . Myheart beats like a madman, --up to my very throat. . . . [_They embrace. _]Listen! listen! my heart is almost strangling me. . . . Come! come!. . . Ah, how beautiful it is in the shadows!. . . MÉLISANDE. There is some one behind us!. . . PÉLLÉAS. I see no one. . . . MÉLISANDE. I heard a noise. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I hear only thy heart in the dark. . . . MÉLISANDE. I heard the crackling of dead leaves. . . . PÉLLÉAS. Because the wind is silent all at once. . . . It fell as we werekissing. . . . MÉLISANDE. How long our shadows are to-night!. . . PÉLLÉAS. They embrace to the very end of the garden. Oh, how they kiss far awayfrom us!. . . Look! look!. . . MÉLISANDE. (_a stifled voice_). A-a-h!--He is behind a tree! PÉLLÉAS. Who? MÉLISANDE. Golaud! PÉLLÉAS. Golaud!--where?--I see nothing. . . . MÉLISANDE. There . . . At the end of our shadows. PÉLLÉAS. Yes, yes; I saw him. . . . Let us not turn abruptly. . . . MÉLISANDE. He has his sword. . . . PÉLLÉAS. I have not mine. . . . MÉLISANDE. He saw us kiss. . . . PÉLLÉAS. He does not know we have seen him. . . . Do not stir; do not turn yourhead. . . . He would rush headlong on us. . . . He will remain there whilehe thinks we do not know. He watches us. . . . He is still motionless. . . . Go, go at once this way. . . . I will wait for him. . . . I will stophim. . . . MÉLISANDE. No, no, no!. . . PÉLLÉAS. Go! go! he has seen all!. . . He will kill us!. . . MÉLISANDE. All the better! all the better! all the better!. . . PÉLLÉAS. He comes! he comes!. . . Thy mouth!. . . Thy mouth!. . . MÉLISANDE. Yes!. . . Yes! yes!. . . [_They kiss desperately. _ PÉLLÉAS Oh! oh! All the stars are falling!. . . MÉLISANDE. Upon me too! upon me too!. . . PÉLLÉAS. Again! Again!. . . Give! give!. . . MÉLISANDE. All! all! all!. . . [Golaud rushes upon them, sword in hand, and strikes Pélléas, who falls at the brink of the fountain. Mélisande flees terrified. ] MÉLISANDE. (_fleeing_). Oh! oh! I have no courage I . . . I have no courage!. . . [GOLAUD _pursues her through the wood in silence. _ ACT FIFTH. SCENE I. --_A lower hall in the castle. The women servants discovered, gathered together, while without children are playing before one ofthe ventilators of the hall. _ AN OLD SERVANT. You will see, you will see, my daughters; it will be to-night. --Someone will come to tell us by and by. . . . ANOTHER SERVANT. They will not come to tell us. . . . They don't know what they are doingany longer. . . . THIRD SERVANT. Let us wait here. . . . FOURTH SERVANT. We shall know well enough when we must go up. . . . FIFTH SERVANT. When the time is come, we shall go up of ourselves. . . . SIXTH SERVANT. There is no longer a sound heard in the house. . . . SEVENTH SERVANT. We ought to make the children keep still, who are playing before theventilator. EIGHTH SERVANT. They will be still of themselves by and by. NINTH SERVANT. The time has not yet come. . . . _Enter an old Servant. _ THE OLD SERVANT. No one can go in the room any longer. I have listened more thanan hour. . . . You could hear the flies walk on the doors. . . . I heardnothing. . . . FIRST SERVANT. Has she been left alone in the room? THE OLD SERVANT. No, no; I think the room is full of people. FIRST SERVANT. They will come, they will come, by and by. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Lord! Lord! It is not happiness that has come into the house. . . . Onemay not speak, but if I could say what I know. . . SECOND SERVANT. It was you who found them before the gate? THE OLD SERVANT. Why, yes! why, yes! it was I who found them. The porter says it washe who saw them first; but it was I who waked them. He was sleeping onhis face and would not get up. --And now he comes saying, "It was I whosaw them first. " Is that just?--See, I burned myself lighting a lampto go down cellar. --Now what was I going to do down cellar?--I can'tremember any more what I was going to do down cellar. --At any rate Igot up very early; it was not yet very light; I said to myself, I willgo across the courtyard, and then I will open the gate. Good; Igo down the stairs on tiptoe, and I open the gate as if it were anordinary gate. . . . My God! My God! What do I see? Divine a little whatI see!. . . FIRST SERVANT. They were before the gate? THE OLD SERVANT. They were both stretched out before the gate!. . . Exactly like poorfolk that are too hungry. . . . They were huddled together like littlechildren who are afraid. . . . The little princess was nearly dead, andthe great Golaud had still his sword in his side. . . . There was bloodon the sill. . . . SECOND SERVANT. We ought to make the children keep still. . . . They are screaming withall their might before the ventilator. . . . THIRD SERVANT. You can't hear yourself speak. . . . FOURTH SERVANT. There is nothing to be done: I have tried already; they won't keepstill. . . . FIRST SERVANT. It seems he is nearly cured? THE OLD SERVANT. Who? FIRST SERVANT. The great Golaud. THIRD SERVANT. Yes, yes; they have taken him to his wife's room. I met them justnow, in the corridor. They were holding him up as if he were drunk. Hecannot yet walk alone. THE OLD SERVANT. He could not kill himself; he is too big. But she is hardly wounded, and it is she who is going to die. . . . Can you understand that? FIRST SERVANT. You have seen the wound? THE OLD SERVANT. As I see you, my daughter. --I saw everything, you understand. . . . I sawit before all the others. . . . A tiny little wound under her little leftbreast, --a little wound that wouldn't kill a pigeon. Is it natural? FIRST SERVANT. Yes, yes; there is something underneath. . . . SECOND SERVANT. Yes; but she was delivered of her babe three days ago. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Exactly!. . . She was delivered on her death-bed; is that a littlesign?--And what a child! Have you seen it?--A wee little girl a beggarwould not bring into the world. . . . A little wax figure that came muchtoo soon;. . . A little wax figure that must live in lambs' wool. . . . Yes, yes; it is not happiness that has come into the house. . . . FIRST SERVANT. Yes, yes; it Is the hand of God that has been stirring. . . . SECOND SERVANT. Yes, yes; all that did not happen without reason. . . . THIRD SERVANT. It is as good lord Pélléas . . . Where is he?--No one knows. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Yes, yes; everybody knows. . . . But nobody dare speak of it. . . . One doesnot speak of this;. . . One does not speak of that;. . . One speaks nomore of anything;. . . One no longer speaks truth. . . . But _I_ know hewas found at the bottom of Blind Man's Spring;. . . But no one, no onecould see him. . . . Well, well, we shall only know all that at the lastday. . . . FIRST SERVANT. I dare not sleep here any longer. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Yes, yes; once ill-fortune is in the house, one keeps silence invain. . . . THIRD SERVANT. Yes; it finds you all the same. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Yes, yes; but we do not go where we would. . . . FOURTH SERVANT. Yes, yes; we do not do what we would. . . . FIRST SERVANT. They are afraid of us now. . . . SECOND SERVANT. They all keep silence. . . . THIRD SERVANT. They cast down their eyes in the corridors. FOURTH SERVANT. They do not speak any more except in a low voice. FIFTH SERVANT. You would think they had all done it together. SIXTH SERVANT. One doesn't know what they have done. . . . SEVENTH SERVANT. What is to be done when the masters are afraid?. . . [_A silence_. FIRST SERVANT. I no longer hear the children screaming. SECOND SERVANT. They are sitting down before the ventilator. THIRD SERVANT. They are huddled against each other. THE OLD SERVANT. I no longer hear anything in the house. . . . FIRST SERVANT. You no longer even hear the children breathe. . . . THE OLD SERVANT. Come, come; it is time to go up. . . . [_Exeunt in silence. _ SCENE II. --_An apartment in the castle. _ ARKËL, GOLAUD, _and the_ PHYSICIAN _discovered in one corner of theroom. _ MÉLISANDE _is stretched upon her bed. _ THE PHYSICIAN. It cannot be of that little wound she is dying; a bird would not havedied of it. . . . It is not you, then, who have killed her, good my lord;do not be so disconsolate. . . . She could not have lived. . . . She wasborn without reason . . . To die; and she dies without reason. . . . Andthen, it is not sure we shall not save her. . . . ARKËL. No, no; it seems to me we keep too silent, in spite of ourselves, inher room. . . . It is not a good sign. . . . Look how she sleeps . . . Slowly, slowly;. . . It is as if her soul was cold forever. . . . GOLAUD. I have killed her without cause! I have killed her without cause!. . . Is it not enough to make the stones weep?. . . They had kissed likelittle children. . . . They had simply kissed. . . . They were brother andsister. . . . And I, and I at once!. . . I did it in spite of myself, lookyou. . . . I did it in spite of myself. . . . THE PHYSICIAN. Stop; I think she is waking. . . . MÉLISANDE. Open the window;. . . Open the window. . . . ARKËL Shall I open this one, Mélisande? MÉLISANDE. No, no; the great window . . . The great window. . . . It is to see. . . . ARKËL. Is not the sea air too cold to-night? Do it; do it. . . . MÉLISANDE. Thanks. . . . Is it sunset? ARKËL. Yes; it is sunset on the sea; it is late. --How are you, Mélisande? MÉLISANDE. Well, well. --Why do you ask that? I have never been better. --And yetit seems to me I know something. . . . ARKËL. What sayest thou?--I do not understand thee. . . . MÉLISANDE. Neither do I understand all I say, you see. . . . I do not know what Iam saying. . . . I do not know what I know. . . . I no longer say what Iwould. . . . ARKËL. Why, yes! why, yes!. . . I am quite happy to hear thee speak so; thouhast raved a little these last days, and one no longer understoodthee. . . . But now all that is far away. . . . MÉLISANDE. I do not know. . . . --Are you all alone in the room, grandfather? ARKËL. No; there is the physician, besides, who cured thee. . . . MÉLISANDE. Ah!. . . ARKËL. And then there is still some one else. . . . MÉLISANDE. Who is it? ARKËL. It is . . . Thou must not be frightened. . . . He does not wish thee theleast harm, be sure. . . . If thou'rt afraid, he will go away. . . . He isvery unhappy. . . . MÉLISANDE. Who is it? ARKËL. It is thy . . . Thy husband. . . . It is Golaud. . . . MÉLISANDE. Golaud is here? Why does he not come by me? GOLAUD (_dragging himself toward the bed. _) Mélisande . . . Mélisande. . . . MÉLISANDE. Is it you, Golaud? I should hardly recognize you any more. . . . It isthe evening sunlight in my eyes. . . . Why look you on the walls? Youhave grown thin and old. . . . Is it a long while since we saw eachother? GOLAUD (_to_ ARKËL _and the_ PHYSICIAN). Will you withdraw a moment, if you please, if you please?. . . I willleave the door wide open. . . . One moment only. . . . I would say somethingto her; else I could not die. . . . Will you?--Go clear to the end ofthe corridor; you can come back at once, at once. . . . Do not refuseme this. . . . I am a wretch. . . . [_Exit_ ARKËL _and the_PHYSICIAN. ]--Mélisande, hast thou pity on me, as I have pity onthee?. . . Mélisande?. . . Dost thou forgive me, Mélisande?. . . MÉLISANDE. Yes, yes, I do forgive thee. . . . What must I forgive?. . . GOLAUD. I have wrought thee so much ill, Mélisande. . . . I cannot tell thee theill I have wrought thee. . . . But I see it, I see it so clearly to-day. . . Since the first day. . . . And all I did not know till now leaps inmy eyes to-night. . . . And it is all my fault, all that has happened, all that will happen. . . . If I could tell it, thou wouldst see as Ido!. . . I see all! I see all!. . . But I loved thee so!. . . I loved theeso!. . . But now there is some one dying. . . . It is I who am dying. . . . And I would know. . . . I would ask thee. . . . Thou'lt bear me noill-will. . . . I would. . . . The truth must be told to a dying man. . . . Hemust know the truth, or else he could not sleep. . . . Swearest thou totell me the truth? MÉLISANDE Yes. GOLAUD. Didst thou love Pélléas? MÉLISANDE. Why, yes; I loved him. --Where is he? GOLAUD. Thou dost not understand me?--Thou wilt not understand me?--It seemsto me . . . It seems to me. . . . Well, then, here: I ask thee if thoulovedst him with a forbidden love?. . . Wert thou . . . Were you guilty?Say, say, yes, yes, yes!. . . MÉLISANDE. No, no; we were not guilty. --Why do you ask that? GOLAUD. Mélisande!. . . Tell me the truth, for the love of God! MÉLISANDE. Why have I not told the truth? GOLAUD. Do not lie so any more, at the moment of death! MÉLISANDE. Who is dying?--Is it I? GOLAUD. Thou, thou! and I, I too, after thee!. . . And we must have thetruth. . . . We must have the truth at last, dost thou understand?. . . Tell me all! Tell me all! I forgive thee all!. . . MÉLISANDE. Why am I going to die?--I did not know it. . . . GOLAUD. Thou knowest it now!. . . It is time! It is time!. . . Quick! quick!. . . The truth! the truth!. . . MÉLISANDE. The truth . . . The truth. . . . GOLAUD. Where art thou?--Mélisande!--Where art thou?--It is not natural!Mélisande! Where art thou?--Where goest thou? [_Perceiving_ ARKËL_and the_ PHYSICIAN _at the door of the room. ]--_ Yes, yes; you maycome in. . . . I know nothing; it is useless. . . . It is too late; she isalready too far away from us. . . . I shall never know!. . . I shall diehere like a blind man!. . . ARKËL. What have you done? You will kill her. . . . GOLAUD. I have already killed her. . . . ARKËL. Mélisande. . . . MÉLISANDE. Is it you, grandfather? ARKËL. Yes, my daughter. . . . What would you have me do? MÉLISANDE. Is it true that the winter is beginning?. . . ARKËL. Why dost thou ask? MÉLISANDE. Because it is cold, and there are no more leaves. . . . ARKËL. Thou art cold?--Wilt thou have the windows closed? MÉLISANDE. No, no, . . . Not till the sun be at the bottom of the sea. --It sinksslowly; then it is the winter beginning? ARKËL. Yes. --Thou dost not like the winter? MÉLISANDE. Oh! no. I am afraid of the cold. --I am so afraid of the great cold. . . . ARKËL. Dost thou feel better? MÉLISANDE. Yes, yes; I have no longer all those qualms. . . . ARKËL. Wouldst thou see thy child? MÉLISANDE. What child? ARKËL. Thy child. --Thou art a mother. . . . Thou hast brought a little daughterinto the world. . . . MÉLISANDE. Where is she? ARKËL. Here. . . . MÉLISANDE. It is strange. . . . I cannot lift my arms to take her. . . . ARKËL. Because you are still very weak. . . . I will hold her myself; look. . . . MÉLISANDE. She does not laugh. . . . She is little. . . . She is going to weep too. . . . I pity her. . . . [The room has been invaded, little by little, by the women servants of the castle, who range themselves in silence along the walls and wait] GOLAUD (_rising abruptly_). What is the matter?--What are all these women coming here for?. . . THE PHYSICIAN. It is the servants. . . . ARKËL. Who was it called them? THE PHYSICIAN. It was not I. . . . GOLAUD. Why do you come here?--No one has asked for you. . . . What come you hereto do?--But what is it, then?--Answer me!. . . [_The servants make no answer. _ ARKËL. Do not speak too loud. . . . She is going to sleep; she has closed hereyes. . . . GOLAUD. It is not. . . ? THE PHYSICIAN. No, no; see, she breathes. . . . ARKËL. Her eyes are full of tears. --It is her soul weeping now. . . . Why doesshe stretch her arms out so?--What would she? THE PHYSICIAN. It is toward the child, without doubt. . . . It is the straggle ofmotherhood against. . . GOLAUD. At this moment?--At this moment?--You must say. Say! Say!. . . THE PHYSICIAN. Perhaps. GOLAUD. At once?. . . Oh! oh! I must tell her. . . . --Mélisande! Mélisande!. . . Leave me alone! leave me alone with her!. . . ARKËL. No, no; do not come near. . . . Trouble her not. . . . Speak no more toher. . . . You know not what the soul is. . . . GOLAUD. It is not my fault!. . . It is not my fault! ARKËL. Hush!. . . Hush!. . . We must speak softly now. --She must not bedisturbed. . . . The human soul is very silent. . . . The human soul likesto depart alone. . . . It suffers so timorously. . . . But the sadness, Golaud . . . The sadness of all we see!. . . Oh! oh! oh!. . . [_At thismoment, all the servants fall suddenly on their knees at the back ofthe chamber. _] ARKËL (_turning_). What is the matter? THE PHYSICIAN (_approaching the bed and feeling the body_). They are right. . . . [_A long silence. _ ARKËL. I saw nothing. --Are you sure?. . . THE PHYSICIAN. Yes, yes. ARKËL. I heard nothing. . . . So quick, so quick!. . . All at once!. . . She goeswithout a word. . . . GOLAUD (_sobbing_). Oh! oh! oh! _ARKËL. _ Do not stay here, Golaud. . . . She must have silence now. . . . Come, come. . . . It is terrible, but it is not your fault. . . . 'T was a littlebeing, so quiet, so fearful, and so silent. . . . 'T was a poor littlemysterious being, like everybody. . . . She lies there as if she were thebig sister of her child. . . . Come, come. . . . My God! My God!. . . I shallnever understand it at all. . . . Let us not stay here. --Come; the childmost not stay here in this room. . . . She must live now in her place. . . . It is the poor little one's turn. . . . [_They go out in silence. _ [CURTAIN. ] Alladine and Palomides. _To Camille Mauclair_. Persons. ABLAMORE. ASTOLAINE, _daughter of Ablamore_. ALLADINE. PALOMIDES. THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. A PHYSICIAN. [NOTE: The translation of Ablamore's song is taken from the version ofthis play made by the editors of "Poet-lore. " R. H. ] Alladine and Palomides. * * * * * ACT FIRST. _A-wild part of the gardens_. ABLAMORE _discovered leaning over_ALLADINE, _who is asleep_. ABLAMORE. Methinks sleep reigns day and night beneath these trees. Each timeshe comes here with me toward nightfall, she is hardly seated when shefalls asleep. Alas! I must be glad even of that. . . . During the day, whene'er I speak to her and her look happens to encounter mine, it ishard as a slave's to whom a thing impossible has just been bidden. . . . Yet that is not her customary look. . . . I have seen her many timesresting her beautiful eyes on children, on the forest, the sea, or hersurroundings. She smiles at me as one smiles on a foe; and I dare notbend over her save at times when her eyes can no longer see me. . . . Ihave a few moments every evening; and all the rest of the day I livebeside her with my eyes cast down. . . . It is sad to love too late. . . . Maids cannot understand that years do not separate hearts. . . . Theyhave called me "The wise King. ". . . I was wise because till now nothinghad happened to me. . . . There are men who seem to turn events aside. It was enough that I should be about for nothing to be able to havebirth. . . . I had suspected it of old. . . . In the time of my youth, I hadmany friends whose presence seemed to attract every adventure; butthe days when I went forth with them, for the encounter of joys orsorrows, they came back again with empty hands. . . . I think I palsiedfate; and I long took pride in this gift. One lived under cover in myreign. . . . But now I have recognized that misfortune itself is betterworth than sleep, and that there must be a life more active and higherthan waiting. . . . They shall see that I too have strength to trouble, when I will, the water that seems dead at the bottom of the greatcaldrons of the future. . . . Alladine, Alladine!. . . Oh! she is lovelyso, her hair over the flowers and over her pet lamb, her lips apartand fresher than the morn. . . . I will kiss her without her knowing, holding back my poor white beard. . . . [_He kisses her. _]--Shesmiled. . . . Should I pity her? For the few years she gives me, she willsome day be queen; and I shall have done a little good before I goaway. . . . They will be astonished. . . . She herself does not know. . . . Ah!here she wakes with a start. . . . Where are you coming from, Alladine? ALLADINE. I have had a bad dream. . . . ABLAMORE. What is the matter? Why do you look yonder? ALLADINE. Some one went by upon the road. ABLAMORE. I heard nothing. ALLADINE. I tell you some one is coming. . . . There he is! [_She points out ayoung knight coming forward through the trees and holding his horse bythe bridle. _] Do not take me by the hand; I am not afraid. . . . He hasnot seen us. . . . ABLAMORE. Who dares come here?. . . If I did not know. . . . I believe it isPalomides. . . . It is Astolaine's betrothed. . . . He has raised hishead. . . . Is it you, Palomides? _Enter_ PALOMIDES. PALOMIDES. Yes, my father. . . . If I am suffered yet to call you by that name. . . . Icome hither before the day and the hour. . . . ABLAMORE. You are a welcome guest, whatever hour it be. . . . But what hashappened? We did not expect you for two days yet. . . . Is Astolainehere, too?. . . PALOMIDES. No; she will come to-morrow. We have journeyed day and night. She wastired and begged me to come on before. . . . Are my sisters come? ABLAMORE. They have been here three days waiting for your wedding. --You lookvery happy, Palomides. . . . PALOMIDES. Who would not be happy, to have found what he sought? I was sad ofold. But now the days seem lighter and more sweet than harmless birdsin the hand. . . . And if old moments come again by chance, I draw nearAstolaine, and you would think I threw a window open on the dawn. . . . She has a soul that can be seen around her, --that takes you in itsarms like an ailing child and without saying anything to you consolesyou for everything. . . . I shall never understand it at all. --I do notknow how it can all be; but my knees bend in spite of me when I speakof it. . . . ALLADINE. I want to go in again. ABLAMORE. [_Seeing that_ ALLADINE _and_ PALOMIDES _look at each otherstealthily. _] This is little Alladine who has come hither fromthe heart of Arcady. . . . Take hands . . . Does that astonish you, Palomides?. . . PALOMIDES. My father. . . . [PALOMIDES' _horse starts aside, frightening_ ALLADINE'S _lamb. _] ABLAMORE. Take care. . . . Your horse has frightened Alladine's lamb. . . . He willrun away. . . . ALLADINE. No; he never runs away. . . . He has been startled, but he will notrun away. . . . It is a lamb my godmother gave me. . . . He is not likeothers. . . . He stays beside me night and day. [_Caressing it. _ PALOMIDES (_also caressing it_). He looks at me with the eyes of a child. . . . ALLADINE. He understands everything that happens. . . . ABLAMORE. It is time to go find your sisters, Palomides. . . . They will beastonished to see you. . . . ALLADINE. They have gone every day to the turning of the road. . . . I have gonewith them; but they did not hope yet. . . . ABLAMORE. Come; Palomides is covered with dust, and he must be weary. . . . We havetoo many things to say to each other to talk here. . . . We will say themto-morrow. . . . They claim the morn is wiser than the evening. . . . I seethe palace gates are open and seem to wait for us. . . . ALLADINE. I cannot help being uneasy when I go back into the palace. . . . It is sobig, and I am so little, and I get lost there still. . . . And thenall those windows on the sea. . . . You cannot count them. . . . And thecorridors that turn without reason, and others that never turn, butlose themselves between the walls. . . . And the halls I dare not gointo. . . . PALOMIDES. We will go in everywhere. . . . ALLADINE. You would think I was not made to dwell there, --that it was not builtfor me. . . . Once I lost my way there. . . . I pushed open thirty doors, before I found the light of day again. . . . And I could not go out;the last door opened on a pool. . . . And the vaults that are cold allsummer; and the galleries that bend back on themselves endlessly. . . . There are stairways that lead nowhere and terraces from which nothingcan be seen. . . . ABLAMORE. You who were not wont to talk, how you talk to-night!. . . [_Exeunt. _ ACT SECOND. SCENE I. --ALLADINE _discovered, her forehead against one of thewindows that open on the park. Enter_ ABLAMORE. ABLAMORE. Alladine. . . . ALLADINE (_turning abruptly_). What is it? ABLAMORE. Oh, how pale you are!. . . Are you ill? ALLADINE. No. ABLAMORE. What is it in the park?--Were you looking at the avenue of fountainsthat unfolds before your windows?--They are wonderful and weariless. They were raised there one by one, at the death of each of mydaughters. . . . At night I hear them singing in the garden. . . . Theybring to mind the lives they represent, and I can tell their voicesapart. . . . ALLADINE. I know. ABLAMORE. You must pardon me; I sometimes repeat the same things and my memoryis less trust-worthy. . . . It is not age; I am not an old man yet, thankGod! but kings have a thousand cares. Palomides has been telling mehis adventures. . . . ALLADINE. Ah! ABLAMORE. He has not done what he would; young people have no will any more. --Heastonishes me. I had chosen him among a thousand for my daughter. Heshould have had a soul as deep as hers. --He has done nothing which maynot be excusable, but I had hoped more. . . . What do you say of him? ALLADINE. Who? ABLAMORE. Palomides? ALLADINE. I have only seen him one evening. . . . ABLAMORE. He astonishes me. --Everything has succeeded with him till now. Hewould undertake a thing and accomplish it without a word. --He wouldget out of danger without an effort, while others could not open adoor without finding death behind it. --He was of those whom eventsseem to await on their knees. But a little while ago somethingsnapped. You would say he has no longer the same star, and everystep he takes carries him further from himself. --I don't know what itis. --He does not seem to be at all aware, but others can remark it. . . . Let us speak of something else: look! the night comes; I see it risealong the walls. Would you like to go together to the wood of Astolat, as we do other evenings? ALLADINE. I am not going out to-night. ABLAMORE. We will stay here, since you prefer it so. Yet the air is sweet andthe evening very fair. [ALLADINE _starts without his noticing it. _] Ihave had flowers set along the hedges, and I should like to show themto you. . . . ALLADINE. No, not to-night. . . . If you wish me to. . . . I like to go there with you. . . The air is pure and the trees . . . But not to-night. . . . [_Cowers, weeping, against the old man's breast. _] I do not feel quite well. . . . ABLAMORE. What is the matter? You are going to fall. . . . I will call. . . . ALLADINE. No, no. . . . It is nothing. . . . It is over. . . . ABLAMORE. Sit down. Wait. . . . [He runs to the folding-doors at the back and opens both. Palomides is seen, seated on a bench. He has not had time to turn away his eyes. Ablamore looks fixedly at him, without a word, then re-enters the room. Palomides rises and retreats in the corridor, stifling the sound of his footsteps. The pet lamb leaves the room, unperceived. ] SCENE II. --_A drawbridge over the moats of the palace_. PALOMIDES_and_ ALLADINE, _with her pet lamb, appear at the two ends of thebridge. _ KING ABLAMORE _leans out from a window of the tower_. PALOMIDES. Were you going out, Alladine?--I was coming in. I am coming back fromthe chase. --It rained. ALLADINE. I have never passed this bridge. PALOMIDES. It leads to the forest. It is seldom passed. People had rather go along way around. I think they are afraid because the moats are deeperat this place than elsewhere, and the black water that comes down fromthe mountains boils horribly between the walls before it goes hurlingitself into the sea. It roars there always; but the quays are so highyou hardly notice it. It is the most deserted wing of the palace. Buton this side the forest is more beautiful, more ancient, and greaterthan any you have seen. It is full of unusual trees and flowers thathave sprung up of themselves, --Will you come? ALLADINE. I do not know. . . . I am afraid of the roaring water. PALOMIDES. Come, come; it roars without reason. Look at your lamb; he looks at meas if he wished to come. . . . Come, come. . . . ALLADINE. Don't call him. . . . He will get away. PALOMIDES. Come, come. [The lamb escapes from Alladine's hands, and comes leaping toward Palomides, but slips on the inclined plane of the drawbridge and goes rolling into the moat. ] ALLADINE. What has he done?--Where is he? PALOMIDES. He slipped. He is straggling in the heart of the eddy. Do not look athim; there is nothing to be done. . . . ALLADINE. You are going to save him? PALOMIDES. Save him? But look! he is already in the tunnel. One moment more, and he will be under the vaults; and God himself will never see himmore. . . . ALLADINE. Go away! Go away! PALOMIDES. What is the matter? ALLADINE. Go away!--I do not want to see you any more!. . . [Ablamore enters precipitately, seizes Alladine, and draws her away brusquely without speaking. ] SCENE III. --_A room in the palace_. ABLAMORE _and_ ALLADINE_discovered_. ABLAMORE. You see, Alladine, my hands do not tremble, my heart beats like asleeping child's, and my voice has not once been stirred with wrath. I bear no ill-will to Palomides, although what he has done might seemunpardonable. And as for thee, who could bear thee ill-will? You obeylaws you do not know, and you could not act otherwise, I will notspeak to you of what took place the other day along the palace moats, nor of all the unforeseen death of the lamb might have revealed to me, had I believed in omens for an instant. But last night I surprisedthe kiss you gave each other under the windows of Astolaine. At thatmoment I was with her in her room. She has a soul that fears so muchto trouble, with a tear or with a simple movement of her eyelids, thehappiness of those about her, that I shall never know if she, as I, surprised that wretched kiss. But I know what she has the power tosuffer. I shall not ask you anything you cannot avow to me, but Iwould know if you had any secret design in following Palomides underthe window where you must have seen us. Answer me without fear; youknow beforehand I will pardon everything. ALLADINE. I did not kiss him. ABLAMORE. What? You did not kiss Palomides, and Palomides did not kiss you? ALLADINE. No. ABLAMORE. Ah!. . . Listen: I came here to forgive you everything. . . . I thoughtyou had acted as we almost all act, without aught of our soulintervening. . . . But now I will know all that passed. . . . You lovePalomides, and you have kissed him under my eyes. . . . ALLADINE. No. ABLAMORE. Don't go away. I am only an old man. Do not flee. . . . ALLADINE. I am not fleeing. ABLAMORE. Ah! ah! You do not flee, because you think my old hands harmless! Theyhave yet the strength to tear a secret out in spite of all [_He seizesher arms_. ] And they could wrestle with all those you prefer. . . . [_Hetwists her arms behind her head_. ] Ah! you will not speak!. . . Therewill yet come a time when all your soul shall spirt out like a clearspring, for woe. . . . ALLADINE. No, no! ABLAMORE. Again, . . . We are not at the end, the journey is very long--and nakedtruth is hid among the rocks. . . . Will she come forth?. . . I see hergestures in your eyes already, and her cool breath will lave my visagesoon. . . . Ah!. . . Alladine! Alladine!. . . [_He releases her suddenly_. ]I heard your bones cry out like little children. . . . I have not hurtyou?. . . Do not stay thus, upon your knees before me, . . . It is I whogo down on my knees. [_He does as he says_] I am a wretch. . . . You musthave pity. . . . It is not for myself alone I pray. . . . I have only onepoor daughter. . . . All the rest are dead. . . . I had seven of themabout me. . . . They were fair and full of happiness; and I saw them nomore. . . . The only one left to me is going to die, too. . . . She didnot love life. . . . But one day she encountered something she no longerlooked for, and I saw she had lost the desire to die. . . . I do not aska thing impossible. . . . [ALLADINE _weeps and makes no answer_. ] SCENE IV. --_The apartment of_ ASTOLAINE. ASTOLAINE _and_ PALOMIDES_discovered_. PALOMIDES. Astolaine, when I met you several months ago by chance, it seemedto me that I had found at last what I had sought for during manyyears. . . . Till you, I did not know all that the ever tenderer goodnessand complete simplicity of a high soul might be. I was so deeplystirred by it that it seemed to me the first time I had met a humanbeing. You would have said that I had lived till then in a closedchamber which you opened for me; and all at once I knew what must bethe soul of other men and what mine might become. . . . Since then, I have known you further. I have seen you act, and others too havetaught me all that you have been. There have been evenings when I quitted you without a word, and wentto weep for wonder in a corner of the palace, because you had simplyraised your eyes, made a little unconscious gesture, or smiled for noapparent cause, yet at the moment when all the souls about you askedit and would be satisfied. There is but you who know these moments, because you are, it seems, the soul of all, and I do not believe thosewho have not drawn near you can know what true life is. To-day I cometo say all this to you, because I feel that I shall never be he whomI hoped once to become. . . . A chance has come--or haply I myself havecome; for you can never tell if you have made a movement of yourself, or if it be chance that has met with you--a chance has come, which hasopened my eyes, just as we were about to make each other unhappy; andI have recognized there must be something more incomprehensible thanthe beauty of the most beautiful soul or the most beautiful face; andmightier, too, since I must needs obey it. . . . I do not know if youhave understood me. If you understand, have pity on me. . . . I have saidto myself all that could be said. . . . I know what I shall lose, for Iknow her soul is a child's soul, a poor strengthless child's, besideyours, and yet I cannot resist it. . . . ASTOLAINE. Do not weep. . . . I know too that one does not do what one would do . . . Nor was I ignorant that you would come. . . . There must indeed belaws mightier than those of our souls, of which we always speak. . . . [_Kissing him abruptly_]. --But I love thee the more, my poorPalomides. PALOMIDES. I love thee, too . . . More than her I love. . . . Thou weepest, as I do? ASTOLAINE. They are little tears. . . . Do not be sad for them. . . . I weep so, because I am woman, but they say our tears are not painful. . . . You seeI can dry them already. . . . I knew well what it was. . . . I waited forthe wakening. . . . It has come, and I can breathe with less disquietude, being no longer happy. . . . There!. . . We must see clearly now for youand her. For I believe my father already has suspicions. [_Exeunt_. ACT THIRD. SCENE I. --_A room in the palace_. ABLAMORE _discovered_. ASTOLAINE_stands on the step of a half-open door at the back of the hall_. ASTOLAINE. Father, I have come because a voice that I no longer can resist, commands me to. I told you all that happened in my soul when I metPalomides. He was not like other men. . . . To-day I come to ask yourhelp . . . For I do not know what should be said to him. . . . I havebecome aware I cannot love him. . . . He has remained the same, andI alone have changed, or have not understood. . . . And since it isimpossible for me to love, as I have dreamed of love, him I had chosenamong all, it must be that my heart is shut to these things. . . . I knowit to-day. . . . I shall look no more toward love; and you will see meliving on about you without sadness and without unrest. . . . I feel thatI am going to be happy. . . . ABLAMORE. Come hither, Astolaine. It is not so that you were wont to speak inthe old days to your father. You wait there, on the threshold of adoor hardly ajar, as if you were ready to flee; and with your handupon the key, as if you would close from me forever the secret of yourheart. You know quite well I have not understood what you have justsaid, and that words have no sense when souls are not within reachof each other. Draw nearer still, and speak no more to me, [ASTOLAINE_approaches slowly_. ] There is a moment when souls touch eachother, and know all without need that one should move the lips. Drawnearer. . . . They do not reach each other yet, and their radiance isso slight about us!. . . [ASTOLAINE _stops_. ] Thou darest not?--Thouknowest too how far one can go?--It is I who must. . . . [_He approachesAstolaine with slow step, then stops and looks long at her_. ] I seethee, Astolaine. . . . ASTOLAINE. Father!. . . [_She sobs as she kisses the old man_. ] ABLAMORE. You see well it was useless. . . . SCENE II. --_A chamber in the palace_. _Enter_ ALLADINE _and_ PALOMIDES. PALOMIDES. All will be ready to-morrow. We cannot wait longer. He prowls likea madman through the corridors of the palace; I met him even now. He looked at me without a word. I passed; and as I turned, I saw himslyly laugh, shaking his keys. When he perceived that I was lookingat him, he smiled at me, making signs of friendship. He must havesome secret project, and we are in the hands of a master whose reasonbegins to totter. . . . To-morrow we shall be far away. . . . Yonder thereare wonderful countries that resemble thine. . . . Astolaine has alreadyprovided for our flight and for my sisters'. . . . ALLADINE. What has she said? PALOMIDES. Nothing, nothing. . . . You will see everything about my father'scastle, --after days of sea and days of forests--you will see lakes andmountains . . . Not like these, under a sky that looks like the vault ofa cave, with black trees that the storms destroy . . . But a sky beneathwhich there is nothing more to fear, --forests that are always awake, flowers that do not close. . . . ALLADINE. She wept? PALOMIDES. What are you asking?. . . There is something there of which we have noright to speak, do you understand?. . . There is a life there that doesnot belong to our poor life, and which love has no right to approachexcept in silence. . . . We are here, like two beggars in rags, when Ithink of it. . . . Go! go!. . . I could tell you things. . . . ALLADINE. Palomides!. . . What is the matter? PALOMIDES. Go! go!. . . I have seen tears that came from further than the eyes. . . . There is something else. . . . It may be, nevertheless, that we are right. . . But how I regret being right so, my God!. . . Go!. . . I will tell youto-morrow . . . To-morrow . . . To-morrow. . . . [_Exeunt severally_. SCENE III. --_A corridor before the apartment of_ ALLADINE. _Enter_ASTOLAINE _and the_ SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. ASTOLAINE. The horses wait in the forest, but Palomides will not flee; and yetyour lives and his are in danger. I do not know my poor father anylonger. He has a fixed idea that troubles his reason. This is thethird day I have followed him step by step, hiding myself behind thepillars and the walls, for he suffers no one to companion him. To-day, as the other days, and from the first gleams of the morning he hasgone wandering through the corridors and halls of the palace, andalong the moats and ramparts, shaking the great golden keys he hashad made and singing at the top of his voice the strange song whoserefrain, _Go follow what your eyes have seen_, has perhaps piercedeven to the depths of your chambers. I have concealed from you tillnow all that has come to pass, because such things must not be spokenof without reason. He must have shut up Alladine in this apartment, but no one knows what he has done with her. I have listened at thedoors every night and whenever he has been away a moment, but I havenever heard any noise in the room. . . . Do you hear anything? ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. No; I hear only the murmur of the air passing through the littlechinks of the wood. . . . ANOTHER SISTER. It seems to me, when I listen hard, that I hear the great pendulum ofthe clock. A THIRD SISTER. But what is this little Alladine, then, and why does he bear suchill-will to her? ASTOLAINE. It is a little Greek slave that came from the heart of Arcady. . . . He bears her no ill-will, but . . . Do you hear?--It is my father. . . . [_Singing heard in the distance. _] Hide yourselves behind the pillars. . . He will have no one pass by this corridor. --[_They hide. _] _Enter_ ABLAMORE, _singing and shaking a bunch of great keys_. ABLAMORE (_sings_). Misfortune had three golden keys. --He has no rescue for the Queen!-- Misfortune had three golden keys. Go follow what your eyes have seen. [Sits dejected on a bench, beside the door of Alladine's apartment, hums a little while longer, and soon goes to sleep, his arms hanging down and his head fallen. ] ASTOLAINE. Come, come! make no noise. He has fallen asleep on the bench. --Oh, mypoor old father! How white his hair has grown during these days! Heis so weak, he is so unhappy, that sleep itself no longer brings himpeace. It is three whole days now since I have dared to look upon hisface. . . . ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. He sleeps profoundly. . . . ASTOLAINE. He sleeps profoundly, but you can see his soul has no rest. . . . Thesunlight here will vex his eyelids. . . . I am going to draw his cloakover his face. . . . ANOTHER SISTER. No, no; do not touch it. . . . He might wake with a start. . . . ASTOLAINE. Some one is coming in the corridor. Come, come! put yourselves beforehim. . . . Hide him. . . . A stranger must not see him in this state. . . . A SISTER OF PALOMIDES. It is Palomides. . . . ASTOLAINE. I am going to cover his poor eyes. . . . [_She covers_ ABLAMORE'S_face_. ]--I would not have Palomides see him thus. . . . He is toomiserable. _Enter_ PALOMIDES. PALOMIDES. What is the matter? ONE OF THE SISTERS. He has fallen asleep on the bench. PALOMIDES. I have followed him without his seeing me. . . . He said nothing?. . . ASTOLAINE. No; but see all he has suffered. . . . PALOMIDES. Has he the keys? ANOTHER SISTER. He holds them in his hand. . . . PALOMIDES. I am going to take them. ASTOLAINE. What are you going to do? Oh, do not wake him!. . . For three nights nowhe has wandered through the palace. . . . PALOMIDES. I will open his hand a little without his noticing it. . . . We have noright to wait any longer. . . . God knows what he has done. . . . He willforgive us when he has his reason back. . . . Oh! oh! his hand has nostrength any more. . . ASTOLAINE. Take care! Take care! PALOMIDES. I have the keys. --Which is it? I am going to open the room. ONE OF THE SISTERS. Oh, I am afraid!. . . Do not open it at once. . . . Palomides!. . . PALOMIDES. Stay here. . . . I do not know what I shall find. . . . [_He goes to the door, opens it, and enters the apartment_. ] ASTOLAINE. Is she there? PALOMIDES (_in the apartment_). I cannot see. . . . The shutters are closed. . . . ASTOLAINE. Have a care, Palomides. . . . Wilt thou that I go first?. . . Thy voice istrembling. . . . PALOMIDES (_in the apartment_). No, no. . . . I see a ray of sunlight falling through the chinks of theshutters. ONE OF THE SISTERS. Yes; it is broad day out of doors. PALOMIDES. [_Rushing headlong from the room_. ] Come! Come!. . . I think she . . . ASTOLAINE. Thou hast seen her?. . . PALOMIDES. She is stretched out on the bed!. . . She does not stir!. . . I do notthink she . . . Come! Come! [_They all go into the room. _ ASTOLAINE AND THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. [_In the room_. ] She is here. . . . No, no, she is not dead. . . . Alladine!Alladine!. . . Oh! oh! The poor child!. . . Do not cry out so. . . . She hasfainted. . . . Her hair is tied across her mouth. . . . And her hands arebound behind her back. . . . They are bound with the help of her hair. . . . Alladine! Alladine!. . . Fetch some water. . . . [ABLAMORE, _who has waked, appears on the step of the door_. ] ASTOLAINE. There is my father!. . . ABLAMORE (_going to_ PALOMIDES). Was it you who opened the door of the room? PALOMIDES. Yes, it was I. . . . I did it--well, then?--well, then?. . . I could notlet her die under my eyes. . . . See what you have done. Alladine!. . . Fear nothing. . . . She opens her eyes a little. . . . I will not . . . ABLAMORE. Do not cry out. . . . Do not cry out so. . . . Come, we will open theshutters. . . . You cannot see here. Alladine!. . . She is already sittingup. Alladine, come too. . . . Do you see, my children, it is dark inthe room. It is as dark here as if we were a thousand feet under theground. But I open one of the shutters, and behold! All the light ofthe sky and the sun!. . . It does not need much effort; the lightis full of good-will. . . . It suffices that one call it; it alwaysobeys. . . . Have you seen the river with its little islands between themeadows in flower?. . . The sky is a crystal ring to-day. . . . Alladine!Palomides, come see. . . . Draw both of you near Paradise. . . . You mustkiss each other in the new light. . . . I bear you no ill-will. You didwhat was ordained; and so did I. . . . Lean out a moment from the openwindow, and look once more at the sweet green things. . . . [_A silence. He closes the shutter without a word_. ] ACT FOURTH. _Vast subterranean crypts_. ALLADINE _and_ PALOMIDES. PALOMIDES. They have bound my eyes with bands; they have tied my hands withcords. ALLADINE. They have tied my hands with cords; they have bound my eyes withbands. . . . I think my hands are bleeding. . . . PALOMIDES. Wait. To-day I bless my strength. . . . I feel the knots beginning togive way. . . . One struggle more, and let my fists burst! One strugglemore! I have my hands! [_Tearing away the bandage_. ] And my eyes!. . . ALLADINE. You see now? PALOMIDES. Yes. ALLADINE. Where are we? PALOMIDES. Where are you? ALLADINE. Here; can you not see me? PALOMIDES. My eyes weep still where the band has left its trace. . . . We are not indarkness. . . . Is it you I hear toward where I can just see? ALLADINE. I am here; come. PALOMIDES. You are at the edge of that which gives us light. Do not stir; Icannot see all that there is about you. My eyes have not forgot thebandage yet. They bound it tight enough to burst my eyelids. ALLADINE. Come; the knots stifle me. I can wait no longer. . . . PALOMIDES. I hear only a voice coming out of the light. . . . ALLADINE. Where are you? PALOMIDES. I have no idea myself. I walk still in darkness. . . . Speak again, thatI may find you. You seem to be on the edge of an unbounded light. . . . ALLADINE. Come! come! I have borne without a word, but I can bear no more. . . . PALOMIDES (_groping forward_). You are there? I thought you so far away!. . . My tears deceived me. I am here, and I see you. Oh, your hands are wounded! They have bledupon your gown, and the knots have entered into the flesh. I have nolonger any weapons. They have taken away my poniard. I will tear themoff. Wait! wait! I have the knots. ALLADINE. Take off the bandage first that makes me blind. . . . PALOMIDES. I cannot. . . . I do not see. . . . It seems to be surrounded by a net ofgolden threads. . . . ALLADINE. My hands, then, my hands! PALOMIDES. They have taken silken cords. . . . Wait, the knots come undone. The cordhas thirty turns. . . . There, there!--Oh, your hands are all blood!. . . You would say they were dead. . . . ALLADINE. No, no!. . . They are alive! they are alive! See!. . . [With her hands hardly yet unbound, she clasps Palomides about the neck and kisses him passionately. ] PALOMIDES. Alladine! ALLADINE. Palomides! PALOMIDES. Alladine, Alladine!. . . ALLADINE. I am happy!. . . I have waited a long while!. . . PALOMIDES. I was afraid to come. . . . ALLADINE. I am happy . . . And I would that I could see thee. . . . PALOMIDES. They have tied down the bandage like a casque. . . . --Do not turn round;I have found the golden threads. . . . ALLADINE. Yes, yes, I will turn round. . . . [_She turns about, to kiss him again. _ PALOMIDES. Have a care. Do not stir. I am afraid of wounding thee. . . . ALLADINE. Tear it away! Fear nothing. I can bear no more!. . . PALOMIDES. I would see thee too. . . . ALLADINE. Tear it away! Tear it away! I am no longer within reach of woe!. . . Tear it away!. . . Thou dost not know that one could wish to die. . . . Where are we? PALOMIDES. Thou'lt see, thou'lt see. . . . It is innumerable crypts . . . Great bluehalls, gleaming pillars, and deep vaults. . . . ALLADINE. Why dost thou answer when I question thee? PALOMIDES. What matter where we be, if we be but together?. . . ALLADINE. Thou lovest me less already? PALOMIDES. Why, what ails thee? ALLADINE. I know well where I am when I am on thy heart. . . . Oh, tear the bandageoff!. . . I would not enter blind into thy soul. . . . What doest thou, Palomides? Thou dost not laugh when I laugh. Thou dost not weep whenI weep. Thou dost not clap thy hands when I clap mine; and thoutremblest not when I speak trembling to the bottom of my soul. . . . The band! The band!. . . I will see!. . . There, there, above my hair!. . . [_She tears away the bandage_. ] Oh!. . . PALOMIDES. Seest thou? ALLADINE. Yes. . . . I see thee only. . . . PALOMIDES. What is it, Alladine? Thou kissest me as if thou wert already sad. . . . ALLADINE. Where are we? PALOMIDES. Why dost thou ask so sadly? ALLADINE. No, I am not sad; but my eyes will hardly open. . . . PALOMIDES. One would say your joy had fallen on my lips like a child at thethreshold of the house. . . . Do not turn away. . . . I fear lest you shouldflee, and I fear lest I dream. . . . ALLADINE. Where are we? PALOMIDES. We are in crypts that I have never seen. . . . Doth it not seem to theethe light increases? When I unclosed my eyes, I could distinguishnothing; now little by little it is all revealed. I have been oftentold of wondrous caverns whereon the halls of Ablamore were built. Itmust be these. No one descends here ever; and the king only has thekeys. I knew the sea flooded the lowest vaults; and it is probably thereflex of the sea which thus illumines us. . . . They thought to bury usin night. They came down here with torches and flambeaus and saw thedarkness only, while the light came out to meet us, seeing we hadnone. . . . It brightens without ceasing. . . . I am sure the dawn piercesthe ocean and sends down to us through all its greening waves thepurest of its child-soul. . . . ALLADINE. How long have we been here? PALOMIDES. I have no idea. . . . I made no effort till I heard thee speak. . . . ALLADINE. I do not know how this took place. I was asleep in the room where thoudidst find me; and when I waked, my eyes were bound across, and bothmy hands were pinioned in my girdle. . . . PALOMIDES. I too was sleeping. I heard nothing, and I had a band across my eyesere I could open them. I struggled in the darkness; but they werestronger than I. . . . I must have passed under deep vaults, for I feltthe cold fall on my shoulders; and I went down so far I could notcount the steps. . . . Did no one speak to thee? ALLADINE. No; no one spoke. I heard some one weeping as he walked; and then Ifainted. . . . PALOMIDES (_kissing her_). Alladine! ALLADINE. How gravely thou dost kiss me!. . . PALOMIDES. Close not thine eyes when I do kiss thee so. . . . I would see the kissestrembling in thy heart, and all the dew that rises in thy soul. . . . Weshall not find such kisses any more. . . . ALLADINE. Always, always! PALOMIDES. No, no; there is no kissing twice upon the heart of death. . . . How fairthou art so!. . . It is the first time I have seen thee near. . . . It isstrange, we think that we have seen each other because we have gone bytwo steps apart; but everything changes the moment the lips touch. . . . There, thou must be let to have thy will. . . . I stretch my arms wideto admire thee, as if thou wert no longer mine; and then I draw themnearer till I touch thy kisses and perceive only eternal bliss. . . . There needed us this supernatural light!. . . [_He kisses her again_. ]Ah! What hast thou done? Take care! we are upon a crest of rock thatoverhangs the water that gives us light. Do not step back. It wastime. . . . Do not turn too abruptly. I was dazzled. . . . ALLADINE. [_Turning and looking at the blue water that illuminates them_. ]Oh!. . . PALOMIDES. It is as if the sky had flowed hither. . . . ALLADINE. It is full of moveless flowers. . . . PALOMIDES. It is full of moveless flowers and strange. . . . Hast thou seen thelargest there that blooms beneath the others? It seems to live acadenced life. . . . And the water . . . Is it water?. . . It seems morebeautiful, more pure, more blue than all the water in the world. . . . ALLADINE. I dare not look upon it longer. . . . PALOMIDES. See how about us all is luminous. . . . The light dares hesitate nolonger, and we kiss each other in the vestibules of heaven. . . . Seestthou the precious stones that gem the vaults, drunken with life, thatseem to smile on us; and the thousands and thousands of glowing blueroses that climb along the pillars?. . . ALLADINE. Oh!. . . I heard!. . . PALOMIDES. What? ALLADINE. Some one striking the rocks. . . . PALOMIDES. No, no; it is the golden gates of a new Paradise, that open in oursouls and sing upon their hinges!. . . ALLADINE. Listen. . . . Again, again!. . . PALOMIDES (_with voice suddenly changed_). Yes; it is there. . . . It is at the bottom of the bluest vaults. . . . ALLADINE. They are coming to. . . . PALOMIDES. I hear the sound of iron on the rock. . . . They have walled up the dooror cannot open it. . . . It is the picks grating against the stone. . . . His soul has told him we were happy. . . . [A silence; then a stone is detached at the very end of the vault, and a ray of daylight breaks into the cavern. ] ALLADINE. Oh!. . . PALOMIDES. It is another light. . . . [Motionless and anxious, they watch other stones detach themselves slowly in an insufferable light, and fall one by one; while the light, entering in more and more resistless floods, reveals to them little by little the gloom of the cavern they had thought marvellous. The miraculous lake becomes wan and sinister; the precious stones about them are extinguished, and the glowing roses appear as the stains and rotten rubbish that they are. At last, the whole side of rock falls abruptly into the crypt. The sunlight enters, dazzling. Calls and songs are heard without. Alladine and Palomides recoil. ] PALOMIDES. Where are we? ALLADINE (_embracing him_). I love thee still, Palomides. . . . PALOMIDES. I love thee too, my Alladine. . . . ALLADINE. They come. . . . PALOMIDES. [_Looking behind him as they still recoil_. ] Have a care. . . . ALLADINE. No, no; have no more care. . . . PALOMIDES (_looking at her_). Alladine? ALLADINE. Yes . . . [They still recoil before the invasion of light or peril, until they lose their footing; and they fall and disappear behind the rock that overhangs the underground and now gloomy water. --A silence. Astolaine and the sisters of Palomides enter the crypt. ] ASTOLAINE. Where are they? ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. Palomides!. . . ASTOLAINE. Alladine! Alladine!. . . ANOTHER SISTER. Palomides!. . . It is we!. . . THIRD SISTER. Fear nothing; we are alone!. . . ASTOLAINE. Come! come! we have come to rescue you!. . . FOURTH SISTER. Ablamore has fled. . . . FIFTH SISTER. He is no longer in the palace. . . . SIXTH SISTER. They do not answer. . . . ASTOLAINE. I heard the water stirred!. . . This way, this way! [_They run to the rock that overlooks the underground_. ] ONE OF THE SISTERS. They are there!. . . ANOTHER SISTER. Yes, yes; at the very bottom of the black water. . . . They embrace. THIRD SISTER. They are dead. FOURTH SISTER. No, no; they are alive! they are alive!. . . See. . . . THE OTHER SISTERS. Help! help!. . . Call!. . . ASTOLAINE. They make no effort to save themselves!. . . ACT FIFTH. [A corridor, so long that its furthest arches seem to lose themselves in a kind of indoor horizon. The sisters of Palomides wait before one of the innumerable closed doors that open into this corridor. They seem to be guarding it. A little further down, on the opposite side, Astolaine and the Physician converse before another door, also closed. ] ASTOLAINE. [_To the Physician. _] Nothing has ever happened until now in thispalace, where all things have seemed to be asleep since my sistersdied; and my poor old father, pursued by a strange restlessness, hasfretted without reason at this calm, which seems, for all that, the least dangerous form of happiness. Some time ago, --his reasonbeginning to totter even then, --he went up to the top of a high tower;and as he stretched his arms out timidly toward the forests and towardthe sea, he said to me--smiling a little fearfully at his words, as ifto disarm my incredulous smile--that he called about us events whichhad long been hidden beneath the horizon. They have come, alas! soonerand more in number than he expected, and a few days have sufficed forthem to reign in his stead. He has been their first victim. He fledto the meadows, singing, all in tears, the evening when he had littleAlladine and luckless Palomides taken down into the crypts. He hasnot since been seen. I have had search made everywhere throughout thecountry and even on the sea. He has not been found. At least, I hadhoped to save those he made suffer unwittingly, for he has always beenthe tenderest of men and the best of fathers; but there, too, I thinkI came too late. I do not know what happened. They have not spokenyet. They doubtless must have thought, hearing the sound of the ironand seeing all at once the light again, that my father had regrettedthe kind of surcease he had granted them, and that some one came tobring them death. Or else they slipped as they drew back, uponthe rock that overhangs the lake; and so must have fallen throughheedlessness. But the water is not deep in that spot, and we succeededin saving them without difficulty. To-day it is you alone who can dothe rest. [THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES _have drawn nearer. _ THE PHYSICIAN. They are both ailing with the same disease, and it is a disease I donot know. --But I have little hope left. They were seized perhapswith the cold of the underground waters; or else those waters may bepoisonous. The decomposed body of Alladine's lamb was found there. --Iwill come back to-night. --Meanwhile they must have silence. . . . Thelevel of life is very low in their hearts. . . . Do not go into theirrooms and do not speak to them, for the least word, in the state theyare in, might cause their death. . . . They must succeed in forgettingone another. [_Exit. _ ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. I see that he will die. ASTOLAINE. No, no. . . . Do not weep;. . . One does not die so, at his age. . . . ANOTHER SISTER. But why is your father angry without reason at my poor brother? THIRD SISTER. I think your father loved Alladine. ASTOLAINE. Do not speak so of it. . . . He thought I suffered. He thought to havedone good, and he did evil unwittingly. . . . That often happens tous. . . . It is my fault, perhaps. . . . I recall it to-day. . . . One night Iwas asleep. I was weeping in a dream. . . . We have little courage whenwe dream. I waked. . . . He was beside my bed, looking at me. . . . Perhapshe was deceived. . . . FOURTH SISTER (_running_). Alladine has stirred a little in her room. . . . ASTOLAINE. Go to the door . . . Listen. . . . Perhaps it was the nurse rising. . . . FIFTH SISTER (_listening at the door_). No, no; I hear the nurse walking. . . . There is another noise. SIXTH SISTER (_also running_). I think Palomides has moved too; I hear the murmur of a voiceseeking. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. [_Very feebly, within the room. _] Palomides!. . . ONE OF THE SISTERS. She is calling him!. . . ASTOLAINE. Let us be careful!. . . Go, go in front of the door, that Palomides maynot hear. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Palomides! ASTOLAINE. My God! My God! Silence that voice!. . . Palomides will die of it if hehear it!. . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. [_Very feebly, within the other room_. ] Alladine!. . . ONE OF THE SISTERS. He answers!. . . ASTOLAINE. Three among you remain here, . . . And we will go to the other door. Come, come quickly. We will surround them. We will try to defend them. . . . Lie back against the doors. . . . Perhaps they will hear no longer. . . . ONE OF THE SISTERS. I shall go into Alladine's room. . . . SECOND SISTER. Yes, yes; prevent her from crying out again. THIRD SISTER. She is already cause of all this evil. . . . ASTOLAINE. Do not go in, or I go in to Palomides. . . . She also had a right tolife; and she has done nought but to live. . . . But that we cannotstifle in their passage their deadly words!. . . We are without help, mypoor sisters, my poor sisters, and hands cannot stop souls!. . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Palomides, is it thou? THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Where art thou, Alladine? THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Is it thou whom I hear far from me making moan? THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Is it thou whom I hear calling, and see thee not? THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. One would believe thy voice had lost the last of hope. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. One would believe that thine had crossed the winds of death. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. It goes hard with thy voice to pierce into my room. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. And I no longer hear thy voice as of old time. THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I have been woe for thee!. . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. They have divided us, but I do love thee ever. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I have been woe for thee. . . . Art then still suffering? THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. No; I no longer suffer, but I =fain= would see thee. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. We shall not see each other more; the doors are shut. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Thy voice would make one say thou lovedst me no more. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Yes, yes; I love thee still, but it is mournful now. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Whither is thy face turned? I hardly understand thee. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. We seem to be an hundred leagues from one another. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. I try to rise in vain; my spirit is too heavy. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I too would come, --I too--but still my head falls back. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Thou seemest almost to speak in tears despite thyself. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. No; I wept long ago; it is no longer tears. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. There's something in thy thoughts thou dost not tell me of. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. They were not precious stones. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. And the flowers were not real. . . . ONE OF THE SISTERS OF PALOMIDES. They rave. . . . ASTOLAINE. No, no; they know what they are saying. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. It was the light that had no pity on us. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Where goest thou, Alladine? Thou'rt being borne away. . . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I have no more regret to lose the light o' the sun. . . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Yes, yes; we shall behold the sweet green things again!. . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. I have lost desire to live. . . . [_A silence; then more and more faintly:_] THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Alladine!. . . THE VOICE OF ALLADINE. Palomides!. . . THE VOICE OF PALOMIDES. Alla . . . Dine!. . . [A silence. --Astolaine and the sisters of Palomides listen, in anguish. Then the nurse opens, from the inside, the door of Palomides' room, appears on the sill, makes a sign, and all enter the room. The door doses behind them. A new silence. A little afterwards, the door of Alladine's room opens in its turn; the other nurse comes out in like manner, looks about in the corridor, and, seeing no one, re-enters the room, leaving the door wide open. ] [CURTAIN. ] Home. _To Mademoiselle Sara de Swart. _ Persons. IN THE GARDEN. THE OLD MAN. THE STRANGER. MARTHA } _granddaughters of the old man. _AND MARY, }A PEASANT. THE CROWD. IN THE HOUSE THE FATHER, }THE MOTHER, } _Silent characters. _THE TWO DAUGHTERS, }THE CHILD, } Home. * * * * * [An old garden, planted with willows. At the back, a house in which three windows on the ground-floor are lighted. A family, sitting up under the lamp, is seen rather distinctly. The father is seated by the fireside. The mother, one elbow on the table, is staring into space. Two young girls, clad in white, embroider, dream, and smile in the quiet of the room. A child lies asleep with his head under the mother's left arm. Whenever one of them rises, walks, or makes a gesture, his movements seem to be grave, slow, rare, and, as it were, spiritualized by the distance, the light, and the vague veil of the windows. The old man and the stranger enter the garden cautiously. ] THE OLD MAN. We are in the part of the garden behind the house. They never comehere. The doors are on the other side. --They are closed, and theshutters are up. But there are no shutters on this side, and I sawa light. . . . Yes; they are sitting up still under the lamp. It isfortunate they have not heard us; the mother or the young girls wouldhave come out, perhaps, and then what should we have done?. . . THE STRANGER. What are we going to do? THE OLD MAN. I should like to see, first, if they are all in the room. Yes, I seethe father sitting in the chimney-corner. He waits, with his hands onhis knees;. . . The mother is resting her elbow on the table. THE STRANGER. She is looking at us. . . . THE OLD MAN. No; she doesn't know where she is looking: her eyes do not wink. Shecannot see us; we are in the shade of great trees. But do not go anynearer. . . . The two sisters of the dead girl are in the room too. Theyare embroidering slowly; and the little child is asleep. It is nineby the clock in the corner. . . . They suspect nothing, and they do notspeak. THE STRANGER. If one could draw the father's attention, and make him some sign? Hehas turned his head this way. Would you like me to knock at one of thewindows? One of them ought to be told before the others. . . . THE OLD MAN. I don't know which one to choose. . . . We must take greatprecautions. . . . The father is old and ailing. . . . So is the mother; andthe sisters are too young. . . . And they all loved her with such love aswill never be again. . . . I never saw a happier household. . . . No, no, donot go near the window; that would be worse than anything else. . . . It is better to announce it as simply as possible, --as if it were anordinary event, --and not to look too sad; for otherwise their griefwill wish to be greater than yours and will know of nothing more thatit can do. . . . Let us go on the other side of the garden. We will knockat the door and go in as if nothing had happened. I will go in first:they will not be surprised to see me; I come sometimes in the evening, to bring them flowers or fruit, and pass a few hours with them. THE STRANGER. Why must I go with you? Go alone; I will wait till I am called. . . . They have never seen me. . . . I am only a passer-by; I am a stranger. . . . THE OLD MAN. It is better not to be alone. A sorrow that one does not bring aloneis not so unmixed nor so heavy. . . . I was thinking of that as we werecoming here. . . . If I go in alone, I shall have to be speaking from thefirst minute; in a few words they will know everything, and I shallhave nothing more to say; and I am afraid of the silence following thelast words that announce a woe. . . . It is then the heart is rent. . . . Ifwe go in together, I shall tell them, for example, after going a longway about, "She was found so. . . . She was floating in the river, andher hands were clasped. ". . . THE STRANGER. Her hands were not clasped; her arms were hanging down along her body. THE OLD MAN. You see, one speaks in spite of oneself. . . . And the sorrow is lost inthe details;. . . But otherwise, if I go in alone, at the first words, knowing them as I do, it would be dreadful, and God knows what mighthappen. . . . But if we speak in turn, they will listen to us and notthink to look the ill news in the face. . . . Do not forget the motherwill be there, and that her life hangs by a thread. . . . It is good thatthe first wave break on some unnecessary words. . . . There should be alittle talking around the unhappy, and they should have people aboutthem. . . . The most indifferent bear unwittingly a part of the grief. . . . So, without noise or effort, it divides, like air or light. . . . THE STRANGER. Your clothes are wet through; they are dripping on the flagstones. THE OLD MAN. It is only the bottom of my cloak that dipped in the water. --You seemto be cold. Your chest is covered with earth. . . . I did not notice iton the road on account of the darkness. . . . THE STRANGER. I went into the water up to my waist. THE OLD MAN. Was it long after you found her when I came? THE STRANGER. A few minutes, barely. I was going toward the village; it was alreadylate, and the bank was getting dark. I was walking with my eyesfixed on the river because it was lighter than the road, when I sawsomething strange a step or two from a clump of reeds. . . . I drew nearand made out her hair, which had risen almost in a circle above herhead, and whirled round, so, in the current. [_In the room, the two young girls turn their heads toward thewindow. _] THE OLD MAN. Did you see the two sisters' hair quiver on their shoulders? THE STRANGER. They turned their heads this way. . . . They simply turned their heads. Perhaps I spoke too loud. [_The two young girls resume their formerposition. _] But they are already looking no longer. . . . I went into thewater up to my waist and I was able to take her by the hand andpull her without effort to the shore. . . . She was as beautiful as hersisters are. THE OLD MAN. She was perhaps more beautiful. . . . I do not know why I have lost allcourage. . . . THE STRANGER. What courage are you talking of? We have done all man could do. . . . Shewas dead more than an hour ago. . . . THE OLD MAN. She was alive this morning!. . . I met her coming out of church. . . . Shetold me she was going away; she was going to see her grandmother onthe other side of the river where you found her. . . . She did not knowwhen I should see her again. . . . She must have been on the point ofasking me something; then she dared not and left me abruptly. But Ithink of it now. . . . And I saw nothing!. . . She smiled as they smile whochoose to be silent, or who are afraid they will not be understood. . . . She seemed hardly to hope. . . . Her eyes were not clear and hardlylooked at me. . . . THE STRANGER. Some peasants told me they had seen her wandering on the river-bankuntil nightfall. . . . They thought she was looking for flowers. . . . Itmay be that her death. . . . THE OLD MAN. We cannot tell. . . . What is there we can tell?. . . She was perhaps ofthose who do not wish to speak, and every one of us bears in himselfmore than one reason for no longer living. . . . We cannot see in thesoul as we see in that room. They are all like that. . . . They only saytrite things; and no one suspects aught. . . . You live for months bysome one who is no longer of this world and whose soul can bend nolonger; you answer without thinking; and you see what happens. . . . Theylook like motionless dolls, and, oh, the events that take place intheir souls!. . . They do not know themselves what they are. . . . Shewould have lived as the rest live. . . . She would have said up to herdeath: "Monsieur, Madame, we shall have rain this morning, " or else, "We are going to breakfast; we shall be thirteen at table, " or else:"The fruits are not yet ripe. " They speak with a smile of the flowersthat have fallen, and weep in the dark. . . . An angel even would not seewhat should be seen; and man only understands when it is too late. . . . Yesterday evening she was there, under the lamp like her sisters, and you would not see them as they should be seen, if this had notoccurred. . . . I seem to see her now for the first time. . . . Somethingmust be added to common life before we can understand it. . . . They arebeside you day and night, and you perceive them only at the momentwhen they depart forever. . . . And yet the strange little soul she musthave had; the poor, naïve, exhaustless little soul she had, my son, if she said what she must have said, if she did what she mast havedone!. . . THE STRANGER. Just now they are smiling in silence in the room. . . . THE OLD MAN. They are at peace. . . . They did not expect her to-night. . . . THE STRANGER. They smile without stirring;. . . And see, the father is putting hisfinger on his lips. . . . THE OLD MAN. He is calling attention to the child asleep on its mother's heart. . . . THE STRANGER. She dares not raise her eyes lest she disturb its sleep. . . . THE OLD MAN. They are no longer working. . . . A great silence reigns. . . . THE STRANGER. They have let fell the skein of white silk. . . . THE OLD MAN. They are watching the child. . . . THE STRANGER. They do not know that others are watching them. . . . THE OLD MAN. We are watched too. . . . THE STRANGER. They have lifted their eyes. . . . THE OLD MAN. And yet they can see nothing. . . . THE STRANGER. They seem happy; and yet nobody knows what may be--. . . . THE OLD MAN. They think themselves in safety. . . . They have shut the doors; andthe windows have iron bars. . . . They have mended the walls of the oldhouse; they have put bolts upon the oaken doors. . . . They have foreseenall that could be foreseen. . . . THE STRANGER. We must end by telling them. . . . Some one might come and let them knowabruptly. . . . There was a crowd of peasants in the meadow where thedead girl was found. . . . If one of them knocked at the door. . . THE OLD MAN. Martha and Mary are beside the poor dead child. The peasants were tomake a litter of leaves; and I told the elder to come warn us in allhaste, the moment they began their march. Let us wait till she comes;she will go in with me. . . . We should not have looked on them so. . . . Ithought it would be only to knock upon the door; to go in simply, finda phrase or two, and tell. . . . But I have seen them live too long undertheir lamp. . . . _Enter_ MARY. MARY. They are coming, grandfather. THE OLD MAN. Is It you?--Where are they? MARY. They are at the foot of the last hills. THE OLD MAN. They will come in silence? MARY. I told them to pray in a low voice. Martha is with them. . . . THE OLD MAN. Are they many? MARY. The whole village is about the bearers. They had brought lights. Itold them to put them out. . . . THE OLD MAN. Which way are they coming? MARY. They are coming by the footpaths. They are walking slowly. . . . THE OLD MAN. It is time. . . . MARY. You have told them, grandfather? THE OLD MAN. You see plainly we have told them nothing. . . . They are waiting stillunder the lamp. . . . Look, my child, look! You will see something oflife. . . . MARY. Oh, how at peace they seem!. . . You would say I saw them in a dream. . . . THE STRANGER. Take care, I saw both sisters give a start. . . . THE OLD MAN. They are getting up. . . . THE STRANGER. I think they are coming to the windows. . . . [At this moment, one of the two sisters of whom they speak draws near the first window, the other near the third, and, pressing their hands at the same time against the panes, look a long while into the darkness. ] THE OLD MAN. No one comes to the window in the middle. . . . MARY. They are looking. . . . They are listening. . . . THE OLD MAN. The elder smiles at what she does not see. THE STRANGER. And the other has eyes full of fearfulness. . . . THE OLD MAN. Take care; we do not know how far the soul extends about men. . . . [_A long silence_, MARY _cowers against the old man's breast andkisses him. _] MARY. Grandfather!. . . THE OLD MAN. Do not weep, my child. . . . We shall have our turn. . . . [_A silence. _ THE STRANGER. They are looking a long while. . . . THE OLD MAN. They might look a hundred thousand years and not perceive anything, the poor little sisters. . . . The night is too dark. . . . They are lookingthis way; and it is from that way the misfortune is coming. . . . THE STRANGER. It is fortunate they look this way. . . . I do not know what that iscoming toward us, over by the meadows. MARY. I think it is the crowd. . . . They are so far away you can hardly makethem out. . . . THE STRANGER. They follow the undulations of the path. . . . Now they appear again on ahillside in the moonlight. . . . MARY. Oh, how many they seem!. . . They had already run up from the suburbs ofthe city when I came. . . . They are going a long way around. . . . THE OLD MAN. They will come in spite of all; I see them too. . . . They are on themarch across the meadow lands. . . . They seem so small you hardly makethem out among the grasses. . . . They look like children playing inthe moonlight; and if the girls should see them, they would notunderstand. . . . In vain they turn their backs; those yonder draw nearwith every step they take, and the sorrow has been growing these twohours already. They cannot hinder it from growing; and they that bearit there no longer can arrest it. . . . It is their master too, and theymust serve it. . . . It has its end and follows its own road. . . . Itis unwearying and has but one idea. . . . Needs must they lend theirstrength. They are sad, but they come. . . . They have pity, but theymust go forward. . . . MARY. The elder smiles no longer, grandfather. . . . THE STRANGER. They leave the windows. . . . MARY. They kiss their mother. . . . THE STRANGER. The elder has caressed the curls of the child without waking him. . . . MARY. Oh! the father wants to be kissed too. . . . THE STRANGER. And now silence. . . . MARY. They come back beside the mother. . . . THE STRANGER. And the father follows the great pendulum of the clock with hiseyes. . . . MARY. You would say they were praying without knowing what they did. . . . THE STRANGER. You would say that they were listening to their souls. . . . [_A silence. _ MARY. Grandfather, don't tell them to-night!. . . THE OLD MAN. You see, you too lose courage. . . . I knew well that we must not look. Iam nearly eighty-three years old, and this is the first time the sightof life has struck me. I do not know why everything they do seems sostrange and grave to me. . . . They wait for night quite simply, undertheir lamp, as we might have been waiting under ours; and yet I seemto see them from the height of another world, because I know a littletruth which they do not know yet. . . . Is it that, my children? Tell me, then, why you are pale, too? Is there something else, perhaps, that cannot be told and causes us to weep? I did not know there wasanything so sad in life, nor that it frightened those who looked uponit. . . . And nothing can have occurred that I should be afraid to seethem so at peace. . . . They have too much confidence in this world. . . . There they are, separated from the enemy by a poor window. . . . Theythink nothing will happen because they have shut the door, and do notknow that something is always happening in our souls, and that theworld does not end at the doors of our houses. . . . They are so sure oftheir little life and do not suspect how many others know more ofit than they; and that I, poor old man, --I hold here, two steps fromtheir door, all their little happiness, like a sick bird, in my oldhands I do not dare to open. . . . MARY. Have pity, grandfather. . . . THE OLD MAN. We have pity on them, my child, but no one has pity on us. . . . MARY. Tell them to-morrow, grandfather; tell them when it is light. . . . Theywill not be so sorrowful. . . . THE OLD MAN. Perhaps you are right, my child. . . . It would be better to leave allthis in the night. And the light is sweet to sorrow. . . . But what wouldthey say to us to-morrow? Misfortune renders jealous; they whom itstrikes, wish to be told before strangers; they do not like to have itleft in the hands of those they do not know. . . . We should look as ifwe had stolen something. . . . THE STRANGER. There is no more time, besides; I hear the murmur of prayersalready. . . . MARY. There they are. . . . They are passing behind the hedges. . . . _Enter_ MARTHA. MARTHA. Here I am. I have brought them this far. I have told them to wait onthe road. [_Cries of children heard. _] Ah! the children are cryingagain. . . . I forbade their coming. . . . But they wanted to see too, andthe mothers would not obey. . . . I will go tell them. . . . No; they aresilent. --Is everything ready?--I have brought the little ring that wasfound on her. . . . I have some fruit, too, for the child. . . . I laid herout myself on the litter. She looks as if she were asleep. . . . I hada good deal of trouble; her hair would not obey. . . . I had somemarguerites plucked. . . . It is sad, there were no other flowers. . . . What are you doing here? Why are you not by them?. . . [_She looks atthe windows. _] They do not weep?. . . They . . . You have not told them? THE OLD MAN. Martha, Martha, there is too much life in your soul; you cannotunderstand. . . . MARTHA. Why should I not understand?. . . [_After a silence and in a tone ofvery grave reproach. _] You cannot have done that, grandfather. . . . THE OLD MAN. Martha, you do not know. . . . MARTHA. _I_ will tell them. THE OLD MAN. Stay here, my child, and look at them a moment. MARTHA. Oh, how unhappy they are!. . . They can wait no longer. THE OLD MAN. Why? MARTHA. I do not know;. . . It is no longer possible!. . . THE OLD MAN. Come here, my child. . . . MARTHA. How patient they are! THE OLD MAN. Come here, my child. . . . MARTHA. [_Turning. _] Where are you, grandfather? I am so unhappy I cannot seeyou any more. . . . I do not know what to do myself any more. . . . THE OLD MAN. Do not look at them any more; till they know all. . . . MARTHA. I will go in with you. . . . THE OLD MAN. No, Martha, stay here. . . . Sit beside your sister, on this old stonebench, against the wall of the house, and do not look. . . . You are tooyoung; you never could forget. . . . You cannot know what a face is likeat the moment when death passes before its eyes. . . . There willbe cries, perhaps. . . . Do not turn round. . . . Perhaps there will benothing. . . . Above all, do not turn if you hear nothing. . . . One doesnot know the course of grief beforehand. . . . A few little deep-rootedsobs, and that is all, usually. . . . I do not know myself what I maydo when I shall hear them. . . . That belongs no longer to this life. . . . Kiss me, my child, before I go away. . . . [The murmur of prayers has gradually drawn nearer. Part of the crowd invades the garden. Dull steps heard, running, and low voices speaking. ] THE STRANGER (_to the crowd_). Stay here;. . . Do not go near the windows. . . . Where is she?. . . A PEASANT. Who? THE STRANGER. The rest . . . The bearers?. . . THE PEASANT. They are coming by the walk that leads to the door. [The old man goes away. Martha and Mary are seated on the bench, with their backs turned to the windows. Murmurs in the crowd. ] THE STRANGER. S--t!. . . Do not speak. [_The elder of the two sisters rises and goes to bolt the door. . . . _] MARTHA. She opens it? THE STRANGER. On the contrary, she is shutting it. [_A silence. _ MARTHA. Grandfather has not entered? THE STRANGER. No. . . . She returns and sits down by her mother. . . . The others do notstir, and the child sleeps all the time. . . . [_A silence. _ MARTHA. Sister, give me your hands. . . . MARY. Martha!. . . [_They embrace and give each other a kiss. _ THE STRANGER. He must have knocked. . . . They have all raised their heads at the sametime;. . . They look at each other. . . . MARTHA. Oh! oh! my poor little sister!. . . I shall cry too!. . . [_She stifles her sobs on her sister's shoulder. _ THE STRANGER. He must be knocking again. . . . The father looks at the clock. He rises. MARTHA. Sister, sister, I want to go in too. . . . They cannot be alone anylonger. . . . MARY. Martha! Martha!. . . [_She holds her back. _ THE STRANGER. The father is at the door. . . . He draws the bolts. . . . He opens the doorprudently. . . . MARTHA. Oh!. . . You do not see the. . . THE STRANGER. What? MARTHA. Those who bear. . . . THE STRANGER. He hardly opens it. . . . I can only see a corner of the lawn; and thefountain. . . . He does not let go the door;. . . He steps back. . . . Helooks as if he were saying: "Ah, it's you!". . . He raises his arms. . . . He shuts the door again carefully. . . . Your grandfather has come intothe room. . . . [The crowd has drawn nearer the windows. Martha and Mary half rise at first, then draw near also, clasping each other tightly. The old man is seen advancing into the room. The two sisters of the dead girl rise; the mother rises as well, after laying the child carefully in the armchair she has just abandoned; in such a way that from without the little one may be seen asleep, with his head hanging a little to one side, in the centre of the room. The mother advances to meet the old man and extends her hand to him, but draws it back before he has had time to take it. One of the young girls offers to take off the visitor's cloak and the other brings forward a chair for him; but the old man makes a slight gesture of refusal. The father smiles with a surprised look. The old man looks toward the windows. ] THE STRANGER. He dares not tell them. . . . He has looked at us. . . . [_Rumors in the crowd. _ THE STRANGER. S . . . T!. . . [The old man, seeing their faces at the windows, has quickly turned his eyes away. As one of the young girls continues to offer him the same armchair, he ends by sitting down and passes his right hand across his forehead several times. ] THE STRANGER. He sits down. . . . [The other people in the room sit down also, while the father talks volubly. At last the old man opens his mouth, and the tone of his voice seems to attract attention. But the father interrupts him. The old man begins to speak again, and little by little the others become motionless. All at once, the mother starts and rises. ] MARTHA. Oh! the mother is going to understand!. . . [She turns away and hides her face in her hands. New murmurs in the crowd. They elbow each other. Children cry to be lifted up, so that they may see too. Most of the mothers obey. ] THE STRANGER. S . . . T!. . . He has not told them yet. . . . [The mother is seen to question the old man in anguish. He says a few words more; then abruptly all the rest rise too and seem to question him. He makes a slow sign of affirmation with his head. ] THE STRANGER. He has told them. . . . He has told them all at once!. . . VOICES IN THE CROWD. He has told them!. . . He has told them!. . . THE STRANGER. You hear nothing. . . . [The old man rises too, and, without turning, points with his finger to the door behind him. The mother, the father, and the two young girls throw themselves on this door, which the father cannot at once succeed in opening. The old man tries to prevent the mother from going out. ] VOICES IN THE CROWD. They are going out! They are going out!. . . [Jostling in the garden. All rush to the other side of the house and disappear, with the exception of the stranger, who remains at the windows. In the room, both sides of the folding-door at last open; all go out at the same time. Beyond can be seen a starry sky, the lawn and the fountain in the moonlight, while in the middle of the abandoned room the child continues to sleep peacefully in the armchair. --Silence. ] THE STRANGER. The child has not waked!. . . [_He goes out also. _ [CURTAIN. ]