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•-4

THREE LITTLE DRAMAS

ALLADINE AND PALOMIDES

INTERIOR

THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES

MAURICE MAETERLINCK

NEW YORK

BRENTANCS

1916

storage

.A46

All Right* Reserved

Printed in Greai Britain
bp Tumbull A Spears^ JBdinburgh

INTRODUCTION

These three little plays were written after Pelleas
and Melisande, before " The Treasure of the Humble,"
before " Aglavaine and Selysette." They were
the last of the series that began with " The Princess
Maleine":fa series of what might almost be termed
Dr amas of U ncohsciousness and Instinct. A curious
fatalism runs through them all; we feel that the men
and women before us are merely unravelling the web
that Destiny has spun round their lives — ^Destiny being a
mysterious and inexorable force whose behests tiiey must^
blindly obey. They are the slaves of their passions,
slaves of the events thAt befall them^ they are prinutive
beings, the mainspring of whose action lies for ever
exposed on the surface ; they are creatures in whom deed
follows instinctively on thought — and yet are we curiously
conscious the while of the struggle in their soul, of their
vague and helpless desire, as fate hurries them swiftly
along to their doom. In his later work, M. Maeterlinck
has entered fields of. speculation that are wider, surer,
nearer to life ; here he seems still to be groping, searching,
eagerly trying to discover the relationsjup t}iat. exists
between man and his destiny, between man and the
universe. These plays are often termed " mystic " ; it
were more correct, perhaps, to describe them as playis
that are governed by obscure ideas, ideas that have not
yet become clear ; and, considering them thus, we shall

INTRODUCTION

find in them the germ of many a lofty, magnificent thought
of '' Wisdom and Destiny " ; we shall understand the
process of reasoning by which Fate, that in ''Alladine
and Palomides " is a monstrous force, crushing all life and
all hope, shall in a few years be looked on as a power
that can never enter the soul, uncalled ; that can
vanquish the upright man only by the good it compels
him to do, and that has but one sword wherewith to
attack him, the sword of goodness and truth.

" Three little dramas for marionettes," they are
called ; nor is this a mere fanciful description of their
nature, or affectation on the part of the author. He
does but thereby give expression to his feeling that
the naivete of treatment, the simplicity of character,
render them somewhat ill-adapted for performance on
the regular stage. And indeed few concessions are made
to the realism demanded by modem convention. /^We
know nothing of his people, who they are, or whence
they come. This man is a king, that other a prince's
son, the third a retainer. Often, indeed, they will
be nameless — merely strangers, old men, sisters. They
live, always, in palaces with gloomy corridors, and lofty,
ruined towers ; there are underground rivers, ;9avage
mountains, ominous forests ; and the unquiet, restless sea
is never far away. When the curtain rises, the characters
are '' discovered," and begin to speak ; having said their
say, they go out "by different ways," and the curtain
abruptly falls. The environment is unchanging, but it is
because the poet wills it so, because he chooses the scene
that appears to him best fitted to his subject, and persists
in regarding the setting as a matter entirely subordinate.
His methods, therefore, are by no means in harmony

INTRODUCTION

with those of the modem stage ; and yet such pieces
of his as have been perfonned — notably "Pelleas and
Melisande," — conclusively prove that these methods do
not detract from the complete enjoyment of the audience.
For M. Maeterlinck is a dramatist of rare quality ; and I

plays, after all, are meant to be acted. '

'' Alladine and Palomides " has much in conmion with
the play mentioned above, which was its immediate pre-
decessor ; though it perhaps fails to reach the very high
level of that most exquisite tragedy. But yet it would
seem in some measure to mark a fuUer creativeness, a
somewhat wider conception. Alladine is as naive as
Melisahde, as unconsciouis, and yet more alert, more
alive ; endowed with more will and initiatii^e, more fore-
sight, more knowledge. Melisande shrinks from death,
is scarcely aware of what death may mean ; Alladine
prefers love to life ; and through all her childishness and
want of reason we detect an ardent, urgent soul. And
in this play, too, there is Astolaine — no less instinctive
than the others — ^but whose instincts all make for nobility,
sacrifice, devotion ; whose love is so great that she can
almost cheerfully resign the man she adores to a rival,
and for this rival have only love too, and sisterly sym-
pathy. Astolaine — ^to use a phrase of which M. Maeter-
linck is fond — ^has attained the higher unconsciousness,
that has drawn near unto God. She moves in the midst
of these impetuous, impulsive creatures like one inspired,
a centre of light ; and we feel that her love, that is so
hushed and silent, is yet infinitely greater and deeper than
the more turbulent, overwhelming passion of Alladine.
The old Ejng who has grown weary of the monotony of
his existence, and climbs on to the battlements to summon

INTRODUCTION

the events that are to rob him ol reason and life, embodi^
an idea that will be familiar to the readers of M. Maeter-
linck's essays. He was not able to understand the happi-
ness that dwelt in the very uniformity of his existence ;
he clamoured for adventure ; but, when it came, he lacked ,
the power to transform it into conseiousness, he allowed
it to assume complete mastery over him and promptly
yielded himself over to calamity. In marked contrast
to Ablamore is the sage in '' Int6rieur " ^ the wise, bene-
volent old man, who places the centre of his joys in those
about him, and finds happiness in watching their simple
gestures, their calm and placid lives. " Interieur " is a
triumph of technical skill ; as we read, we are painfuQy
conscious of that peaceful fandly in their room, behind
the lighted windows, seated there in all tranquillity, sus-
pecting nothing ; we dread the terrible awakening, and
in our hearts are grateful to Mary for her suggestion
that the sorrowful tale be ^not told until the morrow ;
and when at length the old man enters and the father
rises to greet him, we almost turn our eyes away from
the poignant misery that we know must ensue. And
yet all is suggested only ; there is not a word of despair.
But this beautiful little play does more than merely stir
our emotions ; there is not a word that falls from the
old man's lips but is noble, touching, throbbing with
love, deeply and humanly sensitive ; he is wise ¥dth a
wisdom that disdains nothing, but has ever kept in dose
kinship with man. " The Death of Tintagiles " — ^the play
M. Maeterlinck himself prefers of aU he has written —
is a strangely powerful study of sisterly love. Ygraine's
devotion to little Tintagiles is all-absorbing, overwhelm-
ing ; Ygraine herself, in her despair, her pathetic entreaty,

INTRODUCTION

her desperate straggle, is sorely one of the most piteous
victims of the cruelty of Fate. We haye here the story
of a child whom death tears away from his sister^s help-
less embrace ; the play itself being symbolic of the
struggle of all mankind against Death.

I have said that this play is symboUc ; yet are those
doubtless mistaken who imagine that there is scarcely a
line in M. Maeterlinck's writings but has its special
cryptic meaning. Symbolism there certainly is, but it
is broad and general ; one central idea, or set of ideas,
will govern the whole ; the plays howeiver are invariably
simple and direct, and by no means underlined with
constant symbolic reference. The air, it may be, is
charged ¥dth mystery ; but only such as pertains to
the shadowy twilight in which the characters move,
and have being. Let us take, as an instance, the scene
in " Alladine and Palomides," where the two lovers are
imprisoned in the grotto ; they tear the bandages o5
their eyes, and the li^t thrown up by the blue water
that flows at their feet reveals to them countless sparkling
jewels and radiant flowers on the walls of the cavern ;
yet it needs but, one ray of the sim, as it pierces
through t}ie cleft in the rock, to prove that what seemed
flashing gem is nothing but dull and lifeless stone ; what
seemed exquisite roses only moist and decaying fungus.
Here we may find perhaps some connection with the
thou^t M. Maeterlinck has since expressed in his
essays, viz., that the beautiful dream which shrinks from
reality, actuality, and cannot support the steady light
of everyday life, is in itself a tawdry thing too, and
imreal, and not what it seems. But those unable to
define this wider and more general meaning will still

INTRODUCTION

understand the scene in the giotto as fully and com-
pletely as the others ; they will understand as Alladine
and Paloniides understood. There are many, too, who
will ponder over the symbolic meaning of Alladine's pet
lamb, that fled from her and was found dead where she
herself met her death ; many will be eager to know who
the mysterious queen may be, who so mthle^ly persecutes
Tmtagiles ; yet will those, perhaps, appreciate these little
plays the most who will be content to take them as they
are, demanding no definition, seeking for no hidden
meaning ; who will be satisfied to accept what the
author gives them, and try to fathom only the spirit
that underlies his work. {For we have here little dramas
of life, viewed through a darkened mirror ; life shorn of
its complexity, reduced to its primal simplicity. They
are studies in monochrome, wherein many of the subtler
half-tones do yet find expression ; they are things of
delicate and tender beauty — ^whereof much, alas, must
inevitably be lost in process of translation ; and finally
they are the creation of a lofty and penetrating mind,
that handles all things with reverence and invests them
with dignity ; a mind that in all existing things sees
matter for admiration and wonder, i

ALFRED SUTRO

THREE LITTLE DRAMAS

ALLADIlsrE AND PALOMIDES

TRANSLATED BY ALFRED SUTRO

CHARACTERS

Ablamore.

AsTOLAiNE, Ahlamore^a daughUr,

Alladine.

Falomides.

The Sisters of Falomides.'

A Doctor.

ACT I

Scene
A wild spot in the gardeitB.
Alladinb Uea asleep ; Ablamore is bending over her.

Ablamore.

Sleep seems to reign here, day and night, beneath these
trees. No sooner have we arrived, she and I,
towards eventide, no sooner has she seated herself,
than sleep steals over her. . . Alas, I ought to be
glad of it ! For in the daytime, if I speak to her and
our eyes chance to meet, there comev> into her eyes a
look so hard that she might be a slave whom I had
ordered to do a thing that could not be done. . . But
that look is not usual with her. Often and often have
I watched those beautiful eyes as they rested on
children, the forest, the sea, or whatever was near.
At me she smiles as we snule at our enemies ; and
never dare I bend over her save when her eyes can
no longer behold me. A few such moments are mine
every evening ; the rest of the day I live by her side
with my face averted. . . It is sad to love too
late. . . Women do not understand that years
cannot separate heart from heart. " The wise Eing "
they used to call me. I was wise because, till then,
notiiing had happened. There vae some men from

ALLADINE AND act i.

whom events do thus seem to shrink, and turn aside.
Nothing woul^ ever take place where I chanced to
be. . . I had some suspicion of this in bygone
days. There were friends of mine, in my youth, who
had only to show themselves for adventures to flock
to them ; bat if I sallied forth in their midst^ seeking
gladness or sorrow, we would ever return empty
handed. .. It is as though I had paralysed
destiny; and there was a time when this was a
source of much pride to me. . . During my reign,
all men have known peace. . . But now I have
come to beheve that even disaster is better than
lethargy, and that there must be a life that is loftier,
more stirring, than this constant lying in wait. . .
They shaU see that I too, when I choose, have the
power to stir up the dead water that slumbers in the
mighty tarn of the future. . . AUadine, AUadine !
... Oh how beautiful she is ! Her long hair falls
on to the flowers, on to her lamb ; her mouth is half
open, and fresher than the dawn. . . I will kiss
her — she shall not know: I will keep back this
poor white beard of mine . . . (Ae kisses her) — She
smiled. . . Why should I be sorry for her? She
gives me a few years of her life, but some day she
wiU reign as queen ; and before I wend my way
hence, I shall at least have done a little good. . .
They will be surprised. . . She herself knows
nothing. . . Ah see, she awakes, in alarm. Where
do you come from, AUadine ?

Alladink.

I have had a bad dream.

pty

ni ACT I. PALOMIDES

m Ablamore.

^ ^ Wh&t 18 it ? Why look you out yonder ?

^ . Alladine.

loci: Someone has passed by, on the road.

Ablamore.
I heard nothing, . .

'^ Alladine*

Q I tell you someone is coming. . . There he is ! {She
Q points to a young cavalier who is adva/ncvng towards

them through the trees holding his horse by Ihe bridle,)
Do not hold my hand; I am not frightened. . .
He has not seen us. . .

Ablamore.

Who would dare to come here? ... If I were not
sure. . . I believe it is Palomides. . . He is be-
trothed to Astolaiue. . . See, he raises his head. . .
Is it you, Palomides ?

EnJter Palomides.

Palomides.

Yes, my father. . . if I noay already call you by that
name. I have come before the day and before the
hour. . .

Ablamore.

You are welcome, whatever the hour. . . But what
can have happened? We did not expect you so
soon, not for at least two days. . . Has Astolaine
come with you ?
B 17

ALLADINE AND act i.

Palomides.

No ; she will arrive to-morrow. We have travelled day
and night. She was tired ; she begged me to go on
before her. . . Are my sisters here ?

Ablamobs.

They came three days ago, and wait for the wedding.
You look very happy, Palomides.

Palomides.

Who would not be happy, that had found all he sought ?
There was a time when sorrow weighed on me. But
now the days seem lighter to me, and more gentle,
than the innocent birds that come and nestle in our
hand. And if by chance one of the old moments
returns to me, I have but to draw nigh unto Astolaine,
and a window would seem to fly open and let in the
dawn. Astolaine's soul can be seen ; it is there ; it
takes you in its arms and comforts you, without say-
ing a word, as one comforts a sufiering child. . . I
shall never understand. . . I know not whence it
arises ; but my knees bend under me if I only speak
of her. . .

ALLADmE.

I want to go in.

Ablamobe {noticing that AUadine and Palomides are

looking shyly at eadi other).

This is little Alladine, who has come from the depths
of Arcady. . . Take each other by the hand. . .
You are surprised, Palomides ?

ACT I. PALOMIDES

Palomides.
My father. . .

[His horse makes a brusque movement which startles
AUadine^s lamb.

Ablamore.

Be careful ; your horse has frightened AUadine's lamb.
It will run away.

Alladine.

No ; it never runs away. It was surprised, that is all.
It is a lamb that my godmother gave me. . . It is not
like other lambs. It never leaves me, day or nigjht.

[She caresses the lamb.

Palomidbs {also caressing it).
It is looking at me with the eyes of a child.

Alladine.
It understandB everything.

Ablamore.

It is time for you to go to your sisters, Palomides. They
will be surprised to see you.

Alladine.

They have gone to the cross-roads every day. I went
with them; but they did not expect so soon. . .

Ablamore.

Come, Palomides is covered with dust and must be tired.
We have too much to tell one another, we must not
stay here. To-morrow we will talk. The dawn, they

ALLADINE AND act i.

say, is wiser than evening. See. the palace gates
are open and seem to invite us. . .

AliLADIKE.

I cannot tell why it is that uneasiness comes to me, each
time I go into the palace. It is so vast and I am so
little ; I am lost in it. . . . And all l^ose windows
that look on to the sea. . . . You cannot count
them. . . . And the corridors that wind, and wind,
for no reason ; and others that do not torn, but that
k)fle themselves in the walls. . . . And the rooms
I dare not go into —

Palomides.
We wiU go into every one. . . .

Alladine.

I feel that I was not meant to live there, or that it was
not built for me. . . Once, I lost my way. ... I
had to open thirty doors before the daylight returned
to me. And I could not escape ; the last door led
to a lake. . . And there are vaults that are cold even
in summer ; and galleries that twist, and twist, back
on to themselves. And stairs that lead no whither
and terraces whence nothing can be seen. . .

Ablahore.

How you speak to-night, you who are always so silent. . .

[They go out.

ACT n. so. I. PALOMIDES

Acrn

SOENE I

Alladine is discovered, her forehead pressed against one of
the windows looking on to the park. Enter Ablamorb.

Ablamore.
Alladine.

Alladine (turning round quidcly).
Yes.

Ablamore.
Oh how pale you look ! Are you ill ?

Alladine.
No.

Ablamore.
What were you looking at in the park ? At the row of
fountains in front of the windows? They i^re
marvellous, indefatigable. They sprang up, ^ne
after the other, at the death of each of my
daughters. ... At night I can hear them singing
in the garden. They recall to me the lives they
stand for, and I am able to distinguish their
voices. . .

Alladine.
I know. . .

Ablamore.
You must forgive me ; I repeat myself at times ; my
memory is not quite so faithful. . . It is not be-
cause of my age ; I am not an old man yet, thank

ALLADINE AND act n. so. i.

Gk)d ; but a King has a thousand caies. Palomides
has been telling me of his adventuies. . .

Alladine.
Ah!

Ablamore.

He has not acted in all thinps as he would have desired
to act. Young men are not very strong-willed,
nowadays. — ^I was surprised. There were countless
suitors for my daughter's hand ; I had chosen him
from among them all. She needed a soul thafc
should be no less profound than her own. Nothing
that he has done could be called inexcusable, but
yet I had hoped for more. . . What impression did
he make on you ?

Alladinb.
Who?

Ablamore.
Palomides.

Alladine.

I have only seen him that one evening. . .

Ablamore.

I was astonished. — ^Hitherto all has gone well with him.
He undertook nothing that he did not accomplish
successfully, and without many words. He always
could overcome danger, with scarcely an efEort ;
while so many others can hardly open a door without
finding death crouching behind. He was of those
upon whom events seem to wait, on their knees.
But of late it appears as though something were

ACT n. so. I. PALOMIDES

broken ; as though his star were no longer the same ;
as though every step that he took dragged him
further away from himself. — ^I know not what it can
be. — ^He himself seems not to suspect it ; but to
everyone else it is clear. . . But enough of all this ;
see, the night is coming towards us, creeping over
the walls. Shall we go together to the wood of
Astolat, where we always spend oar evenings ?

Alladine.
I shall not go out to-night.

Ablamorb.

We will stay here then, since you prefer it. But the
air is tender to-night; the evening is beautiful.
{AUadine trembles, imperceived by him), I have
had flowers planted along the hedges ; I should
have liked to have shown them to you. . .

Alladine.

No, not to-night. . . I beg of you. . . I like going
there with you. . . the air is very pure, and the
trees . . . but not to-night. . . {she bursts into
tears, and nestles dose to the old man^s breast). I
am not well.

Ablamore.

Not well ? You are falling. . . I will call. . .

Alladine.

No, no . . . it is nothing ... it is over now. . .

ALLADINE AND act n. sc. n.

Ablamore.
Sit do^m. Wait. . . .

[He goes quiddy to the door at the habk, and throws
it wide open. Pdhmides is behind, seated on a
bench that Jaces (he door ; he has not had time to
turn his eyes away. Ablamore looks fixedly at
him, but says not a word; then returns to the
room. Pahmides rises, and steals away through
the corridor, on tiptoe. The Irnnb goes o^ of the
room, urvperceived by the others.

Scene II

A drawbridge over the palace moat. Palomides enters at one
end, AUadine at the other, with her lamb by her side. King
Ablamore is leaning out of a window in the tower.

Palomides.

You are going out, AUadine ? — ^I have just returned ; I
have been hunting. . . There hi^s been a shower. . .

Alladine.
I hav« never yet crossed this bridge.

Palomides.

It leads to the fojest. People seldom pass over it. They
prefer to take another road, which is much longer. I
imagine that they are afraid, because the dykes here
are deeper than elsewhere ; and the black water that
pours from the mountain seethes horribly between
the walls before it throws itself into the sea. It is
alwajrs angry, but the quays are so high that one

ACT n. so. n. PALOMIDES

scarcely can see it. This is the most deserted wing
of the palace. But the forest is more beautiful this
side — older and grander than anything you ever have
seen, full of strange trees and flowers that have sprung
up of themselves. Will you come ?

Alladine.
I don't know. . . I am afraid of the angry water.

Palomides.

Come — ^there is no cause for its anger. See, your lamb is
looking at me as though it desired to go. Come. . .

Alladine.
Do not call, it will break away from me. . .

Palomides.
Come with me. Come. . .

[The lamb escapes fromAUadine and bounds towards
Palomides but it stumbles on the slope of the
drau>bridge, misses its Jootvng and faUs into the
moat

Alladine.

Where is it ? What has happened ?

Palomides.

It has fallen iato the moat ! It is struggling in the
whirlpool. Do not look ; nothing can be done. . .

Alladine.
You will save it ?

ALLADINE AND act n. so. in.

Palomides.

Save it I Alas, it is already drawn under. Yet an instant
and it will be below, underneath the vaults ; and God
Himself will never behold it again . . .

Alladine.
Leave me ! leave me !

Palomides.
What have I done ?

Alladine.

Leave me ! I never want to see you again. . .

[AbUxmore enters abruptly, seizes AUadine and takes
her away quickly, without saying a word.

Scene III

A room in the palace.

Ablamobe and Alladine are discovered together.

Ablahore.

See, Alladine, my hands are not trembling, and my heart
beats as tranquilly as that of a sleeping child, and
indeed my voice has never been raised in anger. I
do not blame Palomides, though his conduct may well
seem unpardonable. And as for you, why should I
blame you ? You obey laws that you know not of ;
nor could you have acted otherwise. I shall say not
a word of all that took place, but a few days ago, by
the side of the castle moat, or of what the sudden
death of the lamb might have revealed to me, had I

ACT II. SO. m. PALOMIDES

chdBen to believe in omens. But last night I witnessed
the kiss you exchanged beneath the windows of
Astolaine's room. At that moment I happened to
be with her. The one great dread of her soul is lest
she disturb the happiness of those about her by a tear,
or even a quiver of the eyelid ; and thus I never shall
know whether she also beheld that miserable kiss.
But I do know how deeply she can suffer. I shall
ask nothing of you that you cannot confess to me ;
all I wish you to tell me is whether you obeyed some
secret plan when you followed Palomides underneath
the window where you must have seen us. Answer
me fearlessly ; you know I have already forgiven.

Alladinb.
X did not kiss him.

Ablamore.

What ! you did not kiss Palomides, or he you ?

Alladinb.
No.

Ablamobe.

Ah ! . . . Listen : I came hither prepared to forgive all
that had happened : I said to myself that you
had acted as most of us act when our soul holds
aloof from us. . . But now all must be told. You
love Balomides : you kissed him before my eyes.

All^ldinb.
No.

Ablamobb.

Do not run away. I am only an old man. Do not try

to escape.

ALLADINE AND act n. so. m.

Alladins.
I am not trying to escape. . .

Ablamobe.

Ah ! All ! That is because you imagine these old hands
of mine are powerless ! There is strength enough in
them still to tear out a secret, wheresoever it be.
{He seizes her by the a/rms) There is strength enough
in them still to combat those you prefer. . . {He
forces her arms behind her head,) Ah, you refuse
to speak ! But the moment will come when the
pain will force your soul to rush forth, like clear
water. . . .

Alladine.

No, no !

Ablamobe.

Again ? We are not at the end, then ; the road is long ;
and truth is ashamed, and hides behind the rocks. . .
Is it coming ? ... I see it moving in your eyes ; I
feel its soft breath on my cheek. . . Oh Alladine,
Alladine ! {he suddenly rdeases her) I heard your
bones lament, like little children. . . I have not hurt
you ? ... Do not kneel to me — it is I who must
go on my knees before you. . . I am a monster.
. . . Have pity. . . It is not for myself alone
that I have besought this of you. . . I have only
this one poor daughter. . . The others are dead.
. . . Once there were seven around me. . . They
were beautiful, radiant with joy, I have never seen
them again. . . The only one who was left to me
was also about to die. . . She had no desire to live.
. . . Then there was a sudden, unexpected meeting,

ACT n. so. IV. PALOMIDES

and I saw she no longer craved for death. . . I
ask nothing impossible of you. . .

[AUadine toeeps, but makes no a/Mwer.

Scene IV
Astolaine's room.

AsTOLAiNE and Palomides a/re discovered,

Palomides.

Afftolaine, when it so fell about that I met you, some few
months ago, I seemed at last to have found what
I had sought for many years. Till then, I had no
suspicion of all that real goodness meant, its sweet-
ness and tenderness ; I was blind to the perfect
simplicity of a truly beautiful soul. And these
things stirred me so deeply that it seemed to be
the first time in my life that I stood before a human
being. I seemed to have spent all my days in an
airless chamber ; and it was you who flung open
the door — and I knew then what other meii's
souls must be, what my soul, too, might become ....
Since then, I have drawn closer to you. I have
seen the things that you did ; and others, too, have
spoken of you.

There were evenings when I wandered away from
you, silently, and sought a secluded spot in the
palace, and could not keep back my tears as I
thought of you, and wondered ; though you only
had raised your eyes, it may be, or made some
little unconscious gesture, or smiled, periiaps, for

ALLADINE AND act n. so. iv.

no visible reason, and yet at the very mo^lent that
the souls around you craved for this smile, and
needed it, for their comfort. Tou alone know of
these moments ; for it would seem that your soul
contains the soul of each one of us ; and I cannot
believe that those who have not drawn near to you
can tell what the true life may be. And I speak of
all this to-day because I feel that I never shall be
what I had hoped that I might become. . . Fate has
stepped out towards me ; or I, it may be, have
beckoned to Fate ; for we never know whether we
ourselves have gone forth or Fate have come seeking
us — something has happened whereby my eyes have
been opened, at the very moment that we were about
to draw unhappiness down on us ; and I recognised
that there must be a power more incomprehensible
that the beauty of the most beautiful face, the most
beautiful soul ; and mightier too, since I must per-
force give way to it. . . I know not whether you
understand. • . In that case, pity me. . . I have
said to myself all that could be said. . . I know
what it is that I lose ; I know that her soul is the
soul of a child, of a poor and helpless child, by
the side of your soul: and for all that I cannot
resist. . .

ASTOLAINE.

Do not weep. . . I too am well aware that we are not
always able to do the thing we prefer. . . I was
not unprepared for your coming. . . There must
indeed be laws mightier than those of the soul,
whereof we for ever are speaking . . {she mddenly

ACT in. so. I. PALOMIDES

kisses Aim)— But I love you the more for it, my poor
Palomides. . .

Palomidbs.

I love you, too . . . more than her whom I love. • •
Are you crying, too T

ASTOLAINB.

They are little tears ... let them not sadden you. . . .
My tears fall because I am a woman ; but women's
tears, they say, are not painful. . . See, my eyes
are already dry ... I was well aware of it . . .
I knew I should soon be awakened. . . And now
that it is over I can breathe more freely, for I am
no longer happy. . . That is all. . . We must con-
sider what had best be done, for you and for her.
I am afridd my father suspects. . .

[They go out.

ACT III

SCSNE I

An apartment in the palace.

Ablamgre is discovered. Astolaine is standing on the
threshold of a half -opened door at the end of the room.

Astolaine.

Father, I have come to you in obedience to a voice within
me that I can no longer resist. Tou know aU that
took place in my soul when I met Palomides. He

ALLADINE AND act hi. sc. i.

seemed difierent from other men. . . To-day I
come to you seeking your help ... for I know not
what I had bedt say to him. . . I have realised
that I cannot love. . . It is not he who has
changed, but I — or perhaps I did not understand. . .
And since it is impossible for me to love the man I
had selected from among them aU with the love I had
dreamed of, it must needs be that these things cannot
touch my heart. . . I know it now. . . My eyes
shall no longer stray to the paths of love ; and you
will see me living by your side without sorrow and
without disquiet. . . 1 feel that I am about to be
happy. . .

Ablamobe.

Come nearer to me, Astolaine. It was not thus that in
days gone by you were wont to speak to your &ther.
You stand there, oil the threshold of a half-closed
door, as though anxious to fly from me ; you keep
your hand on the key, as though you desired forever
to hide from me the secret of your heart. You know
full well that I have not understood what you have
said to me ; that words have no meaning when
soul is not near unto soul. Gome closer to me — ^you
need tell me no more. {Astolaine approaches slowly,)
There comes a moment when soul meets soul ; when
all is known to them though the lips remain closed.
. . . Come closer, closer still. . . They are even
yet too far apart, these souls of ours — ^their light is
so feeble around us! {Astolaine suddeufdy haiUs),
You are afraid 7 — You know how far one may go 7
—Then it is I will come to you. . . {He moves

ACT m. sc. n. PALOMIDES

shwhf towards Astolainey stands in front oj her and
gazes fixedly at her,) I see you, Astolaine. . .

ASTOLAINE.

Father ! . . . {She bursts mto tears and sobs in the old
mianCs breast.)

Ablamobb.

You Bee how useless it was. . .

Scene II

A room in the palace.
Enter Alladine and Palomides.

Palomides.

To-morrow all will be ready. We must not wait any
longer. He is wandering like a madman through the
palace corridors ; I met him but a short time ago.
He looked at me, but said nothing ; I passed on,
but, when I turned round, I saw that he was laugh-
ing to himself and flourishing a bunch of kejrs.
When he saw that I was watching him, he nodded,
and smiled, and tried to look friendly. He must be
nursing some secret scheme — ^we are in the hands of
a master whose reason is tottering. To-morrow we
shall be far away Out yonder there are wonderful
countries that are more like your own. Astolaine has
already prepared for our flight and for that of my
sisters. . .

Alladinb.

What did she say ?

ALLADINE AND act m. so. n.

Paloiodes.

Nothing, nothing . . . We shall be on the sea for days,
then dajrs of forest — ^and afterwards we shall come to
the lakes and mountains that surround my father's
castle ; and you will see how different they are from
everything here, where the sky is like the roof of
a cavern and the black trees are done to death by
the storms. . . . Ours is a sky beneath which none
are afraid ; our forests are full of life, and with us the
flowers never close. . .

Alladine.
Did she cry ?

Palomides.

Why these questions ? . . . That is a thing of which we
have no right to speak — do you hear ? Her life has
nothing in common with our poor life ; love must
perforce be silent before it dare approach her. . .
When I think of her, we seem to be beggars, you
and I, and clothed in rags. . . Leave me, leave me !
. . . For I could say things to you . . .

Alladine.
Palomides ! . . . What has happened ?

Palomides.

Go, go. ... X saw tears that came not from the eyes,
but from far beyond. . . . For there are other
things . . . And yet we are right, perhaps ; but oh
Grod, if that be so how sorry I am to be right ! . . .
Go, go. ... I will tell you to-morrow, to-morrow,
to-morrow. . . [They go outhy different ways.

ACT m. sc. m. PALOMIDES

SCENE III
A corridor in front of AUadine's room.

Enter Astolaine and the Sistebs of Palomides.

ASTOLAINE.

The horses are waiting in the forest, but Palomides refuses
to fly, although your lives are in peril as well as his own.
I no longer recognise my poor father. He has a fixed
idea which unhinges his reason. I have been follow-
ing him, the last three days, step by step, crouching
behind walls and pillars, for he will sufEer no one
to accompany him. To-day, with the first rays of
dawn, he again set forth and wandered through the
rooms of the palace, and the corridors, and along
the moat and the ramparts, waving the great golden
keys he has had made, and chanting loudly the
strange song whose refrain, " Go where your eyes
may lead," may perhaps have reached you even in
your rooms. Hitherto I have told you nothing of all
this, for these are things whereof one should not
speak without cause. He must have confiined Alladine
in this room, but no one knows what he has done to
her. I have watched every night, and run to the
door, and listened, the moment he had turned away,
but I have heard not a sound in the room. . . Can
you hear anything 7

One of the Sisters of Palomides.

Only the murmur of the air as it passes through the
crevice in the wall. . .

ALLADINE AND act in. so. m.

Another Sister.

When I listen I seem only to hear the great pendulum, as
it swings to and fro. . .

A Third Sister.

But who is this little AUadine, and why is he so angry
with her ?

Astolaine.

She is a little Greek slave, who has come from the depths
of Arcady. .. He is not angry with her, but. . .
Hark, there he is. {Someone is heard singing in the
distance.) Hide behind these pillars. He has given
orders that no one should pass along this corridor.
{They hide. Abtamore comes in, singing, and
flourishing a great bunch of keys).

Ablamore {sings).

Unhappiness had three keys of gold
— But the queen is not yet freed —
Unhappiness had three keys of gold
Go where your eyes may lead.
[He seems terribly weary and lets himself fall on to
the bench that faces AUadine's room; for some
little time stiU he murmurs his song, then falls
asleefp, his hands hanging down by his side and
his head sinking on to his shoulder.

Astolaine.

Come ; and make no noise. He has fallen asleep on the
bench. Oh my poor father ! How white his hair
has grown these last few days I He is so unhappy,

ACT m. sc. m. PALOMIDES

so weak, that even sleep can bring no comfort to
him. For three whole days I have not dared look
into his face. , .

OnB of the SiSTBBS of PaIiOMIDES.

He sleeps profoundly. . .

ASTOLAINE.

Tes ; but one can see that his soul is not at rest. • •
The Sim is beating down on his eyes. . . I will
draw his cloak over his face. . .

Anotheb Sisteb.
No, no, do not touch him ; you might startle him, wake him.

Astolaine.

There is someone coming along the corridor. . . Do
you stand in front of him, and hide him. . . It
would not be right that a stranger should behold him
thus. . .

One of the Sistebs.
It is Palomides. , .

Astolaine.

I will cover up those poor eyes. . . {She spreads the
cloak over Ablamore^s Jace.) Palomides must not
see him like this. . . He is too unhappy. . .

Enter Palomides.

Palomidbs.
What has happened ?

One of the Sistebs.

He has fallra asleep on the bench.

ALLADINE AND actt m. sc. in.

Palomides.

He could not see me, but I have been following him. . .
He has said nothing ?

ASTOLAINE.

No ; but see how he has suSeied. . .

Palomides.
Has he the keys 7

Anotheb Sisteb.

He is holding them in his hand.

Palomidbs.
I will take them from him.

ASTOLAINE.

What do you mean to do 7 Oh be careful — do not wake
him. For three nights now he has been roaming
through the palace. . .

Palomides.

I will unclasp his hand gently— he will not feel it. We
dare not wait any longer. God alone can teU what
he has done ! He wiU forgive us when his reason
returns. . . Oh ! how weak his hands are I

ASTOLAINB.

Be careful — oh be careful I

Palomides.
I have the keys — ^which one is it 7 I will open the door.

One of the Sistebs.

I am frightened — do not open it yet . . . Palomides. . .

ACT in. so. in. PALOMIDES

Palomides.

Stay here. . . I know not what I shall find. . .

[He goes to the door, opens it, and erU/ers the room.

ASTOLAIKE.

Is she there ?

Palomides {from within the room).
I can see nothing — ^the shutters are closed. . .

ASTOLAIKE.

Be careful, Palomides. . . Let me go first. • . Tour
voice is trembling. . .

Palomides.

No, no ... a ray of sunlight is stealing through the
chinks of the shutters. . .

One of the Sisters.
Yes— the sun is shining brightly outside.

Palomides (syMenly emerging jrom the room).
Come, quickly ! — I believe that she . • .

ASTOLAIKE.

You have seen her ? . . .

Palomides.

She is lying on the bed. • . She does not move. . . I
do not think that — . . . Come in I

[They dU enter the room.
39

ALLABlNE AND act hi. so. ra.

ASTOLAINE AND THE SiSTBBS OF FaLOMIDES {tnstde

the roam).

Here she is. . . . No, no, she is not dead. . . Alladine,
Alladine ! Oh, poor child. . . Do not scream. . .
She has fainted. . . They have tied her hair round
her mouth. . . and fastened her hands behind her
. . . they are fastened with her hair. . . Alladine,
Alladine ! . . . Quick, get some water. . .
[Ablamore hots awakened and a^ppears on the threshold,

ASTOLAIKE.

My father is there !

Ablamore (going up to Pahmidea),
Was it you who opened the door of this room ?

PALOMroES.

Yes, I — I did it — ^and then — ^and then ? . . . I cannot
let her die before my eyes. . . See what you have
done. . . . Alladine ! Be not afraid. . . She is
opening her eyes. , . I will not endure . . .

Ablamobb.

Do not speak so loudly. . . Come, let us open the shutters.
. . . We cannot see, in here. . . Alladine. . . . Ah,
she has already got up. . . Gome you too, Alladine.
. . Look, my children, how dark it is in the room.
As dark as though we were thousands of feet under-
groimd. But I have only to open a shutter, and see !
All the light of the sky, all the light of the sun t . . .
It calls for no mighty effort — ^the light is eager enough.
. • We have only to call — ^it will never fail to obey. . .

icT IV. PALOMIDES

Do you see the river out yonder, with the islands
in its midst, all coveied with floweis? The sky
to-day might be a ring of ciystal. . . Alladine,
Palomides, look. . . Gome nigh unto heaven, both
of you. . . Kiss each other, with this new light
upon you. . . I bear you no ill-will. You have
done what was ordained ; and so have I too. . .
Lean for one instant out of this open window ; look
once again at the trees and the flowers. . .

[A silence. He quietly closes the shutters.

ACT IV

SOBNE

Vast subterranean grottoes.

Alladine and Palomides are discovered.

Palomides.
They have bandaged my eyes and bound my hands. . .

Alladine.

My hands are bound too, my eyes are bandaged. • . X
believe my hands are bleeding. . .

Palomides.

Wait, wait. Oh how grateful I am to-day for my strength.
... I feel that the knots are giving. . . I will
try once more, though I burst every vein. . . Once

ALLADINE AND act iv.

moie still — ah., my hands are free ! {he tears off the
bandage) and my eyes too !

You can see ?

Yes.

Alladinb.

Palomides.

Alladinb.

Palomides.

Alladinb.

Where are we ?

t cannot see you. . .

I am here, heie. . .

Palomides.

The teais still stieam down my eyes from the effects
of the bandage. . . We are not in darkness. . .
Is it yon that I hear, out yonder, close to the
light?

Alladinb.

I am here, come to me. . .

Palomides.

You are on the edge of the light. Do not move; I cannot
tell what there is all around you. My eyes still
remember the bandage. They drew it so tight that
my eyelids have nigh burst in twain.

Alladinb.

CSome quickly, the cords suffocate me. I can wait no
longer. . . .

Palomides.

I hear only a voice that comes forth from the lij^t. . . .

ACT IV. PALOMIDES

Alladinb.
Where are you ?

Palomides.

I know not. . . I am still groping in darkness. . .
Speak again, that I may know where to look for
you. . . Tou seem to be in the midst of infinite
radiance. . .

Alladine.

Come to me, oh come ! I have suffered in silence but
now can endure it no longer. . .

Palomides {feding his way along).

Is that you ? I thought you so far away ! My tears had
deceived me. But now I am here and can see you.
Oh, your hands are wounded ! The blood has dropped
down from them on to your dress ; the cords have
sunk into your flesh. And I have nothing to cut
them wilii — ^they have taken away my dagger. I
must tear them off. Wait, wait — ^I have found the
knots.

Alladine.

First take off this bandage which blinds me.

Palomides.

I cannot. . . I am dazzled. . . I seem to be caught in
the midst of innumerable threads of gold. . .

Alladine.
My hands, then, my hands !

Palomides.

The cords are of silk. . . Wait, the knots are giving.

ALLADINE AND act iv.

They have wound the ooid lound thirty times. . .
Theie, there ! — Oh how your hands are bleeding ! . .
They look as though they were dead. . .

Alladine.

No, no, thqy live, they live ! See ! . . .

[No sooner are her Jiands freed than she flings them
around Pahmides^ neck and embraces him pas-
sionately,

Palomides.

Alladine !

Palomides I

Alladine, Alladine !

Allabine.
Palomides.

Alladine.
I am happy now. . . I have waited so long 1 • • .

Palomidbs.
I was afraid to come. . •

Alladine.
I am happy. . • I want to see you. . .

Paloiodss.

They have fastened the bandage so tight that it might be
a helmet of steel. • . Do not move ; I have found
the gold threads. . •

Alladine.

Yes, yes, I will move. . .
[She throws her arms round him^ and kisses him again.

ACT IV. PALOMIDES

Palomidbs.

Be cai^fiil. Do not tum round. I am i^id of hurting
70U. . .

Alladine.

Tear it off ! Do not mind. There is nothing can hurt
me now. . .

Palomidbs.
I too want to see you. . .

Alladine.

Tear it off, tear it off ! I am far beyond reach of pain !
. . . Tear it off ! You do not know how gladly
I would die. . . .Where are we ?

Palomides.

Tou will see, you will see. . . We are in the midst
of innumerable grottos . . . there are great blue
caverns, with shining pillars, and lofty arches. . .

Alladikb.
Why do you answer when I speak to you ?

Palomidbs.
I care not where we are so we be but togel^er. . .

Alladine.
Already you love me less. . .

Palomidbs.
What do you mean 7

Alladine.

Do I need to be told wheie I am, when it is on your

ALLADINE AND act iv.

heart that I lie ? ... I beseech you, tear o5 the
bandage ! . . It shall not be like one who is blind
that I enter your soul. . . What are you doing,
Palomides ? You do not laugh when I laugh, or
cry when I cry. You do not clap your hands when
I clap mine ; you do not tremble when I speak
and tremble in the depths of my heart. . . The
bandage, the bandage ! . . . I want to see ! . .
Tear it off, pull it over my hair ! {she tears off the
bandage). Oh ! . . .

Palomides.
You can see ?

Alladine.

Yes, I see you . . . and only you. . .

Palomides.

What is it, Alladine ? Why are your kisses already so
sorrowful?

Alladine.
Where are we ?

Palomides.

Why do you ask that so sadly ?

Alladine.
I am not sad, but I scarcely can open my eyes. . .

Palomides.

I feel as though your joy had fallen on my lips as a child
might fall on the threshold of its father's house. . .
Do not turn from me. . . I am afraid of your leaving
me, afraid lest this all be a dream. . ..

ACT IV. PALOMIDES

Alladinb.
Where are we ?

Palomides.

In the midst of caverns I never have seen. . . . Does it
not seem as though more light were coming towards
us ? — ^When I opened my eyes all was dark ; now,
little by little, all seems to be clear to me. I have
often heard of the marvellous caverns that lay beneath
Ablamore's palace ; these must be they. No one ever
went mto them ; and only the King had the keys.
I knew that the sea flooded those that lay deepest ;
and the light we behold is doubtless thrown up by
the sea. . . They thought they were burying us
in darkness. They came hither with lanterns and
torches, and saw only blackness ; but the light
comes to us who have nothing. . . It grows brighter
and brighter. . . It must be the dawn that is pierc-
ing the ocean, and sending us, through the green
waves, all the purity of its innocent soul. . .

Alladinb.
How long have we been here ?

Palomides.

I cannot tell. . . I had made no effort until I heard
your voice. . .

Alladine.

I know not how it all happened. I was asleep in the
room where you had found me ; when I awoke
my eyes were bound and my two hands tied to
my belt. . .

ALLADINE AND act iv.

Palomidbs.

I too was asleep. . . I heard notiiing, and before I
could open my eyes the bandage was over them. I
struggled fiercely, in the darkaess, but they were
strcmger than I. . . They must have led me
through deep-lying vaults, for I could feel the cold
dripping on to my shoulders; I went down and
down so long that I could not keep count of the
steps. . . They said nothing to you ?

Alladine.

Not a word. But I could hear that someone was weeping
as he walked by my side ; and then I fainted. . .

Palomedes {kissing her).
Alladine!

Alladine.

How gravely you kiss me.

Palomides.

Do not close your eyes when I kiss you. . . I want to
look into your heart and see my kisses quivering there,
and the dew that steals up from your soul. . .
never again shall we know such kisses as these. • .

Alladine.
Always, always I

Palomidbs.

Not so ; for our lips meet now over the bosom of death ;
and that can happen but once. . . Oh, you are
beautiful thus ! ... It is the first time that I have
been near to you, that I have looked into your

ACT IV. PALOMIDES

eyes. . . It is strange ; pec^le pass by each other
and think they have seen ; yet how does eveiything
change the moment the lips have met. . . There ;
do as you will. . . I stretch out my arms to admire
you as though you no longer were mine ; then I
bring them together until I again meet your kiss,
and I see only joy everlasting. . . We needed this
unearthly light I . . . {He kisses her again,) Ah !
what have you done ? Be careful ; we are on the
crest of a rock that hangs over the light-giving
water. Do not move. It was time. . . Do not
turn round too quickly. I was dazzled. . .

Alladine {turning and hoki/ng at the bhe woJtef whence

the light is thrown up).
Oh ! . . .

Palomides.

It seems as though the sky itself were flowing towards
us. . .

Alladine.

It is full of motionless flowers. . .

Palomides.

Full of strange and motionless flowers. . . See, there is one
out yonder, larger than all the others, that shoots out
its petals beneath them. . . Chie can almost hear
the rhythmic beat of its life. . • And the water,
if water it be, seems bluer, more beautiful^ purer than
all the waters of earth. . •

Alladine.

I am afraid to look any longer. . •
P 49

ALLADINE AND act iv.

Palomides.

See how the light now shineB over all. . . The light daie
no longer waver : and in the vestibule of heaven do
we kiss one another. . . Look at the jewels in the
roof : they are drunk with life, they seem to smile on
us ; look at the myriad roses, of deep glowing blue,
that twine themselves all round the pillars. . .

Alladinb.

Oh ! ... I heard ! . . .

Palomides.
What?

Alladine.

I heard someone striking the rocks. . .

Palomidbs.

No, no ; it is only the golden gates of an unknown heaven
that are flung open wide in our soul, and sing as they
turn on their hinges ! . . .

Alladinb.
listen . . . again, again ! . . .

Palomidbs {with a sudden change oj voice).

Yes ; it is out yonder . . . beneath the vault that is
bluest of all. . .

Alladinb.
They are coming to . . .

Palomides.

I hear the iron striking the rock. . . They walled up
the door, perhaps, or are unable to open it. ...

ACT IV. PALOMIDES

The axes scmncli on the stone. . . His soul has
whispered to him that we were happy. . .
[A silence ; then a stone faUs away from the extreme
end oj the rooj^ and a ray oj daylight breaks into
theoavem.

Alladine.
Oh ! . . .

Palomides.

This light is different. . .

[They stand there^ motionless, anadously watching
stone after ^one as it slides slowly away and falls
to the ground, beneath a light that can scarcely
be borne ; a light that streams into the cavern with
ever more resistless abundance, revealing little
by little the wretchedness of the grotto that had
seemed so marvellous to them; the miraculous
lake becomes dull and sinister ; the light fades out
of the stones in the rocks, and the ardent roses
are seen to be nothing but fungus and decaying
matter. At last a whole side of the rock falls
bodily into the grotto. The sun streams in, over-
whelming aU, Shouts and cries are heard from
without. Alladine and Palomides draw back,

Palomides.
Where are we ?

Alladine (ernbradng him sadly).
And yet do I love you, Palomides. . .

Palomides.

Hove you too, my Alladine. . .

ALLADINE AND act iv.

Alladinb.
They aie coming. . .

Paloiodbs {looking behind him as they retreat atiU

further).
Take care. . .

Alladine.

No, no, we need no longer take caie. . .

Palomidbs {looking at her).
Alladine ? . . .

Alladine.
Yes.

\They retreat further and Jwrther b^ore the invasion
of light or danger, untU at length they lose their
footing ; they faU, and disappear behind the rode
that overhangs the subterranean water, now all
enwro/pped in gloom. There is a moment^s sUeruie ;
then Astolaine and the sisters of Pahmides enter
the grotto.

Astolaine.
Where are they ?

One of Palomidbs' Sisters.
Palomides !

Astolaine.
Alladine, Alladine !

Another Sister.
Palomides ! We are here I

A Third Sister.

Fear nothing ; we are alone !

ACT IV. PALOMIDES

ASTOLAINE.

Come to us ; we are heie to save you !

A FoimTH Sister.
Ablamore has fled. . .

A FiFIH SiSTEB.

He is no longer in the palace. . .

A Sixth Sister.
They do not answer. . .

Astolaine.

I heard a movement in the water — ^this way, this ^ay !
[They rush to the rock that Jiangs over the subter-
ranean water.

One of the Sisters.
There they are !

Another Sister.

Yes, yes, at liie bottom of the black water. . . They are
lying in each other's arms. . .

A Third Sister.
They are dead !

A Fourth Sister.

No, no, Aey live, they live. . . Look. . .

The Other Sisters.
Help! Help! GaUforhelp!

Astolaine.

They make no e£Eort to save themselves. • .

ALLADINE AND act v.

ACT V

SOENE

A corridor. It is so long that the last arches seem to be lost
in a kind of inner horizon. Innumerable doors, all of
them closed, are seen on both sides of the corridor ; the
sisters of Palomides stand before one of these, over which
they seem to keep guard. A little farther, on the opposite
side, Astolaine stands, speaking to the doctor, in front of
a door which is also closed.

Astolaine {to the doctor).

Hitherto nothing had happened, in this palace, where
all seemed to have been steeped in slumber since
the death of my sisters ; then a strange unreasoning
restlessness seized hold of my poor father — ^he began
to chafe under this tranquillity that yet would seem
to be the least dangerous form of happiness. Some
time ago — ^his reason must have already been shaken
— ^he climbed to the top of the tower, and stretched
both his arms out, timidly, towards mountain and
sea; and said to me-with a diffident smile, for he
saw that I looked incredulous — ^that he was summon-
ing to us the events that too long had remained
concealed in the horijEon. Alas, the events have
come : more quickly, more numerous too, than he
had expected ; and it has needed a few days only
for them to dethrone him and reign in his stead.
He was the first of their victims. He fled to the
meadows, singing and weeping, the night he had
caused little Alladine and iU-fated Palomides to
be entombed in the grotto. And since then no

ACT V. PALOMIDES

one has seen him. I have sent men in search of him
all over the country, and even on to the sea. They
have found not a trace of him. But at least I had
hoped to save those on whom he had unconsciously
brought this suffering, he who alwajns had been the
tenderest of men and the best of fathers ; but here
too I fear I have come too late. I know nothing of
what took place. So far they have said not a word.
It appears that they thought, when they heard the
iron crushing the stone and the light streamed into
the cave, that my father regretted the respite he had
accorded and that they who approached brought
death. Or it may be that they lost their footing as
they retreated along the rock which hangs over the
lake, and fell in by accident. But the water there is
not deep ; and we had no difficulty in saving them.
-At present it is you, and you only, on whom
aU depends. . .
[The sisters of Pabmides have drawn near to them.

The Doctor.

They are suffering both from the same disease, and it
is one that I know not of. — But I have little hope.
It may be that the chill of that underground water
has seized hold of them ; or the water itself perhaps
may be poisonous. The decomposed body of Alla-
dine's lamb has been found there. — ^I will come again
this evening. In the meantime, they need sUence. . .
Life has ebbed very low in their heart. . . Do not
enter their rooms, or speak to them; for in their
present state the least word may be fatal. . . They
must try to forget one another. . . [He goes,

ALLADINE AND act v.

One of Palomides' Sisters.
I can see that he is going to die. . .

ASTOLAINE.

No, no . . . do not weep ... at his age death does not
come so qtdckly. . .

Akotheb Sisteb.

Why was your father so angry with our poor brother ?
He had no cause. . .

The Thibd Sister.
I believe your father must have loved Alladine. . .

ASTOLAINE.

Do not speak of him thus. . . He thought I was un-
happy. He imagined he was doing right, and did
wrong without knowing it. . . That happens often
to us all. . . I remember now. . . One night I
was asleep ; and wept in my dream. . . We have
so little courage when we dream. . . I awoke ;
he was standing by my bedside, looking at me. . .
And he misunderstood, perhaps . . .

The Fourth Sister {hurrying towards them).
I heard Alladine move in her room. . .

ASTOLAINE.

Go to the door ; listen — ^it is perhaps only the nurse. • •

The Fifth Sister.

No, . no ; I can hear the nurse's footsteps. • . This
noise is different. . .

ACT V. PALOMIDES

Thb Sixth Sisteb.

I believe Palomides has moved too. . . I seemed to
hear a voice that was striving to speak. . .

The Voice of Alladinb {very Jedly, from within the

room).
Palomides ! . . .

One of the Sistebs.

She k calling to him ! . . .

Astolaine.

We must take care ! . . . Go, stand in front of the door^
so that Palomides may not hear. . .

The Voice of Alladine.
Palomides ! . . .

ASTOLAINE.

God, God, silence that voice ! If Palomides hears it,

he will die ! . . •

The Voice of Palomides {very Jedly^ from within

another room).
Alladine ! . . .

One of the Sistebs.

He is answering ! . . .

Astolaine.

Do three of you stay here ; the rest of us will go to the
other door. Gome, we must hasten — ^we will
surround them, try to protect them. . . lie right
against the panels — perhaps they will not hear. . .

One of the Sistebs.

1 will go in to Alladine. • .

ALLADINE AND act v.

The Sbcond Sister.
Tea, yes ; prevent her from calling again. . .

The Thibd Sister.
It is she who has caused all this sorrow. . .

Astolaine.

Tou shall not go in ; or if you do then will I go to
Palomides. She had the same right to live as the
rest of us, and she has done nothing more. . .
But to be imable to stifle these death-dealing words
as they pass by us ! . . . We can do nothing, my
sisters, my poor sisters, we can do nothing ; and the
hand cannot stay the soul ! . . .

The Voice of Alladinb.
Palomides — ^is that you ?

The Voice of Palomides.
Where are you, Alladine ?

■ The Voice OF Allabine.
Is it you that I hear moaning, far away from me ?

The Voice of Palomides.

Is it you that I have heard calling me ? — ^I cannot see
you. . .

The Voice of Alladine.

Tour voice seems to have lost all hope. . .

The Voice of Palomides.

Yours seems already to have passed through death. . •

ACT V. PALOMIDES

The Voice of Alladine.
Your voice scarcely leaches my room. . .

The Voice of Palomides.
Nor does yours sound to me as it used to sound. • .

The Voice of Alladine.
I had pity on you ! . . .

The Voice of Palomides.
They have parted us, but I always shall love you. . .

The Voice of Alladine.
I had pity on you ... are you suffering stUl ?

The Voice of Palomides.
I suffer no more, but I want to see you. . .

The Voice of Alladine.

Never again shall we see one another, for the doors are
all closed. . .

The Voice of Palomides.

There is that in your voice that tells me you love me no
longer. . .

The Voice of Alladine.
Yes, yes, I love you still, but now all is sorrow. . .

The Voice of Palomides.

You are turning away. . . I scarcely can hear
you. . .

The Voice of Alladine.

We seem to be hundreds of miles from each other. . .

ALLABINE AND act v.

The Voigx of Paloiodes.
I have tried to 1186, bat my soul ia too heavy . . .

The Voice of Alladine.
I have tried, too, but my head fell back. . .

The Voice of Palomides.
Afl I listen I eeem to hear y'oor tears &J1. . .

The Voice of Alladine.

No ; for a long time I wept ; but now these are no longer
tears. . .

The Voice of Palomides.

You are thinking of something that you will not tell
me. . .

The Voice of Alladine.

They were not jewels. . .

The Voice of Palomides.
And the flowers were not real. . .

One of Palomides' Sisters.
They are delirious. . .

ASTOLAINE.

No, Ho ; they are well aware of what they are saying. . .

The Voice of Alladine.

It was the light that had no pity . . .

ACT V. PALOMIDES

The Voice of Palomides.

Whither go you, Alkdine ? You seem to be further and
further away from me. . .

The Voice op Alladine.
I no longer regret the rays of the sun. . .

The Voice of Palomides.

Yes, yes, we shall again behold the trees and the
flowers ! . . .

The Voice op Alladine.

I have lost the desire to live. . .

[A silence ; then more and more feebly.

The Voice of Palomides.
Alladine I . . .

The Voice op Alladine.
Palomides ! . . .

The Voice of Palomides.
Alia — dine. . .

[A silence. Astohine and the sisters of Pdbmides
are listening in intense a/nguish. Then the nurse
throws open the door oj Palomides^ room from
within, appears on the threshold, and heckons
to them ; they aU follow her into the room and
dose the door. Once more there is silence. Then
the door of AUadine^s room opens; the other
nurse comes out and looks about her in the
corridor; seeing no one she goes hack into the
room, leaving the door wide open.

INTERIOR

TRANSLATED BY WILLIAM ARCHER

CHARACTERS

IN THE GARDEN—

The Old Man.

The STBANaEB.

MabthaI

Mahy I ^^**^*^**y*^* ^/ ^ Old Man.

A Peasant.
The Crowd.

IN THE HOUSE—

The Father
The Mother
The Two Daughters
The Child

/Silent personages.

INTERIOR

An old gaiden planted with willows. At the back, a house,
with t})issQ of the ground-floor windows lighted up.
Through them a family is pretty distinctly visible,
gathered for the evening round the lamp. The Father
IS seated at the chimney>comer. The Mother, resting one
elbow on the table, is gazing into vacancy. Two young
girls, dressed in white, sit at their embroidery, dreaming
and smiling in the tranquillity of the room. A child is
asleep, his head resting on his mother's left arm. Whem
one of them rises, walxs, or makes a gesture, the move-«
ments appear grave, slow, apart, and as though spiritual-^,
ised by the distance, the lignt, and the transparent film^
of the window-panes.

The Old Man and the Stranger enter the garden

cautiously,

Thb Old Man.

Here we are in the part of the garden that lies behind
the house. They never come here. The doors are
on the other side. They are closed and the shutters
shut. But there are no shutters on this side of the
house, and I saw the light. . . . Yes, they are still
sitting up in the lamplight. It is well that they
have not heard us ; the mother or the girls would
perhaps have come out, and then what should we
have done ?
E 66

INTERIOR

The Stranger.
^ What are we going to do ?

The Old Man.

I want first to see if they are all in the room. Yes, I see
the father seated at the chimney comer. lELtjs_^s^^
Bfiihing, his hands resti»g.on his knees. The mother
is leaning her elbow on the table. . . .

The Stranger.

She is looking at us.

The Old Man.

V/No, she is looking at nothing ; her eyes are fixed. She
~ cannot see us ; ^e.m. VlMA^wsI t& great
trees. But do not go any nearer. . . . There, too,
are the dead girl's two sisters ; they are embroidering
slowly. And the little child has fallen asleep. It ia
nine on the clock in the comer. . . . They divine
no evil, and they do not speak.

The Stranger.

v^If we were to attract the father's attention, and make
some sign to him? He has turned his head this
way. Shall I knock at one of the windows? One
of them will have to hear of it before the others. . . .

The Old Man.

I do not know which to choose. . . . We mast be very
careful. The father is old and ailing — ^the mother

INTERIOR

too— and the sisteis are too young. . . . And they
all loved her as they will never love again. X have
never seen a happier household. . . . No, no ! do
not go up to the wijctdo^ ; *thftt .wjoaJd^M tfee w;ai§t
^thing we could do. It is better thkt we should tell
them of it as simply as we can, as though it were a
commonplace occurrence ; and we must not appear
too sad, else they will feel that their sorrow must
exceed ours, and they will not know what to do. . . .
Let us go roimd to the other (side of the garden.
We will knock at the door, and go in as if nothing
had happened. I will go in first : they will not be
surprised to see me ; I sometimes look in of an
evening, to bring them some flowers or fruit, and to
pass an hour or two with them.

The Stranger.

Why do you want me to go with you ? Go alone ; I will
wait until you call me. They have never seen me —
I am only a passer-by, a stranger. . . .

The Old Man.

It is better liiat I should not be alone. A misfortune
announced by a single voice seems more definite
and crushing. I thought of that as I came along
... If I go in alone, I shall have to speak at the
very first moment ; they will know all in a few
words ; I shall have nothing more to say ; and I
dread the silence which follows the last words that
tell of a misfortune. It is then that the heart is
torn. If we enter together, I shall go roundabout to
work ; I shall tell them, for example : '' They found

Ml
I

INTERIOR

her ihuB, or thus. . . She iras floating on the
stream, and her hands were clasped. . .'*

The Strakoeb.

\^ Her hands were not clasped ; her arms were floating at
her sides.

Thk Old Man.

You see, in spite of ourselves we begin to talk — and the
misfortune is shrouded in its details. Otherwise, if
I go in alone, I know them well enough to be sure
that the very first words would produce a terrible
effect, and God knows what woidd happen. But
if we speak to them in turns, they will listen to us,
and will foi^et to look the evil tidings in the face.
Do not forget that the mother will be there, and that
her life hangs by a thread. ... It is well that the
first wave of sorrow should waste its strength in
unnecessary words. It is wisest to let people gather
roimd the unfortunate and talk as they will. Even
the most indifferent carry off, without knowing it,
some portion of the sorrow. It is dispersed without
effort and without noise, like air or light. . . .

The Stranger.

Your clothes are soaked and are dripping on the flag-
stones.

The Old Man.

It is only the skirt of my mantle that has trailed a little
in the water. You seem to be cold. Your coat is
all muddy ... I did not notice it on the way, it
was so dark.

INTERIOR

The Stranqeb.
^ I went into the water up to my waist.

The Old Man.
Had you found her long when I came up ?

The Stbanoeb.

N Only a few moments. I was going towards the village ;
it was already late, and the dusk was falling on the
river bank. I was walking along with my eyes fixed
on the river, because it was lighter than the road,
when I saw something strange close by a tuft of
reeds. ... I drew nearer, and I saw her hair,
which had floated up almost into a circle round
her head, and was swaying hither and thither with
the current ...

[/n (h& room, the two young girls turn their heads
towards the ivindow.

The Old Man.

Did you see her two sisters' hair trembling on their
shoulders ?

The Stranger.

They turned their heads in our direction — ^they simply
turned their heads. Perhaps I was speaking too
loudly. (The two girls resume their Jormer position.)
They have turned away again already. ... I went
into the water up to my waist, and then I managed
to grasp her hand and easily drew her to the bank.
She was as beautiful as her sisters. . . .

INTERIOR

The Old Man.

I t^hixjc she was more. b$&utiM. ... I do not know
why I have lost all my courage. . . .

This StRANOiiR.

V What courage do you mean ? We did all that man could
do. She had been dead for more than a hour.

The Old Man.

She was living this morning ! I met her coming out of
the church. She told me that she was going away ;
she was going to see her grandmother on the other
side of the river in which you found her. She did
not know when I should see her again. . . . She
seemed to be on the point of asking me something ;
then I suppose she did not dare, and she left me
abruptly. But now that I think of it — and I noticed
nothing at the time ! — she smiled as people smile who
want to be silent, or who fear that they will not be
^understood. . . . Even hope seemed like a pain to
her ; her eyes were veiled, and she scarcely looked
at me.

The Stranger.
^/ Some peasants told me that they saw her wandering
all the afternoon upon the bank. They thought
she was looking for flowers. ... It is possible
that her death

....

The Old Man.

No one can telL . . . What can anyopf* know ? She

was perhaps one of those who shrink from speech,

and everyone bears in hk breast more than one

reason for ceasing to live. Tou cannot see into

INTERIOR

the soul as you see into that room. They are all
like that — ^they say nothing but trivial thingSj and
no one dreams that there is aught ami^s. You
^ live for months by the side of one who is no longer
of this world, and whose soul cannot stoop to it ;
you answer her unthinkingly ; and you see what
happens. They look like lifeless puppets, and aU
the time so many things are passing in their souls.
They do not themselves know what they are. She
might have lived as the others live. She might have
said to the day of her death : " Sir, or Madam, it
will rain this morning," or, " We are going to lunch ;
we shall be thirteen at table," or " The fruit is not yet
ripe." They speak smilingly of the flowers that have
fallen, and they weep in the darkness. An angel
from heaven woidd not see what ought to be seen ;
and men understand nothing until after all \b over.
. . . Yesterday evening she was there, sitting in
the lamplight, like her sisters ; and you would not
see them now as they ought to be seen if this had
not happened. . • . I seem to see her for the first
time. . . . Something new must come into our ^
ordinary life before we can understand it. They \>
are at your side day and night ; and you do not 7>
really see them until the moment when they depart
for ever. And yet, what a strange little soul she
must have had — ^what a poor little, artless, unfathom-
able soul she must have had — ^to have said what she
must have said, and done what she must have done I

The Stranger.

See, they are smiling in the silence of the room ....

INTERIOR

The Old Man.

They aie not at all anxious — ^they did not expect hex this
evening.

The Strangeb.

They sit motionless and smiling. But see, the father puts
his fingeiB to his lips ....

The Old Man.
He points to the child asleep on its mother's bieast ....

The Stranger.
She dares not raise her head for fear of disturbing it ... .

The Old Man.

They are not sewing any more. There is a dead
silence ....

The Stranger.

They have let fall their skein of white silk ....

The Old Man.
They are looking at the child ....

The Stranger.
They do not know that others are looking at them ....

The Old Man.
,' ^* t.< A/We, too, are watched ....

The Stranger.
They have raised their eyes ....

The Old Man.

^ And yet they can see nothing . . .^^^ "^ ^

INTERIOR

Thb Strakoeb.
They seem to be liappy, and yet there is something— I
cannot tell what ....

The Old Man.
They think themselves beyond the reach of danger. They
have closed the doors, and the windows are barred
with iron. They have strengthened the walls of the
old house ; they have shot the bolts of the three
oaken doors. They have foreseen everything that
can be foreseen ....

The Strangeb.

Sooner or later we must tell them. Someone might come
and blurt it out abruptly. There was a crowd of
peasants in the meadow where we left the dead
girl — ^if one of them were to come and knock at the
door ....

The Old Man.

Ma;rtha afid, Mary are watching the little body. The
peasants were going to mike a litter of branches ;
and I told my eldest granddaughter to hurry on and
let us know the moment they made a start. Let us

wait till she comes ; she will go with me I

wish we had not been able to watch them in this
way. I thought there was nothing to do but to
knock at the door, to enter quite simply, and to tell
aU in a fe^Br-phrases*^ . . . But I have watched them

too lon^ living in the lAwopiight ^ . . «

** -•-..._..- ■.... ,

Enter Mabt.

Mabt.
They are coming, grandfather.

INTERIOR

Thb Old Man.
Ib that yoQ T Where are they ?

Mart.
They are at the foot of the last slope.

The Old Man.
Tbey are coming silently.

Mary.
I told them to pray in a low voice. Martha is with them.

The Old Man.
Are there many of them ?

Mart.

The whole village is around the bier. They had brought
lanterns ; I bade them put them out.

The Old Man.
What way are they coming ?

Mart.
They are coming by the little paths. They are moving
slowly.

The Old Man.
It is time ....

Mary.

Have you told them, grandfather ?

The Old Man.

You can see that we have told them nothing. There
they are, still sitting in the lamplight. Look, my
child, look : you will see what life is ... .

INTERIOR

Mabt.

Oh ! how peaceful they seem ! I feel as though I were
seeing them in a dream.

The Stranger.
Look there — ^I saw the two sisters give a start.

The Old Man.
They are rising ....

The Stranger.

I believe they are coming to the windows.

[At this moment one of the two sisters comes up to
the first window i the other to the third; and
resting their hands against the panes they stand

gazingJntQJb^J^'rJ^'f^S'

The Old Man.
No one comes to the middle window.

Mary.
They are looking out ; they are listening ....

The Old Man.
The elder is smiling at what she does not see.

The Stranger.
The eyes of the second are full of fear.

The Old Man. v

Tak e care : who knows how far the soul may extend?
aromid the body ....

[A Vmg silence. Mary nestles close to the old man^s
breast and kisses him.

INTERIOR

Mary.
Giandlather !

The Old Man.

Do not weep, my child ; our turn will come. [A pause.

The Stranger.
They are looking long ....

The Old Man.

Poor things, they would see nothing though they looked
for a hundred thousand years — ^the night is too dark.
They are looking this way ; and it is from the other
side that misfortune is coming.

The Stranger.

It is well that they are looking this way. Something, I
do not know what, is approaching by way of the
meadows.

Mary.

I think it is the crowd ; they are too far o£E for us to see
clearly.

The Stranqer.

They are following the windings of the path — there they
come in sight again on that moonlit slope.

Mary.

Oh ! how many they seem to be. Even when I left,
people were coming up from the outskirts of the
town. They are taking a very roundabout
way ....

The Old Man.

They will arrive at last, none the less. I see them, too —

INTERIOR

they are crossing the meadows — ^they look so small
that one can scarcely distinguish them among the
herbage. You might think them children playing
in the moonlight ; if the girls saw them they would
not understand. Turn their backs to it as they may/j
misfortune is approaching step by step, and haS;
been looming larger for more than two hours past.
They cannot bid it stay ; and those who are bringing
it are powerless to stop it. It has mastered them,
too, and they must needs serve it. It knows its
goal, and it takes its course. It is unwearjring, and
it has but one idea^ They have to lend it their
strength. They are sad, but they draw nearer.
Their hearts are full of pity, but they must .
advance ....

Mart.

The elder has ceased to smile, grandfather.

The Stranger.
They are leaving the windows ....

Mart.
They are kissing their mother ....

The Stranger.

The elder is stroking the child's curls without wakening
it.

Mart.

Ah I the father wants them to kiss him, too ....

The Stranger.

Now there is silence ....

INTERIOR

Mart.
They have returned to their mother's side.

The Stranqsr.

And the father keeps his eyes fixed on the joreat pendulmn
of the clock. , . .

Mart.

v' They seem to be praying without knowing what they
do ... .

The Stranger.

'•' lliey seem to be listening to their own sools ....

[A pause.
Mart.

Grandfather, do not teU them this evening !

The Oli> Man.

Yqu see, you are losing courage, too. I knew you ought
^not to look at them. I am nearly eighty-three yegrs
/old, and this is the first time that the reality of life
has come home to me. I do not know why all they
do appears to me so strange and solemn. There
they sit awaiting the night, simply, uqder their lamp,
as we should under our own ; and yet I seenrtor see
j them from the altitude oi another world, because I
know a little fact which as yet they do not know.
... Is it so, my children ? Tell me, why are you,
too, pale ? Perhaps there is something else that we
cannot put in words, and that makes us weep ?^I
did not know that there was anythii^ so sad in fie.
or that it. could strike such terror tc|/ those who look
on at it. j) And even if nothing hid happened, it
would frighten me to see them sit there so peacefully*

INTERIOR

They have too much confidence in this world. There
they sit, separated from the enemy by only a few
poor panes of glass. They think that nothing will
happen because they have closed their doors,(and
they do not know that it is in the soul that t
always happen, and that the world does not end at
their house-door!^ They are so secure of their little
life, and do not dream that so many others know
more of it than they, and that I, poor old man, at
two steps from their door, hold all their little happi-
ness, like a wounded bird, in the hollow of my old/^
hands, and dare not open them .... /

Mart.
Have pity on them, grandfather ....

Thb Old Man.

We have pity on them, my child, but no one has pity on
us.

Mart.

Tell them to-morrow, grandfather ; tell them when it is
^Jjgbj^hen they will not be so sad.

Ths Old Man.

Perhaps you are right, my child. ... It would be better
to leave all this in ^h"" TlJgh^ - And the daylight is
sweet to sorrow. . . . But what would they say to
us to-morrow? Misfortune makes people jealous;
those upon whom it has fallen want to know of it
before strangers — ^they do not like to leave it in
unknown hands. We should seem to have robbed
them of something.

/
(

INTERIOR

The Stranosr.

Besides, it is too late now; already I can hear the
murmur of prayers.

Mary.

They are here— they are passing behind the hedges.

Enter Martha.

Martha.

Here I am. I have guided them hither — ^I told them to
wait in the road. {Cries of children are heard.)
Ah I the children are still crying. I forbade them to
come, but they want to see, too, and the mothers
would not obey me. I will go and tell them — ^no,
they have stopped crying. Is everything ready ? I
have brought the little ring that was found upon
her. I have some fruit, too, for the child. I laid
her to rest myself upon the bier. She looks as
though she were sleeping. I had a great deal of
trouble with her hair — ^I could not arrange it properly.
I made them gather marguerites — ^it is a pity there
were no other flowers. What are you doing here?
Why are you not with them 7 {She hoka in at the
mndaws,) They are not weeping ! They — you have
not told them I

The Old Man.

I Martha, Martha, there is too much life in your soul ; you
cannot understand ....

Martha.

Why should I not understand 7 {After a sUence, and in

INTERIOR

a tone of grave reproach) You ought not to liave
don^ that, grandfather ....

The Old Man.
Martha, you do not know ....

Martha.
I ^11 go and tell them.

The Old Man.
Remain here, my child, and look for a moment.

Martha.
Oh, how I pity them! They must wait no longer . . .

The Old Man.
Why not T

Martha.

I do not know, but it is not possible I

The Old Man.
Ciome 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
sep you any more. I do not myself know now what
to do ... .
F 81

\ v-

'* i

INTERIOR

The Old Man.
Do not look any more ; until they know all ... .

Martha.
I want to go with you ....

The Old Man.

No, Martha, stay here. Sit beside your sister on this

old stone bench against the wall of the house, and

do not look. You are too young, you would never

be able to forget it. You cannot Imow what a face

looks like at the moment when Death is passing into

its eyes. Perhaps they will, cry out, too. ... Do

not turn round. Perhaps there will be no sound at

all. Above all things, if there is no sound, be sure

you do not turn and look. One can never foresee

the course that sorrow will take. A few little sobs

wrung from the depths, and generally that is all. I

do not know myself what I shall do when I hear

them — ^they do not belong to this life. Kiss me, my

child, before I go.

[The murm/uf of prayers has gradually drawn

neofer. A portion of the crowd forces Us way

into the garden. There is a sound of deadened

footfalls a/nd of whispering.

The Stranger (to the crowd).
Stop here — do not go near the window., Where is she 7

A Peasant.
Who?

The Stranger.

The others— 4Jie bearers.

INTERIOR

A Peasant.

They are coming by the avenue that leads up to the door.

[The Old Man goes oist. Martha and Mary have

seated themselves on the bench, their backs to the

mndows. Low murmurings are heard among

the crowd.

The Stranger.

Hush I Do not speak.

[In the room the taUer of the two sisters rises, goes
to the door, and sJioots the boUs.

Martha.
She is opening the door ?

The Stranger.
On the contrary, she is fastening it. [A pause.

Martha.
Grandfather has not come in ?

The Stranger.

No. She takes her seat again at her mother's side. The
others do not move, and the child is still sleeping.

[A pause,
Martha.

My little sister, give me your hands.

Mart.
Martha ! [They embrace and hiss each other.

The Stranger.

He must have knocked — ^they have all raised their heads
at the same time — ^they are looking at each other.

INTERIOR

Mabtha.

oil! oh! my poor little sister! I can scarody hifSp
ciying out, too.

[She smoiheri her 8db$ an her Mier'i shoulder.

The Stbanobr.

He must h$,ve knocked again. The father is looking at
thfi^clock. He rises ....

Martha.
Sister, sister, I must go in too*~they cannot be left alone.

Mart.
Martha, Martha ! [She holds her back. .

The Strakgbr.

The father is at the door — ^he is drawing the bolts— he is
opening it cautiously.

Martha.
Oh 1 — ^you do not see the ....

The Stranger.
What?

Martha;
The bearers ....

The Stranger.

He has only opened it a very little. I see nothing but a
comer of the lawn and the fouirtain. He keeps his
hand on the door-^e takes a step back^^he seems
to be sajring, "' Ah, it is you ! " He raises his arms.

INFERIOR

He carefully cloBes the door again. Your grand-
father has entered the room . . . ^
[The crowd has come wp to the i/oindow, Martha
and Mary half rise from their seat, then rise
aJiogeOier and foUow the rest towards the win^
dows, pressing dose to each other. The Old Man
is seen advancing^ into tiie room. The two Sisters
rise; (he Mother also rises, and carefuUy settles
the ChSd in the armchair which she has left, so
that from the outside the UUk one eon be seen sleep-
ing, his head a liMe bent forward, in the middle
of the room. The Mother advances to meet the
Old Man, and holds out her hand to him, hU
draws it back again before he has had time to
take it. One of the girls wants to take off the
visitor's mantle, and the other pushes forward
an arrnchair for him. But the Old Man makes
a Utile gesture of refusal. The Father smiles
unth an air of astonishm f :. The Old Man
looks towards the windows.

The Stranger.
He dares not tell them. He is looking towards us.

[Murmurs in the crowd.

The Stranger.
Hush!

[The Old Man, seeing faces at the windows, quicldy
averts his eyes. As one of (he girls is stiU offer--
ing him the armchair, he at last sits down and
passes his right hand several times over his fore-
head.

INTERIOR

Thb Stranobb.

He is sitting down ....

[The others who are in the room also sU down,
while the Father seema to be speaking volubly.
At last the Old Man opens his mouthy and the
sound of his voice seems to arouse iheir attention.
But the FaiheT interrupts him. The Old Man
begins to speak again, and Utile by Utile the
oAers grow tense with apprehension. AU of a
sudden the Mother starts and rises.

Martha,

Oh ! the mother begins to understand I

[She turns away and hides her faoe in her hands.
Renewed murmurs among the crowd. They elbow
ecush other. Children cry to be lifted up, so thoA
they may see too. Most of the mothers do as ihey
wish. .

The Stranger.

'Hwbi ! he has not told them yet ....

[The Mother is seen to be questioning tiie Old Man
with anxiety. He says a few more words; then,
suddenly, aU the others rise, too, and seem to
question him. Then he slowly makes an affrnnO'
tive movement of 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 !

INTERIOR

The Stranqbb.

I can hear nothing ....

[The Old Man also rises, and, without turning,

fnakes a gesture indicating the door, which is

Jbehind him. The Mother, ihe FaJthef, and the two

{Daughters rush to this door, which the FaJOier

has difficulty in opening. The Old Man tries

[to prevent the Mother from going out.

VOIOES IN THE CrOWP.

They are going out ! they are going out !

[Confusion among the croud in the garden. All
hurry to the other side of the house and disappear,
except the Stranger, who remains at the windows.
In the room, the folding door is at last thrown
wide open ; all go out at the same time. Beyond
can he seen the starry shy, the lawn and the
fountain in the moonlight; while, left alone in
the middle of the room, tiie ChUd continues to sleep
peacefully in the armchair. A pause.

The Strangeb.
The child has not awakened I [He also goes out.

THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES

TRANSLATED BY ALFRED SUTRO

CHARACTERS

TlNTAOILBS.

Bellangbrb/ "^

aolovalb.

Thbxb Servants of the Queen.

ACT I

SOENE

On tke top of a hill overlookmg the oastle.
EfiJUr Tgraine, holding Tintagiles by the Tumi.

Tgrainb.

Tom fiist night will be sad, Tintagiles. The roar of the
sea is already about us ; and the trees are moaning.
It is late. The moon is sinking behind the poplars
that stifle the palace. . . . We are alone, perhaps ;
but here, one has ever to be on one's guard. They
seem to watch lest the smallest happiness come near.
I said to myself one day, right down in the depths of
my soul — and God himself could scarcely hear ; — ^I said
to myself one day that I was feeling almost happy. . .
There needed nothing more ; and very soon after, our
old father died, and our two brothers disappeared,
and not a living creature can tdl us where they are.
I am here all alone, with my poor sister and you, my
little Tintagiles; and I have no confidence in the
future. . . Come to me ; let me take you on my
knees. First kiss me ; and put your little arms —
there — ^right round my neck . . . perhaps they will
not be able to unfasten them. . . Do you remember
the time when it was I who carried you in the evening,
when the hour had come ; and how frightened you

THE DEATH OF act i.

were at the shadows of my lamp in the comdoi8>
tiioBe long ooiridois with not a tdligle window ? I
fett my soul tremble on my lips when I saw yon
again, suddenly, this moiming. . . I thought y9U
weie so far away and in safety. . . Who made you
come here ?

TiKTAGtLES.

I do not know, little sister.

Do you remember what they said ?

TiNTAGILES.

They said I must go away.

Ygbaine.
But why had you to go away ?

TlNTAOILXS.

Because the Queen wished it.

Ygraikb.

Did they not say why she wished it T— 1 am sure they
must have said many things*

TiNTAGILBS.

Little sister, I did not hear.

Tgbaini;.

When they spoke among themselves, what was it they said ?

ACT I. TINTAGILES

Little sister^ they dipped their voices when they spoke.

TaRAINE.

All the time f

TiNTAQILES.

All the timei sistn Ygraine ; except when they looked
at me.

TaHAINB.

Did they say nothing about the Queen 1

TiNtAOILES.

They said, sister Y^ine, that no one ever saw her.

Ygraine.

And the people who were with you on the ship, did they
say nothing 1

TiNTAGILBS.

They ^ve all their time to the wind and tiie sails^ sister
Ygraine,

Ah! , . . That does not surprise me^ my child. . .

TiMTAaiLBfi.

They left me aU alone, little sister.

YORAINB.

Listen to mei Tintagiles ; I will tell you what I know. . .

TlNTAGIL^S.

What do you know, sister Ygraine ?

THE DEATH OF act i.

Tgrainb.

Veiy little, my child. . . My aister and I Iiave gone on
living here ever since we were bom, not daring to
understand the things that happened. . . I have
lived a long time in this island, and I might as well
have been blind ; yet it all seemed natural to me. . .
A bird that flew, a leaf that trembled, a rose that
opened . . . these were events to me. Such silence
has always reigned here that a ripe fruit falling in the
park would draw faces to the window. . . And n6
one seemed to have any suspicion . . . but one night
I learned that there must be something besides. . .
I wished to escape and I could not. . . Have you
understood what I am telling you ?

TiNTAOILES.

Yes, yes, little sister ; I can understand anything. . .

Tgraine.

Then let us not talk any more of these things . . . one
does not know. . . Do you see, behind the dead
trees which poison the horizon, do you see the castle,
there, right down in the valley T

TiNTAGILES.

T see something very black— is that the castle, sister
Tgraine ?

Tgrainb.

Yes, it is very black. . . It lies far down amid a mass of
^oomy cdiadows. . . It is there that we have to live.
. . . They might have built it on the top of the great
mountains that surround it. . . The mountains are

ACT I. TlNTAGlLES

blue in the day-time. . . One could have breathed.
One could have looked down on the sea and on the
plains beyond the cli&. . . But they preferred to
build it deep down in the valley ; too low even for
the air to come. . . It is falling in ruins, and no one
troubles. . . The walls are crumbling : it might be
fading away in the gloom. . . There is only one
tower which time does not touch. . . It is enormous :
and its shadow is always on the house.

TiNTAOILES.

They are lighting something, sister Tgraine. . . See, see,
the great red windows ! . . .

Tgraine.

They are the windows of the tower, Tintagiles ; they are
the only ones in which you will ever see light ; it is
there that the Queen has her throne.

Tintagiles.
Shall I not see the Queen ?

Tgraine.
No one can see her.

Tintagiles.
Why can no one see her ?

Tgraine.

Come closer, Tintagiles. . . Not even a bird or a blade
of grass must hear us.

Tintagiles.

There is no grass, little sister ... (a momai^B sUenoe).
What does the Queen do ?

THE DEATH OF act i.

YORAINS*

That no one knows, my child. She is never seen. . .
She lives there, all alone in the tower ; and those
who wait on her do not go out by daylight. . .
She is very old ; she is the mother of onr mother,
and she wishes to reign alone. . . She is suspicious
and jealous, and they say she is mad. . . She is
afraid lest some one should raise himself to h^ place ;
and it is probably because of this fear of hers that
you have been brought hither. . . Her orders are
carried out : but no one knows how. . . She never
leaves the tower, and all the gates are closed night
and day. . . I have never seen her, but it seems
others have, long ago, when she was young. . .

TlN7AGILKS.

* «

Is she very ugly, sist^ Tgrame ?

YoRAiinc*

They say she ianot beautiful, and that her form is strange.
. • . But those who have seen her dare not speak
of her. . . And who knows whether ^ey have
seen her ? . . . She has a power which we do not
understand, and we live here with a terrible weight
on our soul. . . Tou must not be unduly frightened,
or have bad dreams ; we will watch over you, little
Tintagiles, and no harm can come to you ; but do not
stray far from me, or your sister Bettsing&e, or oui
old master Aglovale.

TlNTAGILES.

Aglovale, too, sister Ygraine ?

ACT I. TINTAGILES

Ygrainb.
Aglovale too ... he loves us . . .

TiNTAGILES.

He is so old^ little sister !

TOBAINB.

He is old, but very wise. ... He is the only friend we
have left ; and he knows many things. ... It is
strange ; she made you come here, and no one was
told of it. . . I do not know what is in my heart.
... I was sorrowful and glad to know that you
were far away, beyond the sea. . . . And now . . .
I was taken by surprise. ... I went out this morn-
ing to see whether the sun was rising over the
mountains ; and I saw you on the threshold. . . I
knew you at once.

TiNTAQILBS.

No, no, little sister ; it was I who laughed first. . .

Tgraine.

I could not laugh . . . just then. . . You will under-
stand. . . It is time, Tintagiles, and the wind is
becoming black on the sea. . . Kiss me, before
getting up ; kiss me, harder, again, again. . . You
do not know how one loves. . . Give me your little
hand. . . I will keep it in mine, and we will go
back to the old sick castle. [They go out.

G 97

THE DEATH OF act n.

ACT II

Scene

A room in the castle, in which Aglovale and Tgraine are

seated.

Enter Bellanqi^ire.

Bellanq^e.
Where is Tintagiles ?

TORAINE.

He is here ; do not speak too loud. He is asleep in the
other room. He was a little pale, he did not seem
well. The journey had tired him — ^he was a long
time on the sea. Or perhaps it is the atmosphere
of the castle which has alarmed his little soul. He
was crying, and did not know why he cried. I
nursed him on my knees; come, look at him. . .
He is asleep in our bed ... He sleeps very gravely,
with one hand on his brow, like a little sorrowful
king. . .

Bellanq^e (mddenly bursting into tears).
Sister 1 Sister! . . . my poor sister ! . . .

Tobaike.
Why are you crying ?

Bellanq&re.

I dare not tell what I know . . . and I am not sure that
I know anything . . . but yet I have heard — ^that
which one could not hear . . .

Aorn. TINTAGILES

TORAINB.

What have you heard ?

I was passing clo0e to the corridoiB of the towei . . .

TORAINE.

Ah! . . .

BELLAKOibtE.

One of the doors was ajar. I pushed it very gently . . •
I went in . . .

Tgraine.
Where?

BELLANGiatB.

I had never seen. . . There were other corridors lighted
with lamps; and then low galleries, which seined
to have no end. . . I knew it was forbidden to go
farther. . . I was afraid and was about to turn back,
but there was a sound of voices . . . though one
could scarcely hear . . .

Tgbainb.

It must have been the servants of the Queen ; they live at
the foot of the tower . • .

BELLANG^aiB.

I do not know quite what it was. . . . There must have
been more than one door between ; and the voices
canle to me like the voice of some one who is being
strangled. . . I went as near as I could. . . I am
not sure of anything : but I believe they were speak-
ing of a child who had arrived to-day, and of a crown
of gold. . . They seemed to be laughing . . .

THE DEATH OF act n.

Ygraine.
They weie laughing ?

Bellang&bb.

Ye6> I think they were laughing . . . unless it was that
they were crying, or that it was something I did not
understand; for one heard badly, and their voices
were low. . . There seemed to be a great many
of them moving about in the vault. . .* They
were speaking of the child that the Queen wished
to see. . . They will probably come here this
evening . .

Tqrainb.

What? . . . this evening? ...

Bellanq^b.
Yes . . . yes. . • . I think so . . • yes . . .

Ygbaine.
Did they not mention any name ?

Bellano^ire.
They spoke of a child — ^a little, little child . . .

YORAINB.

There is no other child here . . •

BellangIsre*

Just then they raised fcheir voices a little, for one of them
had doubted whether the day was come • . .

YORAINB.

I know what that means, and it will not be the first
time that they have left the tower. . . I knew only

100

ACT n. TINTAGILES

too well wiry site made him come . . . but I could
not think she would show such haste as this ! . • .
We shall see . . . there are three of us, and we
have time . . ..

What do you mean to do ?

Ygrainb.

I do not know yet what I shall do, but I shall surprise
her ... do you know what that means, you who
only can tremble ? . . . I will tell you , . .

Bellano&re.
What?

Tgraine.

She shall not take him without a struggle . . .

Bellang^e.
We are alone, sister Tgraine . . .

Tgrains.

Ah ! it is true we are alone ! .. . . There is only one
. thing to be done, and it never fails us ! . . . Let us
wait on our knees as we did before. . . . Perhaps
she will have pity ! . . . She allows herself ta be
moved by tears. . . We must grant her everything
she asks ; she will smile perhaps ; and it is her habit
to spare all who kneel. . . All these years she
has been there in her enormous tower, devouring
those we love, and not a single one has dared strike
her in the face. . . She lies on our soul like the
stone of a tomb, and no one dares stretch out his

101

THE DEATH OF act n.

anxL . . In the times when there were men here^
they too were afraid, and fell upon their faces. . .
To-day it is the woman's turn ... we shall see. . .
It is time that some one should dare to rise. . .
No one knows on what her power rests, and I will
no longer live in the shadow of her tower. . . Go
away, if you two can only tremble like this — go away
both of you, and leave me still more alone. . . I
will wait for her.

BELiiANGiatE.

Sister, I do not know what has to be done, but I will
wait with you . . .

Aglovalb:.
I too will wait, my daughter. . . My soul has long been
ill at ease. . . You will try ... we have tried
more than once . . .

ToRADrs.
Tou have tried . . . you also?

Aglovale.

They have all tried. . . But at the last moment their
strength has failed them. . . Tou too, you shall
see. ... If she were to command me to go up to
her this very evening, I would put my two hands
together and say nothing ; and my weary feet would
climb the staircase, without lingering and without
hastening, though J. know full well that none comte
down again with eyes unclosed. . . There is no
courage left in me against her . . . oux hands are
helpless, and can touch no one. . . Other hands

102

ACT n. TINTAGILES

than these are wanted, and all is useless. . . But
you are hopeful, and I will assist you. . . Close
the doors, my child. . . Awaken Tintagiles; bard
your little arms and enfold him within them, and
take him on your knees ... we have no otl^er
defence . . •

ACT III

Scene

The same Room.

Tgraine ani Aglovale.

YORAINEi

I have been to look at the doors. There are three of
them. We will watch the large one. . . The two
others are low and heavy. They are never opened.
The keys were lost long ago, and the iron bars are
sunk into the walls. Help me close this door ; it is
heavier than the gate of a city. . . It is massive ;
the lightning itself could not pierce through it. . .
you prepared for all that may happen ?

Aglovale (seating himsdf on the threshold),

I will go seat myself on the steps ; my sword upon my
knees. . . I do not think this is the first time that
I hi^ve waited and watched here, my child ; and
there are moments when one does not understand all

103

THE DEATH OF act m.

that one remembeis. . . I have done all this before,
I do not know when . . . but I have never dared
draw my sword. • . Now, it lies there before me,
though my arms no longer have strength ; but I
intend to try. . . It is perhaps time that men
should defend themselves, even though they do not
understand. . .

[BeUangdre carrying Tintagiles in her arms, cornea
out of the adjoining room.

Bellang&be.
He was awake. . .

Tgraine.

He is pale . . . what ails him?

BmAjATHQhXE.

I do not know ... he was very silent. . . He was
crying. . .

Tgraine.
Tintagiles. . .

Bellang^e.

He is looking away from you.

Ygrainb.

He does not seem to know me. . . Tintagiles, where
are you ? — ^It is your sister who speaks to you. . .
What are you looking at so fixedly ? — ^Tum round. . .
come, I will play with you. . . .

Tintagiles.
No. . . no. . .

Ygraine.
You do not want to play ?

104

ACT m. TINTAGILES

TiNTAOILES.

I cannot standi sister Ygrainb. . .

YORAINE.

Tou cannot stand ? . . . Come, come, what is the matter
with you ? — Are you suffering any pain ? . .

TiNTAGILES.

Yes* • . •

TORAINE.

Tell me where it is, Tintagiles, and I will cure you. . .

TiNTAOILES.

I cannot tell, sister Ygraine . . . eyerywhere. . .

Ygrainb.

Come to me, Tintagiles. . . You know that my arms
are softer, and I will put them around you, and you
will feel better at once. . . Oive him to me,
Bellangtee. . . He shall sit on my knee, and the
pain will go. . . . There, you see? . . . Your big
sisters are here. . . They are dose to you ... we
will defend you, and no evil can come near. . . .

TiNTAQILBS.

It has come, sister Ygraine. . . Why is there no light,
sister Ygraine ?

Ygraine.

There is a light, my child. . . Do you not see the lamp
that hangs from the rafters ?

TiNTAGILBS.

Yes, yes. . . It is not large. . . Are there no others ?

105

THE DEATH OF act m.

TORAINS.

Why should there be others ? We can see what we have
vO see*

TiNTAGILBS.
Ah! . . .

Ygraine.
Oh! yotir eyes are deep. . .

TiNTAOILES.

So are yonis, sister Ygraine. • .

Yqrainb.

I did not notice it this morning. . . I haye just seen in
your eyes. . . We do not quite know what the
soul thinks it sees. . .

TiNTAQILBS.

I haye not seen the soul, sister Ygraine. . . . But why is
Agloyale on the threshold ?

Ygraine.

He is resting a little. . . He wanted to kiss you before
going to bed ... he was waiting for you to
wakCi . . .

TlNTAGILES.

What has he on his knees ?

Ygraine.
On his knees? I see nothing on his knees. . .

TlNTAGILES.

Yes, yes, there is something. . .

106

AOT m. TINTAGILES

AOLOVALE.

It is nothing, my child. . . I was looking at my old
sword ; and I scarcely recognise it. . . It has served
me many years, but for a long time past I have lost
confidence in it, and I think it is going to break. . .
Here, just by the hilt, there is a little stain. . . I
had noticed that the steel was growing paler, and I
asked myself. . . I do not remeinber what I asked
myself. . . My soul is very heavy to-day. . . What
is one to do ? . . . Men must needs live and await
the unforeseen. . . And after that they must still
act as if they hoped. . . There are sad evenings
when our useless lives taste bitter in our mouths,
and we would like to close our eyes. . . It is late,
and I am tired. . .

TiNTAGILES.

He has wounds, sister Tgraine.

Ygbainb.
Where ?

TiNTAGILES.

On his forehead and on his hands. . .

Aglovale.
Those are very old wounds, from which I suffer no
longer, my child. . . The light must be falling on
them this evening. . . You had not noticed them
before?

TiNTAGILES.

He looks sad, sister Yg^aine. . .

Ygraine.
No, no, he is not sad, but very weary. . .

107

THE DEATH OF act in.

TiNTAOILBS.

You too are sad, sister Ygraine. . .

Yqraine.
Why no, why no ; look at me, I am smiling. . .

TiNTAGILES.

And my other sister too. . .

Ygraike.
Oh no, she too is smiling.

TiNTAGILES.

No, that is not a smile ... I know. . .

Ygraine.

Gome, kiss me, and think of something else. . .

[She hisses him.

TiNTAGILES.

Of what shall I think, sister Ygraine 7 — ^Why do you hurt
me when you kiss me ?

Ygraine.
Did I hurt you ?

TiNTAGILES.

Yes. . . I do not know why I hear your heart beat,
sister Ygraine. . .

Ygraine.
Do your hear it beat ?

TiNTAGILES.

Oh! Oh! it beats as though it wanted to . . .

108

ACT ni. TINTAGILES

Yqraine.

What?

TiNTAGILES.

I do not know, sister Tgiaine.

Ygrainb.

It is wrong to be frightened without reason, and to speak
in riddles. . . Oh ! your eyes are full of tears. . .
Why are you unhappy ? I hear your heart beating,
now . . . people always hear them when they hold
one another so close. It is then that the heart
speaks and says things that the tongue does not
know. . .

TiNTAQILES.

I heard nothing before. . .

Yqbaine.

That was because. . . Oh! but your heart! . . .
What is the matter ? . . . It is bursting ! . . .

TiNTAGiLBS {on/ing).
Sister Ygraine ! sister Ygraine !

Ygbainb.
What is it?

TiNTAGILES.

Ihayeheard. . . They . . . they are coming !

Ygraine.

Who? Who are coming? . . . What has hap-
pened? . . .

I 109

THE DEATH OF act ra.

TiNTAOILES.

The door t the door I They were thete ! . . .

[He faUs haehwa/rds on to Ygraine^s Jmees,

YORAINE.

What is it? . . . He has . . . hehas fainted. . .

Bellano&kb.
Take care . . . take care . . . He will fall. . .

AgloValb (firing htusqadyy his Sivord in his hand).
I too can hear . . . there are steps in the corridor.

Ygbainb.
Oh ! . . . [A momeni's silence — they aU listen.

Aglovalb.
YeSy I hear. . . . There is a crowd of them. . .

Ygraine.
A crowd ... a crowd . . . how ?

Aglovalb.

I do not know . . . one hears and one does not hear.
. . . They do not move like other creatures, but
they come. . . They are touch^g the door. . .

Ygrainb {dasping TintagHes in her arms).
Tintagiles! . . . Tintagiles! . . .

Bbllang&re (embracing him).
Let me» too I let me ! . . . Tintagiles !

ACT in. TINTAGILES

Aglovale.

They are shaking the door . . . listen ... do not
breathe. . . They are whispering. . .

[A key is heard turning harMy in the look.

Ygranb.
They have the key !

Aglovalb.

Yes . . . yes. . . . I was sure of it. . . . Wait . . . (He
plants himsdfy with sword outstretched, on the last
step. To the ttvo sisters) Gome ! come both ! . . .
\For a moment there is silence. The door opens
slowly. Aglovdle thrusts his swori wildly through
the opening, driving the point between the beams.
The sword breaks with a hud report wnder the
silent pressure of the timber, and the pieces of
steel roU down the steps with a resounding clang.
Ygraine lea/ps up, carrying in her arms TintagUes,
who has fainted; and she, BeUangire and Agio-
vale, putting forth ciU their strengthy try, but in
vain, to close the door, which slowly opens under
and under, although no one can be seen or heard.
Onh/y a cold and caJm light penetrates into the
room. At this moment Tintagiles, suddenly
stretching out his Kmbs, regains consciousness,
sends forth a long cry of deUveranoe, and
embraces his sister— a/nd at this very instant the
door, which resists no longer, faUs to brusquely
under their pressure, which they have not had
time to stop.

Ygrains.

Tintagiles I [TJiey look with amaxement at each other.

Ill

THE DEATH OF act ni.

AoLOVALE (waiting ai (he door).
I heai noUiing now. . .

Yqrainb {wHd unih joy).

Tintagiles! TintagilesI Look! Look! . . . He is saved!
. . . Look at his eyes . . . you can see the blue.
... He is going to speak. . . They saw we
were watching. . . . They did not dare. . .
Ejss us ! . . . Kiss us, I say ! . . . Kiss us ! . . .
All! all! . . . Down to the depths of our soul ! . . .
[AU fouTy their eyes fvU of tea/re^ faU into each
oiher^aarms.

ACT IV

SOENS

A corridor in front of the room in which the last Act took

place.

Three Sebvakts of the Queen enter. They are aU veiled,
and ffieir long black robes flow down to the ground.

FntST SsBVAin? (listening at the door).
They are not watching. « .

SEOOin) Servant.
We need not have waited. . .

Third Servant.

She prefers that it should be done in silence. • •

112

ACT IV. TINTAGILES

First Servant.
I knew that they must fall asleep. . .

Second Servant.
Quick! . . . open the door. . .

Third Servant.
It is time. . .

First Servant.

Wait there ... I will enter alone. There is no need for
three of us. . . .

Second Servant.

You are right : he is very small. . .

Third Servant.
Tou must be careful with the elder sister. .. .

Second Servant.
Remember the Queen does not want them to know. . •

First Servant.
Have no fear ; people seldom hear my coming. « •

Second Servant.

Oo in then; it is time.

[The First Servant opens the door cautiously and
goes if^ the room.
It is close on midnight. . .

Third Servant.
Ahl . . .

[A moviMnt^s silence. The First Servant comes out

of the room.
H 113

THE DEATH OF aot iv.

Second Sebvant.
Where is he ?

First Servant.

He is asleep between his sisters. His arms are around
their necks; and their arms enfold him. . .
cannot do it alone. . .

Second Servant.
I will help you. . .

Third Servant.

Yes; do you go together. . . I will keep watch
here, . .

First Servant.

Be careful; they seem to know. . . They were all
three struggling with a bad dream. . .
[The two Servants go into the room.

Third Servant.

People always know ; but they do not understand. . .
[A momeni^s silence. The First and Second Servants
come out of the room again.

Third Servant.
WeU?

Second Servant.

You must come too ... we cannot separate them. . •

First Servant.

No sooner do we unclasp their arms than they fall back
around the child. . .

Second Servant.

And the child nestles closer and closer to them. . .

114

ACT IV. TINTAGILES

First Servant.

He is lying with his forehead on the elder sister's
heart. . .

Second Servant.

And his head rises and falls on her bosom. . »

First Servant.
We shall not be able to open his hands. . .

Second Servant.
They are phinged deep down into his sisters' hair. . •

First Servant.
He holds one golden curl between his little teeth. . .

Second Servant.
We shall have to cut the elder sister's hair.

First Servant.
And the other sister's too, you will see. . .

Second Servant.
Have you your scissors ?

Third Servant.

First Servant.
Come quickly ; they have begun to move. . .

Second Servant.
Their hearts and their eyelids are throbbing together. . .

First Servant.

Yes; I caught a glimpse of the elder gbl's blue eyes. . .

116

THE DEATH OF act iv.

Second Sebvant.
She looked at us but did not aee us. . .

First Servant.
If one touches one of them, the other two tremble. . .

Second Servant.
They are trying hard, but they cannot stir. . .

First Servant.
The elder sister wishes to scream, but she cannot. . .

Second Servant.
Come quickly ; they seem to know. . .

Third Servant.
Where is the old man ?

First Servant.
He is asleep — ^away from the others. . .

Second Servant.
He sleeps, his forehead resting on the hilt of his sword. . .

First Servant.
He knows of nothing ; and he has no dreams. . .

Third Servant.
Come, come, we must hasten. . .

First Servant.

You will find it difScult to separate their limbs. . .

116

ACT IV. TINTAGILES

Second Servant.

They are clutching at each other as though they were
drowning.

Third Servant.

Come, come. . .

[They go in. The silence is broken only by sighs
and hw mwrmurs of suffering^ held in thraU
by sleep. Then the three Servants emerge very
hurriedly from the gloomy room. One of them
carries TintagtleSy who is fast asleep^ in her
arms. From his UtUe hands, twitching in sleeps
and his mouth, drawn in agony, a glittering
stream of golden tresses, ravished from the heads
of his sisters, flows doum to the ground. The
Servants hurry on. There is perfect silence;
but no soor^er have they reached the end of the
corridor than Tintagiles awakes, and sends forth
aery of supreme distress.

TiNTAOiLBS {from the end of the corridor).
Aah! . . .

[There is again silence. Then from the adjoining
room the two sisters are heard moving about
restlessly.

Ygraine {in the room).

Tintagiles ! . .. . where is he ?

BellangI^rb.
He is not here. . .

YoRAiNB {with growing anguish).

Tintagiles! . . . a lamp, a lamp ! . . . light it! * •

117

THE DEATH OF act v.

Bbllanq^eb.

X «B • • • X CD • « •

[Ygraine is seen earning out of the room ivOh the
lighted lamp in Jier hand.

YORAINE.

The door is wide open !

The voice of Tintagiles {almost inaudible

in the distance).
Sister Ygiaine I

Ygraine.

He caUs ! ... He calls ! . . . Tintagiles ! Tintagiles ! . . .
[She rushes into the corridor. Belkmgire tries to
follow, but falls fainting on the threshold.

ACTV

Scene

Before a great iron door in a gloomy vault.

Enter Ygraine, haggard and dishevelled, tvith a laiwp

in her hand.

Ygraine (turning unMly to and fro).

They have not followed me ! . . . Bellang&re ! . . .
Bellang&re ! . . . Aglovale ! . . . Where are they ?
— ^They said they loved him and they leave me alone !
. . . Tintagiles ! . . . Tintagiles ! ... Oh I I
remember . . . I have climbed steps without niunber,

118

ACT V. TINTAGILES

between great pitiless walls, and my heart bids me
live no longer . . . These vaults seem to move . . .
(She sv/pforts herself against the pillars.) I am
falling . . . Oh ! Oh ! my poor life ! I can feel it
... It is trembling on my Ups — ^it wants to dep^
... I know not what I have done ... I have
seen nothing, I have heard nothing . . . Oh, this
silence ! ... All along the steps and all along the
walls I found these golden curls; and I followed
them. I picked them up ... Oh I oh ! they are
very pretty ! . . . Little childie . . . little childie
. . . what was I saying? I remember ... I do
not believe in it . . . When one sleeps . . . All that
hsks no importance and is not possible ... Of what
am I thinking? ... I do not know . . . One
awakes, and then . . . After all — come, after all —
I must think this out . . . Some say one thing, some
say the other; but the way of the soul is quite
different. When the chain is removed, there is
much more than one knows. . . I came here with
my little lamp. . . It did not go out, in spite of the
wind on the staircase . . . And then, what is one to
think ? There are so many things which are vague
. . . There must be people who know them ; but
why- do they not speak? (She looks abound her.)
I have never seen all this before ... It is difficult
to get so far — ^and it is all forbidden . . . How cold
it is . . . And so dark that one is afraid to breathe
. . . They say there is poison in these gloomy
shadows . . . That door looks very terrible . . .
(She goes wp to the door and touches it). Oh I how
cold it is ... It is of iron . . . solid iron — and

119

THE DEATH OF act v.

tKeie is no lock . . . How can they open it ? I see
no hinges ... I suppose it is sunk into the wall
. . . This is as far as one can go . . . There are no
more steps. (Suddenly sending forth a terrible shriek)
Ah ! . . . more golden hair between the panels ! . . .
Tintagiles ! Tintagiles ! . . . I heard the door close
just now ... I remember ! I remember ! ... It
must be ! {She beats frcmticaHy against the door
with hands and feet,) Oh, monster ! monster ! It is
here that I find you ! . . . Listen ! I blaspheme ! I
blaspheme and spit on you I
[Fedle knocks are heard from the other side of the

door: then the voice of Tintagiles penetrates very

feehly through the iron panels,

Tintagiles.
Sister Ygraine^ sister Tgraine ! . . .

YORAIKB.

Tintagiles! . . . What! . . . what! . . . Tintagiles, is
it you? . . .

Tintagiles.
Quick, open, open ! . . . She is here ! . . .

Ygbaine.

Oh! oh! . . . Who? Tintagiles, my little Tintagiles
. . . can you hear me! . . . What is it? . . .
What has happened ? . . . Tintagiles ! . . . Have
they hurt you? . . . Where are you? . . . Are you
there? . . .

Tintagiles.

Sister Ygraine, sister Ygraine ! . . . Open for me—or I
shall die . . .

120

ACT V. TINTAGILES

Ygraine.

I will try — ^wait, wait ... I will open it, I will open
it. • . •

TlNTAGILES.

But you do not undeistand I . . . Sister Ygraine ! . . .
There is no time to lose ! . . . She tried to hold me
back t . . . I struck her, struck her ... I ran
. . . Quick, quick, she is coming !

YOBAINE.

Yes, yes . . . where is she?

TlNTAQILES.

I can see nothing . . . but I hear ... oh, I am afraid,
sister Ygraine, I am afraid . . . Quick, quick!
. . . Quick, open ! . . . for the dear Lord's sake,
sister Ygraine I . . .

Ygraine {afmotisly groping along the door).

I am sure to find it . . . Wait a little ... a minute
... a second. . .

TiNTAGILES.

I cannot, sister Ygraine ... I can feel her breath on me
now. . .

Ygraine.

It is nothing, Tintagiles, my little Tintagiles ; do not be
frightened . . . if I could only see . . .

Tintagilbs.

Oh, but you can see — ^I can see your lamp from here . . .
It is quite light where you are, sister Ygraine . . •
Here I can see nothing. . .

121

THE DEATH OF act v.

Ygsainb.

You see me, Tintagiles ? How can yon see ? There is
not a crack in the door . . .

Tintagiles.
YeSy yea, there is ; but it is so small ! . . .

YoRAnns.

On which side ? Is it here ? . . . tell me, tell me . . .
or is it over there ?

Tintagiles.
It is here . . . Listen, listen ! ... I am knocking. . .

Ygraine.
Here?

Tintagiles.

Higher up . . . But it is so small 1 . . . A needle could
not go through ! . . .

Ygraine,
Do not be afraid, I am here. . .

Tintagiles.

Oh, I know, sister Ygraine 1 . . . Pull! pull! You must
pull! She is coming! . . . if you could only open a
little . . . a very little. . . I am so small !

Ygraine.

My nails are broken, Tintagiles . . . I have pulled, I have
pushed, I have struck with all mj might — ^with all my

122

ACT V. TINTAGILES

might 1 (She strikes again^ and tries to shake the
massive door.) Two of my fingeis are numbed. . .
Do not cry. . . It is of iron. . .

TiNTAGiLES {sobbing in despair).

You have notlxing to open with, sister Ygraine? . . .
nothing at all, nothing at all? ... I could get
through ... I am so small, so very small . . . you
know how small I am. . .

Ygbainb.

I have only my lamp, Tintagiles. . . There ! there !
(She aims repealed blows at the gate with her earthen-
ware lamp, which goes ovt and breaks, the pieces
falUng to the ground.) Oh ! ... It has all grown
dark! . . . Tintagiles, where are you? ... Oh I
listen, listen I . . . Can you not open from the
inside? . . .

Tintagiles.

No, no ; there is nothing. . . I cannot] feel anything at
all. . . I cannot see the light through the crack
any more. . .

Ygraine.

What is the matter, Tintagiles ? . . . I can scarcely hear
you. . .

Tintagiles.

Little sister, sister Ygraine. . . It is too late now. . •

Ygraind.

What is it, Tintagiles ? . . . Where are you going ?

123

THE DEATH OF act v.

TnrrAGiLBS.

She is here! . . . Oh, I am so weak. Sister Tgraine,
sister Tgiaine ... I feel her on me I . . .

YORAINE.

Whom? . . . whom? . . .

TlNTAQILES.

I do not know ... I cannot see. . . But it is too late
now. . . . She . . . she is taking me by the thit>at.
. . . Her hand is at my throat. . . . Oh, oh, sister
Ygraine, come to me I . . .

YORAINE.

Yes, yes. . .

TlNTAQILES.

It is so dark. . .

Yghaine.

Straggle — fight— tear her to pieces! ... Do not be
afraid . . . Wait a moment I ... I am here . . .
Tintagiles ? . . . Tintagiles ! answer me ! . . .
Help !!!... where are you ? , . . I will come to
you . . . kiss me . . . through the door . . . here
— here.

Tintagiles (very feebly).

Here • . . here . . . sister Ygraine . . .

Ygraine.

I am putting my kisses on this spot here, do you under-
stand ? Again, again I

124

ACT V TINTAGILES

TiNTAGiLES {more cmd more fed)ly).

Mine too— here . . . sister Ygraine ! Sister Ygraine I
... Oh!

[The fall of a little body is heard behind the tron
door.

Ygraine.

Tintagiles! . . . Tintagiles! . . . Wliat have you done ?
. . . Give him back, give him back I ... for the
love of Qod, give him back to me ! . . . I can hear
nothing. . . . What are you doing with him ? . . .
You will not hurt Mm? ... He is only a little
child. . . He cannot resist. . . Look, look ! . . .
I mean no harm ... I am on my knees. . . Give
him back to us, I beg of you. . . . Not for my sake
only, you know it well. . . I will do anything. . .
I bear no ill-will, you see. . . I implore you with
clasped hands. . . I was wrong. . . I am quite
resigned, you see. . . I have lost all I had . .
You should punish me some other way. . . There are
so many things which would hurt me more ... if
you want to hurt me. . . You shall see. . . But this
poor child has done no harm. . . What I said was
not true . . . but I did not know. . . I know that
you are very good. . . Surely the time for forgive-
ness has come ! . . . He is so young and beautiful,
and he is so small I . . . You must see that it cannot
be I . . . He puts his little arms around your neck :
his little mouth on your mouth ; and God Himself
could not say him nay . . . You will open the door,
will you not? ... I am asking so little ... I
want him for an instant, just lor an instant. . . I

126

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