Claudel-THREE_PLAYS.pdf

PAUL CLAUDEL / r

THREE PLAYS

/ '

THE HOSTAGE

CRUSTS

THE HUMILIATION OF THE FATHER

TBANSLATED BY

JOHN HEARD

BOSTON

JOHN W. LUCE COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

PQ

2.lots

,

L~A2.4.

~>.~

Copyright Copyright 1944, 19451945, by John W. Luc< Co. , by Poet Lore, Inc. Prioted in the United States of America

AD rights ~ upr~y reserved. For rights of public performance, pItase ad~ Cus the publishtt!, who are the author's agents.

AU P«SODS are hertby warntd that "The Hostage," "Crusts." and Jhe Humiliation of the Father," are fully, protected by co~rlght. and anyonr presenting any of thtst plays in any form w ttVU

ed, without the writtm consent of ~ translator or his rKogni: _ will be liable to the penalties by law provided.

CONTENTS

The Hostage 9

Crusts ₈₇

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE

The three plays by Paul Claudel cover the period be-tween the French Revolntion and the Franco-Prussian War. Their purpose, as I interpret them, is to portray, through three successive generations of the same family, not ouly the transformation of France from a semi-feudal, semi-mediae-val people to a modern nation, hut also the evolution of the individual's outlook on life.

In the first play, The Hostage, we see the remnants of the old French aristocracy struggling to maintain its tradi. tions through the shipwreck of its caste in the Revolution-ary days. To them King and Church came first, and after them, their name and their landed estates. To these tradi-tions all else was subordinate. The individual existed ouly as a member of his caste; and the rules of that caste were the infrangible rules of life for the individual. And over and against this inherited doctrine of life, surged the chaos of Revolution, of nascent Democracy, of Iconoclasts sweeping aside and wiping out the" Ancien Regime."

In the second play, Crusts, the younger generation is firmly in the saddle. The chaos of the Revolution, of the downfall of the Empire, and of the reestablishment of a weak shadow of monarchy have successively occn:rred, but their disturbing effects have not had time to be eradicated, nor have the new theories become assimilated. We see the growing spirit of commercialism, of colonization, of indus-trial development springing up through the ashes of the older traditions, with all the unpleasant vigor of unre-strained youth~ For the first time the Jew is becoming a factor, both socially and in the larger commercial wo,rld. It is the age of crass materialism, of the mad scramble in which only the individual and the present counts. Only one vestige of the "Ancien Regime" remains, an idealism which is obviously hopeless - the exponent of a cause lost beyond possible salvation, although it bas not breathed its last.

In the third play, The Humiliatitm of the Father, the author shows the world as it appeared after it had emerged

1

from the political and social upheavals of the first half of the nineteenth century. Equilibrium has been reestablished and idealism and materialism are opposed to each other in approximately the ratios of today. The old traditions have again come to life, but they are no longer the controlling in· fluences. The individual, not the caste, is the social unit; and no more do the traditions, handed down from genera- I tion to generation, govern the every act of the men and women of a given class. Human emotions have taken the place of inherited laws as the guides to the life of the in-dividual. And with the development of individual thought, comes the unrest, the vague dissatisfaction, the mal de vivre of individualism.

[&)

,

I

THE HOSTAGE

A Drama in Three Acts

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE POPE Pros THE CURATE BADILON THE KING OF FRANCE

VISCOUNT ULYSSES AGENOR GEORGE OF COUFONTAINE .. ND DOli-j\[ANT

BUON Later COUNT TOUSSAINT TURELUBE: Prefect of th.e

,

' .

Marne, later of the Se.net SYGNE OF COUFONT,uNEt

SElW ... NTS, SOLDIERS, INClDENT.<L CH,o.RACTERS

.Pronounced "Tuerluer" tPronounced "Seen'"

ACT I

The first fleor of the monastery of the Cistercian Monks of Coufontaine. The library; a large, high-studded room, lighted by four windows with small greenish panes of glass, some of which aTe gone, am.d have been replaced by paper. There af'e no curtains. At one end of the room hangs a frag-ment of brightly colored tapestry, on willie}" is embroidered the coat-of ... rms of Coufontaine, with the motto: "OOU-FONTAINE, ADSUM." At the back, between two hi.qh doors, against a whitewashed wall, is hung a large wooden cross with a bronze Crucifix. The body is mutilated and has a forbidding appearance. The floor is made of broad, uneve .. boards, scrupulously clean, fastened down with large, bright-headed nails.

SYGNE is seated in a CONler, before a graceful little desk, which is covered with account books and various bundles of papers, aU .. eatly aH"anged. Beyond her stands a li~tle table, on which there is wine, bread, etc. Large, stiff cha.rs and ar·m.chairs are standing against the walls and give the room an austere and uninhabited appearance: On the floor lies a frame, in which pru ..

es

are drying.

Little or none of this is visible when the curtain

rises_

It is still night. The blinds are closed. The only light in the room is a single candle burning on the table.

Outside a storm. is raging. A door opens, but no one enters. The wind howls and a puff, coming ;"'to the room, makes the flame of the candle flicker. SYGNE shields it with her hand.

Throughout, SYGNlt speaks

in a

clear, melodious voice, but which cO'lltains notes of a strange and almost painful sonority. COUl'ONTA.UI1I'S voice is even and somewhat low. He always speaks slowly "",d as if weighing his words.

SOENli I

SYGNE (looking toward the back of the room). George! CO,?"FONTAINE. Good evening, Sygne; or, rather, good mornmg. (SYG1f.B puts her hand to her heart as

it overcome

by e·motion. COUl'ONTAIN:& steps into the half-lighted part of the room. His figure is athletic and h.e stands ~ry straight.)

SYGNE. Your room is ready.

COUFONTAINE. I'll go there later. I haven't time to sleep. ~here'~ much I want to talk over with you. It's a very long tune smce we've seen each other, cousin. (She sits dow" again.)

i

I

I:

" I

SYGNE. I'm quite ready for your visit: All my accounts are in good order. Every night before gomg to bed, and be· fore saying my prayers, I've made my entries for the day. This set is for the police, and this little book for you. Day or night, come when you want, you'll find me ready, and

everything in good order. .

CoUFONTAINJ!. Accounts! It's always the first tbmg you talk about I Accounts. You haven't changed, Sygne! Old Susan made a good pupil of you. The best writing teacher in the world is a man who can't read. You have no account-ing to make to me. It's all yours.

SYGNE. . .. In trust for you. You are the master, and I the humble servant, who keeps the fire burning.

COUFONTAINE. I don't like this light.

SYGNE. The blinds are closed and the curtains drawn. It's so dark one can hardly see. I can barely recognize you. COUFONTAINE (in. a low voice, an.d raising his hand

to

en-join secrecy). Is he here' .

SYGNE (i" a low voice). He arrived two hours ago. J ust11l brought

him

through the woods on a donkey.

COUFONTAINE. What did he do when he arrived!

SYGNE. He sat with his hands on his knees, breathing hard, like a man about to die. He asked for a priest, saying he wanted to confess. I sent for Abbe Badilon. (COUFONTAIN1I m~kes a gesture of 01I1IQyan.ce.) Should I have done

other-WIse'

COUFONTAIlOl. Go on.

SYGNE. I couldn 't ~efuse. He asked me so kindly, looking at me with those big, dark eyes, and talking about his hear:, as churchmen do - "the heavy weight that lay upon his

heart.~

- Uonde.r what he meant! He confessed, and th'W-he SaId

mass.

I heard

hlm.

Oh, he wasn't the same

man

when he stood at the altar. He was like an angel- an angel of fervor

~d

grace _ performing a sacred rite. He was likhe

~

pontiff spealring a golden language. Tell me, George; W 018 he!

CO~ONTAI..q,

Is he resting now!

In SVGNX. He's resting and the Abbe is with him. He is

go-t!0

say mass here. (Gusts of

wma

ron be heard outside.) old

~Od!iTlAIn.

~.

time we were under a roof. The same

WID.

recogmze

It.

[12]

•

SVGNE. It's a pity! The apple trees were so beautiful, and now there won't be a flower left - nor a bud!

C01JFONTAINE. The storm will protect us. Sygne, I'm in great danger; I've taken a desperate risk.

SYGNE. Don't worry; you're safe with me, no mattcr how great the danger.

COUFONTAINE. That's exactly it. I've never been molested here, and that is why I've brought my prize here to you. And also because of Toussaint's poor eyesighl I know you're on good terms with him.

SVGNE. I'm a business woman pure and simple, cousin. I can't afford to choose my associates.

COUFONTAINE. Better marry him! Think of his coat-of-arms scrambled in with ours! It would brighten up that daub of color. (He points to the tapestry on tke wall.)

SYGNE. Don't joke.

COUFONTAINE. I'm not joking. (SYGNE begins to cry.) Oh, I'm a brute! Here she is crying! You're so good and kind; I can't help mysElif; something makes me want to hurt you. I suppose it's my way of showing how fond I am of you. Poor little cousin! What a childhood you've had! Your whole youth spent gathering together and patching up the scraps of this estate. Vineyards and fields and woods and sand pits and meadows. It's like mending a bit of old lace, picking up the threads one by one.

SYONE. It's your estate that we're patching together again, Susan and I. Your property, Coufontaine.

C01JFONTAINE. Well done, my clever little weaver! Our mothers, with their idle fingers, amused themselves by

un-raveling the embroidery and the needlework thread by thread; and now, thread by thread, you are weaving to-gether again what they undid. But I have my cousin Sygne, who is worth more to me than mnch, much gold and many precious stones. What's that about the lilies of the field that toil not, neither do they spin! Ah, if aJl the bloodless sons of France, and aJl the daughters of noble families, had done

I

as you, the King could come back, and not a hole would there be in the old flag. Alas, when the first stitch goes, how fast the woof unravels I

SYGNE (picking up a miniature from the table and looking

,

: I

at it) See! Here are my dear little ones! The least. I can do is' to take a bit of trouble for them. Y

01:

u

tchil~~

Goo . and they're mine too! Aren't they JUs a e bitt

~heir

fairy aunt, their old spider of. an aunt,

w::

stayed at home, has to build them a house ill France ~n her magic arts. The rest of us, yon and I, torn betw memories and duties as we are, we don't work f?r

ou~~eJ.v~t

I wonder when I shall see them! The dear babIes! e. tie boy with his whip begins to look like you, Coufontaill~. He's got your look of being able to command, and yet ~

. 1 . 1 . d ling Theu expression is so kind. And the litt e

pr

IS a a r · _ mother was complaining about them ill he; last letter. Com plain of them! Why, it doesn't seem pOSSIble! .

COUFONTAlNE. That was an old letter. They're qmet now,

and don't give her any trouble. .

SYGNE. How beautiful their mother is as she holds them m

her bare arms! What a joy it must be when you colIl:e home from the war to put your arms around them and to kiss that fresh pink rose, with its six bright eyes! I see what ap-pealed to you so muoh; it was that forehead of hers, so UD-proteeted-dooking, and yet so frankly arrogant. and then the full lips and the narrow brow. They and I work

to-gether here, and it makes me happy to look at them. Her eyes are very beantiful; they're the eyes of a woman who gives herself; like someone young and tender looking up at yon, to see if you love her. You're a brave man to leave her, and to go wandering ahout so far away from her.

COUPONTAlNE. We both serve o~ ~. SYGNE. Does he still consult you t

COU:rONTAlNE. I'm afraia I'In no longer in favor. SYGNE. Have you offended

him,

COUl'ONTAINE. It was beyond my power to prolong my wife's life forever. (A long moment of siletwe.)

SYGNE. George, I don't understand. What do yon mean! Your words are full of bitter poison.

COUl'ONTATh~. Didn't vou know that.Jll::L-Jdi.e WIllI the Danphin's mistress! And all the rest of the world was envy-ing me my good fortune, while, stupidly enough, I was ~e only one who saw nothing! When she died, the whoJ.e ~

came

out. - -

-

---[a]

SYGNE. Is she dead!

COUFONTAlNE. Give me that pioture.

SYGNE (holding it from kim.) Don't break it! Don't hurt her! Dearest, at least you're safe here close against my heart.

COUFONTAlNE. That's the last pioture I have of them. (She looks at

hIinn

as thougk not UOIderstanding

luis

words.) All

that you hold in your hands is over, done, gone. SYGNE. George !

COUFONTAlNE. Can't you understand! The two chil-dren . . .

SYGNE. Stop! Don't say it! It's too horrible!

COUFONTAlNE. . .. are dead. They died of that English fe-ver while I was out of France. Both together; almost at the same time.

SYGNE. God's help be with us! (SYGNE remains motionless for a time, as tkougk unconscious. Her eyes are closed. Slowly she moves her kead as thoughl saying " No.") There's nothing I can say, is there, George.

COUF'ONTAlNE. No. There's nothing you can say. (A IIntg pause.)

SYGNE. Come over here and look at these papers that are waiting for yon on the table. (He steps toward tke table and

as I.e stretckes out kis hand SYGNE takes

it in!

both. of kers

and sobs. Ske presses I.eI' face against his1 hand. COUFON-TAlNE caresses ker kead. B otk remain silent for a time.)

COUFONTAlNE. Yon mnstn't ory, my little Sygne. The name - our name - is finished. You and I are all that are left - just you and I. And many other things, and far finer ones, will come to an end with ns. We aren't all born to be happy. She oared more for someone else; I oonldn't help it; I had no control over it. I thought my love was great enough.. And as to the chiltiren, the little ones - a soldier doesn't need chiltiren. It's a good riddance!

SYGNlI (with.

a

tone of ir01l1l

in her

voice). Hard words, those!

COUFONTAlNE.

!

keep

my front rank unbrokelL The rest

I

concerns no one.

SYGNlI.

In

the name of these two innocent chiltiren I For-give her, George, in the name of these innocents!

ber how young she was, and how hard it is to die. To be a young and beautiful woman is more intoxicating than strong wine I Tell me you've forgiven her.

COUFONTAINE. I've stopped thinking of all that. SYGNE. No; tell me you've forgiven her I

CourONTAINE. When you love very deeply, it's not easy to forgive.

SYGNE. My heart bleeds for you.

COUFONTAlNE. It's the nights that are the worst; but when one's tired, sleep comes in the end.

SYGNE. Dead! Dead! All three of them I

COU'ONTAl"...,. Don't make it harder for me. Sygnel Try to be calm.

SYGNE. Oh, God, then all I've done is useless, futile, wasted!

Courm'TAl""". That's the last thing you should say. How-ever, I notIce you say it to God I

SrGNE. Mine age is departed, and is removed from me as a shepherd's tent. I've seen my father and my m~her, and yonr father _and yo~ mo er too-,"youfontaine, led to-B'lther onlo the sCaffiil.d. 'Four oly figures 00 • g at us to-ger ther; fonr figures ound like sacrificial offerings· my two

athers d ' th

knif an my two mothers, whose heads fell under e e, one after the other. And ;when it was my mother's

~

I saw the executioner roll her gray hair about his fist an drag her head under the blade ! We were in the front

hl~ru

and I; and you held my hand in yours, and

~eir

d spat~red our faces! I saw it all and I did not famt;

an when It was

_?"nnJc,

' t th

an over we walked home together. Man cu . e Oh, God d now God (luts away the fruit :(rom the brancb.es. stiU. ' Thou hast taken heed unto the one poor thing which

done~

ours! Thy

will

be done; Thy bitter, bitter will be grown e are alone, George; you and I, alone. You and

I,

of its :;:e and ever. more into one single being, while Life, A world, a lli:rd,

~thdraws

farther and farther from us. COtlJ'Q wherem we no longer have any part or pIace. leave

lIIe~~

.IIou must go your own way. You must

YONE. No lU your. o~ happiness. . as once yOu

hcl~or

?OW It IS I who hold your hand in =e, 'lila mme, that morning of PrairiaL·

y iI. 179s; _ of Ih.

bloodit3t days of the Fnnch Revolution. [16]

COUFONTAINE. You are young; you are rich; your life lies ahead of you, happy and fair.

SYGNE. So rang the bells on your wedding day. COUFONTAINE. It was not the voice I heard.

SYGNE. I know that you received the sacrament without believing.

COUFONTAINE. No, I did not believe. I knew everything; I foresaw it all. But I was a prisoner, and, like a prisoner, I could not do otherwise.

SYGNE. And the poor girl loved you so deeply.

COUFONTAINE. I was like a miner who for a few moments comes to the surface, and who becomes aware that, after all, there is a springtinIe. What a silly dream of happiness sud-denly possessed me!

SYGNE. You had yonr day.

COUFONTAINE. Never. It was not on my head that happi-ness chose to lay her hand.

SYGNE. What came between you'

COUFONTAINE. My father's blood spattered across my face.

SYGNE. And, too, the blood on your hands.

COUFONTAINE. Does that blood turn you cold with horror, Sygne'

SYGNE. God forgive me; for it does notl

COUFONTAlNE. And yet it is the blood of many innocent people. Remember what happened in the street of Saint Nicaise.

SYGNE. Have you not paid for it with your own f

COUFONTAINE. It's true. It's true. Oh, my poor wife! My children I

SYGNE. But If I am still here.

COUFONTAINE. Yes. Here. But only as a girl who, some day, will change her name.

SYGNE. No, for mine was laid upon me by a second bap-tism.

COUFONTAINE. I was with you during that sacrament. SYGNE. And not unworthily. Oh, George, on that day our entire race was cast into the wine-press.

COUFONTAINE. Oh, ha1lowed wine, squeezed from a four-fold heartl

SYGNE. Their blood has been sbed upon me, and has been

mingled with mine. . h . t

COUFONTAl~"'. The sap no longer flows ill t e anClen

t~!NE.

All, bnt the pure wine! That we still have. And

our name lives on in us. . . e

COUFONTAl''''. Dear sonl that was born .50 like unto rom , strange twin, you understand; you apprecIate. As the ea.rth gives us her name, so do I give her my manhood. Thaili

to

her we still have roots, and through me and the grace ~f God, she is not without seed. I am her lord. And that. IS why, above all others, I bear her name - her nam~ to w:hi<:h the title is prefixed; the title of "DE"! My fief lIes ~thin my kingdom as within a smaller France. The earth IS. of me, and my race becomes genUe-blooded and noble - a thing which cannot be bought. .And as the honey from our flowers, or the wine from our grapes, or the game that lives in our woods, or the cattle which we raise, are different from all others, so does the Tree of Dormant stand forth from among less sturdy plants. Yes, the old oak-tree of our family, which grew in the court yard of our castle. The duy it was torn up I saw its roots, more clinging than the roots of the fig trees of Caromandel, spreading like the veins on the breast of a woman - a hreast heavy with milk. The roots had fought their way half through the mortar of the old Roman foundations, and even through the bed of brown clay that underJies the quarry. As the wine of Bouzy is not the wine of Esseaume, so was I born a Coufontaine because Nature so willed it - Nature against whose laws 'the laws of man ~. powerless: Thus was our Nation proof against ber VISIons; she did not have to create her laws nor make her chiefs, for Nature, throughout all France, ga;e them to her, as she. bestowed upon her other gifts, good and bad, even from Judges

to

kings, in the bed of each valley, on the slope of each mountainside! Gifts that each in its season grew tall and 1l0uflShed from root or trunk like the flowers or the fruits in their times. '

SYONE (raising her eyes and looking him squarely in the face). And what, oh, George, does it all matter'

COUFONTAIn. What does it matterT

[IBJ

--~

SYONE. God willed it so. So he it. It is not our fault. And so, why rebel, why kick against the pricks T

COUFONTAINE. Even God has not th~wer to take from me w a IS ffilDe.

maNE.

othing is ours; all belongs to Him, the Lord

AI-migll!l. Insofar you are right; - He can take nothing from us, but He can remove us from the post He has entrusted to us to guard.

COUFONTAINE. What am I, if I am removed from the post from which I take my name T

SYGNE. You are that from which, the only thing from which, nothing more can be taken.

COUFONTAINE. One thing there is which, when I have given, I take not back! Not I!

SYGNE. What, GeorgeT

COUFONTAINE (holding out his 1w.nd to her). My right hand.

SYGNE. Nor!, brother, the hand I give to you.

COUFONTAINE. The world has greatly shrunk, and yet we , two live on - we two.

SYGNE (it,. a muffled voice). COUFONTAINE AnSUM.

COUFONTAINE. You are my soil and my fief; you are my

I

loyalty and mine heritage; you are true and abiding; you

4

stand in the place of that false woman, and of her children, and of the world without.

SYONE. God only is true and abiding.

COUFONTAINE (ambiguously). Be that as may be. Later we shall know.

SYGNE. Don't go against His will.

COUFONTAINE. His will T What do we know of itT Es -peciaJly when all we can do is run counter to it.

SYGNE. Well spoken, brother of mine!

COUFONTAINE. I've done enough to be danmed. I might as well know for certain. But you, don't you take part against. me!

SYGNE. What are you going to doT

COUFONTAINE. I'm going to force this God of yours to de-,clare Himself openly, and to say once and for all on whose

side He is.

SYGNE. Oh George! What could be clearer1 A robber! [19}

What more would you know' Blessed is he that hath some-thing to give, for from him that hath not shall be ta~en even what he hath. Blessed is he that is wrongfnlly depnved, for he has nothing more to fear from the law. How can h~ w~o would not accept that which is evil, accept t~t which IS good' Thus do I see you deprived of ev:e.ryi;hing, my 1?oor brother. And I, because I accepted all, aU has been given back to me.

COUFONTAINE. It is not my affairs that matter. Coufon-taine -may perish yrovided the King is resto~ed to France.

SYGNl:. Such tribulations, .so many sacrifices, so many dangers so much thought and scheming, so much money wasted, 'and so much blood, your own as well, spilled -:- and all for nothing I And see; my worl<: is done, the estate,'8 re-stored, and now it lies in my hands, a tiring utterly WIthout value.

COUFONTAINE. Regretting serves no purpose.

SYGNl:. I do not regret; I rejoice. Oh, my God, bitterly do I rejoice in Thy omnipotence and in mine own futility, and in that Thou hast brought me within Thy workings, which pass understanding. I_am the widow 8J!..d_the_Olllhan of all m o l e and a vir' still You take away my children, and you mock me by setting me alone in the midst of this estate which I have rebuilt. And yet how couJ.d I have done otherwise , Was I to stand with idle hands' I was merely a woman seeing what was closest at hand, and trying

to

help those nearest to me. I have not the intelli-gence to

think

of other, greater things; but that which I knew to be good, I strove to repair and to remake. Oh, many were the tribulations, and many the hardships of want and fear and loneliness, and old Susan was so harsh to me . . .

COUFONTAINE. Poor little Sygue ...

~YGNE. Slowly and bitterly I learned the value of each

C<?IU,

from the ~nnLto the big double louis d'or and each ight ~ made up my accOunts without a spot or an erasure.

fie~udied

!DeV~

each field and of each corner of

e~h­

&~!",d

tlie

~alue

o! wheat) and of wine, and of

buil~

ne, and"ofliIne anJLof wood, and the daily wage- of

men

an women, _un til _at las _{t I knew the old prop!\l'ty as well as} -our dfafheIC.1mew his cards after a night's may, Iwent

[20]

to sales; I spent days on horseback, or driving about the country ~der the scorching sun, or in the driving rain, ~rapped m my long cloak. And I spent long hours fighting i l l lawyers' offices - fighting as one does, with senses alert and with smiling lips, as in the old days my forefathers f~ught with lowered visor and shield held eJose against them. LBre Joan of Arc among the soldiers, I was but a weak girl among the strong men of the law. I caJled upon the authori-ties; I wrangled with the farmers and with the contractors' always with eyes wide open and with wits on edge, while m; heart was hllI'd and unyielding. At last I had gathered and fitt~d together again the whole estate, except our manor, w~ch had been torn down. Bit by bit I bought back our chma; volume by volume I retrieved our books, bound with our coat-of-arms on the covers. And now, when all is to.< gether, the whole is dead and remains dead - like a corpse - a mangled corpse, whose Moody fragments have been brought together once more. Dead!

COUFONTAINE. Your work prepared this refuge where I am hiding today - I and the prize I have captured.

S:<!NE_. _Our ~tle has been destroyed, but the House of Goa still stands. Of our manor the wal.JSIi'iVe crumbled the moat has been filled in, the Tree of Donnant has beed up-rooted. Our weJls have been polluted, and the tower lies on the ground, as a man who falls his length. The old fanlily house is burst asunder in the midst, and its bowels are gushed out I Of the ancient edifice, but one gable remains and, below, the cellars, which are now the haunts of foxe~ and groundhogs. But the old house, raised from the ground by faith, the mystical house built on the sacred Body and Blood,-still stands. And since none would have it as their own, here I took refuge, as once John did with tile Holy Mother; I and my God!

I,

a woman, weak, alone beueath the vaulted halls;. I, like a faint sighing sound after the power-ful rumblings of a hundred men, chanting the glory of God!

COUli'ONTAINE (looking at the Crucifia;). That is not the capitulary Cross.

SYGNE. Is it possible that you do not recoguize itt It's the bronze Crucifix, which our ancestor, Agenor V, the Leaguer, gave, to replAce the stone Cross which the heretics

---had destroyed - the stone roadside Cross, which ~tood at the intersection of the royal

hi~hways

from Rheuns and Soissons. The Re ublicans tore It down, _and destroyed the whole structure WI a.J)ill e ilas - not op!y the ""Cross and its pedestal, but the four old linden trees, under whoseslilille it stood, an

W1llCh

were the only s~elter for. the harves ers from the sun on the whole, at pia..!!!:.. And_ 1~ p~ce 0 :he Cross the~t~this sa lin of IJberty.. whiCh ill..Q.ne e?--son

UriOO

u ith!}red...<\mI)!:. The bronze figure was ill many pieces, but, luckily, no one had melted it to ma:ke can-non or pemlies. I found bits of it here and there, as Plutarch tells of finding the statues of I.sis and Osiris. The legs were broken like those of the robber. The body was a

black-smith'~ anvil when I found it. Two old maids were piously guarding the arms, and the head I discovered in a baker's oven. Barefooted, walking and praying Hu:oughout ilie long night, Susan and I brought Our Lord home in our arms· And now He is with us again, the dear Saviour, blackened and worn by sun and rain. Yes, He is here again, the Great Sufferer; hidden from the eyes of men, within these walls, .vhere once more you and I and He begin again, like exiles,

to build our hearth from two glowing embers gathered to-gether.

COUFONTAINE (his eyes fixed on the Cross). Whence came the wood of the Cross TIt's charred.

SYGXE. I made the Cross from the beams of our house. COuFOKTAINE. The pale is of oak and potence of chestnut. It's a combination we rarely see in these days. And yet, we find it in the franrework of most of our old farmhouses and in the rafters of the Cathedral at Rheims.

SYGNE. The wood wh~rewith. to make crosses will never

f·

-COUFONTAINE. Happy the tree which bears God's weight - ev~u though it be in the likeness of a man! And that, alas, IS all that I find of myoid house when I come home I

A beam nailed crosswise to a joist! And even them, oh, Thou. Son of the Carpenter, Thou hast taken unto Thyself! Nor IS there room here for anyone but Thee. And here I stand, a mere eross in the stead of my outlawed name. My earthJy possessions have fallen from me like a cloak, and I

[22]

-

-remain, standing alone in the midst of ilis readjustment, despoiled, reduced, unbending and without issue! Changed

in everything except in body and in spirit. And when, like

the Prodigal Son, I come home from a far country to my father, who gave me my share of mine inheritance, none is

here to embrace me; nor father, nor mother, nor wife nor

children. AIl is fallen from me. ' SYGNE. I, at least, George; yes, I, at least, am left you.

COU}'ONTAINE (looking at her). Would you marry meT

SYGNE. AnI I not yours already, sufficiently, without thatT

COUFONTAINE. True. We are too like each other; nothing new could come forth from us.

SYGNl'l. Then who will carryon our line!

COtTFONTAINE. You're young; you're rich. Keep, then, for yourself, these properties you have gathered too-ether

and wlrich wonld be but a barren tree to a man whose"'life

i~

cut off. Someone wiU come to you in time.

SYGNE. Don't mock me.

COUFOYTAINE. Some handsome officer with a tawny beard;

some young blade, full of fight, will come along, and will lead away my treacherous Judith with her green eyes - you

saintly spirit of Theology, who, all alone, hold cbapte~ in H,e house of monks. Oh, you self-contained dantsel, whose sIni!e

does not spread even to the corners of your mouth, but makes at each end three furrows, delicate as though drawn with the most delicate pencil, until you smile, as if between quotation marks lOb, Sygne, my smiling lady! And yet he'll take away my cousin of many moods, my laurel bush

of Dormant, my virgo admirabilis!

SYG>O-:E. Oh, George! I did not think you had observed me

so narrowly.

COUFONTAL"'E. Ay! Ay! And yet not more than one looks

at oneself, or listens to one's own voice. But you were

with-in me, not outside. What do I know of you, Sygne' What, except the memory of your brave little hand in mine on St. John's day; and later, the vision of your face, clear·cut like the outline of a church drawn to scale with rule and

'com-pass; and later, still, your hand upon my brow through the long nights of fever, when I was sick and wounded and a fugitive; or your bowed forehead in the glow of the lamp,

---~-while you sealed despatches or counted the rolls of gold

pieces. .

at

h

SYGNE. I am she who stays; she who IS ways ere .. COUFONTAlNE. Ah, you are Coufontaine from the haIr of your head to the soles of your feet! ~ard to talk wi!h. And yet, there is not one line of your bemg, nor one flicker of your ways that I do not know and unders~and. Whenever yon turn your head, I can see as many li.kenesse~ o~ our-selves as, in the old days, there were family portraIts III the gallery of the manor.

SYGNE. Then never will I give to another what belongs to, and is of, Confontaine alone.

COUFONTAINE. Only those things are mine which are dead, shattered, forever inlpossible.

SVGNE. But 1, George' I am not dead; I am not shat-tered; I am not inlpossible.

COUFONTAIKE. And ther in lies the rea test difference. Yon are under thirtY. and I fort}:..aruLo er. We do not be-long to the same century. I am the trunk of an old tree, pol-larded and without branches; and in your brown eyes I can see the soft green of the new leaf. Our shadows do not fall on the same side of our bodies. Yours heads yon ou; mine is bound to my heel, and I can see nothing of myself before me. SVGNB. Let me, then, renounce the future. Let me, like a young knight, take my oath, oh, my lord! Let me, oh you who are older than I, placing my hands within your hands, pro-nounce my vows as a nun newly ordained! You, the head and last survivor of my lineage; you, its only male, I will not leave you without p.ledging you my faith. Our land has

oo.e

n _{take~ from ns, and our might is destroyed, but there} still remaIns the loyalty of man to man, the spirit, pure in soul, tha~ recognizes its chief, and stands true to its flag. Confontaine,. Confontaine, I am yours; take me, and do with me as you will!

!

~ur wife, if you so wish it, or, if yon pre-fer, beyond the limits of this life, where earthly bodies are no more, our souls shall be joined together and indisso;tnbly

made one. '

CoU~ONTA.INE.

Oh, SYgne, whom I have found at last, do not fail me as the. world

~s

failed me! Shall I, then, in the end, have something lasting, other than my own will; oue

[24]

thing that shall abide, and which is mine! Remember that since I left this place, when I was still a child, I have had nothing more stable than the sea whereon to plant my feet. Yes, the great salt sea, or, too, that sea of life which men have made. And all the while I was holding in my arms that woman false as night. Now it's all over, dead, passed on. Even d'Ajac, who was a midshipman with me on the frigate Saint Esprit - how we used to talk, w,h.ile our hammocks swung and bumped in the dark night! I saw a round shot cut him in two before my eyes. And then, in turn, my father and my mother, who to me were the most sacred things this world contained - they, and your parents, Sygne. I saw them butchered like cattle; their blood spattered my face, and I could smell it as it spurted from their bodies! The King who was my Sovereign, the rights which were mine, this woman who belonged to me, my children, even the name I bear and the land whose fee I hold, all were lies, all are departed and the very place thereof is no more. My life is that of a hunted beast, hiding or lying in wait, dangerous and pursued, threatened and threatening, with no sure ref. uge wherein to hide. When I think of it all, I am reminded of the saying of the monks of India, who proclainl that all this life is bad, a hollow illusion which remains with us only because we move in step with it, and which would pass from us, if we but sat qnietly in one place. An unworthy dream! A sordid temptation! In this collapse of all my life, I, at least, remain unchanged, and my honor and my duty are un-changed. But you, Sygne, weigh carefully your words. Do not fail me; you too, in tllis hour of my approaching end, as all else has failed me I Do not deceive me, who hunger and thirst for your heart as for a thing apart, and for your loyal-ty. I need a thing, not that is sure, but that is infallible.

SYGNE. God only is infallible.

COUFO!.TAINE. God! Godl Forever God! Let God stay where He is!

or

more later. For later we

ShaII

know how much or how little we may rely upon Him. If He would still stay concealed, let Him leave us no hostage!

SVGNE. I don't understand. (The faint tinJ.ling of a bell can be heard.)

CoUFONTAINE. Hark!

SYONE. It's the curate come to say mass as he promised. COUFONTAlNE. You should not have involved him in our

affairs.

SYGNE. May God, whom he is now raising on the altar, hear our words. He who gives Himself in the Unleavened Bread, and takes llimself not back, may He hear! Us He hath sanctified with that Sacrament which permits us to give ourselves and not retake. Accept the offering, and take back yourself and all that once was yours, or which onCe belonged to your line and to your name. Let it neVer be said that a Confontaine failed a Comontaine!

COUFO::<TAlNE. 'rhen, Sygne, I accept, and I will add you to ~he stake for which I play. Yon, who are the last sur-vlVmg woman of my lineage, take what oath you will, and a~pt from yom over-l.ord the pledge of faith after the an-Cl~nt cnstom. Comontaine, receive my glove! (He gives her ht.Y glove.)

SVGNE. I take it, George; and never shall you take it back (A long pau,\'e.)

COUFONTAlNE (lifting his hand). Soon now the decision shalJ. b~ made known. Our fate and the fate of the whole

world _'t h . . ,

,IS angmg m the balance. VioJence is drawing near

~s ;nd, a~d the. forces of Nature, and the rights of all

man-~ regam therr proper ratios and their own momentum.

. .lONE. I know nothing..of.. politics but I have heard it

~

tillii

the

Po~

is no Ion er at Rome. ,,9UFONTAl::< ." DIl X!!lL~W ~ He is'

CYGNE. I do not. - - - .

COUFO::<TAlNE He' h .

other side of

that

IS ere, under this roof and on the

tion.) Caesar rna wall. (He n,lJOlGes a gesture of great emo-God in our b ttIYf be on one Side, but I have put the Man of

a e ront. And n I W

matters to discn (S ow, eave us. e have many ss. YONE goes out.)

SCENE IT A servant has 0 e Ii

he

becomes visible. It ~ ne t shutt~rs and the whole room

ra,,~

falls

m

she t b

dau;>~.

The:e ts a heavy wind and the blasts. The wale e s, eattng agatnst the WMuWWS it> angry

branches of larg;

tuns

d;wn the glass panes. Outside, the rees a most touch the windows and shut

[261

out the light from the room. From time to time one hears the !!rinding wail of a rusty weather-vane. A rough-coated dog

os

lymg before the door.

SuddenJ:y one of the book-cases of the library swings open. and dtScloses a secret door. Through it can be seen a

bur1lJlng oandle and one corner of an altar draped witIv an

altar cloth,. On the altar lie.s a Missal. An old man enters. He wears a black oassock and has a white cap on his head.

THE POPE. Peace be with you, my son. It is I.

(COUFON-TAlNE, who has been standing at one of the tuitndows, lost in

thought, turns quickly and kneels down before the old man

who gives hVm his hand to kiss.) ,

COUFONTAINE (rising). Holy Father, take food and drink' the journey has been hard, and Your rest short before cele: brating Early Mass.

THE POPE. What is this bread you bid me ealf

COUFONTAI::<~ A bread made ofjQyaLflmlI. A ChIistian house shelters You.

- THE POPE:-lseemed to recognize it as having belonged to

the Chareb.

COUFONTAINE. This house was once the abbey of the Cis-tercian Monks of Comontaine, whom my forefathers fed, and whose monastery they built. My cousin, Sygne, by special dispensation, was allowed to buy it from the state to save it from destruction, and to keep it in the possession of its rightful owners. The castle has been burned and also the manor of Dormant.

THE POPE. Is she the pious young woman to whom I gave Communion this night?

COUFONTAINE. And I am Viscount Ulysses Ageuor George of Comontaine and Dormant, Lieutenant of King Louis of France, for Champagne and Lorraine.

THE POPE. What is the meaning of this act of violence' Why did you take me from my prison'

COUFONTAINE (drawing a paper from his pocket). Here is an order signed by the Emperor_ .As the bearer could not, for reasons, carry it out, I took it upon myself to execute it. Everything was as it should be. Moscow is far. No one would da.re disregard that signatlll'e. It is almost a blank draft on the entire Empire, and everyone obeyed me as they

would a messenger from Heaven. (He hatnds the paper to Tn POPE, wlw reads it in silence and returns it to mm.) And so, 1, single-handed, rescued Peter from his prison.

THE POPE. I thank you, my son.

COUFO"TAINE. Here You are safe, for who would think of looking for You in this remote corner of the Marne' It is an ancient house and far from the beaten paths. There are t~ee secret passages leading through the woods to three !llghways and to two valleys. And there are many other hid-mg places and means of escape. Often have I made use of them during my days of warfare.

THE POPE. ThEl!\. now We are your prisoner'

..Jl..UFONTAIm:. True mr Father; You are Your son's riB-'!.~~r. And I will say to You as J &COb said when he w;restled Wl~ the angel: "I will not let thee go except thou bless me. " C HE P?PE. .Alas, .my son, ~ e are a hard won prisoner! OUFONTAINE. It IS God HlIDSelf who is deJivering the Pope to the King of France.

Dl::N-r;~E~~~ing

slowly toward the Crucifix). AVE,

th

C~ONTAINE.

Yes. That is Our Saviour of Rheims, and the odgs °bf France used to uncover their heads to Him, as

ey r e y on their way to be crowned

THE POPE What· th . .

of the wo

Id'

d· 18 e news of this world' No sound walls. r s OIngs penetrated to Us through Our prison

COUFONTAI"E Th U .

no sound thr-ou·ab

t

surper IS at Moscow. And t~ere is the march and th~U the. world but the tramp of armIes on East. No' 1m rumbling of wheels along the roads to the hears of

ci~~: b~7 w~t

has happened out yonder. One indecisive vict'· entirely of wood, going up in flames; of

ones vagueJ.y w E - d t

3 human voice i s . on. urope IS empty, an no the land Th r3ISed through the length and breadth of

. e world w·t "

tired man. 31 8 s .. ently like an overburdened, THE POPE.

And

th

Emp

cow,

to

give thought ~ U eror had time, away off in Mos-CoUFONTAINE. Yo s, a ~or_old man'

through the silence

~ ~e

God.8 disapproval, ringing aloud THE POPI<. What 0 mankind.

which your letter

spe~~e

of place is this Fort of Jon of [28J

•

-COUFONTAINE. .A hovel in the snow from whien men, who have once entered it, never return.

THE POPE. God in His mercy has seen fit to snatch Us from the hands of Our enemies.

COUFONTAINE. Some sort of conclave would have been hastily called, soldiers with fixed bayonets would have stood around in a circle, and a Cardinal Fesch or a Cardinal Maury would have been made Pope, as the Emperor made kings of his brothers. .A Pope who would have been nothing but the chapJain of this great Emperor!

THE POPE (lifting his hand). On the roads of Judea there were men, vexed by devils, who, as soon as they saw Our Saviour, cast themselves down before Him, weeping and cry-ing aloud. And yet, while they pursued Him with curses and with stones, tbey ceased not

to

cry to Him: "Jesus of Naz-areth, why persecutest Thou us," Thus, throughout the centuries, have the wicked sons of men dealt with Christ's Vicar. Since Christ came among thelD, destitute and meek, there has been no peace among men_ Among themselves do tbey make paltry agreements, which scarcely outlast the day, and which they call laws, society, constitutions, states and kingdoms, according to the measure of power which is be--stowed upon them for their day of life, and which are good only because they are hallowed with their own blessings. They think iliey have halted the march of events and ilie de-velopment of the world, and that, forever, by their individ-ual wills, they have established a pennanent order in all things. And because they know not what part He has played therein, they are angry with God .Almighty, who was for nothing in their schemes. (He turns slow/,y and looks at the Crucifix.) He is na.1red and is without earthly poBsessions_ (A long silence.) And yet, Him would they seize and cast in-to prison; Him would they hem in with laws and with bar-riers, ,vith privileges and with treaties of their own making. Our duty is to bow to their moods, as a sailor upon the sea trims his sail to the winds that blow, for no other choice is open to him. Yes, for the welfare of the souls of men, as far as it lies within Our power. .As to this Emperor, who for the moment is exalted, he is like a spoiled child whose will is crossed. He pretends to be the master, and yet, although he

knows it not, he is one of my poor children - yes, one among the rest. Having proclaimed himself the conqueror of men,

he seeks to command God, and to impose restraints upon the .Almighty, and enlist Him on his side .by holding His Vicar as a hostage. He does not know that It was the pleasure of the All-Powerful to choose as His representative the weak-est of the weak. Yes, a poor old man who lives on honey all:d a little fish; yes, a poor ignorant priest whose knowledge IS confined to his catechism. And, since he can think of no gift to bring Us, Lo, he takes from Us even what we have - that which belongs to our post, Naboth's vineyard, the heritage of Peter, and even the Fisherman's ring he takes from off Our finger. And thus it is that Our Lord is again upon this

earth without a place to lay His head, as in the days of Gali-lee; He is a captive in IIis own honse, and a man whose pres-ence is mere.iy tolerated. Our very life is . . . As though he who is buried in the tomb with the Christ could live .. , (.A fierce gust of wind shakes the house. The gak whistks and howls. The rain streams down the window-panes. THE Pops shivers and wraps himself more closely in his cloak. He looks about him in great apprehension..)

COUFONTAINE. Our sun is not the sun of Tivoli, nor are our winds the breezes of the Sabine hills.

THE POPE. A forbidding house for the younO" woman who

dwells here alone. "

COUFONTAUE. She dwells under her own roof and the land about is her land. I do not know what more 'she could ask. Would to God I might always be dry at night, and

al-WD!S

~ve the mud of my own country clinging to my boots! This IS the greatest September storm which comes when the harvest is done, and which softens 'the soil for the plow.

(A heavy gust of wind.)

•

~JU

P'OPE (halt aloud). "Pray ye that your flight be not m e wmter, neIther on the Sabbath day!"

an~o~:~

(dreamily). It reminds me of the old days, Briti h f ~ teeavy squall at PondiclIerry, whiclI cleared the

s nga S from the sea.

thiTHEh POPEsouse f · Where are they who once were the masters of COUFONTAlNE. Th h

ey ave never abandoned it. They have [30]

n.ever fo,:saken. the shelter of its roof. And now they lie,

SIde by SIde, WIth feet together, in the garden of the mono astery. Six priests; eight novices, and twelve lay brothers • with their abbot in their. midst, and the prior on his right, and all the others according to the seniority of their admis -sion to the order. There do they sleep, thanks to my fos ter-brother, who was also a novice, and who directed their e xe-cution in the Year of Grace 1793. Yes, thanks to Toussaint Turelure, son of the sorcerer and wood-chopper Turelure. but today a Baron of the Empire and Prefect of the Marne into whose premises I have brought Your HoJiness. '

THE POPE. We will kneel in prayer above the bones of

martyrs.

(The hound lifts its head and raises itself on its

h,nd legs, erect against one of the windows.)

COUFONTAINE. Down, Scylla, down! What troubles vou you one-time noble hound T Is it the name of my good 'and ?elov~ brother Toussaint that makes you show your teeth m a sIlent snarl' Who would come hither by such a night of storm' (He listens. The dog drops back on to the floor.) Eat, Holy Father. (Pointing to the table, which is set.) THB POPE seats himself at the table. COUFONTAINE stands respec

t-fully at his silk an.a waits upon hiln. The dog has gone back tnto the corner and lies down; again.) 'l'he dog has a silent and morose disposition. She's not to be trifled with. I my-self taught her never to bark. And manv an hour have we

spent together, she and I; and many day~ and many nights,

wh. en I stopped even my watch beca use of its noise· we two

,

,

In some dangerous hiding place, or in some black hole. All I had was this dog, this poor faithful beast, and in those days I _• became somewhat of a dog, and the do₀ O" somewhat of an arIstocrat. (A cO'nSiderable pause.) We know what it is

~o stand in constant danger of our lives. (He is silent, lost .,. thought.) Yes, in those days I came to know lind under .

stand my ancestors, the scattered lords of the Merovingian wolds a,nd villages. They lived on worm-eaten grain, which they raIsed on fields over-run by rabbits and wild boars, full of stumps, and planted while still hot from the flames ~hiclI had cleared them. They were like a fish of prey hnk· mg under a rock - like a spider in its sticky web. They spent their days and their nights watching, listening; watclI.

ing alike for man and beast, while they lay. hidden be~d ~e green leaves where the mist of dawn still hung, brmgmg them each faintest sound and sme~.

THE POPE (having finished, eattng, rises, ood, makes the

sign of the Gross). DEO GRATIAS. I thank you, my son, for the hospitality of this meal . , . .

COUFOXTAln:. It is but pOOr hospItality WIth which t~ greet the greatest King of this world. At least Your Holi-ness is far from the Count de Chab~ol, and fr~m the noble Borghese, and from that most Chri.st18n Portalis. !or these few days Your Holiness may rest III perfect SecurIty.

THE POPE. Whither wonld you take me, my son T

COUFONTA.LTIl. To England, where is the K~~ of France. THE POPE. My child, do not wrong Us by gJVlDg over the Pope unto the hands of heretics and unbelievers. .

COUFONTAlXE. For them You are here, because You will not refuse them.

THE POPE. True. For how shonld I let mine own children forbid met

COUFO!<TAlNE. Are You not cut off from them by prison wallst

THE POPE. Where the Cross is, the Church ceaseth

not.

CoUFONTAlNE. Come, rather, and be free.

THE POPE. How shall I live among men who are dead? CoUFONTAINE. Whither can I take Yon where Caesar IS notT

THE POPE. There where Peter is, for where rest the bones of Peter, there am I Peter in his stead.

COUFOXTAlNE. Rome? Your place has been taken by a prefect.

THE POPE: On the earth, perhaps; but not below, where I should wait. May the Catacombs once again be saluted by all men. Three centuries has the Church waited, and can I not wait three days with the Christ?

COUFONTAINE. Forget Rome and

turn

Your eyes upon the whole universe. '

THE POPE. There where are the foundations there shall

Peter be. '

CoUFOXTAlNE. And yet Peter in the days of his old age,

w~s

bound hand and foot, and was led thither where he WIShed not to go.

(32]

- ~ -

----THE POPE. My son, here are my hands, and blessed be he who comes in the name of the Lord.

COUFONTAINE. Why bow only to violence when love calls Yon'

THE POPE. The love of that Church to which I am irre-vocably wedded, rest,rains me.

Com·OIITAIN.Ec- Holy_ Fath§ are You with us or against us?

THE rOPEJhat is a ~stion_ which was often asked me at Savona.

OUFONTAINE. But we are the sons who have remained loyartliroughout

and

what rewara is given. us for our

loyal-tyJ -

-THE POPE. What shall I give thee, oh, my first born t The prodigal SOn has taken all and has left us destitute.

COUFONTAINB. Verily, man stricken of years, Your eyes were sureJy dim from age when you blessed the ram instead of the sheep.

THE POPE. And shonld I not anoint the forehead of such an one, when Jesus kissed even the feet of Judas?

COUFONTAINE. Holy Father, let me speak to You openly. Let us understand one another, since You are here, and since I keep You with me, You, God's Vicar. I have as many things to tell You as a young man who goes to confess but once a year. And, furthermore, do You not belong to all of us T Is not a single lamb, which has gone astray, worth all the rest of the tlockT I cannot say that I go daiJy to confe8~ion. My life is not that of a nun. Time enough to ]>ut on a white shirt when the Kill- is back

.m

his throne._WhLdo You .... ~af-=­

tlLct ~~Qod atllicts us? He brings to naught the godJy,_and Iaises up the wicked. His ways Jire inscrutabl~..!!!!<! I_have '!Q!QingJo_~y. But You, You are a man. You can speak. Shonld·You, then, not answer us? If You remain silent, whom shall we ask' What is good or evil for us, is it not likewise good or evil for the Pope? Does the difference lie solely in success? Is it right for a man to take that wIDch is not hist Did not the highway-man who took Rome from You, first take France from her King?

THB POPE. The world can do without a king, but not with-out the Pope.

CoUFONTAI"E. Can the world do without right? Does the [33J

right or wrong of man depend upon what he has, or upon what he has not!

THE POPE Man has nothing save what he holds from God. COUl'ONTAlNE. And thus, how sacred is what h.e has! To be and to have. They are the foundations on whl('~ all el~~ rests. Those things which one possesses ar:e calJed goods. And man has nothing over which he exerCIses compl~~e ~n­ trol, unless it is from God. Yet see the ways of. the GIver of All Things"! Not one thing has He made which d~es not need a man to perfect and preserve it. Thus matter IS non-existent unless it belongs to man. And from him wh.o ?annot protect his property, I say, let it be tak~n away. So 1t IS that today Louis sits not on the throne which once belonged to

Charlemagne and to Clovis and to their seed. Of that I make no complaint.

THE POPE. And so it is that this new man sits upon the throne which was vacant.

COUFONTAlNE. No; for he does not sit. Beho.ld him as he stands, and stands in great fearl And hence, Holy Father, I do not ask You to strike down a man with the thunders of

Heaven, but rather all their new system. Do the rights of man depend solely on what he has, and on what he has notT A moment since this doctrine revolted You. Would You let men have rights equal unto each other and similar unto themselves, so that the rights of others become a wrong done unto them t There would be nothing to give, and each thing, as between men, would have to be bought and sOOd or bartered. Think You that snch a state of affairs would be pleasing nn to God t

THE POPE. Is it to ply me with questions that you fell upon me, a poor old

man,

as an eagle swoops upon its. preyt CoUl'ONTAl""'E. Answer me then, You who speak Wlth au-thority. For it is hard to do one's duty in utter darkness:

THE POPE. Duty is a thing close at hand and concerruug which there can be no dOUbt.

COUl'Olo--rATh"'E. What can be closer

to

me in this darkn~ss than my own thoughtst What closer to a hunted man, l~g a1?ne. the long night through in a ditclt t A night spent In thinking under a pelting rain is a sorry cup to drink.

THE POPB. When you cannot sleep, tell your beads, my [341

son, and pray. Add not troubles to the night season, for "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

COUFONTAlNE. I have a rosa in my heart whereby I pray when cannot seep and it. be 'L are_ e heads of my father and of my mother, and of all my kin. They are the beadS-which, one by one, I telll We alone survive, Sygne and I.

THE POPE. How black a night is yours, wherein you can behold such brilliant lights.

COUFONTAINE. Lights which mark the goal but do not light the path.

THE POPE. Trouble thyself not with many things when one alone sufficeth. Consider tbe heavenly lilies; they toil not neither do they spin.

COUFONTAINE. Are, then, the lilies of this world forever withered awayt

THE POPE. Let the earth answer, since earth contains their seed.

COUFONTAlNE. And yet, I who ~alive must toil ani spin out my threa ....Q..rIife. !Jnt no longer have I my lands, and the world whereof I was a part has been taken from me; the world wherein the purposes of my forefathers had been handed down to me, the task of serving while leading. As I look about me, there is no longer a society among man-kind - only that which they are pleased to caJl "the Law", whose words are ID8i1hine-priuted, and whose spirit is a life-less will - a senseless idol. There where rights rule su-preme, affection and love cease. The law of God, from whic.b. Jesus Christ set us free, was a hard yoke. What will the law of men bet What will be that Society which each man con-siders as dependent solely on its own charter! Force can never take the place of Sacrifice. Have we not seen it in the case of this man who, having taken one thing, felt hinlself forced to lay hold of all the rest, and to conquer the whole world to safe-guard each step he wishes to taket

THE POPE. Our habitation npon earth is but a night's lodging, a transient abode.

COUFONTAINB. And yet is it not our duty in all things to search out and maintain that which is right? Is it not writ-ten that all power is of God and from God T How, then, can

it come from men! I do not liken it unto a sword, but unto a healing salve, with Which the head is anointed and with which the who,Ie body is made sweet. For that reason was it that our kings were consecrated unto France, as bishops are consecrated. Their brows were anointed with the chrism sanctified of the bishops, and they received the Communion of the Blood and Body. On their shoulders and on the hol-low of their arms was poured the holy oil, and they were confirmed in the order of strength through meekness. Does not the ampulla of the Holy Church contain a confirmation

similar to this!

THE POPE. Can you not answer you who have seen a holy

king die! '

COUFONTAINE. The function of kings is not to die. . THE POPE. In God's sight, one saint is more than many kings Or many kingdoms.

"COUFO:'TAINE. And yet, do we not daily pray in the Pater:

Thy Kmgdom come"!

THE POPE. Which testifieth, my son that His Kingdom is

not yet. '

C

dOUFONTAI2\'E. Do not all things come to us as illusions, as reams, as symbols!

THE POPE Th lik .

C . e eness of this world pas seth. T OUF~NTAINE. Will the likeness of God pass also!

BE OPE. Not while the Cross endureth.

gO~OU~NTAI:'E.

Oh, .Father, Father, the days of Faith are lieg:' Gone

I~

the

F~lth

of man in God, of the vassal in h.iJ;

Who~ ob:~

IS

th~

Iring who was made in God's Jikeness, to

And now ~e~ce IS ;endel'ed because to him only is it due.

the POwer o f :

~

the servitude of man to man, based on was it in the e w -: th~

Law

that might is right. Thus T HE OPE P days of Tlberms; and men Th lik caJJed that Liberty! God, and who h ~ eness of God which hat11 renounced a pagan idol.lC od hath renounced, is nothing more than

COUFONTm'E A J,;~_ .

shrine to whi~h ~ IS. but a man; the idea is the pure

established fo II

w~rshlp

IS due. What is a tyrant

fi.r~y

Was never bo r ; time, except a thing whWh is, but whloh lieve that all

~

Oh, these men who worship Laws, and be

-gs may

be

settled by a contract!

[36)

THE POPE (in a low voice). Reverting to and taking to heart the ancient writing whieh was fixed upon the Cross.

COUFONTAINE. What do You say, Father! I could not hear you.

THE POPE. And We, too, can scarcely see; hardly can We

see you, for this library is dark. We are very old, my son;

and Our eyes are dim. You are young; you are free, for you have no wife and no children; you are accustomed to

far horizons, and eagerly and fearlessly your feet bear you to what you can see in the distance. But to Us, the priest sUpreme, who day and night, without respite, bear in Our

hearts and on Our shoulders all the peoples of the earth,

like the jewels of the ancient pectoral, Life is far different.

Slowly must we walk, slowly act; for it is not the light of the mind which guides our footsteps, but the light of con-science. In truth a feeble light, a flickering torch, which

allows llS to see not the advisable, but only the necessary;

not the future, but the present.

COUFONTAINE. Come with me. Remove Your presence

from the world - Render unto Caesar for a space this evil

world, which accepts the coin of Caesar.

THE POPE. How can I excommunicate myself from the world!

COUFONTAINE. Then release us from our captivity. ,!,HE POPE. __ ~ but giveJQ!! absolution.

CoUFONTAINE. Has not full power to bind and to loose

been given into Your hands'

THE POPE. Peter himself coold not unbind himself; verily is he called, "Esliens."

COUFONTAINE. Is it that inner light of which You spoke

which bids You refuse'

THE POPE. There where Peter is, there am I. It is not

fitting for the Pope to beeome a wanderer upon the face of

the earth.

COUFONTAINE. But at Rome You will still find the power of might supreme.

THE POPE. Violence only can restrain me from

perform-ing my duty.

COUl'ONTAINE. Must 1, then, use violence!

THE POPE. It is written: "Honour thy Father and thy

Mother."