Roses: Four One-Act Plays / Streaks of Light-The Last Visit-Margot-The Far-away Princess

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

CHARACTERS

Julia.

Pierre.

Wittich.

The Present Day

The action takes place at a small pavilion situated in the park belonging to an old castle.

STREAKS OF LIGHT

An octagonal pavilion of the Rococo period, the three front walls of which are cut off by the proscenium. Ceiling and walls are cracked and spotted by rain, and bear the marks of long disuse. At the back, in the centre, a large doorway. The glass door is thrown wide open; the shutters behind are closed. On the right and left, in the oblique walls of the room, are windows, the shutters of which are also closed. Through the blinds at the door and the right window, sunbeams in streaks of light penetrate the semi-darkness of the room.

On the left, in the foreground, a Louis Sixteenth sofa with table and gilded chairs to match. On the wall above, an old mirror. Near the sofa, a tapestried doorway. A chandelier wrapped in a dusty gauze covering is suspended from the ceiling. A four-post bed with hangings of light net takes up the right side of the stage. In the foreground, in front of the bed, a table with plates, glasses, wine-decanters, and provisions on it. A coffee percolator stands under the table. In the middle of the stage, a little to the right, a chaise-longue. At the head of it, a small table. Between the large door and the windows, dusty marble busts on dilapidated pedestals. Above them, on the walls, a collection of various sorts of weapons. The Oriental rugs which are thrown about the floor and over the chaise-longue contrast strangely with the faded splendour of the past.

The whole room is decorated with roses. On the table at the left is a bronze vessel of antique design overflowing with roses. Garlands of roses hang from the chandelier and encircle the bedposts. On the small table near the chaise-longue, a large, flat dish, also filled with roses. In fact wherever there is any place for these flowers, they have been used in profusion.

Part of the table which stands in front of the sofa is covered by a napkin, upon which are seen a bottle of wine and the remains of a luncheon for one. It is a sultry afternoon in midsummer.

Julia lies on the chaise-longue, asleep. She is a beautiful woman, about twenty-five years of age, intractable and passionate, with traces of a bourgeois desire to be "romantic." She is dressed in white, flowing draperies, fantastically arranged.

A tower clock strikes four. Then the bells of the castle are heard ringing. Both seem to be at a distance of about two hundred paces.

Pierre enters cautiously through the tapestried doorway at the left. He is a fashionably dressed, aristocratic young fellow who has been petted and spoiled. He is effeminate, cowardly, arrogant, and is trying to play the passionate man, although inwardly cold and nervous.

Julia.

(Laughs in her sleep. Her laughter dies out in groans.) Pierre! Pierre! Help! Pierre!

Pierre (bending over her).

Yes, yes. What is it?

Julia.

Nothing-- (Laughs and goes on sleeping).

Pierre (straightening up).

Whew How hot it is! (He stares at Julia, his face distorted by fear and anger, and beats his forehead. Then indicating the outstretched form of the woman.) Beautiful!--You beautiful animal--you! (Kneels. Julia holds out her arms to him, but he evades her embrace.) Stop! Wake up!

Julia (tearfully).

Please let me sleep.

Pierre.

No! Wake up! I've only come for a moment. It's tea-time, and I have to go back to the house.

Julia.

Please stay!

Pierre.

No, mamma will be asking for me. I have to be there for tea.

Julia (pettishly).

I have a headache. I want some black coffee!

Pierre.

Then make it yourself. The gardener is cleaning the orchid rooms in the hot-house, and he has no time for you now.

Julia.

He never has time for me!--And the meals that his wife cooks are simply abominable!--And the wine is always warm!--Do, for mercy's sake, steal the key to the icehouse!

Pierre.

But you know that I can't!--I always bring you all the ice that I can manage to take from the table. If I insist upon having the key, the housekeeper will tell mamma.

Julia.

But I won't drink warm wine--so there! That's what gives me these headaches.

Pierre.

Your headaches, I want to tell you, come from the roses. Ugh!--this nasty smell from the withered ones--sour--like stale tobacco smoke--why, it burns the brains out of one's head!

Julia.

See here, dearie, you let the roses alone! That was our agreement, you know--basketsful, every morning! I wish the gardener would bring even more! That's what he's bribed for.--More! More! Always more!

Pierre.

See here, if you were only reasonable----

Julia.

But I'm not reasonable! O you--you-- (She holds out her arms to him. He comes to her. They kiss.) More!--More!--No end!--Ah, to die!----

Pierre (freeing himself).

Oh!

Julia.

To die!

Pierre (with hidden scorn).

Yes--to die. (Yawning nervously.) Pardon me!--It's as hot as an oven in here.

Julia.

And the shutters are always closed! For eight long days I've seen nothing of the sun except these streaks of light. Do open the shutters--just once!

Pierre.

For Heaven's sake!

Julia.

Just for a second!

Pierre.

But don't you realize that the pavilion is locked and that not a soul ever crosses the threshold?

Julia.

Oh, yes, I know--because your lovely, reckless great-grandmother lost her life here a hundred years ago! That's one of those old-wives' tales that everyone knows.--Who can tell? Perhaps my fate will be the same as hers.--But do open the shutters!

Pierre.

Do be reasonable! You know that in order to come in here by the side door without being seen I have to crawl through the woods for a hundred yards. The same performance twice a day--for a week! Now, if I should open the shutters and one of the gardener's men should see it, why, he'd come, and then----

Julia.

Let him come! I'll smile at him--and he's no man if he doesn't keep quiet after that! Why, your old gardener would cut his hand off for me any day of his life--just for a bit of wheedling!--It can't be helped--they all love me!

Pierre (aside).

Beast!

Julia.

What were you muttering then? (Pierre throws himself down before her and weeps.) Pierre! Crying?--Oh!--Please don't--or I'll cry too. And my head aches so!

Pierre (softly but nervously and with hatred).

Do you know what I'd like to do? Strangle you!

Julia.

Ha! Ha! Ha!--(pityingly) Dear me! Those soft fingers--so weak!--My little boy has read in a naughty book that people strangle their loves--and so he wants to do some strangling too!

Pierre (rising).

Well, what's to become of you? How much longer is the game to last in this pavilion?

Julia.

As long as the roses bloom--that was agreed, you know.

Pierre.

And then?

Julia.

Bah! Then!--Why think of it? I'm here now, here under the protection of your lovely, ghostly great-grandmother. No one suspects--no one dreams! My husband is searching for me the whole world over!--That was a clever notion of mine--writing him from Brussels--Nora, last act, last scene--and then coming straight back again! I'll wager he's in Paris now, sitting at the Café des Anglais, and looking up and down the street--now toward the Place de l'Opera, now toward the Madeleine. Will you wager? I'll go you anything you say. Well, go on, wager!

Pierre.

On anything else you wish--but not on that!

Julia.

Why not?

Pierre.

Because your husband was at the castle this morning.

Julia (rising hastily).

My husband--was--at the castle----?

Pierre.

What's so surprising about that? He always used to come, you know--our nearest neighbour--and all that sort of thing.

Julia.

Did he have a reason for coming?

Pierre.

A special reason?--No.

Julia.

Pierre--you're concealing something from me!

Pierre (hesitating).

Nothing that I know of. No.

Julia.

Why didn't you come at once? And now--why have you waited to tell me?

Pierre (sullenly).

You're hearing it soon enough.

Julia.

Pierre, what happened? Tell me, exactly!

Pierre.

Well, he came in the little runabout--without a groom--and asked for mamma. I naturally pretended to be going out. But you know how she always insists on my staying with her.

Julia.

And how was he was he--just the same as ever?

Pierre.

Oh, no, I wouldn't say that.

Julia.

How did he look? Tell me, tell me!

Pierre.

In the first place, he wore black gloves--like a gravedigger.

Julia.

Ha! Ha! And what else?

Pierre.

In the second place, he was everlastingly twitching his legs.

Julia.

And what else? What else?

Pierre.

Oh, he explained that you were at a Hungarian watering-place, that you were improving, and that you were expected home soon. (Julia bursts out laughing.) Yes, (gloomily) it's screamingly funny, isn't it.

Julia.

So I'm at a Hungarian watering-place! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Pierre.

But he looked at me so questioningly, so--so mournfully--why, it was really most annoying the way he looked at me.

Julia.

At a Hungarian watering-place!

Pierre.

And then, later, mamma said to him, "It's a dreadful pity your dear wife isn't here just now. She does so love the roses."

Julia.

And what did he say?

Pierre.

"Our roses are not thriving very well this year," said he.

Julia.

But his turnips!--They always thrive!--And then----?

Pierre.

Then a strange thing occurred that I can't help worrying about. Suddenly mamma said to him, "Something very peculiar is happening on our estate this year. Now I can see from where I sit that the whole place is one mass of roses. And yet, if at any time I ask for a few more than usual, there are none to be had!"

Julia.

Why, you must have been shaking in your boots! Did you do anything to betray us?

Pierre.

Oh, I think I know how to take care of myself!--But suddenly he grew absolutely rigid--as if--as if he had been reflecting. He acted like a man who sleeps with his eyes open. Mamma asked him a question three times, and he never answered a word!

Julia.

I say, did you come here to frighten me?

Pierre (bursting out).

What is your fear compared to what I had to stand! Compared to my biting, nauseous shame as I sat there opposite him?--I scorned the man inwardly, and yet I felt as if I ought to lick the dust on his boots. When mamma said to him, "You don't look very well, Herr Wittich--are you ill?"--her words were like the box on the ear that she gave me when, as a lad of fifteen, I got into mischief with the steward's daughter.--Why did you drag me into this loathsome business? I don't like it!--I won't stand it!--I like to feel straight! I want my hands clean!--I want to look down on the people that I meet!--I owe that to myself.

Julia.

Reproaches?--I'd like to know who has the guilty conscience in this case, you or I?

Pierre.

How long have you been concerned about your conscience?

Julia.

Pierre, you know I had never belonged to any other man--except him.

Pierre.

But you've showered sweet glances right and left. You've flirted with every man who would look at you--even the stable-boy wasn't beneath your notice!

Julia.

And he was better than you!--For he wanted nothing more than to follow me with his eyes. But you, Pierre, you were not so easily satisfied. No, the young Count was more exacting. Corrupt to the core--in spite of his twenty years----

Pierre (proudly).

I am not a bit corrupt. I am a dreamer. My twenty years excuse that!

Julia.

But your dreams are poisonous. You want a woman to be your mistress and yet be chaste--to keep the blush of maidenhood and yet be as passionate as yourself.--And what have you learned from your experience in the world? Nothing, except how to scent and track out the sins that lie hidden in one's inmost soul, the secret sins that one dares not admit to oneself.--And when the prey is in reach, then you fire away with your "rights of the modern woman," your "sovereignty of the freed individuality"--and whatever the rest of the phrases may be.--Ah! You knew better than I that we all have the Scarlet Woman's blood in our veins!--Blow away the halo--and the saint is gone!

Pierre.

It seems to me you found a great deal of pleasure in your sin!

Julia.

Yes--at least that's what one tells oneself--perhaps one feels it, too.--It depends--more in the evening than the morning--more in March than October.--But the dread, the horror of it, is always there.--The weight of such love is like the weight of one's own coffin-lid.--And you soon discovered that, Pierre.--Then you began softly, gently, to bind me to you with glances and caresses that were like chains of roses!--Yes, and that I become maddened by roses as cats by valerian, that, too, you soon found out.--Then--then you began to speak to me of the lover's pavilion--all covered with roses--where your ancestors spent happy, pastoral hours in wooing their loves--the pavilion that had been waiting so long for a new mistress. You spoke of adorning it with beautiful hangings--of filling it full of roses. Oh you, you Pierre, how well you understood!--Do have some black coffee made for me! If the gardener can't do it, make it yourself! Please, please!

Pierre.

But, I tell you, I have to go back to mamma.

Julia.

Nowadays, you always "have to go back to mamma." Shall I tell you something--a big secret? You are tired of me! You want to get rid of me--only you don't know how!

Pierre.

Your notions are offensive, my dear.

Julia.

Pierre, I know my fate. I know I am doomed to the gutter. But not yet! Don't leave me yet! Care for me a little while longer--so the fall won't be too sudden.--Let me stay here as long as the roses bloom--here, where he can't find me! Oh, if I leave this place I shall die of fear!--Nowhere else am I safe from those two great fists of his!--Pierre, Pierre, you don't know his fists--they're like two iron bolts!--You, too--beware of him!

Pierre (half to himself).

Why do you say that to me?

Julia.

He was always jealous of you. When you sent the hothouse roses in April, he became suspicious. Ever since then, he has continually had the notion of an admirer in his head. That was the danger-signal! Pierre, if he surmised--then you would be the first--and I would come afterward! Pierre, if you drive me to desperation, I'll give you up to him!----

Pierre.

Are you mad?

Julia.

I'll write him a letter something like this: "If you want to find the traces of my flight, search the rubbish heap behind the lover's pavilion. Search for the faded petals of the roses upon which, night after night, Pierre and I celebrated our union. Search the highway for the bloody prints of my bare feet after he turned me out. Then search the dregs of the brothels where I found a refuge. And then--then avenge me!"

Pierre.

You'll do nothing of the kind, you-- (Seizes her by the wrists.)

Julia (laughing).

Nonsense! You have no strength! (Disengages herself without difficulty.)

Pierre.

You've taken it out of me, you beast!

Julia.

Beast?--You've been muttering that word now for a couple of days. This is the first time that you have flung it in my face.--What have I done that was bestial except to throw my young life at your feet?--And so this is the end of our rose-fête?----

Pierre (in a low voice, breathing with difficulty).

No, not yet--the end is still to come!

Julia.

I dare say.

Pierre.

In fact--you must--leave here.

Julia.

I dare say.

Pierre.

Do you understand?--You must leave this place--at once!

Julia.

H'm--just so.

Pierre.

For--you must know--you are no longer safe here.

Julia (turning pale).

Not here either?--Not even here?----

Pierre.

I didn't tell you everything, before.

Julia.

Are you up to some new trick now?

Pierre.

After I had accompanied him down the steps, he asked--very suddenly--to see the park.

Julia.

The park----?

Pierre.

Yes. And he seemed to be searching every rose-bush as if to count the number of blossoms that had been cut from it. Then--in the linden lane--I kept pushing to the left--he kept pushing to the right, straight for the pavilion. And as it stood before us----

Julia (terrified).

The pavilion?

Pierre.

Certainly.

Julia (shuddering).

So near!

Pierre.

He said he'd like to see the old thing once, from the inside.

Julia.

Good heavens! But he knows that's impossible--he knows your family history!

Pierre.

And you may be sure that's how I put it to him.

Julia.

And what did he----?

Pierre.

He was silent--and went back.

Julia.

Went back! But he'll return!----

Pierre.

You've dumped me into a pretty mess, you have!

Julia.

Do, for goodness' sake, stop pitying yourself, and tell me what's to be done.

Pierre.

Haven't I told you?

Julia.

I'll not go away! I will not go away! He can't come in here! I will not leave this place!

Pierre.

Listen! I'll have a carriage here--at one o'clock in the night--behind the park wall. Take it as far as the station.--Listen, I tell you!

Julia.

No, no, no! As soon as I step into the street, I'm lost. And you, too! You don't know him! Gentle and tractable as he seems, when once he's angry, his blood boils over!--If I hadn't taken the cartridges out of his revolver in those days, he-- Why, I've seen him pick up two unmanageable boys on our place and swing them over his shoulder into the mill stream! And they would have been ground to pieces, too, if he hadn't braced himself against the shaft. Pierre, Pierre, never get into his way again. He's merciless!

Pierre (feigning indifference).

Oh, nonsense! I can hit the ace of hearts at twenty paces! I'll show him!

Julia.

Yes, you'll "show him"! Do you suppose that he's going to wait until you take a shot at him?--Devilish much he cares about your duels! He'd make a clod of earth out of you before you'd have time to take off your hat!--I tell you, bolt the gate, lock every room in the house, hide behind your mother's chair,--and even there you won't be safe from him!

Pierre.

(Struggling against his growing apprehension.) If that's the case, then--h'm, then the best thing for me to do is to disappear for a time.

Julia (trying to cling to him).

Yes, let's go away together!

Pierre (moving aside).

That might suit you.

Julia.

But, after all, it would do no good. We could hide among crowds of people--in Piccadilly or in Batignolles--we could go to India or to Texas--and yet, if he took it into his head, he would find us none the less. Even if we should evade him--some day, sooner or later, you would have to return--and then--you would have to pay the penalty!

Pierre (stammering).

I--would--have to----

Julia (wildly).

So stay--stay here! Go and shoot him down!--at night--from behind!--It doesn't matter! Only--let--me--breathe--again.

Pierre.

Do you want to drive me mad? Don't you see that I'm trembling all over?

Julia.

Because you're a cad and a coward--because----

Pierre.

Yes, yes--anything, for all I care! But go! Leave my property! Insult me, spit on me,--but go!

Julia.

And what then? What then?

Pierre.

Can't you write to him? Tell him that you have come back from your little journey--that you have reconsidered--that you can't live without him. Tell him to forget--and all shall be as it was before.--Now, wouldn't that be splendid?

Julia.

Now when he suspects?--When he can follow me, step by step, here to this pavilion and back again? (Contemptuously.) Splendid!

Pierre.

Then try something else!--Oh, now I have it! Now I have it!

Julia.

Speak, Pierre, for God's sake, speak! I'll love you as--! Speak! Speak!

Pierre.

You know him. His heart is soft?

Julia.

Yes, except when he's in a rage, then----

Pierre.

And you are sure that he loves you deeply?

Julia.

If he didn't love me so much, what need we fear?

Pierre.

Good! Well then, take a carriage at the station and drive home; throw yourself at his feet and tell him everything. Tell him, for all I care, that you hate me--that you loathe me--I don't mind--grovel before him until he raises you. And then all will be well!

Julia.

Ah, if it were possible!--It would be deliverance--it would be heaven! I should be safe once more--a human being!--I should see the sun again, instead of these streaks of light!--I should breathe the fresh air, instead of this musty odour of dead roses!--I shouldn't have to sink down, down into the filth!--I shouldn't have to be a bad woman--even if I am one!--There would be a respectable divorce--or perhaps merely a separation. For, I no longer dare hope to live with him as his wife, even if I were satisfied to be no better than his dog for the rest of my days!--Ah, but it cannot be! It cannot be! You don't know him. You don't know what he's like when the veins stand out on his forehead!--He would kill me!--Rather than that--kill me yourself!--Here--now--this moment!--Get your duelling pistols. Oh no! There--there--there are plenty of weapons! (She pulls at the weapons on the wall, several of which fall clattering upon the floor.) Swords--daggers--here! (Throws an armful on the chaise-longue.) They are rusty--but that doesn't matter.--Take one! Stab me first--then--do as you please!--Live if you can--do!--live as happily as you can! Your life is in your hands.

Pierre.

Yes--I dare say. Live!--But how? Where? (Sobs chokingly.)

Julia.

Come, then--we'll die together--together! (They sink into each other's arms and remain motionless in mute despair. After a time, Julia raises her head cautiously and looks about her.) Pierre!

Pierre (troubled).

Well?

Julia.

Has it occurred to you? Perhaps it isn't so, after all!

Pierre.

What do you mean?

Julia.

Perhaps we've just been talking ourselves into this notion, little by little--think so?

Pierre.

You mean that he really wanted to do nothing but--look at the pavilion?

Julia.

Well, it's possible, you know.

Pierre.

Yes--at least nothing very unusual occurred.

Julia.

But your naughty, naughty conscience came and asserted itself. Ha! Ha! What a silly little boy it is! A downright stupid little boy!

Pierre.

My imagination was always rather easily aroused. I----

Julia (laughing without restraint).

Such a stupid boy!--Pierre, let's make some coffee--for a change, eh?

Pierre.

But you know--I have to----

Julia.

Dear me, mamma has had her tea long ago. Tell her you sat down in the shade--and fell asleep--anything! It's growing a bit shady here now. See there! The streaks of light have gone. (Indicates a corner of the room in which the streaks of light have just grown dim.) Ah! but how hot it is! (Tears her dress open at the throat, breathing heavily.) Will you bring me the coffee-pot, like a good boy?

Pierre (listlessly).

Oh, well--all right. (Carries the coffee-pot to the table.)

Julia.

Pierre, you--you couldn't open the small door just a tiny bit? No one would look into the shrubbery.

Pierre.

Well, out there in the shrubbery, it's even hotter than in here.

Julia.

Oh, just try it--won't you?

Pierre.

Well, you'll see! (Opens the door at the left.)

Julia.

Whew! It's like a blast from a furnace! And that disgusting odour--a mixture of perspiration and bad perfume--ugh!

Pierre.

That's from the roses of our by-gone days--they lie out there in great heaps.

Julia.

Close the door! Hurry--close it!

Pierre (does so).

I told you how it would be!

Julia.

Well, perhaps you could adjust the shutters at the large door so that we'd get more fresh air in here.

Pierre.

Even that would be dangerous. If some one happened to be looking this way and saw the movement----

Julia (going to the door).

One has to do it slowly, ve-ry slow-ly-- (She starts, uttering a low cry of fear, and retreats to the foreground, her arms outstretched as if she were warding off a ghost.)

Pierre.

What's the matter?

Julia.

Sh! Sh! (Approaches him cautiously, then softly.) There's a man--out there.

Pierre.

Where?

Julia.

Hush! Come here you can see it against the light. (They cautiously change places. Pierre utters a low shriek, then Julia, softly, despairingly) Pierre!

Pierre.

It must be the gardener.

Julia.

It's not--the--gardener.

Pierre.

Who is it then?

Julia.

Creep around--and lock--the glass door.

Pierre (weak from fright).

I can't.

Julia.

Then I will. (She has taken but a few steps toward the door when the streaks of light again become visible.) He's gone now!

Pierre.

How--gone?

Julia.

There--there--nothing----

Pierre.

Seize the opportunity--and go.

Julia.

Where?

Pierre.

To the gardener's house--quick--before he comes back.

Julia.

In broad daylight--half dressed as I am?

Pierre.

Throw on a wrap--anything--hurry! (Knocking at the door on the left. They both stand rooted to the spot. The knocking is repeated. Then Pierre, in a choking voice) Come in.

(Wittich enters. He is a large, burly man of about forty, whose whole appearance betrays neglect; his sandy-coloured hair is pushed back from his forehead in damp strands; his beard is straggling and unkempt; his face is haggard and perspiring, his eyes lustreless. He staggers heavily in walking. He speaks in a stammering, hesitating voice; he gives the impression, in sum, of a man who is deathly ill, but is making an intense effort to hold himself together.)

Wittich.

I beg your pardon if I am disturbing you. (Both stare at him without venturing to move.)

Pierre (taking heart).

Oh--p-p-please----

Wittich.

I see you were about to make coffee. Really--I don't want to----

Pierre (stammering).

P-p-please--th-there's no--hurry----

Wittich.

Well, then we may as well--settle--our affair--first. (Julia, who has been standing quite still, panting, utters a low groan. At the sound of her voice, Wittich catches his breath as if suffocating, then sinks into one of the chairs at the left and stares vacantly at the floor.)

Pierre (edging up to Julia then softly).

Can you understand this?

Julia (glancing back--aside to Pierre).

Keep near the weapons!

Pierre (as Wittich moves).

Hush!

Wittich.

You must forgive me--I only wanted to--look after--my--wife. (Breaks down again.)

Pierre (aside to Julia).

Why, he's quite out of his mind!

Julia.

Keep near the weapons!

Wittich.

I don't care--to settle--this matter--by means of a--so-called--affair of honour. I'm a plain man. I only know about such things from hearsay. And any way--I don't see that they help--m-matters much. (Breaks into tearless sobs.)

Pierre (aside).

He won't hurt us.

Julia (stammering).

I simply--don't--understand it--at all!

Pierre (pointing to Wittich).

Try it! Go to him!

Julia.

He's not a bit like himself.

Pierre.

Go on! Go on!

Julia.

(Who has timidly approached her husband, bid has drawn back at a movement of his, suddenly throws herself at his feet with great emotion.) George! George!--I am guilty!--I have sinned before God and you!--I acknowledge my crime!--My life is in your hands!--Crush me--grind me to dust!--But God knows, I only obeyed a wretched impulse. My love for you has never left my heart.--My one desire is to die. Kill me!--Here!--Now!--But forgive me! Ah, forgive me!

Wittich (staring straight ahead).

Yes, they always talk like that--in books, at least.

Julia.

Forgive me!

Wittich.

There is nothing to forgive. And I am not going to kill any one. What good would it do? (Julia sobs, hiding her face in her hands.)

Pierre.

Well, then--don't kneel there--like that--Julia, dear!

Julia.

I shall lie here until he raises me. Raise me! Take me in your arms! Oh, George----

Wittich.

Yes, that's what they always say. (Sinks into reverie again.)

Pierre (aside to her).

Hush! Stand up! (She does so.) Well--h'm--I suppose I may assume, Herr Wittich, that you had some purpose in seeking this interview?

Wittich.

Yes--yes. (Looking about him.) I can well imagine that my wife--er--that the lady must find it very pleasant here.

Pierre.

Oh, yes--we needn't hesitate to say that, need we, Julia, dear?

Julia (uncertainly adopting his tone).

No, indeed, Pierre, dear.

Wittich.

At least--she seems to have plenty of roses here.

Julia (laughing nervously).

Oh, yes--plenty.

Wittich.

May I ask whether the lady has made any arrangements for the future?

Julia (still timidly).

I was thinking of making my home in Paris, wasn't I, Pierre?

Pierre.

Yes. You see, Julia wants to live a life suited to her tastes and inclinations--a life such as she cannot have even here--a life consecrated to Beauty and Art.

Wittich.

They say that an existence of that sort comes high. Has my wife--er--has the lady made any provision for her expenses?

Pierre (embarrassed).

From the moment that I become of age I shall be in a position to--h'm--h'm----

Wittich.

I see. But until that moment--?

Pierre.

I--er----

Wittich.

Well, I consider it my duty--and mine alone--to protect the woman whom--until recently--I called my wife. And to save her from ruin, I am willing to make any sacrifice whatsoever.

Pierre.

Oh, as for that, of course----

Wittich.

I intend to put no obstacle in the way of your desire to legitimize your relations.

Pierre.

Very kind of you--really--very thoughtful indeed.

Wittich.

Not because--not that I don't dare insist upon my rights in this affair, but because I want to guard her from lifelong misery.

Pierre.

Really, you wouldn't believe how often we have discussed this question--would he, Julia, dear?

Julia.

But I am never going to grant your wish, Pierre, dear. You shall keep your liberty--you shall be free! Even as I ask nothing better than to follow my own inclinations. If I am ruined because of them--well, it's no one's concern but my own--no one's! (Tosses her head.)

Wittich.

May I inquire what those inclinations are?

Julia.

It's hard to say--off-hand.--You must feel it--you must-- Well, I want to be free!--I want to hold my fate in my own hands!--I want-- Oh, why talk about it? What is one poor, human life?--especially a life like mine!--I am branded--doomed to the gutter!--One need use no ceremony with me now!

Wittich.

Really! Well--h'm--if I had known that you felt that way about it--I should have made you--a different proposition--Julia, dear.

Julia.

Tell me! Please!

Pierre.

Yes--tell us--please!

Wittich.

I suppose I may assume that the people at the castle know nothing of this little adventure of the young Count's?

Pierre.

You may rest assured, my dear sir, that I know what is due a woman's honour.

Wittich.

Ah--really!--Well, I'm sure no one saw me coming here. So then, there need be no scandal.

Pierre.

That would certainly be most agreeable to all parties concerned.

Wittich.

But--how did the lady propose to leave here without being seen?

Pierre.

Pray, my dear sir, let that be my concern.

Wittich.

That concern, however, I shall share with you--my dear sir. And it seems to me that the best plan would be for the lady to put on a decent dress, walk through the grounds with me, and pay a visit to the Countess at the castle.

Pierre.

What!--my mother--? What's the use of that?

Wittich.

It will look as if she'd returned--and we'd--somehow--met here.

Pierre.

Do you think any one is going to believe that?

Wittich (proudly).

What else should they believe?

Julia (frightened anew).

Oh, but I don't want to! I don't want to do that! Pierre! I want to stay with you! I am under your protection, Pierre!

Pierre.

See here, my dear sir, let us suppose that your plan is successful--what then?

Julia.

Yes--yes--afterward--what then?

Wittich.

Then?--Then-- (Looks from one to the other, uncertainly, almost imploringly, and breaks down again.)

Pierre.

Well--won't you go on with your proposition?

Wittich.

Yes, I suppose that when a man has acted as I have acted here, he must have lost--his sense of pride--and honour--and all the rest of it--long ago.--Then nothing is left him but--his duty.--And the thing that seems to me my--duty--I am going to do.--Let the Count sneer at me--I no longer----

Pierre.

Oh, please--I say!

Wittich.

Well, then, let me tell you something, Julia. After I had read the letter from Brussels, I had two rooms prepared for you--in the left wing--quite apart; so that some day, in case--you ever--came back-- Oh, well--it doesn't matter now. But the rooms--are--still there--and if you would like to come home with me now--straight off--well, you might be spared--some annoyance.

Pierre.

H'm--so you're willing--? (Shrugs his shoulders and laughs.) I suppose that sort of thing is all a matter of taste--but I can understand----

Wittich.

I am speaking to you, Julia.

Julia.

Oh, I thank you most heartily, George. It's certainly very noble of you--and--I deeply appreciate it. But after--this, I should always feel ashamed before you--I should feel that I was just being tolerated--I-- No. Thank you, George--but I couldn't stand it.

Pierre (correcting her).

That is--! (Aside to Julia.) Don't be a fool!

Wittich (without noticing Pierre).

You shall never hear a word of reproach from my lips, Julia, dear.

Julia.

But--if I should actually accept--we never could go on as we did before, you know. I must be free to do exactly as I please--to go away--come back--just as I like. There is such a thing as the sovereignty of the individuality, my dear George--you can't deny that.

Pierre.

Herr Wittich can't possibly deny that!

Wittich.

You shall have your own way as far as it lies in my power, Julia, dear.

Julia.

And then, you must try to bring a little more--more beauty into our life.--I surely have the right to demand that. Just look about you here. You know how passionately fond of roses I am. My soul demands something besides--potatoes! Well, I insist upon having roses around me. That's not unreasonable, is it?

Wittich.

You shall have roses enough to smother you.

Pierre (nervously).

Well, then, Julia, dear, I see no reason why we should not accept this proposition.

Wittich.

What have you got to say about it?

Pierre.

I beg your pardon, Herr Wittich. I certainly don't want to offend you. But--as Julia and I have found so much in each other--haven't we, Julia, dear?

Julia.

Yes--so very, very much, Pierre, dear.--And to know that we were so near--and yet could never see each other or talk together, or-- I, for my part, couldn't endure it, could you, Pierre?

Pierre.

Oh--as for that--well, it would be hard, Julia, dear.

Julia.

And what would the world say, dear George, if we should suddenly--and apparently without any cause--break off all communication with our neighbors? How would Pierre explain it to his mother? Why, he simply couldn't! No; if we are to carry out your plan, then everything must remain outwardly the same as before. Don't you agree with me, Pierre, dear?

Pierre.

(Hesitating, with an apprehensive glance toward Wittich.) Outwardly--yes, Julia, dear.

Wittich (losing control of himself).

So that's your condition, is it?

Julia (with a sort of nervous impudence).

Yes, that's our condition--isn't it, Pierre, dear? (Pierre does not reply, but looks at Wittich.)

Wittich.

Really?--Really!--Very well! (He draws himself to his full height, his face flushes, and he looks around the room wildly, as if searching for something.)

Julia.

What are you looking for, George?

Wittich.

If you-- (Gasps as if suffocating.)

Julia.

George! George! What's the matter?

Wittich.

There--there--there! (With a loud cry, he falls upon the weapons and snatches one of the daggers.)

Julia.

Help! Help! Pierre! Save me!

Pierre (at the same time).

Help! Help! (He pushes open the door and escapes, screaming. Julia rushes out through the door at the left. Wittich dashes after her. A piercing shriek is heard. After a short pause, Julia appears at the large door in the centre. She tries to go further, fails, supports herself against the door posts for an instant, and then reels into the room. She attempts to lean against the small table in the centre, but falls to the floor, dying. As she falls the small table is upset, burying her beneath a shower of roses.

Through the doorway at the left, Wittich is heard, sobbing and groaning. In the distance Pierre is shouting for help. The sound of many voices, growing louder as the curtain falls.)