Cyrano de Bergerac
The first minister in Paris has his four meals a day!
CYRANO:
'Twere courteous an he sent you a few partridges!
THE SAME:
And why not? with wine, too!
CYRANO:
A little Burgundy. Richelieu, s'il vous plait!
THE SAME:
He could send it by one of his friars.
CYRANO:
Ay! by His Eminence Joseph himself.
ANOTHER:
I am as ravenous as an ogre!
CYRANO:
Eat your patience, then.
THE FIRST CADET (shrugging his shoulders):
Always your pointed word!
CYRANO:
Ay, pointed words!
I would fain die thus, some soft summer eve,
Making a pointed word for a good cause.
--To make a soldier's end by soldier's sword,
Wielded by some brave adversary--die
On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed,
A point upon my lips, a point within my heart.
CRIES FROM ALL:
I'm hungry!
CYRANO (crossing his arms):
All your thoughts of meat and drink!
Bertrand the fifer!--you were shepherd once,--
Draw from its double leathern case your fife,
Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers. Play
Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring,
Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices,
Each note of which calls like a little sister,
Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths
Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets,
Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . .
(The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready):
Your flute was now a warrior in durance;
But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing
A bird-like minuet! O flute! Remember
That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum;
Make us a music pastoral days recalling--
The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . .
(The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc):
Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer
The piercing fife of camp--but 'neath his fingers
The flute of the woods! No more the call to combat,
'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . .
Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest,
The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret,
The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,--
'Tis Gascony! Hark, Gascons, to the music!
(The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if
dreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and
the corner of their cloaks.)
CARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper):
But you make them weep!
CYRANO:
Ay, for homesickness. A nobler pain than hunger,--'tis of the soul, not of
the body! I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera. Heart-ache
is better than stomach-ache.
CARBON:
But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings!
CYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach):
Not I. The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them.
'Twould suffice. . .
(He makes a signal; the drum beats.)
ALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms):
What? What is it?
CYRANO (smiling):
You see! One roll of the drum is enough! Good-by dreams, regrets, native
land, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away!
A CADET (looking toward the back of the stage):
Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche.
ALL THE CADETS (muttering):
Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . .
CYRANO (smiling):
A flattering welcome!
A CADET:
We are sick to death of him!
ANOTHER CADET:
--With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman!
ANOTHER:
As if one wore linen over steel!
THE FIRST:
It were good for a bandage had he boils on his neck.
THE SECOND:
Another plotting courtier!
ANOTHER CADET:
His uncle's own nephew!
CARBON:
For all that--a Gascon.
THE FIRST:
Ay, false Gascon!. . .trust him not. . .
Gascons should ever be crack-brained. . .
Naught more dangerous than a rational Gascon.
LE BRET:
How pale he is!
ANOTHER:
Oh! he is hungry, just like us poor devils; but under his cuirass, with its
fine gilt nails, his stomach-ache glitters brave in the sun.
CYRANO (hurriedly):
Let us not seem to suffer either! Out with your cards, pipes, and dice. . .
(All begin spreading out the games on the drums, the stools, the ground, and
on their cloaks, and light long pipes):
And I shall read Descartes.
(He walks up and down, reading a little book which he has drawn from his
pocket. Tableau. Enter De Guiche. All appear absorbed and happy. He is
very pale. He goes up to Carbon.)
Scene 4.IV.
The same. De Guiche.
DE GUICHE (to Carbon):
Good-day!
(They examine each other. Aside, with satisfaction):
He's green.
CARBON (aside):
He has nothing left but eyes.
DE GUICHE (looking at the cadets):
Here are the rebels! Ay, Sirs, on all sides
I hear that in your ranks you scoff at me;
That the Cadets, these loutish, mountain-bred,
Poor country squires, and barons of Perigord,
Scarce find for me--their Colonel--a disdain
Sufficient! call me plotter, wily courtier!
It does not please their mightiness to see
A point-lace collar on my steel cuirass,--
And they enrage, because a man, in sooth,
May be no ragged-robin, yet a Gascon!
(Silence. All smoke and play):
Shall I command your Captain punish you?
No.
CARBON:
I am free, moreover,--will not punish--
DE GUICHE:
Ah!
CARBON:
I have paid my company--'tis mine.
I bow but to headquarters.
DE GUICHE:
So?--in faith!
That will suffice.
(Addressing himself to the cadets):
I can despise your taunts
'Tis well known how I bear me in the war;
At Bapaume, yesterday, they saw the rage
With which I beat back the Count of Bucquoi;
Assembling my own men, I fell on his,
And charged three separate times!
CYRANO (without lifting his eyes from his book):
And your white scarf?
DE GUICHE (surprised and gratified):
You know that detail?. . .Troth! It happened thus:
While caracoling to recall the troops
For the third charge, a band of fugitives
Bore me with them, close by the hostile ranks:
I was in peril--capture, sudden death!--
When I thought of the good expedient
To loosen and let fall the scarf which told
My military rank; thus I contrived
--Without attention waked--to leave the foes,
And suddenly returning, reinforced
With my own men, to scatter them! And now,
--What say you, Sir?
(The cadets pretend not to be listening, but the cards and the dice-boxes
remain suspended in their hands, the smoke of their pipes in their cheeks.
They wait.)
CYRANO:
I say, that Henri Quatre
Had not, by any dangerous odds, been forced
To strip himself of his white helmet plume.
(Silent delight. The cards fall, the dice rattle. The smoke is puffed.)
DE GUICHE:
The ruse succeeded, though!
(Same suspension of play, etc.)
CYRANO:
Oh, may be! But
One does not lightly abdicate the honor
To serve as target to the enemy
(Cards, dice, fall again, and the cadets smoke with evident delight):
Had I been present when your scarf fell low,
--Our courage, Sir, is of a different sort--
I would have picked it up and put it on.
DE GUICHE:
Oh, ay! Another Gascon boast!
CYRANO:
A boast?
Lend it to me. I pledge myself, to-night,
--With it across my breast,--to lead th' assault.
DE GUICHE:
Another Gascon vaunt! You know the scarf
Lies with the enemy, upon the brink
Of the stream,. . .the place is riddled now with shot,--
No one can fetch it hither!
CYRANO (drawing the scarf from his pocket, and holding it out to him):
Here it is.
(Silence. The cadets stifle their laughter in their cards and dice-boxes. De
Guiche turns and looks at them; they instantly become grave, and set to play.
One of them whistles indifferently the air just played by the fifer.)
DE GUICHE (taking the scarf):
I thank you. It will now enable me
To make a signal,--that I had forborne
To make--till now.
(He goes to the rampart, climbs it, and waves the scarf thrice.)
ALL:
What's that?
THE SENTINEL (from the top of the rampart):
See you yon man
Down there, who runs?. . .
DE GUICHE (descending):
'Tis a false Spanish spy
Who is extremely useful to my ends.
The news he carries to the enemy
Are those I prompt him with--so, in a word,
We have an influence on their decisions!
CYRANO:
Scoundrel!
DE GUICHE (carelessly knotting on his scarf):
'Tis opportune. What were we saying?
Ah! I have news for you. Last evening
--To victual us--the Marshal did attempt
A final effort:--secretly he went
To Dourlens, where the King's provisions be.
But--to return to camp more easily--
He took with him a goodly force of troops.
Those who attacked us now would have fine sport!
Half of the army's absent from the camp!
CARBON:
Ay, if the Spaniards knew, 'twere ill for us,
But they know nothing of it?
DE GUICHE:
Oh! they know.
They will attack us.
CARBON:
Ah!
DE GUICHE:
For my false spy
Came to warn me of their attack. He said,
'I can decide the point for their assault;
Where would you have it? I will tell them 'tis
The least defended--they'll attempt you there.'
I answered, 'Good. Go out of camp, but watch
My signal. Choose the point from whence it comes.'
CARBON (to cadets):
Make ready!
(All rise; sounds of swords and belts being buckled.)
DE GUICHE:
'Twill be in an hour.
FIRST CADET:
Good!. . .
(They all sit down again and take up their games.)
DE GUICHE (to Carbon):
Time must be gained. The Marshal will return.
CARBON:
How gain it?
DE GUICHE:
You will all be good enough
To let yourselves to be killed.
CYRANO:
Vengeance! oho!
DE GUICHE:
I do not say that, if I loved you well,
I had chosen you and yours,--but, as things stand,--
Your courage yielding to no corps the palm--
I serve my King, and serve my grudge as well.
CYRANO:
Permit that I express my gratitude. . .
DE GUICHE:
I know you love to fight against five score;
You will not now complain of paltry odds.
(He goes up with Carbon.)
CYRANO (to the cadets):
We shall add to the Gascon coat of arms,
With its six bars of blue and gold, one more--
The blood-red bar that was a-missing there!
(De Guiche speaks in a low voice with Carbon at the back. Orders are given.
Preparations go forward. Cyrano goes up to Christian, who stands with crossed
arms.)
CYRANO (putting his hand on Christian's shoulder):
Christian!
CHRISTIAN (shaking his head):
Roxane!
CYRANO:
Alas!
CHRISTIAN:
At least, I'd send
My heart's farewell to her in a fair letter!. . .
CYRANO:
I had suspicion it would be to-day,
(He draws a letter out of his doublet):
And had already writ. . .
CHRISTIAN:
Show!
CYRANO:
Will you. . .?
CHRISTIAN (taking the letter):
Ay!
(He opens and reads it):
Hold!
CYRANO:
What?
CHRISTIAN:
This little spot!
CYRANO (taking the letter, with an innocent look):
A spot?
CHRISTIAN:
A tear!
CYRANO:
Poets, at last,--by dint of counterfeiting--
Take counterfeit for true--that is the charm!
This farewell letter,--it was passing sad,
I wept myself in writing it!
CHRISTIAN:
Wept? why?
CYRANO:
Oh!. . .death itself is hardly terrible,. . .
--But, ne'er to see her more! That is death's sting!
--For. . .I shall never. . .
(Christian looks at him):
We shall. . .
(Quickly):
I mean, you. . .
CHRISTIAN (snatching the letter from him):
Give me that letter!
(A rumor, far off in the camp.)
VOICE Of SENTINEL:
Who goes there? Halloo!
(Shots--voices--carriage-bells.)
CARBON:
What is it?
A SENTINEL (on the rampart):
'Tis a carriage!
(All rush to see.)
CRIES:
In the camp?
It enters!--It comes from the enemy!