Cyrano de Bergerac
My God! it's true, perchance, love waits me there!
(To Roxane):
I. . .Roxane. . .listen. . .
LE BRET (entering hurriedly--to Cyrano):
Cyrano!
CYRANO (turning round):
What?
LE BRET:
Hush!
(He whispers something to him.)
CYRANO (letting go Roxane's hand and exclaiming):
Ah, God!
ROXANE:
What is it?
CYRANO (to himself--stunned):
All is over now.
(Renewed reports.)
ROXANE:
What is the matter? Hark! another shot!
(She goes up to look outside.)
CYRANO:
It is too late, now I can never tell!
ROXANE (trying to rush out):
What has chanced?
CYRANO (rushing to stop her):
Nothing!
(Some cadets enter, trying to hide something they are carrying, and close
round it to prevent Roxane approaching.)
ROXANE:
And those men?
(Cyrano draws her away):
What were you just about to say before. . .?
CYRANO:
What was I saying? Nothing now, I swear!
(Solemnly):
I swear that Christian's soul, his nature, were. . .
(Hastily correcting himself):
Nay, that they are, the noblest, greatest. . .
ROXANE:
Were?
(With a loud scream):
Oh!
(She rushes up, pushing every one aside.)
CYRANO:
All is over now!
ROXANE (seeing Christian lying on the ground, wrapped in his cloak):
O Christian!
LE BRET (to Cyrano):
Struck by first shot of the enemy!
(Roxane flings herself down by Christian. Fresh reports of cannon--clash of
arms--clamor--beating of drums.)
CARBON (with sword in the air):
O come! Your muskets.
(Followed by the cadets, he passes to the other side of the ramparts.)
ROXANE:
Christian!
THE VOICE OF CARBON (from the other side):
Ho! make haste!
ROXANE:
Christian!
CARBON:
FORM LINE!
ROXANE:
Christian!
CARBON:
HANDLE YOUR MATCH!
(Ragueneau rushes up, bringing water in a helmet.)
CHRISTIAN (in a dying voice):
Roxane!
CYRANO (quickly, whispering into Christian's ear, while Roxane distractedly
tears a piece of linen from his breast, which she dips into the water, trying
to stanch the bleeding):
I told her all. She loves you still.
(Christian closes his eyes.)
ROXANE:
How, my sweet love?
CARBON:
DRAW RAMRODS!
ROXANE (to Cyrano):
He is not dead?
CARBON:
OPEN YOUR CHARGES WITH YOUR TEETH!
ROXANE:
His cheek
Grows cold against my own!
CARBON:
READY! PRESENT!
ROXANE (seeing a letter in Christian's doublet):
A letter!. . .
'Tis for me!
(She opens it.)
CYRANO (aside):
My letter!
CARBON:
FIRE!
(Musket reports--shouts--noise of battle.)
CYRANO (trying to disengage his hand, which Roxane on her knees is holding):
But, Roxane, hark, they fight!
ROXANE (detaining him):
Stay yet awhile.
For he is dead. You knew him, you alone.
(Weeping quietly):
Ah, was not his a beauteous soul, a soul
Wondrous!
CYRANO (standing up--bareheaded):
Ay, Roxane.
ROXANE:
An inspired poet?
CYRANO:
Ay, Roxane.
ROXANE:
And a mind sublime?
CYRANO:
Oh, yes!
ROXANE:
A heart too deep for common minds to plumb,
A spirit subtle, charming?
CYRANO (firmly):
Ay, Roxane.
ROXANE (flinging herself on the dead body):
Dead, my love!
CYRANO (aside--drawing his sword):
Ay, and let me die to-day,
Since, all unconscious, she mourns me--in him!
(Sounds of trumpets in the distance.)
DE GUICHE (appearing on the ramparts--bareheaded--with a wound on his
forehead--in a voice of thunder):
It is the signal! Trumpet flourishes!
The French bring the provisions into camp!
Hold but the place awhile!
ROXANE:
See, there is blood
Upon the letter--tears!
A VOICE (outside--shouting):
Surrender!
VOICE OF CADETS:
No!
RAGUENEAU (standing on the top of his carriage, watches the battle over the
edge of the ramparts):
The danger's ever greater!
CYRANO (to De Guiche--pointing to Roxane):
I will charge!
Take her away!
ROXANE (kissing the letter--in a half-extinguished voice):
O God! his tears! his blood!. . .
RAGUENEAU (jumping down from the carriage and rushing toward her):
She's swooned away!
DE GUICHE (on the rampart--to the cadets--with fury):
Stand fast!
A VOICE (outside):
Lay down your arms!
THE CADETS:
No!
CYRANO (to De Guiche):
Now that you have proved your valor, Sir,
(Pointing to Roxane):
Fly, and save her!
DE GUICHE (rushing to Roxane, and carrying her away in his arms):
So be it! Gain but time,
The victory's ours!
CYRANO:
Good.
(Calling out to Roxane, whom De Guiche, aided by Ragueneau, is bearing away in
a fainting condition):
Farewell, Roxane!
(Tumult. Shouts. Cadets reappear, wounded, falling on the scene. Cyrano,
rushing to the battle, is stopped by Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, who is streaming
with blood.)
CARBON:
We are breaking! I am wounded--wounded twice!
CYRANO (shouting to the Gascons):
GASCONS! HO, GASCONS! NEVER TURN YOUR BACKS!
(To Carbon, whom he is supporting):
Have no fear! I have two deaths to avenge:
My friend who's slain;--and my dead happiness!
(They come down, Cyrano brandishing the lance to which is attached Roxane's
handkerchief):
Float there! laced kerchief broidered with her name!
(He sticks it in the ground and shouts to the cadets):
FALL ON THEM, GASCONS! CRUSH THEM!
(To the fifer):
Fifer, play!
(The fife plays. The wounded try to rise. Some cadets, falling one over the
other down the slope, group themselves round Cyrano and the little flag. The
carriage is crowded with men inside and outside, and, bristling with
arquebuses, is turned into a fortress.)
A CADET (appearing on the crest, beaten backward, but still fighting, cries):
They're climbing the redoubt!
(and falls dead.)
CYRANO:
Let us salute them!
(The rampart is covered instantly by a formidable row of enemies. The
standards of the Imperialists are raised):
Fire!
(General discharge.)
A CRY IN THE ENEMY'S RANKS:
Fire!
(A deadly answering volley. The cadets fall on all sides.)
A SPANISH OFFICER (uncovering):
Who are these men who rush on death?
CYRANO (reciting, erect, amid a storm of bullets):
The bold Cadets of Gascony,
Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux!
Brawling, swaggering boastfully,
(He rushes forward, followed by a few survivors):
The bold Cadets. . .
(His voice is drowned in the battle.)
Curtain.
Act V.
Cyrano's Gazette.
Fifteen years later, in 1655. Park of the Sisters of the Holy Cross in Paris.
Magnificent trees. On the left the house: broad steps on to which open
several doors. An enormous plane tree in the middle of the stage, standing
alone. On the right, among big boxwood trees, a semicircular stone bench.
The whole background of the stage is crossed by an alley of chestnut trees
leading on the right hand to the door of a chapel seen through the branches.
Through the double row of trees of this alley are seen lawns, other alleys,
clusters of trees, winding of the park, the sky.
The chapel opens by a little side door on to a colonnade which is wreathed
with autumn leaves, and is lost to view a little farther on in the right-hand
foreground behind the boxwood.
It is autumn. All the foliage is red against the fresh green of the lawns.
The green boxwood and yews stand out dark.
Under each tree a patch of yellow leaves.
The stage is strewn with dead leaves, which rustle under foot in the alleys,
and half cover the steps and benches.
Between the benches on the right hand and the tree a large embroidery frame,
in front of which a little chair has been set.
Baskets full of skeins and balls of wool. A tapestry begun.
At the rising of the curtains nuns are walking to and fro in the park; some
are seated on the bench around an older Sister.
The leaves are falling.
Scene 5.I.
Mother Marguerite, Sister Martha, Sister Claire, other sisters.
SISTER MARTHA (to Mother Marguerite):
Sister Claire glanced in the mirror, once--nay, twice, to see if her coif
suited.
MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Claire):
'Tis not well.
SISTER CLAIRE:
But I saw Sister Martha take a plum
Out of the tart.
MOTHER MARGUERITE (to Sister Martha):
That was ill done, my sister.
SISTER CLAIRE:
A little glance!
SISTER MARTHA:
And such a little plum!
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
I shall tell this to Monsieur Cyrano.
SISTER CLAIRE:
Nay, prithee do not!--he will mock!
SISTER MARTHA:
He'll say we nuns are vain!
SISTER CLAIRE:
And greedy!
MOTHER MARGUERITE (smiling):
Ay, and kind!
SISTER CLAIRE:
Is it not true, pray, Mother Marguerite,
That he has come, each week, on Saturday
For ten years, to the convent?
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
Ay! and more!
Ever since--fourteen years ago--the day
His cousin brought here, 'midst our woolen coifs,
The worldly mourning of her widow's veil,
Like a blackbird's wing among the convent doves!
SISTER MARTHA:
He only has the skill to turn her mind
From grief--unsoftened yet by Time--unhealed!
ALL THE SISTERS:
He is so droll!--It's cheerful when he comes!--
He teases us!--But we all like him well!--
--We make him pasties of angelica!
SISTER MARTHA:
But, he is not a faithful Catholic!
SISTER CLAIRE:
We will convert him!
THE SISTERS:
Yes! Yes!
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
I forbid,
My daughters, you attempt that subject. Nay,
Weary him not--he might less oft come here!
SISTER MARTHA:
But. . .God. . .
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
Nay, never fear! God knows him well!
SISTER MARTHA:
But--every Saturday, when he arrives,
He tells me, 'Sister, I eat meat on Friday!'
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
Ah! says he so? Well, the last time he came
Food had not passed his lips for two whole days!
SISTER MARTHA:
Mother!
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
He's poor.
SISTER MARTHA:
Who told you so, dear Mother?
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
Monsieur Le Bret.
SISTER MARTHA:
None help him?
MOTHER MARGUERITE:
He permits not.
(In an alley at the back Roxane appears, dressed in black, with a widow's coif
and veil. De Guiche, imposing-looking and visibly aged, walks by her side.
They saunter slowly. Mother Marguerite rises):
'Tis time we go in; Madame Madeleine
Walks in the garden with a visitor.
SISTER MARTHA (to Sister Claire, in a low voice):
The Marshal of Grammont?
SISTER CLAIRE (looking at him):
'Tis he, I think.
SISTER MARTHA:
'Tis many months now since he came to see her.
THE SISTERS:
He is so busy!--The Court,--the camp!. . .
SISTER CLAIRE:
The world!
(They go out. De Guiche and Roxane come forward in silence, and stop close to
the embroidery frame.)
Scene 5.II.
Roxane; the Duke de Grammont, formerly Count de Guiche. Then Le Bret and
Ragueneau.
THE DUKE:
And you stay here still--ever vainly fair,
Ever in weeds?
ROXANE:
Ever.
THE DUKE:
Still faithful?
ROXANE:
Still.
THE DUKE (after a pause):
Am I forgiven?
ROXANE:
Ay, since I am here.
(Another pause.)
THE DUKE:
His was a soul, you say?. . .
ROXANE:
Ah!--when you knew him!
THE DUKE:
Ah, may be!. . .I, perchance, too little knew him!
. . .And his last letter, ever next your heart?
ROXANE:
Hung from this chain, a gentle scapulary.
THE DUKE:
And, dead, you love him still?
ROXANE:
At times,--meseems
He is but partly dead--our hearts still speak,
As if his love, still living, wrapped me round!
THE DUKE (after another pause):
Cyrano comes to see you?
ROXANE:
Often, ay.
Dear, kind old friend! We call him my 'Gazette.'
He never fails to come: beneath this tree
They place his chair, if it be fine:--I wait,
I broider;--the clock strikes;--at the last stroke
I hear,--for now I never turn to look--