Cyrano de Bergerac
Too sure to hear his cane tap down the steps;
He seats himself:--with gentle raillery
He mocks my tapestry that's never done;
He tells me all the gossip of the week. . .
(Le Bret appears on the steps):
Why, here's Le Bret!
(Le Bret descends):
How goes it with our friend?
LE BRET:
Ill!--very ill.
THE DUKE:
How?
ROXANE (to the Duke):
He exaggerates!
LE BRET:
All that I prophesied: desertion, want!. . .
His letters now make him fresh enemies!--
Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout,
Sham brave,--the thieving authors,--all the world!
ROXANE:
Ah! but his sword still holds them all in check;
None get the better of him.
THE DUKE (shaking his head):
Time will show!
LE BRET:
Ah, but I fear for him--not man's attack,--
Solitude--hunger--cold December days,
That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:--
Lo! the assassins that I fear for him!
Each day he tightens by one hole his belt:
That poor nose--tinted like old ivory:
He has retained one shabby suit of serge.
THE DUKE:
Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!--
Yet is not to be pitied!
LE BRET (with a bitter smile):
My Lord Marshal!. . .
THE DUKE:
Pity him not! He has lived out his vows,
Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free!
LE BRET (in the same tone):
My Lord!. . .
THE DUKE (haughtily):
True! I have all, and he has naught;. . .
Yet I were proud to take his hand!
(Bowing to Roxane):
Adieu!
ROXANE:
I go with you.
(The Duke bows to Le Bret, and goes with Roxane toward the steps.)
THE DUKE (pausing, while she goes up):
Ay, true,--I envy him.
Look you, when life is brimful of success
--Though the past hold no action foul--one feels
A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum
Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest;
And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame,
The Duke's furred mantles trail within their folds
A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets,
A rustle--scarce a whisper--like as when,
Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe
Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves.
ROXANE (ironically):
You are pensive?
THE DUKE:
True! I am!
(As he is going out, suddenly):
Monsieur Le Bret!
(To Roxane):
A word, with your permission?
(He goes to Le Bret, and in a low voice):
True, that none
Dare to attack your friend;--but many hate him;
Yesterday, at the Queen's card-play, 'twas said
'That Cyrano may die--by accident!'
Let him stay in--be prudent!
LE BRET (raising his arms to heaven):
Prudent! He!. . .
He's coming here. I'll warn him--but!. . .
ROXANE (who has stayed on the steps, to a sister who comes toward her):
What is it?
THE SISTER:
Ragueneau would see you, Madame.
ROXANE:
Let him come.
(To the Duke and Le Bret):
He comes to tell his troubles. Having been
An author (save the mark!)--poor fellow--now
By turns he's singer. . .
LE BRET:
Bathing-man. . .
ROXANE:
Then actor. . .
LE BRET:
Beadle. . .
ROXANE:
Wig-maker. . .
LE BRET:
Teacher of the lute. . .
ROXANE:
What will he be to-day, by chance?
RAGUENEAU (entering hurriedly):
Ah! Madame!
(He sees Le Bret):
Ah! you here, Sir!
ROXANE (smiling):
Tell all your miseries
To him; I will return anon.
RAGUENEAU:
But, Madame. . .
(Roxane goes out with the Duke. Ragueneau goes toward Le Bret.)
Scene 5.III.
Le Bret, Ragueneau.
RAGUENEAU:
Since you are here, 'tis best she should not know!
I was going to your friend just now--was but
A few steps from the house, when I saw him
Go out. I hurried to him. Saw him turn
The corner. . .suddenly, from out a window
Where he was passing--was it chance?. . .may be!
A lackey let fall a large piece of wood.
LE BRET:
Cowards! O Cyrano!
RAGUENEAU:
I ran--I saw. . .
LE BRET:
'Tis hideous!
RAGUENEAU:
Saw our poet, Sir--our friend--
Struck to the ground--a large wound in his head!
LE BRET:
He's dead?
RAGUENEAU:
No--but--I bore him to his room. . .
Ah! his room! What a thing to see!--that garret!
LE BRET:
He suffers?
RAGUENEAU:
No, his consciousness has flown.
LE BRET:
Saw you a doctor?
RAGUENEAU:
One was kind--he came.
LE BRET:
My poor Cyrano!--We must not tell this
To Roxane suddenly.--What said this leech?--
RAGUENEAU:
Said,--what, I know not--fever, meningitis!--
Ah! could you see him--all his head bound up!--
But let us haste!--There's no one by his bed!--
And if he try to rise, Sir, he might die!
LE BRET (dragging him toward the right):
Come! Through the chapel! 'Tis the quickest way!
ROXANE (appearing on the steps, and seeing Le Bret go away by the colonnade
leading to the chapel door):
Monsieur le Bret!
(Le Bret and Ragueneau disappear without answering):
Le Bret goes--when I call!
'Tis some new trouble of good Ragueneau's.
(She descends the steps.)
Scene 5.IV.
Roxane alone. Two sisters, for a moment.
ROXANE:
Ah! what a beauty in September's close!
My sorrow's eased. April's joy dazzled it,
But autumn wins it with her dying calm.
(She seats herself at the embroidery frame. Two sisters come out of the
house, and bring a large armchair under the tree):
There comes the famous armchair where he sits,
Dear faithful friend!
SISTER MARTHA:
It is the parlor's best!
ROXANE:
Thanks, sister.
(The sisters go):
He'll be here now.
(She seats herself. A clock strikes):
The hour strikes.
--My silks?--Why, now, the hour's struck!
How strange
To be behind his time, at last, to-day!
Perhaps the portress--where's my thimble?. . .
Here!--Is preaching to him.
(A pause):
Yes, she must be preaching!
Surely he must come soon!--Ah, a dead leaf!--
(She brushes off the leaf from her work):
Nothing, besides, could--scissors?--In my bag!
--Could hinder him. . .
A SISTER (coming to the steps):
Monsieur de Bergerac.
Scene 5.V.
Roxane, Cyrano and, for a moment, Sister Martha.
ROXANE (without turning round):
What was I saying?. . .
(She embroiders. Cyrano, very pale, his hat pulled down over his eyes,
appears. The sister who had announced him retires. He descends the steps
slowly, with a visible difficulty in holding himself upright, bearing heavily
on his cane. Roxane still works at her tapestry):
Time has dimmed the tints. . .
How harmonize them now?
(To Cyrano, with playful reproach):
For the first time
Late!--For the first time, all these fourteen years!
CYRANO (who has succeeded in reaching the chair, and has seated himself--in a
lively voice, which is in great contrast with his pale face):
Ay! It is villainous! I raged--was stayed. . .
ROXANE:
By?. . .
CYRANO:
By a bold, unwelcome visitor.
ROXANE (absently, working):
Some creditor?
CYRANO:
Ay, cousin,--the last creditor
Who has a debt to claim from me.
ROXANE:
And you
Have paid it?
CYRANO:
No, not yet! I put it off;
--Said, 'Cry you mercy; this is Saturday,
When I have get a standing rendezvous
That naught defers. Call in an hour's time!'
ROXANE (carelessly):
Oh, well, a creditor can always wait!
I shall not let you go ere twilight falls.
CYRANO:
Haply, perforce, I quit you ere it falls!
(He shuts his eyes, and is silent for a moment. Sister Martha crosses the
park from the chapel to the flight of steps. Roxane, seeing her, signs to her
to approach.)
ROXANE (to Cyrano):
How now? You have not teased the Sister?
CYRANO (hastily opening his eyes):
True!
(In a comically loud voice):
Sister! come here!
(The sister glides up to him):
Ha! ha! What? Those bright eyes
Bent ever on the ground?
SISTER MARTHA (who makes a movement of astonishment on seeing his face):
Oh!
CYRANO (in a whisper, pointing to Roxane):
Hush! 'tis naught!--
(Loudly, in a blustering voice):
I broke fast yesterday!
SISTER MARTHA (aside):
I know, I know!
That's how he is so pale! Come presently
To the refectory, I'll make you drink
A famous bowl of soup. . .You'll come?
CYRANO:
Ay, ay!
SISTER MARTHA:
There, see! You are more reasonable to-day!
ROXANE (who hears them whispering):
The Sister would convert you?
SISTER MARTHA:
Nay, not I!
CYRANO:
Hold! but it's true! You preach to me no more,
You, once so glib with holy words! I am
Astonished!. . .
(With burlesque fury):
Stay, I will surprise you too!
Hark! I permit you. . .
(He pretends to be seeking for something to tease her with, and to have found
it):
. . .It is something new!--
To--pray for me, to-night, at chapel-time!
ROXANE:
Oh! oh!
CYRANO (laughing):
Good Sister Martha is struck dumb!
SISTER MARTHA (gently):
I did not wait your leave to pray for you.
(She goes out.)
CYRANO (turning to Roxane, who is still bending over her work):
That tapestry! Beshrew me if my eyes
Will ever see it finished!
ROXANE:
I was sure
To hear that well-known jest!
(A light breeze causes the leaves to fall.)
CYRANO:
The autumn leaves!
ROXANE (lifting her head, and looking down the distant alley):
Soft golden brown, like a Venetian's hair.
--See how they fall!
CYRANO:
Ay, see how brave they fall,
In their last journey downward from the bough,
To rot within the clay; yet, lovely still,
Hiding the horror of the last decay,
With all the wayward grace of careless flight!
ROXANE:
What, melancholy--you?
CYRANO (collecting himself):
Nay, nay, Roxane!
ROXANE:
Then let the dead leaves fall the way they will. . .
And chat. What, have you nothing new to tell,
My Court Gazette?
CYRANO:
Listen.
ROXANE:
Ah!
CYRANO (growing whiter and whiter):
Saturday
The nineteenth: having eaten to excess
Of pear-conserve, the King felt feverish;
The lancet quelled this treasonable revolt,
And the august pulse beats at normal pace.
At the Queen's ball on Sunday thirty score
Of best white waxen tapers were consumed.
Our troops, they say, have chased the Austrians.
Four sorcerers were hanged. The little dog
Of Madame d'Athis took a dose. . .
ROXANE:
I bid
You hold your tongue, Monsieur de Bergerac!
CYRANO:
Monday--not much--Claire changed protector.
ROXANE:
Oh!
CYRANO (whose face changes more and more):
Tuesday, the Court repaired to Fontainebleau.
Wednesday, the Montglat said to Comte de Fiesque. . .
No! Thursday--Mancini, Queen of France! (almost!)
Friday, the Monglat to Count Fiesque said--'Yes!'
And Saturday the twenty-sixth. . .
(He closes his eyes. His head falls forward. Silence.)
ROXANE (surprised at his voice ceasing, turns round, looks at him, and rising,
terrified):
He swoons!
(She runs toward him crying):
Cyrano!
CYRANO (opening his eyes, in an unconcerned voice):
What is this?
(He sees Roxane bending over him, and, hastily pressing his hat on his head,
and shrinking back in his chair):
Nay, on my word
'Tis nothing! Let me be!
ROXANE:
But. . .
CYRANO:
That old wound
Of Arras, sometimes,--as you know. . .
ROXANE:
Dear friend!
CYRANO:
'Tis nothing, 'twill pass soon;
(He smiles with an effort):
See!--it has passed!
ROXANE:
Each of us has his wound; ay, I have mine,--
Never healed up--not healed yet, my old wound!
(She puts her hand on her breast):
'Tis here, beneath this letter brown with age,
All stained with tear-drops, and still stained with blood.
(Twilight begins to fall.)
CYRANO:
His letter! Ah! you promised me one day
That I should read it.
ROXANE:
What would you?--His letter?
CYRANO:
Yes, I would fain,--to-day. . .
ROXANE (giving the bag hung at her neck):