[MaternitÉ] Cast of the original production before the Stage Society at the King’s Hall, London, on April 8, 9 and 10, 1906.
ACT IBrignac’s drawing-room. Doors right, left, and at the back. Furniture of a government official. When the curtain rises Lucie, a woman of about thirty, is alone. Brignac, a man of thirty-eight, opens a door outside and calls gaily from the anteroom. BRIGNAC. Here I am. [He takes off his cloak, gives it to a maid-servant, and enters]. LUCIE [gaily] Good morning, sous-prÉfet. BRIGNAC [he is in the uniform of a sous-prÉfet. A tunic or dolman, with simple embroidery and two rows of buttons; a cap with an embroidered band, a sword with a mother o’ pearl handle and a silver-plated sheath. His belt is of silk; his trousers blue with a silver stripe; and he wears a black cravat. He comes forward, taking off his sword and belt during the following conversation. He is finishing a large cigar] Have you been bored all alone? LUCIE. With three children one hasn’t time to be bored. BRIGNAC [taking his sword into the anteroom] By Jove, no! LUCIE. Well, how did the luncheon go off? BRIGNAC [throwing away his cigar-end] Very well. I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. [Going to the door to the right and calling through] Has M. Mouton come? A VOICE [from outside] Yes, monsieur le sous-prÉfet. Shall I tell him he’s wanted? BRIGNAC. No. Bring me my letters. [He closes the door and comes back] Shall I never catch that fellow out? LUCIE. Why do you want to? BRIGNAC. I want to get rid of him, of course, and get a young chap. An unmarried man wouldn’t ask half the salary I give this one. A clerk enters bringing letters. CLERK. The letters, monsieur le sous-prÉfet. BRIGNAC. All right. The clerk goes out. Brignac glances at the addresses and sorts the letters into several piles without opening the envelopes. LUCIE. That little ceremony always amuses me. BRIGNAC. What ceremony? Sorting my letters? LUCIE. Without opening them. BRIGNAC. I know what’s inside by looking at them. LUCIE. Nonsense! BRIGNAC. Don’t you believe it? Well, look. Here’s one from the mayor of St. Sauveur. Something he asks me to forward to the prÉfet. [He opens it and hands the letter to his wife, who does not take it] There! LUCIE. Why doesn’t he send it direct to the prÉfet? BRIGNAC. What would be the use of us then? LUCIE [laughing] That’s true. BRIGNAC. Now I suppose you’ll make some more jokes about sous-prÉfets and their work. It’s easy, and not particularly clever. Perhaps some of us don’t take our jobs very seriously, but I’m not like that. If we are useless, our business is to make ourselves indispensable. Just take to-day for example and see if I’m not busy enough. This morning I signed thirty documents; afterwards I went to the meeting of the Council of Revision. LUCIE. Yes. BRIGNAC. We shall only have part of the Committee at dinner. Some of the members have refused. [With interest] Hullo! I didn’t see this. A letter from the Minister of the Interior. LUCIE. Perhaps it’s your promotion. BRIGNAC [opening the letter] One never knows—No, it’s a circular [pause] upon the decline of the population. [He runs his eye through the paper] Most important. [He goes to the door on the right] M. Lioret! A clerk comes in. CLERK. Yes, monsieur le sous-prÉfet? BRIGNAC [giving him papers] Give that to M. Mouton. It must be done by five o’clock, and well done. This for M. Lamblin—M. Rouge—And put this upon my desk. I will see to it myself and give it the attention it requires. The clerk goes out. LUCIE. Perhaps it’s not worth attention. BRIGNAC. It needs an acknowledgment anyway; and the terms used in the original must be most carefully reproduced in the acknowledgment. LUCIE. Now tell me how the luncheon went off. BRIGNAC. I have told you. It went off very well. Too well. The mayor wanted to be even with us. All the same, our dinner to-night will be better. [He takes a cigar out of his pocket] I brought away a cigar to show it to you. Are ours as big? LUCIE. Pretty much the same. BRIGNAC. He doesn’t give you cigars like that at his big receptions. There’s the menu. LUCIE [glancing at it] Oh! I say! BRIGNAC. The champagne was decanted! LUCIE. Well, we’ll have ours decanted. [Brightly] Only, you know, it’ll cost money. We shouldn’t have much left if we had to give many dinners to Councils of Revision. BRIGNAC. Don’t worry about that. You know very well that when Balureau gets back into power he’ll have us out of this dead-alive ChÂteauneuf, and give us a step up. LUCIE. Yes; but will he get back into power? BRIGNAC. Why shouldn’t he? LUCIE. He was in such a short time. BRIGNAC. Precisely. They hadn’t time to find him out. LUCIE [laughing] If he heard you! BRIGNAC. You misunderstand me. I have the greatest respect for— LUCIE [interrupting] I know, I know. I was only joking. BRIGNAC. You’re always worrying about the future; now what makes me the man I am is my persistent confidence in the future. If Balureau doesn’t get into office again we’ll stay quietly at ChÂteauneuf, that’s all. You can’t complain, as you were born here. LUCIE. But it’s you who complain. BRIGNAC. I complain of the want of spirit in the people. I complain that I cannot get them to love and respect our political institutions. I complain above all of the society of ChÂteauneuf: a set of officials entertaining one another. LUCIE. Society in ChÂteauneuf doesn’t open its arms to us, certainly. BRIGNAC. It doesn’t think us important enough. LUCIE. To have a larger acquaintance we ought to entertain the commercial people. You won’t do that. BRIGNAC. I have to consider the dignity of my position. LUCIE. As you often say, we are in the enemy’s camp. BRIGNAC. That’s true. But the fact that people hate LUCIE. Yes; you’ve been waiting for that opportunity for eleven years. BRIGNAC. Obviously then it is so much the nearer. LUCIE. And what will it be? BRIGNAC. Some conflict, some incident—trouble. LUCIE. Trouble at ChÂteauneuf? BRIGNAC. I’m quite aware that ChÂteauneuf is most confoundedly peaceable. One gets no chance. I count more upon Balureau than on anything else. [Pause] Is Annette with her friend Gabrielle? LUCIE. No. BRIGNAC. But this is Tuesday. LUCIE. It’s not time for her to go yet. BRIGNAC. Yes, but if she puts it off till too late. LUCIE. I’ve wanted for some time to speak to you about Annette. Don’t you think she goes to the Bernins a little too often? BRIGNAC. Not at all. They’re very influential people and may be useful to me. Call her. [He goes to the door to the left and calls himself] Annette! [Coming back] Annette goes three times a week to practise with Mademoiselle Bernin, who goes everywhere. That’s an excellent thing for us, and may be of consequence. [Annette comes in] Annette, don’t forget how late it is. It’s time you were with your friend. ANNETTE [going out] Yes, yes. I’ll go and put on my hat. LUCIE [to Brignac] They want Annette to spend a few days with them in the country. Ought we to let her? BRIGNAC. Why not? She wants to go. You know how fond she is of Gabrielle. LUCIE. Yes; but Gabrielle has a brother. BRIGNAC. Young Jacques. But he’s going to be married, my dear. LUCIE. Is he? BRIGNAC. Yes, yes, of course. [Annette comes in from the left] Make haste, Annette. LUCIE. What does it matter if she’s five minutes late? ANNETTE.. No—no—Where is my music? LUCIE. You look quite upset. Would you rather not go? ANNETTE. Yes, yes, I’ll go—Good-bye. [She hurries off, forgetting her music]. LUCIE [calling] Your music! [she holds out the music-case]. ANNETTE. Oh, thank you. Good-bye. [She goes out]. LUCIE. Don’t you think Annette has been a little depressed lately? BRIGNAC. Eh? Yes—no—has she? Have you found a new parlor-maid? LUCIE. Yes. BRIGNAC. There, you see! You were worrying about that. LUCIE. I had good reason to worry. I’ve been without a parlor-maid for a week. I liked a girl who came yesterday very much; but she wouldn’t take the place. BRIGNAC. Why not? LUCIE. She said there were too many children here. BRIGNAC.. Too many children! Three! LUCIE. Yes: but the eldest is three years old and the youngest two months. BRIGNAC. There’s a nurse. LUCIE. I told her that, of course. BRIGNAC. Well, I declare! And when you consider that it meant coming to the sous-prÉfet! LUCIE. I suppose she’s not impressed by titles. BRIGNAC. And what about the one you have engaged? LUCIE. She’s elderly. Perhaps she’ll be steady. BRIGNAC. Yes, and have other vices. Still— LUCIE. The unhappy woman has two children out at nurse, and two older ones at Bordeaux. Her husband deserted her. BRIGNAC. Too bad of CÉline to force us to turn her out of doors. LUCIE. Her conduct was bad, certainly. All the same— BRIGNAC. Oh, it was not her conduct! She might have conducted herself ten times worse if only she had had the sense to keep up appearances. Outside her duty to me her life was her own. But we have to draw the line at a confinement in the house. You admit that, don’t you? [A pause. Lucie does not answer] It was getting quite unmistakable—you know it was. Those wretched grocer’s boys are a perfect scourge to decent houses. [He takes up a paper] This circular is admirable. LUCIE. Is it? BRIGNAC. And of the greatest importance. Such style, too. Listen. [He reads] ‘Our race is diminishing! Such a state of affairs demands the instant attention of the authorities. The Legislature must strenuously endeavour to devise remedial measures against the disastrous phenomenon now making itself manifest in our midst.’ The Minister of the Interior has done this very well. The end is really fine—quite touching. Listen. ‘Truth will triumph: reason will prevail: the noble sentiment of nationality and the divine spirit of self-sacrifice will bear us on to victory. We who know the splendid recuperative power of our valiant French race look forward with confidence and security to the magnificent moral regeneration of this great and ancient people.’ [He looks at his wife]. LUCIE. It’s well written, certainly. BRIGNAC [continuing to read] ‘Let each one, in his own sphere of action and influence, work with word and pen to point out the peril and urge the immediate necessity of a remedy. Committees must be formed all over LUCIE. Does it suggest any scheme? BRIGNAC. Yes. The rest of the circular is full of the ways and means. I shall read it aloud this evening. LUCIE. This evening! BRIGNAC. Yes. [He goes to the right hand door and calls] Monsieur Lioret! CLERK [coming in] Monsieur le sous-prÉfet. BRIGNAC. Make me two copies of this circular yourself; you will understand its great importance. And bring the original back yourself and place it upon this table. CLERK. Yes, monsieur le sous-prÉfet. [He goes out]. BRIGNAC [returning to Lucie] The covering letter from my official superior ends with these words: ‘Have the goodness, M. le sous-prÉfet, to send me at once a statistical schedule of all committees or associations of this nature at present existing in your district, and let me know what measures you think of taking in response to the desiderata of the Government.’ Well, I shall take advantage of the dinner we give to-night to the members of the Council of Revision to set on foot some associations of the sort, and then I can write up to the authorities, ’There were no associations: I created them’! LUCIE. But is the dinner a suitable— BRIGNAC. Listen to me. This morning there was a Council of Revision at ChÂteauneuf. LUCIE. Yes. BRIGNAC. The mayor invited the members to luncheon and we have invited them to dinner. LUCIE. Well? BRIGNAC. The Council of Revision is composed of a Councillor to the Prefecture, a general Councillor, a district Councillor—I leave out the doctor—and the mayors of the communes concerned—the mayors of the communes concerned. I shall profit by the chance of hav LUCIE [interrupting] Why? There’s room in the hall. BRIGNAC. I can’t put the diagram in the hall, and I want an excuse for bringing them all through the office. Some day the Colonel may meet the Minister of the Interior and say to him: ‘I saw in the sous-prÉfecture at ChÂteauneuf’— LUCIE [interrupting again] All right. As you like. BRIGNAC. You trust to me. You don’t understand anything about it. You didn’t even know how a Council of Revision was made up,—you, the wife of a sous-prÉfet. And yet every year we give them a dinner. And we’ve been married four years. LUCIE [gently and pleasantly] Now think for a minute. We’ve been married four years, that’s true. But this time three years was just after EdmÉe was born: two years ago I was expecting little Louise; and last year after weaning her I was ill. Remember too that if I had nursed the last one myself I could not be at dinner tonight, as she is only two months old. BRIGNAC. You complain of that? LUCIE [laughing] No: but I am glad to be having a holiday. BRIGNAC [gaily] You know what I said: as long as we haven’t a boy— LUCIE [brightly] We ought to have a trip to Switzerland first. BRIGNAC. No, no, no. We have only girls: I want a boy. LUCIE [laughing] Is it the Minister’s circular that— BRIGNAC. No, it is not the Minister’s circular. LUCIE. Then let me have time to breathe. BRIGNAC. You can breathe afterwards. LUCIE. Before. BRIGNAC. After. LUCIE. Wouldn’t you rather have a holiday? BRIGNAC. No. LUCIE [gently] Listen, Julien, since we’re talking about this. I wanted to tell you—I haven’t had much leisure since our marriage. We’ve not been able to take advantage of a single one of your holidays. And if you don’t agree to let—[tenderly] Maurice—wait another year it will be the same thing this time. [Smiling] I really have a right to a little rest. Consider. We’ve not had any time to know one another, or to love one another. Besides, remember that we already have to find dowries for three girls. BRIGNAC. I tell you this is going to be a boy. LUCIE. A boy is expensive. BRIGNAC. We are going to be rich. LUCIE. How? BRIGNAC. Luck may come in several ways. I may stay in the Civil Service and get promoted quickly. I may go back to the Bar: I was a fairly successful barrister once. I may have some unexpected stroke of luck. Anyway, I’m certain we shall be rich. [Smiling] After all, it’s not much good you’re saying no, if I say yes. LUCIE [hurt] Evidently. My consent was asked for before I was given a husband, but my consent is not asked for before I am given a child. BRIGNAC. Are you going to make a scene? LUCIE. No. But all the same—this slavery— BRIGNAC. What? LUCIE. Yes, slavery. After all you are disposing of my BRIGNAC. Do I do it out of selfishness? Do you suppose I am not a most unhappy husband all the time I have a future mother at my side instead of a loving wife? ’A father is a man all the same.’ LUCIE [ironically] Oh, you are most unhappy, aren’t you? BRIGNAC. Yes. LUCIE. Rubbish! BRIGNAC. Rubbish? LUCIE. You evidently take me for a fool. BRIGNAC. I don’t understand. LUCIE. I know what you do at those times. Now do you understand? BRIGNAC. No. LUCIE [irritated] Don’t deny it. You must see that I know all about it. The best thing you can do is to be silent, as I have pretended so far to know nothing. BRIGNAC [coming off his high-horse] I assure you— LUCIE. Do you want me to tell you the name of the person you go to see over at Villeneuve, while I am nursing, or a ‘future mother’ as you call it? BRIGNAC. If you’re going to believe all the gossip you hear— LUCIE. We had better say no more about it. BRIGNAC. I beg to observe that it was not I who started the subject. There, there—you’re in a bad temper. I shall go and do some work, and then I must join those gentlemen. Only, you know, you’re mistaken. LUCIE. Oh, yes, of course. He goes out to the right, shrugging his shoulders. Lucie rings. Catherine comes in. LUCIE. Are Nurse and Josephine out with the children? CATHERINE. Yes, madame. LUCIE [beaming] Were my little ones well and happy? CATHERINE. Oh, yes, madame. LUCIE [sincerely] Aren’t my little girls pretty? CATHERINE. Yes: pretty and clever. LUCIE. The other day EdmÉe was talking about playing horses, and Louise said ‘’orses’ quite distinctly. It’s wonderful at her age. CATHERINE. I’ve seen lots of children, but I never saw such nice ones before. LUCIE. I’m so glad. You’re a good creature, Catherine. Annette comes in. She pulls off her hat, wild with joy. ANNETTE. Lucie! Sister! News! Great news! Good news! LUCIE. What is it? ANNETTE [giving her hat to Catherine] Take this, Catherine, and go. [She pushes her out gently]. LUCIE [laughing] Well! ANNETTE. I must kiss you, kiss you! I wanted to kiss the people in the street. [She bursts into a laugh which ends in a sob]. LUCIE. Little sister Annette, you’ve gone quite mad. ANNETTE. No—not mad—I’m so happy. LUCIE. What is it, little girl? ANNETTE [in tears] I’m happy! I’m happy! LUCIE. Why, what’s the matter with the child? ANNETTE. No, no. It’s all right—don’t speak to me. I shall soon be better. It’s nervous. [She laughs and cries at the same time]. I tell you I’m happy—only—only—How stupid it is to cry like this. I can’t help it. [She puts her arms round Lucie’s neck]. Oh, little mother, I love you—I do love you. [She kisses Lucie: another little sob]. Oh, I am silly. There now, it’s all right—I’ve done. [She wipes her eyes] There: now I’m going to tell you. [With great joy and emotion, and very simply] I am going to be married. Monsieur and Madame Bernin are coming to see you about it. LUCIE. Why? ANNETTE. Because Jacques has told them to. LUCIE. Jacques! ANNETTE [very fast, tumbling out the words] Yes, it was when I was practising with Gabrielle. He had guessed—it happened this way—practising—he sings a little—oh, nothing very grand—once—[she laughs] but I’ll tell you about that afterwards—it’s because of that—We shall be married soon. [Fresh tears. Then she says gravely, embracing Lucy] I do love him so, and if he hadn’t asked me to marry him—You don’t understand? LUCIE [laughing] I guess a little. ANNETTE. Do you want me to tell you all about it, from the beginning? LUCIE. Yes. ANNETTE. I want to so much. If it won’t bore you. It would make me so happy. LUCIE. Go on. ANNETTE. Well, when I was playing duets with Gabrielle—I must tell you that I began by detesting him because he will make fun of everybody. But he’s most kind, really. For instance— LUCIE. Now keep to the point. When you played duets— ANNETTE. Yes, I was telling you. When I played duets with Gabrielle he used to come and listen to us. He stood behind us to turn over the leaves: once he put his hand upon my shoulder— LUCIE. You let him? ANNETTE. He had his other hand on Gabrielle’s shoulder—it would have been priggish to say anything. LUCIE. Yes, but with Gabrielle it’s different. ANNETTE. That’s what I was going to say. My heart began beating so—I got so red, and I had no idea what I was playing. And then, another time—he couldn’t see the music—he stooped right down. But that’s all nothing. We love each other, that’s the whole thing. LUCIE. And has he told you that he loves you? ANNETTE [gravely] Yes. LUCIE. And you hid all that from me? I’m sorry, Annette. ANNETTE. I’m so, so sorry. But it all came so gradually. I can hardly tell now exactly when it began. I even thought I was mistaken. And then—then—when we first dared to speak to one another about what we had never spoken of, though we both knew it so well—I knew I’d done wrong. But I was so ashamed I couldn’t tell you about it then. LUCIE [tenderly] All the same it was very naughty of you, darling. ANNETTE. Oh, don’t scold me! Please, please don’t scold me. If you only knew how I’ve repented—how unhappy I’ve been. Haven’t you noticed? LUCIE. Yes. Then he’s spoken to his father and mother? ANNETTE. Some time ago. LUCIE. And they consent? ANNETTE. They are coming this afternoon. LUCIE. Why didn’t they come sooner? ANNETTE. Well—Jacques begged them to, but they didn’t want it at first. They wanted Gabrielle to be married first. It was even arranged that I should pretend I didn’t know they had been told. Then, to-day, I met Jacques in the street— LUCIE. In the street? ANNETTE. Yes. Lately he has not been coming to our practices—so I meet him— LUCIE. In the street! ANNETTE. Generally we only bow to one another, and that’s all. But to-day he said to me as he passed, ‘My mother is going to your house. She’s there behind me.’ Then I hurried in to tell you. [With a happy smile] He was quite pale. Please don’t scold me, I am so happy. Forgive me. LUCIE [kissing her] Yes: I forgive you. Then you’re ANNETTE. Yes, I am bad. Bad and ungrateful. That’s true. LUCIE. Marriage is a serious thing. Are you sure you will suit one another? ANNETTE. Oh, I’m certain of it. We’ve quarrelled already. LUCIE. What about? ANNETTE. About a book he lent me. LUCIE. What book? ANNETTE. Anna Karenina. He liked Vronsky better than Peter Levin. He talked nonsense. He said he didn’t believe in Madame Karenina’s suicide. You remember, she throws herself under the wheels of the train Vronsky is going away in. Don’t you remember? It doesn’t matter. LUCIE. And then? ANNETTE. And then—there’s a ring—perhaps that’s the Bernins. A silence. Catherine appears with a card. LUCIE. Yes. It’s Madame Bernin. ANNETTE. Oh! [Going to her room] You’ll come and fetch me presently. LUCIE. Yes. [To Catherine] Show the lady in. ANNETTE. Don’t be long. She goes out. Lucie tidies herself before a glass. Madame Bernin comes in. MME. B. How do you do, Madame Brignac? LUCIE. How do you do, madame? MME. B. Are you quite well? LUCIE. Very well, madame. And you? MME. B. I need not ask after M. Brignac. LUCIE. And M. Bernin? MME. B. He’s very well, thank you. LUCIE. Won’t you sit down? MME. B. Thank you. [Sits] What lovely weather. LUCIE. Yes, isn’t it? How lucky you are to be able MME. B. Well, I came to-day—first of all to have the pleasure of seeing you—and then to have a chat with you about that very matter. LUCIE. And about another matter, too, I think. MME. B. Another matter? LUCIE. Not about another? MME. B. No, I don’t quite understand— LUCIE. Oh, then I beg your pardon. Tell me what it is about Annette’s visit. MME. B. My daughter has just got an invitation to spend some time with her cousins the Guibals, and we can’t possibly refuse to let Gabrielle go to them. So I’ve come to beg you to excuse us, because—as Gabrielle won’t be there— LUCIE. Oh, of course, madame. Will Mademoiselle Gabrielle make a long stay with her cousins? MME. B. Well, that’s just what’s so annoying. We don’t know exactly: it might be a week, or it might be a month. And she may stay there all the time we are away from ChÂteauneuf. LUCIE. Poor little Annette! MME. B. But I thought you were going away somewhere yourselves this Easter? LUCIE. Yes. MME. B [kindly] That relieves my mind a little, and I hope it will make up to Mademoiselle Annette for the disappointment I am obliged to cause her—to my very great regret. LUCIE [after a silence] Will you excuse me, madame. [Hesitating] Perhaps this is indiscreet. MME. B. Oh, I am sure not, Madame Brignac. LUCIE. I only wanted to ask you if it is long since Mademoiselle Gabrielle got this invitation from her cousins? MME. B. About a week. LUCIE. A week! MME. B. Why does that surprise you? LUCIE. Because she did not mention it to Annette. MME. B. She was afraid of disappointing her. LUCIE. Only yesterday Annette was telling me about all sorts of excursions your daughter was planning for them both. Madame, this invitation is an excuse: please tell me the whole truth. Annette is only my sister, but I love her as if she was my own child, and I speak as a mother to a mother. I’m not going to try to be clever or to stand on my dignity. This is how it is: Annette believes your son loves her, and when you were announced just now she thought you came to arrange her marriage with him. Now you know all that I know. Tell me the truth, and let us do what we can to prevent unhappiness. MME. B. As you speak so simply and feelingly I will tell you candidly exactly what is in my mind. As a matter of fact this invitation to Gabrielle is only a device of ours to prevent Jacques and Annette seeing any more of one another. LUCIE. Then you don’t want them to see any more of one another? MME. B. No, because I don’t want them to marry. LUCIE. Because Annette is poor? MME. B [after some hesitation] Well—since we’re speaking plainly—yes, because she is poor. Ah, dear Madame Brignac, we have both been very much to blame for not foreseeing what has happened. LUCIE. We have been to blame? MME. B. I know Annette, and I like her very much. I know you too, better than you think, and I have the greatest respect and esteem for you; it has never even occurred to me that in seeking our acquaintance you had any other motive than friendship. But you ought to have feared and foreseen what has happened? LUCIE. What should I fear? Annette went to see MME. B. How do you know I foresaw nothing? And how can one tell the right moment to interfere to prevent playmates becoming lovers? While I was uncertain didn’t I run the risk of causing the very thing I was anxious to prevent, by separating them without a good reason? When I really felt sure there was danger I spoke to Jacques. I said to him ‘Annette is not a suitable match for you: you must be very careful how you behave to her: don’t forget to treat this girl as a sister.’ LUCIE. And he said ‘It is too late: we love each other.’ MME. B. On the contrary, he said: ‘You needn’t worry, mother. I have been thinking the same thing myself, and I am a man of honor. Besides, though Annette is charming, she’s not the sort of woman I mean to marry.’ LUCIE. How long ago did he tell you that? MME. B. About two months ago. LUCIE. Well, at that time he had already spoken of marriage to Annette; or at least he had spoken of love, which from him to her is the same thing. MME. B. I can only tell you what I know. LUCIE. Well, madame, all this is beside the question. You are opposed to this marriage? MME. B. Yes. LUCIE. Finally? Irrevocably? MME. B. Finally. Irrevocably. LUCIE. Because Annette has no money? MME. B. Yes. LUCIE. Your son knew she had no money when he made her love him. MME. B. Believe me, he didn’t mean to do the harm he has done. A young girl of his own age was his sister’s constant companion, and at first he treated her as he treated his sister. At first, I’m sure, it was without any special intention that he saw so much of her. Afterwards probably he made some pretty speeches to your little Annette, and no doubt he was greatly taken with her. As Annette is more innocent and simple and affectionate, and of course more ignorant than he is, she has been more quickly and more deeply touched. But my son is not the worthless fellow you think him, and the proof of that is that he himself came and told me all about it. LUCIE. And when you told him he must give up Annette, he agreed? MME. B. Yes, he agreed. He’s reasonable and sensible, and he saw the force of my arguments. He saw that this parting, though it will be painful, was an absolute necessity. He will certainly suffer; but they are both so young. At that age love troubles don’t last. LUCIE. I understand. In a week your son will have forgotten all about it. But Annette— MME. B. She will soon forget it, too. LUCIE. I don’t know—I don’t know. Oh, my poor darling! If you had seen her just now when she came to tell me about it! It’s not for joy she will cry now. Oh!—[she begins to cry]. MME. B [moved] Don’t cry—oh, don’t cry. I assure you I am most deeply sorry. Oh, if it were only possible, how happy it would make me that my boy should marry Annette. The girl he is engaged to is an affected little thing who annoys me, and I really love your sister. LUCIE. But if that is true you can afford to let your son marry a girl without fortune. MME. B. No: we’re not so well off as people think. There’s Gabrielle to be provided for. There will be next to nothing left for Jacques. LUCIE. But he might work. MME. B. He has not been brought up to that. LUCIE. That was a mistake. MME. B. The professions are overcrowded. Would you have him go into an office and get 200 francs a month? They wouldn’t be able to keep a servant. LUCIE. He could earn more than that. MME. B. If he got 500—could he keep up his position? Could he remain in his present set? It would be a come-down for him; a come-down he would owe to his wife; and sooner or later he would reproach her for it. And think of their children! They would have just enough to send their son to a board school, and make their daughter a post office clerk. And even then they would have to pinch and screw to provide for her until she got in. LUCIE. It’s true. MME. B. You see that I’m right. I can’t say I’m proud of having to say such things—of belonging to a society that forces one to do such things. But we’re not in a land of romance. We live among vain, selfish, hard-headed people. LUCIE. You despise them, and yet you sacrifice everything to their opinion. MME. B. Yes: because everything depends upon their opinion. Social position depends upon it. One must be a very exceptional person to be able to defy public opinion. And Jacques is not exceptional. LUCIE. That’s nothing to be proud of. If he was exceptional, I mean if he was different to all these people about, he would find his love would prevent him from troubling about the sneers of worthless idlers. MME. B. His love! Love goes: poverty stays: it is a proverb. Beauty passes: want remains. LUCIE. But you, madame, yourself—you and your husband are a proof that one can marry poor and make a fortune. Your story is well known. Your husband began in an office, then he started his own business; and if riches make happiness, you are happy now—you and he—aren’t you? MME. B. No, no, no; we are not happy, because we have worn ourselves out hunting after happiness. We wanted to ‘get on,’ and we got on. But what a price we paid for it! First, when we were both earning wages, our life was one long drudgery of petty economy and meanness. When we set up on our own account we lived in an atmosphere of trickery, of enmity, of lying; flattering the customers, and always in terror of bankruptcy. Oh, I know the road to fortune! It means tears, lies, envy, hate; one suffers—and one makes other people suffer. I’ve had to go through it: my children shan’t. We’ve only had two children: we meant only to have one. Having two we had to be doubly hard upon ourselves. Instead of a husband and wife helping one another, we have been partners spying upon one another; calling one another to account for every little expenditure or stupidity; and on our very pillows disputing about our business. That’s how we got rich; and now we can’t enjoy our money because we don’t know how to use it; and we aren’t happy because our old age is made bitter by the memories and the rancor left from the old bad days: because we have suffered too much and hated too much. My children shall not go through this. I endured it that they might be spared. Good-bye, madame. LUCIE. Good-bye. Madame Bernin goes out. After a moment Lucie goes slowly to Annette’s door and opens it. ANNETTE [coming in] You’ve been crying! It’s because I’m going away, isn’t it? Not because there’s anything in the way of—[with increasing trouble] Tell me, Lucie! LUCIE. You love him so much then? ANNETTE. If we were not to be married—I should die. LUCIE. No, you wouldn’t die. Think of all the girls who have said that: did they die? ANNETTE. Is there anything to prevent? LUCIE. No, no. ANNETTE. And when is it to be? Did you talk about that? LUCIE. What a state of excitement you are in! Annette, dear, you must try to control yourself a little. ANNETTE [making an effort] Yes. You’re right. I’m a little off my head. LUCIE. You are really. ANNETTE [still controlling herself] Well, tell me. What did Madame Bernin say? LUCIE. What a hurry you are in to leave me! You don’t care for me any more, then? ANNETTE [gravely] Ah, my dear! If I hadn’t you what would become of me! [A silence] But you’re telling me nothing. You don’t seem to be telling me the truth—you’re hiding something from me—there is some difficulty, I’m certain of it. If there wasn’t you’d say there wasn’t, you wouldn’t put me off—you’d tell me what Madame Bernin said. LUCIE. Well—there is something. ANNETTE [bursting into tears] Oh, my God! LUCIE. You are both very young. It would be better to wait a little—a year—perhaps more. ANNETTE [crying] Wait—a year! LUCIE. Come, come, stop crying. There’s really no reason for all this. I am not quite pleased with you, Annette. You’re barely nineteen. If you waited to marry until you are twenty it would be no harm. ANNETTE. It’s not possible! LUCIE. Not possible? [She looks searchingly at her]. Annette, you frighten me. If it wasn’t you—[tenderly and gravely] Have I been wrong to trust you? ANNETTE. No! No! What can you be thinking of—Oh, indeed— LUCIE. What is it, then? ANNETTE. Well, I’ve been such a fool as to tell some friends I was engaged. LUCIE. Before speaking to me about it? ANNETTE [confused] Don’t, please, ask me any more questions. LUCIE. Annette, I must scold you a little. You’ve hurt me very much by keeping me in the dark about all this. Nothing would have made me believe that you’d do such a thing. I thought you were too fond of me not to tell me at once about anybody—any man—you were interested in. I find I was mistaken. We see one another every day, we are never parted, and yet you have managed to conceal from me the one thing your heart was full of. You ought to have told me. Not because I am your elder sister, but because I take mother’s place towards you. And for a better reason still—because I am your friend. It’s been a kind of treason. A little more, and I should have heard that you were engaged from strangers and not from you. Well, my dear, you’ve been wrong: these people are not worth crying about. Now be brave and remember your self-respect: I am going to tell you the whole truth. They don’t want you, my poor little girl: you are not rich enough for them. ANNETTE [staring blindly at her sister] They don’t want me! They don’t want me! But Jacques! Jacques! Does he know? LUCIE. Yes, he knows. ANNETTE. He means to give me up if they tell him to? LUCIE. Yes. ANNETTE [beside herself] I must see him. I will write to him. I must see him. If they don’t want me there is nothing left but to kill myself. LUCIE [obliging Annette to look her in the face] Annette, look at me. [Silence. Then tenderly and gravely] ANNETTE [tearing herself away] Don’t ask me—don’t [very low] or I shall die of shame. Lucie forces her to sit down beside her and takes her in her arms. LUCIE. Come—into my arms. Put your head on my shoulder as you used when you were little. There now, tell me what the trouble is. [Speaking low]. My darling—my little darling—I’m afraid you’re most unhappy. Try and think that it’s mother. ANNETTE [very low, crying piteously] Oh, mother! If you knew what I have done! LUCIE [rocking her gently] There—tell me. Whisper it to me. Whisper— Annette whispers. Lucie rises and separates herself from her sister. She hides her face in her hands. LUCIE. Oh, Annette! You! ANNETTE [kneeling and stretching out her arms] Forgive me! Forgive me! Forgive me! I deserve it all. But I’m almost mad. LUCIE. You, Annette! You! ANNETTE. Are you going to make me sorry I didn’t kill myself before I told you! Forgive me— LUCIE. Get up. It’s too awful. I must forgive you. [She sits down]. ANNETTE [still kneeling] I didn’t know—I understood nothing. He took me by surprise. I had loved him for a long time. When he was with his regiment I used to look forward for weeks to his coming home on leave. Just the thought of seeing him used to make me tremble. Before I even knew myself that I was in love with him, he guessed it. He made me tell him so when he asked me to marry him. Then one day—his father and mother were away, and someone came and called Gabrielle, I don’t know why. When we were alone—I didn’t understand—I thought he had suddenly gone mad. But when he kissed me like that I was stunned—I couldn’t LUCIE. And he knows that—? ANNETTE. No. No. Since that day—O, that day!—I’ve never been alone with him. We say ‘monsieur’ and ’mademoiselle’ when we meet and [in an awestruck tone] he is the father of my child. LUCIE [after a silence] It’s not a question now of a girl not to be married because she is poor. It’s a question of atoning for a crime. Julien must speak to M. Bernin. ANNETTE. You’re going to tell him? LUCIE. I must. Go back to your room. You’re in no fit state to come to dinner. [She looks at the clock] I have only just time to dress. Directly the people are gone I shall speak to Jules. When do they go away? ANNETTE. In a fortnight. LUCIE. It’s no matter. Jules shall see M. Bernin tomorrow. ANNETTE. He won’t. He’ll have nothing more to do with me. LUCIE. No. He will do all he can to save you. ANNETTE. I don’t think so. Dearest, you are mistaken. LUCIE. No, I’m not mistaken. I am certain. Go. [Annette goes out]. I’m not mistaken. But if I were! If there were no one but me to defend this child and her baby! [A knock at the office door]. Come in. [The clerk enters] What is it? CLERK [laying a paper on the table] It is the circular from the Minister of the Interior. M. le sous-prÉfet told me to put it here. ACT II[Same scene. [Lucie, the colonel, Madame Chevillot, Chevillot, the sous-intendant, Brignac, Jacques Poiret, Pierre Poiret, and Laurent. The last three are provincial mayors. [Lucie and Madame Chevillot are in smart evening gowns; the colonel and the sous-intendant in uniform; Chevillot and Brignac are in evening dress; Jacques Poiret in a frock coat, and Laurent and Pierre Poiret in morning coats. [It is after dinner. They are drinking coffee. PIERRE [a tall, thin peasant, embarrassed by his coffee cup, speaks aside to Laurent in a strong provincial accent] A fine thing, ain’t it, to be so rich and not have enough tables to go round. LAURENT [formerly a working man, to Pierre Poiret] At lunch ’twas just the same. JACQUES [a crafty farmer, putting his cup down upon the centre table, and speaking generally] As for me, I— LAURENT [passing his cup to Jacques] M. le maire, would you mind? PIERRE [the same] M. le maire, would you—? They get rid of their cups, passing them from one to the other. BRIGNAC [to the mayors] Will you take liqueurs? [He points to a bottle and small glasses on a tray]. ALL THREE [making too much fuss about it] Thank you, thank you, M. le sous-prÉfet. BRIGNAC. Delighted. [He passes behind the centre table and pours out liqueur]. SOUS-IN [he is small and thin and wears spectacles: a professor disguised as a soldier] Yes, ladies: it is an eccentricity. I acknowledge it and beg you to excuse it: I am a collector. But you must confess that I have not bored you with it. COLONEL [very much the fine gentleman] Indeed, no, it was I who let out the secret. But I said also that you are a learnÈd man. SOUS-IN. A dabbler only, colonel. BRIGNAC [pretending to find upon the table the circular mentioned in the first act] Hullo! what’s this? [No one hears him. He puts the circular back again upon the table]. LUCIE [to the sous-intendant] And are you also a literary man? SOUS-IN. The Intelligence Department is the literary section of the army. LAURENT [to Jacques Poiret, passing him his glass] M. le maire—? PIERRE [same thing] M. le maire—? BRIGNAC [again taking up the circular: in a louder voice] Hullo! What’s this? [They all look at him]. It’s that very circular I was talking about at dinner: the one from the Minister of the Interior. COL. About the decline of the population? BRIGNAC. Yes, colonel. This is an important official document. It came to-day, and I have been carefully considering what can be done to advance this movement in my own humble sphere of influence. [To Chevillot] As I said to you a short time ago, M. le maire of ChÂteauneuf, the Minister desires to see the whole of France covered with associations having the increase of the population for their object; I am certain that you will CHEV. I’m with you. I am a manufacturer: I am all for large populations. BRIGNAC. You are the very man to be president of the ChÂteauneuf association. COL. I am a soldier: I also am for large populations. LUCIE. And you, M. l’intendant? SOUS-IN. I, madame, am a bachelor. COL [joking] More shame for you! BRIGNAC [also joking] It’s a scandal, monsieur, a perfect scandal. MME. CHEV. You don’t regret it? SOUS-IN. Ah, I don’t say that, madame. BRIGNAC [to the three mayors] You have heard, messieurs les maires: commerce and the army require the increase of the population, and the Government commands you, therefore, to further this end to the best of your ability, each one of you in his own commune. The three mayors seem annoyed. They look at one another. PIERRE [nervelessly] All right, M. le sous-prÉfet. LAUR [in the same tone] I’ll mention it. JACQUES [the same] I’ll think it over. BRIGNAC. Oh, but gentlemen, I want something more definite than that. I am a man of action: I am not to be put off with words. ‘Acta non verba.’ May I depend on you to set to work? LAUR. You see, M. le sous-prÉfet, this’ll take a bit of thinking over. JACQUES. Don’t be in a hurry. BRIGNAC. We must be men of action. M. Pierre Poiret, now is your chance, won’t you give them a lead? PIERRE. Me—M. le sous-prÉfet? BRIGNAC. Yes, you, M. le maire! PIERRE. No—oh, no—not me. If you knew—no—not me. [Pointing to his neighbor] My brother, Jacques Poiret: he’s your man. Ask Jacques, M. le sous-prÉfet, he can’t refuse. But me—not me! BRIGNAC. Then it is to be you, M. Jacques Poiret? JACQUES. If they want to start an association in my commune, M. le sous-prÉfet, they must get Thierry to see to it. BRIGNAC. Who is Thierry? JACQUES. My opponent at the next election. BRIGNAC. Why? JACQUES. Why—if he goes in for this I’m certain to get in. But about the next commune, I can’t understand why my brother Pierre won’t. PIERRE. Me? JACQUES. Yes, you’re the very man. BRIGNAC. Why? JACQUES. Why? Because he has eight children. BRIGNAC. You, M. Pierre Poiret, you have eight children, and you said nothing about it! Let these ladies congratulate you. PIERRE [resisting] It’s not civil, M. le sous-prÉfet, it’s not civil. BRIGNAC. What d’you mean? PIERRE. When you ask people to dinner it’s not to make fun of them. BRIGNAC. But I’m not making fun of you. PIERRE. You’d be the first that didn’t. I can’t help it! It’s real bad luck, that’s what it is. But it’s no reason why I should always be made fun of. BRIGNAC. But— PIERRE. Yes, it’s always the same. In my commune— BRIGNAC [interrupting] But I assure you— PIERRE. In my commune they’re always joking about me. They say ‘Hey, Pierre Poiret, there’s a prize for the twelfth!’ Or they say ‘Pierre Poiret’—and there isn’t a single day they don’t say it, and everyone thinks it’s BRIGNAC. No, no. PIERRE. I bet you he did. Whenever we’re in company it’s the same thing. I won’t go about with him any more. BRIGNAC. But your position is most honorable. PIERRE. And the worst of it is that he’s right. I call myself a fool myself when I’m alone. [Jacques Poiret goes on laughing] Look at him—grinning—look!—because he’s only got two. [To his brother] You puppy! COL [to Pierre Poiret] You deserve the greatest credit, M. Pierre Poiret. BRIGNAC. You do. CHEV. You do, indeed, monsieur. COL [to Pierre Poiret] In comparing your conduct with your brother’s all men of real worth will blame him and congratulate you, as I do, most sincerely. [He shakes him by the hand]. CHEV [to Pierre Poiret] Bravo, monsieur! You are helping us in our great work. [He shakes him by the hand]. JACQUES [looking at his brother] They seem as if they meant it! BRIGNAC [to Jacques Poiret] You, monsieur, have chosen the easier and more agreeable life; don’t be surprised if we look upon your brother as the more meritorious, though you may be cleverer. PIERRE [striking his thigh] That’s the talk. [To his brother] Put that in your pipe, M. Jacques. JACQUES. All right. You are the most meritorious. Is that what you’re going to pay your baker with? PIERRE. Shut up! I’m the best citizen! I’m the most meritorious! JACQUES. H’m—yes. What does that bring you in? SOUS-IN. I will tell you that, monsieur. It brings in to your brother, as the poet says, ‘The joy of duty done.’ JACQUES. H’m. That won’t put butter on his bread. SOUS-IN. That is true. But one can’t have everything. PIERRE [to Brignac, pointing to his brother] He’s right, monsieur. For the once that I’ve been complimented, I’ve had to go through some bad times. BRIGNAC. You mustn’t think of that. PIERRE. Oh—mustn’t I? Go along! He’s right. BRIGNAC. He’s not. PIERRE. Yes, he is. CHEV. and COL. No, no. PIERRE. Yes, he is. BRIGNAC. No. It’s possible that some people might think so now; but in ten years the tables will be turned. He may die lonely, while you will have a happy old age with your children and your grandchildren. PIERRE. Perhaps it was like that once; but nowadays as soon as the children can get along by themselves, off they go! CHEV. Even so they will send you help if you need it. JACQUES. They couldn’t help him, even if they wanted to. COL. Why not? JACQUES. Because as there were eight he couldn’t do anything for them, so they’ll only be struggling, hand-to-mouth creatures; not earning enough to keep themselves, much less help him. PIERRE. And he’s been able to bring up his well. He’s only one girl: he gave her a fortune and she made a fine marriage. He’s only one boy: he was able to send him to Grignon and he’ll earn big money like his father. No: it’s no use your talking. They’re right when they say ’Well, Poiret,’—h’m—not before the ladies. He goes to the table, pours himself out a glass of cognac and drinks it. COL. I regret to say we have become too far-seeing a nation. Everyone thinks of his own future: no one thinks of the good of the community. BRIGNAC. In former times people troubled less about the future. They had faith, and remembered the words of the Scriptures, ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’ LUCIE. And yet there are little children going about in rags. SOUS-IN. God must be less interested in them than in the lilies of the field. COL [to Jacques Poiret] But, monsieur, you need hands, too, in harvest-time. JACQUES. I have a cutting-and-binding machine. It does the work of twelve men, and only cost a thousand francs. A child costs more. CHEV. We must have workmen to make machines. JACQUES. We buy the machines ready-made in America much cheaper than we can make them in France. CHEV. If there were a greater number of workmen we might cut down wages and produce at lower prices. JACQUES. Cut down wages! The workmen are complaining already that they can’t live on their wages. CHEV. Bah! give them twenty francs a day, and they’ll still complain. SOUS-IN. You have not tried that yet. COL. My dear fellow, remember that, as a bachelor, you are out of this discussion. SOUS-IN. I withdraw. CHEV. I didn’t mean that for you, Laurent. [To the Colonel] M. Laurent, the mayor of Ste. GeneviÈve, was formerly a workman of mine, but he came into a little money, and went back to his native place. [To Laurent] No—I didn’t mean it for you; but they’re not all like you, you know. BRIGNAC [to Laurent] So you refuse to form an association too? LAUR. Refuse, M. le sous-prÉfet? No. BRIGNAC. At last! Here’s a mayor who understands his duties. He’ll start the thing among his people, and before long we shall have the commune of Ste. GeneviÈve setting an example to the whole of France. LAUR. Don’t get that into your head, monsieur; you’ll be disappointed. BRIGNAC. No, no. LAUR. Whether you form your association or don’t form your association, the people at home are too sensible to have more children than they’ve cradles for. They know too well they must put a bit by. BRIGNAC. If you think that an association will make no difference why do you agree to form one? LAUR. Because I want you to get me what you promised me. BRIGNAC. What was that? LAUR. You know. BRIGNAC. No, I don’t. Laurent touches his buttonhole. BRIGNAC [angrily] Is that what we’ve come to? We were speaking of the good of the community. CHEV [the same] It’s most discouraging. We point out to you that the trade of the country is in danger. BRIGNAC. And you only think of yourself. CHEV. You only think of yourself. BRIGNAC. What a want of public spirit! CHEV. Bad citizenship! LAUR [getting excited] Oh, yes! Making the poor do everything! Go and talk to the middle classes, who’ve money enough to rear children by the dozen, and who’ve fewer than the workmen. Here’s M. Chevillot: he has twenty thousand francs a year, I have two thousand. When he has ten children, then I’ll have one. That’ll be fair and square, won’t it now? CHEV. These personalities— LAUR. Is it true that you’ve only one son? CHEV. It’s true. But if I had several my works would have to be sold at my death, and— LAUR. There we are. These gentlemen are too precious careful about the fortunes they leave their own children; but when it’s a question of the workmen’s children, they think it don’t matter if there ain’t enough victuals to go round. CHEV. It is to the interest of the workmen that my works should be prosperous. LAUR. But you only take unmarried men. CHEV. I beg your pardon—I— LAUR. Is it true? CHEV. It’s because of the Employers’ Liability Bill. Let me explain—[Laurent turns his back on him. He addresses himself to Brignac] Allow me to—[Brignac does not listen. To the sous-intendant] If I was allowed to explain you would understand. I’m perfectly consistent. LAUR. Are we to do as you say, or are we to do as you do? If you believed what you say you’d act accordingly. CHEV. But— BRIGNAC. We shouldn’t indulge in these personalities. We must look higher. Lift up your hearts. Sursum corda. You have just heard, gentlemen, that commerce and the army protest against the decline of the population. And I, the representative of the Government of this country, tell you, in concert with commerce and the army, that there must be more births. LAUR. And what’s the Government doing? BRIGNAC. What is it doing!—well—and this circular? SOUS-IN. We must be just. Besides this circular, the Government has appointed a Commission to enquire into the matter. BRIGNAC. Various measures are being brought up. LAUR. When they’re passed—we’ll see. BRIGNAC. Those who have a large family will be exempted from taxation. LAUR. From what taxes? BRIGNAC. What taxes! The taxes you pay to the collector, of course. LAUR. Listen, M. le sous-prÉfet. The poor pay next to nothing of those taxes. They pay the real taxes: the taxes upon bread, wine, salt, tobacco: and they’ll go on paying them. The more children you have, the more money the State takes from you. SOUS-IN. Pray do not forget that the State proposes to confer a decoration upon every mother of seven children. PIERRE [to Laurent] There you are! JACQUES. M. le sous-prÉfet, we must be off. We’ve a long way to go. BRIGNAC [to Jacques] Good night, M. le maire. PIERRE [tipsy] I’m all right here. Why go ’way? LAUR. I’m a fool, M. Brignac. I’m afraid I’ve been setting you against me. I’ll start an association—trust me. Good night. Good night, madame. JACQUES. Good night, madame. LUCIE. Good night, good night. PIERRE. Good night, ladies, gents, and—hic—the company. They go out, accompanied by Brignac. COL [to Lucie and Madame Chevillot] I’m afraid we’ve bored you, ladies, with our discussion. LUCIE. Not at all. COL. I notice that women are usually a little impatient if we talk of these questions. SOUS-IN. As impatient as we should be if they discussed the recruiting laws without consulting us. MME. CHEV. Precisely. COL [to Lucie] Perhaps, too, you don’t agree with us. LUCIE. You’ll never make women understand why children must be created to be killed in your battles. COL [to the sous-intendant] There, that’s how the military ruin of a country is brought about. SOUS-IN. You’re right, colonel, if it be true that power is a function of number. COL. Well, isn’t it? SOUS-IN. Those who believe the contrary say ‘There is no evidence in history that supremacy, even military supremacy, has ever belonged to the most numerous peoples.’ I quote M. de Varigny. General von der Gotz shares this opinion, and our own General Serval says, ’All great military operations have been performed by small armies.’ Brignac comes in. COL. Oh, ho, Mr. Bachelor, you’ve got all the arguments on your side at your finger-ends. BRIGNAC. We shall make laws against you and your like, M. le sous-intendant. We shall make it impossible for you to receive money by will, as the Romans did. We shall make you pay fines, as the Greeks did. And we’ll invent something new, if necessary. SOUS-IN. Compulsory paternity! COL. One may fairly ask whether people have the right to shirk these obligations. SOUS-IN. Some people think it is their duty. BRIGNAC. Their duty! SOUS-IN. Are you sure that all men who don’t marry are bachelors from pure selfishness? COL. Of course, we’re not speaking of you personally. SOUS-IN. Do so, by all means. It was not out of mere lightness of heart that I deprived myself of the tenderness of a wife and the caresses of a child. When I was young I was poor and sickly. I did not choose to bring children into the world when I had nothing to leave them but my bad constitution. I said, in the words of a great poet: I thought it better to be lonely than let the stock go from bad to worse. I believe it is a crime to bring a child into the world if one cannot give it health and bring it up well. We saw one hundred conscripts this morning, colonel, and we passed sixty. Would it not have been better if there had only been eighty and we could have passed them all? COL. Perhaps you are right. I said what I said because I’ve heard it so constantly repeated. SOUS-IN. When there are healthy houses and food and clothing for everyone it will be time to think of adding to the number. LUCIE. That is very true. CHEV. You evidently don’t share M. Brignac’s ideas, madame. BRIGNAC. Oh, indeed she does. Madame Brignac and I have three children, and we don’t mean to stop there: so my wife may qualify for that decoration some day. LUCIE [to Chevillot] As far as I can see, M. le maire, when children are born now society does not always make them welcome. BRIGNAC. I think, my dear, that you had better leave the discussion of this important question to the gentlemen. LUCIE. But surely it has some interest for us women! I hear everyone else consulted about it—political people and business people—but nobody ever thinks of consulting us. BRIGNAC. Far from not welcoming the children that are born, society— LUCIE [to Brignac] Stop! Do you remember what happened lately, not a hundred miles from here? I mean about the servant who was turned out into the street because she was going to have a baby. She will have to go to some hospital for her confinement. And after that what will happen to her and her child? BRIGNAC [to the others] Madame Brignac speaks of CHEV. Very true. LUCIE. And the unfortunate girl, who is very likely only the victim of another person, is condemned by everyone. BRIGNAC [timidly] No, no, I don’t say that. I myself am very liberal, and I confess that in—exceptional circumstances—one should be indulgent to her. LUCIE. Very well. Don’t forget you have said that. COL. Good night, madame. I must be going. Thank you for a charming evening. CHEV. I also, madame—charming. BRIGNAC [pointing to the door into his office] This way. As you go out I want to shew you a diagram I have had done, by which you can make yourself acquainted at a single glance with the political conditions of the division. There is an arrangement of pins—[They hesitate]. One minute. It will only take a minute. You can go out through the office. One minute—while you are putting on your coats. The coats are in there. I’m going out with you to a reception at the club. You’ll see—it’s rather curious. [To Lucie, aside] You come too. [Aloud] I think the idea is ingenious. [He talks them all off. When they are gone there is a short pause, and then Catherine opens the door at the back and steps forward.] CATHERINE [to Annette, who has come into the anteroom] Yes, mademoiselle, they are all gone. [Annette comes in. She takes off her hat and cloak and hands them to Catherine, who takes them into the anteroom LUCIE. Annette! Where have you been? ANNETTE. I have been to see Jacques Bernin. LUCIE. You have seen him? You have spoken to him? ANNETTE. I went to his father’s house. LUCIE. Well? ANNETTE. There is no hope. LUCIE. What did they say to you? ANNETTE. I oughtn’t ever to tell anyone about the two hours I have just lived through. It’s too shameful. Too vile. What I can’t believe is that all that really happened to me, and that I am alive still. LUCIE [tenderly] Tell me all about it. ANNETTE. What’s the good of my telling you? It’s all over. There’s nothing left. He didn’t love me: he never loved me. He’s gone. He’s going to marry another woman. LUCIE. He’s gone? ANNETTE. He went this evening. They all went. M. and Madame Bernin and Gabrielle dined at the station; Jacques dined at a restaurant with some friends. I went there. I sent up for him. From where I was standing, in the vestibule, I heard their jokes when the waiter gave him my message. LUCIE [in gentle reproach] Annette! ANNETTE. I wanted to know. I was certain his people were taking him away by force, and I was making excuses for him. I was certain he loved me. I should have laughed if anyone had told me he wouldn’t be horrified when he heard what had happened to me. I thought that when he knew, he’d take my hand, and go with me to his people, and say ‘Whether you wish it or not, here is my wife.’ As I was sure it would end like that, I thought it was better it should be over at once. I ex LUCIE. And what did he say? ANNETTE [without listening] I think I’ve gone mad. All that happened, and I’m here. I’m quiet: I’m not crying: it’s as if I was paralysed. LUCIE. You said you sent a message to him at the restaurant? ANNETTE. Yes. LUCIE. Did he come? ANNETTE. Yes. He said he thought some chorus-girl wanted him. LUCIE. Oh! And when he found it was you? ANNETTE. He took me out into the street for fear I should be recognized, and I had to explain it to him in the street. [A pause]. People passing by stared at us, and some of them laughed. [With passion and pain] Oh! if I only had no memory! LUCIE. Tell me, darling, tell me. ANNETTE [with violence] Oh, I’ll tell you. You’ll despise me a little more; but what can that matter to me now? First he pretended not to understand me: he forced me to say it quite plainly: he did it on purpose—either to torture me, or to give himself time to think. You’ll never guess what he said—that it wasn’t true. LUCIE. Oh! ANNETTE. Yes, that it wasn’t true. He got angry, and he began to abuse me. He said he guessed what I was up to; that I wanted to make a scandal to force him to marry me—oh, he spared me nothing—to force him to marry me because he was rich. And when that made me furious, he threatened to call the police! I ought to have left him, run away, come home, oughtn’t I? But I couldn’t believe it of him all at once, like that! And I couldn’t go away while I had any hope. You see, as long as I was with him, nothing was settled: as long as I was holding to his arm it was as if I was engaged. When he LUCIE. Annette—don’t say that. Hush, my darling, hush. In the first place, everything hasn’t been tried. ANNETTE. It’ll be no use. LUCIE. It will be of use. The way they’re hurrying away shews how afraid they are of scandal. As soon as my husband comes in I will tell him all about it. ANNETTE. Oh, my God! LUCIE. He will go down and see them. He will threaten them with an action. They will give in. ANNETTE. We can’t bring an action against them. He told me so. LUCIE. Then there are other ways of defending you. Believe me, I’m sure of it. ANNETTE. There are not. LUCIE. There are. And even if there weren’t, you mustn’t talk of dying at your age. Am I not here? Annette, Annette, my little one, I will help you through this trouble! You believe me, don’t you? You know how I love you? You know that mother left you in my care? I’ll help you and comfort you and love you so well that you’ll forget. ANNETTE. Forget! LUCIE. Yes, yes; people forget. If it weren’t for that no one would be alive. ANNETTE. I feel as if I had lived a hundred years. Life is hard, hard; too hard. LUCIE. Life is hard for all women. ANNETTE. It’s worse for me than for anyone else. LUCIE. Oh, Annette! If you only knew! ANNETTE. When I’ve seen mothers with their little children I’ve had such dreams. LUCIE. If you only knew! Those mothers had their own troubles. Nearly every woman carries about with her the corpse of the woman she might have been. ANNETTE. Ah, Lucie, dear, it’s easy for you to talk. LUCIE. Darling, you mustn’t think you’re alone in your sorrow. I seem to you to be happy with my children and my husband, and you think my happiness ANNETTE. My poor dear! LUCIE. So you see, Annette, you mustn’t think about dying, because perhaps I shall want your help as much as you want mine. I heard the door shut. It’s Julien. ANNETTE. Don’t tell him: please don’t. Spare me the shame. LUCIE. Go away, now. ANNETTE. You’ve given me back a little hope. Dearest sister help me, I have nobody else. LUCIE. Go! She goes: Brignac comes in. BRIGNAC [making for the door of his office] Not gone to bed yet? I had a stroke of luck at the club. I met the editor of the ‘Independent’ and I promised to write him an article about the minister’s circular for to-morrow’s paper. An official’s day is sometimes pretty full, eh? LUCIE. Julien, I have something very important to tell you. A great misfortune has happened to us. BRIGNAC. Good heavens, what is it? The children? LUCIE. No, it has to do with Annette. BRIGNAC. You said she didn’t come to dinner because of a headache. Have you been concealing something? LUCIE. She is not ill, but she is cruelly and grievously unhappy. BRIGNAC. Nonsense! Unhappiness at her age! A love affair. Some marriage she had set her heart on. LUCIE. Yes, a marriage she had set her heart on. BRIGNAC. Ouf! I breathe again. What a fright you gave me! That’s not of much consequence. LUCIE. Yes, it’s of the greatest consequence. Julien, BRIGNAC. But what’s the matter? LUCIE. Annette made the mistake of trusting entirely to the man she loved, who had promised to marry her. He took advantage of the child’s innocent love. She has been seduced. [In a low voice] Understand me, Julien, she’s going to have a baby in six months. BRIGNAC. Annette! LUCIE. Annette. BRIGNAC. It’s impossible. It’s— LUCIE. She is certain of it. She told me about it herself. BRIGNAC [after a silence] Who is it? LUCIE. Jacques Bernin. BRIGNAC [furious] Jacques Bernin! Well, this is a nice piece of work! She goes it, this little sister of yours, with her innocent airs! LUCIE. Don’t accuse her. Don’t. BRIGNAC. I really cannot compliment her! I’m nicely repaid for all I’ve done for her, and you may thank her from me for her gratitude. LUCIE. Oh, don’t be angry. BRIGNAC. Well, if you are able to hear news like this perfectly calmly, you are certainly endowed with unusual self-control. LUCIE. It was the child’s innocence that made the thing possible. BRIGNAC. I daresay. Go and tell that to the ChÂteauneuf people! Besides, if she was so innocent, why didn’t you look after her better? LUCIE. But it was you who were always urging her to go to the Bernins. BRIGNAC. In another minute it’s going to be all my fault! I was glad she should go to their house because I thought old Bernin might be useful to us. How should I know that the girl couldn’t behave herself? LUCIE [indignantly] Oh, hush! I tell you Annette is the victim of this wretch. If you are going to do nothing but insult her, we had better stop discussing the matter. BRIGNAC. I’m in a nice fix now! There’s nothing left for us but to pack our trunks and be off. I’m done for, ruined! smashed! LUCIE. You exaggerate. BRIGNAC. I exaggerate! I tell you if she was caught red-handed stealing, the wreck wouldn’t be more complete. I even think that would have been better. I should be less definitely compromized, and less disqualified. LUCIE. You can abuse her by and by: the business now is to save her. The Bernins have gone away this evening; find them to-morrow; and, if you speak to them as you ought, they’ll understand that their son must marry Annette. BRIGNAC. But Jacques Bernin is engaged. LUCIE. He must break it off, that’s all. BRIGNAC. He won’t break it off, because it means lots and lots of money, and because he is the most ferocious little fortune-hunter I ever met. Yes, he is; I know him, I see him at the club. I’ve heard him holding forth about women and money; his opinions are edifying. By the way, has Annette any letters from him connecting him with this business? LUCIE. No. BRIGNAC. He’s not such a fool as to compromize himself. He’ll deny everything. LUCIE. You must threaten them with a scandal. BRIGNAC. We should be the first to suffer from that. LUCIE. But we must do something. We must bring an action. BRIGNAC. There is no affiliation law in France. LUCIE. You refuse to go and see what can be done with the Bernins? BRIGNAC. Not at all. I say that it would be a useless journey. LUCIE. Then what are we to do? BRIGNAC. Not a soul in ChÂteauneuf must know what has happened. Fortunately we have a little time. LUCIE. What are you going to do? BRIGNAC. We’ll see. We’ll think it over. One doesn’t come to a decision of this importance in ten minutes. LUCIE. I want to know what you are going to do. Your point of view surprises me so much that I wish to understand it completely. BRIGNAC. Understand this, then: if the matter is kept secret, it is only our misfortune; if it becomes public, it will be a scandal. LUCIE. How can it be kept secret? BRIGNAC. We must pack Annette off before anyone suspects. LUCIE. Where is she to go? BRIGNAC. Ah! that’s the devil. Where—where? If only we had some friends we could trust, in some out-of-the-way place, far away. But we haven’t. Still, we must send her somewhere. LUCIE. Oh, my God! [She sobs]. BRIGNAC [irritated] For Heaven’s sake don’t cry like that. That doesn’t mend matters. We must make some excuse. We’ll invent an aunt or a cousin who’s invited her to stay. I will find a decent house in Paris for her to go to. She’ll be all right there. When the time comes she can put the child out to nurse in the country, and come back to us. I shall certainly have got my promotion by that time: we shall have left this place, and the situation will be saved—as far as it can be saved. LUCIE. You propose that to me and you think I shall consent to it! BRIGNAC. Why not? LUCIE. You’ve not stopped to think. That’s your only excuse. BRIGNAC. I must say, I don’t see— LUCIE. You seriously propose to send that poor child BRIGNAC. What do you mean by that? I will go to Paris myself, if necessary. There are special boarding-houses: very respectable ones. I’ll inquire: of course without letting out that it is for anyone I know. And I’ll pay what is necessary. What more can you want? We shall be sure of keeping the thing quiet that way. I believe there are houses in Paris subsidized by the State, and the people who stay in them need not even give their names. LUCIE. I tell you, you’ve not stopped to think. Just when the child is most in need of every care, you propose to send her off alone; alone, do you understand, alone! To tear her away from here, put her into a train, and send her off to Paris, like a sick animal you want to get rid of. It would be enough to make her kill herself. BRIGNAC. Can you think of anything better? LUCIE. Everything is better than that. If I consented to that I should feel that I was as bad as the man who seduced her. Be honest, Julien: remember it is in our interest you propose to sacrifice her. We shall gain peace and quiet at the price of her loneliness and despair. To save ourselves trouble—serious trouble, I admit—we are to abandon this child to strangers. She does not know the meaning of harshness or unkindness; and we are to drive her away now—now, of all times! Away from all love and care and comfort, without a friend to put kind arms round her and let her sob her grief away. I implore you, Julien, I entreat you, for our children’s sake, don’t keep me from her, don’t ask me to do this shameful thing. I will not do it! We must do something else. Make me suffer if you like, but don’t add abandonment and loneliness to the misery of my poor little helpless sister. BRIGNAC. There would have been no question of misery if she had behaved herself. LUCIE. She is this man’s victim! But she won’t go. You’ll have to drive her out as you drove out the servant. Have you the courage? Just think of what her life will be. Try to realize the long months of waiting in that dreadful house: the slow development of the poor little creature that she will know beforehand is condemned to all the risks children run when they are separated from their mothers. And when she is torn with tortures, and cries out in that fearful anguish I know so well, and jealous death seems to be hovering over the bed of martyrdom, waiting for mother and child; just when one is overcome by the terror and amazement of the mystery accomplished in oneself; then, then—there’ll be only strangers with her. And if her poor anguished eyes look round for an answering look, perhaps the last; if she feels for a hand to cling to; she will see round her bed only men doing a duty, and women going through a routine. And then—after that—she’s to let her child go; to stifle her strongest instinct; to silence the cry of love that consoles us all for the tortures we have to go through; to turn away her eyes and say ’Take him away, I don’t want him.’ And at that price she’s to be forgiven for another person’s crime! BRIGNAC. But what can I do? I can’t alter the world, can I? The world is made like that. If Annette was ten times more innocent she couldn’t stay here. LUCIE. I— BRIGNAC [violently] And I don’t choose that she shall stay here. Do you understand? I’m sorry she has to go by herself to Paris. But once more, if she had behaved respectably she wouldn’t be obliged to do it. LUCIE. Oh! BRIGNAC. Can’t you understand that she would suffer much more here, surrounded by people who know her, than she would there, where she would be unknown? Here she couldn’t so much as go down the street without exposing herself to insult. Why, if she even went LUCIE. If necessary she can stay at home. BRIGNAC. Stay at home! Rubbish! What would be the good of that? Servants would talk, and the scandal would be all the greater. And you haven’t reflected that the consequences would fall upon me. You haven’t troubled to consider me, or to remember the drawback this will be to me. I am not alluding to the imbecile jokes people are sure to make about the apostle of repopulation. But our respectability will be called in question. People will remark that there are families in which such things don’t happen. Political hatred and social prejudice will help them to invent all sorts of tales. And the allusions, the suggestions, the pretended pity! There would be nothing left for me but to send in my resignation! LUCIE. Send it in. BRIGNAC. Yes, and what should we live upon then? LUCIE [after a silence] Then that is society’s welcome to the newborn child! BRIGNAC. To the child born outside marriage, yes. If it wasn’t for that there would soon be nothing but illegitimate births. It is to preserve the family that society condemns the natural child. LUCIE. If there is guilt two people are guilty. Why do you only punish the mother? BRIGNAC. What am I to say to you? Because it’s easier. LUCIE. And that’s your justice! The truth is, you all uphold the conventions of society. You do. And the proof is that if Annette stayed here in the town to have her baby, you’d all cry shame upon her; but if she goes to Paris and has it secretly and gets rid of it, nobody will blame her. Let’s be honest, and call things by BRIGNAC. Possibly. Good night. I’m going to work. LUCIE. Listen—Then you drive Annette from your house? BRIGNAC. I don’t drive her from my house. I beg her to go elsewhere. LUCIE. I shall go with her. BRIGNAC. You mean, leave me? LUCIE. Yes. BRIGNAC. Then you don’t love me. LUCIE. No. BRIGNAC. Ah! Here’s another story. Since when? LUCIE. I never loved you. BRIGNAC. You married me. LUCIE. Not for love. BRIGNAC. This is most interesting. Go on. LUCIE. You’re another victim of the state of society you are defending. BRIGNAC. I don’t understand. LUCIE. I was a penniless girl, and so I had no offers of marriage. When you proposed to me I was tired of waiting, and I didn’t want to be an old maid. I accepted you, but I knew you only came to me because the women with money wouldn’t have you. I made up my mind to love you and be loyal. BRIGNAC. Well? LUCIE. But when my first baby came you deceived me. Since then I have only endured you, and you owe my submission to my cowardice. It was only my first child I wanted, the others you forced upon me, and when each was coming you left me. It’s true I was un BRIGNAC. That’s enough, thank you. You’re my wife— LUCIE. I’ll not be your wife any longer, and I won’t have another child. BRIGNAC. Why? LUCIE. Because I’ve just found out what the future of my poor, penniless little girls is to be. It’s to be Annette’s fate, or mine. Oh, to think I’ve been cruel enough to bring three of them into the world already! BRIGNAC. You’re mad. And be good enough not to put on these independent airs. They’re perfectly useless. LUCIE. You think so? BRIGNAC. I am sure of it. If you have had enough of me, get a divorce. LUCIE. But you would keep the children? BRIGNAC. Naturally. And let me tell you that as long as you are my wife before the world, you’ll be my wife really. LUCIE. And you will force me to have a child whenever you please? BRIGNAC. Most certainly. LUCIE. My God! They think a woman’s body is like the clay of the fields; they want to drag harvest after harvest from it until it is worn out and done for! I re BRIGNAC. And your children? LUCIE. I will take them with me. BRIGNAC. And their food? LUCIE. I will work. BRIGNAC. Don’t talk nonsense. You couldn’t earn enough to keep them from starving. It’s late: go to bed. LUCIE [her teeth clenched] And wait for you? BRIGNAC. And wait for me. Precisely. [He goes out]. LUCIE [rushing to the door on the left] Annette! Oh, Annette! There’s nobody to help us! ACT III [A court house, of which only two sides are visible. The footlights would almost correspond with a line drawn from one angle to the opposite one. On the left to the front is the raised seat of the public Minister. Further back, to the left, the court. Facing the audience, successively, counsels’ bench; the defendants’ bench, a little raised; and the police bench. [In the centre, facing the table on which lie the ‘piÈces À conviction,’ is the witness-box. [To the extreme right are three or four benches, of which a part only is visible, reserved for the public. The jury, which is not visible, would be in the prompter’s place. [There are present the advocate-general: the president of the court and his assessors; also the counsel for the defence and some junior barristers. In the dock are Madame Thomas, Marie Caubert, Tupin, Madame Tupin and several policemen. Madame Chevillot is among the public. PRESIDENT [authoritatively, to the counsel for the defence] MaÎtre Verdier, you cannot speak now. I see what line you propose to take for the defence, and I give you fair warning that I shall use my whole power and authority to prevent you from making light of the criminal acts attributed to the defendants. COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE. You are mistaken, M. le prÉsident. I have no intention of making light of them. PRES. This is not the time for your address. Let the woman Thomas stand up. [To Madame Thomas] So you hunted up your clients in the provinces? MME. THOMAS. No, M. le prÉsident. They came and found me. PRES. We shall see. Usher, bring forward the witness—[he hunts for the name in his notes]—Madame Lucie Brignac. MME. CHEV [among the audience, to her neighbor] Mustn’t Brignac be in a hurry to get his divorce! Lucie has approached the witness-bar. She is thinner and older. PRES [to the usher] Has the witness been sworn? USHER. Yes, M. le prÉsident. PRES [to Lucie] Was it of her own free will that your sister, the unfortunate Annette Jarras, in consequence of whose death the defendants have been arrested, came to Paris and placed herself in the hands of this woman? LUCIE. Yes, M. le prÉsident. PRES. Very well. Go and sit down. I will call you again presently. [Lucie retires to her place, sobbing]. Marie Caubert, come forward. [A small, thin woman rises]. Your name is Marie Caubert? How old are you? SCHOOLMISTRESS. Twenty-seven. PRES. Profession? SCH. Schoolmistress. PRES. You have come from the country, too: do you SCH. Yes, M. le prÉsident. PRES. What have you to say in your defence? SCH. I did not know I was doing wrong. PRES. Your levity amazes me. You are a schoolmistress, and you do not realize that the sacred mission with which you are entrusted, the mission of preparing citizens and citizenesses for the glories of the future, demands that your life should be exemplary. You are appointed to give the elementary course of lessons in civic morality: is it thus that you practise that morality? You have no answer? According to the notes I have here you insisted upon nursing your two children yourself. Do you love them? SCH. It was just because I love them. PRES. But you decided that two were enough. You ventured to limit the work of the Creator. SCH. I should have liked nothing better than to have four or five children. PRES. Indeed! Then allow me to inform you that you’ve not taken the best means for arriving at that desirable result. [He laughs, turning to his assessor on the right, who laughs also]. SCH. One must have money enough to bring them up. PRES. Ah! Stop a moment. If some people were to make that bad excuse I might understand it. But from you, who enjoy the inestimable advantage of being under the protection of the State, I do not understand it. You are never out of work. SCH. I earn 83 francs a month, and my husband, who teaches too, earns the same. That makes 166 francs a month to live on and to rear two children. When there were four of us we could just scrape along, but with five we couldn’t have managed it. PRES. You forget to mention that when your children are coming you have a right to a month’s holiday on full salary. SCH. Yes, at one time, M. le prÉsident, but not now. In 1900 a ministerial circular announced to us that there was not enough money, and we could practically only have holidays at half salary. To get the whole salary we must have a certificate from the inspector, giving reasons. One has to petition for it. PRES. Well, then one petitions. SCH. It’s hard to seem like a beggar simply because one has children. PRES. Oho! You’re proud. SCH. That’s not illegal. PRES. And that’s why you went to the woman Thomas? SCH. Yes, monsieur. My husband and I had arranged our expenses carefully. On the evening of the day we were paid our salary we used to divide the money into little portions and put them away. So much for rent, so much for food, so much for clothing. We just managed to get along by being most careful; and several times we cut down expenses it didn’t seem possible to cut down. A third child coming upset everything. We couldn’t have lived. We should all have starved. Besides, the inspectors and directresses don’t like us to have many children, especially if we nurse them ourselves. They told me to hide myself when I was suckling the last one. I only had ten minutes to do it in, at the recreations at ten o’clock and at two o’clock; and when my mother brought baby to me I had to shut myself up with him in a dark closet. PRES. All that’s irrelevant. COUN. DEF. No, M. le prÉsident, it ought to be known here how the State, which preaches increase of the population, treats its employÉs when they have children. PRES [furious] You have no right to speak. [To the schoolmistress] Have you anything more to say? SCH. No, M. le prÉsident. PRES. Then sit down. Tupin, stand up. TUPIN [a working man, mean and wretched] After you, Calvon. PRES. What! What did you say? TUPIN. I said ‘After you, Calvon.’ Calvon’s your name, isn’t it? PRES. I warn you I shall not stand any insolence from you. TUPIN. I say to you ‘After you, Calvon,’ as you say to me ‘Tupin, stand up.’ If that’s insolence, I didn’t begin it. PRES. I shall have you turned out of the court. Stand up. TUPIN [standing] There: I’m very glad to. It’ll take the stiffness out of my legs. PRES. Your profession? TUPIN. Electrician. PRES. You were once. It is a long time since you worked regularly. TUPIN. I can’t get work. PRES. Because you look for it in the public house. The police reports about you are most unfavorable. TUPIN. I never liked the police: I’m not surprised they don’t like me. [Laughter from the audience]. PRES. Silence! or I shall clear the court. [To Tupin] The name of your wife, EugÉnie Tupin, has been found in the papers of the woman Thomas. Where is the woman Tupin? Stand up. [To Tupin] That will do, sit down. You attempted to conceal her from the police. TUPIN. I thought they were not good company for her. PRES [pretending not to hear and consulting his notes] You gave yourself up and declared that you yourself took her to this woman’s house. TUPIN. You speak like a book. PRES. You persistently accused yourself. Did you want to go to prison? TUPIN. It’s not a bad place. One’s warm, and there’s food at every meal. PRES. It is true that prison diet is better than your everyday fare. TUPIN. Now you’re talking. PRES [consulting his notes] When you were arrested you were both completely destitute. What remained of your furniture had been sold, and you were entering upon a state of complete vagabondage. No doubt you also will accuse society. You are an unruly person. You frequent Socialist clubs; and when you don’t affect a cynical carelessness in your language, as you are doing now, you like to repeat the empty phrases you have picked up from the propagandist pamphlets which are poisoning the minds of the working classes. But we know all about you; and if you are a victim, you are the victim of your vices. You drink. TUPIN. I have taken to it lately. That’s true. PRES. You confess it. Most extraordinary. MME. TUPIN. What does that prove? PRES. Your eldest daughter is on the streets and one of your sons has been sent to prison for a year for theft. Is that true? TUPIN. Possibly. PRES. Not quite so insolent now. I congratulate you. We will proceed. You took your wife to an abortionist. Why? TUPIN. Because I considered that bringing seven miserable little devils into the world was enough. PRES. If you had continued to be the honest and laborious workman that you once were you might have had another child, without that child being necessarily a miserable little devil. MME. TUPIN. That isn’t true. TUPIN. No, monsieur. After four it’s impossible. PRES. I don’t understand you. TUPIN. What I say is that a workman’s family, however hard they work and screw, can’t get along when there are five children. PRES. If that is true there are—and this society you despise may be proud of it—there are, I say, many charities on the watch, so to speak, for the destitute; and they make it a point of honor to leave none without relief. TUPIN [indignant] Oh, and that seems all right to you, does it? You say it’s a workman’s duty to work and to have a lot of children, and when he does it, fair and square, and it makes a beggar of him, it seems to you all right! PRES. Ah, ha! Here’s the orator of the public house parlor. In the first place, we have only your assertion that a workman’s family cannot live when there are five children. But, thank God, there are more than one or two in that condition who have recourse neither to charity nor to an abortionist. MME. TUPIN. That’s not true. TUPIN. Shall I prove to you that you’re wrong? PRES. That has nothing to do with the charge against you. MME. TUPIN. Yes, it has. TUPIN. I beg your pardon. If I prove it that will explain how I came to do what I did. MME. TUPIN. I should think so! PRES. Very well, but cut it short. TUPIN. I gave my lawyer the month’s account. Please let him read it to you. PRES. Very well. The counsel for the defence rises. COUN. Here it is. PRES. Stop. You’re not Tupin’s counsel. COUN. No, M. le prÉsident. But my learned friends, with a confidence which honors me, and for which I thank them, have begged me to take over the conduct of the case as a whole, reserving to themselves the right to discuss important matters affecting their several clients. PRES. Then I give you permission just to read this document. But do not attempt to address the court. This is not the time. You can read the paper and that is all. Do you understand? COUN. I perfectly understand, M. le prÉsident. [He reads].
The expenses are therefore 2,600f. a year. Tupin, who was a capable workman, earned 175f. a month, or 2,100f. a year. There was therefore an annual deficit of 500f. As I promised, I abstain from comment. [He sits down]. MME. CHEV [to her neighbor] There were three sous a day for tobacco that he might very well have saved. COUN. Perhaps this document might be formally put in evidence. PRES. It is quite useless. [To Tupin] I am not going to dispute your figures. I admit them, and I repeat there are charities. TUPIN. And I repeat that I’m not a beggar. PRES. You prefer to commit what is almost infanticide. A man who has a daughter on the streets and a son a thief may accept charity without degradation. MME. TUPIN [outraged] Oh! TUPIN [indignant] In those days they were not what they are now. If they fell so low it was because I had too many children and I couldn’t look after my boy; and because my girl was deserted and starving. But you must be made of stone to throw that in my teeth. PRES. And if you took to drinking it’s not your fault either, I suppose? TUPIN. I want to explain about that. When we began to get short in the house my wife and I started to quarrel. Every time a child came we were mad at making it worse for the others. And so—I needn’t make a long story of it—I ended up in the pub. It’s warm there, and you can’t hear the children crying nor the mother complaining. And besides, when you’ve drink in you you forget. MME. TUPIN. It’s the sort of thing that it’s good to forget. TUPIN. And that’s how we got poorer and poorer. My fault if you like. PRES. And the last child, what about that? MME. TUPIN. Oh, the last. TUPIN. The last? He cost us nothing. PRES [carelessly] Eh? MME. TUPIN. No. TUPIN. No, he was a cripple. He was born in starva PRES. And his father was a drunkard. TUPIN. Maybe. Anyway that one, the sickly fellow, wanted for nothing. They took him into the hospital. They wouldn’t let me take him away. MME. TUPIN. He was a curiosity for the doctors. TUPIN. And they nursed him and they nursed him and they nursed him. They didn’t leave him a minute. They made him live in spite of himself. And they let the other children—the strong ones—go to the bad. With half the money and the fuss they wasted on the cripple they could have made fine fellows of all the others. PRES. And was that the reason you did away with the next? MME. TUPIN. For all the good he’d have got out of this world he might thank me for not letting him come into it. PRES. He should never have been created. TUPIN. That’s true. PRES. If everyone was like you the country would soon go to the dogs. But you don’t trouble yourself much about the country, I expect. TUPIN. Someone said ‘A man’s country is the place where he’s well off.’ I’m badly off everywhere. PRES. You are perfectly indifferent to the good of humanity. TUPIN. Humanity had better come to an end if it can’t get on without a set of miserable wretches like me. PRES. The jury thoroughly appreciate your moral sense. You can sit down. Evening has come. The ushers bring lamps. PRES [to Madame Tupin] Have you anything more to say? MME. TUPIN. I have to say that all this is not my fault. My husband and I worked like beasts; we did without every kind of pleasure to try and bring up our children. PRES. Why didn’t you put him into something else? MME. TUPIN. Because there’s no work anywhere else. They’re full up everywhere else. There are too many people in the world. My little girl is a woman now like lots of others in Paris. She had to choose between that and starving. She chose that. I’m only a poor woman, and I know what it means to have nothing to eat, so I forgave her. The worst of it is that sometimes she’s hungry all the same. TUPIN. And they say God blesses large families! PRES [from his notes] Two others of your children are dead. The two youngest are out at nurse. MME. TUPIN. Yes. They were taken away as soon as they were born. All I know about them is the post-office order I send every month to the woman who’s bringing them up. Oh, it’s cruel! It’s cruel! It’s cruel! [She sits down]. PRES. We have now only to examine the case of Annette Jarras. Let the woman Thomas stand up. [To Madame Thomas] This was your victim. She was nineteen, quite young and in perfect health. Now she is in her grave. What have you to say? MME. THOMAS [quietly] Nothing. PRES. You don’t excite yourself. Oh, we know you are not easily moved. MME. THOMAS. If I told you that it was pity made me do it, you wouldn’t believe me. PRES. Probably not. But at any rate you might try. Every accused person has a right to say whatever he can in his own defence: of course under the control of the president of the court. MME. THOMAS. It isn’t worth while. PRES. Oh, yes. Let us hear. The gentlemen of the jury are listening. MME. THOMAS [after a sign from her counsel] A girl came to me one day; she was a servant. She had been seduced by her master. I refused to do what she asked me to do: she went and drowned herself. Another I refused to help was brought up before you here for infanticide. Then when the others came, I said Yes. I’ve prevented many a suicide and many a crime. PRES. So that’s your line of defence. It is in pity, in charity, that you have acted. The prosecution will answer that you have never failed to exact payment for your services, and a high payment. MME. THOMAS. And you? Don’t they pay you for condemning other people? PRES. Those you condemn to death and execute yourself are all innocent. MME. THOMAS. You prosecute me, but you decorate the surgeons who trade in sterility. PRES. Be silent. Sit down. Madame Lucie Brignac. [Lucie comes forward, in great emotion]. Calm yourself, madame, and tell us what you know. You are called for the defence. LUCIE. It was I, monsieur, who asked to be heard. PRES. Speak up, madame, I cannot hear what you say. LUCIE [louder] It was I, monsieur, who asked to be heard. I wanted to defend the memory of my little one. I fear now I shall not have the strength. [She controls herself]. Annette was seduced by a man who had promised to marry her. She lived with us. When my husband knew that my sister was in a certain condition, he wished to send her away. I was indignant, and I left his house with her and my children. We went to Bordeaux. We had a few hundred francs, and we thought we could work for our living. [She stops]. PRES. Well? LUCIE. Our money was soon spent. Annette was giv PRES. And earned some money? LUCIE. I couldn’t always get work. When I got it, I was paid sevenpence-halfpenny for twelve hours. I was not a skilled worker. Some people get a shilling and a halfpenny. We were in despair, thinking of the child that was coming. PRES. That was not a reason for leading your sister and her child to their deaths! [Lucie is seized with a nervous trembling and does not answer]. Answer! COUN. DEF. Give her a moment to recover, M. le prÉsident. LUCIE [controlling herself] I wanted to get her into a hospital, but they only take them at the end. It seems there are homes one can go to in Paris, but not in the provinces. PRES. You could have applied for charity. LUCIE. Six months residence was necessary. And then, what should we have done with the child? PRES. As it was impossible for you to bring it up, your sister could have taken it to a foundling hospital. LUCIE. Abandon it—yes, we thought of that. We made inquiries. COUN. DEF. It is necessary to get a certificate of indigence, and then make an application to the board of admission. They inquire into the case and admit or reject. The child may die meanwhile. LUCIE. And they make a condition that the mother shall not know where her child is. That she shall never see it or hear of it again. Only once a month she will be told if it is alive or dead. Nothing more. PRES. Proceed, madame. LUCIE. Then I brought my children back to my husband, because we had nothing left. I went to see the parents of the young man, who is the cause of everything. They practically turned me out of doors. The COUN. DEF. May I say a word, M. le prÉsident? PRES. You are sure it is only a word? COUN. DEF. Yes, M. le prÉsident. All the guilty are not in court. I look in vain for the seducer of this poor girl. He is waiting anxiously in the provinces to hear the result of this trial, fearing his name may come out. I have received from him and from his family an imploring letter, entreating me to spare him and not to mention him by name during the proceedings. Until now, as a matter of fact his name has not been mentioned, and we are at the end of the trial. Well, I am going to make it known at once. I shall have no more pity for the family and the intended wife of this criminal, than he had for the woman who is dead, and for the woman whose life he has ruined. If there is no law in the Code of this country which can reach him, there will be at least indignation enough in the hearts of all honest people to prevent Jacques Bernin from enjoying in peace the happiness he has stolen! [Prolonged applause]. PRES [to Lucie] Proceed, madame. [Pause]. Kindly conclude your evidence. LUCIE. I implored my husband to take us back, Annette and me. He wouldn’t. We came to Paris with a little money he gave me. It was too soon for them to take Annette into one hospital: in another, where they would have taken her, there was no room. My husband filed a petition for divorce. PRES. Kindly tell us about what concerns the woman Thomas. LUCIE [with growing emotion] Yes, monsieur. Annette was always reproaching herself with having accepted what she called my sacrifice. She kept saying she was the cause of all my troubles. [A silence]. One day they came to fetch me and I found her dead at this woman’s house. [In a burst of sobs, which become hysterical, she cries out] My little sister, my poor little sister! PRES [kindly, to the usher] Take her back to her place, or, if necessary, take her outside and do all you can for her. [To the defendants] Then none of you has any more to say in your defence! TUPIN [excited] Oh, if we said all we’ve got to say we should be here until to-morrow morning! MME. TUPIN [the same] That we should! TUPIN [shouting] We should never stop! PRES. I call upon the counsel for the prosecution for his speech. SCH. But, monsieur, you are not going to condemn me? It’s not possible. I haven’t said everything. TUPIN. We’re not the guilty ones. SCH. I’m afraid of getting a bad name. And we hadn’t the means to bring up another. MME. TUPIN [violently, much excited] Shut up! As it’s like that—as that’s what they do to our children—as men have found nothing to change that—we must do it—the women must do it. We must start the great strike—the strike—the strike of the mothers. Cries in the audience, ‘Yes, yes.’ PRES. Silence. MME. TUPIN [shouting] Why should we kill ourselves to get wage-slaves and harlots for other people? TUPIN. We’re not the guilty ones. PRES. I did not— MME. THOMAS. And all the men that seduced the girls I saved—have you punished them? PRES. Sit down. TUPIN. The guilty ones are the people that tell us to have more children when the ones we have are starving. COUN. DEF. The seducers are the guilty ones; and social hypocrisy. During the proceedings, anger, which rapidly becomes fury, has taken possession of the defendants. They are all on their feet except the schoolmistress, who goes on sobbing and murmuring to herself unintelligibly. The MME. THOMAS. The fine gentlemen that get hold of them and humbug them! PRES. I will have you taken back to prison. MME. THOMAS. And the rich young man, and the old satyrs—and the men! The men! All the men! COUNSEL FOR THE PROSECUTION. Police, can’t you silence these lunatics? COUN. DEF. You have no right to insult the defendants. TUPIN. They’ve been doing nothing else the whole time. COUN. PROS. Keep this rabble quiet! The defendants must respect the law. COUN. DEF. And you, sir, must respect justice. COUN. PROS. You sympathize with their crime. I am outraged by it. COUN. DEF. They are right. They are not guilty. You must respect— COUN. PROS. I demand— COUN. DEF. Our customs are guilty, which denounce the unmarried mother! AUDIENCE. Bravo! Hear, hear! COUN. PROS. I demand that the counsel for the defence— COUN. DEF. Every woman with child should be respected, no matter what the circumstances are. [Applause]. PRES. MaÎtre Verdier, by article forty-three of the regulations— COUN. DEF. Their crime is not an individual crime, it is a social crime. COUN. PROS. It is a crime against nature. COUN. DEF. It is not a crime against nature. It is a revolt against nature. PRES. Police, remove the defendants. [The police do not understand or do not hear]. MaÎtre Verdier, must we employ force? [Tumult in the whole court]. COUN. DEF [rhetorically] It is a revolt against nature! And with all the warmth of a heart melted by pity, with all the indignation of my outraged reason, I look for that glorious hour of liberation when some master mind shall discover for us the means of having only the children we need and desire, release us for ever from the prison of hypocrisy and absolve us from the profanation of love. That would indeed be a conquest of nature—savage nature—which pours out life with culpable profusion, and sees it disappear with indifference. But, until then— The tumult recommences. PRES. Police, clear the court! Police—police, remove the defendants. The sitting is suspended. [The magistrates cover their heads and rise]. MME. THOMAS. It’s not I who massacre the innocents! I’m not the guilty one! SCH. Mercy, monsieur, mercy! MME. TUPIN. She’s not the guilty one! TUPIN. She’s right. She’s not! MME. THOMAS. It’s the men! the men! all the men! The magistrates go out by the narrow door reserved for them, the backs of their red robes disappearing slowly during the last words. TUPIN’S BUDGET (Condensed). The daily food of the mother and the five children consists of a loaf of bread, soup made of dripping and vegetables, and a stew. Total cost, 3f. 75c. The husband’s expenses are: tramway fare, 30c.; tobacco, 15c.; lunch, 1f. 25c. General expenses of the family: rent, 300f.; clothing, linen, boots (sixteen pairs for the children at 4f. 50c. the pair, four for the parents at 8f.), are again 300f. Annual total, 2,600f. |