Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays. Various
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conformity with the current French text. The particular edition used for this purpose was the 1911 (twenty-third) reprint of Vol. I of M. Maeterlinck's "Théâtre."
A. L. G.
Reprinted from "A Miracle of St. Antony and Five Other Plays" in the Modern
Library, by permission of Messrs. Boni & Liveright, Inc.
THE INTRUDER
A Play
By Maurice Maeterlinck
[A sombre room in an old Château. A door on the right, a door on the left, and a small concealed door in a corner. At the back, stained-glass windows, in which green is the dominant color, and a glass door giving on to a terrace. A big Dutch clock in one corner. A lighted lamp.]
The Three Daughters. Come here, grandfather. Sit down under the lamp.
The Grandfather. There does not seem to me to be much light here.
The Father. Shall we go out on the terrace, or stay in this room?
The Uncle. Would it not be better to stay here? It has rained the whole week, and the nights are damp and cold.
The Eldest Daughter. But the stars are shining.
The Uncle. Oh the stars—that's nothing.
The Grandfather. We had better stay here. One never knows what may happen.
The Father. There is no longer any cause for anxiety. The danger is over, and she is saved....
The Grandfather. I believe she is not doing so well....
The Father. Why do you say that?
The Grandfather. I have heard her voice.
The Father. But since the doctors assure us we may be easy....
The Uncle. You know quite well that your father-in-law likes to alarm us needlessly.
The Grandfather. I don't see things as you do.
The Uncle. You ought to rely on us, then, who can see. She looked very well this afternoon. She is sleeping quietly now; and we are not going to mar, needlessly, the first pleasant evening that chance has put in our way.... It seems to me we have a perfect right to peace, and even to laugh a little, this evening, without fear.
The Father. That's true; this is the first time I have felt at home with my family since this terrible confinement.
The Uncle. When once illness has come into a house, it is as though a stranger had forced himself into the family circle.
The Father. And then you understand, too, that you can count on no one outside the family.
The Uncle. You are quite right.
The Grandfather. Why couldn't I see my poor daughter to-day?
The Uncle. You know quite well—the doctor forbade it.
The Grandfather. I do not know what to think....
The Uncle. It is useless to worry.
The Grandfather [pointing to the door on the left]. She cannot hear us?
The Father. We will not talk too loud; besides, the door is very thick, and the Sister of Mercy is with her, and she is sure to warn us if we are making too much noise.
The Grandfather [pointing to the door on the right]. He cannot hear us?
The Father. No, no.
The Grandfather. He is asleep?
The Father. I suppose so.
The Grandfather. Some one had better go and see.
The Uncle. The little one would cause me more anxiety than your wife. It is now several weeks since he was born, and he has scarcely stirred. He has not cried once all the time! He is like a wax doll.
The Grandfather. I think he will be deaf—dumb too, perhaps—the usual result of a marriage between cousins.... [A reproving silence.]
The Father. I could almost wish him ill for the suffering he has caused his mother.
The Uncle. Do be reasonable; it is not the poor little thing's fault. He is quite alone in the room?
The Father. Yes; the doctor does not wish him to stay in his mother's room any longer.
The Uncle. But the nurse is with him?
The Father. No; she has gone to rest a little; she has well deserved it these last few days. Ursula, just go and see if he is asleep.
The Eldest Daughter. Yes, father. [The Three Sisters get up, and go into the room on the right, hand in hand.]
The Father. When will your sister come?
The Uncle. I think she will come about nine.
The Father. It is past nine. I hope she will come this evening, my wife is so anxious to see her.
The Uncle. She is sure to come. This will be the first time she has been here?
The Father. She has never been in the house.
The Uncle. It is very difficult for her to leave her convent.
The Father. Will she be alone?
The Uncle. I expect one of the nuns will come with her. They are not allowed to go out alone.
The Father. But she is the Superior.
The Uncle. The rule is the same for all.
The Grandfather. Do you not feel anxious?
The Uncle. Why should we feel anxious? What's the good of harping on that? There is nothing more to fear.
The Grandfather. Your sister is older than you?
The Uncle. She is the eldest.
The Grandfather. I do not know what ails me; I feel uneasy. I wish your sister were here.
The Uncle. She will come; she promised to.
The Grandfather. Ah, if this evening were only over!
[The three daughters come in again.]
The Father. He is asleep?
The Eldest Daughter. Yes, father; he is sleeping soundly.
The Uncle. What shall we do while we are waiting?
The Grandfather. Waiting for what?
The Uncle. Waiting for our sister.
The Father. You see nothing coming, Ursula?
The Eldest Daughter [at the window]. Nothing, father.
The Father. Not in the avenue? Can you see the avenue?
The Daughter. Yes, father; it is moonlight, and I can see the avenue as far as the cypress wood.
The Grandfather. And you do not see any one?
The Daughter. No one, grandfather.
The Uncle. What sort of a night is it?
The Daughter. Very fine. Do you hear the nightingales?
The Uncle. Yes, yes.
The Daughter. A little wind is rising in the avenue.
The Grandfather. A little wind in the avenue?
The Daughter. Yes; the trees are trembling a little.
The Uncle. I am surprised that my sister is not here yet.
The