CYRANO
DE BERGERAC

Copyright, 1898
By Charles Renauld
—————
Copyright, 1899
By Frederick A. Stokes Company

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All rights reserved.

[Pg iii]

The phenomenal success of "Cyrano de Bergerac" is undoubtedly one of the most important literary events of the last quarter of a century. It at once placed Edmond Rostand, a young man of twenty-eight, at the head of the small band of French dramatic writers, all men of marked ability, Maurice Donnay, Georges de Porto-Riche, François de Curel, Paul Hervieu, Henri Lavedan, etc., who had been struggling for supremacy since the disappearance of the two great masters of modern French comedy, Émile Augier and Alexandre Dumas, fils. There was no hesitation on the part of the public. It was at once recognised that what had just been produced upon the stage was not simply better than what had been seen for a long time, but was also, to a certain extent, of a different nature. And the verdict rendered by the French public in December, 1897, has since then been approved by readers and theatre-goers in nearly every one of the countries belonging to Western civilisation.

Can it be said, however, that to an American, or an Englishman, "Cyrano" is all that it is to a Frenchman, that its production would have been possible outside of as well as in France, and its success as significant in London as in Paris? If "Cyrano" is really a great work these questions must be answered negatively, for it is in the nature of great literary works that they consist of a combination of what is purely human with what belongs to the time and place where they have had their birth. They must have enough of what is purely human to make it possible for them to be universally accepted, understood and admired. But they[Pg iv] must be also strongly national, so that their universal acceptance may help in spreading all over the world part of the national ideal which prevails in their birthplace. And to these elements may be joined a third one, which is sure to add greatly to their success, and which "Cyrano" possesses in a very high degree, viz: timeliness.

As soon as "Cyrano" appeared it seemed to the French that this was just what they had been waiting for. Two things especially appealed to them, one of a purely literary nature, the other one a part of the basis of moral feelings and ideas upon which the play is built.

First of all, it was a clear play, full of light and sunshine. Edmond Rostand hails from the South of France, and the atmosphere of his play is as translucid as the atmosphere of his native Provence. It is as far removed from symbolism and mysticism as the shores of the Mediterranean are from the fogs of Scandinavia. Every incident in the play rests upon some trait of character or combination of circumstances which has been explained at some previous moment. Every one of the leading characters, and "Cyrano" most of all, stands out in bold relief, and there is no mistaking what they stand for.

But this clearness is mainly for the countrymen of the author. It depends partly upon the previous possession by the audience of a number of notions which are part of the intellectual inheritance of the race. The play, although quite modern in its style and construction, is in some respects for the French a resurrection of a portion of their glorious past. For them the Hôtel de Bourgogne, les Précieuses, Cardinal de Richelieu, etc., are more than mere names. The earlier part of the Seventeenth Century was for France a period of wonderful national energy. It is then, and not later, that France acquired that supremacy over the European Continent which is usually associated with the name of Louis XIV, but which was already established when that monarch assumed the reins of government.

[Pg v]

The timeliness of Rostand's great play was shown exactly in this, that it called the attention of the French back to a time when the nation was full of youthful and vigourous ambition, when a Frenchman would hardly believe that there was anything that he could not do if he set his mind to it, when it became the fashion to say that "Impossible was not a French word."

Ever since the war of 1870 the pall of defeat had hung over the French. The stage showed this in a striking manner. The plays that were produced presented on the whole a stern or a pessimistic conception of life. The great periods of history, especially, in which French valour carried everything before it, remained neglected, for fear of the painful contrast which they would present with the humiliated condition of a vanquished country.

The men who wrote these plays belonged to a generation in which, using the words of a French academician, "the mainspring of joy had been broken."

But the young men who now come to the front, and who have no more brilliant representative than Edmond Rostand, belong to another generation. They have not known the pangs of defeat; the mutilation of the beloved Fatherland was an accomplished fact when they began to feel and to think. They viewed French history not as concentrated in its last and heart-rending episode, but as spreading through centuries of heroic deeds, oftener illuminated by the dazzling sunshine of victory than darkened by the gloom of defeat. They were growing tired of hearing it repeated on all tones that life was not worth living, and they longed for some one who would shout in a voice loud enough to be heard by the whole world, "Let the dead past bury its dead."

In the acclaim that greeted "Cyrano de Bergerac" on December 28th, 1897, therefore, there was something more than applause for a great dramatic work: there was gratitude for the poet who had dispelled at last the atmosphere of sadness which had come to be stifling for the young[Pg vi] Frenchmen of our time. The period of deep mourning was proclaimed to be over. Glances towards the past were again declared to be indulged in only as inspirations for the future. The glory, the joyfulness of action again appeared as living realities, not as the deceptive dreams of unsuspecting ignorance. Thus "Cyrano" presented to the French a play such as they had not seen for a long time. There had been plenty of problem plays, or pieces à thése, as the French say; "Cyrano" was a piece à panache.

Seldom has, indeed, the purpose of a dramatist been more clearly pointed out than in "Cyrano." When the hero of the play breathes his last, after an imaginary fight with all the unworthy traits of human nature and society which he had antagonized during his checkered life, the one thing which he informs his friends cannot be taken from him, which he will proudly carry to the very presence of God, is his panache, and this is the last word, and, as it were, the affabulation of the drama.

Now, what is this panache upon which "Cyrano" sets such a high value? To understand it is to appreciate, to miss it is to miss the meaning of the play. An explanation of it is, therefore, not out of place in this introduction.

The panache is an external quality which adds colour and brilliancy to internal things already worth having for their own intrinsic value. Its main justification is personal bravery. To take an example, the generals of the French Revolution, the marshals of Napoleon's army, all possessed personal bravery to a high degree. They were not all distinguished by the panache. Some of them, indeed, Marshal Davout, for instance, were strikingly devoid of it. The representative of the panache among them was essentially Murat. The panache is literally a high plume, or bunch of plumes, that waves high above a commander's head-gear. Murat was bravery itself. But he had to be as conspicuous as possible. He dressed as gorgeously as he could. He rode a superb charger, and rode it superbly. His fur cap was always surmounted by a high and richly coloured[Pg vii] plume, which was always discerned just where the battle most fiercely raged. Not his the deeply laid and skilfully carried out plans, but the brilliant and heroic cavalry charge. His eyes, his very voice, irrespective of what he said, were an inspiration to his men, and dispelled all fear of death. There is magnetism in the panache, and readers may remember that a few years ago an American statesman whom his friends proclaimed to be magnetic if nothing else, was known throughout the land as the Plumed Knight. "Rally round my white panache," Henry the Fourth said to his soldiers; "you will find it always on the path of honour and duty." The panache, too, is essentially joyful. "Cyrano" is joyful, in spite of a life that would breed discouragement and bitterness in almost any heart but his. If reality denies him his share of happiness, then he will find it in the domain the ideal. He will not have to go without it.

And here we strike another cause of "Cyrano's" success. It is not simply a play, it is a poem, and poetry always leads us towards the ideal. This is undoubtedly one of the reasons underlying the love of the French for a verse play. The very swing of its verbal development lifts us above the trivialities of daily life.

One might almost say that the verse play is as characteristic of the French as the Wagnerian lyric drama is of the Germans.

Corneille, Racine, Hugo, Molière himself in such a play as le Misanthrope, are idealists, and their message to the world at large, to which must now be added that of the brilliant author of "Cyrano," tells of things better than those we see around us, of things of beauty which it lies in every one of us to bring somewhat nearer to our touch, if we will only have the courage to live up to them.

A few words now about the new rendering of the play which is here presented to the English-reading public. A number of translations of "Cyrano" have appeared before this one. If the facts were known, however, it would perhaps[Pg viii] appear that Mr. Charles Renauld's is the earliest of all. It was undertaken by its author under the spell cast upon the French mind by the sudden revelation of Rostand's genius, the nature and causes of which it has been the purpose of this production to elucidate.

The Shakespearian character of the play, displayed in the freedom with which the author brings in everything that seems to him likely to complete the portrait of his hero, has been recognised by the translator, as is shown by his use of a combination of prose and verse passages.

A real translator must be equally at home in the language of the work translated and in the language into which he translates it. He must be in thorough sympathy with the mental attitudes of the two nations whose speeches he is transmuting one into the other. He must be able to be a component atom of that collective being, the public, on one side as well as on the other of the national frontiers that divide them. Thus only will he be able to discover the means that will produce upon the reader of the translation the impression first received by contact with the original.

The readers of Mr. Renauld's translation will, it is thought, acknowledge that he possesses in a high degree the above-described qualifications, and that he has been peculiarly felicitous, when the text did not lend itself to translation proper, in devising what may be termed adequate equivalents.

Of the faithfulness of his rendering those acquainted with the French language will easily judge, as they can have under the same cover the English of the translator and the French of the dramatist, and they will thus, it is hoped, acquire a clear and adequate conception of the beautiful picture, which, thanks to Edmond Rostand, has restored life and brilliancy to the somewhat faded features of that eccentric philosopher, poet, hero and gentleman, Savinien Hercule de Cyrano Bergerac.

Adolphe Cohn.

[Pg ix]

The author of this translation trusts that he is not presuming too much if, despite his aversion for anything akin to offensive thought and mention of self, he claims the privilege of prefacing the result here presented of his labours with a few remarks, not as a plea pro domo sua, but as an explanation relating to the motives and to the methods by which he was guided in his work.

First of all, he desires to state that this, his version of Edmond Rostand's "Cyrano de Bergerac" was written in the early part of 1898, and copyrighted in Washington long before any other rendering in English of the beautiful and now celebrated play was either published or performed. Why did he withhold it until now? Simply because Mr. Edmond Rostand, with whom he was not in touch, had innocently, or under insufficient advice, neglected to copyright in the United States, and had meanwhile made arrangements for the performance of the play in America. Was the writer, who has long been, and is still, battling for a better protection of literary property, to interfere with, or even seem in any way to invade these arrangements? He thought not, despite solicitations to the contrary. True that, armed with the valid copyright of his own work, and with many technicalities at his disposal, he could have brought about considerable litigation in his own behalf, that would possibly have resulted in an indirect defence of Mr. Rostand's moral rights still subsisting. But in the face of a very doubtful issue in the courts, with a possible charge of officiousness out of them, he thought it wiser to abstain, allowing time meanwhile to accomplish its work of adjustment.

[Pg x]

Others, however, apparently satisfied with safety for a justification, have not treated with the same respect Mr. Rostand's moral rights and the arrangements made by him for the American production of his "Cyrano de Bergerac." The play has been mutilated, adapted, or "improved" to suit. There are just now, it is said, some twenty so-called stock companies presenting it in different cities throughout the United States. The original in French has been openly reprinted here, likewise its British translation, and other translations (so-called) have been offered to the public. Mr. Rostand did not copyright. Hence the result of his labours, of his genius, belongs, it would seem, to whoever chooses to pick it up!

In these circumstances and now, there certainly can be no impropriety in the publication of this work, the more so as Mr. Rostand is to receive in this instance the royalties to which he is morally entitled.

Further even. Who knows but that this royalty-paying version in book form, or produced on the stage (the right to perform it having been expressly reserved by the writer), may not assist in setting aside the different versions that now interfere with Mr. Rostand's moral rights, as well as with the arrangements he chose to make for stage production in America? Diffidence would prevent the translator, were it not for the valuable encouragement he has received, from adding that the present version of "Cyrano de Bergerac" may, perchance, better than any of the renderings in English now extant, lead to an adequate conception of the beauties of the work in French.

At all events, those who were consulted, including the eminent publishers, and the distinguished writer of the Introduction to this book, freely agreed with the author in his opinion that publication under the foregoing conditions could do no harm, while it might effect considerable good, were it only as an example in many respects, proving, among other things, that there are those, even in America, for whom impunity does not constitute right.

[Pg xi]

But enough "talk of shop," perhaps too much, for the genus irritabile vatum.

At this point, the author feels that, if he expatiated on his methods of translation, he might with some justice be accused of tiresome insistence, or, to put it more gently, of obduracy in esoterism. He will, therefore, confine himself to a few statements, and make them as short as possible.

This version of "Cyrano de Bergerac" was written originally for the stage, where, according to opinion behind as well as before the curtain, in America at least, verse may be acceptable for the expression of occasional flights of thought, but not through the whole of a play, and especially not for such portions of a play as are necessarily colloquial. To explain this alleged distaste for verse on the stage would lead us far beyond the limits of a preface. Suffice it, then, to say, reserving developments for some future occasion, that, for poetic emotion, English verse is more than the French dependent on form, on expression. In other words, English verse is less than the French free to consider only thought, or substance, irrespective of words, or construction. As a rule, then, it would seem in English that dress comes first and figure next; while in French the order appears to be reversed. In consequence (and setting aside the fact that there exists a "magic of words," that has been an all-time and frequent deceiver of men), the average reader or listener instinctively expects from English verse a somewhat conventional language, diversified with unusual words and exceptional contractions, inversions, etc. It follows that, when this special phraseology and peculiar construction are applied to everyday thoughts, facts, occurrences and sentiments, the effect produced is not an agreeable one, by reason of a sort of clash, the appearance of a thing of prose, straight-laced and overdressed in verse, in a word, unnaturalness. Further, the majority of English-speaking actors, unavoidably imbued with the same spirit, so soon as they deal with verse, unconsciously resort to a stilted diction that is distressingly far-removed[Pg xii] from the art that consists, through tedious and patient work, in being natural.

Natural, unconstrained verse can, with proper care, it is thought, be written in English, and can certainly, with appropriate training, be delivered with naturalness. This done, our audiences would no doubt take kindly to the rhythm of plays in verse. But, as this does not yet seem to have been fully accomplished, the undersigned translator of "Cyrano de Bergerac" reluctantly decided to use both verse and prose. For this liberty, though justified as above, he feels that he owes the French poet an apology, adding, however, that the deed brought its own punishment, since, strange as it may appear to some, it would have been much easier to render the play all in verse.

As to verse and metrics, on which, in this instance, a book could (and later, may) be written, the author of this translation must now rest satisfied with the following brief remarks.

Enlightened by considerable experience, the result of many experiments and after much thought, he adopted blank pentameter as the true equivalent in English of French riming Alexandrine verse. First, because in English, frequent elisions making many syllables heavy, and "run on" lines practically adding to the number of syllables, the ten-syllable line of English verse is in reality the counterpart of the twelve-syllable verse in French. And second, because the object of rime being, not to repeat a given sound, but to beat time, the strongly accentuated syllables of English, as compared with the very much more even enunciation of French, are quite sufficient, without rime or assonance, to mark rhythm. Thus he avoided at least one criticism, to wit: rime is monotonous!

Touching metrics, the writer will here go only one step in the ways of heresy, by stating that, in his opinion, such words as "our," "hour," "fire," etc., should be, as in French, "duel," "hier," etc., counted for one syllable, or for two syllables, according to rhythm as influenced by[Pg xiii] the stronger or weaker emphasis called for by the sense of the word. This could be elucidated by examples, the place of which, however, is not here.

More generally as to methods, the writer makes free to state that, exerting himself to avoid literal translation (too often productive of laughable nonsense), and free translation (frequently a substitution of the translator's for the author's thoughts), he endeavoured, as in previous works of the same nature, to give what he has termed an equivalent translation. In other words, he strove to remain really true to the original by creating in detail, as well as in a general way, in English words on English minds the impression caused by French words on French minds. Some examples of the equivalence at least sought for will be found in the foot-notes on several pages of this book.

As to "le panache" that surmounts this masterpiece, "Cyrano de Bergerac," of which it is the main feature, sending through it a breath of joyful daring "quand même," the writer sought, as will be seen, to describe it in triolets. These, too, might need to be explained, were it not for the able commentary to be found in the Introduction so kindly written for this book by one of the most learned and esteemed professors of our Columbia University.

The writer trusts that he may be pardoned for going at such length into some of the minutiæ of his task, and he certainly should be acquitted if he thereby succeeded in showing how much labour must be expended to produce even a tolerable translation, and consequently, how little justice is very often done to translators in general. He commends these details to his friends as an inducement to think a while before they leap, or rather jump at conclusions. Were he less charitably disposed, or more eager for a practical demonstration, he could say to them simply: "Try the task!"

Charles Renauld.

New York, February, 1899.

[Pg xv]

TRIOLETS.

(After the fashion of Rostand's in ACT II: "Ce sont les Cadets de Gascogne.")

O'er truth and daring floats a plume
That is no flaunting feather vain!
In knightly grace and flower's bloom,
O'er truth and daring floats a plume!
In festive hall, by silent tomb,
It waves aloft without a stain.
O'er truth and daring floats a plume
That is no flaunting feather vain!

We'll call it, if you will, a broom;
But how it sweeps with proud disdain!
It sweeps the skies, and not a room!
We'll call it, if you will, a broom.
It is a symbol, not of gloom,
But of a dash that scorns to gain.
We'll call it, if you will, a broom;
But how it sweeps with proud disdain!

O'er truth and daring floats a plume
That is no flaunting feather vain!
It marks for ay the hero's doom!
O'er truth and daring floats a plume.
It nods o'er chisel, brush and loom,
And consecrates the poet's strain.
O'er truth and daring floats a plume
That is no flaunting feather vain!

Charles Renauld.

New York, 12th July, 1898.

[Pg xvii]

Théâtre de la Porte St. Martin, Paris, 28th Dec., 1897 (First night).

The people, tradesmen, musketeers, thieves and pickpockets, pastry-cooks, poets, Gascon cadets, comedians, violin-players, pages, children, Spanish soldiers, spectators of both sexes, euphuistic ladies ("précieuses,") comediennes, tradeswomen, nuns, etc.

(The first four acts in 1640; the fifth in 1655.)

[Pg 1]

The interior of the Hotel de Bourgogne Theatre, in 1640. A sort of Racket-Court arranged and decorated in view of performances. The auditorium is a long square. It runs diagonally, and forms the background, one of its sides beginning at first entrance, right, and ending at last entrance, left, where it forms a right angle with the stage, that is thus seen canted. On each side of this stage, benches along the wings. The curtain is in two pieces of tapestry, that can be drawn apart. Above the proscenium, the royal arms. Wide steps lead from the stage to the auditorium. On either side of these steps, seats for the violin-players. Foot-lights composed of candles.

Two galleries, one above the other, running along the side of the auditorium (that forms the diagonal background). The upper gallery is divided into boxes. No seats in the pit. In the rear of this pit, really front first entrance right, a few benches in tiers. Under a staircase leading to the galleries, and only the lower part of which can be seen, a refreshment side-board bearing lights, flowers, glasses, plates of cakes, decanters, etc.

In the rear, centre, under the galleries, the entrance to the house. A wide door, half opened now and then to admit the audience. Near this door, as well as near the side-board and in other places, red posters giving the name of the play about to be performed: "La Clorise."

As the curtain rises, the house is empty and rather dark.

The chandeliers have been lowered into the pit, but are not yet lighted.

[Pg 2]

The audience enters gradually. Gentlemen, tradesmen, lackeys, pages, pickpockets, the janitor, etc. THE MARQUISES, CUIGY, BRISSAILLE, the waiting girl, the violins, etc.

Noise outside the door, then a gentleman bursts in.

THE JANITOR (pursuing him).

Here! Your fifteen sols!

THE GENTLEMAN.

I pay nothing for admission.

THE JANITOR.

Why so?

THE GENTLEMAN.

King's guard!

THE JANITOR (to another gentleman just come in).

You, Sir?

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Free admission.

THE JANITOR.

But ....

SECOND GENTLEMAN.

Musketeer!

FIRST GENTLEMAN (to second gentleman).

It's not two o'clock yet, and the pit is empty. Suppose we fence a bit?

(They begin fencing with foils they have brought along.)

A LACKEY (entering).

Pst——Flanquin!

ANOTHER LACKEY (just in).

Hallo, Champagne!

[Pg 3]

FIRST LACKEY (taking cards and dice from out his doublet).

Cards? Dice? Let's play.

(Seats himself on the floor.)

SECOND LACKEY.

Certainly, you rascal.

(Takes a candle out of his pocket, lights it, and after seating himself near first lackey, plants it on the floor.)

GUARD (taking flower-girl by the waist).

How sweet in you to come before the lights do!

ONE OF THE FENCERS.

Touched!

ONE OF THE CARD-PLAYERS.

Clubs!

GUARD (to flower-girl trying to escape).

A kiss!

A MAN (sitting on the floor, with a basket of provisions).

I come early, so as to eat in peace. A knowing fellow, when he is at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, should drink his Burgundy. (Drinks.)

TRADESMAN (to his son).

It's as bad as a low tavern.—(Showing the man drinking):
Drunkards!—(One of the fencers backs up against him):
Cut throats!—(He is pushed on to the card-players):
Gamblers!

GUARD (still pursuing the flower-girl).

A kiss!

TRADESMAN (hearing him).

And worse!—For shame! To think that walls like these, my son, have seen the plays of Rotrou!

THE SON.

And Corneille's!

[Pg 4]

A TROOP OF PAGES (coming in, dancing and singing, holding each other by the hand, so as to form a string).

Tra la la la la la la la la la la lère!....

JANITOR (to Pages severely).

No practical jokes, mind!

FIRST PAGE (with great dignity).

Sir, your suspicion is an offense!....

SECOND PAGE (to first Page).

I have some string. Haven't you a fish-hook?

FIRST PAGE.

Of course I have! We can do some fine angling from up stairs.

(To the other Pages who are already in the gallery).

We're coming!

THIRD PAGE (in gallery).

We're ready! (Blows dried peas at him through hollow stick.)

A PICKPOCKET (drawing around him some suspicious-looking characters).

Now, youngsters, try to learn something. You see, the first time you steal....

(Driven away by dried peas blown in showers by the Pages above.)

TRADESMAN (to his son).

The play we are going to see: "La Clorise" ....

SON.

The author, please?

TRADESMAN.

Balthazar Baro.

[Pg 5]

PICKPOCKET (continuing his instructions).

Mind the lace around the knees![2] How you cut it!

TRADESMAN (to his son).

I was at the first performance of "Le Cid,"—(pointing up)—There!

PICKPOCKET.

As to watches.... and kerchiefs....

TRADESMAN.

You are going, my son, to see illustrious actors. (Enumerating) Montfleury!

THE PAGES.

Light the chandeliers!

WAITING-GIRL (offering her refreshments).

Oranges! Milk! Raspberry water! Cedar water!

A MARQUIS (entering).

Make way there, fellows!

A LACKEY.

What! a Marquis in the pit!

MARQUIS (to other Marquises who have followed him in).

The house is empty! Why, we enter like tradesmen, disturbing nobody, treading on nobody's toes! Disgraceful!

(Meeting other noblemen just come in).

Cuigy! Brissaille!

(They salute and embrace each other with great affectation.)

CUIGY.

Patrons of art so faithful, yes, that we get here even before the candles are lighted!

MARQUIS.

Do not mention it! I'm terribly out of humour!

[Pg 6]

CUIGY (seeing lamplighter enter).

Be consoled! Here is the lamplighter.

ALL THE HOUSE (satisfied).

Ah....

(Groups around the chandeliers while they are being lighted. Lignière enters the pit, leaning on the arm of Christian de Neuvillette. Lignière, somewhat untidy, has the appearance of a gentlemanly drunkard. Christian, dressed with care, but somewhat out of fashion, seems thoughtful, and examines the boxes.)

The same, CHRISTIAN, LIGNIÈRE, then RAGUENEAU and LE BRET.

CUIGY.

Why, here's Lignière!

BRISSAILLE (laughing).

And not yet drunk?....

LIGNIÈRE (aside to Christian).

Shall I present you?

(Christian nods assent. Lignière presents.)

Baron de Neuvillette.

(General salutations.)

THE AUDIENCE (as the first chandelier goes up).

Ah!....

CUIGY (to Brissaille, looking at Christian).

A beautiful head!

FIRST MARQUIS (who has overheard).

Oh! so, so!....

LIGNIÈRE (presenting to Christian).

Mr. de Cuigy, Mr. de Brissaille.

[Pg 7]

CHRISTIAN (bowing).

Delighted!

FIRST MARQUIS (to second).

He is good looking, but not dressed according to the latest fashion.

LIGNIÈRE (to Cuigy).

Baron de Neuvillette has just arrived from Touraine.

CHRISTIAN.

Yes, I've been in Paris only a few days. To-morrow I join the guards, the Cadets.

FIRST MARQUIS (looking up to the boxes).

There is the wife of President Aubry.

THE WAITING-GIRL.

Oranges, milk ....

THE VIOLINS (tuning).

La, la, la, la, la.

CUIGY (to Christian, looking around).

Quite an assemblage!

CHRISTIAN.

Yes, indeed!

FIRST MARQUIS.

The cream of fashion.

(He seems to give the names of the different ladies who occupy the boxes, in full dress. Bows, nods, answers, smiles.)

SECOND MARQUIS.

Mesdames de Guéménée....

CUIGY.

De Bois-Dauphin....

FIRST MARQUIS.

Whom we loved ....

[Pg 8]

BRISSAILLE.

De Chavigny ....

SECOND MARQUIS.

For whom our hearts are toys!

LIGNIÈRE.

There is Monsieur de Corneille, just from Rouen.

TRADESMAN'S SON (to his father).

The Academy is here?....

TRADESMAN.

I see several of its members. Here are Boudu, Boissat, Cureau de la Chambre, Porchères, Colomby, Bourzeys, Bourdon, Arbaud .... So many names that can never die! How grand!

FIRST MARQUIS.

Attention! here are our lovely "précieuses,"[3] they of wondrous names: Barthénoïde, Urimédonte, Cassandace, Félixérie ....

SECOND MARQUIS.

Delightful names! Marquis, you know them all?

FIRST MARQUIS.

I know them all, Marquis.

LIGNIÈRE (aside to Christian).

I came in to do you service. The lady comes not. So I return to my tavern.

CHRISTIAN (imploringly).

Do not. You, who in your songs depict both town and court, can tell me the name of one for whom I am dying of love. Remain!

[Pg 9]

(The violins begin to play.)

I fear she may be something of a coquette and too subtle in her refinement. I dare not speak to her, for my wit is dull and the language of to-day confuses me. I am but a good soldier. She generally occupies that box to the right—that empty one.

LIGNIÈRE (as if to leave).

I must go.

CHRISTIAN (holding him).

Remain, please.

LIGNIÈRE.

I cannot. D'Assoucy expects me at the tavern. One might die of thirst here.

WAITING-GIRL (passing).

Lemonade!

LIGNIÈRE.

Fie!

WAITING-GIRL.

Milk!

LIGNIÈRE.

Ugh!

WAITING-GIRL.

Wine!

LIGNIÈRE.

(Takes a seat near the buffet. Waiting-girl serves wine to him.)

SHOUTS IN THE AUDIENCE (on the entrance of a short, plump and jovial looking man).

Here's Ragueneau!

[Pg 10]

LIGNIÈRE (to Christian).

The celebrated poulterer and pastry-cook!

RAGUENEAU (in his best pastry-cook clothes, going up to Lignière).

Sir, have you seen Monsieur de Cyrano?

LIGNIÈRE (presenting Ragueneau to Christian).

The caterer of comedians and poets!

RAGUENEAU (bowing low).

Flattered, indeed!....

LIGNIÈRE.

Come, come, you Mæcenas!

RAGUENEAU.

They honour me with their custom ....

LIGNIÈRE.

But seldom pay. A good poet himself ....

RAGUENEAU.

They say so.

LIGNIÈRE.

Enthusiastic for verse!

RAGUENEAU.

The fact is that for a short poem ....

LIGNIÈRE.

You willingly give a pie.

RAGUENEAU.

A small tart only!

LIGNIÈRE.

Good fellow, he excuses himself!.... And for a triolet [Pg 11]did you not give ....

RAGUENEAU.

Only a few rolls!

LIGNIÈRE (sternly).

Milk-rolls!.... And the stage? You like it?

RAGUENEAU.

I love it.

LIGNIÈRE.

And you buy your way in with your cakes.

RAGUENEAU.

Oh, so few! (Looking around.) But I am surprised not to see Monsieur de Cyrano!

LIGNIÈRE.

Why so?

RAGUENEAU.

Because Montfleury plays!

LIGNIÈRE.

That talking hogshead? True. To-night he plays Phédon. But what cares Cyrano?

RAGUENEAU.

Don't you know? Monsieur de Cyrano has taken an aversion for him, and, gentlemen, has forbidden him to appear on the stage for a whole month.

LIGNIÈRE (emptying his fourth glass).

Well, then?

RAGUENEAU.

Oh! I only came to see what is going to happen.

FIRST MARQUIS (who has come up meanwhile with Cuigy).

Who is this Cyrano?

CUIGY.

A capital swordsman.

[Pg 12]

SECOND MARQUIS.

Of noble birth?

CUIGY.

Sufficiently so. He is a cadet in the guards.

(Indicating a gentleman who appears to be seeking somebody.)

But here's his friend Le Bret....

(Calling) Le Bret!     (Le Bret comes down.)

You are looking for Bergerac?

LE BRET.

Yes, and with some anxiety....

CUIGY.

Am I not right in stating that he is no ordinary man?

LE BRET (moved).

He is the most exquisite of creatures sublunary.

RAGUENEAU.

A rimester!

CUIGY.

A swordsman!

BRISSAILLE.

A scientist!

LE BRET.

A musician!

LIGNIÈRE.

But how strange is his appearance!

RAGUENEAU.

No solemn painter, like Philip de Champaigne, probably, will ever give us a portrait of him. But he is so odd, extravagant, wild and strange, that he could well have served Jacques Callot as a model for the most erratic of his fighting heroes. Three-plumed hat, astounding doublet, cloak[Pg 13] whose folds a sword draws up behind, in stateliness, like the saucy tail of a cock.[4] Prouder than the proudest of Gascony's numberless haughty sons, he wears, above his Pulcinella ruff, a nose!.... Ah! mylords, what a nose is that nose! It is impossible, in presence of such a nose-bearer[5] not to think: "This, really, is exaggeration!" Then you will smile, and think: "Of course, he'll take it off." But Monsieur de Bergerac never takes it off.

LE BRET.

Never—but whoever notices that nose he wears is sure to get a swordthrust for the attention.

RAGUENEAU.

His sword is one of the two blades of the fatal sisters' scissors!

FIRST MARQUIS (shrugging his shoulders).

He will not come.

RAGUENEAU.

Oh! yes, he will. I'll bet.... a chicken....à la Ragueneau.

(Murmurs of admiration as Roxane appears in her box, where she takes a seat in front, while her duenna sits behind her. Christian, busy paying the waiter-girl, does not notice her entrance.)

SECOND MARQUIS (affectedly).

Oh! gentlemen, she is frightfully lovely!

FIRST MARQUIS.

A peach divine, smiling in a nest of strawberries.[6]

SECOND MARQUIS.

So refreshing that she might give one a cold in the heart!

[Pg 14]

CHRISTIAN (perceiving Roxane, and clutching Lignière's arm).

It's she!

LIGNIÈRE (looking up).

So this is your deity!

CHRISTIAN.

Yes, speak quickly. I tremble.

LIGNIÈRE (slowly sipping his wine).

Magdeleine Robin, otherwise Roxane. Refined and quick. A "précieuse."

CHRISTIAN.

Alas!

LIGNIÈRE.

Independent. An orphan. Cousin of Cyrano, whom you heard mentioned just now.

(A gentleman, very finely dressed, wearing a blue ribbon crosswise from shoulder to waist, enters the box, and remains engaged in conversation with Roxane.)

CHRISTIAN (starting).

That man?....

LIGNIÈRE (slightly intoxicated, winking).

Ha, ha! The Count de Guiche. Very much in love with her. But he is the husband of Richelieu's niece. And he is urging Roxane to marry rather a sorry fellow, Monsieur de Valvert, who is both of noble birth and.... accommodating. She resists, but Guiche has influence. I wrote a song on the subject. No doubt he bears me a grudge for it. The end is cutting. Just listen:

(He rises, holding up his glass, ready to sing.)

CHRISTIAN.

No, stop.—I must leave.

LIGNIÈRE.

And you are going[Pg 15]?....

CHRISTIAN.

To seek this Valvert.

LIGNIÈRE.

Take care. Perhaps it's he that might kill you. (Indicating Roxane.) See! she is looking at you.

CHRISTIAN.

True. (He remains, looking up as if transfixed. The pickpockets get close around him.)

LIGNIÈRE.

'Tis I who leave. I'm thirsty and I must be expected—in some tavern!

(Exit unsteadily.)

LE BRET (who has been walking, to Ragueneau).

I feel relieved. Cyrano has not come.

RAGUENEAU (incredulous).

I'd be astonished....

THE AUDIENCE.

The play! The play! The play!

The same, except LIGNIÈRE; GUICHE, VALVERT, then MONTFLEURY.

SECOND MARQUIS (seeing Guiche, as he comes from Roxane's box, crossing the pit, surrounded with fawning friends, among whom Valvert).

Guiche! Ff! Another Gascon!

FIRST MARQUIS.

Yes, of the cool and supple breed, the one that thrives. We had better greet him, believe me.

(Both go up to meet Guiche. General salutations.)

[Pg 16]

SECOND MARQUIS.

Beautiful ribbons! What colour, Count? "Kiss-me-darling," or "roe's-breast?"

GUICHE.

Colour? "Sickly-Spaniard."

FIRST MARQUIS.

The colour is fast and true; for soon, thanks to your valor, the Spaniard will be worse than uneasy in Flanders!

GUICHE.

I am going to my seat on the stage. Are you coming?

(He and his followers walk up on to the stage. Guiche turns and calls.)

Come along, Valvert!

CHRISTIAN (who has heard, starting).

That viscount! Now I'll fling at him!....

(Puts his hand to his pocket and finds there the hand of a thief.)

(holding on to the pickpocket).

I was looking for a glove!

PICKPOCKET (smiling).

And you find a hand. (Aside and rapidly.) Let me go and I'll tell you a secret.

CHRISTIAN (still holding him).

What secret?

PICKPOCKET.

Lignière, who has just left you, is going to his death. A song of his gave offence to.... some great man, and one hundred men, I know it, will lie in wait for him to-night....

CHRISTIAN (still holding on).

One hundred! Paid by whom?

PICKPOCKET.

Discretion....

[Pg 17]

CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders).

Oh!

PICKPOCKET (with great dignity).

Professional discretion....

CHRISTIAN.

Where?

PICKPOCKET.

At the Porte de Nesle, his way home. Warn him in time.

CHRISTIAN (freeing the pickpocket).

Where can I find Lignière?

PICKPOCKET.

In one of the taverns near here: "The Golden Wine-Press," "The Fir-Cone," "The Bursting-Belt," "The Two Torches," "The Three Funnels." Go the rounds and leave a note in each.

CHRISTIAN.

I'll do it! The wretches! A hundred men against one! (Looking up toward Roxane.) But to leave her! (With a look of fury toward Valvert.) And him! But I must save Lignière!

(He rushes out. Guiche and his followers have gone on to the stage behind the curtain, to take their seats. The pit is full; so are the galleries and boxes.)

THE AUDIENCE.

The play! The play! Curtain!

TRADESMAN (whose wig flies up hooked by one of the pages above).

My wig! (Shaking his fist at the pages.) Scoundrels!

(All the audience laughs. Sudden silence.)

LE BRET (astonished).

What is it?

[Pg 18]

TRADESMAN (near Le Bret).

The Cardinal.... there.... in a screened box.

A PAGE.

Good-bye, fun! (Raps on the stage. Order in the audience. Wait.)

A MARQUIS (behind the curtain, during silence).

Snuff that candle!

OTHER MARQUIS (passing through the split in the curtain).

A chair, please!

(A chair is passed, from hand to hand, over the heads of the audience. The marquis takes it and disappears behind the curtain, after sending a few kisses up into the boxes.)

(Three raps on the stage. Curtain is drawn aside. Tableau. Marquises seated on either side of the stage, in impertinent attitudes. Drop represents a bluish pastoral scene. Low music by the violins.)

LE BRET (aside to Ragueneau).

Montfleury comes in at once, does he not?

RAGUENEAU (aside to Le Bret).

Yes. Monsieur de Cyrano is not here, and I have lost my bet.

LE BRET.

I am glad of it.

(A bag-pipe air, and Montfleury appears, a very powerful man in a poetic shepherd's dress: his hat ornamented with roses and his bag-pipe with ribbons.)

THE PIT (applauding).

Bravo, Montfleury! Montfleury!

MONTFLEURY (after bowing, begins his part of Phédon).

"Oh! happy he who far from courts, in solitude,[7][Pg 19]
Self-banished, has cast off the chains of servitude,
And who, when zephyr sighs and rustles through the leaves...."

A VOICE IN THE PIT.

You rascal, did I not suspend you for a month?

(Astonishment. Everybody eager to see who spoke. Murmurs.)

SEVERAL OF THE AUDIENCE.

What? What is it? Who? Why?

(People in the boxes rise, to see better.)

CUIGY.

It's he!

LE BRET (frightened).

Cyrano!

THE VOICE IN THE PIT.

King of clowns, get off the stage!

THE HOUSE.

Oh!

MONTFLEURY.

But....

THE VOICE IN THE PIT.

You recalcitrate?[8]

VOICES IN THE PIT (and in the boxes).

Silence! Enough! Go on, Montfleury! Montfleury, have no fear[Pg 20]!....

MONTFLEURY (in shaking tone).

"Oh! happy he who far from courts, in sol...."

THE VOICE IN THE PIT (more threatening).

Well, you king of knaves, shall I be forced to plant a grove of these upon your shoulders?

(A stick is seen to rise in the pit.)

MONTFLEURY (in still weaker tones).

"Oh! happy he...."

(The stick is shaken threateningly.)

THE VOICE IN THE PIT.

Get off, I say!

THE PIT.

Oh!

MONTFLEURY (almost breathless).

"Oh! happy he who far ...."

CYRANO (in the pit, standing on his chair, arms folded, hat cocked on the side of his head, his mustache bristling and his nose terrible).

I am going to let my temper loose!

(Excitement in the audience.)

The same, CYRANO, then BELLEROSE, JODELET.

MONTFLEURY (to the Marquises).

Protect me, gentlemen!

A MARQUIS (languidly).

Play on! Play on!

CYRANO.

Now mind me, corpulence! If you play, I'll have to spank your cheeks.

[Pg 21]

THE MARQUIS.

Enough! Enough!

CYRANO.

Let the gentlemen remain silent on their benches. Otherwise their ribbons will have a taste of my stick.

ALL THE MARQUISES (rising).

This is too much, indeed! Montfleury!

CYRANO.

Montfleury must go, or I shall crop his ears and disembowel him!

A VOICE.

But ....

CYRANO.

He must go!

ANOTHER VOICE.

We cannot ....

CYRANO.

What! Not gone yet!

(As if he were going to turn up his sleeves).

Then must I go upon the stage to cut up this overgrown sausage into slices?

MONTFLEURY (with an attempt at dignity).

By insulting me, Sir, you insult the Muse Thalia!

CYRANO (with great courtesy).

If the Muse Thalia, with whom you are not related, Sir, had the honour of your acquaintance and saw you so fat and so silly, she would certainly give you a lift with her buskin.

THE PIT.

Montfleury! Montfleury! The play.

[Pg 22]

CYRANO (to the noisy ones around him).

Have pity on my scabbard! If you continue thus, it will lose control of its blade.

(The circle around him widens.)

(to Montfleury).

Get off the stage!

(The crowd closes in on him, muttering.)

(Turning suddenly).

Any objection made?

(Crowd falls back again.)

A VOICE (in the rear).

Monsieur de Cyrano is a tyrant. "La Clorise" shall be played.

THE AUDIENCE.

"La Clorise!" "La Clorise!"

CYRANO.

If I hear that again, I'll slaughter you all.

TRADESMAN.

You are not Samson!

CYRANO.

I will be, my dear Sir, if you'll lend me your jaw.

A LADY (in one of the boxes).

Disgraceful disturbance!

A GENTLEMAN.

Scandalous!

A PAGE.

Oh! What fun!

THE PIT.

Kss! Kss! Montfleury! Cyrano!

[Pg 23]

CYRANO.

Silence! Such is my order. I challenge the whole pit! Now for the names! Come up here, young heroes. Take the line, please; I'll distribute numbers. Well, who'll be number one? You, Sir? No! You, then? No! I'll favour number one by prompt attendance. Let any one who desires to die hold up a hand.

(Silence around him.)

Oh! I see. You are prudish and would not like to see a blade naked. Not a name? Not a hand?—Very well, then, I continue.

(Turning again to the stage, on which Montfleury is waiting in agony).

I desire to see the stage cured of a monstrous tumor. And, if necessary, I'll use ... (putting his hand to his sword) a lancet!

MONTFLEURY.

But I ....

CYRANO (gets off his chair and sits down on it, comfortably, with a wide circle around him).

Attention, full moon! I'll clap my hands thrice. The third time, there must be an eclipse.

THE PIT (amused).

Ah! Good!

CYRANO (striking his hands together).

One!

MONTFLEURY.

But I ....

A VOICE (from the boxes).

Stay, Montfleury!

THE PIT.

Will stay, will not! Will stay, will not!

[Pg 24]

MONTFLEURY.

I believe, gentlemen ....

CYRANO.

Two!

MONTFLEURY.

It would be far better ....

CYRANO.

Three!

(Montfleury disappears as if by magic. General laughter, whistling, etc.)

CYRANO (leaning back in his chair, and crossing his legs).

Let him return if he dares!

THE AUDIENCE.

The company's orator!

(Bellerose advances and bows.)

THE BOXES.

Ah! here is Bellerose!

BELLEROSE (with great elegance).

Noble lords ....

THE PIT.

No! No! Jodelet!

JODELET (with a nasal twang).

Disturbers of the peace! The heavy tragedian whose bulk suits your fancy, felt....

THE PIT.

He is a coward!

JODELET.

Suddenly unwell ... and was compelled to retire.

THE PIT.

Let him return!—No!—Yes!—

[Pg 25]

A YOUNG MAN (to Cyrano).

But, after all, Sir, what reason is there for your hating Montfleury?

CYRANO (very courteous, still seated).

Young gosling, there are two, either one of which is sufficient in itself. First: he is a bad actor; he rants, and seems to lift with a derrick lines that have wings of their own. Second: but that is my secret.

TRADESMAN (behind Cyrano).

But, Sir, you deprive us of the pleasure of hearing "La Clorise." I insist....

CYRANO (turning in his chair toward the tradesman respectfully).

Venerable mule, Baro's verse is worthless. I interrupt without the slightest remorse.

THE "PRÉCIEUSES" (in the boxes).

Baro! Our Baro! Heavens! Is it possible?

CYRANO (turning his chair to the boxes, with great courtesy).

Fair beings ....
Irradiate and bloom, be Hebes, all,
Dispensing dream; with smile make death a feast
To us——inspire verse.... but judge it not!

BELLEROSE.

How about the money we'll have to return?

CYRANO (turning his chair toward the stage).

Bellerose, you have said the only intelligent thing yet heard to-day. I would not for the world make holes in the cloak of Thespis.

(He rises and throws a small bag upon the stage).

Catch this purse and hold your tongue!

THE AUDIENCE (bewildered).

Ah!.... Oh[Pg 26]!....

JODELET (picking up the purse and weighing it).

For the same price, Sir, you may daily prevent the performance of "La Clorise"!....

THE AUDIENCE.

Hu!.... Hu!....

JODELET.

Even if we are to be hooted .... Clear the house!

(The audience begins to leave. Cyrano looks on with great satisfaction. The crowd, however, soon stops as the following discussion begins. The ladies in the boxes, who had already risen to go, and put on their wraps, resume their seats).

LE BRET (to Cyrano).

You are insane!

AN INTRUDER (who has come up to Cyrano).

A comedian like Montfleury! Scandalous! Why! He is a favourite of the Duke de Candale's! What powerful patron have you?

CYRANO.

None!

THE INTRUDER.

No patron?

CYRANO.

No!

THE INTRUDER.

What! no high-born gentleman whose name can shield you?

CYRANO (impatient).

I've said No twice already. A third time: No! I've no protector.... (his hand on his sword) but this!

THE INTRUDER.

You are going to leave town, then?

[Pg 27]

CYRANO.

Hardly probable.

THE INTRUDER.

But the Duke has a long reach!

CYRANO.

Not so long as mine .... (showing his sword) with this extension! Now, go about your business.

THE INTRUDER.

But allow me....

CYRANO.

Go! Or, rather, tell me why you look so sharply at my nose.

THE INTRUDER (abashed).

What! I....

CYRANO.

Is there anything extraordinary about it?

THE INTRUDER.

Your lordship mistakes....

CYRANO.

Is it soft and swinging like an elephant's trunk?

THE INTRUDER.

I did not say....

CYRANO.

Or crooked like the beak of an owl?

THE INTRUDER.

No; I....

CYRANO.

Is there a wart on the end of it? Or a fly? What's amiss with it? Or is it a phenomenon?

[Pg 28]

THE INTRUDER.

Why, I didn't even look at it!

CYRANO.

Why shouldn't you look at it? Is it repulsive?

THE INTRUDER.

My dear Sir....

CYRANO.

In colour unhealthy? In shape indecent?

THE INTRUDER.

Not at all!

CYRANO.

Why, then, seem to revile it? Perhaps the gentleman finds it rather large?

THE INTRUDER (stammering).

I find it small, very, very small.

CYRANO.

How small? Ridiculously then? My nose small! Why, my nose is enormous! Remember, vile flat-nose and flat-head, that I am proud of such an appendix! For a large nose properly indicates a man that is affable, kind, courteous, witty, liberal and brave, such as I am, and such as you, miserable knave! can never be; for the inglorious face that my hand is about to seek above your collar is as destitute ..... (he slaps intruder's face).

THE INTRUDER.

Oh!

CYRANO.

Of pride, of flight, of poesy, of picturesqueness, of fire, of magnificence, of Nose, in fact, as the one.... (Cyrano seizes the Intruder by the shoulders and kicks him in the seat) that my boot now reaches at the base of your back.

[Pg 29]

THE INTRUDER (escaping).

Help! Guards!

CYRANO.

Fair warning, then, to idle lookers on
Who criticise the centre of my face!
The critic, if a gentleman, will get,—
Before he flies,—in front and higher too,
My custom's such, some steel instead of leather!

GUICHE (who with the marquises, has come down from the stage).

The gentleman is getting very tiresome!

VICOMTE de VALVERT (shrugging his shoulders).

He is a braggart!

GUICHE.

And no one answers him?....

THE VICOMTE.

No one? Just wait. Such a retort as I'm going to send him!

(He advances toward Cyrano, who has been looking at him, and draws himself up with an air of foppish vanity.)

You.... you have a nose.... hum! a nose, Sir, that is.... very large.

CYRANO (very quietly and seriously).

Very large, indeed!

VICOMTE (laughing).

Ha! Ha!

CYRANO (with great self-possession).

Is that all?

VICOMTE.

Well, I....

[Pg 30]

CYRANO.

No, no, that's a little too short, young man! You might have said.... Well.... many things.... in different keys. For instance, listen: Aggressive: "I, Sir, had I such a nose, would at once have it amputated."—Friendly: "It must dip into your glass. To drink with comfort, you should have a hanap constructed!"—Descriptive: "It is a rock!... a peak!!.... a headland!!! More than a headland, a whole peninsula!"—Inquisitive: "What may this oblong thing be used for? A writing-desk or a tool-chest?"—Pleasant: "Do you love birds so much that you feel bound to offer them so comfortable a resting place?"—Fierce: "When you use tobacco, Sir, can you emit smoke from that nose without your neighbours' crying that there is a chimney on fire?"—Thoughtful: "Be careful; so much top-hamper might cause you to fall!"—Affectionate: "Have a parasol made for it; the sun might fade its colour!"—Pedantic: "For so much flesh on so much bone beneath the forehead, we must go back, Sir, to the animal Aristophanes calls Hippocampelephantocamelos!"—Flippant: "Why! man, is that the fashion for hooks? Certainly convenient for hanging up a hat!"—Emphatic: "Masterly nose, no wind can make you catch aught but a fractional cold! None but a northern hurricane!"—Dramatic: "When it bleeds, we have the Red Sea!"—Admiringly: "For a perfumer, what a sign!"—Lyric: "Is it a shell trumpet, and are you a triton?"—Innocent: "When is this monument open to visitors?"—Respectful: "This is really owning a mansion with a gable on it!"—Countrylike: "That be not a nose, but a big turnip, or a young melon!"—Military: "Point against cavalry!"—Practical: "Will you put it up in a lottery? It will surely be the largest prize!"—Finally, to parody the grief of Pyramus:

So here we have the nose that on its master came
To ruin harmony! The traitor's red for shame!

That is about what you might have said, dear boy, if you[Pg 31] had a sprinkling of letters and a bit of humour. Of humour, though, lamentable being, you never had an atom; and, as to letters, you never had but the four that spell the word Fool!—Some invention is requisite for extravagant jests before such an audience, but, even if you had it, you could not have uttered a quarter of the half of the beginning of what I said; for I may be willing to serve such sport myself, but I allow nobody to serve it to me.

GUICHE (endeavouring to lead away the Vicomte).

Vicomte, pay no attention to him!

VICOMTE (overwhelmed).

Such arrogance! An insignificant little squire .... who .... who .... doesn't even wear gloves!....and who sallies forth without ribbons, bows or trimmings!

CYRANO.

'Tis morally I have my elegance,
I do not dress as does a fop, but I
Am better groomed than some more richly clad.
I'd not set forth with traces of neglect
About me, say: an insult left unwashed,
A conscience still confused and half asleep,
My honour soiled, or scruples out of shape.
When I proceed, I do so clean and bright,
With truthful independence for a plume.
'Tis not my form I lace to hold it up,
It is my soul I try to elevate!
The ribbons that I wear are only deeds;
I twist perhaps my wit like a mustache;
But then I cause, as I go through your groups,
Above the clash of spurs, the truth to ring!

VICOMTE.

But, Sir ....

CYRANO.

I have no gloves on?.... What matters it? I did have[Pg 32] one left from a very old pair! One day I found it somewhat in the way .... and I left it on somebody's face.

VICOMTE.

Knave, puppy, flat-footed ridiculous bully!

CYRANO (taking off his hat and bowing, as if the Vicomte had just presented himself).

Ah! delighted!.... and I: Cyrano, Savinian, Hercules de Bergerac.

(Laughter around.)

VICOMTE (exasperated).

Buffoon!

CYRANO (uttering a cry as if he had a cramp).

Ay!....

VICOMTE (who was leaving, returning).

What is it now?

CYRANO (grinning as if in pain).

I must move it, for it is asleep.... What a mistake to let it remain inactive.... Ay!....

VICOMTE.

What ails you?

CYRANO.

It's my sword that's tingling!

VICOMTE (drawing his sword).

Be it so!

CYRANO.

I'll show you a neat little thrust.

VICOMTE (disdainfully).

Poet!

CYRANO.

Yes, Sir, a poet! So much so that, while we play swords here, I mean—hop!—on the spur of the moment, to improvise for you a ballade.

[Pg 33]

VICOMTE.

A ballade?

CYRANO.

Yes. I'll wager you do not know what is a ballade.

VICOMTE.

But....

CYRANO (as if reciting a lesson).

Well, then, a ballade is composed of three stanzas of eight lines each....

VICOMTE (stamping impatiently).

Oh!

CYRANO (continuing).

Plus an Envoy of four lines. Twenty-eight lines in all, with only three rimes....

VICOMTE.

You....

CYRANO.

I am going to compose one while fighting, and when I come to the last line, Sir, I'll touch you!

VICOMTE.

You'll not!

CYRANO.

Be sure, I shall!

(Declaiming.)

Ballade of the Duel Between Monsieur de Bergerac and a Coxcomb.

VICOMTE.

What is that, if you please?

CYRANO.

That is the title.

[Pg 34]

THE AUDIENCE (greatly excited).

Make room there!.... Capital!.... Stand back!.... Be silent!....

(Tableau.—Circle of lookers-on in the pit,—marquises and officers, with the tradesmen and common people. Pages on each others' shoulders for a better view. All the women standing in the boxes. To the right, Guiche and his followers. To the left, Le Bret, Ragueneau, Cuigy, etc.).

CYRANO (closing his eyes for a moment).

Wait....I'm selecting my rimes....There now, I'm ready!

(He does as he says while speaking the verses.)

My hat with grace I cast aside;
Next, watch me, please, I slowly free
The cloak in which I'm wont to stride;
And then I draw my sword, you see.
A Celadon[9] you have in me,
A Scaramuccia very much;
But, pygmy, moderate your glee,
For, when I close th' Envoy, I'll touch!

'Twere better you had slept or died.
O goose, where shall I puncture thee?
Beneath the ribs? Above? Decide!
Or through the breast, where ribbons be?
The hilts are ringing. One, two, three!
My sword, beware! is not a crutch.
I'll strike according to decree,
For, when I close th' Envoy, I'll touch!

I seek in vain a rime in ide.
You back—and whiten—let's agree
[Pg 35]Upon a word, say: trembling hide,
So, tac! I parry, just a wee,
Your vicious thrust. Now finish we!
I open—quart—or something such——
Hold well that spit, you dog, or flee,[10]
For, when I close th' Envoy, I'll touch!

(He announces with solemnity).

ENVOY.[11]

Now, Prince, may heaven hear your plea!
I follow, though you break and clutch.
I cut—I feint—Be ready—Hee! (He lunges.)

(Vicomte staggers; Cyrano bows.)

For now I close th' Envoy.... (pointing to Vicomte)
I touch!

(Applause in boxes. Flowers and handkerchiefs are thrown. Officers surround and congratulate Cyrano. Ragueneau dances for joy. Le Bret seems both overjoyed and dejected. The Vicomte's friends support him and bear him off.)

A MUSKETEER (most cordially shaking Cyrano's hand).

Allow an expert to congratulate you, Sir, most heartily.

(He leaves.)

CYRANO (to Cuigy).

Who is this gentleman?

CUIGY.

D'Artagnan!

LE BRET (passing his arm through Cyrano's).

Now let us talk[Pg 36]!....

CYRANO.

Wait till the crowd has left.

(to Bellerose).

May we stay a while?

BELLEROSE (to Cyrano).

Certainly, Sir.

(giving orders to Janitor).

Close the house, but do not put out the lights. We'll return after dinner for a rehearsal.

(Jodelet and Bellerose bow to Cyrano, then exeunt.)

JANITOR (to Cyrano).

You are not going to dinner, Sir?

CYRANO.

I?.... No.

(Exit Janitor.)

LE BRET (to Cyrano).

Why not?

CYRANO (proudly).

Because....

(changing his tone, when he sees that the Janitor has gone).

Because I have no money!....

LE BRET (as if throwing a purse).

How about that bag of coin?

CYRANO.

Monthly allowance, thou wert short lived! One day!

LE BRET.

For a whole month, then....

CYRANO.

I have nothing left.

LE BRET.

To throw away thus your purse, what folly!

[Pg 37]

CYRANO.

Yes, but what a gesture!

THE WAITING-GIRL (behind the counter).

Hum!

(Cyrano and Le Bret turn around. She advances timidly.)

Sir .... I cannot bear.... to see you fast.... (Showing the buffet). I have here several things.... Take some!

CYRANO (taking off his hat).

My dear child, Gascon pride forbids my accepting from you the smallest of your delicacies. But, on the other hand, I would not for the whole world offend you, as my refusal might do. So I will with pleasure accept....

(Goes up to the buffet and chooses.)

Oh! the smallest thing!.... ah! one grape from this bunch.

(She tries to make him take the bunch, but he picks out a single grape.)

Only one.... a glass of water....

(She tries to pour some wine, but he prevents her.)

Pure water!.... and half a maccaroon.

(He breaks a maccaroon in two, and returns one of the pieces.)

LE BRET.

What nonsense!

WAITING-GIRL.

Do have something more!

CYRANO.

Yes, your hand to kiss.

(He kisses her hand as if she were a princess.)

WAITING-GIRL.

Thank you, Sir!

(Curtsies.)

A very good evening!

(Exit waiting-girl.)

[Pg 38]

CYRANO, LE BRET, later JANITOR.

CYRANO (to Le Bret).

Now, I'll listen to you.

(He goes to the buffet, on which he places the half maccaroon.)

Dinner!

(Then the glass of water.)

Drink!

(And the one grape from the bunch.)

Dessert!

(Takes a seat by the buffet.)

Now for the feast! My dear friend, I feel very hungry.... (Eating) Well? You were saying?....

LE BRET.

That all these bellicose doings and the admiration they elicit will warp your judgment. Go ask people of sense what they think of this last prank of yours, of its effect.

CYRANO (finishing his half maccaroon).

Enormous!....

LE BRET.

The Cardinal!....

CYRANO (beaming with delight).

He was there? The Cardinal?

LE BRET.

Yes, and he must have found you....

CYRANO.

Anything but commonplace.

LE BRET.

Nevertheless....

CYRANO.

He's an author. And he must have enjoyed seeing another's play crushed.

[Pg 39]

LE BRET.

You are, really, making too many enemies!

CYRANO (munching his one grape).

How many do you estimate I have made to-day?

LE BRET.

Forty-eight, without counting the women.

CYRANO.

Enumerate them.

LE BRET.

Montfleury, the tradesman, Guiche, the Vicomte, Baro, the Academy....

CYRANO.

You give me infinite joy!

LE BRET.

What will all this lead you to? What system is yours?

CYRANO.

I was really meandering, and I found so many conclusions to adopt, through so many complications, that I came to this decision....

LE BRET.

Which is?....

CYRANO.

Oh! the simplest of all, by far. I decided to show myself admirable in all, and for all!

LE BRET (shrugging his shoulders).

So be it!.... But come now, tell me, tell me, the true reason of your hatred for Montfleury.

CYRANO (rising).

This Silenus, with a stomach like a hogshead, still believes himself a danger to womankind. See him, while he stammers on the stage, ogling like a carp, with his frog's eyes! I hate him since he dared, once, to set those eyes of his upon her.... Oh! I felt as if I saw a long slug crawling over a flower!

[Pg 40]

LE BRET (astounded).

What, is it possible?....

CYRANO (with a bitter laugh).

That I love?

(changing to a solemn tone).

I do love.

LE BRET.

Whom? May I enquire? You never told me.

CYRANO.

Whom I love? Come now, reflect. The dream of being loved, even by a homely girl, is one forbidden me. Forbidden by this nose of mine that precedes me everywhere by fifteen minutes. So, then, I love .... Whom? Why! it is most natural! I love .... it could not be otherwise, the loveliest of the lovely!

LE BRET.

The loveliest?....

CYRANO.

Exactly .... in the world! The most brilliant, the most exquisite, (crushed) the blondest!

LE BRET.

This woman is?....

CYRANO.

A deadly danger, though
She knows it not; a snare that Nature made
Unconscious, like a sweetly budding rose
Whose leaves conceal,—in ambush lurking, love.
Who sees her smile knows what perfection is:
Her slightest touch engenders loveliness;
She moves as if all heaven's grace were hers,
And Venus ne'er embarked in any shell,
Nor did Diana tread the sylvan paths
As my adored can step into a chair!

[Pg 41]

LE BRET.

I understand! Quite clear.

CYRANO.

Transparent, say.

LE BRET.

It's Magdeleine, your cousin?

CYRANO.

Yes, Roxane.

LE BRET.

Well, where's the harm? You love her? Tell her so!
She witnessed here just now your valiant deed!

CYRANO.

Why! Look at me, good friend, and say what hope
There can be with .... such a protuberance!
I clearly see the truth. But, then, of course,
My heart will beat, perchance, at eventide,
If, with this nose, I scent the breath of spring.
Or else, I see, along some moonlit path,
A whisp'ring pair of lovers slowly move;
And then I think what rapture would be mine
If on my arm a gentle creature leaned.
I dream: but suddenly, I'm brought to sense.
By what? Alas! My profile on the wall!

LE BRET.

Dear friend!....

CYRANO.

Yes, friend, it's hard indeed to feel
So homely and forlorn at times....

LE BRET (taking his hand).

You weep!

CYRANO.

Weep? Never! Oh! a sorry sight, indeed,
If down this nose a tear should take its course!
[Pg 42]I will not have, so long as I command,
The saintliness of tears polluted by
This homeliness of mine. Remember, friend,
That nothing's more sublime than flowing tears.
So would I not allow a single one
To cause a laugh, or seem ridiculous!

LE BRET.

Come, come, do not be sad. In love there is hazard, remember.

CYRANO (shaking his hand).

No! I love Cleopatra: do I resemble a Cæsar? I adore Berenice: do I look like a Titus?

LE BRET.

But, friend, your bravery, intelligence and wit!.... Take that girl there who just now offered you your dinner. Did her eyes seem to detest you?

CYRANO (struck).

It's a fact.

LE BRET.

Well, then, hope!.... Why! Roxane was pale and trembling, ghastly pale, while she followed your duel here!....

CYRANO.

Ghastly pale?

LE BRET.

Her heart and mind were certainly struck. Pick up courage and speak to her, so that....

CYRANO.

So that she bursts out laughing into my face .... under my very nose? No, no!.... That is the only thing in the world that I fear!

[Pg 43]

THE JANITOR (bringing in the duenna, to Cyrano).

Somebody for you, Sir.

CYRANO (seeing the duenna).

Great heavens! Her duenna!

CYRANO, LE BRET, THE DUENNA.

THE DUENNA (with a long curtsy).

A fair cousin would like to know where a valiant cousin can be seen, in private.

CYRANO (greatly disturbed).

I be seen, in private?

DUENNA (with another curtsy).

Yes, be seen. There are things to be said.

CYRANO.

There are things....

DUENNA (another curtsy).

To be said.

CYRANO (staggering).

Heavens!

DUENNA.

We'll hear to-morrow early mass, at the church of Saint-Roch.

CYRANO (leaning on Le Bret).

Heavens!

DUENNA.

As we go out, we can chat a bit, I fancy.

CYRANO (bewildered).

Where?.... I .... But .... Heavens!

DUENNA.

Decide.

[Pg 44]

CYRANO.

I'm thinking....

DUENNA.

Where?....

CYRANO.

At.... at.... Ragueneau's.... the pastry-cook's....

DUENNA.

Where's that?....

CYRANO.

Rue.... Rue.... Heavens! Rue St.-Honoré!

DUENNA (leaving).

We'll be there by seven sharp. Be punctual.

CYRANO.

I shall!

(Exit Duenna.)

CYRANO, LE BRET, THE COMEDIANS and COMEDIENNES, CUIGY, BRISSAILLE, LIGNIÈRE, THE JANITOR, THE VIOLINS.

CYRANO (falling into the arms of Le Bret).

I!.... She.... An appointment!....

LE BRET.

So, now your sadness is no more?

CYRANO.

No! for, whatever the reason, she knows that I exist!

LE BRET.

And now you will be cool?

CYRANO (beside himself).

No, I'll be frantic and invincible! I would I had an army to defeat! I have ten hearts and twenty arms. What are[Pg 45] dwarfs to me?.... (He shouts.) I must have giants to vanquish!

(For the last few minutes, on the stage, in the rear, actors and actresses have been going and coming: a rehearsal is on. The violins have taken their seats.)

A VOICE (from the stage).

Silence there, please! We're rehearsing.

CYRANO (laughing).

Very well. We're leaving.

(As Cyrano is about going, enter, by the wide door in the rear, Cuigy, Brissaille, and several officers, supporting Lignière, who is completely intoxicated.)

CUIGY.

Cyrano!

CYRANO.

What is it?

CUIGY.

A friend of yours.

CYRANO (recognising Lignière).

Lignière!.... Why! what is the matter?

CUIGY.

He was looking for you.

BRISSAILLE.

He cannot get home.

CYRANO.

Why not?

LIGNIÈRE (thick-tongued, showing a note soiled and torn).

This note warns me .... a hundred men are posted .... on account of a song .... I'll be murdered .... at the Porte de Nesle .... there I must pass .... to get [Pg 46]home .... Offer me shelter .... under your roof!

CYRANO.

One hundred men, you say? You'll sleep under your own roof.

LIGNIÈRE (terrified).

But how can I?....

CYRANO (in fierce tones, showing him the lighted lantern held by the Janitor, who has been listening).

Take that lantern!

(Lignière seizes the lantern.)

And walk on boldly. I swear to you that I to-night will make your bed for you. (To the officers.) You, gentlemen, be good enough to follow .... at a distance. You'll be witnesses.

CUIGY.

Yes, but one hundred men!....

CYRANO.

To-night I would not have them fewer by a single man!

(The comedians and comediennes, who have, in their costumes, come down from the stage into the pit, crowd around Cyrano.)

LE BRET.

But why protect this....

CYRANO.

There's Le Bret grumbling again!

LE BRET.

This commonplace drunkard?....

CYRANO (playfully striking Lignière on the shoulder).

Because this drunkard, this cask of Muscatel, this barrel of Rossoli, once did something exceedingly handsome: his lady-love, as she was leaving church, after mass, having [Pg 47]properly dipped her dainty finger into the holy water near the door, he, though he has a horror for water, ran up to the stoup, leaned over it and drank it dry!

COMEDIENNE (in soubrette's dress).

A pretty deed, I think.

CYRANO.