Mr. Gilbert, allow me to remind you that you are speaking in the presence of a lady.
Gil. I'm speaking in the presence of a comrade, Baron, who, perhaps, shares my views in these matters.
Clem. Oh!
Marg. Clement! [Throws herself at his feet.] Clement.
Clem. [staggered]. But—Margaret.
Marg. Your forgiveness, Clement!
Clem. But, Margaret. [To Gilbert.] It's very painful to me, Mr. Gilbert. Now, get up, Margaret. Get up, everything's all right; everything's arranged. Yes, yes. You have but to call up Künigel. I have already arranged everything with him. We are going to put it out for sale. Is that suitable to you?
Gil. What are you going to put out for sale, if I may be so bold as to ask? The novel madame has written?
Clem. Ah, so you know already. At all events, Mr. Gilbert, it seems that your camaraderie is not required any further.
Gil. Yes. There's really nothing left for me but to beg to be excused. I'm sorry.
Clem. I very much regret, Mr. Gilbert, that you had to witness a scene which might almost be called domestic.
Gil. Oh, I do not wish to intrude any further.
Gil. Madame—Baron, may I offer you a copy of my book as a token that all ill-feeling between us has vanished? As a feeble sign of my sympathy, Baron?
Clem. You're very good, Mr. Gilbert. I must, however, tell you that this is going to be the last, or the one before the last, that I ever intend to read.
Gil. The one before the last?
Clem. Yes.
Marg. And what's the last going to be?
Clem. Yours, my love. [Draws an advanced copy from his pocket.] I wheedled an advance copy from Künigel to bring to you, or, rather, to both of us. [Margaret and Gilbert exchange scared glances.]
Marg. How good of you! [Taking the book.] Yes, it's mine.
Clem. We will read it together.
Marg. No, Clement, no. I cannot accept so much kindness. [She throws the book into the fireplace.] I don't want to hear of this sort of thing any more.
Gil. [very joyful]. But, dear madame—
Clem. [going toward the fireplace]. Margaret, what have you done?
Marg. [in front of the fireplace, throwing her arms about Clement]. Now, do you believe that I love you!
Gil. [most gleeful]. It appears that I'm entirely de trop here. Dear Madame—Baron—[To himself.] Pity, though, I can't stay for the last chapter. [Goes out.]
[Curtain.]
THE INTRUDER
A Play
By Maurice Maeterlinck
| CHARACTERS |
| The Grandfather [blind]. The Father. The Three Daughters. The Uncle. The Servant. |
The present translation of The Intruder is the anonymous version published by Mr. Heinemann in 1892, the editor having, however, made some slight alterations in order to bring it into 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.
