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Woman on Her Own, False Gods and The Red Robe

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Title: Woman on Her Own, False Gods and The Red Robe

Author: Eugène Brieux

Translator: James Bernard Fagan
        Bernard Miall
        Charlotte Frances Shaw


        
Release date: November 8, 2008 [eBook #27201]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27201

Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Josephine Paolucci and the
        Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WOMAN ON HER OWN, FALSE GODS AND THE RED ROBE ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.









WOMAN ON HER OWN, FALSE
GODS AND THE RED ROBE:

THREE PLAYS BY BRIEUX.

THE ENGLISH VERSIONS BY MRS.
BERNARD SHAW, J. F. FAGAN,
AND A. BERNARD MIALL. WITH
AN INTRODUCTION BY BRIEUX

BRENTANO'S NEW YORK
MCMXVI

_Copyright, 1916, by Brentano's_


THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.




CONTENTS

Preface                                 vii

Woman On Her Own                          1

False Gods                              127

The Red Robe                            219




PREFACE


We are confronted at the present time by the woman who is anxious to lay
by means for her own support irrespective of the protection of her
husband. In this play I have indicated the tendency of this difficulty
and the consequent troubles which the older civilizations will bring
upon themselves when the woman's standing as a worker is generally
acknowledged. My conclusion, namely, that all these complications and
troubles are, at present at any rate, owing to the education of the man,
points to the remedy, as far as I can see it.

I must inform my readers that the version of LA FEMME SEULE, a
translation of which is now published in this volume, has, so far, not
appeared in France and is unknown there; at least as regards the larger
part of the third act. I might, did I think it advisable, reproduce in
its entirety a text which certain timidities have led me to emasculate.

As between the man and the woman the ideal situation would, no doubt, be
a rehabilitation of the old custom--the man at the workshop and the
woman in the home; thus reserving for her the holiest and most important
of all missions--the one which insures the future of the race by her
enlightened care of the moral and physical health of her children.

Unfortunately it happens that the wages of the working-man are
insufficient for the support of a family, and the poor woman is
therefore compelled to go to the factory. The results are deplorable.
The child is either entirely abandoned, or given to the State, and the
solidarity of the family suffers in consequence.

Then again a generation of women with new ideas has arisen, who think
they should have, if they wish it, the right to live alone and by
themselves, without a husband's protection. However much some of us may
regret this attitude, it is one which must be accepted, since I cannot
believe that the worst tyrants would dare to make marriage obligatory.
These women have a right to live, and consequently a right to work. Also
there are the widows and the abandoned women.

Women first took places which seemed best fit for them, and which the
men turned over to them because the work appeared to be of a character
suitable to the feminine sex. But the modern woman has had enough of the
meagre salary which is to be obtained by means of needle-work, and she
has invaded the shop, the office, the desks of the banks and post
office. In industry also she has taken her place by the side of the
working-man, who has made room for her first with ironical grace, then
with grumbling, and sometimes with anger. I believe that in Europe at
least this kind of difficulty will have to be faced in the future.

As to the rich woman (and in LA FEMME SEULE I have treated this subject
only slightly because it is one to which I expect to come back), they
have been driven from the home where the progress of domestic science
has left them very little to do. We have reached a kind of hypocritical
form of State Socialism, or perhaps it would be better to say
Collectivism, and this will profoundly change the moral outlook. All, or
nearly all, of the work of the home seems to be done by people from the
outside--from the cleaning of the windows to the education of the
children. The modern home is but a fireside around which one hardly sees
the family gathered for intimate talk.

It has thus happened that the woman who finds herself without work, and
with several children, looks out of the windows of her home away from it
for the employment of her activities. The future will tell us whether or
no this is good. In my opinion I believe it will be good, and I believe
that man will gain, through this new intelligence, in the direction of
the larger life which has come to women from this necessity of theirs.
Unquestionably there will have to be a new education, and this will
certainly come.

LA FOI.--This play is, without doubt, of all my plays the one which has
cost me the most labor and the one upon which I have expended the most
thought and time. The impulse to write it came to me at Lourdes in view
of the excited, suffering, and praying crowds of people. When the
thought of writing it came to me I hesitated, but during many years I
added notes upon notes. And it was while on a trip to Egypt that I saw
the possibility for discussing such questions in the theatre without
giving offence to various consciences. My true and illustrious friend,
Camille Saint-Saens, has been kind enough to underline my prose with his
admirable music. In this way LA FOI has been produced on the stage at
Monte Carlo for the first time under the auspices of His Royal Highness
the Prince of Monaco, whom I now beg to thank.

English readers of LA ROBE ROUGE would, I think, be somewhat misled, if
they did not understand the difference between the procedure in criminal
cases in France and in Great Britain. My purpose in this preface is to
attempt to show that difference in a few words.

With you, a criminal trial is conducted publicly and before a jury; with
us in France it is carried on in the Chambers of the Judge with only the
lawyer present. There sometimes result from this latter method dramas of
the kind of which my play LA ROBE ROUGE is one. The judge, too directly
interested and free of the criticism which might fall on him from the
general public, is liable to the danger of forming for himself an
opinion as to the guilt of the accused. He may do this in perfect good
faith, but sometimes runs the risk of falling into grave error. It thus
occasionally happens that he is anxious not so much to know the truth as
to prove that he was right in his own, often rash, opinion.

LA ROBE ROUGE is a criticism of certain judicial proceedings which
obtain in France; but it is also a study of an individual case of
professional crookedness. We should be greatly mistaken were we to draw
the dangerous conclusion that all French judges resemble Mouzon, and we
should be equally wrong were we to condemn too hastily the French code
relating to criminal trials.

In the struggle of society with the criminal it is very difficult,
perhaps impossible, for the legislator to hold in equal balance the
rights of the individual as against the interests of society. The
balance sometimes leans one way and sometimes the other; and had I been
an English citizen, instead of writing a play against the abuse of
justice by a judge, I might have had to illustrate the same abuse by the
lawyer.

I wish most sincerely that these three plays may interest the people of
England and America. The problems which I have studied I am sure I have
not brought to their final solutions. My ambition was to draw and keep
the attention of honest people on them by means of the theatre.

                  BRIEUX.




WOMAN ON HER OWN

[LA FEMME SEULE]

TRANSLATED BY MRS. BERNARD SHAW


CHARACTERS

    THERESE
    MADAME NERISSE
    MADAME GUERET
    MOTHER BOUGNE
    CAROLINE LEGRAND
    MADAME CHANTEUIL
    LUCIENNE
    MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE
    MADEMOISELLE BARON
    MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT
    ANTOINETTE
    BERTHE
    CONSTANCe
    MAID
    WORKWOMEN
    NERISSE
    FELIAT
    RENE CHARTON
    GUERET
    MAFFLU
    VINCENT
    A DELEGATE
    PAGE BOY
    GIRARD
    CHARPIN
    DESCHAUME
    WORKMEN




WOMAN ON HER OWN




ACT I


    SCENE:--_A Louis XV sitting-room. To the right a large
    recessed window with small panes of glass which forms a
    partition dividing the sitting-room from an inner room. A
    heavy curtain on the further side shuts out this other room.
    There are a table and piano and doors to the right and at the
    back. The place is in disorder. One of the panes in the large
    window has been taken out and replaced by a movable panel. It
    is October._

    _Madame Gueret is sitting at a table. She is a woman of
    forty-five, dressed for the afternoon, cold and distinguished
    looking. Monsieur Gueret, who is with her, is about
    fifty-five and is wearing a frock coat. He is standing beside
    his wife._

GUERET. Then you really don't want me to go and hear the third act?

MADAME GUERET [_dryly_] I think as I've been let in for these
theatricals solely to please your goddaughter you may very well keep me
company. Besides, my brother is coming back and he has something to say
to you.

GUERET [_resignedly_] Very well, my dear.

     _A pause._

MADAME GUERET. I can't get over it.

GUERET. Over what?

MADAME GUERET. What we're doing. What _are_ we doing?

GUERET. We're giving a performance of _Barberine_ for the amusement of
our friends. There's nothing very extraordinary in that.

MADAME GUERET. Don't make fun of me, please. What we are doing is simply
madness. Madness, do you hear? And it was the day before yesterday--only
the day before yesterday--we heard the news.

GUERET. We--

MADAME GUERET [_Who has seen Lucienne come in_] Hush!

_Lucienne comes in, a girl of twenty, dressed as Barberine from Musset's
play; then Maud, Nadia, and Antoinette [eighteen to twenty-two], dressed
as followers of the queen. Lucienne goes to the piano, takes a piece of
music, and comes to Madame Gueret._

LUCIENNE. You'll help me along, won't you, dear Madame Gueret? You'll
give me my note when it comes to "Voyez vous pas que la nuit est
profonde"?

MADAME GUERET. Now don't be nervous.

MAUD [_coming in_] We're ready.

ANTOINETTE. If the third act only goes as well as the first two--

MAUD. We'll listen until we have to go on.

ANTOINETTE. Won't you come with us, Madame?

MADAME GUERET. No, I can't. I've had to undertake the noises behind the
scenes. _That_ job might have been given to someone else, I think.

LUCIENNE. Oh, Madame, please don't be angry with us. Madame Chain let us
know too late. And you're helping us so much.

MADAME GUERET. Well, I've invited the people, and I suppose I must
entertain them. As I gave in to Therese about getting up this play, I
don't want to do anything to spoil the evening.

LUCIENNE. How pretty she is as Kalekairi.

MADAME GUERET. You don't think people are shocked by her frock?

LUCIENNE. Oh, Madame!

MADAME GUERET. Well!

LUCIENNE. I shall have to go in a moment. Therese has come out; I can
hear her sequins rattling.

MADAME GUERET. Yes; so can I. But Rene will let us know. Never mind.

_She goes to the piano. Rene appears at the door at the back._

RENE. Are you ready, Lucienne?

LUCIENNE. Yes.

RENE. You've only two lines to say.

LUCIENNE. Only one. [_She speaks low to Rene_] No end of a success,
wasn't it, for your Therese?

RENE [_low_] Wasn't it? I _am_ so happy, Lucienne. I love her so.

LUCIENNE. Listen. That's for me, I think.

RENE. Yes, that's for you. Wait. [_He goes to the door at the back,
listens, and returns_] Come. Turn this way so as to make it sound as if
you were at a distance. Now then.

_Madame Gueret accompanies Lucienne on the piano._

LUCIENNE [_sings_]

    Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre,
          Qu'allez vous faire
          Si loin d'ici?

    Voyez-vous pas que la nuit est profonde
          Et que le monde
          N'est que souci.

MADAME GUERET [_civilly_] You have a delightful voice, Mademoiselle
Lucienne.

_Lucienne places her music on the piano with a smile to Madame Gueret._

RENE [_to Lucienne, drawing her to the partition window and showing her
where a pane has been removed_] And your little window! Have you seen
your little window? It was not there at the dress rehearsal. You lift
it like this. It's supposed to be an opening in the wall. It ought to
have been different; we were obliged to take out a pane. May I show her,
Madame Gueret?

MADAME GUERET [_resigned_] Yes, yes, of course.

RENE. You lift it like this; and to speak you'll lean forward, won't
you, so that they may see you?

LUCIENNE. I will, yes.

RENE. Don't touch it now. [_To Madame Gueret_] You won't forget the
bell, will you, Madame? There's plenty of time--ten minutes at least.
I'll let you know. Mademoiselle Lucienne, now, time to go on.

LUCIENNE. Yes, yes. [_She goes out_]

MADAME GUERET [_with a sigh_] To have a play being acted in the
circumstances we're in--it's beyond everything! I cannot think how I
came to allow it.

GUERET. You see they'd been rehearsing for a week. And Therese--

MADAME GUERET. And I not only allowed it, but I'm almost taking part in
it.

GUERET. We couldn't put off all these people at twenty-four hours'
notice. And it's our last party. It's really a farewell party. Besides,
we should have had to tell Therese everything.

MADAME GUERET. Well, you asked me to keep it all from her until
to-morrow--though it concerns her as much as it does us. [_Monsieur
Feliat comes in, a man of sixty, correct without being elegant_] Here's
my brother.

FELIAT. I've something to tell you. Shall we be interrupted?

MADAME GUERET. Yes, constantly.

FELIAT. Let's go into another room.

MADAME GUERET. I can't. And all the rooms are full of people.

GUERET. Marguerite has been good enough to help here by taking the place
of Madame Chain, who's ill.

MADAME GUERET [_angrily_] Yes, I've got to do the noises heard off! At
my age! [_A sigh_] Tell us, Etienne, what is it?

GUERET. We can wait until the play is over.

MADAME GUERET. So like you! You don't care a bit about what my brother
has to tell us. Who'd ever believe this is all your fault! [_To her
brother_] What is it?

FELIAT. I have seen the lawyer. Your goddaughter will have to sign this
power of attorney so that it may get to Lyons to-morrow morning.

GUERET [_who has glanced at the paper_] But we can't get her to sign
that without telling her all about it.

MADAME GUERET. Well, goodness me, she'll have to know sometime! I must
say I cannot understand the way you've kept this dreadful thing from
her. It's pure sentimentality.

GUERET. The poor child!

MADAME GUERET. You really are ridiculous. One would think that it was
only _her_ money the lawyer took. It's gone, of course; but so is ours.

GUERET. We still have La Tremblaye.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, thank goodness, because La Tremblaye belongs to me.

     _Rene comes in in great excitement._

RENE. Where is Mademoiselle Therese? She'll keep the stage waiting!
[_Listening_] No, she's coming, I hear her. Nice fright she's given me!
[_To Madame Gueret_] Above all, Madame, don't forget the bell, almost
the moment that Mademoiselle Therese comes off the stage.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, yes.

RENE. And my properties! [_He runs out_]

FELIAT. Now we can talk for a minute.

MADAME GUERET. Yes.

FELIAT. You've quite made up your minds to come to Evreux?

GUERET. Quite.

FELIAT. Are you sure you won't regret Paris?

MADAME GUERET. Oh, no.

GUERET. For the last two years I've hated Paris.

MADAME GUERET. Since you began to play cards.

GUERET. For the last two years we've had the greatest difficulty in
keeping up appearances. This lawyer absconding is the last blow.

FELIAT. Aren't you afraid you will be horribly bored at La Tremblaye?

GUERET [_rising_] What are we to do?

FELIAT. Well, now listen to me. I told you--

_Rene comes in and takes something off a table. Feliat stops suddenly._

RENE. Good-morning, uncle. [_He hurries out_]

FELIAT. Good-morning, Rene.

GUERET. He knows nothing about it yet?

FELIAT. No; and my sister-in-law asked me to tell him.

MADAME GUERET. Well, why shouldn't you? If they _are_ engaged, we know
nothing about it.

GUERET. Oh!

MADAME GUERET. We know nothing officially, because in these days young
people don't condescend to consult their parents.

FELIAT. Rene told his people and they gave their consent.

MADAME GUERET. Unwillingly.

FELIAT. Oh certainly, unwillingly. Then I'm to tell him?

MADAME GUERET. The sooner the better.

FELIAT. I'll tell him to-night.

GUERET. I'm afraid it'll be an awful blow to the poor chap.

MADAME GUERET. Oh, he's young. He'll get over it.

FELIAT. What was I saying when he came in? Ah, yes; you know I've
decided to add a bindery to my printing works at Evreux; you saw the
building started when you were down there. If things go as I want them
to, I shall try to do some cheap artistic binding. I want to get hold of
a man who won't rob me to manage this new branch and look after it; a
man who won't be too set in his ideas, because I want him to adopt mine;
and, at the same time, I'd like him to be not altogether a stranger. I
thought I'd found him; but I saw the man yesterday and I don't like him.
Now will _you_ take on the job? Would it suit you?

GUERET. Would it suit me! Oh, my dear Feliat, how can I possibly thank
you? To tell you the truth, I've been wondering what in the world I
should do with myself now; and I was dreading the future. What you offer
me is better than anything I could have dreamt of. What do you say,
Marguerite?

MADAME GUERET. I am delighted.

FELIAT. Then that's all right.

GUERET [_to his brother-in-law_] I think you won't regret having
confidence in me.

FELIAT. And your goddaughter?

MADAME GUERET. Therese?

FELIAT. Yes; how is _she_ going to face this double news of her ruin and
the breaking off of her engagement?

MADAME GUERET. I think she ought to have sense enough to understand that
one is the consequence of the other. She can hardly expect Rene's
parents to give their son to a girl without money.

FELIAT. I suppose not. But what's to become of her?

GUERET. She will live with us, of course.

MADAME GUERET. "Of course"! I like that.

GUERET. She has no other relations, and her father left her in my care.

MADAME GUERET. He left her in _your_ care, and it's _I_ who have been
rushed into all the trouble of a child who is nothing to me.

GUERET. Child! She was nineteen when her father died.

FELIAT. To look after a young girl of nineteen is a very great
responsibility.

MADAME GUERET [_laughing bitterly_] Ho! Ho! Look after! Look after
Mademoiselle Therese! You think she's a person who allows herself to be
looked after! And yet you've seen her more or less every holidays.

GUERET. You've not had to look after her; she has been at the Lycee.

_Therese comes in dressed as Kalekairi from "Barberine." She is a pretty
girl of twenty-three, healthy, and bright._

THERESE. The bell, the bell, godmother! You're forgetting the bell!
Good-evening, Monsieur Feliat.

_Therese takes up the bell, which is on the table._

MADAME GUERET. I was going to forget it! Oh, what a nuisance! All this
is so new to me.

FELIAT. Excuse me! I really didn't recognize you for the moment.

THERESE [_laughing_] Ah, my dress. Startling, isn't it?

MADAME GUERET [_with meaning_] Startling is the right word.

RENE [_appearing at the back, disappearing again immediately, and
calling_] The bell! And you, on the stage, Mademoiselle Therese!

THERESE. I'm coming. [_She rings_] Here I am!

     _She goes out._

MADAME GUERET [_with a sigh_] And I had it let down!

FELIAT. What?

MADAME GUERET. Her dress. [_To her husband_] What I see most clearly in
all this is that she must stay with us.

     _Rene comes fussing in._

RENE. Where's the queen? Where's Madame Nerisse?

MADAME GUERET. I've not seen her.

RENE. But goodness gracious--! [_He goes to the door on the left and
calls_] Madame Nerisse!

MADAME NERISSE [_from outside_] Yes, yes, I'm ready.

_Madame Nerisse comes in. She is about forty, flighty, and a little
affected._

RENE. I wanted to warn you that Ulric will be on your right, and if he
plays the fool--

MADAME NERISSE. Very well. Is it time?

RENE. Yes, come. [_To Madame Gueret_] You won't forget the trumpets?

MADAME GUERET. No, no. All the same, you'd better help me.

RENE. I will, I will.

     _He goes out with Madame Nerisse._

FELIAT. You know, if she wants one, she'll find a husband at Evreux.

MADAME GUERET. Without a penny!

FELIAT. Without a penny! She made a sensation at the ball at the
sous-prefecture. She's extremely pretty.

MADAME GUERET. She's young.

FELIAT. Monsieur Gambard sounded me about her.

MADAME GUERET. Monsieur Gambard! The Monsieur Gambard who has the house
with the big garden?

FELIAT. Yes.

MADAME GUERET. But he's very rich.

FELIAT. He's forty-nine.

MADAME GUERET. She'll have to take what she can get now.

FELIAT. And I think that Monsieur Beaudoin----

GUERET. But he's almost a cripple!

MADAME GUERET. She wouldn't do so well in Paris.

GUERET. She wouldn't look at either of them.

FELIAT. We must try and make her see reason.

_Rene enters busily. Lucienne follows him. Feliat is standing across the
guichet through which Barberine is to speak. Rene pulls him away without
ceremony._

RENE. Excuse me, Uncle; don't stand there before the little window.

FELIAT. Beg pardon. I didn't know.

RENE. I haven't a moment.

FELIAT. I've never seen you so busy. At your office they say you're a
lazy dog.

MADAME GUERET. Probably Rene has more taste for the stage than for
business.

RENE [_laughing_] Rather! [_To Lucienne_] Now, it's time. Come. Lift it.
Not yet! There! _Now!_

LUCIENNE [_speaking through the guichet_] "If you want food and drink,
you must do like those old women you despise--you must spin."

RENE. Capital!

LUCIENNE [_to Feliat_] Please forgive me, Monsieur, I've not had time to
speak to you.

FELIAT. Why, it's Mademoiselle Lucienne, Therese's friend, who came and
stayed in the holidays! Fancy my not recognizing you!

LUCIENNE. It's my dress. I _do_ like playing this part. I have to say
that lovely bit--you know--the bit that describes the day of the ideal
wife. [_She recites, sentimentally_] "I rise and go to prayers, to the
farmyard, to the kitchen. I prepare your meal; I go with you to church;
I read a page or two; I sew a while; and then I fall asleep happy upon
your breast."

FELIAT. That's good, oh, that's very good! _Barberine_--now, who wrote
that?

LUCIENNE. Alfred de Musset.

FELIAT. Ah, yes; to be sure, Alfred de Musset. I read him when I was
young. You often find his works lying about in pretty bindings.

RENE. Uncle, Uncle; I beg your pardon, but don't speak so loud. We can
hardly hear what they're saying on the stage.

FELIAT [_very politely_] Sorry, I'm sure.

RENE [_to Lucienne_] You. _Now._

LUCIENNE [_speaking through the guichet_] "My lord, these cries are
useless. It grows late. If you wish to sup--you must spin." [_turning to
the others_] There! Now I must go over the rest with Ulric.

_She runs out, with a little wave of adieu to Feliat._

RENE [_to Madame Gueret_] The trumpets, Madame. Don't forget.

MADAME GUERET. No, no. Don't worry.

     _Rene goes out._

FELIAT. You blow trumpets?

MADAME GUERET. Yes; on the piano.

FELIAT. I don't know what to do with myself. I don't want to be in the
way. I'm not accustomed to being behind the scenes.

MADAME GUERET. Nor am I.

_Therese comes in in the Kalekairi dress, followed by Rene._

THERESE. It's time for me now.

FELIAT [_to Madame Gueret_] She really looks like a professional
actress.

RENE [_to Therese_] Now!

THERESE [_speaking through the little window_] "My lady says, as you
will not spin, you cannot sup. She thinks you are not hungry, and I
wish you good-night." [_She closes the little window and says gayly_]
Good-evening, Monsieur Feliat.

RENE. Now then, come along. You go on in one minute.

THERESE [_to Feliat_] I'll come back soon.

     _She goes out._

RENE [_to Madame Gueret_] Now, Madame, _you_, Quick, Madame!

MADAME GUERET. Yes, yes. All right.

     _She plays a flourish of trumpets on the piano._

RENE. Splendid!

MADAME GUERET. Ouf! It's over. At last we can have peace! If she's such
a fool as to refuse both these men--

GUERET [_interrupting_] She won't refuse, you may be sure.

MADAME GUERET [_continuing_]--we shall have to keep her with us. But I
shall insist upon certain conditions.

GUERET. What conditions?

MADAME GUERET. I won't have any scandals at Evreux.

GUERET. There won't be any scandals.

MADAME GUERET. No; because she'll have to behave very differently, I can
tell you. She'll have to leave all these fine airs of independence
behind her in Paris.

GUERET. What airs?

MADAME GUERET. Well, for instance, getting letters and answering them
without any sort of supervision! [_To her brother_] She manages in such
a way that I don't even see the envelopes! [_To her husband_] I object
very much, too, to her student ways.

GUERET. She goes to classes and lectures with her girl friends.

MADAME GUERET. Well, she won't go to any more. And she will have to give
up going out alone.

GUERET. She's of age.

MADAME GUERET. A properly brought up young lady is never of age.

FELIAT. Perfectly true.

MADAME GUERET. And there must be a change in her way of dressing.

GUERET. There will. She'll have to dress simply, for she won't have a
rap.

MADAME GUERET. That has nothing to do with it. I shall make her
understand that she will have to behave like the other girls in good
society.

FELIAT. Of course.

MADAME GUERET. I shall also put a veto on certain books she reads. [_To
her brother_] It's really dreadful, Etienne. You've no idea! One day I
found a shocking book upon her table--a horror! What do you suppose she
said when I remonstrated? That that disgraceful book was necessary in
preparing for her examination. And the worst of it is, it was true. She
showed me the syllabus.

FELIAT. I'm afraid they're bringing up our girls in a way that'll make
unhappy women of them.

MADAME GUERET. Don't let's talk about it; you'll start on politics, and
then you and Henri will begin to argue. All the same I mean to be very
good to her. As soon as she knows what's happened her poor little
pretensions will come tumbling about her ears. I won't leave her in
uncertainty, and even before she asks I'll tell her she may stay with
us; but I shall tell her, too, what I expect from her in return.

GUERET. Wouldn't it be better--

MADAME GUERET. My dear, I shall go my own way. See what we're suffering
now in consequence of going _yours_. Here's Madame Nerisse. Then the
play is over. [_To her husband_] You must go and look after the people
at the supper table. I'll join you in a minute.

GUERET. All right.

     _He goes out._

MADAME NERISSE. I've hardly ever been at such a successful party. I
wanted to congratulate dear Therese, but she's gone to change her dress.

MADAME GUERET [_absently_] So glad. Were you speaking of having a notice
of it in your paper?

MADAME NERISSE. Of your play! If I was going to notice it! I should
think so! The photographs we had taken at the dress rehearsal are being
developed. We shall have a wonderful description.

MADAME GUERET [_imploring_] Could it be stopped?

MADAME NERISSE. It's not possible! Just think how amazed the subscribers
to _Feminine Art_ would be if they found nothing in their paper about
your lovely performance of _Barberine_, even if the editress of the
paper hadn't taken a part in the play. If it only depended on me,
perhaps I could find some way out--explain it in some way, just to
please you. But then there's your charming Therese--one of our
contributors. I can't tell you what a wonderful success she's had with
her two stories, illustrated by herself. People adore her.

MADAME GUERET. Nobody would know anything about it--

MADAME NERISSE. Nobody know! There are at least ten people among your
guests who will send descriptions of this party to the biggest morning
papers, simply for the sake of getting their own names into print. If
_Feminine Art_ had nothing about it, it would be thought extremely odd,
I assure you. [_She turns to Feliat_] Wouldn't it, Monsieur?

FELIAT. Pardon me, Madame, I know nothing about these things.

MADAME GUERET. Well, we'll say no more about it.

MADAME NERISSE. But what's the matter? You must have some very good
reason for not wanting me to put in anything about your delightful
party.

MADAME GUERET. No----only----[_Hesitating_] Some of our family are
country people, you know. It would take me too long to explain it all to
you. It doesn't matter. [_With a change of tone_] Then honestly you
think Therese has some little talent?

MADAME NERISSE. Little talent! No, but very great talent. Haven't you
read her two articles?

MADAME GUERET. Oh, I? I belong to another century. In my days it would
have been considered a very curious thing if a young girl wrote novels.
My brother feels this too. By the way, I have not introduced my brother
to you. Monsieur Feliat, of Evreux--Madame Nerisse, editress of
_Feminine Art_. Madame Nerisse has been kind enough to help us with our
little party. [_To Madame Nerisse_] Yes--you were speaking about--what
was it--this story that Therese has written. No doubt your readers were
indulgent to the work of a little amateur.

MADAME NERISSE. I wish I could find professionals who'd do half as well.
I'm perfectly certain the number her photograph is going to be in will
have a good sale.

FELIAT. You'll publish her photograph?

MADAME NERISSE. In her dress as Kalekairi.

MADAME GUERET. In her dress as Kalekairi!

MADAME NERISSE. On the front page. They tell me it's a first-rate
likeness. I'll bring you one of them before long, and your country
relations will be delighted. If you'll excuse me, I'll hurry away and
change my dress.

MADAME GUERET. Oh, please excuse me for keeping you.

MADAME NERISSE. Good-bye for the present. [_She goes to the door_] I was
looking for Maud and Nadia to take them away with me. I see them over
there having a little flirtation. [_She looks through the door and
speaks pleasantly to Maud and Nadia, who are just outside_] All right,
all right; I won't interrupt. [_To Madame Gueret_] They'd much rather
come home alone. Good-bye. [_She bows to Feliat_] Good-bye, Monsieur.
[_Turning again to Madame Gueret_] Don't look so upset because you have
a goddaughter who can be a great writer or a great painter if she
chooses; just as she would have been a great actress if she had taken a
fancy for that. Good-bye again and many congratulations.

     _She goes out._

MADAME GUERET. Well! Anyway, she's not _my_ daughter! I must go and say
good-bye to everybody. When I've got rid of them, I'll come back and see
Therese. Will you wait for me? You'll find some papers on that little
table. Oh, goodness, what times we live in!

     _Madame Gueret goes out. Feliat, left alone, strolls to the
     door and looks in the direction in which Madame Nerisse had
     seen Maud and Nadia. After a moment he shows signs of
     indignation._

FELIAT [_shocked_] Oh, I say, this is really--I must cough or something,
and let them know I'm here. [_He coughs_] They've seen me. They're
waving their hands--and--they 're going on just the same!

     _Lucienne and Therese in ordinary dress come in and notice
     what Feliat is doing._

THERESE [_to Lucienne_] What is he doing?

LUCIENNE. What's the matter?

     _They advance to see what has caused his perturbation. He
     hears them and turns._

FELIAT. It is incredible!

THERESE. You seem rather upset. What's the matter?

FELIAT. What's the matter? Those girls are behaving in such a scandalous
way with those young men.

LUCIENNE. Let's see.

FELIAT. Oh, don't look! [_Suddenly stopping, half to himself_] Though I
must say--

THERESE [_laughing_] What must you say?

FELIAT. Nothing.

LUCIENNE. I know. You mean that we're just as bad.

FELIAT. No, no, not as bad.

LUCIENNE. Yes, yes; well--almost. [_Feliat makes a sign of protest_] I
saw you watching us yesterday after the rehearsal! You saw I was
flirting, and I know you imagined all sorts of horrid things. Our little
flirtations are not what you think. When we flirt we play at love-making
with our best boys, just as once upon a time we played at mothering with
our dolls.

FELIAT. But that doesn't justify--

THERESE. You don't understand. People spoil us while we're children, and
then look after us so tremendously carefully when we grow up that we
guess there must be delightful and dangerous possibilities about us.
Flirting is our way of feeling for these possibilities.

LUCIENNE. We're sharpening our weapons.

THERESE. But the foils have buttons on them, and the pistols are only
loaded with powder.

LUCIENNE. And it's extremely amusing and does no harm to anybody.

THERESE. Monsieur Feliat, you've read bad books. Nowadays girls like us
are neither bread-and-butter misses nor demi-vierges. We're perfectly
respectable young people. Quite capable and self-possessed and, at the
same time, quite straight and very happy.

FELIAT. I'm perfectly sure of it, my dear young ladies. But you know
I've had a great deal of experience.

THERESE. Oh, _experience_! Well, you know--

LUCIENNE. Oh, _experience_!

THERESE. You say you have experience; that only means you know about the
past better than we do. But we know much better than you do about the
present.

FELIAT. I think those girls there are playing a dangerous game.

THERESE. You needn't have the smallest anxiety about them.

FELIAT. That way of going on might get them into great trouble.

THERESE. It won't, I assure you. Monsieur Feliat, believe me, you know
nothing about it.

LUCIENNE. We're clever enough to be able to take care of ourselves.

FELIAT. But there are certain things that take you by storm.

LUCIENNE. Not us. Flirting is an amusement, a distraction, a game.

THERESE. Shall we say a safety valve?

LUCIENNE. There's not a single one of us who doesn't understand the
importance of running straight. And, to do them justice, these boys have
no idea of tempting us to do anything else. What they want, what we all
really want, is a quite conventional, satisfactory marriage.

FELIAT. I most heartily approve; but in my days so much wisdom didn't
usually come from such fascinating little mouths.

THERESE. Now how can you blame us when you see that really we think
exactly as you do yourself?

FELIAT. In my days girls went neither to the Lycee nor to have
gymnastic lessons, and they were none the less straight.

LUCIENNE [_reflectively_] And yet they grew up into the women of to-day.
I get educated and try to keep myself healthy, with exercises and
things, because I want to develop morally and physically, and be fit to
marry a man a little bit out of the ordinary either in fortune or
brains.

THERESE. You see our whole lives depend upon the man we marry.

FELIAT. I seem to have heard that before.

LUCIENNE. Yes; so've I. But it's none the less true for that.

THERESE. Isn't it funny that we seem to be saying the most shocking
things when we're only repeating what our grandfathers and grandmothers
preached to their children?

LUCIENNE. They were quite right. Love doesn't make happiness by itself.
One has to consider the future. We do consider it; in fact we do nothing
else but consider it. We want to get the best position for ourselves in
the future that we possibly can. We're not giddy little fools, and we're
not selfish egotists. We want our children to grow up happy and capable
as we've done ourselves. We're really quite reasonable.

FELIAT [_hardly able to contain himself_] You are; indeed you are. It
makes one shudder. Excuse me, I'm going to supper.

LUCIENNE. Let's all go together.

FELIAT. Thanks, I can find my way.

LUCIENNE. It's down that passage to the right.

FELIAT. Yes, I shall find it, thank you.

     _He goes out._

THERESE. You shocked the poor old boy.

LUCIENNE. I only flavored the truth just enough to make it tasty. But
I've something frightfully important to tell you. It's settled.

THERESE. What's settled?

LUCIENNE. I'm engaged.

THERESE. You don't say so.

LUCIENNE. It's done. Armand has been to his people and they've come to
see mine. So I needn't play any more piano, nor sing any more
sentimental songs; I needn't be clever any more, nor flirt any more, nor
languish at young men any more. And how do you suppose it was settled?
Just what one wouldn't have ever expected. You know my people were doing
all they could to dress me up, and show me off, and seem to be richer
than they are, so as to attract the men. On my side I was giving myself
the smartest of airs and pretending to despise money and to think of
nothing but making a splash. Everything went quite differently from what
I expected. I wanted to attract Armand, and I was only frightening him
off. He thought such a woman as I was pretending to be too expensive. It
was just through a chance conversation, some sudden confidence on my
part, that he found out that I really like quite simple things. He was
delighted, and he proposed at once.

THERESE. Dear Lucienne, I'm so glad. I hope you'll be very, very happy.

LUCIENNE. Ah, that's another story. Armand is not by any means perfect.
But what can one do? The important thing is to marry, isn't it?

THERESE. Of course. Well, if your engagement is on, mine's off.

LUCIENNE. Therese! Why I've just been talking to Rene. I never saw him
so happy, nor so much in love.

THERESE. He doesn't know yet. Or perhaps they're telling him now.

LUCIENNE. Telling him what?

THERESE. I've lost all my money, my dear.

LUCIENNE. Lost all your money!

THERESE. Yes. The lawyer who had my securities has gone off with them.

LUCIENNE. When?

THERESE. I heard about it the day before yesterday. Godpapa and godmamma
were so awfully good they never said anything to me about it, though
they're losing a lot of money too. They thought I hadn't heard, and I
expect they wanted me to have this last evening's fun. I said nothing,
and so nobody knows anything except you, now, and probably Rene.

LUCIENNE. What will you do?

THERESE. What can I do? It's impossible for him to marry me without a
penny. Of course I shall release him from his promise.

LUCIENNE. You think he'll give you up?

THERESE. His people will make him. If they cut off his allowance, he'll
be at their mercy. He earns about twenty dollars a month in that
lawyer's office. So, you see--

LUCIENNE. Oh! poor Therese! And you could play Barberine with a secret
like that!

THERESE [_sadly_] I've had a real bad time since I heard. It's awful at
night!

LUCIENNE. My dearest! And you love him so!

THERESE [_much moved_] Yes--oh! don't make me cry.

LUCIENNE. It might do you good!

THERESE. You know--[_She breaks down a little_]

LUCIENNE [_tenderly_] Yes--I know that you're good and brave.

THERESE. I shall have to be.

LUCIENNE. Then you'll break off the engagement?

THERESE. Yes. I shall never see him again.

LUCIENNE. Never see him again!

THERESE. I shall write to him. If I saw him I should probably break
down. If I write I shall be more likely to be able to make him feel that
we must resign ourselves to the inevitable.

LUCIENNE. He'll be horribly unhappy.

THERESE. So shall I. [_Low and urgently_] Oh, if he only understood me!
If he was able to believe that I can earn my own living and that he
could earn his. If he would dare to do without his people's consent!

LUCIENNE. Persuade him to!

THERESE. It's quite impossible. His people are rich. Only just think
what they'd suspect me of. No; I shall tell him all the things his
father will tell him. But oh! Lucienne, if he had an answer for them! If
he had an answer! [_She cries a little_] But, my poor Rene, he won't
make any stand.

LUCIENNE. How you love him!

THERESE. Oh, yes; I love him. He's rather weak, but he's so loyal and
good and [_in a very low voice_] loving.

LUCIENNE. Oh, my dear, I do pity you so.

THERESE. I am to be pitied, really. [_Pulling herself together_] There's
one thing. I shall take advantage of this business to separate from
godpapa and godmamma.

LUCIENNE. But you have no money--

THERESE. I've not been any too happy here. You know they're--[_She sees
Madame Gueret and whispers to Lucienne_] Go now. I'll tell you all about
it to-morrow. [_Louder and gayly_] Well, good-night, my dear. See you
to-morrow at the Palais de Glace or at the Sorbonne! Good-night.

LUCIENNE. Good-night, Therese.

     _She goes out._

MADAME GUERET [_speaking through the door_] Yes, she's here. Come in.
[_Gueret and Feliat come in_] Therese, we have something to say to you.

THERESE. Yes, godmamma.

MADAME GUERET. It's about something important; something very serious.
Let us sit down.

GUERET. You'll have to be brave, Therese.

MADAME GUERET. We are ruined, and you are ruined too.

THERESE. Yes.

MADAME GUERET. Is that all you have to say?

THERESE. I knew it already.

MADAME GUERET. You _knew_ it? Who told you?

THERESE. The lawyer told me himself. I had a long letter from him
yesterday. He begs me to forgive him.

MADAME GUERET. Well, I declare!

THERESE. I'll show it to you. He's been gambling. To get a bigger
fortune for his girls, he says.

MADAME GUERET. You _knew_ it! And you've had the strength,
the--duplicity?

THERESE [_smiling_] Just as you had yourself, godmamma. And I'm so much
obliged to both of you for saying nothing to me, because I'm sure you
wanted me to have my play to-night and enjoy myself; and that was why
you tried to keep the news from me.

MADAME GUERET. And you were able to laugh and to _act_!

THERESE. I've always tried to keep myself in hand.

MADAME GUERET. Oh, I know. All the same--And I was so careful about
breaking this news to you, and you knew it all the time!

THERESE. I'm very sorry. But you--

MADAME GUERET. All right, all right. Well, then, we have nothing to
tell. But do you understand that you've not a penny left?

GUERET. You're to go on living with us, of course.

MADAME GUERET [_to her husband_] You really might have given her time to
ask us. [_To Therese_] We take it that you have asked us, and we answer
that we will keep you with us.

GUERET. We are going to Evreux. My brother-in-law is giving me work in
his factory.

MADAME GUERET. We will keep you with us, but on certain conditions.

THERESE. Thank you very much, godmamma, but I mean to stay in Paris.

GUERET. You don't understand. We are going to live at Evreux.

THERESE. But _I_ am going to live in Paris.

GUERET. Then it is I who do not understand.

THERESE. All the same--[_A silence_]

MADAME GUERET. I can hardly believe that you propose to live in Paris by
yourself.

THERESE [_simply_] I do, godmamma.

FELIAT. Alone!

GUERET. Alone! I repeat, I don't understand.

FELIAT. Nor do I. But no doubt you have reasons to give to your
godfather and godmother. [_He moves to go_]

THERESE. There's no secret about my reasons. All the world may know
them. When I've explained you'll see that it's all right.

MADAME GUERET. I must confess to being extremely curious to hear these
reasons.

THERESE. I do hope my decision won't make you angry with me.

MADAME GUERET. Angry! When have I ever been angry with you?

THERESE [_protesting_] You've both been--you've all three been--_most_
good and kind to me, and I shall always remember it and be grateful. You
may be sure I shan't love you any the less because I shall live in
Paris and you at Evreux. And I do beg of you to feel the same to me. I
shall never forget what I owe to you. Father was only your friend; we're
not related in any way: but you took me in, and for four years you've
treated me as if I was your daughter. From my very heart I'm grateful to
you.

GUERET [_affectionately_] You don't owe us much, you know. For two years
you were a boarder at the Lycee Maintenon, and we saw nothing of you but
your letters. You've only actually lived with us for two years, and
you've been like sunshine in the house.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, indeed.

THERESE. I've thought this carefully over. I'm twenty-three. I won't be
a burden to you any longer.

GUERET. Is that because you are too proud and independent?

THERESE. If I thought I could really be of use to you, I would stay with
you. If I could help you to face your troubles, I would stay with you.
But I can't, and I mean to shift for myself.

MADAME GUERET. And you think you can "shift for yourself," as you call
it, all alone?

THERESE. Yes, godmamma.

MADAME GUERET. A young girl, all alone, in Paris! The thing is
inconceivable.

GUERET. But, my poor child, how do you propose to live?

THERESE. I'll work.

MADAME GUERET. You don't mean that seriously?

THERESE. Yes, godmamma.

GUERET. You think you have only to ask for work and it will fall from
the skies!

THERESE. I have a few dollars in my purse which will keep me until I
have found something.

FELIAT. Your purse will be empty before you've made a cent.

THERESE. I'm sure it won't.

GUERET. Now, my dear, you're tired, and nervous, and upset. You can't
look at things calmly. We can talk about this again to-morrow.

THERESE. Yes, godpapa. But I shan't have changed my mind.

MADAME GUERET. I know you have a strong will of your own.

FELIAT. Let us talk sensibly and reasonably. You propose to live all
alone in Paris. Good. Where will you live?

THERESE. I shall hire a little flat--or a room somewhere.

MADAME GUERET. Like a workgirl.

THERESE. Like a workgirl. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that.

FELIAT. And you are going to earn your own living. How?

THERESE. I shall work. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that, either.

GUERET. I see. But a properly brought up young lady doesn't work for her
living if she can possibly avoid it.

MADAME GUERET. And above all, a properly brought up young lady doesn't
live all alone.

THERESE. All the same--

MADAME GUERET. You are perfectly free. There's no doubt about that. We
have no power to prevent you from doing exactly as you choose.

GUERET. But your father left you in my care.

THERESE. Please, godmamma, don't be hard upon me. I feel you think I'm
ungrateful, though you don't say so. I know that often and often I shall
long for your kindness and for the home where you've given me a place.
I've shocked you. Do please forgive me. I'm made like that, and made
differently from you. I don't say you're not right; I only say I'm
different. Certain ideas have come to me from being educated at the
Lycee and from all these books I've read. I think I'm able to earn my
own living, and so I look upon it as my bounden duty not to trespass
upon your charity. It's a question of personal dignity. Don't you think
that I'm right, godfather? [_With a change of tone_] Besides, if I did
go to Evreux with you, what should I do there?

GUERET. It's pretty easy to guess.

MADAME GUERET. Yes, indeed.

GUERET. You would live with us.

MADAME GUERET [_not very kindly_] You would have a home.

THERESE. Yes, yes, I know all that; and it would be a great happiness.
But what should I _do_?

GUERET. You would do what all well brought up young girls in your
position do.

THERESE. You mean I should do nothing.

GUERET. Nothing! No, not nothing.

THERESE. Pay visits, practise a bit; some crochet and a little
photography? That's to say, nothing.

GUERET. You were brought up to that.

THERESE. I should never have dared to put it into words. But afterwards?

GUERET. Afterwards?

THERESE. How long would that last?

GUERET. Until you marry.

THERESE. I shall never marry.

GUERET. Why not?

THERESE [_very gently_] Oh, godfather, you know why not. I have no
money. [_A silence_] So I'm going to try and get work.

FELIAT. Work! Now, Therese, you know what women are like who try to earn
their own living. You think you can support yourself. How?

THERESE. Perhaps I'm mistaken, but I think I can support myself by my
pen.

FELIAT. Be a bluestocking?

THERESE. Yes.

MADAME GUERET. That means a Bohemian life, with everything upside down,
and a cigarette always between your lips.

THERESE [_laughing_] Neither Bohemia, nor the upside down, nor the
cigarette are indispensable, godmother. Your information is neither
firsthand nor up-to-date.

FELIAT. In a month's time you'll want to give it up.

THERESE. Under those circumstances there's no harm in letting me make
the experiment.

GUERET. Now, my dear child, don't you know that even with your
cleverness you may have to wait years before you make a penny. I've been
an editor. I know what I'm talking about.

MADAME GUERET. She's made up her mind, there's no use saying any more.

FELIAT. But _I_ want to talk to her now. Will you be so good as to
listen to me, Mademoiselle Therese? [_To Madame Gueret_] I wonder if I
might be allowed to have a few minutes with her alone.

MADAME GUERET. Most willingly.

GUERET [_to his wife_] Come, Marguerite.

MADAME GUERET. It's no use making up your mind to the worst in these
days; life always keeps a surprise for you. Let's go. [_She goes out
with her husband_]

FELIAT. My child, I have undertaken to say something to you that I fear
will hurt you, and it's very difficult. You know that I'm only Rene's
uncle by marriage. So it's not on my own account that I speak. I speak
for his parents.

THERESE. Don't say another word, Monsieur Feliat. I perfectly
understand. I'm going to release him from his engagement. I shall write
to him this very night.

FELIAT. My sister-in-law and her husband are most unhappy about all
this.

THERESE. I'm grateful to you all.

FELIAT. Their affection for you is not in any way diminished.

THERESE. I know.

FELIAT. And--

THERESE [_imploringly_] Please, _please_, Monsieur Feliat, don't say any
more; what's the good of it?

FELIAT. I beg your pardon, my dear. I am a little upset. I was
expecting--er, er--

THERESE. Expecting what?

FELIAT. I expected some resistance on your part, perhaps indignation. It
must be very hard for you; you were very fond of Rene.

THERESE. What's the good of talking about that? Of course he can't marry
me now that I've not got a penny.

FELIAT. You know--as a matter of fact--I--my old-fashioned ideas--well,
you go on surprising me. But this time my surprise is accompanied
by--shall I say respect?--and by sympathy. I expected tears, which would
have been very natural, because I know that your affection for Rene was
very great.

THERESE. I can keep my tears to myself.

FELIAT. Yes----Oh, I----at least----

THERESE. Let's consider it settled. Please don't talk to me about it any
more.

FELIAT. Very well. Now will you allow me to say one word to you about
your future?

THERESE. I shan't change my mind.

FELIAT. Perhaps not; all the same I want to advise you like--well, like
an old uncle. For several years you have been spending your holidays
with me at La Tremblaye. And I have a real affection for you. So you'll
listen to me?

THERESE. With all my heart.

FELIAT. You're making a mistake. Your ideas do you credit, but believe
me, you're laying up trouble for yourself in the future. [_She makes a
movement to interrupt him_] Wait. I don't want to argue. I want you to
listen to me, and I want to persuade you to follow my advice. Come to
Evreux and you may be perfectly certain that you won't be left an old
maid all your life. Even without money you'll find a husband there.
You're too pretty, too charming, too well educated not to turn the head
of some worthy gentleman. You made a sensation at the reception at the
Prefecture. If you don't know that already, I tell you so.

THERESE. I'm extremely flattered.

FELIAT. Do you know that if--well, if you decide to marry--I might--

THERESE. But I've _not_ decided to marry.

FELIAT. All right, all right, I am speaking about later on. Well, you've
seen Monsieur Baudoin and Monsieur Gambard--

THERESE. I haven't the slightest intention of--

FELIAT [_interrupting_] There's no question of anything immediate. But
for a person as wise and sensible as you are, the position of both the
one and the other deserves--

THERESE. I know them both.

FELIAT. Yes; but--

THERESE. Now look here. If I had two hundred thousand francs, would you
suggest that I should marry either of them?

FELIAT. Certainly not.

THERESE. There, you see.

FELIAT. But you've _not_ got two hundred thousand francs.

THERESE [_without showing any anger or annoyance_] The last thing I want
is to be exacting. But really, Monsieur Feliat, think for a minute. If I
were to marry a man I could not possibly love, I should marry him for
his money. [_Looking straight at him_] And in that case the only
difference between me and the women I am not supposed to know anything
about would be that a little ceremony had been performed over me and not
over them. Don't you agree with me?

FELIAT. But, my dear, you say such extraordinary things.

THERESE. Well, do you consider that less dishonoring than working?
Honestly now, do you? I think that the best thing about women earning
their living is that it'll save them from being put into exactly that
position.

FELIAT. The right thing for woman is marriage. That's her proper
position.

THERESE. It's sometimes an unhappy one. [_A maid comes in bringing a
card to Therese, who says_] Ask the lady kindly to wait a moment.

MAID. Yes, Mademoiselle. [_The maid goes out_]

FELIAT. Well, I'm off. I shall go and see Rene. Then you'll write to
him?

THERESE. This very evening.

FELIAT. He'll want to see you. My child, will you have the courage to
resist him?

THERESE. You needn't trouble about that.

FELIAT. If he was mad enough to want to do without his parents' consent,
they wish me to tell you that they would never speak to him again.

THERESE. I see.

FELIAT. That he would be a stranger to them. You understand all that
that means?

THERESE [_discouraged_] Yes, yes; oh yes.

FELIAT. If you are not strong enough to stand out against his
entreaties, you will be his ruin.

THERESE. I quite understand.

FELIAT. People would think very badly of you.

THERESE. Please don't say any more, I quite understand.

FELIAT. Then I may trust you?

THERESE. You may trust me.

FELIAT [_fatherly and approving_] Thank you. [_He holds out his hand_]
Therese, you're--well--you're splendid. I like courage. I wish you
success with all my heart. I really wish you success. But if, in the
future, you should want a friend--the very strongest may find themselves
in that position--let me be that friend.

THERESE [_taking the hand which Feliat holds out to her_] I'm grateful,
very grateful, Monsieur. Thank you. But I hope I shall be able to earn
my own living. That is all I want.

FELIAT. I wish you every success. Good-bye, Mademoiselle.

THERESE. Good-bye, Monsieur. [_He goes out. She crosses to another door
and brings in Madame Nerisse_] How good of you to come, dear Madame. Too
bad you should have the trouble.

MADAME NERISSE. Nonsense, my dear. I wanted to come. I'm so anxious to
show you these two photographs and consult you about which we're to
publish. I expected to find you very tired.

THERESE. I am not the least tired, and I'm delighted to see you.

MADAME NERISSE [_showing Therese the photographs_] This is more
brilliant, that's more dreamy. I like this one. What do you think?

THERESE. I like this one too.

MADAME NERISSE. Then that's settled. [_Putting down the photographs_]
What a success you had this evening.

THERESE. Yes; people are very kind. [_Seriously_] I'm so glad you've
come just now, dear Madame, so that we can have a few minutes' quiet
talk. I have something most important to say to you.

MADAME NERISSE. Anything I can do for you?

THERESE. Well, I'll explain. And please do talk to me quite openly and
frankly.

MADAME NERISSE. I will indeed.

THERESE. You told me that my article was very much liked. I can quite
believe that you may have exaggerated a little out of kindness to me. I
want to know really whether you think I write well.

MADAME NERISSE. Dear Therese, ask Madame Gueret to tell you what I said
to her just now about that very thing.

THERESE. Then you think my collaboration might be really useful to
_Feminine Art_?

MADAME NERISSE. There's nothing more useful to a paper like ours than
the collaboration of girls in society.

THERESE. Would you like me to send you some more stories like the first?

MADAME NERISSE. As many as you can.

THERESE. And--[_She hesitates a moment_] and would you pay me the same
price for them as for the one you've just published?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, exactly the same; and I shall be very glad to get
them. I like your work; you have an exceptionally light touch; people
won't get tired of reading your stuff.

THERESE. Oh, I hope that's true! I'm going to tell you some bad news.
For family reasons my godfather and godmother are going to leave Paris.
I shall stay here by myself, and I shall have to live by my pen.

MADAME NERISSE. What an idea!

THERESE. It's not an idea, it's a necessity.

MADAME NERISSE. What do you mean? A necessity? Monsieur Gueret--. But I
mustn't be inquisitive.

THERESE. You're not inquisitive, and I'll tell you all about it very
soon; we haven't got time now. Can you promise to take a weekly article
from me?

MADAME NERISSE [_with less confidence_] Certainly.

THERESE [_joyfully_] You can! Oh, thank you, thank you! I can't tell you
how you've relieved my mind.

MADAME NERISSE. My dear child. I am glad you've spoken to me plainly. I
will do everything I possibly can. I'm extremely fond of you. I don't
think the Directors will object.

THERESE. Why should they have anything to do with it?

MADAME NERISSE [_doubtfully_] Perhaps not, but--the Directors like to
give each number a character of its own. It's a thing they're very
particular about.

THERESE. I could write about very different subjects.

MADAME NERISSE. I know you could, but it would be always the same
signature.

THERESE. Well, every now and then I might sign a fancy name.

MADAME NERISSE. That would be quite easy, and I don't think the
Directors would mind. They might say it was a fresh name to make itself
known and liked.

THERESE. We'll try and manage it.

MADAME NERISSE. We shall have to fight against some jealousy. The
Directors have protegees. The wife of one of them has been waiting to
get an innings for more than two months. There are so many girls and
women who write nowadays.

THERESE. Yes; but generally speaking their work is not worth much, I
think.

MADAME NERISSE. Oh, I don't know that. There are a great many who have
real talent. People don't realize what a lot of girls there are who have
talent. But, still, if I'm not able to take an article every week, you
may rely upon me to take one as often as I possibly can. Oh, I shall
make myself some enemies for your sake.

THERESE [_in consternation_] Enemies? How do you mean enemies?

MADAME NERISSE. My dear, it alters everything if you become a
professional. Let me see if I can explain. We have our regular
contributors. The editor makes them understand that they must expect to
run the gantlet of the occasional competition of society women; because,
if these women are allowed to write, it interests them and their
families in the paper, and it's an excellent advertisement for us.
That'll explain to you, by the way, why we sometimes publish articles
not quite up to our standard. But if it's a matter of regular,
professional work, we have to be more careful. We have to respect
established rights and consider people who've been with us a long time.
There is only a limited space in each number, and a lot of people have
to live out of that.

THERESE [_who has gone quite white_] Yes, I see.

MADAME NERISSE [_who sees Therese's emotion_] How sorry I am for you! If
you only knew how I feel for you! Don't look so unhappy. [_Therese makes
a gesture of despair_] You're not an ordinary girl, Therese, and it
shall never be said that I didn't do all I could for you. Listen. I told
you just now that I had some big projects in my mind. You shall know
what they are. My husband and I are going to start an important weekly
feminist paper on absolutely new lines. It's going to leave everything
that's been done up to now miles behind. My husband shall explain his
ideas to you himself. It'll be advanced and superior and all that, and
at the same time most practical. Even to think of it has been a touch of
genius. When you meet my husband you'll find that he's altogether out of
the common. He's so clever, and he'd be in the very first rank in
journalism if it wasn't for the envy and jealousy of other men who've
intrigued against him and kept him down. I don't believe he has his
equal in Paris as a journalist, I'll read you some of his verses, and
you'll see that he's a great poet too. But I shall run on forever. Only
yesterday he got the last of the capital that's needed for founding the
paper; it's been definitely promised. We're ready to set about
collecting our staff. We shall have leading articles, of course, and
literary articles. Do you want me to talk to him about you?

THERESE. Of course I do. But--

MADAME NERISSE. We want to start a really smart, respectable woman's
paper; of course without sacrificing our principles. Our title by itself
proves that. It's to be called _Woman Free_.

THERESE. I'll give you my answer to-morrow--or this evening, if you
like.

MADAME NERISSE [_hesitatingly_] Before I go--as we're to be thrown a
good deal together--I must tell you something about myself--a secret. I
hope you won't care for me less when you know it. I call myself Madame
Nerisse. But I have no legal right to the name. That's why I've always
found some reason for not introducing Monsieur Nerisse to you and your
people. He's married--married to a woman who's not worthy of him. She
lives in an out-of-the-way place in the country and will not consent to
a divorce. My dear Therese, it makes me very unhappy. I live only for
him. I don't think a woman can be fonder of a man than I am of him. He's
so superior to other men. But unfortunately I met him too late. I felt I
ought to tell you this.

THERESE. Your telling me has added to my friendship for you. I can guess
how unhappy you are. Probably I'll go this very evening to your house
and see your husband and hear from him if he thinks I can be of use.
Anyway, thank you very much.

MADAME NERISSE. And thank _you_ for the way you take this. Good-bye for
the present.

     _She goes out. Therese stands thinking for a moment, then
     Rene comes in. He is very much upset._

THERESE. Rene!

RENE. Therese, it can't be true! It's not possible! It's not all
over--our love?

THERESE. We must be brave.

RENE. But I can't give you up.

THERESE. I've lost every penny, Rene dear.

RENE. But I don't love you any the less for that. I can't give you up,
Therese. I _can't_ give you up. I love you, I love you.

THERESE. Oh, Rene, don't! I need all my courage to face this. Help me.
Don't you see, your people will never consent now.

RENE. My uncle told me so. But I'll see them. I'll persuade them. I'll
explain to them.

THERESE. You know very well they never really liked me, and that they'll
be glad of this opportunity of breaking it off.

RENE. I don't know what to do. But I _cannot_ give you up. What would
become of me without you? You're everything to me, everything. And
suddenly--because of this dreadful thing--I must give up my whole life's
happiness.

THERESE. Your people are quite right, Rene.

RENE. And you, _you_ say that!

     _He hides his face in his hands. A silence._

THERESE [_gently removing his hands_] Look at me, Rene. You're crying.
Oh, my dear love!

RENE [_taking her in his arms_] I love you, I love you!

THERESE. And I love you. Oh, please don't cry any more! [_She kisses
him_] Rene, dear, don't cry any more! You break my heart. I can't bear
it, I'm forgetting all I ought to say to you. [_Breaking down_] Oh, how
dreadful this is! [_They cry together. Then she draws herself away from
him, saying_] This is madness.

RENE. Ah, stay, Therese.

THERESE. No. We mustn't do this; we must be brave. Oh, why did you come
here? I was going to write to you. We're quite helpless against this
dreadful misfortune.

RENE. I don't know what to do! But I _can't_ give you up.

THERESE [_to herself_] I must do the right thing. [_To him_] Rene, stop
crying. Listen to me.

RENE. I love you.

THERESE. Yes; there's our love. But besides that there's life, and life
is cruel and too strong for our love. There is your future, my dearest.

RENE. My future is to love you. My future is nothing if I lose you. [_He
buries his face in his hands_]

THERESE. You can't marry a girl without any money. That's a dreadful
fact, like a stone wall. We shall only break ourselves to pieces if we
dash ourselves against it. Listen, oh, please listen to me. Don't you
hear what I'm saying? Rene--dear.

RENE. I'm listening.

THERESE. I give you your freedom without any bitterness or hardness.

RENE. I don't want it!

THERESE. Now listen. You mustn't sacrifice your whole life for a love
affair, no matter how great the love is.

RENE. It's by losing you I shall sacrifice my life.

THERESE. Try and be brave; control yourself. Let us face this quietly.
Suppose we do without your people's consent. What will become of us? Try
to look the thing in the face. How should we live? Rene, it's horrible
to bring our love down to the level of these miserable realities, but
facts are facts. You know very well that if you marry me without your
father and mother's consent, they won't give you any money. Isn't that
so?

RENE. Oh! father is hard.

THERESE. He's quite right, my dear, quite right. If I was your sister, I
should advise you not to give up the position you have been brought up
in and the profession you've been educated for.

RENE. But I love you.

THERESE [_moved_] And I love you. Well, we've got to forget one another.

RENE. That's impossible.

THERESE. We must be wise enough to--[_She stops, her voice breaks_]

RENE. Oh! how unhappy I am.

THERESE [_controlling herself_] Don't let yourself go. We're not in
dreamland. If you keep on saying "I am unhappy," you'll be unhappy.

RENE. I love you so. Oh, Therese, how I love you!

THERESE [_softly_] You'll forget me.

RENE. Never.

THERESE. Yes. You'll remember me in a way, of course. But you're young.
Very soon you'll be able to live, to laugh, to love, to work.

RENE. My dearest! I don't know what to say. I can't talk of it. I only
know one thing--I can't let you go.

THERESE. But we should be miserable, Rene.

RENE. Miserable _together_!

THERESE. Think, dear, think. It will be years before you can earn your
own living, won't it?

RENE. But I--

THERESE. Now you know you've tried already. Only last year you wanted to
leave home and be independent, and you had to go back because you were
starving. Isn't that true?

RENE. It's dreadful, dreadful! [_He is overcome, terrified_]

THERESE. So we must look at life as it is, practically, mustn't we? We
have to have lodging and furniture and clothes. How are we to manage?

RENE. It's dreadful!

THERESE. How would you bear to see me going about in rags? [_He is
silent. She waits, looking at him, hoping for a word of strength or
courage. It does not come. She draws herself up slowly, her face
hardening_] You can't face that, can you? Tell me. Can you face that?

RENE. No.

THERESE [_humiliated by his want of courage and infected by his
weakness_] So you see, I'm right.

RENE [_sobbing_] Oh! Oh!

THERESE [_setting her teeth_] Oh, can you do nothing but cry?

RENE. What a useless creature I am.

THERESE. There, now, you see you're better!

RENE. I'm ashamed of being so good-for-nothing.

THERESE [_hopeless_] You're just like all the others. Now, don't be
miserable. I'm not angry with you; you are doing what I told you we must
do, and you agree. Go, Rene. Say good-bye. Good-bye, Rene.

RENE. Therese!

THERESE [_her nerves on edge_] Everything we can say is useless, and
it'll only torture and humiliate us. We must end this--now--at once.

RENE. I shall always love you, Therese.

THERESE. Yes--exactly--now go.

RENE. Oh, my God!

THERESE. Go.

RENE. I'll go and see my people. They'll never be so cruel--

THERESE. Yes, yes, all right.

RENE. I'll write you.

THERESE. Yes--that's it--you'll write.

RENE. I shall see you again, Therese? [_He goes slowly to the door_]

THERESE [_ashamed for him, covers her face with her hands. Then, all of
a sudden, she bursts out into passionate sobs, having lost all control
of herself, and cries wildly_] Rene!

RENE [_returning, shocked_] Therese! Oh, what is it?

THERESE [_completely at the mercy of her feelings_] Suppose--suppose
after all, we _did_ it? Listen. I love you far more than you know, more
than I have ever let you know. A foolish feeling of self-respect made me
hide a lot from you. Trust me. Trust your future to me. Marry me all the
same. Believe in me. Marry me. You don't know how strong I am and all
the things I can do. I will work, and you will work. You didn't get on
when you were alone, but you will when you have me with you. I'll keep
you brave when things go badly, and I'll be happy with you when they go
right. Rene, I'll be content with so little! The simplest, humblest,
hardest life, until we've made our way together--_together_, Rene, and
conquered a place in the world for ourselves, that we'll owe to no one
but ourselves. Let us have courage--[_At this point she looks at him,
and having looked she ceases to speak_]

RENE. Therese, I'm sure my people will give in.

THERESE [_after a very long silence, inarticulately_] Go, go; poor Rene.
Forget what I said. Good-bye.

RENE. Oh, no! not good-bye. I'll make my father help us.

THERESE [_sharply_] Too late, my friend, I don't want you now.

     _She leaves the room. Rene sinks into a chair and covers his
     face with his hands._




ACT II

     SCENE:--_A sitting-room at the offices of "Woman Free." The
     door at the back opens into an entrance hall. The general
     editorial office is to the right, Monsieur Nerisse's room to
     the left. At the back, also to the left, is another door
     opening into a smaller sitting-room. There are papers and
     periodicals upon the tables._

     _The curtain rises upon Monsieur Mafflu. He is a man of
     about fifty, dressed for ease rather than elegance, and a
     little vulgar. He turns over the papers on the tables,
     studies himself in the mirror, and readjusts his tie. Madame
     Nerisse then comes in. She has Monsieur Mafflu's visiting
     card in her hand. They bow to each other._


MONSIEUR MAFFLU. My card will have informed you that I am Monsieur
Mafflu.

MADAME NERISSE. Yes. Won't you sit down?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. I am your new landlord, Madame. I have just bought this
house. I've retired from business. I was afraid I shouldn't have enough
to do, so I've bought some houses. I am my own agent. It gives me
something to do. If a tenant wants repairs done, I go and see him. I
love a bit of a gossip; it passes away an hour or so. In that way I make
people's acquaintance--nice people. I didn't buy any of the houses where
poor people live, though they're better business. I should never have
had the heart to turn out the ones that didn't pay, and I should have
been obliged to start an agent, and all my plan would have been upset.
[_A pause_] Now, Madame, for what brought me here. I hope you'll forgive
me for the trouble I'm giving you--and I'm sorry--but I've come to give
you notice.

MADAME NERISSE. Indeed! May I ask what your reason is?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. I am just on the point of letting the second floor. My
future tenant has young daughters.

MADAME NERISSE. I'm afraid I don't see what that has got to do with it.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Well--he'll live only in a house in which all the
tenants are private families.

MADAME NERISSE. But we make no noise. We are not in any way
objectionable.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, no, no; not at all.

MADAME NERISSE. Well, then?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. How shall I explain? I'm certain you're perfectly all
right, and all the ladies who are with you here too, but I've had to
give in that house property is depreciated by people that work; all the
more if the people are ladies, and most of all if they're ladies who
write books or bring out a newspaper with such a name as _Woman Free_.
People who know nothing about it think from such a name--oh, bless you,
I understand all that's rubbish, but--well--the letting value of the
house, you see. [_He laughs_]

MADAME NERISSE. The sight of women who work for their living offends
these people, does it?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Yes, that's the idea. A woman who works is always a
little--hum--well--you know what I mean. Of course I mean nothing to
annoy you.

MADAME NERISSE. You mean that your future tenants don't want their young
ladies to have our example before them.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. No! That's just what they don't. Having independent
sort of people like you about makes 'em uneasy. For me, you know, I
wouldn't bother about it--only--of course you don't see it this way, but
you're odd--off the common somehow. You make one feel queer.

MADAME NERISSE. But there are plenty of women who work.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, common women, yes; oh, that's all right.

MADAME NERISSE. If you have children, they have nurses and governesses.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, those. They work, of course. They work for me,
that's quite different. But you--What bothers these ladies, Madame
Mafflu and all the others, is that you're in our own class. As for me I
stick to the old saying, "Woman's place is the home."

MADAME NERISSE. But there are women who have got no home.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. That's their own fault.

MADAME NERISSE. Very often it's not at all their own fault. Where are
they to go? Into the streets?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. I know, I know. There's all that. Still women can work
without being feminists.

MADAME NERISSE. Have you any idea what you mean by "feminist"?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Not very clear. I know the people I live among don't
know everything. I grant you all that. But _Woman Free! Woman Free!_
Madame Mafflu wants to know what liberty--or what liberties--singular or
plural; do you take me?--ha! ha! There might be questions asked.

MADAME NERISSE [_laughing_] You must do me the honor of introducing me
to Madame Mafflu. She must be an interesting woman. I'll go and see
her.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, do! But not on a Wednesday.

MADAME NERISSE. Why not?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. 'Cos Wednesday's her day.

MADAME NERISSE [_gayly_] I must give it up, then, as I'm free only on
Wednesdays.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. I should like her to see for herself how nice you are.
Her friends have been talking to her. They thought that you--well--they
say feminist women are like the women were in the time of the Commune.
They said perhaps you'd even go on a deputation!

MADAME NERISSE. You wouldn't approve of that?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh, talkin' of that, one of my friends has an argument
nobody can answer. "Let these women," he says, "let 'em do their
military service."

MADAME NERISSE. Well, you tell him that if men make wars, women make
soldiers; and get killed at that work too, sometimes.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU [_after reflecting for some moments_] I'll tell him, but
he won't understand.

MADAME NERISSE. Well, no matter. I won't detain you any longer, Monsieur
Mafflu.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Oh! Madame. I should like to stay and talk to you for
hours.

MADAME NERISSE [_laughing_] You're too kind.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Then you forgive me?

MADAME NERISSE [_going to the door with him_] What would one not forgive
you?

MONSIEUR MAFFLU [_turning back_] I say--

MADAME NERISSE. No, no. Good-bye, Monsieur.

MONSIEUR MAFFLU. Good-bye, Madame.

     _He goes out._

MADAME NERISSE [_to herself_] One really couldn't be angry!

     _Therese comes in with a little moleskin bag on her arm. She
     is in a light dress, is very gay, and looks younger._

THERESE. Good-morning, Madame. I'm so sorry to be late. I met Monsieur
Feliat, my godmother's brother.

MADAME NERISSE. How is Madame Gueret?

THERESE. Very well, he says.

MADAME NERISSE. And does Monsieur Gueret like his new home?

THERESE. Yes, very much.

MADAME NERISSE. And Madame Gueret?

THERESE. She seems to be quite happy.

MADAME NERISSE. What a good thing. Here's the letter Monsieur Nerisse
has written for you to that editor. [_She hands her an unsealed letter_]

THERESE. Oh, thank you!

MADAME NERISSE. Did you find out when he could see you?

THERESE. To-morrow at Two O'clock. Can you spare me then?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, certainly.

THERESE. Thank you.

MADAME NERISSE. Why don't you read your letter? You see it's open.

THERESE. I'll shut it up.

MADAME NERISSE. Read it.

THERESE. Shall I?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, do.

THERESE [_reading_] Oh, it's too much. This is too kind. With a letter
like this my article is certain to be read. Monsieur Nerisse _is_ kind!
Will you tell him how very grateful I am?

MADAME NERISSE [_coldly_] Yes. [_She makes an effort to be kind_] I'll
tell him, of course. But I dictated the letter myself. Monsieur Nerisse
only signed it. [_She rings_]

THERESE. Then I have one more kindness to thank you for.

MADAME NERISSE [_to the page boy_] I expect Monsieur Cazares.

BOY. Monsieur--?

MADAME NERISSE. Our old editor--Monsieur Cazares. You know him very
well.

BOY. Oh, yes, Madame, yes!

MADAME NERISSE. He will have another gentleman with him. You must show
them straight into Monsieur Nerisse's room and let me know.

BOY. Yes, Madame.

     _During this conversation Therese has taken off her hat and
     put it into a cupboard. She has opened a green cardboard box
     and put her gloves and veil into it--folding the latter
     carefully--also Monsieur Nerisse's letter. She has taken out
     a little mirror, given some touches to her hair, and has put
     it back. Finally she closes the box._

MADAME NERISSE. Monsieur Cazares is bringing us a new backer. We're
going to make changes in the paper. I'll tell you all about it
presently. [_With a change of tone_] Tell me, what was there between you
and Monsieur Cazares?

THERESE [_simply_] Nothing at all.

MADAME NERISSE. Isn't he just a wee bit in love with you?

THERESE. I haven't the least idea. He's said nothing to me about it, if
he is.

MADAME NERISSE. He's always behaved quite nicely to you?

THERESE. Always.

MADAME NERISSE. And Monsieur Nerisse?

THERESE. Monsieur Nerisse? I don't understand.

MADAME NERISSE. Oh, yes, you do. Has he ever made love to you?

THERESE. [_hurt_] Oh, Madame!

MADAME NERISSE. [_looking closely at her and then taking both her hands
affectionately_] Forgive me, dear child. I know how good and straight
you are. You mustn't mind the things I say. Sometimes I'm horrid I know.
I have an idea that Monsieur Nerisse is not as fond of me as he used to
be.

THERESE. Oh, indeed that's only your fancy.

MADAME NERISSE. I hope so. I'm a bit nervous I think. I've such a lot of
trouble with the paper just now. It's not going well. [_Gesture of
Therese_] We're going to try something fresh. This time I think it'll be
all right. You'll see it will. [_A pause_] What's that? Did he call? I'm
sure that idiot of a boy hasn't made up his fire, and he'd never think
of it. He's like a great baby. [_As she goes towards Monsieur Nerisse's
door--the door on the left--the door on the right opens, and
Mademoiselle Gregoire comes in. She has taken off her hat. Madame
Nerisse turns to her_] Why, it's Mademoiselle Gregoire! You know, _Dr._
Gregoire! [_To Mademoiselle Gregoire_] This is Mademoiselle Therese.
[_They shake hands_] I spoke to you about her. She'll explain everything
to you in no time. I'll come back very soon and introduce you to the
others. Excuse me for a minute. [_She goes out to the left_]

THERESE. [_pleasantly_] I really don't know what Madame Nerisse wants me
to explain to you. You know our paper?

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. No, I've never seen it.

THERESE. Never seen it! Never seen _Woman Free_?

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Never. I only know it by name.

THERESE. How odd! Well, here's a copy. It's in two parts, you see, and
they're quite different from each other. Here the doctrine, there the
attractions. Madame Nerisse thought of that.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_reading as she turns over the leaves_] "Votes
for Women."

THERESE [_reading with her_] "Votes for Women," "An End of Slavery." And
then, on here, lighter things.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Frivolities?

THERESE. Frivolities. A story. "Beauty Notes."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_reading and laughing a little_] "The Doctor's
Page."

THERESE. Oh, too bad! But it wasn't I who first said frivolities!

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_still laughing_] I shall bear up. And what comes
after "The Doctor's Page"?

THERESE. "Beauty Notes" and "Gleanings."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Gleanings?

THERESE. Yes. It's a column where real and imaginary subscribers
exchange notes about cookery receipts, and housekeeping tips, and hair
lotions, and that sort of thing.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Quite a good thing.

THERESE. I most confess it's the best read part.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. I'm not at all surprised.

THERESE. I'm afraid we can't conceal from ourselves that Monsieur
Nerisse has not altogether succeeded. Each of us is inclined to like
only her own section. We've a girl here, Caroline Legrand, one of the
staff, who's tremendously go-a-head. You should hear her on the subject
of "Soap of the Sylphs" and "Oriental Balm."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. It makes her furious?

THERESE. She's a sort of rampageous saint; ferocious and affectionate by
turns, a bit ridiculous perhaps, but delightful and generous. She's so
simple nasty people could easily make a fool of her, but all nice people
like her.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Shall I have much to do with her?

THERESE. Not much. You'll be under Mademoiselle de Meuriot, and you'll
be lucky. She's a dear. She's been sacrificing herself all her life.
She's my great friend--the only one I have.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_taking up the paper again_] But how's this? Your
contributors are all men. Gabriel de--, Camille de--, Claud de--, Rene
de--, Marcel de--.

THERESE. Well! I never noticed that before. They're the pen-names of our
writers.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. All men's names?

THERESE. Yes. People still think more of men as writers. You see they
are names that might be either a man's or a woman's. Camille, Rene,
Gabriel.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. There's only one woman's name--Vicomtesse de
Renneville.

THERESE. That's snobbery! It's Madame Nerisse's pen-name.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Well, I suppose it's good business.

     _Mademoiselle de Meuriot comes in at the back, bringing a
     packet of letters._

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. The post's come, Therese.

THERESE. This is Mademoiselle de Meuriot. [_Introducing Mademoiselle
Gregoire_] Our new contributor.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You're welcome, Mademoiselle.

     _The door on the left opens and Madame Nerisse appears
     backwards, still talking to Monsieur Nerisse, who is
     invisible in the inner room._

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest. Yes, dearest.

     _Mademoiselle Gregoire looks up at Madame Nerisse._

     _Mademoiselle de Meuriot and Therese turn away their heads
     to hide their smiles; finally Madame Nerisse shuts the door,
     not having noticed anything, and comes forward. She speaks
     to Mademoiselle Gregoire._

MADAME NERISSE. Come, my dear. I'll introduce you to the others. [_To
Mademoiselle de Meuriot_] Ah! the post has come. Open the letters,
Therese, will you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Yes, we will.

MADAME NERISSE [_at the door on the right, to Mademoiselle Gregoire_]
You first. [_They go out_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_smiling_] I think our new friend was a bit
amused. She's pretty.

THERESE. Yes, and she looks capable.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Let's get to work.

     _She sits down, at a desk. Therese sits near her at the end
     of the same desk. During all that follows Therese opens
     envelopes with a letter opener and passes them to
     Mademoiselle de Meuriot, who takes the letters out, glances
     at them, and makes three or four little piles of them._

THERESE. Here! [_Holding out the first letter_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_as she works_] And you? How are you this
morning? [_Looking closely at her and shaking a finger_] You're tired,
little girl. You sat up working last night.

THERESE. I wanted to finish copying out my manuscript. It took me ages,
because I wanted to make it as clear as print.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_gravely_] You know you mustn't be ill,
Therese.

THERESE. How good you are, Mademoiselle, and how lucky I am to have you
for a friend. What should I do without you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. How about your godmother?

THERESE. I didn't get on with her. She never could hide her dislike for
me, and it burst out in the end. When she saw that in spite of
everything she could say I was going to leave her, she let herself go
and made a dreadful scene. And, what was worse, my good, kind godfather
joined in! It seemed as if they thought my wanting to be independent was
a direct insult to them. What a lot of letters there are to-day.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. It's the renewal of the subscriptions.

THERESE. Oh, is that it? So you see we parted, not exactly enemies--but,
well--on our dignity. We write little letters to one another now, half
cold and half affectionate. I tell you, without you I should be quite
alone.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Not more alone than I am.

THERESE. I have someone to talk to now and tell my little worries to.
It's not that, even. One always finds people ready to listen to you and
pity you, but what one doesn't find is people one can tell one's most
impossible dreams to and feel sure one won't be laughed at. That's real
friendship. [_She stops working as she continues_] To dare to think out
loud before another person and let her see the gods of one's secret
idolatry, and to be sure one's not exposing one's precious things to
blasphemy. How I love you for being like you are and for caring for me a
little. [_She resumes her work_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. I don't care for you a little, Therese! I care
for you very much indeed. I like you because you're brave and hurl
yourself against obstacles like a little battering ram, and because
you're straight and honest and one can depend on you.

THERESE [_who can't get open the letter she holds_] Please pass me the
scissors. Thanks. [_She cuts open the envelope_] I might have been all
those things, and it would have been no good at all, if you hadn't been
able to see them.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Remember that in being friends with you I get
as much as I give. My people were very religious and very proud of their
title. I made up my mind to leave home, but since then I've been quite
alone--alone for thirty years. I'm selfish in my love for you now. I've
had so little of that sort of happiness.

THERESE. You've done so much for women. You've helped so many.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_touching her piles of letters_] Here's another
who won't renew.

THERESE. What will Madame Nerisse say? [_Continuing_] You know,
Mademoiselle, it's not only success that I want. I have a great
ambition. I should like to think that because I've lived there might be
a little less suffering in the world. That's the sort of thing that I
can say to nobody but you.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_tenderly_] Therese has an ardent soul.

THERESE. Yes, Therese has an ardent soul. It was you who said that about
me first, and I think I deserve it. [_Changing her tone_] Here's the
subscriber's book. [_She hands the book and continues in her former
voice_] Like Guyan, I have more tears than I need to spend on my own
sufferings, so I can give the spare ones to other people. And not only
tears, but courage and consolation that I have no opportunity of using
up myself. Do you understand what I mean?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Yes, I understand, my dear. I see my own youth
over again. [_Sadly_] Oh, I hope that you--but I don't want to rouse up
those old ghosts; I should only distress you. Perhaps lives like mine
are necessary, if it's only to throw into relief lives that are more
beautiful than mine. Keep your lovely dreams. [_A silence_] When I think
that instead of being an old maid I might have been the mother of a girl
like you!

THERESE [_leaning towards her and kissing her hair_] Don't cry.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_tears in her eyes and a smile upon her lips_]
No, no, I won't; and when I think that somewhere or other there's a man
you love!

THERESE [_smiling_] Some day or other I must tell you a whole lot of
things about Rene.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Have you seen him again?

THERESE. Yes.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. But you were supposed not to meet any more.

THERESE [_with a mutinous little smile_] Yes, we were supposed not to
meet any more. One says those things and then one meets all the same. If
Rene had gone on being the feeble and lamentable young man that I parted
from the _Barberine_ evening, I should perhaps have never seen him
again. You don't know what my Rene has done, do you now?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. No.

THERESE. I've been looking forward so to telling you. [_Eagerly_] Well,
he's quite changed. He's become a different man. Oh, he's not a marvel
of energy even yet, but he's not the helpless youth who was still
feeding out of his father's hands at twenty-five.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. And how has this great improvement come about?

THERESE [_looking at her knowingly_] You'll make me blush.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Was it for love of you?

THERESE. I think it _was_ for love of me. Let me tell you. He wanted to
see me again, and he waited at the door when I was coming out from my
work, just as if I was a little milliner's assistant. And then he came
back another evening, and then another. While we were walking from here
to my place we chattered, and chattered, and chattered. We had more to
say to each other than we'd ever had before, and I began to realize that
his want of will and energy was more the result of always hanging on to
his people than anything else. Then there came a crash. [_She laughs_] A
most fortunate crash. His father formally ordered him not to see me
again; threatened, if he did, to stop his allowance. What do you think
my Rene did? He sent back the cheque his people had just given him with
quite a nice, civil, respectful letter. Then he left his office and got
a place in a business house at an absurdly small salary, and he's been
working there ever since. [_Laughing_] He shocked all the other young
men in the office by the way he stuck to it. He got gradually interested
in what he had to do. He read it all up; the heads of the firm noticed
him and were civil to him, and now they've sent him on important
business to Tunis. And that's what he's done all for love of me! Now,
don't you think I ought to care for him a little? Don't you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Yes, my dear. But then if he's in Tunis?

THERESE. Oh, he'll come back.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. And when will the wedding be?

THERESE. He's sure his people will give in in the end if he can make
some money. We shall wait.

     _The page boy comes in with seven or eight round parcels in
     his arms._

BOY. Here are this morning's manuscripts.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Put them with the others.

BOY. There was one lady was quite determined to see you herself. She
said her article was most particular. It's among that lot.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Very well.

BOY. Mademoiselle Caroline Legrand is coming.

     _He opens the door and stands back to allow Caroline Legrand
     to come in. She is dressed in a long brown tailor-made
     overcoat and a white waistcoat, with a yellow necktie._

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Good-morning, Meuriot.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Good-morning, Caroline Legrand. [_They shake
hands_]

CAROLINE LEGRAND. It seems there's something new going on here.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. I believe there is, but I know nothing about
it.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. I expect the paper's not going well, the jam hasn't
hidden the pill. Even Madame Nerisse's thirtieth article upon divorce at
the desire of one party hasn't succeeded in stirring up enthusiasm this
time. She's been preaching up free love, but she really started the
paper only because she thought it would help her to get the law changed
and allow her to marry her "dearest."

THERESE. Mademoiselle Legrand, I have some news that will please you.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Are all the men dead?

THERESE. No, not yet; but I've heard that in a small country town
they're starting a Woman's Trade Union.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. It won't succeed. Women are too stupid.

THERESE. They've opened a special workshop there, and they're going to
have work that's always been done by men done by women.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. That's splendid! A woman worker the more is a slave
the less.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_gravely_] Are you quite sure of that?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Oh, don't you misunderstand me! [_Forcibly_] Listen to
this. A time will come when people will be as ashamed of having made
women work as they are ashamed now of having kept slaves. But, until
then--

THERESE. The employer is rather disturbed about it.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. He's quite right. Very soon there'll be a fierce
reaction among the men about this cheap women's labor. There's going to
be a new sex struggle--the struggle for bread. Man will use all his
strength and all his cruelty to defend himself. There's a time coming
when gallantry and chivalry will go by the board, _I_ can tell you.

     _Madame Nerisse comes in._

MADAME NERISSE. Oh, good-morning, Legrand. I'm glad you're here, I've
been wanting to ask your advice about a new idea I want to start in
_Woman Free_. A correspondence about getting up a league of society
women--

CAROLINE LEGRAND. What about the others?

MADAME NERISSE [_continuing, without attending to her_]--and smart
people, who will undertake not to wear ornaments in their hats made of
the wings or the plumage of birds.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. You're giving up _Woman Free_ for _Birds Free_, then?

MADAME NERISSE. What do you mean?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. You'd better make a league to do away with hats
altogether as a protest against the sweating of the women who stitch the
straw at famine prices and make the ribbon at next to nothing. I shall
be more concerned for the fate of the sparrows when I haven't got to
concern myself about the fate of sweated women.

MADAME NERISSE. Well, of course. That's the article we've got to write.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Of course.

MADAME NERISSE. We'll write it in the form of a letter to a member of
parliament--it had better be a man, because we're going to put him in
the wrong--a member of parliament who wants to form the league I
suggested. What you said about the sparrows will be a splendid tag at
the end. Will you write it?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Rather! It's lucky you don't stick to your ideas very
obstinately, because they can sometimes be improved upon. I think I
shall write your paper for you in future.

MADAME NERISSE. Go along and send me in Mademoiselle Gregoire and Madame
Chanteuil. They'll bother you, and I want them here.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. To write about "Soap of the Sylphs." _I_ know.

     _She goes out to the right._

MADAME NERISSE. She's a little mad, but she really has good ideas
sometimes.

     _The page boy comes in._

BOY [_to Madame Nerisse_] The gentlemen are there, Monsieur Cazares and
another gentleman.

MADAME NERISSE. Are they with Monsieur Nerisse?

BOY. Yes, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. Very well, I'll go. [_The boy goes out. She speaks to
the others_] Divide the work between you. [_To Madame Chanteuil and
Mademoiselle Gregoire, who come in from the right_] There's lots of work
to be done. [_She goes out to the left_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. We'd better sit down. [_She sits down and says
what follows whilst they are taking their places round the table. She
takes up the first letter_] This is for the advertising department. Is
Mademoiselle Baron here?

THERESE. No, poor little thing. She's trudging round Paris to try and
get hold of a few advertisements.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. It's a dreadful job, trying to get advertisements for
a paper that three-quarters of the people she goes to have never heard
of. It gives me the shivers to remember what I had to go through myself
over that job.

THERESE. And poor little Baron is so shy!

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. She earned only fifty francs all last month.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. I know her, I met her lately; she told me she was
in luck, that she had an appointment with the manager of the Institut de
Jouvence.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. And she thinks she's in luck!

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. It appears that that's a place where you can do
quite good business.

MADAME CHANTEUIL [_gravely_] Yes, young women can do business there if
they're pretty; but have you any idea what price they pay? Nothing would
induce me to put my foot inside the place again.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Oh, the poor little girl! Oh, dear! [_A pause.
She begins to sort the letters_]

THERESE [_half to herself_] It seems to me our name _Woman Free_ is
horrible irony.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_holding a letter in her hand_] Oh, Chanteuil,
what _have_ you done? Here's somebody perfectly furious. She says she
asked you to give her some information in the beauty column. [_Reading_]
It was something she was mistaken about. She wrote under the name of
"Always Young," and apparently you've answered "Always Young is a
mistake." She thinks you did it to insult her. You must write her a
letter of apologies.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Yes, Mademoiselle.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_holding up another letter_] "Little Questions
of Sentiment." This is for you, Therese. [_She reads_] "I feel so sad
because I am getting old," etc. Answer, "Why this sadness--"

THERESE. "White hairs are a crown of--" [_She writes a few words in
pencil upon the letter which Mademoiselle de Meuriot has passed to her_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. "Astral Influences." [_Looking round_] Who is
"Astral Influences"?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. I am.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_passing her letters_] Here are two, three--one
without a post office order. Put that one straight into the waste paper
basket. Remember that you must always promise them luck, with little
difficulties to give success more flavor. And be sure to tell them
they're full of good qualities, with some little amiable weaknesses and
the sort of defects one enjoys boasting about. [_Going on reading_]
"About using whites of eggs to take the sharpness out of sorrel," "To
take out ink-stains." These are for you, dear.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Yes. [_She takes the letters_] I didn't think of
that when I took my degree.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_continuing_] "Stoutness"; that's for you too.
[_Glancing again at the letter_] What does this one want? [_Fluttering
the leaves_] Four pages; ah, here we are--"A slender figure--smaller
hips--am not too stout anywhere else." That's for the doctor. [_She
gives the letter to Mademoiselle Gregoire with several others_]

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Iodiform soap.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. My dear, not at all, "Soap of the Sylphs."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. But that's exactly the same thing.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. I know that. But it sounds so different.
[_Taking another letter_] "A red nose"--

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. Lemon juice.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_continuing_] "Superfluous hairs." Be sure to
recommend the cream that gives us advertisements; don't make any mistake
about that. "Black specks on the chin," "Wrinkles round the eyes."

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. There's no cure for that.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Tell her to go to bed early and alone.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. That's too easy, she wouldn't believe in it.
Find something else. [_Continuing to read_] "To make them firm without
enlarging them"; that's for you too. And all the rest I think. "To
whiten the teeth," "To make the hair lighter," "To give firmness to the
bust."

MADAME CHANTEUIL. They're always asking that.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_reading_] "To enlarge the eyes," "get rid of
wrinkles"--"and double chins"--"a clear complexion"--"to keep
young"--ouf! That's all. No, here's one that wants white arms. They're
all alike, poor women!

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. And all that to please men.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. To please a man more than some other woman, and so to
be fed, lodged, and kept by him.

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_between her teeth_] _Kept_ is the right word.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Ah, here's Mademoiselle Baron. [_To
Mademoiselle Baron_] Well? What luck?

MADEMOISELLE BARON [_miserably_] There's no one in the office. I've got
the signed contract for the advertisements of the Institut de Jouvence.
Now I must go on to the printers. Here it is. Good-bye. [_A silence_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_in a suffocated voice_] Good-bye, my dear.

     _They watch her go sadly. A long silence._

THERESE [_speaking with great emotion_] Poor, _poor_ little thing!

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_also quite overcome, slowly_] Perhaps she has
someone at home who's hungry.

     _They each respond by a sigh or an ouf! Mademoiselle
     Gregoire, Madame Chanteuil, and Mademoiselle de Meuriot
     rise, picking up their papers._

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE. I must go and see to the "Doctor's Page."

MADAME CHANTEUIL. And I to the "Gleaner's Column."

     _They go out to the right. Therese rests her chin on her two
     hands and reflects profoundly. Monsieur Nerisse comes in at
     the back._

NERISSE [_speaking back to the people he has left in his office in an
irritated voice_] Do as you like. I've told you my opinion. I wash my
hands of it. When your draft is ready show it to me. [_He shuts the
door. Therese, when she hears his voice, has gathered up her papers and
is making for the door on the right. He calls her back_] Mademoiselle!

THERESE. Monsieur!

NERISSE. Listen. I have something to say to you. [_Therese returns_] Did
Madame Nerisse give you the letter of introduction I wrote for you?

THERESE. Yes, Monsieur. Please forgive me for not having thanked you
before.

NERISSE. It's nothing.

THERESE. Indeed it's a great deal.

NERISSE. Nothing.

THERESE. Yes, I'm sure to be received quite differently with that letter
from what I should be without it.

NERISSE. I can give you any number of letters like that. May I?

THERESE [_coldly_] No, thank you.

NERISSE. You won't let me?

THERESE. No.

NERISSE. Why?

THERESE. You know very well why.

NERISSE. You're still angry with me. You do yourself harm by the way you
treat me, you do indeed. Listen, this is the sort of thing. Moranville,
the editor of the review I was talking about, is going to meet me at my
restaurant after dinner. I know he wants just such stories as you write.
But Moranville reads only the manuscripts of people he knows--he has a
craze about it. Well, I hardly dare propose to you a thing which
nevertheless is perfectly natural among colleagues, to come and dine
with me first and meet him after. I hardly like--[_Therese draws herself
up_] You see, I'm right. You don't trust me.

THERESE. On the contrary, I'll go gladly. Madame Nerisse will be with
you of course?

NERISSE [_annoyed_] Madame Nerisse! Nonsense! Do you suppose I drag her
everywhere I go? Say no more about it. Whatever I say will only make you
suspicious. [_With a sigh_] All this misunderstanding and suspicion is
horrible to me. How stupid the world is! There are times when I feel
disgusted with everything, myself included! I'm getting old. I'm a
failure. I'm losing my time and wasting my life over this ridiculous
paper, which will never be anything but an obscure rag. I shall have
done for myself soon.

THERESE [_awkwardly, for something to say_] Don't say that.

NERISSE. Yes, I shall. I might have a chance of saving myself yet if I
took things energetically and got free of the whole thing. But I should
have to be quick about it. [_A silence. Therese does not know what to
say and does not dare to leave the room_] I'm so low--so unhappy!

THERESE. So unhappy?

NERISSE. Yes. [_Another silence. Madame Nerisse comes in and looks at
them pointedly_] Are they gone?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes, they're gone.

NERISSE. Is it all settled?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes. I am to meet them at the bank at four. But they
wouldn't give way on the question of reducing expenses as regards the
contributors.

NERISSE. And the dates of publication?

MADAME NERISSE. We are to come out fortnightly instead of weekly.
[_Indicating the door on the right_] You must go and speak to them.

NERISSE. Is Therese's salary to be reduced too?

MADAME NERISSE. It would be impossible to make distinctions.

NERISSE. Difficult, yes. Still--I think one might have managed to do
something for her.

MADAME NERISSE. I cannot see how she differs from the others. Can you?

NERISSE. Oh, well--say no more about it.

MADAME NERISSE. That will be best. [_He goes out to the right. To
herself_] I should think so indeed! [_To Therese_] While Monsieur
Nerisse was talking to the other man I had a chat with Monsieur Cazares.
He was talking about you. He's a nice fellow, and it's quite a good
family you know. He's steady and fairly well off--very well off.

THERESE [_laughing_] You talk as if you were offering me a husband!

NERISSE. And what would you say supposing he had asked me to sound you?

THERESE. I should say that I was very much obliged, but that I decline
the honor.

NERISSE. What's wrong with him?

THERESE. Nothing.

MADAME NERISSE. Well then?

THERESE. You can't marry upon that.

MADAME NERISSE. Have you absolutely made up your mind?

THERESE. Absolutely.

MADAME NERISSE. I think you're making a mistake. I think it all the more
because this chance comes just at a time--well, you'll understand what I
mean when I've told you something that I have to say to you as
manageress of _Woman Free_. It's this. You know that in spite of all we
could do we've had to hunt about for more capital. We've found some, but
we've had to submit to very severe conditions. The most important is
that they insist upon a stringent cutting down of expenses. Instead of
coming out every week, _Woman Free_ will be a fortnightly in future, and
we've been obliged to consent to reducing the salaries of the
contributors in proportion.

THERESE. How much will they be reduced?

MADAME NERISSE. In proportion I tell you. They'll be cut down by one
half.

THERESE. And I shall not have enough to live upon even in the simplest
way.

MADAME NERISSE. That was exactly what I said to them. And the work will
not be the same.

THERESE. My work will not be the same?

MADAME NERISSE. No; you will be obliged to work at night.

THERESE. At night?

MADAME NERISSE. Yes.

THERESE. But then I shall be free all day.

MADAME NERISSE. No, you won't. In the daytime you will have to take
charge of the business part of the paper, and in the evening too your
work will not be purely literary, but more of an administrative
character.

THERESE. It appears to me that I'm asked to accept a smaller salary and
to do double work for it.

MADAME NERISSE. I am conveying to you the offers of the new Directors;
if they don't suit you, you have only to refuse them.

THERESE. Of course I refuse them, and you may say to the people who have
made them that they must be shameful sweaters to dare to offer women
salaries that leave them no choice between starvation and degradation.

MADAME NERISSE. Those are strong words, my dear, and you seem to forget
very quickly--

THERESE [_softening_] Yes. Oh, I beg your pardon. But think for a
minute, Madame, and you'll forgive me for being angry. I hardly know
what I'm saying. [_Madame Nerisse half turns away_] Listen, oh listen!
Forget what I said just now; I'll explain to you. I accept the reduction
of salary. I'll manage. I'll get my expenses down. Only I can't consent
to give up all my time. You know I have some work in hand; you know I
have a big undertaking to which I've given all my life. I've told you
about it, you know about that. You know I can only stand my loneliness
and everything because of the hope I have about this. If people take all
my time, it's the same as if they killed me. I beg you, I implore you,
get them to leave me my evenings free.

MADAME NERISSE. It can't be done.

THERESE [_pulling herself together_] Very well, that's settled. I will
go at the end of the month; that's to say to-morrow.

MADAME NERISSE. Take a little time to consider it.

THERESE. I have considered it. They propose that I should commit
suicide. I say no!

MADAME NERISSE. I'm sorry, truly sorry. [_She rings. While she waits for
the bell to be answered, she looks searchingly at Therese, who does not
notice it. To the page boy who comes in_] Go and call me a taxi, but
first say to Monsieur Nerisse--

BOY. Monsieur Nerisse has just gone out, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. Are you quite sure?

BOY. I called him a taxi.

MADAME NERISSE. Very well, you can go. [_To Therese_] I'll ask you for
your final answer this evening. [_She hands her two large books_] If you
make up your mind to stay, make me these two bibliographies.

     _Therese does not answer. Madame Nerisse goes out to the
     left. Left alone Therese begins to sort the papers on her
     bureau rather violently. She seizes a paper knife, flings it
     upon the couch, and afterwards walks up and down the room in
     great agitation. The door on the right opens and there come
     in such exclamations as No! Never! It's monstrous! I shall
     leave! It's an insult!_

     _Caroline Legrand, Mademoiselle Gregoire, Madame Chanteuil,
     and Mademoiselle de Meuriot come in. Mademoiselle de Meuriot
     is the only one who has kept her self-possession._

MADEMOISELLE GREGOIRE [_speaking above the din_] Good-bye, all. [_She
goes to the small salon from which she originally came in, and during
the conversation that follows comes in putting on her hat, and goes out
unnoticed at the back_]

THERESE. Well, what do you think of this?

MADAME CHANTEUIL AND CAROLINE LEGRAND [_together_] It's an insult.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You must try and keep quiet. [_To Therese_]
What shall you do?

THERESE. I shall leave.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You ought to stay.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. No, Therese is right. We must all leave.

THERESE. We must leave to-morrow--no, this evening.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_quietly_] Do you think that you'll be able to
make better terms anywhere else?

THERESE. That won't be difficult.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You think so?

THERESE. Rather.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Where, for instance?

THERESE. There are other papers in Paris besides this one.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Then you know a lot of others that pay better?

THERESE. One will be enough for me.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. And you think you'll find a place straight off? You
know there are other people--

THERESE. I'll give lessons. I took my degree.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Much good may it do you.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You think you'll be a governess? At one time a
governess could get 1,200 francs, now it's 650 francs--less than the
cook. And if you were to be a companion--

THERESE. Why not a lady's maid at once?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Yes; lady's maid. That's not a bad idea. It's the only
occupation a girl brought up as rich people bring up their daughters can
be certain to get and to keep, if she's only humble enough.

THERESE. I shall manage to get along without taking to that.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. But, Therese, have you really been blind to all
that's been going on here? Haven't you constantly seen unfortunate
women, as well brought up and as well educated as yourself, coming
hunting for work? Don't you remember that advertisement of the girl that
Caroline Legrand was interested in? That advertisement has been
appearing in the paper for the last three months. I'll read it to you.
[_Caroline Legrand takes up a number of "Women Free" and passes it to
Mademoiselle de Meuriot_] Here it is. [_Reading_] "A young lady of
distinguished appearance, who has taken a high certificate for teaching.
Good musician. Drawing, English, shorthand, etc." I know that girl. She
told me all about her life. D'you know what she's offered? She asked two
francs an hour for teaching the piano. They laughed in her face, because
for that they could get a girl who'd taken first prize at the
Conservatoire. They gave her seventy-five centimes. Deduct from that
seventy-five centimes the price of the journey in that underground, the
wear and tear of clothes, the time lost in going and coming, and then
what do you think is left?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Let's be just. She got answers from doubtful places
abroad, letters from old satyrs, and invitations to pose for the
"movies."

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. What's left then? The stage. It's quite natural
you should think of the stage.

THERESE. If one must.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. If one must! You'd condescend to it, wouldn't you? You
poor child!

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. You can't get into the Conservatoire after
twenty-one. Are you under that? No. Are you a genius? No. Well then?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Have you a rich lover who will back you?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. No. Then you'll get nothing at all in the
theatres except by making friends with half a dozen men or selling
yourself to one.

THERESE. I'll go into a shop. At any rate, when it shuts I shall be
free.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. You think they're longing for you, don't you? You
forget you'd have to know things for that one doesn't learn by taking a
degree; things like shorthand and typewriting. Do you know there are
twenty thousand women in Paris who want to get into shops and offices
and can't find places?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. I know exactly what's going to become of _me_.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Now you're going to say something silly.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. You think so, you've guessed. Well, I tell you, middle
class girls thrown on the world as we are can't get along without a
man--a husband or a lover. We haven't got the key of the prison door.
We've not learned a trade. We've learned to smile, and dance, and
sing--parlor tricks. All that's only of use in a love affair or a
marriage. Without a man we're stranded. Our parents have brought us all
up for one career and one only--the man. I was a fool not to understand
before. Now I see.

CAROLINE LEGRAND. Look here, you're not going to take a lover?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Suppose I am?

CAROLINE LEGRAND. My dear, you came here full of indignation, clamoring
against the state of society. You called yourself a feminist, but you,
and women like you, are feminists only when it's convenient. There are
no real feminists except ugly women like me or old ones like Meuriot.
You others come about us in a swarm and then drop away one after
another to go off to some man. As soon as a lover condescends to throw
the handkerchief you're up and off to him. You _want_ to be slaves. Go,
my dear, and take your lover. That's your fate. Good-night. [_She goes
out_]

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_to Madame Chanteuil_] Don't listen to her, you
poor child. Don't ruin all your life in a fit of despair.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. I can't stay here. I'm not a saint and I'm not a fool.
How can I live on what they offer to pay me?

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Stay for a little, while you're looking for
something else.

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Look for something else! Never! That means all the
horrors I went through, before I came here, over again! No! _no! no!_
Never! Looking for work means trailing through the mud, toiling up
stairs, ringing bells, being told to call again, calling again to get
more snubs. And then when one thinks one's found something one comes up
against a door guarded by a man who's watching you, and who's got to be
satisfied before you can get into the workroom, or the office, or the
shop, or whatever it may be. And then you've got to begin again with
somebody else and be snubbed again. No. Since it's an accepted, settled,
decided thing that the only career for a woman is to satisfy the
passions of a man, I prefer the one I've chosen myself.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. And what if he goes off and leaves you with a
baby?

MADAME CHANTEUIL. Well, I'll bring it up. I shan't be the first. Women
do it. It happens to one in every five in Paris. Ask Mademoiselle de
Meuriot, the old maid, if she wouldn't be glad to have one now? When one
grows old it's better to have had a child in that way than not to have
had one at all. Ask her if I'm not telling the truth. Ask her if she's
happy in her loneliness.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT. Oh, it's true--it's true! Sometimes--

     _She bursts into tears. Therese goes to her and takes her in
     her arms._

THERESE. Oh, Mademoiselle, dear Mademoiselle!

MADAME CHANTEUIL [_between her teeth_] Good-bye, Mademoiselle. Good-bye,
Therese.

MADEMOISELLE DE MEURIOT [_to Madame Chanteuil_] Wait, wait. I'm going
with you. I am not going to leave you just now.

     _Mademoiselle de Meuriot goes out with Madame Chanteuil.
     Therese, left alone, buries her head in her hands and
     thinks. Then she takes the two books that Madame Nerisse has
     handed her, and with a determined swing sits down and starts
     working. After a moment Monsieur Nerisse comes in._

NERISSE. My dear child, I have news for you. Pleasant news, I think.

THERESE [_rather grimly_] Have you?

NERISSE. One little smile, please, or I shall tell you nothing.

THERESE. I assure you smiling is the last thing I feel like.

NERISSE. If you only knew what I've been doing for you, you wouldn't
receive me so unkindly.

THERESE. _You_ can do nothing for me. Will you please leave me alone?

NERISSE. I don't deserve to be spoken to like that, Therese. Listen; we
must come to an understanding. I know you're angry with me still about
what happened last month. I promised you then I would say no more. Have
I kept my word?

THERESE. Yes, you have.

NERISSE. Will you always be angry? Is it quite impossible for us to be
friends? I am constantly giving you proofs of my friendship. I've done
two things for you quite lately. The first was that letter to the editor
you're going to see to-morrow, and the second is what I've done now with
our new backer. It's this. They wanted to sack you or to offer you
humiliating conditions. I said if you didn't stay I wouldn't stay
either. I gave in on other points to get my way about this. I shall have
their final answer to-morrow, and I know I shall succeed if I stick to
my point.

THERESE. But what right had you to do such a thing? We agreed to forget
altogether that you had dared to make love to me. D'you really not
understand how that makes it impossible I should ever accept either
assistance or protection from you?

NERISSE. I have still the right to love you in secret.

THERESE. Indeed you have not, and you've kept your secret precious
badly. Madame Nerisse suspects, and I can see quite well that she's
jealous of me. I owe her a great deal; she gave me my first start and
got me my place here. I wouldn't make her unhappy for anything in the
world. As soon as she hears of what you've done what d'you suppose
she'll think?

NERISSE. I don't care a rap what she thinks.

THERESE. But I care very much. You've compromised me seriously.

NERISSE [_sincerely contemptuous_] Compromised you! Aha, yes, there's
the word! Oh, you middle class girls! Always the same! What are you
doing here then? What d'you know about life? Nothing. Compromised! Then
all your dreams of elevating humanity, all your ambitions, your career,
the realization of yourself--you'll give up all that before you'll be
what you describe by that stupid, imbecile, middle class word,
compromised. When you shook yourself free of your family you behaved
like a capable woman. Now you're behaving and thinking like a
fashionable doll. Isn't that true? I appeal to your intelligence, to
your mind, to everything in you that lifts you out of the ordinary ruck.
Your precious word compromised is only the twaddle of a countrified
miss. Don't you see that yourself?

THERESE [_very much out of countenance_] Ah, if I were only certain that
you are hiding nothing behind your friendship and your sympathy!

NERISSE [_with perfectly genuine indignation_] Hiding? You said hiding?
Is that what you throw in my face? You insult me? What d'you take me
for?

THERESE. I beg your pardon.

NERISSE. What kind of assurance do you want me to give you? Do you
believe in nothing? Is it quite impossible for you to feel frankly and
naturally, and to say "I have confidence in you, and I accept your
friendship"--a friendship offered to you perfectly honestly and loyally?
It really drives one to despair.

THERESE [_without enthusiasm_] Well, yes. I say it.

     _She puts her hands into the hands Monsieur Nerisse holds
     out to her._

NERISSE. Thank you. [_A silence. Then he says in a low voice_] Oh,
Therese, I love you, how I love you!

THERESE [_snatching her hands away_] Oh, this is abominable. You set a
trap for me, and my vanity made me fall into it.

NERISSE. I implore you to let me tell you about myself. I'm so miserable
and lonely when you're away.

THERESE [_trying to speak reasonably_] I know quite well what you want
to say to me, and it all amounts to this: you love me. It's quite clear,
and I answer you just as clearly: I do _not_ love you.

NERISSE. I'm so unhappy!

THERESE. If it's true that you're unhappy because I don't love you, that
is a misfortune for you; a misfortune for which I am not in any way
responsible, because you certainly cannot accuse me of having encouraged
you.

NERISSE. I don't ask you to love me--yet. I ask you to allow me to try
and win your love.

THERESE [_almost desperate_] Don't dare to say that again. If you were
an honorable man, you couldn't possibly have said these things to me
to-day when my living depends upon you. You know the position I'm in,
and you know that if I don't stay here, there are only two courses open
to me--to go and live at the expense of my godmother, which I will _not_
do, or to take the chances of a woman alone looking for work in Paris.
Don't you understand that speaking about your love for me to-day is the
same as driving me into the street?

NERISSE. If you go into the street, it is by your own choice.

THERESE. Exactly. There's the old, everlasting, scandalous bargain. Sell
yourself or you shall starve. If I give in, I can stay; if I don't--

NERISSE. _I_ didn't say so. But clearly my efforts to help you will be
greater if I know that I'm working for my friend.

THERESE. You actually confess it! You think yourself an honorable man,
and you don't see that what you're doing is the vilest of crimes.

NERISSE. Now I ask you. Did I wait for your answer before I began to
defend you and to help you?

THERESE. No, but you believe I shall give in through gratitude or fear.
Well, don't count upon it. Even if I have to kill myself in the end, I
shall never sell myself, either to you or to anyone else. [_In despair_]
Then that's what it comes to. Wherever we want to make our way, to have
the right to work and to live, we find the door barred by a man who
says, Give yourself or starve. Because one's on one's own, because they
know that there's not another man to start up and defend his _property_!
It's almost impossible to believe human beings can be so vile to one
another. For food! Just for food! Because they know we shall starve if
we don't give in. Because we have old people, or children at home who
are waiting for us to bring them food, men put this vile condition to
us, to do like the girls in the streets. It's shameful, shameful,
shameful. It's enough to make one shriek out loud with rage and despair.

NERISSE [_speaking sternly_] I've never asked you to sell yourself. I
ask you to love me.

THERESE. I shall never love you.

NERISSE [_as before_] You'll never love. Neither me nor others. Listen--

THERESE [_interrupting_] I--

NERISSE [_preventing her from speaking_] Wait; I insist upon speaking.
You will never love, you say. You will live alone all your life. You're
foolish and self-confident enough to think that you can do without a
man's affection.

THERESE. But I--

NERISSE [_continuing_] I must try to make you understand your folly.
These efforts you're making to escape from the ordinary life of
affection are useless, and it's lucky for you they are useless. You
can't live without love.

THERESE. Why?

NERISSE. All lonely people are wretched. But the lonely woman is twice,
a hundred times more wretched than the man. You've no idea what it is.
It's to pass all your life under suspicion, yes, suspicion. The world
never believes that people live differently from others unless they have
secret reasons, and the world always says that secret reasons are
shameful reasons. And that's not all. Think of the lonely room where you
may cry without anyone to hear you. Think of illness where to your
bodily pain is added the mental torture of the fear of dying all alone.
Think of the empty heart, the empty arms always, always. And in old age,
more wretchedness in the regret for a wasted life. And for what and for
whom are you making this sacrifice? For a convention; for a morality
that nobody really believes in. Who'll think the better of you for it?
People won't even believe in your honesty. They will find explanations
for it that would make you die of shame if you knew them. Is that what
you want, Therese? I am unhappy. Love me. Oh, if you only--

THERESE. Please spare me your confidences.

NERISSE. You think this is only a caprice on my part. You are mistaken.
I ask you to share my life.

THERESE. I will never be your mistress.

NERISSE. You're proud and you're strong. You insist upon marriage. Very
well. I agree.

THERESE. I will not have you! I will not have you!

NERISSE. Why? Tell me why.

THERESE. I _will_ tell you why; and then, I hope, I shall have done with
you. You're right in one way. I believe I should not be able to live all
alone. I should be too unhappy. But at least I'll keep my right of
choice. If ever I give myself to anyone, it will be to someone I love.
[_With vehemence_] And I love him, I love him!

NERISSE [_violently_] You have a lover! If that's true--

THERESE [_with a cry of triumph_] Oh, have I got to the bottom of your
vulgar, hateful little soul? If there ever was any danger of my giving
in, your expression then would have saved me. You never thought there
could be anything better. A lover! No, I have no lover. I have a love.

NERISSE. I don't see so very much difference.

THERESE [_proudly_] I know you don't, and that shows what you are. This
is the one love of my life, my love for my betrothed. I lost my money
and that separated us, but we found each other again. It's unhappy to be
separated, but we bear our unhappiness out of respect for what you call
prejudices, because we know how our defying them would hurt those we
love. You think me ridiculous, but you cannot imagine how utterly
indifferent I am. I am waiting, we are waiting, with perfect trust and
love. Now d'you understand that I'm perfectly safe from you? Go!

NERISSE [_in a low voice which trembles with anger and jealousy_] How
dare you say that to me, Therese? How dare you bring such a picture
before me? I will not allow you to belong to another man. [_He advances
towards her_]

THERESE [_in violent excitement_] No, no, don't dare! Don't touch me!
don't dare to touch me!

     _She cries out those words with such violence and in a voice
     of such authority that Nerisse stops and drops into a
     chair._

NERISSE. Forgive me. I'm out of my mind. I don't know what I'm doing.

THERESE [_in a low, forced voice_] Will you go? I've work to do.

NERISSE. Yes, I'll go. [_He rises and says humbly_] I want to ask
you--you won't leave us?

THERESE. You dare to say that? You think I'll expose myself a second
time to a scene like this. Yes! I shall leave, and leave to-night!
_Will_ you go?

NERISSE. I implore you. [_Hearing a noise outside, suddenly alarmed_]
Here she is! Control yourself, I beg of you. Don't tell her.

THERESE. You needn't be afraid.

     _Madame Nerisse comes in._

MADAME NERISSE [_looking from one to the other_] What's going on here?

NERISSE. Mademoiselle Therese says that she's going to leave us, and I
tried to make her understand--perhaps you could do something--I must go
out.

MADAME NERISSE. Yes. Go.

     _He takes his hat and goes out at the back._

MADAME NERISSE. You wish to leave us?

THERESE. Yes, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. Because Monsieur Nerisse--?

THERESE. Yes, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE [_troubled and sad_] What can I say to you?

THERESE. Nothing, Madame.

MADAME NERISSE. My poor child.

THERESE. I don't want pity. Don't be unhappy about me. I shall be able
to manage for myself. I have plenty of courage.

MADAME NERISSE. I'm so ashamed to let you go like this. How honest and
loyal you are! [_To herself_] I was honest too, once.

THERESE. Good-bye, Madame. [_She begins to tidy her papers_]

MADAME NERISSE. Good-bye, Therese.

     _Madame Nerisse goes out._

     _When Therese is left alone she breaks down and bursts out
     crying like a little child. Then she wipes her eyes, puts
     her hat on, goes to the cardboard box, and takes out her
     veil, which she slips into her little bag. She takes out
     Monsieur Nerisse's letter; still crying she puts the letter
     into another envelope, which she closes and leaves well in
     sight upon the table. Then she takes her little black
     moleskin bag and her umbrella and goes out slowly. She is
     worn out, almost stooping; and, as the curtain falls, one
     sees the poor little figure departing, its shoulders shaken
     by sobs._




ACT III


    SCENE:--_Therese's studio at the bookbinding workshops of
    Messrs. Feliat and Gueret at Evreux. Strewn about are
    materials for binding books: patterns, tools, and silks. A
    glazed door on the right opens into the general women's
    workshops, and there is a door leading into a small office on
    the left. In the middle, towards the back, is a large drawing
    table; several easels stand about. There are some chairs and
    a small bureau. Cards hang upon the walls, on which are
    printed the text of the Factory Laws. There is a door at the
    back._

    _It is October._

    _Monsieur Gueret and Monsieur Feliat come in excitedly._

GUERET. I tell you Duriot's men are coming out on strike.

FELIAT. And I ask you, what's that to me?

GUERET. Ours will do the same.

FELIAT. Oh no, they won't.

GUERET. You'll see.

FELIAT. Duriot's men are furious with the women because of what happened
last year.

GUERET. They say woman's the enemy in business.

FELIAT. Let 'em talk.

GUERET. They want Duriot to sack all his women.

FELIAT. And I've told you why. There's no danger of anything like that
happening here.

GUERET. You think so, do you? Well, you'll see.

FELIAT. We shall see.

GUERET. You'll give in only after they've broken two or three of your
machines as they did Duriot's, or done something worse, perhaps.

FELIAT. My dear Gueret, I get out of the women for a cent what I have to
pay the men three cents for. And as long as I can economize ten cents on
the piece I shall go on.

GUERET. You'll regret it. If I was in your place--[_He stops_]

FELIAT. Well, what would you do if you were in my place?

GUERET. What should I do?

FELIAT. Yes, what?

GUERET. I shouldn't take long to think. I'd cut off a finger to save my
hand, I'd turn out every one of the women to-morrow.

FELIAT. You're mad. You've always objected to my employing women, and I
know very well why.

GUERET. Well, let's hear why.

FELIAT. You want to know. Well, because you've been jealous of Therese
ever since she came here six months ago.

GUERET. Oh, I say!

FELIAT. That's it; my sister can't endure her.

GUERET. Marguerite--

FELIAT. You know she wouldn't even see her when she came down from
Paris; and if Therese got work here, it was in spite of Marguerite. I
was wiser than you about this. The girl's courage appealed to me. She's
plucky and intelligent. Oh, I don't want to make myself out cleverer
than I am. I took her a bit out of pity, and I thought she'd draw me a
few designs; that was all I expected. But she has energy and initiative.
She organized the two workrooms, and now she's got the whole thing into
order by starting this Union.

GUERET. The Hen's Union.

FELIAT. What?

GUERET. That's what the men call her Union. You should hear the things
they say about it.

FELIAT. Well, long live the Hen's Union! A hen's plucky when it has to
be.

GUERET. Seriously, it's just this Union which has annoyed the men. They
feel it's dangerous.

FELIAT. Very well. I'll be ready for them.

     _Therese comes in._

GUERET. I'll go and find out what's going on.

FELIAT. Yes, do.

     _Monsieur Gueret goes out._

THERESE. I've just been seeing the man who makes our finishing tools. He
says it's perfectly easy to make a tool from the drawing I did that
won't be more expensive than the old one. [_Looking for a paper and
finding it on the table_] Here's the drawing. You see I've thought of
cheapness, but I've not sacrificed utility. After all, it's only a copy
of a Grolier, just a little altered.

FELIAT. Very good, but what will the price come out at?

THERESE. How much do you think.

FELIAT. I can easily do it. [_He calculates during what follows_]

THERESE. The beating won't be done with a hammer, but in the rolling
machine; the sawing-in and the covering will be done as usual.

FELIAT [_having finished his sum_] Two francs forty.

THERESE [_triumphantly_] One franc seventy. You've calculated on the
basis of men's work. But, if you approve, I'll open a new workroom for
women in the old shop. Lucienne can manage it. I could let Madame
Princeteau take Lucienne's present place, and I'll turn out the stuff at
the price I quoted.

FELIAT. But that's first-rate. I give you an absolutely free hand.

THERESE. Thank you, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. How do you think the men will take it? You know that last year,
before you came here, a strike of the workmen was broken by the women
taking the work the men were asking a rise for--taking it at lower
wages, too. Since then the men feel very strongly against the women.
Your godfather is anxious about it.

THERESE. Oh, leave it to me, I'm not afraid.

FELIAT. Well done. I like pluck. Go ahead. How lucky I was to get you
here.

THERESE. How grateful I am to you for believing in me. [_Lucienne
appears at the door on the right. She is speaking to a workwoman who is
not visible, while the following conversation goes on_] And how good you
are, too, to have given work to poor Lucienne. When I think what you
saved her from! She really owes her life to you. At any rate she owes it
to you that she's living respectably.

FELIAT. Well, I owe _you_ ten per cent reduction on my general expenses.
[_With a change of tone_] Then that's agreed? You're going ahead?

THERESE. Yes, Monsieur.

FELIAT. I'll go and give the necessary orders. [_He goes out_]

THERESE. It's all right. It's done. He's agreed! I'm to have my new
workroom, and you're to be the head of it.

LUCIENNE. Oh, splendid! Then I'm really of some importance here at last.
[_A long happy sigh_] Oh dear, how happy I am. I'd never have believed I
could have enjoyed the smell of a bindery so. [_Sniffing_] Glue, and
white of egg, and old leather; it's lovely! Oh, Therese, what you did
for me in bringing me here! What I owe you! That's what a woman's being
free means; it means a woman who earns her own living.

THERESE. Oh, you're right! Isn't it splendid, Lucienne, ten wretched
women saved, thanks to our new workshop. I've seen Duriot's forewoman.
At any moment fifty women from there may be out of work. I can take on
only ten at present, and I've had to choose. That was dreadful! Thirty
of them are near starvation. I took the worst cases: the old maids, the
girls with babies, the ones whose husbands have gone off and left them,
the widows. Every one of those, but for me, would have been starved or
gone on the streets. I used to want to write books and realize my dreams
that way. Now I can realize them by work. I wish Caroline Legrand could
know what I'm doing. It was she who helped me to get over my silly
pride, and come and ask for work here.

LUCIENNE. Dear Caroline Legrand! Without her! Without you! [_With a
change of tone_] What d'you suppose happened to me this morning? I had a
visit from Monsieur Gambard.

THERESE [_laughing_] Another visit! I shall be jealous!

LUCIENNE. You've reason. For the last week that excellent old man has
come every single morning with a book for me to bind. I begged him not
to take so much trouble, and I told him that if he had more work for us
to do, we could send for the books to his house. What d'you think he did
to-day?

THERESE. I've no idea.

LUCIENNE. He asked me to marry him.

THERESE. My dear! What then?

LUCIENNE. Why, then I told him that I was married and separated from my
husband.

THERESE. There's such a thing as divorce.

LUCIENNE. Naughty girl! That's exactly what he said. I told him that my
first experience of marriage was not calculated to make me run the
chances of a second. And then he asked me to be his mistress.

THERESE. Indignation of Lucienne!

LUCIENNE. No! I really couldn't be angry. He offered so naively to
settle part of his fortune upon me that I was disarmed. I simply told
him I was able to earn my own living, so I was not obliged to sell
myself.

THERESE. And he went off?

LUCIENNE. And he went off.

THERESE [_starting suddenly_] Was that three o'clock that struck.

LUCIENNE. Yes, but there's nothing very extraordinary in that.

THERESE. Not for you, perhaps. But I made up my mind not to think about
a certain thing until it was three o'clock. I stuck to it--almost--not
very easily. Well, my dear, three o'clock to-day is a most solemn hour
in my life.

LUCIENNE. You don't say so!

THERESE. _I do._ Lucienne, I am so happy. I don't know how I can have
deserved to be as happy as I am.

LUCIENNE. Good gracious, what's happened in the last five minutes?

THERESE. I'll tell you. One hour ago Rene arrived at Evreux. He's come
back from Tunis. Come back a success and a somebody. And now--

     _Vincent, a workman, comes in._

VINCENT. Good-morning, Mademoiselle Therese. I want a word with you,
because it's you who engages--

THERESE. Not the workmen.

VINCENT. I know. But it's about a woman, about my wife.

THERESE [_sharply_] Your wife? But I don't want your wife.

VINCENT. I heard as how you were taking on hands.

THERESE. Yes, but I choose them carefully. First of all I take the ones
who need work or are not wanted at home.

VINCENT. You're quite right--but I ain't asking you to pay my old woman
very much--not as much as a man.

THERESE. Why not, if she does the same work?

VINCENT [_with male superiority_] Well, in the first place, she's only a
woman; and, besides, if you didn't make a bit out of it, you wouldn't
take her in the place of a man.

THERESE. But you get excellent wages here yourself. You can live without
forcing your wife to work.

VINCENT. Well, anyhow, her few halfpence would be enough to pay for my
tobacco.

LUCIENNE [_laughing_] Come, you don't smoke as much as all that.

VINCENT. Besides, it'll put a bit more butter on the bread.

THERESE. But your wife will take the place of another woman who hasn't
even dry bread perhaps.

VINCENT. Oh, if one was bothering all the time about other people's
troubles, you'd have enough to do!

THERESE. Now will you forgive me if I meddle a little in what isn't
exactly my business?

VINCENT. Oh, go on, you won't upset me.

THERESE. What d'you do when you leave the works? You go to the saloon?

VINCENT [_losing control of himself and becoming violent and coarse_]
That's yer game, is it! You take me for a regler soaker. That's a bit
too thick, that is. You can go and ask for yourself in all the saloons
round here. Blimey, sometimes I don't drink nothing but water for
a week on end! Can you find anybody as has ever seen me
blue-blind-paralytic--eh? I'm one of the steady ones, I am. I has a
tiddley in the morning, like every man as is a man, to keep out the
fog; then I has a Vermouth before lunch, and a drop of something short
after, just to oil the works like--and that's the bloomin' lot. Of
course you're bound to have a Pernod before dinner to get your appetite
up; and if I go for a smoke and a wet after supper, well, it's for the
sake of a bit of company.

THERESE [_who has been jotting down figures with a pencil while he has
been talking_] Well, that's a franc a day you might have saved.

VINCENT. A franc.

THERESE [_holding out the paper to him_] Add it up.

VINCENT [_a little confused_] Oh, I'll take your word for it. I ain't
much good at sums.

THERESE. With that franc you might have put a fine lot of butter on
every round of bread.

VINCENT. Well, look here, I want a bicycle.

THERESE. Why? You live five minutes' walk from here.

VINCENT. Yes, but I want to get about a bit on Sundays.

THERESE. There's one thing you haven't thought of. You have two little
children. Who'll look after them if your wife comes to work here?

VINCENT. Don't you worry about that. You takes 'em all dirty to the
creche every morning and gets 'em back in the evenin' all tidied up.

THERESE. And who's going to get supper ready?

VINCENT [_naively_] Why, the old woman when she comes back from work.

THERESE. While you take your little drink?

VINCENT [_the same tone_] Oh, yes; I shan't hurry her up too much.

THERESE. Who'll mend your clothes?

VINCENT. Why, the old woman of course.

THERESE. When?

VINCENT. On Sundays.

THERESE. While you go off for a run on the bicycle?

VINCENT. Yes; it'll be a change for her. And at night I'll take her to
see me play billiards. [_With a change of tone_] That's all settled,
ain't it?

THERESE. Indeed, it's not.

VINCENT. Why not? Aren't you going to open a new workroom?

THERESE. Your wife has no need to work.

VINCENT. What's that got to do with you? You're taking on the others.

THERESE. The others are in want.

VINCENT. That's nothing to me. You ought to take the wives of the chaps
as works here first.

THERESE. All I can do is to mention her name at the next meeting of our
Union.

VINCENT. Oh, damn your Union--it's a fair nuisance!

THERESE. A Union is always a nuisance to somebody.

VINCENT. And you'll ask your Union not to take my old woman?

THERESE. I certainly shall.

VINCENT [_rather threateningly_] Very well. Things was more comfortable
here before you come from Paris, you know.

THERESE [_quietly_] I'm sorry.

VINCENT. And they'll be more comfortable when you take your hook back.

THERESE. That won't be for a good while yet.

VINCENT. I ain't so damned sure about that! Good-afternoon.

THERESE. Good-afternoon.

     _He goes out._

LUCIENNE. You've made an enemy, my dear.

THERESE. I don't care as long as I'm able to prevent women being driven
to work to pay for their husbands' idleness and drunkenness.

     _Feliat and Gueret come in. Lucienne goes out._

FELIAT. Tell me, Mademoiselle, if there was a strike here, could you
count upon your workwomen?

THERESE. I'm sure I could.

FELIAT. Are you certain none of them would go back on you?

THERESE. Two or three married women might if their husbands threatened
them.

FELIAT. Will you try, in a quiet way, to find out about that?

THERESE. Yes, certainly. [_She makes a movement to go out_]

FELIAT. Look here, it seems that Duriot has just had a visit from two
delegates from the Central Committee in Paris, who were sent down to
protest against the engagement of women. I'm afraid we're going to have
trouble here.

THERESE. The conditions here are very different from those at Duriot's.

FELIAT. All the same, find out what you can.

THERESE. I will, at once. [_She goes towards the door_]

FELIAT. Whatever happens we must send off that Brazilian order. How is
it getting on?

THERESE. We shall have everything ready in three days. I'll go and
inquire about the other thing.

     [_She goes out_]

FELIAT. Good.

GUERET. Three days isn't the end of the world. I think I can promise you
to keep my men as long as that.

FELIAT. If it's absolutely necessary, one might make them some little
concessions.

GUERET. I'll do all I can.

FELIAT. Yes. And if they're too exacting, we'll let them go, and the
women shall get the stuff finished up for us. [_There is a knock at the
door_] Come in.

     _Rene comes in._

GUERET. Hullo!

FELIAT. Rene!

GUERET. You or your ghost?

FELIAT. Where do you come from? Nobody's heard of you for a hundred
years.

RENE. Come now, only six months, and you've had some news.

FELIAT. Where are you from last?

RENE. From Tunis.

GUERET. And what are you doing here?

RENE. I'll tell you all about it. I want to have a bit of a talk with
you.

FELIAT. Well, we're listening.

GUERET. You're mighty solemn about it.

RENE. It's extremely serious business.

FELIAT. Don't be tragic. You're here safe and sound; and you've not lost
money, because you'd none to lose.

RENE. I've come to marry Therese.

GUERET. Well, I must say you don't beat about the bush.

FELIAT. But it's to your own people you've got to say that. What the
devil--! Therese has no more money than she had a year ago. So--

RENE. I'll marry her in spite of them.

GUERET. Well, we've nothing to do with it.

RENE. Yes, but I don't want to marry her in spite of you.

FELIAT. Nor in spite of herself.

RENE. I'm certain she won't say no.

FELIAT. But a year ago you solemnly separated; you both agreed
everything was over.

RENE. Nothing was over. A year ago I was a fool.

GUERET. To the point again.

FELIAT. And what are you now?

RENE. At any rate I am not quite useless any longer. I'm not a boy now,
obliged to do what he's told because he's perfectly incapable of doing
for himself.

FELIAT. Have you found something to do?

RENE. I'm in phosphates.

FELIAT. And what the devil are you in phosphates?

RENE. Representative.

FELIAT. How do you mean?

RENE. A commercial traveller, as father said with great contempt.

 GUERET. Well, it was not with a view to that sort of future that he had
you called to the Bar.

RENE. At the Bar I could have earned my own living in about ten
years--possibly. When I had to give up marrying Therese I saw how
useless I was. Thanks to her I found myself out. She gave me a bit of
her own courage. She woke up my self-respect. Besides, after that I had
something to work for, an aim, and I seemed to understand why I was
alive. I worked and read a lot; my firm noticed me; they sent me to
Tunis. I asked them to let me give up clerk work and have a try on my
own. Over there I got into touch with three small firms. I placed their
goods. I earn four hundred francs a month. Next year I mean to start a
little branch in this district where we will manufacture
superphosphates. From now until then I shall travel about the district
and try and get customers; and my wife--and Therese--will go on with her
work here, if you will be so good as to keep her.

GUERET. Ouf! Think of a young man who can talk as long as that, without
taking breath, giving up the Bar. What a pity!

FELIAT [_to Rene_] Have you told all that to your people?

RENE. Yes. They're not at all proud of my business. And after refusing
to let me marry Therese because she had no money they won't let me marry
her now because she works for her living. To be directress of a bindery,
even of your bindery, uncle, is not distinguished enough for them.

FELIAT. Well, my boy, you certainly couldn't have stood up to things
like that a year ago. What d'you want us to do for you? Therese doesn't
want our consent to marry; nor do you.

     _While Monsieur Feliat has been speaking, old Mother Bougne
     has come in from the right. She is a poor old workwoman who
     walks with difficulty, leaning on a broom, from which one
     feels that she never parts. She has a bunch of keys at her
     waistbelt; her apron is turned up and makes a sort of pocket
     into which she slips pieces of paper and scraps that she
     picks up from the floor. Rene looks at her with surprise._

FELIAT. You're looking at Mother Bougne. Good-morning, Mother Bougne.

MOTHER BOUGNE. Good-morning, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. When does the Committee of your Union sit?

MOTHER BOUGNE. On Wednesday, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. You won't miss it, will you?

MOTHER BOUGNE. I haven't missed one up to now, Monsieur Feliat.

FELIAT. That's right. [_She goes out at the back during what follows.
Monsieur Feliat turns to Rene and says_] We call Mother Bougne our
Minister of the Interior, because she tries to keep the place tidy.
She's been a weaver near Rouen since she was eight years old; she's been
stranded here.

RENE. And she's a member of the Committee of the Union?

GUERET. Yes, she's a member. Therese insisted on it. When Therese
founded a Woman's Trade Union here she had the nice idea of including
among them this poor old creature, wrecked by misery and hard work. Our
Therese has ideas like that. [_With a change of tone_] But business,
business. What do you want us to do for you?

RENE. I've come to ask you two things. The first is to try to get round
my people.

FELIAT. Well, I'll try. But I know your father. He's even more obstinate
than I am myself. I shan't make the smallest impression upon him. What
else?

RENE. I want to have a talk with Therese in your presence.

FELIAT. In our presence! Now listen, my boy. Our presence will be much
more useful in the work rooms. We have our hands full here. You've
dropped in just at the point of a split between workmen and employers.
Besides, to tell you the truth, I think I know pretty well what you have
to say to Therese. I'll send her to you. And, look here, don't keep her
too long, because she's got her hands full too. [_To Gueret_] Will you
go and telephone to Duriot's?

GUERET [_looking at his watch_] Yes, there might be some news. [_He goes
out_]

FELIAT [_to Rene_] And I'll send Therese here.

     _He goes out and Rene is alone for a few moments. Then
     Therese comes in. They advance towards each other quietly._

THERESE. How do you do, Rene?

RENE. How are you, Therese?

     _They shake hands, then, giving way to their feelings, they
     kiss each other tenderly and passionately._

THERESE [_in a low voice_] That'll do; don't, Rene dear. [_She withdraws
gently from his embrace_] Don't. Let's talk. Have you seen your people?

RENE. Yes.

THERESE. Well?

RENE. Well, Therese, they won't come to our wedding.

THERESE. They still refuse their consent?

RENE. We can do without it.

THERESE. But they refuse it?

RENE. Yes. Forgive me, my dearest, for asking you to take just my own
self. Do you love me enough to marry me quite simply, without any
relations, since I leave my relations for your sake?

THERESE. My dear, we mustn't do that; we must wait.

RENE. No, I won't wait. I won't lose the best time of my life, and years
of happiness, for the sake of prejudices I don't believe in. Do you
remember what you said to me the night we played _Barberine_? You were
splendid. You said: "Marry me all the same, in spite of my poverty."
[_She makes a movement to stop him_] Oh, let me--please let me go on! I
was only a miserable weakling then, I was frightened about the future.
But you roused me and set me going. If I'm a man now, it's to you I owe
it. Thanks to you I know how splendid it is to trust one's self and
struggle, and hope, and succeed. Now I can come to you and say: "I am
the man you wanted me to be, let us marry and live together." Oh,
together, together! How splendid it sounds! Do you remember how you said
that night long ago: "Let us conquer our place in the world together"?

THERESE. Oh, Rene! Rene! We must wait!

RENE. Why? Why must we wait? What possible reason can you have for not
doing now what you wanted me to do a year ago? Don't you believe in me?

THERESE. Oh yes, yes. It's not that!

RENE. What is it then? Therese, you frighten me. It seems as if you were
hiding something from me.

THERESE. No, no. What an idea!

RENE. Is it--oh, can it be that you don't love me so much?

THERESE. Oh, Rene, no, no. Don't think that for a moment.

RENE. But you're not being straight with me. You're hiding something.

THERESE. Don't ask me.

RENE. Therese!

THERESE. Oh, please don't ask me!

RENE. Now, you know very well that's impossible. How can there be
secrets between us? You and I are the sort of people who are straight
with one another. I must have my share in everything that makes you
unhappy.

THERESE. Well, then, I must tell you. It's about your father and mother.
Oh, how I wish I needn't tell you. Rene, while you've been away your
people have been dreadful to me. Your father came here to see me. He
wanted me to swear never to see you again--never. Of course I wouldn't.
When I refused to give in he said it was through worldly wisdom. He
said: "If he wasn't going to inherit my money, you wouldn't hang on to
him like this." He dared to say that to me, Rene--your father whom I
have always wanted to respect and love. He thought that of me. And then
I swore to him, and I've sworn to myself, that I'll never marry you,
never, without his consent. I cannot be suspected of _that_. You
understand, don't you? The poorer I am the prouder I ought to be. [_She
bursts into tears_] My dear--my dear! How unhappy I am! How dreadfully
unhappy I am!

RENE. My darling! [_He kisses her_]

THERESE. Don't, Rene! I couldn't help telling you. But you understand,
my dearest, that we've got to wait until he knows me better.

RENE [_forcibly_] No. We will _not_ wait.

THERESE. I'll never break my word.

RENE. What d'you want us to wait for? A change of opinion that'll
probably never come. And our youth will go, we shall have spoilt our
lives. You want to send me back to Paris all alone and unhappy, to spend
long silent evenings thinking about you and suffering from not being
with you, while you, here, will be suffering in the same way, in the
same loneliness. And we love each other, and it absolutely depends only
on ourselves whether we shall change our double unhappiness for a double
joy. [_Changing his tone_] I can't stand it, Therese. I've loved you for
two years, and all this last year I've toiled and slaved to win you.
[_Low and ardently_] I want you.

THERESE. Oh, hush, hush!

RENE. I want you. You're the one woman I've loved in my life. My love
for you _is_ my life. I can't give up my life. Listen: I have to be in
Paris this evening; are you going to let me leave you broken-hearted?

THERESE. Do you think that I'm not broken-hearted?

RENE. I shan't suffer any the less because I know that you're suffering
too.

THERESE. It doesn't depend upon us.

RENE. It depends entirely upon us. Look here, if people refuse to let us
marry, our love for each other is strong enough to do without marriage.
Therese, come with me!

THERESE. Oh, Rene, Rene! What are you asking me to do?

RENE. Have you faith in me? Look at me. Do you think I'm sincere? Do you
think I'm an honest man? Do you think that, if people refuse to let us
go through a ridiculous ceremony together, our union will be any the
less durable? Is it the ceremony that makes it real? Therese, come with
me. Come this evening; let's go together; let's love each other. Oh, if
you loved me as much as I love you, you wouldn't hesitate for a second.

THERESE. Oh, don't say that, I implore you!

RENE. Then you don't trust me?

THERESE. I won't do it. I won't do it.

RENE. What prevents you? You're absolutely alone, you have no relations.
You owe nothing to anybody. No one will suffer for your action. You've
already given a year of your life to the foolish prejudices of society.
You've shown them respect enough. First they prevented our marriage
because you were poor; now they want to prevent it because you work.
Thanks to you I have been able to assert myself and get free. My father
and mother can keep their money. I don't want it. Come.

THERESE [_in tears_] You're torturing me. Oh, my dear, you're making me
most unhappy. I could never do that, never. Don't be angry with me. I
love you. I swear that I love you.

RENE. I love you, Therese. I swear that I love you. All my life is
yours. [_He breaks down_] Don't make me so unhappy. The more unhappy,
the more I love you.

THERESE. I couldn't do it.

     _Monsieur Feliat comes in._

FELIAT. Hullo! Was it to make her cry like that that you wanted to see
her? Is that what you've learnt "in phosphates"? [_To Therese_] Don't,
my dear. [_In a tone of kindly remonstrance_] You! Is it you I find
crying like a little schoolgirl? [_Therese wipes her eyes_] Oh, I
understand all about it. But his father will give in in the end. And
you, Rene, be reasonable, don't hurry things.

RENE. But I want--

FELIAT [_interrupting him_] No, no, for goodness' sake, not just now.
We'll talk about it later on. Just now we have other fish to fry. We're
in a fix, my young lover. We've got to face some very serious
difficulties. Go along with you.

     _Monsieur Gueret comes in._

GUERET [_to Monsieur Feliat_] One of the delegates of the Central
Committee is outside.

FELIAT. And what does the brute want?

GUERET [_makes a gesture of caution and points to the door_] He wishes
to speak to the Chairman of the Women's Union.

FELIAT. Oh, ask the gentleman in. [_To Rene_] My boy, you must be off.
I'll see you presently.

RENE. Yes, presently.

THERESE [_aside to Rene_] Be at the station half an hour before the
train goes. I'll be there to say good-bye.

     _Rene goes out. Monsieur Gueret brings in the delegate and
     goes out again himself._

FELIAT. Good-morning. What can I do for you?

DELEGATE. I am a delegate from the Central Committee in Paris.

FELIAT. I am Monsieur Feliat, the owner of these works. I'm at your
service.

DELEGATE. It's not to you I wish to speak. This is a question which
doesn't concern you.

FELIAT. Which doesn't concern _me_!

DELEGATE. Not at present, at any rate. Will you kindly tell me where I
can find the person I have come to see?

FELIAT [_furious_] I--[_controlling himself_] She is here. [_He
indicates Therese_]

     _Monsieur Feliat goes out to the right._

DELEGATE. Mademoiselle, I'm here as the representative of the Central
Committee in Paris to request you to break up your Women's Union.

THERESE. So that's it.

DELEGATE. That's it.

THERESE. What harm does it do you?

DELEGATE. It strengthens you too much against us.

THERESE. If I asked you to break up yours for the same reason, what
would you say to me?

DELEGATE. Our union is to fight the masters; yours is to fight us.

THERESE. It does you no harm whatever.

DELEGATE. Your union supports a movement we've decided to fight.

THERESE. What movement?

DELEGATE. The movement of the competition of women, the invasion of the
labor market by female labor.

THERESE. Not a very dangerous invasion.

DELEGATE. You think not. Listen. I've just come down from Paris. Who
gave me my railway ticket? A woman. Who did I find behind the counter at
the Post Office? A woman. Who was at the end of the telephone wire? A
woman. I had to get some money; it was a woman who gave it to me at the
bank. I don't even speak of the women doctors and lawyers. And in
industry, like everywhere else, women want to supplant us. There are
women now even in the metal-working shops. Everyone has the right to
defend himself against competition. The workmen are going to defend
themselves.

THERESE. Without troubling about the consequences. To take away a
woman's right to work is to condemn her to starvation or prostitution.
You're not competitors, you're enemies.

DELEGATE. You're mistaken. We're so little the enemies of the women
that in asking you to do away with your Union we're speaking in your own
interest.

THERESE. Bah!

DELEGATE. We don't want women to take lower wages than ours.

THERESE. I know the phrase. "Equal wages for equal work."

DELEGATE. That's absolutely just.

THERESE. The masters won't give those equal wages.

DELEGATE. The women have a means of forcing them to; they can strike.

THERESE. We don't wish to employ those means.

DELEGATE. I beg your pardon, the women would consent at once. It's you
that prevent them, through the Union that you've started. Isn't that so?

THERESE. That is so. But you know why.

DELEGATE. No, I do not know why.

THERESE. Then I will tell you why. It is because the phrase only seems
to be just and generous. You know very well that here, at any rate, the
owner would not employ any more women if he had to pay them the same
wages he pays the men. And if they struck, he'd replace them by men.
Your apparent solicitude is only hypocrisy. In reality you want to get
rid of the women.

DELEGATE. Well, I admit that. The women are not competitors; they're
enemies. In every dispute they'll take the side of the masters.

THERESE. How d'you know that?

DELEGATE. They've always done it, because women take orders by instinct.
They're humble, and docile, and easily frightened.

THERESE. Why don't you say inferiors, at once?

DELEGATE. Well, yes; inferiors, the majority of them.

THERESE. If they're inferiors, it's only right that they should take
lower wages.

DELEGATE. Oh, I didn't mean to say--

THERESE [_interrupting him_] But it's not true--they are _not_ your
inferiors. If they believe they are, it's because of the wrongs and
humiliations you've imposed on them for centuries. You men stick
together. Why are we not to do the same? If you start trade unions, why
may not we? As a matter of fact, as regards work, we're your equals. We
need our wages; and to get hold of the jobs that we're able to do we
offer our work at a cheaper rate than you do. That is competition; you
must protect yourselves from it. If you want no more competition, keep
your women at home and support them.

DELEGATE. But that's precisely what we want: "The man in the workshop,
the woman in the home."

THERESE. If the mother is not at home nowadays, it's because the man is
in the saloon.

DELEGATE. The men go to the saloons because they're tired of finding the
place badly kept and the supper not ready when they go home, and instead
of a wife a tired-out factory hand.

THERESE. D'you think it's to amuse themselves the women go to work?
Don't you suppose they prefer a quiet life in their own homes?

DELEGATE. They've only got to stay there.

THERESE. And who's to support them?

DELEGATE. Their husbands!

THERESE. First they've got to have husbands. What about the ones who
have no husbands--the girls, the widows, the abandoned? Isn't it better
to give them a trade than to force them to take a lover? Some of them
want to leave off being obliged to beg for the help of a man. Can't you
see that for a lot of women work means freedom? Can you blame them for
demanding the right to work? That's the victory they're fighting for.

DELEGATE. I'm not at all sure that that victory is a desirable one.
Indeed, I'm sure it is not. When you've succeeded in giving the woman
complete independence through hard work; when you have taken her
children from her and handed them over to a creche; when you've severed
her from her domestic duties and also from all domestic happiness and
joy, how d'you know she won't turn round and demand to have her old
slavery back again? The quietness and peace of her own home? The right
to care for her own husband and nurse her own child?

THERESE. But can't you see that it's just that that the immense majority
of women are demanding now? We want the women to stay at home just as
much as you do. But how are you going to make that possible? At present
the money spent on drink equals the total of the salaries paid to women.
So the problem is to get rid of drunkenness. But the middle classes
refuse to meet this evil straightforwardly because the votes which keep
them in power are in the pockets of the publicans; and you socialist
leaders refuse just as much as the middle classes really to tackle the
drink question because you're as keen for votes as they are. You've got
to look the situation in the face. We're on the threshold of a new era.
In every civilized country, in the towns and in the rural districts,
from the destitute and from the poor, from every home that a man has
deserted for drink or left empty because men have no longer the courage
to marry, a woman will appear, who comes out from that home and will sit
down by your side in the workshop, in the factory, at the office, in the
counting house. You don't want her as housewife; and as she refuses to
be a prostitute, she will become a woman-worker, a competitor; and
finally, because she has more energy than you have, and because _she_
is not a drunkard, she will take your places.

DELEGATE [_brutally_] Well, before another hour's gone over our heads
you'll find that she won't start that game here.

     _Monsieur Feliat comes in._

FELIAT [_to the delegate_] My dear sir, a thousand pardons for
interrupting you, but as I've just turned your friend out of my house
because he took advantage of being in it to start a propaganda against
me, what's the use of your going on talking to this lady about a course
of action she will no more consent to than I shall?

DELEGATE. Very well, Monsieur. I shall telephone to Paris for
instructions. Probably you will refuse to let me use your instrument.

FELIAT. I most certainly shall.

DELEGATE. So I shall go to the Post Office, and in ten minutes--

FELIAT. Go, my dear sir, go. But let me tell you in a friendly way that
it'll take you more than ten minutes to get on to Paris.

DELEGATE. It takes you more, perhaps, but not me. Good-morning. [_The
delegate goes out_]

FELIAT [_to Therese_] The low brute! Things are not going well. What
happened at Duriot's has made a very unfortunate impression here. The
news that you were going to open a new workshop for the women has been
twisted and distorted by gossip and chatter, and my men have been worked
up by the other brute to come and threaten me.

THERESE. What d'you mean?

FELIAT. They threaten me with a strike and with blacklisting me if I
don't give up the idea.

THERESE. You can't give up absolutely certain profits.

FELIAT. If I am too obstinate, it may result in much larger losses which
will be equally certain.

THERESE. But what then?

FELIAT. I've had to promise that for the present at any rate there's no
question of taking on any more women.

THERESE. Oh!

FELIAT. What could I do?

     _Monsieur Gueret comes in._

FELIAT [_to Gueret_] Well?

GUERET. They wouldn't listen.

FELIAT. I was afraid they wouldn't. [_To Therese_] That's not all. Your
godfather has been trying something else, and I understand he's not
succeeded. I shall have to take the mending away from your workshop.

THERESE. The women won't agree to that.

GUERET. Perhaps that would be the best solution of the difficulty.

THERESE [_startled_] Don't say that. You can't mean it. Think!

GUERET. What's more, the men refuse to finish the work the women have
begun.

THERESE. We'll finish it.

GUERET. Then they'll strike.

THERESE. Let them strike. Monsieur Feliat, you can fight now and get
terms for yourself. Just at this moment we have only one very urgent
order. If the men strike, I can find you women to replace them. Every
day I am refusing people who want to be taken on.

GUERET [_suddenly_] I have an idea.

THERESE. What's that?

GUERET. I know my men; they're not bad fellows.

THERESE. My workers are splendid women.

GUERET. Of course they are. As a matter of fact we're face to face now,
not with a fight between men and masters, but with a fight between
men-workers and women-workers. The men have their trade union, and the
women have theirs. Both unions have a President and two Vice-Presidents.
Both have their office. We must have a meeting between the two here at
once, in a friendly, sensible way, before they've all had time to excite
themselves; and let them find some way out that'll please 'em all.

FELIAT. But, my dear fellow, if you bring them together, they'll tear
one another's eyes out.

GUERET. Oh, we know you don't believe the working classes have any
sense.

FELIAT [_between his teeth_] I don't. I've been an employer too long.

THERESE [_to Monsieur Feliat_] Why not try what my godfather suggests?
What do you risk?

FELIAT. I don't mind. But I will have nothing to do with it personally.

GUERET. Neither will I.

THERESE. I'll go and see if Berthe and Constance are here. [_To Gueret_]
You go and fetch your men. [_She goes out to the left_]

GUERET. I give you my word that, if there's any possible way out, this
is the only chance of getting at it.

FELIAT. Very well, go and fetch them.

     _Gueret goes out. Therese comes in with Berthe and
     Constance. They are wearing large aprons and have scissors
     attached to their waistbelts. Berthe is a fat, ordinary
     woman. Constance is tall, dry, and ugly._

BERTHE [_respectfully_] Good-morning, Monsieur Feliat.

CONSTANCE [_the same_] Good-morning, Monsieur Feliat.

THERESE. I want Berthe and Constance to tell you themselves whether you
can count upon them in case of the men striking.

CONSTANCE. Oh yes, Monsieur Feliat. We'll do anything you want us to.

BERTHE. Oh, Monsieur Feliat, don't send us away!

CONSTANCE [_imploringly_] Oh, Monsieur Feliat, you won't send us away,
will you?

BERTHE. We do want the work so, Monsieur.

CONSTANCE. It's God's truth we do.

FELIAT. I'll do everything possible on my side, but it all depends on
yourselves and the men. Try to come to some understanding.

CONSTANCE. Yes, Monsieur.

BERTHE [_lowering her voice_] If you can't pay us quite as much for the
mending, we don't mind taking a little less. You'd keep it dark,
wouldn't you?

FELIAT. We'll see about it.

     _Girard, Charpin, Deschaume, and Vincent come in._

WORKMEN [_very civil and speaking together_] Good-morning, ladies and
gents.

FELIAT. Has my brother explained to you why he asked you to meet the
representatives of the Women's Union and to try to come to an
understanding with them?

GIRARD. Yes, Monsieur Feliat.

CHARPIN. That's all we want. All friends together, like.

DESCHAUME. That's the hammer, mate!

FELIAT. Then I'll go. Do try and keep your tempers.

ALL [_speaking together_] Oh yes. To be sure, sir. You needn't trouble,
sir.

     _Feliat goes out. The workmen and workwomen left together
     shake hands all round without any particular courtesy or
     cordiality._

CHARPIN. Well, what d'you say to a sit down?

DESCHAUME [_speaking of Charpin_] That lazy swine's only comfortable
when he's sittin' down.

CHARPIN. I ain't agoing to tire meself for nix, not 'arf!

     _Berthe and Constance have mechanically brought chairs for
     the workmen, who take them without any thanks, accustomed as
     they are to be waited upon. When all are seated they see
     that Therese has been left standing._

CONSTANCE [_rising_] Have my chair, Mademoiselle.

THERESE. No, thank you, I prefer to stand.

CHARPIN. I see that all our little lot's here. There's four on us, but
only three 'er you.

DESCHAUME [_meaningly_] One of the hens ain't turned up yet.

CHARPIN [_sniggering_] Perhaps she's a bit shy, like.

THERESE. You mean Mother Bougne. You, workmen yourselves, mock at an old
woman wrecked by work. But you're right. She ought to be here. I'll go
and fetch her. Only to look at her would be an argument on our side.
[_She goes out to the right_]

DESCHAUME. Mademoiselle Therese needn't kick up such a dust about a
little thing like that. There's four on us; so there must be four on
you, in case we have to take a vote.

     _Therese comes back with Mother Bougne._

THERESE [_to the workmen_] Give me a chair. [_They do so_] Sit down,
Mother Bougne. [_Insisting_] Mother Bougne, sit down.

MOTHER BOUGNE. Oh, don't trouble, miss, I'm not used to--

THERESE [_sharply_] Sit down.

     _Mother Bougne sits down._

CHARPIN. Well, here's the bloomin' bunch of us.

DESCHAUME. We'd best fix up a chairman.

GIRARD. What's the good of that?

DESCHAUME. We'd best have you, Girard. You've education, and you're up
to all the dodges about public meetings.

GIRARD. It's not worth while.

DESCHAUME. Well, I only put it forrard because it's the usual. But have
it your own way! [_A silence_] Only don't all jaw at once. You'll see
you'll want a chairman, I tell you that, but I don't care. It ain't my
show.

CHARPIN. Get a move on you, Girard, and speak up.

GIRARD. Well, ladies--

VINCENT [_interrupting_] Now look here. I want to get at an
understandin'.

THERESE. Monsieur Girard, will you be kind enough to speak for your
friends? We have nothing to say on our part. We're asking for nothing.

GIRARD. Well, that's true. We want to have the mending back.

THERESE. And we don't mean to give it up.

GIRARD. Well, we expected that. Now, to show you that we're not such a
bad lot as you think, we'll share it with you on two conditions. The
first is that you're paid the same wages as we are.

DESCHAUME. Look here, that won't suit me at all, that won't. If my old
woman gets as much as me, how am I to keep her under? Blimey, she'll
think she's my bloomin' equal!

GIRARD [_impatiently_] Oh, bung her into some other berth. Let me go on.
The second condition is that you aren't to have a separate workshop.
We'll all work together as we used to.

THERESE. Why?

DESCHAUME. You women do a damned sight too much for your ha'pence.

GIRARD. Yes, it's all in the interests of the masters. It's against
solidarity.

THERESE. Will you allow me to express my astonishment that you should
make conditions with us when you wish to take something from us?

CHARPIN. We're ony tellin' you our terms for sharing the work with you.

THERESE. I quite understand; but we have no desire to share it with you.
We mean to keep it. And I'm greatly surprised to hear you suggest that
we should all work together.

CONSTANCE. Indeed we won't.

DESCHAUME. Why not, Mademoiselle? When we worked together--

CONSTANCE [_interrupting_] When we worked with you before, you played
all sorts of dirty tricks on us to make us leave.

DESCHAUME. What tricks? Did you hear anything about that, Charpin?

CHARPIN. I dunnow what she's talkin' about. D'you Vincent?

VINCENT. Look here, I only want to get to an understandin'.

CONSTANCE. You never stopped sayin' beastly things.

DESCHAUME AND CHARPIN [_protesting together_] Oh! O-ho!

DESCHAUME. Well, if we can't have a bit of chippin' in a friendly way
like!

BERTHE. Beastly things like that ain't jokes. I didn't know where to
look meself; and I've sat for a sculptor, so I ain't too particular.

CHARPIN. He! He! I thought she was talkin' about that old joke of the
rats.

     _The men laugh together._

THERESE. Yes, you're laughing about it still! About shutting up live
rats in our desks before we came to work.

GIRARD. He! He! We didn't mean any harm.

THERESE. You didn't mean any harm! The little apprentice was ill for a
week, and Madame Dumont had a bad fall. You thought of dozens of things
of that kind, like the typists who mixed up all the letters on the
women's desks. When we went away to get our lunch, you came and spoilt
our work and made the women lose a great part of their day's pay or work
hours of overtime. We don't want any more of that. You agreed we should
have a separate workshop. We'll keep it.

GIRARD. If Monsieur Feliat sticks to you, we'll have to come out on
strike.

THERESE. We don't want Monsieur Feliat to get into trouble because of
us.

GIRARD. Well, what are you going to do about it?

THERESE. We'll take your places.

CHARPIN [_bringing his fist down with a bang upon the table_] Well, I'm
damned!

DESCHAUME [_threateningly_] If you do, we'll have to put you through it!

CONSTANCE. We'll do it!

GIRARD [_to Therese_] D'you understand now, Mademoiselle, why we
socialists don't want women in the factory or in the workshop? The
woman's the devil because of the low salary she has to take. She's a
victim, and she likes to be a victim, and so she's the best card the
employer has to play against a strike. The women are too weak, and if I
might say so, too slavish--

DESCHAUME. Yes, that's the word, mate, slavish.

BERTHE [_very angry_] Look at that man there, my husband, and hear what
he's saying before me, his wife, that he makes obey him like a dog. He
beats me, he does. You don't trouble about my being what you call
slavish when it's you that profits by it! I'd like to know who taught
women to be slavish but husbands like you.

THERESE. You've so impressed it upon women that they're inferior to men,
that they've ended by believing it.

GIRARD. Well, maybe there's exceptions, but it's true in the main.

DESCHAUME. Let 'em stay at home, I says, and cook the bloomin' dinner.

BERTHE. And what'll they cook the days when you spend all your wages in
booze.

GIRARD. It's the people that started you working that you ought to
curse.

BERTHE. I like that! It was my husband himself that brought me to the
workshop.

THERESE. She's not the only one, eh, Vincent?

VINCENT. But I ain't sayin' nothin', I ain't. What are you turnin' on me
for? I ain't sayin' nothin'.

BERTHE. We'd like nothing better than to stay at home. Why don't you
support us there?

CONSTANCE. It's because you don't support us there that you've got to
let us work.

DESCHAUME. We ain't going to.

BERTHE. We won't give in to you.

GIRARD. If you don't, we'll turn the job in.

THERESE. And I tell you that we shall take your places.

DESCHAUME. Rats! You can't do it.

THERESE. We couldn't at one time, that's true. But now we've got the
machines. The machines drove the women from their homes. Up to lately
one had to have a man's strength for the work; now, by just pulling a
lever, a woman can do as much and more than the strongest man. The
machines revenge us.

DESCHAUME. We'll smash the things.

GIRARD. She's right. By God, she's right! It's them machines has done
it. If any one had told my grandfather a time would come when one chap
could keep thousands of spindles running and make hundreds of pairs of
stockings in a day, and yards and yards of woollen stuff, and socks and
shirts and all, why grandfather'd've thought everybody'd have shirts and
socks and comforters and shoes, and there'd be no more hard work and
empty bellies. Curse the damned things! We works longer hours, and
there's just as many bare feet and poor devils shivering for want of
clothes. The machines were to give us everything, blast 'em! The workers
are rotten fools! The damned machines have made nothing but hate between
them that own them and them that work them. They've used up the women
and even the children; and it's all to sell the things they make to
niggers or Chinamen; and maybe we'll have war about it. They've made the
middle classes rich, and they're the starvation of all of us; and after
they've done all that, here are the women, our own women, want to help
'em to best us!

MOTHER BOUGNE. You're right, Girard. When I was a kid, and there was no
machines--leastways, not to speak of--we was all better off. Women
stayed at home, and they'd got enough to do. Why, my old grandmother
used to fetch water from the well and be out pickin' up sticks before it
was light of a mornin'! Yes, and women made their own bread, and did
their washin', and made their bits of things themselves! Now it's
machines for everythin', and they say to us: "Come into the factory and
you'll earn big money." And we come, like silly kids! Why, fancy me,
eight years old, taken out of the village and bunged into a spinnin'
mill! Then, when I was married, there was me in a workman's dwellin'.
You turn a tap for your water, don't fetch it; baker's bread, and your
bit of dinner from the cookshop, or preserved meat out of a tin. You
don't make a fire, you turn on the gas; your stockin's and togs all
fetched out of a shop. There ain't no need for the women to stay at home
no longer, so they cuts down the men's wages and puts us in the
factories. We ain't got time to suckle our kids; and now they don't want
young 'uns any more! But when you're in the factory, they make yer pay
through the nose for yer gas and yer water, and baker's bread and
ready-made togs; and you've got nothin' left out of yer bit of wages,
and you're as poor as ever; and you're only a "hand" at machines in the
damp and smoke, instead of bein' in your own house an' decent like. What
are you fussin' about, Girard? Don't you see that we _can't_ go back to
the old times now? A woman ain't got a house now, only a little room
with nothin' but a dirty bed to sleep on! And I tell you, Girard, you've
got to let us earn our livin' like that now, because it's you and the
likes of you that's brought us to it.

GIRARD. Well, after all, we've got to look after our living. The women
want to take it from us.

MOTHER BOUGNE. It's because they haven't got any themselves, my lad.
They've got to live as well as you, you see.

GIRARD. And supposing there isn't enough living for everybody?

MOTHER BOUGNE. The strongest'll get it and the weak 'uns'll be done in.

GIRARD. Well, we've not made the world, and we're not going to have our
work taken away from us.

CONSTANCE. And we're not, either.

DESCHAUME. Damn it all, we've got to live.

BERTHE. Well, we've got to live too. The kids has got to live and we've
got to live. One would think we was brute beasts.

CONSTANCE. We say just the same as you. We've not made the world, it
ain't our fault.

     _During the last few speeches women have appeared at the
     door to the right and have remained on the threshold,
     becoming excited by the conversation._

A WOMAN [_at the door_] It ain't our fault.

     _Some men show themselves at the door at the back._

A MAN. So much the worse for you.

ANOTHER WOMAN. We've got to live, we've got to live!

ANOTHER MAN. Ain't we got to live too?

THERESE. Well, don't drink so much.

     _The women applaud this speech with enthusiasm._

A WOMAN [_bursting out laughing_] Ha! Ha! Ha!

WOMEN. Right, Mademoiselle! Well done! Good!

     _They come further forward._

BERTHE. You won't get our work away from us.

DESCHAUME. It's _our_ work; you took it.

BERTHE. You gave it up to us.

A MAN. Well, we'll take it back from you.

ANOTHER MAN. We were wrong.

ANOTHER MAN. Drive out the Hens.

ANOTHER MAN. The strike! Long live the strike! We'll come out!

A WOMAN. We'll take your places; we've got to live.

A MAN. There's no living for you here.

A WOMAN. Yes there is; we'll take yours.

THERESE. Yes, we'll take yours. And your wife that you brought here
yourself will take your place, Vincent. And you the same, Deschaume.
She'll take your place, and it'll serve you right. You can stay at home
and do the mending to amuse yourself.

GIRARD [_to the women_] This woman from Paris is turning the heads of
the lot of you.

CHARPIN. Yes, that's about the size of it.

VINCENT. She don't play the game. She does as she bloomin' well likes.
She wouldn't engage my old woman. She took women from Duriot's.

GIRARD [_to Therese_] That's it. It's you that's doing it. [_To the
women_] You've got to ask the same wages as us.

THERESE. You know very well--

GIRARD [_interrupting_] It's all along of your damned Union.

VINCENT. There wasn't any ructions till you come.

CHARPIN. We'll smash the Hens' Union.

     _A row begins and increases._

A MAN. Put 'em through it! Down 'em! Smash the Hens! Smash 'em!

A WOMAN. Turn out the lazy swines!

A WOMAN [_half mad with excitement_] We're fightin' for our kids. [_She
shrieks this phrase continuously during the noise which follows_]

BERTHE. Turn out the lazy swines!

DESCHAUME [_shaking his wife_] Shut up, blast you, shut up!

ANOTHER MAN [_holding him back_] Don't strike her!

DESCHAUME. It's my wife; can't I do as I like? [_To Berthe_] Get out,
you!

BERTHE. I won't!

     _Deschaume tries to seize hold of his wife; this starts a
     general fight between the men and women, during which one
     distinguishes various cries, finally a man's voice._

A MAN. Damn her, she's hurt me!

ANOTHER MAN. It's her scissors! Get hold of her scissors.

     _Berthe screams._

THERESE. They'll kill one another! [_To the women_] Go home, go home;
they'll kill you. Go home at once.

     _The women are suddenly taken with a panic; they scream and
     run away, followed by the men._

A WOMAN. Oh, you brutes! Oh, you brutes!

     _Therese goes out to the right with the women. The men go
     off with Deschaume, whose hand is bleeding. Girard, who was
     following them, meets Monsieur Feliat at the door._

GIRARD [_to Feliat_] Deschaume's bin hurt, sir.

FELIAT. He must be taken to the Infirmary.

DESCHAUME [_excitedly_] With her scissors she did it, blast 'er!

CHARPIN. The police, send for the police!

GIRARD. Don't be a bally fool. We can take care of ourselves, can't we,
without the bloomin' coppers.

DESCHAUME [_shouting_] The police, send for the police! To protect the
right to work. Send for 'em.

GIRARD [_to Monsieur Feliat_] If 't was to bully us, you'd have sent for
'em long ago. What are you waiting for?

FELIAT. I'm waiting till you kindly allow me to speak. I can't believe
my ears. Is it you, Girard, and you, Deschaume, who want to have the
police sent for to save you from a pack of women? Ha! Ha!

CHARPIN. Oh, it makes you laugh, does it?

GIRARD. You defend the cats because they're against us. Well, we won't
have it. Duriot's men came out--

CHARPIN. Yes, and we'll do the same.

DESCHAUME. We will. Look out for the strike!

GIRARD. We're agreed; ain't we, mates?

CHARPIN AND DESCHAUME [_together_] Yes, yes. We'll strike. Let's strike.

FELIAT. You don't really mean that you're going on strike?

GIRARD. Don't we, though!

FELIAT. How can you? I've given everything you've asked for.

CHARPIN [_growling_] That's just the reason.

GIRARD. If you've given in, that shows we were right. You'll have to
give in some more.

FELIAT. Good God, what d'you want now?

CHARPIN. We want you to sack all the women.

DESCHAUME. No we don't. We want you to sack Mademoiselle Therese.

FELIAT. You're mad! What harm has she done you?

GIRARD. The harm she's done us? Well, she's on your side.

DESCHAUME. She's turned the women's heads. They want to take our places.

CHARPIN. And we won't have it.

FELIAT. Come! Be reasonable. You can't ask me that.

GIRARD. We _do_ ask you that.

FELIAT. It will upset my whole business.

CHARPIN. What's that to us?

FELIAT. Well, I must have time to think about it.

GIRARD. There's nothing to think about. Sack the Paris woman or we go on
strike.

FELIAT. You can't put a pistol to my head like this. I've got orders in
hand.

GIRARD. What's that to us?

FELIAT. Well then, I won't give in this time. You demanded that I should
not open a new workshop. I gave in. I won't go further than that.

GIRARD. Then out we go.

FELIAT. Well go, and be damned to you. [_Pause_] The women will take
your places.

GIRARD. You think so, do you? You think it's as easy as that. Well, try.
Just you try to fill up our places. Have you forgot there's two
delegates here from the Central Committee? A phone to Paris and your
bally show is done for.

FELIAT. It's damnable.

GIRARD. And if that doesn't choke you off, there's other things.

CHARPIN. We'll set the whole bloomin' place on fire.

GIRARD. Don't you try to bully us.

FELIAT. Well, look here. We won't quarrel. I'll send away Mademoiselle
Therese. But give me a little time to settle things up.

CHARPIN. No; out she goes.

FELIAT. Give me a month. I ask only a month.

GIRARD. An hour, that's all you'll get, an hour.

CHARPIN. An hour, not more.

GIRARD. We're going off to meet the delegates at the Hotel de la Poste;
you can send your answer there. The Parisian goes out sharp now, or else
look out for trouble. Come on, boys, let's go and tell the others.
There's nothing more to do here.

FELIAT. But stop, listen--

CHARPIN [_to Feliat_] That's our last word. [_To the others_] Hurry on.

     _The workmen go out. Therese has come in a moment before and
     is standing on the threshold._

FELIAT [_to Therese_] How much did you hear?

THERESE. Oh, please, please, don't give in. Don't abandon these women.
It's dreadful in the workroom. They're in despair. I've just been with
them, talking to them. They get desperate when they think of their
children.

FELIAT. The men are not asking me now to get rid of them. What they're
asking for is the break-up of your Union, and that you yourself should
go.

THERESE. Oh, they say that now. But if you give in, they'll see that
they can get anything they like from your weakness, and they'll make you
turn out all these wretched women.

FELIAT. But I can't help myself! You didn't hear the brutal threats of
these men. If I don't give in, I shall be blacklisted, and they'll set
the place on fire; they said so. Where will your women's work be then?
And I shall be ruined.

THERESE. Then you mean to give in without a struggle?

FELIAT. Would _you_ like to take the responsibility for what will happen
if I resist? There'll be violence. Just think what it'll mean. In the
state the men are in anything may happen. There's a wounded man already.
How many would there be to-morrow?

THERESE. You think only of being beaten. But suppose you win? Suppose
you act energetically and get the best of it.

FELIAT. My energy would be my ruin.

THERESE [_with a change of tone_] Then you wish me to go?

FELIAT. I have only made up my mind to it to prevent something worse.

THERESE [_very much moved_] It's impossible you can sacrifice me in this
way at the first threat. Look here, Monsieur Feliat; perhaps it doesn't
come very well from me, but I can't help reminding you that you've said
repeatedly yourself that I've been extremely useful to you. Don't throw
me overboard without making one try to save me.

FELIAT. It would be no use.

THERESE. How can you tell? It's your own interest to keep me. The
delegate said that if I go they'll break up the Women's Union and make
the women take the same wages as the men.

FELIAT. They won't do that because they know I wouldn't keep them.

THERESE. You see! If you give in, it means the break-up of the whole
thing and the loss to you of the saving I've made for you. And you have
obligations to these women who have been working for you for years.

FELIAT. If I have to part with them, I will see they are provided for.

THERESE. Yes, for a day--a week, perhaps. But afterwards? What then?
Little children will be holding out their hands for food to mothers who
have none to give them.

FELIAT. But, good God, what have _I_ to do with that? Is it my fault?
Don't you see that I'm quite powerless in the matter?

THERESE. No, you're not quite powerless. You can choose which you will
sacrifice, the women who have been perfectly loyal to you, or the men
who want to wring from your weakness freedom from competition which
frightens them.

FELIAT. They're fighting for their daily bread.

THERESE. Yes, fighting the woman because she works for lower wages. She
can do that because she is sober and self-controlled. Is it because of
her virtues that you condemn her?

FELIAT. I know all that as well as you do, and I tell you again the
women can go on working just as they were working before you came.

THERESE. You'll be made to part with them.

FELIAT. We shall see. But at present that's not the question. The
present thing is about you. One of us has to be sacrificed, you or me. I
can see only one thing. If I stick to you, my machinery will be smashed
and my works will be burned. I'm deeply sorry this has happened, and I
don't deny for a moment the great value of your services; but, after
all, I can't ruin myself for your sake.

THERESE [_urgently_] But you _wouldn't_ be ruined. Defend yourself,
take measures. Ask for assistance from the Government.

FELIAT. The Government can't prevent the strike.

THERESE. But the women will do the work.

FELIAT. You think of nothing but your women. And the men? They'll be
starving, won't they? And their women and their children will starve
with them.

THERESE [_almost in tears_] And me, you have no pity for me. What's to
become of me? If you abandon me, I'm done for. I'd made a career for
myself. I had realized my dreams. I was doing a little good. And I was
so deeply grateful to you for giving me my chance. I'm all alone in the
world, you know that very well. Before I came here I tried every
possible way to earn my living. Oh, please don't send me away. Don't
drive me back into that. Try once again, do something. Let me speak to
the men. It's all my life that's at stake. If you drive me out, I don't
know where to go to.

     _Monsieur Gueret comes in._

GUERET [_greatly excited_] Feliat, we mustn't wait a moment; we must
give in at once. They're exciting themselves; they're mad; they're
getting worse; they may do anything. They've gone to the women's
workroom and they're driving them out.

     _From the adjoining workshop there comes a crash of glass
     and the sound of women screaming._

THERESE [_desperately_] Go, Monsieur! Go quickly! Don't let anything
dreadful happen. You're right. I'll leave at once. Go!

     _Monsieur Gueret and Monsieur Feliat rush into the women's
     workshop. The noise increases; there is a sound of furniture
     overthrown and the loud screams of women._

THERESE [_alone, clasping her hands_] Oh, God! Oh, God!

     _Therese stands as if hypnotized by terror, her eyes wide
     open and fixed upon the door of the workshop. The noise
     still increases; there is a revolver shot, then a silence.
     Finally the voice of Monsieur Feliat is heard speaking,
     though the words are not intelligible, and a shout of men's
     voices. Then Monsieur Gueret comes in very pale._

GUERET. Don't be frightened, it's all over. The shot was fired in the
air. The men have gone out; there are only the women now--crying in the
workshop.

THERESE. Are you sure nobody is killed? Is it true, oh, tell me, is it
really true?

     _Monsieur Feliat comes in._

FELIAT. Poor Therese! Don't be frightened.

THERESE. Oh, those screams! Those dreadful screams! Is it true, really,
nobody was hurt?

FELIAT. Nobody, I assure you.

THERESE. The shot?

FELIAT. Fired in the air, to frighten the women. The men broke in the
door, and upset a bench, and made a great row. I got there just in time.
As soon as they were promised what they want they were quiet.

THERESE [_after a pause, slowly_] They were promised what they want. So
it's done. [_A silence_] Then there's nothing left for me but to go.

GUERET. Where are you going to?

FELIAT. You needn't go at once.

THERESE. Yes, I'm going at once. [_A silence_] I'm going where I'm
forced to go.

FELIAT. You can leave to-morrow or the day after.

THERESE. No, I leave by train, this evening, for Paris.

CURTAIN.




FALSE GODS


CHARACTERS


    THE PHARAOH
    THE HIGH PRIEST
    RHEOU
    SATNI
    PAKH
    SOKITI
    BITIOU, the dwarf
    NOURM
    THE STEWARD
    THE EXORCIST
    A PRIEST
    THE PARALYZED YOUTH
    THE MAN WITH THE BANDAGED HEAD
    THE TWO SONS OF THE MAD WOMAN
    MIERIS
    YAOUMA
    KIRJIPA
    ZAYA
    DELETHI
    NAGAOU
    HANOU
    NAHASI
    SITSINIT
    MOUENE
    NAZIT
    THE YOUNG WOMAN
    THE MOTHER
    THE BLIND GIRL
    FIVE MOURNERS

The Scene is laid in Upper Egypt during the Middle Empire.




ACT I

    SCENE:--_The first inner court of the house of Rheou. At the
    back between two lofty pylons the entrance leading up from
    below. Through the columns supporting the hanging garden
    which stretches across the back can be seen the Nile. A high
    terrace occupies the left of the scene. Steps lead up to it,
    and from there to the hanging garden. Along the side of the
    terrace a small delicately carved wooden statue of Isis
    stands on a sacrificial table. On the right is the peristyle
    leading to the inner dwelling of Akhounti. The bases of the
    columns are in the form of lotus buds, the shafts like lotus
    stems, the capitals full blown flowers. In the spaces between
    the columns are wooden statues of the gods._

    _Delethi is playing a harp. Nagaou dances before her. Nahasi
    is juggling with oranges, while Mouene sits watching a little
    bird in a cage. Yaouma reclines on the terrace supporting her
    head on her elbows and gazing out at the Nile. Zaya is beside
    her. On a carpet Sitsinit, lying flat upon her stomach with a
    writing box by her side, is busy painting an ibis on the left
    hand of Hanou, who lies in a similar attitude._


SITSI. Did you not know? She, on whose left hand a black ibis has been
painted, is certain of a happy day.

HANOU. A happy day! Why then, 'tis I, perhaps, who will be chosen
to-night!

DELETHI [_playing the harp while Nagaou dances before her_] More
slowly!--more slowly!... you must make them think of the swaying of a
lotus flower, that the Nile's slow-moving current would bear away, and
that raises itself to kiss again the waters of the stream.

NAGAOU. Yes, yes.... Begin again!

NAHASI [_juggling with oranges_] Nagaou would let herself be borne away
without a struggle. [_She laughs_].

MOUENE [_hopping on one foot_] We know that she goes to the bank of the
Nile, at the hour when the palm-trees grow black against the evening
sky, to listen to a basket maker's songs.

HANOU [_to Sitsinit_] And this morning I anointed my whole body with
Kyphli, mixed with cinnamon and terrabine and myrrh.

DELETHI [_to Nagaou_] 'Tis well ... you may dance the great prayer to
Isis with the rest.

NAGAOU [_to Mouene_] Yes! I do go to listen to songs at dark. You are
still too little for anyone, basket maker or any other, to take notice
of you.

MOUENE. You think so!... who gave me this little bird? [_She draws the
bird from the cage by a string attached to its leg_] Who caught thee,
flower-of-the-air, who gave thee to me? [_Holding up a finger_] Do not
tell! Do not tell....

HANOU [_looking at herself in a metal mirror_] Sitsinit ... the black
line that lengthens this eye is too short ... make it longer with your
reed. I think the more beautiful I am, the more chance I shall have to
be chosen for the sacrifice.... Is it not so, Zaya?... What are you
doing there without a word?

ZAYA. I was watching the flight of a crane with hanging feet, that
melted away in the distant blue of heaven.... Do not hope to be chosen
by the gods, Hanou.

HANOU. Wherefore should I not be chosen?

ZAYA. Neither you nor any who are here. The gods never demand the
sacrifice two years together from the same village.

HANOU. Never?

ZAYA. Rarely.

HANOU. 'Tis a pity. Is it not, Nagaou?

NAGAOU. I know not.

SITSI. Would it not make you proud?

NAGAOU. Yes. But it makes me proud, too, to lean on the breast of him
whose words still the beating of my heart.

DELETHI. To be taken by a god! By the Nile!

HANOU. Preferred to all the others!

MOUENE [_the youngest_] For my part I should prefer to live....

SITSI. Still, if the God desired you....

ZAYA. Oh! one can refuse....

DELETHI. Yes, but one must leave the country, then.... None of the
daughters of Haka-

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