A café in a music-hall, representing a grotto, fantastically decorated. Tables and chairs on both sides. Men and women are seated at the tables, smoking and taking refreshments. Waiters pass in and out continually. At the back, an orchestra of gypsies.
Mr. Jacob stands talking with an Artist. Ruhu-Sahib, at a table, drinks enormously.
Jacob. [To the Artist] But this? What do you think of this? Allow me. Here is the best point of view.
Artist. Marvellous! Magical!
Jacob. You are surprised to see this, eh? Now what do you say? Pardon, allow me. Here is another point of view.
Artist. Marvellous! Magical!
Jacob. My own idea! It didn't occur to me in a moment. Ideas like this don't occur every day. The entire café converted into a grotto—rest for the body, recreation for the soul after the brilliancy of the spectacle. In all Europe, in all America, there is nothing to equal it. It is the most magnificent music-hall in the world—four million francs invested in it. You may say so in your paper.
Artist. In my paper? Oh, Mr. Jacob, I am not a reporter!
Jacob. What? You are not the correspondent of the Dramatic Courier of Milan, of the Genoa Manager's Monitor?
Artist. I did not say
Jacob. But the card you sent in to the office?
Artist. Was not mine—a mistake. I am an artist, a performer. I come to make you a great, an extraordinary proposition.
Jacob. An extraordinary proposition?
Artist. Yes. To engage me. I have references.
Jacob. And is this what you have kept me talking two hours for, showing you my theatre? Wasting my time! Andate al diavolo! Morte de un canc! Mais fichez moi la paix toute de suite! Wasting my time! Valuable time!
Artist. Mr. Jacob! Mr. Jacob!
Mr. Jacob rushes out, followed by the Artist.
Ruhu-Sahib. [Calling a Waiter] Is the first part over yet?
Waiter. Just over. Don't you see the people coming out?
Ruhu-Sahib. Take this bottle away; bring another bottle. This time I pay myself. No go on the bill of Madame.
Waiter. Madame says she will pay for no more bottles, after that row you had yesterday.
Ruhu-Sahib. I pay myself. Bring another bottle. Don't talk so much. I break your head.
Waiter. Yes, sir.
Esther. Will you look at the elephant-driver?
Juliette. He's a case.
Esther. To add to your collection?
Juliette. Not for mine; he's too much for me.
Tobacco and Jenny enter.
Esther. Ah! Tobacco, the nigger clown. I have to laugh. He looks like a monkey.
Juliette. Is that his wife?
Esther. Yes, she's English. The funny thing is, though, they are married. They love each other, oh, so much! They have seven children.
Juliette. Blondes?
Esther. Not so far; all like their father. My! But it's dull to-night.
Juliette. There's nobody here but women.
Jenny. [To Tobacco] Did you stop at the bank?
Tobacco. I certainly did. [Making notes in a pocketbook] Let me see how we come out. With five thousand francs in Turks, if we can sell like last week, it's an investment; we clear a hundred francs.
Jenny. That's handsome.
Tobacco. I might get a new dress for the act.
Jenny. What for? To throw your money away, eh, playing the clown? Don't you think you look funny unless you wear silk?
Tobacco. The Russian has a new suit every night.
Jenny. Yes, and people aren't laughing at him any more on account of his clothes. An artist like you is not in the same class with that Russian. Mr. Jacob is an idiot if he pays that man six thousand francs.
Tobacco. Mr. Jacob won't pay me ten thousand. Now he wants to throw me out, but the public will only laugh at Tobacco. There is only one Tobacco. So he puts the Russian in the second half as the feature, and I am down in the first for the third number. And the audience comes early to see me and they go home early so as not to see the Russian. The public are the ones who pay the artists, the managers don't pay them. An artist is not able to name his own figure.
Jenny. Mr. Jacob is a rogue. He behaves as if this were a barroom.
Cornac enters.
Cornac. Mr. Ruhu! Mr. Ruhu! Hurry up! Come quick! Nero very excited. Break the bar of his cage. No let us put on the howdah.
Ruhu-Sahib. What's the matter? Hurry up? Too damn hot! Waiter! Give him some beer. And I want some beer.
Cornac. Madame says elephants must not drink beer.
Ruhu-Sahib. Madame says too much so as not to pay for the beer. I pay for the beer. A bottle for me, a barrel for the elephants!
Mr. Jacob enters.
Jacob. Ruhu! Ruhu! One of the elephants has broken loose. He has smashed the bars of his cage. Two hundred francs! And the worst of it is, he won't perform.
Ruhu-Sahib. He will, he will perform. Poor beast! He do no harm. He is a gentle animal.
Jacob. If you don't hurry and do something to the brute
Ruhu-Sahib. Nero harm no one. You don't know him. I know him. Wait! He is the gentlest of the seven.
Jacob. And don't drink so much. The people see how you are, and so do the elephants.
Ruhu-Sahib. What do they see? I know what they see; and I know what the elephants see. I drink, oh, I drink! But I know what I drink.
Jacob. Ma andate al diavolo! Damn rascal!
Rosina and Pepita detain Mr. Jacob.
Rosina. You are not angry, Mr. Jacob?
Jacob. That Hindu savage costs me twelve thousand francs besides the feed of his animals! And don't his animals feed! And the public will have none of them; seen once, seen for always. A fine piece of business! Bah! Business? People see the audience, then they see me; they say: "Ah! Mr. Jacob! Fortunate man! Theatre full, receipts enormous, le maximum tous les soirs." But they don't see behind the scenes; they don't know what artists are; they don't understand management, business
Rosina. Oh, now, please don't be angry, Mr. Jacob! Not when I want to ask you a favor.
Jacob. Favor? Always favors!
Rosina. It's for my friend.
Pepita. Monsieur…
Rosina. I thought maybe you might let her have a pass for the season.
Jacob. Mon Dieu! A girl like her? Is it possible she can't get anybody to pay her way in?
Rosina. If it wasn't for us, there wouldn't be anybody here, Mr. Jacob.
Jacob. On the contrary, you drive decent people away, people who
Rosina. When have we had so many princes as this year? I know you will, eh, Mr. Jacob?
Jacob. Well, since she's a friend of yours. Go on into the office; but tell her to take more pains with her toilette.
Rosina. She's just got in; her trunk hasn't come yet. I'll look out for her.
Jacob. Where does your friend come from?
Rosina. From Marseilles.
Jacob. Ah! From Marseilles? Tell her not to say she's from Marseilles. It's not a recommendation.
Rosina. She don't look very Parisian either. She might be a Spaniard…
Jacob. That Spanish business has been done to death; however, anything is better than Marseilles. The thing is to have personality, to be some one; not to be just like every one else. There are so many! However, there is something in her face. She may get on, though it is difficult. But there is no reason to be discouraged. Good luck, girls! Good luck! I can't wait; I'm so busy…
Rosina. Thanks, Mr. Jacob.
Pepita. Thanks.
Prince Florencio and Harry Lucenti have entered during the conversation, seating themselves at one of the tables.
Rosina. I told you it would be easy. Look! A Prince! The Prince of Suavia.
Pepita. Do you get many princes here?
Rosina. Very few—real ones. [They go out, talking.
Jacob. [To the Prince] Ah! Your Highness! This is a great honor to me and to my theatre. At your Highness's orders. Signore! Ah! I forgot. Next week new and extraordinary attractions. One number alone twenty thousand francs! Business is becoming more difficult, prices continually going up. Your Highness… [Backs off, bowing.
Harry Lucenti. Delightful old scamp, Mr. Jacob.
Prince Florencio. He must lead a gay life with his artists.
Mr. Jacob goes up to Mme. Jenny, who is sitting at a table, knitting busily.
Jacob. But Mme. Jenny, must we quarrel always?
Jenny. Why, Mr. Jacob?
Jacob. Is this a place for you to do your knitting?
Jenny. I have to work for the children. What harm is there in it?
Jacob. You might cook your meals here if you like.
Jenny. Yes, it's better to do—what the others do.
Jacob. It's all my fault for allowing the artists to mix with the public.
Tobacco. Artists? Does he mean me?
Jenny. It's easy to see that you're not accustomed to dealing with artists.
Jacob. I am not accustomed to dealing with artists?
Tobacco. No. This isn't a theatre, this isn't a circus, it's a…
Jenny. [Pointing to the cocottes] Those are the artists you want here.
Jacob. My business is to please the public.
Tobacco. Well, don't I please the public? Here! Here! [Squaring off to strike him. Several interfere.
Some. Mr. Jacob!
Others. Tobacco! Messieurs!
Cornac enters running.
Cornac. Mr. Ruhu! Mr. Ruhu! Nero run away! He break everything!
Ruhu-Sahib. Can't they let him alone? Give him a chance. Go on! What more do they want? [Saunters out, after drinking, very deliberately.
The bell rings.
Jacob. And I waste my time, valuable time! The second part—Sottes! Stupid people!
Mr. Jacob runs out.
Tobacco. I'm through; that settles it. I shan't stay in this place another day. I'm through, I tell you.
Mme. Lelia enters. She carries a large hand-bag.
Lelia. Why, what is the matter, Mr. Tobacco? Have you been fighting with Mr. Jacob? He is an idiot to fight with you. How are you, Mme. Jenny? How are the little ones?
Jenny. Entirely too healthy for their mother. What they don't eat they break. We cannot keep a thing in the house.
Lelia. I should think you would be glad they are well and strong; some day they will grow up and earn money.
Tobacco. Yes, they're pretty fine tumblers as it is—better than the Sheffers already.
Jenny. How is your little one, Mme. Lelia?
Lelia. She is not well; only so-so. I had to put her on the bottle. You see, with my work on the wire, it was impossible
Jenny. I brought up all seven of mine on the bottle. An artist can do nothing else nowadays, with all the demands on her time. The first thing you know, they take everything.
Lelia. What did Mr. Jacob say?
Jenny. He didn't like my knitting here—a little jacket for my Alex.
Lelia. Last night he told me this hat wasn't presentable—a hat that cost me fifteen francs in Paris the year of the Exposition. This is no place for artists, for decent people.
Tobacco. This isn't a circus. After a man has worked at Rentz's in Vienna, at Wulf's in Berlin, or the Corradine in Rome—those are dignified establishments. There an artist is an artist.
Lelia. It used to be so, Mr. Tobacco, but now they are all the same. All you need is a machine; then you turn on the current, and you have an artist. The result is the real artists are obliged to work for nothing, I think my husband is a genius as a contortionist.
Tobacco. You could not go further than that.
Lelia. And on the wire, without vanity, I go myself as far as anybody—I go farther. I stand on my head with a pirouette and a double flimflam; I am the only woman in Europe who dares to do it.
Tobacco. Nothing finer could be asked.
Jenny. The second part!…
Lelia. Are you coming in to see the show?
Jenny. Yes, my husband wants to look the Russian over. He's got to pick up a few new tricks.
Lelia. No! Is it possible, Mr. Tobacco? You are joking.
Tobacco. Mr. Jacob thinks that Russian is funny. Ha, ha!
Lelia. I am waiting for my husband. Kisses to the little ones, Mme. Jenny.
Jenny. And to yours from me, Mme. Lelia. [Tobacco and Jenny go out.
Nunu and Tommy enter.
Tommy. They are here! See?
Nunu. I told you they'd be here. The Prince never goes behind.
Tommy. Are you going to speak to them?
Nunu. Wait till they call us. You know the Prince? Sit down. Have something? [They sit down.
Tommy. Do we eat there to-night?
Nunu. Yes.
Tommy. Donina, too?
Nunu. Donina's a fool; she's crazy. She don't want to come. She's jealous of my running around.
Tommy. Why don't she take on some one herself?
Nunu. She? If she only would! The Prince, say… Our fortune would be made!
Tommy. Why don't you make her?
Nunu. Make her? You don't know her. You talk like a fool. She wouldn't do it; but she will out of jealousy. Tell her I am out with another woman, and she'd go if it was to hell, and kick the hat off the devil.
Tommy. What does the Prince want with Donina?
Nunu. How do I know? He's got the notion; I'm tired of her and I need the money. I need a lot of money, so I can leave this life and settle down like a decent fellow. The Prince is like the rest of them; he doesn't know what he wants.
Tommy. He doesn't? Did you hear what happened to Fred with the Countess? She gave him money at first and jewels; now she is tired of him and says it was blackmail. She swears she'll call in the police.
Nunu. Police? He's a fool if he stands for that. If I once get my hands on the Prince, I can tell you he won't call in the police.
Tommy. The Prince? Why not?
Nunu. You idiot! Donina's a minor; she's under age. I know the law. The Prince can't stand for a row. Don't you see?
Tommy. What's the difference? If I was a Prince, I wouldn't give a damn what I stood for.
Nunu. Neither would I. But that's the way these people are. They want to do as they please, and then they don't want anybody to know about it. That's what costs the money.
Tommy. You bet; but these fellows always have some one around. They mayn't look it…
Nunu. Not this time. Listen! They want to get him in a fix. Some of those chaps were talking to me—they saw me with him. There's a party in his country that wants to make him Emperor. That's the reason they sent him away.
Tommy. Oho! So you are a conspirator?
Nunu. I? What do I care? I want the money, that's all we can get out of it. He can be Emperor if he wants to. It's nothing to me; I want to give up this life and go home and marry a decent girl—a girl that's straight. Her father won't have me, though. He says I'm no good; but when he sees I have money, that I amount to something
Tommy. But I thought Donina
Nunu. Donina? I tell you she's the one who's in love with me; I let her like the rest. You know all these actresses are good for: roba di principi.
Tommy. But I thought that you loved her, that you were happy?
Nunu. A man has to live somehow, doesn't he?—with his eye on something else, more or less far away? Isn't that the way that you live?
Tommy. Yes, but I am tied up with a wife and the boy. What have I to look forward to?
Nunu. Nothing, for yourself; but you can hope that your children won't be like you—that they will amount to something.
Tommy. Yes…
Nunu. Well, there you are.
Esther. Which is the Prince?
Juliette. The youngest—the one who doesn't talk. He never talks. Will you look at that?
Rosina and Pepita have seated themselves meanwhile at the Prince's table.
They're taking a chance. Won't they be set up?
Esther. What does the Prince come here for, anyway?
Juliette. It's the actresses. That Englishman is his secretary; he always brings him along. They're to have supper to-night—the real thing—in a sort of dive, but tough! Awful!
Rosina and Pepita, who have been sitting with the Prince, get up and move away.
Esther. Look! They are blushing. And they are laughing at them!
Juliette. I'll give them a pinch as they go out.
Esther. No, don't make a scene. Mr. Jacob will take up your pass.
Prince Florencio. Ah, Harry, I am bored to death! I am sick. What will you find for me to do next?
Harry Lucenti. March upon Suavia, proclaim yourself Emperor, and declare war against the world.
Prince Florencio. Silence, imperialist poet!
Harry Lucenti. Why not? I am an Emperor myself. You remember what Hamlet says? "I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself king of infinite space."
Prince Florencio. But he had bad dreams.
Harry Lucenti. I do not; I reign within my nutshell. I have founded an empire of myself, at war with all the world. My spirit is an island more impregnable than the cliffs of my country.
Prince Florencio. How do you manage it?
Harry Lucenti. By making myself hated by everybody. Do you know to what the weaknesses, the compromises, the petty cowardices of human nature are due? They are the result of kindness, of sympathy. We attribute to others virtues which they do not possess, and then, so as to meet them upon an equal footing, we are obliged to pretend to virtues which we do not possess.
Prince Florencio. A paradox, I suppose? Well, you haven't made yourself hated by me.
Harry Lucenti. Not as yet—because I have never told you the truth.
Prince Florencio. Why not bring yourself to it? You may if you like.
Harry Lucenti. The truth? You poor devil of a Prince, impotent, ridiculous, and rotten to the core!
Prince Florencio. Bah! Hand me the whiskey.
Harry Lucenti. The truth, Florencio, it is the truth. Your escapades! Your vices! You imagine that you are scandalizing the world when you are only shocking the old ladies of Suavia. Your bacchantes are all provided by the restaurant at five hundred francs, everything included. You will find them on the bill—little runaway schoolgirls, whose heads have been turned by reading a couple of silly novels. The depths of hell and infamy into which you descend with trembling are these! I can see you now… Hail, Emperor! Elagabalus! Child of the sun!
Prince Florencio. Is that all? You don't suppose you can make me hate you with a few simple truths like that? The times are not propitious to Neros or Elagabaluses; neither do they produce Shakespeares, though you may both have written the same sonnets. There is one, too, copied from the Italian of the seventeenth century
Harry Lucenti. [Greatly incensed] That's a lie! I steal from no man. Those stories were invented by my detractors. I proved that Italian sonnet was a forgery, made up to annoy me. I proved it, and nobody believed me. Only a fool would repeat such a story, and you are a fool, too, if you say so!
Prince Florencio. [Laughing] My dear Harry, you see it is easier to provoke a poet with the truth than an Emperor.
Harry Lucenti. Blockhead!
The Prince rises and moves over toward Nunu and Tommy.
Prince Florencio. Come, my dear Harry. Why not arrange something diabolic for this evening, something grandiose? Surely you have credit for more than five hundred francs. Hello, Nunu! Hello, Tommy!
Nunu. Highness!
Prince Florencio. Sit down. Put on your hats. Have you been on yet?
Nunu. No, ours is next to the last number. We were waiting for you.
Prince Florencio. Will everybody be there? And your Donina?
Nunu. Donina…
Prince Florencio. I told you that you didn't want her to come. Now I see I was right. You want to pass yourself off for a cynic. "Piccola Donina!" you say. "Bah! me n'infischio. I am tired of her!" And all the while you love her and mean to keep her for yourself.
Nunu. No, your Highness, she is the one who is in love with me. You know that. [His eye is attracted by a ring on the Prince's finger] What a magnificent ring! May I see it?
Prince Florencio. Are you fond of jewels?
Nunu. Am I?
Prince Florencio. [His eye lighting upon one of Nunu's] So I see.
Nunu. Oh, that's only glass! At night, with the lights, it's all right—when a man can't afford anything else. What is this stone?
Prince Florencio. A ruby. This is an opal.
Tommy. Opals are bad luck.
Prince Florencio. Not to me; to others, perhaps. Would you be afraid to wear it? [Tossing him the ring.
Tommy. I should say not! [Putting on the ring] Thanks, your Highness! Although I shan't have it long. Hard times come with us; that will be the bad luck.
Nunu. [Offended] Tommy is your friend now.
Prince Florencio. And you are not; I have nothing for you. We are enemies.
Nunu. But suppose I have a surprise for you to-night?
Prince Florencio. Then I shall give you a ring which will make all your friends die of envy.
Nunu. Oh, bella!
Prince Florencio. And other things which I know you want besides.
The Prince takes a gold cigarette-case from his pocket and offers cigarettes.
Nunu. Another! Gold, too… everything is gold. But this one has jewels… Is this your name?
Prince Florencio. No, some English verses; that is all. Keep it, Nunu.
Nunu. Your Highness!
Prince Florencio. Keep it, I tell you.
Nunu. Oh, bella! Look, Tommy! Diamonds; and these are like yours.
Tommy. Rubies!
Nunu. Did you say they were verses? [Reading.]
"O, you, the master-mistress"
I can't read any more.
Harry Lucenti. You won't be any worse off.
Nunu. Here come Donina and Zaida.
Harry Lucenti. That Arab girl?—at least that is what she calls herself.
Nunu. It's a fact, though. She's from Constantina in Algiers; she's a Jewess. She did Oriental dances; then her manager turned her over to ours, so since then she has been dancing with us. She'd pass for a Neapolitan.
Prince Florencio. I thought she was one.
Nunu. She's always crying—that is her sort. She cries over everything.
Prince Florencio. Who pays the bills?
Nunu. No one; she isn't that way. She likes me, though, pretty well; she's such a friend of Donina's that if I say anything, she's up in a minute. She's in love with Donina, daft over her. And fierce as a lion!
Harry Lucenti. Pretty soon it will be love all around through the triangle.
Nunu. No, she's a lamb.
Prince Florencio. No wonder, living with you. We shall meet you then later. Do you go straight from here?
Nunu. Just as we are; it's all arranged.
Prince Florencio, Nobody will be missing?
Nunu. No, I'll show you who's your friend.
Prince Florencio. Good-by. Come along, Harry. [Discovering Imperia, who has entered a few moments previously, with Donina and Zaida] Ah! Imperia! Harry, do you see?
Nunu and Tommy go over to the group of women. Donina gets up and begins to dispute with Nunu, somewhat apart from the others.
Harry Lucenti. Yes, and I know the attraction: an old friendship with Donina's mother, a purely sisterly affair—these affairs are always sisterly. They belonged to the same troupe. She heard the girl was playing here, so she dropped in to see her; now she has dropped in again. At least this is official.
Prince Florencio. My uncle cannot know that she comes to this place; he would not consider it respectable in his mistress. We must see that he does know.
Harry Lucenti. Of course! To tell unpleasant truths is always a duty.
The Prince and Harry Lucenti go out.
Nunu. [To Donina] Did you see who I was talking to?
Donina. Yes, and I saw you with her on the stage. Haven't I eyes? Can't I see? There's nobody else left; it was that Japanese woman as long as her husband was here with his act. I know there's a supper to-night, too; but you haven't counted on me.
Nunu. But we have, though; you're invited.
Donina. I am, am I? So that before my very eyes—Oh, I don't mind so much your fooling with other girls, hugging them and kissing them! It isn't that… but when anybody tries it on me, you stand there and laugh. You consent to it.
Nunu. You're a fool.
He takes the case out of his pocket and lights a cigarette.
Donina. [Discovering the case] Whose is that? Who gave that to you? What does it say?
Nunu. Ha, ha, ha!
Donina. [Furious, stamping on the box] There! Now it doesn't say anything. No, and it won't say anything either. And I'd do the same to you, too, or to anybody!
Nunu. Donina! What are you doing? You've ruined it. I tell you [Threatening her.
Imperia and Zaida. [Interfering] No, no, don't touch her, Nunu!
Nunu. If we weren't in this place
Donina. Yes, strike me! Kill me! Anything better than this!
Zaida. [Throwing her arms about her] Donina! Poor Donina!
Nunu. Come along, Tommy, and get dressed. Come along! She'll be there, all right.
Nunu and Tommy go out.
Zaida. You mustn't cry before all these people. Don't let them see.
Donina. What do I care?
Imperia. Will you come with me?
Donina. No, I must stay with him, even if he kills me! He didn't use to be like this; he used to love me. Of course he went with other girls, I know that, but I was always his Donina, I was always first, the only one among the rest. I was so proud to have them love him, and to think that after he had played with them and laughed in their faces, he would come back again to me, always to me, without ever having been able to forget. But it is not the same now. He has something back in his mind, something evil. It isn't that he deceives me; it's that he wants me to know it. And since these men came
Zaida. Nunu is bad; he is all bad now. I loved him before and Donina wasn't jealous. She knew it was on her account—it was just from the heart, I was like their sister; Donina knows that. But Nunu is changed now. He doesn't want to play and sing and laugh any more, and he always used to be happy. And when he was happy, everybody about him was smiling.
Donina. Yes, they were. We were so happy!
Zaida. We used to spend hours by ourselves, laughing and singing and dancing, just for the joy of it, for our own sakes, without ever getting tired or stopping to think that we would have to sing and dance all night long in the theatre.
Donina. We were so happy!
Zaida. And we would have been happy always, just the three of us!
Donina. It's those men, those terrible men—that Prince who is so pale that he freezes your blood with his eye.
Imperia. Yes, the Prince! I know him. His only pleasure is to torture and defile.
Donina. But I'll go to-night. He wants me to.
Imperia. No, anything rather than that. Go with the man you love, who is one with you, to whom you have given your heart, live as he lives, share his sorrows, his joys, let nothing hold you back; but the Prince—never go near that man! Nothing can come from him but evil, degradation, and shame. The women he loves he dresses in rags—he maltreats them without mercy. His friends are miserable wretches whom his money can buy, and there is no depravity he does not know. He gives young girls to old men, unutterably vile; strong, healthy boys to women who are loathsome and diseased. He buys daughters from their parents, sisters from their brothers for his holidays. I have seen him run through the streets in Suavia at midnight, when it was bitter cold and the ground was covered with ice, and gather up the poor, homeless wretches, starving vagrants, sleeping out-of-doors, and lead them to the morgue, which was filled with suicides and the bodies of those who had been murdered, or who had died in the streets from hunger and cold. There are myriads of them in the winter-time—men and women and children, too. It was horrible! He threw money on the corpses, and the terrible struggle of that maddened throng, frenzied at the sight of the gold, was an awful thing to see. One coin fell into an open wound; a hundred hands grappled upon it. They pushed the bodies aside, they trampled them under foot, while he—he did not even smile; he looked and looked as the devil must look from hell upon the crimes poor wretches commit who are hungry and cold, crushed beneath the selfishness of the heartless and the rich. This is that Prince who is so pale that he freezes the blood with his eye.
Donina. I did not hate him for nothing. Nunu shall not go with him to-night—or he will never see me any more!
Imperia. Will you come with me?
Donina. No, not without him. I said that he would never see me, because I would kill myself; I could never leave him in any other way.
Imperia. Love in life or in death! Be it so.
Zaida. The music, Donina! The act before our number. We must not be late…
Donina. No, to sing and dance! But he shall not go tonight! He shall not go! Are you coming in to see me?
Imperia. Yes.
Donina. Good-by, then. Give me a kiss. [Indicating Zaida] And one for her, too.
Zaida. I love you, too, Signora—all, all who love Donina.
Zaida and Donina go out. The Countess Rinaldi and Leonardo enter.
Leonardo. Having rescued you from one danger, how is it that I surprise you now in the company of Ruhu-Sahib, the elephant-driver?
Rinaldi. But surely you do not suppose?… A Hindu, a savage?… I was merely gathering points about his elephants. He is a remarkable man. The life of these circus people is vastly more entertaining than ours. I wonder what you would think if I should decide to join the circus? What would people say?
Leonardo. Probably that you were settling down. In the light of your experience, it might not appear surprising.
Rinaldi. This conventional life is a horrible bore. It is unrelieved monotony.
Leonardo. If you were to suppress the most monotonous feature of your life, it would be a horrible bore.
Rinaldi. Come, invite me to take something. I'll have an ice, a tutti-frutti. They are delicious.
Leonardo. With pleasure… Ah! Imperia. Do you see?
Rinaldi. Yes, and I have seen her here before.
Leonardo. How extraordinary! And alone. In that gown!
Rinaldi. She is always gowned imperially. She is an artist, although not in my line.
Leonardo. I do not understand
Rinaldi. Why be so innocent? You know your model better than I do. By the way, what was she like when she was with you? I have heard so many stories.
Leonardo. I met her in Rome. She was one of the models who hang about the Piazza di Spagna. Donina was her name at the time. She was a spare, pinched figure, clad in rags, with a suggestion about her that was indescribably sordid and poor. This terrible poverty of the great cities is not only want of bread, it is hunger for everything which goes to make life dear. Among the other models she attracted no attention. The painters saw nothing in her; neither did I. But one day she stopped me as I was passing to beg some coppers. There was no weakness in her voice, no note of complaint; the tone was firm and strong. It compelled attention. So I spoke to her, and her face lit up as we talked, she became a different person—there was another look in her eyes, a new expressiveness in every feature. She was no longer the poor, pinched model; she was a work of art—she was my statue, Imperia, which soon afterward made my reputation. Do you remember? There it stood, with feet bare, and tattered skirt, the body half naked as if she had just clambered up a precipice, and by a last, despairing effort was sinking exhausted on the top into a throne, while upon her face there shone an ineffable light, the smile of life triumphant over death-or of death itself and its calm. It is a long time since I have seen the statue. My ideas of art are not what they were then, but I am sure there was something in it. The combination of the materials was audacious: the rocks of the pedestal were of granite, the figure was marble, and the throne gilded bronze, which shone like gold.
Rinaldi. What was the significance of the statue?
Leonardo. How can I tell? An artist believes that he speaks through his works, but the works take on form and speak for themselves. The statue was—you can see it—it was woman, Imperia, a wretched creature who has climbed up over the rocks, her body lacerated and torn, until she is about to seat herself upon a throne. Perhaps it was something more—the mastery of life and all that is in it, achieved at last by the poor and the outcast! How can I tell? It was the might of the soul to realize its dream! And who of us has not his dream, at least of a throne—a throne where our selfishness, perhaps, is absolute, or our disinterested love?
Rinaldi. How long did you remain with Imperia?
Leonardo. A passing moment, that was all. The same breath which inspired my statue infused new life into Donina. She became my statue made woman, she was Imperia. Prince Florencio met her at my studio as I was finishing my work; she was still the poor, tattered Donina with her hunger-pinched face. You know the Prince. Well, one morning she said good-by. "Where are you going, my child?" I asked her. "To Suavia to be Empress," she replied. And I had not the heart to laugh at her; there was such conviction in her words, such burning faith in her eyes, it was impossible not to believe it. That woman might be Empress.
Rinaldi. Does she still cherish her dream?
Leonardo. I lost sight of her. Afterward, I heard that Prince Florencio had abused her, and she attempted to kill him; so she was banished from Suavia. Later, she fell in with Prince Michael in Paris, and during these last years she has been living with him. She has grown rich.
Rinaldi. Prince Michael is the richest of the Suavian princes.
Leonardo. He is prodigal as a monarch of other days.
Rinaldi. What empire like riches to dominate the world? Well, so this is the very practical reality into which the imperial dreams of your Imperia have been resolved? Was not the throne of your statue gilded until it shone like gold?
Leonardo. Yes, like gold—because the sun is gold, and the light is. It was the embodiment of light, of hope, of the ideal!
Imperia rises and moves over to speak with them.
Imperia. Countess! Leonardo! You did not see me?
Rinaldi. I beg your pardon, I am sorry…
Imperia. But you were talking about me.
Rinaldi. You couldn't hear us from there?
Imperia. No, but it was easy to see. You looked over continually. Were you surprised to find me here?
Rinaldi. Certainly not; we are here ourselves.
Leonardo. Perhaps the Countess will explain the reason?
Rinaldi. It is not necessary. We are all here for the same thing, more or less. We may be perfectly frank if we like; no one will remember to-morrow.
Imperia. We are like witches, meeting on Saturday night. I was a little girl when I first heard the legend, and you remind me of it now. There was a poor woman who lived near our house; she was very old, and, apparently, very respectable. She lived alone, and you would have said that she was a good woman. Her house was clean; she worked in the garden by day, busy with her flowers, or fed the pigeons; at night she sewed a little on her quaint old clothes. She was never idle—it was a calm and peaceful life, lived openly in the sun. But people said that she was a witch, and every Saturday at midnight, as the clock struck twelve, she mounted a broomstick and flew away to the witches' lair, and there with the other witches she did homage to Satan; and if you could surprise them then, you would see them as they really were. One day, some time later, at dawn on a Sunday morning, the old woman was found dead, out of her bed, at some distance from her house, in an open field, and there was a dagger in her heart. But nobody could ever find the assassin, nor discover any motive for the murder, nor could any one ever explain the reason why that woman should have been found in that place on that morning, when she had been seen closing the door of her house as usual the night before, and in the morning, when they carried the body there, the door was still closed.
Rinaldi. But you don't really mean?… Nonsense! Then you would have to believe in witches.
Imperia. No, not in such witches. But there comes a Saturday Night in all our lives, even the most peaceful of them, when our souls, like the witches, fly to their lairs. We exist for years to reach one hour which is vital and real. Then our witches' souls take flight, some toward their hopes and ambitions, some toward their vices, their follies, others toward their loves—toward something which is far from and alien to our lives, but which has always smouldered in us, and at heart is what we are.
Rinaldi. It is true. And to-night we are in our lair. We may salute each other. Hail, sister!
Imperia. Sister and brother, hail! Whither away, toward good or toward ill?
Leonardo. I? Where life dissolves in the desert and is gone like the flower.
Rinaldi. I? To the Kingdom of Love where joy is—joy that outlasts death.
Leonardo. And you, Imperia?
Imperia. I? To find myself, to find Donina, poor, ignorant Donina—Donina in love. Your art has revealed to me the light that was in me, and I follow my dream!
Leonardo. Which is?…
Imperia. To grow, to become rich! For money is power. With it, all things are possible, for good or for evil, for justice or revenge!
Rinaldi. The performance is over. The people are coming out.
Leonardo. It is time to go.
A number of Spectators and Performers enter, among the latter Ruhu-Sahib.
Rinaldi. There! Do you see? The Hindu… I wonder if it would be possible to interest you in the taming of elephants?
Leonardo. No, but it might in the taming of elephant-drivers. We can sit with him if you like.
Rinaldi. Don't be absurd. You are not accustomed to heroic adventure.
Leonardo. I aspire merely to look on.
Zaida re-enters in tears; she runs up to Imperia and throws her arms about her.
Zaida. Signora! Signora! Didn't you hear? Donina
Imperia. What is the matter?
Zaida. She's mad! She wouldn't listen! After what you told her… She's gone with Nunu and those people—with the Prince!
Imperia. That wretched Nunu has sold her. Quick! Do you know where they are?
Zaida. Yes, they went without changing, just as they were! I know the place—that is, I don't know the name, but I can find it.
Imperia. Come with me.
Zaida. Yes… But not like this. You don't know these people.
Imperia. What difference does it make? They are my people, and they will know me. I return to prevent another betrayal of one of us, or to revenge with one blow a thousand. Come! Countess, good night. Good night, Leonardo.
Leonardo. Good night, Imperia.
Rinaldi. Where are you going, Imperia?
Imperia. To meet other witches' souls in their lairs. It is Saturday Night.
The café has filled with people. The gypsy orchestra begins to play.
Curtain